MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY.
Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had in these days risen
so high in the world that people in the west-end of town, and very
respectable people too,--people living in South Kensington, in
neighbourhoods not far from Belgravia, and in very handsome houses
round Bayswater,--were glad to ask him out to dinner. Money had been
left to him by an earl, and rumour had of course magnified that
money. He was a private secretary, which is in itself a great advance
on being a mere clerk. And he had become the particularly intimate
friend of an artist who had pushed himself into high fashion during
the last year or two,--one Conway Dalrymple, whom the rich English
world was beginning to pet and pelt with gilt sugar-plums, and who
seemed to take very kindly to petting and gilt sugar-plums. I don't
know whether the friendship of Conway Dalrymple had not done as much
to secure John Eames his position at the Bayswater dinner-tables, as
had either the private secretaryship, or the earl's money; and yet,
when they had first known each other, now only two or three years
ago, Conway Dalrymple had been the poorer man of the two. Some chance
had brought them together, and they had lived in the same rooms for
nearly two years. This arrangement had been broken up, and the Conway
Dalrymple of these days had a studio of his own, somewhere near
Kensington Palace, where he painted portraits of young countesses,
and in which he had even painted a young duchess. It was the peculiar
merit of his pictures,--so at least said the art-loving world,--that
though the likeness was always good, the stiffness of the modern
portrait was never there. There was also ever some story told in
Dalrymple's pictures over and above the story of the portraiture.
This countess was drawn as a fairy with wings, that countess as
a goddess with a helmet. The thing took for a time, and Conway
Dalrymple was picking up his gilt sugar-plums with considerable
rapidity.
On a certain day he and John Eames were to dine out together at a
certain house in that Bayswater district. It was a large mansion,
if not made of stone yet looking very stony, with thirty windows at
least, all of them with cut-stone frames, requiring, let me say, at
least four thousand a year for its maintenance. And its owner, Dobbs
Broughton, a man very well known both in the City and over the grass
in Northamptonshire, was supposed to have a good deal more than four
thousand a year. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, a very beautiful woman, who
certainly was not yet thirty-five, let her worst enemies say what
they might, had been painted by Conway Dalrymple as a Grace. There
were, of course, three Graces in the picture, but each Grace was Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton repeated. We all know how Graces stand sometimes;
two Graces looking one way, and one the other. In this picture, Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton as centre Grace looked you full in the face. The same
lady looked away from you, displaying her left shoulder as one side
Grace, and displaying her right shoulder as the other side Grace. For
this pretty toy Mr. Conway Dalrymple had picked up a gilt sugar-plum
to the tune of six hundred pounds, and had, moreover, won the heart
both of Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "Upon my word, Johnny,"
Dalrymple had said to his friend, "he's a deuced good fellow, has
really a good glass of claret,--which is getting rarer and rarer
every day,--and will mount you for a day, whenever you please,
down at Market Harboro'. Come and dine with them." Johnny Eames
condescended, and did go and dine with Mr. Dobbs Broughton. I wonder
whether he remembered, when Conway Dalrymple was talking of the
rarity of good claret, how much beer the young painter used to drink
when they were out together in the country, as they used to be
occasionally, three years ago; and how the painter had then been
used to complain that bitter beer cost threepence a glass, instead
of twopence, which had hitherto been the recognized price of the
article. In those days the sugar-plums had not been gilt, and had
been much rarer.
Johnny Eames and his friend went together to the house of Mr. Dobbs
Broughton. As Dalrymple lived close to the Broughtons, Eames picked
him up in a cab. "Filthy things, these cabs are," said Dalrymple, as
he got into the Hansom.
"I don't know about that," said Johnny. "They're pretty good, I
think."
"Foul things," said Conway. "Don't you feel what a draught comes in
here because the glass is cracked. I'd have one of my own, only I
should never know what to do with it."
"The greatest nuisance on earth, I should think," said Johnny.
