Muslin

XII

The result of this missive was that next morning the servants whispered that someone had been about the house on the preceding evening. Olive and Barnes sat talking for hours; and one day, unable to keep her counsel any longer, Olive told her sister what had happened. The letter that Barnes had taken across the field for her had, she declared, frightened Edward out of his senses; he had come rushing through the snow, and had spoken with her for full five minutes under her window. He loved her to distraction; and the next day she had received a long letter, full of references to his colonel, explaining how entirely against his will and desire he had been forced to accept the invitation to go and shoot at the Lawlers'. Alice listened quietly; as if she doubted whether Captain Hibbert would have died of consumption or heartache if Olive had acted otherwise, and then advised her sister quietly; and, convinced that her duty was to tell her mother everything, she waited for an occasion to speak. Mr. Barton was passing down the passage to his studio, Olive was racing upstairs to Barnes, Mrs. Barton had her hand on the drawing-room door; and she looked round surprised when she saw that her daughter was following her.

'I want to speak to you, mamma.'

'Come in, dear.'

Alice shut the door behind her.

'How bare and untidy the room looks at this season of the year; really you and Olive ought to go into the conservatory and see if you can't get some geraniums.'

'Yes, mamma, I will presently; but it was about Olive that I wanted to speak,' said Alice, in a strained and anxious way.

'What a bore that girl is with her serious face,' thought Mrs. Barton; but she laughed coaxingly, and said:

'And what has my grave-faced daughter to say—the learned keeper of the family's wisdom?'

Even more than Olive's—for they were less sincere—Mrs. Barton's trivialities jarred, and Alice's ideas had already begun to slip from her, and feeling keenly the inadequacy of her words, she said:

'Well, mamma, I wanted to ask you if Olive is going to marry Captain
Hibbert?'

It was now for Mrs. Barton to look embarrassed.

'Well, really, I don't know; nothing is arranged—I never thought about
the matter. What could have made you think she was going to marry
Captain Hibbert? In my opinion they aren't at all suited to each other.
Why do you ask me?'

'Because I have heard you speak of Lord Kilcarney as a man you would like Olive to marry, and, if this be so, I thought I had better tell you about Captain Hibbert. I think she is very much in love with him.'

'Oh! nonsense; it is only to kill time. A girl must amuse herself somehow.'

It was on Alice's lips to ask her mother if she thought such conduct quite right, but, checking herself, she said:

'I am afraid people are talking about it, and that surely is not desirable.'

'But why do you come telling me these stories?' she said.

'Why, mamma, because I thought it right to do so.'

The word 'right' was unpleasant; but, recovering her temper, which for years before had never failed her, Mrs. Barton returned to her sweet little flattering manners.

'Of course, of course, my dear girl; but you do not understand me. What I mean to say is, Have you any definite reason for supposing that Olive is in love with Captain Hibbert, and that people are talking about it?'

'I think so, mamma,' said the girl, deceived by this expression of goodwill. 'You remember when the Scullys came here? Well, Violet was up in our room, and we were showing her our dresses; the conversation somehow turned on Captain Hibbert, and when Violet said that she had seen him that day, as they came along in the carriage, shooting with the Lawlers, Olive burst out crying and rushed out of the room. It was very awkward. Violet said she was very sorry and all that, but—'

'Yes, yes, dear; but why was Olive angry at hearing that Captain Hibbert went out shooting with the Lawlers?'

'Because, it appears, she had previously forbidden him to go there, you know, on account of Mrs. Lawler.'

'And what happened then?'

'Well, that's the worst of it. I don't mean to say it was all Olive's fault; I think she must have lost her head a little, for she sent Barnes over that evening to the Lawlers' with a note, telling Captain Hibbert that he must come at once and explain. It was eleven o'clock at night, and they had a long talk through the window.'

Mrs. Barton did not speak for some moments. The peat-fire was falling into masses of white ash, and she thought vaguely of putting on some more turf; then her attention was caught by the withering ferns in the flower-glasses, then by the soaking pasture-lands, then by the spiky branches of the chestnut-trees swinging against the grey, dead sky.

'But tell me, Alice,' she said at last, 'for of course it is important that I should know—do you think that Olive is really in love with Captain Hibbert?'

'She told me, as we were going to bed the other night, mamma, that she never could care for anyone else; and—and'

'And what, dear?'

'I don't like to betray my sister's confidence,' Alice answered, 'but I'm sure I had better tell you all: she told me that he had kissed her many times, and no later than yesterday, in the conservatory.'

'Indeed! you did very well to let me know of this,' said Mrs. Barton, becoming as earnestly inclined as her daughter Alice. 'I am sorry that Olive was so foolish; I must speak to her about it. This must not occur again. I think that if you were to tell her to come down here—'

'Oh no, mamma; Olive would know at once that I had been speaking about her affairs; you must promise me to make only an indirect use of what I have told you.'

'Of course—of course, my dear Alice; no one shall ever know what has passed between us. You can depend upon me. I will not speak to Olive till I get a favourable opportunity. And now I have to go and see after the servants. Are you going upstairs?'

On Alice, tense with the importance of the explanation, this dismissal fell not a little chillingly; but she was glad that she had been able to induce her mother to consider the matter seriously.

A few minutes passed dreamily, almost unconsciously; Mrs. Barton threw two sods of turf on the fire, and resumed her thinking. Her first feeling of resentment against her eldest daughter had vanished; and she now thought solely of the difficulty she was in, and how she could best extricate herself from it. 'So Olive was foolish enough to allow Captain Hibbert to kiss her in the conservatory!' Mrs. Barton murmured to herself. The morality of the question interested her profoundly. She had never allowed anyone to kiss her before she was married; and she was full of pity and presentiment for the future of a young girl who could thus compromise herself. But in Olive's love for Captain Hibbert Mrs. Barton was concerned only so far as it affected the labour and time that would have to be expended in persuading her to cease to care for him. That this was the right thing to do Mrs. Barton did not for a moment doubt. Her daughter was a beautiful girl, would probably be the belle of the season; therefore to allow her, at nineteen, to marry a thousand-a-year captain would be, Mrs. Barton thought, to prove herself incapable, if not criminal, in the performance of the most important duty of her life. Mrs. Barton trembled when she thought of the sending of the letter: if the story were to get wind in Dublin, it might wreck her hopes of the marquis. Therefore, to tell Barnes to leave the house would be fatal. Things must be managed gently, very gently. Olive must be talked to, how far her heart was engaged in the matter must be found out, and she must be made to see the folly, the madness of risking her chance of winning a coronet for the sake of a beggarly thousand-a-year captain. And, good heavens! the chaperons: what would they say of her, Mrs. Barton, were such a thing to occur? Mrs. Barton turned from the thought in horror; and then, out of the soul of the old coquette arose, full-fledged, the chaperon, the satellite whose light and glory is dependent on that of the fixed star around which she revolves.

