by George Moore
XXIII
BUT LORD KILCARNEY’S replies to these letters seldom consisted of more than a few well-chosen words, and he often allowed a week, and sometimes a fortnight, to elapse before answering at all. Olive — too vain and silly to understand the indifference with which she was treated — whined and fretted less than might have been expected. She spent a great deal of her time with Barnes, who fed her with scandal and flattery. But a storm was about to break, and in August it was known, without any possibility of a doubt, that the Marquis was engaged to Violet Scully, and that their marriage was settled for the autumn.
And this marriage, and the passing of the Bill for the Prevention of Crime, were the two interests present in the mind of Irish landlordism during the summer of ‘82. Immediately the former event was publicly announced, every girl in Dublin ran to her writing desk to confirm to her friends and relatives the truth of the news which for the last two months she had so resolutely anticipated. The famous Bertha, the terror of the débutantes, rushed to Brookfield, but she did not get there before the Brennans, and the result was a meeting of these families of girls in Mrs. Barton’s drawing-room. Gladys was, however, the person chosen by God and herself to speak the wonderful words:
‘Of course you have heard the news, Mrs. Barton?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Barton, a little nervously; ‘what is it?’
‘Oh yes, what is it?’ exclaimed Olive. ‘Anyone going to be married?’
‘Yes. Can you guess?’
‘No; tell me quick . . . no, do tell me. Are you going to be married?’
Had Olive been suddenly dowered with the wit of Congreve she could not have contrived an answer that would have shielded her better from the dart that Gladys was preparing to hurl. The girl winced; and divining the truth in a moment of inspiration, Mrs. Barton said:
‘Ah! I know; Lord Kilcarney is engaged to Violet Scully.’
The situation was almost saved, and would have been had Olive not been present. She glanced at her mother in astonishment; and Gladys, fearing utter defeat, hurled her dart recklessly.
‘Yes,’ she exclaimed, ‘and their marriage is fixed for this autumn.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it. . . . You only say so because you think it will annoy me.’
‘My dear Olive, how can it annoy you? You know very well you refused him,’ said Mrs. Barton, risking the danger of contradiction. ‘Gladys is only telling us the news.’
‘News, indeed; a pack of lies. I know her well; and all because — because she didn’t succeed in hooking the man she was after in the Shelbourne last year. I’m not going to listen to her lies, if you are;’ and on these words Olive flaunted passionately out of the room.
‘So very sorry, really,’ exclaimed Zoe. ‘We really didn’t know . . . indeed we didn’t. We couldn’t have known that — that there was any reason why dear Olive wouldn’t like to hear that Lord Kilcarney was engaged to Violet.’
‘Not at all, not at all. I assure you that whatever question there may once have been, I give you my word, was broken off a long time ago; they did not suit each other at all,’ said Mrs. Barton. Now that she was relieved of the presence of her young, the mother fought admirably. But in a few minutes the enemy was reinforced by the arrival of the Hon. Miss Gores.
‘Oh, how do you do? I am so glad to see you,’ said Mrs. Barton, the moment they entered the room. ‘Have you heard the news? all is definitely settled between the little Marquis and Violet. We were all talking of it; I am so glad for her sake. Of course it is very grand to be a marchioness, but I’m afraid she’ll find her coronet a poor substitute for her dinner. You know what a state the property is in. She has married a beggar. The great thing after all, nowadays, is money.’
It would have been better perhaps not to have spoken of Lord Kilcarney’s mortgages, but the Marquis’s money embarrassments were the weak point in Violet’s marriage, but it would not be natural (supposing that Olive had herself refused Lord Kilcarney) for her not to speak of them. So she prattled on gaily for nearly an hour, playing her part admirably, extricating herself from a difficult position and casting some doubt — only a little, it is true, but a little was a gain on the story that Olive had been rejected.
As soon as her visitors left the room, and she went to the window to watch the carriages drive away and to consider how she might console her daughter — persuade her, perhaps, that everything had happened for the best.
