Produced by Distributed Proofreaders [Transcriber's Note: There were several words that appeared to be printers errors in this book. These have been changed; the changes are marked, and the original spellings are at the end of the text.] WIFE IN NAME ONLY By Charlotte M. Braeme (Bertha M. Clay) Chicago By The Same Author In Uniform Style Dora Thorne From Gloom to Sunlight Her Martyrdom Golden Heart Her Only Sin Lady Damer's Secret The Squire's Darling Her Mother's Sin Wife in Name Only Wedded and Parted Shadow of a Sin Wife in Name Only Chapter I. It was the close Of an autumn day, and Dr. Stephen Letsom had been standing for some time at his window watching the sun go down. It faded slowly out of the western sky. There had been a golden flush with the sunset which changed into crimson, then into purple, and finally into dull gray tints that were forerunners of the shades of night. Dr. Stephen Letsom had watched it with sad, watchful eyes. The leaves on the trees had seemed to be dyed first in red, then in purple. The chrysanthemums changed color with every phase of the sunset; there was a wail in the autumn wind as though the trees and flowers were mourning over their coming fate. There was something of sadness in the whole aspect of nature. The doctor evidently shared it. The face looking from the window was anything but a cheerful one. Perhaps it was not the most judicious manner in which the doctor could have spent his time--above all, if he wished to give people an impression that he had a large practice. But Dr. Letsom had ceased to be particular in the matter of appearances. He was to all intents and purposes a disappointed man. Years before, when his eyes were bright with the fires of youth, and hope was strong in his heart, he had invested such money as he possessed in the purchase of a practice at Castledene, and it had proved to be a failure--why, no one exactly knew. Castledene was one of the prettiest little towns in Kent. It had a town-hall, a market-place, a weekly market, and the remains of a fine old castle; but it was principally distinguished for its races, a yearly event which brought a great influx of visitors to the town. It was half buried in foliage, surrounded by dense woods and green hills, with a clear, swift river running by. The inhabitants were divided into three distinct classes--the poor, who gained a scanty livelihood by working in the fields, the shop-keepers, and the gentry, the latter class consisting principally of old maids and widows, ladies of unblemished gentility and limited means. Among the latter Dr. Letsom was not popular. He had an unpleasant fashion of calling everything by its right name. If a lady would take a little more stimulant than was good for her he could not be persuaded to call her complaint "nervousness;" when idleness and ennui preyed upon a languid frame, he had a startling habit of rousing the patient by a mental cautery. The poor idolized him, but the ladies pronounced him coarse, abrupt; and when ladies decide against a doctor, fate frowns upon him. How was he to get on in the world? Twenty years before he had thought less of getting on than of the interests of science or of doing good; now those ideas were gradually leaving him--life had become a stern hand-to-hand fight with hard necessity. The poor seemed to be growing poorer--the difficulty of getting a fee became greater--the ladies seemed more and more determined to show their dislike and aversion. Matters were growing desperate, thought Dr. Letsom on this autumn night, as he stood watching the chrysanthemums and the fading light in the western sky. Money was becoming a rare commodity with him. His housekeeper, Mrs. Galbraith had long been evincing signs of great discontent. She had not enough for her requirements--she wanted money for a hundred different things, and the doctor had none to give her. The curtains were worn and shabby, the carpets full of holes, the furniture, though clean and well preserved, was totally insufficient. In vain the doctor assured her he had not the means; after the fashion of weak-minded women, she grumbled incessantly. On this night he felt overwhelmed with cares. The rent due the preceding June had not been paid; the gas and coal accounts were still unsettled; the butcher had sent in his "little bill;" the baker had looked anything but pleased at the non-payment of his. The doctor sadly wanted a new hat--and he had hardly money in hand for the week's expenses. What was to be done? Mrs. Galbraith retired to rest in a very aggrieved state of mind, and the doctor stood watching the stars, as they came out in the darkening sky. He was tired of the struggle; life had not been a success with him; he had worked hard, yet nothing had prospered. In youth he had loved a bright, pretty girl, who had looked forward to becoming his wife; but he had never married, because he had not had the means, and the pretty girl died a disappointed woman. Now, as he watched the stars, he fancied them shining on her grave; fancied the grass waving above her head; studded with large white daisies; and he wished that he were lying by her side, free from care, and at rest. Strong man as he was his eyes grew dim with tears, and his lips trembled with a deep-drawn, bitter sob. He was turning away, with a feeling of contempt for his own weakness, when he was startled by the sound of a vehicle driven furiously down Castle street. What vehicle could it be at that hour of the night--nearly eleven? Stephen Letsom stood still and watched. He saw a