Philip had said to her, before the arrival of their guests at their
memorable evening party, "How beautiful you are! How I should love to
have you all to myself this evening!" Women seldom forget a remark of
that sort. She put on the same dress that had charmed Philip so much,
and went downstairs looking her loveliest. After dinner they passed the
evening in Dora's boudoir, where she allowed her husband to smoke his
cigarette, and smoked one herself when the temptation took her. Philip
took no notice of his wife's attire; no remark, no compliment passed his
lips. Tired of the tete-a-tete, he took up a book and yawned over it for
a while, and about eleven o'clock went out for a breath of air. "It is
hopeless; I am done for," said Dora, when Philip had left her, and she
burst into tears.
What had come over this man who thus caused such suffering to a
wife--young, beautiful, dowered with all the gifts that nature can
lavish upon a woman, and for whom he would certainly have been ready to
lay down his life, if necessary?
Lorimer was right; it was a special case, and he, as a psychologist,
watched its development with interest. The specialist declares that a
man absorbed in speculations is, naturally, fatally indifferent to all
the other affairs of life. Philip had been attacked with what we will
call mental absorption, a sort of bewitchment from which nothing could
exorcise him, so to speak, but some great shock, powerful and
unforeseen.
All the ideas which Dora had taken into her head were false. Philip
adored his wife. He was blinded by a thick veil, which he had not the
courage to tear from his eyes. He was so sure of attaining his aim in a
few days that he said to himself, "I shall soon be able to repair all my
faults. A little while and everything will go smoothly again. I shall be
free, master of myself once more, and there will be half a century in
front of me, in which to compensate Dora for the anxiety I am causing
her now." He was honest, and had only feelings of profound love and
respect for his wife; but to a looker-on, to Dora above all, the fact
was difficult to believe in, it must be confessed.
In order to keep up close relations with Sabaroff, Philip had asked him
to sit for his portrait. The General had accepted, and came three or
four times a week to pose in the room which served Philip as a studio.
Dora resigned herself to this humiliation. "He has not yet finished my
portrait," she said to herself, "but that man's, he will finish fast
enough." Not once, however, did she make a remark to Philip on the
matter.
Every Thursday Sabaroff came to call on Dora, who received him politely,
but coldly. On several occasions he found himself alone with her, and
Philip never thought of joining them. He ended by believing himself
encouraged by Philip in the assiduity of his visits to Dora. This woman
so impressed him that he never once ventured on a glib gallantry,
scarcely even an ordinary compliment. He felt himself on new ground and
not thoroughly at home in the presence of this being, who seemed never
to have been soiled by even an impure glance. Before her he became
almost timid, he the daring Don Juan of courts, who made light of women
whose conquest he had so often found easy, and for whom he felt the
sentiment of the Oriental, a sentiment made up of condescension and
fierce and short-lived passion, followed by contempt. Not more than one
woman had ever been able to boast of having been his mistress longer
than a week. And yet he had loved once in his life, loved with a noble
passion a young girl with a face full of lofty beauty, eyes in whose
look were depths of loyalty and truth, and on whose brow purity sat
enthroned. And that woman, whom he had thus loved, whose image had never
become completely effaced from his memory--that woman was Dora! whom he
here found again lovelier still than in bygone years, and married to a
man who was evidently absorbed in his invention and his calculations.
Sabaroff watched Philip and Dora attentively. He could not discover in
their conduct towards each other any of the thousand and one little
familiarities which always exist between two people living happily side
by side under one roof. He also thought that Philip opened his house to
him with an insistence almost suspicious, and yet Dora not only gave him
no encouragement, but seemed to behave with a studied reserve when in
his society. He concluded that she either felt complete indifference for
him, or that she hid her sentiments under a very clever mask. The more
he tried to understand, the more he lost himself in conjecture. In his
estimation, Philip was either a fool who neglected his wife, or an
intriguing fellow who sought to make use of her to attain his own ends.
One thing at all events was clear in his mind, and that was that there
existed between Philip and Dora no sentiment of affection, much less of
love. He resolved to await a favourable occasion, and not to decide upon
a plan of action until he was surer of his ground.
