meek and so lofty, so noble and so humble. Looking at her, one feels how
true and sweet a woman's soul can be. Yet--oh, that I should live to say
it!--on my wedding-day I discovered something--it was no fault of hers,
I swear--that parted us. Loving her blindly, madly, with my whole heart
and soul, I was still compelled to leave her. She is my wife in name
only, and can never be more to me, yet, you understand, without any
fault of hers."

"What a strange story!" said the earl, thoughtfully. "But this barrier,
this obstacle--can it never be removed?"

"No," answered Lord Arleigh, "never!"

"I assure you of my deepest sympathy," said the earl. "It is a strange
history."

"Yes, and a sad fate," sighed Lord Arleigh. "You cannot understand my
story entirely. Wanting a full explanation, you might fairly ask me why
I married with this drawback. I did not know of it, but my wife believed
I did. We were both most cruelly deceived, it does not matter now. She
is condemned to a loveless, joyless life; so am I. With a wife beautiful
loving, young, I must lead a most solitary existence--I must see my name
die out for want of heirs--I must see my race almost extinct, my life
passed in repining and misery, my heart broken, my days without
sunshine. I repeat that it is a sad fate."

"It is indeed," agreed the earl--"and such a strange one. Are you quite
sure that nothing can be done to remedy it?"

"Quite sure," was the hopeless reply.

"I can hardly understand the need for separation, seeing that the wife
herself is blameless."

"In this case it is unavoidable."

"May I, without seeming curious, ask you a question?" said the earl.

"Certainly--as many as you like."

"You can please yourself about answering it," observed the earl; and
then he added: "Tell me, is it a case of insanity? Has your wife any
hereditary tendency to anything of that kind?"

"No," replied Lord Arleigh; "it is nothing of that description. My wife
is to me perfect in body and mind; I can add nothing to that."

"Then your story is a marvel; I do not--I cannot understand it. Still I
must say that, unless there is something far deeper and more terrible
than I can imagine, you have done wrong to part from your wife."

"I wish I could think so. But my doom is fixed, and no matter how long I
live, or she lives, it can never be altered."

"My story is a sad one," observed Lord Mountdean, "but it is not so sad
as yours. I married when I was quite young