Several sheets of foolscap paper covered with large open handwriting lay upon the table. Upon the first page, with a line ruled beneath it, stood the title: 'The Diary of a Plain Girl—Notes and Sensations.' She had just laid aside her pen and was waiting for Cecilia.
'Oh, Alice darling, how are you? I am delighted—I am so delighted to see you. Let me kiss you, let me see you; I have been longing for you for weeks—for months.'
Alice bent her face down, and then, holding each other's hands, the girls stood looking through a deep and expressive silence into each other's eyes.
'I wish, Alice, I could tell you how glad I am to have you back: it seems like heaven to see you again. You look so nice, so true, so sweet, so perfect. There never was anyone so perfect as you, Alice.'
'Cecilia dear, you shouldn't talk to me like that; it is absurd. Indeed,
I don't think it is quite right.'
'Not quite right,' replied the cripple sadly; 'what do you mean? Why is it wrong—why should it be wrong for me to love you?'
'I don't mean to say that it is wrong; you misunderstand me; but—but—well, I don't know how to explain myself, but—'
'I know, I know, I know,' said Cecilia, and her nervous sensitivity revealed thoughts in Alice's mind—thoughts of which Alice herself was not distinctly conscious, just as a photograph exposes irregularities in the texture of a leaf that the naked eye would not perceive.
'If Harding were to speak to you so, you wouldn't think it wrong.'
Alice's face flushed a little, and she said, with a certain resoluteness in her voice, 'Cecilia, I wish you wouldn't talk to me in this way. You give me great pain.'
'I am sorry if I do, but I can't help it. I am jealous of the words that are spoken to you, of the air you breathe, of the ground you walk upon. How, then, can I help hating that man?'
'I do not wish to argue this point with you, Cecilia, nor am I sure that I understand it. There is no one I like better than you, dear, but that we should be jealous of each other is absurd.'
'For you perhaps, but not for me.' Cecilia looked at Alice reproachfully, and at the end of a long and morose silence she said:
'You received the long letter I wrote to you about him?'
'Yes, Cecilia, and I answered it. It seems to me very foolish to pronounce condemnatory opinion on the whole world; and particularly for you who have seen so little of it.'
'That doesn't matter. People are blinded by their passions; but when these have worn themselves out, they see the truth in all its horrible nakedness. One of these days you'll tell me that I am right. You have been a good deal in the world lately; tell me if you have found it beautiful. You didn't believe me when I told you that men were vile and abominable; you said there were good men in the world, that you were sure of it. Have you found them? Was Mr. Harding so very perfect?'
Alice coloured again; she hesitated, and in the silence Cecilia again divined her friend's thoughts.
'A very poor ideal indeed, it seems to me that you set yourself—to make the best of this wretched world.'
'I cannot understand what good can come of craving after the unattainable,' said Alice, looking earnestly out of her grey sharp eyes.
'True beauty lies only in the unattainable,' said Cecilia, lifting her eyes with that curious movement of the eyeball by which painters represent faith and mysticism.
At the end of a long silence, Alice said:
'But you'll have some tea, will you not, Cecilia?'
'Yes; but don't let us go downstairs.'
'We'll have it up here; Barnes will bring it up.'
'Oh, that will be so nice.'
The girls drew closer to the fire, and in its uniting warmth they looked into the ardent face of their friendship, talking, at first, conscious of the appropriateness of their conversation; but soon forgetful of the more serious themes they had been discussing, questions were asked and answered, and comments passed, upon the presentations, the dresses, the crowds, upon all their acquaintances.
'It is given out, Alice dear, that Lord Kilcarney is coming down to stay at Brookfield. Is it true?'
'I have heard nothing of it. Whom did you hear it from?'
'Well, the Duffys wrote it to my sisters. The Duffys, you know, have all the Dublin news.'
'What dreadful gossips they are! And the wonderful part of it is that they often tell you that things have happened long before they do happen.'
'Yes; I have noticed that. They anticipate the news.'
The girls laughed lightly, and Cecilia continued:
'But tell me, which do you think he admires most, Olive or Violet? The rumour goes that he pays Violet great attentions. The family is, of course, wild about it. She hasn't a penny piece, and Olive, they say, has a good deal of money.'
'I don't know.'
'You must show me the dress you wore. You described it beautifully in your letter. You must have looked very sweet. Did everybody say so?'
'I am not sure that they did. Men, you know, do not always admire what women do.'
'I should think not. Men only admire beastliness.'
'Cecilia dear, you shouldn't talk like that; it isn't nice.'
Cecilia looked at Alice wistfully, and she said:
'But tell me about the presentations. I suppose there were an immense number of people present?'
'Yes, and particularly débutantes; there were a great number presented this year. It was considered a large Drawing-Room.'
'And how are you presented? I've heard my sister speak about it, but I never quite understood.'
At that moment Barnes brought in the tea. She set it on a little table used for the purpose.
'There is a letter for you, miss, on the tray,' she said as she left the room; 'it came by the afternoon post.'
Without answering, Alice continued to pour out the tea, but when she handed Cecilia her cup, she said, surprised at the dull, sullen stare fixed upon her:
'What is the matter? Why do you look at me like that?'
'That letter, I am sure, is from Harding; it is a man's handwriting.'
She had been expecting that letter for days.
'Oh! give it me,' she said impulsively.
'There it is; I wouldn't touch it. I knew you liked that man; but I didn't expect to find you corresponding with him. It is shameful; it isn't worthy of you. You might have left such things to May Gould.'
'Cecilia, you have no right to speak to me in that way; you are presuming too much on our friendship.'
'Oh, yes, yes; but before you met him I could not presume too much upon our friendship.'
'If you want to know why I wrote to Mr. Harding, I'll tell you.'
'It was you who wrote to him, then?'
'Yes, I wrote to him.'
'Oh, yes, yes, yes; I see it all now,' cried Cecilia, and she walked wildly to and fro, her eye tinged with a strange glare. 'Yes, I see it all. This room, that was once a girl's room, is now Harding's room. He is the atmosphere of the place. I was conscious of it when I entered, but now it is visible to me—that manuscript, that writing-table, that letter. Oh yes, it is Harding, all is Harding!'
