IX
As they returned from church, a horseman was seen riding rapidly towards them. It was Captain Hibbert. The movement of his shoulders, as he reined in his mettlesome bay, was picturesque, and he was coaxingly and gushingly upbraided for neglect of his religious duties.
During lunch, curiosity rendered May and Mrs. Gould nearly speechless; but their carriage had not turned into the highroad, on its way home, when the latter melted into a shower of laudatory words and phrases:
'What a charming man Captain Hibbert is! No wonder you young ladies like the military. He is so good-looking—and such good manners. Don't you think so, Alice dear?'
'I think the Captain a very handsome man—indeed, I believe that there are not two opinions on the subject.'
'And Olive—I do not remember that I ever saw a more beautiful girl. Such hair! and her figure so sylph-like! I do not know what the young ladies will do—she will cut everybody out at the Castle!'
'I don't know about that,' said May jauntily; 'what one man will turn his nose up at, another will go wild after.'
Mrs. Gould did not answer; but her lips twitched, and Alice guessed she was annoyed that May could not express herself less emphatically. In a few moments the conversation was continued:
'At any rate, Captain Hibbert seems to think there is no one like Olive; and they'd make a handsome couple. What do you think, Alice? Is there any chance of there being a match?'
'I really can't tell you, Mrs. Gould. Olive, as you say, is a very beautiful girl, and I suppose Captain Hibbert admires her; but I don't think that either has, up to the present, thought of the matter more seriously.'
'You must admit, Alice, that he seems a bit gone on her,' said May, with a direct determination to annoy her mother.
'May, dear, you shouldn't talk in that slangy way; you never used to; you have picked it up from Mr. Scully. Do you know Mr. Scully, Alice? Violet's brother.'
'Yes, I met him the night we dined at Lord Dungory's.'
'Oh, of course you did. Well, I admit I don't like him; but May does. They go out training horses together. I don't mind that; but I wish she wouldn't imitate his way of talking. He has been a very wild young man.'
'Now, mother dear, I wish you would leave off abusing Fred. I have repeatedly told you that I don't like it.'
The acerbity of this remark was softened by May's manner, and, throwing her arms on her mother's shoulders, she commenced to coax and cajole her.
The Goulds were of an excellent county family. They had for certainly three generations lived in comfortable idleness, watching from their big square house the different collections of hamlets toiling and moiling, and paying their rents every gale day. It was said that some ancestor, whose portrait still existed, had gone to India and come back with the money that had purchased the greater part of the property. But, be this as it may, in Galway three generations of landlordism are considered sufficient repentance for shopkeeping in Gort, not to speak of Calcutta. Since then the family history had been stainless. Father and son had in turn put their horses out to grass in April, had begun to train them again in August, had boasted at the Dublin horse-show of having been out cub-hunting, had ridden and drunk hard from the age of twenty to seventy. But, by dying at fifty-five, the late squire had deviated slightly from the regular line, and the son and heir being only twelve, a pause had come in the hereditary life of the Goulds. In the interim, however, May had apparently resolved to keep up the traditions so far as her sex was supposed to allow her.
They lived in one of those box-like mansions, so many of which were built in Ireland under the Georges. On either side trees had been planted, and they stretched to the right and left like the wings of a theatre. In front there was a green lawn; at the back a sloppy stableyard. The latter was May's especial delight, and when Mr. Scully was with them, it seemed impossible to induce her to leave it. He frequently rode over to Beechgrove, and towards the end of the afternoon it became easy to persuade him to stay to dinner. And, as the night darkened and the rain began to fall, the inhospitality of turning him out was insisted on by May, and Mrs. Gould sent up word that a room was to be prepared for him. Next morning he sent home for a change of things, and thus it was not infrequent for him to protract his visit to the extent of three or four days.
His great friend, Mrs. Manly—a lady who had jumped five feet, four months before the birth of her sixth child—had said that his was a 'wasted life,' and the phrase, summing up what most people thought of him, gained currency, and was now generally used whenever his conduct was criticized or impeached. After having been in London, where he spent some years in certain vague employments, and having contracted as much debt as his creditors would permit, and more than his father would pay, he had gone through the Bankruptcy Court, and returned home to drag through life wearily, through days and weeks so appallingly idle, that he often feared to get out of bed in the morning. At first his father had tried to make use of him in his agency business, and it was principally owing to Mr. Fred's bullying and insolent manners that Mr. Scully was now unable to leave his house unless accompanied by police.
Fred was about thirty years of age. His legs were long, his hands were bony, and 'stableyard' was written in capital letters on his face. He carried a Sportsman under his arm, a penny and a half-crown jingled in his pocket; and as he walked he lashed the trousers and boot, whose elegance was an echo of the old Regent Street days, with an ash-plant.
Such was the physiology of this being, and from it the psychology is easy to surmise: a complete powerlessness to understand that there was anything in life worth seeking except pleasure—and pleasure to Fred meant horses and women. Of earthly honour the greatest was to be well known in an English hunting country; and he was not averse to speaking of certain ladies of title, with whom he had been on intimate terms, and with whom, it was said, he corresponded. On occasions he would read or recite poems, cut from the pages of the Society Journals, to his lady friends.
