A tragedy of love and hate

Lady Hermione Alden sat in her room alone. Her children had been in with their pretty morning greetings, and had, for the first time, hurried from her, scared by the sight of that pale, stricken, haggard face.

“They say there is mercy in heaven,” she moaned. “Will that mercy be shown to me?”

The few hours that had passed over her head seemed like so many years.

“Was it only yesterday morning,” she asked herself, “that I was laughing, a child among my children, and now I am stricken with grief as with years? Oh! if I could only fly to Ronald and bid him be silent until I am dead. I remember my vow; every word of it burned in on my heart, and I fulfill it, even as Jephtha did his. Let it cost me my life—what is life?—only the breath of the body; the better part of me can never die.”

Then something seemed to plead in her heart for her children, so young, so tender.

“Better the stain on my name than on his,” she said. “People will say I am jealous and mad; much is pardoned in a jealous woman.”

Aldenmere was looking more beautiful than ever that morning. The brightest sun shone over it, the trees wore their green dress, the birds filled the air with song, the flowers were all luscious bloom and fragrance, the fountains rippled merrily in the sunlight; yet the mistress of all this splendor sat in a darkened room, where neither sunlight nor fragrance could reach her.

“I must read it again,” she said, rising from the chair. “I must read it, though every word stabs me, though every word burns its way into my brain and leaves a pain there. I must read it, even as men gaze curiously upon the sword that is to slay them; and then, when it is once more read, I will destroy it. There shall be no more written evidence of what was a cruel wrong.”

She went to a drawer and unlocked it. She took from it the same small parcel that had lain in the secret drawer of the box, and, as she did so a pallor, ghastly and awful to see, came over her face. The same strange, faint fluttering at her heart that had seized her before came again, and this time it strangled the breath on her lips. She gasped for breath and could not find it; her lips grew rigid, her hands cold, then her heart gave one sudden bound and the breath came back in fluttering sighs.

She sat down. Not just yet had she strength to open the fatal parcel. She bowed her head down upon it and sat silent, motionless as the dead. She raised her beautiful, colorless face when a servant rapped at the door and announced: “Lord Lorriston and Mr. Eyrle.”

She rose when they entered, still clutching that packet tightly in her hands, as though from it she gained strength. A certain majesty and dignity came to her, the trembling limbs grew still, the lips calm.

She looked from one to the other as they entered. Were they come to judge her? Had Kenelm Eyrle, despite his promise, been so thirsty for her life that he had hastened to denounce her? Had her father come already to curse her? She looked at him with fearless glance. Ah! there was no anger in that pale face of his—nothing but most tender pity and deepest grief.

Kenelm Eyrle stood aside while the earl came to her and kissed the pallid face.

“My dearest Hermione, you look very ill; what is the matter? Why have you not sent for us? You must have been ill for days.”

“He does not know yet,” she thought, clutching the packet still more tightly in her white hands.

“Sit down, my darling,” said Lord Lorriston. “You look so unfit to stand—so unfit, God help you, to bear more trouble or sorrow.”

“Is there any more for me?” she asked. “I thought my cup was quite full. What is it, father? I do not think anything can hurt me now.”

He did not understand her—he did not know she had any greater trouble than the absence of her husband.

“I have sad news for you, my darling; you will require all your fortitude to enable you to bear it.”

She smiled so faintly, so sadly, that his heart ached for her.

“I have plenty of fortitude, papa. Do not fear for me—tell me what is wrong. I come of a race that knows how to endure.”

“I have had letters from Alexandria this morning; and, Hermione, there is bad news from your husband.”

“From Ronald?” she repeated; and he shrank from the woe in that fair face.

“Is he ill?” she asked, slowly. “Can I go to him?”

“No; you cannot join him, my darling. Kenelm, why do you not help me? You see that I cannot frame the words. You cannot join him; for the cares and troubles of this world are over for him. He will suffer and enjoy no more.”

They saw a great calm steal over her. They had expected an outburst of passionate sorrow; but no word came from those pale lips.

“You mean,” she said, “that he is dead.”

The words sounded like a moan.

“Yes,” repeated Lord Lorriston; “he died quite suddenly, and they wrote to tell me.”

