Chapter XVIII: Lorimer's Plot 270 (4)

"With the General, I don't see that you need make a secret of your shell. Russia is our ally; it is to our advantage that she should possess the best possible weapons; and I don't believe the French Government would have any objection to Russia's profiting by your invention."

"Really?" said Philip anxiously--"nor do I. I had already thought of it in that light myself, I confess."

"Well, you are a gallant man, I must say, to leave me in the lurch like that," cried Mrs. Van der Leyd Smythe, who now came up. "You went off just as I was going to introduce you to three prominent American women who are dying to make your acquaintance."

"Well then, by all means, let us go and save their lives," said de Lussac.

"One of them," said his companion, as she led him towards the small drawing-room, "is a well-known literary woman, another is a celebrated public speaker, and the other" ...

"Oh, please," exclaimed de Lussac, "can't you introduce me to some pretty woman who has never done anything at all?"

A servant, who had just come upstairs, announced in a loud voice, "His Excellency General Sabaroff."

The name passed from mouth to mouth, and there was a general lull in the conversation; the crowd surged towards the door, and with frantic cranings of the neck endeavoured to get a glimpse of the new arrival.

Dora had recognised him at once. He had not changed. Sabaroff, on his side, as soon as he caught sight of Dora at the top of the staircase, had exclaimed inwardly, "It is she after all; I was told right--it is my lovely English girl of Monte Carlo."

Not a look nor a movement of Sabaroff or of Dora had escaped Philip: "It is the same man," he said to himself--"they recognise each other."

He moved towards the General.

"Your Excellency is very good to have come," he said.

And, leading him to where Dora was standing, he went through with an introduction.

Sabaroff bowed, kissed Dora's hand respectfully, and addressed a few commonplace words to her to excuse himself for coming so late.

General Ivan Sabaroff, Minister of War to his Majesty the Czar and Autocrat of all the Russias, was forty-five years of age, but, thanks to the military bearing which always rejuvenates a man's appearance by a few years, he looked scarcely forty. The ladies declared at once that he was a superb man, and indeed the General had a striking-looking appearance.

In the streets of any town, people would have turned round to look at him, the women saying, "What a fine man!" the men, "That is somebody!"

Six feet three in his stockings, broad of shoulder, admirably proportioned, with an iron will written on his face, a herculean strength and remarkable suppleness of body, the head dignified and proudly set on a large neck, the face stern with keen scrutinising eyes, straight prominent nose, a sensual mouth, with full red lips and a thick black moustache twisted into two sharp points, the General looked like a man who might be as redoubtable in a boudoir as on a battlefield. As a matter of fact he had won many hearts in the former and many victories in the latter. Not being married, he had risked his reputation in the service of women, and his life in the service of his sovereign, with more impunity and less hesitation than might otherwise have been the case.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, delighted," he said to Dora.

And in a lower tone he added, "To renew your acquaintance."

Dora, fearing that the General might give a disagreeable turn to the conversation, hastened to make the first remark that passed through her mind. Nothing betrayed the uneasiness she felt at seeing this man again.

"Has your Excellency been long in London?" she asked of Sabaroff, in her calmest tones.

"A few days only. I have come to consult an oculist who has been specially recommended to me; and, besides, I have wanted for some time past to visit England and see some of my old friends here."

Sabaroff was a man of the world. He knew that it would be bad form to monopolise his hostess, so he exchanged a few words more with her on trivial topics, and then, accompanied by Philip, entered the drawing-room. He recognised an acquaintance here and there, to whom he bowed. Philip introduced a few people to him, and he was soon the centre of an interested group.

"I hope," said Lord Bentham, "that your Excellency's impressions of the English are favourable. We do our best to make ourselves agreeable to distinguished strangers who visit us."

"And we love to know what they think of us," added Lady Margaret Solby, who had drawn near the General and now placed herself in front of him, that he might have an opportunity of noting at his ease all the good points of a handsome Englishwoman.

"I have never," said Sabaroff to Lord Bentham, "met such kind and hospitable people as your compatriots; abroad they are sometimes haughty and, I may add" ...

"Extremely disagreeable," said his lordship, finishing the sentence.

