Lady Earle's boudoir was always considered one of the prettiest rooms at Earlescourt. Few, but rare, pictures adorned its walls. The long French windows opened on to the prettiest part of the gardens, where a large fountain rippled merrily in the sunshine. Groups of flowers in rare and costly vases perfumed the room.
Lord Earle had but drawn a pretty lounging chair to the window, and sat there, looking happier than he had looked for months. Lady Earle went on with her task of arranging some delicate leaves and blossoms ready for sketching.
"Ronald," said his father, "I have been waiting here some time. Have you been out?"
"I have been in the park with Miss Charteris," replied Ronald.
Lord Earle smiled again, evidently well pleased to hear that intelligence.
"A pleasant and sensible method of spending your time," he continued; "and, strange to say, it is on that very subject I wish to speak to you. Your attentions to Miss Charteris—"
"My attentions!" cried Ronald. "You are mistaken. I have never paid any."
"You need have no fear this time," said Lord Earle. "Your mother tells me of the numerous comments made last evening on your long tete-a-tete in the conservatory. I know some of your secrets. There can be no doubt that Miss Charteris has a great regard for you. I sent for you to say that, far from my again offering any opposition to your marriage, the dearest wish of my heart will be gratified when I call Valentine Charteris my daughter."
He paused for a reply, but none came. Ronald's face had grown strangely pale.
"We never named our wish to you," continued Lord Earle, "but years ago your mother and I hoped you would some day love Miss Charteris. She is very beautiful; she is the truest, noblest, the best woman I know. I am proud of your choice, Ronald—more proud than words can express."
Still Ronald made no reply, and Lady Earle looked up at him quickly.
"You need not fear for Valentine," she said. "I must not betray any secrets; she likes you, Ronald; I will say no more. If you ask her to be your wife, I do not think you will ask in vain."
"There is some great mistake," said Ronald, his pale lips quivering. "Miss Charteris has no thought for me."
"She has no thought for any one else," rejoined Lady Earle, quickly.
"And I," continued Ronald, "never dreamed of making her my wife. I do not love her. I can never marry Valentine Charteris."
The smiles died from Lord Earle's face, and his wife dropped the pretty blossoms she was arranging.
"Then why have you paid the girl so much attention?" asked his father, gravely. "Every one has remarked your manner; you never seemed happy away from her."
"I wished to make her my friend," said Ronald; "I never thought of anything else."
He stood aghast when he remembered why he had tried so hard to win her friendship. What if Valentine misunderstood him?
"Others thought for you," said Lady Earle, dryly. "Of course, if I am mistaken, there is no more to be said; I merely intended to say how happy such a marriage would make me. If you do not love the young lady the matter ends, I suppose."
"Can you not love her, Ronald?" asked his mother, gently. "She is so fair and good, so well fitted to be the future mistress of Earlescourt. Can you not love her?"
"Nothing was further from my thoughts," he replied.
"Surely," interrupted Lady Earle, "you have forgotten the idle, boyish folly that angered your father some time since—that can not be your reason?"
"Hush, mother," said Ronald, standing erect and dauntless; "I was coming to tell you my secret when you met me. Father, I deceived and disobeyed you. I followed Dora Thorne to Eastham, and married her there."
A low cry came from Lady Earle's lips. Ronald saw his father's face grow white—livid—with anger; but no word broke the awful silence that fell upon them. Hours seemed to pass in the space of a few minutes.
"You married her," said Lord Earle, in a low, hoarse voice, "remembering what I said?"
"I married her," replied Ronald, "hoping you would retract hard, cruel words that you never meant. I could not help it, father; she has no one but me; they would have forced her to marry some one she did not like."
"Enough," interrupted Lord Earle. "Tell me when and where. Let me understand whether the deed is irrevocable or not."
Calmly, but with trembling lips, Ronald gave him every particular.
"Yes, the marriage is legal enough," said the master of Earlescourt. "You had to choose between duty, honor, home, position—and Dora Thorne. You preferred Dora; you must leave the rest."
"Father, you will forgive me," cried Ronald. "I am your only son."
