Bertha Clay Library No. 153

STREET & SMITH · PUBLISHERS · NEW YORK

A Tragedy of Love and Hate

OR

A WOMAN’S VOW

BY

BERTHA M. CLAY

AUTHOR OF

“The Duke’s Secret,” “The Earl’s Error,” “Lord Lynne’s Choice,” “The Earl’s Atonement,” “The Gipsy’s Daughter,” “Dora Thorne,” etc.

NEW YORK

STREET & SMITH, Publishers

Copyright, 1899, 1900 and 1903
By STREET & SMITH

A Tragedy of Love and Hate

A TRAGEDY OF LOVE AND HATE.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.
THE TRAGEDY.

The great bough of a spreading maple tree was swaying to and fro in the summer wind, a shapely bough covered with green leaves. On it sat a little bird, swaying with the branch, singing as though the world were all summer and sunshine and there was no winter to follow—singing of brighter suns than men see shine, heaven-taught music, not understood by mortal ears, while the golden, fragrant air around seemed to grow silent and listen.

For it was summertime, and the flowers were blooming; the earth was fair and smiling, the sky blue; there was a hush in the green woods and a ripple on the waters, a golden haze in the air.

Holme Woods looked very beautiful in their summer dress; great sheets of blue hyacinths spread far and wide, fragrant clusters of violets nestled against the roots of the trees, birds caroled in the shady branches.

The river Lee ran through Holme Woods, and where the large maple tree stood it formed a clear, limpid pool. The swaying bough bent over it, and the shadow of the singing bird fell in the water.

Was it suddenly the song changed? the jubilant notes, so shrill, so clear and sweet, died away, and a mournful dirge took their place? was it fancy, or was it really so? The bird saw what men could not see—the deed done that morning in the shade of the summer woods.

For in the water, her long, fair hair entangled in the lilies and reeds, her dead face turned to the shining skies, lay a woman drowned—drowned that very morning, while the sun shone and the flowers bloomed.

Perhaps the little singing bird had been for some hours on the branch; perhaps it had heard all, wondering what was happening.

It might have been that a death cry roused it and disturbed its song, then, when the cry had risen appealingly to the very face of the heavens, and died away, it had left its soft, warm nest to sway on the bending branch and look into the water to see what terrible sight was there.

Surely earth holds no more cruel sight than a fair woman dead, than the sun shining warm, bright and golden on a dead white face.

Sometimes the ripples flowed more quickly, and then they washed over the face that in life had been beautiful and proud; sometimes the wind blew more freshly, and the leaves bent over it as though they would fain kiss it into warm, sweet life again. Yet for long hours, while the sun shone, while the bees gathered honey, while the merry brown hares went leaping, while the birds built their nests, while in the meadows men cut down the dried clover, while in far-off cities they toiled for daily bread, while the business, and pleasure, and work of the world went on, the quiet figure lay there without life or motion, and the quiet face gleamed so white and still. For though she was mistress of a proud and magnificent home, though she was courted and flattered and received the homage of all who knew her, she had not yet been missed. That evening she was engaged to dine with a large and brilliant party at Westfield Place, on the morrow she was to give a brilliant fête in her own grounds; but never more would Lady Clarice Alden shine fairest and proudest of women. She who had ruled men with a smile and a look, whose lightest word was a command, whose least caprice a law, lay there drowned and dead, no one knowing, no eyes to gaze upon her save those of the little bird singing on the branch.

The morning passed on; the heat increased, the ripples grew languid, as though it were too warm for the river to run, a purple haze came in place of the golden light, the birds drooped on the wing, the bees hummed in the bells of the flowers, the butterflies rested on the fragrant hearts of the wild roses—sultry noon had set in, yet the white face only grew more rigid and fixed. They had not missed her from her stately home, she who was never to enter it again.

How much longer would it have lasted? How much longer would the bird have swayed while the death dirge came from its tiny beak? The brooding stillness was suddenly disturbed by the sharp, shrill bark of a dog; there was a rustling of leaves, and then a pretty little King Charles ran to the water’s edge.

There was something of human sagacity in the look that he gave at the dead face. Then, as though he knew what had happened, he turned back, barking furiously, tearing in wild haste through the woods. Again the brooding stillness fell and the heat grew again, the sleepy ripples barely touched the face, and the fair hair entangled in the water lilies was faintly stirred.

Another long, silent hour, and then down the path that led to the river came a woman—a pretty, bright, well-dressed girl—evidently, from her appearance, a lady’s maid; the little dog was barking round her, pulling her dress with his teeth if she seemed to stop or hesitate. Then her eyes fell on the white, upturned face. She gave a terrible cry, and stood for one moment as though she were turned to stone; then another and still more awful cry came from her lips.

“Oh, my God!” she said, “what shall I do?”

There was a ghastly terror in her face as she turned to fly—terror that was beyond words. One, meeting her, with those white, parted lips and wild eyes, would have thought she was fleeing from something worse than death itself.

The parted branches closed behind her, and again the hot, brooding silence fell over the trees and the water, and the drowned woman lying so helplessly there.

But it was not for long this time; very soon it was broken by wild cries and hoarse voices; by the shrill barking of dogs; by the noisy parting of boughs, and the screams of women.

There was help at last; help sufficient to have saved a dozen women from danger and death—but it was all too late. The quiet sanctuary of death was rudely invaded; the birds flew away in fright; the bluebells were trampled under foot. Lady Clarice Alden was missed at last, and this was where her servants found her.

Strong men raised the silent figure and laid it on the grass.

Then one could see it was the body of a young and most beautiful woman, richly dressed. A long robe of blue silk and white lace clung to the perfect limbs; there were rings on the fingers; a costly bracelet on one arm; a golden chain of rare beauty round the neck; a watch, small and richly jeweled; brooches and earrings. Very ghastly the rich jewels looked on the dead body.

