by George Moore
‘Then, do you know a place on the left-hand side of the road, about a mile and a half from Dungory Castle?’
‘You mean Brookfield?’
‘Yes; that is our place.’
‘Then you are Miss Barton?’
‘Yes, I am Miss Barton; do you know father or mother?’
‘No, no; but I have heard the name in Galway. I was spending a few days with one of your neighbours.’
‘Oh, really!’ said Alice, a little embarrassed; for she knew it must have been with the Lawlers that he had been staying. At the end of a long silence she said:
‘I am afraid you have chosen a rather unfortunate time for visiting Ireland. All these terrible outrages, murders, refusals to pay rent; I wonder you have not been frightened away.’
‘As I do not possess a foot of land — I believe I should say “not land enough to sod a lark” — my claim to collect rent would rest on even a slighter basis than that of the landlords; and as, with the charming inconsistency of your race, you have taken to killing each other instead of slaughtering the hated Saxon, I really feel safer in Ireland than elsewhere. I suppose,’ he said, ‘you do a great deal of novel-reading in the country?’
‘Oh yes,’ she answered, with almost an accent of voluptuousness in her voice; ‘I spent the winter reading.’
‘Because there was no hunting?’ replied Harding, with a smile full of cynical weariness.
‘No, I assure you, no; I do not think I should have gone out hunting even if it hadn’t been stopped,’ said Alice hastily; for it vexed her not a little to see that she was considered incapable of loving a book for its own sake.
‘And what do you read?’
The tone of indifference with which the question was put was not lost upon Alice, but she was too much interested in the conversation to pay heed to it. She said:
‘I read nearly all Byron, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, and Browning — I think I like him better than all the poets! Do you know the scene at St. Praxed’s?’
‘Yes, of course; it is very fine. But I don’t know that I ever cared much for Browning. Not only the verse, but the whole mind of the man is uncouth — yes, uncouth is the word I want. He is the Carlyle of Poetry. Have you ever read Carlyle?’
‘Oh yes, I have read his French Revolution and his Life of Schiller, but that’s all. I only came home from school last summer, and at school we never read anything. I couldn’t get many new books down in Galway. There were, of course, Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot in the library, but that was all. I once got a beautiful book from Dungory Castle. I wonder if you ever read it? It is called Madame Gervaisais. From the descriptions of Rome it almost seems to me that I have been there.’
‘I know the book, but I didn’t know a Catholic girl could admire it — and you are a Catholic, I presume?’
‘I was brought up a Catholic.’
‘It is one thing to be brought up a Catholic, and another to avoid doubting.’
‘There can surely be no harm in doubting?’
‘Not the least; but toward which side are you? Have you fallen into the soft feather-bed of agnosticism, or the thorny ditch of belief?’
‘Why do you say “the soft feather-bed of agnosticism”?’
‘It must be a relief to be redeemed from belief in hell; and perhaps there is no other redemption.’
‘And do you never doubt?’ she said.
‘No, I can’t say I am given much to doubting, nor do I think the subject is any longer worthy of thought. The world’s mind, after much anxiety, arrives at a conclusion, and what sages cannot determine in one age, a child is certain about in the next. Thomas Aquinas was harassed with doubts regarding the possibility of old women flying through the air on broomsticks; nowadays were a man thus afflicted he would be surely a fit subject for Hanwell. The world has lived through Christianity, as it has through a score of other things. But I am afraid I shock you?’
‘No, I don’t think you do; only I never heard anyone speak in that way before — that is all.’
Here the conversation came to a pause, and soon after the presence of some ladies rendered its revival impossible. Their evening gowns suggested the dinner-hour, and reminded Alice that she had to prepare herself for the meal.
All the Galway people, excepting the Honourable Misses Gore and the Scullys — who had taken houses in town for the season — dined at table d’hote. The Miss Duffys were, with the famous Bertha, the terror of the débutantes. The Brennans and the Goulds sat at the same table. May, thinking of Fred, who had promised to come during the evening, leaned back in her chair, looking unutterably bored. Under a window Sir Richard and Sir Charles were immersed in wine and discussion. In earnest tones the latter deprecated the folly of indulging in country love; the former, his hand on the champagne bottle, hiccoughed, ‘Mu — ch better come up — up Dub — lin, yer know, my boy. But look, look here; I know such a nice’ — a glance round, to make sure that no lady was within earshot; and the conversation lapsed into a still more confidential whisper.
