by George Moore
The enchantment of the marquis was completed, and he said:
“What, a whole week away from you, darling! a whole week with Mrs. Barton! I could not endure it.”
“What, not for my sake?”
“Anything for your sake, darling.” He clasped her in his arms, and then they lapsed into silence that to him was even sweeter than the kiss she had given him. Love’s deepest delight is the ineffable consciousness of our own weakness. We drink the sweetened cup in its entirety when, having ceased to will, we abandon ourselves with the lethal languors of the swimmer to the vague depths of dreams.
And it was past midnight when the marquis left Fitzwilliam Place. The ladies accompanied him downstairs; their hands helped him to his hat and coat, and at last he left, looking unutterable to-morrows as he went. Then the lock slipped back sharply, and in the low gloom, broken in one spot by the low-burning gas, the women wondered, — tense with the stricken emotion of Mary and Mary Magdalene at the door of the Sepulchre.
“Oh, mamma, mamma, mamma, I am so happy!” the girl exclaimed, and, weeping passionately, she threw herself for rest upon Mrs. Scully’s arms.
“Yes, me choild, me choild, yer have been very good, yer have made me very happy, you’ll he a mairchioness. Who wid iver have thought I’d have lived to see all this honour when I served in the little shop at Galway!”
At the mention of the shop Violet recovered her composure, and mother and daughter listened to the receding footfalls.
Like a flowering tree, a luxuriant joy bloomed in the marquis’s heart; in its fragrant shade and fresh colour his thoughts lay supinely, and a prey to all sorts of floating and fanciful imaginings, he walked onwards through the darkness. When he lifted his eyes, he saw in the lowering skies only the fair face that had led him with the invincible light of a star to the verge on which he now stood. Now his consciousness was vast and vague. Filled with silence, the street stretched before him, and the heaped evergreens of Merrion Square exhaled moist and evil-smelling airs. Even the sharp network of the leafless trees was lost in the all-blurring shadow; cats crouched through the area railings, policemen moved from their hiding corners: that was all: and the lover passed on with his dreams.
But on the north side of the Square he stopped. There were carriages, and one house was illuminated for dancing, and shades flitted across the yellow window-panes.
He remembered he had received an invitation for this very ball, and he knew that if he entered, every eye would be fixed upon him. The chaperons would ogle, wheedle, cajole; the girls would insinuate, smirk, and tell lies to their partners if they saw the remotest chance of his asking them to dance. To dance twice with him meant fame for a week in Merrion Square. There were a few girls there who had money, many who pretended to have a great deal. The tricks of the Irish heiress are legion, and the lies of the Irish chaperon are as infinite as the sands on the shore. The marquis had suffered, but the time of peace was near, and it was an exquisite delight to know that true love and false love would soon be impotent to torture him. For soon he will possess her — her whom his heart longs for. He might have had any; not one would have refused to come to his coronet; they would have come as readily as a light o’ love to a sovereign. He might have had any of them; he might have had Olive Barton. His face contracted; all was hateful to him now but Violet; but he suddenly remembered how he had refused twenty thousand pounds, and before him rose the spectre of the Land League, and he started as if it had laid its cold hand upon him. Yes, he might have had twenty thousand pounds, and twenty thousand pounds would have paid off how many mortgages! But then he wouldn’t have had Violet, and life without Violet would be a living tomb! — no, no, he could not have borne it. He had done wrong, but it was not his fault; it was not his fault. And, shuddering in his glazed shoes and thin evening clothes, he pursued his way through the shadowy night.
