The Chronicles of Barsetshire (328 page)

Lily was seated between Mrs. Thorne and Mrs. Smith, and Siph Dunn had been standing immediately opposite to them. Fowler Pratt, who had been drawn into the circle against his will, was now standing close to Dunn, almost between him and Lily—and Crosbie was standing within two yards of Lily, on the other side of Dunn. Emily and Bernard had gone behind Pratt and Crosbie to Mrs. Thorne’s side before they had recognised the two men—and in this way Lily was completely surrounded. Mrs. Thorne, who in spite of her eager, impetuous ways, was as thoughtful of others as any woman could be, as soon as she heard Crosbie’s name understood it all, and knew that it would be well that she should withdraw Lily from her plight. Crosbie, in his attempt to talk to Mrs. Smith, had smiled and simpered, and had then felt that to smile and simper before Lily Dale, with a pretended indifference to her presence, was false on his part, and would seem to be mean. He would have avoided Lily for both their sakes, had it been possible; but it was no longer possible, and he could not keep his eyes from her face. Hardly knowing what he did, he bowed to her, lifted his hat, and uttered some word of greeting.

Lily, from the moment that she had perceived his presence, had looked straight before her, with something almost of fierceness in her eyes. Both Pratt and Siph Dunn had observed her narrowly. It had seemed as though Crosbie had been altogether outside the ken of her eyes, or the notice of her ears, and yet she had seen every motion of his body, and had heard every word which had fallen from his lips. Now, when he saluted her, she turned her face full upon him, and bowed to him. Then she rose from her seat, and made her way, between Siph Dunn and Pratt, out of the circle. The blood had mounted to her face and suffused it all, and her whole manner was such that it could escape the observation of none who stood there. Even Mrs. Harold Smith had seen it, and had read the story. As soon as she was on her feet, Bernard had dropped Emily’s hand, and offered his arm to his cousin. “Lily,” he had said out loud, “you had better let me take you away. It is a misfortune that you have been subjected to the insult of such a greeting.” Bernard and Crosbie had been early friends, and Bernard had been the unfortunate means of bringing Crosbie and Lily together. Up to this day, Bernard had never had his revenge for the ill-treatment which his cousin had received. Some morsel of that revenge came to him now. Lily almost hated her cousin for what he said; but she took his arm, and walked with him from the room. It must be acknowledged in excuse for Bernard Dale, and as an apology for the apparent indiscretion of his words, that all the circumstances of the meeting had become apparent to everyone there. The misfortune of the encounter had become too plain to admit of its being hidden under any of the ordinary veils of society. Crosbie’s salutation had been made before the eyes of them all, and in the midst of absolute silence, and Lily had risen with so queen-like a demeanour, and had moved with so stately a step, that it was impossible that anyone concerned should pretend to ignore the facts of the scene that had occurred. Crosbie was still standing close to Mrs. Harold Smith, Mrs. Thorne had risen from her seat, and the words which Bernard Dale had uttered were still sounding in the ears of them all. “Shall I see after the carriage?” said Siph Dunn. “Do,” said Mrs. Thorne; “or, stay a moment; the carriage will of course be there, and we will go together. Good-morning, Mr. Pratt. I expect that, at any rate, you will send me your card by post.” Then they all passed on, and Crosbie and Fowler Pratt were left among the pictures.

“I think you will agree with me now that you had better give her up,” said Fowler Pratt.

“I will never give her up,” said Crosbie, “till I hear that she has married some one else.”

“You may take my word for it, that she will never marry you after what has just now occurred.”

“Very likely not; but still the attempt, even the idea of the attempt will be a comfort to me. I shall be endeavouring to do that which I ought to have done.”

“What you have got to think of, I should suppose, is her comfort—not your own.”

Crosbie stood for a while silent, looking at a portrait which was hung just within the doorway of a smaller room into which they had passed, as though his attention were entirely rivetted by the picture. But he was thinking of the picture not at all, and did not even know what kind of painting was on the canvas before him.

