Bertha Clay Library No. 153 [Illustration: A TRAGEDY OF LOVE AND HATE BY BERTHA M. CLAY] STREET & SMITH · PUBLISHERS · NEW YORK A Tragedy of Love and Hate OR A WOMAN’S VOW BY BERTHA M. CLAY AUTHOR OF “The Duke’s Secret,” “The Earl’s Error,” “Lord Lynne’s Choice,” “The Earl’s Atonement,” “The Gipsy’s Daughter,” “Dora Thorne,” etc. [Illustration] NEW YORK STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1899, 1900 and 1903 By STREET & SMITH A Tragedy of Love and Hate A TRAGEDY OF LOVE AND HATE. CHAPTER I. THE TRAGEDY. 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.