1886-06 — A Drama in Muslin — Book 3 Chapter 1

London: Vizetelly & Co., 1 June 1886, pages 221-243, 9,012 words

CHAPTER I.

Mrs. Barton rarely took anyone into her confidence, and her plan for the capture of the Marquis was locked within her breast. Certainly not to her husband, nor yet to milord, did she think of going for advice. Her special experience of life had taught her to trust none, to be self-reliant, and never to give up hope. For as she often said, it is the last effort that wins the battle. Mrs. Barton’s knowledge of the world, when it came to be analysed, was only that of the courtesan — à fleur de peau.

Two days after she received a note from the marquis, saying he would be glad to spend a fortnight with them at Brookfield. She read it quietly, slipped it into the pocket of the black silk that covered the unseen feet, and glided out of the room. Every detail was clear to her. They must leave Dublin to-morrow morning: they need not trouble about calling on a pack of women; but they would have all their men friends to dinner.

Mr. Barton, when he was informed of these sudden determinations, was in the act of rehearsing a song he was to sing the following day at a concert.

“But, my dear," he said, tightening one of the strings, “the public will be awfully disappointed.”

“Yes, my dear, yes; I am very sorry, but I have my reasons — serious reasons; and in this world we must only do what’s right.”

"Then in the next world we shall be able to do everything that’s wrong," said Mr. Barton, and he threw back his blonde locks with troubadour-like waves of his lymphatic hand. "I shall like the next world better than this," he added, and his wife and daughter laughed, for papa was supposed to be very naughty.

"Olive dear — ”

"Oh, mamma, I wish you wouldn’t call me Olive.... I shall change my name.... Captain Talbot was chaffing me about it yesterday.... everybody chaffs me about it.”

"Never mind, my dear; it makes a subject of conversation. But I was going to tell you that we shall have to start for Brookfield to-morrow.”

"Go to Brookfield! I couldn’t possibly leave Dublin yet a while; what would all my young men do — they’d die of broken hearts!”

"It won’t matter much if they do; there aren’t a dozen worth two thousand a year each.”

"No? you are joking, mamma. And the marquis?”

"That’s a secret, dear.”

"Then you don’t think he’ll propose to me after all; and I gave up Edward — Captain Hibbert.”

"I thought you had forgotten that horrid man’s name. I did not say, dear, that the marquis would not propose to you — of course he will. But we must leave Dublin to-morrow — I have serious reasons.”

"Oh, mamma, I did not think you were so cruel; to go back to that hateful place, where there isn’t a man within seven miles of one, and where everybody talks of rents and that odious Land League.”

"Now, I will not allow my darling to cry like that," exclaimed Mrs. Barton, and she threw her arms round the girl’s shoulders. "I did not say that there wouldn’t be a man •within seven miles. On the contrary, there will be someone very nice indeed.”

"What do you mean, mamma?"

"That’s a secret — that’s a secret;" and peals of rippling laughter effectually silenced all further questioning.

Alice was told briefly that she had better come home early that afternoon, so that she might have plenty of time to pack her own things and help her sister with hers. Was it possible that so soon, that at last, they were going to leave this thrice-hateful place? Latterly it had become doubly abhorrent to her; at every hour, at every moment her senses of sight, feeling, and hearing were outraged. But it was all over.... the words sang in her ears. What happiness, what happiness to know she was leaving that hateful little varnished floor, that she was to escape from those complimenting old beaux, and tho youthful rudenesses of young A.D.C.s. Not their faces would she see, nor their voices would she hear again, nor would she again feel their’ arms about her. At Brookfield she would be alone; she would have her books and a table to write upon. The prospect emparadised her. Yes, she would really try and do something. Yes, she had an idea. She did not know if she would be able to work it out, but she would try. The girl trembled with pleasure — she would do her best, and she would send it to Harding; he would tell her what he thought of it, and to hope to hear from him would be something to live for.

Mrs. Barton had advised Alice and Olive not to call on the Scullys; and now, as Alice stood on the doorstep, she wondered at these orders. She had hardly seen May since the night of the State ball — the night she had given Fred Scully the terrible permission to see her in her room. Alice had long determined to speak to May on this subject, but somehow the opportunity had always slipped from her; she would go to her now.

