by George Moore
‘You would soothe me, but you little dream of the poison you are dropping on my wounds. You never understood, you are too far removed from me in thought and feeling ever to understand — no, your spirituality is only a delusion; you are no better at heart than May Gould. It is the same thing: one seeks a husband, another gratifies herself with a lover. It is the same thing — where’s the difference? It is animal passion all the same. And that letter is full of it — it must be — I am sure it is.’
‘You are very insulting, Cecilia. Where have you thrown my letter?’
The letter had fallen beneath the table. Alice made a movement towards it, but, overcome by mad rage, Cecilia caught it up and threw it into the fire. Alice rescued her letter, and then, her face full of stern indignation, she said:
‘I think, Cecilia, you had better leave my room, and before you come to see me again, I shall expect to receive a written apology for the outrageous way you have behaved.’
In a few days came a humble and penitent letter; Cecilia returned, her eyes full of tears, and begged to be forgiven; the girls resumed their friendship, but both were conscious that it was neither so bright nor so communicative as in the olden days.
XXII
‘SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED to my learned daughter,’ said Mr. Barton, and he continued his thumb-nail sketch on the tablecloth. ‘What is it?’ he added indolently.
Alice passed the cheque and the memorandum across the table. ‘Three pounds for three articles contributed to the —— during the month of April.’
‘You don’t mean to say, Alice, you got three pounds for your writing?’ said Mrs. Barton.
‘Yes, mother, I have, and I hope to make ten pounds next month. Mr. Harding says he can get me lots of work.’
‘So my lady then, with all her shy ways, knows how to make use of a man as well as any of us.’
Mrs. Barton did not willingly wound. She saw life from the point of view of making use of men, that was all; and when Alice walked out of the room, Mrs. Barton felt sorry for what she had said, and she would have gone to comfort her daughter if Olive had not, at that moment, stood in imminent need of comfort.
‘I suppose,’ she said pettishly, ‘the letter you received this morning is from the Marquis, to say he won’t be here next Tuesday?’
It was. For as the day fixed for his arrival at Brookfield approached, he would write to apologize, and to beg that he might be allowed to postpone his visit to Monday week or Wednesday fortnight. Mrs. Barton replied that they would be very glad to see him when he found it convenient to come and see them. She did not inquire into the reason of his rudeness, she was determined to fight the battle out to the end, and she did not dare to think that he was being prompted by that beast of a girl, Violet Scully.
‘He writes a very nice letter indeed. He says he has a very bad cold, and doesn’t like to show himself at Brookfield with a red nose, but that, unless he dies in the meantime, he will be with us on the twentieth of the month, and will — if we’ll have him — stop three weeks with us.’
‘I knew the letter was a put-off. I don’t believe he admires me at all, the little beast; and I know I shall never be a marchioness. You made me treat poor Edward shamefully, and for no purpose, after all.’
‘Now, Olive, you mustn’t speak like that. Go upstairs and ask Barnes if she has heard anything lately?’
‘Oh, I’m sick of Barnes; what has she heard?’
‘She is a great friend of Lady Georgina’s maid, who knows the Burkes intimately, particularly Lady Emily’s maid, and Barnes got a letter from her friend the other day, saying that Lady Emily was delighted at the idea of her brother marrying you, dear, and that he thinks of nobody else, speaks of nobody else. Run up and speak to her about it.’
As we have seen, Mrs. Barton had drugged Olive’s light brain with visions of victories, with dancing, dresses, admiration; but now, in the tiring void of country days, memories of Edward’s love and devotion were certain to arise. He made, however, no attempt to renew his courtship. At Gort, within three miles, he remained silent, immovable as one of the Clare mountains. Sometimes his brown-gold moustache and square shoulders were caught sight of as he rode rapidly along the roads. He had once been seen sitting with Mrs. Lawler behind the famous cream-coloured ponies; and to allude to his disgraceful conduct without wounding Olive’s vanity was an art that Mrs. Barton practised daily; and to keep the girl in spirits she induced Sir Charles, who it was reported was about to emigrate his family to the wilds of Maratoga, to come and stay with them. If a rumour were to reach the Marquis’s ears, it might help to bring him to the point. In any case Sir Charles’s attentions to Olive would keep her in humour until the great day arrived.
