MUSLIN

 By

 GEORGE MOORE

 _Originally published under the title of 'A Drama in Muslin, ' 1886. _

 _New Edition, September, 1915. _

PREFACE

My excuse for modifying the title of this book is, that _A Drama inMuslin_ has long seemed to me to be the vulgar one among the titles ofmy many books. But to change the title of a book that has been incirculation, however precarious, for more than thirty years, is notpermissible, and that is why I rejected the many titles that rose up inmy mind while correcting the proofs of this new edition. In _Neophytes_, _Débutantes_, and _The Baiting of Mrs. Barton_, readers would havedivined a new story, but the dropping out of the unimportant word'drama' will not deceive the most casual follower of literature. Thesingle word 'muslin' is enough. _Mousseline_ would be more euphonious, afuller, richer word; and _Bal Blanc_, besides being more picturesque, would convey my meaning; but a shade of meaning is not sufficientjustification for the use of French titles or words, for they lessen thetaste of our language; we don't get the smack, and Milord's epigramspoisoned my memory of _A Drama in Muslin_. But they cannot be omittedwithout much re-writing, I said, and remembering my oath never toattempt the re-writing of an old book again, I fell back on theexclusion of _A Drama in Muslin_ as the only way out of the dilemma. Awavering resolution was precipitated by recollection of some disgracefulpages, but a moment after I was thinking that the omission of the bookwould create a hiatus. _A Drama in Muslin_, I reflected, is a linkbetween two styles; and a book that has achieved any notoriety cannot beomitted from a collected edition, so my publishers said, and they harpedon this string, until one day I flung myself out of their office andrattled down the stairs muttering, 'What a smell of shop!' But in theStrand near the Cecil Inn, the thought glided into my mind that thepages that seemed so disgraceful in memory might not seem so in print, 'and the only way to find out if this be so, ' the temptation continued, 'will be to ask the next policeman the way to Charing Cross Road. 'Another saw me over a dangerous crossing (London is the best policedcity in Europe), a third recommended a shop 'over yonder: you've justpassed it by, sir. ' 'Thank you, thank you, ' I cried back, and no soonerwas I on the other side than, overcome by shyness, as always in thesestores of dusty literature, I asked for the _Drama in Muslin_, pronouncing the title so timidly that the bookseller guessed me at onceto be the author, and began telling of the books that were doing well infirst editions. 'If I had any I wanted to get rid of?' he mentionedseveral he would be glad to buy. Whereupon in turn I grew confidentialand confided to him my present dilemma, failing, however, to dissuadehim from his opinion that _A Drama in Muslin_ ought to be included. 'Anycorrections you make in the new edition will keep up the price of theold, ' he added as he wrapped up the brown paper parcel. 'You will likethe book better than you think for. ' 'Thank you, thank you, ' I criedafter me, and hopped into a taxi, unsuspicious that I carried adelightful evening under my arm. A comedy novel, written withsprightliness and wit, I said, as I turned to the twentieth page, and itneeds hardly any editing. A mere re-tying of a few bows that theeffluxion of time has untied, or were never tied by the author, who, ifI remember right, used to be less careful of his literary appearancethan his prefacer, neglecting to examine his sentences, and to scan themas often as one might expect from an admirer, not to say disciple, ofWalter Pater. 

An engaging young man rose out of the pages of his book, one that WalterPater would admire (did admire), one that life, I added, seems to haveaffected through his senses violently, and who was (may we saytherefore) a little over anxious to possess himself of a vocabularywhich would suffer him to tell all he saw, heard, smelt and touched. 

Upon this sudden sympathy the book, of which I had read but twentypages, dropped on my knees, and I sat engulfed in a reverie of thecharming article I should have written about this book if it had come tome for review. 'But it couldn't have come to me, ' I reflected, 'formyself and the young man that wrote it were not contemporaries. ' Itwould be true, however, to say that our lives overlapped; but when didthe author of the _Drama in Muslin_ disappear from literature? His nextbook was _Confession of a Young Man_. It was followed by _Spring Days_;he must have died in the last pages of that story, for we find no traceof him in _Esther Waters_! And my thoughts, dropping away from the bookshe had written, began to take pleasure in the ridiculous appearance thatthe author of _A Drama in Muslin_ presented in the mirrors of DublinCastle as he tripped down the staircases in parly morning. And a smileplayed round my lips as I recalled his lank yellow hair (often standingon end), his sloping shoulders and his female hands--a strangeappearance which a certain vivacity of mind sometimes rendered engaging. 

He was writing at that time _A Mummer's Wife_ in his bedroom at theShelbourne Hotel, and I thought how different were the two visions, _AMummer's Wife_ and _A Drama in Muslin_ and how the choice of these twosubjects revealed him to me. 'It was life that interested him ratherthan the envelope' I said. 'He sought Alice Barton's heart as eagerly asKate Ede's;' and my heart went out to the three policemen to whoseassiduities I owed this pleasant evening, all alone with my cat and myimmediate ancestor; and as I sat looking into the fire I fell towondering how it was that the critics of the 'eighties could have beenblind enough to dub him an imitator of Zola. 'A soul searcher, if everthere was one, ' I continued, 'whose desire to write well is apparent onevery page, a headlong, eager, uncertain style (a young hound yelping atevery trace of scent), but if we look beneath the style we catch sightof the young man's true self, a real interest in religious questions anda hatred as lively as Ibsen's of the social conventions that drive womeninto the marriage market. It seems strange, ' I said, abandoning myselfto recollection, 'that the critics of the 'eighties failed to noticethat the theme of _A Drama in Muslin_ is the same as that of the _Doll'sHouse_; the very title should have pointed this put to them. ' But theywere not interested in themes; but in morality, and how they might crusha play which, if it were uncrushed by them, would succeed in underminingthe foundations of society--their favourite phrase at the time, itentered into every article written about the _Doll's House_--and, looking upon themselves as the saviours of society, thesemaster-builders kept on staying and propping the damaged constructiontill at length they were joined by some dramatists and story-tellers whofeared with them for the 'foundations of society, ' and these latter setthemselves the task of devising new endings that would be likely tocatch the popular taste and so mitigate the evil, the substitution of aneducational motive for a carnal one. For Nora does not leave her husbandfor a lover, but to educate herself. The critics were used to lovers, and what we are used to is bearable, but a woman who leaves her husbandand her children for school-books is unbearable, and much more immoralthan the usual little wanton. So the critics thought in the 'eighties, and they thought truly, if it be true that morality and custom areinterchangeable terms. The critics were right in a way; everybody isright in a way, for nothing is wholly right and nothing wholly wrong, atruth often served up by philosophers; but the public has ever eschewedit, and perhaps our argument will be better appreciated if we dilutethis truth a little, saying instead that it is the telling that makes astory true or false, and that the dramatic critics of the 'eighties werenot altogether as wrong as Mr. Archer imagined them to be, but failed toexpress themselves. 

The public is without power of expression, and it felt that it was beingfooled for some purpose not very apparent and perhaps anarchical. Nor isa sudden revelation very convincing in modern times. In the space ofthree minutes, Nora, who has been her husband's sensual toy, and hastaken pleasure in being that, and only that, leaves her husband and herchildren, as has been said, for school-books. A more arbitrary piece ofstage craft was never devised; but it was not the stage craft thecritics were accustomed to, and the admirers of Ibsen did not dare toadmit that he had devised Nora to cry aloud that a woman is more than adomestic animal. It would have been fatal for an apostle or even adisciple to admit the obvious fact that Ibsen was a dramatist of moralideas rather than of sensuous emotions; and there was nobody in the'eighties to explain the redemption of Ibsen by his dialogue, thestrongest and most condensed ever written, yet coming off the reel likesilk. A wonderful thread, that never tangles in his hands. Ibsen is amagical weaver, and so closely does he weave that we are drawn along inthe net like fishes. 

But it is with the subject of the _Doll's House_ rather than with theart with which it is woven that we are concerned here. The subject of _ADrama in Muslin_ is the same as that of _A Doll's House_, and for thischoice of subject I take pride in my forerunner. It was a fine thing fora young man of thirty to choose the subject instinctively that Ibsen hadchosen a few years before; it is a feather in his cap surely; and Iremember with pleasure that he was half through his story when Dr. Aveling read him the first translation of _A Doll's House_, a poorthing, done by a woman, that withheld him from any appreciation of theplay. The fact that he was writing the same subject from an entirelydifferent point of view prejudiced him against Ibsen; and the making ofa woman first in a sensual and afterward transferring her into aneducational mould with a view to obtaining an instrument to thunder outa given theme could not be else than abhorrent to one whose art, howevercallow, was at least objective. In the _Doll's House_ Ibsen hadrenounced all objectivity. It does not seem to me that further apologiesare necessary for my predecessor's remark to Dr. Aveling after thereading that he was engaged in moulding a woman in one of Nature'smoulds. 'A puritan, ' he said, 'I am writing of, but not a sexlesspuritan, and if women cannot win their freedom without leaving their sexbehind they had better remain slaves, for a slave with his sex is betterthan a free eunuch;' and he discoursed on the book he was writing, convinced that Alice Barton represented her sex better than thearchetypal hieratic and clouded figure of Nora which Ibsen had dreamedso piously, allowing, he said, memories of Egyptian sculpture to minglewith his dreams. 

My ancestor could not have understood the _Doll's House_ while he waswriting _A Drama in Muslin_, not even in Mr. Archer's translation; hewas too absorbed in his craft at that time, in observing and rememberinglife, to be interested in moral ideas. And his portrait of Alice Bartongives me much the same kind of pleasure as a good drawing. She keeps herplace in the story, moving through it with quiet dignity, commanding oursympathy and respect always, and for her failure to excite our wonderlike Nora we may say that the author's design was a comedy, and that incomedy the people are not and perhaps should not be above life size. Butwhy apologize for what needs no apology? Alice Barton is a creature ofconventions and prejudices, not her mother's but her own; so far she hadfreed herself, and it may well be that none obtains a wider liberty. Sheleaves her home with the dispensary doctor, who has bought a smallpractice in Notting Hill, and the end seems a fulfilment of thebeginning. The author conducts her to the door of womanhood, and therehe leaves her with the joys and troubles, no doubt, of her new estate;but with these he apparently does not consider himself to be concerned, though he seems to have meditated at this time a sort of small _comédiehumaine_--small, for he must have known that he could not withstand thestrain of Balzac's shifts of fourteen hours. We are glad he was able toconquer the temptation to imitate, yet we cannot forego a regret that hedid not turn to Violet Scully that was and look into the married life ofthe Marchioness of Kilcamey--her grey intense eyes shining through agrey veil, and her delightful thinness--her epicene bosom and longthighs are the outward signs of a temper, constant perhaps, but notnarrow. He would have been able to discover an intrigue of an engagingkind in her, and the thinking out of the predestined male would havebeen as agreeable a task as falls to the lot of a man of letters. Andbeing a young man he would begin by considering the long series ofpoets, painters and musicians, he had read of in Balzac's novels, but asnone of these would be within the harmony of Violet's perverse humour, he would turn to life, and presently a vague shaggy shape would emergefrom the back of his mind, but it would refuse to condense into anyrecognizable face; which is as well, perhaps, else I might be tempted topick up this forgotten flower, though I am fain to write no more longstories. 

But though we regret that the author of _Muslin_ did not gather thisViolet for his literary buttonhole, let no one suggest that the old manshould return to his Springtime to do what the young man left undone. Our gathering-time is over, and we are henceforth prefacers. _The BrookCherith_ is our last. Some may hear this decision with sorrow, but wehave written eighteen books, which is at least ten too many, and noneshall persuade us to pick up the burden of another long story. We swearit and close our ears to our admirers, and to escape them we plunge intoconsideration of Violet's soul and her aptitudes, saying, and sayingwell, that if polygamy thrives with Mohammedanism in the East, polyandryhas settled down in the West with Christianity, and that since Noraslammed the door the practice of acquiring a share in a woman's life, rather than insisting on the whole of it, has caught such firm root inour civilization that it is no exaggeration to say that every marriedwoman to-day will admit she could manage two men better than her husbandcould manage two wives. If we inquire still further, we submit, andconfidently, that every woman--saint or harlot, it matters notwhich--would confess she would prefer to live with two men rather thanshare her husband with another woman. All women are of one mind on thissubject; it is the one thing on which they all agree irrespective ofcreed or class, so these remarks barely concern them; but should maleeyes fall on this page, and if in the pride of his heart he should cryout, 'This is not so, ' I would have him make application to his wife orsister, and if he possess neither he may discover the truth in his ownmind. Let him ask himself if it could be otherwise, since our usage andwont is that a woman shall prepare for the reception of visitors byadorning her rooms with flowers and dressing herself in fine linen andsilk attire, and be to all men alike as they come and go. She must coverall with winning glances, and beguile all with seductive eyes and foot, and talk about love, though, perhaps she would prefer to think of onewho is far away. Men do not live under such restraint. A man may reserveall his thoughts for his mistress, but the moment he leaves, hismistress must begin to cajole the new-comer, however indifferent he maybe to her. The habit of her life is to cajole, to please, to inspire, ifpossible, and if she be not a born coquette she becomes one, and takespleasure in her art, devoting her body and mind to it, reading onlybooks about love and lovers, singing songs of love, and seeking alwaysnew scents and colours and modes of fascination. If lovers are away andnone calls, she abandons herself to dreams, and her imaginationfurnishes quickly a new romance. Somebody she has half-forgotten risesup in her memory, and she thinks that she could like him if he were tocome into her drawing-room now. It would be happiness indeed to walkforward into his arms and to call her soul into her eyes; or, if aletter were to come from him asking her to dinner, she would accept it;and, lying back among her silken cushions, she thinks she could spendmany hours in his company without weariness. She creates his rooms andhis person and his conversation, and when he is exhausted a new intriguerises up in her mind, and then another and another. Some drop away andremain for ever unfulfilled, while others 'come into their own, ' as thesaying is. 

If this be a true analysis of a woman's life--and who will say it isnot?--the dreams of the Marchioness of Kilcarney would begin in hereasy-chair about the second spring after her marriage, the shaggy shapethat haunts the back of my mind would hear her dreams, and the wooingthat began with the daffodils would continue always, for she is a womanthat could keep a lover till the end of time. At her death husband andlover would visit her grave together and talk of her perfections in thewinter evenings. But if Violet did not die another vagrant male wouldsteal through the ilex-trees, a hunter in pursuit of game, or else itmight be a fisher, seated among the rocks waiting, for tunny-fish. Either might take Violet's fancy. The author of _Muslin_ seems to haveentertained a thought of some such pastoral frolic in the ShelbourneHotel--the opposition of husband and lover to the newcomer, Harding, whom it had occurred to Mrs. Barton to invite to Brookfield, and whomshe would have invited had it not been for her great matrimonialprojects; my forerunner, who was an artist, saw that any deflection ofMrs. Barton's thoughts would jeopardize his composition, and he allowedMrs. Barton to remain a chaperon. He was right in this, but Violetshould have been the impulse and nucleus of a new story. . . . I began tothink suddenly of the blight that would fall on the twain if Violet'slover were to die, and to figure them sitting in the evenings meditatingon the admirable qualities of the deceased till in their loneliness hewould come to seem to them as a being more than human, touching almoston the Divine. Their ears would retain the sound of his voice, and thefamiliar furniture would provoke remembrances of him. Ashamed of theirweakness, their eyes would seek the chair he used to sit in: it is awayin a far corner, lest a casual visitor should draw it forward and defileit with his presence--a thing that happened once (the unhappy twainremember how they lacked moral courage to beg him to choose anotherchair). The table, laid for two, was too painful to behold, and theynever enjoyed a meal, hardly could they eat, till at last it was decidedthat his place should be laid for him as if he had gone away on ajourney, and might appear in the doorway and sit down with them andshare the repast as of yore--a pretty deception the folly of which theywere alive to (a little) but would not willingly be without. 

His room, too, awaits him, and his clothes have not been destroyed orgiven to the poor, but he folded by charitable hands in the drawerskept safe from moth with orris-root and lavender. His hat hangs on itsaccustomed peg in the hall, and they think of it among many otherthings. At last the silence of these lonely meditations is broken bysudden recollections--for dinner the cook had sent up a boiled chickeninstead of roast, and he had looked upon boiled chicken as a vulgarinsularism always. Nor were there bananas on the table. Bananas were anacquired taste with them, they had learned to eat the fruit for love oftheir friend, and since he has gone they have not eaten the chickenroast nor the fruit, and it seems to them that they should have eaten ofthese things in memory of him. In the Spring they come upon hispruning-knife, and discourse sadly on the changes he would have advised. Spring opens into summer, and when summer drops into the autumnKilcarney's black passes into grey; he appears one morning in a violettie, and the tie, picked out of a drawer with indifferent hand, causesViolet to doubt her husband's constancy. It was soon after thisthoughtless act that he began, for the thousandth time, to remind herthat the world might be searched in its dimmest corners and no friendagain found like the one they had lost. . . . The reflection had becomepart of their habitual thought, and, feeling a little trite andcommonplace, Violet listened, or half-listened, engulfed in retrospect. 

'I met in Merrion Square, ' and she mentioned a name, 'and do you knowwhom he seemed to be very like?' The colour died out of Kilcarney'scheek and he could but murmur, 'Oh, Violet!' and colouring at beingcaught up on what might be looked upon as a mental infidelity, sheanswered, 'of course, none is like him . . . I wish you would not seek tomisunderstand me. '

The matter passed off, but next evening she sat looking at her husband, her thoughts suspended for so long that he began to fear, wronglyhowever, that she was about to put forward some accusation, to twit himperchance on his lack of loyalty to his dead friend. He had not eaten abanana for dinner, though he had intended to eat one. 'Of course, weshall never find anyone like him, ' she said--'not if we were to searchall the corners of the world. That is so, we're both agreed on thatpoint, but I've been thinking which of all our friends and acquaintanceswould least unworthily fill his place in our lives. ' 'Violet! Violet!''If you persist in misunderstanding me, ' she answered, 'I have no moreto say, ' whereupon the Marquis tried to persuade the Marchioness out ofthe morose silence that had fallen upon them, and failing to move her heraised the question that had divided them. 'If you mean, Violet, thatour racing friend would be a poor shift for our dead friend, meaningthereby that nobody in Dublin is comparable'--'could I have meantanything else, you old dear?' she replied; and the ice having beenbroken, the twain plunged at once into the waters of recollection, andcoming upon a current they were borne onward, swiftly and more swiftly, till at length a decision had to be come to--they would invite theirracing friend. 

