Fenwick's Career Part 46

Eugenie said 'Yes' gently, and released her. The child ran off.

Phoebe came slowly into the room, with an uncertain gait, touching the door and the walls like one groping her way.

'Oh, Mrs. Fenwick!'

It was a little cry from Eugenie--deprecating, full of pain.

Phoebe took no notice of it. She went straight to her visitor.

'Where is my husband, please?' she said, in a strong, hoa.r.s.e voice, mechanically holding out her hand, which Eugenie touched and then let drop--so full of rugged, pa.s.sionate things were the face and form she looked at.

'He's coming by the afternoon train.' Eugenie threw all her will into calmness and clearness. 'He gets to Windermere before five--and he thought he might be here a little after six. He was so ill yesterday--when I found him--when I went to see him! That's what he wanted me to tell you before you saw him again--and so I came first--by the night train.'

'You went to see him--yesterday?' said Phoebe, still in the same tense way.

She had never asked her guest to sit, and she stood herself, one hand leaning heavily on the table.

'I had heard from the lawyers--the lawyers my father had recommended to Mr. Fenwick--that they had found a clue--they had discovered some traces of you in Canada--and I went to tell him.'

'Lawyers?' Phoebe raised her left hand in bewilderment. 'I don't understand.'

Eugenie came a little nearer. Hurriedly, with changing colour, she gave an account of the researches of the lawyers during the preceding seven months--interrupted in the middle by Phoebe.

'But why was John looking for us, after--after all this time?' she said, in a fainter, weaker voice, dropping at the same time into a chair.

Eugenie hesitated; then said, firmly, 'Because he wished to find you, more than anything else in the world. And my father and I helped him all we could--'

'But you didn't know?'--Phoebe caught piteously at her dress--'you didn't know--?'

'That Mr. Fenwick was married? No--never!--till last autumn. That was his wrong-doing, towards all his old friends.'

Phoebe looked at the dignity and pureness of the face before her, and shrank a little.

'And how was it found out?' she breathed, turning away.

'There was a Miss Morrison--'

'Bella Morrison!' cried Phoebe, suddenly, clasping her hands--'Bella!

Of course, she did it to disgrace him.'

'We never knew what her motive was. But she told--an old friend--who told us.'

'And then--what did John say?'

The wife's hands shook--her eyes were greedy for an answer.

'Oh! it was all miserable!' said Eugenie, with a gesture of emotion.

'It made my father very angry, and we could not be friends any more--as we had been. And Mr. Fenwick had a wretched winter. He was ill--and his painting seemed to go wrong--and he was terribly in need of money--and then came that day at the theatre--'

'I know,' whispered Phoebe, hanging on the speaker's lips--'when he saw Carrie?'

'It nearly killed him,' said Eugenie, gently. 'It was like a light kindled, and then blown out.'

Phoebe leant her head against the table before her, and began to sob--

'If I'd never let her go up that day! When we first landed I didn't know what to do--I couldn't make up my mind. We'd taken lodgings down at Guildford--near some acquaintances we'd made in Canada. And the girl was a great friend of Carrie's--we used to stay with them sometimes in Montreal. She had acted a little at Halifax and Montreal--and she wanted an opening in London--and somebody told her to apply at that theatre--I forget its name.'

'Halifax!' cried Eugenie--'Halifax, Nova Scotia? Oh, now I understand!

We have searched England through. The stage-manager said one of the young ladies mentioned Halifax. n.o.body ever thought--'

She paused. Phoebe said nothing; she was grappling with some of the new ideas presented to her.

'And this was his second search, you know,' said Eugenie, laying a hand timidly on Phoebe's shoulder. 'He had done all he could--when you left him. But when he lost sight of Carrie again--and so of you both--it wore his heart out. I can see it did. He is a broken man.'

Her voice trembled. 'Oh, you will have to nurse--to comfort him. He has been in despair about his art--in despair about everything. He--'

But she checked herself. The rest was for him to tell.

'For a long time he seemed so--so--successful,' said Phoebe, plucking at the tablecloth, trying to compose voice and features.

'Yes--but it didn't last. He seemed to get angry with himself--and everybody else. He quarrelled with the Academy--and his work didn't improve--it went back. But then--when one's unhappy--'

Her smile and the pressure of her hand said the rest.

'He'll never forgive me!' said Phoebe, her voice thick and shaking.

'It can never be the same again. I was a fool to come home.'

Eugenie withdrew her hand. Unconsciously, a touch of sternness showed itself in her bearing, her pale features.

'No, no!'--she said, with energy. 'You will comfort him, Mrs.

Fenwick--you will give him heart and hope again. It was a cruel thing--forgive me if I say it once!--it was a cruel thing to leave him! A man like that--with his weaknesses and his temperament--which are part of his gift really--its penalty--wants his wife at every turn--the woman who loves him--who understands. But to desert him for a suspicion!--a dream! Oh! Mrs. Fenwick, there are those who--who are really starved--really forsaken--really trampled under foot--by those they love!'

Her voice broke. She stood gazing straight before her, quivering with the pa.s.sion of recollection. Phoebe looked up--awed--remembering what John had said, so long ago, of the unhappy marriage, the faithless and cruel husband. But Eugenie's hand touched her again.

'And I know that you thought--_I_--had made Mr. Fenwick--forget you.

That was so strange! At that time--and for many years afterwards--my husband was still alive. If he had sent me a word--any day--any hour--I would have gone to him--to the ends of the world. I don't mean--I don't pretend--that my feeling for him remained unchanged. But my pride was--my duty was--that he should never find _me_ lacking. And last year--he turned to me--I was able to help him--through his death.

I had been his true wife--and he knew it.'

She spoke quietly, brus.h.i.+ng the tears from her eyes. But with the last words, her voice wavered a little. Phoebe had bowed her head upon the hand which held hers, and there was no spectator of the feeling in Eugenie's face. Was her pure conscience tormented with the thought that she had not told all, and could never tell it? Her innocent tempting of Fenwick--as an act, partly, of piteous self-defence against impulses of quite another quality and power--this must remain her secret to the end. Sad evasions, which life forces upon even the n.o.blest wors.h.i.+ppers of truth!

After a minute she stooped and kissed Phoebe's golden hair.

'I was so glad to help Mr. Fenwick--he interested me so. If I had only known of you--and the child--why, how happy we might all have been!'

She withdrew her hand, and walked away to the window, trying to calm herself.

Phoebe rose and followed her.

'Do you know?'--she said, piteously--'can't you tell me?--will John take me back?'