‘Oh, mamma,’ she said, rushing into the room, ‘this is terrible; what shall we do — what shall we do?’
‘What’s terrible, my beautiful darling?’
Olive looked through her languor and tears, and she answered petulantly:
‘Oh, you know very well I’m disgraced; he’s going to marry Violet, and I shall not be a marchioness after all.’
‘If my beautiful darling likes she can be a duchess,’ replied Mrs. Barton with a silvery laugh.
‘I don’t understand, mamma.’
‘I mean that we aren’t entirely dependent on that wretched little Marquis with his encumbered property; if he were fool enough to let himself be entrapped by that designing little beast, Violet Scully, so much the worse for him; we shall get someone far grander than he. It is never wise for a girl to settle herself off the first season she comes out.’
‘It is all very well to say that now, but you made me break off with dear Edward, who was ever so nice, and loved me dearly.’
Mrs. Barton winced, but she answered almost immediately:
‘My dear, we shall get someone a great deal grander than that wretched Marquis. There will be a whole crowd of English dukes and earls at the Castle next year; men who haven’t a mortgage on their property, and who will all fight for the hand of my beautiful Olive. Mr. Harding, Alice’s friend, will put your portrait into one of the Society papers as the Galway beauty, and then next year you may be her Grace.’
‘And how will they do my portrait, mamma?’
‘I think you look best, darling, with your hair done up on the top of your head, in the French fashion.’
‘Oh! do you think so? You don’t like the way I have it done in now?’ said the girl; and, laughing, she ran to the glass to admire herself. ‘Barnes said I looked sweet this morning;’ and five minutes after she was tossing her head nervously, declaring she was miserable, and often she burst out crying for no assignable cause. Mrs. Barton consoled and flattered gaily; but the sweet placid countenance was sometimes a little troubled. As the girls left the breakfast-room one morning she said, as if asking their advice:
‘I have just received an invitation from Dungory Castle; they are giving a tennis-party, and they want us to go to lunch.’
‘Oh! mamma, I don’t want to go,’ cried Olive.
‘And why, my dear?’
‘Oh! because everybody knows about the Marquis, and I couldn’t bear their sneers; those Brennans and the Duffys are sure to be there.’
‘Bertha’s in Dublin,’ said Mrs. Barton, in an intonation of voice a little too expressive of relief.
‘Gladys is just as bad; and then there’s that horrid Zoe. Oh! I couldn’t bear it.’
‘It will look as if we were avoiding them; they will only talk the more. I always think it is best to put a bold face on everything.’
‘I couldn’t, I couldn’t. I’m broken-hearted, that’s what I am. I have nothing to do or to think of.’
There could be little doubt that the Ladies Cullen had got up the tennis-party so that they might have an opportunity of sneering at her, but Milord would keep them in check (it might be as well to tell him to threaten to put down the school if they did not keep a guard on their tongues), and if Olive would only put a bold face on it and captivate Sir Charles, this very disagreeable business might blow over. Further than this Mrs. Barton’s thoughts did not travel, but they were clear and precise thoughts, and with much subtlety and insinuative force she applied herself to the task of overcoming her daughter’s weakness and strengthening her in t
his overthrow of vanity and self-love. But to the tennis-party they must go. Milord, too, was of opinion that they could not absent themselves, and he had doubtless been able to arrive at a very clear understanding with Lady Sarah and Lady Jane concerning the future of Protestantism in the parish, for on the day of the tennis-party no allusion was made to Lord Kilcarney’s visit to Brookfield; certain references to his marriage were, of course, inevitable, but it was only necessary to question Mr. Adair on his views concerning the new Coercion Act to secure for Mrs. Barton an almost complete immunity from feminine sarcasm.
‘I do not deny,’ said Mr. Adair, ‘that the Crimes Bill will restore tranquillity, but I confess that I can regard no Government as satisfactory that can only govern by the sword.’