It was on the Marquis's lips to say a word or two in disparagement ofthe invited guest, but on second thoughts it seemed to him that he hadbetter refrain; the Marchioness, too, was about to plead, she did notknow exactly what, but she thought she would like to reassure theMarquis. . . . On second thoughts she decided too that it would be better(perhaps) to refrain. Well, to escape from the toils of an interestingstory (for I'm no longer a story-teller but a prefacer) I will say thatthree nights later Sir Hugh took the Marchioness in to dinner; he sat inhis predecessor's chair, knowing nothing of him, thereby startling hishosts, who, however, soon recovered their presence of mind. After dinnerthe Marquis said, 'Now, Sir Hugh, I hope you will excuse me if I goupstairs. I am taking the racing calendar with me, you see. '

My forerunner, the author of _Muslin_, should have written the storysketched here with a failing hand, his young wit would have allowed himto tell how the marriage that had wilted sadly after the death of UncleToby now renewed its youth, opening its leaves to the light again, shaking itself in the gay breezes floating by. He would have been ablein this story to present three exemplars of the domestic virtues, telling how they went away to the seaside together, and returnedtogether to their castle among tall trees in October compelling theadmiration of the entire countryside. He would have shown us theMarchioness entertaining visitors while the two men talked by thefireplace, delighting in each other's company, and he would not haveforgotten to put them before us in their afternoon walks, sharingbetween them Violet's knick-knacks, her wraps, her scarf, her fan, herparasol, her cushion. His last chapter would probably be in a ball-room, husband and lover standing by the door watching the Marchioness swinginground the room on the arm of a young subaltern. 'Other women are youngerthan she, Kilcarney, but who is as graceful? Have you ever seen a womanhold herself like Violet?' One of the daughters (for there have beenchildren by this second, or shall we say by this third, marriage) comesup breathless after the dance. 'Darling Uncle Hughie, won't you take mefor an ice?' and he gives her his arm affectionately, but as they passaway to the buffet Sir Hugh hears Kilcarney speaking of Lily as hisdaughter. Sir Hugh's face clouds suddenly, but he remembers that, afterall, Kilcarney is a guardian of his wife's honour. A very ingeniousstory, no doubt, and if, as the young man's ascendant--the critics of1915 are pleased to speak of me as ascendant from the author of_Muslin_--I may be permitted to remark upon it, I would urge the verygrave improbability that three people ever lived contemporaneously whowere wise enough to prefer, and so consistently, happiness to theconventions. 

There are still May Gould and Olive to consider, but this preface hasbeen prolonged unduly, and it may be well to leave the reader to imaginea future for these girls, and to decide the interests that will fillMrs. Barton's life when Lord Dungory's relations with this world haveceased. 

G. M. 

MUSLIN

I

The convent was situated on a hilltop, and through the green garden thewhite dresses of the schoolgirls fluttered like the snowy plumage of ahundred doves. Obeying a sudden impulse, a flock of little ones wouldrace through a deluge of leaf-entangled rays towards a pet companionstanding at the end of a gravel-walk examining the flower she has justpicked, the sunlight glancing along her little white legs proudly andcharmingly advanced. The elder girls in their longer skirts were moredignified, but when they caught sight of a favourite sister, they tooran forward, and then retreated timidly, as if afraid of committing anindiscretion. 

It was prize-day in the Convent of the Holy Child, and since earlymorning all had been busy preparing for the arrival of the Bishop. Histhrone had been set at one end of the school-hall, and at the other thecarpenters had erected a stage for the performance of _King Cophetua_, amusical sketch written by Miss Alice Barton for the occasion. 

Alice Barton was what is commonly known as a plain girl. At home, duringthe holidays, she often heard that the dressmaker could not fit her; butthough her shoulders were narrow and prim, her arms long and almostawkward, there was a character about the figure that commandedattention. Alice was now turned twenty; she was the eldest, thebest-beloved, and the cleverest girl in the school. It was not, therefore, on account of any backwardness in her education that she hadbeen kept so long out of society, but because Mrs. Barton thought that, as her two girls were so different in appearance, it would be well forthem to come out together. Against this decision Alice said nothing, and, like a tall arum lily, she had grown in the convent from girl towomanhood. To her the little children ran to be comforted; and to walkwith her in the garden was considered an honour and a pleasure that eventhe Reverend Mother was glad to participate in. 

Lady Cecilia Cullen sat next to Alice, and her high shoulders and longface and pathetic eyes drew attention to her shoulders--they were alittle wry, the right seemingly higher than the left. Her eyes were onAlice, and it was plain that she wished the other girls away, and thather nature was delicate, sensitive, obscure, if not a little queer. Athome her elder sisters complained that an ordinary look or gesture oftenshocked her, and so deeply that she would remain for hours sitting apartrefusing all consolation; and it was true that a spot on the tableclothor presence of one repellent to her was sufficient to extinguish adelight or an appetite. 

Violet Scully occupied the other end of the garden bench. She was verythin, but withal elegantly made. Her face was neat and delicate, and itwas set with light blue eyes; and when she was not changing her placerestlessly, or looking round as if she fancied someone was approaching, when she was still (which was seldom), a rigidity of feature and analmost complete want of bosom gave her the appearance of a convalescentboy. 

If May Gould, who stood at the back, her hand leaning affectionately onAlice's shoulder, had been three inches taller, she would have beenclassed a fine figure, but her features were too massive for her height. Her hair was not of an inherited red. It was the shade of red that isonly seen in the children of dark-haired parents. In great coils itrolled over the dimpled cream of her neck, and with the exception ofAlice, May was the cleverest girl in the school. For public inspectionshe made large water-coloured drawings of Swiss scenery; for privateview, pen-and-ink sketches of officers sitting in conservatories withyoung ladies. The former were admired by the nuns, the latter occasionedsome discussion among a select few. 

Violet Scully and May Gould would appeal to different imaginations. 

Olive, Alice's sister, was more beautiful than either, but there wasdanger that her corn-coloured hair, wound round a small shapely head, might fail to excite more than polite admiration. Her nose was finelychiselled, but it was high and aquiline, and though her eyes were welldrawn and coloured, they lacked personal passion and conviction; but noflower could show more delicate tints than her face--rose tints fadinginto cream, cream rising into rose. Her ear was curved like a shell, hermouth was faint and weak as a rose, and her moods alternated betweensudden discontent and sudden gaiety. 

'I don't see, Alice, why you couldn't have made King Cophetua marry thePrincess. Whoever heard of a King marrying a beggar-maid? Besides, Ihear that lots of people are going to be present, and to be jiltedbefore them all isn't very nice. I am sure mamma wouldn't like it. '

'But you are not jilted, my dear Olive. You don't like the King, and youshow your nobleness of mind by refusing him. '

'I don't see that. Whoever refused a King?'

'Well, what do you want?' exclaimed May. 'I never saw anyone so selfishin all my life; you wouldn't be satisfied unless you played the wholepiece by yourself. '

Olive would probably have made a petulant and passionate reply, but atthat moment visitors were coming up the drive. 

'It's papa, ' cried Olive. 

'And he is with mamma, ' said Violet; and she tripped after Olive. 

Mr. Barton, a tall, handsome man, seemed possessed of all the beauty ofa cameo, and Olive had inherited his high aquiline nose and the mouldingof his romantic forehead; and his colour, too. He wore a flowing beard, and his hair and beard were the colour of pale _cafe-au-lait_. Giving ahand to each daughter, he said:

'Here is learning and here is beauty. Could a father desire more? Andyou, Violet, and you, May, are about to break into womanhood. I used tokiss you in old times, but I suppose you are too big now. Howstrange--how strange! There you are, a row of brunettes and blondes, whobefore many days are over will be charming the hearts of all the youngmen in Galway. I suppose it was in talking of such things that you spentthe morning?'

'Our young charges have been, I assure you, very busy all the morning. We are not as idle as you think, Mr. Barton, ' said the nun in a tone ofvoice that showed that she thought Mr. Barton's remark ill-considered. 'We have been arranging the stage for the representation of a littleplay that your daughter Alice composed. '

'Oh yes, I know; she wrote to me about it. _King Cophetua_ is the name, isn't it? I am very curious indeed, for I have set Tennyson's ballad tomusic myself. I sing it to the guitar, and if life were not so hurried Ishould have sent it to you. However--however, we are all going hometo-morrow. I have promised to take charge of Cecilia, and Mrs. Scully isgoing to look after May. '

'Oh, how nice! Oh, how jolly that will be!' Olive cried; and, catchingViolet by the hands, she romped with her for glee. 

But the nun, taking advantage of this break in the conversation, said:

'Come, now, young ladies, it is after two o'clock; we shall never beready in time if you don't make haste--and it won't do to keep theBishop waiting. ' Like a hen gathering her chickens, the Sister hurriedaway with Violet, Olive, and May. 

'How happy they seem in this beautiful retreat!' said Mrs. Scully, drawing her black lace shawl about her grey-silk shoulders. 'How littlethey know of the troubles of the world! I am afraid it would be hard topersuade them to leave their convent if they knew the trials that awaitthem. '

'We cannot escape our trials, ' a priest said, who had just joined thegroup; 'they are given to us that we may overcome them. '

'I suppose so, indeed, ' said Mrs. Scully; and, trying to findconsolation in the remark, she sighed. Another priest, as if fearingfurther religious shop from his fellow-worker, informed Mr. Barton, in acheerful tone of voice, that he had heard he was a great painter. 

'I don't know--I don't know, ' replied Mr. Barton; 'painting is, afterall, only dreaming. I should like to be put at the head of an army, butwhen I am seized with an idea I have to rush to put it down. '

Finding no appropriate answer to these somewhat erratic remarks, thepriest joined in a discussion that had been started concerning theaction taken by the Church during the present agrarian agitation. Mr. Barton, who was weary of the subject, stepped aside, and, sitting on oneof the terrace benches between Cecilia and Alice, he feasted his eyes onthe colour-changes that came over the sea, and in long-drawn-out anddisconnected phrases explained his views on nature and art until thebell was rung for the children to assemble in the school-hall. 

II

It was a large room with six windows; these had been covered over withred cloth, and the wall opposite was decorated with plates, flowers, andwreaths woven out of branches of ilex and holly. 

Chairs for the visitors had been arranged in a semicircle around theBishop's throne--a great square chair approached by steps, and renderedstill more imposing by the canopy, whose voluminous folds fell on eitherside like those of a corpulent woman's dress. Opposite was the stage. The footlights were turned down, but the blue mountains and brownpalm-trees of the drop-curtain, painted by one of the nuns, loomedthrough the red obscurity of the room. Benches had been set along thewalls. Between them a strip of carpet, worked with roses and lilies, down which the girls advanced when called to receive their prizes, stretched its blue and slender length. 

'His Grace is coming!' a nun cried, running in, and instantly thebabbling of voices ceased, and four girls hastened to the pianos placedon either side of the stage, two left-hands struck a series of chords inthe bass, the treble notes replied, and, to the gallant measure of aFrench polka, a stately prelate entered, smiling benediction as headvanced, the soft clapping of feminine palms drowning, for a moment, the slangy strains of the polka. 

When the Bishop was seated on his high throne, the back of whichextended some feet above his head, and as soon as the crowd of visitorshad been accommodated with chairs around him, a nun made her way throughthe room, seeking anxiously among the girls. She carried in her hand abasket filled with programmes, all rolled and neatly tied with pieces ofdifferent coloured ribbon. These she distributed to the ten tiniestlittle children she could find, and, advancing five from either side, they formed in a line and curtsied to the Bishop. One little dot, whosehair hung about her head like a golden mist, nearly lost her balance;she was, however, saved from falling by a companion, and then, like agroup of kittens, they tripped down the strip of blue carpet and handedthe programmes to the guests, who leaned forward as if anxious to touchtheir hands, to stroke their shining hair. 

The play was now ready to begin, and Alice felt she was going from hotto cold, for when the announcement printed on the programme, that shewas the author of the comedy of _King Cophetua_ had been read, all eyeswere fixed upon her; the Bishop, after eyeing her intently, bent towardsthe Reverend Mother and whispered to her. Cecilia clasped Alice's handand said: 'You must not be afraid, dear; I know it will be all right. '

And the little play was as charming as it was guileless. The old legendhad been arranged--as might have been expected from a schoolgirl--simplyand unaffectedly. The scene opened in a room in the palace of the King, and when a chorus, supposed to be sung by the townspeople, was over, aMinister entered hurriedly. The little children uttered a cry ofdelight; they did not recognize their companion in her strange disguise. A large wig, with brown curls hanging over the shoulders, almost hid theface, that had been made to look quite aged by a few clever touches ofthe pencil about the eyes and mouth. She was dressed in a long garment, something between an ulster and a dressing-gown. It fell just below herknees, for it had been decided by the Reverend Mother that it werebetter that there should be a slight display of ankles than the leastsuspicion of trousers. The subject was a delicate one, and for someweeks past a look of alarm had not left the face of the nun in charge ofthe wardrobe. But these considerations only amused the girls, and now, delighted at the novelty of her garments, the Minister strutted aboutthe stage complaining of the temper of the Dowager Queen. 'Who couldhelp it if the King wouldn't marry? Who could make him leave his poetryand music for a pretty face if he didn't care to do so? He had alreadyrefused blue eyes, black eyes, brown eyes. However, the new Princess wasa very beautiful person, and ought, all things considered, to beaccepted by the King. She must be passing through the city at themoment. '

On this the Queen entered. The first words she spoke were inaudible, but, gathering courage, she trailed her white satin, with its largebrocaded pattern, in true queenly fashion, and questioned the Ministeras to his opinion of the looks of the new Princess. But she gave nopoint to her words. The scene was, fortunately, a short one, and nosooner had they disappeared than a young man entered. He held a lute inhis left hand, and with his right he twanged the strings idly. He wasKing Cophetua, and many times during rehearsal Alice had warned May thather reading of the character was not right; but May did not seem able toaccommodate herself to the author's view of the character, and, after afew minutes, fell back into her old swagger; and now, excited by thepresence of an audience, by the footlights, by the long coat under whichshe knew her large, well-shaped legs could be seen, she forgot herpromises, and strolled about like a man, as she had seen young Scullysaunter about the stable-yard at home. She looked, no doubt, veryhandsome, and, conscious of the fact, she addressed her speeches to agroup of young men, who, for no ostensible reason except to get as faraway as possible from the Bishop, had crowded into the left-hand cornerof the hall. 

And so great was May's misreading of the character, that Alice couldhardly realize that she was listening to her own play. Instead ofspeaking the sentence, 'My dear mother, I could not marry anyone I didnot love; besides, am I not already wedded to music and poetry?' slowly, dreamily, May emphasized the words so jauntily, that they seemed to bepoetic equivalents for wine and tobacco. There was no doubt that thingswere going too far; the Reverend Mother frowned, and shifted herposition in her chair uneasily; the Bishop crossed his legs and tooksnuff methodically. 

But at this moment the attention of the audience was diverted by theentrance of the Princess. May's misbehaviour was forgotten, and a murmurof admiration rose through the red twilight. Dressed in a tight-fittinggown of pale blue, opening in front, and finishing in a train held up bythe smallest child in the school, Olive moved across the stage like abeautiful bird. Taking a wreath of white roses from her hair, shepresented them to the King. He had then to kiss her hand, and lead herto a chair. In the scene that followed, Alice had striven to beintensely pathetic. She had intended that the King, by a series ofkindly put questions, should gradually win the Princess's confidence, and induce her to tell the truth--that her affections had already beenwon by a knight at her father's Court; that she could love none other. 

KING. But if this knight did not exist; if you had never seen him, youwould, I suppose, have accepted my hand?

PRINCESS. You will not be offended if I tell you the truth?

KING. No; my word on it. 

PRINCESS. I could never have listened to your love. 

KING (_rising hastily_). Am I then so ugly, so horrible, so vile, thateven if your heart were not engaged elsewhere you could not havelistened to me?

PRINCESS. You are neither horrible nor vile, King Cophetua; but againpromise me secrecy, and I will tell you the whole truth. 

KING. I promise. 

PRINCESS. You are loved by a maiden far more beautiful than I; she isdying of love for your sake! She has suffered much for her love; she issuffering still. 

KING. Who is this maiden?

PRINCESS. Ah! She is but a beggar-maid; she lives on charity, the songsshe sings, and the flowers she sells in the streets. And now she ispoorer than ever, for your royal mother has caused her to be driven outof the city. 

Here the King weeps--he is supposed to be deeply touched by thePrincess's account of the wrongs done to the beggar-maid--and it isfinally arranged between him and the Princess that they shall pretend tohave come to some violent misunderstanding, and that, in their war ofwords, they shall insult each other's parents so grossly that allpossibilities of a marriage will be for ever at an end. Throwing aside achair so as to bring the Queen within ear-shot, the King declares thathis royal neighbour is an old dunce, and that there is not enough moneyin his treasury to pay the Court boot-maker; the Princess retaliates bysaying that the royal mother of the crowned head she is addressing is anold cat, who paints her face and beats her maids-of-honour. 

