She stopped abruptly, but Lord Arleigh encouraged her.

“Tell me all, Madaline,” he said, gently; “none of this is your fault, my poor wife.  Tell me all.”

“The duchess was very kind to my mother, and befriended her in many ways.  She interested the duke in her case, and he promised to find employment for my unfortunate father, who went to his house to see him.  Whether my father had ever done wrong before, I cannot tell.  Sometimes I fear that he had done so, for no man falls suddenly into crime.  In few words—­oh, Norman, how hard they are to say!—­what he saw in the duke’s mansion tempted him.  He joined some burglars, and they robbed the house.  My unfortunate father was found with his pockets filled with valuable jewelry.  My mother would not let me read the history of the trial, but I learned the result—­he was sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude.”

She paused again; the dreary hopelessness of her face, the pain in her voice, touched him inexpressibly.

“None of this is your fault, my darling,” he said.  “Go on.”

“Then,” she continued “the duchess was kinder than ever to my mother.  She furnished her with the means of gaining her livelihood; she offered to finish my education and adopt me.  My mother was at first unwilling; she did not wish me to leave her.  But the duchess said that her love was selfish—­that it was cruel to stand in my light when such an offer was made.  She consented and I, wondering much what my ultimate fate was to be, was sent to school in Paris.  When I had been there for some time, the duke and duchess came to see me.  I must not forget to tell you, Norman, that she saw me herself first privately.  She said he was so forgetful that he would never remember having heard the name of Dornham.  She added that the keeping of the secret was very important, for, if it became known, all her kind efforts in our favor must cease at once.  I promised to be most careful.  The duke and duchess arranged that I was to go home with them and live as the duchess’ companion.  Again she warned me never upon any account to mention who I was, or anything about me.  She called me the daughter of an old friend—­and so I was, although that friend was a very humble one.  From the first, Norman, she talked so much about you; you were the model of everything chivalrous and noble, the hero of a hundred pleasant stories.  I had learned to love you long even before I saw you—­to love you after a fashion, Norman, as a hero.  I can see it all now.  She laid the plot—­we were the victims.  I remember that the very morning on which you saw me first the duchess sent me into the trellised arbor; I was to wait there until she summoned me.  Rely upon it, Norman, she also gave orders that you were to be shown into the morning-room, although she pretended to be annoyed at it.  I can see all the plot now plainly.  I can only say——­ Oh, Norman, you and I were both blind!  We ought to have seen through her scheme.  Why should she have brought us together if she had not meant that we should love each other?  What have we in common—­I, the daughter of a felon; you, a nobleman, proud of your ancestry, proud of your name?  Oh, Norman, if I could but die here at your feet, and save you from myself!”