by George Moore
There was an insidious magic in Mrs. Barton’s laugh; it was artificial, irresistible, gleeful, birdlike as an opera by Offenbach; it was characteristic of the woman; it tempted you to look upon life lightly; it helped you to play with, to twirl your worst sorrows round your finger. Had fate favoured Mrs. Barton she might have been a royal courtezan.
Olive smiled through her tears:
“But, mamma,” she said, “how can I help thinking of him? — there’s nothing to do here, one never hears of anything but that horrid Land League — whether the Government will or will not help the landlords, whether Paddy So-and-so will or will not pay his rent. I am sick of it. Milord comes to see you, and Alice likes reading-books, and papa has his painting; but I have nothing since you sent Captain Hibbert away.”
“Yes, yes, my beautiful Olive flower, it is a little dull for you at present, and to think that this wicked agitation should have begun the very season you were coming out! Who could have foreseen such a thing? But come, my pet, I cannot allow you to ruin your beautiful complexion with foolish tears; you must get up; unfortunately I can’t have you in the drawing-room, I have to talk business with milord, but you can go out for a walk with Alice — it is not raining to-day.”
“Oh! no; I couldn’t go out to walk with Alice, it would bore me to death. She never talks about anything that interests me.”
For a moment the sweet pastel-like expression of Mrs. Barton’s features was lost. She foresaw the trouble this plain girl would be to chaperon. The annoyance of having to find her partners would be great, and to have her dragging after her all through the Castle season would be intolerable. And all these airs of virtue, and injured innocence, how insupportable they were! Alice, as far as Mrs. Barton could see, was fit for nothing. Even now, instead of helping to console her sister, and win her thoughts away from Captain Hibbert, she shut herself up to read books. Such a taste for reading and moping she had never seen in a girl before — voilà un type de vieille fille. Whom did she take after? Certainly not after her mother, nor yet her father. It was impossible to say whom she did take after, unless it was after her grandfather — the old frump in the white waistcoat, over the diningroom chimneypiece — who had spent his life writing histories, and whose manuscripts filled several large trunks, piled away overhead in an attic. But what was the good of thinking of the tiresome girl? There were plenty of other thing far more important to consider, and the first thing of all was — how to make Olive forget Captain Hibbert? On this point Mrs. Barton was not quite satisfied with the manner in which she had played her part. Olive’s engagement had been broken off by too violent means, and nothing was more against her nature than (to use her own expression) to brusquer les choses. Early in life Mrs. Barton discovered that she could amuse men, and since then she had devoted herself assiduously to the cultivation of this talent, and the divorce between herself and her own sex was from the first complete. She not only did not seek to please, but she made no attempt to conceal her aversion to the society of women, and her preference for those forms of entertainment where they were found in fewest numbers. Balls were, therefore, never much to her taste; at the dinner-table she was freer, but it was on the racecourse that she reigned supreme. From the box-seat of a drag the white hands were waved, the cajoling laugh was set going; and fashionably-dressed men, with race-glasses about their shoulders, came crowding and climbing about her like bees about their queen. Mrs. Barton had passed from flirtation to flirtation without a violent word. “With a wave of her hands she had called the man she wanted; with a wave of her hands, and a tinkle of the bell-like laugh, she had dismissed him. Nothing had apparently cost her a sigh; apparently nothing had ever been denied her. Success had always been hers. But now all was going wrong. Olive was whining and crying and losing her good looks. Sir. Barton had received a threatening letter, and, in consequence, had for a week past been unable to tune his guitar; poor Lord Dungory was being bored to death by protecting policemen and proselytising daughters. Decidedly everything was going wrong. This phrase was recurrent in Mrs. Barton’s thoughts as she reviewed the situation. Her head was leaned in the pose of the most plaintive of the pastels that Lord Dungory had commissioned his favourite artist to execute in imitation of the Lady Hamilton portraits. And now, his finger on his lip, like harlequin glancing after columbine, the old gentleman, who had entered on tiptoe, exclaimed:
“Arez vous ru, dans Barcelone
Une Andalouse an sein bruni?