"Yes," said Lord Earle, drearily, "you are my only son. Heaven grant no other child may pierce his father's heart as you have done mine! Years ago, Ronald, my life was blighted—my hopes, wishes, ambitions, and plans all melted; they lived again in you. I longed with wicked impatience for the time when you should carry out my dreams, and add fresh luster to a grand old name. I have lived in your life; and now, for the sake of a simple, pretty, foolish girl, you have forsaken me—you have deliberately trampled upon every hope that I had."
"Let me atone for it," cried Ronald. "I never thought of these things."
"You can not atone," said Lord Earle, gravely. "I can never trust you again. From this time forth I have no son. My heir you must be when the life you have darkened ends. My son is dead to me."
There was no anger in the stern, grave face turned toward the unhappy young man.
"I never broke my word," he continued, "and never shall. You have chosen your own path; take it. You preferred this Dora to me; go to her. I told you if you persisted in your folly, I would never look upon your face again, and I never will."
"Oh, Rupert!" cried Lady Earle; "be merciful. He is my only child. I shall die if you send him from me."
"He preferred this Dora to you or to me," said Lord Earle. "I am sorry for you, Helena—Heaven knows it wrings my heart—but I shall not break my word! I will not reproach you," he continued, turning to his son, "it would be a waste of time and words; you knew the alternative, and are doubtless prepared for it."
"I must bear it, father; the deed was my own," said Ronald.
"We will end this scene," said Lord Earle, turning from his unhappy wife, who was weeping passionately. "Look at your mother, Ronald; kiss her for the last time and go from her; bear with you the memory of her love and of her tenderness, and of how you have repaid them. Take your last look at me. I have loved you—I have been proud of you, hopeful for you; now I dismiss you from my presence, unworthy son of a noble race. The same roof will never shelter us again. Make what arrangements you will. You have some little fortune; it must maintain you. I will never contribute one farthing to the support of my lodge keeper's daughter. Go where you like—do as you like. You have chosen your own path. Some day you must return to Earlescourt as its master. I thank Heaven it will be when the degradation of my home and the dishonor of my race can not touch me. Go now; I shall expect you to have quitted the Hall before tomorrow morning."
"You can not mean it, father," cried Ronald. "Send me from you punish me—I deserve it; but let me see you again!"
"Never in life," said Lord Earle, calmly. "Remember, when you see me lying dead, that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which I learned that you had deceived me."
"Mother," cried the unhappy youth, "plead for me!"
"It is useless," replied his father; "your choice has been made deliberately. I am not cruel. If you write to me I shall return your letters unopened. I shall refuse to see or hear from you, or to allow you to come near Earlescourt; but you can write to your mother—I do not forbid that. She can see you under any roof save mine. Now, farewell; the sunshine, the hope, the happiness of my life go with you, but I shall keep my word. See my solicitor, Mr. Burt, about your money, and he will arrange everything in my place."
"Father," cried Ronald, with tears in his eyes, "say one kind word, touch my hand once again!"
"No," said Lord Earle, turning from the outstretched hand; "that is not the hand of an honorable man; I can not hold it in my own."
Then Ronald bent down to kiss his mother; her face was white and still; she was not conscious of his tears or his passionate pleading. Lord Earle raised her face. "Go," said he, calmly; "do not let your mother find you here when she recovers."
He never forgot the pleading of those sorrowful eyes, the anguish of the brave young face, as Ronald turned from him and left the room.
When Lady Earle awoke to consciousness of her misery, her son had left her. No one would have called Lord Earle hard or stern who saw him clasp his weeping wife in his arms, and console her by every kind and tender word he could utter.
Lord Earle did not know that in his wife's heart there was a hope that in time he would relent. It was hard to lose her brave boy for a few months or even years; but he would return, his father must forgive him, her sorrow would be but for a time. But Lord Earle, inflexible and unflinching, knew that he should never in life see his son again.
No one knew what Lord Earle suffered; as Valentine Charteris said, he was too proud for scenes. He dined with Lady Charteris and her daughter, excusing his wife, and never naming his son. After dinner he shut himself in his own room, and suffered his agony along.
Earlescourt was full of bustle and activity. The young heir was leaving suddenly; boxes and trunks had to be packed. He did not say where he was going; indeed those who helped him said afterward that his face was fixed and pale, and that he moved about like one in a dream.
Everything was arranged for Ronald's departure by the night mail from Greenfield, the nearest station to Earlescourt. He took with him neither horses nor servants; even his valet, Morton, was left behind. "My lady" was ill, and shut up in her room all day.
