A tragedy of love and hate

Lord Lorriston’s voice died away in a low sob as he read the words.

“It is terrible,” said Kenelm, “that Ronald is right. When he did that deed he was mad. What a fearful love his was.”

Then Lord Lorriston read on:

“There came to me, Hermione, a curious instinct of self-preservation the moment that terrible deed was done. The red flame, the mocking devils, the hissing flame all vanished. I was cold, sick, faint, shuddering with awful, unknown dread. I went straight home into the library. I opened some paper, took a pen in my hand and waited.

“How long did I wait? Oh, my God! when I remember the agony of those bright, sunny, cruel hours—how the sun shone, how the flowers bloomed, how the bees and butterflies flitted past the roses in the window, how the birds sang, how warm gusts of sweet odor came floating into the room, and I sat motionless, silent, mute and dumb with horror, waiting till some one should come and tell me what was the matter in the woods. Waiting with a soul so full of horror I wonder that I did not die. Waiting with such sick dread as no words can realize—every golden gleam of sunlight bringing to my mind the fair hair floating in the dark water. Waiting until it seemed to me the whole world was still in one awful pause—the sunbeams never moved, the listening air was still—the deep, brooding silence grew so awful, so terrible that I tried to cry out, but could not.

“Then it came—the rush of many feet, the murmur of many voices, all crying for Sir Ronald—Sir Ronald—for my lady was drowned in the wood!

“Mary Thorne had found her, and she was the first to tell me the tale. There was no suspicion in her mind. I saw at once she never in the least suspected me of having caused the lady’s death. Oh! Hermione, I cannot tell you all the horrors. I do not know how I bore it. A thousand times each day the impulse came to me to own myself guilty and to put an end to my tortures. I made all kinds of pretexts and excuses to throw people off their guard, to give them a false clue, a false step, yet longed that they should turn round suddenly and find me guilty.

“People talk of remorse. Ah! my darling; the remorseless sting of that terrible pain never left me. It seemed to eat my very heart away, to prey upon my mind. It robbed me of health, of strength, of peace. I suffered terribly—God knows—most terribly for my sin! I could never tell you how much. Perhaps the most bitter hour of all was when I stood with Kenelm by the body of Clarice and heard the story of his love for her. How cruel Fate was! I loved you! Kenelm loved Clarice, and we were parted.

“Can you imagine what a long, dark, dull brooding dream is, Hermione? That was mine after she was buried. A man who commits a murder is hung for the crime; his lot is merciful compared to that of the man who repents and lives on. I have wept tears of blood for mine. I would have given my life over and over again ten thousand times never to have done the deed. I would have suffered the extremity of torture for the power to undo it.

“But remorse and repentance were all in vain; nothing could bring my wife back to me. She was gone forever. Nothing could undo my crime. Its record was written in the Book of God. Who could tear out the page? Hermione, I wore myself to a shadow. I neither slept, nor ate, nor rested. My nights and days were one long agony. I used to lie on my face for long hours together praying God to pardon me—to pity me—but peace and rest were all over in this world. I only remember that time as a hideous darkness in which there came no gleam of light.

“Until, like a white dove over troubled waters, like a sunbeam in deepest night, like a soft, sweet strain or harmony amongst terrible discord, came your little note, Hermione, and then, like snow before the sun, my sorrow seemed dispelled. I dared to raise my head, I dared to hope that God had pardoned me. I dared to hope white-winged peace might hover over me once more.

“You know the rest, sweet wife. For a short time I was happy because my love for you was so mighty there was no room for anything else in my heart, but after a time the fear, the shame, the remorse, the unutterable dread, the terrible anguish, all came over me again, and I knew that in the end they would kill me. Ah! my wife, what words will thank you for your love and care? Yet the more noble, the more true I found you, the deeper and more intolerable grew my remorse.

“Then my little children were born, and I looked in the sweet, innocent faces. My pain was martyrdom, and as they grew and began to talk to me, to love me, I loathed myself with the deepest loathing. Were my red hands such as holy lips should cover with tender kisses?

