The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXXV.

  MADALINA'S HEART IS BLEEDING.

  John Eames, as soon as he had left Mrs. Arabin at the hotel and hadtaken his travelling-bag to his own lodgings, started off for hisuncle Toogood's house. There he found Mrs. Toogood, not in the mostserene state of mind as to her husband's absence. Mr. Toogood hadnow been at Barchester for the best part of a week,--spending a gooddeal of money at the inn. Mrs. Toogood was quite sure that he mustbe doing that. Indeed, how could he help himself? Johnny remarkedthat he did not see how in such circumstances his uncle was to helphimself. And then Mr. Toogood had only written one short scrap of aletter,--just three words, and they were written in triumph. "Crawleyis all right, and I think I've got the real Simon Pure by the heels.""It's all very well, John," Mrs. Toogood said; "and of course itwould be a terrible thing to the family if anybody connected withit were made out to be a thief." "It would be quite dreadful," saidJohnny. "Not that I ever looked upon the Crawleys as connections ofours. But, however, let that pass. I'm sure I'm very glad that youruncle should have been able to be of service to them. But there'sreason in the roasting of eggs, and I can tell you that money isnot so plenty in this house, that your uncle can afford to throw itinto the Barchester gutters. Think what twelve children are, John.It might be all very well if Toogood were a bachelor, and if somelord had left him a fortune." John Eames did not stay very long inTavistock Square. His cousins Polly and Lucy were gone to the playwith Mr. Summerkin, and his aunt was not in one of her best humours.He took his uncle's part as well as he could, and then left Mrs.Toogood. The little allusion to Lord De Guest's generosity had notbeen pleasant to him. It seemed to rob him of all his own merit. Hehad been rather proud of his journey to Italy, having contrived tospend nearly forty pounds in ten days. He had done everything in themost expensive way, feeling that every napoleon wasted had been laidout on behalf of Mr. Crawley. But, as Mrs. Toogood had just toldhim, all this was nothing to what Toogood was doing. Toogood withtwelve children was living at his own charges at Barchester, andwas neglecting his business besides. "There's Mr. Crump," said Mrs.Toogood. "Of course he doesn't like it, and what can I say to himwhen he comes to me?" This was not quite fair on the part of Mrs.Toogood, as Mr. Crump had not troubled her even once as yet since herhusband's departure.

  What was Johnny to do, when he left Tavistock Square? His club wasopen to him. Should he go to his club, play a game of billiards, andhave some supper? When he asked himself the question he knew that hewould not go to his club, and yet he pretended to doubt about it, ashe made his way to a cabstand in Tottenham Court Road. It would beslow, he told himself, to go to his club. He would have gone to seeLily Dale, only that his intimacy with Mrs. Thorne was not sufficientto justify his calling at her house between nine and ten o'clock atnight. But, as he must go somewhere,--and as his intimacy with LadyDemolines was, he thought, sufficient to justify almost anything,--hewould go to Bayswater. I regret to say that he had written amysterious note from Paris to Madalina Demolines, saying that heshould be in London on this very night, and that it was just on thecards that he might make his way up to Porchester Terrace beforehe went to bed. The note was mysterious, because it had neitherbeginning nor ending. It did not contain even initials. It waswritten like a telegraph message, and was about as long. It was thekind of thing Miss Demolines liked, Johnny thought; and there couldbe no reason why he should not gratify her. It was her favouritegame. Some people like whist, some like croquet, and some likeintrigue. Madalina would probably have called it romance,--because bynature she was romantic. John, who was made of sterner stuff, laughedat this. He knew that there was no romance in it. He knew that hewas only amusing himself, and gratifying her at the same time, bya little innocent pretence. He told himself that it was his natureto prefer the society of women to that of men. He would have likedthe society of Lily Dale, no doubt, much better than that of MissDemolines; but as the society of Lily Dale was not to be had at thatmoment, the society of Miss Demolines was the best substitute withinhis reach. So he got into a cab and had himself driven to PorchesterTerrace. "Is Lady Demolines at home?" he said to the servant. Healways asked for Lady Demolines. But the page who was accustomed toopen the door for him was less false, being young, and would nowtell him, without any further fiction, that Miss Madalina was inthe drawing-room. Such was the answer he got from the page on thisevening. What Madalina did with her mother on these occasions he hadnever yet discovered. There used to be some little excuses givenabout Lady Demolines' state of health, but latterly Madalina haddiscontinued her references to her mother's headaches. She wasstanding in the centre of the drawing-room when he entered it, withboth her hands raised, and an almost terrible expression of mysteryin her face. Her hair, however, had been very carefully arrangedso as to fall with copious carelessness down her shoulders, andaltogether she was looking her best. "Oh, John," she said. She calledhim John by accident in the tumult of the moment. "Have you heardwhat has happened? But of course you have heard it."

