DORA THORNE. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME. 
 
 M. A. DONOHUE & GO 
 CHICAGO
 
 DORA THORNE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 4< The consequences of folly seldom end with its origi- 
 nator," said Lord Earle to his son. "Rely upon it, 
 Ronald, if you were to take this most foolish and unad- 
 visable 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 re- 
 plied. " I grant everything you say. Dora Thome 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 
 
 2135116
 
 4 DOHA THOKNE. 
 
 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 ques- 
 tion belonged to your own station, or even if she were near 
 it, that would be quite a different matter. I am not an- 
 noyed that you have, as you think, fallen in love, or that 
 you wish to marry, although you are young. I am an- 
 noyed that you should dream of wishing to marry a simple 
 rustic, the daughter of my lodge-keeper. It is so su- 
 premely ridiculous that I can hardly treat the matter seri- 
 ously." 
 
 " 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 tram- 
 mels 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,' 1 said Ronald, eagerly ; 
 " and with Dora Thorne by my side, I could do 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 libten, and try to convince 
 you by reasonable arguments that the step you seem bent
 
 DORA THOBNE. 5 
 
 npon taking is one that will entail nothing \mt misery. I 
 have said no angry word to you, nor shall I do so. I tell 
 you simply it can not be. Dora Thome, my lodge-keep- 
 er's daughter, is no fitting wife for my son, the heir of 
 Earlescourt. Come with me, Ronald; I will show you 
 further what 1 mean. " 
 
 They went together, the father and son, so like m face 
 yet so dissimilar in mind. They had been walking np and 
 down the broad terrace, one of the chief beauties of Earles- 
 court. The park and pleasure-grounds, with flushed sum* 
 mer beauty, lay smiling around them. The song-of hun 
 dreds 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 en- 
 tered the hall. They passed through a long suite of mag- 
 nificent apartments, up the broad marble staircase, through, 
 long corridors, until they reached the picture-gallery, one 
 f the finest in England. Nearly every great master was 
 represented there. Murillo, Guido, Raphael, Claude Lor- 
 raine, Salvator Rosa, Correggio, and Tintoretto. The 
 lords of Earlescourt had all loved pictures, and each of 
 them had added to the treasures of that wonderful gallery. 
 
 One portion of the gallery was set aside for the portrait* 
 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 tho blow in his stead. She died, and he lived 
 noble and beautiful, ia she not? Now look at the Lady 
 Alicia this fair patrician lady smiling by the side of her 
 grim lord; she, at tho 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 ho
 
 6 DOBA THOBNE. 
 
 received pardon. Here is the Lady Helena she is not 
 beautiful, but look at the intellect, the queenly brow, the 
 aoul-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 worn 
 Lord Earle then led his son to a large painting, up a 
 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 Earles- 
 court than your mother, Ronald. She is the daught 
 
 * 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 lip .-, 
 the refined patrician features, and there came to him t! o 
 memory of another face, charming, shy and blushing, with 
 a rustic, graceful beauty different from the one before hha 
 as sunlight compared to moonlight. The words falter; d 
 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 orought 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. Prom- 
 ise 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 boy- 
 ish folly, and bless the good sense that has saved you from 
 ft. Will you promise me, Ronald?" 
 
 ** I can not, father," he replied, " for I hve promised
 
 DORA THORNE. 7 
 
 Dora to make her my wife. 1 can not break my word. 
 You yourself could never counsel that." 
 
 ** In this case 1 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, 1 
 love her, father. " 
 
 " Hush," replied Lord Earle, angrily, " I will listen to 
 ho 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. 
 1 forbid you to marry Dora Thome; 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 his 
 lather. 
 
 " 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 
 V6 again. My home shall be no longer your home. You 
 fnil lose my love, my esteem, and what perhaps those who 
 Aavt) lured you to ruin may value still more, my wealth. 
 1 ;ui not disinherit you; but, if you persist in this folly, I 
 will not allow you one farthing. You shall be to me at 
 one dead until I die myself." 
 
 " I have three hundred a year," said Ronald, calmly; 
 44 that my godfather left me." 
 
 Lord Earle's face now grew white with anger. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " you have that; it would not find 
 Ton 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 vour consent, father," he cried, passionately. 
 '* Sfou know 1 love you, and I love Dora; 1 can not give 
 up Dora." 
 
 "Enough," said Lord Earle; "words seem useless. 
 Yon hear my final resolve; 1 shall never change it no 
 after repentance, no entreaties, will move me. Choose be- 
 i your parents, your home, your position, and the love 
 of this fair, foolish girl, of whom in a few months yon will 
 6e tired and weary. < /noose between us. or no
 
 8 CORA THORKE. 
 
 promise; you have refused to give it. 1 appeal no more 
 to your affection; I leave you to decide for yourself. I 
 might coerce and force you, but 1 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 IL 
 
 THE Earles, of Earlescourt, were one of the oldest fami- 
 lies in England. The " Barony of Earle " is mentioned in 
 Ibs 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 beeu 
 zealous cultivators of the fine arts. Earlescourt was al- 
 most overcrowded wilh pictures, statues, and works of art. 
 
 Son succeeded father, inheriting with title and estate the 
 same kindly, simple disposition, 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 in- 
 flexible; he longed for the time when the Earles should be- 
 come 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, clover, 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 waa 
 an elegant, accomplished woman, who knew the world
 
 DORA TIIOKXE. 9 
 
 its ways who had, from her earliest childhood, been ac- 
 customed 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 ihe 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 wif, 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 pre- 
 cautions; 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 ' 
 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 Lord Earle's heart, and all 
 his hopes were centered in his son. For the second time
 
 10 JJOBA THOBNE. 
 
 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, dis- 
 appointed 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 him 
 self."" 
 
 Time passed on, and the heir of Earlescourt went to Ox- 
 ford, as his father had done before him. Then came the 
 second bitter disappointment of Lord Earle's life. He him- 
 self was a Tory of the old school. Liberal principles were an 
 abomination to him; he Hated and detested everything con- 
 nected with Liberalism. It was a great shock when Ronald 
 Burned from college a " full-fledged Liberal." With hia 
 nbual keenness he saw that all discussion was useless. 
 
 " Let the Liberal fever wear out/' said one of his 
 fviends; " you will find, Lord EarJe, that all young men 
 iavor it. Conservatism is the result of age and experience. 
 By the time your sou 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 niau, eager to bring theory into 
 practice, fraternized with the tenant farmers, and visited 
 aamilies from whom his father shrunk in aristocratic dread. 
 
 There was little doubt that in those days Ronald Earle 
 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 dis- 
 tributed, and the days when one man perished of hunge? 
 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 zeal- 
 ous, had any one proposed to him that he should inaugu- 
 rate the new state of things, and be the first to divide his 
 fortune, the futility of his theories would have struck him 
 jnore plainly. Mingling in good society, the inf^-nce of
 
 DORA THORITE. 2] 
 
 clever men and beautiful women would, Loid Earle be* 
 lieved, convert his sou 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 brave- 
 iy, for he never ceased to hope. 
 
 A new trouble was dawning far 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 rustio 
 beauty, the lodge-keeper's daughter. 
 
 lescourt was one of the fairest spots in fair and tran- 
 quil England. It stood in the deep green heart of the 
 land, in the midst of one of the bonnv, fertile midland 
 counties. 
 
 The Hall was surrounded by a large park, where the 3eer 
 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. 
 
 K.irlescourt 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, fiowetihg chestnut 
 were all seen to greatest perfection there. 
 
 Art had done much, Nature more, tn beautify the home 
 of the Earles. Charming pleasure-gardens were laid oui 
 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 Hull itself was a picturesque, gray old building, with 
 turn-is rove red 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 apart' 
 ments replete with modern comfort. 
 
 One of the great beauties of Earlesconrt was the broad 
 terrace that ran along one side of the house; the view from 
 it was unequaled for quiot loveliness. The lake shone in 
 the distance from between the trees; the perfume from tha 
 hawthorn hedges filled the air, the fountains rippled mer- 
 rily in tho sunshine, and the flowers bloomed in sweet sum- 
 mer beauty. 
 
 Lord Earle loved lii-< 1. iiutiful home; he spared no ex- 
 pense in imp <] the time came when Earlesj- 
 court '.- known as a moael estate.
 
 12 J>ORA THORNE. 
 
 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 sur- 
 veillance 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 Oharteris, of Greenoke. Thinking Ron- 
 ald 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 
 lather 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 so** 
 the horses, inspected the kennels, gladdened the game- 
 keeper'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 of " 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 vas impossible to remain in-doors
 
 DORA THOKXE. 18 
 
 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 Duried 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. 
 lie 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. 
 
 \\liiit impulse was it that sent him on that fair June 
 morning, when all Nature sung of love and happiness, to 
 the spot where be met his fate? 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 THE strawberry gardens at Earlescourt were very exten- 
 sive. Far down among the green beds Ronald Earle caw 
 6 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. In- 
 voluntarily he raised his hat, in homage to her youth an 1 
 her shy, sweet beauty. " For whom are you gathering 
 these? he aaked, wondering who she was, and whence she 
 came. 
 
 In'a moment the young girl stood up, and made the 
 pretHe. t, and most graceful of courtesies. 
 
 " Tluy are for the housekeeper, sir," she replied; and 
 ho:- voice was musical and clear as a silver bell. 
 
 ' Then may I ask who you are?" continued Ronald. 
 
 " I am Dora Thome," she replied, " the lodge-keeper'a 
 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 ot 
 strawberries?" he ask^d. ** They look so ripe and 
 tempting."
 
 14 DORA THORKE. 
 
 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 aud quick- 
 ly she contrived a small basket of leaves, aud 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 in- 
 deed so fair, so modest aud graceful, that Ronald Earle 
 was charmed. 
 
 " It must be because you gathered them that they are so 
 nice," ho 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 th^ shade of this 
 apple-tree. " 
 
 He watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young 
 face. She never onoe raised her dark eyes to his. He had 
 seen beautiful and stately ladies, but none so coy or be- 
 witching 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 en- 
 joy the strawberries, but in reality engrossed by the charm- 
 ing 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 
 B\veet, 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 rui r 1 for a moment, and quickly dropped again- 
 
 " ; : . i Tennyson^ ' Dora?' ' ' be as!
 
 DORA THORNE. 15 
 
 *Ko," she replied " I have little timo ror reading." 
 
 '* 1 will tell you the story," he said, patronizingly. 
 M Ever since 1 read it 1 have had an ideal * Dora,' and you 
 realize my dream." 
 
 She had not the least idea what he meant; bat when he 
 recited the musical words, her fancy and imagination were 
 stirred; she saw the wheat-field, the golden corn, the little 
 chiM and its anxious mother. When Ronald ceased speak 
 ing, he saw her hands were clasped and her lips quivering. 
 
 " Did you like that?" he asked, with unconscious pat- 
 ronage. 
 
 " 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 
 |hy, 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 I" she cried. " What shall I do? 
 Mrs. Morton will be a igry with me." 
 
 ** Angry!" said lio mid, annoyed at this sudden br^ak- 
 up of his Arcadian dream. " Angry with you! For 
 what?" 
 
 " She is waiting fot the strawberries," replied conscious 
 Dora, " and my basket is not half full." 
 
 It was a now idea t< him that any one should dare to be 
 angry with this pretty, gentle Dora. 
 I will help you/ he said. 
 
 In less than a mini te the heir of Earlescourt was kneel* 
 ing by Dora Thorne, gathering quickly the ripe strawber 
 ries, and the basket vas soon filled. 
 
 " There," said Rcoald, " you need not fear Mrs. Morton 
 now, Dora. You must go, I suppose; it seems hard to 
 leave this bright sur/shine to go in-doors!" 
 
 " I I would rather stay, said Dora, frankly; " but I 
 have much to do." 
 
 ** Shall you be liere to-morrow?" be asked. 
 
 *' Yes," she replied; " it will take me all the weer it 
 gather strawberr/es for the housekeeper. " 
 
 M 'iooH-bye, >>ra," be said; " I shall we
 
 16 DORA THOKNE, 
 
 He held out his hand, and her little fingers trembled and 
 fluttered in his grasp. She looked so happy, yet so fright- 
 ened, 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, 
 airy figure, as the young girl tripped away. 
 
 " Shame on all artificial training!" said Ronald to him- 
 self. " 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 parti.' 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 be- 
 gan 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 morn- 
 ing? 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 mearting. 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. To-morrow the
 
 OBA THOKBJS. 1? 
 
 gnn would shine, the birds sing, and she should see him 
 once again, 
 
 Dora never remembered bow that happy day passed 
 Good Mrs. Thome looked at her child, and sighed to think 
 how pretty she \v;is and how soon that sweet, dimpled face 
 won! ire. 
 
 D.'ru's first proceeding was characteristic enough, She- 
 vent to her own room ar.d locked the door; then she put 
 the cracked little mirror in the sunshine, and proceeded tft 
 ex uuine her face. She wanted to see why Ronald Earle 
 B'lmin.'d her; she wondered much at this new power she 
 
 .1 possessed of; she placed the glass on the table, and 
 s:it down to study her own face. She saw that it was very 
 lair: the coloring was delicate and vivid, like that of the 
 heart of a rose; the fresh, red lips were arched and smil- 
 
 lio dark, shy eyes, with their long, silken lashes, were 
 bright and clear; a pretty, dimpled, smiling face told of 
 
 , 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 \v:is half puzzled. She had never thought much 
 of her own appearance. Having lived always with sensi- 
 ble, simple people, the pernicious language of flattery waa 
 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; dhe 
 thought only of the morning past and the morning to 
 
 . while Ronald dreamed of her almost unconsciously. 
 Sh had been a bright feature in a bright day; his artistic 
 
 hud been gratified, his eyes had been charmed. The 
 
 \ picture haunted him, and he remembered with pleas* 
 
 hat on the morrow ho should see the shy, .- 
 a^'uin. No thought of harm or wrong even entered his 
 
 . 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 
 
 ' action. 
 
 The morning came, and they brought bright, blushing 
 Dora, to her work; aguin tlv little white fingers glistened 
 
 the crimson oerries. Then Dora heard him coming. 
 
 ^ footsteps, and her face crew " ruby red. 
 Be made DO nse of finding her accidentally
 
 18 DORA THORNE. 
 
 "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 fairy-land. 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 sim- 
 
 Ele, artless mind. So he talked to her of her daily life, 
 er 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 Eonald. He had heard fashionable ladies 
 speak of everything they delighted in. He had never 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 t*ie sweetest homage of all, the
 
 DORA THORNE. 19 
 
 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 tctc-a-tetcs 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 re- 
 turn 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 to-morrow, 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, dim- 
 pled 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 ?o 
 startled that he waited for no reply. " I shall continue to 
 see you," he resumed. " I could not let any day pass with- 
 out 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
 
 30 DORA 1HOKNE, 
 
 go abroad. Where would Dora be then? He did not like 
 the thought it perplexed him. Short as was the time ha 
 laad 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 
 ier little bands more tightly within his own. 
 
 " You world not like to lose me, Dora?" he skid, 
 gently. 
 
 " No," she replied; and then tears fell from her dark 
 
 Poor Ronald ! had he been wise, he would have flown 
 then; but he bent his head over her, and kissed the teara 
 away. The pretty rounded cheek, so soft and child-like, 
 lie 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!" ehe 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. Wnat 
 . a queen more than that?" 
 
 " A queen knows more," sigh--:"! Dora. " I know noth 
 ing m all the wide world. " 
 
 " Then I will teach yon," he said. " Ah, Dora, yon 
 fcnow moughJ You have beautiful thoughts, and yo
 
 DORA THOKNE. JW 
 
 clothe tnem 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.'* 
 
 " 1 would not make you unhappy," she said, *' for the 
 whole world; if you wish me to love you oh, you know 1 
 love you if you wish me to go away and forget you, 1 wif 
 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 bo my 
 wife? 1 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, proud- 
 ly; 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 mysolf, and this is a free country. I shall 
 introduce you to him, Dora, and tell him you have prom- 
 ised to be my wife. No more tears, love. There is noth- 
 ing but happiness before us." 
 
 And so he believed. He could think of nothing, care 
 for nothing but Dora her pretty face, her artless, simjple 
 ways, her undisguised love for him. There was but one 
 If" was young, and it was his first love; yet de- 
 spite his 1 soppiness, his pride, his independetice, he did 
 often wondi"- in what words he should U-ll his father that 
 IK- hud premised to marry the lodge-keeper's dau 
 Tin re were even times when he shivered, as one seized 
 sudden cold, at the thought. 
 
 ThM four days passed like a long, bright dream. It was 
 H pri'tty romance, but sadly m -a pretty summer 
 
 idyl. They were but boy and girl. Dora met Ronald in 
 ;i;irk, by the brook-side, and in the ^ ulows 
 
 vlviv the. white hawthorn grow. They tulkcd of but one 
 thinjr, their Invu. Ronald ncvor tired of watching Dora's 
 fan- Taw; and j> ory WHYS: she never wearied of to'iin^ him
 
 8% DORA THORHE. 
 
 over and over again, in a hundred different vays, ho* 
 noble and kind he was, and how dearly she loved him. 
 
 Lord Earle wrote to say that he should be home on tha 
 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 prea* 
 ent," said Eonald; " so, Dora, we must keep our secrett 
 it will not do to tell your father before 1 tell mine. " 
 
 They arranged to keep the secret until Lord Earle should 
 be alwie 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 andi 
 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 
 f note, and their host devoted himself to their entertain- 
 ment 
 
 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 hia 
 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 
 bad not told his secret. A new element crept into his love, 
 ani urged him on. Walking one day through the park
 
 DORA THOENF *3 
 
 with LIB father they overtook Dora's father. A young 
 man was with him and the two were talking earnestly to- 
 gether, so earnestly that they never heard the two gentle- 
 men; 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 
 f r in 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; 
 pora was there already, and he saw that her face was still 
 wet with tears. She refused at first to tell him her sor- 
 row. 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. 
 
 ..' her tender little hands round Ronald's arm/* I 
 do not love him," she sobbed; ** and, Ronald, 1 do love 
 yon." 
 
 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 1 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 te 
 her faith in Ronald Earle. 
 
 "Go homo now," he said, "and to-morrow my father
 
 24 DORA THORITE. 
 
 himself shall see you. I will teach that yonng farmer hia 
 place. No more tears, Dora our troubles will end to- 
 night* 
 
 tie went with her down the broad walk, and then re- 
 tunie.l to the Hail. He walked very proudly, with his 
 gallant head erect, paying to himself that this was u five 
 country and he could do what he liked; but for all thai 
 _,is heart beat loudly when he entered the drawing-room 
 ..i~i found Lord ami Lady Eurlc. They looked up smil- 
 ingly at him, all unconscious that their beloved sou, 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 1:. TO 
 ever led a forlorn hope with more bravery than he dis- 
 played in the interview with his parents, which might have 
 daunted a bolder man. As he approached, Lady Earle 
 rai:--<l Uer eyes with a languid ?mile. 
 
 " Out a^ain, R.mald!" ?he said. " P>ir Harry Laurence 
 left his adieus for you. I think the park possesses some 
 peculiar fascination. Have you been walking quickly? 
 Your face is Hushed." 
 
 He made no reply, but drew near to his mother; he benfc 
 over h'jr and raised her hand to his lips. 
 
 "I am come to tell you something," he said. "Fa- 
 ther, will you listen to me? 1 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 uttei amazement. 
 
 "To marry Dora Thome!" he said. "And who, in 
 the name of reason, is Dora Thorue?" 
 
 " The lodge-keeper's daughter," replied Ronald, stout- 
 ly. " 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 re- 
 proaches anything but this. 
 
 " You can pot be serious, Ronald," said his mother* 
 smiling,
 
 BORA 
 
 - I am so much iu earnest,'* he replied, " that I would 
 give up all 1 have in the world my life itself, for Dora. " 
 
 Thin Lord Earle ceased laughiug, and looked earnestly 
 at the handsome, Hushed face. 
 
 44 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. 1 have promised to marry Dora Thome, 
 and, with your permission, I intend to keep my word." 
 
 An angry flush rose to Lord Earle's face, but he con- 
 trolled 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, 1 should, for the present, refuse." 
 
 *' I shall bo twenty in a few months," said Ronald, 
 ** and I am willing to wait until then." 
 
 i v 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 ia Dora Thorno?" 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 1 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, anl 
 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. 
 
 44 1 asked her to be my wife while you were from home,' ; 
 replied Ronald. * 4 She promised and I have only 
 waiting until our guests left us and you had more time. " 
 
 " Is it to see Dora Thorne that you have been out so con- 
 stantly?" asked Lady Earle. 
 
 " Yes, I could not let a day pass without seeing her," 
 he replied; " it would be like a day without sunshine." 
 
 44 Does anyone else know of this folly?" asked Lord 
 Earle, angrily. 
 
 44 No; you may bo quite sure, father, I should tell you 
 before 1 told anv on else, '* replied Ronald.
 
 26 DOKA THORNE. 
 
 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 smil- 
 ing 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 mis' 
 chief; you have done so. Say no more now; I clearly anc< 
 distinctly refuse my consent. I appeal to your honor that 
 you meet this young girl no more. We will talk of it an- 
 other time." 
 
 When the door closed behind him, Lord and Lady Earle 
 looked at each other. The lady's face was pale and agi- 
 tated. 
 
 " Oh, Rupert," she said, " how brave and noble he is! 
 Poor foolish boy! how proud he looked of his absurd mis- 
 take. We shall have trouble with him, 1 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 nie manage the matter, Rupert. I will go 
 down to the lodge to-morrow, 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 
 Borrow. 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 un
 
 DORA THORNB. *5? 
 
 fitted cS, how unfitted ! ever to be Lady Earle. She was 
 graceful as a wild flower is graceful; but she had no man- 
 ner, uo dignity, no cultivation. She stood blushing, con- 
 fused, aud 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 my- 
 self as our daughter. We will not speak of your inferiority 
 in birth and position. You are not my son's equal in re- 
 finement or education; he would soon discover that, and 
 thv 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. 
 
 44 1 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. 1 never dreamed 
 that she knew the young master; she has not mentioned 
 his name. " 
 
 Lady Earle's diplomacy succeeded beyond her most san- 
 guine expectations. Stephen Thorne and his wife, although 
 rather dazzled by the fact that their daughter had capti- 
 vated the future Lord Earlescourt, let common sense aud 
 reason prevail, aud 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 bank* 
 note 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. '* 1 can not sell poor Dora's love." 
 
 Then Lady Earle held out her delicate white hand, and 
 ii;in bowed low over it. Before the sun set that even. 
 in._ r . Stephen Thorne ha 1 taken Dora to Eastham, where 
 shf wus to remain until KonaM hu'l gone abroad. 
 
 For seemed as though tho ?-.orm bed blown
 
 Xo DORA THORNE. 
 
 over. There was one angry interview between father and 
 sou, 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 
 
 fate leading from the fields to the -high-road; it was closed 
 etweeu them, and neither could make way. 
 
 " I have a little account to settle with you, my young 
 lordling," said Ralph, angrilj. " Doves never mate with 
 eagles; if you want to marry, chose one of your own class, 
 and leave Dora Thome to me. " 
 
 ** Dora Thome is mine/' said Ronald, haughtily. 
 
 " She will never be," was the quick reply. " See, young 
 master, I have loved Dora since she was a pretty, bright- 
 eyed child. Her father lived near my father's farm then. 
 1 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 ami my love. The world is wide, and you 
 can choose where you will do not rob tue of Dora 
 Thori.e." 
 
 There wus a mournful dignity in the man's face that 
 touched Ronald. 
 
 " I am sorry for you," he said, " if you love Dora; fot 
 she will bo my wife." 
 
 " Never!" cried Ralph. " Since you will not listen to 
 fair words, I defy you. 1 will go to Eastham and never 
 leave Dora again until she will be my own." 
 
 High, angry words passed between them, but Ralph in 
 tis pjtssiuii 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 jeal- 
 ousy robbed the boy of his better sense; duty and honor 
 were forgotten. Under pretense of visiting one of his col- 
 friends, Ronald went .to Eastham. Lord and Lady 
 PJarle 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 bo written, but when the heir oi 
 J'.'nrlpscotirt sa*v r ^ >ra again, her artless delight, her prettj
 
 DORA THORtfE. 5fd 
 
 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 \vifo secretly. JIo 
 had said that when once they were married his father would 
 forgive them, and uil would be well. He believed what 
 he said; Dora had uo will but his. She forgot till Lady 
 Earle's warnings; ehe remembered only Ronald and bis 
 love. So (hoy were married in the quiet parish chiu 
 Helsmeer, twenty miles from llii-tham, and no human be- 
 ing either knew or guessed their FCC rut. 
 
 There was no excuse, no palliation for an act that was 
 undutiful, dishonorable, and deceitful there was nothing 
 to plead for him, pave that he was young, and had ; 
 known a vrish refn 
 
 They were married. Dora Thome became Dora Earle. 
 Ronald parted from hirf prt-ttv wife immediately. He ar- 
 ranged all bis plans with what he ronsidtrt'd consummate 
 wisdom. He was to return borne, uml try by every argu- 
 ment in his power to soften his father and win his cor 
 If he still refused, then time wcidd S!M.V him th 
 course. Come what mi^hf, D.ira was his; nothing on earth 
 could part them. He care.i fur very little else: Even ,f 
 the very worst came, and his father sent, him from homo, 
 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 honecty to his father's face, Lord 
 Earle saw that his son looked happy, and believed the cloud 
 h.-t'i passed away. 
 
 Dora waa to remain at Eastham until she heard from, 
 him. Ho could not write to her, nor could she sen 
 line io him; but he promised and believed that very soon 
 V 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 I 
 the hedge-rows were filled with wild flowers, the fruit ! 
 ripe in the orchards. Nature wore her brightest smile. The 
 -room at Earlescourt was a ]> cM\- apartment; it
 
 30 DOHA THOBNE. 
 
 opened on to 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 oa 
 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 Bcra; and yet there was a se- 
 vere 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 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " 1 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 hospitali- 
 ties and pleasures to be offered their guests. A grand din- 
 ner-party was planned, and a ball, to which half the coun- 
 try-side were to be invited. 
 
 * 4 Valentine loves gayetv," said Lady Earle, " and we 
 must give her plenty of it. 
 
 " 1 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 1 
 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 Earle been angry or con- 
 temptuous, he would have uttered them; but in the pres- 
 ence of his father's calm, dignified wisdom, he was abashed 
 and uncertain. For the first time he felt the truth of aU 
 his father said. Not \hat he loved Dora less, or repented
 
 DORA THORNB. 31 
 
 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 of! vic- 
 torious. 
 
 " 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; 1 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 ret'irn 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, leav- 
 ing 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 
 'olds around her queenly head tall nnd 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 remember*, d what Ludy Earlo had said of her 
 son. She knew that both his mother and hers wished that 
 she should be Sonald's wife. 
 
 44 1 beg your pardon," he said, hastily, ' t thought Lady 
 Earle was here. 
 
 " She is in the library," said Valentine- ~vitb a smile that 
 dazzled him. 
 
 He bowed and withdrew. This, then, was Valentine 
 Charteris, the fine lady whose coming he had dreaded. She 
 was vorv beaut'ful he had never seen a face like hers.
 
 88 DOBA THORNE. 
 
 No thought of love, or of comparing this magnmcenft 
 woman with simple, pretty Dora, ever entered his mind 
 Bat 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 be Lad never heard. It wa& 
 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 brace- 
 let 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 paarm even greater than her 
 beauty. She talked well and gracefully the play of net 
 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 pol- 
 ished 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, look* 
 Ing 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 
 sung 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, 
 ad he forsaken her, the pretty dimpled face would have 
 faded away! He felt pleased that he had been true. The 
 the music ceased. 
 
 "Is that what you like?" asked Valentine Charterisf 
 * it is of the stronger sentimental school. "
 
 DORA 
 
 Simple, honest Ronald wondered if sentiment was a s*r 
 against etiquette, or why fashionable 'ladies generally 
 spoke of it with a sneor. 
 
 " 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 sou if he likod 
 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 uc nis skill. He bent over her, ex- 
 plaining 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 R maid; " if fate had not madb 
 me an only son 1 should have chosen painting as my pro- 
 fession." 
 
 In after years these words came back to them as a sad 
 prophecy. 
 
 Ronald liked Miss Charteris. Apart from ner grand 
 beauty, she had the charm, too, of a kindly heart and an 
 affectionate nature. lie 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 tho young lady; Le ac- 
 companied her in all her walks and drives, and they sung 
 and sketched, together. R f ni:tld, knowing himself so safely 
 bound to Dora, forgot m wuat light im ,:onuuut must ao*
 
 M DORA THOBNB. 
 
 pear to others. Lady Earle had forgotten her fears; sfea 
 believed that her eon was learning to love Valentine, and 
 her husband shared her belief. 
 
 All things just then were couleurde rose at Earlescourt 
 Ronald looked and felt happy he had great faith in Val 
 entine's persuasive powers. 
 
 Days passed by rapidly; the time for the grand ball was 
 di awing 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 
 toe 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 honor- 
 able. Valentine admired his clear Saxon face and firm lips: 
 she admired his deep bright eyes, that darkened with ever) 
 passing emotion; she liked his gentle, chivalrous manner, 
 his earnest words, his deferential attention to herself, hia 
 affectionate devotion to Lady Earle. 
 
 There was not a braver or more gallant man in England 
 than this young heir of Earleecourt. He inherited the per- 
 sonal beauty and dourage 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 evea 
 loved him, and would have been happy as his wife. Sho 
 snjoyed 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 ha 
 dared neither see nor write to, gave no heed to Valentine's 
 manner; it never occurred to him what construction cooldl 
 be put upon his friendly 'kin*' for her.
 
 DORA THORITE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 THE day came for the grand ball, and daring 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, 1 am always at a loss which to choose/' 
 
 "I should never hesitate a moment/' said Ronald, 
 laughingly. " You will accuse me, perhaps of being senti- 
 mental, 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 valen- 
 tine 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 mag- 
 niii(;'iiL blonde; then she faded from his mind. He looked 
 round on those fair and noble ladies, thinking that Dora's 
 ehy, sweet face was far lovelier than any there. He looked 
 at the costly jewels, the waving plumes, the sweeping sat* 
 ins, 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 gor- 
 geous rooms, and then would all admire the wisdom of hii 
 choice. So the heir of Earlescourt dreamed as he watched 
 the brilliant crowd that began to fill the ball-room; but 
 **iB 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? Yon 
 must ask Miss ( 'harteris to dance with you. " 
 
 " That will bo no hardship," he replied, smiling at his 
 mother's earnest manner. " I would rather dance with 
 Miss Charteris than any one else."
 
 88 DORA THOSNE. 
 
 Earle wisely kept silence; her son went up to Val 
 entine 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 seek- 
 ing partners among strange young ladies. Valentine un- 
 derstood him; they talked easily, and without restraint. Ha 
 paid her no compliments, and she did not seem to expec* 
 any. With other ladies, Ronald was always thinking, 
 " V^hat would they say of 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 friend- 
 ship, so that she might intercede for Dora. 
 
 When, for the fourth time, Ronald asked Miss Chartena 
 "* 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 Char- 
 teris, if I say that you realize my idea of the poetry of mo- 
 tion." 
 
 " 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 expres- 
 sion of her face. 
 
 *' You have not told me," said Valentine, " whether you 
 like my flowers. " 
 
 " They are very beautiful," he replied; but the compli- 
 ment of ner selection was all lost upon him. 
 
 Miss Charteris did not know whether he was simply in- 
 different or timid. 
 
 " You told me these lilies were your favorite flowers," 
 she said. 
 
 " Yes," replied Ronald; " but they are not the flowers 
 that r-rspmble yon," He was thinking hn^ *nuch simple^
 
 DORA TBOBKE. 87 
 
 kmng 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 won- 
 dering 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 unneces- 
 sary. " 
 
 " I 1 did not intend to pay idle compliments," he re- 
 plied. " 1 merely said what 1 thought. You are like a 
 tall, grand, white lily, Miss Charteris. I have often 
 thought so. If you will not dance with mo 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. M 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 
 Aeart 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 agi- 
 tated and pale. Miss Charteris looked down at the lilies 
 in her hand. He came nearer to her, and looked anxiously 
 at her beautiful faoe. 
 
 " I am not eloquent," said Ronald " 1 have no great 
 gift of speech; but, Miss Charteris, I should like to^iind 
 some words that would reach your heart and dwell there." 
 
 1 Fe 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 con- 
 fidence." She looked up at him, and any other man would 
 have read the love in IIT face.
 
 88 DORA THORITE. 
 
 " The simplest words you can use will always interest 
 me," she said, gently. 
 
 His face cleared, and he began: " You are kind and gen- 
 erous " 
 
 Then came an interruption Sir Harry Laurence, with 
 a lady, entered the conservatory. 
 
 " This is refreshing," he said to Ronald. ** I have beem 
 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 to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " 1 will do so," replied she. 
 
 " And you will listen to me, Miss Charteris?" he con- 
 tinued. " You will hear all 1 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. Sho could not speak without being over- 
 heard; 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 sho'.ie in the lustrous eyes. 
 
 "You like Earlescourt?" .said Lady Charteris to her 
 daughter that evening, as they sat in her dressing-room 
 done. 
 
 *' Yes, mamma, 1 like it very much,*' said Valentine*
 
 DORA THORNE. 09 
 
 " And from what 1 see," continued the elder lady, " I 
 think it is likely to be your home." 
 
 "Yes, I believe so," said Valentine, bending over bet 
 mother, and kissing her. " Ronald has asked me to giv* 
 him one half hour to-morrow, and I am very happy, mam- 
 ma." 
 
 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 plaoe 
 in that magnificent home, 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. Val- 
 entine 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 fra- 
 grant, 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. Ha 
 met her in the hall. 
 
 " Will you come out into the gardens, Miss Charteris?" 
 he asked. " The morning is so beautiful, and yon prom- 
 ised 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-liliea 
 sleeping on its quiet bosom; through the fragrant flower- 
 Aeds, where the bees hummed and the butterflies made love 
 to the fairest blossoms. 
 
 " Let us go on to the park," said Valentine; " tbev* 
 IB too warm "
 
 40 ORA THOKNB. 
 
 *' I know a little spot just fitted for a fairy bower/' said 
 Ronald. " Let me show it to you. 1 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. 
 
 Th3 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 sung 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 
 Eonald made something like a throne amid it. 
 
 " You shall be queen, and I your suppliant/' he said, 
 " You promise to listen; 1 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 rust- 
 led 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 
 di-ess and blue ribbons, the fair floating hair, against the 
 dark background of the bank and the trees, made a charm- 
 ing 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. 
 
 " 1 told you, Miss Charteris, last evening, that I was not 
 eloquent," began Ronald. " When anything lies deep ia 
 my heart, 1 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 na- 
 ture. I have many thoughts that I could never express/ 1 
 , " T f T _ could only be sure that you would understand raft
 
 DORA THORITE. l 
 
 Miss Charteris," said Ronald ** that yon would see and 
 comprehend the motives that I can hardly explain myself I 
 Sitting here in the summer sunshine, 1 can scarcely realize 
 how dark the cloud is that hangs over me. You are so 
 kind and patient, 1 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! how 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 won- 
 derful light when once you could look into their depths. I 
 can only tell you how in a few days 1 grew to love the fair 
 young face, and how Dora Thome 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. 
 
 44 1 loved her very much," said Ronald, tl anl Itold her 
 eo. 1 asked her to be my wife, and she promised. When 
 my f<xM>r, r came home from Greenoke 1 asked his consent,
 
 49 DORA THORNE. 
 
 and he laugfcea at me. He would not believe me serious, 
 1 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 hs 
 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 un- 
 happy, 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, on, 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 1 do to save her?" 
 
 Even then, in the midst of that sharp sorrow, Valentine 
 could not help admiring Ronald's brave simplicity, his chiv- 
 alry, his honor. 
 
 " 1 married her," he said, " and 1 mean to be true to 
 her. I thought my father would relent and forgive us, 
 but 1 fear I was too sanguine. Since my marriage my 
 father has told me that if 1 do not give up Dora he will not 
 see me again. Every day I resolve to tell him what 1 have 
 done, but something interferes to prevent it. I have never 
 seen my wife since our wedding-day. She is still at East- 
 ham. 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 del- 
 Jcate a mater, I will do so cheerfully/' she said; " but let
 
 DORA THOKNE. 4$ 
 
 me counsel one thing. Tell Lord and Lady Earle a* once. 
 Do not delay, every hour is of consequence," 
 
 " What do you think of my story?" asked Ronald, anx- 
 iously. " Have I done right or wrong?" 
 
 " Do not ask me," replied Valentine. 
 
 44 Yes," he urged, " I will ask again: you are my friend. 
 Tell me, have 1 done right or wronur?" 
 
 44 1 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 pro- 
 ceeding, a private marriage, one forbidden by your parents 
 and distastefull to them." 
 
 Ronald's face fell as her words came to him slowly and 
 clearly. 
 
 44 1 thought," said he, '* I was doing a brave deed in 
 marrying Dora. She had no one to take her part but 
 me." 
 
 44 It was a brave deed in one sense," said Valentine. 
 " You have proved yourself generous and disinterested. 
 Heaven grant that you may be happy !" 
 
 44 She is young and impressionable," said Ronald: 44 1 
 can easily mold her to my own way of thinking. You look 
 very grave, Miss Charteris. " 
 
 44 1 am thinking of you," she said, gently: 44 it seems to 
 me a grave matter. Pardon me but did *ou reflect well 
 were you quite convinced that the whole happiness of 
 your life was at stake? If so, 1 need say no more. It is 
 an unequal marriage, one not at all fitting in the order of 
 things. h 
 
 How strange that she should use his father's words! 
 
 44 Tell your father at once," she continued. 4< 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. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 ' l>o not overrate my influence," said Valentine. " Yon 
 your life boldly in the *->e. Candidly
 
 04 DOHA THORITE. 
 
 and honestly I think that, from mistaken notions of honoi 
 and chivalry, you have done wrong. A man must be brave. 
 Perhaps one of the hardest lessons in life is to bear un 
 flinchingly the effects and consequences of one's own deeds. 
 You must do that; you must' not flinch; you must beat 
 what follows like a man and a hero." 
 
 " I will," said Eonald, looking at the fair face, and halt 
 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. 1 am 
 your friend, and Dora's also." 
 
 The words came so prettily from her lips that Eonald 
 emiled. 
 
 " 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 return- 
 ing to one tneme 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 hie 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 Valen- 
 tine when she thought of what she must say to her mother. 
 As she remembered their few words the previous evening, 
 ber face flushed hotly. 
 
 '* I can never thank you enough for your kind patience," 1 
 said Eonald, as they walked back through the shady parik 
 and the bright flower-gardens. 
 
 Valentine smiled and raised her face to the quiet stun;
 
 DORA THORXE. 
 
 iner sky, thinking of the hope that had been hers a few 
 short hours before. 
 
 *' You will go at once and see your father, will yon set?" 
 she said to Ronald, as they parted. 
 
 " 1 am going now," he replied; but as that very mo 
 ment Lady Earle came up to him. 
 
 ** Ronald, " she said, ** come into my boudoir. Yon? 
 father is there he wants to see you before he goes to Holt* 
 ham." 
 
 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 yoq 
 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 Char 
 teris, quietly. 
 
 " No," was the calm reply. " We are excellent friends; 
 but, mamma, 1 was mistaken. He did want to tell ma 
 something, but it was of his love for some one else not 
 for me." 
 
 ** He has behaved shamefully to you I" cried Lady 
 Charteris. 
 
 " Hush, mamma!" said Valentine. "You forget hovf 
 such words humiliate ine. I have refused men of far bet- 
 ter position than 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 you? 
 eight 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 Char- 
 teri*. " With whom has he fallen in love, my dear?" 
 
 " Do not ask me," replied Valentine. " He is in a ter- 
 rible 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 m tne toai 
 T he' r-hild's voice, and instantly formed H<jr
 
 46 DORA THORNE. 
 
 " 1 think of returning to-morrow," she said. '* Tom 
 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," 
 eaid 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 faoe to the 
 window, where the roses came nodding in. 
 
 " Stay here and rest," said Lady Charteris, with delicate 
 tact. " I am going to write my letters." 
 
 Valentine lay still, looking at the summer beauty out* 
 side. 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 with- 
 out the weakness which had caused and would cause se 
 much suffering. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 LADY EARLE'S boudoir was always considered one of the 
 prettiest rooms at Earlesoourt. 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 flowerg in rare 
 and costly vases perfumed the room. 
 
 Lord Earle had drawn a pretty lounging-chair to the 
 W'ndow- and sat there, looking happier than he had looked
 
 DORA THOBtfE. 4l 
 
 for months. Lady Earlo went on with her task of arrang* 
 ing some delicate leaves and blossoms ready for sketching. 
 
 ** Ronald," said his father, " I have been waiting here 
 some time. Have you been out?" 
 
 " 1 have been in the park with Miss Charteris,"' replied 
 Ronald. 
 
 Lord Earle smiled again, evidently well pleased to heap 
 that intelligence. 
 
 " A pleasant and sensible method of spending your 
 lame," 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. 
 1 have never paid any. " 
 
 1 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. 1 sent for you 
 to say that, far from my again offering any opposition to 
 your marriage, the dearest wish of my heart will be grati- 
 fied when I call Valentine Charteris my daughter." 
 
 He paused for a reply, but none came. Ronald's face 
 had grown strangely pala 
 
 " We never named our wish to you," continued Lord 
 Earle, " but years ago your mother and 1 hoped you would 
 Borne day love Miss Charteris. She is very beautiful; she 
 iy the truest, noblest, the best woman I know. I am 
 proud of your choice, Ronald more proud than words can 
 os press." 
 
 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; 1 will say 
 DO more. If you ask her to be your wife, 1 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 mak- 
 ing her my wife. 1 do not love her. I can never man" 
 o Charteris."
 
 b DORA THORPE. 
 
 The "smiles died from Lord Earle's face, and his \rife 
 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 seamed happy a\vay 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 
 30 hard to win her friendship. What if Valentine misun- 
 derstood him? 
 
 "Others thought for you," said Lady Earle, dryly. 
 " Of coarse, 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, 1 suppose. " 
 
 " Can you not love her, Ronald?" asked his mother, 
 gently. " She is so fair and good, so well fitted to be th 
 future mistress of Earlescourt. Can you not love her?" 
 
 ** Nothing was further from my thoughts," he repliea. 
 
 ** Surely," interrupted Lady Earle, " you have fVrgot- 
 ten 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, 1 deceived and disobeyed you. 1 fol- 
 lowed Dora Thome 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 
 tfoice, " remembering what I said?" 
 
 " I married her," replied Ronald, " hoping you would 
 tetract 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 
 nd where. Let me understand whether the deed is irre 
 vocable or not " 
 
 Calmly, but with trembling lips, Ronald gave him every 
 particular. 
 
 4 Yes, the marriage is legal enough," said the master of 
 Karlescourk " Von had to choose between dnty, honor*
 
 DORA THOKNE. 40 
 
 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 alterna- 
 tive, and are doubtless prepared for it." 
 
 41 I must bear it, father; the deed was my own," said 
 Ronald. 
 
 44 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
 
 SO DOBA THOENB. 
 
 proad of you, hopeful for you; now I dismiss you froni 
 uiy 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 Jika 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 toucn rne. Go now; I 
 shall expect you to have quitted the Hall before to-morrow 
 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 'Earl e, calmly. ''Re- 
 member, 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. 1 shall refuse to 
 see or hear from you, or to allow you to come near Earles- 
 court; 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 every- 
 thing 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 waa 
 white and still; she was not conscious of his tears or hia 
 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 younp: face, as Ronald turned from 
 him and loft the room.
 
 DORA THORNS. 5j 
 
 When Lady Earle awoke to consciousness of her misery, 
 jier son had left her. No one would have called Lord Earle 
 hard or stern who saw him clasp his weeping wife hi 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 hi his 
 
 own room, and suffered his agony alone. 
 
 ******* 
 
 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 Earles- 
 court. He took with him neither horses nor servants; 
 even hia 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 de- 
 termination. 
 
 As Ronald stood there, looking into Valentine's beauti- 
 ful faoe, 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 von
 
 58 DORA TnORlTE. 
 
 " I shall go to my wife at once," he replied, " and taka 
 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, 1 must work; a few months' study 
 will make me a tolerable artist. Do not forget my moth- 
 er, Valentin.e, 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: 
 
 " Good-bye, Eonald 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 bittef 
 tears, watched him from one of the upper windows, and hia 
 father, shut up alone, listened to every sound, and heard 
 the door closed behind his son as he would have heard hia 
 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 heat 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 Earle 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 anothef 
 she dismissed them. She was waiting until she saw some
 
 DORA THOKNE. 55 
 
 one like tfonald Earle like him in all things save the 
 weakness which had so fatally shadowed his life. 
 
 CHAFFER IX. 
 
 IN a small, pretty villa, on the banks of the Arno, 
 Ronald Earle established himself with his yonng 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, weep- 
 ing wife all that happened, he made no mention of Valen- 
 tine Charteris he did not even utter her name. 
 
 Ronald's arrangements were soon made. He sent fof 
 Stephen Thome 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 :in unequal match. My girl had better 
 
 Lave stayed at home, or married the young farmer whi 
 
 her. The distance between you is too great, Mr. 
 
 tarle, 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 forebod 
 ings haunted them; but it was too late for advice and in- 
 terference 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 hud found them the means, and they 
 had left without one word from Lord Earle. He never 
 (Lsk r they had gone. 
 
 lr- father*! anger and his mother's sorrow, d*
 
 4 DORA THOBIHS. 
 
 spite 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 heai her 
 simple, nai ve remarks, her original ideas; to see her pretty, 
 artless ways; above all, it was pleasant to be so dearly 
 x>ved. 
 
 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 sung simple little bal- 
 iads sweetly and clearly; but although master after master 
 tried his best, she could never be taught to play not even 
 so 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 con- 
 sciousness of her own inferiority grieved her, and large, 
 bright tears would frequently fall upon the paper. Tueu 
 Konald 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 pleas- 
 ure 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
 
 DORA THORNB. 6*5 
 
 Bon aid 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 wan- 
 der away to the distant mountains, or to tho glistening 
 river. She could never read while the sun shone or the 
 birds sung. 
 
 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 
 jismay 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, tln-n 
 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 we* 
 just twenty, and Ronald twenty-three. There had bum 
 no rejoicing when he bad 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. Sho had no good n<>ws 
 II 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 mv l<>v.- to Dora." 
 
 In tins tin- third yc.ir of his married life, Ronald began 
 'j of poverty. His income was not more
 
 66 DOHA THORSTE. 
 
 than three nundred 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 prom- 
 ise of being some day a good artist not a genius. The 
 world would -never rave about his pictures; but, in time, 
 &e would be a conscientious, painstaking artist. Amoug 
 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 won* 
 dered 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 
 Bis father's sake. As an artist, he was known by Dora's 
 name of Thorne, and, before long, Ronald Thome's pict- 
 ures were in great request. There was no dash of genius 
 about them; but they were careful studies. Some tew 
 were sold, and the price realized proved no unwelcome ad-^ 
 dition 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 a\vay 
 from the world, out of society, the chances are that hia 
 fate would have been different; but invitations began to 
 pour in upon him and Dora, and Ronald, half tired of hia 
 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 und so much at home. 
 
 Among those who eagerly sought Ronald's society waa 
 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
 
 DORA THORNE. 67 
 
 ess. 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 mas- 
 ters, 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 ; per- 
 haps some one else had her share of thorns. 
 
 The fair, dainty lady had a great desire to see Mr. 
 Thome 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 fan- 
 cied 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 En- 
 glish 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 intro- 
 duced 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 man- 
 ner, 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.
 
 DOBA THOKNE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 GOIXG into society increased the expenses which Ronaia 
 and his wife found already heavy enough. There were 
 times when the money received from the sale of his pict- 
 ures failed in liquidating bills; then Rouald grew anxioua, 
 and Dora, not knowing what bettter 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 care- 
 fully as she selected her dresses, jewels, and flowers. !3he 
 refused to know " bores " and ** nobodies;" her lady 
 friends must be pretty, piquant, or fashionable; any gen- 
 tleman admitted into her charmed circle must have genius, 
 wit, or talent to recommend him. Though grave matrons 
 shook their heads arid looked prudish when the Countess 
 Rosali was mentioned, yet to belong to her set was to re- 
 ceive the " stamp of fashion." No day passed without 
 some amusement at the villa picnic, excursion, soiree, 
 dance, or, what its fair mistress preferred, private theatri- 
 cals and charades. 
 
 " iielp 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; 1 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 an 
 thought I must have time; it seems to me you have ex- 
 hausted every subject" 
 
 " An artist has never-failing resources," she replied; 
 " when every ' fount of in pi Cation ' is closed it will be time 
 to tell me there are no idea*. You must have seen many 
 uharades. Mrs- Thorne," she said, turning
 
 BORA THOR1TB. 01 
 
 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, an 
 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 thut 
 the tears he saw gathering in Dora's dark eyes would not 
 fall. 
 
 *' Ah, then, she *vill be of no use in our council," re- 
 plied the countess, quickly. " Let us go out on the ter- 
 race: 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 yon 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 viue that morning, Ronald contrasted his wife with his 
 dainty, brilliant hostess, and felt that she lost by the con- 
 trast " awkward and ill at ease," self-conscious to a mis- 
 erable degree. For the first time Ronald felt slightly 
 ashamed of Dora, and wished that she knew more, and 
 3ould 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 fright* 
 em-il at the bright lady who knew so much and told it so 
 well; fooling her heart cold with its first dread that Ronald 
 was not pleased with her. Her eyes wandered to the far- 
 off h ; i' . Ah T "-..ild it be that he would ever tire of her.
 
 60 DORA THORNS. 
 
 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. 
 
 '* 1 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 hei 
 fmsband. 
 
 " 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 ca* 
 ressed her, all would have been sunshine again; as it was. 
 the first impatient words she had ever heard from him 
 emote her with a new, strange pain, and the tears over- 
 flowed. 
 
 "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 in- 
 vited 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 1 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. 
 
 " 1 can not," said Dora, shaking her pretty head. *' Tha 
 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 oufc. He had no scruples in 
 leaving her she never objected; her face was always smil
 
 DORA THORNE. 'o,. 
 
 ing and bright when he went away, and the same wfcen ,ia 
 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 goiug more than ever into society, Dora clingiug 
 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. Ho 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. Tho 
 time came when she hestitated to speak of her own parents, 
 lest he should remember nmih 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 Rona/d Ear la 
 and his wife. 
 
 Ronald's story became known in Florence. He was the 
 Bon 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 
 mod there. When people met him continually unac- 
 companied by his young wife they smiled significantly, and 
 bright eyes grew soft with pity. Poor, pretty Dora! 
 
 .aid never knew how the long hours of Kis absence 
 were spent by Dora. She never looked sad or weary to 
 him, he never saw anj traces of tears, yet Dora shed 
 . Through the long sunny hours and far into the 
 night she sat alone, thinking of the home she had left in 
 Jar-ofT Enghnu? where she had been loved and worshiped 
 by ] ough, homely, honest father and a loving mother
 
 68 DORA THORTSTE. 
 
 thinking too, of Ralph and his pretty, quiet homes 3ad 
 in the green fields, where she would have been honored aa 
 its mistress, where no fine ladies would have vexed her 
 with questions, and no one would have thought her igno- 
 rant or awkward; thinking of all these things, yet loving 
 Ronald noue 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 court- 
 c-d laid hold of him. He did not sin willfully or conscious- 
 ly; 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 lin- 
 gered 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 c&tching the ** tone of good society," and 
 liked the change. 
 
 Some natures become ennobled under the pressure of ad- 
 versity; but limited means and petty money cares had no 
 good affect 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 devel- 
 oped no good qualities in him; the discipline was hardei, 
 and sterner still that made of him a true man at last 
 
 Donald went on with his painting fitfully, sometimes 
 producing a good picture, but often failing. 
 
 The greatest patron of the fine arts in Florence was the 
 Prince di Borgezi. His magnificent palace was like one 
 picture-gallery. He saw some sketches of Ronald's, and 
 gave an order to him to paint a large picture, leaving him 
 to choose the subject. In vain by night and by day did 
 Ronald ponder on what that subject should be. He longed 
 to make his name immortal by it He thought once of 
 Tennyson's " JVvra," and of sketching his wife for tha
 
 DORA THOR2HL I* 
 
 principal figure. He did make a sketch, bat he touni 
 that he could not paint Dora's face; he could not place the 
 dimpling smiles and bright blushes on canvas, and they 
 were the chief charm. lie therefore abandoned the idea. 
 
 Standing one day where the sunbeams fell lightly through 
 the thick myrtles, an inspiration came to him. lie would 
 paint a picture of Queen Guinevere in her gay sweet youth 
 and bright innocent beauty Guinevere with her lovely 
 face and golden hair, the white plumes waving and jewels 
 flashing; the bright figure on the milk- white palfrey shin- 
 ing in the mellow sunlight that came through the green 
 trees. 
 
 Lancelot should ride by her siue: he could see every de- 
 tail of the picture; he knew just the noble, brave, tendet 
 face Sir Lancelot should have; but where could he find a 
 model for Guinevere? Where was there a face that would 
 realize his artist dreams of her? The painting was hall 
 completed before he thought of Valentine Charteris and 
 her magnificent blonde beauty the very ideal of Queen 
 Guinevere. 
 
 With renewed energy Ronald set to work. Every feat- 
 ure of that perfect face was engraved upon his mind, lie 
 made sketch after sketch, until, in its serene, sweet love- 
 liness, Valentine's face smiled upon him. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ** QUEEN GUINEVERE " was a success far beyond Ron- 
 ald's dearest hopes. Artists and amateurs, connoisseurs ot 
 all ranks and degrees were delighted with it The great 
 charm of the picture was the lovely young face. " whom 
 
 " " 
 
 any woman so perfectly beautiful?" Such were the 
 questions that people never seemed tired of repeating. 
 
 The picture was hung in the gallery of the palace, and 
 the Prince di Borgezi became one of Ronald's best patrons. 
 
 The prince gave a grand ball in honor of a beautiful En- 
 glish lady, who, with her family, had just arrived in Flor- 
 ence. Countess Rosali raved about her, wisely making a 
 friend where any one else would have feared a rival. 
 
 Ronald had contrived an invitation, but was prevented 
 from attending. All the ('lite of Florence were there, and 
 WHS the excitement whnu Countess Unaali
 
 04 DORA THORNE. 
 
 ball-room with an exceedingly beautiful woman a queenly 
 blonde the lady about whom all Florence was interested 
 an English heiress, clever as she was fair, speaking French 
 with a courtly grace and Italian with fluent skill; and when 
 the prince stood before her he recognized in one moment 
 the original of his famous '* Guinevere/* 
 
 The countess was in danger a fairer, brighter star had 1 
 arisen. Valentine Charteris was the belle of the most 
 brilliant ball ever given in Florence. 
 
 When the prince bad received his guest, and danced once 
 With Miss Charteris, he asked her if she would like to see 
 his celebiated picture, the ** Guinevere," whose fame was 
 spreading fast. 
 
 " Nothing," she said, " would please her better;" and 
 as the Countess Rosali stood near, the prince included her 
 in the invitation. 
 
 " Certainly; I never tire of the ' Guinevere,' never weary 
 of the artist's triumph, for he is one of the most Valued of 
 my friends. " 
 
 Prince di Borgezi smiled, thinking how much of the fah 
 coquette's admiration went to the artist's talent, and how 
 much to hia handsome face. 
 
 They entered the long gallery, where some of the finest 
 pictures in Italy were hung. The prince led the ladies to 
 the southern end. Valentine saw before her a magnificent 
 painting tall forest trees, whose thick branches were in- 
 terwoven, every green ler;f distinct and clear; she saw tha 
 mellow light that fell through them, the milk-white palfrey 
 and the jeweled harness, the handsome knight who rode 
 near; and then she saw her own face, bright, smiling, 
 glowing with beauty, bright in innocence, sweet in purity. 
 Valentine stared in astonishment, and her companion 
 smiled. 
 
 " There can be no doubt about the resemblance,-" said 
 the countess. " The artist has made you Queen Guinevere, 
 Miss Charteris." 
 
 " Yes," said Valentine, wonderingly; " it is my own face 
 How came it there?. "Who is the artist?" 
 
 " His name is Ronald Thome," replied the couritesk 
 '* There is quite a romance about him. 
 
 The countess saw Miss Charteris grow pale and silent 
 
 " Have you ever seen him?''" inquired th* <xrante 
 *Do von know '
 
 DOHA THOKNE. o5 
 
 "Yes," said Valentine, "my family and his have been 
 on intimate terms for years. I knew that he was in Italy 
 with Ms wife." 
 
 "Ah," rejoined the countess, eagerly, "then perhaps 
 you know all about his marriage ? Who was Mrs. Thome? 
 Why did he quarrel with his tather ? Do tell us, Miss 
 Charteris." 
 
 "Nay," said Valentine; "if Mrs. Thorne has any se- 
 crets, I shall not reveal them. I must tell mamma they 
 are in Florence. We must call and see them." 
 
 " I was fond of Mrs. Thorne once," said the countess, 
 plaintively, " but really there is nothing in her." 
 
 " There must be something both estimable and lovable," 
 replied Valentine, quickly, "or Mr. Thorne would never 
 have married her." 
 
 Prince di Borgezi smiled approval of the young lady's 
 reply. 
 
 "You admire my picture, Miss Charteris?" he asked. 
 
 " The more so because it is the work of an old friend," 
 said Valentine; and again the prince admired the grace of 
 her words. 
 
 "Any other woman in her place," he thought, "would 
 have blushed and coquetted. How charming she is !" 
 
 From that moment Prince di Borgezi resolved to win 
 Valentine if he could. 
 
 Lady Charteris was half pleased, half sorry, to hear 
 that Ronald was in Florence. No one deplored his rash, 
 foolish marriage more than she did. She thought Lord 
 Earle stern and cruel; she pitied the young man she had 
 once liked so well, yet for all that she did not feel inclined 1 
 to renew the acquaintance. When Valentine asked her 
 to drive next morning to the little villa on the banks of 
 the Arno, she at first half declined. 
 
 " I promised to be Ronald's friend years ago," said Val- 
 entine, calmly; "and now, mamma, you must allow me 
 to keep my word. We must visit his wife, and pay her 
 every attention. To refuse would imply a doubt of me, 
 and that I could not endure." 
 
 "You shall do as you like, my dear," replied Lady Char- 
 teris; "the young IIKUI'S mother is my dearest friend, and 
 for her sake we v,-ill be kind to him." 
 
 * v; * * * * 
 
 It was one of those Italkai mowings when the fair face
 
 66 DORA THOENE. 
 
 of Nature seemed bathed in beauty. The air was full of 
 the music of birds ; the waters of the Arno rolled lan- 
 guidly on; oleanders and myrtles were in full bloom; birds 
 sung as they sing only under the blue sky of Italy. 
 
 It was not yet noon when Lady Charteris and her daugh- 
 ter reached the little villa. Before they came to the house, 
 Valentine caught one glimpse of a pretty, pale face with 
 large dark eyes. Could that be pretty, smiling Dora? 
 There were the shining rings of dark hair; but where were 
 tjie smiles Ronald had described ? That was not a happy 
 face. Care and sorrow were in every line of it. 
 
 They were told that Mr. Thome was in his studio, and 
 would see them there. They had sent no card, and Ronald 
 believed the "two ladies " to have called on some business 
 connected with pictures. He started with surprise when 
 Lady Charteris and Valentine entered. There were a few 
 words of confused greeting, a hurried explanation of the 
 circumstances that led Sir Hugh to Florence; and then 
 Valentine looked long and steadily at the only man she had 
 ever cared for. He was altered; the frank, handsome face 
 looked worn and thin; it had a restless expression. He 
 did not look like a man who had found peace. Lady Char- 
 teris told him of her last visit to Earlescourt how his 
 mother never ceased speaking of him, and his father still 
 preserved the same rigid, unbending silence. 
 
 " I have seen your picture," said Lady Charteris. 
 "How well you remembered my daughter's face." 
 
 "It is one not easily forgotten," he replied; and then 
 another deep silence fell upon him. 
 
 "Where is Mrs. Earle ?" asked Valentine. "Our visit 
 is chiefly to her. Pray introduce her to mamma. I know 
 her already by description." 
 
 " I left my wife in the garden," said Ronald; " shall we 
 join her there ?" 
 
 They followed him into the pretty sunlit garden, where 
 Valentine had seen the pale, sad face. 
 
 " My wife is timid," said Ronald, "always nervous with 
 strangers." 
 
 Dora was sitting under the shade of a large flowering tree, 
 her hands folded, and her eyes riveted on the distant hills; 
 there was something in her listless manner that touched 
 both ladies more than any words could have done. A 
 deep flush crimsoned her face when Ronald and his gueets
 
 DORA THOBNE. 67 
 
 stood before her. She rose, not ungracefully; her eyelids 
 drooped in their old shy manner. As Ronald introduced 
 his wife, something in the girl's wistful face went straight 
 to Lady Charteris's heart. She spoke not a word, but 
 folded Dora in her arms and kissed her as her own mother 
 might have done. 
 
 "You must learn to love us," said Valentine ; "we are 
 your husband's dearest friends." 
 
 Poor Dora had no graceful words ready; her heart was 
 full of gratitude, but she knew not how to express it. 
 Ronald looked at her anxiously, and she caught his 
 glance. 
 
 "Now," thought Dora, "he will not be pleased." She 
 tried to say something of her pleasure in seeing them, but 
 the words were so stiff and ungracious that Ronald has- 
 tened to interrupt them. 
 
 A luncheon of fruit and wine was brought out into the 
 garden, and they talked merrily of Earlescourt and the 
 dear old friends there ; of the ball and Prince di Borgezi; 
 in all of which Dora felt that she had no share. 
 
 Who was this beautiful lady, with her fair face and 
 golden hair ? 
 
 The same face she saw that Roland had painted in his 
 picture, and every one admired. How graceful she was ! 
 How she talked ! The words seemed to ripple like music 
 over her perfect lips. Where had Roland known her ? Why 
 had he never told her of Miss Charteris ? 
 
 "Ah !" thought Dora, " if I could be like her !" And a 
 sudden sense of wonder struck her that Ronald had not 
 loved and married this fair and gracious lady. 
 
 Valentine neither forgot nor neglected her. She tried to 
 draw her into their conversation, but Dora replied so un- 
 easily and so briefly to all her remarks that she saw the 
 truest kindness was to leave her alone. 
 
 They spent a few hours pleasantly, and Lady Charteris 
 would not leave until Ronald promised to take his wife to 
 spend a long day with them. 
 
 "I can hardly promise for Dora," said Ronald, kindly ; 
 " she seldom leaves home." 
 
 " Mrs. Earle will not refuse me," said Valentine, witn 
 that smile which no one ever resisted. " She will come with 
 you, and we will make her happy."
 
 68 DORA THORNS. 
 
 When the day was settled the ladies drove away, arid 
 Ronald watched the carriage until it was out of sight. 
 
 " My dear Valentine," cried Lady Charteris, when they 
 were out of hearing, "my dear child, what could p< ; 
 Ronald Earle? What could he see in that shy, awkward 
 girl to induce him to give up everything and go into exita 
 for her sake? She is not even pretty." 
 
 " She is altered, mamma," began Valentine. 
 
 " Altered!" interrupted Lady Charteris. " 1 should 
 imagine she is, and unhappy, too. She is frightened to 
 speak she has no style, no manner, no dignity. He must 
 have been insane." 
 
 " I am quite sure he loved her," said Valentine, warm* 
 ly, " and loves her now." 
 
 "That is just the mystery," replied her mother "a 
 clever man like he is, accustomed to intelligent and beau- 
 tiful women. 1 shall never understand it." 
 
 " Do not try," said Valentine, calmly. " She is evi- 
 dently nervous and sensitive. I mean to be a true friend 
 to Ronald, mamma; 1 shall try to train and form his 
 wife." 
 
 Poor Dora! She was already trained and formed, but 
 no one would understand that. People do not expect the 
 perfume of the rose in a wild strawberry blossom, or the 
 fragrance of the heliotrope in a common bluebell. Yet 
 Ihey wondered that in this simple girl, ignorant of the world 
 and its ways, they did not find a cultivated mind, a grace- 
 ful manner, and a dignified carriage. Their only thought 
 was to train and form her, whereas Nature and not Art had 
 done both. 
 
 " Dora," said Ronald, as the carriage disappeared from 
 view, " try to like Lady Charteris and her daughter; they 
 are so kindly disposed toward you. I shall be so pleased 
 to see you good friends." 
 
 "1 will try," she replied, cheerfully. "How beautiful 
 she is, Ronald! That is the lady you call Guinevere in 
 your picture. Tell me about her. You remember her face 
 exactly; should you remember mine as well?" 
 
 It was the first touch of jealousy stirring in the simple, 
 loving heart. 
 
 " Far better," said Ronald, with a smile; and then he 
 looked up in alarm, for Dora was weeping vildly, and 
 clinging t.o him.
 
 DOHA THORNE. (59 
 
 " Oh, Ronald!" she said, *' for your sake 1 wish 1 was 
 like her. Shall you ever tire of mo, or wish you had not 
 married me?" 
 
 ! i >nald soothed and comforted his wife, and did not return 
 to his studio that day, but sat talking to her, telling her 
 how noble and good Valentine Charteris was. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IT is very seldom that a man of good disposition does 
 wrong willfully. Konald Earlo would have felt indignant 
 if nay one had accused him of dishonor or even neglect. 
 He thought Dora enjoyed herself more at home than inso- 
 , consequently he left her there. Habits soon grow. 
 The time came when he thought it was the wiser course, 
 lie felt more at ease without her. If Dora by chance ac- 
 companied him, he watched her anxiously, fearful lest 
 others should discover and comment upon the little de- 
 
 ies she felt so acutely. 
 
