A Drama in Muslin — Book 2 Chapter 3

London: Vizetelly & Co., 1 June 1886, pages 166-183, 7,061 words

CHAPTER III.

On the night of the Drawing-room, February 20th, 1882, the rain rushed along the streets — and it could be heard wildly splashing on the flagstones. A wind, too, had risen; and, threatening to tear every window from its sash, it careered in great and fearsome gusts: sky there was none, nor sight of anything save when the lightning revealed the outline of the housetops. The rattling and the crashing of the thunder was appalling; and often, behind their closely-drawn curtains, the girls trembled, and, covering their faces in their hands, forgot the article of clothing they were in search of. In their rooms all was warm and snug and gay with firelight and silk: the chaperons had whispered that warm baths were advisable, and along the passages the ladies’-maids passed hurriedly, carrying cans of hot water, sponges, and drying-sheets.

Alice and Olive slept in two rooms on the third floor, on either side of their mother; May and Mrs. Gould were on the fourth, and next to May was Fred Scully, who, under the pretext of the impossibility of his agreeing with his mother concerning the use of a latch-key, had lately moved into the hotel. May was deeply concerned in Fred's grievance; and discussing it, or the new Shelbourne scandal — the loves of the large lady and the little man at the other end of the corridor — they lingered about each other’s bedroom-doors. Alice could now hear them talking as they descended the staircase together; then a burst of smothered laughter, and May came in to see her.

“Oh! how nice you look!”

Nothing perhaps is diviner than the emotion which calls from us praise of things wholly different from ourselves. So far is it removed from sense, so closely allied is it to the brain, that it becomes the calm will-less knowledge that Schopenhauer holds up to us as the highest ideal to be attained. And to this round, soft-limbed girl, whose white flesh burned and was alive with the wants of the flesh, there was in Alice's candid eyes — revealing as they did her natural powerlessness to do aught but live up to the practical rectitudes of life, as she conceived them to exist — that charm, that assuagement, that vision of purity, that elevation which the Catholic draws from his God-crowned altar, which the traveller breathes when, as Wordsworth expresses it, the"shades of evening... connect the landscape to the quiet of the sky."There is always a close and intimate, though not always an obvious analogy, between our mental and physical characteristics. It, however, was very apparent in the present instances. The soft, the melting, the almost fluid eyes, the bosom large and just a little falling, the full hips, the absence of any marked point or line, the rolling roundness of every part of the body definitely announced a want of fixed principle, and a somewhat gross and sensual temperament; whereas the bright, affectionate, but slightly hard eyes, the thin arms and straight hips and shoulders, were admirably suggestive of the clear, the fixed, the almost stern mind; yes, a mind so well ordered that it could, and did, exclude all thoughts to which it could not at once accord a frank welcome.

"If you don’t ‘mash’ Mr. Harding to-night, he will be a tough one indeed. Did I tell you I was talking to him yesterday in the ladies’ drawing-room — he is very nice, but I can't quite make him out: I think he despises us all; all but you; about you he said all kinds of nice things: that you were so clever, and nice, and amusing. And tell me, dear," said May, in her warm, affectionate way, "do you really like him — you know what I mean?"

May's eyes and voice were so full of significance, that to pretend to misunderstand was impossible; and a hot feeling of resentment, almost of disgust, filled Alice's thoughts; but mastering it, she said as quietly as she could:

"I like Mr. Harding well enough. It is very nice to have him to talk to. To spend hour after hour listening to the crowd of ignorant gossiping women who live here is too dreadful. I am sure I don't want to run down my own sex — there are plenty only too anxious to do that — but I am afraid that there is not a girl in Dublin who thinks of anything except how she is to get married.”

"I don't know about that," said May, a little offended. "I suppose if you think of a man at all, you think of how he likes you.”

The defiant tone in which these words were spoken was surprising; and, for a moment, Alice stood staring blankly at this superb cream-fleshed girl — superb in her dress of cream faille, her sensual beauty poetised by the long veils which hung like gossamer-webs from the coils of her copper-gleaming hair.