"If you could always have it standing ready round the corner," said
the artist, "it would be delightful. But one would want half a dozen
horses, and two or three men for that."
"I think the stands are the best," said Johnny.
They were a little late,--a little later than they should have been
had they considered that Eames was to be introduced to his new
acquaintances. But he had already lived long enough before the world
to be quite at his ease in such circumstances, and he entered Mrs.
Broughton's drawing-room with his pleasantest smile upon his face.
But as he entered he saw a sight which made him look serious in spite
of his efforts to the contrary. Mr. Adolphus Crosbie, secretary to
the Board at the General Committee Office, was standing on the rug
before the fire.
"Who will be there?" Eames had asked of his friend, when the
suggestion to go and dine with Dobbs Broughton had been made to him.
"Impossible to say," Conway had replied. "A certain horrible fellow
of the name of Musselboro, will almost certainly be there. He always
is when they have anything of a swell dinner-party. He is a sort of
partner of Broughton's in the City. He wears a lot of chains, and has
elaborate whiskers, and an elaborate waistcoat, which is worse; and
he doesn't wash his hands as often as he ought to do."
"An objectionable party, rather, I should say," said Eames.
"Well, yes; Musselboro is objectionable. He's very good-humoured you
know, and good-looking in a sort of way, and goes everywhere; that
is among people of this sort. Of course he's not hand-and-glove with
Lord Derby; and I wish he could be made to wash his hands. They
haven't any other standing dish, and you may meet anybody. They
always have a Member of Parliament; they generally manage to catch
a Baronet; and I have met a Peer there. On that august occasion
Musselboro was absent."
So instructed, Eames, on entering the room, looked round at once for
Mr. Musselboro. "If I don't see the whiskers and chain," he had said,
"I shall know there's a Peer." Mr. Musselboro was in the room, but
Eames had descried Mr. Crosbie long before he had seen Mr.
Musselboro.
There was no reason for confusion on his part in meeting Crosbie.
They had both loved Lily Dale. Crosbie might have been successful,
but for his own fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into
contact with him, and on that occasion had quarrelled with him and
had beaten him, giving him a black eye, and in this way obtaining
some mastery over him. There was no reason why he should be ashamed
of meeting Crosbie; and yet, when he saw him, the blood mounted
all over his face, and he forgot to make any further search for Mr.
Musselboro.
"I am so much obliged to Mr. Dalrymple for bringing you," said Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton very sweetly, "only he ought to have come sooner.
Naughty man! I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss Demolines
down? Miss Demolines,--Mr. Eames."
Mr. Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had not welcomed our hero
very cordially. He was beginning to think that Conway Dalrymple gave
himself airs and did not sufficiently understand that a man who had
horses at Market Harboro' and '41 Lafitte was at any rate as good
as a painter who was pelted with gilt sugar-plums for painting
countesses. But he was a man whose ill-humour never lasted long, and
he was soon pressing his wine on Johnny Eames as though he loved him
dearly.
But there was yet a few minutes before they went down to dinner, and
Johnny Eames, as he endeavoured to find something to say to Miss
Demolines,--which was difficult, as he did not in the least know Miss
Demolines' line of conversation,--was aware that his efforts were
impeded by thoughts of Mr. Crosbie. The man looked older than when he
had last seen him,--so much older that Eames was astonished. He was
bald, or becoming bald; and his whiskers were grey, or were becoming
grey, and he was much fatter. Johnny Eames, who was always thinking
of Lily Dale, could not now keep himself from thinking of Adolphus
Crosbie. He saw at a glance that the man was in mourning, though
there was nothing but his shirt-studs by which to tell it; and he
knew that he was in mourning for his wife. "I wish she might have
lived for ever," Johnny said to himself.
He had not yet been definitely called upon by the entrance of the
servant to offer his arm to Miss Demolines, when Crosbie walked
across to him from the rug and addressed him.
"Mr. Eames," said he, "it is some time since we met." And he offered
his hand to Johnny.