The play that up to this point had been considered a little tedious nowengaged the attention of the audience, and when the Queen entered shewas greeted with roars of laughter. The applause was deafening. Oliveplayed her part better than had been expected, and all the white frockstrembled with excitement. The youths in the left-hand corner cranedtheir heads forward so as not to lose a syllable of what was coming; theBishop recrossed his legs in a manner that betokened his entiresatisfaction; and, delighted, the mammas and papas whispered together. But the faces of the nuns betrayed the anxiety they felt. Inquiringglances passed beneath the black hoods; all the sleek faces grew aliveand alarmed. May was now alone on the stage, and there was no sayingwhat indiscretion she might not be guilty of. 

The Reverend Mother, however, had anticipated the danger of the scene, and had sent round word to the nun in charge of the back of the stage totell Miss Gould that she was to set the crown straight on her head, andto take her hands out of her pockets. The effect of receiving suchinstructions from the wings was that May forgot one-half her words, andspoke the other half so incorrectly that the passage Alice had countedon so much--'At last, thank Heaven, that tiresome trouble is over, and Iam free to return to music and poetry'--was rendered into nonsense, andthe attention of the audience lost. Nor were matters set straight untila high soprano voice was heard singing:

 'Buy, buy, who will buy roses of me? Roses to weave in your hair. A penny, only a penny for three, Roses a queen might wear! Roses! I gathered them far away In gardens, white and red. Roses! Make presents of roses to-day And help me to earn my bread. '

The King divined that this must be the ballad-singer--the beggar-maidwho loved him, who, by some secret emissaries of the Queen, had beendriven away from the city, homeless and outcast; and, snatching his lutefrom the wall, he sang a few plaintive verses in response. The strainwas instantly taken up, and then, on the current of a plain religiousmelody, the two voices were united, and, as two perfumes, they seemed toblend and become one. 

Alice would have preferred something less ethereal, for the exigenciesof the situation demanded that the King should get out of the window andclaim the hand of the beggar-maid in the public street. But the nun whohad composed the music could not be brought to see this, and, after acomic scene between the Queen and the Chancellor, the King, followed byhis Court and suite, entered, leading the beggar-maid by the hand. In ashort speech he told how her sweetness, her devotion, and, above all, her beautiful voice, had won his heart, and that he intended to make herhis Queen. A back cloth went up, and it disclosed a double throne, andas the young bride ascended the steps to take her place by the side ofher royal husband, a joyful chorus was sung, in which allusion was madeto a long reign and happy days. 

Everyone was enchanted but Alice, who had wished to show how a man, inthe trouble and bitterness of life, must yearn for the consolingsympathy of a woman, and how he may find the dove his heart is sighingfor in the lowliest bracken; and, having found her, and havingrecognized that she is the one, he should place her in his bosom, confident that her plumes are as fair and immaculate as those thatglitter in the sunlight about the steps and terraces of the palace. Instead of this, she had seen a King who seemed to regard life as asensual gratification; and a beggar-maid, who looked upon her lover, nottimidly, as a new-born flower upon the sun, but as a clever huckstressat a customer who had bought her goods at her valuing. But the audiencedid not see below the surface, and, in answer to clapping of hands andcries of _Encore_, the curtain was raised once more, and King Cophetua, seated on his throne by the side of his beggar-maid, was shown to themagain. 

The excitement did not begin to calm until the _tableaux vivants_ wereready. For, notwithstanding the worldliness of the day, it was thoughtthat Heaven should not be forgotten. The convent being that of the HolyChild, something illustrative of the birth of Christ naturally suggesteditself. No more touching or edifying subject than that of theAnnunciation could be found. Violet's thin, elegant face seemedrepresentative of an intelligent virginity, and in a long, white dressshe knelt at the _prie-dieu. _ Olive, with a pair of wings obtained fromthe local theatre, and her hair, blonde as an August harvesting, lyingalong her back, took the part of the Angel. She wore a star on herforehead, and after an interval that allowed the company to recovertheir composure, and the carpenter to prepare the stage, the curtain wasagain raised. This time the scene was a stable. At the back, in theright-hand corner, there was a manger to which was attached a stuffeddonkey; Violet sat on a low stool and held the new-born Divinity in herarms; May, who for the part of Joseph had been permitted to wear a falsebeard, held a staff, and tried to assume the facial expression of a manwho had just been blessed with a son. In the foreground knelt the threewise men from the East; with outstretched hands they held forth theirofferings of frankincense and myrrh. The picture of the world'sRedemption was depicted with such taste that a murmur of piousadmiration sighed throughout the hall. 

Soon after a distribution of prizes began, and when the different awardshad been distributed, and the Bishop had made a speech, there wasbenediction in the convent-church. 

III

'And to think, ' said Alice, 'that this is the very last evening we shallever pass here!'

'I don't see why you should be so very sorry for that, ' replied May; 'Ishould have thought that you must have had enough of the place. Why, youhave been here nearly ten years! I never would have consented to remainso long as that. '

'I didn't mind; we have been very happy here, and to say good-bye, andfor ever, to friends we have known so long, and who have been so good tous, seems very sad--at least, it does to me. '

'It is all very well for you, ' said Olive; 'I dare say you have beenhappy here, you have always been the petted and spoilt child of theschool. Nothing was ever too good for Alice; no matter who was wrong orwhat was done, Alice was sure to be right. '

'I never knew anyone so unreasonable, ' said Cecilia. 'You grumble ateverything, and you are always dying of jealousy of your sister. '

'That's not true, and you haven't much to talk of; after beating yourbrains out you only just got the prize for composition. Besides, if youlike the convent as much as I dare say you do, although you aren't aCatholic, you had better stop here with my sister. '

'Oh, Olive! how can you speak to Cecilia in that horrid way? I amashamed of you. '

'So you are going to turn against me, Alice; but that's your way. Ishan't stay here. '

The retreating figure of the young girl stood out in beautifuldistinctness in the pale light; behind her the soft evening swept thesea, effacing with azure the brown sails of the fishing-boats; in frontof her the dresses of the girls flitted white through the sombre greenof the garden. 

'I am sorry, ' said Cecilia, 'you spoke to her. She is put out becauseshe didn't get a prize, and Sister Agnes told her that she nearly spoiltthe play by the stupid way she played the Princess. '

'She will find that that temper of hers will stand in her way if shedoesn't learn to control it, ' Violet said; 'but, now she is gone, tellme, Alice, how do you think she played her part? As far as I can judgeshe didn't seem to put any life into it. You meant the Princess to be asharp, cunning woman of the world, didn't you?'

'No, not exactly; but I agree with you that Olive didn't put life intoit. '

'Well, anyhow, the play was a great success, and you got, dear Alice, the handsomest prize that has ever been given in the school. '

'And how do you think I did the King? Did I make him look like a man? Itried to walk just as Fred Scully does when he goes down to thestables. '

'You did the part very well, May; but I think I should like him to havebeen more sentimental. '

'I don't think men are sentimental--at least, not as you think they are. I tried to copy Fred Scully. '

'My part was a mere nothing. You must write me a something, Alice, oneof these days--a coquettish girl, you know, who could twist a man roundher fingers. A lot of _bavardage_ in it. '

'I suppose you'll never be able to speak English again, now you've gotthe prize for French conversation. '

'Sour grapes! You would like to have got it yourself. I worked hard forit. I was determined to get it, for ma says it is of great advantage insociety for a girl to speak French well. '

'Jealous! I should like to know why I should be jealous. Of what? I gotall I tried for. Besides, the truth about your French prize is that youmay consider yourself very fortunate, for if' (she mentioned the name ofone of her schoolfellows) 'hadn't been so shy and timid, you'd have comeoff second best. '

The rudeness of this retort drew a sharp answer from Violet; and then, in turn, but more often simultaneously, the girls discussed the justiceof the distribution. The names of an infinite number of girls werementioned; but when, in the babbling flow of convent-gossip, a favouritenun was spoken of, one of the chatterers would sigh, and for a moment besilent. 

The violet waters of the bay had darkened, and, like the separatingbanners of a homeward-moving procession, the colours of the sky wenteast and west. The girdle of rubies had melted, had become the pale redlining of a falling mantle; the large spaces of gold grew dim; orangeand yellow streamers blended; lilac and blue pennons faded to deepgreys; dark hoods and dark veils were drawn closer; purple was gatheredlike garments about the loins; the night fell, and the sky, nowdecorated with a crescent moon and a few stars, was filled withstillness and adoration. The day's death was exquisite, even human; andas she gazed on the beautiful corpse lowered amid the fumes of athousand censers into an under-world, even Violet's egotism began todream. 

'The evening is lovely. I am glad; it is the last we shall pass here, 'said the girl pensively, 'and all good-byes are sad. '

'Yes, we have been happy, ' said May, 'and I too am sorry to leave; butthen we couldn't spend our lives here. There are plenty of things to bedone at home; and I suppose we shall all get married one of these days?And there will be balls and parties before we get married. I don't thinkthat I'd care to get married all at once. Would you, Violet?'

'I don't know. Perhaps not, unless it was to someone very grand indeed. '

'Oh, would you do that? I don't think I could marry a man unless I lovedhim, ' said May. 

'Yes, but you might love someone who was very grand as well as someonewho wasn't. '

'That's true enough; but then--' and May stopped, striving to readjusther ideas, which Violet's remark had suddenly disarranged. After a pauseshe said:

'But does your mother intend to bring you to Dublin for the season? Areyou going to be presented this year?'

'I hope so. Mamma said I should be, last vacation. '

'I shall take good care that I am. The best part of the hunting will beover, and I wouldn't miss the Castle balls for anything. Do you likeofficers?'

The crudity of the question startled Alice, and it was with difficultyshe answered she didn't know--that she had not thought about the matter. 

May and Violet continued the conversation; and over the lingering wasteof yellow, all that remained to tell where the sun had set, the nightfell like a heavy, blinding dust, sadly and regretfully, as the lasthandful of earth thrown upon a young girl's grave. 

IV

In the tiny cornfields the reapers rose from their work to watch thecarriage. Mr. Barton commented on the disturbed state of the country. Olive asked if Mr. Parnell was good-looking. A railway-bridge was passedand a pine-wood aglow with the sunset, and a footman stepped down fromthe box to open a swinging iron gate. 

This was Brookfield. Sheep grazed on the lawn, at the end of which, beneath some chestnut-trees, was the house. It had been built by thelate Mr. Barton out of a farmhouse, but the present man, havingtravelled in Italy and been attracted by the picturesque, had built averandah; and for the same reason had insisted on calling his daughterOlive. 

'Oh there, mamma!' cried Olive, looking out of the carriage window; andthe two girls watched their mother, a pretty woman of forty, comingacross the greensward to meet them. 

She moved over the greensward in a skirt that seemed a little toolong--a black silk skirt trimmed with jet. As she came forward herdaughters noticed that their mother dyed her hair in places where itmight be suspected of turning grey. It was parted in the middle and shewore it drawn back over her ears and slightly puffed on either side inaccordance with the fashion that had come in with the Empress Eugenie. Even in a photograph she was like a last-century beauty sketched byRomney in pastel--brown, languid, almond-shaped eyes, a thin figure alittle bent. Even in youth it had probably resembled Alice's rather thanOlive's, but neither had inherited her mother's hands--the mostbeautiful hands ever seen--and while they trifled with the newly bought_foulards_ a warbling voice inquired if Olive was sure she was nottired. 

'Five hours in the train! And you, Alice? You must be starving, my dear, and I'm afraid the saffron buns are cold. Milord brought us over such alarge packet to-day. We must have some heated up. They won't be aminute. '

'Oh, mamma, I assure you I am not in the least hungry!' cried Olive. 

'_La beauté n'a jamais faim, elle se nourrit d'elle même, '_ replied LordDungory, who had just returned from the pleasure-ground whither he hadgone for a little walk with Arthur. 

'You will find Milord the same as ever--_toujours galant_; alwaysthinking of _la beauté, et les femmes_. '

Lord Dungory was the kind of man that is often seen with the Mrs. Bartontype of woman. An elderly beau verging on the sixties, who, like Mrs. Barton, suggested a period. His period was very early Victorian, but heno longer wore a silk hat in the country. A high silk hat in Galwaywould have called attention to his age, so the difficulty of costume wasingeniously compromised by a tall felt, a cross between a pot and achimney-pot. For collars, a balance had been struck between thejaw-scrapers of old time and the nearest modern equivalent; and in thetying of the large cravat there was a reminiscence, but nothing more, ofthe past generation. 

He had modelled himself, consciously or unconsciously, on LordPalmerston, and in the course of conversation one gathered that he wason terms of intimacy with the chiefs of the Liberal party, such as LordGranville and Lord Hartington, and if the listener was credited with anyerudition, allusion was made to the most celebrated artists and authors, and to their works. There was a celebrated Boucher in Dungory Castle, which Milord, it was hinted, had bought for some very small sum manyyears ago on the Continent; there was also a cabinet by Buhl and astatue supposed to be a Jean Gougon, and the proofs of theirauthenticity were sometimes spoken of after a set dinner-party. Hisspeech was urbane, and, on all questions of taste, Lord Dungory'sopinion was eagerly sought for. He gave a tone to the ideas put forwardin the surrounding country houses, and it was through him that Mr. Barton held the title of a genius born out of due time. If Arthur, hesaid, had lived two centuries ago, when the gift of imagination wasconsidered indispensable in the artist, he would have achieved highdistinction. His subjects--_The Bridal of Triermain_ and _Julius Cæsaroverturning the Altars of the Druids_--would have been envied, perhapsstolen, by the Venetian painters. And this tribute to Arthur's genius, so generously expressed, enabled him to maintain the amenities of hislife at Brookfield. He never forgot to knock at Arthur's studio-door, and the moment his eyes fell on a new composition, he spoke of it withrespect; and he never failed to allude to it at lunch. He lunched atBrookfield every day. At half-past one his carriage was at the door. Inthe afternoons he went out to drive with Mrs. Barton or sat in thedrawing-room with her. Four times in the week he remained to dinner, anddid not return home until close on midnight. 

Whether he ever made any return to Mrs. Barton for her hospitalities, and, if so, in what form he repaid his obligations to her, was, whenfriends drew together, a favourite topic of conversation in the countyof Galway. It had been remarked that the Bartons never dined at DungoryCastle except on state occasions; and it was well-known that the LadiesCullen hated Mrs. Barton with a hatred as venomous as the poison hid inthe fangs of adders. 

But Lord Dungory knew how to charm his tame snakes. For fortune they hadbut five thousand pounds each, and, although freedom and a Londonlodging were often dreamed of, the flesh-pots of Dungory Castlecontinued to be purchased at the price of smiles and civil wordsexchanged with Mrs. Barton. Besides, as they grew old and ugly, theLadies Cullen had developed an inordinate passion for the conversion ofsouls. They had started a school of their own in opposition to theNational school, which was under the direction of the priest, and topersuade the peasants to read the Bible and to eat bacon on Friday, weregood works that could not be undertaken without funds; and these wereobtained, it was said, by the visits of the Ladies Cullen to Brookfield. 

Mrs. Gould declared she could estimate to a fraction the prosperity ofProtestantism in the parish by the bows these ladies exchanged with Mrs. Barton when their carriages crossed on the roads. 

'Here are the saffron buns at last, my dear children;' and Mrs. Bartonpressed them upon her girls, saying that Milord had brought them fromDungory Castle especially for them. 'Take a bottom piece, Olive, andAlice, you really must. . . Well, if you won't eat, tell Milord about yourplay of King Cophetua and the beggar-maid. Arthur, tell me, how did youlike the play, and how did the nuns like it? To think of my daughter, soprim and demure, writing a play, and on such a subject. '

'But, mamma, what is there odd in the subject? We all know the oldballad. '

'Yes, we all know the ballad, ' Arthur answered; 'I sing stanzas of it tothe guitar myself. ' He began to chant to himself, and Mrs. Bartonlistened, her face slanted in the pose of the picture of Lady Hamilton;and Milord rejoiced in the interlude, for it gave him opportunity tomeditate. Anna (Mrs. Barton) seemed to him more charming and attractivethan he had ever seen her, as she sat in the quiet shadow of theverandah: beyond the verandah, behind her, the autumn sunshine fellacross the shelving meadows. A quiet harmony reigned over Brookfield. The rooks came flapping home through the sunlight, and when Arthur hadceased humming Mrs. Barton said:

'And now, my dear children, if you have finished your tea, come, and Iwill show you your room. '

She did not leave the verandah, however, without paying a prettycompliment to Milord, one that set him thinking how miserable his lifewould have been with his three disagreeable daughters if he had notfallen in with this enchantment. He remembered that it had lasted fornearly twenty years, and it was as potent as ever. In what did itconsist, he asked himself. He sometimes thought her laughter tooabundant, sometimes it verged on merriment. He did not like to think ofAnna as a merry woman; he preferred to think that wherever she went shebrought happiness with her. He had known her sad, but never melancholy, for she was never without a smile even when she was melancholy. 

Awakening from his reverie he drew his chair closer to Arthur's, and, with a certain parade of interest, asked him if he had been to theAcademy. 

'Did you see anything, Arthur, that in design approached your picture of_Julius Cæsar Overturning the Altars of the Druids_?'

'There were some beautiful bits of painting there, ' replied Arthur, whose modesty forbade him to answer the question directly. 'I saw somelovely landscapes, and there were some babies' frocks, ' he addedsatirically. 'In one of these pictures I saw a rattle painted toperfection. '

'Ah, yes, yes! You don't like the pettiness of family feeling draggedinto art; but if you only condescend to take a little more notice of thecraft--the craft is, after all--'

'I am carried along too rapidly by my feelings. I feel that I must getmy idea on canvas. But when I was in London I saw such a lovelywoman--one of the most exquisite creatures possible to imagine! Oh, sosweet, and so feminine! I have it all in my head. I shall do somethinglike her to-morrow. '

Here he began to sketch with his stick in the dust, and from his face itmight be judged he was satisfied with the invisible result. At last hesaid:

'You needn't say anything about it, but she sent me some songs, withaccompaniments written for the guitar. You shall hear some of the songsto-night. . . . Ah, there is the dinner-bell!'

