“Madaline,” said Lord Arleigh, quietly, “do not think, my darling, that you suffer most—­indeed, it is not so.  Think how I love you—­think how precious you are to me—­and then ask yourself if it is no pain to give you up.”

“I know it is painful,” she continued, sadly, “but, Norman, if the decision and choice rested with me as they do with you, I should act differently.”

“I would, Heaven knows, if I could,” he said, slowly.

“Such conduct is not just to me,” she continued, her face flushing with the eagerness of her words.  “I have done no wrong, no harm, yet I am to be driven from your house and home—­I am to be sent away from you, divorced in all but name.  I say it is not fair, Norman—­not just.  All my womanhood rises in rebellion against such a decree.  What will the world say of me?  That I was weighed in the balance and found wanting—­that I was found to be false or light, due doubtless to my being lowly born.  Do you think I have no sense of honor—­no wish to keep my name and fame stainless?  Could you do me a greater wrong, do you think, than to put me away, not twelve hours after our marriage, like one utterly unworthy?”

He made no answer.  She went on in her low, passionate, musical voice.

“When I read in history the story of Anne of Cleves, I thought it cruel to be sought in marriage, brought over from another land, looked at, sneered at, and dismissed; but, Norman, it seems to me her fate was not so cruel as mine.”

“You are wrong,” he cried.  “I hold you in all reverence, all honor, in deepest respect.  You are untouched by the disgrace attached to those nearest to you.  It is not that.  You know that, even while I say we must part, I love you from the very depths of my heart.”

“I can say no more,” she moaned, wringing her hands.  “My own heart, my woman’s instinct, tells me you are wrong.  I cannot argue with you, nor can I urge anything more.”

She turned from him.  He would have given much to take her into his arms, and kissing her, bid her stay.

“You remember the old song, Madaline?

    “’I could not love thee, dear, so much,
    Loved I not honor more.’

If I could be false to the dead, Madaline, I should be untrue to the living.  That I am not so is your security for my faith.  If I could be false to the traditions of my race, I could be false to my vows of love.”

“I can say no more—­I can urge no more.  You are a man—­wise, strong, brave.  I submit.”

It was a cruel fate.  He looked round on his pictured ancestors Would they have suffered, have sacrificed as much for the honor of their house as he was about to sacrifice now?  Yes, he knew they would, for love of race and pride of name had always been unspeakably dear to them.

Chapter XXVIII.

Lord Arleigh raised his head from his breast.  His wife was kneeling sobbing at his feet.