May was sitting alone in the ladies’ drawing-room. Her eyes had wandered from the pages of her novel, and she stared vaguely at the passers-by who went, with umbrellas aslant, through the wet air. The tints of the red furniture were vague, and all the little velvet chairs slept in the grey trailing shadows with which the room was filled. An immense heap of coal-dust smouldered dismally in the grate.

"How do you do, May?”

"Oh, how do you do, Alice? I am so glad to see you. Como and sit near the fire. What a dreadful day.”

"Yes, isn’t it? Don’t you find it very depressing?”

“I should think I did. I’m feeling rather out of sorts. Do you ever feel out of sorts, you know, when everything seems as if it were reflected in a darkened glass? There are times when we girls are nervous and weak, and ready to quarrel with anyone. I don’t know what I wish for now; I think I should like to go back to the country.”

"We are going back to-morrow morning.”

“Nonsense; you don’t say so; and how's that? The Castle may be over, or nearly so, but there are plenty of balls and afternoon dances. What does Olive say to going home?”

"She doesn’t mind. You know mamma always said she would return immediately after the Castle balls.”

"And now that it is all over, tell me what you think of the Castle. Did it come up to your expectations?"

"I don’t know that I think much about the matter. I am not so fond of dancing as you are.”

"Oh, goodness me, goodness me, how ill I do feel," said May, as she started and yawned in a way that betokened the nervous lassitude she was suffering from.

"Perhaps you had better see the doctor," said Alice, significantly.

"But... I don’t know;... then there are other things that worry me.... I don’t think that Fred has been as nice lately as... he used to be.”

"What has he done?"

"Last night he promised to meet me in the Square, and he wrote to say he couldn’t come, that he was forced to go and see an important customer about some horses.”

"Perhaps he had.”

"I dare say he had, but what of that? It does not make it any less disagreeable for me to be disappointed.”

"How cross you are, May! I came out on purpose to talk to you on this very subject. I hope you won’t be angry, but I think it is my duty to tell you that people are beginning to talk about you.”

"And what do they say?”

"Well, they say many unpleasant things; you know how ill-natured people are.”

"Yes, but what do they say?"

"They say you are desperately in love with Fred Scully.”

"Supposing I were; is there any very great harm in that?"

"I only want to put you on your guard, May dear; and since I have come here for the purpose of speaking out, I had better do so, however unpleasant it may be; and I must say that you often forget yourself when he is in the room, and by your whole manner betray your feelings.... You look at him... “

"You needn’t talk... Now that Harding has left town, these moral reflections come very easy to you! ”

Alice blushed a little; she trembled, and pursuing her advantage, May said:

“Oh, yes; I have watched you in the Castle sitting out dances; and when girls like you do butter!... ’Pon my word, it was painful to look at you.”

"I am sure," said Alice, speaking without consideration, "that nobody could think... no one would dream of suspecting.... Mr. Harding and I talked merely of books and pictures."

"If you come here to insinuate that Fred and I are in the habit of indulging in improper conversation... I should not have expected this from you. I shall not stop another moment. I shall not speak with you again.”

Picking up her novel, and deaf to all explanations, May walked haughtily out of the room. Alice would have given much to help; and, her heart filled with gentle disappointment, she returned home. The evening was spent in packing; and next morning at dawn, looking tired, their eyes still heavy with sleep, the Bartons breakfasted for the last time in Mount Street.

At the Broadstone they met Lord Dungory. Then, their feet and knees cosily wrapped up in furs, with copies of the Freeman’s Journal lying on the top, they deplored the ineffectiveness of Mr. Forster’s Coercion Act. Eight hundred people were in prison, and still the red shadow of murder pointed across the land. Milord read from the newspaper:

"A dastardly outrage was committed last night in the neighbourhood of Mullingar. A woman named Mary — had some differences with her sister Bridget — . One day, after some angry words, it appears that she left the house, and seeing a man working in a potato-field, she asked him if he could do anything to help her. He scratched his head, and, after a moment’s reflection, he said he was going to meet a ‘party,’ and he would see what could be done: on the following day he suggested that Bridget might be removed for the sum of one pound. Mary — could not, however, procure more than fifteen shillings, and a bargain was struck. On the night arranged for the assassination Mary wished to leave the house, not caring to see her sister shot in her presence, but Pat declared that her absence would excite suspicion. In the words of one of the murderers, the deed was accomplished ‘nately and without unnecessary fuss.’”

