A LAST LOOK.
Sir Ronald never knew how the news of his engagement was received by
the “ladye he loved.” The Lorristons went away soon afterward to pay
a long-promised round of visits. He did not know whether she were
pleased, piqued, or surprised.
But he soon found out that, so far as the world was concerned, he had
done an excellent thing for himself. Congratulations poured in on all
sides; people laughed at the rumors they had been so ready to believe.
After all, it was very improbable that a man like Sir Ronald should
have been the dupe of any woman. It was Miss Severn he had cared for;
and, now they were going to be married, Sir Ronald had urged a speedy
marriage.
He began at once to make preparation; he ordered a magnificent suite of
rooms to be prepared for his wife. Perhaps it was significant of his
frame of mind that he never went once to see what progress was made,
contenting himself by giving orders that neither expense nor trouble
should be spared. He sent all the family jewels to London to be reset,
but he did not linger over them with a lover’s fondness, choosing
what would best suit her. He ordered the most lavish and magnificent
presents, but he never heeded the beautiful, blushing smile with which
they were received.
He never omitted any day going over to Mount Severn. He drilled
himself, he trained his thoughts, and would not let them wander from
her. When the memory of Lady Hermione and that evening among the
flowers came to him he crushed it back remorselessly.
Yet no one looking at him could have called him a happy man. There
were grave lines on his brow and round his lips that told of the long,
bitter struggle; his laugh had no music in it, his smile no light. The
ring of youth and happiness had died out of his voice. Even when he
tried to be most happy, the heart within him was cold and heavy as lead.
One day, as he was riding home from Mount Severn, he met Kenelm Eyrle.
They had not spoken for some time, but on this evening Kenelm walked up
to him.
“One moment, Sir Ronald Alden,” he said. “I will not detain you; answer
me this one question.”
“I will answer a hundred,” replied Sir Ronald, “if you will ask them as
a friend, and not as an enemy.”
“There will be no more friendship between us,” was the calm reply.
“Have you honor and honesty enough to tell me whether it is true that
you are going to marry Miss Severn?”
“Although it can be no business of yours, I do not mind telling you
that in a few weeks from now Miss Severn will be my wife.”
“You have wooed her and won her--you confess it,” cried Kenelm,
fiercely.
“There is nothing to confess. I asked the lady to be my wife, and she
consented _viola tout_.”
“I shall never waste another word upon you,” said Mr. Eyrle,
indignantly, as he turned away; and Sir Ronald laughed.
“My lady has bidden him speak thus,” he thought. “Perhaps she wished
to see if I was marrying from pique or love. Ah, Clarice, no one shall
ever discover that.”
Kenelm Eyrle walked angrily to Mount Severn.
“I will hear it from her own lips,” he said; “I refuse to believe it
from his.”
He found Clarice where her lover had left her, leaning against the
stone balustrade of the balcony. He saw the softened tenderness of that
beautiful face, the love-light in the wondrous eyes, and from his white
lips came a muttered curse.
She looked up in surprise. While her whole heart and thoughts were full
of the man she loved, it was not pleasant to see the man who for so
long had hopelessly loved her.
“Clarice,” he said, reproachfully, “you are not pleased to see me. Love
is keen. Your face fell and your eyes lost half their light when they
fell upon me. I am not here to tease you; only to ask you a simple
question. Is it true you are going to marry Sir Ronald?”
Her face flushed. She would fain have spared him all the pain.
“I shall bear it more easily if you tell me, Clarice,” he pleaded.
“Yes; it is true,” she replied. “Why do you ask me, Kenelm?”
“I have been told so, and I would not believe it from any one else.
Nay, do not shrink from me, Clarice. I am not going to importune you. I
am too proud, dear, to try to rob another man of that which he has won.
Do you love him?”
Her face glowed unconsciously.
“Yes; I love him with all my heart.”
“I hope you will be happy. You see there is no bitterness in my heart
against you, Clarice. I pray God to bless you and make you happy.”
“And you will be our friend?” she said.
“No; I could not. I do not blame you. I have tried hard to win your
love, but I could not succeed. You have given it to another. I have
no right to complain, but I shall not forgive him, the false friend,
who knew that every hope of my life rested in you, yet has stolen you
treacherously from me.”
“You are unjust,” she replied, hastily. “If I never belonged to you,
how could any one steal me away? It is of my own free will that I love
and marry Sir Ronald Alden.”
“We will not dispute about him,” he replied, sadly. “I will not remain;
I only wish to bid you farewell.”
“But we shall be neighbors--friends? we shall meet?”
“Never,” he replied. “Let me take one last, lingering look at your
face, the face that has been the star of my idolatry. I shall never see
it again, until, by God’s mercy, it shines among His angels in heaven.”
Her tears fell fast at his words. He came nearer to her, and looked for
a few moments into that lovely face, as though he would fain engrave
every feature on his heart; then he turned abruptly away.
When he saw her next she was lying dead, with white flowers on her
breast, and men were in hot pursuit of her murderer.
It was in November that Sir Ronald led his beautiful wife to the altar.
The wedding was one of the most magnificent spectacles ever witnessed.
Clarice would fain have had it quiet and without display, but the
master of Aldenmere insisted upon her receiving the honor due to her.
To this day they tell of the brilliant crowd gathered in the old
church at Leeholme--of the noble men and beautiful women who came
from all parts of England to assist at what was the grandest ceremony
of the day. The only family of note in the country, absent, was the
Lorristons; but among the costly array of wedding presents was a
diamond necklace from Lord Lorriston, and a pearl bracelet from Lady
Hermione, accompanied by the kindest of letters.
Sir Ronald smiled bitterly when he saw them. His own presents to his
young wife were superb in their magnificence. Did he think by lavish
expenditure and great display to atone to her for the absence of that
which he could not give her--his heart’s best love?