The Last Chronicle of Barset (39 page)

So instructed, Eames, on entering the room, looked round at once
for Mr Musselboro. ‘If I don't see the whiskers and chain,' he had said, ‘I shall know there's a Peer.' Mr Musselboro was in the room, but Eames had descried Mr Crosbie long before he had seen Mr Musselboro.

There was no reason for confusion on his part in meeting Crosbie. They had both loved Lily Dale. Crosbie might have been successful, but for his own fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into contact with him, and on that occasion had quarrelled with him and had beaten him, giving him a black eye, and in this way obtaining some mastery over him. There was no reason why he should be ashamed of meeting Crosbie; and yet, when he saw him, the blood mounted all over his face, and he forgot to make any further search for Mr Musselboro.

‘I am so much obliged to Mr Dalrymple for bringing you,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton very sweetly, ‘only he ought to have come sooner. Naughty man! I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss Demolines down? Miss Demolines – Mr Eames.'

Mr Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had not welcomed our hero very cordially. He was beginning to think that Conway Dalrymple gave himself airs and did not sufficiently understand that a man who had horses at Market Harboro' and '41 Lafitte was at any rate as good as a painter who was pelted with gilt sugar-plums for painting countesses. But he was a man whose ill-humour never lasted long, and he was soon pressing his wine on Johnny Eames as though he loved him dearly.

But there was yet a few minutes before they went down to dinner, and Johnny Eames, as he endeavoured to find something to say to Miss Demolines – which was difficult, as he did not in the least know Miss Demolines' line of conversation – was aware that his efforts were impeded by thoughts of Mr Crosbie. The man looked older than when he had last seen him – so much older that Eames was astonished. He was bald, or becoming bald; and his whiskers were grey, or were becoming grey, and he was much fatter. Johnny Eames, who was always thinking of Lily Dale, could not now keep himself from thinking of Adolphus Crosbie. He saw at a glance that the man was in mourning, though there was nothing but his shirt-studs by
which to tell it;
¹
and he knew that he was in mourning for his wife. ‘I wish she might have lived for ever,' Johnny said to himself.

He had not yet been definitely called upon by the entrance of the servant to offer his arm to Miss Demolines, when Crosbie walked across to him from the rug and addressed him.

‘Mr Eames,' said he, ‘it is some time since we met.' And he offered his hand to Johnny.

‘Yes, it is,' said Johnny, accepting the proffered salutation. ‘I don't know exactly how long, but ever so long.'

‘I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with you,' said Crosbie; and then he retired, as it had become his duty to wait with his arm ready for Mrs Dobbs Broughton. Having married an earl's daughter he was selected for that honour. There was a barrister in the room, and Mrs Dobbs Broughton ought to have known better. As she professed to be guided in such matters by the rules laid down by the recognised authorities, she ought to have been aware that a man takes no rank from his wife. But she was entitled I think to merciful consideration for her error. A woman situated as was Mrs Dobbs Broughton cannot altogether ignore these terrible rules. She cannot let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must select someone for the honour of her own arm. And amidst the intricacies of rank how is it possible for a woman to learn and to remember everything? If Providence would only send Mrs Dobbs Broughton a Peer for every dinner-party, the thing would go more easily; but what woman will tell me, off-hand, which should go out of a room first; a CB, an Admiral of the Blue, the Dean of Barchester, or the Dean of Arches?
²
Who is to know who was everybody's father? How am I to remember that young Thompson's progenitor was made a baronet and not a knight when he was Lord Mayor? Perhaps Mrs Dobbs Broughton ought to have known that Mr Crosbie could have gained nothing by his wife's rank, and the barrister may be considered to have been not immoderately severe when he simply spoke of her afterwards as the silliest and most ignorant old woman he had ever met in his life. Eames with the lovely Miss Demolines on his arm was the last to move before the hostess. Mr Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with old Lady Demolines. There was no doubt
about Lady Demolines – as his wife had told him, because her title marked her. Her husband had been a physician in Paris, and had been knighted in consequence of some benefit supposed to have been done to some French scion of royalty – when such scions in France were royal and not imperial. Lady Demolines' rank was not much, certainly; but it served to mark her, and was beneficial.

As he went downstairs Eames was still thinking of his meeting with Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a word to his neighbour, and his neighbour had not said a word to him. Now Johnny understood dinners quite well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among whom six are ladies, everything depends on your next neighbour, and generally on the next neighbour who specially belongs to you; and as he took his seat he was a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next two hours. On his other hand sat Mrs Ponsonby, the barrister's wife, and he did not much like the look of Mrs Ponsonby. She was fat, heavy, and good-looking; with a broad space between her eyes, and light smooth hair – a youthful British matron every inch of her, of whom any barrister with a young family of children might be proud. Now Miss Demolines, though she was hardly to be called beautiful, was at any rate remarkable. She had large, dark, well-shaped eyes, and very dark hair, which she wore tangled about in an extraordinary manner, and she had an expressive face – a face made expressive by the owner's will. Such power of expression is often attained by dint of labour – though it never reaches to the expression of anything in particular. She was almost sufficiently good-looking to be justified in considering herself to be a beauty.

But Miss Demolines, though she had said nothing as yet, knew her game very well. A lady cannot begin conversation to any good purpose in the drawing-room, when she is seated and the man is standing – nor can she know then how the table may subsequently arrange itself. Powder may be wasted, and often is wasted, and the spirit rebels against the necessity of commencing a second enterprise. But Miss Demolines, when she found herself seated, and perceived that on the other side of her was Mr Ponsonby, a married man, commenced her enterprise at once, and our friend John Eames was immediately aware that he would have no difficulty as to conversation.

