"The consequences of folly seldom end with its originator," said Lord
Earle to his son. "Rely upon it, Ronald, if you were to take this most
foolish and unadvisable step, you would bring misery upon yourself and
every one connected with you. Listen to reason."
"There is no reason in prejudice," replied the young man haughtily.
"You can not bring forward one valid reason against my marriage."
Despite his annoyance, a smile broke over Lord Earle's grave face.
"I can bring a thousand reasons, if necessary," he replied. "I grant
everything you say. Dora Thorne is very pretty; but remember, she is
quite a rustic and unformed beauty--and I almost doubt whether she can
read or spell properly. She is modest and good, I grant, and I never
heard one syllable against her. Ronald, let me appeal to your better
judgment--are a moderate amount of rustic prettiness and shy modesty
sufficient qualifications for your wife, who will have to take your
mother's place?"
"They are quite sufficient to satisfy me," replied the young man.
"You have others to consider," said Lord Earle, quickly.
"I love her," interrupted his son; and again his father smiled.
"We know what it means," he said, "when boys of nineteen talk about
love. Believe me, Ronald, if I were to consent to your request, you
would be the first in after years to reproach me for weak compliance
with your youthful folly."
"You would not call it folly," retorted Ronald, his face flushing
hotly, "if Dora were an heiress, or the daughter of some--"
"Spare me a long discourse," again interrupted Lord Earle. "You are
quite right; if the young girl in question belonged to your own
station, or even if she were near it, that would be quite a different
matter. I am not annoyed that you have, as you think, fallen in love,
or that you wish to marry, although you are young. I am annoyed that
you should dream of wishing to marry a simple rustic, the daughter of
my lodge keeper. It is so supremely ridiculous that I can hardly treat
the matter seriously."
"It is serious enough for me," returned his son with a long, deep sigh.
"If I do not marry Dora Thorne, I shall never marry at all."
"Better that than a mesalliance," said Lord Earle, shortly.
"She is good," cried Ronald--"good and fair, modest and graceful. Her
heart is pure as her face is fair. What mesalliance can there be,
father? I never have believed and never shall believe in the cruel
laws of caste. In what is one man better than or superior to another
save that he is more intelligent or more virtuous?"
"I shall never interfere in your politics, Ronald," said Lord Earle,
laughing quietly. "Before you are twenty-one you will have gone
through many stages of that fever. Youth is almost invariably liberal,
age conservative. Adopt what line of politics you will, but do not
bring theory into practice in this instance."
"I should consider myself a hero," continued the young man, "if I could
be the first to break through the trammels of custom and the absurd
laws of caste."
"You would not be the first," said Lord Earle, quietly. "Many before
you have made unequal marriages; many will do so after you, but in
every case I believe regret and disappointment followed."
"They would not in my case," said Ronald, eagerly; "and with Dora
Thorne by my side, I could so anything; without her, I can do nothing."
Lord Earle looked grieved at the pertinacity of his son.
"Most fathers would refuse to hear all this nonsense, Ronald," he said,
gently. "I listen, and try to convince you by reasonable arguments that
the step you seem bent upon taking is one that will entail nothing but
misery. I have said no angry word to you, nor shall I do so. I tell
you simply it can not be. Dora Thorne, my lodge keeper's daughter, is
no fitting wife for my son, the heir of Earlescourt. Come with me,
Ronald; I will show you further what I mean."
They went together, the father and son, so like in face yet so
dissimilar in mind. They had been walking up and down the broad
terrace, one of the chief beauties of Earlescourt. The park and
pleasure grounds, with flushed summer beauty, lay smiling around them.
The song of hundreds of birds trilled through the sweet summer air, the
water of many fountains rippled musically, rare flowers charmed the eye
and sent forth sweet perfume; but neither song of birds nor fragrance
of flowers--neither sunshine nor music--brought any brightness to the
grave faces of the father and son.
With slow steps they quitted the broad terrace, and entered the hall.
They passed through a long suite of magnificent apartments, up the
broad marble staircase, through long corridors, until they reached the
picture gallery, one of the finest in England. Nearly every great
master was represented there. Murillo, Guido, Raphael, Claude
Lorraine, Salvator Rosa, Correggio, and Tintoretto. The lords of
Earlescourt had all loved pictures, and each of them ad added to the
treasures of that wonderful gallery.
One portion of the gallery was set aside for the portraits of the
family. Grim old warriors and fair ladies hung side by side; faces of
marvelous beauty, bearing the signs of noble descent, shone out clearly
from their gilded frames.
"Look, Ronald," Lord Earle said, laying one hand upon his shoulder,
"you stand before your ancestors now. Yours is a grand old race.