 The visit to Lady Chartoris was duly paid a day that 
 
 Konald enjoyed, and Doia thought would never end. She 
 
 i not feel at home with these fine ladies, although 
 
 1 Cluirtcris was kind to her and Valentine laid herself 
 
 out to please; not even when Valentine, pitying her shy, 
 
 ' manner and evident constraint, took her out into the 
 
 garden and tried hard to win her confidence. Dora's heart 
 
 to close against the beautiful, brilliant lady who 
 
 knew her husband and all his friends so well. A fierce, 
 
 hot breath of jealousy stirred the simple nature. Konald 
 
 talked to Mi.-j$ Charterisof things all unknown to her; they 
 
 seemed to h;ivo the same thoughts and feelings, while she 
 
 ;he charmed circle, and could never enter it. 
 
 he growing admiration on Ronald's face when 
 
 :itine played and sung, and her restless heart grew 
 
 y and taint. She had never felt jealous before. When 
 
 1 Rosali talked and laughed with her husband, 
 
 ; ::g him sometimes as a captive and again as a victor, 
 
 !>>r;i never cared; but every smile on this woman's fair 
 
 nairn-il her she hardly knew why. 
 \Vlu-n Miss Charteris. usider pretense of showing her fa- 
 vorite flower, took Dora away from the others, and cou- 
 : it Ifil to ht-r as she had never done to any other,
 
 70 DORA THORNE. 
 
 actually caiessing the anxious little face and herself offer- 
 ing to be Mrs. Earle's true friend, Dora's heart closed 
 against her. She only replied by faint- monosyllables, and 
 never raised her dark eyes to the face turned so kindly 
 upon her. 
 
 When Ronald had taken his young wife away, Lady Char- 
 teris sat with her daughter in an unbroken silence. 
 
 " Poor boy!" said the other latly at length, " and poor 
 Dora! This is one more added to the list of unhappy mar- 
 riages. How will it end:"' 
 
 As she watched the sun set in the golden west, Valentine 
 asked herself the same question: " How will it end?" 
 
 If any one had told Dora she was jealous, she would have 
 denied it indignantly, although Valentine was seldom out 
 of her mind. 
 
 From pure kindness Lady Charteris wished Ronald to 
 paint her daughter's portrait; it was to be a large picture 
 they could take back to Greenoke. He was pleased with 
 the commission, and began to work at it eagerly. Lady 
 Charteris came with Valontine, and remained with her 
 during the long sittings, doing everything in her power to 
 please and win the artist's timid wife. 
 
 The fair face, in its calm, Grecian beauty, grew upon the 
 canvas. Many a long hour, when Ronald was absent, 
 Dora lingered over it. The portrait had a strange fascina- 
 tion for her. She dwelt upon every feature until, if the lips 
 had opened and smiled a mocking smile at her, she would 
 not have felt greatly surprised. It was less a picture to 
 her than a living, breathing reality. She would watch 
 Ronald as he worked at it, eager and enthusiastic; theu, 
 looking up and finding her dark eyes riveted upon him 
 with so strange an expression, he would call her to see what 
 progress he had made; and, never dreaming of the grow- 
 ing jealousy in Dora's heart, speak with an artist's deJight 
 of the peerless features. 
 
 Without any great or sudden change, day by day Dora 
 g'ew more silent and reserved. She was learning to hide 
 her thoughts, to keep her little troubles in her own heart 
 and ponder them. The time was past when she would 
 throw herself into Ronald's arms and weep, out her sorrows 
 there. 
 
 Ronald did not notice the change. Home seemed very 
 dulL It was a great pleasure to leave the solitary little
 
 DORA THORNE. 71 
 
 villa ana sit in the brilliant salon of Lady Charteris's well- 
 apj> >iuteJ house. It was pleasant to exchange dull mono- 
 tony for sparkling conversation and gay society. 
 
 Valentine had many admirers. Every one knew the 
 Prince di Borgezi would gladly have laid his fortune and 
 title at her feet; but she cared for neither. Ronald often 
 watched her as noble and learned men offered their hom- 
 age to her. She smiled brightly, spoke well and gracefully; 
 but he never saw in her face the look he once remembered 
 there. Lady Charteris deplored her daughter's obstinacy. 
 She took Ronald into her confidence, and confided to him 
 her annoyance when one suitor after another was dismissed. 
 Ronald was not particularly vain. Liko most men, he 
 .bad a pleasing consciousness of his own worth; but he 
 i-ould not help remembering his mother's assurance that 
 Valentine cared for him. Could it have been true? Was 
 there ever a time when that beautiful girl, so indifferent to 
 all homage, cared for him? Could there have been a time 
 when the prize for which others sighed in vain was within 
 his grasp and he slighted itr 
 
 'lid not dwell upon these thoughts, but they would 
 into his mind, it was seldom that a day passed with- 
 out his calling at the pretty house where Lady Charteris 
 always welcomed him kindly. She was sorry for him. He 
 was never de trop with her. Occasionally, too, she drove 
 out to see his wife; but the visits were rather of duty than 
 
 Of pica?:: 
 
 Then Dora's health failed. She grew weak and languid 
 irritable at times as unlike the smiling, blushing &irl 
 } .il had met at Earlescourt gardens as it was possible 
 r t<> be. He wrote to tell hu mother that at length 
 was hope of an heir to their ancient house. II< 
 very kind and patient to his ailing, delicate wife, giving up 
 i s and soirees to sit with her, but never able to ; 
 whv Dora's dark eyes looked so strangely upon him. 
 
 , y Cbarteris had planned an excursion to some pict- 
 : ,uo ruin that had pleased her daughter, who w. 
 ;ch of it. Ronald was asked to join (hem, 
 
 anil he had been looking forward for many days to .1 
 , uit hours away from all care and anxiety out in the 
 if ul country with Valentine. But when the morning 
 :-a looked p.iK- and ill. She did not ask him to 
 i her, bi. I in her face-
 
 72 DORA THORNE. 
 
 " I will not go, Dora/ 3 said her husband; " I will nob 
 leave you. 1 shall send a note of excuse to Lady Charteris, 
 and take care of you all day." 
 
 " Is Miss Charteris going?" she asked, quietly. 
 
 " Yes, and several others," he replied. 
 
 " Then never mind me," said Dora; " do not give up a 
 day's pleasure for me." 
 
 Ronald might have guessed there was something wrong 
 from the tone of her voice, but Ronald was not of a sus- 
 picious nature. 
 
 " Now, Dora," he said, gently, " you know I would give 
 up every pleasure in the world for you." 
 
 He bent over her, and kissed her pale little face. Time 
 had been when the simple heart would have thrilled with 
 happiness at his words; but Dora grew cold and hard. 
 
 " It used to be always so," she thought, " before she 
 came with her beauty and took him from me." 
 
 How much misery would have been averted had she told 
 Ronald of her jealous thoughts and fears! He never sus- 
 pected them. When he returned home, looking bright 
 and happy, she would ask him, " Have you seen Miss 
 Charteris to-day?" and he, glad of her interest in his 
 friends, would reply that he had been to her mother's 
 house, and tell her of music he had heard or people he had 
 met, or of Valentine's messages to her. So Dora fed the 
 dark, bitter jealousy that had crept into her heart. 
 
 It was a proud but anxious day for Ronald when he 
 wrote to tell his mother that he was now the father of lit- 
 tle twin daughters, two pretty, fair babes, in place of the 
 long looked-for heir of Earlescourt. 
 
 Lady Charteris was very kind to the lonely young moth- 
 erso kind that, had she borne any other name, Dora 
 must have loved her. A glimpse of the old happiness 
 came back, for Ronald was proud and pleased with the lit- 
 tle twin sisters. 
 
 One bright morning, when Dora had been taken down 
 into the pretty room where the infants lay sleeping, Lady 
 Charteris and her daughter came in. Ronald joined them, 
 and there was a long discussion as to the names. 
 
 " You must have an eye to the future," said Valentine, 
 smiling. " These little ladies will be very grand person- 
 ages some day. It would be a nice compliment to Lady 
 Earle if you called one Helena."
 
 JORA THORPE. 73 
 
 " I have made my choice," said Dora, In a clear, ring- 
 ing voice. " 1 shall call this little one with the fair hair 
 Lillian, the other Beatrice." 
 
 A faint flush rose to her face as she spoke. She would 
 allow of no interference here. This smiling beauty should 
 not give names to her children. 
 
 " 1 admire your choice," said Lady Charteris; " Beatrice 
 and Lillian are very pretty names." 
 
 When Valentino bent over the cradle and kissed the 
 children before taking leave, Dora said; "I have had rny 
 own way, you see, Miss Charteris, with my little ones. Mr. 
 Barle did not oppose me. " 
 
 Valentine thought the words harsh and strange; she had 
 no clew to their meaning. She could not have imagined 
 Dora jealous of her. She made some laughing reply, and 
 passed on. Dora was not lonely now, the care of the little 
 ones occupying her whole time; but, far from their bind- 
 ing Ronald to his home, he became more estranged from it 
 than ever. 
 
 The pretty, picturesque villa was very small; there-was 
 no room available for a nursery. Wherever Dora sat, 
 there must the little ones be; and although they were \c-ry 
 charming to the mother and the nurse, the continued cms 
 and noise irritated Ronald greatly. Then ho grew vexed; 
 Dora cried, and said he did not love them, and so the bar- 
 rier k'rew day by day between those who should have been 
 all in all to each other. 
 
 The children grew. Little Beatrice gave promise of 
 great beauty. She had the Earlo face, Ronald said. Lil- 
 lian was a fair, sweet babe, too gentle, her mother thought, 
 to live. Neither of them resembled her, and at times Dora 
 wished it had been otherwise. 
 
 Perhaps in all Ronald Earle's troubled life he never spent 
 a more unsettled or wu till- il yi-ur than this. "It is im- 
 pos^ible to paint," he said to himself, *' when disturbed by 
 crving babies." So the greater part of his time was spent 
 away from home. Some hours of every day were passed 
 with Valentine; he never stopped to ask himself what ini- 
 ^nilse k'il him to seek her society; the calm repose of her 
 lair presence contrasted so pleasantly with the petty troubles 
 and small miseries of home. When Miss Charteris rode 
 out he accompanied her; he liked to meet her at }> ..
 
 /4 DOHA THOENE, 
 
 and balls. He would have thought a day sad and dark 
 wherein he did not see her. 
 
 When the little ones reached their first birthday, Valen- 
 tine, with her usual kind thought, purchased a grand as- 
 sortment of toys, and drove over quite unexpectedly to the 
 villa. It was not a vjery cheerful scene which met her gaze. 
 
 Ronald was busily engaged in writing. Dora, flushed 
 and worn, was vainly trying to stop the cries of one child, 
 while the other pulled at her dress. The anxious, dreary 
 face struck Valentine with pain. She laid the parcel of 
 toys down, and shook hands with Ronald, who looked some- 
 what ashamed of the aspect of affairs. Then, turning to 
 Dora, she took the child from her arms, and little Beatrice, 
 looking at her with wondering eyes, forgot to cry. 
 
 " You are not strong enough, Dora, to nurse this heavy 
 child," said Miss Charteris. " Why do you not find some 
 one to help you?" 
 
 " We can not afford it," said Ronald, gloomily. 
 
 " We spend too much in gloves and horses/' added 
 Dora, bitterly; but no sooner were the words spoken than 
 she would have given the world to recall them. 
 
 Ronald made no reply, and Valentine, anxious to avert 
 the storm she had unwittingly raised, drew attention to the 
 toys. 
 
 When Valentine left them, Dora and Ronald had their 
 first quarrel long and bitter. He could ill brook the insult 
 her words implied spoken before Valentine, too! and 
 she for the first time showed him how an undisciplined, 
 untrained nature can throw off the restraint of good man- 
 ners and good breeding. It was a quarrel never to be for- 
 gotten, when Ronald in the height of his rage wished that 
 he had never seen Dora, and she re-echoed the wish. 
 When such a quarrel takes place between man and wife, 
 the bloom and freshness are gone from love. They may 
 be reconciled, but they will never again be to each other 
 what they once were. A strong barrier is broken down, 
 and nothing can be put in its place. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE angry, passionate words spoken by Ronald almost 
 the first he had ever uttered soon faded from his mind, 
 but they ra'i,: ! .;i like poisoned arrows in Dora's heart.
 
 DORA THORNE. 76 
 
 She believed them. Before evening her husband repented 
 of his anger, and called himself a coward for having scolded 
 Dora. He went up to her and raised her face to his. 
 
 " Little wife," he said, ** we have both been wrong. 1 
 am very sorry let us make friends/' 
 
 There was just a suspicion of sullenness in Dora's nature, 
 and it showed itself in full force now. 
 
 " It is no matter," she replied, cqolly; " I knew long 
 ago that you were tired of me." 
 
 Ronald would not answer, lest they should quarrel again, 
 but he thought to himself that perhaps she was not far 
 wrong. 
 
 From that day the breach between them widened. In 
 after years Dora saw how much she was to blame. She un- 
 derstood then how distasteful her quiet, sullen reserve 
 must have been to a high-bred, fastidious man like Ron- 
 ald. She did not see it then, but nursed in her heart 
 imaginary wrongs and injuries; and, above all, she yielded 
 to a wild, fierce jealousy of Valentine Chartoris. 
 
 For some weeks Miss Charteris saw the cloud deepening 
 on Ronald's face. He grew silent, and lost the How of 
 spirit that had once seemed never to fail; and during the 
 few weeks that followed, a strong resolution grew in her 
 mind. She was his true friend, and she would try to re- 
 store ncace and harmony between him and his wife. Site 
 waited for some days, but at her mother's house it U;H 
 impossible to see him alone. Yet she honestly believed 
 that, if she could talk to him, remind him of his first love 
 for Dora, of her simplicity and many virtues, she might 
 restore peace and harmony to her old friend's home. She 
 thought Ronald to blame. He. hail voluntarily taken 
 active duties upon himself, and to her clearly, rightly 
 judging mind, there was no earthly reason why he should 
 not fulfill them. He would not feel hurt at her speaking, 
 she felt sure, fur he had voluntarily Bought her aid years 
 ago. So Valentine waited day after day, hoping to find a 
 chance for those few words she thought would do so mm h 
 good; but, as no opportunity came, she resolved to make 
 one. Taking her little jeweled pencil, she wrote the fol- 
 lowing iiiii-- that were in after-time a death-warrant: 
 
 " DKAI K !.K, I wish to speak to you particu- 
 
 larly v. 1 shall be in our grounds to-morrow
 
 ?f> DOHA THORNE. 
 
 morning about ten; let me see you there before yon enter 
 the house. Your sincere friend, 
 
 "VALENTINE CHARTERIS." 
 
 All the world might have read the note there was noth- 
 ing wrong in it good intentions and a kindly heart dic- 
 tated it, but it worked fatal mischief. When Ronald was 
 leaving her mother's house, Miss Charteris openly placed 
 the letter in his hands. 
 
 " That is the first note 1 have ever written to yon," she 
 said, with a smile. " You must not refuse the request it 
 contains." 
 
 " I will send him home happy to-morrow," she thought, 
 " he is easily influenced for good. He must make up the 
 misunderstanding with his pretty little wife neither of 
 them look happy." 
 
 Ronald did not open the letter until he reached home. 
 Then he read it with a half-consciousness of. what Valen- 
 tine wanted him for. 
 
 " She is a noble woman," he thought. " Her words 
 made me brave before they will do me good again." 
 
 He left the folded paper upon the table in his studio; and 
 jealous little Dora, going in search of some work she had 
 left, found it there. She read it word by word, the color 
 dying slowly out of her face as she did so, and a bitter, 
 deadly jealousy piercing her heart like a two-edged sword. 
 It confirmed her worst fears, her darkest doubts. How 
 dared this brilliant, beautiful woman lure Ronald from her? 
 Uow dared she rob her of his love? 
 
 , Ronald looked aghast at his wife's face as she re-entered 
 the sitting-room. He had been playing with the children, 
 and had forgotten for the time both Valentine and her 
 note. He cried out in alarm as she turned her white, wild 
 face to him in dumb, silent despair. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Dora?" he cried. " Are you ill 
 or frightened? You look like a ghost." 
 
 She made no reply, and her husband, thinking she had 
 relapsed into one of her little fits of temper, sighed heavily 
 a; id bade her good-night. 
 
 Poor, foolish, jealous heart she never lay down to rest! 
 
 She had quite resolved she would go and meet the b.'iS' 
 baud who was tired of her and the woman who lured hid* 
 astray. She would listen to all they had to say, and thei.
 
 DOHA THOENE. 57 
 
 confront them. No thought of the dishonor of such a 
 proceeding struck her. Poor Dora was not gifted with 
 great refinement of feeling she looked upon the step she 
 contemplated rather as a triumph over an enemy than a 
 degradation to herself. She Knew the place in the 
 grounds where they should be sure to meet. Miss Charteria 
 called it her bower; it was a thick cluster of trees under the 
 shade of which stood a pretty, rustic seat; and Dora 
 thought that, if she placed herself behind the trees, she 
 would be able to hear all unseen. 
 
 Before Ronald partook of breakfast Dora had quitted the 
 house on her foolish errand. She knew the way to the 
 house and the entrance to the garden. She had no fear; 
 even were she discovered there, no one could surmise more 
 than that she was resting on her way to the house. She 
 crouched behind the trees and waited. It was wrong, 
 weak, and wicked; but there was something so pitiful in 
 the white face full of anguish that one would hardly know 
 whether to pity or blame her. 
 
 The sunshine reached her, the birds were singing in the 
 trees, the flowers were all blooming she, in her sorrow 
 and desolation, heeded nothing. At length she saw them 
 Valentine in her white morning-dress, her beautiful face 
 full of deep, earnest emotion, and Ronald by her side. As 
 she surmised, they walked straight to the trees, and Val- 
 entine signed to Ronald to take a seat by her side. Sweetly 
 and clearly every word she uttered sounded to Ronald, but 
 they fell like drops of molten lead on the jealous heart of 
 Ronald's wife. 
 
 " You must try," Valentine was saying; " I used to 
 think you would be a hero. You are proving yourself a 
 very weak and erring man." 
 
 Dora could not distinguish Ronald's words so plainly; 
 he said something about life and its mistakes. 
 
 " I told you once," said Valentine, " that the man who 
 could endure so bravely the consequences of his own actions 
 was a true hero. Grant the worst that yon have made a 
 mistake. You must make the best you can of it, and you 
 are not doing that now. " 
 
 41 No," he said, gravely. " 1 am very unhappy moro 
 so than you can imagine, Valentine. Life seems to havp 
 nil its charms for me. I had such great hopes once; 
 but t!i< v are all dead now."
 
 78 DOHA THORNE. 
 
 " You are too young to say that," she replied; " a little 
 courage, a little patience, and all will be well. If it com- 
 forts you to know that my warmest, deepest sympathy is 
 with you " 
 
 Valentine Charteris never finished her sentence; a pale, 
 angry face and dark, gleaming eyes full of passion sudden* 
 ly flashed before her. 
 
 " You may spare your pity, Miss Charteris/' cried a 
 hoarse voice. " Why have you made my husband dissat- 
 isfied with me? Why have you taken his love from me? 
 Why do you write notes asking him to meet you, that you 
 may both speak evil and wrong of his low-born wife?" 
 
 " Hush!" said Eonald, sternly, grasping her arm. 
 ** Stop these wild words, Dora! Are yon mad?" 
 
 "No, not yet/' she cried; "but this false woman will 
 drive me so!" 
 
 Then Miss Charteris rose, her calm, grand face unruffled, 
 not a quiver on her proud lips. 
 
 " Stay, Miss Charteris, one moment, I pray you," said 
 Ronald, " while my wife apologizes for her folly." 
 
 " It is all true," cried Dora. " She wrote and asked 
 you to meet her here." 
 
 " Dora," said her husband, gravely, " did you read the 
 letter Miss Charteris wrote to me?" 
 
 " 1 did," she replied. 
 
 " And you deliberately came here to listen to what she 
 had to say to me?" he continued. " You deliberately 
 listened to what you were never intended to hear?" 
 
 His grave, stern dignity calmed her angry passion, and 
 she looked half-frightened into his quiet white face. 
 
 " Answer me!" he said. "Have you crouched behind 
 those trees deliberately and purposely to listen?" 
 
 " Yes," she said; " and I would do so again if any one 
 tried to take my husband from me." 
 
 " Them may 1 be forgiven for the dishonor 1 have 
 brought to my name and race!" said Ronald. " May I be 
 forgiven for thinking such a woman fit to be my wife! 
 Hear me," he continued, and the passion in his voice 
 changed to contempt: " Miss Charteris is your friend; she 
 asked me to meet her here that she might plead your cause, 
 Dora that she might advise me to remain moro at home 
 with you, to IPSS into society, to look more at the bright
 
 DOHA THORITE. 79 
 
 side of our married life, and be a better husband than I 
 have been lately; it was for that she summoned me here." 
 
 " I I do not believe it," sobbed his wife. 
 
 " That is at your option," he replied, coolly. "Miss 
 Charteris, 1 should kneel to ask yotir pardon for the in- 
 sults yon have received. If a man had uttered them I 
 would avenge them. The woman who spoke them bears 
 my name. I entreat your pardon. " ' 
 
 "It is granted," she replied; '* your wife must have 
 been mad, or she would have known I was her friend. I 
 deeply regret that my good intentions have resulted so iin- 
 happily. Forget my annoyance, Mr. Earle, and forgive 
 Dora; she could not have known what she was saying." 
 
 " I forgive her," said lionald; " but I never wish to 
 look upon her face again. I see nothing but dishonor 
 there. My love died a violent death ten minutes since. 
 The woman so dead to all delicacy, all honor as to listen 
 and suspect will never more be wife of mine." 
 
 " Be pitiful," said Valentine, for Dora was weeping bit- 
 terly now; all her fire and passion, all her angry jealousy, 
 had faded before his wrath. 
 
 " 1 am pitiful," he replied. " Heaven knows 1 pity 
 her. I pity myself. We Earles love honorable women 
 when we love at all. I will escort you to your house, M!.-.s 
 Char teris, and then Mrs. Earle and mysolf will make our 
 arrangements." 
 
 In her sweet, womanly pity, Valentine bent down and 
 kissed the despairing face. 
 
 " Try to believe that you are wrong and mistaken, Mrs. 
 Earle," she said, gently. " I had no thought save to be 
 your friend." 
 
 They spoke no word as they passed through the pretty 
 grounds. Valentine was full of pity for her companion, 
 and of regret for her own share in that fatal morning's 
 work. 
 
 When Ronald reached the cluster of trees again Dora 
 was not there. Just at that moment he cared but little 
 whi liter she had gone. His vexation and sorrow seemed 
 almost greater than he could bear.
 
 80 DOBA 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE passion and despair of that undisciplined heart 
 something painful to see. Reason, sense, and honor, for 
 a time were all dead. If Dora could have stamped out the 
 calm beauty of Valentine's magnificent face, she would 
 have done so. Ronald's anger, his bitter contempt, stung 
 her, until her whole heart and soul were in angry revolt, 
 until bitter thoughts raged like a wild tempest within her. 
 She could not see much harm in what she had done; she 
 did not quite see why reading her own husband's letter, or 
 listening to a private conversation of his was a breach of 
 honor. She thought but little at the time of what she had 
 done; her heart was full of anger against Ronald and Val- 
 entine. She clasped her hands angrily after Mrs. Char- 
 teris had kissed her, crying out that she was false, and had 
 lured Ronald from her. Any one passing her on the 
 high-road would have thought her mad, seeing the white 
 face, the dark gleaming eyes, the rigid lips only opening 
 for moans and cries that marred the sweet silence. He 
 should keep 'his word; never come what might never 
 should he look upon her fair face again the face he had 
 caressed so often and thought so fair. She would go away 
 he was quite tired of her, and of her children, too. 'They 
 would tease him and intrude upon him no more. Let him 
 go to the fair, false woman who had pretended to pity her. 
 
 The little nurse-maid, a simple peasant girl, looked on 
 in mute amazement when her mistress entered the room 
 where the children were. 
 
 " Maria," she said, " I am going home, over the seas to 
 England. Will you come with me?" 
 
 The only thing poor Dora had learned during those 
 quiet years was a moderate share of Italian. The young 
 nurse looked up in wonder at the hard voice, usually sofc 
 as the cooing of a ring-dove. 
 
 " I will go," she replied, " if the signora will take me. 
 I leave none behind that I love." 
 
 With trembling, passionate hands and white, stern face, 
 Dora packed her trunks and boxes the children's lilLle 
 wardrobe and her own, throwing far from her every pres- 
 ent, either of dress or toys, that Valentine had brought.
 
 DORA mORNE. SI 
 
 She never delayed to look round and think of the happy 
 Inurs spent in those pretty rooms. She never thought of 
 the young lover who had given up all the world for her 
 All she remembered was the wrathful husband who never 
 wished to see her more who, in presence of another, had 
 bitterly regretted having made her his wife. She could 
 ir>t weep the burning brain and jealous, angry heart 
 would have been better for that, but the dark eyes were 
 bright and full of strange, angry light. Tho little ones, 
 .oaking upon her, wept for fear. With eager, passionate 
 love she caught them in her arm?, crying the while that 
 they should never remain to be despised as she was. 
 
 In the white-faced, angry woman, roused to the highest 
 pitch of passion, there was no trace of pretty, blushing 
 l)ora. Rapidly were the boxes packed, corded, and ad- 
 -d. Once during that brief time Maria asked, 
 " Where are you going, S'gnora?" And the hard voice 
 answered, '* To my father's my own home in England." 
 
 When everything was ready, the wondering children 
 
 .d, and the little maid waiting, Dora sat down at her 
 
 husband's desk and wrote the following lines. No tears 
 
 fell upon them; her hand did not tremble, the words were 
 
 clear and firmly written. 
 
 " 1 have not waited for yon to send me away. Your 
 
 eyes shall not be pained again by resting on the face where 
 
 you read dishonor. I saw months ago that you were tired 
 
 of me. 1 am going to my father's house, and my children 
 
 ! I t;ike with me you care no more for them than for 
 
 mine not yours. 1 leave you with all you. 
 
 love in the world. J take all I love with me. If you 
 
 prayed for long years, 1 would never return to you nor 
 
 to you again." 
 
 .She folded the note and addressed it to her husband. 
 Sh'j left no kiss warm from her lips upon it. As slid 
 i 1 forever from the little villa, she never turned for 
 one last look at its vine-clad walls. 
 
 The gaunt, silent Italian servant who had lived with 
 
 . since the first day she reaclif.i Fl ivii<-' came t<> her 
 
 in wonder and alarm, ban ly IM ognizing her pretty, gentle 
 
 ss in th iman who looked liko 
 
 on bronchi t > l>.iy. To lr r Dora spoke of r; it 
 
 her husband as soon as h--
 
 THOBNB. 
 
 Not one word did she utter in reply to the woman's quas 
 tion. She hurried with the keen desperation of despair, 
 lest Ronald should return and find her still there. 
 
 Soon after noon, and while Ronald lingered with some 
 friends upon the steps of tho Hotel d'Jtalie, his wife 
 reached the busy railway station at Florence. She had 
 money enough to take her home, but none to spare. She 
 knew no rest; every moment seemed like an age to her, 
 until the train was in motion, and fair, sunny Florence left 
 far behind. 
 
 Without the stimulus of anger Dora would have shrunk 
 in terror from the thought of a long journey alone she 
 who had never been without the escort of a kind and attent- 
 ive husband. But no prospect daunted her now the wide 
 seas, the dangers of rail and road had no terror for her. 
 She was flying in hot haste and anger from one who had 
 said before her rival that he never wished to see her face 
 again. 
 
 The sun shining so brightly on the waters of the Arno 
 lingered almost lovingly on the fair, quiet English laud- 
 scape. Far down in the fertile and beautiful county of 
 Kent, where the broad channel washes the shore, stands 
 the pretty, almost unknown village of Knutsford. 
 
 The world is full of beauty; every country has its share 
 ^Switzerland its snow-clad mountains, Germany its dark 
 woods and broad streams, France its sunny plains, Italy 
 its " thousand charms of Nature and Art;" but for quiet, 
 tranquil loveliness, for calm, fair beauty, looking always 
 fresh from the Mighty Hand that created it, there is noth- 
 ing like English scenery. 
 
 The white cliffs of Knutsford, like " grand giants/' ran 
 along the shore; there was a broad stretch of yellow sand, 
 hidden when the tide f ' was in, shining and firm when it 
 ebbed. The top of the cliff wds like a carpet of thick 
 green grass and springing heather. Far away, in the blue 
 distance, one could see, of a bright, sunny day, the outline 
 of the French coast. The waves rolled in, and broke upon 
 the yellow sands; the sea-birds flew by with busy wings, 
 white sails gleamed in the sunshine. Occasionally a large 
 steamer passed; there was no sound save the rich, never- 
 changing music of Nature, the rushh of wind and waves.
 
 DORA THORNE. 83 
 
 the grand, solemn anthem that the sea never tires of sing* 
 
 ing- 
 Far down the cliff ran the zigzag path that led to the 
 village; there was no sign of the sea on the other side of 
 the white rocks. There the green fields and pretty hop- 
 gardens stretched out far and wide, and the Farthmglow 
 \Voods formed a belt around them. In the midst of a 
 
 freen, fertile valley stood the lovely village of Knutsford. 
 t had no regular street; a pretty church, clad with gray 
 ivy, stood on a small hill; there were a few cottages, a few 
 farm-houses, a few little villas, one grand mansion, three 
 or four shops, and quiet homsteads with thatched roofs and 
 eaves of straw. 
 
 The prettiest and most compact little farm in the vil- 
 lage was the one where Stephen Thorne and his wife dwelt. 
 It was called the Elms, a long avenue of elms leading to 
 the little house and skirting the broad green meadows. It 
 was at a short distance from the village, so quiet, so trail-, 
 quil, that, living there, one seemed out of the world. 
 
 Stephen Thorne and his wife were not rich. In spite of 
 Lady Earle's bounty, it was hard for them at times to 
 make both end* meet. Crops, even in that fair and fertile 
 county, would fail, cattle would die, rain would fall when 
 it should not, and the sun refuse to shine. But this year 
 everything had gone on well; the hay stood in great ricks 
 in the farm-yard, the golden corn waved in the fields ripe 
 and ready for the sickle, the cows and sheep fed tranquilly 
 in the meadows, and all things had prospered with Stephen 
 Thorne. One thing only weighed upon his heart his wife 
 would have it that Dora a letters grew more and more sad; 
 she declared her child was unhappy, and he could not per- 
 suade her to the contrary. 
 
 It was a fair August evening. Ah! how weak and feeble 
 are the words. Who could paint the golden flush of sum- 
 mer beauty that lay over the meadows and corn-fields 
 tho hod^e-rows filled with wild flowers, the long, thick 
 grass studded with gay blossoms, the calm, sullen silence 
 only broken by the singing of the birds, the lowing of cat- 
 tle, the rustling of green leaves in the sweet soft air? 
 
 Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, 
 Kulph Holt, to fetch the cattle home. In Ralph's honor, 
 good, motherly Mrs. Thorne had laid out a bountiful tea 
 golden honey that seemed iust gathered from the flowers,
 
 84 DORA THORNE. 
 
 ripe fruits, cream from the dairy everything was ready; 
 yet the farmer and his guest seemed long in coming. She 
 went to the door and looked across the meadows. The 
 quiet summer beauty stole like a spell over her. 
 
 Suddenly, down in the meadows, Mrs. Thorne caught 
 sight of a lady leading a little child by the hand. She \vas 
 followed by a young maid carrying another. As the lady 
 drew nearer Mrs. Thorne stood transfixed and bewildered. 
 Could the summer sun or the flickering shade be mocking 
 her? Was she dreaming or awake? Far off still, through 
 the summer haze, she saw a white, wan face; dark eyes, 
 shadowed and veiled, as though by long weeping; lips, once 
 rosy and smiling, rigid and firm. She saw what seemed 
 to her the sorrowful ghost of the pretty, blooming child 
 that had left her long ago. She tried to call out, but her 
 voice failed her. She tried to run forward and meet the 
 figure coming slowly through the meadows, but she was 
 powerless to move. She never heard the footsteps of her 
 husband and his guest. She only stirred when Stephen 
 Thorne placed his hand upon her shoulder, and in a loud, 
 cheery voice, asked what ailed her. 
 
 " Look,'' she said, hoarsely, ''look down the meadow 
 there and tell me if that is Dora or Dora's ghost?" 
 
 She drew near more swiftly now, for she had seen the 
 three figures at the door. The white face and wild eyes 
 seemed aflame with anxiety. 
 
 " Dora, Dora!" cried IVtrs. Thorne, *' is it really you?" 
 
 " It is," said a faint, bitter voice. " I am come home, 
 mother. My heart is broken and I long to die. " 
 
 They crowded around her, and Ealph Holt, with his 
 strong arms, carried the fragile, drooping figure into the 
 house. They laid her upon the little couch, and drew th* 
 curling rings of dark hair back from her white face. Mra 
 Thorne wept aloud, crying out for her pretty Dora, hei 
 poor, unhappy child. The two men .stood watching her 
 \vith grave, sad eyes. Ralph clinched his hand as he gazed 
 upon her, the wreck of the simple, gentle girl he had loved 
 so dcarty. 
 
 " If he has wronged her," he said to Stephen Thorne, 
 *' if he has broken her heart, and sent her home to die, let 
 him beware!" 
 
 " 1 knew it would never prosper/* groaned her father 
 "such marriages never do."
 
 DORA THORNE. 85 
 
 When Dora opened her eyes, and saw the three anxious 
 faces around her, for a moment she was bewildered. They 
 knew when the torture of memory returned to her, for she 
 clasped her hands with a low moan. 
 
 ' Dora," said her mother, " what has happened? Trust 
 us, dear child we are your best friends. Where is your 
 husband? And why have you left him?" 
 
 " Because he has grown tired of me," she cried, with 
 passion and anger flaming again in her white, worn face. 
 "1 i -id something he thought wrong, and he prayed to 
 Heaven to pardon him for making me his wife." 
 
 " What did you do?" asked her father, anxiously. 
 
 *' Nothing that I thought wrong," she replied. " Ask 
 ni ' m> questions, father, I would rather die any death than 
 r< turn to him or see him again. Yet do not thiuk evil of 
 him. It was all a mistake. 1 could not think his thoughts 
 or live his life we were quite different, and very unhappy. 
 Jlc never wishes to see me again, and 1 will suffer anything 
 rather than see, him." 
 
 Tht> fanner nd his wife looked at each other in silent 
 dismay. This proud, angry woman and her passionate 
 words, frightened them. Could it be their Dora, who had 
 ever been sunshine and music to them? 
 
 " If you do not like to take me home, father," she said, 
 in a hard voice, " I can go elsewhere; nothing can surprise 
 or grieve me now." 
 
 But kindly Mrs. Thorue had drawn the tired head to 
 her. 
 
 " Do you not know, child," she said, gently, " that a 
 icr's love never fails?" 
 
 IJalph had rained the little one in his arms, anil was look- 
 ; ;ili wondering admiration at the proud, beautiful face 
 of the little Beatrice, and the fair loveliness of Lillian. 
 The i iiihii. n looked with frank, fearless eyes into his plain, 
 1 'st face. 
 
 11 This one with dark hair has the real Earle face," said 
 Stephen Thome, proudly; " that is just my lord's look 
 ; 1 and quiet. And tho little Lillian is something like 
 , when she was quite a child." 
 
 "Nerer say that!" cried the young mother. "Let 
 them grow lik'c any >m- else, l,ut never like me!" 
 
 They soothed her witli ;:mtle, loving words. Her father 
 said she should share his home with her children, and ho
 
 86 DORA THOB1TB. 
 
 would never give her up again. They bade her watch the 
 little cues, who had forgotten their fears, and laughed over 
 the ripe fruit and golden honey. They alse drew aside the 
 white curtain, and let her tired eyes fall upon the sweet 
 summer beauty of earth and sky. Was not everything 
 peaceful? The sun sinking in the west, the birds singing 
 their evening song, the flowers closing their bright eyes, 
 the wind whispering " good-night " to the shimmering, 
 graceful elms all was peace, and the hot, angry heart 
 grew calm and still. Bitter tears rose to the burning eyes 
 tears that fell like rain, and seemed to take away the 
 sharpest sting of her pain. 
 
 With wise and tender thought they let Dora weep undis- 
 turbed. The bitter sobbing ceased at last. Dora said fare- 
 well to her love. She lay white and exhausted, but the 
 anger and passion had died away. 
 
 " Let me live with you, father," she said, humbly. " 1 
 will serve you, and obey you. I am content, more than 
 content, with my own home. But for my little children, 
 let all be as it was years ago/' 
 
 When the little ones, like the flowers, had gone to sleep, 
 and Dora had gone into the pretty white room prepared 
 for her, Ralph rose to take his leave. 
 
 " Surely," said Thome, " you are not leaving us. You 
 promised to stay a whole week. " 
 
 " 1 know," said the young farmer; " but you have many 
 to think for now, Mr. Thorne. The time will come when 
 the poor, wearied girl sleeping above us will be Lady 
 Earle. Her husband knew I loved her. No shadow even 
 of suspicion must rest upon her. While your daughter re- 
 mains under your roof, I shall not visit you again. " 
 
 Dora's father knew the young man was right. 
 
 "Let me see the little ones sometimes/' continued 
 Ralph; " and if large parcels of toys and books find their 
 way to the Elms, you will know who sent them. But I 
 must not come in Dora's way; she is no longer Dora 
 Thorne." 
 
 As Stephen watched the young man walking quickly 
 through the long gray fields, he wished that Dora had 
 never seen Ronald Earle. 
 
 Poor Dora's troubles were not yet ended. When the 
 warm August sun peeped into her room on the following 
 morning, she did not see it shine; when the children crept
 
 DORA THOBNE. 8? 
 
 to her side and called for mamma, she was deaf to their 
 little voices. The tired head tossed wearily to and fro, the 
 burning eyes would not close. A raging fever had her ia 
 its fierce clutches. When Mrs. Thorne, alarmed by the 
 children's cries, came in, Dora did not know her, but cried 
 out loudly that she was a false woman, who had lured her 
 husband from her. 
 
 They sent in all haste for aid; but the battle was long 
 and fierce. During the hours of delirium Mrs. Thorne 
 
 Cleaned sorrowfully some portions of her daughter's story, 
 he cried out incessantly against a fair woman one Val- 
 entine whom Konald loved cried in scorn and anger. 
 Frequently she was in a garden, behind some trees; then 
 confronting some one with flaming eyes, sobbing that she 
 did not believe it; then hiding her face and crying out: 
 ** He has ceased to love me let me die!" 
 But the time came when the fierce fever burned itself 
 out, and Dora lay weak and helpless as a little child. She 
 recovered slowly, but she was never the same again. Her 
 youth, hope, love, and happiness were all dead. No smile 
 or dimple, no pretty blush, came to the changed face; the 
 old coy beauty was all gone. 
 
 Calm and quiet, with deep, earnest eyes, and lips that 
 seldom smiled, Dora seemed to have found another self. 
 Even with her children the sad restraint never wore off nor 
 grew less. If they wanted to play, they sought the farmer 
 in the fields, the good-natured nurse, or the indulgent 
 grandmamma never the sad, pale mother. If they were 
 m trouble then they sought her. 
 
 Dora asked for work. She would have been dairy-maid, 
 house-maid, or anything else, but her father said "No." 
 A pretty little room was given to her, with woodbines and 
 : peeping in at the window. Here for long hours 
 . day, while the children played in the meadows, she 
 sat and sewed. There, too, Dora, for the first time, learned 
 Ronald, far away in sunny Italy, failed to teach her 
 how to think and r : boxes of books came from 
 
 '.own of Shorebeaeh. Stephen Thorne spared no 
 trouble or expense in pleasing his daughter. Dora won- 
 dered that she had never cared for books, now that deeper 
 and more solemn thoughts cume to her. The pale face 
 took a new i ; 10 one could have believed that the 
 
 'i the sweet voice and refined accent
 
 38 DORA THORNE. 
 
 was the daughter of the blunt farmer Thorne and hia 
 homely wife. 
 
 A few weeks passed, and but for the little ones Dora 
 would have believed the whole to have been but a long, 
 dark dream. She would not think of Ronald; she would 
 jioS remember his love, his sacrifices for her; she thought 
 only of her wrongs and his cruel words. 
 
 The children grew and throve. Dora had no care at 
 present as to their education. From her they learned good 
 English, and between herself and the faithful young nurse 
 they could learn, she thought, tolerable Italian. She 
 would not think of a future that might take these beloved 
 children from her. She ignored Ronald's claim to them 
 they were hers. He had tired of them when he tired of 
 her. She never felt the days monotonous in that quiet 
 farm-house, as others might have done. A dead cairn 
 seemed to surround her; but it was destined soon to be 
 broken. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 RONALD did not return in the evening to the pretty villa 
 where he had once been so happy. In the warmth of his 
 anger, he felt that he never could look again upon his 
 wife. To his sensitive, refined nature there was something 
 more repulsive in the dishonorable act she had committed 
 than there would have been in a crime of deeper dye. He 
 was shocked and startled more so than if he awoke 
 some fair summer morning to fine Dora dead by his side. 
 She was indeed dead to him in one sense. The ideal girl, 
 all purity, gentleness, and truth, whom he had loved and 
 married, had, it appeared, never really existed after all. 
 He shrunk from the idea of the angry, vehement words 
 and foul calumnies. He shrunk from the woman who had 
 forgotten every rule of good-breeding, every trace of good 
 manners, in angry, fierce passion. 
 
 How was he ever to face Miss Charteris again? She 
 would never mention one word of what had happened, but 
 ho could ill brook the shame Dora had brought upon him. 
 He remembered the summer morning in the woods when 
 he told Valentine the story of his love, and had pictured 
 his pretty, artless Dora to her. Could the angry woman
 
 DORA THORITE. 89 
 
 who had dared to insult him, and to calumniate the fairest 
 and truest lady in all England, possibly be the same? 
 
 Ronald had never before been brought into close contact 
 with dishonor. He had some faint recollection at college 
 of having seen and known a young man, the son of a 
 wealthy nobleman, scorned and despised, driven from all 
 society, and he was told that it was because he had bee a 
 detected in the act of listening at the principal's door. He 
 remembered how old and young had shunned this young 
 man as though he were plague-stricken; and now his own 
 wife Dora had done the very same thing under circum- 
 stances that rendered the dishonor greater. He asked 
 himself, with a cynical smile, what he could expect? He 
 had married for love of a pretty, child -like face, never giv- 
 ing any thought to principle, mind, or intellect. The only 
 wonder was that so wretched and unequal a match had not 
 turned out ten times worse. His father's warning rang I'D 
 his ears. How blind, how foolish he had been! 
 
 Every hope of his own life was wrecked, every hope aad 
 plan of his father's disappointed and dead. There seemed 
 to him nothing left to care for. His wife oh, he would 
 not think of her! The name vexed him. He could not 
 stand in Valentine's presence again, and for the first time 
 he realized what she had been to him. Home, and conse- 
 quently England, was closed to him; the grand mansion 
 he had once believed his had faded from his mind. 
 
 Thinking of all these things, Ronald's love for his young 
 wife seemed changed to dislike. Three days passed before 
 he returned home; then he was somewhat startled to find 
 her really gone. He had anticipated sullen temper, re- 
 newed quarrels, and then perhaps a separation, but he was 
 startled to find her actually gone. The servant gave him 
 the cold farewell letter, written without tears, without 
 sorrow. He tore it into shreds and flung it from him. 
 
 " The last act in the farce," he said, bitterly. " If 1 
 had not been mad I should have foreseen this." 
 
 The silent, deserted rooms did not remind him of the 
 loving young wife parted from him forever. He was too 
 angry, too annoyed, for any gentle thoughts to influence 
 him. She had left him so much the better; there could 
 never again be peace between them. He thought with re- 
 gret of the little ones they were too young for him to un- 
 dertak" charge of them, so that they were best left with
 
 90 DORA THOKNE. 
 
 their mother for a time. He said to himself that he must 
 make the best use he could of his life; everything seemed 
 at an end. He felt very lonely and unhappy as he sat in 
 his solitary home; and the more sorrow present upon him, 
 the more bitter his thoughts grew, the deeper became his 
 dislike to this unhappy young wife. 
 
 Ronald wrote to his mother, but said no word to her of 
 the cause of their quarrel. 
 
 " Dora and I," he said, " will never live together again 
 perhaps never meet. She has gone home to 'her father; 
 I am going to wander over the wide earth. Will you in- 
 duce my father to receive my children at Earlescourt? And 
 will you see Mr. Burt, and arrange that half of my small 
 income is settled upon Dora?" 
 
 But to all his wife's entreaties Lord Earle turned a deaf 
 ear He declared that never during his life-time should 
 the children of Dora Thome enter Earlescourt. His reso- 
 lution was fixed and unalterable. How, he asked, was he 
 to trust the man who had once deceived him? For aught 
 he knew, the separation between Ronald and his wife might 
 be a deeply laid scheme, and, the children once with him, 
 there would be a grand reconciliation between the parents. 
 
 " I am not surprised, " he said, "that the unhappy boy 
 is weary of his pretty toy. It could not be otherwise; he 
 must bear the consequences of his own folly. He had time 
 for thought, he made his own choice now let him abide 
 by it. You have disregarded my wish, Lady Helena, in 
 even naming the matter to me. Let all mention of it 
 cease. I have no son. One thing remember I am not 
 hard upon you you can go where you like, see whom you 
 like, and spend what money you will, and as you will." 
 
 Lady Earle was not long in availing herself of the per- 
 mission. There was great excitement at the Elms one 
 morning, caused by the receipt of a letter from Lady Earle 
 saying that she would be there on the same day to visit the 
 son's wife and children. 
 
 The little ones looked up to her with wondering eyes. 
 To them she was like a vision, with her noble face and dis- 
 tinguished air. 
 
 Stephen Thorne and his wife received the great lady not 
 without some trepidation; yet they were in no way to 
 blame. The fatal marriage had been as great a blow to 
 them as to Lord and Lady Earle. With the quiet dignity
 
 DORA THORNE. 91 
 
 and graceiul ease that never deserted her, Lady Earle soon 
 made them feel at home. She started in utter surprise, 
 when a quiet, grave woman, on whose face sweetness and 
 sullen humor were strangely mingled, .entered the room. 
 This could not be pretty, coy, blushing Dora! Where 
 were the dimples and smiles? The large dark eyes raised 
 so sadly to hers were full of strange, pathetic beauty. 
 With sharp pain the thought struck Lady Earle, " What 
 must not Dora have suffered to have changed her so great- 
 ly!" The sad eyes and worn face touched her as no beauty 
 could have done. She clasped Dora in her arms and kissed 
 her. 
 
 ** You are my daughter now," she said, in that rich, 
 musical voice Which Dora remembered so well. " We will 
 not mention the past; it is irrevocable. If you sinned 
 against duty and obedience, your face tells me you have 
 Buffered. ^V hat has come between you and my son I do 
 not seek to know. The shock must have been a great one 
 which parted you, for he gave up all the world for you, 
 Dora, years ago. We will not speak of Ronald. Our care 
 must be the children. Of course you wish them to remain 
 withyou?" 
 
 " While it is possible," said Dora, wearily. ** 1 shall 
 never leave home again; but I can not hope to keep them 
 here always." 
 
 " I should have liked to adopt them," said Lady Earle; 
 " to take them home and educate them, but " 
 
 Lord Earle will not permit if," interrupted Dora, 
 " 1 know I do not wonder." 
 must let me do all 1 can for them here," con- 
 tinned Lady Earle; " 1 have made all plans and arrange- 
 ments. We will give the children an education befitting 
 their position, without removing them from you. Then 
 we shall see what time will do. Let me see the little ones. 
 I wish you had called one Helena, after me." 
 
 Dora remembered why she had not done so, and a flush 
 of shame rose to her face. 
 
 They were beautiful children, and Dora brought them 
 proudly to the stately lady waiting for them. Lady Earle 
 took Beatrice in her arms. 
 
 " Why, Dora/' she said, admiringly, '*she has tha 
 Eurle fiu-r. with a novel charm all its own. The child 
 will grow up into a magnificent woman." 
 
 calmly. 
 " Yo
 
 92 DORA THOENE. 
 
 " She has the Earle spirit and pride," said the young 
 mother; " 1 find it hard to manage her even now." 
 
 Then Lady Earle looked at the fair, spirituelle face and 
 golden hair of little Lillian. The shy, dove-like eyes and 
 sveet lips charmed her. 
 
 "There is a great contrast between them," she said, 
 thoughtfully. " They will require careful training, Dora; 
 and now we will speak of the matter which brought me 
 here." 
 
 Dora noticed that, long as she remained, Lady Earlo 
 never let Beatrice leave her arms; occasionally she bent 
 over Lillian and touched her soft golden curls, but the 
 child with the " Earle face " was Mie one she loved best. 
 
 Together with Stephen Thome and his wife Lady Earle 
 went over the Elms. The situation delighted her; noth- 
 ing could be better or more healthy for the children, but 
 the interior of the house must be altered. Then with deli- 
 cate grace that could only charm, never wound, Lady Earle 
 unfolded her plans. Sbe wished a new suite of rooms to 
 be built for Dora and the children, to be nicely furnished 
 with everything that could be required. She would bear 
 the expense. Immediately on her return she would send 
 an efficient French maid for the little ones, and in the 
 course of a year or two she would engage the services of 
 an accomplished governess, who would undertake the edu- 
 cation of Beatrice and Lillian without removing them from 
 their mother's care. 
 
 " 1 shall send a good piano and harp," said Lady Earle, 
 " it will be my pride and pleasure to select books, music, 
 drawings, and everything else my grandchildren require. 
 1 should wish them always to be nicely dressed and care- 
 fully trained. To you, Dora, I must leave the highest and 
 best training of all. Teach them to be good, and to do 
 their duty. They have learned all when they have learned 
 that." 
 
 For the first time in her life, the thought came home to 
 Dora: How was she to teach what she had never learned 
 and had failed to practice? That night, long after Lady 
 Earle had gone away, and the children had fallen to sleep, 
 Dora knelt in the moonlight and prayed that she might 
 learn to teach her children to do their duty. 
 
 As Lady Earle wished, the old farm-house was left in-, 
 tact, and a new group of buildings added to it. There was
 
 DORA THOENE. 93 
 
 ft pretty sitting-room for Dora, and a larger one to serve as 
 a study for the children, large sleeping-rooms, and a bath- 
 room, all replete with comfort. Two years passed before 
 all was completed, and Lady Earle thought it time to send 
 a governess to the Elms. 
 
 During those years little or nothing was heard from 
 Ronald. After reading the cold letter Dora left for him, 
 it seemed as though all love, all care, all interest died out 
 of his heart. He sat for many long hours thinking of the 
 blighted life " he could not lay down, yet cared little to 
 hold." 
 
 He was only twenty-three the age at which life opens 
 to most men; yet he was worn, tired, weary of everthing 
 the energies that once seemed boundless, the ambition 
 once so fierce and proud, all gone. His whole nature re- 
 coiled from the shock. Had Dora, in the fury of her jeal- 
 ousy and rage, tried to kill him, he would have thought 
 that but a small offense compared with the breach of honor 
 in crouching behind the trees to listen. He thought of the 
 quiet, grand beauty of Valentine's face while Dora was 
 convulsed with passion. He remembered the utter wonder 
 in Valentine's eyes when Dora's flamed upon them. He 
 re in .'inhered the sickening sense of shame that had cowed 
 him as he listened to her angry, abusive- words. And this 
 untrained, ignorant, ill-bred woman was his wife! For 
 her he had given up home, parents, position, wealth all 
 id in life worth caring for. For her, and through her, 
 'ood there alone in the world. 
 
 These thoughts first maddened him, then drove him to 
 i r. \Vhat had life left for him? He could not return 
 ;ji;itil; his father's doors were closed against him. 
 There wag no path open to him; without his father'.^ 
 he could not get into Parliament. He could not work as 
 an artist at home. He could not remain in Florence; never 
 again, he said to himself, would he see Valentine Charteris 
 Valentine, who had been the witness of his humiliation 
 and disgrace. Sooner anything than that. He would leave 
 the villa and go somewhere he cared little where. Xo 
 k, no rest came to him. Ha'l his misfortunes been ac- 
 ---hiid th<' ':t'r than they were, the re- 
 
 sult "f his boyish folly and disobedience, he would have
 
 94 JX)RA THORNE. 
 
 found thbm easier to bear; as it was, the recollection that 
 it was all his own fault drove him mad. 
 
 Before morning he had written a farewell note to Lady 
 Charteris, saying that he was leaving Florence at once, and 
 would not be able to see her again, He wrote to Valentine, 
 but the few stiff words expressed little of what he felt. He 
 prayed her to forget the miserable scene that would haunt 
 him to his dying day; to pardon the insults that had driven 
 him nearly mad ; to pardon the mad jealousy, the dishonor 
 of Dora; to forget him and all belonging to him. When 
 Miss Charteris read the letter she knew that all effort to 
 restore peace would for a time be in vain. She heard the 
 day following that the clever young artist, Mr. Earle, 
 had left. 
 
 Countess Rosali loudly lamented Ronald's departure. It 
 was so strange, she said ; the dark-eyed little wife and her 
 childern had gone home to England, and the husband, after 
 selling off his home, had gone with Mr. Charles Standon 
 into the interior of Africa. What was he going to do 
 there? 
 
 She lamented him for two days without ceasing, until 
 Valentine was tired of her many conjectures. He was 
 missed in the brilliant salons of Florence, but by none so 
 much as by "Valentine Charteris. 
 
 What the pretty, coquettish countess had said was true. 
 After making many plans and forming many resolutions, 
 Ronald met Mr. Standon, who was on the point of joining 
 an exploring expedition, in South Africa. He gladly con- 
 sented to accompany him. There was but little prepara- 
 tion needed. Four days after the never-to-be-forgotten 
 garden scene, Ronald Earle left Italy and became a wan- 
 derer upon the face of the earth. 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 VALENTINE CHARTERIS never told the secret. She list- 
 ened to the wonder and conjectures of all around her, but 
 not even to her mouther did she hint what had passed. 
 She pitied Ronald profoundly. She knew the shock Dora 
 had inflicted on his sensitive, honorable disposition. For 
 Dora herself she felt nothing but compassion. Her calm, 
 serene nature was incapable of such jealousies. Valentine
 
 DORA THORITE. 95 
 
 could never be jealous or mean, bnt she could understand 
 the torture that had made shy, gentle Dora both. 
 
 " Jealous of me, poor child!" eaid Valentine to herself* 
 " Tvothing but ignorance can excuse her. As though I, 
 with half Florence at my feet, cared for her husband, ex^ 
 cept as a dear and true friend." 
 
 So the little villa was deserted; the gaunt, silent servant 
 found a fresh place. Ronald's pictures were eagerly bought 
 up; the pretty countess, after looking very sentimental and 
 sad for some days, forgot her sorrow and its cause in the 
 novelty of making the acquaintance of an impassive, un- 
 impressionable American. Florence soon forgot one whom 
 she had been proud to know and honor. 
 
 Two months afterward, as Miss Charteris sat alone in her 
 favorite nook the bower of trees where poor Dora's trage- 
 dy had been enacted she was found by the Prince di Bor 
 gezi. Every one had eaid that sooner or later it would 
 come to this. Prince di Bonjezi, the most fastidious of 
 men, who had admired many women but loved none, 
 whose verdict was the rule of fashion, loved Valentine 
 Charteris. Her fair English face; with its calm, grand 
 beauty, her graceful dignily, her noble mind and pure soul, 
 had captivated him. For many long weeks he hovered 
 round Valentine, longing yet dreading to speak the words 
 which would unite or part them for lite. 
 
 Lately there had been rumors that Lady Charteris and 
 her daughter intended to leave Florence; then Prince di 
 Borgezi decided upon knowing his fate. He sought Val- 
 entine, and found her seated under the shade of her favor' 
 ite trees. 
 
 " Miss Charteris," he said, after a few words of greet- 
 ing, " I have come to ask you the greatest favor, the sweet' 
 est boon, you can confer on any man." 
 
 " What is it?" asked Valentine, calmly, anticipating 
 some trifling request 
 
 " Your permission to keep for my own the original ' Queen 
 Guinevere,' " he replied; " that picture is more to me than 
 all that I possess. Only one thing is dearer, the original 
 May I ever hope to make that mine also?" 
 
 Valentine opened her magnificent eyes in wonder. It 
 was an otter of marriage then that he was making. 
 
 '* Have you no word for me. Miss 1,'harteris? he said.
 
 96 DORA THORtfE. 
 
 " I lay my life and my love at your feet Have you no 
 word for me?" 
 
 ' I really do not know what to say/' replied Valentine- 
 
 ' You do not refuse me?" said her lover. 
 
 * Well, no," replied Valentine. 
 
 * And you do not accept me?" he continued. 
 ' Decidedly not," she replied, more firmly. 
 
 4 Then I shall consider there is some ground for hope," 
 he said. 
 
 Valentine had recovered her self-possession. Her lover 
 gazed anxiously at her beautiful face; its proud calm was 
 unbroken. 
 
 " I will tell you how it is," resumed Valentine, after a 
 short pause; " I like you better, perhaps, than any man 
 1 know, but I do not love you." 
 
 " You do not forbid me to try all I can to win your 
 love?" asked the prince. 
 
 *' No," was the calm reply. " I esteem you very high- 
 ly, prince. 1 can not say more. " 
 
 " But you will in time," he replied. " I would not 
 change your quiet, friendly liking, Miss Charteris, for the 
 love of any other woman." 
 
 Under the bright sky the handsome Italian told the story 
 of his love in words that were poetry itself how he wor- 
 shiped the fair calm girl so unlike the women of his own 
 clime. As she listened, Valentine thought of that sum- 
 mer morning years ago when Eonald had told her the story 
 of his love; and then Valentine owned to her own heart, 
 that, if Eonald were in Prince di Borgezi's place, she would 
 not listen so calmly nor reply so coolly. 
 
 " How cold and stately these English girls are!" thought 
 her lover. " They are more like goddesses than women. 
 Would any word of mine ever disturb the proud coldness 
 of that perfect face?" 
 
 It did not then, but before morning ended Prince di Bor- 
 gezi had obtained permission to visit England in the spring 
 and ask again the same .question. Valentine liked him. 
 She admired his noble and generous character, his artistic 
 tastes; his fastidious exclusiveness had a charm, for her; 
 she did not love him, but it seemed to her more than prob- 
 able that the day would come when she would do so. 
 ******* 
 
 Lady Chartoris and her daughter bft Florence and re-
 
 DORA THORNE. 97 
 
 turned to Greenoke. Lady Earle paid them a long visit, 
 and heard all they had to tell of her idolized son. Lady 
 Charteris spoke kindly of Dora; and Valentine, believing 
 she could do something to restore peace, sent an affection- 
 ate greeting, and asked permission to visit the Elms. 
 
 Lady Earle saw she had made a mistake when she repeat- 
 ed Valentine's words to Dora. The young wife's fane 
 flushed burning red, and then grew white as death. 
 
 ** Pray bring me no more messages from Miss Char- 
 teris," she replied. " I do not like her she would only 
 come to triumph over me; I decline to see her. I have na 
 message to send her." 
 
 Then, for the first time, an inkling of the truth came to 
 Lady Earle. Evidently Dora was bitterly jealous of Val- 
 entine. Had she any cause for it? Could it be that her 
 unhappy son had learned to love Miss Charteris when it 
 was. all too late? From that day Lady Earle pitied her 
 BOM with a deeper and more tender compassion; she trans- 
 lated Dora's curt words into civil English, and then wrote 
 to Miss Charteris. Valentine quite understood upon read- 
 ing them that she was not yet pardoned by Honald Earle'p 
 wife. 
 
 Time passed on without any great changes, until th& 
 year came when Lady Earle thought her grandchildren 
 should begin their education. She was long in selecting 
 one to whom she could intrust them. At length she im-i 
 with Mrs. Vyvian, the widow of an officer who had died in 
 India, a lady qualified in every vray for the task, accomp- 
 !, a good linguist, speaking French and Italian a.s 
 fluently as English an accomplished musician, an ar: 
 no mean skill, and, what Lady Earlu valued still more, a 
 woman of sterling principles and earnest religious feeling- 
 It was not a light ta*k that Mrs. Vyvian undertook. 
 The children had reached their fifth year, and for Un 
 years she bound herself by promise to remain with them 
 night and day, to teach and train them. It is true the 
 reward promised was great. Ladv Earle settled a hand- 
 some annuity upon her. vian was not disnt 
 by the lonely house, the complete isolation from all so 
 or the homely appearance of the farmer and his wife. A 
 piano ami a harp were sent to the Elms. Every week 
 Ivirle dispatched a large box of books, and the gov- 
 :is i'uU- content.
 
 98 DORA THORHTE. 
 
 Mrs. Vyvian, to whom Lady Earle intrusted every detail 
 of her SOD'S marriage, was well pleased to find that Dora 
 liked her and began to show some taste for study. Dora, 
 who would dream of other things when Ronald read, now 
 tried to learn herself. She was not ashamed to sit hour 
 after hour at the piano trying to master some simple little 
 air, or to ask questions when anything puzzled her in hot 
 reading. Mrs. Vyvian, so calm and wise, so gentle, yet 
 so strong, taught her so cleverly that Dora never felt her 
 own ignorance; nor did she grow disheartened as she had 
 done with Ronald. 
 
 The time came when Dora could play pretty simple bal- 
 lads, singing them in her own bird-like, clear voice, and 
 when she could appreciate great writers, and speak of them 
 without any mistake either as to their names or their works. 
 
 It was a simple, pleasant, happy life; the greater part of 
 the day was spent by mother and children in study. lu 
 the evening came long rambles through the green woods, 
 where Dora seemed to know the name and history of every 
 flower that grew; over the smiling meadows, whbre the 
 kine stood knee-deep in the long, scented giass; over the 
 rooks, and down by the sea-shore, where the waves chanted 
 their grand anthem, and broke in white foam-drifts upon 
 the sands. 
 
 No wonder the young girls imbibed a deep warm love for 
 all that was beautiful in Nature. Dora never wearied of 
 it from the smallest blade of grass to the most stately of 
 forest trees, she loved it all. 
 
 The little twin sisters grew in beauty both in body and 
 mind; but the contrast between them was great: Beatrice 
 was the more beautiful and brilliant; Lillian the more 
 sweet and lovable. Beatrice was all fire and spirit; her 
 sister was gentle and calm. Beatrice had great faults and 
 great virtues; Lillian was simply good and charming. 
 Yet, withal, Beatrice was the better loved. It was seldom 
 that any one refused to gratify her wishes. 
 
 Dora loved both children tenderly; but the warmest love 
 was certainly for the child who had the Earle face. She 
 was imperious and willful 3 generous to a fault, impatient 
 of all control; but her greatest fault, Mrs. Vyvian said, waa 
 a constant craving for excitement; a distaste for and dis- 
 like of oniet and retirement She would ride the most rest
 
 DORA THOBBTE. 99 
 
 ive horse, she would do anything to break the ennui and 
 monotony of the long days. 
 
 Beautiful, daring, and restless, every day running a hun- 
 dred risks, and loved the better for the dangers she ran, 
 Beatrice was almost worshiped at the Elms. Nothing ever 
 daunted her, nothing ever made her dull or sad. Lillian 
 was gentle and quiet, with more depth of character, but 
 little power of showing it; somewhat timid and diffident a 
 more charming ideal of an English girl could not have been 
 found spiritudle, graceful, and refined; so serene and fair 
 that to look at her was a pleasure. 
 
 LadyEarle often visited the Elms; no mystery had been 
 made to the girls they were told their father was abroad 
 and would not return for many years, and that at some 
 distant day they might perhaps live with him in his own 
 home. They did not ask many questions, satisfied to be- 
 lieve what was told them, not seeking to know more 
 
 Lady Earle loved the young girls very dearly. Beatrice, 
 BO like her father, was undoubtedly the favorite. Lord 
 Earle never inquired after them; when Lady Earle asked 
 for a larger check than usual, be gave it to her with a 
 Binilo, perfectly understanding its destination, but never 
 betraying the knowledge. 
 
 So eleven years passed like a long tranquil dream. The 
 sun rose and set, the tides ebbed and flowed, spring flowers 
 bloomed and died, the summer skies smiled, autumn leaves 
 of golden hue withered on the ground, and winter snows 
 fell; yet no change came to the quiet homestead in the 
 Kentish meadows. 
 
 Beatrice and Lillian had reached their sixteenth year, and 
 two fairer girls were seldom seen. Mrs. Vyvian's efforts 
 had not been in vain; they were accomplished far beyond 
 the ordinary run of young girls. Lillian inherited her 
 father's talent for drawing. She was an excellent artist 
 Beatrice excelled in music. She had a magnificent con- 
 tralto voice that had been carefully trained. Both were cul- 
 tivated, graceful, elegant girls, and Lady Earle of ten sighed 
 to think they should be living in such profound obscurity. 
 She could do nothing; seventeen years had not changed Lord 
 Earle' s resolution. Time, far from softening, imbittered 
 him the more against his son. Of Ronald Lady Earle 
 heard but little. He was still in Africa; he wrote at rare 
 intervals, but there was little comfort in his letters.
 
 100 DORA THOESTB. 
 
 Lady Earle did what she could for her grandchildren, but 
 it was a strange, unnatural life. They knew no other girls: 
 they had never been twenty miles from Knutsford. All 
 girlish pleasures and enjoyments were a sealed book to 
 them. They had never been to a party, a picnic, or a 
 ball; no life was ever more simple, more quiet, more de- 
 void of all amusement than theirs. Lillian was satisfied 
 and happy; her rich, teeming fancy, her artistic mind, 
 and contented, sweet disposition would have rendered her 
 happy under any circumstances but it was different with 
 brilliant, beautiful Beatrice. No wild bird in a cage ever 
 pined for liberty or chafed under restraint more than she 
 did. She cried out loudly against the unnatural solitude, 
 the isolation of such a life. 
 