These sentiments being but only very partially appreciated by the rest of the company, the conversation came to an awkward pause, and Lady Jane said as she left the room:
‘I do not know a more able man on a county board than Mr. Adair. He took honours at Trinity, and if he hasn’t done as much since as we expected, it is because he is too honourable, too conscientious, to ally himself to any particular party.’
‘That was always the way with Lord Dungory,’ suggested Mrs. Gould.
Lady Jane bit her lip, and continued, without taking notice of the interruption:
‘Now, I hope Mr. Adair will not write a pamphlet, or express himself too openly concerning the Crimes Act. The question of the day is the organization of the Land Act, and I hear that Mr. Gladstone says it will be impossible to get on without Mr. Adair’s assistance.’
‘Every six months,’ said Mrs. Gould, ‘it is given out that Gladstone cannot go on without him; but somehow Gladstone does manage to get on without him, and then we never hear any more about it.’
Lady Jane looked angry; and all wondered at Mrs. Gould’s want of tact, but at that moment the footman announced Messrs. Ryan and Lynch, and Alice asked if she might go up to see Cecilia. More visitors arrived; the Brennans, the Duffys, the five Honourable Miss Gores, and the company adjourned to the tennis ground. Mr. Lynch was anxious to have May for a partner, but she refused him somewhat pettishly, declaring at the same time that she had given up tennis, and would never touch a racquet again. Her continuous silence and dejected appearance created some surprise, and her cheeks flushed with passion when her mother said she didn’t know what had come over May lately. Then obeying an impulse, May rose to her feet, and leaving the tennis players she walked across the pleasure grounds. Dungory Castle was surrounded by heavy woods and overtopping clumps of trees. As the house was neared, these were filled in with high laurel hedges and masses of rhododendron, and an opening in the branches of some large beech-trees revealed a blue and beautiful aspect of the Clare mountains.
‘I wonder what May is angry about?’ Cecilia said to Alice as they watched the tennis playing from their window; ‘suppose those horrid men are annoying her.’
‘I never saw her refuse to play tennis before,’ Alice replied demurely. And ten minutes after, some subtle desire of which she was not very conscious led her through the shrubberies towards the place where she already expected to find May. And dreaming of reconciliation, of a renewal of friendship, Alice walked through the green summer of the leaves, listening to the infinite twittering of the birds, and startled by the wood-pigeons that from time to time rose boisterously out of the high branches. On a garden bench, leaning forward, her hands rested on her knees, May sat swinging her parasol from side to side, playing with the fallen leaves. When she looked up, the sunlight fell full upon her face, and Alice saw that she was crying. But affecting not to see the tears, she said, speaking rapidly:
‘Oh, May dear, I have been looking for you. The last time we—’
But interrupted here by a choking sob, she found herself forced to say:
‘My dear May, what is the matter? Can I do anything for you?’
‘Oh, no, no; only leave me; don’t question me. I don’t want anyone’s help.’
The ungraciousness of the words was lost in the accent of grief with which they were spoken.
‘I assure you I don’t wish to be inquisitive,’ Alice replied sorrowfully, ‘nor do I come to annoy you with good advice, but the last time we met we didn’t part good friends. . . . I was merely anxious to assure you that I bore no ill-feeling, but, of course, if you—’
‘Oh no, no,’ cried May; reaching and catching at Alice’s arm she pulled her down into the seat beside her; ‘I am awfully sorry for my rudeness to you — to you who are so good — so good. Oh, Alice dear, you will forgive me, will you not?’ and sobbing very helplessly, she threw herself into her friend’s arms.
‘Oh, of course I forgive you,’ cried Alice, deeply affected. ‘I had no right to lecture you in the way I did; but I meant it for the best, indeed I did.’
‘I know you did, but I lost my temper. Ah, if you knew how sorely I was tried you would forgive me.’
‘I do forgive you, May dear; but tell me, cannot I help you now? You know that you can confide in me, and I will do any thing in my power to help you.’
‘No one can help me now,’ said the girl sullenly.
Alice did not speak at once, but at the end of a long silence she said:
‘Does Fred Scully love you no more?’