Olive was placed next to Milord, and the compliments paid to her by theold courtier delighted her. She pretended to understand when he said:'_La femme est comme une ombre: si vous la suives, elle vous fuit; sivous fuyez, elle vous poursuit_. ' A little later the champagne she haddrunk set her laughing hysterically, and she begged him to translate (hehad just whispered to her mother, '_L'amour est la conscience du plaisirdonné et reçu, la certitude de donner et de recevoir_'); and he wouldhave complied with her request, but Mrs. Barton forbade him. Alice, whohad understood, found herself obliged to say that she had notunderstood, which little fib begot a little annoyance in her against hermother; and Milord, as if he thought that he had been guilty of a slightindiscretion, said, addressing himself to both girls: '_Gardez bien vosillusions, mon enfant, car les illusions sont le miroir de l'amour. '_

'Ah! _mais il ne faut pas couvrir trop l'abîme avec des fleurs_, ' saidMrs. Barton, as a sailor from his point of vantage might cry, 'Rocksahead!'

Arthur only joined occasionally in the conversation; he gazed long andardently on his daughter, and then sketched with his thumb-nail on thecloth, and when they arose from the table, Mrs. Barton said:

'Now, now, I am not going to allow you gentlemen to spend any more timeover your wine. This is our first evening together; come into thedrawing-room with us, and we shall have some music. '

Like most men of an unevenly balanced mind, Arthur loved an eccentriccostume, and soon after he appeared in a long-tasselled cap and astrangely coloured smoking jacket; he wore a pair of high-heeledbrocaded slippers, and, twanging a guitar, hummed to himselfplaintively. Then, when he thought he had been sufficiently admired, hesang _A che la morte, Il Balen_, and several other Italian airs, inwhich frequent allusion was made to the inconstancy of woman's and thetruth of man's affection. At every pause in the music these sentimentswere laughingly contested by Mrs. Barton. She appealed to Milord. Henever had had anything to complain of. Was it not well known that thepoor woman had been only too true to him? Finally, it was arranged thereshould be a little dancing. 

As Mrs. Barton said, it was of great importance to know if Olive knewthe right step, and who could put her up to all the latest fashions aswell as Milord? The old gentleman replied in French, and settled hiswaistcoat, fearing the garment was doing him an injustice. 

'But who is to play?' asked the poetical-looking Arthur, who, on thehighest point of the sofa, hummed and tuned his guitar after truetroubadour fashion. 

'Alice will play us a waltz, ' said Mrs. Barton winningly. 

'Oh yes, Alice dear, play us a waltz, ' cried Olive. 

'You know how stupid I am; I can't play a note without my music, and itis all locked up in my trunk upstairs. '

'It won't take you a minute to get it out, ' said Mrs. Barton; andmoving, as if she were on wheels, towards her daughter, she whispered:'Do as I tell you--run upstairs at once and get your music. '

She looked questioningly at her mother and hesitated. But Mrs. Bartonhad a way of compelling obedience, and the girl went upstairs, to returnsoon after with a roll of music. At the best of times she had littlelove of the art, but now, sick with disappointment, and weary from along railway journey, to spell through the rhythm of the _My QueenWaltz_ and the jangle of _L'Esprit Français_ was to her an odious and, when the object of it was considered, an abominable duty to perform. Shehad to keep her whole attention fixed on the page before her, but whenshe raised her eyes the picture she saw engraved itself on her mind. Itwas a long time before she could forget Olive's blond, cameo-likeprofile seen leaning over the old beau's fat shoulder. Mrs. Bartonlaughed and laughed again, declaring the while that it was _la grâce etla beauté réunies. _ Mr. Barton shouted and twanged in measure, theexcitement gaining on him until he rushed at his wife, and, seizing herround the waist, whirled her and whirled her, holding his guitar aboveher head. At last they bumped against Milord, and shot the old man andhis burden on to the nearest sofa. Then Alice, who thought her missionat the piano was over, rose to go, but Mrs. Barton ordered her to resumeher seat, and the dancing was continued till the carriage came up thegravel sweep to fetch Milord away. This was generally about half-pasteleven, and as he muffled himself up in overcoats, the girls were toldto cram his pockets with cigarettes and bon-bons. 

'Bedad, I think it is revolvers and policemen you ought to be givin' me, not swatemates, ' he said, affecting a brogue. 

'Oh yes, is it not dreadful?' exclaimed Mrs. Barton. 'I don't know whatwe shall do if the Government don't put down the Land League; we shallall be shot in our beds some night. Did you hear of that murder theother day?'

'And it is said there will be no rents collected this year, ' said Mr. Barton, as he tightened one of the strings of his guitar. 

'Oh, do cease that noise!' said Mrs. Barton. 'And tell me, Lord Dungory, will the Government refuse us soldiers and police to put the peopleout?'

'If we go to the Castle, we shall want more money to buy dresses, ' saidOlive. 

'_La mer a toujours son écume pour habiller ses déesses, '_ repliedMilord; and he got into his carriage amid pearly peals of laughter fromMrs. Barton, intermingled with a few high notes from Olive, who hadalready taken to mimicking her mother. 

V

Mr. Barton, or Arthur, as he was usually called, always returned to hisstudio immediately after breakfast, and, as Mrs. Barton had domesticduties to attend to, the girls were left to themselves to appreciatetheir return home from school and look forward to their entry into thelife of the world. 

The two girls descended the stairs with their summer hats and sunshades, and Alice stopped at the door of the schoolroom. It was here that, onlya few years ago, she had interceded with the dear old governess, andaided Olive to master the difficulties against which the light braincould not contend singly--the hardships of striving to recall the numberof continents the world possesses, the impossibility of learning to saydefinitely if seven times four made twenty-eight or thirty. 

At the end of the passage under the stairs the children used to play forhours, building strange houses out of boxes of bricks, or dressing dollsin fantastic costumes. Olive had forgotten, but Alice remembered, andher thoughts wandered through the land of toys. The box of bricks hadcome from an aunt that was now dead; the big doll mother had broughtfrom Dublin when she went to see the oculist about her eyes; and thenthere were other toys that suggested nothing, and whose history wasentirely forgotten. But the clock that stood in the passage was wellremembered, and Alice thought how this old-fashioned timepiece used tobe the regulator and confidant of all their joys and hopes. She sawherself again listening, amid her sums, for the welcome voice that wouldcall her away; she saw herself again examining its grave face andstriving to calculate, with childish eagerness, if she would have timeto build another Tower of Babel or put another tack in the doll's frockbefore the ruthless iron tongue struck the fatal hour. 

'Olive, is it possible you don't remember how we used to listen to thedear old clock when we were children?'

'You are a funny girl, Alice; you remember everything. Fancy thinking ofthat old clock! I hated it, for it brought me to lessons when it struckeleven. '

'Yes, but it brought you out to play when it struck twelve. See! thehands are just on the hour; let us wait to hear it strike. '

The girls listened vainly for a sound; and Alice felt as if she had beenapprised of the loss of a tried friend when one of the servants toldthem the clock had been broken some years ago. 

The kitchen windows looked on a street made by a line of buildingsparallel with the house. These were the stables and outhouses, and theyformed one of the walls of the garden that lay behind, sheltered on thenorth side by a thin curtain of beeches, filled every evening with noisyrooks; and, coming round to the front of the house, the girls lingeredbeneath the chestnut-trees, and in the rosary, where a little fountainplayed when visitors were present, and then stood leaning over thewooden paling that defended the pleasure-ground from the cows thatgrazed in the generous expanse of grass extending up to the trees of theLawler domain. Brookfield was therefore without pretensions--it couldhardly be called 'a place'--but, manifolded in dreams past and present, it extended indefinitely before Alice's eyes, and, absorbed by the sadsweetness of retrospection, she lingered while Olive ran through therosary from the stables and back again, calling to her sister, makingthe sunlight ring with her light laughter. She refrained, therefore, from reminding her that it was here they used to play with Nell, the oldsetter, and that it was there they gave bread to the blind beggar; Olivehad no heart for these things, and when she admired the sleekcarriage-horses that had lately been bought to take them to balls andtennis-parties, Alice thought of the old brown mare that used to takethem for such delightful drives. 

Suddenly Mrs. Barton's voice was heard calling. Milord had arrived: theywere to go into the garden and pick a few flowers to make a buttonholefor him. Olive darted off at once to execute the commission, and soonreturned with a rose set round with stephanotis. The old lord, seated inthe dining-room, in an arm-chair which Mrs. Barton had drawn up to thewindow so that he might enjoy the air, sipped his sherry, and Alice, asshe entered the room, heard him say:

'_Quand on aime on est toujours bien portant_. '

She stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Barton, who already suspected her ofsecret criticism, whispered, as she glided across the room:

'Now, my dear girl, go and talk to Milord and make yourself agreeable. '

The girl felt she was incapable of this, and it pained her to listen toher sister's facile hilarity, and her mother's coaxing observations. Milord did not, however, neglect her; he made suitable remarksconcerning her school successes, and asked appropriate questions anenther little play of _King Cophetua_. But whatever interest the subjectpossessed was found in the fact that Olive had taken the part of thePrincess; and, re-arranging the story a little, Mrs. Barton declared, with a shower of little laughs, and many waves of the white hands, that'my lady there had refused a King; a nice beginning, indeed, and apleasant future for her chaperon. '

The few books the house possessed lay on the drawing-room table, or werepiled, in dusty confusion, in the bookcase in Mr. Barton's studio; and, thinking of them, Alice determined she would pay her father a visit inhis studio. 

At her knock he ceased singing _Il Balen_, and cried, 'Come in!'

'I beg your pardon, papa; I'm afraid I am interrupting you. '

'Not at all--not at all, I assure you; come in. I will have a cigarette;there is nothing like reconsidering one's work through the smoke of acigarette. The most beautiful pictures I have ever seen I have seen inthe smoke of a cigarette; nothing can beat those, particularly if youare lying back looking up at a dirty ceiling. '

War and women were the two poles of Arthur's mind. _Cain shielding hisWife from Wild Beasts_ had often been painted, numberless _Bridals ofTriermain_; and as for the _Rape of the Sabines_, it seemed as if itcould never be sufficiently accomplished. Opposite the door was a hugedesign representing Samson and Delilah; opposite the fireplace, _JuliusCaesar overturning the Altars of the Druids_ occupied nearly the entirewall. Nymphs and tigers were scattered in between; canvases were alsopropped against almost every piece of furniture. 

At last Alice's eyes were suddenly caught by a picture representingthree women bathing. It was a very rough sketch, but, before she hadtime to examine it, Arthur turned it against the wall. Why he hid twopictures from her she could not help wondering. It could not be forpropriety's sake, for there were nudities on every side of her. 

Then, lying upon the sofa, he explained how So-and-so had told him, whenhe was a boy in London, that no one since Michael Angelo had been ableto design as he could; how he had modelled a colossal statue of Luciferbefore he was sixteen, how he had painted a picture of the Battle ofArbela, forty feet by twenty, before he was eighteen; but that was of nouse, the world nowadays only cared for execution, and he could not waituntil he had got the bit of ribbon in Delilah's hair to look exactlylike silk. 

Alice listened to her father babbling, her heart and her mind atvariance. A want of knowledge of painting might blind her to the effectsof his pictures (there was in them all a certain crude merit of design), but it was impossible not to see that they were lacking in something, inwhat she could not say, having no knowledge of painting. Nor was shesure that her father believed in his pictures, though he had justdeclared they had all the beauties of Raphael and other beautiesbesides. He had a trick of never appearing to thoroughly believe in themand in himself. She listened interested and amused, not knowing how totake him. She had been away at school for nearly ten years, coming homefor rare holidays, and was, therefore, without any real knowledge of herparents. She understood her father even less than her mother; but shewas certain that if he were not a great genius he might have been one, and she resolved to find out Lord Dungory's opinions on her father. Butthe opportunity for five minutes quiet chat behind her mother's back didnot present itself. As soon as he arrived her mother sent her out of theroom on some pretext more or less valid, and at the end of the week thegowns that had been ordered in Dublin arrived: ecstasy consumed thehouse, and she heard him say that he would give a great dinner-party toshow them off. 

VI

Arthur, who rarely dined out, handed the ladies into the carriage. 

Mrs. Barton was beautifully dressed in black satin; Olive was lost in amass of tulle; Alice wore a black silk trimmed with passementerie andred ribbons. Behind the Clare mountains the pale transitory colours ofthe hour faded, and the women, their bodies and their thoughts swayedtogether by the motion of the vehicle, listened to the irritatingbarking of the cottage-dog. Surlily a peasant, returning from his work, his frieze coat swung over one shoulder, stepped aside. A bare-leggedwoman, surrounded by her half-naked children, leaving the potato she waspeeling in front of her door, gazed, like her husband, after the rollingvision of elegance that went by her, and her obtuse brain probablysummed up the implacable decrees of Destiny in the phrase:

'Shure there misht be a gathering at the big house this evening. '

'But tell me, mamma, ' said Olive, after a long silence, 'how muchchampagne ought I to drink at dinner? You know, it is a long time sinceI have tasted it. Indeed, I don't remember that I ever did taste it. '

Mrs. Barton laughed softly:

'Well, my dear, I don't think that two glasses could do you any harm;but I would not advise you to drink any more. '

'And what shall I say to the man who takes me down to dinner? Shall Ihave to begin the conversation, or will he?'

'He will be sure to say something; you need not trouble yourself aboutthat. I think we shall meet some nice men to-night. Captain Hibbert willbe there. He is very handsome and well-connected. I hope he will takeyou down. Then there will be the Honourable Mr. Burke. He is a nicelittle man, but there's not much in him, and he hasn't a penny. Hisbrother is Lord Kilcarney, a confirmed bachelor. Then there will be Mr. Adair; he is very well off. He has at least four thousand a year in thecountry; but it would seem that he doesn't care for women. He is veryclever; he writes pamphlets. He used to sympathize with the Land League, but the outrages went against his conscience. You never know what hereally does think. He admires Gladstone, and Gladstone says he can't dowithout him. '

They had now passed the lodge-gates, and were driving through the park. Herds of fallow deer moved away, but the broad bluff forms of the reddeer gazed steadfastly as lions from the crest of a hill. 

'Did you ever meet Lady Dungory, mamma?' asked Alice. 'Is she dead?'

'No, dear, she is not dead; but it would be better, perhaps, if shewere. She behaved very badly. Lord Dungory had to get a separation. Noone ever speaks of her now. Mind, you are warned!'

At this moment the carriage stopped before a modern house, built betweentwo massive Irish towers entirely covered with huge ivy. 

'I am afraid we are a little late, ' said Mrs. Barton to the servant, ashe relieved them of their _sorties de bal_. 

'Eight o'clock has just struck, ma'am. '

'The two old things will make faces at us, I know, ' murmured Mrs. Barton, as she ascended the steps. 

On either side there were cases of stuffed birds; a fox lay in wait fora pheasant on the right; an otter devoured a trout on the left. Theseattested the sporting tastes of a former generation. The white marblestatues of nymphs sleeping in the shadows of the different landings andthe Oriental draperies with which each cabinet was hung suggested thedilettantism of the present owner. 

Mrs. Barton walked on in front; the girls drew together like birds. Theywere amazed at the stateliness of the library, and they marvelled at therichness of the chandeliers and the curiously assorted pictures. Thecompany was assembled in a small room at the end of the suite. 

Two tall, bony, high-nosed women advanced and shook hands menacinglywith Mrs. Barton. They were dressed alike in beautiful gowns ofgold-brown plush. 

With a cutting stare and a few cold conventional words, they welcomedOlive and Alice home to the country again. Lord Dungory whisperedsomething to Mrs. Barton. Olive passed across the room; the black coatsgave way, and, as a white rose in a blood-coloured glass, her shouldersrose out of the red tulle. Captain Hibbert twisted his brown-goldmoustache, and, with the critical gaze of the connoisseur, examined theundulating lines of the arms, the delicate waist, and the sloping hips:her skirts seemed to fall before his looks. 

Immediately after, the roaring of a gong was heard, and the form of thestately butler was seen approaching. Lord Dungory and Lady Janeexchanged looks. The former offered his arm to Mrs. Gould; the latter, her finger on her lips, in a movement expressive of profound meditation, said:

'Mr. Ryan, will you take down Mrs. Barton; Mr. Scully, will you takeMiss Olive Barton; Mr. Adair, will you take Miss Gould; Mr. Lynch, willyou take Miss Alice Barton; Mr. Burke, will you take my sister?' Then, smiling at the thought that she had checkmated her father, who hadordered that Olive Barton should go down with Captain Hibbert, she tookCaptain Hibbert's arm, and followed the dinner-party. About the marblestatues and stuffed birds on the staircase flowed a murmur ofamiability, and, during a pause, skirts were settled amid the chairs, which the powdered footmen drew back ceremoniously to make way for theguests to pass. 

A copy of Murillo's _Madonna presenting the Divine Child to St. Joseph_hung over the fireplace; between the windows another Madonna stood on ahalf-moon, and when Lord Dungory said, 'For what we are going toreceive, the Lord make us truly thankful, ' these pictures helped thecompany to realize a suitable, although momentary emotion. 

Turtle soup was handed round. The soft steaming fragrance mixed with thefresh perfume of the roses that bloomed in a silver vase beneath thelight of the red-shaded wax candles. A tree covered with azaleas spreadnotes of delicate colour over the gold screen that hid the door by whichthe servants came and went. 

'Oh, Lady Sarah, ' exclaimed Mrs. Gould, 'I do not know how you have suchbeautiful flowers--and in this wretched climate!'

'Yes, it is very trying; but then we have a great deal of glass. '

'Which do you prefer, roses or azaleas?' asked Mrs. Barton. 