"I am afraid, May," she said, "that you think a great deal too much of such things. I don't say anything against Mr. Scully, but I think it right to tell you that he is considered a very dangerous young man; and I am sure it does a girl no good to be seen with him. It was he who….”

"Now I will not hear you abuse Fred," cried May. "We are great friends; I like you better than any other girl, and if you value our friendship you will not speak to me again like this. I would not put up with it, no, not from my own mother.”

The girl moved hastily towards the door, but Alice laid her hand on her arm, saying:

"You must not be angry, May; perhaps you are right; I should not have meddled in things that do not concern me; but then we have been so long friends that I could not help….”

"I know, I know," said the girl yielding at once to the subtle cerebral charm that Alice's mien and motions so constantly brought into play. "You were speaking only for my good; but if you are friends with a person you can’t stand by and hear them abused. I know people speak badly of Fred; but then people are so jealous — and they are all jealous of Fred.”

Then the conversation came to a pause, and the girls examined each other's dresses. At the end of a long silence May said:

"What an extraordinary thing this Drawing-room is when one comes to think of it. Just fancy going to all this expense to be kissed by the Lord-Lieutenant: a man one never saw before. Will you feel ashamed when he kisses you?"

"Well, I don't know that I have thought much about it, "said Alice, laughing. "I suppose it does not matter, it is only a ceremony, not a real kiss.”

At this moment Mrs. Barton's voice was heard, calling — "Now, Alice, Alice, where are you? We are waiting for you — make haste, for goodness’ sake; we are very late as it is.”

Staircase and corridor were empty and silent. The trail of a sachet-scented petticoat could be detected on this length of Brussels carpet, the acrid vulgarity of eau de Cologne hung like a curtain before an open door, a vision of white silk gleamed for a moment as it fled from room to room: men in a strange garb — black velvet and steel buttons — furtively hurried away, tripping over their swords, and ashamed of their stockinged calves. On the first landing, about the wintergarden, a crowd of German waiters, housemaids, — billiard-players, with cigars in their teeth and cues in their hands, had collected; underneath, in the hall, the barmaids, and old ladies, wrapped up in rugs and shawls to save them from the terrible draughts, were criticising the dresses. Olive's name was on every lip, and to see her all were breathless with expectation; her matrimonial prospects were discussed; and Lord Kilcarney was openly spoken of. "Ah! here she is, there she is!" was whispered. The head-porter, wild with excitement, shouted for Mrs. Barton's carriage; three under-porters distended huge umbrellas; the door was opened, an immense wind tore through the hall, sending the old ladies flying back to their sitting-room, and the Bartons, holding their hair and their trains, rushed across the wet pavement and took refuge in the brougham.

"Did one ever see such weather?" said Mrs. Barton. "I hope your hair isn't ruffled, Olive?"

"No, mamma, I think it is all right.”

Reassured, Mrs. Barton continued: "I don't think there ever was a country so hateful as Ireland. What with rain and Land League. I wonder why we live here! Did you notice the time, Alice, as we left the hotel?"

"Yes, mamma; it was twenty-five minutes to ten."

"Oh! we are very late; we shan't be there before ten. The thing to do is to get there about half-past nine; the Drawing-room does not begin before eleven; but if you can get into the first lot you can stand at the entrance of Patrick's Hall, and have the pick of the men as they come through. That’s the place to stand; all the Dublin girls know that trick — I"ll show you when we arrive. And you, Alice, I see your friend Harding is going to the Drawing-room. Now, if you do what I tell you, you won't miss him; and I do hope you won't, for to have you hanging about my skirts the whole evening: and it does look so bad to see a girl alone, just as if she were unable to get a man.”