Well convinced that this was her last throw, Mrs. Barton resolved to smear the hook well with the three famous baits she was accustomed to angle with. They were — dinners, flattery, and dancing. Accordingly, an order was given to the Dublin fishmonger to send them fish daily for the next three weeks, and to the pastrycook for a French cook. The store of flattery kept on the premises being illimitable, she did not trouble about that, but devoted herself to the solution of the problem of how she should obtain a constant and unfailing supply of music. Once she thought of sending up to Dublin for a professional pianist, but was obliged to abandon the idea on account of the impossibility of devising suitable employment for him during the morning hours. A tune or two might not come in amiss after lunch, but to have him hanging about the shrubberies all the morning would be intolerable. She might ask a couple of the Brennans or the Duffys to stay with them, but they would be in the way, and occupy the Marquis’s time, and go tell-taling all over the country; no, that wouldn’t do either. Alice’s playing was wretched. It was a wonderful thing that a girl like her would not make some effort to amuse men — would not do something. Once Olive was married, she (Mrs. Barton) would try to patch up something for this gawk of a girl — marry her to Sir Charles; excellent match it would be, too — get all the children emigrated first: and if he would not have her, there was Sir Richard. It was said that he was quite reformed — had given up drink. But there was no use thinking of that: for the present she would have to put up with the girl’s music, which was wretched.
Olive fell in with her mother’s plans, and she angled industriously for Lord Kilcarney. She did not fail to say in or out of season, ‘Il n’y a personne comme notre cher Marquis,’ and as the turbot and fruit, that had arrived by the afternoon train from Dublin, were discussed, Milord did not cease to make the most appropriate remarks. Referring to the bouquet that she had pinned into the Marquis’s buttonhole, he said:
‘Il y a des amants partout où il y a des oiseaux et des roses.’ And again: ‘Les regardes des amoureux sont la lumière comme le baiser est la vie du monde.’
After dinner no time was lost, although the Marquis pleaded fatigue, in settling Alice at the piano, and dancing began in sober earnest. After each waltz Olive conducted him to the dining-room; she helped him liberally to wine, and when she held a match to his cigarette their fingers touched. But to find occupation for the long morning hours of her young couple was a grave trouble to Mrs. Barton. She was determined to make every moment of the little Marquis’s stay in Galway moments of sunshine; but mental no more than atmospheric sunshine is to be had by the willing, and the poor little fellow seemed to pine in his Galway cage like a moulting canary. He submitted to all the efforts made in his behalf, but his submission was that of a victim. After breakfast he always attempted to escape, and if he succeeded in eluding Mrs. Barton, he would remain for hours hidden in the laurels, enwrapped in summer meditations, the nature of which it was impossible even to conjecture. In the afternoon he spoke of the burden of his correspondence, and when the inevitable dancing was spoken of, he often excused himself on the ground of having a long letter to finish. If it were impossible for her to learn the contents of these letters, Mrs. Barton ardently desired to know to whom they were addressed. Daily she volunteered to send s
pecial messengers to the post on his account; the footman, the coachman, and pony-chaise, were in turn rejected by him.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Barton, thank you, but I should like to avail myself of the chance of a constitutional.’
‘La santé de notre petit Marquis avant tout,’ she would exclaim, with much silvery laughter and all the habitual movements of the white hands. ‘But what do you say: I am sure the young ladies would like a walk, too?’
With a view to picturesque effect Mrs. Barton’s thoughts had long been centred on a picnic. They were now within a few days of the first of May, and there was enough sunshine in the air to justify an excursion to Kinvarra Castle. It is about four miles distant, at the end of a long narrow bay.
