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, either of dress or toys, that Valentine had
brought.
She never delayed to look round and think of the happy hours spent in
those pretty rooms. She never thought of the young lover who had given
up all the world for her. All she remembered was the wrathful husband
who never wished to see her more--who, in presence of another, had
bitterly regretted having made her his wife. She could not weep--the
burning brain and jealous, angry heart would have been better for that,
but the dark eyes were bright and full of strange, angry light. The
little ones, looking upon her, wept for fear. With eager, passionate
love she caught them in her arms, crying the while that they should
never remain to be despised as she was.
In the white-faced, angry woman, roused to the highest pitch of
passion, there was no trace of pretty, blushing Dora. Rapidly were the
boxes packed, corded, and addressed. Once during that brief time Maria
asked, "Where are you going, signora?" And the hard voice answered,
"To my father's--my own home in England."
When everything was ready, the wondering children dressed, and the
little maid waiting, Dora sat down at her husband's desk and wrote the
following lines. No tears fell upon them; her hand did not tremble,
the words were clear and firmly written:
"I have not waited for you to send me away. Your eyes shall not be
pained again by resting on the face where you read dishonor. I saw
months ago that you were tired of me. I am going to my father's house,
and my children I shall take with me--you care no more for them than
for me. They are mine--not yours. I leave you with all you love in
the world. I take all I love with me. If you prayed for long years, I
would never return to you nor speak to you again."
She folded the note and addressed it to her husband. She left no kiss
warm from her lips upon it. As she passed forever from the little
villa, she never turned for one last look at its vine-clad walls.
The gaunt, silent Italian servant who had lived with Dora since the
first day she reached Florence came to her in wonder and alarm, barely
recognizing her pretty, gentle mistress in the pale, determined woman
who looked like one brought to bay. To her Dora spoke of the letter;
it was to be given to her husband as soon as he returned. Not one word
did she utter in reply to the woman's question. She hurried with the
keen desperation of despair, lest Ronald should return and find her
still there.
Soon after noon, and while Ronald lingered with some friends upon the
steps of the Hotel d'Italia, his wife reached the busy railway station
at Florence. She had money enough to take her home, but none to spare.
She knew no rest; every moment seemed like an age to her, until the
train was in motion, and fair, sunny Florence left far behind.
Without the stimulus of anger Dora would have shrunk in terror from the
thought of a long journey alone--she who had never been without the
escort of a kind and attentive husband. But no prospect daunted her
now--the wide seas, the dangers of rail and road had no terror for her.
She was flying in hot haste and anger from one who had said before her
rival that he never wished to see her face again.
* * * * *
The sun shining so brightly on the waters of the Arno lingered almost
lovingly on the fair, quiet English landscape. Far down in the fertile
and beautiful county of Kent, where the broad channel washes the shore,
stands the pretty, almost unknown village of Knutsford.
The world is full of beauty, every country has its share Switzerland
its snow-clad mountains, Germany its dark woods and broad streams,
France its sunny plains, Italy its "thousand charms of Nature and Art;"
but for quiet, tranquil loveliness, for calm, fair beauty, looking
always fresh from the mighty hand that created it, there is nothing
like English scenery.
The white cliffs of Knutsford, like "grand giants," ran along the
shore; there was a broad stretch of yellow sand, hidden when the tide
was in, shining and firm when it ebbed. The top of the cliff was like
a carpet of thick green grass and springing heather. Far away, in the
blue distance, one could see, of a bright, sunny day, the outline of
the French coast. The waves rolled in, and broke upon the yellow
sands; the sea-birds flew by with busy wings, white sails gleamed in
the sunshine. Occasionally a large steamer passed; there was no sound
save the rich, never-changing music of Nature, the rush of wind and
waves, the grand, solemn anthem that the sea never tires of singing.
Far down the cliff ran the zigzag path that led to the village; there
was no sign of the sea on the other side of the white rocks. There the
green fields and pretty hop-gardens stretched out far and wide, and the
Farthinglow Woods formed a belt around them. In the midst of a green,
fertile valley stood the lovely village of Knutsford. It had no
regular street; there were a few cottages, a few farm houses, a few
little villas, one grand mansion, three or four shops, and quiet
homesteads with thatched roofs and eaves of straw.
The prettiest and most compact little farm in the village was the one
where Stephen Thorne and his wife dwelt. It was called the elms, a
long avenue of elms leading to the little house and skirting the broad
green meadows. It was at a short distance from the village, so quiet,
so tranquil, that, living there, one seemed out of the world.
