“Then I order you not to leave this house,” said Mrs. Van Siever.
“Surely I may go to Mrs. Broughton?”
“I order you not to leave this house,” said Mrs. Van Siever again—and thereupon she stalked out of the dining-room and went upstairs. Clara had been standing with her bonnet on, ready dressed to go out, and the mother made no attempt to send the daughter up to her room. That she did not expect to be obeyed in her order may be inferred from the first words which she spoke to Mr. Musselboro. “She has gone off to that man now. You are no good, Musselboro, at this kind of work.”
“You see, Mrs. Van, he had the start of me so much. And then being at the West End, and all that, gives a man such a standing with a girl!”
“Bother!” said Mrs. Van Siever, as her quick ear caught the sound of the closing hall-door. Clara had stood a minute or two to consider, and then had resolved that she would disobey her mother. She tried to excuse her own conduct to her own satisfaction as she went. “There are some things,” she said, “which even a daughter cannot hear from her mother. If she chooses to close the door against me, she must do so.”
She found Mrs. Broughton still in bed, and could not but agree with her mother that the woman was both silly and heartless.
“Your mother says that everything must be sold up,” said Mrs. Broughton.
“At any rate you would hardly choose to remain here,” said Clara.
“But I hope she’ll let me have my own things. A great many of them are altogether my own. I know there’s a law that a woman may have her own things, even though her husband has—done what poor Dobbs did. And I think she was hard upon me about the mourning. They never do mind giving credit for such things as that, and though there is a bill due to Mrs. Morell now, she has had a deal of Dobbs’s money.”
Clara promised her that she should have mourning to her heart’s content. “I will see to that myself,” she said.
Presently there was a knock at the door, and the discreet head-servant beckoned Clara out of the room. “You are not going away,” said Mrs. Broughton. Clara promised her that she would not go without coming back again. “He will be here soon, I suppose, and perhaps you had better see him; though, for the matter of that, perhaps you had better not, because he is so much cut up about poor Dobbs.” The servant had come up to tell Clara that the “he” in question was at the present moment waiting for her below stairs.
The first words which passed between Dalrymple and Clara had reference to the widow. He told her what he had learned in the City—that Broughton’s property had never been great, and that his personal liabilities at the time of his death were supposed to be small. But he had fallen lately altogether into the hands of Musselboro, who, though penniless himself in the way of capital, was backed by the money of Mrs. Van Siever. There was no doubt that Broughton had destroyed himself in the manner told by Musselboro, but the opinion in the City was that he had done so rather through the effects of drink than because of his losses. As to the widow, Dalrymple thought that Mrs. Van Siever, or nominally, perhaps, Musselboro, might be induced to settle an annuity on her, if she would give up everything quietly. “I doubt whether your mother is not responsible for everything Broughton owed when he died—for everything, that is, in the way of business; and if so, Mrs. Broughton will certainly have a claim upon the estate.” It occurred to Dalrymple once or twice that he was talking to Clara about Mrs. Van Siever as though he and Clara were more closely bound together than were Clara and her mother; but Clara seemed to take this in good part, and was as solicitous as was he himself in the matter of Mrs. Broughton’s interest.
Then the discreet head-servant knocked and told them that Mrs. Broughton was very anxious to see Mr. Dalrymple, but that Miss Van Siever was on no account to go away. She was up, and in her dressing-gown, and had gone into the sitting-room. “I will come directly,” said Dalrymple, and the discreet head-servant retired.
“Clara,” said Conway, “I do not know when I may have another chance of asking for an answer to my question. You heard my question?”
“Yes, I heard it.”
“And will you answer it?”
“If you wish it, I will.”
“Of course I wish it. You understood what I said upon the doorstep yesterday?”
“I don’t think much of that; men say those things so often. What you said before was serious, I suppose?”
“Serious! Heavens! do you think that I am joking?”
“Mamma wants me to marry Mr. Musselboro.”
“He is a vulgar brute. It would be impossible.”
“It is impossible; but mamma is very obstinate. I have no fortune of my own—not a shilling. She told me today that she would turn me into the street. She forbade me to come here, thinking I should meet you; but I came, because I had promised Mrs. Broughton. I am sure that she will never give me one shilling.”
Dalrymple paused for a moment. It was certainly true that he had regarded Clara Van Siever as an heiress, and had at first been attracted to her because he thought it expedient to marry an heiress. But there had since come something beyond that, and there was perhaps less of regret than most men would have felt as he gave up his golden hopes. He took her into his arms and kissed her, and called her his own.
