Then, seeing his wife’s grieved, shocked look, he said:
“Whether the annals of our race speak truthfully or not I cannot tell, but I know this, Hermione, there has never yet been an Alden to whom this temper or spirit has not brought unutterable woe. Let us shield our boy from this curse of his race.”
And she, like the good, tender, submissive wife that she was, knelt down by his side and clasped her white arms around his neck.
“Have I vexed you, dear?” she asked. “I know you are right, and I will try to cure little Harry.”
“Less woman than angel,” he called her in his own thoughts, and he was not far wrong. The sweet and gentle submission, the tender and reverent homage she paid to him, were the crown of her pure and perfect womanhood. He looked at her sometimes wondering that so peerless a creature could have learned to love him. On this May morning, while the pink and white hawthorn shone in the hedges, and the mavis sang in the trees, he was inwardly wondering at his own bliss. Then, where the sunbeams fell upon her, sat his beautiful and beloved wife, bright, winsome, and happy, the pride and ornament of his home. The four years that had passed since he brought her home, a bride, seemed each one to have added fresh beauty to her, and near her sat the friend who of late years had been to him as a brother, Kenelm Eyrle. But Kenelm does not look bright this morning; his eyes are heavy as with long watching, and in his face were the old lines of sorrow, distinctly marked. “Now, papa,” cried little Harry, “sing one more song, about the queen in the garden—you know,” and Sir Ronald trolled off, in a rich, hearty voice, the famous old nursery song; it was but the prologue to a tragedy, after all.
“Sin’ to me,” lisped little Clare, and Lady Alden laughed at the peculiar English. Yet, pretty as the children’s prattle was, no smile came to the face of their guest. “You look very grave, Kenelm,” said Sir Ronald, at last; “are you not well this morning?”
“Yes, I am well,” was the half-indifferent reply, “in body, but not in mind.”
“A mind diseased knows no cure,” said Lady Alden. “What has distressed you, Mr. Eyrle?”
“A dream. I stand six foot high in my boots, and have nerves strong as steel; yet a dream has shaken me; my whole soul has trembled at it.”
Perhaps, had Lady Alden, “whose chief book was her husband’s look,” seen the expression of Sir Ronald’s face, she would not have prolonged the conversation; as it was, she turned her bright, beautiful face eagerly to him.