Lord Earle looked at him attentively; there seemed to be something familiar in the outline of the head and face, the haughty yet graceful carriage.
"Who is that?" he inquired of his friend, Captain Langdon. "I have seen that gentleman before, or have dreamed of him."
"Is it possible that you do not know him?" cried the captain.
"That is Lionel Dacre, 'your next of kin,' if I am not mistaken."
Pleasure and pain struggled in Lord Earle's heart. He remembered Lionel many years ago, long before he committed the foolish act that had cost him so much. Lionel had spent some time with him at Earlescourt; he remembered a handsome and high-spirited boy, proud and impetuous, brave to rashness, generous to a fault; a fierce hater of everything mean and underhand; truthful and honorable--his greatest failing, want of cool, calm thought.
Lionel Dacre was poor in those days; now he was heir to Earlescourt, heir to the title that, with all his strange political notions, Ronald Earle ever held in high honor; heir to the grand old mansion and fair domain his father had prized so highly. Pleasure and pain were strangely intermingled in his heart when he remembered that no son of his would every succeed him, that he should never train his successor. The handsome boy that had grown into so fine a man must take his place one day.
Lord Earle crossed the room, and going up to the young man, laid one hand gently upon his shoulder.
"Lionel," he said, "it is many years since we met. Have you no remembrance of me?"
The frank, clear eyes looked straight into his. Lord Earle's heart warmed as he gazed at the honest, handsome face.
"Not the least in the world," replied Mr. Dacre, slowly. "I do not remember ever to have seen you before."
"Then I must have changed," said Lord Earle. "when I saw you last, Lionel, you were not much more than twelve years old, and I gave you a 'tip' the day you went back to Eton. Charlie Villiers was with you."
"Then you are Lord Earle," returned Lionel. "I came to London purposely to see you," and his frank face flushed, and he held out his hand in greeting.
"I have been anxious to see you," said Lord Earle; "but I have not been long in England. We must be better acquainted; you are my heir at law."
"Your what?" said Mr. Dacre, wonderingly.
"My heir," replied Lord Earle. "I have no son; my estates are entailed, and you are my next of kin."
"I thought you had half a dozen heirs and heiresses," said Lionel. "I remember some story of a romantic marriage. Today I hear of nothing but the beautiful Miss Earle."
"I have no son," interrupted Lord Earle, sadly. "I wrote to you last week, asking you to visit me. Have you any settled home?"
"No," replied the young man gayly. "My mother is at Cowes, and I have been staying with her."
"Where are you now?" asked Lord Earle.
"I am with Captain Poyntz, at his chambers; I promised to spend some days with him," replied Lionel, who began to look slightly bewildered.
"I must not ask you to break an engagement," said Lord Earle, "but will you dine with us this evening, and, when you leave Captain Poyntz, come to us?"
"I shall be very pleased," said Lionel, and the two gentlemen left Brookes's together.
"I must introduce you to Lady Earle and my daughters," said Ronald, as they walked along. "I have been so long absent from home and friends that it seems strange to claim relationship with any one."
"I could never understand your fancy for broiling in Africa, when you might have been happier at home," said Lionel.
"Did you not know? Have you not heard why I went abroad?" asked Lord Earle, gravely.
"No," replied Lionel. "Your father never invited me to Earlescourt after you left."
In a few words Lord Earle told his heir that he had married against his father's wish, and in consequence had never been pardoned.
"And you gave up everything," said Lionel Dacre--"home, friends, and position, for the love of a woman. She must have been well worth loving."
Lord Earle grew pale, as with sudden pain. Had Dora been so well worth loving? Had she been worth the heavy price?
"You are my heir," he said gravely--"one of my own race; before you enter our circle, Lionel, and take your place there, I must tell you that my wife and I parted years ago, never to meet again. Do not mention her to me--it pains me."
Lionel looked at the sad face; he could understand the shadows there now.
"I will not," he said. "She must have been--"
"Not one word more," interrupted Lord Earle. "In your thoughts lay no unjust blame on her. She left me of her own free will.
My mother lives with me; she will be pleased to see you.
Remember--seven sharp."
"I shall not forget," said Lionel, pained at the sad words and the sad voice.
As Lord Earle went home for the first time during the long years, a softer and more gentle thought of Dora came to him. "She must have been--" What--what did Lionel suspect of her? Could it be that, seeing their divided lives, people judged as his young kinsman had judged--that they thought Dora to blame--criminal, perhaps? And she had never in her whole life given one thought to any other than himself; nay, her very errors--the deed he could not pardon--sprung from her great affection for him. Poor Dora! The pretty, blushing face, with its sweet, shy eyes, and rosy lips, came before him--the artless, girlish love, the tender worship. If it had been anything else, any other fault, Ronald must have forgiven her in that hour. But his whole heart recoiled again as the hated scene rose before him.
"No," he said, "I can not forgive it. I can not forget it. Men shall respect Dora; no one must misjudge her; but I can not take her to my heart or my home again. In the hour of death," he murmured, "I will forgive her."