"I wonder," said Mrs. Barton, "what those wretches will have to do before the Government will consent to suspend the Habeas Corpus Act, and place the country in the hands of the military. Do they never think of how wickedly they are behaving, and of how God will punish them when they die? Do they never think of their immortal souls?"

"L'âme du paysan se vautre dans la boue comme la mienne se plaît dans la soie.”

"Dans la soie! dans la soie! oh, ce milord, ce milord!”

"Oui, madame," he added, lowering his voice, "dans le blanc paradis de ton corsage.”

Three days after life at Brookfield had resumed its ordinary course. Once breakfast was over, Arthur retired to the consideration of the pectoral muscles of the ancient Briton; Milord drank his glass of sherry at half-past one, and Mrs. Barton devoted herself to the double task of amusing him and encouraging Olive with visions of future fame. Alice was therefore left definitely to herself, and without hindrance or comment was allowed to set up her writing-table, and spend as much time as she pleased in her bedroom.

She had already begun work. Several sheets of foolscap paper covered with large open handwriting lay upon the table. Upon the first page, with a line ruled beneath it, stood the title: "The Diary of a Plain Girl — Notes and Sensations." She had just laid aside her pen and was waiting for Cecilia. Suddenly footsteps were heard in the corridor.

"Oh, Alice darling, how are you? I am delighted — I am so delighted to see you. Let me kiss you, let me see you; I have been longing for you for weeks — for months.”

Alice bent her face down, and Cecilia lay sobbing with joy upon her shoulder for some moments. Then, holding each other’s hands, the girls stood looking through a deep and expressive silence into each other’s eyes. Cecilia’s eyes! — large, mellow depths of light, vague and melancholy with the yearning of the soul. You see the high shoulders; the chin and neck how curiously advanced. But little is seen but the eyes! the eyes of the deformed, deep, dreamy depths of brown, luminous with a strange weariness, that we who are normal, straight, and strong, can neither feel nor understand. The brown is now liquescent; it burns, and becomes golden with passion; it melts and softens to strange tenderness. The eyes of the deformed! — deep enigmatic eyes, never will your secret be revealed; there is a trouble that words cannot speak, but that eyes may sometimes suggest: — the melting questioning grief of the spaniel that would tell his master of his love. There was something dog-like in the lavish affection with which Cecilia welcomed her friend; and, like the dumb animal, she seemed to suffer from her inability to express her joy in words.

"I wish, Alice, I could tell you how glad I am to have you back: it seems like heaven to see you again. You look so nice, so true, so sweet, so perfect. There never was anyone so nice as you, Alice.”

"Cecilia, dear, you shouldn’t talk to me like that; it is absurd. Indeed, I don’t think it is quite right.”

"Not quite right," replied the cripple, sadly; "what do you mean? Why is it wrong — why should it be wrong for me to love you?"

"I don’t mean to say that it is wrong; you misunderstand me; but — but... well, I don’t know how to explain myself, but...."

"I know, I know, I know," said Cecilia; and her nervous sensitivity revealed thoughts in Alice’s mind — thoughts of which Alice herself was not distinctly conscious, just as a photograph exposes irregularities in the texture of a leaf that the naked eye would not perceive.

"If Harding were to speak to you so, you would not think it wrong.”

Alice coloured deeply, and she said, with a certain resoluteness in her voice, "Cecilia, I wish you would not talk to me in this way. You give me great pain.”

“I am sorry if I do, but I cannot help it. I am jealous of the words that are spoken to you, of the air you breathe, of the ground you walk upon. How, then, can I help hating that man?"

The teeth gnawed at the lips, and the eyes were shot with strange flames. Alice trembled: she was obscurely troubled. At last she said:

“I do not -wish to argue this point with you, Cecilia, nor am I sure that I understand it. There is no one I like better than you, dear, but that we should be jealous of each other is absurd.”

