Dora Thorne [42]
it ebbed. The top of the cliff was like a carpet of thick green grass and springing heather. Far away, in the blue distance, one could see, of a bright, sunny day, the outline of the French coast. The waves rolled in, and broke upon the yellow sands; the sea-birds flew by with busy wings, white sails gleamed in the sunshine. Occasionally a large steamer passed; there was no sound save the rich, never-changing music of Nature, the rush of wind and waves, the grand, solemn anthem that the sea never tires of singing.
Far down the cliff ran the zigzag path that led to the village; there was no sign of the sea on the other side of the white rocks. There the green fields and pretty hop-gardens stretched out far and wide, and the Farthinglow Woods formed a belt around them. In the midst of a green, fertile valley stood the lovely village of Knutsford. It had no regular street; there were a few cottages, a few farm houses, a few little villas, one grand mansion, three or four shops, and quiet homesteads with thatched roofs and eaves of straw.
The prettiest and most compact little farm in the village was the one where Stephen Thorne and his wife dwelt. It was called the elms, a long avenue of elms leading to the little house and skirting the broad green meadows. It was at a short distance from the village, so quiet, so tranquil, that, living there, one seemed out of the world.
Stephen Thorne and his wife were not rich. In spite of Lady Earle's bounty, it was hard for them at times to make both ends meet. Crops, even in that fair and fertile county, would fail, cattle would die, rain would fall when it should not, and the sun refuse to shine. But this year everything had gone on well; the hay stood in great ricks in the farm yard, the golden corn waved in the fields ripe and ready for the sickle, the cows and sheep fed tranquilly in the meadows, and all things had prospered with Stephen Thorne. One thing only weighed upon his heart--his wife would have it that Dora's letters grew more and more sad; she declared her child was unhappy, and he could not persuade her to the contrary.
It was a fair August evening. Ah! How weak and feeble are the words. Who could paint the golden flush of summer beauty that lay over the meadows and corn fields--the hedge rows filled with wild flowers, the long, thick grass studded with gay blossoms, the calm, sullen silence only broken by the singing of the birds, the lowing of cattle, the rustling of green leaves in the sweet soft air?
Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, Ralph Holt, to fetch the cattle home. In Ralph's honor, good, motherly Mrs. Thorne had laid out a beautiful tea--golden honey that seemed just gathered from the flowers, ripe fruits, cream from the dairy everything was ready; yet the farmer and his guest seemed long in coming. She went to the door and looked across the meadows. The quiet summer beauty stole like a spell over her.
Suddenly, down in the meadows, Mrs. Thorne caught sight of a lady leading a little child by the hand. She was followed by a young maid carrying another. As the lady drew nearer, Mrs. Thorne stood transfixed and bewildered. Could the summer sun or the flickering shade be mocking her? Was she dreaming or awake? Far off still, through the summer haze, she saw a white, wan face; dark eyes, shadowed and veiled, as though by long weeping; lips, once rosy and smiling, rigid and firm. She saw what seemed to her the sorrowful ghost of the pretty, blooming child that had left her long ago. She tried to call out, but her voice failed her. She tried to run forward and meet the figure coming slowly through the meadows, but she was powerless to move. She never heard the footsteps of her husband and his guest. She only stirred when Stephen Thorne placed his hand upon her shoulder, and in a loud, cheery voice, asked what ailed her.
"Look," she said, hoarsely, "look down the meadow there and tell me--if that is Dora or Dora's ghost?"
She drew near more swiftly now, for she had seen the three figures at the door.
Far down the cliff ran the zigzag path that led to the village; there was no sign of the sea on the other side of the white rocks. There the green fields and pretty hop-gardens stretched out far and wide, and the Farthinglow Woods formed a belt around them. In the midst of a green, fertile valley stood the lovely village of Knutsford. It had no regular street; there were a few cottages, a few farm houses, a few little villas, one grand mansion, three or four shops, and quiet homesteads with thatched roofs and eaves of straw.
The prettiest and most compact little farm in the village was the one where Stephen Thorne and his wife dwelt. It was called the elms, a long avenue of elms leading to the little house and skirting the broad green meadows. It was at a short distance from the village, so quiet, so tranquil, that, living there, one seemed out of the world.
Stephen Thorne and his wife were not rich. In spite of Lady Earle's bounty, it was hard for them at times to make both ends meet. Crops, even in that fair and fertile county, would fail, cattle would die, rain would fall when it should not, and the sun refuse to shine. But this year everything had gone on well; the hay stood in great ricks in the farm yard, the golden corn waved in the fields ripe and ready for the sickle, the cows and sheep fed tranquilly in the meadows, and all things had prospered with Stephen Thorne. One thing only weighed upon his heart--his wife would have it that Dora's letters grew more and more sad; she declared her child was unhappy, and he could not persuade her to the contrary.
It was a fair August evening. Ah! How weak and feeble are the words. Who could paint the golden flush of summer beauty that lay over the meadows and corn fields--the hedge rows filled with wild flowers, the long, thick grass studded with gay blossoms, the calm, sullen silence only broken by the singing of the birds, the lowing of cattle, the rustling of green leaves in the sweet soft air?
Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, Ralph Holt, to fetch the cattle home. In Ralph's honor, good, motherly Mrs. Thorne had laid out a beautiful tea--golden honey that seemed just gathered from the flowers, ripe fruits, cream from the dairy everything was ready; yet the farmer and his guest seemed long in coming. She went to the door and looked across the meadows. The quiet summer beauty stole like a spell over her.
Suddenly, down in the meadows, Mrs. Thorne caught sight of a lady leading a little child by the hand. She was followed by a young maid carrying another. As the lady drew nearer, Mrs. Thorne stood transfixed and bewildered. Could the summer sun or the flickering shade be mocking her? Was she dreaming or awake? Far off still, through the summer haze, she saw a white, wan face; dark eyes, shadowed and veiled, as though by long weeping; lips, once rosy and smiling, rigid and firm. She saw what seemed to her the sorrowful ghost of the pretty, blooming child that had left her long ago. She tried to call out, but her voice failed her. She tried to run forward and meet the figure coming slowly through the meadows, but she was powerless to move. She never heard the footsteps of her husband and his guest. She only stirred when Stephen Thorne placed his hand upon her shoulder, and in a loud, cheery voice, asked what ailed her.
"Look," she said, hoarsely, "look down the meadow there and tell me--if that is Dora or Dora's ghost?"
She drew near more swiftly now, for she had seen the three figures at the door.