The Last Chronicle of Barset

It was agreed among them that they had commenced their work auspiciously, and that they would meet again on the following Monday. The artist begged to be allowed an hour to go on with his work in Mrs. Broughton’s room, and the hour was conceded to him. It was understood that he could not take the canvas backwards and forwards with him to his own house, and he pointed out that no progress whatever could be made, unless he were occasionally allowed some such grace as this. Mrs. Broughton doubted and hesitated, made difficulties, and lifted up her hands in despair. “It is easy for you to say, Why not? but I know very well why not.” But at last she gave way. “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” she said; “that must be my protection.” So she followed Miss Van Siever downstairs, leaving Mr. Dalrymple in possession of her boudoir. “I shall give you just one hour,” she said, “and then I shall come and turn you out.” So she went down, and, as Miss Van Siever would not stay to lunch with her, she ate her lunch by herself, sending a glass of sherry and a biscuit up to the poor painter at his work.

Exactly at the end of the hour she returned to him. “Now, Conway, you must go,” she said.

“But why in such a hurry?”

“Because I say that it must be so. When I say so, pray let that be sufficient.” But still Dalrymple went on working. “Conway,” she said, “how can you treat me with so much disdain?”

“Disdain, Mrs. Broughton!”

“Yes, disdain. Have I not begged you to understand that I cannot allow you to remain here, and yet you pay no attention to my wishes.”

“I have done now;” and he began to put his brushes and paints together. “I suppose all these things may remain here?”

“Yes; they may remain. They must do so, of course. There; if you will put the easel in the corner, with the canvas behind it, they will not be seen if he should chance to come into the room.”

“He would not be angry, I suppose, if he saw them?”

“There is no knowing. Men are so unreasonable. All men are, I think. All those are whom I have had the fortune to know. Women generally say that men are selfish. I do not complain so much that they are selfish as that they are thoughtless. They are headstrong and do not look forward to results. Now you⁠—I do not think you would willingly do me an injury?”

“I do not think I would.”

“I am sure you would not;⁠—but yet you would forget to save me from one.”

“What injury?”

“Oh, never mind. I am not thinking of anything in particular. From myself, for instance. But we will not talk about that. That way madness lies. Tell me, Conway;⁠—what do you think of Clara Van Siever?”

“She is very handsome, certainly.”

“And clever?”

“Decidedly clever. I should think she has a temper of her own.”

“What woman is there worth a straw that has not? If Clara Van Siever were ill-used, she would resent it. I do not doubt that for a moment. I should not like to be the man who would do it.”

“Nor I, either,” said Conway.

“But there is plenty of feminine softness in that character, if she were treated with love and kindness. Conway, if you will take my advice you will ask Clara Van Siever to be your wife. But perhaps you have already.”

“Who; I?”

“Yes; you.”

“I have not done it yet, certainly, Mrs. Broughton.”

“And why should you not do it?”

“There are two or three reasons;⁠—but perhaps none of any great importance. Do you know of none, Mrs. Broughton?”

“I know of none,” said Mrs. Broughton in a very serious⁠—in almost a tragic tone;⁠—“of none that should weigh for a moment. As far as I am concerned, nothing would give me more pleasure.”

“That is so kind of you!”

“I mean to be kind. I do, indeed, Conway. I know it will be better for you that you should be settled⁠—very much better. And it will be better for me. I do not mind admitting that;⁠—though in saying so I trust greatly to your generosity to interpret my words properly.”

“I shall not flatter myself, if you mean that.”

“There is no question of flattery, Conway. The question is simply of truth and prudence. Do you not know that it would be better that you should be married?”

“Not unless a certain gentleman were to die first,” said Conway Dalrymple, as he deposited the last of his painting paraphernalia in the recess which had been prepared for them by Mrs. Broughton.

“Conway, how can you speak in that wicked, wicked way!”

“I can assure you I do not wish the gentleman in question the slightest harm in the world. If his welfare depended on me, he should be as safe as the Bank of England.”

“And you will not take my advice?”

“What advice?”

“About Clara?”

“Mrs. Broughton, matrimony is a very important thing.”

“Indeed, it is;⁠—oh, who can say how important! There was a time, Conway, when I thought you had given your heart to Madalina Demolines.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“And I grieved, because I thought that she was not worthy of you.”

“There was never anything in that, Mrs. Broughton.”

“She thought that there was. At any rate, she said so. I know that for certain. She told me so herself. But let that pass. Clara Van Siever is in every respect very different from Madalina. Clara, I think, is worthy of you. And Conway⁠—of course it is not for me to dictate to you; but this I must tell you⁠—” Then she paused, as though she did not know how to finish her sentence.

“What must you tell me?”

“I will tell you nothing more. If you cannot understand what I have said, you must be more dull of comprehension than I believe you to be. Now go. Why are you not gone this half-hour?”

“How could I go while you were giving me all this good advice?”

“I have not asked you to stay.