Stephen Thorne and his wife were not rich. In spite of Lady Earle's
bounty, it was hard for them at times to make both ends meet. Crops,
even in that fair and fertile county, would fail, cattle would die,
rain would fall when it should not, and the sun refuse to shine. But
this year everything had gone on well; the hay stood in great ricks in
the farm yard, the golden corn waved in the fields ripe and ready for
the sickle, the cows and sheep fed tranquilly in the meadows, and all
things had prospered with Stephen Thorne. One thing only weighed upon
his heart--his wife would have it that Dora's letters grew more and
more sad; she declared her child was unhappy, and he could not persuade
her to the contrary.
It was a fair August evening. Ah! How weak and feeble are the words.
Who could paint the golden flush of summer beauty that lay over the
meadows and corn fields--the hedge rows filled with wild flowers, the
long, thick grass studded with gay blossoms, the calm, sullen silence
only broken by the singing of the birds, the lowing of cattle, the
rustling of green leaves in the sweet soft air?
Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, Ralph Holt, to
fetch the cattle home. In Ralph's honor, good, motherly Mrs. Thorne
had laid out a beautiful tea--golden honey that seemed just gathered
from the flowers, ripe fruits, cream from the dairy everything was
ready; yet the farmer and his guest seemed long in coming. She went to
the door and looked across the meadows. The quiet summer beauty stole
like a spell over her.
Suddenly, down in the meadows, Mrs. Thorne caught sight of a lady
leading a little child by the hand. She was followed by a young maid
carrying another. As the lady drew nearer, Mrs. Thorne stood
transfixed and bewildered. Could the summer sun or the flickering
shade be mocking her? Was she dreaming or awake? Far off still,
through the summer haze, she saw a white, wan face; dark eyes, shadowed
and veiled, as though by long weeping; lips, once rosy and smiling,
rigid and firm. She saw what seemed to her the sorrowful ghost of the
pretty, blooming child that had left her long ago. She tried to call
out, but her voice failed her. She tried to run forward and meet the
figure coming slowly through the meadows, but she was powerless to
move. She never heard the footsteps of her husband and his guest. She
only stirred when Stephen Thorne placed his hand upon her shoulder, and
in a loud, cheery voice, asked what ailed her.
"Look," she said, hoarsely, "look down the meadow there and tell me--if
that is Dora or Dora's ghost?"
She drew near more swiftly now, for she had seen the three figures at
the door. The white face and wild eyes seemed aflame with anxiety.
"Dora, Dora!" cried Mrs. Thorne, "is it really you?"
"It is," said a faint, bitter voice. "I am come home, mother. My heart
is broken and I long to die."
They crowded around her, and Ralph Holt, with his strong arms, carried
the fragile, drooping figure into the house. They laid her upon the
little couch, and drew the curling rings of dark hair back from her
white face. Mrs. Thorne wept aloud, crying out for her pretty Dora,
her poor, unhappy child. The two men stood watching her with grave,
sad eyes. Ralph clenched his hand as he gazed upon her, the wreck of
the simple, gentle girl he had loved so dearly.
"If he has wronged her," he said to Stephen Thorne, "if he has broken
her heart, and sent her home to die, let him beware!"
"I knew it would never prosper," groaned her father; "such marriages
never do."
When Dora opened her eyes, and saw the three anxious faces around her,
for a moment she was bewildered. They knew when the torture of memory
returned to her, for she clasped her hands with a low moan.
"Dora," said her mother, "what has happened? Trust us, dear child--we
are your best friends. Where is your husband? And why have you left
him?"
"Because he has grown tired of me," she cried, with passion and anger
flaming again in her white, worn face. "I did something he thought
wrong, and he prayed to Heaven to pardon him for making me his wife."
"What did you do?" asked her father, anxiously.
"Nothing that I thought wrong," she replied. "Ask me no questions,
father. I would rather die any death than return to him or see him
again. Yet do not think evil of him. It was all a mistake. I could
not think his thoughts or live his life--we were quite different, and
very unhappy. He never wishes to see me again, and I will suffer
anything rather than see him."
The farmer and his wife looked at each other in silent dismay. This
proud, angry woman and her passionate words frightened them. Could it
be their Dora, who had ever been sunshine and music to them?
"If you do not like to take me home, father," she said, in a hard
voice, "I can go elsewhere; nothing can surprise or grieve me now."
But kindly Mrs. Thorne had drawn the tired head to her.
"Do you not know, child," she said, gently, "that a mother's love never
fails?"
Ralph had raised the little one in his arms, and was looking with
wondering admiration at the proud, beautiful face of the little
Beatrice, and the fair loveliness of Lillian. The children looked with
frank, fearless eyes into his plain, honest face.
"This one with dark hair has the real Earle face," said Stephen Thorne,
proudly; "that is just my lord's look--proud and quiet. And the little
Lillian is something like Dora, when she was quite a child."
