There were confusion and dismay in the stately home of the Earles. One
sultry morning in August Lord Earle went out into the garden, paying no
heed to the excessive heat. As he did not return to luncheon, the
butler went in search of him and found his master lying as one dead on
the ground. He was carried to his own room, doctors were summoned in
hot haste from far and near; everything that science or love, skill or
wisdom could suggest was done for him, but all in vain. The hour had
come when he must leave home, rank, wealth, position--whatever he
valued most--when he must answer for his life and what he had done with
it--when he must account for wealth, talent, for the son given to
him--when human likings, human passions, would seem so infinitely
little.
But while Lord Earle lay upon the bed, pale and unconscious, Lady
Earle, who knelt by him and never left him, felt sure that his mind and
heart were both active. He could not speak; he did not seem to
understand. Who knows what passes in those dread moments of silence,
when the light of eternity shows so clearly all that we have done in
the past? It may be that while he lay there, hovering as it were
between two worlds, the remembrance of his son struck him like a
two-edged sword--his son, his only child given to him to train, not
only for earth but for heaven--the boy he had loved and idolized, then
cast off, and allowed to become a wanderer on the face of the earth.
It may be that his stern, sullen pride, his imperious self-will, his
resolute trampling upon the voice of nature and duty, confronted him in
the new light shining upon him. Perhaps his own words returned to him,
that until he lay dead Ronald should never see Earlescourt again; for
suddenly the voice they thought hushed forever sounded strangely in the
silence of that death chamber.
"My son!" cried the dying man, clasping his hands--"my son!"
Those who saw it never forgot the blank, awful terror that came upon
the dying face as he uttered his last words.
They bore the weeping wife from the room. Lady Earle, strong, and
resolute though she was, could not drive that scene from her mind. She
was ill for many days, and so it happened that the lord of Earlescourt
was laid in the family vault long ere the family at the Elms knew of
the change awaiting them.
Ronald was summoned home in all haste; but months passed ere letters
reached him, and many more before he returned to England.
Lord Earle's will was brief, there was no mention of his son's name.
There was a handsome provision for Lady Earle, the pretty little estate
of Roslyn was settled upon her; the servants received numerous
legacies; Sir Harry Laurence and Sir Hugh Charteris were each to
receive a magnificent mourning ring; but there was no mention of the
once-loved son and heir.
As the heir at law, everything was Ronald's--the large amount of money
the late lord had saved, title, estates, everything reverted to him.
But Ronald would have exchanged all for one line of forgiveness, one
word of pardon from the father he had never ceased to love.
It was arranged that until Ronald's return his mother should continue
to reside at Earlescourt, and the management of the estates was
intrusted to Mr. Burt, the family solicitor.
Lady Earle resolved to go to the Elms herself; great changes must be
made there. Ronald's wife and children must take their places in the
world; and she felt a proud satisfaction in thinking that, thanks to
her sensible and judicious management, Dora would fill her future
position with credit. She anticipated Ronald's delight when he should
see his beautiful and accomplished daughters. Despite her great
sorrow, the lady of Earlescourt felt some degree of hope for the
future. She wrote to the Elms, telling Dora of her husband's death,
and announcing her own coming; then the little household understood
that their quiet and solitude had ended forever.
The first thing was to provide handsome mourning. Dora was strangely
quiet and sad through it all. The girls asked a hundred questions
about their father, whom they longed to see. They knew he had left home
in consequence of some quarrel with his father--so much Lady Earle told
them--but they never dreamed that his marriage had caused the fatal
disagreement; they never knew that, for their mother's sake, Lady Earle
carefully concealed all knowledge of it from them.
Lady Earle reached the Elms one evening in the beginning of September.
She asked first to see Dora alone.
During the long years Dora had grown to love the stately, gentle lady
who was Ronald's mother. She could not resist her sweet, gracious
dignity and winning manners. So, when Lady Earle, before seeing her
granddaughters, went to Dora's room, wishing for a long consultation
with her, Dora received her with gentle, reverential affection.
"I wish to see you first," said Lady Helena Earle, "so that we may
arrange our plans before the children know anything of them. Ronald
will return to England in a few months. Dora, what course shall you
adopt?"
"None," she replied. "Your son's return has nothing whatever to do
with me."
"But, surely," said lady Helena, "for the children's sake you will not
refuse at least an outward show of reconciliation?"
"Mr. Earle has not asked it," said Dora--"he never will do so, Lady
Helena. It is as far from his thoughts as from mine."
Lady Earle sat for some moments too much astounded for speech.