"Yes, it is," said Johnny, accepting the proffered salutation. "I
don't know exactly how long, but ever so long."
"I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with you,"
said Crosbie; and then he retired, as it had become his duty to wait
with his arm ready for Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Having married an earl's
daughter he was selected for that honour. There was a barrister in
the room, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known better. As
she professed to be guided in such matters by the rules laid down by
the recognized authorities, she ought to have been aware that a man
takes no rank from his wife. But she was entitled I think to merciful
consideration for her error. A woman situated as was Mrs. Dobbs
Broughton cannot altogether ignore these terrible rules. She cannot
let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must select some one for
the honour of her own arm. And amidst the intricacies of rank how
is it possible for a woman to learn and to remember everything? If
Providence would only send Mrs. Dobbs Broughton a Peer for every
dinner-party, the thing would go more easily; but what woman will
tell me, off-hand, which should go out of a room first: a C.B., an
Admiral of the Blue, the Dean of Barchester, or the Dean of Arches?
Who is to know who was everybody's father? How am I to remember that
young Thompson's progenitor was made a baronet and not a knight when
he was Lord Mayor? Perhaps Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known
that Mr. Crosbie could have gained nothing by his wife's rank, and
the barrister may be considered to have been not immoderately severe
when he simply spoke of her afterwards as the silliest and most
ignorant old woman he had ever met in his life. Eames with the lovely
Miss Demolines on his arm was the last to move before the hostess.
Mr. Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with old Lady
Demolines. There was no doubt about Lady Demolines,--as his wife
had told him, because her title marked her. Her husband had been
a physician in Paris, and had been knighted in consequence of
some benefit supposed to have been done to some French scion of
royalty,--when such scions in France were royal and not imperial.
Lady Demolines' rank was not much, certainly; but it served to mark
her, and was beneficial.
[Illustration: "I am very glad to have the opportunity
of shaking hands with you."]
As he went downstairs Eames was still thinking of his meeting with
Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a word to his neighbour, and his
neighbour had not said a word to him. Now Johnny understood dinners
quite well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among whom six
are ladies, everything depends on your next neighbour, and generally
on the next neighbour who specially belongs to you; and as he took
his seat he was a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next two
hours. On his other hand sat Mrs. Ponsonby, the barrister's wife, and
he did not much like the look of Mrs. Ponsonby. She was fat, heavy,
and good-looking; with a broad space between her eyes, and light
smooth hair;--a youthful British matron every inch of her, of whom
any barrister with a young family of children might be proud. Now
Miss Demolines, though she was hardly to be called beautiful, was at
any rate remarkable. She had large, dark, well-shaped eyes, and very
dark hair, which she wore tangled about in an extraordinary manner,
and she had an expressive face,--a face made expressive by the
owner's will. Such power of expression is often attained by dint of
labour,--though it never reaches to the expression of anything in
particular. She was almost sufficiently good-looking to be justified
in considering herself to be a beauty.
But Miss Demolines, though she had said nothing as yet, knew her game
very well. A lady cannot begin conversation to any good purpose in
the drawing-room, when she is seated and the man is standing;--nor
can she know then how the table may subsequently arrange itself.
Powder may be wasted, and often is wasted, and the spirit rebels
against the necessity of commencing a second enterprise. But Miss
Demolines, when she found herself seated, and perceived that on the
other side of her was Mr. Ponsonby, a married man, commenced her
enterprise at once, and our friend John Eames was immediately aware
that he would have no difficulty as to conversation.
"Don't you like winter dinner-parties?" began Miss Demolines. This
was said just as Johnny was taking his seat, and he had time to
declare that he liked dinner-parties at all periods of the year if
the dinner was good and the people pleasant before the host had
muttered something which was intended to be understood to be a grace.
"But I mean especially in winter," continued Miss Demolines. "I don't
think daylight should ever be admitted at a dinner-table; and though
you may shut out the daylight, you can't shut out the heat. And then
there are always so many other things to go to in May and June and
July. Dinners should be stopped by Act of Parliament for those three
months. I don't care what people do afterwards, because we always fly
away on the first of August.
