by George Moore
‘Miss Olive Barton, presented by Mrs. Barton!’ shouted the Chamberlain.
Olive abandoned her train to the aides-de-camp; she saw their bent backs, felt their nimble fingers exhibiting this dress whereon Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Symond had for days been expending all the poetry of their natures. What white wonder, what manifold marvel of art! Dress of snow satin, skirt quite plain in front. Bodice and train of white poplin; the latter wrought with patterns representing night and morning: a morning made of silver leaves with silver birds fluttering through leafy trees, butterflies sporting among them, and over all a sunrise worked in gold and silver thread; then on the left side the same sun sank amid rosy clouds, and there butterflies slept with folded wing, and there birds roosted on bending boughs; veils of silver tissue softened the edges of the train, silver stars gleamed in the corn-coloured hair, the long hands, gloved with white undressed kid, carried a silver fan; she was adorably beautiful and adorably pale, and she floated through the red glare, along the scarlet line, to the weary-looking man in maroon breeches, like some wonderful white bird of downy plumage. He kissed her on both cheeks; and she passed away to the farther door, where her train was caught up and handed to her by two aides-de-camp. He had seemed to salute her with deference and warmth; his kiss was more than ceremonial, and eager looks passed between the ladies-of-honour standing on the estrade; the great bouquet of red-coats placed in the middle of the floor, animated by one desire, turned its sixteen heads to gaze after the wonderful vision of blonde beauty that had come — that had gone. Mrs. Barton experienced an instant thrill of triumph, and advanced into the throne.
In the composition of her dress she had given range to her somewhat florid taste. The front was brocade, laid upon a ground of grey-pink, shot with orange, and the effect was such as is seen when the sun hangs behind a lowering grey cloud, tinged with pink. On this were wonderful soft-coloured flowers, yellow melting into pink, green fading to madder-like tints. The bodice and the train were of gold-brown velvet that matched the gold-brown of the hair. Mrs. Barton was transformed from the usual Romney portrait to one by Sir Peter Lely; and when she made her curtsy, Her Excellency’s face contracted, and the ladies-of-honour whispered: ‘The harm she does her daughters . . . I wonder . . .’
‘Miss Violet Scully, presented by Mrs. Scully,’ shouted the Chamberlain.
Now there was an admixture of curiosity in the admiration accorded to Violet. Hers was not the plain appealing of Olive’s Greek statue-like beauty; it was rather the hectic erethism of painters and sculptors in a period preceding the apogee of an art. She was a statuette in biscuit after a design by Andrea Mantegna. But the traces of this exquisite atavism were now almost concealed in the supreme modernity of her attire. From the tiny waist trailed yards of white faille, trimmed with tulle ruchings, frecked as a meadow with faintly-tinted daisies; the hips were engarlanded with daisies, and the flowers melted and bloomed amid snows of faille and tulle.
The Lord-Lieutenant leaned forward to kiss her, but at that moment of his kiss the thunder crashed so loudly that he withdrew from her, and so abruptly that Her Excellency looked surprised. The incident passed, however, almost unperceived. So loud was the thunder, everybody was thinking of dynamite, and it was some time before even the voluptuous strains of Liddell’s band could calm their inquietude. Nevertheless the Chamberlain continued to shout:
‘Lady Sarah Cullen, Lady Jane Cullen, Mrs. Scully, presented by Lady Sarah Cullen.’
Then came a batch of people whom no one knew, and in the front of these the aides-de-camp allowed Alice to pass on to His Excellency. She was prettily dressed, dragging after her a train of white faille trimmed with sprays of white heather and tulle, the petticoat being beautifully arranged with folded draperies of crêpe de Chine.
A number of ladies had collected in the farther ante-room, and, in lines, they stood watching the effluent tide of satin and silk discharging its volume into the spaces of Patrick’s Hall.
XVIII
‘I WISH ALICE would make haste, and not keep us waiting. I suppose she has got behind a crowd. Here are the Scullys; let’s hide, they don’t know a creature, and will hang on us.’