May, however, saw nothing but the outside. The already peeling-off varnish of a few years of London life satisfied her. Given a certain versatility in turning a complimentary phrase, the abundant ease with which he explained his tastes, which, although few, were pronounced, add to these the remnant of fashion that still lingered in his wardrobe—scarfs from the Burlington Arcade, scent from Bond Street, cracked patent-leather shoes and mended silk stockings—and it will be understood how May built something that did duty for an ideal out of this broken-down swell.
She was a girl of violent blood, and, excited by the air of the hunting-field, she followed Fred's lead fearlessly; to feel the life of the horse throbbing underneath her passioned and fevered her flesh until her mental exaltation reached the rushing of delirium. Then his evening manners fascinated her, and, as he leaned back smoking in the dining-room arm-chair, his patent-leather shoes propped up against the mantelpiece, he showed her glimpses of a wider world than she knew of—and the girl's eyes softened as she listened to his accounts of the great life he had led, the county-houses he had visited, and the legendary runs he had held his own in. She sympathized with him when he explained how hardly fate had dealt with him in not giving him £5,000 a year, to be spent in London and Northamptonshire.
He cursed Ireland as the most hideous hole under the sun; he frightened Mrs. Gould by reiterated assurances that the Land League would leave them all beggars; and, having established this point, he proceeded to develop his plan for buying young horses, training them, and disposing of them in the English market. Eventually he dismissed his audience by taking up the newspaper and falling asleep with the stump of a burned-out cigarette between his lips. After breakfast he was seen slouching through the laurels on his way to the stables. From the kitchen and the larder—where the girls were immersed in calculations anent the number of hams, tongues, and sirloins of beef that would be required—he could be seen passing; and as May stood on no ceremony with Alice, whistling to her dogs, and sticking both hands into the pockets of her blue dress, she rushed after him, the mud of the yard oozing through the loose, broken boots which she insisted on wearing. Behind the stables there was a small field that had lately been converted into an exercise-ground, and there the two would stand for hours, watching a couple of goat-like colts, mounted by country lads—still in corduroy and hobnails—walking round and round.
Mrs. Gould was clearly troubled by this very plain conduct. Once or twice she allowed a word of regret to escape her, and Alice could see that she lived in awe of her daughter. And May, there was no doubt, was a little lawless when Fred was about her skirts; but when he was gone she returned to her old, glad, affectionate ways and to her work.
The girls delighted in each other's society, and the arrangements for their ball were henceforth a continual occupation. The number of letters that had to be written was endless. Sitting at either end of the table in the drawing-room, their pens scratched and their tongues rattled together; and, penetrated with the intimacy of home, all kinds of stories were told, and the whole country was passed in review.
'And do you know,' said May, raising her eyes from the letter she was writing, 'when this affair was first started mamma was afraid to go in for it; she said we'd find it hard to hunt up fifty spinsters in Galway.'
'I said fifty who would subscribe—a very different thing indeed.'
'Oh no, you didn't, mamma; you said there weren't fifty spinsters in
Galway—a jolly lucky thing it would be if there weren't; wouldn't it,
Alice?'
Alice was busy trying to disentangle a difficult sentence. Her startled face made May laugh.
'It isn't cheering, is it?'
'I didn't hear what you were saying,' she answered, a little vexed at being misunderstood. 'But fifty, surely, is a great number. Are there so many unmarried women in Galway?'
'I should think there are,' replied May, as if glorying in the fact. 'Who are there down your side of the country? Let's count. To begin with, there are the Brennans—there are three of them, and all three are out of the running, distanced.'
'Now, May, how can you talk like that?' said Mrs. Gould, and she pulled up her skirt so that she could roast her fat thick legs more comfortably before the fire. There being no man present, she undid a button or two of her dress.
'You said so yourself the other day, mother.'
'No, I didn't, May, and I wish you wouldn't vex me. What I say I stand by, and I merely wondered why girls with good fortunes like the Brennans didn't get married.'
'You said the fact was there was no one to marry.'
'May, I will not allow you to contradict me!' exclaimed Mrs. Gould; and she grew purple to the roots of her white hair. 'I said the Brennans looked too high, that they wanted gentlemen, eldest sons of county families; but if they'd been content to marry in their own position of life they would have been married long ago.'
'Well, mother dear, there's no use being angry about it; let the thing pass. You know the Brennans, Alice; they are neighbours of yours.'
'Yes, Cecilia and I walked over to see them the other day; we had tea with them.'
'Their great hunting-ground is the Shelbourne Hotel—they take it in turns, a couple of them go up every six months.'
'How can you say such things, May? I will not suffer it.'
'I say it! I know nothing about it. I've only just come back from school; it is you who tell me these things when we are sitting here alone of an evening.'
