p 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.

Some little surprise was created among the servants when orders came for
the carriage to be got ready.

"Going out at this time of night. What can it mean?" asked one of them.

"They are going to the Dower House," answered a groom.

"Ah, then his lordship and her ladyship will not remain at the Abbey!
How strange! But there--rich people have nothing to do but indulge in
whims and caprices!" said the under house-maid, who was immediately
frowned down by her superiors in office.

Not a word was spoken by husband and wife as Lady Arleigh took her seat
in the carriage. Whatever she felt was buried in her own breast. Her
face shone marble-white underneath her vail, and her eyes were bent
downward. Never a word did she speak as the carriage drove slowly
through the park, where the dews were falling and the stars were bright.

Once her husband turned to her and tried to take her hand in his, but
she drew back.

"It will be better not to talk, Norman," she said. "I can bear it best
in silence."