But there was certainly something wrong over and beyond the Dalrymple difficulty. The servants were not as civil as they used to be, and her husband, when she suggested to him a little dinner-party, snubbed her most unmercifully. The giving of dinner-parties had been his glory, and she had made the suggestion simply with the view of pleasing him. “If the world were going round the wrong way, a woman would still want a party,” he had said, sneering at her. “It was of you I was thinking, Dobbs,” she replied; “not of myself. I care little for such gatherings.” After that she retired to her own room with a romantic tear in each eye, and told herself that, had chance thrown Conway Dalrymple into her way before she had seen Dobbs Broughton, she would have been the happiest woman in the world. She sat for a while looking into vacancy, and thinking that it would be very nice to break her heart. How should she set about it? Should she take to her bed and grow thin? She would begin by eating no dinner for ever so may days together. At lunch her husband was never present, and therefore the broken heart could be displayed at dinner without much positive suffering. In the meantime she would implore Conway Dalrymple to get himself married with as little delay as possible, and she would lay upon him her positive order to restrain himself from any word of affection addressed to herself. She, at any rate, would be pure, high-minded, and self-sacrificing—although romantic and poetic also, as was her nature.
The picture was progressing, and so also, as it had come about, was the love-affair between the artist and his model. Conway Dalrymple had begun to think that he might, after all, do worse than make Clara Van Siever his wife. Clara Van Siever was handsome, and undoubtedly clever, and Clara Van Siever’s mother was certainly rich. And, in addition to this, the young lady herself began to like the man into whose society she was thrown. The affair seemed to flourish, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton should have been delighted. She told Clara, with a very serious air, that she was delighted, bidding Clara, at the same time, to be very cautious, as men were so fickle, and as Conway Dalrymple, though the best fellow in the world, was not, perhaps, altogether free from that common vice of men. Indeed, it might have been surmised, from a word or two which Mrs. Broughton allowed to escape, that she considered poor Conway to be more than ordinarily afflicted in that way. Miss Van Siever at first only pouted, and said that there was nothing in it. “There is something in it, my dear, certainly,” said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton; “and there can be no earthly reason why there should not be a great deal in it.” “There is nothing in it,” said Miss Van Siever, impetuously; “and if you will continue to speak of Mr. Dalrymple in that way, I must give up the picture.” “As for that,” said Mrs. Broughton, “I conceive that we are both of us bound to the young man now, seeing that he has given so much time to the work.” “I am not bound to him at all,” said Miss Van Siever.
Mrs. Broughton also told Conway Dalrymple that she was delighted—oh, so much delighted! He had obtained permission to come in one morning before the time of sitting, so that he might work at his canvas independently of his model. As was his custom, he made his own way upstairs and commenced his work alone—having been expressly told by Mrs. Broughton that she would not come to him till she brought Clara with her. But she did go up to the room in which the artist was painting, without waiting for Miss Van Siever. Indeed, she was at this time so anxious as to the future welfare of her two young friends that she could not restrain herself from speaking either to the one or to the other, whenever any opportunity for such speech came round. To have left Conway Dalrymple at work upstairs without going to him was impossible to her. So she went, and then took the opportunity of expressing to her friend her ideas as to his past and future conduct.
“Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed,” she said, standing before the easel, and looking at the half-completed work. “I do not know that you ever did anything better.”
“I never can tell myself till a picture is finished whether it is going to be good or not,” said Dalrymple, thinking really of his picture and of nothing else.
“I am sure this will be good,” she said, “and I suppose it is because you have thrown so much heart into it. It is not mere industry that will produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even genius; more than this is required. The heart of the artist must be thrust with all its gushing tides into the performance.” By this time he knew all the tones of her voice and their various meanings, and immediately became aware that at the present moment she was intent upon something beyond the picture. She was preparing for a little scene, and was going to give him some advice. He understood it all, but as he was really desirous of working at his canvas, and was rather averse to having a scene at the moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her. “It is the heart that gives success,” she said, while he was considering how he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for the occasion.
“Not at all, Mrs. Broughton; success depends on elbow-grease.”
“On what, Conway?”
