Dora Thorne

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So the young heir of Earlescourt sat, pretending to enjoy the
strawberries, but in reality engrossed by the charming figure
before him. She neither stirred nor spoke. Under the boughs of
the apple tree, with the sunbeams falling upon her, she made a
fair picture, and his eyes were riveted upon it.

It was all very delightful, and very wrong. Ronald should not
have talked to the lodge keeper's daughter, and sweet, rustic
Dora Thorne should have known better. But they were young, and
such days come but seldom, and pass all too quickly.

"Dora Thorne," said Ronald, musingly--"what a pretty name! How
well it suits you! It is quite a little song in itself."

She smiled with delight at his words; then her shy, dark eyes
were raised for a moment, and quickly dropped again.

"Have you read Tennyson's 'Dora?'" he asked.

"No," she replied--"I have little time for reading."

"I will tell you the story," he said, patronizingly. "Ever since
I read it I have had an ideal 'Dora,' and you realize my dream."

She had not the least idea what he meant; but when he recited the
musical words, her fancy and imagination were stirred; she saw
the wheat field, the golden corn, the little child and its
anxious mother. When Ronald ceased speaking, he saw her hands
were clasped and her lips quivering.

"Did you like that?" he asked, with unconscious patronage.

"So much!" she replied. "Ah, he must be a great man who wrote
those words; and you remember them all."

Her simple admiration flattered and charmed him. He recited
other verses for her, and the girl listened in a trance of
delight. The sunshine and western wind brought no warning to the
heir of Earlescourt that he was forging the first link of a
dreadful tragedy; he thought only of the shy, blushing beauty and
coy grace of the young girl!

Suddenly from over the trees there came the sound of the great
bell at the Hall. Then Dora started.

"It is one o'clock!" she cried. "What shall I do? Mrs. Morton
will be angry with me."

"Angry!" said Ronald, annoyed at this sudden breakup of his
Arcadian dream. "Angry with you! For what?"

"She is waiting for the strawberries," replied conscious Dora,
"and my basket is not half full."

It was a new idea to him that any one should dare to be angry
with this pretty, gentle Dora.

"I will help you," he said.

In less than a minute the heir of Earlescourt was kneeling by
Dora Thorne, gathering quickly the ripe strawberries, and the
basket was soon filled.

"There," said Ronald, "you need not fear Mrs. Morton now, Dora.
You must go, I suppose; it seems hard to leave this bright
sunshine to go indoors!"

"I--I would rather stay," said Dora, frankly; "but I have much
to do."

"Shall you be here tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied; "it will take me all the week to gather
strawberries for the housekeeper."

"Goodbye, Dora," he said, "I shall see you again."

He held out his hand, and her little fingers trembled and
fluttered in his grasp. She looked so happy, yet so frightened,
so charming, yet so shy. He could have clasped her in his arms
at that moment, and have said he loved her; but Ronald was a
gentleman. He bowed over the little hand, and then relinquished
it. He watched the pretty, fairy figure, as the young girl
tripped away.

"Shame on all artificial training!" said Ronald to himself.
"What would our fine ladies give for such a face? Imagine beauty
without coquetry or affectation. The girl's heart is as pure as
a stainless lily; she never heard of 'a grand match' or a 'good
parli.' If Tennyson's Dora was like her, I do not wonder at
anything that happened."

Instead of thinking to himself that he had done a foolish thing
that bright morning, and that his plain duty was to forget all
about the girl, Ronald lighted his cigar, and began to dream of
the face that had charmed him.

Dora took the fruit to Mrs. Morton, and received no reprimand;
then she was sent home to the cottage, her work for the day
ended. She had to pass through the park. Was it the same road
she had trodden this morning? What caused the new and shining
glory that had fallen on every leaf and tree? The blue heavens
seemed to smile upon her; every flower, every song of the bright
birds had a new meaning. What was it? Her own heart was beating
as it had never beaten before; her face was flushed, and the
sweet, limpid eyes shone with a new light. What was it? Then
she came to the brook-side and sat down on the violet bank.

The rippling water was singing a new song, something of love and
youth, of beauty and happiness--something of a new and fairy-
like life; and with the faint ripple and fall of the water came
back to her the voice that had filled her ears and touched her
heart. Would she ever again forget the handsome face that had
smiled so kindly upon her? Surely he was a king among men, and
he had praised her, said her name was like a song, and that she
was like the Dora of the beautiful poem. This grand gentleman,
with the clear, handsome face and dainty white hands, actually
admired her.

