by George Moore
Violet’s manner did not betoken in the least that she thought it sad, and after a pause she said:
‘But you haven’t shown me your dresses. I loved the one you wore at the ball.’
‘Yes, yes: I must show you my cream-coloured dinner-dress, and my ruby dress, too. You haven’t seen that either,’ cried Olive. ‘Come along, Barnes, come along.’
‘But I see you use your bedroom, too, as a sitting-room?’ she said, as she glanced at the illustrations in a volume of Dickens and threw down a volume of Shelley’s poetry.
‘Oh, that’s this lady, here!’ cried Olive. ‘She says she cannot read in our room on account of my chattering, so she comes in here to continue her schooling. I should’ve thought that she had had enough of it; and she makes the place in such a mess with bits of paper. Barnes is always tidying up after her.’
Alice laughed constrainedly, and taking the cream-coloured dress out of the maid’s hands, Olive explained why it suited her. Violet had much to say concerning the pink trimming, and the maid referred to her late mistress’s wardrobes. The ruby dress, however, drew forth many little cries of admiration. Then an argument was started concerning the colour of hair, and, before the glass with hairpins and lithe movements of the back and loins, the girls explained their favourite coiffures.
‘But, Alice, you haven’t opened your lips, and you haven’t shown me your dresses.’
‘Barnes will show you my dinner-frocks, but I don’t think as much about what I wear as Olive does.’
Violet quickly understood, but, with clever dissimulation, she examined and praised the black silk trimmed with red ribbons. ‘She’s angry because we didn’t look at her dresses first,’ Olive interjected; and Violet came to Alice’s rescue with a question: ‘Had they heard lately of Lord Kilcarney?’ Olive protested that she would sooner die than accept such a little red-haired thing as that for a husband, and Violet laughed delightedly.
‘Anyway, you haven’t those faults to find with a certain officer, now stationed at Gort, who, if report speaks truly, is constantly seen riding towards Brookfield.’
‘Well, what harm is there in that?’ said Olive, for she did not feel quite sure in her mind if she should resent or accept the gracious insinuation.
‘None whatever; I only wish such luck were mine. What with the weather, and papa’s difficulties with his herdsmen and his tenants, we haven’t seen a soul for the last month. I wish a handsome young officer would come galloping up our avenue some day.’
Deceived, Olive abandoned herself to the plausive charm of Violet’s manner, and at different times she spoke of her flirtation, and told many little incidents concerning it — what he had said to her, how she had answered him, and how, the last time they had met, he had expressed his sorrow at being unable to call to see her until the end of the week.
‘He is shooting to-day at the Lawlers’,’ said Violet.
‘That I’m sure he’s not,’ said Olive, with a triumphant toss of her fair head; ‘for I forbade him to go there.’
Violet smiled, and Olive insisted on an explanation being given.
‘Well,’ exclaimed the girl, more bluntly than she had yet spoken, ‘because as we were coming here we saw him walking along one of the covers. There were a lot of gentlemen, and, just fancy, that dreadful woman, Mrs. Lawler, was with them, marching along, just like a man, and a gun under her arm.’
‘I don’t believe you; you only say that to annoy me,’ cried Olive, trembling with passion.
‘I am not in the habit of telling lies, and don’t know why you should think I care to annoy you,’ Violet replied, a little too definitely; and, unable to control her feelings any longer, Olive walked out of the room. Barnes folded up and put away the dresses, and Alice sought for words that would attenuate the unpleasantness of the scene. But Violet was the quicker with her tongue, and she poured out her excuses. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said, ‘but how could I know that she objected to Captain Hibbert’s shooting at the Lawlers’, or that he had promised her not to go there? I am very sorry, indeed.’
‘Oh I it doesn’t matter,’ said Alice hesitatingly. ‘You know how excitable Olive is. I don’t think she cares more about Captain Hibbert than anyone else; she was only a little piqued, you know — the surprise, and she particularly dislikes the Lawlers. Of course, it is very unpleasant for us to live so near without being able to visit them.’