Mr. Ryan and Mr. Lynch ate their dinner in sullen silence, and at the other end of the long table Mr. Adair — whom it was now confidently stated Mr. Gladstone could not possibly get on without — talked to Mr. Harding; and when the few dried oranges and tough grapes that constituted dessert had been tasted, the ladies got up, and in twos and threes retired to the ladies’ sitting-room. They were followed by Lord Dungory, Mr. Adair, and Mr. Harding: the other gentlemen — the baronets and Messrs. Ryan and Lynch — preferring smoke and drink to chatter and oblique glances in the direction of ankle-concealing skirts, went up to the billiardroom. And the skirts, what an importance they took in the great sitting-room full of easy-chairs and Swiss scenery: châlets, lakes, cascades, and chamois, painted on the light-coloured walls. The big ottoman was swollen with bustled skirts; the little low seats around the fire disappeared under skirts; skirts were tucked away to hide the slippered feet, skirts were laid out along the sofas to show the elegance of the cut. Then woolwork and circulating novels were produced, and the conversation turned on marriage. Bertha being the only Dublin girl present, all were anxious to hear her speak; after a few introductory remarks, she began:
‘Oh! so you have all come up to the Castle and are going to be presented. Well, you’ll find the rooms very grand, and the suppers very good, and if you know a lot of people — particularly the officers quartered here — you will find the Castle balls very amusing. The best way is to come to town a month before the Drawing-Room, and give a ball; and in that way you get to know all the men. If you haven’t done that, I am afraid you won’t get many partners. Even if you do get introduced, they’ll only ask you to dance, and you’ll never see them again. Dublin is like a racecourse, men come and speak to you and pass on. ’Tis pleasant enough if you know people, but as for marriages, there aren’t any. I assure you I know lots of girls — and very pretty girls, too — who have been going out these six or seven seasons, and who have not been able to pull it off.’
‘And the worst of it is,’ said a girl, ‘every year we are growing more and more numerous, and the men seem to be getting fewer. Nowadays a man won’t look at you unless you have at least two thousand a year.’
Mrs. Barton, who did not wish her daughters to be discouraged from the first, settled her skirts with a movement of disdain. Mrs. Gould pathetically declared she did not believe love to be dead in the world yet, and maintained her opinion that a nice girl could always marry. But Bertha was not easily silenced, and, being perfectly conversant with her subject, she disposed of Dublin’s claims as a marriage-mart, and she continued to comment on the disappointments of girls until the appearance of Lord Dungory and Mr. Harding brought the conversation to a sudden close.
‘Une causerie de femme! que dites-vous? — je le suis — l’amour n’existe plus, et l’âme de l’homme est plus près des sens que l’âme de la femme,’ said Milord. Everyone laughed; and, with a charming movement of her skirts, Mrs. Barton made room for him
to sit beside her.
Harding withdrew to the other end of the room to resume his reading, and Alice did not dare to hope that he would lay aside his book and come to talk to her. If he did, her mother would ask her to introduce him to her, and she would have to enter into explanations that he and she had merely exchanged a few words before dinner.
She withstood the conversation of the charmed circle as long as she could, and then boldly crossed the room for a newspaper. Harding rose to help her to find one, and they talked together till Milord took him away to the billiard-room.
May, who had been vainly expecting Fred the whole evening, said:
‘Well, Alice, I hope you have had a nice flirtation?’
‘And did you notice, May, how she left us to look for a newspaper. Our Alice is fond of reading, but it was not of reading she was thinking this evening. She kept him all to herself at the other end of the room.’ Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, and Alice began to understand that her mother was approving her flirtation. That is the name that her mother would give her talk with Mr. Harding.
