Dora Thorne [40]
might advise me to remain more at home with you, to go less into society, to look more at the bright side of our married life, and be a better husband than I have been lately; it was for that she summoned me here."
"I--I do not believe it," sobbed his wife.
"That is at your option," he replied coolly. "Miss Charteris, I should kneel to ask your pardon for the insults you have received. If a man had uttered them, I would avenge them. The woman who spoke them bears my name. I entreat your pardon."
"It is granted," she replied; "your wife must have been mad, or she would have known I was her friend. I deeply regret that my good intentions have resulted so unhappily. Forget my annoyance, Mr. Earle, and forgive Dora; she could not have known what she was saying."
"I forgive her," said Ronald; "but I never wish to look upon her face again. I see nothing but dishonor there. My love died a violent death ten minutes since. The woman so dead to all delicacy, all honor as to listen and suspect will never more be wife of mine."
"Be pitiful," said Valentine, for Dora was weeping bitterly now; all her fire and passion, all her angry jealousy, had faded before his wrath.
"I am pitiful," he replied. "Heaven knows I pity her. I pity myself. We Earles love honorable women when we love at all. I will escort you to your house, Miss Charteris, and then Mrs. Earle and myself will make our arrangements."
In her sweet, womanly pity, Valentine bent down and kissed the despairing face.
"Try to believe that you are wrong and mistaken, Mrs. Earle," she said gently. "I had no thought save to be your friend."
They spoke no word as they passed through the pretty grounds. Valentine was full of pity for her companion, and of regret for her own share in that fatal morning's work.
When Ronald reached the cluster of trees again, Dora was not there. Just at that moment he cared but little whither she had gone. His vexation and sorrow seemed almost greater than he could bear.
Chapter XIV
The passion and despair of that undisciplined heart were something painful to see. Reason, sense, and honor, for a time were all dead. If Dora could have stamped out the calm beauty of Valentine's magnificent face, she would have done so. Ronald's anger, his bitter contempt, stung her, until her whole heart and soul were in angry revolt, until bitter thoughts raged like a wild tempest within her. She could not see much harm in what she had done; she did not quite see why reading her own husband's letter, or listening to a private conversation of his was a breach of honor. She thought but little at the time of what she had done; her heart was full of anger against Ronald and Valentine. She clasped her hands angrily after Mrs. Charteris had kissed her, crying out that she was false, and had lured Ronald from her. Any one passing her on the high-road would have thought her mad, seeing the white face, the dark, gleaming eyes, the rigid lips only opening for moans and cries that marred the sweet silence. He should keep his word; never--come what might never should he look upon her fair face again--the face he had caressed so often and thought so fair. She would go away--he was quite tired of her, and of her children, too. They would tease him and intrude upon him no more. Let him go to the fair, false woman, who had pretended to pity her.
The little nurse-maid, a simple peasant girl, looked on in mute amazement when her mistress entered the room where the children were.
"Maria," she said, "I am going home, over the seas to England. Will you come with me?"
The only thing poor Dora had learned during those quiet years was a moderate share of Italian. The young nurse looked up in wonder at the hard voice, usually soft as the cooing of a ring-dove.
"I will go," she replied, "if the signora will take me. I leave none behind that I love."
With trembling, passionate hands and white, stern face, Dora packed her trunks and boxes--the children's little wardrobe and her own, throwing far from her every present,
"I--I do not believe it," sobbed his wife.
"That is at your option," he replied coolly. "Miss Charteris, I should kneel to ask your pardon for the insults you have received. If a man had uttered them, I would avenge them. The woman who spoke them bears my name. I entreat your pardon."
"It is granted," she replied; "your wife must have been mad, or she would have known I was her friend. I deeply regret that my good intentions have resulted so unhappily. Forget my annoyance, Mr. Earle, and forgive Dora; she could not have known what she was saying."
"I forgive her," said Ronald; "but I never wish to look upon her face again. I see nothing but dishonor there. My love died a violent death ten minutes since. The woman so dead to all delicacy, all honor as to listen and suspect will never more be wife of mine."
"Be pitiful," said Valentine, for Dora was weeping bitterly now; all her fire and passion, all her angry jealousy, had faded before his wrath.
"I am pitiful," he replied. "Heaven knows I pity her. I pity myself. We Earles love honorable women when we love at all. I will escort you to your house, Miss Charteris, and then Mrs. Earle and myself will make our arrangements."
In her sweet, womanly pity, Valentine bent down and kissed the despairing face.
"Try to believe that you are wrong and mistaken, Mrs. Earle," she said gently. "I had no thought save to be your friend."
They spoke no word as they passed through the pretty grounds. Valentine was full of pity for her companion, and of regret for her own share in that fatal morning's work.
When Ronald reached the cluster of trees again, Dora was not there. Just at that moment he cared but little whither she had gone. His vexation and sorrow seemed almost greater than he could bear.
Chapter XIV
The passion and despair of that undisciplined heart were something painful to see. Reason, sense, and honor, for a time were all dead. If Dora could have stamped out the calm beauty of Valentine's magnificent face, she would have done so. Ronald's anger, his bitter contempt, stung her, until her whole heart and soul were in angry revolt, until bitter thoughts raged like a wild tempest within her. She could not see much harm in what she had done; she did not quite see why reading her own husband's letter, or listening to a private conversation of his was a breach of honor. She thought but little at the time of what she had done; her heart was full of anger against Ronald and Valentine. She clasped her hands angrily after Mrs. Charteris had kissed her, crying out that she was false, and had lured Ronald from her. Any one passing her on the high-road would have thought her mad, seeing the white face, the dark, gleaming eyes, the rigid lips only opening for moans and cries that marred the sweet silence. He should keep his word; never--come what might never should he look upon her fair face again--the face he had caressed so often and thought so fair. She would go away--he was quite tired of her, and of her children, too. They would tease him and intrude upon him no more. Let him go to the fair, false woman, who had pretended to pity her.
The little nurse-maid, a simple peasant girl, looked on in mute amazement when her mistress entered the room where the children were.
"Maria," she said, "I am going home, over the seas to England. Will you come with me?"
The only thing poor Dora had learned during those quiet years was a moderate share of Italian. The young nurse looked up in wonder at the hard voice, usually soft as the cooing of a ring-dove.
"I will go," she replied, "if the signora will take me. I leave none behind that I love."
With trembling, passionate hands and white, stern face, Dora packed her trunks and boxes--the children's little wardrobe and her own, throwing far from her every present,