A tragedy of love and hate

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.”