A tragedy of love and hate

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.