“Of course, my lord, I shall be only too thankful to remain, but it seems so very strange—­”

Lord Arleigh held up his hand.

“Hush!” he said.  “A well-trained servant finds nothing strange.”

The woman took the hint and retired.  Lord Arleigh turned to say farewell to his wife.  He found her standing, white and tearless, by the window.

“Oh, my darling,” he cried, “we must now part!  Yet how can I leave you—­so sad, so silent, so despairing?  Speak to me, my own love—­one word—­just one word.”

Her woman’s heart, so quick to pity, was touched by his prayer.  She stalled as sad, as sweet a smile as ever was seen on woman’s lips.

“I shall be better in time, Norman,” she said, “and shall not always be sad.”

“There are some business arrangements which must be made,” he continued, hurriedly—­“but it will be better for us not to meet again just yet, Madaline—­I could not bear it.  I will see that all is arranged for your comfort.  You must have every luxury and—­”

“Luxury!” she repeated, mockingly.  “Why, I would rather be the sorriest beggar that ever breathed than be myself!  Luxury!  You mock me, Lord Arleigh.”

“You will be less bitter against me in time, my darling,” he said.  “I mean just what I say—­that you will have everything this world can give you—­”

“Except love and happiness,” she interposed.

“Love you have, sweet; you have mine—­the fervent, true, honest, deep love of my heart and soul.  Happiness comes in time to all who do their duty.  Think of Carlyle’s words—­’Say unto all kinds of happiness, “I can do without thee”—­with self-renunciation life begins.’”

“Carlyle had no such fate as mine in his thoughts,” she said, “when he wrote that.  But, Lord Arleigh, I do not wish to complain.  I am sorry that I have interrupted you.  I have accepted my fate.  Say all you wish—­I will be silent.”

“I have only to add, my darling, that if money, luxury, comfort can give you happiness, you shall have them all.  You shall have respect and honor too, for I will take care that the whole world knows that this separation arises from no fault of yours.  Promise me, darling wife—­oh, Heaven help me, how hard it is!—­promise me, when the first smart of the pain is over, that you will try to be happy.”

She bent her head, but spoke no word.

“Promise me too, Madaline, that, if sickness and sorrow should come to you, you will send for me at once.”

“I promise,” she said.

“A few words more, and I have done.  Tell me what course you wish me to pursue toward the duchess.”

“I have no wish in the matter,” she replied, directly.  “She was kind to me once; for the sake of that kindness I forgive her.  She forgot that I must suffer in her wish to punish you.  I shall leave her to Heaven.”

“And I,” he said, “will do the same; voluntarily I will never see her or speak to her again.”