Etext of Dora Thorne
by Charlotte M. Braeme




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 pain