by George Moore
The marquis was a constant, although an unwilling guest at all these entertainments. He would fain have refused Mrs. Barton’s hospitalities, but so pressing was she that this seemed impossible. There were times when he started at the postman’s knock as at the sound of a Land Leaguer’s rifle. Too frequently his worst fears were realised. “Mon cher marquis, it will give us much pleasure if you will dine with us to-morrow night at half-past seven.”
“Dear Mrs. Barton, I regret extremely that I am engaged for to-morrow night.” An hour later, “Mon cher marquis, I am very sorry you cannot come to-morrow night, but Thursday will suit us equally well.” What was to be done? A second excuse would result only in a proposal to fix a day next week — better accept and get it over. He must do this or send a rude message to the effect that he was engaged for every day he intended to dine out that season, and he lacked the moral courage to write such a letter. Mrs. Barton’s formula for receiving the marquis never varied. If he arrived early he found Olive waiting to receive him in the drawing-room. She was always prepared with a buttonhole, which she insisted on arranging and pinning into his coat. Then allusion was made to the forget-me-nots that the bouquet was sure to contain; and laughing vacantly — for laughter with Olive took the place of conversation — she fled through the rooms, encouraging him to pursue her. During dinner attempts were made to exchange a few words, but without much success. Nor was it until Olive pelted him with flowers, and he replied by destroying another bouquet and applying it to the same purpose, that much progress was made towards intimacy. But this little scene was exceptional, and on all other occasions Lord Kilcarney maintained an attitude of unfaltering reserve.
Mrs. Barton was at her wits’ end. Three days ago she had met him walking in Grafton Street with Violet; yesterday she had caught sight of him driving towards Fitzwilliam Place in a four-wheeler. Remembering she had a visit to pay in that neighbourhood, she gave the necessary directions to her coachman, and was rewarded by seeing the marquis’s cab draw up before the Scullys’ door. The mere fact that he should use a cab instead of an outside car was a subject to pause upon, but when she noticed that one of the blinds was partially drawn down, her heart sank within her. Nor did the secret of this suspicious visit long remain her exclusive property. As if revealed by those mysteriously subtle oral and visual faculties observed in savage tribes, by which they divine the approach of their enemies or their prey, two days had not elapsed before the tongue of every chaperon was tipped with the story of the four-wheeler and the half-drawn blind, but it was a distinctly latter-day instinct that had led these ladies to speak of there having been luggage piled upon the roof of this celebrated cab. Henceforth eye, ear, and nostril were open, and in the quivering ardour of the chase they scattered through the covers of Cork Hill and Merrion Square, passing from one to the other, by means of sharp yelps and barkings, every indication of the trail that came across their way. Sometimes hearkening to a voice they had confidence in, they would rally at a single point, and then an old b — , her nose in the air, her capstrings hanging lugubriously on either side of her weatherbeaten cheeks, would utter a deep and prolonged baying; then a little further on the scent was recovered, and, with sterns wagging and bristles erect, they hunted the quarry vigorously. Every moment he was expected to break — fear was even expressed that he might end by being chopped.
The Shelbourne Hotel was a favourite meet; and in the ladies’ drawing-room each fresh piece of news was torn with avidity. The consumption of note-paper was terrific. Two, three, four, and even five sheets of paper were often filled with what these scavengeresses could rake out of the gutters of gossip. “Ah! me arm aches, and the sleeve of me little coat is wore; I am so eager to write it all off to me ant, that I am too impatient to wait to take it off,” was the verbal form in which the girl in red explained her feelings on the subject. Bertha Duffy declared she would write no more; that she was ruining herself in stamps. Nor were the pens of the Brennans silent; and looking over the meek shoulders on which the mantles of spinsterhood were fast descending, you read: “I hear they danced at the Castle three times together last night,... a friend of mine saw them sitting in Merrion Square the whole of one afternoon.... They say that if he marries her, that he’ll be ruined.... The estates are terribly encumbered,... his family are in despair about it.... Violet is a very nice girl, but we all know her mother sold bacon behind a counter in Galway.... He never looks at Olive Barton now; this is a sad end to her beau, and after feeding him the whole season.... He dined there three times a week: Mrs. Barton took the house on purpose to entertain him.... It is said that she offered him twenty thousand pounds if he’d marry her daughter... The money that woman spends is immense, and no one knows where it comes from.”
In these matrimonial excitements the amatories of the lady who brought the A.D.C. home from the Castle passed unheeded. The critical gaze of her friends was sorely distracted, and even the night porter forgot to report the midnight visits of her young gentlemen. May too profited largely by the present ferment of curiosity; and, unobserved, she made rendezvous with Fred Scully at the corners of this and that street, and in the hotel they passed furtively down this passage and up that pair of stairs, and when disturbed they hid behind the doors. And Mrs. Gould lived in ignorance of all this chambering folly, and spent her time either writing letters or gossiping about Lord Kilcarney in the drawing-room. And when she picked up a fragment of fresh news she lost not a moment, but put on her bonnet and carried it over to Mount Street. So assiduous was she in this self-imposed duty, that Mrs. Barton was obliged at last to close her door against this obtrusive visitor.