Olive and Mrs. Barton tried to slip out of sight, but they were too late; and a moment after, looking immense in a train and bodice of Lyons velvet, Mrs. Scully came up and accosted them.
‘And how do you do, Mrs. Barton?’ she said, with a desperate effort to make herself agreeable;
‘I must congratulate you. Everyone is admiring your dress; I assure you your train looked perfectly regal.’
‘I am glad you like it,’ replied Mrs. Barton; ‘but what do you think of Olive? Do you like her dress?’
‘Oh, Olive has no need of my praises. If I were not afraid of making her too vain I would tell her that all Dublin is talking of her. Indeed, I heard a gentleman say — a gentleman who, I believe, writes for the papers — that she will be in the World or Truth next week as the belle of the season. None of the other young ladies will have a chance with her.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ exclaimed Mrs. Barton, laughing merrily; ‘haven’t you got your Violet? — whom, by the way, you have transformed into a beautiful daisy. It will be, perhaps, not the Rose nor the Olive that will carry off the prize, but the daisy.’
Violet glanced sharply at Mrs. Barton, and there was hate in the glance; for, although her mother did not, she understood well what was meant by the allusion to the daisy, the humblest of the earth’s flowers.
The appearance, however, of Lord Kilcarney brought the conversation to a close; and, not knowing how to address him, Olive laughed beautifully from behind her silver fan. They entered Patrick’s Hall, where Lord Dungory, Lord Rosshill, and others were waiting to receive Mrs. Barton, who sought for a prominent seat, and dealing out pearly laughs and winsome compliments to her court, she watched Olive, who, according to orders, had taken Lord Kilcarney to sit on the highest of the series of benches that lined one side of the room, which she did, and for a moment Mrs. Barton felt as if she held Dublin under her satin shoe. Alice was her only trouble. What would she do with this gawk of a girl? But soon even this difficulty was solved, for Harding came up and asked her if he might take her to get an ice.
‘How absurd we looked dressed up in this way,’ said Harding; ‘look at that attorney and the court sword. It would be just as logical to stick a quill pen behind the ear of a fat pig.’
‘Well, the sword — I confess I don’t see much meaning in that; but the rest of the dress is well enough. I don’t see why one style of dress should be more absurd than another, unless it is because it isn’t the fashion.’
‘Yes, but that is just the reason; just fancy dressing oneself up in the costume of a bygone time.’
‘And is everything that isn’t the fashion ridiculous?’
‘Ah, there, I fancy, you have the best of the argument. Waiter, a strawberry ice. But did you say you would have strawberry?’
‘I don’t think I did, for I prefer lemon.’
The centre of the ceiling was filled with an oval picture representing St. Patrick receiving Pagans into the true faith. The walls were white painted, the panels were gold-listed. There were pillars at both ends of the room, and in a top gallery, behind a curtain of evergreen plants, Liddell’s orchestra continued to pour an uninterrupted flood of waltz melody upon the sea of satin, silk, poplin, and velvet that surged around the buffet, angrily demanding cream ices, champagne, and claret-cup. Every moment the crowd grew denser, and the red coats of the Guards and the black corded jackets of the Rifles stained like spots of ink and blood the pallor of the background. A few young men looked elegant and shapely in the velvet and stockings of Court dress. One of these was Fred Scully. He was with May, who, the moment she caught sight of Alice, made frantic efforts to reach her.
‘My dear, did anyone ever look so nice! You are as sweet — well, a little sweeter — than you generally are! How do you do, Mr. Harding? And tell me, Alice, what do
you think of my dress?’
May was in cream faille with ruchings of tulle. A beautiful piece of white lilac nestled upon her right breast.
‘You are very nice, May, and I think the white sets off your hair to advantage.’
‘Well, good-bye dear, Fred and I are going into the next room; one is so pushed about here, but there are nice large velvet sofas there where one can sit and talk. I advise you to come.’
