Dora Thorne

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Etext prepared by Theresa Armao.

DORA THORNE

by Charlotte M. Braeme

Chapter I

"The consequences of folly seldom end with its originator," said
Lord Earle to his son. "Rely upon it, Ronald, if you were to
take this most foolish and unadvisable 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 replied. "I
grant everything you say. Dora Thorne 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 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 question belonged to your
own station, or even if she were near it, that would be quite a
different matter. I am not annoyed that you have, as you think,
fallen in love, or that you wish to marry, although you are
young. I am annoyed that you should dream of wishing to marry a
simple rustic, the daughter of my lodge keeper. It is so
supremely ridiculous that I can hardly treat the matter
seriously."

"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 trammels 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," said Ronald, eagerly; "and with Dora
Thorne by my side, I could so 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 listen, and try to convince you by reasonable
arguments that the step you seem bent upon taking is one that
will entail nothing but misery. I have said no angry word to
you, nor shall I do so. I tell you simply it can not be. Dora
Thorne, my lodge keeper's daughter, is no fitting wife for my
son, the heir of Earlescourt. Come with me, Ronald; I will show
you further what I mean."

They went together, the father and son, so like in face yet so
dissimilar in mind. They had been walking up and down the broad
terrace, one of the chief beauties of Earlescourt. The park and
pleasure grounds, with flushed summer beauty, lay smiling around
them. The song of hundreds 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 entered the
hall. They passed through a long suite of magnificent
apartments, up the broad marble staircase, through long
corridors, until they reached the picture gallery, one of the
finest in England. Nearly every great master was represented
there. Murillo, Guido, Raphael, Claude Lorraine, Salvator Rosa,
Correggio, and Tintoretto. The lords of Earlescourt had all
loved pictures, and each of them ad added to the treasures of
that wonderful gallery.

One portion of the gallery was set aside for the portraits 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 the blow in his stead. She
died, and he lived--noble and beautiful, is she not? Now look
at the Lacy Alicia--this fair patrician lady smiling by the side
of her grim lord; she, at the 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 he received
pardon. Here is the Lady Helena--she is not beautiful, but look
at the intellect, the queenly brow, the soul-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 women."

Lord Earle then led his son to a large painting, upon 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 Earlescourt than
your mother, Ronald. She is the daughter of '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 lips, the refined
patrician features, and there came to him the memory of another
face, charming, shy and blushing, with a rustic, graceful beauty
different from the one before him as sunlight compared to
moonlight. The words faltered 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 brought 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. Promise 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 boyish
folly, and bless the good sense that has saved you from it. Will
you promise me, Ronald?"

"I can not, father," he replied, "for I have promised Dora to
make her my wife. I can not break my word. You yourself could
never counsel that."

"In this case I 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, I love her,
father."

"Hush," replied Lord Earle, angrily, "I will listen to no 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. I forbid you to marry
Dora Thorne; 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 the father.

"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 face again. My
home shall be no longer your home. You will lose my love, my
esteem, and what perhaps those who have lured you to ruin may
value still more, my wealth. I can not disinherit you; but, if
you persist in this folly, I will not allow you one farthing.
You shall be to me as one dead until I die myself."

"I have three hundred a year," said Ronald, calmly; "that my
godfather left me."

Lord Earle's face now grew white with anger.

"Yes," he replied, "you have that; it would not find you 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 your consent, father," he cried, passionately. "You
know I love you, and I love Dora; I can not give up Dora."

"Enough," said Lord Earle; "words seem useless. You hear my
final resolve; I shall never change it--no after repentance, no
entreaties, will move me. Choose between your parents, your home,
your position, and the love of this fair, foolish girl, of whom
in a few months you will be tired and weary. Choose between us.
I ask for no promises; you have refused to give it. I appeal no
more to your affection; I leave you to decide for yourself. I
might coerce and force you, but I 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 II

The Earles, of Earlescourt, were one of the oldest families in
England. The "Barony of Earle" is mentioned in the 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 been
zealous cultivators of the fine arts. Earlescourt was almost
overcrowded with pictures, statues, and works of art.

