Valentine Charteris never told the secret. She listened to the wonder
and conjectures of all around her, but not even to her mother did she
hint what had passed. She pitied Ronald profoundly. She knew the
shock Dora had inflicted on his sensitive, honorable disposition. For
Dora herself she felt nothing but compassion. Her calm, serene nature
was incapable of such jealousies. Valentine could never be jealous or
mean, but she could understand the torture that had made shy, gentle
Dora both.
"Jealous of me, poor child!" said Valentine to herself. "Nothing but
ignorance can excuse her. As though I, with half Florence at my feet,
cared for her husband, except as a dear and true friend."
So the little villa was deserted; the gaunt, silent servant found a
fresh place. Ronald's pictures were eagerly bought up; the pretty
countess, after looking very sentimental and sad for some days, forgot
her sorrow and its cause in the novelty of making the acquaintance of
an impassive unimpressionable American. Florence soon forgot one whom
she had been proud to know and honor.
Two months afterward, as Miss Charteris sat alone in her favorite
nook--the bower of trees where poor Dora's tragedy had been
enacted--she was found by the Prince di Borgezi. Every one had said
that sooner or later it would come to this. Prince di Borgezi, the
most fastidious of men, who had admired many women but loved none,
whose verdict was the rule of fashion, loved Valentine Charteris. Her
fair English face, with its calm, grand beauty, her graceful dignity,
her noble mind and pure soul had captivated him. For many long weeks
he hovered round Valentine, longing yet dreading to speak the words
which would unite or part them for life.
Lately there had been rumors that Lady Charteris and her daughter
intended to leave Florence; then Prince di Borgezi decided upon knowing
his fate. He sought Valentine, and found her seated under the shade of
her favorite trees.
"Miss Charteris," he said, after a few words of greeting, "I have come
to ask you the greatest favor, the sweetest boon, you can confer on any
man."
"What is it?" asked Valentine, calmly, anticipating some trifling
request.
"Your permission to keep for my own the original 'Queen Guinevere'," he
replied; "that picture is more to me than all that I possess. Only one
thing is dearer, the original. May I ever hope to make that mine also?"
Valentine opened her magnificent eyes in wonder. It was an offer of
marriage then that he was making.
"Have you no word for me, Miss Charteris?" he said. "I lay my life and
my love at your feet. Have you no word for me?"
"I really do not know what to say," replied Valentine.
"You do not refuse me?" said her lover.
"Well, no," replied Valentine.
"And you do not accept me?" he continued.
"Decidedly not," she replied, more firmly.
"Then I shall consider there is some ground for hope," he said.
Valentine had recovered her self-possession. Her lover gazed anxiously
at her beautiful face, its proud calm was unbroken.
"I will tell you how it is," resumed Valentine, after a short pause; "I
like you better, perhaps, than any man I know, but I do not love you."
"You do not forbid me to try all I can to win your love?" asked the
prince.
"No," was the calm reply. "I esteem you very highly, prince. I can
not say more."
"But you will in time," he replied. "I would not change your quiet
friendly liking, Miss Charteris, for the love of any other woman."
Under the bright sky the handsome Italian told the story of his love in
words that were poetry itself--how he worshiped the fair calm girl so
unlike the women of his own clime. As she listened, Valentine thought
of that summer morning years ago when Ronald had told her the story of
his love; and then Valentine owned to her own heart, that, if Ronald
were in Prince di Borgezi's place, she would not listen so calmly nor
reply so coolly.
"How cold and stately these English girls are!" thought her lover.
"They are more like goddesses than women. Would any word of mine ever
disturb the proud coldness of that perfect face?"
It did not then, but before morning ended Prince di Borgezi had
obtained permission to visit England in the spring and ask again the
same question. Valentine liked him. She admired his noble and
generous character, his artistic tastes, his fastidious exclusiveness
had a charm for her; she did not love him, but it seemed to her more
than probable that the day would come when she would do so.
* * * * *
Lady Charteris and her daughter left Florence and returned to Greenoke.
Lady Earle paid them a long visit, and heard all they had to tell of
her idolized son. Lady Charteris spoke kindly of Dora; and Valentine,
believing she could do something to restore peace, sent an affectionate
greeting, and asked permission to visit the Elms.
