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Title: A tragedy of love and hate

or, a woman's vow

Author: Bertha M. Clay

Release date: October 1, 2023 [eBook #71769]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1899

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71769

Credits: Demian Katz, Krista Zaleski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TRAGEDY OF LOVE AND HATE ***

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

CHAPTER II.

WHO KILLED LADY CLARICE?

CHAPTER III.

AN OPEN VERDICT.

CHAPTER IV.

KENELM EYRLE.

CHAPTER V.

WHICH LOVED HER BEST?

CHAPTER VI.

KENELM EYRLE’S VOW.

CHAPTER VII.

THE RIVAL BEAUTIES.

CHAPTER VIII.

HOW THE TRAGEDY BEGAN.

CHAPTER IX.

KENELM EYRLE’S LOVE.

CHAPTER X.

SIR RONALD’S ERROR.

CHAPTER XI.

CHARADES.

CHAPTER XII.

LADY HERMIONE’S BIRTHDAY.

CHAPTER XIII.

LED ON BY FATE.

CHAPTER XIV.

A THUNDERBOLT.

CHAPTER XV.

WITHOUT HOPE.

CHAPTER XVI.

“THE ALDEN PRIDE.”

CHAPTER XVII.

TWO YEARS AFTERWARD.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOW THE LOVE STORY ENDED.

CHAPTER XIX.

AS A DROWNING MAN.

CHAPTER XX.

A LAST LOOK.

CHAPTER XXI.

MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER XXII.

IN HOLME WOODS.

CHAPTER XXIII.

BAD MADE WORSE.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FAREWELL.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE MYSTERY UNSOLVED.

CHAPTER XXVI.

AFTER NIGHT, MORNING.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE OLIVE LEAF.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE MORNING BRIGHTNESS.

CHAPTER XXIX.

AFTER FOUR YEARS.

CHAPTER XXX.

IN DEFENSE OF CRIME.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A LAUREL WREATH.

CHAPTER XXXII.

SIR RONALD’S DECISION.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

“REMEMBER YOUR VOW.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE TOWERS.

CHAPTER XXXV.

A MYSTERIOUS LADY.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE TENANT OF THE DOWER HOUSE.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

FAIR WOMEN.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE DOWER HOUSE WATCHED.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

LADY PELHAM.

CHAPTER XL.

LADY PELHAM’S STORY.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE STORY CONTINUED.

CHAPTER XLII.

A FIENDISH ACCUSATION.

CHAPTER XLIII.

A WHITE SOUL.

CHAPTER XLIV.

A WOMAN’S SHAME.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

CHAPTER XLVI.

KENELM EYRLE’S ACCUSATION.

CHAPTER XLVII.

A WIFE’S LOVE.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

HOW WILL IT END?

CHAPTER XLIX.

SIR RONALD’S DEATH.

CHAPTER L.

THE VOW KEPT.

CHAPTER LI.

A SOUL AT REST.

CHAPTER LII.

SIR RONALD’S CONFESSION.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE SLAVE OF PASSION.

CHAPTER LIV.

A DREAM AND THE AWAKENING.

CHAPTER LV.

THE REST IS PEACE.

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.

“I wonder,” she said, “how I wonder what it is the trees are always saying to each other! Look at those tall heads bent mysteriously together, every leaf trembling with the importance of what it is saying. Just outside Leeholme there are two tall oak trees that have stood for centuries. They always seem to me to be talking of what has passed in the village, and lamenting together that the world has changed so terribly since they were young.”

Sir Ronald looked into the lovely, glowing face.

“You have as many sweet fancies as ever,” he said, eagerly. “I always told you you had the gift of poetry.”

“The pity is,” said Clarice Severn, “that poetry and common sense so often clash. What reason is there in talking trees?”

“Ah, Miss Severn,” said Sir Ronald, gayly, “some of the sweetest things in life are those that have no reason in them.”

That was how and when the tragedy began.

CHAPTER IX.

KENELM EYRLE’S LOVE.

Sir Ronald sang those words to himself as he rode back home, the face of Lady Hermione before him all the way, her voice in his ears, the glad sunshine, the whispering leaves, the fragrant flowers, all seemed part of her.

“The poet’s ideal woman, she is, indeed,” he said to himself; “she has brought every charming quality of her childhood into her beautiful womanhood. She is arch, dainty, piquant, tender, earnest; there are grand qualities in her. Sure as her eyes are stars and her lips roses, so sure has she a magnificent and noble nature but half developed yet.”

The very glamor and madness of love was on him. It seemed to him that every leaf on the trees muttered her sweet name as he passed.

“Hermione,” he repeated it. “Perhaps her beautiful, varied, lovely nature is owing to her name, of all Shakespeare’s heroines to my mind fairest and best.”

He hardly remembered the existence of Clarice Severn; she was but Hermione’s friend. He did not even remember her delight at seeing him again. The proud, passionate beauty of her face had not moved him.

“Strange that I should have loved Hermione best even as a child. I wish she were a child now, that I could hold her in my arms and kiss her and call her my own wife.”

It was love, not exactly at first sight, for he had cared for her even when she was a child, but in the engrossing pursuits of traveling, in the excitement caused by his uncle’s illness and death, the image of the charming child had, in some measure, faded from his mind. When he saw her again the old love revived, and took fresh shape. It was no longer as a child, but as a woman, that he worshiped her.

When Sir Ronald reached home he found an old friend there awaiting him, Kenelm Eyrle, of The Towers, with whom he had been both at Eton and Oxford.

They had been almost like brothers together, coming from the same neighborhood and knowing the same people, having the same friends, and, in a great measure, the same tastes. One might have traveled far on a summer’s day and not have found a fairer-looking, more thoroughly admirable man than Kenelm Eyrle. He was three years older than his friend, and had traveled much. He united in himself the polish of a foreigner with the candor of an Englishman.

I do not know that he was so popular as Sir Ronald, for Kenelm had a kind of half-haughty grace with him that produced great effect. People at first sight considered him proud and haughty; they were apt to take away with them a somewhat disagreeable and untruthful impression of him; but if in the hour of distress you needed a friend, if in adversity you needed help, if in trouble you wanted succor, then the value of Kenelm Eyrle’s sterling character came to light. He was always, as an old soldier expressed it, to the front. Others might fail; he never did.

And now the two friends, who had parted youths, met as men, with a hearty clasp of the hand, an Englishman’s only way of expressing delight and emotion.

“I only returned from Egypt last week,” said Kenelm. “A sudden fancy to see the pyramids took possession of me, and I went.”

Sir Ronald laughed.

“I hope such a fancy will never take possession of me,” he said. “I shall not leave England again. I find no place like it.”

“The dark-eyed daughters of sunny Spain do not charm you, then, Ronald?”

His face flushed slightly.

“No,” he replied; “I like the women of our own land best.”

“You have seen Miss Severn. What do you think of her?”

“She is very beautiful—wonderfully improved,” replied Sir Ronald; and the great pity was that they did not there and then trust each other. Sir Ronald took the idea that Kenelm was in love with Lady Hermione; Kenelm believed his friend to be in love with Miss Severn.

One word more, and our story can resume its course. There was yet another link in the chain.

Clarice Severn had always preferred Sir Ronald to every one else in the wide world. In her girlhood she had mistaken his kindness for love. Now that she was a woman she vowed to herself that that love should by some means or other be hers. She was no tragedy queen, no woman capable of poisoning or stabbing or drowning a rival, should one appear; but in a world-scheming kind of way she was ready to do anything that would secure his love for herself.

On the morning that she met him at Lord Lorriston’s, Clarice admired him as much as he, in his turn, admired Lady Hermione. She saw that Sir Ronald was inclined to admire the earl’s daughter, and she laid many little plans in her own mind to keep them apart.

“I am more beautiful than Hermione,” she thought to herself, in all probability; “richer, quite as well born. Why should he prefer her to me?”

And why? How many thousands of girls have asked themselves that question? Why, when Clarice loved him, should his whole heart, soul, mind and fancy be concentrated upon another?

Clarice Severn had many admirers, but the man who loved her with a life’s love was Kenelm Eyrle. He had made her an offer of marriage and she refused him; he had told her that living or dead he should be true to her and care for her alone. She had never flirted or coquetted with him; she was fond of him from old associations, because for years he had been kind to her, but she had never deceived him in the least.

Now that Sir Ronald was coming home, she has begun to wonder how she should best avoid Kenelm.

“I remember Ronald’s chivalrous sense of honor,” she said to herself. “No matter how much he might care for me, if he thought Kenelm loved me he would shun and avoid me.”

She did her best to bring Kenelm and Lady Hermione into each other’s society. She arranged picnics, drives, walks; she exaggerated and repeated every little complimentary speech they ever made about each other, but it was all in vain. Kenelm Eyrle used to laugh in her face.

“Oh, Clarice, you think I shall learn to care for Hermione,” he would say. “As well try to make the needle false to the pole. I care for one face only, and that is yours; for one love only, and that is you.”

Nor was she more successful with Lady Hermione, who laughingly refused to believe that Kenelm cared for her at all, and pulled marguerites apart, leaf by leaf, the last one always ending, “He loves me not.”

“There was a man once who sold his shadow,” said Mr. Eyrle to her one day. “That was a much easier feat, Clarice, than for you to send me from you. You cannot, darling! Do not look at me and tell me you may die. If you did I should always live where I could see your grave, and I should love the grass upon it better than the fairest color that ever bloomed on another face. Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” she replied, half sadly; “I do believe you, Kenelm. I—I wish it were not so.”

And the beautiful girl had looked at him half regretfully.

“I almost wish I did; but you have explained the reason yourself. If for every one there is what the Germans call an alter ego, another soul—ah, Kenelm, I do not wish to hurt you—but you are not that to me. It is not my fault.”

He looked long and earnestly at her.

“No,” he said; “God help me. It is not your fault, Clarice; but I shall hope on until you tell me that you love some one else.”

CHAPTER X.

SIR RONALD’S ERROR.

Perhaps if any man or woman were asked if they were willing to tell a lie they would most indignantly deny it. Perhaps most people, even though they be guilty of some trifling act of deceit or insincerity that can hardly merit a harsher name, would shrink with horror from an actual lie.

Clarice Severn bore the reputation of being very truthful. It would be right to say that she had never deliberately soiled her lips with a willful lie. Little social deceits pass by another name; but there was no doubt that she acted falsehoods. She did all in her power to lead Sir Ronald to believe that Kenelm Eyrle and Lady Hermione were attached to each other. She remembered of old Sir Ronald’s keen, passionate sense of honor, how scrupulously he always avoided any interference with what he believed belonged to another. She knew that if he thought Kenelm loved Lady Hermione he would avoid her.

It was but a feeble chance, yet it was her only one, for she could not disguise from herself that Sir Ronald began to show every sign of deepest interest in Lord Lorriston’s daughter.

Like a mountain torrent her love grew in its force and vehemence; that which opposed it only added to its strength. It was resistless, hurrying her along, with its impulsive, irresistible current; yet do not let her character be misunderstood. She was not capable of anything that the world calls unladylike or wrong; she was not capable of anything unwomanly or forward; that which she wished to win must be won by most gentle means.

There was a picnic in the Lorriston Woods, a species of summer entertainment in which Lady Lorriston took great delight. Near to the keeper’s cottage there was a large, open space of smooth, green grass. Lady Hermione had named it the Fairy Ring, and it never lost the appellation.

All the young people in the neighborhood were there. Sir Ronald thought he had never seen Lady Hermione look so lovely. She never dressed in accordance with the dictates of fashion. “She always looked like a picture.” Higher praise could not be given to any woman.

On this, the day of the picnic, she wore a dress of white, shining material, on which the sunbeams gleamed like gold, made full, so that it fell in flowing folds, and gathered round the white neck. For all ornament she wore a band of black velvet round her white throat, to which was fastened a diamond cross. Her golden hair, in all its waving, luxuriant abundance, lay in beautiful waves, and the graceful head was crowned with a coquettish little hat with a white plume.

A perfect contrast to Clarice, though both were fair. Miss Severn liked magnificence, and her favorite color was blue. On this day she wore a dress of rich blue velvet and a white lace mantle. They generally divided the honors fairly between them. Miss Severn was more easily understood than Lady Hermione. It was not every one who knew the tenderness, the heroism, the poetry hidden beneath the gay, graceful manner. Sir Ronald did.

Lady Hermione could have led a forlorn hope. She would prove to be a heroine, if ever occasion required it, easily as she now dances and sings. Many women have their virtues on the surface; hers were half hidden by lighter charms.

On this bright summer day, when the woods were all aglow with beauty, and the birds filled the air with song, Sir Ronald had almost determined to tell Lady Hermione how dearly he loved her.

“I must see if my queen be propitious,” he said. “In some moods all wooing would be useless. I know how difficult it will be; she will be like some beautiful, strange, bright forest bird that is difficult to catch.”

He was not well versed in the lore of woman’s looks, or he would have read the story told by those sweet, frank eyes, that never met his own, and the fair face turned so coyly away.

When Lady Hermione talked to any one else she was not sparing of her glances, she was not sparing of her bright, defiant words; but with Sir Ronald it was different. She used only monosyllables, and those only when it was necessary. A man better read in woman’s ways would have understood; he did not.

He had looked forward to the picnic with great pleasure.

“We shall be free and easy in the woods,” he thought; “she will not escape me there.”

He asked her for the first dance—she was engaged.

“I do not care about a quadrille,” he said, “but I should like a waltz with you, Lady Hermione.”

She knew in her mind there was nothing she would like so much as a waltz with him; but the natural perversity innate in women came to her now. She looked up at the handsome face, so eloquent with love, the eyes with a love-light shining in them, and she owned to herself that it would be pleasant to have that strong arm thrown around her, and to float with him through fairyland. He looked so tall, so strong, so brave and handsome. Then, to punish herself for the thought, and perhaps with the same delight a cat takes in torturing a mouse, she cast down her eyes and said she was engaged, she feared, for all the waltzes she should be able to dance.

He was forced to be content with the quadrille. Half an hour afterward, lingering under the spreading shade of an oak tree, he saw Miss Severn. Sir Ronald hastened to her. The music was enchanting.

“How can you stand here so quietly, Miss Severn?” he asked. “That music would put a soul even in the leaves of a tree.”

She looked at him with a bright smile.

“The truth is, Sir Ronald, I am forsaken; my partner has forgotten me.”

She looked, still with smiling eyes, to a little group in the small glade—Lady Hermione and Kenelm Eyrle. She would not have told the lie; but her eyes said plainly Kenelm was her partner, and had forgotten her in Lady Hermione’s smiles—a fact that was perfectly untrue, for she was engaged to dance with Captain Langham, who had not forgotten her, but had been suddenly summoned to another part of the grounds.

The impression on Sir Ronald’s mind remained the same. He believed Lady Hermione and Kenelm to be so deeply engrossed in each other as to forget everything else; the consequence of which belief was that he resolved to delay the question he had intended to ask her.

“If Kenelm loves her I will not mar his happiness,” he said to himself, “and yet it seemed to me he liked Miss Severn far the best.”

He remained with Clarice, who rejoiced in the success of her small maneuver. After all, she thought, she had really done no wrong; she had only looked at Mr. Eyrle, and if Sir Ronald chose to misunderstand that look, he must do so—she could not help it.

So easily are misunderstandings brought about. The beauty of that bright summer’s day was all marred for Sir Ronald, because he thought his friend loved the girl whom he himself loved. He did not go near her again until the day was almost ended; and then Lady Hermione in her turn was piqued and would not give him one smile.

Before they parted Lady Lorriston had told Sir Ronald that her daughter’s birthday was on the Wednesday following, and, as it was always kept up with great festivity, she pressed him to spend three days at least at Leeholme Park.

“If you are fond of charades,” she said, “you will be amused, for we really get up some very good ones.”

Sir Ronald was only too delighted, and another act in the tragedy began.

CHAPTER XI.

CHARADES.

The drawing-room at Leeholme was filled with a brilliant party of guests. It was the eve of Lady Hermione’s birthday, and they were invited to do her honor.

All the élite of the country were present, for though Clarice Severn was perhaps more beautiful, no one was so dearly loved as the charming, gifted daughter of Lord Lorriston.

Apart from the others was a group of young people, busily engaged in discussing the morrow’s fête. It was the general wish that charades should be the feature of the entertainment. Lord Lorriston, who indulged his daughter in every caprice she chose to adopt, had arranged one of the largest rooms in the house as a theatre. It was one of the most perfect and complete little theatres ever seen. There was a pretty stage with a row of foot-lights, a greenroom, scenes painted by a celebrated artist, and Lady Hermione had no greater pleasure than the arrangement and management of her favorite plays.

The group holding this discussion had sought refuge in the deep recess of a large bay window. The lamps were lighted in the drawing-room, but the fairy nook seemed filled yet with the evening gloaming. The long curtains were not drawn, the window was slightly open, and the fragrance of the flowers floated in. Lady Hermione was speaking, and Sir Ronald, who listened to every note of that sweet, musical voice, thought how perfectly it harmonized with the fragrance of the flowers.

“We must have everything arranged beforehand,” she was saying; “nothing spoils tableaux so entirely as long waiting between the pictures—the audience grows tired beforehand. Let us go to the greenroom now and rehearse.”

An idea that was most warmly received. The other members of the party were engaged with cards, chess, or in conversation. Miss Salve, a beautiful Italian, visiting in the neighborhood, was singing, and singing so delightfully that she was listened to with the most profound attention. One by one the members of the little group stole away unperceived, and met in the greenroom with a laugh. There were Lady Hermione, Miss Severn, pretty Clara Seville, Isabel Gordon, a beauty of Spanish type; Lilian Monteith, a calm, grand, impassive blonde, whose share in the programme was simply to look beautiful and say nothing.

There were Sir Ronald, Kenelm Eyrle, Captain Gordon and Sir Harry Bellaire. It seemed to Lady Hermione that her assistants were much disposed to waste their time in sentimental conversation. She looked around with that pretty, willful impatience that was one of her greatest charms.

“Do let us begin to work,” she said. “Clarice, you open the tableaux with what is really the prettiest of all.”

“Your own design,” interrupted Sir Ronald.

“Ah, never mind; it is easy to design, but difficult to carry out. Now, ‘Sunshine.’”

For the first tableau represented a picture called “Sunshine,” Miss Severn standing in the middle of the stage, her golden hair falling like a bright, gleaming veil around her. Her dress was of some golden-hued fabric that resembled nothing so much as sunbeams. Flowers of every hue were heaped on her white breast and arms, and lay at her feet. The light, arranged so as to fall above, poured a flood of radiance on the brightest picture that was ever seen.

“It is simply perfect,” said Kenelm. “I should like all the world to see ‘Sunshine.’”

“But you must remember,” said Miss Severn, with a bright blush and a smile, “that every one would not see it with your eyes.”

It pierced her to the heart, knowing that she had never looked more beautiful, to see that Sir Ronald did not look at her, made no remark upon the beauty of the picture, neither praised nor suggested, but was simply indifferent. All Kenelm’s admiration was wasted after that.

The next tableau was “Evening,” a picture almost as beautiful; Isabel Gordon in a dark dress studded with stars, the light subdued and silvery as moonlight, her dark hair crowned with a wreath of stars, her dreamy, lovely Italian face inexpressibly tender and lovely in the glittering starlight.

Clarice noticed that Sir Ronald did admire Isabel Gordon. She overheard him say to Lady Hermione:

“If you had searched the world through, you could not have found a lovelier ‘Evening.’”

“I think Clarice is the more beautiful of the two,” Lady Hermione replied.

“I like the gleam of ‘starlight’ better than the glitter of ‘sunshine,’” he said, and Clarice Severn overheard the words.

“It will not be always,” she said to herself; “the time will come when he will love me best.”

“Those are two beautiful pictures,” said Kenelm; “but we must have variety. The next should be full of figures. What is it? A scene from ‘Henry VIII.’”

It was a simple little scene that Lady Hermione had read in some historical novel: Queen Anne Boleyn, dressed for some grand court ceremonial, was seated in an armchair waiting while a white ostrich plume was fastened in her dress. Her beautiful maid of honor, Jane Seymour, was standing behind the chair. The king, waiting half impatiently, half admiringly, for the queen, stood watching the little group. The attendant sewing on the plume let it fall. Jane Seymour raised it from the ground. Bluff Henry said with a smile:

“Never mind; keep it for your own adornment, Lady Jane.”

It was then, and for the first time, that the unhappy Anne Boleyn suspected the love of her false lord had left her. There was some discussion as to how the different characters should be distributed. Sir Ronald was to be King Henry.

“Clarice,” said Lady Hermione, “you will make a better queen than I can. I will be Jane Seymour.”

She went away then to attend to some one who was seeking a costume, and Clarice raised her eyes to Sir Ronald’s face.

“I would so much rather take the part of Jane Seymour myself.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I have been thinking over the scene and I am quite sure the king loved Jane best.”

Then she suddenly remembered all that her words implied and her beautiful face flushed crimson, her eyes drooped, her white hands clasped each other nervously.

But Sir Ronald was too deeply in love to even draw the very palpable inference.

“If you prefer the part, you must have it,” he said, and that picture was, perhaps, more loudly applauded than any other. Sir Ronald, dressed in the rich costume of King Henry, looked superbly handsome. Lady Hermione, as Queen Anne, was beautiful, even with that expression of sudden, keen, unutterable pain on her face. Jane Seymour was more lovely still, for the king’s bold, admiring glance caused a sudden flush of joy in her face, as she looked proud to receive it, yet half afraid the queen might resent it.

“I know you do not care for tragedy, Lady Hermione,” said Sir Ronald; “but I entreat you just for once to lay aside your prejudice. There is a picture in our gallery at Aldenmere that would make a splendid sequel to this—Anne Boleyn the night before her execution—a queen no longer, but a despairing, unhappy woman. It is the very sublimity of woe. Will you try it?”

She would have tried anything he asked her. Sir Ronald gave her every detail of the picture, and many people pronounced it the gem of the night.

Lady Hermione, as Anne Boleyn, wore a robe of plain black that showed to full perfection the outline of her graceful figure. She was represented as kneeling, praying in her cell alone. Her face was a triumph of art; the color, the brightness, the light, the happiness had died from out it; the eyes were filled with unutterable woe, the white face with anguish deeper and stronger than death.

When he saw how faithfully Lady Hermione rendered the picture, Sir Ronald repented of having asked her to undertake it. He went to meet her as she came off the stage.

“Smile at me,” he said. “Was I mad, Hermione, to ask you to look like that sorrowful queen? Smile at me, that I may forget it, or it will haunt me all night.”

She smiled, but her lips quivered. How little he dreamed the time was to come when he would see the face he loved in sadder guise than that of the murdered queen.

“My king, when I find him,” she said, laughingly, “will not slay me.”

“Nor shall my queen die while I live,” he replied; and then Lady Hermione hastened away. She could not listen to love words, even from him, just then.

Then came a very beautiful tableau of Antony and Cleopatra, followed by some taken from scenes in Lord Lytton’s novels.

Lady Hermione bore her part in all, but her heart and soul trembled with the passion of anguish and sorrow into which she had thrown herself so as to fully represent the murdered queen.

“If we succeed to-morrow night as well as we have done at rehearsal,” said Mr. Eyrle, “the fête at Leeholme will be long remembered.”

Yet the picture that haunted him was the bright-faced, golden-haired girl, clasping rich flowers to her breast, and called “Sunshine.”

CHAPTER XII.

LADY HERMIONE’S BIRTHDAY.

It seemed as though the sun loved her, for it had never shone so bright or so warm as when it peeped into her chamber to wake my lady on her birthday. The flowers loved her, for they bloomed fresher, sweeter, more fragrantly that morning than they had ever done before. Surely the sweet songbirds knew it, for the music that rose through the clear, sweet summer air was never so jubilant and clear.

The sunshine and the song of the birds awoke her, and her maid was already standing there, her arms filled with fragrant bouquets, roses with dewdrops gleaming on them, rich crimson leaves, lilies, whose white cups were moist and fair; but the loveliest bouquet there had been sent by Sir Ronald.

Talk of a floral love letter; every flower had its story. If they could but have raised their beautiful heads and told her how he loved her, this story had never been written.

Then when she was alone in the midst of her flowers and saw the costly gifts spread out on every side, her heart swelled with happiness. She raised her sweet eyes to the smiling heavens.

“If you were to ask a gift from there,” she said, “I know what it would be—it would be that my love might love me.”

For she knew now that the highest boon life could offer her, the richest prize earth held for her, was Sir Ronald’s love.

The fête was brilliant. Never had Leeholme Park been so gay. Lord Lorriston spared neither expense nor trouble to do homage to this, his beloved child.

With evening came the crowning glory of the entertainment—the charades and the tableaux. The little theatre was most charmingly decorated. The velvet hangings were drawn aside, and revealed a beautiful little corridor, lighted by pearly lamps that were half hidden among green trees; it led to the grounds, that were also illuminated, so as to resemble fairyland.

“If any one finds the theatre warm, they can seek the refreshment of cool air and moonlight,” said Lord Lorriston, when he planned this little surprise.

The tableaux were a wonderful success; no one will ever forget the bright, marvelous beauty of “Sunshine” or the starlike beauty of “Evening.” The historical picture was greatly admired, but the star of the evening was Anne Boleyn the night before her execution; a picture that half-maddened Sir Ronald by its wondrous loveliness and sorrow.

There was to be dancing after the tableaux, and he went to Lady Hermione with an anxious look on his face.

“Lord Lorriston says that it is the universal wish that the ladies who have taken such a brilliant part in the tableaux should appear in the several costumes they wore. Lady Hermione, you will not wear that black dress?”

“I could not dance in it,” she said, with a smile.

His face cleared.

“I am so glad you will wear the queen’s dress. I am so grieved that I ever asked you to imitate that picture.”

“Tell me why?” she asked.

“I could not. I should have to unravel the whole science of metaphysics. It has given me a shock; I cannot tell why. To remove the unpleasant impression, you will promise me to be a brilliant queen.”

“To forget that cruel Harry slew me?” she said. “Yes; I will forget it. See, you have frightened me with your fears. My hands have grown cold.”

He seized them and almost crushed them in his passionate clasp. He bent over them and longed with passionate longing to cover them with kisses, but dared not.

“You will soon make me superstitious,” she said; “I shall not feel myself again until I have my robes of state and diadem.”

There was never a more brilliant spectacle at Leeholme than the ballroom that evening. There was queenly Cleopatra, with dusky brows; Antony, in mailed armor; Kenelm Eyrle, as Sir Launcelot; Sir Ronald, as King Harry; Clara Seville, as the Queen of Scots, and the magnificent blonde, Miss Monteith, as Queen Guinivere. The belles of the evening were Miss Severn, as Jane Seymour, and Lady Hermione, as Anne Boleyn.

“If I had been King Harry,” said Captain Gordon, “I should not have known which of those two beautiful women I loved best; but I should never have slain one to marry the other.”

“I would rather have been Anne than Jane,” said Queen Guinivere, to whom he was speaking. “If Jane Seymour had any conscience it must have been sorely wounded by Anne’s death—she should never have been really happy afterward.”

Many a happy passage at arms took place between the fair rivals. It was certainly most suggestive. The dead queens had not struggled more for the sole possession of bluff Harry’s heart than these two did most unconsciously for Sir Ronald’s love.

It was growing near the close of the evening when Sir Ronald danced with Lady Hermione. The brilliant ballroom was very warm then, and she laughed as she said:

“I should not like to be a queen always; the weight of my royal robes is great.”

“You are always a queen, though not dressed en reine,” he replied. “You look tired; let us go into the grounds—the cool, sweet air will refresh you.”

Over her queenly costume and crowned head he drew a black lace mantilla, in which she looked inexpressibly beautiful, and they went through the corridor to the moonlit grounds, where many of Lord Lorriston’s guests were enjoying the beauty of the night. Great, fragrant roses sighed out their sweetness, and the lilies gleamed palely. The song of a nightingale in the distant woods was heard plainly, when there came a soft, languid lull in the music. The stars came out like golden lamps in the darkling sky; and they stood, those who loved each other so well, with the first faint pulse of love thrilling each heart, too happy for words; for words, after all, do not tell the heart’s sweetest and deepest thoughts.

Only once—when there was a faint stir in the wind, and the roses all bowed their crimson heads, the white bells of the lilies trembled; then he drew the lace mantle more closely round her—he bent down and looked into her beautiful face.

“My queen,” he whispered, “see, even the flowers know their queen.”

And, as she smiled at the words, she looked so lovely and so loving, that he forgot everything except the passionate longing to call her his own. He bent down and kissed the pure, sweet lips that had never been kissed before.

CHAPTER XIII.

LED ON BY FATE.

Lady Hermione did not utter one word. She was not angry; he knew that, for the beautiful face flushed warm as he touched it.

“He has a right to kiss me,” she thought to herself, “for he loves me. No one has ever kissed me before, and never shall.”

Then he would have told her the story of his love, the story that rose from his heart to his lips in a burning torrent of words; but at that moment, over the roses came the sound of light laughter, and there was no more solitude; he was obliged to leave the story untold.

It was Captain Gordon and Miss Monteith, seeking the cool air of the grounds. Simple accident led them to that path among the roses, but the accident, simple as it was, altered the course of three lives.

Not again that evening did Sir Ronald find even three minutes’ leisure to devote to Lady Hermione. She was the belle of the ball, the queen of the fête, always surrounded by a little court of admirers, the center of all homage. Yet he was content.

“She cares for me,” he said to himself, over and over again; “she was not angry when I kissed her face. She is so dainty, so pure, so sweet, that if she had not meant that I should love her she would have rebuked me with proud words. She loves me, and when I ask her to be my wife, she will not say me nay.”

And the very thought caused his heart to beat high with triumph, made his whole soul overflow with happiness, and while he stood there he saw Miss Severn looking at him with wistful eyes. It struck him at once how entirely he had forgotten her, and he hurried across the ballroom.

The beautiful, passionate face seemed to glow with new life as he bowed to her.

“I thought your majesty had forgotten Queen Jane,” she said, with all the music of reproach and love in her voice.

“I must plead guilty to the charge of losing my interests in one,” he replied, “and yet I cannot accuse myself of forgetting you.”

He meant nothing but the most idle of words, such as no one could refrain from speaking to a beautiful woman, who flattered him with her preference.

“I must not be hard upon you, remembering you had six queens to love,” she said.

“Complete the pardon by giving me the next dance,” said Sir Ronald, and she gladly consented.

They stood together before a rich cluster of white hyacinths, a flower of which she was especially fond. Suddenly she looked in Sir Ronald’s face.

“Speaking seriously,” she said, “and remembering history, do you believe that King Harry ever loved Jane Seymour as much as he did Anne Boleyn?”

“Speaking seriously, as you say, Miss Severn, I am inclined to think—yes; he did. She never displeased him; she died before she had time to offend him; she increased his importance by leaving him a son and heir.”

“But,” interrupted Clarice, “how passionately he loved that beautiful Anne; how he wooed her, how he pursued her—what thousands of tender words he must have lavished on her!”

“Words are but empty sounds,” he interrupted.

“And you believe, after all, that passion of devotion—after defying all Europe for her sake—that he loved Queen Jane the best?”

“I have not thought much about the matter, but from rapidly thinking over all I remember of the subject, I should say, yes, he cared most for Jane.”

It pleased her to read a hidden meaning in his words of which he was most entirely unconscious. He had for the moment even forgotten how the historical characters were distributed; but Clarice Severn gathered up all these words, and placed them in her heart; she pondered over them, and they made for a few short days the music of her life.

The brilliant evening came to an end, and left three people more happy than words of mine could tell. Lady Hermione, with her lover’s first kiss warm on her lips, his passionate words lingering in her ears, her heart warm with the remembrance of all he had said to her, and how dearly he loved her; Sir Ronald, happy because he believed the bonnie bright bird he had wooed so long would flutter into his hand; Clarice, happy under a false impression, and because she loved Sir Ronald so well that she believed that which she should only have hoped.

“I will lose no time,” said Sir Ronald to himself. “To-morrow I will ask her that most honest of all questions: ‘Will you be my wife?’”

But Sir Ronald found that to propose and to accomplish a deed was very different. Although he was remaining at Leeholme until evening he found no opportunity of saying one word to Lady Hermione; there were so many guests and her attention was so incessantly occupied. There were always young girls eagerly talking to her, or gentlemen paying her compliments, and, as the daughter of the house, she was engaged in entertaining visitors. In vain Sir Ronald watched and waited. He only asked five minutes, but even that short space of time was quite out of his reach.

He sat by her side during lunch, but even the most ardent of lovers could not possibly make an offer of marriage over cold chicken and lobster salad. There was a little assertion of independence, too, on her part. She knew what was coming just as a wild, bright forest bird knows its fate when the net is drawn around it. In vain Sir Ronald spoke to her. The lovely eyes, so frankly raised to other faces, drooped shyly from his. The sweet, proud lips that smiled so freely were mute and closed for him.

Maiden modesty and maiden pride rendered her shy, timid and silent with the lover for whom she would have laid down her sweet, young life. Sir Ronald only loved her the better for it; his heart beat with impatience.

“Let me have only one minute with her,” he said, “and I would soon change all that.”

But Sir Ronald was obliged to leave Leeholme without accomplishing his wish. He rode home through the fragrant gloaming with a heart full of love that was both happiness and pain.

“She will be mine,” he said to himself, when any cold or cruel doubts came to him; “she will be mine because she let me kiss her lips, and that kiss was a solemn betrothal.” There came to his mind the words of a beautiful, quaint old German ballad, “Schön Rothant,” wherein a lover says: “Every leaf in the forest knows that I have kissed her lips.”

“She will be mine,” he cried aloud. “I would work for her twice seven years, as Jacob did. I would be content to love her my whole life through, satisfied if in death she rewarded me with but one smile. I love her so that if I lay dead with green grass and forest leaves heaped over me and she came to my grave and whispered my name, I should hear her.”

The Aldens were a quick, passionate race. They did nothing by halves. They knew no limit, no bound, no measure to their loves or hates. With many men love is a pastime, a pleasing, light occupation, a relief from the severity of daily toil. With others it is deeper and more serious—yet one life holds many; but with men of Sir Ronald’s stamp it is life or death, rapture or despair, highest happiness or deepest woe.

For one whole week his suspense lasted. He rode over every day to Leeholme, and every evening returned with the one question still unasked, for the park was full of visitors and Lady Hermione always engaged.

At length he resolved to write. He said to himself that he could not bear another week such as this past had been; that even despair itself would be easier to bear than suspense. He smiled as he said the words, feeling sure there would be neither suspense nor sorrow for him.

CHAPTER XIV.

A THUNDERBOLT.

It is seldom that a tragedy happens all at once; there are circumstances that lead up to it. These circumstances are seldom as exciting as the tragedy itself. The details of what happened before the strange, sad story of Lady Alden’s death thrilled all England, are necessary, though not exciting, in order to make other events understood.

Sir Ronald decided upon writing to Lady Hermione. He made one last effort; he rode over to Leeholme one beautiful August morning, when the golden corn stood in huge sheafs in the meadows, and the fruit hung ripe on the orchard walls. It was just as usual. Lady Hermione was in the grounds with a party of young people. Lady Lorriston told him, and he could not do better than join them; they were planning a visit to the Holy Well at Longston. Sir Ronald went out into the pleasure grounds, and there, under the spreading, fragrant shade of a large cedar, he saw a group that would have charmed Watteau—fair-faced girls with their lovers, beautiful women over whose stately heads more summer suns had shone, and, in the midst of all, Lady Hermione.

“Here is Sir Ronald,” said one of the voices. Then he joined the group under the cedar tree, and Lady Hermione greeted him with a few measured words. How was he to know that her heart was beating wildly; that her whole soul was moving in its deepest depths by the pleasure of seeing him? Then the conversation became general. He waited more than an hour. He saw plainly there was no chance for even five minutes with his ladylove that day.

“I will go home and write to her,” he said to himself; then he held her white hand in his own a minute while he said good-by, and a flood of hope rushed warm and sweet through his heart when he noted the rose-leaf flush and the trembling lips.

Was it accident that brought Clarice Severn into the broad chestnut glade that led to the house? Other eyes might turn shyly from his; hers grew brighter and happier, her whole face changed as she bent forward quickly to greet him.

“I was just wondering whether we should see you to-day or not, Sir Ronald,” she said.

“It would be a dark, dreary day that would not bring me to Leeholme,” he said; and, again, in her foolish hope and foolish love, she chose to think the words referred to herself.

“Clarice,” he said, his deep voice broken with emotion, “you know what brings me here day after day.”

Her heart beat so quickly she could hardly reply. Believe me, nothing misled her but her own vanity and her own love.

“I know,” she said, faintly.

“I shall not bear my suspense much longer,” he continued; “I am going to try my fate. I am sure you wish me godspeed.”

“He is going to ask me to be his wife,” she said to herself; but even then, in the delirium of happiness which that thought gave her, she wondered why he could not ask her there and then.

“Thank you, Clarice; the good wishes of a pure-hearted woman always seem to me like prayers.” Then he passed on, and was soon out of sight.

Sir Ronald rode home again; he looked at the familiar trees as he passed; he smiled at the nodding branches and the fluttering leaves.

“When next I pass you by,” he said, “I shall know my fate.”

He could not rest until that letter was written; all the inspiration of his love was upon him as he wrote it; the burning words that had risen so often from his heart to his lips found life; there was no delay in the choice of his expressions. Never since Adam wooed Eve among the bowers of Paradise was love more deeply or more strongly told. A doubt must have crossed his mind once, for he said:

“If you say me nay, Hermione, I shall not importune you—a queen has the right of denial to her subject if the favor asked be too great. You have that same right over me. I shall not importune you, sweet. I shall not drag my prayer again and again to your feet to be denied; but you will mar my whole life, and change it into bitterest anguish. But I need not write this. What are the little birds singing to me? That my darling would never have let me kiss her lips until she meant to be mine.”

Hour after hour passed, and he was still writing. It seemed to him that he was in her actual presence, and the sweet, fiery words flowed on. Then, when the letter was finished, it was too large to be sent by post.

