In a small, pretty villa, on the banks of the Arno, Ronald Earle
established himself with his young wife. He had gone direct to
Eastham, after leaving Earlescourt, his heart aching with sorrow for
home and all that he had left there, and beating high with joy at the
thought that now nothing stood between him and Dora. He told her of the
quarrel--of his father's stern words--and Dora, as he had foreseen
clung round his neck and wept.
She would love him all the more, she said. She must love him enough to
make up for home and every one else.
Yet, strange to say, when Ronald told his pretty, weeping wife all that
happened, he made no mention of Valentine Charteris--he did not even
utter her name.
Ronald's arrangements were soon made. He sent for Stephen Thorne and
his wife, and told them how and when he had married Dora.
"I am sorry for it," said Stephen. "No good will ever come of such an
unequal match. My girl had better have stayed at home, or married the
young farmer who loved her. The distance between you is too great, Mr.
Earle, and I fear me you will find it out."
Ronald laughed at the idea that he should ever tire of Dora. How
little these prosaic, commonplace people knew of love!
The good lodge keeper and his wife parted from Dora with many tears.
She was never to brighten their home again with her sweet face and gay
voice. She was going away to strange lands over the sea. Many dark
forebodings haunted them; but it was too late for advice and
interference now.
The first news that came to the villa on the banks of the Arno was that
Stephen Thorne and his wife had left the lodge and taken a small farm
somewhere in the county of Kent. Lady Earle had found them the means,
and they had left without one word from Lord Earle. He never asked
whither they had gone.
Despite his father's anger and his mother's sorrow, despite his poverty
and loss of position, Ronald for some months was very happy with his
young wife. It was so pleasant to teach Dora, to watch her sweet,
dimpled face and the dark eyes grow large with wonder; to hear her
simple, naive remarks, her original ideas; to see her pretty, artless
ways; above all, it was pleasant to be so dearly loved.
He often thought that there never had been, never could be, a wife so
loving as Dora. He could not teach her much, although he tried hard.
She sang simple little ballads sweetly and clearly; but although master
after master tried his best, she could never be taught to play--not
even as much as the easy accompaniments of her own songs. Ronald hoped
that with time and attention she would be able to sketch, but Dora
never managed it. Obediently enough she took pencil and paper in her
hands and tried, but the strokes would never come straight. Sometimes
the drawing she made would resemble something so comical that both she
and Ronald laughed heartily; while the consciousness of her own
inferiority grieved her, and large, bright tears would frequently fall
upon the paper. Then Ronald would take the pencils away, and Dora
would cling around his neck and ask him if he would not have been
happier with a cleverer wife.
"No, a thousand times, no," he would say; he loved Dora better in her
artless simplicity than he could have loved the cleverest woman in the
world.
"And you are quite sure," said Dora, "that you will never repent
marrying me?"
"No, again," was the reply. "You are the crowning joy of my life."
It was pleasant to sit amid the oleanders and myrtles, reading the
great poems of the world to Dora. Even if she did not understand them,
her face lighted with pleasure as the grand words came from Ronald's
lips. It was pleasant, too, to sit on the banks of the Arno, watching
the blue waters gleaming in the sun. Dora was at home there. She
would say little of books, of pictures, or music; but she could talk of
beautiful Nature, and never tire. She knew the changing colors of the
sky, the varied hues of the waves, the different voices of the wind,
the songs of the birds. All these had a separate and distinct meaning
for her.
Ronald could not teach her much more. She liked the beautiful poems he
read, but never could remember who had written them. She forgot the
names of great authors, or mixed them up so terribly that Ronald, in
despair, told her it would be better not to talk of books just yet--not
until she was more familiar with them.
But he soon found out that Dora could not read for many minutes
together. She would open her book, and make a desperate attempt; then
her dark eyes would wander away to the distant mountains, or to the
glistening river. She could never read while the sun shone or the
birds sang.
Seeing that, Ronald gave up all attempts at literature in the daytime;
when the lamps were lighted in the evening, and the fair face of Nature
was shut out, he tried again, and succeeded for ten minutes; then
Dora's eyes drooped, the white lids with their jetty fringe closed; and
with great dismay he found that over the masterpieces of the world Dora
had fallen asleep.
Two long, bright years had passed away before Ronald began to perceive
that he could educate his pretty young wife no further. She was a
strange mixture of ignorance and uncultivated poetry. She could speak
well; her voice was sweet, her accent, caught from him, good; alone he
never noticed any deficiencies, but if he met an English friend in
Florence and brought him home to dine, then Ronald began to wish that
Dora would leave off blushing and grow less shy, that she could talk a
little more, and that he might lose all fear of her making some
terrible blunder.
