Dora Thorne Part 21

Mrs. Vyvian saw a great change in Beatrice. Some of the old impetuosity had died away; she was as brilliant as ever, full of life and gayety, but in some way there was an indescribable change. At times a strange calm would come over the beautiful face, a far-off, dreamy expression steal into the dark, bright eyes. She had lost her old frankness. Time was when Mrs. Vyvian could read all her thoughts, and very rebellious thoughts they often were. But now there seemed to be a sealed chamber in the girl's heart. She never spoke of the future, and for the first time her watchful friend saw in her a nervous fear that distressed her. Carefully and cautiously the governess tried to ascertain the cause; she felt sure at last that, young as she was, carefully as she had been watched, Beatrice Earle had a secret in her life that she shared with no one else.

Chapter XIX

There were confusion and dismay in the stately home of the Earles. One sultry morning in August Lord Earle went out into the garden, paying no heed to the excessive heat. As he did not return to luncheon, the butler went in search of him and found his master lying as one dead on the ground. He was carried to his own room, doctors were summoned in hot haste from far and near; everything that science or love, skill or wisdom could suggest was done for him, but all in vain. The hour had come when he must leave home, rank, wealth, position--whatever he valued most--when he must answer for his life and what he had done with it--when he must account for wealth, talent, for the son given to him--when human likings, human pa.s.sions, would seem so infinitely little.

But while Lord Earle lay upon the bed, pale and unconscious, Lady Earle, who knelt by him and never left him, felt sure that his mind and heart were both active. He could not speak; he did not seem to understand. Who knows what pa.s.ses in those dread moments of silence, when the light of eternity shows so clearly all that we have done in the past? It may be that while he lay there, hovering as it were between two worlds, the remembrance of his son struck him like a two-edged sword--his son, his only child given to him to train, not only for earth but for heaven--the boy he had loved and idolized, then cast off, and allowed to become a wanderer on the face of the earth.

It may be that his stern, sullen pride, his imperious self-will, his resolute trampling upon the voice of nature and duty, confronted him in the new light shining upon him. Perhaps his own words returned to him, that until he lay dead Ronald should never see Earlescourt again; for suddenly the voice they thought hushed forever sounded strangely in the silence of that death chamber.

"My son!" cried the dying man, clasping his hands--"my son!"

Those who saw it never forgot the blank, awful terror that came upon the dying face as he uttered his last words.

They bore the weeping wife from the room. Lady Earle, strong, and resolute though she was, could not drive that scene from her mind. She was ill for many days, and so it happened that the lord of Earlescourt was laid in the family vault long ere the family at the Elms knew of the change awaiting them.

Ronald was summoned home in all haste; but months pa.s.sed ere letters reached him, and many more before he returned to England.

Lord Earle's will was brief, there was no mention of his son's name.

There was a handsome provision for Lady Earle, the pretty little estate of Roslyn was settled upon her; the servants received numerous legacies; Sir Harry Laurence and Sir Hugh Charteris were each to receive a magnificent mourning ring; but there was no mention of the once-loved son and heir.

As the heir at law, everything was Ronald's--the large amount of money the late lord had saved, t.i.tle, estates, everything reverted to him.

But Ronald would have exchanged all for one line of forgiveness, one word of pardon from the father he had never ceased to love.

It was arranged that until Ronald's return his mother should continue to reside at Earlescourt, and the management of the estates was intrusted to Mr. Burt, the family solicitor.

Lady Earle resolved to go to the Elms herself; great changes must be made there. Ronald's wife and children must take their places in the world; and she felt a proud satisfaction in thinking that, thanks to her sensible and judicious management, Dora would fill her future position with credit. She antic.i.p.ated Ronald's delight when he should see his beautiful and accomplished daughters. Despite her great sorrow, the lady of Earlescourt felt some degree of hope for the future. She wrote to the Elms, telling Dora of her husband's death, and announcing her own coming; then the little household understood that their quiet and solitude had ended forever.

The first thing was to provide handsome mourning. Dora was strangely quiet and sad through it all. The girls asked a hundred questions about their father, whom they longed to see. They knew he had left home in consequence of some quarrel with his father--so much Lady Earle told them--but they never dreamed that his marriage had caused the fatal disagreement; they never knew that, for their mother's sake, Lady Earle carefully concealed all knowledge of it from them.

Lady Earle reached the Elms one evening in the beginning of September.

She asked first to see Dora alone.

During the long years Dora had grown to love the stately, gentle lady who was Ronald's mother. She could not resist her sweet, gracious dignity and winning manners. So, when Lady Earle, before seeing her granddaughters, went to Dora's room, wishing for a long consultation with her, Dora received her with gentle, reverential affection.

"I wish to see you first," said Lady Helena Earle, "so that we may arrange our plans before the children know anything of them. Ronald will return to England in a few months. Dora, what course shall you adopt?"

