The Last Chronicle of Barset

him now the love which he had so often proffered to her! It was not that he feared that she would claim anything from him at this moment⁠—neither now, nor tomorrow, nor the next day⁠—but the agony of the present meeting would produce others in which there would be some tenderness mixed with the agony; and so from one meeting to another the thing would progress. Dalrymple knew well enough how such things might progress. But in this danger before him, it was not of himself that he was thinking, but of her. How could he assist her at such a time without doing her more injury than benefit? And, if he did not assist her, who would do so? He knew her to be heartless; but even heartless people have hearts which can be touched and almost broken by certain sorrows. Her heart would not be broken by her husband’s death, but it would become very sore if she were utterly neglected. He was now at the door, with his hand on the lock, and was wondering why she should remain so long within without making herself heard. Then he opened it, and found her seated in a lounging-chair, with her back to the door, and he could see that she had a volume of a novel in her hand. He understood it all. She was pretending to be indifferent to her husband’s return. He walked up to her, thinking that she would recognize his step; but she made no sign of turning towards him. He saw the motion of her hair over the back of the chair as she affected to make herself luxuriously comfortable. She was striving to let her husband see that she cared nothing for him, or for his condition, or for his jealousy, if he were jealous⁠—or even for his ruin. “Mrs. Broughton,” he said, when he was close to her. Then she jumped up quickly, and turned round, facing him. “Where is Dobbs?” she said. “Where is Broughton?”

“He is not here.”

“He is in the house, for I heard him. Why have you come back?”

Dalrymple’s eye fell on the tattered canvas, and he thought of the doings of the past month. He thought of the picture of three Graces, which was hanging in the room below, and he thoroughly wished that he had never been introduced to the Broughton establishment. How was he to get through his present difficulty? “No,” said he, “Broughton did not come. It was Mr. Musselboro whose steps you heard below.”

“What is he here for? What is he doing here? Where is Dobbs? Conway, there is something the matter. He has gone off!”

“Yes;⁠—he has gone off.”

“The coward!”

“No; he was not a coward;⁠—not in that way.”

The use of the past tense, unintentional as it had been, told the story to the woman at once. “He is dead,” she said. Then he took both her hands in his and looked into her face without speaking a word. And she gazed at him with fixed eyes, and rigid mouth, while the quick coming breath just moved the curl of her nostrils. It occurred to him at the moment that he had never before seen her so wholly unaffected, and had never before observed that she was so totally deficient in all the elements of real beauty. She was the first to speak again. “Conway,” she said, “tell it me all. Why do you not speak to me?”

“There is nothing further to tell,” said he.

Then she dropped his hands and walked away from him to the window⁠—and stood there looking out upon the stuccoed turret of a huge house that stood opposite. As she did so she was employing herself in counting the windows. Her mind was paralysed by the blow, and she knew not how to make any exertion with it for any purpose. Everything was changed with her⁠—and was changed in such a way that she could make no guess as to her future mode of life. She was suddenly a widow, a pauper, and utterly desolate⁠—while the only person in the whole world that she really liked was standing close to her. But in the midst of it all she counted the windows of the house opposite. Had it been possible for her she would have put her mind altogether to sleep.

He let her stand for a few minutes and then joined her at the window. “My friend,” he said, “what shall I do for you?”

“Do?” she said. “What do you mean by⁠—doing?”

“Come and sit down and let me talk to you,” he replied. Then he led her to the sofa, and as she seated herself I doubt whether she had not almost forgotten that her husband was dead.

“What a pity it was to cut it up,” she said, pointing to the rags of Jael and Sisera.

“Never mind the picture now. Dreadful as it is, you must allow yourself to think of him for a few minutes.”

“Think of what! O God! yes. Conway, you must tell me what to do. Was everything gone? It isn’t about myself. I don’t mind about myself. I wish it was me instead of him. I do. I do.”

“No wishing is of any avail.”

“But, Conway, how did it happen? Do you think it is true? That man would say anything to gain his object. Is he here now?”

“I believe he is here still.”

“I won’t see him. Remember that. Nothing on earth shall make me see him.”

“It may be necessary, but I do not think it will be;⁠—at any rate not yet.”

“I will never see him. I believe that he has murdered my husband. I do. I feel sure of it. Now I think of it I am quite sure of it. And he will murder you too;⁠—about that girl. He will. I tell you I know the man.” Dalrymple simply shook his head, smiling sadly. “Very well! you will see. But, Conway, how do you know that it is true? Do you believe it yourself?”

“I do