“An envelope of that size and thickness would be sure to attract attention,” he said to himself. “I will send it by a messenger.”

So his most trusty servant was dispatched to Leeholme Park, with orders to deliver the packet into Lady Hermione’s own hand, but not to wait for the answer. But Lady Hermione was not at home, and, after waiting some hours, the groom, beginning to fear Sir Ronald’s displeasure, gave it to the lady’s maid, who, duly impressed by him as to its importance, laid it on Lady Hermione’s dressing-table, feeling sure that her mistress would see it at once when she entered the room.

That same evening, keeping in mind what the groom had said to her, the maid asked her mistress if she had found the small paper parcel on her toilet-table. Lady Hermione smiled.

“Yes, I have it,” she replied, and then her maid forgot the whole matter.

All that day Sir Ronald waited impatiently for his answer. No day had ever seemed to him half so long before.

“She will send a messenger,” he said; “she will not keep me in suspense until morning.”

But, though he watched and waited, no messenger came. He sent away his dinner untasted; he debated within himself whether he should ride over to Leeholme or not, and he decided no—that would not do at all.

How he lived through the night he did not know; no rest or sleep came to him. But the morning brought him a letter, and that letter contained his death warrant. He saw at once it was from Leeholme Park, and he held it for some minutes unopened in his hand.

“It is either life or death,” he said to himself, “and brave men know how to die.”

He took it with him to his favorite nook, the shade of a large lime tree, known as “King Charles’ Tree,” from the fact of the Merrie Monarch having once hidden there. He opened it there, and from that moment the sun of earthly happiness set for Ronald Alden.

“Believe me,” the letter began, “that it costs me even more to refuse your prayer, Sir Ronald, than it will cost you to read that refusal. My whole heart grieves for you; but I cannot be your wife. I have not the love to give you that a woman should give to the man she marries. I am your friend for life.

“HERMIONE LORRISTON.”

Not many lines to break a man’s heart, and destroy the whole happiness of his life, but Sir Ronald sat hour after hour under the lime tree, and the summer sun never shone, nor did the flowers bloom for him again.

CHAPTER XV.

WITHOUT HOPE.

The sun shone round him, the flowers bloomed fair, the sweet south wind whispered of all bright things; but Sir Ronald never raised his despairing face to the summer heavens.

Life and hope were crushed within him; he did not care to rise from the ground where he had flung himself in the first wild paroxysm of grief; he had some vague hope that he might die there; but it takes much to kill a strong man.

The sunbeams grew warm; the day had its duties. He had arranged to see his steward at noon. A tenant farmer had promised to wait upon him concerning the renewal of a lease. Life was too full of occupation for despair. He rose at last, and looked his future in the face.

“She has killed me,” he said to himself; “surely as ever man was slain.”

He crushed the letter in his hands.

“She has been false to me,” he cried, in his passionate rage. “She has lured me on to my death! She has duped me with smiles that meant nothing, with fair words that were all false, with looks that were all lies! She was, I believed, the truest, the fairest, the purest of women; yet she has duped me! She who had, I believed, the white wings of an angel, let me kiss her lips, and yet never meant to marry me. Does the curse of coquetry and falseness lie upon all women, I wonder?”

Passionate anger flamed in his face; his eyes flashed, his lips quivered. The Alden rage was strong upon him. Hot words leaped to his lips, but he would not utter them.

“I shall not curse her,” he said; “the ruin of a man’s life shall be at her door, but I will say nothing harsh of her. She was my first, last, and only love.”

He turned away and re-entered the house. He looked like a man who had suddenly aged twenty years, on whom the blight of some awful trouble had fallen, whose life had been suddenly checked in its full, sweet flow, and frozen into living death.

For some days Sir Ronald did not leave Aldenmere; he was too miserable to either care to see friends or strangers. His thoughts were all steeped in bitterness. At one time he thought he would go abroad; then he said to himself: “No; she shall not have the triumph of seeing she has driven me from her! she shall never boast that for love of her an Alden flew from his home.”

Then business called him from home, and people told each other that Sir Ronald Alden had been very ill, he looked so changed from his brighter, better self. On the first day, as he was riding to a near town, he met the party from Leeholme. There was no time to avoid them, or he would have turned away. With the keen eyes of love, he saw Lady Hermione. She was riding with Kenelm Eyrle by her side.

He was obliged, by every rule of courtesy, to speak to her. He reined in his horse by her side.

“Good-morning, Lady Hermione,” he said, gravely. “I did not expect the pleasure of seeing you.”

“We waited half an hour for you,” said Mr. Eyrle. “Did you not promise to join us in an excursion to the Holy Well?”

“I do not remember making such a promise,” he said; and then he could not control his longing desire to look at her. He raised his eyes to her face, and was astonished at what he saw there. Some great change had come over that brilliant beauty. Her face was pale and grave—stern as one who is nerved to go through a disagreeable duty. The smiles that had been wont to play round her sweet, proud lips had died away. There was no light in the eyes that met his so coldly.

She bowed coolly in reply to his greeting, but spoke no word. He saw her draw her slender figure to its full height; then she said something to a lady near her. Sir Ronald felt as though a sharp sword had pierced his heart.

“She hates me,” he thought; “she is trying to show me how utterly indifferent she is to me. Ah! Hermione, there was no need to be cruel to me. I know now that you will not love me. I shall not ask you again, sweet; I shall dree my weird alone.”

She was so still. The bright, gay words that charmed him were no longer heard. He looked at her again, and saw an expression of weariness on her face, as though she were tired and not happy.

Bitter thoughts crowded upon him. He loved her so that he could have flung himself under her horse’s feet, yet he felt that she had ruined his life, and, deep in his heart, he cursed the coquetry that had been his blight.

He bade her good-morning in the coolest of words. She barely responded; yet, to his surprise, he saw she had grown white to the very lips.

“How she must dislike me,” he thought, “that the sight of me is so distasteful to her. How utterly false she was when she offered to be my friend for life, yet my only crime has been to love her.”

It was Lord Lorriston who rode up to him next, with a hearty greeting.

“Where have you been, Sir Ronald? We all thought you were lost. My wife and Lady Hermione were growing quite anxious, fearing you were ill.”

“They are very kind,” he replied, thinking in his heart how quick were all women to deceive. She had received an offer of marriage from him, to which she had replied in barely courteous terms. She knew perfectly well why he never came near Leeholme, why he shunned and avoided them all; yet she had listened to the wonder expressed, and had said nothing. To the parents who trusted her so implicitly she had made no mention of a fact that a true and loving daughter seldom conceals.

She was false to every one alike, and yet he had believed her so good, so true, so earnest. Her face was so fair and pure; yet the shy, timid looks she had given him were all false as her words.

He said little in reply to the friendly greetings that met him on all sides. Clarice was the last to address him. She was somewhat behind the other riders, and Captain Thringston was by her side. She held out her hands to him with a look that said more than a volume of words.

“I have been wishing to see you,” she said, in a low voice; and then a flush crimsoned the proud, passionate beauty of her face.

Captain Thringston seemed to have an instinctive idea that he would be quite as agreeable to Miss Severn if he rode a little ahead.

“I hardly know if I dare speak to you, though we are old playfellows, Sir Ronald,” she began.

“There is very little that you cannot say to me, Clarice,” he said, kindly.

“Dare I tell you that I know—that is, I can guess—what has happened, and that you have my truest, warmest and deepest sympathy?”

“You are very kind,” he replied, “but I would rather not discuss the matter with you; it is best left alone.”

“Do not be proud to me, Ronald. Remember, we played together as children. Do you think, after all these years, you could have a pain I did not feel, or a happiness I did not share with you?”

Her beautiful eyes were bright with tears as she spoke; he hurriedly clasped her hand.

“God bless you, Clarice! you are very kind, but I cannot bear it.”

And then he galloped hastily away.

CHAPTER XVI.

“THE ALDEN PRIDE.”

Time did not bring comfort to Sir Ronald Alden; the blow he had received was too heavy and too cruel. He felt not only annoyed, but aggrieved, that Clarice knew his secret.

“Lady Hermione must have said something to her about it. Most probably all young ladies boast to each other how many men they cause to suffer; yet one would have thought her as far above that kind of feeling as the clouds are above the earth.”

It was some relief to him to know that no one else appeared to guess the story. The “Alden pride” was strong in him. It was hard enough to bear; it would have been doubly hard if the world had known it.

Lord and Lady Lorriston continued for some time to send him invitations, to wonder that he did not call, to express that wonder to him.

It so happened that an eminent writer paid a visit to Leeholme, one whose acquaintance all men were proud and honored to make. Lord Lorriston immediately issued invitations for a large dinner party.

“I consider myself a public benefactor,” he said, laughingly, “in giving men the opportunity of seeing that great genius of the age. Perhaps I have been mistaken over Sir Ronald. Send him cards; he will be sure to come.”

But, to his surprise, among all the letters of acceptance was a note from Sir Ronald, short and cold, declining, with thanks, the invitation, but giving no reason why.

Lord Lorriston handed it to his wife. They were at breakfast, and Lady Hermione, usually silent and grave, was with them.

“Sir Ronald declines, you see. What can be the matter with him? I have known him ever since he was a child, and he chooses to treat me with distant, scant courtesy. I cannot understand it.”

Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to him.

“Hermione,” he said, “have you given Sir Ronald any cause for his strange conduct?”

She blushed crimson, and turned her face, lest he should read something she did not wish him to see.

“I do not know that I have given him any cause of offense,” she replied.

Lord Lorriston looked earnestly at his daughter, then said no more.

“I am very sorry,” said Lady Hermione. “There is no one I like better than Sir Ronald.”

Lord Lorriston did not make any further attempt at continuing the friendship of Sir Ronald.

“He evidently avoids me—wishes to cease all acquaintance—he has his reasons for it, even though I know nothing at all about them.”

And so, in course of time, the acquaintance gradually died out.

If by accident Sir Ronald saw any of the Leeholme Park people, he simply bowed, raised his hat, and rode on. If he found himself in the same room, he was courteous, calm and cold, as he would have been to any stranger. It was so gradually done that it escaped all notice and observation.

But if, on the one hand, all intimacy with Leeholme Park died away, Sir Ronald accepted several invitations to Mrs. Severn’s. He remembered how kind Clarice had been to him, how her eyes had rained down kindness and affection upon him. There was something soothing to the Alden pride in remembering that, if one beautiful woman had rejected him, another was kind and gentle to him—thought more of him than all the world besides. Of that much he was sure. It was pleasant to ride over to Mount Severn in the warm summer sunlight to meet with a welcome from the stately, kindly mistress, to read a warmer welcome still in the passionate, beautiful face that seemed only to brighten in his presence.

Yet all the time, while he tried to find comfort in bright smiles and in every pursuit to which he could possibly devote himself, he knew that, day by day, he loved with a deeper and more passionate love.

He left Aldenmere for a time and went up to London. On this part of his life Sir Ronald never afterward liked to reflect. He did nothing, perhaps, unbecoming to a gentleman—he did not seek oblivion in low society—but he lived a life of incessant gayety. He went to balls, operas, theatres, soirées; he seldom saw home before daylight, and he spent money as though it had been so much dross.

Surely, amid this glitter and dazzle, amid this turmoil of pleasure, leaving him no time for thought, he would forget her. Fair faces smiled upon him, siren voices spoke in honeyed accents. Sometimes in the morning dawn, when the sky was full of pearly tints and faint rose-clouds, he would go home and look at his haggard wistful face in the glass.

“I am forgetting her,” he would say, exultingly; and then, Heaven be merciful to him! when his tired eyes were closed in slumber, her face, so fresh, so sweet and pure, would be there, looking at him, and he would cry out with a voice full of anguish, that he was haunted and could not escape her.

The Aldens never did anything by halves. If they loved, it was with passionate love; if they hated—well, Heaven help us all from being the victims of such hate.

There was something pitiful in the way this strong man struggled against his fate, in the way he fought against the passion that had half maddened him. When the unflagging round of gayety had tired him he returned home. He was then but the shadow of the young and handsome lord of Aldenmere.

“As well be haunted at home as elsewhere,” he said to himself; “I cannot escape my fate.”

Sometimes a wild impulse came over him, urging him to go to her again, to plead his cause with her, to tell her all the passionate, desolate anguish of the past few months, to pray to her as men pray for their lives.

But he remembered what he had said to her, that if she sent him away he should not return to pray his prayer again. All the pride of his proud race came to his aid. She had accepted his loving words, she had taken a kiss that was sacred as a betrothal from his lips, and she had rejected him.

He would not plead to her again; let his ruin and misery lie at her door; it should never be told that he had stooped as no Alden before him had done.

Yet had she but smiled upon him, he would have knelt like the humblest of slaves at her feet.

CHAPTER XVII.

TWO YEARS AFTERWARD.

Sir Ronald went home again. He found little or no change in that quiet neighborhood. One of the visits he paid was to Mount Severn, where he met with a welcome that would have gladdened any man’s heart. Clarice did not attempt to conceal her delight; her eyes beamed, her face brightened, her hands stole tremblingly into his.

“How long you have been away!” she said. “This is the dreariest summer I can remember.”

Yet it was only two months since he had gone up to London to try whether gayety would cure him.

They made him so welcome it was like coming home. Mrs. Severn pitied him because he looked ill. She placed him in the sunniest corner of the room; she made him stay for a récherché little dinner. Clarice talked to him and sang to him. She poured out the treasures of her intellect like water at his feet. Another man would have yielded almost helplessly to the charm, but his haggard face never changed, no smile came to his stern, gray lips.

He had vowed to himself before he entered the house that nothing could induce him to mention Lady Hermione’s name, yet he longed to hear it from other lips. Clarice told him of the Gordons and the Thringstons, but the name he longed to hear was not mentioned. He perceived that Clarice purposely avoided it, and wondered why. Was Lady Hermione ill? Had anything happened to her?

At last he could endure the suspense no longer, and he said, “You say nothing of the Lorristons. Are they well?”

Her beautiful face flushed, and her eyes rested on him for one-half minute with an expression he could not understand.

“I am sorry you have asked me,” she replied in a low voice. “I can only tell you what will pain you.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“I cannot answer for the truth of such a rumor. I do not see as much of her as I used to do, but I am told there is every prospect of a marriage between her and—and Kenelm Eyrle.”

Despite his self-control, Sir Ronald’s face grew deadly pale. He was perfectly silent for some minutes, not daring to trust himself to speak. Then he laughed, little guessing how hollow and bitter was the sound of that laugh. Never would he lay bare this wound of his heart. Men should never laugh at his madness, or women smile at the weakness of his love. None should ever know this fair woman’s hand had struck him.

“Did you think that would distress me?” he said. “Why, Miss Severn, you told me almost as much two years ago.”

“I did not like to pain you,” she said, gently.

“Pain!” he said, mockingly. “Do we live in the old days of constancy and truth, when a man loved but one woman and loved her loyally until he died? How many loves have the children of this generation in a lifetime? A man suffers pain nowadays when he loses a limb or loses his fortune—not when he is unhappy in his love.”

She looked at him and something like a sob rose to her lips; his voice was so full of anguish, there was such unutterable woe in his dark eyes.

“You must forgive me,” she said, still more gently. “I knew you were unhappy about Lady Hermione in the time past, and I would rather suffer all the pain there is in the world than that you should have the least to bear.”

“Would you?” he asked. “Why are you so kind to me, Clarice?”

The only answer Clarice Severn gave was a long, deep-drawn sigh. If he could not read why in her face, then should his question never meet with a reply.

“Did you not tell me two years ago that there was something of the kind between them?” he repeated.

“Yes; but I was not sure. Lady Hermione is so much admired, you know, so beautiful, and has so many lovers.”

“True; and it is impossible to tell which she prefers. Who would be one of a crowd? I would have the whole of a woman’s heart, or none.”

“You deserve it,” she said, and again Sir Ronald looked at her, wondering why she was so kind.

It did not occur to him just then, though afterward he thought of it.

“Shall I never grow sane?” he asked himself, as he rode slowly home. “Is my madness to grow deeper as I grow older? I have been away from all the places and scenes connected in my memory with her. I have tried every resource that lay open—study, pleasure, and yet now that I pause to think, I find I love her better than ever. Oh, my God! can I do nothing to save myself from this lingering, hungering fever of love?”

He hated himself for what he considered his cowardice. He longed to be free from the chains that bound him, yet he could not free himself. Two years had passed since he received the fatal letter that had been a death warrant to him, and he loved her as deeply and as dearly as on that day, when, full of hope, he had asked her to be his wife.

He seldom met Mr. Eyrle. He never went near the Towers where he had once spent so much of his time. When the two met, who had been such dear friends, there was coldness and distance between them that nothing could penetrate. Sir Ronald disliked and distrusted Kenelm, because he believed Kenelm had willfully tried to take Hermione’s love from him. Kenelm Eyrle almost hated Sir Ronald because he honestly thought Sir Ronald had supplanted him, and robbed him of all chance of winning Clarice. A few words of explanation and the old love between them would have returned; it may be that the tragedy of this story had never then happened.

But dislike and suspicion grew between them—the distance increased, the coldness deepened, until at last Kenelm was told no day passed without Sir Ronald going over to Mount Severn—after hearing which, the next time he met the master of Aldenmere, Mr. Eyrle gave him one stern look and passed by without speaking.

“The man has robbed me,” said Kenelm to himself, “a thousand times more meanly than if he had stolen my purse. He has taken from me the hope that made my manhood bright. I will never forgive him.”

While Sir Ronald turned involuntarily to look after the man who had been the dearest friend of his youth.

“It is Hermione who has told him to avoid me,” he said to himself. “Perhaps she is afraid I shall quarrel with him and seek the vengeance I know to be my due. Let her not fear; he is safe from me.”

Yet his heart was heavy and sad within him, for Sir Ronald, despite his pride—the family failing—was of an affectionate, loving, warm-hearted disposition, and could ill brook coldness between himself and those he loved.

People had begun to talk about him, to say how changed he was, how miserable he was, to wonder what could have come over the opening manhood that had at one time promised to be both brilliant and good.

These rumors came to him when he was in a frame of mind most fitted to bear them. He was no saint, this unhappy hero of mine. He was quite human, full of faults, full of good qualities that might have made his name famous, but they were wrongly used, and made it what the name of no other Alden ever was.

At this time of which I write his mind was a chaos; angry love, wounded pride, broken hopes, all raged together, and made him unlike himself.

It was deeply wounding to his pride that people should speak of him. He had hitherto deemed himself above the reach of gossip, and it was not pleasant now to know that he was a continued subject of conversation.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOW THE LOVE STORY ENDED.

There is no limit to the suffering of a proud man. Every wondering look, every word rankled in Sir Ronald’s mind.

“People wonder why you do not get married,” said his friend, Captain Pierson, to him one day. “They tell a story about you here that I, for one, do not believe.”

“What is it?” asked Ronald, with well-assumed indifference.

“Hardly worth repeating; some absurd story of a hopeless love. They were discussing you at Leighton Grange last night, and one bold spirit, bolder than the rest, declared that you had a profound and hopeless attachment to—guess whom?”

“I would not trouble myself to guess,” he replied, with well-acted indifference, although his changed face might have bade the speaker beware of raising the Alden temper.

“Of course, I knew it was untrue,” said Captain Pierson. “I said you were not the man to love in vain, and that Lady Hermione Lorriston, beautiful and gifted as she is, could not look down upon Sir Ronald Alden.”

Sir Ronald laughed, but the demon of angry pride was strong within him.

“I pay so little heed to rumor,” he said, “and am well content to know that when I am the victim of gossip, I save, perhaps, a better man.”

But when his friend had told him all the conjectures, the wonder expressed and all the annoying little words that are so much wormwood to the soul of a proud man, Sir Ronald was indignant.

“I have not worn my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at,” he said. “My secret has never passed my lips. Why should it be the subject of woman’s laughter and man’s bets?”

“I will be a slave no longer,” he cried. “I will kill or cure myself from this hour! I swear to tear all thought of her from my heart or take my heart itself, and cast it from me.”

He would marry, no matter that he could not love; he would not be laughed at and talked about because it was supposed he loved a woman and loved her in vain. When he remembered Clarice a hundred little incidents returned to him, how kind she always was to him, how her beautiful face brightened at his coming, and her voice sank to softest, sweetest music when she spoke to him.

Trifles all light as air, yet now they formed a strong chain. He was proud, but not vain; he held women in highest reverence and respect; yet he felt a silent, sure conviction that Clarice loved him.

How many lovers she dismissed! no one could imagine why; how ready she had always been to devote her whole time and attention to him. She had given up the most brilliant balls and parties to spend the evening with him, when he had gone to Mount Severn in search of comfort.

She was beautiful and gifted, and she loved him. Should he ask her to be his wife? She would consent, he believed; but there came to him a doubt as to whether it was fair. What had he to give in return for her love and her life? Nothing but a broken heart and blighted by another woman’s falsity. All that he had of love and devotion had been offered at another shrine and had been rejected. Was it fair she should give all to him—he nothing to her?

And then Sir Ronald raised his eyes to the clear, shining heavens.

“If she will be my wife,” he said, “I swear to honor her and treat her as though she had been my first love.”

He meant to keep his words; he intended to fling far from him all remembrance of this woman whom to think of now would be sin; he meant to cling with his whole heart to this one who had loved and honored him while others had laughed at his distress.

He would go over to Mount Severn and ask her to be his wife. He would, if God were willing, marry her, and from the ashes of the old life construct a fair edifice; then when all barriers of love and honor parted him from Lady Hermione, he should most certainly forget her.

He was not altogether blinded; he knew it was not so much love for Clarice and the desire of taking up the broken threads of life that actuated him as it was the wish to show the whole world, including Lady Hermione, that he was not the victim of an unhappy love.

Is there any sadder story than the tale of a strong man’s love when that love is wasted and vain? Had Sir Ronald been a man of more commonplace character he would have done as commonplace men do—recovered from the effects of his disappointment and looked around him for a second object to love. Being what he was, his life had now but one object—to hide from the world the pain that was never to cease preying upon him.

One warm, beautiful September evening he went over to Mount Severn. Although he did not love her, the scene will never leave his memory until death takes all earthly pictures from him.

Warm and bright, with the lingering gold of summer in the sky, and the breath of flowers in the air, the birds were singing in the shade of the trees, the south wind whispered sweet and low. He found Mrs. Severn alone and asked her where he could find her daughter.

“Clarice is out in the grounds,” replied the lady. “I have been scolding her, Sir Ronald, and she does not like it.”

“I cannot imagine the word ‘scolding’ as applicable from you to her,” he replied.

“Well, I will modify it, and say that I have been finding fault with her. She used to fill my home with sunshine and music, Sir Ronald; now she does nothing but dream. I never saw so great a change in a bright, high-spirited girl. I know as well as though I could see her she is dreaming now, and I should like to know what fills her thoughts.”

“Shall I try to find out?” he said, laughingly. “Perhaps she is writing a book or a poem, in which case you must allow her time to dream.”

Mrs. Severn did not smile; she was not quite happy over her beautiful daughter.

“Give me permission to find her and add my lecture to yours,” he said, and Mrs. Severn told him she believed Clarice had gone toward the lake.

“Do not let her stay out very long, Sir Ronald. Remember, it is autumn, and the night dews are heavy.”

He promised, and went out of the long, open window into the beautiful, picturesque grounds of Mount Severn. He walked quickly toward the lake. One glance at the placid, dreamy water showed him she was not there.

“Clarice,” he said, gently, and the wind from the trees alone answered him.

Perhaps, had he found her there, Sir Ronald might have said less. It is not for me to explain how the mere fact of not being able to find anything the moment you require it enhances its value. Before he had looked for Miss Severn twenty minutes Sir Ronald had begun to believe it was necessary to his happiness that he should find her.

Far down in the shady depths of a long alley, he caught a glimpse of her dress. He hastened forward, and then stood for a few minutes to watch her, thinking to himself no poet or painter had ever dreamed of a fairer picture.

She was leaning against the rugged trunk of an old tree; green ivy clasped it round, and trailing scarlet creepers crept from bough to bough. It was a poem in itself to see the white, rounded arm, the beautiful face and golden head resting against the old tree. As he came nearer to her, Sir Ronald saw that her passionate, lovely face was wet with tears.

CHAPTER XIX.

AS A DROWNING MAN.

Sir Ronald went gently to her and called her by name. Whatever her dream might be, it was so deep that she had not heard the sound of his footsteps or the rustling of the boughs.

“Clarice,” he said, and when she raised her head and saw him, the change that came over her face was so sudden and so great it dazzled him.

“You, Sir Ronald!” she said, and then he knew that she had been dreaming of him.

He went nearer to her, and they strode side by side under the shade of the old tree.

“Clarice,” he repeated, “there are tears in your eyes and on your lashes. You have been alone in this quiet place, weeping. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied; “but my thoughts were very sad ones, and tears are a luxury at times.”

“They should not be for you, for whom all things bright and beautiful must have been made. Tell me what those sad thoughts were.”

A mound of dead and dying leaves lay at her feet. Every vigorous breath of wind brought fresh leaves down, yellow and red. She pointed to them.

“Every autumn for the last four years I have watched the leaves of this tree fall,” she said, “and the same thoughts have always pursued me.”

“You will not tell me what they are?” he said.

“I cannot. Do you not know how impossible it is to put those thoughts into words that we hardly understand ourselves?”

“Clarice,” he said, gently, “do you know what I have sought you for?”

“No,” she replied, and he noticed something of dreaminess in her voice and look.

“I came over to Mount Severn this evening especially to ask you to be my wife.”

Something like a half-hysterical sob came from her lips.

“Your wife! But you say nothing of loving me.”

“Should I ask you to be my wife if I did not love you, Clarice?” he asked, carried away, despite himself, by the passion of her words and the love in her face. He never forgot her half-tearful joy.

“You love me, Ronald! Do not deceive me; do not tell me that unless it is quite true.”

He could not have said what he intended to say had his life been the forfeit. He had meant to own to her that his love lay in ashes; but he could not hold those trembling hands in his, and look at those quivering lips, yet speak such words as must stab that tender heart.

“I do love you, Clarice. Why, how many years is it since we were children together, since we played at love and jealousy?”

“But,” she interrupted, “you have had another love since then.”

Yes, Heaven help him! he had; and as he stood there, holding another woman’s hand in his, all the memory of that lost love came over him, and, looking up at the green trees, he half wished they might fall and crush him. Then he recovered himself with a violent effort and turned to her.

“I do not attempt to deceive you, Clarice—I had another love. I will tell you all the truth, and you must reject me or take me, as you will. I loved Lady Hermione when we were children. She has been the one love, the one passion, the one loadstar of my life. I had no wish, no thought, that did not begin and end with her, and I believed she loved me. God grant that I may not speak too harshly of her! She deceived me with the most cruel words and looks; she drove me half mad, for when I offered my love to her, she threw it back at me. There were some false, scoffing words about being my friend for life—my friend! when she knew she had slain all that was best in me.”

“Hush!” she said, with dignity; “you must not tell this to me.”

“But I must tell you, Clarice, if we are to understand each other. Why are you so pale—why do you tremble—am I cruel to you?”

“No; speak on; it is better, perhaps, I should hear.”

“The letter she sent me, refusing me, slew in me all that was honest and best. It made me a coward, it unfitted me to battle with life, it destroyed every hope that makes manhood sweet and life precious.”

“Was it so very hard to bear, Ronald?” she asked, pityingly; and he could not be deaf to the pain in her voice.

“It was. I hide nothing from you. I do not know what madmen suffer, but it seems to me, on looking back, that for many long months afterward I was mad. There was nothing that I left undone to drive even the memory of her fair face from me; I could not do it. Clarice, a drowning man clings to a straw—I cling to you. Will you save me from the total wreck of life, reason and happiness? Can you be more generous than woman ever was before? Can you marry me, knowing that another woman has had the best of my life? Can you marry me, to save me and restore me to the world of men?”

She clasped her hands round his arm.

“You have said not one word of loving me, Ronald—not one word.”

“But I will, God helping me. If you will trust your life and your happiness to me, I will—I will make you happy.”

“Say you will love me, Ronald,” she whispered, raising her lovely face to his. He would have been more than mortal not to have been touched by the wistful sadness there.

“I will love you,” he cried. “Help me to love you, Clarice; help me to forget this black, brooding shadow that darkens my life; help me to be a braver, better, nobler man by becoming my wife.”

“I will, if you will love me. Ah, Ronald! why is she fairer to you than I am? Why should you give her more than me? You say she has been cruel to you. Listen! I have loved you as long as you have loved her. I have never given one thought to any other than yourself. You talk about love—oh, Ronald! could you count the leaves on the trees you might, perhaps, be able to tell how dearly I love you.”

She clasped her white hands and laid them folded on his breast.

“Do you know that if at any time my life could have saved you, I would have laid it down for you? Do not think I am speaking as women should not speak. There is no pain you have suffered that has not been doubled for me. I have asked but one boon from Heaven, one grace, one blessing—and that was your love, Ronald.”

“Alas, that I have not more to give!”

“Never say that; I am content. You did not choose me first, but perhaps in the years to come you may love me best. You have chosen me as your comforter, and I would rather be that to you than the worshiped queen of any man.”

Her golden head drooped on his breast, and her voice died away, in a passionate murmur that was but a sigh.

“I do not deserve it,” he said, regretfully.

“Ah, yes, you do. Because she has slighted you, Ronald, it does not follow that her estimate of you must be right. Oh, my love, my king among men! I know how to honor you. I say among all living men, you have not your peer. Because she has been cold and false, I will love you doubly; because she has made you unhappy, I will spend my whole life in trying to make you happy; and if she came to us now, in all the fatal lure of her beauty, and tried to take you from me, she should not. I would keep you by the force of my own mighty love.”

It was very pleasant; even the sweet south wind seemed to listen to the pleading, passionate voice.

“Why, Ronald, when you found me here,” she continued, “I was weeping over you—weeping that my love was so unhappy—that the bright young years of my life were passing in bitterest gloom; for I came to the old tree last year, and watched the leaves fall, and, Ronald, it seemed to me that, even as they fell one by one and died so slowly, that thus my hopes faded, and every year saw you further from loving me. That was why I wept. I shall never shed such tears again.”

He could do nothing but bend down and kiss the beautiful face, praying God in his heart that he might love her as she deserved, and that he might make the life bright whose brightness depended so entirely on him.

CHAPTER XX.

A LAST LOOK.

Sir Ronald never knew how the news of his engagement was received by the “ladye he loved.” The Lorristons went away soon afterward to pay a long-promised round of visits. He did not know whether she were pleased, piqued, or surprised.

But he soon found out that, so far as the world was concerned, he had done an excellent thing for himself. Congratulations poured in on all sides; people laughed at the rumors they had been so ready to believe. After all, it was very improbable that a man like Sir Ronald should have been the dupe of any woman. It was Miss Severn he had cared for; and, now they were going to be married, Sir Ronald had urged a speedy marriage.

He began at once to make preparation; he ordered a magnificent suite of rooms to be prepared for his wife. Perhaps it was significant of his frame of mind that he never went once to see what progress was made, contenting himself by giving orders that neither expense nor trouble should be spared. He sent all the family jewels to London to be reset, but he did not linger over them with a lover’s fondness, choosing what would best suit her. He ordered the most lavish and magnificent presents, but he never heeded the beautiful, blushing smile with which they were received.

He never omitted any day going over to Mount Severn. He drilled himself, he trained his thoughts, and would not let them wander from her. When the memory of Lady Hermione and that evening among the flowers came to him he crushed it back remorselessly.

Yet no one looking at him could have called him a happy man. There were grave lines on his brow and round his lips that told of the long, bitter struggle; his laugh had no music in it, his smile no light. The ring of youth and happiness had died out of his voice. Even when he tried to be most happy, the heart within him was cold and heavy as lead.

One day, as he was riding home from Mount Severn, he met Kenelm Eyrle. They had not spoken for some time, but on this evening Kenelm walked up to him.

“One moment, Sir Ronald Alden,” he said. “I will not detain you; answer me this one question.”

“I will answer a hundred,” replied Sir Ronald, “if you will ask them as a friend, and not as an enemy.”

“There will be no more friendship between us,” was the calm reply. “Have you honor and honesty enough to tell me whether it is true that you are going to marry Miss Severn?”

“Although it can be no business of yours, I do not mind telling you that in a few weeks from now Miss Severn will be my wife.”

“You have wooed her and won her—you confess it,” cried Kenelm, fiercely.

“There is nothing to confess. I asked the lady to be my wife, and she consented viola tout.”

“I shall never waste another word upon you,” said Mr. Eyrle, indignantly, as he turned away; and Sir Ronald laughed.

“My lady has bidden him speak thus,” he thought. “Perhaps she wished to see if I was marrying from pique or love. Ah, Clarice, no one shall ever discover that.”

Kenelm Eyrle walked angrily to Mount Severn.

“I will hear it from her own lips,” he said; “I refuse to believe it from his.”

He found Clarice where her lover had left her, leaning against the stone balustrade of the balcony. He saw the softened tenderness of that beautiful face, the love-light in the wondrous eyes, and from his white lips came a muttered curse.

She looked up in surprise. While her whole heart and thoughts were full of the man she loved, it was not pleasant to see the man who for so long had hopelessly loved her.

“Clarice,” he said, reproachfully, “you are not pleased to see me. Love is keen. Your face fell and your eyes lost half their light when they fell upon me. I am not here to tease you; only to ask you a simple question. Is it true you are going to marry Sir Ronald?”

Her face flushed. She would fain have spared him all the pain.

“I shall bear it more easily if you tell me, Clarice,” he pleaded.

“Yes; it is true,” she replied. “Why do you ask me, Kenelm?”

“I have been told so, and I would not believe it from any one else. Nay, do not shrink from me, Clarice. I am not going to importune you. I am too proud, dear, to try to rob another man of that which he has won. Do you love him?”

Her face glowed unconsciously.

“Yes; I love him with all my heart.”

“I hope you will be happy. You see there is no bitterness in my heart against you, Clarice. I pray God to bless you and make you happy.”

“And you will be our friend?” she said.

“No; I could not. I do not blame you. I have tried hard to win your love, but I could not succeed. You have given it to another. I have no right to complain, but I shall not forgive him, the false friend, who knew that every hope of my life rested in you, yet has stolen you treacherously from me.”

“You are unjust,” she replied, hastily. “If I never belonged to you, how could any one steal me away? It is of my own free will that I love and marry Sir Ronald Alden.”

“We will not dispute about him,” he replied, sadly. “I will not remain; I only wish to bid you farewell.”

“But we shall be neighbors—friends? we shall meet?”

“Never,” he replied. “Let me take one last, lingering look at your face, the face that has been the star of my idolatry. I shall never see it again, until, by God’s mercy, it shines among His angels in heaven.”

Her tears fell fast at his words. He came nearer to her, and looked for a few moments into that lovely face, as though he would fain engrave every feature on his heart; then he turned abruptly away.

When he saw her next she was lying dead, with white flowers on her breast, and men were in hot pursuit of her murderer.

It was in November that Sir Ronald led his beautiful wife to the altar. The wedding was one of the most magnificent spectacles ever witnessed. Clarice would fain have had it quiet and without display, but the master of Aldenmere insisted upon her receiving the honor due to her.

To this day they tell of the brilliant crowd gathered in the old church at Leeholme—of the noble men and beautiful women who came from all parts of England to assist at what was the grandest ceremony of the day. The only family of note in the country, absent, was the Lorristons; but among the costly array of wedding presents was a diamond necklace from Lord Lorriston, and a pearl bracelet from Lady Hermione, accompanied by the kindest of letters.

Sir Ronald smiled bitterly when he saw them. His own presents to his young wife were superb in their magnificence. Did he think by lavish expenditure and great display to atone to her for the absence of that which he could not give her—his heart’s best love?

CHAPTER XXI.

MARRIAGE.

The die was cast now. For weal or for woe, for better or worse, Sir Ronald and Lady Clarice were to spend the remainder of their lives together.

They went abroad! They made the usual Continental tour, and then returned to Aldenmere. Lady Clarice was happy as the day was long. No bird singing in the shade of summer trees was half so blithe or gay.

On one occasion he was speaking of the grand ball they must give on their return, and she said, half doubtingly:

“Shall you invite the Lorristons, Ronald?”

“Certainly. Why not? Lord Lorriston and I were always good friends.”

“I fancied, perhaps, you would not like to meet his daughter.”

“She will, in all probability, be Lady Eyrle then, and what can Kenelm Eyrle’s wife matter to me?”

“I hear nothing now of their engagement,” she said, thoughtfully.

He turned to her quickly.

“It was you who told me about it—surely you remember?”

“Oh, yes, perfectly; but I fancy it must be broken off, as I hear nothing of it.”

He only said bitterly to himself that she had played with another heart and broken it; but for the remainder of all that day no smile or cheerful word came from him.

Yet she did not notice it. She knew the power of her own beauty, and she would have deemed it simply impossible that the man upon whom she lavished all her love could give one thought to another.

She was blind and deaf to the fierce contest going on in the heart and soul of her husband—to the war that never ended, between right and wrong.

He would go to her at times with a wearied look on his face that never came from physical fatigue. He would lay his head down like a tired child, and say:

“Clarice, sing to me.”

She never said to herself that she was needed to drive away the demon of discontent; she only thought he preferred her singing to any other, and was flattered accordingly.

Then the time came for them to return to Aldenmere, and great were the preparations. The little town of Leeholme was in a perfect fever of excitement. Triumphal arches were erected, flags were flying, the beautiful bells of Leeholme church pealed merrily, the tenants were all assembled to do honor to their lord.

“Welcome Home!” “Long Life to Lord and Lady Alden!” “A Bridal Welcome!” and hundreds of other mottoes decorated the flags and the arches. Through long lines of happy faces, through the music of cheering voices, bride and bridegroom drove to their ancient home.

People might have wondered why the bridegroom’s face grew sterner and paler as the thunder of a mighty welcome greeted him. Lady Clarice looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, Ronald, how pleased they are to see us! What can we do for them?”