‘Yes, I understand. I am very sorry. Do you know where she is gone? I shouldn’t like to go away without seeing her.’
‘I am afraid she has shut herself up in her room. Next time you meet, she’ll have forgotten all about it.’
Elated, but at the same time a little vexed, Violet followed Alice down to the drawing-room.
‘My dear child, what a time you have been! I thought you were never coming downstairs again,’ said Mrs. Scully. ‘Now, my dear Mrs. Barton, we really must. We shall meet again, if not before, at the Castle.’
Then stout mother and thin daughter took their leave; but the large carriage, with its sumptuous grey trappings, had not reached the crest of the hill when, swiftly unlocking her door, Olive rushed to Barnes for sympathy.
‘Oh the spiteful little cat!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know why she said that; she’s jealous of me. You heard her say she hadn’t a lover. I don’t believe she saw Edward at all, but she wanted to annoy me. Don’t you think so, Barnes?’
‘I’m sure she wanted to annoy you, miss. I could see it in her eyes. She has dreadful eyes — those cold, grey, glittering things. I could never trust them. And she hasn’t a bit on her bones. I don’t know if you noticed, miss, that when you were counting your petticoats she was ashamed of her legs? There isn’t a bit on them; and I saw her look at yours, miss.’
‘Did you really? She’s like a rail; and as spiteful as she’s lean. At school nothing made her so angry as when anyone else was praised; and you may be sure that jealousy brought her here. She heard how Captain Hibbert admired me, and so came on purpose to annoy me.’
‘You may be sure it was that, miss,’ said Barnes, as she bustled about, shutting and opening a variety of cardboard boxes.
For a moment the quarrel looked as if it were going to end here; but in Olive’s brain thoughts leaped as quickly back as forward, and she startled Barnes by declaring wildly that, if Edward had broken his promise to her, she would never speak to him again.
‘I don’t believe that Violet would have dared to say that she saw him if it weren’t true.’
‘Well, miss, a shooting-party’s but a shooting-party, and there was a temptation, you know. A gentleman who is fond of sport—’
‘Yes; but it isn’t for the shooting he is gone. ’Tis for Mrs. Lawler. I know it is.’
‘Not it, miss. Always admitting that he is there, how could he think of Mrs. Lawler when he’s always thinking of you? And, besides, out in the snow, too. Now, I wouldn’t say anything if the weather was fine — like we had last June — and they giving each other meetings out in the park—’
‘But what did you tell me about the steward, and how Mrs. Lawler fell in love with all the young men who come to her house? And what did the housemaid tell you of the walking about the passages at night and into each other’s rooms? Oh, I must know if he’s there!’
‘I’ll find out in the morning, miss. The coachman is sure to know who was at the shooting-party.’
‘In the morning! It will be too late then! I must know this evening!’ exclaimed Olive, as she walked about the room, her light brain now flown with jealousy and suspicion. ‘I’ll write him a letter,’ she said suddenly, ‘and you must get someone to take it over.’
‘But there’s nobody about. Why, it is nearly seven o’clock,’ said Barnes, who had begun to realize the disagreeableness and danger of the adventure she was being rapidly drawn into.
‘If you can’t, I shall go myself,’ cried Olive, as she seized some paper and a pencil belonging to Alice, and sat down to write a note:
‘DEAR CAPTAIN
HIBBERT,
‘If you have broken your promise to me about not going to the Lawlers’
I shall never be able to forgive you!’ (Then, as through her perturbed
mind the thought gleamed that this was perhaps a little definite, she
added): ‘Anyhow, I wish to see you. Come at once, and explain that what
I have heard about you is not true. I cannot believe it.
‘Yours ever and anxiously,
‘OLIVE BARTON.’
‘Now somebody must take this over at once to the Lawlers.’
‘But, miss, really at this hour of night, too, I don’t know of anyone to send! Just think, miss, what would your ma say?’
‘I don’t care what mamma says. It would kill me to wait till morning! Somebody must go. Why can’t you go yourself? It isn’t more than half a mile across the fields. You won’t refuse me, will you? Put on your hat, and go at once.’