 Eleven years had done much for Dora. The coy, girlish 
 beauty that had won Eonaid Earle's heart had given place 
 to a sweet, patient womanhood. Constant association with 
 one so elegant and refined as Mrs. Vyvian had done for her 
 what nothing else could have achieved. Dora had caught 
 the refined, high-bred accent, the graceful, cultivated 
 manner, the easy dignity. She had become imbued with 
 Mrs. Vyvian's noble thoughts and ideas. 
 
 Dora retained two peculiarities one was a great dislike 
 for Eonaid, the other a sincere dread of all love and lovers 
 for her children. From her they heard nothing but depre- 
 ciation of men. All men were alike, false, insincere, ficlde, 
 cruel; all love was nonsense and folly. Mrs. Vyvian tried 
 her best to counteract these ideas; they had this one evil 
 consequence that neither Lilian nor Beatrice would ever 
 dream of even naming such subjects to their mother, who 
 ehould have been their friend and confidante. If in the 
 books Lady Earle sent there was any mention of this love 
 their mother dreaded so, they went to Mrs. Vyvian or puz- 
 zled over it themselves. With these two exceptions Dora 
 had become a thoughtful, gentle woman. ' As her mind 
 became more cultivated she understood better the dishonor 
 of the fault which had robbed her of Bonald's love. Her 
 fair face grew crimson when she remembered what she had 
 done. 
 
 It was a fair and tranquil womanhood; the dark eyes 
 retained their wondrous light and beauty; the curling rings 
 of dark hair were luxuriant as ever; the lips wore a patient, 
 aweet expression. The clear, healthy country air had given
 
 DOHA THOKNE. 101 
 
 a delicate bloom to the fair face. Dora looked more like 
 the elder sister of the young girls than their mother. 
 
 The quiet, half -dreamy monotony was broken at last 
 Mrs. Vyvian was suddenly summoned home. Her mother, 
 to whom she was warmly attached, was said to be dying, 
 and she wished her last few days to be spent with her 
 daughter. At the same time Lady Earle wrote to say that 
 her husband was so ill that it was impossible for her to look 
 for any lady to supply Mrs. Vyvian's place. The conse- 
 quence was that, for the first time in their lives, the young 
 girls were left for a few weeks without a companion and 
 without surveillance. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ONE beautiful morning in May, Lillian went out alone to 
 sketch. The beauty of the sky and sea tempted her; fleecy- 
 white clouds floated gently over the blue heavens; the sun 
 shone upon the water until, at times, it resembled a huge 
 sea of rippling gold. Far off in the distance were the 
 Shining white sails of two boats; they looked in the golden 
 Aaze like the brilliant wings of some bright bird. The 
 sun upon the white sails struck her fancy, and she wanted 
 to sketch the effect. 
 
 It was the kind of morning that makes life seem all 
 beauty and gladness, even if the heart is weighed down, 
 with care. It was a luxury merely to live and breathe. 
 The leaves were all springing in the woods; the meadows 
 were green; wild flowers bloesomed by the hedge-rows; the 
 birds sung gayly of the coming summer; the white haw- 
 thorn threw its rich fragrance all around, and the yellow 
 broom bloomed on the cliffs. 
 
 As she sat there, Lillian was indeed a fair picture herself 
 on that May morning; the sweet, s)>iritudle face; the 
 noble head with its crown of golden hair; the violet eyes, 
 so full of thought; the sensitive lips, sweet yet firm; th& 
 white forehead, the throne of intellect. The little fingers 
 that moved rapidly and gracefully over the drawing were 
 white and shapely; there was a delicate rose-leaf flush in 
 the pretty hand. She looked fair and tranquil as the 
 morning itself. 
 
 Thi- pure, sweet face had no touch of fire or passion; its 
 serenity was all unmoved; the world had never breathed on
 
 10$ DORA TM)BNE. 
 
 the innocent, child-like mind. A white lily was not mow 
 pure and stainless than the young girl who sat amid the 
 purple heather, sketching the white, far-off sails. 
 
 So intent was Lillian upon her drawing that she did not 
 hear light, rapid steps coming near; she was not aroused 
 until a rich musical voice called, " Lillian, if you have 
 not changed into stone or statue, do speak. " Then, look- 
 ing up, she saw Beatrice by her side. 
 
 " Lay down your pencils and talk to me/' said Beatrice, 
 imperiously. " How unkind of you, the only human be- 
 ing in this place who can talk, to come here all by yourself! 
 What do you think was to become of me?" 
 
 '* I thought you were reading to mamma," said Lillian, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Reading!" exclaimed Beatrice. "You know 1 am 
 tired of reading, tired of writing, tired of sewing, tired of 
 everything I have to do." 
 
 Lillian looked up in wonder at the beautiful, restless 
 face. 
 
 " Do not look ' good ' at me," said Beatrice, impatiently. 
 '* 1 am tired to death of it all. I want some change. Do 
 you think any girls in the world lead such lives as we do- 
 shut up in a rambling old farm-house, studying from morn 
 to night; shut in. on one side by that tiresome sea, impris- 
 oned on the other by fields and woods? How can you take 
 it so quietly, Lillian? 1 am wearied to death." 
 
 " Something has disturbed you this morning," said Lil- 
 lian, gently. 
 
 " That is like mamma," cried Beatrice; " just her very 
 tone and words. She does not understand, you do not un- 
 derstand; mamma's life satisfies her, your life contents you; 
 mine does not content me it is all vague and empty. 1 
 should welcome anything that changed this monotony; 
 even sorrow would be better than this dead level one day 
 BO like another, I can never distinguish them." 
 
 " My dear Beatrice, think of what you are saying," said 
 Lillian. 
 
 " I am tired of thinking," said Beatrice; "for tha last 
 ten years 1 have been told to ' think ' and 'reflect.' I 
 have thought all 1 can; I want a fresh subject" 
 
 * Think how beautiful those far-off white sails look," 
 Lillian " how they gleam in the sunshine. See, that
 
 DORA THORNE. 
 
 one looks like a mysterious baud raised to beckon us 
 away." 
 
 "Such ideas are very well for you, Lillian," retorted 
 Beatrice. " I see nothing in them. Look at the stories 
 we read; how different those girls are from us! They 
 have fathers, brothers, and friends; they have jewels and 
 dresses; they have handsome admirers, who pay them 
 homage; they dance, ride, and enjoy themselves. Now 
 look at us, shut up here with old and serious people." 
 
 *' Hush, Beatrice/' said Lillian; ' mamma is not old." 
 
 " Not in years, perhaps," replied Beatrice; " but she 
 seems to me old in sorrow. She is never gay nor light- 
 hearted. Mrs. Vyvian is very kind, but ehe never laughs. 
 Is every one sad and unhappy, 1 wonder? Oh, Lillian, 
 I long to see the world the bright, gay world over the 
 sea there. 1 long for it as an imprisoned bird longs for 
 fresh air and green woods." 
 
 " You would not find it all happiness," said Lillian, 
 sagely. 
 
 " Spare me all truism," cried Beatrice. '* Ah, sister, I 
 am tired of all this; for eleven years the sea has been sing- 
 ing the same songs; those waves rise and fall as they did a 
 hundred years since; the birds sing the same story; the eun 
 shines the same; even the shadow of the great elms fall 
 over the meadow just as it did when we first played there. 
 I long to away from the sound of the sea and the rustling 
 of the elm-trees. 1 want to be where there are girls of my 
 own age, and do as they do. It seems to me we shall go 
 on reading and writing, sewing and drawing, and taking 
 what mamma calls instructive rambles until our heads 
 grow gray." 
 
 "It is not so bad as that, Beatrice," laughed Lillian. 
 " Lady Earle says papa must return some day; then we 
 shall all go to him. " 
 
 " 1 never believe one word of it," said Beatrice, undaunt- 
 edly. " At times 1 could almost declare papa himself was 
 a myth. Why do we not live with him? Why does he 
 write?- We never hear of or from him, save through 
 Karle; besides, Lillian, what do you think I heard 
 M rs. Vyvian say once to grandmamma? It was that we 
 might not go to Earlescourt at all that if papa did not 
 return, or died y >nng, all would go to a Mr. Lionel Dacre,
 
 104 DOHA THORNE. 
 
 and we should remain here. Imagine that fate living e 
 long life and dying at the Elms!" 
 
 "It is all conjecture," said her sister. " Try to be 
 more contented, Beatrice. We do not make our own 
 Jives; we have not the control of our own destiny." 
 
 ".I should like to control mine/' sighed Beatrice. 
 
 *' Try to be contented, darling," continued the sweet, 
 pleading voice. " We all love and admire you. No onft 
 was ever loved more dearly or better than you are. Thfe 
 days are rather long at times, but there are all the won- 
 ders and beauties of Nature and Art. " 
 
 " Nature and Art are all very well," cried Beatrice; 
 *' but give me life." 
 
 She turned her beautiful, restless face from the smiling 
 sea; the south wind dancing over the yellow gorse caught 
 up the words uttered in that clear, musical voice and car- 
 ried them over the cliff to one who was lying with half- 
 closed eyes under the shade of a large tree a young man 
 with a dark, half-Spanish face handsome with a coarse 
 kind of beauty. He was lying there, resting upon the turf, 
 enjoying the beauty of the morning. As the musical voice 
 reached him, and the strange words fell upon his ear, he 
 smiled and raised his head to see who uttered them. He 
 saw the young girls, but their faces were turned from him; 
 those words rang in his ears " Nature and Art are all 
 very well, but give me life." 
 
 Who was it longed for life? He understood the long- 
 ing; he resolved to wait there until the girls went away. 
 Again he heard the same voice. 
 
 " I shall leave you to your sails, Lillian. 1 wish those 
 same boats would come to carry us away 1 wish I had 
 wings and could fly over the sea and see the bright, grand 
 world that lies beyond it. Good-bye; I am tired of the 
 never-ending wash of those long, low waves." 
 
 He saw a young girl rise from the fragrant heather and 
 turn to descend the cliff. Quick as thought he rushed 
 down by another path, and, turning back, contrived to 
 meet her half-way. Beatrice came singing down the cliff. 
 Her humor, never the same ten minutes together, had sud- 
 denly changed. She remembered a new and beautiful 
 song that Lady Earle had sent, and determined to go homa 
 and try it. There came no warning to her that bright 
 summer morning. The south wind lif tc Iv.e hair from
 
 DORA THORITE. 105 
 
 her brow and rafted the fragrance of hawtnorn Duds and 
 spring flower'' to greet her, but it brought DO warning mes- 
 sage; the birds singing gayly, the sun shining so brightly 
 could not tell her that the first link in a terrible chain was 
 to be forged that morning. 
 
 Half-way down the cliff, where the path was steep and 
 narrow, Beatrice suddenly met the stranger. A stranger 
 was a rarity at the Elms. Only at rare intervals did ao 
 artist or a tourist seek shelter and hospitality at the old 
 farm-house. The stranger seemed to be a gentleman. 
 For one moment both stood still; then, with a low bow, 
 the gentleman stepped aside to let the young girl pass. As 
 he did so, he noted the rare beauty of that brilliant face 
 he remembered the longing words. 
 
 " Mo wonder/' he thought; " it is a sin for such a face 
 as that to be hidden here." 
 
 The beauty of those magnificent eyes startled him. 
 Who was she? What could she beadoiug here? Beatrice 
 turning again, saw the stranger looking eagerly after her, 
 with profound admiration expressed in every feature of his 
 tace; and that admiring gaze, the first she had ever re- 
 wived in her life, sunk deep into the vain, girlish heart. 
 
 He watqhed the graceful, slender figure until the turn 
 of the road hid Beatrice from his view. He followed her 
 at a safe distance, and saw her cross the long meadows that 
 led to the Elms. Then Hugh Fernely waited with patience 
 until one of the farm laborers came by. By- judicious 
 questioning he discovered much of the history of the beauti- 
 ful young girl who longed for life. Her face haunted him 
 its brilliant, queenly beauty, the dark, radiant eyes. 
 Come what might, Hugh Fernely said to himself, he must 
 see her again. 
 
 On the following morning he saw the girls return to the 
 clilT. Lillian finished her picture. Ever and anon he 
 heard Beatrice singing, in a low, rich voice, a song that 
 had charmed her with its weird beauty: 
 
 " For men must work, and women murt weep 
 And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep 
 And good-bye to the bar and its moaning." 
 
 "1 like those words, Lillian," he heard her say. *' I 
 wonder how soon it will be ' over ' for me. Shall I ever 
 weep, as the song says? I have never wept yet"
 
 106 K)RA THORKE. 
 
 This morning the golden-haired sister left the cliff first, 
 and Beatrice sat reading until the noonday sun shone upon 
 the sea. Her book charmed her; it was a story telling of 
 the life she loved and longed for of the gay, glad world. 
 Unfortunately all the people in the book were noble, 
 heroic, and ideal. The young girl, in her simplicity, be- 
 lieved that they who lived in the world she longed for 
 where all like the people in her book. 
 
 When she left the path that led to the meadows, she saw 
 by her side the stranger who had met her the day before. 
 Again he bowed profoundly, and, with many well-expressed 
 apologies, asked some trifling question about the road. 
 
 Beatrice replied briefly, but she could not help seeing 
 the wonder of admiration in his face. Her own grew crim- 
 son under his gaze he saw it, and his heart beat high 
 with triumph. As Beatrice went through the meadows he 
 walked by her side. She never quite remembered how it 
 happened, but in a few minutes he was telling her how 
 many years had passed since he had seen the spring in 
 England. She forgot all restraint, all prudence, and 
 raised her beautiful eyes to his. 
 
 " Ah, then," she cried, " you have seen the great world 
 that lies over the wide sea." 
 
 " Yes/' he replied, " I have seen it. I have been in 
 strange, bright lands, so different from England that they 
 seemed to belong to another world. 1 have seen many 
 climes, bright skies, and glittering seas, where the spice 
 Islands lie. " 
 
 As he spoke, in words that were full of wild, untutored 
 eloquence, he saw the young girFs eyes riveted upon him. 
 Sure of having roused her attention, he bowed, apologized 
 for his intrusion, anl left her. 
 
 Had Dora been like other mothers, Beatrice would have 
 related this little adventure and told of the handsome young 
 traveler who had been in strange climes. As it was, know- 
 ing her mother's utter dread of all men her fear lest her 
 children should ever love and marry Beatrice never 
 named the subject. She thought much of Hugh Fernely 
 not of him himself, but of the world he had spoken about 
 and she hoped it might happen to her to meet him again t 
 
 "If we had some one here who could talk in that way," 
 she said to herself, " the Elms would not be quite so in- 
 supportable."
 
 DORA THORJSTE. 107 
 
 Two days afterward, Beatrice, wandering on the sands, 
 met Hugh Fernely. She saw the startled look of delight 
 on his face, and smiled at his pleasure. 
 
 " Pray forgive me/* he said. " I I can not pass you 
 without one word. Time has seemed to me like one long 
 night since 1 saw you last." 
 
 He held in his hand some beautiful lilies of the valley 
 every little white waxen bell was perfect. He offered 
 them to her with a low bow. 
 
 ** This is the most beautiful flower I have seen for many 
 years," he said. " May I be forgiven for begging permis- 
 sion to offer it to the most beautiful lady I have ever seen?" 
 
 Beatrice took it from him, blushing at his words. He 
 walked by her side along the yellow sands, the waves roll- 
 ing in and breaking at their feet. Again his eloquence 
 charmed her. ' He told her his name, and how he was cap- 
 tain of a trading vessel. Instinctively he seemed to un- 
 derstand her character her romantic, ideal way of looking 
 at everything. He talked to her of the deep seas and their 
 many wonders; of the ocean said to be fathomless; of the 
 coral islands and of waters in whose depths the oyster con- 
 taining the pale, gleaming pearl is found; of the quiet 
 nights spent at sea, where the stars shine as they never 
 sei-ni to shine on land; of the strange hush that falls upon 
 the heaving waters before a storm. He told of long daya 
 when they were becalmed upon the green deep, when the 
 vessel seemed 
 
 " A painted ship upon a painted ocean." 
 
 With her marvelous fancy and quick imagination she fol- 
 lowed him to the wondrous depth of silent waters where 
 strange shapes, never seen by human eye, abound. She 
 hung upon his words; he saw it, and rejoiced in his suc- 
 cess. He did not startle her by any further compliment, 
 but when their walk was ended he told her that morning 
 would live in his memory as the happiest time of his life. 
 
 After a few days it seemed to become a settled thing that 
 Beatrice should meet Hugh Fernely. Lillian wondered 
 that her sister so often preferred lonely rambles, but she 
 saw the beautiful face she loved so dearly grow brighter 
 and happier, never dreaming the cause 
 
 For 'many long days little thought oi Hugh Fernely came 
 to Rvitriee. Her mind ran always upon **hat he had told
 
 108 DORA THORNE. 
 
 her upon his description of what he had seen and heard. 
 He noted this, and waited with a patience born of love for 
 the time when she should take an interest in him. 
 
 Words were weak in which to express the passionate love 
 he felt for this beautiful and stately young girl. It seemed 
 to him like a fairy tale. On the morning he first saw Bea- 
 trice he had been walking a long distance, and had lain 
 down to rest on the cliffs. There the beautiful vision had 
 dawned upon him. The first moment he gazed into that 
 peerless face he loved Beatrice with a passion that fright- 
 ened himself. He determined to win her at any cost. 
 
 At last and by slow degrees he began to speak of her and 
 himself, slowly and carefully, his keen eyes noting every 
 change upon her face; he began to offer her delicate com- 
 pliments and flattery so well disguised that it did not seem 
 to her flattery at all. He made her understand that he be- 
 lieved her to be the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld. 
 He treated her always as though she were a queen, and he 
 her humblest slave. 
 
 Slowly but surely the sweet poison worked its way; the 
 day came when that graceful, subtle flattery was necessary 
 to the very existence of Beatrice Earle. There was much 
 to excuse her; the clever, artful man into whose hands she 
 had fallen was her first admirer the first who seemed to 
 remember she was no longer a child, and to treat her with 
 deferential attention. Had she been, as other girls are, 
 surrounded by friends, accustomed to society, properly 
 trained, prepared by the tender wisdom of a loving mother, 
 she would never have cast her proud eyes upon Hugh 
 Feruely; she would never have courted the danger or run 
 th risk. 
 
 As it was, while Dora preferred solitude, and nourished 
 a keen dislike to her husband in her heart while Ronald 
 yielded to obstinate pride, and neglected every duty while 
 both preferred the indulgence of their own tempers, and 
 neglected the children the Almighty intrusted to them, 
 Beatrice went on to her fate. 
 
 It was so sad a story, the details so simple yet so pitiful. 
 Every element of that impulsive, idealistic nature helped 
 on the tragedy. Hugh Fernely understood Beatrice as 
 
 Eerhaps no one else ever did. He idealized himself. To 
 er at length he became a hero who had met with number- 
 less adventures a hero who had traveled and fought,
 
 DORA THOK2JE. 109 
 
 brave arid generous. After a time he spoke to her of love, 
 at first never appearing to suppose that she could care for 
 him, but telling her of his own passionate worship how 
 her face haunted him, filled his dreams at night, and shone 
 before him all day how the very ground she stood upon 
 was sacred to him how he envied the flowers she touched 
 how he would give up everything to be the rose that died 
 in her hands. It was all very pretty and poetical, and he 
 knew how to find pretty, picturesque spots in the woods 
 where the birds and the flowers helped him to tell his story. 
 
 Beatrice found it very pleasant to be worshiped like a 
 queen; there was no more monotony for her. Every 
 morning she looked forward to seeing Hugh to learning 
 more of those words that seemed to her like sweetest music. 
 She knew that at some time or other during the day she 
 would see him; he never tired of admiring her beauty. 
 Blameworthy was the sad mother with her stern doctrines, 
 blameworthy the proud, neglectful father, that she knew 
 not how wrong all this was. He loved her; in a thousand 
 eloquent ways he told her so. She was his loadstar, beauti- 
 ful :ind peerless. It was far more pleasant to sit on the 
 sea-shore, or under the greenwood trees, listening to such 
 words than to pass long, dreary hours in-doors. And 
 none of those intrusted with the care of the young girl ever 
 dreamed of her danger. 
 
 So this was the love her mother dreaded so much. This 
 was the love poets sung of and novelists wrote about. It 
 was pleasant; but in after-days, when Beatrice herself 
 came to love, she know that this had been but child's play. 
 
 it was the romance of the stolen meeting that, charmed 
 Beatrice. If Hugh had been admitted to the Elms she 
 would have wearied of him in a week; but the concealment 
 gave her something to think of. There was something to 
 occupy her mind; every day she must arrange for a long 
 ramble, so that she might meet Hugh. So, while the corn 
 grew ripe in the fields, and the blossoms died away while 
 warm, luxurious summer ruled with his golden wand 
 Ronald Earle's daughter went on to her fate. 
 
 CHAFIER XVI II. 
 
 AT length there mtin' an ii-icrruption to Hugh Fernely's 
 love-dream. The time drew near when li must leave Sea*
 
 110 DOEA THOBNB. 
 
 bay. The vessel he commanded was bound for China, and 
 was to sail in a few days. The thought that he must leave 
 the beautiful girl he loved so dearly and so deeply struck 
 him with unendurable pain; he seemed only to have lived 
 sJnce he had met her, and he knew that life without her 
 would be a burden too great for him to bear. He asked 
 himself a hundred times over: " Does she love me?" He 
 could not tell. He resolved to try. He dared not look 
 that future in the face which should take her from him. 
 
 The time drew near; the day was settled on which the 
 " Seagull " was to set sail, and yet Hugh Fernely had won 
 no promise from Beatrice Earle. 
 
 One morning Hugh met her at the stile leading from 
 the field into the meadow lane the prettiest spot in Knuts- 
 ford. The ground was a perfectly beautiful carpet of flow- 
 ers wild hyacinths, purple foxgloves, pretty, pale straw- 
 berry blossoms all grew there. The hedges were one mass 
 of wild roses and woodbine; the tall elm-trees that ran along 
 the lane met shadily overhead; the banks on either side 
 were radiant in different colored mosses; huge ferns sur- 
 rounded the roots of the trees. 
 
 Beatrice liked the quiet, pretty, green meadow lana 
 She often walked there, and on this eventful morning Hugh 
 saw her sitting in the midst of the fern leaves. He was by 
 her side in a minute, and his dark, handsome face lighted 
 up with joy. 
 
 " How the sun shines!" he said. " I wonder the birds 
 begin to sing and the flowers to bloom before you are out, 
 Miss Earle/' 
 
 " But 1 am not their sun," replied Beatrice with a smile. 
 
 " But you are mine," cried Hugh; and before she could 
 reply he was kneeling at her feet, her hands clasped in his, 
 while he told her of the love that was wearing his life away. 
 
 No one could listen to such words unmoved; they were 
 true and eloquent, full of strange pathos. He told her 
 how dark without her the future would be to him, how sad 
 and weary his life; whereas if she would only love him, and 
 let him claim her when be returned, he would make her as 
 happy as a queen. He would take her to the bright sunny 
 lands would show her all the beauties and wonders she 
 longed to see would buy her jewels and dresses such ai 
 her beauty deserved would be her humble, devoted slave, 
 if she would onlY love hiirv
 
 DOEA THOBNE. Ill 
 
 It was very pleasant the bright morning, the picturesque 
 glade, the warmth and brightness of summer all around. 
 Beatrice looked at the handsome, pale face with emotion, 
 she felt Hugh's warm lips pressed to her hand, she felt hot 
 tears rain upon her fingers, and wondered at such love. 
 Yes, this was the love she had read of and thought about. 
 
 " Beatrice/' cried Hugh, " do not undo me with one 
 word. Say you love me, my darling say I may return, 
 and claim you as my own. Your whole life shall be like 
 one long, bright summer's day. " 
 
 She was carried away by the burning torrent of passion- 
 ate words. With all her spirit and pride she felt weak and 
 powerless before the mighty love of this strong roan. Al- 
 most unconscious of what she did, Beatrice laid her white 
 hands upon the dark, handsome head of her lover. 
 
 '* Hush, Hugh," she said, " you frighten me. 1 do love 
 you; see, your tears wet my hand." 
 
 It was not a very enthusiastic response, but it satisfied 
 him. He clasped the young girl in his arms, and she did 
 not resist; he kissed the proud lips and the flushed cheek. 
 Beatrice Earle said no word; she was half frightened, half 
 touched, and wholly subdued. 
 
 " Now you are mine/' cried Hugh " mine, my own 
 peerless one; nothing shall part us but death!" 
 
 ** Hush!" cried Beatrice, again shuddering as with cold 
 fear. " That is a word I dislike and dread so much, Hugh 
 do not use it." 
 
 " I will not/' he replied; and then Beatrice forgot her 
 fears. He was so happy he loved her so dearly he was 
 BO proud of winniug her. She listened through the long 
 hours of that sunny morning. It was the fifteenth of July 
 he made her note the day and in two years he would re- 
 turn to take her forever from the quiet house where her 
 beauty and grace alike were buried. 
 
 That was the view of the matter that had seized upon 
 the girl's imagination. It was not so much love for Hugh 
 she liked him. His flattery the excitement of meeting 
 him his love, had become necessary to her; but had any 
 other means of escape from the monotony she hated pre- 
 sented itself, she would have availed herself of it quite as 
 eagerly. Hugh was not so much a lover to her as a 
 medium of escape from a life that daily became more and 
 more unendurable.
 
 DOHA THORNE. 
 
 She listened with bright smiles when he told her that; in 
 two years he should return to fetch her; and she, thinking 
 much of the romance, and little of the dishonor of conceal- 
 ment, told him how her sad young mother hated and 
 dreaded all mention of love and lovers. 
 
 " Then you must never tell her," he said " leave thai 
 for me until I return. I shall have money then, and per- 
 haps the command of a fine vessel. She will not refuse 
 me when she knows how dearly 1 love you, and even should 
 your father the father you tell of come home, you will 
 be true to me, Beatrice, will you not?" 
 
 " Yes, I will be true," she replied and, to do her 
 justice, she meant it at the time. Her father's return 
 seemed vague and uncertain; it might take place in ten or 
 twenty years it might never be. Hugh offered her free- 
 dom and liberty in two years. 
 
 '* If others should seek your love," he said, " should 
 praise your beauty, and offer you rank or wealth, you will 
 say to yourself that you will be true to Hugh?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, 'firmly, " I will do so." 
 
 " Two years will soon pass away," said he. " Ah, 
 Beatrice," he continued, "I shall leave you next Thurs- 
 day; give me all the hours you can. Once away from you, 
 all time will seem to me a long, dark night." 
 
 It so happened that the farmer and his men were at 
 work in a field quite on the other side of Knutsford. Dora 
 and Lillian were intent, the one upon a box of books newly 
 arrived, the other upon a picture; so Beatrice had every 
 day many hours at her disposal. She spent them all with 
 Hugh, whose love seemed to increase with every moment. 
 
 Hugh was to leave Seabay on Thursday, and on Wednes- 
 day evening he lingered by her side as though he could not 
 part with her. To do Hugh Fernely justice, he loved Bea- 
 trice for herself. Had she been a penniless beggar he 
 would have loved her just the same. The only dark cloud 
 in his sky was the knowledge that she was far above him. 
 Still, he argued to himself, the story she told of her father 
 was an impossible one. He did not believe that Ronald 
 Earle would ever take his daughters home he did not 
 quite know what to think, but he had no fear on that score. 
 
 On the Wednesday evening they wandered down the cliff 
 and sat upon the shore, watching the sun set over the 
 waters. Hugh took from his pocket a little morocco case
 
 DORA THORNE. '113 
 
 tod placed it in Beatrice's hands. She opened it, and cried 
 out with admiration; there lay the most exquisite ring she 
 had ever seen, of pure pale gold, delicately and elaborately 
 chased, and set with three gleaming opals of rare beauty. 
 
 " Look at the motto inside," said Hugh. 
 
 She held the ring in her dainty white fingers, and read: 
 ** Until death parts us." 
 
 *' Oh, Hugh," she cried, " that word again? I dread 
 it; why is it always coming before me?" 
 
 He smiled at her fears, and asked her to let him place 
 the ring upon her finger. 
 
 *' In two years," he said, " I shall place a plain gold 
 ring on this beautiful hand. Until then wear this, Bea- 
 trice, for my sake; it is our betrothal-ring." 
 
 " It shall not leave my finger," she said. " Mamma 
 will not notice it, and every one else will think she haa 
 given it to me herself. " 
 
 " And now," said Hugh, " promise me once more, Bea- 
 trice, you will be true to me you will wait for me that 
 when I return you will let me claim you as my own?" 
 
 " I do promise," she said, looking at the sun shining on 
 the opals. 
 
 Beatrice never forgot the hour that followed. Proud, 
 impetuous, and imperial as she was, the young man's lovo 
 and sorrow touched her as nothing had ever done. The 
 sunbeams died away in the west, the glorious mass of tinted 
 clouds fell like a veil over the evening sky, the waves came 
 in rapidly, breaking into sheets of white, creamy foam in 
 tin- gathering darkness, but still he could not leave her. 
 
 " 1 must go, Hugh," said Beatrice, at length; " mam- 
 ma will miss me." 
 
 She never forgot the wistful eyes lingering upon her face. 
 
 " Once more, only once more," he said. '* Beatrice, 
 n iy love, when 1 return you will be my wife?" 
 
 " Yes/' she replied, startled alike by his grief and hia 
 love. 
 
 " Never be false to me," he continued. " If you 
 were " 
 
 " What then?" she asked, with a smile, as ho paused. 
 
 " I should either kill myself or you," he replied, " per- 
 hajK both. Do not make me say such terrible things. It 
 could not be. The sun may fall from the heavens, the sea 
 rolling there may become dry land. Xatun thing
 
 114. DORA THOKNE. 
 
 may prove lalse, but not you, the noblest, the truest of 
 women. Say ' I love you, Hugh/ and let those be your 
 last words to me. They will go with me over the wide 
 ocean, and be my rest and stay." 
 
 " I love you, Hugh," she said, as he wished her. 
 
 Something like a deep, bitter sob came from his white 
 ^ips. Death itself would have been far easier than leaving 
 ner. He raised her beautiful face to his his tears and 
 kisses seemed to burn it and then he was gone. 
 
 Gone! The romance of the past few weeks, the engross- 
 ing interest, all suddenly collapsed. To-morrow the old 
 monotonous life must begin again, without flattery, praise, 
 or love. He had gone; the whole romance was ended; 
 nothing of it remained save the memory of his love and the 
 ring upon her finger. 
 
 At first there fell upon Beatrice a dreadful blank. The 
 monotony, the quiet, the simple occupations, were more 
 unendurable than ever; but in a few days that feeling wore 
 off, and then she began to wonder at what she had done. 
 The glamour fell from before her eyes; the novelty and ex- 
 citement, the romance of the stolen meetings, the pleasant 
 homage of love and worship no longer blinded her. Ah, 
 and before Hugh Feruely had been many days and nights 
 upon the wide ocean, she ended by growing rather ashamed 
 of the matter, and trying to think of it as little as she 
 could! Once she half tried to tell Lillian; but the look of 
 horror on the sweet, pure face startled her, and she turned 
 the subject by some merry jest. 
 
 Then there came a letter from Mrs. Vyvian announcing 
 her return. The girls were warmly attached to the lady, 
 who had certainly devoted the ten best years of her life to 
 them. She brought with her many novelties, new books, 
 new music, amusing intelligence from the outer world. 
 For some days there was no lack of excitement and amuse- 
 ment; then all fell again into the old routine. 
 
 Mrs. Vyvian saw a great change in Beatrice. Some of 
 the old impetuosity had died away; she was as brilliant as 
 ever, full of life and gayety, but in some way there was an 
 indescribable change. At times a strange calm would 
 come over the beautiful face, a far-off, dreamy expression 
 steal into the dark, bright eyes. She had lost her old 
 frankness. Time was when Mrs. Vyvian could read all her 
 thoughts, and very rebellious thoughts they often were.
 
 DORA THOENE. 115 
 
 But now there seemed to be a sealed chamber in the girl's 
 heart. She never spoke of the future, and for the first 
 time her watchful friend saw in her a nervous fear that 
 distressed her. Carefully and cautiously the governess tried 
 to ascertain the cause; she felt sure at last that, young as 
 she was, carefully as she had been watched, Beatrice Earle 
 had a secret in her life that she shared with no one else. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THERE were confusion and dismay in the stately home 
 of the Earles. One sultry morning in August Lord Earle 
 went out into the garden, paying no heed to the excessive 
 heat. As he did not return to luncheon, the butler went 
 in search of him and found his master lying as one dead on 
 the ground. He was carried to his own room, doctors were 
 summoned in hot haste from far and near; everything that 
 science or love, skill or wisdom could suggest was done for 
 him, but all in vain. The hour had come when he must 
 leave home, rank, wealth, position whatever he valued 
 most when he must answer for his life and what he had 
 done with it when he must account for wealth, talent, 
 for the son given to him when human likings, human 
 passions, would seem so infinitely little. 
 
 But while Lord Earle lay upon the bed, pale and uncon- 
 scious, Lady Earle, who knelt by him and never left him, 
 felt sure that his mind and heart were both active. He 
 could not speak; he did not seem to understand. Who 
 knows what passes in those dread moments of silence, when 
 the light of eternity shows so clearly all that we have done 
 in the past ? It may be that while he lay there, hovering 
 as it were between two worlds, the remembrance of his son 
 struck him like a two edged sword his son, his onlychild 
 given to him to train, not only for earth but for heaven 
 the boy he had loved and idolized, then cast off, and al- 
 lowed to become a wanderer on the face of the earth. It 
 may be that his stern, sullen pride, his imperious self-will, 
 his resolute trampling upon the voice of nature and duty, 
 confronted him in the new light shining upon him. Per- 
 haps his own words returned to him, that until he lay dead 
 Ronald should never see Earlescourt again ; for suddenly 
 the voice they thought hushed forever sounded strangely 
 in the silence of that death-chamber.
 
 i!6 DORA THORNE. 
 
 " My son!*' cried the dying man, clasping his hands. 
 " my son!" 
 
 Those who saw it never forgot the blank, awful terror 
 that came upon the dying face as he uttered his last words. 
 
 They bore the weeping wife from the room. Lady 
 Earle, strong and resolute though she was, could not drive 
 that scene from her mind. She was ill for many days, and 
 so it happened that the lord of Earlescourt was laid in tht 
 family vault long ere the family at the Elms knew of the 
 change awaiting them. 
 
 Ronald was summoned home in all haste; but months 
 passed ere letters reached him, and many more before he 
 returned to England. 
 
 Lord Earle's will was brief, there was no mention of his 
 son's name. There was a handsome provision for Lady 
 Earle, the pretty little estate of Roslyu was settled uporr 
 'her; the servants received numerous legacies; Sir Harry 
 Laurence and Sir Hugh Charteris were each to receive a 
 magnificent mourning-ring; but there was no mention of 
 the once-loved son and heir. 
 
 As the heir at law, everything was Ronald's the large 
 amount of money the late lord had saved, title, estates, 
 everything reverted to him. But Ronald would have ex- 
 changed all for one line of forgiveness, one word of pardon 
 from the father he had never ceased to love. 
 
 It was arranged that until Ronald's return his mother 
 should continue to reside at Earlescourt, and the manage- 
 ment of the estates was intrusted to Mr. Burt, the family 
 solicitor. 
 
 Lady Earle resolved to go to the Elms herself; great 
 changes must be made there. Ronald's wife and children 
 must take their places in the world; and she felt a proud 
 satisfaction in thinking that, thanks to her sensible and 
 judicious management, Dora would fill her future position 
 with credit. She anticipated Ronald's delight when he 
 should see his beautiful and accomplished daughters. De- 
 spite her great sorrow, the lady of Earlescourt felt some 
 degree of hope for the future. She wrote to the Elms, tell- 
 ing Dora of her husband's death, and announcing her own 
 coming; then the little household understood that their 
 quiet and solitude had ended forever. 
 
 The first thing was to provide handsome mourning. 
 Dora was strangely quiet and sad through it all. The girls
 
 DORA THORNE. 11? 
 
 asked a hundred questions about their father, whom they 
 longed to see. They knew he had left home in conse- 
 quence of some quarrel with his father so much Lady 
 Earle told them but they never dreamed that his mar- 
 riage had caused the fatal disagreement; they never knew 
 that, for their mother's sake, Lady Earle carefully con- 
 cealed all knowledge of it from them. 
 
 L;i ly Earle reached the Elms one evening in the begin- 
 ning of September. She asked first to see Dora alone. 
 
 During the long years Dora had grown to love the state- 
 ly, gentle lady who was Ronald's mother. She could not 
 resist her sweet, gracious dignity and winning manners. 
 So, when Lady Earle, before seeing her granddaughters, 
 went to Dora's room, wishing for a long consultation with 
 her, Dora received her with gentle, reverential affection. 
 
 " 1 wish to see you first," said Lady Helena Earle, " so 
 that we may arrange our plans before the children know, 
 anything of them. Ronald will return to England in a 
 few months. Dora, what course shall you adopt?" 
 
 " None," she replied. " Your son's return has nothing 
 whatever to do with me." 
 
 "But, surely," said Lady Helena, "for the children's 
 Bake you will not refuse at least an outward show of rec- 
 onciliation?" 
 
 " Mr. Earle has not asked it," said Dora "he never 
 will do so, Lady Helena. It is as far from his thoughts as 
 from mine." 
 
 Lady Earle sat for some moments too much astounded 
 for speech. 
 
 " 1 never inquired the cause of your separation, Dora," 
 she said, gently, " and I never wish to know it. Mv sou 
 told me you could live together no longer. I loved my 
 own husband; I was a devoted and affectionate wife to him. 
 1 bore with his faults and loved his virtues, so that 1 can 
 not imagine what 1 should do were I in your place. I say 
 to you what I should say to Ronald they are solemn 
 wor.ls * What therefore God hath joined together, let no 
 man put asunder.' Now let me tell you my opinion. It 
 is this, that nothing can justify such a separation as yours 
 nothing but the most outrageous offenses or the most 
 barbarous cruelty. Take the right course, Dora; submit 
 :tr husband. Believe nu, woman's rights are all fancy 
 and nonsense; loving, gentle submission is the fairest orna-
 
 US DORA THOBtfE. 
 
 ment of woman. Even should Ronald be in the wrong, 
 trample upon all pride and temper, and make the first ad- 
 vances to him." 
 
 " I can not," said Dora, gravely. 
 
 " Ronald was always generous and chivalrous," contin* 
 ned Lady Earle. " Oh, Dora, have you forgotten how my 
 ooy gave up all the world for you?" 
 
 " No," she replied, bitterly; " nor has he forgotten it, 
 Lady Earle." 
 
 The remembrance of what she thought her wrongs rosa 
 visibly before her. She saw again the magnificent face of 
 Valentine Charteris, with its calm, high-bred wonder. She 
 saw her husband's white, angry, indignant countenance 
 gestures full of unutterable contempt. Ah, no, never 
 again! Nothing could heal that quarrel. 
 
 " You must take your place in the world," continued 
 Lady Earle. ' ' You are no longer simply Mrs. Earle of 
 the Elms: you are Lady Earle, of Earlescourt, wife of its 
 lord, the mother of his children. You have duties too 
 numerous for me to mention, and you must not shrink 
 from them." 
 
 " I refuse all/* she replied, calmly; " I refuse to share 
 your son's titles, his wealth, his position, his duties; I re- 
 fuse to make any advances toward a reconciliation; I refuse 
 to be reconciled." 
 
 " And why?" asked Lady Helena, gravely. 
 
 A proud flush rose to Dora's face hot auger stirred in 
 her heart 
 
 " Because your son said words to me that 1 never can 
 and never will forget," she cried. " 1 did wrong Lady 
 Helena, I was mad, jealous, blind I did wrong I did 
 what 1 now know to be dishonorable and degrading. 1 
 knew" no better, and he might have pardoned me, remem- 
 bering that. Bat before the woman I believe to be my 
 rival he bitterly regretted having made me his wife." 
 
 " They were hard words," said Lady Earle. 
 
 ** Very hard," replied Dora; " they broke my heart 
 they slew me in my youth; I have never lived since then." 
 
 " Can you never forgive and forget them, Dora?" asked 
 Lady Helena. 
 
 " Never," she replied; " they are burned into my heart 
 and on njy brain. I, shall never forget them; your son and 
 1 must be strangers, Lady Earle, while we live."
 
 DORA THORNB. 119 
 
 " 1 can say no more," sighed Lady Earle. " Perhaps a 
 mightier voice will call to you, Dora, and then you will 
 obey. " 
 
 A deep silence fell upon them. Lady Helena was more 
 grieved and disconcerted than she cared to own. She had 
 thought of taking her son's wife and children home in tri- 
 umph, but it was not to be. 
 
 Shall we speak of the children now?" she asked at 
 length. " Some arrangements must be made for them." 
 Yes." said Dora, '* their father has claims upon them. 
 I am ready to yield to them. I do not believe he will erer 
 love them or care for them, because they are mine. At 
 the same time, I give them up to him and to you, Lady 
 Earle. The sweetest and best years of their lives have been 
 spent with me; 1 must therefore not repine. I have but 
 one stipulation to make, and it is that my children shall 
 never hear one word against me." 
 
 44 You know little of me," said Lady Helena, " if you 
 think such a thing is possible. You would rather part 
 with your children than accompany them?" 
 
 44 Far rather," she replied. ' 4 1 know you will jllow 
 them to visit me, Lady Earle. I have known for many 
 rears that such a time must come, and I am prepared for 
 it." 
 
 " But, my dear Dora," said Lady Earle, warmly, " have 
 you considered what parting with your children implies 
 the solitude, the desolation?" 
 
 44 1 know it all," replied Dora. " It will be hard, but 
 not so hard nor so bitter as living under the same roof with 
 tht'ir father. " 
 
 Carefully and quietly Dora listened to Lady Earle's plans 
 and arrangements how her children were to go to Earles- 
 court and take the position belonging to them. Mrs. Vyv- 
 ian was to go with them and remain until Lord Eurle re- 
 turned. Until then they were not to be introduced into 
 society; it would take some time to accustom them to so 
 great a change. When Lord Earle returned he could pur- 
 sue what course he would. 
 
 "lie will be so proud of them!" said Lady Earle. " I 
 bave never seen a girl so spirited and beautiful as Beatrice, 
 nor one so fair and gentle as Lillian. Oh, Dora, I should 
 be happy if you were going with us." 
 
 few days of busy preparation did
 
 120 DORA THORNS. 
 
 Dora's proud courage give way. The girls at first refused 
 to leave her; they exhausted themselves in conjectures as 
 .to her continued residence at the Elms, and were forced to 
 be satisfied with Lady Earle's off-hand declaration that their 
 mother could not endure any but a private life. 
 
 " Mamma has a title now," said Beatrice, wonderingly; 
 " why will she not assume it?" 
 
 "Your mother's tastes are simple and plain," replied 
 Lady Earle. " Her wishes must be treated with respect/' 
 
 Dora did not give way until the two fair faces that had 
 brightened her house vanished. When they were gone, 
 and a strange, hushed silence fell upon the place, pride 
 and courage gave way. In that hour the very bitterness of 
 death seemed to be upon her. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IT was a proud moment for Lady Earle when she led the 
 two young girls through the long line of servants assembled 
 to receive them. They were both silent from sheer won- 
 der. They had left Florence at so early an age that they 
 had not the faintest remembrance of the pretty villa on the 
 banks of the Arno. All their ideas were centered in the 
 Elms they had never seen any other home. 
 
 Lady Earle watched the different effect produced upon 
 them by the glimpse of Earlescourt. Lillian grew pale; 
 she trembled, and her wondering eyes filled with tears. 
 Beatrice, ou the contrary, seemed instantly to take in the 
 spirit of the place. Her face flushed; a proud light came 
 into her glorious eyes; her haughty head was carried more 
 regally than ever. There was no timidity, no shyly ex- 
 pressed wonder, no sensitive shrinking from new and un- 
 accustomed splendor. 
 
 They were deeply impressed with the magnificence of 
 their new home. For many long days Lady Earle em- 
 ployed herself in showing the numerous treasures of art 
 and vertu the house contained. The picture-gallery pleased 
 Beatrice most; she gloried in the portraits of the grand old 
 ancestors, " each with a story to his name." 'One morn- 
 ing she stood before Lady Helena's portrait, admiring the 
 striking likeness. Suddenly turning to the stately lady by 
 her side, she said: "All the Ladies Earle are here: where
 
 DORA THORNE. 121 
 
 is my own mamma? Her face is sweet and fair as any of 
 these. Why is there no portrait of her?" 
 
 ' There will be one some day," said Lady Helena. 
 " When your father returns all these things will be seen 
 to." 
 
 " We have no brother/' continued Beatrice. ** Every 
 baron here seems to have been succeeded by his son who 
 will succeed my father?" 
 
 " His next of kin," replied Lady Earle, sadly " Lionel 
 Dacre; he is a third cousin of Lord Earle. He will have 
 both title and estate. " 
 
 She sighed deeply; it was a real trouble to Lady Helena 
 that she should never see her son's son, never love and 
 nurse, never bless the heir of Earlescourt. 
 
 Lillian delighted most in the magnificent gardens, the 
 thickly wild wooded park, where every dell was filled with 
 flowers and ferns, every knoll crowned with noble trees. 
 The lake, with white lilies sleeping on its tranquil bosoio 
 and weeping-willows touching its clear surface, pleased hot 
 most of all. As they stood on its banks, Beatrice, looking 
 into the transparent depths, shuddered, and turned quickly 
 away. 
 
 " 1 am tired of water," she said; " nothing wearied me 
 BO much at Kuutsford as the wide, restless sea. 1 must 
 have been born with a natural antipathy to water." 
 
 Many days passed before they were familiar with Earles- 
 court. Every day brought its new wonders. 
 
 A pretty suite of rooms had been prepared for each sis- 
 ter; they were in the western wing, and communicatul 
 with cadi other. The Italian nurse who had come with 
 them from Florence had preferred remaining with Dora. 
 Lady Earle had engaged two fashionable ladies' maids, had 
 also ordered for each a wardrobe suitable to the daughters 
 of Lord Earle. 
 
 m Mrs. Vyvian had two rooms near her charges. Knotv- 
 iiig that some months might elapse before Ronald returned, 
 Lady Helena settled upon a course of action. The young 
 girls were to kept in seclusion, and not to be introduced to 
 the gay world, seeing only a few old friends of the family; 
 they were to continue to study for a few hours every morn- 
 ing, to drive or wulk with Lady Earle after luncheon, to 
 join her at the seven-o'clock dinner, and to uass the even- 
 ing in the drawing-room.
 
 122 DORA THORNE. 
 
 It was a new and delightful life. Beatrice reveled in the 
 luxury and grandeur that surrounded her. She amused 
 Lady Earle by her vivacious description of the quiet home 
 at the Elms. 
 
 " I feel at home here," she said, " and 1 never did there. 
 At times I wake up, half dreading to hear the rustling of 
 the tall elm-trees, and old Mrs. Thome's voice asking 
 about the cows. Poor mamma! 1 can not understand her 
 taste." 
 
 When they became more accustomed to the new life, the 
 strange incongruity in their family struck them both. On 
 one side a grand old race, intermarried with some of the 
 noblest families in England a stately house, title, wealth, 
 rank, and position; on the other a simple farmer and his 
 homely wife, the plain old homestead, and complete isola- 
 tion from all they considered society. 
 
 How could it be? How came it that their father was 
 lord of Earlescourt and their mother the daughter of a 
 plain country farmer? For the first time it struck them 
 both that there was some mystery in the life of their par- 
 ents. Both grew more shy of speaking of the Elms, feel- 
 ing with the keen instinct peculiar to youth that there waa 
 something unnatural in their position. 
 
 Visitors came occasionally to Earlescourt. Sir Harry 
 and Lady Laurence of Holtham often called; Lady Char- 
 ten's came from Greenoke, and all warmly admired the 
 lovely daughters of Lord Earle. 
 
 Beatrice, with her brilliant beauty, her magnificent 
 voice, and gay, graceful manner, was certainly the favorite. 
 Sir Harry declared she was the finest rider in the county. 
 
 There was an unusual stir of preparation once when 
 Lady Earle told them that the daughter of her devoted 
 friend, Lady Charteris, was coming to spend a few days at 
 Earlescourt. Then, for the first time, they saw the beau- 
 tiful and stately lady whose fate was so strangely interwoven 
 with theirs. 
 
 Valentine Charteris was no longer " the queen of the 
 county." Prince di Borgezi had won the beautiful English 
 woman. He had followed her to GreeLioke, and repeated 
 his question. There was neither coquetry nor affectation 
 in \ alentine she had thought the matter over, and de- 
 cided that she was never likely to meet with any one else 
 she liked and respected so much as her Italian lover. He
 
 DORA THORNB. 123 
 
 bad the virtues, without the faults, of the children of the 
 South; a lavishly generous, princely disposition; well-cul- 
 tivated artistic tastes; good principles and a chivalrous 
 sense of honor. Perhaps the thing that touched her most 
 was his great love for her. In many respects he resembled 
 Ronald Earle more nearly than any one else she had ever 
 met. 
 
 To the intense delight of both parents, Miss Chartoria 
 accepted him. For her sake the prince consented to spend 
 every alternate year in England. 
 
 Three times had the whole country-side welcomed the 
 stately Italian and his beautiful wife. This was their 
 fourth visit to England, and, when the princess heard 
 from Lady Gharteris that Ronald's two daughters, whom 
 she remembered as little babes, were at Earlesconrt, noth- 
 ing would satisfy bet but a visit there. 
 
 The young girls looked in admiring wonder at the lady. 
 They had never seen any one so dazzling or so bright. The 
 calm, grand, Grecian face had gained in beauty; the mag- 
 nificent head, with its wealth of golden hair, the tall, 
 stately figure, charmed them. And when Valentine took 
 them in her arms and kissed them her thoughts went back 
 to the white, wild face in the garden and the dark eyes that 
 had flamed in hot anger upon her. 
 
 " I knew your mother years ago," she said; " has she 
 never mentioned my name? 1 used to nurse you both in 
 the little villa at Florence. I was one of your father's old- 
 est friends." 
 
 No, they had never heard her name; and Beatrice won- 
 dered that her mother could have known and forgotten one 
 so beautiful as the princess. 
 
 The week she remained passed like a long, bright dream. 
 Beatrice almost worshiped Valentine; this was what she 
 had dreamed of long ago; this was one of the ideal ladiea 
 living in the bright, gay world she was learning to under* 
 stand. 
 
 U hen the prince and princess left Earlescourt they made 
 Lady Helena promise that Beatrice and Lillian should visit 
 them at Florence. They spoke of the fair and coquettish 
 I Dim toss Rosali, still a reigning belle, and said how warmly 
 she would welcome them for their father's sake. 
 
 " You talk so much of Italy," said Valentine to Bea- 
 Vi< . ' * It is just the land for the romance you love. You
 
 124 DOHA THORNE. 
 
 Bball see blue skies and sunny seas, vines, and myrtles, anj 
 orange-trees in bloom; you shall see such luxuriance and 
 beauty that you will never wish to return to this cold, 
 dreary England." 
 
 It was thus arranged that, when Lord Earle returned, 
 the visit should be paid. The evening after their guests' 
 departure seemed long and triste. 
 
 " 1 will write to mamma/' said Beatrice; " it is strange 
 she never told us anything of her friend. I must tell her 
 all about the visit." 
 
 Not daring to ask the girls to keep any secret from 
 Dora, Lady Earle was obliged to let the letter go. Thi 
 passionate, lonely heart brooded over every word. Bea- 
 trice dwelt with loving admiration on the calm, grand 
 beauty of the princess, her sweet and gracious manner, her 
 kindly recollection of Dora, and her "urgent invitation to 
 them. Dora read it through calmly, each word stabbing 
 her with cruel pain. The old, fierce jealousy rose in her 
 heart, crushing every gentle thought. She tore the letter, 
 so full of Valentine, into a thousand shreds. 
 
 " She drew my husband from me," she cried, " with the 
 miserable beauty of her fair face, and now she will win my 
 children." 
 
 Then across the fierce tempest of jealous anger came one 
 thought like a ray of light. Valentine was married; she 
 had married the wealthy, powerful prince who had been 
 Ronald's patron; so that, after all, even if she had lured 
 Ronald from her, he had not cared for her, or she had soon 
 ceased to care for him. 
 
 Beatrice thought it still more strange when her mother's 
 reply to that long, enthusiastic letter came. Dora said 
 simply that she had never named the Princess di Borgezi 
 because she was a person whom she did not care to re- 
 member. 
 
 Fifteen months passed, and at length came a letter from 
 Lord Earle, saying that he hoped to reach Eugland before 
 Christmas, and in any case would be with them by Christ- 
 mas-day. It was a short letter, written in the hurry of 
 traveling; the words that touched his children most, were 
 4 ' 1 am glad you have the girls at Earlescourt: I am anxious 
 to see what they are like. Make them happy, mother; let 
 them have all they want; and, if it be possible, after my 
 long neglect, teach them to love me."
 
 DORA THORNE. 12$ 
 
 The letter contained no mention of their mother ; no al- 
 lusion was made to her. The girls marked the weeks go 
 by in some little trepidation. What if, after all, this fa- 
 ther, whom they did not remember, should not like them? 
 Beatrice did not think such a thing very probable, but Lil- 
 lian passed many an hour in nervous, fanciful alarm. 
 
 It was strange how completely all the old life had died 
 away. Both had feit a kind of affection for the homely 
 farmer and his wife they sent many presents to them * 
 but Beatrice would curl her proud lip in scorn when she 
 read aloud that " Mr. and Mrs. Thome desired their 
 humble duty to Lady Earle." 
 
 Lady Earle felt no anxiety about her son's return; look- 
 ing at his daughters, she saw no fault in them. Beautiful, 
 accomplished, and graceful, what more could he desire? 
 She inwardly thanked Providence that neither of them 
 bore the least resemblance to the Thornes. Beatrice looked 
 like one of the Ladies Earle just stepped out from a pict- 
 ure; Lillian, in her fair, dove-like loveliness, was quite as 
 charming. What would Lady Earle so truthful, so hon- 
 orable have thought or said had she known that their 
 bright favorite with the Earle face had plighted her troth, 
 an known to any one, to the captain of a trading-vessel, 
 who was to claim her in two years for his wife? 
 
 Lady Earle had formed her own plans for Beatrice; she 
 Aped the time would come when she would be Lady Earle 
 of Karlescourt. Nothing could be nioro delightful, noth- 
 ing easier, provided Beatrice would marry the young heir, 
 Lionel Dacre. 
 
 One morning, as the sisters sat in Lillian's room, Lady 
 Kurle entered with an unusual expression of emotion on her 
 fair, high-bred faca She held an open letter in her hand. 
 
 "My dear children," she said, "you must each loot 
 
 >ur very best this evening. 1 have a note here your 
 ther will be home to-night" 
 
 The calm, proud voice faltered then, and the stately mis- 
 tress 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; 
 onr< ' "in ho luturd his mother tongue ?piken all around
 
 126 DORA THORNE. 
 
 him; once again ne felt the charm of quiet, sweet .Kn^ou 
 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 bat 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 him- 
 self 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 expresa 
 train whirled through the quiet English landscape. Winter 
 snows had fallen, the great bare branches of the tall trees 
 *rere 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 
 BO 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 & 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 pop- 
 lars every spot was familiar to him. In the distance he 
 saw the lake shining through the trees; he drove pasfc the
 
 DORA THOBNB. 127 
 
 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 m-all 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 could give him back 
 the father whose pride he had humbled in the dust. 
 
 As the carriage rolled up the broad drive, a hundred in- 
 stances of his father's love and indulgence Hashed 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. 
 
 llo 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 be- 
 hind him. His eyes, dimmed with tears, saw a tall, stately 
 lady, who advanced to meet him with open arms. 
 
 The face ho 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 I" 
 
 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 welcoma 
 
 11 How changed you are," she said, drawing him nearer 
 to the fast-fading light. "Your face is quite
 
 128 . DORA THOENE. 
 
 aud you look so many years older so sad, so worn! Oh, 
 Ronald, 1 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/ 1 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. " Yomr 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 be 
 iore came into Lord Earle's face. 
 
 44 Anything but that," he replied, hastily; " I can not 
 do it, mother. 1 could not, if I lay upon my death-bed." 
 
 44 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 unmanlv. I can not forgive her,
 
 DORA THORITES. 129 
 
 mother. I wish her no harm; let her have every luxury my 
 wealth can procure, but do not namo her to me. I should, 
 be utterly devoid of all pride if I could pardon her." 
 
 " Pride on your side," said Lady Eurle, sadly, " au;l 
 temper on hers! Oil, Ronald, how will it end? BJ uiso 
 in time; the most honest and noble man is ho who con- 
 quers himself. Conquer yourself, my son, and pardon 
 Dora." 
 
 " I could more easily die," he replied, bitterly. 
 
 *' Then," said Lady Earle, sorrowfully, ** I must say U 
 you as 1 said to Dora beware: pride and temper must bend 
 and break. Be warned in time." 
 
 '* Mother," interrupted Konald, 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. 1 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 com- 
 ing homo, 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 Hel< 
 ena. " 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 deicended the broad 
 Btaircase, *' I am frightened. I wish 1 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 meet thorn. Beatrice riiised her eyes daunt- 
 lessly and saw before her a tall, stately gentleman with a 
 handsome face, the saddest and noblest she had ever seen 
 clear, keen eyes th I to pierce through all dis 
 
 guise and read all thoughts. 
 
 *' There H Butric0~'<0A i d Lad? Helena, a? she took her
 
 130 DORA THORNE. 
 
 hand gently -, and Eonald 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/* 
 
 " 1 am not helpless now," she replied, with a smile; 
 " and 1 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 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 man- 
 ner, and the fair, pure face. Then Lord Earle took both 
 his children in his arms. 
 
 " 1 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 1 did not 
 realize it." 
 
 And again, when she saw his proud happiness, Lady Hel- 
 ena 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, cosy English comfort, and Lord 
 Earle ]nr.'xJ pleased when he saw it. 
 .
 
 DORA THORNE. 131 
 
 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 sung 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 atten- 
 tionit 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 
 jii.st 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 his 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 hur- 
 ried llight, 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, wae Dora's horn , 
 the pretty, quaint homestead stand ing 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 
 evi-i ? Had the olushing dimpled face grown pale and still? 
 Ami thru, chasing away all softened thought, came the 
 rfim-rubrance of that hateful garden scene. Ah, no, he 
 could never forgive he could not speak of her evsn to
 
 BOEA THOENE. 
 
 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 re- 
 tired, 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; itsheuldbeamodel 
 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; abofi all 
 matters he dreamed of great things for his daughters, es- 
 pecially Beatrice. With her beauty and grace, her mag- 
 nificent 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 he 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 al- 
 liance 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 fair 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 conver- 
 sation 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 
 strong' ?t impression upon him, he would warn his cbil
 
 DOHA THORNE. 135 
 
 dren, and in the same way; so he took tliem to the picture- 
 gallery, where he had last stood with his father. 
 
 With gentle firmness he said: " I have brought you here 
 as 1 have something to say to you which is best said h^re. 
 Years ago, children, my father brought me, as 1 bring you, 
 to warn and advise me I warn and advise you. We are, 
 though so closely related, almost strangers. 1 am ready 
 to love you and do love you. 1 intend to make your 
 happiness my chief study. But there is one thing I 
 must have that is, perfect openness; one thing 1 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, teil me now. I will pardon any impru- 
 dence, any folly, any want of caution everything save de- 
 ceit 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 women; 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 draining, 
 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 Earlo; " it drove me from home, and it made mean 
 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 Hove you, I will never 
 pardon a lie or an act of deceit." 
 
 >% 1 in ver 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."
 
 134 DORA THOKtfE. 
 
 Even as she spoke her lips grew pale with fear, as she 
 remembered the fatal secret of her engagement to Hugh 
 Fernely. 
 
 " 1 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 shull 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. 
 
 " 1 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 after- 
 ward, 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 bs out in the great world soon, and you will doubt- 
 less 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 punish- 
 ment 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 
 
 " riowever dearly 1 might love the one who so trans- 
 gressed," continued Lord Earle, " even if it broke my heart 
 to part from her, 1 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. 1 am half ashamed to speak of such things 
 to you, but it must be done. You are smiling Lillian, 
 what is it?" 
 
 " I should laugh, papa," she replied, " if you did not 
 look so very grave. We must see people in order to love
 
 DORA THORNE. 135 
 
 them. Beatrice, how many do we know in the world? 
 Farmer Leigh, the doctor at Seabay, Doctor Goode, who 
 came to the Elms when mamma was ill, two farm laborers, 
 and the shepherd that was the extent of our acquaintance 
 uutil we came to Earlescourt. I may now add Sir Henry 
 Holt aud Prince di Borgezi to my list. You forget, papa, 
 we have lived out of the world." 
 
 Lord Earle remembered with pleasure that it was true. 
 
 " You will soon be in the midst of a new world," ht> 
 said, " and before you enter society I thought it better to 
 give you this warning. I place no control over your affec- 
 tions; the only thing I forbid, detest, and will never par- 
 don, is any underhand, clandestine love affair. You know 
 not what they would cost. " 
 
 lie remembered afterward how strangely silent Beatrice 
 was, and how her beautiful, proud face was turned from 
 his. 
 
 " It is a disagreeable subject," said Lord Earle, ** and I 
 am pleased to have finished with it it need never be re- 
 newed. Now I have one more thing to say I shall never 
 control or force your affections, but in my heart there is 
 one great wish. 
 
 Lord Earle paused for a few minutes; he was looking at 
 the face of Lady Alicia Earle, whom Beatrice strongly re- 
 sembled. 
 
 " 1 have no son/* he continued, " and you, my daugh- 
 ters, will not inherit title or estate both go to Lionel Dacre. 
 If ever the time should come when Lionel asks either of 
 you to be his wife, my dearest wish will be accomplished. 
 And now, as my long lecture is finished, and the bill has 
 run;:, we will prepare for a visit to Sir Harry and Lady 
 Laurence." 
 
 There was not much time for thought during the rest of 
 the duy; but when night came, and Beatrice was alone, she 
 looked the secret of her life in the face. 
 
 Shu had been strongly tempted, when Lord Earle had 
 
 spoken BO kindly, to tell him all. She now wished she had 
 
 done so; all would have been over. He would perhaps 
 
 hi.leil her simple, girlish folly, and have forgiven lu-r. 
 
 ;ve her now that she had deliberately 
 
 concealed the. fact; the time for forgiveness was past. A 
 ;l mijjht have been told; it was too late 
 :n. Proud of her and fond of her as she
 
 136 DORA THOENE. 
 
 saw Lord Earle was, there would be no indulgence for her 
 if her secret was discovered. 
 
 She would have to leave the magnificent and luxurious 
 home, the splendor that delighted her, the glorious pros- 
 pects opening to her, and return to the Elms, perhaps never 
 to leave it again. Ah, no! the secret must be kept! She 
 did not feel much alarmed; many things might happen. 
 Perhaps the "Seagull " might be lost she thought, with- 
 out pain or sorrow, of the possible death of the man who 
 loved her as few love. 
 
 Even if he returned, he might have forgotten her or 
 never find her. She did not feel very unhappy or ill at 
 ease the chances, she thought, were many in her favor. 
 She had but one thing to do to keep all knowledge of 
 her secret from Lord Earle. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 As time passed on all constraint between Lord Earle and 
 his daughters wore away; Ronald even wondered himself 
 at the force of his own love for them. He had made many 
 improvements since his return. He did wonders upon the 
 estate; model cottages seemed to rise by magic in place of 
 the wretched tenements inhabited by poor tenants; schools, 
 almshouses, churches, all testified to his zeal for improve- 
 ment. People began to speak with warm admiration of 
 the Earlescourt estate and of their master. 
 
 Nor did he neglect social duties: old friends were invited 
 to Earlescourt; neighbors were hospitably entertained. Hia 
 name was mentioned with respect and esteem; the tide of 
 popularity turned in his favor. As the spring drew near, 
 Lord Earle became anxious for his daughters to make their 
 debut in the great world. They could have no better chap- 
 eron than his own mother. Lady Helena was speaking to 
 him one morning of their proposed journey, when Lord 
 Earle suddenly interrupted her. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " where are all your jewels? I 
 never see you wearing any. ' ' 
 
 " I put them all away/' said Lady Earle, " when your 
 father died. I shall never wear them again. The Earle 
 jewels are always worn by the wife of the reigning lord, 
 not by the widow of his predecessor. Those jewels are not 
 mine."
 
 BORA THOBNE. 13? 
 
 '* Shall we look them over?" asked Ronald. ** Some 
 of them might be reset for Beatrice and Lillian. " 
 
 Lady Helena rang for her maid, and the heavy cases of 
 jewelry were brought down. Beatrice was in raptures with 
 them, and her sister smiled at her admiration. 
 
 The jewels might have sufficed for a king's ransom: the 
 diamonds were of the first water; the rubies flashed crim- 
 n; delicate pearls gleamed palely upon their velvet beds; 
 there were emeralds of priceless value. One of the most 
 beautiful and costly jewels was an entire suite of opals in- 
 termixed with small diamonds. 
 
 ** These,'* said Lord Earle, raising the precious stones 
 in his hands, ** are of immense value. Some of the finest 
 opals ever seen are in this necklace: they were taken from 
 the crown of an Indian prince and bequeathed to one of 
 our ancestors. So much is said about the unlucky stone 
 the pierre du malheur, as the French call the ojrl that 
 1 did not care so much for them." 
 
 44 Give me the opals, papa/' said Beatrice, laughing; 
 " 1 have no superstitious fears about them. Brigl *; and 
 beautiful jewels always oeemed to me one of the necessaries 
 of life. I prefer diamonds, but these opals are magnifi- 
 cent." 
 
