by George Moore
‘I know they lead a stupid life down here, but mightn’t they go abroad and travel?’ asked Alice; ‘they are no longer so very young.’
‘A woman can do nothing until she is married,’ Mrs. Barton answered decisively.
‘But some husbands treat their wives infamously; isn’t no husband better than a bad husband?’
‘I don’t think so,’ returned Mrs. Barton, and she glanced sharply at her daughter. ‘I would sooner have the worst husband in the world than no husband.’ Then settling herself like a pleader who has come to the incisive point of his argument, she continued: ‘A woman is absolutely nothing without a husband; if she doesn’t wish to pass for a failure she must get a husband, and upon this all her ideas should be set. I have always found that in this life we can only hope to succeed in what we undertake by keeping our minds fixed on it and never letting it out of sight until it is attained. Keep on trying, that is my advice to all young ladies: try to make yourselves agreeable, try to learn how to amuse men. Flatter them; that is the great secret; nineteen out of twenty will believe you, and the one that doesn’t can’t but think it delightful. Don’t waste your time thinking of your books, your painting, your accomplishments; if you were Jane Austens, George Eliots, and Rosa Bonheurs, it would be of no use if you weren’t married. A husband is better than talent, better even than fortune — without a husband a woman is nothing; with a husband she may rise to any height. Marriage gives a girl liberty, gives her admiration, gives her success; a woman’s whole position depends upon it. And while we are on the subject it is as well to have one’s say, and I speak for you both. You, Alice, are too much inclined to shrink into the background and waste your time with books; and you too, Olive, are behaving very foolishly, wasting your time and your complexion over a silly girlish flirtation.’
‘There’s no use talking about that. You have forbidden him the house; you can’t do any more.’
‘No, Olive, all I did was to insist that he should not come running after you until you had had time to consider the sacrifices you were making for him. I have no one’s interest in the world, my dear girl, but your interests. Officers are all very well to laugh, talk, and flirt with — pour passer le temps — but I couldn’t allow you to throw yourself away on the first man you meet. You will meet hundreds of others quite as handsome and as nice at the Castle.’
‘I never could care for anyone else.’
‘Wait until you have seen the others. Besides, what do you want? to be engaged to him? And I should like to know what is the use of my taking an engaged girl up to the Castle? No one would look at you.’
Olive raised her eyes in astonishment; she had not considered the question from this point of view, and the suggestion that, if engaged, she might as well stop at home, for no one would look at her, filled her with alarm.
‘Whereas,’ said Mrs. Barton, who saw that her words had the intended effect, ‘if you were free you would be the season’s beauty; nothing would be thought of but you; you would have lords, and earls, and marquesses dancing attendance on you, begging you to dance with them; you would be spoken of in the papers, described as the new beauty, and what not, and then if you were free—’ Here Mrs. Barton heaved a deep sigh, and, letting her white hand fall over the arm of her chair, she seemed to abandon herself to the unsearchable decrees of destiny.
‘Well, what then, mamma?’ asked Olive excitedly. ‘I am free, am I not?’
‘Then you could outstrip the other girls, and go away with the great prize. They are all watching him; he will go to one of you for certain. I hear that Mrs. Scully — that great, fat, common creature, who sold bacon in a shop in Galway — is thinking of him for her daughter. Of course, if you like to see Violet become a marchioness, right under your nose, you can do so.’
‘But what do you want me to do?’ exclaimed the coronet-dazzled girl.
‘Merely to think no more of Captain Hibbert. But I didn’t tell you; — he was very impertinent to me when I last saw him. He said he would flirt with you, as long as you would flirt with him, and that he didn’t see why you shouldn’t amuse yourself. That’s what I want to warn you against — losing your chance of being a marchioness to help an idle young officer to while away his time. If I were you, I would tell him, when I next saw him, that he must not think about it any more. You can put it all down to me; say that I would never hear of it; say that you couldn’t think of disobeying me, but that you hope you will always remain friends. You see, that’s the advantage of having a mother; — poor mamma has to bear everything.’