At this moment Olive, her hands filled with ferns, bounced into the room.

'Oh! here you are, mamma! Alice told me you wanted a few ferns and flowers to brighten up the room.'

'I hope you haven't got your feet wet, my dear; if you have, you had better go up at once and change.'

Olive was now more than ever like her father. Her shoulders had grown wider, and the blonde head and scarlet lips had gained a summer brilliance and beauty.

'No, I am not wet,' she said, looking down at her boots; 'it isn't raining; but if it were Alice would send me out all the same.'

'Where is she now?'

'Up in her room reading, I suppose; she never stirs out of it. I thought when we came home from school the last time that we would be better friends; but, do you know what I think: Alice is a bit sulky. What do you think, mamma?'

To talk of Alice, to suggest that she was a little jealous, to explain the difficulty of the position she occupied, to commiserate and lavish much pity upon her was, no doubt, a fascinating subject of conversation, it had burned in the brains of mother and daughter for many months; but, too wise to compromise herself with her children, Mrs. Barton resisted the temptation to gratify a vindictiveness that rankled in her heart. She said:

'Alice has not yet found her beau cavalier; we shall see when we are at the Castle if she will remain faithful to her books. I am afraid that Miss Alice will then prefer some gay, dashing young officer to her Marmion and her Lara.'

'I should think so, indeed. She says that the only man she cares to speak to in the county is Dr. Reed, that little frumpy fellow with his medicines. I can't understand her. I couldn't care for anyone but an officer.'

This was the chance Mrs. Barton required, and she instantly availed herself of it. 'The red-coat fever!' she exclaimed, waving her hands. 'There is no one like officers pour faire passer le temps'

'Yes, ma!' cried Olive, proud of having understood so much French; 'doesn't time pass quickly with them?'

'It flies, my dear, and they fly away, and then we take up with another.
They are all nice; their profession makes them that.'

'But some are nicer than others; for instance, I am sure they are not all as handsome as Captain Hibbert.'

'Oh! indeed they are,' said Mrs. Barton, laughing; 'wait until we get to Dublin; you have no idea what charming men we shall meet there. We shall find a lord or an earl, or perhaps a marquis, who will give a coroneted carriage to my beautiful girl to drive in.'

Olive tossed her head, and her mother looked at her admiringly, and there was love in the sweet brown deceit of the melting eyes; a hard, worldly affection, but a much warmer one than any Mrs. Barton could feel for Alice, in whom she saw nothing but failure, and in the end spiritual spinsterhood. After a pause she said:

'What a splendid match Lord Kilcarney would be, and where would he find a girl like my Olive to do the honours of his house?'

'Oh! mamma, I never could marry him!'

'And why not, my dear girl?'

'I don't know, he's a silly little fool; besides, I like Captain
Hibbert.'

'Yes, you like Captain Hibbert, so do I; but a girl like you could not throw herself away on a thousand-a-year captain in the army.'

'And why not, mamma?' said Olive, who had already begun to whimper; 'Captain Hibbert loves me, I know, very dearly, and I like him; he is of very good family, and he has enough to support me.'

The moment was a supreme one, and Mrs. Barton hesitated to strike and bring the matter to a head. Would it be better, she asked herself, to let things go by and use her influence for the future in one direction? After a brief pause she decided on the former course. She said:

'My dear child, neither your father nor myself could ever consent to see you throw yourself away on Captain Hibbert. I am afraid you have seen too much of him, and have been led away into caring for him. But take my word for it, a girl's love is only à fleur de peau. When you have been to a few of the Castle balls you'll soon forget all about him. Remember, you are not twenty yet; it would be madness.'

'Oh! mamma, I didn't think you were so cruel!' exclaimed Olive, and she rushed out of the room.

Mrs. Barton made no reply, but her resolve was rapidly gaining strength in her mind: Olive's flirtation was to be brought at once to a close. Captain Hibbert she would admit no more, and the girl was in turn to be wheedled and coerced.

Nor did Mrs. Barton for a moment doubt that she would succeed; she had never tasted failure; and she stayed only a moment to regret, for she was too much a woman of the world to waste time in considering her mistakes. The needs of the moment were ever present to her, and she now devoted herself entirely to the task of consoling her daughter. Barnes, too, was well instructed, and henceforth she spoke only of the earls, dukes, lords, and princes who were waiting for Olive at the Castle.

In the afternoon Mrs. Barton called Olive into the drawing-room, where woman was represented as a triumphant creature walking over the heads and hearts of men. 'Le génie de la femme est la beauté,' declared Milord, and again: 'Le coeur de l'homme ne peut servir que de piédestal pour l'idole.'

'Oh! Milord, Milord!' said Mrs. Barton. 'So in worshipping us you are idolaters. I'm ashamed of you.'

'Pardon, pardon, madame: Devant un amour faux on est idolâtre, mais à l'autel d'un vrai, on est chrétien.'

And in such lugubrious gaiety the girl grieved. Captain Hibbert had been refused admission; he had written, but his letters had been intercepted; and holding them in her hand Mrs. Barton explained she could not consent to such a marriage, and continued to dazzle the girl with visions of the honours that awaited the future Marchioness of Kilcarney. 'An engaged girl is not noticed at the Castle. You don't know what nice men you'll meet there; have your fun out first,' were the arguments most frequently put forward; and, in the excitement of breaking off Olive's engagement, even the Land League was forgotten. Olive hesitated, but at length allowed herself to be persuaded to at least try to captivate the marquis before she honoured the captain with her hand. No sooner said than done. Mrs. Barton lost not a moment in writing to Captain Hibbert, asking him to come and see them the following day, if possible, between eleven and twelve. She wanted to speak to him on a matter which had lately come to her knowledge, and which had occasioned her a good deal of surprise.

