ived for my
revenge, and now that I have tasted it life is indifferent to me. You
will, of course, write to complain to the duke, and he, with his honest
indignation justly aroused, will perhaps refuse to see me again. I care
not; my interest in life ended when my love died.

"Let me add one thing more. Madaline herself has been deceived. I told
her that you knew all her history, that I had kept nothing from you, and
that you loved her in spite of it, but that she was never to mention it
to you."

He read the letter with a burning flush on his face, which afterward
grew white as with the pallor of death; a red mist was before his eyes,
the sound of surging waters in his ears, his heart beat loud and fast.
Could it be true--oh, merciful Heaven, could it be true? At first he had
a wild hope that it was a cruel jest that Philippa was playing with him
on his wedding-day. It could not be true--his whole soul rose in
rebellion against it. Heaven was too just, too merciful--it could not
be. It was a jest. He drew his breath with a long quivering sigh--his
lips trembled; it was simply a jest to frighten him on his wedding day.

Then, one by one--slowly, sadly, surely--a whole host of circumstances
returned to his mind, making confirmation strong. He remembered
well--only too well--the scene in the balcony. He remembered the pale
starlight, the light scarf thrown over Philippa's shoulders, even the
very perfume that came from the flowers in her hair; he remembered how
her voice had trembled, how her face had shown in the faint evening
light. When she had quoted the words of _Priscilla_, the loveliest
maiden of Plymouth, she had meant them as applicable to her own
case--"Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" They came back to him
with a fierce, hissing sound, mocking his despair. She had loved him
through all--this proud, beautiful, brilliant woman for whom men of
highest rank had sighed in vain. And, knowing her pride, her
haughtiness, he could guess exactly what her love had cost her, and that
all that followed had been a mockery. On that night her love had changed
to hate. On that night she had planned this terrible revenge. Her
offering of friendship had been a blind. He thought to himself that he
had been foolish not to see it. A thousand circumstances presented
themselves to his mind. This, then, was why Madaline had so
persistently--and, to his mind, so strangely--refused his love. This was
why she had talked incessa