“Is she really dead?” cried the maid who had been the first to find her, Mary Thorne. She knelt down by Lady Alden’s side. With trembling fingers she opened the silken robe, and placed her hand on the quiet heart.

“It does not beat,” she cried. “Oh, my lady, my lady is dead!”

An elderly man, who had been butler at Aldenmere for many years, assumed the command.

“Tear down some of those big branches,” he said, “and make a litter of them, then carry your lady to the house. You, Griffiths, saddle the fleetest horse in the stable and ride to Leeholme; bring both doctors with you. Hunter, you take Sir Ronald’s own horse and go in search of him; does any one know where he went?”

“Sir Ronald is gone to Thurston,” replied one of the grooms. “I saddled his horse this morning before ten.”

“Then you will be able to find him. Do not tell him the news suddenly, Hunter; tell him first that my lady is ill, and he is wanted at once at home.”

His directions were quickly followed out; they tore down the branch on which the bird had been swaying and singing, the bird flew frightened away. They carried her home, through the sunny glades of the park, crushing the sweet flowers under foot; and it was thus that Lady Clarice Alden was brought for the last time to her own home.

CHAPTER II.
WHO KILLED LADY CLARICE?

The news spread like lightning; the men, as they rode furiously in search of her husband and doctor, told the story to those who listened with horror-stricken faces.

“Lady Alden of Aldenmere has been drowned in the river Lee, that part called the Pool, in Holme Woods.”

In the meantime they had carried the body of the hapless lady to her own chamber; the weeping, terrified servants filled the room, and Mrs. Glynn, the housekeeper, armed with authority, sent them all away except Mary Thorne. They laid her on the sumptuous bed, with its pink silk and white lace hangings; they wrung the water from her long, fair hair, and then there came the sound of an arrival.

“All the doctors on earth could not help her, poor lady,” said Mrs. Glynn, with a long-drawn sigh. But the doctors came in and tried their best.

“Stone dead—she has been dead over two hours,” said Dr. Mayne. “How did it happen?”

Before there was time for a reply the door opened again, and Sir Ronald Alden, the lady’s husband, master of Aldenmere, entered.

He walked quickly up to the bedside and his eyes fell upon the silent figure lying there. The ghastly fear in his face deepened as he gazed.

“What is it?” he said, clutching Dr. Mayne’s arm. “What has happened—what is this?”

“You must bear it bravely, Sir Ronald,” said the doctor, pityingly. “Lady Alden has met with a terrible accident.”

He bent over her with trembling hands and wild, desperate horror in his face.

“She is dead?” he cried.

“Yes,” said the doctor, quietly; “she is dead. Poor lady; she has been dead for two hours.”

Sir Ronald sank back in a chair. He repeated the words with a gasping sob, more terrible than tears.

“Dead!” he said, “my wife—Clarice—dead!”

They went away, doctors and servants, thinking it would be better to leave him alone with his dead, to give him time for the first sharp pain to vent itself in tears and words.

But to their surprise, in a few minutes he followed them, with the ghastly pallor on his face.

“How did it happen?” he cried; “you have not told me that.”

“We do not know,” replied Dr. Mayne. “It has all been so strange, so awfully sudden. Half an hour ago one of your grooms galloped over to my house and told me Lady Alden had been found drowned in the river. I came at once, and found she had been dead two hours and more. You will hear more details from the servants.”

“You are sure she is dead?” he repeated. “There have been wonderful cases of resuscitation after apparent drowning. Has all been done that is possible?”

“Only God could restore her to life,” said the doctor, reverently. While the words were yet on his lips, the door of the library opened and the housekeeper came in, looking so ill and alarmed that Dr. Mayne went near to her.

“Oh, sir!” she cried, “will you come upstairs?—will you come up to my lady’s room?”

“Certainly.” And the doctor, wondering much what had happened, rose to go.

“Stay!” said Sir Ronald. “What is it, Mrs. Glynn?”

“I cannot tell you, Sir Ronald, it is too horrible. My lady was not drowned.”

“Not drowned!” they repeated.

“No,” said the woman, with a shudder; “it is worse than that.”

Dr. Mayne waited to hear no more; he went to the poor lady’s room at once; Sir Ronald followed him. There they found the maid wringing her hands and crying aloud that it was a wicked and a cruel deed.

“Tell me what it is,” said the doctor, firmly.

Then Mrs. Glynn turned down the blue satin quilt.

“Look, sir,” she said; “when we began to undress the poor lady we found this.”

Dr. Mayne bent down and saw through the silken robe and fine white linen a cut made by some sharp instrument, evidently very small and pointed. He tore away the dress, and there on the white skin was a deep wound just over the heart. Only a few drops of blood had fallen from it; it was not large enough for a knife to have done it, it must have been caused by some sharp instrument long enough to have pierced the heart.

“How awful!” cried the doctor, hoarsely; “why, Lady Alden has been murdered—murdered, I say, Sir Ronald, and flung into the water—look!”

Sir Ronald bent down and saw the mark.

“She has been stabbed through the heart. She must have died in an instant, and then have been thrown into the water. This is no accident, but foul, black, treacherous murder! I cannot even imagine what weapon has been used. It was evidently not much larger than a common bodkin, but long and sharp. Who can have done such a deed, Sir Ronald?”

“I cannot tell; she had not an enemy in the world. I cannot guess.”

“You had better come away from this room,” said the doctor, compassionately; “we can do no good; it only makes you wretched.”

“I will go to my room,” said Sir Ronald, hoarsely; “I—I cannot bear it, doctor—you must see to everything for me.”

And Sir Ronald, with tottering steps, went from the death chamber, where the horror seemed to be deepening every hour, and Dr. Mayne was left to do the best he could.

“It is too horrible,” he said to Mrs. Glynn. “I do not think such an event ever happened before in the memory of man. Will you see that one of the grooms goes at once to Leeholme and brings back the inspector of police?—there is no time to lose.”

