He stood a moment bending over Watson--his eyes staring, his mouth open. Then he controlled himself.
"You talk as though she were round the corner," he said, turning away and b.u.t.toning his coat afresh. "But please understand, my dear fellow, that she is not round the corner, nor likely to be."
He spoke with a hard emphasis, smiling, and slapping the breast of his coat.
Watson looked at him and said no more.
Fenwick walked rapidly along the Quai Voltaire, crossed the Pont Neuf, and found himself inside the enclosure of the Louvre. Twenty minutes to four. Some impulse, born of the seething thoughts within, took him to the door of the Musee. He mounted rapidly, and found himself in the large room devoted to the modern French school.
He went straight to two pictures by Hippolyte Flandrin--"Madame Vinet"
and "Portrait de Jeune Fille." When, in the first year of his London life, he had made his hurried visits to Paris, these pictures, then in the Luxembourg, had been among those which had most vitally affected him. The beautiful surface and keeping which connected them with the old tradition, together with the modern spirit, the trenchant simplicity of their portraiture, had sent him back--eager and palpitating--to his own work on the picture of Madame de Pastourelles, or on the last stages of the "Genius Loci."
He looked into them now, sharply, intently, his heart beating to suffocation under the stress of that startling phrase of Watson"s.
Still tremulous--as one in flight--he made himself recognise certain details of drawing and modelling in "Madame Vinet" which had given him hints for the improvement of the portrait of Phoebe; and, again, the ease with which the head moves on its shoulders, its relief, its refinement--how he had toiled to rival them in his picture of Madame Eugenie!--translating as he best could the cold and disagreeable colour of the Ingres school into the richer and more romantic handling of an art influenced by Watts and Burne-Jones!
Then he pa.s.sed on to the young girl"s portrait--the girl in white muslin, turning away her graceful head from the spectator, and showing thereby the delicacy of her profile, the wealth of her brown hair, the beauty of her young and virginal form. Suddenly, his eyes clouded; he turned abruptly away, left the room without looking at another picture, and was soon hurrying through the crowded streets northward towards the Gare Saint-Lazare.
Carrie!--his child!--his own flesh and blood. His heart cried out for her. Watson"s _brusquerie_--the young girl of the picture--and his own bitter and disappointed temper--they had all their share in the emotion which possessed him.
The child whom he remembered, with her mother"s eyes, and that light mutinous charm, which was not Phoebe"s--why, she was now seventeen!--a little younger--only a little younger, than the girl of the portrait.
His longing fancy pursued her--saw her a wild, pretty, laughing thing, nearly a woman--and then fell back pa.s.sionately on a more familiar image!--of the baby at his knee, open-mouthed, her pink lips rounded for the tidbit just about to descend upon them, her sweet and sparkling eyes fixed upon her father.
"My G.o.d!--where are they?--are they alive, or dead? How cruel--_cruel_!" And he ground his teeth in one of those paroxysms which every now and then, at long intervals, represented the return upon him of the indestructible past. Often for months together it meant little or nothing to him, but the dull weight of his secret; twelve years had inevitably deadened feeling, and filled the mind with fresh interests, while of late the tumult of his Academy and Press campaign had silenced the stealing, distant voices. Yet there were moments when all was as fresh and poignant as it had been in the first hours, when Phoebe, with her golden head and her light, springing step, seemed to move beside him, and he felt the drag of a small hand in his.
He stiffened himself--like one attacked. The ghosts of dead hours came trooping and eddying round him, like the autumn leaves that had begun to strew the Paris streets--all the scenes of that first ghastly week when he had hunted in desperation for his lost wife and child. His joyous return from Chelsea, on the evening of his good-fortune--Mrs.
Gibbs"s half-sulky message on the door-step that "Mrs. Fenwick" was in the studio--his wild rush upstairs--the empty room, the letter, the ring:--his hurried journey North--the arrival at the Langdale cottage, only to find on the table of the deserted parlour another letter from Phoebe, written before she left Westmoreland, in the prevision that he would come there in search of a clue, and urging him for both their sakes to make no scandal, no hue and cry, to accept the inevitable, and let her go in peace--his interview with the servant Daisy, who had waited with the child in an hotel close to Euston, while Phoebe went to Bernard Street, and had been sent back to the North immediately after Phoebe"s return, without the smallest indication of what her mistress meant to do--his fruitless consultations with Anna Mason!--the whole dismal story rose before him, as it was wont to do periodically, filling him with the same rage, the same grief, the same fierce and inextinguishable resentment.
