She listened as one who hears but dimly.

“You have no objection to raise, have you, Madaline?”

“No,” she replied, “it matters little where I live; I only pray that my life may be short.”

“Hush, my darling.  You pain me.”

“Oh, Norman, Norman,” she cried, “what will they think of me—­what will they say—­your servants, your friends?”

“We must not trouble about that,” said Norman; “we must not pause to consider what the world will say.  We must do what we think is right.”

He took out his watch and looked at it.

“It is eight o’clock,” he said; “we shall have time to drive to Winiston to-night.”

There was a world of sorrowful reproach in the blue eyes raised to his.

“I understand,” she said, quietly; “you do not wish that the daughter of a felon should sleep, even for one night, under your roof.”

“You pain me and you pain yourself; but it is, if you will bear the truth, my poor Madaline, just as you say.  Even for these ancient walls I have such reverence.”

“Since my presence dishonors them,” she said, quietly, “I will go.  Heaven will judge between us, Norman.  I say that you are wrong.  If I am to leave your house, I should like to go at once.  I will go to my room and prepare for the journey.”

He did not attempt to detain her, for he well knew that, if she made another appeal to him, he could not resist the impulse to clasp her in his arms, and at the cost of what he thought his honor to bid her stay.

She lingered before him, beautiful, graceful, sorrowful.

“Is there anything more you would like to say to me?” she asked, with sad humility.

“I dare not,” he uttered, hoarsely; “I cannot trust myself.”

He watched her as with slow, graceful steps she passed down, the long gallery, never turning her fair face or golden head back to him, her white robes trailing on the parquetry floor.  When she had reached the end, he saw her draw aside the hangings and stand for a minute looking at the pictured faces of the Arleighs; then she disappeared, and he was left alone.

He buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly.

“I could curse the woman who has wrought this misery!” he exclaimed, presently.

And then the remembrance of Philippa, as he had known her years before—­Philippa as a child, Philippa, his mother’s favorite—­restrained him.

* * * * *

“Perhaps I too was to blame,” he thought; “she would not have taken such cruel vengeance had I been more candid.”

Lady Arleigh went to her room.  The pretty traveling-costume lay where she had left it; the housekeeper had not put away anything.  Hastily taking off her white dress and removing the jewels from her neck, and the flowers from her hair, Madaline placed them aside, and then having attired herself for the journey, she went down stairs, meeting no one.