Dora Thorne

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"You sing like one inspired, Beatrice," he said.

"I was thinking of you," she replied; and he saw by the dreamy,
rapt expression of her face that she meant what she had said.

Presently Lord Airlie was summoned to Lady Helena's assistance in
some little argument over cards, and Beatrice, while her fingers
strayed mechanically over the keys, arrived at her decision. She
would see Hugh. She could not avert that; and she must meet him
as bravely as she could. After all, as Lillian had said, he was
not cruel, and he did love her. The proud lip curled in scornful
triumph as she thought how dearly he loved her. She would appeal
to his love, and beseech him to release her.

She would beseech him with such urgency that he could not refuse.
Who ever refused her? Could she not move men's hearts as the
wind moves the leaves? He would be angry at first, perhaps
fierce and passionate, but in the end she would prevail. As she
sat there, dreamy, tender melodies stealing, as it were, from her
fingers, she went in fancy through the whole scene. She knew how
silent the sleeping woods would be--how dark and still the
night. She could imagine Hugh's face, browned by the sun and
travel. Poor Hugh! In the overflow of her happiness she felt
more kindly toward him.

She wished him well. He might marry some nice girl in his own
station of life, and be a prosperous, happy man, and she would be
a good friend to him if he would let her. No one would ever know
her secret. Lillian would keep it faithfully, and down the fair
vista of years she saw herself Lord Airlie's beloved wife, the
error of her youth repaired and forgotten.

The picture was so pleasant that it was no wonder her songs grew
more triumphant. Those who listened to the music that night
never forgot it.

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."

Chapter XXXVIII

Lillian Earle was no tragedy queen. She never talked about
sacrifice or dying, but there was in her calm, gentle nature a
depth of endurance rarely equaled. She had never owned, even to
herself, how dearly she loved Lionel Dacre--how completely every
thought and hope was centered in him. Since she had first
learned to care for him, she had never looked her life in the
face and imagined what it would be without him.

It never entered her mind to save herself at the expense of her
sister; the secret had been intrusted to her, and she could not
conceive the idea of disclosing it. If the choice had been
offered her between death and betraying Beatrice, she would have
chosen death, with a simple consciousness that she was but doing
her duty.

So, when Lionel uttered those terrible words--when she found
that he had seen her--she never dreamed of freeing herself from
blame, and telling the story of her sister's fault. His words
were bitterly cruel; they stung her with sharp pain. She had
never seen contempt or scorn before on that kindly, honest face;
now, she read both. Yet, what could she do? Her sister's life
lay in her hands, and she must guard it.

Therefore, she bore the cruel taunts, and only once when the fear
of losing him tortured her, cried out for pity and trust. But he
had no trust; he stabbed her gentle heart with his fierce words,
he seared her with his hot anger; she might, at the expense of
another, have explained all, and stood higher than ever in his
esteem, but she would not do it.

She was almost stunned by the sorrow that had fallen upon her.
She saw him, with haughty, erect bearing, quit the drawing room,
and she knew that unless Beatrice permitted her to tell the
truth, she would never see his face again. She went straight to
her sister's room and waited for her.

The pale face grew calm and still; her sister could not refuse
her request when she had told her all; then she would write to
Lionel and explain. He would not leave Earlescourt; he would
only love her the better for her steadfast truth.

"Send Suzette away," she whispered to Beatrice, when she entered;
"I must see you alone at once."

Beatrice dismissed her maid, and then turned to her sister.

"What is it, Lily?" she asked. "Your face is deathly pale. What
has happened?"

"Beatrice," said Lillian, "will you let me tell your secret to
Lionel Dacre? It will be quite sacred with him."

"To Lionel Dacre!" she cried. "No, a thousand times over! How
can you ask me, Lily? He is Lord Airlie's friend and could not
keep it from him. Why do you ask me such an extraordinary
question?"

"He saw me tonight," she replied; "he was out in the grounds, and
saw me speaking to Hugh Fernely."

