doubt you know him by reputation."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance," said Pond, shaking hands with
Lorimer. "I see by the papers that you are going to give us a new play.
When I was a young man I wrote several plays myself, but I thought
better of it, and, like a good Briton, I preferred to be useful to my
country and go into business. No offence, I hope," added he, bursting
into loud guffaws.
"How long is this ass going to stay here boring us, I wonder?" murmured
Philip.
"But to return to the object of my visit," said Sir Benjamin. "A few
days ago my daughter got married, and, among other presents, I gave her
the choice of two pictures in my gallery. It has left two empty spaces
on my wall, one eighteen by twenty-four, another thirty-six by fifty.
Now, what have you got that would fill them?"
"Framed or unframed?" said Philip, who by this time was beginning to
thoroughly enjoy the situation.
"Bless me, framed, of course," said Sir Benjamin.
"I asked the question merely to form an idea of the size of the canvas."
"Do you think you have what I want? Some pictures that you have finished
lately? If they are a trifle smaller, it won't matter much. I like wide
frames, they show their value better; and no picture ever suffered from
a good-sized frame. I have all my frames made at Denis's ... only the
French know how to frame pictures and bind books."
"A sensible remark," said Lorimer to himself.
"I am afraid I have nothing to suit you," said Philip, in the tone of a
bootmaker, who has not the right-sized shoes for his customer.
The alderman took a rule out of his pocket, and measured several
canvases that Philip placed on Dora's easel, after having removed the
copy that she was doing of her own portrait.
"Too small ... too small again ... oh, much too small. By George, what a
pity!"
"Perhaps you could put two of those in the larger space, Sir Benjamin,"
suggested Lorimer, with a wink at Philip, and without losing that
British calm, which is the strong point of the Englishman in critical
situations.
"Two! oh dear no, that would look patchy. I am very proud of my gallery,
sir.... Come and see it some day. There is hardly a good modern painter
that isn't represented there. My philanthropy consists in patronising
the arts, and especially modern artists. In buying old pictures you put
money in the pockets of collectors and dealers, whereas, in buying
pictures from living painters, you put money in the pockets of the
artists. Now, don't you think I'm right?"
Philip and Lorimer recognised that this was indeed the best manner of
appreciating modern art.
"And so you have nothing?" continued Sir Benjamin. "One eighteen by
twenty-four, and one thirty-six by fifty," he repeated.
"My work is either too small or too large, I fear. I could, within a
month or six weeks, fill your eighteen by twenty-four."
"No, no, I can't wait. Those open spaces, staring me in the face, are
too awful."
"I am extremely sorry," said Philip.
"So am I," replied Sir Benjamin. "I wanted a picture of yours; I like
variety in my gallery."
"And no doubt he has it," thought Lorimer.
"Mr. Grantham," continued the City man, "you have a great career before
you. Everybody says so. You'll be an academician before five years are
over; you are one of our future great painters."
He gazed around the studio once more, and suddenly noticing the portrait
of Dora, he said, "Holloa! what's this?" and proceeded to measure the
picture.
"Why, this is the very thing. I'll take this ... I don't know the
original, but she's a deuced pretty woman, and if it's a fancy
portrait" ...
"It is not quite finished yet."
"Yes, that's true," said Sir Benjamin; "I see the face and hands want a
little" ...
"No, the flowers," interrupted Philip; "but it will be finished to-day."
"Good, send it to me to-morrow."
"Sir Benjamin, this picture was painted under exceptional circumstances.
I mean" ...
"That's all right, my dear sir; your price is mine. That is my way of
doing business. When I have taken a fancy to a picture, I never bargain
with the artist."
"You misunderstand me, Sir Benjamin," returned Philip; "I simply meant
to say, that this picture is not for sale. It is a portrait of my wife,
and belongs to her."
"Oh, that's another matter. In that case, I'll say nothing more."
"I hope to be more fortunate some other time."
"So do I. Well, good-day, good-day," said Sir Benjamin, as Philip
handed him his hat. "Very pleased to have made your acquaintance. I will
let you know, as soon as another" ...
"Vacancy occurs," suggested Lorimer.
"That's it, that's it. Good-bye."
