SIR RONALD’S CONFESSION.
“Not to be opened until after my death,” was written on the outer cover
of the packet in Sir Ronald’s bold, clear hand, “and then to be read by
no one save my wife. Should she die first, under penalty of my curse I
forbid this to be opened, and command it to be destroyed.”
When Lord Lorriston had read that he showed it to Mr. Eyrle.
“Will it be honorable for us to read the contents?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Eyrle, “a sudden idea has occurred to me, and in
your daughter’s name, I think that paper should be read.”
Lord Lorriston read it aloud, kneeling by the side of the beautiful
dead woman, whose love had proved so fatal to herself and to him who
loved her. It began:
“MY DEAREST HERMIONE--I am going abroad in an expedition that may be
attended with some danger, although I have every hope of returning
in safety; yet I write this because against the accidents of life we
cannot take precaution. I know not what may happen, therefore I write
this; no one but you will read it--oh, wife of my heart--and I lay my
soul bare before you. Hermione, what has been the life of my life, the
soul of my actions? What has been the source of all my virtues, all my
few good deeds, all that is noblest and best in me?--my love for you.
What drove me mad?--my love for you. Men have loved before, and men
will love again, but I do not believe that ever one loved a woman so
entirely, so devotedly, so wholly as I loved you.
“My darling, my wife, that love was no ordinary passion, common words
will not tell it. Do you know what dew is to thirsty flowers, sunshine
to birds, light and warmth to fair spring blossoms? that you are to
me. The light of my soul, my one hope and treasure. Ah, sweet wife of
mine, go out in the woods and count the leaves on each tree; go to the
shore and count each grain of sand; look up at the bright heavens and
count each pale, pure star; you could do that more easily than I can
tell you how deeply, how dearly, how well I love you. The world does
not hold your peer, my love. Looking back, I cannot remember the time
when I did not love you with the same passionate love. When we were
children I worshiped the ground you stood upon, and my love grew with
my growth. When I came back to Aldenmere and found all the promise of
your beautiful youth fulfilled, and you yourself lovelier than dream of
poet ever was, I swore to myself that if any man living could win you
I would be that man. My darling, you know how I tried. I loved you, I
sought you, I was never happy out of your presence, or away from you.
My very life was so wrapped in yours that I had no existence away from
you. I can remember when I first began to hope that you would care
for me. I can remember every faint token of preference you ever gave
me, all your pretty shy, sweet, maidenly ways. Hermione, sweet, true
wife, do you remember the evening out among the flowers when I spoke to
you of love and you did not send me from you? I went home that night
with my heart on fire, resolved to ask you at once to be my wife, for
I could brook delay no longer; my love was eating my very life away.
Darling, was it a sweet, maidenly whim to make me still more eager, or
was it that you were really engrossed? For one whole week I went every
day to Leeholme, but could not contrive to spend one solitary five
minutes with you. Oh, love, my love, had it been otherwise the story
of my life would have been different.
“At last, when I could bear the silence and suspense no longer, I
wrote to you and asked you to be my wife. You remember what followed.
I received a letter, written apparently by you, refusing me with few
words. Hermione, I went mad; my love had been so mighty, so powerful,
so strong, I could not bear the shock of seeing it all scattered to
the winds. I could not bear the refusal. God keep any other man from
suffering what I did then! I could not tell you, darling, even if I
tried. I do not believe any man suffered so much and lived. A thousand
times each day I was tempted to end my own life, but the Alden pride,
so strong in the men of my race, forbade me to die because a woman was
fair and false. Ah, me! what I suffered! I hated my life; I loathed
myself. I tried to drown all memory of my most fatal love in the whirl
of fashion, the pursuit of study. My darling, I might as well have
taught myself to fly as to forget you. Then there came a time when the
sneers of men, the sarcasm of women aroused all the pride of my nature;
it should never be said that I was wasting away for the love of one who
never loved me. I heard that you were going to marry Kenelm, and I,
reckless, despairing, half mad and wholly wicked, married poor Clarice.
“I should have been true to you, my love--the sweet, pure love of
my youth--I should have been true to you, even though you had never
cared for me. When I married Clarice I meant most royally to do my
duty, to be kind to her, to make her happy, to indulge her, and I
succeeded. I never loved her, but I cannot tell if she found that out.
All went on calmly, if not happily, until the day when I met you in
the woods. You remember it, Hermione, then my heart leaped up like
a burning flame, devouring all before it, and then I learned that
most fatal truth, that you had never received my letter and, what
was of still more importance, you had not answered it, therefore had
never rejected me. Then I learned that you loved me. I wonder that I
ever recovered my senses when I remember the madness of my love. You
remember our farewell. With your last words ringing in my ears--with
your last gentle look haunting me--I swore to myself, like the reckless
madman that I was, to find out who had trapped me, who had lured me to
destruction, who had taken the letter I wrote to you, and had answered
it--imitating your writing and signing your name.
“How was I to find out? I swore that I would move heaven and earth but
that I would unravel the mystery in the end. I need not tell you all
my efforts. For long they seemed in vain, utterly, helplessly in vain.
At last, my attention was called to a strange fact, and that was that
my wife’s maid, Mary Thorne, seemed to be entirely mistress of her. If
Clarice ordered her to do anything she did it if she liked, if not it
was neglected. I found, too, that Clarice had given her at different
times large sums of money. I remonstrated with her, but you remember
her pretty, bewitching, caressing ways. She only smiled and told me
that she had always spoiled Mary Thorne. But, Hermione, underneath that
smile I detected fear, real fear, and I wondered how it was. One day,
going quite unexpectedly into my wife’s dressing-room, I heard her ask
Mary Thorne to do something and the girl insolently refused. I could
not bear that. I spoke sharply and insisted on her instant dismissal,
but to my surprise Clarice grew pale with fear. ‘I do not think my
mistress will allow me to leave, Sir Ronald,’ said the woman, and she
was right. Clarice hung weeping round my neck and begged me not to send
away a maid to whom she was much attached, and who was most valuable to
her. I yielded to her wish, but from that moment a certain conviction
came over me that Mary Thorne knew some secret she was keeping from
me. I dare not think the secret concerned that letter, though instinct
told me so. I sent for my groom--the one who had taken the letter--and
what I discovered was this: The letter was safely delivered, and placed
on your toilet-table by your own maid. Mary Thorne, who was engaged in
doing something for you at the time, my darling, saw it placed there.
Mary was working in your room, she told me, on the day that letter
was delivered. You were out, and she sat sewing in your room. While
she was there Clarice went in to speak to her, and bending over the
toilet-table, saw the letter in my handwriting addressed to you.
“Mary told me that she saw Clarice deliberately take up that letter,
place it in the pocket of her dress and then quit the room. She
returned in half an hour and placed upon the table another envelope,
the exact counterpart of the one she had taken away.”