“There will be plenty of home-brewed ale, and as many oxen roasted as can be eaten,” he said, and the words jarred upon her. She looked in the pale, impassive face, and would fain have seen some lingering softness there.

He was thinking, Heaven help him! how different it would have been had the face he loved been near him on this day, when he saw how popular and well-loved he was. Then he took himself fiercely to task for the thoughts.

“Let me remember I have a wife who loves me dearly,” he said to himself, “and let me not forget the woman who ruined my life for her own amusement will soon have, or perhaps has, a husband of her own.”

So he went through the duties of the day with ease and dignity. He made a most cordial and genial speech to his tenants, inviting them all to partake of the lavish hospitality prepared for them. He took his beautiful young wife by the hand, and spoke a few words in her praise that caused cheers to rise to the very heavens. He spoke of the work he hoped to do among them—of the life he hoped to spend—of the brightness of his future, and in his heart he hated the sun for shining to mock him, and the flowers for blooming so fair.

Had any one present said that that man’s heart was broken by an unhappy love, who would have believed it? Did ever lot seem so fair?

And as the well-satisfied tenants left they declared one and all that Sir Ronald must be perfectly happy. Those who had troubles of their own—the sorrowful and unhappy, whom many privations had crushed—wondered that lots in life were so unequal, and envied this man, young, rich, handsome, and beloved, while he would have changed places with the poorest, lowliest there to have known only for one hour such peace of mind as the happy enjoy.

There was but a few hours of respite, then the hall table was covered with letters of welcome and cards. The same evening Mrs. Severn drove over. It seemed to her years since she had parted with her beloved child.

“You will not see Mr. Eyrle among your friends,” she said, as they sat at dinner; “he went away three weeks ago.”

“Then he is not married?” said Sir Ronald, hastily.

“No,” she replied, with some little surprise, “I never heard even a rumor of his marriage.”

“You forget,” said Lady Clarice, hastily. “It was not publicly known.”

So, then, Lady Hermione was still free—no adoring husband or jealous lover was there. He would rather ten thousand times over been told that she was married and was most passionately attached to her husband; that would have been better news for him; the barrier between them would have been doubled. He did not like to think that any time he went out he should meet her, perhaps more beautiful than ever, to renew all his misery. He had all the respect of a true, pure-hearted Englishman for the sanctity of the marriage tie, and he wished that the barrier between himself and the woman he loved were as great and strong on her side as on his.

“Clarice,” he said to his wife, “I have altered my mind. Nay, you are going to tell me that I am claiming a woman’s privilege; let it be so. I am not much stronger than a woman in some things. I shall not invite the Lorristons to Aldenmere.”

She looked up at him with a sudden cloud of anxiety on her face.

“Why, Ronald?”

“It would not be pleasant. After all, they did not behave well to me. We had better, I think, keep that distance that seems to have grown between us.”

Lady Clarice was perfectly willing, nothing could have pleased her better, for there was no time of her life during which she had not been more or less jealous of Lady Hermione.

CHAPTER XXII.

IN HOLME WOODS.

So during all the wedding festivities with which the whole country rang the Lorristons were away; there was not even the civility of a letter exchanged between them. People did not quite know what the difference was about; but a quiet understanding soon came about that the Lorristons and the Aldens should never be invited together.

For Sir Ronald the second phase of his life began when, as the husband of another woman, it was more than ever his duty to trample under foot the passion that marred his life. Then, in sober earnest, he had to take up the duties of life and make the best of them.

He was kind and attentive to his beautiful young wife; he was careful in the fulfillment of his duties; but in the silent depths of his own heart there was no moment, night or day, in which he did not, with the most bitter words, curse his own fate. So the remainder of that summer passed. Winter brought its usual round of country gayeties. In this season Sir Ronald and Lady Clarice went to London, where her beauty and fascination created a perfect furore. There, for the first time, he heard that the Lorristons had not come to town because Lady Hermione had been long out of health. She was not ill—that is, not ill enough to alarm her friends, but she was unfit to encounter the fatigues of a London season.

When it was over Sir Ronald and his wife returned to Aldenmere.

One day toward the end of the month of June, Sir Ronald went out into the Holme Woods. The morning was fine, the sun shining, and the air filled with the fragrance of wild flowers. Holme Woods had never looked so beautiful. The trees wore their richest foliage, great sheets of blue hyacinths spread out far and wide, bright-winged butterflies hovered over them, bees hummed for very joy at the rich feast spread before them. Sir Ronald had not noticed the path he was taking. The faint, wild perfume of the harebells was grateful to him. Body, mind, heart and soul, he was tired, and he had come to the woods, loving the solitude he found there.

You know, reader, what face was before him. Imagine his surprise when his thoughts suddenly seemed embodied; for there, seated on a bank, with the pretty harebells nodding around her, was Lady Hermione Lorriston.

He would have turned and fled, but the manhood within him rebelled against flight. He stood looking helplessly at her, too bewildered for words. When he was capable of coherent thought he saw how white her face grew. She rose and stood before him, like some bright, strange, frightened bird, dreading to stay, yet dreading to go.

And then the past months, with their untold agony, faded from him. He remembered nothing save that it was summer time and he loved her—save that for him it was heaven where she was, and a dreary blank where she was not.

“Hermione!” he cried, going up to her, and holding out his hand, all his proud resolves, all his hauteur, all his indignant anger melted into thin air.

She gave him no hand in return. The pale, sweet face was graver than he had ever seen it before.

“I did not think to see you here, Sir Ronald,” she said, coldly.

He had only seen her once since the night when he had kissed her among the flowers, and everything save the memory of that night seemed to die from him.

“How cruel you have been to me, Hermione; how you lured me on to my ruin and my doom; how false you are despite the fairness of that most fair face! If you had stabbed me, and trampled my dead body under foot, you would have been less cruel. What did I ever do, Hermione, that I deserved so cruel a fate?”

She looked up at him proudly.

“You have no right to speak to me,” she said. “You are married, and the kindness or cruelty of no other woman but your wife should concern you. Then I have not been cruel to you, Ronald, and you know it.”

There was something inexpressibly sad and pitiful in the whole scene. These two, who loved each other so dearly, who in the whole world cared only for each other, parted more completely than if death had separated them.

“I know that you did me the greatest wrong woman could do to man,” he replied.

“What was it?” she asked, the proud flush deepening on her face.

“You led me to believe you cared for me—you gave to me looks and words such as you gave to no other man—you let me kiss your lips and did not say me nay; then, when I had grown bold through your kindness, and prayed the prayer that for long months had been on my lips, you slew me with cruel, scornful words.”

“I do not understand you,” she said, quietly.

“You will not, rather. I say again, Hermione, that you have played with me more cruelly than a cat plays with a mouse. You have laughed at my torture.”

“You are speaking most falsely,” she said.

“Let God judge between us. I lay the ruin of my life upon you. I say you deliberately deceived me.”

“I deny it,” she replied. “How could I be cruel or false to you. I have had no opportunity of being either. I have never heard of you or seen you but once since the evening of my birthday!”

“You have written to me, and it is of your written words I complain.”

“I have never in all my life written one line to you,” she said, earnestly.

“You have never written to me, Hermione? Ah, do not stain those lips with a lie!”

“I never have,” she repeated, with a deep-drawn sob. “Listen! I swear it before the most high God.”

And then for some minutes they stood looking bewildered and wonderingly at each other.

CHAPTER XXIII.

BAD MADE WORSE.

Sir Ronald came nearer to Lady Hermione; his face was white and stern, his eyes gleamed with an angry light.

“Let me ask you a plain question, Lady Hermione. Perhaps this conversation had been better left alone. Having commenced it, I must know more than you have said. You must not refuse to answer me. Either you are deceiving me now, or I have been tricked more foully than man ever was before. I must know which it is.”

“I am not deceiving you; why should I? Deceit is foreign to me; I abhor it. I repeat what I have said. It is possible that I may have addressed cards of invitation to you; but in my whole life I have never written to you one single letter.”

Looking into her pale, sweet face, where all truth, purity and goodness reigned, it was not possible to doubt her.

“Hermione,” he said, more gently, “you remember the evening of the ball?”

“Yes,” she said, sadly, “I remember it well.”

“We stood among the roses, you and I, the moon shining, the distant sound of music floating near us. You did not chide me when I kissed your lips, and I—oh, blind fool that I was!—I looked upon that kiss as a solemn betrothal.”

She shrank from the passionate tones of his voice, then looked at him.

“I made the same mistake,” she said, simply, “and I have paid very dearly for it.”

“Then, for a whole week afterward, Hermione, I went to Leeholme every day. I tried hard to find an opportunity of speaking to you; you were always surrounded by people. There were times, even, when I imagined you felt a delight in baffling what you must have known to be my heart’s desire.”

“It was but a girlish delight in mischief,” she interrupted; “and, ah me! the bitter price I have paid.”

“I wrote to you,” he continued, “finding that there was no chance of speaking. I wrote and told you how most dearly I loved you, and prayed you to be my wife. What was your answer to that prayer?”

He looked into her face as he asked the question; it was so sweet, sad and sorrowful, but there was no untruth to mar its beauty. The wind stirred the bluebells faintly, and a deep, soft sigh shivered through them.

“What was your answer to my prayer?” he repeated.

“None,” she replied. “I never received such a letter; therefore, I could not answer it.”

“Say that again,” he gasped, in a thick, hoarse voice.

“I never received it, Ronald. This is the first word I have ever heard of it.”

He reeled as though one had struck him a sudden, mortal blow. The sweet, soft voice continued sadly:

“You have not thought more hardly of me than I of you. I believed that night you loved me, and I was—well, it does not matter how happy; then you came and went without saying one word. Suddenly you absented yourself altogether; you never came near me. I met you, and you avoided me. I knew no more until I heard and knew that you were going to Mount Severn.”

His face was not pleasant to look upon as she uttered these words.

“Then you never read it, Hermione, or knew of my writing at all?”

“Not one word,” she said, earnestly.

There were a few moments of silence, unbroken save by the wind among the harebells.

“Answer me only one more question, and I have done,” he said. “If you had received my letter, what would your answer have been?”

The light he remembered so well came into her face; for a few moments she forgot the barrier between them that could never be passed.

“You know what it would have been, Ronald. I—I should have said ‘Yes,’ because I have loved you, and you alone, all my life.”

Then the words died on her lips, for, strong and brave as he was, he had flung himself face downward among the harebells, and lay there, sobbing like a child.

A strong man’s tears are terrible to see. Women weep, and, though one pities them, it seems but natural. When a proud, self-controlled, high-spirited man breaks down and weeps, the grief is terrible to witness.

So she thought who bent over him now with soothing words.

“Ronald, you will break my heart if you do this. There has been a terrible mistake, but it will be made right for us in another world. We have one comfort—we did love each other. God knows what has parted us; it is not untruth or falsity. Oh, Ronald! does it not comfort you to know this?”

All that answered her was the deep-drawn, bitter sobs that shook his strong frame, and the sweet, rustling sound of the bells in the breeze.

“If I had been false to you, as you believed, Ronald, the memory of me would have been a lifelong pain. If you had been false to me, the very thought of you would have been a perpetual sorrow; but now we may remember without sin that we once loved each other in all truth.”

She was startled when he raised his face to her, and clutched her hand in his strong grasp.

“Oh, my lost love, my lost, dearest, only love! what has parted us? Tell me! I must know—I will know!”

“I cannot tell,” she replied, gently laying her white, cool, soft hand on his hot brow. “I cannot even imagine. All I am certain of is that I never until this morning even heard of such a letter.”

“Who has done it?” he cried, wildly. “Oh, Hermione, do you know I have been mad for love of you, and for the loss of you? Do you know that, after I believed you rejected me, I have lived like a man without reason, without soul? My days and nights have been one long dream of anguish, one long madness. I hate the sun that shines, the night that succeeds day, for no time will ever bring you back to me, and without you life is death.”

“You forget,” she interrupted, gently. “You have your wife, Clarice, who loves you.”

“I do not forget. Poor Clarice!—God pity her and pity me! I do not love her, Hermione. I have tried as hard to love her as I have to forget you, but cannot. I pray Heaven to pardon me the wrong I did in marrying her; I was blind enough to think it for the best. Oh, my lost love, I am going mad! Lay your cool hands on my brow again; fight down the demons who master me, my angel, my loadstar, my treasure! And you would have married me, Hermione? You would have made my life heaven instead of what it is. I might have been the happiest, even as I am the most wretched, of men.”

“It might have been so; but, Ronald, you must not talk so to me. I am so glad I have seen you—glad to know you were not fickle in love and fancy, as I thought; but now we must part, and we must not meet again.”

“I know; but before you leave me, Hermione, tell me how it happened?”

“I cannot; how did you send that letter to me, Ronald?”

“By my groom. He had orders to deliver it into your own hands, but you were away. He waited some hours, and, as you did not return, he gave it to your maid. I asked him every particular.”

“To my maid! She never gave me any letter from you, Ronald. When did you send it?”

“It was exactly one week after the ball,” he replied.

“I remember,” said Lady Hermione. “We had all been over to Thringston, and it was late when we returned. My maid told me there was an envelope on the toilet-table that Sir Ronald’s groom had brought.”

“That was it,” he said, eagerly.

“No,” she said; “there is some mistake. I opened it, and there was nothing inside but a white rose, carefully folded. I laughed at what seemed to me a romantic idea.”

“Was the envelope addressed to you?” he asked, quickly.

“Yes, and in your handwriting. I knew it at once.”

“There must have been foul play,” he said.

“But how, Ronald? You spoke of a letter from me; tell me of that.”

“It was an answer to mine; it came by post a day afterward. It was in your handwriting, I swear, and it—rejected me.”

“I cannot understand it,” she cried.

“Nor I. But if it takes the whole of my life to find it out, it shall not remain a mystery,” he said; and then he stood erect and silent before her.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FAREWELL.

While she lived Lady Hermione never forgot the look of anguish that he gave her; a long, lingering, steady gaze such as a dying man fixes at times on the face of a beloved wife or child. Then he came a step nearer to her.

“I did not know, Hermione,” he said, “that life could be harder than I have hitherto found it. It will be harder now.”

“Why?” she asked, gently.

“Because I shall ever have before my mind what I have lost. Until now existence has been tolerable, because I have tried to fill it with bitter thoughts of you. In my own mind a hundred times a day I have called you treacherous, false, cruel, and now my angel stands in her place again, the truest and dearest of women, the woman I have loved, and who has loved me! Hermione, my life will be so hard to bear that, if it please Heaven, I could fain die standing here before you now.”

“Brave men do not seek refuge in death,” she replied, “rather in active duties of life.”

“Some men. You see, I have thrown my whole existence on one stake; that stake was you, and I have lost you! Now I have to gather up the broken threads of my life and do with them as best I can.”

She was weeping silently. He saw the teardrops falling, and a mad impulse seized him to clasp her in his arms and kiss them away. That he trampled the impulse under foot showed how dearly he loved her.

“I am glad that we have met. Once more the sun of pure womanhood shines for me. While I thought you false, Hermione, all heaven and earth seemed false, too. But there is one thing more—you may speak freely to me, Hermione; it is but as though one or the other of us was dying—was there no truth in the rumor that you were engaged to Kenelm Eyrle?”

“No; none. Mr. Eyrle has never loved or cared for me in his life.”

“Clarice believed it,” he said, musingly, and the pale face before him grew whiter.

“She was deceived,” said Lady Hermione, briefly; “and now, Ronald, it seems to me that we must say farewell; it must be for the last time. We cannot meet as friends. Honor is dearer than life to both of us; therefore, we must not meet again.”

“Oh, my lost love,” he moaned, stretching out his hands to her, “how shall I bear it?”

She went up to him, and there was an expression of pity and love on her face that made it divine. She took both his hands in her own and held them there.

“You will be brave and true to yourself, Ronald. Do not let me have the smart all my life long of knowing that love for me has led you further from heaven; let it, rather, take you nearer. I have some quaint thoughts, and one is that in another world God makes our lives complete. Perhaps there, in that land where the gates are of jasper and the walls of pearl, we may be together—who knows? Looking to that time, we will forget the darkness and sorrow of this.”

He said to himself, bitterly, that such thoughts might comfort angels and women; they brought no consolation to him.

“You must remember Clarice,” she pleaded; “Clarice, who loves you so well.”

“I remember all. Hermione, if I send for you when I am dying, should it be soon or should it be in twenty years, you will come to me?”

“Yes,” she replied, with a deep-drawn, bitter sob. “I will come, Ronald. Now, farewell.”

She was pure and innocent as the white doves that fed from her hand. She saw no wrong in bending her sweet, sad face over him for that last, most sorrowful embrace.

Once more his lips touched hers, but the chill upon them was the chill of death.

“Good-by, my love, my dear, lost love, good-by,” he said, and the words died away in a moan. Another minute and she had passed out of sight.

When the hour of death came it was not so bitter for him as that in which Hermione Lorriston passed out of his sight. He flung himself on the ground, praying the skies might fall and cover him; that he might never rise to meet the sunlight again.

From that day he was a changed man; he felt it and knew it himself. The quiet, resigned content for which he had been trying so hard was further from him than ever. The resignation arriving from philosophy had forsaken him. Night and day he brooded over the one idea that she had loved him, and he had lost her. Day and night he pondered over the mystery of that letter.

But for his wife’s sake he would have made the whole matter public and would have insisted on having it thoroughly sifted; but a “still, small voice” pleaded for Clarice. It would be so hard for her to see and know that his thoughts were still all of the past.

That did not prevent him from making a private investigation of the matter. On the first day that he saw Conyers, the groom, he called him.

“I want you,” he said. “There are some questions I wish to ask you that, if you answer truthfully, will be of inestimable benefit to me; if you answer them falsely, I shall be still further deceived. Perhaps experience has embittered me; I have little faith left in man’s honesty. I will buy your truth, Conyers, if you swear to me, on your oath, to say nothing but what is perfectly, strictly correct. I will give you ten pounds, and, should you be able to discover that which I wish to know, I will hereafter give you fifty.”

Conyers was an honest man, and Sir Ronald’s words hurt him more than he cared to own.

“If you offered me twice fifty pounds, Sir Ronald, to tell a willful lie, I would not do it for you or for any one else. You can please yourself about believing whether I tell you the truth or not.”

His bluntness did not displease the master of Aldenmere, who looked at the groom’s face with a grim smile.

“If ever the world does to you what it has done to me,” he said, quietly, “you will either doubt your own sanity or the truth of your fellowmen. Come out here a few minutes; I want to talk to you.”

And the groom, laying down the work on which he was engaged, followed his master out of the stable.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE MYSTERY UNSOLVED.

“Sit down, Conyers,” said Sir Ronald, pointing to an old wooden bench. “I want you to carry your memory back to three years ago.”

“I can do that, Sir Ronald,” he replied; “my memory is a good one.”

“Three years ago I called you and gave you a letter to take to Leeholme Park; it was for Lady Hermione Lorriston, and you promised me to place it in her own hands.”

“I remember perfectly, Sir Ronald.”

“Tell me what you did.”

“I drove straight to the hall and asked for her ladyship. She had gone to Thringston with a party of guests staying in the house——”

“And then,” interrupted Sir Ronald, impatiently.

“I waited for her until I was afraid to wait any longer, and I asked to see her maid. She is a young woman, sir, whom I have known for many years; her name is Susan Fielding. She came to me, and I told her you had intrusted me with a very particular letter, and I asked her would she promise to give it to her ladyship. She said yes, and I came away.”

“That is all you know about it?” asked Sir Ronald.

“Every word,” replied the man.

“Will you swear that you neither dropped it, changed it, or knew its contents?”

There was genuine surprise in the honest face.

“I will swear, Sir Ronald; I will swear, as I hope to go to heaven, that the letter was never for one moment out of my possession until I placed it in Susan Fielding’s hand. I sat the whole time in the servants’ hall. As for its contents, I never even thought of what they were.”

“And, before God, that is the truth?”

“Before God I vow it,” said the groom, quickly.

“That letter never reached Lady Hermione Lorriston, Conyers; and if you will help me find what became of it, I will reward you richly.”

“I will do my best, Sir Ronald.” But the groom was evidently puzzled, and his master saw it.

“I need not tell you there are many reasons why I object to having it known that I am making any inquiries in the matter; but do you think, Conyers, you could bring that maid, Susan Fielding, to see me?”

“Yes; I can manage that, Sir Ronald; but unless you wish every one to know it, you had better go to see her.”

“I cannot go to Leeholme,” he interrupted.

“There is no need, sir. If you wish to see Susan Fielding, I will ask her to wait in the Thringston road, say to-morrow morning, and then your interview will seem to have been accidental.”

“That will do. Ah! see, I am trusting you, despite all I had said about honest men. Do not tell why I wish to see her; promise that.”

“I will not mention it; and mind, I should like you to be present as well. If there has been any error we shall discover it then.”

That very evening Stephen Conyers went over to Leeholme and contrived to see the lady’s maid. Pretty, coquettish Susan was slightly agitated.

“What can Sir Ronald Alden want with me?” she asked. “Is May Thorne leaving Lady Clarice?”

“I do not think so. You will be sure to be in the Thringston road, Susan?”

“I shall not forget,” she replied; and the groom felt pretty sure that feminine curiosity, if no other motive, would take her.

Imagine a long, winding high road, bordered on both sides with tall trees, whose branches sometimes formed a shady arch. Underneath the trees, walking impatiently, looking from right to left, was Sir Ronald Alden. His handsome face was pale with agitation; it seemed to him that they never would come.

Then, from between the clustering foliage, he saw two figures—one was Stephen Conyers, the groom, the other the pretty, coquettish Susan Fielding, Lady Hermione’s maid. His face flushed hotly, for it struck him that for an Alden to hold an interview of the kind with two servants was derogatory to dignity. Yet, unless he did it, how was he ever to find out the truth?

Susan made her most respectful curtsy. The master of Aldenmere was an important person, and that he should express a wish to see her had filled her with wonder and curiosity.

They stood together under the great, spreading foliage, a curious group.

“I have sent for you, Susan Fielding,” said Sir Ronald, “because I wish to ask you some very important questions. I will deal with you as with Conyers; I will pay you handsomely for the truth. If, by anything you can tell me, you can throw even the least light upon a dark mystery, I will reward you liberally.”

“I will do anything I can, Sir Ronald,” replied the maid, evidently much mystified.

“I need only tell you both this much, that I had a most particular letter to send to Lady Hermione Lorriston—a letter so important that it seems idle to repeat it was a matter of life and death. That letter, you remember, I sent by Stephen Conyers, the groom. He tells me, Susan Fielding, that it was placed in your hands, and you promised to give it to Lady Hermione. I will give you fifty pounds if you find out for me what became of that letter.”

The maid looked at him in sheer wonder—it was not feigned, he saw that plainly.

“I remember the letter perfectly well, Sir Ronald,” she said. “My lady had it; I placed it on her toilet-table, and asked her afterward if she had seen it, and she said, ‘Yes; it was all right.’”

“Remember,” interrupted Sir Ronald, “that I am trusting you both, and that which I say to you must never be repeated. You have touched the heart of the mystery, Susan Fielding. I believe you placed the letter there. Now, listen! Before Lady Hermione opened it, some one entered the room, opened the envelope, took from it my letter and placed inside it a white rose! I will give you fifty pounds if you find out for me who did this.”

“I do not think it could have been done, Sir Ronald.”

“I assure you it was. When Lady Hermione opened the envelope it contained nothing but one white rose. The letter I had written, and she had expected, was not there.”

If he had felt any doubt of Susan Fielding, the lingering look of wonder on her face dispelled it. No woman, be she ever so clever, could assume such an expression.

“I cannot think how it could be,” she said. “I remember the day so well. There was a large party, and they all rode out together. My lady returned and asked for some tea. I went downstairs to attend to it, and she sat down in the music-room with three or four ladies; they took tea there. Then she went to her room. I followed her. I said, ‘There is a packet on the table, my lady. Sir Ronald Alden’s groom brought it.’ Lady Hermione smiled very indifferently. ‘I have seen it,’ she replied; and I do not remember, Sir Ronald, from that hour to this, hearing the subject mentioned, except when Mr. Conyers spoke of it the other day.”

“Then you can tell me nothing about it?” he asked, with a look of keen disappointment.

“No; I cannot. I was away from Lady Hermione’s room half an hour, not more, and it must have been changed in that time, if it were changed at all.”

“You saw no one enter the room?”

“No, Sir Ronald; not that I remember.”

“I shall expect you to keep most perfect silence concerning this inquiry,” said Sir Ronald. “I cannot make it public or I would. Remember, that if you can find out anything which will bring the mystery to light, I will give you, not fifty, but a hundred pounds.”

“I will do my best,” she replied; “but I have not much hope. If it were done by any person in the house they took such precaution as would insure its never being known.”

But as Sir Ronald walked away a peculiar expression flashed into the woman’s face, one of wonder, surprise and pain.

“What is it?” asked the groom. “Do you remember anything?”

“No,” she replied; but her voice was peculiar, and during the remainder of the walk home Susan Fielding spoke never a word.

CHAPTER XXVI.

AFTER NIGHT, MORNING.

From that time Sir Ronald Alden changed so completely that he was hardly to be recognized as the same man. He ceased to struggle for content; he said to himself that a curse was upon him, and he must live under it while it pleased Heaven that he should live at all; but the happiest moment that life held in store for him would be the one that held death—the moment that would bring the woman he loved to his side to look at him for the last time. He was young, and life ran full, warm and rich in his veins, yet he would have gladly laid it down to have brought her for only one moment to his side, so great and passionate was his love for her.

Lady Clarice could not fail to notice the change. She comforted herself by thinking that the Aldens were a strange race, not governed by the same laws as other men, subject to moods and passions that required indulgence. She never dreamed that he had met Lady Hermione, and that his new sorrow was caused by the constant smart of knowing that life might have been different for him.

“Ronald,” she said to him one day, “has life any interest for you?”

“No,” he replied; “I cannot, in truth, say that it has.”

Her face flushed warmly.

“Then, if I were you, I should be ashamed to say so. You are the first Alden who has found life empty, I should imagine.”

“I did not say it was empty, Clarice; I merely say nothing in it interests me.”

She knelt down by his side, and clasped her white hands round his arm.

“You must unsay that, Ronald. There is one interest left—you love me. You cannot turn from me and say no. You could not be so cruel. Love must win love, and, my husband, I love you.”

He made no reply, and she kissed his hands as they lay listless in her warm clasp. If he had told her the truth, it would have been that her love for him was one of his greatest burdens; but he had the grace to keep silent.

“Will you give up Aldenmere for a time?” she asked. “Let us go abroad.”

“No; I am tired of the Continent,” he replied.

“And you do not care for the sea. London has no charm for you. Oh, Ronald, what can I do for you to make your life brighter?”

He looked at her beautiful face, and hated himself with fierce loathing for the word that rose to his lips. It was “Die!” She could do nothing for him but that—die, and leave him free to marry his only love. Then quick, keen remorse seized him, and he kissed her white brow.

“You are very patient with me, Clarice,” he said humbly, “and I do not deserve your love.”

He wondered to himself at times if the old stories he had read of men being given over to the power of a demon were true. Could it be that he was so given over? Was this perverse demon of unhappy love sent to him as a scourge? He brooded over such thoughts and ideas until the wonder is he did not go mad.

He did not meet Lady Hermione again. She was careful; and he had no wish to renew the terrible pain of parting. He dwelt upon one thought—she would come to him when he lay dying, and not before.

So time passed, day after day finding him more gloomy, more wretched and unhappy. Then came the tragedy that startled all England—the murder of the beautiful and unfortunate Lady Clarice—the murder that was in itself a mystery, and remained one.

After that Sir Ronald shut himself up in seclusion and retirement. Many people thought he would leave the scene of the tragedy, and go from Aldenmere, but he did not. He was the ghost of his former self, the wreck of the proud, handsome man, who but a few short years since, had been the bravest wooer in the countryside. People said he would never survive his wife’s death; that the shock of it would be fatal to him. Those who loved him best had no more cheerful prophesy than that he would in all probability linger in his gloomy seclusion a few months longer, then die.

Even Kenelm Eyrle, who had never pardoned him for his marriage, who believed that he had deliberately won Clarice from him, relented now. It was no common grief that brought so proud a man low; no common sorrow that prostrated him.

Kenelm, from the depths of his noble and generous heart, forgave him.

“You did wrong me, Ronald,” he said to him one day; “but you have suffered so cruelly I forget the wrong in remembering the suffering,” and from that day they were again like brothers.

“There is one thing that grieves me,” said Sir Ronald, despondingly, to his friend, “when I die the title will be extinct, and the estates will pass to one who is a perfect stranger to me.”

“You will marry again,” said Kenelm. “You are young, and there is a broad stretch of life before you. You loved Clarice—I do not doubt it—but your heart is not buried with her, as mine is. You will marry, and make the old house glad with bright faces.”

“Never,” he said, moodily. “My one short dream of happiness faded long ago; it cannot revive.”

Mr. Eyrle wondered much.

“For my own part,” he said, musingly, “I live for but one object—to find out who did that deed, and bring them to justice. When that is done my life work is ended. Why, Ronald, I cannot understand your reason for not re-marrying.”

The white, haggard face was raised to his—the thin, worn hands.

“Do I look much like a man whose thoughts run upon marriage?” he asked, mournfully; and Kenelm was obliged to answer “No.”

But one spring morning (the grass had grown green on Clarice’s grave) there came to him a messenger of comfort—a little note containing only a few lines, but to that unhappy man they opened the gates of Paradise.

“Dear Sir Ronald,” so it ran, “I am sorry to hear of your continued ill-health. I only returned home yesterday, or I should have written to express my sympathy sooner. Try to rouse yourself. They tell me you are very ill. From your sincere friend,

“HERMIONE LORRISTON.”

He bowed his head over the paper and wept aloud.

“The dove with the olive leaf!” he said. “Shall I refuse it? Heaven’s gates open. Shall I close them and die in this outer darkness—this utter despair? Or, rather, shall I take the comfort Heaven sends me, and make her my own?”

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE OLIVE LEAF.

Intense rapture filled the heart of Sir Ronald Alden when he read that little note. He had been so long in the night of sorrow, so long in the wide, waste waters of affliction, so long dead in life, that this word from the woman he loved so passionately was in very truth an olive branch to him.

He went to the mirror and looked at his face; it was handsome still, though thin, haggard and bearing the traces of deep emotions; he looked like a man on whom some terrible blight had fallen, for whom life had proved a failure and a wreck.

“Now,” he said to himself, “I will bid good-by to sorrow. Clarice has been avenged. The years of gloom that I have passed since her death should atone for my sin in marrying her without love. The white dove beckons me, the olive branch has come, a long farewell to the night, and hail to the morning! My love has saved me, whom I have worshiped with more than human affection.”

It was a surprise to his servants when that same day Sir Ronald walked from the hall with a bright face, his head erect and cheerful words on his lips. They had not seen him so for many a long month; it was as though he had arisen from the dead. He walked through the long, closed, desolate rooms, where silence and desolation had reigned so long.

“It will be so bright,” he thought, “when I can bring my darling home. Aldenmere will be like the Garden of Eden then.”

“There is a change,” said one servant to another. “His sorrow has fallen from him like a dark garment. Thank Heaven, he is not going to spend his whole life in mourning over a dead wife! We may hear the joy-bells ring at Aldenmere once more.”

And one day, to their greater surprise, he ordered his horse to be saddled and rode away.

“I never thought,” said the head groom, “to saddle a horse for my master again. I am thankful to see this day.”

So, leaving rejoicing hearts behind him, Ronald rode on through the blossoming limes and the tall magnolia trees, through woodland shade and by the river side, until he reached Leeholme Park—the place he had never ceased to see in his dreams, and had never dared to enter again.

The lime blossoms wooed him to enter the park; the birds were singing sweetest invitations to him from the trees. Was it in sheer mockery that he stood there, his hat raised, his head bent and the words of a prayer on his lips? What was he promising?

“I will try to merit it, my God! I will lavish money on those who need it. I will build churches, endow schools far and wide. I will seek objects for charity. I will be a just, a faithful steward, only give Thou to me that which my heart desires and craves for!”

It did not enter the mind of the man who stood among the tufted limes with summer beauty and fragrance floating round him, that the great God does as He will, that no man may say to Him, “Give me this and I will do right; withhold it and I do wrong.”

All his life long he had coveted one good. Let God give him that, and he would be a just steward. Let God withhold it and he would shut himself up in solitude, wasting the rich life and the countless gifts that had been given to him.

As he drew near the stately home, where his white dove, as his heart called her, dwelt, he grew nervous and confused. What if the welcome he received were a cold one? What if Lord and Lady Lorriston resented his conduct? Perhaps the best and most straightforward plan would be to see them first.

He saw the rose garden where, on that night, now so long ago, he had kissed the only face he had ever loved. Then he entered once again the doors where he had been so long a stranger; he read surprise even in the faces of the well-trained servants, when he asked for the earl and countess.

Perhaps Lord Lorriston had never felt more surprised in his life than when Sir Ronald Alden was shown into the study. Sir Ronald stood bravely before him.

“My lord,” he said, “will you forgive me if I speak plainly? Englishmen best understand brief words. I have loved your daughter, Lady Hermione, all my life. Some years since a fatal and inexplicable mistake parted us. I thought she was to blame; she believed the fault mine, and the consequences were estrangement. I pray my dead wife’s pardon if I say I married her from pique, not love. Now the fatal mistake is cleared away, and I am here as a suitor for your daughter’s hand. If you can forgive me and welcome me as such, I am, in truth, a happy man; if you cannot, tell me my fate briefly. I am used to suffering and can bear it.”

The only answer Lord Lorriston made was to take the thin, white hands in his own and bid him thrice welcome to Leeholme.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE MORNING BRIGHTNESS.

Would any one recognize gloomy Aldenmere in the bright, sunny place where perpetual summer seems to reign? Would any one believe this to be the home where the dark shadow of murder had fallen? In all the merry land of England there is not another home so bright and fair.

The tall trees that made gloom, where gloom should not have been, were all cut down, blooming flowers showed their sweet faces everywhere, the desolate state-rooms, closed since that fatal morning when Lady Clarice had been carried home dead, were all furnished with the utmost magnificence, and people said the fêtes given at Aldenmere rivaled those given by royalty itself, they were so magnificent and on so vast a scale.

No more complaints were heard that the chief house in the country was closed, and desolate Sir Ronald seemed as though he could not do enough to atone for the gloomy desolation he had allowed to fall on all around him.

For he has prospered in his wooing. Lady Hermione had been very good to him—perhaps the traces of most bitter sorrow on his face had touched her with sweet, womanly compassion, she whose great charm had been piquant, varied moods, the brilliant power of repartee, whose very uncertainties and caprices had been full of grace because she was the sweetest and most gentle of women. Had everything prospered from the first, and no cloud ever have arisen between them, the chances are that Sir Ronald’s wooing would have been a different matter; she would have enjoyed giving him a love chase.

But now all that pretty, feminine, graceful coquetry had left her. Her sole wish and desire seemed to be to make him forget all he had suffered, and devote herself to his happiness and welfare.

On that eventful day when Sir Ronald had gone to Leeholme, and had won the earl’s consent to his wooing, he did not leave the place until he had her promise. Lord Lorriston had assured him of his free forgiveness, and how perfectly he understood his conduct. Then Sir Ronald had asked to see Lady Hermione. “I could not go from Leeholme in suspense again,” he said; and Lord Lorriston told him his daughter was engaged in what was known as the “cedar-room.”

To the cedar-room he went, unannounced. She raised her eyes, and a flush crimsoned her face, as she saw who it was.

“Hermione,” he said, simply, “I have received your note, and I am here. One word from you restores me from death to life. I could wait no longer. I have come to you to ask my fate.”

And then—he never knew how it happened—the next moment he had her clasped in his arms, and she was weeping on his shoulder.

“I thought, I fancied, I must sacrifice my life to a phantom of grief,” he said; “but, Hermione, I have suffered enough. I have come to you for life, love, happiness, and, my darling, you must not send me from you.”

“I will not,” she whispered.

But he, in his impetuous hurry, did not hear her.

“If you saw a man drowning and held the rope that was to save him, you could not cut it adrift?”

“No, no!” she cried.

“It is you, Hermione, who holds my life, my soul, my welfare, all in your own hands. Think what my love has cost me, and, darling, do not send me from you again.”

The beautiful face she raised to his had a light in it never yet seen on land or sea, the light of love and heroism.

“You shall never leave me, Ronald, through fault of mine. I love you dearly. I have never loved any one else. If you had never sought me again, I should, for your sake, have gone single to my grave. I tell you all this to comfort you, and because I know you to stand in sore need of comfort now.”

She was almost alarmed at the ghastly pallor that overspread his face.

“I cannot believe it,” he said. “Oh, Hermione, swear to me that you will be mine!”

He never forgot the next moment—never, even when after years taught him how true was her vow. She laid her hand in his.

“You ask me to love you, Ronald? You ask me to swear to be your wife. Listen, love, to my vow. I promise to love you, and you alone, while life shall last. I promise to live for your happiness and welfare; to spend my whole life in teaching you to forget your sorrow and learn true happiness at last. I swear to be true to you, to stand by your side in all trials, to shield you from all cares—ah, and if need should be, my husband and love, to lay down my life for yours!”

She paused then, for the fervor of her own words had overpowered her. An hour was to come when those words would comfort them both, and they would know how deeply Lady Alden felt the solemnity of her vow.

Their marriage was not long delayed. It seemed to Sir Ronald that the good angel of his life was coming home to him at last, for Lady Hermione was less woman than angel. She soothed him; her sweet, bright words drove away the darker moods that would at times overtake him in spite of the sunshine of her presence. It was as though new life had come to the grand old mansion, when Lady Alden’s bright, sweet face shone there.

The whole neighborhood rejoiced at the marriage. There was no man, woman or child who had not pitied the unhappy Lord of Aldenmere, and shuddered at the darksome tragedy that had fallen over him, and now they rejoiced that he was to once more live as his fellowmen lived. One or two went beneath the surface and guessed the truth; that the woman he was marrying now was the only one he had ever really loved.

