After long years the memory of it came back to him, and he wondered at his own blindness. He never saw the trembling of the white fingers that played carelessly with sprays of purple foxglove; he never saw the faint flush upon her face, the quiver of her proud, beautiful lips, or the love light in her eyes. He only saw and thought of Dora.
"I told you, Miss Charteris, last evening, that I was not eloquent," began Ronald. "When anything lies deep in my heart, I find great difficulty in telling it in words."
"All sacred and deep feeling is quiet," said Valentine; "a torrent of words does not always show an earnest nature. I have many thoughts that I could never express."
"If I could only be sure that you would understand me, Miss Charteris," said Ronald--"that you would see and comprehend the motives that I can hardly explain myself! Sitting here in the summer sunshine, I can scarcely realize how dark the cloud is that hangs over me. You are so kind and patient, I will tell you my story in my own way." She gathered a rich cluster of bluebells, and bent over them, pulling the pretty flowers into pieces, and throwing leaf after leaf into the stream.
"Three months since," continued Ronald, "I came home to Earlescourt. Lord and Lady Earle were both at Greenoke; I, and not quite myself, preferred remaining here alone and quiet. One morning I went out into the garden, listless for want of something to do. I saw there--ah! Now I want words, Miss Charteris--the fairest girl the sun ever shone upon."
He saw the flowers fall from Valentine's grasp; she put her hand to her brow, as though to shield her face.
"Does the light annoy you?" he asked.
"No," she replied, steadily; "go on with your story."
"A clever man," said Ronald, "might paint for you the pretty face, all smiles and dimples, the dark shining rings of hair that fell upon a white brow, the sweet, shy eyes fringed by long lashes, seldom raised, but full of wonderful light when once you could look into their depths. I can only tell you how in a few days I grew to love the fair young face, and how Dora Thorne that was her name, Miss Charteris--loved me."
Valentine never moved nor spoke; Ronald could see the bright flush die away, and the proud lips quiver.
"I must tell you all quickly," said Ronald. "She is not what people call a lady, this beautiful wild flower of mine. Her father lives at the lodge; he is Lord Earle's lodge keeper, and she knows nothing of the world or its ways. She has never been taught or trained, though her voice is like sweet music, and her laugh like the chime of silver bells. She is like a bright April day, smiles and tears, sunshine and rain--so near together that I never know whether I love her best weeping or laughing."
He paused, but Valentine did not speak; her hand still shaded her face.
"I loved her very much," said Ronald, "and I told her so. I asked her to be my wife, and she promised. When my father came home from Greenoke I asked his consent, and he laughed at me. He would not believe me serious. I need not tell you the details.
They sent my pretty Dora away, and some one who loved her--who wanted to make her his wife--came, and quarreled with me. He my rival--swore that Dora should be his. In his passion he betrayed the secret so well kept from me. He told me where she was, and I went to see her."
There was no movement in the quiet figure, no words passed the white lips.
"I went to see her," he continued; "she was so unhappy, so pretty in her sorrow and love, so innocent, so fond of me, that I forgot all I should have remembered, and married her."
Valentine started then and uttered a low cry.
"You are shocked," said Ronald; "but, Miss Charteris, think of her so young and gentle! They would have forced her to marry the farmer, and she disliked him. What else could I do to save her?"
Even then, in the midst of that sharp sorrow, Valentine could not help admiring Ronald's brave simplicity, his chivalry, his honor.
"I married her," he said, "and I mean to be true to her. I thought my father would relent and forgive us, but I fear I was too sanguine. Since my marriage my father has told me that if I do not give up Dora he will not see me again. Every day I resolve to tell him what I have done, but something interferes to prevent it. I have never seen my wife since our wedding day.
She is still at Eastham. Now, Miss Charteris, be my friend, and help me."
Bravely enough Valentine put away her sorrow--another time she would look it in the face; all her thoughts must now be for him.
"I will do anything to serve you," she said, gently. "What can I do?"
"My mother loves you very much," said Ronald; "she will listen to you. When I have told her, will you, in your sweet, persuasive way, interfere for Dora? Lady Earle will be influenced by what you say."
A quiver of pain passed over the proud, calm face of Valentine Charteris.
"If you think it wise for a stranger to interfere in so delicate a matter, I will do so cheerfully," she said; "but let me counsel on thing. Tell Lord and Lady Earle at once. Do not delay, every hour is of consequence."
"What do you think of my story?" asked Ronald, anxiously. "Have I done right or wrong?"
"Do not ask me," replied Valentine.
"Yes," he urged, "I will ask again; you are my friend. Tell me, have I done right or wrong?"
"I can speak nothing but truth," replied Valentine, "and I think you have done wrong. Do not be angry. Honor is everything; it ranks before life or love. In some degree you have tarnished yours by an underhand proceeding, a private marriage, one forbidden by your parents and distasteful to them."
Ronald's face fell as her words came to him slowly and clearly.
"I thought," said he, "I was doing a brave deed in marrying Dora.
She had no one to take her part but me."
"It was a brave deed in one sense," said Valentine. "You have proved yourself generous and disinterested. Heaven grant that you may be happy!"
"She is young and impressionable," said Ronald; "I can easily mold her to my own way of thinking. You look very grave, Miss Charteris."