Valentine Charteris sat alone in the drawing room when Ronald came in to bid her farewell. She was amazed at the unhappy termination of the interview. She would have gone instantly to Lord Earle, but Ronald told her it was useless—no prayers, no pleadings could change his determination.
As Ronald stood here, looking into Valentine's beautiful face, he remembered his mother's words, that she cared for him as she cared for no other. Could it be possible that this magnificent girl, with her serene, queenly dignity, loved him? She looked distressed by his sorrow. When he spoke of his mother, and she saw the quivering lips he vainly tried to still, tears filled her eyes.
"Where shall you go," she asked, "and what shall you do?"
"I shall go to my wife at once," he replied, "and take her abroad. Do not look so pained and grieved for me, Miss Charteris I must do the best I can. If my income will not support me, I must work; a few months' study will make me a tolerable artist. Do not forget my mother, Valentine, and bid me 'Godspeed.'"
Her heart yearned for him—so young, so simple, so brave. She longed to tell him how much she admired him—how she wanted to help him, and would be his friend while she lived. But Miss Charteris rarely yielded to any emotion; she had laid her hand in his and said:
"Goodbye, Ronald—God bless you! Be brave; it is not one great deed that makes a hero. The man who bears trouble well is the greatest hero of all."
As he left his home in that quiet starlit night, Ronald little thought that, while his mother lay weeping as though her heart would break, a beautiful face, wet with bitter tears, watched him from one of the upper windows, and his father, shut up alone, listened to every sound, and heard the door closed behind his son as he would have heard his own death knell.
The next day Lady Charteris and her daughter left Earlescourt. Lord Earle gave no sign of the heavy blow which had struck him. He was their attentive host while they remained; he escorted them to their carriage, and parted from them with smiling words. Then he went back to the house, where he was never more to hear the sound of the voice he loved best on earth.
As the days and months passed, and the young heir did not return, wonder and surprise reigned at Earlescourt. Lord Earle never mentioned his son's name. People said he had gone abroad, and was living somewhere in Italy. To Lord Earl it seemed that his life was ended; he had no further plans, ambition died away; the grand purpose of his life would never be fulfilled.
Lady Earle said nothing of the trouble that had fallen upon her. She hoped against hope that the time would come when her husband would pardon their only son. Valentine Charteris bore her disappointment well. She never forgot the simple, chivalrous man who had clung to her friendship and relied so vainly upon her influence.
Many lovers sighed round Valentine. One after another she dismissed them. She was waiting until she saw some one like Ronald Earle—like him in all things save the weakness which had so fatally shadowed his life.
In a small, pretty villa, on the banks of the Arno, Ronald Earle established himself with his young wife. He had gone direct to Eastham, after leaving Earlescourt, his heart aching with sorrow for home and all that he had left there, and beating high with joy at the thought that now nothing stood between him and Dora. He told her of the quarrel—of his father's stern words—and Dora, as he had foreseen clung round his neck and wept.
She would love him all the more, she said. She must love him enough to make up for home and every one else.
Yet, strange to say, when Ronald told his pretty, weeping wife all that happened, he made no mention of Valentine Charteris—he did not even utter her name.
Ronald's arrangements were soon made. He sent for Stephen Thorne and his wife, and told them how and when he had married Dora.
"I am sorry for it," said Stephen. "No good will ever come of such an unequal match. My girl had better have stayed at home, or married the young farmer who loved her. The distance between you is too great, Mr. Earle, and I fear me you will find it out."
Ronald laughed at the idea that he should ever tire of Dora. How little these prosaic, commonplace people knew of love!
The good lodge keeper and his wife parted from Dora with many tears. She was never to brighten their home again with her sweet face and gay voice. She was going away to strange lands over the sea. Many dark forebodings haunted them; but it was too late for advice and interference now.
The first news that came to the villa on the banks of the Arno was that Stephen Thorne and his wife had left the lodge and taken a small farm somewhere in the county of Kent. Lady Earle had found them the means, and they had left without one word from Lord Earle. He never asked whither they had gone.
