The Last Chronicle of Barset Part 107

"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 f.a.gots 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 purposing to be present through the whole of that 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 ap.r.o.n 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 ap.r.o.n. Now Dalrymple had thought of all this, and had made up his mind to work to-day without his ap.r.o.n; but when arranging his easel and his brushes, he had put it on from 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 ap.r.o.n.

"Conway, what are you going to do?" said Mrs. Broughton.

"I am going to ask Clara Van Siever to be my wife," said Dalrymple.

At that moment the door was opened, and Mrs. Van Siever entered the room.

Clara had not risen from her kneeling posture when Dalrymple began to put off his trappings. She had not seen what he was doing as plainly as Mrs. Broughton had done, having her attention naturally drawn towards her Sisera; and, besides this, she understood that she was to remain as she was placed till orders to move were given to her.

Dalrymple would occasionally step aside from his easel to look at her in some altered light, and on such occasions she would simply hold her hammer somewhat more tightly than before. When, therefore, Mrs. Van Siever entered the room Clara was still slaying Sisera, in spite of the artist's speech. The speech, indeed, and her mother both seemed to come to her at the same time. The old woman stood for a moment holding the open door in her hand. "You fool!" she said, "what are you doing there, dressed up in that way like a guy?" Then Clara got up from her feet and stood before her mother in Jael's dress and Jael's turban. Dalrymple thought that the dress and turban did not become her badly. Mrs. Van Siever apparently thought otherwise. "Will you have the goodness to tell me, miss, why you are dressed up after that Mad Bess of Bedlam fas.h.i.+on?"

The reader will no doubt bear in mind that Clara had other words of which to think besides those which were addressed to her by her mother. Dalrymple had asked her to be his wife in the plainest possible language, and she thought that the very plainness of the language became him well. The very taking off of his ap.r.o.n, almost as he said the words, though to himself the action had been so distressing as almost to overcome his purpose, had in it something to her of direct simple determination which pleased her. When he had spoken of having had a nail driven by her right through his heart, she had not been in the least gratified; but the taking off of the ap.r.o.n, and the putting down of the palette, and the downright way in which he had called her Clara Van Siever,--attempting to be neither sentimental with Clara, nor polite with Miss Van Siever,--did please her. She had often said to herself that she would never give a plain answer to a man who did not ask her a plain question;--to a man who, in asking this question, did not say plainly to her, "Clara Van Siever, will you become Mrs. Jones?"--or Mrs. Smith, or Mrs. Tomkins, as the case might be. Now Conway Dalrymple had asked her to become Mrs. Dalrymple very much after this fas.h.i.+on. In spite of the apparition of her mother, all this had pa.s.sed through her mind. Not the less, however, was she obliged to answer her mother, before she could give any reply to the other questioner. In the meantime Mrs.

Dobbs Broughton had untucked her feet.

"Mamma," said Clara, "who ever expected to see you here?"

"I daresay n.o.body did," said Mrs. Van Siever; "but here I am, nevertheless."

"Madam," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, "you might at any rate have gone through the ceremony of having yourself announced by the servant."

"Madam," said the old woman, attempting to mimic the tone of the other, "I thought that on such a very particular occasion as this I might be allowed to announce myself. You tomfool, you, why don't you take that turban off?" Then Clara, with slow and graceful motion, unwound the turban. If Dalrymple really meant what he had said, and would stick to it, she need not mind being called a tomfool by her mother.

"Conway, I am afraid that our last sitting is disturbed," said Mrs.

Broughton, with her little laugh.

"Conway's last sitting certainly is disturbed," said Mrs. Van Siever, and then she mimicked the laugh. "And you'll all be disturbed,--I can tell you that. What an a.s.s you must be to go on with this kind of thing, after what I said to you yesterday! Do you know that he got beastly drunk in the City last night, and that he is drunk now, while you are going on with your tomfooleries?" Upon hearing this, Mrs.

Dobbs Broughton fainted into Dalrymple's arms.

Hitherto the artist had not said a word, and had hardly known what part it would best become him now to play. If he intended to marry Clara,--and he certainly did intend to marry her if she would have him,--it might be as well not to quarrel with Mrs. Van Siever. At any rate there was nothing in Mrs. Van Siever's intrusion, disagreeable as it was, which need make him take up his sword to do battle with her. But now, as he held Mrs. Broughton in his arms, and as the horrid words which the old woman had spoken rung in his ears, he could not refrain himself from uttering reproach. "You ought not to have told her in this way, before other people, even if it be true,"

said Conway.

