Yet when the opera season opened, the constant companionship of Mostyn and Dora became entirely too remarkable, not only in the public estimation, but in Basil's miserable conception of his own wrong. The young husband used every art and persuasion--and failed. And his failure was too apparent to be slighted. He became feverish and nervous, and his friends read his misery in eyes heavy with unshed tears, and in the wasting pallor caused by his sleepless, sorrowful nights.
Dora also showed signs of the change so rapidly working on her. She was sullen and passionate by turns; she complained bitterly to Ethel that her youth and beauty had been wasted; that she was only nineteen, and her life was over. She wanted to go to Paris, to get away from New York anywhere and anyhow.
She began to dislike even the presence of Basil. His stately beauty offended her, his low, calm voice was the very keynote of irritation.
One morning near Christmas he came to her with a smiling, radiant face. "Dora,"he said, "Dora, my love, I have something so interesting to tell you. Mrs. Colby and Mrs. Schaffler and some other ladies have a beautiful idea. They wish to give all the children of the church under eight years old the grandest Christmas tree imaginable--really rich presents and they thought you might like to have it here.""What do you say, Basil!"
"You were always so fond of children.
You----"
"I never could endure them."
"We all thought you might enjoy it. Indeed, I was so sure that I promised for you.
It will be such a pleasure to me also, dear.""I will have no such childish nonsense in my house.""I promised it, Dora."
"You had no right to do so. This is my house. My father bought it and gave me it, and it is my own. I----""It seems, then, that I intrude in your house. Is it so? Speak, Dora.""If you will ask questions you must take the answer. You do intrude when you come with such ridiculous proposals--in fact, you intrude very often lately.""Does Mr. Mostyn intrude?"
"Mr. Mostyn takes me out, gives me a little sensible pleasure. You think I can be interested in a Christmas tree. The idea!""Alas, alas, Dora, you are tired of me!
You do not love me! You do not love me!"
"I love nobody. I am sorry I got married.
It was all a mistake. I will go home and then you can get a divorce."At this last word the whole man changed.
He was suffused, transfigured with an anger that was at once righteous and impetuous.
"How dare you use that word to me?" he demanded. "To the priest of God no such word exists. I do not know it. You are my wife, willing or unwilling. You are my wife forever, whether you dwell with me or not.
You cannot sever bonds the Almighty has tied. You are mine, Dora Stanhope! Mine for time and eternity! Mine forever and ever!"She looked at him in amazement, and saw a man after an image she had never imagined.
She was terrified. She flung herself on the sofa in a whirlwind of passion. She cried aloud against his claim. She gave herself up to a vehement rage that was strongly infused with a childish dismay and panic.
"I will not be your wife forever!" she shrieked. "I will never be your wife again --never, not for one hour! Let me go! Take your hands off me!" For Basil had knelt down by the distraught woman, and clasping her in his arms said, even on her lips, "You ARE my dear wife! You are my very own dear wife! Tell me what to do. Anything that is right, reasonable I will do. We can never part.""I will go to my father. I will never come back to you." And with these words she rose, threw off his embrace, and with a sobbing cry ran, like a terrified child, out of the room.
He sat down exhausted by his emotion, and sick with the thought she had evoked in that one evil word. The publicity, the disgrace, the wrong to Holy Church--ah, that was the cruelest wound! His own wrong was hard enough, but that he, who would gladly die for the Church, should put her to open shame! How could he bear it? Though it killed him, he must prevent that wrong; yes, if the right eye offended it must be plucked out. He must throw off his cassock, and turn away from the sacred aisles; he must--he could not say the word; he would wait a little.
Dora would not leave him; it was impossible.
He waited in a trance of aching suspense.
Nothing for an hour or more broke it--no footfall, no sound of command or complaint.
He was finally in hopes that Dora slept.
Then he was called to lunch, and he made a pretense of eating it alone. Dora sent no excuse for her absence, and he could not trust himself to make inquiry about her. In the middle of the afternoon he heard a carriage drive to the door, and Dora, with her jewel-case in her hand, entered it and was driven away. The sight astounded him. He ran to her room, and found her maid packing her clothing. The woman answered his questions sullenly. She said "Mrs. Stanhope had gone to Mrs. Denning's, and had left orders for her trunks to be sent there." Beyond this she was silent and ignorant. No sympathy for either husband or wife was in her heart.
Their quarrel was interfering with her own plans; she hated both of them in consequence.
In the meantime Dora had reached her home. Her mother was dismayed and hesitating, and her attitude raised again in Dora's heart the passion which had provoked the step she had taken. She wept like a lost child. She exclaimed against the horror of being Basil's wife forever and ever. She reproached her mother for suffering her to marry while she was only a child. She said she had been cruelly used in order to get the family into social recognition. She was in a frenzy of grief at her supposed sacrifice when her father came home. Her case was then won. With her arms round his neck, sobbing against his heart, her tears and entreaties on his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no care for anyone but his daughter. He took her view of things at once. "She HAD been badly used. It WAS a shame to tie a girl like Dora to sermons and such like. It was like shutting her up in a convent." Dora's tears and complaints fired him beyond reason. He promised her freedom whatever it cost him.