Lady Earle saw she had made a mistake when she repeated Valentine's
words to Dora. The young wife's face flushed burning red, and then
grew white as death.
"Pray bring me no more messages from Miss Charteris," she replied. "I
do not like her--she would only come to triumph over me; I decline to
see her. I have no message to send her."
Then, for the first time, an inkling of the truth came to Lady Earle.
Evidently Dora was bitterly jealous of Valentine. Had she any cause
for it? Could it be that her unhappy son had learned to love Miss
Charteris when it was all too late? From that day Lady Earle pitied
her son with a deeper and more tender compassion; she translated Dora's
curt words into civil English, and then wrote to Miss Charteris.
Valentine quite understood upon reading them that she was not yet
pardoned by Ronald Earle's wife.
Time passed on without any great changes, until the year came when Lady
Earle thought her grandchildren should begin their education. She was
long in selecting one to whom she could intrust them. At length she met
with Mrs. Vyvian, the widow of an officer who had died in India, a lady
qualified in every way for the task, accomplished, a good linguist,
speaking French and Italian as fluently as English--an accomplished
musician, an artist of no mean skill, and, what Lady Earl valued still
more, a woman of sterling principles and earnest religious feeling.
It was not a light task that Mrs. Vyvian undertook. The children had
reached their fifth year, and for ten years she bound herself by
promise to remain with them night and day, to teach and train them. It
is true the reward promised was great. Lady Earle settled a handsome
annuity upon her. Mrs. Vyvian was not dismayed by the lonely house,
the complete isolation from all society, or the homely appearance of
the farmer and his wife. A piano and a harp were sent to the Elms.
Every week Lady Earle dispatched a large box of books, and the
governess was quite content.
Mrs. Vyvian, to whom Lady Earle intrusted every detail of her son's
marriage, was well pleased to find that Dora liked her and began to
show some taste for study. Dora, who would dream of other things when
Ronald read, now tried to learn herself. She was not ashamed to sit
hour after hour at the piano trying to master some simple little air,
or to ask questions when anything puzzled her in her reading. Mrs.
Vyvian, so calm and wise, so gentle, yet so strong, taught her so
cleverly that Dora never felt her own ignorance, nor did she grow
disheartened as she had done with Ronald.
The time came when Dora could play pretty simple ballads, singing them
in her own bird-like, clear voice, and when she could appreciate great
writers, and speak of them without any mistake either as to their names
or their works.
It was a simple, pleasant, happy life; the greater part of the day was
spent by mother children in study. In the evening came long rambles
through the green woods, where Dora seemed to know the name and history
of every flower that grew; over the smiling meadows, where the kine
stood knee-deep in the long, scented grass; over the rocks, and down by
the sea shore, where the waves chanted their grand anthem, and broke in
white foam drifts upon the sands.
No wonder the young girls imbibed a deep warm love for all that was
beautiful in Nature. Dora never wearied of it--from the smallest blade
of grass to the most stately of forest trees, she loved it all.
The little twin sisters grew in beauty both in body and mind; but the
contrast between them was great; Beatrice was the more beautiful and
brilliant; Lillian the more sweet and lovable. Beatrice was all fire
and spirit; her sister was gentle and calm. Beatrice had great faults
and great virtues; Lillian was simply good and charming. Yet, withal,
Beatrice was the better loved. It was seldom that any one refused to
gratify her wishes.
Dora loved both children tenderly; but the warmest love was certainly
for the child who had the Earle face. She was imperious and willful,
generous to a fault, impatient of all control; but her greatest fault,
Mrs. Vyvian said, was a constant craving for excitement; a distaste for
and dislike of quiet and retirement. She would ride the most restive
horse, she would do anything to break the ennui and monotony of the
long days.
Beautiful, daring, and restless, every day running a hundred risks, and
loved the better for the dangers she ran, Beatrice was almost worshiped
at the Elms. Nothing ever daunted her, nothing ever made her dull or
sad. Lillian was gentle and quiet, with more depth of character, but
little power of showing it; somewhat timid and diffident--a more
charming ideal of an English girl could not have been
found--spirituelle, graceful, and refined; so serene and fair that to
look at her was a pleasure.