"That is good-natured on your part."
"I'm sure what I say would be for the good of society;--but at this
time of the year a dinner is warm and comfortable."
"Very comfortable, I think."
"And people get to know each other;"--in saying which Miss Demolines
looked very pleasantly up into Johnny's face.
"There is a great deal in that," said he. "I wonder whether you and I
will get to know each other?"
"Of course we shall;--that is, if I'm worth knowing."
"There can be no doubt about that, I should say."
"Time alone can tell. But, Mr. Eames, I see that Mr. Crosbie is a
friend of yours."
"Hardly a friend."
"I know very well that men are friends when they step up and shake
hands with each other. It is the same as when women kiss."
"When I see women kiss, I always think that there is deep hatred at
the bottom of it."
"And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr. Crosbie for
anything I know to the contrary," said Miss Demolines.
"The very deepest," said Johnny, pretending to look grave.
"Ah; then I know he is your bosom friend, and that you will tell him
anything I say. What a strange history that was of his marriage!"
"So I have heard;--but he is not quite bosom friend enough with me to
have told me all the particulars. I know that his wife is dead."
"Dead; oh, yes; she has been dead these two years I should say."
"Not so long as that, I should think."
"Well,--perhaps not. But it's ever so long ago;--quite long enough
for him to be married again. Did you know her?"
"I never saw her in my life."
"I knew her,--not well indeed; but I am intimate with her sister,
Lady Amelia Gazebee, and I have met her there. None of that family
have married what you may call well. And now, Mr. Eames, pray look at
the menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me a little dinner
of my own, out of the great bill of fare provided. I always expect
some gentleman to do that for me. Mr. Crosbie, you know, only lived
with his wife for one month."
"So I've been told."
"And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. He
doesn't look that sort of man, does he?"
"Well;--no. I don't think he does. But what sort of man do you mean?"
"Why, such a regular Bluebeard! Of course you know how he treated
another girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died of
it,--with a broken heart; absolutely died; and there he is,
indifferent as possible;--and would treat me in the same way
to-morrow if I would let him."
Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines about
Lily Dale, took up the card of the dinner and went to work in
earnest, recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by.
"But you've skipped the pâté," she said, with energy.
"Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are much more
fit to do it." And she did choose his dinner for him.
They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladies
and gentlemen should alternate themselves properly, Mr. Musselboro
was opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs. Van
Siever, the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was
a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quantity as from the
nature of the wiggeries which she wore. She had not only a false
front, but long false curls, as to which it cannot be conceived
that she would suppose that any one would be ignorant as to their
falseness. She was very thin, too, and very small, and putting aside
her wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastly
old woman to the sight, and not altogether pleasant in her mode of
talking. She seemed to know Mr. Musselboro very well, for she called
him by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as a
clerk in her husband's office.
"Why doesn't What's-his-name have real silver forks?" she said to
him. Now Mrs. What's-his-name,--Mrs. Dobbs Broughton we will call
her,--was sitting on the other side of Mr. Musselboro, between him
and Mr. Crosbie; and, so placed, Mr. Musselboro found it rather hard
to answer the question, more especially as he was probably aware that
other questions would follow.
"What's the use?" said Mr. Musselboro. "Everybody has these plated
things now. What's the use of a lot of capital lying dead?"
"Everybody doesn't. I don't. You know as well as I do, Musselboro,
that the appearance of the thing goes for a great deal. Capital isn't
lying dead as long as people know that you've got it."
Before answering this Mr. Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. "You won't find that
there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton," he
said.
"I shan't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what
people told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City than
anywhere else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which the
young man painted?"
"What, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's portrait?"
"You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean the one with the
three naked women?" Mr. Musselboro glanced round with one eye, and
felt sure that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But the
old woman was determined to have an answer. "How much did he give for
it, Musselboro?"
