Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “Oh! can’t there, indeed? You never heard the story about her and her steward? Ask Barnes.”

  “Oh! don’t, miss; you shouldn’t really,” said the maid. “What will Miss Alice think?”

  “Never mind what she thinks; you tell her about the steward and all the officers from Gort.”

  Then Mrs. Lawler’s flirtations were talked of until the bell rang for lunch. Milord was there, notwithstanding the news of the attempt made on Lord Rosshill’s life; but he was obviously a little frightened, and, in spite of the waving of white hands and the excitement of cajoling laughter, his eyes wandered occasionally in the direction of the policemen who paced the snow in the front of the house. Mrs. Barton, who looked upon herself as a kind of lotus-flower, and whose highest aim was to make the man to whom she was talking forget the cares of life, worked hard, but in answer to all her allusions to knights of old and la galanterie, the old lord could only say: “Lamour est comme l’hirondelle; quand l’heure sonne, en dépit du danger, tous les deux partent pour les rivages célestes” This was the only epigram he attempted. Mrs. Barton, seriously alarmed, consulted her glass that evening; but she was not to blame. The Land League had thrown its shadow over all, and out of that shadow no one could lift their thoughts. It mattered little how joyously a conversation might begin, too soon a reference was made to Griffith’s valuation, or the possibility of a new Coercion Act.

  In the course of the afternoon, however, much to the astonishment of Milord and Mrs. Barton in the drawing-room, and the young ladies who were sitting upstairs doing a little needlework, a large family carriage, hung with grey trappings, and drawn by two powerful bay horses, drove up to the hall-door.

  A gorgeous footman opened the door, and, with a momentary display of exquisite ankle, a slim young girl stepped out. It was Violet Scully.

  “I wonder,” said Mrs. Barton, “that Mrs. Scully condescends to come out with anything less than four horses and outriders.”

  “Elle veut acheter la distinction comme elle vendait du jambon — à faux poids,” said Lord Dungory.

  “Yes, indeed; and to think that the woman we now receive as an equal once sold bacon and eggs behind a counter in Galway!”

  “No, it was not she, it was her mother.”

  “Well, she was hanging on to her mother’s apron-strings at the time. You may depend upon it, this visit is not for nothing; something’s in the wind.”

  A moment after, looking more large and stately than ever, Mrs. Scully sailed into the room. Mrs. Barton was delighted to see her; it was so good of her to come, and in such weather as this. Then, after having refused lunch, and referred to the snow and the horses’ feet, Mrs. Scully consented to lay aside her muff and boa. The young ladies withdrew, when the conversation turned on the state of the county, and Lord Rosshill’s fortunate escape. As they ascended the stairs they stopped to listen to Mr. Lai ton, who was singing “A che la morte.”

  “The Land League does not seem to affect Mr. Barton’s spirits,” said Violet; “what a beautiful voice he has!”

  “Yes, and nobody designs pictures like papa; but he wouldn’t study when he was young, and he says he hasn’t time now on account of—”

  “Now, Alice, for goodness’ sake don’t begin. I am sick of that Land League. It is too awful; from morning till night it is nothing but coercion and Griffith’s valuation.”

  Violet and Alice laughed at Olive’s petulance, and, opening a door, the latter said:

  “This is our room, and it is the only one in the house where tenants, land, and rent are never spoken of.”

  “That’s something to know,” said Violet. “I agree with Olive; if things are bad, talking of them won’t make them any better.”

  When the girls entered Barnes rose from her seat. She smiled encouragingly, blandly, and retreated.

  “Now don’t go, Barnes. Do you know Miss Scully? Violet, this is Barnes, our maid.”

  Violet acknowledged the introduction. There was about Barnes a false air of homeliness; but in a few moments it became apparent that her life had been spent amid muslins, confidences, and illicit conversations. Now, with motherly care she removed a tulle skirt from the table, and Violet, with quick, nervous glances, examined the room. In the middle of the floor stood the large work-table, covered with a red cloth. There was a stand with shelves, filled on one side with railway novels, on the other with worsted work, cardboard-boxes, and rags of all kinds. A canary-cage stood on the top, and the conversation was frequently interrupted by the piercing trilling of the little yellow bird. Then the pierglass was plastered with Christmas cards, and, amid robin redbreasts and babies, a photograph of Captain Hibbert caught the eye.