'_Les roses sont les fleurs en corsage, mais les azalées sont les fleursen peignoir_. '

Lady Sarah and Lady Jane, who had both overheard the remark, levelledindignant glances at their father, scornful looks at Mrs. Barton, and, to avoid further amatory allusions, Lady Sarah said:

'I do not think we shall soon have bread, much less flowers, to place onour tables, if the Government do not step in and put down the revolutionthat is going on in this country. '

Everyone, except the young girls, looked questioningly at each other, and the mutuality of their interests on this point became at onceapparent. 

'Ah, Lord Dungory! do you think we shall be able to collect our rentsthis year? What reduction do you intend to give?'

Lord Dungory, who had no intention of showing his hand, said:

'The Land League has, I believe, advised the people to pay no more thanGriffith's valuation. I do not know if your lands are let very muchabove it?'

'If you have not seen the _Evening Mail_ you have probably not heard ofthe last terrible outrage, ' said Captain Hibbert; and, amid a profoundsilence, he continued: 'I do not know if anybody here is acquainted witha Mr. Macnamara; he lives in Meath. '

'Oh! you don't say anything has happened to him? I knew his cousin, 'exclaimed Mrs. Gould. 

Captain Hibbert looked round with his bland, good-looking stare, and, asno nearer relative appeared to be present, he resumed his story:

'He was, it seems, sitting smoking after dinner, when suddenly two shotswere fired through the windows. '

At this moment a champagne-cork slipped through the butler's fingers andwent off with a bang. 

'Oh, goodness me! what's that?' exclaimed Mrs. Gould; and, to pass offtheir own fears, everyone was glad to laugh at the old lady. It was notuntil Captain Hibbert told that Mr. Macnamara had been so severelywounded that his life was despaired of, that the chewing faces becamegrave again. 

'And I hear that Macnamara had the foinest harses in Mathe, ' said Mr. Ryan; 'I very nearly sold him one last year at the harse show. '

Mr. Ryan was the laughing-stock of the country, and a list of thegrotesque sayings he was supposed, on different occasions, to have beenguilty of, was constantly in progress of development. He lived with hiscousin, Mr. Lynch, and, in conjunction, they farmed large tracts ofland. Mr. Ryan was short and thick; Mr. Lynch was taller and larger, anda pair of mutton-chop whiskers made his bloated face look bigger still. On either side of the white tablecloth their dirty hands fumbled attheir shirt-studs, that constantly threatened to fall through the wornbuttonholes. They were, nevertheless, received everywhere, and Pathre, as Mr. Ryan was called by his friends, was permitted the licences thatare usually granted to the buffoon. 

'Arrah!' he said, 'I wouldn't moind the lague being hard on them wholives out of the counthry, spendin' their cash on liquor and theatres inLondon; but what can they have agin us who stops at home, mindin' ourproperties and riding our harses?'

This criticism of justice, as administered by the league, did not, however, seem to meet with the entire approval of those present. Mr. Adair looked grave; he evidently thought it was based on a superficialnotion of political economy. Mr. Burke, a very young man with a tiny redmoustache and a curious habit of wriggling his long weak neck, feelinghis amusements were being unfairly attacked, broke the silence he hadtill then preserved, and said:

'I haven't an acre of land in the world, but if my brother chooses tolive in London, I don't see why he should be deprived of his rents. Formy part, I like the Gaiety Theatre, and so does my brother. Have youseen the _Forty Thieves_, Lady Jane? Capital piece--I saw it twentytimes. '

'I think what Pathre, me cousin, means to say, ' said Mr. Lynch, declining the venison the servant offered him, 'is that there are manyin the country who don't deserve much consideration. I am alluding tothose who acquired their property in the land courts, and theCromwellians, and the--I mean the rack-renters. '

The sudden remembrance that Lord Dungory dated from the time of James soupset Mr. Lynch that he called back the servant and accepted thevenison, which he failed, however, to eat. 

'I do not see, ' said Lord Dungory, with the air of a man whose words areconclusive, 'why we should go back to the time of Cromwell to discussthe rights of property rather than to that of the early Kings ofIreland. If there is to be a returning, why not at once put in a claimon the part of the Irish Elk? No! there must be some finality in humanaffairs. ' And on this phrase the conversation came to a pause. 

But if the opinions of those present were not in accord concerning therights of property, their tastes in conversation certainly differed aswidely. Olive's white face twitched from time to time with nervousannoyance. Alice looked up in a sort of mild despair as she strove toanswer Mr. Lynch's questions; May had fallen into a state of moroselassitude. If Mr. Adair would only cease to explain to her howsuccessfully he had employed concrete in the construction of hisfarm-buildings! She felt that if he started again on the saw-mill shemust faint, and Olive's senses, too, were swimming, but just as shethought she was going off Captain Hibbert looked so admiringly at herthat she recovered herself; and at the same time Mr. Scully succeeded inmaking May understand that he would infinitely prefer to be near herthan Lady Sarah. In return for this expression of feeling the young ladydetermined to risk a remark across the table; but she was cut short byMrs. Gould, who pithily summed up the political situation in the words:

'The way I look at it is like this: Will the Government help us to getour rents, or will it not? Mr. Forster's Act does not seem to be able todo that. There's May there who has been talking all the morning ofCastle seasons, and London seasons, and I don't know what; really Idon't see how it is to be done if the Land League--'

'And Mr. Parnell's a gentleman, too. I wonder how he can ally himselfwith such blackguards, ' gently insinuated Mrs. Barton, who saw a husbandlost in the politician. 

But the difficulty the Government find themselves in is that the LandLeague is apparently a legal organization, ' said Lord Dungory in themidst of a profound silence. 

'A society legal, that exists and holds its power through an organizedsystem of outrage! Mind you, as I have always said, the landlords havebrought all their misfortunes upon themselves; they have often behaveddisgracefully--but I would, nevertheless, put down the outrages; yes, Iwould put down the outrages, and at any cost. '

'And what would yer do?' asked Mr. Ryan. 'De yer know that the herds arebeing coerced now? we'd get on well enough were it not for that. '

'In the beginning of this year Mr. Forster asked Parliament for specialpowers. How has he used those powers? Without trial, five hundred peoplehave been thrown into prison, and each fresh arrest is answered by afresh outrage; and when the warrant is issued, and I suppose it will beissued sooner or later, for the arrest of Mr. Parnell, I should not besurprised to hear of a general strike being made against rent. Theconsequences of such an event will be terrific; but let theseconsequences, I say, rest on Mr. Forster's head. I shall have no word ofpity for him. His government is a disgrace to Liberalism, and I fear hehas done much to prejudice our ideal in the eyes of the world. '

Lord Dungory and Lady Jane exchanged smiles; and poor crotchety Mr. Adair leaned forward his large, bald brow, obscured by many obscureideals. After a pause he continued:

'But I was speaking of Flanders. From the time of Charles the Fifth themost severe laws were enacted to put down the outrages, but there was anundercurrent of sympathy with the outrage-monger which kept the systemalive until 1840. Then the Government took the matter in hand, andtreated outrage-mongering as what it is--an act of war; and quarteredtroops on the inhabitants and stamped the disease out in a few years. Ofcourse I could not, and would not, advocate the employment of suchdrastic measures in Ireland; but I would put down the outrages with afirm hand, and I would render them impossible in the future by thecreation of peasant-proprietors. '

Then, amid the juicy odours of cut pineapple, and the tepid flavours ofBurgundy, Mr. Adair warmed to his subject, and proceeded to explain thatabsolute property did not exist in land in Ireland before 1600, and, illustrating his arguments with quotations from Arthur Young, he spokeof the plantation of Ulster, the leases of the eighteenth century, theProtestants in the North, the employment of labour; until, at last, inebriated with theory, he asked the company what was the end ofgovernment?

This was too much, and, seeing the weary faces about him, Lord Dungorydetermined to change the subject of conversation:

'The end of government?' he said; 'I am afraid that you would get manydifferent answers to that question. Ask these young ladies; they willtell you, probably, that it is to have _des beaux amants et des joyeusesamours_, and I am not sure that they are not right. '

Mrs. Barton's coaxing laugh was heard, and then reference was made tothe detachment of the Connaught Rangers stationed at Galway, and thepossibility of their giving a dance was eagerly discussed. Mr. Ryan hada word to say anent the hunting prospect, and, when May Gould declaredshe was going to ride straight and not miss a meet, she completed theconquest of Mr. Scully, and encouraging glances were exchanged betweenthem until Lady Sarah looked inquiringly round the table--then shepushed back her chair. All rose, and a moment after, through thetwilight of the drawing-room, colour and nudity were scattered inpicturesque confusion. 

Every mind was occupied by one thought--how the pleasure of thedinner-party had been spoiled by that horrible Land League discussion. All wondered who had introduced the subject, and the blame was fixedupon Mr. Adair. Mrs. Gould, in her homely way, came to the point atonce:

'People say he is so clever, but I am sure I can't see it. He has spenta fortune in building farmyards in concrete, and his saw-mill, I hear, costs him twenty pounds a month dead loss, and he is always writingletters to the papers. I never can think much of a man who writes to thepapers. '

'A most superior man, ' said Lady Sarah, who, notwithstanding herthirty-five years, had not entirely given up hope. 'He took honours atTrinity. '

Then Mr. Burke and Lord Kilcarney were spoken of, and some new anecdoteswere told of Mr. Ryan. The famous one--how he had asked a lady to showhim her docket at the Galway ball, when she told him that she wasengaged for all the dances--excited, as it never failed to do, a gooddeal of laughter. Mrs. Barton did not, however, join in theconversation. She knew, if she did, that the Ladies Cullen would be asrude as the absence of Milord, and the fact that she was a guest intheir house would allow them to be. Mrs. Barton's mind was now occupiedwith one thought, and, leaning back in her chair, she yielded herselfentirely to it. Although the dinner-party had been spoiled by Mr. Adair's uncontrollable desire to impart information, she had, nevertheless, noticed that Captain Hibbert had been very much struckwith Olive's beauty. She was aware that her daughter was a beautifulgirl, but whether men would want to marry her Mrs. Barton did not know. Captain Hibbert's conduct would help her to arrive at a decision. Shecertainly dreamed of a title for Olive. Lord Kilcarney was, alas! not tobe thought of. Ah! if Mr. Burke were only Lord Kilcarney! But he wasnot. However, Captain Hibbert would be a fairly good match. He was ofexcellent family, had two thousand a year, and a place in the countryand in England too. But why snatch up the very first fish that came by?There was no saying whom they would meet at the Castle. Still, toencourage a flirtation could be no harm. If they met anything better, itcould be broken off; if they did not, it would be a very nice matchindeed. Besides, there was no denying that Olive was a little too_naïve_ in her manner. Captain Hibbert's society would brush that off, and Olive would go up to the Castle with the reputation of having made aconquest. 

Such were Mrs. Barton's thoughts as she sat, her hands laid like chinaornaments on her lap; her feet were tucked under the black-pleatedskirt, and she sometimes raised her Greuze-like eyes and looked at herdaughter. 

The girls were grouped around a small table, on which stood afeather-shaded lamp. In clear voices and clear laughs they were talkingof each other's dresses. May had just stood up to show off her skirt. She was a superb specimen of a fat girl, and in a glow of orange ribbonsand red hair she commanded admiration. 

'And to think she is going to waste her time with that dissipated youngman, Mr. Scully!' thought Mrs. Barton. Then Olive stood up. She was allrose, and when, laughing, with a delicious movement of the arms, shehitched back her bustle, she lost her original air, and looked as mighthave done the Fornarina when not sitting in immortality. It was thebattle of blonde tints: Olive with primroses and corn, May with acadmium yellow and red gold. 

'And now, Alice, get up and let's see you!' she cried, catching hold ofher sister's arm. 

Still resisting, Alice rose to her feet, and May, who was full of goodnature, made some judicious observations. 

'And how different we all look from what we did at the convent! Do youremember our white frocks?'

Alice's face lit up with a sudden remembrance, and she said:

'But why, Lady Sarah, haven't we seen Cecilia? I've been thinking of herduring dinner. I hope she is not ill?'

'Oh, dear me, no! But poor Cecilia does not care to come down when thereis company. '

'But can I not see her?'

'Oh, certainly! You will find her in her room. But you do not know theway; I will ring for my maid, she will show you. '

At this moment men's voices were heard on the staircase. The ladies alllooked up, the light defining the corner of a forehead, the outline of anose and chin, bathing a neck in warm shadow, modelling a shoulder withgrey tints, sending a thousand rays flashing through the diamonds on thebosom, touching the finger-rings, and lastly dying away amid the foldsof the dresses that trailed on the soft carpet. Mr. Ryan, walking withhis habitual roll and his hands in his pockets, entered. His tie wasunder his left ear. Mr. Lynch, haunted by the idea that he had not madehimself agreeable to Alice during dinner, sat down beside her. Mr. Scully made a rush for May. Tall, handsome Captain Hibbert, with his airof conventional high style, quitted Lord Dungory, and asked Olive whatthey had been saying since they left the dining-room. Mr. Burke tried tojoin in the conversation, but Mr. Ryan, thinking it would be as well notto let the occasion slip of speaking of a certain 'bay harse who'd jumpanythin', ' took him confidentially by the sleeve. 

'Now, look here, will yer, ' he began. The rest of his remarks were lostin the hum of the conversation, and by well-bred transitionsobservations were made on the dancing and hunting prospects of theseason. Mr. Adair took no interest in such subjects, and to everyone'srelief he remained silent. May and Fred Scully had withdrawn to a cornerof the room where they could talk more at their ease; Captain Hibbertwas conscious of nothing but Olive and her laughter, which rippled andtinkled through an odour of coffee. 

Little by little she was gaining the attention of the room. Mr. Adairceased to listen to Lord Dungory, who was explaining why Leonardo daVinci was a greater painter than Titian. Mr. Lynch left off talking toAlice; the little blonde honourable looked sillier and sillier as hisadmiration grew upon him. Mrs. Barton, to hide her emotion, engaged inan ardent discussion concerning the rearing of calves with Mrs. Gould. Lady Sarah bit her lip, and, unable to endure her enemy's triumph anylonger, she said in her most mellifluous tone:

'Won't you sing us something, Captain Hibbert?'

'Well, really, Lady Sarah, I should be very glad, but I don't think, youknow--I am not sure I could manage without my music. '

'I shall be very glad to accompany you. I think I know _In theGloaming_, and I have heard you sing that. '

Olive, at a sign from her mother, entreated, and when the gallantCaptain rolled from under the brown-gold moustache the phrase, 'Oh, mydarling!' all strove not to look at her, and when he dropped his voiceto a whisper, and sang of his aching heart, a feeling prevailed that allwere guilty of an indiscretion in listening to such an intimate avowal. Then he sang two songs more, equally filled with reference to tears, blighted love, and the possibility of meeting in other years, and Olivehung down her head, overcome by the fine sentiments which she felt wereaddressed to her. 

Meanwhile Alice became aware that her sister was the object of all eyesand thoughts; that she was gaining the triumph that men are agreed maybe desired by women without impropriety. Alice was a healthy-bodiedgirl; her blood flowed as warm as in her sister. The men about her didnot correspond with her ideal, but this scarcely rendered the fact thatthey neglected her less bitter. She asked Lady Sarah again if she mightgo upstairs and see Cecilia. 

She found the little cripple leaning over the banisters listening to thesound of voices. 

'Oh, my dear! Is it you? I expected you to come to see me when you leftthe gentlemen in the dining-room. '

'I couldn't come before, dear, ' said Alice, kissing her friend. 'Just asI was asking Lady Sarah the way to your room, we heard them coming. '

'And how did you like the party? Which of the men did you think thenicest?'

'I did not care for any of them; and oh, that odious Mr. Lynch!'

Cecilia's eyes flashed with a momentary gleam of satisfaction, and spokeof a little excursion--a walk to the Brennans, who lived two milesdistant--that she had been planning for the last few days. 

VII

The girls had given each other rendezvous at the gate of Dungory Castle. Lover was never more anxious to meet mistress than this little deformedgirl to see her friend; and Alice could see her walking hurriedly up anddown the gravel-sweep in front of the massive grey-stone lodge. 

'She will see me next time she turns, ' thought Alice; and immediatelyafter Cecilia uttered a joyful cry and ran forward. 

'Oh, so it is you, Alice! I am so glad! I thought you were going todisappoint me. '

'And why, dear, did you think I was going to disappoint you?' saidAlice, stooping to kiss the wan, wistful face. 

'I don't know--I can't say--but I fancied something would happen;' andthe great brown eyes began to melt with tears of delight. 'I had, youknow, set my heart on this walk with you. '

'I am sure the pleasure is as much mine as yours; and now, whither liesour way?'

'Through the deer-park, through the oakwood, across the fields into thehighroad, and then you are at the gate, '

'Won't that be too far for you?'

'Oh, not at all! It is not more than a mile and a half; but for you, youhad to come another mile and a half. It is fully that from here toBrookfield. But tell me, dear, ' said Cecilia, clinging to her friend'sarm, 'why have you not been over to see me before? It is not kind ofyou; we have been home from school now over a fortnight, and, except onthe night of the dinner-party, I haven't seen you once. '

'I was coming over to see you last week, dear; but, to tell you thetruth, mamma prevented me. I cannot think why, but somehow she does notseem to care that I should go to Dungory Castle. But for the matter ofthat, why did you not come to see me? I've been expecting you everyday. '

'I couldn't come either. My sisters advised me--I mean, insisted on mystopping at home. '

'And why?'

'I really can't say, ' replied Cecilia. 

And now Alice knew that the Ladies Cullen hated Mrs. Barton for herintimacy with Lord Dungory. She longed to talk the matter out, but darednot; while Cecilia regretted she had spoken; for, with the quickness ofthe deformed, she knew that Alice had divined the truth of the familyfeud. 

The sun fell like lead upon the short grass of the deer-park and thefrizzled heads of the hawthorns. On the right the green masses of theoakwood shut in the view, and the stately red deer, lolling their highnecks, marched away through the hillocks, as if offended at theirsolitude being disturbed. One poor crippled hind walked with a wretchedsidling movement, and Alice hoped Cecilia would not notice it, lest itshould remind her of her own misfortune. 