England knows and honors it. Look at these pictured faces of the wives
our fathers chose. There is Lady Sybella Earle; when one of Cromwell's
soldiers drew his dagger to slay her husband, the truest friend King
Charles ever had, she flung herself before him, and received the blow
in his stead. She died, and he lived--noble and beautiful, is she not?
Now look at the Lacy Alicia--this fair patrician lady smiling by the
side of her grim lord; she, at the risk of her life, helped him to fly
from prison, where he lay condemned to death for some great political
wrong. She saved him, and for her sake he received pardon. Here is
the Lady Helena--she is not beautiful, but look at the intellect, the
queenly brow, the soul-lit eyes! She, I need not tell you, was a
poetess. Wherever the English language was spoken, her verses were
read--men were nobler and better for reading them. The ladies of our
race were such that brave men may be proud of them. Is it not so,
Ronald?"
"Yes," he replied, calmly; "they were noble women."
Lord Earle then led his son to a large painting, upon which the western
sunbeams lingered, brightening the fair face they shone upon, until it
seemed living and smiling. A deep and tender reverence stole into Lord
Earle's voice as he spoke:
"No fairer or more noble woman ever ruled at Earlescourt than your
mother, Ronald. She is the daughter of 'a hundred earls,' high-bred,
beautiful, and refined. Now, let me ask you, in the name of common
sense, do you wish to place my lodge keeper's daughter by your mother's
side? Admit that she is pretty and good--is it in the fitting order of
things that she should be here?"
For the first time, in the heedless, fiery course of his love, Ronald
Earle paused. He looked at the serene and noble face before him, the
broad brow, the sweet, arched lips, the refined patrician features, and
there came to him the memory of another face, charming, shy and
blushing, with a rustic, graceful beauty different from the one before
him as sunlight compared to moonlight. The words faltered upon his
lips--instinctively he felt that pretty, blushing Dora had no place
there. Lord Earle looked relieved as he saw the doubt upon his son's
face.
"You see it, Ronald," he cried. "Your idea of the 'fusion' of races is
well enough in theory, but it will not do brought into practice. I
have been patient with you--I have treated you, not as a school boy
whose head is half turned by his first love, but as a sensible man
endowed with reason and thought. Now give me a reward. Promise me
here that you will make a brave effort, give up all foolish thoughts of
Dora Thorne, and not see her again. Go abroad for a year or two--you
will soon forget this boyish folly, and bless the good sense that has
saved you from it. Will you promise me, Ronald?"
"I can not, father," he replied, "for I have promised Dora to make her
my wife. I can not break my word. You yourself could never counsel
that."
"In this case I can," said Lord Earle, eagerly. "That promise is not
binding, even in honor; the girl herself, if she has any reason, can
not and does not expect it."
"She believed me," said Ronald, simply. "Besides, I love her, father."
"Hush," replied Lord Earle, angrily, "I will listen to no more
nonsense. There is a limit to my patience. Once and for all, Ronald,
I tell you that I decidedly forbid any mention of such a marriage; it
is degrading and ridiculous. I forbid you to marry Dora Thorne; if you
disobey me, you must bear the penalty."
"And what would the penalty be?" asked the heir of Earlescourt, with a
coolness and calmness that irritated the father.
"One you would hardly wish to pay," replied the earl. "If, in spite of
my prayers, entreaties, and commands, you persist in marrying the girl,
I will never look upon your face again. My home shall be no longer
your home. You will lose my love, my esteem, and what perhaps those
who have lured you to ruin may value still more, my wealth. I can not
disinherit you; but, if you persist in this folly, I will not allow you
one farthing. You shall be to me as one dead until I die myself."
"I have three hundred a year," said Ronald, calmly; "that my godfather
left me."
Lord Earle's face now grew white with anger.
"Yes," he replied, "you have that; it would not find you in gloves and
cigars now. But, Ronald, you can not be serious, my boy. I have loved
you--I have been so proud of you--you can not mean to defy and wound
me."
His voice faltered, and his son looked up quickly, touched to the heart
by his father's emotion.
"Give me your consent, father," he cried, passionately. "You know I
love you, and I love Dora; I can not give up Dora."
"Enough," said Lord Earle; "words seem useless. You hear my final
resolve; I shall never change it--no after repentance, no entreaties,
will move me. Choose between your parents, your home, your position,
and the love of this fair, foolish girl, of whom in a few months you
will be tired and weary. Choose between us. I ask for no promises; you
have refused to give it. I appeal no more to your affection; I leave
you to decide for yourself. I might coerce and force you, but I will
not do so. Obey me, and I will make your happiness my study. Defy me,
and marry the girl then, in life, I will never look upon your face
again. Henceforth, I will have no son; you will not be worthy of the
name. There is no appeal. I leave you now to make your choice; this
is my final resolve."