STOLEN HOURS.
Miss Granger's portrait was finished; and the baby picture--a chubby
blue-eyed cherub, at play on a bank of primroses, with a yellowhammer
perched on a blossoming blackthorn above his head, and just a glimpse of
blue April sky beyond; a dainty little study of colour in which the painter
had surpassed himself--was making rapid progress, to the young mother's
intense delight. Very soon Mr. Austin would have no longer the privilege
of coming every other day to the Rue de Morny. Daniel Granger had declined
sitting for his portrait.
"I did it once," he said. "The Bradford people insisted upon making me a
present of my own likeness, life-size, with my brown cob, Peter Pindar,
standing beside me. I was obliged to hang the picture in the hall at
Arden--those good fellows would have been wounded if I hadn't given it a
prominent position; but that great shining brown cob plays the mischief
with my finest Velasquez, a portrait of Don Carlos Baltazar, in white satin
slashed with crimson. No; I like your easy, dashing style very much, Mr.
Austin; but one portrait in a lifetime is quite enough for me."
As the Granger family became more acclimatised, as it were, Clarissa found
herself with more time at her disposal. Sophia had attached herself to
a little clique of English ladies, and had her own engagements and her
separate interests. Clarissa's friends were for the most part Frenchwomen,
whom she had known in London, or to whom she had been introduced by Lady
Laura. Mr. Granger had his own set, and spent his afternoons agreeably
enough, drinking soda water, reading _Galignani_, and talking commerce or
politics with his compeers at the most respectable cafe on the Boulevards.
Being free therefore to dispose of her afternoons, Clarissa, when Lovel's
picture was finished, went naturally to the Rue du Chevalier Bayard. Having
once taken her servants there, she had no farther scruples. "They will
think I come to see a dressmaker," she said to herself. But in this she did
not give those domestic officers credit for the sharpness of their class.
Before she had been three times to her brother's lodgings, John Thomas,
the footman, had contrived--despite his utter ignorance of the French
tongue--to discover who were the occupants of No. 7, and had ascertained
that Mr. Austin, the painter, was one of them.
"Who'd have thought of her coming to see that chap Hostin?" said John
Thomas to the coachman. "That's a rum start, ain't it?"
"Life is made up of rum starts, John Thomas," replied the coachman
sententiously. "Is there a Mrs. Hostin, do you know?"
"Yes, he's got a wife. I found that out from the porter, though the blessed
old buffer can't speak anything but his French gibberish. 'Madame?' I said,
bawling into his stupid old ear. 'Mossoo and Madame Hostin? comprenny?' and
he says, 'Ya-ase,' and then bursts out laughing, and looks as proud as a
hen that's just laid a hegg--' Ya-ase, Mossoo et Madame."
George Fairfax and Clarissa met very frequently after that ball at the
Embassy. It happened that they knew the same people; Mr. Fairfax, indeed,
knew every one worth knowing in Paris; and he seemed to have grown suddenly
fond of respectable society, going everywhere in the hope of meeting Mrs.
Granger, and rarely staying long anywhere, if he did not meet her. There
were those who observed this peculiarity in his movements, and shrugged
their shoulders significantly. It was to be expected, of course, said this
butterfly section of humanity: a beautiful young woman, married to a man
old enough to be her father, would naturally have some one interested in
her.
Sometimes Clarissa met George Fairfax in her brother's painting-room;
so often, indeed, that she scarcely cared to keep an account of these
meetings. Austin knew a good many clever agreeable Americans and Frenchmen,
and his room was a pleasant lounge for idle young men, with some interest
in art, and plenty to say upon every subject in the universe. If there
were strangers in the painting-room when Mrs. Granger came to the Rue
du Chevalier Bayard, she remained in the little salon, talking to her
sister-in-law and the two precocious nephews; but it happened generally
that George Fairfax, by some mysterious means, became aware of her
presence, and one of the folding-doors would open presently, and the tall
figure appear.
"Those fellows have fairly smoked me out, Mrs. Austin," he would say.--"Ah,
how do you do, Mrs. Granger? I hope you'll excuse any odour of Victorias
and Patagas I may bring with me. Your brother's Yankee friends smoke like
so many peripatetic furnaces."