But one day, after a moment of intense reflection, Mrs. Barton concluded that she was losing the battle — that now, in the eleventh hour, it could only be snatched out of defeat by a bold and determined effort. Then she sat down and penned one of her admirable invitations to dinner. An hour later a note feebly pleaded a “previous engagement.” Undaunted, she sat down again and wrote: “To-morrow will suit us equally well.” The marquis yielded; and Lord Dungory was ordered, when he found himself alone with him in the diningroom, to lose no opportunity of insisting upon the imminent ruin of all Irish landlords. He was especially enjoined to say that, whatever chance of escape there was for the owners of unencumbered properties, the doom of those who had mortgages to pay had been sounded. Milord executed his task with consummate ability; and when the grand parti entered the drawing-room, his thoughts were racked with horrible forebodings. The domain, woods, the pride of centuries, he saw plundered and cut down; lawns, pleasure-grounds, and gardens had been distributed among peasants, and he, a miserable outcast, starved in a Belgian boarding-house. Mrs. Barton’s eyes brightened at the distressed expression of his face. The victim was prepared for the altar; in his buttonhole he wore the flowers, and to play the music of sacrifice Olive took her place at the piano. Milord engaged Alice’s attention; Mrs. Barton, like a coaxing cat, glided up to the marquis and led him into the adjoining room.
“The season is now drawing to its close,” she said winningly, “we shall be soon returning to Galway. We shall be separating. Olive thinks there is no one like le marquis. I know she likes you, but if there is no — no — if it is not to be, I should like to tell her not to think about it any more.”
The marquis felt as if the earth were gliding beneath his feet. What could have tempted the woman to speak like this to him? What answer was he to make her? He struggled with words and thoughts that gave way, as he strove to formulate a sentence, like water beneath the arms of one drowning.
“Oh, really, Mrs. Barton,” he said, stammering, speaking like one in a dream, “you take me by surprise. I did not expect this; you certainly are too kind. In proposing this marriage to me, you do me an honour I did not anticipate, but you know it is difficult off hand, for I am bound to say.. at least I am not prepared to say that I am in love with your daughter.... She is, of course, very beautiful, and no one admires her more than I, but —— ——
—”
“Olive will have twenty thousand pounds paid down on her wedding day; not promised, you know, but paid down; and in the present times I think this is more than most girls can say. Most Irish properties are embarrassed, mortgaged,” she continued, risking everything to gain everything, “and twenty thousand pounds would be a material help to most men. At my death she will have more, I —— —— — —”
“Oh, Mrs. Barton, do not let us speak of that!” cried the little man.
“And why not? Does it prove that because we are practical, we do not care for a person? I quite understand that it would be impossible for you to marry without money, and that Olive will have twenty thousand paid down on her wedding day will not prevent you from being very fond of her. On the contrary, I should think—”
“Twenty thousand pounds is, of course, a great deal of money,” said the little man, shrinking, terror-stricken, from a suddenly protruding glimpse of the future with which milord had previously poisoned his mind.
“Yes, indeed it is, and in these times,” urged Mrs. Barton.
The weak grey eyes were cast down, abashed by the daring determination of the brown.
“Of course Olive is a beautiful girl,” he said.
“And she is so fond of you... she is so nice and so full of affection...”
The situation was now tense with fear, anxiety, apprehension; and with resolute fingers Mrs. Barton tightened the chord until the required note vibrated within the moral consciousness. The poor marquis felt his strength ebbing away; he was powerless as one lying in the hot chamber of a Turkish bath. Would no one come to help him ? The implacable melody of “Dream Faces,” which Olive hammered out on the piano, agonised him. If she would stop for one moment he would find the words to tell her mother that he loved Violet Scully and would many none other. But bang, bang, bang the left hand pounded the bass into his stunned ears, and the eyes that he feared were fixed upon him. He gasped for words, he felt like a drunkard who clutches the air as he reels over a precipice, and the shades of his ancestors seemed to crowd menacingly around him. He strove against his fears until a thin face with luminous eyes broke through the drifting mists like a star.
“But we have seen so little of each other,” he said at last; “Miss Barton is a great beauty, I know, and nobody appreciates her beauty more than I, but I am not what you call in love with her.” He deplored the feebleness of his words, and Mrs. Barton swooped upon him again.
“You do not love her because, as you say, you have seen very little of each other. We are going down to Brookfield to morrow. We shall be very glad if you will come with us, and there you will have an opportunity of judging, of knowing her: and she is such an affectionate little thing.”
Appalled, the marquis sought again for words, and he glanced at his torturer timidly, as the hare looks back on the ever-nearing hounds. Why did she pursue him, he asked, in this terrible way? Had she gone mad? What was he to say? He had not the courage to answer “No “to her face. Besides, if Violet would not have him, he might as well save the family estates. If Violet refused him! Ah, he did not care what became of him then! He sought, and he struggled for words, for words that would save him; and, in this hour of deep tribulation, words came and they saved him.
