by George Moore
‘Yes, I know — I am sure; but it cannot be.’
‘Then you mean to say that you will sacrifice your daughter’s happiness for the sake of a little wretched pride?’
‘Why press the matter further? Why cannot we remain friends?’
‘Friends! Yes, I hope we shall remain friends; but I will never consent to give up Olive. She loves me. I know she does. My life is bound up in hers. No, I’ll never consent to give her up, and I know she won’t give me up.’
‘Olive has laughed and flirted with you, but it was only pour passer le temps; and I may as well tell you that you are mistaken when you think that she loves you.’
‘Olive does love me. I know she does; and I’ll not believe she does not — at least, until she tells me so. I consider I am engaged to her; and I must beg of you, Mrs. Barton, to allow me to see her and hear from her own lips what she has to say on this matter.’
With the eyes of one about to tempt fortune adventurously, like one about to play a bold card for a high stake, Mrs. Barton looked on the tall, handsome man before her; and, impersonal as were her feelings, she could not but admire, for the space of one swift thought, the pale aristocratic face now alive with passion. Could she depend upon Olive to say no to him? The impression of the moment was that no girl would. Nevertheless, she must risk the interview, and gliding towards the door, she called; and then, as a cloud that grows bright in the sudden sunshine, the man’s face glowed with delight at the name, and a moment after, white and drooping like a cut flower, the girl entered. Captain Hibbert made a movement as if he were going to rush forward to meet her. She looked as if she would have opened her arms to receive him, but Mrs. Barton’s words fell between them like a sword.
‘Olive,’ she said, ‘I hear you are engaged to Captain Hibbert! Is it true?’
Startled in the drift of her emotions, and believing her confidence had been betrayed, the girl’s first impulse was to deny the impeachment. No absolute promise of marriage had she given him, and she said:
‘No, mamma, I am not engaged. Did Edward — I mean Captain Hibbert — say I was engaged to him? I am sure—’
‘Didn’t you tell me, Olive, that you loved me better than anyone else? Didn’t you even say you could never love anyone else? If I had thought that—’
‘I knew my daughter would not have engaged herself to you, Captain Hibbert, without telling me of it. As I have told you before, we all like you very much, but this marriage is impossible; and I will never consent, at least for the present, to an engagement between you.’
‘Olive, have you nothing to say? I will not give you up unless you tell me yourself that I must do so.’
‘Oh, mamma, what shall I do?’ said Olive, bursting into a passionate flood of tears.
‘Say what I told you to say,’ whispered Mrs. Barton.
‘You see, Edward, that mamma won’t consent, at least not for the present, to our engagement.’
This was enough for Mrs. Barton’s purpose, and, soothing her daughter with many words, she led her to the door. Then, confronting Captain Hibbert, she said:
‘There is never any use in forcing on these violent scenes. As I have told you, there is no one I should prefer to yourself. We always say here that there is no one like le beau capitaine; but, in the face of these bad times, how can I give you my daughter? And you soldiers forget so quickly. In a year’s time you’ll have forgotten all about Olive.’
‘That isn’t true; I shall never forget her. I cannot forget her; but I will consent to wait if you will consent to our being engaged.’
‘No, Captain Hibbert, I think it is better not. I do not approve of those long engagements.’
‘Then you’ll forget what has passed between us, and let us be the same friends as we were before?’
‘I hope we shall always remain friends; but I do not think, for my daughter’s peace of mind, it would be advisable for us to see as much of each other as we have hitherto done. And I hope you will promise me not to communicate with my Olive in any way.’
‘Why should I enter into promises with you, Mrs. Barton, when you decline to enter into any with me?’
Mrs. Barton did not look as if she intended to answer this question. The conversation had fallen, and her thoughts had gone back to the tenants and the reduction that Mr. Scully was now persuading them to accept. He talked apart, first with one, then with another. His square bluff figure in a long coarse ulster stood out in strong relief against the green grass and the evergreens.
‘Thin it is decided yer pay at twinty-foive per cint.,’ said Mr. Scully.
