Woman and Artist

Philip, when the doctor had advised him to leave home for a little while, started immediately for Paris. Next morning he presented himself at the Hotel Meurice, and sent up his card to Sabaroff, for he had learnt that the General was staying there. Philip was soon shown up to the first floor, where the Russian had a sumptuous suite of rooms, and was ushered into the salon. In a state of feverish agitation, easy to understand, he awaited the General.

He had but two or three minutes to wait.

"Sir," said Philip, as soon as the two men were face to face, "I reached home from Paris a few moments after the departure of your Excellency from my house. I will not take up much of your time now. I have only a few words to say. I am an Englishman, and in my country we do not fight duels with men who insult our wives; we set the law on them, or we give them a sound thrashing."

"Kindly explain yourself," said Sabaroff, in a tone at once mocking and arrogant, and glancing about for a means of defence.

"I will explain in two or three words," said Philip.

He drew out of his pocket the envelope which contained the torn-up contract that Sabaroff had signed in Dora's presence.

"Here is the paper you signed in my house," said he; "I return it." So saying, he flung the torn pieces of paper in the Russian's face, and the bits of paper fluttered in all directions.

"You will answer to me for this affront, sir," said Sabaroff.

"With the greatest pleasure," rejoined Philip. "I am not in England now; I am in France; and you know what I mean by that. I am at your service. Here is my address."

The same evening a duel with pistols was arranged by two of the General's aides-de-camp and two artist friends of Philip.

Sabaroff hated Philip, and he promised himself to be revenged for Dora's disdain.

"I will kill him," he said to himself.

The encounter took place next morning at eight o'clock in the Bois de Vincennes.

Philip lodged a ball in the right shoulder of his adversary. Sabaroff would have killed Philip with pleasure.

At eleven-fifty Philip took the train for London, and at half-past seven he was back in his rooms at the Alexandra Hotel. The duel had been kept secret; there was no mention of it in the newspapers.

A week after Philip's return to London, he was told of Dora's sudden recovery and flight to St. John's Wood. Dr. Templeton kept him informed of everything that was going on. It was arranged that Philip and Hobbs should meet once a day, and these daily consultations were held without the knowledge of Dora, until further orders.

Philip took Dr. Templeton's advice on every point.

He did not write to Dora. "No," he said to himself, "all the faults are on my side; and it is for me to repair them, not by speeches and promises but by deeds. I am not ready yet with a plan of action; but I shall find one soon, and I will clear myself in Dora's eyes. I have lost my child, but I will regain my wife. I will save her for her sake and my own. If I fail, life is no longer of any use to me. Art could never console me; Dora is more fortunate than I; she will find in painting a forgetfulness of the past. For me, I must win back Dora, or everything else is worthless, and I am done for. To work, then, cautiously! Everything will depend on the way in which I set about it."

He began reviewing his position. The state of his finances was satisfactory. He still had thirty-two thousand pounds, of which twenty-eight thousand were invested in first-class securities.

"By Jove, I have only to clear out of that infernal house in order to be rich; nearly fifteen hundred pounds a year and my brush! Why, of course I am rich." And he hurled at himself a succession of all the abusive epithets in his vocabulary. All his late follies arose and passed in procession before his mind's eye, and he asked himself whether it could really have been he who had committed them. At last his plan of action was clearly traced, and he prepared to execute it in detail, and that without delay.

The first thing to do was to interview his landlord, or rather the agent of the noble duke who owned the district of London in which Philip's house stood. He wanted permission to cancel his lease. He was prepared for a decided refusal, or, at the least, for difficulties without end. He was ready to compensate his Grace by paying him a good round sum. The matter was concluded much more easily and rapidly than he had expected or hoped. A rich American, whose daughter lived in the house next to Philip's, and who had long been wishing to settle close to her, was delighted to seize the opportunity, and finally took the house as it was, and renewed the lease with the landlord. It was a stroke of luck for Philip, and he said to himself, "Fortune is decidedly turning a better face to me."