‘And what will the Lawlers say when they hear of it, miss? and I am sure that if Mrs. Barton ever hears of it she will—’
‘No, no, she won’t! for I could not do without you, Barnes. You have only to ask if Captain Hibbert is there, and, if he is there, send the letter up, and wait for an answer. Now, there’s a dear! now do go at once. If you don’t, I shall go mad! Now, say you will go, or give me the letter. Yes, give it to me, and I’ll go myself. Yes, I prefer to go myself.’
XII
THE RESULT OF this missive was that next morning the servants whispered that someone had been about the house on the preceding evening. Olive and Barnes sat talking for hours; and one day, unable to keep her counsel any longer, Olive told her sister what had happened. The letter that Barnes had taken across the field for her had, she declared, frightened Edward out of his senses; he had come rushing through the snow, and had spoken with her for full five minutes under her window. He loved her to distraction; and the next day she had received a long letter, full of references to his colonel, explaining how entirely against his will and desire he had been forced to accept the invitation to go and shoot at the Lawlers’. Alice listened quietly; as if she doubted whether Captain Hibbert would have died of consumption or heartache if Olive had acted otherwise, and then advised her sister quietly; and, convinced that her duty was to tell her mother everything, she waited for an occasion to speak. Mr. Barton was passing down the passage to his studio, Olive was racing upstairs to Barnes, Mrs. Barton had her hand on the drawing-room door; and she looked round surprised when she saw that her daughter was following her.
‘I want to speak to you, mamma.’
‘Come in, dear.’
Alice shut the door behind her.
‘How bare and untidy the room looks at this season of the year; really you and Olive ought to go into the conservatory and see if you can’t get some geraniums.’
‘Yes, mamma, I will presently; but it was about Olive that I wanted to speak,’ said Alice, in a strained and anxious way.
‘What a bore that girl is with her serious face,’ thought Mrs. Barton; but she laughed coaxingly, and said:
‘And what has my grave-faced daughter to say — the learned keeper of the family’s wisdom?’
Even more than Olive’s — for they were less sincere — Mrs. Barton’s trivialities jarred, and Alice’s ideas had already begun to slip from her, and feeling keenly the inadequacy of her words, she said:
‘Well, mamma, I wanted to ask you if Olive is going to marry Captain Hibbert?’
It was now for Mrs. Barton to look embarrassed.
‘Well, really, I don’t know; nothing is arranged — I never thought about the matter. What could have made you think she was going to marry Captain Hibbert? In my opinion they aren’t at all suited to each other. Why do you ask me?’
‘Because I have heard you speak of Lord Kilcarney as a man you would like Olive to marry, and, if this be so, I thought I had better tell you about Captain Hibbert. I think she is very much in love with him.’
‘Oh! nonsense; it is only to kill time. A girl must amuse herself somehow.’
It was on Alice’s lips to ask her mother if she thought such conduct quite right, but, checking herself, she said:
‘I am afraid people are talking about it, and that surely is not desirable.’
‘But why do you come telling me these stories?’ she said.
‘Why, mamma, because I thought it right to do so.’
The word ‘right’ was unpleasant; but, recovering her temper, which for years before had never failed her, Mrs. Barton returned to her sweet little flattering manners.
‘Of course, of course, my dear girl; but you do not understand me. What I mean to say is, Have you any definite reason for supposing that Olive is in love with Captain Hibbert, and that people are talking about it?’
‘I think so, mamma,’ said the girl, deceived by this expression of goodwill. ‘You remember when the Scullys came here? Well, Violet was up in our room, and we were showing her our dresses; the conversation somehow turned on Captain Hibbert, and when Violet said that she had seen him that day, as they came along in the carriage, shooting with the Lawlers, Olive burst out crying and rushed out of the room. It was very awkward. Violet said she was very sorry and all that, but—’
‘Yes, yes, dear; but why was Olive angry at hearing that Captain Hibbert went out shooting with the Lawlers?’
