The Last Chronicle of Barset

  CHAPTER LI.

  MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON PILES HER FAGOTS.

  The picture still progressed up in Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's room, andthe secret was still kept, or supposed to be kept. Miss Van Sieverwas, at any rate, certain that her mother had heard nothing of it,and Mrs. Broughton reported from day to day that her husband had notas yet interfered. Nevertheless, there was in these days a greatgloom upon the Dobbs Broughton household, so much so that ConwayDalrymple had more than once suggested to Mrs. Broughton that thework should be discontinued. But the mistress of the house would notconsent to this. In answer to these offers, she was wont to declarein somewhat mysterious language, that any misery coming upon herselfwas matter of moment to nobody,--hardly even to herself, as she wasquite prepared to encounter moral and social death without delay, ifnot an absolute physical demise; as to which latter alternative, sheseemed to think that even that might not be so far distant as somepeople chose to believe. What was the cause of the gloom over thehouse neither Conway Dalrymple nor Miss Van Siever understood, andto speak the truth Mrs. Broughton did not quite understand the causeherself. She knew well enough, no doubt, that her husband came homealways sullen, and sometimes tipsy, and that things were not goingwell in the City. She had never understood much about the City, beingsatisfied with an assurance that had come to her in early days fromher friends, that there was a mine of wealth in Hook Court, fromwhence would always come for her use, house and furniture, a carriageand horses, dresses and jewels, which latter, if not quite real,should be manufactured of the best sham substitute known. Soon afterher brilliant marriage with Mr. Dobbs Broughton, she had discoveredthat the carriage and horses, and the sham jewels, did not lift herso completely into a terrestrial paradise as she had taught herselfto expect that they would do. Her brilliant drawing-room, with DobbsBroughton for a companion, was not an elysium. But though she hadfound out early in her married life that something was still wantingto her, she had by no means confessed to herself that the carriageand horses and sham jewels were bad, and it can hardly be said thatshe had repented. She had endeavoured to patch up matters with alittle romance, and then had fallen upon Conway Dalrymple,--meaningno harm. Indeed, love with her, as it never could have meant muchgood, was not likely to mean much harm. That somebody should pretendto love her, to which pretence she might reply by a pretence offriendship,--this was the little excitement which she craved, and bywhich she had once flattered herself that something of an elysiummight yet be created for her. Mr. Dobbs Broughton had unreasonablyexpressed a dislike to this innocent amusement,--very unreasonably,knowing, as he ought to have known, that he himself did so verylittle towards providing the necessary elysium by any qualities ofhis own. For a few weeks this interference from her husband hadenhanced the amusement, giving an additional excitement to the game.She felt herself to be a woman misunderstood and ill-used; and tosome women there is nothing so charming as a little mild ill-usage,which does not interfere with their creature comforts, with theirclothes, or their carriage, or their sham jewels; but suffices toafford them the indulgence of a grievance. Of late, however, Mr.Dobbs Broughton had become a little too rough in his language, andthings had gone uncomfortably. She suspected that Conway Dalrymplewas not the only cause of all this. She had an idea that Mr.Musselboro and Mrs. Van Siever had it in their power to makethemselves unpleasant, and that they were exercising this power. Ofhis business in the City her husband never spoke to her, nor she tohim. Her own fortune had been very small, some couple of thousandpounds or so, and she conceived that she had no pretext on which shecould, unasked, interrogate him about his money. She had no knowledgethat marriage of itself had given her the right to such interference;and had such knowledge been hers she would have had no desire tointerfere. She hoped that the carriage and sham jewels would becontinued to her; but she did not know how to frame any question onthe subject. Touching the other difficulty,--the Conway Dalrympledifficulty,--she had her ideas. The tenderness of her friendship hadbeen trodden upon and outraged by the rough foot of an overbearinghusband, and she was ill-used. She would obey. It was becoming to heras a wife that she should submit. She would give up Conway Dalrymple,and would induce him,--in spite of his violent attachment toherself,--to take a wife. She herself would choose a wife for him.She herself would, with suicidal hands, destroy the romance of herown life, since an overbearing, brutal husband demanded that itshould be destroyed. She would sacrifice her own feelings, and do allin her power to bring Conway Dalrymple and Clara Van Siever together.If, after that, some poet did not immortalize her friendship inByronic verse, she certainly would not get her due. Perhaps ConwayDalrymple would himself become a poet in order that this might bedone properly. For it must be understood that, though she expectedConway Dalrymple to marry, she expected also that he should beByronically wretched after his marriage on account of his love forherself.