  "Heard what? I have heard nothing," said Johnny, arrested almostin the doorway by the nature of the question,--and partly also, nodoubt, by the tumult of the moment. He had no idea how terriblea tragedy was in truth in store for him; but he perceived thatthe moment was to be tumultuous, and that he must carry himselfaccordingly.

  "Come in, and close the door," she said. He came in and closed thedoor. "Do you mean to say that you haven't heard what has happened inHook Court?"

  "No;--what has happened in Hook Court?" Miss Demolines threw herselfback into an arm-chair, closed her eyes, and clasped both her handsupon her forehead. "What has happened in Hook Court?" said Johnny,walking up to her.

  "I do not think I can bring myself to tell you," she answered.

  Then he took one of her hands down from her forehead and held it inhis,--which she allowed passively. She was thinking, no doubt, ofsomething far different from that.

  "I never saw you looking better in my life," said Johnny.

  "Don't," said she. "How can you talk in that way, when my heartis bleeding,--bleeding." Then she pulled away her hand, and againclasped it with the other upon her forehead.

  "But why is your heart bleeding? What has happened in Hook Court?"Still she answered nothing, but she sobbed violently and the heavingof her bosom showed how tumultuous was the tumult within it. "Youdon't mean to say that Dobbs Broughton has come to grief;--that he'sto be sold out?"

  "Man," said Madalina, jumping from her chair, standing at her fullheight, and stretching out both her arms, "he has destroyed himself!"The revelation was at last made with so much tragic propriety, inso excellent a tone, and with such an absence of all the customaryredundances of commonplace relation, that I think that she must haverehearsed the scene,--either with her mother or with the page. Thenthere was a minute's silence, during which she did not move even aneyelid. She held her outstretched hands without dropping a fingerhalf an inch. Her face was thrust forward, her chin projecting, withtragic horror; but there was no vacillation even in her chin. She didnot wink an eye, or alter to the breadth of a hair the aperture ofher lips. Surely she was a great genius if she did it all withoutprevious rehearsal. Then, before he had thought of words in which toanswer her, she let her hands fall by her side, she closed her eyes,and shook her head, and fell back again into her chair. "It is toohorrible to be spoken of,--to be thought about," she said. "I couldnot have brought myself to tell the tale to a living being,--exceptto you."

  This would naturally have been flattering to Johnny had it not beenthat he was in truth absorbed by the story which he had heard.

  "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that Broughton has--committedsuicide?" She could not speak of it again, but nodded her head at himthrice, while her eyes were still closed. "And how was the manner ofit?" said he, asking the question in a low voice. He could not evenas yet quite bring himself to believe it. Madalina was so fond of alittle playful intrigue, that even this story might have something init of the nature of fiction. He was not quite sure of the f
acts, andyet he was shocked by what he had heard.

  "Would you have me repeat to you all the bloody details of thatterrible scene?" she said. "It is impossible. Go to your friendDalrymple. He will tell you. He knows it all. He has been with Mariaall through. I wish,--I wish it had not been so." But neverthelessshe did bring herself to narrate all the details with something moreof circumstance than Eames desired. She soon succeeded in making himunderstand that the tragedy of Hook Court was a reality, and thatpoor Dobbs Broughton had brought his career to an untimely end. Shehad heard everything,--having indeed gone to Musselboro in the City,and having penetrated even to the sanctum of Mr. Bangles. To Mr.Bangles she had explained that she was bosom-friend of the widowof the unfortunate man, and that it was her miserable duty to makeherself the mistress of all the circumstances. Mr. Bangles,--thereader may remember him, Burton and Bangles, who kept the storesfor Himalaya wines at 22_s._ 6_d._ the dozen, in Hook Court,--was abachelor, and rather liked the visit, and told Miss Demolines veryfreely all he had seen. And when she suggested that it might beexpedient for the sake of the family that she should come back toMr. Bangles for further information at a subsequent period, he verypolitely assured her that she would "do him proud," whenever shemight please to call in Hook Court. And then he saw her into LombardStreet, and put her into an omnibus. She was therefore well qualifiedto tell Johnny all the particulars of the tragedy,--and she didso far overcome her horror as to tell them all. She told her talesomewhat after the manner of Aeneas, not forgetting the "quorum parsmagna fui." "I feel that it almost makes an old woman of me," saidshe, when she had finished.