“Pratt,” he said at last, “you are always hard to me.”

“I will say nothing more to you on the subject, if you wish me to be silent.”

“I do wish you to be silent about that.”

“That shall be enough,” said Pratt.

“You do not quite understand me. You do not know how thoroughly I have repented of the evil that I have done, or how far I would go to make retribution, if retribution were possible.”

Fowler Pratt, having been told to hold his tongue as regarded that subject, made no reply to this, and began to talk about the pictures.

Lily, leaning on her cousin’s arm, was out in the courtyard in front of the house before Mrs. Thorne and Siph Dunn. It was but for a minute, but still there was a minute in which Bernard felt that he ought to say a word to her.

“I hope you are not angry with me, Lily, for having spoken.”

“I wish, of course, that you had not spoken; but I am not angry. I have no right to be angry. I made the misfortune for myself. Do not say anything more about it, dear Bernard—that is all.”

They had walked to the picture-gallery; but, by agreement, two carriages had come to take them away—Mrs. Thorne’s and Mrs. Harold Smith’s. Mrs. Thorne easily managed to send Emily Dunstable and Bernard away with her friend, and to tell Siph Dunn that he must manage for himself. In this way it was contrived that no one but Mrs. Thorne should be with Lily Dale.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Thorne, “it seemed to me that you were a little put out, and so I thought it best to send them all away.”

“It was very kind.”

“He ought to have passed on and not to have stood an instant when he saw you,” said Mrs. Thorne, with indignation. “There are moments when it is a man’s duty simply to vanish, to melt into the air, or to sink into the ground—in which he is bound to overcome the difficulties of such sudden self-removal, or must ever after be accounted poor and mean.”

“I did not want him to vanish—if only he had not spoken to me.”

“He should have vanished. A man is sometimes bound in honour to do so, even when he himself has done nothing wrong—when the sin has been all with the woman. Her femininity has still a right to expect that so much shall be done in its behalf. But when the sin has been all his own, as it was in this case—and such damning sin too—”

“Pray do not go on, Mrs. Thorne.”

“He ought to go out and hang himself simply for having allowed himself to be seen. I thought Bernard behaved very well, and I shall tell him so.”

“I wish you could manage to forget it all, and say no word more about it.”

“I won’t trouble you with it, my dear; I will promise you that. But, Lily, I can hardly understand you. This man who must have been and must ever be a brute—”

“Mrs. Thorne, you promised me this instant that you would not talk of him.”

“After this I will not; but you must let me have my way now for one moment. I have so often longed to speak to you, but have not done so from fear of offending you. Now the matter has come up by chance, and it was impossible that what has occurred should pass by without a word. I cannot conceive why the memory of that bad man should be allowed to destroy your whole life.”

“My life is not destroyed. My life is anything but destroyed. It is a very happy life.”

“But, my dear, if all that I hear is true, there is a most estimable young man, whom everybody likes, and particularly your own family, and whom you like very much yourself; and you will have nothing to say to him, though his constancy is like the constancy of an old Paladin—and all because of this wretch who just now came in your way.”

“Mrs. Thorne, it is impossible to explain it all.”

“I do not want you to explain it all. Of course I would not ask any young woman to marry a man whom she did not love. Such marriages are abominable to me. But I think that a young woman ought to get married if the thing fairly comes in her way, and if her friends approve, and if she is fond of the man who is fond of her. It may be that some memory of what has gone before is allowed to stand in your way, and that it should not be so allowed. It sometimes happens that a horrid morbid sentiment will destroy a life. Excuse me, then, Lily, if I say too much to you in my hope that you may not suffer after this fashion.”

“I know how kind you are, Mrs. Thorne.”

“Here we are at home, and perhaps you would like to go in. I have some calls which I must make.” Then the conversation was ended, and Lily was alone.