“On elbow-grease—hard work, that is—and I must work hard now if I mean to take advantage of to-day’s sitting. The truth is, I don’t give enough hours of work to it.” And he leaned upon his stick, and daubed away briskly at the background, and then stood for a moment looking at his canvas with his head a little on one side, as though he could not withdraw his attention for a moment from the thing he was doing.
“You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should not speak to you.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Broughton, I did not mean that at all.”
“I won’t interrupt you at your work. What I have to say is perhaps of no great moment. Indeed, words between you and me never can have much importance now. Can they, Conway?”
“I don’t see that at all,” said he, still working away with his brush.
“Do you not? I do. They should never amount to more—they can never amount to more than the common ordinary courtesies of life; what I call the greetings and good-byings of conversation.” She said this in a low, melancholy tone of voice, not intending to be in any degree jocose. “How seldom is it that conversation between ordinary friends goes beyond that.”
“Don’t you think it does?” said Conway, stepping back and taking another look at his picture. “I find myself talking to all manner of people about all manner of things.”
“You are different from me. I cannot talk to all manner of people.”
“Politics, you know, and art, and a little scandal, and the wars, with a dozen other things, make talking easy enough, I think. I grant you this, that it is very often a great bore. Hardly a day passes that I don’t wish to cut out somebody’s tongue.”
“Do you wish to cut out my tongue, Conway?”
He began to perceive that she was determined to talk about herself, and that there was no remedy. He dreaded it, not because he did not like the woman, but from a conviction that she was going to make some comparison between herself and Clara Van Siever. In his ordinary humour he liked a little pretence at romance, and was rather good at that sort of love-making which in truth means anything but love. But just now he was really thinking of matrimony, and had on this very morning acknowledged to himself that he had become sufficiently attached to Clara Van Siever to justify him in asking her to be his wife. In his present mood he was not anxious for one of those tilts with blunted swords and half-severed lances in the lists of Cupid of which Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was so fond. Nevertheless, if she insisted that he should now descend into the arena and go through the paraphernalia of a mock tournament, he must obey her. It is the hardship of men that when called upon by women for romance, they are bound to be romantic, whether the opportunity serves them or not. A man must produce romance, or at least submit to it, when duly summoned, even though he should have a sore throat or a headache. He is a brute if he decline such an encounter—and feels that, should he so decline persistently, he will ever after be treated as a brute. There are many Potiphar’s wives who never dream of any mischief, and Josephs who are very anxious to escape, though they ar
e asked to return only whisper for whisper. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had asked him whether he wished that her tongue should be cut out, and he had of course replied that her words had always been a joy to him—never a trouble. It occurred to him as he made his little speech that it would only have served her right if he had answered her quite in another strain; but she was a woman, and was young and pretty, and was entitled to flattery. “They have always been a joy to me,” he said, repeating his last words as he strove to continue his work.
“A deadly joy,” she replied, not quite knowing what she herself meant. “A deadly joy, Conway. I wish with all my heart that we had never known each other.”
“I do not. I will never wish away the happiness of my life, even should it be followed by misery.”
“You are a man, and if trouble comes upon you, you can bear it on your own shoulders. A woman suffers more, just because another’s shoulders may have to bear the burden.”
“When she has got a husband, you mean?”
“Yes—when she has a husband.”
“It’s the same with a man when he has a wife.” Hitherto the conversation had had so much of milk-and-water in its composition that Dalrymple found himself able to keep it up and go on with his background at the same time. If she could only be kept in the same dim cloud of sentiment, if the hot rays of the sun of romance could be kept from breaking through the mist till Miss Van Siever should come, it might still be well. He had known her to wander about within the clouds for an hour together, without being able to find her way into the light. “It’s all the same with a man when he has got a wife,” he said. “Of course one has to suffer for two, when one, so to say, is two.”
“And what happens when one has to suffer for three?” she asked.
“You mean when a woman has children?”
“I mean nothing of the kind, Conway; and you must know that I do not, unless your feelings are indeed blunted. But worldly success has, I suppose, blunted them.”
“I rather fancy not,” he said. “I think they are pretty nearly as sharp as ever.”
“I know mine are. Oh, how I wish I could rid myself of them! But it cannot be done. Age will not blunt them—I am sure of that,” said Mrs. Broughton. “I wish it would.”
