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Dora Thorne

by Charlotte M. Brame · English · Gutenberg #2374 · 584,912 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Dora Thorne

Author: Charlotte M. Brame


        
Release date: October 1, 2000 [eBook #2374]
                Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Theresa Armao.  HTML version by Al Haines.


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Produced by Theresa Armao.  HTML version by Al Haines.









DORA THORNE


by

Charlotte M. Braeme




Chapter I

"The consequences of folly seldom end with its originator," said Lord
Earle to his son.  "Rely upon it, Ronald, if you were to take this most
foolish and unadvisable step, you would bring misery upon yourself and
every one connected with you.  Listen to reason."

"There is no reason in prejudice," replied the young man haughtily.
"You can not bring forward one valid reason against my marriage."

Despite his annoyance, a smile broke over Lord Earle's grave face.

"I can bring a thousand reasons, if necessary," he replied.  "I grant
everything you say.  Dora Thorne is very pretty; but remember, she is
quite a rustic and unformed beauty--and I almost doubt whether she can
read or spell properly.  She is modest and good, I grant, and I never
heard one syllable against her.  Ronald, let me appeal to your better
judgment--are a moderate amount of rustic prettiness and shy modesty
sufficient qualifications for your wife, who will have to take your
mother's place?"

"They are quite sufficient to satisfy me," replied the young man.

"You have others to consider," said Lord Earle, quickly.

"I love her," interrupted his son; and again his father smiled.

"We know what it means," he said, "when boys of nineteen talk about
love.  Believe me, Ronald, if I were to consent to your request, you
would be the first in after years to reproach me for weak compliance
with your youthful folly."

"You would not call it folly," retorted Ronald, his face flushing
hotly, "if Dora were an heiress, or the daughter of some--"

"Spare me a long discourse," again interrupted Lord Earle.  "You are
quite right; if the young girl in question belonged to your own
station, or even if she were near it, that would be quite a different
matter.  I am not annoyed that you have, as you think, fallen in love,
or that you wish to marry, although you are young.  I am annoyed that
you should dream of wishing to marry a simple rustic, the daughter of
my lodge keeper.  It is so supremely ridiculous that I can hardly treat
the matter seriously."

"It is serious enough for me," returned his son with a long, deep sigh.
"If I do not marry Dora Thorne, I shall never marry at all."

"Better that than a mesalliance," said Lord Earle, shortly.

"She is good," cried Ronald--"good and fair, modest and graceful.  Her
heart is pure as her face is fair.  What mesalliance can there be,
father?  I never have believed and never shall believe in the cruel
laws of caste.  In what is one man better than or superior to another
save that he is more intelligent or more virtuous?"

"I shall never interfere in your politics, Ronald," said Lord Earle,
laughing quietly.  "Before you are twenty-one you will have gone
through many stages of that fever.  Youth is almost invariably liberal,
age conservative.  Adopt what line of politics you will, but do not
bring theory into practice in this instance."

"I should consider myself a hero," continued the young man, "if I could
be the first to break through the trammels of custom and the absurd
laws of caste."

"You would not be the first," said Lord Earle, quietly.  "Many before
you have made unequal marriages; many will do so after you, but in
every case I believe regret and disappointment followed."

"They would not in my case," said Ronald, eagerly; "and with Dora
Thorne by my side, I could so anything; without her, I can do nothing."

Lord Earle looked grieved at the pertinacity of his son.

"Most fathers would refuse to hear all this nonsense, Ronald," he said,
gently. "I listen, and try to convince you by reasonable arguments that
the step you seem bent upon taking is one that will entail nothing but
misery.  I have said no angry word to you, nor shall I do so.  I tell
you simply it can not be.  Dora Thorne, my lodge keeper's daughter, is
no fitting wife for my son, the heir of Earlescourt.  Come with me,
Ronald; I will show you further what I mean."

They went together, the father and son, so like in face yet so
dissimilar in mind.  They had been walking up and down the broad
terrace, one of the chief beauties of Earlescourt.  The park and
pleasure grounds, with flushed summer beauty, lay smiling around them.
The song of hundreds of birds trilled through the sweet summer air, the
water of many fountains rippled musically, rare flowers charmed the eye
and sent forth sweet perfume; but neither song of birds nor fragrance
of flowers--neither sunshine nor music--brought any brightness to the
grave faces of the father and son.

With slow steps they quitted the broad terrace, and entered the hall.
They passed through a long suite of magnificent apartments, up the
broad marble staircase, through long corridors, until they reached the
picture gallery, one of the finest in England.  Nearly every great
master was represented there.  Murillo, Guido, Raphael, Claude
Lorraine, Salvator Rosa, Correggio, and Tintoretto.  The lords of
Earlescourt had all loved pictures, and each of them ad added to the
treasures of that wonderful gallery.

One portion of the gallery was set aside for the portraits of the
family.  Grim old warriors and fair ladies hung side by side; faces of
marvelous beauty, bearing the signs of noble descent, shone out clearly
from their gilded frames.

"Look, Ronald," Lord Earle said, laying one hand upon his shoulder,
"you stand before your ancestors now.  Yours is a grand old race.
England knows and honors it.  Look at these pictured faces of the wives
our fathers chose.  There is Lady Sybella Earle; when one of Cromwell's
soldiers drew his dagger to slay her husband, the truest friend King
Charles ever had, she flung herself before him, and received the blow
in his stead.  She died, and he lived--noble and beautiful, is she not?
Now look at the Lacy Alicia--this fair patrician lady smiling by the
side of her grim lord; she, at the risk of her life, helped him to fly
from prison, where he lay condemned to death for some great political
wrong.  She saved him, and for her sake he received pardon.  Here is
the Lady Helena--she is not beautiful, but look at the intellect, the
queenly brow, the soul-lit eyes!  She, I need not tell you, was a
poetess.  Wherever the English language was spoken, her verses were
read--men were nobler and better for reading them.  The ladies of our
race were such that brave men may be proud of them.  Is it not so,
Ronald?"

"Yes," he replied, calmly; "they were noble women."

Lord Earle then led his son to a large painting, upon which the western
sunbeams lingered, brightening the fair face they shone upon, until it
seemed living and smiling.  A deep and tender reverence stole into Lord
Earle's voice as he spoke:

"No fairer or more noble woman ever ruled at Earlescourt than your
mother, Ronald.  She is the daughter of 'a hundred earls,' high-bred,
beautiful, and refined.  Now, let me ask you, in the name of common
sense, do you wish to place my lodge keeper's daughter by your mother's
side?  Admit that she is pretty and good--is it in the fitting order of
things that she should be here?"

For the first time, in the heedless, fiery course of his love, Ronald
Earle paused.  He looked at the serene and noble face before him, the
broad brow, the sweet, arched lips, the refined patrician features, and
there came to him the memory of another face, charming, shy and
blushing, with a rustic, graceful beauty different from the one before
him as sunlight compared to moonlight.  The words faltered upon his
lips--instinctively he felt that pretty, blushing Dora had no place
there.  Lord Earle looked relieved as he saw the doubt upon his son's
face.

"You see it, Ronald," he cried.  "Your idea of the 'fusion' of races is
well enough in theory, but it will not do brought into practice.  I
have been patient with you--I have treated you, not as a school boy
whose head is half turned by his first love, but as a sensible man
endowed with reason and thought.  Now give me a reward.  Promise me
here that you will make a brave effort, give up all foolish thoughts of
Dora Thorne, and not see her again. Go abroad for a year or two--you
will soon forget this boyish folly, and bless the good sense that has
saved you from it.  Will you promise me, Ronald?"

"I can not, father," he replied, "for I have promised Dora to make her
my wife.  I can not break my word.  You yourself could never counsel
that."

"In this case I can," said Lord Earle, eagerly.  "That promise is not
binding, even in honor; the girl herself, if she has any reason, can
not and does not expect it."

"She believed me," said Ronald, simply.  "Besides, I love her, father."

"Hush," replied Lord Earle, angrily, "I will listen to no more
nonsense.  There is a limit to my patience.  Once and for all, Ronald,
I tell you that I decidedly forbid any mention of such a marriage; it
is degrading and ridiculous.  I forbid you to marry Dora Thorne; if you
disobey me, you must bear the penalty."

"And what would the penalty be?" asked the heir of Earlescourt, with a
coolness and calmness that irritated the father.

"One you would hardly wish to pay," replied the earl.  "If, in spite of
my prayers, entreaties, and commands, you persist in marrying the girl,
I will never look upon your face again.  My home shall be no longer
your home.  You will lose my love, my esteem, and what perhaps those
who have lured you to ruin may value still more, my wealth.  I can not
disinherit you; but, if you persist in this folly, I will not allow you
one farthing. You shall be to me as one dead until I die myself."

"I have three hundred a year," said Ronald, calmly; "that my godfather
left me."

Lord Earle's face now grew white with anger.

"Yes," he replied, "you have that; it would not find you in gloves and
cigars now.  But, Ronald, you can not be serious, my boy.  I have loved
you--I have been so proud of you--you can not mean to defy and wound
me."

His voice faltered, and his son looked up quickly, touched to the heart
by his father's emotion.

"Give me your consent, father," he cried, passionately.  "You know I
love you, and I love Dora; I can not give up Dora."

"Enough," said Lord Earle; "words seem useless.  You hear my final
resolve; I shall never change it--no after repentance, no entreaties,
will move me. Choose between your parents, your home, your position,
and the love of this fair, foolish girl, of whom in a few months you
will be tired and weary.  Choose between us. I ask for no promises; you
have refused to give it.  I appeal no more to your affection; I leave
you to decide for yourself.  I might coerce and force you, but I will
not do so.  Obey me, and I will make your happiness my study.  Defy me,
and marry the girl then, in life, I will never look upon your face
again. Henceforth, I will have no son; you will not be worthy of the
name.  There is no appeal.  I leave you now to make your choice; this
is my final resolve."



Chapter II

The Earles, of Earlescourt, were one of the oldest families in England.
The "Barony of Earle" is mentioned in the early reigns of the Tudor
kings.  They never appeared to have taken any great part either in
politics or warfare.  The annals of the family told of simple, virtuous
lives; they contained, too, some few romantic incidents.  Some of the
older barons had been brave soldiers; and there were stories of
hair-breadth escapes and great exploits by flood and field.  Two or
three had taken to politics, and had suffered through their eagerness
and zeal; but, as a rule, the barons of Earle had been simple, kindly
gentlemen, contented to live at home upon their own estates, satisfied
with the duties they found there, careful in the alliances they
contracted, and equally careful in the bringing up and establishment of
their children.  One and all they had been zealous cultivators of the
fine arts.  Earlescourt was almost overcrowded with pictures, statues,
and works of art.

Son succeeded father, inheriting with title and estate the same kindly,
simple dispositions and the same tastes, until Rupert Earle, nineteenth
baron, with whom our story opens, became Lord Earle.  Simplicity and
kindness were not his characteristics.  He was proud, ambitious, and
inflexible; he longed for the time when the Earles should become
famous, when their name should be one of weight in council.  In early
life his ambitious desires seemed about to be realized.  He was but
twenty when he succeeded his father, and was an only child, clever,
keen and ambitious.  In his twenty-first year he married Lady Helena
Brooklyn, the daughter of one of the proudest peers in Britain.  There
lay before him a fair and useful life.  His wife was an elegant,
accomplished woman, who knew the world and its ways--who had, from her
earliest childhood, been accustomed to the highest and best society.
Lord Earle often told her, laughingly, that she would have made an
excellent embassadress--her manners were so bland and gracious; she had
the rare gift of appearing interested in every one and in everything.

With such a wife at the head of his establishment, Lord Earle hoped for
great things.  He looked to a prosperous career as a statesman; no
honors seemed to him too high, no ambition too great.  But a hard fate
lay before him.  He made one brilliant and successful speech in
Parliament--a speech never forgotten by those who heard it, for its
astonishing eloquence, its keen wit, its bitter satire.  Never again
did his voice rouse alike friend and foe.  He was seized with a sudden
and dangerous illness which brought him to the brink of the grave.
After a long and desperate struggle with the "grim enemy," he slowly
recovered, but all hope of public life was over for him.  The doctors
said he might live to be a hale old man if he took proper precautions;
he must live quietly, avoid all excitement, and never dream again of
politics.

To Lord Earle this seemed like a sentence of exile or death.  His wife
tried her utmost to comfort and console him, but for some years he
lived only to repine at his lot.  Lady Helena devoted herself to him.
Earlescourt became the center and home of famous hospitality; men of
letters, artists, and men of note visited there, and in time Lord Earle
became reconciled to his fate.  All his hopes and his ambitions were
now centered in his son, Ronald, a fine, noble boy, like his father in
every respect save one.  He had the same clear-cut Saxon face, with
clear, honest eyes and proud lips, the same fair hair and stately
carriage, but in one respect they differed.  Lord Earle was firm and
inflexible; no one ever thought of appealing against his decision or
trying to change his resolution.  If "my lord" had spoken, the matter
was settled.  Even Lady Helena knew that any attempt to influence him
was vain.  Ronald, on the contrary, could be stubborn, but not firm.
He was more easily influenced; appeal to the better part of his nature,
to his affection or sense of duty, was seldom made in vain.

No other children gladdened the Lord Earle's heart, and all his hopes
were centered in his son.  For the second time in his life great hopes
and ambitions rose within him.  What he had not achieved his son would
do; the honor he could no longer seek might one day be his son's.
There was something almost pitiful in the love of the stern,
disappointed man for his child.  He longed for the time when Ronald
would be of age to commence his public career.  He planned for his son
as he had never planned for himself.

Time passed on, and the heir of Earlescourt went to Oxford, as his
father had done before him.  Then came the second bitter disappointment
of Lord Earle's life.  He himself was a Tory of the old school.
Liberal principles were an abomination to him; he hated and detested
everything connected with Liberalism.  It was a great shock when Ronald
returned from college a "full-fledged Liberal."  With his usual
keenness he saw that all discussion was useless.

"Let the Liberal fever wear out," said one of his friends; "you will
find, Lord Earle, that all young men favor it.  Conservatism is the
result of age and experience.  By the time your son takes a position in
the world, he will have passed through many stages of Liberalism."

Lord Earle devoutly believed it.  When the first shock of his
disappointment was over, Ronald's political zeal began to amuse him.
He liked to see the boy earnest in everything.  He smiled when Ronald,
in his clear, young voice, read out the speeches of the chief of his
party.  He smiled when the young man, eager to bring theory into
practice, fraternized with the tenant farmers, and visited families
from whom his father shrunk in aristocratic dread.

There was little doubt that in those days Ronald Earl believed himself
called to a great mission.  He dreamed of the time when the barriers of
caste would be thrown down, when men would have equal rights and
privileges, when the aristocracy of intellect and virtue would take
precedence of noble birth, when wealth would be more equally
distributed, and the days when one man perished of hunger while another
reveled in luxury should cease to be.  His dreams were neither exactly
Liberal nor Radical; they were simply Utopian.  Even then, when he was
most zealous, had any one proposed to him that he should inaugurate the
new state of things, and be the first to divide his fortune, the
futility of his theories would have struck him more plainly.  Mingling
in good society, the influence of clever men and beautiful women would,
Lord Earle believed, convert his son in time. He did not oppose him,
knowing that all opposition would but increase his zeal.  It was a
bitter disappointment to him, but he bore it bravely, for he never
ceased to hope.

A new trouble was dawning for Lord Earle, one far more serious than the
Utopian dream of his son; of all his sorrows it was the keenest and the
longest felt.  Ronald fell in love, and was bent on marrying a simple
rustic beauty, the lodge keeper's daughter.

Earlescourt was one of the fairest spots in fair and tranquil England.
It stood in the deep green heart of the land, in the midst of one of
the bonny, fertile midland counties.

The Hall was surrounded by a large park, where the deer browsed under
the stately spreading trees, where there were flowery dells and knolls
that would charm an artist; a wide brook, almost broad and deep enough
to be called a river, rippled through it.

Earlescourt was noted for its trees, a grand old cedar stood in the
middle of the park; the shivering aspen, the graceful elm, the majestic
oak, the tall, flowering chestnut were all seen to greatest perfection
there.

Art had done much, Nature more, to beautify the home of the Earles.
Charming pleasure gardens were laid out with unrivaled skill; the
broad, deep lake was half hidden by the drooping willows bending over
it, and the white water lilies that lay on its tranquil breast.

The Hall itself was a picturesque, gray old building, with turrets
covered with ivy, and square towers of modern build; there were deep
oriel windows, stately old rooms that told of the ancient race, and
cheerful modern apartments replete with modern comfort.

One of the great beauties of Earlescourt was the broad terrace that ran
along one side of the house; the view from it was unequaled for quiet
loveliness.  The lake shone in the distance from between the trees; the
perfume from the hawthorn hedges filled the air, the fountains rippled
merrily in the sunshine, and the flowers bloomed in sweet summer beauty.

Lord Earle loved his beautiful home; he spared no expense in
improvements, and the time came when Earlescourt was known as a model
estate.

One thing he did of which he repented till the hour of his death. On
the western side of the park he built a new lodge, and installed
therein Stephen Thorne and his wife, little dreaming as he did so that
the first link in what was to be a fatal tragedy was forged.

Ronald was nineteen, and Lord Earle thought, his son's college career
ended, he should travel for two or three years.  He could not go with
him, but he hoped that surveillance would not be needed, that his boy
would be wise enough and manly enough to take his first steps in life
alone.  At college he won the highest honors; great things were
prophesied for Ronald Earle. They might have been accomplished but for
the unfortunate event that darkened Earlescourt with a cloud of shame
and sorrow.

Lord and Lady Earle had gone to pay a visit to an old friend, Sir Hugh
Charteris, of Greenoke.  Thinking Ronald would not reach home until the
third week in June, they accepted Sir Hugh's invitation, and promised
to spend the first two weeks in June with him.  But Ronald altered his
plans; the visit he was making did not prove to be a very pleasant one,
and he returned to Earlescourt two days after Lord and Lady Earle had
left it.  His father wrote immediately, pressing him to join the party
at Greenoke.  He declined, saying that after the hard study of the few
last months he longed for quiet and rest.

Knowing that every attention would be paid to his son's comfort, Lord
Earle thought but little of the matter.  In after years he bitterly
regretted that he had not insisted upon his son's going to Greenoke.
So it happened that Ronald Earle, his college career ended, his future
lying like a bright, unruffled dream before him, had two weeks to spend
alone in Earlescourt.

The first day was pleasant enough.  Ronald went to see the horses,
inspected the kennels, gladdened the gamekeeper's heart by his keen
appreciation of good sport, rowed on the lake, played a solitary game
at billiards, dined in great state, read three chapters or "Mill on
Liberalism," four of a sensational novel, and fell asleep satisfied
with that day, but rather at a loss to know what he should do on the
next.

It was a beautiful June day; no cloud was in the smiling heavens, the
sun shone bright, and Nature looked so fair and tempting that it was
impossible to remain indoors.  Out in the gardens the summer air seemed
to thrill with the song of the birds. Butterflies spread their bright
wings and coquetted with the fragrant blossoms; busy humming bees
buried themselves in the white cups of the lily and the crimson heart
of the rose.

Ronald wandered through the gardens; the delicate golden laburnum
blossoms fell at his feet, and he sat down beneath a large acacia.  The
sun was warm, and Ronald thought a dish of strawberries would be very
acceptable.  He debated within himself for some time whether he should
return to the house and order them, or walk down to the fruit garden
and gather them for himself.

What impulse was it that sent him on that fair June morning, when all
Nature sung of love and happiness, to the spot where he met his fate?



Chapter III

The strawberry gardens at Earlescourt were very extensive.  Far down
among the green beds Ronald Earle saw a young girl kneeling, gathering
the ripe fruit, which she placed in a large basket lined with leaves,
and he went down to her.

"I should like a few of those strawberries," he said, gently, and she
raised to his a face he never forgot.  Involuntarily he raised his hat,
in homage to her youth and her shy, sweet beauty. "For whom are you
gathering these?" he asked, wondering who she was, and whence she came.

In a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and most
graceful of courtesies.

"They are for the housekeeper, sir," she replied; and her voice was
musical and clear as a silver bell.

"Then may I ask who you are?" continued Ronald.

"I am Dora Thorne," she replied, "the lodge keeper's daughter."

"How is it I have never seen you before?" he asked.

"Because I have lived always with my aunt, at Dale," she replied. "I
only came home last year."

"I see," said Ronald. "Will you give me some of those strawberries?" he
asked.  "They look so ripe and tempting."

He sat down on one of the garden chairs and watched her.  The pretty
white fingers looked so fair, contrasted with the crimson fruit and
green leaves.  Deftly and quickly she contrived a small basket of
leaves, and filled it with fruit.  She brought it to him, and then for
the first time Ronald saw her clearly, and that one glance was fatal to
him.

She was no calm, grand beauty.  She had a shy, sweet, blushing face,
resembling nothing so much as a rosebud, with fresh, ripe lips; pretty
little teeth, which gleamed like white jewels, large dark eyes, bright
as stars, and veiled by long lashes; dark hair, soft and shining.  She
was indeed so fair, so modest and graceful, that Ronald Earle was
charmed.