He knew that 50 Elm Avenue was still unlet, and he went next day to see his former landlord. The house was not only to be let, it was for sale. The price asked was three thousand pounds. Philip had nearly four thousand in bank. He accepted without hesitation, and the bargain was sealed on the spot. His lawyer attended to the details of the purchase. Philip had the place painted and papered from top to bottom, he disposed of some superfluous furniture, and in about a month from the time of his decision he was reinstalled in his old home. The furnishing was exactly the same as before, perhaps a trifle richer. He had been very careful to introduce no change into the studio. The only addition visible was the portrait of the little Italian boy that Dora had painted, and that he had secured by the help of the dealer, who, following Philip's instructions, offered her twenty-five guineas for it.

He engaged fresh servants; not one of the former staff was retained. If ever he should be granted the happiness of seeing Dora return to the nest, he wanted to have there no witnesses of the Belgravian scenes to recall her painful memories.

He set to work ardently and full of hope. Every day Hobbs came, unknown to Dora, to bring him news of her mistress.

Hobbs had told Dora that No. 50 was let, then that it was inhabited, but by Dr. Templeton's orders she did not divulge the name of the occupant. Dora was sad to hear the news, but she merely said, "I am surprised that it has been empty so long; it is such a pretty house, so convenient, so quiet, so" … She could go no further, her emotion was too strong. Presently, with an effort to regain command over herself, she added, "May that house be an abode of happiness to those who inhabit it!" Hobbs was sorry to have spoken, and yet she was burning to say to Dora, "Why, it is your husband who lives there, and who holds out his arms to you; go and throw yourself into them." But she had promised to keep the secret, and she did not break her word.

Dora did not gain strength so fast as her friends had hoped she would. Excitement, will-power, and courage had stood her in good stead at the start, but she had started too rapidly, and she had not the physical strength to carry her far at the same pace. She had unfortunately counted a little without herself. In this new existence, monotonous and almost without aim, there was not enough to satisfy her lofty character, her bright and energetic nature, which cried out for movement and an intellectual life. She still boasted of enjoying the pleasures of poverty and of preferring them to the others, but she was, in these days, chiefly brought in contact with the dulness and the bareness of poverty. Discouragement invaded her heart, she began to feel that she was vegetating and not living. Her courage was forsaking her. Later might come despair and a desire to have done with the world.

Weak health, grief, and solitude were undermining her. Her temper, always so equable formerly, so gay, was beginning to sour. The strangest contradictions manifested themselves in her behaviour, and that is a disquieting sign in a woman with a mind so well balanced as Dora's. She had refused her door to everyone, and yet she complained that people had forsaken her. She said she wanted to forget the past, and yet she eagerly clung to everything that could remind her of it.

She had promised Hobbs never to go near 50 Elm Avenue, and for a long time she kept her word. But one day she wanted to satisfy her curiosity, to see what sort of an appearance the house had, now that it was reoccupied. She came home in a state that distressed her faithful companion.

"It seems, Hobbs, as if everything were conspiring to overwhelm me. I have been to see the house."

"What! after your promise!"

"Yes, I know it is horrid of me, but I could not help it! Do you believe me when I tell you that I felt as if I recognised some of our own dining-room furniture through the window? And the curtains are exactly the same!"

"Oh, ma'am, it is just your fancy," said poor Hobbs, who feared to hear more. "At all events, you are cured of going there any more, I hope."

And there the matter ended. Lorimer had several times written to Dora, but, not having received any answer to his letters, he had not yet ventured to try and see her. He rather dreaded the first meeting.

"He too has forgotten me and given me up, you see, Hobbs," said Dora.

"Really, ma'am, you are not reasonable," replied Hobbs; "Mr. Lorimer has written several times to you. Have you answered his letters?"

"No, it is true I have not, but what is there that I can say to him? No, Hobbs, I have no friends left – only you, my good brave companion; but it is very wrong of me to make you share my sad existence. It is selfish of me. Hobbs, you shall not stay much longer. You must leave me … not just yet, but soon" …

The good woman, melted to tears, asked what she had done to deserve to be sent away. She vowed she was quite happy, and her tears fell in great hot drops on Dora's hands, that she kissed with avidity.

"If Mr. Lorimer does not come to see you, why don't you write and ask him to come? He would not wait to be asked twice, I know! He at least has always been a real friend, and I am sure is devoted to you."

