Dora Thorne

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 by 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 be some hope for him; the proud, beautiful face softened and brightened for him as it did for no other, and the glorious 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 noble fortune and high rank that were his by birthright. He had not cared much for them before; now he rejoiced that he could lavish wealth and luxury upon one so fair and worthy as Beatrice Earle.

Lord Airlie was not a confident lover. There were times 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 London 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 speculators 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 coquetry 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 homage 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 doubted—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.

The remembrance of Hugh Fernely crossed her mind at times—not very often, and never with any great fear or apprehension. It seemed to her more like a dark, disagreeable dream than a reality. Could it be possible that she, Beatrice Earle, the daughter of that proud, noble father, so sternly truthful, so honorable, could ever have been so mad or so foolish? The very remembrance of it made the beautiful face flush crimson. She could not endure the thought, and always drove it hastily from her.

The fifteenth of July was drawing near; the two years 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.

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 those thoughts came to her, and speedily as she thrust them from her, she considered them a dear price for the little novelty and excitement that had broken the dead level calm of life at the Elms.

Lord Airlie, 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 Earlescourt, and follow him there.

The summer began to grow warm; the hawthorn and apple blossoms had all died away; the corn waved in the fields, 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 feared—was past and gone. She had been nervous and half frightened 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 daughter of Lord Earle and Hugh Fernely, the captain of a trading 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 attention, most forcibly—a young man of tall and stately figure, 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 Langdon. "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's heart. He remembered Lionel many years ago, long before he committed the foolish act that had cost him so much. Lionel had spent some time with him at Earlescourt; he remembered a handsome and high-spirited boy, proud and impetuous, 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 every 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 his. 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 I must have changed," said Lord Earle. "When I saw you last, Lionel, you were not much more than twelve years old, and I gave you a 'tip' the day you went back to Eton. Charlie Villiers was with you."

"Then you are Lord Earle," returned Lionel. "I came to London purposely to see you," and his frank face flushed, and he held out his hand in greeting.

"I have been anxious to see you," said Lord Earle; "but I have not been long in England. We must be better acquainted; you are my heir at law."

"Your what?" said Mr. Dacre, wonderingly.

"My heir," replied Lord Earle. "I 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. "I remember some story of a romantic marriage. Today I hear of nothing but the beautiful Miss Earle."

"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.

"I am with Captain Poyntz, at his chambers; I promised to spend some days with him," replied Lionel, who began 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?"

"I shall be very pleased," said Lionel, and the two gentlemen left Brookes's together.

"I must introduce you to Lady Earle and my daughters," said Ronald, as they walked along. "I have been so long absent from home and friends that it seems strange to claim relationship with any one."

"I 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 I went abroad?" asked Lord Earle, gravely.

"No," replied Lionel. "Your father never invited me to Earlescourt after you left."

In a few words Lord Earle told his heir that he had married against his father's wish, and in consequence had never been pardoned.

"And you gave up everything," said Lionel Dacre—"home, friends, and position, for the love of 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 heavy 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."

"I shall not forget," said Lionel, pained at the 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 divided 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 that 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 I can not take her to my heart or my home again. In the hour of death," he murmured, "I will forgive her."