Dora Thorne [39]
great refinement of feeling--she looked upon the step she contemplated rather as a triumph over an enemy than a degradation to herself. She knew the place in the grounds where they should be sure to meet. Miss Charteris called it her bower; it was a thick cluster of trees under the shade of which stood a pretty, rustic seat; and Dora thought that, if she placed herself behind the trees, she would be able to hear all unseen.
Before Ronald partook of breakfast, Dora had quitted the house on her foolish errand. She knew the way to the house and the entrance to the garden. She had no fear; even were she discovered there, no one could surmise more than that she was resting on her way to the house. She crouched behind the trees and waited. It was wrong, weak, and wicked; but there was something so pitiful in the white face full of anguish, that one would hardly know whether to pity or blame her.
The sunshine reached her, the birds were singing in the trees, the flowers were all blooming--she, in her sorrow and desolation, heeded nothing. At length she saw them--Valentine in her white morning dress, her beautiful face full of deep, earnest emotion, and Ronald by her side. As she surmised, they walked straight to the trees, and Valentine signed to Ronald to take a seat by her side. Sweetly and clearly every word she uttered sounded to Ronald, but they fell like drops of molten lead on the jealous heart of Ronald's wife.
"You must try," Valentine was saying; "I used to think you would be a hero. You are proving yourself a very weak and erring man."
Dora could not distinguish Ronald's words so plainly; he said something about life and its mistakes.
"I told you once," said Valentine, "that the man who could endure so bravely the consequences of his own actions was a true hero. Grant the worst--that you have made a mistake. You must make the best you can of it, and you are not doing that now."
"No," he said gravely. "I am very unhappy--more so than you can imagine, Valentine. Life seems to have lost all its charms for me. I had such great hopes once, but they are all dead now."
"You are too young to say that," she replied; "a little courage, a little patience, and all will be well. If it comforts you to know that my warmest, deepest sympathy is with you--"
Valentine Charteris never finished her sentence; a pale, angry face and dark, gleaming eyes full of passion suddenly flashed before her.
"You may spare your pity, Miss Charteris," cried a hoarse voice. "Why have you made my husband dissatisfied with me? Why have you taken his love from me? Why do you write notes asking him to meet you, that you may both speak evil and wrong of his low-born wife?"
"Hush!" said Ronald, sternly, grasping her arm. "Stop those wild words, Dora! Are you mad?"
"No, not yet," she cried; "but this false woman will drive me so!"
Then Miss Charteris rose, her calm, grand face unruffled, not a quiver on her proud lips.
"Stay, Miss Charteris, one moment, I pray you," said Ronald, "while my wife apologizes for her folly."
"It is all true," cried Dora. "She wrote and asked you to meet her here."
"Dora," said her husband, gravely, "did you read the letter Miss Charteris wrote to me?"
"I did," she replied.
"And you deliberately came here to listen to what she had to say to me?" he continued. "You deliberately listened to what you were never intended to hear?"
His grave, stern dignity calmed her angry passion, and she looked half-frightened into his quiet white face.
"Answer me!" he said. "Have you crouched behind those trees deliberately and purposely to listen?
"Yes," she said; "and I would do so again if any one tried to take my husband from me."
"Then may I be forgiven for the dishonor I have brought to my name and race!" said Ronald. "May I be forgiven for thinking such a woman fit to be my wife! Hear me," he continued, and the passion in his voice changed to contempt: "Miss Charteris is your friend; she asked me to meet her here that she might plead your cause, Dora--that she
Before Ronald partook of breakfast, Dora had quitted the house on her foolish errand. She knew the way to the house and the entrance to the garden. She had no fear; even were she discovered there, no one could surmise more than that she was resting on her way to the house. She crouched behind the trees and waited. It was wrong, weak, and wicked; but there was something so pitiful in the white face full of anguish, that one would hardly know whether to pity or blame her.
The sunshine reached her, the birds were singing in the trees, the flowers were all blooming--she, in her sorrow and desolation, heeded nothing. At length she saw them--Valentine in her white morning dress, her beautiful face full of deep, earnest emotion, and Ronald by her side. As she surmised, they walked straight to the trees, and Valentine signed to Ronald to take a seat by her side. Sweetly and clearly every word she uttered sounded to Ronald, but they fell like drops of molten lead on the jealous heart of Ronald's wife.
"You must try," Valentine was saying; "I used to think you would be a hero. You are proving yourself a very weak and erring man."
Dora could not distinguish Ronald's words so plainly; he said something about life and its mistakes.
"I told you once," said Valentine, "that the man who could endure so bravely the consequences of his own actions was a true hero. Grant the worst--that you have made a mistake. You must make the best you can of it, and you are not doing that now."
"No," he said gravely. "I am very unhappy--more so than you can imagine, Valentine. Life seems to have lost all its charms for me. I had such great hopes once, but they are all dead now."
"You are too young to say that," she replied; "a little courage, a little patience, and all will be well. If it comforts you to know that my warmest, deepest sympathy is with you--"
Valentine Charteris never finished her sentence; a pale, angry face and dark, gleaming eyes full of passion suddenly flashed before her.
"You may spare your pity, Miss Charteris," cried a hoarse voice. "Why have you made my husband dissatisfied with me? Why have you taken his love from me? Why do you write notes asking him to meet you, that you may both speak evil and wrong of his low-born wife?"
"Hush!" said Ronald, sternly, grasping her arm. "Stop those wild words, Dora! Are you mad?"
"No, not yet," she cried; "but this false woman will drive me so!"
Then Miss Charteris rose, her calm, grand face unruffled, not a quiver on her proud lips.
"Stay, Miss Charteris, one moment, I pray you," said Ronald, "while my wife apologizes for her folly."
"It is all true," cried Dora. "She wrote and asked you to meet her here."
"Dora," said her husband, gravely, "did you read the letter Miss Charteris wrote to me?"
"I did," she replied.
"And you deliberately came here to listen to what she had to say to me?" he continued. "You deliberately listened to what you were never intended to hear?"
His grave, stern dignity calmed her angry passion, and she looked half-frightened into his quiet white face.
"Answer me!" he said. "Have you crouched behind those trees deliberately and purposely to listen?
"Yes," she said; "and I would do so again if any one tried to take my husband from me."
"Then may I be forgiven for the dishonor I have brought to my name and race!" said Ronald. "May I be forgiven for thinking such a woman fit to be my wife! Hear me," he continued, and the passion in his voice changed to contempt: "Miss Charteris is your friend; she asked me to meet her here that she might plead your cause, Dora--that she