"That is true," said Dora.

"And then he is so merry; it does you good to look at him. He carries gaiety wherever he goes. And he is so kind! Write to him, and I will guarantee that he will rush out here as soon as he gets your letter."

"Yes, Hobbs, you are right, and I will do it to-day."

She immediately took pen and paper and wrote to Lorimer.

"Hobbs, you don't happen to know who the people are that are living in our old house, I suppose?"

"No, ma'am," said Hobbs, rather scared at the question.

"Try to find it out."

"Oh, why, ma'am?"

"It would interest me to know, that is all."

"Some say it is a hermit, a bearish kind of gentleman who sees no one and never goes out."

"Ah," said Dora. "Is he a painter?"

"I think so, ma'am, but I am not sure."

"He has had the house done up like new."

"I have heard that he is going to be married – that he has had the house finely decorated for his future wife."

"Ah, and who told you all these details?"

"The tradespeople," replied Hobbs quickly.

Dora went on writing, and Hobbs, fearing she had said too much, determined to turn a deaf ear to any questions Dora might put to her in future on the subject of 50 Elm Avenue and its new master.

XVII

DORA'S STUDIO

We have every reason to suppose that if Lorimer had not called on Dora in her new quarters, it was because he had not dared to do so. He saw Philip often, and so had news of her nearly every day. He had feared to be importunate, all the more so that Philip had told him how Dora had closed her doors to everyone, and had shut herself up in complete seclusion.

It was in the early part of the month of April 1898 that Lorimer received from Dora a letter in which she said to him, "If you will come, dear friend, I shall be so pleased to see you. I am in very poor lodgings, but I am sure that will not make you pass me by on the other side. Do come soon, I am longing to see a friendly face."

Lorimer lost no time in responding to her call. Hobbs opened the door to him and beamed to see his cheerful face.

"Oh, sir! I am glad to see you, sir," said she.

"Well, my dear Hobbs, and how are things going by this time?" asked Lorimer, in his cheeriest tones.

"You will do mistress such a lot of good, sir! She has not been at all herself lately. She is very weak to-day and has passed a very bad night – she is quite changed since the day she saw our old house was occupied again, and yet she could not have thought that it would remain unlet for ever."

"She does not know who it is that is living there, of course?"

"No, no, sir; but I should dearly love to tell her. I believe it would put her into a better humour."

"Take care that you do not, Hobbs; she must not hear on any account. You will know why later on. You may be sure that Mr. Grantham and I are not idle. We have an idea in our heads, and you shall help us by and by to put it into execution; so, for the present, not one word, you hear?"

"You can rely upon me, sir."

"Yes, I am sure of that. And now, can I have a little talk with Mrs. Grantham?"

"Yes, sir, in a minute or two. She will be so glad to see you, you will do her much good! The doctor is with her for the moment."

"What does he say about her?"

"Nothing – I can't get anything out of him. He shakes his head. It's disheartening. And mistress will not listen to reason; she tears up all the prescriptions, especially lately, for the last week or so – it is very sad. I shall go and tell her you are here."

Lorimer, left alone in the studio, looked around him and took in all its details.

"Why, it's freezing here!" he said to himself. "Heavens! it's no wonder, there is positively no fire. Is she so poor as… Oh no, it can't be so bad as that. What pathos in this room – an exact reproduction of that lovely one in the other house, where we used to have such merry times! Ah, there is the old clock in its place – not going, I see. There is Dora's portrait on Philip's easel, still lacking the finishing touches. There is Philip's jacket, hanging just where it always hung – the two easels and stools – everything in place, nothing wanting but Philip himself. What treasures of tenderness are revealed in this poor counterfeit presentment of the other studio! How happy her life must have been there, that she should want to make an exact imitation of the room, and so revive the past! There are people who break with their happy bygone times, others who cling to them determinedly. A few pounds have transformed this miserable studio into a living souvenir that will kill her. And yet, why do I say will kill her, when it is just this living souvenir that keeps her alive – that will keep her alive, perhaps? Here were two beings who loved each other dearly, and between whom a simple suspicion, a terrible misunderstanding, seems to have erected an insurmountable barrier. Philip wanted to be rich, poor beggar! He has not been long learning that there is but a step from Plutus to Pluto. Most of the old proverbs want re-editing. I know one that ought to run: 'When wealth comes in at the door, love and happiness fly out at the window.' But poor old Philip is cured, radically cured, once and for ever. He talks nonsense still sometimes, but it is the other whom I am most anxious about, and who vows that everything is over. Philip goes in for philosophy, and that is a healthy sign. He has decided that his wife is better off than he is, because she has found consolation in her painting. He would give his whole house for Dora's garret. And the fellow tells us these things in a tone of conviction, as if he were uttering the wisdom of a Solomon or a Socrates. The panegyric of poverty is all bosh; it is an affectation! When I see a book entitled How to Live comfortably on Two Hundred a Year, I take it for granted that the author is a millionaire."