  But there was certainly something wrong over and beyond the Dalrympledifficulty. The servants were not as civil as they used to be, andher husband, when she suggested to him a little dinner-party, snubbedher most unmercifully. The giving of dinner-parties had been hisglory, and she had made the suggestion simply with the view ofpleasing him. "If the world were going round the wrong way, a womanwould still want a party," he had said, sneering at her. "It wasof you I was thinking, Dobbs," she replied; "not of myself. I carelittle for such gatherings." After that she retired to her own roomwith a romantic tear in each eye, and told herself that, had chancethrown Conway Dalrymple into her way before she had seen DobbsBroughton, she would have been the happiest woman in the world. Shesat for a while looking into vacancy, and thinking that it would bevery nice to break her heart. How should she set about it? Shouldshe take to her bed and grow thin? She would begin by eating nodinner for ever so many days together. At lunch her husband was neverpresent, and therefore the broken heart could be displayed at dinnerwithout much positive suffering. In the meantime she would imploreConway Dalrymple to get himself married with as little delay aspossible, and she would lay upon him her positive order to restrainhimself from any word of affection addressed to herself. She, at anyrate, would be pure, high-minded, and self-sacrificing,--althoughromantic and poetic also, as was her nature.

  The picture was progressing, and so also, as it had come about, wasthe love-affair between the artist and his model. Conway Dalrymplehad begun to think that he might, after all, do worse than make ClaraVan Siever his wife. Clara Van Siever was handsome, and undoubtedlyclever, and Clara Van Siever's mother was certainly rich. And, inaddition to this, the young lady herself began to like the man intowhose society she was thrown. The affair seemed to flourish, and Mrs.Dobbs Broughton should have been delighted. She told Clara, with avery serious air, that she was delighted, bidding Clara, at the sametime, to be very cautious, as men were so fickle, and as Conway,though the best fellow in the world, was not, perhaps, altogetherfree from that common vice of men. Indeed, it might have beensurmised, from a word or two which Mrs. Broughton allowed to escape,that she considered poor Conway to be more than ordinarily afflictedin that way. Miss Van Siever at first only pouted, and said thatthere was nothing in it. "There is something in it, my dear,certainly," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton "and there can be no earthlyreason why there should not be a great deal in it." "There is nothingin it," said Miss Van Siever, impetuously; "and if you will continueto 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 ofus bound to the young man now, seeing that he has given so much timeto the work." "I am not bound to him at all," said Miss Van Siever.

  Mrs. Broughton also told Conway Dalrymple that she wasdelighted,--oh, so much delighted! He had obtained permission to comein one morning before the time of sitting, so that he might work athis canvas independently of his model. As was his custom, he made hisown way upstairs and commenced his work alone,--having been expresslytold by Mrs. Broughton that she would not come to him till shebrought Clara with her. But she did go up to the room in which t
heartist was painting, without waiting for Miss Van Siever. Indeed, shewas at this time so anxious as to the future welfare of her two youngfriends that she could not restrain herself from speaking either tothe one or to the other, whenever any opportunity for such speechcame round. To have left Conway Dalrymple at work upstairs withoutgoing to him was impossible to her. So she went, and then took theopportunity of expressing to her friend her ideas as to his past andfuture conduct.

  "Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed," she said, standing beforethe easel, and looking at the half-completed work. "I do not knowthat you ever did anything better."

  "I never can tell myself till a picture is finished whether it isgoing to be good or not," said Dalrymple, thinking really of hispicture and of nothing else.

