Dora Thorne [66]
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
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