Dora Thorne

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"How cold and stately these English girls are!" thought her
lover. "They are more like goddesses than women. Would any word
of mine ever disturb the proud coldness of that perfect face?"

It did not then, but before morning ended Prince di Borgezi had
obtained permission to visit England in the spring and ask again
the same question. Valentine liked him. She admired his noble
and generous character, his artistic tastes, his fastidious
exclusiveness had a charm for her; she did not love him, but it
seemed to her more than probable that the day would come when she
would do so.

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

Lady Charteris and her daughter left Florence and returned to
Greenoke. Lady Earle paid them a long visit, and heard all they
had to tell of her idolized son. Lady Charteris spoke kindly of
Dora; and Valentine, believing she could do something to restore
peace, sent an affectionate greeting, and asked permission to
visit the Elms.

Lady Earle saw she had made a mistake when she repeated
Valentine's words to Dora. The young wife's face flushed burning
red, and then grew white as death.

"Pray bring me no more messages from Miss Charteris," she
replied. "I do not like her--she would only come to triumph
over me; I decline to see her. I have no message to send her."

Then, for the first time, an inkling of the truth came to Lady
Earle. Evidently Dora was bitterly jealous of Valentine. Had
she any cause for it? Could it be that her unhappy son had
learned to love Miss Charteris when it was all too late? From
that day Lady Earle pitied her son with a deeper and more tender
compassion; she translated Dora's curt words into civil English,
and then wrote to Miss Charteris. Valentine quite understood
upon reading them that she was not yet pardoned by Ronald Earle's
wife.

Time passed on without any great changes, until the year came
when Lady Earle thought her grandchildren should begin their
education. She was long in selecting one to whom she could
intrust them. At length she met with Mrs. Vyvian, the widow of
an officer who had died in India, a lady qualified in every way
for the task, accomplished, a good linguist, speaking French and
Italian as fluently as English--an accomplished musician, an
artist of no mean skill, and, what Lady Earl valued still more, a
woman of sterling principles and earnest religious feeling

It was not a light task that Mrs. Vyvian undertook. The children
had reached their fifth year, and for ten years she bound herself
by promise to remain with them night and day, to teach and train
them. It is true the reward promised was great. Lady Earle
settled a handsome annuity upon her. Mrs. Vyvian was not
dismayed by the lonely house, the complete isolation from all
society, or the homely appearance of the farmer and his wife. A
piano and a harp were sent to the Elms. Every week Lady Earle
dispatched a large box of books, and the governess was quite
content.

Mrs. Vyvian, to whom Lady Earle intrusted every detail of her
son's marriage, was well pleased to find that Dora liked her and
began to show some taste for study. Dora, who would dream of
other things when Ronald read, now tried to learn herself. She
was not ashamed to sit hour after hour at the piano trying to
master some simple little air, or to ask questions when anything
puzzled her in her reading. Mrs. Vyvian, so calm and wise, so
gentle, yet so strong, taught her so cleverly that Dora never
felt her own ignorance, nor did she grow disheartened as she had
done with Ronald.

The time came when Dora could play pretty simple ballads, singing
them in her own bird-like, clear voice, and when she could
appreciate great writers, and speak of them without any mistake
either as to their names or their works.

It was a simple, pleasant, happy life; the greater part of the
day was spent by mother children in study. In the evening came
long rambles through the green woods, where Dora seemed to know
the name and history of every flower that grew; over the smiling
meadows, where the kine stood knee-deep in the long, scented
grass; over the rocks, and down by the sea shore, where the waves
chanted their grand anthem, and broke in white foam drifts upon
the sands.

No wonder the young girls imbibed a deep warm love for all that
was beautiful in Nature. Dora never wearied of it--from the
smallest blade of grass to the most stately of forest trees, she
loved it all.

The little twin sisters grew in beauty both in body and mind; but
the contrast between them was great; Beatrice was the more
beautiful and brilliant; Lillian the more sweet and lovable.
Beatrice was all fire and spirit; her sister was gentle and calm.
Beatrice had great faults and great virtues; Lillian was simply
good and charming. Yet, withal, Beatrice was the better loved.
It was seldom that any one refused to gratify her wishes.

Dora loved both children tenderly; but the warmest love was
certainly for the child who had the Earle face. She was
imperious and willful, generous to a fault, impatient of all
control; but her greatest fault, Mrs. Vyvian said, was a constant
craving for excitement; a distaste for and dislike of quiet and
retirement. She would ride the most restive horse, she would do
anything to break the ennui and monotony of the long days.

