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

be very difficult to love you."

He seemed dazzled by her beauty--her frank, high spirit and fearless words. Then he saw a golden head, with sweet, dove-like eyes, raised to his.

"I am Lillian, papa," said a clear, musical voice. "Look at me, please--and love me too."

He did both, charmed with the gentle grace of her manner, and the fair, pure face. Then Lord Earle took both his children in his arms.

"I wish," he said, in a broken voice and with tears in his eyes, "that I had seen you before. They told me my little twin children had grown into beautiful girls, but I did not realize it."

And again, when she saw his proud happiness, Lady Helena longed to plead for the mother of his children, that she might also share in his love; but she dared not. His words haunted her. Dora would be forgiven only in the hour of death.


Chapter XXII


The evening of his return was one of the happiest of Lord Earle's life. He was charmed with his daughters. Lady Helena thought, with a smile, that it was difficult to realize the relationship between them. Although her son looked sad and care-worn, he seemed more like an elder brother than the father of the two young girls.

There was some little restraint between them at first. Lord Earle seemed at a loss what to talk about; then Lady Helena's gracious tact came into play. She would not have dinner in the large dining room, she ordered it to be served in the pretty morning room, where the fire burned cheerfully and the lamps gave a flow of mellow light. It was a picture of warm, cozy English comfort, and Lord Earle looked pleased when he saw it.

Then, when dinner was over, she asked Beatrice to sing, and she, only pleased to show Lord Earle the extent of her accomplishments, obeyed. Her superb voice, with its clear, ringing tones, amazed him. Beatrice sang song after song with a passion and fire that told how deep the music lay in her soul.

Then Lady Helena bade Lillian bring out her folio of drawings, and again Lord Earle was pleased and surprised by the skill and talent he had not looked for. He praised the drawings highly. One especially attracted his attention--it was the pretty scene Lillian had sketched on the May day now so long passed--the sun shining upon the distant white sails, and the broad, beautiful sweep of sea at Knutsford.

"That is an excellent picture," he said; "it ought to be framed. It is too good to be hidden in a folio. You have just caught the right coloring, Lillian; one can almost see the sun sparkling on the water. Where is this sea-view taken from?"

"Do you not know it?" she asked, looking at him with wonder in her eyes. "It is from Knutsford--mamma's home."

Ronald looked up in sudden, pained surprise.

"Mamma's home!" The words smote him like a blow. He remembered Dora's offense--her cold letter, her hurried flight, his own firm resolve never to receive her in his home again--but he had not remembered that the children must love her--that she was part of their lives. He could not drive her memory from their minds. There before him lay the pretty picture of "mamma's home."

"This," said Lillian, "is the Elms. See those grand old trees, papa! This is the window of Mamma's room, and this was our study."

He looked with wonder. This, then, was Dora's home--the pretty, quaint homestead standing in the midst of the green meadows. As he gazed, he half wondered what the Dora who for fifteen years had lived there could be like. Did the curling rings of black hair fall as gracefully as ever? Had the blushing dimpled face grown pale and still? And then, chasing away all softened thought, came the remembrance of that hateful garden scene. Ah, no, he could never forgive--he could not speak of her even to these, her children! The two pictures were laid aside, and no more was said of framing them.

Lord Earle said to himself, after his daughters had retired, that both were charming; but, though he hardly owned it to himself, if he had a preference, it was for brilliant, beautiful Beatrice. He had never seen any one to surpass her. After Lady Helena had left him, he sat by the fire dreaming, as his father long years ago had done before him.

It was not too late yet, he thought, to retrieve the fatal mistake of his life. He would begin at once. He would first give all his attention to his estate; it should be a model for all others. He would interest himself in social duties; people who lamented his foolish, wasted youth should speak with warm admiration of his manhood; above all matters he dreamed of great things for his daughters, especially Beatrice. With her beauty and grace, her magnificent voice, her frank, fearless spirit, and piquant, charming wit, she would be a queen of society; through his daughter his early error would be redeemed. Beatrice was sure to marry well; she would bring fresh honors to the grand old race ha had shamed. When the annals of the family told, in years to come, the story of his mistaken marriage, it would be amply redeemed by the grand alliance Beatrice would be sure to contract.

