Going into society increased the expenses which Ronald and his wife
found already heavy enough. There were times when the money received
from the sale of his pictures failed in liquidating bills; then Ronald
grew anxious, and Dora, not knowing what better to do, wept and blamed
herself for all the trouble. It was a relief then to leave the home
over which the clouds lowered and seek the gay villa, where something
pleasant and amusing was always going on.
The countess gathered around her the elite of Florentine society; she
selected her friends and acquaintances as carefully as she selected her
dresses, jewels, and flowers. She refused to know "bores" and
"nobodies"; her lady friends must be pretty, piquant, or fashionable,
any gentleman admitted into her charmed circle must have genius, wit,
or talent to recommend him. Though grave matrons shook their heads and
looked prudish when the Countess Rosali was mentioned, yet to belong to
her set was to receive the "stamp of fashion." No day passed without
some amusement at the villa--picnic, excursion, soiree, dance, or, what
its fair mistress preferred, private theatricals and charades.
"Help me," she said one morning, as Ronald and Dora, in compliance with
her urgent invitation, came to spend the day at the villa--"help me; I
want to do something that will surprise every one. There are some
great English people coming to Florence--one of your heiresses, who is
at the same time a beauty. We must have some grand charades or
tableaus. What would you advise? Think of something original that
will take Florence by surprise."
"Wishing any one to be original," said Ronald, smiling at her quick,
eager ways, "immediately deprives one of all thought. I must have
time; it seems to me you have exhausted every subject."
"An artist has never-failing resources," she replied; "when every
'fount of inspiration' is closed it will be time to tell me there are
no ideas. You must have seen many charades, Mrs. Thorne," she said,
turning suddenly to Dora; "they are very popular in England. Tell me
of some."
Dora blushed. She thought of the lodge and its one small parlor, and
then felt wretched and uncomfortable, out of place, and unhappy.
"I have never seen any charades," she said, stiffly, and with crimson
cheeks.
The countess opened her blue eyes in surprise, and Ronald looked
anxiously from one to the other.
"My wife was too young when we were married to have seen much of the
world," he said, inwardly hoping that the tears he saw gathering in
Dora's dark eyes would not fall.
"Ah, then, she will be of no use in our council," replied the countess,
quickly. "Let us go out on the terrace; there is always inspiration
under an Italian sky."
She led the way to a pretty veranda on the terrace, and they sat under
the shade of a large spreading vine.
"Now we can discuss my difficulty in peace," said the lady, in her
pretty, imperious way. "I will, with your permission, tell you some of
my ideas."
The countess was not particularly gifted, but Ronald was charmed by the
series of pictures she placed before him, all well chosen, with
startling points of interest, scenes from noble poems, pictures from
fine old tragedies. She never paused or seemed tired, while Dora sat,
her face still flushed, looking more awkward and ill at ease than
Ronald had ever seen her. For the first time, as they sat under the
vine that morning, Ronald contrasted his wife with his dainty,
brilliant hostess, and felt that she lost by the contrast--"awkward and
ill at ease," self-conscious to a miserable degree. For the first time
Ronald felt slightly ashamed of Dora, and wished that she knew more,
and could take some part in the conversation. Dimples and smiles,
curling rings of dark hair, and pretty rosebud lips were, he thought,
all very well, but a man grew tired of them in time, unless there was
something to keep up the charm. But poor little Dora had no resources
beyond her smiles and tears. She sat shrinking and timid, half
frightened at the bright lady who knew so much and told it so well;
feeling her heart cold with its first dread that Ronald was not pleased
with her. Her eyes wandered to the far-off hills. Ah! Could it be
that he would ever tire of her and wished that he had married some one
like himself. The very thought pierced her heart, and the timid young
wife sat with a sorrowful look upon her face that took away all its
simple beauty.
"I will show you a sketch of the costume," said the countess; "it is in
my desk. Pray excuse me."
She was gone in an instant, and Dora was alone with her husband.
"For Heaven's sake, Dora," he said, quickly, "do look a little
brighter; what will the countess think of you? You look like a
frightened school girl."
It was an injudicious speech. If Ronald had only caressed her, all
would have been sunshine again; as it was, the first impatient words
she had ever heard from him smote her with a new, strange pain, and the
tears overflowed.
"Do not--pray--never do that," said Ronald; "we shall be the laughing
stock of all Florence. Well-bred people never give way to emotion."
"Here is the sketch," said the countess, holding a small drawing in her
hand. Her quick glance took in Dora's tears and the disturbed
expression of Ronald's face.
With kind and graceful tact the countess gave Dora time to recover
herself; but that was the last time she ever invited the young artist
and his wife alone. Countess Rosali had a great dread of all domestic
scenes.
Neither Dora nor Ronald ever alluded again to this little incident; it
had one bad effect--it frightened the timid young wife, and made her
dread going into society. When invitations to grand houses came, she
would say, "Go alone, Ronald; if I am with you they are sure to ask me
ever so many questions which I can not answer; then you will be vexed
with me, and I shall be ashamed of my ignorance."
"Why do you not learn?" Ronald would ask, disarmed by her sweet
humility.