  "No," said Johnny, remonstrating;--"not that."

  "But it does. To have been concerned in so terrible a tragedy takesmore of life out of one than years of tranquil existence." As shehad told him nothing of her intercourse with Bangles,--with Bangleswho had literally picked the poor wretch up,--he did not see howshe herself had been concerned in the matter; but he said nothingabout that, knowing the character of his Madalina. "I shallsee--that--body, floating before my eyes while I live," she said,"and the gory wound, and,--and--" "Don't," said Johnny, recoiling intruth from the picture, by which he was revolted. "Never again," shesaid; "never again! But you forced it from me, and now I shall notclose my eyes for a week."

  She then became very comfortably confidential, and discussedthe affairs of poor Mrs. Dobbs Broughton with a great deal ofsatisfaction. "I went to see her, of course, but she sent me downword to say that the shock would be too much for her. I do not wonderthat she should not see me. Poor Maria! She came to me for advice,you know, when Dobbs Broughton first proposed to her; and I wasobliged to tell her what I really thought. I knew her character sowell! 'Dear Maria,' I said, 'if you think that you can love him, takehim!' 'I think I can,' she replied. 'But,' said I, 'make yourselfquite sure about the business.' And how has it turned out? Shenever loved him. What heart she has she has given to that wretchedDalrymple."

  "I don't see that he is particularly wretched," said Johnny, pleadingfor his friend.

  "He is wretched, and so you'll find. She gave him her heart aftergiving her hand to poor Dobbs; and as for the business, there isn'tas much left as will pay for her mourning. I don't wonder that shecould not bring herself to see me."

  "And what has become of the business?"

  "It belongs to Mrs. Van Siever,--to her and Musselboro. PoorBroughton had some little money, and it has gone among them.Musselboro, who never had a penny, will be a rich man. Of course youknow that he is going to marry Clara?"

  "Nonsense!"

  "I always told you that it would be so. And now you may perhapsacknowledge that Conway Dalrymple's prospects are not very brilliant.I hope he likes being cut out by Mr. Musselboro! Of course he willhave to marry Maria. I do not see how he can escape. Indeed, she istoo good for him;--only after such a marriage as that, there would bean end to all his prospects as an artist. The best thing for themwould be to go to New Zealand."

  John Eames certainly liked these evenings with Miss Demolines. He satat his ease in a comfortable chair, and amused himself by watchingher different little plots. And then she had bright eyes, and sheflattered him, and allowed him to scold her occasionally. And nowand again there might be some more potent attraction, when she wouldadmit him to take her hand,--or the like. It was better than to sitsmoking with men at the club. But he could not sit all night evenwith Madalina Demolines, and at eleven he got up to take his leave."When shall you see Miss Dale?" she asked him suddenly.

  "I do not know," he answered, frowning at her. He always frowned ather when she spoke to him of Miss Dale.

  "I do not in the least care for your frowns," she said playfully,putting up her hands to smooth his brows. "I think I know youintimately enough to name your goddess to you."

  "She isn't my goddess."

  "A very cold goddess, I should think, from what I hear. I wish to askyou for a promise respecting her."

  "What promise?"

  "Will you grant it me?"

  "How can I tell till I hear?"

  "You must promise me not to speak of me to her when you see her."

  "But why must I promise that?"

  "Promise me."

  "Not unless you tell me why." Johnny had already assured himself thatnothing could be more improbable than that he should mention the nameof Miss Demolines to Lily Dale.

  "Very well, sir. Then you may go. And I must say that unless you cancomply with so slight a request as that, I shall not care to see youhere again. Mr. Eames, why should you want to speak evil of me toMiss Dale?"

  "I do not want to speak evil of you."

  "I know that you could not speak of me to her without at leastridicule. Come, promise me. You shall come here on Thursday evening,and I will tell you why I have asked you."

  "Tell me now."

  She hesitated a moment, and then shook her head. "No. I cannot tellyou now. My heart is still bleeding with the memory of that poorman's fate. I will not tell you now. And yet it is now that you mustgive me the promise. Will you not trust me so far as that?"

  "I will not speak of you to Miss Dale."

  "There is my own friend! And now, John, mind you are here athalf-past eight on Thursday. Punctually at half-past eight. There isa thing I have to tell you, which I will tell you then if you willcome. I had thought to have told you to-day."

  "And why not now?"

  "I cannot. My feelings are too many for me. I should never go throughwith it after all that has passed between us about poor Broughton.I should break down; indeed I should. Go now, for I am tired." Then,having probably taken a momentary advantage of that more potentattraction to which we have before alluded, he left the room verysuddenly.

