Dora Thorne - Charlotte Mary Brame (autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

resemblance to the Thornes. Beatrice looked like one of the Ladies Earle just stepped out from a picture; Lillian, in her fair, dove-like loveliness, was quite as charming. What would Lady Earle--so truthful, so honorable--have thought or said had she known that their bright favorite with the Earle face had plighted her troth, unknown to any one, to the captain of a trading vessel, who was to claim her in two years for his wife?

Lady Earl had formed her own plans for Beatrice; she hoped the time would come when she would be Lady Earle of Earlescourt. Nothing could be more delightful, nothing easier, provided Beatrice would marry the young heir, Lionel Dacre.

One morning, as the sisters sat in Lillian's room, Lady Earle entered with an unusual expression of emotion on her fair, high-bred face. She held an open letter in her hand.

"My dear children," she said, "you must each look your very best this evening. I have a note here--your father will be home tonight."

The calm, proud voice faltered then, and the stately mistress of Earlescourt wept at the thought of her son's return as she had never wept since he left her.


Chapter XXI


Once more Ronald Earle stood upon English shores; once again he heard his mother tongue spoken all around him, once again he felt the charm of quiet, sweet English scenery. Seventeen years had passed since he had taken Dora's hand in his and told her he cared nothing for all he was leaving behind him, nothing for any one in the world save herself--seventeen years, and his love-dream had lasted but two! Then came the cruel shock that blinded him with anger and shame; then came the rude awakening from his dream when, looking his life bravely in the face, he found it nothing but a burden--hope and ambition gone--the grand political mission he had once believed to be his own impossible nothing left to him of his glorious dreams but existence--and all for what? For the mad, foolish love of a pretty face. He hated himself for his weakness and folly. For that--for the fair, foolish woman who had shamed him so sorely--he had half broken his mother's heart, and had imbittered his father's life. For that he had made himself an exile, old in his youth, worn and weary, when life should have been all smiling around him.

These thoughts flashed through his mind as the express train whirled through the quiet English landscape. Winter snows had fallen, the great bare branches of the tall trees were gaunt and snow-laden, the fields were one vast expanse of snow, the frost had hardened the icicles hanging from hedges and trees. The scene seemed strange to him after so many years of the tropical sun. Yet every breath of the sharp, frosty air invigorated him and brought him new life and energy.

At length the little station was reached, and he saw the carriage with his liveried servants awaiting him. A warm flush rose to Lord Earle's face; for a moment he felt almost ashamed of meeting his old domestics. They must all know now why he had left home. His own valet, Morton, was there. Lord Earle had kept him, and the man had asked permission to go and meet his old master.

Ronald was pleased to see him; there were a few words of courteous greeting from Lord Earle to all around, and a few still kinder words to Morton.

Once again Ronald saw the old trees of which he had dreamed so often, the stately cedars, the grand spreading oaks, the tall aspens, the lady beeches, the groves of poplars--every spot was familiar to him. In the distance he saw the lake shining through the trees; he drove past the extensive gardens, the orchards now bare and empty. He was not ashamed of the tears that rushed warmly to his eyes when the towers and turrets of Earlescourt came in sight.

A sharp sense of pain filled his heart--keen regret, bitter remorse, a longing for power to undo all that was done, to recall the lost miserable years--the best of his life. He might return; he might do his best to atone for his error; but neither repentance nor atonement would give him back the father whose pride he had humbled in the dust.

As the carriage rolled up the broad drive, a hundred instances of his father's love and indulgence flashed across him--he had never refused any request save one. He wisely and tenderly tried to dissuade him from the false step that could never be retraced but all in vain.

He remembered his father's face on that morning when, with outstretched hands, he bade him leave his presence and never seek it more--when he told him that whenever he looked upon his dead face he was to remember that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which he had been deceived.

Sad, bitter memories filled his heart when the carriage stopped at the door and Ronald caught sight of the old familiar faces, some in smiles, some in tears.

The library door was thrown open. Hardly knowing whither he went, Lord Earle entered, and it was closed behind him. His eyes, dimmed with tears, saw a tall, stately lady, who advanced to meet him with open arms.

The face he remembered so fair and calm bore deep marks of sorrow; the proud, tender eyes were shadowed; the glossy hair was threaded with silver; but it was his mother's voice that cried to him, "My son, my son, thank Heaven you have returned!"

