The strawberry gardens at Earlescourt were very extensive. Far down
among the green beds Ronald Earle saw a young girl kneeling, gathering
the ripe fruit, which she placed in a large basket lined with leaves,
and he went down to her.
"I should like a few of those strawberries," he said, gently, and she
raised to his a face he never forgot. Involuntarily he raised his hat,
in homage to her youth and her shy, sweet beauty. "For whom are you
gathering these?" he asked, wondering who she was, and whence she came.
In a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and most
graceful of courtesies.
"They are for the housekeeper, sir," she replied; and her voice was
musical and clear as a silver bell.
"Then may I ask who you are?" continued Ronald.
"I am Dora Thorne," she replied, "the lodge keeper's daughter."
"How is it I have never seen you before?" he asked.
"Because I have lived always with my aunt, at Dale," she replied. "I
only came home last year."
"I see," said Ronald. "Will you give me some of those strawberries?" he
asked. "They look so ripe and tempting."
He sat down on one of the garden chairs and watched her. The pretty
white fingers looked so fair, contrasted with the crimson fruit and
green leaves. Deftly and quickly she contrived a small basket of
leaves, and filled it with fruit. She brought it to him, and then for
the first time Ronald saw her clearly, and that one glance was fatal to
him.
She was no calm, grand beauty. She had a shy, sweet, blushing face,
resembling nothing so much as a rosebud, with fresh, ripe lips; pretty
little teeth, which gleamed like white jewels, large dark eyes, bright
as stars, and veiled by long lashes; dark hair, soft and shining. She
was indeed so fair, so modest and graceful, that Ronald Earle was
charmed.
"It must be because you gathered them that they are so nice," he said,
taking the little basket from her hands. "Rest awhile, Dora--you must
be tired with this hot sun shining full upon you. Sit here under the
shade of this apple tree."
He watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young face. She never
once raised her dark eyes to his. He had seen beautiful and stately
ladies, but none so coy or bewitching as this pretty maiden. The more
he looked at her the more he admired her. She had no delicate
patrician loveliness, no refined grace; but for glowing, shy, fresh
beauty, who could equal her?
So the young heir of Earlescourt sat, pretending to enjoy the
strawberries, but in reality engrossed by the charming figure before
him. She neither stirred nor spoke. Under the boughs of the apple
tree, with the sunbeams falling upon her, she made a fair picture, and
his eyes were riveted upon it.
It was all very delightful, and very wrong. Ronald should not have
talked to the lodge keeper's daughter, and sweet, rustic Dora Thorne
should have known better. But they were young, and such days come but
seldom, and pass all too quickly.
"Dora Thorne," said Ronald, musingly--"what a pretty name! How well it
suits you! It is quite a little song in itself."
She smiled with delight at his words; then her shy, dark eyes were
raised for a moment, and quickly dropped again.
"Have you read Tennyson's 'Dora?'" he asked.
"No," she replied--"I have little time for reading."
"I will tell you the story," he said, patronizingly. "Ever since I
read it I have had an ideal 'Dora,' and you realize my dream."
She had not the least idea what he meant; but when he recited the
musical words, her fancy and imagination were stirred; she saw the
wheat field, the golden corn, the little child and its anxious mother.
When Ronald ceased speaking, he saw her hands were clasped and her lips
quivering.
"Did you like that?" he asked, with unconscious patronage.
"So much!" she replied. "Ah, he must be a great man who wrote those
words; and you remember them all."
Her simple admiration flattered and charmed him. He recited other
verses for her, and the girl listened in a trance of delight. The
sunshine and western wind brought no warning to the heir of Earlescourt
that he was forging the first link of a dreadful tragedy; he thought
only of the shy, blushing beauty and coy grace of the young girl!
Suddenly from over the trees there came the sound of the great bell at
the Hall. Then Dora started.
"It is one o'clock!" she cried. "What shall I do? Mrs. Morton will be
angry with me."
"Angry!" said Ronald, annoyed at this sudden breakup of his Arcadian
dream. "Angry with you! For what?"
"She is waiting for the strawberries," replied conscious Dora, "and my
basket is not half full."
It was a new idea to him that any one should dare to be angry with this
pretty, gentle Dora.
"I will help you," he said.
In less than a minute the heir of Earlescourt was kneeling by Dora
Thorne, gathering quickly the ripe strawberries, and the basket was
soon filled.
"There," said Ronald, "you need not fear Mrs. Morton now, Dora. You
must go, I suppose; it seems hard to leave this bright sunshine to go
indoors!"
"I--I would rather stay," said Dora, frankly; "but I have much to do."
"Shall you be here tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied; "it will take me all the week to gather
strawberries for the housekeeper."
"Goodbye, Dora," he said, "I shall see you again."
He held out his hand, and her little fingers trembled and fluttered in
his grasp. She looked so happy, yet so frightened, so charming, yet so
shy. He could have clasped her in his arms at that moment, and have
said he loved her; but Ronald was a gentleman. He bowed over the
little hand, and then relinquished it. He watched the pretty, fairy
figure, as the young girl tripped away.