  "I am sure this will be good," she said, "and I suppose it is becauseyou have thrown so much heart into it. It is not mere industry thatwill produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even genius: more thanthis is required. The heart of the artist must be thrust with all itsgushing tides into the performance." By this time he knew all thetones of her voice and their various meanings, and immediately becameaware that at the present moment she was intent upon something beyondthe picture. She was preparing for a little scene, and was going togive him some advice. He understood it all, but as he was reallydesirous of working at his canvas, and was rather averse to having ascene at that moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her. "Itis the heart that gives success," she said, while he was consideringhow he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for theoccasion.

  "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 ifI mean to take advantage of to-day's sitting. The truth is, I don'tgive enough hours of work to it." And he leaned upon his stick, anddaubed away briskly at the background, and then stood for a momentlooking at his canvas with his head a little on one side, as thoughhe could not withdraw his attention for a moment from the thing hewas doing.

  "You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should notspeak 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 ofno great moment. Indeed, words between you and me never can have muchimportance now. Can they, Conway?"

  "I don't see that at all," said he, still working away with hisbrush.

  "Do you not? I do. They should never amount to more,--they can neveramount to more than the common, ordinary courtesies of life; what Icall the greetings and good-byings of conversation." She said this ina low, melancholy tone of voice, not intending to be in any degreejocose. "How seldom is it that conversation between ordinary friendsgoes beyond that."

  "Don't you think it does?" said Conway, stepping back and takinganother look at his picture. "I find myself talking to all manner ofpeople 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 grantyou this, that it is very often a great bore. Hardly a day passesthat 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 notlike the woman, but from a conviction that she was going to make somecomparison between herself and Clara Van Siever. In his ordinaryhumour he liked a little pretence at romance, and was rather goodat that sort of love-making which in truth means anything but love.But just now he was really thinking of matrimony, and had on thisvery morning acknowledged to himself that he had become sufficientlyattached to Clara Van Siever to justify him in asking her to be hiswife. In his present mood he was not anxious for one of those tiltswith blunted swords and half-severed lances in the lists of Cupidof which Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was so fond. Nevertheless, if sheinsisted that he should now descend into the arena and go throughthe paraphernalia of a mock tournament, he must obey her. It is thehardship of men that when called upon by women for romance, they arebound to be romantic, whether the opportunity serves them or doesnot. A man must produce romance, or at least submit to it, when dulysummoned, even though he should have a sore-throat or a headache. Heis a brute if he decline such an encounter,--and feels that, shouldhe so decline persistently, he will ever after be treated as a brute.There are many Potiphar's wives who never dream of any mischief, andJosephs who are very anxious to escape, though they are asked toreturn only whisper for whisper. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had asked himwhether he wished that her tongue should be cut out, and he had ofcourse replied that her words had always been a joy to him,--nevera trouble. It occurred to him as he made his little speech that itwould only have served her right if he had answered her quite inanother strain; but she was a woman, and was young and pretty, andwas entitled to flattery. "They have always been a joy to me," hesaid, repeating his last words as he strove to continue his work.

  "A deadly joy," she replied, not quite knowing what she herselfmeant. "A deadly joy, Conway. I wish with all my heart that we hadnever known each other."

  "I do not. I will never wish away the happiness of my life, evenshould it be followed by misery."

  "You are a man, and if trouble comes upon you, you can bear it onyour own shoulders. A woman suffers more, just because another'sshoulders 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 theconversation had had so much of milk-and-water in its composition,that Dalrymple found himself able to keep it up and go on with hisbackground at the same time. If she could only be kept in the samedim cloud of sentiment, if the hot rays of the sun of romance couldbe kept from breaking through the mist till Miss Van Siever shouldcome, it might still be well. He had known her to wander about withinthe clouds for an hour together, without being able to find her wayinto the light. "It's all the same with a man when he has got awife," he said. "Of course one has to suffer for two, when one, so tosay, 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, Isuppose, blunted them."

  "I rather fancy not," he said. "I think they are pretty nearly assharp as ever."