'Cecilia, Cecilia, think, I beg of you, of what you are saying.'
But when Alice approached and strove to raise her from the pillow upon which she had thrown herself, she started up and savagely confronted her.
'Don't touch me, don't touch me!' she cried. 'I cannot bear it. What are you to me, what am I to you? It is not with me you would care to be, but with him. It is not my kiss of friendship that would console you, but his kiss of passion that would charm you. . . . Go to him, and leave me to die.'
'Was this insanity?' And then, forgetful of the abuse that was being showered upon her, Alice said:
'Cecilia dear, listen; I'll forgive the language you have used toward me, for I know you do not know what you are saying. You must be ill . . . you cannot be in your right senses to-day, or you would not speak like that.'
'You would soothe me, but you little dream of the poison you are dropping on my wounds. You never understood, you are too far removed from me in thought and feeling ever to understand—no, your spirituality is only a delusion; you are no better at heart than May Gould. It is the same thing: one seeks a husband, another gratifies herself with a lover. It is the same thing—where's the difference? It is animal passion all the same. And that letter is full of it—it must be—I am sure it is.'
'You are very insulting, Cecilia. Where have you thrown my letter?'
The letter had fallen beneath the table. Alice made a movement towards it, but, overcome by mad rage, Cecilia caught it up and threw it into the fire. Alice rescued her letter, and then, her face full of stern indignation, she said:
'I think, Cecilia, you had better leave my room, and before you come to see me again, I shall expect to receive a written apology for the outrageous way you have behaved.'
In a few days came a humble and penitent letter; Cecilia returned, her eyes full of tears, and begged to be forgiven; the girls resumed their friendship, but both were conscious that it was neither so bright nor so communicative as in the olden days.
XXII
'Something has happened to my learned daughter,' said Mr. Barton, and he continued his thumb-nail sketch on the tablecloth. 'What is it?' he added indolently.
Alice passed the cheque and the memorandum across the table. 'Three pounds for three articles contributed to the —— during the month of April.'
'You don't mean to say, Alice, you got three pounds for your writing?' said Mrs. Barton.
'Yes, mother, I have, and I hope to make ten pounds next month. Mr.
Harding says he can get me lots of work.'
'So my lady then, with all her shy ways, knows how to make use of a man as well as any of us.'
Mrs. Barton did not willingly wound. She saw life from the point of view of making use of men, that was all; and when Alice walked out of the room, Mrs. Barton felt sorry for what she had said, and she would have gone to comfort her daughter if Olive had not, at that moment, stood in imminent need of comfort.
'I suppose,' she said pettishly, 'the letter you received this morning is from the Marquis, to say he won't be here next Tuesday?'
It was. For as the day fixed for his arrival at Brookfield approached, he would write to apologize, and to beg that he might be allowed to postpone his visit to Monday week or Wednesday fortnight. Mrs. Barton replied that they would be very glad to see him when he found it convenient to come and see them. She did not inquire into the reason of his rudeness, she was determined to fight the battle out to the end, and she did not dare to think that he was being prompted by that beast of a girl, Violet Scully.
'He writes a very nice letter indeed. He says he has a very bad cold, and doesn't like to show himself at Brookfield with a red nose, but that, unless he dies in the meantime, he will be with us on the twentieth of the month, and will—if we'll have him—stop three weeks with us.'
'I knew the letter was a put-off. I don't believe he admires me at all, the little beast; and I know I shall never be a marchioness. You made me treat poor Edward shamefully, and for no purpose, after all.'
'Now, Olive, you mustn't speak like that. Go upstairs and ask Barnes if she has heard anything lately?'
'Oh, I'm sick of Barnes; what has she heard?'
'She is a great friend of Lady Georgina's maid, who knows the Burkes intimately, particularly Lady Emily's maid, and Barnes got a letter from her friend the other day, saying that Lady Emily was delighted at the idea of her brother marrying you, dear, and that he thinks of nobody else, speaks of nobody else. Run up and speak to her about it.'
As we have seen, Mrs. Barton had drugged Olive's light brain with visions of victories, with dancing, dresses, admiration; but now, in the tiring void of country days, memories of Edward's love and devotion were certain to arise. He made, however, no attempt to renew his courtship. At Gort, within three miles, he remained silent, immovable as one of the Clare mountains. Sometimes his brown-gold moustache and square shoulders were caught sight of as he rode rapidly along the roads. He had once been seen sitting with Mrs. Lawler behind the famous cream-coloured ponies; and to allude to his disgraceful conduct without wounding Olive's vanity was an art that Mrs. Barton practised daily; and to keep the girl in spirits she induced Sir Charles, who it was reported was about to emigrate his family to the wilds of Maratoga, to come and stay with them. If a rumour were to reach the Marquis's ears, it might help to bring him to the point. In any case Sir Charles's attentions to Olive would keep her in humour until the great day arrived.
Well convinced that this was her last throw, Mrs. Barton resolved to smear the hook well with the three famous baits she was accustomed to angle with. They were—dinners, flattery, and dancing. Accordingly, an order was given to the Dublin fishmonger to send them fish daily for the next three weeks, and to the pastrycook for a French cook. The store of flattery kept on the premises being illimitable, she did not trouble about that, but devoted herself to the solution of the problem of how she should obtain a constant and unfailing supply of music. Once she thought of sending up to Dublin for a professional pianist, but was obliged to abandon the idea on account of the impossibility of devising suitable employment for him during the morning hours. A tune or two might not come in amiss after lunch, but to have him hanging about the shrubberies all the morning would be intolerable. She might ask a couple of the Brennans or the Duffys to stay with them, but they would be in the way, and occupy the Marquis's time, and go tell-taling all over the country; no, that wouldn't do either. Alice's playing was wretched. It was a wonderful thing that a girl like her would not make some effort to amuse men—would not do something. Once Olive was married, she (Mrs. Barton) would try to patch up something for this gawk of a girl—marry her to Sir Charles; excellent match it would be, too—get all the children emigrated first: and if he would not have her, there was Sir Richard. It was said that he was quite reformed—had given up drink. But there was no use thinking of that: for the present she would have to put up with the girl's music, which was wretched.