Mrs. Gould's face again became purple, and she protested vehemently: 'I shall leave the room, May. I will not suffer it one moment longer. I can't think how it is you dare speak to me in that way; and, what is worse, attribute to me such ill-natured remarks.'
'Now, mother dear, don't bother, perhaps I did exaggerate. I am very sorry. But, there's a dear, sit down, and we won't say any more about it.'
'You do annoy one, May, and I believe you do it on purpose. And you know exactly what will be disagreeable to say, and you say it,' replied Mrs. Gould; and she raised her skirt so as to let the heat of the fire into her petticoats.
'Thank God that's over,' May whispered to Alice; 'but what were we talking about?'
'I think you were making out a list of the Galway spinsters,' said Alice, who could not help feeling a little amused, though she was sorry for Mrs. Gould.
'So we were,' cried May; 'we were speaking of the Brennans. Do you know their friends the Duffys? There are five of them. That's a nice little covey of love-birds; I don't think they would fly away if they saw a sportsman coming into the field.'
'I never heard a girl talk like that,' murmured Mrs. Gould, without raising her face from the fire, 'that wasn't punished for it. Perhaps, my lady, you will find it hard enough to suit yourself. Wait until you have done two or three Castle seasons. We'll see how you'll speak then.'
Without paying any attention to these maternal forebodings, May continued:
'Then there are Lord Rosshill's seven daughters; they are all maidens, and are likely to remain so.'
'Are they all unmarried?' asked Alice.
'Of course they are!' exclaimed Mrs. Gould; 'how could they be anything
else? Didn't they all want to marry people in their father's position?
And that wasn't possible. There're seven Honourable Miss Gores, and one
Lord Rosshill—so they all remained in single blessedness.'
'Who's making ill-natured remarks now?' exclaimed May triumphantly.
'I am not making ill-natured remarks; I am only saying what's true. My advice to young girls is that they should be glad to have those who will take them. If they can't make a good marriage let them make a bad marriage; for, believe me, it is far better to be minding your own children than your sister's or your brother's children. And I can assure you, in these days of competition, it is no easy matter to get settled.'
'It is the same now as ever it was, and there are plenty of nice young men. It doesn't prove, because a whole lot of old sticks of things can't get married, that I shan't.'
'I didn't say you wouldn't get married, May; I am sure that any man would be only too glad to have you; but what I say is that these grand matches that girls dream of aren't possible nowadays. Nice young men! I dare say; and plenty of them, I know them; young scamps without a shilling, who amuse themselves with a girl until they are tired of her, and then, off they go. Now, then, let's count up the good matches that are going in the county—'
At this moment the servant was heard at the door bringing in the tea.
'Oh! bother!' exclaimed Mrs. Gould, settling her dress hurriedly. The interval was full of secret irritation; and the three women watched the methodical butler place the urn on the table, turn up the lamp that was burning low, and bring chairs forward from the farthest corners.
'On your side of the county,' said Mrs. Gould, as soon as the door was closed, 'there is our brace of baronets, as they are called. But poor Sir Richard—I am afraid he is a bad case—and yet he never took to drink until he was five-and-thirty; and as for Sir Charles—of course there are great advantages, he has a very fine property; but still many girls might—and I can quite understand their not liking to marry him.'
'Why, Mrs. Gould, what is wrong with him?' Alice asked innocently.
'Don't you know?' said May, winking. 'Haven't you heard? But I forgot, he isn't your side of the county. He's married already; at least, so they say.'
'It is very sad, very sad, indeed,' murmured Mrs. Gould; 'he'd have been a great match.'
'And to whom is he married?' said Alice, whose curiosity was awakened by the air of mystery with which the baronet was surrounded.
'Well, he's not exactly married,' replied May, laughing; 'but he has a large family.'
'May, I will not allow it; it is very wrong of you, indeed, to talk like that—'
'Now, mother dear, don't get into a passion; where's the harm? The whole
country knows it; Violet was talking of it to me only the other day.
There isn't a man within a mile of us, so we needn't be on our P's and
Q's.'
'And who is the mother of all these children?' Alice asked.
'A country-woman with whom he lives,' said May. 'Just fancy marrying a man with a little dirty crowd of illegitimate children running about the stable-yard!'
'The usual thing in such cases is to emigrate them,' said Mrs. Gould philosophically; and she again distended herself before the fire.
'Emigrate them!' cried May; 'if he emigrated them to the moon, I wouldn't marry such a man; would you, Alice?'
'I certainly wouldn't like to,' and her sense of humour being now tickled by the conversation, she added slyly: 'but you were counting up the good matches in the county.'
'Ah! so we were,' said the old lady. 'Well, there is Mr. Adair. I am sure no girl would wish for a better husband.'
'Oh, the old frump! why he must be forty if he's a day. You remember, Alice, it was he who took me down to dinner at Lord Dungory's. And he talked all the time of his pamphlet on the Amalgamation of the Unions, which was then in the hands of the printer; and the other in which he had pulled Mr. Parnell's ears, Ireland under the Land League, and the series of letters he was thinking of contributing to the Irish Times on high-farming versus peasant proprietors. Just fancy, Alice, living with such a man as that!'
