Читать книгу Dora Thorne - Charlotte M. Brame - Страница 9

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The day came for the grand ball, and during breakfast the ladies discussed the important question of bouquets; from that the conversation changed to flowers. "There are so many of them," said Valentine, "and they are all so beautiful, I am always at a loss which to choose."

"I should never hesitate a moment," said Ronald, laughingly. "You will accuse me, perhaps of being sentimental, but I must give preference to the white lily-bells. Lilies of the valley are the fairest flowers that grow."

Lady Earle overheard the remark; no one else appeared to notice it, and she was not much surprised when Valentine entered the ball room to see white lilies in her fair hair, and a bouquet of the same flowers, half-shrouded by green leaves, in her hand.

Many eyes turned admiringly upon the calm, stately beauty and her white flowers. Ronald saw them. He could not help remarking the exquisite toilet, marred by no obtrusive colors, the pretty lily wreath and fragrant bouquet. It never occurred to him that Valentine had chosen those delicate blossoms in compliment to him. He thought he had never seen a fairer picture than this magnificent blonde; then she faded from his mind. He looked round on those fair and noble ladies, thinking that Dora's shy, sweet face was far lovelier than any there. He looked at the costly jewels, the waving plumes, the sweeping satins, and thought of Dora's plain, pretty dress. A softened look came into his eyes, as he pictured his shy, graceful wife. Some day she, too, would walk through these gorgeous rooms, and then would all admire the wisdom of his choice. So the heir of Earlescourt dreamed as he watched the brilliant crowd that began to fill the ball room; but his reverie was suddenly broken by a summons from Lady Earle.

"Ronald," said she, looking slightly impatient, "have you forgotten that it is your place to open the ball? You must ask Miss Charteris to dance with you."

"That will be no hardship," he replied, smiling at his mother's earnest manner. "I would rather dance with Miss Charteris than any one else."

Lady Earle wisely kept silence; her son went up to Valentine and made his request. He danced with her again and again—not as Lady Earle hoped, from any unusual preference, but because it gave him less trouble than selecting partners among strange young ladies. Valentine understood him; they talked easily, and without restraint. He paid her no compliments, and she did not seem to expect any. With other ladies, Ronald was always thinking, "What would they say if they knew of that fair young wife at Eastham?" With Valentine no such idea haunted him—he had an instinctive belief in her true and firm friendship.

Lady Earle overheard a few whispered comments, and they filled her heart with delight. Old friends whispered to her that "it would be a splendid match for her son," and "how happy she would be with such a daughter-in-law as Miss Charteris, so beautiful and dignified;" and all this because Ronald wanted to secure Valentine's friendship, so that she might intercede for Dora.

When, for the fourth time, Ronald asked Miss Charteris "for the next dance," she looked up at him with a smile.

"Do you know how often we have danced together this evening?" she asked.

"What does it matter?" he replied, wondering at the flush that crimsoned her face. "Forgive me, Miss Charteris, if I say that you realize my idea of the poetry of motion."

"Is that why you ask me so frequently?" she said, archly.

"Yes," replied honest Ronald; "it is a great pleasure; for one good dancer there are fifty bad ones."

He did not quite understand the pretty, piqued expression of her face.

"You have not told me," said Valentine, "whether you like my flowers."

"They are very beautiful," he replied; but the compliment of her selection was all lost upon him.

Miss Charteris did not know whether he was simply indifferent or timid.

"You told me these lilies were your favorite flowers," she said.

"Yes," replied Ronald; "but they are not the flowers that resemble you." He was thinking how much simple, loving Dora was like the pretty delicate little blossoms. "You are like the tall queenly lilies."

He paused, for Valentine was looking at him with a wondering smile.

"Do you know you have paid me two compliments in less than five minutes?" she said. "And yesterday we agreed that between true friends they were quite unnecessary."

"I—I did not intend to pay idle compliments," he replied. "I merely said what I thought. You are like a tall, grand, white lily, Miss Charteris. I have often thought so. If you will not dance with me again, will you walk through the rooms?"

Many admiring glances followed them—a handsomer pair was seldom seen. They passed through the long suite of rooms and on to the conservatory, where lamps gleamed like stars between the green plants and rare exotics.

