Part 8

"Have courage, dear; it is nearly over. The hour has come when you can do great things for me; a wife can be of such help to her husband--with a little diplomacy."

Dora shuddered--it was the phrase which she had just heard. The room seemed to swim round as she heard Philip repeat the words.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Why, nothing very difficult for you,--help me with a few smiles; invite the General to come and see us sometimes. Why do you look at me in that strange fashion?"

"You want me to ask that man to come and see me as a friend, after what I have told you?"

"Why not?" said Philip. "Come, be a good girl; when I have sold my invention, I will never think of anything but you and my painting. I shall install myself in the most sumptuous studio that ever inspired an artist. Forgive me my thirst for a little more wealth. I shall soon have quenched it for ever. You will help me, won't you?"

"Once more, what is it you would have me to do?"

"We are going to supper--you will take General Sabaroff's arm."

"No, no, not that," said Dora, with an imploring look at Philip.

"Yes, yes, you cannot refuse. You are the hostess and he the principal guest. I expect you to go down with him."

Sabaroff had drawn near to them; Dora could refuse no longer. She bent her head and said to Philip--

"Very well."

"Will your Excellency offer your arm to my wife?"

Dora mastered her emotion, her weakness, and her indignation. Many eyes were upon her; not a moment's hesitation was possible. She lifted her head proudly, took the proffered arm, and went down to supper.

XII

THE HUSBAND, THE WIFE, AND THE OTHER

After going through the unaccustomed and fatiguing function, which we have tried to describe in the two preceding chapters, Dora took a day or two's rest in the house. During this time of repose, which her husband had specially enjoined her to indulge in, she resolved to limit her social relations, and consecrate most of her time to her child, who was beginning to cause her some anxiety. Eva was not strong, and it became more and more evident from her frequent complaints that a delicacy of the throat was constitutional in the child. She, who up to this time passed her days playing in the open air, had now to be content with a sedate walk in the Park, which she could only take hatted, gloved, and accompanied by a servant. Good-bye to the romps and scampers on the lawn and the merry hours of delicious freedom she used to enjoy so much with her little friends. Children are only happy and gay where there is no atmosphere of restraint.

Dora continued to take an interest in household matters, kept her house with scrupulous care and with economy, so as to avoid or, at any rate, retard the financial wreck which she believed to be ahead. She put into requisition all her house-wifely arts, learnt in the happy school of their early married life, and all the ingenious tastefulness of the artistic woman she was, in order that Philip should not discover that she had conceived a complete distaste for the existence which she was forced to lead, nor accuse her of trying to keep aloof from the life of fashionable society.

The unhappy woman was wearied and worn by her secret struggles, and almost crazy at the thought that her husband's heart had ceased to beat for her. The more she thought of that which was going on, the wider the chasm which separated her from Philip appeared to grow.

She had reached a point at which the question arose in her mind, whether Philip, in his craving for the success of his new plans, did not seek to push her into the arms of General Sabaroff.

That revolting thought filled her with such horror that she dared not entertain it long. "No," she said to herself, "a man does not change so suddenly as that; he does not take six years to reveal himself, and then, at a day's notice, become transformed from an affectionate husband, an honourable, upright, and devoted man, into a nameless scoundrel." When she argued with herself, she arrived at the conclusion that she must be mad to have allowed such an idea to enter her brain, and yet, drive it away as she would, the horrible thought assailed her more and more persistently.

Dora was above all things a woman of sound intelligence. After mature reflection she traced for herself a line of conduct that seemed to her the only wise one. First, she took a firm resolution never to address any more reproaches to Philip. Things had gone too far for recriminations to have any effect upon him. She was clear-sighted enough to know that a husband's vagrant affection is not won back by reprimands and reproaches, but only by sweetness, persuasion, and diplomacy. Her greatest fear was that her temper might sour, and against this possibility she set herself to watch most rigorously. She did her best to be attractive, and cultivated a gaiety that should help her to break down the cold barrier that seemed to have fixed itself between her and this man who had so detached himself from her. She took more care than ever of her appearance, and called all her taste into play to help her set off her beauty to best advantage.

One evening, when she was dressing for dinner, she remembered that 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 tête-à-tête, 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 tête-à-tête 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 tête-à-tête 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--