"I never inquired the cause of your separation, Dora," she said,
gently, "and I never wish to know it. My son told me you could live
together no longer. I loved my own husband; I was a devoted and
affectionate wife to him. I bore with his faults and loved his
virtues, so that I can not imagine what I should do were I in your
place. I say to you what I should say to Ronald--they are solemn
words--'What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put
asunder.' Now let me tell you my opinion. It is this, that nothing
can justify such a separation as yours--nothing but the most outrageous
offenses or the most barbarous cruelty. Take the right course, Dora;
submit to your husband. Believe me, woman's rights are all fancy and
nonsense; loving, gentle submission is the fairest ornament of woman.
Even should Ronald be in the wrong, trample upon all pride and temper,
and make the first advances to him."
"I can not," said Dora gravely.
"Ronald was always generous and chivalrous," continued Lady Earle.
"Oh, Dora, have you forgotten how my son gave up all the world for you?"
"No," she replied, bitterly; "nor has he forgotten it, Lady Earle."
The remembrance of what she thought her wrongs rose visibly before her.
She saw again the magnificent face of Valentine Charteris, with its
calm, high-bred wonder. She saw her husband's white, angry, indignant
countenance--gestures full of unutterable contempt. Ah, no, never
again! Nothing could heal that quarrel.
"You must take your place in the world," continued Lady Earle. "You are
no longer simply Mrs. Earle of the Elms; you are Lady Earle, of
Earlescourt, wife of its lord, the mother of his children. You have
duties too numerous for me to mention, and you must not shrink from
them."
"I refuse all," she replied, calmly; "I refuse to share your son's
titles, his wealth, his position, his duties; I refuse to make any
advances toward a reconciliation; I refuse to be reconciled."
"And why?" asked Lady Helena, gravely.
A proud flush rose to Dora's face--hot anger stirred in her heart.
"Because your son said words to me that I never can and never will
forget," she cried. "I did wrong--Lady Helena, I was mad, jealous,
blind--I did wrong--I did what I now know to be dishonorable and
degrading. I knew no better, and he might have pardoned me,
remembering that. But before the woman I believe to be my rival he
bitterly regretted having made me his wife."
"They were hard words," said Lady Earle.
"Very hard," replied Dora; "they broke my heart--they slew me in my
youth; I have never lived since then."
"Can you never forgive and forget them, Dora?" asked Lady Helena.
"Never," she replied; "they are burned into my heart and on my brain.
I shall never forget them; your son and I must be strangers, Lady
Earle, while we live."
"I can say no more," sighed Lady Earle. "Perhaps a mightier voice will
call to you, Dora, and then you will obey."
A deep silence fell upon them. Lady Helena was more grieved and
disconcerted than she cared to own. She had thought of taking her
son's wife and children home in triumph, but it was not to be.
"Shall we speak of the children now?" she asked at length. "Some
arrangements must be made for them."
"Yes," said Dora, "their father has claims upon them. I am ready to
yield to them. I do not believe he will ever love them or care for
them, because they are mine. At the same time, I give them up to him
and to you, Lady Earle. The sweetest and best years of their lives
have been spent with me; I must therefore not repine. I have but one
stipulation to make, and it is that my children shall never hear one
word against me."
"You know little of me," said Lady Helena, "if you think such a thing
is possible. You would rather part with your children than accompany
them?"
"Far rather," she replied. "I know you will allow them to visit me,
Lady Earle. I have known for many years that such a time must come,
and I am prepared for it."
"But, my dear Dora," said Lady Earle, warmly, "have you considered what
parting with your children implies--the solitude, the desolation?"
"I know it all," replied Dora. "It will be hard, but not so hard nor
so bitter as living under the same roof with their father."
Carefully and quietly Dora listened to Lady Earle's plans and
arrangements--how her children were to go to Earlescourt and take the
position belonging to them. Mrs. Vyvian was to go with them and remain
until Lord Earle returned. Until then they were not to be introduced
into society; it would take some time to accustom them to so great a
change. When Lord Earl returned he could pursue what course he would.
"He will be so proud of them!" said Lady Earle. "I have never seen a
girl so spirited and beautiful as Beatrice, nor one so fair and gentle
as Lillian. Oh, Dora, I should be happy if you were going with us."
Never once during the few days of busy preparation did Dora's proud
courage give way. The girls at first refused to leave her; they
exhausted themselves in conjectures as to her continued residence at
the Elms, and were forced to be satisfied with Lady Earle's off-hand
declaration that their mother could not endure any but a private life.
"Mamma has a title now," said Beatrice, wonderingly; "why will she not
assume it?"
"Your mother's tastes are simple and plain," replied Lady Earle. "Her
wishes must be treated with respect."
Dora did not give way until the two fair faces that had brightened her
house vanished. When they were gone, and a strange, hushed silence
fell upon the place, pride and courage gave way. In that hour the very
bitterness of death seemed to be upon her.