"For you perhaps, but not for me." Cecilia looked at Alice reproachfully, and at the end of a long and morose silence she said:

"You received the long letter I wrote to you about him?”

"Yes, Cecilia, and I answered it. It seems to me very foolish to pronounce condemnatory opinion on the whole world; and particularly for you who have seen so little of it.”

“That doesn’t matter. People are blinded by their passions; but when these have worn themselves out they see the truth in all its horrible nakedness. One of these days you’ll tell me that I am right. You have been a good deal in the world lately; tell me if you have found it beautiful. You did not believe me when I told you that men were vile and abominable; you said there were good men in the world... that you were sure of it... Have you found them?... Was Mr. Harding so very perfect?”

Alice coloured; she hesitated, and in the silence Cecilia again divined her friend’s thoughts.

"I do not know that I found the world very different from what I expected to find it. Of course there is evil — and a great deal of evil; and if you will fix your eyes upon it, and brood over it, of course life seems to you only a black and hideous thing; but there is much good — yes, there is good even in things evil; and if we only think of the goodness we become happier even if we do not become better; and I cannot but think that the best and the most feasible mode of life is to try to live up to the ordinary and simple laws of nature of which we are but a part." Here Alice paused, and she sought vainly to define her ideas. She was conscious of the truth that conscience is no more than the indirect laws — the essence of the laws transmitted by heredity; and had she been able to formulate her thought she would have said, "and the ideal life should, it seems to me, lie in the reconciliation — no, reconciliation is not the word I want; I scarcely know how to express myself — well, in making the two ends meet — in making the ends of nature the ends also of what we call our conscience.”

How often do we find — nay, do we not always find — that the aesthetic and philosophic aspirations of an epoch — ideas which we believe to have been the invention of individuals, are but the intellectual atmosphere of that epoch breathed in greater or less quantities by all? Nor does the phenomenon cease here; for the sensitivity of some is so great that they anticipate — obeying an unknown law of attraction — ideas not yet in existence, but which are quickening in the womb of the world. "Wordsworth is an example of this foreseeing, forefeeling, forehearing. For at the time of wilting the "Excursion" the influence of the German pessimists had not penetrated into England; Schopenhauer was an unknown name; and yet poet and philosopher seem but the expansion of a single mind.

Is it therefore unnatural or even extraordinary that Alice Barton, who is if anything a representative woman of?885, should have, in an obscure and formless way, divined the doctrines of Eduard van Hartman, the entire and unconditional resignation of personal existence into the arms of the cosmic process? Cecilia, as has been shown, with her black hatred of life concentrated upon a loathing of the origin of existence, was but another manifestation of the same stratum of thought.

"A very poor ideal indeed, it seems to me that you set yourself- — to make the best of this wretched world.”

"I cannot understand what good can come of craving after the unattainable," said Alice, looking earnestly out of her grey sharp eyes.

"True beauty lies only in the unattainable," said Cecilia, lifting her eyes with that curious movement of the eyeball by which painters represent faith and mysticism. At the end of a long silence, Alice said:

"But you’ll have some tea, will you not, Cecilia?"

"Yes; but do not let us go downstairs.”

"Oh, no; we’ll have it up here; Barnes will bring it up."

"Oh, that will be so nice.”

The girls drew closer to the fire, and in its uniting warmth they looked into the ardent face of their friendship. These moments were inexpressibly delicious. They talked, at first, conscious of the appropriateness of their conversation; but soon forgetful of the more serious themes they had been discussing, questions were asked and answered, and comments passed, upon the presentations, the dresses, the crowds, upon all their acquaintances.

"It is given out, Alice dear, that Lord Kilcarney is coming down to stay at Brookfield. Is it true?”

“I have heard nothing of it. Whom did you hear it from?"

"Well, the Duffys wrote it to my sisters. The Duffys, you know, have all the Dublin news.”

"What dreadful gossips they are! And the wonderful part of it is that they often tell you that things have happened long before they do happen.”

"Yes; I have noticed that. They anticipate the news." The girls laughed lightly, and Cecilia continued: "But tell me, which do you think he admires most, Olive or Violet? The rumour goes that he pays Violet great attentions. The family is, of course, wild about it. She hasn’t a penny piece, and... and Olive, they say, has a good deal of money.”

