The Last Chronicle of Barset

out both her arms, “he has destroyed himself!” The revelation was at last made with so much tragic propriety, in so excellent a tone, and with such an absence of all the customary redundances of commonplace relation, that I think that she must have rehearsed the scene⁠—either with her mother or with the page. Then there was a minute’s silence, during which she did not move even an eyelid. She held her outstretched hands without dropping a finger half an inch. Her face was thrust forward, her chin projecting, with tragic horror; but there was no vacillation even in her chin. She did not wink an eye, or alter to the breadth of a hair the aperture of her lips. Surely she was a great genius if she did it all without previous rehearsal. Then, before he had thought of words in which to answer her, she let her hands fall by her side, she closed her eyes, and shook her head, and fell back again into her chair. “It is too horrible to be spoken of⁠—to be thought about,” she said. “I could not have brought myself to tell the tale to a living being⁠—except to you.”

This would naturally have been flattering to Johnny had it not been that he was in truth absorbed by the story which he had heard.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that Broughton has⁠—committed suicide?” She could not speak of it again, but nodded her head at him thrice, while her eyes were still closed. “And how was the manner of it?” said he, asking the question in a low voice. He could not even as yet quite bring himself to believe it. Madalina was so fond of a little playful intrigue, that even this story might have something in it of the nature of fiction. He was not quite sure of the facts, and yet he was shocked by what he had heard.

“Would you have me repeat to you all the bloody details of that terrible scene?” she said. “It is impossible. Go to your friend Dalrymple. He will tell you. He knows it all. He has been with Maria all through. I wish⁠—I wish it had not been so.” But nevertheless she did bring herself to narrate all the details with something more of circumstance than Eames desired. She soon succeeded in making him understand that the tragedy of Hook Court was a reality, and that poor Dobbs Broughton had brought his career to an untimely end. She had heard everything⁠—having indeed gone to Musselboro in the City, and having penetrated even to the sanctum of Mr. Bangles. To Mr. Bangles she had explained that she was bosom-friend of the widow of the unfortunate man, and that it was her miserable duty to make herself the mistress of all the circumstances. Mr. Bangles⁠—the reader may remember him, Burton and Bangles, who kept the stores for Himalaya wines at 22s. 6d. the dozen, in Hook Court⁠—was a bachelor, and rather liked the visit, and told Miss Demolines very freely all he had seen. And when she suggested that it might be expedient for the sake of the family that she should come back to Mr. Bangles for further information at a subsequent period, he very politely assured her that she would “do him proud,” whenever she might please to call in Hook Court. And then he saw her into Lombard Street, and put her into an omnibus. She was therefore well qualified to tell Johnny all the particulars of the tragedy⁠—and she did so far overcome her horror as to tell them all. She told her tale somewhat after the manner of Aeneas, not forgetting the “quorum pars magna fui.”

“I feel that it almost makes an old woman of me,” said she, when she had finished.

“No,” said Johnny, remonstrating;⁠—“not that.”

“But it does. To have been concerned in so terrible a tragedy takes more of life out of one than years of tranquil existence.” As she had told him nothing of her intercourse with Bangles⁠—with Bangles who had literally picked the poor wretch up⁠—he did not see how she herself had been concerned in the matter; but he said nothing about that, knowing the character of his Madalina. “I shall see⁠—that⁠—body, floating before my eyes while I live,” she said, “and the gory wound, and⁠—and⁠—”

“Don’t,” said Johnny, recoiling in truth from the picture, by which he was revolted.

“Never again,” she said; “never again! But you forced it from me, and now I shall not close my eyes for a week.”

She then became very comfortably confidential, and discussed the affairs of poor Mrs. Dobbs Broughton with a great deal of satisfaction. “I went to see her, of course, but she sent me down word to say that the shock would be too much for her. I do not wonder that she should not see me. Poor Maria! She came to me for advice, you know, when Dobbs Broughton first proposed to her; and I was obliged to tell her what I really thought. I knew her character so well! ‘Dear Maria,’ I said, ‘if you think that you can love him, take him!’ ‘I think I can,’ she replied. ‘But,’ said I, ‘make yourself quite sure about the business.’ And how has it turned out? She never loved him. What heart she has she has given to that wretched Dalrymple.”

“I don’t see that he is particularly wretched,” said Johnny, pleading for his friend.

“He is wretched, and so you’ll find. She gave him her heart after giving her hand to poor Dobbs; and as for the business, there isn’t as much left as will pay for her mourning. I don’t wonder that she could not bring herself to see me.”

“And what has become of the business?”

“It belongs to Mrs. Van Siever⁠—to her and Musselboro. Poor Broughton had some little money, and it has gone among them. Musselboro, who never had a penny, will be a rich man. Of course you know that