traveling carriage, with two horses, driven rapidly up to the door of the principal hotel--the Castle Arms--and there stand for some few minutes. It was too dark for him to see if any one alighted from it, or what took place; but, after a time the horses' heads were turned, and then, like a roll of thunder, came the noise of the carriage-wheels. The vehicle drew up before his door, and the doctor stood for a few moments as though paralyzed. Then came a violent peal of the doorbell; and he knowing that Mrs. Galbraith had retired for the evening, went to answer it. There indeed, in the starlight, were the handsome traveling carriage, the pair of gray horses, and the postilion. Stephen Letsom looked about him like one in a dream. He had been twenty years in the place, yet no carriage had ever stopped at his door. He heard a quick, impatient voice, saying: "Are you the doctor--Dr. Letsom?" Looking in the direction of the sound, the doctor saw a tall, distinguished-looking man, wrapped in a traveling cloak--a man whose face and manner indicated at once that he belonged to the upper ranks of society. Dr. Stephen Letsom was quick to recognize that fact. "I am the doctor," he replied, quietly. "Then for Heaven's sake, help me! I am almost mad. My wife has been suddenly taken ill, and I have been to the hotel, where they tell me they have not a room in which they can lodge her. The thing is incredible. You must help me." "I will do what I can," returned the doctor. Had fortune indeed knocked at his door at last? He went to the carriage-door, and, looking inside, saw a lady, young and beautiful, who stretched out her hands to him, as though appealing for help. "I am very ill," she moaned, feebly. Dr. Letsom guessed so much from her pallid face and shadowed eyes. "What is the matter with your wife?" he asked of the strange gentleman, who bent down and whispered something that made Dr. Letsom himself look anxious. "Now doctor," said the traveler, "it is useless to raise objections You see how the matter stands; my wife must stop here. The hotel is full of visitors--people who are here for the races. There is nowhere else for her to go--she must stay here." "At my house?" interrogated the doctor. "It is impossible." "Why?" asked the stranger, quickly. "Because I am not married--I have no wife, no sister." "But you have women-servants, surely?" was the hasty rejoinder. "Only one, and she is not over-clever." "You can get more. My wife must have help. Send all over the place--get the best nurses, the best help possible. Do not study expense. I will make you a rich man for life if you will only help me now." "I will help you," said Dr. Letsom. For a moment his thoughts flew to the green grave under the stars. Riches would come too late, after all; they could not bring back life to the dead. "Wait one moment," said the doctor; and he hastened to rouse his housekeeper, who, curious and interested, exerted herself so as to satisfy even the stranger. Then the strange lady, all white and trembling, was helped down from the parlor into the doctor's shabby little parlor. "Am I going to die?" she asked, raising her large blue eyes to the doctor's face. "Certainly not," he replied, promptly; "you must not think of dying." "But I am very ill; and last night I dreamed that I was dead." "Have you any brandy in the house?" asked the traveler. "See how my wife trembles." Alas for the poor doctor! There was neither brandy nor wine. With an impatient murmur, the stranger called the postilion and sent him to the Castle arms with such an order as made Mrs. Galbraith open her eyes in wonder. Than, without seeming to notice the doctor or his servant, he flung himself on his knees by the lady's side, and kissed the beautiful white face and colorless lips. "My darling," he cried, "this is my fault. I ought not to have asked you to undertake such a journey. Can you ever forgive me?" She kissed him. "You did all for the best, Hubert," she said, then adding, in a whisper: "Do you think I shall die?" Then the doctor thought it right to interpose. "There is no question of death," he said; "but you must be quiet. You must have no agitation--that would injure you." Then he and Mrs. Galbraith led the beautiful, trembling girl to the room which the latter had hastily prepared for her, and, when she was installed therein, the doctor returned to the stranger, who was pacing, with quick, impatient steps, up and down the little parlor. "How is she?" he cried, eagerly. The doctor shook his head. "She is young and very nervous," he replied. "I had better tell you at once that she will not be able to leave Castledene for a time--all thought of continuing the journey must be abandoned." "But she is in no danger?" cried the traveler, and Stephen Letsom saw an agony of suspense in his face. "No, she is not in danger; but she requires and must have both rest and care." "She shall have anything, if Heaven will only spare her. Doctor, my best and safest plan will be to make a friend of you, to confide in you, and then we can arrange together what had better be done. Can you spare me five minutes?" Stephen Letsom nodded assent, and sat down to listen to as strange a story as he bad ever heard. "I should imagine," said the strange gentleman, "that no man likes to plead guilty to a folly. I must do so. Let me first of all introduce myself to you as Lord Charlewood. I am the only son of the Earl of Mountdean, and my father lies dying in Italy. I came of age only last year, and at the same time I fell in love. Now I am not in any