A tragedy of love and hate

“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.”