by George Moore
“Something has happened to my learned daughter,” said Mr. Barton, and he continued his thumb-nail sketch on the tablecloth. “What is it?” he added indolently.
Alice passed the cheque and the memorandum across the table. “Three pounds for three articles contributed to the — during the month of April.”
“You don’t mean to say, Alice, you got three pounds for your writing?” said Mrs. Barton.
“Yes, mother, I have, and I hope to make ten pounds next month. Mr. Harding says he can get me lots of work.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mrs. Barton, “so my lady then, with all her shy ways, knows how to make use of a man as well ns any of us.”
Mrs. Barton, however, did not willingly wound. She saw life from the point of view of making use of men: voilà tout. And when Alice walked out of the room, Mrs. Barton felt sorry for what she had said, and she would have gone to comfort her daughter if Olive had not, at that moment, stood in imminent need of comfort.
“I suppose,” she said, pettishly, “the letter you received this morning is from the marquis, to say he won’t be here next Tuesday?”
It was. For as the day fixed for his arrival at Brookfield approached, he would write to apologise, and to beg that he might be allowed to postpone his visit to Monday week or Wednesday fortnight. Mrs. Barton replied that they would be very glad to see him when he found it convenient to come and see them. She did not inquire into the reason of his abominable rudeness, she was determined to fight the battle out to the end, and she did not dare to think that he was being prompted by that beast of a girl, Violet Scully.
“He writes a very nice letter indeed. He says he has a very bad cold, and does not like to show himself at Brookfield with a red nose, but that, unless he dies in the meantime, he will be with us on the twentieth of the month, and will — if we’ll have him — stop three weeks with us.”
“I knew it was a put-off. I don’t believe he admires meat all, the little beast; and I know I shall never be a marchioness. You made me treat poor Edward shamefully, and for no purpose, after all.”
“Now, ma chérie, you must not speak like that. Go upstairs and ask Barnes if she has heard anything lately?”
“Oh, I’m sick of Barnes; what has she heard?”
“She is a great friend of Lady Georgina’s maid, who knows the Burkes intimately, particularly Lady Emily’s maid, and Barnes got a letter from her friend the other day, saying that Lady Emily was delighted at the idea of her brother marrying you, dear, and that he thinks of nobody else, speaks of nobody else. Bun up and speak to her about it.”
Mrs. Barton’s keenest anxiety was Captain Hibbert. She had, as we have seen, successfully drugged Olive’s light brain with visions of victories and honours; with dancing, dresses, admiration; but now, in the tiring void of country days, the remembrance of Edward’s love and devotion was inevitable. He made no attempt to renew his courtship. At Gort, within three miles, he remained silent, immovable as one of the Clare mountains. Sometimes his brown-gold moustache and square shoulders were caught sight of as he rode rapidly along the roads. He had once been seen sitting with Mrs. Lawler behind the famous cream-coloured ponies; and it was known that he spent most of his time with her. To allude to his disgraceful conduct without wounding Olive’s vanity was an art that Mrs. Barton practised daily; and to keep the girl in spirits she induced Sir Charles, who it was reported was about to emigrate his family to the wilds of Maratoga, to come and stay with them. If she could get up a little excitement, and a rumour were to reach the marquis’s ears, it might help to bring him to the point. In any case Sir Charles’s attentions to Olive would keep her in humour until the great day arrived. Sir Charles was treated as every man was treated at Brookfield. He was told he was charming, delightful, fascinating; on all occasions he was presented with bouquets; and he was sent away in the nick of time.
Well convinced that this was her last throw, Mrs. Barton resolved to smear the hook well with the three famous baits she was accustomed to angle with. They were: dinners, flattery, and dancing. Accordingly, an order was given to the Dublin fishmonger to send them fish daily for the next three weeks, and to the pastrycook for a French cook. The store of flattery kept on the premises being illimitable, she did not trouble about that, but devoted herself to the solution of the problem of how she should obtain a constant and unfailing supply of music. Once she thought of sending up to Dublin for a professional pianist, but was obliged to abandon the idea on account of the impossibility of devising suitable employment for him during the morning hours. A tune or two might not come in amiss after lunch, but to have him hanging about the shrubberies all the morning — no, it would not do. She might ask a couple of the Brennans or the Duffys to stay with them, but they would be in the way, occupy the marquis’s time, and go tell-taling all over the country; no that wouldn’t do either. And Alice did play so badly! It was a wonderful thing that a girl like her would not make some effort to amuse men — would not do something. Once Olive was married, she (Mrs. Barton) would try to patch up something for this gawk of a girl — marry her to Sir Charles; excellent match it would be too — get all the children emigrated first: and if he would not have her, there was Sir Richard. It was said that he was quite reformed — had given up drink. But there was no use thinking of that: for the present she would have to put up with the girl’s music, which was wretched.