XIII

Mr. Barton could think of nothing but the muscles of the strained back of a dying Briton and a Roman soldier who cut the cords that bound the white captive to the sacrificial oak; but it would be no use returning to the studio until these infernal tenants were settled with, and he loitered about the drawing-room windows looking pale, picturesque, and lymphatic. His lack of interest in his property irritated Mrs. Barton. 'Darling, you must try to get them to take twenty per cent.' At times she strove to prompt the arguments that should be used to induce the tenants to accept the proffered abatement, but she could not detach her thoughts from the terrible interview she was about to go through with Captain Hibbert. She expected him to be violent; he would insist on seeing Olive, and she watched wearily the rain dripping from the wooden edges of the verandah. The last patches of snow melted, and at last a car was seen approaching, closely followed by another bearing four policemen.

'Here's your agent,' exclaimed Mrs. Barton hurriedly. 'Don't bring him in here; go out and meet him, and when you see Captain Hibbert welcome him as cordially as you can. But don't speak to him of Olive, and don't give him time to speak to you; say you are engaged. I don't want Mr. Scully to know anything about this break-off. It is most unfortunate you didn't tell me you were going to meet your tenants to-day. However, it is too late now.'

'Very well, my dear, very well,' said Mr. Barton, trying to find his hat. 'I would, I assure you, give twenty pounds to be out of the whole thing. I can't argue with those fellows about their rents. I think the Government ought to let us fight it out. I should be very glad to take the command of a flying column of landlords, and make a dash into Connemara. I have always thought my military genius more allied to that of Napoleon than to that of Wellington.'

It was always difficult to say how far Mr. Barton believed in the extravagant remarks he was in the habit of giving utterance to. He seemed to be aware of their absurdity, without, however, relinquishing all belief in their truth. And now, as he picked his way across the wet stones, his pale hair blown about in the wind, he presented a strange contrast with the short-set man who had just jumped down from the car, his thick legs encased in gaiters, and a long ulster about them.

'Howd' yer do, Barton?' he exclaimed. 'D'yer know that I think things are gitting worse instid of bither. There's been another bailiff shot in Mayo, and we've had a process-server nearly beaten to death down our side of the counthry. Gad! I was out with the Sub-Sheriff and fifty police thrying to serve notices on Lord Rosshill's estate, and we had to come back as we wint. Such blawing of horns you niver heard in yer life. The howle counthry was up, and they with a trench cut across the road as wide as a canal.'

'Well, what do you think we had better do with these fellows? Do you think they will take the twenty per cent.?'

''Tis impossible to say. Gad! the Lague is gittin' stronger ivery day, Barton. But they ought to take it; twenty per cent. will bring it very nearly to Griffith's.'

'But if they don't take it?'

'Well, I don't know what we will do, for notices it is impossible to serve. Gad! I'll never forgit how we were pelted the other day—such firing of stones, such blawing of horns! I think you'll have to give them the thirty; but we'll thry them at twinty-foive.'

'And if they won't take it—?'

'What! the thirty? They'll take that and jumping, you needn't fear. Here they come.'

Turning, the two men watched the twenty or thirty peasants who, with heads set against the gusts, advanced steadily up the avenue, making way for a horseman; and from the drawing-room window Mrs. Barton recognized the square-set shoulders of Captain Hibbert. After shaking hands and speaking a few words with Mr. Barton, he trotted round to the stables; and when he walked back and entered the house, in all the clean-cut elegance of military boots and trousers, the peasants lifted their hats, and the interview began.

'Now, boys,' said Mr. Barton, who thought that a little familiarity would not be inappropriate, 'I've asked you to meet me so that we might come to some agreement about the rents. We've known each other a long time, and my family has been on this estate I don't know for how many generations. Therefore—why, of course, I should be very sorry if we had any falling out. I don't know much about farming, but I hear everyone say that this has been a capital year, and . . . I think I cannot do better than to make you again the same offer as I made you before—that is to say, of twenty per cent, abatement all round; that will bring your rents down to Griffith's valuation.'

Mr. Barton had intended to be very impressive, but, feeling that words were betraying him, he stopped short, and waited anxiously to hear what answer the peasant who had stepped forward would make. The old man began by removing a battered tall-hat, out of which fell a red handkerchief. The handkerchief was quickly thrown back into the crown, and, at an intimation from Mr. Barton, hat and handkerchief were replaced upon the white head. He then commenced:

'Now, yer honour, the rints is too high; we cannot pay the present rint, at least without a reduction. I have been a tinent on the property, and my fathers before me, for the past fifty years. And it was in forty-three that the rints was ruz—in the time of your father, the Lord have mercy on his soul!—but he had an agent who was a hard man, and he ruz the rints, and since then we have been in poverty, livin' on yaller mail and praties, and praties that is watery; there is no diet in them, yer honour. And if yer honour will come down and walk the lands yerself, yer wi' see I am spaking the truth. We ask nothing better than yer should walk the lands yerself. There is two acres of my land, yer honour, flooded for three months of the year, and for that land I am paying twenty-five shillings an acre. I have my receipts, paid down to the last gale-day.'

And, still speaking, the old man fumbled in his pockets and produced a large pile of papers, which he strove to push into Mr. Barton's hand, alluding all the while to the losses he had sustained. Two pigs had died on him, and he had lost a fine mare and foal. His loquacity was, however, cut short by a sturdy, middle-aged peasant standing next him.

'And I, too, yer honour, am payin' five-and-twenty shillin's for the same flooded land. Yer honour can come down any day and see it. It is not worth, to me, more than fifteen shillings an acre at the bare outside. But it could be drained, for there is a fall into the marin stream betwixt your honour's property and the Miss Brennans'. It wouldn't cost more than forty pound, and the Miss Brennans will pay half if yer honour will pay the other.'

Mr. Barton listened patiently to those peasant-like digressions, while Mrs. Barton listened patiently to the Captain's fervid declarations of love. He had begun by telling her of the anguish it had caused him to have been denied, and three times running, admittance to Brookfield. One whole night he had lain awake wondering what he had done to offend them. Mrs. Barton could imagine how he had suffered, for she, he ventured to say, must have long since guessed what were his feelings for her daughter.