Philip had finished his portrait, and everyone who saw it declared that
no modern portrait-painter, since the death of Frank Holl, had done such
a fine piece of work. Dora, mortified and stung by jealousy, could not
help admiring her husband's masterpiece, and said to him: "Since you
wish for wealth, here is the means of attaining it; with a talent such
as yours you could soon command a thousand pounds for a portrait, and
paint ten or twelve a year."
His portrait finished, Sabaroff had less excuse for constant calls at
the house. He had to content himself with his weekly visits on Dora's
day. However, one day when he knew Philip to be absent and Dora at home,
he presented himself at the house; but Dora sent word that she was not
well and regretted to be unable to receive him. On the evening of the
same day, he received an invitation to dine with Philip and Dora, and
accepted it by return of post. The dinner was for the 15th of December.
Sabaroff's report upon Philip's shell had long since been sent to St.
Petersburg, and as he had marked it "Urgent and specially recommended,"
he expected a reply at any moment.
The day after Philip had sent to ask the General to dinner, he received
from him the following note:--
"DEAR MR. GRANTHAM,--I have just received a letter from St.
Petersburg from which I learn that the Commission, charged by his
Imperial Majesty, my august master, to examine my report and that
of the Council of Artillery upon the experiments made with your
shell, will sit on the 15th of December, and will send me a wire
the same evening to acquaint me with their decision. Thus I may
possibly, as you see, have a piece of good news to give you at
dessert.
"Pray, dear Sir, present my most respectful compliments to Mrs.
Grantham, and accept for yourself the assurance of my devoted
regards.
"IVAN SABAROFF."
Philip, overcome with joy, ran to show Dora Sabaroff's letter.
"At last," he cried, "we are near the goal. Ten days more and I shall
know whether they take my shell or not. And then, from that day, Heaven
be thanked, no more invention on the brain, no more anxiety, no more
worry; I shall be rich, and I shall get at my work again, the work that
you love. Only, you know, I shall take things easily. I shall not work
now to pay the tradespeople; I shall paint seriously, I tell you."
Seeing a ray of joy pass over Dora's face, he added, "You see, I do not
intend to throw all overboard. Look here, we have been married six
years, and you don't know me yet. That's the fact of the matter."
His gaiety and enthusiasm of other days seemed to have come back again,
and Dora's heart leapt within her at the sight. She went so far as to
encourage him in his present hopes, but more especially applauded the
resolution that he appeared to have taken to return to his old work.
Philip took her in his arms and kissed her more tenderly than he had
done for six months past.
"After all," said Dora to herself, "my suspicions were perhaps absurd;
there was no foundation for them. I have had a bad dream, a horrible
nightmare--I must fling it off. It is all over--patience, patience. Just
a few days longer."
Next time Sabaroff called, Dora received him with less coldness and
reserve. She was cheerful, amiable, and appeared almost glad to see him.
This new attitude delighted him. There was no mistaking the looks he
gave her, his whole body betrayed the feelings of this man for Dora.
"After all," she thought, "in a few days he will be back in St.
Petersburg, and I shall have finished for ever with his Excellency the
War Minister of his Majesty the Czar of all the Russias."
On the 13th, Philip received a telegram calling him to Paris at once. He
was begged to spend a few hours at the arsenal of artillery with the
Ministre de la guerre.
He could not refuse. He wired immediately that he would comply without
delay.
Dora naturally proposed to send at once to General Sabaroff, asking him
to dine with them another evening instead of on the 15th.
"No, no," said Philip; "I shall leave Paris the day after to-morrow by
the nine o'clock train in the morning. It is the mail, and I shall
arrive in London at half-past four; even allowing for a couple of hours
of possible delay, I should still reach home in good time. Besides," he
said, glancing at a newspaper, "the barometer is rising, the sea is
good, there is no danger of bad weather and delays."
It was in vain for Dora to persist, Philip would not consent to any
change in the arrangement.
