“It would never do,” said Mrs. Broughton, shaking her head very gravely.
Though there was really very little done to the picture on that day, the work was commenced; and Mrs. Broughton, who had at first objected strongly to the idea, and who had said twenty times that it was quite out of the question that it should be done in her house, became very eager in her delight about it. Nobody should know anything of the picture till it should be exhibited. That would be best. And it should be the picture of the year! She was a little heartbroken when Dalrymple assured her that it could not possibly be finished for exhibition in that May; but she came to again when he declared that he meant to put out all his strength upon it.
“There will be five or six months’ work in it,” he said.
“Will there, indeed? And how much work was there in The Graces?”
The Graces, as will perhaps be remembered, was the triple portrait of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton herself. This question the artist did not answer with absolute accuracy, but contented himself with declaring that with such a model as Mrs. Broughton the picture had been comparatively easy.
Mrs. Broughton, having no doubt that ultimate object of which she had spoken to her friend Conway steadily in view, took occasion before the sitting was over to leave the room, so that the artist might have an opportunity of speaking a word in private to his model—if he had any such word to speak. And Mrs. Broughton, as she did this, felt that she was doing her duty as a wife, a friend, and a Christian. She was doing her duty as a wife, because she was giving the clearest proof in the world—the clearest at any rate to herself—that the intimacy between herself and her friend Conway had in it nothing that was improper. And she was doing her duty as a friend, because Clara Van Siever, with her large expectations, would be an eligible wife. And she was doing her duty as a Christian, because the whole thing was intended to be moral. Miss Demolines had declared that her friend Maria Clutterbuck—as Miss Demolines delighted to call Mrs. Broughton, in memory of dear old innocent days—had high principles; and the reader will see that she was justified in her declaration.
“It will be better so,” said Mrs. Broughton, as she sat upon her bed and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Yes; it will be better so. There is a pang. Of course there’s a pang. But it will be better so.” Acting upon this high principle, she allowed Conway Dalrymple five minutes to say what he had to say to Clara Van Siever. Then she allowed herself to indulge in some very savage feelings in reference to her husband—accusing her husband in her thoughts of great cruelty—nay, of brutality, because of certain sharp words that he had said as to Conway Dalrymple.
“But of course he can’t understand,” said Mrs. Broughton to herself. “How is it to be expected that he should understand?”
But she allowed her friend on this occasion only five minutes, thinking probably that so much time might suffice. A woman, when she is jealous, is apt to attribute to the other woman with whom her jealousy is concerned, both weakness and timidity, and to the man both audacity and strength. A woman who has herself taken perhaps twelve months in the winning, will think that another woman is to be won in five minutes. It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had ever been won by anyone except by Mr. Dobbs Broughton. At least, let it not be supposed that she had ever acknowledged a spark of love for Conway Dalrymple. But nevertheless there was enough of jealousy in her present mood to make her think poorly of Miss Van Siever’s capacity for standing a siege against the artist’s eloquence. Otherwise, having left the two together with the object which she had acknowledged to herself, she would hardly have returned to them after so very short an interval.
“I hope you won’t dislike the trouble of all this?” said Dalrymple to his model, as soon as Mrs. Broughton was gone.
“I cannot say that I like it very much,” said Miss Van Siever.
“I’m afraid it will be a bore;—but I hope you’ll go through with it.”
“I shall if I am not prevented,” said Miss Van Siever. “When I’ve said that I’ll do a thing, I like to do it.”
There was a pause in the conversation which took up a considerable portion of the five minutes. Miss Van Siever was not holding her nail during these moments, but was sitting in a commonplace way on her chair, while Dalrymple was scraping his palette. “I wonder what it was that first induced you to sit?” said he.
“Oh, I don’t know. I took a fancy for it.”
“I’m very glad you did take the fancy. You’ll make an excellent model. If you won’t mind posing again for a few minutes—I will not weary you today. Your right arm a little more forward.”
“But I should tumble down.”
“Not if you lean well on to the nail.”
“But that would have woken Sisera before she had struck a blow.”
“Never mind that. Let us try it.” Then Mrs. Broughton returned, with that pleasant feeling in her bosom of having done her duty as a wife, a friend, and a Christian.
“Mrs. Broughton,” continued the painter, “just steady Miss Van Siever’s shoulder with your hand; and now bring the arm and the elbow a little more forward.”
“But Jael did not have a friend to help her in that way,” said Miss Van Siever.
At the end of an hour and a half the two ladies retired, and Jael disrobed herself, and Miss Van Siever put on her customary raiment.