"No, I do not say that. In any case, that could only be on the surface, for at home they are a revelation, really the most charming hosts in the world. To study a man, you must study him when he is at home. On foreign soil he is playing a part that he only knows imperfectly. He is hampered, and is scarcely a free agent. He is often misunderstood. He is not in his proper setting, much less in his element. I am convinced that when the Creator made man, He must have said to him, 'Thou shalt stay at home.'"

"A commandment which we English have sadly neglected, then," remarked Philip.

"And our English women, General?" questioned Lady Margaret, simpering and attracting his attention by expert fan wavings to a figure which she knew was above criticism, a figure such as English women can claim almost a monopoly in.

"Oh, they are beautiful, they are glorious!" said Sabaroff, with the air of a connoisseur; "they are dreams, angels of beauty. What flowing lines, what graceful proportions, what lovely complexions, what fine delicately carved features! They are vignettes! When an Englishwoman is beautiful, madame, she is beyond competition."

"And when she is ugly?" said Lady Margaret.

"Oh, Heaven help her!" said Lorimer, who had just been introduced to Sabaroff, and who, surrounded as he was by pretty women, did not fear to risk a joke at the expense of the absent, who are always out of it.

"I am very proud, General, to hear your Excellency express yourself so warmly on the subject of English women's beauty," exclaimed Lady Margaret.

"And all those attributes of the beautiful woman," murmured Sabaroff in her ear, "I find united near me."

And with a rapid and comprehensive glance he made an inventory of her charms.

Sabaroff had as keen a scent for game as the huntsman's dog, and he could recognise a coquette a mile off. He knew just how much he could say to certain women without running the risk of offending them. Lady Margaret flirted her fan as every woman should do in such a circumstance, made a profound curtsey to the General, and from behind her fan shot at him, out of the corners of her eyes, the invitation of the flirt, which seems to promise so much, but which means so little. I think it was Georges Sand who wittily said, "The flirt is a woman who signs a bill with the firm intention of not honouring her signature."

In the centre of a neighbouring group, Sir Benjamin Pond was holding forth on commerce, politics, the theatre, and fine arts--all subjects were within the domain of this pompous personage with the white waistcoat.

"Yes, the Ministry ought to be impeached for having allowed such an acquisition to go out of the country. We are the richest and most enterprising people in the world, but the most stupid, the most obstinate, and the slowest to adopt new ideas"--he looked round him at the rooms. "What a house he has, this lucky dog! Six months ago he was living in a little shanty in St. John's Wood. What luxury! Shells pay better than painting. Why, there is Mr. Lorimer; my congratulations; your play is a masterpiece, you have taken London by storm! Oh, but for taking the world by storm, give me the invention of our friend Grantham. That's a _bon mot_, and not a bad one either."

"What a donkey!" thought Lorimer.

"His shell fell on us like a bomb, eh? Ah, ha, ha!" and as he laughed his loud guffaw, his white waistcoat kept time.

Lorimer slipped away and returned to Dora's side. Pond rejoined him almost immediately.

"Mrs. Grantham, Lady Pond has the greatest desire to see the famous picture."

"What famous picture?" asked Dora.

"Why, the one that all London is talking of--the one I so much wanted to buy six months ago."

"You remember," said Lorimer, "thirty-six by fifty" ...

"Oh, of course. You can see it in the adjoining room, at the end of the small drawing-room."

"Thanks!"

And he set off in the direction indicated.

"Always that picture," said Dora to Lorimer; "my head is dazed; why do we not go to supper and put an end to this? Holloa! What is that frantic applause for?... Listen, they are going on with it, they are encoring something. What can it be all about?"

Lorimer pressed through the crowd a little, and then came back to Dora.

"You may count upon something spicy," said he; "it is Mimi Latouche, once the darling of Paris, now all the rage in London. Did you ask her here to-night?"

"I asked her--that is to say, the impresario who has charge of my programme sent her."

"Don't apologise; Mimi is all the go; it is who shall have her; and I suppose you ought to consider yourself lucky to be able to serve her up to your guests. You used to live in an artistic circle, that you could charm with a Beethoven quartette. Now you move in a set where classical music would clear your drawing-room as rapidly as a raid of police would a gambling den."

Mimi Latouche had just finished her second song. There was a fresh sound of applause, and cries of "Bravo" were heard as she left the small drawing-room accompanied by de Lussac, and followed by half a dozen young men. She passed in front of Dora, and brought up near the door by de Lussac.

