by George Moore
Mr. Adair spoke of not sitting in the room where such opinions were expressed, but Milord was seen whispering to him, and Mrs. Barton, always anxious to calm troubled waters, suggested that “people did not mean all they said.” Mr. Ryan, however, maintained through it all an attitude of stolid indifference, the indifference of a man who knows that all must come back sooner or later to his views.
And presently, although the sting remained, the memory of the wasp that had stung seemed to be lost. Milord and Mr. Adair engaged in a long and learned discussion concerning the principles of Liberalism, in the course of which many allusions were made to the new Coercion Bill, which, it was now agreed, Mr. Gladstone would, in a few days, lay before Parliament. The provisions of this bill were eagerly debated. Milord spoke of an Act that had been in force consequent on the Fenian rising in’69. Mr. Adair was of opinion that the importance of a new Coercion Act could not be over estimated; Mr. Barton declared in favour of a military expedition — a rapid dash into the heart of Connemara. But the conversation languished, and in the ever-lengthening silences all found their thoughts reverting to the idea brutally expressed by Mr. Ryan: — Yes, they were glad; for if Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke had not been assassinated, every landowner in the country would have been murdered.
There was no dancing that evening; and as the night advanced the danger of the long drive home increased in intensity in the minds of Messrs. Lynch and Ryan. They sat on either side of Mr. Adair, and it was finally arranged that they should unite their police-forces, and spend the night at his place. Sir Charles was sleeping at Brookfield; Milord had four policemen with him; and as all would have to pass his gate, he did not anticipate that even the Land League would venture to attack thirteen armed men. Mr. Barton, who saw the picturesque in everything, declared, when he came back, that they looked like a caravan starting for a pilgrimage across the desert. After a few further remarks the ladies rose to retire, but when Mrs. Barton gave her hand to Lord Kilcarney, he said, his voice trembling a little:
“I’m afraid I must leave you to-morrow, Mrs. Barton. I shall have to run over to London to vote in the House of Lords.... You know that—”
Mrs. Barton led the poor little man into the further corner of the room, and making a place for him by her side, she said: “Of course we are very sorry you are leaving — we should like you to stop a little longer with us.... Is it impossible for you...?”
“I am afraid so, Mrs. Barton.... it is very kind of you, but...
“It is a great pity,” she answered; “but before we part I should like to know if you have come to any conclusion about what I spoke to you of in Dublin. If it is not to be, I should like to know, that I might tell the girl, so that she might not think anything more about....”
“What am I to say, what am I to do?” thought the marquis. “Oh! why does this woman worry me?... How can I tell her that I wouldn’t marry her daughter for tens of thousands of pounds l.”
“I think Mrs. Barton... I mean, I think you will agree with me that until affairs in Ireland grow more settled, it would be impossible for anyone to enter into any engagements whatever. We are all on the brink of ruin.”
“But twenty thousand pounds would settle a great deal.” The little marquis was conscious of annihilation, and he sought to escape Mrs. Barton as he might a piece of falling rock. With a desperate effort he said:
“Yes, Mrs. Barton, yes, I agree with you, twenty thousand pounds is a great deal of money; but I think we had better wait until the Lords have passed the new Coercion Bill — say nothing more about this — leave it an open question.”
And on this eminently unsatisfactory answer the matter ended; even Mrs. Barton saw she could not, at least for the present, continue to press it. Still she did not give up hope. “Try on to the end; we never know that it is not the last little effort that will win the game,” was the aphorism with which she consoled her daughter, and induced her to write to Lord Kilcarney. And almost daily he received from her flowers, supposed to be emblematical of the feeling she entertained for him; and for these Alice was sometimes ordered to compose verses and suitable mottoes.
CHAPTER II.
BUT LORD KILCARNEY’S replies to these letters seldom consisted of more than a few well-chosen words, and he often allowed a week, and sometimes a fortnight, to elapse before answering at all. Olive — too vain and silly to understand the indifference with which she was treated — whined and fretted less than might have been expected. She spent a great deal of her time with Barnes, who fed her with scandal and flattery. But a storm was about to break, and in August it was known, without any possibility of a doubt, that the marquis was engaged to Violet Scully, and that their marriage was settled for the autumn.
