Part 11

Dora passed the remainder of the day in choosing the things she intended to take away with her; first, the furniture of her own bedroom and that of Hobbs, then some studio belongings, the two easels, and her portrait which Philip had not finished, the old clock that stood in the hall, and a few other things that belonged to her personally; some table silver, and many an odd piece of furniture that had been dear to her in the old house, but which had been since relegated to the attics, as being not worthy to figure in the new one. The next day she bought a Japanese screen and a few things which, while costing little, would yet help her in the execution of the project which she had set her mind upon. These purchases made, there remained twenty pounds in her purse.

She summoned the servants to the dining-room and told them that their master would return home shortly and would pay their wages.

On the morning of the second day after her sudden decision, a van was brought to the door for her few effects, and at five o'clock she had turned her back upon the house that she had grown to loathe. Two days later she was thoroughly installed in her new one.

Here she had succeeded in fitting up a studio, which was an imitation, a cheap and pathetic reproduction, exact in almost every detail, of the one in which she had passed the happiest hours of her old life in Elm Avenue.

Each item of furniture occupied precisely the same spot as in the St. John's Wood studio, and the whole effect was tasteful, for the work had been a labour of love to Dora. The two easels were placed side by side in the centre of the room, and on Philip's stood the unfinished portrait. On one side of the door she had placed an old oak chest that she had picked up at a dealer's for a small sum, and which resembled closely one that Philip owned and prized; on the other side of the door stood the old clock, which she did not, however, set going. What did the time of day matter to her now? Clocks go too slowly when one is tired of life. Away in a corner she hung Philip's old working jacket, which she had come across in the depths of a chest in one of the attics. It would no longer be only in her dreams that she would see the St. John's Wood studio, for it had sprung into existence again under her hands; and in these surroundings she would be able to continue the life that had been interrupted by the events already chronicled. She was going to try to bring to life again one part of her past. She turned to work to help her to forget the other.

She had come here with new hope in her heart, to call her talent to her rescue, and to serve Art faithfully and ask of it her bread. At the least, she felt that here she could, when her time came, die without a malediction on her lips.

Dora gave orders to Hobbs to refuse her door generally. Lorimer and Dr. Templeton were the only exceptions. She laid the greatest stress on these directions, and Hobbs solemnly promised to obey to the letter.

Without delay she traced herself a programme which she resolved to follow out faithfully. She would work at her easel three hours every morning, would take outdoor exercise every afternoon to keep herself refreshed and strong, and the evenings should be devoted to reading and needlework.

She had brought with her several excellent photographs of Eva, and fully intended to make a portrait of the child whom death had robbed her of. Her brush would help her to see again that sweet flesh of her flesh. "But not yet, not just yet," she said.

As she had to earn a livelihood, and painting was to be her means of subsistence, she resolved to look about at once for a model. She chose a little Italian boy who played a concertina under her windows almost every day. The picturesque urchin was ready enough to pose for the _signora_, and beamed with delight at the shilling Dora put into his grubby little palm at the conclusion of each sitting.

Dora took her first walk in the neighbourhood, and Hobbs went with her. They set out without any destination in view, but had not been walking more than five minutes when they found themselves in Elm Avenue. No trace of any emotion crossed Dora's face, and, instead of turning back as Hobbs was for doing, Dora would insist on going as far as No. 50. The house was to let. No one had lived in it since Philip left. Dora drew up on the other side of the road in front of the house. Hobbs tried to draw her away, for she feared that the sight of her old home might be too painful for her mistress.

"No," said Dora, "I am going to show you how thoroughly cured and strong I am ... I am going in."

Hobbs remembered Dr. Templeton's injunctions never to cross her whims, and so did not persist further.

Dora rang the bell. A woman, evidently a caretaker, opened the door.

"Do you wish to see the house, ma'am?"

"Yes, if you please," replied Dora.

She was invited to "step in," and the woman prepared to show her over the premises.

"The studio is a very fine one, and communicates with the garden. Your husband is an artist, I suppose, ma'am?"

"Yes," said Dora.

"Then you would like to see the studio first, perhaps?"

As soon as they reached it, Dora asked the woman to leave her there alone a little while, under pretence that she had measurements to take and many details to think out.

For the first time since the sudden change had come over her, which had so astonished her sister, Dora was seized with a fit of sadness. Her lips trembled, her teeth chattered. Hobbs did not take her eyes off her mistress, but she did not venture to speak. Dora opened the door that led to the garden, and a sharp cry escaped her. A little girl of Eva's age was romping about on the lawn. She stood rooted to the ground, and a flood of tears gushed from her eyes.

"Let us go away," said Hobbs. "You ought never to have come in at all. You think yourself much stronger than you are."

"Yes, let us go," said Dora.

They straightway went home.

Dora remained pensive all the evening. She scarcely opened her lips again that day. The book she tried to read fell again and again from her hands. When she noticed Hobbs look at her, she said, "I tell you it is nothing. I was wrong to go into the house, and I shall not do it again. But how was I to know that, when I opened the garden door, I should see on the lawn" ...

She broke off, looked once more at Hobbs, and could no longer contain herself. Tears choked her respiration; she was stifling. Sobbing like a child, she hid her grief in the good woman's bosom.

"It shall never happen again, Hobbs; don't scold me, it is all over."

Next day she was calm again but weak; and Hobbs, without telling her, sent a telegram to Gabrielle to beg her to come to her dear mistress, that day if possible.

Gabrielle lost no time in responding to the call; but she could not discover in Dora any symptoms that were at all disquieting. Dora from that day avoided Elm Avenue in her walks.

She had set bravely to work at her painting; and as the weeks went on she seemed to pick up the dropped thread of life, and gradually to attach herself to it again. Her health did not suffer in the new existence, and her courage remained firm. At the end of a month she had done the picture of the little Italian boy, and sold it for twenty-five guineas.

"Look, Hobbs," she cried, on returning home; "look what I have earned--twenty-five guineas! Well-earned money that!"

And, in her delight, she kissed the bank notes. Then finding herself quite naturally on her favourite topic, she poured into the ears of the devoted Hobbs an eloquent harangue upon the wrong use of money and the demoralisation of the rich. The discourse was edifying, and duly impressed the only listener; but Philip, to whom it was really addressed, was far off, and did not get the benefit of it.

XVI

PHILIP RETURNS TO THE FOLD

The day after General Sabaroff had dined at Philip's house, he left London for Paris, and from that city he went to St. Petersburg. He made no further effort to see Dora. "Perhaps I have been deceiving myself after all," he said; "I shall forget her." The very evening of his arrival in Paris, he occupied a box at the Théâtre des Variétés with Mimi Latouche.

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.