"My dear child, one cannot put off a Minister at a moment's notice, when
one has asked him to dinner. I would rather refuse to go to Paris, and
you know it would be impossible to do that. I really must respond to
this request, which is as natural as it is cordial. I owe some
consideration to those good Frenchmen for buying my shell of me, and, no
doubt, it is to ask my advice on some matter that they want me at the
arsenal in a hurry. And then, you know, I have another reason for
specially wanting to meet General Sabaroff here on the 15th--it is on
the 15th that I am to hear Russia's decision."
Dora saw that it was useless to argue the point any further.
Philip's preparations for departure were rapidly made; in a few minutes
he was ready to set out for Paris. He sprang into a cab and reached
Charing Cross ten minutes before the eleven o'clock mail train was ready
to start. At seven in the evening he was in Paris.
XIII
A CRUEL ORDEAL
On the 15th of December, at eight o'clock in the evening, Philip had not
arrived home.
General Sabaroff came at the hour appointed. Great was his surprise to
find only Dora and her sister in the drawing-room. He had been invited
to dine quite informally, but he expected to see at least two or three
other guests. Far from regretting their non-appearance, he congratulated
himself on his good luck, and thanked his hostess for showing him this
mark of friendly intimacy. It occurred to him that, perhaps, Dora's
sister would not stay long after dinner. When Dora, humiliated and
mortified, explained to him that Philip had not returned from Paris, she
was very naturally profuse in her apologies. Sabaroff concluded that a
tete-a-tete had been arranged. "At any rate," he thought to himself, "I
shall soon be clear on that point."
Dinner was announced, and Gabrielle went down to the dining-room,
followed by Dora, to whom Sabaroff had offered his arm.
The dinner proceeded, excellent and well served in itself, but a
wearisome function to all three partakers of it. Dora was too much a
prey to the most painful reflections to play the hostess with her usual
grace. Gabrielle, at no time a conversationalist of any brilliancy,
detached as she was from social pleasures by duty and inclination, sat
almost mute. Sabaroff himself suffered from the constraint which the
presence of this hospital nurse imposed upon him. He could never
dissociate her from her semi-religious habiliments, which inspired him
with an enforced respect. Dora, feeling stranded and forlorn, wrapped
herself in a reserve of manner that was unmistakable, and Gabrielle, as
the dinner proceeded, grew more and more a prey to vague alarms while
she watched the burning glances that Sabaroff threw at Dora. The dinner
was of the simplest and lasted at the utmost an hour, but to the poor
girl it seemed unending.
At last they were all three on their feet again, and she and Dora were
moving to the drawing-room, where she would be able to speak freely to
her sister, perhaps, and ease her mind.
"We will leave you to your cigar, General," said Dora, taking the lead
into the doorway.
The General bowed, and, when they had gone, he seated himself again, lit
a cigar, and fell into a reverie.
As soon as Dora reached the drawing-room, she threw herself into her
sister's arms. "I am so glad that you came this evening," she said. "Eva
is not at all well. The dear child seems to get less and less strong as
she grows older. I often feel quite concerned about her. She has been
feverish all day to-day, and you know that when she has the slightest
ailment, she always wants auntie to nurse her. The very sight of your
cap and apron is as potent as a soothing draught, I do believe. I have
just sent a servant to the hospital to know if I can keep you till
to-morrow morning--and I was glad to have you make a third at dinner
this evening, Philip being absent. It was an inspiration that brought
you to the house ... but you look quite depressed; your face, usually so
cheerful, so gay, is sad. You seemed strange all through dinner. Now,
what is the matter?"
Gabrielle looked at Dora strangely. For a long time she hesitated
before answering, then, seeing that Dora seemed to insist, she looked
her sister straight in the face, and said--
"Dora, dear, why is General Sabaroff dining here to-night when Philip is
away from home? There, since you insist, it is out."
Dora felt offended, but did not betray her feeling.
"Ah, you see," she said, smiling, "I knew there was something troubling
you. Well, you must know that, a few days ago, Philip invited General
Sabaroff to dine with us to-night quite _en famille_ and he accepted.