  “You’re very comfortable; I should like to come and work here with you. I wish we didn’t live so far apart; one does get so tired of one’s brother’s company. I am sick of Fred’s perpetual talk about horses; and if he isn’t talking of them his conversation is so improper that I can’t listen to it.”

  “Why, what does he say?” said Olive, glancing at Barnes, who smiled benignly in the background.

  “Oh! I couldn’t repeat what he says; it’s too dreadful; I have to fly from him. But he’s always at the Goulds’ now; he and May are having a great ‘case.’”

  “Oh! yes, I know,” said Olive; “they never left each other at our ball; don’t you remember?”

  “Of course I do. And what a jolly ball that was! I never amused myself so much in my life. If the balls at the Castle are as good they will do. But wasn’t it sad, you know, about poor Lord Kilcarney receiving the news of his brother’s murder just at that moment? I can see him now, rushing out of the room.”

  Violet’s manner did not betoken in the least that she thought it sad, and after a pause she said:

  “But you haven’t shown me your dresses. I did like that one you wore at the ball.”

  “Yes, yes; I want to show you my cream-coloured dinner-dress; and my ruby dress, you haven’t seen that either,” cried Olive. “Come along, Barnes, come along.” Then, stopping at the door, she turned to Alice: “Aren’t you coming too?”

  Alice demurred, then acceded. In the bedroom, all was in perfect order; and the pierglass was filled with the snow-white room and fragments of the snow-covered lands. Violet declared herself delighted, “But I see you use your bedroom, too, as a sitting-room?” she said, as she glanced at the illustrations in a volume of Dickens, and threw down a volume of Shelley’s poetry.

  “Oh! that’s this lady, here,” cried Olive. “She says she cannot read in our room on account of my chattering; so she comes in here to continue her schooling. I should have thought that she had had enough of it; and she makes the place in such a mess with bits of paper. Barnes is always tidying up after her.”

  Alice laughed constrainedly. Taking the cream-coloured dress out of the maid’s hands, Olive explained why it suited her. Violet had much to say concerning the pink trimming, and the maid referred to her late mistresses’ wardrobes. The ruby dress, however, drew forth many little cries of admiration. Then an argument was started concerning the colour of hair, and, before the glass with hairpins and lithe movements of the back and loins, the girls explained their favourite coiffures.

  In the meanwhile Alice stood waiting. A long silence had fallen, and, as if struck by a sudden thought, Violet said:

  “But, my goodness, Alice, you haven’t opened your lips, and you haven’t shown me your dresses. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter,” said the girl passionately; and, speaking out of the flood of bitterness in which her soul lay, she added, “I have no dresses to show; you have seen the best.”

  “She is angry because we didn’t look at her dresses first,” exclaimed Olive; and she ran to the door to prevent her sister from leaving the room. The interruption was a timely one, and Alice, with tears turned to laughter, said:

  “Barnes will show you my dinner-frocks, but I don’t think as much about what I wear as Olive does.”

&nbs
p; Violet’s quick intelligence, quick as the ever-glancing eyes, understood at once the whole truth, but, with clever dissimulation, she examined and praised the black silk trimmed with red ribbons. Then allusion was made to Lord Kilcarney. Violet was clearly interested, and, as Alice noticed, she seemed specially pleased when Olive, with vain tossings of the head and vain words, strove to turn him into ridicule; and, when the girl protested that she would sooner die than accept such a little red-haired thing as that for a husband, Violet laughed delightedly.

  “Anyway, you have not those faults to find with a certain officer, now stationed at Gort, who, if report speaks truly, is constantly seen riding towards Brookfield.”

  “Well, what harm is there in that?” said Olive, for she did not feel quite sure in her mind if she should resent or accept the gracious insinuation.

  “None whatever; I only wish such luck was mine. What with the weather, and papa’s difficulties with his herds and his tenants, we haven’t seen a soul for the last month. I wish a handsome young officer would come galloping up our avenue some day.”