Olive made no direct answer, but she laughed nervously, and in a manner that betokened assent; and, having so far won her way, Mrs. Barton determined to conclude. But she could not invite Captain Hibbert to the house! The better plan would be to meet on neutral ground. A luncheon-party at Dungory Castle instantly suggested itself; and three days after, as they drove through the park, Mrs. Barton explained to Olive, for the last time, how she should act if she wished to become the Marchioness of Kilcarney.
‘Shake hands with him just as if nothing had happened, but don’t enter into conversation; and after lunch I shall arrange that we all go out for a walk on the terrace. You will then pair off with him, Alice; Olive will join you. Something will be sure to occur that will give her an opportunity of saying that he must think no more about her — that I would never consent.’
‘Oh! mamma, it is very hard, for I can never forget him.’
‘Now, my dear girl, for goodness’ sake don’t work yourself up into a state of mind, or we may as well go back to Brookfield. What I tell you to do is right; and if you see nobody at the Castle that you like better — well, then it will be time enough. I want you to be, at least, the beauty of one season.’
This argument again turned the scales. Olive laughed, but her laugh was full of the nervous excitement from which she suffered.
‘I shan’t know what to say,’ she exclaimed, tossing her head, ‘so I hope you will help me out of my difficulty, Alice.’
‘I wish I could be left out of it altogether,’ said the girl, who was sitting with her back to the horses. ‘It seems to me that I am being put into a very false position!’
‘Put into a false position!’ said Mrs. Barton. ‘I’ll hear no more of this! If you won’t do as you are told, you had better go back to St. Leonards — such wicked jealousy!’
‘Oh, mamma!’ said Alice, wounded to the quick, ‘how can you be so unjust?
And her eyes filled with tears, for since she had left school she had experienced only a sense of retreating within herself, but so long as she was allowed to live within herself she was satisfied. But this refuge was no longer available. She must take part in the scuffle; and she couldn’t. But whither to go? There seemed to be no escape from the world into which she had been thrust, and for no purpose but to suffer. But the others didn’t suffer. Why wasn’t she like them?
‘I am sorry, Alice dear, for having spoken so crossly; but I am sorely tried. I really am more to be pitied than blamed; and if you knew all, you would, I know, be the first to try to help me out of my difficulties, instead of striving to increase them.’ ‘I would do anything to help you,’ exclaimed Alice, deceived by the accent of sorrow with which Mrs. Barton knew how to invest her words.
‘I am sure you would, if you knew how much depends — But dry your eyes, my dear, for goodness’ sake dry them. Here we are at the door. I only want you to be with Olive when she tells Captain Hibbert that she cannot — and, now mind, Olive, you tell him plainly that he must not consider himself engaged to you.’
In the ceremonious drawing-room, patched with fragments of Indian drapery, Lady Jane and Lady Sarah sat angularly and as far from their guests as possible, for they suspected that their house was being made use of as a battle-ground by Mrs. Barton, and were determined to resent the impertinence as far as lay in their power. But Milord continued to speak of indifferent things with urbanity and courtly gestures; and as they descended the staircase, he
explained the beauty of his marble statues and his stuffed birds.
‘But, Lady Jane, where is Cecilia? I hope she is not unwell?’
‘Oh no; Cecilia is quite well, thank you. But she never comes down when there is company — she is so very sensitive. But that reminds me. She told me to tell you that she is dying to see you. You will find her waiting for you in her room when we have finished lunch.’
‘Cecilia is not the only person to be thought of,’ said Milord. ‘I will not allow Alice to hide herself away upstairs for the rest of the afternoon. I hear, Alice, you are a great admirer of Tennyson’s Idylls. I have just received a new edition of his poems, with illustrations by Doré: charming artist, full of poetry, fancy, sweetness, imagination. Do you admire Doré, Captain Hibbert?’
The Captain declared that he admired Doré far more than the old masters, a point of taste that Milord ventured to question; and until they rose from table he spoke of his collection of Arundel prints with grace and erudition. Then they all went out to walk on the terrace. But as their feet echoed in the silence of the hall, Cecilia, in a voice tremulous with expectancy, was heard speaking:
‘Alice, come upstairs; I am waiting for you.’
