"Is it from the duchess?" she asked.
"Yes, it is from the duchess," replied her husband.
He saw her sink slowly down upon a lounge. Above her, in the upper panes
of the window beneath which they were sitting, were the armorial
bearings of the family in richest hues of stained glass. The colors and
shadows fell with strange effects on her white dress, great bars of
purple and crimson crossing each other, and opposite to her hung the
superb Titian, with the blood-red rubies on the white throat.
Lord Arleigh watched Madaline as she read. Whatever might be the agony
in his own heart, it was exceeded by hers. He saw the brightness die out
of her face, the light fade from her eyes, the lips grow pale. But a few
minutes before that young face had been bright with fairest beauty,
eloquent with truest love, lit with passion and with poetry--now it was
like a white mask.
Slowly, and as though it was with difficulty that she understood Lady
Arleigh read the letter through, and then--she did not scream or cry
out--she raised her eyes to his face. He saw in them a depth of human
sorrow and human woe which words are powerless to express.
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