The third year of their married life dawned; Dora was just twenty, and
Ronald twenty-three. There had been no rejoicing when he had attained
his majority; it passed over unnoticed and unmarked. News came to them
from England, letters from the little farm in Kent, telling of simple
home intelligence, and letters from Lady Earle, always sad and stained
with tears. She had no good news to tell them. Lord Earle was well,
but he would never allow his son's name to be mentioned before him, and
she longed to see her son. In all her letters Lady Earle said: "Give
my love to Dora."
In this, the third year of his married life, Ronald began to feel the
pressure of poverty. His income was not more than three hundred a
year. To Dora this seemed boundless riches; but the heir of
Earlescourt had spent more in dress and cigars. Now debts began to
press upon him, writing home he knew was useless. He would not ask Lady
Earle, although he knew that she would have parted with the last jewel
in her case for him.
Ronald gave himself up to the study of painting. A pretty little
studio was built, and Dora spent long hours in admiring both her
husband and his work. He gave promise of being some day a good
artist--not a genius. The world would never rave about his pictures;
but, in time, he would be a conscientious, painstaking artist. Among
his small coterie of friends some approved, others laughed.
"Why not go to the Jews?" asked fashionable young men. "Earlescourt
must be yours some day. You can borrow money if you like."
Ronald steadily refused to entertain the idea. He wondered at modern
ideas of honor--that men saw no shame in borrowing upon the lives of
their nearest and dearest, yet thought it a disgrace to be a follower
of one of the grandest of arts. He made one compromise--that was for
his father's sake. As an artist, he was known by Dora's name of
Thorne, and, before long, Ronald Thorne's pictures were in great
request. There was no dash of genius about them; but they were careful
studies. Some few were sold, and the price realized proved no
unwelcome addition to a small income.
Ronald became known in Florence. People who had not thought much of
Mr. Earle were eager to know the clever artist and his pretty, shy
wife. Then the trial of Ronald Earle began in earnest. Had he lived
always away from the world, out of society, the chances are that his
fate would have been different; but invitations began to pour in upon
him and Dora, and Ronald, half tired of his solitude, although he never
suspected it, accepted them eagerly.
Dora did not like the change; she felt lonely and lost where Ronald was
so popular and so much at home.
Among those who eagerly sought Ronald's society was the pretty
coquette, the Countess Rosali, an English lady who had married the
Count Rosali, a Florentine noble of great wealth.
No one in Florence was half so popular as the fair countess. Among the
dark, glowing beauties of sunny Italy she was like a bright sunbeam.
Her fair, piquant face was charming from its delicate bright coloring
and gay smiles; her hair, of the rare color painted by the old masters,
yet so seldom seen, was of pure golden hue, looking always as though
the sun shone upon it.
Countess Rosali, there was no denying the fact, certainly did enjoy a
little flirtation. Her grave, serious husband knew it, and looked on
quite calmly. To his grave mind the pretty countess resembled a
butterfly far more than a rational being. He knew that, though she
might laugh and talk to others, though she might seek admiration and
enjoy delicate flattery, yet in her heart she was true as steel. She
loved bright colors, and everything else that was gay and brilliant.
She had gathered the roses; perhaps some one else had her share of
thorns.
The fair, dainty lady had a great desire to see Mr. Thorne. She had
seen one of his pictures at the house of one of her friends a simple
little thing, but it had charmed her. It was merely a bouquet of
English wild flowers; but then they were so naturally painted! The
bluebells looked as though they had just been gathered. One almost
fancied dew drops on the delicate wild roses; a spray of pink hawthorn,
daisies and golden buttercups mingled with woodbine and meadow-sweet,
told sweet stories of the English meadows.
"Whoever painted that," said the fair countess, "loves flowers, and
knows what English flowers mean."
The countess did not rest until Ronald had been introduced to her, and
then she would know his wife. Her grave, silent husband smiled at her
evident admiration of the handsome young Englishman. She liked his
clear, Saxon face and fair hair; she liked his simple, kindly manner,
so full of chivalry and truth. She liked pretty Dora, too; but there
were times when the dainty, fastidious countess looked at the young
wife in wonder, for, as she said one evening to her husband:
"There is something in Mrs. Thorne that puzzles me--she does not always
speak or look like a lady--"
Few days passed without bringing Ronald and Dora to the Villa Rosali.
It would have been better for Ronald had he never left his pretty home
on the banks of the Arno.