Dora Thorne [81]
vibrate with the music of her passionate voice.
"You sing like a siren," said Mr. Dacre; he felt no diffidence in offering so old a compliment to his kins-woman.
"No," replied Beatrice; "I may sing well--in fact, I believe I do. My heart is full of music, and it overflows on my lips; but I am no siren, Mr. Dacre. No one ever heard of a siren with dusky hair and dark brows like mine."
"I should have said you sing like an enchantress," interposed Lord Airlie, hoping that he was apter in his compliments.
"You have been equally wrong, my lord," she replied, but she did not laugh at him as she had done at Lionel. "If I were an enchantress," she continued, "I should just wave my wand, and that vase of flowers would come to me; as it is, I must go to it. Who can have arranged those flowers? They have been troubling me for the last half hour." She crossed the room, and took from a small side table an exquisite vase filled with blossoms.
"See," she cried, turning to Lionel, "white heath, white roses, white lilies, intermixed with these pale gray flowers! There is no contrast in such an arrangement. Watch the difference which a glowing pomegranate blossom or a scarlet verbena will make."
"You do not like such quiet harmony?" said Lionel, smiling, thinking how characteristic the little incident was.
"No," she replied; "give me striking contrasts. For many years the web of my life was gray-colored, and I longed for a dash of scarlet in its threads."
"You have it now," said Mr. Dacre, quietly.
"Yes," she said, as she turned her beautiful, bright fact to him; "I have it now, never to lose it again."
Lord Airlie, looking on and listening, drinking in every word that fell from her lips, wondered whether love was the scarlet thread interwoven with her life. He sighed deeply as he said to himself that it would not be; this brilliant girl could never care for him. Beatrice heard the sigh and turned to him.
"Does your taste resemble mine, Lord Airlie?"
"I," interrupted Lord Airlie--"I like whatever you like, Miss Earle."
"Yourself best of all," whispered Lionel to Beatrice with a smile.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
As Mr. Dacre walked home that evening, he thought long and anxiously about the two young girls, his kins-women. What was the mystery? he asked himself--what skeleton was locked away in the gay mansion? Where was Lord Earle's wife--the lady who ought to have been at the head of his table--the mother of his children? Where was she? Why was her place empty? Why was her husband's face shadowed and lined with care?
"Lillian Earle is the fairest and sweetest girl I have ever met," he said to himself. "I know there is danger for me in those sweet, true eyes, but if there be anything wrong--if the mother is blameworthy--I will fly from the danger. I believe in hereditary virtue and in hereditary vice. Before I fall in love with Lillian, I must know her mother's story."
So he said, and he meant it. There was no means of arriving at the knowledge. The girls spoke at times of their mother, and it was always with deep love and respect. Lady Helena mentioned her, but her name never passed the lips of Lord Earle. Lionel Dacre saw no way of obtaining information in the matter.
There was no concealment as to Dora's abode. Once, by special privilege, he was invited into the pretty room where the ladies sat in the morning--a cozy, cheerful room, into which visitors never penetrated. There, upon the wall, he saw a picture framed a beautiful landscape, a quiet homestead in the midst of rich, green meadows; and Lillian told him, with a smile, that was the Elms, at Knutsford, "where mamma lived."
Lionel was too true a gentleman to ask why she lived there; he praised the painting, and then turned the subject.
As Lady Earle foresaw, the time had arrived when Dora's children partly understood there was a division in the family, a breach never to be healed. "Mamma was quite different from papa," they said to each other; and Lady Helena told them their
"You sing like a siren," said Mr. Dacre; he felt no diffidence in offering so old a compliment to his kins-woman.
"No," replied Beatrice; "I may sing well--in fact, I believe I do. My heart is full of music, and it overflows on my lips; but I am no siren, Mr. Dacre. No one ever heard of a siren with dusky hair and dark brows like mine."
"I should have said you sing like an enchantress," interposed Lord Airlie, hoping that he was apter in his compliments.
"You have been equally wrong, my lord," she replied, but she did not laugh at him as she had done at Lionel. "If I were an enchantress," she continued, "I should just wave my wand, and that vase of flowers would come to me; as it is, I must go to it. Who can have arranged those flowers? They have been troubling me for the last half hour." She crossed the room, and took from a small side table an exquisite vase filled with blossoms.
"See," she cried, turning to Lionel, "white heath, white roses, white lilies, intermixed with these pale gray flowers! There is no contrast in such an arrangement. Watch the difference which a glowing pomegranate blossom or a scarlet verbena will make."
"You do not like such quiet harmony?" said Lionel, smiling, thinking how characteristic the little incident was.
"No," she replied; "give me striking contrasts. For many years the web of my life was gray-colored, and I longed for a dash of scarlet in its threads."
"You have it now," said Mr. Dacre, quietly.
"Yes," she said, as she turned her beautiful, bright fact to him; "I have it now, never to lose it again."
Lord Airlie, looking on and listening, drinking in every word that fell from her lips, wondered whether love was the scarlet thread interwoven with her life. He sighed deeply as he said to himself that it would not be; this brilliant girl could never care for him. Beatrice heard the sigh and turned to him.
"Does your taste resemble mine, Lord Airlie?"
"I," interrupted Lord Airlie--"I like whatever you like, Miss Earle."
"Yourself best of all," whispered Lionel to Beatrice with a smile.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
As Mr. Dacre walked home that evening, he thought long and anxiously about the two young girls, his kins-women. What was the mystery? he asked himself--what skeleton was locked away in the gay mansion? Where was Lord Earle's wife--the lady who ought to have been at the head of his table--the mother of his children? Where was she? Why was her place empty? Why was her husband's face shadowed and lined with care?
"Lillian Earle is the fairest and sweetest girl I have ever met," he said to himself. "I know there is danger for me in those sweet, true eyes, but if there be anything wrong--if the mother is blameworthy--I will fly from the danger. I believe in hereditary virtue and in hereditary vice. Before I fall in love with Lillian, I must know her mother's story."
So he said, and he meant it. There was no means of arriving at the knowledge. The girls spoke at times of their mother, and it was always with deep love and respect. Lady Helena mentioned her, but her name never passed the lips of Lord Earle. Lionel Dacre saw no way of obtaining information in the matter.
There was no concealment as to Dora's abode. Once, by special privilege, he was invited into the pretty room where the ladies sat in the morning--a cozy, cheerful room, into which visitors never penetrated. There, upon the wall, he saw a picture framed a beautiful landscape, a quiet homestead in the midst of rich, green meadows; and Lillian told him, with a smile, that was the Elms, at Knutsford, "where mamma lived."
Lionel was too true a gentleman to ask why she lived there; he praised the painting, and then turned the subject.
As Lady Earle foresaw, the time had arrived when Dora's children partly understood there was a division in the family, a breach never to be healed. "Mamma was quite different from papa," they said to each other; and Lady Helena told them their