Ten years had passed since the wedding bells chimed for the marriage of
Lillian Earle. New life had come to Earlescourt. Children's happy
voices made music there; the pattering of little feet sounded in the
large, stately rooms, pretty, rosy faces made light and sunshine.
The years had passed as swiftly and peacefully as a happy dream. One
event had happened which had saddened Lord Earle for a few days--the
death of the pretty, coquettish Countess Rosali. She had nor forgotten
him; there came to him from her sorrowing husband a ring which she had
asked might be given to him.
Gaspar Laurence was still abroad, and there was apparently no
likelihood of his return. The Princess Borgezi with her husband and
children, had paid several visits to the Hall. Valentine had one
pretty little daughter, upon whom Lionel's son was supposed to look
with most affection. She had other daughters--the eldest, a tall,
graceful girl, inherited her father's Italian face and dark, dreamy
eyes. Strange to say, she was not unlike Beatrice. It may have been
that circumstance which first directed Lord Airlie's attention to her.
He met her at Earlescourt, and paid her more attention than he had paid
to any one since he had loved so unhappily years before.
No one was much surprised when he married her. And Helena Borgezi made
a good wife. She knew his story, and how much of his heart lay in the
grave of his lost love. He was kind, gentle, and affectionate to her,
and Helena valued his thoughtful, faithful attachment more than she
would have valued the deepest and most passionate love of another man.
One room at Lynnton was never unlocked; strange feet never entered it;
curious eyes never looked round it. It was the pretty boudoir built,
but never furnished, for Hubert Airlie's first love.
Time softened his sorrow; his fair, gentle wife was devoted to him,
blooming children smiled around him; but he never forgot Beatrice. In
his dreams, at times, Helena heard her name on his lips; but she was
not jealous of the dead. No year passed in which she did not visit the
grave where Beatrice Earle slept her last long sleep.
* * * * *
Dora seemed to grow young again with Lillian's children. She nursed
and tended them. Lady Helena, with zealous eyes, looked after
Bertrand, the future lord of Earlescourt, a brave, noble boy, his
father's pride and Lillian's torment and delight, who often said he was
richer than any other lad in the country, for he had three mothers,
while others had but one.
* * * * *
The sun was setting over the fair broad lands of Earlescourt, the
western sky was all aflame; the flowers were thirsting for the soft dew
which had just begun to fall.
Out in the rose garden, where long ago a love story had been told, were
standing a group that an artist would have been delighted to sketch.
Lionel had some choice roses in bloom, and after dinner the whole party
had gone out to see them. Lady Helena Earle was seated on the garden
chair whereon Beatrice had once sat listening to the words which had
gladdened her brief life. A number of fair children played around her.
Looking on them with pleased eyes was a gentle, graceful lady. Her
calm, sweet face had a story in it, the wondrous dark eyes had in them
a shadow as of some sorrow not yet lived down. Lady Dora Earle was
happy; the black clouds had passed away. She was her husband's best
friend, his truest counselor; and Ronald had forgotten that she was
ever spoken of as "lowly born." The dignity of her character, acquired
by long years of stern discipline, asserted itself; no one in the whole
country side was more loved or respected than Lady Dora Earle.
Ronald, Lord Earle, was lying on the grass at his wife's feet. He
looked older, and the luxuriant hair was threaded with silver; but
there was peace and calm in his face.
He laughed at Lillian and her husband conversing so anxiously over the
roses.
"They are lovers yet," he said to Dora; and she glanced smilingly at
them.
The words were true. Ten years married, they were lovers yet. There
was gentle forbearance on one side, an earnest wish to do right on the
other. Lillian Dacre never troubled her head about "woman's rights;"
she had no idea of trying to fill her husband's place; if her opinion
on voting was asked, the chances were that she would smile and say,
"Lionel manages all those matters." Yet in her own kingdom she reigned
supreme; her actions were full of wisdom, he words were full of kindly
thought. The quiet, serene beauty of her youth had developed into that
of magnificent womanhood. The fair, spirituelle face was peerless in
her husband's eyes. There was no night or day during which Lionel
Dacre did not thank Heaven for that crown of all great gifts, a good
and gentle wife.
There was a stir among the children; a tall, dark gentleman was seen
crossing the lawn, and Lionel cried: "Here is Gaspar Laurence with his
arms full of toys--those children will be completely spoiled!"
The little ones rushed forward, and Bertrand, in his hurry, fell over a
pretty child with large dark eyes and dark hair. Lord Earle jumped up
and caught her in his arms.
"Bertie, my boy," he said, "always be kind to little Beatrice!" The
child clasped her arms round his neck. He kissed the dark eyes and
murmured to himself, "Poor little Beatrice!"
The summer wind that played among the roses, lifting the golden,
rippling hair from Lillian's forehead and tossing her little girl's
curls into Lord Earle's face, was singing a sweet, low requiem among
the trees that shaded the grave of Beatrice Earle.