“I am sure of it,” said the major.
“All this, however, matters nothing,” said Mr. Crawley, “and all speech on such homely matters would amount to an impertinence before you, sir, were it not that you have hinted at a purpose of connecting yourself at some future time with this unfortunate family.”
“I meant to be plain-spoken, Mr. Crawley.”
“I did not mean to insinuate, sir, that there was aught of reticence in your words, so contrived that you might fall back upon the vagueness of your expression for protection, should you hereafter see fit to change your purpose. I should have wronged you much by such a suggestion. I rather was minded to make known to you that I—or, I should rather say, we,” and Mr. Crawley pointed to his wife—”shall not accept your plainness of speech as betokening aught beyond a conceived idea of furtherance of which you have thought it expedient to make certain inquiries.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” said the major. “But what I want you to do is to give me your consent to visit your daughter; and I want Mrs. Crawley to write to Grace and tell her that it’s all right.” Mrs. Crawley was quite sure that it was all right, and was ready to sit down and write the letter that moment, if her husband would permit her to do so.
“I am sorry that I have not been explicit,” said Mr. Crawley, “but I will endeavour to make myself more plainly intelligible. My daughter, sir, is so circumstanced in reference to her father, that I, as her father and as a gentleman, cannot encourage any man to make a tender to her of his hand.”
“But I have made up my mind about all that.”
“And I, sir, have made up mine. I dare not tell my girl that I think she will do well to place her hand in yours. A lady, when she does that, should feel at least that her hand is clean.”
“It is the cleanest and the sweetest and the fairest hand in Barsetshire,” said the major. Mrs. Crawley could not restrain herself, but running up to him, took his hand in hers and kissed it.
“There is unfortunately a stain, which is vicarial,” began Mr. Crawley, sustaining up to that point his voice with Roman fortitude—with a fortitude which would have been Roman had it not at that moment broken down under the pressure of human feeling. He could keep it up no longer, but continued his speech with broken sobs, and with a voice altogether changed in its tone—rapid now, whereas it had before been slow—natural, whereas it had hitherto been affected—human, whereas it had hitherto been Roman. “Major Grantly,” he said, “I am sore beset; but what can I say to you? My darling is as pure as the light of day—only that she is soiled with my impurity. She is fit to grace the house of the best gentleman in England, had I not made her unfit.”
“She shall grace mine,” said the major. “By God she shall!—to-morrow, if she’ll have me.” Mrs. Crawley, who was standing beside him, again raised his hand and kissed it.
“It may not be so. As I began by saying—or rather strove to say, for I have been overtaken by weakness, and cannot speak my mind—I cannot claim authority over my child as would another man. How can I exercise authority from between a prison’s bars?”
“She would obey your slightest wish,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“I could express no wish,” said he. “But I know my girl, and I am sure that she will not consent to take infamy with her into the house of the man who loves her.”
“There will be no infamy,” said the major. “Infamy! I tell you that I shall be proud of the connexion.”
“You, sir, are generous in your prosperity. We will strive to be at least just in our adversity. My wife and children are to be pitied—because of the husband and the father.”
“No!” said Mrs. Crawley. “I will not hear that said without denying it.”
“But they must take their lot as it has been given to them,” continued he. “Such a position in life as that which you have proposed to bestow upon my child would be to her, as regards human affairs, great elevation. And from what I have heard—I may be permitted to add also from what I now learn by personal experience—such a marriage would be laden with fair promise of future happiness. But if you ask my mind, I think that my child is not free to make it. You, sir, have many relatives, who are not in love, as you are, all of whom would be affected by the stain of my disgrace. You have a daughter, to whom all your solicitude is due. No one should go to your house as your second wife who cannot feel that she will serve your child. My daughter would feel that she was bringing injury upon the babe. I cannot bid her do this—and I will not. Nor do I believe that she would do so if I bade her.” Then he turned his chair round, and sat with his face to the wall, wiping away the tears with a tattered handkerchief.
Mrs. Crawley led the major away to the further window, and there stood looking up into his face. It need hardly be said that they also were crying. Whose eyes could have been dry after such a scene—upon hearing such words? “You had better go,” said Mrs. Crawley. “I know him so well. You had better go.”
“Mrs. Crawley,” he said whispering to her, “if I ever desert her, may all that I love desert me! But will you help me?”
“You would want no help, were it not for this trouble.”
“But you will help me?”
Then she paused for a moment, “I can do nothing,” she said, “but what he bids me.”
“You will trust me, at any rate?” said the major.
“I do trust you,” she replied. Then he went without saying a word further to Mr. Crawley. As soon as he was gone, the wife went over to her husband, and put her arm gently round his neck as he was sitting. For a while the husband took no notice of his wife’s caress, but sat motionless, with his face still turned to the wall. Then she spoke to him a word or two, telling him that their visitor was gone. “My child!” he said. “My poor child! my darling! She has found grace in this man’s sight; but even of that has her father robbed her! The Lord has visited upon the children the sins of the father, and will do so to the third and fourth generation.”
CHAPTER LXIV
The Tragedy in Hook Court
Conway Dalrymple had hurried out of the room in Mrs. Broughton’s house in which he had been painting Jael and Sisera, thinking that it would be better to meet an angry and perhaps tipsy husband on the stairs, than it would be either to wait for him till he should make his way into his wife’s room, or to hide away from him with the view of escaping altogether from so disagreeable an encounter. He had no fear of the man. He did not think that there would be any violence—nor, as regarded himself, did he much care if there was to be violence. But he felt that he was bound, as far as it might be possible, to screen the poor woman from the ill effects of her husband’s temper and condition. He was, therefore, prepared to stop Broughton on the stairs, and to use some force in arresting him on his way, should he find the man to be really intoxicated. But he had not descended above a stair or two before he was aware that the man below him, whose step had been heard in the hall, was not intoxicated, and that he was not Dobbs Broughton. It was Mr. Musselboro.
