Once more Ronald Earle stood upon English shores; once again he heard
his mother tongue spoken all around him, once again he felt the charm
of quiet, sweet English scenery. Seventeen years had passed since he
had taken Dora's hand in his and told her he cared nothing for all he
was leaving behind him, nothing for any one in the world save
herself--seventeen years, and his love-dream had lasted but two! Then
came the cruel shock that blinded him with anger and shame; then came
the rude awakening from his dream when, looking his life bravely in the
face, he found it nothing but a burden--hope and ambition gone--the
grand political mission he had once believed to be his own impossible
nothing left to him of his glorious dreams but existence--and all for
what? For the mad, foolish love of a pretty face. He hated himself
for his weakness and folly. For that--for the fair, foolish woman who
had shamed him so sorely--he had half broken his mother's heart, and
had imbittered his father's life. For that he had made himself an
exile, old in his youth, worn and weary, when life should have been all
smiling around him.
These thoughts flashed through his mind as the express train whirled
through the quiet English landscape. Winter snows had fallen, the
great bare branches of the tall trees were gaunt and snow-laden, the
fields were one vast expanse of snow, the frost had hardened the
icicles hanging from hedges and trees. The scene seemed strange to him
after so many years of the tropical sun. Yet every breath of the
sharp, frosty air invigorated him and brought him new life and energy.
At length the little station was reached, and he saw the carriage with
his liveried servants awaiting him. A warm flush rose to Lord Earle's
face; for a moment he felt almost ashamed of meeting his old domestics.
They must all know now why he had left home. His own valet, Morton, was
there. Lord Earle had kept him, and the man had asked permission to go
and meet his old master.
Ronald was pleased to see him; there were a few words of courteous
greeting from Lord Earle to all around, and a few still kinder words to
Morton.
Once again Ronald saw the old trees of which he had dreamed so often,
the stately cedars, the grand spreading oaks, the tall aspens, the lady
beeches, the groves of poplars--every spot was familiar to him. In the
distance he saw the lake shining through the trees; he drove past the
extensive gardens, the orchards now bare and empty. He was not ashamed
of the tears that rushed warmly to his eyes when the towers and turrets
of Earlescourt came in sight.
A sharp sense of pain filled his heart--keen regret, bitter remorse, a
longing for power to undo all that was done, to recall the lost
miserable years--the best of his life. He might return; he might do
his best to atone for his error; but neither repentance nor atonement
would give him back the father whose pride he had humbled in the dust.
As the carriage rolled up the broad drive, a hundred instances of his
father's love and indulgence flashed across him--he had never refused
any request save one. He wisely and tenderly tried to dissuade him
from the false step that could never be retraced but all in vain.
He remembered his father's face on that morning when, with outstretched
hands, he bade him leave his presence and never seek it more--when he
told him that whenever he looked upon his dead face he was to remember
that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which he had been
deceived.
Sad, bitter memories filled his heart when the carriage stopped at the
door and Ronald caught sight of the old familiar faces, some in smiles,
some in tears.
The library door was thrown open. Hardly knowing whither he went, Lord
Earle entered, and it was closed behind him. His eyes, dimmed with
tears, saw a tall, stately lady, who advanced to meet him with open
arms.
The face he remembered so fair and calm bore deep marks of sorrow; the
proud, tender eyes were shadowed; the glossy hair was threaded with
silver; but it was his mother's voice that cried to him, "My son, my
son, thank Heaven you have returned!"
He never remembered how long his mother held him clasped in her arms.
Earth has no love like a mother's love--none so tender, so true, so
full of sweet wisdom, so replete with pity and pardon. It was her own
son whom Lady Earle held in her arms. She forgot that he was a man who
had incurred just displeasure. He was her boy, her own treasure, and so
it was that her words of greeting were all of loving welcome.
"How changed you are," she said, drawing him nearer to the fast-fading
light. "Your face is quite bronzed, and you look so many years
older--so sad, so worn! Oh, Ronald, I must teach you to grow young and
happy again!"
He sighed deeply, and his mother's heart grew sad as she watched his
restless face.
"Old-fashioned copy-books say, mother, that 'to be happy one must be
good.' I have not been good," he said with a slight smile, "and I
shall never be happy."
In the faint waning light, through which the snow gleamed strangely,
mother and son sat talking. Lady Earle told Ronald of his father's
death--of the last yearning cry when all the pent-up love of years
seemed to rush forth and overpower him with its force. It was some
comfort to him, after all, that his father's last thoughts and last
words had been of him.