And then he would plant himself against a corner of the mantelpiece, and
remain a fixture till Clarissa departed. It was half-an-hour's talk that
was almost a tete-a-tete. Bessie Lovel counted for so little between those
two. Half-an-hour of dangerous happiness, which made all the rest of Mrs.
Granger's life seem dull and colourless; the thought of which even came
between her and her child.
Sometimes she resolved that she would go no more to that shabby street on
the "Surrey side"; but the resolve was always broken. Either Austin had
asked her to come for some special reason, or the poor little wife had
begged some favour of her, which required personal attention; there was
always something.
Those were pleasant afternoons, when the painting-room was empty of
strangers, and Clarissa sat in a low chair by the fire, while George
Fairfax and her brother talked. Austin was never so brilliant as in
George's company; the two men suited each other, had lived in the same
world, and loved the same things. They talked of all things in heaven and
earth, touching lightly upon all, and with a careless kind of eloquence
that had an especial fascination for the listener. It seemed as if she had
scarcely lived in the dull interval between those charmed days at Hale
Castle and these hours of perilous delight; as if she had been half-stifled
by the atmosphere of common-sense which had pervaded her existence--crushed
and borne down by the weight of Daniel Granger's sober companionship.
_This_ was fairyland--a region of enchantment, fall of bright thoughts and
pleasant fancies; _that_ a dismal level drill-ground, upon which all the
world marched in solid squares, to the monotonous cry of a serjeant-major's
word of command. One may ride through a world of weariness in a
barouche-and-pair. Clarissa had not found her husband's wealth by any
means a perennial source of happiness, nor even the possession of Arden an
unfailing consolation.
It was strange how this untidy painting-room of Austin's, with its tawdry
dilapidated furniture--all of which had struck her with a sense of
shabbiness and dreariness at first--had grown to possess a charm for her.
In the winter gloaming, when the low wood fire glowed redly on the hearth,
and made a flickering light upon the walls, the room had a certain
picturesque aspect. The bulky Flemish cabinets, with their coarse florid
carving, stood boldly out from the background, with red gleams from the
fire reflected on chubby cherub heads and mediaeval monsters. The faded
curtains lost their look of poverty, and had only the sombre air of age; an
old brass chandelier of the Louis Quatorze period, which Austin had hung in
in the centre of his room, flashed and glittered in the uncertain, light;
and those two figures--one leaning against the mantelpiece, the other
prowling restlessly to and fro as he talked, carrying a mahl-stick, which
he waved ever and anon like the rod of a magician--completed the picture.
It was a glimpse of the behind-the-scenes in the great world of art, a peep
into Bohemia; and O, how much brighter a region it seemed to Clarissa than
that well-regulated world in which she dined every day at the same hour,
with four solemn men watching the banquet, and wound up always with the
same dismal quarter of an hour's sitting in state at dessert!
Those stolen hours in Austin's painting-room had too keen a fascination for
her. Again and again she told herself that she would come no more, and yet
she came. She was so secure of her own integrity, so fenced and defended by
womanly pride, that she argued with herself there could be neither sin nor
danger in these happy respites from the commonplace dreariness of her life.
And yet, so inconsistent is human nature, there were times when this woman
flung herself upon the ground beside her baby's crib, and prayed God to
pardon her iniquities.
Austin was much too careless to be conscious of his sister's danger. George
Fairfax had made an afternoon lounge of his rooms in the previous winter;
it was no new thing for him to come there three or four times a week; and
Austin did not for a moment suspect that Clarissa's occasional presence had
anything to do with these visits.
When the three portraits were finished, Mr. Granger expressed himself
highly content with them, and gave Austin Lovel a cheque for three hundred
pounds; a sum which, in the painter's own words, ought to have set him
upon his legs. Unhappily, Austin's legs, from a financial point of view,
afforded only the most insecure basis--were always slipping away from him,
in fact. Three hundred pounds in solid cash did not suffice for even his
most pressing needs. He saw nothing before him but the necessity of an
ignominious flight from Paris. It was only a question of when and where he
should fly; there was no question as to the fact.