  "I know mine are. Oh, how I wish I could rid myself of them! But itcannot be done. Age will not blunt them,--I am sure of that," saidMrs. Broughton. "I wish it would."

  He had determined not to talk about herself if the subject could bein any way avoided; but now he felt that he was driven up into acorner;--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 willdo?"

  "Age does not go by years," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "We all knowthat. 'His hair was grey, but not with years.' Look here, Conway,"and she moved back her tresses from off her temples to show him thatthere were gray hairs behind. He did not see them; and had they beenvery visible she might not perhaps have been so ready to exhibitthem. "No one can say that length of years has blanched them. I haveno secrets from you about my age. One should not be grey before onehas 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 that hot rooms will do it."

  "Hot rooms! No, Conway, it does not come from heated atmosphere. Itcomes from a cold heart, a chilled heart, a frozen heart, a heartthat 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. "Theworld is beginning with you, Conway, and yet you are as old
as I am.It is ending with me, and yet I am as young as you are. But I do notknow why I talk of all this. It is simply folly,--utter folly. Ihad not meant to speak of myself; but I did wish to say a few wordsto you of your own future. I suppose I may still speak to you as afriend?"

  "I hope you will always do that."

  "Nay,--I will make no such promise. That I will always have afriend's feeling for you, a friend's interest in your welfare, afriend's triumph in your success,--that I will promise. But friendlywords, Conway, are sometimes misunderstood."

  "Never by me," said he.

  "No, not by you,--certainly not by you. I did not mean that. I didnot expect that you should misinterpret them." Then she laughedhysterically,--a little low, gurgling, hysterical laugh; and afterthat she wiped her eyes, and then she smiled, and then she put herhand very gently upon his shoulder. "Thank God, Conway, we are quitesafe there,--are we not?"

  He had made a blunder, and it was necessary that he should correctit. His watch was lying in the trough of his easel, and he looked atit 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 saidbefore, it shall never be misunderstood by me. I have never been vainenough to suppose for a moment that there was any other feeling,--notfor a moment. You women can be so careful, while we men are alwaysoff our guard! A man loves because he cannot help it; but a woman hasbeen careful, and answers him--with friendship. Perhaps I am wrong tosay that I never thought of winning anything more; but I never thinkof 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 ofher mock wrath, or giving him mock counsel as to the restraint of hispassion. He had gone through it all before, and was tired of it; butfor his life he did not know how to help himself.

  "Conway," said she, gravely, "how dare you address me in suchlanguage?"

  "Of course it is very wrong; I know that."

  "I'm not speaking of myself, now. I have learned to think so littleof myself, as even to be indifferent to the feeling of the injury youare doing me. My life is a blank, and I almost think that nothingcan hurt me further. I have not heart left enough to break; no, notenough to be broken. It is not of myself that I am thinking, when Iask you how you dare to address me in such language. Do you not knowthat it is an injury to another?"

  "To what other?" asked Conway Dalrymple, whose mind was becomingrather confused, and who was not quite sure whether the other one wasMr. Dobbs Broughton, or somebody else.

  "To that poor girl who is coming here now, who is devoted to you, andto whom, I do not doubt, you have uttered words which ought to havemade it impossible for you to speak to me as you spoke not a momentsince."

  Things were becoming very grave and difficult. They would have beenvery grave, indeed, had not some god saved him by sending Miss VanSiever to his rescue at this moment. He was beginning to think whathe would say in answer to the accusation now made, when his eager earcaught the sound of her step upon the stairs; and before the pausein the conversation which the circumstances admitted had given placeto the necessity for further speech, Miss Van Siever had knocked atthe door and had entered the room. He was rejoiced, and I think thatMrs. Broughton did not regret the interference. It is always wellthat these little dangerous scenes should be brought to sudden ends.The last details of such romances, if drawn out to their naturalconclusions, are apt to be uncomfortable, if not dull. She did notwant him to go down on his knees, knowing that the getting up againis always awkward.

  "Clara, I began to think you were never coming," said Mrs. Broughton,with her sweetest smile.