  Deceived, Olive abandoned herself to the plausive charm of Violet’s manner, and at different times she spoke of her flirtation, and told many little incidents concerning it — what he had said to her, how she had answered him, and how, the last time they had met, he had expressed his sorrow at being unable to call to see her until the end of the week.

  “He is shooting to-day at the Lawlers’,” said Violet.

  “That I’m sure he’s not,” said Olive, with a triumphant toss of her fair head; “for I forbade him to go there.”

  Violet smiled, and Olive insisted on an explanation being given.

  “Well,” exclaimed the girl, more bluntly than she had yet spoken, “because as we were coming here we saw him walking along one of the covers. There were a lot of gentlemen, and, just fancy, that dreadful woman, Mrs. Lawler, was shooting with them. She was marching along, just like a man, with a gun under her arm.”

  “I don’t believe you; you only say that to annoy me,” cried Olive, trembling with passion.

  “I am not in the habit of telling lies, and do not know why you should think that I would care to annoy you,” Violet replied, a little too definitely; and, unable to control her feelings any longer, Olive walked out of the room. Barnes, with black looks, folded up and put away the dresses, and Alice sought for words that would attenuate the unpleasantness of the scene. But Violet was the quicker with her tongue, and she poured out her excuses. “I am so sorry,” she said, “but how could I know that she objected to Captain Hibbert’s shooting at the Lawlers’, or that he had promised her not to go there? I am very sorry, indeed.”

  “Oh! it doesn’t matter,” said Alice, hesitatingly. “You know how excitable Olive is. I don’t think she cares more about Captain Hibbert than anyone else; she was only a little piqued, you know — the surprise, and she particularly dislikes the Lawlers. Of course, it is very unpleasant for us to live so near without being able to visit them.”

  “Yes, I understand; but I am very sorry. Do you know where she is gone to, for I shouldn’t like to go away without seeing her?”

  “I am afraid she has shut herself up in her room. It would only make her worse to see her now; next time you meet, she will have forgotten all about it.”

  Elated, but at the same time a little vexed, Violet followed Alice down to the drawing-room.

  “My dear child, what a time you have been! I thought you were never coming downstairs again,” said Mrs. Scully. “Now, my dear Mrs. Barton, we really must. We shall meet again, if not before, at the Castlo.”

  Then stout mother and thin daughter took their leave; but the large carriage, with its sumptuous grey trappings, had not reached the crest of the hill, when, swiftly unlocking her door, Olive rushed to Barnes for sympathy.

  “Oh! the spiteful little cat!” she exclaimed. “I know why she said that; she’s jealous of me. You heard her say she hadn’t a lover. I don’t believe she saw Edward at all, but she wanted to annoy me; don’t you think so, Barnes?”

  “I’m sure she wanted to annoy you, miss. I could see it in her eyes. She has dreadful eyes — those cold, grey, glittering things, I could never trust them. And she has not a bit on her bones. Did you see that, when you were counting your petticoats, she was afraid to lift hers up? — she was ashamed of her legs. There isn’t, I’ll be bound, a bit on them, and I saw her look at yours, miss.”

  “Did you really?” Olive replied laughing. “I am so glad of that; and isn’t she thin? She’s like a rail; and she was always spiteful. I remember her at school. Nothing made her so angry as when anyone else was praised; and you may be sure that that brought her here. She heard how Captain Hibbert admired me, and she came on purpose to annoy me.”

  “You may be sure it was that, miss,” said Barnes, as she bustled about, shutting and opening a variety of cardboard boxes.

  For a moment the quarrel looked as if it were going to end here; but in Olive’s brain thoughts leaped as quickly back as forward, and she startled Barnes by declaring wildly that, if Edward had broken his promise to her, she would never speak to him again.

  “I don’t believe that Violet would have dared to say that she saw him if it weren’t true.”

  “Well, miss, a shooting-party’s but a shooting-party, and there was a temptation, you know. A gentleman who is fond of sport!—”

  “Yes; but it isn’t for the shooting he is gone: ’tis for Mrs. Lawler. I know it is.”