Mrs. Barton applied herself diligently to the task of organization. Having heard from Dublin of the hoax that was being played on their enemy, the Ladies Cullen consented to join the party, and they brought with them one of the Honourable Miss Gores. The Duffys and Brennans numbered their full strength, including even the famous Bertha, who was staying with her sisters on a visit. The Goulds excused themselves on account of the distance and the disturbed state of the country. Mrs. Barton found, therefore, much difficulty in maintaining the noted characteristic of her parties. Sir Richard and Sir Charles had agreed to come; Mr. Adair, Mr. Ryan, and Mr. Lynch were also present. They drove up on outside cars, and were all attended by a bodyguard of policemen.
And very soon everybody fell to babbling of the history of the Castle, which nobody knew: Ireland has had few chroniclers. Lord Dungory pointed out that in the seventeenth century people lived in Ireland naked — speaking Latin habitually — without furniture or tapestries or paintings or baths. The Castle suggested a military movement to Mr. Barton.
‘If things get any worse, we might all retire into this castle. The ladies will stand on the battlements, and I will undertake to hold the place for ever against those village ruffians.’
‘I do not think there will be any necessity for that,’ replied Mr. Adair sententiously. ‘I think that these last terrible outrages have awakened the Government to a sense of their responsibility. I have reason to believe that immediate steps will be taken to crush this infamous conspiracy.’
Lord Dungory interposed with a neat epigram, and Mr. Adair fell to telling how he would crush the Land League out of existence if the Government would place him in supreme power for the space of one month.
‘That is all I would ask: one month to restore this island to peace and prosperity. I have always been a Liberal, but I confess that I entirely fail to understand the action the Government are taking in the present crisis.’
As Lord Dungory was about to reply that he did not believe that the peasants could continue to resist the Government indefinitely, the police-sergeant in charge of the picnic-party approached, his face overcast.
‘We’ve just received bad news from Dublin, my lord. The worst. Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were murdered this evening in the Phoenix Park. It is unfortunately true, sir; I’ve the telegram with me.’ And he handed the yellow envelope to Lord Dungory, who, after glancing at it, handed it on to Mr. Adair.
The appearance of the police in conversation with Lord Dungory and Mr. Adair was a sign for the assembling of the rest of the company, and it was under the walls of old Kinvarra Castle that the picnic-party heard the awful news.
Then, in turn, each ejaculated a few words.
Mrs. Barton said: ‘It is dreadful to think there are such wicked people in the world.’
Mr. Adair said: ‘There can be no doubt but that we have arrived at the crisis; Europe will ring with the echoes of the crime.’
Olive said: ‘I think they ought to hang Mr. Parnell; I believe it was he who drove the car.’
Mr. Barton said: ‘The landlords and Land-Leaguers will have to do what I say; they will have to fight it out. Now, at their head, I believe by a series of rapid marches—’
‘Arthur, Arthur, I beg of you,’ exclaimed Mrs. Barton.
‘We shall all have to emigrate,’ Sir Charles murmured reflectively.
‘The law is in abeyance,’ said Mr. Lynch.
‘Precisely,’ replied Milord; ‘and as I once said to Lord Granville, “Les moeurs sont les hommes, mais la loi est la raison du pays.”’
Mr. Adair looked up; he seemed about to contest the truth of this aphorism, but he relapsed into his consideration of Mr. Gladstone’s political integrity. The conversation had fallen, but at the end of a long silence Mr. Ryan said:
‘Begorra, I am very glad they were murthered.’
All drew back instinctively. This was too horrible, and doubt of Mr. Ryan’s sanity was expressed on every face.
At last Mr. Adair said, conscious that he was expressing the feelings of the entire company: ‘What do you mean, sir? Have you gone mad? Do you not know that this is no fitting time for buffoonery?’
‘Will ye hear me cousin out?’ said Mr. Lynch.
‘Begorra, I’m glad they were murthered,’ continued Mr. Ryan; ‘for if they hadn’t been we’d have been — there’s the long and the short of it. I know the counthry well, and I know that in six months more, without a proper Coercion Act, we’d have been burned in our beds.’
The unanswerableness of Mr. Ryan’s words, and the implacable certainty which forced itself into every heart, that he spoke but the truth, did not, however, make the company less inclined to oppose the utilitarian view he took of the tragedy.
