by George Moore
In the frieze-clad crowd, the tall, thin young man, in broadcloth, probably a Land League organiser, ground his teeth as the priest spoke. Evidently he saw political capital in what was being said, and was turning it over in his mind, thinking how he could make use of it at the meeting. The gentry bent their heads meekly, seeing only, in the denunciation of proselytising, another stick being handed to the national party, with which the landlords would be attacked.
At last it was all over. The peasants tramped away to the meeting where they would lay claim to the land that they tilled; the young ladies would soon return to their fine house to consider the skirts they would wear at the ball; and the house of God, the plea that had brought together so many conflicting interests, would remain forlorn and forgotten for another week. As they walked out of chapel catechism-classes were being formed, and, looking into the future, Alice saw from the new seed only a scantier harvesting than that she had just witnessed, sprung from a similar semination, but in a less-impoverished soil.
A circle of children was formed; a big boy or girl stood in the middle, and he or she put the questions.
“Who made the world?”
“God made the world!”
“Who is God?”
“God is the Creator and Sovereign Lord of Heaven, and earth, and all things.”
“How many Gods are there?”
“There is but one God, who will reward the just and punish the wicked,” etcetera, etcetera.
CHAPTER V.
AS THEY RETURNED from church, a horseman was seen riding rapidly towards them. It was Captain Hibbert. The movement of his shoulders, as he reined in his mettlesome bay, was picturesque. Never was a batch of ladies more favourably impressed by his beauty. Their glances were enveloping and absorbing; and he was coaxingly and gushingly upbraided for neglect of his religious duties.
During lunch, curiosity rendered May and Mrs. Gould nearly speechless; but their carriage had not turned into the highroad, on its way home, when the latter melted into a shower of laudatory words and phrases:
“What a charming man Captain Hibbert is! no wonder you young ladies like the military. He is so good-looking — and such good manners. Do you not think so, Alice dear?”
“I think the Captain a very handsome man — indeed, I believe that there are not two opinions on the subject.”
“And Olive — I do not remember that I ever saw a more beautiful girl. Such hair! and her figure so sylph-like! I do not know what the young ladies will do — she will cut everybody out at the Castle!”
“I don’t know about that,” said May, jauntily; “what one man will turn his nose up at, another will go wild lifter.”
Mrs. Gould did not answer; but her lips twitched, and Alice guessed she was annoyed that May could not express herself less emphatically. In a few moments the conversation was continued:
“At any rate, Captain Hibbert seems to think there is no one like Olive; and they would make a handsome couple. What do you think, Alice? Is there any chance of there being a match!”
“I really can’t tell you, Mrs. Gould. Olive, as you say, is a very beautiful girl, and I suppose Captain Hibbert admires her; but I don’t think that either has, up to the present, thought of the matter more seriously.”
“You must admit, Alice, that he seems a bit gone on her,” said May, with a direct determination to annoy her mother.
“May, dear, you should not talk in that slangy way; you never used to, you have picked it up from Mr. Scully. Da you know Mr. Scully, Alice? Violet’s brother.”
“Yes, I met him the night we dined at Lord Dungory’s.”
“Oh, of course you did. Well, I admit I do not like him; but May does. They go out training horses together. I don’t mind that; but I wish she would not imitate his way of talking. He has been a very wild young man.”
“Now, mother dear, I wish you would leave off abusing Fred. I have repeatedly told you that I don’t like it.”
The acerbity of this remark was softened by May’s manner and, throwing her arms on her mother’s shoulders, she commenced to coax and cajole her.
The Goulds were of an excellent county family. They had for certainly three generations lived in comfortable idleness, watching from them big square house the different collections of hamlets toiling and moiling, and paying their rents every gale day. It was said that some ancestor, whose portrait still existed, had gone to India and come back with the money that had purchased the greater part of the property. But, be this as it may, in Galway three generations of landlordism are considered sufficient repentance for shopkeeping in Gort, not to speak of Calcutta. Since then the family history had been stainless. Father and son had in turn put their horses out to grass in April, had begun to train them again in August, had boasted at the Dublin horse-show of having been out cubhunting, had ridden and drunk hard from the age of twenty to seventy. But, by dying at fifty-five, the late squire had, deviated slightly from the regular line, and the son and heir being only twelve, a pause had come in the hereditary life of the Goulds. In the interim, however, May had apparently resolved to keep up the traditions so far as her sex was supposed to allow her.
They lived in one of those box-like mansions, so many of which were built in Ireland under the Georges. On either side trees had been planted, and they stretched to the right and left like the wings of a theatre. In front there was a green lawn, at the back a, sloppy stableyard. The latter was May’s especial delight, and when Mr. Scully was with them it seemed impossible to induce her to leave it. Frequently this young man rode over to Beechgrove, and towards the end of the afternoon it became easy to persuade him to stay to dinner. Then, as the night darkened and the rain began to fall, the inhospitality of turning him out was insisted on by May, and Mrs. Gould sent up word that a room was to be prepared for him. Next morning he sent home for a change of things, and thus it was not infrequent for him to protract his visit to the extent of three or four days.