While Mrs. Barton continued to advise her girls, the carriage rolled rapidly along Stephen’s Green. It had now turned into Grafton Street; and on the steep, rain-flooded asphalte, they narrowly escaped an accident. The coachman, however, steadied his horses, and soon the long colonnades of the Bank of Ireland were seen on the left. From this point they were no longer alone, and except when a crash of thunder drowned every other sound, the rattling of wheels was heard behind and in front of them. Carriages came from every side: the night was alive with flashing lamps; a glimpse of white fur or silk, the red-breast of a uniform, the gold of an epaulette, were seen, and then lost a moment after in the devouring darkness. Thinking of the block that would take place on the quays, the coachmen whipped up their horses; but soon the ordering voices of the mantled and mounted policemen were heard, and the carriages came to a full stop.

“We are very late; hundreds will pass before us," said Mrs. Barton, despairingly, as she watched the lines of silk-laden carriages that seemed to be passing them by. But it was difficult to make sure of anything; and fearful of soiling their gloves they refrained from touching the breath-misted windows. On the glazed roof the rain pattered madly.

"Did you ever see such a pack of women; there seems to be nothing else; it wouldn't be a bad joke if half of them took the wrong turning and drove into the river instead of going to the Castle — and for all they"ll get there!"

Olive laughed with her usual facile lightness, then the three women screamed — and for one electric instant the city appeared in hideous silhouette upon a chalky-white sky. A narrow drain-like river wedged between high-stone embankments; right along in a slight curve the perspective floats, and a few factory chimneys close a sinister horizon of whiskey and beer. On the left is squalor multiform and terrible. The plaster, in huge scabs falls from the walls, and the flaring light of a tallow candle reveals a dismantled room. You see a huge shouldered mother, a lean-faced crone, and a squatting tailor that poverty chains till midnight to his work-board; you see a couple of coarse girls, maids of all work, who smile anil call to the dripping coachmen on the boxes; and there are low shops filled with cheap cigars and tobacco, shops where old clothes rot in fetid confusion, shops exhaling the rancid odours of decaying vegetables, shops dingy with rusting iron and cracked china, shops that traffic in obscene goods and prints; shops and streets that are but a leer of malign decrepitude. And as you near the Castle the traces of the destroyer become more apparent — more foul. Beneath the upas tree the city, even to her remotest suburb, has withered; but that in the immediate shadow — Ship Street — was black, plague-spotted, pestilential, and, as a corpse, quick with the life of the worm.

Notwithstanding the terrible weather the streets were lined with vagrants, patriots, waifs, idlers of all sorts and kinds. Plenty of girls of sixteen and eighteen come out to see the "finery." Poor little things in battered bonnets and draggled skirts, who would dream upon ten shillings a week; a drunken mother striving to hush a child that dies beneath a dripping shawl; a harlot embittered by feelings of commercial resentment; troops of labourers battered and bruised with toil: you see their hang-dog faces, their thin coats, their shirts torn and revealing the beast-like hair on their chests; you see also the Irish-Americans, with their sinister faces, and broad-brimmed hats, standing scowling beneath the pale flickering gas-lamps, and, when the block brought the carriages to a standstill, sometimes no more than a foot of space separated their occupants from the crowd on the pavement's edge. Never were poverty and wealth brought into plainer proximity. In the broad glare of the carriage lights the shape of every feature, even the colour of the eyes, every glance, every detail of dress, every stain of misery were revealed to the silken exquisites who, a little frightened, strove to hide themselves within the scented shadows of their broughams: and in like manner, the bloom on every aristocratic cheek, the glitter of every diamond, the richness of every plume were visible to the avid eyes of those who stood without in the wet and the cold.

"I wish they would not stare so," said Mrs. Barton; "one would think they were a lot of hungry children looking into a sweetmeat shop. The police ought really to prevent it.”

"And how wicked those men in the big hats look," said Olive, "I'm sure they would rob us if they only dared.”

Alice thought of the Galway ball, with the terrible faces looking in at the window.