‘Then, Captain Hibbert,’ said Mrs. Barton a little sternly, ‘I am very sorry indeed, that we can’t agree; but, after what has passed between us to-day, I do not think you will be justified in again trying to see my daughter.’
‘Begad, sor, they were all aginst me for agraying to take the twinty-foive,’ whispered the well-to-do tenant who was talking to the agent.
‘I fail to understand,’ said Captain Hibbert haughtily, ‘that Miss Barton said anything that would lead me to suppose that she wished me to give her up. However, I do not see that anything would be gained by discussing this matter further. Good-morning, Mrs. Barton.’
‘Good-morning, Captain Hibbert;’ and Mrs. Barton smiled winningly as she rang the bell for the servant to show him out. When she returned to the window the tenants were following Mr. Scully into the rent-office, and, with a feeling of real satisfaction she murmured to herself:
‘Well, after all, nothing ever turns out as badly as we expect it.’
XIV
BUT, ALTHOUGH MRS. Barton had bidden the captain away, Olive’s sorrowful looks haunted the house.
A white weary profile was seen on the staircase, a sigh was heard when she left the room; and when, after hours of absence, she was sought for, she was found lying at full length, crying upon her bed.
‘My dear, it distresses me to see you in this state. You really must get up; I cannot allow it. There’s nothing that spoils one’s good looks like unhappiness. Instead of being the belle of the season, you’ll be a complete wreck. I must insist on your getting up, and trying to interest yourself in something.’
‘Oh! mamma, don’t, don’t! I wish I were dead; I am sick of everything!’
‘Sick of everything?’ said Mrs. Barton, laughing. ‘Why, my dear child, you have tasted nothing yet. Wait until we get to the Castle; you’ll see what a lot of Captain Hibberts there will be after this pretty face; that’s to say if you don’t spoil it in the meantime with fretting.’
‘But, mamma,’ she said, ‘how can I help thinking of him? — there’s nothing to do here, one never hears of anything but that horrid Land League — whether the Government will or will not help the landlords, whether Paddy So-and-so will or will not pay his rent. I am sick of it. Milord comes to see you, and Alice likes reading-books, and papa has his painting; but I have nothing since you sent Captain Hibbert away.’
‘Yes, yes, my beautiful Olive flower, it is a little dull for you at present, and to think that this wicked agitation should have begun the very season you were coming out! Who could have foreseen such a thing? But come, my pet, I cannot allow you to ruin your beautiful complexion with foolish tears; you must get up; unfortunately I can’t have you in the drawing-room, I have to talk business with Milord, but you can go out for a walk with Alice — it isn’t raining to-day.’
‘Oh! no; I couldn’t go out to walk with Alice, it would bore me to death. She never talks about anything that interests me.’
Vanished the sweet pastel-like expression of Mrs. Barton’s features, lost in a foreseeing of the trouble this plain girl would be. Partners would have to be found, and to have her dragging after her all through the Castle season would be intolerable. And all these airs of virtue, and injured innocence, how insupportable they were! Alice, as far as Mrs. Barton could see, was fit for nothing. Even now, instead of helping to console her sister, and win her thoughts away from Captain Hibbert
, she shut herself up to read books. Such a taste for reading and moping she had never seen in a girl before — voilà un type de vieille fille. Whom did she take after? Certainly not after her mother, nor yet her father. But what was the good of thinking of the tiresome girl? There were plenty of other things far more important to consider, and the first thing of all was — how to make Olive forget Captain Hibbert? On this point Mrs. Barton was not quite satisfied with the manner in which she had played her part. Olive’s engagement had been broken off by too violent means, and nothing was more against her nature than (to use her own expression) brusquer les choses. Early in life Mrs. Barton discovered that she could amuse men, and since then she had devoted herself assiduously to the cultivation of this talent, and the divorce between herself and her own sex was from the first complete. She not only did not seek to please, but she made no attempt to conceal her aversion from the society of women, and her preference for those forms of entertainment where they were found in fewest numbers. Balls were, therefore, never much to her taste; at the dinner-table she was freer, but it was on the racecourse that she reigned supreme. From the box-seat of a drag the white hands were waved, the cajoling laugh was set going; and fashionably-dressed men, with race-glasses about their shoulders, came crowding and climbing about her like bees about their queen. Mrs. Barton had passed from flirtation to flirtation without a violent word. With a wave of her hands she had called the man she wanted; with a wave of her hands, and a tinkle of the bell-like laugh, she had dismissed him. As nothing had cost her a sigh, nothing had been denied her. But now all was going wrong. Olive was crying and losing her good looks. Mr. Barton had received a threatening letter, and, in consequence, had for a week past been unable to tune his guitar; poor Lord Dungory was being bored to death by policemen and proselytizing daughters. Everything was going wrong. This phrase recurred in Mrs. Barton’s thoughts as she reviewed the situation, her head leaned in the pose of the most plaintive of the pastels that Lord Dungory had commissioned his favourite artist to execute in imitation of the Lady Hamilton portraits. And now, his finger on his lip, like harlequin glancing after columbine, the old gentleman, who had entered on tiptoe, exclaimed:
‘“Avez vous vu, dans Barcelone Une Andalouse au sein bruni? Pâle comme un beau soir d’ Automne; C’est ma maîtresse, ma lionne! La Marquesa d’ Amalëqui.”’
