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.