The garish lightning again illumined the sky, and showed the steps and the columns of a church crowded with huddled groups, and single climbing figures. The thunder rattled with a volubility so terrible that it seemed as if the heavens were speaking for the freedom-dreaming nation, now goaded and gagged with Coercion Bills. On and on the carriages rolled, now blocked under the black rain-dripping archway of the Castle yard, now delayed as they laboriously made the tour of the quadrangle. Olive doubted if her turn would ever come; but, by slow degrees, each carriage discharged its cargo of silk, and at last Mrs. Barton and her daughters found themselves in the vestibule, taking numbers for their wraps at the cloak-rooms placed on either side of the stairway.

The slender figures ascending to tiny naked shoulders, presented a piquant contrast with the huge, black Assyrian bull-like policemen, who guarded the passage, and reduced, by contrast, to almost doll-like proportions the white creatures who went up the great stairway. Overhead an artificial plant, some twenty feet wide, spread a decorative greenness; the walls were lined with rifles; and at regular intervals, in lieu of pictures, were set stars made out of swords. There were also three suits of plate armour; and the grinning of the helmets of old time contrasted with the bearskin shrouded faces of the red guardsmen. And through all this military display the white ware tripped to the great muslin market. The air was agleam with diamonds, pearls, skin, and tulle veils. Powdered and purple-coated footmen stood, splendid in the splendour of pink calves and salmon-coloured breeches, on every landing; and as the white mass of silk pushed along the white-painted corridor, the sense of ceremony that had till then oppressed it, evaporated in the fumes of the blazing gas.

But the battle for existence did not really begin until the blue drawing-room was reached. There heat and fatigue soon put an end to all coquetting between the sexes. The beautiful silks were hidden by the crowd; only the shoulders remained, and, to appease their terrible ennui, the men gazed down the backs of the women's dresses stupidly. Shoulders were there, of all tints and shapes. Indeed, it was like a vast rosary, alive with white, pink, and cream-coloured flowers: of Maréchal Niels, Souvenir de Malmaisons, Mademoiselle Eugène Verdiers, Aimée Vibert Seandens. Sweetly turned, adolescent shoulders, blush white, smooth and even as the petals of a Marquise Mortemarle; the strong, commonly turned shoulders, abundant and free as the fresh rosy pink of the Anna Alinuff; the drooping white shoulders, full of falling contours as a pale Madame Lacharme; the chlorotic shoulders, deadly white, of the almost greenish shade that is found in a Princess Clementine; the pert, the dainty little shoulders, filled with warm pink shadows, pretty and compact as Countess Cecile de Chabrillant; the large heavy shoulders full of vulgar madder tints, coarse, strawberry colour, enormous as a Paul Neron; clustering white shoulders, grouped like the blossoms of an Aimée Vibert Scandens, and, just in front of me, under my eyes, the flowery, the voluptuous, the statuesque shoulders of a tall blonde woman of thirty, whose flesh is full of the exquisite peach-like tones of a Mademoiselle Eugène Verdier, blooming in all its pride of summer loveliness.

To make way for this enormous crowd, the Louis XV. sofas and armchairs had been pushed against the walls. Large blue fans outspread ornamented every corner. Chandeliers of exquisite fragility, covered with crystal balls, hung against the blue silk curtains, with which the long line of windows on the right were draped; and in the gold mirrors on the left, all rutilant with quick flames, and the white slimnesses of the wax candles, a blurred and grotesque picture of the flesh-flowers below was reflected.

An hour passed wearily, and in this beautiful drawing-room humanity suffered in all its natural impudence. Momentarily the air grew hotter and more silicious; the brain ached, with the dusty odour of poudre de ris, and the many acidities of evaporating perfume; the sugary sweetness of the blondes, the salt flavours of the brunettes, and this allegro movement of odours was interrupted suddenly by the garlicky andante, deep as the pedal notes of an organ, that the perspiring arms of a fat chaperon slowly exhaled.

