Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  ‘Ah! you see she is coming out of her shell at last,’ exclaimed May. ‘I saw you weren’t having a very good time of it when he took you down to dinner at Dungory Castle. I wonder they were asked. Fred told me that he had never heard of their having been there before.’

  ‘It is very difficult to make up a number sometimes,’ suggested Mrs. Gould; ‘but they are certainly very coarse. I hear, when Mr. Ryan and Mr. Lynch go to fairs, that they sleep with their herdsman, and in Mayo there is a bachelor’s house where they have fine times — whiskey-drinking and dancing until three o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘And where do the ladies come from, May?’ asked Alice, for she now looked on the girl as an inexhaustible fund of information.

  ‘Plenty of ladies in the village,’ replied Mrs. Gould, rubbing her shins complacently; ‘that’s what I used to hear of in my day, and I believe the custom isn’t even yet quite extinct.’

  ‘And are there no other beaux in the county? Does that exhaust the list?’

  ‘Oh! no; but there’s something against them all. There are a few landlords who live away, and of whom nobody knows anything. Then there are some boys at school; but they are too young; there is Mr. Reed, the dispensary doctor. Mr. Burke has only two hundred a year; but if his brother were to die he would be the Marquis of Kilcarney. He’d be a great match then, in point of position; but I hear the estates are terribly encumbered.’

  ‘Has the present Marquis no children?’ said Alice.

  ‘He’s not married,’ said Mrs. Gould; ‘he’s a confirmed old bachelor. Just fancy, there’s twenty years between the brothers. I remember, in old times, the present Marquis used to be the great beau at the Castle. I don’t believe there was a girl in Dublin who didn’t have a try at him. Then who else is there? I suppose I daren’t mention the name of Mr. Fred Scully, or May will fly at me.’

  ‘No, mother dear, I won’t fly at you; but what is the use of abusing Fred? — we have known him all our lives. If he has spent his money he has done no worse than a hundred other young men. I know I can’t marry him, and I am not in love with him; but I must amuse myself with something. I can’t sit here all day listening to you lamenting over the Land League; and, after a certain number of hours, conjecturing whether Mickey Moran will or will not pay his rent becomes monotonous.’

  ‘Now don’t vex me, May; for I won’t stand it,’ said Mrs. Gould, getting angry. ‘When you ask me for a new dress you don’t think of what you are saying now. It was only the other day you were speaking to me of refurnishing this room. I should like to know how that’s to be done if there was no one to look after Mickey Moran’s rent?’

  The girls looked round the large, dull room. Emaciated forms of narrow, antique sofas were seen dimly in the musty-smelling twilight. Screens worked in red and green wools stood in the vicinity of the fireplace, the walls were lined with black pictures, and the floor, hidden in dark shadow and sunken in places, conveyed an instant idea of damp and mildew.

  ‘I think that something ought to be done,’ said May. ‘Just look at these limp curtains! Did you ever see anything so dreary? Are they brown, or red, or chocolate?’

  ‘They satisfied your betters,’ said Mrs. Gould, as she lighted her bedroom candle. ‘Goodness me!’ she added, glancing at the gilt clock that stood on the high, stucco, white-painted chimney-piece, amid a profusion of jingling glass candelabra, ‘it is really half-past twelve o’clock!’

  ‘Gracious me! there’s another evening wasted; we must really try and be more industrious. It is too late to do anything further to-night,’ said May. ‘Come on, Alice, it is time to go to bed.’

  X

  DURING THE WHOLE of the next week, until the very night of the ball, the girls hadn’t a moment they could call their own. It was impossible to say how time went. There were so many things to think of — to remind each other of. Nobody knew what they had done last, or what they should do next. The principle on which the ball had been arranged was this: the forty-five spinsters who had agreed to bear the expense, which it was guaranteed would not exceed £3 10s. apiece, were supplied each with five tickets to be distributed among their friends. To save money, the supper had been provided by the Goulds and Manlys, and day after day the rich smells of roast beef and the salt vapours of boiling hams trailed along the passages, and ascended through the banisters of the staircases in Beech Grove and Manly Park. Fifty chickens had been killed; presents of woodcock and snipe were received from all sides; salmon had arrived from Galway; cases of champagne from Dublin. As a wit said, ‘Circe has prepared a banquet and is calling us in.’