His great friend, Mrs. Manly — a lady who had jumped five feet, four months before the birth of her sixth child — had said that his was a “wasted life,” and the phrase, summing up what most people thought of him, gained currency, and was now generally used whenever his conduct was criticised or impeached. After having been in London, where he spent some years in certain vague employments, and having contracted as much debt as his creditors would permit, and more than his father would pay, he had gone through the Bankruptcy Court, and returned home to wearily drag through life, through days and weeks so appallingly idle, that he often feared to get out of bed in the morning. At first his father had tried to make use of him in his agency business, and it was principally owing to Mr. Fred’s bullying and insolent manners that Mr. Scully was now unable to leave his house unless accompanied by police.
Fred was about thirty years of age. His legs were long, his hands were bony, and stableyard was written in capital letters on his face. He carried a Sportsman under his arm, a penny and a half-crown jingled in his pocket; and as he walked he lashed the trousers and hoots, whose elegance was an echo of the old Regent Street days, with an ash-plant.
Such was the physiology of this being; from it the psychology is easy to surmise: a complete powerlessness to understand that there was anything in life worth seeking except pleasure — and pleasure to Fred meant horses, women, eating — beyond these three gratifications he neither thought, felt, nor saw. Of earthly honour the greatest was to be well-known in an English hunting-county, and he was not averse to speaking of certain ladies of title, with whom he had been on intimate terms, and with whom, it was said, he corresponded. On occasions he would read or recite poems, cut from the pages of the Society Journals, to his lady friends.
May, however, saw nothing but the outside. The already peeling-off varnish of a few years of London life satisfied her. Given a certain versatility in turning a complimentary phrase, the abundant ease with which he explained, not his ideas, for he had none, but his tastes, which, although few, were pronounced,
add to these the remnant of fashion that still lingered in his wardrobe — scarfs from the Burlington Arcade, scent from Bond Street, cracked patent-leather shoes and mended silk stockings — and it will be understood how May built something that did duty for an ideal out of this broken-down swell.
She was a girl of violent blood, and, excited by the large air of the hunting-field, she followed Fred’s lead fearlessly: to feel the life of the horse throbbing underneath her, passioned and fevered her flesh until her mental exaltation reached the rushing of delirium. Then his evening agreeabilities fascinated her, and, as he leaned back smoking in the dining-room armchair, his patent-leather shoes propped up against the mantelpiece, he showed her glimpses of a wider world than she knew of — and the girl’s eyes softened as she listened to his accounts of the great life he had led, the county-houses he had visited, and the legendary runs he had held his own in. She sympathised with him when he explained how hardly fate had dealt with him in not giving him £5,000 a year, to be spent, not in this God-forsaken country, but in London and Northamptonshire. Both were sensualists, if you will. The girl was now ruled by her appetites because she was young, strong, and Healthy; but there was a higher nature underneath, which might assert itself when the first years of passionate youth were done. With the man, however, it was different. He was a sensualist because his nature was idle, gross, vulgar, selfish. For him no redemption was possible. He would dissipate to the end, descending yearly in the social scale.
After breakfast, he began to chatter. He cursed Ireland as the most hideous hole under the sun; he frightened Mrs. Gould by reiterated assurances that the Land League would leave them all beggars; and, having established this point, he proceeded to develop his plan for buying young horses, training them, and disposing of them in the English market. Eventually he dismissed his audience by taking up the newspaper and falling asleep with the stump of a burned-out cigarette between his lips. Nothing more was heard of him for an hour; then he was seen slouching through the laurels on his way to the stables. From the kitchen and the larder — where the girls were immersed in calculations anent the number of hams, tongues, and sirloins of beef that would be required — he could be seen passing; and as May stood on no ceremony with Alice, whistling to her dogs, and sticking both hands into the pockets of her blue dress, she rushed after him, the mud of the yard oozing through the loose, broken boots which she insisted on wearing. Behind the stables there was a small field that had lately been converted into an exercise-ground, and there the two would stand for hours, watching a couple of goat-like colts, mounted by country lads — still in corduroy and hobnails — walking round and round.
Mrs. Gould was clearly troubled by this very plain conduct. Once or twice she allowed a word of regret to escape her, and Alice could see that she lived in awe of her daughter. And May, there was no doubt, was a little lawless when Fred was about her skirts; but when he was gone she returned to her old, glad, affectionate ways.
Then unease, suspicion, dread, vanished, and were replaced by confidence and all the amenities of country-life. The girls delighted in each other’s society, and the arrangements for their ball were to them a continual occupation. The number of letters that had to be written was endless. Sitting at either end of the table in the drawing-room, their pens scratched and their tongues rattled together; and, penetrated with the intimacy of home, all kinds of stories were told, and the whole country was passed in review.
“And do you know,” said May, raising her eyes from the letter she was writing, “when this affair was first started mamma was afraid to go in for it; she said we’d find it hard to hunt up fifty spinsters in Galway.”
“I said fifty who would subscribe — a very different thing indeed.”