So, amid sunshine and blossoms, amid the pealing of joy-bells, and the joyous clash of music, amid good wishes and blessings, prayers from old and young, from rich and poor, Sir Ronald led his beautiful wife home.

To a home that was changed as he was himself, where brightness had given place to gloom, sighs to smiles, wretchedness to joy, sorrow to happiness: where once more the sun of life shone, and all rejoiced in its beams.

Lady Alden refused to comply with the old-fashioned institution of their taking a wedding tour.

“Let us go home, Ronald,” she said, when he asked her where she would like to spend the honeymoon. “Let us go home. There is no place I shall like or enjoy so much as Aldenmere.”

And he, only too happy to find that she would like his home, gladly complied with her wish.

CHAPTER XXIX.

AFTER FOUR YEARS.

Four years have passed since Sir Ronald took Lady Hermione home to Aldenmere. May blossoms are falling now, and the white acacia is all in bloom. England holds no fairer picture than Aldenmere in its spring dress. The golden laburnums droop their long tresses, the purple lilacs are all in flower, the tufted limes send forth sweetest odors, and birds sing joyously in the green trees.

A long French window that opens onto the lawn is thrown back, and the sound of laughing voices mingles with the birds’ songs. Looking into that room, you would hardly recognize the gentleman seated near the open window—Sir Ronald Alden has so greatly changed. No shadow now lingers on his face, his eyes are unclouded, nothing but laughter and love lingers in their depths; the weird, haggard expression that had distorted his handsome, patrician features has left no trace. He had been singing some childish trifle to the little ones at his knee—the music of children’s voices was no longer mute at Aldenmere—and he was enjoying the perplexed wonder and admiration in each little face. Sir Ronald was neither vain nor singular in believing that two more beautiful children had rarely been seen. The eldest—the son and heir—Harry, the future lord of Aldenmere, a princely boy, with the dark Alden face, was perhaps nearest to his father’s heart; then came the little girl, baby Clare, who had Lady Hermione’s bright, tender face and fair hair. “Little children all his own,” as Sir Ronald was never weary of thinking. He who had been so desolate and lonely, so loveless and joyless, was crowned now by this most precious gift. Little children who worshiped him, who hung on his least word, who thought him the cleverest and most mighty of men; little ones whom he could train to carry on the honors of his house, to uphold the glories of his race, those glories that in his hand had so nearly fallen away. As they laughed and sung around him, he was hardly less happy than they. Only the keenest observer could have told that every now and then there went from the depths of his heart a most bitter sigh, or that the words of a prayer were on his lips, words that will never die until the blue heavens shrivel up as grass. “Lord have mercy on me!” One thing Lady Hermione noticed; it was that there was nothing her husband seemed so solicitous over as curbing and correcting Harry’s temper. The little heir of Aldenmere was a princely boy, his only fault being what was commonly known in the house as the “Alden temper.” He showed signs of that before he could either walk or talk.

“He must be corrected,” said Sir Ronald, when he saw how self-willed even such a baby could be; but Lady Alden had smiled and said:

“It is only the Alden spirit, Ronald; surely you will not blame him for that?”

Sir Ronald’s face had flushed darkly; for the first and only time in his life he spoke harshly to his worshiped wife.

“He had better die,” he said, “than grow up with that temper unchecked.”

Then, seeing his wife’s grieved, shocked look, he said:

“Whether the annals of our race speak truthfully or not I cannot tell, but I know this, Hermione, there has never yet been an Alden to whom this temper or spirit has not brought unutterable woe. Let us shield our boy from this curse of his race.”

And she, like the good, tender, submissive wife that she was, knelt down by his side and clasped her white arms around his neck.

“Have I vexed you, dear?” she asked. “I know you are right, and I will try to cure little Harry.”

“Less woman than angel,” he called her in his own thoughts, and he was not far wrong. The sweet and gentle submission, the tender and reverent homage she paid to him, were the crown of her pure and perfect womanhood. He looked at her sometimes wondering that so peerless a creature could have learned to love him. On this May morning, while the pink and white hawthorn shone in the hedges, and the mavis sang in the trees, he was inwardly wondering at his own bliss. Then, where the sunbeams fell upon her, sat his beautiful and beloved wife, bright, winsome, and happy, the pride and ornament of his home. The four years that had passed since he brought her home, a bride, seemed each one to have added fresh beauty to her, and near her sat the friend who of late years had been to him as a brother, Kenelm Eyrle. But Kenelm does not look bright this morning; his eyes are heavy as with long watching, and in his face were the old lines of sorrow, distinctly marked. “Now, papa,” cried little Harry, “sing one more song, about the queen in the garden—you know,” and Sir Ronald trolled off, in a rich, hearty voice, the famous old nursery song; it was but the prologue to a tragedy, after all.

“Sin’ to me,” lisped little Clare, and Lady Alden laughed at the peculiar English. Yet, pretty as the children’s prattle was, no smile came to the face of their guest. “You look very grave, Kenelm,” said Sir Ronald, at last; “are you not well this morning?”

“Yes, I am well,” was the half-indifferent reply, “in body, but not in mind.”

“A mind diseased knows no cure,” said Lady Alden. “What has distressed you, Mr. Eyrle?”

“A dream. I stand six foot high in my boots, and have nerves strong as steel; yet a dream has shaken me; my whole soul has trembled at it.”

Perhaps, had Lady Alden, “whose chief book was her husband’s look,” seen the expression of Sir Ronald’s face, she would not have prolonged the conversation; as it was, she turned her bright, beautiful face eagerly to him.

“A dream!” she said. “I am such a believer in dreams, Mr. Eyrle—tell me yours.”

“It is not fit for a bright May morning,” he said; “it is full of horror.”

“And you are brooding over it until you are making yourself quite ill,” said Lady Alden. “Now, Mr. Eyrle, be advised; never nurse a sorrow; tell Sir Ronald, if you do not trust me, what has distressed you. He will explain your dream away.”

Neither Lady Hermione, intent on comforting, nor Kenelm, wrapped in gloomy thoughts, noticed how Sir Ronald had drawn the little ones to him, as though to seek hope and shelter.

“Ronald, you have greater powers of persuasion than have fallen to my lot,” said Lady Alden. “Try to cheer Mr. Eyrle.”

Kenelm raised his eyes. She saw that they were heavy with unshed tears.

“I am like Banquo’s ghost,” he said. “I only bring gloom to you. My dream was of my lost love, Lady Alden, and you are right in thinking it haunts me. I ought to beg your pardon for speaking of gloomy subjects that must be distasteful to you, but it seems a strange thing that whenever I sleep or visit here, I dream of Clarice.”

Lady Hermione’s face grew even more beautiful in its softened tenderness and compassion.

“It is not strange,” she replied, gently, “you loved her so dearly, and Aldenmere is filled with memories of her. Tell us your dream.”

“I dreamed,” he replied, “that she came to the door of my room, opened it, and stood there, just as I saw her last, her white dress covered with flowers. She called me by my name, ‘Kenelm—Kenelm Eyrle!’ The dream was so weird, Lady Alden, I thought, at first, she was really there. Then I remembered she was dead, and my heart began to beat strangely. ‘Kenelm,’ she said, ‘you are sleeping quietly here at Aldenmere, and I lie in my grave unavenged!’ I cried out to her that my life was spent in the vain effort to trace her murderers and bring them to justice. ‘Yet you sleep!’ she said, sadly, and the next moment she had disappeared. Lady Alden, all the description that ever I could give would never tell you how those words touched me. I have heard the saddest notes from an æolian harp, but they were not so sad as the voice which said to me: ‘Yet you sleep!’ Oh, Lady Alden, pardon me; I cannot bear even to remember it,” and, abruptly enough, Kenelm Eyrle rose and quitted the breakfast-room, leaving Sir Ronald and Lady Hermione looking anxiously at each other.

CHAPTER XXX.

IN DEFENSE OF CRIME.

“He will never forget her,” said Lady Hermione, slowly, as the door closed after the unhappy man. “Oh, Ronald, if there be such a thing as haunting, do you think she haunts him?”

But Sir Ronald was not so quick as usual with an answer to his wife’s question; he held little Clare in his arms so that the pallor of his face was hidden.

“I think,” he replied, slowly, “that the discovery has become a mania with him: he will know no rest nor peace until he has found out something that troubles him.”

“And do you think, really,” she continued, “that he will find any clue to it ever so small?”

“My darling, I cannot say. Do not talk of it, Hermione; my soul seems to shiver at the bare recollection of the horror of the time.”

“It was a cruel deed,” she said, thoughtfully, “a cruel, merciless deed. Clarice never hurt any one in her life. I cannot understand it. Do you know what I have often thought, Ronald?”

“No,” he said, reluctantly, as though unwilling to pursue the subject. “I do not.”

“My idea is, and always has been, that the crime was committed by some madman. I read something in the papers years ago about a strong and most violent lunatic, who had escaped from custody and could not be found. After that I remember reading of what seemed to me very purposeless crimes—a woman cruelly slaughtered, a boy slain without reason, an old man barbarously murdered for murder’s sake—and I could not help, in my own mind, wondering if the wretched lunatic had been guilty of all.”

“It may have been so,” replied Sir Ronald.

“I ought not to pursue the subject,” said his wife; “but, Ronald, there are times when it has a fascination for me. Why, my darling, does it hurt you so?”

He turned his face to her, haggard with the old lines of pain.

“I suffered so much, Hermione, when it happened that, rather than endure any more, I would die; I could not endure it.”

She bent over him and kissed him. “I wish,” she said, thoughtfully, “that we could persuade Kenelm to give up his mania. I cannot bear to think of his blighted life—so useless, so utterly without purpose. Suppose that, after the lapse of long years, he did succeed in bringing the criminal to light, what good would he do?”

“Secure justice,” he replied. “My belief is, Hermione, that if Kenelm Eyrle found the criminal to be his own mother he would not rest until he had brought her to the scaffold.”

“Oh, Ronald, that is a terrible thing to say; yet I believe it, love. As you say, with him the idea has long been a mania. On every other point, Kenelm Eyrle is a sane man, a loyal, honorable gentleman; on this subject he is mad, and I have always thought mischief would come of it.”

He would have changed the subject then, but it seemed to have a morbid fascination for him. Something had crept into the sunshine and stolen its beauty away; the sweetest fragrance had left the flowers, a sudden chill and blight had come over the lovely, glowing morning. It was with something like a shudder that Lady Hermione drew nearer to her husband and laid her beautiful head on his breast.

“Ronald,” she said, “I want to ask you something; do you believe that murder should be punished by death?”

“I do not know. Yes, I think I do. The Bible says so. A life for a life seems but just and fair.”

“Yet what good can it do?” she continued. “If anger, or madness, or vengeance leads one man to slay another, why hurry him from the world also? It seems to me two souls are imperiled then, instead of one; why not give him time to repent—a lifetime if need be, in which to repent and seek God’s pardon?”

“He might not repent,” said Sir Ronald; “there are some such cases; some crimes of which, instead of repenting, men simply grow proud. Do you think Charlotte Corday ever repented the murder of Marat? Tell me, do you think she did?”

Lady Hermione looked half puzzled for a few minutes.

“I can hardly tell; I should say she repented what she thought the need for killing him. Oh, Ronald, you are making me defend murder.”

“No, I am not; I simply say there are some murders of which I am sure men never repent. Therefore the life you give them would be mistaken clemency. If a life must be paid for a life, let the forfeit be laid down at once.”

She was looking at him with wondering eyes.

“Why, Ronald, how much you have thought of these things; you have studied them.”

“Yes,” he replied, quietly, “for many months after Clarice died I thought of nothing else. Men cannot judge as God can; we only see one-half, not always that, even that half not always clearly. Men know a crime has been committed; they do not know what has led up to it; the hidden motives, the great provocations, who knows anything of those save God himself?”

“But, Ronald,” she said, “surely you are defending crime! Darling, you are speaking without weighing your words. You do not believe that any amount of provocation can excuse murder?”

As she asked the question a dead silence fell on them. The whisper of the winds, the music of the birds, the ripple of the fountains, seemed to grow strangely hushed, as though every sweet impulse of nature waited to hear what he would say.

“You do not answer me,” she said, “yet, Ronald, my question is so plain. Do you think anything, any provocation, can excuse murder?”

Again the strange silence—in after years it returned to her—and she knew it had been more eloquent than any words.

“I cannot answer you,” he replied, after a time. “I have thought of it, but my mind has never been quite clear. Yes, I think some provocation, some treachery so great as to excuse murder.”

“Oh, Ronald, that is a dangerous doctrine.”

“Suppose,” he said, “I had lived in India at the time of the mutiny, and I had found some black fiend with his hand on your throat, or with my baby’s golden head just cloven in twain, I would have slain him with less remorse than I crush this leaf between my fingers.”

“But that,” she argued, “would be self-defence, not murder. Murder seems to me to be the cowardly death that creeps in silence, in treachery, and darkness—that sends the victim’s soul, with one horrible pang, straight into the presence of its Maker! Oh, Ronald, why are we speaking of such things? Poor Clarice! it seems to me I have never realized her terrible fate until now.”

Sir Ronald rose from his seat.

“Look how we have saddened the children, Hermione. Here is Harry, grave as a judge, and little Clare getting ready to cry. My darling, let the dead past be. Let us live in the sunny present.”

“It was Kenelm’s fault,” she said, half apologetically, “not mine. How strangely we have been talking! Every morning and night, when the little ones say their prayers, I shall make them add: ‘Please, God, teach those who suffer to forget.’”

“Papa,” cried a childish voice, “you said I should ride to-day.”

“So I did, Harry. Now, Hermione, come out on the lawn, and see your son take his first lesson in horsemanship.”

The bell was rung, a few words said to the servant, and then a beautiful little pony was led on to the lawn. The children clapped their hands in glee. Sir Ronald bent down and kissed his wife.

“My good angel,” he whispered, “my bright, winsome wife, I have saddened you with my queer ideas; forget everything except that you are the sunshine of my home. Come out, love, among the flowers and see the children at play.”

So she shook off, so far as she could, all memory of that conversation, and she stood in the sunshine on the emerald lawn, little Clare clinging to her dress, watching the princely boy taking his first lesson in riding and wondering to herself why it was God’s will she should be there, blessed and loving, while the murdered wife slept in her quiet grave. Then, with grave rebuke to herself, she raised her face to the smiling heavens, and remembered that He who reigned there knew best.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A LAUREL WREATH.

The spirit of unrest did not leave Kenelm Eyrle. When he met Sir Ronald and Lady Hermione at lunch he looked very pale, ill, and determined. He held Lady Hermione’s soft, white hand in his. “I must ask you to pardon me,” he said. “I have no right to let my troubles cloud your happy home.”

“I have nothing to pardon, but, oh! Kenelm!” she said, “you have been true to your love for her, true to her memory for so long, could you not take a new interest in life? Even she, herself, could ask no greater sacrifice than you have already made.”

Sir Ronald had not yet entered the dining-room, and they were standing before the long, open windows. She went to him with tears in her beautiful eyes.

“You do not know,” she said, “how I mourn for your wasted life, Kenelm. They tell me there is no estate in the country neglected like yours. That your tenantry are poor and neglected, your dependents the least prosperous of any; that over everything belonging to you there seems to have fallen a blight. Is it so?”

“Yes. I cannot speak falsely to you, Hermione; it is so, and I do not care to set it right.”

“Ah, if you knew,” she continued, earnestly, “how wrong it is, how hateful to God and man are those neglected duties, you would renounce this mania—it is but a mania after all—and begin to live in earnest. Oh, Kenelm, be persuaded, be influenced.”

The darkest look she had ever seen in his face came over it now. He laid his hand in hers. There was warning, not gratitude, in the light touch.

“Hermione,” he said, “you are good and earnest. I thank you, because you mean well; but when Clarice died I swore to do nothing else in life until I had traced and punished the one who slew her. You are a happy wife, a happy mother, the honored mistress of a happy home! She lies in her grave, forgotten almost, save by me. I am her avenger!”

A bright flush crimsoned her face.

“Do you not think the task belongs to Ronald rather than to you?”

“No,” he replied, frankly. “There are no secrets between us, Hermione; we both know that, although he was kind to her, although he did his best to avenge her, yet Sir Ronald did not love her as I did. She was the very core of my heart, she was the life of my soul.”

“And yet,” pleaded the gentle voice, “she was another man’s wife.”

“I know it. Were she living I should never come near her. I should never utter her name! I should, to the best of my power, trample every thought of her remorselessly down! But she is dead, Hermione, and love for the dead can never be a sin. She calls to me from her grave with a voice no one else can hear; she comes to me in the silent hours of the night when no one else on earth thinks of her, and she reproaches me that she is yet unavenged.”

“Dear Kenelm, it is but a morbid fancy. I do not believe the dead can wish for vengeance.”

“Justice is a mighty attribute,” he said, and there came to his face a light she had never seen there before. “Her fair, sweet life was cut short. She was slain even with a smile on her lips. She was young, fair, loving and happy. She had for her own all the fairest gifts of earth, and one foul stroke deprived her of all, and sent her without time for one prayer into the presence of her God. Hermione, if a man stole from you money, jewels, or worldly goods, you would cry out that justice demanded punishment! Who so stole from her her sweet life, with its full measure of great gifts, deserves punishment in proportion to his crime. If word or deed of mine can bring him to it, I pray the great God to nerve my right arm, and let no weakness come between me and my duty.”

She looked at him with something of fear and awe—this stern avenger, this man in whose eyes there came no light, was not in the least like the kindly Kenelm, with whom she had played and danced as a girl.

“We will always be dear friends, true friends, but Hermione do not seek again to turn me from the purpose of my life! When that is accomplished, when life has been given for life—I will atone to all those whom I now neglect; until then I live for but one object. We will say no more.”

Sir Ronald entered then with some visitors, and the subject dropped, but it was strange for all the rest of the day how those words haunted her. “When a life has been paid for a life I shall be content.” They filled her with a strange, nervous dread and fear, a vague terror that she could not account for nor describe. It was something of a relief to both of them when Kenelm declared that he must leave Aldenmere that evening. He did not tell his errand. It was that he had heard from London of the apprehension of a tramp who was suspected of murder, and he thought it within the bounds of possibility that he might from him obtain some clue. It was a fruitless errand, nevertheless it occupied his mind and gave him something to do. When he was working for her, even though the work were vain, he was happier for it. Three months passed, and looking back upon the gay, sweet summer, Lady Hermione pronounced it the happiest of her life. She had vowed to herself to win her husband from his gloom and melancholy, to fill his life with new and varied interests, to help him make his name famous, and she had most nobly kept her vow. It was September now; the fruits hung ripe in the orchards, the golden wheat had been gathered in huge sheaves, a clear autumn light lay over land and sea; the leaves of the tall trees were falling and lay golden, brown and scarlet under foot. Sir Ronald sat in his study alone, the haggard, pained expression that had once marred the dark beauty of his face had given place to a pleased, bright look that betokened a mind fully occupied. Sir Ronald had indeed grown famous, thanks to his wife, to her bright, cheerful intelligence, her unwearied activity, her loving, tender sympathy with his pursuits. He had written a book on the principal African plants. Botany had always been his favorite study, and she had shared it with him. Directly after their marriage she had set herself, like the true and loving wife she was, to find out his inclinations and tastes. He was no model farmer; the improvement of soil, the qualities of crops, the rearing of prize cattle had no attraction for him—he left all such matters to his dependents—but of plants and flowers he was enamored.

“I should have been a botanist if I had not been a baronet,” he had said to her one day, with a smile, and she had mentally resolved that he should be both. So she studied with him, she praised, she encouraged as only good and wise women can do. Every new work she saw advertised she sent for; she let no opportunity escape of helping and encouraging him. His taste took a strange turn—it was no longer confined to English flowers, the wild, sweet blossoms of the fields and the gems of the garden. He studied with incredible ardor the history of African plants—those ardent flowers that neither burn nor shrivel under the warmest kisses of the African sun—flowers watered only at rare intervals and living in tropical splendor where others would die. This African flora had a strange, weird charm for him. He read, he wrote, he studied, he made glowing dreams to himself of the lives of those brilliant flowers. And then he wrote a book about them—a book that left its mark on the age, that was written in such glowing, fiery, poetical language men and women read it with wonder, read and reread it, wondering why they had never thought before of those curious facts and fancies, wondering why a man in whose soul the light of genius burned so fiercely had never shown the world that light before. Then scientific men read and argued about it until the name of Sir Ronald Alden of Aldenmere became famous throughout the land. There arose between these learned men a wonderful discussion over some of the plants—a discussion that created great interest and attention. The result was that a party of scientific men who were about starting to Africa on an exploring expedition wrote and earnestly implored Sir Ronald Alden to join them.

CHAPTER XXXII.

SIR RONALD’S DECISION.

On this bright September morning Sir Ronald sat in his library alone, the open letter in his hand, considering within himself whether he should decline without saying one word to his wife, or whether he should consult her as to the advisability of going or not. The thought of leaving her was most unpleasant; nay, it was distasteful to him. She had so completely changed the gloom of his life into brightest sunshine that it seemed to him in leaving her for ever so small a time he must leave all the light behind. And yet the prospect was a pleasant one. He had always liked traveling. His new pursuits were most fascinating to him. The idea of going to Africa and seeing the wonders of which he had been only able to read, write and dream, was full of novelty, pleasure and excitement. Still, there was Hermione and the children—those little children, the love of whom had grown in his heart until his whole nature was changed. Were all the scientific pursuits in the world worth even one moment of absence from them? He could not decide. There were two voices in his heart and each called him different ways. The door opened gently and Lady Hermione entered. He was so deeply engrossed in his thoughts that he never heard her. She went up to him. They had no secrets from each other, this husband and wife who loved so deeply and so well. She laid one white arm caressingly round his neck and bent her beautiful head over him.

“Whom is your letter from, Ronald?”

“Dr. L——,” he replied, mentioning a world-wide known name, to which the whole universe pays homage. Her face brightened with pride and pleasure.

“Oh, Ronald, let me read it! What does he say? It is to praise you, I am sure.”

As she read he watched the changes in her beautiful face, the pride and pleasure, the surprise, and then the pain. Her sweet lips quivered.

“That is enough, Hermione,” he said. “I shall not go.”

But she laid the letter down and clasped both arms around his neck. “My darling,” she whispered, “I am so proud of you. How can I thank Heaven for raising you from the depths of that cruel slough of despond and making you useful and famous? I am so happy, love.” She kissed him with tears falling like rain.

“I shall not go, Hermione,” he said. “I would not leave you, my wife, to have my name put at the very head of the roll of science.”

“We will not decide hastily. You would be away two years, and it seems to me, Ronald, that the change of air and scene, the novelty of travel, the incessant occupation and the constant companionship of such men as Dr. L—— and Sir George Aiken would complete the cure. We will not decide; let us take time to consider.”

So she knelt, clinging to him, loving him, admiring him, thinking only of what was for his good—sweet, simple, loving soul, so utterly unconscious of the doom her innocent prayers were bringing down on her own head. They took time to think of it. They consulted friends, who had their interest best at heart, and the universal opinion was that Sir Ronald should go. It was with her own heart that Lady Hermione consulted most. “If it were for five, or even four years,” she said to herself, “I should not be willing for him to leave us, but only for two, and they will be so happily spent. How often I have wished that he would travel, that he would seek change of scene! And now the very opportunity offers for travel, with men whose very names refresh him when he hears them. If I can make up my mind to the sacrifice he will return strong, well, hearty, happy, with the last vestige of gloom vanished, and we shall be happy as long as we live. He has never left this spot since the tragedy happened, and he has brooded over it too long.”

Sir Ronald asked his friend and comrade, Kenelm Eyrle to spend a week at Aldenmere, and help them to come to some decision. Kenelm spoke boldly. “If I live in the shade, Ronald,” he said, “you may go into the sun. Nothing does my heart so much good as to see you happy, and to know that men do homage to your talent. My advice is to—go.”

“And you say that from your heart?” asked Sir Ronald.

“Yes; and Ronald, I promise to watch over your wife and children while you are away.”

“Then,” said Sir Ronald, “I think I shall go. Let me see what does Baby Clare say? Baby, what shall papa do—shall he go?”

Baby Clare, quite unconscious of all that hung upon her answer, said, in her quaint, baby fashion: “Yis, papa, go.”

So the wife who idolized him, the little children who loved him best in the world, and the friend who was to him as a brother, all joined in persuading him to go, knowing so little—God help them!—of what would come from it.

“When does the expedition start?” asked Kenelm, after the decision had been reached.

“In the middle of October,” replied Sir Ronald, and from that time Lady Alden knew she had done right, in trying to persuade him to go. There was, of course, the natural sorrow of a man who is about to leave wife, home and children, but he was so eager, so interested, so active. Day by day, hour by hour, the clouds seemed to go farther from him. There was little trace left now of the once gloomy Sir Ronald. Letters of compliment and congratulation poured in upon him, in the midst of the hurry of his preparations. The number of visitors and the many engrossing affairs to be settled before his departure left him little or no time for sad thoughts, and if she who loved him so generously troubled over his going, no words of hers ever said so. If her pillow at night was wet with tears, her smile was bright enough during the day. “It was best for him,” she knew, and love went no farther than that.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

“REMEMBER YOUR VOW.”

“No,” replied Sir Ronald, in answer to his wife’s question, “I would rather that you did not go to London with me. I shall like to bid you farewell here, so that my last picture of you may be in our home, Hermione. I cannot fancy you on board a ship, or by a steamer’s side, or on a crowded platform. I like to picture you here under the rich, rippling shade of the green trees I love so well.”

“It shall be as you wish,” she replied. “I wanted to be with you as long as I could, Ronald, but if it pleases you, we will part here at home.”

“Yes; where I shall find you on my return. I can keep the picture with me then while we cross warm seas and torrid climes. So cool, so sweet, so beautiful—the picture of my beloved wife, among the trees at home.” The September day came at last. It dawned bright and beautiful, as some of the most unhappy days of our lives do at times, and there was a rich, mellow gleam of sunshine in the air, a rich fragrance from the autumn leaves and flowers, a sweet sound of clear, birdlike music in the air, a day when Aldenmere looked its fairest, and he was about to leave it. He rose early and went through the grounds that he might bid them farewell in all their early, dewy beauty. Every preparation was made, his luggage all packed and sent on before him. He had bidden farewell to his friends—only Kenelm Eyrle remained.

When Hermione, his wife, came out to walk with him through the pleasant home scenes they had so often enjoyed together, he saw the gleam of her dress in the trees and hastened to her.

“You may find taller and more beautiful flowers in Africa,” she said, smilingly, “but you will never enjoy such mornings as these.”

“Nor shall I ever see such a face as yours. Oh, Hermione, I am just asking myself whether I am not foolish to leave home and you in pursuit of science and fame. What is all the science on earth compared to one look at your dear face, one loving word from your sweet lips?”

“Ah, you forget,” she said, gently. “Love is very grand and noble, but when it weakens a man’s purpose in life, instead of strengthening it, then it is not the love it should be. You remember the grand old lines,

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honor more.

I shall have blessed your lips, Ronald, if I have helped to crown it with a noble purpose.”

“As you have done, I can fancy other women, with a weaker love than yours, clinging to a husband, praying him not to go—not to leave them. So few would say as you do, my darling, ‘God speed you,’ with a smile. Hermione, I have something to ask of you.” They were standing then under the shade of a large oak tree, the smiling landscape around them, the smiling skies above. “I cannot tell when I shall return. They say the expedition is to be absent for two years—it may be longer, it may not be as long. Hermione, promise me that you will be here to meet me as though I had been only a few hours away. See, love, if the day of the return be bright and sunny like to-day, come to this tree and await me here. Do you promise?”

She raised her eyes to his. “I promise you, love,” she replied, and they little dreamed then what that coming home would be like.

He laid his hand caressingly on the golden head.

“Hermione,” he said, “you once made a vow to me—do you remember it? When I went to you in my sorrow and desolation, and asked you to be my wife.”

“I remember my vow, Ronald. It was to love you and you only until I died. It was to stand between you and all sorrow, to give my life for you if needful.”

“Yes,” he said, kissing her sweet face, “and you have nobly kept that vow. You have been the good angel of my life.”

“I shall keep it even better,” she replied, mechanically, and then began to wonder at her own words. So often, Heaven help us! our idle words, our careless words, spoken without thought, without meaning, are prophecies. This was one. Then Kenelm Eyrle came out, bringing with him the little children—Harry, the heir, and Clare, who had her mother’s beautiful face. He was going to London with Sir Ronald, and the hour of starting had arrived. They all remembered that scene long after other and more terrible scenes had darkened their lives. How the little ones clung around him and played around him. How Harry asked in baby language, where papa was going, and why did mamma look so unhappy? Then Ronald took the children by the hand and led them up to Kenelm Eyrle.

“When great warriors go out to battle,” he said, “they leave their most precious jewels in safe hands. Kenelm, these are my jewels, more precious to me a thousand times than all the jewels that ever came from Golconda’s mines. When I return, my friend and brother, I shall ask what you have done with my jewels, which I leave in your hands.”

“I will render you just account,” said Mr. Eyrle.

Then Sir Ronald took Lady Hermione’s hand.

“This, my dearest and most beloved wife, I leave also in your charge. You shall answer for her as you will answer for your own soul to God.”

“That will I do,” said Mr. Eyrle, cheerfully.

“You will help her, Kenelm, with all the business of the estate. She will not hear of any steward, or I would have appointed one. Stand between her and all trouble, Kenelm.”

“I will,” he replied, cheerfully.

Until the last moment of his life, Ronald remembered parting with Lady Hermione. How, when the final moment came, her womanly tenderness overcame everything else and she said such words to him as he never forgot! For the first time she told him how deeply, how truly, how passionately she loved him, for the first time he saw and understood the adoration she lavished upon him, and then, with those words still ringing in his ears, he kissed her lips. The next moment he was gone and Lady Alden lay in the long grass, sobbing alone!

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE TOWERS.

The Towers, Kenelm Eyrle’s inheritance, was a large estate. Perhaps the prettiest and most picturesque part of it was that called Dower House, a large, open, healthy, airy house, standing by itself, close to the Holme Woods. The Dower House had been, in former generations, a retreat for the widowed ladies of the family, but of late there had been no widows, and the place had gone somewhat to decay. It was quite isolated; there was no other dwelling near it, no cheerful path led to a highway, no neighboring chimneys peeped from between the trees. It was isolated, solitary, secluded—the very spot where one might live and die unseen and unknown.

Kenelm Eyrle had more than once looked at the large closed, solitary place, and thought how sad it was that it should go to decay. There were no widowed Ladies Eyrle to seek refuge there now, and the really good, substantial property was rapidly going to ruin. Owing to the size of his estate, and his own peculiar ideas, Kenelm had always employed a land agent, a gentleman of intelligence and shrewdness, who made The Towers one of the best paying estates in the country. If Mr. Gordon had any fault to find with his employer it was for the little interest he took in anything.

“I do not believe he would care,” said Mr. Gordon one day, “if we found a gold mine on the property. He would raise his eyebrows one-quarter of an inch and say, ‘Indeed!’ As for being pleased or excited over it—nothing of the kind.”

To Mr. Gordon a man who did not care for money was simply a blot on creation.

“I have sometimes been so successful,” he would say, “in different works on the estate, that Mr. Eyrle has found himself a thousand pounds the richer for it! But he never cared; he never seemed pleased. If, as has seldom happened, we have been unsuccessful, and have lost, it was just the same.”

But Mr. Gordon, like the sensible man that he was, had suggested one thing—it was the letting of the Dower House. “I know you dislike the idea of strangers about the property,” he said, “but it seems to me a sin to let such a beautiful place as that go to ruin.”

Mr. Eyrle smiled the melancholy smile that was so habitual with him.

“Go and live there yourself,” he replied, and Mr. Gordon gravely assured him that if he were not married there was no place he would prefer to it.

“Mrs. Gordon likes life. No spot suits her so well as the High street, Leeholme, or city upon it. The Dower House should not be empty. But, Mr. Eyrle, let me find a tenant for it.”

“It must be a tenant who does not bore me,” said Kenelm, indifferently, and he thought no more of the matter, until one morning he received a letter signed “J. Payton,” evidently written by a lady.

That letter interested him strangely.

“I have seen the advertisement respecting the Dower House, and, if it be not taken, I should like to have the lease of it. I have never seen it, but am told that it is a place where one may live unseen and die unknown. I want such a home.”

A strange, abrupt letter, he thought to himself, yet one that interested him, and he drove over to Leeholme, to see Mr. Gordon. The agent, who was by no means a man of sentiment, read the letter with very different ideas.

“Evidently a lady with a mystery. If it depended on me, I should say ‘no’ to such a tenant. There is nothing like straightforward, plain honesty. I dislike all mystery. Still, do as you like, Mr. Eyrle.”

And Mr. Eyrle, with the usual fatality of his sex, did as he liked. He desired Mr. Gordon to let Mrs. Payton have the Dower House on her own terms.

“You only want to save the property,” he said; “you do not want to make ever so much money out of it.”

But Mr. Gordon, although he listened with respect, did as he liked. He had an interview with a lady who represented Mrs. Payton, and from her demanded what he thought a reasonable rent. It was most cheerfully agreed upon.

“Money is not of much consequence to Mrs. Payton,” said the gray-haired lady. “The only thing she cares for is peace and solitude.”

The agent smiled to himself, thinking how wonderful it was that landlord and tenant should have such very similar opinions.

The Dower House was put into repair, and Mr. Eyrle, speaking of it one day, asked:

“Did the lady call upon Gordon? What was she like?”

“Very sensible, elderly and gray-haired,” he replied. But it did not occur to him to mention that this was not the veritable tenant, only her representative.

Mr. Eyrle heard when they arrived, and then, after the usual comfortable manner of his sex, thought no more of them.

One May morning, shortly after Sir Ronald Alden had left home, Kenelm received a letter. He recognized the handwriting as that of his tenant, Mrs. Payton. It was a letter any tenant might have addressed to a landlord—simply asking permission to have a large bay window thrown out of the drawing-room.

“Of course,” he said to himself, “she may have bay windows all over the house, if she likes,” and his consent was so heartily given in his own mind he neglected to write and assure her of it. Thereupon came a second letter, and Kenelm’s heart reproached him.

“She will think I have neglected her,” he said, “and I had no such thought. I must go over, I suppose, and apologize.”

He went. The wind was blowing from the pine woods, the lilac and laburnum were all in flower, the mavis was singing in the trees, all nature was gay and smiling. His heart went back, with a dreary, discontented sigh to the thought of Clarice in her grave, shut out forever from all the fair loveliness of earth and sky. The grounds about the Dower House were very pleasant. He thought to himself as he walked through them that one might be very happy there. He was shown into a cool, shady, fragrant parlor, where the vases were filled with great boughs of laburnums and plumes of lilac; there an elderly lady was seated, who rose at his approach, and bowed to him.

“Mrs. Payton, I believe,” he said.

She looked in his face with a frank smile.

“Oh, no,” she replied. “I am Mrs. Payton’s representative. I know of no better word.”

He smiled, too, at her frank simplicity.

“I have the honor to be Mrs. Payton’s landlord,” he continued, “and she wrote to me respecting a bay window she wished to add to the drawing-room.”

Again she glanced at him with the kindliest smile.

“And I hope, Mr. Eyrle,” she said, “you are going to be good-natured and let her have it. When one looks at nothing but trees and flowers it is hardly possible to have enough of them.”

“Mrs. Payton may alter every window in the house if she chooses,” he said, earnestly. “I have but one hope, and that is that she will make the Dower House comfortable for herself.”

“That is kind, for the chances are that she will never leave it,” said Miss Hansen, with a deep-drawn sigh, and then there fell upon them a most uncomfortable silence. Mr. Eyrle was the first to break it.

“Is Mrs. Payton an invalid?” he asked.

“No; oh, no! I do not know that she has ever had a day’s ill-health.”

“Then, if she pleases, I will see her,” he continued, and Miss Hansen looked at him quite aghast.

“See Mrs. Payton?” she repeated. “She never sees any one, Mr. Eyrle. I live with her to save her from that kind of thing. If you are going to be very kind over the windows, could you not transact the business with me?”

But a sudden determination had come over Mr. Eyrle. He would see the mysterious tenant who cared for nothing but trees and flowers. He looked at Miss Hansen with a good-natured smile.

“I think,” he said, “that I shall prefer seeing the lady herself.”

He was amused at the smile that brightened the honest, fearless eyes looking at him.

“I am sure if you ask I shall not be denied.”

“Well, I will ask; but if you do obtain an interview it will be the first granted to either stranger or friend.”

And the little lady rolled up her knitting and walked slowly out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXV.

A MYSTERIOUS LADY.

Miss Hansen was some time absent, and Kenelm Eyrle awaited her return in grim silence. He did not, as some men would have done, amuse himself by looking around the room, seeking to guess the character of its occupants, as was usual with him; he forgot everything except Clarice, whom he had loved and lost.

“I have been a long time, Mr. Eyrle,” said the cheerful voice of Miss Hansen. “Mrs. Payton was out in the grounds. I shall soon believe there is magic in your name, for Mrs. Payton is willing to see you.”

Evidently the little lady was startled.

“Will you follow me,” she said, “to the morning-room? We found so many rooms at the Dower House that we have been puzzled how to name them.”

He followed her to a large, bright, cheerful room—a room that seemed, at first sight, somewhat crowded with pictures and statues. His eyes were dazzled at first, for the sunbeams were very bright; then, as he grew accustomed to the light, he saw before him the tall, stately figure of a lady, dressed in deepest mourning. He was so completely unprepared for her wonderful beauty that he looked at her for a few minutes, quite unable to speak. Then his face flushed at his own awkwardness.

“I must apologize,” he said. “I was under the impression that Mrs. Payton was an elderly lady. You will think me very ill-bred—very stupid.”

Perhaps she had known the force of her own beauty in happier days, for a sad smile half rippled over her lips, then died away.