For hours he walked onwards — here and there, he knew not whither. Often he awoke, surprised to find himself staring at something he did not see. Once he stopped to gaze at O’Connell’s Statue. This was the man who had begun the work; it was he who had withdrawn the key-stone of the edifice, soon to fall and crush all beneath its ruins. Then he found himself walking to and fro beneath the colonnades of the Bank of Ireland. Here was the silent power that protected him; but soon the buyers and sellers would be scourged out of the temple and a new power established — a power that would turn him a beggar upon the world. And sometimes he was seen examining the long grey line that is Trinity College. All this would go too. This ancient seat of wisdom and learning would perish before the triumphant and avenging peasant. For him the country, and for him the town; and for the old race of the Kilcarneys poverty and banishment. Shivering with fear rather than the drizzling rain that fell, the little marquis pursued his way. Yes, he was a ruined man. Wealth, position, and power were slipping from him; all he possessed in the world was that thin white face — delicate and subtile as an Indian carven ivory. But oh, that was all his — his for ever and ever; and, in the light of the blowing gas the weak face was stricken with a look of ineffable passion.
Like a carrier overborne by the loads hung on either side of his shoulders, the marquis staggered beneath balancing weights of happiness and fear. He knew not what to think or what to do. He could not return to his hotel; and, by turns lost in moments of emparadised tenderness and overwhelmed in dark and abortive despair, he walked aimlessly, listening to the wild wandering dream with which his brain was bewildered. Twice he had crossed the river. The glooms of Sackville Street were filled with vague groups and single figures. There was a taint of assassination and doom in the air. Parnell, Davitt, Dillon, and other leaders of the Irish party had been cast into prison, and every day and hour writs for the arrest of suspected persons were issued by the Castle; and in return the revolt of the people became more determined and implacable. In the mist and mud of the slums plots and counter-plots were hatched, and, breaking their shells, they emerged like reptiles into a terrible and multiform existence; out of the slime they crawled in strange and formless confusion, and in the twilight of nationhood they fought the obscure and blind battle of birth. Conspiracy, and nothing but conspiracy — conspiracy to strike the knife into the ruler, conspiracy to shoot the informer, conspiracy to overthrow rival conspiracy. Oaths were administered of secrecy, of vengeance.
The assassin followed his victim down darksome alleys, along the wide squares of the aristocracy; cries of murder were heard — a pistol-shot — one, two, three broke the stillness, men were seen passing, a body was found the next day, and all further knowledge of the deed was lost for ever. The brown, sullen Liffey rolls by; has it borne all away? Many a secret it holds, and a dark and mighty accomplice it seems in the crimes that now convulse men’s souls. Day and night silently scavenging, its wandering water lulls echoes of oaths of bloodshed, the mirksome current reflects but a moment the livid flame of incendiarism, swiftly it bears away the body of the victim, and, sunk deep in its unfathomable mud lie the abandoned knives. Even now the marquis as he walked, deaf to all things, shrouded with sorrow and crowned with love, had heard pistol-shots and mysterious cries. But he had passed on heedless; and now he stands in the centre of O’Connell’s bridge. His eyes are fixed upon the mud-stream that flows deep down in the stone embankments; and as the night deepens into the small hours of the morning his grief grows unbearable. Remorse has followed him — the dreary, unrelenting remorse of those too weak by nature for repentance. Now he remembers for the hundredth time how he has sacrificed the grand old name with all its grand associations. The shades of his ancestors crowd about: and how regretfully they seem to reproach him! At every moment the meaning of the word “ruin” grows more distinct; and in distorted vision he sees down the long succession of consequences. Since his childhood he had been told that it was his duty to restore by matrimony his ancient name to its ancient prestige and power; and he had sacrificed all for that little thin white face that he could see now shining before him
— a rare, a seductive jewel. If he had never met her he would have done what was right; but, having once seen her, he could not but act as he had done. No, it was not his fault — he was not to blame. He could not have lived without her; she was life to him, and to possess life he had to accept ruin. Yes, ruin; he knows it well enough. That terrible Land League would ruin him — that terrible Land League that he could feel about him. It hovered in the air like an evil spirit, and, sooner or later, it would descend and tear and rend him as a prey. Yes, he was ruined, utterly ruined. But with twenty or thirty thousand pounds he would have been able to fight it and to conquer it; and then, as his thoughts go back to Olive, his face falls upon his hands, and he weeps.