Despite his father's anger and his mother's sorrow, despite his poverty and loss of position, Ronald for some months was very happy with his young wife. It was so pleasant to teach Dora, to watch her sweet, dimpled face and the dark eyes grow large with wonder; to hear her simple, naive remarks, her original ideas; to see her pretty, artless ways; above all, it was pleasant to be so dearly loved.
He often thought that there never had been, never could be, a wife so loving as Dora. He could not teach her much, although he tried hard. She sang simple little ballads sweetly and clearly; but although master after master tried his best, she could never be taught to play—not even as much as the easy accompaniments of her own songs. Ronald hoped that with time and attention she would be able to sketch, but Dora never managed it. Obediently enough she took pencil and paper in her hands and tried, but the strokes would never come straight. Sometimes the drawing she made would resemble something so comical that both she and Ronald laughed heartily; while the consciousness of her own inferiority grieved her, and large, bright tears would frequently fall upon the paper. Then Ronald would take the pencils away, and Dora would cling around his neck and ask him if he would not have been happier with a cleverer wife.
"No, a thousand times, no," he would say; he loved Dora better in her artless simplicity than he could have loved the cleverest woman in the world.
"And you are quite sure," said Dora, "that you will never repent marrying me?"
"No, again," was the reply. "You are the crowning joy of my life."
It was pleasant to sit amid the oleanders and myrtles, reading the great poems of the world to Dora. Even if she did not understand them, her face lighted with pleasure as the grand words came from Ronald's lips. It was pleasant, too, to sit on the banks of the Arno, watching the blue waters gleaming in the sun. Dora was at home there. She would say little of books, of pictures, or music; but she could talk of beautiful Nature, and never tire. She knew the changing colors of the sky, the varied hues of the waves, the different voices of the wind, the songs of the birds. All these had a separate and distinct meaning for her.
Ronald could not teach her much more. She liked the beautiful poems he read, but never could remember who had written them. She forgot the names of great authors, or mixed them up so terribly that Ronald, in despair, told her it would be better not to talk of books just yet—not until she was more familiar with them.
But he soon found out that Dora could not read for many minutes together. She would open her book, and make a desperate attempt; then her dark eyes would wander away to the distant mountains, or to the glistening river. She could never read while the sun shone or the birds sang.
Seeing that, Ronald gave up all attempts at literature in the daytime; when the lamps were lighted in the evening, and the fair face of Nature was shut out, he tried again, and succeeded for ten minutes; then Dora's eyes drooped, the white lids with their jetty fringe closed; and with great dismay he found that over the masterpieces of the world Dora had fallen asleep.
Two long, bright years had passed away before Ronald began to perceive that he could educate his pretty young wife no further. She was a strange mixture of ignorance and uncultivated poetry. She could speak well; her voice was sweet, her accent, caught from him, good; alone he never noticed any deficiencies, but if he met an English friend in Florence and brought him home to dine, then Ronald began to wish that Dora would leave off blushing and grow less shy, that she could talk a little more, and that he might lose all fear of her making some terrible blunder.
The third year of their married life dawned; Dora was just twenty, and Ronald twenty-three. There had been no rejoicing when he had attained his majority; it passed over unnoticed and unmarked. News came to them from England, letters from the little farm in Kent, telling of simple home intelligence, and letters from Lady Earle, always sad and stained with tears. She had no good news to tell them. Lord Earle was well, but he would never allow his son's name to be mentioned before him, and she longed to see her son. In all her letters Lady Earle said: "Give my love to Dora."
In this, the third year of his married life, Ronald began to feel the pressure of poverty. His income was not more than three hundred a year. To Dora this seemed boundless riches; but the heir of Earlescourt had spent more in dress and cigars. Now debts began to press upon him, writing home he knew was useless. He would not ask Lady Earle, although he knew that she would have parted with the last jewel in her case for him.
Ronald gave himself up to the study of painting. A pretty little studio was built, and Dora spent long hours in admiring both her husband and his work. He gave promise of being some day a good artist—not a genius. The world would never rave about his pictures; but, in time, he would be a conscientious, painstaking artist. Among his small coterie of friends some approved, others laughed.
"Why not go to the Jews?" asked fashionable young men. "Earlescourt must be yours some day. You can borrow money if you like."
