Ronald did not return in the evening to the pretty villa where he had
once been so happy. In the warmth of his anger, he felt that he never
could look again upon his wife. To his sensitive, refined nature there
was something more repulsive in the dishonorable act she had committed
than there would have been in a crime of deeper dye. He was shocked
and startled--more so than if he awoke some fair summer morning to find
Dora dead by his side. She was indeed dead to him in one sense. The
ideal girl, all purity, gentleness, and truth, whom he had loved and
married, had, it appeared, never really existed after all. He shrank
from the idea of the angry, vehement words and foul calumnies. He
shrank from the woman who had forgotten every rule of good breeding,
every trace of good manners, in angry, fierce passion.
How was he ever to face Miss Charteris again? She would never mention
one word of what had happened, but he could ill brook the shame Dora
had brought upon him. He remembered the summer morning in the woods
when he told Valentine the story of his love, and had pictured his
pretty, artless Dora to her. Could the angry woman who had dared to
insult him, and to calumniate the fairest and truest lady in all
England, possibly be the same?
Ronald had never before been brought into close contact with dishonor.
He had some faint recollection at college of having seen and known a
young man, the son of a wealthy nobleman, scorned and despised, driven
from all society, and he was told that it was because he had been
detected in the act of listening at the principal's door. He
remembered how old and young had shunned this young man as though he
were plague-stricken; and now his own wife Dora had done the very same
thing under circumstances that rendered the dishonor greater. He asked
himself, with a cynical smile, what he could expect? He had married
for love of a pretty, child-like face, never giving any thought to
principle, mind, or intellect. The only wonder was that so wretched
and unequal a match had not turned out ten times worse. His father's
warning rang in his ears. How blind, how foolish he had been!
Every hope of his own life was wrecked, every hope and plan of his
father's disappointed and dead. There seemed to him nothing left to
care for. His wife--oh, he would not think of her! The name vexed
him. He could not stand in Valentine's presence again, and for the
first time he realized what she had been to him. Home, and
consequently England, was closed to him; the grand mansion he had once
believed his had faded from his mind.
Thinking of all these things, Ronald's love for his young wife seemed
changed to dislike. Three days passed before he returned home; then he
was somewhat startled to find her really gone. He had anticipated
sullen temper, renewed quarrels, and then perhaps a separation, but he
was startled to find her actually gone. The servant gave him the cold
farewell letter, written without tears, without sorrow. He tore it
into shreds and flung it from him.
"The last act in the farce," he said, bitterly. "If I had not been mad,
I should have foreseen this."
The silent, deserted rooms did not remind him of the loving young wife
parted from him forever. He was too angry, too annoyed, for any gentle
thoughts to influence him. She had left him--so much the better; there
could never again be peace between them. He thought with regret of the
little ones--they were too young for him to undertake charge of them,
so that they were best left with their mother for a time. He said to
himself that he must make the best use he could of his life; everything
seemed at an end. He felt very lonely and unhappy as he sat in his
solitary home; and the more sorrow present upon him, the more bitter
his thoughts grew, the deeper became his dislike to this unhappy young
wife.
Ronald wrote to his mother, but said no word to her of the cause of
their quarrel.
"Dora and I," he said, "will never live together again--perhaps never
meet. She has gone home to her father; I am going to wander over the
wide earth. Will you induce my father to receive my children at
Earlescourt? And will you see Mr. Burt, and arrange that half of my
small income is settled upon Dora?"
But to all his wife's entreaties Lord Earle turned a deaf ear. He
declared that never during his life time should the children of Dora
Thorne enter Earlescourt. His resolution was fixed and unalterable.
How, he asked, was he to trust the man who had once deceived him? For
aught he knew, the separation between Ronald and his wife might be a
deeply laid scheme, and, the children once with him, there would be a
grand reconciliation between the parents.
"I am not surprised," he said, "that the unhappy boy is weary of his
pretty toy. It could not be otherwise; he must bear the consequences
of his own folly. He had time for thought, he made his own choice--now
let him abide by it. You have disregarded my wish, Lady Helena, in
even naming the matter to me. Let all mention of it cease. I have no
son. One thing remember--I am not hard upon you--you can go where you
like, see whom you like, and spend what money you will, and as you
will."
Lady Earle was not long in availing herself of the permission. There
was great excitement at the Elms one morning, caused by the receipt of
a letter from Lady Earle saying that she would be there on the same day
to visit the son's wife and children.
The little ones looked up to her with wondering eyes. To them she was
like a vision, with her noble face and distinguished air.
Stephen Thorne and his wife received the great lady not without some
trepidation; yet they were in no way to blame. The fatal marriage had
been as great a blow to them as to Lord and Lady Earle. With the quiet
dignity and graceful ease that never deserted her, Lady Earle soon made
them feel at home. She started in utter surprise, when a quiet, grave
woman, on whose face sweetness and sullen humor were strangely mingled,
entered the room. This could not be pretty, coy, blushing Dora! Where
were the dimples and smiles? The large dark eyes raised so sadly to
hers were full of strange, pathetic beauty. With sharp pain the
thought struck Lady Earle, "What must not Dora have suffered to have
changed her so greatly!" The sad eyes and worn face touched her as no
beauty could have done. She clasped Dora in her arms and kissed her.
"You are my daughter now," she said, in that rich, musical voice which
Dora remembered so well. "We will not mention the past; it is
irrevocable. If you sinned against duty and obedience, your face tells
me you have suffered. What has come between you and my son I do not
seek to know. The shock must have been a great one which parted you,
for he gave up all the world for you, Dora, years ago. We will not
speak of Ronald. Our care must be the children. Of course you wish
them to remain with you?"
"While it is possible," said Dora, wearily. "I shall never leave home
again; but I can not hope to keep them here always."