And this marriage, and the passing of the Bill for the Prevention of Crime, were the two interests present in the mind of Irish landlordism during the summer of’82. Immediately the former event was publicly announced, every girl in Dublin ran to her writing-desk to confirm to her friends and relatives the truth of the news which for the last two months she had so resolutely anticipated. The famous Bertha, the terror of the débutantes, rushed to Brookfield, but she did not get there before the Brennans, and the result was a meeting of these families of girls in Mrs. Barton’s drawing-room. Gladys was, however, the person chosen by God and herself to speak the wonderful words:
“Of course you have heard the news, Mrs. Barton?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Barton, a little nervously; “what is it?”
“Oh, yes, what is it?” exclaimed Olive. “Anyone going to be married?”
“Yes — can you guess?”
“No; tell me quick... no, do tell me. Are you going to be married?”
Had Olive been suddenly dowered with the wit of Congreve she could not have contrived an answer that would have shielded her better from the dart that Gladys was preparing to hurl. The girl winced; and divining the truth in a moment of inspiration, Mrs. Barton said:
“Ah! I know; Lord Kilcarney is engaged to “Violet Scully.”
The situation was almost saved, and would have been had Olive not been present. She glanced at her mother in astonishment; and Gladys, fearing utter defeat, hurled her dart recklessly.
“Yes,” she exclaimed, “and their marriage is fixed for this autumn.”
“I don’t believe a word of it.... You only say so because you think it will annoy me.”
“My dear Olive, how can it annoy you? You know very well you refused him,” said Mrs. Barton, risking the danger of contradiction. “Gladys is only telling us the news.”
“News, indeed; a pack of lies.... I know her well; and all because she is jealous of me;.... because she didn’t succeed in hooking the man she was after in the Shelbourne last year. I am not going to listen to her lies, if you are,” and on these words Olive flaunted passionately out of the room.
“So very sorry, really,” exclaimed Zoe. “We really did not know... indeed we did not. We could not have known that, that there was any reason why dear Olive would not like to hear that Lord Kilcarney was engaged to Violet.”
“Not at all, not at all. I assure you that whatever question there may once have been, I give you my word, was broken off a long time ago; they did not suit each other at all,” said Mrs. Barton. And now that she was relieved of the presence of her young, the mother fought admirably. But in a few minutes the enemy was reinforced by the arrival of the Hon. Miss Gores.
“Oh, how do you do? I am so glad to see you,” said Mrs. Barton the moment they entered the room. “Have you heard the news? all is definitely settled between the little marquis and Violet. We were all talking of it; I am so glad for her sake, of course in is very grand to be a marchioness, but I’m afraid she’ll find her coronet a poor substitute for her dinner.... You know what a state the property is in... She has married a beggar. The great thing after all, nowadays, is money.”
Mrs. Barton’s cunning did not save her from the error of abusing the man she had failed to catch, but she kept
her enemies at bay while they drank their tea and discussed the state of Lord Kilcarney’s liabilities. Nor did she herself realise the thoroughness of her humiliation and defeat till the young ladies had wished her good-bye. She stood by the window watching their carriages growing smaller as they receded through the sheep-grazed lawn of Brookfield. What was she to say to her daughter? Her step she now heard on the stairs. What falsehood would suit the occasion best? she asked herself hurriedly. Pale and trembling, Olive opened the door.
“Oh, mamma,” she said, “this is terrible; what shall we do — what shall we do?”
“What’s terrible, my beautiful darling?”
Olive looked through her languor and tears; and she answered, petulantly:
“Oh, you know very well I’m disgraced; he’s going to marry Violet, and I shall not be a marchioness after all.”
“If my beautiful darling likes she can be a duchess,” replied Mrs. Barton with a silvery laugh.
“I don’t understand, mamma.”