As if she had not thought of it all before! As if there was anything new in this counsel which Mrs. Thorne had given her! She had received the same advice from her mother, from her sister, from her uncle, and from Lady Julia, till she was sick of it. How had it come to pass that matters which with others are so private, should with her have become the public property of so large a circle? Any other girl would receive advice on such a subject from her mother alone, and there the secret would rest. But her secret had been published, as it were, by the town-crier in the High Street! Everybody knew that she had been jilted by Adolphus Crosbie, and that it was intended that she should be consoled by John Eames. And people seemed to think that they had a right to rebuke her if she expressed an unwillingness to carry out this intention which the public had so kindly arranged for her.

Morbid sentiment! Why should she be accused of morbid sentiment because she was unable to transfer her affections to the man who had been fixed on as her future husband by the large circle of acquaintances who had interested themselves in her affairs? There was nothing morbid in either her desires or her regrets. So she assured herself, with something very much like anger at the accusation made against her. She had been contented, and was contented, to live at home as her mother lived, asking for no excitement beyond that given by the daily routine of her duties. There could be nothing morbid in that. She would go back to Allington as soon as might be, and have done with this London life, which only made her wretched. This seeing of Crosbie had been terrible to her. She did not tell herself that his image had been shattered. Her idea was that all her misery had come from the untowardness of the meeting. But there was the fact that she had seen the man and heard his voice, and that the seeing him and hearing him had made her miserable. She certainly desired that it might never be her lot either to see him or to hear him again.

And as for John Eames—in those bitter moments of her reflection she almost wished the same in regard to him. If he would only cease to be her lover, he might be very well; but he was not very well to her as long as his pretensions were dinned into her ear by everybody who knew her. And then she told herself that John would have a better chance if he had been content to plead for himself. In this, I think, she was hard upon her lover. He had pleaded for himself as well as he knew how, and as often as the occasion had been given to him. It had hardly been his fault that his case had been taken in hand by other advocates. He had given no commission to Mrs. Thorne to plead for him.

Poor Johnny. He had stood in much better favour before the lady had presented her compliments to Miss L. D. It was that odious letter, and the thoughts which it had forced upon Lily’s mind, which were now most inimical to his interests. Whether Lily loved him or not, she did not love him well enough to be jealous of him. Had any such letter reached her respecting Crosbie in the happy days of her young love, she would simply have laughed at it. It would have been nothing to her. But now she was sore and unhappy, and any trifle was powerful enough to irritate her. “Is Miss L. D. engaged to marry Mr. J. E.?” “No,” said Lily, out loud. “Lily Dale is not engaged to marry John Eames, and never will be so engaged.” She was almost tempted to sit down and write the required answer to Miss M. D. Though the letter had been destroyed, she well remembered the number of the post-office in the Edgware Road. Poor John Eames.

That evening she told Emily Dunstable that she thought she would like to return to Allington before the day that had been appointed for her. “But why,” said Emily, “should you be worse than your word?”

“I daresay it will seem silly, but the fact is I am homesick. I’m not accustomed to be away from mama for so long.”

“I hope it is not what occurred to-day at the picture-gallery.”

“I won’t deny that it is that in part.”

“That was a strange accident, you know, that might never occur again.”

“It has occurred twice already, Emily.”

“I don’t call the affair in the park anything. Anybody may see anybody else in the Park, of course. He was not brought so near you that he could annoy you there. You ought certainly to wait till Mr. Eames has come back from Italy.”

Then Lily decided that she must and would go back to Allington on the next Monday, and she actually did write a letter to her mother that night to say that such was her intention. But on the morrow her heart was less sore, and the letter was not sent.

