This lady, your wife, is not the daughter of
a convict. In her--how happy the telling of it makes me--behold my
daughter, the child whom for seventeen years I have sought
incessantly--my heiress, Lady Madaline Charlewood, the descendant of a
race as honored, as ancient, and as noble as your own!"
Lord Arleigh listened like one in a dream. It could not be possible, it
could not be true, his senses must be playing him false--he must be
going mad. His wife--his deserted wife--the earl's long-lost daughter!
It was surely a cruel fable.
His dark, handsome face grew pale, his hands trembled, his lips quivered
like a woman's. He was about to speak, when Madaline sprang forward and
clasped her arms around his neck.
"Oh, my darling," she cried, "it is true--quite true! You need not be
afraid to kiss me and to love me now--you need not be afraid to call me
your wife--you need not be ashamed of me any longer. Oh, my darling,
believe me, I am not a thief's daughter. My father is here--an honorable
man, you see, not a convict. Norman, you may love me now; you need not
be ashamed of me. Oh, my love, my love, I was dying, but this will make
me well!"
Her golden head drooped on to his breast, the clinging arms tightened
their hold of him.
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