She might have led a different life—­she might have gone out into society—­she might have visited and entertained guests.  People knew that Lady Arleigh was separated from her husband; they knew also that, whatever might have been the cause of separation, it had arisen from no fault of hers.  She would, in spite of her strange position, have been welcomed with open arms by the whole neighborhood, but she was sick with mortal sorrow—­life had not a charm for her.

She had no words for visitors—­she had no wish left for enjoyment.  Just to dream her life away was all she cared for.  The disappointment was so keen, so bitter, she could not overcome it.  Death would free Norman from all burden—­would free him from this tie that must be hateful to him.  Death was no foe to be met and fought with inch by inch; he was rather a friend who was to save her from the embarrassment of living on—­a friend who would free her husband from the effects of his terrible mistake.

Madaline had never sent for her mother, not knowing whether Lord Arleigh would like it; but she had constantly written to her, and had forwarded money to her.  She had sent her more than Margaret Dornham was willing to accept.  Another thing she had done—­she had most carefully refrained from saying one word to her mother as to the cause of her separation from her husband.  Indeed, Margaret Dornham had no notion of the life that her well-beloved Madaline was leading.

It had been a terrible struggle for Margaret to give her up.

“I might as well have let her go back years ago to those to whom she belonged,” she said to herself, “as to let her go now.”

Still, she stood in great awe of the Duchess of Hazlewood, who seemed to her one of the grandest ladies in all England; and, when the duchess told her it was selfish of her to stand in her daughter’s light, Margaret gave way and let her go.  Many times, after she had parted with her, she felt inclined to open the oaken box with brass clasps, and see what the papers in it contained, but a nameless fear came over her.  She did not dare to do what she had not done earlier.

Madaline had constantly written to her, had told her of her lover, had described Lord Arleigh over and over again to her.  On the eve of her wedding-day she had written again; but, after that fatal marriage-day, she had not told her secret.  Of what use would it be to make her mother more unhappy than she was—­of what avail to tell her that the dark and terrible shadow of her father’s crime had fallen over her young life, blighting it also?

Of all her mother’s troubles she knew this would be the greatest so she generously refrained from naming it.  There was no need to tell her patient, long-suffering, unhappy mother that which must prove like a dagger in her gentle heart.  So Margaret Dornham had one gleam of sunshine in her wretched life.  She believed that the girl she had loved so dearly was unutterably happy.  She had read the descriptions of Lord Arleigh with tears in her eyes.