IV

DORA

It was past noon, and Philip had not yet set to work.

For some time past Dora had noticed that Philip had no longer the same lively interest in his painting, but she had been very careful not to speak to him about it. Dora was the ideal artist's wife, not only because she understood her husband's art, but also because she was keenly alive to the conditions under which works of art are produced. If she had been the wife of Bernard de Palissy, she herself would have broken up the furniture of her home to keep alive the furnace fire.

Blessed with a calm, even temperament herself, she knew that the artistic nature is sensitive, susceptible, irritable even, and that a veritable diplomacy has to be exercised daily and hourly, if one would so live with an artist as to cheer him in his moments of discouragement, to stimulate him, to give him constantly the discreet and intelligent praise he needs, when it seems to him that his imagination and his powers are forsaking him, and that he is no longer doing his best work.

An artist is a piece of machinery that must be wound up every day. There is scarce an artist worthy of the name who does not think he is used up each time that he terminates a new work, and there is not a painter who, when he shows a new picture for the first time, does not watch the scrutinising gaze of the critic, much as a mother watches with anxious eye the expression of the doctor who is going to p.r.o.nounce himself upon the subject of her sick child. An artist is a child, who must be constantly petted and applauded.

Dora knew all that, and, on this subject, she had nothing to reproach herself with; on the contrary, it was to her that her husband owed his growing celebrity--she had made him what he was. She did not take any credit for this, she had never reminded him of it, never a hint on the subject had pa.s.sed her lips. A woman like Dora leaves a husband to recognise these things for himself, but never speaks of them.

Dora had not the courage to ask Philip why he painted with less ardour, but she longed to say to him, "You promised me that you would finish the portrait to-day; you tell me that it is only a matter of two or three hours' work; but I am sure that it will take seven or eight hours to finish it ... why don't you set about it?" And her imagination fell to inventing all sorts of explanations, each more fantastic and improbable than the other.

The last words of Monsieur de Lussac came back to her memory, "_Pansies for thought--Love lies bleeding._" What connection would there be between a pansy and a crushed love? No one had ever loved her well enough to break his heart about her, except Philip, and he had married her. But he? Had there been a romance in his life, before she had known him? He had never spoken of anything of the kind. "After all," she said to herself, "the best of men have some experience of that kind in their early life, which they do not talk about. Ah, well! what matters it?

Philip has filled my life with happiness."

Her glance wandered again to the picture. "Not yet finished," she murmured. "Has he forgotten his promise? For some time past he has been quite strange; he seems preoccupied, distraught, anxious even--at times his mind seems to be far away." And a thousand ideas flitted through her mind, only to be dismissed as all equally absurd.

Suddenly she uttered a little cry of surprise, to find the vigorous arms of her husband clasped around her waist.

"What is my little wife thinking of so deeply that she does not notice the sound of her husband's footsteps?" said Philip.

"Of you," said Dora, laughing, "and of these flowers."

"They have come again, eh?" said Philip, taking up his palette and brushes.

"Yes; who sends them?"

"That is what I should like to know. As I told you before, an old admirer of yours, I daresay."

"Nonsense, you know better. As I said before, some old sweetheart of yours--far more likely," replied Dora.

Then looking her husband straight in the eyes, she added--

"Confess."

"Look here," said Philip, "I have come to work; if you tease me in this way, I shall never do anything."

He tried his brushes and began mixing his colours.

Dora took the little bunch of pansies which she had arranged, and placed them near the portrait.

"The colours harmonise exquisitely with the yellow of the dress. How sweet they are, these pansies! Look, do look, at this dear little yellow one--what a saucy face! Put it in the picture. By-the-bye, there is a letter for you."

She went to the table, where Hobbs had laid the letter, took it up and read the envelope aloud, "Philip Grantham, Esq., A.R.A. a.s.sociate of the Royal Academy! There are lots of people who live in hopes of adding letters to their name, but you, my Philip, will soon drop one: instead of A.R.A., just Royal Academician, R.A."

"Who knows?" said Philip. "Perhaps--thanks to your encouragement and loving praise. There! open the letter for me, will you?"

"It is Sir Benjamin Pond, who announces that he is coming to see you to-day: he wants to choose one or two pictures."

"I hope he will come late, then," said Philip. "I want to finish your portrait before dinner. It ought to be easy enough--two or three hours of steady work, and the thing is done."

Dora smiled a little smile of incredulity.

"Seven or eight," said she, "at least."

Philip had stuck the bunch of pansies on the easel, his palette was ready, he was just going to begin.

"Come here," said he to Dora, "here, quite close--that's it. I can work so much better, darling, when you are near me. Look, the brush works already more easily, my hand is surer--there, that is good--splendid--I shall go ahead now."

Philip was in working mood, and Dora was beaming. She could have hugged him, and would not have been able to resist the temptation, but for the fear of hindering his progress. After a few minutes' silence, she burst out--

"Philip!"

"Yes, dearest," replied Philip, without withdrawing his eyes from his work.

"Don't you think ours is a very romantic life?"

"Very romantic? How do you mean?"

"Oh, I mean that we are so happy."

"Yes, but that is hardly what people call romance. A romantic life is an eventful life, and happy people have no events in their lives. I don't believe that cousin Gerald Lorimer, with all his imagination, could get a one-act play out of our lives. There is no plot to be found in them.

To make a novel or a play, there must be intrigue, troubles, misunderstandings, moral storms. There are people who love storms. Some people only love the sea when it is in a fury. Are you fond of storms yourself?"

"Oh no," replied Dora; "I have no sea-legs. I love the life that I lead with you--and my enthusiasm for your art deepens my love for you every day."

"My darling," said Philip, drawing Dora still nearer to him, and caressing the graceful head that was resting against his knee, "do you know that one of these days I shall be jealous of you, you are making such progress with your painting."

"What nonsense! I am learning, so that I may understand you better. To appreciate you thoroughly, my ambition soars no higher than that."

Philip looked at his watch, turned towards the door that led to the street, and made a little gesture of impatience, that did not escape Dora.

"Philip," said she, "what are you thinking of?"

"Why, of you, dear, always you."

"No, you were not thinking about me just now. You cannot deceive me,"

said she coaxingly. "Do you know that, of late, I have observed a little change in you--oh! just a little change."

"A change? What a little goose you are!"

"Oh, I am not so silly as all that; the fact is you seem absent-minded lately, anxious, irritable even; and, worse than all that, this morning you had forgotten it was the anniversary of our wedding. Now, had you not?"

Philip started.

"Oh, but I am quite sure of what I am saying. I am certain you had forgotten."