"Have you told him anything?" she asked; and for a moment
Beatrice looked despairing.

"Not a word," said Lily. "How could I, when you trusted me?"

"That is right," returned her sister, a look of relief coming
over her face; "his opinion does not matter much. What did he
say?"

"He thought I had been to meet some one I knew," replied Lillian,
her face growing crimson with shame.

"And was dreadfully shocked, no doubt," supplemented Beatrice.
"Well, never mind, darling. I am very sorry it happened, but it
will not matter. I am so near freedom and happiness, I can not
grieve over it. He will not surely tell? He is too honorable
for that."

"No," said Lillian, dreamily, "he will not tell."

"Then do not look so scared, Lily; nothing else matters."

"You forget what he must think of me," said Lillian. "Knowing
his upright, truthful character, what must he think of me?"

That view of the question had not struck Beatrice. She looked
grave and anxious. It was not right for her sister to be
misjudged.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she began, but Lillian interrupted her, she
came close to her, and lowered her pale face over her sister's
arm.

"Beatrice," she said, slowly, "you must let me tell him. He
cares for me. He loves me; I promised to be his wife, and I love
him--just as you do Lord Airlie."

Under the shock of those words Beatrice Earle sat silent and
motionless.

"I love him," continued Lillian. "I did not tell you. He said
it was not to be mentioned until you were married. I love him so
dearly, Beatrice--and when he asked me who it was I had been to
meet, I could not answer him. He was very angry; he said sharp,
cruel words to me, and I could not tell him how false they were.
He will leave Earlescourt; he will never look upon my face again
unless I tell him all. He has said so, and he will keep his
word. Beatrice, must I lose my love?"

"It would be only for a time," she replied. "I hate myself for
being so selfish, but I dare not trust Lionel Dacre. He is so
impetuous, so hasty, he would betray me, as surely as he knew it.
Do you not remember his saying the other day that it was well for
him he had no secrets, for he could not manage to keep them!"

"He would keep this," pleaded Lillian--"for your sake and mine."

"He would not," said Beatrice; "and I am so near freedom, so near
happiness. Oh, Lily, you have saved me once--save me again! My
darling, keep my secret until I am married; then I swear to you I
will tell Lionel every word honorably myself, and he will love
you doubly. Could you do this for me?"

"It is not fair to him--he has a right to my confidence--it is
not fair to myself, Beatrice."

"One of us must be sacrificed," returned her sister. "If myself,
the sacrifice will last my life--will cause my death; if you, it
will last, at the most, only three or four weeks. I will write
to Lionel on my wedding day."

"Why trust him then and not now?" asked Lillian.

"Because, once married to Lord Airlie, I shall have no fear.
Three or four weeks of happiness are not so much to give up for
your own sister, Lily. I will say no more. I leave it for you
to decide."

"Nay, do not do that," said Lillian, in great distress. "I could
not clear myself at your expense"--a fact which Beatrice
understood perfectly well.

"Then let the matter rest," said her sister; "some day I shall be
able to thank you for all you have done for me--I can not now.
On my wedding day I will tell Lionel Dacre that the girl he loves
is the truest, the noblest, the dearest in the world."

"It is against my better judgment," returned Lillian.

"It is against my conscience, judgment, love, everything," added
Beatrice; "but it will save me from cruel ruin and sorrow; and it
shall not hurt you, Lily--it shall bring you good, not harm.
Now, try to forget it. He will not know how to atone to you for
this. Think of your happiness when he returns."

She drew the golden head down upon her shoulder, and with the
charm that never failed, she talked and caressed her sister until
she had overcome all objections.

But during the long hours of that night a fair head tossed
wearily to and fro on its pillow--a fair face was stained with
bitter tears. Lionel Dacre lingered, half hoping that even at
the last she would come and bid him stay because she wished to
tell him all.

But the last moment came, and no messenger from Lillian brought
the longed-for words. He passed out from the Hall. He could not
refrain from looking once at the window of her room, but the
blind was closely drawn. He little knew or dreamed how and why
he would return.