"Leave me to be my own judge of what I ought to do, if you please, sir. If she had any feeling at all, what I told her yesterday would have kept her from all this. But some people have no feeling, and will go on being tomfools though the house is on fire." As these words were spoken, Mrs. Broughton fainted more persistently than ever,--so that Dalrymple was convinced that whether she felt or not, at any rate she heard. He had now dragged her across the room, and laid her upon the sofa, and Clara had come to her a.s.sistance. "I daresay you think me very hard because I speak plainly, but there are things much harder than plain speaking. How much do you expect to be paid, sir, for this picture of my girl?"

"I do not expect to be paid for it at all," said Dalrymple.

"And who is it to belong to?"

"It belongs to me at present."

"Then, sir, it mustn't belong to you any longer. It won't do for you to have a picture of my girl to hang up in your painting-room for all your friends to come and make their jokes about, nor yet to make a show of it in any of your exhibitions. My daughter has been a fool, and I can't help it. If you'll tell me what's the cost, I'll pay you; then I'll have the picture home, and I'll treat it as it deserves."

Dalrymple thought for a moment about his picture and about Mrs. Van Siever. What had he better do? He wanted to behave well, and he felt that the old woman had something of justice on her side. "Madam," he said, "I will not sell this picture; but it shall be destroyed, if you wish it."

"I certainly do wish it, but I won't trust to you. If it's not sent to my house at once you'll hear from me through my lawyers."

Then Dalrymple deliberately opened his penknife and slit the canvas across, through the middle of the picture each way. Clara, as she saw him do it, felt that in truth she loved him. "There, Mrs. Van Siever," he said; "now you can take the bits home with you in your basket if you wish it." At this moment, as the rent canvas fell and fluttered upon the stretcher, there came a loud voice of lamentation from the sofa, a groan of despair and a shriek of wrath. "Very fine indeed," said Mrs. Van Siever. "When ladies faint they always ought to have their eyes about them. I see that Mrs. Broughton understands that."

"Take her away, Conway--for G.o.d's sake take her away," said Mrs.

Broughton.

"I shall take myself away very shortly," said Mrs. Van Siever, "so you needn't trouble Mr. Conway about that. Not but what I thought the gentleman's name was Mr. something else."

"My name is Conway Dalrymple," said the artist.

"Then I suppose you must be her brother, or her cousin, or something of that sort?" said Mrs. Van Siever.

"Take her away," screamed Mrs. Dobbs Broughton.

"Wait a moment, madam. As you've chopped up your handiwork there, Mr.

Conway Dalrymple, and as I suppose my daughter has been more to blame than anybody else--"

"She has not been to blame at all," said Dalrymple.

"That's my affair, and not yours," said Mrs. Van Siever, very sharply. "But as you've been at all this trouble, and have now chopped it up, I don't mind paying you for your time and paints; only I shall be glad to know how much it will come to?"

"There will be nothing to pay, Mrs. Van Siever."

"How long has he been at it, Clara?"

"Mamma, indeed you had better not say anything about paying him."

"I shall say whatever I please, miss. Will ten pounds do it, sir?"

"If you choose to buy the picture, the price will be seven hundred and fifty," said Dalrymple, with a smile, pointing to the fragments.

"Seven hundred and fifty pounds?" said the old woman.

"But I strongly advise you not to make the purchase," said Dalrymple.

"Seven hundred and fifty pounds! I certainly shall not give you seven hundred and fifty pounds, sir."

"I certainly think you could invest your money better, Mrs. Van Siever. But if the thing is to be sold at all, that is my price. I've thought that there was some justice in your demand that it should be destroyed,--and therefore I have destroyed it."

Mrs. Van Siever had been standing on the same spot ever since she had entered the room, and now she turned round to leave the room.

"If you have any demand to make, I beg that you will send in your account for work done to Mr. Musselboro. He is my man of business.

Clara, are you ready to come home? The cab is waiting at the door,--at sixpence the quarter of an hour, if you will be pleased to remember."