  "I began to think so myself also," said Clara. "And I believe thismust be the last sitting, or, at any rate, the last but one."

  "Is anything the matter at home?" said Mrs. Broughton, clasping herhands together.

  "Nothing very much; mamma asked me a question or two this morning,and I said I was coming here. Had she asked me why, I should havetold her."

  "But what did she ask? What did she say?"

  "She does not always make herself very intelligible. She complainswithout telling you what she complains of. But she muttered somethingabout artists which was not complimentary, and I suppose, therefore,that she has a suspicion. She stayed ever so late this morning,and we left the house together. She will ask some direct questionto-night, or before long, and then there will be an end of it."

  "Let us make the best of our time then," said Dalrymple; and thesitting was arranged; Miss Van Siever went down on her knees with herhammer in her hand, and the work began. Mrs. Broughton had twisted aturban round Clara's head, as she always did on these occasions, andassisted to arrange the drapery. She used to tell herself as she didso, that she was like Isaac, piling the fagots for her own sacrifice.Only Isaac had piled them in ignorance, and she piled them consciousof the sacrificial flames. And Isaac had been saved; whereas it wasimpossible that the catching of any ram in any thicket could saveher. But, nevertheless, she arranged the drapery with all her skill,piling the fagots ever so high for her own pyre. In the meantimeConway Dalrymple painted away, thinking more of his picture than hedid of one woman or of the other.

  Mrs. Dobbs Broughton piles her Fagots.]

  After a while, when Mrs. Broughton had piled the fagots as high asshe could pile them, she got up from her seat and prepared to leavethe room. Much of the piling consisted, of course, in her own absenceduring a portion of these sittings. "Conway," she said, as she went,"if this is to be the last sitting, or the last but one, you shouldmake the most of it." Then she threw upon him a very peculiar glanceover the head of the kneeling Jael, and withdrew. Jael, who in thosemoments would be thinking more of the fatigue of her position thanof anything else, did not at all take home to herself the peculiarmeaning of her friend's words. Conway Dalrymple understood themthoroughly, and thought that he might as well take the advice givento him. He had made up his mind to propose to Miss Van Siever, andwhy should he not do so now? He went on with his brush for a coupleof minutes without saying a word, working as well as he could work,and then resolved that he would at once begin the other task. "MissVan Siever," he said, "I'm afraid you are tired?"

  "Not more than usually tired. It is fatiguing to be slaying Sisera bythe hour together. I do get to hate this block." The block was thedummy by which the form of Sisera was supposed to be typified.

  "Another sitting will about finish it," said he, "so that you neednot positively distress yourself now. Will you rest yourself for aminute or two?" He had already perceived that the attitude in whichClara was posed before him was not one in which an offer of marriagecould be received and replied to with advantage.

  "Thank you, I am not tired yet," said Clara, not changing the fixedglance of national wrath with which she regarded her wooden Sisera asshe held her hammer on high.

  "But I am. There; we will rest for a moment." Dalrymple was awarethat Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, though she was very assiduous in pilingher fagots, never piled them for long together. If he did not makehaste she would be back upon them before he could get his wordspoken. When he put down his brush, and got up from his chair, andstretched out his arm as a man does when he ceases for a moment fromhis work, Clara of course got up also, and seated herself. She wasused to her turban and her drapery, and therefore thought not of itat all; and he also was used to it, seeing her in it two or threetimes a week; but now that he intended to accomplish a specialpurpose, the turban and the drapery seemed to be in the way. "I do sohope you will like the picture," he said, as he was thinking of this.

  "I don't think I shall. But you will understand that it is naturalthat a girl should not like herself in such a portraiture as that."

  "I don't know why. I can understand that you specially should notlike the picture; but I think that most women in London in your placewould at any rate say that they did."

  "Are you angry with me?"

  "What; for telling the truth
? No, indeed." He was standing oppositeto his easel, looking at the canvas, shifting his head about so as tochange the lights, and observing critically this blemish and that;and yet he was all the while thinking how he had best carry out hispurpose. "It will have been a prosperous picture to me," he said atlast, "if it leads to the success of which I am ambitious."