He did not care to tell Clarissa this, however. It would be time enough
when the thing was done, or just about to be done. All his life he had been
in the habit of shirking unpleasant subjects, and he meant to shirk this as
long as he could. He might have borrowed money of George Fairfax, no doubt;
but unfortunately he was already in that gentleman's debt, for money
borrowed during the previous winter; so he scarcely cared to make any new
appeal in that quarter.
So the unsubstantial Bohemian existence went on; and to Clarissa, for
whom this Bohemia was an utterly new world, it seemed the only life worth
living. Her brother had been pleased to discover the ripening of her
artistic powers, and had given her some rough-and-ready lessons in the art
she loved so well. Sometimes, on a bright wintry morning, when Mr. Granger
was engaged out of doors, she brought her portfolio to the Rue du Chevalier
Bayard, and painted there for an hour or so. At first this had been a
secure hour for unreserved talk with her brother; but after she had been
there two or three mornings in this way, Mr. Fairfax seemed mysteriously
aware of her movements, and happened to drop in while she was taking her
lesson.
It is not to be supposed that Clarissa could be so much away from home
without attracting the attention of Miss Granger. Whether that young lady
was at home or abroad, she contrived to keep herself always well informed
as to the movements of her stepmother. She speculated, and wondered, and
puzzled herself a good deal about these frequent outings; and finding
Clarissa singularly reticent upon the subject, grew daily more curious and
suspicious; until at last she could endure the burden of this perplexity no
longer, without some relief in words, and was fain to take the judicious
Warman into her confidence.
"Has Mrs. Granger been out again this afternoon, Warman?" she asked one
evening, when the handmaiden was dressing her hair for dinner.
"Yes, miss. The carriage came home just now. I heard it. Mrs. Granger went
out almost directly after you did."
"I wonder she can care to waste so much time in calls," said Sophia.
"Yes, miss, it is odd; and almost always the same place too, as you may
say. But I suppose Mrs. Granger was intimate with Mr. and Mrs. Austin
before her marriage."
"Mr. and Mrs. Austin! What do you mean, Warman?"
"Lor', miss, I thought you would know where she went, as a matter of
course. It seems only natural you should. I've heard Jarvis mention it at
supper. Jarvis has his meals at _our_ table, you know, miss. 'We've been
to the Rue du Cavalier Barnard again to-day,' he says, 'which I suppose
is French for Barnard's-inn. Missus and them Austins must be very thick.'
Jarvis has no manners, you know, miss; and that's just his uncultivated way
of speaking. But from what I've heard him remark, I'm sure Mrs. Granger
goes to call upon the Austins as much as three times a week, and seldom
stops less than an hour."
A deadly coldness had crept over Sophia Granger--a cold, blank feeling,
which had never come upon her until that moment. He had a wife, then, that
dashing young painter with the brilliant brown eyes--the only man who had
ever aroused the faintest interest in her well-regulated soul. He was
married, and any vague day-dream with which she had interwoven his image
was the merest delusion and phantasmagoria. She was unspeakably angry
with herself for this unworthy weakness. A painter--a person paid by her
father--something less than a curate--if it was possible for any creature
to seem less than Mr. Tillott in Sophia's estimation. He was a married
man--a base impostor, who had sailed under false colours--a very pirate.
All those graceful airy compliments, those delicate attentions, which
had exercised such a subtle influence over her narrow mind--had, indeed,
awakened in her something that was almost sentiment--were worse than
meaningless, were the wiles of an adventurer trading on her folly.
"He wanted to paint papa's picture," she thought, "and I suppose he fancied
my influence might help him."
But what of Clarissa's visits to the painter's lodgings? what possible
reason could she have for going there? Miss Granger's suspicions were
shapeless and intangible as yet, but she did suspect. More than once--many
times, in fact--during the painting of the portrait, she had seen, or had
imagined she could see, signs and tokens of a closer intimacy between
the painter and her father's wife than was warranted by their ostensible
acquaintance. The circumstances were slight enough in themselves, but these
fragile links welded together made a chain which would have been good
enough evidence in a criminal court, skilfully handled by an Old Bailey
lawyer. Sophia Granger racked her brain to account for this suspected
intimacy. When and where had these two been friends, lovers perhaps? Mr.