"It must be because you gathered them that they are so nice," he said,
taking the little basket from her hands.  "Rest awhile, Dora--you must
be tired with this hot sun shining full upon you. Sit here under the
shade of this apple tree."

He watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young face. She never
once raised her dark eyes to his.  He had seen beautiful and stately
ladies, but none so coy or bewitching as this pretty maiden.  The more
he looked at her the more he admired her.  She had no delicate
patrician loveliness, no refined grace; but for glowing, shy, fresh
beauty, who could equal her?

So the young heir of Earlescourt sat, pretending to enjoy the
strawberries, but in reality engrossed by the charming figure before
him.  She neither stirred nor spoke.  Under the boughs of the apple
tree, with the sunbeams falling upon her, she made a fair picture, and
his eyes were riveted upon it.

It was all very delightful, and very wrong.  Ronald should not have
talked to the lodge keeper's daughter, and sweet, rustic Dora Thorne
should have known better.  But they were young, and such days come but
seldom, and pass all too quickly.

"Dora Thorne," said Ronald, musingly--"what a pretty name!  How well it
suits you!  It is quite a little song in itself."

She smiled with delight at his words; then her shy, dark eyes were
raised for a moment, and quickly dropped again.

"Have you read Tennyson's 'Dora?'" he asked.

"No," she replied--"I have little time for reading."

"I will tell you the story," he said, patronizingly.  "Ever since I
read it I have had an ideal 'Dora,' and you realize my dream."

She had not the least idea what he meant; but when he recited the
musical words, her fancy and imagination were stirred; she saw the
wheat field, the golden corn, the little child and its anxious mother.
When Ronald ceased speaking, he saw her hands were clasped and her lips
quivering.

"Did you like that?" he asked, with unconscious patronage.

"So much!" she replied.  "Ah, he must be a great man who wrote those
words; and you remember them all."

Her simple admiration flattered and charmed him.  He recited other
verses for her, and the girl listened in a trance of delight.  The
sunshine and western wind brought no warning to the heir of Earlescourt
that he was forging the first link of a dreadful tragedy; he thought
only of the shy, blushing beauty and coy grace of the young girl!

Suddenly from over the trees there came the sound of the great bell at
the Hall.  Then Dora started.

"It is one o'clock!" she cried.  "What shall I do?  Mrs. Morton will be
angry with me."

"Angry!" said Ronald, annoyed at this sudden breakup of his Arcadian
dream.  "Angry with you!  For what?"

"She is waiting for the strawberries," replied conscious Dora, "and my
basket is not half full."

It was a new idea to him that any one should dare to be angry with this
pretty, gentle Dora.

"I will help you," he said.

In less than a minute the heir of Earlescourt was kneeling by Dora
Thorne, gathering quickly the ripe strawberries, and the basket was
soon filled.

"There," said Ronald, "you need not fear Mrs. Morton now, Dora. You
must go, I suppose; it seems hard to leave this bright sunshine to go
indoors!"

"I--I would rather stay," said Dora, frankly; "but I have much to do."

"Shall you be here tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied; "it will take me all the week to gather
strawberries for the housekeeper."

"Goodbye, Dora," he said, "I shall see you again."

He held out his hand, and her little fingers trembled and fluttered in
his grasp.  She looked so happy, yet so frightened, so charming, yet so
shy.  He could have clasped her in his arms at that moment, and have
said he loved her; but Ronald was a gentleman.  He bowed over the
little hand, and then relinquished it.  He watched the pretty, fairy
figure, as the young girl tripped away.

"Shame on all artificial training!" said Ronald to himself. "What would
our fine ladies give for such a face?  Imagine beauty without coquetry
or affectation.  The girl's heart is as pure as a stainless lily; she
never heard of 'a grand match' or a 'good parli.'  If Tennyson's Dora
was like her, I do not wonder at anything that happened."

Instead of thinking to himself that he had done a foolish thing that
bright morning, and that his plain duty was to forget all about the
girl, Ronald lighted his cigar, and began to dream of the face that had
charmed him.

Dora took the fruit to Mrs. Morton, and received no reprimand; then she
was sent home to the cottage, her work for the day ended.  She had to
pass through the park.  Was it the same road she had trodden this
morning?  What caused the new and shining glory that had fallen on
every leaf and tree?  The blue heavens seemed to smile upon her; every
flower, every song of the bright birds had a new meaning.  What was it?
Her own heart was beating as it had never beaten before; her face was
flushed, and the sweet, limpid eyes shone with a new light.  What was
it?  Then she came to the brook-side and sat down on the violet bank.

The rippling water was singing a new song, something of love and youth,
of beauty and happiness--something of a new and fairy-like life; and
with the faint ripple and fall of the water came back to her the voice
that had filled her ears and touched her heart. Would she ever again
forget the handsome face that had smiled so kindly upon her?  Surely he
was a king among men, and he had praised her, said her name was like a
song, and that she was like the Dora of the beautiful poem.  This grand
gentleman, with the clear, handsome face and dainty white hands,
actually admired her.

So Dora dreamed by the brook-side, and she was to see him again and
again; she gave no thought to a cold, dark time when she should see him
no more.  Tomorrow the sun would shine, the birds sing, and she should
see him once again.

Dora never remembered how that happy day passed.  Good Mrs. Thorne
looked at her child, and sighed to think how pretty she was and how
soon that sweet, dimpled face would be worn with care.

Dora's first proceeding was characteristic enough.  She went to her own
room and locked the door; then she put the cracked little mirror in the
sunshine, and proceeded to examine her face.  She wanted to see why
Ronald Earle admired her; she wondered much at this new power she
seemed possessed of; she placed the glass on the table, and sat down to
study her own face.  She saw that it was very fair; the coloring was
delicate and vivid, like that of the heart of a rose; the fresh, red
lips were arched and smiling; the dark, shy eyes, with their long
silken lashes, were bright and clear; a pretty, dimpled, smiling face
told of a sweet, simple, loving nature--that was all; there was no
intellect, no soul, no high-bred refinement; nothing but the charm of
bright, half-startled beauty.

Dora was half puzzled.  She had never thought much of her own
appearance.  Having lived always with sensible, simple people, the
pernicious language of flattery was unknown to her.  It was with a
half-guilty thrill of delight that she for the first time realized the
charm of her own sweet face.

The sunny hours flew by.  Dora never noted them; she thought only of
the morning past and the morning to come, while Ronald dreamed of her
almost unconsciously.  She had been a bright feature in a bright day;
his artistic taste had been gratified, his eyes had been charmed.  The
pretty picture haunted him, and he remembered with pleasure that on the
morrow he should see the shy, sweet face again.  No thought of harm or
wrong even entered his mind. He did not think that he had been
imprudent.  He had recited a beautiful poem to a pretty, coy girl, and
in a grand, lordly way he believed himself to have performed a kind
action.

The morning came, and they brought bright, blushing Dora to her work;
again the little white fingers glistened amid the crimson berries.
Then Dora heard him coming.  She heard his footsteps, and her face grew
"ruby red."  He made no pretense of finding her accidentally.

"Good morning, Dora," he said; "you look as bright as the sunshine and
as fair as the flowers.  Put away the basket; I have brought a book of
poems, and mean to read some to you.  I will help you with your work
afterward."

Dora, nothing loath, sat down, and straightway they were both in
fairyland.  He read industriously, stealing every now and then a glance
at his pretty companion.  She knew nothing of what he was reading, but
his voice made sweeter music than she had ever heard before.

At length the book was closed, and Ronald wondered what thoughts were
running through his companion's simple, artless mind.  So he talked to
her of her daily life, her work, her pleasures, her friends.  As he
talked he grew more and more charmed; she had no great amount of
intellect, no wit or keen powers of repartee, but the girl's love of
nature made her a poetess.  She seemed to know all the secrets of the
trees and the flowers; no beauty escaped her; the rustle of green
leaves, the sighs of the western wind, the solemn hush of the
deep-green woods, the changing tints of the summer sky delighted her.
Beautiful words, embodying beautiful thoughts, rippled over the fresh,
ripe lips.  She knew nothing else.  She had seen no pictures, read no
books, knew nothing of the fine arts, was totally ignorant of all
scholarly lore, but deep in her heart lay a passionate love for the
fair face of nature.

It was new to Ronald.  He had heard fashionable ladies speak of
everything they delighted in.  He had ever heard of "music in the fall
of rain drops," or character in flowers.

Once Dora forgot her shyness, and when Ronald said something, she
laughed in reply.  How sweet and pure that laughter was--like a soft
peal of silver bells!  When Ronald Earle went to sleep that night, the
sound haunted his dreams.



Chapter IV

Every morning brought the young heir of Earlescourt to the bright sunny
gardens where Dora worked among the strawberries.  As the days passed
she began to lose something of her shy, startled manner, and laughed
and talked to him as she would have done to her own brother.  His
vanity was gratified by the sweetest homage of all, the unconscious,
unspoken love and admiration of the young girl.  He liked to watch the
blushes on her face, and the quivering of her lips when she caught the
first sound of his coming footsteps.  He liked to watch her dark eyes
droop, and then to see them raised to his with a beautiful, startled
light.

Insensibly his own heart became interested.  At first he had merely
thought of passing a pleasant hour; then he admired Dora, and tried to
believe that reading to her was an act of pure benevolence; but, as the
days passed on, something stronger and sweeter attracted him.  He began
to love her--and she was his first love.

Wonderful to say, these long tete-a-tetes had not attracted
observation.  No rumor of them escaped, so that no thorn appeared in
this path of roses which led to the brink of a precipice.

It wanted three days until the time settled for the return of Lord and
Lady Earle.  Sir Harry Laurence, of Holtham Hall, asked Ronald to spend
a day with him; and, having no valid excuse, he consented.

"I shall not see you tomorrow, Dora," he said. "I am going away for the
day."

She looked at him with a startled face.  One whole day without him!
Then, with a sudden deadly pain, came the thought that these golden
days must end; the time must come when she should see him no more.  The
pretty, dimpled face grew pale, and a dark shadow came into the clear
eyes.

"Dora," cried Ronald, "why do you look so frightened?  What is it?"

She gave him no answer, but turned away.  He caught her hands in his
own.

"Are you grieved that I am going away for one whole day?" he asked.
But she looked so piteous and so startled that he waited for no reply.
"I shall continue to see you," he resumed.  "I could not let any day
pass without that."

"And afterward," she said, simply, raising her eyes to his full of
tears.

Then Ronald paused abruptly--he had never given one thought to the
"afterward."  Why, of course strawberries would not grow forever--it
would not always be summer.  Lord Earle would soon be back again, and
then he must go abroad.  Where would Dora be then?  He did not like the
thought--it perplexed him.  Short as was the time he had known her,
Dora had, in some mysterious way, grown to be a part of himself.  He
could not think of a day wherein he should not see her blushing, pretty
face, and hear the music of her words.  He was startled, and clasped
her little hands more tightly within his own.

"You would not like to lose me, Dora?" he said, gently.

"No," she replied; and then tears fell from her dark eyes.

Poor Ronald!  Had he been wise, he would have flown then; but he bent
his head over her, and kissed the tears away.  The pretty rounded
cheek, so soft and child-like, he kissed again, and then clasped the
slight girlish figure in his arms.

"Do not shed another tear, Dora," he whispered; "we will not lose each
other.  I love you, and you shall be my wife."

One minute before he spoke the idea had not even crossed his mind; it
seemed to him afterward that another voice had spoken by his lips.

"Your wife!" she cried, looking at him in some alarm.  "Ah, no! You are
very kind and good, but that could never be."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because you are so far above me," replied the girl.  "I and mine are
servants and dependents of yours.  We are not equal; I must learn to
forget you," sobbed Dora, "and break my own heart!"

She could not have touched Ronald more deeply; in a moment he had
poured forth a torrent of words that amazed her.  Fraternity and
equality, caste and folly, his mission and belief, his love and
devotion, were all mingled in one torrent of eloquence that simply
alarmed her.

"Never say that again, Dora," he continued, his fair, boyish face
flushing.  "You are the equal of a queen upon her throne; you are fair
and true, sweet and good.  What be a queen more than that?"

"A queen knows more," sighed Dora.  "I know nothing in all the wide
world."

"Then I will teach you," he said.  "Ah, Dora, you know enough! You have
beautiful thoughts, and you clothe them in beautiful words.  Do not
turn from me; say you love me and will be my wife. I love you, Dora--do
not make me unhappy."

"I would not make you unhappy," she said, "for the whole world; if you
wish me to love you--oh, you know I love you--if you wish me to go away
and forget you, I will do my best."

But the very thought of it brought tears again.  She looked so pretty,
so bewildered between sorrow and joy, so dazzled by happiness, and yet
so piteously uncertain, that Ronald was more charmed than ever.

"My darling Dora," he said, "you do love me.  Your eyes speak, if your
lips do not tell me.  Will you be my wife?  I can not live without you."

It was the prettiest picture in the world to see the color return to
the sweet face.  Ronald bent his head, and heard the sweet whisper.

"You shall never rue your trust, Dora," he said, proudly; but she
interrupted him.

"What will Lord Earle say?" she asked; and again Ronald was startled by
that question.

"My father can say nothing," he replied.  "I am old enough to please
myself, and this is a free country.  I shall introduce you to him,
Dora, and tell him you have promised to be my wife.  No more tears,
love.  There is nothing but happiness before us."

And so he believed.  He could think of nothing, care for nothing but
Dora--her pretty face, her artless, simple ways, her undisguised love
for him.  There was but one excuse.  He was young, and it was his first
love; yet despite his happiness, his pride, his independence, he did
often wonder in what words he should tell his father that he had
promised to marry the lodge keeper's daughter.  There were even times
when he shivered, as one seized with sudden cold, at the thought.

The four days passed like a long, bright dream.  It was a pretty
romance, but sadly misplaced--a pretty summer idyll.  They were but boy
and girl.  Dora met Ronald in the park, by the brook-side, and in the
green meadows where the white hawthorn grew.  They talked of but one
thing, their love.  Ronald never tired of watching Dora's fair face and
pretty ways; she never wearied of telling him over and over again, in a
hundred different ways, how noble and kind he was, and how dearly she
loved him.

Lord Earle wrote to say that he should be home on the Thursday evening,
and that they were bringing back a party of guests with them.

"There will be no time to tell my father just at present," said Ronald;
"so, Dora, we must keep our secret.  It will not do to tell your father
before I tell mine."

They arranged to keep the secret until Lord Earle should be alone
again.  They were to meet twice every day--in the early morning, while
the dew lay on the grass, and in the evening, when the Hall would be
full of bustle and gayety.

Ronald felt guilty--he hardly knew how or why--when his father
commiserated him for the two lonely weeks he had spent.  Lonely! He had
not felt them so; they had passed all too quickly for him. How many
destinies were settled in that short time!

There was little time for telling his secret to Lord Earle.  The few
guests who had returned to Earlescourt were men of note, and their host
devoted himself to their entertainment.

Lady Earle saw some great change in her son.  She fancied that he spent
a great deal of time out of doors.  She asked him about it, wondering
if he had taken to studying botany, for late and early he never tired
of rambling in the park.  She wondered again at the flush that
crimsoned his face; but the time was coming when she would understand
it all.

It is probable that if Ronald at that time had had as much of Dora's
society as he liked, he would soon have discovered his mistake, and no
great harm would have been done; but the foolish romance of foolish
meetings had a charm for him.  In those hurried interviews he had only
time to think of Dora's love--he never noted her deficiencies; he was
charmed with her tenderness and grace; her artless affection was so
pretty; the difference between her and those with whom he was
accustomed to talk was so great; her very ignorance had a piquant charm
for him.  So they went on to their fate.

One by one Lord Earle's guests departed, yet Ronald had not told his
secret.  A new element crept into his love, and urged him on. Walking
one day through the park with his father they overtook Dora's father.
A young man was with him and the two were talking earnestly together,
so earnestly that they never heard the two gentlemen; and in passing by
Ronald distinguished the words, "You give me your daughter, Mr. Thorne,
and trust me to make her happy."

Ronald Earle turned quickly to look at the speaker.  He saw before him
a young man, evidently a well-to-do farmer from his appearance, with a
calm, kind face and clear and honest eyes; and he was asking for
Dora--Dora who was to be his wife and live at Earlescourt.  He could
hardly control his impatience; and it seemed to him that evening would
never come.

Dinner was over at last.  Lord Earle sat with Sir Harry Laurence over a
bottle of claret, and Lady Earle was in the drawing room and had taken
up her book.  Ronald hastened to the favorite trysting place, the
brook-side.  Dora was there already, and he saw that her face was still
wet with tears.  She refused at first to tell him her sorrow.  Then she
whispered a pitiful little story, that made her lover resolve upon some
rash deeds.

Ralph Holt had been speaking to her father, and had asked her to marry
him.  She had said "No;" but her mother had wept, and her father had
grown angry, and had said she should obey him.

"He has a large farm," said Dora, with a bitter sigh.  "He says I
should live like a great lady, and have nothing to do.  He would be
kind to my father and mother; but I do not love him," she added.

Clasping her tender little hands round Ronald's arm, "I do not love
him," she sobbed; "and, Ronald, I do love you."

He bent down and kissed her pretty, tear-bedewed face, all the chivalry
of his nature aroused by her words.

"You shall be my wife, Dora," he said, proudly, "and not his. This very
evening I will tell my father, and ask his consent to our marriage.  My
mother is sure to love you--she is so kind and gracious to every one.
Do not tremble, my darling; neither Ralph Holt nor any one else shall
take you from me."

She was soon comforted!  There was no bound or limit to her faith in
Ronald Earle.

"Go home now," he said, "and tomorrow my father himself shall see you.
I will teach that young farmer his place.  No more tears, Dora--our
troubles will end tonight."

He went with her down the broad walk, and then returned to the Hall.
He walked very proudly, with his gallant head erect, saying to himself
that this was a free country and he could do what he liked; but for all
that his heart beat loudly when he entered the drawing room and found
Lord and Lady Earle.  They looked up smilingly at him, all unconscious
that their beloved son, the heir of Earlescourt, was there to ask
permission to marry the lodge keeper's daughter.



Chapter V

Ronald Earle had plenty of courage--no young hero ever led a forlorn
hope with more bravery that he displayed in the interview with his
parents, which might have daunted a bolder man.  As he approached, Lady
Earle raised her eyes with a languid smile.

"Out again, Ronald!" she said.  "Sir Harry Laurence left his adieus for
you.  I think the park possesses some peculiar fascination.  Have you
been walking quickly?  Your face is flushed."

He made no reply, but drew near to his mother; he bent over her and
raised her hand to his lips.

"I am come to tell you something," he said.  "Father, will you listen
to me?  I ask your permission to marry Dora Thorne, one of the fairest,
sweetest girls in England."

His voice never faltered, and the brave young face never quailed. Lord
Earle looked at him in utter amazement.

"To marry Dora Thorne!" he said.  "And who, in the name of reason, is
Dora Thorne?"

"The lodge keeper's daughter," replied Ronald, stoutly.  "I love her,
father, and she loves me."

He was somewhat disconcerted when Lord Earle, for all reply, broke into
an uncontrollable fit of laughter.  He had expected a
storm--expostulations, perhaps, and reproaches--anything but this.

"You can not be serious, Ronald," said his mother, smiling.

"I am so much in earnest," he replied, "that I would give up all I have
in the world--my life itself, for Dora."

Then Lord Earle ceased laughing, and looked earnestly at the handsome,
flushed face.

"No," said he, "you can not be serious.  You dare not ask your mother
to receive a servant's daughter as her own child.  Your jest is in bad
taste, Ronald."

"It is no jest," he replied.  "We Earles are always terribly in
earnest.  I have promised to marry Dora Thorne, and, with your
permission, I intend to keep my word."

An angry flush rose to Lord Earle's face, but he controlled his
impatience.

"In any case," he replied, quietly, "you are too young to think of
marriage yet.  If you had chosen the daughter of a duke, I should, for
the present, refuse."

"I shall be twenty in a few months," said Ronald, "and I am willing to
wait until then."

Lady Earle laid her white jeweled hand on her son's shoulder, and said,
gently:

"My dear Ronald, have you lost your senses?  Tell me, who is Dora
Thorne?"  She saw tears shining in his eyes; his brave young face
touched her heart.  "Tell me," she continued, "who is she?  Where have
you seen her?  What is she like?"

"She is so beautiful, mother," he said, "that I am sure you would love
her; she is as fair and sweet as she is modest and true.  I met her in
the gardens some weeks ago, and I have met her every day since."

Lord and Lady Earle exchanged a glance of dismay which did not escape
Ronald.

"Why have you not told us of this before?" asked his father, angrily.

"I asked her to be my wife while you were from home," replied Ronald.
"She promised and I have only been waiting until our guests left us and
you had more time."

"Is it to see Dora Thorne that you have been out so constantly?" asked
Lady Earle.

"Yes, I could not let a day pass without seeing her," he replied; "it
would be like a day without sunshine."

"Does any one else know of this folly?" asked Lord Earle, angrily.

"No, you may be quite sure, father, I should tell you before I told any
one else," replied Ronald.