Phoebe had destroyed his life. She had not only robbed him of herself and of their child, she had forced him into an acted lie which had poisoned his whole existence, and, first and foremost, that gracious and beautiful friendship which was all, save his art, that she had left him. For, in the first moments of his despair and horror, he had remembered what it would mean to Madame de Pastourelles, did she ever know that his mad wife had left him out of jealousy of her. He was not slow to imagine the effect of Phoebe"s action on that proud, pure nature and sensitive conscience; and he knew what she and her father must feel towards the deception which had led her into such a position, and made such a tragedy possible. He foresaw her recoil, her bitter condemnation, the final ruin of the relation between himself and her; and yet more than these did he dread her pain, her causeless, innocent pain. To stab the hand which had helped him, the heart which had already suffered so much, in the very first hours of his own shock and misery, he had shrunk from this, he had tried his best to protect Madame de Pastourelles.
Hence the compact with his landlady, by which he had in fact bribed her to silence, and transformed her into a devoted servant always under his eye; hence the various means by which he had found it possible to quiet the members of his own family and of Phoebe"s--needy folk, most of them, cannily unwilling to make an enemy of a man who was likely, so they understood, to be rich, and who already showed a helpful disposition. When once he had convinced himself that he had no clue, and that Phoebe had disappeared, it had not been difficult indeed to keep his secret, and to hide the traces of his own wrong-doing, his own share in the catastrophe. Between Phoebe"s world and the world in which he was now to live, there were few or no links.
Bella Morrison might have supplied one. But she and her mother had moved to Guernsey, and a year after Phoebe"s flight Fenwick ascertained that old Mrs. Morrison was dead, and that Bella had gone to South America as companion to a lady.
So in an incredibly short time the crisis was over. The last phase was connected with the cousin--Freddy Tolson--who had visited Phoebe the night before her journey to London, and was now in New South Wales.
A letter from Fenwick to this young man, containing a number of questions as to his conversation with Phoebe, and written immediately after Phoebe"s flight, obtained an answer after some three or four months, but Tolson"s reply was wholly unprofitable. He merely avowed that he had discovered nothing at all of Phoebe"s intention, and could throw no light whatever upon her disappearance. The letter was laboriously written by a man of imperfect education, and barely covered three loosely written sides of ordinary note-paper. It arrived when Fenwick"s own researches were already at a standstill, and seemed to leave nothing more to hope for. The police inquiries which had been initiated went on intermittently for a while, then ceased; the waters of life closed over Phoebe Fenwick and her child.
What was Fenwick"s present feeling towards his wife? If amid this crowded Paris he had at last beheld her coming to him, had seen the tall figure and the childish look, and the lovely, pleading eyes, would his heart have leapt within him?--would his hands have been outstretched to enfold and pardon her?--or would he have looked at her sombrely, unable to pa.s.s the gulf between them--to forget what she had done?
In truth, he could not have answered the question; he was uncertain of himself. Her act, by its independence, its force of will, and the ability she had shown in planning and carrying it out, had transformed his whole conception of her. In a sense, he knew her no longer. That she could do a thing at once so violent and so final, was so wholly out of keeping with all his memories of her, that he could only think of the woman who had come in his absence to the Bernard Street studio, and defaced the sketch of Madame de Pastourelles, as in some sort a stranger--one whom, were she to step back into his life, he would have had to learn afresh. Sometimes, when anything reminded him of her suddenly--as, for instance, the vision in a shop-window of the very popular mezzotint which had been made from the "Genius Loci" the year after its success in the Academy--the pang from which he suffered would seem to show that he still loved her, as indeed he had always loved her, through all the careless selfishness of his behaviour. But, again, there were many months when she dropped altogether--or seemed to drop--out of his mind and memory, when he was entirely absorbed in the only interests she had left him--his art, his quarrels, and his relation to Eugenie de Pastourelles.
There was a time, indeed--some two or three years after the catastrophe--when he pa.s.sed through a stage of mental and moral tumult, natural to a man of strong pa.s.sions and physique. Even in their first married life, Phoebe had been sometimes jealous, and with reason. It was her memory of these occasions that had predisposed her to the mad suspicion which wrecked her. And when she had deserted him, he came violently near, on one or two occasions, to things base and irreparable. But he was saved--first by the unconscious influence, the mere trust, of a good woman--and, secondly, by his keen and advancing intelligence. Dread lest he should cast himself out of Eugenie"s delightful presence; and the fighting life of the mind: it was by these he was rescued, by these he ultimately conquered.