Pâle comme un beau soir d’Automne;
C’est ma maîtresse, ma lionne!
La Marquesa d’Amalëqui.”
Instantly the silver laugh was set a-tinkling, and, with delightful gestures, milord was led captive to the sofa. “C’est l’aurore qui vient pour dissiper les brumes du matin,” Mrs. Barton declared as she settled her skirts over her ankles.
“Qu’elle est superbe en son désordre
Quand elle tombe...”
“Hush, hush!” exclaimed Mrs. Barton, bursting with laughter; and, placing her hand (which was instantly fervently kissed) upon milord’s month, she said: “I will hear no more of that wicked poetry.”
“What! hear no more of the divine Alfred de Musset?” milord answered, as if a little discouraged.
At this moment Alice entered. She had come from her room to fetch a book, but, obeying an involuntary impulse, on seeing the couple on the sofa, she tried to retreat; and she added to her own and their embarrassment by uttering some ill-expressed excuses.
“My dear, don’t run away like that,” said Mrs. Barton; “don’t behave like a charity-school girl; come in. I think you know Lord Dungory.”
“Oh! this is the studious one,” said milord, as he took Alice affectionately with both hands, and drew her towards him. “Now look at this fair brow, I am sure there is poetry here. I was just speaking to your mother about Alfred de Musset. He is not quite proper, it is true, for you girls; but oh! what passion! He is the poet of passion. I suppose you love Byron?”
“Yes, but not so much as Shelley and Keats,” said Alice, enthusiastically, forgetting for the moment her aversion to the speaker in the allusion to her favourite pursuit.
“The study of Shelley is the fashion of the day. You know, I suppose, the little piece entitled ‘Love’s Philosophy’?—’ The fountains mingle with the river; the river with the ocean.’ You know ‘Nothing in the world is single: all things, by a law divine, in one another’s being mingle. Why not I with thine?’”
“Oh! yes, and the ‘Sensitive Plant,’ is it not lovely?”
“There is your book, my dear; you must run away now; I have to talk with milord about important business.”
Milord looked disappointed at being thus interrupted in his quotations; but he allowed himself to be led back to the sofa. “I beg your pardon for a moment,” said Mrs. Barton, whom a sudden thought had struck; and she followed her daughter out of the room.
“Instead of wasting your time reading all this love-poetry, Alice, it would be much better if you would devote a little of your time to your sister; she is left all alone, and you know I don’t care that she should be always in Barnes’ society.”
“But what am I to do, mamma? I have often asked Olive to come out with me, but she says I don’t amuse her.”
“I want you to win her thoughts away from that horrid man, Captain Hibbert,” said Mrs. Barton, trying to conceal her vindictiveness; “she is grieving her heart out and will be a wreck before we go to Dublin. Tell her you heard at Dungory Castle that he was flirting with other girls; that he is not worth thinking about, and that the Marquis is in love with her.”
“But that would be scarcely the truth, mamma,” Alice replied, hesitatingly.
Mrs. Barton gave her daughter one quick look; bit her lips, and, without another word, returned to milord. Everything was decidedly going wrong; and to be annoyed by that gawk of a girl in a time like the present, was unbearable. But Mrs. Barton never allowed her temper to master her, and in two minutes all me
mory of Alice had passed out of her mind, and she was talking business with Lord Dungory. Many important questions had to be decided. It was known that mortgages, jointures, legacies, and debts of all kinds had reduced the Marquis’s income to a minimum, and that he stood in urgent need of a little ready-money. It was known that his relations looked to an heiress to rehabilitate the family fortunes. Mrs. Barton hoped to dazzle him with Olive’s beauty, but it was characteristic of her to wish to bait the hook on every side, and she hoped that a little gilding of it would silence the chorus of scorn and dissent that she knew would be raised against her, when once her plans became known. Four thousand pounds might be raised on the Brookfield property, but, if this sum could be multiplied by five, Mrs. Barton felt she would be going into the matrimonial-market armed to the teeth, and prepared to meet all comers. And, seeking the solution of this problem, milord and Mrs. Barton sat on the sofa, drawn up close together, their knees touching; he, although gracious and urbane as was his wont, seemed more than usually thoughtful; she, although as charmful and cajoling as ever, in the pauses of the conversation, allowed an expression of anxiety to cloud her bright face. Fifteen thousand pounds requires a good deal of accounting for; but, after many arguments had been advanced on either side, it was decided that she had made, within the last seven years, many successful investments. She had commenced by winning five hundred pounds at racing, and this money had been put into Mexican railways. The speculation had proved an excellent one, end then with a few airy and casual references to Hudson Bay, Grand Trunks, and shares in steamboats, it was thought the creation of Olive’s fortune could be satisfactorily explained to a not too exacting society.
