The Last Chronicle of Barset (60 page)

But she allowed her friend on this occasion only five minutes, thinking probably that so much time might suffice. A woman, when she is jealous, is apt to attribute to the other woman with whom her jealousy is concerned, both weakness and timidity, and to the man both audacity and strength. A woman who has herself taken perhaps twelve months in the winning, will think that another woman is to be won in five minutes. It is not to be supposed that Mrs Dobbs Broughton had ever been won by anyone except by Mr Dobbs Broughton. At least, let it not be supposed that she had ever acknowledged a spark of love for Conway Dalrymple. But nevertheless there was enough of jealousy in her present mood to make her think poorly of Miss Van Siever's capacity for standing a siege against the artist's
eloquence. Otherwise, having left the two together with the object which she had acknowledged to herself, she would hardly have returned to them after so short an interval.

‘I hope you won't dislike the trouble of all this?' said Dalrymple to his model, as soon as Mrs Broughton was gone.

‘I cannot say that I like it very much,' said Miss Van Siever.

‘I'm afraid it will be a bore – but I hope you'll go through with it.'

‘I shall if I am not prevented,' said Miss Van Siever. ‘When I've said that I'll do a thing, I like to do it.'

There was a pause in the conversation which took up a considerable portion of the five minutes. Miss Van Siever was not holding her nail during those moments, but was sitting in a commonplace way on her chair, while Dalrymple was scraping his palette. ‘I wonder what it was that first induced you to sit?' said he.

‘Oh, I don't know. I took a fancy for it.'

‘I'm very glad you did take the fancy. You'll make an excellent model. If you won't mind posing again for a few minutes – I will not weary you today. Your right arm a little more forward.'

‘But I should tumble down.'

‘Not if you lean well on to the nail.'

‘But that would have woken Sisera before she had struck a blow.'

‘Never mind that. Let us try it.' Then Mrs Broughton returned, with that pleasant feeling in her bosom of having done her duty as a wife, a friend, and a Christian. ‘Mrs Broughton,' continued the painter, ‘just steady Miss Van Siever's shoulder with your hand; and now bring the arm and the elbow a little more forward.'

‘But Jael did not have a friend to help her in that way,' said Miss Van Siever.

At the end of an hour and a half the two ladies retired, and Jael disrobed herself, and Miss Van Siever put on her customary raiment. It was agreed among them that they had commenced their work auspiciously, and that they should meet again on the following Monday. The artist begged to be allowed an hour to go on with his work in Mrs Broughton's room, and the hour was conceded to him. It was understood that he could not take the canvas backwards and forwards with him to his own house, and he pointed out that no progress
whatever could be made, unless he were occasionally allowed some such grace as this. Mrs Broughton doubted and hesitated, made difficulties, and lifted up her hands in despair. ‘It is easy for you to say, Why not? but I know very well why not.' But at last she gave way. ‘
Honi soit qui mal y pense
,'
¹
she said; ‘that must be my protection.' So she followed Miss Van Siever downstairs, leaving Mr Dalrymple in possession of her boudoir. ‘I shall give you just one hour,' she said, ‘and then I shall come and turn you out.' So she went down, and, as Miss Van Siever would not stay to lunch with her, she ate her lunch by herself, sending a glass of sherry and a biscuit up to the poor painter at his work.

Exactly at the end of the hour she returned to him. ‘Now, Conway, you must go,' she said.

‘But why in such a hurry?'

‘Because I say that it must be so. When I say so, pray let that be sufficient.' But still Dalrymple went on working. ‘Conway,' she said, ‘how can you treat me with so much disdain?'

‘Disdain, Mrs Broughton!'

‘Yes, disdain. Have I not begged you to understand that I cannot allow you to remain here, and yet you pay no attention to my wishes.'

‘I have done now'; and he began to put his brushes and paints together. ‘I suppose all these things may remain here?'

‘Yes; they may remain. They must do so, of course. There; if you will put the easel in the corner, with the canvas behind it, they will not be seen if he should chance to come into the room.'

