by George Moore
This argument again turned the scales. Olive laughed, but her laugh was full of the nervous excitement from which she suffered. “I shan’t know what to say,” she exclaimed, tossing her head, “so I hope you will help me out of my difficulty, Alice.”
“I wish I could be left out of it altogether,” said the girl, who was sitting with her back to the horses. “It seems to me that I am being put into a very false position!”
“Put into a false position!” said Mrs. Barton; and for a moment the melting, Greuze-like eyes hardened and flashed with golden lights. “I’ll hear no more of this! If you won’t do as you are told you had better go back to St. Leonards — such wicked jealousy.”
“Oh, mamma!” said Alice wounded to the quick, “how can you be so unjust?” She could say no more; and her eyes filled with acute tears. Since she had left school she had experienced little but a sense of retreating within herself, to escape the blinding and filthy rain of falsehood that swept in from all sides. But now the last refuge, the last verge had been reached. To live, to think, to act as did those by whom she was surrounded was impossible. Whither to go? A broken world seemed to slide and reel beneath her feet. Why was she not like the others? — why could she not think as they did? her soul cried out in its anguish; and for the pain it caused her, she almost hated the invincible goodness of her nature. Mrs. Barton was a close observer, and, seeing her temper had betrayed her into a grave indiscretion, she said:
“I am sorry, Alice dear, for having spoken so crossly; but I am sorely tried. I realty am more to be pitied than blamed; and, if you knew all, you would, I know, be the first to try to help me out of my difficulties, instead of striving to increase them.”
“I would do anything to help you,” exclaimed Alice, deceived by the accent of sorrow with which Mrs. Barton knew how to invest her words.
“I am sure you would, if you know how much depends — But dry your eyes, my dear, for goodness’ sake. Here we are at the door. I only want you to be with Olive when she tells Captain Hibbert that she cannot — and, now mind, Olive, you tell him plainly that he must not consider himself engaged to you.”
In the meeting of the lovers Mrs. Barton scored a point. The Captain was visibly perplexed and embarrassed, whereas Olive laughed, and seemed at her ease. In the ceremonious drawing-room, patched with fragments of Indian drapery, Lady Jane and Lady Sarah sat angularly and as far from their guests as possible. The spinsters suspected that their house was being made use of as a battle-ground by Mrs.
Barton, and they were determined to resent the impertinence as far as lay in their power. But Milord continued to speak of indifferent things with urbanity and courtly gestures — and as they descended the staircase, he explained the beauty of his marble statues and his stuffed birds.
“But, Lady Jane, where is Cecilia? I hope she is not unwell?”
“Oh, no; Cecilia is quite well, thank you. But she never comes down when there is company, — she is so very sensitive. But that reminds me. She told me to tell you that she is dying to see you. You will find her waiting for you in her room when we have finished lunch.”
“Cecilia is not the only person to be thought of,” said Milord. “I will not allow Alice to hide herself away upstairs for the rest of the afternoon. I hear, Alice, you are a great admirer of Tennyson’s Idylls. I have just received a new edition of his poems, with illustrations by Doré: charming artist, full of poetry, fancy, sweetness, imagination. Do you admire Doré, Captain Hibbert?”
The Captain declared that he admired Doré far more than the old masters, a point of taste that Milord ventured to question; and until they rose from table he spoke of his collection of Arundel prints with grace and erudition. Then they all went out to walk on the terrace. But as their feet echoed in the silence of the hall, Cecilia, in a voice tremulous with expectancy, was heard speaking:
“Alice, come upstairs; I am waiting for you.” Alice made a movement as if to comply, but, stepping under the banisters, Lord Dungory said:
“Alice cannot come now, she is going out to walk with us, dear. She will see you afterwards.”
“Oh! let me go to her,” said Alice eagerly, for in her heart still vibrated the pain caused by Lady Sarah’s pitiless remark: “Cecilia never comes down when there is company.”