  After much hesitation, a grammar-school, built by an enterprising landlord for an inappreciative population that had declined to support it, was selected as the most suitable location for the festivities. It lay about a mile from the town, and this was in itself an advantage. To the decoration of the rooms May and Fred diligently applied themselves. Away they went every morning, the carriage filled with yards of red cloth, branches of evergreen, oak and holly, flags and Chinese lanterns. You see them: Fred mounted on a high ladder, May and the maid striving to hand him a long garland which is to be hung between the windows. You see them leaning over the counter of a hardware shop, explaining how oblong and semicircular pieces of tin are to be provided with places for candles (the illumination of the room had remained an unsolved problem until ingenious Fred had hit upon this plan); you see them running up the narrow staircases, losing themselves in the twisty passages, calling for the housekeeper; you see them trying to decide which is the gentlemen’s cloakroom, which the ladies’, and wondering if they will be able to hire enough furniture in the town to arrange a sitting-room for the chaperons.

  As May said, ‘We shall have them hanging about our heels the whole evening if we don’t try to make them comfortable.’

  At last the evening of the ball arrived, and, as the clocks were striking eight, dressed and ready to start, Alice knocked at May’s door.

  ‘What! dressed already?’ said May, as she leaned towards the glass, illuminated on either side with wax candles, and looked into the whiteness of her bosom. She wore a costume of Prussian-blue velvet and silk; the bodice (entirely of velvet) was pointed back and front, and a berthe of moresque lace softened the contrast between it and the cream tints of the skin. These and the flame-coloured hair were the spirits of the shadowy bedchamber; whereas Alice, in her white corded-silk, her clear candid eyes, was the truer Madonna whose ancient and inferior prototype stood on her bracket in a forgotten corner.

  ‘Oh! how nice you look!’ exclaimed May; ‘I don’t think I ever saw anyone look so pure.’

  Alice smiled; and, interpreting the smile, May said:

  ‘I am afraid you don’t think so much of me.’

  ‘I am sure, May, you look very nice indeed, and just as you would like to look.’

  To May’s excitable mind it was not difficult to suggest a new train of thought, and she immediately proceeded to explain why she had chosen her present dress.

  ‘I knew that you, and Olive, and Violet, and Lord knows how many others would be in white, and, as we shall all have to wear white at the Drawing-Room, I thought I’d appear in this. But isn’t the whole thing delightful? I am engaged already for several dances, and I have been practising the step all day with Fred.’ Then, singing to herself, she waltzed in front of the glass at the immediate risk of falling into the bath:

  ‘“Five-and-forty spinsters baked in a pie!

  When the pie was opened the maids began to sing,

  Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the King!”

  ‘Oh, dear, there’s my garter coming down!’ and, dropping on to the sofa, the girl hitched up the treacherous article of dress. ‘And tell me what you think of my legs,’ she said, advancing a pair of stately calves. ‘Violet says they are too large.’

  ‘They seem to me to be all right; but, May dear, you haven’t got a petticoat on.’

  ‘You can’t wear petticoats with these tigh
t dresses; one can’t move one’s legs as it is.’

  ‘But don’t you think you’ll feel cold — catch cold?’

  ‘Not a bit of it; no danger of cold when you have shammy-leather drawers.’

  Then, overcome by her exuberant feelings, May began to sing: ‘Five-and-forty spinsters baked in a pie,’ etc. ‘Five-and-forty,’ she said, breaking off, ‘have subscribed. I wonder how many will be married by this time next year? You know, I shouldn’t care to be married all at once; I’d want to see the world a bit first. Even if I liked a man, I shouldn’t care to marry him now; time enough in about three years’ time, when one is beginning to get tired of flirtations and parties. I have often wondered what it must be like. Just fancy waking up and seeing a man’s face on the pillow, or for—’

  ‘No, no, May; I will not; you must not. I will not listen to these improper conversations!’

  ‘Now, don’t get angry, there’s a dear, nice girl; you’re worse than Violet, ‘pon my word you are; but we must be off. It is a good half-hour’s drive, and we shall want to be there before nine. The people will begin to come in about that time.’