“I may plead guilty to the same mistake,” she said. “I thought Mr. Eyrle very much my senior.”

“So I am,” he replied.

“You are very kind to give yourself the trouble of calling upon me,” she continued. “I want your permission to have a large bay window made in the drawing-room; it is my favorite room; the view is very beautiful, but the window is small.”

“I can have no possible objection,” he replied, courteously.

“It will be expensive,” she said.

“That will not matter; it will serve to beautify the home.”

Again the same sad, faint smile.

“You are different from most of the landlords in whose houses I have lived,” she said. “That is the primary consideration. I thought I would explain to you that the alterations I should like to make will not affect other tenants, as I have every wish and hope, be my life long or short, to spend it here.”

He looked at her in unaffected wonder, thinking to himself that it could be no ordinary sorrow that caused so young and lovely a woman to spend her life in seclusion. He had rarely, if ever, seen a more beautiful woman. She was tall, with a finely formed figure, full of gracious, graceful curves, that made every movement seem like a note of richest harmony. She had a lovely Spanish face, dark, beautiful, dreamy, but inexpressibly sad; there were purple rings around her dark eyes, as though she wept much and watched more; there was no light in the faint, sad smile that rippled over her lips. As one sees sometimes a perfect flower, over which saddest blight has fallen, so was she blighted in her youth, in her beauty, by some terrible sorrow, the nature of which no one could guess from her face.

He was thinking intently of her, wondering so deeply what her history was, that he was not aware that she had spoken to him twice without receiving any answer. When he discovered it, for the second time during the interview, his face flushed hotly at his own awkwardness. He tried to bring the interview to a more businesslike conclusion.

“I am afraid, Mrs. Payton,” he said, “that you find me very stupid. I had a dreadful trouble years ago, and it has made me unlike every one else.”

He saw a gleam of kindly sympathy light up her dark eyes.

“Trouble?” she repeated, wearily. “I think every one in the wide world has that. I never hear of anything else. Trouble? I ask myself sometimes why we were created to do nothing save suffer. Do you remember those lines of Barry Cornwall’s?

“We toil through pain and wrong;

We fight and fly;

We have, we love, and then ere long

Stone dead we lie.

“There you have life—a little pain, a little wrong, a little love, then stone dead we lie.”

Words could no more describe the melancholy of her voice than they could the beauty of her face.

“You are very young,” he said, pityingly, “to know so much more of sorrow than of joy.”

Then she seemed suddenly to remember that she was talking to a stranger, one whom a few moments before she hardly saw. She, too, grew slightly confused, and abruptly changed the conversation.

“As landlord and tenant,” she said, “we ought to have some agreement, I suppose. I do not wish to cause you any heavy expense, and if my whim be gratified, I am perfectly willing to defray a just share of the expense.”

“You want a pretty window?” said Kenelm, suddenly. “I will give you a design.”

He took his pencil, drawing a sheet of paper near him, with a few bold, graceful strokes, he completed the design of a very handsome window. He showed it to her.

“Yes,” she said, “that is what I want. How quick you are to seize upon an idea! To make that perfect there should be purple passion flowers around these fluted pillars.”

“And a beautiful face peeping through the leaves,” he said. “You shall have the window, Mrs. Payton, and when it is completed to our satisfaction, we will arrange such minor and uninteresting details as expense. You must let me come sometimes to see how the design progresses.”

“I cannot refuse you admittance to your own house,” she replied, with a smile, “but my rule is imperative. I see no visitors.”

“Then I shall come as landlord, architect, window-designer, or any other character save that of visitor; then you will not refuse to see me.”

“You are so kind,” she said, with a graceful courtesy. “I can never do that.”

There was no pretense for prolonging the interview and Kenelm rose from his seat.

“As you receive no visitors, I may presume you do not visit. I have never met you out. Have you seen Leeholme church? It is considered very beautiful and picturesque.”

“I have never left the Dower House since I entered it,” she replied, “and most probably, when I enter Leeholme church, it will be when I am taken there to be buried. I say this to you, but I do not know why I give my confidence to a stranger.”

“They say that the happy are attracted to each other—perhaps the unhappy are the same,” he said, and then he left her.

But as he walked home he thought more of that beautiful Spanish face than he had thought of anything since Clarice died.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE TENANT OF THE DOWER HOUSE.

Never since Clarice, Lady Alden, died had Kenelm Eyrle given so much thought to another woman. The beautiful, sorrowful Spanish face did not haunt him as does the face of one most dearly loved; but he thought of, wondered at it, and would have given much to understand the sorrow that had made her a prisoner in her own house.

His time was fully occupied. Lady Hermione proved herself to be an excellent woman of business; the poor on the Alden estate had never been so well looked after, the tenants had never been more prosperous, there had never been greater satisfaction than under her gentle rule. Yet there was much in which she required Kenelm’s aid; there were some matters of business that only a gentleman could arrange. During that time they became more intimate than they had been even as children or as playfellows, and then Lady Hermione saw, with astonishment, how firmly rooted was that one idea in Kenelm’s mind—the idea of bringing the murderer of the woman he loved to justice. She was astonished at its tenacity; he seemed to live, to exist for no other aim than that. Not that it was often discussed between them, but from little things he said, from remarks he made on various matters not even connected with it, she saw it was the Alpha and Omega of his thoughts, desires and actions.

He told Lady Hermione all about the tenant of the Dower House, and she was much interested in the story.

“I should like to call upon her,” said Lady Hermione, “for I agree with you, it is no common sorrow that tires one of life at her age. Ask her if she would like to see me.”

He hardly knew why in his heart he felt so grateful to Lady Alden for her kindness.

It was not long before he found there was need for a second visit to Mrs. Payton; there was to be a contract drawn up respecting the window, which they both had to sign. Then he mentioned Lady Alden’s desire to know and be of service to her, but, to his surprise, the beautiful Spanish face flushed deeply, the proud, sweet lips quivered, and Mrs. Payton turned quickly away from him.

“No,” she replied, abruptly, at last, “it cannot be, Mr. Eyrle. I am deeply, truly grateful to Lady Alden for her kindness; tell her so. But ask her to pardon me; that I can receive no visitors; that, being innocent, I must yet live as though I were guilty; that, being free from guilt, I must pay the price of sin. I cannot see her.”

He wondered at her agitation, at the emotion that softened her face and made it so wondrously fair.

“What has this woman done?” he wondered to himself. “What is her story?”

She seemed annoyed at having been betrayed into showing such agitation. She took up the agreement he had brought and read it through, but he saw that her hands trembled so violently she could with difficulty hold the paper.

“What quaint names we both have, Mr. Eyrle,” she said, as she took up the pen to sign the paper; “mine is Juliet.”

“A beautiful name,” he replied; “one of Shakespeare’s sweetest and most gentle heroines. The very sound of it is to me like a strain of music.”

“It has been so travestied,” she interrupted, “it seems to me that the name Juliet instantly brings to mind a love-sick girl.”

He laughed.

“At least,” he said, “that could never apply to you.”

There was the faintest ripple of a smile on her face.

“No! a cold, hard name would have suited me best,” she said. “Yet I have had a cruel love and a cruel awakening.”

He saw that she was speaking to herself, rather than to him.

“You have a strange, old-world name,” she said. “I see it here—Kenelm. It is one that has been in use in your family for generations back, I suppose?”

He was struck by the musical way in which she pronounced it. There was a pretty, piquant, foreign accent about her English that was very charming.

“Pardon me,” he said, abruptly, “are you an English lady?”

Again the hot flush rippled over her face, disturbing its pale quiet, as a warm sunbeam disturbs a deep-sleeping lake, flushing it into greater beauty and warmer life.

“I am not English,” she replied. “I wish I were; I should not then be so quick to feel, so sensitive, so keen of anguish. My mother was a Spanish lady; my first few happiest years were spent in Spain.”

“I thought so,” said Mr. Eyrle, and then she looked frankly at him.

“I wonder how it is,” she said, “that I seem too ready to place such confidence in you; there must be a mystery about it. I say so little to others.”

“You see no one else,” he replied, touched and flattered by the trust she had in him.

“Even when I did, I had not that instinctive faith in them that seems to spring naturally to you. One of my old theories used to be that soul recognized soul, even as body recognizes body.”

“Why do you call it an old theory?” he asked. “To me, it seems a very feasible one.”

“Because I trusted to it once too often—once the eyes of soul saw falsely.”

“That happens to most of us,” he said, for she had paused abruptly.

“To none, to none so cruelly as to me. You talked to me the other day about a passion flower. Do you know, I might take the passion flower as an emblem of my life? No other expresses it half so well.”

Her dark eyes were filled with indignant tears. She looked a very Niobe as she stood before him with clasped hands and quivering lips.

“I have read all the cant of the day,” she continued, passionately, “about woman’s rights, and my soul has risen in hot rebellion against it. I want no voice in Parliament. I never care to see women aping the dress, the manners, the habits of men. But, oh! for the time when women shall meet with justice, with fair play, with protection, instead of tyranny. I should like to ask the wise and honored of the land when that time is coming?”

Her sudden, passionate vehemence carried him away. Fire from a rock or stone could not have astounded him more than this vehemence from a woman whom he had always looked upon as colder than frost or snow.

“The mission of women should be to protect women,” he said.

She laughed scornfully.

“It should be, but what is the reality? Oppression where it is possible, tyranny where it is feasible, ill-treatment, unkindness everywhere.”

“No, not everywhere,” he interrupted. “Now you are unjust, Mrs. Payton; there are men in whom the true spirit of chivalry yet lives. There are men who would die for a woman’s smile—I would have done it myself. There are men who ask from God no higher, nobler mission than to make the woman they love happy. Do you not believe this?”

The fire in her dark eyes was dimmed by a rain of tears.

“I can believe it of you,” she said, “but not of many. I have been the victim of the oppression and injustice of men; you know nothing of it. Some time, later on, when you know my story, you will not wonder that I am so sadly in earnest. The cruelty of one man has overshadowed my life; there are many who have been wronged as much as I have been.”

Then she became her own cold self again, half seeming to repent of the confidence she had placed in him. He understood, when those moods came over her, that it was useless to remain or try to win her further confidence.

The day came when, walking by her side through the large gardens of the Dower House, he told her the story of his murdered love. She was strangely interested.

“And you live but to avenge her?” she said.

“That is my one object in life,” he replied.

“And when you have done that?” she continued.

“I care not,” he interrupted. “Perhaps you can understand the love that fills a man’s whole heart, that burns his whole soul, that destroys all else in him! Such a love as that was mine for the beautiful girl a murderer’s hand laid in an early grave.”

“You are a hero,” she said, “one of the heroes of old come back again. How I shall admire you now, how I shall reverence you! A man in the prime of life, with health, strength, wealth and everything that can make life bright, content to care only for the memory of a dead love! I thought such men lived only in books. I am better for having met one.”

CHAPTER XXXVII.

FAIR WOMEN.

Praise from a woman’s lips is sweet to man. As a matter of course, when this incense is offered they look superior and pretend that it is not needful, yet it is none the less agreeable. Kenelm Eyrle had never known how sweet it was. The only woman he had ever loved, Clarice, had not returned his affection, and had never, perhaps, in the whole course of her life uttered one word of praise or homage to him. So that it was pleasant to him to remember how the beautiful Spanish face had glowed with warmest admiration, how the dark eyes had grown brighter as she had called him a hero.

Of course it was all nonsense—nothing but woman’s nonsense—this exaggerated manner of looking at everything—yet it was undeniably pleasant to remember. It did not prevent him from looking forward with something of delight to his next visit to the Dower House. He was not in love with Mrs. Payton, he whose heart lay in Clarice’s grave; he was not in love with her, but he found the companionship of a beautiful and intellectual woman very sweet.

The windows formed a very agreeable pretext for constant visiting. They were very handsome—they were his own design—and he liked to watch the progress made in the work. She said no more about herself. She did not offer, as she had once suggested, to tell him her story. She seemed to have forgotten the half-violent moods, the strange impulses that had led her to say so much to him. She talked no more of the injustice done to women, of the tyranny of men. A calm, sweet, tranquil content was coming over her. He looked at her one day as she stood under the rich, rippling foliage of the lime trees, a golden light falling on her dark, queenly head and beautiful face. It was a moment when she had seemingly forgotten all that made her life dreary. She was watching a bird feed its little ones, and the smile on her face was open and frank as that of a child.

“She cannot be more than twenty,” said Kenelm Eyrle to himself. “There is not the faintest trace of a line on her brow, and her lips are parted just as are the lips of a child. I thought she was older when I saw her first. She cannot be more than twenty. Is she a widow? Has she loved and lost? No; that cannot be. She spoke of unkindness, cruelty, but not of loss. Can she have been betrayed, as the youngest and fairest are at times? No; there is a ring on her finger, and she speaks as one who has been a wife.”

It was a ringing laugh that disturbed his reverie—a light, silvery sound that startled him more than words could tell. It was long since he had heard such a sound, long since such a laugh had echoed through the trees of that silent garden. He looked around in surprise at her. She blushed and smiled.

“I thought I had forgotten how to laugh,” she said. “I am quite as much surprised at myself as you can be at me.”

“What was it amused you?” he asked, quietly. And she showed him the nest with the live little birds in it.

“All the little mouths were open at once,” she said, “and the poor mother seemed so anxious to fill them. I had not seen such a pretty sight for years.”

He smiled, too, but it was rather at her childish delight than at anything else; but as he rode home his thoughts lingered with her.

“What can have happened?” he wondered. “Who can have been unkind to a creature so loving, so beautiful, so tender?”

That same day he rode over to Aldenmere. The contrast between these two fair women always amused and pleased him. Lady Hermione, so sweet, so wise, so womanly, her fair Saxon loveliness so full of calm and serenity, lofty, polished and graceful. Juliet Payton, with her dark, glowing beauty all afire, suppressed passion, genius, poetry, all made subservient to the one thing for which she cared most—the charm of solitude.

For the first time since Sir Ronald’s departure, he saw a cloud on the fair face of the Lady of Aldenmere.

“Have you had news of Sir Ronald?” he said, for knowing how completely heart and soul were absorbed in her husband, he could not understand anything else having the power to sadden her.

“No,” she replied, “not news direct. There was a long article in The Saturday about the expedition, saying it was very probable if they did all they intended and hoped to do they would not return for another year and a half yet. Ronald will be quite bronzed and so greatly changed.”

“Yes; and the prolonged absence, though painful, will do him good,” said Kenelm, anxious to chase the shadow from that fairest face. “Is it that which makes you thoughtful, Lady Alden?”

“No,” she replied, “I have been busy all day searching for what is, I fear, a lost document.”

“What is it?” he asked. “Remember, all your business troubles are to rest on my shoulders.”

“It is a lease, or agreement, or promise, I cannot tell which,” she replied. “You have heard, perhaps, of May Thorne, who used to be waiting maid to poor Clarice?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I remember her.”

“She married an old servant of Sir Ronald’s, a groom. His name was John Conyers. Sir Ronald, I think, valued him very much.”

“I remember it,” said Kenelm, wondering why Lady Hermione spoke so anxiously.

“They have been living at a pretty little farm called ‘The Willows.’ You know the place, near Leeholme. They have been there now nearly three years. But for ‘The Willows’ there are rival claimants. Peter Gaspin, the son of old farmer Gaspin, tells me Sir Ronald promised him ‘The Willows’ when his present lease of the ‘Home Farm’ expires. John Conyers declares there is a written agreement making over to him ‘The Willows’ for life. I am quite puzzled between the two.”

“Rival claimants?” he said. “Ah, well, Lady Hermione, you may be puzzled, if you will, but I cannot allow you to be troubled. What do the rivals themselves say?”

“They talk of going to law, and I know how that would vex Ronald. I want him to find that all has been smooth sailing when he returns home. I am sure a lawsuit would grieve him. That was not the only thing that puzzled me.”

“Let me hear all, then I can advise,” said Kenelm.

“John Conyers annoyed me,” she continued. “He spoke as though Ronald were under some obligation to him—as though he had some secret influence, knowledge, or power which gave him some hold over ‘The Willows.’ Now I cannot believe anything of that kind.”

“Nor can I,” said Kenelm. “I should say myself that Peter Gaspin has the greatest right to the farm.”

“So I should have thought, but John Conyers and his wife both assure me most solemnly that somewhere among Sir Ronald’s papers I shall find a written agreement that they shall have the farm as long as they live.”

“We must look and see. Of course, if there should be any document of the kind, it will settle the question without further trouble.”

And she assented, little dreaming that in doing so she was taking the first step toward a fatal discovery.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE DOWER HOUSE WATCHED.

Mr. Gerton, Kenelm Eyrle’s steward, land agent and general manager, smiled to himself to think how his patron and employer was gradually falling into a snare.

“He will marry the widow as sure as fate,” he thought to himself, “and we shall have something like old times at ‘The Towers.’ Mourning all his life for a dead woman who did not care for him is too ridiculous.”

Often when business required his presence at the Dower House, Mr. Gerton would plead most pressing engagements, and ask Kenelm to go in his place, then smile to himself as though he had done something very clever, for which he ought to be rewarded. He had all a business man’s contempt for sentiment and romance. He could understand marrying a handsome woman with a suitable fortune, who would be likely to do honor to the name she bore, but he could not understand wasting a life in lamenting and mourning over a dead love. Kenelm fell very unconsciously into the plot. Whenever Mr. Gerton asked him to go either to arrange one thing or another, he went. He went, too, very often when no business called him, for the purpose of talking to Mrs. Payton. One thing always amused him: Miss Hanson always received him with such a welcome, and with such a beaming, kindly smile.

“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Eyrle. Dear me! how pleasant a little sociability is. I wish my dear young lady could see a little more of the world, she is so completely alone.”

Kenelm had a shrewd suspicion that if he chose to ask the bright-eyed little spinster any question, he could hear all she knew of the other lady’s history. There were times when Miss Hanson seemed about to confide in him, but he shrank with the delicacy of a true gentleman from knowing anything of her history until she chose to confide in him herself. It was not long before he knew more.

One day while reading that fashionable and veracious paper, The Daily Intelligencer, he saw a paragraph that struck him.

“We are informed,” said that most edifying of journals, “that the young and beautiful Lady P——, whose trial lately caused so great a sensation in the fashionable world, has sought and found refuge in one of the most picturesque parts of the county of B——.”

Kenelm Eyrle smiled to himself, thinking how contemptible was the custom of seeking out every detail of the life of a woman, supposed to be public property because she had been forced to appear before the public.

He remembered Lady P——’s trial; it had been the great sensation of the day. People had gloated over it, every detail of her life had been greedily devoured; every word she had spoken had been reported, the details of her appearance, her dress, her behavior during the trial had almost made the fortune of the daily papers. He had read but little of it, though he could not avoid hearing it continually spoken of. He had even laid the papers down in deep disgust, thinking to himself that they would not be worth the reading until all that nonsense was over. That even he himself would be ever so distantly connected with it did not occur to him.

He was going one bright May morning with some choice flowers to the Dower House, and when he came to the field he saw a strange man sitting where he could command a full view of the entrance. The man raised his head as Kenelm Eyrle passed him; he gave one keen glance into the handsome, patrician face, then turned aside.

Mr. Eyrle thought nothing of it; any casual stranger might have been sitting there; he would never have remembered the occurrence, but when he came somewhat quickly from the house he saw the same man hurrying quickly away. And that happened not once, but several times; it was not always the same man, but, strange to say, whenever he went to the Dower House there was always one of these suspicious strangers about. Once when he was walking by Mrs. Payton’s side in the pretty rose garden, he felt sure that among the trees in the shrubbery he saw a dark face peering. He gave a little cry, jumped over the hedge and was just in time to see a man hastening away through the woods. He would have followed, but a low cry from Mrs. Payton called him back. In one moment he was by her side.

“What is it?” she asked. “What made you run away so?”

“I saw some one watching us from behind those trees,” he replied.

“Watching us,” she repeated, and then, to his surprise, he saw her face grow deadly pale, and a light not pleasant to see flashed from her dark eyes.

“Watching us?” she repeated. “Oh, my God! has my foe followed me even here? Has my enemy found me out? I thought no one knew.”

She had clasped her hands and stood in the midst of the garden path, like one who is despairing and distraught.

Her wild appearance startled him.

“You must go,” she cried, “and you must never come here again! I did wrong to let you come; but you were kind, you spoke kindly to me, you looked kindly at me, and I forgot that I am doomed to be hunted even to my death. You must go, and leave me, Mr. Eyrle, never to return.”

“Nay,” he said, “calm yourself. I shall not leave you. I do not understand, but most certainly I shall not go away. I will tell you, Mrs. Payton, what I will do: follow that man, whoever he was, and thrash him within an inch of his life. I am quite willing to do that, but nothing else.”

She wrung her hands, with a cry of pain he never forgot.

“You do not understand,” she repeated, “and I forgot. I have only remembered that you were kind to me, and it was a pleasure to see you. My doom is on me, Mr. Eyrle, and you cannot save me but by going away and never coming near me again.”

“I should think myself unworthy of the name of man to leave any woman in such distress,” he said. “I refuse to leave you—I refuse to go away, unless, indeed, it be your own personal wish.”

“No, it is not that,” she replied. “I should have been more prudent, but I did not think; I believed myself so safe here.”

“You are safe,” he repeated, indignantly.

“No, I shall know no safety, no peace, no rest, until I am in my grave,” she said, mournfully. “My doom is on me—I cannot evade it.”

“Mrs. Payton,” said Kenelm, “I am not what the world calls a lady’s man, but will you trust me? Will you tell me your story, and let me see if I can find some means of helping you?”

She looked at him long and mournfully; her dark eyes grew soft and tender, her beautiful lips quivered.

“No, I will not tell you,” she replied, sadly, “not because I cannot trust you, but because I will not bring you into conflict with a coward and villain.”

“I am equal to it,” he said.

“Yes, you are a hero, but you shall risk nothing for me, neither character, peace nor life.”

“I would risk all for you, Mrs. Payton.”

She had ceased to tremble, and stood before him in all the dignity of despair. Her voice was like the saddest, sweetest music of an æolian harp. She held out her hand with a gesture of farewell.

“No,” she said, “the temptation is strong. I have never had a strong arm to lean on, or a strong heart to trust. I have been alone all my life. No, you shall risk nothing for me.”

The tears that had filled her dark eyes rained down her face then, and the sight determined him.

“You may do as you like, Mrs. Payton, but I refuse to leave you, trust me or not, as you will. I cannot see a lady in distress and leave her so.”

“Then I must trust you,” she said. “I must tell you my story, and, when it is told, perhaps you will turn from me in loathing and disgust.”

“Never while I live. I believe in you. If there is wrong, it is not of your doing, and I shall say so before the whole world.”

“How I should have thanked God for a champion like you years ago,” she said. “Mr. Eyrle, come with me to the house. First let me ask you, have you never wondered who I am, and why I am here?”

“Yes,” he replied, frankly.

“Then promise me not to hate me when I tell you my real name.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

LADY PELHAM.

Many pictures lived in Kenelm Eyrle’s mind, one of the fairest was that of the balcony, with its twisted pillars and odorous flowers, where he sat that morning to hear Lady Pelham’s story.

A large laburnum, with drooping, golden tresses, was near them, in full flower; a lilac, with full, tufted plumes, filled the air with fragrance; the white acacias were all in bloom; the mavis sang in the trees; there was a vision of drooping limes and spreading oaks, a balcony that might have served the “Queen of the Fairies” as a drawing-room.

“Come with me,” she had said, “and I will tell you my story. Shall you hate me when you know that I am Lady Pelham?”

If the sky had fallen at his feet he could not have been more surprised than when she said those words. This beautiful, winsome creature, whose every frank mood was a fresh charm. Lady Pelham, the most noted name a short time since in all England. They had entered the house together, and she had gone at once to Miss Hanson.

“I want you,” she said, laying her hand on the little spinster’s arm. “I want you to come and sit with me, while I tell Mr. Eyrle my story.”

The kindly eyes filled at once with tears.

“Oh, my dear, are you going to tell him? I am so glad, so pleased.”

“I must tell him in self-defense, for I find Sir Alfred’s spies are here.”

Miss Hanson clasped her hands with a little gesture of dismay.

“He might have left you in peace. He can have nothing to complain of. No life could be more quiet.”

“No,” she replied, with a little smile, “that is true. But do you not understand? He has not ruined me in the eyes of the whole world. There are many who believe in my innocence, as there are thousands who believe in my guilt. If anything else could be proved against me, his case would be clear. I had forgotten that, and have allowed Mr. Eyrle to come here. My penance must be telling him the history I fain would have kept from him. Come with me, so if prying eyes watch our last interview there may be nothing to relate.”

“It shall not be our last interview,” said Kenelm, hotly.

“It must,” she replied, with a smile. “Mr. Eyrle, if you were a wise man, you would fly from me, a woman whose name has been so lightly on every foul lip in the land.”

“I believe in you,” he cried, passionately.

“I thank you,” she said, with dignity. “I thank God also that one loyal English gentleman has been found to stand by me in the hour of need,” and then she led the way to the balcony, Kenelm and Miss Hanson following her. She sat down on the pretty, quaint seat, Kenelm by her side. Miss Hanson stood leaning against the iron rail of the balcony. There was a faint sound as of summer leaves and summer music in the air, but when she, in her clear, sweet voice, with its soft, piquant accent, began her story, they heard nothing else. They saw nothing else but the beautiful Spanish face, the indignation that flashed from the dark eyes, the sorrow that quivered round the red lips. She turned her face to Kenelm; it was to him she spoke.

“I must tell you something of my early home,” she said, “of my beautiful Spain, where chivalry lives and where men have not forgotten how to love and reverence woman; Spain, where the light lies low on the hills; the home of romance, the very name of which stirs my heart, as the sound of the trumpet moves the warrior’s soul. I was born near Granada. As I say the word, there comes to me a vision of pomegranates and myrtle, of vine-crowned steeples, of splendor such as you cold Northerners never dreamed of—great flashes of color, royal sunsets, glorious music—all echoes of Spain the magnificent.

“My mother was a Spanish lady of high descent; her name, Inez de Borga, but while she was young her father, one of the proudest grandees in Spain, lost the whole of his fortune and died of despair. My mother was left alone in the world, and she married an Englishman, Captain Lancelot Payton, who held some English appointment in Granada. They were very happy; my mother was most lovely, most lovable, and my father the very soul of honor; but a cruel fever came and took him from us. I was very young, only a child, but I remember him well. He died and left my mother a small annuity, which was to cease with her life. So we lived alone in a pretty little Moorish villa, near Granada. Never were mother and daughter so happy—she was like my elder sister. She taught me our own grand, musical tongue; she taught me my father’s language, pure Saxon-English; she taught me French and Italian. She was never so happy as when sharing the stores of her rich fancy and genius with me. She made me an excellent musician and a good linguist; but that was not all. She taught me—now, mind, I swear to you, this is true—she taught me to fear God, to love Him, to value my own soul. She taught me that purity was the highest and noblest attribute of woman; that honor far outshone nobility; she taught me that I was only to live for heaven; that the things of this world faded so quickly away, but that those who lived for God lived for the highest end of all.”

Her face flushed, a beautiful, tender light came into her eyes.

“I swear she taught me this: that she used to hold me in her arms, and clasp my hands while she made me say my little prayer to ‘Jesus meek and mild,’ while she told me the grand old Bible stories, and stories that to me were even sweeter of the God who became a man. She taught me to begin and end each day with a prayer. She did her best in her sweet, wise, gentle way to make me good. Dare any one say that a child so trained was spoiled, as was said of me? Dare any one accuse my mother of corrupting me? my mother, who was an angel, and who smiles now among the angels of God? Then my enemies triumphed over me; they said Spain was the land of gallantry; they smiled false, devilish smiles and shrugged their shoulders as though they would say my mother was a Spaniard, therefore corrupt; that I was born of a Spanish mother, therefore I was corrupt, too. I dare say to you what it would be useless for me to say to others. I have never, in one single instance, gone against my mother’s teaching. See, I could fold my hands now and pray to ‘Jesus, meek and mild,’ as I did years ago at my mother’s knee. Could I do that if I were what they say? Would not God, for such hypocrisy, strike me dead? If my mother had lived, all would have been well with me; but she was never strong, and the wind that blows over Granada is not always healthy. I do not know why she died. I saw her fading day by day. She grew more beautiful, more lovable; it was the angel nature drawing nearer. People used to look at me and say: ‘Poor child, she is very young and very tender to have so great a trouble,’ and then I knew my mother was dying. Perhaps you never watched how gently those fair English daisies close their golden eyes, nor how softly a flower dies while the sun kisses it. Even so my mother died; no one knew when. She was looking at me with a strange, solemn brightness in her eyes, and she said: ‘You will come to me, Julietta, mia; you will come to heaven, to me?’”

“I cried out ‘Yes!’ and fell weeping on her neck; when I raised my eyes hers were closed, and her face was whiter than a lily leaf. Do you think if I were what they say, light of love, light of fame, that I dare remember and love, and long to meet again my dead, dear, young mother? Rather should I shrink from her and find heaven where she was not.”

CHAPTER XL.

LADY PELHAM’S STORY.

“I was sixteen and a half when my mother died. In England I should have been looked upon as a mere girl; in Spain I was a woman. Can you imagine my lot alone, poor, so young, so helpless? I thought my father must have relatives and friends in this far-off England; but I did not know how to reach them. At last the English consul at Madrid wrote for me; he said that the late Captain Payton belonged to the noble old English family of Pelhams, and that if my story were known I should be adopted by some of them. While waiting for the reply, I went to live with the only relative I had in the world—a cousin of my mother—a cross, proud, stiff, elderly lady, Donna Maria de Borga, who hated every one in the world younger than herself. I was so wretched, so unutterably wretched, that I wished myself dead over and over again. You can fancy a flower shut out from the sunshine and left to die in the cold. You can imagine a bird deprived of light and liberty. With my mother, life had been all poetry and happiness; now it was all gloom.

“An answer came from England, saying the only member of my father’s family living was Sir Alfred Pelham, and he was traveling on the Continent; that he would make a point of seeing me, and seeing what could be done for me, before he returned.

“One day the sun was shining down on Granada, and the myrtles were all in bloom; my aunt, as Donna Maria wished me to call her, had fallen fast asleep, and I went down to the fountain that stood under the shade of tall, spreading trees, the silvery spray reached the leaves and wetted them, then fell with what seemed a laugh at its own graceful waywardness. I liked to watch the spray, when the sun shone through it; it was like a diamond shower. The music of falling water always carries me back to that day. I was looking intently into the water, thinking the thousand thoughts that fill a young girl’s mind, when I was startled suddenly by seeing in the water the reflection of a face close to my own. Had the face been less handsome I might have sprung away in startled alarm; as it was, I looked, and looked again, so meeting my fate. It was an English face, laughing, careless, debonair, with a kind of frank beauty that seemed to me perfection. The eyes were laughing, large and blue, with a certain expression that said: ‘I defy you not to like me, try as you will.’ The hair was of a rich, golden brown; as he stood there in the sunshine there seemed to be threads of gold running through it. I could not see what the mouth was like, for the golden mustache drooped over and hid it. I was then only just seventeen, and I had seen no one in all my life to be compared to this handsome stranger.

“‘Am I mistaken,’ said a deep, rich voice, ‘or is this my young kinswoman, Miss Payton?’

“The English tongue was not new to me, for my mother had loved it well; but his words struck me; they moved the deep waters of my soul—they called into life a hundred thoughts that had lain dormant.

“‘I am Sir Alfred Pelham,’ he continued, ‘and a letter received some time since tells me I have a beautiful young kinswoman here in Granada. Is it true?’

“‘Yes,’ I stammered, ‘quite true. I am Captain Payton’s daughter. Will you come in and see my aunt, Donna Maria?’

“I was old enough to understand the deep admiration his eyes expressed for me.

“‘Yes, I will go in,’ he said, ‘but not just yet. Stay out in the sunshine a little longer.’

“I stayed; it would have been well for me if I had died there by the side of that rippling fountain before greater harm came to me. Sir Alfred Pelham was then what perhaps people think him now, one of the handsomest and most fascinating of men. I believe he could do anything that he made up his mind to do. I do not think any one could resist him. He had—perhaps has—a charm of manner, in which no one ever surpassed him. I stayed with him in the sunshine, and that one-half hour changed the whole current of my life. I learned during it a lesson that was very fatal to me. He talked to me about England, about my mother, of everything he thought would interest me, and my girlish heart went out to him, as it had never gone out before. He knew, he understood. Then, when he had heard my simple little story, and had drawn from me every little detail of my life, he went in to see Donna Maria.”

She stopped suddenly, and looked shyly at Kenelm.

“I wonder,” she said, “if you will think me very vain for telling you that in those days I was very beautiful; people said wondrously beautiful. I am obliged to tell you, so as to make my story clear, and to make you understand why a brilliant, polished, worldly man like Sir Alfred Pelham married me.”

“I have good sight of my own,” said Mr. Eyrle, gravely, while Miss Hanson nodded and said:

“I have never seen a face one-half so fair as yours, my love.”

Juliet Payton smiled faintly.

“Beauty has been of but little use to me,” she said. “I am not even proud that it once was mine.

“Sir Alfred went to see my aunt, and soon captivated her. She spoke of no one else—he was so handsome, so generous, so noble. If she praised him, hoping to make me like him, and so to get rid of me, it was very cruel, and I pray to God to forgive her.

“Perhaps I need not dwell longer on my story. In a short time Sir Alfred became my lover, and I should say no girl ever had such a lover before. He was so gallant, so attentive, so devoted—he was so polished, with his high-bred, graceful manner; he was so different from every one else I knew. At first he bade me keep this love a secret from my aunt. I was not to give her the least hint of it, but after a time he changed his intentions, and told her he wished to make me his wife.

“Do not be shocked if I tell you how dearly I loved him. A girl’s first love is, I think, the most beautiful thing in life; and, Heaven help me! I did love him, my whole heart clung to him. I had no other thought, sleeping or waking, night or day.

“I used to watch for his coming, and at the first sound of his footsteps ran away, unable to meet him, dreading to meet him, lest he should see how passionately I loved him. I was too young and inexperienced to even ever so faintly imagine that he wanted to marry me for anything but love. Yet one thing recurs to my mind. We were in the garden, and I wanted to press some very beautiful leaves that had fallen from a plant. He took a bundle of what looked like old letters from his pocket and, tearing one in half, gave it to me.

“‘Save the leaves in that,’ he said. ‘It is a letter I wrote, but never sent.’

“Days afterward, when I went to fetch the leaves and press them, I read in his own handwriting these words:

“‘In the present state of affairs, such a marriage would be an excellent speculation for me.’

“Yet it never occurred to me that he was writing of his own marriage—his marriage with me. I remember going to my mother’s grave and bending over the long flowers to tell her that I was so happy, so happy that earth seemed like heaven; that a noble, princely Englishman had come from over the seas and was going to make me his wife; that I loved him. Then I failed for want of words; even to my mother among the angels in heaven I could not say how much, how dearly, how well I loved him. I could only bury my head in the flowers, and tell her of my deep, unutterable joy.

“It seemed like a dream—a poet’s dream—all beautiful and all unreal. I remember the white gleams of moonlight, when my lover, with his handsome Saxon face, all in a glow, would tell me of Shakespeare’s Juliet, and how Romeo loved her, swearing that I was a thousand times more fair. Is it a wonder that I hate my own name when I remember all he said of it?”

CHAPTER XLI.

THE STORY CONTINUED.

“I was married in a quaint old church outside Granada. My husband was enraptured with me; for a few short weeks I was the happiest of women. I thought the world so beautiful, so bright, that heaven could hardly surpass it. I thought my husband the perfection of knighthood, the truest gentleman and the noblest man I had ever met. He did not stay long in Granada. My eyes might have been open to his true character, his gross, cruel selfishness, but that I was blind, for he left the city without one word of advice to Donna Maria, without thanking her for the care she had taken of me, above all, without what I am sure that lady expected—making her a handsome present.

“I was blind then and for long afterward, until the cruel hour of my awakening came. Sir Alfred took me for a bridal tour through Italy; there was but one fault that I saw in him; that was a decided love of gambling.

“Play seemed to affect his temper; if he won largely, as was generally the case, he was always in the best of humors; if he lost, he was the very reverse. It was May when we reached England, and my husband took a beautiful house in one of the most fashionable quarters of London. I was presented at Court, introduced into high society, and was altogether exceedingly happy. As yet, I saw no flaw in the jewel I believed to be all my own. A conversation I had with my husband one day puzzled me; we were speaking of beauty in women.

“‘Of all things,’ I remarked, ‘beauty seems to me the most highly prized, yet worth the least.’

“He smiled, and there was something so sarcastic, so cynical in the smile that I could not refrain from asking him of what he was thinking. He laughed aloud.

“‘The idea had just occurred to me, Juliet, that I would derive some benefit from your beauty.’

“I thought at the time, in the vanity of my love, that he meant the pleasure of looking at me. I thanked him with loving words and kisses. Afterward I understood better what it meant.

“For some weeks all went merry as a marriage bell; then it struck me as strange that, although we had numbers of gentlemen constantly calling, our lady visitors were but few. I was vexed also to find that the récherché little dinners and elegant suppers had but one termination—that was play. Neither could I help seeing that my husband did in very truth hold out my society as an inducement for visitors to come.

“‘You must hear Lady Pelham sing,’ he would say to one; ‘she has a voice like a nightingale. If you want to study the true art of being eloquent with a fan, spend an evening with Lady Pelham. She makes her fan speak for her, as it might be.’

“‘You enjoy a good passage at arms, a tournament of words—drop in this evening and discuss affairs in general with Lady Pelham.’

