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Updated: June 14, 2025
"You should not look at me, Norman," she said, "when I sing; it embarrasses me." "You should contrive to look a little less beautiful then, Philippa," he rejoined. "What was that last song?" "It is a new one," she replied, "called 'My Queen." "I should like to read the words," said Lord Arleigh.
The wonder and speculations were soon at an end. Lord Atherton saw Miss Arleigh and fell in love with her at once. Not for her money he was rich enough to dispense with wealth in a wife; not for money, but for her wonderful beauty and simple, unaffected grace. He was charmed with her; the candor, the purity, the brightness of her disposition enchanted him.
Ruth had plenty of opportunities now for making her long-projected sketch of the ruined house of Arleigh, for the old woman who lived in the lodge close by, and had charge of the place, had "ricked" her back in a damson-tree, and Ruth often went to see her.
She has all my love, all my heart, all my unutterable respect and deep devotion; but, as you know, she can never be mistress of my house. May Heaven forgive you. Arleigh."
Whatever mystery it contained should be solved at once. He broke the seal; the envelope contained a closely-written epistle. He looked at it in wonder. What could Philippa have to write to him about? The letter began as follows: "A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Norman, Lord Arleigh. You will ask what it is? My answer is, my revenge well planned, patiently awaited.
Dornham had known the harm that her silence was doing she would quickly have broken it. Lady Arleigh returned home, taking her silent sorrow with her. If possible, she was kinder then ever afterward to her mother, sending her constantly baskets of fruit and game presents of every kind. If it had not been for the memory of her convict husband, Mrs.
When she wished to ride or walk there was always some little contention as to who should accompany her. It was very pleasant. Before she had been at Thorpe Castle long Marion Arleigh was queen of the new world. In the midst of all her happiness the first letter from Allan Lyster came like a thunderbolt. She was naturally so frank, so candid, that the keeping of a secret was most difficult to her.
It explains all that I could not understand and, for Arleigh's sake, I am glad, though what you will say to it, I cannot think." And, sitting down by her side, he read to her the newspaper account of the Arleigh romance.
"Answer me one question," he said, gently. "Is this sad story the result of any fault of yours? Are you in any way to blame for it?" "No; not in the least. Still, Lord Arleigh, although I do not share the fault, I share the disgrace nothing can avert that from me." "Nothing of the kind," he opposed; "disgrace and yourself are as incompatible as pitch and a dove's wing."
How was it that, when others sighed so deeply and vainly at her feet, Lord Arleigh alone stood aloof? Of what use were her beauty, wit, grace, wealth, and talent, if she could not win him? For the first time she became solicitous about her beauty, comparing it with that of other women, always being compelled, in the end, to own that she excelled.
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