  Mrs. Gould was asleep in the drawing-room, and, as they awoke her, the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel outside. The girls hopped into the carriage. Mrs. Gould pulled herself in, and, blotted out in a far corner, thought vaguely of asking May not to dance more than three times with Fred Scully; May chattered to Alice or looked impatiently through the misted windows for the familiar signs; the shadow of a tree on the sky, or the obscure outline of a farm-building that would tell how near they were to their destination. Suddenly the carriage turned to the right, and entered a sort of crescent. There were hedges on both sides, through which vague forms were seen scrambling, but May humorously explained that as no very unpopular landlord was going to be present, it was not thought that an attempt would be made to blow up the building; and, conscious of the beautiful night which hung like a blue mysterious flower above them, they passed through a narrow doorway draped with red-striped canvas.

  ‘Now, mother, what do you think of the decorations? Do say a word of praise.’

  ‘I’ve always said, May, that you have excellent taste.’

  The school-hall and refectory had been transformed into ball and supper rooms, and the narrow passages intervening were hung with red cloth and green garlands of oak and holly. On crossing threads Chinese lanterns were wafted luminously.

  ‘What taste Fred has!’ said May, pointing to the huge arrangement that covered the end wall. ‘And haven’t my tin candelabra turned out a success? There will be no grease, and the room couldn’t be better lighted.’

  ‘But look!’ said Alice, ‘look at all those poor people staring in at the window. Isn’t it dreadful that they, in the dark and cold, should be watching us dancing in our beautiful dresses, and in our warm bright room?’

  ‘You don’t want to ask them in, do you?’

  ‘Of course not, but it seems very sinister; doesn’t it seem so to you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by its being sinister; but sinister or not sinister, it couldn’t be helped; for if we had nailed up every window we should have simply died of heat.’

  ‘I hope you won’t think of opening the windows too soon,’ said Mrs. Gould. ‘You must think of us poor chaperons, who will be sitting still all night.’

  Then, in the gaping silence, the three ladies listened to the melancholy harper and the lachrymose fiddlers who, on the estrade in the far corner, sat tuning their instruments. At last the people began to come in. The first were a few stray blackcoats, then feminine voices were heard in the passages, and necks and arms, green toilettes and white satin shoes, were seen passing and taking seats. Two Miss Duffys, the fattest of the four, were with their famous sister Bertha. Bertha was rarely seen in Galway; she lived with an aunt in Dublin, where her terrible tongue was dreaded by the débutantes at the Castle. In a yellow dress as loud and as hard as her voice, she stood explaining that she had come down expressly for the ball. Opposite, the Honourable Miss Gores made a group of five; and a few men who preferred consideration to amusement made their way towards them. The Brennans — Gladys and Zoe — as soon as they saw Alice, asked after Lord Dungory; and all the girls were anxious to see Violet, who they feared would seem thin in a low dress.

  Hers was the charm of an infinite fragility. The bosom, whose curves were so faint that they were epicene, was set in a bodice of white broché, joining a skirt of white satin, with an overskirt of tulle, and the only touch of colour was a bunch of pink and white azaleas worn on the left shoulder. And how irresistibly suggestive of an Indian carved ivory were the wee foot, the thin arm, the slender cheek!

  ‘How sweet you look, Violet,’ said Alice, with frank admiration in her eyes.

  ‘Thanks for saying so; ’tisn’t often we girls pay each other compliments. But you, you do look ever so nice in that white silk. It becomes you perfectly.’ And then, her thoughts straying suddenly from Alice’s dress, she said:

  ‘Do you see Mr. Burke over there? If his brother died he would be a marquis. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes; I met him at dinner at Dungory Castle.’

  ‘Well, introduce him to me if you get a chance.’

  ‘I am afraid you will find him stupid.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter; ’tis good form to be seen dancing with an Honourable. Do you know many men in the room?’