Beautiful, daring, and restless, every day running a hundred
risks, and loved the better for the dangers she ran, Beatrice was
almost worshiped at the Elms. Nothing ever daunted her, nothing
ever made her dull or sad. Lillian was gentle and quiet, with
more depth of character, but little power of showing it; somewhat
timid and diffident--a more charming ideal of an English girl
could not have been found--spirituelle, graceful, and refined;
so serene and fair that to look at her was a pleasure.

Lady Earle often visited the Elms; no mystery had been made to
the girls--they were told their father was abroad and would not
return for many years, and that at some distant day they might
perhaps live with him in his own home. They did not ask many
questions, satisfied to believe what was told them, not seeking
to know more.

Lady Earle loved the young girls very dearly. Beatrice, so like
her father, was undoubtedly the favorite. Lord Earle never
inquired after them; when Lady Earle asked for a larger check
than usual, he gave it to her with a smile, perfectly
understanding its destination, but never betraying the knowledge.

So eleven years passed like a long tranquil dream. The sun rose
and set, the tides ebbed and flowed, spring flowers bloomed, and
died, the summer skies smiled, autumn leaves of golden hue
withered on the ground; and winter snows fell; yet no change came
to the quiet homestead in the Kentish meadows.

Beatrice and Lillian had reached their sixteenth year, and two
fairer girls were seldom seen. Mrs. Vyvian's efforts had not
been in vain; they were accomplished far beyond the ordinary run
of young girls. Lillian inherited her father's talent for
drawing. She was an excellent artist. Beatrice excelled in
music. She had a magnificent contralto voice that had been
carefully trained. Both were cultivated, graceful, elegant
girls, and Lady Earle often sighed to think they should be living
in such profound obscurity. She could do nothing; seventeen
years had not changed Lord Earle's resolution. Time, far from
softening, imbittered him the more against his son. Of Ronald
Lady Earle heard but little. He was still in Africa; he wrote at
rare intervals, but there was little comfort in his letters.

Lady Earle did what she could for her grandchildren, but it was a
strange, unnatural life. They knew no other girls; they had
never ben twenty miles from Knutsford. All girlish pleasures and
enjoyments were a sealed book to them. They had never been to a
party, a picnic, or a ball; no life was ever more simple, more
quiet, more devoid of all amusement than theirs. Lillian was
satisfied and happy; her rich, teeming fancy, her artistic mind,
and contented, sweet disposition would have rendered her happy
under any circumstances--but it was different with brilliant,
beautiful Beatrice. No wild bird in a cage ever pined for
liberty or chafed under restraint more than she did. She cried
out loudly against the unnatural solitude, the isolation of such
a life.

Eleven years had done much for Dora. The coy, girlish beauty
that had won Ronald Earle's heart had given place to a sweet,
patient womanhood. Constant association with one so elegant and
refined as Mrs. Vyvian had done for her what nothing else could
have achieved. Dora had caught the refined, high-bred accent,
the graceful, cultivated manner, the easy dignity. She had
become imbued with Mrs. Vyvian's noble thoughts and ideas.

Dora retained two peculiarities--one was a great dislike for
Ronald, the other a sincere dread of all love and lovers for her
children. From her they heard nothing but depreciation of men.
All men were alike, false, insincere, fickle, cruel; all love was
nonsense and folly. Mrs. Vyvian tried her best to counteract
these ideas; they had this one evil consequence--that neither
Lillian nor Beatrice would ever dream of even naming such
subjects to their mother, who should have been their friend and
confidante. If in the books Lady Earle sent there was any
mention of this love their mother dreaded so, they went to Mrs.
Vyvian or puzzled over it themselves. With these two exceptions
Dora had become a thoughtful, gentle woman. As her mind became
more cultivated she understood better the dishonor of the fault
which had robbed her of Ronald's love. Her fair face grew
crimson when she remembered what she had done.

It was a fair and tranquil womanhood; the dark eyes retained
their wondrous light and beauty; the curling rings of dark hair
were luxuriant as ever; the lips wore a patient, sweet
expression. The clear, healthy country air had given a delicate
bloom to the fair face. Dora looked more like the elder sister
of the young girls than their mother.

