A tragedy of love and hate

A night had passed, bringing no rest to Kenelm Eyrle. He had gone home to The Towers, but sleep was far from him. His whole soul recoiled with horror from the shock. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined anything so horrible. He had not, in fact, believed her; but on his way home it struck him that he might have confirmation of one part of her story.

Her cousin, of whom she had spoken, was Colonel Hurdlestone, and he lived not far from The Towers. Kenelm rode round there and found him enjoying some fine claret. Colonel Hurdlestone asked him to join him, and Mr. Eyrle, thinking the opportunity a good one, consented.

He talked to his host about different matters of interest until he turned the conversation on different weapons.

“Let me see, did you not once give Lady Hermione Lorriston a dagger—an antique of great value?”

The colonel, who was fond of antiques, brightened at the thought of it.

“Yes; one I brought with me from Greece—quite a curiosity; long, very slender, and bright, with a jeweled handle. My cousin prized it very much, but I have not seen it of late. I must ask her about it.”

“You gave it to her, then, to keep?” said Mr. Eyrle, the last faint hope dying from his heart.

The colonel laughed.

“Yes; one does not lend such curiosities. To tell you the truth, I gave it to my Lady Hermione rather against my will; she admired it and asked me for it. I considered that dagger one of the greatest curiosities I brought with me from Greece.”

“It was a strange thing to attract Lady Hermione’s attention,” said Kenelm.

“Ah!” laughed the colonel; “there is no accounting for tastes. Those ancient Grecian ladies must have been fine-spirited dames. I should not like to say that the pretty dagger Lady Hermione admired had been used as an instrument of vengeance.”

Mr. Eyrle rose hastily from his seat. He could not have borne another word. Colonel Hurdlestone thought him strange and abrupt, then excused him by remembering that for some years the master of The Towers had been quite unlike his original self.

He rode home through the dewy forest. The stars were beginning to shine; their pale, holy light brought peace and serene calm, but not for him. There was to be no more peace for him. He could no longer doubt. She was guilty; she must be guilty; she owned herself so, and here was a corroboration of her story. He wished wearily that his life had been different—that he had lived in other lands, at other times—anything rather than to be who and what he was. He doubted even his own nerve and courage—whether he would pursue this matter even to the bitter end. Then he remembered his oath. Come what might, he must be true to that. His heart ached with intense pity for her, despite the deed that she had done.

“How she loves Ronald,” he said to himself, thinking of the light upon her face when she remembered his name. “How she loves him. I never saw one life so completely bound in another. What will he say or think when he hears this awful news?”

It seemed to him that he suffered quite as much as he had done when Clarice died. In his quiet, brotherly way he had loved Lady Hermione very dearly; he had loved her piquant, graceful, gentle manner, her varied charms of mind. Even while he loved Clarice best, he paid all homage to Lady Hermione’s tender, earnest, poetical mind. He had always considered her capable of anything grand and heroic. Now, it seemed her heroism had ended in murder. The thought lashed him like a thousand furies. He found himself pitying the living lady more than her dead victim. He found himself making excuses for her, saying to himself: “How much she must have suffered—what agonies of love and jealousy—before she brought herself to the frenzy that ended in murder.”

The beauty and serenity of the summer night brought no calm to his wearied spirits. His head ached with the whirl of his thoughts, his brain burned. He could not refrain from thinking, if he suffered thus, what was not Lady Hermione enduring?

It was morning before he fell asleep; then it was only to dream troubled dreams, full of vague horror for which he had no name. He was aroused by a visit from Lord Lorriston, who sent to ask him if he would come down at once, as he wished to see him on most important business. He had hunted the criminal down; he had sworn to himself never to rest until justice had been done, and when he heard that the earl was there his face grew pale with anguish.

“He must have heard it,” he said. “Who can have told him?”

He went hastily down to the library, where Lord Lorriston awaited him. He feared the worst when he saw the earl’s haggard face.

“I am an early visitor, Kenelm,” he said, “but I am in sore trouble. I have come to you for help.”

“You can have all the help I can give, Lord Lorriston. What is it?”

“I was vain enough and foolish enough to boast two years ago that I hardly knew trouble even by name. I humbly beg pardon of Heaven for my boast.”

He laid a packet of papers on the table.

“The mail came in yesterday. I read the announcement of it in the papers; it has brought news that will most surely kill my daughter.”

Kenelm’s heart gave one great bound.

“He knows nothing yet,” he thought, and the idea was a reprieve to him.

“Here are four letters,” continued the earl, “and they all announce the same sad intelligence—the death of Sir Ronald Alden.”

It seemed to Kenelm that the world itself was coming to an end. “Lady Hermione a murderess—Sir Ronald dead.”

He repeated the words slowly, almost bewildered.

“Ronald dead! Oh, Lord Lorriston, can it be true?”

“Read those, and judge for yourself.”

Kenelm perused the letters. One was from the leader of the expedition, another from the doctor who had attended him, another from one of the friends who traveled with him, and they all contained the same horrible news. Sir Ronald, who for some time past had seemed much better in health and spirits, had been seized with a malignant fever and died suddenly, almost before there had been time to apply any remedies.

As Kenelm read there came to him a vision of the bright-eyed, eager boy whom he had loved so dearly—friend and brother—great tears rose to his eyes, a sob to his lips.

“I knew you would feel it,” said Lord Lorriston. “You loved him; so did I. Kenelm, how are we to break this to Lady Hermione? You see what Dr. Lawson says; the letters have been sent to me, but if the shock should prove fatal to Lady Alden, how shall we tell her?”

“How shall I tell him?” thought Mr. Eyrle. “Heaven knows it was bad enough before; this only makes it worse.”

“I want you to come out with me to Aldenmere, Kenelm,” continued the earl, “and help me to tell Lady Hermione—I—I fear it will kill her.”

Mr. Eyrle looked compassionately at the man over whose head hung so terrible a secret.

“I was there yesterday,” he said. “I will go with the utmost pleasure.”

“Lady Lorriston would have been the most proper person to go, but unfortunately I told her quite suddenly, and she is ill with the shock. We all loved poor Ronald very dearly.”

“I will go at once,” said Mr. Eyrle, shuddering as he thought of what else that loving, anxious mother might have to suffer.

“Take some breakfast first,” said the earl, kindly. “You look very ill and tired yourself.”

A cup of tea was brought in and he drank it hurriedly while his horse was saddled. He could not eat. Bread seemed as ashes between his lips; and then came to him a thought that, with this fever of unrest upon him—the fever of sorrow—he should not eat again.

“We must ride quickly,” said the earl. “I should not like Hermione to hear the news from any one else. This is my first trouble, Kenelm, and, believe me, it is a heavy one.”

Then came to Mr. Eyrle a remembrance of lines that had once haunted him:

They ran through his mind until they reached Aldenmere, where sorrow in darkest guise awaited them.