“I mean that we are not entirely dependent on that wretched little marquis with his encumbered property; if he was fool enough to let himself be entrapped by that designing little beast, Violet Scully, so much the worse for him; we shall get someone far grander than he. It is never wise for a girl to settle herself off the first season she comes out.”
“It is all very well to say that now, but you made me break off with dear Edward, who was ever so nice, and loved me dearly.”
Mrs. Barton winced, but she answered almost immediately, “My dear, we shall get someone a great deal grander than that wretched marquis. There will be a whole crowd of English dukes and earls at the Castle next year; men who haven’t a mortgage on their property, and who will all fight for the hand of my beautiful Olive. Mr. Harding, Alice’s friend, will put your portrait into one of the Society papers as the Galway beauty, and then next year you may be her Grace.”
“And how will they do my portrait, mamma?”
“I think you look best, darling, with your hair done up on the top of your head, in the French fashion.”
“Oh! do you think so? You don’t like the way I have it done in now?” said the girl; and laughing, she ran to the glass to admire herself. “Barnes said I looked sweet this morning.”
As quickly as an April sky brightens, Olive passed from grief to glee; her light mind could support no idea for any length of time. Concerning Lord Kilcarney she had never entertained a single personal thought; she had been fevered with visions of rank and power; — her life had been one of nervous suspense. But now the carefully calculated future which she had learned long to regard as her own had vanished, and into the mental vacuum febrile sensations of loneliness, of emptiness, of dispossession, had suddenly rushed. She tossed her head nervously, declaring she was miserable, and often she burst out crying for no assignable cause. Mrs. Barton consoled and flattered gaily; but the sweet placid countenance was sometimes a little troubled. As the girls left the breakfast-room one morning she said, as if asking their advice:
“I have just received an invitation from Dungory Castle; they are giving a tennis party and they want us to go to lunch.”
“Oh! mamma, I don’t want to go,” cried Olive.
“And why, my dear?” —
“Oh! because everybody knows about the marquis, and I couldn’t bear their sneers; those Brennans and the Duffys are sure to be there.”
“Bertha’s in Dublin,” said Mrs. Barton, in an intonation of voice a little too expressive of relief.
“Gladys is just as bad, and then there’s that horrid Zoo. Oh! I couldn’t bear it.”
“It will look as if we were avoiding them; they will only talk the more. I always think it is best to put a bold face on everything. Sir Charles will be there for certain; you know he admires you; if I were you I would monopolise him the whole afternoon. The old is quickly forgotten in the new flirtation.”
“I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I really couldn’t, mamma,” exclaimed Olive, and she burst into tears. “I’m broken-hearted, that’s what I am. I have nothing to do or to think of.”
Mrs. Barton winced a little before this manifestation of hysterical feeling; but of course it did not change, nor did it alter, in any way, the light in which she habitually viewed her own and her daughter’s life. The marquis affair had not come off; but she had done her best, and no one can do more than their best, and now she would do her best to get out of the difficulty. There could be little doubt that the Ladies Cullen had got up the tennis party so that they might have an opportunity of sneering at her, but Milord would keep them in check (it might be as well to tell him to threaten to put down the school if they did not keep a guard on their tongues), and if Olive would only put a bold face on it and captivate Sir Charles, this very disagreeable business might blow over. Further than this, Mrs. Barton’s thoughts did not travel, but they were clear and precise thoughts, and with much subtlety and insinuative force she applied herself to the task of overcoming her daughter’s weakness and strengthening her in this overthrow of vanity and self-love. At Brookfield Milord was more profuse than ever in French flattery; and at Dungory Castle he had doubtless been able to arrive at a very clear understanding with Lady Sarah and Lady Jane concerning the future of Protestantism in the parish, for on the day of the tennis party no allusion was made to Lord Kilcarney’s visit to Brookfield; certain references to his marriage were, of course, inevitable, but it was only necessary to question Mr. Adair on his views concerning the new Coercion Act, to secure for Mrs. Barton an almost complete immunity from feminine sarcasm.