And yet, was it, perhaps, his bitterest grievance against his wife that she had, in truth, left him _nothing_!--not even friendship, not even art. In so wrenching herself from him, she had perpetuated in him that excitable and unstable temper it should have been her first object to allay, and had thus injured and maimed his artistic power; while at the same time she had so troubled, so falsified his whole att.i.tude towards the woman who on his wife"s disappearance from his life had become naturally and insensibly his dearest friend, that not even the charm of Madame de Pastourelles" society, of her true, delicate, and faithful affection, could give him any lasting happiness. He himself had begun the falsification, but it was Phoebe"s act which had prolonged and compelled it, through twelve years.
For a long time, indeed, his success as an artist steadily developed.
The very energy of his resentment--his inner denunciation--of his wife"s flight, the very force of his fierce refusal to admit that he had given her the smallest real justification for such a step, had quickened in him for a time all the springs of life. Through his painting, as we have seen, he wrestled out his first battles with fate and with temptation; and those early years were the years of his artistic triumph, as they were also the years of Madame de Pastourelles" strongest influence upon him. But the concealment on which his life was based, the tragedy at the heart of it, worked like "a worm i" the bud." The first check to his artistic career--the "hanging" incident and its sequel--produced an effect of shock and disintegration out of all proportion to its apparent cause--inexplicable indeed to the spectators.
Madame de Pastourelles wondered, and sorrowed. But she could do nothing to arrest the explosion of egotism, arrogance, and pa.s.sion which Fenwick allowed himself, after his breach with the Academy. The obscure causes of it were hidden from her; she could only pity and grieve; and Fenwick, unable to satisfy her, unable to re-establish his own equilibrium, full of remorse towards her, and of despair about his art, whereof the best forces and inspirations seemed to have withered within him like a gourd in the night, went from one folly to another, while his pictures steadily deteriorated, his affairs became involved, and a shrewd observer like Lord Findon wondered who or what the deuce had got hold of him--whether he had begun to take morphia--or had fallen into the clutches of a woman.
In the midst of these developments, so astonishing and disappointing to Fenwick"s best friends, Eugenie de Pastourelles was suddenly summoned to the death-bed of the husband from whom she had been separated for nearly fifteen years. It was now nearly twelve months since Fenwick had seen her; and it was his eagerness to meet her again, much more than the necessities of his new commission, which had brought him out post-haste to Paris and Versailles, where, indeed, Lord Findon, in a kind letter, had suggested that he should join them.
Amid these memories and agitations, he found himself presently at the Gare Saint-Lazare, taking his ticket at the _guichet_. It was characteristic of him that he bought a first-cla.s.s return without thinking of it, and then, when he found himself pompously alone in his compartment, while crowds were hurrying into the second-cla.s.s, he reproached himself for extravagance, and pa.s.sed the whole journey in a fume of discomfort. For eight or nine years he had been rich; and he loathed the small ways of poverty.
Versailles was in the glow of an autumn sunset, as he walked from the station to the famous Hotel des Reservoirs on the edge of the Park.
The white houses, the wide avenues, the chateau on its hill, were steeped in light--a light golden, lavish, and yet melancholy, as though the autumn day still remembered the October afternoon when Marie Antoinette turned to look for the last time at the lake and the woods of Trianon.
As Fenwick crossed the Rue de la Paroisse, a lady on the other side of the road, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, stopped suddenly at sight of him, and stared excitedly. She was a woman no longer young, much sunburnt, with high cheek-bones and a florid complexion.
He did not notice her, and after a moment"s hesitation she resumed her walk.
He went into the Park, where the statues shone flamelike amid the bronze and orange of the trees, where the water of the fountains was dyed in blue and rose, and all the faded magnificence and decaying grace of the vast incomparable scene were kindling into an hour"s rich life, under the last attack of the sun. He wandered a while, restless and unhappy--yet always counting the hours till he should see the slight, worn figure which for a year had been hidden from him.
He dined in the well-known restaurant, wandered again in the mild dusk, then mounted to his room and worked a while at some of the sketches he was making for his new commission. While he was so engaged, a carriage drew up below, and two persons descended. He recognised Lord Findon, much aged and whitened in these last years.
