A tragedy of love and hate

In the picturesque and beautiful country of Loamshire they still tell of the funeral, the extraordinary crowd of people assembled to pay the last mark of homage to Lady Clarice Alden.

Perhaps most pity of all was given to the hapless lady’s mother, Mrs. Severn, a handsome, stately, white-haired old lady, little accustomed to demonstration of any kind. She had apologized for her excessive grief by saying to every one:

“She was my only child, you know, and I loved her so dearly—my only one.”

The long ceremony was over at last and the mourners returned to Aldenmere.

The morning afterward the blinds were drawn. Once more the blessed sunlight filled the rooms with light and warmth; once more the servants spoke in their natural voices and the younger ones became more anxious as to whether their new mourning was becoming or not; but the master of the house was not sensible to anything—the terrible tragedy had done its worst; Sir Ronald Alden of Aldenmere lay in the clutches of fierce fever, battling for life.

The sympathy of the whole neighborhood was aroused. The murder had been bad enough; but that it should also cause Sir Ronald’s death was too terrible to contemplate.

Mrs. Severn remained to nurse her son-in-law; but after a time his illness became too dangerous, and the doctors sent for two trained nurses who could give the needful care to the sick man.

It was a close and terrible fight. Sir Ronald had naturally a strong and magnificent constitution; it seemed as though he fought inch by inch for his life. He was delirious, but it hardly seemed like the ordinary delirium of fever; it was one long, incessant muttering, no one could tell what, and just when the doctors were beginning to despair and the nurses to grow weary of what seemed an almost helpless task, Kenelm Eyrle came to the rescue. He took up his abode at Aldenmere and devoted himself to Sir Ronald. His strength and patience were both great; he was possessed of such intense vitality himself, and such power of will, that he soon established a marvelous influence over the patient.

For some days the contest seemed even—life and death were equally balanced—Sir Ronald was weak as a feeble infant, but the terrible brain fever was conquered, and the doctors gave a slight hope of his recovery. Then it was that Kenelm’s help was invaluable; his strong arm guided the feeble steps, his cheerful words roused him, his strong will influenced him, and that Sir Ronald did recover, after God, was owing to his friend.

When he was well enough to think of moving about, the doctors strongly advised him to go away from the scene of the fatal tragedy.

“Take your friend to some cheerful place, Mr. Eyrle,” they said, “where he can forget that his beautiful young wife was cruelly murdered; whether he mentions the matter or not, it is now always in his thoughts, his mind dwells on it constantly; take him anywhere where it will cease to haunt him.”

Kenelm was quite willing.

“I must defer the great business of my life,” he said, “until Ronald is himself again; then if the murderer be still on earth I will find him. Thou hearest me, oh, my God—justice shall be done!”

Though outwardly he was cheerful and bright, seemingly devoting all his energies to his friend, yet the one idea was fixed in his mind as are the stars in heaven.

He had already spoken many times to Sergeant Hewson on the subject, he had told him that he never intended to rest from his labors until he found out who had done the deed.

“You will never rest, then, sir, while you live,” said the sergeant, bluntly; “for I do not believe that it will ever be found out. I have had to do with many queer cases in my life, but this, I am willing to own, beats them all. I can see no light in it.”

“It will come to light sometime,” said Kenelm.

“Then it will be the work of God, Mr. Eyrle, and not of man,” was the quiet rejoinder.

“What makes you despair about it?” asked Kenelm.

“There are features in this case different to any other. In most crimes, especially of murder, there is a motive; I can see none in this. There is revenge, greed, gain, robbery, baffled love, there is always a ground for the crime.”

“There is none here?” interrupted Kenelm.

“No, sir, none; the poor lady was not robbed, therefore the motive of greed, gain or dishonesty is not present. No one living gains anything by her death, therefore no one could have any interest in bringing it about. She is the only daughter of a mother who will never get over her loss; the wife of a husband who is even now at death’s door for her sake. Who could possibly desire her death? She never appears to have made an enemy; her servants and dependents all say of her that she was proud, but generous and lavish as a queen.”

“It is true,” said Kenelm Eyrle.

“I have known strange cases in my life,” continued Sergeant Hewson, warming with his subject. “Strange and terrible. I have known murder committed by ladies whom the world considers good as they are fair——”

“Ladies!” interrupted Kenelm. “Ah! do not tell me that. Surely the gentle hand of woman was never red in a crime so deep as that.”

Sergeant Hewson smiled as one who knows the secret of many hearts.

“A woman, sir, when she is bad, is far worse than a man; when they are good they are something akin to the angels; but there is no woman in this case. I have looked far ahead. I am sure of it; there was no rival with hot hate in her heart, no woman deceived and abandoned for this lady’s sake, to have foul vengeance. I confess myself baffled, for I can find no motive.”

Kenelm Eyrle looked perplexed.

“Nor, to tell you the truth, can I.”

“Do you think it possible that any tramp or beggar going through the wood did it, and was disturbed before he had time to rob her?”

“No, I do not. However her death came to her, it was suddenly, for she died, you know, with a smile on her lips. I have examined the locality well, and in my opinion Lady Alden sat reading, never thinking of coming harm, and the murderer stole up behind her and did his deadly work before she ever knew that any one was near. There was no horror of fright for her.”

“You heard what was said at the time of the inquest about the weapon?”

“Yes; that is the clue. If ever the secret comes to light we shall hear of that weapon again.”

“Then do you intend to give up the search?” asked Kenelm.

“I think so—if there was the least chance of success I should go on with it—as it is, it is hopeless. I am simply living here in idleness, taking Sir Ronald’s money and doing nothing for it. I have other and more important work in hand.”

“Well,” said Mr. Eyrle, “if all the world gives it up I never shall. What have you done toward it?”

“I have mastered every detail of the lady’s life. I know all her friends. I have visited wherever she visited. I have exerted all the capability and energy that I am possessed of, yet I have not discovered one single circumstance that throws the least light on her death.”

So Mr. Eyrle was forced to see the cleverest detective in England leave the place without having been able to give the least assistance.

“I will unravel it,” he said; “even were the mystery twenty times as great. I will fathom it. But first I will devote myself to Ronald.”

It was August when they left Aldenmere. Sir Ronald would not go abroad.

“I could not bear the sound of voices or the sight of faces,” he said, appealingly. “If I am to have change, let us go to some quiet Scotch village, where no one has ever heard my ill-fated name. If recovery be possible it must be away from all these inquiries and constant annoyance of visitors.”

Mr. Eyrle understood the frame of mind that made his friend shrink from all observation.

“I must manage by degrees,” he thought. “First of all, he shall have solitude and isolation, then cheerful society until he is himself again—all for your sake, my lost love, my dear, dead darling—all because he is the man you loved, and to whom you gave your loving, innocent heart.”

When Kenelm Eyrle left Aldenmere, at the bottom of his traveling trunk there was a small box containing the white rose he had taken from Lady Alden’s dead hand.