“I do not deny,” said Mr. Adair, “that the Crimes Bill will restore tranquillity, but I confess that I can regard no Government as satisfactory that can only govern by the sword.”
These sentiments being but only very partially appreciated by the rest of the company, the conversation came to an awkward pause, and Lady Jane said as she left the room:
“I do not know a more able man on a county board than Mr. Adair. He took honours at Trinity, and if he has not done as much since as we expected, it is because he is too honourable, too conscientious, to ally himself to any particular party.” —
“That was always the way with Lord Dungory,” suggested Mrs. Gould.
Lady Jane bit her lip and continued, without taking notice of the interruption:
“Now I hope Mr. Adair will not write a pamphlet, or express himself too openly concerning the Crimes Act. The question of the day is the organisation of the Land Act, and I hear that Mr. Gladstone says it will be impossible to get on without Mr. Adair’s assistance.”
“Every six months it is given out that Gladstone cannot go on without him, but somehow Gladstone does manage to get on without him; and then we never hear any more about it.”
Lady Jane looked angry; and all wondered at Mrs. Gould’s want of tact, but at that moment the footman announced Messrs. Ryan and Lynch, and Alice asked if she might go up to see Cecilia. More visitors arrived; the Brennans, the Duffys, the five Honourable Miss Gores, and the company adjourned to the tennis ground. Mr. Lynch was anxious to have May for a partner, but she refused him somewhat pettishly, declaring at the same time that she had given up tennis, and would never touch a racquet again. Her continuous silence and dejected appearance created some surprise, and her cheeks flushed with passion when her mother said she didn’t know what had come over May lately. Then obeying an impulse, May rose to her feet, and leaving the tennis players she walked across the pleasure grounds. Dungory Castle was surrounded by heavy woods and overtopping clumps of trees. As the house was neared, these were filled in with high laurel hedges and masses of rhododendron, and an opening in the branches of some large beech trees revealed a blue and beautiful aspect of the Clare mountains.
“I wonder what May is angry about?” Cecilia said to Alice as they watched the tennis playing from their window; “I suppose those horrid men are annoying her.”
“I never saw her refuse to play tennis before,” Alice repl
ied demurely. And ten minutes after, some subtle desire of which she was not very conscious led her through the shrubberies towards the place where she already expected to find May. And dreaming of reconciliation, of a renewal of friendship, Alice walked through the green summer of the leaves, listening to the infinite twittering of the birds, and startled by the wood pigeons that from time to time rose boisterously out of the high branches. On a garden bench, leaning forward, her hands rested on her knees, May sat swinging her parasol from side to side, playing with the fallen leaves. When she looked up, the sunlight fell full upon her face, and Alice saw that she was crying. But affecting not to see the tears, she said speaking rapidly:
“Oh, May dear, I have been looking for you. The last time we...”
But interrupted here by a choking sob, she found herself forced to say:
“My dear May, what is the matter? Can I do anything for you?”
“Oh, no, no; only leave me; don’t question me. I don’t want anyone’s help.”
The ungraciousness of the words was lost in the accent of grief with which they were spoken.
“I assure you I do not wish to be inquisitive,” Alice replied sorrowfully, “nor do I come to annoy you with good advice, but the last time we met we did not part good friends... I was merely anxious to assure you that I bore no ill-feeling, but of course, if you..
“Oh, no, no,” cried May; reaching and catching at Alice’s arm, she pulled her down into the seat beside her; “I am awfully sorry for my rudeness to you — to you who are so good — so good. Oh, Alice dear, you will forgive me, will you not?” and sobbing very helplessly, she threw herself into her friend’s arms.
“Oh, of course I forgive you,” cried Alice, deeply affected. “I had no right to lecture you in the way I did, but I meant it for the best, indeed I did.”
“I know you did, but I lost my temper. Ah, if you knew how sorely I was tried you would forgive me.”
“I do forgive you, May dear; but tell me, cannot I help you now? You know that you can confide in me, and I will do anything in my power to help you.”
