Dora Thorne Part 9

Lord Earle smiled again, evidently well pleased to hear that intelligence.

"A pleasant and sensible method of spending your time," he continued; "and, strange to say, it is on that very subject I wish to speak to you. Your attentions to Miss Charteris--"

"My attentions!" cried Ronald. "You are mistaken. I have never paid any."

"You need have no fear this time," said Lord Earle. "Your mother tells me of the numerous comments made last evening on your long tete-a-tete in the conservatory. I know some of your secrets. There can be no doubt that Miss Charteris has a great regard for you. I sent for you to say that, far from my again offering any opposition to your marriage, the dearest wish of my heart will be gratified when I call Valentine Charteris my daughter."

He paused for a reply, but none came. Ronald's face had grown strangely pale.

"We never named our wish to you," continued Lord Earle, "but years ago your mother and I hoped you would some day love Miss Charteris. She is very beautiful; she is the truest, n.o.blest, the best woman I know. I am proud of your choice, Ronald--more proud than words can express."

Still Ronald made no reply, and Lady Earle looked up at him quickly.

"You need not fear for Valentine," she said. "I must not betray any secrets; she likes you, Ronald; I will say no more. If you ask her to be your wife, I do not think you will ask in vain."

"There is some great mistake," said Ronald, his pale lips quivering.

"Miss Charteris has no thought for me."

"She has no thought for any one else," rejoined Lady Earle, quickly.

"And I," continued Ronald, "never dreamed of making her my wife. I do not love her. I can never marry Valentine Charteris."

The smiles died from Lord Earle's face, and his wife dropped the pretty blossoms she was arranging.

"Then why have you paid the girl so much attention?" asked his father, gravely. "Every one has remarked your manner; you never seemed happy away from her."

"I wished to make her my friend," said Ronald; "I never thought of anything else."

He stood aghast when he remembered why he had tried so hard to win her friends.h.i.+p. What if Valentine misunderstood him?

"Others thought for you," said Lady Earle, dryly. "Of course, if I am mistaken, there is no more to be said; I merely intended to say how happy such a marriage would make me. If you do not love the young lady the matter ends, I suppose."

"Can you not love her, Ronald?" asked his mother, gently. "She is so fair and good, so well fitted to be the future mistress of Earlescourt.

Can you not love her?"

"Nothing was further from my thoughts," he replied.

"Surely," interrupted Lady Earle, "you have forgotten the idle, boyish folly that angered your father some time since--that can not be your reason?"

"Hush, mother," said Ronald, standing erect and dauntless; "I was coming to tell you my secret when you met me. Father, I deceived and disobeyed you. I followed Dora Thorne to Eastham, and married her there."

A low cry came from Lady Earle's lips. Ronald saw his father's face grow white--livid--with anger; but no word broke the awful silence that fell upon them. Hours seemed to pa.s.s in the s.p.a.ce of a few minutes.

"You married her," said Lord Earle, in a low, hoa.r.s.e voice, "remembering what I said?"

"I married her," replied Ronald, "hoping you would retract hard, cruel words that you never meant. I could not help it, father; she has no one but me; they would have forced her to marry some one she did not like."

"Enough," interrupted Lord Earle. "Tell me when and where. Let me understand whether the deed is irrevocable or not."

Calmly, but with trembling lips, Ronald gave him every particular.

"Yes, the marriage is legal enough," said the master of Earlescourt.

"You had to choose between duty, honor, home, position--and Dora Thorne. You preferred Dora; you must leave the rest."

"Father, you will forgive me," cried Ronald. "I am your only son."

"Yes," said Lord Earle, drearily, "you are my only son. Heaven grant no other child may pierce his father's heart as you have done mine!

Years ago, Ronald, my life was blighted--my hopes, wishes, ambitions, and plans all melted; they lived again in you. I longed with wicked impatience for the time when you should carry out my dreams, and add fresh l.u.s.ter to a grand old name. I have lived in your life; and now, for the sake of a simple, pretty, foolish girl, you have forsaken me--you have deliberately trampled upon every hope that I had."

"Let me atone for it," cried Ronald. "I never thought of these things."

"You can not atone," said Lord Earle, gravely. "I can never trust you again. From this time forth I have no son. My heir you must be when the life you have darkened ends. My son is dead to me."

There was no anger in the stern, grave face turned toward the unhappy young man.

"I never broke my word," he continued, "and never shall. You have chosen your own path; take it. You preferred this Dora to me; go to her. I told you if you persisted in your folly, I would never look upon your face again, and I never will."

"Oh, Rupert!" cried Lady Earle; "be merciful. He is my only child. I shall die if you send him from me."

"He preferred this Dora to you or to me," said Lord Earle. "I am sorry for you, Helena--Heaven knows it wrings my heart--but I shall not break my word! I will not reproach you," he continued, turning to his son, "it would be a waste of time and words; you knew the alternative, and are doubtless prepared for it."

"I must bear it, father; the deed was my own," said Ronald.

"We will end this scene," said Lord Earle, turning from his unhappy wife, who was weeping pa.s.sionately. "Look at your mother, Ronald; kiss her for the last time and go from her; bear with you the memory of her love and of her tenderness, and of how you have repaid them. Take your last look at me. I have loved you--I have been proud of you, hopeful for you; now I dismiss you from my presence, unworthy son of a n.o.ble race. The same roof will never shelter us again. Make what arrangements you will. You have some little fortune; it must maintain you. I will never contribute one farthing to the support of my lodge keeper's daughter. Go where you like--do as you like. You have chosen your own path. Some day you must return to Earlescourt as its master.

I thank Heaven it will be when the degradation of my home and the dishonor of my race can not touch me. Go now; I shall expect you to have quitted the Hall before tomorrow morning."

"You can not mean it, father," cried Ronald. "Send me from you punish me--I deserve it; but let me see you again!"

"Never in life," said Lord Earle, calmly. "Remember, when you see me lying dead, that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which I learned that you had deceived me."

"Mother," cried the unhappy youth, "plead for me!"

"It is useless," replied his father; "your choice has been made deliberately. I am not cruel. If you write to me I shall return your letters unopened. I shall refuse to see or hear from you, or to allow you to come near Earlescourt; but you can write to your mother--I do not forbid that. She can see you under any roof save mine. Now, farewell; the suns.h.i.+ne, the hope, the happiness of my life go with you, but I shall keep my word. See my solicitor, Mr. Burt, about your money, and he will arrange everything in my place."

"Father," cried Ronald, with tears in his eyes, "say one kind word, touch my hand once again!"

"No," said Lord Earle, turning from the outstretched hand; "that is not the hand of an honorable man; I can not hold it in my own."

Then Ronald bent down to kiss his mother; her face was white and still; she was not conscious of his tears or his pa.s.sionate pleading. Lord Earle raised her face. "Go," said he, calmly; "do not let your mother find you here when she recovers."

He never forgot the pleading of those sorrowful eyes, the anguish of the brave young face, as Ronald turned from him and left the room.

When Lady Earle awoke to consciousness of her misery, her son had left her. No one would have called Lord Earle hard or stern who saw him clasp his weeping wife in his arms, and console her by every kind and tender word he could utter.

Lord Earle did not know that in his wife's heart there was a hope that in time he would relent. It was hard to lose her brave boy for a few months or even years; but he would return, his father must forgive him, her sorrow would be but for a time. But Lord Earle, inflexible and unflinching, knew that he should never in life see his son again.

No one knew what Lord Earle suffered; as Valentine Charteris said, he was too proud for scenes. He dined with Lady Charteris and her daughter, excusing his wife, and never naming his son. After dinner he shut himself in his own room, and suffered his agony along.