And the darkness grows thicker, but the man still stands on the bridge. Around him every street is deserted. On the right murder has ended for the night; on the left, towards Merrion Square, the violins have ceased to sing in the ballrooms; and in their white beds the girls sleep their white sleep of celibacy. Passion and grief have ceased to trouble the aching heart, if not for ever, at least for awhile: the murderer’s and the virgin’s reality are sunk beneath a swift-rolling tide of dreams — a tide deeper than the river that flows beneath the tears of the lonely lover. All but he are at rest; and now the city sleeps; wharves, walls, and bridges are veiled and have disappeared in the fog that has crept up from the sea; the shameless squalor of the outlying streets is enwrapped in the grey mist, but over them and dark against the sky the Castle still stretches out its arms as if for some monstrous embrace.
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
MRS. BARTON RARELY took anyone into her confidence, and her plan for the capture of the marquis was locked within her breast. Certainly not to her husband, nor yet to milord, did she think of going for advice. Her special experience of life had taught her to trust none, to be self-reliant, and never to give up hope. For as she often said, it is the last effort that wins the battle. Mrs. Barton’s knowledge of the world, when it came to be analysed, was only that of the courtesan — à fleur de peau.
Two days after she received a note from the marquis, saying he would be glad to spend a fortnight with them at Brookfield. She read it quietly, slipped it into the pocket of the black silk that covered the unseen feet, and glided out of the room. Every detail was clear to her. They must leave Dublin tomorrow morning: they need not trouble about calling on a pack of women; but they would have all their men friends to dinner.
Mr. Barton, when he was informed of these sudden determinations, was in the act of rehearsing a song he was to sing the following day at a concert.
“But, my dear,” he said, tightening one of the strings, “the public will be awfully disappointed.”
“Yes, my dear, yes; I am very sorry, but I have my reasons — serious reasons; and in this world we must only do what’s right.”
“Then in the next world we shall be able to do everything that’s wrong,” said Mr. Barton, and he threw back his blonde locks with troubadour-like waves of his lymphatic hand. “I shall like the next world better than this,” he added, and his wife and daughter laughed, for papa was supposed to be very naughty.
“Olive dear—”
“Oh, mamma, I wish you wouldn’t call me Olive.,.. I shall change my name.... Captain Talbot was chaffing me about it yesterday;... everybody chaffs me about it.”
“Never mind, my dear; it makes a subject of conversation. But I was going to tell you that we shall have to start for Brookfield to-morrow.”
“Go to Brookfield! I couldn’t possibly leave Dublin yet a while; what would all my young men do — they’d die of broken hearts!”
“It won’t matter much if they do; there aren’t a dozen worth two thousand a year each.”
“No? you are joking, mamma. And the marquis!”
“That’s a secret, dear.”
“Then you don’t think he’ll propose to me after all; and I gave up Edward — Captain Hibbert.”
“I thought you had forgotten that horrid man’s name. I did not say, dear, that the marquis would not propose to you — of course he will. But we must leave Dublin to-morrow — I have serious reasons.”
“Oh, mamma, I did not think you were so cruel; to go back to that hateful place, where there isn’t a man within seven miles of one, and where everybody talks of rents and that odious Land League.”
“Now, I will not allow my darling to cry like that,” exclaimed Mrs. Barton, and she threw her arms round the girl’s shoulders. “I did not say that there wouldn’t be a man within seven miles. On the contrary, there will be someone very nice indeed.”
“What do you mean, mamma?”
“That’s a secret — that’s a secret;” and peals of rippling laughter effectually silenced all further questioning.