CHAPTER LX

The End of Jael and Sisera

There was to be one more sitting for the picture, as the reader will remember, and the day for that sitting had arrived. Conway Dalrymple had in the meantime called at Mrs. Van Siever’s house, hoping that he might be able to see Clara, and make his offer there. But he had failed in his attempt to reach her. He had found it impossible to say all that he had to say in the painting-room during the very short intervals which Mrs. Broughton left to him. A man should be allowed to be alone more than fifteen minutes with a young lady on the occasion in which he offers to her his hand and his heart; but hitherto he had never had more than fifteen minutes at his command; and then there had been the turban! He had also in the meantime called on Mrs. Broughton, with the intention of explaining to her that if she really intended to favour his views in respect to Miss Van Siever, she ought to give him a little more liberty for expressing himself. On this occasion he had seen his friend, but had not been able to go as minutely as he wished into the matter that was so important to himself. Mrs. Broughton had found it necessary during this meeting to talk almost exclusively about herself and her own affairs. “Conway,” she had said, directly she saw him, “I am so glad you have come. I think I should have gone mad if I had not seen some one who cares for me.” This was early in the morning, not much after eleven, and Mrs. Broughton, hearing first his knock at the door, and then his voice, had met him in the hall and taken him into the dining-room.

“Is anything the matter?” he asked.

“Oh, Conway!”

“What is it? Has anything gone wrong with Dobbs?”

“Everything has gone wrong with him. He is ruined.”

“Heaven and earth! What do you mean?”

“Simply what I say. But you must not speak a word of it. I do not know it from himself.”

“How do you know it?”

“Wait a moment. Sit down there, will you?—and I will sit by you. No, Conway; do not take my hand. It is not right. There—so. Yesterday Mrs. Van Siever was here. I need not tell you all that she said to me, even if I could. She was very harsh and cruel, saying all manner of things about Dobbs. How can I help it, if he drinks? I have not encouraged him. And as for expensive living, I have been as ignorant as a child. I have never asked for anything. When we were married somebody told me how much we should have to spend. It was either two thousand, or three thousand, or four thousand, or something like that. You know, Conway, how ignorant I am about money—that I am like a child. Is it not true?” She waited for an answer and Dalrymple was obliged to acknowledge that it was true. And yet he had known the times in which his dear friend had been very sharp in her memory with reference to a few pounds. “And now she says that Dobbs owes her money which he cannot pay her, and that everything must be sold. She says that Musselboro must have the business, and that Dobbs must shift for himself elsewhere.”

“Do you believe that she has the power to decide that things shall go this way or that—as she pleases?”

“How am I to know? She says so, and she says it is because he drinks. He does drink. That at least is true; but how can I help it? Oh, Conway, what am I to do? Dobbs did not come home at all last night, but sent for his things—saying that he must stay in the City. What am I to do if they come and take the house, and sell the furniture, and turn me out into the street?” Then the poor creature began to cry in earnest, and Dalrymple had to console her as best he might. “How I wish I had known you first,” she said. To this Dalrymple was able to make no direct answer. He was wise enough to know that a direct answer might possibly lead him into terrible trouble. He was by no means anxious to find himself “protecting” Mrs. Dobbs Broughton from the ruin which her husband had brought upon her.

Before he left her she had told him a long story, partly of matters of which he had known something before, and partly made up of that which she had heard from the old woman. It was settled, Mrs. Broughton said, that Mr. Musselboro was to marry Clara Van Siever. But it appeared, as far as Dalrymple could learn, that this was a settlement made simply between Mrs. Van Siever and Musselboro. Clara, as he thought, was not a girl likely to fall into such a settlement without having an opinion of her own. Musselboro was to have the business, and Dobbs Broughton was to be “sold up”, and then look for employment in the City. From her husband the wife had not heard a word on the matter, and the above story was simply what had been told to Mrs. Broughton by Mrs. Van Siever. “For myself it seems that there can be but one fate,” said Mrs. Broughton. Dalrymple, in his tenderest voice, asked what that one fate must be. “Never mind,” said Mrs. Broughton. “There are some things which one cannot tell even to such a friend as you.” He was sitting near her and had all but got his arm behind her waist. He was, however, able to be prudent. “Maria,” he said, getting up on his feet, “if it should really come about that you should want anything, you will send to me. You will promise me that, at any rate?” She rubbed a tear from her eye and said that she did not know. “There are moments in which a man must speak plainly,” said Conway Dalrymple—”in which it would be unmanly not to do so, however prosaic it may seem. I need hardly tell you that my purse shall be yours if you want it.” But just at that moment she did not want his purse, nor must it be supposed that she wanted to run away with him and to leave her husband to fight the battle alone with Mrs. Van Siever. The truth was that she did not know what she wanted, over and beyond an assurance from Conway Dalrymple that she was the most ill-used, the most interesting, and the most beautiful woman ever heard of, either in history or romance. Had he proposed to her to pack up a bundle and go off with him in a cab to the London, Chatham and Dover railway station, I do not for a moment think that she would have packed up her bundle. She would have received intense gratification from the offer—so much so that she would have been almost consoled for her husband’s ruin; but she would have scolded her lover, and would have explained to him the great iniquity of which he was guilty.