“There will he plenty of time to see her later on,” whispered Mrs. Barton, sweetly and insidiously. “Remember what you promised me,” and she pointed to Captain Hibbert, who was standing on the steps of the house, his wide decorative shoulders defined against a piece of grey sky.
In despair at her own helplessness, and with a feeling of loathing so strong that it seemed like physical sickness, Alice went forward and entered into conversation with Captain Hibbert. Lord Dungory, Mrs. Barton, and Olive walked together; Lady Jane and Lady Sarah followed at a little distance. In this order the party proceeded down the avenue as far as the first gate; then they returned by a side walk leading through the laurels, and stood in a line facing the wind-worn tennis-ground, with its black, flowerless beds, and bleak vases of alabaster and stone. Prom time to time remarks anent the Land League were made; but all knew that a drama even as important as that of rent was being enacted. Olive had joined her sister, and the girls moved forward on cither side of the handsome Captain; and, as a couple of shepherds directing the movements of their flock, Lord Dungory and Mrs. Barton stood watching. Suddenly her eyes met Lady Jane’s. The glance exchanged was tempered in the hatred of years; it was vindictive, cruel, terrible; it shone as menacingly as if the women had drawn daggers from their skirts, and Jane, obeying a sudden impulse, broke away from her sister, and called to Captain Hibbert. Fortunately he did not hear her, and, before she could speak again, Lord Dungory said:
“Jane, now Jane, I beg of you—”
Mrs. Barton smiled a sweet smile of reply, and whispered to herself: “Do that again, my lady, and you won’t have ft penny to spend this year.”
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
“NOW, DEAR, TELL me, I want to hear all about it,” said Mrs. Barton, as the carriage left the steps of Dungory Castle. “What did he say?”
“Oh! mamma, mamma, I am afraid I have broken his heart,” replied Olive dolorously. Then she laughed a little.
“It doesn’t do a girl any harm even if it does leak out that she jilted a man; it makes the others more eager after her. But tell me, dear, I hope there was no misunderstanding; did you really tell him that it was no use, that he must think of you no more?”
“Mamma dear, don’t make me go over it again, I can’t, I can’t; Alice heard all I said — she’ll tell you.”
“No, no, don’t appeal to me; it’s no affair of mine,” exclaimed the girl more impetuously than she had intended.
“I am surprised at you, Alice; you shouldn’t give way to temper in that way. Come tell me at once what happened.”
The thin, grey, candid eyes of the daughter, and the brown, soft, false eyes of the mother, exchanged a long deep gaze of inquiry, and then Alice burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. She trembled from too much grief, and could not answer; and when she heard her mother say to Olive, “Now that the coast is clear, we can go in heart and soul for the marquess,” a sense of the moral degradation, to which she had been so cruelly subjected, came upon her like the foul odours of a dirty kitchen issuing through a grating.
The time for departure was now drawing near; the day of departure had been fixed; only one more week of Galway remained to be endured. But that week hung heavier than all the rest, and the hours limped slowly away. It rained incessantly. Sheets of water, blown thitherward by winds that had travelled the Atlantic, deluged the county; grey mists trailed mournful and shapeless along the edges of the domain woods, over the ridges of the tenants’ holdings. Gloom, gloom, January gloom, and yet no gloom to deaden the cries for vengeance for the assassination of landlords, of agents — for the cold-blooded torturings of bailiffs, caretakers, and other deadly deeds done in the darkness; no gloo
m to hide the informer, and the peasant cruelty that fell upon defenceless cattle; not gloom enough to stifle the lowing of the red-dripping mutilations that filled the humid darkness of the fields.
The year was drawing to its close — a year of plenty, but bitter with the memory of years of famine. With hunger still in their eyes the peasants had risen out of their wet hovels; they seemed to be innumerable as ants; they filled the roadways at night, and on each Sunday, from the Land League platforms, their outcry for a higher life rattled, and rolled, and cracked, like thunder, until the very air trembled with retributive victory and doom. “Never more shall we be driven forth to die in the bogs and ditches,” was the cry that rang through the mist; and, guarded by policemen, in their stately houses, the landlords listened, waiting for the sword of a new coercion to fall and release them from their bondage.