XVI
DURING THE DUBLIN Season it is found convenient to give teas: the young ladies have to be introduced to the men they will meet after at the Castle. These gatherings take place at five o’clock in the afternoon; and as Mrs. Barton started from the Shelbourne Hotel for Lady Georgina Stapleton’s, she fell to thinking that a woman is never really vulnerable until she is bringing out her daughters. Till then the usual shafts directed against her virtue fall harmlessly on either side, but now they glance from the marriage buckler and strike the daughter in full heart. In the ball-room, as in the forest, the female is most easily assailed when guarding her young, and nowhere in the whole animal kingdom is this fact so well exemplified as in Dublin Castle.
Lady Georgina lived in Harcourt Street, and it was on her way thither that something like a regret rose up in Mrs. Barton that she had (she was forced to confess it) aroused the enmity of women, and persistently.
Lady Georgina Stapleton was Lord Dungory’s eldest sister. She, too, hated Mrs. Barton; but, being poor (Milord used to call himself the milch-cow), she found herself, like the Ladies Cullen, occasionally obliged to smile upon and extend a welcoming hand to the family enemy; and when Mrs. Barton came to Dublin for the Castle Season, a little pressure was put upon Lady Georgina to obtain invitations from the Chamberlain; the ladies exchanged visits, and there the matter ended, as Mrs. Barton and her daughter passed through Stephen’s Green, and she remembered that she had never taken the trouble to conceal her dislike of the house in Harcourt Street, and some of the hard things she had said when standing on the box-seat of a drag at Punchestown Races had travelled back and had found a lasting resting-place in Lady Georgina’s wrathful memory.
‘This is considered to be the most artistic house in Dublin,’ said Mrs. Barton, as the servant showed them upstairs.
‘How lovely the camellias look,’ said Olive.
‘And now, Alice, mind, none of your Liberalism in this house, or you will ruin your sister’s chances.’
Lady Georgina wore a wig, or her hair was arranged so as to look like one. Fifty years had rubbed away much of her youthful ugliness; and, in the delicate twilight of her rooms, her aristocratic bearing might be mistaken for good looks.
Lady Georgina was a celebrated needlewoman, and she was now begging Lord Kilcarney to assist her at a charity bazaar. Few people had yet arrived; and when Harding was announced, Mrs. Barton whispered:
‘Here’s your friend, Alice; don’t miss your chance.’
Then every moment bevies of girls came in and were accommodated with seats, and if possible with young men. Teacups were sent down to be washed, and the young men were passed from group to group. The young ladies smiled and looked delightful, and spoke of dancing and tennis until, replying to an imperative glance from their chaperons, from time to time they rose to leave; but, obeying a look of supplication from their hostess, the young men remained.
Lord Kilcarney had been hunted desperately around screens and over every ottoman in the room; and Lady Georgina had proved her goodwill in proportion to the amount of assistance she had lent to her friends in the chase. Long ago he had been forced away from Olive. Mrs. Barton endured with stoical indifference the scowls of her hostess; but at length, compelled to recognize that none of the accidents attendant on the handing of teacups or the moving of chairs would bring him back, she rose to take her leave. The little Marquis was on his feet in a moment, and, shaking hands with her effusively, he promised to call to see them at the Shelbourne. A glance went round; and of Mrs. Barton’s triumph there could be no doubt.
‘But to-day’s success is often a prelude to to-morrow’s defeat,’ was Lady Georgina’s comment, and Mrs. Barton and her daughters were discussed as they walked across the green to their hotel. Nor was Lady Georgina altogether a false prophet, for next day Mrs. Barton found the Marquis’s cards on her table. ‘I’m sorry we missed him,’ she said, ‘but we haven’t a minute;’ and, calling on her daughters to follow, she dashed again into the whirl of a day that would not end for many hours, though it had begun twelve hours ago — a day of haste and anticipation it had been, filled with cries of ‘Mamma,’ telegrams, letters, and injunctions not to forget this and that — a day whose skirts trailed in sneers and criticisms, a hypocritical and deceitful day, a day of intrigue, a day in which the post-box was the chief factor — a great day withal.