 She held out her hands, and for the first time Lord Earle 
 saw the opal ring upon her finger. He caught the pretty 
 white hand in his own. 
 
 " That is a beautiful ring," he said. ' These opals are 
 splendid. Who gave it to you, Beatrice?" 
 
 The Question came upon her suddenly like a deadly 
 shock; she had forgotten all about the ring, and wore it 
 only from habit. 
 
 For a moment her heart seemed to stand still and her 
 senses to desert her. Then with a self-possession worthy 
 of a better cause, Beatrice looked up into her father's face 
 with a smile. 
 
 44 It was given to me at the Elms," she said, so simply 
 that the same thought crossed the minds of her three 
 listeners that it had oeen given by Dora and her daughter 
 did not like to say so. 
 
 Lord Earle looked on in proud delight while his beauti- 
 ful daughters chose the jewels they liked best. The differ- 
 ence in taste struck and amused him. Beatrice chose dia-
 
 138 DOBA THOENE. 
 
 monds, fiery rubies, purple amethysts; Lillian cared for 
 nothing but the pretty pale pearls and bright emeralds. 
 
 " Some of these settings are very old-fashioned," said 
 Lord Earle. " We will have new designs from Hunt & 
 Boskell. They must be reset before you go to London. " 
 
 The first thing Beatrice did was to take off the opal ring 
 and lock it away. She trembled still from the shock of her 
 father's question. The fatal secret vexed her. How fool- 
 ish she had been to risk so much for a few stolen hours of 
 happiness for praise and flattery she could not say for 
 
 love. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The time so anxiously looked for came at last. Lord 
 Earle toofc possession of his town mansion, and his daughters 
 prepared for their debut. 
 
 It was in every respect a successful one. People were in 
 raptures with the beautiful sisters, both so charming yet so 
 unlike. Beatrice,^brilliant and glowing, her magnificent 
 face haunted those who saw it like a beautiful dream Lil- 
 lian, fair and "graceful, as unlike her sister as a lily to a 
 rose. 
 
 They soon became the fashion. No ball or soiree, no 
 dance or concert was considered complete without them. 
 Artists sketched them together as Lily and Rose," 
 " Night and Morning," "Sunlight and Moonlight." 
 Poets indited sonnets to them; friends and admirers 
 thronged around them. -As Beatrice said, with a deep- 
 drawn sigh of perfect contentment, " This is life " and 
 she reveled in it. 
 
 That same year the Earl of Airlie attained his majority, 
 and became the center of all fashionable interest. Whether 
 he would marry and whom he would be likely to marry 
 were two questions that interested every mother and 
 daughter in Belgravia. There had not been such an eligi- 
 ble parti for many years. The savings of a long minority 
 alone amounted to a splendid fortune. 
 
 The young earl had vast estates in Scotland. Lynnton 
 Hall and Craig Castle, two of the finest seats in England, 
 were his. His mansion in Belgravia was the envy of all 
 who saw it. 
 
 Young, almost fabulously wealthy, singularly generous 
 and amiable, the young Earl of Airlie was the center of at 
 least half a hn^rJred of matrimonial plots; but he was not
 
 D03A THOBNE. 139 
 
 easily managed. Mammas with blooming daughters found 
 him a difficult subject He laughed, talked, danced, 
 walked, and rode, as society wished him to do; bat uj one 
 had touched his heart, or even his fancy. Lord Airlie was 
 heart-whole, and there seemed no prospect of his ever be. 
 ing anything else. Lady Constance Tachbrook, the pret- 
 tiest, daintiest coquette in London, brought all her artil- 
 lery of fascination into play, but without success. The 
 beautiful brunette, Flora Cranbourne, had laid a wager 
 th:i r , in the course of two waltzes, she would extract three 
 compliments from him: but she failed in the attempt. 
 Lord Airlie was pronounced incorrigible. 
 
 The fact was that his lordship had been sensibly brought 
 up. He intended to marry when he could find some one 
 to love him for himself, and not for his fortune. This 
 ideal of all that \vas beautiful, noble, and true in woman 
 the earl was always searching for, but as yet had not found. 
 
 On all sides he had heard of the beauty of Lord Earle's 
 daughters, but it did not interest him. He had been hear- 
 ing of, seeing, and feeling disappointed in beautiful women 
 for some years. Many people made the point of meeting 
 the " new beauties," but he gave himself no particular 
 trouble. They were like every one else, he supposed. 
 
 One morning, having nothing else to do, Lord Airlio 
 went to a fete given in the beautiful grounds of ! 
 Downhum. He went early, intending to remain only a 
 ehort time. He found but a few guests had arrived. Aftir 
 paying the proper amount of homage to Lady Downham, 
 the young earl wandered off into the grounds. 
 
 It was all very pretty and pleasant, but he had seen the 
 same before, ana was rather tired of it. The day was more 
 Italian than English, bright and sunny, the sky blue, tlv 
 air dear and filled with fragrance, the birds singing as tboy 
 do sing under bright, warm skies. 
 
 Flags were flying from numerous tents, bands of music 
 were stationed in different parts of the grounds, the fount- 
 ains played merrily in the sunlit air. Lord Airlie w 
 mechanically on, bowing in reply to the salutations he re- 
 ceived. 
 
 A pretty little bower, a perfect thicket of roses, caught 
 his attention. From it one could see all over the lake, with 
 its gay pleasure-boats. Lord Airlie sat down, believing 
 ' i be ouite alone: but before he had removed a
 
 10 DORA THORNE. 
 
 large bongh that interfered with the full perfection of the 
 riew he heard voices on the other side of the thick, shel- 
 tering rose-bower. 
 
 He listened involuntarily, for one of the voices was cleat 
 and pure, the other more richly musical than any he had 
 ever heard at times sweet as the murmur of the cushat 
 dove, and again ringing joyously and brightly. 
 
 " I hope we shall not have to wait here long, Lillian/* 
 the blithe voice was saying. " Lady Helena promised to 
 take us on the lake. " 
 
 " It is very pleasant," .was the reply; " but you always 
 like to be in the very center of gayety." 
 
 " Yes," said Beatrice; " I have had enough solitude 
 and quiet to last me for life. Ah, Lillian, this is all de- 
 lightful. You think so, but do not admit it honestly as 
 I do." 
 
 There was a faint, musical laugh, and then the sweet 
 voice resumed: 
 
 " I am charmed, Lillian, with this London life; this is 
 worth calling life every moment is a golden one. If there 
 is a drawback, it consists in not being able to speak one's 
 mind." 
 
 " What do you mean?" asked Lillian. 
 
 " Do you not understand?" was the reply. " Lady 
 Helena is always talking to me about cultivating what she 
 calls ' elegant repose.' Poor, dear grand mamma! her per- 
 fect idea of good manners seems to me to be a simple ab- 
 sence in society, at least of all emotion and all feeling. 
 I, for one, do not admire the nil admirari system." 
 
 " I am sure Lady Helena admires you, Bee," said her 
 sister. 
 
 " Yes," was the careless reply. " Only imagine, Lil- 
 Jian, yesterday, when Lady Cairn told me some story about 
 a favorite young friend of hers the tears came to my eyes. 
 I could not help it, although the drawing-room was full. 
 Lady Helena told me 1 should repress all outward emotion. 
 Soon after, when Lord Dolchester told me a ridiculous 
 story about Lady Everton, 1 laughed heartily, 1 must 
 confess, though not loudly and she looked at me. 1 
 shall never accomplish * elegant repose/ 
 
 "You would not be half so charming if you did," re- 
 plied her sister. 
 
 " Then it is so tempting to say at times what one really
 
 BORA THORNE. 141 
 
 thinks! I can not resist it. When Lady Everton telis 
 me, with that tiresome sinmer of hers, that she really won- 
 ders at herself, 1 long to tell her other people do the same 
 thing. 1 should enjoy, for once, the luxury of telling 
 Mrs. St. John that people flatter her, and then laugh at 
 her affectation. It is a luxury to speak the truth at all 
 times, is it not, Lily? 1 detest everything false, even a 
 false word; therefore I fear Lady Helena will never quite 
 approve of my manner." 
 
 " You are so frank and fearless! At the Elms, do you 
 remember how every one seemed to feel that you would say 
 just the right thing at the right time?" asked Lillian. 
 
 " Do not mention that place," replied Beatrice; " this 
 life is so different I like it so much, Lily all the bright- 
 ness and gayety. I feel good and contented now. I was al- 
 ways restless and longing for life; now I have all I wish for. " 
 
 There was a pause then, and Lord Airlie longed to sea 
 who the speakers were who the girl was that spoke such 
 frank, bright words that loved truth, and hated all things 
 false what kind of face accompanied that voice. Sud- 
 denly the young earl remembered that he was listening, 
 and he started in horror from his seat. He pushed aside 
 the clustering roses. At first he saw nothing but the golden 
 blossoms of a drooping laburnum; then, a little further on, 
 he saw a fair head bending over some fragrant flowers; 
 then a face so beautiful, so perfect, that something like a 
 cry of surprise came from Lord Airlie's lips. 
 
 He had seen many beauties, but nothing like this queen- 
 ly young girl. Her dark, bright eyes were full of fire and 
 light; the long lashes swept her cheek, the proud, beauti- 
 ful lips, so haughty in repose, so sweet when smiling, were 
 perfect in shape. From the noble brow a waving mass of 
 durk hair rippled over a white neck and shapely shoulders. 
 It was a face to think and dream of, peerless in its vivid, 
 exquisite coloring and charmingly molded features, lie 
 hardly noticed the fair-haired girl. 
 
 " Who can she be?" thought Lord Airlie. " I believed 
 th:it. 1 hud seen every beautiful woman in London." 
 
 i with having seen what kind of face accompanied 
 the voice, the young carl left the pretty rose thicket. Hia 
 friends must have thought him slightly deranged. Ho went 
 about aqking every one, " Who is here to-day?" Among 
 others, ho saluted Lord Dolchoster with that question.
 
 142 DORA THORNE. 
 
 " I can scarcely tell you," replied his lordship. " I am 
 somewhat in a puzzle. If you want to know who is the 
 queen of the fete, 1 can tell you. It is Lord Earle's 
 daughter, Miss Beatrice Earle. She is over jjere, see, with 
 Lady Downham." 
 
 Looking in the direction indicated, Lord Airiib 3aw the 
 iace that haunted him. 
 
 " Yes," said Lord Dolchester, with a gay laugh; " and 
 if I were young and unfettered, she would not be Misb 
 Earle much longer." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 LORD /GIRLIE gazed long and earnestly at the beautiful 
 girl who looked so utterly unconscious of the admiration 
 she excited. 
 
 "I must ask Lady Downham to introduce me," he said 
 to himself, wondering whether the proud face would smile 
 upon him, and, if she carried into practice her favorite 
 tneory of saying what she thought, what she would say to 
 him. 
 
 Lady Downham smiled when the young earl made his 
 request. 
 
 44 1 have been besieged by gentlemen requesting intro- 
 ductions to Miss Earle," she said. " Contrary to your 
 general rule, Lord Airlie, you go with the crowd." 
 
 He would have gone anywhere for one word from those 
 perfect lips. Lady Downham led him to the spot where 
 Beatrice stood, and in a few courteous words introduced 
 him to her. 
 
 Lord Airlie was celebrated for his amiable, pleasing man- 
 ner. He always knew what to say and how to say it, but 
 when those magnificent eyes looked into his own, the young 
 earl stood silent and abashed. In vain he tried confusedly 
 to utter a few words; his face flushed, and Beatrice looked 
 at him in wonder. Could this man gazing so ardently at 
 her be the impenetrable Lord Airlie? 
 
 He managed at length to say something about the beauty 
 of the grounds and the brightness of the day. Plainly as 
 eyes could speak, hers asked: Had he nothing to say? 
 
 He lingered by her side, charmed and fascinated by h" 
 grace; she talked to Lillian and to Lady Helena; she *e- 
 ceived the lionise offered to her so unconscious of his pros
 
 DORA THORNE. 143 
 
 ence and his regard that Lord Airlie was piqued. ' He was 
 not accustomed to being overlooked. 
 
 " Do you never grow tired of flowers and f^tes, Miss 
 Earle?" he asked at length. 
 
 " No," replied Beatrice, " I could never grow tired of 
 flowers who could? As for f6tes, I have seen few, and 
 have liked each one better than the last." 
 
 " Perhaps your life has not been, like mine, spent 
 among them," he said. 
 
 " 1 have lived among flowers," she replied, " but not 
 among fetes; they have all the charm of novelty for me." 
 
 " I should like to enjoy them as you do," he said. " I 
 wish you would teach me, Miss Earle. " 
 
 She laughed gnyly, and the sound of that laugh, like a 
 sweet, silvery ohirne, charmed Lord Airlie still more. 
 
 He found out the prettiest pleasure-boat, and persuaded 
 Beatrice to let him row her across the lake. He gathered 
 a beautiful water-lily for her. When they landed he found 
 out a seat in the prettiest spot and placed her there. 
 
 Her simple, gay manner delighted him. He had never 
 met any one like her. She did not blush, or look con- 
 scious, or receive his attentions with the half-fluttered senti- 
 mental air common to most young ladies of his acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 She never appeared to remember that he was Lord Air- 
 lie, nor sought by any artifice to keep him near her. The 
 bright, sunny hours seemed to pass rapidly as a dream. 
 Long before the day ended the young earl said to himself 
 that he had met his fate; that if it took years to win her 
 he would count them well spent that in all the wide world 
 she was the wife for him. 
 
 Lord Earle was somewhat amused by the solicitude the 
 young nobleman showed in making his acquaintance and 
 consulting his tastes. After Lady Downham's f6te he 
 called regularly air the house. Lady Helena liked him, 
 but could hardly decide which of her grandchildren it was 
 that attracted him. 
 
 The fastidious young earl, who had smiled at the idea of 
 love and had disappointed half the fashionable mothers in 
 Belgravia, f<>".:xl himself a victim at last. 
 
 He was diffident of his own powers, hardly daring to 
 hope that he should succeed in winning the most beautiful
 
 144 BORA THORNE. 
 
 and gifted girl in London. He was timid in her presence, 
 and took refuge with Lillian. 
 
 All fashionable London was taken by surprise when 
 Lord Airlie threw open his magnificent house, and, under 
 the gracious auspices of his aunt, Lady Lecomte, issued in- 
 vitations for a grand ball. 
 
 Many were the conjectures, and great was the excite- 
 ment. Lord Earle smiled as he showed Lady Helena the 
 cards of invitation. 
 
 " Of course you will go," he said. " We have no en- 
 gagement for that day. See that the girls look their best, 
 mother. " 
 
 He felt very proud of his daughters Lillian, looking so 
 fair and sweet in her white silk dress and favorite pearls! 
 Beatrice, like a queen, in a cloud of white lace, with co- 
 quettish dashes of crimson. The Earle diamonds shone in 
 her dark hair, clasped the fair white throat, and encircled 
 the beautiful arms. A magnificent pomegranate blossom 
 lay in the bodice of her dress, and she carried a bouquet of 
 white lilies mixed with scarlet verbena. 
 
 The excitement as to the ball had been great. It seemed 
 like a step in the right direction at last. The great ques- 
 tion was, with whom would. Lord Airlie open the ball? 
 Every girl was on the qui vive. 
 
 The question was soon decided. When Beatrice Earle 
 entered the room, Lord Airlie went straight to meet her 
 and solicited her hand for the first dance. She did not 
 know how much was meant by that one action. 
 
 He wondered, as he looked upon her, the queen of the 
 most brilliant ball of the season, whether she would ever 
 love him if it was within the bounds of possibility that she 
 should ever care for him. That evening, for the first time, 
 he touched the proud heart of Beatrice Earle. On all sides 
 she had heard nothing but praises of Lord Airlie his 
 wealth, his talents, his handsome person and chivalrous 
 manner. The ladies were eloquent in praise of their young 
 host. She looked at him, and for the first time remarked 
 the noble, dignified carriage, the tall, erect figure, the 
 clear-cut patrician face not handsome according to the 
 rules of beauty, but from the truth and honor written there 
 in nature's plainest hand. 
 
 Then she saw and it struck her with surprise how 
 Lord Airlie, so courted and run after, sought her out
 
 DORA THORNE. 145 
 
 She saw smiles on friendly faces, and heard her name 
 mingled with hie. 
 
 " My dear Miss Earle," said Lady Everton, " you have 
 accomplished wonders conquered the unconquerable. 1 
 believe every eligible young lady in London has smiled 
 upon Lord Airlie, and all in vain. What charm have you 
 used to bring him to your feet?" 
 
 " I did not know that he was at my feet," replied Bea- 
 trice, " You like figurative language, Lady Everton." 
 
 " You will find I am right," returned Lady Everton, 
 " Remember I was the first to congratulate you." 
 
 Beatrice wondered, in a sweet, vague way, if there could 
 be anything in it. She looked again at Lord Airlie. Sure- 
 ly any one might be proud of the love of such a man. He 
 caught her glance, and her face flushed. In a moment he 
 was by her side. 
 
 " Miss Earle," he said, eagerly, " you told me the other 
 day you liked flowers. If you have not been in the cdu- 
 servatory, may I escort you there?" 
 
 She silently accepted his arm, and they went through 
 the magnificent suite of rooms into the cool, fragrant con- 
 servatory. 
 
 The pretty fountain in the midst rippled musically, and 
 the lamps gleamed like pale stars among masses of gorgeous 
 color. 
 
 Beatrice was almost bewildered by the profusion of 
 beautiful plants. Tier upon tier of superb flowers rose un- 
 til the eye was dazzled by the varied hues and brightness 
 delicate white heaths of rare perfection, flaming azaleas, 
 i ufhsias that looked like showers of purple-red wine. The 
 plant that charmed Beatrice most was one from far-off In- 
 dian climes delicate, perfumed blossoms, hanging like 
 golden bells from thick, sheltering green leaves. Miss 
 .Kurle stood before it, silent in sheer admiration. 
 
 " You like that flower?" said Lord Airlie 
 
 " It is one of the prettiest I ever saw," she replied. 
 
 In a moment he gathered the fairest sprays from the 
 I She cried out in dismay at the destruction. 
 
 44 Nay," said Lord Airlie, '* if every flower here could 
 ; n pressed into one blossom, it would hardly be a fit- 
 ting oltorir.g to y Oa . " 
 
 e very French compliment, con-
 
 146 DOHA THORITE. 
 
 tinned " I shall always have a great affection for that 
 tree." 
 
 *' Why?" she asked, unconsciously. 
 
 " Because it has pleased you/' he replied. 
 
 They stood by the pretty plant, Beatrice touching the 
 golden bells softly with her fingers. Something of the 
 magic of the scene touched her. She did not know why 
 the fountain rippled so musically, why the flowers seemed 
 doubly fair as her young lover talked to her. She had 
 been loved. She had heard much of love, but she herself 
 had never known what it really meant. She did not know 
 why, after a time, her proud bright eyes drooped, and had 
 never met Lord Airlie's gaze, why her face flushed and 
 grew pale, why his words woke a new, strange, beautiful 
 music in her heart music that never died until 
 
 " I ask for one spray only one to keep in memory of 
 this pleasant hour,' said Lord Airlie, after a pause. 
 
 She gave him a spray of the delicate golden bells. 
 
 ** I should like to be curious and rude," he said, " and 
 ask if you ever gave any one a flower before?" 
 
 " No," she replied. 
 
 ** Then 1 shall prize this doubly," he assured her. 
 
 That evening Lord Airlie placed the golden blossom care- 
 fully away. The time came when he would have parted 
 with any treasure on earth rather than that. 
 
 But his question had suddenly disturbed Beatrice. For 
 a moment her thoughts flew to the sea-shore at Kuutsford. 
 The present faded from her; she saw Hugh Fernely's face 
 as it looked when he offered her the beautiful lily. Tha 
 very remembrance of it made her shudder as though seized 
 with deathly cold and Lord Airlie saw it. 
 
 *' You are cold," he said; " how careless 1 am to keep 
 you standing here!" He helped her to draw the costly 
 lace shawl around her shoulders, and Beatrice was quickly 
 herself again^ and they, returned to the ball-room; but 
 Lord Airlie lingered by Miss Earle. 
 
 " You have enjoyed the ball, Beatrice," said Lord 
 Earle, as he bade his daughters good-night. 
 
 ** I have, indeed, papa," she replied. ** This has been 
 the happiest evening of my life. " 
 
 "I can guess why," thought Lord Earle, as he kissed 
 the bright face upraised to him; " there will be Uy 
 wretched underhand love business there."
 
 DORA THOBNE. 14? 
 
 He was not much surprised on the day following when 
 Lord Airlie was the first morning caller, and the last to 
 leave, not going until Lady Helena told him that they 
 should all be at the opera that evening and should perhaps 
 see him there. He regretted that he had promised Lady 
 Morton his box for the night, when Lady Earle felt herself 
 bound to ask him to join them in theirs. 
 
 All night Beatrice had dreamed of the true, noble face 
 which began to haunt her. She, usually BO regardless oi 
 all flattery, remembered every word Lord Airlie had spoken. 
 Could it be true, as Lady Everton had said, that he cared 
 for her? 
 
 Her lover would have been spared many anxious hours 
 could he have seen how the golden blossoms were tended 
 and cared for. Long afterward they were found with the 
 little treasures which young girls guard so carefully. 
 
 When Lord Airlie had taken his departure and Lord 
 Earle found himself alone with his mother, he turned to 
 her with the happiest look she had ever seen upon his 
 face. 
 
 " That seems to me a settled affair," he said. " Beatrice 
 will make a grand countess Lady Airlie of Lynntou. 
 He is the finest young fellow and the best match in Eng- 
 land. Ah, mother, my folly might have been punished 
 more severely. There will be no mesalliance there." 
 
 *' No," said Lady Earle, " I have no fears for Beatrice; 
 she is too proud ever to do wrong." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 IT was a pretty love story, although told in crowded 
 London ball-rooms instead of under the shade of green 
 trees. Beatrice Earle began by wondering if Lord Airlie 
 cared for her; she ended oy loving him herself. 
 
 It was no child's play this time. With Beatrice, to love 
 once was to love forever, with fervor and intensity which 
 cold and worldly natures can not even understand. 
 
 The time came when Lord Airlie stood out distinct from 
 all the world, when the sound of his name was like music, 
 when she saw no other face, heard no other voice, thought 
 of nothing else save him. He began to think there might 
 ** some hope for him; fhe iro\d, beautiful face softened
 
 148 DORA THORNE. ' 
 
 and brightened for him as it did for no other, and the glori 
 ous dark eyes never met his own, the frank, bright words 
 died away in his presence. Seeing all these things, Lord 
 Airlie felt some little hope. 
 
 For the first time he felt proud and pleased with the no- 
 ble fortune and high rank that were his by birthright. He 
 had not cared much for them before; now he rejoiced tha fc 
 he could lavish wealth and luxury upon one so fair and 
 worthy as Beatrice Earle. 
 
 Lord Airlie was not a confident lover. There were timeo 
 when he felt uncertain as to whether he should succeed. 
 Perhaps true and reverential love is always timid. Lord 
 Earle had smiled to himself many long weeks at the 
 " pretty play " enacted before him, and Lady Helena had 
 wondered when the young man would " speak out " long 
 before Lord Airlie himself .presumed to think that the 
 fairest and proudest girl in Lonodn would accept him. 
 
 No day ever passed during which he did not manage to 
 see her. He was indefatigable in finding out the balls, 
 soirees, and operas she would attend. He was her constant 
 shadow, never happy out of her sight, thinking of her all 
 day, dreaming of her all night, yet half afraid to risk all 
 and ask her to be his wife, lest he should lose her. 
 
 To uninterested spectators Lord Airlie was a handsome, 
 kindly, honorable young man. Intellectual, somewhat 
 fastidious, lavishly generous, a great patron of fine arts; to 
 Beatrice Earle he was the ideal of all that was noble and to 
 be admired. He was a prince among men. The proud 
 heart was conquered. She loved him and said to herself 
 that she would rather love him as a neglected wife than be 
 the worshiped wife of any other man. 
 
 She had many admirers; " the beautiful Miss Earle " was 
 the belle of the season. Had she been inclined to coquetrj 
 or flirtation she would not have been so eagerly sought 
 after. The gentlemen were quite as much charmed by her 
 utter indifference and haughty acceptance of their hom- 
 age as by her marvelous beauty. 
 
 At times Beatrice felt sure that Lord Airlie loved her; 
 then a sudden fit of timidity would seize her young lover, 
 And again she would doubt it. One thing she never doubt- 
 ed her own love for him. If her dreams were all false, 
 and he never asked her to be his wife, she said to herself 
 that she would never be the wife of any other man*
 
 2BA THORNE. 149 
 
 The remembrance of Hugh Fernely crossed her mind at 
 times not very often, and never with any great fear or 
 apprehension. It seemed ta her more like a dark, disa- 
 greeable dream than a reality. Could it be possible that 
 she, Beatrice Earle, the daughter of that proud, noble 
 father, so sternly truthful, so honorable, con! 1 i ver have 
 been so mad or so foolish? The very remembrance of it 
 made the beautiful face flush crimson. She could not en 
 dure the thought, and always drove it hastily from her. 
 
 The fifteenth of July was drawing near; the two year* 
 had nearly passed, yet she was not afraid. He might never 
 return, he might forget her, although, remembering his 
 looks and words, that, she feared, could not be. f 
 
 If he went to Seabay if he went to the Elms, it was not 
 probable that he would ever discover her whereabouts, or 
 follow her to claim the fulfillment of her absurd promise. 
 At the very worst, if he discovered that she was Lord Earle's 
 daughter, she believed that her rank and position would 
 dazzle and frighten him. Rarely as these thoughts came 
 to her, and speedily as she thrust them from her, she consid- 
 ered them a dear price for the little novelty and excitement 
 that had broken the dead level calm of life at the Elms. 
 
 Lord Airlic, debating within himself whether he should 
 risk, during the whirl and turmoil of the London season, 
 the question upon which the happiness of his life depended, 
 decided that he would wait until Lord Earle returned to 
 Earlftscourt, and follow him there. 
 
 The summer began to grow warm; the hawthorn and 
 apple blossoms had all died away; the corn waved in the 
 Ik-Ids, ripe and golden; the hay was all gathered in ; the 
 orchards were all filled with fruit. The fifteenth of July 
 the day that in her heart Beatrice Earle had half feai 
 was past and gone. She had been nervous and half fright- 
 ened when it came, starting and turning deathly pale at the 
 sound of the bell or of rapid footsteps. She laughed at 
 herself when the day ended. How was it likely he would find 
 her? What was there in common between the beautiful 
 dauirhtor of Lord Earle and Hugh Fernely, the captain of 
 ling-vessel? Nothing, save folly and a foolish promise 
 rashly asked and rashly given. 
 
 Three days before Lord Earle left London, he went by 
 appointment to meet some friends at Brookes's. While 
 there, a gentleman entered the room who attracted his at-
 
 150 DORA THORtfE. 
 
 tention most forcibly a young man of tall and stately fig- 
 ure, with a noble head, magnificently set upon broad 
 shoulders; a fine, manly face, with proud, mobile features 
 at times all fire and light, the eyes clear and glowing, 
 again, gentle as the face of a smiling woman. Lord Earle 
 looked at him attentively; there seemed to be something 
 familiar in the outline of the head and face, the haughty 
 yet graceful carriage. 
 
 " Who is that?' he inquired of his friend, Captain Lang- 
 don. " I have seen that gentleman before, or have dreamed 
 of him." 
 
 "Is it possible that you do not know him?" cried the 
 captain. " That is Lionel Dacre, ' your next of kin,' if I 
 am not mistaken.'* 
 
 Pleasure and pain struggled in Lord Earle '? heart. He 
 remembered Lionel many years ago, long before he com- 
 mitted the foolish act that had cost him so much. Lionel 
 had spent some time with him at Earlescourt; he remem- 
 bered a handsome and high-spirited boy, proud and impet- 
 uous, brave to rashness, generous to a fault; a fierce hater of 
 everything mean and underhand; truthful and honorable 
 his greatest failing, want of cool, calm thought 
 
 Lionel Dacre was poor in those days; now he was heir to 
 Earlescourt, heir to the title that, with all his strange 
 political notions, Ronald Earle ever held in high honor; 
 heir to the grand old mansion and fair domain his father 
 had prized so highly. Pleasure and pain were strangely 
 intermingled in his heart when he remembered that no son 
 of his would ever succeed him, that he should never train 
 his successor. The handsome boy that had grown into so 
 fine a man must take his place one day. 
 
 Lord Earle crossed the room, and going up to the young 
 man, laid one hand gently upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Lionel/' he said, "it is many years since we met. 
 Have you no remembrance of me?" 
 
 The frank, clear eyes looked straight into hie. Lord 
 Earle' s heart warmed as he gazed at the honest, handsome 
 face. 
 
 " Not the least in the world," replied Mr. Dacre, slowly. 
 " I do not remember ever to have seen you before." 
 
 '' Then 1 must have changed," said Lord Earle. 
 14 When I saw you last, Lionel, you were not much more
 
 DORA THORITE. 151 
 
 than twelve years old, and 1 gave you a * tijj ' the day you 
 Went back to Eton. Charlie Villiers was with you."" 
 
 ' Then you are Lord Earle," returned Lionel. " 1 came 
 to London purposely to see you," and his frank face 
 flushed, and he held out his hand in greeting. 
 
 " 1 have been anxious to see you," said Lord Earle; 
 " but I have not been long in England. We must be bet- 
 ter acquainted; you are my heir at law." 
 
 " Your what?" said Mr. Dacre, wonderingly. 
 
 44 Mj heir," replied Lord Earle. " 1 have no son; my 
 estates are entailed, and you are my next of kin. " 
 
 " I thought you had half a dozen heirs and heiresses," said 
 Lionel. " 1 remember some story of a romantic marriage. 
 To-day I hear of nothing but the beautiful Miss Earle. 
 
 44 I have no son," interrupted Lord Earle, sadly. " I 
 wrote to you last week, asking you to visit me. Have you 
 any settled home?" 
 
 No," replied the young man, gayly. " My mother is 
 at Cowes, and I have been staying with her. " 
 
 " Where are you now?" asked Lord Earle. 
 
 44 1 am with Captain Poyntz, at his chambers; 1 prom- 
 ised to spend some days with him," replied Lionel, who be- 
 gan to look slightly bewildered. 
 
 ** I must not ask you to break an engagement," said 
 Lord Earle, " but will you dine with us this evening, and, 
 when you leave Captain Poyntz, come to us?" 
 
 44 I shall be very pleased, "said Lionel, and the two gen- 
 tlemen left Brookes s together. 
 
 44 I must introduce you to Lady Earle and m.r daugh- 
 ters," said Ronald, as they walked along. '* 1 1 ave been 
 so long absent from home and friends that it seems strange 
 to claim relationship with any one." 
 
 44 1 could never understand your fancy for broiling in 
 Africa, when you might have been happier at home," said 
 Lionel. 
 
 " Did you not know? Have you not heard why 1 went 
 abroad?" asked Lord Earle, gravely. 
 
 44 No," replied Lionel. 44 Your father never invited me 
 to Earlescourt after you left." 
 
 In a few words'Lord Earle told his heir that he had mar- 
 against his father's wish, and in consequence had never 
 been pardoned. 
 
 44 And you gave np everything," said Lionel Dacre
 
 
 
 15 & DOE A THOBtfE. 
 
 *' home, friends, and position, for the love ol a woman. 
 She must have been well worth loving." 
 
 Lord Earle grew pale, as with sudden pain. Had Dora 
 been so well worth loving? Had she been worth the heav r y 
 price? 
 
 " You are my heir/' he said, gravely " one of my own 
 race; before you enter our circle, Lionel, and take your 
 place there, I must tell you that my wife and I parted years 
 ago, never to meet again. Do not mention her to me it 
 pains me. " 
 
 Lionel looked at the sad face; he could understand the 
 shadows there now. 
 
 " I will not/' he said. " She must have been " 
 
 "' Not one word more," interrupted Lord Earle. " In 
 your thoughts lay no unjust blame on her. She left me of 
 her own free will. My mother lives with me; she will be 
 pleased to see you. Remember seven sharp. " 
 
 "1 shall not forget/' said Lionel, pained at ihe sad 
 words and the sad voice. 
 
 As Lord Earle went home for the first time during the 
 long years, a softer and more gentle thought of Dora came 
 to him. " She must have been " What what did 
 Lionel suspect of her? Could it be that, seeing their divid- 
 ed lives, people judged as his young kinsman had judged 
 that they thought Dora to blame criminal, perhaps? 
 And she had never in her whole life given one thought to 
 any other than himself; nay, her very errors the deed he 
 could not pardon sprung from her great affection for 
 him. Poor Dora! The pretty, blushing face, with its 
 sweet, shy eyes and rosy lips, came before him the artless, 
 girlish love, the tender worship. If it had been anything 
 else, any other fault, Ronald must have forgiven her in 
 ttiat hour. But his whole heart recoiled again as the 
 hated scene rose before him. 
 
 " No," he said, " I can not forgive it. I can not forget 
 it. Men shall respect Dora; no one must misjudge her; 
 but 1 can not take her to my heart or my home again, la 
 the hour of death," he murmured, " I will forgive her." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 LADY EAELE thought her son looked graver and sadder 
 that day than she had ever seen him. Shn had not the
 
 DOfcA THORNE. 153 
 
 clew to his reflections; she did not know how he was 
 haunted by the thought of the handsome, gallant young 
 man who must be his heir how he regretted that no son 
 of his would ever succeed him how proud he would have 
 been of a son like Lionel. He had but two children, ani 
 they must some day leave Earlescourt for homes of their 
 own. The grand old house, the fair domain, must all pass 
 into the hands of strangers unless Lionel married one of 
 the beautiful girls he loved so dearly. 
 
 Lady Helena understood a little of what was passing in 
 his mind when he told her that he had met Lionel Dacre^ 
 who was coming to dine with him that day. 
 
 " I used to hope Beatrice might like him/' said Lady 
 Earle; " but that will never be Lord Airlie has been too 
 quick. I hope he will not fall in love with her; it would 
 ouly end in disappointment" 
 
 " He may like Lillian, " said Lord Earle. 
 
 " Yes," assented Lady Helena. " Sweet Lily she seems 
 almost too pure and fair for this dull earth of ours." 
 
 ** If they both marry, mother," said Ronald, sadly, " we 
 shall be quite alone." 
 
 "Yes, she returned, " quite alone;" and the words 
 smote her with pain. She looked at the handsome face, 
 with its sad, worn expression. Was life indeed all over for 
 her son at the age, too, when other men sunned them- 
 - in happiness; when a loving wife should have graced 
 his home, cheered and consoled him, shared his sorrows, 
 crowned his life with love? In the midst of his wealth and 
 prosperity, how lonely he was! Could it be possible that 
 one act of disobedience should have entailed such sad con- 
 sequences? Ah, if years ago Ronald had listened to reason, 
 to wise and tender counsel if he had but given up Dora 
 and married Valentine Charteris, how different his life 
 would have been, how replete with blessings and happiness, 
 how free from care! 
 
 Lady Earle's eves grew dim with tears as these tkoughU 
 passed through her mind. She went up to him and laid 
 her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Ronald," she said, " I will do my best to make home 
 happy after our bonny birds are caged. For your sake, I 
 wish things had been different " 
 
 " Hush, mother," he replied, gently. " Words are all 
 useless. 1 must reap a^ 1 have sown; the fruits of diso-
 
 154 DOHA THOENE. 
 
 bedience and deceit could never beget happiness. 1 shaE 
 always believe that evil deeds bring their own punishment. 
 Do not pity me it unnerves me. 1 can bear my fate. " 
 
 Lady Helena was pleased to see Lionel again. She had 
 always iiked him, and rejoiced now in his glorious man- 
 hood. He stood before the two sisters, half dazzled by their 
 beauty. The fair faces smiled upon him; pretty, white 
 hands were outstretched to meet his own. 
 
 " I am bewildered by my good fortune/' he said. " I shall 
 be the envy of every man in London; people will no longer 
 call me Lionel Dacre. I shall be known as the cousin of 
 ' Les Demoiselles Earle. ' I have neither brother nor sister 
 of my own. Fancy the happiness of falling into the midst 
 of such a family group." 
 
 "And being made welcome there!" interrupted Beatrice. 
 Lionel bowed profoundly. At first he fancied he preferred 
 this brilliant, beautiful girl to her fair, gentle sister. Her 
 frank, fearless talk delighted him. After the general run 
 of young ladies all fashioned, he thought, after one model 
 it was refreshing to meet her. Her ideas were so original. 
 
 Lord Airlie joined the little dinner-party, and then Lionel 
 Dacre read the secret which Beatrice hardly owned even to 
 herself. 
 
 " I shall not be shipwrecked on that rock," he said to 
 himself. " When Beatrice Earle speaks to me her eyes 
 meet mine; she smiles, and does not seem afraid of me; 
 but when Lord Airlie speaks she turns from him, and her 
 beautiful eyes droop. She evidently cares more for him 
 than for all the world besides." 
 
 But after a time the fair, spirituelle loveliness of Lillian 
 stole into his heart. There was a marked difference be- 
 tween the two sisters. Beatrice took one by storm, so to 
 speak; her magnificent beauty and queenly grace dazzled 
 and charmed one. With Lillian it was different. Eclipsed 
 at first sight by her more brilliant sister, her fair beauty 
 grew upon one by degrees. The sweet face, the thoughtful 
 brow, the deep dreamy eyes, the golden ripples of hair, the 
 etherial expression on the calm features, seemed gradually 
 to reveal their charm. Many who at first overlooked 
 Lillian, thinking only of her brilliant sister, ended by be- 
 lieving her to be the more beautiful of the two. 
 
 They stood together that evening, the two sisters, in the 
 presence of Lord Airlie and Lionel Dacre. Beatrice had
 
 DORA THOBNE. 15ft 
 
 been singing, and the air seemed still to vibrate with the 
 music of her passionate voice. 
 
 " You sing like a siren," said Mr. Dacre; he felt no diffi- 
 dence in offering so old a compliment to his kins-woman. 
 
 " No/' replied Beatrice; " I may sing well in fact, I 
 believe I do. My heart is full of music, and it overflows 
 on my lips; but 1 am no siren, Mr. Dacre. No one ever 
 heard of a siren with dusky hair and dark brows like mine." 
 
 *' I should have said you sing like an enchantress/' inter- 
 posed Lord Airlie, hoping that he was apter in his compli- 
 ments. 
 
 " You have been equally wrong, my lord," she replied, 
 but she did not laugh at him as she had done at Lionel. 
 " If I were an enchantress," she continued, "I should 
 just wave my wand, and that vase of flowers would come to 
 me; as it is, I must go to it. Who can have arranged those 
 flowers? They have been troubling me for the last half 
 hour." 
 
 She crossed the room, and took from a small side table 
 an exquisite vase filled with blossoms. 
 
 " See," she cried, turning to Lionel, " white heath, 
 white roses, white lilies, intermixed with these pale gray 
 flowers! There is no contrast in such an arrangement. 
 Watch the difference which a glowing pomegranate blossom 
 or a scarlet verbena will make. " 
 
 " You do not like such quiet harmony?" said Lionel, 
 smiling, thinking how characteristic the little incident was. 
 
 *' No," she replied; "give me striking contrasts. For 
 many years the web of my life was gray-colored, and 1 
 longed for a dash of scarlet in its threads. " 
 
 " You have it now," said Mr. Dacre, quietly. 
 
 " Yes," she said, as she turned her beautiful, bright face 
 to him; ** I have it now, never to lose it again." 
 
 Lord Airlie, looking on and listening, drinking in every 
 word that fell from her lips, wondered whether love was 
 the scarlet thread interwoven with her life. He sighed 
 deeply as he said to himself that it would not be; this bril- 
 liant girl could never care for him. Beatrice heard the sigh 
 and turned to him. 
 
 " Does your taste resemble mine, Lord Airlie?" 
 
 " 1," interrupted Lord Airlie "I like whatever you 
 like, W\<* Earle."
 
 153 CORA THORNE. 
 
 " Yourself best of all/' whispered Lionel to Beatrice with 
 
 a smile. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 As Mr. Dacre walked home that evening, he thought 
 long and anxiously about the two young girls, his kins- 
 women. What was the mystery? he asked himself \vh;it 
 skeleton was locked away in the gay mansion? Where \\us 
 Lord Earle's wife the lady who ought to have been at thw 
 head of his table the mother of his children? Where was 
 she? Why was her place empty? Why was her husband's 
 face shadowed and lined with care? 
 
 " Lillian Earle is the fairest and sweetest girl 1 have ever 
 met," he said to himself. " 1 know there is danger for 
 me in those sweet, true eyes; but if there be anything wrong 
 if the mother is blameworthy 1 will fly from the dan- 
 ger. I believe in hereditary virtue and in hereditary vice. 
 Before 1 fall in love with Lillian I must know her 
 mother's story." 
 
 So he said, and he meant it. There was no means of ar- 
 riving at the knowledge. The girls spoke at times of their 
 mother, and it was always with deep love and respect. 
 Lady Helena mentioned her, but her name never passed the 
 lips of Lord Earle. Lionel Dacre saw no way of obtaining 
 information in the matter. 
 
 There was no concealment as to Dora's abode. Once, by 
 special privilege, he was invited into the pretty room where 
 the ladies sat in the morning a cosy, cheerful room into 
 which visitors never penetrated. There, upon the wall, he 
 saw a picture framed a beautiful landscape, a quiet home- 
 stead in the midst of rich, green meadows; and Lillian told 
 him, with a smile, that was the Elms, at Kuutsford, 
 " where mamma lived." 
 
 Lionel was too true a gentleman to ask why she lived 
 there; he praised the painting, and then turned the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 As Lady Earle foresaw, the time had arrive when Dora's 
 childern partly understood there was a division in the fam- 
 ilv, a breach never to be healed. "Mamma was quite 
 different from papa," they said to each other; and Lady 
 Helena told them their mother did not like fashion and 
 gayety, that she had been simply brought up, used always 
 to quietness and solitude, so that in all probability she 
 Would never come to Earlescourt.
 
 DORA THORNE: 157 
 
 But as ^ime went on, and Beatrice began to understand 
 more of the great world, she had an instinctive idea of the 
 truth. It came to her by slow degrees. Her father had 
 married beneath him, and her mother had no home in the 
 st:it ely hall of Earlescourt. At first violent indignation 
 seized her; then calmer reflection told her she could not 
 judge correctly. She did not know whether Lord Earle had 
 left his wife, or whether her mother had refused to live 
 with him. 
 
 It was the first cloud that shadowed the life of Lord 
 Earle's beautiful daughter. The discovery did not diminish 
 her love for the quiet, sad mother, whose youth and beauty 
 had faded so soon. If possible, she loved her more; there 
 was a pitying tenderness in her affection. 
 
 " Poor mamma!" thought the young girl " poor, 
 gentle, mamma! I must be doubly kind to her, and love 
 her better than ever." 
 
 Dora did not understand how it happened that her beau- 
 tiful Beatrice wrote so constantly and so fondly to her hovr 
 it happened that week after week costly presents found 
 tlu-ir way to the Elms. 
 
 " The child must spend all her pocket-money on me," 
 she said to herself. " How well and dearly she loves me' 
 my beautiful Beatrice!" 
 
 Lady Helena remembered the depth of her mother's 
 love. She pitied the lonely, unloved wife, deprived of hus- 
 band and children. She did all in her power to console 
 hi T. She wrote long letters, telling Dora how groatly her 
 children were admired, and how she would like their mother 
 to witness their triumph. She told how many conquests 
 Beatrice hail made; how the proud and exclusive Lord Airlie 
 was always near her, and that Beatrice, of her own fancy, 
 liked him butter than any one else. 
 
 " Neither Lord Earle nor myself could wish a more 
 brilliant future for Beatrice," wrote Lady Helena. 
 Lady Airlie of Lynnton, she will be placed as her birth and 
 beauty deserve. 
 
 But even Lady Helena was startled when she read Dora's 
 reply. It was a wild prayer that her child should be saved 
 spared the deadlv perils of love and marriage left to 
 her innocent 'h. 
 
 . '' wrote poor Dora, " and never 
 be patient, gentle, And true. It is
 
 158 DOBA THOBBTE. 
 
 ever self they worship self-reflected in the woman thaj 
 *ove. Oh, Lady Helena, let my child be spared! Let no 
 Bo-called love come near her! Love found me out in my 
 humble home, and wrecked all my life. Do not let my 
 bright, beautiful Beatrice suffer as I have done. 1 would 
 rather fold my darlings in my arms and lie down with them 
 to die than live to see them pass through the cruel mockery 
 of love and sorrow which I have endured. Lady Helena, 
 do not laugh; your letter distressed me. I dreamed last 
 night, after reading it, that I placed a wedding-veil on my 
 darling's head, when, as it fell round her, it changed sud- 
 denly into a shroud. A mother's love is true, and mine 
 tells me that Beatrice is in danger." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 '* I HAVE been abroad long enough," said Lord Earle, 
 in reply to some remark made by Lady Helena. " The 
 girls do not care for the sea Beatrice dislikes it even; so 
 I think we can not do better than to return to Earlescourt. 
 It may not be quite fashionable, but it will be very pleas- 
 ant."' 
 
 " Yes," said Lady Earle; " there is no place 1 love so 
 well as home. We owe our neighbors something, too. 1 
 am almost ashamed when I remember how noted Earles- 
 court once was for its gay and pleasant hospitality. We 
 must introduce the girls to our neighbors. 1 can foresee 
 quite a cheerful winter." 
 
 "Let us get over the summer and autumn," said Ron- 
 ald with a smile, " then we will look the winter bravely in 
 the face. I suppose, mother, you can guess who has man- 
 aged to procure an invitation to Earlescourt!" 
 
 " Lorcl Airlie?" asked Lady Helena. 
 
 " Yes," was the laughing reply. " It did me good, 
 mother it made me feel young and happy again to see 
 and hear him. His handsome, frank face clouded when I 
 told him we were going; then he sighed said London 
 would be like a desert declared he could not go to Lynn- 
 ton, the place was full of work-people. He did not like 
 Scotland, and was as homeless as a wealthy young peer 
 with several estates could well be. I allowed him to be- 
 wilder himself with confused excuses and blunders, and
 
 DOBA THORNE. 159 
 
 then asked him to join us at Earlescourt. He almost 
 ' jumped for joy,' as the children say. He will follow us 
 in a week or ten days. Lionel will come with us." 
 
 " I am very pleased," said Lady Earle. " Next to you, 
 Ronald, I love Lionel Dacre; his frank, proud, fearless 
 disposition has a great charm for me. He is certainly like 
 Beatrice. How he detests everything false, just as she 
 does!" 
 
 " Yes," said Ronald, gravely; " 1 am proud of my 
 children. There is no taint of untruth or deceit there, 
 mother; they are worthy of their race. 1 consider Beatrice 
 the noblest girl 1 have ever known; and I love my sweet 
 Lily just as well." 
 
 " You would not like to part with them now?" said 
 Lady Earle. 
 
 " I would sooner part with my life," he replied. " I 
 am not given to strong expressions, mother, but even you 
 could never guess how my life is bound up in theirs." 
 
 " Then let me say one word, Ronald, said his motherj 
 *' remember Dora loves them as dearly and as deeply as 
 you do. Just think for a moment what it has cost her to 
 give them up to you! She must see them soon, with your 
 full consent and permission. They can go to her if you 
 will." 
 
 " You are right, mother," he said, after a few minutes. 
 ".They are Dora's children, and she ought to see them; 
 but they must not return to that farm-house I can not 
 bear the thought of it. Surely they can meet on neutral 
 ground at your house, say, or in Londov.; and let it be at 
 Christmas." 
 
 " It had better be in London," said Lady Helena. " 1 
 will write to Dora, and tell her. The very anticipation of 
 it will make her happy until the time arrives she loves 
 hei children so dearly." 
 
 And again a softened thought of Dora came to hor hus- 
 band. Of course she loved them. The little villa at Flor- 
 ence rose before him; he saw vividly, as though he had left 
 it but yesterday, the pretty vine-shaded room where Dora 
 used to sit nursing the little ones. He remembered her 
 sweet patience, her never-failing, gentle love. Had he 
 done right to wound that sad heart afresh by taking those 
 children from her? Was it a iust and fitting reward for 
 the u-:it,fhfuJ Jove and care of those lonely vears? 

 
 160 DORA THORITE. 
 
 He would fain have pardoned her, but he could not; ancl 
 he said to himself again: " In the hour of death! I will 
 forgive her then." 
 
 ******* 
 
 The glowing August, so hot and dusty in London, was 
 like a dream of beauty at Earlescourt. The tall trees gave 
 grateil shelter, baffling the sun's warm rays; the golden 
 corn stood in the broad fields ready for the sickle; the 
 hedge-rows were filled with flowers. The beech-trees in 
 the park were in full perfection. Fruit hung ripe and 
 heavy in the orchards. 1 1 was no longer the blossoming 
 promise of spring, but the perfect glory of summer. 
 
 For many long years Earlescourt had not been so gay. 
 The whole country-side rang with fashionable intelligence. 
 The house was filled with visitors, Lord Airlie heading the 
 list. Lionel Dacre, thinking but little of the time when 
 the grand old place would be his own, was full of life and 
 spirits. 
 
 Long arrears of hospitalities and festivities had to be re- 
 paid to the neighborhood. Beatrice and Lillian had to 
 make their debut there. Lady Helena decided upon com- 
 mencing the programme with a grand dinner-party, to be 
 followed by a bull in the evening. Ronald said something 
 about the weather being warm for dancing. 
 
 '* We danced in London, papa," said Beatrice, " when 
 the heat was so great that I should not have felt any sur- 
 prise if the whole roomful of people had dissolved. Here 
 we have space large, cool rooms, fresh air, a conserva- 
 tory as large as a London house; it will be child's play in 
 comparison with what we have gone through." 
 
 " Miss Earle is quite right," said Lord Airlie. ** A ball 
 during the season in London is a toil; here it would be 
 nothing but a pleasure." 
 
 " Then a ball let it be/' said Lord Earle. " Lillian, 
 make out a list of invitations, and head it with Sir Harry 
 and Lady Laurence, of Holtham Hall. That reminds me, 
 their eldest son Gaspar came home yesterday from Ger- 
 many; do not forget to include him." 
 
 "Little Gaspar," cried Lady Helena "has he re- 
 turned? I should like to see him. " 
 
 " Little Gaspar," said Lord Earle, laughing, " is six feet 
 high now, mother. You forget bow time flies; he is taller
 
 DORA THOBNE. 161 
 
 than Lionel, and a fine, handsome young fellow he is. He 
 will be quite an acquisition." 
 
 Lord Earle was too much engrossed to remark the un- 
 easiness his few words had caused. Lord Airlie winced ai 
 the idea of a rival a handsome man, and sentimental, 
 too, as all those people educated in Germany are! 
 
 " 1 can not understand what possesses English people to 
 send their sons abroad for education," he said to Beatrice 
 " and to Germany of all places in the world." 
 
 44 Why should they not? she asked. 
 
 "The people are so absurdly sentimental," he re- 
 plied. " Whenever 1 see a man with long hair and dreamy 
 eyes, I know he is a German." 
 
 44 You are unjust," said Beatrice, as she left him to join 
 Lillian. 
 
 " You are jealous," said Lionel, who had overheard the 
 conversation. 4 " Look out for a rival in the lists, my 
 lord." 
 
 " 1 wish this tiresome ball were over," aighed Lord 
 Airlie. 4< I shall have no chance of speaking while it is on 
 the tapis. " 
 
 But he soon forgot his chagrin. The formidable Gaspar 
 appeared that very morning, and, although Lord Airlie 
 could perceive that he was at once smitten with Beatrice's 
 charms, he also saw that she paid no heed whatever to 
 the new-comer; indeed, after a few words of courteous 
 greeting, she returned to the point under discussion what 
 flowers would look best in the ball-room. 
 
 "If we have flowers at all," she said, imperiously, " let 
 them be a gorgeous mass of bloom something worth look- 
 ing at; not a few pale blossoms standing here and there 
 like 4 white sentinels;' let us have flowers full of life and 
 fragrance. Lillian, you know what I mean; you remem- 
 ber Lady Manton's flowers tier after tier of magnificent 
 color." 
 
 44 You like to do everything en reine, Beatrice," said 
 Lady Helena, with a well-pleased smile. 
 
 44 If you have not flowers sufficient, Miss Earle," said 
 Lord Airlie, 44 1 will send to Lynnton. My gardener con- 
 siders himself a past master of his art." 
 
 4< My dear Lord Airlio," said Lady Earle, ** we have 
 flowers in profusion. You have not been through the 
 conservator i>j. It would while away the morning- r.leaa-
 
 168 DORA THOBNE. 
 
 antly for you all Beatrice, select what flowers you will, 
 and have them arranged as you like." 
 
 " See," said the triumphant beauty, *' what a grand 
 thing a strong will is! Imagine papa's saying he thought 
 thirty or forty plants in full flower would be sufficient! 
 We will surprise him. If the gardener loses his reason, as 
 Lady Earle seems to think probable, he must be taken care 
 of." 
 
 Lord Airlie loved Beatrice best in such moods; imperious 
 and piquant, melting suddenly into little gleams of tender- 
 ness, then taking ref age in icy coldness and sunny laughter. 
 Beautiful, dazzling, capricious, changing almost every min- 
 ute, yet charming as she changed, he would not have 
 bartered one of her proudest smiles or least words for 
 anything on earth. 
 
 He never forgot that morning spent among the flowers. 
 It was a glimpse of elysium to him. The way in which 
 Beatrice contrived to do as she liked amused him; her face 
 looked fairer than ever among the blooming flowers. 
 
 *' There is the bell for lunch," she said at last. " We 
 have been here nearly three hours." 
 
 " Most of your attendants look slightly deranged," said 
 Lionel. " 1 am sure 1 saw poor Donald weeping over his 
 favorite plants. He told me confidentially they would be 
 fit for nothing after the heat of the hall-room." 
 
 " J shall invent some means of consolation for him," she 
 replied. '* I like dancing among the bright flowers. Why 
 should we not have everything gay and bright and beauti- 
 ful, if we can?" 
 
 " Why not?" said Lionel, gravely. " Ah, Miss Earle, 
 why are we not always young and beautiful and happy? 
 Why must flowers die, beauty fade, love grow old? Ask a 
 philosopher do not ask me. I know the answer, but let 
 some one else give it to you." 
 
 " Philosophy does not interest me at present," she said. 
 '* I like flowers, music, and dancing better. I hope I shall 
 never tire of them; sometimes but that i only when I 
 am serious or tired I feel that 1 shall never live to grow 
 old. I can not imagine my eyes dim or my hair gray. I 
 can not imagine my heart beating slowly. 1 can not real- 
 ize a day whn the warmth and beauty of life will have 
 changed into cold and dullness." 
 
 Even as she spoke a gentle am stole round her, a c&ir
 
 DORA THORNE. 163 
 
 spirituetle face, eyes full of clear, saintly light looked into 
 hers, and a soft voice whispered to her of something not 
 earthl}', not of flowers and music, not of life and gayety, 
 something far beyond these, and the proud eyes for a mo- 
 ment grew dim with tears. 
 
 " Lily/' she said, " 1 am not so good as you, but I will 
 endeavor to be. Let me enjoy myself first, just for a short 
 time; I will be good, dear." 
 
 Her mood changed then, and Lord Airlie thought her 
 more entrancing than ever. 
 
 " That is the kind of wife I want," thought Lionel Dacre 
 to himself, looking at Lillian " some one to guide me, to 
 teach me. Ah, if women only understood their mission! 
 That girl looked as I can imagine only guardian angels 
 look -I wish she would be mine." 
 
 Lord Airlie left the conservatory, with its thousand 
 flowers, more in love than ever. 
 
 " He would wait," he said to himself, " until the ball 
 was over; then he would ask Beatrice Earle to be his wife. 
 If she refused him, he would go far away where no one 
 knew him; if she accepted him, he would be her devoted 
 slave. She should be a queen, and he would be her 
 knight. " 
 
 Ali! what thanks would he return to Heaven if so great 
 4 blessing should be his. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 LORD AIRLIE muttered something that was not a bene- 
 diction when, on the morning following, Gaspar Laurence 
 made his appearance at Earlescourt. 
 
 44 We can not receive visitors this morning/' said Bea- 
 trice, half impatiently. " Mr. Laurence must have for- 
 gotten the ball to-night/' 
 
 But Mr. Laurence had forgotten nothing of the kind. It 
 was a delicious morning, the sun shining brightly and clear- 
 ly, the westerly breeze blowing fresh and cool. He had 
 thought it likely that the young ladies would spend the 
 morning out-of-doors, and begged permission to join them. 
 
 Lady Earle was pleased with the idea. Lord Airlie men- 
 tioned something about fatigue, but he was overruled. 
 
 " Stroll in the grounds." said Lady Helena; " go down
 
 164 DOHA THOENE. 
 
 by the lake; 1 will join you there afterward. A few hours 
 in the fresh air will be the best preparation for the ball." 
 
 They went together. Gaspar's preference soon became 
 apparent he would not leave Beatrice, aiid Lord Airlie de- 
 votedly wished him at the antipodes. 
 
 They sat down under the shade of a tall lady-birch, tha 
 deep, sunlit lake shining through the trees. Then Gas- 
 par, taking a little book in his hands, asked: 
 
 " Have you read ' Undine/ Miss Earle Fouque's * Un- 
 dine?' " 
 
 " No," she replied; " 1 am half ashamed to say so." 
 
 ** It is the sweetest, saddest story ever written/' he con- 
 tinued. " This is just the morning for it. May 1 read it 
 to you?" 
 
 There was a general and pleased murmur of assent 
 Lord Airlie muttered to himself that he knew the fellow 
 would air hia German sentiment at their expense. 
 
 Still it was very pleasant. There was a gentle ripple on 
 the deep lake, the water washed among the tall reeds, and 
 splashed with a faint, musical murmur on the stones; the 
 thick leafy branches rustled in the wind; the birds sung in 
 the trees. 
 
 Caspar Laurence read well; his voice was clear and dis- 
 tinct; not a word of the beautiful story was lost. 
 
 Beatrice listened like one in a dream. Her proud, bright 
 face softened, her magnificent eyes grew tender and half 
 sad. Gaspar read on of the fair and lovely maiden, of 
 the handsome young knight and his love, of the water- 
 sprite, grim old Kuhlehorn, and the cottage where Undine 
 dwelt, of the knight's marriage, and then of proud, beau- 
 tiful Bertha. 
 
 The rippling of the lake and the singing of the birds 
 seemed like an accompaniment to the words, so full of 
 pathos. Then Gaspar came to Bertha's love for the knight 
 their journey on the river to the huge hand rising and 
 snatching the jewel from Undine's soft fingers, while the 
 knight's love grew cold. 
 
 Even the waters of the lake seemed to sob and sigh as 
 Gaspar read on of sweet, sad Undine and of her unhappy 
 love, of Bertha's proud triumph, her marriage with the 
 knight, and the last, most beautiful scene of all Undine 
 rising from the unsealed fountain and going to claim her 
 love.
 
 iX>HA THORNK, 165 
 
 " How exquisite!" said Beatrice, drawing a long, deep 
 breath. " I did not know there was such a story in the 
 world. That is indeed a creation of genius. I shall nevei 
 forget Undine. " 
 
 Her eyes wandered to the sweet spirit uelle face and fair, 
 golden hair of her sister. Lionel Dacre's glance followed 
 hers. 
 
 " I know what you are thinking of," he said " Misi 
 Lillian is a perfect Undine. I can fancy her, with clasped 
 hands and sad eyes, standing between the knight and 
 Bertha, or rising with shadowy robes from the open fount- 
 ain." 
 
 "It is a beautiful creation," said Beatrice, gently. 
 " Lillian would be an ideal Undine she is just as gentle, 
 as fair, as true. 1 am like Bertha, I suppose; at least 1 
 know I prefer my 'own way and my own will." 
 
 44 You should give some good artist a commission to 
 paint a picture," said Lord Airlie. 4< Choose the scene in 
 the boat Undine bending over the water, a dreamy ex- 
 pression on her fair face; Bertha sitting by the knight, 
 proud, bright, and half scornful of her companion. Im- 
 agine the transparent water Undine's little hand half lost 
 in it, and the giant fingers clasping hers. I wonder that 
 an artist has never painted, that scene/' 
 
 " Who would do for the knight?" said Beatrice. *' Lil- 
 lian and 1 will never dispute over a knight." 
 
 44 Artists would find some difficulty in that picture," 
 said Lillian. " How could one cicthe a beautiful ideal like 
 Undine? Sweeping robes and waving plumes might suit 
 Bertha; but how could one depict Undine?" 
 
 " The knight is the difficulty," laughed Lionel. 
 
 44 Why should we not go out on the lake now?" said 
 Caspar; " I will rmv. " 
 
 "1 have been wishing for the last ten minutes," replied 
 Beatrice, 4t to be upon the lake. I want to put my hand 
 in the water and see what comes. " 
 
 Gaspar was not long in getting a pleasure-boat out of 
 the boat-house. Lionel managed to secure a seat near his 
 Undine, and Lord Airlie by his Beatrice. 
 
 It was even more pleasant on the water than on the land- 
 thu boat moved easily along, the fresh, clear breeze help- 
 ing it
 
 166 DOEA THORNE. 
 
 " Steer for those pretty water-lilies/' said Beatrice, 
 ** they look so fresh and shining in the sun. " 
 
 And as they floated over the water, her thoughts went 
 back to that May morning when Lillian sat upon the cliffs 
 and sketched the white far-off sails. How distant it 
 seemed! She longed then for life. Now every sweet gift 
 which life could bestow was hers, crowned with love. Yet 
 she sighed as Hugh Fernely's face rose before her. If she 
 could but forget it! After all it had been on her side but 
 a mockery of love. Yet another sigh broke from her lips, 
 and then Lord Airlie looked anxiously at her. 
 
 " Does anything trouble yon, Miss Earle?" he asked. 
 44 1 never remember to have seen you so serious before." 
 
 She looked for a moment wistfully into his face. Ah, 
 if he could help her, if he could drive this haunting mem- 
 ory from her, if ever it could be that she might tell him of 
 this her trouble and ask him. to save her from Hugh Ferne- 
 ly! But that was impossible. Almost as though in answer 
 to her thought, Gaspar Laurence began to tell them of an 
 incident that had impressed him. A gentleman, a friend 
 of his, after making unheard-of sacrifices to marry a lady 
 who was both beautiful and accomplished, left her sudden- 
 ly, and never saw her again, the reason being that he dis- 
 covered that she had deceived him by telling him a willful 
 lie before her marriage. Gaspar seemed to think she had 
 been hardly used. Lord Airlie and Lionel differed from 
 him. 
 
 " I am quite sure," said Lord Airlie, '* that 1 could par- 
 don anything sooner than a lie; all that is mean, despica- 
 ble, and revolting to me is expressed in the one word * liar.' 
 Sudden anger, passion, hot revenge anything is more 
 easily forgiven. When once I discover that a man or wom- 
 an has told me a lie, I never care to see their face again. " 
 
 *' 1 agree with you," said Lionel; " perhaps I even go 
 further. I would never pardon an air of deceit; those I 
 love must be straightforward, honest, and sincere always." 
 
 " Such a weight of truth might sink the boat," said 
 Beatrice, carelessly; but Lord Airlie's words had gone 
 straight to her heart. If he only knew. But he never 
 would. And again she wished that in reply to her father's 
 question she had answered truthfully. 
 
 The time came when Lillian remembered Mr. Dacre's 
 words, and knew they had not been spoken in vain.
 
 DORA THORNE. 167 
 
 Beatrice had taken off her glove, and drew her hand 
 through the cool, deep water; thinking intently of the 
 story she had just heard of Undine and the water-sprites 
 she leaned over the boat's side and gazed into the depths. 
 The blue sky and white fleecy clouds, the tall green trees 
 and broad leaves, were all reflected there. There was a 
 strange, weird fascination in the placid water what went 
 on in the depths beneath? what lay beneath the ripples? 
 Suddenly she drew back with a startled cry a cry that 
 rang out in the clear summer air, and haunted Lord Airlie 
 while he lived. He looked at her; her face had grown 
 white, even to the very lips, and a nameless, awful dread 
 lay in her dark eyes. 
 
 " What is it?" he asked, breathlessly. She recovered 
 herself with a violent effort, and tried to smile. 
 
 " How foolish I am!" she said; "and what is worse, 
 you will all laugh at me. It was sheer fancy and nonsense, 
 I know; but 1 declare that looking down into the water, I 
 saw my own face there with such a wicked, mocking smile 
 that it frightened me. " 
 
 " It was the simple reflection," said Lionel Dacre. '* I 
 can see mine. Look again, Miss Earle." 
 
 " No," she replied, with a shudder; " it is only non- 
 sense, I know, but it startled me. The face seemed to rise 
 from the depths and smile oh, oh, such a smile! When 
 Bhall I forget it?" 
 
 " It was only the rippling of the water which distorted 
 the reflection, said Lord Airlie. 
 
 Beatrice made no reply, but drew her lace shawl around 
 her as though she were cold. 
 
 "I do not like the water," she said presently; " it 
 always frightens me. Let us land. Mr. Laurence, please. 
 I will never go on the lake again." 
 
 Gaspar laughed, and Mr. Dacre declared Beatrice had 
 had too strong a dose of Undine and the water-spirits. 
 Lord Airlie felt her hand tremble as he helped hor to leave 
 the boat. He tried to make her forget the incident by 
 talking of the ball and the pleasure it would bring. She 
 talked gayly, but every now and then he saw that she shud- 
 i as though icily cold. 
 
 When they were fiUi-ring the honse she turned round, 
 and, in her rh:inuin, imperious way, said: 
 
 " N .ust tuJl papa about my fright. I should
 
 168 DORA THOKNE. 
 
 not like him to think that an Earle could be either fanci 
 ful or a coward. 1 am brave enough on land." 
 