‘I do not know whether he does or not; nor does it matter much. He’s not in Ireland. He’s far away by this time.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone to Australia. He wrote to me about two months ago to say that all had been decided in a few hours, and that he was to sail next morning. He’s gone out with some racehorses, and expects to win a lot of money. He’ll be back again in a year.’
‘A year isn’t long to wait; you’ll see him when he comes back.’
‘I don’t think I should care to see him again. Oh, you were right, Alice, to warn me against him. I was foolish not to listen to you, but it was too late even then.’
Alice trembled; she had already guessed the truth, but hoping when she knew all hope was vain, she said:
‘You had better tell me, May; you know I am to be trusted.’
‘Can’t you guess it?’
The conversation fell, and the girls sat staring into the depths of the wood. Involuntarily their eyes followed a small bird that ran up branch after branch of a beech-tree, pecking as it went. It seemed like a toy mouse, so quick and unvarying were its movements. At last May said, and very dolorously:
‘Alice, I thought you were kinder; haven’t you a word of pity? Why tell you, why ask me to tell you? Oh! what a fool I was!’
‘Oh! no, no, May, you did right to tell me. I am more sorry for you than words can express, and I didn’t speak because I was trying to think of some way of helping you.’
‘Oh! there’s no — no way of helping me, dear. There’s nothing for me to do but to die.’ And now giving way utterly, the girl buried her face in her hands and sobbed until it seemed that she would choke in thick grief.
‘Oh! May, May dear, you mustn’t cry like that: if anyone were to come by, what would they think?’
‘What does it matter? Everyone will know sooner or later — I wish I were dead — dead and out of sight for ever of this miserable world.’
‘No, May,’ said Alice, thinking instinctively of the child, ‘you mustn’t die. Your trial is a terrible one, but people before now have got over worse. I am trying to think what can be done.’
Then May raised her weeping face, and there was a light of hope in her eyes. She clasped Alice’s hand. Neither spoke. The little brown bird pursued his way up and down the branches of the beech; beyond it lay the sky, and the girls, tense with little sufferings, yearned into this vision of beautiful peace.
At last Alice said: ‘Did you tell Mr. Scully of the trouble? Does he know—’
‘He was away, and I didn’t like to write it to him; his departure for Australia took me quite by surprise.’
‘Have you told your mother?’
‘Oh no, I’d rather die than tell her; I couldn’t tell her. You know what she is.’
‘I think she ought to be told; she would take you abroad.’
‘Oh no, Alice dear; it would never do to tell mamma. You know what she is, you know how she talks, she would never leave off abusing the Scullys; and then, I don’t know how, but somehow everybody would get to know about it. But find it out they will, sooner or later; it is only a question of time.’
‘No, no, May, they shall know nothing of this — at least, not if I can help it.’
‘But you can’t help it.’
‘There is one thing quite certain; you must go away. You cannot stop in Galway.’
‘It is all very well talking like that, but where can I go to? A girl cannot move a yard away from home without people wanting to know where she has gone.’
Alice’s eyes filled with tears.
‘You might go up to Dublin,’ she said, ‘and live in lodgings.’
‘And what excuse should I give to mother?’ said May, who in her despair had not courage to deny the possibility of the plan.
‘You needn’t tell her where you are,’ replied Alice; and then she hesitated, feeling keenly conscious of the deception she was practising. But her unswerving common sense coming, after a moment’s reflection, to her aid, she said: ‘You might say that you were going to live in the convent. Go to the Mother Superior, tell her of your need, beg of her, persuade her to receive and forward your letters; and in that way, it seems to me that no one need be the wiser of what is going to happen.’
The last words were spoken slowly, as if with a sense of shame at being forced to speak thus. May raised her face, now aflame with hope and joy.
‘I wonder if it is possible to—’ A moment after the light died out of her face, and she said:
‘But how shall I live? Who will support me? I cannot ask mother for money without awakening suspicion.’
‘I think, May, I shall be able to give you almost all the money you want,’ replied Alice in a hesitating and slightly embarrassed manner.
‘You, Alice?’