But, when day after day she saw her daughter fading away—­when she saw the fair face lose its color, the eyes their light—­when she saw the girl shrink from the sunshine and the flowers, from all that was bright and beautiful, from all that was cheerful and exhilarating—­she knew that her soul was sick unto death.  She would look with longing eyes at the calm, resigned face, wishing with all her heart that she might speak, yet not daring to do so.

What seemed to her even more surprising[8] was that no one appeared to think such a state of things strange; and when she had been at Winiston some few weeks, she discovered that, as far as the occupants of the house were concerned, the condition of matters was not viewed as extraordinary.  She offered no remark to the servants, and they offered none to her, but from casual observations she gathered that her daughter had never been to Beechgrove, but had lived at Winiston all her married life, and that Lord Arleigh had never been to visit her.

How was this?  What did the terrible pain in her daughter’s face mean?  Why was her bright young life so slowly but surely fading away?  She noted it for some time in silence, and then she decided to speak.

One morning when Madaline had turned with a sigh from the old-fashioned garden with its wilderness of flowers, Margaret said, gently: 

“Madaline, I never hear you speak of the Duchess of Hazlewood who was so very kind to you.  Does she never come to see you?”

She saw the vivid crimson mount to the white brow, to be speedily replaced by a pallor terrible to behold.

“My darling,” she cried, in distress, “I did not expect to grieve you!”

“Why should I be grieved?” said the girl, quietly.  “The duchess does not come to see me because she acted to me very cruelly; and I never write to her now.”

Then Margaret for awhile was silent.  How was she to bring forward the subject nearest to her heart?  She cast about for words in which to express her thoughts.

“Madaline,” she said, at last, “no one has a greater respect than I have for the honor of husband and wife; I mean for the good faith and confidence there should be between them.  In days gone by I never spoke of your poor father’s faults—­I never allowed any one to mention them to me.  If any of the neighbors ever tried to talk about him, I would not allow it.  So, my darling, do not consider that there is any idle curiosity in what I am about to say to you.  I thought you were so happily married, my dear; and it is a bitter disappointment to me to find that such is not the case.”

There came no reply from Lady Arleigh; her hands were held before her eyes.

“I am almost afraid, dearly as I love you, to ask you the question,” Margaret continued; “but, Madaline, will you tell me why you do not live with your husband?”

“I cannot, mother,” was the brief reply.

“Is it—­oh, tell me, dear!—­is it any fault of yours?  Have you displeased him?”