'Well, I don't know what you girls think,' said Mrs. Gould, whose opinions were moods of mind rather than convictions, 'but I assure you he passes for being the cleverest man in the county; and it is said that Gladstone is only waiting to give him a chance. But as you like; he won't do, so let him pass. Then there is Mr. Ryan, he ought to be well off; he farms thousands of acres.'
'One might as well marry a herdsman at once. Did you ever hear what he once said to a lady at a ball; you know, about the docket?'
Alice said that she had heard the story, and the conversation turned on
Mr. Lynch. Mrs. Gould admitted that he was the worser of the two.
'He smells so dreadfully of whiskey,' said Alice timidly.
'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 tight 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.
'It is to be hoped the present Marquis won't prove so difficult to please,' said Mrs. Gould. The remark was an unfortunate one, and the chaperons present resented this violation of their secret thoughts. Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Scully suddenly withdrew their eyes, which till then had been gently following their daughters through the figures of the dance, and, forgetting what they foresaw would be the cause of future enmity, united in condemning Mrs. Gould. Obeying a glance of the Lady Hamilton eyes, Lord Dungory said:
'On cherche l'amour dans les boudoirs, non pas dans les cimetières, madame.' Then he added (but this time only for the private ear of Mrs. Barton), 'La mer ne rend pas ses morts, mais la tombe nous donne souvent les écussons.'
'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Mrs. Barton, 'ce Milord, il trouve l'esprit partout;' and her light coaxing laugh dissipated this moment of ball-room gloom.
And Alice? Although conscious of her deficiency in the trois temps, determined not to give in without an effort, she had suffered May to introduce her to a couple of officers; but to execute the step she knew theoretically, or to talk to her partner when he had dragged her, breathless, out of the bumping dances, she found to be difficult, so ignorant was she of hunting and of London theatres, and having read only one book of Ouida's, it would be vain for her to hope to interest her partner in literature. The other girls seemed more at home with their partners, and while she walked with hers, wondering what she should say next, she noticed behind screens, under staircases, at the end of dark passages, girls whom she had known at St. Leonards incapable of learning, or even understanding the simplest lessons, suddenly transformed as if by magic into bright, clever, agreeable girls—capable of fulfilling that only duty which falls to the lot of women: of amusing men. But she could not do this, and must, therefore, resign herself to an aimless life of idleness, and be content in a few years to take a place amid the Miss Brennans, the Ladies Cullen, the Miss Duffys, the Honourable Miss Gores, those whom she saw sitting round the walls 'waiting to be asked,' as did the women in the old Babylonian Temple.
Such was her criticism of life as she sat wearily answering Mrs. Gould's tiresome questions, not daring to approach her mother, who was laughing with Olive, Captain Hibbert, and Lord Dungory. Waltz after waltz had been played, and her ears reeked with their crying strain. One or two men had asked her 'if they might have the pleasure'; but she was determined to try dancing no more, and had refused them. At last, at the earnest request of Mrs. Gould, she had allowed Dr. Reed to take her in to supper. He was an earnest-eyed, stout, commonplace man, and looked some years over thirty. Alice, however, found she could talk to him better than with her other partners, and when they left the clattering supper-room, where plates were being broken and champagne was being drunk by the gallon, sitting on the stairs, he talked to her till voices were heard calling for his services. A dancer had been thrown and had broken his leg. Alice saw something carried towards her, and, rushing towards May, whom she saw in the doorway, she asked for an explanation.
'Oh, nothing, nothing! he slipped down—has broken or sprained his ankle—that's all. Why aren't you dancing? Greatest fun in the world—just beginning to get noisy—and we are going it. Come on, Fred; come on!'
To the rowdy tune of the Posthorn Polka the different couples were dashing to and fro—all a little drunk with emotion and champagne; and, as if fascinated, Alice's eyes followed the shoulders of a tall, florid-faced man. Doing the deux temps, he traversed the room in two or three prodigious jumps. His partner, a tiny creature, looked a crushed bird within the circle of his terrible arm. Like a collier labouring in a heavy sea, a county doctor lurched from side to side, overpowered by the fattest of the Miss Duffys. A thin, trim youth, with bright eyes glancing hither and thither, executed a complex step, and glided with surprising dexterity in and out, and through this rushing mad mass of light toilettes and flying coat-tails. Marks, too, of conflict were visible. Mr. Ryan had lost some portion of his garment in an obscure misunderstanding in the supper-room. All Mr. Lynch's studs had gone, and his shirt was in a precarious state; drunken Sir Richard had not been carried out of the room before strewing the floor with his necktie and fragments of his gloves. But these details were forgotten in the excitement. The harper twanged still more violently at his strings, the fiddler rasped out the agonizing tune more screechingly than ever; and as the delirium of the dance fevered this horde of well-bred people the desire to exercise, their animal force grew irresistible, and they charged, intent on each other's overthrow. In the onset, the vast shoulders and the deux temps were especially successful. One couple had gone down splendidly before him, another had fallen over the prostrate ones; and in a moment, in positions more or less recumbent, eight people were on the floor. Fears were expressed for the tight dresses, and Violet had shown more of her thin ankles than was desirable; but the climax was not reached until a young man, whose unsteady legs forbade him this part of the fun, established himself in a safe corner, and commenced to push the people over as they passed him. This was the signal for the flight of the chaperons.