“Hermione, I can bear it no longer, so I am going away. It is at my own instigation that this offer has been made to me. I can bear the sweetness, the brightness, the purity of your presence, the tenderness of your love, the affection of my children, no longer. I go out like Cain, with the red brand upon my brow.

“I shall never return, love. Something tells me that death awaits me in that far-off land, that I am unworthy to sleep where the heroes of my race rest. I who married a woman and slew her. I have asked you, on my return, to meet me under our favorite tree. I shall never see you there, but go, my love, sometimes, when the wind whispers in the leaves, and it will tell how dearly I loved you. The great God is very merciful and He knows what I have suffered. It may be that my restless spirit will sigh among the branches. Go there, sweet wife, when the dew falls, and remember that I loved you with a love exceeding that of all other men.

“You will come, in time, to think of my life as a short one of tragedy—a love story that ended in madness and murder—a dream that had a most terrible awakening.

“You may ask me why—when I have tried so hard to elude all suspicion, and have succeeded—why have I preserved the dagger—why have I written this? I cannot tell you, Hermione. There is an old saying, ‘Murder will out.’ I feel compelled to write this confession. The idea is strong upon me that if I do not, harm and evil will come to you, and, my wife—life of my life, soul of my soul—we shall meet no more. You may never read this; it may be lost, it may be undiscovered, but if ever it comes to light, in reading it, judge me mercifully, for I was mad when I took the life of the woman I had sworn to love and cherish. I pray God in His mercy to pardon me, and I pray Him to keep from all men a love so terrible as mine.”

And there the manuscript ended. Lord Lorriston laid it down, and, kneeling by the side of his dead daughter, he wept aloud. It was a terrible story—a story of love so mighty in its wild passion it had blighted their lives.

Kenelm Eyrle listened to the deep sobs of the strong man, then he laid his hand reverently in the folded hands of the dead lady.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that she was born the victim. Clarice betrayed her, and Ronald’s love has brought her nothing but misery.”

Then they discussed the story of her self-sacrifice. Kenelm understood it. He told Lord Lorriston how they had opened the box to find the document, and had found there the dagger.

“This confession must have been lying near it, and Hermione took it without my knowing. She had read it and declared herself guilty in order to save him.”

“She loved him well, poor child,” said Lord Lorriston.

“She would have died for him,” continued Kenelm. “She would have gone, for his sake, to prison, and from the prison to the scaffold, if by doing so she might have saved him.”

“She loved him dearly. His death has broken her heart,” said Lord Lorriston. “In her case death is far more merciful than life—she would have been wretched, knowing his guilt, and wretched, knowing his death. It is better as it is.”

Even the father who had loved her so dearly kissed her face and murmured the same words, “It is better as it is.”

The story of that last hour of her life is known to none. The doctor said she died of disease of the heart; it might be so—but those who loved her knew her heart was broken. She had taken out that strange, sad confession of his, so mingled with love of her in order to destroy it, and she died with it in her hands.

What passed between her soul and God, who shall tell? Her terrible sorrow, her shame, her despair—she had to suffer it all alone; there was no one to help her bear it in that terrible hour; no one to soothe her agony; she struggled with it and died alone. The merit of the grand, self-sacrifice she would so willingly have accomplished was all her own; she had taken upon herself the burden of his guilt and been willing to suffer for it. All her sweet woman’s nature rose in rebellion against it—her true and loyal nature, that had in it no taint of anything mean or false—her delicate, sensitive, spiritual nature, that loved right and hated wrong, but she had trampled all under foot, and by reason of her great love had been willing to die the most shameful of deaths for his sake.

They thought a great deal of it at the time, but in after years they thought still more. How dearly she had loved him! How great was the sacrifice she would have made for him, when for his sake she was willing to die on the scaffold to shelter his sin!

The whole country round was grieved at the intelligence. People said, with tears in their eyes, they were not surprised; they would not believe in the doctor’s fable of disease of the heart—that she died because she loved Sir Ronald so well; she could not live without him. Gloom and mourning spread from place to place, for she had been loved as dearly in the cottages of the poor as in the halls of the rich.