Philip would have liked to give him a kick as well as his hat. He
accompanied the alderman to the door and, returning to the studio, found
Lorimer holding his sides with laughter.
"Those people are the drawbacks of my profession, old man. They are
enough to disgust you with it all. Great heavens, what a fool!"
"I don't know about that; they buy pictures and pay cash down. One may
safely say that but for the good inartistic British middle class, the
fine arts would have to put up their shutters. Our upper classes have
only praise and money for foreign works. Have we not musicians by the
score, who have had to resort to Italian _noms de guerre_, to get a
hearing in this country? Yes! I must say, I admire our middle classes.
If it were not for our aldermen and county councillors, who have
sufficient patriotism to get their portraits done in their own country,
our English portraitists would end their careers in the workhouse. And,
come, you must own that he was vastly amusing, the dear man; that the
imposing big-wig of the City was simply killing." And the humour of the
situation striking him afresh, Lorimer rolled on the sofa with laughter,
and Dora, entering the studio at that moment, discovered him in a far
from dignified position, his legs cutting figures in the air.
"Oh, you've just come too late," said he, rising quickly; "he is gone."
"Who is gone?" said Dora.
"Why, the patron of the arts, Alderman Sir Benjamin Pond." And in a few
words, Lorimer described the humorous little scene that had just taken
place. Then, suddenly remembering his appointment, he looked at the
clock.
"By Jove! it's four o'clock! That is the time I had promised to be at
the theatre.... I must fly!"
"Are you off?" said Philip; "I'll go with you. I want some fresh air; I
feel stifling, staying all day in this confounded studio. Don't worry,
darling," said he to Dora, on seeing her look at the picture that he had
begun almost to take a dislike to. "I will finish the picture when I
come back. As I said, there is only an hour's work to do to it."
"Where in the name of fortune have I put my manuscript?" exclaimed
Lorimer.
"Here it is on the table," said Dora. "Is there a woman with a past in
it?"
"A past?" said Lorimer. "Four pasts, and fine ones too. Quite enough to
make up for all possible defects in the play. My dear Mrs. Grantham, I
shall not put in appearance here again until I have written a play with
an angel in it."
"Never mind the angel," said Dora. "Have a real, true woman--that's good
enough for anybody."
"Oh, well, never mind; with all her pasts, you know, this woman has a
great future."
"I hope so, for your sake. Good luck."
Philip and Lorimer got into a cab and went off waving their hands to
Dora.
VI
THE INVENTOR
Philip's state of feverish agitation had not escaped Dora's notice. She
had never seen him thus preoccupied and restless, until to-day. It was
very evident that he was hiding something from her, and that it must be
something most important. What could it possibly be? Philip, hitherto
always so open and confiding, had failed for the first time to unbosom
himself to her. She was no longer the confidante of his worries and the
dispeller of his clouds of depression. There must be something very
extraordinary going on, something quite exceptional and hitherto
unknown, since she had been kept in the dark concerning it. Uncertainty
is the cruellest trial for the heart of a woman to endure, when that
woman is resolute and brave, and feels ready to face any danger
courageously. Dora knew herself to be strong and valiant enough to
brave any ordinary danger, but what was the use of that while there was
nothing tangible to deal with and defy? This incertitude was devouring
her. "I am stifling in this wretched studio," Philip had said to her,
before going out with Lorimer. Never had she heard him speak thus of the
dear retreat where they had passed so many exquisite hours together.
A kind of presentiment came over Dora, that their artistic existence was
about to be broken up. Their past life had been an unbroken chain of
happy days; what did the future hold in store? For the first time, Dora
could see only a mist of uncertainty in front of her. Up to to-day, the
road had seemed clear and sunny to her happy vision, and easy to tread,
but now doubt clouded her sky; she could not see ahead. The road was
perhaps going to branch. Would they take right or left?
"This wretched studio," had dealt her a blow, straight at the breast. A
man may be irritable, sulky, wanting in common politeness even; he may
forget himself so far as to lose his temper and use violent language, if
you will; but there are hallowed things that he respects in all times
and seasons, in temper and out of temper, and to Dora the studio was
one of these things--a temple dedicated to all that she most cherished.