'I am sure, ' she said, 'we never knew finer weather than this inEngland. I don't think there could be finer weather, and still they saythe tenants are worse off than ever; that no rent at all, at leastnothing above Griffith's valuation, will be paid. '

'Do they speak much of Griffith's valuation at Dungory Castle?'

'Oh! they never cease, and--and--I don't know whether I ought to say, but it won't matter with you, I suppose?--mind, you must not breathe aword of this at Brookfield--the fact is my sisters' school--you knowthey have a school, and go in for trying to convert the people--well, this has got papa into a great deal of trouble. The Bishop has sent downanother priest--I think they call it a mission--and we are going to bepreached against, and papa received a threatening letter this morning. He is going, I believe, to apply for police. '

'And is this on account of the proselytizing?'

'Oh! no, not entirely; he has refused to give his tenants Griffith'svaluation; but it makes one very unpopular to be denounced by thepriest. I assure you, papa is very angry. He told Sarah and Jane thismorning at breakfast that he'd have no more of it; that they had noright to go into the poor people's houses and pull the children fromunder the beds, and ask why they were not at school; that he didn't careof what religion they were as long as they paid the rent; and that hewasn't going to have his life endangered for such nonsense. There was anawful row at home this morning. For my own part, I must say I sympathizewith papa. Besides the school, Sarah has, you know, a shop, where shesells bacon, sugar, and tea at cost price, and it is well-known thatthose who send their children to the school will never be asked to paytheir bills. She wanted me to come and help to weigh out the meal, Janebeing confined to her room with a sick headache, but I got out of it. Iwould not, if I could, convert those poor people. You know, I oftenfancy--I mean fear--I often sympathize too much with your creed. It wasonly at service last Sunday I was thinking of it; our religion seems socold, so cheerless compared to yours. You remember the convent-church atSt. Leonard's--the incense, the vestments, the white-veiledcongregation--oh, how beautiful it was; we shall never be so happyagain!'

'Yes, indeed; and how cross we used to think those dear nuns. Youremember Sister Mary, how she used to lecture Violet for getting up tolook out of the windows. What used she to say? 'Do you want, miss, to betaken for a housemaid or scullery-maid, staring at people in that way asthey pass?''

'Yes, yes; that's exactly how she used to speak, ' exclaimed Cecilia, laughing. And, as the girls advanced through the oakwood, they helpedeach other through the briers and over the trunks of fallen trees, talking, the while, of their past life, which now seemed to them but onelong, sweet joy. A reference to how May Gould used to gallop the ponyround and round the field at the back of the convent was interrupted bythe terrifying sound of a cock-pheasant getting up from some brackenunder their very feet; and, amid the scurrying of rabbits in couples andhalf-dozens, modest allusion was made to the girls who had been expelledin '75. Absorbed in the sweetness of the past, the girls mused, untilthey emerged from the shade of the woods into the glare and dust of thehighroad. Then came a view of rocky country, with harvesters working intiny fields, and then the great blue background of the Clare Mountainswas suddenly unfolded. A line and a bunch of trees indicated the Brennandomain. The gate-lodge was in ruins, and the weed-grown avenue wascovered with cow-dung. 

'Which of the girls do you like best?' said Alice, who wished to ceasethinking of the poverty in which the spinsters lived. 

'Emily, I think; she doesn't say much, but she is more sensible than theother two. Gladys wearies me with her absurd affectations; Zoe is wellenough, but what names!'

'Yes, Emily has certainly the best of the names, ' Alice replied, laughing. 

'Are the Miss Brennans at home?' said Cecilia, when the maid opened thehall-door. 

'Yes, miss--I mean your ladyship--will you walk in?'

'You'll see, they'll keep us waiting a good half-hour while they put ontheir best frocks, ' said Cecilia, as she sat down in a faded arm-chairin the middle of the room. A piano was rolled close against the wall, the two rosewood cabinets were symmetrically placed on either side ofthe farther window; from brass rods the thick, green curtains hung instiff folds, and, since the hanging of some water-colours, done by Zoebefore leaving school, no alterations, except the removal of the linencovers from the furniture when visitors were expected, had been made inthe arrangement of the room. 

The Brennan family consisted of three girls--Gladys, Zoe, and Emily. Thirty-three, thirty-one, and thirty were their respective ages. Theirfather and mother, dead some ten or a dozen years, had left them jointproprietors of a small property that gossip had magnified to threethousand. They were known as the heiresses of Kinvarra; snub noses andblue eyes betrayed their Celtic blood; and every year they went to spenda month at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, returning home with quite alittle trousseau. Gladys and Zoe always dressed alike, from the bowround the neck to the bow on the little shoe that they so artlessly withdrew when in the presence of _gentlemen_. Gladys' formula for receivingvisitors never varied:

'Oh, how do you do--it is really too kind of you to give yourself allthis trouble to come and see us. '

Immediately after Zoe put out her hand. Her manner was more jocose:

'How d'ye do? We are, I am sure, delighted to see you. Will you have acup of tea? I know you will. '

Emily, being considered too shy and silent, did not often come down toreceive company. On her devolved the entire management of the house andservants; the two elder sisters killed time in the way they thoughtwould give least offence to their neighbours. 

Being all St. Leonard's girls, the conversation immediately turned onconvent-life. 'Was Madam this there? Had Madam that left?' Gardenchapel, school, hall, dormitory, refectory were visited; every nun waspassed in review, and, in the lightness and gaiety of the memoriesinvoked, even these maiden ladies flushed and looked fresh again, theconversation came to a pause, and then allusion was made to thedisturbed state of the country, and to a gentleman who, it was reported, was going to be married. But, as Alice did not know the person whoseantecedents were being called into question, she took an earlyopportunity of asking Gladys if she cared for riding? 'No, they neverwent to ride now: they used to, but they came in so fatigued that theycould not talk to Emily; so they had given up riding. ' Did they care fordriving? 'Yes, pretty well; but there was no place to drive to exceptinto Gort, and as people had been unjust enough to say that they werealways to be seen in Gort, they had given up driving--unless, of course, they went to call on friends. ' Then tea was brought in; and, apropos ofa casual reference to conventual buttered toast, the five girls talked, until nearly six o'clock, of their girlhood--of things that would neverhave any further influence in their lives, of happiness they would neverexperience again. At last Alice and Cecilia pleaded that they must begoing home. 

As they walked across the fields the girls only spoke occasionally. Alice strove to see clear, but her thoughts were clouded, scattered, diffused. Force herself as she would, still no conclusion seemedpossible; all was vague and contradictory. She had talked to theseBrennans, seen how they lived, could guess what their past was, whattheir future must be. In that neat little house their uneventful lifedribbled away in maiden idleness; neither hope nor despair broke thetriviality of their days--and yet, was it their fault? No; for whatcould they do if no one would marry them?--a woman could do nothingwithout a husband. 

There is a reason for the existence of a pack-horse, but none for thatof an unmarried woman. She can achieve nothing--she has no duty but, byblotting herself out, to shield herself from the attacks ofever-slandering friends. Alice had looked forward to a husband and ahome as the certain accomplishment of years; now she saw that a woman, independently of her own will, may remain single. 

'I wonder, ' she said, forgetting for the moment she was speaking toCecilia, 'I wonder none of those Brennans married; you can't call themugly girls, and they have some money. How dreadfully lonely they must beliving there by themselves!'

'I think they are far happier as they are, ' said Cecilia, and her browneyes set in liquid blue looked strangely at Alice as she helped her overthe low wall. The girls walked in silence through the stillness of thesilver firs, their thoughts as sharp as the needles that scratched thepale sky. 

'It may seem odd of me to say so--of course I would not say this toanyone but you--but I assure you, even if I were as tall as you are, dear, nothing would induce me to marry. I never took the slightestpleasure in any man's conversation. Do you? But I know you do, ' shesaid, breaking off suddenly--'I know you like men; I feel you do. Don'tyou?'

'Well, since you put it so plainly, I confess I should like to know nicemen. I don't care for those I have met hitherto, particularly those Isaw at dinner the other night; but I believe there are nice men in theworld. '

'Oh! no there aren't. '

'Well, Cecilia, I don't see how you can speak so positively as that; youhave seen, as yet, very little of the world. '

'Ah, yes, but I know it; I can guess it all, I know it instinctively, and I hate it. '

'There is nothing else, so we must make the best of it. '

'But there is something else--there is God, and the love of beautifulthings. I spent all day yesterday playing Bach's Passion Music, and thehours passed like a dream until my sisters came in from walking andbegan to talk about marriage and men. It made me feel sick--it washorrible; and it is such things that make me hate life--and I do hateit; it is the way we are brought back to earth, and forced to realizehow vile and degraded we are. Society seems to me no better than apigsty; but in the beautiful convent--that we shall, alas! never seeagain--it was not so. There, at least, life was pure--yes, andbeautiful. Do you not remember that beautiful white church with all itswhite pillars and statues, and the dark-robed nuns, and the white-veiledgirls, their veils falling from their bent heads? They often seemed tome like angels. I am sure that Heaven must be very much like that--pure, desireless, contemplative. '

Amazed, Alice looked at her friend questioningly, for she had neverheard her speak like this before. But Cecilia did not see her; theprominent eyes of the mystic were veiled with strange glamour, and, withdivine _gourmandise_, she savoured the ineffable sweetness of thevision, and, after a long silence, she said:

'I often wonder, Alice, how you can think as you do; and, strange tosay, no one suspects you are an unbeliever; you're so good in all exceptthat one point. '

'But surely, dear, it isn't a merit to believe; it is hardly a thingthat we can call into existence. '

'You should pray for faith. '

'I don't see how I can pray if I haven't faith. '

'You're too clever; but I would ask you, Alice--you never told me--didyou never believe in God, I mean when you were a little child?'

'I suppose I must have, but, as well as I can remember, it was only in avery half-hearted way. I could never quite bring myself to credit thatthere was a Being far away, sitting behind a cloud, who kept his eye onall the different worlds, and looked after them just as a stationmasterlooks after the arrival and departure of trains from some greatterminus. '

'Alice! how can you talk so? Aren't you afraid that something awfulmight happen to you for talking of the Creator of all things in thatway?'

'Why should I be afraid, and why should that Being, if he exists, beangry with me for my sincerity? If he be all-powerful, it rests withhimself to make me believe. '

They had now accomplished the greater part of their journey, and, alittle tired, had sat down to rest on a portion of a tree left by thewoodcutters. Gold rays slanted through the glades, enveloping androunding off the tall smooth trunks that rose branchless to a height ofthirty, even forty, feet; and the pink clouds, seen through the archingdome of green, were vague as the picture on some dim cathedral-roof. 

'In places like these, I wonder you don't feel God's presence. '

'On the contrary, the charm of nature is broken when we introduce aruling official. '

'Alice! how can you--you who are so good--speak in that way?' At thatmoment a dead leaf rustled through the silence--'And do you think thatwe shall die like that leaf? That, like it, we shall become a part ofthe earth and be forgotten as utterly?'

'I am afraid I do. That dead, fluttering thing was once a bud; it livedthe summer-life of a leaf; now it will decay through the winter, andperhaps the next, until it finally becomes part of the earth. Everythingin nature I see pursuing the same course; why should I imagine myself anexception to the general rule?'

'What, then, is the meaning of life?'

'That I'm afraid we shall never learn from listening to the rustling ofleaves. '

The short sharp cry of a bird broke the mild calm of the woods, andAlice said:

'Perhaps the same thought that troubles us is troubling that bird. '

The girls walked on in silence, and when they came to the end of thepath and their parting was inevitable, there was something of thepassion of the lover in Cecilia's voice: 'Promise me you will come tosee me soon again. You'll not leave me so long; you will write; I shallnot be able to live if I don't hear from you. '

The sound of hooves was heard, and a pair of cream-coloured ponies, witha florid woman driving determinedly, came sweeping round the corner. 

'What a strange person!' said Alice, watching the blue veil and thebrightly dyed hair. 

'Don't you know who she is?' said Cecilia; 'that is your neighbour, Mrs. Lawler. '

'Oh! is it really? I have been so long at school that I know nobody--Ihave been anxious to see her. Why, I wonder, do people speak of her somysteriously?'

'You must have heard that she isn't visited?'

'Well, yes; but I didn't quite understand. Your father was sayingsomething the other day about Mr. Lawler's shooting-parties; then mammalooked at him; he laughed and spoke of "_les colombes de Cythère. "_ Iintended to ask mamma what he meant, but somehow I forgot. '

'She was one of those women that walk about the streets by night. '

'Oh! really!' said Alice; and the conversation came to a sudden pause. They had never spoken upon such a subject before, and the presence ofthe deformed girl rendered it a doubly painful one. In herembarrassment, Alice said:

'Then I wonder Mr. Lawler married her. Was it his fault that--'

'Oh! I don't think so, ' Cecilia replied, scornfully: 'but what does itmatter?--she was quite good enough for him. '

At every moment a new Cecilia was revealing herself, the existence ofwhom Alice had not even suspected in the old; and as she hurried homeshe wondered if the minds of the other girls were the same as they wereat school. Olive? She could see but little change in her sister; and Mayshe had scarcely spoken to since they left school; Violet she hadn't metsince they parted at Athenry for their different homes. But Cecilia--Sheentered the house still thinking of her, and heard Olive telling hermother that Captain Hibbert had admired her new hat. 

'He told me that I'd be the handsomest girl at the Drawing-Room. '

'And what did you say, dear?'

'I asked him how he knew. Was that right?'

'Quite right; and what did he say then?'

'He said, because he had never seen anybody so handsome, and as he hadseen everybody in London, he supposed--I forget the exact words, butthey were very nice; I am sure he admired my new hat; but you--youhaven't told me how you liked it. Do you think I should wear it down onmy eyes, or a bit back?'

'I think it very becoming as it is; but tell me more about CaptainHibbert. '

'He told me he was coming to meet us at Mass. You know he is a RomanCatholic?'

'I know he is, dear, and am very glad. '

'If he weren't, he wouldn't be able to meet us at Mass. '

VIII

According to old-established custom, on the arrival of his family Arthurhad turned his nudities to the wall, and now sitting, one leg tuckedunder him, on the sofa, throwing back from time to time his long blondlocks, he hummed an Italian air. 

'How tired you look, Alice dear! Will you have a cup of tea? It willfreshen you up; you have been walking yourself to death. '

'Thanks, mamma, I will have a cup of tea; Cecilia and I went to see theBrennans. '

'And are any of them going to be married yet?' said Olive. 

'I really don't know; I didn't ask them. '

'Well, they ought to be doing something with themselves; they have beentrying it on long enough. They have been going up to the Shelbourne forthe last ten years. Did they show you the dresses they brought down thisseason? They haven't worn them yet--they keep them wrapped up in silverpaper. '

'And how did you hear all that?' she asked. 

'Oh, one hears everything! I don't live with my nose buried in a booklike you. That was all very well in the convent. '

'But what have I done that you should speak to me in that way?'

'Now, Alice dear, ' said Mrs. Barton coaxingly, 'don't get angry. Iassure you Olive means nothing. '

'No, indeed, I didn't!' Olive exclaimed, and she forced her sister backinto the chair. 

Arthur's attention had been too deeply absorbed in the serenade in _DonPasquale_ to give heed to the feminine bickering with which his studiowas ringing, until he was startled suddenly from his musical dreaming byan angry exclamation from his wife. 

The picture of the bathers, which Alice had seen begun, had been onlypartially turned to the wall, and, after examining it for a few moments, Mrs. Barton got up and turned the picture round. The two naked creatureswho were taking a dip in the quiet, sunlit pool were Olive and Mrs. Barton; and so grotesque were the likenesses that Alice could notrefrain from laughing. 

'This is monstrous! This is disgraceful, sir! How often have I forbiddenyou to paint my face on any of your shameless pictures? And yourdaughter, too--and just as she is coming out! Do you want to ruin us? Ishould like to know what anyone would think if--' And, unable tocomplete her sentence, either mentally or aloud, Mrs. Barton wheeled theeasel, on which a large picture stood, into the full light of thewindow. 

If Arthur had wounded the susceptibilities of his family before, he hadoutraged them now. The great woman, who had gathered to her bosom one ofthe doves her naked son, Cupid, had shot out of the trees with his bowand arrow, was Olive. The white face and its high nose, beautiful as ahead by Canova is beautiful; the corn-like tresses, piled on the top ofthe absurdly small head, were, beyond mistaking, Olive. Mrs. Bartonstammered for words; Olive burst into tears. 

'Oh, papa! how could you disgrace me in that way? Oh, I am disgraced!There's no use in my going to the Drawing-Room now. '

'My dear, my dear, I assure you I can change it with a flick of thebrush. Admiration carried away by idea. I promise you I'll change it. '

'Come away. Olive--come away!' said Mrs. Barton, casting a look ofburning indignation at her husband. 'If you cry like that, Olive, youwon't be fit to be looked at, and Captain Hibbert is coming hereto-night. '

When they had left the room Arthur looked inquiringly at Alice. 

'This is very disagreeable, ' he said; 'I really didn't think thelikeness was so marked as all that; I assure you I didn't. I must dosomething to alter it--I might change the colour of the hair; but no, Ican't do that, the entire scheme of colour depends upon that. It is agreat pity, for it is one of my best things; the features I might alter, and yet it is very hard to do so, without losing the character. I wonderif I were to make the nose straighter. Alice, dear, would you mindturning your head this way?'

'Oh! no, no, no, papa dear! You aren't going to put my face upon it!'And she ran from the room smothered with laughter. 