The quiet, half-dreamy monotony was broken at last. Mrs. Vyvian
was suddenly summoned home. Her mother, to whom she was warmly
attached, was said to be dying, and she wished her last few days
to be spent with her daughter. At the same time Lady Earle wrote
to say that her husband was so ill that it was impossible for her
to look for any lady to supply Mrs. Vyvian's place. The
consequence was that, for the first time in their lives, the
young girls were left for a few weeks without a companion and
without surveillance.

Chapter XVII

One beautiful morning in May, Lillian went out alone to sketch.
The beauty of the sky and sea tempted her; fleecy-white clouds
floated gently over the blue heavens; the sun shone upon the
water until, at times, it resembled a huge sea of rippling gold.
Far off in the distance were the shining white sails of two
boats; they looked in the golden haze like the brilliant wings of
some bright bird. The sun upon the white sails struck her fancy,
and she wanted to sketch the effect.

It was the kind of morning that makes life seem all beauty and
gladness, even if the heart is weighed down with care. It was a
luxury merely to live and breathe. The leaves were all springing
in the woods; the meadows were green; wild flowers blossomed by
the hedge-rows; the birds sang gayly of the coming summer; the
white hawthorn threw its rich fragrance all around, and the
yellow broom bloomed on the cliffs.

As she sat there, Lillian was indeed a fair picture herself on
that May morning; the sweet, spirituelle face; the noble head
with its crown of golden hair; the violet eyes, so full of
thought; the sensitive lips, sweet yet firm; the white forehead,
the throne of intellect. The little fingers that moved rapidly
and gracefully over the drawing were white and shapely; there was
a delicate rose-leaf flush in the pretty hand. She looked fair
and tranquil as the morning itself.

The pure, sweet face had no touch of fire or passion; its
serenity was all unmoved; the world had never breathed on the
innocent, child-like mind. A white lily was not more pure and
stainless than the young girl who sat amid the purple heather,
sketching the white, far-off sails.

So intent was Lillian upon her drawing that she did not hear
light, rapid steps coming near; she was not aroused until a rich
musical voice called, "Lillian, if you have not changed into
stone or statue, do speak." Then, looking up, she saw Beatrice
by her side.

"Lay down your pencils and talk to me," said Beatrice,
imperiously. "How unkind of you, the only human being in this
place who can talk, to come here all by yourself! What do you
think was to become of me?"

"I thought you were reading to mamma," said Lillian, quietly.

"Reading!" exclaimed Beatrice. "You know I am tired of reading,
tired of writing, tired of sewing, tired of everything I have to
do."

Lillian looked up in wonder at the beautiful, restless face.

"Do not look 'good' at me," said Beatrice, impatiently. "I am
tired to death of it all. I want some change. Do you think any
girls in the world lead such lives as we do--shut up in a
rambling old farm house, studying from morn to night; shut in on
one side by that tiresome sea, imprisoned on the other by fields
and woods? How can you take it so quietly, Lillian? I am
wearied to death."

"Something has disturbed you this morning," said Lillian, gently.

"That is like mamma," cried Beatrice; "just her very tone and
words. She does not understand, you do not understand; mamma's
life satisfies her, your life contents you; mine does not content
me--it is all vague and empty. I should welcome anything that
changed this monotony; even sorrow would be better than this dead
level--one day so like another, I can never distinguish them."

"My dear Beatrice, think of what you are saying," said Lillian.

"I am tired of thinking," said Beatrice; "for the last ten years
I have been told to 'think' and 'reflect.' I have thought all I
can; I want a fresh subject."

"Think how beautiful those far-off white sails look," said
Lillian--"how they gleam in the sunshine. See, that one looks
like a mysterious hand raised to beckon us away."

"Such ideas are very well for you, Lillian," retorted Beatrice.
"I see nothing in them. Look at the stories we read; how
different those girls are from us! They have fathers, brothers,
and friends; they have jewels and dresses; they have handsome
admirers, who pay them homage; they dance, ride, and enjoy
themselves. Now look at us, shut up here with old and serious
people."

"Hush, Beatrice," said Lillian; "mamma is not old."

"Not in years, perhaps," replied Beatrice; "but she seems to me
old in sorrow. She is never gay nor light-hearted. Mrs. Vyvian
is very kind, but she never laughs. Is every one sad and
unhappy, I wonder? Oh, Lillian, I long to see the world--the
bright, gay world--over the sea there. I long for it as an
imprisoned bird longs for fresh air and green woods."