"I can not," said Dora, shaking her pretty head. "The only lesson I
ever learned in my life was how to love you."
"You have learned that by heart," replied Ronald. Then he would kiss
her pitiful little face and go without her.
By slow degrees it became a settled rule that Dora should stay at home
and Ronald go out. He had no scruples in leaving her--she never
objected; her face was always smiling and bright when he went away, and
the same when he returned. He said to himself that Dora was happier at
home than elsewhere, that fine ladies frightened her and made her
unhappy.
Their ways in life, now became separate and distinct, Ronald going more
than ever into society, Dora clinging more to the safe shelter of home.
But society was expensive in two ways--not only from the outlay in
dress and other necessaries, but in the time taken from work. There
were many days when Ronald never went near his studio, and only
returned home late in the evening to leave early in the morning. He
was only human, this young hero who had sacrificed so much for love;
and there were times, after some brilliant fete or soiree, when the
remembrance of home, Dora, hard work, narrow means, would come to him
like a heavy weight or the shadow of a dark cloud.
Not that he loved her less--pretty, tender Dora; but there was not one
feeling or taste in common between them. Harder men would have tired
of her long before. They never cared to speak much of home, for Dora
noticed that Ronald was always sad after a letter from Lady Earle. The
time came when she hesitated to speak of her own parents, lest he
should remember much that she would have liked him to forget.
If any true friend had stepped in then, and warned them, life would
have been a different story for Ronald Earle and his wife.
Ronald's story became known in Florence. He was the son of a wealthy
English peer, who had offended his father by a "low" marriage; in time
he would succeed to the title. Hospitalities were lavished upon him,
the best houses in Florence were thrown open to him, and he was eagerly
welcomed there. When people met him continually unaccompanied by his
young wife they smiled significantly, and bright eyes grew soft with
pity. Poor, pretty Dora!
Ronald never knew how the long hours of his absence were spent by Dora.
She never looked sad or weary to him, he never saw any traces of tears,
yet Dora shed many. Through the long sunny hours and far into the
night she sat alone, thinking of the home she had left in far-off
England--where she had been loved and worshiped by her rough, homely,
honest father and a loving mother; thinking too, of Ralph, and his
pretty, quiet homestead in the green fields, where she would have been
honored as its mistress, where no fine ladies would have vexed her with
questions, and no one would have thought her ignorant or awkward;
thinking of all these things, yet loving Ronald none the less, except
that a certain kind of fear began to mingle with her love.
Gradually, slowly, but surely, the fascination of the gay and brilliant
society in which Ronald was so eagerly courted laid hold of him. He
did not sin willfully or consciously; little by little a distaste for
his own home and a weariness of Dora's society overcame him. He was
never unkind to her, for Ronald was a gentleman; but he lingered no
more through the long sunny morning by her side. He gave up all
attempts to educate her. He ceased to tease her about books; he never
offered to read to her; and pretty, simple Dora, taught by the keen
instinct of love, noted it all.
Ronald saw some little change in her. The dimples and smiles had
almost vanished from her face. He seldom heard the laugh that had once
been so sweet to him. There was retiring grace in her manner that
suited her well. He thought she was catching the "tone of good
society," and liked the change.
Some natures become ennobled under the pressure of adversity; but
limited means and petty money cares had no good effect upon Ronald
Earle. He fretted under them. He could do nothing as other people
did. He could not purchase a magnificent bouquet for the countess; his
means would not permit it. He could not afford a horse such as all his
gentlemen friends rode. Adversity developed no good qualities in him;
the discipline was harder and sterner still that made of him a true man
at last.
Ronald went on with his painting fitfully, sometimes producing a good
picture, but often failing.
The greatest patron of the fine arts in Florence was the Prince di
Borgezi. His magnificent palace was like one picture gallery. He saw
some sketches of Ronald's, and gave an order to him to paint a large
picture, leaving him to choose the subject. In vain by night and by
day did Ronald ponder on what that subject should be. He longed to
make his name immortal by it. He thought once of Tennyson's "Dora,"
and of sketching his wife for the principal figure. He did make a
sketch, but he found that he could not paint Dora's face; he could not
place the dimpling smiles and bright blushes on canvas, and they were
the chief charm. He therefore abandoned the idea.
Standing one day where the sunbeams fell lightly through the thick
myrtles, an inspiration came to him. He would paint a picture of Queen
Guinevere in her gay sweet youth and bright innocent beauty--Guinevere
with her lovely face and golden hair, the white plumes waving and
jewels flashing; the bright figure on the milk-white palfrey shining in
the mellow sunlight that came through the green trees.
Lancelot should ride by her side; he could see every detail of the
picture; he knew just the noble, brave, tender face Sir Lancelot should
have; but where could he find a model for Guinevere? Where was there a
face that would realize his artist dreams of her? The painting was
half completed before he thought of Valentine Charteris and her
magnificent blonde beauty--the very ideal of Queen Guinevere.
With renewed energy Ronald set to work. Every feature of that perfect
face was engraved upon his mind. He made sketch after sketch, until,
in its serene, sweet loveliness, Valentine's face smiled upon him.