In a few weeks half London was talking about the beautiful Duchess of Hazlewood.  In all the “Fashionable Intelligence” of the day she had a long paragraph to herself.  The duchess had given a ball, had had a grand reunion, a soiree, a garden-party; the duchess had been at such an entertainment; when a long description of her dress or costume would follow.  Nor was it only among the upper ten thousand that she was so pre-eminently popular.  If a bazar, a fancy fair, a ball, were needed to aid some charitable cause, she was always chosen as patroness; her vote, her interest, one word from her, was all-sufficient.

Her wedding had been a scene of the most gorgeous magnificence.  She had been married from her house at Verdun Royal, and half the county had been present at what was certainly the most magnificent ceremonial of the year.  The leading journal, the Illustrated Intelligence, produced a supplement on the occasion, which was very much admired.  The duke gave the celebrated artist, M. Delorme, a commission to paint the interior of the church at Verdun Royal as it appeared while the ceremony was proceeding.  That picture forms the chief ornament now of the grand gallery at the Court.

The wedding presents were something wonderful to behold; it was considered that the duchess had one of the largest fortunes in England in jewels alone.  The wedding-day was the fourth of August, and it had seemed as though nature herself had done her utmost to make the day most brilliant.

It was not often that so beautiful a bride was seen as the young duchess.  She bore her part in the scene very bravely.  The papers toll how Lord Arleigh was “best man” on the occasion but no one guessed even ever so faintly of the tragedy that came that morning to a crisis.  The happy pair went off to Vere Court, the duke’s favorite residence, and there for a short time the public lost sight of them.

If the duke had been asked to continue the history of his wedding-day, he would have told a strange story—­how, when they were in the railway-carriage together, he had turned to his beautiful young wife with some loving words on his lips, and she had cried out that she wanted air, to let no one come near her—­that she had stretched out her hands wildly, as though beating off something terrible.

He believed that she was overcome by excitement or the heat of the day; he soothed her as he would have soothed a child; and when they readied Vere Court he insisted that they should rest.  She did so.  Her dark hair fell round her white neck and shoulders, her beautiful face was flushed, the scarlet lips trembled as though she were a grieving child; and the young duke stood watching her, thinking how fair she was and what a treasure he had won.  Then he heard her murmur some words in her sleep—­what were they?  He could not quite distinguish them; it was something about a Puritan maiden Priscilla and John—­he could not catch the name—­something that did not concern him, and in which he had no part.  Suddenly she held out her arms, and, in a voice he never forgot, cried, “Oh, my love, my love!” That of course meant himself.  Down on his knees by her side went the young duke—­he covered her hands with kisses.