‘He would not be angry, I suppose, if he saw them?'

‘There is no knowing. Men are so unreasonable. All men are, I think. All those are whom I have had the fortune to know. Women generally say that men are selfish. I do not complain so much that they are selfish as that they are thoughtless. They are headstrong and do not look forward to results. Now you – I do not think you would willingly do me an injury?'

‘I do not think I would.'

‘I am sure you would not – but yet you would forget to save me from one.'

‘What injury?'

‘Oh, never mind. I am not thinking of anything in particular. From myself, for instance. But we will not talk about that. That way madness lies.
²
Tell me, Conway – what do you think of Clara Van Siever?'

‘She is very handsome, certainly.'

‘And clever?'

‘Decidedly clever. I should think she has a temper of her own.'

‘What woman is there worth a straw that has not? If Clara Van Siever were ill-used, she would resent it. I do not doubt that for a moment. I should not like to be the man who would do it.'

‘Nor I, either,' said Conway.

‘But there is plenty of feminine softness in that character, if she were treated with love and kindness. Conway, if you will take my advice you will ask Clara Van Siever to be your wife. But perhaps you have already.'

‘Who; I?'

‘Yes; you.'

‘I have not done it yet, certainly, Mrs Broughton.'

‘And why should you not do it?'

‘There are two or three reasons – but perhaps none of any great importance. Do you know of none, Mrs Broughton?'

‘I know of none,' said Mrs Broughton in a very serious – in almost a tragic tone – ‘of none that should weigh for a moment. As far as I am concerned, nothing would give me more pleasure.'

‘That is so kind of you!'

‘I mean to be kind. I do, indeed, Conway. I know it will be better for you that you should be settled – very much better. And it will be better for me. I do not mind admitting that – though in saying so I trust greatly to your generosity to interpret my words properly.'

‘I shall not flatter myself, if you mean that.'

‘There is no question of flattery, Conway. The question is simply of truth and prudence. Do you not know that it would be better that you should be married?'

‘Not unless a certain gentleman were to die first,' said Conway Dalrymple, as he deposited the last of his painting paraphernalia in the recess which had been prepared for them by Mrs Broughton.

‘Conway, how can you speak in that wicked, wicked way!'

‘I can assure you I do not wish the gentleman in question the slightest harm in the world. If his welfare depended on me, he should be as safe as the Bank of England.'

‘And you will not take my advice?'

‘What advice?'

‘About Clara?'

‘Mrs Broughton, matrimony is a very important thing.'

‘Indeed, it is – oh, who can say how important! There was a time, Conway, when I thought you had given your heart to Madalina Demolines.'

‘Heaven forbid!'

‘And I grieved, because I thought that she was not worthy of you.'

‘There was never anything in that, Mrs Broughton.'

‘She thought there was. At any rate, she said so. I know that for certain. She told me so herself. But let that pass. Clara Van Siever is in every respect very different from Madalina. Clara, I think, is worthy of you. And Conway – of course it is not for me to dictate to you; but this I must tell you –' Then she paused, as though she did not know how to finish her sentence.

‘What must you tell me?'

‘I will tell you nothing more. If you cannot understand what I have said, you must be more dull of comprehension than I believe you to be. Now go. Why are you not gone this half-hour?'

‘How could I go while you were giving me all this good advice?'

‘I have not asked you to stay. Go now, at any rate. And, remember, Conway, if this picture is to go on, I will not have you remaining here after the work is done. Will you remember that?' And she held him by the hand while he declared that he would remember it.

