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.
