第205章

After that she retired to her own room with a romantic tear in each eye, and told herself that, had chance thrown Conway Dalrymple into her way before she had seen Dobbs Broughton, she would have been the happiest woman in the world. She sat for a while looking into vacancy, and thinking that it would be very nice to break her heart. How should she set about it? Should she take to her bed and grow thin? She would begin by eating no dinner for ever so may days altogether. At lunch her husband was never present, and therefore the broken heart could be displayed at dinner without much positive suffering. In the meantime she would implore Conway Dalrymple to get himself married with as little delay as possible, and she would lay upon him her positive order to restrain himself from any word of affection addressed to herself. She, at any rate, would be pure, high-minded, and self-sacrificing--although romantic and poetic also, as was her nature.

The picture was progressing, and so also, as it had come about, was the love-affair between the artist and his model. Conway Dalrymple had begun to think that he might, after all, do worse than make Clara Van Siever his wife. Clara Van Siever was handsome, and undoubtedly clever, and Clara Van Siever's mother was certainly rich. And, in addition to this, the young lady herself began to like the man into whose society she was thrown. The affair seemed to flourish, and Mrs Dobbs Broughton should have been delighted. She told Clara, with a very serious air, that she was delighted, bidding Clara, at the same time, to be very cautious, as men were so fickle, and as Conway Dalrymple, though the best fellow in the world, was not, perhaps, altogether free from that common vice of men. Indeed, it might have been surmised, from a word or two which Mrs Broughton allowed to escape, that she considered poor Conway to be more than ordinarily afflicted in that way. Miss Van Siever at first only pouted, and said that there was nothing in it. 'There is something in it, my dear, certainly,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton; 'and there can be no earthly reason why there should not be a great deal in it.' 'There is nothing in it,' said Miss Van Siever, impetuously; 'and if you will continue to speak of Mr Dalrymple in that way, I must give up the picture.' 'As for that,' said Mrs Broughton, 'I conceive that we are both of us bound to the young man now, seeing that he has given so much time to the work.' 'I am not bound to him at all,' said Miss Van Siever.

Mrs Broughton also told Conway Dalrymple that she was delighted--oh, so much delighted! He had obtained permission to come in one morning before the time of sitting, so that he might work at his canvas independently of his model. As was his custom, he made his own way upstairs and commenced his work alone--having been expressly told by Mrs Broughton that she would not come to him till she brought Clara with her. But she did go up to the room in which the artist was painting, without waiting for Miss Van Siever. Indeed, she was at this time so anxious as the future welfare of her two young friends that she could not restrain herself from speaking either to the one of to the other, whenever any opportunity for such speech came round. To have left Conway Dalrymple at work upstairs without going to him was impossible to her. So she went, and then took the opportunity of expressing to her friend her ideas as to his past and future conduct.

'Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed,' she said, standing before the easel, and looking at the half-completed work. 'I do not know that you ever did anything better.'

'I never can tell myself till a picture is finished whether it is going to be good or not,' said Dalrymple, thinking really of his picture and of nothing else.

'I am sure this will be good,' she said, 'and I suppose it is because you have thrown so much heart into it. It is not mere industry that will produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even genius; more than this is required. The heart of the artist must be thrust with all its gushing tides into the performance.' By this time he knew all the tones of her voice and their various meanings, and immediately became aware that at the present moment she was intent upon something beyond the picture. She was preparing for a little scene, and was going to give him some advice.

He understood it all, but as he was really desirous of working at his canvas, and was rather averse to having a scene at the moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her. 'It is the heart that gives success,' she said, he was considering how he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for the occasion.

'Not at all, Mrs Broughton; success depends on elbow-grease.'

'On what, Conway?'

'On elbow-grease--hard work, that is--and I must work hard now if I mean to take advantage of today's sitting. The truth is, I don't give enough hours work to it.' And he leaned upon his stick, and daubed away bristly at the background, and then stood for a moment looking at his canvas with his head a little on one side, as though he could not withdraw his attention for a moment from the thing he was doing.

'You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should not speak to you.'

'Oh, no, Mrs Broughton, I did not mean that at all.'

'I won't interrupt you at your work. What I have to say is perhaps of no great moment. Indeed, words between you and me never can have much importance now. Can they, Conway?'

'I don't see that at all,' said he, working away at his brush.

'Do you not? I do. They should never amount to more--they can never amount to more than the common ordinary courtesies of life; what I call the greetings and good-byeings of conversation.' She said this in a low, melancholy tone of voice, not intending to be in any degree jocose. 'How seldom is it that conversation between ordinary friends goes beyond that.'

'Don't you think it does?' said Conway, stepping back and taking another look at the picture. 'I find myself talking to all manner of people about all manner of things.'