Olive fell in with her mother's plans, and she angled industriously for Lord Kilcarney. She did not fail to say in or out of season, 'Il n'y a personne comme notre cher Marquis,' and as the turbot and fruit, that had arrived by the afternoon train from Dublin, were discussed, Milord did not cease to make the most appropriate remarks. Referring to the bouquet that she had pinned into the Marquis's buttonhole, he said:
'Il y a des amants partout où il y a des oiseaux et des roses.' And again: 'Les regardes des amoureux sont la lumière comme le baiser est la vie du monde.'
After dinner no time was lost, although the Marquis pleaded fatigue, in settling Alice at the piano, and dancing began in sober earnest. After each waltz Olive conducted him to the dining-room; she helped him liberally to wine, and when she held a match to his cigarette their fingers touched. But to find occupation for the long morning hours of her young couple was a grave trouble to Mrs. Barton. She was determined to make every moment of the little Marquis's stay in Galway moments of sunshine; but mental no more than atmospheric sunshine is to be had by the willing, and the poor little fellow seemed to pine in his Galway cage like a moulting canary. He submitted to all the efforts made in his behalf, but his submission was that of a victim. After breakfast he always attempted to escape, and if he succeeded in eluding Mrs. Barton, he would remain for hours hidden in the laurels, enwrapped in summer meditations, the nature of which it was impossible even to conjecture. In the afternoon he spoke of the burden of his correspondence, and when the inevitable dancing was spoken of, he often excused himself on the ground of having a long letter to finish. If it were impossible for her to learn the contents of these letters, Mrs. Barton ardently desired to know to whom they were addressed. Daily she volunteered to send special messengers to the post on his account; the footman, the coachman, and pony-chaise, were in turn rejected by him.
'Thank you, Mrs. Barton, thank you, but I should like to avail myself of the chance of a constitutional.'
'La santé de notre petit Marquis avant tout,' she would exclaim, with much silvery laughter and all the habitual movements of the white hands. 'But what do you say: I am sure the young ladies would like a walk, too?'
With a view to picturesque effect Mrs. Barton's thoughts had long been centred on a picnic. They were now within a few days of the first of May, and there was enough sunshine in the air to justify an excursion to Kinvarra Castle. It is about four miles distant, at the end of a long narrow bay.
Mrs. Barton applied herself diligently to the task of organization. Having heard from Dublin of the hoax that was being played on their enemy, the Ladies Cullen consented to join the party, and they brought with them one of the Honourable Miss Gores. The Duffys and Brennans numbered their full strength, including even the famous Bertha, who was staying with her sisters on a visit. The Goulds excused themselves on account of the distance and the disturbed state of the country. Mrs. Barton found, therefore, much difficulty in maintaining the noted characteristic of her parties. Sir Richard and Sir Charles had agreed to come; Mr. Adair, Mr. Ryan, and Mr. Lynch were also present. They drove up on outside cars, and were all attended by a bodyguard of policemen.
And very soon everybody fell to babbling of the history of the Castle, which nobody knew: Ireland has had few chroniclers. Lord Dungory pointed out that in the seventeenth century people lived in Ireland naked—speaking Latin habitually—without furniture or tapestries or paintings or baths. The Castle suggested a military movement to Mr. Barton.
'If things get any worse, we might all retire into this castle. The ladies will stand on the battlements, and I will undertake to hold the place for ever against those village ruffians.'
'I do not think there will be any necessity for that,' replied Mr. Adair sententiously. 'I think that these last terrible outrages have awakened the Government to a sense of their responsibility. I have reason to believe that immediate steps will be taken to crush this infamous conspiracy.'
Lord Dungory interposed with a neat epigram, and Mr. Adair fell to telling how he would crush the Land League out of existence if the Government would place him in supreme power for the space of one month.
'That is all I would ask: one month to restore this island to peace and prosperity. I have always been a Liberal, but I confess that I entirely fail to understand the action the Government are taking in the present crisis.'
As Lord Dungory was about to reply that he did not believe that the peasants could continue to resist the Government indefinitely, the police-sergeant in charge of the picnic-party approached, his face overcast.
'We've just received bad news from Dublin, my lord. The worst. Lord
Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were murdered this evening in the
Phoenix Park. It is unfortunately true, sir; I've the telegram with me.'
And he handed the yellow envelope to Lord Dungory, who, after glancing
at it, handed it on to Mr. Adair.
The appearance of the police in conversation with Lord Dungory and Mr. Adair was a sign for the assembling of the rest of the company, and it was under the walls of old Kinvarra Castle that the picnic-party heard the awful news.
Then, in turn, each ejaculated a few words.
Mrs. Barton said: 'It is dreadful to think there are such wicked people in the world.'
Mr. Adair said: 'There can be no doubt but that we have arrived at the crisis; Europe will ring with the echoes of the crime.'
Olive said: 'I think they ought to hang Mr. Parnell; I believe it was he who drove the car.'
Mr. Barton said: 'The landlords and Land-Leaguers will have to do what I say; they will have to fight it out. Now, at their head, I believe by a series of rapid marches—'
'Arthur, Arthur, I beg of you,' exclaimed Mrs. Barton.
'We shall all have to emigrate,' Sir Charles murmured reflectively.
'The law is in abeyance,' said Mr. Lynch.
'Precisely,' replied Milord; 'and as I once said to Lord Granville, "Les moeurs sont les hommes, mais la loi est la raison du pays."'
Mr. Adair looked up; he seemed about to contest the truth of this aphorism, but he relapsed into his consideration of Mr. Gladstone's political integrity. The conversation had fallen, but at the end of a long silence Mr. Ryan said:
'Begorra, I am very glad they were murthered.'
All drew back instinctively. This was too horrible, and doubt of Mr.
Ryan's sanity was expressed on every face.
At last Mr. Adair said, conscious that he was expressing the feelings of the entire company: 'What do you mean, sir? Have you gone mad? Do you not know that this is no fitting time for buffoonery?'
'Will ye hear me cousin out?' said Mr. Lynch.