It was clear to him that at this present time he could not make any special terms with her as to Clara Van Siever. At such a moment as this he could hardly ask her to keep out of the way, in order that he might have his opportunity. But when he suggested that probably it might be better, in the present emergency, to give up the idea of any further sitting in her room, and proposed to send for his canvas, colour-box, and easel, she told him that, as far as she was concerned, he was welcome to have that one other sitting for which they had all bargained. “You had better come to-morrow, as we had agreed,” she said; “and unless I shall have been turned out into the street by the creditors, you may have the room as you did before. And you must remember, Conway, that though Mrs. Van Siever says that Musselboro is to have Clara, it doesn’t follow that Clara should give way.” When we consider everything, we must acknowledge that this was, at any rate, good-natured. Then there was a tender parting, with many tears, and Conway Dalrymple escaped from the house.

He did not for a moment doubt the truth of the story which Mrs. Broughton had told, as far, at least, as it referred to the ruin of Dobbs Broughton. He had heard something of this before, and for some weeks had expected that a crash was coming. Broughton’s rise had been very sudden, and Dalrymple had never regarded his friend as firmly placed in the commercial world. Dobbs was one of those men who seem born to surprise the world by a spurt of prosperity, and might, perhaps, have a second spurt, or even a third, could he have kept himself from drinking in the morning. But Dalrymple, though he was hardly astonished by the story, as it regarded Broughton, was put out by that part of it which had reference to Musselboro. He had known that Musselboro had been introduced to Broughton by Mrs. Van Siever, but, nevertheless, he had regarded the man as being no more than Broughton’s clerk. And now he was told that Musselboro was to marry Clara Van Siever, and have all Mrs. Van Siever’s money. He resolved, at last, that he would run his risk about the money, and take Clara either with or without it, if she would have him. And as for that difficulty in asking her, if Mrs. Broughton would give him no opportunity of putting the question behind her back, he would put it before her face. He had not much leisure for consideration on these points, as the next day was the day for the last sitting.

On the following morning he found Miss Van Siever already seated in Mrs. Broughton’s room when he reached it. And at the moment Mrs. Broughton was not there. As he took Clara’s hand he could not prevent himself from asking her whether she had heard anything? “Heard what?” asked Clara. “Then you have not,” said he. “Never mind now, as Mrs. Broughton is here.” Then Mrs. Broughton had entered the room. She seemed to be quite cheerful, but Dalrymple perfectly understood, from a special glance which she gave to him, that he was to perceive that her cheerfulness was assumed for Clara’s benefit. Mrs. Broughton was showing how great a heroine she could be on behalf of her friends. “Now, my dear,” she said, “do remember that this is the last day. It may be very well, Conway, and, of course, you know best; but as far as I can see, you have not made half as much progress as you ought to have done.” “We shall do excellently well,” said Dalrymple. “So much the better,” said Mrs. Broughton; “and now, Clara, I’ll place you.” And so Clara was placed on her knees, with the turban on her head.