way dependent on my father--the title and estate are entailed--but I love him. In these degenerate days it seems perhaps strange to hear a son say that he loves his father. I have obeyed him all my life from this motive. I would give my life for him. But in one respect I have done that which will cause him great annoyance and anger. I have married without his knowledge." The doctor looked up with greater interest; perhaps his thoughts reverted to the grave in the starlight. Lord Charlewood moved uneasily in his chair. "I cannot say that I am sorry," he continued, "for I love my wife very dearly; but I do wish now that I had been less hurried, less precipitate. My wife's great loveliness must be my excuse. She is the daughter of a poor curate, the Reverend Charles Trevor, who came two years ago to supply temporarily the place of the Rector of Lynton. He brought his daughter with him; and the first moment I saw her I fell in love with her. My heart seemed to go out from me and cleave to her. I loved her with what I can see now was the selfish ardor of a young man. I had but one thought--to win her. I wrote to my father, who was in Italy, and asked his consent. He refused it in the most decided manner, and told me to think no more of what after all was but a boy's fancy. He was then staying near the Lake of Como--staying for the benefit of his health--and I went over to see him. I pleaded, prayed, urged my great love--all in vain. The earl, my father, only laughed at me, and said all young men suffered from the fever called love. I came back to England, and found that Mr. Trevor was dead. Madaline, his daughter, was left alone in the world. She raised her beautiful face to mine, poor child, and tried to smile while she talked of going out into the world and of working hard for her daily bread; and, as I listened, my love seemed to grow stronger and deeper. I caught her in my arms, and swore that nothing should part us--that, come what would, she must be my wife. She was very unwilling--not that she did not love me, but because she was afraid of making my father angry; that was her great objection. She knew my love for him and his affection for me. She would not come between us. It was in vain that I prayed her to do as I wished. After a time she consented to a compromise--to marry me without my father's knowledge. It was a folly, I own; now I see clearly its imprudence--then I imagined it the safest and surest way. I persuaded her, as I had persuaded myself, that, when my father once knew that we were married, he would forgive us, and all would go well. We were married eleven mouths since, and I have been so happy since then that it has seemed to me but a single day. My beautiful young wife was frightened at the bold step we had taken, but I soothed her. I did not take her home to Wood Lynton, but, laying aside all the trappings of wealth and title, we have traveled from place to place as Mr. and Mrs. Charlewood, enjoying our long honeymoon. If we liked any one particular spot we remained in it. But a letter from Italy came like a thunderbolt--my father had grown rapidly worse and wanted to see me at once. If I had been content to go at once, all would have been well. I could not endure that he should die without seeing, loving, and blessing my wife Madaline. I told her my desire, and she consented most cheerfully to accompany me. I ought to have known that--in her state of health--traveling was most injurious; but I was neglectful of the fact--I listened only to my heart's desire, that my father should see my wife before he died. We started on our fatal journey--only this morning. At first my wife seemed to enjoy it; and then I saw all the color fading from her sweet face. I saw her lips grow white and tremble, and I became alarmed. It was not until we reached Castledene that she gave in and told me she could go no further. Still you say there is no danger, and that you do not think she will die?" "Danger? No, I see none. Life and death lie in the hands of One above us; but, humanely speaking, I see no danger." "Of course we cannot get on now," observed Lord Charlewood "at least Lady Charlewood cannot. How long do you think my suspense will last?" "Not much longer," was the calm reply. "By noon to-morrow all will be safe and well, I hope." "I must wait until then," said Lord Charlewood. "I could not leave my wife while even the faintest shadow of danger lies over her. If all be well, I can start the day after to-morrow; and, please Heaven, I shall be in time to see my father. You think I shall have good news for him?" "I have every hope that you will be able to tell him that the heir of the Mountdeans is thriving and well." Lord Charlewood smiled. "Such news as that will more than reconcile him to our marriage," he said. After a pause he continued: "It is a most unfortunate matter; yet I am just as well pleased that my son and heir should be born in England. Doctor, there is another thing I wish to say. I know perfectly well what these little country towns are--everything is a source of gossip and sensation. If it were known that such an incident as this had happened to me, the papers would be filled with it; and it might fall out that my father, the earl, would come to know of it before I myself could tell him. We had better take all proper precautions against such a thing. I should prefer that we be known here only as Mr. and Mrs. Charlewood. No one will think of connecting the surname with the title." "You are quite right," agreed the doctor. "Another thing I wish