Ronald steadily refused to entertain the idea. He wondered at modern ideas of honor—that men saw no shame in borrowing upon the lives of their nearest and dearest, yet thought it a disgrace to be a follower of one of the grandest of arts. He made one compromise—that was for his father's sake. As an artist, he was known by Dora's name of Thorne, and, before long, Ronald Thorne's pictures were in great request. There was no dash of genius about them; but they were careful studies. Some few were sold, and the price realized proved no unwelcome addition to a small income.
Ronald became known in Florence. People who had not thought much of Mr. Earle were eager to know the clever artist and his pretty, shy wife. Then the trial of Ronald Earle began in earnest. Had he lived always away from the world, out of society, the chances are that his fate would have been different; but invitations began to pour in upon him and Dora, and Ronald, half tired of his solitude, although he never suspected it, accepted them eagerly.
Dora did not like the change; she felt lonely and lost where Ronald was so popular and so much at home.
Among those who eagerly sought Ronald's society was the pretty coquette, the Countess Rosali, an English lady who had married the Count Rosali, a Florentine noble of great wealth.
No one in Florence was half so popular as the fair countess. Among the dark, glowing beauties of sunny Italy she was like a bright sunbeam. Her fair, piquant face was charming from its delicate bright coloring and gay smiles; her hair, of the rare color painted by the old masters, yet so seldom seen, was of pure golden hue, looking always as though the sun shone upon it.
Countess Rosali, there was no denying the fact, certainly did enjoy a little flirtation. Her grave, serious husband knew it, and looked on quite calmly. To his grave mind the pretty countess resembled a butterfly far more than a rational being. He knew that, though she might laugh and talk to others, though she might seek admiration and enjoy delicate flattery, yet in her heart she was true as steel. She loved bright colors, and everything else that was gay and brilliant. She had gathered the roses; perhaps some one else had her share of thorns.
The fair, dainty lady had a great desire to see Mr. Thorne. She had seen one of his pictures at the house of one of her friends a simple little thing, but it had charmed her. It was merely a bouquet of English wild flowers; but then they were so naturally painted! The bluebells looked as though they had just been gathered. One almost fancied dew drops on the delicate wild roses; a spray of pink hawthorn, daisies and golden buttercups mingled with woodbine and meadow-sweet, told sweet stories of the English meadows.
"Whoever painted that," said the fair countess, "loves flowers, and knows what English flowers mean."
The countess did not rest until Ronald had been introduced to her, and then she would know his wife. Her grave, silent husband smiled at her evident admiration of the handsome young Englishman. She liked his clear, Saxon face and fair hair; she liked his simple, kindly manner, so full of chivalry and truth. She liked pretty Dora, too; but there were times when the dainty, fastidious countess looked at the young wife in wonder, for, as she said one evening to her husband:
"There is something in Mrs. Thorne that puzzles me—she does not always speak or look like a lady—"
Few days passed without bringing Ronald and Dora to the Villa Rosali. It would have been better for Ronald had he never left his pretty home on the banks of the Arno.
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.
"Queen Guinevere" was a success far beyond Ronald's dearest hopes. Artists and amateurs, connoisseurs of all ranks and degrees were delighted with it. The great charm of the picture was the lovely young face. "Whom was it like?" "Where had he found his model?" "Was ever any woman so perfectly beautiful?" Such were the questions that people never seemed tired of repeating.
The picture was hung in the gallery of the palace, and the Prince di Borgezi became one of Ronald's best patrons.
The prince gave a grand ball in honor of a beautiful English lady, who, with her family, had just arrived in Florence. Countess Rosali raved about her, wisely making a friend where any one else would have feared a rival.
Ronald had contrived an invitation, but was prevented from attending. All the elite of Florence were there, and great was the excitement when Countess Rosali entered the ball room with an exceedingly beautiful woman—a queenly blonde—the lady about whom all Florence was interested—an English heiress, clever as she was fair, speaking French with a courtly grace and Italian with fluent skill; and when the prince stood before her he recognized in one moment the original of his famous "Guinevere."
The countess was in danger—a fairer, brighter star had arisen. Valentine Charteris was the belle of the most brilliant hall ever given in Florence.
When the prince had received his guest, and danced once with Miss Charteris, he asked her if she would like to see his celebrated picture, the "Guinevere," whose fame was spreading fast.
"Nothing," she said, "would please her better;" and as the Countess Rosali stood near, the prince included her in the invitation.