  "I am told that all you do is successful now,--merely because you doit. That is the worst of success."

  "What is the worst of success?"

  "That when won by merit it leads to further success, for the gainingof which no merit is necessary."

  "I hope it may be so in my case. If it is not I shall have a verypoor chance. Clara, I think you must know that I am not talking aboutmy pictures."

  "I thought you were."

  "Indeed I am not. As for success in my profession, far as I am fromthinking I merit it, I feel tolerably certain that I shall obtainit."

  "You have obtained it."

  "I am in the way to do so. Perhaps one out of ten struggling artistsis successful, and for him the profession is very charming. It iscertainly a sad feeling that there is so much of chance in thedistribution of the prizes. It is a lottery. But one cannot complainof that when one has drawn the prize." Dalrymple was not a manwithout self-possession, nor was he readily abashed, but he found iteasier to talk of his possession than to make his offer. The turbanwas his difficulty. He had told himself over and over again withinthe last five minutes, that he would have long since said what hehad to say had it not been for the turban. He had been painting allhis life from living models,--from women dressed up in this or thatcostume, to suit the necessities of his picture,--but he had nevermade love to any of them. They had been simply models to him, and nowhe found that there was a difficulty. "Of that prize," he said, "Ihave made myself tolerably sure; but as to the other prize, I do notknow. I wonder whether I am to have that." Of course Miss Van Sieverunderstood well what was the prize of which he was speaking; and asshe was a young woman with a will and purpose of her own, no doubtshe was already prepared with an answer. But it was necessary thatthe question should be put to her in properly distinct terms. ConwayDalrymple certainly had not put his question in properly distinctterms at present. She did not choose to make any answer to his lastwords; and therefore simply suggested that as time was pressing hehad better go on with his work. "I am quite ready now," said she.

  "Stop half a moment. How much more you are thinking of the picturethan I am! I do not care twopence for the picture. I will slit thecanvas from top to bottom without a groan,--without a single innergroan,--if you will let me."

  "For heaven's sake do nothing of the kind! Why should you?"

  "Just to show you that it is not for the sake of the picture thatI come here. Clara--" Then the door was opened, and Isaac appeared,very weary, having been piling fagots with assiduity, till humannature could pile no more. Conway Dalrymple, who had made his wayalmost up to Clara's seat, turned round sharply towards his easel, inanger at having been disturbed. He should have been more grateful forall that his Isaac had done for him, and have recognized the factthat the fault had been with himself. Mrs. Broughton had been twelveminutes out of the room. She had counted them to be fifteen,--havingno doubt made a mistake as to three,--and had told herself thatwith such a one as Conway Dalrymple, with so much of the work readydone to his hand for him, fifteen minutes should have been amplysufficient. When we reflect what her own thoughts must have beenduring the interval,--what it is to have to pile up such fagots asthose, how she was, as it were, giving away a fresh morsel of her ownheart during each minute that she allowed Clara and Conway Dalrympleto remain together, it cannot surprise us that her eyes should havebecome dizzy, and that she should not have counted the minutes withaccurate correctness. Dalrymple turned to his picture angrily, butMiss Van Siever kept her seat and did not show the slightest emotion.

  "My friends," said Mrs. Broughton, "this will not do. This is notworking; this is not sitting."

  "Mr. Dalrymple has been explaining to me the precarious nature of anartist's profession," said Clara.

  "It is not precarious with him," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton,sententiously.

  "Not in a general way, perhaps; but to prove the truth of his wordshe was going to treat Jael worse than Jael treats Sisera."

  "I was going to slit the picture from the top to the bottom."

  "And why?" said Mrs. Broughton, putting up her hands to heaven intragic horror.

  "Just to show Miss Van Siever how little I care about it."

  "And how little you care about her, too," said Mrs. Broughton.