'Now come along, Miss Barton,' cried Mrs. Barton, catching sight of
Alice; 'and will you, Lord Dungory, look after Olive?'
Lord Rosshill collected the five Honourable Miss Gores, the Miss Brennans drew around Mrs. Scully, who, without taking the least notice of them, steered her way.
And so ended, at least so far as they were concerned, the ball given by the spinsters of the county of Galway. But the real end? On this subject much curiosity was evinced.
The secret was kept for a time, but eventually the story leaked out that, overcome by the recollections of still pleasanter evenings spent under the hospitable roof of the Mayo bachelor, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Lynch and Sir Charles had brought in the maid-servants, and that, with jigs for waltzes, and whiskey for champagne, the gaiety had not been allowed to die until the day was well begun. Bit by bit and fragment by fragment the story was pieced together, and, in the secrecy of their bedrooms, with little smothered fits of laughter, the young ladies told each other how Sir Charles had danced with the big housemaid, how every time he did the cross-over he had slapped her on the belly; and then, with more laughter, they related how she had said: 'Now don't, Sir Charles, I forbid you to take such liberties.' And it also became part of the story that, when they were tired of even such pleasures as these, the gentlemen had gone upstairs to where the poor man with the broken leg was lying, and had, with whiskey and song, relieved his sufferings until the Galway train rolled into Ballinasloe.
XI
'Goodness me! Alice; how can you remain up here all alone, and by that smouldering fire? Why don't you come downstairs? Papa says he is quite satisfied with the first part of the tune, but the second won't come right; and, as mamma had a lot to say to Lord Dungory, I and Captain Hibbert sat out in the passage together. He told me he liked the way I arrange my hair. Do tell me, dear, if you think it suits me?'
'Very well, indeed; but what else did Captain Hibbert say to you?'
'Well, I'll tell you something,' replied Olive, suddenly turning from the glass. 'But first promise not to tell anyone. I don't know what I should do if you did. You promise?'
'Yes, I promise.'
'If you look as serious as that I shall never be able to tell you. It is very wicked, I know, but I couldn't help myself. He put his arm round my waist and kissed me. Now don't scold, I won't be scolded,' the girl said, as she watched the cloud gathering on her sister's face. 'Oh! you don't know how angry I was. I cried, I assure you I did, and I told him he had disgraced me. I couldn't say more than that, could I, now? and he promised never to do it again. It was the first time a man ever kissed me—I was awfully ashamed. No one ever attempted to kiss you, I suppose; nor can I fancy their trying, for your cross face would soon frighten them; but I can't look serious.'
'And did he ask you to marry him?'
'Oh! of course, but I haven't told mamma, for she is always talking to me about Lord Kilcarney—the little marquis, as she calls him; but I couldn't have him. Just fancy giving up dear Edward! I assure you I believe he would kill himself if I did. He has often told me I am the only thing worth living for.'
Alice looked at her beautiful sister questioningly, her good sense telling her that, if Olive was not intended for him, it was wrong to allow her to continue her flirtation. But for the moment the consideration of her own misfortunes absorbed her. Was there nothing in life for a girl but marriage, and was marriage no more than a sensual gratification; did a man seek nothing but a beautiful body that he could kiss and enjoy? Did a man's desires never turn to mating with one who could sympathize with his hopes, comfort him in his fears, and united by that most profound and penetrating of all unions—that of the soul—be collaborator in life's work? 'Could no man love as she did?' She was ready to allow that marriage owned a material as well as a spiritual aspect, and that neither could be overlooked. Some, therefore, though their souls were as beautiful as the day, were, from purely physical causes, incapacitated from entering into the marriage state. Cecilia was such a one.
'Now what are you thinking about, Alice?'
'I do not know, nothing in particular; one doesn't know always of what one is thinking! Tell me what they are saying downstairs.'
'But I have told you; that Captain Hibbert preferred my hair like this, and I asked you if you thought he was right, but you hardly looked.'
'Yes, I did, Olive; I think the fashion suits you.'
'You won't tell anybody that I told you he kissed me? Oh, I had forgotten about Lord Rosshill; he has been fired at. Lord Dungory returned from Dublin, and he brought the evening paper with him. It is full of bad news.'
'What news?' Alice asked, with a view to escaping from wearying questions; and Olive told her a bailiff's house had been broken into by an armed gang. 'They dragged him out of his bed and shot him in the legs before his own door. And an attempt has been made to blow up a landlord's house with dynamite. And in Queen's County shots have been fired through a dining-room window—now, what else? I am telling you a lot; I don't often remember what is in the paper. No end of hayricks were burnt last week, and some cattle have had their tails cut off, and a great many people have been beaten. Lord Dungory says he doesn't know how it will all end unless the Government bring in a Coercion Act. What do you think, Alice?'