They looked at him in silent dismay, vexed and amazed at what he had
done--irritated at his utter folly, yet forced to admire his honor, his
courage, his truth.  Both felt that some sons would have carefully
concealed such a love affair from them.  They were proud of his candor
and integrity, although deploring his folly.

"Tell us all about it, Ronald," said Lady Earle.

Without the least hesitation, Ronald told them every word; and despite
their vexation, neither could help smiling--it was such a pretty
story--a romance, all sunshine, smiles, tears, and flowers.  Lord
Earle's face cleared as he listened, and he laid one hand on his boy's
shoulder.

"Ronald," said he, "we shall disagree about your love; but remember, I
do full justice to your truth.  After all, the fault is my own.  I
might have known that a young fellow of your age, left all alone, was
sure to get into mischief; you have done so. Say no more now; I clearly
and distinctly refuse my consent.  I appeal to your honor that you meet
this young girl no more.  We will talk of it another time."

When the door closed behind him, Lord and Lady Earle looked at each
other.  The lady's face was pale and agitated.

"Oh, Rupert," she said, "how brave and noble he is!  Poor foolish boy!
How proud he looked of his absurd mistake.  We shall have trouble with
him, I foresee!"

"I do not think so," replied her husband.  "Valentine Charteris will be
here soon, and when Ronald sees her he will forget this rustic beauty."

"It will be better not to thwart him," interrupted Lady Earle. "Let me
manage the matter, Rupert.  I will go down to the lodge tomorrow, and
persuade them to send the girl away; and then we will take Ronald
abroad, and he will forget all about it in a few months."

All night long the gentle lady of Earlescourt was troubled by strange
dreams--by vague, dark fears that haunted her and would not be laid to
rest.

"Evil will come of it," she said to herself--"evil and sorrow. This
distant shadow saddens me now."

The next day she went to the lodge, and asked for Dora.  She half
pardoned her son's folly when she saw the pretty dimpled face, the
rings of dark hair, lying on the white neck.  The girl was indeed
charming and modest, but unfitted--oh, how unfitted! ever to be Lady
Earle.  She was graceful as a wild flower is graceful; but she had no
manner, no dignity, no cultivation.  She stood blushing, confused, and
speechless, before the "great lady."

"You know what I want you for, Dora," said Lady Earle, kindly. "My son
has told us of the acquaintance between you.  I am come to say it must
cease.  I do not wish to hurt or wound you.  Your own sense must tell
you that you can never be received by Lord Earle and myself as our
daughter.  We will not speak of your inferiority in birth and position.
You are not my son's equal in refinement or education; he would soon
discover that, and tire of you."

Dora spoke no word, the tears falling from her bright eyes; this time
there was no young lover to kiss them away.  She made no reply and when
Lady Earle sent for her father, Dora ran away; she would hear no more.

"I know nothing of it, my lady," said the worthy lodge keeper, who was
even more surprised than his master had been.  "Young Ralph Holt wants
to marry my daughter, and I have said that she shall be his wife.  I
never dreamed that she knew the young master; she has not mentioned his
name."

Lady Earle's diplomacy succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations.
Stephen Thorne and his wife, although rather dazzled by the fact that
their daughter had captivated the future Lord Earlescourt, let common
sense and reason prevail, and saw the disparity and misery such a
marriage would cause.  They promised to be gentle and kind to Dora, not
to scold or reproach her, and to allow some little time to elapse
before urging Ralph Holt's claims.

When Lady Earle rose, she placed a twenty-pound banknote in the hands
of Stephen Thorne, saying:

"You are sending Dora to Eastham; that will cover the expenses."

"I could not do that, my lady," said Stephen, refusing to take the
money.  "I can not sell poor Dora's love."

Then Lady Earle held out her delicate white hand, and the man bowed low
over it.  Before the sun set that evening, Stephen Thorne had taken
Dora to Eastham, where she was to remain until Ronald had gone abroad.

For a few days it seemed as though the storm had blown over. There was
one angry interview between father and son, when Ronald declared that
sending Dora away was a breach of faith, and that he would find her out
and marry her how and when he could.  Lord Earle thought his words were
but the wild folly of a boy deprived of a much-desired toy.  He did not
give them serious heed.

The story of Earlescourt might have been different, had not Ronald,
while still amazed and irritated by his father's cool contempt,
encountered Ralph Holt.  They met at the gate leading from the fields
to the high road; it was closed between them, and neither could make
way.

"I have a little account to settle with you, my young lordling," said
Ralph, angrily.  "Doves never mate with eagles; if you want to marry,
choose one of your own class, and leave Dora Thorne to me."

"Dora Thorne is mine," said Ronald, haughtily.

"She will never be," was the quick reply.  "See, young master, I have
loved Dora since she was a--a pretty, bright-eyed child. Her father
lived near my father's farm then.  I have cared for her all my life--I
do not know that I have ever looked twice at another woman's face.  Do
not step in between me and my love. The world is wide, and you can
choose where you will--do not rob me of Dora Thorne."

There was a mournful dignity in the man's face that touched Ronald.

"I am sorry for you," he said, "if you love Dora; for she will be my
wife."

"Never!" cried Ralph.  "Since you will not listen to fair words, I defy
you.  I will go to Eastham and never leave Dora again until she will be
my own."

High, angry words passed between them, but Ralph in his passion had
told the secret Ronald had longed to know--Dora was at Eastham.

It was a sad story and yet no rare one.  Love and jealousy robbed the
boy of his better sense; duty and honor were forgotten. Under pretense
of visiting one of his college friends, Ronald went to Eastham.  Lord
and Lady Earle saw him depart without any apprehension; they never
suspected that he knew where Dora was.

It was a sad story, and bitter sorrow came from it.  Word by word it
can not be written, but when the heir of Earlescourt saw Dora again,
her artless delight, her pretty joy and sorrow mingled, her fear and
dislike of Ralph, her love for himself drove all thought of duty and
honor from his mind.  He prayed her to become his wife secretly.  He
had said that when once they were married his father would forgive
them, and all would be well.  He believed what he said; Dora had no
will but his.  She forgot all Lady Earle's warnings; she remembered
only Ronald and his love. So they were married in the quiet parish
church of Helsmeer, twenty miles from Eastham, and no human being
either knew or guessed their secret.

There was no excuse, no palliation for an act that was undutiful,
dishonorable, and deceitful--there was nothing to plead for him, save
that he was young, and had never known a wish refused.

They were married.  Dora Thorne became Dora Earle.  Ronald parted from
his pretty wife immediately.  He arranged all his plans with what he
considered consummate wisdom.  He was to return home, and try by every
argument in his power to soften his father and win his consent.  If he
still refused, then time would show him the best course.  Come what
might, Dora was his; nothing on earth could part them.  He cared for
very little else.  Even if the very worst came, and his father sent him
from home, it would only be for a time, and there was Dora to comfort
him.

He returned to Earlescourt, and though his eyes were never raised in
clear, true honesty to his father's face, Lord Earle saw that his son
looked happy, and believed the cloud had passed away.

Dora was to remain at Eastham until she heard from him.  He could not
write to her, nor could she send one line to him; but he promised and
believed that very soon he should take her in all honor to Earlescourt.



Chapter VI

It was a beautiful morning toward the end of August; the balmy
sweetness of spring had given way to the glowing radiance of summer.
The golden corn waved in the fields, the hedge rows were filled with
wild flowers, the fruit hung ripe in the orchards. Nature wore her
brightest smile.  The breakfast room at Earlescourt was a pretty
apartment; it opened on a flower garden, and through the long French
windows came the sweet perfume of rose blossoms.

It was a pretty scene--the sunbeams fell upon the rich silver, the
delicate china, the vases of sweet flowers.  Lord Earle sat at the head
of the table, busily engaged with his letters.  Lady Earle, in the
daintiest of morning toilets, was smiling over the pretty pink notes
full of fashionable gossip.  Her delicate, patrician face looked clear
and pure in the fresh morning light. But there was no smile on Ronald's
face.  He was wondering, for the hundredth time, how he was to tell his
father what he had done.  He longed to be with his pretty Dora; and yet
there was a severe storm to encounter before he could bring her home.

"Ah," said Lady Earle, suddenly, "here is good news--Lady Charteris is
positively coming, Rupert.  Sir Hugh will join her in a few days.  She
will be here with Valentine tomorrow."

"I am very glad," said Lord Earle, looking up with pleasure and
surprise.  "We must ask Lady Laurence to meet them."

Ronald sighed; his parents busily discussed the hospitalities and
pleasures to be offered their guests.  A grand dinner party was
planned, and a ball, to which half the country side were to be invited.

"Valentine loves gayety," said Lady Earle, "and we must give her plenty
of it."

"I shall have all this to go through," sighed Ronald--"grand parties,
dinners, and balls, while my heart longs to be with my darling; and in
the midst of it all, how shall I find time to talk to my father?  I
will begin this very day."

When dinner was over, Ronald proposed to Lord Earle that they should go
out on the terrace and smoke a cigar there.  Then took place the
conversation with which our story opens, when the master of Earlescourt
declared his final resolve.

Ronald was more disturbed than he cared to own even to himself. Once
the words hovered upon his lips that he had married Dora. Had Lord Earl
been angry or contemptuous, he would have uttered them; but in the
presence of his father's calm, dignified wisdom, he was abashed and
uncertain.  For the first time he felt the truth of all his father
said.  Not that he loved Dora less, or repented of the rash private
marriage, but Lord Earle's appeal to his sense of the "fitness of
things" touched him.

There was little time for reflection.  Lady Charteris and her daughter
were coming on the morrow.  Again Lady Earle entered the field as a
diplomatist, and came off victorious.

"Ronald," said his mother, as they parted that evening, "I know that,
as a rule, young men of your age do not care for the society of elderly
ladies; I must ask you to make an exception in favor of Lady Charteris.
They showed me great kindness at Greenoke, and you must help me to
return it.  I shall consider every attention shown to the lady and her
daughter as shown to myself."

Ronald smiled at his mother's words, and told her he would never fail
in her service.

"If he sees much of Valentine," thought his mother, "he can not help
loving her.  Then all will be well."

Ronald was not in the house when the guests arrived; they came rather
before the appointed time.  His mother and Lady Charteris had gone to
the library together, leaving Valentine in the drawing room alone.
Ronald found her there.  Opening the door, he saw the sleeve of a white
dress; believing Lady Earle was there, he went carelessly into the
room, then started in astonishment at the vision before him.  Once in a
century, perhaps, one sees a woman like Valentine Charteris; of the
purest and loveliest Greek type, a calm, grand, magnificent blonde,
with clear, straight brows, fair hair that shone like satin and lay in
thick folds around her queenly head--tall and stately, with a finished
ease and grace of manner that could only result from long and careful
training.  She rose when Ronald entered the room, and her beautiful
eyes were lifted calmly to his face. Suddenly a rush of color dyed the
white brow.  Valentine remembered what Lady Earle had said of her son.
She knew that both his mother and hers wished that she should be
Ronald's wife.

"I beg your pardon," he said hastily, "I thought Lady Earle was here."

"She is in the library," said Valentine, with a smile that dazzled him.

He bowed and withdrew.  This, then, was Valentine Charteris, the fine
lady whose coming he had dreaded.  She was very beautiful--he had never
seen a face like hers.

No thought of love, or of comparing this magnificent woman with simple,
pretty Dora, ever entered his mind.  But Ronald was a true artist, and
one of no mean skill.  He thought of that pure Grecian face as he would
have thought of a beautiful picture or an exquisite statue.  He never
thought of the loving, sensitive woman's heart hidden under it.

It was not difficult when dinner was over to open the grand piano for
Valentine, to fetch her music, and listen while she talked of operas he
had never heard.  It was pleasant to watch her as she sat in the
evening gloaming, her superb beauty enhanced by the delicate evening
dress of fine white lace; the shapely shoulders were polished and
white, the exquisite arms rounded and clasped by a bracelet of pearls.
She wore a rose in the bodice of her dress, and, as Ronald bent over
the music she was showing him the sweet, subtle perfume came to him
like a message from Dora.

Valentine Charteris had one charm even greater than her beauty. She
talked well and gracefully--the play of her features, the movement of
her lips, were something not to be forgotten; and her smile seemed to
break like a sunbeam over her whole face--it was irresistible.

Poor Ronald stood by her, watching the expression that seemed to change
with every word; listening to pretty polished language that was in
itself a charm.  The two mothers, looking on, and Lord Earle felt
himself relieved from a heavy weight of care. Then Lady Earle asked
Valentine to sing.  She was quite free from all affectation.

"What kind of music do you prefer?" she asked, looking at Ronald.

"Simple old ballads," he replied, thinking of Dora, and how prettily
she would sing them.

He started when the first note of Valentine's magnificent voice rang
clear and sweet in the quiet gloaming.  She sang some quaint old story
of a knight who loved a maiden--loved and rode away, returning after
long years to find a green grave.  Ronald sat thinking of Dora.  Ah,
perhaps, had he forsaken her, the pretty dimpled face would have faded
away!  He felt pleased that he had been true.  Then the music ceased.

"Is that what you like?" asked Valentine Charteris, "it is of the
stronger sentimental school."

Simple, honest Ronald wondered if sentiment was a sin against
etiquette, or why fashionable ladies generally spoke of it with a sneer.

"Do you laugh at sentiment?" he asked; and Valentine opened her fine
eyes in wonder at the question.  Lady Earle half overheard it, and
smiled in great satisfaction.  Matters must be going on well, she
thought, if Ronald had already begun to speak of sentiment.  She never
thought that his heart and mind were with Dora while he spoke--pretty
Dora, who cried over his poetry, and devoutly believed in the language
of flowers.

The evening passed rapidly, and Ronald felt something like regret when
it ended.  Lady Earle was too wise to make any comments; she never
asked her son if he liked Valentine or what he thought of her.

"I am afraid you are tired," she said, with a charming smile; "thank
you for helping to amuse my friends."

When Ronald thought over what he had done, his share seemed very small;
still his mother was pleased, and he went to rest resolved that on the
morrow he would be doubly attentive to Miss Charteris.

Three days passed, and Ronald had grown quite at ease with Valentine.
They read and disputed over the same books; Ronald brought out his
large folio of drawings, and Valentine wondered at his skill.  He bent
over her, explaining the sketches, laughing and talking gayly, as
though there was no dark background to his life.

"You are an accomplished artist," said Miss Charteris, "you must have
given much time to study."

"I am fond of it," said Ronald; "if fate had not made me an only son, I
should have chosen painting as my profession."

In after years these words came back to them as a sad prophecy.

Ronald liked Miss Charteris.  Apart from her grand beauty, she had the
charm, too, of a kindly heart and an affectionate nature. He saw how
much Lady Earle loved her, and resolved to tell Valentine all about
Dora, and ask her to try to influence his mother.  With that aim and
end in view, he talked continually to the young lady; he accompanied
her in all her walks and drives, and they sang and sketched together.
Ronald, knowing himself so safely bound to Dora, forgot in what light
his conduct must appear to others.  Lady Earle had forgotten her fears;
she believed that her son was learning to love Valentine, and her
husband shared her belief.

All things just then were couleur de rose at Earlescourt.  Ronald
looked and felt happy--he had great faith in Valentine's persuasive
powers.

Days passed by rapidly; the time for the grand ball was drawing near.
Lady Earle half wondered when her son would speak of Miss Charteris,
and Valentine wondered why he lingered near her, why oftentimes he was
on the point of speaking, and then drew back. She quite believed he
cared for her, and she liked him in return, as much as she was capable
of liking any one.

She was no tragedy queen, but a loving, affectionate girl, unable to
reach the height of passionate love, or the depth of despair. She was
well disposed toward Ronald--Lady Earle spoke so much of him at
Greenoke.  She knew too that a marriage with him would delight her
mother.

Valentine's favorable impression of Ronald was deepened when she saw
him.  Despite the one great act of duplicity which shadowed his whole
life, Ronald was true and honorable.  Valentine admired his clear Saxon
face and firm lips; she admired his deep bright eyes, that darkened
with every passing emotion; she liked his gentle, chivalrous manner,
his earnest words, his deferential attention to herself, his
affectionate devotion to Lady Earle.

There was not a braver or more gallant man in England than this young
heir of Earlescourt.  He inherited the personal beauty and courage of
his race.  He gave promise of a splendid manhood; and no one knew how
proudly Lord Earle had rejoiced in that promise.

In her calm stately way, Valentine liked him; she even loved him, and
would have been happy as his wife.  She enjoyed his keen, intellectual
powers and his originality of thought.  Even the "dreadful politics,"
that scared and shocked his father, amused her.

Ronald, whose heart was full of the pretty little wife he dared neither
see nor write to, gave no heed to Valentine's manner; it never occurred
to him what construction could be put upon his friendly liking for her.



Chapter VII

The day came for the grand ball, and during breakfast the ladies
discussed the important question of bouquets; from that the
conversation changed to flowers.  "There are so many of them," said
Valentine, "and they are all so beautiful, I am always at a loss which
to choose."

"I should never hesitate a moment," said Ronald, laughingly. "You will
accuse me, perhaps of being sentimental, but I must give preference to
the white lily-bells.  Lilies of the valley are the fairest flowers
that grow."

Lady Earle overheard the remark; no one else appeared to notice it, and
she was not much surprised when Valentine entered the ball room to see
white lilies in her fair hair, and a bouquet of the same flowers,
half-shrouded by green leaves, in her hand.

Many eyes turned admiringly upon the calm, stately beauty and her white
flowers. Ronald saw them.  He could not help remarking the exquisite
toilet, marred by no obtrusive colors, the pretty lily wreath and
fragrant bouquet.  It never occurred to him that Valentine had chosen
those delicate blossoms in compliment to him.  He thought he had never
seen a fairer picture than this magnificent blonde; then she faded from
his mind.  He looked round on those fair and noble ladies, thinking
that Dora's shy, sweet face was far lovelier than any there.  He looked
at the costly jewels, the waving plumes, the sweeping satins, and
thought of Dora's plain, pretty dress.  A softened look came into his
eyes, as he pictured his shy, graceful wife.  Some day she, too, would
walk through these gorgeous rooms, and then would all admire the wisdom
of his choice.  So the heir of Earlescourt dreamed as he watched the
brilliant crowd that began to fill the ball room; but his reverie was
suddenly broken by a summons from Lady Earle.

"Ronald," said she, looking slightly impatient, "have you forgotten
that it is your place to open the ball?  You must ask Miss Charteris to
dance with you."

"That will be no hardship," he replied, smiling at his mother's earnest
manner.  "I would rather dance with Miss Charteris than any one else."

Lady Earle wisely kept silence; her son went up to Valentine and made
his request.  He danced with her again and again--not as Lady Earle
hoped, from any unusual preference, but because it gave him less
trouble than selecting partners among strange young ladies.  Valentine
understood him; they talked easily, and without restraint.  He paid her
no compliments, and she did not seem to expect any.  With other ladies,
Ronald was always thinking, "What would they say if they knew of that
fair young wife at Eastham?"  With Valentine no such idea haunted
him--he had an instinctive belief in her true and firm friendship.

Lady Earle overheard a few whispered comments, and they filled her
heart with delight.  Old friends whispered to her that "it would be a
splendid match for her son," and "how happy she would be with such a
daughter-in-law as Miss Charteris, so beautiful and dignified;" and all
this because Ronald wanted to secure Valentine's friendship, so that
she might intercede for Dora.

When, for the fourth time, Ronald asked Miss Charteris "for the next
dance," she looked up at him with a smile.

"Do you know how often we have danced together this evening?" she asked.

"What does it matter?" he replied, wondering at the flush that
crimsoned her face.  "Forgive me, Miss Charteris, if I say that you
realize my idea of the poetry of motion."

"Is that why you ask me so frequently?" she said, archly.

"Yes," replied honest Ronald; "it is a great pleasure; for one good
dancer there are fifty bad ones."

He did not quite understand the pretty, piqued expression of her face.

"You have not told me," said Valentine, "whether you like my flowers."

"They are very beautiful," he replied; but the compliment of her
selection was all lost upon him.

Miss Charteris did not know whether he was simply indifferent or timid.

"You told me these lilies were your favorite flowers," she said.

"Yes," replied Ronald; "but they are not the flowers that resemble
you."  He was thinking how much simple, loving Dora was like the pretty
delicate little blossoms.  "You are like the tall queenly lilies."

He paused, for Valentine was looking at him with a wondering smile.

"Do you know you have paid me two compliments in less than five
minutes?" she said.  "And yesterday we agreed that between true friends
they were quite unnecessary."

"I--I did not intend to pay idle compliments," he replied.  "I merely
said what I thought.  You are like a tall, grand, white lily, Miss
Charteris.  I have often thought so.  If you will not dance with me
again, will you walk through the rooms?"

Many admiring glances followed them--a handsomer pair was seldom seen.
They passed through the long suite of rooms and on to the conservatory,
where lamps gleamed like stars between the green plants and rare
exotics.

"Will you rest here?" said Ronald.  "The ball room is so crowded one
can not speak there."

"Ah," thought Miss Charteris, "then he really has something to say to
me!"