When this little quarrel was over and done, and Olive had ceased toconsider herself a disgraced girl, the allusion that had been made toMass as a means of meeting Captain Hibbert remained like a sting inAlice's memory. It surprised her at all sorts of odd moments, and oftenforced her, under many different impulses of mind, to reconsider thereligious problem more passionately and intensely than she had ever donebefore. She asked herself if she had ever believed? Perhaps in veryearly youth, in a sort of vague, half-hearted way, she had taken forgranted the usual traditional ideas of heaven and hell, but even then, she remembered, she used to wonder how it was that time was found foreverything else but God. If He existed, it seemed to her that monks andnuns, or puritans of the sternest type, were alone in the right. And yetshe couldn't quite feel that they were right. She had always beenintensely conscious of the grotesque contrast between a creed like thatof the Christian, and having dancing and French lessons, and going togarden-parties--yes, and making wreaths and decorations for churches atChristmas-time. If one only believed, and had but a shilling, surely theonly logical way of spending it was to give it to the poor, or amissionary--and yet nobody seemed to think so. Priests and bishops didnot do so, she herself did not want to do so; still, so long as Alicebelieved, she was unable to get rid of the idea. Teachers might say whatthey pleased, but the creed they taught spoke for itself, and prescribedan impossible ideal--an unsatisfactory ideal which aspired to no morethan saving oneself after all. 

Lies and all kinds of subterfuge were strictly against her character. But it was impossible for her to do or say anything when by so doing sheknew she might cause suffering or give pain to anyone, even an enemy;and this defect in her character forced her to live up to what shedeemed a lie. She had longed to tell the truth and thereby be saved themummery of attending at Mass; but when she realized the consternation, the agony of mind, it would cause the nuns she loved, she held back theword. But since she had left the convent she had begun to feel that herlife must correspond to her ideas and she had determined to speak to hermother on this (for her) all-important subject--the conformity of herouter life to her inner life. The power to prevail upon herself to dowhat she thought wrong merely because she did not wish to wound otherpeople's feelings was dying in her. Sooner or later she would have tobreak away; and as the hour approached when they should go to Mass tomeet Captain Hibbert, the desire to be allowed to stay away becamealmost irresistible; and at the last moment it was only a foolish fearthat such a declaration might interfere with her sister's prospects thatstayed the words as they rose to her lips. She picked up her gloves, anda moment after found herself in the brougham--packed into it, watchingthe expressionless church-going faces of her family. 

From afar the clanging of a high-swinging bell was heard, and the harshreverberations, travelling over the rocky town-lands, summoned thecottagers to God. The peasants stepped aside to let the carriage pass. Peasants and landlords were going to worship in the same chapel, but itwould seem from the proclamations pasted on the gate-posts that thehouse of prayer had gone over into the possession of the tenantry. 

'Now, Arthur--do you hear?--you mustn't look at those horrid papers!'Mrs. Barton whispered to her husband. 'We must pretend not to see them. I wonder how Father Shannon can allow such a thing, making the house ofGod into--into I don't know what, for the purpose of preaching robberyand murder. Just look at the country-people--how sour and wicked theylook! Don't they, Alice?'

'Goodness me!' said Olive, 'who in the world can those people be in ourpew?'

Mrs. Barton trembled a little. Had the peasants seized the religiouspossessions of their oppressors? Dismissing the suspicion, she examinedthe backs indicated by Olive. 

'Why, my dear, it is the Goulds; what can have brought them all thisway?'

The expected boredom of the service was forgotten, and Olive shook handswarmly with Mrs. Gould and May. 

'Why, you must have driven fifteen miles; where are your horses?'

'We took the liberty of sending the carriage on to Brookfield, and weare coming on to lunch with you--that is to say, if you will let us?'cried May. 

'Of course, of course; but how nice of you!'

'Oh! we have such news; but it was courageous of us to come all thisway. Have you seen those terrible proclamations?'

'Indeed we have. Just fancy a priest allowing his chapel to be turnedinto a political--political what shall I call it?'

'Bear-garden, ' suggested May. 

'And Father Shannon is going to take the chair at the meeting; hewouldn't get his dues if he didn't. '

'Hush, hush! they may hear you; but you were saying something aboutnews. '

'Oh! don't ask me, ' said Mrs. Gould; 'that's May's affair--such work!'

'Say quickly! what is it, May?'

'Look here, girls, I can't explain everything now; but we are going togive a ball--that is to say, all the young girls are going to subscribe. It will only cost us about three pounds apiece--that is to say, if wecan get forty subscribers; we have got twenty already, and we hope youwill join us. It is going to be called the Spinsters' Ball. But there issuch a lot to be done: the supper to be got together, the decorations ofthe room--splendid room, the old schoolhouse, you know. We are going toask you to let us take Alice away with us. '

The conversation was here interrupted by the appearance of the priest, alarge fat man, whose new, thick-soled boots creaked as he ascended thesteps of the altar. He was preceded by two boys dressed in white andblack surplices, who rang little brass bells furiously; a greattrampling of feet was heard, and the peasants came into the church, coughing and grunting with monotonous, animal-like voices; and thesour odour of cabin-smoked frieze arose--it was almost visible in thegreat beams of light that poured through the eastern windows; whiffsof unclean leather, mingled with a smell of a sick child; and Oliveand May, exchanging looks of disgust, drew forth cambricpocket-handkerchiefs, and in unison the perfumes of white rose and eaud'opoponax evaporated softly. 

Just behind Alice a man groaned and cleared his throat with loudguffaws; she listened to hear the saliva fall: it splashed on theearthen floor. Farther away a circle of dried and yellowing facesbespoke centuries of damp cabins; they moaned and sighed, a prey to thegross superstition of the moment. One man, bent double, beat a raggedshirt with a clenched fist; the women of forty, with cloaks drawn overtheir foreheads and trailing on the ground in long black folds, croucheduntil only the lean, hard-worked hands that held the rosary were seenover the bench-rail. 

The sermon came in the middle of Mass, and was a violent denunciation ofthe Ladies Cullen, who, it was stated, had pursued one poor boy until hetook refuge in an empty house, the door of which he was fortunatelyenabled to fasten against them; they had sent a sick woman blankets, inwhich they had not neglected to enclose some tracts; amateurshopkeeping, winter clothing, wood, turf, presents of meal, wine, andpotatoes were all vigorously attacked as the wiles of the Evil One tolead the faithful from the true Church. 

IX

As they returned from church, a horseman was seen riding rapidly towardsthem. It was Captain Hibbert. The movement of his shoulders, as hereined in his mettlesome bay, was picturesque, and he was coaxingly andgushingly upbraided for neglect of his religious duties. 

During lunch, curiosity rendered May and Mrs. Gould nearly speechless;but their carriage had not turned into the highroad, on its way home, when the latter melted into a shower of laudatory words and phrases:

'What a charming man Captain Hibbert is! No wonder you young ladies likethe military. He is so good-looking--and such good manners. Don't youthink so, Alice dear?'

'I think the Captain a very handsome man--indeed, I believe that thereare not two opinions on the subject. '

'And Olive--I do not remember that I ever saw a more beautiful girl. Such hair! and her figure so sylph-like! I do not know what the youngladies will do--she will cut everybody out at the Castle!'

'I don't know about that, ' said May jauntily; 'what one man will turnhis nose up at, another will go wild after. '

Mrs. Gould did not answer; but her lips twitched, and Alice guessed shewas annoyed that May could not express herself less emphatically. In afew moments the conversation was continued:

'At any rate, Captain Hibbert seems to think there is no one like Olive;and they'd make a handsome couple. What do you think, Alice? Is thereany chance of there being a match?'

'I really can't tell you, Mrs. Gould. Olive, as you say, is a verybeautiful girl, and I suppose Captain Hibbert admires her; but I don'tthink that either has, up to the present, thought of the matter moreseriously. '

'You must admit, Alice, that he seems a bit gone on her, ' said May, witha direct determination to annoy her mother. 

'May, dear, you shouldn't talk in that slangy way; you never used to;you have picked it up from Mr. Scully. Do you know Mr. Scully, Alice?Violet's brother. '

'Yes, I met him the night we dined at Lord Dungory's. '

'Oh, of course you did. Well, I admit I don't like him; but May does. They go out training horses together. I don't mind that; but I wish shewouldn't imitate his way of talking. He has been a very wild young man. '

'Now, mother dear, I wish you would leave off abusing Fred. I haverepeatedly told you that I don't like it. '

The acerbity of this remark was softened by May's manner, and, throwingher arms on her mother's shoulders, she commenced to coax and cajoleher. 

The Goulds were of an excellent county family. They had for certainlythree generations lived in comfortable idleness, watching from their bigsquare house the different collections of hamlets toiling and moiling, and paying their rents every gale day. It was said that some ancestor, whose portrait still existed, had gone to India and come back with themoney that had purchased the greater part of the property. But, be thisas it may, in Galway three generations of landlordism are consideredsufficient repentance for shopkeeping in Gort, not to speak of Calcutta. Since then the family history had been stainless. Father and son had inturn put their horses out to grass in April, had begun to train themagain in August, had boasted at the Dublin horse-show of having been outcub-hunting, had ridden and drunk hard from the age of twenty toseventy. But, by dying at fifty-five, the late squire had deviatedslightly from the regular line, and the son and heir being only twelve, a pause had come in the hereditary life of the Goulds. In the interim, however, May had apparently resolved to keep up the traditions so far asher sex was supposed to allow her. 

They lived in one of those box-like mansions, so many of which werebuilt in Ireland under the Georges. On either side trees had beenplanted, and they stretched to the right and left like the wings of atheatre. In front there was a green lawn; at the back a sloppystableyard. The latter was May's especial delight, and when Mr. Scullywas with them, it seemed impossible to induce her to leave it. Hefrequently rode over to Beechgrove, and towards the end of the afternoonit became easy to persuade him to stay to dinner. And, as the nightdarkened and the rain began to fall, the inhospitality of turning himout was insisted on by May, and Mrs. Gould sent up word that a room wasto be prepared for him. Next morning he sent home for a change ofthings, and thus it was not infrequent for him to protract his visit tothe extent of three or four days. 

His great friend, Mrs. Manly--a lady who had jumped five feet, fourmonths before the birth of her sixth child--had said that his was a'wasted life, ' and the phrase, summing up what most people thought ofhim, gained currency, and was now generally used whenever his conductwas criticized or impeached. After having been in London, where he spentsome years in certain vague employments, and having contracted as muchdebt as his creditors would permit, and more than his father would pay, he had gone through the Bankruptcy Court, and returned home to dragthrough life wearily, through days and weeks so appallingly idle, thathe often feared to get out of bed in the morning. At first his fatherhad tried to make use of him in his agency business, and it wasprincipally owing to Mr. Fred's bullying and insolent manners that Mr. Scully was now unable to leave his house unless accompanied by police. 

Fred was about thirty years of age. His legs were long, his hands werebony, and 'stableyard' was written in capital letters on his face. Hecarried a _Sportsman_ under his arm, a penny and a half-crown jingled inhis pocket; and as he walked he lashed the trousers and boot, whoseelegance was an echo of the old Regent Street days, with an ash-plant. 

Such was the physiology of this being, and from it the psychology iseasy to surmise: a complete powerlessness to understand that there wasanything in life worth seeking except pleasure--and pleasure to Fredmeant horses and women. Of earthly honour the greatest was to be wellknown in an English hunting country; and he was not averse to speakingof certain ladies of title, with whom he had been on intimate terms, andwith whom, it was said, he corresponded. On occasions he would read orrecite poems, cut from the pages of the Society Journals, to his ladyfriends. 

May, however, saw nothing but the outside. The already peeling-offvarnish of a few years of London life satisfied her. Given a certainversatility in turning a complimentary phrase, the abundant ease withwhich he explained his tastes, which, although few, were pronounced, addto these the remnant of fashion that still lingered in hiswardrobe--scarfs from the Burlington Arcade, scent from Bond Street, cracked patent-leather shoes and mended silk stockings--and it will beunderstood how May built something that did duty for an ideal out ofthis broken-down swell. 

She was a girl of violent blood, and, excited by the air of thehunting-field, she followed Fred's lead fearlessly; to feel the life ofthe horse throbbing underneath her passioned and fevered her flesh untilher mental exaltation reached the rushing of delirium. Then his eveningmanners fascinated her, and, as he leaned back smoking in thedining-room arm-chair, his patent-leather shoes propped up against themantelpiece, he showed her glimpses of a wider world than she knewof--and the girl's eyes softened as she listened to his accounts of thegreat life he had led, the county-houses he had visited, and thelegendary runs he had held his own in. She sympathized with him when heexplained how hardly fate had dealt with him in not giving him £5, 000 ayear, to be spent in London and Northamptonshire. 

He cursed Ireland as the most hideous hole under the sun; he frightenedMrs. Gould by reiterated assurances that the Land League would leavethem all beggars; and, having established this point, he proceeded todevelop his plan for buying young horses, training them, and disposingof them in the English market. Eventually he dismissed his audience bytaking up the newspaper and falling asleep with the stump of aburned-out cigarette between his lips. After breakfast he was seenslouching through the laurels on his way to the stables. From thekitchen and the larder--where the girls were immersed in calculationsanent the number of hams, tongues, and sirloins of beef that would berequired--he could be seen passing; and as May stood on no ceremony withAlice, whistling to her dogs, and sticking both hands into the pocketsof her blue dress, she rushed after him, the mud of the yard oozingthrough the loose, broken boots which she insisted on wearing. Behindthe stables there was a small field that had lately been converted intoan exercise-ground, and there the two would stand for hours, watching acouple of goat-like colts, mounted by country lads--still in corduroyand hobnails--walking round and round. 

Mrs. Gould was clearly troubled by this very plain conduct. Once ortwice she allowed a word of regret to escape her, and Alice could seethat she lived in awe of her daughter. And May, there was no doubt, wasa little lawless when Fred was about her skirts; but when he was goneshe returned to her old, glad, affectionate ways and to her work. 

The girls delighted in each other's society, and the arrangements fortheir ball were henceforth a continual occupation. The number of lettersthat had to be written was endless. Sitting at either end of the tablein the drawing-room, their pens scratched and their tongues rattledtogether; and, penetrated with the intimacy of home, all kinds ofstories were told, and the whole country was passed in review. 

'And do you know, ' said May, raising her eyes from the letter she waswriting, 'when this affair was first started mamma was afraid to go infor it; she said we'd find it hard to hunt up fifty spinsters inGalway. '

'I said fifty who would subscribe--a very different thing indeed. '

'Oh no, you didn't, mamma; you said there weren't fifty spinsters inGalway--a jolly lucky thing it would be if there weren't; wouldn't it, Alice?'

Alice was busy trying to disentangle a difficult sentence. Her startledface made May laugh. 

'It isn't cheering, is it?'

'I didn't hear what you were saying, ' she answered, a little vexed atbeing misunderstood. 'But fifty, surely, is a great number. Are there somany unmarried women in Galway?'

'I should think there are, ' replied May, as if glorying in the fact. 'Who are there down your side of the country? Let's count. To beginwith, there are the Brennans--there are three of them, and all three areout of the running, distanced. '

'Now, May, how can you talk like that?' said Mrs. Gould, and she pulledup her skirt so that she could roast her fat thick legs more comfortablybefore the fire. There being no man present, she undid a button or twoof her dress. 

'You said so yourself the other day, mother. '

'No, I didn't, May, and I wish you wouldn't vex me. What I say I standby, and I merely wondered why girls with good fortunes like the Brennansdidn't get married. '

'You said the fact was there was no one to marry. '

'May, I will not allow you to contradict me!' exclaimed Mrs. Gould; andshe grew purple to the roots of her white hair. 'I said the Brennanslooked too high, that they wanted gentlemen, eldest sons of countyfamilies; but if they'd been content to marry in their own position oflife they would have been married long ago. '

'Well, mother dear, there's no use being angry about it; let the thingpass. You know the Brennans, Alice; they are neighbours of yours. '

'Yes, Cecilia and I walked over to see them the other day; we had teawith them. '

'Their great hunting-ground is the Shelbourne Hotel--they take it inturns, a couple of them go up every six months. '

'How can you say such things, May? I will not suffer it. '

'I say it! I know nothing about it. I've only just come back from school;it is you who tell me these things when we are sitting here alone of anevening. '

Mrs. Gould's face again became purple, and she protested vehemently: 'Ishall leave the room, May. I will not suffer it one moment longer. Ican't think how it is you dare speak to me in that way; and, what isworse, attribute to me such ill-natured remarks. '

'Now, mother dear, don't bother, perhaps I did exaggerate. I am verysorry. But, there's a dear, sit down, and we won't say any more aboutit. '

'You do annoy one, May, and I believe you do it on purpose. And you knowexactly what will be disagreeable to say, and you say it, ' replied Mrs. Gould; and she raised her skirt so as to let the heat of the fire intoher petticoats. 

'Thank God that's over, ' May whispered to Alice; 'but what were wetalking about?'

'I think you were making out a list of the Galway spinsters, ' saidAlice, who could not help feeling a little amused, though she was sorryfor Mrs. Gould. 

'So we were, ' cried May; 'we were speaking of the Brennans. Do you knowtheir friends the Duffys? There are five of them. That's a nice littlecovey of love-birds; I don't think they would fly away if they saw asportsman coming into the field. '

'I never heard a girl talk like that, ' murmured Mrs. Gould, withoutraising her face from the fire, 'that wasn't punished for it. Perhaps, my lady, you will find it hard enough to suit yourself. Wait until youhave done two or three Castle seasons. We'll see how you'll speak then. '

Without paying any attention to these maternal forebodings, Maycontinued:

'Then there are Lord Rosshill's seven daughters; they are all maidens, and are likely to remain so. '

'Are they all unmarried?' asked Alice. 

'Of course they are!' exclaimed Mrs. Gould; 'how could they be anythingelse? Didn't they all want to marry people in their father's position?And that wasn't possible. There're seven Honourable Miss Gores, and oneLord Rosshill--so they all remained in single blessedness. '

'Who's making ill-natured remarks now?' exclaimed May triumphantly. 