Dalrymple began his work assiduously, knowing that Mrs. Broughton would not leave the room for some minutes. It was certain that she would remain for a quarter of an hour, and it might be as well that he should really use that time on the picture. The peculiar position in which he was placed probably made his work difficult to him. There was something perplexing in the necessity which bound him to look upon the young lady before him both as Jael and as the future Mrs. Conway Dalrymple, knowing as he did that she was at present simply Clara Van Siever. A double personification was not difficult to him. He had encountered it with every model that had sat to him, and with every young lady he had attempted to win—if he had ever made such an attempt with one before. But the triple character, joined to the necessity of the double work, was distressing to him. “The hand a little further back, if you don’t mind,” he said, “and the wrist more turned towards me. That is just it. Lean a little more over him. There—that will do exactly.” If Mrs. Broughton did not go very quickly, he must begin to address his model on a totally different subject, even while she was in the act of slaying Sisera.

“Have you made up your mind who is to be Sisera?” asked Mrs. Broughton.

“I think I shall put in my own face,” said Dalrymple; “if Miss Van Siever does not object.

“Not in the least,” said Clara, speaking without moving her face—almost without moving her lips.

“That will be excellent,” said Mrs. Broughton. She was still quite cheerful, and really laughed as she spoke. “Shall you like the idea, Clara, of striking the nail right through his head?”

“Oh, yes; as well his head as another’s. I shall seem to be having my revenge for all the trouble he has given me.”

There was a slight pause, and then Dalrymple spoke. “You have had that already, in striking me right through the heart.”

“What a very pretty speech! Was it not, my dear?” said Mrs. Broughton. And then Mrs. Broughton laughed. There was something slightly hysterical in her laugh which grated on Dalrymple’s ears—something which seemed to tell him that at the present moment his dear friend was not going to assist him honestly in his effort.

“Only that I should put him out, I would get up and make a curtsey,” said Clara. No young lady could ever talk of making a curtsey for such a speech if she supposed it to have been made in earnestness. And Clara, no doubt, understood that a man might make a hundred such speeches in the presence of a third person without any danger that they would be taken as meaning anything. All this Dalrymple knew, and began to think that he had better put down his palette and brush, and do the work which he had before him in the most prosaic language that he could use. He could, at any rate, succeed in making Clara acknowledge his intention in this way. He waited still for a minute or two, and it seemed to him that Mrs. Broughton had no intention of piling her fagots on the present occasion. It might be that the remembrance of her husband’s ruin prevented her from sacrificing herself in the other direction also.

“I am not very good at pretty speeches, but I am good at telling the truth,” said Dalrymple.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mrs. Broughton, still with a touch of hysterical action in her throat. “Upon my word, Conway, you know how to praise yourself.”

“He dispraises himself most unnecessarily in denying the prettiness of his language,” said Clara. As she spoke she hardly moved her lips, and Dalrymple went on painting from the model. It was clear that Miss Van Siever understood that the painting, and not the pretty speeches, was the important business on hand.

Mrs. Broughton had now tucked her feet up on the sofa, and was gazing at the artist as he stood at his work. Dalrymple, remembering how he had offered her his purse—an offer which, in the existing crisis of her affairs, might mean a great deal—felt that she was ill-natured. Had she intended to do him a good turn, she would have gone now; but there she lay, with her feet tucked up, clearly proposing to be present through the whole of the morning’s sitting. His anger against her added something to his spirit, and made him determine that he would carry out his purpose. Suddenly, therefore, he prepared himself for action.

He was in the habit of working with a Turkish cap on his head, and with a short apron tied round him. There was something picturesque about the cap, which might not have been incongruous with love-making. It is easy to suppose that Juan wore a Turkish cap when he sat with Haidee in Lambro’s island. But we may be quite sure that he did not wear an apron. Now Dalrymple had thought of all this, and had made up his mind to work to-day without his apron; but when arranging his easel and his brushes, he had put it on from the force of habit, and was now disgusted with himself as he remembered it. He put down his brush, divested his thumb of his palette, then took off his cap, and after that untied the apron.