to add is that I want you to spare no expense--send for the best nurse, the best help it is possible to get. Remember that I am a rich man, and that I would give my whole fortune, my life itself a thousand times over, to save or to serve my wife." Then came a summons for the doctor from the room above, and Lord Charlewood was once more left alone. He was a young man, and was certainly both a good and honorable one. He had never deliberately done anything wicked--on the contrary he had tried always to do what was best; yet, as he stood there, a strange sense of something wanting came over him. The young wife he loved with such passionate worship was in the hour of need, and he could render no assistance. Later on a strange hush had fallen over the doctor's house. It was past 1 in the morning; the sky was overcast; the wind was moaning fitfully, as though a storm was brewing in the autumn air. The dew lay thick and heavy on the ground. Inside the house was the strange hush that dangerous sickness always brings with it. The doctor had in haste summoned the best nurse in Castledene, Hannah Furney, who shook her head gravely when she saw the beautiful pale face. An hour passed, and again Dr. Letsom sought his distinguished guest. "I am sorry not to bring better news," he said. "Lady--Mrs Charlewood--is not so well as I had hoped she would be. Dr. Evans is considered very clever. I should like further advice. Shall I send for him?" The sudden flash of agony that came into Lord Charlewood's face was a revelation to Dr. Letsom; he laid his hand with a gentle touch on the stranger's arm. "Do not fear the worst," he said. "She is in the hands of Heaven. I am taking only ordinary precautions. I do not say she is in danger--I merely say that she is not so well as I should like to see her." Another hour passed, the church clock at Castledene was striking two, and Dr. Evans had joined the grave-faced group around the sick woman's bed. He, too, had looked with compassion on the beautiful young face--he, too, had bent forward to listen to the whisper that parted the white lips. "Am I going to die?" she asked. He tried to smile and say something about hope; but Nurse Furney knew, and she turned away lest the sick woman's questioning eyes should read what her face betrayed. Three o'clock struck. A sweet voice, abrupt and clear, broke the silence of the solemn scene. "Hubert. Where is Hubert? I must see him." "Tell him to come," said Dr. Evans to Dr. Letsom, "but do not tell him there is any danger." A few minutes later Lord Charlewood stood by the side of his young wife. "Hubert," she said to him, with outstretched hands, "Hubert, my husband, I am so frightened. They do not tell me the truth. Am I going to die?" He bent down to kiss her. "Die, my darling? No, certainly not. You are going to live, to be what you always have been, the dearest, sweetest wife in the world." And he believed implicitly[1] what he said. Then came a strange sleep, half waking, half dreaming. Lady Charlewood fancied that she was with her husband on the seashore, and that the waves were coming in so fast that they threatened to drown her, they were advancing in such great sheets of foam. Once more she clung to him, crying: "Help me, Hubert; I shall be drowned--see how the tide is coming in!" Then the doctor bade him leave her--he must go down to the shabby, lowly little room, where the gas was burning, and the early dawn of the morning was coming in. The agony of unrest was on him. He thought how useless was money, after all; here he was with thousands at his command, yet he could not purchase help or safety for her whom his soul loved best. He was helpless, he could do nothing to assist her; he could trust only to Heaven. He went from the window to the door; he trembled at the solemn silence, the terrible hush; he longed for the full light of day. Suddenly he heard a sound that stirred the very depths of his heart--that brought a crimson flush to his face and tears to his eyes. It was the faint cry of a little child. Presently he heard the footsteps of Dr. Letsom; and the next minute the doctor was standing before him, with a grave look on his face. "You have a little daughter," he said--"a beautiful little girl--but your wife is in danger; you had better come and see her." Even he--the doctor--accustomed to scenes of sorrow and desolation was startled by the cry of pain that came from the young man's lips. Chapter II Five o'clock! The chimes had played the hour, the church clock had struck; the laborers were going to the fields, the dairy-maids were beginning their work; the sky had grown clear and blue, the long night of agony was over. The Angel of Death had spread his wings over the doctor's house, and awaited only the moment when his sword should fall. Inside, the scene had hardly changed. The light of the lamp seemed to have grown so ghostly that the nurse had turned it out, and, drawing the blinds, let the faint morning light come in. It fell on the beautiful face that had grown even whiter in the presence of death. Lady Charlewood was dying; yet the feeble arms held the little child tightly. She looked up as her husband entered the room. He had combated by a strong effort all outward manifestations of despair. "Hubert," whispered the sweet, faint voice, "see, this is our little daughter." He bent down, but he could not see the child for the tears that filled his eyes. "Our little daughter," she repeated; "and they say, Hubert, that I have given my life for hers. Is it true?" He looked at the two doctors; he looked at the white face bearing the solemn, serene impress of death. It would be cruel to deceive her now, when the hands that caressed the little child were already growing colder. "Is it true, Hubert?" she repeated, a clear light shining in her dying eyes. "Yes, my darling, it is true," he said, in a low voice. "I am dying--really dying--when I have my baby and you?" she questioned. "Oh, Hubert, is it really true?" Nothing but his sobs answered her; dying as she was, all sweet, womanly compassion awoke in her heart. "Hubert," she whispered--"oh, my darling, if you could come with me!