He never remembered how long his mother held him clasped in her arms. Earth has no love like a mother's love--none so tender, so true, so full of sweet wisdom, so replete with pity and pardon. It was her own son whom Lady Earle held in her arms. She forgot that he was a man who had incurred just displeasure. He was her boy, her own treasure, and so it was that her words of greeting were all of loving welcome.

"How changed you are," she said, drawing him nearer to the fast-fading light. "Your face is quite bronzed, and you look so many years older--so sad, so worn! Oh, Ronald, I must teach you to grow young and happy again!"

He sighed deeply, and his mother's heart grew sad as she watched his restless face.

"Old-fashioned copy-books say, mother, that 'to be happy one must be good.' I have not been good," he said with a slight smile, "and I shall never be happy."

In the faint waning light, through which the snow gleamed strangely, mother and son sat talking. Lady Earle told Ronald of his father's death--of the last yearning cry when all the pent-up love of years seemed to rush forth and overpower him with its force. It was some comfort to him, after all, that his father's last thoughts and last words had been of him.

His heart was strangely softened; a new hope came to him. Granted that the best part of his life was wasted, he would do his best with the remainder.

"And my children," he said, "my poor little girls! I will not see them until I am calm and refreshed. I know they are well and happy with you."

Then, taking advantage of his mood, Lady Helena said what she had been longing to say.

"Ronald," she began, "I have had much to suffer. You will never know how my heart has been torn between my husband and my son. Let my last few years be spent in peace."

"They shall, mother," he said. "Your happiness shall be my study."

"There can be no rest for me," continued his mother, "unless all division in our family ends. Ronald, I, who never asked you a favor before, ask one now. Seek Dora and bring her home reconciled and happy."

A dark angry frown such as she had never seen there before came into Lord Earle's face.

"Anything but that," he replied, hastily; "I can not do it, mother. I could not, if I lay upon my death bed."

"And why?" asked Lady Helena, simply, as she had asked Dora.

"For a hundred reasons, the first and greatest of which is that she has outraged all my notions of honor, shamed and disgraced me in the presence of one whom I esteemed and revered; she has--But no, I will not speak of my wife's errors, it were unmanly. I can not forgive her, mother. I wish her no harm; let her have every luxury my wealth can procure, but do not name her to me. I should be utterly devoid of all pride if I could pardon her."

"Pride on your side," said Lady Earle, sadly, "and temper on hers! Oh, Ronald, how will it end? Be wise in time; the most honest and noble man is he who conquers himself. Conquer yourself, my son, and pardon Dora."

"I could more easily die," he replied, bitterly.

"Then," said Lady Earle, sorrowfully, "I must say to you as I said to Dora--beware; pride and temper must bend and break. Be warned in time."

"Mother," interrupted Ronald, bending over the pale face so full of emotion, "let this be the last time. You distress yourself and me; do not renew the subject. I may forgive her in the hour of death--not before."

Lady Helena's last hope died away; she had thought that in the first hour of his return, when old memories had softened his heart, she would prevail on him to seek his wife whom he had ceased to love, and for their children's sake bring her home. She little dreamed that the coming home, the recollection of his father, the ghost of his lost youth and blasted hopes rising every instant, had hardened him against the one for whom he had lost all.

"You will like to see the children now," said Lady Helena. "I will ring for lights. You will be charmed with both. Beatrice is much like you--she has the Earle face, and, unless I am mistaken, the Earle spirit, too."

"Beatrice," said Lillian, as they descended the broad staircase, "I am frightened. I wish I could remember something of papa his voice or his smile; it is like going to see a stranger. And suppose, after all, he does not like us!"

"Suppose what is of greater importance," said Beatrice proudly "that we do not like him!"

But, for all her high spirits and hauteur, Beatrice almost trembled as the library door opened and Lady Earle came forward to met them. Beatrice raised her eyes dauntlessly and saw before her a tall, stately gentleman with a handsome face, the saddest and noblest she had ever seen--clear, keen eyes that seemed to pierce through all disguise and read all thoughts.

"There is Beatrice," said Lady Helena, as she took her hand gently; and Ronald looked in startled wonder at the superb beauty of the face and figure before him.

"Beatrice," he said, kissing the proud, bright face, "can it be possible? When I saw you last you were a little, helpless child."

"I am not helpless now," she replied, with a smile; "and I hope you are going to love me very much, papa. You have to make up for fifteen years of absence. I think it will not