Three or four days after, Mrs. Barton surprised the young ladies by visiting them in the sitting-room. Barnes was working at the machine, Olive stood drumming her fingers idly against the window-pane.
“Just fancy seeing you, mamma! I was looking out for milord; he is a little late to-day, is he not?” said Olive.
“I do not expect him to-day — he is suffering from a bad cold; this weather is dreadfully trying — but bow snug you are in your little room; and Alice is absolutely doing needlework.”
“I wonder what I am doing wrong now,” thought the girl.
Barnes left the room. Mrs. Barton threw some turf upon the fire, and she looked round. Her eyes rested on the cardboard boxes — on the bodice left upon the work-table — on the book that Alice had laid aside. In brief phrases she spoke of these things, evidently striving to interest herself in the girl’s occupation. At length she said:
“If the weather clears up I think we might all go for a drive; there is really no danger. The Land League never has women fired at. We might go and see the Brennans. What do you think, Olive?”
“I don’t care to go off there to see a pack of women,” the girl replied, still drumming her fingers on the window-pane.
“Now, Olive, don’t answer so crossly, but come and sit down here by me,” and, to make room for her, Mrs. Barton moved nearer to Alice. “So my beautiful Olive doesn’t care for a pack of women,” said Mrs. Barton, and the room resounded with the silver tinkling of her laughter. “Olive does not like a pack of women; she would prefer a handsome young Lord, or a Duke, or an Earl.”
Olive turned up her lips contemptuously, for she guessed her mother’s meaning.
“What curious lives those girls do lead, cooped up there by themselves; with their little periodical trip up to the Shelbourne Hotel. Of course the two young ones never could have done much; they never open their lips, but Gladys is a nice girl in her way, and she has some money of her own. I wonder she wasn’t picked up.”
“I should like to know who would care for her?”
“She had a very good chance once; but she wouldn’t say yes, and she wouldn’t say no, and she kept him hanging after her until at last off he went and married someone else. He was a Mr. Blake. “Oh! that was his name; and why wouldn’t she marry him?”
“Well, I don’t know — folly I suppose. He was of course not so young as Harry Renley, but he had two thousand a year, and he would have made her an excellent husband; kept a carriage for her, and a house in London: whereas you see she has remained Miss Brennan, goes up every year to the Shelbourne Hotel to buy dresses, and gets older and more withered every day.”
“I know they lead a stupid life down here, but mightn’t they go abroad and travel? “asked Alice; “they are no longer so very young.”
“A woman can do nothing until she is married,” Mrs. Barton answered decisively.
“But some husbands treat their wives infamously; isn’t no husband better than a bad husband?”