"None," she replied. "Your son's return has nothing whatever to do with me."

"But, surely," said lady Helena, "for the children's sake you will not refuse at least an outward show of reconciliation?"

"Mr. Earle has not asked it," said Dora--"he never will do so, Lady Helena. It is as far from his thoughts as from mine."

Lady Earle sat for some moments too much astounded for speech.

"I never inquired the cause of your separation, Dora," she said, gently, "and I never wish to know it. My son told me you could live together no longer. I loved my own husband; I was a devoted and affectionate wife to him. I bore with his faults and loved his virtues, so that I can not imagine what I should do were I in your place. I say to you what I should say to Ronald--they are solemn words--'What therefore G.o.d hath joined together, let no man put asunder.' Now let me tell you my opinion. It is this, that nothing can justify such a separation as yours--nothing but the most outrageous offenses or the most barbarous cruelty. Take the right course, Dora; submit to your husband. Believe me, woman's rights are all fancy and nonsense; loving, gentle submission is the fairest ornament of woman.

Even should Ronald be in the wrong, trample upon all pride and temper, and make the first advances to him."

"I can not," said Dora gravely.

"Ronald was always generous and chivalrous," continued Lady Earle.

"Oh, Dora, have you forgotten how my son gave up all the world for you?"

"No," she replied, bitterly; "nor has he forgotten it, Lady Earle."

The remembrance of what she thought her wrongs rose visibly before her.

She saw again the magnificent face of Valentine Charteris, with its calm, high-bred wonder. She saw her husband's white, angry, indignant countenance--gestures full of unutterable contempt. Ah, no, never again! Nothing could heal that quarrel.

"You must take your place in the world," continued Lady Earle. "You are no longer simply Mrs. Earle of the Elms; you are Lady Earle, of Earlescourt, wife of its lord, the mother of his children. You have duties too numerous for me to mention, and you must not shrink from them."

"I refuse all," she replied, calmly; "I refuse to share your son's t.i.tles, his wealth, his position, his duties; I refuse to make any advances toward a reconciliation; I refuse to be reconciled."

"And why?" asked Lady Helena, gravely.

A proud flush rose to Dora's face--hot anger stirred in her heart.

"Because your son said words to me that I never can and never will forget," she cried. "I did wrong--Lady Helena, I was mad, jealous, blind--I did wrong--I did what I now know to be dishonorable and degrading. I knew no better, and he might have pardoned me, remembering that. But before the woman I believe to be my rival he bitterly regretted having made me his wife."

"They were hard words," said Lady Earle.

"Very hard," replied Dora; "they broke my heart--they slew me in my youth; I have never lived since then."

"Can you never forgive and forget them, Dora?" asked Lady Helena.

"Never," she replied; "they are burned into my heart and on my brain.

I shall never forget them; your son and I must be strangers, Lady Earle, while we live."

"I can say no more," sighed Lady Earle. "Perhaps a mightier voice will call to you, Dora, and then you will obey."

A deep silence fell upon them. Lady Helena was more grieved and disconcerted than she cared to own. She had thought of taking her son's wife and children home in triumph, but it was not to be.

"Shall we speak of the children now?" she asked at length. "Some arrangements must be made for them."

"Yes," said Dora, "their father has claims upon them. I am ready to yield to them. I do not believe he will ever love them or care for them, because they are mine. At the same time, I give them up to him and to you, Lady Earle. The sweetest and best years of their lives have been spent with me; I must therefore not repine. I have but one stipulation to make, and it is that my children shall never hear one word against me."

"You know little of me," said Lady Helena, "if you think such a thing is possible. You would rather part with your children than accompany them?"

"Far rather," she replied. "I know you will allow them to visit me, Lady Earle. I have known for many years that such a time must come, and I am prepared for it."

"But, my dear Dora," said Lady Earle, warmly, "have you considered what parting with your children implies--the solitude, the desolation?"

"I know it all," replied Dora. "It will be hard, but not so hard nor so bitter as living under the same roof with their father."

Carefully and quietly Dora listened to Lady Earle's plans and arrangements--how her children were to go to Earlescourt and take the position belonging to them. Mrs. Vyvian was to go with them and remain until Lord Earle returned. Until then they were not to be introduced into society; it would take some time to accustom them to so great a change. When Lord Earl returned he could pursue what course he would.

"He will be so proud of them!" said Lady Earle. "I have never seen a girl so spirited and beautiful as Beatrice, nor one so fair and gentle as Lillian. Oh, Dora, I should be happy if you were going with us."

Never once during the few days of busy preparation did Dora's proud courage give way. The girls at first refused to leave her; they exhausted themselves in conjectures as to her continued residence at the Elms, and were forced to be satisfied with Lady Earle's off-hand declaration that their mother could not endure any but a private life.