He had determined not to talk about herself if the subject could be in any way avoided; but now he felt that he was driven up into a corner—now he was forced to speak to her of her own personality. “You have no experience yet as to that. How can you say what age will do?”
“Age does not go by years,” said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. “We all know that. ‘His hair was grey, but not with years.’ Look here, Conway,” and she moved back her tresses from off her temples to show him that there were grey hairs behind. He did not see them; and had they been very visible she might not perhaps have been so ready to exhibit them. “No one can say that length of years has blanched them. I have no secrets from you about my age. One should not be grey before one has reached thirty.”
“I did not see a changed hair.”
“‘Twas the fault of your eyes, then, for there are plenty of them. And what is it has made them grey?”
“They say hot rooms will do it.”
“Hot rooms! No, Conway, it does not come from heated atmosphere. It comes from a cold heart, a chilled heart, a frozen heart, a heart that is all ice.” She was getting out of the cloud into the heat now, and he could only hope that Miss Van Siever would come soon. “The world is beginning with you, Conway, and you are as old as I am. It is ending with me, and yet I am as young as you are. But I do not know why I talk of all this. It is simply folly—utter folly. I had not meant to speak of myself; but I did wish to say a few words to you of your own future. I suppose I may still speak to you as a friend?”
“I hope you will always do that.”
“Nay—I will make no such promise. That I will always have a friend’s feeling for you, a friend’s interest in your welfare, a friend’s triumph in your success—that I will promise. But friendly words, Conway, are sometimes misunderstood.”
“Never by me,” said he.
“No, not by you—certainly not by you. I did not mean that. I did not expect that you should misinterpret them.” Then she laughed hysterically—a little low, gurgling, hysterical laugh; and after that she wiped her eyes, and then she smiled, and then she put her hand very gently upon his shoulder. “Thank God, Conway, we are quite safe there—are we not?”
He had made a blunder, and it was necessary that he should correct it. His watch was lying in the trough of his easel, and he looked at it and wondered why Miss Van Siever was not there. He had tripped, and he must make a little struggle and recover his step. “As I said before, it shall never be misunderstood by me. I have never been vain enough to suppose for a moment that there was any other feeling—not for a moment. You women can be so careful, while we men are always off our guard! A man loves because he cannot help it; but a woman has been careful, and answers him—with friendship. Perhaps I am wrong to say that I never thought of winning anything more; but I never think of winning more now.” Why the mischief didn’t Miss Van Siever come! In another five minutes, despite himself, he would be on his knees, making a mock declaration, and she would be pouring forth the vial of her mock wrath, or giving him mock counsel as to the restraint of his passion. He had gone through it all before, and was tired of it; but for his life he did not know how to help himself.
“Conway,” said she, gravely, “how dare you address me in such language.”
“Of course it is very wrong; I know that.”
“I’m not speaking of myself now. I have learned to think so little of myself, as even to be indifferent to the feeling of the injury you are doing me. My life is a blank, and I almost think that nothing can hurt me further. I have not heart left enough to break; no, not enough to be broken. It is not of myself that I am thinking, when I ask you how you dare to address my in such language. Do you not know that it is an injury to another?”
“To what other?” asked Conway Dalrymple, whose mind was becoming rather confused, and who was not quite sure whether the other one was Mr. Dobbs Broughton, or somebody else.
“To that poor girl who is coming here now, who is devoted to you, and to whom, I do not doubt, you have uttered words which ought to have made it impossible for you to speak to me as you spoke not a moment since.”
Things were becoming very grave and difficult. They would have been very grave, indeed, had not some god saved him by sending Miss Van Siever to his rescue at this moment. He was beginning to think what he would say in answer to the accusation now made, when his eager ear caught the sound of her step upon the stairs; and before the pause in the conversation which the circumstances admitted had given place to the necessity for further speech, Miss Van Siever had knocked at the door and had entered the room. He was rejoiced, and I think that Mrs. Broughton did not regret the interference. It is always well that these little dangerous scenes should be brought to sudden ends. The last details of such romances, if drawn out to their natural conclusions, are apt to be uncomfortable, if not dull. She did not want him to go down on his knees, knowing that the getting up again is always awkward.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 337