Olive fell in with her mother’s plans, and she angled industriously for Lord Kilcarney. She did not fail to say in or out of season: Il n’y a personne comme notre cher marquis, and as the turbot and fruit, that had arrived by the afternoon train from Dublin, were discussed, Milord did not cease to make the most appropriate remarks. Referring to the bouquet that she had pinned into the marquis’s buttonhole, he said:
Il y a des amants partout où il y a des oiseaux et des roses, and again:
Les regards des amoureux sont la lumière comme le baiser est la vie du monde.
After dinner no time was lost, although the marquis pleaded fatigue, in settling Alice at the piano, and dancing began in sober earnest. After each waltz Olive conducted him to the dining-room; she helped him liberally to wine, and when she hold a match to his cigarette their fingers touched. But to find occupation for the long morning hours of her young couple was a grave trouble to Mrs. Barton. She was determined to make every moment of the little marquis’s stay in Galway moments of sunshine; but mental no more than atmospheric sunshine is to be had by the willing, and the poor little fellow seemed to pine in his Galway cage like a moulting canary. He submitted to all the efforts made in his behalf, but his submission was that of a victim. After breakfast be always attempted to escape, and if he succeeded in eluding Mrs. Barton, he would remain for hours hidden in the laurels, enwrapped in summer meditations, the nature of which it was impossible even to conjecture. In the afternoon he spoke of the burden of his correspondence, and when the inevitable dancing was spoken of, he often excused himself on the ground of having a long letter to finish. If it were impossible for her to learn the contents of these letters, Mrs. Barton ardently desired to know to whom they were addressed. Daily she volunteered to send special messengers to the post on his account; the footman, the coachman, and pony-chaise, were in turn rejected by him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Barton, thank you, but I should like to avail myself of the chance of a constitutional.”
“La santé de notre petit marquis avant tout,” she would exclaim with much silvery laughter and all the habitual movements of the white hands. “But what do you say: I am sure the young ladies would like a walk too?”
With a view to picturesque effect Mrs. Barton’s thoughts had long been centred on a picnic. They were now within a few days of the first of May, and there was enough sunshine in the air to justify an excursion to Kinvarra Castle. It is about four miles distant; and it stands on the seashore — a rocky shore full of seaweed, and the sea flows up a long narrow bay.
Mrs. Barton applied herself diligently to the task of org
anisation. Having heard from Dublin of the hoax that was being played on their enemy, the Ladies Cullen consented to join the party, and they brought with them one of the Honourable Miss Gores. The Duffys and Brennans numbered their full strength, including even the famous Bertha, who was staying with her sisters on a visit. The Goulds excused themselves on account of the distance and the disturbed state of the country. Mrs. Barton found, therefore, much difficulty in maintaining the noted characteristic of her parties. Sir Richard and Sir Charles had agreed to come; Mr. Adair, Mr. Ryan, and Mr. Lynch were also present. They drove up on outside cars, and were all attended by a body-guard of policemen.
“I’m afraid we shall get nothing better than a married man, even if we get that,” whispered Bertha.
Mrs. Barton was the life of the party. She flattered everyone — bank clerks and police officers — and her laughter echoed amid the groined arches. Through the mullioned windows beyond the green sea-water, the white town of Kinvarra nestled beneath the mountains; it suggested a military movement to Mr. Barton.
“If things get any worse, we might all retire into this castle. The ladies will stand on the battlements, and I will undertake to hold the place for ever against those village ruffians.”
“I do not think there will be any necessity for that,” replied Mr. Adair sententiously. “I think that these last terrible outrages have awakened the Government to a sense of their responsibility. I have reason to believe that immediate steps will be taken to crush this infamous conspiracy.”
When lunch was over, the party dispersed for a walk, and the usual remarks concerning Mr, Adair were made. “A very clever man, an able man. He took honours at Trinity. It is true he does not care for ladies’ society, but I hear that Gladstone says he cannot do without him.” Nor was the famous anecdote about Mr. Ryan, the docket, and the Galway ball omitted. Then the police officers posted their men on the different headlands, and flirtation was supposed to begin, but Olive and the marquis occupied everybody’s attention, and Mrs. Barton’s injudiciousness was severely commented upon.
“But there is no knowing; he may be bought off yet,” said Bertha.
“They say that Alice Barton is awfully clever, that she is making a fortune by writing stories,” said Gladys Brennan.
“All that’s only to give herself airs. If she can’t be pretty she’d be clever; she’s gone off for a walk with Dr. Reed.”
“If she is clever, she got her cleverness from her father,” said another girl. “I don’t pretend to understand painting, but he does look handsome now, that fair beard and straight nose. I call him perfectly lovely; I’d prefer him to Milord any day.”
“I dare say you would, but not when you were paying the housekeeper’s bills or giving your daughter a fortune,” exclaimed Bertha coarsely.