"_Hein!_ Georges, don't you think I knock 'em with my songs?"

"They are enchanted with you, you electrify them. Your songs are awfully jolly, as they say here--light, crisp, and so daring; but these people have not understood, and if they had, it would not matter; they will applaud, when it is done in a foreign language, a thing that they would not tolerate a moment in their own."

"Your English people, my boy, are hypocrites. When I am in the bill at _Les ambassadeurs_, the place is always full of English--my songs are _canaille_, aren't they? really _canaille_. The English like that kind of thing. They give me ovations at the Pavilion every night, and I get bouquets by the bushel. Why, old chappie, since I took up the _canaille_ line I have been making my four hundred pounds a week. I have an offer of ten thousand pounds, to appear in New York for six weeks. Would you believe it? I say, Georges, look what I found in my box at the Pav. to-night"; and she showed de Lussac a lovely bouquet of white orchids.

"Superb!" exclaimed the young man.

"Yes, old boy, but look what there is inside it."

So saying, she drew out a handsome bracelet of rubies and diamonds.

"Exquisite!" said de Lussac; "is it the price of laxity hidden in the emblem of chastity? It is a diplomatist who sent you that. Flowers have often served as Cupid's letter-box."

"Hush! it is from Sabaroff. The bracelet is worth four hundred pounds, at least."

"Sabaroff? Why, he is here."

"I know that very well," said Mimi; "look at him over there talking to the lady in pearl grey."

"I see him; he is gazing her out of countenance," said de Lussac.

"Out of countenance? Out of corset, you mean. Sabaroff has a way of staring at a woman; it makes her quite nervous to be near him if she has on evening dress."

"My dear Mimi, I did not know you were so easily shocked."

"Oh! when I say a woman I don't mean myself--that sort of thing doesn't affect me, you may imagine. I am quite at his disposition--and yours too, yours especially--you are perfectly mashing to-night. After all these Englishmen, dear boy, it is a treat to look at a Frenchman; to be looked at by one--dessert after dinner."

Dora had heard it all. Her indignation was at boiling point.

"I am going to turn that creature out," she said to Lorimer.

"Oh, don't, I beg of you, Dora," replied Lorimer. "It might make a scandal--that woman would not hesitate to insult you."

But Dora was determined to get rid of Mimi, and, addressing her, said, "I will not trouble you to sing any more, mademoiselle; I will send you your cheque to-morrow." So saying, she turned her back on Mimi.

"Much obliged," said the latter. And, turning to de Lussac, she added, "Well, I never! She wants to dismiss me. Did you ever hear such cheek? Much obliged, but I'm starving hungry. I'm off to the buffet--your arm, Georges."

She went down with de Lussac.

Lorimer began to be seriously concerned about Dora. She was pale as death, and seemed every now and then on the point of fainting. She had been going through tortures, but the thing which had dealt her a terrible blow was a scrap of conversation, which she had just heard as she passed through the drawing-room.

"It happens every day, and in the best society," said a man whom she did not recognise. "One constantly sees a man making use of his wife's attractions to further his own ends. It is called diplomacy."

"In such cases the wife is often an innocent agent."

"That is true, but the husband is none the less reprehensible for that," added a third voice.

Of whom had they been speaking? There was a singing in her ears. Great Heaven! was it of her? She closed her eyes and thought she was going to lose consciousness.

Lorimer took it upon him to go to Philip and tell him that Dora was tired and unwell, and that it would perhaps be unwise to expose her to any more fatigue that evening.

"Thanks, dear old fellow," said Philip, "it will be all over in an hour or less; we are going to supper in a moment."

Lorimer had found Philip engaged in describing his shell to Sabaroff.

Philip went at once to Dora; her pallor frightened him. Taking her hands in his own, he said--

"Well, darling, how do you feel? You look tired; keep up your courage, we are going to supper now. In an hour's time you will be free to rest--you must not get up to-morrow; the next day you will feel nothing more of it. Everything has gone beautifully, everybody is delighted with the evening they have passed. The General is interested in my shell--I am convinced that Russia will offer me a fortune for it; but why do you look at me in that way?"

"I am tired to death; I don't feel well; I cannot go on any longer."

"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 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.

