The angry, passionate words spoken by Ronald--almost the first he had
ever uttered--soon faded from his mind, but they rankled like poisoned
arrows in Dora's heart. She believed them. Before evening her husband
repented of his anger, and called himself a coward for having scolded
Dora. He went up to her and raised her face to his.
"Little wife," He said, "we have both been wrong. I am very sorry--let
us make friends."
There was just a suspicion of sullenness in Dora's nature, and it
showed itself in full force now.
"It is no matter," she replied, coolly; "I knew long ago that you were
tired of me."
Ronald would not answer, lest they should quarrel again, but he thought
to himself that perhaps she was not far wrong.
From that day the breach between them widened. In after years Dora saw
how much she was to blame. She understood then how distasteful her
quiet, sullen reserve must have been to a high-bred, fastidious man
like Ronald. She did not see it then, but nursed in her heart
imaginary wrongs and injuries; and, above all, she yielded to a wild,
fierce jealousy of Valentine Charteris.
For some weeks Miss Charteris saw the cloud deepening on Ronald's face.
He grew silent, and lost the flow of spirit that had once seemed never
to fail; and during the few weeks that followed, a strong resolution
grew in her mind. She was his true friend, and she would try to
restore peace and harmony between him and his wife. She waited for
some days, but at her mother's house it was impossible to see him
alone. Yet she honestly believed that, if she could talk to him,
remind him of his first love for Dora, of her simplicity and many
virtues, she might restore peace and harmony to her old friend's house.
She thought Ronald to blame. He had voluntarily taken active duties
upon himself, and to her clearly, rightly judging mind, there was no
earthly reason why he should not fulfill them. He would not feel hurt
at her speaking, she felt sure, for he had voluntarily sought her aid
years ago. So Valentine waited day after day, hoping to find a chance
for those few words she thought would do so much good; but, as no
opportunity came, she resolved to make one. Taking her little jeweled
pencil, she wrote the following lines that were in after-time a death
warrant:
"Dear Mr. Earle,--I wish to speak to you particularly and privately. I
shall be in our grounds tomorrow morning about ten; let me see you
there before you enter the house. Your sincere friend, Valentine
Charteris."
All the world might have read the note--there was nothing wrong in
it--good intentions and a kindly heart dictated it, but it worked fatal
mischief. When Ronald was leaving her mother's house, Miss Charteris
openly placed the letter in his hands.
"This is the first note I have ever written to you," she said, with a
smile. "You must not refuse the request it contains."
"I will send him home happy tomorrow," she thought, "he is easily
influenced for good. He must make up the misunderstanding with his
pretty little wife--neither of them look happy."
Ronald did not open the letter until he reached home. Then he read it
with a half-consciousness of what Valentine wanted him for.
"She is a noble woman," he thought. "Her words made me brave
before--they will do me good again."
He left the folded paper upon the table in his studio; and jealous
little Dora, going in search of some work she had left, found it there.
She read it word by word, the color dying slowly out of her face as she
did so, and a bitter, deadly jealousy piercing her heart like a
two-edged sword. It confirmed her worst fears, her darkest doubts.
How dared this brilliant, beautiful woman lure Ronald from her? How
dared she rob her of his love?
Ronald looked aghast at his wife's face as she re-entered the sitting
room. He had been playing with the children, and had forgotten for the
time both Valentine and her note. He cried out in alarm as she turned
her white, wild face to him in dumb, silent despair.
"What is the matter, Dora?" he cried. "Are you ill or frightened? You
look like a ghost."
She made no reply, and her husband, thinking she had relapsed into one
of her little fits of temper, sighed heavily and bade her good night.
Poor, foolish, jealous heart--she never lay down to rest!
She had quite resolved she would go and meet the husband who was tired
of her and the woman who lured him away. She would listen to all they
had to say, and then confront them. No thought of the dishonor of such
a proceeding struck her. Poor Dora was not gifted with 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 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.