'We were very sorry to have been out, and it is so unusual that we should be,' said Mrs. Barton, leaning forward her face insinuatingly. 'But you were speaking of Olive. We say here that there is no one like le beau capitaine, no one so handsome, no one so nice, no one so gallant, and—and—' here Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, for she thought the bitterness of life might be so cunningly wrapped up in sweet compliments that both could be taken together, like sugared-medicine—in one child-like gulp. 'There is, of course, no one I should prefer to le beau capitaine—there is no one to whom I would confide my Olive more willingly; but, then, one must look to other things; one cannot live entirely on love, even if it be the love of a beau capitaine.'

Nevertheless, the man's face darkened. The eyebrows contracted, the straight white nose seemed to grow straighter, and he twirled his moustache angrily.

'I am aware, my dear Mrs. Barton, that I cannot give your daughter the position I should like to, but I am not as poor as you seem to imagine. Independent of my pay I have a thousand a year; Miss Barton has, if I be not mistaken, some money of her own; and, as I shall get my majority within the next five years, I may say that we shall begin life upon something more than fifteen hundred a year.'

'It is true that I have led you to believe that Olive has money, but Irish money can be no longer counted upon. Were Mr. Barton to create a charge on his property, how would it be possible for him to guarantee the payment of the interest in such times as the present? We are living on the brink of a precipice. We do not know what is, and what is not, our own. The Land League is ruining us, and the Government will not put it down; this year the tenants may pay at twenty per cent. reduction, but next year they may refuse to pay at all. Look out there: you see they are making their own terms with Mr. Barton.'

'I should be delighted to give you thirty per cent. if I could afford it,' said Mr. Barton, as soon as the question of reduction, that had been lost sight of in schemes for draining, and discussion concerning bad seasons, had been re-established; 'but you must remember that I have to pay charges, and my creditors won't wait any more than yours will. If you refuse to pay your rents and I get sold out, you will have another landlord here; you'll ruin me, but you won't do yourselves any good. You will have some Englishman here who will make you pay your rents.'

'An Englishman here!' exclaimed a peasant. 'Arrah! he'll go back quicker than he came.'

'Maybe he wouldn't go back at all,' cried another, chuckling. 'We'd make an Oirishman of him for ever.'

'Begad, we'd make him wear the grane in raal earnest, and, a foine scraw it would be,' said a third.

The witticism was greeted with a roar of laughter, and upon this expression of a somewhat verdant patriotism the dispute concerning the reduction was resumed.

'Give us the land all round at the Government valuation,' said a man in the middle of the group.

'Why, you are only fifteen per cent. above the valuation,' cried Mr.
Scully.

For a moment this seemed to create a difference of opinion among the peasants; but the League had drawn them too firmly together to be thus easily divided. They talked amongst themselves in Irish. Then the old man said:

'We can't take less than thirty, yer honour. The Lague wouldn't let us.'

'I can't give you more than twenty.'

'Thin let us come on home, thin; no use us wasting our toime here,' cried a sturdy peasant, who, although he had spoken but seldom, seemed to exercise an authority over the others. With one accord they followed him; but, rushing forward, Mr. Scully seized him by the arm, saying:

'Now then, boys, come back, come back; he'll settle with you right enough if you'll listen to reason.'

From the drawing-room window Mrs. Barton watched the conflict. On one side she saw her daughter's beautiful white face becoming the prize of a penniless officer; on the other she saw the pretty furniture, the luxurious idleness, the very silk dress on her back, being torn from them, and distributed among a crowd of Irish-speaking, pig-keeping peasants. She could see that some new and important point was being argued; and it was with a wrench she detached her thoughts from the pantomime that was being enacted within her view, and, turning to Captain Hibbert, said:

'You see—you see what is happening. We are—that is to say, we may be—ruined at any moment by this wicked agitation. As I have said before, there is no one I should like so much as yourself; but, in the face of such a future, how could I consent to give you my daughter?—that is to say, I could not unless you could settle at least a thousand a year upon her. She has been brought up in every luxury.'

'That may be, Mrs. Barton. I hope to give her quite as comfortable a home as any she has been accustomed to. But a thousand a year is impossible. I haven't got it. But I can settle five hundred on her, and there's many a peeress of the realm who hasn't that. Of course five hundred a year is very little. No one feels it more than I. For had I the riches of the world, I should not consider them sufficient to create a place worthy of Olive's beauty. But love must be allowed to count for something, and I think—yes, I can safely say—she will never find—'

'Yes, I know—I am sure; but it cannot be.'

'Then you mean to say that you will sacrifice your daughter's happiness for the sake of a little wretched pride?'

'Why press the matter further? Why cannot we remain friends?'

'Friends! Yes, I hope we shall remain friends; but I will never consent to give up Olive. She loves me. I know she does. My life is bound up in hers. No, I'll never consent to give her up, and I know she won't give me up.'

'Olive has laughed and flirted with you, but it was only pour passer le temps; and I may as well tell you that you are mistaken when you think that she loves you.'

'Olive does love me. I know she does; and I'll not believe she does not—at least, until she tells me so. I consider I am engaged to her; and I must beg of you, Mrs. Barton, to allow me to see her and hear from her own lips what she has to say on this matter.'

With the eyes of one about to tempt fortune adventurously, like one about to play a bold card for a high stake, Mrs. Barton looked on the tall, handsome man before her; and, impersonal as were her feelings, she could not but admire, for the space of one swift thought, the pale aristocratic face now alive with passion. Could she depend upon Olive to say no to him? The impression of the moment was that no girl would. Nevertheless, she must risk the interview, and gliding towards the door, she called; and then, as a cloud that grows bright in the sudden sunshine, the man's face glowed with delight at the name, and a moment after, white and drooping like a cut flower, the girl entered. Captain Hibbert made a movement as if he were going to rush forward to meet her. She looked as if she would have opened her arms to receive him, but Mrs. Barton's words fell between them like a sword.

'Olive,' she said, 'I hear you are engaged to Captain Hibbert! Is it true?'

