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.