Alice dropped some formal remarks, and Olive hoped that the state of the country would not affect the Castle's season. She didn't know which of the St. Leonard girls would be married first. She asked Alice to guess. Alice said she couldn't guess, and fell to thinking that nobody would ever want to marry her. It was as if some instinct had told her, and she could not drive the word 'celibacy' out of her ears. It seemed to her that she was fichue à jamais, as that odious Lord Dungory would say. She did not remember that she had ever been so unhappy before, and it seemed to her that she would always be unhappy, fichue à jamais.
But to her surprise she awoke in a more cheerful mood, and when she came down to breakfast Mr. Barton raised his head from the newspaper and asked her if she had heard that Lord Rosshill had been fired at.
'Yes, father. Olive told me so overnight;' and the conversation turned on her headache, and then on the state of Ireland.
Mrs. Barton asked if this last outrage would prove sufficient to force the Government to pass a new Coercion Bill.
'I wish they would put me at the head of an army,' Mr. Barton said, whose thoughts had gone back to his picture—Julius Caesar overturning the Altars of the Druids.
'Papa would look fine leading the landlords against the tenants dressed in Julius Caesar's big red cloak!' cried Mrs. Barton, turning back as she glided out of the room, already deep in consideration of what Milord would like to eat for luncheon and the gown she would wear that afternoon. Mr. Barton threw the newspaper aside and returned to his studio; and in the girls' room Olive and Barnes, the bland, soft smiling maid, began their morning gossip. Whatever subject was started it generally wound round to Captain Hibbert. Alice had wearied of his name, but this morning she pricked up her ears. She was surprised to hear her sister say she had forbidden him ever to visit the Lawlers. At that moment the dull sound of distant firing broke the stillness of the snow.
'I took good care to make Captain Hibbert promise not to go to this shooting-party the last time I saw him.'
'And what harm was there in his going to this shooting-party?' said
Alice.
'What harm? I suppose, miss, you have heard what kind of woman Mrs.
Lawler is? Ask Barnes,'
'You shouldn't talk in this way, Olive. We know well enough that Mrs. Lawler was not a lady before she married; but nothing can be said against her since.'
'Oh! can't there, indeed? You never heard the story about her and her steward? Ask Barnes.'
'Oh! don't miss; you shouldn't really!' said the maid. 'What will Miss
Alice think?'
'Never mind what she thinks; you tell her about the steward and all the officers from Gort.'
And then Mrs. Lawler's flirtations were talked of until the bell rang for lunch. Milord and Mrs. Barton had just passed into the dining-room, and Alice noticed that his eyes often wandered in the direction of the policemen walking up and down the terrace. He returned more frequently than was necessary to the attempt made on Lord Rosshill's life, and it was a long time before Mrs. Barton could persuade him to drop a French epigram. At last, in answer to her allusions to knights of old and la galanterie, the old lord could only say: 'L'amour est comme l'hirondelle; quand l'heure sonne, en dépit du danger, tous les deux partent pour les rivages célestes.' A pretty conceit; but Milord was not en veine that morning. The Land League had thrown its shadow over him, and it mattered little how joyously a conversation might begin, too soon a reference was made to Griffith's valuation, or the possibility of a new Coercion Act.
In the course of the afternoon, however, much to the astonishment of Milord and Mrs. Barton in the drawing-room and the young ladies who were sitting upstairs doing a little needlework, a large family carriage, hung with grey trappings and drawn by two powerful bay horses, drove up to the hall-door.
A gorgeous footman opened the door, and, with a momentary display of exquisite ankle, a slim young girl stepped out.
'I wonder,' said Mrs. Barton, 'that Mrs. Scully condescends to come out with anything less than four horses and outriders.'
'Elle veut acheter la distinction comme elle vendait du jambon—à faux poids,' said Lord Dungory.
'Yes, indeed; and to think that the woman we now receive as an equal once sold bacon and eggs behind a counter in Galway!'
'No, it was not she; it was her mother.'
'Well, she was hanging on to her mother's apron-strings at the time. You may depend upon it, this visit is not for nothing; something's in the wind.'
A moment after, looking more large and stately than ever, Mrs. Scully sailed into the room. Mrs. Barton was delighted to see her. It was so good of her to come, and in such weather as this; and, after having refused lunch and referred to the snow and the horses' feet, Mrs. Scully consented to lay aside her muff and boa. The young ladies withdrew, when the conversation turned on the state of the county and Lord Rosshill's fortunate escape. As they ascended the stairs they stopped to listen to Mr. Barton, who was singing A che la morte.
'The Land League doesn't seem to affect Mr. Barton's spirits,' said
Violet. 'What a beautiful voice he has!'
'Yes, and nobody designs pictures like papa; but he wouldn't study when he was young, and he says he hasn't time now on account of—'
'Now, Alice, for goodness' sake don't begin. I am sick of that Land
League. From morning till night it is nothing but coercion and
Griffith's valuation.'