At last there was a move forwards, and a sigh of relief, a grunt of satisfaction, broke from the oppressed creatures: but a line of guardsmen was pressing from behind, and the women were thrown hither and thither into the arms and on to the backs of soldiers, police officers, county inspectors and castle underlings. Now a lady turns pale, and whispers to her husband that she is going to faint; now a young girl's petticoats have become entangled in the moving mass of legs! She cries aloud for help: her brother expostulates with those around. He is scarcely heeded.

The heart sickens in the crush. How curious the faces seem! Here are a few silhouettes. Look at the tall woman of fifty with a hooked-nose and orange hair; she peeps over that shoulder and tries to keep within view of her daughter; next to her is a fat man with an eyebrow and an eyeglass; there is a waistless lady with red hair; her daughter — a tiny thing — has inherited the mother's red hair. A little to the right is a bald head that the heat has turned to crimson; and you see the sallow man with the foxy beard, and the tiny little old woman, who looks as if she were down a well, so entirely is she lost between four tall men; you see that male profile? how distinct it comes out against the pillar! By your side a weak girl is being driven along by a couple of police officers: very pitifully she holds up her train with both hands.

But the struggle grows still more violent when it becomes evident that the guardsmen are about to bring down the bar and stop further exit; and begging a florid-faced attorney to unloose his sword, which had become entangled in her dress, Mrs. Barton called on her daughter, and slipping under the raised arms, they found themselves suddenly in a square, sombre room, full of a rich, brown twilight. In one corner there was a bureau, where an attendant served out blank cards; in another the white plumes nodded against the red glare that came from the throne-room, whence Liddell's band was heard playing waltz tunes, and the stentorian tones of the chamberlain's voice called the ladies’ names.

"Have you got your cards?" said Mrs. Barton.

"I have got mine," said Olive.

"And I have got mine," said Alice.

"Well, you know what to do? You give your card to the aide-de-camp, he passes it on and spreads out your train, and you walk right to His Excellency; he kisses you on both cheeks, you curtsy, and, at the far door, two aides-de-camp pick up your train and place it on your arm.”

The girls continued to advance, experiencing the while the nerve atrophy, the systolic emotion of communicants, who when the bell rings, approach the altar rails to receive God within their mouths.

The massive, the low-hanging, the opulently twisted gold candelabra, the smooth lustre of the marble columns are evocative of the persuasive grandeur of a cathedral; and, deep in the darkness of the pen, a vast congregation of peeresses and judges watch the ceremony in devout collectiveness. How symmetrical is the place! A red, a well-trimmed bouquet of guardsmen has been set in the middle of the Turkey-carpet; around the throne a semicircle of red coats has been drawn, and above it flow the veils, the tulle, the skirts of the ladies of honour — they seem like white clouds dreaming on a bank of scarlet poppies — and the long sad legs, clad in maroon-coloured breeches, is the Lord- Lieutenant, the teeth and the diamonds on his right is Her Excellency. And now a lingering survival of the terrible Droit de Seigneur — diminished and attenuated, but still circulating through our modern years — this ceremony, a pale ghost of its former self, is performed; and, having received a kiss on either cheek, the débutantes are free to seek their bridal beds in Patrick's Hall.

"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, and silver-stars gleamed in the corn-coloured hair, and the long hands, gloved with white undressed kid, carried a silver fan. She was adorably beautiful and adorably pale; and like some wonderful white bird of downy plumage she sailed through the red glare, along the scarlet line, unto the weary- looking man in maroon breeches. He kissed her on both cheeks; she curtsied to the vice-regal lips, and passed away to the further door, where her train was caught up and handed to her by two aides-de-camp.

Notwithstanding the automatic precision of the ceremonials, eager looks passed between the ladies of honour standing on the estrade. Even the superb 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 her train was spread out by the aides-de-camp. In the composition of her dress she had given free 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 courtesy, 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.