"Six hundred pounds, I believe," said Mr. Musselboro, looking
straight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat the
subject with perfect indifference.
"Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And yet he hasn't got silver
spoons. How things are changed! Tell me, Musselboro, who was that
young man who came in with the painter?"
Mr. Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs. Broughton. "A Mr.
John Eames, Mrs. Van Siever," said Mrs. Broughton, whispering
across the front of Mr. Musselboro. "He is private secretary to
Lord--Lord--Lord--I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know.
And he had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord--Lord--Lord
somebody else."
"All among the lords, I see," said Mrs. Van Siever. Then Mrs. Dobbs
Broughton drew herself back, remembering some little attack which had
been made on her by Mrs. Van Siever when she herself had had the real
lord to dine with her.
There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sitting between Crosbie and
Conway Dalrymple. Conway Dalrymple had been specially brought there
to sit next to Miss Van Siever. "There's no knowing how much she'll
have," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, in the warmth of her friendship.
"But it's all real. It is, indeed. The mother is awfully rich."
"But she's awful in another way, too," said Dalrymple.
"Indeed she is, Conway." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had got into a way of
calling her young friend by his Christian name. "All the world calls
him Conway," she had said to her husband once when her husband caught
her doing so. "She is awful. Her husband made the business in the
City, when things were very different from what they are now, and I
can't help having her. She has transactions of business with Dobbs.
But there's no mistake about the money."
"She needn't leave it to her daughter, I suppose?"
"But why shouldn't she? She has nobody else. You might offer to paint
her, you know. She'd make an excellent picture. So much character.
You come and see her."
Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willingness to meet Miss Van
Siever, saying something, however, as to his present position being
one which did not admit of any matrimonial speculation. Then Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that he was
altogether wrong, and that were he to forget himself, or commit
himself, or misbehave himself, there must be an end to their pleasant
intimacy. In answer to which, Mr. Dalrymple had said that his Grace
was surely of all Graces the least gracious. And now he had come to
meet Miss Van Siever, and was seated next to her at table.
Miss Van Siever, who at this time had perhaps reached her
twenty-fifth year, was certainly a handsome young woman. She was fair
and large, bearing no likeness whatever to her mother. Her features
were regular, and her full, clear eyes had a brilliance of their
own, looking at you always stedfastly and boldly, though very
seldom pleasantly. Her mouth would have been beautiful had it not
been too strong for feminine beauty. Her teeth were perfect,--too
perfect,--looking like miniature walls of carved ivory. She knew
the fault of this perfection, and shewed her teeth as little as she
could. Her nose and chin were finely chiselled, and her head stood
well upon her shoulders. But there was something hard about it all
which repelled you. Dalrymple, when he saw her, recoiled from her,
not outwardly, but inwardly. Yes, she was handsome, as may be a horse
or a tiger; but there was about her nothing of feminine softness.
He could not bring himself to think of taking Clara Van Siever as
the model that was to sit before him for the rest of his life. He
certainly could make a picture of her, as had been suggested by his
friend, Mrs. Broughton, but it must be as Judith with the dissevered
head, or as Jael using her hammer over the temple of Sisera. Yes,--he
thought she would do as Jael; and if Mrs. Van Siever would throw
him a sugar-plum,--for he would want the sugar-plum, seeing that
any other result was out of the question,--the thing might be done.
Such was the idea of Mr. Conway Dalrymple respecting Miss Van
Siever,--before he led her down to dinner.
At first he found it hard to talk to her. She answered him, and
not with monosyllables. But she answered him without sympathy, or
apparent pleasure in talking. Now the young artist was in the habit
of being flattered by ladies, and expected to have his small talk
made very easy for him. He liked to give himself little airs, and
was not generally disposed to labour very hard at the task of making
himself agreeable.
"Were you ever painted yet?" he asked her after they had both been
sitting silent for two or three minutes.
"Was I ever--ever painted? In what way?"