"I do not know.”

"But you, Alice dear, I suppose you were immensely admired. You must have been.... You must show me the dress you wore.... You described it beautifully in your letter.... You must have looked very sweet.... Did everybody say so?"

"I am not sure that they did.... Men, you know, do not always admire what women do.”

"I should think not. Men only admire beastliness.”

"Cecilia, deal', you should not talk like that; it is not nice." Cecilia looked at Alice wistfully, and she said:

"But tell me about the presentations. I suppose there were an immense number of people present?”

"Yes, and particularly débutantes; there were a great number presented this year. It was considered a large Drawing-room.”

"And how are you presented? I’ve heard my sister speak about it, but I never quite understood.”

"The Lord Lieutenant is standing under his throne, and all his Court are about him — your name is called out by the Chamberlain — a couple of A.D.C.s take your train from your arm, spread it along the floor, and you walk up to his Excellency, and he kisses you on both cheeks.”

"Oh, how beastly? You mean to say, Alice, that that man kissed you?”

“Yes, he did. But it is only a fashion, a ceremony — a stupid one I grant you — but I can’t say ...”

"You mean to say it did not disgust you?" Then after a pause she added, "Perhaps you wished it were Mr. Harding.”

Had Cecilia not been Cecilia, Alice would have answered differently, but disarmed by the love reflected in the luminous eyes she said:

"I believe you do not wish to give me pain, but you can hardly be blind to the fact that such observations are almost meant to wound my feelings.”

"Oh, Alice; no, indeed? I do not wish to give you pain but....”

At that moment Barnes brought in the tea. She set it on a little table used for the purpose. "There is a letter for you, miss, on the tray," she said as she left the room; "it came by the afternoon post.”

Without answering, Alice continued to pour out the tea, but when she handed Cecilia her cup, she said, surprised at the dull sullen stare fixed upon her:

"What is the matter? Why do you look at me like that?”

"That letter, I am sure, is from Harding; it is a man’s handwriting.”

Like a lamp Alice’s face was illumined. She had been expecting that letter for days.

"Oh! give it me," she said impulsively.

"There it is; I wouldn’t touch it. I knew you liked that man; but I did not expect to find you corresponding with him. It is shameful; it is not worthy of you. You might have left such things to May Gould.”

"Cecilia, you have no right to speak to me in that way; you are presuming too much on our friendship.”

"Oh, yes, yes; but before you met him I could not have presumed too much upon our friendship.”

"If you want to know why I wrote to Mr. Harding, I’ll tell you.”

"It was you who wrote to him, then?"

"Yes, I wrote to him. Mr. Harding is, as you have heard, a literary man; he is known to all the newspaper editors and publishers in London. He was very kind when I met him in Dublin; he not only advised and encouraged me to write, but he offered to take anything I might send him to the editors, and try and get it accepted. I see no reason why I should not avail myself of the helping hand he extends to me.’’

"Oh, yes, yes, yes; avail yourself of his assistance; do what you like. I see it all now," cried Cecilia, and she walked wildly to and fro, her eye tinged with a strange glare. "Yes, I see it all. This room, that was once a girl's room, is now Harding’s room. He is the atmosphere of the place. I was conscious of it when I entered, but now it is visible to me — that manuscript, that writing-table, that letter. Oh yes, it is Harding, all is Harding! All I loved is gone!... The whiteness, the purity, the feminacy, all is gone?... The shadow of a man has fallen across our friendship; it is blackened, it is worthless. Cruel, cruel! Why am I thus tortured? why do I suffer? The one thing I thought pure is soiled. There is neither purity nor peace in the world; the same blackness, always the same blackness. The same horrible passion that degrades, that disgraces, that makes animals of us! There is no escaping from it — it is everywhere, it is eternal, it is omnipotent. We are hemmed in on every side by vileness; there is no escape; no, no, no; ...my last hope is gone, and I am alone in this horrible, this ignominious world. Oh that I might die, for I can bear with it no longer! And we all come, we all spring from the same abomination — vile, loathsome, detestable. Take pity, oh, take pity! let me die! Oh, God, take pity! ”

"Cecilia, Cecilia, think, I beg of you, of what you are saying." But when Alice approached and strove to raise the deformed girl from the pillow upon which she had thrown herself, she started up and savagely confronted her.

"Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!" she cried; "I cannot bear it. What are you to me, what am I to you? It is not with me you would care to be, but with him. It is not my kiss of friendship that would console you, but his kiss of passion that would charm you.... Go to him, and leave me to die.”

"Was this insanity?" and then, forgetful of the abuse that was being showered upon her, Alice said:

"Cecilia dear, listen; I’ll forgive the language you have used toward me, for I know you do not know what you are saying. You must be ill... you cannot be in your right senses to-day, or you would not speak like that.”

"Right senses!" replied the girl bitterly; "you would soothe me, but you little dream of the poison you are dropping on my wounds. Right senses! the words show me how much too much I expected of you. 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 to?"

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. They love best to whom all is impossible but love. It was so with Cecilia, and Alice had much to live for now. Every morning she went up to her room to write, and in the evenings, deaf to silly chatter and laughter, she read thoughtfully and industriously. She read the books she had heard Harding speak of. The remembrance of the man endeared them to her, and she believed they would help to educate her better than others she might choose for herself. Her mind being simple, logical, direct — so unblinded by sidelights that it often touched, if it did not merge in, the commonplace — found, without difficulty, words that were at least the appropriate equivalents of the thoughts she wished to express: not being possessed of that supreme power of seeing more than one aspect of her subject, which is genius, her execution was facile and sure as the conception was moderate and well balanced. Her choice of subject was always healthy and practical, and she wrote short stories and a newspaper article unfalteringly: her work as it unfolded itself was an image of the writer’s own integrity and good sense. And if her writings excited neither nervous surprise nor any subtle emotion, they did not provoke contempt by stupidity or vulgarity. She saw life from a normal and sensible standpoint, and her merit lay not in the peculiarity or the keenness of her vision, but in the clearness and the common sense she infused into the writing, as she would have done into any other business she might have undertaken. Au fond, the artistic question troubled her little, but when the first cheque came, when it fell out of the envelope into her lap, her fingers trembled, and, clutching the piece of paper, she went down to breakfast. Joy bubbled in her brain. To know that she could do something, that she would not prove a drag, a hindrance upon the wheel of life, was an effervescent delight.

"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.”

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Barton, "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, however, did not willingly wound. She saw life from the point of view of making use of men: voilà tout. 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 apologise, 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 abominable 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 does not 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 it 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, ma chérie, you must not 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.”

Mrs. Barton’s keenest anxiety was Captain Hibbert. She had, as we have seen, successfully drugged Olive’s light brain with visions of victories and honours; with dancing, dresses, admiration; but now, in the tiring void of country days, the remembrance of Edward’s love and devotion was inevitable. He made 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 it was known that he spent most of his time with her. 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 she could get up a little excitement, and 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. Sir Charles was treated as every man was treated at Brookfield. He was told he was charming, delightful, fascinating; on all occasions he was presented with bouquets; and he was sent away in the nick of time.

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 — no, it would not do. She might ask a couple of the Brennans or the Duffys to stay with them, but they would be in the way, occupy the marquis’s time, and go tell-taling all over the country; no that wouldn’t do either. And Alice did play so badly? 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 regards 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 special 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; and it stands on the seashore — a rocky shore full of seaweed, and the sea flows up a long narrow bay.

Mrs. Barton applied herself diligently to the task of organisation. 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 Six' 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 body-guard of policemen.

"I’m afraid we shall get nothing better than a married man, even if we get that," whispered Bertha.

Mrs. Barton was the life of the party. She flattered everyone — bank clerks and police officers — and her laughter echoed amid the groined arches. Through the mullioned windows beyond the green sea-water, the white town of Kinvarra nestled beneath the mountains; it 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.”