  Alice admitted she knew no one, and, lapsing into silence, the girls scanned the ranks for possible partners. Poor Sir Richard, already very drunk, his necktie twisted under his right ear, was vainly attempting to say something to those whom he knew, or fancied he knew. Sir Charles, forgetful of the family at home, was flirting with a young girl whose mother was probably formulating the details of a new emigration scheme. Dirty Mr. Ryan, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggy trousers, whispered words of counsel to Mr. Lynch: a rumour had gone abroad that Captain Hibbert was going to hunt that season in Galway, and would want a couple of horses. Mr. Adair was making grotesque attempts to talk to a lady of dancing. On every side voices were heard speaking of the distances they had achieved: some had driven twenty, some thirty miles.

  Already the first notes of the waltz had been shrieked out by the cornet, and Mr. Fred Scully, with May’s red tresses on his shoulder, was about to start, when Mrs. Barton and Olive entered. Olive, in white silk, so tightly drawn back that every line of her supple thighs, and every plumpness of her superb haunches was seen; and the double garland of geraniums that encircled the tulle veiling seemed like flowers of blood scattered on virgin snow. Her beauty imposed admiration; and, murmuring assent, the dancers involuntarily drew into lines, and this pale, uncoloured loveliness, her high nose seen, and her silly laugh heard, by the side of her sharp, brown-eyed mother, passed down the room. Lord Dungory and Lord Rosshill advanced to meet them; a moment after Captain Hibbert and Mr. Burke came up to ask for dances; a waltz was promised to each. A circling crowd of black-coats instantly absorbed the triumphant picture; the violinist scraped, and the harper twanged intermittently; a band of fox-hunters arrived; girls had been chosen, and in the small space of floor that remained the white skirts and red tail coats passed and repassed, borne along Strauss’s indomitable rhythms.

  An hour passed: perspiration had begun to loosen the work of curling-tongs; dust had thickened the voices, but the joy of exercise was in every head and limb. A couple would rush off for a cup of tea, or an ice, and then, pale and breathless, return to the fray. Mrs. Manly was the gayest. Pushing her children out of her skirts, she called upon May:

  ‘Now then, May, have you a partner? We are going to have a real romp — we are going to have Kitchen Lancers. I’ll undertake to see everybody through them.’

  A select few, by signs, winks, and natural instinct, were drawn towards this convivial circle; but, notwithstanding all her efforts to make herself understood, Mrs. Manly was sadly hampered by the presence of a tub-like old lady who, with
a small boy, was seeking a vis-à-vis.

  ‘My dear May, we can’t have her here, we are going to romp; anyone can see that. Tell her we are going to dance Kitchen Lancers.’

  But the old lady could not be made to understand, and it was with difficulty that she was disentangled from the sixteen. At that moment the appearance of a waiter with a telegram caused the dancers to pause. Mr. Burke’s name was whispered in front of the messenger; but he who, until that evening, had been Mr. Burke, was now the Marquis of Kilearney. The smiling mouth drooped to an expression of fear as he tore open the envelope. One glance was enough; he looked about the room like one dazed. Then, as his eyes fell upon the vague faces seen looking through the wet November pane, he muttered: ‘Oh! you brutes, you brutes! so you have shot my brother!’

  Unchecked, the harper twanged and the fiddler scraped out the tune of their Lancers. Few really knew what had happened, and the newly-made marquis had to fight his way through women who, in skin-tight dresses, danced with wantoning movements of the hips, and threw themselves into the arms of men, to be, in true kitchen-fashion, whirled round and round with prodigious violence.

  Nevertheless, Lord Dungory and Lord Rosshill could not conceal their annoyance; both felt keenly that they had compromised themselves by remaining in the room after the news of so dreadful a catastrophe. But, as Mrs. Barton was anxious that her daughter’s success should not be interfered with, nothing could be done but to express sympathy in appropriate words. Nobody, Lord Dungory declared, could regret the dastardly outrage that had been committed more than he. He had known Lord Kilcarney many years, and he had always found him a man whom no one could fail to esteem. The earldom was one of the oldest in Ireland, but the marquisate did not go back farther than the last few years. Beaconsfield had given him a step in the peerage; no one knew why. A very curious man — most retiring — hated society. Then Lord Rosshill related an anecdote concerning an enormous water-jump that he and Lord Kilcarney had taken together; and he also spoke of the late Marquis’s aversion to matrimony, and hinted that he had once refused a match which would have relieved the estates of all debt. But he could not be persuaded; indeed, he had never been known to pay any woman the slightest attention.