'Begorra, I'm glad they were murthered,' continued Mr. Ryan; 'for if they hadn't been we'd have been—there's the long and the short of it. I know the counthry well, and I know that in six months more, without a proper Coercion Act, we'd have been burned in our beds.'
The unanswerableness of Mr. Ryan's words, and the implacable certainty which forced itself into every heart, that he spoke but the truth, did not, however, make the company less inclined to oppose the utilitarian view he took of the tragedy.
Unfinished phrases . . . 'Disgraceful' . . . 'Shocking' . . . 'Inconceivable' . . . 'That anyone should say such a thing' . . . were passed round, and a disposition was shown to boycott Mr. Ryan.
Mr. Adair spoke of not sitting in the room where such opinions were expressed, but Milord was seen whispering to him, 'We're not in a room, Adair, we're out of doors;' and Mrs. Barton, always anxious to calm troubled lives, suggested that 'people did not mean all they said.' Mr. Ryan, however, maintained through it all an attitude of stolid indifference, the indifference of a man who knows that all must come back sooner or later to his views.
And presently, although the sting remained, the memory of the wasp that had stung seemed to be lost. Milord and Mr. Adair engaged in a long and learned discussion concerning the principles of Liberalism, in the course of which many allusions were made to the new Coercion Bill, which, it was now agreed, Mr. Gladstone would, in a few days, lay before Parliament. The provisions of this Bill were debated. Milord spoke of an Act that had been in force consequent on the Fenian rising in '69. Mr. Adair was of opinion that the importance of a new Coercion Act could not be over-estimated; Mr. Barton declared in favour of a military expedition—a rapid dash into the heart of Connemara. But the conversation languished, and in the ever-lengthening silences all found their thoughts reverting to the idea brutally expressed by Mr. Ryan: Yes, they were glad; for if Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke had not been assassinated, every landowner in the country would have been murdered.
There was no dancing that evening; and as the night advanced the danger of the long drive home increased in intensity in the minds of Messrs. Lynch and Ryan. They sat on either side of Mr. Adair, and it was finally arranged that they should join their police-forces, and spend the night at his place. Sir Charles was sleeping at Brookfield; Milord had four policemen with him; and as all would have to pass his gate, he did not anticipate that even the Land League would venture to attack thirteen armed men. Mr. Barton, who saw the picturesque in everything, declared, when he came back, that they looked like a caravan starting for a pilgrimage across the desert. After a few further remarks, the ladies rose to retire; but when Mrs. Barton gave her hand to Lord Kilcarney, he said, his voice trembling a little:
'I'm afraid I must leave you to-morrow, Mrs. Barton. I shall have to run over to London to vote in the House of Lords. . .'
Mrs. Barton led the poor little man into the farther corner of the room, and making a place for him by her side, she said:
'Of course we are very sorry you are leaving—we should like you to stop a little longer with us. Is it impossible for you. . . ?'
'I am afraid so, Mrs. Barton; it is very kind of you, but—'
'It is a great pity,' she answered; 'but before we part I should like to know if you have come to any conclusion about what I spoke to you of in Dublin. If it is not to be, I should like to know, that I might tell the girl, so that she might not think anything more about—'
'What am I to say, what am I to do?' thought the Marquis. 'Oh! why does this woman worry me? How can I tell her that I wouldn't marry her daughter for tens of thousands of pounds?' 'I think, Mrs. Barton—I mean, I think you will agree with me that until affairs in Ireland grow more settled, it would be impossible for anyone to enter into any engagements whatever. We are all on the brink of ruin.'
'But twenty thousand pounds would settle a great deal.'
The little Marquis was conscious of annihilation, and he sought to escape Mrs. Barton as he might a piece of falling rock. With a desperate effort he said:
'Yes, Mrs. Barton—yes, I agree with you, twenty thousand pounds is a great deal of money; but I think we had better wait until the Lords have passed the new Coercion Bill—say nothing more about this—leave it an open question.'
And on this eminently unsatisfactory answer the matter ended; even Mrs. Barton saw she could not, at least for the present, continue to press it. Still she did not give up hope. 'Try on to the end; we never know that it is not the last little effort that will win the game,' was the aphorism with which she consoled her daughter, and induced her to write to Lord Kilcarney. And almost daily he received from her flowers, supposed to be emblematical of the feeling she entertained for him; and for these Alice was sometimes ordered to compose verses and suitable mottoes.
XXIII
But Lord Kilcarney's replies to these letters seldom consisted of more than a few well-chosen words, and he often allowed a week, and sometimes a fortnight, to elapse before answering at all. Olive—too vain and silly to understand the indifference with which she was treated—whined and fretted less than might have been expected. She spent a great deal of her time with Barnes, who fed her with scandal and flattery. But a storm was about to break, and in August it was known, without any possibility of a doubt, that the Marquis was engaged to Violet Scully, and that their marriage was settled for the autumn.
And this marriage, and the passing of the Bill for the Prevention of Crime, were the two interests present in the mind of Irish landlordism during the summer of '82. Immediately the former event was publicly announced, every girl in Dublin ran to her writing desk to confirm to her friends and relatives the truth of the news which for the last two months she had so resolutely anticipated. The famous Bertha, the terror of the débutantes, rushed to Brookfield, but she did not get there before the Brennans, and the result was a meeting of these families of girls in Mrs. Barton's drawing-room. Gladys was, however, the person chosen by God and herself to speak the wonderful words:
'Of course you have heard the news, Mrs. Barton?'
'No,' replied Mrs. Barton, a little nervously; 'what is it?'
'Oh yes, what is it?' exclaimed Olive. 'Anyone going to be married?'
'Yes. Can you guess?'
'No; tell me quick . . . no, do tell me. Are you going to be married?'
Had Olive been suddenly dowered with the wit of Congreve she could not have contrived an answer that would have shielded her better from the dart that Gladys was preparing to hurl. The girl winced; and divining the truth in a moment of inspiration, Mrs. Barton said:
'Ah! I know; Lord Kilcarney is engaged to Violet Scully.'
The situation was almost saved, and would have been had Olive not been present. She glanced at her mother in astonishment; and Gladys, fearing utter defeat, hurled her dart recklessly.
