Dora Thorne

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 fairyland 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 today;" every night she thought, "Something must happen tomorrow;" 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 suspense made her sick at heart. There were times when she thought it better to die at once than pass through this lingering 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 difficulties of her position, and she did not think it 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 partiality displayed, but the willful young beauty generally contrived to have her own way. By her engaging manners and high spirits she secured every one's attention; 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 presence 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—she was so strong where he was weak, her calm serene patience controlled his impetuosity, her gentle thoughtfulness balanced his recklessness, her sweet, graceful humility corrected his pride.

She influenced him more than he knew—one word from her did wonders with him. He loved her for her fair beauty, 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 appearance, 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 been obliged to practice.

As he grew older and began to look around the world, he was not favorably impressed. The ladies of his mother's circle were all striving together to get the foremost place. He heard of envy, jealousy, scandal, untruth, until he wondered 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 to realize it.

Lillian Earle did. He watched her keenly; she 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 was. 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. He set to work deliberately and with all the ardor of his impetuous 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 a word or two, and then hurry away from him. If he wished to join her in her walks or 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 happiness stirred in the gentle heart. She longed for, yet half dreaded, Lionel's presence. When he was near her, the little hands trembled and the sweet face grew warm and flushed. Yet the measure of her content and happiness 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 began to value the high and holy teachings he had hitherto overlooked. She was his ideal realized. If ever the time should come for him to be disappointed in her, then he would believe all things false—but it never could be.

How should he tell her of his love? It would be like trying to cage a startled, timid bird. He stood abashed before her sweet innocence.

But the time came when he resolved to woo and win her—when he felt that his life would be unbearable without her; and he said to himself that sweet Lillian Earle should be his wife, or he would never look upon a woman's face again.

Lionel felt some slight jealousy 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 determined to say nothing to Lord Earle until Beatrice was 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. Who was so handsome, so brave, so good? She liked to look shyly at the frank, proud face and the careless wave of hair thrown back from his brow; his voice made music in 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 whether 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.

"What are you thinking of, Lillian?" he asked. "You look sad and anxious."

"I was thinking of Beatrice," she replied. "She seems so changed, so different. I can not understand it."

"I 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 fill my heart! I wonder if you know how dearly I love you. Nay, do not turn from me, do not look frightened. To me you are the truest, noblest, and fairest woman in the world. I love you so dearly, Lily, that I have not a thought or wish away from you. I 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 me what you would. Could you like me?"

The sweet flushed face was raised to his; he read the happiness shining in the clear eyes. But she could not 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 spoken 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. I 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.

"I 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. I 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.

"I can not thank you," he said, his voice full of emotion. "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."