"Shame on all artificial training!" said Ronald to himself. "What would
our fine ladies give for such a face? Imagine beauty without coquetry
or affectation. The girl's heart is as pure as a stainless lily; she
never heard of 'a grand match' or a 'good parli.' If Tennyson's Dora
was like her, I do not wonder at anything that happened."
Instead of thinking to himself that he had done a foolish thing that
bright morning, and that his plain duty was to forget all about the
girl, Ronald lighted his cigar, and began to dream of the face that had
charmed him.
Dora took the fruit to Mrs. Morton, and received no reprimand; then she
was sent home to the cottage, her work for the day ended. She had to
pass through the park. Was it the same road she had trodden this
morning? What caused the new and shining glory that had fallen on
every leaf and tree? The blue heavens seemed to smile upon her; every
flower, every song of the bright birds had a new meaning. What was it?
Her own heart was beating as it had never beaten before; her face was
flushed, and the sweet, limpid eyes shone with a new light. What was
it? Then she came to the brook-side and sat down on the violet bank.
The rippling water was singing a new song, something of love and youth,
of beauty and happiness--something of a new and fairy-like life; and
with the faint ripple and fall of the water came back to her the voice
that had filled her ears and touched her heart. Would she ever again
forget the handsome face that had smiled so kindly upon her? Surely he
was a king among men, and he had praised her, said her name was like a
song, and that she was like the Dora of the beautiful poem. This grand
gentleman, with the clear, handsome face and dainty white hands,
actually admired her.
So Dora dreamed by the brook-side, and she was to see him again and
again; she gave no thought to a cold, dark time when she should see him
no more. Tomorrow the sun would shine, the birds sing, and she should
see him once again.
Dora never remembered how that happy day passed. Good Mrs. Thorne
looked at her child, and sighed to think how pretty she was and how
soon that sweet, dimpled face would be worn with care.
Dora's first proceeding was characteristic enough. She went to her own
room and locked the door; then she put the cracked little mirror in the
sunshine, and proceeded to examine her face. She wanted to see why
Ronald Earle admired her; she wondered much at this new power she
seemed possessed of; she placed the glass on the table, and sat down to
study her own face. She saw that it was very fair; the coloring was
delicate and vivid, like that of the heart of a rose; the fresh, red
lips were arched and smiling; the dark, shy eyes, with their long
silken lashes, were bright and clear; a pretty, dimpled, smiling face
told of a sweet, simple, loving nature--that was all; there was no
intellect, no soul, no high-bred refinement; nothing but the charm of
bright, half-startled beauty.
Dora was half puzzled. She had never thought much of her own
appearance. Having lived always with sensible, simple people, the
pernicious language of flattery was unknown to her. It was with a
half-guilty thrill of delight that she for the first time realized the
charm of her own sweet face.
The sunny hours flew by. Dora never noted them; she thought only of
the morning past and the morning to come, while Ronald dreamed of her
almost unconsciously. She had been a bright feature in a bright day;
his artistic taste had been gratified, his eyes had been charmed. The
pretty picture haunted him, and he remembered with pleasure that on the
morrow he should see the shy, sweet face again. No thought of harm or
wrong even entered his mind. He did not think that he had been
imprudent. He had recited a beautiful poem to a pretty, coy girl, and
in a grand, lordly way he believed himself to have performed a kind
action.
The morning came, and they brought bright, blushing Dora to her work;
again the little white fingers glistened amid the crimson berries.
Then Dora heard him coming. She heard his footsteps, and her face grew
"ruby red." He made no pretense of finding her accidentally.
"Good morning, Dora," he said; "you look as bright as the sunshine and
as fair as the flowers. Put away the basket; I have brought a book of
poems, and mean to read some to you. I will help you with your work
afterward."
Dora, nothing loath, sat down, and straightway they were both in
fairyland. He read industriously, stealing every now and then a glance
at his pretty companion. She knew nothing of what he was reading, but
his voice made sweeter music than she had ever heard before.
At length the book was closed, and Ronald wondered what thoughts were
running through his companion's simple, artless mind. So he talked to
her of her daily life, her work, her pleasures, her friends. As he
talked he grew more and more charmed; she had no great amount of
intellect, no wit or keen powers of repartee, but the girl's love of
nature made her a poetess. She seemed to know all the secrets of the
trees and the flowers; no beauty escaped her; the rustle of green
leaves, the sighs of the western wind, the solemn hush of the
deep-green woods, the changing tints of the summer sky delighted her.
Beautiful words, embodying beautiful thoughts, rippled over the fresh,
ripe lips. She knew nothing else. She had seen no pictures, read no
books, knew nothing of the fine arts, was totally ignorant of all
scholarly lore, but deep in her heart lay a passionate love for the
fair face of nature.
It was new to Ronald. He had heard fashionable ladies speak of
everything they delighted in. He had ever heard of "music in the fall
of rain drops," or character in flowers.
Once Dora forgot her shyness, and when Ronald said something, she
laughed in reply. How sweet and pure that laughter was--like a soft
peal of silver bells! When Ronald Earle went to sleep that night, the
sound haunted his dreams.