'Yes,' she exclaimed, 'and their marriage is fixed for this autumn.'
'I don't believe a word of it. . . . You only say so because you think it will annoy me.'
'My dear Olive, how can it annoy you? You know very well you refused him,' said Mrs. Barton, risking the danger of contradiction. 'Gladys is only telling us the news.'
'News, indeed; a pack of lies. I know her well; and all because—because she didn't succeed in hooking the man she was after in the Shelbourne last year. I'm not going to listen to her lies, if you are;' and on these words Olive flaunted passionately out of the room.
'So very sorry, really,' exclaimed Zoe. 'We really didn't know . . . indeed we didn't. We couldn't have known that—that there was any reason why dear Olive wouldn't like to hear that Lord Kilcarney was engaged to Violet.'
'Not at all, not at all. I assure you that whatever question there may once have been, I give you my word, was broken off a long time ago; they did not suit each other at all,' said Mrs. Barton. Now that she was relieved of the presence of her young, the mother fought admirably. But in a few minutes the enemy was reinforced by the arrival of the Hon. Miss Gores.
'Oh, how do you do? I am so glad to see you,' said Mrs. Barton, the moment they entered the room. 'Have you heard the news? all is definitely settled between the little Marquis and Violet. We were all talking of it; I am so glad for her sake. Of course it is very grand to be a marchioness, but I'm afraid she'll find her coronet a poor substitute for her dinner. You know what a state the property is in. She has married a beggar. The great thing after all, nowadays, is money.'
It would have been better perhaps not to have spoken of Lord Kilcarney's mortgages, but the Marquis's money embarrassments were the weak point in Violet's marriage, but it would not be natural (supposing that Olive had herself refused Lord Kilcarney) for her not to speak of them. So she prattled on gaily for nearly an hour, playing her part admirably, extricating herself from a difficult position and casting some doubt—only a little, it is true, but a little was a gain on the story that Olive had been rejected.
As soon as her visitors left the room, and she went to the window to watch the carriages drive away and to consider how she might console her daughter—persuade her, perhaps, that everything had happened for the best.
'Oh, mamma,' she said, rushing into the room, 'this is terrible; what shall we do—what shall we do?'
'What's terrible, my beautiful darling?'
Olive looked through her languor and tears, and she answered petulantly:
'Oh, you know very well I'm disgraced; he's going to marry Violet, and I shall not be a marchioness after all.'
'If my beautiful darling likes she can be a duchess,' replied Mrs.
Barton with a silvery laugh.
'I don't understand, mamma.'
'I mean that we aren't entirely dependent on that wretched little Marquis with his encumbered property; if he were fool enough to let himself be entrapped by that designing little beast, Violet Scully, so much the worse for him; we shall get someone far grander than he. It is never wise for a girl to settle herself off the first season she comes out.'
'It is all very well to say that now, but you made me break off with dear Edward, who was ever so nice, and loved me dearly.'
Mrs. Barton winced, but she answered almost immediately:
'My dear, we shall get someone a great deal grander than that wretched Marquis. There will be a whole crowd of English dukes and earls at the Castle next year; men who haven't a mortgage on their property, and who will all fight for the hand of my beautiful Olive. Mr. Harding, Alice's friend, will put your portrait into one of the Society papers as the Galway beauty, and then next year you may be her Grace.'
'And how will they do my portrait, mamma?'
'I think you look best, darling, with your hair done up on the top of your head, in the French fashion.'
'Oh! do you think so? You don't like the way I have it done in now?' said the girl; and, laughing, she ran to the glass to admire herself. 'Barnes said I looked sweet this morning;' and five minutes after she was tossing her head nervously, declaring she was miserable, and often she burst out crying for no assignable cause. Mrs. Barton consoled and flattered gaily; but the sweet placid countenance was sometimes a little troubled. As the girls left the breakfast-room one morning she said, as if asking their advice:
'I have just received an invitation from Dungory Castle; they are giving a tennis-party, and they want us to go to lunch.'
'Oh! mamma, I don't want to go,' cried Olive.
'And why, my dear?'
'Oh! because everybody knows about the Marquis, and I couldn't bear their sneers; those Brennans and the Duffys are sure to be there.'
'Bertha's in Dublin,' said Mrs. Barton, in an intonation of voice a little too expressive of relief.
'Gladys is just as bad; and then there's that horrid Zoe. Oh! I couldn't bear it.'
'It will look as if we were avoiding them; they will only talk the more.
I always think it is best to put a bold face on everything.'
'I couldn't, I couldn't. I'm broken-hearted, that's what I am. I have nothing to do or to think of.'
There could be little doubt that the Ladies Cullen had got up the tennis-party so that they might have an opportunity of sneering at her, but Milord would keep them in check (it might be as well to tell him to threaten to put down the school if they did not keep a guard on their tongues), and if Olive would only put a bold face on it and captivate Sir Charles, this very disagreeable business might blow over. Further than this Mrs. Barton's thoughts did not travel, but they were clear and precise thoughts, and with much subtlety and insinuative force she applied herself to the task of overcoming her daughter's weakness and strengthening her in this overthrow of vanity and self-love. But to the tennis-party they must go. Milord, too, was of opinion that they could not absent themselves, and he had doubtless been able to arrive at a very clear understanding with Lady Sarah and Lady Jane concerning the future of Protestantism in the parish, for on the day of the tennis-party no allusion was made to Lord Kilcarney's visit to Brookfield; certain references to his marriage were, of course, inevitable, but it was only necessary to question Mr. Adair on his views concerning the new Coercion Act to secure for Mrs. Barton an almost complete immunity from feminine sarcasm.
'I do not deny,' said Mr. Adair, 'that the Crimes Bill will restore tranquillity, but I confess that I can regard no Government as satisfactory that can only govern by the sword.'
These sentiments being but only very partially appreciated by the rest of the company, the conversation came to an awkward pause, and Lady Jane said as she left the room:
'I do not know a more able man on a county board than Mr. Adair. He took honours at Trinity, and if he hasn't done as much since as we expected, it is because he is too honourable, too conscientious, to ally himself to any particular party.'
'That was always the way with Lord Dungory,' suggested Mrs. Gould.