His hopes rested upon her and centered in her. As he sat watching the glowing embers, there came to him the thought that what Beatrice was to him he had once been to the father he was never more to see. Ah! If his daughter should be like himself if she should ruin his hopes, throw down the air castle he had built--should love unworthily, marry beneath her, deceive and disappoint him! But no, it should not be--he would watch over her. Lord Earle shuddered at the thought.

During breakfast on the morning following his return Lady Helena asked what his plans were for the day--whether he intended driving the girls over to Holte.

"No," said Lord Earle. "I wish to have a long conversation with my daughters. We shall be engaged during the morning. After luncheon we will go to Holte."

Ronald, Lord Earle, had made up his mind. In the place where his father had warned him, and made the strongest impression upon him, he would warn his children, and in the same way; so he took them to the picture gallery, where he had last stood with his father.

With gentle firmness he said: "I have brought you here as I have something to say to you which is best said here. Years ago, children, my father brought me, as I bring you, to warn and advise me--I warn and advise you. We are, though so closely related, almost strangers. I am ready to love you and do love you. I intend to make your happiness my chief study. But there is one thing I must have--that is, perfect openness, one thing I must forbid--that is, deceit of any kind, on any subject. If either of you have in your short lives a secret, tell it to me now; if either of you love any one, even though it be one unworthy, tell me now. I will pardon any imprudence, any folly, any want of caution--everything save deceit. Trust me, and I will be gentle as a tender woman; deceive me, and I will never forgive you."

Both fair faces had grown pale--Beatrice's from sudden and deadly fear; Lillian's from strong emotion.

"The men of our race," said Lord Earle, "have erred at times, the women never. You belong to a long line of noble, pure, and high-bred woman; there must be nothing in your lives less high, and less noble than in theirs; but if there had been--if, from want of vigilance, of training, and of caution there should be anything in this short past, tell it to me now, and I will forget it."

Neither spoke to him one word, and a strange pathos came into his voice.

"I committed one act of deceit in my life," continued Lord Earle; "it drove me from home, and it made me an exile during the best years of my life. It matters little what it was--you will never know; but it has made me merciless to all deceit. I will never spare it; it has made me harsh and bitter. You will both find in me the truest, the best of friends; if in everything you are straightforward and honorable; but, children, dearly as I love you, I will never pardon a lie or an act of deceit."

"I never told a lie in my life," said Lillian, proudly. "My mother taught us to love the truth."

"And you, my Beatrice?" he asked, gently as he turned to the beautiful face half averted from him.

"I can say with my sister," was the haughty reply, "I have never told a lie."

Even as she spoke her lips grew pale with fear, as she remembered the fatal secret of her engagement to Hugh Fernely.

"I believe it," replied Lord Earle. "I can read truth in each face. Now tell me--have no fear--have you any secret in that past life? Remember, no matter what you may have done, I shall freely pardon it. If you should be in any trouble or difficulty, as young people are at times, I will help you. I will do anything for you, if you will trust me."

And again Lillian raised her sweet face to his.

"I have no secret," she said, simply. "I do not think I know a secret, or anything like one. My past life is an open book, papa, and you can read every page in it."

"Thank Heaven!" said Lord Earle, as he placed his hand caressingly upon the fair head.

It was strange, and he remembered the omission afterward, that he did not repeat the question to Beatrice--he seemed to consider that Lillian's answer included her. He did not know her heart was beating high with fear.

"I know," he continued, gently, "that some young girls have their little love secrets. You tell me you have none. I believe you. I have but one word more to say. You will be out in the great world soon, and you will doubtless both have plenty of admirers. Then will come the time of trial and temptation; remember my words--there is no curse so great as a clandestine love, no error so great or degrading. One of our race was so cursed, and his punishment was great. No matter whom you love and who loves you, let all be fair, honorable, and open as the day. Trust me, do not deceive me. Let me in justice say I will never oppose any reasonable marriage, but I will never pardon a clandestine attachment.

"However dearly I might love the one who so transgressed," continued Lord Earle, "even if it broke my heart to part from her, I should send her from me at once; she should never more be a child of mine. Do not think me harsh or unkind; I have weighty reasons for every word I have uttered. I am half ashamed to speak