So Dora dreamed by the brook-side, and she was to see him again
and again; she gave no thought to a cold, dark time when she
should see him no more. Tomorrow the sun would shine, the birds
sing, and she should see him once again.

Dora never remembered how that happy day passed. Good Mrs.
Thorne looked at her child, and sighed to think how pretty she
was and how soon that sweet, dimpled face would be worn with
care.

Dora's first proceeding was characteristic enough. She went to
her own room and locked the door; then she put the cracked little
mirror in the sunshine, and proceeded to examine her face. She
wanted to see why Ronald Earle admired her; she wondered much at
this new power she seemed possessed of; she placed the glass on
the table, and sat down to study her own face. She saw that it
was very fair; the coloring was delicate and vivid, like that of
the heart of a rose; the fresh, red lips were arched and smiling;
the dark, shy eyes, with their long silken lashes, were bright
and clear; a pretty, dimpled, smiling face told of a sweet,
simple, loving nature--that was all; there was no intellect, no
soul, no high-bred refinement; nothing but the charm of bright,
half-startled beauty.

Dora was half puzzled. She had never thought much of her own
appearance. Having lived always with sensible, simple people,
the pernicious language of flattery was unknown to her. It was
with a half-guilty thrill of delight that she for the first time
realized the charm of her own sweet face.

The sunny hours flew by. Dora never noted them; she thought only
of the morning past and the morning to come, while Ronald dreamed
of her almost unconsciously. She had been a bright feature in a
bright day; his artistic taste had been gratified, his eyes had
been charmed. The pretty picture haunted him, and he remembered
with pleasure that on the morrow he should see the shy, sweet
face again. No thought of harm or wrong even entered his mind.
He did not think that he had been imprudent. He had recited a
beautiful poem to a pretty, coy girl, and in a grand, lordly way
he believed himself to have performed a kind action.

The morning came, and they brought bright, blushing Dora to her
work; again the little white fingers glistened amid the crimson
berries. Then Dora heard him coming. She heard his footsteps,
and her face grew "ruby red." He made no pretense of finding her
accidentally.

"Good morning, Dora," he said; "you look as bright as the
sunshine and as fair as the flowers. Put away the basket; I have
brought a book of poems, and mean to read some to you. I will
help you with your work afterward."

Dora, nothing loath, sat down, and straightway they were both in
fairyland. He read industriously, stealing every now and then a
glance at his pretty companion. She knew nothing of what he was
reading, but his voice made sweeter music than she had ever heard
before.

At length the book was closed, and Ronald wondered what thoughts
were running through his companion's simple, artless mind. So he
talked to her of her daily life, her work, her pleasures, her
friends. As he talked he grew more and more charmed; she had no
great amount of intellect, no wit or keen powers of repartee, but
the girl's love of nature made her a poetess. She seemed to know
all the secrets of the trees and the flowers; no beauty escaped
her; the rustle of green leaves, the sighs of the western wind,
the solemn hush of the deep-green woods, the changing tints of
the summer sky delighted her. Beautiful words, embodying
beautiful thoughts, rippled over the fresh, ripe lips. She knew
nothing else. She had seen no pictures, read no books, knew
nothing of the fine arts, was totally ignorant of all scholarly
lore, but deep in her heart lay a passionate love for the fair
face of nature.

It was new to Ronald. He had heard fashionable ladies speak of
everything they delighted in. He had ever heard of "music in the
fall of rain drops," or character in flowers.

Once Dora forgot her shyness, and when Ronald said something, she
laughed in reply. How sweet and pure that laughter was--like a
soft peal of silver bells! When Ronald Earle went to sleep that
night, the sound haunted his dreams.

Chapter IV

Every morning brought the young heir of Earlescourt to the bright
sunny gardens where Dora worked among the strawberries. As the
days passed she began to lose something of her shy, startled
manner, and laughed and talked to him as she would have done to
her own brother. His vanity was gratified by the sweetest homage
of all, the unconscious, unspoken love and admiration of the
young girl. He liked to watch the blushes on her face, and the
quivering of her lips when she caught the first sound of his
coming footsteps. He liked to watch her dark eyes droop, and
then to see them raised to his with a beautiful, startled light.

Insensibly his own heart became interested. At first he had
merely thought of passing a pleasant hour; then he admired Dora,
and tried to believe that reading to her was an act of pure
benevolence; but, as the days passed on, something stronger and
sweeter attracted him. He began to love her--and she was his
first love.

