On that evening, while the festivities were at their height, Lord Arleigh and his lovely young wife stole away from their guests and went up to the picture-gallery.  The broad, silvery moonbeams fell on the spot where they had once endured such cruel anguish.  The fire seemed to have paled in the rubies round the white neck of Titian’s gorgeous beauty.  Lord Arleigh clasped his wife in his arms, and then he placed her at some little distance from himself, where the silvery moonlight fell on the fair, lovely profile, on the golden head, on the superb dress of rich white silk and on the gleaming diamonds.

“My darling,” he said, “you are thousand times lovelier than even Titian’s beauty here!  Do you remember all we suffered in this spot?’

“I can never forget it,” she replied.

“But you must forget it—­it is for that I have brought you hither.  This is the pleasantest nook in our house, and I want you to have pleasant associations with it.  Where we suffered hear me say——­” He paused.

“What is it?” she asked, quietly.

He threw his arms round her, and drew her to his breast.

“Hear me say this, my darling—­that I love you with all my heart; that I will so love you, truthfully and faithfully, until death; and that I thank Heaven for the sweetest and best of all blessings, the gift of a good, pure, and loving wife.”

Chapter XL.

Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, was sitting in the superb drawing-room at Vere Court.  It was some time since she had left town, but she had brought some portion of the gay world back with her.  The court was filled with visitors, and nothing was thought of but brilliant festivities and amusement.  The duchess was queen of all gayety; the time that had passed had simply added to her beauty—­she was now one of the handsomest women in society.

It was a warm day, the last day in June, and Vere Court had never seemed so brilliant.  The lovely young duchess had withdrawn for a short time from her guests.  Most of them had gone out riding or driving.  There was to be a grand ball that evening and her Grace of Hazlewood did not wish to fatigue herself before it came off.  As for driving or riding in the hot sun simply because the day was fine and the country fair, she did not believe in it.  She had retired to her drawing-room; a soft couch, had been placed near one of the open windows, and the breeze that came in was heavy with perfume.  On the stand by her side lay a richly-jeweled fan, a bottle of sweet scent, a bouquet of heliotrope—­her favorite flower—­and one or two books which she had selected to read.  She lay, with her dark, queenly head on the soft cushion of crimson velvet in an attitude that would have charmed a painter.  But the duchess was not wasting the light of her dark eyes over a book.  She had closed them, as a flower closes its leaves in the heat of the sun.  As she lay there, beautiful, languid, graceful, the picture she formed was a marvelous rich study of color.  So thought the duke, who, unheard by her, had entered the room.