Dr. Templeton came out of Dora's bedroom and surprised Lorimer in the midst of his reflections. He was looking troubled and in a bad temper.

"That woman will exhaust my patience, I know she will. She is the most obstinate, the most … the most … there, I can't find a word for her."

"Don't try, doctor; you have explained yourself admirably."

"Yes, I am getting out of patience at last. I can do nothing with her. She takes no notice of my advice or my prescriptions. If she is bent upon dying – why, she must die, I suppose; she does not want a doctor for that."

"That does not always go without saying," said Lorimer jokingly.

"If we cannot get her out of this place, she has not another month to live. She must have change of air, and change of scene and company, or she is done for. She has not a chance … and that damned picture!" he vociferated, shaking his fist at the easel, "that confounded portrait! the sight of it is killing her by inches. Nothing will induce her to part with it … she was bent on bringing it here… I tell you I have a very good mind to fling it out of the window. Poor woman!" he added, calming down, "it distresses me to see her. The wound is too deep, we can do nothing to cauterise it."

"Listen to me, my dear doctor," said Lorimer, "between ourselves Dora is carrying this thing much too far. I know the story from beginning to end. It is absurdly ridiculous! Philip has, so to speak, nothing to ask forgiveness about, unless it be for having neglected his wife for an invention that absorbed all his thoughts."

"My dear fellow, when a woman of Mrs. Grantham's sort loves her husband, she exaggerates everything. The slightest inattention becomes to her a subject for deep grief, a look of indifference causes her horrible suffering. Little things take on gigantic proportions. A man should surround with the most constant care and affection a woman who loves him as our friend here loved her husband."

"But, after all, a busy man can't pass all his time at the feet of his wife. There is the morning paper, you know, and his correspondence, and a thousand other everyday occupations. Give him a chance! Happy the wife who only has an art or an invention to be jealous of! Isn't it enough for a woman to know that she is loved, by the substantial proofs of affection that are given her?"

"No," replied the doctor; "for us men it suffices to know that we are loved, but with women the case is quite different. They love to have it told them – some of them so much that they could hear it from morning to night and night to morning, without ever growing weary of the tale!"

"Mistress is coming in a moment," said Hobbs to Lorimer.

"Look here, Hobbs," said the doctor, "how does Mrs. Grantham manage to get a living here? How does she keep you and herself? It is perhaps an indiscreet question, but it is important that we should know just how matters stand."

"Don't you trouble about that, doctor," replied Hobbs. "We pay our way and save money. Why! my mistress sold a picture yesterday."

"Really! – and for how much?"

"Well, sir, you are getting a little inquisitive. For twenty-five pounds, if you must know."

"Twenty-five pounds!" said the doctor, winking at Lorimer. "Well, and how much is your rent?"

"Thirty pounds a year. Don't be alarmed about us, we don't spend all the money we make."

"We make! Oh, I see, you work too?"

"I should think I did, sir; I clean the rooms, I do the cooking" …

"And what about your wages?"

"My wages – the affection and kindness of my dear mistress, and I shall never ask or expect any increase. We are all right, doctor; don't make your mind uneasy about us. If only I could see her grow strong, everything else would be all right."

