A THUNDERBOLT.
It is seldom that a tragedy happens all at once; there are
circumstances that lead up to it. These circumstances are seldom as
exciting as the tragedy itself. The details of what happened before
the strange, sad story of Lady Alden’s death thrilled all England,
are necessary, though not exciting, in order to make other events
understood.
Sir Ronald decided upon writing to Lady Hermione. He made one last
effort; he rode over to Leeholme one beautiful August morning, when the
golden corn stood in huge sheafs in the meadows, and the fruit hung
ripe on the orchard walls. It was just as usual. Lady Hermione was in
the grounds with a party of young people. Lady Lorriston told him,
and he could not do better than join them; they were planning a visit
to the Holy Well at Longston. Sir Ronald went out into the pleasure
grounds, and there, under the spreading, fragrant shade of a large
cedar, he saw a group that would have charmed Watteau--fair-faced girls
with their lovers, beautiful women over whose stately heads more summer
suns had shone, and, in the midst of all, Lady Hermione.
“Here is Sir Ronald,” said one of the voices. Then he joined the group
under the cedar tree, and Lady Hermione greeted him with a few measured
words. How was he to know that her heart was beating wildly; that her
whole soul was moving in its deepest depths by the pleasure of seeing
him? Then the conversation became general. He waited more than an hour.
He saw plainly there was no chance for even five minutes with his
ladylove that day.
“I will go home and write to her,” he said to himself; then he held
her white hand in his own a minute while he said good-by, and a flood
of hope rushed warm and sweet through his heart when he noted the
rose-leaf flush and the trembling lips.
Was it accident that brought Clarice Severn into the broad chestnut
glade that led to the house? Other eyes might turn shyly from his; hers
grew brighter and happier, her whole face changed as she bent forward
quickly to greet him.
“I was just wondering whether we should see you to-day or not, Sir
Ronald,” she said.
“It would be a dark, dreary day that would not bring me to Leeholme,”
he said; and, again, in her foolish hope and foolish love, she chose to
think the words referred to herself.
“Clarice,” he said, his deep voice broken with emotion, “you know what
brings me here day after day.”
Her heart beat so quickly she could hardly reply. Believe me, nothing
misled her but her own vanity and her own love.
“I know,” she said, faintly.
“I shall not bear my suspense much longer,” he continued; “I am going
to try my fate. I am sure you wish me godspeed.”
“He is going to ask me to be his wife,” she said to herself; but even
then, in the delirium of happiness which that thought gave her, she
wondered why he could not ask her there and then.
“Thank you, Clarice; the good wishes of a pure-hearted woman always
seem to me like prayers.” Then he passed on, and was soon out of sight.
Sir Ronald rode home again; he looked at the familiar trees as he
passed; he smiled at the nodding branches and the fluttering leaves.
“When next I pass you by,” he said, “I shall know my fate.”
He could not rest until that letter was written; all the inspiration of
his love was upon him as he wrote it; the burning words that had risen
so often from his heart to his lips found life; there was no delay in
the choice of his expressions. Never since Adam wooed Eve among the
bowers of Paradise was love more deeply or more strongly told. A doubt
must have crossed his mind once, for he said:
“If you say me nay, Hermione, I shall not importune you--a queen has
the right of denial to her subject if the favor asked be too great.
You have that same right over me. I shall not importune you, sweet. I
shall not drag my prayer again and again to your feet to be denied; but
you will mar my whole life, and change it into bitterest anguish. But
I need not write this. What are the little birds singing to me? That
my darling would never have let me kiss her lips until she meant to be
mine.”
Hour after hour passed, and he was still writing. It seemed to him that
he was in her actual presence, and the sweet, fiery words flowed on.
Then, when the letter was finished, it was too large to be sent by post.
“An envelope of that size and thickness would be sure to attract
attention,” he said to himself. “I will send it by a messenger.”
So his most trusty servant was dispatched to Leeholme Park, with orders
to deliver the packet into Lady Hermione’s own hand, but not to wait
for the answer. But Lady Hermione was not at home, and, after waiting
some hours, the groom, beginning to fear Sir Ronald’s displeasure, gave
it to the lady’s maid, who, duly impressed by him as to its importance,
laid it on Lady Hermione’s dressing-table, feeling sure that her
mistress would see it at once when she entered the room.
That same evening, keeping in mind what the groom had said to her, the
maid asked her mistress if she had found the small paper parcel on her
toilet-table. Lady Hermione smiled.
“Yes, I have it,” she replied, and then her maid forgot the whole
matter.
All that day Sir Ronald waited impatiently for his answer. No day had
ever seemed to him half so long before.
“She will send a messenger,” he said; “she will not keep me in suspense
until morning.”
But, though he watched and waited, no messenger came. He sent away his
dinner untasted; he debated within himself whether he should ride over
to Leeholme or not, and he decided no--that would not do at all.
How he lived through the night he did not know; no rest or sleep came
to him. But the morning brought him a letter, and that letter contained
his death warrant. He saw at once it was from Leeholme Park, and he
held it for some minutes unopened in his hand.
“It is either life or death,” he said to himself, “and brave men know
how to die.”
He took it with him to his favorite nook, the shade of a large lime
tree, known as “King Charles’ Tree,” from the fact of the Merrie
Monarch having once hidden there. He opened it there, and from that
moment the sun of earthly happiness set for Ronald Alden.
“Believe me,” the letter began, “that it costs me even more to
refuse your prayer, Sir Ronald, than it will cost you to read
that refusal. My whole heart grieves for you; but I cannot be
your wife. I have not the love to give you that a woman should
give to the man she marries. I am your friend for life.
“HERMIONE LORRISTON.”
Not many lines to break a man’s heart, and destroy the whole happiness
of his life, but Sir Ronald sat hour after hour under the lime tree,
and the summer sun never shone, nor did the flowers bloom for him again.