The lady in deep mourning behind him paused a moment on the broad pathway, and looked round her, at the hill of the chateau, at the bright lights in the restaurant. She threw back her veil, and Fenwick"s heart leapt as he recognised the spiritual beauty, the patient sweetness of a face which through twelve troubled years had kept him from evil and held him to good--had been indeed "the master light" of all his seeing.
And to his best and only friend he had lied, persistently and unforgiveably, for twelve years. There was the sting--and there the pity of it.
CHAPTER X
Eugenie de Pastourelles was sitting on the terrace at Versailles. Or rather she was established in one of the deep embrasures between the windows, on the western side. The wind was cold, but again a glorious sun bathed the terrace and the chateau. It was a day of splendour--a day when heaven and earth seemed to have conspired to flatter and to adorn the vast creation of Louis Quatorze, this white, flaming palace, amid the gold and bronze of its autumn trees, and the blue of its waters. Superb clouds, of a royal sweep and amplitude, sailed through the brilliant sky; the woods that girdled the horizon were painted broadly and solidly in the richest colour upon an immense canvas steeped in light. In some of the nearer alleys which branch from the terrace, the eye travelled, through a deep magnificence of shade, to an arched and framed sunlight beyond, embroidered with every radiant or sparkling colour; in others, the trees, almost bare, met lightly arched above a carpet of intensest green--a _tapis vert_ stretching toward a vaporous distance, and broken by some G.o.d, or nymph, on whose white shoulders the autumn leaves were dropping softly one by one.
Wide horizons, infinitely clear--a blazing intensity of light, beating on the palace, the gardens, the statues, and the distant water of the "Ca.n.a.l de Versailles"--each tint and outline, sharp and vehement, full-bodied and rich--the greenest greens, the bluest blues, the most dazzling gold:--this was Versailles, as Eugenie saw it, on this autumn day. And through it all, the blowing of a harsh and nipping wind sounded the first approach of winter, still defied, as it were, by these bright woods decked for a last festival.
It was the 5th of October--the very anniversary of the day when Marie Antoinette, sitting alone beside the lake at Trianon, was startled by a page from the chateau bringing the news of the arrival of the Paris mob, and the urgent summons to return at once;--the day when she pa.s.sed the Temple of Love, gleaming amid the quiet streams, for the last time, and fled back through the leafy avenues leading to Versailles, under a sky--cloudy and threatening rain--which was remembered by a later generation as blending fitly with the first act of that most eminent tragedy--"The Fall of the House of France."
Madame de Pastourelles had in her hand a recent book in which a French man of letters, both historian and poet, had told once again the most piteous of stories; a story, however, which seemed then, and still seems, to be not even yet ripe for history--so profound and living are the sympathies and the pa.s.sions which to this day surround it in France.
Eugenie had closed the book, and her eyes, as they looked out upon the astonishing light and shade of the terrace and its surroundings, had filled unconsciously with tears, not so much for Marie Antoinette, as for all griefs!--for this duped, tortured, struggling life of ours--for the "mortalia" which grip all hearts, which none escape--pain, and separation, and remorse, hopes deceived, and promise mocked, decadence in one"s self, change in others, and that iron gentleness of death which closes all.
For nearly a year she had been trying to recover her forces after an experience which had shaken her being to its depths. Not because, when she went to nurse his last days, she had any love left, in the ordinary sense, for her ruined and debased husband; but because of that vast power of pity, that genius for compa.s.sion to which she was born. Not a tremor of body or soul, not a pang of physical or spiritual fear, but she had pa.s.sed through them, in common with the man she upheld; a man who, like Louis the Well-Beloved, former master of the building beneath whose shadow she was sitting, was ready to grovel for her pardon, when threatened with a priest and the last terrors, and would have recalled his mistress, rejoicing, with the first day of recovered health.
He and she had asked for respite in vain, however; and M. de Pastourelles slept with his fathers.
Since his death, her strength had failed her. There had been no definite illness, but a giving way for some six or seven months of nature"s resisting powers. Also--significant sign of the strength of all her personal affections!--in addition to the moral and physical strain she had undergone, she had suffered much about this time from the loss of her maid, an old servant and devoted friend, who left her shortly after M. de Pastourelles" death--incited, forced thereto by Eugenie--in order to marry and go out to Canada. Eugenie had missed her sorely; and insensibly, the struggle to get well had been the harder. The doctors ordered travel and change, and she had wandered from place to place; only half-conscious, as it often seemed to her; the most docile of patients; accompanied now by one member of the family, now by another; standing as it were, like the bather who has wandered too far from sh.o.r.e, between the onward current which means destruction, and that backward struggle of the will which leads to life. And little by little the tide of being had turned. After a winter in Egypt, strength had begun to come back; since then Switzerland and high air had quickened recovery; and now, physically, Eugenie was almost herself again.
