Dora Thorne by Charlotte Mary Brame (any book recommendations .TXT) 📖

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.


Chapter XIV


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