CHAPTER IV.
KENELM EYRLE.
It was the night before the funeral, and Sir Ronald sat in his study alone. His servants spoke of him in lowered voices, for since the terrible day of the murder the master of Aldenmere had hardly tasted food. More than once he had rung the bell, and, when it was answered, with white lips and stone-cold face, he had asked for a tumbler of brandy.
It was past ten o’clock now, and the silent gloom seemed to gather in intensity, when suddenly there came a fierce ring at the hall door, so fierce, so imperative, so vehement that one and all the frightened servants sprang up, and the old housekeeper, with folded hands, prayed, “Lord have mercy on us!”
Two of the men went, wondering who it was, and what was wanted.
“Not a very decent way to ring, with one lying dead in the house,” said one to the other; but, even before they reached the hall door, it was repeated more imperatively than before.
They opened it quickly. There stood a gentleman who had evidently ridden hard, for his horse was covered with foam; he had dismounted in order to ring.
“Is this horrible, accursed story true?” he asked, in a loud, ringing voice. “Is Lady Alden dead?”
“It is quite true, sir,” replied one of the men, quick to recognize the true aristocrat.
“Where is Sir Ronald?” he asked, quickly.
“He cannot see any one.”
“Nonsense!” interrupted the stranger, “he must see me; I insist upon seeing him. Take my card and tell him I am waiting. You send a groom to attend to my horse; I have ridden hard.”
Both obeyed him, and the gentleman sat down in the entrance hall while the card was taken to Sir Ronald. The servant rapped many times, but no answer came; at length he opened the door. There sat Sir Ronald, just as he had done the night before—his head bent, his eyes closed, his face bearing most terrible marks of suffering.
The man went up to him gently.
“Sir Ronald,” he asked, “will you pardon me? The gentleman who brought this card insists upon seeing you, and will not leave the house until he has done so. I would not have intruded, Sir Ronald, but we thought perhaps it might be important.”
Sir Ronald took the card and looked at the name. As he did so a red flush covered his pale face, and his lips trembled.
“I will see him,” he said, in a faint, hoarse voice.
“May I bring you some wine or brandy, Sir Ronald?” asked the man.
“No, nothing. Ask Mr. Eyrle to come here.”
He stood quite still until the stranger entered the room; then he raised his haggard face, and the two men looked at each other.
“You have suffered,” said Kenelm Eyrle; “I can see that. I never thought to meet you thus, Sir Ronald.”
“No,” said the faint voice.
“We both loved her. You won her, and she sent me away. But, by heaven! if she had been mine, I would have taken better care of her than you have done.”
“I did not fail in care or kindness,” was the meek reply.
“Perhaps I am harsh,” he said, more gently. “You look very ill, Sir Ronald; forgive me if I am abrupt; my heart is broken with this terrible story.”
“Do you think it is less terrible for me?” said Sir Ronald, with a sick shudder. “Do you understand how awful even the word murder is?”
“Yes; it is because I understand so well that I am here. Ronald,” he added, “there has been ill feeling between us since you won the prize I would have died for. We were like brothers when we were boys; even now, if you were prosperous and happy, as I have seen you in my dreams, I would shun, avoid and hate you, if I could.”
His voice grew sweet and musical with the deep feelings stirred in his heart.
“Now that you are in trouble that few men know; now that the bitterest blow the hand of fate can give has fallen on you, let me be your true friend, comrade and brother again.”
He held out his hand and clasped the cold, unyielding one of his friend.
“I will help you as far as one man can help another, Ronald. We will bury the old feud and forget everything except that we have a wrong to avenge, a crime to punish, a murderer to bring to justice!”
“You are very good to me, Kenelm,” said the broken voice; “you see that I have hardly any strength or energy.”
“I have plenty,” said Kenelm Eyrle, “and it shall be used for one purpose. Ronald, will you let me see her? She is to be buried to-morrow—the fairest face the sun ever shone on will be taken away forever. Let me see her; do not refuse me. For the memory of the boy’s love so strong between us once—for the memory of the man’s love and the man’s sorrow that has laid my life bare and waste, let me see her, Ronald?”
“I will go with you,” said Sir Ronald Alden; and, for the first time since the tragedy in its full horror had been known to him, Sir Ronald left the library and went to the room where his dead wife lay.