--I want to see you kiss the baby while it lies here in my arms." He bent down and kissed the tiny face, she watching him all the time. "You will be very kind to her, darling, for my sake, because you have loved me so much, and call her by my name--Madaline. Tell her about me when she grows up--how young I was to die, how dearly I loved you, and how I held her in my arms. You will not forget?" "No," he said, gently; "I shall not forget." The hapless young mother kissed the tiny rosebud face, all the passion and anguish of her love shining in her dying eyes; and then the nurse carried the babe away. "Hubert," said Lady Charlewood, in a low, soft, whisper, "may I die in your arms, darling?" She laid her head on his breast, and looked at him with the sweet content of a little child. "I am so young," she said, gently, "to die--to leave you Hubert. I have been so happy with you--I love you so much." "Oh, my wife, my wife!" he groaned, "how am I to bear it?" The white hands softly clasped his own. "You will bear it in time," she said. "I know how you will miss me; but you have the baby and your father--you will find enough to fill your life. But you will always love me best--I know that, Hubert. My heart feels so strange; it seems to stop, and then to beat slowly. Lay your face on mine, darling." He did just as she requested, whispering sweet, solemn words of comfort; and then, beneath his own he felt her lips grow cold and still. Presently he heard one long, deep-drawn sigh. Some one raised the sweet head from his breast, and laid it back upon the pillow. He knew she was dead. He tried to bear it; he said to himself that he must be a man, that he had to live for his child's sake. He tried to rise, but the strength of his manhood failed him. With a cry never forgotten by those who heard it, Lord Charlewood fell with his face on the ground. Seven o'clock. The full light of day was shining in the solemn chamber; the faint golden sunbeams touched the beautiful white face, so still and solemn in death; the white hands were folded, and lay motionless on the quiet heart. Kindly hands had brushed back the golden-brown hair; some one had gathered purple chrysanthemums and laid them round the dead woman, so that she looked like a marble bride on a bed of flowers. Death wore no stern aspect there; the agony and the torture, the dread and fear, were all forgotten; there was nothing but the sweet smile of one at perfect rest. They had not darkened the room, after the usual ghostly fashion--Stephen Letsom would not have it so--but they had let in the fresh air and the sunshine, and had placed autumn flowers in the vases. The baby had been carried away--the kind-hearted nurse had charge of it. Dr. Evans had gone home, haunted by the memory of the beautiful dead face. The birds were singing in the morning sun; and Lord Charlewood, still crushed by his great grief, lay on the couch in the little sitting-room where he had spent so weary a night. "I cannot believe it," he said, "or, believing, cannot realize it. Do you mean to tell me, doctor, that she who only yesterday sat smiling by my side, life of my life, soul of my soul, dearer to me than all the world, has gone from me, and that I shall see her no more? I cannot, I will not believe it! I shall hear her crying for me directly, or she will come smiling into the room. Oh, Madaline, my wife, my wife!" Stephen Letsom was too clever a man and too wise a doctor to make any endeavor to stem such a torrent of grief. He knew that it must have its way. He sat patiently listening, speaking when he thought a word would be useful; and Lord Charlewood never knew how much he owed to his kind, unwearied patience. Presently he went up to look at his wife, and, kneeling by her side, nature's great comforter came to him. He wept as though his heart would break--tears that eased the burning brain, and lightened the heavy heart. Dr. Letsom was a skillful, kindly man; he let the tears flow, and made no effort to stop them. Then, after a time, disguised in a glass of wine, he administered a sleeping potion, which soon took effect. He looked with infinite pity on the tired face. What a storm, a tempest of grief had this man passed through! "It will be kinder and better to let him sleep the day and night through, if he can," said Stephen to himself. "He would be too ill to attend to any business even if he were awake." So through the silent hours of the day Lord Charlewood slept, and the story spread from house to house, until the little town rang with it--the story of the travelers, the young husband and wife, who, finding no room at the hotel, had gone to the doctors, where the poor lady had died. Deep sympathy and pity were felt and expressed; kind-hearted mothers wept over the babe; some few were allowed to enter the solemn death chamber; and these went away haunted, as Dr. Evans was, by the memory of the lovely dead face. Through it all Lord Charlewood slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion and fatigue, and it was the greatest mercy that could have befallen him. The hour of wakening was to come--Stephen Letsom never forgot it. The bereaved man was frantic in his grief, mad with the sense of his loss. Then the doctor, knowing how one great sorrow counteracts another, spoke of his father, reminding him that if he wished to see him alive he must take some little care of himself. "I shall not leave her!" cried Lord Charlewood. "Living or dead, she is dearer than all the world to me--I shall not leave her!" "Nor do I wish you to do so," said the doctor. "I know you are a strong man--I believe you to be a brave one; in grief of this kind the first great thing is to regain self-control. Try to regain yours, and then you will see for yourself what had better be done." Lord Charlewood discerned the truth. "Have patience with me," he said, "a little longer; the blow is so sudden, so terrible, I cannot yet realize what the world is without Madaline." A few hours passed, and the self-control he had struggled for was his. He sent for Dr. Letsom. "I have been thinking over what is best," he said, "and have decided on all my plans. Have you leisure to discuss them with me?" The question seemed almost ironical to the doctor, who had so much more time to spare than he cared to have. He sat down by Lord Charlewood's side, and they held together the conversation that led to such strange results. "I should not like a cold, stone grave for my beautiful wife," said Lord Charlewood. "She was so fair, so _spirituelle_, she loved all nature so dearly; she loved the flowers, trees, and the free fresh air of heaven. Let her be where she can have them all now." The doctor looked up with mild reproach in his eyes. "She has something far better than the flowers of this world," he said. "If ever a dead face told of rest and peace, hers does; I have never seen such a smile on any other." "I should like to find her a grave where the sun shines and the dew falls," observed Lord Charlewood--"where grass and flowers grow and birds sing in the trees overhead. She would not seem so far away from me then." "You can find many such graves in the pretty church-yard here in Castledene," said the doctor. "In time to come," continued Lord Charlewood, "she shall have the grandest marble monument that can be raised, but now a plain white cross will be sufficient, with her name, Madaline Charlewood; and, doctor, while I am away you will have the grave attended to--kept bright with flowers--tended as for some one that you loved." Then they went out together to the green church-yard at the foot of the hill, so quiet, so peaceful, so calm, and serene, that death seemed robbed of half its terrors; white daisies and golden buttercups studded it, the dense foliage of tall lime-trees rippled above it. The graves were covered with richly-hued autumn flowers; all was sweet, calm, restful. There was none of earth's fever here. The tall gray spire of the church rose toward, the clear blue sky. Lord Charlewood stood looking around him in silence. "I have seen such a scene in pictures," he said. "I have read of such in poems, but it is the first I have really beheld. If my darling could have chosen for herself, she would have preferred to rest here." On the western slope, where the warmest and brightest sun beams lay, under the shade of the rippling lime-trees, they laid Lady Charlewood to rest. For long years afterward the young husband was to carry with him the memory of that green grassy grave. A plain white cross bore for the present her name; it said simply: In Loving Memory of MADALINE CHARLEWOOD, who died in her 20th year. ERECTED BY HER SORROWING HUSBAND. "When I give her the monument she deserves," he said. "I can add no more." They speak of that funeral to this day in Castledene--of the sad, tragic story, the fair young mother's death, the husband's wild despair. They tell how the beautiful stranger was buried when the sun shone and the birds sang--how solemnly the church-bell tolled, each knell seeming to cleave the clear sunlit air--how the sorrowing young husband, so suddenly and so terribly bereft, walked first, the chief mourner in the sad procession; they tell how white his face was, and how at each toll of the solemn bell he winced as though some one had struck him a terrible blow--how he tried hard to control himself, but how at the grave, when she was hidden forever from his sight, he stretched out his hands, crying, "Madaline, Madaline!" and how for the remainder of that day he shut himself up alone, refusing to hear the sound of a voice, to look at a human face--refusing food, comfort, grieving like one who has no hope for the love he had lost. All Castledene grieved with him; it seemed as though death and sorrow had entered every house. Then came the morrow, when he had to look his life in the face again--life that he found so bitter without Madaline. He began to remember his father, who, lying sick unto death, craved for his presence. He could do no more for Madaline; all his grief, his tears, his bitter sorrow, were useless; he could not bring her back; he was powerless where she was concerned. But with regard to his father matters were different--to him he could take comfort, healing, and consolation. So it was decided that he should at once continue his broken journey. What of little Madaline, the child who had her dead mother's large blue eyes and golden hair? Again Lord Charlewood and the doctor sat in solemn conclave; this time the