"I should have liked to adopt them," said Lady Earle; "to take them
home and educate them, but--"
"Lord Earle will not permit it," interrupted Dora, calmly. "I know--I
do not wonder."
"You must let me do all I can for them here," continued Lady Earle; "I
have made all plans and arrangements. We will give the children an
education befitting their position, without removing them from you.
Then we shall see what time will do. Let me see the little ones. I
wish you had called one Helena, after me."
Dora remembered why she had not done so, and a flush of shame rose to
her face.
They were beautiful children, and Dora brought them proudly to the
stately lady waiting for them. Lady Earle took Beatrice in her arms.
"Why, Dora," she said admiringly, "she has the Earle face, with a novel
charm all its own. The child will grow up into magnificent woman."
"She has the Earle spirit and pride," said the young mother; "I find it
hard to manage her even now."
Then Lady Earle looked at the fair, spirituelle face and golden hair of
little Lillian. The shy, dove-like eyes and sweet lips charmed her.
"There is a great contrast between them," she said, thoughtfully. "They
will require careful training, Dora; and now we will speak of the
matter which brought me here."
Dora noticed that, long as she remained, Lady Earle never let Beatrice
leave her arms; occasionally she bent over Lillian and touched her soft
golden curls, but the child with the "Earle face" was the one she loved
best.
Together with Stephen Thorne and his wife, Lady Earle went over the
Elms. The situation delighted her; nothing could be better or more
healthy for the children, but the interior of the house must be
altered. Then with delicate grace that could only charm, never wound,
Lady Earle unfolded her plans. She wished a new suite of rooms to be
built for Dora and the children, to be nicely furnished with everything
that could be required. She would bear the expense. Immediately on
her return she would send an efficient French maid for the little ones,
and in the course of a year or two she would engage the services of an
accomplished governess, who would undertake the education of Beatrice
and Lillian without removing them from their mother's care.
"I shall send a good piano and harp," said Lady Earle, "it will be my
pride and pleasure to select books, music, drawings, and everything
else my grandchildren require. I should wish them always to be nicely
dressed and carefully trained. To you, Dora, I must leave the highest
and best training of all. Teach them to be good, and to do their duty.
They have learned all when they have learned that."
For the first time in her life, the thought came home to Dora: How was
she to teach what she had never learned and had failed to practice?
That night, long after Lady Earle had gone away, and the children had
fallen to sleep, Dora knelt in the moonlight and prayed that she might
learn to teach her children to do their duty.
As Lady Earle wished, the old farm house was left intact, and a new
group of buildings added to it. There was a pretty sitting room for
Dora, and a larger one to serve as a study for the children, large
sleeping rooms, and a bathroom, all replete with comfort. Two years
passed before all was completed, and Lady Earle thought it time to send
a governess to the Elms.
* * * * *
During those years little or nothing was heard from Ronald. After
reading the cold letter Dora left for him, it seemed as though all
love, all care, all interest died out of his heart. He sat for many
long hours thinking of the blighted life "he could not lay down, yet
cared little to hold."
He was only twenty-three--the age at which life opens to most men; yet
he was worn, tired, weary of everything--the energies that once seemed
boundless, the ambition once so fierce and proud, all gone. His whole
nature recoiled from the shock. Had Dora, in the fury of her jealousy
and rage, tried to kill him, he would have thought that but a small
offense compared with the breach of honor in crouching behind the trees
to listen. He thought of the quiet, grand beauty of Valentine's face
while Dora was convulsed with passion. He remembered the utter wonder
in Valentine's eyes when Dora's flamed upon them. He remembered the
sickening sense of shame that had cowed him as he listened to her
angry, abusive words. And this untrained, ignorant, ill-bred woman was
his wife! For her he had given up home, parents, position, wealth--all
he had in life worth caring for. For her, and through her, he stood
there alone in the world.
Those thoughts first maddened him, then drove him to despair. What had
life left for him? He could not return to England; his father's doors
were closed against him. There was no path open to him; without his
father's help he could not get into Parliament. He could not work as
an artist at home. He could not remain in Florence; never again, he
said to himself, would he see Valentine Charteris--Valentine, who had
been the witness of his humiliation and disgrace. Sooner anything than
that. He would leave the villa and go somewhere--he cared little
where. No quiet, no rest came to him. Had his misfortunes been
accidental--had they been any other than they were, the result of his
boyish folly and disobedience, he would have found them easier to bear;
as it was, the recollection that it was all his own fault drove him mad.
Before morning he had written a farewell note to Lady Charteris, saying
that he was leaving Florence at once, and would not be able to see her
again. He wrote to Valentine, but the few stiff words expressed little
of what he felt. He prayed her to forget the miserable scene that
would haunt him to his dying day; to pardon the insults that had driven
him nearly mad; to pardon the mad jealousy, the dishonor of Dora; to
forget him and all belonging to him. When Miss Charteris read the
letter she knew that all effort to restore peace would for a time be in
vain. She heard the day following that the clever young artist, Mr.
Earle, had left.
Countess Rosali loudly lamented Ronald's departure. It was so strange,
she said; the dark-eyed little wife and her children had gone home to
England, and the husband, after selling off his home, had gone with Mr.
Charles Standon into the interior of Africa. What was he going to do
there?
She lamented him for two days without ceasing, until Valentine was
tired of her many conjectures. He was missed in the brilliant salons
of Florence, but by none so much as by Valentine Charteris.
What the pretty, coquettish countess had said was true. After making
many plans and forming many resolutions, Ronald met Mr. Standon, who
was on the point of joining an exploring expedition in South Africa.
He gladly consented to accompany him. There was but little preparation
needed. Four days after the never-to-be-forgotten garden scene, Ronald
Earle left Italy and became a wanderer upon the face of the earth.