 The heat had tried both girls, and Lady Helena said 
 they must rest before dinner. She made Beatrice lie down 
 upon the cosy little couch in her dressing-room. She 
 watched the dark eyes close, and thought how beautiful 
 the young face looked in repose. 
 
 But the girl's sleep was troubled. Lady Earle, bending 
 over her, heard her sigh deeply and murmur something 
 about the " deep water." She awoke, crying out that she 
 saw her own face, and Lady Earle saw great drops of per- 
 spiration standing in beads upon her brow. 
 
 ** What have you been dreaming of, child?" she asked. 
 ** Youug girls like you ought to sleep like flowers." 
 
 " Flowers never quite close their eyes," said Beatrice, 
 with a smile. " I shut mine, but my brain is active, it 
 seems, even in sleep. I was dreaming of the lake, Lady 
 Helena. Dreams are very wonderful; do they ever come 
 true?" 
 
 " I knew one that did," replied Lady Earle. " When 
 1 was young, I had a friend whom I loved very dearly 
 Laura Reardon. A gentleman, a Captain Lemuel, paid 
 great attention to her. She loved him my poor Laura 
 as I hope few people love. For many months he did every- 
 thing but make an offer saw her every day, sent her 
 flowers, books, and music, won ,her heart by a thousand 
 sweet words and gentle deeds. She believed he was in earn- 
 est, anrt never suspected him of being a male flirt. He left 
 London suddenly, saying good-bye to her in the ordinary 
 way, and speaking of his return in a few weeks. 
 
 " She came to me one morning and told me a strange 
 dream. She dreamed she was dead, and lay buried in the 
 center aisle of an old country church. At the same time, 
 and in the usual vague manner of dreams, she was con- 
 scious of an unusual stir. She heard carriages drive up to 
 the church door; she heard the rustling of dresses, the 
 sound of footsteps above her head, the confused murmur 
 of a crowd of people; then she became aware that a mar- 
 riage was going on. She heard the minister ask: 
 
 k ' George Victor Lemuel, will you have this woman for 
 your lawful wedded wife?' 
 
 ' The voice she knew and loved best in the world re- 
 plied:
 
 DORA THORNE. 169 
 
 I will.' 
 
 " ' Alice Ferrars, will you take this man for your lawful 
 wedded husband?' 
 
 " ' 1 will,' replied the clear, low voice. 
 
 '* She heard the service finished, the wedding-bells peal, 
 the carriages drive away. I laughed at her, Beatrice; but 
 the strange thing is, Captain George Lemuel was married 
 on the very day Laura dreamed the dream. He married a 
 young lady, Alice Ferrars, and Laura had never heard of 
 the name before she dreamed it. The marriage took place 
 in an old country church. That dream came true, Bea- 
 trice; I never heard of another dream like it " 
 
 " Did your friend die?" she asked. 
 
 " No," replied Lady Helena; '* she did not die, but her 
 life was spoiled by her unhappy love." 
 
 *' I should have died had it been my disappointment," 
 said Beatrice; " the loss of what one loves must be more 
 bitter than death. " 
 
 Far and near nothing was spoken of bat the ball at 
 Earlescourt Anything so brilliant or on so grand a scale 
 had not been given in the county for many years. 
 
 Lord Earle felt proud of the arrangements as he looked 
 through the ball-room and saw the gorgeous array of 
 flowers, tier upon tier of magnificent bloom, a sight well 
 worth coming many miles to see. Here and there a mar- 
 ble statue stood amid the flowers. Little fountains of 
 cented water rippled musically. He stopped for a few 
 moments looking at the blossoms and thinking of his beau- 
 tiful child. 
 
 " How she loves everything bright and gay!" he said to 
 himself. '* She will be queen of the ball to-night" 
 
 As Lord Earle stood alone in his library that evening, 
 R-here he had been resting, stealing a quiet half hour, thi-i v 
 came a gentle knock at the door. 
 
 " Come in," he said, and there stood before him some- 
 thing that he thought must be a vision. 
 
 1 irandmamma sent me," said Beatrice, blushing, ** to 
 see if I should do. You are to notice my diamonds, pajui, 
 and tell me if you approve of the setting." 
 
 he looked at the radiant figure a sense of wonder 
 stole over him. Could this magnificent beauty really be
 
 170 DORA THOBNB. 
 
 Dora's daughter Dora who had stained her pretty hand 
 with strawberry- juice so many years ago? 
 
 He knew nothing of the details of the dress, he saw only 
 the beautiful face and glorious eyes, the crowns of waving 
 hair, the white, stately neck and exquisite arms. Before 
 him was a gleam of pale pink satin, shrouded with lace so 
 fine and delicate that it looked like a fairy web; and the 
 Earle diamonds were not brighter than the dark eyes. 
 They became the wearer well. They would have eclipsed 
 a fair, faded beauty; they added radiance to Beatrice's. 
 
 " Where is Lillian?" he asked; and she knew from the 
 tone of his voice how proud and satisfied he was. 
 
 " I am here, papa/' said a gentle voice. " I wanted, 
 you to see Beatrice first" 
 
 Lord Earle hardly knew which to admire the more. Lil- 
 lian looked so fair and graceful; the pure, spiritual face 
 and tender eyes had new beauty; the slender, girlish figure 
 contrasted well with the stately dignity of Beatrice. 
 
 " 1 hope it will be a happy evening for you both," he 
 said. 
 
 " 1 feel sure it will for me," said Beatrice, with a smile. 
 " I am thoroughly happy, and am looking forward to the 
 ball with delight." 
 
 Lord Earle smiled half sadly as he gazed at her bright 
 face, wondering whether, in years to come, it would be 
 clouded or shadowed. 
 
 ** Will you dance, papa?" asked Beatrice, with a gleam 
 of mischief in her dark eyes. 
 
 " I think not," be replied; and Ronald Earle's thoughts 
 went back to the last time he had ever danced with Val- 
 entine Charteris. He remembered it well. Ah, no! all 
 those pleasant, happy days were over for him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE dinner-party was over, and carriage after carriage 
 tolled up to the Hall; the rooms began to fill; there was a 
 faint sound of music, a murmur of conversation and 
 laughter. 
 
 " You have not forgotten your promise to me, Miss 
 Earle?" said Lord Airlie. " I am to have the first dance 
 and the last, certainly, and as many more as you oan
 
 DORA THORtfE. 171 
 
 ** I have not forgotten," replied Beatrice. She was 
 never quite at her ease with him, although she loved him 
 better than any one else on earth. There was ever pres- 
 ent with her the consciousness that she did so love him, and 
 the wonder whether he cared for her. 
 
 They opened the ball, and many significant comments 
 were made upon the fact. Gaspar Laurence was present. 
 He was deeply engaged for more than two hours in making 
 up his mind whether he should ask Beatrice to dance with 
 him or not she looked so beautiful, so far above him. 
 Gaspar could not help loving her that was impossible; the 
 first moment he saw her -he was entranced. But his was a 
 humble, hopeless kind of adoration. He would sooner 
 have dreamed of wooing and winning a royal princess than 
 of ever asking Beatrice to be his wife. 
 
 At length he summoned up courage, and was rewarded 
 by a bright smile and kind words. Poor Gaspar! When 
 the beautiful face was near him, and her hand rested on 
 his shoulder, he thought he must be dreaming. 
 
 " There/' he said, when the dance was over; " I shall 
 not dance again. I should not like to lose the memory of 
 rhat waltz." 
 
 " Why not?" she asked, wonderingly. 
 
 " 1 must be candid with you," said Gaspar, sadly. 
 " Perhaps my confession is a vain one; but 1 love you, 
 Miss Earle so dearly that the ground on which you stand 
 is sacred to me." 
 
 " That is not a very timid declaration" said Beatrice, 
 with a smile. *' You are courageous, Mr. Laurence. 1 
 have only seen you three times. " 
 
 " It would make no difference," said Gaspar, " whether 
 I had seen you only once, or whether 1 met you every day. 
 I am not going to pain you, Miss Earle. Think kindly of 
 me 1 do not ask more; only remember that living in this 
 world there is one who would stand between you and all 
 peril who would sacrifice his life for you. You will not 
 forget?" 
 
 " I will not," said Beatrice, firmly. " Never could I 
 forget such words. I am willing to be your friend I 
 know how to value you." 
 
 " 1 shall be happier with your friendship than with the 
 love of any other woman," said Guspar, gratefully. 
 
 Just then Lord Earle came and took Mr. Laurence away.
 
 172 DORA THOEKE. 
 
 Beatrice stood where he had left her, half screened from 
 sight by the luxuriant foliage and magnificent flowers of a 
 rare American plant. There was a thoughtful, tender, ex- 
 
 Eressiou on her face that softened it into wondrous beauty, 
 he liked Gaspar, and was both pleased and sorry that he 
 loved her. Very pleasant was this delicious homage of 
 love pleasant was it to know that strong, brave, gifted 
 men laid all tbey had in the world at her feet to know 
 ihat her looks, smiles, and words moved them as nothing 
 else could. 
 
 Yet she was sorry for Gaspar. It must be sad to give all 
 one's love and expect no return. She would be his friend, 
 but she oould never be anything more. She could give 
 him her sincere admiration and esteem, but not her love. 
 
 The proud, beautiful lips quivered, and the bright eyes 
 grew dim with tears. No, not her love that was given, 
 and could never be recalled; in all the wide world, from 
 among all men's, Lord Airlie's face stood out clear and 
 distinct. Living or dying, Lord Earle's daughter knew 
 she could care for no other man. 
 
 She had taken in her hand one of the crimson flowers of 
 the plant above her, and seemed lost in contemplating it. 
 She saw neither the blossom nor the leaves. She was 
 thinking of Lord Airlie's face, and the last words he had 
 said to her, when suddenly a shadow fell before her, and, 
 looking up hastily, she saw him by her side. He appeared 
 unlike himself, pale and anxious. 
 
 "Beatrice," said he, "I must speak with you. Pray 
 come with me, away from all these people. 1 can beat 
 this suspense no longer/' 
 
 She looked at him, and would have refused; but she saw 
 in his face that which compelled obedience. . For Lord 
 Airlie had watched Gaspar Laurence he had watched the 
 dance and the interview that followed it. He saw the soft- 
 ened look on her face, and it half maddened him. For the 
 first time in his life Lord Airlie was fiercely jealous. He 
 detested this fair-haired Gaspar, with his fund of German 
 romance and poetry. 
 
 Could it be that he would win the prize he himself would 
 have died to secure? What was he saying to her that soft- 
 ened the expression on her face? "What had he said that 
 left her standing there with a tender light in her dark eyea 
 which he had never seen before? He could not bear tha.
 
 DORA THORNE. 173 
 
 suspense; perhaps a ball-room might not be the most ap- 
 
 Eropriate place for an offer of marriage, but he must know 
 is fate, let it be what it might He went up to her and 
 made his request. 
 
 " \Vhere are you going?" asked Beatrice, suddenly, for 
 Lord Airlie had walked rapidly through the suite of rooms, 
 crowded with people, and "through the long conservatory. 
 
 "We are not alone," he replied. "See, Lady Lau- 
 rence and Mr. Gresham prefer the rose-garden here to 
 those warm rooms. I must speak with you, Miss Earle. 
 Let me speak now." 
 
 They stood in the pretty garden, where roses of varied 
 hues hung in rich profusion; the air was heavy with per- 
 fume. The moon shone brightly iu the evening sky; its 
 beams fell upon the flowers, bathing them iu floods of sil- 
 ver light. 
 
 A little rustic garden-seat stood among the sleeping roses; 
 and there Beatrice sat, wondering at the strong emotion 
 she read in her lover's face. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " I can bear it no longer. Why 
 did Gaspar Laurence bend over you? What was he say- 
 ing:* My darling, do you not know how I love you so 
 dearly and so deeply that 1 could not live without you? Do 
 you not know that I have loved you from the first moment 
 I ever beheld you? Beatrice, my words are weak. Look 
 at me read the love iu my face that my lips know not how 
 to utter." 
 
 But she never raised her eyes to his; the glorious 
 golden light of love that had fallen upon her dazzled her. 
 
 " You must not send me from you, Beatrice," he said, 
 clasping her hands in his. " I am a strong man, not given 
 to weakness; but, believe me, if you send me from you, it 
 will kill me. Every hope of my life is centered in you. 
 Beatrice, will you try to care for me?" 
 
 She turned her face to his the moonlight showed clear* 
 ly the bright tears in her dark eyes. For answer she said, 
 simply: 
 
 "Do not leave me I care for you now; my love my 
 love did you not know it?" 
 
 The sweet face and quivering lips were so near him (hat 
 Lord Airlie kissed the tears away; he also kissed the white 
 hands that clasped his own.
 
 174 DORA THOBNE. 
 
 " You are mine my own," he whispered, " until death; 
 say so, Beatrice. " 
 
 " 1 am yours," she said, " even in death/' 
 
 It was a stolen half hour, but so full of happiness that 
 it could never fade from memory. 
 
 " I must go," said Beatrice, at length unclasping the 
 firm hand that held her own. " Oh, Lord Airlie, how am 
 I to meet all my friends? Why did you not wait until to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 " I could not," he said; " and you perhaps would not 
 then have been so kind." 
 
 He loved her all the more for her simplicity. As they 
 left the garden, Lord Airlie gathered a white rose and gave 
 it to Beatrice. Long afterward, when the leaves had be- 
 come yellow and dry, the rose was found. 
 
 They remained in the conservatory a few minutes, and 
 then went back to the ball-room. 
 
 " Every waltz must be mine now," said Lord Airlie. 
 " And, Beatrice, 1 shall speak to Lord Earle to-night. 
 Are you willing?" 
 
 Yes, she was willing. It was very pleasant to be taken 
 possession of so completely. It was pleasant to find a will 
 stronger than her own. She did not care how soon all the 
 world knew that she loved him. The only thing she won- 
 dered at was why he should be so unspeakably happy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 BEATRICE never recollected how the ball ended; to her 
 it was one long trance of happiness. She heard the music, 
 the murmur of voices, as though in a dream. There Wc.\. 
 times when everything seemed brighter than usual that 
 was when Lord Airlie stood by her side. Her heart was 
 filled with unutterable joy. 
 
 It was strange, but in that hour of happiness she never 
 even thought of Hugh Fernley; the remembrance of him 
 never once crossed her mind. Nothing marred the fullness 
 of her content. 
 
 She stood by Lord Earle 's side as guest after guest came 
 up to say adieu. She saw Lord Airlie waiting for her fa- 
 ther. 
 
 ** Lord Earle will be engaged for some time, I fear," he
 
 DORA THORNE. 175 
 
 Mid; ** 1 must see him to-night. Beatrice, promise me yoa 
 will not go to rest until your father has given us his con- 
 sent." 
 
 She could not oppose him. When girls like Beatrice 
 Earle once learn to love, there is something remarkable in 
 the complete abandonment of their will. She would fain 
 have told him, with gay, teasing words, that he had won 
 concession enough for one night; as it was, she simply 
 promised to dp as he wished. 
 
 Lord Earle received the parting compliments of his 
 guests, wondering at the same time why Lord Airlie kept 
 near him and seemed unwilling to lose sight of him. The 
 happy moment arrived when the last carriage rolled away, 
 and the family at Earlescourt were left alone. Lady .Earle 
 asked the two young girls to go into her room for half an 
 hour to " talk over the ball." Lionel, sorry the evening 
 was over, retired to his room; then Hubert Airlie went to 
 Lord Earle and asked if he might speak with him for ten 
 minutes. 
 
 '* Will it not do to-morrow?'* inquired Ronald, smiling, 
 as he held up his watch. " See, it is past three o'clock." 
 
 " No," replied Lord Airlie; " I could not pass* another 
 night in suspense." 
 
 " Come with me, then," said the master of Earlescourt, 
 as he led the way to the library, where the lamps were 
 still alight 
 
 " Now, what is it?" he asked, good-humoredly, turning 
 to the excited, anxious lover. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought to study my words," said Lord Airlie; 
 '* but I can not Lord Earle, I love your daughter Bea- 
 trice. Will you give her to me to be my wife?'* 
 
 "Sooner than to anyone else in the world," replied 
 Ronald. " Is she willing?" 
 
 " 1 think so," was the answer, Lord Airlie's heart thrill- 
 ing with happiness as he remembered her words. 
 
 Let us see," said Lord Earle. He rang the bell, and 
 sent for his daughter. 
 
 Lord Airlie never forgot the beautiful, blushing face half 
 turned from him as Beatrice entered the room. 
 
 11 Iteatrice," said her father, clasping her in his arms, 
 '* is this true? Am I to give you to Lord Airlie?" 
 
 14 If you please, papa," she whispered. 
 
 *' T do please," he cried. *' Hibert, I e^re you a treas-
 
 176 DORA THOENE. 
 
 ure beyono. all price. You may judge of my daughter's 
 love from her own word. 1 know it has never been given 
 to auy one but you. You are my daughter's first lover, 
 and her first love. You may take bar to your heart, well 
 satisfied that she has never cared for any one else. It is 
 true, Beatrice, is it not?" 
 
 " Yes/' she said, faltering for a moment, as, for the 
 first time, she remembered Hugh. 
 
 " To-morrow," continued Lord Earle, " we will talk ojf 
 the future; we are all tried to-night. You will sleep in 
 peace, Airlie, 1 suppose?" 
 
 " If I sleep at all," he replied. 
 
 " Well, you understand clearly that, had the choice 
 rested with me I should have selected you from all others 
 to take charge of my Beatrice/* said Lord Earle. "Do 
 not wait to thank me. I have a faint idea of how much a 
 grateful lover has to say. Good-night." 
 
 ******* 
 
 *' What is it, Beatrice?" asked Lillian, as the two sis- 
 ters stood alone in the bright little dressing-room. 
 
 " I can hardly tell you in sober words/' she replied. 
 *' Lord Airlie has asked me to be his wife his wife; and 
 oh, Lily, I love him so dearly!'' 
 
 Pride and dignity all broke down; the beautiful face was 
 laid upon Lillian's shoulder, and Beatrice wept happy 
 tears. 
 
 " I love him so, Lily," she went on; " but I never 
 thought he cared for me. What have I ever dope that I 
 should be so happy?" 
 
 The moonbeams never fell upon a sweeter picture than 
 these fair young sisters; Lillian's pure, spirituelle face 
 bent over Beatrice. 
 
 " 1 love him, Lily," she continued, " for himself. He 
 is a king among men. Who is so brave, so generous, so 
 noble? If he were a beggar, I should care just as much 
 for him." 
 
 Lillian listened and sympathized until the bright, dnrk 
 eyes seemed to grow weary; then she bade her sister good- 
 night, and went to her own room. 
 
 Beatrice Earle was alone at last alone with her happi- 
 ness and love. It seemed impossible that her heart and 
 brain could ever grow calm or quite again. It was all in
 
 DORA THORNE. 17? 
 
 vain sue tried to sleep. Lord Airlie's face, his voice, his 
 words haunted her. 
 
 She rose, and put on a pretty pink dressing-gown. The 
 fresh air, she thought, would make her sleep, so she opened 
 the long window gently, and looked out. 
 
 The night was still and clear; the moon hung over the 
 dark trees; Hoods of silvery light bathed the far-off lake, 
 the sleeping flowers, and the green grass. There was a 
 gentle stir amid the branches; the leaves rustled in the 
 wind ; the blue, silent heavens shone bright and calm. The 
 solemn beauty of the starlit sky and the hushed murmur 
 appealed to her. Into the proud, passionate heart there 
 came some better, nobler thoughts. Ah, in the future that 
 lay so brilliant and beautiful before her she would strive to 
 be good, she would be true and steadfast, she would think 
 more of what Lily loved and spoke about at times. Then 
 her thoughts went back to her lover, and that happy hall 
 hour in the rose-garden. From her window she could see 
 it the moon shone full upon it. The moonlight was a 
 fair type of her life that was to be, bright, clear, unshad- 
 owed. Even as the thought shaped itself in her mind, a 
 shadow fell among the roses. She looked, and saw the fig- 
 ure of a tall man walking down the path that divided the 
 little garden from the shrubbery. He stood still there, 
 gazing long and earnestly at the windows of the house, and 
 then went out into the park, and disappeared. 
 
 She was not startled. A passing wonder as to who it 
 might be struck her. Perhaps it was one of the game- 
 keepers or gardeners, but she did not think much about it. 
 A shadow in the moonlight did not frighten her. 
 
 Soon the cool, fresh air, did its work; the bright, dark 
 eyes grew tired in real earnest, and at length Beatrice re- 
 tired to rest. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly when she awoke. By her 
 Bide lav a fragrant bouquet of flowers, the dew-drops still 
 glistening upon them, and in their midst a little note which 
 said: 
 
 44 Beatrice, will you come into the garden for a few min- 
 before breakfast, just to tell me all that happened last 
 night was not a dream?" 
 
 She rose quickly. Over her pretty morning-dress she 
 threw a light shawl, and went down to meet Lord Airlie.
 
 178 DORA THOENB. 
 
 " It was no dream, " she said, simply, holding out her 
 hand in greeting to him. 
 
 *' Dear Beatrice, how very good of you!" replied Lord 
 Airlie; add ing presently: " We have twenty minutes befoVe 
 the breakfast-bell will ring; let us make the best of them." 
 
 The morning was fresh, fair, and calm, a soft haze hang- 
 ing round the trees. 
 
 " Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, " you see the sun shining 
 there iu the high heavens. Three weeks ago I should hare 
 thought it easier for that same sun to fall than for me to 
 win you. 1 can scarcely believe that my highest ideal oi 
 woman is realized. It was always my ambition to marry 
 some young girl who had never loved any one before ma 
 You never have. No man ever held your hand as 1 hold 
 it now, no man ever kissed your face as 1 kissed it lasfc 
 night." 
 
 As he spoke a bi ring flush covered her face. She re- 
 membered Hugh Fernely. He loved her better for th 
 blush, thinking how pure and guileless she was. 
 
 "I fear I shall be a very jealous lover,*' he continued 
 " I shall envy everything those beautiful eyes rest upon. 
 Will you ride with me this morning? I want to talk tc 
 you about Lynnton my home, you know. You will be 
 Lady Airlie of Lynntou, and no king will be so proud as I 
 shall." 
 
 The breakfast-bell rang at last. When Beatrice entered 
 the room Lady Earle went up to her. 
 
 " Your papa has told me the news," she said. " Heaven 
 bless you, and make you happy, dear child!" 
 
 Lionel Dacre guessod the state of affairs, and said but 
 little. The chief topic of conversation was the ball, inter- 
 spersed by many conjectures on the part of Lord Earle as 
 to why the post-bag was so late. 
 
 It did not arrive until breakfast was ended. Lord Earle 
 distributed the letters; there were three for Lord Airlie, 
 one to Lady Earle from Dora, two for Lionel, none for 
 Lillian. Lord Earle held in his hand a large common blue 
 envelope. 
 
 " Miss Beatrice Earle," he said; " from Brookfield. 
 What large writing! The name was evidently intended to 
 be seen." 
 
 Beatrice took the letter carelessly from him; the hand- 
 writing was quite unknown to her; she knew no one in
 
 DORA THORNE. 179 
 
 Brookfield, which was the nearest post-town it was proba- 
 bly some circular, some petition for charity, she thought. 
 Lord Airlie crossed the room to speak to her, and she 
 placed the letter carelessly in the pocket of her dress, and 
 in a few minutes forgot all about it. 
 
 Lord Airlie was waiting; the horses had been ordered for 
 an early hour. Beatrice ran upstairs to put on her riding- 
 habit, and never gave a thought to the letter. 
 
 It was a pleasant ride; in the after-days she looked back 
 upon it as one of the brightest hours she had ever known. 
 Lord Airlie told her all about Lynuton, his beautiful home 
 a grand old castle, where every room had a legend, every 
 tree almost a tradition. 
 
 For he intended to work wonders; a new and magnificent 
 wing should be built, and on one room therein art, skill, 
 and money should be lavished without stint. 
 
 *' Her boudoir," he said, " should be fit for a queen and 
 for a fairy." 
 
 So they rode through the pleasant, sunlit air. A sudden 
 thought struck Beatrice. 
 
 " I wonder," she said, " what mamma will think? You 
 must go to see her, Hubert. She dreaded love and mar- 
 riage so much. Poor mamma!" 
 
 She asked herself, with wondering love, what could have 
 happened that her mother should dread what she found so 
 pleasant? Lord Airlie entered warmly into all her plans 
 and wishes. Near the grand suite of rooms that were to 
 be prepared for his beautiful young wife, Lord Airlie spoke 
 of rooms for Dora, if she would consent to live with them. 
 
 " 1 must write and tell mamma to-day," said Beatrice. 
 *' I should not like her to hear it from any one but my- 
 self." 
 
 " Perhaps you will allow me to inclose a note," suggest- 
 ed L^rd Airlie, " asking her to tolerate ma" 
 
 " I do net think that will be renr difficult," laughingly 
 replied his companion. 
 
 Their ride was a long one. On their reuirr Beatrice 
 was slightly tired, and went straight to her owu itxxr 
 She wrote a long letter to Dora, who must have smiled a* 
 her description of Lord Airlie. He was everything that 
 was true, noble, chivalrous, and grand. The world did not 
 hold such another. When the letter was finished it was 
 *vne to dress for dinner
 
 180 DORA THOENE. 
 
 " Which dress will you wear, miss?" asked the attentive 
 maid. 
 
 " The prettiest 1 have," said the young girl, her bright 
 face glowing with the words she had just written. 
 
 What dress could be pretty enough for him? One was 
 found at last that pleased her a rich, white cre'pe. But 
 she would wear no jewels nothing but crimson roses. 
 One lay in the thick coils of her dark hair, another nestled 
 against her white neck, others looped up the flowing skirt. 
 
 Beatrice's toilet satisfied her this, too, with her lover's 
 fastidious taste to please. She stood before the large mir- 
 ror, and a pleased smile overspread her face as she saw 
 herself reflected therein. 
 
 Suddenly she remembered the letter. The morning-dress 
 still hung upon a chair. She took the envelope from the 
 pocket. 
 
 ** Shall you want me again, Miss Earle?" asked her 
 maid. 
 
 " No," replied Beatrice, breaking the seal; " 1 ain 
 ready now." 
 
 The girl quitted the room, and Beatrice, standing before 
 the mirror, drew out a long, closely written letter, turning 
 presently, in amazement, to the signature, wondering who 
 could be the writer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE sun shone brightly upon the roses that gleamed in 
 her hair and nestled against the white neck. Could it be 
 lingering in cruel mockery upon the pale face and the dark 
 eyes so full of wild horror? As Beatrice Earle read that 
 letter, the color left even her lips, her heart seemed to 
 stand still, a vague, nameless dread took hold of her, the 
 paper fell from her hands, and with a long, low cry she 
 fell upon her knees, hiding her face in her hands. 
 
 It had fallen at last the cruel blow that even in her 
 dreams and thoughts she had considered impossible. Hugh 
 Fernely had found her out, and claimed her as his own! 
 
 This letter, which had stricken joy and beauty from the 
 proud face and left it white and cold almost as the face of 
 the dead, was from him; and the words it contained were 
 full of such passionate Iw. f ^at they terrified her. The 
 letter ran as follows:
 
 DORA THORNE. 181 
 
 " MY OWN BEATRICE, From peril by ea and land I 
 have returned to claim you. Since we parted I have stood 
 face to face with death in its most terrible form. Each 
 time I conquered, because I felt I must see you again. It 
 is a trite saying that death is immortal. l)eath itself would 
 not part me from you nay, if I were buried, and you came 
 to my grave ami whispered my name, it seems to me I 
 must hear you. 
 
 " Beatrice, you promised to be my wife you will not 
 fail me? Ah, no, it can not be that the biue heavens 
 above will look on quietly and witness my death-blow! 
 You will come to me, aud give me a word, a smile to show 
 how true you have been. 
 
 44 Last evening I wandered round the grounds, wonder- 
 ing which were the windows of my love's chamber, and 
 asking myself whether she was dreaming of me. Life hus 
 changed for you since we sat upon the cliffs at Knutsford 
 and you promised to be my wife. I heard at the farm all 
 about the great change, and how the young girl who wan- 
 dered with me through the bonny green woods is the daugh- 
 ter of Lord Earle. Your home, doubtless, is a stately one. 
 Kank and position like yours might frighten some lovers 
 they do not daunt me. You will not let them stand be- 
 tween UP. You can not, after the promises you uttered. 
 
 " Beatrice, my voyage has been a successful one; I am 
 
 not a rich man, but 1 have enough to gratify every wish of 
 
 your heart. I will take you away to suuny lands over the 
 
 eea, where life shall be so full of happiness that you will 
 
 to end. 
 
 " I wait your commands. Rumor tells me Lord Earle 
 is a strange, disappointed man. I will not yet call upon 
 you at your own home; I shall await your reply at Brook- 
 field. Write at once, Beatrice, and tell me how and when 
 1 may meet you. I will go anywhere, at any time. Do 
 not delay my heart hungers and thirsts for one glance of 
 your peerless face. Appoint an hour soon. How shall I 
 live until it comes? Until then think of me as 
 44 Your devoted lover, 
 
 44 HUGH FERNELY. 
 
 44 Address Post-office, Brookfield." 
 
 Sin- mid every word carefully, and then slowly turned 
 the letter over and read it again. Her white lips quivered
 
 12 DORA THORNE. 
 
 with indignant passion. How dared he presume so far? 
 His love! Ah, if Hubert Airlie could have read those 
 words! Fernely's love! She loathed him; she hated, with 
 fierce, hot hatred, the very sound of his name. Why must 
 this most wretched folly of her youth rise up against her 
 now? What must she do? Where could she turn for help 
 snd counsel? 
 
 Could it be possible that this man she hated so fiercely 
 had touched her face and covered her hands with kisses 
 and tears? She struck the little white hands which held 
 the letter against the marble stand, and where Hugh 
 Fernely's tea s had fallen a dark bruise purpled the fair 
 skin; while hard, fierce words came from the beautiful 
 lips. 
 
 "Was 1 blind, 1 foolish, mad?" she cried. "Dear 
 Heaven, save me from the fruits of my own folly I" 
 
 Then hot auger yielded to despair. What should she 
 do? Look which way she might, there was no hope. If 
 Lord Earle once discovered that she had dealt falsely with 
 him, she would be driven from the home she had learned 
 to love. He would never pardon such concealment, deceit, 
 and folly as hers. She knew that. If Lord Airlie ever 
 discovered that any other man had called her his love, had 
 kissed her face, and claimed her as his own, she would lose 
 his affection. Of that she was also quite sure. 
 
 If she would remain at Earlescourt, if she would retain 
 her father's affection and Lord Airlie's love, they must 
 never hear of Hugh Fernely. There could be no doubt on 
 that head. 
 
 What should she do with him? Could she buy him off? 
 Would money purchase her freedom? Kemembering hia 
 pride and his love, she thought not. Should she appeal to 
 his pity tell him all her heart and life were centered in 
 Lord Airlie? Should she appeal to his love for pity's 
 sake? 
 
 Remembering his passionate words, she knew it would 
 be useless. Had she but been married before he returned 
 were she but Lady Airlie of Lyunton he could not have 
 harmed her. Was the man mad to think he could win her 
 she who had had some of the most noble-born men in 
 England at her feet? Did he think she would exchange 
 bor grand old name for his obscure one her magnificence 
 for his
 
 DORA THORXE. 183 
 
 Tiiew was no more time for thought; the dinner-bell 
 had sounded for the last time, and she must descend. She 
 thrust the letter hastily into a drawer, and locked it, and 
 then turned to her mirror. She was startled a!; the change. 
 Surely that pale face, with its quivering lips and shadowed 
 syes could not be hers. What should she do to drive away 
 the startled fear, the vague dread, the deadly pallor? The 
 roses she wore were but a ghastly contrast. 
 
 ** I must bear it better/' she said to herself. ** Such a 
 face as this will betray my secret Let me feel that I do 
 not care that it will all come right in the end." 
 
 She said the words aloud, but the voice was changed and 
 hoarse. 
 
 " Women have faced more deadly peril than this," she 
 continued, " and have won. Is there any peril 1 would 
 not brave for Hubert Airlie's sake?'* 
 
 Beatrice Earle left the room. She swept, with her beau- 
 tiful head erect through the wide corridors and down the 
 broad staircase. She took her seat at the sumptuous table, 
 whereon gold and silver shone, whereon everything rechercht 
 p.n-1 magnificent was displayed. But she had with her a 
 companion she was never again to lose, a haunting fear, a 
 skeleton that was never more to quit her side, a miserable 
 consciousness of folly that was bringing sore wretchedness 
 ppon her. Never again was she to feel free from fear and 
 care. 
 
 " Beatrice," said Lady Earle, when dinner was over, 
 "you will never learn prudence." 
 
 She started, and the beautiful bloom just begining to re- 
 turn, vanished again. 
 
 " Do not look alarmed, my dear," continued Lady Hel- 
 ena; * 4 1 am not angry. 1 fear you were out too long to- 
 day. Lord Airlie must take more care of you; the sun 
 was very hot, and you look quite ill. 1 never saw you 
 Jook as you do to-night." 
 
 " We had very little sun," replied Beatrice, with a laugh 
 as she tried to nmke a gay one; " we rode under the shade 
 m the park. I am tired, but not with my ride." 
 
 It was a pleasant evening, and when the gentlemen 
 
 j iii'.'d the ladies in the drawing-room the sunbeams still 
 
 lingered on flower and tree.' The long windows were all 
 
 , and the soft summer wind that came in was laden 
 
 with the sweet breath of the flowers.
 
 184 DORA THOKNE. 
 
 Lord Alrlie asked Beatrice to sing. It was a relief to her; 
 she could not have talked; all the love and sorrow, all the 
 fear and despair that tortured her, could find vent in 
 music. So she sat in the evening gloaming, and Lord Air- 
 lie, listening to the superb voice, wondered at the pathos 
 and sadness that seemed to ring in every note. 
 
 " What weird music, Beatrice!" he said, at length. 
 ** You are singing of love, but the love is all sorrow. 
 Your songs are generally so bright and happy. What has 
 come over you?" 
 
 *' Nothing," was the reply, but he, bending over her, 
 saw the dark eyes were dim with tears. 
 
 " There," cried Lord Airlie, " you see 1 am right. You 
 have positively sung yourself to tears. " 
 
 He drew her from the piano, and led her to the large bay 
 window where the roses peeped in. He held her face np 
 to the mellow evening light, and looked gravely into her 
 beautiful eyes. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, simply, " what has saddened you, 
 Beatrice you have no secrets from me. What were you 
 thinking of just now when you sung that dreamy ' Lebe- 
 wohl '? Every note was like a long sigh." 
 
 *' Shall you laugh if 1 tell you?" she asked. 
 
 *' No," he replied; " I can not promise to sigh, but 1 
 will not smile." 
 
 " I was thinking what I should do if if anything hap- 
 pened to part us." 
 
 " But nothing ever will happen," he sai ; ; " nothing can 
 part us but death. 1 know what would h-ippen to me if I 
 lost you, Beatrice." 
 
 " What?" she asked, looking up int.- the handsome,, 
 kindly face. 
 
 " I should not kill myself," he said, ' for I hold life to 
 fce a sacred gift; but I should go vvhere^ the face of no other 
 tfoman would smile upon me. Why do you talk so dole- 
 fully, Beatricpe? Let us change the subject. Tell me 
 where you would like to go when we are married shall it 
 be France, Italy, or Spain?" 
 
 " WouM nothing ever make you love me less, Hubert?" 
 she asked. " Neither poverty nor sickness?" 
 
 " No," he replied; "nothing you can think of or ia 
 Vent."
 
 DORA THORPE. 185 
 
 '* Nor disgrace?" she continued; but he interrupted her 
 half angrily. 
 
 " Hush!" he said, " I do not like such a word upon your 
 lips; never say it again. What disgrace can touch you? 
 You are too pure, too good." 
 
 She turned from him, and he fancied a low moan came 
 from her trembling lips. 
 
 *' You are tired, and pray forgive me, Beatrice nerv- 
 ous too," said Lord Airlie; " I will be your doctor. You 
 shall lie down here upon this couch. 1 will place it where 
 you can see the sun set in the west, and I will read to yon 
 something that will drive all fear away. 1 thought during 
 dinner that you looked ill and worn." 
 
 Gently enough he drew the couch to the window, Lady 
 Earle watching him the while with smiling face. He in- 
 duced Beatrice to lie down, and then turned her face to the 
 garden, where the setting sun was pleasantly gilding the 
 flowers. 
 
 4 ' Now, you have something pleasant to look at," said 
 Lord Airlie, " and you shall have something pleasant to 
 listen to. I am going to read some of Schiller's ' Marie 
 Stuart.' " 
 
 He sat at her feet, and hold her white hands in his. He 
 read the grand, stirring words that at times seemed like the 
 ring of martial music, and again like the dirge of a soul in 
 despair. 
 
 His clear, rich voice sounded pleasantly in the evening 
 calm. Beatrice's eyes lingered on the western sky a8 
 aflame, but her thoughts were with Hugh Fernely. 
 
 What could she do? If she could but temporize with him, 
 if she could but pacify him, for a time, until she was mar- 
 ried, all would be safe, lie would not dare to talk of 
 claiming Lady Airlie it would be vain if he did. Be 
 she would persuade Lord Airlie to go abroad; and, seeing 
 all pursuit useless, Hugh would surely give her up. ! 
 at the very worst, if Hubert and she were once married, 
 she would not fear; if she confessed all to him he woulii 
 forgive her. He might be very angry, but he would pardon 
 his wife. If he knew all about it before marriage there 
 was no hope for her. 
 
 She must temporize with Fernely write in a style that 
 would convey nothing, and tell him that he must wait. H
 
 186 DORA THORNS. 
 
 could not refuse. She would write that evening a letter 
 that should give him no hope, nor yet drive him to despair. 
 
 " That is a grand scene, is it not?" said Lord Airlie sud- 
 denly; then he saw by Beatrice's startled look that she had 
 not listened. 
 
 " I plead guilty at once," she replied. " I was thinking 
 do not be angry I was thinking of something that re- 
 lates to yourself. I heard nothing of what you read, Hu- 
 bert. Will you read it again?" 
 
 " Certainly not,'* he said, with a laugh of quiet amuse- 
 ment, " Reading does not-answer; we will try conversa- 
 tion. Let us resume the subject you ran away from before 
 where shall we go for our wedding-trip?" 
 
 Only three days since she would have suggested twenty 
 different places; she would have smiled and blushed, her 
 dark eyes growing brighter at every word. Now she list- 
 ened to her lover's plans as if a ghostly hand had clutched 
 her heart and benumbed her with fear. 
 
 That evening it seemed to Beatrice Earle as though she 
 would never be left alone. In the drawing-room stood a 
 dainty little escritoire used by the ladies of Earlescourt. 
 Here she dared not write lest Lord Airlie should, as he often 
 did, linger by her, pretending to assist her. If she went 
 into the library Lord Earle would be sure to ask to whom 
 Bhe was writing. There was nothing to be done but to 
 wait until she retired to her own room. 
 
 First came Lady Earle, solicitous about her health, re- 
 commending a long rest and a quiet sleep; then Lillian, full 
 of anxiety, half longing to ask Beatrice if she thought 
 Lionel Dacre handsomer and kinder than any one else; then 
 the maid Suzette, who seemed to linger as though she 
 would never go. 
 
 At length she was alone, the door locked upon the outer 
 world. She was soon seated at her little desk, where she 
 speedily wrote the following cold letter, that almost drove 
 Hugh Fernely mad: 
 
 "MY DEAR HUGH, Have you really returned? I 
 thought you were lost in the Chinese Seas, or had forgotten 
 the little episode at Knutsford. I can not see you just yet. 
 As you have heard, Lord Earle has peculiar notions I
 
 DORA THORNE.^ 187 
 
 must humor them. 1 will write again soon, and say when 
 and where I can see you. 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 " BEATRICE EARLE." 
 
 She folded the letter and addressed it as he wished ; then 
 she left her room and went down into the hall, whore the 
 post-bag lay open upon the table. She placed the missive 
 Inside, knowing that no one would take the trouble to look 
 at the letters; tlu i n she returned, as she had come, silently. 
 
 The letter reached BrookQeld at noon the following day. 
 \\\MI Hugh Fernely opened it he bit his lips with rage. 
 Cold, heartless lines! Not one word was there of welcome. 
 Not one of sorrow for his supposed death; no mention of 
 love, truth, or fidelity; no promise that she would be his. 
 What could such a letter mean? 
 
 He almost hated the girl whom he had loved so well. Yet 
 he couhl not, would not, believe anything except that per- 
 haps during his long absence she had grown to think less 
 kindly of him. She had promised to be his wife, and let 
 come what might, he would make her keep her word. 
 
 So he said, and Hugh Fernely meant it. His whole 
 life was centered in her and he would not tamely give her 
 up. 
 
 The letter dispatched, Beatrice awaited the reply with a 
 suspense no words can describe. A dull wonder came over 
 her at times why she must suffer so keenly. Other girls 
 had done what she had done nay, fifty times worse and 
 no Nemesis haunted them. Why was this specter of fear 
 and shame to stand by her side every moment and distress 
 her? 
 
 It was true it had been very wrong of her to meet this 
 tiresome Hugh Fernely in the pleasant woods and on the 
 sea-shore; but it had broken the monotony that had 
 seemed to be killing her. His passionate love had been 
 delicious flattery; still she had not intended anything seri- 
 ous. It had only been a novelty and an amusement to her, 
 although to him perhaps it had been a matter of life or 
 death. But she had deceived Lord Earle. If, when he had 
 questioned her, and sought with such tender wisdom to win 
 her confidence, if she had told him her story then, he woultf 
 saved her from further persecution and from the 
 of her own folly; if she had told him then, it would
 
 188 DORA THOBNB. 
 
 not have mattered there would have been no obstacle to 
 her love for Lord Airlie. 
 
 It was different now. If she were to tell Lord Earle, 
 after his deliberate and emphatic words, she could expect 
 no mercy; yet, she said to herself, other girls have done 
 even worse, and punishment had not overtaken them so 
 swiftly. 
 
 At last she slept, distressed and worn out with thought. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 FOR the first time in her life, when the bright sun shone 
 into her room, Beatrice turned her face to the wall and 
 dreaded the sight of day. The post-bag would leave the 
 hall at nine in the morning Hugh would have the letter 
 at noon. Until then she was safe. 
 
 Noon came and went, but the length of the summer's 
 day brought nothing save fresh misery. At every unusual 
 stir, every loud peal of the bell, every quick footstep, she 
 turned pale, and -her heart seemed to die within her. 
 
 -Lady Earle watched her with anxious eyes. She could 
 not understand the change that had come over the brilliant 
 young girl who had used to be the life of the house. Every 
 now and then she broke out into wild feverish gayety. 
 Lillian saw that something ailed her sister she could not tell 
 what. 
 
 For the fiftieth time that day, when the hall-door bell 
 sounded, Beatrice looked up with trembling lips she vainly 
 tried to still. At last Lady Earle took the burning hands 
 in her own. 
 
 " My dear child," she said, " you will have a nervous 
 fever if you go on iu this way. What makes you start at 
 every noise? You look as though you were waiting for 
 something dreadful to happen. " 
 
 " No one ever called me nervous/' replied Beatrice, with 
 a smile, controlling herself with an effort; " mamma's chief 
 complaint against me was that I had no nerves;" adding 
 presently to herself: '* This can not last. I would rather 
 die at once than live in this agony. " 
 
 The weary day came to a close, however; and it was well 
 for Beatrice that Lord Airlie had not spent it with her. 
 The gentlemen at Earlescourt had all gone to a bachelor's
 
 DORA THORITE. 189 
 
 dinner, given by old Squire Newton of the Grange. It 
 was late when they returned, and Lord Airlie did not notice 
 anything unusual in Beatrice. 
 
 " I call this a day wasted," he said, as he bade her good- 
 night; "for it has been a day spent away from you. I 
 thought it would never come to an end." 
 
 She sighed, remembering what a dreary day it had been 
 to her. Could she live through such another? Half the 
 night she lay awake, wondering if Hugh's answer to her 
 letter would come by the first post, and whether Lord 
 Earle would say anything if he noticed another letter from 
 Brookfield. - Fortune favored her. In the morning Lord 
 Earle was deeply engrossed by a story Lionel was telling, 
 and asked Beatrice to open the bag for him. She again 
 saw a hated blue envelope bearing her own name. ^ lit u 
 all the other letters were distributed, she slipped hers into 
 the pocket of her dress, without auy one perceiving the 
 action. 
 
 Breakfast was over at last; and leaving Lord Airlie talk* 
 ing to Lillian, Beatrice hastened to read the letter. None 
 of Hugh's anger was there set down; but if she had cared 
 for him her heart must have ached at the pathos of his 
 simple words. He had received her note, he said the note 
 so unworthy of her and hastened to tell her that he was 
 obliged to go to London on some important business con- 
 nected with his ship, and that he should be absent throe 
 weeks. He would write to her at once on his return, and 
 he should insist upon seeing her then, as well as exact 
 the fulfillment of her promise. 
 
 It was a respite; much might happen in three weeks. 
 She tore the letter into shreds, and felt as though relieved 
 of a deadly weight. If time could but be gained, she thought 
 if something could happen to urge on her marrige with 
 Hubert Airlie before Hugh returned! At auy rate, for the 
 moment she was free. 
 
 She looked like herself again when Lord Airlie came to 
 a-ik her if she would ride or walk. The beautiful bloom 
 liiid returned to her face and the tight to her eyes. All day 
 she was in brilliant spirits. There was no need now to 
 tromble at a loud ring or a rapid step. Three weeks was 
 a I'M,' time much might happen. '* Oh, if Lord Airlie 
 would but force me to marry him soon!" 
 
 very evening Lord Airlie asked her if she would go
 
 190 DORA THOKNE. 
 
 out with him. He wanted to talk to her alone, for he was 
 going away on the moryow, and had much to say to her. 
 
 " "Where are you going?" she asked with sad, wondering 
 eyes, her chance of escaping seeming rapidly to diminish. 
 
 " I am going to Lynnton," he replied, " to see about 
 plans for the new buildings. They should be begun at 
 once. For even if we remain abroad a whole year they 
 will then be hardly finished. 1 shall be away ten days or 
 a fortnight. When 1 return, Beatrice, I shall ask you a 
 question. Can you guess what it will be?" 
 
 There was no answering smile on her face. Perhaps he 
 would be absent three "reeks. What chance of escape had 
 she now? 
 
 "I shall ask you when you will fulfill your promise," he 
 continued " when you will let me make you in deed and 
 in word my wife. You must not be cruel to me, Beatrice. 
 I have waited long enough. Y^i: T"' think about it while 
 I am gone, will you not?" 
 
 Lord Earle smiled as he noted his daughter's face. 
 Airlie was going away, and therefore she was dull that 
 was just as it should be. She was delighted that she cared 
 so much for him. He told Lady Helena that he had not 
 thought Beatrice capable of such deep affection. Lady 
 Helena told him she had never known any one who could 
 love so well or hate so thoroughly as Beatrice. 
 
 The morning came, and Lord Airlie lingered so long over 
 his farewell that Lady Helena began to think he would alter 
 his mind and remain where he was. He started at last, 
 however, promising to write every day to Beatrice, and 
 followed by the good wishes of the whole household. 
 
 He was gone, and Hugh was gone; for three weeks she 
 had nothing to fear, nothing to hope, and a settled inel 
 aneholy calm fell upon her. Her father and Lady Helena 
 thought she was dull because her lover was away; the 
 musical laugh that used to gladden Lord Earle's heart waa 
 hushed; she became unusually silent; the beautiful face 
 grew pale and sad. They smiled and thought it natural. 
 Lillian, who knew every expression of her sister's face, 
 grew anxious, fearing there was some ailment either of 
 body or mind of which none of them were aware. 
 
 They believed she was thinking of her absent lover and 
 feeling dull without him. In reality her thoughts were cen- 
 tered upon one ; '"* wh*fr could she do to get rid of Hugh
 
 DORA TH03NE. 191 
 
 Fernely? Morning, noon, and night that one question 
 was always before her. She talked when others aid, she 
 laughed with them; but if there came an interval of silence 
 the beautiful face assumed a far-off dreamy expression 
 Lillian had never seen there before. Beatrice was gener- 
 ally on her guard, watchful and careful, but there were 
 time's when the mask she wore so bravely fell off, and 
 Lillian, looking at her then, knew all was not well with 
 her sister. 
 
 What was to be done to get free from Hugh? Every 
 hour in the day fresh plans came to her some so absurd 
 as to provoke feverish, unnatural laughter, but none that 
 were feasible. With all her daring wit, her quick thought, 
 her vivid fancy with all her resource of mind and intel- 
 lect, she could do nothing. Day and night the one Ques- 
 tion was still there what could she do to get free from 
 Hugh Fernely? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 A WHOLE week passed, and the " something " Beatrice 
 longed for had not happened. Life went on quietly and 
 smoothly. Her father and Lady Earle busied themselves 
 in talking of preparations for the marriage. Lionel Dacre 
 and Lillian slowly drifted into the fairy-land of hope. 
 Lord Airlie wrote every day. No one dreamed of the dark 
 secret that hung over Earlescourt. 
 
 Every morning Beatrice, with the sanguine hopefulness 
 of youth, said to herself, ** Something will happen to-day;" 
 every night she thought, " Something must happen to-mor- 
 row;" but days and nights went on calmly, unbroken by 
 any event or incident such as she wished. 
 
 The time of reprieve was rapidly passing. What should 
 she do if, at the end of three weeks, Lord Airlie returned 
 and Hugh Fernely came back to Earlescourt? Through 
 the long sunny hours that question tortured her the sus- 
 pense made her sick at heart. There were times when she 
 thought it better to die at once than pass through this lin- 
 gering agony of fear. 
 
 But she was young, and youth is ever sanguine; she was 
 brave, and the brave rarely despair. She did not realize 
 the d'tliculties of her position, and she did not think it
 
 192 DOHA THOKBTE. 
 
 possible that anything could happen to take her from 
 Hubert Airlie. 
 
 Only one person noted the change in Beatrice, and that 
 was her sister, Lillian Earle. Lillian missed the high 
 spirits, the brilliant repartee, the gay words that had made 
 home so bright; over and over again she said to herself all 
 was not well with her sister. 
 
 Lillian had her own secret one she had as yet hardly 
 whispered to herself. From her earliest childhood she had 
 been accustomed to give way to Beatrice. Not that there 
 was any parti'ality displayed, but the willful young beauty 
 generally contrived to have her own way. By her engag- 
 ing manners and high spirits she secured every one's atten- 
 tion; and thus Lillian was in part overlooked. 
 
 She was very fair and gentle, this golden-haired daughter 
 of Ronald Earle. Her face was so pure and spirituelle that 
 one might have sketched it for the face of a seraph; the 
 tender violet eyes were full of eloquence, the white brow 
 full of thought. Her beauty never dazzled, never took any 
 one by storm; it won by -slow degrees a place in one's heart. 
 
 She was of a thoughtful, unobtrusive nature; nothing 
 could have made her worldly, nothing could have made her 
 proud. 
 
 Sweet, calm, serene, ignorant alike of all the height of 
 happiness and the depths of despair gifted, too, with a 
 singularly patient disposition and amiable temper, no one 
 had ever seen Lillian Earle angry or hasty; her very pres- 
 ence seemed full of rest and peace. 
 
 Nature had richly endowed her. She had a quick, vivid 
 fancy, a rare and graceful imagination; and perhaps her 
 grandest gift was a strong and deep love for things not of 
 this world. Not that Lillian was given to " preaching," 
 or being disagreeably " goody," but high and holy 
 thoughts came naturally to her. When Lord Earle wanted 
 amusement, he sent for Beatrice no one could while away 
 long hours as she could; when he wanted comfort, advice, 
 or sympathy, he sought Lillian. Every one loved her, 
 much as one loves the sunbeams that bring bright light 
 and warmth. 
 
 Lionel Dacre loved her best of all. His only wonder was 
 that any one could even look at Beatrice when Lillian was 
 near. He wondered sometimes whether she had not been 
 made expressly for him he was so strong where he
 
 DORA THORNE. 
 
 weak, her calm serene patience controlled his impetuosity, 
 her gentle thought! ulness balanced his recklessness, hei 
 sweet, graceful humility corrected his pride. 
 
 She influenced him more than ho knew one word from 
 her did wonders with him. He loved her for her fair beau- 
 ty, but most of all for the pure, guileless heart that knew 
 no shadow of evil upon which the world had never even 
 breathed. 
 
 Lionel Dacre had peculiar ideas about women. His 
 mother, who had been a belle in her day, was essentially 
 worldly. The only lessons she had ever taught him were 
 how to keep up appearances, how to study fashionable 
 life and keep pace with it 
 
 She had been a lady of fashion, struggling always with 
 narrow means; and there were times when her son's Heart 
 grew sick, remembering the falseness, the meanness, the 
 petty cunning maneuvers she had beeu obliged to practice. 
 
 As he grew older and began to IOCK around the world, 
 he was not favorably impressed. The ladies of his mother's 
 rircle were all striving together to get the foremost place. 
 He heard of envy, jealousy, scandal, untruth, until he won- 
 dered if all women were alike. 
 
 He himself was of a singularly truthful, honorable nature 
 all deceit, all false appearances were hateful to him. He 
 had formed to himself an ideal of a wife, and he resolved to 
 live and die unmarried unless he could find some one tf 
 realize it. 
 
 Lillian Earle did. He watched her keenly; ehe was 
 truthful and open as the day. He never heard a false 
 word from her not even one of the trifling excuses that 
 pass current in society for truth. He said to himself, if 
 any one was all but perfect, surely she waa To use his 
 own expression, he let his heart's desire rest in her; all he 
 had ever hoped for or dreamed of was centered in her. Ifu 
 > work deliberately and with all the ardor of his im- 
 petuous nature to win her love. 
 
 At first she did not understand him; then by degrees he 
 Watched the pure young heart awaken to consciousness. It 
 was as pretty a development of love as ever was witnessed. 
 At the -sound of his footsteps or his voice the faint color 
 flushed into her face, light came into her eyes; and when 
 he stood by her side, bending his handsome head to read 
 her secret, she would speak u word or two, and then hurry
 
 194 DORA THORN*. 
 
 away from him. If he wished to join her in her walks 01 
 rides, she begged to be excused with trembling lips and 
 drooping eyes. 
 
 She hardly knew herself what had come to her why the 
 world seemed suddenly to have grown so fair what made 
 fresh luster in the sky above. A vague, delicious happi- 
 ness stirred in the gentle heart. She longed for, yet half 
 dreaded, Lionel's presence. When he was near her the littla 
 hands trembled and the sweet face grew warm and flushed. 
 Yet the measure of -her content and huppiness seemed full. 
 
 Lionel saw it all, and he wondered why such a precious 
 treasure .as the love of this pure, innocent girl should be 
 his. What had he ever done to deserve it? Through her 
 he began to respect all other women, through her he begun 
 to value the high and holy teachings he had hitherto over- 
 looked. She was his ideal realized. If ever the time should 
 come for him to be disappointed in her, then he would be- 
 lieve all things false but il; never could be. 
 
 How should he tell her oi his love? It would be like try- 
 ing to cage a startled, timid bird, fie stood abashed before 
 her sweet innocence. 
 
 But the time came when u.3 resolved to woo and win her 
 when he felt that his life would be unbearable without 
 her; and he said to himself thafc sweet Lillian Earle should 
 be his wife, or he would nevei 'ook upon a woman's face 
 again. 
 
 Lionel felt some slight jealoisy of Beatrice; he paid 
 dearly enough for it in the dark after-days. He fancied 
 that she eclipsed Lillian. He thought that if he spoke to 
 Lord Earle of his love he would insist upon both marriages 
 taking place on one day; and then his fair gentle love 
 would, as usual, be second to her brilliant sister. 
 
 " That shall never be/' he said to himself. " Lillian 
 shall have a wedding-day of her own, the honors unshared. 
 She shall be the one center of attraction. " 
 
 He d3termined to say nothing to Lord Earle until Bea- 
 trice wus married; surely her wedding must take place soon 
 Lord Airlie seemed unable to exist out of her presence. 
 When they were married and gone, Lillian should have her 
 turn of admiration and love. It was nothing but proud, 
 jealous care for her that made him delay. 
 
 And Lillian discovered her own secret at last. She knew 
 she loved Lionel. He was unlike every one else. Whfl
 
 DORA TBOBNE. 1W 
 
 so handsome, so brave, so good? She liked to look 
 shyly <il the fmnk, proud face and the careless wave of hair 
 thrown back from his brow; his voice made music iu her 
 heart, and she wondered whether he really cared for her. 
 
 In her rare sweet humility she never saw how far she 
 was above him; she never dreamed that he looked up to 
 her as a captain to his queen. He was always by her side, 
 he paid her a thousand graceful attentions, he sought her 
 advice and sympathy; some unspoken words seemed ever 
 on his lips. Lillian Earle asked herself over and over again 
 whethei he loved her. 
 
 She was soon to know. From some careless words of 
 Lord Earle's, Lionel gathered that Beatrice's marriage 
 would take place in November. Then he decided, if he 
 could win her consent, that Lillian's wedding should be 
 when the spring flowers were blooming. 
 
 August, with its sunny days, was at an end. Early in 
 September Lillian stood alone on the shore of the deep, 
 clear lake. Lionel saw her there, and hastened to join her, 
 wondering at the grave expression on her face. 
 
 " \Vhat are you thinking of, Lillian?" he asked. " Yon 
 look sad and serious." 
 
 " 1 was thinking of Beatrice," she replied. " She seems 
 BO changed, so different. I can not understand it" 
 
 " 1 can," said Lionel. " You forget that she will soon 
 leave the old life far behind her. She is going into a new 
 world ; a change so great may well make one thoughtful. " 
 
 "She loves Lord Airlie, returned Lillian she could 
 hear even then the musical voice saying, " I love him so 
 dearly, Lily " " she can not be unhappy." 
 
 " I do not mean that, "he replied; " thought and silence 
 are not always caused by unhappiness. Ah, Lily," he 
 cried, '* I wonder if you guess ever so faintly at the thoughts 
 that till my heart! I wonder if you know how dearly' I 
 love you. Nay, do not turn from me, do not look fright- 
 ened. To me you are the truest, noblest, and fairest wom- 
 an in the world. I love you so dearly, Lily, that I have 
 not a thought or wish away from you, 1 am not worthy 
 to win you, I know you are as far above me as the sun 
 shining overhead but, if you would try, you might make 
 in what you would. Could you like me?" 
 
 The sweet i'n -hod face was raised to his; he read the 
 in tho clear eyes. Jiut the <->>uld not
 
 196 0GRA THORITE. 
 
 speak to him; words seemed to die upon her lips. Lionel 
 took the little white hands and clasped them in his own. 
 
 " I knew I should frighten you, Lily," he said, gently. 
 *' Forgive me if I have ppoken too abruptly. I do not wish 
 you to decide at once. Take me on trial see if you can 
 learn to love me weeks, months, or years hence. 1 am 
 willing to wait a whole life-time for you, my darling, and 
 should think the time well spent. Will it be possible for 
 you ever to like me?" 
 
 " I like you now," she said, simply. 
 
 "Then promise to endeavor to love me," he persisted; 
 *' will you, Lily? I will do anything you wish me; I will 
 try my best to be half as good as you are. Promise me, 
 darling my life hangs on your answer." 
 
 " I promise," she said; and he knew how much the words 
 meant. 
 
 On the little hand that rested in his own he saw a pretty 
 ring; it was a large pearl set in gold. Lionel drew it from 
 her finger. 
 
 " 1 shall take this, Lily," he said; " and, when Beatrice 
 is married and gone, I shall go to Lord Earle and ask him 
 to give you to me. I will not go now; we will keep our 
 secret for a short time. Two love affairs at once would be 
 too much. You will learn to love me, and when the 
 spring-time comes, perhaps you will make me happy as 
 Beatrice will by then have made Lord Airlie. 1 shall keep 
 the ring. Lillian, you are my pearl, and this will remind 
 me of you. Just to make me very happy, say you are 
 pleased. " 
 
 " I will say more than that," she replied, a happy smile 
 rippling over her face; " I have more than half learned my 
 lesson." 
 
 He kissed the pretty hand, and looked at the fair, flushed 
 face he dared not touch with his lips. 
 
 " 1 can not thank you," he said, his voice full Of emo- 
 tion. *' I will live for you, Lily, and my life shall prove 
 my gratitude. I begin to wish the spring were nearer. I 
 wonder if you will have learned your lesson then." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 LORD AIRLIE'S return to Earlesoourt had been delayed. 
 The ohfiTigog to take place at Lynnton involved more than
 
 DORA THORNE. 19? 
 
 /ie thought. 3t was quite three weeks before he could leave 
 the Hall and seek again the presence he loved best on 
 earth. 
 
 Three weeks, yet nothing had happened. Beatrice had 
 watched each day begin and end until her heart grew faint 
 with fear; she was as far as ever from finding herself freed 
 from Hugh Fernely. 
 
 Lord Airlie, on his arrival, was startled by the change in 
 iier brilliant face. Yet he was flattered by it. He thought 
 how intensely she must love him if his absence could affect 
 her so strongly. He kissed her pale face over and over 
 again, declaring that he would not leave her any more 
 uo one else knew how to take care of her. 
 
 They were all pleased to welcome him, for every one 
 liked Lord Airlie, and the family circle did not seem com- 
 plete without him. That very night he had an interview 
 with Lord Earle and besought him to allow the marriage 
 to take place as soon as possible. He had been miserable 
 away from Beatrice, ho declared, and he thought she 
 Jooked pale and grave. Would Lord Earle be willing to 
 say November, or perhaps the latter end of October? 
 
 "My daughter must arrange the time herself," said 
 Lord Earle; " whatever day she chooses will meet with 
 my approval." 
 
 Lord Airlie went to the draw ing- room, where he had left 
 Ht'jiti-iru, and told her Lord Earle's answer; she smiled, but 
 he saw the white lips quiver as she did so. 
 
 Only one month since his passionate, loving words 
 would have made the sweetest music to her; she listened 
 and tried to look like herself, but her heart was cold with 
 vague, unutterable dread. 
 
 " The fourteenth of October" clever Lord Airlie, by 
 some system of calculation known only to himself, per- 
 suaded Beatrice that that was the *' latter end of the 
 month." 
 
 41 Not another word," he said, gayly. '* I will go and 
 
 tell Lord Earle. Do not say afterward that you have 
 
 i-li;uiged your mind, as many ladies do. Beatrice, say to 
 
 1 Filbert, I promise to marry you on the fourteenth 
 
 -r.' ' 
 repented the words after him. 
 
 " It will I);- :il most winter," he added; " the flowers will
 
 ZVb DORA THORNE. 
 
 have faded, the leaves will have fallen from the trees; yet 
 no summer day will ever be so bright to mo as tha^." 
 
 She watched him quit the room, and a long, low cry came 
 from her lips. Would, it ever be? She went to the win- 
 dow, and looked at the trees. When the green leaves lay 
 dead she would be Lord Airlie's wife, or would the dark 
 cloud of shame and sorrow have fallen, hiding her for- 
 ever from bis sight? 
 
 Ah, if she had been more prudent! How tame and fool- 
 ish, how distasteful the romance she had once thought de- 
 lightful 8t>2med now! If ehe had but told all to Lord 
 Earle! 
 
 It was too late now! Yet, despite the deadlv fear that 
 Jay at be" heart, Beatrice still felt something like hope. 
 Hope 's the last thing to die in the human breast it was 
 not yet dead in hers. 
 
 At least for that one evening the first after Lord Air- 
 lio's return she would be happy. Sbe would throw the 
 dark sbadow away from her, forget it, and enjoy her 
 cover's society. He couid see smiles on her face, and hear 
 origbt words such as he loved. Let the morrow bring 
 w'uat it would, she would be happy that night. And she 
 kept her word. 
 
 Lord Airlie looked back afterward on that evening as one 
 of the pleasantest of his life. There was no shadow upon 
 the beautiful face he loved so well. Beatrice was all life 
 and animation; her gay, sweet words charmed every one 
 who heard them. Even Lionel forgot to be jealous, and 
 admired her more than he ever had before. 
 
 Lord Earle smiled as lie remarked to Lady Helena that 
 11 her fears for her grandchild's health were vain the 
 true physician was come at last. 
 
 When Lord Airlie bade Beatrice good-night, he bent low 
 9ver the white, jeweled hand. 
 
 " 1 forget all time when with you," he said; " it does not 
 eem an hour sinoe I came to Earlescourt. " 
 
 The morrow brought the letter she had dreaded yet ex 
 pected to see. 
 
 It was not filled with loving, passionate words, as was the 
 first Hugh had written. He said the timo had come when 
 he must have an answer when he must know from her 
 own lips at what, period he might claim the fulfillment of 
 foer promise when she would be his wife.
 
 DORA THORITE. 199 
 
 He would wait no longer. If it was to be war, let the 
 war begin he should wiu. If peace, so much the better. 
 Jn any case he was tired of suspense, and must know at 
 once what she intended to do. He would trust to no more 
 promises; that very night he would be at Earlescourt, and 
 must see her. Still, though he intended to enforce his 
 rights, he would not wantonly cause her pain. He would 
 not seek the presence of her father until she had seen him 
 and they had settled upon some plan of action. 
 
 " 1 know the grounds around Earlescourt well," he wrote. 
 " 1 wandered through them for many nights three weeks 
 ago. A narrow path runs from the gardens to the shrub- 
 bery meet me there at nine; it will be dark then, and you 
 need not fear being seen. Remember, Beatrice, at nine 
 to-night I shall be there; and if you do not come. I must 
 seek you in the house, for see you I will. " 
 
 The letter fell from her hands; cold drops of fear and 
 shame stood upon her brow; hatred and disgust filled her 
 heart. Oh, that she should ever have placed herself in the 
 power of such a man! 
 