Austin had been away from England for many years, if his own statement were
to be believed. It must have been abroad, therefore, that Clarissa had
known him--in her school-days. He had been drawing-master, perhaps, in the
seminary at Belforet. What more likely?
Miss Granger cherished the peculiar British idea of all foreign schools,
that they were more or less sinks of iniquity. A flirtation between
drawing-master and pupil would be a small thing in such a pernicious
atmosphere. Even amidst the Arcadian innocence of native academies such
weeds have flourished This flirtation, springing up in foreign soil, would
be of course ten times more desperate, secret, jesuitical in fact, than any
purely English product.
Yes, Miss Granger decided at the end of every silent debate in which she
argued this question with herself--yes, that was the word of the enigma.
These two had been lovers in the days that were gone; and meeting again,
both married, they were more than half lovers still.
Clarissa made some excuse to see her old admirer frequently. She was taking
lessons in painting, perhaps. Miss Granger observed that she painted more
than usual lately--merely for the sake of seeing him.
And how about George Fairfax? Well, that flirtation, of course, was of
later date and a less serious affair. Jealousy--a new kind of jealousy,
more bitter even than that which she had felt when Clarissa came between
her and her father--sharpened Miss Granger's suspicions in this case. She
was jealous even of that supposed flirtation at Belforet, four or five
years ago. She was angry with Clarissa for having once possessed this man's
heart; ready to suspect her of any baseness in the past, any treason in the
present.
The Grangers were at Madame Caballero's two or three evenings after this
revelation of Warman's, and Sophia had an opportunity of gleaning some
scraps of information from the good-natured little lion-huntress. Madame
had been asking her if Mr. Austin's portraits had been a success.
"Yes; papa thinks they are excellent, and talks about having them exhibited
in the salon. Mr. Austin is really very clever. Do you know, I was not
aware that he was married, till the other day?" Sophia added, with a
careless air.
"Indeed! Yes, there is a wife, I understand; but she never goes into
society; no one hears of her. For my part I think him charming."
"Has he been long in Paris?"
Madame Caballero shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know," she said. "I have
only known of his existence since he became famous--in a small way--a very
small way, of course. He exhibited some military sketches, which attracted
the attention of a friend of mine, who talked to me about him. I said at
once, 'Bring him here. I can appreciate every order of genius, from Ary
Scheffer to Gavarni.' The young man came, and I was delighted with him. I
admitted him among my intimates; and he insisted on painting the picture
which your papa was good enough to admire."
"Do you know how he lived before he came into notice--if he has ever been a
drawing-master, for instance?"
"I know that he has given lessons. I have heard him complain of the
drudgery of teaching."
This sustained Miss Granger's theory. It seemed so likely. No other
hypothesis presented itself to her mind.
Day by day she watched and waited and speculated, hearing of all Clarissa's
movements from the obsequious Warman, who took care to question Mrs.
Granger's coachman in the course of conversation, in a pleasant casual
manner, as to the places to which he had taken his mistress. She waited and
made no sign. There was treason going on. The climax and explosion would
come in good time.
In the meanwhile, Clarissa seemed almost entirely free. Mr. Granger, after
living for nearly fifty years of his life utterly unaffected by feminine
influence, was not a man to hang upon his wife's footsteps or to hold her
bound to his side. If she had returned his affection with equal measure, if
that sympathy for which he sighed in secret could have arisen between them,
he might have been as devoted a slave as love could make an honest man. As
it was, his married life at its best was a disappointment. Only in the
fond hopes and airy visions which his son had inspired, did he find the
happiness he had dreamt of when he first tried to win Clarissa for his
wife. Here alone, in his love for his child, was there a pure and perfect
joy. All other dreams ended in bitter waking. His wife had never loved
him, never would love him. She was grateful for his affection, obedient,
submissive; her grace and beauty gave him a reflected lustre in society.
She was a creature to be proud of, and he was proud of her; but she did
not love him. And with this thought there came always a sudden agony of
jealousy. If not him, what other had she loved? Whose image reigned in the
heart so closely shut against him? Who was that man, the mere memory of
whom was more to her than the whole sum of her husband's devotion?
* * * * *