"You would not find it all happiness," said Lillian, sagely.

"Spare me all truism," cried Beatrice. "Ah, sister, I am tired
of all this; for eleven years the sea has been singing the same
songs; those waves rise and fall as they did a hundred years
since; the birds sing the same story; the sun shines the same;
even the shadow of the great elms fall over the meadow just as it
did when we first played there. I long to away from the sound of
the sea and the rustling of the elm trees. I want to be where
there are girls of my own age, and do as they do. It seems to
me we shall go on reading and writing, sewing and drawing, and
taking what mamma calls instructive rambles until our heads grow
gray."

"It is not so bad as that, Beatrice," laughed Lillian. "Lady
Earle says papa must return some day; then we shall all go to
him."

"I never believe one word of it," said Beatrice, undauntedly.
"At times I could almost declare papa himself was a myth. Why do
we not live with him? Why does he never write? We never hear of
or from him, save through Lady Earle; besides, Lillian, what do
you think I heard Mrs. Vyvian say once to grandmamma? It was
that we might not go to Earlescourt at all--that if papa did not
return, or died young, all would go to a Mr. Lionel Dacre, and we
should remain here. Imagine that fate--living a long life and
dying at the Elms!"

"It is all conjecture," said her sister. "Try to be more
contented, Beatrice. We do not make our own lives, we have not
the control of our own destiny."

"I should like to control mine," sighed Beatrice.

"Try to be contented, darling," continued the sweet, pleading
voice. "We all love and admire you. No one was ever loved more
dearly or better than you are. The days are rather long at
times, but there are all the wonders and beauties of Nature and
art."

"Nature and Art are all very well," cried Beatrice; "but give me
life."

She turned her beautiful, restless face from the smiling sea; the
south wind dancing over the yellow gorse caught up the words
uttered in that clear, musical voice and carried them over the
cliff to one who was lying with half-closed eyes under the shade
of a large tree--a young man with a dark, half-Spanish face
handsome with a coarse kind of beauty. He was lying there,
resting upon the turf, enjoying the beauty of the morning. As
the musical voice reached him, and the strange words fell upon
his ear, he smiled and raised his head to see who uttered them.
He saw the young girls, but their faces were turned from him;
those words range in his ears--"Nature and Art are all very
well, but give me life."

Who was it longed for life? He understood the longing; he
resolved to wait there until the girls went away. Again he heard
the same voice.

"I shall leave you to your sails, Lillian. I wish those same
boats would come to carry us away--I wish I had wings and could
fly over the sea and see the bright, grand world that lies beyond
it. Goodbye; I am tired of the never-ending wash of those long,
low waves."

He saw a young girl rise from the fragrant heather and turn to
descend the cliff. Quick as thought he rushed down by another
path, and, turning back, contrived to meet her half-way.
Beatrice came singing down the cliff. Her humor, never the same
ten minutes together, had suddenly changed. She remembered a new
and beautiful song that Lady Earle had sent, and determined to go
home and try it. There came no warning to her that bright summer
morning. The south wind lifted the hair from her brow and wafted
the fragrance of hawthorn buds and spring flowers to greet her,
but it brought no warning message; the birds singing gayly, the
sun shining so brightly could not tell her that the first link in
a terrible chain was to be forged that morning.

Half-way down the cliff, where the path was steep and narrow,
Beatrice suddenly met the stranger. A stranger was a rarity at
the Elms. Only at rare intervals did an artist or a tourist seek
shelter and hospitality at the old farm house. The stranger
seemed to be a gentleman. For one moment both stood still; then,
with a low bow, the gentleman stepped aside to let the young girl
pass. As he did so, he noted the rare beauty of that brilliant
face--he remembered the longing words.

"No wonder," he thought; "it is a sin for such a face as that to
be hidden here."

The beauty of those magnificent eyes startled him. Who was she?
What could she be doing here? Beatrice turning again, saw the
stranger looking eagerly after her, with profound admiration
expressed in every feature of his face; and that admiring gaze,
the first she had ever received in her life, sank deep into the
vain, girlish heart.

