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.