  "She might take that as she liked." After this there was anothergenuine sitting, and the real work went on as though there had beenno episode. Jael fixed her face, and held her hammer as though hermind and heart were solely bent on seeming to be slaying Sisera.Dalrymple turned his eyes from the canvas to the model, and from themodel to the canvas, working with his hand all the while, as thoughthat last pathetic "Clara" had never been uttered; and Mrs. DobbsBroughton reclined on a sofa, looking at them and thinking of her ownsingularly romantic position, till her mind was filled with a poeticfrenzy. In one moment she resolved that she would hate Clara aswoman was never hated by woman; and then there were daggers, andpoison-cups, and strangling cords in her eye. In the next she was asfirmly determined that she would love Mrs. Conway Dalrymple as womannever was loved by woman; and then she saw herself kneeling by acradle, and tenderly nursing a baby, of which Conway was to be thefather and Clara the mother. And so she went to sleep.

  For some time Dalrymple did not observe this; but at last there wasa little sound,--even the ill-nature of Miss Demolines could hardlyhave called it a snore,--and he became aware that for practicalpurposes he and Miss Van Siever were again alone together. "Clara,"he said, in a whisper. Mrs. Broughton instantly aroused herself fromher slumbers, and rubbed her eyes. "Dear, dear, dear," she said, "Ideclare it's past one. I'm afraid I must turn you both out. One moresitting, I suppose, will finish it, Conway?"

  "Yes, one more," said he. It was always understood that he and Clarashould not leave the house together, and therefore he remainedpainting when she left the room. "And now, Conway," said Mrs.Broughton, "I suppose that all is over?"

  "I don't know what you mean by all being over."

  "No,--of course not. You look at it in another light, no doubt.Everything is beginning for you. But you must pardon me, for my heartis distracted,--distracted,--distracted!" Then she sat down upon thefloor, and burst into tears. What was he to do? He thought that thewoman should either give him up altogether, or not give him up. Allthis fuss about it was irrational! He would not have made love toClara Van Siever in her room if she had not told him to do so!

  "Maria," he said, in a very grave voice, "any sacrifice that isrequired on my part on your behalf I am ready to make."

  "No, sir; the sacrifices shall all be made by me. It is the part ofa woman to be ever sacrificial!" Poor Mrs. Dobbs Broughton! "Youshall give up nothing. The world is at your feet, and you shallhave everything,--youth, beauty, wealth, station, love,--love; andfriendship also, if you will accept it from one so poor, so broken,so secluded as I shall be." At each of the last words there had beena desperate sob; and as she was still crouching in the middle of theroom, looking up into Dalrymple's face while he stood over her, thescene was one which had much in it that transcended the doings ofeveryday life, much that would be ever memorable, and much, I haveno doubt, that was thoroughly enjoyed by the principal actor. As forConway Dalrymple, he was so second-rate a personage in the wholething, that it mattered little whether he enjoyed it or not. I don'tthink he did enjoy it. "And now, Conway," she said, "I will giveyou some advice. And when in after-days you shall remember thisinterview, and reflect how that advice was given you,--with whatsolemnity,"--here she clasped both her hands together,--"I think thatyou will follow it. Clara Van Siever will now become your wife."

  "I do not know that at all," said Dalrymple.

  "Clara Van
Siever will now become your wife," repeated Mrs. Broughtonin a louder voice, impatient of opposition. "Love her. Cleave to her.Make her flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. But rule her!Yes, rule her! Let her be your second self, but not your first self.Rule her. Love her. Cleave to her. Do not leave her alone, to feed onher own thoughts as I have done,--as I have been forced to do. Nowgo. No, Conway, not a word; I will not hear a word. You must go, orI must." Then she rose quickly from her lowly attitude, and preparedherself for a dart at the door. It was better by far that he shouldgo, and so he went.

  An American when he has spent a pleasant day will tell you that hehas had "a good time." I think that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, if shehad ever spoken the truth of that day's employment, would haveacknowledged that she had had "a good time." I think that she enjoyedher morning's work. But as for Conway Dalrymple, I doubt whether hedid enjoy his morning's work. "A man may have too much of this sortof thing, and then he becomes very sick of his cake." Such was thenature of his thoughts as he returned to his own abode.