If the little bird which had sung upon the branches could have spoken and have told what had happened that summer morning in the Holme Woods!

CHAPTER III.
AN OPEN VERDICT.

Three days had passed since the tragedy that cast such gloom over the whole neighborhood had occurred; three long, dreary days. Outside the world was in full beauty, fair, smiling summer flung her treasures with a reckless hand; the sun was bright and the flowers sweet; inside the stately mansion all was darkness, horror and gloom.

Murder is always terrible. It is so seldom known among the higher classes that when a young and lovely woman like Lady Alden is its victim the sensation caused is something terrible.

A reckless, brutal, drunken collier murders his wife, and though his neighbors shake their heads and say it is a terrible thing, the idea of a murder is unhappily too familiar to them to excite the disgust, the repugnance and horror felt among a more cultivated and refined class.

But the murder of Lady Alden created a profound impression through the whole kingdom; the papers were filled with it; any little detail that could throw additional light on the subject was most eagerly grasped. Several popular daily papers sent their special reporters down to Leeholme. The circulation of the Daily Wonder increased marvelously, because each morning there was something fresh to say on the subject of “The Terrible Tragedy in High Life,” and yet, write, guess, imagine what they would, there was no glimmer of truth in anything written or said.

Round Leeholme the sensation had been almost terrible. Dr. Mayne, left to take the entire management of the business, had promptly sent for the superintendent of police, Captain Johnstone, and had given him carte blanche.

“Spare no money, no time, no labor,” he said, “but let the criminal be found. Sir Ronald is too ill, too overwhelmed, to give any orders at present; but you know what should be done. Do it promptly.”

And Captain Johnstone had at once taken every necessary step. There was something ghastly in the pretty town of Leeholme, for there on the walls was the placard, worded:

“MURDER!

“Two hundred pounds will be given to any one bringing certain information as to a murder committed on Tuesday morning, June 19th, in the Holme Woods. Apply to Captain Johnstone, Police Station, Leeholme.”

Gaping rustics read it, and while they felt heartily sorry for the unhappy lady they longed to know something about it for the sake of the reward.

But no one called on Captain Johnstone—no one had a word either of certainty or surmise. The police officers, headed by intelligent men, made diligent search in the neighborhood of the pool; but nothing was found. There was no mark of any struggle; the soft, thick grass gave no sign of heavy footsteps. No weapon could be found, no trace of blood-stained fingers. It was all a mystery dark as night, without one gleam of light.

The pool had always been a favorite place with the hapless lady; and, knowing that, Sir Ronald had ordered a pretty, quaint golden chair to be placed there for her; and on the very morning when the event happened Lady Clarice Alden had taken her book and had gone to the fatal spot to enjoy the beauty of the morning, the brightness of the sun and the odor of the flowers. The book she had been reading lay on the ground, where it had evidently fallen from her hands. But there was no sign of anything wrong; the bluebells had not even been trampled under foot.

After twenty-four hours’ search the police relinquished the matter. Captain Johnstone instituted vigorous inquiries as to all the beggars and tramps who had been in the neighborhood—nothing suspicious came to light. One man, a traveling hawker, a gaunt, fierce-looking man, with a forbidding face, had been passing through Holme Woods, and the police tracked him; but when he was examined he was so evidently unconscious and ignorant of the whole matter it would have been folly to detain him.

In the stately mansion of Aldenmere a coroner’s inquest had been held. Mrs. Glynn declared that it was enough to make the family portraits turn on the wall—enough to bring the dead to life. Such a desecration as that had never occurred before. But the coroner was very grave. Such a murder, he said, was a terrible thing; the youth, beauty and position of the lady made it doubly horrible. He showed the jury how intentional the murder must have been—it was no deed done in hot haste. Whoever had crept with stealthy steps to the lady’s side, whoever had placed his hand underneath the white lace mantle which she wore, and with desperate, steady aim stabbed her to the heart, had done it purposely and had meditated over it. The jury saw that the white lace mantle must either have been raised or a hand stealthily crept beneath it, for the cut that pierced the bodice of the dress was not in the mantle.

He saw the red puncture on the white skin. One of the jury was a man who had traveled far and wide.

“It was with no English weapon this was done,” he said. “I remember a case very similar when I was staying in Sicily; a man there was killed, and there was no other wound on his body save a small red circle like this; afterward I saw the very weapon that he had been slain with.”

“What was it like?” asked the coroner eagerly.

“A long, thin, very sharp instrument, a species of Sicilian dagger. I heard that years ago ladies used to wear them suspended from the waist as a kind of ornament. I should not like to be too certain, but it seems to me this wound has been caused by the same kind of weapon.”

By the coroner’s advice the suggestion was not made public.

The verdict returned was one the public had anticipated: “Willful murder against some person or persons unknown.”

Then the inquest was over, and nothing remained but to bury Lady Clarice Alden. Dr. Mayne, however, had not come to the end of his resources yet.

“The local police have failed,” he said to Sir Ronald; “we will send to Scotland Yard at once.”

And Sir Ronald bade him do whatever in the interests of justice he considered best.

In answer to his application came Sergeant Hewson, who was generally considered the shrewdest and cleverest man in England.

“If Sergeant Hewson gives a thing up, no one else can succeed,” was a remark of general use in the profession. He seemed to have an instinctive method of finding out that which completely baffled others.

“The mystery will soon be solved now,” said Dr. Mayne; “Sergeant Hewson will not be long in suspense.”

The sergeant made his home at Aldenmere; he wished to be always on the spot.

“The murder must have been done either by some one in the house or some one out of it,” he said; “let us try the inside first.”

So he watched and waited; he talked to the servants, who considered him “a most affable gent;” he listened to them; he examined everything belonging to them—in vain.

Lady Clarice Alden had been beloved and admired by her servants.

“She was very high, poor thing!—high and proud, but as generous and kind a lady as ever lived. So beautiful, too, with a queer sort of way with her! She never spoke an unkind word to any of us in her life.”