Violet and Alice laughed at Olive's petulance, and, opening a door, the latter said:
'This is our room, and it is the only one in the house where tenants, land, and rent are never spoken of.'
'That's something to know,' said Violet. 'I agree with Olive. If things are bad, talking of them won't make them any better.'
Barnes rose from her seat.
'Now don't go, Barnes. Violet, this is Barnes, our maid.'
There was about Barnes a false air of homeliness; but in a few moments it became apparent that her life had been spent amid muslins, confidences, and illicit conversations. Now, with motherly care she removed a tulle skirt from the table, and Violet, with quick, nervous glances, examined the room. In the middle of the floor stood the large work-table, covered with a red cloth. There was a stand with shelves, filled on one side with railway novels, on the other with worsted work, cardboard-boxes, and rags of all kinds. A canary-cage stood on the top, and the conversation was frequently interrupted by the piercing trilling of the little yellow bird.
'You're very comfortable. I should like to come and work here with you. I am sick of Fred's perpetual talk about horses; and if he isn't talking of them his conversation is so improper that I can't listen to it.'
'Why, what does he say?' said Olive, glancing at Barnes, who smiled benignly in the background.
'Oh, I couldn't repeat what he says! it's too dreadful. I have to fly from him. But he's always at the Goulds' now; he and May are having a great "case".'
'Oh yes, I know!' said Olive; 'they never left each other at our ball.
Don't you remember?'
'Of course I do. And what a jolly ball that was! I never amused myself so much in my life. If the balls at the Castle are as good, they will do. But wasn't it sad, you know, about poor Lord Kilcarney receiving the news of his brother's murder just at that moment? I can see him now, rushing out of the room.'
Violet's manner did not betoken in the least that she thought it sad, and after a pause she said:
'But you haven't shown me your dresses. I loved the one you wore at the ball.'
'Yes, yes: I must show you my cream-coloured dinner-dress, and my ruby dress, too. You haven't seen that either,' cried Olive. 'Come along, Barnes, come along.'
'But I see you use your bedroom, too, as a sitting-room?' she said, as she glanced at the illustrations in a volume of Dickens and threw down a volume of Shelley's poetry.
'Oh, that's this lady, here!' cried Olive. 'She says she cannot read in our room on account of my chattering, so she comes in here to continue her schooling. I should've thought that she had had enough of it; and she makes the place in such a mess with bits of paper. Barnes is always tidying up after her.'
Alice laughed constrainedly, and taking the cream-coloured dress out of the maid's hands, Olive explained why it suited her. Violet had much to say concerning the pink trimming, and the maid referred to her late mistress's wardrobes. The ruby dress, however, drew forth many little cries of admiration. Then an argument was started concerning the colour of hair, and, before the glass with hairpins and lithe movements of the back and loins, the girls explained their favourite coiffures.
'But, Alice, you haven't opened your lips, and you haven't shown me your dresses.'
'Barnes will show you my dinner-frocks, but I don't think as much about what I wear as Olive does.'
Violet quickly understood, but, with clever dissimulation, she examined and praised the black silk trimmed with red ribbons. 'She's angry because we didn't look at her dresses first,' Olive interjected; and Violet came to Alice's rescue with a question: 'Had they heard lately of Lord Kilcarney?' Olive protested that she would sooner die than accept such a little red-haired thing as that for a husband, and Violet laughed delightedly.
'Anyway, you haven't those faults to find with a certain officer, now stationed at Gort, who, if report speaks truly, is constantly seen riding towards Brookfield.'
'Well, what harm is there in that?' said Olive, for she did not feel quite sure in her mind if she should resent or accept the gracious insinuation.
'None whatever; I only wish such luck were mine. What with the weather, and papa's difficulties with his herdsmen and his tenants, we haven't seen a soul for the last month. I wish a handsome young officer would come galloping up our avenue some day.'
Deceived, Olive abandoned herself to the plausive charm of Violet's manner, and at different times she spoke of her flirtation, and told many little incidents concerning it—what he had said to her, how she had answered him, and how, the last time they had met, he had expressed his sorrow at being unable to call to see her until the end of the week.
'He is shooting to-day at the Lawlers',' said Violet.
'That I'm sure he's not,' said Olive, with a triumphant toss of her fair head; 'for I forbade him to go there.'
Violet smiled, and Olive insisted on an explanation being given.
'Well,' exclaimed the girl, more bluntly than she had yet spoken, 'because as we were coming here we saw him walking along one of the covers. There were a lot of gentlemen, and, just fancy, that dreadful woman, Mrs. Lawler, was with them, marching along, just like a man, and a gun under her arm.'
'I don't believe you; you only say that to annoy me,' cried Olive, trembling with passion.