Lady Jane bit her lip, and continued, without taking notice of the interruption:
'Now, I hope Mr. Adair will not write a pamphlet, or express himself too openly concerning the Crimes Act. The question of the day is the organization of the Land Act, and I hear that Mr. Gladstone says it will be impossible to get on without Mr. Adair's assistance.'
'Every six months,' said Mrs. Gould, 'it is given out that Gladstone cannot go on without him; but somehow Gladstone does manage to get on without him, and then we never hear any more about it.'
Lady Jane looked angry; and all wondered at Mrs. Gould's want of tact, but at that moment the footman announced Messrs. Ryan and Lynch, and Alice asked if she might go up to see Cecilia. More visitors arrived; the Brennans, the Duffys, the five Honourable Miss Gores, and the company adjourned to the tennis ground. Mr. Lynch was anxious to have May for a partner, but she refused him somewhat pettishly, declaring at the same time that she had given up tennis, and would never touch a racquet again. Her continuous silence and dejected appearance created some surprise, and her cheeks flushed with passion when her mother said she didn't know what had come over May lately. Then obeying an impulse, May rose to her feet, and leaving the tennis players she walked across the pleasure grounds. Dungory Castle was surrounded by heavy woods and overtopping clumps of trees. As the house was neared, these were filled in with high laurel hedges and masses of rhododendron, and an opening in the branches of some large beech-trees revealed a blue and beautiful aspect of the Clare mountains.
'I wonder what May is angry about?' Cecilia said to Alice as they watched the tennis playing from their window; 'suppose those horrid men are annoying her.'
'I never saw her refuse to play tennis before,' Alice replied demurely. And ten minutes after, some subtle desire of which she was not very conscious led her through the shrubberies towards the place where she already expected to find May. And dreaming of reconciliation, of a renewal of friendship, Alice walked through the green summer of the leaves, listening to the infinite twittering of the birds, and startled by the wood-pigeons that from time to time rose boisterously out of the high branches. On a garden bench, leaning forward, her hands rested on her knees, May sat swinging her parasol from side to side, playing with the fallen leaves. When she looked up, the sunlight fell full upon her face, and Alice saw that she was crying. But affecting not to see the tears, she said, speaking rapidly:
'Oh, May dear, I have been looking for you. The last time we—'
But interrupted here by a choking sob, she found herself forced to say:
'My dear May, what is the matter? Can I do anything for you?'
'Oh, no, no; only leave me; don't question me. I don't want anyone's help.'
The ungraciousness of the words was lost in the accent of grief with which they were spoken.
'I assure you I don't wish to be inquisitive,' Alice replied sorrowfully, 'nor do I come to annoy you with good advice, but the last time we met we didn't part good friends. . . . I was merely anxious to assure you that I bore no ill-feeling, but, of course, if you—'
'Oh no, no,' cried May; reaching and catching at Alice's arm she pulled her down into the seat beside her; 'I am awfully sorry for my rudeness to you—to you who are so good—so good. Oh, Alice dear, you will forgive me, will you not?' and sobbing very helplessly, she threw herself into her friend's arms.
'Oh, of course I forgive you,' cried Alice, deeply affected. 'I had no right to lecture you in the way I did; but I meant it for the best, indeed I did.'
'I know you did, but I lost my temper. Ah, if you knew how sorely I was tried you would forgive me.'
'I do forgive you, May dear; but tell me, cannot I help you now? You know that you can confide in me, and I will do any thing in my power to help you.'
'No one can help me now,' said the girl sullenly.
Alice did not speak at once, but at the end of a long silence she said:
'Does Fred Scully love you no more?'
'I do not know whether he does or not; nor does it matter much. He's not in Ireland. He's far away by this time.'
'Where is he?'
'He's gone to Australia. He wrote to me about two months ago to say that all had been decided in a few hours, and that he was to sail next morning. He's gone out with some racehorses, and expects to win a lot of money. He'll be back again in a year.'
'A year isn't long to wait; you'll see him when he comes back.'
'I don't think I should care to see him again. Oh, you were right, Alice, to warn me against him. I was foolish not to listen to you, but it was too late even then.'
Alice trembled; she had already guessed the truth, but hoping when she knew all hope was vain, she said:
'You had better tell me, May; you know I am to be trusted.'
'Can't you guess it?'
The conversation fell, and the girls sat staring into the depths of the wood. Involuntarily their eyes followed a small bird that ran up branch after branch of a beech-tree, pecking as it went. It seemed like a toy mouse, so quick and unvarying were its movements. At last May said, and very dolorously:
'Alice, I thought you were kinder; haven't you a word of pity? Why tell you, why ask me to tell you? Oh! what a fool I was!'
'Oh! no, no, May, you did right to tell me. I am more sorry for you than words can express, and I didn't speak because I was trying to think of some way of helping you.'
'Oh! there's no—no way of helping me, dear. There's nothing for me to do but to die.' And now giving way utterly, the girl buried her face in her hands and sobbed until it seemed that she would choke in thick grief.
'Oh! May, May dear, you mustn't cry like that: if anyone were to come by, what would they think?'
'What does it matter? Everyone will know sooner or later—I wish I were dead—dead and out of sight for ever of this miserable world.'
'No, May,' said Alice, thinking instinctively of the child, 'you mustn't die. Your trial is a terrible one, but people before now have got over worse. I am trying to think what can be done.'
Then May raised her weeping face, and there was a light of hope in her eyes. She clasped Alice's hand. Neither spoke. The little brown bird pursued his way up and down the branches of the beech; beyond it lay the sky, and the girls, tense with little sufferings, yearned into this vision of beautiful peace.
At last Alice said: 'Did you tell Mr. Scully of the trouble? Does he know—'
'He was away, and I didn't like to write it to him; his departure for
Australia took me quite by surprise.'
'Have you told your mother?'
'Oh no, I'd rather die than tell her; I couldn't tell her. You know what she is.'
'I think she ought to be told; she would take you abroad.'
'Oh no, Alice dear; it would never do to tell mamma. You know what she is, you know how she talks, she would never leave off abusing the Scullys; and then, I don't know how, but somehow everybody would get to know about it. But find it out they will, sooner or later; it is only a question of time.'