Son succeeded father, inheriting with title and estate the same
kindly, simple dispositions 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 inflexible; he longed for the time when
the Earles should become 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, clever, 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 was an elegant,
accomplished woman, who knew the world and its ways--who had,
from her earliest childhood, been accustomed 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 the 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 wit,
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 precautions;
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 lord" 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 the Lord Earle's heart, and all his
hopes were centered in his son. For the second time 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, disappointed 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 himself.

Time passed on, and the heir of Earlescourt went to Oxford, as
his father had done before him. Then came the second bitter
disappointment of Lord Earle's life. He himself was a Tory of
the old school. Liberal principles were an abomination to him;
he hated and detested everything connected with Liberalism. It
was a great shock when Ronald returned from college a "full-
fledged Liberal." With his usual keenness he saw that all
discussion was useless.

"Let the Liberal fever wear out," said one of his friends; "you
will find, Lord Earle, that all young men favor it. Conservatism
is the result of age and experience. By the time your son 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 man, eager to
bring theory into practice, fraternized with the tenant farmers,
and visited families from whom his father shrunk in aristocratic
dread.

There was little doubt that in those days Ronald Earl 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 distributed, and the days when one man
perished of hunger 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 zealous, had
any one proposed to him that he should inaugurate the new state
of things, and be the first to divide his fortune, the futility
of his theories would have struck him more plainly. Mingling in
good society, the influence of clever men and beautiful women
would, Lord Earle believed, convert his son 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
bravely, for he never ceased to hope.

A new trouble was dawning for 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 rustic beauty, the lodge keeper's daughter.

Earlescourt was one of the fairest spots in fair and tranquil
England. It stood in the deep green heart of the land, in the
midst of one of the bonny, fertile midland counties.

The Hall was surrounded by a large park, where the deer 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.

Earlescourt 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, flowering chestnut were all seen to
greatest perfection there.

Art had done much, Nature more, to beautify the home of the
Earles. Charming pleasure gardens were laid out 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 Hall itself was a picturesque, gray old building, with
turrets covered 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 apartments replete with modern
comfort.

One of the great beauties of Earlescourt was the broad terrace
that ran along one side of the house; the view from it was
unequaled for quiet loveliness. The lake shone in the distance
from between the trees; the perfume from the hawthorn hedges
filled the air, the fountains rippled merrily in the sunshine,
and the flowers bloomed in sweet summer beauty.

Lord Earle loved his beautiful home; he spared no expense in
improvements, and the time came when Earlescourt was known as a
model estate.

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 surveillance 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 Charteris, of Greenoke. Thinking Ronald 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
father 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 see the
horses, inspected the kennels, gladdened the gamekeeper'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 or "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 was impossible to remain indoors. 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 buried 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. He 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.

What impulse was it that sent him on that fair June morning, when
all Nature sung of love and happiness, to the spot where he met
his fate?

Chapter III

The strawberry gardens at Earlescourt were very extensive. Far
down among the green beds Ronald Earle saw a 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. Involuntarily he
raised his hat, in homage to her youth and her shy, sweet beauty.
"For whom are you gathering these?" he asked, wondering who she
was, and whence she came.

In a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and
most graceful of courtesies.

"They are for the housekeeper, sir," she replied; and her voice
was musical and clear as a silver bell.

"Then may I ask who you are?" continued Ronald.

"I am Dora Thorne," she replied, "the lodge keeper's 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 of those
strawberries?" he asked. "They look so ripe and tempting."

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 and quickly she contrived a small
basket of leaves, and 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 indeed so fair, so modest and
graceful, that Ronald Earle was charmed.

"It must be because you gathered them that they are so nice," he
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 the shade of this apple tree."

He watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young face.
She never once raised her dark eyes to his. He had seen
beautiful and stately ladies, but none so coy or bewitching 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?

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