Oh, no you didn’t, mamma; you said there weren’t fifty spinsters in Galway — a jolly lucky thing it would be if there weren’t; wouldn’t it, Alice?”
Heedless of the conversation, Alice was busy trying to disentangle a difficult sentence. Her startled face made May Laugh.
“It isn’t cheering, is it?”
“I did not hear what you were saying,” she answered, a little vexed at being misunderstood. “But fifty, surely, is a great number; are there so many unmarried women in Galway?”
“I should think there are,” replied May, as if glorying in the fact. “Who are there down your side of the country? Let’s count. To begin with, there are the Brennans — there are three of them, and all three are out of the running, distanced.”
“Now, May, how can you talk like that?” said Mrs. Gould, and she pulled up her skirt so that she could roast her fat thick legs more comfortably before the fire. There being no man present, she undid a button or two of her dress.
“You said so yourself the other day, mother.”
“No, I didn’t, May, and I wish you wouldn’t vex me. What I say I stand by, and I merely wondered why girls with good fortunes like the Brennans didn’t get married.”
“You said the fact was there was on one to marry.”
“May, I will not allow you to contradict me!” exclaimed Mrs. Gould; and she grew purple to the roots of her white hair. “I said that the Brennans looked too high, that they wanted gentlemen, eldest sons of county families, if you please; that if they had been content to marry in their own position of life they would have been married long ago.”
“Well, mother dear, there’s no use being angry about it; let the thing pass. You know the Brennans, Alice; they are neighbours of yours.”
“Yes, Cecilia and I walked over to see them the other day; we had tea with them.”
“Their great hunting-ground is the Shelbourne Hotel — they take it in turns, a couple of them go up every six months.”
“How can you say such things, May? I will not allow it.”
“I say it! I know nothing about it. I have only just come back from school; it is you who tell me these things when we are sitting here alone of an evening.”
Mrs. Gould’s face again became purple, and vehemently she protested: “I shall leave the room, May. I will not stand it one moment longer. I can’t think how it is you dare speak to me in that way; and, what is worse, attribute to me such ill-natured remarks.”
“Now, mother dear, don’t bother, perhaps I did exaggerate. I am very sorry. But, there’s a dear, sit down and we won’t say any more about it.”
“You do annoy one so, May, and I believe you do it on purpose. You know exactly what will be disagreeable to say, and you say it,” replied Mrs. Gould; and she raised her skirt so as to let the heat of the fire into her petticoats.
“Thank God that’s over,” May whispered to Alice; “but what were we talking about?”
“I think you were making out a list of the Galway spinsters,” said Alice, who could not help feeling a little amused, notwithstanding the gravity of the situation.
“So we were,” cried May; “we were speaking of the Brennans. Do you know their friends the Duffys? There are five of them. That’s a nice little covey of love-birds; I don’t think they would fly away if they saw a sportsman coming into the field.”
“I never heard a girl talk like that,” murmured Mrs. Gould, without raising her face from the fire, “that wasn’t punished for it. Perhaps, my lady, you will find it hard enough to suit yourself. Wait until you have done two or three Castle seasons. We’ll see how you’ll speak then.”
Without paying any attention to these maternal forebodings, May continued:
“Then there are Lord Rosshill’s seven daughters; they are all maidens, and are likely to remain so.”
“Are they all unmarried?” asked Alice.
“Of course they are!” exclaimed Mrs. Gould; “how could they be anything else? Did they not want all to marry people in their father’s position? and that was not possible. There are seven Honourable Miss Gores, and one Lord Rosshill — so they all remained in single blessedness.”
“Who’s making ill-natured remarks now?” exclaimed May triumphantly.
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p; “I am not making ill-natured remarks; I am only saying what’s true. My advice to young girls is that they should be glad to have those who will take them. If they can’t make a good marriage let them make a bad marriage; for, believe me, it is far better to be minding your own children than your sister’s or your brother’s children. And I can assure you, in these days of competition, it is no easy matter to get settled.”
“It is the same now as ever it was, and there are plenty of nice young men. It does not prove, because a whole lot of old sticks of things can’t get married, that I shan’t.”
“I didn’t say you wouldn’t get married, May; I am sure that any man would be only too glad to have you; but what I say is that these grand matches that girls dream of are not possible nowadays. Nice young men! I daresay; there are lots of them, I know them; young scamps without a shilling, who amuse themselves with a girl until they are tired of her, and then, off they go. Now, then, let’s count up the good matches that are going in the county—”
At this moment the servant was heard at the door bringing in the tea.
“Oh! bother!” exclaimed Mrs. Gould, settling her dress hurriedly. The interval was full of secret irritation; and passionately the three woman watched the methodical butler place the urn on the table, turn up the lamp that was burning low, and bring chairs forward from the furthest corners. It seemed to them that he would never leave the room.
“On your side of the county,” said Mrs. Gould, as soon as the door was closed, “there is our brace of baronets, as they are called. But poor Sir Richard — I am afraid he is a bad case — and yet he never took to drink until he was five-and-thirty; and as for Sir Charles — of course there are great advantages, he has a very fine property; but still many girls might — and I can quite understand their not liking to marry him.”
