The daughter of a felon—­and he had brought her to Beechgrove as successor to a roll of noble women, each one of whom had been of noble birth!  She was the daughter of a felon—­no matter how fair, how graceful, how pure.  For the first time the glory of Beechgrove was tarnished.  But it would not be for long—­it could not be for long; she must not remain.  The daughter of a felon to be the mother of his children—­ah, no, not if he went childless to the grave!  Better that his name were extinct, better that the race of Arleigh should die out, than that his children should be pointed at as children with tainted blood!  It could never be.  He would expect the dead and gone Arleighs to rise from their graves in utter horror, he would expect some terrible curse to fall on him, were so terrible a desecration to happen.  They must part.  The girl he loved with all the passionate love of his heart, the fair young wife whom he worshiped must go from him, and he must see her no more.  She must be his wife in name only.

He was young, and he loved her very dearly.  His head fell forward on his breast, and as bitter a sob as ever left man’s lips died on his.  His wife in name only!  The sweet face, the tender lips were not for him—­yet he loved her with the whole passion and force of his soul.  Then he raised his head—­for he heard a sound, and knew that she was returning.  Great drops of anguish fell from his brow—­over his handsome face had come a terrible change; it had grown fierce with pain, haggard with despair, white with sorrow.

Looking up, he saw her—­she was at the other end of the gallery; he saw the tall, slender figure and the sweeping dress—­he saw the white arms with their graceful contour, the golden hair, the radiant face—­and he groaned aloud; he saw her looking up at the pictures as she passed slowly along—­the ancestral Arleighs of whom he was so proud.  If they could have spoken, those noble women, what would they have said to this daughter of a felon?

She paused for a few minutes to look up at her favorite, Lady Alicia, and then she came up to him and stood before him in an the grace of her delicate loveliness, in all the pride of her dainty beauty.  She was looking at the gorgeous Titian near him.

“Norman,” she said, “the sun has turned those rubies into drops of blood—–­ they looked almost terrible on the white throat.  What a strange picture!  What a tragical face!”

Suddenly with outstretched arms she fell on her knees at his side.

“Oh, my darling, what has happened?  What is the matter?”

She had been away from him only half an hour, yet it seemed to him ages since he had watched her leave the gallery with a smile on her lips.

“What is it, my darling?” she cried again.  “Dear Norman, you look as though the shadow of death had passed over you.  What is it?”

In another moment she had flung herself on his breast, clasped her arms round his neck, and was kissing his pale changed face as she had never done before.