VI
THE INVENTOR
Philip's state of feverish agitation had not escaped Dora's notice. She had never seen him thus preoccupied and restless, until to-day. It was very evident that he was hiding something from her, and that it must be something most important. What could it possibly be? Philip, hitherto always so open and confiding, had failed for the first time to unbosom himself to her. She was no longer the confidante of his worries and the dispeller of his clouds of depression. There must be something very extraordinary going on, something quite exceptional and hitherto unknown, since she had been kept in the dark concerning it. Uncertainty is the cruellest trial for the heart of a woman to endure, when that woman is resolute and brave, and feels ready to face any danger courageously. Dora knew herself to be strong and valiant enough to brave any ordinary danger, but what was the use of that while there was nothing tangible to deal with and defy? This incertitude was devouring her. "I am stifling in this wretched studio," Philip had said to her, before going out with Lorimer. Never had she heard him speak thus of the dear retreat where they had passed so many exquisite hours together.
A kind of presentiment came over Dora, that their artistic existence was about to be broken up. Their past life had been an unbroken chain of happy days; what did the future hold in store? For the first time, Dora could see only a mist of uncertainty in front of her. Up to to-day, the road had seemed clear and sunny to her happy vision, and easy to tread, but now doubt clouded her sky; she could not see ahead. The road was perhaps going to branch. Would they take right or left?
"This wretched studio," had dealt her a blow, straight at the breast. A man may be irritable, sulky, wanting in common politeness even; he may forget himself so far as to lose his temper and use violent language, if you will; but there are hallowed things that he respects in all times and seasons, in temper and out of temper, and to Dora the studio was one of these things—a temple dedicated to all that she most cherished.
"This wretched studio," signified for her much more than Philip had put into the words, for, in her brain, things began to take magnified proportions. In cursing the studio, Philip had cursed his art, and for this he had chosen a day like the present, the anniversary of their wedding, and just when he was to have finished the portrait, whose growth she had watched as a child watches, with bated breath, the growth of a house of cards, which one false touch will destroy.
For the first time in her life Dora was miserable. Her pride revolted at the thought that something mysterious was passing under their roof, and that her husband had not thought fit to take her into his confidence. It did not occur to her that a man often avoids taking his wife into his confidence rather than expose her to the risk of a disappointment, by talking to her of hopes which may not be realised. Besides, there are important secrets which a man has to know how to keep to himself. A secret disclosed proves to be an indiscretion in the confiding one as often as a show of faith in the confidante. But Dora felt so sure of herself, so strong in her power of devotion, that it would never have entered her head that Philip could not repose entire confidence in her.
When little Eva returned from a walk, about half-past four, accompanied by Hobbs, she found her mother in tears, half lying on the sofa, her face hidden in her hands.
Eva had never seen her mother weep before. The effect upon the child was terrible.
"Mama, what is the matter?" cried Eva. And she burst into violent tears.