His heart was strangely softened; a new hope came to him. Granted that
the best part of his life was wasted, he would do his best with the
remainder.
"And my children," he said, "my poor little girls! I will not see them
until I am calm and refreshed. I know they are well and happy with
you."
Then, taking advantage of his mood, Lady Helena said what she had been
longing to say.
"Ronald," she began, "I have had much to suffer. You will never know
how my heart has been torn between my husband and my son. Let my last
few years be spent in peace."
"They shall, mother," he said. "Your happiness shall be my study."
"There can be no rest for me," continued his mother, "unless all
division in our family ends. Ronald, I, who never asked you a favor
before, ask one now. Seek Dora and bring her home reconciled and
happy."
A dark angry frown such as she had never seen there before came into
Lord Earle's face.
"Anything but that," he replied, hastily; "I can not do it, mother. I
could not, if I lay upon my death bed."
"And why?" asked Lady Helena, simply, as she had asked Dora.
"For a hundred reasons, the first and greatest of which is that she has
outraged all my notions of honor, shamed and disgraced me in the
presence of one whom I esteemed and revered; she has--But no, I will
not speak of my wife's errors, it were unmanly. I can not forgive her,
mother. I wish her no harm; let her have every luxury my wealth can
procure, but do not name her to me. I should be utterly devoid of all
pride if I could pardon her."
"Pride on your side," said Lady Earle, sadly, "and temper on hers! Oh,
Ronald, how will it end? Be wise in time; the most honest and noble
man is he who conquers himself. Conquer yourself, my son, and pardon
Dora."
"I could more easily die," he replied, bitterly.
"Then," said Lady Earle, sorrowfully, "I must say to you as I said to
Dora--beware; pride and temper must bend and break. Be warned in time."
"Mother," interrupted Ronald, bending over the pale face so full of
emotion, "let this be the last time. You distress yourself and me; do
not renew the subject. I may forgive her in the hour of death--not
before."
Lady Helena's last hope died away; she had thought that in the first
hour of his return, when old memories had softened his heart, she would
prevail on him to seek his wife whom he had ceased to love, and for
their children's sake bring her home. She little dreamed that the
coming home, the recollection of his father, the ghost of his lost
youth and blasted hopes rising every instant, had hardened him against
the one for whom he had lost all.
"You will like to see the children now," said Lady Helena. "I will
ring for lights. You will be charmed with both. Beatrice is much like
you--she has the Earle face, and, unless I am mistaken, the Earle
spirit, too."
"Beatrice," said Lillian, as they descended the broad staircase, "I am
frightened. I wish I could remember something of papa his voice or his
smile; it is like going to see a stranger. And suppose, after all, he
does not like us!"
"Suppose what is of greater importance," said Beatrice proudly "that we
do not like him!"
But, for all her high spirits and hauteur, Beatrice almost trembled as
the library door opened and Lady Earle came forward to met them.
Beatrice raised her eyes dauntlessly and saw before her a tall, stately
gentleman with a handsome face, the saddest and noblest she had ever
seen--clear, keen eyes that seemed to pierce through all disguise and
read all thoughts.
"There is Beatrice," said Lady Helena, as she took her hand gently; and
Ronald looked in startled wonder at the superb beauty of the face and
figure before him.
"Beatrice," he said, kissing the proud, bright face, "can it be
possible? When I saw you last you were a little, helpless child."
"I am not helpless now," she replied, with a smile; "and I hope you are
going to love me very much, papa. You have to make up for fifteen
years of absence. I think it will not be very difficult to love you."
He seemed dazzled by her beauty--her frank, high spirit and fearless
words. Then he saw a golden head, with sweet, dove-like eyes, raised
to his.
"I am Lillian, papa," said a clear, musical voice. "Look at me,
please--and love me too."
He did both, charmed with the gentle grace of her manner, and the fair,
pure face. Then Lord Earle took both his children in his arms.
"I wish," he said, in a broken voice and with tears in his eyes, "that
I had seen you before. They told me my little twin children had grown
into beautiful girls, but I did not realize it."
And again, when she saw his proud happiness, Lady Helena longed to
plead for the mother of his children, that she might also share in his
love; but she dared not. His words haunted her. Dora would be forgiven
only in the hour of death.