She did not faint or droop; she stood quite still, with this strange, dignified calm; no tears came to her eyes.

“My husband is dead,” she said, slowly. “Oh, Ronald, let me come to you!”

All faculty of emotion seemed frozen within her.

“My dearest child,” said the earl, tenderly, “do not try to control your sorrow. Who so true as we? You can weep before us. You will die if you keep back your tears. I know how you loved poor Ronald.”

She looked at him again with the same strange, sad smile.

“I shall not weep,” she said. “It is through the mercy of God that my husband is dead.”

Lord Lorriston looked at her in amaze; he thought the shock of the sad intelligence he had brought must have crazed her. He went to her, and Kenelm looked on with an aching heart. The time had come when the earl must know, and he knew what the knowledge would cost him.

“Hermione,” said Lord Lorriston, quietly, “you are ill; you are bewildered; try to collect yourself. Your husband is dead, and surely no greater sorrow can come to any woman than the loss of one so good, so kind and true.”

She drew back with a shudder from the kindly hand that would have caressed her.

“Do not touch me, papa,” she said; “do not speak kindly to me—you have something yet to learn. I repeat my words; it is by the mercy of God that my husband is dead.”

She repeated the words so solemnly and with such sincerity that Lord Lorriston was impressed with them.

“Lady Alden,” said Mr. Eyrle, “it is not my place to interfere, but do you not think that Lord Lorriston has sorrow enough for one day?”

“Let him hear the truth,” she replied. “God was merciful, papa, when He sent for my husband. He will never hear now the story of my guilt.”

“What guilt, my poor child? Oh! Kenelm, she is cruelly distraught. What guilt can rest on one so sweet, so pure, so fair as she is?”

He did not answer, and the earl turned caressingly to his child.

“My darling,” he said; “my dearest Hermione, tell me what you mean. I do not understand. What cruel fancy have you of guilt—what simple folly have you magnified into crime?”

Her white lips trembled convulsively; she tried to speak, but the power of speech had gone from her.

“She cannot accuse herself,” said Mr. Eyrle. “She cannot tell him what she has done. It is a terrible task, and it will fall to me.”

But he had mistaken her; there was strength enough in that delicate body for more than men accomplish.

“When you have heard what I have to say, papa, you will turn from me in anger and never look at me again. Ronald’s death has troubled you. Would to Heaven I might die as he has done.”

Then her courage suddenly failed her. She could not look at that kind, noble face—the face she revered and honored—with that story of guilt and shame. Her arms fell, her head drooped, and for a few minutes Kenelm Eyrle thought she would fall down dead. The little packet almost slipped from her nerveless grasp; that revived her. What could it contain that the mere contact with it should nerve and fortify her? She held it more tightly, with a clinging touch, as she rose once more and looked at her father.

“Papa,” she said, “I am very guilty. I am terribly guilty. Mr. Eyrle will tell you of a discovery he has made. I confess to you that I am guilty of Clarice Alden’s death.”

Lord Lorriston recoiled as though a pistol had been fired in his face, horror and dismay on every feature. He stood for some minutes, rooted to the ground, in silent horror that knew no words.

“I knew you would shrink from me,” she said, in a low, wearied voice; “but it is true, papa. I am guilty of her death.”

“I do not believe it,” said the earl; “it is incredible. Oh, Kenelm! she is mad! Bitter sorrow has distracted her. She is mad! My Hermione, my child—fairest, purest, dearest—I could sooner believe myself guilty than you! What cruel fancy, what blind delusion is this, Kenelm? Why do you not speak to me? Do you not see I am going mad with horror? What does it mean?”

She stood white and silent, the image of despair. Mr. Eyrle laid his hand on Lord Lorriston’s arm.

“I am afraid it is no fancy; I have every reason to fear that it is but too true.”

“I will not believe it,” cried the earl, in a hoarse voice, full of pain. “I cannot believe it; it is against all nature, all sense, all reason. My daughter could never have injured a bird, much less have taken the life of her own friend. It is madness. This is either a conspiracy or a delusion. I will hear no more of it. What do you say, Hermione?”

“Will you leave me?” she said; “only for a few moments. I am ill.”