Startled in the drift of her emotions, and believing her confidence had been betrayed, the girl's first impulse was to deny the impeachment. No absolute promise of marriage had she given him, and she said:

'No, mamma, I am not engaged. Did Edward—I mean Captain Hibbert—say I was engaged to him? I am sure—'

'Didn't you tell me, Olive, that you loved me better than anyone else? Didn't you even say you could never love anyone else? If I had thought that—'

'I knew my daughter would not have engaged herself to you, Captain Hibbert, without telling me of it. As I have told you before, we all like you very much, but this marriage is impossible; and I will never consent, at least for the present, to an engagement between you.'

'Olive, have you nothing to say? I will not give you up unless you tell me yourself that I must do so.'

'Oh, mamma, what shall I do?' said Olive, bursting into a passionate flood of tears.

'Say what I told you to say,' whispered Mrs. Barton.

'You see, Edward, that mamma won't consent, at least not for the present, to our engagement.'

This was enough for Mrs. Barton's purpose, and, soothing her daughter with many words, she led her to the door. Then, confronting Captain Hibbert, she said:

'There is never any use in forcing on these violent scenes. As I have told you, there is no one I should prefer to yourself. We always say here that there is no one like le beau capitaine; but, in the face of these bad times, how can I give you my daughter? And you soldiers forget so quickly. In a year's time you'll have forgotten all about Olive.'

'That isn't true; I shall never forget her. I cannot forget her; but I will consent to wait if you will consent to our being engaged.'

'No, Captain Hibbert, I think it is better not. I do not approve of those long engagements.'

'Then you'll forget what has passed between us, and let us be the same friends as we were before?'

'I hope we shall always remain friends; but I do not think, for my daughter's peace of mind, it would be advisable for us to see as much of each other as we have hitherto done. And I hope you will promise me not to communicate with my Olive in any way.'

'Why should I enter into promises with you, Mrs. Barton, when you decline to enter into any with me?'

Mrs. Barton did not look as if she intended to answer this question. The conversation had fallen, and her thoughts had gone back to the tenants and the reduction that Mr. Scully was now persuading them to accept. He talked apart, first with one, then with another. His square bluff figure in a long coarse ulster stood out in strong relief against the green grass and the evergreens.

'Thin it is decided yer pay at twinty-foive per cint.,' said Mr. Scully.

'Then, Captain Hibbert,' said Mrs. Barton a little sternly, 'I am very sorry indeed, that we can't agree; but, after what has passed between us to-day, I do not think you will be justified in again trying to see my daughter.'

'Begad, sor, they were all aginst me for agraying to take the twinty-foive,' whispered the well-to-do tenant who was talking to the agent.

'I fail to understand,' said Captain Hibbert haughtily, 'that Miss Barton said anything that would lead me to suppose that she wished me to give her up. However, I do not see that anything would be gained by discussing this matter further. Good-morning, Mrs. Barton.'

'Good-morning, Captain Hibbert;' and Mrs. Barton smiled winningly as she rang the bell for the servant to show him out. When she returned to the window the tenants were following Mr. Scully into the rent-office, and, with a feeling of real satisfaction she murmured to herself:

'Well, after all, nothing ever turns out as badly as we expect it.'

XIV

But, although Mrs. Barton had bidden the captain away, Olive's sorrowful looks haunted the house.

A white weary profile was seen on the staircase, a sigh was heard when she left the room; and when, after hours of absence, she was sought for, she was found lying at full length, crying upon her bed.

'My dear, it distresses me to see you in this state. You really must get up; I cannot allow it. There's nothing that spoils one's good looks like unhappiness. Instead of being the belle of the season, you'll be a complete wreck. I must insist on your getting up, and trying to interest yourself in something.'

'Oh! mamma, don't, don't! I wish I were dead; I am sick of everything!'

'Sick of everything?' said Mrs. Barton, laughing. 'Why, my dear child, you have tasted nothing yet. Wait until we get to the Castle; you'll see what a lot of Captain Hibberts there will be after this pretty face; that's to say if you don't spoil it in the meantime with fretting.'

'But, mamma,' she said, 'how can I help thinking of him?—there's nothing to do here, one never hears of anything but that horrid Land League—whether the Government will or will not help the landlords, whether Paddy So-and-so will or will not pay his rent. I am sick of it. Milord comes to see you, and Alice likes reading-books, and papa has his painting; but I have nothing since you sent Captain Hibbert away.'

'Yes, yes, my beautiful Olive flower, it is a little dull for you at present, and to think that this wicked agitation should have begun the very season you were coming out! Who could have foreseen such a thing? But come, my pet, I cannot allow you to ruin your beautiful complexion with foolish tears; you must get up; unfortunately I can't have you in the drawing-room, I have to talk business with Milord, but you can go out for a walk with Alice—it isn't raining to-day.'

'Oh! no; I couldn't go out to walk with Alice, it would bore me to death. She never talks about anything that interests me.'

Vanished the sweet pastel-like expression of Mrs. Barton's features, lost in a foreseeing of the trouble this plain girl would be. Partners would have to be found, and to have her dragging after her all through the Castle season would be intolerable. And all these airs of virtue, and injured innocence, how insupportable they were! Alice, as far as Mrs. Barton could see, was fit for nothing. Even now, instead of helping to console her sister, and win her thoughts away from Captain Hibbert, she shut herself up to read books. Such a taste for reading and moping she had never seen in a girl before—voilà un type de vieille fille. Whom did she take after? Certainly not after her mother, nor yet her father. But what was the good of thinking of the tiresome girl? There were plenty of other things far more important to consider, and the first thing of all was—how to make Olive forget Captain Hibbert? On this point Mrs. Barton was not quite satisfied with the manner in which she had played her part. Olive's engagement had been broken off by too violent means, and nothing was more against her nature than (to use her own expression) brusquer les choses. Early in life Mrs. Barton discovered that she could amuse men, and since then she had devoted herself assiduously to the cultivation of this talent, and the divorce between herself and her own sex was from the first complete. She not only did not seek to please, but she made no attempt to conceal her aversion from the society of women, and her preference for those forms of entertainment where they were found in fewest numbers. Balls were, therefore, never much to her taste; at the dinner-table she was freer, but it was on the racecourse that she reigned supreme. From the box-seat of a drag the white hands were waved, the cajoling laugh was set going; and fashionably-dressed men, with race-glasses about their shoulders, came crowding and climbing about her like bees about their queen. Mrs. Barton had passed from flirtation to flirtation without a violent word. With a wave of her hands she had called the man she wanted; with a wave of her hands, and a tinkle of the bell-like laugh, she had dismissed him. As nothing had cost her a sigh, nothing had been denied her. But now all was going wrong. Olive was crying and losing her good looks. Mr. Barton had received a threatening letter, and, in consequence, had for a week past been unable to tune his guitar; poor Lord Dungory was being bored to death by policemen and proselytizing daughters. Everything was going wrong. This phrase recurred in Mrs. Barton's thoughts as she reviewed the situation, her head leaned in the pose of the most plaintive of the pastels that Lord Dungory had commissioned his favourite artist to execute in imitation of the Lady Hamilton portraits. And now, his finger on his lip, like harlequin glancing after columbine, the old gentleman, who had entered on tiptoe, exclaimed:

        '"Avez vous vu, dans Barcelone
          Une Andalouse au sein bruni?
          Pâle comme un beau soir d' Automne;
          C'est ma maîtresse, ma lionne!
          La Marquesa d' Amalëqui."'

Instantly the silver laugh was set a-tinkling, and, with delightful gestures, Milord was led captive to the sofa.

'C'est l'aurore qui vient pour dissiper les brumes du matin,' Mrs. Barton declared as she settled her skirts over her ankles.

        '"_Qu'elle est superbe en son désordre
          Quand elle tombe. . . ."'

'Hush, hush!' exclaimed Mrs. Barton, bursting with laughter; and, placing her hand (which was instantly fervently kissed) upon Milord's mouth, she said: 'I will hear no more of that wicked poetry.'

'What! hear no more of the divine Alfred de Musset?' Milord answered, as if a little discouraged.

'Hush, hush!'

Alice entered, having come from her room to fetch a book, but seeing the couple on the sofa she tried to retreat, adding to her embarrassment and to theirs by some ill-expressed excuses.

'Don't run away like that,' said Mrs. Barton; 'don't behave like a charity-school girl. Come in. I think you know Lord Dungory.'

'Oh! this is the studious one,' said Milord, as he took Alice affectionately with both hands, and drew her towards him. 'Now look at this fair brow; I am sure there is poetry here. I was just speaking to your mother about Alfred de Musset. He is not quite proper, it is true, for you girls; but oh, what passion! He is the poet of passion. I suppose you love Byron?'

'Yes; but not so much as Shelley and Keats,' said Alice enthusiastically, forgetting for the moment her aversion to the speaker in the allusion to her favourite pursuit.

'The study of Shelley is the fashion of the day. You know, I suppose, the little piece entitled Love's Philosophy—"The fountains mingle with the river; the river with the ocean." You know "Nothing in the world is single: all things, by a law divine, in one another's being mingle. Why not I with thine?"'

'Oh yes, and the Sensitive Plant. Is it not lovely?'

'There is your book, my dear; you must run away now. I have to talk with
Milord about important business.'

Milord looked disappointed at being thus interrupted in his quotations; but he allowed himself to be led back to the sofa. 'I beg your pardon for a moment,' said Mrs. Barton, whom a sudden thought had struck, and she followed her daughter out of the room.

'Instead of wasting your time reading all this love-poetry, Alice, it would be much better if you would devote a little of your time to your sister; she is left all alone, and you know I don't care that she should be always in Barnes' society.'

'But what am I to do, mamma? I have often asked Olive to come out with me, but she says I don't amuse her.'

'I want you to win her thoughts away from Captain Hibbert,' said Mrs. Barton; 'she is grieving her heart out and will be a wreck before we go to Dublin. Tell her you heard at Dungory Castle that he was flirting with other girls, that he is not worth thinking about, and that the Marquis is in love with her.'

'But that would be scarcely the truth, mamma,' Alice replied hesitatingly.

Mrs. Barton gave her daughter one quick look, bit her lips, and, without another word, returned to Milord. Everything was decidedly going wrong; and to be annoyed by that gawk of a girl in a time like the present was unbearable. But Mrs. Barton never allowed her temper to master her, and in two minutes all memory of Alice had passed out of her mind, and she was talking business with Lord Dungory. Many important questions had to be decided. It was known that mortgages, jointures, legacies, and debts of all kinds had reduced the Marquis's income to a minimum, and that he stood in urgent need of a little ready money. It was known that his relations looked to an heiress to rehabilitate the family fortune. Mrs. Barton hoped to dazzle him with Olive's beauty, but it was characteristic of her to wish to bait the hook on every side, and she hoped that a little gilding of it would silence the chorus of scorn and dissent that she knew would be raised against her when once her plans became known. Four thousand pounds might be raised on the Brookfield property, but, if this sum could be multiplied by five, Mrs. Barton felt she would be going into the matrimonial market armed to the teeth, and prepared to meet all comers. And, seeking the solution of this problem, Milord and Mrs. Barton sat on the sofa, drawn up close together, their knees touching; he, although gracious and urbane as was his wont, seemed more than usually thoughtful. She, although as charmful and cajoling as ever, in the pauses of the conversation allowed an expression of anxiety to cloud her bright face. Fifteen thousand pounds requires a good deal of accounting for, but, after many arguments had been advanced on either side, it was decided that she had made, within the last seven years, many successful investments. She had commenced by winning five hundred pounds at racing, and this money had been put into Mexican railways. The speculation had proved an excellent one, and then, with a few airy and casual references to Hudson Bay, Grand Trunks, and shares in steamboats, it was thought the creation of Olive's fortune could be satisfactorily explained to a not too exacting society.

Three or four days after, Mrs. Barton surprised the young ladies by visiting them in the sitting-room. Barnes was working at the machine, Olive stood drumming her fingers idly against the window-pane.

'Just fancy seeing you, mamma! I was looking out for Milord; he is a little late to-day, is he not?' said Olive.

'I do not expect him to-day—he is suffering from a bad cold; this weather is dreadfully trying. But how snug you are in your little room; and Alice is absolutely doing needlework.'

'I wonder what I am doing wrong now,' thought the girl.