"Certainly; I never tire of the 'Guinevere,' never weary of the artist's triumph, for he is one of the most valued of my friends."
Prince di Borgesi smiled, thinking how much of the fair coquette's admiration went to the artist's talent, and how much to his handsome face.
They entered the long gallery, where some of the finest pictures in Italy were hung. The prince led the ladies to the southern end. Valentine saw before her a magnificent painting—tall forest trees, whose thick branches were interwoven, every green leaf distinct and clear; she saw the mellow light that fell through them, the milk-white palfrey and the jeweled harness, the handsome knight who rode near; and then she saw her own face, bright, smiling, glowing with beauty, bright in innocence, sweet in purity. Valentine stared in astonishment, and her companion smiled.
"There can be no doubt about the resemblance," said the countess. "The artist has made you Queen Guinevere, Miss Charteris."
"Yes," said Valentine, wonderingly; "it is my own face. How came it there? Who is the artist?"
"His name is Ronald Thorne," replied the countess. "There is quite a romance about him."
The countess saw Miss Charteris grow pale and silent.
"Have you ever seen him?" inquired the countess. "Do you know him?"
"Yes," said Valentine, "my family and his have been on intimate terms for years. I knew that he was in Italy with his wife."
"Ah," rejoined the countess, eagerly, "then perhaps you know all about his marriage? Who was Mrs. Thorne? Why did he quarrel with his father? Do tell us, Miss Charteris."
"Nay," said Valentine; "if Mrs. Thorne has any secrets, I shall not reveal them. I must tell mamma they are in Florence. We must call and see them."
"I was fond of Mrs. Thorne once," said the countess, plaintively, "but really there is nothing in her."
"There must be something both estimable and lovable," replied Valentine quickly, "or Mr. Thorne would never have married her."
Prince di Borgesi smiled approval of the young lady's reply.
"You admire my picture, Miss Charteris?" he asked.
"The more so because it is the work of an old friend," said Valentine; and again the prince admired the grace of her words.
"Any other woman in her place," he thought, "would have blushed and coquetted. How charming she is!"
From that moment Prince di Borgezi resolved to win Valentine if he could.
Lady Charteris was half pleased, half sorry, to hear that Ronald was in Florence. No one deplored his rash, foolish marriage more than she did. She thought Lord Earle stern and cruel; she pitied the young man she had once liked so well, yet for all that she did not feel inclined to renew the acquaintance. When Valentine asked her to drive next morning to the little villa on the banks of the Arno, she at first half declined.
"I promised to be Ronald's friend years ago," said Valentine, calmly; "and now, mamma, you must allow me to keep my word. We must visit his wife, and pay her every attention. To refuse would imply a doubt of me, and that I could not endure."
"You shall do as you like, my dear," replied Lady Charteris; "the young man's mother is my dearest friend, and for her sake we will be kind to him."
It was one of those Italian mornings when the fair face of Nature seemed bathed in beauty. The air was full of the music of birds; the waters of the Arno rolled languidly on; oleanders and myrtles were in full bloom; birds sang as they sing only under the blue sky of Italy.
It was not yet noon when Lady Charteris and her daughter reached the little villa. Before they came to the house, Valentine caught one glimpse of a pretty, pale face with large dark eyes. Could that be pretty, smiling Dora? There were the shining rings of dark hair; but where were the smiles Ronald had described? That was not a happy face. Care and sorrow were in every line of it.
They were told that Mr. Thorne was in his studio, and would see them there. They had sent no card, and Ronald believed the "two ladies" to have called on some business connected with pictures. He started with surprise when Lady Charteris and Valentine entered. There were a few words of confused greeting, a hurried explanation of the circumstances that led Sir Hugh to Florence; and then Valentine looked long and steadily at the only man she had ever cared for. He was altered; the frank, handsome face looked worn and thin; it had a restless expression. He did not look like a man who had found peace. Lady Charteris told him of her last visit to Earlescourt—how his mother never ceased speaking of him, and his father still preserved the same rigid, unbending silence.
"I have seen your picture," said Lady Charteris. "How well you remembered my daughter's face."
"It is one not easily forgotten," he replied; and then another deep silence fell upon him.