Alice was told briefly that she had better come home early that afternoon, so that she might have plenty of time to pack her own things and help her sister with hers. Was it possible that so soon, that at last, they were going to leave this thrice-hateful place? Latterly it had become doubly abhorrent to her; at every hour, at every moment her senses of sight, feeling, and hearing were outraged. But it was all over.... the words sang in her ears. What happiness, what happiness to know she was leaving that hateful little varnished floor, that she was to escape from those complimenting old beaux, and the youthful rudenesses of young A.D.C.s. Not their faces would she see, nor their voices would she hear again, nor would she again feel their arms about her. At Brookfield she would be alone; she would have her books and a table to write upon. The prospect emparadised her. Yes, she would really try and do something. Yes, she had an idea. She did not know if she would be able to work it out, but she would try. The girl trembled with pleasure — she would do her best, and she would send it to Harding; he would tell her what he thought of it, and to hope to hear from him would be something to live for.
Mrs. Barton had advised Alice and Olive not to call on the Scullys; and now, as Alice stood on the doorstep, she wondered at these orders. She had hardly seen May since the night of the State ball — the night she had given Fred Scully the terrible permission to see her in her room. Alice had long determined to speak to May on this subject, but somehow the opportunity had always slipped from her; she would go to her now.
May was sitting alone in the ladies’ drawing-room. Her eyes had wandered from the pages of her novel, and she stared vaguely at the passers-by who went, with umbrellas aslant, through the wet air. The tints of the red furniture were vague, and all the little velvet chairs slept in the grey trailing shadows with which the room was filled. An immense heap of coal-dust smouldered dismally in the grate.
“How do you do, May?”
“Oh, how do you do, Alice? I am so glad to see you. Come and sit near the fire. What a dreadful day.”
“Yes, isn’t it? Don’t you find it very depressing?”
“I should think I did. I’m feeling rather out of sorts. Do you ever feel out of sorts, you know, when everything seems as if it were reflected in a darkened glass? There are times when we girls are nervous and weak, and ready to quarrel with anyone. I don’t know what I wish for now; I think I should like to go back to the country.”
“We are going back to-morrow morning.”
“Nonsense; you don’t say so; and how’s that? The Castle may be over, or nearly so, but there are plenty of balls and afternoon dances. What does Olive say to going home?”
“She doesn’t mind. You know mamma always said she would return immediately after the Castle balls.”
“And now that it is all over, tell me what you think of the Castle. Did it come up to your expectations?”
“I don’t know that I think much about the matter. I am not so fond of dancing as you are.”
“Oh, goodness me, goodness me, how ill I do feel,” said May, as she started and yawned in a way that betokened the nervous lassitude she was suffering from.
“Perhaps you had better see the doctor,” said Alice, significantly.
&nbs
p; “But... I don’t know;... then there are other things that worry me.... I don’t think that Fred has been as nice lately as... be used to be.”
“What has he done?”
“Last night he promised to meet me in the Square, and he wrote to say he couldn’t come, that he was forced to go and see an important customer about some horses.”
“Perhaps he had.”
“I dare say he had, but what of that? It does not make it any less disagreeable for me to be disappointed.”
“How cross you are, May! I came out on purpose to talk to you on this very subject. I hope you won’t be angry, but I think it is my duty to tell you that people are beginning to talk about you.”
“And what do they say?”
“Well, they say many unpleasant things; you know how ill-natured people are.”
“Yes, but what do they say?”
“They say you are desperately in love with Fred Scully.”
“Supposing I were; is there any very great harm in that?”
“I only want to put you on your guard, May dear; and since I have come here for the purpose of speaking out, I had better do so, however unpleasant it may be; and I must say that you often forget yourself when he is in the room, and by your whole manner betray your feelings.... You look at him..
“You needn’t talk... Now that Harding has left town, these moral reflections come very easy to you!”
Alice blushed a little; she trembled, and pursuing her advantage, May said:
“Oh, yes; I have watched you in the Castle sitting out dances; and when girls like you do butter!... Ton my word, it was painful to look at you.”
“I am sure,” said Alice, speaking without consideration, “that nobody could think... no one would dream of suspecting.... Mr. Harding and I talked merely of books and pictures.”
“If you come here to insinuate that Fred and I are in the habit of indulging in improper conversation... I should not have expected this from you. I shall not stop another moment. I shall not speak with you again.”