 The blow had fallen at last She stood face to face with 
 her shame and fear. How could she me^t Hugh Fernely? 
 \Yii-it should she say to him? How must such a meeting 
 mil? It would but anger him the more. He should not 
 even touch her luuul in greeting, sbe said to hertelf ; and 
 : vould hu endure her contempt? 
 
 She would not see him. She dur,'d not How could she 
 find time? Lord Airlie i;i^ r left her side. She could not 
 Hugh. The web seemed closing round her, but she 
 would break through it. 
 
 She would send him a letter saying she was ill, and 
 begging him to wait yet a little longer. Despite his firm 
 words, she knew he would not refuse it if she wrote kindly. 
 Again came the old hope something might happen in a 
 few days. If not, she must run away; if even-thing failed 
 and she could not free herself from him, then she v 
 leave home; in any case she would not fall into his hands 
 rather death than that. 
 
 More than once she thought of Caspar's words. He 
 
 >o true, so brave he would have died for her. Ah, 
 
 if he could but help her, if she could but call him to her 
 
 In this, the dark hour of her life, by her own deed 
 
 1 herself bfeyo'i.' the reach of all h'i"!;ni help.
 
 20(J DORA THOBNE. 
 
 She would write upou that she was determined: but w'tie 
 would take the letter? Who could she ask to stand at the 
 shrubbery gate and give to the stranger a missive from 
 herself? If she asked such a favor from a servant, she 
 would part with her secret to one who might hold it as a 
 rod of iron over her. She was too proud for that. There 
 was only one in the world who could help her, and that was 
 her sister Lillian. 
 
 She shrunk with unutterable shame from telling her. She 
 remembered how long ago at Knutsford she had said 
 something that had shocked her sister, and the scared, 
 startled expression of her face was with her still. It was a 
 humiliation beyond all words. Yet, if she could undergo 
 it, there would be comfort in Lillian's sympathy. Lillian, 
 would take her letter, she would see Hugh, and tell him 
 she was ill. Ill she felt in very truth. Hugh would be 
 pacified for a time if he saw Lillian. She could think of 
 no other arrangement. That evening she would tell her 
 sister there was rest even in the thought 
 
 Long before dinner Lady Helena came in search of Bea- 
 trice it was hight time, she said, that orders should be sent 
 to London for her trousseau, and the list must be made out 
 at once. 
 
 She sat calmly in Lady Helena's room, writing in obedi- 
 ence to her words, thinking all the time how she should tell 
 Lillian, how best make her understand the deadly error 
 committed, yet save herself as much as she could. Lady 
 Earle talked of laces and embroidery, of nioruiug-dresses 
 and jewels, while Beatrice went over in her mind every 
 word of her confession. 
 
 " That will do/' said Lady Earle, w'ih a smile; *' I hava 
 been very explicit, but I fear : t has been in vain. Have 
 you heard anything I have said, Beatrice?" 
 
 She blushed, and looked so confused that Lady Helena 
 said, laughingly: 
 
 ** You may go do not be ashamed. Many years ago I 
 was just as much in love myself, and just as unable to 
 think of anything else as you are now." 
 
 There was some difficulty in finding Lillian; she was dis- 
 covered at last in the library, looking over some fine old 
 engravings with Mr. Dacre. He looked up hastily when 
 Beatrice asked her sister to spare her half an hour.
 
 DORA THOBFL. iJ 1 . 1 ! 
 
 ** Do not go, Lily,*' he said, jestingly; *' it is only some 
 nonsense about wedding-dresses. Let us finish this folio." 
 
 But Beatrice had no gay repartee for him. She looked 
 grave, although she tried to force a smile. 
 
 " 1 can not understand that girl," he said to himself, aa 
 the library door closed behind the two sisters. ** I could 
 almost fancy that something was distressing her." 
 
 44 Lily," said Beatrice, 44 1 want you very much. 1 atn 
 sorry to take you from Lionel; you like being w : th him, J 
 think." 
 
 The" fair face of her sister flushed warmly. 
 
 " But I want you, dear," said Beatrice. 4< Oh, Lily, I 
 am in bitter trouble! No one can help me but you/" 
 
 They went together into the little boudoir Beatrice called 
 her own. She placed her sister in the easy lounging-chair 
 drawn near the window, and then half knelt, half sat at 
 her feet 
 
 " I am in such trouble, Lily!" she cried. 44 Think how 
 groat it is when I know not how to tell you." 
 
 The sweet, gentle eyes looked wondoringly into her own. 
 Beatrice clasped her sister's hands. 
 
 44 You miiat not judge me harshly," she said, 44 1 ana 
 not good like you, Lily; I never could be patient and gen- 
 tle like you. Do you remember, long ago, at Knutsford, 
 how I found you one morning upon the cliffs, and told you 
 how I hated my life? I did hate it, Lillian," she contin- 
 ued. 44 You can never tell how much: its quiet monotony 
 was killing me. I have done wrong; but surely they are 
 to blame who made my life what it was then who shut 
 me out from the world, instead of giving mo my rightful 
 share of its pleasures. 1 can not tell you what 1 did, Lily. " 
 
 Nr^ laid her beautiful, sad face on her sister's hand.-:. 
 Lillian bent over her, and whispered how dearly she loved 
 her, and how she would do anything to help her. 
 
 " That very morning," she said, never raising her eyes 
 to her sister's face " that morning, Lily,.l met a stranger 
 a gentleman he seemed to me and he watched ino with 
 admiring eyes. I met him again, and he spoke to me. 
 If vralked by my side through the long meadows, and told 
 me strange stories of foreign lands he had visited such 
 stories! I forgt that he was a stranger, and talked to 
 him as T am talking to you now. I met him again and
 
 J802 K)RA THOBNB. 
 
 again. Nay, do not turn from me; 1 shall (lie if 
 shrink away." 
 
 The gentle arms clasped her more closely. 
 
 " I am not turning from you," replied Lillian. 4l I can 
 not love you more than 1 do now." 
 
 " I met him," continued Beatrice, " every day, un- 
 known to every one about me. He praised my beauty, and 
 I was filled with joy; then he talked to me of love, and I 
 listened without anger. I swear to you," she said, " that 
 I did it all without thought; it was the novelty, the flat- 
 tery, the admiration that pleased me, not he himself, 1 be- 
 lieve, Lily. I rarely thought of him. He interested me; 
 he had eloquent words at his command, and seeing how I 
 loved romance, he told me stories of adventure that held 
 me enchained and breathless. I lost sight of him in think- 
 ing of the wonders he related. They are to blame, Lily, 
 who shut me out from the living world. Had 1 been in my 
 proper place here at home, where I could have seen and 
 judged people rightly, it would not have happened. At 
 first it was but a pleasant break in a life dreary beyond 
 words; then I looked for the daily meed of flattery and 
 homage. I could not do without it. Lily, will you hold 
 me to have been inad when I tell you the time came when 
 I allowed that man to hold my hands as you are doing, to 
 kiss my face, and win from me a promise that 1 would be 
 his wife?" 
 
 Beatrice looked up then and saw the fair, pitying face 
 almost as white as snow. 
 
 *' Is it worse than you thought?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Lillian; " terrible, irretrievable, I fear!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THERE was unbroken silence for some minutes; then 
 Lillian bent over her sister, and said: 
 
 ' Tell me all, darling; purhaps I can help you." 
 
 *' I promised to be his wife, Lily," continued Beatrice. 
 u 1 am sure I did not mean it. 1 was but a child. I did 
 not realize all that the words meant. He kissed my face, 
 and said he should come to claim me. Believe me, Lily., 
 1 nevr thought of marriage. Brilliant, pictures of foreign 
 lands 6!le3 n^- rniud; I looked upon Hugh Fenu ' . Vj sue
 
 DORA THORHH. SJ05 
 
 means of escape from a life I detested. He promised to 
 take ine to places the names of which filled me with won- 
 der. 1 never thought of leaving you or mamma I never 
 thought of the man himself as of a lover." 
 
 ' You did not care for him, then, as you do for Lord 
 Airlie?'* interposed Lillian. 
 
 " Po not puin uiel'* begged Beatrice. " 1 love Hubert 
 with the love that comes but once in life; that man was 
 nothing to me, except that his flattery, and the excitement 
 of contriving to meet him, made my life more endurable. 
 He gave me a ring, and said in two years* time he should 
 return to claim inc. He was going on a long voyage. 
 Lily, 1 felt relieved when he was gone the novelty was 
 over I had grown tired. Besides, when the glamour fell 
 fr in m>- eyes, I was ashaintd of what I had done. I tried 
 to forget all about him; every time the remembrance of 
 him came to my mind 1 drove it from me. I did not 
 think it possible he would ever return. It was but a sum- 
 mer's pastime. That summer has darkened my life. 
 Looking back, 1 own 1 did very wrong. There is great 
 blame attaching to me, but surely they who shut me out 
 from Mio living world were blameworthy also. 
 
 " Remember all through my story, darling, that lam not 
 so good, not BO patient and gentle aa you. 1 was restle-a 
 at the Elms, like a bird in a cage; yon were content. I 
 was vain, foolish, and willful; but, looking back at the im- 
 petuous, imperious child, full of romance, untrained, long- 
 ing for the strife of life, longing for change, for excitement, 
 for gayety, chafing under restraint, 1 think there was some 
 little excuse for me. There was no excuse for what fol- 
 lowed. When papa spoke to us you remember it, Lily 
 and asked so gently if we had either of as a secret in our 
 lives when he promised to pardon anything, provided we 
 kept nothing from him I ought to have told him thru. 
 There is no excuse for that error. I was ashamed. Look 
 ing round upon the noble faces hanging on the wall, look' 
 ing at him, so proud, BO dignified, 1 could not tell him 
 what his child had done. Oh, Lily, if I had told him, 1 
 chould not be kneeling here at your feet now." 
 
 Lillian inuJe no reply, but pressed the proud, drooping 
 figure more closely to her siile. 
 
 " 1 ("in hardly tell the rest,** said Beatrice; " the words 
 f ri^lr ::ter them. This man, who has been th
 
 204 DOEA THOR5TE. 
 
 bane of my life, w.as going away for two years. He waa 
 to claim me when he returned. I never thought he would 
 return; 1 was so happy, 1 could not believe it." Here 
 sobs choked her utterance. 
 
 Presently she continued: "Lily, he is here; he claims 
 me, and also the fulfillment of my promise to be his wife." 
 
 A look of unutterable dread came over the listener's 
 tair, pitying face. 
 
 " He wrote to me three weeks since; I tried to put him 
 D!T. He wrote again this morning, and swears he will see 
 me. He will be here to-night at nine o'clock. Oh, Lily, 
 save me, save me, or 1 shall die!" 
 
 Bitcer soos broke from the proud lips. 
 
 " I never knelt to any one before," Beatrice said; " 1 
 tfneel to you, my sister. No one else can help me. You 
 must see him for me, give him a letter from me, and tell 
 him I am very ill. It is no untruth, Lily. 1 am ill, my 
 brain burns, and my heart; is cold with fear. Will you do 
 this for me?" 
 
 " I would rather almost give you my life," said Lillian, 
 gently. 
 
 " Oh, do not say that, Lilyf Do you know what there 
 is at stake? Do you remember papa's words that, if ever 
 he found one of us guilty of any decsiD, or involved in any 
 clandestine love affair, even if it. broke his neart he would 
 send the guilty one from him and never see her again? 
 Think, darling, what it would be for me to leave Earles- 
 court to leave all the magnificence 1 love so dearly, and 
 drag out a weary life at the Elms. Do you think I could 
 brook Lord Earle's, angry scorn and Lady Helena's pained 
 wonder? Knowing our father as you know him, do you 
 believe he would pardon me?" 
 
 " I do not," replied Lily, sadly. 
 
 " That is not all/' continued Beatrice. " 1 might beat 
 &nger, scorn, and privation, but, Lily, if this miserable 
 secret is discovered, Lord Airlie will cease to love me. He 
 might have forgiven me if 1 had told him at first; he 
 would now know that 1 had lied to him and deceived him. 
 1 can not lose him I can not give him up. For our 
 mother's sake, for iny sake, heip me, Lily. Do what I 
 have asked!" 
 
 " If 1 do it," said Lillian, " it will give you but a few 
 flays' reprieve: it will avail nothing; he will be here again.' 5
 
 DORA THOBNB. 205 
 
 *' I shall think of some means of escape in a few days,' 
 answered Beatrice, wistfully. " Something must Happen, 
 Lily; fortune could not be so cruel to me; it could not rob 
 me of my love. If I can not free myself 1 shall run away. 
 1 would rather suffer anything than face Lord Airlie or my 
 father. Say you will help me for my love's sake! Do net 
 let me lose my love!" 
 
 " I will help you," said Lillian; " it is against my bet- 
 ter judgment against my idea of right but I can not re- 
 fuse you. I will see the man, and give him your letter. 
 Beatrice, let me persuade you. You can not free yourself. 
 I see no way running away is all nonsense but to tell 
 Lord Earle and your lover; anything would be better than 
 to live as you do, a drawn sword hanging over your head. 
 Tell them, and trust to their kindness; at least you wi'l 
 have peace of mind then. They will prevent him from ai>- 
 noying you." 
 
 " 1 can not," she said, and the breath came gasping 
 from her lips. " Lillian, you do not know what Lor5 
 Airlie is to me. I could never meet his anger. If ever 
 you love any one you will understand better. He is every- 
 thing to me. I would suffer any sorrow, even death, 
 rather than see his face turned coldly from me." 
 
 She loosened her grasp of Lillian s hands and fell upon 
 the floor, weeping bitterly and passionately. Her sister, 
 bunding over her, heard the pitiful words " My love, my 
 love! 1 can not lose my love!" 
 
 The passionate weeping ceased, and the proud, sad face 
 grew calm and still. 
 
 " You can not tell what I have suffered, Lily," she said, 
 humbly. *' See, my pride is all beaten down; only those 
 who have had a secret, eating heart and life away, can tell 
 what I havo endured. A few more days of agpuy like this, 
 *nd 1 shall be free forever from Hugh Fernely." 
 
 1 lur sister tried to soothe her with gentle words, but they 
 brought no comfort. 
 
 ** He will be here at nine," she said; " it is six now. 
 will write my letter. He will be at the shrubbery gate. I 
 will manage so that you shall have time. Give him the 
 note 1 will write, speak to him for me, tell him I am ill 
 and can not see him. Shall you be frighten 
 
 " Yes," replied Lillian, gently; " but that will not mat 
 tor. I must think of you, not of myself."
 
 806 
 
 ** You need not fear him, " said Beatrice. ** Poor Hugh, 
 I could pity him if 1 did not hate him. Lily, I will thank 
 you when my agony is over; I can not now." 
 
 She wrote but a few words, saying she was ill and unable 
 to see him; he must be satisfied, and willing to wait yet a 
 little longer. 
 
 She gave the letter to her sister. Lil Han's heart ached 
 as she noted the trembling hands and quivering lips. 
 
 " I have not asked you to keep my secret, Lily," said 
 Beatrice, sorrowfully. 
 
 ** There is no need," was the simple reply. 
 ******* 
 
 Sir Harry and Lady Laurence dined that day at Earles- 
 court, and it was nearly nine before the gentlemen, who 
 did not sit long over their wine, came into the drawing- 
 room. The evening was somewhat chilly; a bright tire 
 burned in the grate, and the lamps were lighted. Sir 
 Harry sat down to his favorite game of chess with Lady 
 Helena; Lord Earle challenged Lady Laurence to a game 
 at ecarte. The young people were left to themselves. 
 
 " In twenty years' time," said Lionel to Lillian, " we 
 may seek refuge in cards; at present music and moonlight 
 are preferable, Lily. You never sing to me; come to the 
 piano now." 
 
 But she remembered the dreaded hour was drawing near. 
 
 " Pray excuse me," she begged; " I will sing for you 
 presently." 
 
 He looked surprised; it was the first time she had ever 
 refused him a favor. 
 
 " Shall we finish the folio of engravings?" he asked. 
 
 Knowing that, when once she was seated by his side, it 
 would be impossible to get away, she again declined; but 
 this time the fair face flushed, and the sweet eyes drooped. 
 
 " How guilty you look," he said. " Is there any mys- 
 tery on hand? Are you tired of me? Or is there to be 
 another important consultation over the ivedding-dresses?" 
 
 " 1 have something to attend to," she replied, evasively. 
 '* Get the folio ready I shall not be long. 
 
 Beatrice, who had listened to the brief dialogue in fever- 
 ish suspense, now came to the rescue, asking Lionel to give 
 them the beueiit of his clear, ringing tenor in a trio of 
 Mendelssohn's. 
 
 ** My * clear, ringing tenor ' is quite at your service.* 1
 
 DORA THORNS. 907 
 
 be said with a smile. " Lily is very unkind to me to* 
 night," 
 
 They went to the piano, where Lord Airlie awaited them; 
 
 iii; . Lillian, looking at her small, jeweled watch Lord 
 
 's present saw that it wanted three minutes to nine. 
 
 She at once quitted the room, unobserved, as she 
 thought; but Lionel saw her go. 
 
 No words can tell how distasteful and repugnant was tLe 
 task she had undertaken. She would have suffered any- 
 thing almost to have evaded it. She, who never had a se- 
 cret; she, whose every word and action were open as the 
 d;iy; she, who shrunk from all deceit and untruth as from 
 a deadly plague, to be mixed up with a wretched clan- 
 destine love affair like this! She, to steal out of her 
 father's house at night, I j meet a stranger, and plead her 
 sister's cause with him! The thought horrified her; but 
 the beautiful face iii its wild sorrow, the sad voice in its pas- 
 sionate anguish, urged her on. 
 
 Lillian went hastily to her own room. She took a large 
 oki k shawl and drew it closely round her, hiding the 
 prrtiy evening-dress and the rich pearls. Then, with the 
 letter in her hand, she went down the staircase that led 
 fr<>iu her rooms to the garden. 
 
 The night was dark; heavy clouds sailed swiftly across 
 the sky, the wind moaned fitfully, bending the tall trees as 
 it were in anger, then whispering round them as though 
 suing for pardon. Lillian had never been out at nignt 
 alone before, and her first sensation was one of fear. She 
 crossed the gardens where the autumn flowers were fading; 
 the lights shone gayly from the Hull windows; the shrub- 
 bery looked dark and mysterious. She was frightened at 
 the silence and darkness, but went brbvely on. He was there. 
 By the gate she saw a tall figure wrapped in a traveling- 
 cloak; as she crossed the path he stepped hastily forward, 
 crying with a voice she never forgot: 
 titrice, at last you have cotne?" 
 
 " It is not Beatrice," she said, shrinking from the out* 
 stretched arms. " I am Lillian Earle. My sister is ill, 
 ud has sent you this. "
 
 JOB " DOBA THORNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVL 
 
 HUGH FERNELY took the letter from Lillian's hands 
 and read it with a muttered imprecation of disappointment. 
 The moon, which had been struggling for the last hour 
 with a mass of clouds, shone out faintly; by its light Lil- 
 lian saw a tall man with a dark, handsome face browned 
 with the sun of warm climes, dark eyes that had in them 
 a wistful sadness, and firm lips, fle did not look like the 
 gentlemen she was accustomed to. He was polite and re- 
 spectful. When he heard her name, he took off his hat, 
 and stood uncovered during the interview. 
 
 " Wait!" he cried. " Ah, must I wait yet longer? Tell 
 your sister I have waited until my yearning wish to see her 
 is wearing my life away." 
 
 " She is really ill," returned Lillian. " I am alarmed 
 for her. Do not be angry with me if I say she is ill 
 through anxiety and /ear." 
 
 *' Has she sent you to excuse her?" he asked, gloomily. 
 " It is of no flse. Your sister is my promised wife, Misa 
 Lillian, and see her I will." 
 
 " You must wait at least until she is willing," said. Lil- 
 lian, and her calm, dignified manner influenced him even 
 more than her words, as she looked earnestly into Hugh 
 Ferneiy's face. 
 
 It was not a bad face, she thought; there was no cruelty 
 or meanness there. She read love so fierce and violent in 
 it that it startled her. He did not look like one who would 
 wantonly and willfully make her sister wretched for life. 
 -Hope grew in her hff&rt as she gazed. She resolved to 
 plead with him for Beatrice, to ask him to forget a child- 
 \sh, foolish promise a childish error. 
 
 " My sister is very unhappy," she said, bravely; ** so 
 cnhappy that I do not think she can bear much more; it 
 will kill her, or drive her mad." 
 
 " It is killing me," he interrupted. 
 
 " You do not look cruel. Mr. Pernely," continued I^il- 
 
 lian. " Your face is good and true I would trust you. 
 
 Release my sister. She was but a foolish, impetuous child 
 
 she made yon that promise. If she keeps it, all he* 
 
 L f o wil.i r>o wr^-.f'Lu'd. Be generous and release 1
 
 DORA THORNE. 09 
 
 *' Did she bid yon ask me?'* he interrogated. 
 
 ** No," she replied; " but do you know what the keep- 
 ing of the promise will cost her? Lord Earle will never 
 forgive her. She will have to leave home, sister, friends 
 all' she loves a;id values most. Judge whether she couldt 
 ever care for you, if you brought this upon her." 
 
 " I can not help it," ke said, gloomily. " She prom- 
 ised to be my wife, Miss Lillian Heaven knows I am 
 speaking truthfully and 1 have lived on her words. You 
 do not know what the strong love of a true man is. I love 
 her so that if she chose to place her little foot upon me, 
 and trample the life out of me, 1 would not say her nay. 
 I must seo her the hungry, yearning love that tills my 
 heart must be satisfied." Great tears shone in his eyes, 
 and deep sobs shook his strong frame. 
 
 " I will not harm her," he said, " but I must see her. 
 Once, and once only, her beautiful face lay on my breast 
 that beautiful, proud face! No mother ever yearned to see 
 her child again more than I long to see her. Let her come 
 to me, Miss Lillian; let me kneel at her feet as I did be* 
 fore. If she sends me from her, there will be pity in 
 death; but she can not. There is not a woman in the 
 worlvl who could send such love as mine away! You can 
 not understand," he continued. " It is more than two 
 years since 1 left her; night and day her face has been be- 
 fore me. I have lived upon my love; it is my life my 
 everything. I could no more drive it from my breast than 
 I could tear my heart from my body and still live on. " 
 
 " Even if my sister cared for you," said Lillian, gently 
 for his passionate words touched her " you must know- 
 that Lord Earle would never allow her to keep such a 
 promise as she made." 
 
 *' She knew nothing of Lord Earle when it was made," 
 
 he replied, " nor did 1. She was a beautiful child, pining 
 
 away like a bright bird shut up in a cage. I promised her 
 
 >m and liberty; she promised me her love. Where 
 
 rle then? She was safe with me. 1 loved 
 
 her. I was kinder to her than her own father; I took care 
 
 of her he did not." 
 
 " It is all changed now," said Lillian. 
 
 " r.iif 1 can not '1 ningp," he answered. ** If fortune 
 ha<] ; ;<1 I have loved your --leas!
 
 210 DORA THORNE. 
 
 Is a man's heart a plaything ? Can I call back my love ? 
 It has caused me woe enough." 
 
 Lillian knew not what to say in the presence of this 
 mighty love ; her gentle efforts at mediation were boot- 
 less. She pitied him she pitied Beatrice. 
 
 'I am sure you can be generous," she said, after a 
 short silence. " Great, true, noble love is never selfish. 
 My sister can never be happy with you ; then release her. 
 If you force her, or rather try to force her, to keep this 
 rash promise, think how she will dislike you. If you are 
 generous, and release her, think how she will esteem you." 
 
 " Does she not love me ? " he asked ; and his voice was 
 hoarse with pain. 
 
 "No," replied Lillian, gently ; "it is better for you to 
 know the truth. She does not love you she never will." 
 
 "I do not believe it ; " he cried. " I will never believe 
 it from any lips but her own ; Not love me ! Great 
 Heaven ! Do you know you are speaking of the woman 
 who promised to be my wife ? If she tells me so, I will 
 believe her." 
 
 " She will tell you," said Lillian, "and you must not 
 blame her. Come again when she is well." 
 
 " No," returned Hugh Fernely ; "I have waited long 
 enough. I am here to see her, and I swear I will not 
 leave until she has spoken to me." 
 
 He drew a pencil-case from his pocket, and wrote a few 
 lines on the envelope which Beatrice had sent. 
 
 " Give that to your sister," he said, softly ; " and, Miss 
 Lillian, I thank you for coming to me. You have been 
 very kind and gentle. You have a fair, true face. Never 
 break a man's heart for pastime, or because the long 
 sunny hours hang heavy upon your hands." 
 
 " I wish I could say something to comfort you," she 
 said. He held out his hand and she could not refuse hers. 
 
 " Good-bye, Miss Lillian ! Heaven bless you for your 
 sympathy." 
 
 " Good-bye," she returned, looking at the dark, pas- 
 sionate face she was never more to see. 
 
 The moon was hidden behind a dense mass of thick 
 clouds. Hugh Fernely walked quickly down the path. 
 Lillian, taking the folded paper, hastened across the gar- 
 dens. But neither of them saw a tall, erect figure, or a
 
 DORA THORITE. %1\ 
 
 pale, stricken face; neither of them heard Lionel Dacre 
 utter a low cry as the shawl fell from Lillian's golden head. 
 
 He had tried over the trio, but it did not please him; he 
 did not want music he wanted Lillian. Beatrice played 
 badly, too, as though she did not know what she was do- 
 ing. Plainly enough Lord Airlie wanted him out of the 
 way. 
 
 Where are you going?" asked Beatrice, as he placed 
 the music on the piano. 
 
 " To look for a good cigar/' he replied. " Neither Air- 
 lie nor you need pretend to be polite, Bee, and say you 
 hope 1 will not leave you." He quitted the drawing-room, 
 ami went to his own room, where a box of cigars awaited 
 him. He selected one, and went out into the garden to 
 enjoy it. Was it chance that led him to the path by the 
 shrubbery? The wind swayed the tall branches, but there 
 came a lull, and then he heard a murmur of voices. Look- 
 ing over the hedge, he saw the tall figure of a man, and 
 the slight figure of a young girl shrouded in a black shawl. 
 
 " A maid and her sweetheart/' said Lionel to himself. 
 41 Now that is not precisely the kind of thing Lord Earle 
 would like; still, it is no business of mine." 
 
 But the man's voice struck him it was full of the dig- 
 nity of true passion. He wondered who he was. He saw 
 the young girl place her hand in his for a moment, and 
 then hasten rapidly away. 
 
 He thought himself stricken mad when the black shawl 
 fell and showed in the faint moonlight the fair face and 
 
 golden hair of Lillian Earle. 
 
 ******* 
 
 "When Lillian re-entered the drawing-room, the pretty 
 ormulu clock was chiming half past nine. The chess- and 
 ca*l- tables were just as she had left them. Beatrice and 
 Lord Airlie were still at the piano. Lionel was nowhere 
 to be seen. She went up to Beatrice and smilingly asked 
 Lord Airlie it he could spare her sister for five minutes. 
 
 " Ten, if you wish it," he replied, -*' but no longer;" 
 And the two sisters walked through the long drawing-room 
 into the little boudoir. 
 
 " Quick, Lillian," cried Beatrice, " have you seen him? 
 What does he say?" 
 
 " 1 have sern him," she replied; " there is no time now 
 ** tell all he said. He sent this note," and Lillian
 
 DORA THORNS. 
 
 the folded paper into her sister's hand, and then clasped 
 both hands in her own. 
 
 " Let me tell you, Beatrice darling, before you read it/' 
 she said, " that 1 tried to soften his heart; and 1 think, il 
 you will see him yourself, and ask for your freedom, you 
 will not ask in vain. " 
 
 A light that was dazzling as sunshine came into the 
 beautiful face. 
 
 " Oh, Lily/' she cried, " can it be true? Do not mock 
 me with false hopes; my life seems to tremble in the bal- 
 ance. " 
 
 " He is not cruel," said Lillian. " I am sorry for him. 
 If yon see him I feel sure he will release you. See what ne 
 says. " 
 
 Beatrice opened the letter; it contained but a few pen- 
 ciled lines. She did not give them to Lillian to read. 
 
 " BEATRICE," wrote Hugh Fernely, " you must tell me 
 with your own lips that you do not love me. You must 
 tell me yourself that every sweet hope you gave me was a 
 false lie. 1 will not leave Earlescourt again without seeing 
 you. On Thursday night, at ten o'clock, I will be at the 
 same place meet me, and tell me if you want your freedom. 
 
 "HUGH." 
 
 *' I shall win!" she cried. ** Lily, hold my hands they 
 tremble with happiness. See, I can not hold the paper. 
 He will release me, and I shall not lose my love my love, 
 who is all the world to me. How must I thank you? This 
 is Tuesday; how shall I live until Thursday? I feel as 
 though a load, a burden, the weight of which no words can 
 tell, were taken from me. Lily, I shall be Lord Airlie's 
 wife, and you will have saved me." 
 
 " Beatrice," said Lord Earle, as the sisters, in return* 
 ing, passed by the chess-table, ** our game is finished; will 
 you give us a song?" 
 
 Never had the magnificent voice rung out so joyously, 
 never had the beautiful face looked so bright. She sung 
 something that was like an air .of triumph no under-cur- 
 rent of sadness marred its passionate sweetness. Lord Air* 
 lie bent over her chair enraptured. 
 
 ' You sing like one inspired, Beatrice," he said. 
 
 ** I was thinking of you." she replied: and he saw bf
 
 ilOBA THOUNE. 
 
 the dreamy, rapt expression of her face that she meant 
 what she had said. 
 
 Presently Lord Airlie was gammoned to Lady Helena's 
 assistance in some little argument over cards, and Bea- 
 trice, \vhilt) her fingers strayed mechanically over the keys, 
 arrived at her decision. She would see Hugh. She could 
 not avert that; and she must meet him as bravely as sho 
 could. After all, as Lillian had said, he was not cruel, 
 and he did love her. The proud lip curled in scornful 
 triumph as she thought how dearly he loved her. Sh^ 
 would appeal to his love, and beseech him to release her. 
 
 She would beseech him with such urgency that he couid 
 not refuse. Who ever refused her? Could she not move 
 men's .hearts as the wind moves the leaves? He would be 
 angry at first, perhaps fierce and passionate, but in the end 
 she would prevail. As she sat there, dreamy, tender mel- 
 odies stealing, as it were, from her fingers, she went in 
 fancy through the whole scene. She knew how silent the 
 sleeping woods would be how dark and still the night. 
 She could imagine Hugh's face, browned by the sun and 
 travel. Poor Hugh! In the overflow of her happiness she 
 felt more kindly toward him, 
 
 She wished him well. He .might marry some nice girl 
 in his own station of life, and 'ue a prosperous, happy man, 
 and she would be a good friend to him if he would let her. 
 Xo OIK- would ever know her secret. Lillian would keep it 
 faithfully, anil down tho fair vista of years she saw herself 
 Lord Airlie's beloved wife, the error of her youth repaired 
 and forgotten. 
 
 This picture was so pleasant that it was no wonder her 
 songs grew more triumphant. Those who listened to the 
 music that night never forgot it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 LIONEL DACTTE stood for some minutes stunned with the 
 
 shock and surprise. He could not be mistaken; unless his 
 
 s played him false, it was Lillian Earle whom he had 
 
 mistaken for a maid meeting her lover. It was Lillian he 
 
 had believed so pure and guileless who had stolen from her 
 
 father's house under the cover of night's darkness and 
 
 fcilence who hud met in her father's grounds one 
 
 ehe dared not nurt in the light of day. 
 
 "
 
 314 DOBA THOENE. 
 
 If his dearest friend had sworn this to Lionel he would 
 not have believed it. His own senses he could not doubt. 
 The faint, feeble moonlight had as surely fallen on the fair 
 face and golden hair of Lillian Earle as the sun shone by 
 day in the sky. 
 
 He threw away his cigar, and ground his teeth with rage. 
 Had the skies fallen at his feet he could not have been 
 more startled and amazed. Then, after all, all women 
 were alike. There was in them no truth; no goodness; 
 the whole world was alike. Yet he had believed in her so 
 implicitly in her guileless purity, her truth, her freedom 
 from every taint of the world. That fair, spirituelle forn 
 had seemed to him only as a beautiful casket hiding * 
 precious gem. Nay, still more, though knowing and lov> 
 ing her, he had begun to care for everything good and pun 
 that interested her. Now all was false and hateful. 
 
 There was no truth in the world, he said to himself 
 This girl, whom he hadbelieved to be the fairest and sweet- 
 est among women, was but a more skillful deceiver than 
 the rest. His mother's little deceptions, hiding narrow 
 means and straitened circumstances, were as nothing coin 
 pared with Lillian's deceit. 
 
 And he had loved her so! Loo' ing into (b^p tender 
 eyes, he had beiijved love and truth shoiii- there; the 
 dear face that had blushed and smiled for him hud looked 
 so pure and guileless. 
 
 How long was it since he had held her little hands 
 clasped within his own, and, abashed before her sweet in- 
 nocence, had not dared to touch her lips, even when she 
 had promised to love him? How he had been duped and 
 deceived! How she must have laughed at his blind folly! 
 
 Who was the man? Some one she mast have known 
 years before. There was no gentleman in Lord Earle's 
 circle who would have stolen into his grounds like a thief 
 by night. Why had he not followed him, and thrashed 
 him within an inch of his life? Why had he let him 
 escape? 
 
 The strong hands were clinched tightly. It was well for 
 Hugh Fernely that he was not at that moment in Lionel's 
 power. Then the fierce, hot anger died away, and a pas- 
 sion of despair seized him. A long, low cry came from his 
 Jipb, a bitter sob shook his frame. He had lost his fair.
 
 DORA THORITE. 215 
 
 sweet love. The ideal he had worshiped lay stricken; 
 falsehood and deceit marred its fair form. 
 
 While the first smart of pain was upon him, he would 
 not return to the house; he would wait until he was calm 
 and cool. Then he would see how she dared to meet him. 
 
 His hands ceased to tremble; the strong, angry pulsatioc 
 of his heart grew calmer. He went back to the drawing- 
 room; and, except that the handsome face was pale even 
 to the lips, and that a strange, angry light gleamed in the 
 frank, kindly eyes, there was little difference in Lionel 
 Dacre. 
 
 She was there, bending over the large folio he had asked 
 her to show Lina; the golden hair fell upon the leaves. She 
 looked up as he entered; her face was calm and serene; 
 there was a faint pink flush on the cheeks, and a bright 
 smile trembled on her features. 
 
 " IFere are the drawings/' she said; " will you look over 
 them?" 
 
 He remembered how he had asked her to sing to him, 
 nd she refused, looking confused and uneasy the while. 
 He understood now the reason why. 
 
 Ifi 1 took a chair by her side; the folio lay upon a table 
 placed in a large recess, lighted by a silver lamp. They 
 were as much alone there as though they had been in an- 
 other room. She took out a drawing, and laid it before 
 him. He neither saw it nor heard what she remarked. 
 
 " Lillian," ho said, suddenly, " if you were asked what 
 was the most deadly sin a woman could commit, what 
 should you reply?" 
 
 " That is a strange question/' she answered. *' I do 
 not know, Lionel. I think I hate all sin alike." 
 
 " Then 1 will tell you," he said, bitterly; " it is false, 
 foul deceit black, heartless treachery." 
 
 She looked up in amazement at his angry tone; then 
 there was for some moments unbroken silence. 
 
 "I can not see the drawings," he said; "take them 
 away. Lillian Earle, raise your eyes to mine; look me 
 straight in the face. How long is it since I asked you to 
 be my wife?" 
 
 ; gentle eyes never wavered, they were fixed half in, 
 wondrr on his but at his question the faint flush on her 
 chc i roper. 
 
 !: " a few days,"
 
 DORA THORNE. 
 
 ** You smu you loved me," he continued. 
 
 " I do," she said. 
 
 " Now. answer me again. Have you ever loved or cared 
 for any one else, as you say you do for me?" 
 
 " Never," was the quiefc reply. 
 
 " Pray pardon the question have you received the at* 
 tentions of any lover before receiving mine?" 
 
 " Certainly not," she said, wondering still more. 
 
 *' f have all your affection, your confidence, your trust; 
 you have never duped nor deceived me; you have been 
 open, truthful, and honest with me?" 
 
 " You fo.get yourself, Lionel," she said, with gentle 
 dignity; " you should not use such words to me." 
 
 " Answer!" he returned. " You have to do with a 
 desperate man. Have you deceived me?" 
 
 " Never," she replied, " in thought, word, or deed." 
 
 " Merciful Heaven!" he cried. " That one can be so 
 fair and so false!" 
 
 There was nothing but wonder in the face that was 
 raised to his. 
 
 " Lillian," he said, " I have loved you as the ideal of ail 
 that was pure and noble in woman. In you I saw every- 
 thing go-jd and holy. May Heaven pardon you that ,niy 
 faith has died a violent death." 
 
 " I can not understand you," she said, slowly. " Why 
 do you speak to me so?" 
 
 " I will use plainer words," he replied" so plain that 
 you can not mistake them. 1, your betrothed husband, 
 the man you love and trust, ask you, Lillian Earle, who 
 was it you met to-night in your father's grounds?" 
 
 He saw the question strike her as lightning sometimes 
 strikes a fair tree. The color faded from her lips; a cloud 
 same over the clear, dove-like eyes; she tried to answer, 
 but the words died away in a faint murmur. 
 
 " Do you deny that you were there?" he asked. " Re- 
 member, I saw you, and 1 saw him. Do you deny it?" 
 
 " No," she replied. 
 
 " Who was it?" he cried; and his eyes flamed so angrily 
 upon her that she was afraid. " Tell me who it was. 1 
 will follow him to the world's end. Tell me." 
 
 ** I can not, Lionel," she whispered; " I can not. For 
 pity's sake, keep my secret!" 
 
 *' You need not be afraid," he said, haughtily, ** I shall
 
 DORA THOBNE. 21 
 
 Dot betray you to Lord Earle. Let him find out for him- 
 self what you are, as 1 have done. 1 could curse myself 
 lor my own trust. Who is he?" 
 
 " I can not tell you/' she stammered; and he saw her 
 little white hands wrung together in agony. *' Oh, Lionel, 
 trust me do not be angry with me. 
 
 *' You can not expect me/' he said, although he was 
 softened by the sight of her sorrow, " to know of such an. 
 action and not to speak of it, Lillian. If you can explain 
 it, do so. If the man was an old lover of yours, tell me 
 BO; in time 1 may forget the deceit, if you *re frank with 
 me now. If there be any circumstance that extenuates or 
 explains what you did, tell it to me now." 
 
 " I can not, she said; and her fair face drooped sadly 
 away from him. 
 
 " That I quite believe/' he continued, bitterly. " You 
 can not and will not You know the alternative, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 The gentle eyes were raised to his in mute, appealing 
 sorrow, out she spoke not. 
 
 " Tell me now/' he said, " whom It was you stole out 
 of the house to meet why you met him? Be frank with 
 me; and, if it was but girlish nonsense, in time 1 may par- 
 don you. If you refuse to tell me, I shall leave Earles- 
 con.rt, and never look upon your face again." 
 
 She buried her face in her hands, and he heard a low 
 moan of sorrow come from her white lips. 
 
 " Will you tell me, Lillian?" he asked again- -and he 
 never forgot the deadly anguish of the face turned toward 
 him. 
 
 " I can not," she replied; her voice died away, and he 
 thought she was falling from her chair. 
 
 " That is your final decision; you refuse to tell me what 
 as your accepted lover, I hare a right to know?" 
 
 '** Trust me, Lionel!" she implored. " Try, for the 
 Jove you bear me, to trust me!" 
 
 " 1 will never believe in any one again," he said. " Take 
 back your promise, Lillian Earle; you have broken a true 
 and honest heart, you have blighted a whole life. Heaven 
 knows what I shall become, drifted from you. I cure not. 
 You have deceived me. Take back your ring. 1 will say 
 good-bye to you. I shall not care to look upon yo'K false, 
 fair f.-K'o again."
 
 218 DORA THORITE. 
 
 ** Oh, iJionel, wait!" she cried. ** Give m& xime d< 
 not leave me so!" 
 
 " Time will make little difference/' he answered; " I 
 shall not leave the Hall until to-morrow morning; you can 
 write to me if you wish me to remain." 
 
 He laid the ring upon the table, refusing to notice the 
 trembling, outstretched hand. He could not refrain from 
 looking back at her as he quitted the room. He saw the 
 gentle face, so full of deadly sorrow, with its white, quiv. 
 ering lips; and yet he thought to himself, although she 
 looked stricken with anguish, there was no guilt on the 
 lear, fair brow. 
 
 He turned back from the door and went straight to Loro 
 Earle. 
 
 " I shall leave Earlescourt to-morrow," he said, abrupt- 
 ly. " 1 must go, Lord Earle; do not press to stay." 
 
 ** Come and go as you will, Lionel," said Ronald, sur- 
 prised at the brusqueness of his manner; " we are always 
 pleased to ^ee you and sorry to lose you. You will return 
 soon, perhaps?" 
 
 ** 1 will write to you in a few days," he replied. ** I 
 must say good-bye to Lady Earle." 
 
 She was astounded. Beatrice and Lord Airlie came up 
 to him there was a general expression of surprise and re- 
 gret. He, unlike himself, was brusque, and almost 
 naughty. 
 
 Sir Harry and Lady Laurence had gone home. Bea- 
 trice, with a vague fear that something had gone wrong, 
 said she was tired; Lord Airlie said good-night; and in a 
 few minutes Lady Helena and her son were left alone. 
 
 " What has come over Lionel?" asked Eonald. "Why, 
 mother, how mistaken 1 am! Do you know that I quire 
 believed he was falling in love with Lillian?'' 
 
 " He did that long ago," replied Lady Helena, with a 
 Bmile. " Say nothing about it. Lionel is very proud and 
 impetuous. I faucy he and Lillian have had some little 
 dispute. Matters of that kind are best left alone inter* 
 ference always does harm. He will come back in a few 
 days; and all be right again. Ronald, there is one ques- 
 tion I have buen wishing to ask you do not be angry if I 
 pain you, my son. Beatrice will be married soon do you 
 not intend her -rather to be present at the wedding?"
 
 DORA THORNE. 
 
 Lord Earlw rose from his chair, and began, as he always 
 did JL time of anxiety, to pace up and down the room, 
 
 ** I had forgotten her claim, he said. ** I can not tell 
 what to do, mother. It would be a cruel, unmerited slight 
 to pass hor over, but 1 do not wish to see her. I have 
 !ought a hard battle with my feelings, but 1 can not bring 
 mj'self to see her." 
 
 " Yet you loved her very much once/' said Lady Helena. 
 
 14 1 did/' he replied, gently. " Poor Dora!" 
 
 " It is an awful thing to- live at enmity with any one/ 5 
 eaid Lady Helena " but with one's own wife! I can not 
 understand it, Ronald." 
 
 " You mistake, mother/' he said, eagerly; '* I am not 
 at enmity with Dora. She offended me she hurt my 
 honor she pained me in a way 1 can never forget " 
 
 " You must forgive her some day/' replied Lady Earle; 
 " why not now?" 
 
 ** No," he said, sadly. " I know myself I know what 
 I cati do and what 1 can not do. 1 could take my wife in 
 my arms, and kiss her face 1 could not live with her. I 
 shall forgive her, mother, when all that is human is dying 
 away from me. I shall forgive her in the hour of death. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV1IL 
 
 LILLIAN EARLE was no tragedy queen. She never 
 talked about sacrifice or dying, but there was in her calm, 
 gentle nature a depth of endurance rarely equaled. She 
 had never owned, even to herself, how dearly she loved 
 Lionel Dacre how completely every thought and hope was 
 centered in him. Since she had first learned to care for 
 him, she bad never looked her life in the face and imagined 
 what it would be without him. 
 
 It never entered her mind to save herself at the expense 
 of her sister; the secret had been intrusted to her, and she 
 could not conceive the idea of disclosing it. If the choice 
 hail been offered her between death and betraying Beatrice, 
 she would have chosen death, with a simple consciousness 
 that she was but doing hor duty. 
 
 So, when Lionel uttered those terrible words when she 
 found that ho had seen her she never dreamed of freeing 
 herself from blame, and telling the story of her sister's
 
 DORA THOENE. 
 
 fault. His words were bitterly cruel; they stung ner with 
 sharp pain. She had never seen contempt or scorn before 
 on that kindly, -honest face; now, she read both. Yet, 
 what oould she do? Her sister's life lay in her hands, and 
 she must guard it. 
 
 Therefore, she bore the cruel taunts, and only once whet 
 tfle fear of losing him tortured her, cried out for pity and 
 trust. But he had no trust; he stabbed her gentle heart 
 with his fierce words, he seared her with his hot anger; she 
 might, at the expense of another, have explained all, aucl 
 stood higher than ever jn his esteem, but she would not 
 do it 
 
 She was almost stunned by the sorrow that had fallen 
 npon her. She saw him, with haughty, erect bearing, 
 quit the drawing-room, and she knew that unless Beatrice 
 permitted her to tell the truth, she would never see his 
 face again. She went straight to her sister's room and 
 waited for her. 
 
 The pale face grew calm and still; her sister could not 
 refuse her request when she had told her all; then she 
 would write to Lionel and explain. He would not leave 
 Earlescourt; he would only love her the better for her 
 steadfast truth. 
 
 " Send Suzette away," she whispered to Beatrice, when 
 she entered; " I must see you alone at once." 
 
 Beatrice dismissed her maid, and then turned to her 
 Bister. 
 
 " What is it, Lily?" she asked. " Your face is deathly 
 pale. What has happened?" 
 
 " Beatrice," said Lillian, " will you let me tell your se- 
 cret to Lionel Dacre? It will be quite sacred with him." 
 
 " To Lionel Dacre!" she cried. " No, a thousand 
 V'mr-s over! How can you ask me, Lily? He is Lord 
 Airlie's friend and could not keep it from him. Why do 
 you ask me such an extraordinary question?" 
 
 " lie saw me to-night," she replied; ** he was out in the 
 grounds, and saw me speaking to Hugh Fernely." 
 
 "Have you told him anything?" she asked; and for a 
 moment Beatrice looked despairing. 
 
 " Not a word," said Lily. " How could 1, when you 
 trusted me?" 
 
 is rigV f ," returned her sister, a look of relief
 
 DOHA rzc:: 221 
 
 coming over hor face; " his opinion does not matter much 
 What did he say?" 
 
 4> lie thought 1 had been to meet some ono Iknew," rfc* 
 plied Lillian, her face growing crimson with shame. 
 
 "And was dreadfully shocked, no doubt," supple- 
 mented Beatrice. " Well, never mind, darling, i am 
 very sorry it happened, but it will not matter. I am so 
 near freedom and happiness, I can not grieve over it. He 
 will not surely tell? He is too honorable for that." 
 
 44 No," said Lillian, dreamily, " he will not tell." 
 
 ** Then do not look so scared, Lily; nothing else 
 matters." 
 
 44 You forget what he m.nst think of me," said Lillian. 
 44 Knowing his upright, truthful character, what must he 
 think of me?" 
 
 That view of the question had not struck Beatrice. She 
 looked grave and anxious. It was not right for her sister 
 to be misjudged. 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry," she began, but Lillian interrupted 
 her, she came close to her, and lowered her pale face over 
 her sister's arm. 
 
 " Beatrice," she said, slowly, 4t you must let me tell 
 him. He cares for me. He loves me; 1 promised to be 
 his wife, and I love him just as you do Lord Airlie. " 
 
 Under the shock of those words Beatrice Earle sat silent 
 and motionless. 
 
 " 1 luvu him," continued Lillian. 44 1 did not tell you. 
 not to be mentioned until you were married. 
 I love him so duiily, Beatrice and when ha asked me 
 who it was I had been to meet, 1 could not answer him. 
 He was very angry; he said sharp, cruel words to me, and 
 1 could ii-it tell him how false tney wen.-. JJu will ! 
 Earleaooart; he will never look upon mv "ace again un 
 : tell him all. He has said so, and he will keep his 
 1. Beatrice, must I lose my love?'' 
 
 ' It would be only for a time," she replied. 44 1 hate 
 
 If for being so selfish, but 1 dare not trust L 
 Dacre. He is so impetuous, so hu.-ty, ho would betray me, 
 as surely as he knew it. Do you not remember his saying 
 the other day that it was well for him he had no secreta, 
 for he could not manage to keep them!" 
 
 mid keep this," pleaded Lillian 4t for your sake 
 toil : . "
 
 BORA THOBNE. 
 
 " He would not/' said Beatrice; " and lam so neai 
 *3om, so near happiness. Oh, Lily, you have saved w* 
 once save me again! My darling, keep xny secret until i, 
 am married; then I swear to you 1 will tell Lionel every 
 word honorably myself, and he will love you doubly. 
 Could you do this- for me?" 
 
 " It is not fair to him he has a right to my confidence 
 -it is not fair to myself, Beatrice." 
 
 " One of us must be sacrificed/' returned her sister. 
 '* If myself, the sacrifice will last my life will cause my 
 death; if you, it will last, at the most, only three or four 
 weeks. 1 will write to Lionel on my wedding-day." 
 ' Why trust him then and not now?" asked Lillian. 
 
 " Because, once married to Lord Airlie, 1 shall have no 
 fear. Three or four weeks of happiness are not so much 
 to give up for your own sister, Lily. 1 will say no more. 
 I leave it for you to decide. " 
 
 "Nay, do not do that/' said Lillian, in great distress. 
 " I could not clear myself at your expense " a fact which 
 Beatrice understood perfectly well. 
 
 "Then let the matter rest/' said her sister; "some 
 flay I shall be able to thank you for all you have done for 
 me I can not now. On my wedding-day I will tell Lionel 
 Dacre that the girl he loves is the truest, the noblest, the 
 dearest in the world." 
 
 " It is against my better judgment," returned Lillian. 
 
 " It is against my conscience, judgment, love, every- 
 thing," added Beatrice; " but it will save me from cruel 
 ruin and sorrow; and it shall not hurt you, Lily it shall 
 bring you good, not harm. Now, try to forget it. He 
 wiii not know how to atone to you for this. Think of your 
 happiness when he returns." 
 
 She drew the golden head down upon her shoulder, and, 
 with the charm that never failed, sne talked and caressed 
 tier sister until she had overcome all objections. 
 
 But during the long hours of that night a fair head 
 tossed wearily to and fro on its pillow a fair face was 
 etained with bitter tears. Lionel Dacre lingered, half hop- 
 ing that even at the last she would come and bid him stay 
 because she wished to tell him all. 
 
 But the last moment came, and no messenger from Lil- 
 lian brought the longed-for words. He passed out from the 
 HalL He co::!:l not refrain from looking once at the win-
 
 DORA THOBNE. 235 
 
 dow of her room, bat the blind was closely drawn. He lit* 
 tie knew or dreamed how and why he would return. 
 
 Thursday morning dawned bright and beautiful, as 
 though autumn wished to surpass the glories of summer. 
 Beatrice had not told Lillian when she was going to meet 
 Hugh, partly because she dreaded her sister's anxiety, 
 partly because she did not wish any one to know how long 
 she might be with him; for Beatrice anticipated a painful 
 inti-rview, although she felt sure of triumph in the end. 
 
 Lillian was ill and unable to rise; unused to emotion, the 
 strain upon her mind had been too great. When Lady Hel- 
 ena listened to her maid's remarks and went up to see her 
 granddaughter, she forbade her to get up, and Lillian, 
 suffering intensely, was only too pleased to obey. 
 
 The breakfast-party was a very small one. Lord Earle 
 was absent; he had gone to Holte. Lady Helena hurried 
 away to sit with Lillian. Lord Airlie had been smiling very 
 happily over a mysterious little packet that had come by 
 post. He asked Beatrice if she would go out with him 
 he had something to show her. They went out into the 
 park, intending to return in time for luncheon. 
 
 The morning was bright and calm. Something of the 
 warmth and beauty of the summer lingered still, although 
 the ground was strewn with fallen leaves. 
 
 Lord Airlie and Beatrice sat at the foot of the grand old 
 cedar-tree whence they could see the distant glimmer of the 
 deep, still lake. The birds sung around them, and the sun 
 shone brightly. On the beautiful face of Beatrice Earle her 
 lover read nothing but happiness and love. 
 
 " I have something here for you, Beatrice/' said Lord 
 Airlie, showing her a little packet " a surprise. You 
 must thank me by saying that what it contains will be more 
 precious to you than anything else on earth." 
 
 She opened the oretty case; within it there lay a fine 
 gold chain of exquisite fashion and a locket of marvelous 
 Beauty. 
 
 She uttered a little cry of surprise, and raised the pres- 
 ent in her hands. 
 
 " Now, thank me," said Lord Airlie, "hi the way 1 
 asked." 
 
 " What it contains is more precious to me than anything 
 on earth," she said. " Yovknow that. Hubert; whv do 
 you v.'. ;' ' me repeat ; tf*'
 
 THOENB. 
 
 ** Because I like to hear it," he answered. *' I like ta 
 see my proud love looking humble for a few minutes; L 
 like to know that I have caged a bright, wild bird that no 
 one else could tame." 
 
 " I am not caged yet,'* she objected. 
 
 ." Beati-ice," said Lord Airlie, " make me a promise. 
 Let me fasten this locket around your neck, and tell me 
 that you will not part with it night or day for one rnomeut 
 until our wedding-day." 
 
 "1 can easily promise that/' she said. She bent her 
 beautiful head, and Lord Airlie fastened the chain round 
 her throat. 
 
 He little knew what he had done. "When Lord Airjte 
 fastened the chain round the neck of the girl he loved, he 
 bound her to him in life and in death. 
 
 " It looks charming," he said. " How everything beau- 
 tiful becomes you, Beatrice! You were born to be a queen 
 --who am I that I should have won you? Tell me over 
 again 1 never grow tired of hearing it-^do you love me?" 
 
 She told him again, her face glowing with happiness. 
 He bent over her and kissed the sweet face; he kissed the 
 little white hands and the rings of dark hair the wind blew 
 carelessly near him. 
 
 " When the leaves are green, and the fair spring is 
 come/' he said, "you will be my wife, Beatrice Lady 
 Airlie of Lynuton. * 1 love, my name and title when 1 re- 
 member that you will share them. And you shall be the- 
 happiest Lady Airlie that ever lived the happiest bride, 
 the happiest wife the sun ever shone upon. You will neve? 
 part with my locket, Beatrice?" 
 
 " No," she replied; " never. 1 will keep.it always." 
 
 They sat through the long bright hours under the shade 
 of the old cedar- tree, while Lillian lay with head and hear,* 
 aching, wondering in her gentle way why this sorrow should 
 havo fallen upon her. 
 
 She did not know, as she lay like a pale broken lily, that 
 years ago her father, in the reckless heyday of youth, had 
 willfully deceived his father, and married against his wish 
 and commands; she did not know how that unhappy mar- 
 riage had ended in pride, passion, and sullen, jealous tem- 
 per while those who should have foreborne went each their 
 own road the proud, irritated husband abroad, away from 
 every tie of hon ^ r.d duty, the jealous, angry wife sec!u4
 
 DORA TIIOKNK. 22i 
 
 ing herself in the bitterness of her heart both neglecting 
 the children intrusted to them. She knew how one of those 
 children had gone wrong; she knew the deceit, the misery, 
 the sorrow that wrong had entailed. She was the chief vic- 
 tim, yet the sin had not been hers. 
 
 There was no fierce, rebellious feelings in her gentle heart, 
 no angry warring with the mighty Hand that sends crosses 
 and blessings alike. The flower bent by the wind was not 
 more pliant. Where her sorrow and love had cast her she 
 lay, silently enduring her suffering, while Lionel traveled 
 without intermission, wishing only to find himself far away 
 from the young girl he declared he had ceased to love yet 
 could not forget. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THURSDAY evening, and the hand of the ormolu clock 
 pointed to a Quarter to ten. Lord Earle sat reading, Lady 
 Helena had left Lillian asleep, and had taken up a book 
 near him. Lord Airlie had been sketching for Beatrice a 
 plan of a new wing at Lyunton. Looking up suddenly, 
 she saw the time. At ten Hugh Fernely would be at the 
 shrubbery gate. She had not a moment to lose. Saving 
 she was feeling tired, she rose and went to bid Lord Earle 
 good-night. 
 
 He remembered afterward how he had raised the beauti- 
 ful face in his hands and gazed at it in loving admiration, 
 whimpering something the while about " Lady Airlie of 
 Lynnton." He remembered how she, so little given to 
 caressing, had laid her hand upon his shoulder, clasping 
 her arms around his neck, kissing his face, ana calling 
 him "her own dear papa." He remembered the soft, 
 wistful light in her beautiful eyes, the sweet voice that 
 lingered in his ears. Yet no warning came to him, nothing 
 told him the fair child he loved so dearly stood in the shadow 
 of deadly peril. 
 
 If she had known, how those strong arms would have 
 been raised to shield her how the stout, brave heart 
 would have sheltered her! As it was, she left him with 
 
 *38ting words on his lip.-\ and he did not even gaze after 
 or as she quitted the room. If he had only known where 
 and how he should sec that face again! 
 Beatrice w?ut m t<> bdv Helena, who an houfc
 
 218 DORA THOKNiw 
 
 raising her eyes from her book. Beatrice bent down anfl 
 touched the kind, stately face with her lips. 
 
 " Good-night, grandmamma," she said. " How studious 
 you are!" 
 
 " Good-night bless you, my child,'* returned Lady Hel- 
 ena; and the fair face turned from her with a smile. 
 
 " You have left me until last," said Lord Airlie; " good- 
 night, my Beatrice. Never mind papa he is not looking 
 at us; give me one kiss." 
 
 She raised her face to his, and he kissed the proud, sweet 
 lips. 
 
 He touched the golden locket 
 
 " You will never part with it," he said; and he smiled 
 as she answered: 
 
 " No, never!" 
 
 Then she passed out of his sight, and he who would have 
 laid down his life for her saw her leave him witnout the 
 faintest suspicion of the shadow that hung over her. 
 
 The smile still lingered on her as she stood in her own 
 room. A few hours more one more trial she said to 
 herself; then she would be free, and might enjoy her hap- 
 piness to its full extent. How dearly Hubert loved her 
 now unutterably happy she would be when Hugh released 
 her! And he would she never doubted it. 
 
 " I shall not want you again," she said to her maid. 
 " And do not call me in the morning. 1 am tired." 
 
 The door of Lillian's room was not closed; she went in. 
 The night-lamp was shaded, and the blinds closely drawn, 
 so that the bright moonlight could not intrude. She went 
 gently to the side of the bed where her sister lay. Poor, 
 gentle, loving Lillian! The pale, sad face, with its wistful, 
 wearied expression, was turned to the wall. There were 
 some traces of tears, and even in sleep deep sighs passed 
 the quivering lips. Sorrow and woe were impressed on the 
 fair face. Yet, as Beatrice kissed the clear, calm brow, 
 she would gladly have changed places with her. 
 . " I will soon make it up to her," she said, gazing long 
 and earnestly on the sleeping face. " In a few weeks she 
 shall be happier than she has ever been, I will make 
 Master Lionel go on his knees to her." 
 
 She left the room, and Lillian never knew who had ben* 
 so lovingly over her. 
 
 Boatnce took from her wardrobe a thick, warm shawl
 
 DORA THORNE. f& 
 
 She drew it over her head, and so half hid her it^e. Then 
 she went noiselessly down the staircase that led from her 
 suite of rooms to the garden. 
 
 How fair and beautiful the night was not cold, although 
 it was September, and the moon shining as she had rarely 
 seen it shine before. 
 
 It seemed to sail triumphantly in the dark-blue sky. It 
 poured a flood of silvery light on the sleeping flowers and 
 trees. 
 
 She had not lingered to look round the pretty dressing- 
 room as she left it. Her eyes had not dwelt on the luxuri- 
 ous chamber and the white bed, wherein she ought to have 
 been sleeping, but, now that she stood outside the Hall, she 
 looked up at the windows with a sense of loneliness and 
 fear. There was a light in Lady Helena's room and one 
 in Lord Airlie's. She shrunk back. What would he think 
 if he saw her now? 
 
 Deeply she felt the humiliation of leaving her father's 
 house at that hour of the night; she felt the whole shame 
 of what she was going to do; but the thought of Lord Air- 
 lie nerved her. Let this one night pass, and a life-time of 
 happiness lay before her. 
 
 The night wind moaned fitfully among the trees; the 
 branches of the tall lime-trees swayed over her head; the 
 fallen leaves twirled round her feet. She crossed the gar- 
 dens; the moon cast strange shadows upon the broad paths. 
 At length she saw the shrubbery gate, and, by it, erect and 
 motionless, gazing on the bending trees in the park, was 
 Hugh Pernely. He did not hear her light footsteps the 
 wind among the lime-trees drowned them. She went up 
 to him and touched bis arm gently. 
 
 " Hugh," she said, " I am here." 
 
 Before she could prevent him, he was kneeling at her feet 
 fie had clasped her hands in his own, and was covering 
 them with hot kisses and burning tears. 
 
 " My darling/' he said, " my own Beatrice, I knew yon 
 would come!" 
 
 I Fe rose then, and, before she could stop him, he took the 
 shawl from her head and raised the beautiful face so that 
 the moonlight fell clearly upon it. 
 
 " 1 have hungered and thirsted," he said, ** for another 
 look at that face. I shall see it always now r will
 
 328 DORA THORNS. 
 
 never leave me more. Look at me, Beatrice," he criedj 
 *' let me see those dark eyes again/' 
 
 Bat the glance she gave him had nothing in it but cold- 
 ness and dread. In the excitement of his joy he did not 
 notice it. 
 
 " Words are so weak," he said, " I can not tell you how 
 I have longed for this hour. 1 have gone over it in fancy a 
 thousand times; yet no dream was ever so bright and sweet 
 as this reality. No man in the wide world ever loved any 
 one as I love you, Beatrice." 
 
 She could not resist the passionate torrent of words they 
 must have touched the heart of one less proud, She stood 
 perfectly still, while the calm night seemed to thrill with 
 the eloquent voice of the speaker. 
 
 " Speak to me, " he sairl, at length. " How coldly you 
 listen! Beatrice, there is no love, no joy in your face. 
 Tell me you are pleased to see me tell me you have remem- 
 bered me. Say anything let me hear your voice." 
 
 " Hugh," she answered, gently, drawing her hands from 
 his strong grasp, " this is all a mistake. You have not 
 given me time to speak. I am pleased to see you well and 
 safe. I am pleased that you have escaped the dangers of 
 the deep; but I can not say more. 1 I do not love you as 
 you love me. " 
 
 His hands dropped nervously, and he turned his des- 
 pairing face from her. 
 
 " You must be reasonable," she continued, in her mu- 
 sical, pitiless voice. " Hugh, I was only a dreaming, inno- 
 cent, ignorant child whenl first met you. It was not love 
 I thought of. You talked to me as no one else ever had 
 it was like reading a strange, wonderful story; my head 
 was filled with romance, my heart was not filled with love." 
 
 '* But," he said, hoarsely, "you promised to be my wife." 
 
 ** I remember," she acknowledged. " I do not deny it; 
 but, Hugh, 1 did not know what I was saying. 1 spoke 
 without thought. I no more realized what the words 
 meant than I can understand now what the wind is say- 
 ing." 
 
 A long, low moan came from his lips; the awful despair 
 in his face startled her, 
 
 14 So 1 have returned for this!" he cried. ** I have 
 braved oo.told perils; 1 have escaped the dangers of the
 
 DORA THOKNE. 229 
 
 seas, the death that larks in heaving waters, to be slain by 
 zruel words from the girl 1 loved and trusted." 
 
 He turned from her, unable to check the bitter sob that 
 rose to his lips. 
 
 " ILn.sii, Hugh," she said, gently, " you grieve me." 
 
 " Do you think of my grief?" he cried. " I came here 
 to-night, with my heart on fire with love, my brain dizzy 
 with happiness. You have killed me, Beatrice Earle, as 
 surely as ever man was slain. " 
 
 Far off, among the trees, she saw the glimmer of the 
 light in Lord AirTie's room. It struck her with a sensation 
 of fear, as though he were watching her. 
 
 "Let us walk on," she said; "I do not like standing 
 here." 
 
 They went through the shrubbery, through tho broad, 
 green glades of the park, where the dew-drops shone upon 
 fern leaves and thick grass, past the long avenue of chest- 
 nut-trees, where the wind moaned like a human being in 
 deadly pain; on to the shore of the deep, calm lake, where 
 the green reeds bent and swayed and the moonlight shono 
 on the rippling waters. All this while Hugh had not 
 spoken a word, but had walked in silence by her side. Ho 
 turned to her at length, and she heard the rising passion 
 in his voice, 
 
 44 You promised me," he said, " and you must keep your 
 promise. You said you would be my wife. No other man 
 must dare to speak to you of love, he cried, grasping her 
 arm. " In the sight of Heaven you are mine, Beatrice 
 Earle." 
 
 " 1 am not," she answered, proudly; " and I never will 
 be; no man would, or could, take advantage of a promise 
 obtained from a willful, foolish child." 
 
 "I will appeal to Lord Earle," he said; " I will lay my 
 claim before him." 
 
 " You may do so," she replied; ** and, althongh he wih 
 never look upon me again, he will protect ine from you." 
 
 She saw the angry light flame in his eyes; she heard his 
 breath come in quick, short gasps, and the danger of quar- 
 reling with him struck her. She laid her hand upon hia 
 arui, and he trembled at the gentle touch. 
 
 "Hugh," she said, "do not be angry. You are a 
 brave man; 1 know that in all your life you never shrunk 
 fiom danger or feared peril. The bravo are alw*8 gener-
 
 230 DOBA THOBNE. 
 
 ous, always noble; think of what I am going to say. Suppose 
 that, by the exercise of any power, you could really compel 
 me to be your wife, what would it benefit you? I should 
 not love you, 1 tell you candidly. I should detest you for 
 spoiling my life I would never see you. What would you 
 gain by forcing me to keep my promise?" 
 
