A tragedy of love and hate

by Bertha M. Clay

They paused in the reading of that confession, and Lord Lorriston, looking at Kenelm, said to him:

“This is worse than my darkest dreams ever foreshadowed.”

But Kenelm made no reply. He was thinking of the two fair women he had seen lying here dead, both slain by the fatal love of one man. Then they read on:

“I was determined,” said Sir Ronald, “to solve the mystery, to know who had taken my letter and who had written that false missive. No one ever knew the pains I took over it, the enormous expense! But I would have spent the last shilling I have in the world rather than have failed. For many long months I had detectives employed secretly, but the mystery seemed so great they could not fathom it. At last I heard it, as I have said, through Mary Thorne, who had been Clarice’s maid. She told me this story: On the day of that visit to Thringston, she was sitting helping in some work in Lady Hermione’s room, when she saw her mistress start in, and after looking earnestly at the address of the letter, put it in the pocket of her dress and go out of the room quietly as she entered it. In half an hour she returned and placed an envelope there so exactly similar no one could tell them apart. That little circumstance struck Mary Thorne as being very peculiar. Most maids make themselves mistresses of their mistress’ secrets. Mary knew that of poor Clarice. She knew that Clarice loved me. She knew, also, in common with the rest of the world, that I loved Lady Hermione. Most things, even our nearest and dearest secrets that we hesitate almost in telling each other, are known and discussed in the servants’ hall. There is no doubt that all this had been told there.

“So Mary Thorne watched her young mistress. It is not pleasant to have to write of the treachery of those we have trusted. Clarice trusted this girl implicitly, and she, in return, betrayed her, read her letters, watched all she did, and made herself mistress even of the poor lady’s hidden faults. Clarice stole my letter—the one I had written to you—stole it, read it, and destroyed it by tearing it into minute pieces. These pieces, Mary Thorne, with infinite patience and perseverance worthy of a better cause, put together, and managed to read sufficient of it to know that it was an offer of marriage from me to my dearest Hermione.

“When she told me, my first impulse was to raise my hand and slay. One moment’s reflection showed me that it was, after all, the fault of her class—that want of honor, that morbid desire to pry into the secrets of others, all come from the loose, imperfect method of training.

“I pass it over now, as I did when I heard it. My eyes fell once more on that letter—the letter that has proved the curse of my life. I read again the words I had written when full of hope, as a spring morning is of beauty. They seemed to raise living heads like poisonous adders and sting me. No further proof was wanting to me. Mary Thorne had evidently thought some day or other, to make her price of these fragments of a letter. She had carefully preserved them—she had gathered them from a fireplace in Clarice’s room. Then she watched her mistress. Clarice, under pretext of a violent headache, shut herself up in her room, and spent many hours in practicing writing. Pieces of paper that the girl had preserved showed that she had been imitating your handwriting. Should Kenelm Eyrle ever read this story, or hear of it, he will remember that we had often in our childish days been astonished by the facility with which Clarice imitated different handwritings.

“Shut up in her room, she forged that letter in your name to me. Deliberately, wickedly, cruelly, falsely forged the words that cut me off from the world of men, blighted my life, marred every hope and plan, brought curse and ruin upon me, the words that have lost me this world, and, I fear, oh! I fear, will lose me the next. Mary Thorne watched her young mistress dress herself and steal unobserved from the house to post the letter that was my death warrant. And then she waited and watched, thinking that when I recovered from your dismissal I should turn with my whole heart to her. I did not do so. I have never loved any woman but you, my Hermione. I never could. I tried, but it was not in my power. You are soul of my soul, life of my life, my heart has never beat for any love but yours. So, my wife, I heard this tale of treachery, of the cruel and wicked wrong done to me. Mary Thorne had saved all these fragments of papers and lived in the hope of some day making money of them. She was in love with James Conyers, the groom who had taken the letter, and whose assistance I had sought. The bribe I offered proved sufficient for her. It was a large sum of money to be paid on the spot, and a promise that James Conyers should have the farm called ‘The Willows’ when the lease of the then tenant had expired. One morning, a beautiful bright morning, when the world was full of melody, she told me this. We were standing under a grove of tall, stately oak trees, and, Hermione, as the words dropped slowly from her lips they maddened me. I can remember watching the sunlight as it came filtering through the great green boughs. I can remember listening to the sweet song of a little bird, while mad anger and fierce, wild passion ran riot in my veins. Ah, my darling! a man commits a great crime, and his excuse is, ‘I was mad!’ People cry him down. They say, ‘This is but an excuse; he was sane enough!’ Ah! my wife, I know that madness comes in swift, keen darts of flame, in a fiery surging of hot blood through heart and brain, in a sudden impulse that calls in a mighty voice for the deed to be done—and it is done. As I stood under the trees, Hermione, the sunlight grew blood-red. The girl, in her weak, shrill voice, finished her tale. She had given me every detail of the forgery and the fraud. When her voice ceased, it was as though some cord had snapped suddenly in my brain, and I turned away. ‘You will not forget your promises, Sir Ronald?’ she said. ‘No; I will not forget them.’ And as I walked from the oak trees I kept repeating to myself those words, ‘I will not forget them!’

“Was I mad? Only God knows. I can remember that every beat of my pulse sent a burning thrill through me, that the beating of my heart seemed to come to me as a hot, heavy sound. Hermione, do you remember? Oh! sweet wife, how it pains me to look across the gulf of years, the sweet, sinless happy years; do you remember that one evening at Leeholme Park? You showed some curiosities that your cousin had brought from abroad with him. Amongst them was a small, sharp, bright, pointed Grecian dagger, an antique of great value, with a jeweled handle—one which Grecian ladies wore as a toy, which had, without doubt, been used in many a deathblow. I took it up in my hands to admire it, and you gave it to me, asking me with a smile never to let your cousin know, or he would be jealous.

“It must have been fate that led me that morning to the little drawer, where I kept all my souvenirs of you. This lay amongst them, and I saw that one of the rubies was missing from the handle. I had some intention of going over to Leeholme that day, so I put it in my pocket, thinking that I would call at a jeweler’s and have it replaced. I wish it had not been so, Hermione. Had not that weapon been in my hands, the deed would not have been done. I walked on with the same hot surging through heart and brain, this same dull roaring, as of distant cannon in my ears, and the sunlight was all red. It came to me like a picture in a red frame. I saw a lake—clear, cool, deep, dark water—with green boughs bending over it. One bough was swinging to and fro in the wind, and on it sat a little bird singing sweet, jubilant notes. Clarice sat underneath the tree. She looked so white and cool in the midst of the hot sunlight, and the mad, red wildfire that danced before my eyes. She was smiling—looking at the water and smiling as though her thoughts were happy ones.