"Will you rest here?" said Ronald. "The ball room is so crowded one can not speak there."

"Ah," thought Miss Charteris, "then he really has something to say to me!"

Despite her calm dignity and serene manner, Valentine's heart beat high. She loved the gallant young heir—his honest, kindly nature had a great charm for her. She saw that the handsome face bending over the flowers was agitated and pale. Miss Charteris looked down at the lilies in her hand. He came nearer to her, and looked anxiously at her beautiful face.

"I am not eloquent," said Ronald—"I have no great gift of speech; but, Miss Charteris, I should like to find some words that would reach your heart and dwell there."

He wanted to tell her of Dora, to describe her sweet face with its dimples and blushes, her graceful manner, her timid, sensitive disposition. He wanted to make her love Dora, to help him to soften his mother's prejudices and his father's anger; no wonder his lips quivered and his voice faltered.

"For some days past I have been longing to speak to you," continued Ronald; "now my courage almost fails me. Miss Charteris, say something that will give me confidence." She looked up at him, and any other man would have read the love in her face.

"The simplest words you can use will always interest me," she said, gently.

His face cleared, and he began: "You are kind and generous—"

Then came an interruption—Sir Harry Laurence, with a lady, entered the conservatory.

"This is refreshing," he said to Ronald. "I have been ten minutes trying to get here, the rooms are so full."

Miss Charteris smiled in replying, wishing Sir Harry had waited ten minutes longer.

"Promise me," said Ronald, detaining her, as Sir Harry passed on, "that you will give me one half hour tomorrow."

"I will do so," replied she.

"And you will listen to me, Miss Charteris?" he continued. "You will hear all I have to say?"

Valentine made no reply; several other people came, some to admire the alcove filled with ferns which drooped from the wall by which she was standing, others to breathe the fragrant air. She could not speak without being overheard; but, with a charming smile, she took a beautiful lily from her bouquet and held it out to him. They then went back into the ball room.

"He loves me," thought Valentine; and, as far as her calm, serene nature was capable of passionate delight, she felt it.

"She will befriend me," thought Ronald; "but why did she give me this flower?"

The most remote suspicion that Valentine had mistaken him—that she loved him—never crossed the mind of Ronald Earle. He was singularly free from vanity. Perhaps if he had a little more confidence in himself, the story of the Earles might have been different.

Lady Charteris looked at her daughter's calm, proud face. She had noticed the little interview in the conservatory, and drew her own conclusions from it. Valentine's face confirmed them there was a delicate flush upon it, and a new light shone in the lustrous eyes.

"You like Earlescourt?" said Lady Charteris to her daughter that evening, as they sat in her drawing room alone.

"Yes, mamma, I like it very much," said Valentine.

"And from what I see," continued the elder lady, "I think it is likely to be your home."

"Yes, I believe so," said Valentine, bending over her mother, and kissing her. "Ronald has asked me to give him one half hour tomorrow, and I am very happy, mamma."

For one so calm and stately, it was admission enough. Lady Charteris knew, from the tone of her daughter's voice, that she loved Ronald Earle.

Ronald slept calmly, half hoping that the end of his troubles was drawing nigh. Valentine, whom his mother loved so well, would intercede for Dora. Lord Earle would be sure to relent; and he could bring Dora home, and all would be well. If ever and anon a cold fear crept into his heart that simple, pretty Dora would be sadly out of place in that magnificent house, he dashed it from him. Miss Charteris slept calmly, too, but her dreams were different from Ronald's. She thought of the time when she would be mistress of that fair domain, and the wife of its brave young lord. She loved him well. No one had ever pleased her as he had—no one would ever charm her again. Valentine had made the grand mistake of her life.

The morrow so eagerly looked for was a fair, bright day. The sun shone warm and bright, the air was soft and fragrant, the sky blue and cloudless. Lady Charteris did not leave her room for breakfast, and Valentine remained with her mother.

When breakfast was ended, Ronald lingered about, hoping to see Valentine. He had not waited long before he saw the glimmer of her white dress and blue ribbons. He met her in the hall.