The meeting of Parliament in the spring would bring them this; in the meantime, all who could, fled, resolving not to return till the law restored the power that the Land League had so rudely shaken. Some went to England, others to France. Mr. Barton accepted two hundred pounds from his wife and proceeded to study gargoyles and pictures in Bruges; and, striving to forget the murders and rumours of murders that filled the papers, the girls and their mammas talked of beaux, partners, and trains, in spite of the irritating presence of the Land League agitators who stood on the platforms of the different stations. The train was full of girls. Besides the Bartons, there were the Brennans: Gladys and Zoe — Emily remained at home to look after the place. Three of the Miss Duffys were coming to the drawing-room, and four of the Honourable Miss Gores; the Goulds and Scullys made one party, and they were accompanied by the illustrious Fred. To avoid Mrs. Barton, the Ladies Cullen had pleaded important duties. They were to follow in a day or so.
Lord Dungory talked incessantly to Mrs. Barton. He advised her to take a house, and warned her against spending the whole season in an hotel, but apparently without avail, for whenever the train stopped a laughing voice was heard: “Milord, Vous n’êtes qu’un vilain misanthrope; we shall be very comfortable at the Shelbourne; we shall meet all the people in Dublin there, and we can have private rooms to give dinner parties.” And, hearing this, Alice congratulated herself. Her practical mind had determined to make the best of the present ordering of things. She did not expect to be admired, she knew she would find but few partners, and would have to sit neglected by her mother’s side during the long Castle balls. But anything was better than to remain in Galway, where there was nothing to do but listen to Olive crying after Captain Hibbert, read accounts of dreadful murders, and watch her mother flirting with Milord. Dublin society would he at least a glimpse of the world; and she would hear something, and see a little over the horizon of her family. She therefore looked forward with avidity to two months’ life in the Shelbourne; she thought of the surprise of new faces, and the charm of unexpected impressions. Nor was she disappointed. For, even on entering the hall, she was amused by the quick voice of the busy porter, by the sight of the piled-up luggage. The little winter-garden on the first landing, and the fountain splashing amid ferns and stone frogs, were remembered. The ladies’ drawing-room she knew was on the right, and when she had taken off her hat and jacket, leaving her mother and sister talking of Mrs. Symond and Lord Kilcarney, she went there hoping to find some of the people whom she had met there before.
But for the presence of one man, the room was deserted. The usually skirt-filled ottoman stood vacantly gaping, the little chairs seemed lonely about the hearthrug, even the sofa, where sat the invalid old ladies, was unoccupied, and the perforated blinds gave the crowds that passed up and down the street a shadow-like appearance. The prospect was not inspiriting, but not knowing what else to do, Alice sat down by the fire. Presently she became conscious that the eyes of the man on the other side of the rug were fixed upon her. She looked up and was at once impressed with his appearance. It was John Harding.
“I wonder who he is,” thought Alice; and, averting her eyes, she looked into the fire, seeing there, as in a mirror, the See “A Modern Lover,” and “A Mummer’s Wife.” sharp clean-cut nose, the pointed chin, the long wavy brown hair, and the cold, close-set, keen-sighted, passionless blue eyes. His arched insteps, silk socks, and elegant shoes were very visible: and he shifted his long legs from time to time, as he strove, with a stumpy bit of pencil, that would not mark, to correct the MS. that lay upon his knees. Then Alice wondered what he was writing. She could not help thinking he was the nicest man she had seen; and, looking at him again, half-curiously, half-admiringly, she lapsed into dreams of him. He worked for some minutes laboriously, twisting his pencil from side to side, until at last, with an exclamation of disgust, he shut the book. Their eyes met again; and even when Alice, in shame, turned her face away, she felt that he was examining her closely and intently. Would he never leave off? Growing nervous, and afraid of scrutiny, she made a movement to stir the fire.
“Will you allow me?” he said, rising from his chair, “I beg your pardon, but, if you will allow me, I will arrange the fire.”