'No, no, May, they shall know nothing of this—at least, not if I can help it.'
'But you can't help it.'
'There is one thing quite certain; you must go away. You cannot stop in
Galway.'
'It is all very well talking like that, but where can I go to? A girl cannot move a yard away from home without people wanting to know where she has gone.'
Alice's eyes filled with tears.
'You might go up to Dublin,' she said, 'and live in lodgings.'
'And what excuse should I give to mother?' said May, who in her despair had not courage to deny the possibility of the plan.
'You needn't tell her where you are,' replied Alice; and then she hesitated, feeling keenly conscious of the deception she was practising. But her unswerving common sense coming, after a moment's reflection, to her aid, she said: 'You might say that you were going to live in the convent. Go to the Mother Superior, tell her of your need, beg of her, persuade her to receive and forward your letters; and in that way, it seems to me that no one need be the wiser of what is going to happen.'
The last words were spoken slowly, as if with a sense of shame at being forced to speak thus. May raised her face, now aflame with hope and joy.
'I wonder if it is possible to—' A moment after the light died out of her face, and she said:
'But how shall I live? Who will support me? I cannot ask mother for money without awakening suspicion.'
'I think, May, I shall be able to give you almost all the money you want,' replied Alice in a hesitating and slightly embarrassed manner.
'You, Alice?'
'But I haven't told you; I have been writing a good deal lately for newspapers, and have made nearly twenty pounds. That will be all you will want for the present, and I shall be able, I hope, to make sufficient to keep you supplied.'
'I don't think that anyone was ever as good as you, Alice. You make me feel ashamed of myself.'
'I am doing only what anyone else would do if they were called upon. But we have been sitting here a long time now, and before we go back to the tennis-ground we had better arrange what is to be done. When do you propose leaving?'
'I had better leave at once. It is seven months ago now—no one suspects as yet.'
'Well, then, when would you like me to send you the money? You can have it at once if you like.'
'Oh, thanks, dear; mother will give me enough to last me a little while, and I will write to you from Dublin. You are sure no one sees your letters at Brookfield?'
'Quite sure; there's not the slightest danger.' She did not question the advice she had given, and she felt sure that the Reverend Mother, if a proper appeal were made to her common sense, would consent to conceal the girl's fault. Two months would not be long passing, but the expenses of this time would be heavy, and she, Alice, would have to meet them all. She trembled lest she might fail to do so, and she tried to reckon them up. It would be impossible to get rooms under a pound a week, and to live, no matter how cheaply, would cost at least two pounds; three pounds a week, four threes are twelve! The twenty pounds would scarcely carry her over a month, she would not be well for at least two; and then there was the doctor, the nurse, the flannels for the baby. Alice tried to calculate, thinking plainly and honestly. If a repulsive detail rose suddenly up in her mind, she did not shrink, nor was she surprised to find herself thinking of such things; she did so as a matter of course, keeping her thoughts fixed on the one object of doing her duty towards her friend. And how to do this was the problem that presented itself unceasingly for solution. She felt that somehow she would have to earn twenty pounds within the next month. Out of the Lady's Paper, in which 'Notes and Sensations of a Plain Girl at Dublin Castle,' was still running, she could not hope to make more than thirty shillings a week; a magazine had lately accepted a ten-page story worth, she fancied, about five pounds, but when they would print it and pay her was impossible to say. She could write the editor an imploring letter, asking him to advance her the money. But even then there was another nine pounds to make up. And to do this seemed to her an impossibility. She could not ask her father or mother; she would only do so if the worst came to the worst. She would write paragraphs, articles, short stories, and would send them to every editor in London. One out of three might turn up trumps.
'GARDNER STREET, 'MOUNTJOY SQUARE. 'DARLING ALICE, 'I have been in Dublin now more than a week. I did not write to you before because I wished to write to tell you that I had done all you told me to do. The first thing I did was to go to the convent. Would you believe it, the new Rev. Mother is Sister Mary who we knew so well at St. Leonards! She has been transferred to the branch convent in Dublin; she was delighted to see me, but the sight of her dear face awoke so many memories, so many old associations, that I burst out crying, and it seemed to me impossible that I should ever be able to find courage to tell her the truth. None will ever know what it cost me to speak the words. They came to me all of a sudden, and I told her everything. I thought she would reproach me and speak bitterly, but she only said, "My poor child, I am sorry you hadn't strength to resist temptation; your trial is a dreadful one." She was very, very kind. Her face lighted up when I spoke of you, and she said: "Sweet girl; she was always an angel; one of these days she will come back to us. She is too good for the world." Then I insisted that it was your idea that I should seek help from the convent, but she said that it was my duty to go to my mother and tell her the whole truth. Oh, my darling Alice, I cannot tell you what a terrible time I went through. We were talking for at least two hours, and it was only with immense difficulty that I at last succeeded in making her understand what kind of person poor mamma is, and how hopeless it would be to expect her to keep any secret, even if her daughter's honour was in question. I told her how she would run about, talking in her mild unmeaning way of "poor May and that shameful Mr. Scully;" and, at last, the Rev. Mother, as you prophesied she would, saw the matter in its proper light, and she has consented to receive all my letters, and if mother writes, to give her to understand that I am safe within the convent walls. It is very good of her, for I know the awful risk she is wilfully incurring so as to help me out of my trouble.