“It is you, is it?” said Conway. “I thought it was Broughton.” Then he looked into the man’s face and saw that he was ashy pale. All that appearance of low-bred jauntiness which used to belong to him seemed to have been washed out of him. His hair had forgotten to curl, his gloves had been thrown aside, and even his trinkets were out of sight. “What has happened?” said Conway. “What is the matter? Something is wrong.” Then it occurred to him that Musselboro had been sent to the house to tell the wife of the husband’s ruin.
“The servant told me that I should find you upstairs,” said Musselboro.
“Yes; I have been painting here. For some time past I have been doing a picture of Miss Van Siever. Mrs. Van Siever has been here to-day.” Conway thought that this information would produce some strong effect on Clara’s proposed husband; but he did not seem to regard the matter of the picture nor the mention of Miss Van Siever’s name.
“She knows nothing of it?” said he. “She doesn’t know yet?”
“Know what?” said Conway. “She knows that her husband has lost money.”
“Dobbs has—destroyed himself.”
“What!”
“Blew his brains out this morning just inside the entrance at Hook Court. The horror of drink was on him, and he stood just in the pathway and shot himself. Bangles was standing at the top of their vaults and saw him do it. I don’t think Bangles will ever be a man again. Oh lord! I shall never get over it myself. The body was there when I went in.” Then Musselboro sank back against the wall of the staircase, and stared at Dalrymple as though he still saw before him the terrible sight of which he had just spoken.
Dalrymple seated himself on the stairs and strove to bring his mind to bear on the tale which he had just heard. What was he to do, and how was that poor woman upstairs to be informed? “You came here intending to tell her,” he said in a whisper. He feared every moment that Mrs. Broughton would appear on the stairs, and learn from a word or two what had happened without any hint to prepare her for the catastrophe.
“I thought you would be here. I knew you were doing the picture. He knew it. He’d had a letter to say so—one of those anonymous ones.”
“But that didn’t influence him?”
“I don’t think it was that,” said Musselboro. “He meant to have had it out with her; but it wasn’t that as brought this about. Perhaps you didn’t know that he was clean ruined?”
“She had told me.”
“Then she knew it?”
“Oh, yes; she knew that. Mrs. Van Siever had told her. Poor creature! How are we to break this to her?”
“You and she are very thick,” said Musselboro. “I suppose you’ll do it best.” By this time they were in the drawing-room, and the door was closed. Dalrymple had put his hand on the other man’s arm, and had led him downstairs, out of reach of hearing from the room above. “You’ll tell her—won’t you?” said Musselboro. Then Dalrymple tried to think what loving female friend there was who could break the news to the unfortunate woman. He knew of the Van Sievers, and he knew of the Demolines, and he almost knew that there was no other woman within reach whom he was entitled to regard as closely connected with Mrs. Broughton. He was well aware that the anonymous letter of which Musselboro had just spoken had come from Miss Demolines, and he could not go there for sympathy and assistance. Nor could he apply to Mrs. Van Siever after what had passed this morning. To Clara Van Siever he would have applied, but that it was impossible he should reach Clara except through her mother. “I suppose I had better go to her,” he said, after a while. And then he went, leaving Musselboro in the drawing-room. “I’m so bad with it,” said Musselboro, “that I really don’t know how I shall ever go up that court again.”
Conway Dalrymple made his way up the stairs with very slow steps, and as he did so he could not but think seriously of the nature of his friendship with this woman, and could not but condemn himself heartily for the folly and iniquity of his own conduct. Scores of times he had professed his love to her with half-expressed words, intended to mean nothing, as he said to himself when he tried to excuse himself, but enough to turn her head, even if they did not reach her heart. Now, this woman was a widow, and it came to be his duty to tell her that she was so. What if she should claim from 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 to-morrow, 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 recognise 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 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 the 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. Has he 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,” he said.
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! Oh, 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 wo
n’t see him. Remember that. Nothing on earth can 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 believe it.”
“And how did it happen?”
“He could not bear the ruin that he had brought upon himself and you.”
“Then—then—” She went no further in her speech; but Dalrymple assented by a slight motion of his head, and she had been informed sufficiently that her husband had perished by his own hand. “What am I to do?” she said. “Oh, Conway—you must tell me. Was there ever so miserable a woman! Was it—poison?”
He got up and walked quickly across the room and back again to the place where she was sitting. “Never mind about that now. You shall know all that in time. Do not ask any questions about that. If I were you I think I would go to bed. You will be better there than up, and this shock will make you sleep.”
“No,” she said. “I will not go to bed. How should I know that that man would not come to me and kill me? I believe he murdered Dobbs—I do. You are not going to leave me, Conway?”
“I think I had better, for a while. There are things which should be done. Shall I send one of the women to you?”
“There is not one of them that cares for me in the least. Oh, Conway, do not go; not yet. I will not be left alone in the house with him. You will be very cruel if you go and leave me now—when you have so often said that you—that you—that you were my friend.” And now, at last, she began to weep.
“I think it will be best,” he said, “that I should go to Mrs. Van Siever. If I can manage it, I will get Clara to come to you.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 355