The day before yesterday, Philip received a letter calling him to Paris
immediately, on business connected with the shell--his invention, you
know. He set out by the morning train that very day, telling me to
expect him back about five o'clock to-day, and I cannot account for his
not having returned yet. I had a letter from him this morning in which
he said that the matter was settled yesterday, and that he would take
the nine o'clock train from Paris this morning. I had suggested putting
off General Sabaroff, but he would not hear of my doing that, as he was
sure of arriving home three hours before dinner. Now, don't look at me
any longer with that tragedy air or you'll upset my gravity, dear. One
would think you suspected me of arranging a tete-a-tete dinner with the
man. Haven't I already told you how glad I was that you came in time to
sit down with us? But how absurd all this is! One would really imagine I
was here on my defence. Enough of this nonsense! And now, before General
Sabaroff has finished his smoke, I will run up and see how my darling is
and tell her that you are here."
"Dora, one moment; I must speak to you, I feel I must. Do not be
offended with me, nor think me prying and foolish, will you, if I seem
to meddle in what you may say does not concern me; but, dear, I cannot
keep it to myself any longer. It makes me so miserable to see what is
going on in this house--tell me, what does it all mean? You do not
answer me, you dare not tell me the truth."
"My dear sister," said Dora, "I have nothing to hide from you." And she
added, with sudden resolution, looking Gabrielle straight in the face,
"Love has deserted the house--that is the truth, a truth which will soon
kill me, I hope."
"But whose fault is it?" rejoined Gabrielle. "This General Sabaroff, why
is he so often here? I cannot help noticing the frequency of his
visits, and I cannot help seeing Philip's sad look and your altered
manner towards him. Again, what does it all mean? He is suffering, I am
sure of it; your coldness towards him is distressing him deeply. All
your amiability seems to be reserved for this Russian, whom I heard you
call profligate, the last person in the world that I should have thought
you would hoard your smiles for. How can you turn a cold face to such a
husband as yours for such a man as this?"
"Really you are very observant, and your conclusions are most
charitable, my dear sister--of charity," said Dora, who was beginning to
stifle with misery and indignation.
"Yes," continued Gabrielle, not listening to her sister, "a husband who
has given you a place in his heart which one only gives to God. Ah, do
not attempt to contradict me. Your love for Philip is dying, if not
already dead. Take care, Dora; Philip still loves you. He knows nothing
of what is going on. It is not too late. Forbid your door to this man
before harm comes of it. I beseech you, put a stop to General Sabaroff's
too evident attentions to you."
This was more than Dora could stand. This woman, whose pride would not
allow her to confide her sorrow to another soul, was roused to her very
depths, and, seizing her sister's arms, she said to her--
"My loving husband, who gives me a place in his heart which should be
reserved for God alone, is ready to sell my smiles for five hundred
thousand roubles--do you hear what I tell you? After having been false
to Art, that mistress of whom I should have been proud to be jealous, he
does not seek to be false to me--that would be nothing compared to the
crime he is about to commit. A husband! ah, faugh! There, I have
unloaded my heart, I feel better."
"Dora, what are you saying? You are mad."
"I tell you that he knows everything and that you know nothing. It is
Philip who forces me to receive this man in our intimate circle. It is
he who throws open to General Sabaroff my dining-room, my drawing-room,
and who, one of these days, will lend him the key of my bedroom. It was
he who invited him to dine here to-night, certainly not I."
"But," said Gabrielle, "why is Philip not here?"
"Ah!" exclaimed Dora, "well you may ask--that is just what I should like
to know."
Dora looked at Gabrielle, who stood dumfounded. "Never mind, don't
listen to me, I scarcely know what I am talking about," she added,
passing her hand over her forehead; "I am losing my head. No, no, my
suppositions are impossible. He must have met with an accident. There
can be no other explanation."
Dora succeeded in mastering her emotion, and fixing Gabrielle with a
strange, half-haggard gaze, she said--
"You must not believe a word of what I have said; you don't, do you? And
now, I must go to Eva. The dear child will be so delighted to know you
are here."
She threw herself into her sister's arms and kissed her tenderly several
times.
Gabrielle stood petrified. She had long guessed that there was no more
happiness in her sister's home, but she had not had the least idea that
things had gone so far as to lead Dora to despise Philip. Gabrielle had
always felt a mixture of love and admiring respect for her sister; in
her estimation, Dora was the ideal woman; so much superior to all the
other women she had known, that she could not believe that the pedestal
upon which she had placed her could possibly crumble to atoms.