He watched the graceful, slender figure until the turn of the
road hid Beatrice from his view. He followed her at a safe
distance, and saw her cross the long meadows that led to the
Elms. Then Hugh Fernely waited with patience until one of the
farm laborers came by. By judicious questioning he discovered
much of the history of the beautiful young girl who longed for
life. Her face haunted him--its brilliant, queenly beauty, the
dark, radiant eyes. Come what might, Hugh Fernely said to
himself, he must see her again.

On the following morning he saw the girls return to the cliff.
Lillian finished her picture. Ever and anon he heard Beatrice
singing, in a low, rich voice, a song that had charmed her with
its weird beauty:

"For men must work, and women must weep;
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep
And goodbye to the bar and its moaning."

"I like those words, Lillian," he heard her say. "I wonder how
soon it will be 'over' for me. Shall I ever weep, as the song
says? I have never wept yet."

This morning the golden-haired sister left the cliff first, and
Beatrice sat reading until the noonday sun shone upon the sea.
Her book charmed her; it was a story telling of the life she
loved and longed for--of the gay, glad world. Unfortunately all
the people in the book were noble, heroic, and ideal. The young
girl, in her simplicity, believed that they who lived in the
world she longed for were all like the people in her book.

When she left the path that led to the meadows, she saw by her
side the stranger who had met her the day before. Again he bowed
profoundly, and, with many well-expressed apologies, asked some
trifling question about the road.

Beatrice replied briefly, but she could not help seeing the
wonder of admiration in his face. Her own grew crimson under his
gaze--he saw it, and his heart beat high with triumph. As
Beatrice went through the meadows he walked by her side. She
never quite remembered how it happened, but in a few minutes he
was telling her how many years had passed since he had seen the
spring in England. She forgot all restraint, all prudence, and
raised her beautiful eyes to his.

"Ah, then," she cried, "you have seen the great world that lies
over the wide sea."

"Yes," he replied, "I have seen it. I have been in strange,
bright lands, so different from England that they seemed to
belong to another world. I have seen many climes, bright skies,
and glittering seas, where the spice islands lie."

As he spoke, in words that were full of wild, untutored
eloquence, he saw the young girl's eyes riveted upon him. Sure
of having roused her attention, he bowed, apologized for his
intrusion, and left her.

Had Dora been like other mothers, Beatrice would have related
this little adventure and told of the handsome young traveler who
had been in strange climes. As it was, knowing her mother's
utter dread of all men--her fear lest her children should ever
love and marry--Beatrice never named the subject. She thought
much of Hugh Fernely--not of him himself, but of the world he
had spoken about--and she hoped it might happen to her to meet
him again.

"If we had some one here who could talk in that way," she said to
herself, "the Elms would not be quite so insupportable."

Two days afterward, Beatrice, wandering on the sands, met Hugh
Fernely. She saw the startled look of delight on his face, and
smiled at his pleasure.

"Pray forgive me," he said. "I--I can not pass you without one
word. Time has seemed to me like one long night since I saw you
last."

He held in his hand some beautiful lilies of the valley--every
little white warm bell was perfect. He offered them to her with
a low bow.

"This is the most beautiful flower I have seen for many years,"
he said. "May I be forgiven for begging permission to offer it
to the most beautiful lady I have ever seen?"

Beatrice took it from him, blushing at his words. He walked by
her side along the yellow sands, the waves rolling in and
breaking at their feet. Again his eloquence charmed her. He
told her his name, and how he was captain of a trading vessel.
Instinctively he seemed to understand her character--her
romantic, ideal way of looking at everything. He talked to her
of the deep seas and their many wonders; of the ocean said to be
fathomless; of the coral islands and of waters in whose depths
the oyster containing the pale, gleaming pearl is found; of the
quiet nights spent at sea, where the stars shine as they never
seem to shine on land; of the strange hush that falls upon the
heaving waters before a storm. He told of long days when they
were becalmed upon the green deep, when the vessel seemed

"A painted ship upon a painted ocean."

With her marvelous fancy and quick imagination she followed him
to the wondrous depth of silent waters where strange shapes,
never seen by human eye, abound. She hung upon his words; he saw
it, and rejoiced in his success. He did not startle her by any
further compliment, but when their walk was ended he told her
that morning would live in his memory as the happiest time of his
life.

After a few days it seemed to become a settled thing that
Beatrice should meet Hugh Fernely. Lillian wondered that her
sister so often preferred lonely rambles, but she saw the
beautiful face she loved so dearly grow brighter and happier,
never dreaming the cause.

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