Unfinished phrases . . . ‘Disgraceful’ . . . ‘Shocking’ . . . ‘Inconceivable’ . . . ‘That anyone should say such a thing’ . . . were passed round, and a disposition was shown to boycott Mr. Ryan.
Mr. Adair spoke of not sitting in the room where such opinions were expressed, but Milord was seen whispering to him, ‘We’re not in a room, Adair, we’re out of doors;’ and Mrs. Barton, always anxious to calm troubled lives, suggested that ‘people did not mean all they said.’ Mr. Ryan, however, maintained through it all an attitude of stolid indifference, the indifference of a man who knows that all must come back sooner or later to his views.
And presently, although the sting remained, the memory of the wasp that had stung seemed to be lost. Milord and Mr. Adair engaged in a long and learned discussion concerning the principles of Liberalism, in the course of which many allusions were made to the new Coercion Bill, which, it was now agreed, Mr. Gladstone would, in a few days, lay before Parliament. The provisions of this Bill were debated. Milord spoke of an Act that had been in force consequent on the Fenian rising in ‘69. Mr. Adair was of opinion that the importance of a new Coercion Act could not be over-estimated; Mr. Barton declared in favour of a military expedition — a rapid dash into the heart of Connemara. But the conversation languished, and in the ever-lengthening silences all found their thoughts reverting to the idea brutally expressed by Mr. Ryan: Yes, they were glad; for if Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke had not been assassinated, every landowner in the country would have been murdered.
There was no dancing that evening; and as the night advanced the danger of the long drive home increased in intensity in the minds of Messrs. Lynch and Ryan. They sat on either side of Mr. Adair, and it was finally arranged that they should join their police-forces, and spend the night at his place. Sir Charles was sleeping at Brookfield; Milord had four policemen with him; and as all would have to pass his gate, he did not anticipate that even the Land League would venture to attack thirteen armed men. Mr. Barton, who saw the picturesque in everything, declared, when he came back, that they looked like a caravan starting for a pilgrimage across the desert. After a few further remarks, the ladies rose to retire; but when Mrs. Barton gave her hand to Lord Kilcarney, he said, his voice trembling a little:
‘I’m afraid I must leave you to-morrow, Mrs. Barton. I shall have to run over to London to vote in the House of Lords. . .’
Mrs. Barton led the poor little man into the farther corner of the room, and making a place for him by her side, she said:
&n
bsp; ‘Of course we are very sorry you are leaving — we should like you to stop a little longer with us. Is it impossible for you. . . ?’
‘I am afraid so, Mrs. Barton; it is very kind of you, but—’
‘It is a great pity,’ she answered; ‘but before we part I should like to know if you have come to any conclusion about what I spoke to you of in Dublin. If it is not to be, I should like to know, that I might tell the girl, so that she might not think anything more about—’
‘What am I to say, what am I to do?’ thought the Marquis. ‘Oh! why does this woman worry me? How can I tell her that I wouldn’t marry her daughter for tens of thousands of pounds?’ ‘I think, Mrs. Barton — I mean, I think you will agree with me that until affairs in Ireland grow more settled, it would be impossible for anyone to enter into any engagements whatever. We are all on the brink of ruin.’
‘But twenty thousand pounds would settle a great deal.’
The little Marquis was conscious of annihilation, and he sought to escape Mrs. Barton as he might a piece of falling rock. With a desperate effort he said:
‘Yes, Mrs. Barton — yes, I agree with you, twenty thousand pounds is a great deal of money; but I think we had better wait until the Lords have passed the new Coercion Bill — say nothing more about this — leave it an open question.’
And on this eminently unsatisfactory answer the matter ended; even Mrs. Barton saw she could not, at least for the present, continue to press it. Still she did not give up hope. ‘Try on to the end; we never know that it is not the last little effort that will win the game,’ was the aphorism with which she consoled her daughter, and induced her to write to Lord Kilcarney. And almost daily he received from her flowers, supposed to be emblematical of the feeling she entertained for him; and for these Alice was sometimes ordered to compose verses and suitable mottoes.