Lady Earle often visited the Elms; no mystery had been made to the
girls--they were told their father was abroad and would not return for
many years, and that at some distant day they might perhaps live with
him in his own home. They did not ask many questions, satisfied to
believe what was told them, not seeking to know more.
Lady Earle loved the young girls very dearly. Beatrice, so like her
father, was undoubtedly the favorite. Lord Earle never inquired after
them; when Lady Earle asked for a larger check than usual, he gave it
to her with a smile, perfectly understanding its destination, but never
betraying the knowledge.
So eleven years passed like a long tranquil dream. The sun rose and
set, the tides ebbed and flowed, spring flowers bloomed, and died, the
summer skies smiled, autumn leaves of golden hue withered on the
ground; and winter snows fell; yet no change came to the quiet
homestead in the Kentish meadows.
Beatrice and Lillian had reached their sixteenth year, and two fairer
girls were seldom seen. Mrs. Vyvian's efforts had not been in vain;
they were accomplished far beyond the ordinary run of young girls.
Lillian inherited her father's talent for drawing. She was an
excellent artist. Beatrice excelled in music. She had a magnificent
contralto voice that had been carefully trained. Both were cultivated,
graceful, elegant girls, and Lady Earle often sighed to think they
should be living in such profound obscurity. She could do nothing;
seventeen years had not changed Lord Earle's resolution. Time, far
from softening, imbittered him the more against his son. Of Ronald
Lady Earle heard but little. He was still in Africa; he wrote at rare
intervals, but there was little comfort in his letters.
Lady Earle did what she could for her grandchildren, but it was a
strange, unnatural life. They knew no other girls; they had never ben
twenty miles from Knutsford. All girlish pleasures and enjoyments were
a sealed book to them. They had never been to a party, a picnic, or a
ball; no life was ever more simple, more quiet, more devoid of all
amusement than theirs. Lillian was satisfied and happy; her rich,
teeming fancy, her artistic mind, and contented, sweet disposition
would have rendered her happy under any circumstances--but it was
different with brilliant, beautiful Beatrice. No wild bird in a cage
ever pined for liberty or chafed under restraint more than she did.
She cried out loudly against the unnatural solitude, the isolation of
such a life.
Eleven years had done much for Dora. The coy, girlish beauty that had
won Ronald Earle's heart had given place to a sweet, patient womanhood.
Constant association with one so elegant and refined as Mrs. Vyvian had
done for her what nothing else could have achieved. Dora had caught
the refined, high-bred accent, the graceful, cultivated manner, the
easy dignity. She had become imbued with Mrs. Vyvian's noble thoughts
and ideas.
Dora retained two peculiarities--one was a great dislike for Ronald,
the other a sincere dread of all love and lovers for her children.
From her they heard nothing but depreciation of men. All men were
alike, false, insincere, fickle, cruel; all love was nonsense and
folly. Mrs. Vyvian tried her best to counteract these ideas; they had
this one evil consequence--that neither Lillian nor Beatrice would ever
dream of even naming such subjects to their mother, who should have
been their friend and confidante. If in the books Lady Earle sent
there was any mention of this love their mother dreaded so, they went
to Mrs. Vyvian or puzzled over it themselves. With these two
exceptions Dora had become a thoughtful, gentle woman. As her mind
became more cultivated she understood better the dishonor of the fault
which had robbed her of Ronald's love. Her fair face grew crimson when
she remembered what she had done.
It was a fair and tranquil womanhood; the dark eyes retained their
wondrous light and beauty; the curling rings of dark hair were
luxuriant as ever; the lips wore a patient, sweet expression. The
clear, healthy country air had given a delicate bloom to the fair face.
Dora looked more like the elder sister of the young girls than their
mother.
The quiet, half-dreamy monotony was broken at last. Mrs. Vyvian was
suddenly summoned home. Her mother, to whom she was warmly attached,
was said to be dying, and she wished her last few days to be spent with
her daughter. At the same time Lady Earle wrote to say that her
husband was so ill that it was impossible for her to look for any lady
to supply Mrs. Vyvian's place. The consequence was that, for the first
time in their lives, the young girls were left for a few weeks without
a companion and without surveillance.