Barnes left the room. Mrs. Barton threw some turf upon the fire, and she looked round. Her eyes rested on the cardboard boxes—on the bodice left upon the work-table—on the book that Alice had laid aside, and she spoke of these things, evidently striving to interest herself in the girl's occupation. At length she said:

'If the weather clears up I think we might all go for a drive; there is really no danger. The Land League never has women fired at. We might go and see the Brennans. What do you think, Olive?'

'I don't care to go off there to see a pack of women,' the girl replied, still drumming her fingers on the window-pane.

'Now, Olive, don't answer so crossly, but come and sit down here by me;' and, to make room for her, Mrs. Barton moved nearer to Alice. 'So my beautiful Olive doesn't care for a pack of women,' said Mrs. Barton—'Olive does not like a pack of women; she would prefer a handsome young lord, or a duke, or an earl.'

Olive turned up her lips contemptuously, for she guessed her mother's meaning.

'What curious lives those girls do lead, cooped up there by themselves, with their little periodical trip up to the Shelbourne Hotel. Of course the two young ones never could have done much; they never open their lips, but Gladys is a nice girl in her way, and she has some money of her own, I wonder she wasn't picked up.'

'I should like to know who would care for her?'

'She had a very good chance once; but she wouldn't say yes, and she wouldn't say no, and she kept him hanging after her until at last off he went and married someone else. A Mr. Blake, I think.'

'Yes, that was his name; and why wouldn't she marry him?'

'Well, I don't know—folly, I suppose. He was, of course, not so young as Harry Renley, but he had two thousand a year, and he would have made her an excellent husband; kept a carriage for her, and a house in London: whereas you see she has remained Miss Brennan, goes up every year to the Shelbourne Hotel to buy dresses, and gets older and more withered every day.'

'I know they lead a stupid life down here, but mightn't they go abroad and travel?' asked Alice; 'they are no longer so very young.'

'A woman can do nothing until she is married,' Mrs. Barton answered decisively.

'But some husbands treat their wives infamously; isn't no husband better than a bad husband?'

'I don't think so,' returned Mrs. Barton, and she glanced sharply at her daughter. 'I would sooner have the worst husband in the world than no husband.' Then settling herself like a pleader who has come to the incisive point of his argument, she continued: 'A woman is absolutely nothing without a husband; if she doesn't wish to pass for a failure she must get a husband, and upon this all her ideas should be set. I have always found that in this life we can only hope to succeed in what we undertake by keeping our minds fixed on it and never letting it out of sight until it is attained. Keep on trying, that is my advice to all young ladies: try to make yourselves agreeable, try to learn how to amuse men. Flatter them; that is the great secret; nineteen out of twenty will believe you, and the one that doesn't can't but think it delightful. Don't waste your time thinking of your books, your painting, your accomplishments; if you were Jane Austens, George Eliots, and Rosa Bonheurs, it would be of no use if you weren't married. A husband is better than talent, better even than fortune—without a husband a woman is nothing; with a husband she may rise to any height. Marriage gives a girl liberty, gives her admiration, gives her success; a woman's whole position depends upon it. And while we are on the subject it is as well to have one's say, and I speak for you both. You, Alice, are too much inclined to shrink into the background and waste your time with books; and you too, Olive, are behaving very foolishly, wasting your time and your complexion over a silly girlish flirtation.'

'There's no use talking about that. You have forbidden him the house; you can't do any more.'

'No, Olive, all I did was to insist that he should not come running after you until you had had time to consider the sacrifices you were making for him. I have no one's interest in the world, my dear girl, but your interests. Officers are all very well to laugh, talk, and flirt with—pour passer le temps—but I couldn't allow you to throw yourself away on the first man you meet. You will meet hundreds of others quite as handsome and as nice at the Castle.'

'I never could care for anyone else.'

'Wait until you have seen the others. Besides, what do you want? to be engaged to him? And I should like to know what is the use of my taking an engaged girl up to the Castle? No one would look at you.'

Olive raised her eyes in astonishment; she had not considered the question from this point of view, and the suggestion that, if engaged, she might as well stop at home, for no one would look at her, filled her with alarm.

'Whereas,' said Mrs. Barton, who saw that her words had the intended effect, 'if you were free you would be the season's beauty; nothing would be thought of but you; you would have lords, and earls, and marquesses dancing attendance on you, begging you to dance with them; you would be spoken of in the papers, described as the new beauty, and what not, and then if you were free—' Here Mrs. Barton heaved a deep sigh, and, letting her white hand fall over the arm of her chair, she seemed to abandon herself to the unsearchable decrees of destiny.

'Well, what then, mamma?' asked Olive excitedly. 'I am free, am I not?'

'Then you could outstrip the other girls, and go away with the great prize. They are all watching him; he will go to one of you for certain. I hear that Mrs. Scully—that great, fat, common creature, who sold bacon in a shop in Galway—is thinking of him for her daughter. Of course, if you like to see Violet become a marchioness, right under your nose, you can do so.'

'But what do you want me to do?' exclaimed the coronet-dazzled girl.

'Merely to think no more of Captain Hibbert. But I didn't tell you;—he was very impertinent to me when I last saw him. He said he would flirt with you, as long as you would flirt with him, and that he didn't see why you shouldn't amuse yourself. That's what I want to warn you against—losing your chance of being a marchioness to help an idle young officer to while away his time. If I were you, I would tell him, when I next saw him, that he must not think about it any more. You can put it all down to me; say that I would never hear of it; say that you couldn't think of disobeying me, but that you hope you will always remain friends. You see, that's the advantage of having a mother;—poor mamma has to bear everything.'

Olive made no direct answer, but she laughed nervously, and in a manner that betokened assent; and, having so far won her way, Mrs. Barton determined to conclude. But she could not invite Captain Hibbert to the house! The better plan would be to meet on neutral ground. A luncheon-party at Dungory Castle instantly suggested itself; and three days after, as they drove through the park, Mrs. Barton explained to Olive, for the last time, how she should act if she wished to become the Marchioness of Kilcarney.

'Shake hands with him just as if nothing had happened, but don't enter into conversation; and after lunch I shall arrange that we all go out for a walk on the terrace. You will then pair off with him, Alice; Olive will join you. Something will be sure to occur that will give her an opportunity of saying that he must think no more about her—that I would never consent.'