“So many gentlemen complied with his invitations I could not help seeing that I was on this account useful to him, but whether they came ostensibly to hear me sing or to talk, the end was always the same—gaming until the early hours of morning. Still I never dreamed of anything wrong. Had I been a woman of the world instead of a child, I should have seen that there was much glitter but no gold. Among a certain set in society my husband shone as a brilliant, accomplished man; he was the descendant of an old and illustrious family; the heir of a grand old name. His estate, called Pelham Court, was mortgaged to its full value, but the world knew nothing of that, and Sir Alfred Pelham of Pelham Court was, by a certain portion of society, regarded as a most fortunate man. Had I been wiser, I should have understood that he was making use of what little share I had of beauty, and youth, and talent, to attract these men to his house in order to win money from them. I wish, Mr. Eyrle, that I could spare myself the shame of telling, and you of hearing, the rest of my story. Nay, a fear comes to me that you may disbelieve it, believing men cannot be so base. You read every day how men beat and kick their wives to death. Has it ever struck you how small was the punishment for such a crime? Not long since a man in London kicked his young wife, who loved him very dearly, to death, and received the sentence of six months’ imprisonment with hard labor. The same day a man was sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude for stealing a few hundred pounds’ worth of jewelry. Can you see any justice in that? Reading it made me think that in this boasted land with its laws, its far-famed systems of administering justice, there is really no justice at all. Bearing in mind all that you have read of the cruelty of men, of their inconstancy, their abuses of good and patient wives, can you doubt what I have to tell you? My husband never struck me; there were no bruises on my arm; but he did what was ten thousand times more cruel—he slew my fair name and branded me before all the world.

“It was early in June that there came to visit Sir Alfred one whose name is unhappily associated with mine—the Duke of Launceston. You, who know the world, Mr. Eyrle, know him. He is rich beyond compare and famous for his character, his private life. I cannot judge in all his relations; with me he was courteous, gentle and free from blame. He spent an evening with us; at Sir Alfred’s request I sang to him. He was, or professed himself to be, delighted with my singing, and being fond of music, offered to sing some duets with me.

“Looking back to that time I ask myself, did I like him? and my heart gives no answer. I was supremely indifferent to him, for I loved no one except my husband. I do not even remember that I felt more pleasure in seeing him than in seeing other people. I gave no thought to him. He came very often, and to my certain knowledge Sir Alfred won large sums of money from him. He would also call at times when Sir Alfred was from home and sing with me or talk to me. I can remember, too, that my husband would often leave me alone with him.

“One day I was much astonished. The footman was in the room; we were at lunch, and Sir Alfred asked me:

“‘Have you had any visitors this morning, Juliet?’

“I replied, with the greatest indifference:

“‘Only the Duke of Launceston.’

“To my intense surprise, Sir Alfred put on the darkest of frowns.

“‘Has he been here again? I wish he would not come so often.’

“Looking up suddenly, I caught a most significant smile on the servant’s face.

“‘You should tell him so,’ I replied, honestly believing that Sir Alfred was thinking only of the high play that went on when the duke was present. After that I can recall a hundred different times when, before the servants, he expressed displeasure at the duke’s visits and wished they would cease. I little dreamed to what it all tended. Among all my husband’s friends he had one confidant, Captain Pierrepont, a man I detested from the very first moment I ever saw him, a man devoid of honor, truth and principle. One evening I chanced to overhear a conversation between Sir Alfred and this worthy. It was an evening in June, and I was on the balcony, enjoying the fragrance of the mignonette, when I heard their voices in the drawing-room. I was about to stay where I was when my attention was attracted by what they were saying. It was Captain Pierrepont who began:

“‘Where is your lady wife, Sir Alfred?’

“‘My lady wife is out, I should imagine; I cannot find her.’

“‘I am glad of that; it is high time something or other was settled. I am getting anxious over these bills.’

“‘So am I, my worthy friend. In the language of the bard, “I am up a tree;” I have been hoping for some lucky coup, but fortune has been against me of late.’

“‘You must fall back upon the original plan and make my lady useful.’

“‘Yes, that must be done. I shall never have a finer chance than now. Launceston is decidedly taken, and he is the wealthiest man I know.’

“‘You must make your case a strong one, Sir Alfred.’

“‘I have sufficient evidence now—singing together, constant visits during my absence, remonstrances that I have made even in the presence of my servants. I have an invaluable footman who has seen and knows things unutterable. The British public always sides with the injured husband.’

“Then they both laughed heartily. You may imagine how simple I was when I tell you that I did not even understand what they were speaking of.

“‘When shall you manage it?’ asked Captain Pierrepont.

“‘We are going to the Court next week, and he visits us there. Then I shall commence my operations.’

“‘What amount of damages shall you go in for?’

“‘I shall ask twenty thousand and get five or ten; then we can pay those wretched bills and can have enough to float us once more.’

“There was silence some minutes, then Captain Pierrepont said:

“‘It seems rather hard on her. If we could but manage it in any other way.’

“‘There is no other way; sentimental pity will not help us. After all, what does it matter? Those kinds of things happen every day.’

“‘It seems like murder,’ said the captain, slowly.

“‘Not at all,’ replied my husband, cheerfully. ‘If you read the papers you would see such things happen every day.’

“‘But she is quite innocent.’

“‘Bah! who is innocent? You are sentimental, and you will find that sentiment does not pay.’

“‘Well,’ said the other, rising, ‘I wish you success. I am at your service, remember, for anything you may require.’

“They left the drawing-room together, and I sat silent among the mignonette and scarlet verbenas—not suspicious of any wrong—wondering what so strange a conversation might mean, yet never suspecting its true purport for one moment.

“I declare to Heaven,” she continued, passionately, “that even the pain of telling you these things is so great I would almost die sooner than repeat them. Judge, then, whether I was guilty or not.”

CHAPTER XLII.

A FIENDISH ACCUSATION.

“Once or twice after that,” continued Lady Pelham, “I noticed a strange man following me; he was not a gentleman; of that I was quite sure, neither did he appear to be paying any attention to me, yet I had a sure and instinctive idea that he was watching me.

“Once I had gone to walk in Kensington Gardens, a favorite resort of mine, and there, quite accidentally, I met the Duke of Launceston; he walked with me for perhaps five minutes; then bade me adieu. As soon as he left me I saw the strange man looking earnestly at us both. Another day, by the purest chance, I had gone into the park, and there the Duke of Launceston met me again. I did not exchange twelve words with him, but as he went away I saw the ill-omened face of the man whom I felt sure watched me. I said to my husband one morning:

“‘Alfred, whenever I go out I see a strange man, who appears to follow me and watch me; the next time he does it I shall call a policeman and give him in charge.’

“My husband laughed aloud.

“‘What nonsense, Juliet,’ he said, sharply. ‘Remember, you are not in Spain now; this is the land of common sense, not romance. Do not make yourself ridiculous, I beg.’

“It was the first time he had spoken sharply to me, and my eyes filled with tears. The only change was that the man I had noticed vanished, but another appeared in his place.

“Sir Alfred came to me a few days afterward, and said we were to go to the Court as soon as I was ready. The intelligence was very pleasant to me. I was still deeply and devotedly in love with my husband, and thought that at the Court I should have him all to myself. Another thing was that I fancied people looked coldly upon me. I said to myself that it must be a fancy, for what had I done to deserve it? One morning I met Lady Carlsham, who had always been very kind to me; she turned aside as though she had not seen me. Another friend of mine, Lady Mellott, gave a large ball and did not invite me. I saw Mrs. Stenhouse, one of the queens of London society, who had always appeared to like me. She looked me in the face and gave me what gentlemen call, ‘the cut direct.’

“There seemed to me no reason for such conduct, except the caprice of fine ladies, and I was not sorry to think that at the Court no annoyance of the kind could happen, and that I should have my husband all to myself. I pass over my delight at the beauty and magnificence of the Court; the first three or four days spent there were one dream of delight. Then visitors came, gentlemen from London—among them the Duke of Launceston.

“How I hate the name!” she cried, passionately; “the name that has been so pitilessly, so cruelly, linked with mine. He came, and the tragedy of my life began.

“No child at its mother’s knee was more innocent than I. The duke was my guest, and I did my best to entertain him. If he asked me to sing, I sang; if he expressed a wish to see my flowers, I walked with him to the grounds. I played chess with him; I tried to learn billiards from him, and I appeal to every good and true wife who loves her husband if there was anything wrong in that? Once, when I was walking with the duke down the high road that led past the woods to Turville, I saw from between the trees the face of the man who had watched me in London. I knew his name afterward—Johnson. I cried aloud in surprise, and he vanished. The duke, in his matter-of-fact way, asked me what was wrong. Feeling ashamed to tell him, I answered evasively. Would to Heaven I had told him. Much of pain and wrong might have been saved me.

“I must have been both blind and mad not to see the plot that was being carried on; the significant faces of my servants alone might have told me. Whenever I found myself with the duke, whether by accident or not, there was sure to come some interruption, some servant on a purposeless errand, who would look at me and go away. One in particular became most distasteful to me from his constant surveillance, George Olte, the footman.

“I was deeply annoyed one morning. I had been speaking to the Duke of Launceston about some book, and he asked me to find it for him. I went into the library after breakfast for that purpose; he followed me, and we stood by the bookshelf together. I said to him:

“‘This is the book, and here is the engraving I was speaking of.’

“He leaned forward to look at it. At that very moment the footman, George Olte, entered the room. He started back, pretended to show great confusion and surprise, apologized in a stammering voice, and vanished.

“I looked at the duke and laughed.

“‘The man has been drinking,’ I said; ‘Sir Alfred ought to know of it.’

“But the duke did not even smile; he looked distressed, confused, then put down the book, and, with a murmured apology, quitted the room.

“‘The world is all alike this morning,’ I said to myself.

“It happened to be the very day the Duke of Launceston had fixed upon for his departure. After lunch, as I was walking through the hall, he stood with some letters in his hands. He was no more to me than any other guest in the house; but as he had been kind to me, and I had no dislike to him, I went up to him and expressed polite regret at his departure. Captain Pierrepont was near, giving some directions to Olte, the footman I particularly disliked. In a few minutes I became aware that their conversation had entirely ceased and they were listening to mine. Indignant at the insolence, and resolved to complain of it to my husband, I turned away, alas! The duke went, and I forgot in very few hours that such a person existed. I have better reason to remember it now. Can you, Mr. Eyrle, can you, Miss Hanson, imagine what my feelings were when I tell you that very day my husband sent me word that he wished particularly to see me in the library? I was doing something, I do not remember what, but it was something I did not care to leave. I sent my maid to ask if it would do in an hour’s time, when I had finished. The answer was most peremptory. No! Sir Alfred wished to see me at once on most important business. I knew no more what was hanging over my head than a child knows its future. When the library door opened I was surprised to see Captain Pierrepont standing by the table. Sir Alfred was seated in his favorite chair. I went up to him.

“‘Did you want me, Alfred, so urgently?’ I asked.

“‘I do,’ was the brief reply. Then, after a moment’s silence, he continued: ‘I wish to speak to you on a most unpleasant and delicate matter.’

“I looked at him with some little indignation.

“‘Do you know,’ I asked, ‘that Captain Pierrepont is here?’

“‘He is here by my wish,’ replied my husband, gravely, ‘to bear witness to what I say.’

“There was something so stern in his face—remember, I loved him then—that my eyes filled with tears and my heart beat with fear, yet spirit and pride were both aroused in me.

“‘I object, Sir Alfred; if you have anything to say I am most willing to listen, but not in the presence of Captain Pierrepont.’

“‘A very bad sign; a sure sign of guilt,’ said the captain to my husband.

“I turned to him haughtily.

“‘Why do you, sir, stand here like a shadow between my husband and me?’

“‘Madam,’ he replied, gravely, ‘I am a witness.’

“I did not understand him in the least.

“My husband rose from his chair.

“‘Juliet, there is no time for trifling; Captain Pierrepont is my friend; I have asked him to remain here in order that there may be a witness to what I say and to your reply.’

“‘But, Alfred, what have I done? Oh, my husband, tell me, what have I done?’

“I tried to clasp his hand, but he would not allow me to touch him.

“‘We will dispense with all sham, Juliet. You can carry on the farce of love and fidelity no longer. I am convinced—most unwillingly convinced—that the rumors I have so long refused to credit are true.’

“‘I do not understand you,’ I cried, in an agony of impatience. ‘I cannot tell what you mean.’

“‘Few words describe best a great sin. Your guilt has come to light, Juliet; your wicked conduct is known, and the world shall judge between you and me.’

“‘Will you tell me what you mean?’ I cried, every limb trembling with impatience.

“‘The intrigue that you have so long carried on with the Duke of Launceston is discovered!’

“I laughed aloud, thinking, poor, deluded victim, that it was but a sorry jest.

“‘Nay, you may be hardened, Juliet, but you shall not show your heartlessness to me. Olte came to me this morning and told me of the awful discovery he had made. That was but the crowning point; before we had left London I had heard enough!’

“Remember, Mr. Eyrle, I was that man’s wife; I lived but in his love; I had never doubted him. I cannot tell you whether fear, horror, shame, or wonder predominated in my mind when I heard him.

“‘From this hour,’ he continued, ‘we are strangers to each other. I shall appeal to the laws of my country for redress against the foulest wrong ever done to an unhappy man. You have sinned against me, Juliet; but the laws of the land shall avenge me.’

“I did not hear more, for at those terrible words I fell fainting to the floor.”

CHAPTER XLIII.

A WHITE SOUL.

“When I came to my senses,” continued Lady Pelham, “I was more bewildered than anything else. I could not believe it was true—my husband had been playing some sorry, cruel jest upon me; still it was but a jest.

“I had never given a thought to any man living except my own husband; surely he must know that.

“The Duke of Launceston! what was he to me—a perfect stranger—indifferent. I did not care if I never saw him again. Of what did my husband accuse me? Oh, shame! Oh, horror! that he who had sworn to love and cherish me, to protect me, should be the one to play this sorry jest upon me. I must see him; I must hear him say with his own lips that it was all nonsense; he had done it all to try me. It was coarse, unfeeling, cruel, that he had not thought of that. He had perhaps been jesting with Captain Pierrepont. I must see him or I should go mad. I turned to the maid who knelt by my side, and told her to ask Sir Alfred to come to me at once.

“I felt very ill; my hands were cold as death, they trembled; my face burned, my brain whirled. I tried to steady myself by saying that my husband would be here soon, and I must be ready to meet him. My maid returned. She looked pale and scared. Sir Alfred and Captain Pierrepont had left the house; there was no message for me.

“‘My lady,’ said the girl, ‘is there anything the matter? All the servants are looking so strange—is anything wrong?’

“God help me! I went mad—mad with fear, shame, outraged love, wounded honor, and dread of what was to follow. I tore the hair from my head. I cried aloud for my dead mother. I was mad.

“They gave me sleep and merciful oblivion. But morning only brought me the same frantic alarm, the same terrible waking. What had I done; what were they going to do with me? What was wrong? I could not rise; my limbs were heavy, my head ached. I was bewildered and uncertain. There were times when I fancied I must have been guilty of some great crime, and have forgotten it. Surely my husband, whom I had loved and revered as the noblest of men, could never have wrongfully accused me. Was it possible that I had done anything wrong and had forgotten it? I tried to think over every word I had ever spoken—every action since I had been married, and I could not discover one that was worthy of such blame.

“‘An intrigue?’—I began to remember his words—he said that I had carried on an intrigue with the Duke of Launceston. What did they call an intrigue here in England? In my land it was something that young girls did not even know by name. What was it here? I had sung songs with him; I had paid him the same amount of attention that I considered due to all my husband’s guests; but Heaven knew my heart and conscience were free from all blame.

“How that day passed I could tell no one; it was one long dream of misery, one delirium of horror; and the night even worse. I saw the servants looking strangely at me—some of them sent in notice to leave—one or two went that very day; yet I was innocent, God knows I was—innocent as a little dreaming babe.

“The following morning brought a letter from my husband, it was even more cruel than his words had been. It merely said that he had commenced proceedings for a divorce, on the grounds of my conduct with the Duke of Launceston, and that he would not return home while I was there.

“Was ever woman so desolate? There was no one to whom I could appeal in this hour of distress—no friendly hand or heart to aid me. I could only kneel and pray to the most high God to make my innocence clear. Mr. Eyrle, my prayer will be answered yet.

“I was quite at a loss what to do. My heart was broken, for I had loved my husband very dearly. I had neither spirit, life, hope, energy or care for life left. What could life give me, now that he whom I had loved so dearly had proven not only false, but all that was mean, wicked and cruel. If I had knelt by my husband’s grave—if I had known him dead, it would have been ten thousand times easier to bear. I had no money. Sir Alfred never allowed me the free use of his purse. I had no friends. I shrank from going near any of the fashionable acquaintances I had made. Who would believe me innocent if he said I was guilty? Suddenly it flashed across me that this scandal must have been afloat in London, and that was why people looked so shyly at me; that was why the ladies I had known and liked avoided me, and no one could have spread that scandal but my husband. What chance had I against him—my word against his?

“Where was I to go? In all the world there was no one so utterly friendless and wretched. I thought heaven itself had worked a miracle in my favor when later on that day there came a letter from a London lawyer, a Mr. Hewson, saying that my aunt, Donna Maria de Borga, was dead, and had left all her money to me. It had been transmitted by her desire from Spain to England, and was ready for me any time I liked to claim it. At last, then, I had money, more than sufficient to live upon in the greatest comfort. I think no one was ever so grateful for a legacy as I felt then.

“An idea occurred to me. I resolved to go to London, and see this Mr. Hewson; perhaps he could advise me what to do. The more I thought of this plan the more advisable and prudent it appeared to me. I acted upon it. Sir Alfred had not given me much jewelry, but the little I possessed was made into a parcel, together with everything he had given me, and was sent to him. Then I bade farewell to the home I only remember with hatred and disgust.

“I went at once to the address in the letter—No. 10 Lincoln’s Inn. I found him there, and somewhat surprised to see me.

“‘I had no idea you would answer my letter in person, Lady Pelham,’ he said. ‘Sir Alfred is in town; I met him this morning.’

“‘I came because I wish to consult you on several matters. First of all, let us settle about my aunt’s legacy.’

“We did so. He told me the exact amount—how it should be invested; and I asked him to take my affairs in hand. Then I told him there was another and far graver matter on which I wished to consult him.

“‘I want to ask you,’ I said, ‘not only to be my lawyer, but my friend. Some people might laugh at the notion. I only say to you that I am the most desolate, the most wretched woman on the face of the earth. Will you be my friend?’

“He looked at me in utter surprise.

“‘Your husband, Lady Pelham, where is he?’

“‘He is my persecutor. I will tell you my story, Mr. Hewson. I ask you, strange, cruel, and incredible as it is, to believe me.’

“Then I gave him the letters I had received, and told him all that had passed. He looked incredulous.

“‘Pardon me, Lady Pelham,’ he said, ‘but is it really true?’

“‘Only too true,’ I answered.

“‘And you—pardon the question—you assure me, Lady Pelham, that you were merely on ordinary terms of intimacy with the Duke of Launceston?’

“‘I treated him as I did any other guest of my husband, no differently. No man could have been more perfectly indifferent to me.’

“‘Then there is not the least ground for this action?’ he continued.

“‘Not the slightest, not the faintest; there is no shadow of such a pretext.’

“Mr. Hewson sat silent for some minutes, then he said:

“‘Will you prepare to hear a very fatal truth, Lady Pelham, one that will darken your whole life?’

“‘Nothing can surprise or hurt me now,’ I replied.

“‘I must tell you that it is my opinion you have married a very wicked, designing man. I could almost believe that he had married you, seeing your beauty, for this very purpose.’

“‘He could not be so wicked,’ I cried; ‘no man living could be so lost to all honor and goodness!’

“‘Sir Alfred Pelham has run through one of the finest fortunes in England,’ he continued. ‘He has literally nothing left, for Pelham Court is mortgaged to its full value. He owes large sums of money, and, in my opinion, he had brought this charge against you merely to get large damages from the Duke of Launceston. He will employ clever and eloquent counsel, who will make thrilling speeches about his broken heart and ruined home; all you can do is to defend yourself.’

“‘He cannot be so infamous,’ I cried; ‘no man could—it is worse than murder! Better have slain me than seek to destroy my fair name. Who is to defend me?’

“‘If you like to leave the conduct of your defense in my hands, I will undertake it,’ he replied.

“And I cried to him, in my distress, that I would give Sir Alfred all my aunt’s money if he would but forego this cruel persecution.

“‘Do not make any such offer, Lady Pelham,’ he replied; ‘to those who do not know you it sounds like guilt.’

“He did me one more service, greater than any other he could have rendered me; he introduced me to his sister, who was kind enough to love me when no one else did, and has cared for me ever since.”

“Lady Pelham,” interrupted Kenelm Eyrle, “do you assure me that this infamous, diabolical story is true?”

“It is true,” she replied, “as are the stars in heaven. Patience a few minutes longer; I shall soon have told you all.”

CHAPTER XLIV.

A WOMAN’S SHAME.

“Right against might does not always prevail.

“I need not tell you the story of the trial that amused all England. You may have read it. Fine ladies asked eagerly for the morning papers then; they enjoyed the ‘Pelham divorce case’ as much as they did a fashionable novel; was necessary as breakfast to them. Men met at their clubs and discussed it—was I guilty or was I not? My portrait, or rather what was a caricature of me, was published in the Workingmen’s Journal, every man and woman in England had flung a stone at me, and I was guiltless, innocent as a child at its mother’s breast.

“The radical papers made me the text of long articles, written to prove that the English aristocracy were all corrupt and bad; in short, my name was notorious.

“I cannot tell you my despair when that trial came off. With fiendish ingenuity, the smallest circumstances were made into mighty proofs against me. Men, strangers to me, came to swear that I had been in the habit of meeting the duke out of doors. The two accidental rencontres I have told you about were sworn to be pre-arranged interviews; every circumstance, the most thrilling actions, were tortured into proofs of deadly crime.

“Captain Pierrepont swore to having overheard a conversation between the Duke of Launceston and myself that I swear solemnly never took place. But the strongest witness in my husband’s cause was the footman, George Olte. I cannot sully my lips by telling you what infamous things he said—so cruelly, so wickedly false. The little incident of his finding me in the library was construed into a certain proof of my guilt. God pardon them, one and all! They swore an innocent woman’s fair name away.

“I was amazed by the ingenuity displayed, but my surprise reached its height when I heard the eloquent speech made by my husband’s counsel. I wonder that I have faith left in any one thing. I am tempted, when I remember that, to ask myself if all the world is one grand lie, if there be truth, justice, mercy or love out of heaven.

“If you had heard him dwell upon my husband’s love for me, the Arcadian happiness of our home before what he chose to call the destroyer entered it. How pathetically he depicted my youth—the force of temptation, my fall, the agony of the injured husband driven to such redress from the laws of his country! If you had heard his appeal to English fathers and brothers! Heaven grant me patience! It was the finest parody of justice I ever heard; it was a caricature, a crying shame, that rose from earth to heaven.

“What had I to say in my own defense? Nothing, but that I was innocent. I heard that the Duke of Launceston was so angry that he threatened to shoot Sir Alfred Pelham. Of course, he swore to my entire innocence. But the world must love sin. I think where one believed in me, and thought me cruelly outraged and wronged, one hundred believed in my guilt.

“You remember, perhaps, how the Pelham divorce case ended. The judge in his summing up said that appearances were certainly against me, but there was no actual proof of my guilt. So strong, so subtle, so clever was the evidence against me, so skillfully was the plot woven, so greatly were circumstances in my husband’s favor, that the keenest, the most prudent, the most just and talented judge in England had nothing better to say for me than that my guilt was not clearly proven.

“It was like the old Scotch verdict of ‘Not proven;’ and then the trial ended. My husband had not won, but I remained with a dark stain of guilt still upon me. My lawyers advised me to bring an action for perjury against those who had so falsely sworn my fair name away. I said to myself: ‘Oh, what use? God may in His own good time make my innocence clear.’ I cannot do anything for myself; the more notorious the case became, the greater the scandal for me.

“I can give you no idea of my tortures. Every hour I lived I died. The death of the body has no pain compared with that I suffered while my reputation was slowly slain. My life had been a very quiet one. I had been a child lisping its prayers at its mother’s knees. I had been a young girl wrapped in the ecstasy of my first love. Suddenly I became a woman, whose soul was filled with passionate anguish; suddenly, too, I became the public scandal of the whole nation. Think what you should feel if a similar fate had overtaken your mother or sister, Mr. Eyrle.”

“I would have slain the villain who wronged you!” he said.

“There was no knightly hand raised in my defense; no man stood forward to defend me; few believed even in my innocence, many in my guilt. The Pelham divorce case was ended, but the consequences still remained for me. I saw myself shunned and avoided; women turned their faces slowly from me; men looked at me with an insolent leer.

“When I think of it,” she cried, passionately, “of my unmerited shame, my cruel suffering, I am beside myself with rage! I am mad with the sense of my own wrongs.”

Her face flew crimson, her eyes flashed, her whole figure seemed to vibrate with angry, yet righteous, wrath. Miss Hanson laid her hand on her shoulder.

“Patience, my dear, patience,” she said. “Remember, it will be made clear in God’s good time.”

“You are right,” replied Lady Pelham. “I have that much trust and faith left. There is not much more to tell you, Mr. Eyrle. My husband wrote to me after the trial. A more insulting letter no man ever penned. He said my own cleverness had saved me this time, and had defeated him; but that he would watch me closely, and he should most certainly renew his application for a divorce. He added that, although the law had not proved me guilty, his opinion was unaltered, and that in consequence of it he should refuse to see or even speak to me again, nor need I hope to receive the least pecuniary assistance from him. That was the man who had wooed me, who had brought me from my own land and my own friends into the midst of strangers; the man I had loved with a passionate love. I declare that I do not think a greater, meaner or more cruel villain lives on the face of the earth. He did not know that I had money, and he deliberately left me to starve.

“This was my only friend,” she said, taking Miss Hanson’s hand in hers. “We went together to a pretty little seaside town on the southern coast. No life could be quieter than ours was there, and so far as possible for one who had been cruelly outraged, I was content. But one day I saw there the face of the man who had been employed to watch me—Johnson, the detective—and I fled away. I asked my lawyer to find me some secluded spot in the country, where I could hide myself and never be known or recognized. He found this retreat for me, and I have been happy here. I thought I had a refuge for life; that here, where strange feet so seldom tread—here among trees and flowers, I might live and die in peace. But my enemy has tracked me; he has discovered my refuge, and I must go again. The man whose face I saw this morning is the detective whose evidence was so strong against me—the detective Sir Alfred has engaged to watch me, in the hope of finding out something that will justify him in renewing the action.

“I must go!” she cried, wildly wringing her hands. “I must leave the pleasant home where I was learning to be happy; the friend whose value I was just beginning to discover.”

“Why must you go?” asked Kenelm.

“You do not see; you do not understand. I must go, lest I drag you into the peril that menaces me. That man saw you with me, and you will be the next object of attack.”

“If it were not for distressing you, I should say that I wish he would attack me. I would give him a lesson that would last his life, the cowardly villain! I would begin by lashing him like a whipped hound until he cried for mercy. You shall not leave here, Lady Pelham!”

She sank back, faint and trembling.

“The disgrace,” she said, piteously; “think of the disgrace and the shame!”

“It shall recoil upon him!” he cried. “Such injustice shall not be done. You are happy here, Lady Pelham, and here you shall remain. For your sake, I will discontinue my visits, or make them at such long intervals that they cannot raise suspicion in a detective’s mind. But you shall not go. I hope I may see the man who dares to act the spy upon you. He shall have cause to remember my name. Do not tremble, do not fear; you are safe here as though you were in the sanctuary of your mother’s home.”

She looked at him, tears shining in her eyes.

“Have I found a friend and protector at last? I thank Heaven, for if any one sorely needs such a friend, I am that one. You are very good to me; you believe in me, Mr. Eyrle—you believe in my innocence?”

“As I believe in Heaven,” he replied, reverently. “You have trusted me; you shall find that your trust is not in vain. I will befriend you, yet so as not to injure you. Before I go, promise me that you will not make any attempt to go from here.”

“I promise,” she said, thoughtfully.

“Trust me,” he continued. “The best thing for you and the worst for himself would be that your husband should renew the attack with me for his opponent. Have no fear, Lady Pelham.”

“You will keep my story a secret—that is, you will tell my real name to no one?”

“I will not. Good-by! Send Miss Hanson to tell me if any new trouble should menace you. I will make it my own.”

He held her hand for one minute in his own; he saw the tears in her eyes, and then turned away without another word.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

“Great events from little causes spring.”

Kenelm Eyrle preferred walking through the woods home; he wanted leisure to think. The sunshine and the songs of the birds disturbed him. He went into the deep heart of the woods, where the light came filtered through the thick-leaved boughs of tall trees; where the shade was cool, sweet and fragrant, he lay down among the ferns and bracken to think.

It seemed to him terrible that in this free and beautiful land an innocent woman could be so cruelly tortured.

“There must be something terribly wrong,” he thought. “A woman is entirely at the mercy of her husband. He may bring what false charges he will against her. The divorce courts must be a curse, not a blessing. They have abolished the Hindoo suttee, but this seems to me a thousand times worse. That woman has suffered greater torture than any earthly fire could inflict. There is something wrong.”

He looked overhead. The tall branches were waving in the sweet western wind; all nature was fair, serene and calm. The story he had heard ran strangely through his mind.

“How much women suffer!” he thought. “Privations, cruelty, scandal, shame, unmerited disgrace.” And then his thoughts wandered to Clarice, who had died in the fair springtime of her youth and fair loveliness. He sprang from the ground with a cry of self-reproach.

“Here I am, lying in the shade, thinking of the wrongs of others, while she, my darling, is unavenged.”

He said to himself that he would go and see the place where the most barbarous murder had been done. Of all the dreams that haunted him, the most frequent was that on the borders of the lake where she had been found, she came to meet him. He walked rapidly to the spot.

“I have not forgotten you, my darling,” he cried, “although my thoughts and interests had gone for a time to another. All women are dear and sacred to me for your sweet sake.”

He stood for a while, the west wind whispering round him, and in imagination he went through it all again—the finding of the fair, dead body, his agony of grief when he heard the news. He remembered how he had rushed madly to Aldenmere. The white, haggard face of Sir Ronald rose before him with its haunting sorrow, its unutterable anguish. He remembered how beautiful she looked in death with flowers all round her. He remembered taking the rose from her and kissing her white lips. He remembered his own words: “I kiss these 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!”

What of this oath he had taken?

“I have done my best to keep it, yet I have failed.” His heart grew hot and heavy, as it always did when he thought of her. Fierce anger rose in him; mighty wrath against the one who had taken that sweet, fair young life.

“What has made me think so much of her to-day?” he asked himself. “It is as though she had spoken to me. I pray Heaven to speed the time when I shall fulfill my vow!”

He little dreamed how fatally near that time was. He turned away from this haunted spot, where his feet so often roamed, thinking he would go to Aldenmere and inquire how Hermione was. As he walked through the fragrant woodland glades his anger increased. He never felt her death so keenly as on these warm, sunshiny days, when all nature seemed to be rejoicing. It was doubly hard then to think of her lying in the cold, dark and silent grave; doubly hard then to remember that the sun would shine, the flowers bloom, the birds sing no more for her.

As he drew near the hall a groom was just hastening from it, who, on seeing him, stopped short.

“I was just going to The Towers, Mr. Eyrle. My lady would be pleased to see you at once, if you can come.”

“I am on my way now,” he replied. “Lady Alden is well, I hope?”

“She is well, but she wished me to say she is very anxious over Peter Gaspin. She wants to see you about some papers.”

Mr. Eyrle walked on, thinking of Lady Pelham; of fair, dead Clarice; of the beautiful and noble Lady Hermione, until he reached Aldenmere. He met the two little children on the lawn. They sprang to meet him, asking the usual question, “When is papa coming?” He took little Harry in his arms. In after years every detail of the scene was as vivid to him as though it had happened yesterday.

“I want to see my own papa,” said baby Maude. “You are very nice, but you are not so nice as he is.”

Harry cried out: “Mr. Eyrle, I have written a letter to papa! Mamma says it will travel over blue seas and tall mountains to get to him. I wish I could go inside my own letter.”

Kenelm laughed. “Do you want to see papa so much, then?”

“Yes,” replied the boy, gravely. “There is no one in the wide world I love so much as I love him. When he comes home I shall ride with him; mamma says so. Mr. Eyrle,” continued the boy, “could you ever hurt any one you loved?”

“No,” replied Kenelm; “never!”

“So I said. Nurse punished Maude this morning, and then she said we were sometimes obliged to hurt those we loved. I do not think so. If you like any one, would you hurt them, even if it were right, you know?”

“I can hardly tell,” he replied, with a smile. “I think not, Harry, unless I were compelled.”

“It is a question that involves a great many others, Harry,” said Lady Hermione, who had just joined the little group unperceived. She held out her hand to Mr. Eyrle.

“I am very glad to see you,” she said. “I am anxious over this matter. I would not for the world be unjust, nor would I do anything likely to vex Sir Ronald.”

“How does the matter stand?” asked Kenelm, taking the baby Maude, in his arms.

“In this way: You know that pretty little farm, ‘The Willows?’ Peter Gaspin lives at it. His lease expires next month, and he declares that Sir Ronald faithfully promised to renew it. On the other hand, John Conyers, who lived once in Sir Ronald’s service, declares that his master signed a written engagement, promising that he, and no one else, should have the farm. How am I to reconcile these claims?”

“What does baby Maude say?” asked Kenelm, laughing at the golden-haired child. “The only plan is to divide the farm and give half to each.”

“You are jesting,” said Lady Hermione.

“Yes, I am jesting. It is Maude’s fault. See how she laughs! Seriously speaking, Lady Alden, it is a difficult matter, and one likely to lead to a lawsuit.”

“That is the very thing I am anxious to avoid,” she said, eagerly. “Sir Ronald would be so greatly annoyed. I would take any trouble to prevent it.”

“Then the only other plan is to search among Ronald’s papers and documents to see if you can find the written agreement of which John Conyers speaks, or the renewal of the lease. That seems to me the simplest plan.”

“So it is; but, Kenelm, looking through those papers will be a long task; there is such an accumulation of them. Will you help me?”

“With the greatest of pleasure. But, Lady Alden, before we begin to work, I must ask your hospitality. I have been from home all day, and have taken nothing.”

She rang the bell and ordered dinner to be laid for Mr. Eyrle. Then they went out with the children until it should be ready.

He remembers, and will so remember until he dies, the pretty scene—the fair, young children among the flowers. When they were tired, baby Maude came to her mother, who raised her in her arms and laid the golden head on her gentle breast. Harry climbed the seat, and clasped his arms around his mother’s neck. The sun shone on her fair, stately head, with its coronal of fair hair, on her sweet, tender face, on the blue dress and white lace.

“You form quite a picture,” said Kenelm, with a smile. “I should like to make a sketch of you, Lady Alden, just as you sit. I would send it to Ronald.”

She made no reply, and, looking at her, he saw that she was very pale and had tears in her eyes.

“Lady Alden,” he said, “you are surely not grieving over the business affair of Gaspin’s?”

“No,” she replied; “but I am not myself to-day. I have a dreadful nervous depression that I cannot shake off.”

“Have you been overtiring yourself?” he asked.

“No; I have had such unpleasant dreams of Ronald—all of Ronald. I dreamed last night that I saw him, but could not reach him because of a deep, black stream that flowed between us; and as I looked the stream deepened and darkened, while he cried out to me that we were parted, and he should never see me again.”

“But you do not believe in dreams?” he said, cheerfully.

“No, I do not believe in them; but this one has haunted me, and has made me nervous and sad all day long.”

CHAPTER XLVI.

KENELM EYRLE’S ACCUSATION.

“Where did Ronald keep his private papers?” asked Kenelm, when he had finished dinner. “Do you think there is anything among them that he would not wish to have inspected?”

“I do not think so,” she replied. “Ronald holds no secrets, if that is what you mean. There is a large bureau in the library filled with papers of all kinds. Shall we look there?”

They went to the library, which was perhaps the noblest room in the Hall. The light came through windows of richly stained glass. The furniture was of dark polished oak; the walls were lined with books. Over the elaborately carved mantelpiece hung a masterpiece by Titian. There were two statues of exquisite beauty; cozy chairs and couches of every description. As Kenelm followed Lady Alden into the room, there flashed across him a memory of the time when Clarice lay dead, and he had gone there to meet Sir Ronald.

Lady Alden turned to him suddenly.

“Do you know, Kenelm,” she said, “this room recalls my husband to me more vividly than any other. Whenever I enter it, it seems to me that I shall see him there in his favorite chair. I never come here except I am quite obliged; it recalls him too forcibly.”

“You saw him here so often,” said Mr. Eyrle; “that is the reason. Shall we open the bureau?”

She unlocked it, and, sitting down together, they looked through the mass of papers that had accumulated, patiently opening each one and closing it again.

“There is no sign of anything of the kind,” said Kenelm, when they had finished the last bundle. “Of course, there are several other places for such documents as these.”

“There is a closet filled with them in one of the spare rooms,” she replied. They examined that, they looked through all the shelves, through the drawers and closets in Sir Ronald’s study, but there was no sign of the missing papers. Lady Alden’s face grew anxious.

“We shall have the lawsuit after all, I am afraid,” said Kenelm.

She looked at him.

“There was something in John Conyer’s manner that I did not much like,” she said. “He seemed to fancy that Ronald was compelled to let him have The Willows.”

“Men like him presume when they have a lady to deal with. Hand him over to me, Lady Alden. I will settle with him.”

“I should like to please my husband,” she said, plaintively.

“Is there any place we can search?” she asked. “I am anxious, too, that we should manage the matter so as to please Sir Ronald.”

In vain they searched every possible place, but there was no trace of any such writings.

“We must give it up as lost,” said Kenelm.

If they had but done so this story would never have been written. Suddenly Lady Alden looked at him with a smile.

“I am losing my memory,” she said.

She took a key from the golden chain she wore; it was of a quaint fashion and made of gold.

“On the morning Ronald went away he gave me this. He made me promise that it should never leave me, night or day, and it has never been out of my possession for one single moment.”

Kenelm took it carelessly from her hands, unconscious as he did so that he held the key to the mystery of his life.