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 française, 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 kissed her, and so warmly that Her Excellency looked up surprised, but her annoyance was lost in the crashing of the thunder which at that moment broke in terrific claps over their heads. Everyone thought instinctively 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 midst of these the aides-de-camp allowed Alice to pass. Even in the trying ordeal of submitting to His Excellency's lips she preserved her grave, candid demeanour. She was prettily dressed. A train of white faille trimmed with sprays of white heather and tulle the petticoat being beautifully arranged with folded draperies of crèpe de Chine.

A number of ladies had collected in the further 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. Mrs. Barton and Olive were there.

"I wish Alice would make haste and not keep us waiting. I suppose she has got behind a whole crowd of people. 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 corsage 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 so 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 praise. 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, "have you not 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. There Lord Dungory, Lord Rosshill, and others were waiting to receive Mrs. Barton. Establishing herself where she could be seen; 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. It was a double triumph, and for a moment Mrs. Barton felt as if she held Dublin under her satin shoe. Alice was her only trouble! she had slipped behind the file of white women, who, with eyes liquid with invitation, crowded about the doorway hoping to seize the men as they came through. 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 look 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 is not 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 is not the fashion ridiculous?" Alice asked, somewhat earnestly.

"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.”

They were in an immense hall. 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 lugubrious 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. She was all white, save the furnace of her hair. She drew herself up for Alice to see her; and Harding watched Fred, who was lost in sensual contemplation.

"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.”

Alice felt Harding had read through May; but he said nothing, and, thanking him inwardly for his silence, they passed from the glare of Patrick's Hall into the reposing shadows of rich velvet and sombre hangings. In amorous attitudes, women leaned over the sofas, talking to men in uniform, and two strange-looking creatures, in long garments, walked up and down the room. They were Dons from Trinity, and they argued earnestly with Mr. Adair.

"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 is not a capacity for passing competitive examinations 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: "Have you been writing a great deal? We did not 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 do not 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 do some writing?"

"Oh, what should I write about?" said Alice, blushing a little, but pleased at the compliment paid to her.

"I suppose the right and proper thing for a young lady to write is a novel. 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! we have only known each other a week.”

"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 did not 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."

"I don't know about that. You certainly ought to try to do something when you go back to Galway. If you will send me an article or a short story I will tell you what I think of it, and see what can be done with it. I am going back to London in about ten days."

"So soon!"

Harding had not time to answer, for 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 Vice-regal procession.

The first to appear were the A.D.C.s. They w-ere 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 swarm about this mock court like flies about a choice pile of excrement. Then came a heavy-built, red-bearded man, and he 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 Vice-regal family: their Excellencies’ guests and the ladies in attendance — placed according to their personal precedence — brought up the rear of the procession. And with all the gravity of a funeral the cortége passes between the ranks of the women: their naked shoulders are the mourners, their skirts are the cerecloths that enwrap this poor ghost of royalty: criminal-like, its living ears filled with the dirges the skies are ringing, it passes down the long room, returning to its gruesome throne, a throne that is an open bier, a throne that is even now its eternal sepulchre of shame.

"Does not real, actual life sometimes appear to you, Miss Barton, more distorted and unreal than the wildest midnight 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 utterly bewildering that such barbarities should be permitted to loiter about the portals of this age of reason.”

"But what has Christianity to do with the procession that has just passed?"

"Everything; a nation cannot be republican as long as it is Christian. Republicanism is common sense; Christianity is faith, and faith is the power of believing what you know is not true; and Christ and the Viceroy share the crutch between them. Were it not for faith do you think a mock court ‘that an earthquake rocks and swings’ could go promenading about in that ludicrous fashion?"

"I’m not sure that it is faith that enables them to promenade the state sword about. It seems to me more that power of living in the present time which most people possess to such an extraordinary degree.”

"Perhaps you are right," and Harding glanced at Alice in surprise.

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. The more knowing — the five-season girls — plied their tricks hither and thither, passing, on trumped-up excuses, from chaperon to chaperon. 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 Caesarean. 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 Kilcamey. 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 here! 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.