  He left the room very suddenly because Madalina's movements had beenso sudden, and her words so full of impulse. He had become awarethat in this little game which he was playing in Porchester Terraceeverything ought to be done after some unaccustomed and specialfashion. So,--having clasped Madalina for one moment in his arms,--hemade a rush at the room door, and was out on the landing in a second.He was a little too quick for old Lady Demolines, the skirt of whosenight-dress,--as it seemed to Johnny,--he saw whisking away, in atanother door. It was nothing, however, to him if old Lady Demolines,who was always too ill to be seen, chose to roam about her own housein her night-dress.

  When he found himself alone in the street, his mind reverted to DobbsBroughton and the fate of the wretched man, and he sauntered slowlydown Palace Gardens, that he might look at the house in which he haddined with a man who had destroyed himself by his own hands. He stoodfor a moment looking up at the windows, in which there was now nolight, thinking of the poor woman whom he had seen in the midst ofluxury, and who was now left a widow in such miserable circumstances!As for the suggestion that his friend Conway would marry her, he didnot believe it for a moment. He knew too well what the suggestions ofhis Madalina were worth, and the motives from which they sprung. Buthe thought it might be true that Mrs. Van Siever had
absorbed allthere was of property, and possibly, also, that Musselboro was tomarry her daughter. At any rate, he would go to Dalrymple's rooms,and if he could find him, would learn the truth. He knew enough ofDalrymple's ways of life, and of the ways of his friend's chambersand studio, to care nothing for the lateness of the hour, and in avery few minutes he was sitting in Dalrymple's arm-chair. He foundSiph Dunn there, smoking in unperturbed tranquillity, and as long asthat lasted he could ask no questions about Mrs. Broughton. He toldthem, therefore, of his adventures abroad, and of Crawley's escape.But at last, having finished his third pipe, Siph Dunn took hisleave.

  "Tell me," said John, as soon as Dunn had closed the door, "what isthis I hear about Dobbs Broughton?"

  "He has blown his brains out. That is all."

  "How terribly shocking!"

  "Yes; it shocked us all at first. We are used to it now."

  "And the business?"

  "That had gone to the dogs. They say at least that his share of ithad done so."

  "And he was ruined?"

  "They say so. That is, Musselboro says so, and Mrs. Van Siever."

  "And what do you say, Conway?"

  "The less I say the better. I have my hopes,--only you're such atalkative fellow, one can't trust you."

  "I never told any secret of yours, old fellow."

  "Well;--the fact is, I have an idea that something may be saved forthe poor woman. I think that they are wronging her. Of course allI can do is to put the matter into a lawyer's hands, and pay thelawyer's bill. So I went to your cousin, and he has taken the caseup. I hope he won't ruin me."

  "Then I suppose you are quarrelling with Mrs. Van?"

  "That doesn't matter. She has quarrelled with me."

  "And what about Jael, Conway? They tell me that Jael is going tobecome Mrs. Musselboro."

  "Who has told you that?"

  "A bird."

  "Yes; I know who the bird is. I don't think that Jael will becomeMrs. Musselboro. I don't think that Jael would become Mrs.Musselboro, if Jael were the only woman, and Musselboro the onlyman in London. To tell you a little bit of secret, Johnny, I thinkthat Jael will become the wife of one Conway Dalrymple. That is myopinion and as far as I can judge, it is the opinion of Jael also."

  "But not the opinion of Mrs. Van. The bird told me another thing,Conway."

  "What was the other thing?"

  "The bird hinted that all this would end in your marrying the widowof that poor wretch who destroyed himself."

  "Johnny, my boy," said the artist, after a moment's silence, "if Igive you a bit of advice, will you profit by it?"

  "I'll try, if it's not disagreeable."

  "Whether you profit by it, or whether you do not, keep it toyourself. I know the bird better than you do, and I strongly cautionyou to beware of the bird. The bird is a bird of prey, and altogetheran unclean bird. The bird wants a mate and doesn't much care how shefinds one. And the bird wants money, and doesn't much care how shegets it. The bird is a decidedly bad bird, and not at all fit to takethe place of domestic hen in a decent farmyard. In plain English,Johnny, you'll find some day, if you go over too often to PorchesterTerrace, either that you are going to marry the bird, or else thatyou are employing your cousin Toogood for your defence in an actionfor breach of promise, brought against you by that venerable oldbird, the bird's mamma."

  "If it's to be either, it will be the latter," said Johnny as he tookup his hat to go away.