Despite her calm dignity and serene manner, Valentine's heart beat
high.  She loved the gallant young heir--his honest, kindly nature had
a great charm for her.  She saw that the handsome face bending over the
flowers was agitated and pale.  Miss Charteris looked down at the
lilies in her hand.  He came nearer to her, and looked anxiously at her
beautiful face.

"I am not eloquent," said Ronald--"I have no great gift of speech; but,
Miss Charteris, I should like to find some words that would reach your
heart and dwell there."

He wanted to tell her of Dora, to describe her sweet face with its
dimples and blushes, her graceful manner, her timid, sensitive
disposition.  He wanted to make her love Dora, to help him to soften
his mother's prejudices and his father's anger; no wonder his lips
quivered and his voice faltered.

"For some days past I have been longing to speak to you," continued
Ronald; "now my courage almost fails me.  Miss Charteris, say something
that will give me confidence."  She looked up at him, and any other man
would have read the love in her face.

"The simplest words you can use will always interest me," she said,
gently.

His face cleared, and he began: "You are kind and generous--"

Then came an interruption--Sir Harry Laurence, with a lady, entered the
conservatory.

"This is refreshing," he said to Ronald.  "I have been ten minutes
trying to get here, the rooms are so full."

Miss Charteris smiled in replying, wishing Sir Harry had waited ten
minutes longer.

"Promise me," said Ronald, detaining her, as Sir Harry passed on, "that
you will give me one half hour tomorrow."

"I will do so," replied she.

"And you will listen to me, Miss Charteris?" he continued.  "You will
hear all I have to say?"

Valentine made no reply; several other people came, some to admire the
alcove filled with ferns which drooped from the wall by which she was
standing, others to breathe the fragrant air. She could not speak
without being overheard; but, with a charming smile, she took a
beautiful lily from her bouquet and held it out to him.  They then went
back into the ball room.

"He loves me," thought Valentine; and, as far as her calm, serene
nature was capable of passionate delight, she felt it.

"She will befriend me," thought Ronald; "but why did she give me this
flower?"

The most remote suspicion that Valentine had mistaken him--that she
loved him--never crossed the mind of Ronald Earle.  He was singularly
free from vanity.  Perhaps if he had a little more confidence in
himself, the story of the Earles might have been different.

Lady Charteris looked at her daughter's calm, proud face.  She had
noticed the little interview in the conservatory, and drew her own
conclusions from it.  Valentine's face confirmed them there was a
delicate flush upon it, and a new light shone in the lustrous eyes.

"You like Earlescourt?" said Lady Charteris to her daughter that
evening, as they sat in her drawing room alone.

"Yes, mamma, I like it very much," said Valentine.

"And from what I see," continued the elder lady, "I think it is likely
to be your home."

"Yes, I believe so," said Valentine, bending over her mother, and
kissing her.  "Ronald has asked me to give him one half hour tomorrow,
and I am very happy, mamma."

For one so calm and stately, it was admission enough.  Lady Charteris
knew, from the tone of her daughter's voice, that she loved Ronald
Earle.

Ronald slept calmly, half hoping that the end of his troubles was
drawing nigh.  Valentine, whom his mother loved so well, would
intercede for Dora.  Lord Earle would be sure to relent; and he could
bring Dora home, and all would be well.  If ever and anon a cold fear
crept into his heart that simple, pretty Dora would be sadly out of
place in that magnificent house, he dashed it from him.  Miss Charteris
slept calmly, too, but her dreams were different from Ronald's.  She
thought of the time when she would be mistress of that fair domain, and
the wife of its brave young lord.  She loved him well.  No one had ever
pleased her as he had--no one would ever charm her again.  Valentine
had made the grand mistake of her life.

The morrow so eagerly looked for was a fair, bright day.  The sun shone
warm and bright, the air was soft and fragrant, the sky blue and
cloudless.  Lady Charteris did not leave her room for breakfast, and
Valentine remained with her mother.

When breakfast was ended, Ronald lingered about, hoping to see
Valentine.  He had not waited long before he saw the glimmer of her
white dress and blue ribbons.  He met her in the hall.

"Will you come out into the gardens, Miss Charteris?" he asked. "The
morning is so beautiful, and you promised me one half hour. Do not take
that book with you.  I shall want all your attention for I have a story
to tell you."

He walked by her side through the pleasure gardens where the lake
gleamed in the sunshine, the water lilies sleeping on its quiet bosom;
through the fragrant flower beds where the bees hummed and the
butterflies made love to the fairest blossoms.

"Let us go on to the park," said Valentine; "the sun is too warm here."

"I know a little spot just fitted for a fairy bower," said Ronald.
"Let me show it to you.  I can tell my story better there."

They went through the broad gates of the park, across which the
checkered sunbeams fell, where the deer browsed and king-cups and tall
foxgloves grew--on to the brook side where Dora had rested so short a
time since to think of her new-found happiness.

The pale primroses had all died away, the violets were gone; but in
their place the deep green bank was covered with other flowers of
bright and sunny hue.  The shade of tall trees covered the bank, the
little brook sang merrily, and birds chimed in with the rippling water;
the summer air was filled with the faint, sweet summer music.

"It is a pretty spot," said Miss Charteris.

The green grass seemed to dance in the breeze, and Ronald made
something like a throne amid it.

"You shall be queen, and I your suppliant," he said.  "You promise to
listen; I will tell you my story."

They sat a few minutes in deep silence, broken only by the singing
brook and the music of the birds; a solemn hush seemed to have fallen
on them, while the leaves rustled in the wind.

If Ronald Earle's heart and mind had not been filled with another and
very different image, he must have seen how fair Valentine looked; the
sunlight glinting through the dense green foliage fell upon her face,
while the white dress and blue ribbons, the fair floating hair, against
the dark background of the bank and the trees, made a charming picture;
but Ronald never saw it. After long years the memory of it came back to
him, and he wondered at his own blindness.  He never saw the trembling
of the white fingers that played carelessly with sprays of purple
foxglove; he never saw the faint flush upon her face, the quiver of her
proud, beautiful lips, or the love light in her eyes.  He only saw and
thought of Dora.

"I told you, Miss Charteris, last evening, that I was not eloquent,"
began Ronald.  "When anything lies deep in my heart, I find great
difficulty in telling it in words."

"All sacred and deep feeling is quiet," said Valentine; "a torrent of
words does not always show an earnest nature.  I have many thoughts
that I could never express."

"If I could only be sure that you would understand me, Miss Charteris,"
said Ronald--"that you would see and comprehend the motives that I can
hardly explain myself!  Sitting here in the summer sunshine, I can
scarcely realize how dark the cloud is that hangs over me.  You are so
kind and patient, I will tell you my story in my own way."  She
gathered a rich cluster of bluebells, and bent over them, pulling the
pretty flowers into pieces, and throwing leaf after leaf into the
stream.

"Three months since," continued Ronald, "I came home to Earlescourt.
Lord and Lady Earle were both at Greenoke; I, and not quite myself,
preferred remaining here alone and quiet.  One morning I went out into
the garden, listless for want of something to do.  I saw there--ah!
Now I want words, Miss Charteris--the fairest girl the sun ever shone
upon."

He saw the flowers fall from Valentine's grasp; she put her hand to her
brow, as though to shield her face.

"Does the light annoy you?" he asked.

"No," she replied, steadily; "go on with your story."

"A clever man," said Ronald, "might paint for you the pretty face, all
smiles and dimples, the dark shining rings of hair that fell upon a
white brow, the sweet, shy eyes fringed by long lashes, seldom raised,
but full of wonderful light when once you could look into their depths.
I can only tell you how in a few days I grew to love the fair young
face, and how Dora Thorne that was her name, Miss Charteris--loved me."

Valentine never moved nor spoke; Ronald could see the bright flush die
away, and the proud lips quiver.

"I must tell you all quickly," said Ronald.  "She is not what people
call a lady, this beautiful wild flower of mine.  Her father lives at
the lodge; he is Lord Earle's lodge keeper, and she knows nothing of
the world or its ways.  She has never been taught or trained, though
her voice is like sweet music, and her laugh like the chime of silver
bells.  She is like a bright April day, smiles and tears, sunshine and
rain--so near together that I never know whether I love her best
weeping or laughing."

He paused, but Valentine did not speak; her hand still shaded her face.

"I loved her very much," said Ronald, "and I told her so.  I asked her
to be my wife, and she promised.  When my father came home from
Greenoke I asked his consent, and he laughed at me.  He would not
believe me serious.  I need not tell you the details. They sent my
pretty Dora away, and some one who loved her--who wanted to make her
his wife--came, and quarreled with me.  He my rival--swore that Dora
should be his.  In his passion he betrayed the secret so well kept from
me.  He told me where she was, and I went to see her."

There was no movement in the quiet figure, no words passed the white
lips.

"I went to see her," he continued; "she was so unhappy, so pretty in
her sorrow and love, so innocent, so fond of me, that I forgot all I
should have remembered, and married her."

Valentine started then and uttered a low cry.

"You are shocked," said Ronald; "but, Miss Charteris, think of her so
young and gentle!  They would have forced her to marry the farmer, and
she disliked him.  What else could I do to save her?"

Even then, in the midst of that sharp sorrow, Valentine could not help
admiring Ronald's brave simplicity, his chivalry, his honor.

"I married her," he said, "and I mean to be true to her.  I thought my
father would relent and forgive us, but I fear I was too sanguine.
Since my marriage my father has told me that if I do not give up Dora
he will not see me again.  Every day I resolve to tell him what I have
done, but something interferes to prevent it.  I have never seen my
wife since our wedding day. She is still at Eastham.  Now, Miss
Charteris, be my friend, and help me."

Bravely enough Valentine put away her sorrow--another time she would
look it in the face; all her thoughts must now be for him.

"I will do anything to serve you," she said, gently.  "What can I do?"

"My mother loves you very much," said Ronald; "she will listen to you.
When I have told her, will you, in your sweet, persuasive way,
interfere for Dora?  Lady Earle will be influenced by what you say."

A quiver of pain passed over the proud, calm face of Valentine
Charteris.

"If you think it wise for a stranger to interfere in so delicate a
matter, I will do so cheerfully," she said; "but let me counsel on
thing.  Tell Lord and Lady Earle at once.  Do not delay, every hour is
of consequence."

"What do you think of my story?" asked Ronald, anxiously.  "Have I done
right or wrong?"

"Do not ask me," replied Valentine.

"Yes," he urged, "I will ask again; you are my friend.  Tell me, have I
done right or wrong?"

"I can speak nothing but truth," replied Valentine, "and I think you
have done wrong.  Do not be angry.  Honor is everything; it ranks
before life or love.  In some degree you have tarnished yours by an
underhand proceeding, a private marriage, one forbidden by your parents
and distasteful to them."

Ronald's face fell as her words came to him slowly and clearly.

"I thought," said he, "I was doing a brave deed in marrying Dora. She
had no one to take her part but me."

"It was a brave deed in one sense," said Valentine.  "You have proved
yourself generous and disinterested.  Heaven grant that you may be
happy!"

"She is young and impressionable," said Ronald; "I can easily mold her
to my own way of thinking.  You look very grave, Miss Charteris."

"I am thinking of you," she said, gently; "it seems to me a grave
matter.  Pardon me--but did you reflect well--were you quite convinced
that the whole happiness of your life was at stake?  If so, I need say
no more.  It is an unequal marriage, one not at all fitting in the
order of things."

How strange that she should use his father's words!

"Tell your father at once," she continued.  "You can never retrace the
step you have taken.  You may never wish to do so, but you can and must
retrieve the error of duplicity and concealment."

"You will try and make my mother love Dora?" said Ronald.

"That I will," replied Valentine.  "You sketched her portrait well.  I
can almost see her.  I will speak of her beauty, her grace, her
tenderness."

"You are a true friend," said Ronald, gratefully.

"Do not overrate my influence," said Valentine.  "You must learn to
look your life boldly in the face.  Candidly and honestly I think that,
from mistaken notions of honor and chivalry, you have done wrong.  A
man must be brave.  Perhaps one of the hardest lessons in life is to
bear unflinchingly the effects and consequences of one's own deeds.
You must do that, you must not flinch, you must bear what follows like
a man and a hero."

"I will," said Ronald, looking at the fair face, and half wishing that
the little Dora could talk to him as this noble girl did; such noble
words as hers made men heroes.  Then he remembered how Dora would weep
if he were in trouble, and clasp her arms round his neck.

"We shall still be friends, Miss Charteris?" he said, pleadingly.
"Whatever comes you will not give me up?"

"I will be your friend while I live," said Valentine, holding out her
white hand, and her voice never faltered. "You have trusted me--I shall
never forget that.  I am your friend, and Dora's also."

The words came so prettily from her lips that Ronald smiled.

"Dora would be quite alarmed at you," he said; "she is so timid and
shy."

Then he told Valentine of Dora's pretty, artless ways, of her love for
all things beautiful in nature, always returning to one theme--her
great love for him.  He little dreamed that the calm, stately beauty
listened as one on the rack--that while he was talking of Dora she was
trying to realize the cold, dreary blank that had suddenly fallen over
her life, trying to think what the future would be passed without him,
owning to herself that for this rash, chivalrous marriage, for his
generous love, she admired him more than ever.

The hand that played carelessly among the wild flowers had ceased to
tremble, the proud lips had regained their color, and then Valentine
arose, as she was going out with Lady Earle after lunch.

A feeling of something like blank despair seized Valentine when she
thought of what she must say to her other.  As she remembered their few
words the previous evening, her face flushed hotly.

"I can never thank you enough for your kind patience," said Ronald, as
they walked back through the shady park and the bright flower gardens.

Valentine smiled and raised her fact to the quiet summer sky, thinking
of the hope that had been hers a few short hours before.

"You will go at once and see your father, will you not?" she said to
Ronald, as they parted.

"I am going now," he replied; but at that very moment Lady Earle came
up to him.

"Ronald," she said, "come into my boudoir.  Your father is there he
wants to see you before he goes to Holtham."

Valentine went straight to her mother's room.  Lady Charteris sat
waiting for her, beguiling the time with a book.  She smiled as her
daughter entered.

"I hope you have had a pleasant walk," she said; but both smile and
words died away as she saw the expression on her daughter's face, as
she bent over her mother.

"Mamma," said Valentine, gently, "all I said to you last night about
Earlescourt was a great mistake--it will never be my home. My vanity
misled me."

"Have you quarreled with Ronald?" asked Lady Charteris, quietly.

"No," was the calm reply.  "We are excellent friends but, mamma, I was
mistaken.  He did want to tell me something, but it was of his love for
some one else--not for me."

"He has behaved shamefully to you!" cried Lady Charteris.

"Hush, mamma!" said Valentine. "You forget how such words humiliate me.
I have refused men of far better position that Ronald Earle.  Never let
it be imagined that I have mistaken his intentions."

"Of course not," said her mother.  "I only say it to yourself,
Valentine; he seemed unable to live out of your sight--morning, noon,
and night he was always by your side."

"He only wanted me to be his friend," said Valentine.

"Ah, he is selfish, like all the men!" said Lady Charteris. "With whom
has he fallen in love, my dear?"

"Do not ask me," replied Valentine.  "He is in a terrible dilemma.  Do
not talk to me about it, mamma.  I made a foolish mistake, and do not
wish to be reminded of it."

Lady Charteris detected the suppressed pain in the tone of her child's
voice, and instantly formed her plans.

"I think of returning tomorrow," she said.  "Your father is getting
impatient to have us with him.  He can not come to Earlescourt himself.
You say Mr. Earle is in a terrible dilemma, Valentine.  I hope there
will be no scandalous expose while we are here.  I detest scenes."

"Lord Earle is far too proud for anything of that kind," said
Valentine.  "If there should be any unpleasantness, it will not appear
on the surface.  Mamma, you will not mention this to me again."

Valentine threw off her lace shawl and pretty hat; she then took up the
book her mother had laid down.

"My walk has tired me," she said; "the sun is very warm."

She lay down upon the sofa and turned her face to the window, where the
roses came nodding in.

"Stay here and read," said lady Charteris, with delicate tact. "I am
going to write my letters."

Valentine lay still, looking at the summer beauty outside.  No one knew
of the tears that gathered slowly in those proud eyes; no one knew of
the passionate weeping that could not be stilled.

When Lady Charteris returned in two hours, Valentine had regained her
calm, and there was no trace of tears in the smiles which welcomed her.
Proudly and calmly she bore the great disappointment of her life.  She
was no tragedy queen; she never said to herself that her life was
blighted or useless or burdensome.  But she did say that she would
never marry until she found some one with Ronald's simple chivalry, his
loyal, true nature, and without the weakness which had caused and would
cause so much suffering.



Chapter VIII

Lady Earle's boudoir was always considered one of the prettiest rooms
at Earlescourt.  Few, but rare, pictures adorned its walls. The long
French windows opened on to the prettiest part of the gardens, where a
large fountain rippled merrily in the sunshine. Groups of flowers in
rare and costly vases perfumed the room.

Lord Earle had but drawn a pretty lounging chair to the window, and sat
there, looking happier than he had looked for months. Lady Earle went
on with her task of arranging some delicate leaves and blossoms ready
for sketching.

"Ronald," said his father, "I have been waiting here some time. Have
you been out?"

"I have been in the park with Miss Charteris," replied Ronald.

Lord Earle smiled again, evidently well pleased to hear that
intelligence.

"A pleasant and sensible method of spending your time," he continued;
"and, strange to say, it is on that very subject I wish to speak to
you.  Your attentions to Miss Charteris--"

"My attentions!" cried Ronald.  "You are mistaken.  I have never paid
any."

"You need have no fear this time," said Lord Earle.  "Your mother tells
me of the numerous comments made last evening on your long tete-a-tete
in the conservatory.  I know some of your secrets. There can be no
doubt that Miss Charteris has a great regard for you.  I sent for you
to say that, far from my again offering any opposition to your
marriage, the dearest wish of my heart will be gratified when I call
Valentine Charteris my daughter."

He paused for a reply, but none came.  Ronald's face had grown
strangely pale.

"We never named our wish to you," continued Lord Earle, "but years ago
your mother and I hoped you would some day love Miss Charteris.  She is
very beautiful; she is the truest, noblest, the best woman I know.  I
am proud of your choice, Ronald--more proud than words can express."

Still Ronald made no reply, and Lady Earle looked up at him quickly.

"You need not fear for Valentine," she said. "I must not betray any
secrets; she likes you, Ronald; I will say no more.  If you ask her to
be your wife, I do not think you will ask in vain."

"There is some great mistake," said Ronald, his pale lips quivering.
"Miss Charteris has no thought for me."

"She has no thought for any one else," rejoined Lady Earle, quickly.

"And I," continued Ronald, "never dreamed of making her my wife. I do
not love her.  I can never marry Valentine Charteris."

The smiles died from Lord Earle's face, and his wife dropped the pretty
blossoms she was arranging.

"Then why have you paid the girl so much attention?" asked his father,
gravely.  "Every one has remarked your manner; you never seemed happy
away from her."

"I wished to make her my friend," said Ronald; "I never thought of
anything else."

He stood aghast when he remembered why he had tried so hard to win her
friendship.  What if Valentine misunderstood him?

"Others thought for you," said Lady Earle, dryly.  "Of course, if I am
mistaken, there is no more to be said; I merely intended to say how
happy such a marriage would make me.  If you do not love the young lady
the matter ends, I suppose."

"Can you not love her, Ronald?" asked his mother, gently.  "She is so
fair and good, so well fitted to be the future mistress of Earlescourt.
Can you not love her?"

"Nothing was further from my thoughts," he replied.

"Surely," interrupted Lady Earle, "you have forgotten the idle, boyish
folly that angered your father some time since--that can not be your
reason?"

"Hush, mother," said Ronald, standing erect and dauntless; "I was
coming to tell you my secret when you met me.  Father, I deceived and
disobeyed you.  I followed Dora Thorne to Eastham, and married her
there."

A low cry came from Lady Earle's lips.  Ronald saw his father's face
grow white--livid--with anger; but no word broke the awful silence that
fell upon them.  Hours seemed to pass in the space of a few minutes.

"You married her," said Lord Earle, in a low, hoarse voice,
"remembering what I said?"

"I married her," replied Ronald, "hoping you would retract hard, cruel
words that you never meant.  I could not help it, father; she has no
one but me; they would have forced her to marry some one she did not
like."

"Enough," interrupted Lord Earle.  "Tell me when and where.  Let me
understand whether the deed is irrevocable or not."

Calmly, but with trembling lips, Ronald gave him every particular.

"Yes, the marriage is legal enough," said the master of Earlescourt.
"You had to choose between duty, honor, home, position--and Dora
Thorne.  You preferred Dora; you must leave the rest."

"Father, you will forgive me," cried Ronald.  "I am your only son."

"Yes," said Lord Earle, drearily, "you are my only son.  Heaven grant
no other child may pierce his father's heart as you have done mine!
Years ago, Ronald, my life was blighted--my hopes, wishes, ambitions,
and plans all melted; they lived again in you. I longed with wicked
impatience for the time when you should carry out my dreams, and add
fresh luster to a grand old name.  I have lived in your life; and now,
for the sake of a simple, pretty, foolish girl, you have forsaken
me--you have deliberately trampled upon every hope that I had."