"Devoted woman!" said the doctor to Lorimer; "it does one good to feel that there are hearts like that beating in the world! It isn't such a bad place after all."

Then turning to Hobbs, and pretending to be very angry, he said, "By Jove, I'll go and find the landlord, and get him to raise the rent, and turn you both out, if you don't pay it. As for this portrait, I'll throw it in the fire or pitch it out of the window, do you hear?"

He shook hands with Lorimer and went out.

"What did he say?" exclaimed the frightened Hobbs, when Dr. Templeton was out of hearing.

"He says he will pitch that picture out of the window to begin with, and I will help him do it too."

"No, no, he must not do that," cried Hobbs excitedly. "That picture is the only thing she has got left now. See, she is copying it. I have caught her kneeling before it and kissing it. Sometimes she will sit here in front of it and smile so happily – then she will look at the other stool beside her, and her eyes fill with tears. She believes herself in Elm Avenue. Do you know what she did once? Oh, it's too ridiculous, I ought not to tell you."

"Go on, Hobbs," said Lorimer, mastering his emotion, "tell me all about it, you know how much I am interested in everything that concerns Mrs. Grantham."

"Well, she made me sit on master's stool one day," said Hobbs, in a low confidential voice. "Oh, no, I can't tell you, you will laugh at it – and I could not have you laugh at anything she did," added she, with tears in her eyes.

"Oh, please, Hobbs."

"Well, then," continued Hobbs, "after making me sit down on the stool she threw the old velvet coat on my shoulders – there it is, hanging over there – to make the illusion more complete. She put a palette in my left hand and a brush in my right – then she burst out laughing, and the next minute had thrown herself into my arms sobbing like a child. Throw the picture out of the window," added Hobbs, shaking her fist at the closed door; "throw it in the fire, indeed! let him come and try it! I will obey all the orders he likes to give me, but don't let him dare to come near that picture. Why, sir, it would kill her. Oh, you won't let him do it, you won't, will you? Promise me he shall not touch it."

"No, Hobbs," said Lorimer, profoundly touched. "I promise you that nothing shall happen to it; make your mind easy about that."

And he took the good woman's hands and pressed them with warmth.

"Thank you, sir, thank you," said Hobbs, wiping her eyes – "oh, I hear mistress moving, I will go to her now."

"Dear devoted creature!" said Lorimer to himself when Hobbs had gone out. "The doctor is right, the world is not so bad – I wonder what all this means: the episode of the easel – what can that signify except that Dora loves Philip still, and cannot forget him? Alas, perhaps it is only the Philip of the old days that she tries to keep in her memory. Anyhow, it is a good symptom – my little idea is growing."

Hearing steps in the adjoining room, he drew from his pocket a small packet which Philip had confided to his care. It was the "little family," of which the reader made the acquaintance at the beginning of this story. Philip had said to him, "Carry this letter to Dora and plead for me. If she refuses to listen to you and refuses to read my letter, give her this little packet, it will intercede for me."

Dora came into the studio pale and evidently ill, but walking with a tolerably firm step. She made a kindly gesture to Hobbs and closed the door of the bedroom.

"Ah, my dear friend," she said to Lorimer, "how good of you to come! I have not been very well lately, but I am better, much better … well! what now? Why do you look at me like that?"

"Why do I look at you?"

"Yes."

Lorimer had never seen Dora looking more beautiful than to-day. Her very pallor added a new charm. Her black gown was moulded to the lovely lines of her figure, and her hair was becomingly dressed. Lorimer had taken both her hands in his and was looking at her with eyes that expressed a mingling of sympathy, respect, and admiration.

"Why do I look at you?" he repeated, "well, then, because I should like to give you a good kiss."

"Why then, why don't you?"

Lorimer kissed her on both cheeks, while still holding her hands.

"I should just like," he said, "to take you up in my arms, carry you off and place you in Philip's."

Dora quickly disengaged herself from Lorimer's light hold and repressed an angry gesture. She offered him a chair, and, taking one herself, said, "My dear Gerald, never pronounce that name in my hearing, and we shall be good friends still, as we always have been. Speak to me of yourself. Have you a new piece on hand? I hear that Majella is still drawing crowded houses."