Instantly the silver laugh was set a-tinkling, and, with delightful gestures, Milord was led captive to the sofa.
‘C’est l’aurore qui vient pour dissiper les brumes du matin,’ Mrs. Barton declared as she settled her skirts over her ankles.
‘“Qu’elle est superbe en son désordre Quand elle tombe. . . .”’
‘Hush, hush!’ exclaimed Mrs. Barton, bursting with laughter; and, placing her hand (which was instantly fervently kissed) upon Milord’s mouth, she said: ‘I will hear no more of that wicked poetry.’
‘What! hear no more of the divine Alfred de Musset?’ Milord answered, as if a little discouraged.
‘Hush, hush!’
Alice entered, having come from her room to fetch a book, but seeing the couple on the sofa she tried to retreat, adding to her embarrassment and to theirs by some ill-expressed excuses.
‘Don’t run away like that,’ said Mrs. Barton; ‘don’t behave like a charity-school girl. Come in. I think you know Lord Dungory.’
‘Oh! this is the studious one,’ said Milord, as he took Alice affectionately with both hands, and drew her towards him. ‘Now look at this fair brow; I am sure there is poetry here. I was just speaking to your mother about Alfred de Musset. He is not quite proper, it is true, for you girls; but oh, what passion! He is the poet of passion. I suppose you love Byron?’
‘Yes; but not so much as Shelley and Keats,’ said Alice enthusiastically, forgetting for the moment her aversion to the speaker in the allusion to her favourite pursuit.
‘The study of Shelley is the fashion of the day. You know, I suppose, the little piece entitled Love’s Philosophy— “The fountains mingle with the river; the river with the ocean.” You know “Nothing in the world is single: all things, by a law divine, in one another’s being mingle. Why not I with thine?”’
‘Oh yes, and the Sensitive Plant. Is it not lovely?’
‘There is your book, my dear; you must run away now. I have to talk with Milord about important business.’
Milord looked disappointed at being thus interrupted in his quotations; but he allowed himself to be led back to the sofa. ‘I beg your pardon for a moment,’ said Mrs. Barton, whom a sudden thought had struck, and she followed her daughter out of the room.
‘Instead of wasting your time reading all this love-poetry, Alice, it would be much better if you would devote a little of your time to your sister; she is left all alone, and you know I don’t care that she should be always in Barnes’ society.’
‘But what am I to do, mamma? I have often asked Olive to come out with me, but she says I don’t amuse her.’
‘I want you to win her thoughts away from Captain Hibbert,’ said Mrs. Barton; ‘she is grieving her heart out and will be a wreck before we go to Dublin. Tell her you heard at Dungory Castle that he was flirting with other girls, that he is not worth thinking about, and that the Marquis is in love with her.’
‘But that would be scarcely the truth, mamma,’ Alice replied hesitatingly.
