Dora Thorne

Chapter XXXVII

Lionel Dacre stood for some minutes stunned with the shock and surprise. He could not be mistaken; unless his senses 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 home under the cover of night's darkness and silence—who had met in her father's grounds one whom she dared not meet in the light of day.

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 form had seemed to him only as a beautiful casket hiding a precious gem. Nay, still more, though knowing and loving her, he had begun to care for everything good and pure that interested her. Now all was false and hateful.

There was no truth in the world, he said to himself. This girl, whom he had believed to be the fairest and sweetest 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 compared with Lillian's deceit.

And he had loved her so! Looking into those tender eyes, he had believed love and truth shone there; the dear face that had blushed and smiled for him had 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 innocence, 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 must 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 passion of despair seized him. A long, low cry came from his lips, a bitter sob shook his frame. He had lost his fair, sweet love. The ideal he had worshiped lay stricken; falsehood and deceit marked 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 pulsating 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 him; 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.

"Here are the drawings," she said; "will you look over them?"

He remembered how he had asked her to sing to him, and she refused, looking confused and uneasy the while. He understood now the reason why.

He took a chair by her side; the folio lay upon a table placed in a large room, lighted by a silver lamp. They were as much alone there as though they had been in another room. She took out a drawing, and laid it before him. He neither saw it nor heard what she remarked.

"Lillian," he 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 I 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?"

Her gentle eyes never wavered, they were fixed half in wonder on his, but at his question the faint flush on her cheeks grew deeper.

"Not very long," she replied; "a few days."

"You said 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 quiet reply.

"Pray pardon the question—have you received the attentions of any lover before receiving mine?"

"Certainly not," she said, wondering still more.

"I have all your affection, your confidence, your trust; you have never duped or deceived me; you have been open, truthful, and honest with me?"

"You forget 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 all that was pure and noble in woman. In you I saw everything good and holy. May Heaven pardon you that my 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. I, your betrothed husband, the man you love and trust, ask you, Lillian Earle, who was it you met tonight 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 came 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. "Remember, I saw you, and I 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. I 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 not betray you to Lord Earle. Let him find out for himself what you are, as I have done. I could curse myself for 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 so; in time I may forget the deceit, if you are 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 suppose?"

The gentle eyes were raised to his in mute, appealing sorrow, but 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 I may pardon you. If you refuse to tell me, I shall leave Earlescourt, and never look upon your false, fair 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 have a right to know?"

"Trust me, Lionel," she implored. "Try, for the love you bear me, to trust me!"

"I 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 care not. You have deceived me. Take back your ring. I will say goodbye to you. I shall not care to look upon your false, fair face again."

"Oh, Lionel, wait!" she cried. "Give me time—do not leave me so!"

"Time will make little difference," he answered; "I shall not leave the Hall until tomorrow 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 quivering lips; and yet he thought to himself, although she looked stricken with anguish, there was no guilt on the clear, fair brow.

He turned back from the door and went straight to Lord Earle.

"I shall leave Earlescourt tomorrow," he said, abruptly. "I must go, Lord Earle; do not press to stay."

"Come and go as you will, Lionel," said Ronald, surprised at the brusqueness of his manner; "we are always pleased to see you and sorry to lose you. You will return soon, perhaps?"

"I will write to you in a few days," he replied. "I must say goodbye to Lady Earle."

She was astounded. Beatrice and Lord Airlie came up to him there was a general expression of surprise and regret. He, unlike himself, was brusque, and almost haughty.

Sir Harry and Lady Laurence had gone home. Beatrice, with a vague fear that something had gone wrong, said she was tired; Lord Airlie said goodnight; and in a few minutes Lady Helena and her son were left alone.

"What has come over Lionel?" asked Ronald. "Why, mother, how mistaken I am! Do you know that I quite believed he was falling in love with Lillian?"

"He did that long ago," replied Lady Helena, with a smile. "Say nothing about it. Lionel is very proud and impetuous. I fancy he and Lillian have had some little dispute. Matters of that kind are best left alone—interference always does harm. He will come back in a few days; and all be right again. Ronald, there is one question I have been wishing to ask you—do not be angry if I pain you, my son. Beatrice will be married soon—do you not intend her mother to be present at the wedding?"

Lord Earle rose from his chair, and began, as he always did in 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 her over, but I do not wish to see her. I have fought a hard battle with my feelings, but I can not bring myself to see her."

"Yet you loved her very much once," said Lady Helena.

"I did," he replied, gently. "Poor Dora."

"It is an awful thing to live at enmity with any one," said 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 I 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 can do and what I can not do. I could take my wife in my arms, and kiss her face—I 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."