"I don't mean rouged, or enamelled, or got up by Madame Rachel; but
have you ever had your portrait taken?"
"I have been photographed,--of course."
"That's why I asked you if you had been painted,--so as to make some
little distinction between the two. I am a painter by profession, and
do portraits."
"So Mrs. Broughton told me."
"I am not asking for a job, you know."
"I am quite sure of that."
"But I should have thought you would have been sure to have sat to
somebody."
"I never did. I never thought of doing so. One does those things at
the instigation of one's intimate friends,--fathers, mothers, uncles,
and aunts, and the like."
"Or husbands, perhaps,--or lovers?"
"Well, yes; my intimate friend is my mother, and she would never
dream of such a thing. She hates pictures."
"Hates pictures!"
"And especially portraits. And I'm afraid, Mr. Dalrymple, she hates
artists."
"Good heavens; how cruel! I suppose there is some story attached
to it. There has been some fatal likeness,--some terrible
picture,--something in her early days?"
"Nothing of the kind, Mr. Dalrymple. It is merely the fact that her
sympathies are with ugly things, rather than with pretty things. I
think she loves the mahogany dinner-table better than anything else
in the house; and she likes to have everything dark, and plain, and
solid."
"And good?"
"Good of its kind, certainly."
"If everybody was like your mother, how would the artists live?"
"There would be none."
"And the world, you think, would be none the poorer?"
"I did not speak of myself. I think the world would be very much
the poorer. I am very fond of the ancient masters, though I do not
suppose that I understand them."
"They are easier understood than the modern, I can tell you. Perhaps
you don't care for modern pictures?"
"Not in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivil, you have brought
it on yourself. But I do not in truth mean anything derogatory to the
painters of the day. When their pictures are old, they,--that is the
good ones among them,--will be nice also."
"Pictures are like wine, and want age, you think?"
"Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all things. The colours
of new paintings are so glaring, and the faces are so bright and
self-conscious, that they look to me when I go to the exhibition like
coloured prints in a child's new picture-book. It is the same thing
with buildings. One sees all the points, and nothing is left to the
imagination."
"I find I have come across a real critic."
"I hope, at any rate, I am not a sham one;" and Miss Van Siever as
she said this looked very savage.
"I shouldn't take you to be a sham in anything."
"Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. Who can undertake
to say that he is not a sham in anything?"
As she said this the ladies were getting up. So Miss Van Siever also
got up, and left Mr. Conway Dalrymple to consider whether he could
say or could think of himself that he was not a sham in anything.
As regarded Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think that he should
not object to paint her portrait, even though there might be no
sugar-plum. He would certainly do it as Jael; and he would, if he
dared, insert dimly in the background some idea of the face of
the mother, half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of the
sacrifice. He was composing his picture, while Mr. Dobbs Broughton
was arranging himself and his bottles.
"Musselboro," he said, "I'll come up between you and Crosbie. Mr.
Eames, though I run away from you, the claret shall remain; or,
rather, it shall flow backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will."
"I'll keep it moving," said Johnny.
"Do; there's a good fellow. It's a nice glass of wine, isn't it? Old
Ramsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as any wine-merchant in
London, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he'd a lot of
tidy Bordeaux. It's '41, you know. He had ninety dozen, and I took it
all."
"What was the figure, Broughton?" said Crosbie, asking the question
which he knew was expected.
"Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then; it's worth a
hundred and twenty now. I wouldn't sell a bottle of it for any money.
Come, Dalrymple, pass it round; but fill your glass first."
"Thank you, no; I don't like it. I'll drink sherry."
"Don't like it!" said Dobbs Broughton.
"It's strange, isn't it? but I don't."
"I thought you particularly told me to drink his claret?" said Johnny
to his friend afterwards.
"So I did," said Conway; "and wonderfully good wine it is. But I make
it a rule never to eat or drink anything in a man's house when he
praises it himself and tells me the price of it."
"And I make it a rule never to cut the nose off my own face," said
Johnny.