‘Because, it appears, she had previously forbidden him to go there, you know, on account of Mrs. Lawler.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘Well, that’s the worst of it. I don’t mean to say it was all Olive’s fault; I think she must have lost her head a little, for she sent Barnes over that evening to the Lawlers’ with a note, telling Captain Hibbert that he must come at once and explain. It was eleven o’clock at night, and they had a long talk through the window.’
Mrs. Barton did not speak for some moments. The peat-fire was falling into masses of white ash, and she thought vaguely of putting on some more turf; then her attention was caught by the withering ferns in the flower-glasses, then by the soaking pasture-lands, then by the spiky branches of the chestnut-trees swinging against the grey, dead sky.
‘But tell me, Alice,’ she said at last, ‘for of course it is important that I should know — do you think that Olive is really in love with Captain Hibbert?’
‘She told me, as we were going to bed the other night, mamma, that she never could care for anyone else; and — and’
‘And what, dear?’
‘I don’t like to betray my sister’s confidence,’ Alice answered, ‘but I’m sure I had better tell you all: she told me that he had kissed her many times, and no later than yesterday, in the conservatory.’
‘Indeed! you did very well to let me know of this,’ said Mrs. Barton, becoming as earnestly inclined as her daughter Alice. ‘I am sorry that Olive was so foolish; I must speak to her about it. This must not occur again. I think that if you were to tell her to come down here—’
‘Oh no, mamma; Olive would know at once that I had been speaking about her affairs; you must promise me to make only an indirect use of what I have told you.’
‘Of course — of course, my dear Alice; no one shall ever know what has passed between us. You can depend upon me. I will not speak to Olive till I get a favourable opportunity. And now I have to go and see after the servants. Are you going upstairs?’
On Alice, tense with the importance of the explanation, this dismissal fell not a little chillingly; but she was glad that she had been able to induce her mother to consider the matter seriously.
A few minutes passed dreamily, almost unconsciously; Mrs. Barton threw two sods of turf on the fire, and resumed her thinking. Her first feeling of resentment against her eldest daughter had vanished; and she now thought solely of the difficulty she was in, and how she could best extricate herself from it. ‘So Olive was foolish enough to allow Captain Hibbert to kiss her in the conservatory!’ Mrs. Barton murmured to herself. The morality of the question intereste
d her profoundly. She had never allowed anyone to kiss her before she was married; and she was full of pity and presentiment for the future of a young girl who could thus compromise herself. But in Olive’s love for Captain Hibbert Mrs. Barton was concerned only so far as it affected the labour and time that would have to be expended in persuading her to cease to care for him. That this was the right thing to do Mrs. Barton did not for a moment doubt. Her daughter was a beautiful girl, would probably be the belle of the season; therefore to allow her, at nineteen, to marry a thousand-a-year captain would be, Mrs. Barton thought, to prove herself incapable, if not criminal, in the performance of the most important duty of her life. Mrs. Barton trembled when she thought of the sending of the letter: if the story were to get wind in Dublin, it might wreck her hopes of the marquis. Therefore, to tell Barnes to leave the house would be fatal. Things must be managed gently, very gently. Olive must be talked to, how far her heart was engaged in the matter must be found out, and she must be made to see the folly, the madness of risking her chance of winning a coronet for the sake of a beggarly thousand-a-year captain. And, good heavens! the chaperons: what would they say of her, Mrs. Barton, were such a thing to occur? Mrs. Barton turned from the thought in horror; and then, out of the soul of the old coquette arose, full-fledged, the chaperon, the satellite whose light and glory is dependent on that of the fixed star around which she revolves.
At this moment Olive, her hands filled with ferns, bounced into the room.
‘Oh! here you are, mamma! Alice told me you wanted a few ferns and flowers to brighten up the room.’
‘I hope you haven’t got your feet wet, my dear; if you have, you had better go up at once and change.’
Olive was now more than ever like her father. Her shoulders had grown wider, and the blonde head and scarlet lips had gained a summer brilliance and beauty.