"Let me atone for it," cried Ronald.  "I never thought of these things."

"You can not atone," said Lord Earle, gravely.  "I can never trust you
again.  From this time forth I have no son.  My heir you must be when
the life you have darkened ends.  My son is dead to me."

There was no anger in the stern, grave face turned toward the unhappy
young man.

"I never broke my word," he continued, "and never shall.  You have
chosen your own path; take it.  You preferred this Dora to me; go to
her.  I told you if you persisted in your folly, I would never look
upon your face again, and I never will."

"Oh, Rupert!" cried Lady Earle; "be merciful.  He is my only child.  I
shall die if you send him from me."

"He preferred this Dora to you or to me," said Lord Earle.  "I am sorry
for you, Helena--Heaven knows it wrings my heart--but I shall not break
my word!  I will not reproach you," he continued, turning to his son,
"it would be a waste of time and words; you knew the alternative, and
are doubtless prepared for it."

"I must bear it, father; the deed was my own," said Ronald.

"We will end this scene," said Lord Earle, turning from his unhappy
wife, who was weeping passionately.  "Look at your mother, Ronald; kiss
her for the last time and go from her; bear with you the memory of her
love and of her tenderness, and of how you have repaid them. Take your
last look at me.  I have loved you--I have been proud of you, hopeful
for you; now I dismiss you from my presence, unworthy son of a noble
race.  The same roof will never shelter us again.  Make what
arrangements you will.  You have some little fortune; it must maintain
you.  I will never contribute one farthing to the support of my lodge
keeper's daughter.  Go where you like--do as you like.  You have chosen
your own path.  Some day you must return to Earlescourt as its master.
I thank Heaven it will be when the degradation of my home and the
dishonor of my race can not touch me.  Go now; I shall expect you to
have quitted the Hall before tomorrow morning."

"You can not mean it, father," cried Ronald.  "Send me from you punish
me--I deserve it; but let me see you again!"

"Never in life," said Lord Earle, calmly.  "Remember, when you see me
lying dead, that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which I
learned that you had deceived me."

"Mother," cried the unhappy youth, "plead for me!"

"It is useless," replied his father; "your choice has been made
deliberately.  I am not cruel.  If you write to me I shall return your
letters unopened.  I shall refuse to see or hear from you, or to allow
you to come near Earlescourt; but you can write to your mother--I do
not forbid that.  She can see you under any roof save mine.  Now,
farewell; the sunshine, the hope, the happiness of my life go with you,
but I shall keep my word.  See my solicitor, Mr. Burt, about your
money, and he will arrange everything in my place."

"Father," cried Ronald, with tears in his eyes, "say one kind word,
touch my hand once again!"

"No," said Lord Earle, turning from the outstretched hand; "that is not
the hand of an honorable man; I can not hold it in my own."

Then Ronald bent down to kiss his mother; her face was white and still;
she was not conscious of his tears or his passionate pleading.  Lord
Earle raised her face.  "Go," said he, calmly; "do not let your mother
find you here when she recovers."

He never forgot the pleading of those sorrowful eyes, the anguish of
the brave young face, as Ronald turned from him and left the room.

When Lady Earle awoke to consciousness of her misery, her son had left
her.  No one would have called Lord Earle hard or stern who saw him
clasp his weeping wife in his arms, and console her by every kind and
tender word he could utter.

Lord Earle did not know that in his wife's heart there was a hope that
in time he would relent.  It was hard to lose her brave boy for a few
months or even years; but he would return, his father must forgive him,
her sorrow would be but for a time.  But Lord Earle, inflexible and
unflinching, knew that he should never in life see his son again.

No one knew what Lord Earle suffered; as Valentine Charteris said, he
was too proud for scenes.  He dined with Lady Charteris and her
daughter, excusing his wife, and never naming his son. After dinner he
shut himself in his own room, and suffered his agony along.

      *      *      *      *      *

Earlescourt was full of bustle and activity.  The young heir was
leaving suddenly; boxes and trunks had to be packed.  He did not say
where he was going; indeed those who helped him said afterward that his
face was fixed and pale, and that he moved about like one in a dream.

Everything was arranged for Ronald's departure by the night mail from
Greenfield, the nearest station to Earlescourt.  He took with him
neither horses nor servants; even his valet, Morton, was left behind.
"My lady" was ill, and shut up in her room all day.

Valentine Charteris sat alone in the drawing room when Ronald came in
to bid her farewell.  She was amazed at the unhappy termination of the
interview.  She would have gone instantly to Lord Earle, but Ronald
told her it was useless--no prayers, no pleadings could change his
determination.

As Ronald stood here, looking into Valentine's beautiful face, he
remembered his mother's words, that she cared for him as she cared for
no other.  Could it be possible that this magnificent girl, with her
serene, queenly dignity, loved him?  She looked distressed by his
sorrow.  When he spoke of his mother, and she saw the quivering lips he
vainly tried to still, tears filled her eyes.

"Where shall you go," she asked, "and what shall you do?"

"I shall go to my wife at once," he replied, "and take her abroad.  Do
not look so pained and grieved for me, Miss Charteris I must do the
best I can.  If my income will not support me, I must work; a few
months' study will make me a tolerable artist. Do not forget my mother,
Valentine, and bid me 'Godspeed.'"

Her heart yearned for him--so young, so simple, so brave.  She longed
to tell him how much she admired him--how she wanted to help him, and
would be his friend while she lived.  But Miss Charteris rarely yielded
to any emotion; she had laid her hand in his and said:

"Goodbye, Ronald--God bless you!  Be brave; it is not one great deed
that makes a hero.  The man who bears trouble well is the greatest hero
of all."

As he left his home in that quiet starlit night, Ronald little thought
that, while his mother lay weeping as though her heart would break, a
beautiful face, wet with bitter tears, watched him from one of the
upper windows, and his father, shut up alone, listened to every sound,
and heard the door closed behind his son as he would have heard his own
death knell.

The next day Lady Charteris and her daughter left Earlescourt. Lord
Earle gave no sign of the heavy blow which had struck him. He was their
attentive host while they remained; he escorted them to their carriage,
and parted from them with smiling words.  Then he went back to the
house, where he was never more to hear the sound of the voice he loved
best on earth.

As the days and months passed, and the young heir did not return,
wonder and surprise reigned at Earlescourt.  Lord Earle never mentioned
his son's name.  People said he had gone abroad, and was living
somewhere in Italy.  To Lord Earl it seemed that his life was ended; he
had no further plans, ambition died away; the grand purpose of his life
would never be fulfilled.

Lady Earle said nothing of the trouble that had fallen upon her. She
hoped against hope that the time would come when her husband would
pardon their only son.  Valentine Charteris bore her disappointment
well. She never forgot the simple, chivalrous man who had clung to her
friendship and relied so vainly upon her influence.

Many lovers sighed round Valentine.  One after another she dismissed
them.  She was waiting until she saw some one like Ronald Earle--like
him in all things save the weakness which had so fatally shadowed his
life.



Chapter IX

In a small, pretty villa, on the banks of the Arno, Ronald Earle
established himself with his young wife.  He had gone direct to
Eastham, after leaving Earlescourt, his heart aching with sorrow for
home and all that he had left there, and beating high with joy at the
thought that now nothing stood between him and Dora. He told her of the
quarrel--of his father's stern words--and Dora, as he had foreseen
clung round his neck and wept.

She would love him all the more, she said.  She must love him enough to
make up for home and every one else.

Yet, strange to say, when Ronald told his pretty, weeping wife all that
happened, he made no mention of Valentine Charteris--he did not even
utter her name.

Ronald's arrangements were soon made.  He sent for Stephen Thorne and
his wife, and told them how and when he had married Dora.

"I am sorry for it," said Stephen.  "No good will ever come of such an
unequal match.  My girl had better have stayed at home, or married the
young farmer who loved her.  The distance between you is too great, Mr.
Earle, and I fear me you will find it out."

Ronald laughed at the idea that he should ever tire of Dora.  How
little these prosaic, commonplace people knew of love!

The good lodge keeper and his wife parted from Dora with many tears.
She was never to brighten their home again with her sweet face and gay
voice.  She was going away to strange lands over the sea.  Many dark
forebodings haunted them; but it was too late for advice and
interference now.

The first news that came to the villa on the banks of the Arno was that
Stephen Thorne and his wife had left the lodge and taken a small farm
somewhere in the county of Kent.  Lady Earle had found them the means,
and they had left without one word from Lord Earle.  He never asked
whither they had gone.

Despite his father's anger and his mother's sorrow, despite his poverty
and loss of position, Ronald for some months was very happy with his
young wife.  It was so pleasant to teach Dora, to watch her sweet,
dimpled face and the dark eyes grow large with wonder; to hear her
simple, naive remarks, her original ideas; to see her pretty, artless
ways; above all, it was pleasant to be so dearly loved.

He often thought that there never had been, never could be, a wife so
loving as Dora.  He could not teach her much, although he tried hard.
She sang simple little ballads sweetly and clearly; but although master
after master tried his best, she could never be taught to play--not
even as much as the easy accompaniments of her own songs.  Ronald hoped
that with time and attention she would be able to sketch, but Dora
never managed it.  Obediently enough she took pencil and paper in her
hands and tried, but the strokes would never come straight.  Sometimes
the drawing she made would resemble something so comical that both she
and Ronald laughed heartily; while the consciousness of her own
inferiority grieved her, and large, bright tears would frequently fall
upon the paper.  Then Ronald would take the pencils away, and Dora
would cling around his neck and ask him if he would not have been
happier with a cleverer wife.

"No, a thousand times, no," he would say; he loved Dora better in her
artless simplicity than he could have loved the cleverest woman in the
world.

"And you are quite sure," said Dora, "that you will never repent
marrying me?"

"No, again," was the reply.  "You are the crowning joy of my life."

It was pleasant to sit amid the oleanders and myrtles, reading the
great poems of the world to Dora.  Even if she did not understand them,
her face lighted with pleasure as the grand words came from Ronald's
lips.  It was pleasant, too, to sit on the banks of the Arno, watching
the blue waters gleaming in the sun.  Dora was at home there.  She
would say little of books, of pictures, or music; but she could talk of
beautiful Nature, and never tire.  She knew the changing colors of the
sky, the varied hues of the waves, the different voices of the wind,
the songs of the birds.  All these had a separate and distinct meaning
for her.

Ronald could not teach her much more.  She liked the beautiful poems he
read, but never could remember who had written them. She forgot the
names of great authors, or mixed them up so terribly that Ronald, in
despair, told her it would be better not to talk of books just yet--not
until she was more familiar with them.

But he soon found out that Dora could not read for many minutes
together.  She would open her book, and make a desperate attempt; then
her dark eyes would wander away to the distant mountains, or to the
glistening river.  She could never read while the sun shone or the
birds sang.

Seeing that, Ronald gave up all attempts at literature in the daytime;
when the lamps were lighted in the evening, and the fair face of Nature
was shut out, he tried again, and succeeded for ten minutes; then
Dora's eyes drooped, the white lids with their jetty fringe closed; and
with great dismay he found that over the masterpieces of the world Dora
had fallen asleep.

Two long, bright years had passed away before Ronald began to perceive
that he could educate his pretty young wife no further. She was a
strange mixture of ignorance and uncultivated poetry. She could speak
well; her voice was sweet, her accent, caught from him, good; alone he
never noticed any deficiencies, but if he met an English friend in
Florence and brought him home to dine, then Ronald began to wish that
Dora would leave off blushing and grow less shy, that she could talk a
little more, and that he might lose all fear of her making some
terrible blunder.

The third year of their married life dawned; Dora was just twenty, and
Ronald twenty-three.  There had been no rejoicing when he had attained
his majority; it passed over unnoticed and unmarked.  News came to them
from England, letters from the little farm in Kent, telling of simple
home intelligence, and letters from Lady Earle, always sad and stained
with tears.  She had no good news to tell them.  Lord Earle was well,
but he would never allow his son's name to be mentioned before him, and
she longed to see her son.  In all her letters Lady Earle said: "Give
my love to Dora."

In this, the third year of his married life, Ronald began to feel the
pressure of poverty.  His income was not more than three hundred a
year.  To Dora this seemed boundless riches; but the heir of
Earlescourt had spent more in dress and cigars.  Now debts began to
press upon him, writing home he knew was useless. He would not ask Lady
Earle, although he knew that she would have parted with the last jewel
in her case for him.

Ronald gave himself up to the study of painting.  A pretty little
studio was built, and Dora spent long hours in admiring both her
husband and his work.  He gave promise of being some day a good
artist--not a genius.  The world would never rave about his pictures;
but, in time, he would be a conscientious, painstaking artist.  Among
his small coterie of friends some approved, others laughed.

"Why not go to the Jews?" asked fashionable young men. "Earlescourt
must be yours some day.  You can borrow money if you like."

Ronald steadily refused to entertain the idea.  He wondered at modern
ideas of honor--that men saw no shame in borrowing upon the lives of
their nearest and dearest, yet thought it a disgrace to be a follower
of one of the grandest of arts.  He made one compromise--that was for
his father's sake.  As an artist, he was known by Dora's name of
Thorne, and, before long, Ronald Thorne's pictures were in great
request.  There was no dash of genius about them; but they were careful
studies.  Some few were sold, and the price realized proved no
unwelcome addition to a small income.

Ronald became known in Florence.  People who had not thought much of
Mr. Earle were eager to know the clever artist and his pretty, shy
wife.  Then the trial of Ronald Earle began in earnest.  Had he lived
always away from the world, out of society, the chances are that his
fate would have been different; but invitations began to pour in upon
him and Dora, and Ronald, half tired of his solitude, although he never
suspected it, accepted them eagerly.

Dora did not like the change; she felt lonely and lost where Ronald was
so popular and so much at home.

Among those who eagerly sought Ronald's society was the pretty
coquette, the Countess Rosali, an English lady who had married the
Count Rosali, a Florentine noble of great wealth.

No one in Florence was half so popular as the fair countess. Among the
dark, glowing beauties of sunny Italy she was like a bright sunbeam.
Her fair, piquant face was charming from its delicate bright coloring
and gay smiles; her hair, of the rare color painted by the old masters,
yet so seldom seen, was of pure golden hue, looking always as though
the sun shone upon it.

Countess Rosali, there was no denying the fact, certainly did enjoy a
little flirtation.  Her grave, serious husband knew it, and looked on
quite calmly.  To his grave mind the pretty countess resembled a
butterfly far more than a rational being. He knew that, though she
might laugh and talk to others, though she might seek admiration and
enjoy delicate flattery, yet in her heart she was true as steel.  She
loved bright colors, and everything else that was gay and brilliant.
She had gathered the roses; perhaps some one else had her share of
thorns.

The fair, dainty lady had a great desire to see Mr. Thorne.  She had
seen one of his pictures at the house of one of her friends a simple
little thing, but it had charmed her.  It was merely a bouquet of
English wild flowers; but then they were so naturally painted!  The
bluebells looked as though they had just been gathered.  One almost
fancied dew drops on the delicate wild roses; a spray of pink hawthorn,
daisies and golden buttercups mingled with woodbine and meadow-sweet,
told sweet stories of the English meadows.

"Whoever painted that," said the fair countess, "loves flowers, and
knows what English flowers mean."

The countess did not rest until Ronald had been introduced to her, and
then she would know his wife.  Her grave, silent husband smiled at her
evident admiration of the handsome young Englishman.  She liked his
clear, Saxon face and fair hair; she liked his simple, kindly manner,
so full of chivalry and truth. She liked pretty Dora, too; but there
were times when the dainty, fastidious countess looked at the young
wife in wonder, for, as she said one evening to her husband:

"There is something in Mrs. Thorne that puzzles me--she does not always
speak or look like a lady--"

Few days passed without bringing Ronald and Dora to the Villa Rosali.
It would have been better for Ronald had he never left his pretty home
on the banks of the Arno.



Chapter X

Going into society increased the expenses which Ronald and his wife
found already heavy enough.  There were times when the money received
from the sale of his pictures failed in liquidating bills; then Ronald
grew anxious, and Dora, not knowing what better to do, wept and blamed
herself for all the trouble.  It was a relief then to leave the home
over which the clouds lowered and seek the gay villa, where something
pleasant and amusing was always going on.

The countess gathered around her the elite of Florentine society; she
selected her friends and acquaintances as carefully as she selected her
dresses, jewels, and flowers.  She refused to know "bores" and
"nobodies"; her lady friends must be pretty, piquant, or fashionable,
any gentleman admitted into her charmed circle must have genius, wit,
or talent to recommend him.  Though grave matrons shook their heads and
looked prudish when the Countess Rosali was mentioned, yet to belong to
her set was to receive the "stamp of fashion."  No day passed without
some amusement at the villa--picnic, excursion, soiree, dance, or, what
its fair mistress preferred, private theatricals and charades.

"Help me," she said one morning, as Ronald and Dora, in compliance with
her urgent invitation, came to spend the day at the villa--"help me; I
want to do something that will surprise every one.  There are some
great English people coming to Florence--one of your heiresses, who is
at the same time a beauty.  We must have some grand charades or
tableaus.  What would you advise?  Think of something original that
will take Florence by surprise."

"Wishing any one to be original," said Ronald, smiling at her quick,
eager ways, "immediately deprives one of all thought.  I must have
time; it seems to me you have exhausted every subject."

"An artist has never-failing resources," she replied; "when every
'fount of inspiration' is closed it will be time to tell me there are
no ideas.  You must have seen many charades, Mrs. Thorne," she said,
turning suddenly to Dora; "they are very popular in England.  Tell me
of some."

Dora blushed.  She thought of the lodge and its one small parlor, and
then felt wretched and uncomfortable, out of place, and unhappy.

"I have never seen any charades," she said, stiffly, and with crimson
cheeks.

The countess opened her blue eyes in surprise, and Ronald looked
anxiously from one to the other.

"My wife was too young when we were married to have seen much of the
world," he said, inwardly hoping that the tears he saw gathering in
Dora's dark eyes would not fall.

"Ah, then, she will be of no use in our council," replied the countess,
quickly.  "Let us go out on the terrace; there is always inspiration
under an Italian sky."

She led the way to a pretty veranda on the terrace, and they sat under
the shade of a large spreading vine.

"Now we can discuss my difficulty in peace," said the lady, in her
pretty, imperious way. "I will, with your permission, tell you some of
my ideas."

The countess was not particularly gifted, but Ronald was charmed by the
series of pictures she placed before him, all well chosen, with
startling points of interest, scenes from noble poems, pictures from
fine old tragedies.  She never paused or seemed tired, while Dora sat,
her face still flushed, looking more awkward and ill at ease than
Ronald had ever seen her.  For the first time, as they sat under the
vine that morning, Ronald contrasted his wife with his dainty,
brilliant hostess, and felt that she lost by the contrast--"awkward and
ill at ease," self-conscious to a miserable degree.  For the first time
Ronald felt slightly ashamed of Dora, and wished that she knew more,
and could take some part in the conversation.  Dimples and smiles,
curling rings of dark hair, and pretty rosebud lips were, he thought,
all very well, but a man grew tired of them in time, unless there was
something to keep up the charm.  But poor little Dora had no resources
beyond her smiles and tears.  She sat shrinking and timid, half
frightened at the bright lady who knew so much and told it so well;
feeling her heart cold with its first dread that Ronald was not pleased
with her.  Her eyes wandered to the far-off hills.  Ah! Could it be
that he would ever tire of her and wished that he had married some one
like himself.  The very thought pierced her heart, and the timid young
wife sat with a sorrowful look upon her face that took away all its
simple beauty.

"I will show you a sketch of the costume," said the countess; "it is in
my desk.  Pray excuse me."

She was gone in an instant, and Dora was alone with her husband.

"For Heaven's sake, Dora," he said, quickly, "do look a little
brighter; what will the countess think of you?  You look like a
frightened school girl."

It was an injudicious speech.  If Ronald had only caressed her, all
would have been sunshine again; as it was, the first impatient words
she had ever heard from him smote her with a new, strange pain, and the
tears overflowed.

"Do not--pray--never do that," said Ronald; "we shall be the laughing
stock of all Florence.  Well-bred people never give way to emotion."

"Here is the sketch," said the countess, holding a small drawing in her
hand.  Her quick glance took in Dora's tears and the disturbed
expression of Ronald's face.

With kind and graceful tact the countess gave Dora time to recover
herself; but that was the last time she ever invited the young artist
and his wife alone.  Countess Rosali had a great dread of all domestic
scenes.

Neither Dora nor Ronald ever alluded again to this little incident; it
had one bad effect--it frightened the timid young wife, and made her
dread going into society.  When invitations to grand houses came, she
would say, "Go alone, Ronald; if I am with you they are sure to ask me
ever so many questions which I can not answer; then you will be vexed
with me, and I shall be ashamed of my ignorance."

"Why do you not learn?" Ronald would ask, disarmed by her sweet
humility.

"I can not," said Dora, shaking her pretty head.  "The only lesson I
ever learned in my life was how to love you."

"You have learned that by heart," replied Ronald.  Then he would kiss
her pitiful little face and go without her.