“I don’t think so,” returned Mrs. Barton, and she glanced sharply at her daughter. “I would sooner have the worst husband in the world than no husband.” Then settling herself like a pleader who has come to the incisive point of his argument, she continued: “A woman is absolutely nothing without a husband: if she does not wish to pass for a failure she must get a husband: and upon this all her ideas should be set. I have always found that in this life we can only hope to succeed in what we undertake by keeping our minds fixed on it and never letting it out of sight until it is attained. Keep on trying, that is my advice to all young ladies: try to make yourselves agreeable, try to learn how to amuse men. Flatter them; that is the great secret; nineteen out of twenty will believe you, and the one that doesn’t can’t but think it delightful. Don’t waste your time thinking of your books, your painting, your accomplishments; if you were Jane Austens, George Eliots, and Rosa Bonheurs, it would be of no use if you weren’t married. A husband is better than talent, better even than fortune — without a husband a woman is nothing; with a husband she may rise to any height. Marriage gives a girl liberty, gives her admiration, gives her success; a woman’s whole position depends upon it. And while we are on the subject it is as well to have one’s say, and I speak for you both. You, Alice, are too much inclined to shrink into the background and waste your time with those horrid books; and you too, Olive, are behaving very foolishly, wasting your tune and your complexion over a silly girlish flirtation.”
“There’s no use talking about that. You have forbidden him the house; you can’t do any more.”
“No, Olive, all I did was to insist that he should not come running after you until you had had time to consider the sacrifices you were making for him. I have no one’s interests in the world, my dear girl, but your interests. Officers are all very well to laugh, talk, and flirt with — pour passer le temps — but I could not allow you to throw yourself away on the first man you meet. You will meet hundreds of others quite as handsome and as nice at the Castle.”
“I never could care for anyone else.”
“Wait until you have seen the others. Besides what do you want? to be engaged to him? And I should like to know what is the use of my taking an engaged girl up to the Castle? No one would look at you.”
Olive raised her eyes in astonishment; she had not considered the question from this point of view, and the suggestion that, if engaged, she might as well stop at home, for no one would look at her, clearly filled her with alarm.
“Whereas,” said Mrs, Barton, who saw that her words had the intended effect, “if you were free you would be the belle of the season; nothing would be thought of but you; you would have lords, and earls, and marquesses dancing attendance on you, begging you to dance with them; you would be spoken of in the papers, described as the new beauty and what not, and then if you were free!” Here Mrs. Barton heaved a deep sigh, and, letting her white hand fall over the arm of her chair, she seemed to abandon herself to the irrevocable decrees of destiny.
“Well, what then, mamma?” asked Olive excitedly. “I am free, am I not?”
Then you could cut out the other girls, and carry off the great prize. They are all watching him; he will go to one of you for certain. I hear that Mrs. Scully — that great, fat, common creature, who sold bacon in a shop in Galway — is thinking of him for h
er daughter. Of course, if you like to see Violet become a marchioness, right under your nose, you can do so.
“But what do you want me to do?” exclaimed the coronet-dazzled girl.
“Merely to think no more of Captain Hibbert. But I did not tell you; — he was very impertinent to me when I last saw him. He said he would flirt with you, as long as you would flirt with him, and that he didn’t see why you shouldn’t amuse yourself. That’s what I want to warn you against — losing your chance of being a marchioness to help an idle young officer to wile away his time. If I were you, I would tell him, when I nest saw him, that he must not think about it any more. You can put it all down to me; say that I would never hear of it; say that you couldn’t think of disobeying me, but that you hope you will always remain friends. You see that’s the advantage of having a mother; — poor mamma has to bear everything.”
Olive made no direct answer, but she laughed nervously, and in a manner that betokened assent; and, having so far won her way, Mrs. Barton determined to conclude. But she could not invite Captain Hibbert to the house! The better plan would be to meet on neutral ground. A luncheon party at Dungory Castle instantly suggested itself; and three days after, as they drove through the park, Mrs. Barton explained to Olive, for the last time, how she should act if she wished to become the Marchioness of Kilcarney.
“Shake hands with him just as if nothing had happened, but don’t enter into conversation; and after lunch I shall arrange that we all go out for a walk on the terrace. You will then pair off with him, Alice; Olive will join you. Something will be sure to occur that will give her an opportunity of saying that he must think no more about her — that I would never consent.”
“Oh! mamma, it is very hard, for I can never forget him.”
“Now, my dear girl, for goodness’ sake don’t work yourself up into a state of mind, or we may as well go back to Brookfield. What I tell you to do is right; and if you see nobody at the Castle that you like better — well, then it will be time enough. I want you to be, at least, the beauty of one season.”