Mrs. Barton gave her daughter one quick look, bit her lips, and, without another word, returned to Milord. Everything was decidedly going wrong; and to be annoyed by that gawk of a girl in a time like the present was unbearable. But Mrs. Barton never allowed her temper to master her, and in two minutes all memory of Alice had passed out of her mind, and she was talking business with Lord Dungory. Many important questions had to be decided. It was known that mortgages, jointures, legacies, and debts of all kinds had reduced the Marquis’s income to a minimum, and that he stood in urgent need of a little ready money. It was known that his relations looked to an heiress to rehabilitate the family fortune. Mrs. Barton hoped to dazzle him with Olive’s beauty, but it was characteristic of her to wish to bait the hook on every side, and she hoped that a little gilding of it would silence the chorus of scorn and dissent that she knew would be raised against her when once her plans became known. Four thousand pounds might be raised on the Brookfield property, but, if this sum could be multiplied by five, Mrs. Barton felt she would be going into the matrimonial market armed to the teeth, and prepared to meet all comers. And, seeking the solution of this problem, Milord and Mrs. Barton sat on the sofa, drawn up close together, their knees touching; he, although gracious and urbane as was his wont, seemed more than usually thoughtful. She, although as charmful and cajoling as ever, in the pauses of the conversation allowed an expression of anxiety to cloud her bright face. Fifteen thousand pounds requires a good deal of accounting for, but, after many arguments had been advanced on either side, it was decided that she had made, within the last seven years, many successful investments. She had commenced by winning five hundred pounds at racing, and this money had been put into Mexican railways. The speculation had proved an excellent one, and then, with a few airy and casual references to Hudson Bay, Grand Trunks, and shares in steamboats, it was thought the creation of Olive’s fortune could be satisfactorily explained to a not too exacting society.
Three or four days after, Mrs. Barton surprised the young ladies by visiting them in the sitting-room. Barnes was working at the machine, Olive stood drumming her fingers idly against the window-pane.
‘Just fancy seeing you, mamma! I was looking out for Milord; he is a little late to-day, is he not?’ said Olive.
‘I do not expect him to-day — he is suffering from a bad cold; this weather is dreadfully trying. But how snug you are in your little room; and Alice is absolutely doing needlework.’
‘I wonder what I am doing wrong now,’ thought the girl.
Barnes left the room. Mrs. Barton threw some turf upon the fire, and she looked round. Her eyes rested on the card
board boxes — on the bodice left upon the work-table — on the book that Alice had laid aside, and she spoke of these things, evidently striving to interest herself in the girl’s occupation. At length she said:
‘If the weather clears up I think we might all go for a drive; there is really no danger. The Land League never has women fired at. We might go and see the Brennans. What do you think, Olive?’
‘I don’t care to go off there to see a pack of women,’ the girl replied, still drumming her fingers on the window-pane.
‘Now, Olive, don’t answer so crossly, but come and sit down here by me;’ and, to make room for her, Mrs. Barton moved nearer to Alice. ‘So my beautiful Olive doesn’t care for a pack of women,’ said Mrs. Barton— ‘Olive does not like a pack of women; she would prefer a handsome young lord, or a duke, or an earl.’
Olive turned up her lips contemptuously, for she guessed her mother’s meaning.
‘What curious lives those girls do lead, cooped up there by themselves, with their little periodical trip up to the Shelbourne Hotel. Of course the two young ones never could have done much; they never open their lips, but Gladys is a nice girl in her way, and she has some money of her own, I wonder she wasn’t picked up.’
‘I should like to know who would care for her?’
‘She had a very good chance once; but she wouldn’t say yes, and she wouldn’t say no, and she kept him hanging after her until at last off he went and married someone else. A Mr. Blake, I think.’
‘Yes, that was his name; and why wouldn’t she marry him?’
‘Well, I don’t know — folly, I suppose. He was, of course, not so young as Harry Renley, but he had two thousand a year, and he would have made her an excellent husband; kept a carriage for her, and a house in London: whereas you see she has remained Miss Brennan, goes up every year to the Shelbourne Hotel to buy dresses, and gets older and more withered every day.’