By slow degrees it became a settled rule that Dora should stay at home
and Ronald go out.  He had no scruples in leaving her--she never
objected; her face was always smiling and bright when he went away, and
the same when he returned.  He said to himself that Dora was happier at
home than elsewhere, that fine ladies frightened her and made her
unhappy.

Their ways in life, now became separate and distinct, Ronald going more
than ever into society, Dora clinging more to the safe shelter of home.

But society was expensive in two ways--not only from the outlay in
dress and other necessaries, but in the time taken from work. There
were many days when Ronald never went near his studio, and only
returned home late in the evening to leave early in the morning.  He
was only human, this young hero who had sacrificed so much for love;
and there were times, after some brilliant fete or soiree, when the
remembrance of home, Dora, hard work, narrow means, would come to him
like a heavy weight or the shadow of a dark cloud.

Not that he loved her less--pretty, tender Dora; but there was not one
feeling or taste in common between them.  Harder men would have tired
of her long before.  They never cared to speak much of home, for Dora
noticed that Ronald was always sad after a letter from Lady Earle.  The
time came when she hesitated to speak of her own parents, lest he
should remember much that she would have liked him to forget.

If any true friend had stepped in then, and warned them, life would
have been a different story for Ronald Earle and his wife.

Ronald's story became known in Florence.  He was the son of a wealthy
English peer, who had offended his father by a "low" marriage; in time
he would succeed to the title.  Hospitalities were lavished upon him,
the best houses in Florence were thrown open to him, and he was eagerly
welcomed there.  When people met him continually unaccompanied by his
young wife they smiled significantly, and bright eyes grew soft with
pity.  Poor, pretty Dora!

Ronald never knew how the long hours of his absence were spent by Dora.
She never looked sad or weary to him, he never saw any traces of tears,
yet Dora shed many.  Through the long sunny hours and far into the
night she sat alone, thinking of the home she had left in far-off
England--where she had been loved and worshiped by her rough, homely,
honest father and a loving mother; thinking too, of Ralph, and his
pretty, quiet homestead in the green fields, where she would have been
honored as its mistress, where no fine ladies would have vexed her with
questions, and no one would have thought her ignorant or awkward;
thinking of all these things, yet loving Ronald none the less, except
that a certain kind of fear began to mingle with her love.

Gradually, slowly, but surely, the fascination of the gay and brilliant
society in which Ronald was so eagerly courted laid hold of him.  He
did not sin willfully or consciously; little by little a distaste for
his own home and a weariness of Dora's society overcame him.  He was
never unkind to her, for Ronald was a gentleman; but he lingered no
more through the long sunny morning by her side.  He gave up all
attempts to educate her.  He ceased to tease her about books; he never
offered to read to her; and pretty, simple Dora, taught by the keen
instinct of love, noted it all.

Ronald saw some little change in her.  The dimples and smiles had
almost vanished from her face.  He seldom heard the laugh that had once
been so sweet to him. There was retiring grace in her manner that
suited her well.  He thought she was catching the "tone of good
society," and liked the change.

Some natures become ennobled under the pressure of adversity; but
limited means and petty money cares had no good effect upon Ronald
Earle.  He fretted under them.  He could do nothing as other people
did.  He could not purchase a magnificent bouquet for the countess; his
means would not permit it.  He could not afford a horse such as all his
gentlemen friends rode.  Adversity developed no good qualities in him;
the discipline was harder and sterner still that made of him a true man
at last.

Ronald went on with his painting fitfully, sometimes producing a good
picture, but often failing.

The greatest patron of the fine arts in Florence was the Prince di
Borgezi.  His magnificent palace was like one picture gallery. He saw
some sketches of Ronald's, and gave an order to him to paint a large
picture, leaving him to choose the subject.  In vain by night and by
day did Ronald ponder on what that subject should be.  He longed to
make his name immortal by it.  He thought once of Tennyson's "Dora,"
and of sketching his wife for the principal figure.  He did make a
sketch, but he found that he could not paint Dora's face; he could not
place the dimpling smiles and bright blushes on canvas, and they were
the chief charm.  He therefore abandoned the idea.

Standing one day where the sunbeams fell lightly through the thick
myrtles, an inspiration came to him.  He would paint a picture of Queen
Guinevere in her gay sweet youth and bright innocent beauty--Guinevere
with her lovely face and golden hair, the white plumes waving and
jewels flashing; the bright figure on the milk-white palfrey shining in
the mellow sunlight that came through the green trees.

Lancelot should ride by her side; he could see every detail of the
picture; he knew just the noble, brave, tender face Sir Lancelot should
have; but where could he find a model for Guinevere?  Where was there a
face that would realize his artist dreams of her?  The painting was
half completed before he thought of Valentine Charteris and her
magnificent blonde beauty--the very ideal of Queen Guinevere.

With renewed energy Ronald set to work.  Every feature of that perfect
face was engraved upon his mind.  He made sketch after sketch, until,
in its serene, sweet loveliness, Valentine's face smiled upon him.



Chapter XI

"Queen Guinevere" was a success far beyond Ronald's dearest hopes.
Artists and amateurs, connoisseurs of all ranks and degrees were
delighted with it.  The great charm of the picture was the lovely young
face.  "Whom was it like?"  "Where had he found his model?"  "Was ever
any woman so perfectly beautiful?" Such were the questions that people
never seemed tired of repeating.

The picture was hung in the gallery of the palace, and the Prince di
Borgezi became one of Ronald's best patrons.

The prince gave a grand ball in honor of a beautiful English lady, who,
with her family, had just arrived in Florence. Countess Rosali raved
about her, wisely making a friend where any one else would have feared
a rival.

Ronald had contrived an invitation, but was prevented from attending.
All the elite of Florence were there, and great was the excitement when
Countess Rosali entered the ball room with an exceedingly beautiful
woman--a queenly blonde--the lady about whom all Florence was
interested--an English heiress, clever as she was fair, speaking French
with a courtly grace and Italian with fluent skill; and when the prince
stood before her he recognized in one moment the original of his famous
"Guinevere."

The countess was in danger--a fairer, brighter star had arisen.
Valentine Charteris was the belle of the most brilliant hall ever given
in Florence.

When the prince had received his guest, and danced once with Miss
Charteris, he asked her if she would like to see his celebrated
picture, the "Guinevere," whose fame was spreading fast.

"Nothing," she said, "would please her better;" and as the Countess
Rosali stood near, the prince included her in the invitation.

"Certainly; I never tire of the 'Guinevere,' never weary of the
artist's triumph, for he is one of the most valued of my friends."

Prince di Borgesi smiled, thinking how much of the fair coquette's
admiration went to the artist's talent, and how much to his handsome
face.

They entered the long gallery, where some of the finest pictures in
Italy were hung.  The prince led the ladies to the southern end.
Valentine saw before her a magnificent painting--tall forest trees,
whose thick branches were interwoven, every green leaf distinct and
clear; she saw the mellow light that fell through them, the milk-white
palfrey and the jeweled harness, the handsome knight who rode near; and
then she saw her own face, bright, smiling, glowing with beauty, bright
in innocence, sweet in purity.  Valentine stared in astonishment, and
her companion smiled.

"There can be no doubt about the resemblance," said the countess. "The
artist has made you Queen Guinevere, Miss Charteris."

"Yes," said Valentine, wonderingly; "it is my own face.  How came it
there?  Who is the artist?"

"His name is Ronald Thorne," replied the countess.  "There is quite a
romance about him."

The countess saw Miss Charteris grow pale and silent.

"Have you ever seen him?" inquired the countess.  "Do you know him?"

"Yes," said Valentine, "my family and his have been on intimate terms
for years.  I knew that he was in Italy with his wife."

"Ah," rejoined the countess, eagerly, "then perhaps you know all about
his marriage?  Who was Mrs. Thorne?  Why did he quarrel with his
father?  Do tell us, Miss Charteris."

"Nay," said Valentine; "if Mrs. Thorne has any secrets, I shall not
reveal them.  I must tell mamma they are in Florence.  We must call and
see them."

"I was fond of Mrs. Thorne once," said the countess, plaintively, "but
really there is nothing in her."

"There must be something both estimable and lovable," replied Valentine
quickly, "or Mr. Thorne would never have married her."

Prince di Borgesi smiled approval of the young lady's reply.

"You admire my picture, Miss Charteris?" he asked.

"The more so because it is the work of an old friend," said Valentine;
and again the prince admired the grace of her words.

"Any other woman in her place," he thought, "would have blushed and
coquetted.  How charming she is!"

From that moment Prince di Borgezi resolved to win Valentine if he
could.

Lady Charteris was half pleased, half sorry, to hear that Ronald was in
Florence.  No one deplored his rash, foolish marriage more than she
did.  She thought Lord Earle stern and cruel; she pitied the young man
she had once liked so well, yet for all that she did not feel inclined
to renew the acquaintance.  When Valentine asked her to drive next
morning to the little villa on the banks of the Arno, she at first half
declined.

"I promised to be Ronald's friend years ago," said Valentine, calmly;
"and now, mamma, you must allow me to keep my word.  We must visit his
wife, and pay her every attention.  To refuse would imply a doubt of
me, and that I could not endure."

"You shall do as you like, my dear," replied Lady Charteris; "the young
man's mother is my dearest friend, and for her sake we will be kind to
him."

      *      *      *      *      *

It was one of those Italian mornings when the fair face of Nature
seemed bathed in beauty.  The air was full of the music of birds; the
waters of the Arno rolled languidly on; oleanders and myrtles were in
full bloom; birds sang as they sing only under the blue sky of Italy.

It was not yet noon when Lady Charteris and her daughter reached the
little villa.  Before they came to the house, Valentine caught one
glimpse of a pretty, pale face with large dark eyes. Could that be
pretty, smiling Dora?  There were the shining rings of dark hair; but
where were the smiles Ronald had described? That was not a happy face.
Care and sorrow were in every line of it.

They were told that Mr. Thorne was in his studio, and would see them
there.  They had sent no card, and Ronald believed the "two ladies" to
have called on some business connected with pictures. He started with
surprise when Lady Charteris and Valentine entered.  There were a few
words of confused greeting, a hurried explanation of the circumstances
that led Sir Hugh to Florence; and then Valentine looked long and
steadily at the only man she had ever cared for.  He was altered; the
frank, handsome face looked worn and thin; it had a restless
expression.  He did not look like a man who had found peace.  Lady
Charteris told him of her last visit to Earlescourt--how his mother
never ceased speaking of him, and his father still preserved the same
rigid, unbending silence.

"I have seen your picture," said Lady Charteris.  "How well you
remembered my daughter's face."

"It is one not easily forgotten," he replied; and then another deep
silence fell upon him.

"Where is Mrs. Earle?" asked Valentine.  "Our visit is chiefly to her.
Pray introduce her to mamma.  I know her already by description."

"I left my wife in the garden," said Ronald; "shall we join her there?"

They followed him into the pretty sunlit garden, where Valentine had
seen the pale, sad face.

"My wife is timid," said Ronald, "always nervous with strangers."

Dora was sitting under the shade of a large flowering tree, her hands
folded, and her eyes riveted on the distant hills; there was something
in her listless manner that touched both ladies more than any words
could have done.  A deep flush crimsoned her face when Ronald and his
guests stood before her.  She rose, not ungracefully; her eyelids
drooped in their old shy manner.  As Ronald introduced his wife,
something in the girl's wistful face went straight to Lady Charteris's
heart.  She spoke not a word, but folded Dora in her arms and kissed
her as her own mother might have done.

"You must learn to love us," said Valentine; "we are your husband's
dearest friends."

Poor Dora had no graceful words ready; her heart was full of gratitude,
but she knew not how to express it.  Ronald looked at her anxiously,
and she caught his glance.

"Now," thought Dora, "he will not be pleased."  She tried to say
something of her pleasure in seeing them, but the words were so stiff
and ungracious that Ronald hastened to interrupt them.

A luncheon of fruit and wine was brought out into the garden, and they
talked merrily--of Earlescourt and the dear old friends there; of the
ball and Prince di Borgesi; in all of which Dora felt that she had no
share.

Who was this beautiful lady, with her fair face and golden hair?

The same face she saw that Ronald had painted in his picture, and every
one admired.  How graceful she was!  How she talked!  The words seemed
to ripple like music over her perfect lips.  Where had Ronald known
her?  Why had he never told her of Miss Charteris?

"Ah!" thought Dora, "if I could be like her!"  And a sudden sense of
wonder struck her that Ronald had not loved and married this fair and
gracious lady.

Valentine neither forgot nor neglected her.  She tried to draw her into
their conversation, but Dora replied so uneasily and so briefly to all
her remarks that she saw the truest kindness was to leave her alone.

They spent a few hours pleasantly, and Lady Charteris would not leave
until Ronald promised to take his wife to spend a long day with them.

"I can hardly promise for Dora," said Ronald, kindly; "she seldom
leaves home."

"Mrs. Earle will not refuse me," said Valentine, with that smile which
no one ever resisted.  "She will come with you, and we will make her
happy."

When the day was settled, the ladies drove away, and Ronald watched the
carriage until it was out of sight.

"My dear Valentine," cried Lady Charteris when they were out of
hearing, "my dear child, what could possess Ronald Earle?  What could
he see in that shy, awkward girl to induce him to give up everything
and go into exile for her sake?  She is not even pretty."

"She is altered, mamma," began Valentine.

"Altered!" interrupted Lady Charteris.  "I should imagine she is, and
unhappy, too.  She is frightened to speak--she has no style, no manner,
no dignity.  He must have been insane."

"I am quite sure he loved her," said Valentine, warmly, "and loves her
now."

"That is just the mystery," replied her mother--"a clever man like he
is, accustomed to intelligent and beautiful women.  I shall never
understand it."

"Do not try," said Valentine, calmly.  "She is evidently nervous and
sensitive.  I mean to be a true friend to Ronald, mamma; I shall try to
train and form his wife."

Poor Dora! She was already trained and formed, but no one would
understand that.  People do not expect the perfume of the rose in a
wild strawberry blossom, or the fragrance of the heliotrope in a common
bluebell.  Yet they wondered that in this simple girl, ignorant of the
world and it ways, they did not find a cultivated mind, a graceful
manner, and a dignified carriage.  Their only thought was to train and
form her, whereas Nature and not Art had done both.

"Dora," said Ronald, as the carriage disappeared from view, "try to
like Lady Charteris and her daughter; they are so kindly disposed
toward you.  I shall be so pleased to see you good friends."

"I will try," she replied, cheerfully.  "How beautiful she is, Ronald!
Tell me about her.  You remember her face exactly; should you remember
mine as well?"

It was the first touch of jealousy stirring in the simple, loving heart.

"Far better," said Ronald, with a smile; and then he looked up in
alarm, for Dora was weeping wildly, and clinging to him.

"Oh, Ronald!" she said, "for your sake I wish I was like her. Shall you
ever tire of me, or wish you had not married me?"

Ronald soothed and comforted his wife, and did not return to his studio
that day, but sat talking to her, telling her how noble and good
Valentine Charteris was.



Chapter XII

It is very seldom that a man of good disposition goes wrong willfully.
Ronald Earle would have felt indignant if any one had accused him of
dishonor or even neglect.  He thought Dora enjoyed herself more at home
than in society, consequently he left her there.  Habits soon grow.
The time came when he thought it was the wiser course.  He felt more at
ease without her.  If Dora by chance accompanied him, he watched her
anxiously, fearful lest others should discover and comment upon the
little deficiencies she felt so acutely.

The visit to Lady Charteris was duly paid--a day that Ronald enjoyed,
and Dora thought would never end.  She could not feel at home with
these fine ladies, although Lady Charteris was kind to her and
Valentine laid herself out to please; not even when Valentine, pitying
her shy, timid manner and evident constraint, took her out into the
garden and tried hard to win her confidence.  Dora's heart seemed to
close against the beautiful, brilliant lady who knew her husband and
all his friends so well. A fierce, hot breath of jealousy stirred the
simple nature. Ronald talked to Miss Charteris of things all unknown to
her; they seemed to have the same thoughts and feelings, while she was
outside the charmed circle, and could never enter it.  She watched the
growing admiration on Ronald's face when Valentine played and sang, and
her restless heart grew weary and faint. She had never felt jealous
before.  When Countess Rosali talked and laughed with her husband,
treating him sometimes as a captive and again as a victor, Dora never
cared; but every smile on this woman's fair face pained her--she hardly
knew why.

When Miss Charteris, under pretense of showing her favorite flower,
took Dora away from the others, and condescended to her as she had
never done to any other, actually caressing the anxious little face and
herself offering to be Mrs. Earle's true friend, Dora's heart closed
against her.  She only replied by faint monosyllables, and never raised
her dark eyes to the face turned so kindly upon her.

When Ronald had taken his young wife away, Lady Charteris sat with her
daughter in an unbroken silence.

"Poor boy!" said the other lady at length, "and poor Dora!  This is one
more added to the list of unhappy marriages.  How will it end?"

As she watched the sun set in the golden west, Valentine asked herself
the same question: "How will it end?"

If any one had told Dora she was jealous, she would have denied it
indignantly, although Valentine was seldom out of her mind.

From pure kindness Lady Charteris wished Ronald to paint her daughter's
portrait; it was to be a large picture they could take back to
Greenoke.  He was pleased with the commission, and began to work at it
eagerly.  Lady Charteris came with Valentine, and remained with her
during the long sittings, doing everything in her power to please and
win the artist's timid wife.

The fair face, in its calm, Grecian beauty, grew upon the canvas. Many
a long hour, when Ronald was absent, Dora lingered over it. The
portrait had a strange fascination for her.  She dwelt upon every
feature until, if the lips had opened and smiled a mocking smile at
her, she would not have felt greatly surprised.  It was less a picture
to her than a living, breathing reality.  She would watch Ronald as he
worked at it, eager and enthusiastic; then, looking up and finding her
dark eyes riveted upon him with so strange an expression, he would call
her to see what progress he had made; and, never dreaming of the
growing jealousy in Dora's heart, speak with an artist's delight of the
peerless features.

Without any great or sudden change, day by day Dora grew more silent
and reserved.  She was learning to hide her thoughts, to keep her
little troubles in her own heart and ponder them.  The time was past
when she would throw herself into Ronald's arms and weep out her
sorrows there.

Ronald did not notice the change.  Home seemed very dull.  It was a
great pleasure to leave the solitary little villa and sit in the
brilliant salon of Lady Charteris's well-appointed home.  It was
pleasant to exchange dull monotony for sparkling conversation and gay
society.

Valentine had many admirers.  Every one knew the Prince di Borgesi
would gladly have laid his fortune and title at her feet; but she cared
for neither.  Ronald often watched her as noble and learned men offered
their homage to her.  She smiled brightly, spoke well and gracefully;
but he never saw in her face the look he once remembered there.  Lady
Charteris deplored her daughter's obstinacy.  She took Ronald into her
confidence, and confided to him her annoyance when one suitor after
another was dismissed.

Ronald was not particularly vain.  Like most men, he had a pleasing
consciousness of his own worth; but he could not help remembering his
mother's assurance that Valentine cared for him. Could it have been
true?  Was there ever a time when that beautiful girl, so indifferent
to all homage, cared for him? Could there have been a time when the
prize for which others sighed in vain was within his grasp and he
slighted it?

He did not dwell upon these thoughts, but they would come into his
mind.  It was seldom that a day passed without his calling at the
pretty home where Lady Charteris always welcomed him kindly. She was
sorry for him.  He was never de trop with her. Occasionally, too, she
drove out to see his wife; but the visits were rather of duty than of
pleasure.

Then Dora's health failed.  She grew weak and languid--irritable at
times--as unlike the smiling, blushing girl Ronald had met at
Earlescourt gardens as it was possible for her to be.  He wrote to tell
his mother that at length there was hope of an heir to their ancient
house.  He was very kind and patient to his ailing, delicate wife,
giving up parties and soirees to sit with her, but never able to guess
why Dora's dark eyes looked so strangely upon him.

Lady Charteris had planned an excursion to some picturesque ruin that
had pleased her daughter, who wished to make a sketch of it. Ronald was
asked to join them, and he had been looking forward for many days to a
few pleasant hours away from all care and anxiety--out in the beautiful
country with Valentine.  But when the morning came Dora looked pale and
ill.  She did not ask him to stay with her, but he read the wish in her
face.

"I will not go, Dora," said her husband; "I will not leave you. I shall
send a note of excuse to Lady Charteris, and take care of you all day."

"Is Miss Charteris going?" she asked, quietly.

"Yes, and several others," he replied.

"Then never mind me," said Dora; "do not give up a day's pleasure for
me."

Ronald might have guessed there was something wrong from the tone of
her voice, but Ronald was not of a suspicious nature.

"Now, Dora," he said, gently, "you know I would give up every pleasure
in the world for you."

He bent over her, and kissed her pale little face.  Time had been when
the simple heart would have thrilled with happiness at his words; but
Dora grew cold and hard.

"It used to be always so," she thought, "before she came with her
beauty and took him from me."

How much misery would have been averted had she told Ronald of her
jealous thoughts and fears!  He never suspected them.  When he returned
home, looking bright and happy, she would ask him, "Have you seen Miss
Charteris today?" and he, glad of her interest in his friends, would
reply that he had been to her mother's house, and tell her of music he
had heard or people he had met, or of Valentine's messages to her.  So
Dora fed the dark, bitter jealousy that had crept into her heart.