Wonderful to say, these long tete-a-tetes had not attracted
observation. No rumor of them escaped, so that no thorn appeared
in this path of roses which led to the brink of a precipice.

It wanted three days until the time settled for the return of
Lord and Lady Earle. Sir Harry Laurence, of Holtham Hall, asked
Ronald to spend a day with him; and, having no valid excuse, he
consented.

"I shall not see you tomorrow, Dora," he said. "I am going away
for the day."

She looked at him with a startled face. One whole day without
him! Then, with a sudden deadly pain, came the thought that
these golden days must end; the time must come when she should
see him no more. The pretty, dimpled face grew pale, and a dark
shadow came into the clear eyes.

"Dora," cried Ronald, "why do you look so frightened? What is
it?"

She gave him no answer, but turned away. He caught her hands in
his own.

"Are you grieved that I am going away for one whole day?" he
asked. But she looked so piteous and so startled that he waited
for no reply. "I shall continue to see you," he resumed. "I
could not let any day pass without that."

"And afterward," she said, simply, raising her eyes to his full
of tears.

Then Ronald paused abruptly--he had never given one thought to
the "afterward." Why, of course strawberries would not grow
forever--it would not always be summer. Lord Earle would soon
be back again, and then he must go abroad. Where would Dora be
then? He did not like the thought--it perplexed him. Short as
was the time he had known her, Dora had, in some mysterious way,
grown to be a part of himself. He could not think of a day
wherein he should not see her blushing, pretty face, and hear the
music of her words. He was startled, and clasped her little
hands more tightly within his own.

"You would not like to lose me, Dora?" he said, gently.

"No," she replied; and then tears fell from her dark eyes.

Poor Ronald! Had he been wise, he would have flown then; but he
bent his head over her, and kissed the tears away. The pretty
rounded cheek, so soft and child-like, he kissed again, and then
clasped the slight girlish figure in his arms.

"Do not shed another tear, Dora," he whispered; "we will not lose
each other. I love you, and you shall be my wife."

One minute before he spoke the idea had not even crossed his
mind; it seemed to him afterward that another voice had spoken by
his lips.

"Your wife!" she cried, looking at him in some alarm. "Ah, no!
You are very kind and good, but that could never be."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because you are so far above me," replied the girl. "I and mine
are servants and dependents of yours. We are not equal; I must
learn to forget you," sobbed Dora, "and break my own heart!"

She could not have touched Ronald more deeply; in a moment he had
poured forth a torrent of words that amazed her. Fraternity and
equality, caste and folly, his mission and belief, his love and
devotion, were all mingled in one torrent of eloquence that
simply alarmed her.

"Never say that again, Dora," he continued, his fair, boyish face
flushing. "You are the equal of a queen upon her throne; you are
fair and true, sweet and good. What be a queen more than that?"

"A queen knows more," sighed Dora. "I know nothing in all the
wide world."

"Then I will teach you," he said. "Ah, Dora, you know enough!
You have beautiful thoughts, and you clothe them in beautiful
words. Do not turn from me; say you love me and will be my wife.
I love you, Dora--do not make me unhappy."

"I would not make you unhappy," she said, "for the whole world;
if you wish me to love you--oh, you know I love you--if you
wish me to go away and forget you, I will do my best."

But the very thought of it brought tears again. She looked so
pretty, so bewildered between sorrow and joy, so dazzled by
happiness, and yet so piteously uncertain, that Ronald was more
charmed than ever.

"My darling Dora," he said, "you do love me. Your eyes speak, if
your lips do not tell me. Will you be my wife? I can not live
without you."

It was the prettiest picture in the world to see the color return
to the sweet face. Ronald bent his head, and heard the sweet
whisper.

"You shall never rue your trust, Dora," he said, proudly; but she
interrupted him.

"What will Lord Earle say?" she asked; and again Ronald was
startled by that question.

"My father can say nothing," he replied. "I am old enough to
please myself, and this is a free country. I shall introduce you
to him, Dora, and tell him you have promised to be my wife. No
more tears, love. There is nothing but happiness before us."

And so he believed. He could think of nothing, care for nothing
but Dora--her pretty face, her artless, simple ways, her
undisguised love for him. There was but one excuse. He was
young, and it was his first love; yet despite his happiness, his
pride, his independence, he did often wonder in what words he
should tell his father that he had promised to marry the lodge
keeper's daughter. There were even times when he shivered, as
one seized with sudden cold, at the thought.