He heard nothing but praises of her. Decidedly, in all that large household Lady Clarice had no enemy. He inquired all about her friends, and he left no stone unturned; but, for once in his life, Sergeant Hewson was baffled, and the fact did not please him.

CHAPTER IV.
KENELM EYRLE.

It was the night before the funeral, and Sir Ronald sat in his study alone. His servants spoke of him in lowered voices, for since the terrible day of the murder the master of Aldenmere had hardly tasted food. More than once he had rung the bell, and, when it was answered, with white lips and stone-cold face, he had asked for a tumbler of brandy.

It was past ten o’clock now, and the silent gloom seemed to gather in intensity, when suddenly there came a fierce ring at the hall door, so fierce, so imperative, so vehement that one and all the frightened servants sprang up, and the old housekeeper, with folded hands, prayed, “Lord have mercy on us!”

Two of the men went, wondering who it was, and what was wanted.

“Not a very decent way to ring, with one lying dead in the house,” said one to the other; but, even before they reached the hall door, it was repeated more imperatively than before.

They opened it quickly. There stood a gentleman who had evidently ridden hard, for his horse was covered with foam; he had dismounted in order to ring.

“Is this horrible, accursed story true?” he asked, in a loud, ringing voice. “Is Lady Alden dead?”

“It is quite true, sir,” replied one of the men, quick to recognize the true aristocrat.

“Where is Sir Ronald?” he asked, quickly.

“He cannot see any one.”

“Nonsense!” interrupted the stranger, “he must see me; I insist upon seeing him. Take my card and tell him I am waiting. You send a groom to attend to my horse; I have ridden hard.”

Both obeyed him, and the gentleman sat down in the entrance hall while the card was taken to Sir Ronald. The servant rapped many times, but no answer came; at length he opened the door. There sat Sir Ronald, just as he had done the night before—his head bent, his eyes closed, his face bearing most terrible marks of suffering.

The man went up to him gently.

“Sir Ronald,” he asked, “will you pardon me? The gentleman who brought this card insists upon seeing you, and will not leave the house until he has done so. I would not have intruded, Sir Ronald, but we thought perhaps it might be important.”

Sir Ronald took the card and looked at the name. As he did so a red flush covered his pale face, and his lips trembled.

“I will see him,” he said, in a faint, hoarse voice.

“May I bring you some wine or brandy, Sir Ronald?” asked the man.

“No, nothing. Ask Mr. Eyrle to come here.”

He stood quite still until the stranger entered the room; then he raised his haggard face, and the two men looked at each other.

“You have suffered,” said Kenelm Eyrle; “I can see that. I never thought to meet you thus, Sir Ronald.”

“No,” said the faint voice.

“We both loved her. You won her, and she sent me away. But, by heaven! if she had been mine, I would have taken better care of her than you have done.”

“I did not fail in care or kindness,” was the meek reply.

“Perhaps I am harsh,” he said, more gently. “You look very ill, Sir Ronald; forgive me if I am abrupt; my heart is broken with this terrible story.”

“Do you think it is less terrible for me?” said Sir Ronald, with a sick shudder. “Do you understand how awful even the word murder is?”

“Yes; it is because I understand so well that I am here. Ronald,” he added, “there has been ill feeling between us since you won the prize I would have died for. We were like brothers when we were boys; even now, if you were prosperous and happy, as I have seen you in my dreams, I would shun, avoid and hate you, if I could.”

His voice grew sweet and musical with the deep feelings stirred in his heart.

“Now that you are in trouble that few men know; now that the bitterest blow the hand of fate can give has fallen on you, let me be your true friend, comrade and brother again.”

He held out his hand and clasped the cold, unyielding one of his friend.

“I will help you as far as one man can help another, Ronald. We will bury the old feud and forget everything except that we have a wrong to avenge, a crime to punish, a murderer to bring to justice!”

“You are very good to me, Kenelm,” said the broken voice; “you see that I have hardly any strength or energy.”

“I have plenty,” said Kenelm Eyrle, “and it shall be used for one purpose. Ronald, will you let me see her? She is to be buried to-morrow—the fairest face the sun ever shone on will be taken away forever. Let me see her; do not refuse me. For the memory of the boy’s love so strong between us once—for the memory of the man’s love and the man’s sorrow that has laid my life bare and waste, let me see her, Ronald?”

“I will go with you,” said Sir Ronald Alden; and, for the first time since the tragedy in its full horror had been known to him, Sir Ronald left the library and went to the room where his dead wife lay.

CHAPTER V.
WHICH LOVED HER BEST?

They went through the silent house without another word, through the long corridors so lately gay with the sound of laughing voices and the lustre of perfumed silken gowns. The gloom seemed to deepen, the very lights that should have lessened it looked ghastly.

They came to the door of my lady’s room, and there for one-half minute Sir Ronald paused. It was as though he feared to open it. Then he made an effort. Kenelm saw him straighten his tall figure and raise his head as though to defy fear. With reverent touch he turned the handle and they entered the room together. Loving hands had been busy there; it was hung round with black velvet and lighted with innumerable wax tapers. She had loved flowers so well in life that in death they had gathered them round her. Vases of great, luscious white roses; clusters of the sad passion flower; masses of carnations—all mixed with green leaves and hawthorn branches.

In the midst of the room stood the stately bedstead, with its black velvet hangings. Death lost its gloom there, for the quiet figure stretched upon it was as beautiful as though sculptured from purest marble; it was the very beauty and majesty of death without its horror.

The white hands were folded and laid on the heart that was never more to suffer either pleasure or pain. Fragrant roses were laid on her breast, lilies and myrtle at her feet.

But Kenelm noted none of these details—he went up to her hurriedly, as though she had been living, and knelt down by her side. He was strong and proud, undemonstrative as are most English gentlemen, but all this deserted him now. He laid his head down on the folded hands and wept aloud.