Alice made a movement as if to comply, but, stepping under the banisters, Lord Dungory said:
‘Alice cannot come now, she is going out to walk with us, dear. She will see you afterwards.’
‘Oh! let me go to her,’ Alice cried.
‘There will be plenty of time to see her later on,’ whispered Mrs. Barton. ‘Remember what you promised me; ‘and she pointed to Captain Hibbert, who was standing on the steps of the house, his wide decorative shoulders defined against a piece of grey sky.
In despair at her own helplessness, and with a feeling of loathing so strong that it seemed like physical sickness, Alice went forward and entered into conversation with Captain Hibbert. Lord Dungory, Mrs. Barton, and Olive walked together; Lady Jane and Lady Sarah followed at a little distance. In this order the party proceeded down the avenue as far as the first gate; then they returned by a side-walk leading through the laurels, and stood in a line facing the wind-worn tennis-ground, with its black, flowerless beds, and bleak vases of alabaster and stone. From time to time remarks anent the Land League were made; but all knew that a drama even as important as that of rent was being enacted. Olive had joined her sister, and the girls moved forward on either side of the handsome Captain; and, as a couple of shepherds directing the movements of their flock, Lord Dungory and Mrs. Barton stood watching. Suddenly her eyes met Lady Jane’s. The glance exchanged was tempered in the hate of years; it was vindictive, cruel, terrible; it shone as menacingly as if the women had drawn daggers from their skirts, and Jane, obeying a sudden impulse, broke away from her sister, and called to Captain Hibbert. Fortunately he did not hear her, and, before she could speak again, Lord Dungory said:
‘Jane, now, Jane, I beg of you—’
Mrs. Barton smiled a sweet smile of reply, and whispered to herself:
‘Do that again, my lady, and you won’t have a penny to spend this year.’
‘And now, dear, tell me, I want to hear all about it,’ said Mrs. Barton, as the carriage left the steps of Dungory Castle. ‘What did he say?’
‘Oh! mamma, mamma, I am afraid I have broken his heart,’ replied Olive dolorously.
‘It doesn’t do a girl any harm even if it does leak out that she jilted a man; it makes the others more eager after her. But tell me, dear, I hope there was no misunderstanding; did you really tell him that it was no use, that he must think of you no more?’
‘Mamma dear, don’t make me go over it again, I can’t, I can’t; Alice heard all I said — she’ll tell you,’
‘No, no, don’t appeal to me; it’s no affair of mine,’ exclaimed the girl more impetuously than she had intended.
‘I am surprised at you, Alice; you shouldn’t give way to temper like that. Come, tell me at once what happened.’
The thin, grey, moral eyes of the daughter and the brown, soft, merry eyes of the mother exchanged a long deep gaze of inquiry, and then Alice burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. She trembled from too much grief, and could not answer; and when she heard her mother say to Olive, ‘Now that the coast is clear, we can go in heart and soul for the marquess,’ she shuddered inwardly and wished she might stay at home in Galway and be spared the disgrace of the marriage-market.
XV
IT RAINED INCESSANTLY. Sheets of water, blown by winds that had travelled the Atlantic, deluged the county; grey mists trailed mournful and shapeless along the edges of the domain woods, over the ridges of the tenants’ holdings. ‘Never more shall we be driven forth to die in the bogs and ditches,’ was the cry that rang through the mist; and, guarded by policemen, in their stately houses, the landlords listened, waiting for the sword of a new coercion to fall and release them from their bondage. The meeting of Parliament in the spring would bring them this; in the meantime, all who could, fled, resolving not to return till the law restored the power that the Land League had so rudely shaken. Some went to England, others to France. Mr. Barton accepted two hundred pounds from his wife and proceeded to study gargoyles and pictures in Bruges; and, striving to forget the murders and rumours of murders that filled the papers, the girls and their mammas talked of beaux, partners, and trains, in spite of the irritating presence of the Land League agitators who stood on the platforms of the different stations. The train was full of girls. Besides the Bartons, there were the Brennans: Gladys and Zoe — Emily remained at home to look after the place. Three of the Miss Duffys were coming to the Drawing-Room, and four of the Honourable Miss Gores; the Goulds and Scullys made one party, and to avoid Mrs. Barton, the Ladies Cullen had pleaded important duties. They were to follow in a day or so.