The four days passed like a long, bright dream. It was a pretty
romance, but sadly misplaced--a pretty summer idyll. They were
but boy and girl. Dora met Ronald in the park, by the brook-
side, and in the green meadows where the white hawthorn grew.
They talked of but one thing, their love. Ronald never tired of
watching Dora's fair face and pretty ways; she never wearied of
telling him over and over again, in a hundred different ways, how
noble and kind he was, and how dearly she loved him.

Lord Earle wrote to say that he should be home on the Thursday
evening, and that they were bringing back a party of guests with
them.

"There will be no time to tell my father just at present," said
Ronald; "so, Dora, we must keep our secret. It will not do to
tell your father before I tell mine."

They arranged to keep the secret until Lord Earle should be alone
again. They were to meet twice every day--in the early morning,
while the dew lay on the grass, and in the evening, when the Hall
would be full of bustle and gayety.

Ronald felt guilty--he hardly knew how or why--when his father
commiserated him for the two lonely weeks he had spent. Lonely!
He had not felt them so; they had passed all too quickly for him.
How many destinies were settled in that short time!

There was little time for telling his secret to Lord Earle. The
few guests who had returned to Earlescourt were men of note, and
their host devoted himself to their entertainment.

Lady Earle saw some great change in her son. She fancied that he
spent a great deal of time out of doors. She asked him about it,
wondering if he had taken to studying botany, for late and early
he never tired of rambling in the park. She wondered again at
the flush that crimsoned his face; but the time was coming when
she would understand it all.

It is probable that if Ronald at that time had had as much of
Dora's society as he liked, he would soon have discovered his
mistake, and no great harm would have been done; but the foolish
romance of foolish meetings had a charm for him. In those
hurried interviews he had only time to think of Dora's love--he
never noted her deficiencies; he was charmed with her tenderness
and grace; her artless affection was so pretty; the difference
between her and those with whom he was accustomed to talk was so
great; her very ignorance had a piquant charm for him. So they
went on to their fate.

One by one Lord Earle's guests departed, yet Ronald had not told
his secret. A new element crept into his love, and urged him on.
Walking one day through the park with his father they overtook
Dora's father. A young man was with him and the two were talking
earnestly together, so earnestly that they never heard the two
gentlemen; and in passing by Ronald distinguished the words, "You
give me your daughter, Mr. Thorne, and trust me to make her
happy."

Ronald Earle turned quickly to look at the speaker. He saw
before him a young man, evidently a well-to-do farmer from his
appearance, with a calm, kind face and clear and honest eyes; and
he was asking for Dora--Dora who was to be his wife and live at
Earlescourt. He could hardly control his impatience; and it
seemed to him that evening would never come.

Dinner was over at last. Lord Earle sat with Sir Harry Laurence
over a bottle of claret, and Lady Earle was in the drawing room
and had taken up her book. Ronald hastened to the favorite
trysting place, the brook-side. Dora was there already, and he
saw that her face was still wet with tears. She refused at first
to tell him her sorrow. Then she whispered a pitiful little
story, that made her lover resolve upon some rash deeds.

Ralph Holt had been speaking to her father, and had asked her to
marry him. She had said "No;" but her mother had wept, and her
father had grown angry, and had said she should obey him.

"He has a large farm," said Dora, with a bitter sigh. "He says I
should live like a great lady, and have nothing to do. He would
be kind to my father and mother; but I do not love him," she
added.

Clasping her tender little hands round Ronald's arm, "I do not
love him," she sobbed; "and, Ronald, I do love you."

He bent down and kissed her pretty, tear-bedewed face, all the
chivalry of his nature aroused by her words.

"You shall be my wife, Dora," he said, proudly, "and not his.
This very evening I will tell my father, and ask his consent to
our marriage. My mother is sure to love you--she is so kind and
gracious to every one. Do not tremble, my darling; neither Ralph
Holt nor any one else shall take you from me."

She was soon comforted! There was no bound or limit to her faith
in Ronald Earle.

"Go home now,"he said, "and tomorrow my father himself shall see
you. I will teach that young farmer his place. No more tears,
Dora--our troubles will end tonight."

He went with her down the broad walk, and then returned to the
Hall. He walked very proudly, with his gallant head erect,
saying to himself that this was a free country and he could do
what he liked; but for all that his heart beat loudly when he
entered the drawing room and found Lord and Lady Earle. They
looked up smilingly at him, all unconscious that their beloved
son, the heir of Earlescourt, was there to ask permission to
marry the lodge keeper's daughter.

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."

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