“My darling! my lost, dear love, so young to die! If I could but have given my life for you!” His hot tears fell on the marble breast. Sir Ronald stood with folded arms, watching him, thinking to himself:

“He loved her best of all—he loved her best!”

For some minutes the deep silence was unbroken save by the deep-drawn, bitter sobs of the unhappy man kneeling there. When the violence of his weeping was exhausted he rose and bent over her.

“She is beautiful in death as she was in life,” he said. “Oh, Clarice, my darling! If I were but lying there in your place. Do you know, Ronald, how and where I saw her last?”

The haggard, silent face was raised in its despairing quiet to him.

“It was three weeks before her wedding day, and I was mad with wounded love and sorrow. I went over to Mount Severn—not to talk to her, Ronald, not to try to induce her to break her faith—only to look at her and bear away with me the memory of her sweet face forever and forever. It is only two years last June. I walked through the grounds, and she was sitting in the center of a group of young girls, her bridesmaids who were to be, her fair hair catching the sunbeams, her lovely face brighter than the morning, the love-light in her eyes; and she was talking of you, Ronald, every word full of music, yet every word pierced my heart with hot pain. I did not go to speak to her, but I stood for an hour watching her face, impressing its glorious young beauty on my mind. I said to myself that I bade her farewell, and the thought came to my mind, ‘How will she look when I see her again?’”

Then he seemed to forget Sir Ronald was present, and he bent again over the beautiful face.

“If you could only look at me once, only unclose those white lips and speak to me, who loves you as I do, my lost darling.”

He took one of the roses from the folded hands and kissed it passionately as he had kissed her lips.

“You cannot hear me, Clarice,” at last he murmured, “at least with mortal ears; you cannot see me; but listen, my darling, I loved you better than I loved my life; I kiss your dead lips, sweet, and I swear that I will never kiss another woman. You are gone now where all secrets are known; you know now how I loved you; and when I go to the eternal land you will meet me. No love shall replace you. I will be true to you, dead, as I was while you were living. Do you hear me, Clarice?”

All the time he poured out this passionate torrent of words Sir Ronald stood with bowed head and folded arms.

“I kiss those white lips again, love, and on them I swear to know no rest, no pleasure, no repose until I have brought the man who murdered you to answer for his crime; I swear to devote all the talent and wealth God has given me to that purpose; I will give my days and nights—my thoughts, time, energies—all for it; and when I have avenged you I will come and kneel down by your grave and tell you so.”

Then he looked up at Sir Ronald.

“What are you going to do?” he asked. “What steps shall you take?”

“Everything possible has been done. I know no more that I can do.”

Kenelm Eyrle looked up at him.

“Do you mean to sleep, to eat, to rest, while the man who did that dastardly deed lives?”

His eyes flashed fire.

“I shall do my best,” Sir Ronald said, with a heavy groan. “God help us all. It has been a dreadful mistake, Kenelm. You loved her best.”

“She did not think so then, but she knows now. I will live to avenge her. I ask from Heaven no greater favor than that I may bring the murderer to justice. I shall do it, Ronald; a certain instinct tells me so. When I do, I shall show him no mercy; he showed none to her. If the mother who bore him knelt at my feet and asked me to have pity on him, I would not. If the child who calls him father clung round my neck and prayed me with tears and asked for mercy, I would show none.”

“Nor would I,” said Sir Ronald. Then Kenelm Eyrle bent down over the dead body.

“Good-by, my love,” he said, “until eternity; good-by.”

With reverent hands he drew the white lace round her, and left her to the deep, dreamless repose that was never more to be broken.

He went downstairs with Sir Ronald, but he did not enter the library again.

“I am going home,” he said. “I shall not intrude any longer, Ronald.”

“You will come to-morrow?” said Sir Ronald, as Kenelm stood at the hall door.

“Yes, I will pay her that mark of respect,” he said, “and I will live to avenge her.”

So they parted, and Sir Ronald, going back to the old seat in the library, remained there until morning dawned.

CHAPTER VI.
KENELM EYRLE’S VOW.

In the picturesque and beautiful country of Loamshire they still tell of the funeral, the extraordinary crowd of people assembled to pay the last mark of homage to Lady Clarice Alden.

Perhaps most pity of all was given to the hapless lady’s mother, Mrs. Severn, a handsome, stately, white-haired old lady, little accustomed to demonstration of any kind. She had apologized for her excessive grief by saying to every one:

“She was my only child, you know, and I loved her so dearly—my only one.”

The long ceremony was over at last and the mourners returned to Aldenmere.

The morning afterward the blinds were drawn. Once more the blessed sunlight filled the rooms with light and warmth; once more the servants spoke in their natural voices and the younger ones became more anxious as to whether their new mourning was becoming or not; but the master of the house was not sensible to anything—the terrible tragedy had done its worst; Sir Ronald Alden of Aldenmere lay in the clutches of fierce fever, battling for life.

The sympathy of the whole neighborhood was aroused. The murder had been bad enough; but that it should also cause Sir Ronald’s death was too terrible to contemplate.

Mrs. Severn remained to nurse her son-in-law; but after a time his illness became too dangerous, and the doctors sent for two trained nurses who could give the needful care to the sick man.

It was a close and terrible fight. Sir Ronald had naturally a strong and magnificent constitution; it seemed as though he fought inch by inch for his life. He was delirious, but it hardly seemed like the ordinary delirium of fever; it was one long, incessant muttering, no one could tell what, and just when the doctors were beginning to despair and the nurses to grow weary of what seemed an almost helpless task, Kenelm Eyrle came to the rescue. He took up his abode at Aldenmere and devoted himself to Sir Ronald. His strength and patience were both great; he was possessed of such intense vitality himself, and such power of will, that he soon established a marvelous influence over the patient.