'I am not in the habit of telling lies, and don't know why you should think I care to annoy you,' Violet replied, a little too definitely; and, unable to control her feelings any longer, Olive walked out of the room. Barnes folded up and put away the dresses, and Alice sought for words that would attenuate the unpleasantness of the scene. But Violet was the quicker with her tongue, and she poured out her excuses. 'I am so sorry,' she said, 'but how could I know that she objected to Captain Hibbert's shooting at the Lawlers', or that he had promised her not to go there? I am very sorry, indeed.'
'Oh I it doesn't matter,' said Alice hesitatingly. 'You know how excitable Olive is. I don't think she cares more about Captain Hibbert than anyone else; she was only a little piqued, you know—the surprise, and she particularly dislikes the Lawlers. Of course, it is very unpleasant for us to live so near without being able to visit them.'
'Yes, I understand. I am very sorry. Do you know where she is gone? I shouldn't like to go away without seeing her.'
'I am afraid she has shut herself up in her room. Next time you meet, she'll have forgotten all about it.'
Elated, but at the same time a little vexed, Violet followed Alice down to the drawing-room.
'My dear child, what a time you have been! I thought you were never coming downstairs again,' said Mrs. Scully. 'Now, my dear Mrs. Barton, we really must. We shall meet again, if not before, at the Castle.'
Then stout mother and thin daughter took their leave; but the large carriage, with its sumptuous grey trappings, had not reached the crest of the hill when, swiftly unlocking her door, Olive rushed to Barnes for sympathy.
'Oh the spiteful little cat!' she exclaimed. 'I know why she said that; she's jealous of me. You heard her say she hadn't a lover. I don't believe she saw Edward at all, but she wanted to annoy me. Don't you think so, Barnes?'
'I'm sure she wanted to annoy you, miss. I could see it in her eyes. She has dreadful eyes—those cold, grey, glittering things. I could never trust them. And she hasn't a bit on her bones. I don't know if you noticed, miss, that when you were counting your petticoats she was ashamed of her legs? There isn't a bit on them; and I saw her look at yours, miss.'
'Did you really? She's like a rail; and as spiteful as she's lean. At school nothing made her so angry as when anyone else was praised; and you may be sure that jealousy brought her here. She heard how Captain Hibbert admired me, and so came on purpose to annoy me.'
'You may be sure it was that, miss,' said Barnes, as she bustled about, shutting and opening a variety of cardboard boxes.
For a moment the quarrel looked as if it were going to end here; but in Olive's brain thoughts leaped as quickly back as forward, and she startled Barnes by declaring wildly that, if Edward had broken his promise to her, she would never speak to him again.
'I don't believe that Violet would have dared to say that she saw him if it weren't true.'
'Well, miss, a shooting-party's but a shooting-party, and there was a temptation, you know. A gentleman who is fond of sport—'
'Yes; but it isn't for the shooting he is gone. 'Tis for Mrs. Lawler. I know it is.'
'Not it, miss. Always admitting that he is there, how could he think of Mrs. Lawler when he's always thinking of you? And, besides, out in the snow, too. Now, I wouldn't say anything if the weather was fine—like we had last June—and they giving each other meetings out in the park—'
'But what did you tell me about the steward, and how Mrs. Lawler fell in love with all the young men who come to her house? And what did the housemaid tell you of the walking about the passages at night and into each other's rooms? Oh, I must know if he's there!'
'I'll find out in the morning, miss. The coachman is sure to know who was at the shooting-party.'
'In the morning! It will be too late then! I must know this evening!' exclaimed Olive, as she walked about the room, her light brain now flown with jealousy and suspicion. 'I'll write him a letter,' she said suddenly, 'and you must get someone to take it over.'
'But there's nobody about. Why, it is nearly seven o'clock,' said Barnes, who had begun to realize the disagreeableness and danger of the adventure she was being rapidly drawn into.
'If you can't, I shall go myself,' cried Olive, as she seized some paper and a pencil belonging to Alice, and sat down to write a note:
'DEAR CAPTAIN HIBBERT,
'If you have broken your promise to me about not going to the Lawlers'
I shall never be able to forgive you!' (Then, as through her perturbed
mind the thought gleamed that this was perhaps a little definite, she
added): 'Anyhow, I wish to see you. Come at once, and explain that what
I have heard about you is not true. I cannot believe it.
'Yours ever and anxiously,
'OLIVE BARTON.'
'Now somebody must take this over at once to the Lawlers.'
'But, miss, really at this hour of night, too, I don't know of anyone to send! Just think, miss, what would your ma say?'
'I don't care what mamma says. It would kill me to wait till morning! Somebody must go. Why can't you go yourself? It isn't more than half a mile across the fields. You won't refuse me, will you? Put on your hat, and go at once.'
'And what will the Lawlers say when they hear of it, miss? and I am sure that if Mrs. Barton ever hears of it she will—'
'No, no, she won't! for I could not do without you, Barnes. You have only to ask if Captain Hibbert is there, and, if he is there, send the letter up, and wait for an answer. Now, there's a dear! now do go at once. If you don't, I shall go mad! Now, say you will go, or give me the letter. Yes, give it to me, and I'll go myself. Yes, I prefer to go myself.'