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.
CHAPTER LV.
THE REST IS PEACE.
“There must have been a spell in Aldenmere,” so people said. This was the second fair young wife who had been carried from there to the grave; the second who had met with a tragical death. What would become of the place? Who would take care of the children? These and a hundred other questions they asked, but no one answered them.
They did not bury Lady Hermione by Clarice’s side. Lord Lorriston, knowing all, could not endure the thought of it. She was taken thence, and the grave is on the western side of Leeholme churchyard, a warm, lovely, sunny spot, where the sun shines and the dew falls, where birds sing sweetest music and flowers yield richest perfume. The story of her deep, true love and unutterable sorrow, of her grief and heroic self-sacrifice, are buried with her.
The little Harry was heir to Aldenmere, but Lord Lorriston said the associations connected with the place were all so sad, that the children should not live there; they should make their home at Leeholme until the young heir was of age, and then he could please himself about returning there. The servants were all paid off; they were not sorry to leave a place rendered gloomy by two such tragedies. Some of them declared that long as they lived they should never regain their natural spirits.
Aldenmere was closed. The head gamekeeper and his wife were put in charge of the place. The state apartments, the magnificent guests’ chambers, the superb reception-rooms, were all closed and left to solitary desolation. Lord Lorriston declared that he never even wished to see the place again—it was so full of sorrowful memories for him.
The little orphan children were taken home to Leeholme, where, under the loving care of Lord and Lady Lorriston, they grew in strength, beauty and goodness. The after life of Sir Henry Alden, of Aldenmere, was eventful, but his story has been told by pens more eloquent than mine. The little child whom Sir Ronald kissed and blessed before he went on that long voyage from which he was never to return, made his name famous all over Europe. There was one thing he never knew, and that was the true history of his father’s life. Nor was that secret ever known.