“I have a great deal of business to attend to to-morrow. I am — that is to say, my solicitor is, raising for me a large sum of money at four per cent. On one large mortgage I am paying six per cent., therefore if I can get the money at four I shall be by some hundreds of pounds a richer man than I am at present. At the end of the week this matter will be settled. I will write to you and say when I shall be able to accept your invitation.”
Mrs. Barton would have preferred to have brought the matter at once to a conclusion, but in the hesitation that ensued, the marquis, unable to withstand the strain set upon his feelings any longer, moved away from her. And in the next room, to save himself from further persecution, he engaged at once in conversation with Alice. Ten minutes after he said good-night. To get out of the light into the dark, to feel the cool wind upon his cheek, oh! what a relief it was! “What could have persuaded that woman to speak to me as she did? She must be mad.” He walked on as if in a dream; the guineas she had promised him chinking dubiously through his brain. Then stopping suddenly, overcome by nerve excitement, he threw his arms in the air: his features twitched convulsively. The spasm passed; and, unconscious of all save the thoughts that held and tore him — their palpitating prey — he walked onwards.... Black ruin on one side, and oh! what sweet white vision of happiness on the other! Why was he thus tortured — why was he thus torn on the rack of such a terrible discussion? He stopped again, and his weak neck swayed plaintively. Then, in the sullen calm that followed, the thought crossed his mind: — If he only knew... She might refuse him; if so, he did not care what became of him.
.. He would accept the other willingly... But would she refuse him? That he must know at once... he could not return to his hotel, the uncertainty was more than he could bear.... If she did refuse, he would, at all events, escape the black looks of his relations. In the cowardice of the thought the weary spirit was healed, assuaged, as tired limbs might be in a bath of cool, clear water. Darkness faded, and the skies seemed to glow as if with a double dawn. Why lose a moment? It was only half-past ten — an “outside” would take him in less than two minutes to Fitzwilliam Place. Yes, he would go.
And as the car clattered he feasted on the white thin face and the grey allurements of the bright eyes. He would not think — it was paradise to banish thought.
He was shown upstairs. The ladies were alone, talking over the fire in the drawing-room. Nothing could be more propitious, but his fears returned to him, and when he strove to explain the lateness of his visit, his face had again grown suddenly haggard and worn. Violet exchanged glances, and said in looks, if not in words, “It is clear they have been hunting him pretty closely to-day.”
“I must apologise,” he said, “for calling on you at such an hour; I really did not think it was so late, but the fact is I was rather anxious to see...”
“But won’t you sit down, Lord Kilcarney?” said Violet. “I assure you we never go to bed before twelve; and sometimes we sit up here until one — don’t we, mamma?”
Mrs. Scully smiled jocosely, and the marquis sat down. In an instant his fate was decided. Overcome by the girl’s frail sweetness, by the pellucid gaiety of her grey eyes, he surrendered; and his name and fortune fluttered into her lap, helplessly as a blown leaf. He said —
“I came to see you to-night... I took the liberty of calling on you at this late hour, because things had occurred that... well, I mean... you must have observed that I was attached to you. I don’t know if you guessed it, but the fact is that I never cared for anyone as I do for you, and I felt I could bear with uncertainty no longer, and that I must come to-night, and ask you if you will have me.”
Violet raised her eyes—” Say yes,” murmured the marquis, and it seemed to him that in the words life had fallen from his lips.
“Yes,” was the answer, and he clasped the thin hand she instinctively extended to him.
“Ah, how happy you have made me, I never thought such honours were in store for me,” exclaimed Mrs. Scully. The discipline of years was lost in a moment; and, reverting to her long-buried self, she clasped the marquis to her agitated bosom with all the naturalness of a Galway shopgirl. Violet looked annoyed, ashamed, and Mrs. Scully, whom excitement had stripped of all her grand manners, said —
“And new, me dear children, I’ll leave you to yerselves.” The lovers sat side by side. Violet thought of how grand it would be to be a marchioness, of her triumph over the other girls; the marquis of the long years of happiness that would — that must now be his, of the frail grace that as a bland odour seemed to float about his beloved. And now that she was his he would have her know the infinitude and the imperishability of his affection; but words were weak, and he seemed to be too far away.
&nb
sp; “Where did you dine to-night?” she said suddenly.
“With the Bartons.”
Then he told her everything — of the proposal and the invitation to Brookfield.
“And are you going down to Galway to stay with them?”
“Of course not. Oh, my darling, how can you ask such a question?”
“And why not — why should you not go? I wish you would,” she added; and the light in her grey eyes was malign.
“You are joking? you surely do not mean what you say. I thought you said you loved me.”
“Yes, my dear Harry, that is the very reason. We love each other, therefore I know I can trust you.”
He pressed the hand — the silken skin, the palm delicately moist — in recognition of her kind words.
“I wouldn’t go for anything in the world. I hate those people. ‘Pon my word, I don’t think anything would tempt me to spend a week with them in the country.”
“Yes, I could.”
The marquis laughed— “Yes you could, you could tempt me to do anything. But why should you want me to go and spend a week with them in Galway?”
“Because, dear, they were rude to me; because,” she added, casting down her eyes, “because they tried to buy you from me. That is why I should like to humiliate them.”