But above this day, and above all other days, was the day that took them spellbound to the foot of a narrow staircase, a humble flight seemingly, but leading to a temple of tightly-stretched floorcloth, tall wardrobes, and groups and lines of lay figures in eternally ladylike attitudes.
‘Oh! how do you do, Mrs. Barton? We have been expecting you for the last two or three days. I will run upstairs and tell Mrs. Symond that you are here; she will be so glad to see you.’
‘That is Miss Cooper!’ explained Mrs. Barton. ‘Everyone knows her; she has been with Mrs. Symond many years. And, as for dear Mrs. Symond, there is no one like her. She knows the truth about everybody. Here she comes,’ and Mrs. Barton rushed forward and embraced a thin woman with long features.
‘And how do you do, dear Mrs. Barton, and how well you are looking, and the young ladies? I see Miss Olive has improved since she was in Dublin.’ (In an audible whisper.) ‘Everyone is talking about her. There is no doubt but that she’ll be the belle of the season.’ (In a still audible, but lower tone of voice.) ‘But tell me, is it true that—’
‘Now, now, now!’ said Mrs. Barton, drowning her words in cascades of silvery laughter, ‘I know nothing of what you’re saying; ha! ha! ha! no, no — I assure you. I will not—’
Then, as soon as the ladies had recovered their composure, a few questions were asked about her Excellency, the prospects of the Castle season, and the fashions of the year.
‘And now tell me,’ said Mrs. Barton, ‘what pretty things have you that would make up nicely for trains?’
‘Trains, Mrs. Barton? We have some sweet things that would make up beautifully for trains. Miss Cooper, will you kindly fetch over that case of silks that we had over yesterday from Paris?’
‘The young ladies must be, of course, in white; for Miss Olive I should like, I think, snowdrops; for you, Mrs. Barton, I am uncertain which of two designs I shall recommend. Now, this is a perfectly regal material.’
With words of compliment and solicitation, the black-dressed assistant displayed the armouries of Venus — armouries filled with the deep blue of midnight, with the faint tints of dawn, with strange flowers and birds, with moths, and moons, and stars. Lengths of white silk clear as the notes of violins playing in a minor key; white poplin falling into folds statuesque as the bass of a fugue by Bach; yards of ruby velvet, rich as an air from Verdi played on the piano; tender green velvet, pastoral as hautboys heard beneath trees in a fair Arcadian vale; blue turquoise faille fanciful as the tinkling of a guitar twanged by a Watteau shepherd; gold broca
de, sumptuous as organ tones swelling through the jewelled twilight of a nave; scarves and trains of midnight-blue profound as the harmonic snoring of a bassoon; golden daffodils violent as the sound of a cornet; bouquets of pink roses and daisies, charmful and pure as the notes of a flute; white faille, soft draperies of tulle, garlands of white lilac, sprays of white heather, delicate and resonant as the treble voices of children singing carols in dewy English woods; berthas, flounces, plumes, stomachers, lappets, veils, frivolous as the strains of a German waltz played on Liddell’s band.
An hour passed, but the difficulty of deciding if Olive’s dress should be composed of silk or Irish poplin was very great, for, determined that all should be humiliated, Mrs. Barton laid her plans amid designs for night and morning; birds fluttering through leafy trees, birds drowsing on bending boughs, and butterflies folding their wings. At a critical moment, however, an assistant announced that Mrs. Scully was waiting. The ladies started; desperate effort was made; rosy clouds and veils of silver tissue were spoken of; but nothing could be settled, and on the staircase the ladies had to squeeze into a corner to allow Violet and Mrs. Scully to pass.
‘How do you do, Olive? How do you do, Alice? and you, Mrs. Barton, how do you do? And what are you going to wear? Have you decided on your dress?’
‘Oh! That is a secret that could be told to no one; oh, not for worlds!’ said Mrs. Barton.
‘I’m sure it will be very beautiful,’ replied Mrs. Scully, with just a reminiscence of the politeness of the Galway grocery business in her voice.
‘I hear you have taken a house in Fitzwilliam Square for the season?’ said Mrs. Barton.
‘Yes, we are very comfortable; you must come and see us. You are at the Shelbourne, I believe?’