Before they went, Johnny Eames had been specially invited to call
on Lady Demolines, and had said that he would do so. "We live in
Porchester Gardens," said Miss Demolines. "Upon my word, I believe
that the farther London stretches in that direction, the farther
mamma will go. She thinks the air so much better. I know it's a long
way."
"Distance is nothing to me," said Johnny; "I can always set off over
night."
Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on Mrs. Van Siever, but
before he left the house he did say a word or two more to his friend
Mrs. Broughton as to Clara Van Siever. "She is a fine young woman,"
he said; "she is indeed."
"You have found it out, have you?"
"Yes, I have found it out. I do not doubt that some day she'll
murder her husband or her mother, or startle the world by some
newly-invented crime; but that only makes her the more interesting."
"And when you add to that all the old woman's money," said Mrs. Dobbs
Broughton, "you think that she might do?"
"For a picture, certainly. I'm speaking of her simply as a model.
Could we not manage it? Get her once here, without her mother knowing
it, or Broughton, or any one. I've got the subject,--Jael and Sisera,
you know. I should like to put Musselboro in as Sisera, with the nail
half driven in." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton declared that the scheme was a
great deal too wicked for her participation, but at last she promised
to think of it.
"You might as well come up and have a cigar," Dalrymple said, as he
and his friend left Mr. Broughton's house. Johnny said that he would
go up and have a cigar or two. "And now tell me what you think of
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton and her set," said Conway.
"Well; I'll tell you what I think of them. I think they stink of
money, as the people say; but I'm not sure that they've got any all
the same."
"I should suppose he makes a large income."
"Very likely, and perhaps spends more than he makes. A good deal of
it looked to me like make-believe. There's no doubt about the claret,
but the champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to have such
stuff handed round to his guests. And there isn't the ring of real
gold about the house."
"I hate the ring of the gold, as you call it," said the artist.
"So do I,--I hate it like poison; but if it is there, I like it to be
true. There is a sort of persons going now,--and one meets them out
here and there every day of one's life,--who are downright Brummagem
to the ear and to the touch and to the sight, and we recognize them
as such at the very first moment. My honoured lord and master, Sir
Raffle, is one such. There is no mistaking him. Clap him down upon
the counter, and he rings dull and untrue at once. Pardon me, my
dear Conway, if I say the same of your excellent friend Mr. Dobbs
Broughton."
"I think you go a little too far, but I don't deny it. What you mean
is, that he's not a gentleman."
"I mean a great deal more than that. Bless you, when you come to talk
of a gentleman, who is to define the word? How do I know whether or
no I'm a gentleman myself? When I used to be in Burton Crescent, I
was hardly a gentleman then,--sitting at the same table with Mrs.
Roper and the Lupexes;--do you remember them, and the lovely Amelia?"
"I suppose you were a gentleman, then, as well as now."
"You, if you had been painting duchesses then, with a studio in
Kensington Gardens, would not have said so, if you had happened to
come across me. I can't define a gentleman, even in my own mind;--but
I can define the sort of man with whom I think I can live
pleasantly."
"And poor Dobbs doesn't come within the line?"
"N--o, not quite; a very nice fellow, I'm quite sure, and I'm very
much obliged to you for taking me there."
"I never will take you to any house again. And what did you think of
his wife?"
"That's a horse of another colour altogether. A pretty woman with
such a figure as hers has got a right to be anything she pleases.
I see you are a great favourite."
"No, I'm not;--not especially. I do like her. She wants to make up a
match between me and that Miss Van Siever. Miss Van is to have gold
by the ingot, and jewels by the bushel, and a hatful of bank shares,
and a whole mine in Cornwall, for her fortune."
"And is very handsome into the bargain."
"Yes; she's handsome."
"So is her mother," said Johnny. "If you take the daughter, I'll
take the mother, and see if I can't do you out of a mine or two.
Good-night, old fellow. I'm only joking about old Dobbs. I'll go and
dine there again to-morrow, if you like it."