Dora Thorne by Charlotte Mary Brame (any book recommendations .TXT) 📖

She must see them soon, with your full consent and permission. They can go to her if you will."

"You are right, mother," he said, after a few minutes. "They are Dora's children, and she ought to see them; but they must not return to that farm house--I can not bear the thought of it. Surely they can meet on neutral ground--at your house, say, or in London; and let it be at Christmas."

"It had better be in London," said Lady Helena. "I will write to Dora, and tell her. The very anticipation of it will make her happy until the time arrives--she loves the children so dearly."

And again a softened thought of Dora came to her husband. Of course she loved them. The little villa at Florence rose before him; he saw vividly, as though he had left it but yesterday, the pretty vine-shaded room where Dora used to sit nursing the little ones. He remembered her sweet patience, her never-failing, gentle love. Had he done right to wound that sad heart afresh by taking those children from her? Was it a just and fitting reward for the watchful love and care of those lonely years?

He would fain have pardoned her, but he could not; and he said to himself again: "In the hour of death! I will forgive her then."

* * * * *


The glowing August, so hot and dusty in London, was like a dream of beauty at Earlescourt. The tall trees gave grateful shelter, baffling the sun's warm rays; the golden corn stood in the broad fields ready for the sickle; the hedge-rows were filled with flowers. The beech trees in the park were in full perfection. Fruit hung ripe and heavy in the orchards. It was no longer the blossoming promise of spring, but the perfect glory of summer.

For many long years Earlescourt had not been so gay. The whole country-side rang with fashionable intelligence. The house was filled with visitors, Lord Airlie heading the list. Lionel Dacre, thinking but little of the time when the grand old place would be his own, was full of life and spirits.

Long arrears of hospitalities and festivities had to be repaid to the neighborhood. Beatrice and Lillian had to make their debut there. Lady Helena decided upon commencing the programme with a grand dinner party, to be followed by a ball in the evening. Ronald said something about the weather being warm for dancing.

"We danced in London, papa," said Beatrice, "when the heat was so great that I should not have felt any surprise if the whole roomful of people had dissolved. Here we have space--large, cool rooms, fresh air, a conservatory as large as a London house; it will be child's play in comparison with what we have gone through."

"Miss Earle is quite right," said Lord Airlie. "A ball during the season in London is a toil; here it would be nothing but a pleasure."

"Then a ball let it be," said Lord Earle. "Lillian, make out a list of invitations, and head it with Sir Harry and Lady Laurence of Holtham Hall. That reminds me, their eldest son, Gaspar, came home yesterday from Germany; do not forget to include him."

"Little Gaspar," cried Lady Helena--"has he returned? I should like to see him."

"Little Gaspar," said Lord Earle, laughing, "is six feet high now, mother. You forget how time flies; he is taller than Lionel, and a fine, handsome young fellow he is. He will be quite an acquisition."

Lord Earle was too much engrossed to remark the uneasiness his few words had caused. Lord Airlie winced at the idea of a rival a handsome man, and sentimental, too, as all those people educated in Germany are!

"I can not understand what possesses English people to send their sons abroad for education," he said to Beatrice--"and to Germany of all places in the world."

"Why should they not?" she asked.

"The people are so absurdly sentimental," he replied. "Whenever I see a man with long hair and dreamy eyes, I know he is a German."

"You are unjust," said Beatrice, as she left him to join Lillian.

"You are jealous," said Lionel, who had overheard the conversation. "Look out for a rival in the lists, my lord."

"I wish this tiresome ball were over," sighed Lord Airlie. "I shall have no chance of speaking while it is on the tapis."

But he soon forgot his chagrin. The formidable Gaspar appeared that very morning, and, although Lord Airlie could perceive that he was at once smitten with Beatrice's charms, he also saw that she paid no heed whatever to the new-comer; indeed, after a few words of courteous greeting, she returned to the point under discussion--what flowers would look best in the ball room.

"If we have flowers at all," she said, imperiously, "let them be a gorgeous mass of bloom--something worth looking at; not a few pale blossoms standing here and there like 'white sentinels'; let us have flowers full of life and fragrance. Lillian, you know what I mean; you remember Lady Manton's flowers--tier after tier of magnificent color."

"You like to do everything en reine, Beatrice," said Lady Helena, with a well-pleased smile.

"If you have not flowers sufficient, Miss Earle," said Lord Airlie, "I will send to Lynnton. My gardener considers himself a past master of his art."

"My dear Lord Airlie," said Lady Earle, "we have flowers in profusion. You have not been through the conservatories. It would while away the morning pleasantly for you all. Beatrice, select what flowers you will, and have them arranged as you like."