For some days the contest seemed even—life and death were equally balanced—Sir Ronald was weak as a feeble infant, but the terrible brain fever was conquered, and the doctors gave a slight hope of his recovery. Then it was that Kenelm’s help was invaluable; his strong arm guided the feeble steps, his cheerful words roused him, his strong will influenced him, and that Sir Ronald did recover, after God, was owing to his friend.

When he was well enough to think of moving about, the doctors strongly advised him to go away from the scene of the fatal tragedy.

“Take your friend to some cheerful place, Mr. Eyrle,” they said, “where he can forget that his beautiful young wife was cruelly murdered; whether he mentions the matter or not, it is now always in his thoughts, his mind dwells on it constantly; take him anywhere where it will cease to haunt him.”

Kenelm was quite willing.

“I must defer the great business of my life,” he said, “until Ronald is himself again; then if the murderer be still on earth I will find him. Thou hearest me, oh, my God—justice shall be done!”

Though outwardly he was cheerful and bright, seemingly devoting all his energies to his friend, yet the one idea was fixed in his mind as are the stars in heaven.

He had already spoken many times to Sergeant Hewson on the subject, he had told him that he never intended to rest from his labors until he found out who had done the deed.

“You will never rest, then, sir, while you live,” said the sergeant, bluntly; “for I do not believe that it will ever be found out. I have had to do with many queer cases in my life, but this, I am willing to own, beats them all. I can see no light in it.”

“It will come to light sometime,” said Kenelm.

“Then it will be the work of God, Mr. Eyrle, and not of man,” was the quiet rejoinder.

“What makes you despair about it?” asked Kenelm.

“There are features in this case different to any other. In most crimes, especially of murder, there is a motive; I can see none in this. There is revenge, greed, gain, robbery, baffled love, there is always a ground for the crime.”

“There is none here?” interrupted Kenelm.

“No, sir, none; the poor lady was not robbed, therefore the motive of greed, gain or dishonesty is not present. No one living gains anything by her death, therefore no one could have any interest in bringing it about. She is the only daughter of a mother who will never get over her loss; the wife of a husband who is even now at death’s door for her sake. Who could possibly desire her death? She never appears to have made an enemy; her servants and dependents all say of her that she was proud, but generous and lavish as a queen.”

“It is true,” said Kenelm Eyrle.

“I have known strange cases in my life,” continued Sergeant Hewson, warming with his subject. “Strange and terrible. I have known murder committed by ladies whom the world considers good as they are fair——”

“Ladies!” interrupted Kenelm. “Ah! do not tell me that. Surely the gentle hand of woman was never red in a crime so deep as that.”

Sergeant Hewson smiled as one who knows the secret of many hearts.

“A woman, sir, when she is bad, is far worse than a man; when they are good they are something akin to the angels; but there is no woman in this case. I have looked far ahead. I am sure of it; there was no rival with hot hate in her heart, no woman deceived and abandoned for this lady’s sake, to have foul vengeance. I confess myself baffled, for I can find no motive.”

Kenelm Eyrle looked perplexed.

“Nor, to tell you the truth, can I.”

“Do you think it possible that any tramp or beggar going through the wood did it, and was disturbed before he had time to rob her?”

“No, I do not. However her death came to her, it was suddenly, for she died, you know, with a smile on her lips. I have examined the locality well, and in my opinion Lady Alden sat reading, never thinking of coming harm, and the murderer stole up behind her and did his deadly work before she ever knew that any one was near. There was no horror of fright for her.”

“You heard what was said at the time of the inquest about the weapon?”

“Yes; that is the clue. If ever the secret comes to light we shall hear of that weapon again.”

“Then do you intend to give up the search?” asked Kenelm.

“I think so—if there was the least chance of success I should go on with it—as it is, it is hopeless. I am simply living here in idleness, taking Sir Ronald’s money and doing nothing for it. I have other and more important work in hand.”

“Well,” said Mr. Eyrle, “if all the world gives it up I never shall. What have you done toward it?”

“I have mastered every detail of the lady’s life. I know all her friends. I have visited wherever she visited. I have exerted all the capability and energy that I am possessed of, yet I have not discovered one single circumstance that throws the least light on her death.”

So Mr. Eyrle was forced to see the cleverest detective in England leave the place without having been able to give the least assistance.

“I will unravel it,” he said; “even were the mystery twenty times as great. I will fathom it. But first I will devote myself to Ronald.”

It was August when they left Aldenmere. Sir Ronald would not go abroad.

“I could not bear the sound of voices or the sight of faces,” he said, appealingly. “If I am to have change, let us go to some quiet Scotch village, where no one has ever heard my ill-fated name. If recovery be possible it must be away from all these inquiries and constant annoyance of visitors.”

Mr. Eyrle understood the frame of mind that made his friend shrink from all observation.

“I must manage by degrees,” he thought. “First of all, he shall have solitude and isolation, then cheerful society until he is himself again—all for your sake, my lost love, my dear, dead darling—all because he is the man you loved, and to whom you gave your loving, innocent heart.”

When Kenelm Eyrle left Aldenmere, at the bottom of his traveling trunk there was a small box containing the white rose he had taken from Lady Alden’s dead hand.

CHAPTER VII.
THE RIVAL BEAUTIES.

The neighborhood of Leeholme was essentially an aristocratic one; in fact, Leeholme calls itself a patrician country, and prides itself on its freedom of all manufacturing towns. It is essentially devoted to agriculture, and has rich pasture lands, fertile meadows and luxuriant gardens.

The Aldens of Aldenmere were, perhaps, the oldest family of any. Aldenmere was a magnificent estate; the grounds were more extensive and beautiful than any other in the country. Nature had done her utmost for them; art had not been neglected. The name was derived from a large sheet of water formed by the river Lee—a clear, broad, deep mere, always cool, shaded by large trees, with water lilies lying on its bosom. The great beauty of the place was the mere.

