THE DOOR LOCKED UPON HIM.
Arriving in Paris, Arley engaged three very comfortable apartments, two
sleeping-rooms and a parlor, in the Rue de Rivoli.
Philip was almost helpless in making arrangements, for his French
was very poor; but Arley could speak it like a native, and chattered
volubly while driving her close bargain with madam, yet doing it in
such a gracious, winning way that she seemed to be conferring a favor
to take the rooms at any price.
They remained in Paris three months, where, at first, they had not
intended remaining as many weeks.
Arley often wondered when Philip was going to return to London and take
up his work again, but she had resolved not to interfere, and so let
matters take their course.
He grew tired at length of Paris, and they went from there to Tours for
a month, thence to Toulouse for six weeks, after which they crossed
the Pyrenees into Spain, and finally arrived at Madrid--that quaint,
romantic old city, which seems to belong to some other world.
Once or twice Arley had asked, with wishful eyes, when they were going
home, and he had invariably answered that “he did not know.”
“I have no heart to go home to begin at the foot of the ladder again
and have everybody wagging their heads over my affairs,” he had once
said, moodily.
“Where will you begin?” Arley quietly asked.
“I don’t know as I care to begin at all,” was the frowning reply.
“But can we live like this always?” she inquired, with a searching
glance.
“Aren’t you comfortable? Is there anything that you want which you
haven’t got?” he demanded, more harshly than she had ever heard him
speak before.
Arley drew herself up haughtily.
“I believe I have made no complaint, Mr. Paxton,” she said, in a
freezing tone. “I was simply wondering where the money was coming from
to permit of our leading this idle, useless kind of life much longer.”
“I don’t know as you need to worry about that if I do not,” he
retorted, and abruptly left the room.
His keen-witted wife at once reasoned that he was very much
worried--that if he had not been extremely short of funds her simple
questions would not have irritated him thus, while at every change they
had made of late he had taken cheaper lodgings and curtailed their
expenses in a number of ways which seriously affected their comfort.
She became very much troubled by these things, for she felt that they
would only go on from bad to worse if Philip did not soon form some
definite plan of action.
She knew that he possessed splendid talents; that he was capable of
going to the front in his profession if he would only “pocket his
pride” and put forth a little energy; and she felt that it was very
wrong of him thus to settle idly down and waste these precious months
right in the prime of his manhood.
The place where they were living in Madrid was very dreary; the rooms
were small, the windows high, and the streets narrow and dirty, while
the food which she daily placed upon their table was anything but
palatable.
Arley had never yet broken the hundred-pound note which Miss McAllister
had given her at parting, nor did she mean to do so now. She had never
even told Philip that she had it, and now she believed if he knew of
it he would insist upon using it, and thus he would sink even lower
in inanition; besides this, if he persisted in his present manner of
living, she could, if necessity compelled, use it to return to England
and Miss McAllister, who, no doubt, would be willing to give her a home.
But this, of course, would be her very last resort.
Still, her present position was anything but a comfortable one,
for, while Philip could speak the language fluently, she could not
understand it at all, and she was terribly lonely and homesick.
Two months had passed since they came to Spain, and, being so much
alone, she had busied herself with drawing, and painting some in water
colors, so that she had quite a collection of pictures and sketches.
These she brought out and looked at on this day, after her unpleasant
interview with Philip.
She was wondering if she could sell some of them, or copy some of them
for sale, and thus better their condition somewhat. She felt that it
would be intolerable to remain in that place much longer.
Still, she had voluntarily become Philip Paxton’s wife, and she was
determined to share his fortunes, good or bad--to be true to her
plighted vows just as long as it was possible to be.
After looking her portfolio through she decided that she would make an
effort--it could do no harm, and it might result in much good.
Selecting a few little sketches, she arranged her drawing materials and
colors, and set diligently about her work.
For a week she labored unweariedly; then gathering up the result of
her work, she tied them carefully together, dressed herself with great
care, and, taking the package with her, went out.
She was exceedingly nervous over her undertaking, for everything was
so strange in that--to her--half-barbarous city. She threaded her way
through the narrow, and in many places dirty, streets, until she came
out into the better portion of the city, and at length entering Montera
street, one of the finest in Madrid, she stopped before an art store,
where, after a moment of hesitation, she entered.
Approaching the counter, she inquired, in the sweetest of voices and
purest of French, if that language was spoken by any one there.
A reply in the affirmative was immediately given, much to her relief,
and then she laid her package down and asked that its contents might be
examined.
The gentleman, who proved to be one of the proprietors, acceded to her
request, examining drawing after drawing with a critical eye.
There were sketches of every variety--of places, people and scenes that
she had observed during her travels; there were fancy pieces, fruit,
flowers and figures; comic pictures, serious and sentimental, and all
executed with a freshness and spirit that made them charming.
“They are very good--mademoiselle?” the gentleman said, uttering the
last word with questioning inflection, and casting an admirable glance
into the lovely face before him.
“No, monsieur--madam, if you please,” Arley replied, drawing herself up
slightly. “Thank you for your praise,” she added, smiling. “And now, if
you think they are worthy, I would like to dispose of them, and perhaps
take orders for more.”
He bent a glance of surprise upon her, running his keen eye over her
elegant attire, noticing its texture, its trimmings of rich lace, and
the jewels that she wore.
“Ah! she is selling them for some one else,” he thought, and turned
his attention again to the pretty collection before him.
His practiced eye told him that there was considerable merit in them,
and that, with a hint regarding certain points, the artist, whoever he
or she might be, might fill with great satisfaction a demand in his
line of business.
The proprietor told her what he would give for her drawings, naming a
larger sum than she had hoped to receive, and requested her to supply
him with more, at an advance in price, if she improved upon the hints
which he wished to give her.
She consented only too gladly, while she received, with a
wildly-beating heart, the money which he counted out to her, though
outwardly her manner was as calm and elegant as it had ever been in a
fashionable drawing-room in London; and then, with it clasped tightly
in her hands, she went back to her rooms, with a sense of exultation
in her heart such as she had never experienced before, and to thank
God for the talents which He had given her, and which she believed,
if necessity required, would insure her a future of independence and
comfort.