“Norman, my darling husband, you are ill,” she said—­“ill, and you will not tell me.  That is why you sent me away.”

He tried to unclasp her arms, but she clung the more closely to him.

“You shall not send me away.  You wish to suffer in silence?  Oh, my darling, my husband, do you forget that I am your wife, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health?  You shall not suffer without my knowledge.”

“I am not ill, Madaline,” he said, with a low moan.  “It is not that.”

“Then something has happened—­you have been frightened.”

He unclasped her arms from his neck—­their caress was a torture to him.

“My poor darling, my poor wife, it is far worse than that.  No man has ever seen a more ghastly specter than I have seen of death in life.”

She looked round in quick alarm.

“A specter!” she cried fearfully; and then something strange in his face attracted her attention.  She looked at him.  “Norman,” she said, slowly, “is it—­is it something about me?”

How was he to tell her?  He felt that it would be easier to take her out into the glorious light of the sunset and slay her than kill her with the cruel words that he must speak.  How was he to tell her?  No physical torture could be so great as that which he must inflict; yet he would have given his life to save her from pain.

“It is—­I am quite sure,” she declared, slowly—­“something about me.  Oh, Norman, what is it?  I have not been away from you long.  Yet no change from fairest day to darkest night could be so great as the change in you since I left you.  You will not tell me what it is—­you have taken my arms from your neck—­you do not love me!”

“Do not torture me, Madaline,” he said.  “I am almost mad.  I cannot bear much more.”

“But what is it?  What have I done?  I who you send from you now am the same Madaline whom you married this morning—­whom you kissed half an hour since.  Norman, I begin to think that I am in a terrible dream.”

“I would to Heaven it were a dream.  I am unnerved—­unmanned—­I have lost my strength, my courage, my patience, my hope.  Oh, Madaline, how can I tell you?”

The sight of his terrible agitation seemed to calm her; she took his hand in hers.

“Do not think of me,” she said—­“think of yourself.  I can bear what you can bear.  Let me share your trouble, whatever it may be, my husband.”

He looked at the sweet, pleading face.  How could he dash the light and brightness from it?  How could he slay her with the cruel story he had to tell.  Then, in a low, hoarse voice, he said: 

“You must know all, and I cannot say it.  Read this letter, Madeline, and then you will understand.”

Chapter XXVII.

Slowly, wonderingly, Lady Arleigh took the Duchess of Hazlewood’s letter from her husband’s hands and opened it.