In the reposing shadows of rich velvet and sombre hangings women leaned over the sofas, talking to men in uniform, while two strange-looking creatures, in long garments, walked up and down the room — Dons from Trinity, who argued with Mr. Adair earnestly.
‘He is one of the lights of your county, is he not?’ said Harding, indicating Mr. Adair.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Alice, ‘he took honours and a gold medal at Trinity College.’
‘I know he did, and a capacity for passing competitive examinations is the best proof of a man’s incapacity for everything else.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes, a little. He wears his University laurels at forty, builds parish schools, and frightens his neighbours with the liberality of his opinions and the rectitude of his life.’
‘But have you seen his pamphlets on the amalgamation of the poor houses?’ said Alice, astonished at the slight consideration afforded to the rural genius.
‘I have heard of them. It appears he is going in for politics; but his politics will be on a par with his saw-mill, and his farmyard in concrete. Mr. Adair is a well-known person. Every county in England, Ireland, and Scotland, possesses and is proud of its Mr. Adair.’
Alice wondered for some moments in silence; and when suddenly her thoughts detached themselves, she said: ‘We didn’t see you in the ladies’ drawing-room.’
‘I was very busy all the morning. I had two articles to write for one of my papers and some books to review.’
‘How nice it must be to have a duty to perform every day; to have always an occupation to which you can turn with pleasure.’
‘I don’t know that I look upon my ink-bottle as an eternal haven of bliss. Still, I would sooner contribute articles to daily and weekly papers than sit in the Kildare Street Club, drinking glasses of sherry. Having nothing to do must be a terrible occupation, and one difficult to fulfil with dignity and honour. But,’ he added, as if a sudden thought had struck him, ‘you must have a great deal of time on your hands; why don’t you write a novel?’
‘Everybody can’t write novels.’
‘Oh yes, they can.’
‘Is that the reason why you advise me to write one?
‘Not exactly. Did you ever try to write a story?’
‘No, not since I was at school. I used to write stories there, and read them to the girls, and . . .’
‘And what?’
‘Oh, nothing; it seems so absurd of me to talk to you about such things; you will only laugh at me just as you did at Mr. Adair.’
‘No, I assure you, I am very loyal to my friends.’
‘Friends!’
‘I should have thought that friendship was a question of sympathy, and not one of time: but I will withdraw the word.’
‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean that — I am sure I am very glad . . .’
‘Very well, then, we will be friends; and now tell me what you were going to say.’
‘I have forgotten — what was I saying?’
‘You were telling me about something you had written at school.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember. I did a little play for the girls to act just before we left.’
‘What was it about — what was it called?’
‘It was not original — it was an adaptation of Tennyson’s ballad of King Cophetua. You know Miss Gould — she played the King; and Miss Scully, she played the beggar-maid. But, of course, the whole thing was very childish.’
At this moment a figure in knee-breeches and flesh-coloured stockings was seen waving a wand at the far end of the room. He was the usher clearing the way for the viceregal procession.
The first to appear were the A.D.C.’s. They were followed by the Medical Department, by the Private Secretary, the Military Private Secretary, the Assistant Under Secretaries, by the Gentlemen in Waiting, the Master of the Horse, the Dean of the Chapel Royal, the Chamberlain, the Gentleman Usher, the Comptroller, the State Steward, walking with a wand, like a doge in an opera bouffe; then came another secretary, and another band of the underlings who flock about this mock court. And then came a heavy-built, red-bearded man, who carried, as one might a baby, a huge gilt sword in his fat hands. He was followed by their Excellencies. The long, maroon-coloured breeches preserved their usual disconsolateness, the teeth and diamonds retained their splendour, and the train — many yards of azure blue richest Duchesse satin, embroidered with large bouquets of silver lily of the valley, and trimmed with plumes of azure blue ostrich feathers, and bunches of silver coral — was upheld by two tiny children who tottered beneath its enormous weight. Then another batch of A.D.C.’s-in-Waiting, the ladies of the viceregal family: their Excellencies’ guests and the ladies in attendance — placed according to their personal precedence — brought up the rear of the procession.