Lord Dungory’s advice to Mrs. Barton was to take a house, and he warned her against spending the whole season in an hotel, but apparently without avail, for when the train stopped a laughing voice was heard: ‘Milord, vous n’êtes qu’un vilain misanthrope; we shall be very comfortable at the Shelbourne; we shall meet all the people in Dublin there, and we can have private rooms to give dinner-parties.’
Hearing this, Alice congratulated herself, for in an hotel she would be freer than she would be in a house let for the season. She would hear something, and see a little over the horizon of her family in an hotel. She had spent a week in the Shelbourne on her way home from school, and remembered the little winter-garden on the first landing, and the fountain splashing amid ferns and stone frogs. The ladies’ drawing-room she knew was on the right, and when she had taken off her hat and jacket, leaving her mother and sister talking of Mrs. Symond and Lord Kilcarney, she went there hoping to find some of the people whom she had met there before.
The usually skirt-filled ottoman stood vacantly gaping, the little chairs seemed lonely about the hearthrug, even the sofa where the invalid ladies sat was unoccupied, and the perforated blinds gave the crowds that passed up and down the street a shadow-like appearance. The prospect was not inspiriting, but not knowing what else to do, Alice sat down by the fire, and fell to thinking who the man might be that sat reading on the other side of the fireplace. He didn’t seem as if he knew much about horses, and as he read intently, she could watch him unobserved. At last their eyes met, and when Alice turned away her face she felt that he was looking at her, and, perhaps getting nervous under his examination, she made a movement to stir the fire.
‘Will you allow me?’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘I beg your pardon, but, if you will allow me, I will arrange the fire.’
Alice let him have the poker, and when he had knocked in the coal-crust and put on some fresh fuel, he said:
‘If it weren’t for me I don’t know what would become of this fire. I believe the old porter goes to sleep and forgets all about it. Now and again he wakes up and makes a deal of fuss with a shovel and a broom.’
‘I really can’t say, we only came up from Galway to-day.’
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‘Then you don’t know the famous Shelbourne Hotel! All the events of life are accomplished here. People live here, and die here, and flirt here, and, I was going to say, marry here — but hitherto the Shelbourne marriages have resulted in break-offs — and we quarrel here; the friends of to-day are enemies to-morrow, and then they sit at different ends of the room. Life in the Shelbourne is a thing in itself, and a thing to be studied.’
Alice laughed again, and again she continued her conversation.
‘I really know nothing of the Shelbourne. I was only here once before, and then only for a few days last summer, when I came home from school.’
‘And now you are here for the Drawing-Room?’
‘Yes; but how did you guess that?’
‘The natural course of events: a young lady leaves school, she spends four or five months at home, and then she is taken to the Lord-Lieutenant’s Drawing-Room.’
She liked him none the better for what he had said, and began to wonder how she might bring the conversation to a close. But when he spoke again she forgot her intentions, and allowed his voice to charm her.
‘I think you told me,’ he said, ‘that you came up from Galway to-day; may I ask you from what side of the county?’
Another piece of impertinence. Why should he question her? And yet she answered him.
‘We live near Gort — do you know Gort?’
‘Oh yes, I have been travelling for the last two months in Ireland. I spent nearly a fortnight in Galway. Lord Dungory lives near Gort. Do you know him?’
‘Very well indeed. He is our nearest neighbour; we see him nearly every day. Do you know him?’
‘Yes, a little. I have met him in London. If I had not been so pressed for time I should have called upon him when I was in Galway. I passed his place going to a land meeting — oh, you need not be alarmed, I am not a Land League organizer, or else I should not have thought of calling at Dungory Castle. What a pretty drive it is to Gort.’