It was a proud but anxious day for Ronald when he wrote to tell his
mother that he was now the father of little twin daughters, two pretty,
fair babies, in place of the long looked-for heir of Earlescourt.

Lady Charteris was very kind to the lonely young mother--so kind that,
had she borne any other name, Dora must have loved her.  A glimpse of
the old happiness came back, for Ronald was proud and pleased with the
little twin sisters.

One bright morning, when Dora had been taken down into the pretty room
where the infants lay sleeping, Lady Charteris and her daughter came
in.  Ronald joined them and there was a long discussion as to the names.

"You must have an eye to the future," said Valentine, smiling. "These
little ladies will be very grand personages some day.  It would be a
nice compliment to Lady Earle if you called one Helena."

"I have made my choice," said Dora, in a clear, ringing voice. "I shall
call this little one with the fair hair Lillian, the other Beatrice."

A faint flush rose to her face as she spoke.  She would allow of no
interference here.  This smiling beauty should not give names to her
children.

"I admire your choice," said Lady Charteris; "Beatrice and Lillian are
very pretty names."

When Valentine bent over the cradle and kissed the children before
taking leave, Dora said, "I have had my own way, you see, Miss
Charteris, with my little ones.  Mr. Earle did not oppose me."

Valentine thought the words harsh and strange; she had no clew to their
meaning.  She could not have imagined Dora jealous of her. She made
some laughing reply, and passed on.  Dora was not lonely now, the care
of the little ones occupying her whole time; but, far from their
binding Ronald to his home, he became more estranged from it than ever.

The pretty, picturesque villa was very small; there was no room
available for a nursery.  Wherever Dora sat, there must the little ones
be; and although they were very charming to the mother and the nurse,
the continued cries and noise irritated Ronald greatly.  Then he grew
vexed; Dora cried, and said he did not love them, and so the barrier
grew day by day between those who should have been all in all to each
other.

The children grew.  Little Beatrice gave promise of great beauty. She
had the Earle face, Ronald said.  Lillian was a fair, sweet babe, too
gentle, her mother thought, to live.  Neither of them resembled her,
and at times Dora wished it had been otherwise.

Perhaps in all Ronald Earle's troubled life he never spent a more
unsettled or wretched year than this.  "It is impossible to paint," he
said to himself, "when disturbed by crying babies." So the greater part
of his time was spent away from home.  Some hours of every day were
passed with Valentine; he never stopped to ask himself what impulse led
him to seek her society; the calm repose of her fair presence
contrasted so pleasantly with the petty troubles and small miseries of
home.  When Miss Charteris rode out he accompanied her; he liked to
meet her at parties and balls.  He would have thought a day sad and
dark wherein he did not see her.

When the little ones reached their first birthday, Valentine, with her
usual kind thought, purchased a grand assortment of toys, and drove
over quite unexpectedly to the villa.  It was not a very cheerful scene
which met her gaze.

Ronald was busily engaged in writing.  Dora, flushed and worn, was
vainly trying to stop the cries of one child, while the other pulled at
her dress.  The anxious, dreary face struck Valentine with pain.  She
laid the parcel of toys down, and shook hands with Ronald, who looked
somewhat ashamed of the aspect of affairs.  Then, turning to Dora, she
took the child from her arms, and little Beatrice, looking at her with
wondering eyes, forgot to cry.

"You are not strong enough, Dora, to nurse this heavy child," said Miss
Charteris.  "Why do you not find some one to help you?"

"We can not afford it," said Ronald, gloomily.

"We spend too much in gloves and horses," added Dora, bitterly; but no
sooner were the words spoken than she would have given the world to
recall them.

Ronald made no reply, and Valentine, anxious to avert the storm she had
unwittingly raised, drew attention to the toys.

When Valentine left them, Dora and Ronald had their first quarrel long
and bitter.  He could ill brook the insult her words implied--spoken
before Valentine, too!--and she for the first time showed him how an
undisciplined, untrained nature can throw off the restraint of good
manners and good breeding.  It was a quarrel never to be forgotten,
when Ronald in the height of his rage wished that he had never seen
Dora, and she re-echoed the wish.  When such a quarrel takes place
between man and wife, the bloom and freshness are gone from love.  They
may be reconciled, but they will never again be to each other what they
once were. A strong barrier is broken down, and nothing can be put in
its place.



Chapter XIII

The angry, passionate words spoken by Ronald--almost the first he had
ever uttered--soon faded from his mind, but they rankled like poisoned
arrows in Dora's heart.  She believed them.  Before evening her husband
repented of his anger, and called himself a coward for having scolded
Dora.  He went up to her and raised her face to his.

"Little wife," He said, "we have both been wrong.  I am very sorry--let
us make friends."

There was just a suspicion of sullenness in Dora's nature, and it
showed itself in full force now.

"It is no matter," she replied, coolly; "I knew long ago that you were
tired of me."

Ronald would not answer, lest they should quarrel again, but he thought
to himself that perhaps she was not far wrong.

From that day the breach between them widened.  In after years Dora saw
how much she was to blame.  She understood then how distasteful her
quiet, sullen reserve must have been to a high-bred, fastidious man
like Ronald.  She did not see it then, but nursed in her heart
imaginary wrongs and injuries; and, above all, she yielded to a wild,
fierce jealousy of Valentine Charteris.

For some weeks Miss Charteris saw the cloud deepening on Ronald's face.
He grew silent, and lost the flow of spirit that had once seemed never
to fail; and during the few weeks that followed, a strong resolution
grew in her mind.  She was his true friend, and she would try to
restore peace and harmony between him and his wife.  She waited for
some days, but at her mother's house it was impossible to see him
alone.  Yet she honestly believed that, if she could talk to him,
remind him of his first love for Dora, of her simplicity and many
virtues, she might restore peace and harmony to her old friend's house.
She thought Ronald to blame. He had voluntarily taken active duties
upon himself, and to her clearly, rightly judging mind, there was no
earthly reason why he should not fulfill them.  He would not feel hurt
at her speaking, she felt sure, for he had voluntarily sought her aid
years ago. So Valentine waited day after day, hoping to find a chance
for those few words she thought would do so much good; but, as no
opportunity came, she resolved to make one.  Taking her little jeweled
pencil, she wrote the following lines that were in after-time a death
warrant:

"Dear Mr. Earle,--I wish to speak to you particularly and privately.  I
shall be in our grounds tomorrow morning about ten; let me see you
there before you enter the house.  Your sincere friend, Valentine
Charteris."

All the world might have read the note--there was nothing wrong in
it--good intentions and a kindly heart dictated it, but it worked fatal
mischief.  When Ronald was leaving her mother's house, Miss Charteris
openly placed the letter in his hands.

"This is the first note I have ever written to you," she said, with a
smile.  "You must not refuse the request it contains."

"I will send him home happy tomorrow," she thought, "he is easily
influenced for good.  He must make up the misunderstanding with his
pretty little wife--neither of them look happy."

Ronald did not open the letter until he reached home.  Then he read it
with a half-consciousness of what Valentine wanted him for.

"She is a noble woman," he thought.  "Her words made me brave
before--they will do me good again."

He left the folded paper upon the table in his studio; and jealous
little Dora, going in search of some work she had left, found it there.
She read it word by word, the color dying slowly out of her face as she
did so, and a bitter, deadly jealousy piercing her heart like a
two-edged sword.  It confirmed her worst fears, her darkest doubts.
How dared this brilliant, beautiful woman lure Ronald from her?  How
dared she rob her of his love?

Ronald looked aghast at his wife's face as she re-entered the sitting
room.  He had been playing with the children, and had forgotten for the
time both Valentine and her note.  He cried out in alarm as she turned
her white, wild face to him in dumb, silent despair.

"What is the matter, Dora?" he cried.  "Are you ill or frightened?  You
look like a ghost."

She made no reply, and her husband, thinking she had relapsed into one
of her little fits of temper, sighed heavily and bade her good night.

Poor, foolish, jealous heart--she never lay down to rest!

She had quite resolved she would go and meet the husband who was tired
of her and the woman who lured him away.  She would listen to all they
had to say, and then confront them.  No thought of the dishonor of such
a proceeding struck her.  Poor Dora was not gifted with great
refinement of feeling--she looked upon the step she contemplated rather
as a triumph over an enemy than a degradation to herself.  She knew the
place in the grounds where they should be sure to meet.  Miss Charteris
called it her bower; it was a thick cluster of trees under the shade of
which stood a pretty, rustic seat; and Dora thought that, if she placed
herself behind the trees, she would be able to hear all unseen.

Before Ronald partook of breakfast, Dora had quitted the house on her
foolish errand.  She knew the way to the house and the entrance to the
garden.  She had no fear; even were she discovered there, no one could
surmise more than that she was resting on her way to the house.  She
crouched behind the trees and waited.  It was wrong, weak, and wicked;
but there was something so pitiful in the white face full of anguish,
that one would hardly know whether to pity or blame her.

The sunshine reached her, the birds were singing in the trees, the
flowers were all blooming--she, in her sorrow and desolation, heeded
nothing.  At length she saw them--Valentine in her white morning dress,
her beautiful face full of deep, earnest emotion, and Ronald by her
side.  As she surmised, they walked straight to the trees, and
Valentine signed to Ronald to take a seat by her side.  Sweetly and
clearly every word she uttered sounded to Ronald, but they fell like
drops of molten lead on the jealous heart of Ronald's wife.

"You must try," Valentine was saying; "I used to think you would be a
hero.  You are proving yourself a very weak and erring man."

Dora could not distinguish Ronald's words so plainly; he said something
about life and its mistakes.

"I told you once," said Valentine, "that the man who could endure so
bravely the consequences of his own actions was a true hero. Grant the
worst--that you have made a mistake.  You must make the best you can of
it, and you are not doing that now."

"No," he said gravely.  "I am very unhappy--more so than you can
imagine, Valentine.  Life seems to have lost all its charms for me.  I
had such great hopes once, but they are all dead now."

"You are too young to say that," she replied; "a little courage, a
little patience, and all will be well.  If it comforts you to know that
my warmest, deepest sympathy is with you--"

Valentine Charteris never finished her sentence; a pale, angry face and
dark, gleaming eyes full of passion suddenly flashed before her.

"You may spare your pity, Miss Charteris," cried a hoarse voice. "Why
have you made my husband dissatisfied with me?  Why have you taken his
love from me?  Why do you write notes asking him to meet you, that you
may both speak evil and wrong of his low-born wife?"

"Hush!" said Ronald, sternly, grasping her arm.  "Stop those wild
words, Dora! Are you mad?"

"No, not yet," she cried; "but this false woman will drive me so!"

Then Miss Charteris rose, her calm, grand face unruffled, not a quiver
on her proud lips.

"Stay, Miss Charteris, one moment, I pray you," said Ronald, "while my
wife apologizes for her folly."

"It is all true," cried Dora.  "She wrote and asked you to meet her
here."

"Dora," said her husband, gravely, "did you read the letter Miss
Charteris wrote to me?"

"I did," she replied.

"And you deliberately came here to listen to what she had to say to
me?" he continued.  "You deliberately listened to what you were never
intended to hear?"

His grave, stern dignity calmed her angry passion, and she looked
half-frightened into his quiet white face.

"Answer me!" he said.  "Have you crouched behind those trees
deliberately and purposely to listen?

"Yes," she said; "and I would do so again if any one tried to take my
husband from me."

"Then may I be forgiven for the dishonor I have brought to my name and
race!" said Ronald.  "May I be forgiven for thinking such a woman fit
to be my wife!  Hear me," he continued, and the passion in his voice
changed to contempt: "Miss Charteris is your friend; she asked me to
meet her here that she might plead your cause, Dora--that she might
advise me to remain more at home with you, to go less into society, to
look more at the bright side of our married life, and be a better
husband than I have been lately; it was for that she summoned me here."

"I--I do not believe it," sobbed his wife.

"That is at your option," he replied coolly.  "Miss Charteris, I should
kneel to ask your pardon for the insults you have received.  If a man
had uttered them, I would avenge them.  The woman who spoke them bears
my name.  I entreat your pardon."

"It is granted," she replied; "your wife must have been mad, or she
would have known I was her friend.  I deeply regret that my good
intentions have resulted so unhappily.  Forget my annoyance, Mr. Earle,
and forgive Dora; she could not have known what she was saying."

"I forgive her," said Ronald; "but I never wish to look upon her face
again.  I see nothing but dishonor there.  My love died a violent death
ten minutes since.  The woman so dead to all delicacy, all honor as to
listen and suspect will never more be wife of mine."

"Be pitiful," said Valentine, for Dora was weeping bitterly now; all
her fire and passion, all her angry jealousy, had faded before his
wrath.

"I am pitiful," he replied.  "Heaven knows I pity her.  I pity myself.
We Earles love honorable women when we love at all.  I will escort you
to your house, Miss Charteris, and then Mrs. Earle and myself will make
our arrangements."

In her sweet, womanly pity, Valentine bent down and kissed the
despairing face.

"Try to believe that you are wrong and mistaken, Mrs. Earle," she said
gently.  "I had no thought save to be your friend."

They spoke no word as they passed through the pretty grounds. Valentine
was full of pity for her companion, and of regret for her own share in
that fatal morning's work.

When Ronald reached the cluster of trees again, Dora was not there.
Just at that moment he cared but little whither she had gone.  His
vexation and sorrow seemed almost greater than he could bear.



Chapter XIV

The passion and despair of that undisciplined heart were something
painful to see.  Reason, sense, and honor, for a time were all dead.
If Dora could have stamped out the calm beauty of Valentine's
magnificent face, she would have done so.  Ronald's anger, his bitter
contempt, stung her, until her whole heart and soul were in angry
revolt, until bitter thoughts raged like a wild tempest within her.
She could not see much harm in what she had done; she did not quite see
why reading her own husband's letter, or listening to a private
conversation of his was a breach of honor.  She thought but little at
the time of what she had done; her heart was full of anger against
Ronald and Valentine.  She clasped her hands angrily after Mrs.
Charteris had kissed her, crying out that she was false, and had lured
Ronald from her.  Any one passing her on the high-road would have
thought her mad, seeing the white face, the dark, gleaming eyes, the
rigid lips only opening for moans and cries that marred the sweet
silence.  He should keep his word; never--come what might never should
he look upon her fair face again--the face he had caressed so often and
thought so fair.  She would go away--he was quite tired of her, and of
her children, too.  They would tease him and intrude upon him no more.
Let him go to the fair, false woman, who had pretended to pity her.

The little nurse-maid, a simple peasant girl, looked on in mute
amazement when her mistress entered the room where the children were.

"Maria," she said, "I am going home, over the seas to England. Will you
come with me?"

The only thing poor Dora had learned during those quiet years was a
moderate share of Italian.  The young nurse looked up in wonder at the
hard voice, usually soft as the cooing of a ring-dove.

"I will go," she replied, "if the signora will take me.  I leave none
behind that I love."

With trembling, passionate hands and white, stern face, Dora packed her
trunks and boxes--the children's little wardrobe and her own, throwing
far from her every present, either of dress or toys, that Valentine had
brought.

She never delayed to look round and think of the happy hours spent in
those pretty rooms.  She never thought of the young lover who had given
up all the world for her.  All she remembered was the wrathful husband
who never wished to see her more--who, in presence of another, had
bitterly regretted having made her his wife.  She could not weep--the
burning brain and jealous, angry heart would have been better for that,
but the dark eyes were bright and full of strange, angry light.  The
little ones, looking upon her, wept for fear.  With eager, passionate
love she caught them in her arms, crying the while that they should
never remain to be despised as she was.

In the white-faced, angry woman, roused to the highest pitch of
passion, there was no trace of pretty, blushing Dora.  Rapidly were the
boxes packed, corded, and addressed.  Once during that brief time Maria
asked, "Where are you going, signora?"  And the hard voice answered,
"To my father's--my own home in England."

When everything was ready, the wondering children dressed, and the
little maid waiting, Dora sat down at her husband's desk and wrote the
following lines.  No tears fell upon them; her hand did not tremble,
the words were clear and firmly written:

"I have not waited for you to send me away.  Your eyes shall not be
pained again by resting on the face where you read dishonor. I saw
months ago that you were tired of me.  I am going to my father's house,
and my children I shall take with me--you care no more for them than
for me.  They are mine--not yours.  I leave you with all you love in
the world.  I take all I love with me.  If you prayed for long years, I
would never return to you nor speak to you again."

She folded the note and addressed it to her husband.  She left no kiss
warm from her lips upon it.  As she passed forever from the little
villa, she never turned for one last look at its vine-clad walls.

The gaunt, silent Italian servant who had lived with Dora since the
first day she reached Florence came to her in wonder and alarm, barely
recognizing her pretty, gentle mistress in the pale, determined woman
who looked like one brought to bay.  To her Dora spoke of the letter;
it was to be given to her husband as soon as he returned.  Not one word
did she utter in reply to the woman's question.  She hurried with the
keen desperation of despair, lest Ronald should return and find her
still there.

Soon after noon, and while Ronald lingered with some friends upon the
steps of the Hotel d'Italia, his wife reached the busy railway station
at Florence.  She had money enough to take her home, but none to spare.
She knew no rest; every moment seemed like an age to her, until the
train was in motion, and fair, sunny Florence left far behind.

Without the stimulus of anger Dora would have shrunk in terror from the
thought of a long journey alone--she who had never been without the
escort of a kind and attentive husband. But no prospect daunted her
now--the wide seas, the dangers of rail and road had no terror for her.
She was flying in hot haste and anger from one who had said before her
rival that he never wished to see her face again.

      *      *      *      *      *

The sun shining so brightly on the waters of the Arno lingered almost
lovingly on the fair, quiet English landscape.  Far down in the fertile
and beautiful county of Kent, where the broad channel washes the shore,
stands the pretty, almost unknown village of Knutsford.

The world is full of beauty, every country has its share Switzerland
its snow-clad mountains, Germany its dark woods and broad streams,
France its sunny plains, Italy its "thousand charms of Nature and Art;"
but for quiet, tranquil loveliness, for calm, fair beauty, looking
always fresh from the mighty hand that created it, there is nothing
like English scenery.

The white cliffs of Knutsford, like "grand giants," ran along the
shore; there was a broad stretch of yellow sand, hidden when the tide
was in, shining and firm when it ebbed.  The top of the cliff was like
a carpet of thick green grass and springing heather.  Far away, in the
blue distance, one could see, of a bright, sunny day, the outline of
the French coast.  The waves rolled in, and broke upon the yellow
sands; the sea-birds flew by with busy wings, white sails gleamed in
the sunshine. Occasionally a large steamer passed; there was no sound
save the rich, never-changing music of Nature, the rush of wind and
waves, the grand, solemn anthem that the sea never tires of singing.

Far down the cliff ran the zigzag path that led to the village; there
was no sign of the sea on the other side of the white rocks.  There the
green fields and pretty hop-gardens stretched out far and wide, and the
Farthinglow Woods formed a belt around them.  In the midst of a green,
fertile valley stood the lovely village of Knutsford.  It had no
regular street; there were a few cottages, a few farm houses, a few
little villas, one grand mansion, three or four shops, and quiet
homesteads with thatched roofs and eaves of straw.

The prettiest and most compact little farm in the village was the one
where Stephen Thorne and his wife dwelt.  It was called the elms, a
long avenue of elms leading to the little house and skirting the broad
green meadows.  It was at a short distance from the village, so quiet,
so tranquil, that, living there, one seemed out of the world.

Stephen Thorne and his wife were not rich.  In spite of Lady Earle's
bounty, it was hard for them at times to make both ends meet.  Crops,
even in that fair and fertile county, would fail, cattle would die,
rain would fall when it should not, and the sun refuse to shine.  But
this year everything had gone on well; the hay stood in great ricks in
the farm yard, the golden corn waved in the fields ripe and ready for
the sickle, the cows and sheep fed tranquilly in the meadows, and all
things had prospered with Stephen Thorne.  One thing only weighed upon
his heart--his wife would have it that Dora's letters grew more and
more sad; she declared her child was unhappy, and he could not persuade
her to the contrary.

It was a fair August evening.  Ah!  How weak and feeble are the words.
Who could paint the golden flush of summer beauty that lay over the
meadows and corn fields--the hedge rows filled with wild flowers, the
long, thick grass studded with gay blossoms, the calm, sullen silence
only broken by the singing of the birds, the lowing of cattle, the
rustling of green leaves in the sweet soft air?

Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, Ralph Holt, to
fetch the cattle home.  In Ralph's honor, good, motherly Mrs. Thorne
had laid out a beautiful tea--golden honey that seemed just gathered
from the flowers, ripe fruits, cream from the dairy everything was
ready; yet the farmer and his guest seemed long in coming.  She went to
the door and looked across the meadows. The quiet summer beauty stole
like a spell over her.