“To what does it belong?” he asked.

“To a small oaken box with golden clasps. It used to stand in Ronald’s room, but when he was going away he placed it in my room under my especial charge. He told me never to open it for it contained papers that were strictly private. Of course, the documents we miss are there. I had better open it and see.”

She rang the bell and ordered the footman to carry the box into the drawing-room.

“We will go there and look it over,” she said.

Kenelm never forgot the fragrant, sunny room. The western sunbeams filled it with light and warmth; the flowers filled it with sweetest odors. Lady Alden sat down, for the search had fatigued her.

As he saw her then, he saw her until he died. Her fair head rested against the pink velvet of the chair; her beautiful face, with its half-wearied expression, was turned to the window, so that the sunshine fell on it and formed a kind of halo around it.

“How beautiful the fragrance of the flowers is to-night! And, Kenelm, listen—have you ever heard the birds sing so sweetly? I wish—oh, how I wish!—that Ronald was home to-night! I cannot help thinking some danger threatens him. He is so continually in my thoughts. Twice to-day my heart has almost ceased to beat, for I heard his voice crying to me, ‘Hermione!’ and the fancy was so strong that for a few minutes I believed he must be near.”

“My hands are quite dusty,” said Mr. Eyrle, with a smile as he took the key. Even so do children smile as they dance on the brink of a precipice hidden by flowers.

He opened it, and she left her seat at his expressed wish.

“You had better look through these yourself, Lady Alden, as Ronald considered them private.”

She took the papers and looked carefully.

“They seem to be certificates of a different kind. The papers are not here, Kenelm.”

He was about to close the box, when quite suddenly she touched a secret spring, and a drawer flew open.

Flew open—oh, Heaven!—and there in the midst of papers lay a long, slender dagger, rusted with human blood!

They looked at it with horror-stricken eyes, Kenelm’s face growing white and rigid.

“My God!” he cried at last, in a terrible voice. “What is this?”

She, bending over it, looked like one suddenly smitten with death. Her eyes dilated; they fell upon a small square packet, and she, unperceived by him, covered it with an open sheet of paper and drew it away so slowly and so carefully that he did not perceive it—slowly, steadily until, with cunning right hand, she had hidden it in the pocket of her dress; and then she gave a great cry that was a sort of despair.

“What is this?” he repeated, and the stern, passionate voice rang through the room.

He seized her hand and held it in his grasp.

“Hermione,” he whispered, in a strange, terrible voice, “do you know what this is—this hidden instrument of crime—this blood-stained dagger, once a toy for ladies’ fingers—this mute witness of an awful deed? Do you know what it is? It is the dagger that slew Clarice Alden!”

She sank on her knees with a low moan and covered her face with her hands.

“I was always sure,” he continued, “that the dagger would lead to the discovery of the crime. Here is the instrument. Who did the deed?”

His voice sank from its passionate earnestness to a tone of horror and dread. She only moaned aloud, and he heard the word, “Mercy!”

“No,” he said, sternly; “there is no mercy! Lady Alden, your husband murdered Clarice!”

She gave one little cry, more piteous in its agony than any words.

“Your husband, Sir Ronald Alden, who never loved her, murdered my darling, and he killed her that he might marry you!”

No answer, no sound to break the terrible silence, save the song of the birds and the murmur of the western wind; no sound save one, and that was the most pitiful of all—the sobbing of a strong man, for Kenelm Eyrle had bent his head over that mute witness of terrible murder and wept aloud.

“I may weep,” he said, at last. “My God, I may weep for the man I called friend! Weep for my murdered love, and for the man who slew her! Friend and brother I called him, and he killed her!”

“There may be some mistake,” she whispered. The white lips could scarcely frame the words.

“There is none,” he replied. “Ronald Alden slew his wife and has hidden the proof of his crime here.”

“It cannot be!” she repeated, in a hoarse whisper.

“It is so; my own instinct tells me I have tracked the murderer at last!”

She raised her white face to him in an agony of entreaty that knew no words.

“You will not, you cannot, betray him!” she said. “You cannot, Kenelm Eyrle! He is your friend. You could not be so false to friendship. He is your best-trusted, best-loved.”

“Hush!” he said, sternly. “If the child who slept in my bosom—if the brother who shared my life—had done this deed, I would denounce him. I would show him no more mercy than I would to the man who has deceived you and has deceived me.”

CHAPTER XLVII.

A WIFE’S LOVE.

“Kenelm,” said Lady Alden, raising her earnest eyes and clasping her hands, “you cannot be cruel; you cannot forget every tie that binds you to Ronald. Oh, why, my God! why did I bring that fatal box here? You cannot forget all that Ronald was to you. He left his wife and children in your charge, and you would rob them of all their natural protectors—of husband and father! Oh, Kenelm! you must not do it. No man could live and be so cruel.”

“I must do justice,” he said, firmly.

“What do you call justice?” she cried, wringing her hands.

“I shall deliver the man who did the deed to the laws of his country, and they shall punish him for the murder done.”

Her face grew ghastly pale as she listened. It was terrible to gaze upon, awful to see. Great drops of agony gathered on the white brow. He turned his face away lest he should see the torture he was bound to inflict.

She knelt at his feet, and raised her hands as though she were supplicating the mightiest power.

“Kenelm, have pity on me if you will not on him! Have mercy on me; if you injure him you kill me. You can only reach him through my heart. See, dear,” she continued, with a low sob, “if you stood here, and you took deadly aim at him I would fling myself before him and die first. You should walk over me dead before you touched him! All my life is bound up in his. I live in him. My soul is one with his. Oh, Kenelm! for God’s dear sake, have pity and spare!”

But he never even turned his face toward her.

“I love him so dearly,” she moaned—“oh, so dearly, Kenelm! Have pity on me. I have never wronged you. I have been a true, good friend to you all my life. I have sorrowed for your sorrows. Spare me now!”

“I would not injure you, Hermione,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice. “I——”

But she interrupted him.

“You would not injure me, yet you would take him who is the life of my life from me. Oh! Kenelm, see, I would not raise that finger to save my own life, but I kneel to plead for his, and I shall kneel until you grant my prayer!”

“It is useless. The most solemn oath that a man could take I have taken; it was on the dead, white lips of my murdered love, and I cannot break it!”

Her lips grew parched and dry with the terrible agony that possessed her. Her voice was weak and faint as though she were exhausted by long and wearisome pain.

“You must spare him, Kenelm. See, I pray you with tears—I pray to you as woman never prayed before. For God’s dear sake, let him go free!

“You are not listening!” she cried; “you are turning from me—you who hold what is dearer than life in your hand. I will give you—— Oh! my God! what can I give you? How will I bribe you? Would that my lips were touched with fire! Would that my heart lay before you that you might see its love and its despair!”

“Justice!” he said, slowly; “we must have justice. Remember, it is an attribute of the most high God, just as mercy is. Remember who said, ‘Blood for blood.’ Remember my oath.”

She fell forward then with her face on the ground, and such passionate prayers went from her white lips he could with difficulty withstand them.

“You will never be happy again if you do this ruthless deed! If she, poor Clarice, could speak, she would plead for him! Oh, spare him, Kenelm; spare him!”

She seized his hand, and the tears from her weeping eyes fell on it.

“You will be kind to me. You are chivalrous and kind. You will not let a woman kneel here at your feet, and refuse her prayer?”

“It is to avenge a woman’s cruel death that I act,” he said, gloomily.

“‘Vengeance is mine,’ said the Lord; ‘and I will repay it.’”

“Hermione, this is not revenge, but justice. You know it; I know it. If I could save your husband by laying down my own life, I would gladly do it, but I cannot.”

“You will not hear my prayer, then?”

“I cannot. You should not kneel to me in vain, Hermione, if I could.”

He turned away, leaving her kneeling there—white and cold, and as one half dead—the blood in her veins frozen with fear. He walked to the window. The golden sunlight still lay on flowers and trees, a little bird was singing its sweet, melodious song. It seemed to him that years had passed since he stood there before, and the crimson shade of murder had come between him and the bright sunshine.

He stood still, his whole heart and soul given over to a mighty tempest. He knew the secret at last—after years of patient waiting, after spending a fortune in searching for the criminal—he was living here, at his own doors—he was the man he had called brother and friend.

He bit his lip to keep down the anger that was fast rising in his heart. No pitying thoughts came to him of the man who had been his friend. Hot, bitter, long-pent-up anger raged in his heart.

“For that which he has done he deserves to die,” he said, “and die he shall.”

He was startled by the touch of a soft hand, and turning he saw a sight that might have melted a heart less angry than his. Lady Hermione had stolen gently from the room in search of her children. She had brought them in with her, and they were kneeling there at his feet, and she like a sheltering angel behind.

“Harry, baby Maude, pray to him, clasp your hands, my babies—look in his face, and ask him to spare papa. Listen, Maudie: ‘Spare papa!’”

The lovely baby face was raised to his, the pretty lips lisped the words, “Spare papa!” and Harry, with great tears shining in his blue eyes, said, “Spare papa!”

“My God,” cried the unhappy mother, who saw no signs of relenting on that stern face, “soften his heart; take Thou pity on us, since he will have none.”

“I have all pity, Hermione,” he said, “all true and tender pity for you and yours, but justice must be done!”

Then she stood up before him, and raised the little ones.

“Look your last, my children,” she said, “on the face of the man who is a traitor to your father’s trust—who can look at you and take that father from you. You shall see him no more.”

He steeled his heart against them. In vain little Harry went back and clasped his arms round him.

“You will not make my mamma cry—my own beautiful mamma? Do what she wants you to do, Mr. Eyrle. I know she is not wrong. You love us—you would never hurt papa.”

He had to recall the dead white face of his murdered love before he could resist that prayer; then he kissed the child and led him sadly to his mother. Lady Alden took them sadly from the room. When she returned there was a look of determination on her gentle, lovely face. She went up to him.

“Once more, Kenelm,” she said, “I ask you, for God’s sake, will you give up your scheme of vengeance? It is years now since the deed was done; it must have brought its own punishment. Will you not let it die—pass into oblivion?”

“I will not,” he replied, sternly, “I will keep my oath.”

“Tell me, can no prayers, no pleading, move you from this purpose?”

“None; that which I have sworn I will do at any cost.”

“Give me one hour’s grace, then come to me again. I have something to tell you in one hour. See, I will not leave this spot where I am standing—only one hour.”

“I will obey you,” he said, and, without looking at her face, he quitted the room. What passed there only God and herself knew. Two hours passed before he returned, and he found her where he had left her, the sweet face white and exhausted, but with a look of resignation upon it.

“You have returned,” she said, “and I ought to tremble, for in you I see the messenger of doom and death. Kenelm, I have something to tell you!”

He looked from the trembling hands to the pale face.

“I am ready to hear,” he replied. “Do not waste time in making excuses for your husband, Hermione; it is labor in vain.”

A strange, wan smile came to her lips.

“I have nothing to excuse in him,” she said, gently, “for that which I have to tell you does not touch him. When you hear it you may fling me down and trample the life from me if you will.”

“Talk reasonably, Hermione; then I may understand you.”

She went to the table where the box containing that terrible evidence lay. She opened it and took from it a long, slender dagger, with its rusty stain.

“You are right,” she said, in a low, dreary voice. “That was the instrument with which the deed was done, and this belonged to me.”

“To you!” he cried. “What do you mean, Hermione?”

“It was given to me years ago by my cousin, who had been traveling in Greece. God grant that I may not go mad. He gave it to me one summer evening like this. My mother said it was a foolish present. My father bade me lock it away, but my cousin told me it was a great curiosity; that in ancient times the Grecian ladies wore such deadly toys fastened to their girdles.”

“Why do you tell me this now?” he asked.

She bent down and whispered something to him that made his face grow pale with horror, while he sprang from her as though the air she breathed and the words she spoke were poison.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

HOW WILL IT END?

“You are mad, Hermione,” cried Kenelm Eyrle. “You cannot mean it; it is not true.”

“It is true,” she replied; “that dagger was mine, and I—hear me, Kenelm Eyrle—I confess it, I did the deed. I, and I alone, am guilty!”

“My God!” he cried, “it is surely impossible. Those hands of yours are surely not stained with crimes so abhorrent.”

“I am guilty,” she said, “and I alone. Do your worst to me now.”

“I refuse to believe you. I cannot credit it. You to do such a deed.”

“Yes,” she replied, and there was no hesitation, nor fear in her voice, “I did it, Kenelm; I am guilty.”

He stood in silence, his emotion too great for words. This gentle, gracious, lovely lady a murderess! Ronald innocent after all? She, whom he had looked upon as pure and peerless, guilty of this monstrous crime?

“I cannot believe it,” he repeated.

“Yes; it is true, I would not have told you had you promised to let the dread memory of it die. I would not have mentioned it if you had promised to—to spare my husband. Guilty as I am, I dare not double my guilt by letting him die for what was my crime.”

He was still looking at her, as though he were in a dream.

“Do with me what you will,” she said. “I prayed, I pleaded for Ronald’s life; I do not even ask for mine.”

“Why not?”

“Even would you give it to me, the gift is not worth having. I lay it down more cheerfully than, if you gave it to me, I should take it up.”

“Why—why did you not tell me before; why let me blame Ronald for one moment, if he be innocent?”

“I should not have told you all unless I had been compelled. I hid my guilt while I could save Ronald. I own it now.”

“You know the penalty you must pay?” he said, sadly.

“Yes; you will bring me to trial. I shall plead guilty and die—ah, me!—I should die, Kenelm. I would rather die than live. I shall leave my little ones a legacy to Heaven.”

“Hermione,” he said, “you are mad—this sudden shock has turned your brain. You are most surely mad.”

“I was mad when I stood by and heard you blame Ronald for my faults. I am sane now.”

“Guilty!” he murmured, “my lifelong friend, the companion of my young, happy days. Sweet Hermione, who never injured even a worm, who was so tender of the little birds in their nests, who would step aside lest she should bruise a blossom or crush a flower, guilty of that horrible deed!”

“Yes, guilty,” she said. “I repeat it again and again—guilty of the crime.”

“But how, why—oh, Hermione! why did you seek to injure her?”

“Do you not know that she had come between me and the man I loved; that she had taken my love’s heart from me and made it her own?—did you not know that, and is it not motive sufficient?”

“It is,” he replied, still more sadly, “and yet, Hermione, I cannot believe it was you. My reason recoils from anything so monstrous.”

“It is my fault,” she said, “and I am tired of my life. I am weary even unto death.”

“Hermione,” he said, “I had rather died than have made this discovery.”

“There is an old saying, ‘Murder will out.’” she replied, with the dreariest and most ghastly smile.

“It is like some horrible dream to me,” he cried. “I would to Heaven that I could wake.”

“You will never wake from that,” she replied; and then deep silence fell over them again.

Suddenly he went over to her chair.

“Hermione,” he said, “my nerves fail me. I cannot hurt you. Save yourself if you can. When I went away from you just now I sent a telegram to Scotland Yard to say the murderer was found.”

“The detectives will come down here, then?” she said, wearily.

“Yes. I tell you, for I cannot injure you.”

“You think so now,” she said, calmly; “but in a few days when the first shock has worn away, your old desire, your old thirst for justice, will come back, and you will do then what you shrink from doing now. It has been a long struggle. Let it end. If you do not give me up to justice, I will give myself up.”

She looked at him and a light that did not seem to be of earth came over her face.

“Kenelm,” she said, “I must ask you one favor. Do not let my story be made public until I am condemned.”

“Have you, then, no wish to live, Hermione?”

“None!” she replied, and the despair on her face was plainly written. He knew that she spoke the truth.

“It is an awful doom,” he said, rather to himself than to her—“a terrible doom! Would to Heaven I could save you from it. Are you ill, Hermione?”

For the last remnant of color had faded from her lips, even the light left her eyes.

“Are you ill?” he repeated. “Speak to me, Hermione.”

“No; I am not ill. It was only a strange fluttering here at my heart, as though it had stopped beating. Kenelm, help me to realize my doom!”

He shuddered as she asked the question:

“Tell me in plain words what I have to bear.”

“It is too horrible, Hermione. I cannot look at you and do it.”

“Then turn your eyes from me, but tell me—let me know.”

“If it be true that you have committed this crime you will be tried for it.”

“Tried—where—tell me all about it, Kenelm, I am so ignorant.”

“You will be taken from here to Lowestone Prison to await your trial on the charge of willful murder. Hermione, you are ill and are hiding it from me.”

She laughed with scornful despair.

“Can you care for my being ill when you have hunted me down to death?” she said. “How absurd that seems, Kenelm. I am not ill, but there is a strange feeling at my heart as though my strength were failing. It will not hurt me—go on! I shall be tried at Lowestone. Can I take the children, or must I say good-by to them forever?”

“You cannot take them, of course, Hermione. You can employ the best counsel in England; you can have the best defense.”

“I shall make no defense; I shall say nothing, but plead guilty, guilty of all. After that, what next?”

“Your sentence,” he replied, and the words died away on his lips.

“What will it be?” she asked.

“I cannot tell. My God! am I dreaming? Is it you, Hermione, asking me these terrible questions as though they concerned any other rather than yourself? I dare not think what it will be—the bare thought of you, a delicate, high-bred, gentle woman undergoing so shameful a death fills me with horror too great for words. I will not believe you did it,” he cried passionately, his face flushing with sudden hope.

“And I tell you,” she replied, with the same air of weariness and dejection, “that I am guilty of it all, and that I shall plead guilty before any judge in England. The law may do its worst to me; it can inflict no torture worse than life. I suppose, though, you will not tell me so, Kenelm, that I must die for the crime.”

He turned from her with a low moan.

“I thought my heart was harder,” he said. “I can bear no more, Hermione.”

“I have but one more question to ask. When will your detective arrive?”

“To-morrow,” he replied. “I am going, Hermione. I can bear no more.”

“You will not tell my father nor my mother until after I am gone, Kenelm?”

“I will not, and how I shall tell them only God knows.”

The next moment he had gone, leaving her alone.

“I will go back and look at my children,” she said. “I may not see them again.”

She went to the nursery, with that same strange, fluttering pain at her heart.

She bent over them and kissed them with a passion of tears.

“How shall I leave you?” she moaned. “How can I part from you? I go forth to shame and death, but you will know all in heaven.”

Then her heart gave way, and she wept until her very soul seemed exhausted and she could weep no more. Little Harry stirred in his sleep, and she soothed him with gently murmured words. Who would soothe them when she was gone? Who would tell them how dearly she had loved them, and how well she loved them? Who would whisper the name of the disgraced mother?

She ceased weeping at last, and a look of calm came over her face.

“God knows,” she said, as she laid her tired head on the pillow to rest. “God knows, and the children will know in another world.”

CHAPTER XLIX.

SIR RONALD’S DEATH.

A night had passed, bringing no rest to Kenelm Eyrle. He had gone home to The Towers, but sleep was far from him. His whole soul recoiled with horror from the shock. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined anything so horrible. He had not, in fact, believed her; but on his way home it struck him that he might have confirmation of one part of her story.

Her cousin, of whom she had spoken, was Colonel Hurdlestone, and he lived not far from The Towers. Kenelm rode round there and found him enjoying some fine claret. Colonel Hurdlestone asked him to join him, and Mr. Eyrle, thinking the opportunity a good one, consented.

He talked to his host about different matters of interest until he turned the conversation on different weapons.

“Let me see, did you not once give Lady Hermione Lorriston a dagger—an antique of great value?”

The colonel, who was fond of antiques, brightened at the thought of it.

“Yes; one I brought with me from Greece—quite a curiosity; long, very slender, and bright, with a jeweled handle. My cousin prized it very much, but I have not seen it of late. I must ask her about it.”

“You gave it to her, then, to keep?” said Mr. Eyrle, the last faint hope dying from his heart.

The colonel laughed.

“Yes; one does not lend such curiosities. To tell you the truth, I gave it to my Lady Hermione rather against my will; she admired it and asked me for it. I considered that dagger one of the greatest curiosities I brought with me from Greece.”

“It was a strange thing to attract Lady Hermione’s attention,” said Kenelm.

“Ah!” laughed the colonel; “there is no accounting for tastes. Those ancient Grecian ladies must have been fine-spirited dames. I should not like to say that the pretty dagger Lady Hermione admired had been used as an instrument of vengeance.”

Mr. Eyrle rose hastily from his seat. He could not have borne another word. Colonel Hurdlestone thought him strange and abrupt, then excused him by remembering that for some years the master of The Towers had been quite unlike his original self.

He rode home through the dewy forest. The stars were beginning to shine; their pale, holy light brought peace and serene calm, but not for him. There was to be no more peace for him. He could no longer doubt. She was guilty; she must be guilty; she owned herself so, and here was a corroboration of her story. He wished wearily that his life had been different—that he had lived in other lands, at other times—anything rather than to be who and what he was. He doubted even his own nerve and courage—whether he would pursue this matter even to the bitter end. Then he remembered his oath. Come what might, he must be true to that. His heart ached with intense pity for her, despite the deed that she had done.

“How she loves Ronald,” he said to himself, thinking of the light upon her face when she remembered his name. “How she loves him. I never saw one life so completely bound in another. What will he say or think when he hears this awful news?”

It seemed to him that he suffered quite as much as he had done when Clarice died. In his quiet, brotherly way he had loved Lady Hermione very dearly; he had loved her piquant, graceful, gentle manner, her varied charms of mind. Even while he loved Clarice best, he paid all homage to Lady Hermione’s tender, earnest, poetical mind. He had always considered her capable of anything grand and heroic. Now, it seemed her heroism had ended in murder. The thought lashed him like a thousand furies. He found himself pitying the living lady more than her dead victim. He found himself making excuses for her, saying to himself: “How much she must have suffered—what agonies of love and jealousy—before she brought herself to the frenzy that ended in murder.”

The beauty and serenity of the summer night brought no calm to his wearied spirits. His head ached with the whirl of his thoughts, his brain burned. He could not refrain from thinking, if he suffered thus, what was not Lady Hermione enduring?

It was morning before he fell asleep; then it was only to dream troubled dreams, full of vague horror for which he had no name. He was aroused by a visit from Lord Lorriston, who sent to ask him if he would come down at once, as he wished to see him on most important business. He had hunted the criminal down; he had sworn to himself never to rest until justice had been done, and when he heard that the earl was there his face grew pale with anguish.

“He must have heard it,” he said. “Who can have told him?”

He went hastily down to the library, where Lord Lorriston awaited him. He feared the worst when he saw the earl’s haggard face.

“I am an early visitor, Kenelm,” he said, “but I am in sore trouble. I have come to you for help.”

“You can have all the help I can give, Lord Lorriston. What is it?”

“I was vain enough and foolish enough to boast two years ago that I hardly knew trouble even by name. I humbly beg pardon of Heaven for my boast.”

He laid a packet of papers on the table.

“The mail came in yesterday. I read the announcement of it in the papers; it has brought news that will most surely kill my daughter.”

Kenelm’s heart gave one great bound.

“He knows nothing yet,” he thought, and the idea was a reprieve to him.

“Here are four letters,” continued the earl, “and they all announce the same sad intelligence—the death of Sir Ronald Alden.”

It seemed to Kenelm that the world itself was coming to an end. “Lady Hermione a murderess—Sir Ronald dead.”

He repeated the words slowly, almost bewildered.

“Ronald dead! Oh, Lord Lorriston, can it be true?”

“Read those, and judge for yourself.”

Kenelm perused the letters. One was from the leader of the expedition, another from the doctor who had attended him, another from one of the friends who traveled with him, and they all contained the same horrible news. Sir Ronald, who for some time past had seemed much better in health and spirits, had been seized with a malignant fever and died suddenly, almost before there had been time to apply any remedies.

As Kenelm read there came to him a vision of the bright-eyed, eager boy whom he had loved so dearly—friend and brother—great tears rose to his eyes, a sob to his lips.

“I knew you would feel it,” said Lord Lorriston. “You loved him; so did I. Kenelm, how are we to break this to Lady Hermione? You see what Dr. Lawson says; the letters have been sent to me, but if the shock should prove fatal to Lady Alden, how shall we tell her?”

“How shall I tell him?” thought Mr. Eyrle. “Heaven knows it was bad enough before; this only makes it worse.”

“I want you to come out with me to Aldenmere, Kenelm,” continued the earl, “and help me to tell Lady Hermione—I—I fear it will kill her.”

Mr. Eyrle looked compassionately at the man over whose head hung so terrible a secret.

“I was there yesterday,” he said. “I will go with the utmost pleasure.”

“Lady Lorriston would have been the most proper person to go, but unfortunately I told her quite suddenly, and she is ill with the shock. We all loved poor Ronald very dearly.”

“I will go at once,” said Mr. Eyrle, shuddering as he thought of what else that loving, anxious mother might have to suffer.

“Take some breakfast first,” said the earl, kindly. “You look very ill and tired yourself.”

A cup of tea was brought in and he drank it hurriedly while his horse was saddled. He could not eat. Bread seemed as ashes between his lips; and then came to him a thought that, with this fever of unrest upon him—the fever of sorrow—he should not eat again.

“We must ride quickly,” said the earl. “I should not like Hermione to hear the news from any one else. This is my first trouble, Kenelm, and, believe me, it is a heavy one.”

Then came to Mr. Eyrle a remembrance of lines that had once haunted him:

Never, believe me, appear the immortals,

Never alone.

They ran through his mind until they reached Aldenmere, where sorrow in darkest guise awaited them.

CHAPTER L.

THE VOW KEPT.

Lady Hermione Alden sat in her room alone. Her children had been in with their pretty morning greetings, and had, for the first time, hurried from her, scared by the sight of that pale, stricken, haggard face.

“They say there is mercy in heaven,” she moaned. “Will that mercy be shown to me?”

The few hours that had passed over her head seemed like so many years.

“Was it only yesterday morning,” she asked herself, “that I was laughing, a child among my children, and now I am stricken with grief as with years? Oh! if I could only fly to Ronald and bid him be silent until I am dead. I remember my vow; every word of it burned in on my heart, and I fulfill it, even as Jephtha did his. Let it cost me my life—what is life?—only the breath of the body; the better part of me can never die.”

Then something seemed to plead in her heart for her children, so young, so tender.

“Better the stain on my name than on his,” she said. “People will say I am jealous and mad; much is pardoned in a jealous woman.”

Aldenmere was looking more beautiful than ever that morning. The brightest sun shone over it, the trees wore their green dress, the birds filled the air with song, the flowers were all luscious bloom and fragrance, the fountains rippled merrily in the sunlight; yet the mistress of all this splendor sat in a darkened room, where neither sunlight nor fragrance could reach her.

“I must read it again,” she said, rising from the chair. “I must read it, though every word stabs me, though every word burns its way into my brain and leaves a pain there. I must read it, even as men gaze curiously upon the sword that is to slay them; and then, when it is once more read, I will destroy it. There shall be no more written evidence of what was a cruel wrong.”

She went to a drawer and unlocked it. She took from it the same small parcel that had lain in the secret drawer of the box, and, as she did so a pallor, ghastly and awful to see, came over her face. The same strange, faint fluttering at her heart that had seized her before came again, and this time it strangled the breath on her lips. She gasped for breath and could not find it; her lips grew rigid, her hands cold, then her heart gave one sudden bound and the breath came back in fluttering sighs.

She sat down. Not just yet had she strength to open the fatal parcel. She bowed her head down upon it and sat silent, motionless as the dead. She raised her beautiful, colorless face when a servant rapped at the door and announced: “Lord Lorriston and Mr. Eyrle.”

She rose when they entered, still clutching that packet tightly in her hands, as though from it she gained strength. A certain majesty and dignity came to her, the trembling limbs grew still, the lips calm.

She looked from one to the other as they entered. Were they come to judge her? Had Kenelm Eyrle, despite his promise, been so thirsty for her life that he had hastened to denounce her? Had her father come already to curse her? She looked at him with fearless glance. Ah! there was no anger in that pale face of his—nothing but most tender pity and deepest grief.

Kenelm Eyrle stood aside while the earl came to her and kissed the pallid face.

“My dearest Hermione, you look very ill; what is the matter? Why have you not sent for us? You must have been ill for days.”

“He does not know yet,” she thought, clutching the packet still more tightly in her white hands.

“Sit down, my darling,” said Lord Lorriston. “You look so unfit to stand—so unfit, God help you, to bear more trouble or sorrow.”

“Is there any more for me?” she asked. “I thought my cup was quite full. What is it, father? I do not think anything can hurt me now.”

He did not understand her—he did not know she had any greater trouble than the absence of her husband.

“I have sad news for you, my darling; you will require all your fortitude to enable you to bear it.”

She smiled so faintly, so sadly, that his heart ached for her.

“I have plenty of fortitude, papa. Do not fear for me—tell me what is wrong. I come of a race that knows how to endure.”

“I have had letters from Alexandria this morning; and, Hermione, there is bad news from your husband.”

“From Ronald?” she repeated; and he shrank from the woe in that fair face.

“Is he ill?” she asked, slowly. “Can I go to him?”

“No; you cannot join him, my darling. Kenelm, why do you not help me? You see that I cannot frame the words. You cannot join him; for the cares and troubles of this world are over for him. He will suffer and enjoy no more.”

They saw a great calm steal over her. They had expected an outburst of passionate sorrow; but no word came from those pale lips.

“You mean,” she said, “that he is dead.”

The words sounded like a moan.

“Yes,” repeated Lord Lorriston; “he died quite suddenly, and they wrote to tell me.”

She did not faint or droop; she stood quite still, with this strange, dignified calm; no tears came to her eyes.

“My husband is dead,” she said, slowly. “Oh, Ronald, let me come to you!”

All faculty of emotion seemed frozen within her.

“My dearest child,” said the earl, tenderly, “do not try to control your sorrow. Who so true as we? You can weep before us. You will die if you keep back your tears. I know how you loved poor Ronald.”

She looked at him again with the same strange, sad smile.

“I shall not weep,” she said. “It is through the mercy of God that my husband is dead.”

Lord Lorriston looked at her in amaze; he thought the shock of the sad intelligence he had brought must have crazed her. He went to her, and Kenelm looked on with an aching heart. The time had come when the earl must know, and he knew what the knowledge would cost him.

“Hermione,” said Lord Lorriston, quietly, “you are ill; you are bewildered; try to collect yourself. Your husband is dead, and surely no greater sorrow can come to any woman than the loss of one so good, so kind and true.”

She drew back with a shudder from the kindly hand that would have caressed her.

“Do not touch me, papa,” she said; “do not speak kindly to me—you have something yet to learn. I repeat my words; it is by the mercy of God that my husband is dead.”

She repeated the words so solemnly and with such sincerity that Lord Lorriston was impressed with them.

“Lady Alden,” said Mr. Eyrle, “it is not my place to interfere, but do you not think that Lord Lorriston has sorrow enough for one day?”

“Let him hear the truth,” she replied. “God was merciful, papa, when He sent for my husband. He will never hear now the story of my guilt.”

“What guilt, my poor child? Oh! Kenelm, she is cruelly distraught. What guilt can rest on one so sweet, so pure, so fair as she is?”

He did not answer, and the earl turned caressingly to his child.

“My darling,” he said; “my dearest Hermione, tell me what you mean. I do not understand. What cruel fancy have you of guilt—what simple folly have you magnified into crime?”

Her white lips trembled convulsively; she tried to speak, but the power of speech had gone from her.

“She cannot accuse herself,” said Mr. Eyrle. “She cannot tell him what she has done. It is a terrible task, and it will fall to me.”

But he had mistaken her; there was strength enough in that delicate body for more than men accomplish.

“When you have heard what I have to say, papa, you will turn from me in anger and never look at me again. Ronald’s death has troubled you. Would to Heaven I might die as he has done.”

Then her courage suddenly failed her. She could not look at that kind, noble face—the face she revered and honored—with that story of guilt and shame. Her arms fell, her head drooped, and for a few minutes Kenelm Eyrle thought she would fall down dead. The little packet almost slipped from her nerveless grasp; that revived her. What could it contain that the mere contact with it should nerve and fortify her? She held it more tightly, with a clinging touch, as she rose once more and looked at her father.

“Papa,” she said, “I am very guilty. I am terribly guilty. Mr. Eyrle will tell you of a discovery he has made. I confess to you that I am guilty of Clarice Alden’s death.”

Lord Lorriston recoiled as though a pistol had been fired in his face, horror and dismay on every feature. He stood for some minutes, rooted to the ground, in silent horror that knew no words.

“I knew you would shrink from me,” she said, in a low, wearied voice; “but it is true, papa. I am guilty of her death.”

“I do not believe it,” said the earl; “it is incredible. Oh, Kenelm! she is mad! Bitter sorrow has distracted her. She is mad! My Hermione, my child—fairest, purest, dearest—I could sooner believe myself guilty than you! What cruel fancy, what blind delusion is this, Kenelm? Why do you not speak to me? Do you not see I am going mad with horror? What does it mean?”

She stood white and silent, the image of despair. Mr. Eyrle laid his hand on Lord Lorriston’s arm.

“I am afraid it is no fancy; I have every reason to fear that it is but too true.”

“I will not believe it,” cried the earl, in a hoarse voice, full of pain. “I cannot believe it; it is against all nature, all sense, all reason. My daughter could never have injured a bird, much less have taken the life of her own friend. It is madness. This is either a conspiracy or a delusion. I will hear no more of it. What do you say, Hermione?”

“Will you leave me?” she said; “only for a few moments. I am ill.”

CHAPTER LI.

A SOUL AT REST.

“Leave her for a few minutes,” said Kenelm to the earl; “she will recover herself best alone.”

But when they went to quit the room he was obliged to guide Lord Lorriston’s steps, for he stumbled like a blind man.

“What does this mean, Kenelm?” he asked, when they stood out in the sunlit corridor. “Are you and Lady Hermione both mad?”

“Lord Lorriston, it is a sad story. God forbid that I should judge. You know, everybody knows, that I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice. I would not have taken that oath had I known the murderess was your daughter.”

“It is not true,” cried the earl, setting aside all moral reason. “Hermione has not the physical strength or daring for such a deed.”

“I cannot tell; she says she is guilty, and surely she knows best.”

“Tell me all about it; then I can judge,” said the unhappy father, despairingly.

“The all is very simple. Yesterday I was helping Lady Alden to search for some papers, and I found hidden most carefully in the secret drawer of a box the dagger with which Lady Clarice was slain.”

“You found that here?” he cried, “I will not believe it.”

“There can be no reasonable doubt of it. Lady Hermione was terribly distressed at first. I thought, and naturally, too, that Ronald was guilty, and I told her that even were he my own brother, I would denounce him. When she found that I was resolved upon justice she owned herself guilty. Jealousy and love led her to do the deed.”

“I will never believe it. I know too well how tender she is. I saw her grow, remember, from a babe to a woman, and I tell you she is incapable of a murder as I am of picking your pockets. There is some terrible mistake.”

Suddenly he covered his face with his hands and moaned:

“How long is it that I boasted that my life was all sunshine; that I knew trouble only by name? Is it to punish my heart that the hand of God is laid so heavily upon me?”

He turned from his companion and walked away abruptly. No human eyes must see how keen and bitter was his grief. No human eyes must see tears fall like rain from the eyes of one of England’s proudest peers.

They had left her alone, and she sank back in her chair overpowered again by the strange, faint, fluttering pain at her heart.

“What can it be?” she gasped. “Is it death?”

And there came to her a memory of how, when she was a child, those pains had troubled her, and the doctors said something about disease of the heart. Was it that—was it death’s cold hand clutching at her heart and causing it first to beat so madly, then almost to stop, that sent such strange shuddering through every nerve?

Oh, welcome death! Death that would place her at Ronald’s side again. Once more the pain passed, and she looked around her with frightened eyes.

“I wish I were not quite alone,” she said. “Oh Ronald, Ronald, how cruel has fate been to us! Oh! my own love! my dearest, only love! Are you where you can hear me? Ronald, when I call to you, do you hear me? My husband, I have kept my vow; I was willing to die for you; I would have gone to the scaffold and have smiled while I died for you. There came a strong temptation to me when they told me you were dead, for one moment—a temptation to save myself—but I trampled it under foot. I will save you, and screen you still; your fair name, even in death, is dearer to me than my own life.”

She looked at the little parcel still clinched in her hand.

“I must destroy it,” she said. “Ronald is dead. He is safe when this is destroyed; it matters but little what becomes of me. Oh! my love! my love! You repented before you died. I pray that I may stand at your side again.”

She tried to rise to destroy that packet, but fell back with a long, shuddering moan; the cold hand had touched her heart again, the sharp, intolerable anguish thrilled every nerve.

“It is death,” she whispered, faintly; “death, and I am all alone—death, and I have no strength to destroy this!”

Grim darkness seemed to be closing round her, thick and heavy. The light faded from her eyes, another sharp pain, and the cold hand seemed to hold the panting heart more tightly in its grasp. The fair head drooped; once, twice the white lips opened as though she would fain cry for help, and then—ah! then the dark curtain was torn from before the portals of eternity, and she who had loved him so faithfully stood by Ronald’s side again. Lady Alden was dead.

It was an hour before her father and Mr. Eyrle returned. Then the earl knew all that had passed, and was firm in maintaining his daughter’s innocence.

“There is a mystery in this mystery,” he said, “and you will find it so. Let us return to my unhappy child and try to solve it.”

He opened the door of the pretty morning-room where he had left her, and saw her lying back in the huge lounging chair. He placed his fingers on her lips.

“Hush!” he said to Mr. Eyrle; “she has cried herself to sleep. Do not awaken her; that does not look much like guilt, does it?”

There was a strange, brooding stillness in the room, no sound broke it, even the birds had ceased singing. The earl went up to the chair. Was this sleep; this strange, deep, unbroken calm, this hushed, solemn repose?

He bent over her, and a cry that Kenelm Eyrle never forgot came from his lips—a cry of such horror, such dread, that it rang through the silence with a terrible sound. He laid his hand on the cold face, on the silent heart.

“Oh, my God!” he said, in a terrible voice. “She is dead!”