"Ah, do not stop me, do not turn away your face. Remember the time when I first met you in the lovely South, and you gave me the happiness of feeling that my society was not displeasing to you. These were golden days! Your fresh young beauty, your clear young eyes and voice made the world new again for me, a travel-worn soldier, already beginning to find the world a tinsel-trimmed hearth with little warmth, and a great deal of ashes. Weary of the nomadic life of a Russian soldier, I fell to dreaming of another kind of existence, a sweet, peaceful life at your side. I would have consecrated the rest of my days to the dear task of making you happy. Ambition and glory, I would have said good-bye to all that, for my noblest ambition would have been to reign supreme in your heart. You judged me unworthy, and I have never ceased to mourn the fading of my beloved dream--nay, I mourn it to-day more than ever. If only I had found you happy," he added insinuatingly.

"You are unwise, General, to talk to me of that winter," rejoined Dora. "Can I ever forget that, thanks to you, one single day, one single hour of it turned me from a light-hearted, innocent, ignorant girl into a woman?--innocent still, but no longer ignorant of the sad and degrading side of existence. Ah, in those few moments, I had passed out for ever from the sweet calm garden of girlhood into the dusty crowded highway of the world, and there I saw one of the saddest sides of life--the humiliation and despair of a woman dismissed, cast off by the man who should have passed the rest of his days in shielding her."

"It was not my fault that you overheard my wretched secret; but a foolish liaison, which seemed to a strictly nurtured girl so vile a thing, can it, must it make me for ever odious to a sweet and gracious woman who knows the world? How many men have succeeded in keeping on virtue's path altogether? The members of the Young Men's Christian Association are not recruited from among the ranks of our society."

"Does wrong become right by multiplication?" said Dora, who was not sorry to see the turn that the conversation had taken, a turn which would give her the opportunity of making a little sermon that should cool down the ardour of the General. "I shall never be able to understand why the men who belong to what is called Society should not be expected to conduct themselves as honourably as those of the modest middle classes. It is from above that example should come, and, believe me, it will have to come from above, or society will disappear for want of having fulfilled its mission."

"Well, well, you may be right," said Sabaroff; "but listen to my story. For months, for years, I could not bear to think of all that I had lost in losing you. Was it any wonder that I went half mad and ran into all kind of excesses? The light of your pure eyes was turned away from me. I tossed about like a rudderless ship, and only my ambition saved me from wreckage of body and soul."

"Does it not seem to you a little cowardly," said Dora, glad to recover the thread of her little sermon, "for a man to lay the blame for such a life at a woman's door, because he would not exercise the self-control that thousands of women have to exercise almost all their lives? Do you think it is only men who feel? Ah, believe me, there are few women who have not had, at some period of their lives, to suffer and be silent, to hold a bursting heart, and go about the daily task, with its cruel, half-mechanical routine, which leaves the mind free to dwell on all the misery that stirring scenes might help it to forget. Those who give way to their despair, society mocks at; those who abandon themselves to their passions, society puts outside the pale."

Dora began to feel that she was putting too much heat into her reply. With an attempt at a tone of indifference, she went on--

"But tell me more about that saving grace of ambition, General. It has made you a great and powerful man."

"Great, no; powerful, yes," replied Sabaroff, and he laid an insinuating stress on the word _yes_, which did not escape Dora's notice. "But, of all the satisfaction which my present position of confidence with my imperial master has brought me, nothing is so sweet as the power of doing what I am going to do for you."

"I am so proud you approve of the shell--then you will have it taken up by the Russian Government?

"Yes," said Sabaroff, "I have the paper here ready to sign, and am only waiting for a telegram from St. Petersburg, which I have ordered to be brought to me here if it should happen to arrive before ten o'clock" ...

"My husband will be so glad!"

"Ah, 'my husband will be glad,'" repeated Sabaroff, in a half-mocking tone; "Mrs. Grantham, will _you_ be glad?--Dora," said he, warming as he proceeded, "do you not realise that what I am going to do is for your sake, and not for the man who has won the only woman I ever loved?"

On hearing herself called by her Christian name, Dora was indignant.

"General, once more I beg of you, I'm afraid you forget yourself."

At this moment a servant entered the room.

"A telegram for his Excellency," said he. Then he handed the telegram to the General, and retired after receiving Dora's order to bring tea.

Sabaroff read the despatch to Dora: "Approved by Council of War. Final decision left to you. If you yourself approve, offer five hundred thousand roubles."