IN HOLME WOODS.
So during all the wedding festivities with which the whole country
rang the Lorristons were away; there was not even the civility of a
letter exchanged between them. People did not quite know what the
difference was about; but a quiet understanding soon came about that
the Lorristons and the Aldens should never be invited together.
For Sir Ronald the second phase of his life began when, as the husband
of another woman, it was more than ever his duty to trample under foot
the passion that marred his life. Then, in sober earnest, he had to
take up the duties of life and make the best of them.
He was kind and attentive to his beautiful young wife; he was careful
in the fulfillment of his duties; but in the silent depths of his own
heart there was no moment, night or day, in which he did not, with the
most bitter words, curse his own fate. So the remainder of that summer
passed. Winter brought its usual round of country gayeties. In this
season Sir Ronald and Lady Clarice went to London, where her beauty and
fascination created a perfect furore. There, for the first time, he
heard that the Lorristons had not come to town because Lady Hermione
had been long out of health. She was not ill--that is, not ill enough
to alarm her friends, but she was unfit to encounter the fatigues of a
London season.
When it was over Sir Ronald and his wife returned to Aldenmere.
One day toward the end of the month of June, Sir Ronald went out into
the Holme Woods. The morning was fine, the sun shining, and the air
filled with the fragrance of wild flowers. Holme Woods had never looked
so beautiful. The trees wore their richest foliage, great sheets of
blue hyacinths spread out far and wide, bright-winged butterflies
hovered over them, bees hummed for very joy at the rich feast spread
before them. Sir Ronald had not noticed the path he was taking. The
faint, wild perfume of the harebells was grateful to him. Body, mind,
heart and soul, he was tired, and he had come to the woods, loving the
solitude he found there.
You know, reader, what face was before him. Imagine his surprise
when his thoughts suddenly seemed embodied; for there, seated on a
bank, with the pretty harebells nodding around her, was Lady Hermione
Lorriston.
He would have turned and fled, but the manhood within him rebelled
against flight. He stood looking helplessly at her, too bewildered for
words. When he was capable of coherent thought he saw how white her
face grew. She rose and stood before him, like some bright, strange,
frightened bird, dreading to stay, yet dreading to go.
And then the past months, with their untold agony, faded from him. He
remembered nothing save that it was summer time and he loved her--save
that for him it was heaven where she was, and a dreary blank where she
was not.
“Hermione!” he cried, going up to her, and holding out his hand, all
his proud resolves, all his _hauteur_, all his indignant anger melted
into thin air.
She gave him no hand in return. The pale, sweet face was graver than he
had ever seen it before.
“I did not think to see you here, Sir Ronald,” she said, coldly.
He had only seen her once since the night when he had kissed her among
the flowers, and everything save the memory of that night seemed to die
from him.
“How cruel you have been to me, Hermione; how you lured me on to my
ruin and my doom; how false you are despite the fairness of that most
fair face! If you had stabbed me, and trampled my dead body under foot,
you would have been less cruel. What did I ever do, Hermione, that I
deserved so cruel a fate?”
She looked up at him proudly.
“You have no right to speak to me,” she said. “You are married, and the
kindness or cruelty of no other woman but your wife should concern you.
Then I have not been cruel to you, Ronald, and you know it.”
There was something inexpressibly sad and pitiful in the whole scene.
These two, who loved each other so dearly, who in the whole world cared
only for each other, parted more completely than if death had separated
them.
“I know that you did me the greatest wrong woman could do to man,” he
replied.
“What was it?” she asked, the proud flush deepening on her face.
“You led me to believe you cared for me--you gave to me looks and words
such as you gave to no other man--you let me kiss your lips and did not
say me nay; then, when I had grown bold through your kindness, and
prayed the prayer that for long months had been on my lips, you slew me
with cruel, scornful words.”
“I do not understand you,” she said, quietly.
“You will not, rather. I say again, Hermione, that you have played with
me more cruelly than a cat plays with a mouse. You have laughed at my
torture.”
“You are speaking most falsely,” she said.
“Let God judge between us. I lay the ruin of my life upon you. I say
you deliberately deceived me.”
“I deny it,” she replied. “How could I be cruel or false to you. I have
had no opportunity of being either. I have never heard of you or seen
you but once since the evening of my birthday!”
“You have written to me, and it is of your written words I complain.”
“I have never in all my life written one line to you,” she said,
earnestly.
“You have never written to me, Hermione? Ah, do not stain those lips
with a lie!”
“I never have,” she repeated, with a deep-drawn sob. “Listen! I swear
it before the most high God.”
And then for some minutes they stood looking bewildered and wonderingly
at each other.