Ah! they might do as they would—run here and there in hot haste for doctors, apply remedies—the grim angel laughed. She was stone dead.

Kenelm Eyrle saw the little packet, and took it from her hands.

“This is something very precious and very sacred to her,” he said, “or she would not have it so tightly clasped in this poor, dead hand.”

And Lord Lorriston, hardly knowing what he did, took it from him, little dreaming that its contents had killed his daughter. Then they carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed. They sent in hot haste for doctors, they called up the servants, but there was no human help for Lady Alden. Was that sweet smile lingering on her face because she stood by Ronald’s side again?

Unutterable horror lay over the stately mansion of Aldenmere. One heard the weeping of children who were to be loved and tended by her no more, the loud lament of servants, the smothered weeping of friends.

“There must be a curse on the house,” said the old housekeeper, raising her trembling hands. “I have seen two bonny brides brought home, and two dead wives carried out; there must be a curse on Aldenmere.”

She did not know that the curse was one of ill-regulated, undisciplined passion, the heaviest curse that can fall on mortal man.

They looked from one to another in tearless dismay, those faithful servants. Most of them had been there when Lady Clarice had met with her sudden death, and now another fairer and more dearly loved mistress had gone from their midst. Superstitious fear and horror was ripe among them. Then, to add to their horror, Mr. Eyrle announced to them the intelligence received that morning from abroad.

So it came to pass that the little motherless boy, weeping for the mother he was never to see again, was now Sir Henry Alden of Aldenmere.

At first all was confusion and dismay, but after a time Mr. Eyrle took the reins of government and restored something like order. When the news began to spread there were callers innumerable. The country that night supped full of horrors. Sir Ronald Alden had died abroad and the shock of his death had killed the beautiful, lovely wife, so devoted to him.

They robed her in white, as they had done the first Lady Alden; they covered her with flowers, they laid them on the silent breast, in the white hands, and crowned with them the golden head. So fair, and still, and silent she lay when Lord Lorriston and Kenelm Eyrle between them led the unhappy mother into the room. No words could tell her grief. Did there flash across her a memory of that evening so long ago when she had taken Sir Ronald into the sunlit garden to renew his friendship with Lady Hermione and Miss Severn?

It was not until she had gone away and the two gentlemen stood in the death chamber alone, that Lord Lorriston remembered the packet.

He spoke of it to Mr. Eyrle.

“Will you fetch it, Kenelm?” he said, “and I will read it here in her presence. I have a conviction that there we shall find the key to the mystery.”

Kenelm went in search of it. It lay on the table in the room where she died. He brought it at once to the earl, who took it from him.

“Before I read what may be her justification, Kenelm,” said Lord Lorriston, “look at her face. Was anything ever so fair, so noble, so true? That face is but the index of a soul more fair, more noble, and truer still. Nor murder, nor jealousy, nor unholy hate ever marred the perfect beauty of that soul, or ever found a home there. That is the temple of a pure spirit—how could you so misjudge her?”

“Only from her own words; and those I heard against my own will.”

Lord Lorriston bent down and kissed that white brow.

“There was no justification necessary, in my eyes,” he said; “still I will read what is written here.”

CHAPTER LII.

SIR RONALD’S CONFESSION.

“Not to be opened until after my death,” was written on the outer cover of the packet in Sir Ronald’s bold, clear hand, “and then to be read by no one save my wife. Should she die first, under penalty of my curse I forbid this to be opened, and command it to be destroyed.”

When Lord Lorriston had read that he showed it to Mr. Eyrle.

“Will it be honorable for us to read the contents?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Eyrle, “a sudden idea has occurred to me, and in your daughter’s name, I think that paper should be read.”

Lord Lorriston read it aloud, kneeling by the side of the beautiful dead woman, whose love had proved so fatal to herself and to him who loved her. It began:

“MY DEAREST HERMIONE—I am going abroad in an expedition that may be attended with some danger, although I have every hope of returning in safety; yet I write this because against the accidents of life we cannot take precaution. I know not what may happen, therefore I write this; no one but you will read it—oh, wife of my heart—and I lay my soul bare before you. Hermione, what has been the life of my life, the soul of my actions? What has been the source of all my virtues, all my few good deeds, all that is noblest and best in me?—my love for you. What drove me mad?—my love for you. Men have loved before, and men will love again, but I do not believe that ever one loved a woman so entirely, so devotedly, so wholly as I loved you.

“My darling, my wife, that love was no ordinary passion, common words will not tell it. Do you know what dew is to thirsty flowers, sunshine to birds, light and warmth to fair spring blossoms? that you are to me. The light of my soul, my one hope and treasure. Ah, sweet wife of mine, go out in the woods and count the leaves on each tree; go to the shore and count each grain of sand; look up at the bright heavens and count each pale, pure star; you could do that more easily than I can tell you how deeply, how dearly, how well I love you. The world does not hold your peer, my love. Looking back, I cannot remember the time when I did not love you with the same passionate love. When we were children I worshiped the ground you stood upon, and my love grew with my growth. When I came back to Aldenmere and found all the promise of your beautiful youth fulfilled, and you yourself lovelier than dream of poet ever was, I swore to myself that if any man living could win you I would be that man. My darling, you know how I tried. I loved you, I sought you, I was never happy out of your presence, or away from you. My very life was so wrapped in yours that I had no existence away from you. I can remember when I first began to hope that you would care for me. I can remember every faint token of preference you ever gave me, all your pretty shy, sweet, maidenly ways. Hermione, sweet, true wife, do you remember the evening out among the flowers when I spoke to you of love and you did not send me from you? I went home that night with my heart on fire, resolved to ask you at once to be my wife, for I could brook delay no longer; my love was eating my very life away. Darling, was it a sweet, maidenly whim to make me still more eager, or was it that you were really engrossed? For one whole week I went every day to Leeholme, but could not contrive to spend one solitary five minutes with you. Oh, love, my love, had it been otherwise the story of my life would have been different.

“At last, when I could bear the silence and suspense no longer, I wrote to you and asked you to be my wife. You remember what followed. I received a letter, written apparently by you, refusing me with few words. Hermione, I went mad; my love had been so mighty, so powerful, so strong, I could not bear the shock of seeing it all scattered to the winds. I could not bear the refusal. God keep any other man from suffering what I did then! I could not tell you, darling, even if I tried. I do not believe any man suffered so much and lived. A thousand times each day I was tempted to end my own life, but the Alden pride, so strong in the men of my race, forbade me to die because a woman was fair and false. Ah, me! what I suffered! I hated my life; I loathed myself. I tried to drown all memory of my most fatal love in the whirl of fashion, the pursuit of study. My darling, I might as well have taught myself to fly as to forget you. Then there came a time when the sneers of men, the sarcasm of women aroused all the pride of my nature; it should never be said that I was wasting away for the love of one who never loved me. I heard that you were going to marry Kenelm, and I, reckless, despairing, half mad and wholly wicked, married poor Clarice.

“I should have been true to you, my love—the sweet, pure love of my youth—I should have been true to you, even though you had never cared for me. When I married Clarice I meant most royally to do my duty, to be kind to her, to make her happy, to indulge her, and I succeeded. I never loved her, but I cannot tell if she found that out. All went on calmly, if not happily, until the day when I met you in the woods. You remember it, Hermione, then my heart leaped up like a burning flame, devouring all before it, and then I learned that most fatal truth, that you had never received my letter and, what was of still more importance, you had not answered it, therefore had never rejected me. Then I learned that you loved me. I wonder that I ever recovered my senses when I remember the madness of my love. You remember our farewell. With your last words ringing in my ears—with your last gentle look haunting me—I swore to myself, like the reckless madman that I was, to find out who had trapped me, who had lured me to destruction, who had taken the letter I wrote to you, and had answered it—imitating your writing and signing your name.

“How was I to find out? I swore that I would move heaven and earth but that I would unravel the mystery in the end. I need not tell you all my efforts. For long they seemed in vain, utterly, helplessly in vain. At last, my attention was called to a strange fact, and that was that my wife’s maid, Mary Thorne, seemed to be entirely mistress of her. If Clarice ordered her to do anything she did it if she liked, if not it was neglected. I found, too, that Clarice had given her at different times large sums of money. I remonstrated with her, but you remember her pretty, bewitching, caressing ways. She only smiled and told me that she had always spoiled Mary Thorne. But, Hermione, underneath that smile I detected fear, real fear, and I wondered how it was. One day, going quite unexpectedly into my wife’s dressing-room, I heard her ask Mary Thorne to do something and the girl insolently refused. I could not bear that. I spoke sharply and insisted on her instant dismissal, but to my surprise Clarice grew pale with fear. ‘I do not think my mistress will allow me to leave, Sir Ronald,’ said the woman, and she was right. Clarice hung weeping round my neck and begged me not to send away a maid to whom she was much attached, and who was most valuable to her. I yielded to her wish, but from that moment a certain conviction came over me that Mary Thorne knew some secret she was keeping from me. I dare not think the secret concerned that letter, though instinct told me so. I sent for my groom—the one who had taken the letter—and what I discovered was this: The letter was safely delivered, and placed on your toilet-table by your own maid. Mary Thorne, who was engaged in doing something for you at the time, my darling, saw it placed there. Mary was working in your room, she told me, on the day that letter was delivered. You were out, and she sat sewing in your room. While she was there Clarice went in to speak to her, and bending over the toilet-table, saw the letter in my handwriting addressed to you.

“Mary told me that she saw Clarice deliberately take up that letter, place it in the pocket of her dress and then quit the room. She returned in half an hour and placed upon the table another envelope, the exact counterpart of the one she had taken away.”

CHAPTER LIII.

THE SLAVE OF PASSION.

They paused in the reading of that confession, and Lord Lorriston, looking at Kenelm, said to him:

“This is worse than my darkest dreams ever foreshadowed.”

But Kenelm made no reply. He was thinking of the two fair women he had seen lying here dead, both slain by the fatal love of one man. Then they read on:

“I was determined,” said Sir Ronald, “to solve the mystery, to know who had taken my letter and who had written that false missive. No one ever knew the pains I took over it, the enormous expense! But I would have spent the last shilling I have in the world rather than have failed. For many long months I had detectives employed secretly, but the mystery seemed so great they could not fathom it. At last I heard it, as I have said, through Mary Thorne, who had been Clarice’s maid. She told me this story: On the day of that visit to Thringston, she was sitting helping in some work in Lady Hermione’s room, when she saw her mistress start in, and after looking earnestly at the address of the letter, put it in the pocket of her dress and go out of the room quietly as she entered it. In half an hour she returned and placed an envelope there so exactly similar no one could tell them apart. That little circumstance struck Mary Thorne as being very peculiar. Most maids make themselves mistresses of their mistress’ secrets. Mary knew that of poor Clarice. She knew that Clarice loved me. She knew, also, in common with the rest of the world, that I loved Lady Hermione. Most things, even our nearest and dearest secrets that we hesitate almost in telling each other, are known and discussed in the servants’ hall. There is no doubt that all this had been told there.

“So Mary Thorne watched her young mistress. It is not pleasant to have to write of the treachery of those we have trusted. Clarice trusted this girl implicitly, and she, in return, betrayed her, read her letters, watched all she did, and made herself mistress even of the poor lady’s hidden faults. Clarice stole my letter—the one I had written to you—stole it, read it, and destroyed it by tearing it into minute pieces. These pieces, Mary Thorne, with infinite patience and perseverance worthy of a better cause, put together, and managed to read sufficient of it to know that it was an offer of marriage from me to my dearest Hermione.

“When she told me, my first impulse was to raise my hand and slay. One moment’s reflection showed me that it was, after all, the fault of her class—that want of honor, that morbid desire to pry into the secrets of others, all come from the loose, imperfect method of training.

“I pass it over now, as I did when I heard it. My eyes fell once more on that letter—the letter that has proved the curse of my life. I read again the words I had written when full of hope, as a spring morning is of beauty. They seemed to raise living heads like poisonous adders and sting me. No further proof was wanting to me. Mary Thorne had evidently thought some day or other, to make her price of these fragments of a letter. She had carefully preserved them—she had gathered them from a fireplace in Clarice’s room. Then she watched her mistress. Clarice, under pretext of a violent headache, shut herself up in her room, and spent many hours in practicing writing. Pieces of paper that the girl had preserved showed that she had been imitating your handwriting. Should Kenelm Eyrle ever read this story, or hear of it, he will remember that we had often in our childish days been astonished by the facility with which Clarice imitated different handwritings.

“Shut up in her room, she forged that letter in your name to me. Deliberately, wickedly, cruelly, falsely forged the words that cut me off from the world of men, blighted my life, marred every hope and plan, brought curse and ruin upon me, the words that have lost me this world, and, I fear, oh! I fear, will lose me the next. Mary Thorne watched her young mistress dress herself and steal unobserved from the house to post the letter that was my death warrant. And then she waited and watched, thinking that when I recovered from your dismissal I should turn with my whole heart to her. I did not do so. I have never loved any woman but you, my Hermione. I never could. I tried, but it was not in my power. You are soul of my soul, life of my life, my heart has never beat for any love but yours. So, my wife, I heard this tale of treachery, of the cruel and wicked wrong done to me. Mary Thorne had saved all these fragments of papers and lived in the hope of some day making money of them. She was in love with James Conyers, the groom who had taken the letter, and whose assistance I had sought. The bribe I offered proved sufficient for her. It was a large sum of money to be paid on the spot, and a promise that James Conyers should have the farm called ‘The Willows’ when the lease of the then tenant had expired. One morning, a beautiful bright morning, when the world was full of melody, she told me this. We were standing under a grove of tall, stately oak trees, and, Hermione, as the words dropped slowly from her lips they maddened me. I can remember watching the sunlight as it came filtering through the great green boughs. I can remember listening to the sweet song of a little bird, while mad anger and fierce, wild passion ran riot in my veins. Ah, my darling! a man commits a great crime, and his excuse is, ‘I was mad!’ People cry him down. They say, ‘This is but an excuse; he was sane enough!’ Ah! my wife, I know that madness comes in swift, keen darts of flame, in a fiery surging of hot blood through heart and brain, in a sudden impulse that calls in a mighty voice for the deed to be done—and it is done. As I stood under the trees, Hermione, the sunlight grew blood-red. The girl, in her weak, shrill voice, finished her tale. She had given me every detail of the forgery and the fraud. When her voice ceased, it was as though some cord had snapped suddenly in my brain, and I turned away. ‘You will not forget your promises, Sir Ronald?’ she said. ‘No; I will not forget them.’ And as I walked from the oak trees I kept repeating to myself those words, ‘I will not forget them!’

“Was I mad? Only God knows. I can remember that every beat of my pulse sent a burning thrill through me, that the beating of my heart seemed to come to me as a hot, heavy sound. Hermione, do you remember? Oh! sweet wife, how it pains me to look across the gulf of years, the sweet, sinless happy years; do you remember that one evening at Leeholme Park? You showed some curiosities that your cousin had brought from abroad with him. Amongst them was a small, sharp, bright, pointed Grecian dagger, an antique of great value, with a jeweled handle—one which Grecian ladies wore as a toy, which had, without doubt, been used in many a deathblow. I took it up in my hands to admire it, and you gave it to me, asking me with a smile never to let your cousin know, or he would be jealous.

“It must have been fate that led me that morning to the little drawer, where I kept all my souvenirs of you. This lay amongst them, and I saw that one of the rubies was missing from the handle. I had some intention of going over to Leeholme that day, so I put it in my pocket, thinking that I would call at a jeweler’s and have it replaced. I wish it had not been so, Hermione. Had not that weapon been in my hands, the deed would not have been done. I walked on with the same hot surging through heart and brain, this same dull roaring, as of distant cannon in my ears, and the sunlight was all red. It came to me like a picture in a red frame. I saw a lake—clear, cool, deep, dark water—with green boughs bending over it. One bough was swinging to and fro in the wind, and on it sat a little bird singing sweet, jubilant notes. Clarice sat underneath the tree. She looked so white and cool in the midst of the hot sunlight, and the mad, red wildfire that danced before my eyes. She was smiling—looking at the water and smiling as though her thoughts were happy ones.

“Hermione, how far was I guilty? Standing within the pure presence of the great God, I swear to you I do not know. I was not master of myself. The red flame seemed to leap about me and to mock me! Hisses of laughter sounded in my ears! Oh! my darling, when I saw her sitting there, so bright, so beautiful, so happy—when I remembered that her fraud had parted me forever from you, I went mad! It all returns to me as the memory of a scene in which I had no share—as though I had stood by and seen some other person do it. I remember taking out the dagger and creeping silently behind her chair, she neither saw nor heard me. She was singing in a soft, low voice to herself. I saw the rings of golden hair on her white neck. A fury of murderous hate came over me. She had parted me from you.

“A thousand mocking devils seemed to be mocking around me as I plunged that dagger right into her heart. She uttered no cry, no sound, but fell with her face foremost into the lake, and I ran away.

“I remember how the green bough was swaying and the little birds singing when I turned round to see, and there was a gleam of golden hair in the cool, dark water. Hermione, I am making no false excuses to you—I am not seeking to clear myself from blame—but sure as I am now living and writing the words, so sure was I mad when I murdered the unhappy girl, whose only fault had been loving me too well and forging a letter that she thought would bring me to her feet. I was mad! God knows it! Believe me, sweet wife!”

CHAPTER LIV.

A DREAM AND THE AWAKENING.

Lord Lorriston’s voice died away in a low sob as he read the words.

“It is terrible,” said Kenelm, “that Ronald is right. When he did that deed he was mad. What a fearful love his was.”

Then Lord Lorriston read on:

“There came to me, Hermione, a curious instinct of self-preservation the moment that terrible deed was done. The red flame, the mocking devils, the hissing flame all vanished. I was cold, sick, faint, shuddering with awful, unknown dread. I went straight home into the library. I opened some paper, took a pen in my hand and waited.

“How long did I wait? Oh, my God! when I remember the agony of those bright, sunny, cruel hours—how the sun shone, how the flowers bloomed, how the bees and butterflies flitted past the roses in the window, how the birds sang, how warm gusts of sweet odor came floating into the room, and I sat motionless, silent, mute and dumb with horror, waiting till some one should come and tell me what was the matter in the woods. Waiting with a soul so full of horror I wonder that I did not die. Waiting with such sick dread as no words can realize—every golden gleam of sunlight bringing to my mind the fair hair floating in the dark water. Waiting until it seemed to me the whole world was still in one awful pause—the sunbeams never moved, the listening air was still—the deep, brooding silence grew so awful, so terrible that I tried to cry out, but could not.

“Then it came—the rush of many feet, the murmur of many voices, all crying for Sir Ronald—Sir Ronald—for my lady was drowned in the wood!

“Mary Thorne had found her, and she was the first to tell me the tale. There was no suspicion in her mind. I saw at once she never in the least suspected me of having caused the lady’s death. Oh! Hermione, I cannot tell you all the horrors. I do not know how I bore it. A thousand times each day the impulse came to me to own myself guilty and to put an end to my tortures. I made all kinds of pretexts and excuses to throw people off their guard, to give them a false clue, a false step, yet longed that they should turn round suddenly and find me guilty.

“People talk of remorse. Ah! my darling; the remorseless sting of that terrible pain never left me. It seemed to eat my very heart away, to prey upon my mind. It robbed me of health, of strength, of peace. I suffered terribly—God knows—most terribly for my sin! I could never tell you how much. Perhaps the most bitter hour of all was when I stood with Kenelm by the body of Clarice and heard the story of his love for her. How cruel Fate was! I loved you! Kenelm loved Clarice, and we were parted.

“Can you imagine what a long, dark, dull brooding dream is, Hermione? That was mine after she was buried. A man who commits a murder is hung for the crime; his lot is merciful compared to that of the man who repents and lives on. I have wept tears of blood for mine. I would have given my life over and over again ten thousand times never to have done the deed. I would have suffered the extremity of torture for the power to undo it.

“But remorse and repentance were all in vain; nothing could bring my wife back to me. She was gone forever. Nothing could undo my crime. Its record was written in the Book of God. Who could tear out the page? Hermione, I wore myself to a shadow. I neither slept, nor ate, nor rested. My nights and days were one long agony. I used to lie on my face for long hours together praying God to pardon me—to pity me—but peace and rest were all over in this world. I only remember that time as a hideous darkness in which there came no gleam of light.

“Until, like a white dove over troubled waters, like a sunbeam in deepest night, like a soft, sweet strain or harmony amongst terrible discord, came your little note, Hermione, and then, like snow before the sun, my sorrow seemed dispelled. I dared to raise my head, I dared to hope that God had pardoned me. I dared to hope white-winged peace might hover over me once more.

“You know the rest, sweet wife. For a short time I was happy because my love for you was so mighty there was no room for anything else in my heart, but after a time the fear, the shame, the remorse, the unutterable dread, the terrible anguish, all came over me again, and I knew that in the end they would kill me. Ah! my wife, what words will thank you for your love and care? Yet the more noble, the more true I found you, the deeper and more intolerable grew my remorse.

“Then my little children were born, and I looked in the sweet, innocent faces. My pain was martyrdom, and as they grew and began to talk to me, to love me, I loathed myself with the deepest loathing. Were my red hands such as holy lips should cover with tender kisses?

“Hermione, I can bear it no longer, so I am going away. It is at my own instigation that this offer has been made to me. I can bear the sweetness, the brightness, the purity of your presence, the tenderness of your love, the affection of my children, no longer. I go out like Cain, with the red brand upon my brow.

“I shall never return, love. Something tells me that death awaits me in that far-off land, that I am unworthy to sleep where the heroes of my race rest. I who married a woman and slew her. I have asked you, on my return, to meet me under our favorite tree. I shall never see you there, but go, my love, sometimes, when the wind whispers in the leaves, and it will tell how dearly I loved you. The great God is very merciful and He knows what I have suffered. It may be that my restless spirit will sigh among the branches. Go there, sweet wife, when the dew falls, and remember that I loved you with a love exceeding that of all other men.

“You will come, in time, to think of my life as a short one of tragedy—a love story that ended in madness and murder—a dream that had a most terrible awakening.

“You may ask me why—when I have tried so hard to elude all suspicion, and have succeeded—why have I preserved the dagger—why have I written this? I cannot tell you, Hermione. There is an old saying, ‘Murder will out.’ I feel compelled to write this confession. The idea is strong upon me that if I do not, harm and evil will come to you, and, my wife—life of my life, soul of my soul—we shall meet no more. You may never read this; it may be lost, it may be undiscovered, but if ever it comes to light, in reading it, judge me mercifully, for I was mad when I took the life of the woman I had sworn to love and cherish. I pray God in His mercy to pardon me, and I pray Him to keep from all men a love so terrible as mine.”

And there the manuscript ended. Lord Lorriston laid it down, and, kneeling by the side of his dead daughter, he wept aloud. It was a terrible story—a story of love so mighty in its wild passion it had blighted their lives.

Kenelm Eyrle listened to the deep sobs of the strong man, then he laid his hand reverently in the folded hands of the dead lady.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that she was born the victim. Clarice betrayed her, and Ronald’s love has brought her nothing but misery.”

Then they discussed the story of her self-sacrifice. Kenelm understood it. He told Lord Lorriston how they had opened the box to find the document, and had found there the dagger.

“This confession must have been lying near it, and Hermione took it without my knowing. She had read it and declared herself guilty in order to save him.”

“She loved him well, poor child,” said Lord Lorriston.

“She would have died for him,” continued Kenelm. “She would have gone, for his sake, to prison, and from the prison to the scaffold, if by doing so she might have saved him.”

“She loved him dearly. His death has broken her heart,” said Lord Lorriston. “In her case death is far more merciful than life—she would have been wretched, knowing his guilt, and wretched, knowing his death. It is better as it is.”

Even the father who had loved her so dearly kissed her face and murmured the same words, “It is better as it is.”

The story of that last hour of her life is known to none. The doctor said she died of disease of the heart; it might be so—but those who loved her knew her heart was broken. She had taken out that strange, sad confession of his, so mingled with love of her in order to destroy it, and she died with it in her hands.

What passed between her soul and God, who shall tell? Her terrible sorrow, her shame, her despair—she had to suffer it all alone; there was no one to help her bear it in that terrible hour; no one to soothe her agony; she struggled with it and died alone. The merit of the grand, self-sacrifice she would so willingly have accomplished was all her own; she had taken upon herself the burden of his guilt and been willing to suffer for it. All her sweet woman’s nature rose in rebellion against it—her true and loyal nature, that had in it no taint of anything mean or false—her delicate, sensitive, spiritual nature, that loved right and hated wrong, but she had trampled all under foot, and by reason of her great love had been willing to die the most shameful of deaths for his sake.

They thought a great deal of it at the time, but in after years they thought still more. How dearly she had loved him! How great was the sacrifice she would have made for him, when for his sake she was willing to die on the scaffold to shelter his sin!

The whole country round was grieved at the intelligence. People said, with tears in their eyes, they were not surprised; they would not believe in the doctor’s fable of disease of the heart—that she died because she loved Sir Ronald so well; she could not live without him. Gloom and mourning spread from place to place, for she had been loved as dearly in the cottages of the poor as in the halls of the rich.

CHAPTER LV.

THE REST IS PEACE.

“There must have been a spell in Aldenmere,” so people said. This was the second fair young wife who had been carried from there to the grave; the second who had met with a tragical death. What would become of the place? Who would take care of the children? These and a hundred other questions they asked, but no one answered them.

They did not bury Lady Hermione by Clarice’s side. Lord Lorriston, knowing all, could not endure the thought of it. She was taken thence, and the grave is on the western side of Leeholme churchyard, a warm, lovely, sunny spot, where the sun shines and the dew falls, where birds sing sweetest music and flowers yield richest perfume. The story of her deep, true love and unutterable sorrow, of her grief and heroic self-sacrifice, are buried with her.

The little Harry was heir to Aldenmere, but Lord Lorriston said the associations connected with the place were all so sad, that the children should not live there; they should make their home at Leeholme until the young heir was of age, and then he could please himself about returning there. The servants were all paid off; they were not sorry to leave a place rendered gloomy by two such tragedies. Some of them declared that long as they lived they should never regain their natural spirits.

Aldenmere was closed. The head gamekeeper and his wife were put in charge of the place. The state apartments, the magnificent guests’ chambers, the superb reception-rooms, were all closed and left to solitary desolation. Lord Lorriston declared that he never even wished to see the place again—it was so full of sorrowful memories for him.

The little orphan children were taken home to Leeholme, where, under the loving care of Lord and Lady Lorriston, they grew in strength, beauty and goodness. The after life of Sir Henry Alden, of Aldenmere, was eventful, but his story has been told by pens more eloquent than mine. The little child whom Sir Ronald kissed and blessed before he went on that long voyage from which he was never to return, made his name famous all over Europe. There was one thing he never knew, and that was the true history of his father’s life. Nor was that secret ever known.

Kenelm Eyrle found some means of pacifying the detectives he had so hastily summoned. They never heard one word of the truth, nor was it ever told; Lord Lorriston never even told his wife, and the secret of the first Lady Alden’s death remains a secret still.

Lord and Lady Lorriston found comfort after a time in the children they had adopted. Baby Maud grew up the exact picture of her mother, the same sweet face and tender eyes. There were times when, as Lorriston grew older, he would forget the tragedy at Aldenmere, and, seeing the golden head, would call her Hermione. There were times, too, when he longed to take the child on his knee and tell her how nobly her mother had kept her vow. But he never did so. The children grew up with no other knowledge save that their parents had both died when they were very young.

There were times, too, when Kenelm Eyrle regretted his sternness, his lost desire for vengeance, his long years of search for the criminal whom he afterward found in his dearest friend. If he had been less vigorous, less exact, Lady Hermione might have lived. He was very lonely; the great purpose of his life was accomplished; he had found out who murdered Clarice, but in making that discovery he made many others. Clarice was not what he had thought her. He had believed her one of the noblest and truest of women; now he found out that she had committed the most dishonorable of all frauds. The whole of the sad tragedy at Aldenmere was the consequence of her fault. If she had not stolen that letter and forged another there would have been no wrong, no suffering, no murder; after all, she had but reaped what she had sown—lo, that while his pity for her never grew less, his love, the intense passionate worship he had felt for her during life and for her memory after death, decreased. He had believed her an angel—she was but a faulty woman; he had believed her a goddess—she was but an ordinary fellow-creature, with more faults and imperfections than fell to the lot of most people.

The very consciousness of this made him more lonely than ever. He had so fitted his life with a reverential and worshiping love of her, that now that love had changed its character, his life seemed empty. He had not been to the Dower House for some time, because he felt that it was not kind nor wise to add to the perplexities of Lady Pelham.

One morning a messenger came with a note for him. It said simply: “You have been so kind to me that I cannot help writing to tell you that my husband lies even now on his deathbed and has sent for me. He has promised to do me justice and to clear my good name before the world.”

A few days afterward he read in the papers that Sir Alfred Pelham was dead, and before his death he had exonerated his wife from all blame. He had sworn to her innocence, and had withdrawn the charges brought against her after begging her to pardon him.

Kenelm Eyrle read it with pleasure. He read long articles in which the law, as it exists, enabling a man to wrong his wife in so deadly a fashion, was reprobated as it deserved to be.

He often found himself wondering whether she would return to the Dower House or not; he found his thoughts returning continually to her. Her beautiful face haunted him. He remembered her indignant appeals to Heaven for the justice she was not likely to obtain from man. It was a source of keen pleasure to him when she wrote to say that she intended to return to the Dower House, the only place where she had ever known either peace or happiness. She did return. It would be long to tell how their friendship ripened into love—how gradually the living love replaced the dead one in Kenelm Eyrle’s breast.

He is not so confident now over matters; time was when he would have laughed to scorn any one who had hinted that Clarice could be not only replaced but surpassed. Now he was not so violent in his opinions nor so apt to rush into extremes. The first impetuous love of his youth was lavished on Clarice Severn; the love of his sadder, wiser manhood was given to Juliet Payton. They were married some time afterward and lived happily enough at “The Towers.” Mrs. Eyrle is very kind to Sir Ronald’s orphan children, for long after Lady Hermione’s death, Kenelm never saw them without tears in his eyes. Children of his own make “The Towers” merry with their happy laughter; life is made up of sunshine and shade. He had suffered much, but peace and rest came to him after long years. There is one duty he never omits, and that is visiting the graves of the fair women who lost their lives through an unhappy love.

THE END.

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Zenobia’s Suitors

Sequel to “Sweet Love’s Atonement.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

172—

Sweet Love’s Atonement

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

171—

When Shadows Die

Sequel to “Love’s Bitterest Cup.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

170—

Love’s Bitterest Cup

Sequel to “Her Mother’s Secret.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

169—

Her Mother’s Secret

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

168—

The Mysterious Marriage

Sequel to “A Leap in the Dark.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

167—

A Leap in the Dark

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

166—

Fulfilling Her Destiny

Sequel to “When Love Commands.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

165—

When Love Commands

Sequel to “The Widows of Widowville.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

164—

The Widows of Widowville

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

163—

Unrequited Love

Sequel to “For Woman’s Love.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

162—

For Woman’s Love

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

161—

To His Fate

Sequel to “Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

160—

Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret

Sequel to “A Deed Without a Name.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

159—

A Deed Without a Name

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

158—

Brandon Coyle’s Wife

Sequel to “A Skeleton in the Closet.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

157—

A Skeleton in the Closet

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

156—

For Whose Sake?

Sequel to “Why Did He Wed Her?”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

155—

Why Did He Wed Her?

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

154—

David Lindsay

Sequel to “Gloria.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

153—

Gloria

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

152—

The Test of Love

Sequel to “A Tortured Heart.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

151—

A Tortured Heart

Sequel to “The Trail of the Serpent.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

150—

The Trail of the Serpent

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

149—

The Struggle of a Soul

Sequel to “The Lost Lady of Lone.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

148—

The Lost Lady of Lone

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

147—

Her Love or Her Life?

Sequel to “The Bride’s Ordeal.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

146—

The Bride’s Ordeal

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

145—

Lilith

Sequel to “The Unloved Wife.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

144—

The Unloved Wife

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

143—

Em’s Husband

Sequel to “Em.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

142—

Em

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

141—

Reunited

Sequel to “Gertrude Haddon.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

140—

Gertrude Haddon

Sequel to “A Husband’s Devotion.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

139—

A Husband’s Devotion

Sequel to “The Rejected Bride.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

138—

The Rejected Bride

Sequel to “Gertrude’s Sacrifice.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

137—

Gertrude’s Sacrifice

Sequel to “Only a Girl’s Heart.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

136—

Only a Girl’s Heart

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

134—

Little Nea’s Engagement

Sequel to “Nearest and Dearest.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

133—

Nearest and Dearest

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

81—

The Artist’s Love

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

53—

Capitola’s Peril

Sequel to “The Hidden Hand.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

52—

The Hidden Hand

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

42—

The Mystery of Raven Rocks

Sequel to “Unknown.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

41—

Unknown

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

40—

Tried for Her Life

(Vol. II. The Holloweve Mystery)

Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

39—

Cruel as the Grave

(Vol. I. The Holloweve Mystery)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

38—

Victor’s Triumph

Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

37—

A Beautiful Fiend

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

36—

A Noble Lord

Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

35—

The Lost Heir of Linlithgow

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

34—

The Lady of the Isle

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

33—

The Bride’s Fate

Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”

(Vol. II. Winning Her Way)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

32—

The Changed Brides

(Vol. I. Winning Her Way)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

31—

The Doom of Deville

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

30—

The Broken Engagement

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

29—

The Three Beauties;

or, Shannondale

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

28—

How He Won Her

Sequel to “Fair Play.”

(Vol. II. Britomarte)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

27—

Fair Play

(Vol. I. Britomarte)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

26—

Love’s Labor Won

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

25—

Eudora; or, The False Princess

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

24—

The Two Sisters

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

23—

The Bridal Eve

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

22—

The Bride of Llewellyn

Sequel to “The Widow’s Son.”

(Vol. II. Left Alone)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

21—

The Widow’s Son

(Vol. I. Left Alone)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

20—

The Bride’s Dowry

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

19—

The Gipsy’s Prophecy

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

18—

The Maiden Widow

Sequel to “The Family Doom.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

17—

The Family Doom

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

16—

The Fortune Seeker

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

15—

The Haunted Homestead

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

14—

The Christmas Guest

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

13—

The Three Sisters

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

12—

The Wife’s Victory

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

11—

The Deserted Wife

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

10—

The Mother-in-Law;

or, Married in Haste

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

9—

The Discarded Daughter;

or, The Children of the Isle

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

8—

The Lost Heiress

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

7—

Vivia;

or, The Secret of Power

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

6—

The Curse of Clifton

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

5—

The Missing Bride

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

4—

India;

or, The Pearl of Pearl River

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

3—

Self-raised

Sequel to “Ishmael.”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

2—

Ishmael

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

1—

Retribution

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

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Table of Contents

A Tragedy of Love and Hate

A TRAGEDY OF LOVE AND HATE.

CHAPTER I. THE TRAGEDY.

CHAPTER II. WHO KILLED LADY CLARICE?

CHAPTER III. AN OPEN VERDICT.

CHAPTER IV. KENELM EYRLE.

CHAPTER V. WHICH LOVED HER BEST?

CHAPTER VI. KENELM EYRLE’S VOW.

CHAPTER VII. THE RIVAL BEAUTIES.

CHAPTER VIII. HOW THE TRAGEDY BEGAN.

CHAPTER IX. KENELM EYRLE’S LOVE.

CHAPTER X. SIR RONALD’S ERROR.

CHAPTER XI. CHARADES.

CHAPTER XII. LADY HERMIONE’S BIRTHDAY.

CHAPTER XIII. LED ON BY FATE.

CHAPTER XIV. A THUNDERBOLT.

CHAPTER XV. WITHOUT HOPE.

CHAPTER XVI. “THE ALDEN PRIDE.”

CHAPTER XVII. TWO YEARS AFTERWARD.

CHAPTER XVIII. HOW THE LOVE STORY ENDED.

CHAPTER XIX. AS A DROWNING MAN.

CHAPTER XX. A LAST LOOK.

CHAPTER XXI. MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER XXII. IN HOLME WOODS.

CHAPTER XXIII. BAD MADE WORSE.

CHAPTER XXIV. FAREWELL.

CHAPTER XXV. THE MYSTERY UNSOLVED.

CHAPTER XXVI. AFTER NIGHT, MORNING.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE OLIVE LEAF.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE MORNING BRIGHTNESS.

CHAPTER XXIX. AFTER FOUR YEARS.

CHAPTER XXX. IN DEFENSE OF CRIME.

CHAPTER XXXI. A LAUREL WREATH.

CHAPTER XXXII. SIR RONALD’S DECISION.

CHAPTER XXXIII. “REMEMBER YOUR VOW.”

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE TOWERS.

CHAPTER XXXV. A MYSTERIOUS LADY.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE TENANT OF THE DOWER HOUSE.

CHAPTER XXXVII. FAIR WOMEN.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE DOWER HOUSE WATCHED.

CHAPTER XXXIX. LADY PELHAM.

CHAPTER XL. LADY PELHAM’S STORY.

CHAPTER XLI. THE STORY CONTINUED.

CHAPTER XLII. A FIENDISH ACCUSATION.

CHAPTER XLIII. A WHITE SOUL.

CHAPTER XLIV. A WOMAN’S SHAME.

CHAPTER XLV. THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

CHAPTER XLVI. KENELM EYRLE’S ACCUSATION.

CHAPTER XLVII. A WIFE’S LOVE.

CHAPTER XLVIII. HOW WILL IT END?

CHAPTER XLIX. SIR RONALD’S DEATH.

CHAPTER L. THE VOW KEPT.

CHAPTER LI. A SOUL AT REST.

CHAPTER LII. SIR RONALD’S CONFESSION.

CHAPTER LIII. THE SLAVE OF PASSION.

CHAPTER LIV. A DREAM AND THE AWAKENING.

CHAPTER LV. THE REST IS PEACE.

SOUTHWORTH LIBRARY

S. & S. Novels

Transcriber’s Notes

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