'The house I am staying in is nice enough, and the landlady seems a kind woman. The name I go by is Mrs. Brandon (you will not forget to direct your letters so), and I said that my husband was an officer, and had gone out to join his regiment in India. I have a comfortable bedroom on the third floor. There are two windows, and they look out on the street. The time seems as if it would never pass; the twelve hours of the day seem like twelve centuries. I have not even a book to read, and I never go out for fear of being seen. In the evening I put on a thick veil and go for a walk in the back streets. But I cannot go out before nine; it is not dark till then, and I cannot stop out later than ten on account of the men who speak to you. My coloured hair makes me look fast, and I am so afraid of meeting someone I know, that this short hour is as full of misery as those that preceded it. Every passer-by seems to know me, to recognize me, and I cannot help imagining that he or she will be telling my unfortunate story half an hour after in the pitiless drawing-rooms of Merrion Square. Oh, Alice darling, you are the only friend I have in the world. If it were not for you, I believe I should drown myself in the Liffey. No girl was ever so miserable as I. I cannot tell you how I feel, and you cannot imagine how forlorn it all is; and I am so ill. I am always hungry, and always sick, and always longing. Oh, these longings; you may think they are nothing, but they are dreadful. You remember how active I used to be, how I used to run about the tennis-court; now I can scarcely crawl. And the strange sickening fancies: I see things in the shops that tempt me, sometimes it is a dry biscuit, sometimes a basket of strawberries; but whatever it is, I stand and look at it, long for it, until weary of longing and standing with a sort of weight weighing me down, and my stays all rucking up to my neck, I crawl home. There I am all alone; and I sit in the dark, on a wretched hard chair by the window; and I cry; and I watch the summer night and all the golden stars, and I cannot say what I think of during all these long and lonely hours; I only know that I cannot find energy to go to bed. And I never sleep a whole night through; the cramp comes on so terribly that I jump up screaming. Oh, Alice, how I hate him! When I think of it all I see how selfish men are; they never think of us—they only think of themselves. You would scarcely know me if you saw me now; all my complexion—you know what a pretty complexion it was—is all red and mottled. When you saw me a fortnight ago I was all right: it is extraordinary what a change has come about. I think it was the journey and the excitement; there would be no concealing the truth now. It is lucky I left Galway when I did.
'Mother gave me five pounds on leaving home. My ticket cost nearly thirty shillings, a pound went in cabs and hotel expenses, and my breakfasts brought my bill up yesterday to two pounds—I cannot think how, for I only pay sixteen shillings for my room—and when it was paid I had only a few shillings left. Will you, therefore, send the money you promised, if possible, by return of post? 'Always affectionately yours, 'MAY GOULD.'
The tears started to Alice's eyes as she read the letter. She did not consider if May might have spared her the physical details with which her letter abounded; she did not stay to think of the cause, of the result; for the moment she was numb to ideas and sensations that were not those of humble human pity for humble human suffering: like the waters of a new baptism, pity made her pure and whole, and the false shame of an ancient world fell from her. Leaning her head on her strong, well-shaped hand, she set to arranging her little plans for her friend's help—plans that were charming for their simplicity, their sweet homeliness. The letter she had just read had come by the afternoon post, and if she were to send May the money she wrote for that evening, it would be necessary to go into Gort to register the letter. Gort was two miles away; and if she asked for the carriage her mother might propose that the letters should be sent in by a special messenger. This of course was impossible, and Alice, for the first time in her life found herself obliged to tell a deliberate lie. For a moment her conscience stood at bay, but she accepted the inevitable and told her mother that she had some MSS. to register, and did not care to entrust them to other hands. It was a consolation to know that eighteen pounds were safely despatched, but she was bitterly unhappy, and the fear that money might be wanting in the last and most terrible hours bound her to her desk as with a chain; and when her tired and exhausted brain ceased to formulate phrases, the picture of the lonely room, the night walks, and the suffering of the jaded girl, stared her in the face with a terrible distinctness. Her only moments of gladness were when the post brought a cheque from London. Sometimes they were for a pound, sometimes for fifteen shillings. Once she received five pounds ten—it was for her story. On the 10th of September she received the following letter:
'DARLING ALICE, 'Thanks a thousand times for your last letter, and the money enclosed. It came in the nick of time, for I was run almost to my last penny. I did not write before, because I didn't feel in the humour to do anything. Thank goodness! I'm not sick any more, though I don't know that it isn't counterbalanced by the dreadful faintness and the constant movement. Isn't it awful to sit here day after day, watching myself, and knowing the only relief I shall get will be after such terrible pain? I woke up last night crying with the terror of it. Cervassi says there are cases on record of painless confinements, and in my best moods I think mine is to be one of them. I know it is wrong to write all these things to a good girl like you, but I think talking about it is part of the complaint, and poor sinner me has no one to talk to. Do you remember my old black cashmere? I've been altering it till there's hardly a bit of the original body left; but now the skirt is adding to my troubles by getting shorter and shorter in front. It is now quite six inches off the ground, and instead of fastening it I have to pin the placket-hole, and then it falls nearly right. . . . Only three weeks longer, and then. . . But there, I won't look forward, because I know I am going to die, and all the accounting for it, and everything else, will be on your shoulders. Good-bye, dear; I shan't write again, at least not till afterwards. And if there is an afterward, I shall never be able to thank you properly; but still I think it will be a weight off you. Is it so, dear? Do you wish I were dead? I know you don't. It was unkind to write that last line; I will scratch it out. You will not be angry, dear. I am too wretched to know what I am writing, and I want to lie down. 'Always affectionately yours, 'MAY GOULD.'
Outside the air was limpid with sunlight, and the newly mown meadow was golden in the light of evening. The autumn-coloured foliage of the chestnuts lay mysteriously rich and still, harmonizing in measured tones with the ruddy tints of the dim September sunset. The country dozed as if satiated with summer love. Heavy scents were abroad—the pungent odours of the aftermath. A high baritone voice broke the languid silence, and, in embroidered smoking-jacket and cap, Mr. Barton twanged his guitar. Milord had been thrown down amid the hay; and Mrs. Barton and Olive were showering it upon him. The old gentleman's legs were in the air.
Crushing the letter, Alice's hands fell on the table; she burst into tears. But work was more vital than tears; and, taking up her pen, she continued her story—penny journal fiction of true love and unending happiness in the end. A month later she received this note:
'DEAREST, 'Just a line in pencil—I mustn't sit up—to tell you it is all over, and all I said was "Thank God, thank God!" over and over again, as each pain went. It is such a relief; but I mustn't write much. It is such a funny screwed-up-looking baby, and I don't feel any of those maternal sentiments that you read about—at least not yet. And it always cries just when I am longing to go to sleep. Thank you again and again for all you have done for me and been to me. I feel awfully weak. 'Always affectionately yours, 'MAY GOULD.'