Bertha Clay Library No. 153
[Illustration:
A TRAGEDY
OF LOVE
AND HATE
BY
BERTHA
M.
CLAY]
STREET & SMITH · PUBLISHERS · NEW YORK
A Tragedy of Love and Hate
OR
A WOMAN’S VOW
BY
BERTHA M. CLAY
AUTHOR OF
“The Duke’s Secret,” “The Earl’s Error,” “Lord Lynne’s Choice,”
“The Earl’s Atonement,” “The Gipsy’s Daughter,”
“Dora Thorne,” etc.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1899, 1900 and 1903
By STREET & SMITH
A Tragedy of Love and Hate
A TRAGEDY OF LOVE AND HATE.
CHAPTER I.
THE TRAGEDY.
The great bough of a spreading maple tree was swaying to and fro in the
summer wind, a shapely bough covered with green leaves. On it sat a
little bird, swaying with the branch, singing as though the world were
all summer and sunshine and there was no winter to follow--singing of
brighter suns than men see shine, heaven-taught music, not understood
by mortal ears, while the golden, fragrant air around seemed to grow
silent and listen.
For it was summertime, and the flowers were blooming; the earth was
fair and smiling, the sky blue; there was a hush in the green woods and
a ripple on the waters, a golden haze in the air.
Holme Woods looked very beautiful in their summer dress; great sheets
of blue hyacinths spread far and wide, fragrant clusters of violets
nestled against the roots of the trees, birds caroled in the shady
branches.
The river Lee ran through Holme Woods, and where the large maple tree
stood it formed a clear, limpid pool. The swaying bough bent over it,
and the shadow of the singing bird fell in the water.
Was it suddenly the song changed? the jubilant notes, so shrill, so
clear and sweet, died away, and a mournful dirge took their place? was
it fancy, or was it really so? The bird saw what men could not see--the
deed done that morning in the shade of the summer woods.
For in the water, her long, fair hair entangled in the lilies and
reeds, her dead face turned to the shining skies, lay a woman
drowned--drowned that very morning, while the sun shone and the flowers
bloomed.
Perhaps the little singing bird had been for some hours on the branch;
perhaps it had heard all, wondering what was happening.
It might have been that a death cry roused it and disturbed its song,
then, when the cry had risen appealingly to the very face of the
heavens, and died away, it had left its soft, warm nest to sway on the
bending branch and look into the water to see what terrible sight was
there.
Surely earth holds no more cruel sight than a fair woman dead, than the
sun shining warm, bright and golden on a dead white face.
Sometimes the ripples flowed more quickly, and then they washed over
the face that in life had been beautiful and proud; sometimes the wind
blew more freshly, and the leaves bent over it as though they would
fain kiss it into warm, sweet life again. Yet for long hours, while the
sun shone, while the bees gathered honey, while the merry brown hares
went leaping, while the birds built their nests, while in the meadows
men cut down the dried clover, while in far-off cities they toiled for
daily bread, while the business, and pleasure, and work of the world
went on, the quiet figure lay there without life or motion, and the
quiet face gleamed so white and still. For though she was mistress of
a proud and magnificent home, though she was courted and flattered and
received the homage of all who knew her, she had not yet been missed.
That evening she was engaged to dine with a large and brilliant party
at Westfield Place, on the morrow she was to give a brilliant _fête_
in her own grounds; but never more would Lady Clarice Alden shine
fairest and proudest of women. She who had ruled men with a smile and a
look, whose lightest word was a command, whose least caprice a law, lay
there drowned and dead, no one knowing, no eyes to gaze upon her save
those of the little bird singing on the branch.
The morning passed on; the heat increased, the ripples grew languid,
as though it were too warm for the river to run, a purple haze came
in place of the golden light, the birds drooped on the wing, the bees
hummed in the bells of the flowers, the butterflies rested on the
fragrant hearts of the wild roses--sultry noon had set in, yet the
white face only grew more rigid and fixed. They had not missed her from
her stately home, she who was never to enter it again.
How much longer would it have lasted? How much longer would the bird
have swayed while the death dirge came from its tiny beak? The brooding
stillness was suddenly disturbed by the sharp, shrill bark of a dog;
there was a rustling of leaves, and then a pretty little King Charles
ran to the water’s edge.
There was something of human sagacity in the look that he gave at the
dead face. Then, as though he knew what had happened, he turned back,
barking furiously, tearing in wild haste through the woods. Again the
brooding stillness fell and the heat grew again, the sleepy ripples
barely touched the face, and the fair hair entangled in the water
lilies was faintly stirred.
Another long, silent hour, and then down the path that led to the river
came a woman--a pretty, bright, well-dressed girl--evidently, from
her appearance, a lady’s maid; the little dog was barking round her,
pulling her dress with his teeth if she seemed to stop or hesitate.
Then her eyes fell on the white, upturned face. She gave a terrible
cry, and stood for one moment as though she were turned to stone; then
another and still more awful cry came from her lips.
“Oh, my God!” she said, “what shall I do?”
There was a ghastly terror in her face as she turned to fly--terror
that was beyond words. One, meeting her, with those white, parted lips
and wild eyes, would have thought she was fleeing from something worse
than death itself.
The parted branches closed behind her, and again the hot, brooding
silence fell over the trees and the water, and the drowned woman lying
so helplessly there.
But it was not for long this time; very soon it was broken by wild
cries and hoarse voices; by the shrill barking of dogs; by the noisy
parting of boughs, and the screams of women.
There was help at last; help sufficient to have saved a dozen women
from danger and death--but it was all too late. The quiet sanctuary of
death was rudely invaded; the birds flew away in fright; the bluebells
were trampled under foot. Lady Clarice Alden was missed at last, and
this was where her servants found her.
Strong men raised the silent figure and laid it on the grass.
Then one could see it was the body of a young and most beautiful woman,
richly dressed. A long robe of blue silk and white lace clung to the
perfect limbs; there were rings on the fingers; a costly bracelet on
one arm; a golden chain of rare beauty round the neck; a watch, small
and richly jeweled; brooches and earrings. Very ghastly the rich jewels
looked on the dead body.
“Is she really dead?” cried the maid who had been the first to find
her, Mary Thorne. She knelt down by Lady Alden’s side. With trembling
fingers she opened the silken robe, and placed her hand on the quiet
heart.
“It does not beat,” she cried. “Oh, my lady, my lady is dead!”
An elderly man, who had been butler at Aldenmere for many years,
assumed the command.
“Tear down some of those big branches,” he said, “and make a litter of
them, then carry your lady to the house. You, Griffiths, saddle the
fleetest horse in the stable and ride to Leeholme; bring both doctors
with you. Hunter, you take Sir Ronald’s own horse and go in search of
him; does any one know where he went?”
“Sir Ronald is gone to Thurston,” replied one of the grooms. “I saddled
his horse this morning before ten.”
“Then you will be able to find him. Do not tell him the news suddenly,
Hunter; tell him first that my lady is ill, and he is wanted at once at
home.”
His directions were quickly followed out; they tore down the branch on
which the bird had been swaying and singing, the bird flew frightened
away. They carried her home, through the sunny glades of the park,
crushing the sweet flowers under foot; and it was thus that Lady
Clarice Alden was brought for the last time to her own home.