"Will you come out into the gardens, Miss Charteris?" he asked. "The morning is so beautiful, and you promised me one half hour. Do not take that book with you. I shall want all your attention for I have a story to tell you."

He walked by her side through the pleasure gardens where the lake gleamed in the sunshine, the water lilies sleeping on its quiet bosom; through the fragrant flower beds where the bees hummed and the butterflies made love to the fairest blossoms.

"Let us go on to the park," said Valentine; "the sun is too warm here."

"I know a little spot just fitted for a fairy bower," said Ronald. "Let me show it to you. I can tell my story better there."

They went through the broad gates of the park, across which the checkered sunbeams fell, where the deer browsed and king-cups and tall foxgloves grew—on to the brook side where Dora had rested so short a time since to think of her new-found happiness.

The pale primroses had all died away, the violets were gone; but in their place the deep green bank was covered with other flowers of bright and sunny hue. The shade of tall trees covered the bank, the little brook sang merrily, and birds chimed in with the rippling water; the summer air was filled with the faint, sweet summer music.

"It is a pretty spot," said Miss Charteris.

The green grass seemed to dance in the breeze, and Ronald made something like a throne amid it.

"You shall be queen, and I your suppliant," he said. "You promise to listen; I will tell you my story."

They sat a few minutes in deep silence, broken only by the singing brook and the music of the birds; a solemn hush seemed to have fallen on them, while the leaves rustled in the wind.

If Ronald Earle's heart and mind had not been filled with another and very different image, he must have seen how fair Valentine looked; the sunlight glinting through the dense green foliage fell upon her face, while the white dress and blue ribbons, the fair floating hair, against the dark background of the bank and the trees, made a charming picture; but Ronald never saw it. After long years the memory of it came back to him, and he wondered at his own blindness. He never saw the trembling of the white fingers that played carelessly with sprays of purple foxglove; he never saw the faint flush upon her face, the quiver of her proud, beautiful lips, or the love light in her eyes. He only saw and thought of Dora.

"I told you, Miss Charteris, last evening, that I was not eloquent," began Ronald. "When anything lies deep in my heart, I find great difficulty in telling it in words."

"All sacred and deep feeling is quiet," said Valentine; "a torrent of words does not always show an earnest nature. I have many thoughts that I could never express."

"If I could only be sure that you would understand me, Miss Charteris," said Ronald—"that you would see and comprehend the motives that I can hardly explain myself! Sitting here in the summer sunshine, I can scarcely realize how dark the cloud is that hangs over me. You are so kind and patient, I will tell you my story in my own way." She gathered a rich cluster of bluebells, and bent over them, pulling the pretty flowers into pieces, and throwing leaf after leaf into the stream.

"Three months since," continued Ronald, "I came home to Earlescourt. Lord and Lady Earle were both at Greenoke; I, and not quite myself, preferred remaining here alone and quiet. One morning I went out into the garden, listless for want of something to do. I saw there—ah! Now I want words, Miss Charteris—the fairest girl the sun ever shone upon."

He saw the flowers fall from Valentine's grasp; she put her hand to her brow, as though to shield her face.

"Does the light annoy you?" he asked.

"No," she replied, steadily; "go on with your story."

"A clever man," said Ronald, "might paint for you the pretty face, all smiles and dimples, the dark shining rings of hair that fell upon a white brow, the sweet, shy eyes fringed by long lashes, seldom raised, but full of wonderful light when once you could look into their depths. I can only tell you how in a few days I grew to love the fair young face, and how Dora Thorne that was her name, Miss Charteris—loved me."

Valentine never moved nor spoke; Ronald could see the bright flush die away, and the proud lips quiver.

"I must tell you all quickly," said Ronald. "She is not what people call a lady, this beautiful wild flower of mine. Her father lives at the lodge; he is Lord Earle's lodge keeper, and she knows nothing of the world or its ways. She has never been taught or trained, though her voice is like sweet music, and her laugh like the chime of silver bells. She is like a bright April day, smiles and tears, sunshine and rain—so near together that I never know whether I love her best weeping or laughing."

He paused, but Valentine did not speak; her hand still shaded her face.