"This wretched studio," signified for her much more than Philip had put
into the words, for, in her brain, things began to take magnified
proportions. In cursing the studio, Philip had cursed his art, and for
this he had chosen a day like the present, the anniversary of their
wedding, and just when he was to have finished the portrait, whose
growth she had watched as a child watches, with bated breath, the growth
of a house of cards, which one false touch will destroy.
For the first time in her life Dora was miserable. Her pride revolted at
the thought that something mysterious was passing under their roof, and
that her husband had not thought fit to take her into his confidence. It
did not occur to her that a man often avoids taking his wife into his
confidence rather than expose her to the risk of a disappointment, by
talking to her of hopes which may not be realised. Besides, there are
important secrets which a man has to know how to keep to himself. A
secret disclosed proves to be an indiscretion in the confiding one as
often as a show of faith in the confidante. But Dora felt so sure of
herself, so strong in her power of devotion, that it would never have
entered her head that Philip could not repose entire confidence in her.
When little Eva returned from a walk, about half-past four, accompanied
by Hobbs, she found her mother in tears, half lying on the sofa, her
face hidden in her hands.
Eva had never seen her mother weep before. The effect upon the child was
terrible.
"Mama, what is the matter?" cried Eva. And she burst into violent tears.
Quickly Dora pressed her handkerchief over her eyes to dry them, and
smiled at the child.
"It is nothing at all, darling; nothing, nothing." And she took her up
and pressed the poor little heaving breast to her own, but the more she
sought to console her, the more the child sobbed and cried. It was
impossible to calm her grief, it was heartrending.
"Mama, mama, are we not going to be happy any more?"
Dora rocked her beloved Eva in her arms and said, with a gay laugh--
"What a little goose it is! Was there ever such a goosikins?"
Eva had hidden her face on her mother's shoulder, and dared not look up
for fear of seeing the awful mysterious something that had caused the
state of distress in which she had discovered her mother. Her sobs
finally died down into hiccoughs, and Dora began to sing to her some
songs that the child loved. Eva gazed at her mother, whose face had
regained its look of serenity, and then, growing bolder, glanced around
into every corner of the room. Smiling once more, after her cautious
survey of her surroundings, she ensconced herself more comfortably upon
Dora's knees and said--
"Weren't we stupid, mama? There is nothing here, is there? But where can
daddy be? How lazy he is to-day!"
"Yes, isn't he? Naughty father, he ought to be at work."
"When I marry," said Eva, "I shall never have a painter."
"Why?" asked Dora, whom the child's chatter always amused.
"Oh, because--I don't know--a painter is too busy always--he doesn't
play with little girls. When I have a little girl, I shall play with her
all day long."
Dora felt the reproach stab straight to her heart. She was on the verge
of tears once more, and felt a choking lump in her throat, but she
mastered the emotion.
"Then what kind of man shall you marry?" said she, with an effort at her
gayest tones.
"None at all--I shall stay and live with you always; or else I shall be
a nurse, like Aunt Gabrielle."
"To nurse sick people and take care of the poor who are suffering?"
"Yes," replied Eva, "and to wear a dress just like auntie's."
"Oh, that is your reason, eh? a very good one!"
Gabrielle looked her best perhaps in the nurse's costume which had so
taken Eva's fancy. Of the purely English type, with rosy complexion,
delicate features, sweet soft eyes and fair hair, and with that mixture
of modesty and assurance in her bearing which is so characteristic of
the best of her countrywomen, she lent a fresh charm to the always
pleasing semi-nun-like attire worn by hospital nurses. Something of that
joy of living, which angels seem to stamp upon the faces of women who
devote themselves to the well-being and happiness of others and to the
assuaging of pain and suffering, had fascinated her little niece. Eva
felt the charm, without being able to analyse it. She knew that Aunt
Gabrielle would look beautiful in any dress, but thought that she was
lovely in her nurse's garb.
The child had forgotten all her tears and went on with her prattle. It
was nearly five o'clock when Philip came in, evidently in a poor humour,
and muttering words that did not reach Dora's ear.
"Eva," said he, "you must go and get dressed now, there's a good child;
we are going to dine a little earlier to-night, so that you may sit up
to dinner with us. You know, it is a holiday to-day; it is the
anniversary of the day daddy and mama were married on--I'll warrant
there will be a special pudding for the occasion."