  “Not it, miss. Always admitting that he is there, how could he think of Mrs. Lawler when he’s always thinking of you? And, besides, out in the snow, too. Now, I wouldn’t say anything, were it fine weather, weather like we had last June, and they were giving each other meetings out in the park—”

  “But what did you tell me about the steward, and how Mrs. Lawler fell in love with all the young men who come to her house? And what did the housemaid tell you of the walking about the passages at night, and into each other’s rooms? Oh! I must know if he’s there!”

  “I’ll find out in the morning, miss. The coachman is sure to know who was at the shooting-party.”

  “In the morning! it will he too late then! I must know this evening!” exclaimed Olive, as she walked about the room, her light brain now flown with jealousy and suspicion. “I’ll write him a letter,” she said suddenly, “and you must get someone to take it over.”

  “But who can I get at this hour, miss? Why, it is nearly seven o’clock,” said Barnes, who had begun to realise the disagreeableness and danger of the adventure she was being rapidly drawn into.

  “If you can’t, I shall go myself,” cried Olive, as she seized some paper and a pencil belonging to Alice, and sat down to write a note:

  “Dear Captain Hibbert, — If you have broken your promise to me about not going to the Lawlers’, I shall never be able to forgive you!” (then, as through her perturbed mind the thought gleamed that this was perhaps a little definite, a little conclusive, she added):— “Anyhow, I wish to see you. Come at once, and explain that what I have heard about you is not true. I cannot believe it.

  “Yours ever and anxiously, “OLIVE BARTON.”

  “Now somebody must take this over at once to the Lawlers.”

  “But, miss! really at this hour of night, too, I don’t know of anyone to send. Just think, miss, what would your ma say?”

  “I don’t care what mamma says. It would kill me to wait till morning! Someone must go. Why can’t you go yourself? It isn’t more than half a mile across the fields. Now, you won’t refuse me, will you? Now put on your hat, and go at once.”

  “And what will the Lawlers say when they hear of it, miss? and I am sure that if Mrs. Barton ever hears of it she will—”

  “No, no, she won’t! for I could not do without you, Barnes. You have only to ask if Captain Hibbert is there, and, if he is there, send the letter up, and wait for an answer. Now, there’s a dear! now do go at once. If you don’t I shall go mad! No
w say you will go; or give me the letter. Yes, give it to me, and I’ll go myself. Yes, I prefer to go myself.’

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE RESULT OF this missive was that next morning the servants whispered that someone had been about the house on the preceding evening. Alice noticed Olive’s restlessness when she was not with Barnes; with knees set, and little smothered laughs and quiet glances, they sat talking for hours. There was a secret between them; and one day, unable to keep her counsel any longer, Olive told her sister what had happened. The letter that Barnes had taken across the field for her had, she declared, frightened Edward out of his senses; he had come rushing through the snow, and had spoken with her for full five minutes under her window. He loved her to distraction; and on the following day she had received a long letter, full of references to his colonel, explaining how entirely against his will and desire he had been forced to accept the invitation to go and shoot at the Lawlers’. Alice listened quietly; as if she doubted whether Captain Hibbert would have died of consumption or heartache if Olive had acted otherwise; whereat the beauty flaunted out of the room, and no attempt was made to stop her; Alice knew it would be vain to argue, and, as she sat, holding her knees with her long arms, her distress of mind was visible in her eyes; too often she was uncertain about things; and she always felt, though she could not determine what it was, that a duty was awaiting her. Now, irritated against Barnes for the hypocritical way in which she had acted, Alice sought to convince herself that the best course to follow would be to tell her mother of what had happened. Mrs. Barton’s intentions were always inscrutable, but Alice could not believe that the serious turn Olive’s flirtation was taking was altogether ignored. If so, what did mother mean by her allusions to the marquis, whom they were to meet at the Castle, and who, she said, would most assuredly be captured by Olive?

  Then a week passed, and Captain Hibbert bad been to see them four times. He bad hung over Olive’s shoulder as she sat at the piano, walked with her in the shrubberies, and one wet day they bad spent hours together in the greenhouse. And that night Olive told her sister, as they went to bed, in broken and passionate words, how she loved him; and, wild with excitement, she confessed that he had kissed her many times. She knew it was very wrong, she had told him he was very wicked; she had threatened that she would not sit alone with him again, unless he promised to respect her. And he had promised.