"I loved her very much," said Ronald, "and I told her so. I asked her to be my wife, and she promised. When my father came home from Greenoke I asked his consent, and he laughed at me. He would not believe me serious. I need not tell you the details. They sent my pretty Dora away, and some one who loved her—who wanted to make her his wife—came, and quarreled with me. He my rival—swore that Dora should be his. In his passion he betrayed the secret so well kept from me. He told me where she was, and I went to see her."

There was no movement in the quiet figure, no words passed the white lips.

"I went to see her," he continued; "she was so unhappy, so pretty in her sorrow and love, so innocent, so fond of me, that I forgot all I should have remembered, and married her."

Valentine started then and uttered a low cry.

"You are shocked," said Ronald; "but, Miss Charteris, think of her so young and gentle! They would have forced her to marry the farmer, and she disliked him. What else could I do to save her?"

Even then, in the midst of that sharp sorrow, Valentine could not help admiring Ronald's brave simplicity, his chivalry, his honor.

"I married her," he said, "and I mean to be true to her. I thought my father would relent and forgive us, but I fear I was too sanguine. Since my marriage my father has told me that if I do not give up Dora he will not see me again. Every day I resolve to tell him what I have done, but something interferes to prevent it. I have never seen my wife since our wedding day. She is still at Eastham. Now, Miss Charteris, be my friend, and help me."

Bravely enough Valentine put away her sorrow—another time she would look it in the face; all her thoughts must now be for him.

"I will do anything to serve you," she said, gently. "What can I do?"

"My mother loves you very much," said Ronald; "she will listen to you. When I have told her, will you, in your sweet, persuasive way, interfere for Dora? Lady Earle will be influenced by what you say."

A quiver of pain passed over the proud, calm face of Valentine Charteris.

"If you think it wise for a stranger to interfere in so delicate a matter, I will do so cheerfully," she said; "but let me counsel on thing. Tell Lord and Lady Earle at once. Do not delay, every hour is of consequence."

"What do you think of my story?" asked Ronald, anxiously. "Have I done right or wrong?"

"Do not ask me," replied Valentine.

"Yes," he urged, "I will ask again; you are my friend. Tell me, have I done right or wrong?"

"I can speak nothing but truth," replied Valentine, "and I think you have done wrong. Do not be angry. Honor is everything; it ranks before life or love. In some degree you have tarnished yours by an underhand proceeding, a private marriage, one forbidden by your parents and distasteful to them."

Ronald's face fell as her words came to him slowly and clearly.

"I thought," said he, "I was doing a brave deed in marrying Dora. She had no one to take her part but me."

"It was a brave deed in one sense," said Valentine. "You have proved yourself generous and disinterested. Heaven grant that you may be happy!"

"She is young and impressionable," said Ronald; "I can easily mold her to my own way of thinking. You look very grave, Miss Charteris."

"I am thinking of you," she said, gently; "it seems to me a grave matter. Pardon me—but did you reflect well—were you quite convinced that the whole happiness of your life was at stake? If so, I need say no more. It is an unequal marriage, one not at all fitting in the order of things."

How strange that she should use his father's words!

"Tell your father at once," she continued. "You can never retrace the step you have taken. You may never wish to do so, but you can and must retrieve the error of duplicity and concealment."

"You will try and make my mother love Dora?" said Ronald.

"That I will," replied Valentine. "You sketched her portrait well. I can almost see her. I will speak of her beauty, her grace, her tenderness."

"You are a true friend," said Ronald, gratefully.

"Do not overrate my influence," said Valentine. "You must learn to look your life boldly in the face. Candidly and honestly I think that, from mistaken notions of honor and chivalry, you have done wrong. A man must be brave. Perhaps one of the hardest lessons in life is to bear unflinchingly the effects and consequences of one's own deeds. You must do that, you must not flinch, you must bear what follows like a man and a hero."

"I will," said Ronald, looking at the fair face, and half wishing that the little Dora could talk to him as this noble girl did; such noble words as hers made men heroes. Then he remembered how Dora would weep if he were in trouble, and clasp her arms round his neck.

"We shall still be friends, Miss Charteris?" he said, pleadingly. "Whatever comes you will not give me up?"

