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.
"My darling," he said, "you are better now, I have been alarmed about you, Philippa; I feared that you were ill.