‘Don't you like winter dinner-parties?' began Miss Demolines. This was said just as Johnny was taking his seat, and he had time to declare that he liked dinner-parties at all periods of the year if the dinner was good and the people pleasant before the host had muttered something which was intended to be understood to be a grace. ‘But I mean especially in winter,' continued Miss Demolines. ‘I don't think daylight should ever be admitted at a dinner-table; and though you may shut out the daylight, you can't shut out the heat. And then there are always so many other things to go to in May and June and July. Dinners should be stopped by Act of Parliament for those three months. I don't care what people do afterwards, because we always fly away on the first of August.'

‘That is good-natured on your part.'

‘I'm sure what I say would be for the good of society – but at this time of the year a dinner is warm and comfortable.'

‘Very comfortable, I think.'

‘And people get to know each other' – in saying which Miss Demolines looked very pleasantly up into Johnny's face.

‘There is a great deal in that,' said he. ‘I wonder whether you and I will get to know each other?'

‘Of course we shall – that is, if I'm worth knowing.'

‘There can be no doubt about that, I should say.'

‘Time alone can tell. But, Mr Eames, I see that Mr Crosbie is a friend of yours.'

‘Hardly a friend.'

‘I know very well that men are friends when they step up and shake hands with each other. It is the same as when women kiss.'

‘When I see women kiss, I always think that there is deep hatred at the bottom of it.'

‘And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr Crosbie for anything I know to the contrary,' said Miss Demolines.

‘The very deepest,' said Johnny, pretending to look grave.

‘Ah; then I know he is your bosom friend, and that you will tell him anything I say. What a strange history that was of his marriage!'

‘So I have heard – but he is not quite bosom friend enough with me to have told me all the particulars. I know that his wife is dead.'

‘Dead; oh, yes; she has been dead these two years I should say.'

‘Not so long as that, I should think.'

‘Well – perhaps not. But it's ever so long ago – quite long enough for him to be married again. Did you know her?'

‘I never saw her in my life.'

‘I knew her – not well indeed; but I am intimate with her sister, Lady Amelia Gazebee, and I have met her there. None of that family have married what you may call well. And now, Mr Eames, pray look at the menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me a little dinner of my own, out of the great bill of fare provided. I always expect some gentleman to do that for me. Mr Crosbie, you know, only lived with his wife for one month.'

‘So I've been told.'

‘And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. He doesn't look that sort of man, does he?'

‘Well – no. I don't think he does. But what sort of man do you mean?'

‘Why, such a regular Bluebeard! Of course you know how he treated another girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died of it – with a broken heart; absolutely died; and there he is, indifferent as possible – and would treat me in the same way tomorrow if I would let him.'

Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale, took up the card of the dinner and went to work in earnest, recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. ‘But you've skipped the pâté,' she said, with energy.

‘Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are much more fit to do it.' And she did choose his dinner for him.

They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladies and gentlemen should alternate themselves properly, Mr Musselboro was opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs Van Siever, the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quantity as from the nature of the wiggeries which she wore. She had not only a false front, but long false curls, as to which it cannot be conceived that she would suppose that anyone would be ignorant as to their falseness. She was very
thin, too, and very small, and putting aside her wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastly old woman to the sight, and not altogether pleasant in her mode of talking. She seemed to know Mr Musselboro very well, for she called him by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as a clerk in her husband's office.

‘Why doesn't What's-his-name have real silver forks?' she said to him. Now Mrs What's-his-name – Mrs Dobbs Broughton we will call her – was sitting on the other side of Mr Musselboro, between him and Mr Crosbie; and, so placed, Mr Musselboro found it rather hard to answer the question, more especially as he was probably aware that other questions would follow.

‘What's the use?' said Mr Musselboro. ‘Everybody has these plated things now. What's the use of a lot of capital lying dead?'

‘Everybody doesn't. I don't. You know as well as I do, Musselboro, that the appearance of the thing goes for a great deal. Capital isn't lying dead as long as people know that you've got it.'

Before answering this Mr Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. ‘You won't find that there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton,' he said.

‘I shan't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what people told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City than anywhere else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which the young man painted?'

‘What, Mrs Dobbs Broughton's portrait?'

‘You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean the one with the three naked women?' Mr Musselboro glanced round with one eye, and felt sure that Mrs Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But the old woman was determined to have an answer. ‘How much did he give for it, Musselboro?'

‘Six hundred pounds, I believe,' said Mr Musselboro, looking straight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat the subject with perfect indifference.

‘Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And yet he hasn't got
silver spoons. How things are changed! Tell me, Musselboro, who was that young man who came in with the painter?'

Mr Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs Broughton. ‘A Mr John Eames, Mrs Van Siever,' said Mrs Broughton, whispering across the front of Mr Musselboro. ‘He is private secretary to Lord – Lord – Lord – I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know. And he had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord – Lord – Lord somebody else.'

‘All among the lords, I see,' said Mrs Van Siever. Then Mrs Dobbs Broughton drew herself back, remembering some little attack which had been made on her by Mrs Van Siever when she herself had had the real lord to dine with her.

There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sitting between Crosbie and Conway Dalrymple. Conway Dalrymple had been specially brought there to sit next to Miss Van Siever. ‘There's no knowing how much she'll have,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton, in the warmth of her friendship. ‘But it's all real. It is, indeed. The mother is awfully rich.'