When lunch was over, the party dispersed for a walk, and the usual remarks concerning Mr. Adair were made. "A very clever man, an able man. He took honours at Trinity. It is true he does not care for ladies’ society, but I hear that Gladstone says he cannot do without him." Nor was the famous anecdote about Mr. Ryan, the docket, and the Galway ball omitted. Then the police officers posted their men on the different headlands, and flirtation was supposed to begin, but Olive and the marquis occupied everybody’s attention, and Mrs. Barton’s injudiciousness was severely commented upon.

"But there is no knowing; he may be bought off yet," said Bertha.

"They say that Alice Barton is awfully clever, that she is making a fortune by writing stories," said Gladys Brennan.

"All that’s only to give herself airs. If she can’t be pretty she’d be clever; she’s gone off for a walk with Dr. Reed.”

"If she is clever, she got her cleverness from her father," said another girl. "I don’t pretend to understand painting, but he does look handsome now, that fair beard and straight nose. I call him perfectly lovely; I’d prefer him to Milord any day.”

"I dare say you would, but not when you were paying the housekeeper’s bills or giving your daughter a fortune," exclaimed Bertha coarsely.

Although Mrs. Barton remained strangely blind to the ridicule she excited in her friends, she was keenly alive to the fact that the marquis seemed uninfluenced by Olive’s beauty, nor did the knowledge of her twenty thousand pounds appear to soften his heart. To admit defeat would, however, be vain, and under the most adverse circumstances Mrs. Barton struggled on manfully to the end. And day after day the same line of conduct was implacably adhered to. At ten o’clock he was caught and sent to play tennis or walk in the garden with Olive. The girl’s feelings may be divined in the sudden twitching of the facial muscles; the man is sunk in a state of nervous lethargy, from which he makes periodic efforts to rouse himself. The sun is shining brilliantly. The laurels afford but little shade, and along the flower border two butterflies flap their white wings in the sheeny air. The lovers had not spoken for the last five minutes: their ideas follow the butterflies fatuously. Rousing himself with a supreme effort, the marquis asked:

"Are you very fond of flowers, Miss Barton?"

"Oh yes, I delight in them. Come to the greenhouse and I’ll gather you a bouquet.”

While the bouquet was being cut and prepared a few remarks were made, but when it was pinned into the buttonhole another morose silence fell, and they sought in vain to disentangle themselves from its meshes.

During the marquis’s stay at Brookfield there were frequent dinner parties. On May 7 Mr. Adair, Mr. Ryan, and Sir Charles, were seated beneath Mr. Barton’s different versions of the "Bridal of Triermain," which he declared to possess "all the beauties of Raphael, and other beauties besides." A magnificent turbot was on the table. Lord Dungory had just delivered himself of a neat epigram, and Mr. Adair was explaining 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. Mr. Forster’s Coercion Bill was, as I always said, an absurd and ineffective measure. I have always placed my faith in Mr. Gladstone, and I refuse to believe in the existence of the Kilmainham treaty; it has, I am convinced, no existence in fact; it is no more than a Tory device.... And then how do you explain the appointment of Lord Frederick Cavendish?"

At that moment the butler entered the room with an entrée. Speaking to Mr. Barton he said;

“Very dreadful news has just been received in Gort, sir: Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were murdered last night in the Phoenix Park.”

The knives and forks dropped clinking on the plates as the entire company looked up with white terror painted upon their faces. Mr. Adair was the first to speak:

"This is," he said, "an infamous and lying report that has been put into circulation....

"It is, unfortunately, quite true, sir; it is in all the Sunday papers?"

"Have you got a paper?"

"Yes, sir.”

A paper was handed to Mr. Adair, and he read aloud the account of the Phoenix Park murders. All eyes were fixed upon him; and when he raised his eyes from the paper, the fixity of the glances he encountered shocked him. It was one of those moments when terror seems to force the soul into the eyes, as a ray of sunlight fills dead and sullen waters with an image of the sky. No one spoke, and Mrs. Barton’s hospitable board was encircled with the vague abandonment of sailors who feel the sinking vessel for the last time lifting herself for a final plunge before settling down into the deep.

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, waving her white hand impatiently.

"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, and Mrs. Barton, always anxious to calm troubled waters, 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 eagerly 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 unite 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.... You know that….”

Mrs. Barton led the poor little man into the further corner of the room, and making a place for him by her side, she said:

"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.