WITHOUT HOPE.
The sun shone round him, the flowers bloomed fair, the sweet south
wind whispered of all bright things; but Sir Ronald never raised his
despairing face to the summer heavens.
Life and hope were crushed within him; he did not care to rise from the
ground where he had flung himself in the first wild paroxysm of grief;
he had some vague hope that he might die there; but it takes much to
kill a strong man.
The sunbeams grew warm; the day had its duties. He had arranged to see
his steward at noon. A tenant farmer had promised to wait upon him
concerning the renewal of a lease. Life was too full of occupation for
despair. He rose at last, and looked his future in the face.
“She has killed me,” he said to himself; “surely as ever man was slain.”
He crushed the letter in his hands.
“She has been false to me,” he cried, in his passionate rage. “She
has lured me on to my death! She has duped me with smiles that meant
nothing, with fair words that were all false, with looks that were
all lies! She was, I believed, the truest, the fairest, the purest of
women; yet she has duped me! She who had, I believed, the white wings
of an angel, let me kiss her lips, and yet never meant to marry me.
Does the curse of coquetry and falseness lie upon all women, I wonder?”
Passionate anger flamed in his face; his eyes flashed, his lips
quivered. The Alden rage was strong upon him. Hot words leaped to his
lips, but he would not utter them.
“I shall not curse her,” he said; “the ruin of a man’s life shall be at
her door, but I will say nothing harsh of her. She was my first, last,
and only love.”
He turned away and re-entered the house. He looked like a man who had
suddenly aged twenty years, on whom the blight of some awful trouble
had fallen, whose life had been suddenly checked in its full, sweet
flow, and frozen into living death.
For some days Sir Ronald did not leave Aldenmere; he was too miserable
to either care to see friends or strangers. His thoughts were all
steeped in bitterness. At one time he thought he would go abroad; then
he said to himself: “No; she shall not have the triumph of seeing she
has driven me from her! she shall never boast that for love of her an
Alden flew from his home.”
Then business called him from home, and people told each other that Sir
Ronald Alden had been very ill, he looked so changed from his brighter,
better self. On the first day, as he was riding to a near town, he met
the party from Leeholme. There was no time to avoid them, or he would
have turned away. With the keen eyes of love, he saw Lady Hermione. She
was riding with Kenelm Eyrle by her side.
He was obliged, by every rule of courtesy, to speak to her. He reined
in his horse by her side.
“Good-morning, Lady Hermione,” he said, gravely. “I did not expect the
pleasure of seeing you.”
“We waited half an hour for you,” said Mr. Eyrle. “Did you not promise
to join us in an excursion to the Holy Well?”
“I do not remember making such a promise,” he said; and then he could
not control his longing desire to look at her. He raised his eyes to
her face, and was astonished at what he saw there. Some great change
had come over that brilliant beauty. Her face was pale and grave--stern
as one who is nerved to go through a disagreeable duty. The smiles that
had been wont to play round her sweet, proud lips had died away. There
was no light in the eyes that met his so coldly.
She bowed coolly in reply to his greeting, but spoke no word. He saw
her draw her slender figure to its full height; then she said something
to a lady near her. Sir Ronald felt as though a sharp sword had pierced
his heart.
“She hates me,” he thought; “she is trying to show me how utterly
indifferent she is to me. Ah! Hermione, there was no need to be cruel
to me. I know now that you will not love me. I shall not ask you again,
sweet; I shall dree my weird alone.”
She was so still. The bright, gay words that charmed him were no longer
heard. He looked at her again, and saw an expression of weariness on
her face, as though she were tired and not happy.
Bitter thoughts crowded upon him. He loved her so that he could have
flung himself under her horse’s feet, yet he felt that she had ruined
his life, and, deep in his heart, he cursed the coquetry that had been
his blight.
He bade her good-morning in the coolest of words. She barely responded;
yet, to his surprise, he saw she had grown white to the very lips.
“How she must dislike me,” he thought, “that the sight of me is so
distasteful to her. How utterly false she was when she offered to be my
friend for life, yet my only crime has been to love her.”
It was Lord Lorriston who rode up to him next, with a hearty greeting.
“Where have you been, Sir Ronald? We all thought you were lost. My wife
and Lady Hermione were growing quite anxious, fearing you were ill.”
“They are very kind,” he replied, thinking in his heart how quick were
all women to deceive. She had received an offer of marriage from him,
to which she had replied in barely courteous terms. She knew perfectly
well why he never came near Leeholme, why he shunned and avoided
them all; yet she had listened to the wonder expressed, and had said
nothing. To the parents who trusted her so implicitly she had made no
mention of a fact that a true and loving daughter seldom conceals.
She was false to every one alike, and yet he had believed her so good,
so true, so earnest. Her face was so fair and pure; yet the shy, timid
looks she had given him were all false as her words.
He said little in reply to the friendly greetings that met him on all
sides. Clarice was the last to address him. She was somewhat behind the
other riders, and Captain Thringston was by her side. She held out her
hands to him with a look that said more than a volume of words.
“I have been wishing to see you,” she said, in a low voice; and then a
flush crimsoned the proud, passionate beauty of her face.
Captain Thringston seemed to have an instinctive idea that he would be
quite as agreeable to Miss Severn if he rode a little ahead.
“I hardly know if I dare speak to you, though we are old playfellows,
Sir Ronald,” she began.
“There is very little that you cannot say to me, Clarice,” he said,
kindly.
“Dare I tell you that I know--that is, I can guess--what has happened,
and that you have my truest, warmest and deepest sympathy?”
“You are very kind,” he replied, “but I would rather not discuss the
matter with you; it is best left alone.”
“Do not be proud to me, Ronald. Remember, we played together as
children. Do you think, after all these years, you could have a pain I
did not feel, or a happiness I did not share with you?”
Her beautiful eyes were bright with tears as she spoke; he hurriedly
clasped her hand.
“God bless you, Clarice! you are very kind, but I cannot bear it.”
And then he galloped hastily away.