Holme Woods belonged to the estate; they bordered on the pretty, picturesque village of Holme—the whole of which belonged to the lords of Alden—quaint homesteads, fertile farms and broad meadows, well-watered, surrounded the village. Not more than five miles away was the stately and picturesque mansion of Mount Severn, built on the summit of a green, sloping hill. Its late owner, Charles Severn, Esq., had been one of the most eminent statesmen who of late years had left a mark upon the times. He had served his country well and faithfully; he had left a name honored by all who knew it; he had done good in his generation, and when he died all Europe lamented a truly great and famous man.

He had left only one daughter, Clarice Severn, afterward Lady Alden, whose tragical death filled the whole country with gloom. His widow, Mrs. Severn, had been a lady of great energy and activity; but her life had been a very arduous one. She had shared in all her husband’s political enterprises. She had shared his pains and his joys. She had labored with her whole soul; and now that he was dead she suffered from the reaction. Her only wish and desire was for quiet and repose; the whole life of her life was centered on her beautiful daughter.

Clarice Severn was but sixteen when her father died. His estate was entailed, and at his widow’s death was to pass into possession of his heir-at-law. But the gifted statesman had not neglected his only child. He had saved a large fortune for her, and Clarice Severn was known as a wealthy heiress.

She was also the belle and beauty par excellence of the country. At all balls and fêtes she was queen. Her brilliant face, lighted by smiles, her winning, haughty grace drawing all eyes, attracting all attention. Wherever she was she reigned paramount. Other women, even if more beautiful, paled into insignificance by her side.

She was very generous, giving with open, lavish hands. Proud in so far as she had a very just appreciation of her own beauty, wealth and importance. She was at times haughty to her equals, but to her inferiors she was ever gentle and considerate, a quality which afterward, when she came to reign at Aldenmere, made her beloved and worshiped by all her servants.

She had faults, but the nature of the woman was essentially noble. What those faults were and what they did for her will be seen during the course of our story.

Mount Severn, even after the death of its accomplished master, was a favorite place of resort. Mrs. Severn did not enjoy much of the quiet she longed for. She would look at her daughter sometimes with a smile, and say:

“It will always be the same until you are married, Clarice; then people will visit you instead of me.”

So, little when she dreamed of the brilliant future awaiting that beautiful and beloved child, did she dream of the tragedy that was to cut that young life so terribly short.

Leeholme Park was the family seat of the Earl of Lorriston, a quiet, easy, happy, prosperous gentleman, who had never known a trouble or shadow of care in his whole life.

“People talk of trouble,” he was accustomed to say; “but I really think half of it is their own making; of course there must be sickness and death, but the world is a bright place in spite of that.”

He was married to the woman he loved; he had a son to succeed him; his estates were large; his fortune vast; he had a young daughter, who made the sunshine and light of his home. What had he to trouble him? He had never known any kind of want, privation, care or trouble; he had never suffered pain or heartache. No wonder he looked around on those nearest and dearest, on his elegant home, his attached friends, and wondered with a smile how people could think the world dull or life dreary. Yet on this kindly, simple, happy man a terrible blow was to fall.

I do not know who could properly describe Lady Hermione Lorriston, the real heroine of our story. It seems to me easier to paint the golden dawn of a summer morning, the transparent beauty of a dewdrop, to put to music the song of the wind or the carol of a bird, or the deep, solemn anthem of the waves, as to describe a character that was full of light and shade, tender as a loving woman, playful as a child, spiritual, poetical, romantic, a perfect queen of the fairies, whose soul was steeped in poetry as flowers are in dew.

By no means a perfect woman, though endowed with woman’s sweetest virtues; she was inclined to be willful, with a delicious grace that no one could resist. She liked to have her own way, and generally managed it in the end. She delighted rather too much in this will of her own. She owned to herself, with meek, pretty contrition, that she was often inclined to be passionate, that she was impatient of control, too much inclined to speak her mind with a certain freedom that was not always prudent.

Yet the worst of Lady Hermione’s faults was that they compelled you to love her, and even to love them, they were so full of charms. When she was quite a little child Lord Lorriston was accustomed to say that the prettiest sight in all the world was Hermione in a passion.

She was completely spoiled by her father, but, fortunately, Lady Lorriston was gifted with some degree of common sense, and exerted a wholesome control over the pet of the household.

The earl’s son and heir, Clement Dane Lorriston, was at college, and Lady Hermione, having no sister of her own, was warmly attached to Clarice Severn.

There were several other families—the Thrings of Thurston, the Gordons of Leyton, and, as may be imagined, with so many young people, there was no inconsiderable amount of love-making and marriage.

Sir Ronald Alden was, without exception, the most popular man in the neighborhood. The late Lord of Aldenmere had never married; to save himself all trouble he adopted his nephew, Ronald, and brought him up as his heir; so that when his time came to reign he was among those with whom he had lived all his life.

He was very handsome, this young lord of Alden. The Alden faces were all very much the same; they had a certain weary, half-contemptuous look; but when they softened with tenderness or brightened with smiles, they were simply beautiful and irresistible.

They were of the high-bred, patrician type—the style of face that has come down to us from the cavaliers and crusaders of old. The only way in which Sir Ronald differed from his ancestors was that he had a mouth like one of the old Greek gods—it would of itself have made a woman almost divinely lovely—it made him irresistible. Very seldom does one see anything like it in real life. A smile from it would have melted the coldest heart—a harsh word have pierced the heart of one who loved him.

He had something of the spirit that distinguished the crusaders; he was brave even to recklessness—he never studied danger; he was proud, stubborn, passionate. A family failing of the Aldens was a sudden impulse of anger that often led them to words they repented of.

So that he was by no means perfect, this young lord of Alden; but it is to be imagined that many people liked him all the better for that.

CHAPTER VIII.
HOW THE TRAGEDY BEGAN.