"Where is Mrs. Earle?" asked Valentine. "Our visit is chiefly to her. Pray introduce her to mamma. I know her already by description."
"I left my wife in the garden," said Ronald; "shall we join her there?"
They followed him into the pretty sunlit garden, where Valentine had seen the pale, sad face.
"My wife is timid," said Ronald, "always nervous with strangers."
Dora was sitting under the shade of a large flowering tree, her hands folded, and her eyes riveted on the distant hills; there was something in her listless manner that touched both ladies more than any words could have done. A deep flush crimsoned her face when Ronald and his guests stood before her. She rose, not ungracefully; her eyelids drooped in their old shy manner. As Ronald introduced his wife, something in the girl's wistful face went straight to Lady Charteris's heart. She spoke not a word, but folded Dora in her arms and kissed her as her own mother might have done.
"You must learn to love us," said Valentine; "we are your husband's dearest friends."
Poor Dora had no graceful words ready; her heart was full of gratitude, but she knew not how to express it. Ronald looked at her anxiously, and she caught his glance.
"Now," thought Dora, "he will not be pleased." She tried to say something of her pleasure in seeing them, but the words were so stiff and ungracious that Ronald hastened to interrupt them.
A luncheon of fruit and wine was brought out into the garden, and they talked merrily—of Earlescourt and the dear old friends there; of the ball and Prince di Borgesi; in all of which Dora felt that she had no share.
Who was this beautiful lady, with her fair face and golden hair?
The same face she saw that Ronald had painted in his picture, and every one admired. How graceful she was! How she talked! The words seemed to ripple like music over her perfect lips. Where had Ronald known her? Why had he never told her of Miss Charteris?
"Ah!" thought Dora, "if I could be like her!" And a sudden sense of wonder struck her that Ronald had not loved and married this fair and gracious lady.
Valentine neither forgot nor neglected her. She tried to draw her into their conversation, but Dora replied so uneasily and so briefly to all her remarks that she saw the truest kindness was to leave her alone.
They spent a few hours pleasantly, and Lady Charteris would not leave until Ronald promised to take his wife to spend a long day with them.
"I can hardly promise for Dora," said Ronald, kindly; "she seldom leaves home."
"Mrs. Earle will not refuse me," said Valentine, with that smile which no one ever resisted. "She will come with you, and we will make her happy."
When the day was settled, the ladies drove away, and Ronald watched the carriage until it was out of sight.
"My dear Valentine," cried Lady Charteris when they were out of hearing, "my dear child, what could possess Ronald Earle? What could he see in that shy, awkward girl to induce him to give up everything and go into exile for her sake? She is not even pretty."
"She is altered, mamma," began Valentine.
"Altered!" interrupted Lady Charteris. "I should imagine she is, and unhappy, too. She is frightened to speak—she has no style, no manner, no dignity. He must have been insane."
"I am quite sure he loved her," said Valentine, warmly, "and loves her now."
"That is just the mystery," replied her mother—"a clever man like he is, accustomed to intelligent and beautiful women. I shall never understand it."
"Do not try," said Valentine, calmly. "She is evidently nervous and sensitive. I mean to be a true friend to Ronald, mamma; I shall try to train and form his wife."
Poor Dora! She was already trained and formed, but no one would understand that. People do not expect the perfume of the rose in a wild strawberry blossom, or the fragrance of the heliotrope in a common bluebell. Yet they wondered that in this simple girl, ignorant of the world and it ways, they did not find a cultivated mind, a graceful manner, and a dignified carriage. Their only thought was to train and form her, whereas Nature and not Art had done both.
"Dora," said Ronald, as the carriage disappeared from view, "try to like Lady Charteris and her daughter; they are so kindly disposed toward you. I shall be so pleased to see you good friends."
"I will try," she replied, cheerfully. "How beautiful she is, Ronald! Tell me about her. You remember her face exactly; should you remember mine as well?"
It was the first touch of jealousy stirring in the simple, loving heart.
"Far better," said Ronald, with a smile; and then he looked up in alarm, for Dora was weeping wildly, and clinging to him.
"Oh, Ronald!" she said, "for your sake I wish I was like her. Shall you ever tire of me, or wish you had not married me?"
Ronald soothed and comforted his wife, and did not return to his studio that day, but sat talking to her, telling her how noble and good Valentine Charteris was.