A Tragedy of Love and Hate
9781465683571
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
The great bough of a spreading maple tree was swaying to and fro in the summer wind, a shapely bough covered with green leaves. On it sat a little bird, swaying with the branch, singing as though the world were all summer and sunshine and there was no winter to follow—singing of brighter suns than men see shine, heaven taught music, not understood by mortal ears, while the golden, fragrant air around seemed to grow silent and listen. For it was summertime, and the flowers were blooming; the earth was fair and smiling, the sky blue; there was a hush in the green woods and a ripple on the waters, a golden haze in the air. Holme Woods looked very beautiful in their summer dress; great sheets of blue hyacinths spread far and wide, fragrant clusters of violets nestled against the roots of the trees, birds caroled in the shady branches. The river Lee ran through Holme Woods, and where the large maple tree stood it formed a clear, limpid pool. The swaying bough bent over it, and the shadow of the singing bird fell in the water. Was it suddenly the song changed? the jubilant notes, so shrill, so clear and sweet, died away, and a mournful dirge took their place? was it fancy, or was it really so? The bird saw what men could not see—the deed done that morning in the shade of the summer woods. For in the water, her long, fair hair entangled in the lilies and reeds, her dead face turned to the shining skies, lay a woman drowned—drowned that very morning, while the sun shone and the flowers bloomed. Perhaps the little singing bird had been for some hours on the branch; perhaps it had heard all, wondering what was happening. It might have been that a death cry roused it and disturbed its song, then, when the cry had risen appealingly to the very face of the heavens, and died away, it had left its soft, warm nest to sway on the bending branch and look into the water to see what terrible sight was there. Surely earth holds no more cruel sight than a fair woman dead, than the sun shining warm, bright and golden on a dead white face. Sometimes the ripples flowed more quickly, and then they washed over the face that in life had been beautiful and proud; sometimes the wind blew more freshly, and the leaves bent over it as though they would fain kiss it into warm, sweet life again. Yet for long hours, while the sun shone, while the bees gathered honey, while the merry brown hares went leaping, while the birds built their nests, while in the meadows men cut down the dried clover, while in far off cities they toiled for daily bread, while the business, and pleasure, and work of the world went on, the quiet figure lay there without life or motion, and the quiet face gleamed so white and still. For though she was mistress of a proud and magnificent home, though she was courted and flattered and received the homage of all who knew her, she had not yet been missed. That evening she was engaged to dine with a large and brilliant party at Westfield Place, on the morrow she was to give a brilliant fête in her own grounds; but never more would Lady Clarice Alden shine fairest and proudest of women. She who had ruled men with a smile and a look, whose lightest word was a command, whose least caprice a law, lay there drowned and dead, no one knowing, no eyes to gaze upon her save those of the little bird singing on the branch.