Most of the young people in this pretty and aristocratic neighborhood of Leeholme were children together. Sir Ronald Alden could not have remembered when he first saw Clarice Severn or Lady Hermione, the two beautiful women with whom his life was to be so strangely interwoven.

He had dim recollections of children’s balls and parties, of picnics in the woods and rows on the river. At that time he loved Lady Hermione best. Clarice was, perhaps, more beautiful, a little prouder, and certainly wore the prettiest dresses.

Clarice, too, had a fashion of extorting homage; Hermione laughed at it. There was perfect freedom in their intercourse in those days.

“I shall not call you Lady Hermione,” Ronald would say; “that would be nonsense, you know, because you are going to be my wife.”

And the childish face raised to his would brighten with smiles and dimples.

“You will have to go on your knees to ask me; I shall not marry the first boy who chooses to say I am to be his wife.”

“But you have said you love me, Hermione, and I shall make you remember those words when you have grown up. I shall be a big man then, and I shall try and be so clever that you will be proud to know me.”

“We shall see when the time comes,” replied Lady Hermione. “Papa says boys are fond of boasting.”

“The Aldens have no need to boast,” said the boy, proudly; “history boasts for them.”

She gave a little mocking smile and tripped away. He loved her all the better for her pretty, piquant, teasing ways. When driven to desperation by her coquetry, he sought refuge with Clarice, who never, even then, child as she was, turned a deaf ear to him. But no matter how assiduous were his attentions he could never succeed in making his young ladylove jealous; in the course of half an hour he usually repented of his infidelity and returned to Lady Hermione.

The time came when the childish warfare was ended; the young ladies went to school, Ronald to college, and when he left Oxford his uncle took him abroad.

Uncle and nephew seemed to enjoy their trip very much, for the one year was prolonged into three, and Sir Leonard would not have returned then but that his health failed. A few months after they came back Sir Leonard died and his nephew succeeded him.

Owing to his uncle’s illness and death the young heir saw nothing for some time of his neighbors. When the mourning was over and Aldenmere was once more thrown open to visitors, he began to look around him. It was some years since he had seen his little child-wife, and he wondered often what she was like.

“Is she charming, as she was—as teasing, as loving, as piquant, half woman, half fairy? I must go and see.”

So one May morning Sir Ronald rode off to Leeholme Park. It will be one of the last dreams of his life, the sight he saw that morning. He was ushered into the drawing-room at Leeholme where Lord and Lady Lorriston welcomed him warmly. After some very pleasant conversation with them he inquired after his old playfellows.

“Though,” he added, with a smile, “I should not apply such a title to Lady Hermione.”

“I am afraid she had her own way too much in those days,” said Lady Lorriston.

“She has it a thousand times more now,” said the earl. “Do not believe anything you hear to the contrary.”

“I am sure you will like to see Hermione, Sir Ronald,” said Lady Lorriston. “You knew Miss Severn, too; she is spending the day with us. Will you come with me? They are in the garden.”

“Nothing,” said Sir Ronald, “would give me more pleasure.”

So they passed out of the long drawing-room windows and went through the beautiful grove of flowering chestnuts that led to the garden. The sun was shining so brightly and the birds singing, a thousand flowers were in bloom, a lark sang overhead. Sir Ronald’s heart beat high with happiness and expectation.

Suddenly he heard a clear, sweet voice say:

“You are mistaken, Clarice; I will see what the marguerite says—He loves me, he loves me not. There, you see, he loves me not; if he did, it would be utterly useless.”

Another voice interposed: “You are always willful, Hermione; I tell you Kenelm Eyrle does.”

But here Lady Lorriston interposed.

“This is not fair,” she said, “we can hear them, they cannot see us, and we shall hear all their secrets.”

Sir Ronald looked round and saw a thicket of roses, behind which was a summer-house of green trellis work. The sun shone full upon it and upon the loveliest picture that poet or painter ever dreamed.

Two young girls sat there; one was bending forward with an anxious expression on her face; the other, with a smile, held the ruined marguerite in her hand.

Both had fair hair, both were fair of face, and yet there was a wonderful difference between them. Clarice Severn had a proud, passionate beauty all her own. Lady Hermione’s face was arch, piquant, spiritual, and everything else, by turns. They both started when Lady Lorriston and Sir Ronald entered the arbor. Clarice Severn’s face flushed hotly, then grew pale. Lady Hermione looked very serious for one moment, then she held out her hand.

“I cannot pretend not to know you, Sir Ronald,” she said, “my old opponent. I am glad to see you once again.”

“I will not be called your opponent,” he said, holding the little hand in his. “I was always your devoted slave and adorer.”

“Then slaves must dispute a great deal, if you were a fair specimen, Sir Ronald. You remember Clarice, I mean Miss Severn. Mamma, you are going to remind me that we are all grown up, and must be proper; I shall not forget.”

“You have changed, Miss Severn, more than Lady Hermione has,” he said.

“That means, Clarice, that you have improved, and I have not.” Yet, while she was speaking defiantly, she was looking earnestly at him. How handsome he was—he was no curled and perfumed darling—but with the beauty that descends from long generations. She remembered the mouth that she had thought more beautiful than that of a Greek god; and suddenly her face burned, as she remembered how often he had kissed her and called her his little wife.

Lady Lorriston was summoned to attend to some other visitors. She went away, leaving the three in the summer-house among the roses.

“How beautiful this is,” said Sir Ronald; “how happy I am to be at home again. There is no land so fair and dear as old England. I can hardly realize the change that has come over us all; we parted children and we meet——”

“As children of a larger growth,” interposed Lady Hermione.

“I dared not have said so,” laughed Sir Ronald. “Miss Severn, I am grieved that I have not been able to call upon your mother yet. I shall try to do so to-morrow.”

The girl’s face flushed with pleasure when he spoke to her. Suddenly there came a stronger breath of wind that shook the chestnut trees and rustled in the limes. Lady Hermione looked up as one who hears and loves a familiar sound.