"Never say that!" cried the young mother. "Let them grow like any one
else, but never like me!"
They soothed her with gentle, loving words. Her father said she should
share his home with her children, and he would never give her up again.
They bade her watch the little ones, who had forgotten their fears, and
laughed over the ripe fruit and golden honey. They also drew aside the
white curtain, and let her tired eyes fall upon the sweet summer beauty
of earth and sky. Was not everything peaceful? The sun sinking in the
west, the birds singing their evening song, the flowers closing their
bright eyes, the wind whispering "good night" to the shimmering,
graceful elms--all was peace, and the hot, angry heart grew calm and
still. Bitter tears rose to the burning eyes--tears that fell like
rain, and seemed to take away the sharpest sting of her pain.
With wise and tender thought they let Dora weep undisturbed. The
bitter sobbing ceased at last. Dora said farewell to her love. She lay
white and exhausted, but the anger and passion had died away.
"Let me live with you, father," she said, humbly. "I will serve you,
and obey you. I an content, more than content, with my own home. But
for my little children, let all be as it was years ago."
When the little ones, like the flowers, had gone to sleep, and Dora had
gone into the pretty white room prepared for her, Ralph rose to take
his leave.
"Surely," said Thorne, "you are not leaving us. You promised to stay a
whole week."
"I know," said the young farmer; "but you have many to think for now,
Mr. Thorne. The time will come when the poor, wearied girl sleeping
above us will be Lady Earle. Her husband knew I loved her. No shadow
even of suspicion must rest upon her. While your daughter remains
under your roof, I shall not visit you again."
Dora's father knew the young man was right.
"Let me see the little ones sometimes," continued Ralph; "and if large
parcels of toys and books find their way to the Elms, you will know who
sent them. But I must not come in Dora's way; she is no loner Dora
Thorne."
As Stephen watched the young man walking quickly through the long gray
fields, he wished that Dora had never seen Ronald Earle.
Poor Dora's troubles were not yet ended. When the warm August sun
peeped into her room on the following morning, she did not see it
shine; when the children crept to her side and called for mamma, she
was deaf to their little voices. The tired head tossed wearily to and
fro, the burning eyes would not close. A raging fever had her in its
fierce clutches. When Mrs. Thorne, alarmed by the children's cries,
came in, Dora did not know her, but cried out loudly that she was a
false woman, who had lured her husband from her.
They sent in all haste for aid; but the battle was long and fierce.
During the hours of delirium, Mrs. Thorne gleaned sorrowfully some
portions of her daughter's story. She cried out incessantly against a
fair woman--one Valentine--whom Ronald loved--cried in scorn and anger.
Frequently she was in a garden, behind some trees; then confronting
some one with flaming eyes, sobbing that she did not believe it; then
hiding her face and crying out:
"He has ceased to love me--let me die!"
But the time came when the fierce fever burned itself out, and Dora lay
weak and helpless as a little child. She recovered slowly, but she was
never the same again. Her youth, hope, love, and happiness were all
dead. No smile or dimple, no pretty blush, came to the changed face;
the old coy beauty was all gone.
Calm and quiet, with deep, earnest eyes, and lips that seldom smiled,
Dora seemed to have found another self. Even with her children the sad
restraint never wore off nor grew less. If they wanted to play, they
sought the farmer in the fields, the good-natured nurse, or the
indulgent grandmamma--never the sad, pale mother. If they were in
trouble then they sought her.
Dora asked for work. She would have been dairy maid, house maid, or
anything else, but her father said "No." A pretty little room was
given to her, with woodbines and roses peeping in at the window. Here
for long hours every day, while the children played in the meadows, she
sat and sewed. There, too, Dora, for the first time, learned what
Ronald, far away in sunny Italy, failed to teach her--how to think and
read. Big boxes of books came from the town of Shorebeach. Stephen
Thorne spared no trouble or expense in pleasing his daughter. Dora
wondered that she had never cared for books, now that deeper and more
solemn thoughts came to her. The pale face took a new beauty; no one
could have believed that the thoughtful woman with the sweet voice and
refined accent was the daughter of the blunt farmer Thorne and his
homely wife.
A few weeks passed, and but for the little ones Dora would have
believed the whole to have been but a long, dark dream. She would not
think of Ronald; she would not remember his love, his sacrifices for
her; she thought only of her wrongs and his cruel words.
The children grew and throve. Dora had no care at present as to their
education. From her they learned good English, and between herself and
the faithful young nurse they could learn, she thought, tolerable
Italian. She would not think of a future that might take these beloved
children from her. She ignored Ronald's claim to them--they were hers.
He had tired of them when he tired of her. She never felt the days
monotonous in that quiet farm house, as others might have done. A dead
calm seemed to surround her; but it was destined soon to be broken.