Eva ran off, singing in her delight, and went to find Hobbs. A moment
later, her little silvery voice was heard at the top of the stairs,
announcing to her nurse that she was to stay up to dinner with mama and
daddy.
Presently the sound of the delightful babble ceased with the closing of
the nursery door.
"You have scarcely had time to go down to the theatre," said Dora.
"No," replied Philip. "Lorimer began upon his endless theories
again--what a bore he is when he talks like that! I could not stand him
to-day; and, besides, I thought I had better get back and go on with the
portrait until dinner."
He looked at the clock and took off his coat.
"It is going to be done to-day, after all then, that wretched portrait,"
said Dora, laughing and laying a stress on the word "wretched."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I see you are tired of it."
"To tell you the truth, I am dying to get it done."
He put on his velvet jacket, sat at the easel, took his palette and his
brushes.
"Now then, to work!" said he.
"It is only five o'clock," said Dora; "you have a good deal of time yet
before dinner."
He mixed his colours and was soon apparently engrossed in the pansies.
He worked three-quarters of an hour without stopping. Dora had taken a
book, and sat reading a few paces from the easel.
On the stroke of six, a violent ring at the bell, impatiently repeated,
was heard at the door. Philip, who had heard a cab draw up outside the
studio, trembled with excitement at the sound of the bell and let fall
his palette and brush.
"It is he," he cried; "it is de Lussac! no one else would ring
violently like that. He has good news, he must have--yes," he shouted,
wild with joy, "it is his step, I hear him."
And he ran to meet the young attache, whose voice he recognised.
Dora had thrown her book down on the sofa, and had risen from her chair.
De Lussac came briskly into the studio, with a telegram in his hand,
which he waved about his head.
"Good news! Victory!" he cried. "Hip, hip, hurrah! as you say in
England--adopted unanimously, my dear fellow. The Government offers you
a million francs for the shell--here is the wire!"
Philip was half beside himself with joy. He seized the telegram from the
hands of the attache, read it, re-read it, and handed it back.
Dora, mute, immobile, was standing a couple of paces off.
"Oh, Dora dear, my dream is realised at last! For months I have worked
in secret. I was so afraid of failing that I have never dared mention a
word to you about this thing, but I have succeeded. I am rewarded for
all my labour and agony of anxiety about my invention. This shell is
bought by the French Government. I am rich--rich!" he cried. "Do you
hear, darling? Oh, my Dora!"
And he folded her lovingly in his arms.
Eva had come, running in at the sound of her father's shouts, which had
reached her ears.
"Daddy, daddy, what is the matter?"
Philip seized the child and lifted her in the air.
"Why, the matter is that your papa is a rich man. Are you glad?"
"Oh yes, of course I am very glad," said the child, seeing her father's
beaming face. "Then we are going to be happier than ever?"
"Why, to be sure we are," said Philip, executing another swing of the
child into the air.
Dora seemed to be stunned. She did not realise the situation, which, for
that matter, could only be fully explained by Philip later on. All that
the poor woman clearly understood for the moment was, that in the
present state of excitement in which Philip appeared to be, he would
certainly not finish the portrait that day.
Philip begged de Lussac to stay and dine, and also sent a telegram to
Lorimer, to tell him the great news and ask him to try and join them. He
needed friends to help him bear his joy. To bear hers, Dora would have
chosen to be alone with Philip.
In moments of greatest joy a woman prefers solitude with the man she
loves, and Dora was vexed that Philip should invite de Lussac and
Lorimer to pass this evening with him.
The two sexes will probably never understand each other.
It may possibly be that each one judges the other by its own.
VII
THE NEW HOUSE
To Dora the vow that she had taken on her wedding-day was a sacred
thing. As he knelt at her side in church, Philip had murmured low in her
ear: "Before God and man I love you." This had sufficed her, and,
following on it, even the words of the Church service pronounced by the
priest had seemed almost superfluous. The phrase uttered in that solemn
moment had sealed her fate and ordained her line of conduct. Her life
belonged to this man. Besides, had she not in firm clear tones given her
promise to love, honour, and obey him? To her this was no empty
formula--it was an oath; and she had sworn that, come what would, how
fatal soever to her personal happiness, she would be loyal to her vow.
