Dora Thorne

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There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed; the June
roses were blooming then, and it was arranged that it should take
place in the month of August.

There were to be no grand festivities--no one had heart for
them; the wedding was to be quiet, attended only by a few
friends; and Lord Earle succeeded in obtaining a promise from
Lionel which completely set his heart at rest. It was that he
would never seek another home--that he and Lillian would consent
to live at Earlescourt. Her father could not endure the thought
of parting with her.

"It will be your home, Lionel," he said, "in the course of after-
years. Make it so now. We shall be one family, and I think a
happy one."

So it was arranged, much to everybody's delight. A few days
before the wedding took place, a letter came which seemed to
puzzle Lord Earle very much. He folded it without speaking, but,
when breakfast was over, he drew his wife's hand within his own.

"Dora," he said, "there will never be any secrets between us for
the future. I want you to read this letter--it is from
Valentine Charteris that was, Princess Borgezi that is. She is
in England, at Greenoke, and asks permission to come to Lillian's
wedding; the answer must rest with you, dear."

She took the letter from him and read it through; the noble heart
of the woman spoke in every line, yet in some vague way Dora
dreaded to look again upon the calm, grand beauty of Valentine's
face.

"Have no fear, Dora, in saying just what you think," said her
husband; "I would not have our present happiness clouded for the
world. One word will suffice--if you do not quite like the
thought, I will write to her and ask her to defer the visit."

But Dora would not be outdone in magnanimity. With resolute
force, she cast from her every unworthy thought.

"Let her come, Ronald," she said, raising her clear, dark eyes to
his. "I shall be pleased to see her. I owe her some amends."

He was unfeignedly pleased, and so was every one else. Lady
Helena alone felt some little doubts as to Dora's capability of
controlling herself.

The Princess Borgezi was to come alone; she had not said at what
hour they might expect her.

Lady Dora had hardly understood why her thoughts went back so
constantly to her lost child. Beatrice had loved the beautiful,
gracious woman who was coming to visit them. It may have been
that which prompted her, on the day before Lillian's marriage,
when the house was alive with the bustle and turmoil of
preparation, to go to the silent, solitary rooms where her
daughter's voice had once made sweetest music.

She was there alone for some time; it was Lord Earle who found
her, and tried to still her bitter weeping.

"It is useless, Ronald," she cried; "I can not help asking why my
bright, beautiful darling should be lying there. It is only two
years since a wedding wreath was made for her."

Nothing would comfort her but a visit to her daughter's grave.
It was a long walk, but she preferred taking it alone. She said
she should feel better after it. They yielded to her wish.
Before she had quitted the house many minutes, the Princess
Borgezi arrived.

There was no restraint in Ronald's greeting. He was heartily
glad to see her--glad to look once more on the lovely Grecian
face that had seemed to him, years ago, the only model for Queen
Guinivere. They talked for a few minutes; then Valentine,
turning to him, said:

"Now let me see Lady Dora. My visit is really to her."

They told her whither she had gone; and Lady Helena whispered
something to her with brought tears to Valentine's eyes.

"Yes," she said; "I will follow her. I will ask her to kiss me
over her daughter's grave."

Some one went with her to point out the way, but Valentine
entered the church yard alone.

Through the thick green foliage she saw the shining of the white
marble cross, and the dark dress of Dora, who knelt by the grave.

She went up to her. Her footsteps, falling noiselessly on the
soft grass, were unheard by the weeping mother.

Valentine knelt by her side. Dora, looking up, saw the calm face
beaming down upon her, ineffable tenderness in the clear eyes.
She felt the clasp of Valentine's arms, and heard a sweet voice
whisper:

"Dora, I have followed you here to ask you to try to love me, and
to pardon me for my share in your unhappy past. For the love of
your dead, who loved me, bury here all difference and dislike."

She could not refuse. For the first time, Lord Earle's wife laid
her head upon that noble woman's shoulder and wept away her
sorrow, while Valentine soothed her with loving words.

Over the grave of a child the two women were reconciled--all
dislike, jealousy, and envy died away forever. Peace and love
took their place.

In the after-time there was something remarkable in Dora's
reverential love for Valentine. Lord Earle often said that in
his turn he was jealous of her. His wife had no higher ideal, no
truer friend than the Princess Borgezi.

The wedding day dawned at last; and for a time all trace of
sadness was hidden away. Lord Earle would have it so. He said
that that which should be the happiest day of Lillian's life must
not be clouded. Such sad thoughts of the lost Beatrice as came
into the minds of those who had loved her remained unspoken.

The summer sun never shone upon a more lovely bride, nor upon a
fairer scene than that wedding. The pretty country church was
decorated with flowers and crowded with spectators.

Side by side at the altar stood Lady Dora Earle and Valentine.
People said afterward they could not decide whom they admired
most--Lady Helena's stately magnificence, Dora's sweet, simple
elegance, or the Princess Borgezi's statuesque Grecian beauty.

Lord Earle had prepared a surprise for Dora. When the little
wedding party returned from the church, the first to greet them
was Stephen Thorne, now a white-headed old man, and his wife.
The first to show them all honor and respect were Lord Earle and
his mother. Valentine was charmed with their homely simplicity.

For months after they returned to Knutsford the old people talked
of "the lady with the beautiful face, who had been so kind and
gracious to them."

Lord Airlie did not attend the wedding, but he had urged Lionel
to spend his honeymoon at Lynnton Hall, and Lillian had willingly
consented.