Mrs Dobbs Broughton was no more in love with Conway Dalrymple than she was in love with King Charles on horseback at Charing Cross. And, over and beyond the protection which came to her in the course of nature from impassioned feeling in this special phase of her life – and indeed, I may say, in every phase of her life – it must be acknowledged on her behalf that she did enjoy that protection which comes from what we call principle – though the principle was not perhaps very high of its kind. Madalina Demolines
had been right when she talked of her friend Maria's principles. Dobbs Broughton had been so far lucky in that jump in the dark which he had made in taking a wife to himself, that he had not fallen upon a really vicious woman, or upon a woman of strong feeling. If it had come to be the lot of Mrs Dobbs Broughton to have six hours' work to do every day of her life, I think that the work would have been done badly, but that it would have kept her free from all danger. As it was she had nothing to do. She had no child. She was not given to much reading. She could not sit with a needle in her hand all day. She had no aptitude for May meetings,
³
or the excitement of charitable good works. Life with her was very dull, and she found no amusement within her reach so easy and so pleasant as the amusement of pretending to be in love. If all that she did and all that she said could only have been taken for its worth and for nothing more, by the different persons concerned, there was very little in it to flatter Mr Dalrymple or to give cause for tribulation to Mr Broughton. She probably cared but little for either of them. She was one of those women to whom it is not given by nature to care very much for anybody. But, of the two, she certainly cared the most for Mr Dobbs Broughton – because Mr Dobbs Broughton belonged to her. As to leaving Mr Dobbs Broughton's house, and putting herself into the hands of another man – no Imogen of a wife
⁴
was ever less likely to take a step so wicked, so dangerous, and so generally disagreeable to all the parties concerned.

But Conway Dalrymple – though now and again he had got a side glance at her true character with clear-seeing eyes – did allow himself to be flattered and deceived. He knew that she was foolish and ignorant, and that she often talked wonderful nonsense. He knew also that she was continually contradicting herself – as when she would strenuously beg him to leave her, while she would continue to talk to him in a strain that prevented the possibility of his going. But, nevertheless, he was flattered, and he did believe that she loved him. As to his love for her – he knew very well that it amounted to nothing. Now and again, perhaps twice a week, if he saw her as often, he would say something which would imply a declaration of affection. He felt that as much as that was expected from him, and that he
ought not to hope to get off cheaper. And now that this little play was going on about Miss Van Siever, he did think that Mrs Dobbs Broughton was doing her very best to overcome an unfortunate attachment. It is so gratifying to a young man's feelings to suppose that another man's wife has conceived an unfortunate attachment for him! Conway Dalrymple ought not to have been fooled by such a woman; but I fear that he was fooled by her.

As he returned home today from Mrs Broughton's house to his own lodgings he rambled out for a while into Kensington Gardens, and thought of his position seriously. ‘I don't see why I should not marry her,' he said to himself, thinking of course of Miss Van Siever. ‘If Maria is not in earnest it is not my fault. And it would be my wish that she should be in earnest. If I suppose her to be so, and take her at her word, she can have no right to quarrel with me. Poor Maria! At any rate it will be better for her, for no good can come of this kind of thing. And, by heavens, with a woman like that, of strong feelings, one never knows what may happen.' And then he thought of the condition he would be in, if he were to find her some fine day in his own rooms, and if she were to tell him that she could not go home again, and that she meant to remain with him!

In the meantime Mrs Dobbs Broughton had gone down into her own drawing-room, had tucked herself up on the sofa, and had fallen fast asleep.

*

John Eames sat at his office on the day after his return to London, and answered the various letters which he had found waiting for him at his lodgings on the previous evening. To Miss Demolines he had already written from his club – a single line, which he considered to be appropriate to the mysterious necessities of the occasion. ‘I will be with you at a quarter to six tomorrow. – J. E. Just returned.' There was not another word; and as he scrawled it at one of the club tables while two or three men were talking to him, he felt rather proud of his correspondence. ‘It was capital fun,' he said; ‘and after all' – the ‘all' on this occasion being Lily Dale, and the sadness of his disappointment at Allington – ‘after all, let a fellow be ever so down in the mouth, a little amusement should do him good.' And he reflected further that the more a fellow be ‘down in the mouth,' the more good the amusement would do him. He sent off his note, therefore, with some little inward rejoicing – and a word or two also of spoken rejoicing. ‘What fun women are sometimes,' he said to one of his friends – a friend with whom he was very intimate, calling him always Fred, and slapping his back, but whom he never by any chance saw out of his club.