The Lovels of Arden

by M. E. Braddon

"Lor', miss, I thought you would know where she went, as a matter of course. It seems only natural you should. I've heard Jarvis mention it at supper. Jarvis has his meals at our table, you know, miss. 'We've been to the Rue du Cavalier Barnard again to-day,' he says, 'which I suppose is French for Barnard's-inn. Missus and them Austins must be very thick.' Jarvis has no manners, you know, miss; and that's just his uncultivated way of speaking. But from what I've heard him remark, I'm sure Mrs. Granger goes to call upon the Austins as much as three times a week, and seldom stops less than an hour."

A deadly coldness had crept over Sophia Granger—a cold, blank feeling, which had never come upon her until that moment. He had a wife, then, that dashing young painter with the brilliant brown eyes—the only man who had ever aroused the faintest interest in her well-regulated soul. He was married, and any vague day-dream with which she had interwoven his image was the merest delusion and phantasmagoria. She was unspeakably angry with herself for this unworthy weakness. A painter—a person paid by her father—something less than a curate—if it was possible for any creature to seem less than Mr. Tillott in Sophia's estimation. He was a married man—a base impostor, who had sailed under false colours—a very pirate. All those graceful airy compliments, those delicate attentions, which had exercised such a subtle influence over her narrow mind—had, indeed, awakened in her something that was almost sentiment—were worse than meaningless, were the wiles of an adventurer trading on her folly.

"He wanted to paint papa's picture," she thought, "and I suppose he fancied my influence might help him."

But what of Clarissa's visits to the painter's lodgings? what possible reason could she have for going there? Miss Granger's suspicions were shapeless and intangible as yet, but she did suspect. More than once—many times, in fact—during the painting of the portrait, she had seen, or had imagined she could see, signs and tokens of a closer intimacy between the painter and her father's wife than was warranted by their ostensible acquaintance. The circumstances were slight enough in themselves, but these fragile links welded together made a chain which would have been good enough evidence in a criminal court, skilfully handled by an Old Bailey lawyer. Sophia Granger racked her brain to account for this suspected intimacy. When and where had these two been friends, lovers perhaps? Mr. Austin had been away from England for many years, if his own statement were to be believed. It must have been abroad, therefore, that Clarissa had known him—in her school-days. He had been drawing-master, perhaps, in the seminary at Belforêt. What more likely?

Miss Granger cherished the peculiar British idea of all foreign schools, that they were more or less sinks of iniquity. A flirtation between drawing-master and pupil would be a small thing in such a pernicious atmosphere. Even amidst the Arcadian innocence of native academies such weeds have flourished This flirtation, springing up in foreign soil, would be of course ten times more desperate, secret, jesuitical in fact, than any purely English product.

Yes, Miss Granger decided at the end of every silent debate in which she argued this question with herself—yes, that was the word of the enigma. These two had been lovers in the days that were gone; and meeting again, both married, they were more than half lovers still.

Clarissa made some excuse to see her old admirer frequently. She was taking lessons in painting, perhaps. Miss Granger observed that she painted more than usual lately—merely for the sake of seeing him.

And how about George Fairfax? Well, that flirtation, of course, was of later date and a less serious affair. Jealousy—a new kind of jealousy, more bitter even than that which she had felt when Clarissa came between her and her father—sharpened Miss Granger's suspicions in this case. She was jealous even of that supposed flirtation at Belforêt, four or five years ago. She was angry with Clarissa for having once possessed this man's heart; ready to suspect her of any baseness in the past, any treason in the present.

The Grangers were at Madame Caballero's two or three evenings after this revelation of Warman's, and Sophia had an opportunity of gleaning some scraps of information from the good-natured little lion-huntress. Madame had been asking her if Mr. Austin's portraits had been a success.

"Yes; papa thinks they are excellent, and talks about having them exhibited in the salon. Mr. Austin is really very clever. Do you know, I was not aware that he was married, till the other day?" Sophia added, with a careless air.