Although Mrs. Barton remained strangely blind to the ridicule she excited in her friends, she was keenly alive to the fact that the marquis seemed uninfluenced by Olive’s beauty, nor did the knowledge of her twenty thousand pounds appear to soften his heart. To admit defeat would, however, be vain, and under the most adverse circumstances Mrs. Barton struggled on manfully to the end. And day after day the same line of conduct was implacably adhered to. At ten o’clock he was caught and sent to play tennis or walk in the garden with Olive. The girl’s feelings may be divined in the sudden twitching of the facial muscles; the man is sunk in a state of nervous lethargy, from which he makes periodic efforts to rouse himself. The sun is shining brilliantly. The laurels afford but little shade, and along the flower border two butterflies flap their white wings in the sheeny air. The lovers had not spoken for the last five minutes: their ideas follow the butterflies fatuously. Rousing himself with a supreme effort, the marquis asked:
“Are you very fond of flowers, Miss Barton?”
“Oh yes, I delight in them. Come to the greenhouse and I’ll gather you a bouquet.”
While the bouquet was being cut and prepared a few remarks were made, but when it was pinned into the buttonhole another morose silence fell, and they sought in vain to disentangle themselves from its meshes.
During the marquis’s stay at Brookfield there were frequent dinner parties. On May 7 Mr. Adair, Mr. Ryan, and Sir Charles, were seated beneath Mr. Barton’s different versions of the “Bridal of Triermain,” which he declared to possess “all the beauties of Raphael, and other beauties besides.” A magnificent turbot was on the table. Lord Dungory had just delivered himself of a neat epigram, and Mr. Adair was explaining how he would crush the Land League out of existence if the Government would place him in supreme power for the space of one month. “That is all I would ask: one month to restore this island to peace and prosperity. I have always been a Liberal, but I confess that I entirely fail to understand the action the Government are taking in the present crisis. Mr. Forster’s Coercion Bill was, as I always said, an absurd and ineffective measure. I have always placed my faith in Mr. Gladstone, and I refuse to believe in the existence of the Kilmainkam treaty; it has, I am convinced, no existence in fact; it is no more than a Tory device.... And then how do you explain the appointment of Lord Frederick Cavendish?”
At that moment the butler entered the room with an entrée. Speaking to Mr. Barton he said:
“Vary dreadful news has just been received in Gort, sir: Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were murdered last night in the Phoenix Park.”
The knives and forks dropped clinking on the plates as the entire company looked up with white terror painted upon their faces. Mr. Adair was the first to speak:
“This is,” he said, “an infamous and lying report that has been put into circulation...
“It is, unfortunately, quite true, sir; it is in all the Sunday papers?”
“Have you got a paper?”
“Yes, sir.”
A paper was handed to Mr. Adair, and he read aloud the account of the Phoenix Park murders. All eyes were fixed upon him; and when he raised his eyes from the paper, the fixity of the glances he encountered shocked him. It was one of those moments when terror seems to force the soul into the eyes, as a ray of sunlight fills dead and sullen waters with an image of the sky. No one spoke, and Mrs. Barton’s hospitable board was encircled with the vague abandonment of sailors who feel the sinking vessel for the last time lifting herself for a final plunge before settling down into the deep.
Then in turn, each ejaculated a few words. Mrs. Barton said, “It is dreadful to think there are such wicked people in the world.”
Sir. Adair said, “There can be no doubt but that we have arrived at the crisis; Europe will ring with the echoes of the crime.”
Olive said, “I think they ought to hang Mr. Parnell; I believe it was he who drove the car.”
Sir. Barton said, “The landlords and land-leaguers will have to do what I say; they will have to fight it out. Now, at their head, I believe by a series of rapid marches...”
“Arthur, Arthur, I beg of you,” exclaimed Sirs. Barton, waving her white hand impatiently.
We shall all have to emigrate,” Sir Charles murmured reflectively.
“The law is in abeyance,” said Sir. Lynch.
“Precisely,” replied Milord; “and as I once said to Lord Granville, ‘Les mœurs sont les homines, mais la loi est la raison du pays.’”
Sir. Adair looked up; he seemed about to contest the truth of this aphorism, but he relapsed into his consideration of Mr. Gladstone’s political integrity. The conversation had fallen, but at the end of a long silence Mr. Ryan said, “Begorra, I am very glad they were murthered.”
All drew back instinctively. This was too horrible, and doubt of Mr. Ryan’s sanity was expressed on every face.
At last Mr. Adair said, conscious that he was expressing the feelings of the entire company, “What do you mean, sir? Have you gone mad? Do you not know that this is no fitting time for buffoonery?”
“Will ye hear me cousin out?” said Mr. Lynch.
“Begorra, I’m glad they were murthered,” continued
Mr. Ryan; “for if they hadn’t been we’d have been — there’s the long and the short of it. I know the counthry well, and I know that in six months more, without a proper Coercion Act, we’d have been burned in our beds.”
The unanswerableness of Mr. Ryan’s words, and the implacable certainty which forced itself into every heart, that he spoke but the truth, did not, however, make the company less inclined to oppose the utilitarian view he took of the tragedy.
Unfinished phrases. — . — . “Disgraceful”. — . — . “Shocking”... “Inconceivable”... “That anyone should say such a thing”... were passed round, and a disposition was shown to boycott Mr. Ryan.