‘Doesn’t real, actual life sometimes appear to you, Miss Barton, more distorted and unreal than a dream? I know it does to me. The spectacle we have just witnessed was a part of the ages that believed in the godhead of Christ and the divine right of Kings; but it seems to me strange that such barbarities should be permitted to loiter.’
‘But what has Christianity to do with the procession that has just passed?’
‘Were it not for faith, do you think a mock court would be allowed to promenade in that ludicrous fashion?’
‘I’m not sure it is faith that enables them to reverence the sword of State. Is it not rather that love of ceremonial inherent in us all — more or less?’
‘Perhaps you are right.’
The conversation drifted back to literature; they talked for ten minutes, and then Alice suggested that it was time she should return to Mrs. Barton. Patrick’s Hall was still crowded, and champagne corks exploded through the babbling of the voices. The squadron of distressed damsels had not deserted their favourite corner, and they waited about the pillars like cabs on a stand. At this hour a middle-aged married doctor would be welcomed; all were desirous of being seen, if only for a moment, on the arm of a man. Mrs. Barton’s triumph was Cæsarean. More than half-a-dozen old lords and one young man listened to her bewitching laugh, and were fed on the brown flashing gold of her eyes. Milord and Rosshill had been pushed aside; and, apart, each sought to convince the other that he was going to leave town by the evening mail. Well in view of everyone, Olive had spent an hour with Lord Kilcarney. He had just brought her back to Mrs. Barton. At a little distance the poor Scullys stood waiting. They knew no one, even the Bartons had given them a very cold shoulder. Mrs. Gould, in an old black velvet dress, wondered why all the nice girls did not get married, and from time to time she plaintively questioned the passers-by if they had seen May. Violet’s sharp face had grown sharper. She knew she could do something if she only got a chance. But would she get a chance? The Ladies Cullen, their plank-like shoulders bound in grey frisé velvet and steel, were talking to her. Suddenly Lady Sarah bowed to Lord Kilcarney, and the bow said, ‘Come hither!’ Leaving Olive he approached. A moment after he was introduced to Violet. Her thin face lit up as if from a light within; a grey cloud dimmed the light of Mrs. Barton’s golden eyes, and when she saw Him in the vestibule helping the Scullys on with their wraps, she shuddered as if struck with a blast of icy wind.
XIX
‘DUNGORY CASTLE, GORT, ‘Co. GALWAY.
‘MY DEAREST ALICE, ‘I was so delighted to hear from you; it was very good of you to write to me. I was deeply interested in your description of the Dublin festivities, and must try and tell you all the news.
‘Everybody here is talking of Olive and Lord Kilcarney. It
is said that he proposed to her at the Drawing-Room. Is this true? I hope so, for she seems to have set her heart on the match. But she is a great deal too nice for him. They say that when he is in London he does nothing but go about from bar-room to bar-room drinking brandies and sodas. It is also said that he used to spend much of his time with actresses. I hope these stories are false, but I cannot help thinking. . . . Well, we have often talked over these things, and you know what my opinions of men are. I hope I am not doing wrong in speaking like this; but a piece of news has reached me that forces my thoughts back into the old ways — ways that I know you have often reproved me for letting my mind wander in. In a word, darling Alice, I hear that you are very much taken up with a Mr. Harding, a writer, or painter, or something of that sort. Now, will you promise to write and tell me if this be true? I would sooner know the worst at once — hear that you love him madly, passionately, as I believe some women love men. But you, who are so nice, so good, so beautiful, you could not love a man thus. I cannot think you could — I will not think you do. I have been crying all the morning, crying bitterly; horrible thoughts have forced themselves on my mind. I have seen (but it was not true though it seemed so clear; visions are not always true) this man kissing you! Oh! Alice, let me warn you, let me beg of you to think well before you abandon yourself to a man’s power, to a man’s love.