Dora returned after a few minutes. She seemed uneasy, still more upset
than she had been when she left the drawing-room.
"Eva is asking for you," she said to Gabrielle; "she complains of sore
throat now, and appears to be feverish, but I hope it is nothing worse
than a cold coming. Go and sit with the dear child. If she should grow
worse during the evening, send for the doctor at once. I trust her to
your hands."
Kissing Gabrielle once more, she tried to smile, and added--
"Don't distress yourself about me. I shall be able to join you
presently. General Sabaroff has, I hope, enough tact to make him feel
the awkwardness of the situation. He will retire at once. There, go now,
dear."
Dora, as soon as Gabrielle had left the drawing-room, was seized with an
intangible terror. Doubt and uncertainty had undermined her spirits. She
no longer felt her usual dauntless courage. She was afraid of being
alone, afraid of the unknown, afraid of the man who, at any moment,
might enter the room; but, above all, was her thought for the child. "My
poor little treasure! going to be ill perhaps!" A horrible thought
flashed across her mind and wrung a cry from her lips. "Oh, no, no, my
God, not _that_! no, not if there is justice in heaven!" Calming herself
with an effort, she went on, "Ah, if it was not for the child, I would
leave this house to-day, I would go no matter where, take a few brushes,
and earn my bread with them. It would be hard if I could not turn my
work to some account and lead a life independent of everyone. Oh to live
anywhere, to live anyhow, dear Heaven, rather than go on with this
existence which revolts me and is crushing me! Oh, how lonely it is! how
silent the house is! The very air chokes me--where is Philip now? What
has happened that he is not here? What is he doing? Oh, my head burns
so! I will send up for Gabrielle--no, she must stay with Eva. What to
do? Send a telegram to Lorimer, and ask him to come quickly?--no, I
should have to give explanations. Beg the General to excuse me; tell him
I am not well and am obliged to retire."
She was interrupted in her reflections by the entrance of a servant who
brought a telegram. Feverishly she broke open the envelope and read:
"Missed nine o'clock train, started at noon, and will be with you at
eight o'clock."
She looked at the timepiece. It was ten o'clock, and Philip had not yet
arrived. The telegram was from Dover. What could have happened since?
"Then, Philip may perhaps not be here at all to-night," she said to
herself; "I shall be forced to pass the rest of the evening with General
Sabaroff. Is it an accident ... or a diabolical plot? No, no, the
thought is too horrible. I must, I will chase it out of my mind. And
yet--oh, there is only one thing to be done. Yes, yes, no more
hesitation; I will finish with the General, and to-night. No more shall
Philip accuse me of not helping him. I will get Sabaroff's signature, if
power of mine can do it. I will be extra amiable to him--repulsive task!
Philip shall have his beloved money, for which he has broken my heart,
and then--then I have done with him for ever."
When she lifted her eyes, Sabaroff stood before her. Immersed in her own
thoughts, she had not seen him come in. At once rising, she collected
her ideas rapidly and scarcely showed sign of embarrassment.
"I must apologise again to you for my husband, General," she said; "I
have just had a wire from him saying he missed the nine o'clock train in
Paris, but that he had left at noon and would be here at eight. I am
very alarmed. It is ten o'clock. I fear there must have been an
accident, for I can explain his absence in no other way. It is really
most unfortunate, and I don't know how to apologise enough. I feel
quite confused."
The smile which crossed Sabaroff's face at these words was particularly
offensive to Dora.
The General was not long coming to the point. When he had entered the
drawing-room and found Dora alone, he had instantly taken his
resolution. Here was his opportunity.
"As far as I am concerned," he said, "there is nothing unfortunate in
the situation--I should rather call it fortunate for me. So, please, do
not apologise. I can never get enough of your society. Every day on
which I do not see you is dull, weary, wasted. To be allowed to see you
is my sweetest privilege, to see you alone my dearest joy."
"Really, General, spare me, please," said Dora, striving to smile
naturally.