Alice let him have the poker. When he had knocked in the coal-crust, and put on some fresh fuel, he said: —
“If it were not for me I do not know what would become of this fire. I believe the old porter goes to sleep and forgets all about it. Now and again he wakes up and makes a deal of fuss with a shovel and a broom.”
So brightly, and with such keen inflexions of voice, were these words spoken, that Alice looked up at once surprised and amused. She was vaguely conscious that it was not perhaps quite the correct thing to do to enter into conversation, but before she was well aware she had answered:
“I really can’t say, we only came up from Galway today.”
“Then you don’t know the famous Shelbourne Hotel! Oh, it is quite an institution. All the events of life are accomplished here. People live here, and die here, and flirt here, and, I was going to say, marry here — but hitherto the Shelbourne marriages have resulted in break-offs — and we quarrel here; the friends of to-day are enemies to-morrow, and then they sit at different ends of the room. Oh! life in the Shelbourne is a thing in itself, and a thing to be studied.”
Alice laughed again; and again she continued her conversation.
“I really know nothing of the Shelbourne. I was only here once before, and then only for a few days last summer, when I came home from school.”
“And now you are here for the drawing-room?”
“Yes, but how did you guess that?”
“The natural course of events: a young lady leaves school, she spends four or five months at home, and then she is taken to the Lord-Lieutenant’s drawing-room.”
Alice remained silent. There was an accent of cynical satire in Mr. Harding’s words that had suddenly jarred her feelings. He had touched a chord sharply that had long been vibrating in the darkness of her consciousness. She liked him none the better for what he had said, and for a moment longed to bring the conversation to a close. But when he spoke again she forgot her intentions, and allowed his voice to charm her.
“I think you told me,” he said, “that you came up from Galway to-day; may I ask you from what side of the country?”
Another piece of impertinence. Why should he question her? and yet she answered him.
“We live near Gort — do you know Gort?”
“Oh! yes, I have been travelling for the last two months in Ireland. I spent nearly a fortnight in Galway. Lord Dungory lives near Gort. Do you know him?”
“Very well indeed, he is our nearest neighbour; we see him nearly every day. Do you know him?”
“Yes, a little. I have met him in London. If I had not been so pressed for time, I should have called upon him when I was in Galway. I passed his place, going to a land meeting — oh! you need not he alarmed; I am not a Land League organiser, or else I should not have thought of calling at Dungory Castle. Beautiful place it is, and what a pretty drive it is from there to Gort. I know the road
perfectly.”
“Then, do you know a place on the left-hand side of the road, about a mile and a half from Dungory Castle?”
“You mean Brookfield?”
“Yes, that is our place.”
“Then you are Miss Barton?”
“Yes, I am Miss Barton; do you know father or mother?”
“No, no; but I have heard the name in Galway. I was spending a few days with one of your neighbours.”
“Oh, really!” said Alice, a little embarrassed; for she knew it must have been with the Lawlers that he had been staying. At the end of a long silence, she said:
“I am afraid you have chosen a rather unfortunate time for visiting Ireland. All these terrible outrages, murders, refusals to pay rent; I wonder you have not been frightened away.”
“As I do not possess a foot of land, I believe I should say ‘not land enough to sod a lark,’ my claim to collect rent would rest on even a slighter basis than that of the landlords; and as, with the charming inconsistency of your race, you have taken to killing each other instead of slaughtering the hated Saxon, I really feel safer in Ireland than elsewhere. Besides, I am interested in agrarian outrage and the non-payment of rent.”
Alice raised an alarmed face; she looked inquiringly into Harding’s expressionless eyes.
“There is no need to be frightened,” he said, laughing. “I am not a Land League agitator, nor am I an American adventurer.”
In a pretty and embarrassed way the girl smiled. Words rose to her lips to ask him what he was doing in Ireland; but she checked herself and looked into the fire.
He watched her curiously for a few moments, then he said, assuming an air of indifference:
“I am in Ireland for the purpose of writing a couple of review articles. When they have appeared I shall add to them, and then they will come out in book form.”