 He made no reply. The wind bent the reeds, and the 
 water came up the bank with a long, low wash. 
 
 " I appeal to your generosity," she said " your nobility 
 of character. Eelease me from a promise I made in igno- 
 rance; I appeal to your very love for me release me, that 
 I may be happy. Those who love truly," she continued, 
 receiving no reply, " never love selfishly. If I cared for 
 any one as you do for me, I should consider my own hap- 
 piness last of all. If you love me, release me, Hugh. I 
 can never be happy with you." 
 
 " Why not?" he asked, tightening his grasp upon her 
 arm. 
 
 ** Not from mercenary motives," she replied, earnestly; 
 " not because my father is wealthy, my home magnificent, 
 and you belong to another grade of society not for that, 
 but because I do not love you. I never did love you as a 
 girl should love the man she means to marry." 
 
 " You are very candid," said he, bitterly; " pray, is there 
 any one else you love in this way?" 
 
 " That is beside the question," she replied, haughtily; 
 " 1 am speaking of you and myself. Hugh, if you will give 
 me my freedom if you will agree to forget the foolish 
 promise of a foolish child I will respect and esteem yo'. 
 while I live; I shall bless you every day; your name will 
 be a sacred one enshrined in my heart, your memory will 
 be a source of pleasure to me. You shall be my friend, 
 Hugh, and I will be a true friend to you. " 
 
 " Beatrice," he cried, " do not tempt me!" 
 
 " Yes, be tempted," she said; " let me urge you to be 
 generous, to be noble! See, Hugh, I have never prayed to 
 any man I pray to you ; 1 would kneel "here at your feet 
 and beseech you to release me from a promise 1 never 
 meant to give." 
 
 Her words touched him. She saw the softened look upon 
 his face, the flaming anger die out of his eyes. 
 
 l * Hii<ih," she said, softly, " I, Beatrice Earle, pray you.
 
 DORA THORNE. 231 
 
 by the love you bear me, to release me from all claim, aiid 
 leave me in peace. 
 
 " Let me think," he replied; " give me a few minutes; 
 no man could part so hastily with the dearest treasure 
 he has. Let me think what I lose in giving yon up." 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THEY stood for some time in perfect silence; they had 
 wandered down to the very edge of the lake. The water 
 rippled in the moonlight, and while Hugh Fernely thought 
 Beatrice looked into the clear depths. How near she was 
 to her triumph! A few miuutes more and he would 
 turn to her and tell her she was free. His face was 
 growing calm and gentle. She would dismiss him with 
 grateful thanks; she would hasten home. How calm 
 would be that night's sleep! When she saw Lord Airlie 
 in the morning, all her sorrow and shame would have 
 passed by. Her heart beat high as she thought of this. 
 
 44 1 think it must be so/' said Hugh Fernely, at last; 4t 1 
 think 1 must give you up, Beatrice. I could not bear to 
 make you miserable. Look up, my darling; let me see 
 your face once more before 1 say good-bye. " 
 
 She stood before him, and the thick dark shawl fell from 
 her shoulders upon the grass; she did not miss it in the 
 blinking joy that had fallen upon her. Hugh Fernely 'a 
 gaze lingered upon the peerless features. 
 
 " I can give you up," he said, gently; " for your own 
 happiness, but not to another, Beatrice. Tell me that you 
 have not learned to love another since I left you/' 
 
 made no reply not to have saved her life a thousand 
 times would she have denied her love for Lord Airlie. 
 His kiss was still warm on her lips those same lips should 
 nerer deny him. 
 
 44 You do not speak," he added, gloomily. " By Heaven, 
 
 Beatrice, if I thought you had learned to love another man 
 
 if I thought you wanted to be free from me to marry an- 
 
 othi i r I should go mad mad with jealous rage! Is it so? 
 
 ver me.'* 
 
 saw a lurid light in his eyes, and shrunk from him, 
 ightened his grasp upon her arm. 
 
 * 4 Answer me. he cried, hoarsely. '* 1 will know."
 
 332 DORA THORNE. 
 
 Not far from her slept the lover who would have shielded 
 her with his strong arm the lover to whom every hair upon 
 her dear head was more precious than gold or jewels. Not 
 fur from her slept the kind, loving father, who was prouder 
 and fonder of her than of any one on earth. Gaspar 
 Laurence, who would have died for her, lay at that moment 
 not far away, awake and thinking of her. Yet in the hour 
 of her deadly peril, when she stood on the shore of the deep 
 lake, in the fierce grasp of a half-maddened man, there 
 was no one near to help her or raise a hand in her defense,. 
 But she was no coward, and all the high spirit of her race 
 rose within her. 
 
 " Loosen your grasp, Hugh," she said, calmly; " you 
 pain me." 
 
 " Answer me!" he cried. " Where is the ring I gave 
 you?" 
 
 He seized both her hands and looked at them; they were 
 firm and cool they did not tremble. As his fierce, angry 
 eyes glanced over them, not a feature of her beautiful 
 face quivered. 
 
 " Where is my ring?" he asked. " Answer me, Bea- 
 trice." 
 
 " I have not worn it lately," she replied. " Hugh, you 
 forget yourself. Gentlemen do not speak and act in this 
 way. ' ' 
 
 " 1 believe 1 am going mad," he said, gloomily. " I 
 could relinquish my claim to you, Beatrice, for your own 
 sake, but I will never give you up to be the wife of any 
 other man. Tell me it is not so. Tell me you have not 
 been so doubly false as to love another, and 1 will try to 
 do all you wish." 
 
 "' Am I to live all my life unloved and unmarried?" she 
 answered, controlling her angry indignation by a strong 
 effort, " because when I was a lonely and neglected girl, I 
 fell into your power? I do not ask such a sacrifice from 
 you. I hope you will love and marry, and be happy." 
 
 " 1 shall not care," he said, " what happens after I am 
 gone it will not hurt my jealous, angry heart then, Bea- 
 trice; but I should net like to think taat while you were 
 my promised wife and I was giving you my every thought, 
 you were loving some one else. I should like to believe 
 you were true to me while you were my own." 
 
 She made no answer, fearing to irritate him if she tolfl
 
 DOttA -BHORNE. 233 
 
 the truth, and scorning to deny the love that was the 
 crowning blessing of her life. His anger grew in her 
 silence. Again the dark flush arose in his face, and his 
 eyes flamed with fierce light. 
 
 Suddenly he caught sight of the gold locket she wore 
 round her neck, fastened by the slender chain. 
 
 " What is this thing you wear?" he asked, quickly. 
 " You threw aside my ring. What is this? Whose por= 
 trait have you there? Let me see it." 
 
 " You forget yourself again," she said, drawing herself 
 haughtily away. " I have no account to render to you of 
 my friends." 
 
 ** 1 will see who is there!" he cried, beside himself with 
 angry rage. " Perhaps I shall, know then why you wish 
 to be freed from me. Whose face is lying near you* 
 heart? Let me see. If it is that of any one who has out- 
 witted me, I will throw it into the depths of the lake." 
 
 " Yon shall not see it," she said, raising her hand, and 
 clasping the little locket tightly. ** I am not afraid, Hugh 
 Fernely. You will never use violence to me." 
 
 But the hot anger leaped up in his heart; he was mad 
 with cruel jealousy and rage, and tried to snatch thy 
 locket from her. She defended it, holding it tightly 
 clasped in one hand, while with the other she tried to free 
 herself from his grasp. 
 
 It will never be knowu how that fatal accident happened. 
 Men will never know whether the hapless girl fell, or 
 whether Hugh Fernely, in his mad rage, flung her int> the 
 lake. There was a startled scream that rang through the 
 clear air, a heavy fall, a splash amid the waters of the lakel 
 There was one awful, despairing glance from a nale, hor- 
 ror-stricken face, and then the waters closed, tne ripples 
 spread over the broad surface, and the sleeping lilies trem- 
 bled for a few minutes, and then lay still again ! Once, 
 and once only, a woman's white hand, thrown up, as it 
 were, in agonizing supplication, cleft the dark water, and 
 then all was over; the wind blew the ripples more strongly; 
 tlu-y washed upon the grass, and the stir of the deep 
 waters subsided! 
 
 Hugh Fernely did not plunge in to the lake after Beatrice 
 it was too late to save her; still, he might have tried. 
 The cry that rang through the sleeping woods seemed to 
 !>;inily/p him he stood like one bereft of reason, sense,
 
 234 DOHA THORNE. 
 
 and life. Pernaps the very suddenness of tne event oveiv 
 powered him. Heaven only knows what passed in his dull, 
 crazed mind while the girl he loved sunk without help." 
 Was it that he would not save her for another that iu hi& 
 cruel love he preferred to know her dead, beneath the cold 
 waters, rather than the living, happy wife of another man? 
 Or was it that in the sudden shock and terror he never 
 thought of trying to save her? 
 
 He stood for hours it seemed to him as years watch- 
 ing the spot where the pale, agonized face had vanished 
 watching the eddying ripples and the green reeds. Yet he 
 never sought to save her never plunged into the deep 
 waters whence he might have rescued her had he wished. 
 He never moved. He felt no fatigue. The first thing 
 that roused him was a gleam of gray light in the eastern 
 sky, and the sweet, faint song of a little bird. 
 
 Then he saw that the day had broken. He said to him- 
 self, with a wild, horrible laugh, that he had watched all 
 night by her grave. 
 
 He turned and fled. One meeting him, with fierce, wild 
 eyes full of the fire of madness, with pale, haggard face 
 full of despair, would have shunned him. He fled through 
 the green park, out on the high-road, away through the 
 deep woods he knew not whither never looking back; 
 crying out at times, with a hollow, awful voice that he 
 had been all night by her grave; falling at times on his 
 face with wild, woful weeping, praying the heavens to fall 
 upon him and hide him forever from his fellow-men. 
 
 He crept into a field where the hedge-rows were bright 
 with autumn's tints. He threw himself down, and tried 
 to close his hot, dazed eyes, but the sky above him looked 
 blood-red, the air seemed filled with flames. Turn where 
 he would, the pale, despairing face that had looked up to 
 him as the waters opened was before him. He arose with 
 a great cry, and wandered on. He came to a little cot- 
 tage, where rosy children were at play, talking and laugh- 
 ing in the bright sunshine*. 
 
 Great Heaven! How long was it since the dead girl, now 
 Bleeping under the deep waters, was happy and bright as 
 they? 
 
 He fled again. This time the piercing cry filled his ears; 
 it seemed to deaden his brain. He fell in the field near the 
 cottage. Hoars afterward the children out at. play found
 
 UORA THORNE. * 
 
 him lying in the dank grass that fringed the pond under 
 the alder-trees. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The first faint flush of dawn, a rosy light, broke in the 
 eastern sky, a tremulous, golden shimmer was on the lake 
 as the sunbeams touched it. The forest birds awoke and 
 began to sing; they flew from branch to branch; the flow 
 ars began to open their " dewy eyes," the stately swans 
 came out upon the lake, bending their arched necks, sail- 
 ing round the water-lilies and the green sedges. 
 
 The sun shone out at length in his majesty, warming 
 and brightening the fair face of nature it was full and 
 perfect day. The gardeners came through the park to 
 commence their work; the cows out in the pasture-land 
 stood to be milked, the busy world began to rouse itself; 
 but the fatal secret hidden beneath the cold, dark water re* 
 mained still untold. 
 
 CHAPTER XLL 
 
 THE sun shone bright and warm in the breakfast-room at 
 Earlescourt The rays fell upon the calm, stately face of 
 Lady Helena, upon the grave countenance of her son, upon 
 the bright, handsome features of Lord Airlie. They 
 sparkled on the delicate silver, and showed off the pretty 
 china to perfection. The breakfast was upon ihe table, 
 but the three occupants of the room had been waiting. 
 Lady Helena took her seat 
 
 " It seems strange," she said to Lord Earle, " to break- 
 fast without either of the girls. I would not allow Lillian 
 to rise; and from some caprice Beatrice forbade her maid 
 to call her, saying she was tired." 
 
 Lord Earle made some laughing reply, but Lady Hel"im 
 was not quite pleased. Punctuality with her had always 
 been a favorite virtue. In case of real illness allowance 
 was of course to be made; but she herself had never con- 
 suit-red a little extra fatigue as sufficient reason for absent- 
 ing herself from table. 
 
 The two gentlemen talked gayly during breakfast Lord 
 Karli' asked Hubert if he would go with him to Holte, and 
 Lord Airlie said lie had promised to drive Beatrice to Lang* 
 ton Priorv.
 
 236 DORA THORITE. 
 
 Hearing that, Lady Helena thought it time to send sonw 
 3ittle warning to her grandchild. She rang for Suzette, 
 the maid who waited upon Beatrice, and told her to call 
 her young mistress. 
 
 She stood at her writing-table, arranging some letters, 
 when the maid returned. Lady Helena looked at her in 
 utter wonder the girl's face was pale and scared. 
 
 " My lady," she said, " will you please come here? Yo> 
 are wanted very particularly. " 
 
 Lady Helena, without speaking to either of the gentle 
 men, went to the door where the girl stood. 
 
 " What is it, Susette?" she asked. 4k What is the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 " For mercy's sake, my lady," replied the maid, *' come 
 upstairs. 1 I can not find Miss Beatrice she is not in her 
 room;" and the girl trembled violently or Lady Helena 
 would have smiled at her terror. 
 
 *' She is probably with Miss Lillian," she said. " Why 
 make such a mystery, Suzette?" 
 
 " She is not there, my lady; I can not find her," was 
 the answer. 
 
 " She may have gone out into the garden or tha 
 grounds," said Lady Helena. 
 
 " My lady," Suzette whispered, and her frightened face 
 grew deathly pale, " her bed has not been slept in; noth- 
 ing is touched in her room; she has not been in it aD 
 night." 
 
 A shock of unutterable dread seized Lady Earle; a sharp 
 spasm seemed to dart through her heart. 
 
 " There must be some mistake," she said, gently; " I 
 will go upstairs with you." 
 
 The rooms were without occupant; no disarray of jewels, 
 flowers, or dresses, no little slippers; no single trace oj . 
 Beatrice's presence was there. 
 
 The pretty white bed was untouched no one had slept 
 in it; the blinds were drawn, and the sunlight struggled tc 
 enter the room. Lady Helena walked mechanically to the 
 window, and drew aside the lace curtains; then she looked 
 round. 
 
 " She has not slept here," she said; " she must have 
 slept with Miss Lillian. You have frightened me, Suz- 
 ette; I will go and see myself." 
 
 Ladv Helena went thro ugh the pretty sitting-room, where
 
 DORA THORNB. 237 
 
 the books Beatrice had been reading lay upon the table, on 
 to Lillian's chamber. 
 
 The youn. girl was awake, looking pale and languid, yet 
 better than she had looked the night oefore. Lady Earle 
 controlled all emotion, and went quietly to her. 
 
 " Have you seen Beatrice this morning?" she asked. " I 
 want her." 
 
 " Xo," replied Lillian; " I have not seen her since jest 
 before dinner last evening." 
 
 ** She did not sleep with you, then?" said Lady Earle.. 
 
 " Xo, she did not sleep here," responded the young girl. 
 
 Lady Helena kissed Lillian's face, and quitted the room; 
 a deadly, horrible fear was turning her faint and cold. 
 From the suite of rooms Lord Earle had prepared and ar- 
 ranged for his daughters a staircase ran which led into the 
 garden. He had thought at the time how pleasant it would 
 be for them. As Lady Helena entered, Suzette stood upon 
 the stairs with a bow of pink ribbon in her hand. 
 
 " My lady," she said, " I fastened the outer door of the 
 staircase last night myself. I locked it, and shot the bolts. 
 It is unfastened now, and 1 have found this lying by it, 
 Miss Earle wore it last evening on her dress." 
 
 " Something terrible must have happened," exclaimed 
 Lady Helena. " Suzette, ask Lord Earle to come to me. 
 Do not say a word to any one." 
 
 He stood by her side in a few minutes, looking in mute 
 wonder at her pale, scared face. 
 
 " Ronald," she said, " Beatrice has not slept in her 
 room all night. We can not fiod her." 
 
 He smiled at first, thinking, as she had done, that there 
 be some mistake, and that his mother was fanciful 
 and nervous; but, when Lady Helena, in quick, hurried 
 words, told him of the unfastened door and the ribbon, his 
 face grew serious. He took the ribbon from the maid's 
 hand it seemed a living part of his daughter. He re- 
 membered that he had seen it the night before on her dress, 
 when lie hud held up the beautiful face to kiss it He had 
 touched that same ribbon with his face. 
 
 " She may have gone out into the grounds, and have been 
 taken ill," he said. " Do not frighten Airlie, mother; 1 
 will look round myself." 
 
 Hi- went through every room of the house one by one, 
 but there was no trace of her. Still Lord Earle had n*
 
 238 DORA THORNE. 
 
 fear; it seemed so utterly impossible that any harm could 
 have happened to her. 
 
 Then he went out into the grounds, half expecting the 
 oeautiful face to smile upon him from under the shade of 
 her favorite trees. He called aloud, " Beatrice!'* The 
 wind rustled through the trees, the birds sung, bat there 
 came no answer to his cry. Neither in the grounds nor in 
 the garden could he discover any trace of her. He re 
 turned to Lady Helena, a vague fear coming over him. 
 
 " I can not find her/' he said. " Mother, I do not un- 
 derstand this. She can not have left us. She was not un- 
 happy my beautiful child." 
 
 There was no slip of paper, no letter, no clew to her 
 absence. Mother and sou looked blankly at each other. 
 
 " Ronald," she cried, " where is she? Where is the 
 poor child?" 
 
 He tried to comfort her, but fear was rapidly mastering 
 him. 
 
 *' Let us see if Airlie can suggest anything," he said. 
 
 They went down to the breakfast-room, where Lord Air- 
 lie still waited for the young girl he was never more to 
 meet alive. He turned round with a smile, and asked if 
 Beatrice were coming. The smile died from his lips when 
 he saw the pale, anxious faces of mother arid son. 
 
 " Hubert," said Lord Earle, " we are alarmed let us 
 hope without cause. Beatrice can not be found. My 
 mother is frightened." Lady Helena had sunk, pale and 
 trembling, upon a couch. Lord Airlie looked bewildered. 
 Lord Earle told him briefly how they had missed her, and 
 what had been done. 
 
 "She must be trying to frighten us," he said; "she 
 must have hidden herself. There can not be anything 
 wrong." Even as he spoke he felt how impossible it was 
 that his dignified Beatrice should have done anything 
 wrong. 
 
 He could throw no light upon the subject. He had not 
 seen her since he had kissed her when bidding her good- 
 night. Her maid was the last person to whom she had 
 spoken. Suzette had left her in her own room, and since 
 then nothing had been seen or heard of Beatrice Earle. 
 
 Father and lover went out together. Lord Airlie sug- 
 ested that she had perhaps gone out into the gardens and 
 met with some accident there. They went carefully
 
 DORA THOBKE. 
 
 irer every part there was no trace of Beatrice. They 
 (rent through the shrubbery out into the park, where the 
 juiet lake shone amid the green trees. 
 
 Suddenly, like the thrust of a sharp sword, the remem- 
 brance of the morning spent upon the water came to Lord 
 Airlie. He called to mind Beatrice's fear the cold blind- 
 3er that seized her when she declared that her own face 
 with a mocking smile was looking up at her from the 
 lepths of the water. 
 
 He walked hurriedly toward the lake. It was calm and 
 clear the tall trees and green sedges swaying in the wind, 
 the white lilies rising and falling with the ripples. The 
 blue sky and .green trees were reflected in the water, the 
 pleasure-boat was fastened to the boat-house. How was 
 be to know the horrible secret of the lake? 
 
 " Come away, Airlie!" cried Lord Earle. '* I shall go 
 mad! I will call all the servant*, and have a regular 
 search. " 
 
 In & few minutes the wildest confusion and dismay 
 reigned in the Hall; women wept aloud, and men's 
 grew pale with fear. Their beautiful, brilliant young mis- 
 tress had disappeared, and none knew her fate. They 
 searched garden, park, and grounds; men in hot haste 
 went hither and thither; while Lady Earle lay half dead 
 with fear, and Lillian rested calmly, knowing nothing of 
 what had happened. 
 
 It was Lord Airiie who first suggested that the lake 
 should be dragged. The sun rode nigh in the heavens 
 then, and shone gloriously over water and laud. 
 
 They found the drags, and Hewson, the butler, with Lee 
 and Patson, two gardeners, got into the boat. Father and 
 lover stood side by side on the bank. The boat glided 
 softly over the water; the men had been once round the 
 lake, but without any result Hope was rising again ia 
 Lord Airlie's heart, when he saw those in the boat look at 
 each other, then at him. 
 
 ** My lord," said Cowden, Lord Earle's valet, coming 
 up to Hubert, " pray take my master home; they have 
 found something at the bottom of the lake. Take him 
 home; and please keep Lady Earle and the women all out 
 of the way." 
 
 " What is it?" cried .Lord Eatla " Speak to me, Air- 
 lie. What is it?"
 
 DOKA. THOKNE. 
 
 " Come away," said Lord Airlie. " The men will not 
 work while we are here. " 
 
 They had found something beneath the water? the drags 
 had caught in a woman's dress: and the men in the boat 
 stood motionless until Lord Eaile was out of sight. 
 
 Through the depths of water they saw the gleam of a 
 white, dead face, and a floating mass of dark hair. They 
 raised the body with reverent hands. Strong men wept 
 aloud as they did so. One covered the quiet face, and an- 
 other wrung the dripping water from the long hair. The 
 Bun shone on, as though in mockery, while they carried the 
 drowned girl home. 
 
 Slowly and with halting steps they carried her through 
 the warm, sunny park where she was never more to tread, 
 through the bright, sunlit gardens, through the hall 
 and up the broad staircase, the water dripping from her 
 hair and falling in large drops, into the pretty chamber she 
 had so lately quitted full of luo and hope. They laid her 
 on the white bed wherefrom her eyes would never more 
 open to the morning light, and went away. 
 
 "Drowned, drowned! Drowned and dead!" was the 
 cry that went from lip to lip, till it reached Lord Earls 
 where he sat, trying to soothe his weeping mother. 
 "Drowned! Quite dead!" was the cry that reached Lil- 
 lian, in her sick-room, and brought her down pale and 
 trembling. " Drowned and dead hours ago," were the 
 words that drove Lord Airlie mail with the bitterness of his 
 woe. 
 
 They could not realize it. How had it happened ? Wha*' 
 had taken her in the dead of the night to the lake? 
 
 They sent messengers right and left to summon doctor* 
 in hot haste, as though human skill could avail her now. 
 
 "I must see her," said Lord Airlie. "If you do not 
 wish to kill me, let me see her. " 
 
 They allowed him to enter, and Lord Earle and his 
 mother went with him. None in that room ever forgot his 
 cry the piercing cry of the strong man in his agony as 
 he threw himself by the dead girl's side. 
 
 " Beatrice, my love, my darling, why could I not have 
 died for vou?" 
 
 And then with tears of sympathy they showed him how 
 even in death tho white cold hand grasped his locket, hold- 
 ing it so tightly that no ordinary foe could remove : ^
 
 DORA THORNE. 84| 
 
 " In life and in death I" she had said, and she had kept 
 her word. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 WHILE the weeping group still stood there, doctors 
 came; they looked at the quiet face, so beautiful in death, 
 and said slid had been dead for hours. The words struck 
 tbose who heard them with unutterable horror. Dead, 
 while those who loved her so dearly, who would have given 
 their lives for her, had lain sleepii,^ near her, unconscious 
 of her doom dead, while her lover had waited for her, and 
 her father had been intently thinking of her approaching 
 wedding. 
 
 What had she suffered during that night? What awful 
 atonn of agony had driven her to the lake? Had she gone 
 thither purposely? Had she wandered to the edge and 
 fallen in, or was there a deeper mystery? Had foul 
 wrong been done to Lord Earle's daughter while he was 
 BO near her, and yet knew nothing of it? 
 
 She still wore her pretty pink evening-dress. What a 
 mockery it looked! The delicate laces were wet and 
 spoiled; the pink blossoms she had twined in her hair clung 
 to it still; the diamond arrow Lord Airlie had given her 
 fastened them, a diamond brooch was in the bodice, of her 
 dress, and a costly bracelet encircled the white, cold arm. 
 She had not, then, removed her jewels or changed her 
 dress. What could have taken her down to tht> lake? 
 Why was Lord Airlie's locket so tightly clinched in her 
 hand? 
 
 Lord Airlie, when he was calm enough to speak, sag- 
 
 fested that she might have fallen asleep, tired, before un- 
 ressing that in her sleep she might have walked out, 
 gone to the edge of the hike, and fallen in. 
 
 That version spread among the servants. From them it 
 
 id like wildfire around the whole country-side; I he 
 
 country papers were filled with it, and the London papers 
 
 afterward told how " the beautiful Miss Earle " had been 
 
 ' ;ed while walking in her s! 
 
 I '.ut Lord Airlie's suggestion did not satisfy Ronald 
 : he would not leave the darkened chamber. Wom- 
 en's gentle hands removed th-- bright jewels and the 
 evening-dress. Lady Helena, with tears that fell like
 
 84*' UORA THORNS. 
 
 rain, dried tne long, waving hair, and drew it back from 
 the placid brow. She closed the eyes, but she could not 
 cross the white hands on the cold breast. One held the 
 locket in the firm, tight clasp of death, and it could not be 
 moved. 
 
 Ronald would not leave the room. Gentle hands fin- 
 ished their task. Beatrice lay in the awful beauty of death 
 no pain, no sorrow moving the serene loveliness of her 
 placid brow. He knelt by her side. It was his little Bea- 
 trice, this strange, cold, marble statue his little baby 
 Beatrice, who had leaped in his arms years ago, who had 
 cried and laughed, who had learned in pretty accents to 
 lisp his namu his beautiful child, his proud, bright 
 daughter, who had kissed him the previous night while he 
 spoke jesting words to her about her lover. And he had 
 never heard her voice since never would hear it again. 
 Had she called him when Me dark waters closed over her 
 bright head? 
 
 Cold, motionless, no gleam of life or light and this was 
 Dora's little child! He uttered a great cry as the thought 
 struck him: " What would Dora say?" He loved Bea- 
 trice.; yet for all the long years of her childhood he had 
 been absent from her. How must Dora love the child who 
 had slept on her bosom, and who was now parted from her 
 forever. 
 
 And then his thoughts went back to the old subject: 
 " How had it happened? What had taken her to the lake?" 
 
 One knelt near who might have told him, but a numb, 
 awful dread had seized upon Lillian. Already weak and 
 ill, she was unable to think, unable to shape her ideas, un- 
 able to tell right froia wrong. 
 
 She alone held the clew to the mystery, and she knelt by 
 that death-bed with, pale, parted lips and eyes full of ter- 
 ror. Her face startled those who saw it Her sorrow 
 found no vent in tears; the gentle eyes seemed changed 
 into balls of fire; she could not realize that it was Beatrice 
 who lay there, so calm and still Beatrice, who had knelt 
 at her feet and prayed that she would save her Beatrice, 
 who had believed herself so near the climax of her happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Could she have met Hugh, and had he murdered her? 
 Look where she would, Lillian saw that question written 
 in fiery letters. What ought she to do? Must she tell
 
 DORA THORNE. 243 
 
 Lord Earle, or did the promise she had made bind her in 
 death as well as in life? Nothing could restore her sister. 
 Ought she to tell all she knew, and to stain in death the 
 name that was honored and loved? 
 
 One of the doctors called in saw the face of Lillian 
 Kiirle. He went at once to Lady Helena, and told her 
 that if the young lady was not removed from that room 
 and kept quiet she would be in danger of her life. 
 
 *' If ever 1 saw a face denoting that the brain was dis- 
 turbed/' he said, " that is one. 
 
 Lillian was taken back to her room, and left with care- 
 f ;il nurses. But the doctor's warning proved trua While 
 K:irle wept over the dead child, Lady Helena mourned 
 the living one, whose life hung by a thread. 
 The day wore on; the gloom of sorrow and mourning 
 had settled on the Hall. Servants spoke with hushed voices 
 and moved with gentle tread. Lady Helena sat in the 
 darkened room where Lillian lay. Lord Airlie had shut 
 himself up alone, and Ronald Earle knelt all day by his 
 dead child. In vain they entreated him to move, to take 
 food or wine, to go to his own room. He remained by IHT, 
 trying to glean from that silent face the secret of her death. 
 And, when night fell again, he sunk exhausted. Fever- 
 ish slumbers came to him, filled with a haunted dream of 
 ice sinking in the dark water and calling upon him 
 for help. Kindly faces watched over him, kindly hands 
 1 him. The morning sun found him still there. 
 :y Helena brought him some tea and besought him 
 to ilrink it. The parched, dried lips almost refused their 
 office. It was an hour afterward that Hewson entered the 
 room, bearing a letter in his hand. It was brought, he 
 said, by Thomas Ginns, who lived at the cottage past Pair 
 (ilunn hills. It had been written by a man who lay dying 
 there, and who had prayed him to take it at once without 
 delay. 
 
 " I ventured to bring* it to you, my lord," said the but- 
 "the man seemed to think it a matter of life or 
 death." 
 
 Lord Earle took the letter from his hands he tried to 
 
 it, but the trembling fingers seemed powerless. He 
 
 signed to Hewson to leave the room, and, placing the let- 
 
 ipon the table, resumed his melancholy watch. But 
 
 ;ne strange wav hia thoupSts wandered to the missive 
 
 "
 
 244 DORA THORNE. 
 
 Wkat might it not contain, brought to him, too, in the 
 solemn death-chamber? He opened it, and found many 
 sheets of closely covered paper. On the first was written! 
 *' The Confession of Hugh Fernely." 
 
 The- name told him nothing. Suddenly an idea came to 
 him could this confession have anything to do with the 
 fate of the beloved child who lay before him? Kneeling by 
 the dead child's side, he turned over the leaf and read as 
 follows: 
 
 " Lord Earle, I am dying the hand tracing this 
 soon be cold. Before 1 die I must confess my crime. 
 Even now, perhaps, you are kneeling by the side of the 
 child lost to you for all time. My lord, I killed her. 
 
 " 1 met her first nearly three years ago, at Knutsford; 
 she was out alone, and I saw her. 1 loved her then as 1 
 love her now. By mere accident I heard her deplore the 
 lonely, isolated life she led, and that in such terms that I 
 pitied her. She was young, beautiful, full of life and 
 spirits; she was pining away in that remote home, shut out 
 from the living world she longed for with a longing 1 can 
 not put into words. I spoke to her do not blame her, she 
 was a beautiful, ignorant child 1 spoke to her, asking 
 some questions about the road, and she replied. Looking 
 at her face, I swore that 1 would release her from the life 
 she hated, and take her where she would be happy. 
 
 " I met her again and again. Heaven paraon me if I 
 did my best to awake an interest in her girlish heart! I 
 told her stories of travel and adventure that stirred all the 
 romance in her nature. With the keen instinct of love I 
 understood her character, and played upon its weakness 
 while 1 worshiped its strength. 
 
 " She told me of a sad, "patient young mother who never 
 smiled, of a father who was abroad and would not return 
 for many years. Pardon me, my lord, if, in common 
 with many others, 1 believed that story to be one to appease 
 her. Pardon me, if 1 doubted as many others did 
 whether the sad young mother was your wife. 
 
 " I imagined that I was going to rescue her from a faieS 
 position when I asked her to be my wife. She said her 
 mother dreaded all mention of love and lovers, and 1 
 prayed her to keep my love a secret from all the world. 
 
 ' T in -ike no excuses for myjelf; she was young and inno*
 
 BORA THOBNE, 245 
 
 cent as a areuuiing child. I ought to have looked on her 
 beautiful face and left her. My lord, am 1 altogether to 
 blame? The louely young giri at Knutsford pined for what 
 I could give her happiness and pleasure did not seem so 
 far removed from me. Had she been in her proper place 
 1 could never have addressed her. 
 
 " Not to you can I tell the details of my love story how 
 1 worshiped with passionate love the beautiful, innocent 
 chil'l who smiled into my face and drank in my words. 1 
 asked her to be my wife, and she promised. My lord, I 
 never for a moment dreamed that she would ever have a 
 home with you it did not seem to me possible. 1 intended 
 to return and marry her, firmly believing that in some 
 respects my rank and condition in life were better than her 
 < \vn. She promised to be true to me, to love no one else, to 
 wait for me, and to marry me when I returned. 
 
 " 1 bi-lieve now that she never loved me. My love and 
 devotion were but a pleasant interruption to the monotony 
 of her life. They were to blame also who allowed her no 
 pleasures who forced her to resort to this stolen one. 
 
 " My lord, I placed a ring upon your daughter's finger, 
 and pledged my faith to her. 1 can not tell you what my 
 was like; it was a fierce fire that consumed me night 
 it ud day. 
 
 " 1 was to return and claim her in two years. Absence 
 
 made me love her more. I came back, rich in gold, my 
 
 full of happiness, hope making everything hright and 
 
 .:iful. I went straight to Knutsford alas! she was 
 
 jio longer there! and then 1 heard that the girl I loved so 
 
 y and so dearly was Lord Earle's daughter. 
 
 " 1 'did uotdream of losing her; birth, title, and position 
 
 id as nothing beside my mighty, passionate love, 
 thought nothing of your consent, tut only of her; and I 
 went to Earlescourt. My lord, I wrote to her, and my 
 heart was in every line. She sent me a cold reply. I wrote 
 again; I swore I would see her. She sent her sister to me 
 v'ith the reply. Then 1 g a- w desperate, and vowed I would 
 iiv claim before you. I asked her to meet me out in 
 the grounds, at night, mist'im and unknown. She con- 
 d, and on Thursday night 1 met her near the shrub- 
 bery. 
 
 '" How I remember her pretty pleading words, her beau- 
 tiful proud face! She asked me to release her. She said
 
 246 DORA THORNE. 
 
 that it had all been child's play a foolish mistake- 
 that if I would give her her freedom from a foolish prom;, j 
 she would always be my friend. At first I would not huir 
 of it; but who could have refused her? If she had told 
 me to lie down at her feet and let her trample the life out 
 of me, I should have submitted. 
 
 " I promised to think of her request, and we walked on 
 to the border of the lake. Every hair upon her head waa 
 eacred to me; the pretty, proud ways that tormented ma 
 delighted me, too. 1 promised I would release her, and 
 give her the freedom she asked, if she told me I was not 
 giving her up to another. She would not. Some few 
 words drove me mad with jealous rage yes, mad; the 
 blood seemed to boil in my veins. Suddenly I caught sight 
 of a golden locket on her neck, and I asked her whose por- 
 trait it contained. She refused to tell me. In the mad- 
 ness of my rage 1 tried to snatch it from her. She caught 
 it in her hands, and, shrinking back from me, fell into the 
 lake. 
 
 " I swear it was a sheer accident I would not have hurt 
 a hair of her head; but, oh! my lord, pardon me pardon 
 me, for Heaven's sake I might have saved her and I did 
 not; I might have plunged in after her and brought her back, 
 but jealousy whispered to me, ' Do not save her for another 
 let her die.' I stood upon the bank, and saw the water 
 close over her head. 1 saw the white hand thrown up in 
 wild appeal, and never moved or stirred. I stood by the 
 lake-side all night, and fled when the morning dawned in 
 the sky. 
 
 " I killed her. 1 might have saved her, but did not 
 Anger of yours can add nothing to my torture; think what 
 it has been. 1 was ;a strong man two days since; when the 
 sun sets I shall be numbered with the dead. I do not wish 
 to screen myself from justice. I have to meet the wrath 
 of Heaven, and that appalls me as the anger of man never 
 could. Send the officers of the law for me. If I am not 
 dead, let them take me; if 1 am, let them bury me as they 
 would a dog. I ask no mercy, no compassion nor forgiv 
 en ess; I do not merit it. 
 
 " If by any torture, any death, I could undo what I have 
 done, and save her, I would suffer the extremity of pain; 
 *)ut I can not. My deed will be judged in eternity. 
 
 ** Mv ' ; 1, I write this confession partly to ease mv ow$
 
 DORA THOENE. 34? 
 
 conscience, partly to shield others from unjust blame. Do 
 not curse me because, through my mad jealousy, my mis- 
 erable revenge, as fair and pure a child as father ever loved 
 has gone to her rest. " 
 
 So the strange letter concluded. Lord Earle read every 
 word, looking ever and anon at the quiet, dead face that 
 had kept the secret hidden. Every word seemed burner' 
 in upon his brain ; every word seemed to rise before him 
 like an accusing spirit. 
 
 He stood face to face at last with the sin of his youth; 
 it had found him out. The willful, wanton disobedience, 
 the marriage that had broken his father's heart, and struck 
 Ronald himself from the roll of useful men; the willful, 
 cruel neglect of duty; the throwing off of all ties; the in- 
 dulgence in proud, unforgiving temper, the abandonment 
 of wife and children all ended there. But for his sins and 
 errors, that white, still figure might now have been radiant 
 with life and beauty. 
 
 The thought stung him with cruel pain. It was his own 
 fault. Beatrice might have erred in meeting Hugh Fernely; 
 Fernely had done wrong in trying to win that young child- 
 like heart for his own; but he who left his children to 
 strange hands, who neglected all duties of parentage, had 
 surely done I ho greatest wrong. 
 
 tin- first time his utter neglect of duty came home 
 
 to him. Liu had thought himself rather a modern hero, 
 
 but now he caught a glimpse of himself as he was in reality. 
 
 w that he was not even a brave man; for a brave 1.1:111 
 
 'ts no duty. It was pitiful to see how sorrow bent his 
 
 stately figure and lined his proud face. He leaned over his 
 
 :hild. anil cried to her to pardon him, for it was all 
 
 .ii. Lady Helena, seeking him in the gloom of that 
 
 solemn death-chamber, found him weeping as strong ima 
 
 seldom weep. 
 
 did not give her the letter, nor tell her aught of 
 Hugh Fernely's confession. He turned to her with as sad 
 a face as man ever wore. 
 
 " Mother, "he said, " 1 want my kinsman, Lionel Dacre. 
 J-ct him be sent for, and ask him to come without delay/' 
 
 In thi, tin- crowning sorrow of his life, hecouid not stand 
 
 some one to think and to plan for 
 
 biin, iltn bear the burden " ;' too
 
 248 DORA THORNE. 
 
 heavy for him to carry. Some one must see the unhappy 
 man who had written that letter, and it should be a kins- 
 man at his own. 
 
 Not the brave, sad young lover, fighting alone with his 
 sorrow he must never know the tragedy of that brief life, 
 to him her memory must be sacred and untarnished, un- 
 marred by the knowledge of her folly. 
 
 Lady Helena was not long in' discovering Lionel Dacre's 
 whereabouts. One of the footmen who had attended him 
 to the station remembered the name of the place for which 
 he had taken a ticket. Lady Helena knew that Sir 
 William Greston lived close by, and she sent at once to his 
 house. 
 
 Fortunately the messenger found him. Startled and 
 horrified by the news, Lionel lost no time in returning. He 
 could not realize that his beautiful young cousin was really 
 dead. Her faoe, in its smiling brightness, haunted bias. 
 Her voice seemed to mingle with the wild clang of the irou 
 wheels. She was dead, and he was going to console her 
 father. 
 
 Xo particulars of her death had reached him; he now 
 only knew that she had walked out in^her sleep, and had 
 fallen into the lake. 
 
 Twenty-four hours had not elapsed since Lord Earle cried 
 oat in his grief for his young kinsman, yet already ha 
 stood by his side. 
 
 " Persuade him to leave that room," said Lady Helena. 
 
 " Since our darling was carried there he has never left 
 her side." 
 
 Lionel did as requested. He went straight to the library, 
 and sent for Lord Earle, saying that he could not at pres- 
 ent look upon the sad sight in the gloomy death-chamber. 
 
 While waiting there, he heard of Lillian's dangerous Hi- 
 des?. Lady Helena told him how she had changed before 
 her sister's death; and, despite the young man's anger, hia 
 heart was sore and heavy. 
 
 He hardly recognized Lord Earle in the aged, altered 
 man .who soon stood before him. The long watch, the bit- 
 ter remorse, the miserable consciousness of his own folly 
 and errors, had written strange lines upon his face. 
 
 " 1 sent for you, Lionel," he said, " because 1 am in 
 trouble so great that 1 can no longer bear ifc alone.
 
 DORA THORNE. 84S 
 
 must think &nd work for mo; I can do neither for my- 
 self." 
 
 Looking into his kinsman's face, Lionel felt that more 
 ihtui the death of his child weighed upon the heart and 
 mind of Ronald Earle. 
 
 "There are secrets in every family," said Ronald; 
 iceforth there will be one in mine and it will be the 
 true story of niy daughter's death. While I knelt yester- 
 day by her side, this letter was brought to me. Read it, 
 Lionel; then act for me." 
 
 lie read it slowly, tears gathering fast in his eyes, his lips 
 quivering, and his hands tightly clinched. 
 
 "My poor Beatrice!" he exclaimed; and then the 
 strength of his young manhood gave way, and Lionel Dacre 
 wept as he had never wept before. " The mean, pitiful 
 scoundrel!" he cried, angry indignation rising as he 
 thought of her cruel death. ** The wretched villain to 
 stand by while she died!" 
 
 "Hush!" said Lord Earle. "He has gone to his ac- 
 count. What have you to say to me, Lionel? Because I 
 had a miserable quarrel with my wife I abandoned my 
 children. I never cared to see them from the time they 
 were babes until they were women grown. How guilty am 
 1? That man believed he was about to raise Beatrice iu 
 the social scale when he asked her to be his wife, or as he 
 says, he would never have dreamed of proposing to marry 
 my daughter. If he merits blame, what do 1 deserve?" 
 
 "It was'a false position, certainly," replied Lionel 
 Dacre. 
 
 " This secret must be kept inviu'ate," said Lord E:i 
 " Lord Airlie must never know it it would kill Lady 
 Hi-lcna, I believe. One thing puzzles me, Lionel Fernely 
 says Lillian met him. I do not think that is true." 
 
 " It is!" cried Lionel, a sudden light breaking in upon 
 him. " 1 saw her with him. Oh, Lord Earle, you may 
 be proud of Lillian! She is the noblest, truest giri 
 ever lived. Why, she sacrificed her own love, her own hap- 
 pinesd, for her sifter! She loved me; and when this wed- 
 ding, which will never now take place, was over, I intended 
 to ask you to give me Lillian. One night, (jiiite accident- 
 ally, while I was wandering in the grounds with a cigar, 1 
 saw her speaking to a stranger, her fair sweet face full of 
 ;>it.v T nd compassion, which 1 mistook for lve. Shame td
 
 850 .DORA TEOENH. 
 
 ine that 1 was base enough to doubt her that 1 spoke t 
 her the words I uttered! 1 demanded to know who it was 
 she had met, and why she had met him. She asked me to 
 trust her, saying she could not tell me. I stabbed her with 
 cruel words, and left her vowing that 1 would never see her 
 "igain. Her sister must have trusted her with her secret, 
 uid she would not divulge it." 
 
 " We can not ask her now/* said Lord Earle; " my 
 nether tells me she is very ill." 
 
 " 1 must see her," cried Lionel, " and ask her to pardon 
 me if she can. What am I to do for you, Lord Earle? 
 Command me as though I were your own son." 
 
 ** I want you to go to the cottage," said Ronald, " and 
 see if the man is living or dead. You will know how to 
 act. I need not ask a kinsman and a gentleman to keep 
 my secret. " 
 
 In a few minutes Lionel Dacre was on his way to the 
 cottage, riding as though it were for dear life. Death had 
 been still more swift. Hugh Fernely lay dead. 
 
 The cottager's wife told Lionel how the children out at 
 play had found a man lying in the dank grass near the 
 pond, and how her husband, in his own strong arms, had 
 brought him to their abode. He lay still for many hours, 
 and then asked for pen and ink. He was writing, she said, 
 nearly ail night, and afterward prayed her husband to 
 take the letter to Lord Earle. The man refused any nour- 
 ishment. Two hours later they went in to persuade him 
 to take some food, and found him lying dead, his face turned 
 to the morning sky. 
 
 Lionel Dacre entered the room. The hot anger died out 
 of his heart as he saw the anguish death had marked upon 
 the wl He countenance. What torture must the man have 
 suffered, -what hours of untold agony, to have destroyed 
 him in so short a time! The dark, handsome face appeared 
 to indicate that the man had been dying for years. 
 
 Lionel turned reverently away. Mail is weak and power- 
 less before death. In a few words he told the woman that 
 she should be amply rewarded for her kindness, and that 
 he himself would defray all expenses. 
 
 *' He was perhaps an old servant of my lord's?" she said. 
 
 " No," was the reply; " Lord Earle did not know him 
 had never seen him; but the poor man was well known to 
 one of Lord Ewle'a friends."
 
 DORA THORNS. *1 
 
 Thanks to Lionel's words, the faintest shadow of ens 
 >> was never raised. Of the two deaths, that of Miss 
 Ea:Ie excited all attention and armised all sympathy. No 
 one spoke of Hugh Fcrnely, or connected him with the oc- 
 currence at the Hall. 
 
 There was an inquest, and men decided that he had *' died 
 
 by the visitation of God." No ona knew the agony that 
 
 had cast him prostrate in the thick, dank grass, no one 
 
 knew the unendurable anguish that had shortened his life. 
 
 * ****** 
 
 When Lionel returned to the Hall, he went straight to 
 ; Earle. 
 
 " 1 was too late/' he said; " the man had been dead some 
 hours. " 
 
 His name was not mentioned between them again. Lord 
 Earle never inquired where he was buried he never 
 knew. 
 
 The gloom had deepened at the Hall. Lillian Earle lay 
 nigh unto death. Many believed that the master of Earles- 
 court would soon be a childless man. He could not realize 
 it. They told him how she lay with the cruel raging fever 
 sapping her life, but he seemed to forgot the living child in 
 mourning for the one that lay dead. 
 
 In compliance with Lionel's prayer, Lady Helena took 
 him into the sick-room where Lillian lay. She did not 
 know him; the gentle, tender eyes were full of dread and 
 fear; the fair, pure face was burning with l he Hush of 
 fever; the hot, dry lips were never still. She talked in- 
 cessantly at times of Knutsford and Beatrice then prayed 
 in her sweet, sad voice that Lionel would trust her only 
 trust her; when Beatrice was married she would tell him 
 all. 
 
 He turned away; her eyes had lingered on his face, but 
 no g]<-am of recognition came into them. 
 
 " You do not think she will die?" he asked of Lady 
 Helena; and she never forgot his voice or his manner. 
 
 " We hope not," she said; " life and death are in higher 
 hands than ours. If yon wish to help her pray for her." 
 
 In after years Lionel Dacre liked to remember that the 
 List aii'J in t fervent prayers of his life had been offered 
 for gentle, innocent Lillian Earle. 
 
 As bf furred to quit the chamber he heard her crying for
 
 252 DORA THOKNE. 
 
 her mother. She wanted her mother why was she not 
 there? He looked at Lady Helena: she understood him. 
 
 " I have written," she said. " I sent for Dora yesterday, 
 she will be here soon. " 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 ON the second day succeeding that on which Dora had 
 been sent for Beatrice Earle was to be laid in her grave. 
 The servants of the household, who had dearly loved their 
 beautiful young mistress, had taken their last look at her 
 face. Lady Helena had shed her last tears over it. Lord 
 Airlie had asked to be alone for a time with his dead love. 
 They had humored him, and for thn e long hours he had 
 knelt by her, bidding her a sorrowful farewell, taking hia 
 last look at the face that would never again smile on earth 
 for him. 
 
 They respected the bitterness of his uncontrollable sorrow; 
 "no idle words of sympathy were offered to him; men passed 
 him by with an averted face women with tearful eyes. 
 
 Lord Earle was alone with his dead child. In a little 
 while nothing would remain of his beautiful, brilliant 
 daughter but a memory and a name. He did not weep; 
 his sorrow lay too deep for tears. In his heart he was ask- 
 ing pardon for the sins and follies of his youth; his face was 
 buried in his hands, his head bowed over the silent form of 
 his loved child; and when the door opened gently, he never 
 raised his eyes he was only conscious that some one entered 
 the room, and walked swiftly up the gloomy, darkened 
 chamber to the bedside. Then a passionate wailing that 
 f hilled his very blood filled the rooms. 
 
 " My Beatrice, my darling! why could I not have died tot 
 you?"' 
 
 Some one bent over the quiet figure, clasping it in 
 tender arms, calling with a thousand loving words upon 
 the dear one who lay there some one whose voice fell like 
 a strain of long-forgotten music upon his ears.- Who but 
 a mother could weep as she did? Who but a mother for- 
 get everything else in the abandonment of her sorrow, and 
 remember only the dead? 
 
 Before he looked up, he knew it was Dora the mother 
 bereft of her child the mother clasping in her loving arms 
 the child she had nursed, watched, and loved for so
 
 DORA THORNE. 253 
 
 fears. She gazed at him, and he never forgot the wciul, 
 weeping face. 
 
 "Ronald," she cried, "I trusted my darling to you; 
 what has happened to her?" 
 
 The first words for many long years the first since he 
 hud turned romul upon her in his contempt, hoping he 
 migiit be forgiven for having made her his wife. 
 
 She seemed to forget him then, and laid her head down 
 upon the quiet heatt; but Ronald went round to her. Ho 
 raised her in his arms, he laid the weeping face on his 
 biTtist, he kissed away the blinding tears, and she cried to 
 him: 
 
 " Forgive me, Ronald forgive me! You can not refuse 
 in the hour of death." 
 
 How the words smote him. They were his own recoiliug 
 upon him. How often he had refused his mother's plead- 
 ing hardened his own heart, saying to himself and to her 
 that he could not pardon her yet he would forgive her in 
 the hour of death, when either he or she stood on the 
 threshold of eternity! 
 
 Heaven had not willed it so. The pardon he had refused 
 was wrung from him now; and, looking at his child, he 
 fill that she was sacrificed to his blind, willful pride. 
 
 " You will forgive me, Ronald," pleaded the gentle 
 voice, "for the love of my dead child? Do not send me 
 from you again. 1 have been very unhappy all these long 
 years; let me stay with you now. Dear. I was besidi 
 self with jealousy when I acted as I did." 
 
 " 1 forgive you," he said, gently; " can you pardon me 
 as easily, Dora? I have spoiled your life 1 havedon- 
 cruel wrong; can you forget all, and love me as you did 
 y .ii-- igO? 
 
 All pride, restraint, and anger were dead. lie whisj 
 loving words to his weeping wife, such as she hud not i. 
 for years; and he could have :'. did so, that a 
 
 happy smile lingered on the fair face, of the dead. 
 
 . it was but the light of a . Dickering over 
 
 it; the strange, solemn beauty of thai serene brow and 
 those quiet lips were unstirred. 
 
 llulf an hour after\v;i'.i I. ;uly Helena, trembling from 
 the, result of her experin, . a to red the room. She saw 
 Ronald 'a arms claspM roujui Dora, while they knelt side
 
 854 00RA THORtfE , 
 
 "Mother," ^aid Lord Earle, " my wife has pardoned 
 Bie. She is my own again my comfort in sorrow." 
 
 Lady Earle touched Dora's face with her lips, and told 
 what her errand was. The}* must leave the room now- 
 the beautiful face of Beatrice Sarle was to be hidden for- 
 ever from the signt of men. 
 
 ******* 
 
 That evening was long remembered at Earlesconrt; for 
 Lady Dora thenceforward took her rightful position. She 
 fell at once into the spirit of the place, attending to every 
 one and thinking of every one's comfort. 
 
 Lillian was fighting hard for her young life. She seemed 
 in some vague way to understand that her mother was 
 near. Lady Dora's hand soothed and calmed her, her 
 gentle motherly ways brought comfort and rest; but many 
 long days passed before Lillian knew those around her, or 
 woke from her troubled, feverish dream. When she did so, 
 her sister had been laid to rest in her long, last home. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 People said afterward that no fairer day had ever been 
 than that on which Beatrice Earle was buried. The sun 
 shone bright and warm, the birds were singing, the autumn 
 flowers were in bloom, as the long procession wound its 
 way through the trees in the park; the leaves fell from 
 the trees, while the long grass rustled under the tread ol 
 many feet. 
 
 Lord Earle and Hubert Airlie were together. Kindly 
 hearts knew not which to pity the more the father whose 
 heart seemed broken by his sorrow, or the young lover so 
 suddenly bereft of all he loved best. From far and near 
 friends and strangers gathered to that mournful ceremony; 
 from one to another the story flew how beautiful she was, 
 and how dearly the young lord had loved her how she 
 had wandered out of the house in her sleep and fallen into 
 the lake. 
 
 They laid her to rest in the green church-yard at the 
 
 foot of the hill the burial-place of the Earles. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The death-bell had ceased ringing; the long white blinds 
 of the Hall windows were drawn up; the sunshine played 
 once more in the rooms; tha carriages of sorrowing friends 
 were gone; the funeral was over. Of the beautiful, brill- 
 vant Beatrice E--r-id there remained but a memor.v
 
 DORA THORITE. 255 
 
 They told afterward how Gaspar Laurence watched the 
 funn-al profession, and how he had lingered last of all in 
 the little <jhurch-yard. He never forgot Beatrice; he never 
 looked into the face of another woman with love on his 
 own. 
 
 It was all over, and on the evening of that same day a 
 quiet, deep sleep came to Lillian Earle. It saved her life; the 
 wearied brain found rest. When she awoke, the lurid light 
 of fever died out of her eyes, and they looked in gratified 
 amazement upon Lady Dora who sat by her side. 
 
 " Mamma," she whispered, *' am 1 at home at Knuta 
 ford?" 
 
 Dora soothed her, almost dreading the time when mercy 
 ory should awaken in full force. It seemed partly to re 
 turn then, for Lillian gave vent to a wearied sigh, and 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 Then Dora saw a little of wild alarm cross her face. She 
 sprung up crying: 
 
 '* Mamma, is it true? Is Beatrice dead?" 
 
 " It is true, my darling," whispered her mother, gently. 
 '* Dead, but not lost to us only gone before.'* 
 
 The young girl recovered very slowly. The skillful doc- 
 tor in attendance upon her said that, as soon as it was pos- 
 sible to remove her, she should be carried direct from her 
 room to a traveling-carriage, taken from home, and not 
 allowed to return to the Hall until she was stronger and 
 better. 
 
 They waited until that day came, and meanwhile Lady 
 Dora Earle learned to esteem Lord Airlie very dearly. He 
 seemed to find more comfort with her than with any one 
 else. They spoke but of one subject the loved, lost Bea- 
 trice. 
 
 Her secret was never known. Lord Earle and Lionel 
 Dacre kept it faithfully. No allusion to it ever crossed 
 their lips. To Lord Airlie, while he lived, the memory of 
 the girl he had loved so well was pure and untarnished as 
 the falling snow. Not even to her mother was the story 
 told. Dora believed, as did every one else, that Beatrice 
 had fallen accidentally into the lake. 
 
 When Lillian grew stronger better able to bear the 
 mention of her sister's name Lord Earle went to her 
 room one day, and, gently enough, tried to win her to 
 speak <o him of what she knew.
 
 856 DORA THOENE. 
 
 She told him all of her sister's sorrow, remorse, and 
 tears; her longing to be free from the wretched snare in 
 which she was caught; how she pleaded with her to inter- 
 fere. She told him of her short interview with the unhappy 
 man, and its sad consequences for her. 
 
 Then the subject dropped forever. Lord Earle said 
 nothing to her of Lionel, thinking it would be better for 
 the young lover to plead his own cause. 
 
 One morning, when she was able to rise and sit up for a 
 time, Lionel asked permission to see her. Lady Dora, who 
 knew nothing of what had passed between them, unhesitat- 
 ingly consented. 
 
 She was alarmed when, as he entered the room, she saw 
 her daughter's gentle face grow deathly pale. 
 
 " 1 have done wrong," she said. " Lillian is not strong 
 enough to see visitors yet." 
 
 " Dear Lady Dora," explained Lionel, taking her hand, 
 " I love Lillian; and she loved me before I was so unhap- 
 py as to offend her. I have come to beg her pardon. Will 
 you trust her with me for a few minutes?" 
 
 Lady Dora assented, and went away, leaving them to- 
 gether. 
 
 " Lillian," said Lionel, " 1 do not know in what words 
 to beg your forgiveness. I am ashamed and humbled. I 
 know your sister's story, and all that you did to save her. 
 When one was to be sacrificed, you were the victim. Can 
 you ever forgive me?" 
 
 " I forgive you freely," she gently answered. " I have 
 been in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and all human 
 resentment and unkindness seem as nothing to me." 
 
 *' And may I be to you as 1 was before?" he asked. 
 
 " That is another question," she said. " I can not an- 
 swer it now. You did not trust me, Lionel. " 
 
 Those were the only words of reproach she ever uttered 
 to him. He did not annoy her with protestation; he trust- 
 ed that time would do for him what he saw just then he 
 could not do for himself. 
 
 He sat down upon the couch by her side, and began to 
 speak to her of the tour she was about to make; of the 
 places she should visit carefully avoiding all reference to 
 the troubled past. 
 
 Tkree days afterward Lillian started on her journey to 
 the south of France insisted upon by the doctor. Lord
 
 DORA THOBNE. 257 
 
 Earle and his wife took charge of their child; Lord Airlie, 
 declaring he could not yet endure Lynnton, went with 
 them. Lady Helena and Lionel Dacre remained at home, 
 in charge of the Hall and the estate. 
 
 One thing the latter had resolved upon that, before the 
 travelers returned, the lake should be filled up, and green 
 trees planted over the spot where its waters now glistened 
 in the sun. 
 
 No matter how great the expense and trouble, he was 
 resolved that it should be done. 
 
 " Earlescourt would be wretched," he said, " if that fatal 
 lake remained." 
 
 The day after the family left Earlescourt, he had work- 
 men engaged. No one was sorry at his determination. 
 Lady Helena highly approved of it. The water was drained 
 off, the deep basin filled with earth, and tall saplings plant- 
 ed where once the water had glistened in the sun. The 
 boat-house was pulled down, and all vestige of the lake 
 was done away with. 
 
 Lionel Dacre came home one evening from the works in 
 very low spirits. Imbedded in the bottom of the lake they 
 had found a little slipper the fellow to it was locked 
 away in Dora's drawer. He saved it to give it to her when 
 she returned. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 Two years passed away, and the travelers thought of re- 
 turning. Lillian had recovered health and strength, and, 
 Lord Earle said, longed for home. 
 
 One bright June day they were expected back. Lionel 
 Dacre had driven to the station. Lady Earle had laid 
 aside her mourning-dress, and sat anxiously awaiting her 
 son. She wished the home-coming were over, and that 
 they had all settled down to the new life. 
 
 Her wish was soon gratified. Once again she gazed 
 upon the face of her only and beloved son. He was little 
 changed somewhat sunburned, it was true ; but there was 
 less of the old pride and sternness, a kindly smile playing 
 round his lips. There was, too, a shade of sadness that 
 plainly would never leave him ; Lord Earle could never 
 forget his lost child. 
 
 Lady Helena looked anxiously at Dora, but there was no
 
 258 DORA THORNE.' 
 
 cause for fear. The rosy, dimpled beauty of youth had 
 passed away, but a staid dignity had taken its place. She 
 looked a graceful amiable woman, with eyes of wondrous 
 beauty thickly veiled by long lashes, and a wealth of rip- 
 pling black hair. Lady Helena thought her far more 
 beautiful now than when the coy smiles and dimples had 
 been the chief charm. She admired, too, the perfect and 
 easy grace with which Dora fell at once into her proper 
 place as mistress of that vast establishment. 
 
 The pretty, musical voice was trained and softened; the 
 delicate, refined accent retained no trace of provincialism. 
 Everything about Dora pleased the eye and gratified the 
 taste; the girlish figure had grown matronly and dignified; 
 the sweet face had in it a tinge of sadness one may often 
 see in the face of a mother who has lost a child. Lady 
 Helena, fastidious and critical, could find no fault with her 
 son's wife. 
 
 She welcomed her warmly, giving up to her, in her own 
 graceful way, all rule and authority. Helping her if in 
 any way she required it, but never interfering, she made 
 Dora respected by the love and esteem she always evinced 
 for her. 
 
 But it was on Lillian's face that Lady Helena gazed most 
 earnestly. The pallor of sickness had given way to a rosy 
 and exquisite bloom. The fair, sweet face in its calm love- 
 liness seemed to her perfect, the violet eyes were full of 
 light. Looking at her, Lady Helena believed there were 
 years of life in store for Ronald's only child. 
 
 There was much to talk about. Lord Earle told his 
 mother how Hubert Airlie had gone home to Lynnton, un- 
 able to endure the sight of Earlescourt. He had never re- 
 gained his spirits. In the long years to come it was possi- 
 ble, added Ronald, that Lord Airlie might marry, for the 
 sake^ of his name; but if ever the heart of living man lay 
 buried in a woman's grave, his was with the loved, lost 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Lionel Dacre knew he had done wisely and well to have 
 the bed of the lake filled up. In the morning he saw how 
 each member of the family shrunk from going out into the 
 grounds. He asked Lord Earle to accompany him, and 
 then the master of Earlescourt saw that the deep, cruel 
 water no longer shimmered amid the trees. 
 
 Lionel let him bring his wife and daughter to see what
 
 DORA THORNE. 259 
 
 had been done ; and they turned to the author of it with 
 grateful eyes, thanking him for the kind thought which 
 had spared their feelings. Green trees flourished now on 
 the spot where the water had glistened in the sun ; birds 
 sung in their branches, green grass and ferns grew round 
 their roots. 
 
 Yet among the superstitious strange stories were told. 
 They said that the wind, when it rustled among those trees, 
 wailed with a cry like that of one drowning, that the leaves 
 shivered and trembled as they did on no other branches ; 
 that the stirring of them resembled deep-drawn sighs. 
 They said flowers would never grow in the thick grass, and 
 that the antlered deer shunned the spot. 
 
 As much as possible the interior arrangements of Earles- 
 court had been altered. Lillian had rooms prepared for 
 her in the other wing; those that had belonged to her hap- 
 less sister were left undisturbed. Lady Dora kept the keys; 
 it was known when she had been visiting them; the dark 
 eyes bore traces of weeping. 
 
 Beatrice had not been forgotten and never would be. 
 Her name was on Lillian's lips a hundred times each day. 
 They had been twin sisters, and it always seemed to her 
 that part of herself lay in the church-yard at the foot of 
 the hill. 
 
 Caspar Laurence had gone abroad he could not endure 
 the sight or name of home. Lady Laurence hoped that 
 time would heal a wound that nothing else could touch. 
 When, after some years he did return, it was seen that his 
 sorrow would last for life. He never married he never 
 cared for the name of any woman save that of Beatrice 
 
 Earle. 
 
 ******* 
 
 A week after their return, Lillian Earle stood one even- 
 ing watching from the deep oriel window the sun's last rays 
 upon the flowers. Lionel joined her, and she knew from 
 his face that he had come to ask the question she had de- 
 clined to answer before. 
 
 " I have done penance, Lillian," he said, "if ever man 
 has. For two years I have devoted time, care, and thought 
 to those you love, for your sake; for two years I have tried 
 night and day to learn, for your sake, to become a better 
 man. Do not visit my fault too heavily upon me. I am 
 hasty and passionate I doubted you who were true and
 
 360 DORA THORNE. , 
 
 pure; but, Lillian, in the loneliness and sorrow of these 
 two years I have suffered bitterly for my sin. I know you 
 are above all coquetry. Tell me, Lillian, will you be my 
 wife?" 
 
 She gave him the answer he longed to hear, and Lionel 
 Dacre went straight to Lord Earle. He was delighted it 
 was the very marriage upon which he had set his heart 
 years before. Lady Dora was delighted, too; she smiled 
 more brightly over it than she had smiled since the early 
 days of her married life. Lady Helena rejoiced when they 
 told her, although it was not unexpected news to her, for 
 she had been Lionel's confidante during Lillian's illness. 
 
 There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed; 
 the June roses were blooming then, and it was arranged 
 that it should take place in the month of August. 
 
 There were to be no grand festivities no one had heart 
 for them; the wedding was to be quiet, attended only by a 
 few friends; and Lord Earle succeeded in obtaining a 
 promise from Lionel which completely set his heart at rest. 
 It was that he would never seek another home that ho 
 and Lillian would consent to live at Earlescourt. Her 
 father could not endure the thought of parting with her. 
 
 ** It will be your home, Lionel," he said, ** in the course 
 of after-years. Make it so now. We shall be one family, 
 and I think a happy one." 
 
 So it was arranged, much to everybody's delight. A few 
 days before the wedding took place, a letter came which 
 seemed ta puzzle Lord Earle very much. He folded it 
 without speaking, but, when breakfast was over, he drew 
 his wife's hand within his own. 
 
 " Dora," he said, " there will never be any secrets be* 
 tween us for the future. 1 want you to read this letter 
 it is from Valentine Oharteris that was, Princess Borgea 
 that is. She is in England, at Greenoke, and asks permis- 
 sion to come to Lillian's wedding; the answer must rest 
 with you, dear." 
 
 She took the letter from him and read it through; th 
 noble heart of the woman spoke in every line, yet in some 
 vague way Dora dreaded to look again upon the calm, 
 grand beauty of Valentine's face. 
 
 " Have no fear, Dora, in saying just what you think," 
 said her husband; ** I would not have our present happi- 
 ness clouded for the world* One word will suffice if you
 
 DORA THORNE. 
 
 do not quite like the thought, i will write to her and ask 
 her to defer the visit." 
 
 Bat Dora would not be outdone in magnanimity. With 
 resolute force, she cast from her every unworthy thought. 
 