"I will be your friend while I live," said Valentine, holding out her white hand, and her voice never faltered. "You have trusted me—I shall never forget that. I am your friend, and Dora's also."

The words came so prettily from her lips that Ronald smiled.

"Dora would be quite alarmed at you," he said; "she is so timid and shy."

Then he told Valentine of Dora's pretty, artless ways, of her love for all things beautiful in nature, always returning to one theme—her great love for him. He little dreamed that the calm, stately beauty listened as one on the rack—that while he was talking of Dora she was trying to realize the cold, dreary blank that had suddenly fallen over her life, trying to think what the future would be passed without him, owning to herself that for this rash, chivalrous marriage, for his generous love, she admired him more than ever.

The hand that played carelessly among the wild flowers had ceased to tremble, the proud lips had regained their color, and then Valentine arose, as she was going out with Lady Earle after lunch.

A feeling of something like blank despair seized Valentine when she thought of what she must say to her other. As she remembered their few words the previous evening, her face flushed hotly.

"I can never thank you enough for your kind patience," said Ronald, as they walked back through the shady park and the bright flower gardens.

Valentine smiled and raised her fact to the quiet summer sky, thinking of the hope that had been hers a few short hours before.

"You will go at once and see your father, will you not?" she said to Ronald, as they parted.

"I am going now," he replied; but at that very moment Lady Earle came up to him.

"Ronald," she said, "come into my boudoir. Your father is there he wants to see you before he goes to Holtham."

Valentine went straight to her mother's room. Lady Charteris sat waiting for her, beguiling the time with a book. She smiled as her daughter entered.

"I hope you have had a pleasant walk," she said; but both smile and words died away as she saw the expression on her daughter's face, as she bent over her mother.

"Mamma," said Valentine, gently, "all I said to you last night about Earlescourt was a great mistake—it will never be my home. My vanity misled me."

"Have you quarreled with Ronald?" asked Lady Charteris, quietly.

"No," was the calm reply. "We are excellent friends but, mamma, I was mistaken. He did want to tell me something, but it was of his love for some one else—not for me."

"He has behaved shamefully to you!" cried Lady Charteris.

"Hush, mamma!" said Valentine. "You forget how such words humiliate me. I have refused men of far better position that Ronald Earle. Never let it be imagined that I have mistaken his intentions."

"Of course not," said her mother. "I only say it to yourself, Valentine; he seemed unable to live out of your sight—morning, noon, and night he was always by your side."

"He only wanted me to be his friend," said Valentine.

"Ah, he is selfish, like all the men!" said Lady Charteris. "With whom has he fallen in love, my dear?"

"Do not ask me," replied Valentine. "He is in a terrible dilemma. Do not talk to me about it, mamma. I made a foolish mistake, and do not wish to be reminded of it."

Lady Charteris detected the suppressed pain in the tone of her child's voice, and instantly formed her plans.

"I think of returning tomorrow," she said. "Your father is getting impatient to have us with him. He can not come to Earlescourt himself. You say Mr. Earle is in a terrible dilemma, Valentine. I hope there will be no scandalous expose while we are here. I detest scenes."

"Lord Earle is far too proud for anything of that kind," said Valentine. "If there should be any unpleasantness, it will not appear on the surface. Mamma, you will not mention this to me again."

Valentine threw off her lace shawl and pretty hat; she then took up the book her mother had laid down.

"My walk has tired me," she said; "the sun is very warm."

She lay down upon the sofa and turned her face to the window, where the roses came nodding in.

"Stay here and read," said lady Charteris, with delicate tact. "I am going to write my letters."

Valentine lay still, looking at the summer beauty outside. No one knew of the tears that gathered slowly in those proud eyes; no one knew of the passionate weeping that could not be stilled.

When Lady Charteris returned in two hours, Valentine had regained her calm, and there was no trace of tears in the smiles which welcomed her. Proudly and calmly she bore the great disappointment of her life. She was no tragedy queen; she never said to herself that her life was blighted or useless or burdensome. But she did say that she would never marry until she found some one with Ronald's simple chivalry, his loyal, true nature, and without the weakness which had caused and would cause so much suffering.