But morally, she retained a deep and lasting impress of what she had gone through. More than ever was she a creature of tenderness, of the most delicate perceptions, of a sensibility, as our ancestors would have called it, too great for this hurrying world. Her unselfishness, always one of her cradle-gifts, had become almost superhuman; and had she been of another temperament, the men and women about her might have instinctively shrunk from her, as too perfect--now--for human nature"s daily food. But from that she was saved by a score of most womanish, most mundane qualities. n.o.body knew her, luckily, for the saint she was; she herself least of all. As her strength renewed itself, her soft fun, too, came back, her gentle, inexhaustible delight in the absurdities of men and things, which gave to her talk and her personality a kind of crackling charm, like the crispness of dry leaves upon an autumn path. Naturally, and invincibly, she loved life and living; all the high forces and emotions called to her, but also all the patches, stains, and follies of this queer world; and there is no saint, man or woman, of whom this can be said, that has ever repelled the sinners. It is the difference between St. Francis and St. Dominic!
How very little--all the same--could Eugenie feel herself with the saints, on this October afternoon! She sat, to begin with, on the threshold of Madame de Pompadour"s apartment; and in the next place, she had never been more tremulously steeped in doubts and yearnings, entirely concerned with her friends and her affections. It was a re-birth; not of youth--how could that be, she herself would have asked, seeing that she was now thirty-seven?--but of the natural Eugenie, who, "intellectual" though she were, lived really by the heart, and the heart only. And since it is the heart that makes youth and keeps it--it _was_ a return of youth--and of beauty--that had come upon her. In her black dress and shady hat, her collar and cuffs of white lawn, she was very discreetly, quietly beautiful; the pa.s.ser-by did not know what it was that had touched and delighted him, till she had gone, and he found himself, perhaps, looking after the slim yet stately figure; but it was beauty none the less. And the autumn violets, her sister"s gift, that were fastened to-day in profusion at her waist, marked in truth the re-awakening of buried things, of feminine instincts long repressed. For months, her maid Fanchette had dressed her, and she had worn obediently all the long c.r.a.pe gowns and veils dictated by the etiquette of French mourning. But to-day she had chosen for herself; and in this more ordinary garb, she was vaguely--sometimes remorsefully--conscious of relief and deliverance.
Two subjects filled her mind. First, a conversation with Fenwick that she had held that morning, strolling through the upper alleys of the Park. Poor friend, poor artist! Often and often, during her wanderings, had her thoughts dwelt anxiously on his discontents and calamities; she had made her sister or her father write to him when she could not write herself--though Lord Findon indeed had been for long much out of patience with him; and during the last few months she herself had written every week. But she had never felt so clearly the inexorable limits of her influence with him. This morning, just as of old, he had thrown himself tempestuously upon her advice, her sympathy; and she had given him counsel as she best could. But a woman knows when her counsel is likely to be followed, or no. Eugenie had no illusions. In his sore, self-tormented state he was, she saw, at the mercy of any pa.s.sing idea, of anything that seemed to offer him vengeance on his enemies, or the satisfaction of a vanity that writhed under the failure he was all the time inviting and a.s.suring.
Yet as she thought of him, she liked him better than ever. He might be perverse, yet he appealed to her profoundly! The years of his success had refined and civilised him no doubt, but they had tended to make him like anybody else. Whereas this pa.s.sionate accent of revolt--as of some fierce, helpless creature, struggling blindly in bonds of its own making--had perhaps restored to him that more dramatic element which his personality had possessed in his sulky, gifted youth. He had expressed himself with a bitter force on the decline of his inspiration and the weakening of his will. He was going to the dogs, he declared; had lost all his hold on the public; and had nothing more to say or to paint. And she had been very, very sorry for him, but conscious all the time that he had never been so eloquent, and never in such good looks, what with the angry energy of the eyes, and the sweep of grizzled hair across the powerful brow, and the lines cut by life and thought round the vigorous, impatient mouth. How could he be at once so able and so childish! Her woman"s wit pondered it; while at the same time she remembered with emotion the joy with which he had greeted her, his eager, stammering sympathy, his rough grasp of her hand, his frowning scrutiny of her pale face.
Yes, he was a great, great friend--and, somehow, she _must_ help him!