 **Let her come, Ronald," she said, raising her clear, 
 dark eyes to his. " I shall be pleased to see her. I owe 
 her some amends. " 
 
 He was unfeignedly pleased, and so was every one else. 
 Lady Helena alone felt some little doubts as to Dora's 
 capability of controlling herself. 
 
 The Princess Borgezi was to come alone; she had nob 
 said at what hour they might expect her. 
 
 Lady Dora had hardly understood why her thoughts 
 went back so constantly to her lost child. Beatrice had 
 loved the beautiful, gracious woman who was coming to 
 visit them. It may have been that which prompted her, 
 on the day before Lillian's marriage, when the house was 
 alive with the bustle and turmoil of preparation, to go to 
 the silent, solitary rooms where her daughter's voice had 
 once made sweetest music. 
 
 She was there alone for some time; it was Lord Earle 
 who found her, and tried to still her bitter weeping. 
 
 " It is useless, Ronald," she cried; ** I can not help ask- 
 ing why my bright, beautiful darling should belying there. 
 It is only two years since a wedding-wreath was made for 
 her. " 
 
 Nothing would comfort her but a visit to her daughter'8 
 grave. It was a long walk, but she preferred taking it 
 Ijone. She said she should feel better after it They 
 yielded to her wish. Before she had quitted the house 
 many minutes, the Princess Borgezi arrived. 
 
 There was no restraint in Ronald's greeting. He was 
 heartily glad to see her glad to look once more on the 
 lovely Grecian face that had seemed to him, vears ago, the 
 only model for Queen Guinivere. They talked for a few 
 minutes; then Valentine, turning to him, said: 
 
 ** Now let me see Lady Dora. My visit is reall v to her. " 
 
 They told her whither she had gone; and Lady Helena 
 whispered something to her which brought tears to Valen- 
 tine's eyes. 
 
 " Yes," she said; " 1 will follow her. I will aak her to 
 kiss me over her daughter's grave."
 
 262 DORA THOKNE. 
 
 Some one went with her to point out the way, but Val* 
 entine entered the church-yard alone. 
 
 Through the thick green foliage she saw the shining of 
 the white marble cross, and the dark dress of Dora, who 
 knelt by the grave. 
 
 She went up to her. Her footsteps, falling noiselessly 
 on the soft grass, were unheard by the weeping mother. 
 
 Valentine knelt by her side. Dora, looking up, saw the 
 calm face beaming down upon her, ineffable tenderness in 
 the clear eyes. She felt the clasp of Valentine's arms, 
 and heard a sweet voice whisper : 
 
 " Dora, I have followed you here to ask you to try to 
 lve me, and to pardon me for my share in your unhappy 
 past. For the love of your dead, who loved me, bury 
 here all difference and all dislike." 
 
 She could not refuse. For the first time Lord Earle's 
 wife laid her head upon that noble woman's shoulder and 
 wept away her sorrow, while Valentine soothed her with 
 loving words. 
 
 Over the grave of a child the two women were recon- 
 ciled all dislike, jealousy, and envy died away forever. 
 Peace and love took their place. 
 
 In the after-time there was something remarkable in 
 Dora's reverential love for Valentine* Lord Earle often 
 said that in his turn he was jealous of her. His wife had 
 no higher ideal, no truer friend than the Princess Borgezi. 
 
 The wedding-day dawned at last ; and for a time all 
 trace of sadness was hidden away. Lord Earle would 
 have it so. He said that that which should be the happi- 
 est day of Lillian's life must not be clouded. Such sad 
 thoughts of the lost Beatrice as came into the minds of 
 those who had loved her remained unspoken. 
 
 The summer sun never shone upon a more lovely bride, 
 nor upon a fairer scene than that wedding. The pretty 
 country church was decorated with flowers and crowded 
 with spectators. 
 
 Side by side at the altar stood Lady Dora Earle and 
 Valentine. People said afterward they could not decide 
 whom they admired most Lady Helena's stately magni- 
 ficence, Dora's sweet, simple elegance, or the Princess 
 Borgezi's statuesque Grecian beauty. 
 
 Lord Earle had prepared a surprise for Dora. When the 
 little wedding-party returned from the church, the first to
 
 DOEA THORNE. 263 
 
 greet them was Stephen Thorne, now a white-headed old 
 man, and his wife. The first to show them all honor and 
 respect were Lord Earle and his mother. Valentine was 
 charmed with their homely simplicity. 
 
 For months after they returned to Knutsford the old 
 people talked of " the lady with the beautiful face, who 
 had been so kind and gracious to them." 
 
 Lord Airlie did not attend the wedding, but he had 
 urged Lionel to spend his honeymoon at Lynnton Hall, 
 and Lillian had willingly consented. 
 
 So they drove away when the wedding-breakfast was 
 over, a hundred wishes for their happiness following them, 
 loving words ringing after them. Relatives, friends, and 
 servants had crowded round them ; and Lillian's courage 
 gave way at last. She turned to Lionel, as though pray- 
 ing him to shorten their time of parting. 
 
 " Heaven bless you, my darling !" whispered Dora to 
 her child. " And mind, never come what may never be 
 jealous of your husband." 
 
 "Good-bye, Lionel," said Lord Earle, clasping the true, 
 honest hand in his; "and, if ever my little darling here 
 tries you, be patient with her." 
 
 The story of a life-time was told in these two behests. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 TEN years had passed since the wedding-bells chimed 
 for the marriage of Lillian Earle. New life had come to 
 Earlescourt. Children's happy voices made music there ; 
 the pattering of little feet sounded in the large, stately 
 rooms ; pretty, rosy faces made light and sunshine. 
 
 The years had passed asswiftly and peacefully as a happy 
 dream. One event had happened which had saddened Lord 
 Earle for a few days the death of the pretty, coquettish 
 Countess Rosali. She had not forgotten him ; there came 
 to him from her sorrowing husband a ring which she had 
 asked might be given to him. 
 
 Caspar Laurence was still abroad, and there was appar- 
 ently no likelihood of his return. The Princess Borgezi, 
 with her husband and children, had paid several visits to 
 the Hall. Valentine had one pretty little daughter, upon 
 whom Lionel's son was supposed to look with most affec-
 
 264 DOEA THOENE. 
 
 tion. She had other daughters the eldest, a tall, grace- 
 ful girl, inherited her father's Italian face and dark,dreamy 
 eyes. Strange to say, she was not unlike Beatrice. It may 
 have been that circumstance which first directed Lord 
 Airlie's attention to her. He met her at Earlescourt, and 
 paid her more attention than he had paid to any one since 
 he had loved so unhappily years before. 
 
 No one was much surprised when he married her. And 
 Helena Borgezi made a good wife. She knew his story, and 
 how much of his heart lay in the grave of his lost love. 
 He was kind, gentle, and affectionate to her, and Helena 
 valued his thoughtful, faithful attachment more than she 
 would have valued the deepest and most passionate love 
 of another man. 
 
 One room at Lynnton was never unlocked; strange feet 
 never entered it; curious eyes never looked round it. It 
 was the pretty boudoir built, but never furnished, for 
 Hubert Airiie's first love. 
 
 Time softened his sorrow; his fair, gentle wife was de- 
 voted to him, blooming children smiled around him ; but 
 he never forgot Beatrice. In his dreams, at times, Helena 
 heard her name on his lips; but she was not jealous of the 
 dead. No year passed in which she did not visit the grave 
 
 where Beatrice Earle slept her last long sleep. 
 
 ***** * 
 
 Dora seemed to grow young again with Lillian's chil- 
 dren. She nursed and tended them. Lady Helena, with 
 zealous eyes, looked after Bertrand, the future lord of 
 Earlescourt, a brave, noble boy, his father's pride and 
 Lillian's torment and delight, who often said he was richer 
 than any other lad in the country, for he had three 
 
 mothers, while others had but one. 
 
 ***** * 
 
 The sun was setting over the fair broad lands of Earles- 
 court, the western sky was all aflame ; the flowers were 
 thirsting for the soft dew which had just begun to fall. 
 
 Out in the rose-garden, where long ago a love-story had 
 been told, were standing a group that an artist would have 
 been delighted to sketch. 
 
 Lionel had some choice roses in bloom, and after dinner 
 the whole party had gone out to see them. Lady Helena 
 Earle was seated on the garden chair whereon Beatrice had
 
 DORA THORNE. 860 
 
 once sat listening to the words which had gladdened her 
 brief life. A number of fair children played around her. 
 
 Looking on them with pleased eyes was a gentle, grace* 
 f ul lady. Her calm, sweet face had a story in it, the won- 
 drous dark eyes had in them a shadow as of some sorrow 
 not yet lived down. Lady Dora Earle was happy; the 
 black clouds had passed away. She was her husband's 
 best friend, his truest counselor; and Ronald had forgotten 
 that she was ever spoken of as ** lowly born." The dig- 
 nity of her character, acquired by long years of stern disci- 
 pline, asserted itself; no one in the whole country-side was 
 more loved or respected than Lady Dora Earle. 
 
 Ronald, Lord Earle, was lying on the grass at his wife's 
 feet. He looked older, and the luxuriant hair was threaded 
 with silver; but there was peace and calm in his face. 
 
 He laughed at Lillian and her husband conversing so 
 anxiously over the roses. 
 
 ** They are lovers yet/' he said to Dora; and she glanced 
 smilingly at them. 
 
 The words were true. Ten years married, they were 
 lovers yet There was gentle forbearance on one side, an 
 earnest wish to do right on the other. Lillian Dacre never 
 troubled her head about " woman's rights;" she had no 
 idea of trying to fill her husband's place; if her opinion on 
 voting was asked, the chances were that she would smile 
 and say, " Lionel manages all those matters." Yet in her 
 own kingdom she reigned supreme; her actions were full 
 of wisdom, her words were full of kindly thought The 
 quiet, serene beauty of her youth had developed into that 
 of magnificent womanhood. The fair, spirituelle face was 
 peerless in her husband's eyes. There was no night or day 
 curing which Lionel Dacre did not thank Heaven for that 
 crown of all great gifts, a good and gentle wife. 
 
 There was a stir among the children; a tall, dark gentle- 
 man was seen crossing the lawn, and Lionel cried: Here 
 is Caspar Laurence with his arms full of toys those chil- 
 dren will be completely spoiled!" 
 
 The little ones rushed forward, and Bertrand, in hit 
 hurry, fell over a pretty child with large dark eyes and 
 dark hair. Lord Earle jumped up and caught her in his 
 arms. 
 
 " Bertie, my boy," he said, " always be kind to little 
 Beatrice!" The child clasped her arms round his neck.
 
 266 DORA THOKNE. 
 
 He kissed the dark eyes and murmured to himself, " Poor 
 little Beatrice !" 
 
 The summer wind that played among the roses, lifting 
 the golden, rippling hair from Lillian's forehead and toss- 
 ing her little girl's curls into Lord Earle's face, was sing- 
 ing a sweet, low requiem among the trees that shaded the 
 grave of Beatrice Earle. 
 
 THE END.
 
 The Red-Headed League. 
 
 BY A. CONAN DOYLB.
 
 The Red-Headed League. 
 
 I HAD called upon my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes 
 one day in the autumn of last year and found him deep 
 in conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly 
 gentleman, with fiery red hair. With an apology for 
 my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when Holmes 
 pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door 
 behind me. 
 
 " You could not possibly have come at a better time, 
 my dear Watson," he said, cordially. " This gentleman, 
 Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many 
 of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that 
 he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also." 
 
 The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and 
 gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning 
 glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes. 
 
 " Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his arm- 
 chair and putting his finger tips together, as was his 
 custom when in judicial moods. " I know, my dear 
 Watson, that you share my love of all that is bix.irre 
 and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of 
 everyday life. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been 
 good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin 
 a narrative which promises to be one of the most sin- 
 gular which I have listened to for some time. Perhaps, 
 Mr. WiUon, you would have the great kindness to 
 
 3
 
 4 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 recommence your narration. I ask you not merely be- 
 cause my friend, Dr. Watson, has not heard the opening 
 part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story 
 makes me anxious to have every possible detail from 
 your lips." 
 
 The portly client puffed out his chest with an appear- 
 ance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and 
 wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his great- 
 coat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, 
 with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened 
 out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and 
 endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read 
 the indications which might be presented by his dress 
 or appearance. 
 
 I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. 
 Our visitor bore every mark of being an average com- 
 monplace British tradesman obese, pompous and slow. 
 He wore rather baggy gray shepherd's plaid trousers, 
 a not over-clean black frock coat, unbuttoned in the 
 front, and a drab waistcoat, with a heavy brassy Albert 
 chain and a square hit of metal dangling down as an 
 ornament. A frayed top hat and a faded brown overcoat 
 with wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. 
 Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remark- 
 able about the man, saving his blazing red head and the 
 expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his 
 features. 
 
 " Can you find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson ? " 
 asked Holmes. 
 
 "Yes, I have got it now," he answered, with his 
 thick, red finger planted half-way down the column. 
 " Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read 
 it for yourself, sir." 
 
 I took th~ ^aper from him and read as follows :
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 5 
 
 To THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE : On account of the 
 bequest of the late Hezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, 
 Penn., U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open, 
 which entitles a member of the League to a salary of 
 four pounds a week for purely nominal services. All 
 red-headed men who are sound in body and mind, and 
 above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply 
 in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, 
 at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet 
 Street. 
 
 " What on earth does this mean? " I ejaculated, after 
 I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement. 
 
 Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was 
 his habit when in high spirits. *' It is a little off the 
 beaten track, isn't it ? " said he. " And now, Mr. Wil- 
 son, off you go at scratch, and tell us all about yourself, 
 your, household and the effect which this advertisement 
 had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, 
 doctor, of the paper and date." 
 
 " It is the ' Morning Chronicle' of April 27, 1890 
 just two months ago." 
 
 " Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson ? " 
 
 " Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sher- 
 lock Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead. 
 " I have a small pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, 
 near the city. It's not a very large affair, and of late 
 years it has not done more than just give me a living. 
 I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only 
 keep one ; and I would have a job to pay him but that 
 he is willing to come for half wages, so as to learn the 
 business." 
 
 " What is the name of this obliging youth ? " asked 
 Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 
 
 " His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such 
 a youth, either. It's hard to say his age. I should not
 
 6 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes ; and I know very 
 well that he could better himself and earn twice what 
 I am able to give him. But after all, if he is satisfied, 
 why should I put ideas into his head ? He has his 
 faults, too. Never was such a fellow for photography. 
 Snapping away with a~camera when he ought to be 
 improving his mind, and then diving down into the 
 cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures." 
 
 " He is still with you, I presume? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit 
 of simple cooking and keeps the place clean that's all 
 I have in the house, for I am a widower, and never had 
 any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us ; 
 and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, 
 if we do nothing more. 
 
 " The first thing that put us out was that advertise- 
 ment. Spaulding, he came down into the office just 
 this day eight weeks with this very paper in his hand, 
 and he says : 
 
 " ' I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red- 
 headed man.' 
 
 " ' Why that ? " I asks. 
 
 "'Why?' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the 
 League of the Red-Headed Men. It's worth quite a 
 little fortune to any man who gets it. If my hair would 
 only change color, here's a nice little crib all ready for 
 me to step into.' 
 
 " ' Why, what is that, then ? ' I asked. You see, Mr. 
 Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man ; and as my 
 business comes to me instead of my having to go to it, 
 I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over 
 the doormat. In that way I didn't know much of what 
 was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of 
 Hews.
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 7 
 
 " ' Have you never heard of the League of Red-Head- 
 ed Men ? ' he asked, with his eyes open. ' Why, I won- 
 der at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the 
 vacancies.' 
 
 "'And what are they worth?' I asked. 
 
 " ' Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year ; but the 
 work is slight: and it need not interfere very much with 
 one's other occupations.' 
 
 " Well, you can easily think that that made me prick 
 up my ears. ' Tell me all about it ? ' said I. 
 
 " ' Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 
 * you can see for yourself that the League has a vacan- 
 cy, and there is the address where you should apply for 
 particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was 
 founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, 
 who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself 
 red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all 
 red-headed men ; so when he died it was found he had 
 left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with 
 instructions to apply the interest to the providing of 
 easy berths to men whose hair is of that color. From 
 all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.' 
 
 " ' But,' said I, ' there would be millions of red-head- 
 ed men who would apply.' 
 
 " ' Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 
 ' You see, it is really confined to Londoners and to 
 grown men. This American had started from London 
 when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town 
 a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is of no use 
 your applying if your hair is light red or dark red, or 
 anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red.' 
 
 " Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see foi* 
 yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint ; 
 so it seemed to me that, if there was to be any compe-
 
 8 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 tion in the matter, I stood as good a chance as any man 
 that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to 
 know so much about it that I thought he might prove 
 useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for 
 the day, and to come right away with me. He was 
 very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business 
 up and started off for the address that was given us in 
 the advertisement. 
 
 " I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. 
 Holmes. From north, south, east and west, every 
 man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped 
 into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street 
 was choked with red-headed men, and Pope's Court 
 looked like a coster's orange barrow. When I saw how 
 many were waiting I could have given up in despair, 
 but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I 
 could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted 
 until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the 
 steps which led to the office. There was a double stream 
 upon the stair, some going up in hope and some com- 
 ing back dejected ; but we wedged in as well as we could, 
 and soon found ourselves in the office." 
 
 " Your experience had been a most entertaining one," 
 remarked Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed 
 his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. " Pray con- 
 tinue your very interesting statement." 
 
 " There was nothing in the office but a couple of 
 wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a 
 small man with a head that was even redder than mine. 
 He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, 
 and then he always managed to find some fault in them 
 which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did 
 not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. How- 
 ever, when our turn came, the little man was more favor-
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 9 
 
 able to me than to any of the others and closed the 
 door as we entered, so that he might have a private 
 word with us. 
 
 " ' This is Mr. Jabez Wilson/ said my assistant, ' and 
 he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.' 
 
 " ' And he is admirably suited for it,' the other an- 
 swered. ' He has every requirement. I cannot recall 
 when I have seen anything so fine.' He took a step 
 backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at 
 my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he 
 plunged forward, wrung my hand and congratulated 
 me warmly on my success. 
 
 "' It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You 
 will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an ob- 
 vious precaution.' With that he seized my hair in both 
 hands and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ' There 
 is water in your eyes/ said he, as he released me. ' I 
 perceive all is as it should be. But we have to be care- 
 ful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once 
 by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which 
 would disgust you with human nature.' He stepped 
 over to the window and shouted through it at the top 
 of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of 
 disappointment came up from below, and the folk all 
 trooped away in different directions, until there was not 
 a red head to be seen except my own and that of the 
 manager. 
 
 " ' My name/ said he, ' is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am 
 myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our 
 noble benefactor. When shall you be able to enter 
 upon your new duties? ' 
 
 " 'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business 
 already/ said I. 
 
 " ' Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson/ said Vin-
 
 io THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 cent Spaulding. ' I shall be able to look after that for 
 you.' 
 
 " ' What would be the hours ? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' Ten to two.' 
 
 " Now, a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an 
 evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday 
 evenings, which is just before pay day, so it would suit 
 me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, 
 I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he 
 would see to anything that turned up. 
 
 " ' That would suit me well,' said I. ' And the pay ? ' 
 
 " ' Is four pounds a week.' 
 
 " 'And the work ? ' 
 
 " ' Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the 
 building, the whole time. If you leave you forfeit your 
 position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. 
 You don't comply with the conditions if you budge 
 from the office during that time.' 
 
 " ' It's only four hours a day, and I should not think 
 of leaving,' said I. 
 
 " ' No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross 
 * neither sickness, nor business, nor anything else. 
 There you must stay, or you lose your billet.' 
 
 " ' And the work ? ' 
 
 " ' Is to copy out the " Encyclopaedia Britannica." 
 There is the first volume of it in that press. You must 
 find your own ink, pens and blotting paper, but we pro- 
 vide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-mor- 
 row ? ' 
 
 "' Certainly,' I answered. 
 
 " ' Then good-by, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me con- 
 gratulate you once more on the important position you 
 have been fortunate enough to gain.' He bowed me 
 out of the room and I went home with my assistant,
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. n 
 
 hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at 
 my own good fortune. 
 
 " Well, I thought the matter over all day, and by 
 evening I was in low spirits again, for I had quite per. 
 suaded myself that the whole affair must be some great 
 hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could 
 not imagine. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to 
 cheer me up, but by bed-time I had reasoned myself 
 out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I de- 
 termined to have a look at it anyhow ; so I bought a 
 penny bottle of ink, and with a quill pen and seven 
 sheets of foolscap paper I started off for Pope's Court. 
 
 " Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was 
 as right as possible. The table was set out ready for 
 me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got 
 fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, 
 and then he left me, but he would drop in from time to 
 time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock 
 he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the 
 amount I had written, and locked the door of the office 
 after me. 
 
 " This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on 
 Saturday the manager came in and planked down four 
 golden sovereigns for my week's work. It was the same 
 the next week, and the same the week after. Ev< 
 morning I was there at ten and every afternoon I left 
 at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming 
 in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, lu: 
 did not come at all. Still, of course, I never dared to 
 leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when 
 he might come ; and the billet was such a good one, 
 and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss 
 of it. 
 
 " Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had writ-
 
 12 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 ten about Abbots and Archery and Armour and Archi- 
 tecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I 
 might get on to the B's before long. It cost me some- 
 thing in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf 
 with my writings, and then suddenly the whole busi- 
 ness came to an end." 
 
 " To an end ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; and no later than this morning. I went 
 to my work as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was 
 shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard ham- 
 mered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here 
 it is, and you can read for yourself." 
 
 He held up a piece of cardboard about the size of a 
 sheet of note paper ; it read in this fashion : 
 
 " THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 
 is 
 DISSOLVED. Oct. 9, 1890." 
 
 Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announce- 
 ment and the rueful face behind it, until the comical 
 side of the affair so completely overtopped every other 
 consideration that we both burst out into a roar of 
 laughter. 
 
 " Pray what steps did you take when you found the 
 card upon the door ? " at last inquired Holmes. 
 
 " I was staggered. I did not know what to do. 
 Then I called at the offices around but none of them 
 seemed to know anything about it. Finally I went to the 
 landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground 
 floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had be- 
 come of the Red-Headed League. He said that he had 
 never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who 
 Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was 
 new to him.
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 13 
 
 " ' Well,' said I, ' the gentleman at No. 4 ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh,' said he, ' the red-headed man ? His name was 
 William Morris. He was a solicitor, and was using my 
 room as a temporary convenience until his new premises 
 were ready. He moved out yesterday to his new offices, 
 No. 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.' 
 
 " I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that 
 address it was a manufactory of artificial knee caps, and 
 no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Mor- 
 ris or Mr. Duncan Ross, so I went home to Saxe-Coburg 
 Square to seek the advice of my assistant. But he 
 could not help me in any way. He could only say 
 that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was 
 not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to 
 lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I heard that 
 you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who 
 needed it, I came right away to you." 
 
 " And you did very wisely," said Holmes. " Your 
 case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be 
 happy to look into it. From what you have told me 
 I think it is possible that graver issues hang from it 
 than might at first sight appear." 
 
 " Grave enough," said Mr. Jabez Wilson. " Why, 
 I have lost four pounds a week." 
 
 " As far as you are personally concerned," remarked 
 Holmes. " I do not see that you have any grievance 
 against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, 
 you are, as I understand, richer by some thirty pounds, 
 to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you 
 have gained on every subject which comes under the 
 Better A. You have lost nothing by them." 
 
 " No, sir. But I want to find out about them and 
 vho they are, and what their object was in playing 
 .his prank if it was a prank, upon me. It v. .^ .1 pretty
 
 14 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and 
 thirty pounds." , 
 
 " We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. 
 And first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This 
 assistant of yours who first called your attention to 
 the advertisement how long had he been with yo-u ?" 
 
 " About a month then." 
 
 "What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?" 
 
 " Small, stout built, very quick in his ways, no hair 
 on his face, though he's not short of thirty. Has a 
 white splash of acid upon his forehead." 
 
 Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. 
 
 " I thought as much," said he. " Have you ever 
 observed that his ears are pierced for earrings ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had . done it 
 for him when he was a lad." 
 
 "Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep 
 thought. "That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be 
 happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the 
 course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday and I 
 hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion." 
 
 " Well, Watson," said Holmes, when our visitor 
 had left us, " what do you make of it all ? " 
 
 " I make nothing of it," I answered, frankly. " It is 
 a most mysterious business." 
 
 "As a rule," said Holmes, " the more bizarre a 
 thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is' your 
 commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puz- 
 zling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult 
 to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter." 
 
 " What are you going to do, then ?" I asked. 
 
 " To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three- 
 pipe problem, and I beg that you won't speak to me 
 for fifty minutes."
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 15 
 
 He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin 
 - drawn up to his hawk-like. nose, and there he sat 
 with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting 
 out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the 
 conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and, indeed 
 was nodding myself, when he suddenly- sprang out of 
 his chair with the gesture of a man who had made up 
 his mind, and put his pipe down upon the mantel-piece. 
 
 " Sarasate plays at the St. James' Hall this after- 
 noon," he remarked. " What do you think, Watson? 
 Could your patients spare you for a few hours ? " 
 
 " I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never 
 very absorbing." 
 
 " Then put on your hat and come. I am going 
 through the city first, and we can have some lunch on 
 the way." 
 
 We traveled by the underground as far as Aldersgate, 
 and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, 
 the scene of the singular story which we had listened 
 to in the morning. It was a pokey little shabby-gen- 
 trrl place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick 
 houses looked out into a small railed-in inclosurc, where 
 a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel 
 bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and 
 uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown 
 board with " Jabez Wilson " in white letters upon a 
 corner house announced the place where our red- 
 headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes 
 stopped in front of it with his head on one side 
 and looked it all over. Then he walked slowly up the 
 street and then down again to the corner, still looking 
 keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawn- 
 broker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the 
 pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up
 
 16 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by 
 a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked 
 him to step in. 
 
 " Thank you," said Holmes. " I only wished to ask 
 you how you would go from here to the Strand." 
 
 " Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant 
 promptly, closing the door. 
 
 " Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes, as he 
 walked away. " He is, in my judgment, the fourth 
 smartest man in London, and for daring I am not 
 sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known 
 something of him before." 
 
 " Evidently," said I, " Mr. Wilson's assistant counts 
 for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-Headed 
 League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely 
 in order that you might see him." 
 
 " Not him." 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " The knees of his trousers. Now we know some- 
 thing of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us explore the 
 parts which lie behind it." 
 
 The road in which we found ourselves as we turned 
 around the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square 
 presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a 
 picture does to the back. It was one of the main ar- 
 teries which convey the traffic of the city to the north 
 and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense 
 stream of commerce in a double tide inwards and out- 
 wards, while the footpaths were black with the hur- 
 rying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize 
 as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately busi- 
 ness premises that they reallyabutted on the other side 
 upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just 
 quitted.
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 17 
 
 " Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner 
 and glancing along the line. " I should like to 
 remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby 
 of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. 
 There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper 
 shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban 
 Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's 
 carriage building depot. That carries us right on to 
 the other block. And now, doctor, we've done our 
 work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich and 
 a cup of coffee and then off to violin-land, where all is 
 sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no 
 red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums." 
 
 " You want to go home, no doubt, doctor," he 
 remarked, as we emerged from St. James* Hall two 
 hours later. 
 
 " Yes, it would be as well." 
 
 "And I have some business to do which will take 
 some hours. This business at Coburg Square is 
 serious. I shall want your help to-night." 
 
 44 At what time ? " 
 
 "Ten will be early enough." 
 
 44 I shall be at Baker Street at ten." 
 
 14 Very well. And I say, doctor, there may be some 
 little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your 
 pocket." 
 
 He waved his hand, turned on his heel and disappeared 
 in an instant among the crowd. 
 
 It was a quarter-past nine when I started for home 
 and made my way across the Park, and so on through 
 Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were 
 standing at the door, and as I. entered the passage I 
 heard the sound of voices from above. On entering 
 his room 1 tound Holmes in animated conversation
 
 i8 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter 
 Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a 
 long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and 
 oppressively respectable frock coat. 
 
 " Ha ! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning 
 up his pea jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop 
 from the rack. " Watson, I think you know Mr. 
 Jones of Scotland Yard ? Let me introduce you to 
 Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to- 
 night's adventure." 
 
 " We're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see," 
 said Jones, in his consequential way. " Our friend 
 here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he 
 wants is an old dog to help him do the running down." 
 
 " I hope a wild-goose may not prove to be the end 
 of our chase," said Mr. Merryweather, gloomily. " I 
 confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday 
 night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had 
 my rubber." 
 
 " I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, 
 " that you will play for a higher stake to-night than 
 you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more 
 exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will 
 be some thirty thousand pounds ; and for you, Jones, 
 it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your 
 .hands." 
 
 " John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher and forger," 
 said the police agent, in explanation. " He's a young 
 man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his 
 profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on 
 him than on any criminal in London. He's a remark- 
 able man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a 
 royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Ox- 
 ford. His brain is as cunning as his^ fingers, and
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 19 
 
 though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never 
 know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a 
 crib in Scotland one week and be raising money to 
 build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I've been on 
 his track for years, and have never set eyes on him yet." 
 
 " I hope I may have the pleasure of introducing you 
 to-night. I've had one or two turns also with Mr. 
 John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the lu-ad 
 of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite 
 time that we started. If you two will take the first 
 hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second." 
 
 Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative dur- 
 ing the long drive and lay back in the cab humming 
 the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. \\ c 
 rattled through a labyrinth of streets until we emerged 
 into Farrington Street, and had reached the same- 
 crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves 
 in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, follow- 
 ing the guidance of Mr. Merry weather, we passed down 
 a narrow passage and through a side door, which he 
 opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, 
 which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also 
 was opened and led down a flight of winding stone 
 steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. 
 Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then 
 conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and 
 so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or 
 cellar, which was piled all round with crates and mas- 
 sive boxes. 
 
 "You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes 
 remarked, as he held up the lantern and gazed about 
 him. 
 
 " Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking 
 his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. " Why,
 
 20 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 dear me, it sounds quite hollow," he remarked, looking 
 up in surprise. 
 
 " I must really ask you to be a little more quiet," 
 said Holmes, severely. " You have already imperiled 
 the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that 
 you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of 
 those boxes and not to interfere ? " 
 
 The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon 
 a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, 
 while Holmes fell on his knees upon the floor, and 
 with a lantern and magnifying lens began to examine 
 minutely the cracks between the stones. A few 
 seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his 
 feet again and put his glass in his pocket. 
 
 " We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, 
 " for they can hardly take any steps until the good 
 pawnbroker is in bed. Then they will not lose a 
 minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer 
 time they will have for their escape. We are at present, 
 doctor, as no doubt you have divined, in the cellar of 
 the city branch of one of the principal London banks. 
 Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he 
 will explain to you that there are reasons why the 
 more daring criminals of London should take a con- 
 siderable interest in this cellar at present." 
 
 " It is our French gold," whispered the director. 
 " We have had several warnings that an attempt might 
 be made upon it." 
 
 " Your French gold ? " 
 
 " Yes. We had occasion some months ago to streng- 
 then our resources, and borrowed, for that purpose, 
 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has be- 
 come known that we have never had occasion to unpack 
 the money, and that it is still lying in the cellar. The
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 21 
 
 crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed 
 between layers of lead foil." 
 
 " Now," observed Holmes, " it is time that we 
 arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour 
 matters will come to a head. In the meantime, Mr. 
 Merry weather, we must put the screen over that dark 
 lantern." 
 
 " And sit in the dark ? " 
 
 " I am afraid so. And first of all we must choose our 
 positions. These are daring men, and though we shall 
 take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some 
 harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this 
 crate, and do you conceal yourself behind those. Then, 
 when I flash a light upon them, close in quickly. If 
 they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shoot- 
 ing the men down." 
 
 I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the 
 wooden case behind which I crouched. Then Holmes 
 shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us 
 in pitch darkness such an absolute darkness as I have 
 never before experienced. The smell of the hot metal 
 remained to assure us that the light was still there, 
 ready to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with 
 my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there 
 was something depressing and subduing in the sudden 
 gloom and the cold, dank air of the vault. 
 
 " They have but one retreat," whispered Mr. Holmes. 
 "That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg 
 Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, 
 Jones ? " 
 
 " I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the 
 front door." 
 
 " Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we 
 must be silent and wait."
 
 22 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 What a time it seemed ! From comparing notes 
 afterward it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it 
 appeared to me that the night must have almost gone 
 and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were 
 weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position ; 
 yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of 
 tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not 
 only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but 
 I could distinguish the deeper, heavier inbreath of the 
 bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank 
 director. From- my position I could look over the 
 case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes 
 caught the glint of a light. 
 
 At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone 
 pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a 
 yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a 
 gash seemed to open and a hand appeared a white, 
 almost womanly hand which felt about in the center 
 of the little area of light. For a minute or more the 
 hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the 
 floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it 
 appeared, and all was dark again save the single 
 lurid spark, which now marked a chink between the 
 stones. 
 
 Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. 
 With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white 
 stones turned over upon its side, and left a square, 
 gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a 
 lantern. Over the edge there appeared a clean-cut, 
 boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, 
 with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself 
 shoulder high and waist high, until one knee rested 
 upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the 
 edge of the hole, and was hauling after him a compan-
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 23 
 
 ion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a 
 shock of very red hair. 
 
 " It's all clear, " he whispered. " Have you the chisel 
 and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, 
 and I'll swing for it !" 
 
 Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the 
 intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole 
 and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutch- 
 ed at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a 
 revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came down upon the 
 man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. 
 
 " It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes, blandly. 
 You have no chance at all." 
 
 " So I see," the other answered, with the utmost 
 coolness. " I fancy that my pal is all right, though I 
 see that you have got his coat-tails." 
 
 " There are three men waiting for him at the door," 
 said Holmes. 
 
 " Oh, indeed. You seem to have done this thing 
 very completely. I must compliment you." 
 
 " You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. 
 " He's quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just 
 hold out while I fix the derbies. Now would . you 
 please march up-stairs, where we can get a cab to carry 
 you to the police station?" 
 
 And John Clay walked quietly off in the custody of 
 the detective. 
 
 " Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather, as 
 \vc followed them from the cellar, " I do not know 
 how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is 
 no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the 
 most complete manner one of the most determined at- 
 tempts at bank robbery that have ever come within 
 my experience."
 
 24 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 
 
 " You see, Watson," Sherlock Holmes explained, in 
 the early hours of the morning, as we sat over a glass 
 of whisky and soda in Baker Street, " It was perfectly 
 obvious from the first that the only possible object of 
 this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of 
 the League and copying of the Encyclopaedia must be 
 to get this not overbright pawnbroker out of the way 
 for a number of hours every day. The method was 
 no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the 
 color of his accomplice's hair. From the time that I 
 heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it 
 was obvious to me that hie had some strong motive for 
 securing the situation." 
 
 " But how could you guess what the motive was ? " 
 
 " I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and 
 found that I had to deal with one oH:hc coolest and most 
 daring criminals in London. He was doing something 
 in the cellar something which took many hours a day 
 for months on end. What could it be, once more ? I 
 could think of nothing save that it was running a 
 tunnel to some other building. 
 
 " So far I had got when we went to visit the scene 
 of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pave- 
 ment with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the 
 cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in 
 front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the 
 assistant answered it. We have seen some skirmishes, 
 but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I 
 hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I 
 wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how 
 worn, wrinkled and stained they were. They spoke of 
 those hours of burrowing. The only remaining 
 point was what were they burrowing for ? I walked 
 around the corner, saw that the City and Suburban
 
 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE. 25 
 
 Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I 
 had solved my problem." 
 
 " And how could you tell that they would make their 
 attempt to-night ? " I asked. 
 
 " Well, when they closed their League offices that 
 was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez 
 Wilson's presence in other words, that they had com- 
 pleted their tunnel. Saturday would suit them better 
 than any other day, as it would give them two days 
 for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them 
 to come to-night. When you drove home after the con- 
 cert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chair- 
 man of the board of directors with the result that yo 
 have seen."
 
 THE SECRET PANEL
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 THAT extensive range of lofty hills In the northern 
 parts of Germany, known as the Hartz Mountains, hat 
 for centuries been made the scene of various ghostly 
 transactions ; and thousands of German peasants at the 
 present day regard some portion of this territory as a 
 bona-fide spirit land. The traveler who may chance to 
 rest beneath any of the hospitable roofs in this vicinity 
 will find ample material for the foundation of romance 
 and novelty, provided he will give his kind hostess an 
 hour or two of attentive listening. Most of the legends 
 of these mountains are deeply affecting some of them 
 are within the bounds of reason ; but generally they are 
 rather beyond the ken of rational visions. Yet, for all 
 their improbability, the greater portion of them rest upon 
 the basis of solid facts. 
 
 In the story we are about to relate some of that mi*. 
 teriul which superstition weaves into the fabric of won- 
 der, is necessarily introduced ; but yet we shall leave the 
 reader in none of those unsettled moods which are the 
 result of " things not understood." 
 
 Near the northern extremity of the Hartz Mountains 
 is situated the city of Wolfenbattel, which is the capital 
 of a principality bearing the same name. The castle, 
 which has since been the residence of a somewhat power- 
 ful line of dukes, was, in the year 1668, in possession of 
 the iiaron Waldrec, a brave old soldier of the iron stamp. 
 
 3
 
 4 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 He had no family of his own, and to have some object 
 upon which to rest his warm affections, he had taken 
 beneath his roof the family of his younger brother, Ru- 
 dolph, who lived mostly on the bounty of the baron. 
 The baroness had mysteriously disappeared some nine- 
 teen years before, and was supposed to have been 
 drowned, and that, too, at a time when her husband was 
 expecting her shortly to present him with an heir. 
 
 One evening Sir Rudolph returned from a somewhat 
 protracted visit to the country, and immediately sum- 
 moned his eldest daughter, Theresa, to attend him in the 
 large chamber in the western wing of the castle. There 
 was anxiety and something akin to fear stamped upon 
 Rudolph's countenance, as he passed up and down the 
 chamber, waiting for the arrival of his daughter. When 
 she at length came, he commenced : 
 
 " Well, Theresa, I have seen the young baronet, Sir 
 Frederic Enstein, and have ascertained the long cause of 
 his absence from us." 
 
 " And what can it be, father ? " 
 
 " You would hardly guess the truth ; but yet it is 
 nothing strange, after all. The fact is, he has by some 
 means discovered that we aimed . at a union between him 
 and yourself ; and his affections being already engrossed 
 in a fair damsel whom chance has thrown in his way, he 
 deems it injudicious to " 
 
 " Ah, yes, I see," interrupted Theresa ; " he fears that 
 I should form an unrequited attachment, and that, too, 
 for him ; so he is magnanimous enough not to trust his 
 captivating self near me." 
 
 " But I thought you really loved Frederic Enstein." 
 
 " So I did ; but do you think that I can be made to 
 bow beneath a man's neglect ? No. Sir Frederic Enstein 
 ihall find that I at least, can brook his neglect. But who 
 M this favored damsel ? "
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. 5 
 
 " There is the pith of the matter. It is the daughter 
 ti old Joseph, the gardener." 
 
 " So he has taken a fancy to some rural, unsophisti- 
 cated maid, has he? I'll thwart him." 
 
 " My daughter, there is something deeper than mere 
 love and pique in this matter. My brother has made his 
 will, and this same Frederic Enstein is to come in pos- 
 iii of nearly one-half of the whole estate, leaving the 
 rest to be equally divided among my three sons, reserv- 
 ing for yourself and me only a small annual income. It 
 appears that Frederic served under him during his last 
 campaign, and twice saved his life. The emperor be- 
 stowed a baronetcy upon -him in honor of his bravery, 
 and the baron has taken it into his head to finish the 
 work, by awarding to him a princely portion. Do you 
 not see how much we both lose through this young 
 man?" 
 
 For some moments the fair girl seemed lost in deep 
 thought. At length, raising her large, dark eyes to the 
 face of her father, she asked, in slow and mea 
 tones : 
 
 kt I Jut is there not something back of all that you have 
 mentioned something deeper still than wills ami 1 
 ments ? " 
 
 Sir Rudolph trembled then turned pale. He gazed 
 fixedly into the face of his daughter, but could discern 
 nothing there save a steady, inquiring expression, lie 
 composed himself, and asked : 
 
 "What does your question aim at? I certainly fail to 
 comprehend your meaning." 
 
 "Oh, nothing; I merely asked the question l>ecause 1 
 thought something appeared to weigh at times upon your 
 mind; and if I am to assist you in any plan, it is l.ut 
 right that I should know tho actual state of affairs, so 
 that I may work undersUuulingly."
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 " You have already heard all that is necessary, and if 
 you possess that pride which belongs to your nature, you 
 will second my plan." 
 
 " And what is that plan ? " 
 
 It is to remove the girl who holds so much power 
 over Frederic." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; I understand." For a moment Theresa 
 hesitated, but at length added : " You must concoct your 
 plan, and then let me know it. In the mean time I would 
 be left alone." 
 
 As the door closed upon the retiring form of his 
 daughter, Sir Rudolph commenced pacing back and forth 
 in an uneasy study. He little knew the spirit with which 
 he had to deal. Theresa was at heart a noble girl ; but 
 she knew that her father meditated some scheme ol 
 iniquity, and she was determined to frustrate it if pos- 
 sible ; and in order to do this, she must seemingly acqui- 
 esce until she could get fully acquainted with his plans. 
 
 There was one other thing she wished to understand. 
 She had seen enough to satisfy her that some unfair 
 means had already been adopted by her father. He seemed 
 troubled at times, and would frequently lock himself up 
 in his chamber during a whole day. Besides all this, 
 Theresa had plighted her vows of affection to Colonel 
 Walstein, a young officer who frequently visited her 
 uncle. It pained her to ba obliged to dissemble before 
 her parent, but she deemed that circumstances fully justi- 
 fied her. 
 
 Sir Rudolph still continued to pace up and down the 
 large apartment. The gray twilight was fast deepening 
 into darker shades, and Rudolph's mind seemed to cor- 
 respond with the somber hues that were gathering around. 
 Occasionally he would stop and clasp his hands over his 
 forehead then start forward again his mind seemed 
 troubled, and some phantom appeared to be constantly
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. 7 
 
 riding upon his memory. He approached the extremity 
 of the chamber, and was about to turn, when he raised 
 his eyes. An exclamation of horror burst from his Ups, 
 and he started back, trembling in every limb. There, 
 before him, stood an object that struck terror to his soul. 
 It was the Spirit of the Hartz Mountains. How she came, 
 or whither, lit; beede I not ; but the object of her intru- 
 sion what was it r i People said her presence boded no 
 good, and he certainly was in no frame of mind to feel 
 easy under her piercing gaze. She spoke : 
 
 " Rudolph Waldrec, beware ! " 
 
 " Who are you, and what would you with me ? " gasped 
 the stricken man. 
 
 " I am one who knows you well. Your whole life is a 
 plain tale to me." 
 
 He strained his starting eyeballs to their utmost tension 
 to pierce beneath those long matted locks ; but he only saw 
 her gleaming eyes, and her thin finger, as it was raised 
 menacingly toward him. 
 
 " Rudolph Waldrec, years ago I saw a woman drown- 
 ing I heard her scream in the agony of despair. She 
 might have been saved. Did you see it?" 
 
 " NVoman fiend devil ! whatever you be you can- 
 not " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence ; he started back and 
 rubbed his eyes but she was gone ; where or how he 
 could not divine. All was still save the beatings of his 
 own heart. 
 
 The cot of old Joseph, the gardener, was situated at the 
 foot of a large mountain, and thither Theresa Waldreo 
 bent her steps early on the morning succeeding her inter- 
 view with her father. She knocked at the door, and was 
 answered by the old man himself. She desired to see and 
 speak with his daughter, and was kindly introduerd into 
 the hon>>- and invited to take a seat. She 'eft alun
 
 8 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 a few moments, when the door opened and a young girl 
 entered, who bade the visitor welcome, and reported her- 
 self as the person sought after. She was a noble-looking 
 girl, cast in nature's healthiest mold ; and from her full 
 brow and gleaming eyes there shone forth a mind and 
 soul of humanity. Theresa wondered not that Frederic 
 Enstein should love the girl before her, and in a moment 
 she had determined that no s&heme of her father's should 
 cast its evil on her head. You may be somewhat sur- 
 prised," continued Theresa, as her companion seated her- 
 Belf, " that I should thus seek you ; but I have something 
 of importance to communicate. To be frank, I will come 
 at once to the business of my visit. Does not Frederic 
 Enstein sometimes visit here ? " 
 
 The fair girl blushed, and for a moment was deeply 
 perplexed ; but a pure heart has nothing to fear ; and she 
 frankly answered: 
 
 " He does." 
 
 " And did he ever mention to you the name of Theresa 
 Waldrec ? " 
 
 " He has, lady." 
 
 " He has told you that she desired his hand in mar- 
 riage ? " 
 
 " No ; his remarks touching that lady have ever been 
 friendly and respectful. But " 
 
 " But what ? I am the lady in question, and I assure 
 you that I have the best of motives in thus addressing 
 you." 
 
 " Well, then, he has made some allusion to a desire of 
 your father to that effect, but you were not included hi the 
 affair." 
 
 " I thank you, my fair friend, for your frankness, and 
 will tell you why I sought you. It is true that my father 
 desires the union of Frederic and myself, but my desires 
 lay not that way, I love him as a brother, but ay faith is
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. f 
 
 already plighted to another. Frederic is worthy your best 
 love and esteem, and you shall have my influence to make 
 you happy." 
 
 The young girl laid her head upon the bosom of her visi- 
 tor and wept. She poured out her gratitude in blessings, 
 and thanked her warmly for her kindness. 
 
 " And now," continued Theresa, as she rose to depart, 
 " some steps may be taken to prevent this union ; but 
 t rust to me, and all my power shall be at your service. 
 But I do not yet know your name." 
 
 " Euphemia Rothburt, my kind lady." 
 
 " I shall never forget that name. My uncle's wife was 
 called Euphemia. But farewell for the present. I shall see 
 you again ere long." 
 
 Theresa left the cot with a glad heart. She had mado 
 a fellow-creature happier by her visit, and she felt truly 
 rewarded. Her path home lay through a long park that 
 belonged to the castle, and as she was passing along, med- 
 itating upon the incidents of her visit, she felt a hand laid 
 lightly upon her shoulder, and turning suddenly around, 
 she beheld the Spirit of the Hartz Mountains. She had 
 never seen the spirit before ; but she had often heard a. 
 description of the form which this wanderer took when 
 she desired to clothe herself with a material body ; and 
 she could not doubt that she now stood in her presence. 
 Her <loiil)t, if any she had, were removed as the intruder 
 addressed her. 
 
 l.ady, be not alarmed. Mm call me a wandering spirit, 
 ;m<l so I am; but they also say that I would harm them 
 which is not true. I am with the guilty, stir up the 
 soul with remorse ; but the pure and innocent have noth- 
 ing to fear. I know the situation in which you are placed ; 
 I know the conversation which took place last evening 
 between yourself and your father nay, start not I heard 
 it all. You will ere long want assistance, and I will b
 
 10 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 near to render it ; and in the mean time I would have you 
 prepare your feelings for a severe trial. Your father's 
 every feeling is a crime it has grown upon him." 
 
 " Pray, explain to me, if you can," exclaimed Theresa, 
 tremblingly, seizing the old woman's arm, " what is it 
 that weighs so heavily upon my father's mind ? " 
 
 "No, not now, lady; but you shall know ere long. 
 You have nothing to fear from his interposition against 
 your wishes ; hia present plans can never succeed, fortify 
 them as he will. There is an eye upon his movements he 
 wots not of. Farewell." 
 
 The old woman waved her hand as Theresa attempted 
 to speak, and disappeared amongst the shrubbery. The 
 fair girl pursued her way towards the castle in a thought- 
 ful -mood, somewhat surprised, withal, that she had not 
 been alarmed at the presence of the wandering spirit ; 
 but her anxiety was in another direction and she had felt 
 only surprise and curiosity, where there might otherwise 
 have been alarm. When she arrived at the courtyard 
 she found a number of horses just arrived, and was in- 
 formed that the riders had gone into the castle. Her 
 heart leaped with a quick motion as she recognized the 
 livery of Colonel Walstein, and hastily entering the 
 building, she sought her own chamber, and prepared to 
 meet the visitors. 
 
 An hour afterwards Walstein and Theresa were wan- 
 dering together in the park. She told her lover all that 
 had happened, even to her interview with the mountain 
 spirit, and begged of him to remain till matters were 
 settled. She had a fearful foreboding that some dreadful 
 calamity was about to break over her head ; she knew 
 not what, neither had she the least idea of its nature or 
 source ; but she could read in the aspect of things about 
 her a tale of woe. 
 
 Shortly after we left Walstein and Theresa in the park,
 
 THE SECRET PANEL 11 
 
 Baron Waldrec left his room and sought his brother. 
 The baron was a powerfully built man, about fifty years 
 of age, with a frank, benevolent countenance, upon which 
 were marked in unmistakable characters, a noble soul 
 and, a stout heart. He found his brother sitting moodily 
 in his own chamber, and drawing a chair to his side, 
 addressed him : 
 
 a Come, Rudolph, why are you so melancholy lately? 
 What has happened that should thus keep you confined ? 
 I am about to relinquish my command in the army, and 
 shall in future keep you company most of the time ; but 
 you must throw off this moody fit and be yourself. Why, 
 the people tell me that you do nothing lately but mope 
 around the castle like a man hunting for his brains ; and 
 here I have been at home a week, and have not had your 
 company an hour since I arrived." 
 
 Rudolph felt uneasy under the gaze of the baron's eye, 
 nor could he look into his frank, open countenance, with- 
 out trembling, and when he learned that his brother had 
 resigned his poet in the service, and was to make the 
 castle his future field of operations, he drew a quick 
 breath and turned a shade paler. 
 
 u I am really glad that you are to remain with us," 
 replied Rudolph, composing himself as much as possible ; 
 "but I am not well. If I am not so friendly as I should 
 be, you will know what cause to attribute it to to th 
 fact that I am laboring under a severe indisposition." 
 
 " I am sorry that you are so unfortunate," replied the 
 baron, " but you will soon recover, I trust, and then we 
 may expect your company. I have a subject, however, 
 that I desire to speak to you upon at the present time, 
 and I am in hopes that you will give it your candid con- 
 sideration. You are well acquainted with my friend, 
 Colonel Walstein, who has just arrived here, and who 
 intends to spend a short time at the owtU. He i* a fin*
 
 12 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 young fellow, and is an honor to his country, and I feel 
 proud in acknowledging his friendship. He has long 
 cherished an attachment for your daughter, and why, 
 what is the matter? Why do you stare so are you 
 ill ? " 
 
 " No, no ; say nothing to me of this." 
 
 " Why, what has possessed you, my dear brother ! I 
 was about to ask you to give your daughter's hand to 
 this young man ; her heart I am sure he already possesses 
 and I do not certainly see anything objectionable in 
 the proposition. Theresa is old enough to be married, 
 and Egbert Walstein would make her a good husband." 
 
 " Do not urge this matter further at least, till I have 
 seen my daughter ; for she has never spoken of such a 
 matter to me, and this is the first intimation that I have 
 had of it." 
 
 The baron was surprised at his brother's extraordinary 
 behavior, and was at a loss to divine its cause. He, saw, 
 however, that there was something deeper than he could 
 hope to fathom, and he deemed it expedient to act for the 
 present upon Rudolph's suggestion, and wait till he had 
 spoken with his daughter upon the subject. 
 
 It was growing dark as the baron left his brother's 
 room, and after spending an hour or two with his guests, 
 during which time he explained to Walstein the result 
 of his late interview, he sought his chamber, and was 
 about to retire for the night, when he heard a slight tap 
 upon the door, which he answered by a kind " Come in." 
 
 The door opened, and Theresa Waldrec entered and 
 took a seat by the side of her uncle. 
 
 " What has started you out, my fair niece ? " mildly 
 asked the baron. 
 
 " Do not think me forward, dear uncle ; but Egbert has 
 told me that you have seen my father, and has also in- 
 formed me of the result of your conference. Now I feel
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. 13 
 
 sure that I can unbosom my case to you without fear ol 
 ill." 
 
 "That you can, dear girl," tenderly replied the old 
 baron, laying his hand upon her head, and gazing with a 
 fond look into her face. 
 
 " Well, then, before I see my father, I desire that you 
 should know on what principle he is acting. I would not 
 expose my father's fault, were it not necessary to preserve 
 myself from participating in it; and besides, I know that 
 I am doing it to one who will be kind and lenient to 
 him." 
 
 
 
 " You may repose the most implicit confidence in me," 
 iv marked the baron, as Theresa hesitated in her recital. 
 " Now go on, and you may .be sure of my aid and pro- 
 tection." 
 
 "My father has become acquainted with the contents 
 of your will; he informs me that by that instrument 
 Frederick Enstein is one of the principal legatees, while, 
 I and himself are only to receive a small annual income. 
 Accordingly, he has set his heart upon my union with 
 Frederic, and seems determined to effect it ; and I am 
 to be made a mere tool for the purpose of securing this 
 \\ealth. Now, how shall I act? I can never marry 
 Enstein, were I so disposed; he loves another." 
 
 " Your fi'-iher'g assertions relative to the will are all 
 true; bv.t now he came in possession of the knowl- 
 edge i -mat* than 1 can teii When I made my will I 
 was engaged in war, and my life could hardly be said to 
 be my own; a,:d at that time i expected that Frederic; 
 would have been your husband, and had the instrument 
 drawn uj accordingly ; but since my arrival at 
 \ have found out the true state of affairs, and have some 
 houghts of altering that will; but without doing that, I 
 jh.ill have enough i,, make yourself and Waist, in com- 
 fortubli. During my last campaign I received two heavy
 
 14 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 ransoms, amounting to over ten thousand ducats, and this 
 I intend to bestow upon you, in the event of your mar- 
 riage. But your father must not know it he must act 
 upon a more manly principle." 
 
 " Oh, I thank you, my dear uncle, for your kindness ; 
 but how shall I appease my father ? " 
 
 " Refer him to Frederic Enstein. Tell him that you 
 can do nothing, till he first obtains some sort of an an- 
 swer from the gentleman in question. But he must be 
 very foolish indeed, when he knows that Frederic is 
 bound by promises to another, thus to persist in his 
 scheme." 
 
 Theresa shuddered as she thought of her father's plan 
 in relation to poor Euphemia, and asked her uncle if he 
 knew the girl who thus stood in the way of her father's 
 plans. 
 
 "Yes," answered the baron, "and she is one of the 
 loveliest creatures I ever saw ; you would love her if you 
 1 ;it knew her." 
 
 " I trust I shall soon become better acquainted with 
 l;,:r ; I have seen her. But I hope all will yet be well." 
 
 As Theresa retired, the baron went to his desk, and un- 
 it )cking a small drawer, took therefrom a roll of parch- 
 ment, which he opened and began to read. It was his 
 v/ill. As he sat meditating upon the disposition therein 
 made of his property, with the instrument lying open 
 upon the table before him, he heard a slight rustling by 
 las side, and ou looking ;Up, he started back in amazement, 
 as his eyes rested upon the tall, commanding figure of 
 the Spirit of the Hartz Mountains. 
 
 " Baron Waldec, that instrument is null and void." 
 
 "How, woman?" exclaimed he, as he collected his 
 scattered senses. " What brought you here ? You cer- 
 tainly came not in at the door. la it true, then, that you 
 ride about upon the wind ? "
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. 15 
 
 "Never mind how I came here; but wherefore you 
 shall knmv. Again I tell you, that instrument is good 
 for nothing." 
 
 " Perhaps you can tell me why ? n 
 
 The stout baron trembled beneath the piercing gaze of 
 his strange visitor ; why, he could not tell ; he was un- 
 used to fear; but as he saw the gleaming eyee pet-ring 
 out from ofci eath the thi(;k matted hair that hung down 
 over her fac-s and shoulders, his heart beat tumultuously. 
 
 " You sh&A know wiiat you require soon enough, " re- 
 plied the intruder ; " but not now. You owe me a pledge, 
 and thus I claim its redemption." 
 
 Saying this, she took the parchment from the table and. 
 commenced tearing it in pieces. 
 
 Now, by my faith," exclaimed the baron, as he started 
 forward, " you go too far." 
 
 u Stand back, Baron Waldrec. Look here ! " 
 
 And she threw the heavy mantel from off her boson, 
 upon which glittered a heavy jeweled cross. 
 
 " NVhat ! " faintly gasped the baron as he sank trem- 
 bling into his chair, and pressed his hand upon his burn- 
 ing brow, "the vision of my fearful dream?" 
 
 u Twas not a dream, Waldrec." 
 
 He removed his hand from bis brow, and looked up; 
 but his visitor was gone. ' 
 
 Rudolph Waldrec had spoken with his daughter upon 
 the subject of her marriage with Frederic Enstein, and 
 also informed her that she must not think for a m< 
 of young Walstein. Theresa could not forbear weeping ; 
 but she expressed no wish to her father neither did she 
 say aught against his proposals ; but she merely desired 
 that he would speak with Frederic, and obtain from him 
 some word in relation to the affair before he pressed her 
 further. To this he consented, and without remark with- 
 drew.
 
 16 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 It was in the middle of the day that Rudolph took 
 his way towards the cot of Joseph Rothburt. He found 
 the old man in, and entering and closing the doors, he 
 seated himself by his side, and opened upon the business 
 of his visit. 
 
 " You have a daughter, called Euphemia, have you 
 not?" 
 
 " I have," replied the old man. 
 
 " Could you allow her to visit the castle for p few days? 
 The Lady Theresa desires her attendance." 
 
 " Well, that depends pretty much upon "her own de- 
 cision. I will call her and see." 
 
 The girl was called, and upon being questioned, she ex- 
 pressed a ready willingness to accompany their visitor, 
 provided her father would go to the castle with her. 
 This did not exactly suit the purpose of Rudolph ; but 
 he had no alternative, and accordingly he made no objec- 
 tion to the plan proposed, and the little party soon set 
 out for the walk. They had not proceeded more than 
 half way through the long park, when a slight rustling 
 in the bushes caused old Joseph to turn his head, and at 
 that moment he was seized in the powerful grasp of a 
 man who sprang from the shrubbery and dragged him to 
 the earth. A second ruffian treated Rudolph in the same 
 manner, while the trembling girl was gagged and borne 
 off through the park, by a third. Rudolph offered a seem- 
 ing resistance, but it was slight, and he was easily bound 
 to a neighboring tree, when his captor went to his com- 
 panion's assistance, and the old man was also securely 
 fastened. 
 
 Rudolph cursed and swore and for about fifteen minutes 
 apparently used every exertion to release himself. At 
 length he managed to get his hands free, and was soon hi 
 a situation to assist his neighbor, who had as yet said but 
 Yery little. "When they were both clear of confinement^
 
 THE SECRET PANEL." IT 
 
 the old man wept like a child. He was only conscious 
 that he had been robbed of all his earthly comfort, and 
 for a few moments the thought of pursuit entered not into 
 his head; but a little reflection, and the consolation of his 
 companion, soon aroused him, and he joined in a plan of 
 pursuit. But all search was fruitless. The inmates of 
 the castle were all started out, but to no effect. No traces 
 of the abductors or the girl could be found, and at dark 
 the pursuit was given up. 
 
 Theresa heard the tale from her father's lips ; but she 
 evaded his questions, and disbelieved his statement. It 
 was hard for her to look her father in the face, for she 
 believed him to be a guilty man, and she embraced the 
 iirst opportunity to release herself from his presence, and 
 seek her own chamber. Then she gave way to a flood of 
 tears, and amid the conflicting emotions of love, and fear, 
 .she wept herself to sleep. 
 
 That night there were strange noises heard about the 
 old castle. Doors were opened and shut heavy footsteps 
 unded through the old archways and deep down in 
 the bowels of tin; heavy building resounded low, rumbling 
 moans. About midnight a troop of horsemen arrived, 
 and demanded admittance at the gate. The old porter 
 raised the portcullis, and Frederic Enstein, together with 
 his attendants, entered the courtyard. The baron 
 soon. up, and his young friend received a hearty welcome; 
 but the joy of that welcome was lost, when he received 
 the intelligence of Euphemia's abduction, lie had been 
 to the cottage, but could only learn that old Joseph and 
 his daughter had gone to the castle. He would imme- 
 diately have started out in search of his promised bride, 
 but the baron dissuaded him from the purpose, and it 
 was settled that in the morning all hands should join ia 
 a general and thorough search. 
 
 The new-comers were soon ensconced in their respect-
 
 18 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 ive beds and quietness was beginning to settle down over 
 the castle, when a most piercing cry issued from the 
 chamber of Sir Rudolph. The baron had not fallen 
 asleep, and hastily dressing himself, he proceeded at once 
 to the room of his brother. He found Rudolph sitting up 
 in his bed, with his hands clasped tightly over his eyes, 
 and his limbs trembling at every joint. 
 
 " What has happened ? " asked the baron, as he stepped 
 near to his brother's bedside. 
 
 " See ! there ! there ! " exclaimed the terror-stricken 
 man, extending his hands toward the further part of the 
 room. 
 
 " I see nothing," answered the baron, as he looked in 
 the direction pointed out. 
 
 Thank heaven, she's gone ! Oh, God ! what a fearful 
 eight ! " 
 
 " Why, you've been dreaming, Rudolph." 
 
 " Dreaming ? Yes, 'twas a dream ; but the Lord pre- 
 serve me from another such." 
 
 After vainly endeavoring to obtain some explicit state- 
 ment from his brother of what had really happened, the 
 baron once more sought his pillow, and endeavored to 
 compose himself to sleep. 
 
 The morning dawned, and at an early hour the inmates 
 of the castle were assembled hi the courtyard, all ready to 
 mount their horses for the contemplated search, when a 
 single horseman approached the gate and entered. It was 
 a priest. He had promised Frederic he would be in at- 
 tendance to perform the marriage ceremony. But he 
 found himself called upon to perform a different office 
 - that of administering consolation to a soul deeply 
 afflicted. 
 
 Another horse galloped into the court; but a cold 
 shudder ran through the assembly as their eyes rested 
 upon the rider. It was the Spirit of the Hartz Mountains.
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. 19 
 
 She slid from the saddle, and waving her hand for the 
 people to follow her, she entered the castle and proceeded 
 at once to a large hall, where she was soon joined by 
 the baron and his friends. Rudolph, alone, followed not. 
 The new-comer noticed this, and called for him; but 
 his limbs would hardly support him, and when he 
 had been assisted to the hall, he looked more dead than 
 alive. He dared not meet the gaze of the Mountain 
 Spirit. 
 
 Not a breath broke upon the stillness that reigned in 
 that old hall, as the spectral visitor gazed around upon 
 the assembly. She stooped down and placed her hand 
 upon the edge of a panel near the wall, and, with a sud- 
 den motion threw it back from its place, and as she stepped 
 back, the form of Euphemia Rothburt issued from the 
 aperture. 
 
 Frederic Enstein gave one bound and clasped to his 
 bosom the restored object of his affection. A surprise al- 
 most akin to terror was stamped upon the features of the 
 crowd ; Rudolph betrayed the keenest anguish. The 
 Mountain Spirit stepped forward, and placing the hand 
 of the fair girl in that of Frederic, she led them to the 
 astoni si ifil baron, and said : 
 
 " Give them your blessing, Baron Waldrec." 
 A fervent M God bless my children ! " trembled upon 
 the old man's lips. 
 
 ' \Valclrec, you have blessed your daughter ! n 
 The long, black robe fell from that strange form she 
 threw the flowing brown hair back from her face, and 
 gazing for a moment upon the tear-wet features of thu 
 baron, she fell with a bursting heart upon his ) 
 The old man started back, and gazed for a moment into 
 that faeo. Then he opened his arms one word escaped 
 from his lips Euphemia ! " and he clasped to his bosom 
 bis long-1
 
 20 THE SECRET PANEL. 
 
 Rudolph Waldrec started from his position gare one 
 groan and his guilt-burdened spirit was away from 
 earth. 
 
 " Poor Rudolph, how much he has suffered," exclaimed 
 the baroness, as she arose from the bosom of her husband 
 and gazed upon the corpse. She continued : " You shall 
 know what all this means. It is now more than nineteen 
 years since I attempted to cross the lake in my little skiff. 
 Rudolph Waldrec saw me overturned within a short dis- 
 tance of the shore, and he might easily have saved me ; 
 but my cries he heeded not, and with a cold look he 
 turned from the bank, and left me to my fate. But an 
 vM fortune-teller was near and drew me to the shore ; 
 but before she released me, she obtained from me a prom- 
 ise that I would not leave her till she consented. In a 
 few days my child was born, and as I lay upon a rough 
 couch hi her nut, gazing with rapture upon the innocent 
 face of my infant, she took it from me, and before she 
 fvould return it, she had laid me under a most fearful 
 oath. She told me she would die before I left my bed, 
 and I was to take her place assume her garb and calling, 
 without revealing myself to a living soul till the preser- 
 vation of a human life rendered it necessary. Her pre- 
 diction was fulfilled. 
 
 "As soon as I was able to go out, I placed my child 
 under the care of Joseph and !I.TJ jo*isce lived upon the 
 topes this moment realized, LiC-iy secrst i^ja-c well 
 known to myself aboiiS tiis cab.:3 ua<$3 oiten ;urwered 
 my objects ; and howr ater hour L ^V3 S ; oy the bed- 
 side of my husoand, snd drank in piare deiight in watch- 
 ing his 3aim ieafcuces. Rudolph, too, has been made the 
 recipient 01 my nocturnal visits. But the danger of my 
 ch-.gn^ej released me from my vow, and I am now 
 nappy." 
 
 Every heart there beat in joyful concord. Theresa'
 
 THE SECRET PANEL. 21 
 
 Countenance wore a shade of sadness ; but 'twas not deep 
 laid. And the same day that saw Frederic and Euphemia 
 united, beamed also upon the union of Walstein anil 
 
 THK END.
 
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