She prepared to play her new role with the ardour which she had always
shown in seconding her husband, even in the most trifling affairs of
life, quietly effacing herself, satisfied and happy if Philip seemed to
appreciate the efforts that she made to please him.
Philip left his house in Elm Avenue without even trying to sublet it. He
took a house in Belgravia and installed himself there among the
aristocracy and plutocracy of London. Mayfair is, perhaps, still more
aristocratic and select; but it is sombre, its streets are narrow, and
Philip had been too long accustomed to plenty of light to care to bury
himself alive in the midst of its dark, depressing-looking streets.
Mayfair is to Belgravia what the Rue St. Dominique is to the Avenue des
Champs Elysees in Paris.
The rent of his house was a thousand a year. When he added what he would
have to pay in parish taxes, Queen's taxes, and all those little
blessings which endear Great Britain to every true-born Englishman,
Philip had to come to the conclusion that his new house would cost him
about fifteen hundred pounds a year.
He spent some five thousand pounds upon his installation. The furniture
was chosen by Dora, who was consulted upon every point. Most of the
things from the St. John's Wood house were distributed throughout the
new one, but Dora took it upon her to arrange, on the ground floor,
behind the dining-room, the library, exactly as it had been arranged in
Elm Avenue; not a book, nor a picture, not a photograph, nor a
knick-knack was forgotten. Dora had the bump of remembrance.
This library would be her favourite room, she said to herself, and she
would pass an hour or two every day here among the souvenirs of the
happy days lived in the artists' quarter. Near the drawing-room, Philip
arranged a room which might have passed for a studio in the eyes of
people who see likenesses everywhere. To speak truly, there was no
longer a studio.
As for painting, there was no more question of that; Philip had other
ideas in his head. He would go into society and would entertain. He
could do it now that he had a suitable house. He would make useful
acquaintances, and the celebrity that his invention of the famous shell
had brought him would lead to his being sought after. He had no doubts,
no misgivings. The future was safe enough.
Occasionally, however, he fell into reflection. He had spent something
like five thousand pounds over his installation; there remained
therefore in hand not more than thirty-two or three thousand pounds. At
five per cent. interest, that would bring him an income of some fifteen
hundred pounds, just about the amount of his rent and taxes. Now, he had
started his new existence on a scale which entailed an expenditure of at
least ten thousand a year. He would therefore need to earn the rest,
about eight thousand pounds, or else his capital would last him only
four years. There it was--a judgment without appeal, arrived at by the
inflexible rule of three.
It is not money that ensures a man's being rich, it is the excess of his
receipts over his expenditure. Such is the declaration made by that
great philosopher who was called Monsieur de la Palice. Such is also,
however, the principle which even very intelligent people fail to
understand.
Philip reflected. "Pooh!" said he to himself, "there is no need to
bother myself yet; fortune has smiled on me once, she will again."
Dora consented to everything without a murmur. With the exception of a
general sadness, which she could not entirely dissimulate, she gave no
outward sign of dissent, and approved before Philip many things which
she tacitly condemned. She did not encourage her husband in his new
ideas, but she did not feel the strength of will to discourage him. She
would not earn reproaches. She had taken a resolution to let events
follow their course and to remain firm at her post of observation, so as
to be ready to save Philip before the coming of the downfall which to
her seemed inevitable. She almost found a happiness in this new part. "I
will prevent his going under," she said to herself.
Gaiety had vanished, there was no more laughter, the chief subject of
talk was speculations. In the mornings Philip read the financial papers.
"By Jove!" he would exclaim, "here is a South African mine which was
worth one pound a share. These shares are now worth twelve pounds."
Philip was probably seeking to solve this problem: How can I make eight
thousand pounds a year with a capital of hardly forty thousand pounds?
And the devil answered him: By placing your money where you can get
twenty-five per cent. interest for it.
Philip was anxious; Dora was depressed; life was monotonous, and they
were both bored to death. Dora would fain have said to the French
Government, much as good old La Fontaine's cobbler said to the
financier, "Give me back my songs and take again your lucre."