"See," said the triumphant beauty, "what a grand thing a strong will is! Imagine papa's saying he thought thirty or forty plants in full flower would be sufficient! We will surprise him. If the gardener loses his reason, as Lady Earle seems to think probable, he must be taken care of."

Lord Airlie loved Beatrice best in such moods; imperious and piquant, melting suddenly into little gleams of tenderness, then taking refuge in icy coldness and sunny laughter. Beautiful, dazzling, capricious, changing almost every minute, yet charming as she changed, he would not have bartered one of her proudest smiles or least words for anything on earth.

He never forgot that morning spent among the flowers. It was a glimpse of elysium to him. The way in which Beatrice contrived to do as she liked amused him; her face looked fairer than ever among the blooming flowers.

"There is the bell for lunch," she said at last. "We have been here nearly three hours."

"Most of your attendants look slightly deranged," said Lionel. "I am sure I saw poor Donald weeping over his favorite plants. He told me confidentially they would be fit for nothing after the heat of the ball room."

"I shall invent some means of consolation for him," she replied. "I like dancing among the bright flowers. Why should we not have everything gay and bright and beautiful, if we can?"

"Why not?" said Lionel, gravely. "Ah, Miss Earle, why are we not always young and beautiful and happy? Why must flowers die, beauty fade, love grow old? Ask a philosopher--do not ask me. I know the answer, but let some one else give it to you."

"Philosophy does not interest me at present," she said. "I like flowers, music, and dancing better. I hope I shall never tire of them; sometimes--but that is only when I am serious or tired--I feel that I shall never live to grow old. I can not imagine my eyes dim or my hair gray. I can not imagine my heart beating slowly. I can not realize a day when the warmth and beauty of life will have changed into cold and dullness."

Even as she spoke a gentle arm stole round her, a fair, spirituelle face, eyes full of clear, saintly light looked into hers, and a soft voice whispered to her of something not earthly, not of flowers and music, not of life and gayety, something far beyond these, and the proud eyes for a moment grew dim with tears.

"Lily," she said, "I am not so good as you, but I will endeavor to be. Let me enjoy myself first, just for a short time; I will be good, dear."

Her mood changed then, and Lord Airlie thought her more entrancing than ever.

"That is the kind of wife I want," thought Lionel Dacre to himself, looking at Lillian--"some one to guide me, to teach me. Ah, if women only understood their mission! That girl looked as I can imagine only guardian angels look--I wish she would be mine."

Lord Airlie left the conservatory, with its thousand flowers, more in love than ever.

He would wait, he said to himself, until the ball was over; then he would ask Beatrice Earle to be his wife. If she refused him, he would go far away where no one knew him; if she accepted him, he would be her devoted slave. She should be a queen, and he would be her knight.

Ah! What thanks would he return to Heaven if so great a blessing should be his.


Chapter XXVIII


Lord Airlie muttered something that was not a benediction when, on the morning following, Gaspar Laurence made his appearance at Earlescourt.

"We can not receive visitors this morning," said Beatrice, half impatiently. "Mr. Laurence must have forgotten the ball tonight."

But Mr. Laurence had forgotten nothing of the kind. It was a delicious morning, the sun shining brightly and clearly, the westerly breeze blowing fresh and cool. He had thought it likely that the young ladies would spend the morning out-of-doors, and begged permission to join them.

Lady Earle was pleased with the idea. Lord Airlie mentioned something about fatigue, but he was overruled.

"Stroll in the grounds," said Lady Helena; "go down by the lake; I will join you there afterward. A few hours in the fresh air will be the best preparation for the ball."

They went together. Gaspar's preference soon became apparent he would not leave Beatrice, and Lord Airlie devotedly wished him at the antipodes.

They sat down under the shade of a tall lady-birch, the deep, sunlit lake shining through the trees. Then Gaspar, taking a little book in his hands, asked:

"Have you read 'Undine,' Miss Earle--Fouque's 'Undine?'"

"No," she replied; "I am half ashamed to say so."

"It is the sweetest, saddest story ever written," he continued. "This is just the morning for it. May I read it to you?"

There was a general and pleased murmur of assent. Lord Airlie muttered to himself that he knew the fellow would air his German sentiment--at their expense.

Still it was very pleasant. There was a gentle ripple on the deep lake, the water washed among the tall reeds, and splashed with a faint, musical murmur on the stones; the thick leafy branches rustled in the wind; the birds sang in the trees.

Gaspar Laurence read well; his voice was clear and distinct; not a word