fate of the little one hung in the balance. Lord Charlewood said that if he found his father still weak and ill, he should keep the secret of his marriage. Of course, if Madaline had lived, all would have been different--he would have proudly owned it then. But she was dead. The child was so young and so feeble, it seemed doubtful whether it would live. What need then to grieve the old earl by the story of his folly and his disobedience? Let the secret remain. Stephen Letsom quite agreed with him in this; no one knew better than himself how dangerous was the telling of bad or disagreeable news to a sick man. And then Lord Charlewood added: "You have indeed been a friend in need to me, Dr. Letsom. Money can no more repay such help as yours than can thanks; all my life I shall be grateful to you. I am going now to Italy, and most probably shall remain there until the earl, my father, grows better, or the end comes. When I return to England, my first care shall be to forward your views and prospects in life; until then I want you to take charge of my child." Stephen Letsom looked up, with something like a smile. "I shall be a rough nurse," he observed. "You understand me," said Lord Charlewood. "You have lived here so long that you know the place and every one in it, I have been thinking so much of my little one. It would be absurd for me to take her to Italy; and as, for my father's sake, I intend to keep my marriage a secret for some time longer, I cannot send her to any of my own relatives or friends. I think the best plan will be for you to find some healthy, sensible woman, who would be nurse and foster-mother to her." "That can easily be managed," remarked Stephen Letsom. "Then you will have both child and nurse entirely under your own control. You can superintend all arrangements made for the little one's benefit. I have thought of offering to send you five hundred per annum, from which you can pay what you think proper for the child. You can purchase what is needful for her, and you will have an income for yourself. That I beg you accept in return for the services you have rendered me." Dr. Letsom expressed his gratitude. He thanked Lord Charlewood and began at once to look around for some one who would be a fitting person to take care of little Madaline. Lord Charlewood had expressed a desire to see all settled before leaving for Italy. Among the doctor's patients was one who had interested him very much--Margaret Dornham. She had been a lady's-maid. She was a pretty, graceful woman, gentle and intelligent--worthy of a far better lot than had fallen to her share. She ought to have married a well-to-do tradesman, for whom she would have made a most suitable wife; but she had given her love to a handsome ne'er do well, with whom she had never had one moment of peace or happiness. Henry Dornham had never borne a good character; he had a dark, handsome face--a certain kind of rich, gypsy-like beauty--but no other qualifications. He was neither industrious, nor honest, nor sober. His handsome face, his dark eyes, and rich curling hair had won the heart of the pretty, graceful, gentle lady's-maid, and she had married him--only to rue the day and hour in which she had first seen him. They lived in a picturesque little cottage called Ashwood, and there Margaret Dornham passed through the greatest joy and greatest sorrow of her life. Her little child, the one gleam of sunshine that her darkened life had ever known, was born in the little cottage, and there it had died. Dr. Letsom, who was too abrupt for the ladies of Castledene, had watched with the greatest and most untiring care over the fragile life of that little child. He had exerted his utmost skill in order to save it. But all was in vain; and on the very day that Lord Charlewood arrived at Castledene the child died. When a tender nurse and foster-mother was needed for little Madaline, the doctor thought of Margaret Dornham. He felt that all difficulty was at an end. He sent for her. Even Lord Charlewood looked with interest at the graceful, timid woman, whose fair young face was so deeply marked with lines of care. "Will I take charge of a little child?" she replied to the doctor's question. "Indeed I will, and thank Heaven for sending me something to keep my heart from breaking." "You feel the loss of your own little one very keenly?" said Lord Charlewood. "Feel it, sir? All the heart I have lies in my baby's grave." "You must give a little of it to mine, since Heaven has taken its own mother," he said, gently. "I am not going to try flu bribe you with money--money does not buy the love and care of good women like you--but I ask you, for the love you bore to your own child, to be kind to mine. Try to think, if you can, that it is your own child brought back to you." "I will," she promised, and she kept her word. "You will spare neither expense nor trouble," he continued, "and when I return you shall be most richly recompensed. If all goes well, and the little one prospers with you, I shall leave her with you for two or three years at least. You have been a lady's-maid, the doctor tells me. In what families have you lived?" "Principally with Lady L'Estrange, of Verdun Royal, sir," she replied. "I left because Miss L'Estrange was growing up, and my lady wished to have a French maid." In after years he thought how strange it was that he should have asked the question. "I want you," said Lord Charlewood, "to devote yourself entirely to the little one; you will be so liberally paid as not to need work of any other