'Oh! mamma, it is very hard, for I can never forget him.'

'Now, my dear girl, for goodness' sake don't work yourself up into a state of mind, or we may as well go back to Brookfield. What I tell you to do is right; and if you see nobody at the Castle that you like better—well, then it will be time enough. I want you to be, at least, the beauty of one season.'

This argument again turned the scales. Olive laughed, but her laugh was full of the nervous excitement from which she suffered.

'I shan't know what to say,' she exclaimed, tossing her head, 'so I hope you will help me out of my difficulty, Alice.'

'I wish I could be left out of it altogether,' said the girl, who was sitting with her back to the horses. 'It seems to me that I am being put into a very false position!'

'Put into a false position!' said Mrs. Barton. 'I'll hear no more of this! If you won't do as you are told, you had better go back to St. Leonards—such wicked jealousy!'

'Oh, mamma!' said Alice, wounded to the quick, 'how can you be so unjust?

And her eyes filled with tears, for since she had left school she had experienced only a sense of retreating within herself, but so long as she was allowed to live within herself she was satisfied. But this refuge was no longer available. She must take part in the scuffle; and she couldn't. But whither to go? There seemed to be no escape from the world into which she had been thrust, and for no purpose but to suffer. But the others didn't suffer. Why wasn't she like them?

'I am sorry, Alice dear, for having spoken so crossly; but I am sorely tried. I really am more to be pitied than blamed; and if you knew all, you would, I know, be the first to try to help me out of my difficulties, instead of striving to increase them.' 'I would do anything to help you,' exclaimed Alice, deceived by the accent of sorrow with which Mrs. Barton knew how to invest her words.

'I am sure you would, if you knew how much depends—But dry your eyes, my dear, for goodness' sake dry them. Here we are at the door. I only want you to be with Olive when she tells Captain Hibbert that she cannot—and, now mind, Olive, you tell him plainly that he must not consider himself engaged to you.'

In the ceremonious drawing-room, patched with fragments of Indian drapery, Lady Jane and Lady Sarah sat angularly and as far from their guests as possible, for they suspected that their house was being made use of as a battle-ground by Mrs. Barton, and were determined to resent the impertinence as far as lay in their power. But Milord continued to speak of indifferent things with urbanity and courtly gestures; and as they descended the staircase, he explained the beauty of his marble statues and his stuffed birds.

'But, Lady Jane, where is Cecilia? I hope she is not unwell?'

'Oh no; Cecilia is quite well, thank you. But she never comes down when there is company—she is so very sensitive. But that reminds me. She told me to tell you that she is dying to see you. You will find her waiting for you in her room when we have finished lunch.'

'Cecilia is not the only person to be thought of,' said Milord. 'I will not allow Alice to hide herself away upstairs for the rest of the afternoon. I hear, Alice, you are a great admirer of Tennyson's Idylls. I have just received a new edition of his poems, with illustrations by Doré: charming artist, full of poetry, fancy, sweetness, imagination. Do you admire Doré, Captain Hibbert?'

The Captain declared that he admired Doré far more than the old masters, a point of taste that Milord ventured to question; and until they rose from table he spoke of his collection of Arundel prints with grace and erudition. Then they all went out to walk on the terrace. But as their feet echoed in the silence of the hall, Cecilia, in a voice tremulous with expectancy, was heard speaking:

'Alice, come upstairs; I am waiting for you.'

Alice made a movement as if to comply, but, stepping under the banisters, Lord Dungory said:

'Alice cannot come now, she is going out to walk with us, dear. She will see you afterwards.'

'Oh! let me go to her,' Alice cried.

'There will be plenty of time to see her later on,' whispered Mrs.
Barton. 'Remember what you promised me; 'and she pointed to Captain
Hibbert, who was standing on the steps of the house, his wide decorative
shoulders defined against a piece of grey sky.

In despair at her own helplessness, and with a feeling of loathing so strong that it seemed like physical sickness, Alice went forward and entered into conversation with Captain Hibbert. Lord Dungory, Mrs. Barton, and Olive walked together; Lady Jane and Lady Sarah followed at a little distance. In this order the party proceeded down the avenue as far as the first gate; then they returned by a side-walk leading through the laurels, and stood in a line facing the wind-worn tennis-ground, with its black, flowerless beds, and bleak vases of alabaster and stone. From time to time remarks anent the Land League were made; but all knew that a drama even as important as that of rent was being enacted. Olive had joined her sister, and the girls moved forward on either side of the handsome Captain; and, as a couple of shepherds directing the movements of their flock, Lord Dungory and Mrs. Barton stood watching. Suddenly her eyes met Lady Jane's. The glance exchanged was tempered in the hate of years; it was vindictive, cruel, terrible; it shone as menacingly as if the women had drawn daggers from their skirts, and Jane, obeying a sudden impulse, broke away from her sister, and called to Captain Hibbert. Fortunately he did not hear her, and, before she could speak again, Lord Dungory said:

'Jane, now, Jane, I beg of you—'

Mrs. Barton smiled a sweet smile of reply, and whispered to herself:

'Do that again, my lady, and you won't have a penny to spend this year.'

'And now, dear, tell me, I want to hear all about it,' said Mrs. Barton, as the carriage left the steps of Dungory Castle. 'What did he say?'

'Oh! mamma, mamma, I am afraid I have broken his heart,' replied Olive dolorously.

'It doesn't do a girl any harm even if it does leak out that she jilted a man; it makes the others more eager after her. But tell me, dear, I hope there was no misunderstanding; did you really tell him that it was no use, that he must think of you no more?'

'Mamma dear, don't make me go over it again, I can't, I can't; Alice heard all I said—she'll tell you,'

'No, no, don't appeal to me; it's no affair of mine,' exclaimed the girl more impetuously than she had intended.

'I am surprised at you, Alice; you shouldn't give way to temper like that. Come, tell me at once what happened.'

The thin, grey, moral eyes of the daughter and the brown, soft, merry eyes of the mother exchanged a long deep gaze of inquiry, and then Alice burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. She trembled from too much grief, and could not answer; and when she heard her mother say to Olive, 'Now that the coast is clear, we can go in heart and soul for the marquess,' she shuddered inwardly and wished she might stay at home in Galway and be spared the disgrace of the marriage-market.