So they drove away when the wedding breakfast was over. A hundred
wishes for their happiness following them, loving words ringing
after them. Relatives, friends, and servants had crowded round
them; and Lillian's courage gave way at last. She turned to
Lionel, as though praying him to shorten their time of parting.

"Heaven bless you, my darling!" whispered Dora to her child.
"And mind, never--come what may--never be jealous of your
husband."

"Goodbye, Lionel," said Lord Earle, clasping the true, honest
hand in his; "and, if ever my little darling here tries you, be
patient with her."

The story of a life time was told in these two behests.

Chapter XLV

Ten years had passed since the wedding bells chimed for the
marriage of Lillian Earle. New life had come to Earlescourt.
Children's happy voices made music there; the pattering of little
feet sounded in the large, stately rooms, pretty, rosy faces made
light and sunshine.

The years had passed as swiftly and peacefully as a happy dream.
One event had happened which had saddened Lord Earle for a few
days--the death of the pretty, coquettish Countess Rosali. She
had nor forgotten him; there came to him from her sorrowing
husband a ring which she had asked might be given to him.

Gaspar Laurence was still abroad, and there was apparently no
likelihood of his return. The Princess Borgezi with her husband
and children, had paid several visits to the Hall. Valentine had
one pretty little daughter, upon whom Lionel's son was supposed
to look with most affection. She had other daughters--the
eldest, a tall, graceful girl, inherited her father's Italian
face and dark, dreamy eyes. Strange to say, she was not unlike
Beatrice. It may have been that circumstance which first
directed Lord Airlie's attention to her. He met her at
Earlescourt, and paid her more attention than he had paid to any
one since he had loved so unhappily years before.

No one was much surprised when he married her. And Helena
Borgezi made a good wife. She knew his story, and how much of
his heart lay in the grave of his lost love. He was kind,
gentle, and affectionate to her, and Helena valued his
thoughtful, faithful attachment more than she would have valued
the deepest and most passionate love of another man.

One room at Lynnton was never unlocked; strange feet never
entered it; curious eyes never looked round it. It was the
pretty boudoir built, but never furnished, for Hubert Airlie's
first love.

Time softened his sorrow; his fair, gentle wife was devoted to
him, blooming children smiled around him; but he never forgot
Beatrice. In his dreams, at times, Helena heard her name on his
lips; but she was not jealous of the dead. No year passed in
which she did not visit the grave where Beatrice Earle slept her
last long sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Dora seemed to grow young again with Lillian's children. She
nursed and tended them. Lady Helena, with zealous eyes, looked
after Bertrand, the future lord of Earlescourt, a brave, noble
boy, his father's pride and Lillian's torment and delight, who
often said he was richer than any other lad in the country, for
he had three mothers, while others had but one.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun was setting over the fair broad lands of Earlescourt, the
western sky was all aflame; the flowers were thirsting for the
soft dew which had just begun to fall.

Out in the rose garden, where long ago a love story had been
told, were standing a group that an artist would have been
delighted to sketch.

Lionel had some choice roses in bloom, and after dinner the whole
party had gone out to see them. Lady Helena Earle was seated on
the garden chair whereon Beatrice had once sat listening to the
words which had gladdened her brief life. A number of fair
children played around her.

Looking on them with pleased eyes was a gentle, graceful lady.
Her calm, sweet face had a story in it, the wondrous dark eyes
had in them a shadow as of some sorrow not yet lived down. Lady
Dora Earle was happy; the black clouds had passed away. She was
her husband's best friend, his truest counselor; and Ronald had
forgotten that she was ever spoken of as "lowly born." The
dignity of her character, acquired by long years of stern
discipline, asserted itself; no one in the whole country side was
more loved or respected than Lady Dora Earle.

Ronald, Lord Earle, was lying on the grass at his wife's feet.
He looked older, and the luxuriant hair was threaded with silver;
but there was peace and calm in his face.

He laughed at Lillian and her husband conversing so anxiously
over the roses.

"They are lovers yet," he said to Dora; and she glanced smilingly
at them.

The words were true. Ten years married, they were lovers yet.
There was gentle forbearance on one side, an earnest wish to do
right on the other. Lillian Dacre never troubled her head about
"woman's rights;" she had no idea of trying to fill her husband's
place; if her opinion on voting was asked, the chances were that
she would smile and say, "Lionel manages all those matters." Yet
in her own kingdom she reigned supreme; her actions were full of
wisdom, he words were full of kindly thought. The quiet, serene
beauty of her youth had developed into that of magnificent
womanhood. The fair, spirituelle face was peerless in her
husband's eyes. There was no night or day during which Lionel
Dacre did not thank Heaven for that crown of all great gifts, a
good and gentle wife.

There was a stir among the children; a tall, dark gentleman was
seen crossing the lawn, and Lionel cried: "Here is Gaspar
Laurence with his arms full of toys--those children will be
completely spoiled!"

The little ones rushed forward, and Bertrand, in his hurry, fell
over a pretty child with large dark eyes and dark hair. Lord
Earle jumped up and caught her in his arms.

"Bertie, my boy," he said, "always be kind to little Beatrice!"
The child clasped her arms round his neck. He kissed the dark
eyes and murmured to himself, "Poor little Beatrice!"

The summer wind that played among the roses, lifting the golden,
rippling hair from Lillian's forehead and tossing her little
girl's curls into Lord Earle's face, was singing a sweet, low
requiem among the trees that shaded the grave of Beatrice Earle.

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