A tragedy of love and hate

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.