Dora Thorne

Chapter V

Ronald Earle had plenty of courage—no young hero ever led a forlorn hope with more bravery that he displayed in the interview with his parents, which might have daunted a bolder man. As he approached, Lady Earle raised her eyes with a languid smile.

"Out again, Ronald!" she said. "Sir Harry Laurence left his adieus for you. I think the park possesses some peculiar fascination. Have you been walking quickly? Your face is flushed."

He made no reply, but drew near to his mother; he bent over her and raised her hand to his lips.

"I am come to tell you something," he said. "Father, will you listen to me? I 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 utter amazement.

"To marry Dora Thorne!" he said. "And who, in the name of reason, is Dora Thorne?"

"The lodge keeper's daughter," replied Ronald, stoutly. "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 reproaches—anything but this.

"You can not be serious, Ronald," said his mother, smiling.

"I am so much in earnest," he replied, "that I would give up all I have in the world—my life itself, for Dora."

Then Lord Earle ceased laughing, and looked earnestly at the handsome, flushed face.

"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. I have promised to marry Dora Thorne, and, with your permission, I intend to keep my word."

An angry flush rose to Lord Earle's face, but he controlled 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, I should, for the present, refuse."

"I shall be twenty in a few months," said Ronald, "and I am willing to wait until then."

Lady 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 is Dora Thorne?" 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 I 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, and I 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.

"I asked her to be my wife while you were from home," replied Ronald. "She promised and I have only been waiting until our guests left us and you had more time."

"Is it to see Dora Thorne that you have been out so constantly?" asked Lady Earle.

"Yes, I could not let a day pass without seeing her," he replied; "it would be like a day without sunshine."

"Does any one else know of this folly?" asked Lord Earle, angrily.

"No, you may be quite sure, father, I should tell you before I told any one else," replied Ronald.

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 smiling—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 mischief; you have done so. Say no more now; I clearly and distinctly refuse my consent. I appeal to your honor that you meet this young girl no more. We will talk of it another time."

When the door closed behind him, Lord and Lady Earle looked at each other. The lady's face was pale and agitated.

"Oh, Rupert," she said, "how brave and noble he is! Poor foolish boy! How proud he looked of his absurd mistake. We shall have trouble with him, I 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 me manage the matter, Rupert. I will go down to the lodge tomorrow, 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 sorrow. 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 unfitted—oh, how unfitted! ever to be Lady Earle. She was graceful as a wild flower is graceful; but she had no manner, no dignity, no cultivation. She stood blushing, confused, and 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 myself as our daughter. We will not speak of your inferiority in birth and position. You are not my son's equal in refinement or education; he would soon discover that, and tire 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.

"I 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. I never dreamed that she knew the young master; she has not mentioned his name."

Lady Earle's diplomacy succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations. Stephen Thorne and his wife, although rather dazzled by the fact that their daughter had captivated the future Lord Earlescourt, let common sense and reason prevail, and 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 banknote 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. "I can not sell poor Dora's love."

Then Lady Earle held out her delicate white hand, and the man bowed low over it. Before the sun set that evening, Stephen Thorne had taken Dora to Eastham, where she was to remain until Ronald had gone abroad.

For a few days it seemed as though the storm had blown over. There was one angry interview between father and son, 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 gate leading from the fields to the high road; it was closed between them, and neither could make way.

"I have a little account to settle with you, my young lordling," said Ralph, angrily. "Doves never mate with eagles; if you want to marry, choose one of your own class, and leave Dora Thorne to me."

"Dora Thorne is mine," said Ronald, haughtily.

"She will never be," was the quick reply. "See, young master, I have loved Dora since she was a—a pretty, bright-eyed child. Her father lived near my father's farm then. I 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 and my love. The world is wide, and you can choose where you will—do not rob me of Dora Thorne."

There was a mournful dignity in the man's face that touched Ronald.

"I am sorry for you," he said, "if you love Dora; for she will be my wife."

"Never!" cried Ralph. "Since you will not listen to fair words, I defy you. I will go to Eastham and never leave Dora again until she will be my own."

High, angry words passed between them, but Ralph in his passion 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 jealousy robbed the boy of his better sense; duty and honor were forgotten. Under pretense of visiting one of his college friends, Ronald went to Eastham. Lord and Lady Earle 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 be written, but when the heir of Earlescourt saw Dora again, her artless delight, her pretty 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 wife secretly. He had said that when once they were married his father would forgive them, and all would be well. He believed what he said; Dora had no will but his. She forgot all Lady Earle's warnings; she remembered only Ronald and his love. So they were married in the quiet parish church of Helsmeer, twenty miles from Eastham, and no human being either knew or guessed their secret.

There was no excuse, no palliation for an act that was undutiful, dishonorable, and deceitful—there was nothing to plead for him, save that he was young, and had never known a wish refused.

They were married. Dora Thorne became Dora Earle. Ronald parted from his pretty wife immediately. He arranged all his plans with what he considered consummate wisdom. He was to return home, and try by every argument in his power to soften his father and win his consent. If he still refused, then time would show him the best course. Come what might, Dora was his; nothing on earth could part them. He cared for very little else. Even if the very worst came, and his father sent him from home, 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 honesty to his father's face, Lord Earle saw that his son looked happy, and believed the cloud had passed away.

Dora was to remain at Eastham until she heard from him. He could not write to her, nor could she send one line to him; but he promised and believed that very soon he should take her in all honor to Earlescourt.