Thursday morning dawned bright and beautiful, as though autumn
wished to surpass the glories or summer. Beatrice had not told
Lillian when she was going to meet Hugh, partly because she
dreaded her sister's anxiety, partly because she did not wish any
one to know how long she might be with him; for Beatrice
anticipated a painful interview, although she felt sure of
triumph in the end.

Lillian was ill and unable to rise; unused to emotion, the strain
upon her mind had been too great. When Lady Helena listened to
her maid's remarks and went up to see her granddaughter, she
forbade her to get up, and Lillian, suffering intensely, was only
too pleased to obey.

The breakfast party was a very small one. Lord Earle was absent;
he had gone to Holte. Lady Helena hurried away to sit with
Lillian. Lord Airlie had been smiling very happily over a
mysterious little packet that had come by post. He asked
Beatrice if she would go out with him--he had something to show
her. They went out into the park, intending to return in time
for luncheon.

The morning was bright and calm. Something of the warmth and
beauty of the summer lingered still, although the ground was
strewn with fallen leaves.

Lord Airlie and Beatrice sat at the foot of the grand old cedar
tree whence they would see the distant glimmer of the deep, still
lake. The birds sang around them, and the sun shone brightly.
On the beautiful face of Beatrice Earle her lover read nothing
but happiness and love.

"I have something here for you, Beatrice," said Lord Airlie,
showing her a little packet--"a surprise. You must thank me by
saying that what it contains will be more precious to you than
anything else on earth."

She opened the pretty case; within it there lay a fine gold chain
of exquisite fashion and a locket of marvelous beauty.

She uttered a little cry of surprise, and raised the present in
her hands.

"Now, thank me," said Lord Airlie, "in the way I asked."

"What it contains is more precious to me than anything on earth,"
she said. "You know that, Hubert; why do you make me repeat it?"

"Because I like to hear it," he answered. "I like to see my proud
love looking humble for a few minutes; I like to know that I have
caged a bright, wild bird that no one else could tame."

"I am not caged yet," she objected.

"Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, "make me a promise. Let me fasten
this locket around your neck, and tell me that you will not part
with it night or day for one moment until our wedding day."

"I can easily promise that," she said. She bent her beautiful
head, and Lord Airlie fastened the chain round her throat.

He little knew what he had done. When Lord Airlie fastened the
chain round the neck of the girl he loved, he bound her to him in
life and in death.

"It looks charming," he said. "How everything beautiful becomes
you, Beatrice! You were born to be a queen--who am I that I
should have won you? Tell me over again--I never grow tired of
hearing it--do you love me?"

She told him again, her face glowing with happiness. He bent
over her and kissed the sweet face; he kissed the little white
hands and the rings of dark hair the wind blew carelessly near
him.

"When the leaves are green, and the fair spring is come," he
said, "you will be my wife, Beatrice--Lady Airlie of Lynnton. I
love my name and title when I remember that you will share them.
And you shall be the happiest Lady Airlie that ever lived--the
happiest bride, the happiest wife the sun ever shone upon. You
will never part with my locket, Beatrice?"

"No," she replied; "never. I will keep it always."

They sat through the long bright hours under the shade of the old
cedar tree, while Lillian lay with head and heart aching,
wondering in her gentle way why this sorrow should have fallen
upon her.

She did not know, as she lay like a pale broken lily, that years
ago her father, in the reckless heyday of youth, had wilfully
deceived his father, and married against his wish and commands;
she did not know how that unhappy marriage had ended in pride,
passion, and sullen, jealous temper--while those who should have
foreborne went each their own road--the proud, irritated husband
abroad, away from every tie of home and duty, the jealous, angry
wife secluding herself in the bitterness of her heart--both
neglecting the children intrusted to them. She knew how one of
those children had gone wrong; she knew the deceit, the misery,
the sorrow that wrong had entailed. She was the chief victim,
yet the sin had not been hers.

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