Suddenly, down in the meadows, Mrs. Thorne caught sight of a lady
leading a little child by the hand.  She was followed by a young maid
carrying another.  As the lady drew nearer, Mrs. Thorne stood
transfixed and bewildered.  Could the summer sun or the flickering
shade be mocking her?  Was she dreaming or awake?  Far off still,
through the summer haze, she saw a white, wan face; dark eyes, shadowed
and veiled, as though by long weeping; lips, once rosy and smiling,
rigid and firm.  She saw what seemed to her the sorrowful ghost of the
pretty, blooming child that had left her long ago.  She tried to call
out, but her voice failed her.  She tried to run forward and meet the
figure coming slowly through the meadows, but she was powerless to
move.  She never heard the footsteps of her husband and his guest.  She
only stirred when Stephen Thorne placed his hand upon her shoulder, and
in a loud, cheery voice, asked what ailed her.

"Look," she said, hoarsely, "look down the meadow there and tell me--if
that is Dora or Dora's ghost?"

She drew near more swiftly now, for she had seen the three figures at
the door.  The white face and wild eyes seemed aflame with anxiety.

"Dora, Dora!" cried Mrs. Thorne, "is it really you?"

"It is," said a faint, bitter voice.  "I am come home, mother. My heart
is broken and I long to die."

They crowded around her, and Ralph Holt, with his strong arms, carried
the fragile, drooping figure into the house.  They laid her upon the
little couch, and drew the curling rings of dark hair back from her
white face.  Mrs. Thorne wept aloud, crying out for her pretty Dora,
her poor, unhappy child.  The two men stood watching her with grave,
sad eyes.  Ralph clenched his hand as he gazed upon her, the wreck of
the simple, gentle girl he had loved so dearly.

"If he has wronged her," he said to Stephen Thorne, "if he has broken
her heart, and sent her home to die, let him beware!"

"I knew it would never prosper," groaned her father; "such marriages
never do."

When Dora opened her eyes, and saw the three anxious faces around her,
for a moment she was bewildered.  They knew when the torture of memory
returned to her, for she clasped her hands with a low moan.

"Dora," said her mother, "what has happened?  Trust us, dear child--we
are your best friends.  Where is your husband?  And why have you left
him?"

"Because he has grown tired of me," she cried, with passion and anger
flaming again in her white, worn face.  "I did something he thought
wrong, and he prayed to Heaven to pardon him for making me his wife."

"What did you do?" asked her father, anxiously.

"Nothing that I thought wrong," she replied.  "Ask me no questions,
father.  I would rather die any death than return to him or see him
again.  Yet do not think evil of him.  It was all a mistake.  I could
not think his thoughts or live his life--we were quite different, and
very unhappy.  He never wishes to see me again, and I will suffer
anything rather than see him."

The farmer and his wife looked at each other in silent dismay. This
proud, angry woman and her passionate words frightened them. Could it
be their Dora, who had ever been sunshine and music to them?

"If you do not like to take me home, father," she said, in a hard
voice, "I can go elsewhere; nothing can surprise or grieve me now."

But kindly Mrs. Thorne had drawn the tired head to her.

"Do you not know, child," she said, gently, "that a mother's love never
fails?"

Ralph had raised the little one in his arms, and was looking with
wondering admiration at the proud, beautiful face of the little
Beatrice, and the fair loveliness of Lillian.  The children looked with
frank, fearless eyes into his plain, honest face.

"This one with dark hair has the real Earle face," said Stephen Thorne,
proudly; "that is just my lord's look--proud and quiet. And the little
Lillian is something like Dora, when she was quite a child."

"Never say that!" cried the young mother.  "Let them grow like any one
else, but never like me!"

They soothed her with gentle, loving words.  Her father said she should
share his home with her children, and he would never give her up again.
They bade her watch the little ones, who had forgotten their fears, and
laughed over the ripe fruit and golden honey.  They also drew aside the
white curtain, and let her tired eyes fall upon the sweet summer beauty
of earth and sky.  Was not everything peaceful?  The sun sinking in the
west, the birds singing their evening song, the flowers closing their
bright eyes, the wind whispering "good night" to the shimmering,
graceful elms--all was peace, and the hot, angry heart grew calm and
still.  Bitter tears rose to the burning eyes--tears that fell like
rain, and seemed to take away the sharpest sting of her pain.

With wise and tender thought they let Dora weep undisturbed.  The
bitter sobbing ceased at last.  Dora said farewell to her love. She lay
white and exhausted, but the anger and passion had died away.

"Let me live with you, father," she said, humbly.  "I will serve you,
and obey you.  I an content, more than content, with my own home.  But
for my little children, let all be as it was years ago."

When the little ones, like the flowers, had gone to sleep, and Dora had
gone into the pretty white room prepared for her, Ralph rose to take
his leave.

"Surely," said Thorne, "you are not leaving us.  You promised to stay a
whole week."

"I know," said the young farmer; "but you have many to think for now,
Mr. Thorne.  The time will come when the poor, wearied girl sleeping
above us will be Lady Earle.  Her husband knew I loved her.  No shadow
even of suspicion must rest upon her.  While your daughter remains
under your roof, I shall not visit you again."

Dora's father knew the young man was right.

"Let me see the little ones sometimes," continued Ralph; "and if large
parcels of toys and books find their way to the Elms, you will know who
sent them.  But I must not come in Dora's way; she is no loner Dora
Thorne."

As Stephen watched the young man walking quickly through the long gray
fields, he wished that Dora had never seen Ronald Earle.

Poor Dora's troubles were not yet ended.  When the warm August sun
peeped into her room on the following morning, she did not see it
shine; when the children crept to her side and called for mamma, she
was deaf to their little voices.  The tired head tossed wearily to and
fro, the burning eyes would not close.  A raging fever had her in its
fierce clutches.  When Mrs. Thorne, alarmed by the children's cries,
came in, Dora did not know her, but cried out loudly that she was a
false woman, who had lured her husband from her.

They sent in all haste for aid; but the battle was long and fierce.
During the hours of delirium, Mrs. Thorne gleaned sorrowfully some
portions of her daughter's story.  She cried out incessantly against a
fair woman--one Valentine--whom Ronald loved--cried in scorn and anger.
Frequently she was in a garden, behind some trees; then confronting
some one with flaming eyes, sobbing that she did not believe it; then
hiding her face and crying out:

"He has ceased to love me--let me die!"

But the time came when the fierce fever burned itself out, and Dora lay
weak and helpless as a little child.  She recovered slowly, but she was
never the same again.  Her youth, hope, love, and happiness were all
dead.  No smile or dimple, no pretty blush, came to the changed face;
the old coy beauty was all gone.

Calm and quiet, with deep, earnest eyes, and lips that seldom smiled,
Dora seemed to have found another self.  Even with her children the sad
restraint never wore off nor grew less.  If they wanted to play, they
sought the farmer in the fields, the good-natured nurse, or the
indulgent grandmamma--never the sad, pale mother.  If they were in
trouble then they sought her.

Dora asked for work.  She would have been dairy maid, house maid, or
anything else, but her father said "No."  A pretty little room was
given to her, with woodbines and roses peeping in at the window.  Here
for long hours every day, while the children played in the meadows, she
sat and sewed.  There, too, Dora, for the first time, learned what
Ronald, far away in sunny Italy, failed to teach her--how to think and
read.  Big boxes of books came from the town of Shorebeach.  Stephen
Thorne spared no trouble or expense in pleasing his daughter.  Dora
wondered that she had never cared for books, now that deeper and more
solemn thoughts came to her.  The pale face took a new beauty; no one
could have believed that the thoughtful woman with the sweet voice and
refined accent was the daughter of the blunt farmer Thorne and his
homely wife.

A few weeks passed, and but for the little ones Dora would have
believed the whole to have been but a long, dark dream.  She would not
think of Ronald; she would not remember his love, his sacrifices for
her; she thought only of her wrongs and his cruel words.

The children grew and throve.  Dora had no care at present as to their
education.  From her they learned good English, and between herself and
the faithful young nurse they could learn, she thought, tolerable
Italian.  She would not think of a future that might take these beloved
children from her.  She ignored Ronald's claim to them--they were hers.
He had tired of them when he tired of her.  She never felt the days
monotonous in that quiet farm house, as others might have done.  A dead
calm seemed to surround her; but it was destined soon to be broken.



Chapter XV

Ronald did not return in the evening to the pretty villa where he had
once been so happy.  In the warmth of his anger, he felt that he never
could look again upon his wife.  To his sensitive, refined nature there
was something more repulsive in the dishonorable act she had committed
than there would have been in a crime of deeper dye.  He was shocked
and startled--more so than if he awoke some fair summer morning to find
Dora dead by his side.  She was indeed dead to him in one sense.  The
ideal girl, all purity, gentleness, and truth, whom he had loved and
married, had, it appeared, never really existed after all.  He shrank
from the idea of the angry, vehement words and foul calumnies.  He
shrank from the woman who had forgotten every rule of good breeding,
every trace of good manners, in angry, fierce passion.

How was he ever to face Miss Charteris again?  She would never mention
one word of what had happened, but he could ill brook the shame Dora
had brought upon him.  He remembered the summer morning in the woods
when he told Valentine the story of his love, and had pictured his
pretty, artless Dora to her.  Could the angry woman who had dared to
insult him, and to calumniate the fairest and truest lady in all
England, possibly be the same?

Ronald had never before been brought into close contact with dishonor.
He had some faint recollection at college of having seen and known a
young man, the son of a wealthy nobleman, scorned and despised, driven
from all society, and he was told that it was because he had been
detected in the act of listening at the principal's door.  He
remembered how old and young had shunned this young man as though he
were plague-stricken; and now his own wife Dora had done the very same
thing under circumstances that rendered the dishonor greater.  He asked
himself, with a cynical smile, what he could expect?  He had married
for love of a pretty, child-like face, never giving any thought to
principle, mind, or intellect.  The only wonder was that so wretched
and unequal a match had not turned out ten times worse.  His father's
warning rang in his ears.  How blind, how foolish he had been!

Every hope of his own life was wrecked, every hope and plan of his
father's disappointed and dead.  There seemed to him nothing left to
care for.  His wife--oh, he would not think of her!  The name vexed
him.  He could not stand in Valentine's presence again, and for the
first time he realized what she had been to him.  Home, and
consequently England, was closed to him; the grand mansion he had once
believed his had faded from his mind.

Thinking of all these things, Ronald's love for his young wife seemed
changed to dislike.  Three days passed before he returned home; then he
was somewhat startled to find her really gone.  He had anticipated
sullen temper, renewed quarrels, and then perhaps a separation, but he
was startled to find her actually gone.  The servant gave him the cold
farewell letter, written without tears, without sorrow.  He tore it
into shreds and flung it from him.

"The last act in the farce," he said, bitterly. "If I had not been mad,
I should have foreseen this."

The silent, deserted rooms did not remind him of the loving young wife
parted from him forever.  He was too angry, too annoyed, for any gentle
thoughts to influence him.  She had left him--so much the better; there
could never again be peace between them.  He thought with regret of the
little ones--they were too young for him to undertake charge of them,
so that they were best left with their mother for a time.  He said to
himself that he must make the best use he could of his life; everything
seemed at an end. He felt very lonely and unhappy as he sat in his
solitary home; and the more sorrow present upon him, the more bitter
his thoughts grew, the deeper became his dislike to this unhappy young
wife.

Ronald wrote to his mother, but said no word to her of the cause of
their quarrel.

"Dora and I," he said, "will never live together again--perhaps never
meet.  She has gone home to her father; I am going to wander over the
wide earth.  Will you induce my father to receive my children at
Earlescourt?  And will you see Mr. Burt, and arrange that half of my
small income is settled upon Dora?"

But to all his wife's entreaties Lord Earle turned a deaf ear. He
declared that never during his life time should the children of Dora
Thorne enter Earlescourt.  His resolution was fixed and unalterable.
How, he asked, was he to trust the man who had once deceived him?  For
aught he knew, the separation between Ronald and his wife might be a
deeply laid scheme, and, the children once with him, there would be a
grand reconciliation between the parents.

"I am not surprised," he said, "that the unhappy boy is weary of his
pretty toy.  It could not be otherwise; he must bear the consequences
of his own folly.  He had time for thought, he made his own choice--now
let him abide by it.  You have disregarded my wish, Lady Helena, in
even naming the matter to me.  Let all mention of it cease.  I have no
son.  One thing remember--I am not hard upon you--you can go where you
like, see whom you like, and spend what money you will, and as you
will."

Lady Earle was not long in availing herself of the permission. There
was great excitement at the Elms one morning, caused by the receipt of
a letter from Lady Earle saying that she would be there on the same day
to visit the son's wife and children.

The little ones looked up to her with wondering eyes.  To them she was
like a vision, with her noble face and distinguished air.

Stephen Thorne and his wife received the great lady not without some
trepidation; yet they were in no way to blame.  The fatal marriage had
been as great a blow to them as to Lord and Lady Earle.  With the quiet
dignity and graceful ease that never deserted her, Lady Earle soon made
them feel at home.  She started in utter surprise, when a quiet, grave
woman, on whose face sweetness and sullen humor were strangely mingled,
entered the room.  This could not be pretty, coy, blushing Dora!  Where
were the dimples and smiles?  The large dark eyes raised so sadly to
hers were full of strange, pathetic beauty.  With sharp pain the
thought struck Lady Earle, "What must not Dora have suffered to have
changed her so greatly!"  The sad eyes and worn face touched her as no
beauty could have done.  She clasped Dora in her arms and kissed her.

"You are my daughter now," she said, in that rich, musical voice which
Dora remembered so well.  "We will not mention the past; it is
irrevocable.  If you sinned against duty and obedience, your face tells
me you have suffered.  What has come between you and my son I do not
seek to know.  The shock must have been a great one which parted you,
for he gave up all the world for you, Dora, years ago.  We will not
speak of Ronald.  Our care must be the children.  Of course you wish
them to remain with you?"

"While it is possible," said Dora, wearily.  "I shall never leave home
again; but I can not hope to keep them here always."

"I should have liked to adopt them," said Lady Earle; "to take them
home and educate them, but--"

"Lord Earle will not permit it," interrupted Dora, calmly.  "I know--I
do not wonder."

"You must let me do all I can for them here," continued Lady Earle; "I
have made all plans and arrangements.  We will give the children an
education befitting their position, without removing them from you.
Then we shall see what time will do.  Let me see the little ones.  I
wish you had called one Helena, after me."

Dora remembered why she had not done so, and a flush of shame rose to
her face.

They were beautiful children, and Dora brought them proudly to the
stately lady waiting for them.  Lady Earle took Beatrice in her arms.

"Why, Dora," she said admiringly, "she has the Earle face, with a novel
charm all its own.  The child will grow up into magnificent woman."

"She has the Earle spirit and pride," said the young mother; "I find it
hard to manage her even now."

Then Lady Earle looked at the fair, spirituelle face and golden hair of
little Lillian.  The shy, dove-like eyes and sweet lips charmed her.

"There is a great contrast between them," she said, thoughtfully. "They
will require careful training, Dora; and now we will speak of the
matter which brought me here."

Dora noticed that, long as she remained, Lady Earle never let Beatrice
leave her arms; occasionally she bent over Lillian and touched her soft
golden curls, but the child with the "Earle face" was the one she loved
best.

Together with Stephen Thorne and his wife, Lady Earle went over the
Elms.  The situation delighted her; nothing could be better or more
healthy for the children, but the interior of the house must be
altered.  Then with delicate grace that could only charm, never wound,
Lady Earle unfolded her plans.  She wished a new suite of rooms to be
built for Dora and the children, to be nicely furnished with everything
that could be required.  She would bear the expense.  Immediately on
her return she would send an efficient French maid for the little ones,
and in the course of a year or two she would engage the services of an
accomplished governess, who would undertake the education of Beatrice
and Lillian without removing them from their mother's care.

"I shall send a good piano and harp," said Lady Earle, "it will be my
pride and pleasure to select books, music, drawings, and everything
else my grandchildren require.  I should wish them always to be nicely
dressed and carefully trained.  To you, Dora, I must leave the highest
and best training of all.  Teach them to be good, and to do their duty.
They have learned all when they have learned that."

For the first time in her life, the thought came home to Dora: How was
she to teach what she had never learned and had failed to practice?
That night, long after Lady Earle had gone away, and the children had
fallen to sleep, Dora knelt in the moonlight and prayed that she might
learn to teach her children to do their duty.

As Lady Earle wished, the old farm house was left intact, and a new
group of buildings added to it.  There was a pretty sitting room for
Dora, and a larger one to serve as a study for the children, large
sleeping rooms, and a bathroom, all replete with comfort.  Two years
passed before all was completed, and Lady Earle thought it time to send
a governess to the Elms.

      *      *      *      *      *

During those years little or nothing was heard from Ronald. After
reading the cold letter Dora left for him, it seemed as though all
love, all care, all interest died out of his heart. He sat for many
long hours thinking of the blighted life "he could not lay down, yet
cared little to hold."

He was only twenty-three--the age at which life opens to most men; yet
he was worn, tired, weary of everything--the energies that once seemed
boundless, the ambition once so fierce and proud, all gone.  His whole
nature recoiled from the shock.  Had Dora, in the fury of her jealousy
and rage, tried to kill him, he would have thought that but a small
offense compared with the breach of honor in crouching behind the trees
to listen.  He thought of the quiet, grand beauty of Valentine's face
while Dora was convulsed with passion.  He remembered the utter wonder
in Valentine's eyes when Dora's flamed upon them.  He remembered the
sickening sense of shame that had cowed him as he listened to her
angry, abusive words. And this untrained, ignorant, ill-bred woman was
his wife!  For her he had given up home, parents, position, wealth--all
he had in life worth caring for.  For her, and through her, he stood
there alone in the world.

Those thoughts first maddened him, then drove him to despair. What had
life left for him?  He could not return to England; his father's doors
were closed against him.  There was no path open to him; without his
father's help he could not get into Parliament.  He could not work as
an artist at home.  He could not remain in Florence; never again, he
said to himself, would he see Valentine Charteris--Valentine, who had
been the witness of his humiliation and disgrace.  Sooner anything than
that.  He would leave the villa and go somewhere--he cared little
where. No quiet, no rest came to him.  Had his misfortunes been
accidental--had they been any other than they were, the result of his
boyish folly and disobedience, he would have found them easier to bear;
as it was, the recollection that it was all his own fault drove him mad.

Before morning he had written a farewell note to Lady Charteris, saying
that he was leaving Florence at once, and would not be able to see her
again.  He wrote to Valentine, but the few stiff words expressed little
of what he felt.  He prayed her to forget the miserable scene that
would haunt him to his dying day; to pardon the insults that had driven
him nearly mad; to pardon the mad jealousy, the dishonor of Dora; to
forget him and all belonging to him.  When Miss Charteris read the
letter she knew that all effort to restore peace would for a time be in
vain. She heard the day following that the clever young artist, Mr.
Earle, had left.

Countess Rosali loudly lamented Ronald's departure.  It was so strange,
she said; the dark-eyed little wife and her children had gone home to
England, and the husband, after selling off his home, had gone with Mr.
Charles Standon into the interior of Africa.  What was he going to do
there?

She lamented him for two days without ceasing, until Valentine was
tired of her many conjectures.  He was missed in the brilliant salons
of Florence, but by none so much as by Valentine Charteris.

What the pretty, coquettish countess had said was true.  After making
many plans and forming many resolutions, Ronald met Mr. Standon, who
was on the point of joining an exploring expedition in South Africa.
He gladly consented to accompany him.  There was but little preparation
needed.  Four days after the never-to-be-forgotten garden scene, Ronald
Earle left Italy and became a wanderer upon the face of the earth.



Chapter XVI

Valentine Charteris never told the secret.  She listened to the wonder
and conjectures of all around her, but not even to her mother did she
hint what had passed.  She pitied Ronald profoundly.  She knew the
shock Dora had inflicted on his sensitive, honorable disposition.  For
Dora herself she felt nothing but compassion.  Her calm, serene nature
was incapable of such jealousies.  Valentine could never be jealous or
mean, but she could understand the torture that had made shy, gentle
Dora both.

"Jealous of me, poor child!" said Valentine to herself.  "Nothing but
ignorance can excuse her.  As though I, with half Florence at my feet,
cared for her husband, except as a dear and true friend."

So the little villa was deserted; the gaunt, silent servant found a
fresh place.  Ronald's pictures were eagerly bought up; the pretty
countess, after looking very sentimental and sad for some days, forgot
her sorrow and its cause in the novelty of making the acquaintance of
an impassive unimpressionable American. Florence soon forgot one whom
she had been proud to know and honor.

Two months afterward, as Miss Charteris sat alone in her favorite
nook--the bower of trees where poor Dora's tragedy had been
enacted--she was found by the Prince di Borgezi.  Every one had said
that sooner or later it would come to this.  Prince di Borgezi, the
most fastidious of men, who had admired many women but loved none,
whose verdict was the rule of fashion, loved Valentine Charteris.  Her
fair English face, with its calm, grand beauty, her graceful dignity,
her noble mind and pure soul had captivated him.  For many long weeks
he hovered round Valentine, longing yet dreading to speak the words
which would unite or part them for life.

Lately there had been rumors that Lady Charteris and her daughter
intended to leave Florence; then Prince di Borgezi decided upon knowing
his fate.  He sought Valentine

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