kind. I am going abroad, but I leave Dr. Letsom as the guardian of the child; apply to him for everything you want, as you will not be able to communicate with me." He watched her as she took the child in her arms. He was satisfied when he saw the light that came into her face: he knew that little Madaline would be well cared for. He placed a bank note for fifty pounds in the woman's hands. "Buy all that is needful for the little one," he said. In all things Margaret Dornham promised obedience. One would have thought she had found a great treasure. To her kindly, womanly heart, the fact that she once more held a little child in her arms was a source of the purest happiness The only drawback was when she reached home, and her husband laughed coarsely at the sad little story. "You have done a good day's work, Maggie," he said; "now I shall expect you to keep me, and I shall take it easy." He kept his word, and from that day made no further effort to earn any money. "Maggie had enough for both," he said--"for both of them and that bit of a child." Faithful, patient Margaret never complained, and not even Dr. Letsom knew how the suffering of her daily life had increased even though she was comforted by the love of the little child. Chapter III. Madaline slept in her grave--her child was safe and happy with the kindly, tender woman who was to supply its mother's place. Then Lord Charlewood prepared to leave the place where he had suffered so bitterly. The secret of his title had been well kept. No one dreamed that the stranger whose visit to the little town had been such a sad one was the son of one of England's earls. Charlewood did not strike any one as being a very uncommon name. There was not the least suspicion as to his real identity. People thought he must be rich; but that he was noble also no one ever imagined. Mary Galbraith, the doctor's housekeeper, thought a golden shower had fallen over the house. Where there had been absolute poverty there was now abundance. There were no more shabby curtains and threadbare carpets--everything was new and comfortable. The doctor seemed to have grown younger--relieved as he was from a killing weight of anxiety and care. The day came when Lord Charlewood was to say good-by to his little daughter, and the friends who had been friends indeed. Margaret Dornham was sent for. When she arrived the two gentlemen were in the parlor, and she was shown in to them. Every detail of that interview was impressed on Margaret's mind. The table was strewn with papers, and Lord Charlewood taking some in his hand, said: "You should have a safe place for those doctor. Strange events happen in life. They might possibly be required some day as evidences of identification." "Not much fear of that," returned the doctor, with a smile. "Still, as you say, it is best to be cautious." "Here is the first--you may as well keep it with the rest," said Lord Charlewood; "it is a copy of my marriage certificate. Then you have here the certificates of my little daughter's birth and of my poor wife's death. Now we will add to these a signed agreement between you and myself for the sum I have spoken about." Rapidly enough Lord Charlewood filled up another paper, which was signed by the doctor and himself; then Stephen Letsom gathered them all together. Margaret Dornham saw him take from the sideboard a plain oaken box bound in brass, and lock the papers in it. "There will be no difficulty about the little lady's identification while this lasts," he said, "and the papers remain undestroyed." She could not account for the impulse that led her to watch him so closely, while she wondered what the papers could be worth. Then both gentlemen turned their attention from the box to the child. Lord Charlewood would be leaving directly, and it would be the last time that he, at least, could see the little one. There was all a woman's love in his heart and in his face, as he bent down to kiss it and say farewell. "In three years' time, when I come back again," he said, "she will be three years old--she will walk and talk. You must teach her to say my name, Mrs. Dornham, and teach her to love me." Then he bade farewell to the doctor who had been so kind a friend to him, leaving something in his hand which made his heart light for many a long day afterward. "I am a bad correspondent, Dr. Letsom," he said; "I never write many letters--but you may rely upon hearing from me every six months. I shall send you half-yearly checks--and you may expect me in three years from this at latest; then my little Madaline will be of a manageable age, and I can take her to Wood Lynton." So they parted, the two who had been so strangely brought together--parted with a sense of liking and trust common among Englishmen who feel more than they express. Lord Charlewood looked round him as he left the town. "How little I thought," he said, "that I should leave my dead wife and living child here! It was a town so strange to me that I hardly even knew its name." On arriving at his destination, to his great joy, and somewhat to his surprise, Lord Charlewood found that his father was better; he had been afraid of finding him dead. The old man's joy on seeing his son again was almost pitiful in its excess--he held his hands in his. "My son--my only son! why did you not come sooner?" he asked. "I have longed so for you. You have brought life and healing with you; I shall live years longer now that I
{'title': 'Wife in Name Only by Charlotte M. Brame', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}