'I am not making ill-natured remarks; I am only saying what's true. Myadvice to young girls is that they should be glad to have those who willtake them. If they can't make a good marriage let them make a badmarriage; for, believe me, it is far better to be minding your ownchildren than your sister's or your brother's children. And I can assureyou, in these days of competition, it is no easy matter to get settled. '

'It is the same now as ever it was, and there are plenty of nice youngmen. It doesn't prove, because a whole lot of old sticks of things can'tget married, that I shan't. '

'I didn't say you wouldn't get married, May; I am sure that any manwould be only too glad to have you; but what I say is that these grandmatches that girls dream of aren't possible nowadays. Nice young men! Idare say; and plenty of them, I know them; young scamps without ashilling, who amuse themselves with a girl until they are tired of her, and then, off they go. Now, then, let's count up the good matches thatare going in the county--'

At this moment the servant was heard at the door bringing in the tea. 

'Oh! bother!' exclaimed Mrs. Gould, settling her dress hurriedly. Theinterval was full of secret irritation; and the three women watched themethodical butler place the urn on the table, turn up the lamp that wasburning low, and bring chairs forward from the farthest corners. 

'On your side of the county, ' said Mrs. Gould, as soon as the door wasclosed, 'there is our brace of baronets, as they are called. But poorSir Richard--I am afraid he is a bad case--and yet he never took todrink until he was five-and-thirty; and as for Sir Charles--of coursethere are great advantages, he has a very fine property; but still manygirls might--and I can quite understand their not liking to marry him. '

'Why, Mrs. Gould, what is wrong with him?' Alice asked innocently. 

'Don't you know?' said May, winking. 'Haven't you heard? But I forgot, he isn't your side of the county. He's married already; at least, sothey say. '

'It is very sad, very sad, indeed, ' murmured Mrs. Gould; 'he'd have beena great match. '

'And to whom is he married?' said Alice, whose curiosity was awakened bythe air of mystery with which the baronet was surrounded. 

'Well, he's not exactly married, ' replied May, laughing; 'but he has alarge family. '

'May, I will not allow it; it is very wrong of you, indeed, to talk likethat--'

'Now, mother dear, don't get into a passion; where's the harm? The wholecountry knows it; Violet was talking of it to me only the other day. There isn't a man within a mile of us, so we needn't be on our P's andQ's. '

'And who is the mother of all these children?' Alice asked. 

'A country-woman with whom he lives, ' said May. 'Just fancy marrying aman with a little dirty crowd of illegitimate children running about thestable-yard!'

'The usual thing in such cases is to emigrate them, ' said Mrs. Gouldphilosophically; and she again distended herself before the fire. 

'Emigrate them!' cried May; 'if he emigrated them to the moon, Iwouldn't marry such a man; would you, Alice?'

'I certainly wouldn't like to, ' and her sense of humour being nowtickled by the conversation, she added slyly: 'but you were counting upthe good matches in the county. '

'Ah! so we were, ' said the old lady. 'Well, there is Mr. Adair. I amsure no girl would wish for a better husband. '

'Oh, the old frump! why he must be forty if he's a day. You remember, Alice, it was he who took me down to dinner at Lord Dungory's. And hetalked all the time of his pamphlet on the Amalgamation of the Unions, which was then in the hands of the printer; and the other in which hehad pulled Mr. Parnell's ears, _Ireland under the Land League_, and theseries of letters he was thinking of contributing to the _Irish Times_on high-farming _versus_ peasant proprietors. Just fancy, Alice, livingwith such a man as that!'

'Well, I don't know what you girls think, ' said Mrs. Gould, whoseopinions were moods of mind rather than convictions, 'but I assure youhe passes for being the cleverest man in the county; and it is said thatGladstone is only waiting to give him a chance. But as you like; hewon't do, so let him pass. Then there is Mr. Ryan, he ought to be welloff; he farms thousands of acres. '

'One might as well marry a herdsman at once. Did you ever hear what heonce said to a lady at a ball; you know, about the docket?'

Alice said that she had heard the story, and the conversation turned onMr. Lynch. Mrs. Gould admitted that he was the worser of the two. 

'He smells so dreadfully of whiskey, ' said Alice timidly. 

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

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

'And where do the ladies come from, May?' asked Alice, for she nowlooked on the girl as an inexhaustible fund of information. 

'Plenty of ladies in the village, ' replied Mrs. Gould, rubbing her shinscomplacently; 'that's what I used to hear of in my day, and I believethe custom isn't even yet quite extinct. '

'And are there no other beaux in the county? Does that exhaust thelist?'

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

'Has the present Marquis no children?' said Alice. 

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

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

'Now don't vex me, May; for I won't stand it, ' said Mrs. Gould, gettingangry. 'When you ask me for a new dress you don't think of what you aresaying now. It was only the other day you were speaking to me ofrefurnishing this room. I should like to know how that's to be done ifthere was no one to look after Mickey Moran's rent?'

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

'I think that something ought to be done, ' said May. 'Just look at theselimp curtains! Did you ever see anything so dreary? Are they brown, orred, or chocolate?'

'They satisfied your betters, ' said Mrs. Gould, as she lighted herbedroom candle. 'Goodness me!' she added, glancing at the gilt clockthat stood on the high, stucco, white-painted chimney-piece, amid aprofusion of jingling glass candelabra, 'it is really half-past twelveo'clock!'

'Gracious me! there's another evening wasted; we must really try and bemore industrious. It is too late to do anything further to-night, ' saidMay. 'Come on, Alice, it is time to go to bed. '

X

During the whole of the next week, until the very night of the ball, thegirls hadn't a moment they could call their own. It was impossible tosay how time went. There were so many things to think of--to remind eachother of. Nobody knew what they had done last, or what they should donext. The principle on which the ball had been arranged was this: theforty-five spinsters who had agreed to bear the expense, which it wasguaranteed would not exceed £3 10s. Apiece, were supplied each with fivetickets to be distributed among their friends. To save money, the supperhad been provided by the Goulds and Manlys, and day after day the richsmells of roast beef and the salt vapours of boiling hams trailed alongthe passages, and ascended through the banisters of the staircases inBeech Grove and Manly Park. Fifty chickens had been killed; presents ofwoodcock and snipe were received from all sides; salmon had arrived fromGalway; cases of champagne from Dublin. As a wit said, 'Circe hasprepared a banquet and is calling us in. '

After much hesitation, a grammar-school, built by an enterprisinglandlord for an inappreciative population that had declined to supportit, was selected as the most suitable location for the festivities. Itlay about a mile from the town, and this was in itself an advantage. Tothe decoration of the rooms May and Fred diligently applied themselves. Away they went every morning, the carriage filled with yards of redcloth, branches of evergreen, oak and holly, flags and Chinese lanterns. You see them: Fred mounted on a high ladder, May and the maid strivingto hand him a long garland which is to be hung between the windows. Yousee them leaning over the counter of a hardware shop, explaining howoblong and semicircular pieces of tin are to be provided with places forcandles (the illumination of the room had remained an unsolved problemuntil ingenious Fred had hit upon this plan); you see them running upthe narrow staircases, losing themselves in the twisty passages, callingfor the housekeeper; you see them trying to decide which is thegentlemen's cloakroom, which the ladies', and wondering if they will beable to hire enough furniture in the town to arrange a sitting-room forthe chaperons. 

As May said, 'We shall have them hanging about our heels the wholeevening if we don't try to make them comfortable. '

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

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

'Oh! how nice you look!' exclaimed May; 'I don't think I ever saw anyonelook so pure. '

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

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

'I am sure, May, you look very nice indeed, and just as you would liketo look. '

To May's excitable mind it was not difficult to suggest a new train ofthought, and she immediately proceeded to explain why she had chosen herpresent dress. 

'I knew that you, and Olive, and Violet, and Lord knows how many otherswould be in white, and, as we shall all have to wear white at theDrawing-Room, I thought I'd appear in this. But isn't the whole thingdelightful? I am engaged already for several dances, and I have beenpractising the step all day with Fred. ' Then, singing to herself, shewaltzed in front of the glass at the immediate risk of falling into thebath:

 '"Five-and-forty spinsters baked in a pie! When the pie was opened the maids began to sing, Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the King!"

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

'They seem to me to be all right; but, May dear, you haven't got apetticoat on. '

'You can't wear petticoats with these tight dresses; one can't moveone's legs as it is. '

'But don't you think you'll feel cold--catch cold?'

'Not a bit of it; no danger of cold when you have shammy-leatherdrawers. '

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

'No, no, May; I will not; you must not. I will not listen to theseimproper conversations!'

'Now, don't get angry, there's a dear, nice girl; you're worse thanViolet, 'pon my word you are; but we must be off. It is a goodhalf-hour's drive, and we shall want to be there before nine. The peoplewill begin to come in about that time. '

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

'Now, mother, what do you think of the decorations? Do say a word ofpraise. '

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

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

'What taste Fred has!' said May, pointing to the huge arrangement thatcovered the end wall. 'And haven't my tin candelabra turned out asuccess? There will be no grease, and the room couldn't be betterlighted. '

'But look!' said Alice, 'look at all those poor people staring in at thewindow. Isn't it dreadful that they, in the dark and cold, should bewatching us dancing in our beautiful dresses, and in our warm brightroom?'

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

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

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

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

Then, in the gaping silence, the three ladies listened to the melancholyharper and the lachrymose fiddlers who, on the _estrade_ in the farcorner, sat tuning their instruments. At last the people began to comein. The first were a few stray blackcoats, then feminine voices wereheard in the passages, and necks and arms, green toilettes and whitesatin shoes, were seen passing and taking seats. Two Miss Duffys, thefattest of the four, were with their famous sister Bertha. Bertha wasrarely seen in Galway; she lived with an aunt in Dublin, where herterrible tongue was dreaded by the _débutantes_ at the Castle. In ayellow dress as loud and as hard as her voice, she stood explaining thatshe had come down expressly for the ball. Opposite, the Honourable MissGores made a group of five; and a few men who preferred consideration toamusement made their way towards them. The Brennans--Gladys and Zoe--assoon as they saw Alice, asked after Lord Dungory; and all the girls wereanxious to see Violet, who they feared would seem thin in a low dress. 

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

'How sweet you look, Violet, ' said Alice, with frank admiration in hereyes. 

'Thanks for saying so; 'tisn't often we girls pay each othercompliments. But you, you do look ever so nice in that white silk. Itbecomes you perfectly. ' And then, her thoughts straying suddenly fromAlice's dress, she said:

'Do you see Mr. Burke over there? If his brother died he would be amarquis. Do you know him?'

'Yes; I met him at dinner at Dungory Castle. '

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

'I am afraid you will find him stupid. '

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

Alice admitted she knew no one, and, lapsing into silence, the girlsscanned the ranks for possible partners. Poor Sir Richard, already verydrunk, his necktie twisted under his right ear, was vainly attempting tosay something to those whom he knew, or fancied he knew. Sir Charles, forgetful of the family at home, was flirting with a young girl whosemother was probably formulating the details of a new emigration scheme. Dirty Mr. Ryan, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggytrousers, whispered words of counsel to Mr. Lynch: a rumour had goneabroad that Captain Hibbert was going to hunt that season in Galway, andwould want a couple of horses. Mr. Adair was making grotesque attemptsto talk to a lady of dancing. On every side voices were heard speakingof the distances they had achieved: some had driven twenty, some thirtymiles. 

Already the first notes of the waltz had been shrieked out by thecornet, and Mr. Fred Scully, with May's red tresses on his shoulder, wasabout to start, when Mrs. Barton and Olive entered. Olive, in whitesilk, so tightly drawn back that every line of her supple thighs, andevery plumpness of her superb haunches was seen; and the double garlandof geraniums that encircled the tulle veiling seemed like flowers ofblood scattered on virgin snow. Her beauty imposed admiration; and, murmuring assent, the dancers involuntarily drew into lines, and thispale, uncoloured loveliness, her high nose seen, and her silly laughheard, by the side of her sharp, brown-eyed mother, passed down theroom. Lord Dungory and Lord Rosshill advanced to meet them; a momentafter Captain Hibbert and Mr. Burke came up to ask for dances; a waltzwas promised to each. A circling crowd of black-coats instantly absorbedthe triumphant picture; the violinist scraped, and the harper twangedintermittently; a band of fox-hunters arrived; girls had been chosen, and in the small space of floor that remained the white skirts and redtail coats passed and repassed, borne along Strauss's indomitablerhythms. 

An hour passed: perspiration had begun to loosen the work ofcurling-tongs; dust had thickened the voices, but the joy of exercisewas in every head and limb. A couple would rush off for a cup of tea, oran ice, and then, pale and breathless, return to the fray. Mrs. Manlywas the gayest. Pushing her children out of her skirts, she called uponMay:

'Now then, May, have you a partner? We are going to have a real romp--weare going to have Kitchen Lancers. I'll undertake to see everybodythrough them. '

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

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

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

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

Nevertheless, Lord Dungory and Lord Rosshill could not conceal theirannoyance; both felt keenly that they had compromised themselves byremaining in the room after the news of so dreadful a catastrophe. But, as Mrs. Barton was anxious that her daughter's success should not beinterfered with, nothing could be done but to express sympathy inappropriate words. Nobody, Lord Dungory declared, could regret thedastardly outrage that had been committed more than he. He had knownLord Kilcarney many years, and he had always found him a man whom no onecould fail to esteem. The earldom was one of the oldest in Ireland, butthe marquisate did not go back farther than the last few years. Beaconsfield had given him a step in the peerage; no one knew why. Avery curious man--most retiring--hated society. Then Lord Rosshillrelated an anecdote concerning an enormous water-jump that he and LordKilcarney had taken together; and he also spoke of the late Marquis'saversion to matrimony, and hinted that he had once refused a match whichwould have relieved the estates of all debt. But he could not bepersuaded; indeed, he had never been known to pay any woman theslightest attention. 

'It is to be hoped the present Marquis won't prove so difficult toplease, ' said Mrs. Gould. The remark was an unfortunate one, and thechaperons present resented this violation of their secret thoughts. Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Scully suddenly withdrew their eyes, which till then hadbeen gently following their daughters through the figures of the dance, and, forgetting what they foresaw would be the cause of future enmity, united in condemning Mrs. Gould. Obeying a glance of the Lady Hamiltoneyes, Lord Dungory said:

'_On cherche l'amour dans les boudoirs, non pas dans les cimetières, madame_. ' Then he added (but this time only for the private ear of Mrs. Barton), '_La mer ne rend pas ses morts, mais la tombe nous donnesouvent les écussons_. '

'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Mrs. Barton, '_ce Milord, il trouve l'espritpartout_;' and her light coaxing laugh dissipated this moment ofball-room gloom. 

And Alice? Although conscious of her deficiency in the _trois temps_, determined not to give in without an effort, she had suffered May tointroduce her to a couple of officers; but to execute the step she knewtheoretically, or to talk to her partner when he had dragged her, breathless, out of the bumping dances, she found to be difficult, soignorant was she of hunting and of London theatres, and having read onlyone book of Ouida's, it would be vain for her to hope to interest herpartner in literature. The other girls seemed more at home with theirpartners, and while she walked with hers, wondering what she should saynext, she noticed behind screens, under staircases, at the end of darkpassages, girls whom she had known at St. Leonards incapable oflearning, or even understanding the simplest lessons, suddenlytransformed as if by magic into bright, clever, agreeable girls--capableof fulfilling that only duty which falls to the lot of women: of amusingmen. But she could not do this, and must, therefore, resign herself toan aimless life of idleness, and be content in a few years to take aplace amid the Miss Brennans, the Ladies Cullen, the Miss Duffys, theHonourable Miss Gores, those whom she saw sitting round the walls'waiting to be asked, ' as did the women in the old Babylonian Temple. 

Such was her criticism of life as she sat wearily answering Mrs. Gould'stiresome questions, not daring to approach her mother, who was laughingwith Olive, Captain Hibbert, and Lord Dungory. Waltz after waltz hadbeen played, and her ears reeked with their crying strain. One or twomen had asked her 'if they might have the pleasure'; but she wasdetermined to try dancing no more, and had refused them. At last, at theearnest request of Mrs. Gould, she had allowed Dr. Reed to take her into supper. He was an earnest-eyed, stout, commonplace man, and lookedsome years over thirty. Alice, however, found she could talk to himbetter than with her other partners, and when they left the clatteringsupper-room, where plates were being broken and champagne was beingdrunk by the gallon, sitting on the stairs, he talked to her till voiceswere heard calling for his services. A dancer had been thrown and hadbroken his leg. Alice saw something carried towards her, and, rushingtowards May, whom she saw in the doorway, she asked for an explanation. 

'Oh, nothing, nothing! he slipped down--has broken or sprained hisankle--that's all. Why aren't you dancing? Greatest fun in theworld--just beginning to get noisy--and we are going it. Come on, Fred;come on!'

To the rowdy tune of the _Posthorn Polka_ the different couples weredashing to and fro--all a little drunk with emotion and champagne; and, as if fascinated, Alice's eyes followed the shoulders of a tall, florid-faced man. Doing the _deux temps_, he traversed the room in twoor three prodigious jumps. His partner, a tiny creature, looked acrushed bird within the circle of his terrible arm. Like a collierlabouring in a heavy sea, a county doctor lurched from side to side, overpowered by the fattest of the Miss Duffys. A thin, trim youth, withbright eyes glancing hither and thither, executed a complex step, andglided with surprising dexterity in and out, and through this rushingmad mass of light toilettes and flying coat-tails. Marks, too, ofconflict were visible. Mr. Ryan had lost some portion of his garment inan obscure misunderstanding in the supper-room. All Mr. Lynch's studshad gone, and his shirt was in a precarious state; drunken Sir Richardhad not been carried out of the room before strewing the floor with hisnecktie and fragments of his gloves. But these details were forgotten inthe excitement. The harper twanged still more violently at his strings, the fiddler rasped out the agonizing tune more screechingly than ever;and as the delirium of the dance fevered this horde of well-bred peoplethe desire to exercise, their animal force grew irresistible, and theycharged, intent on each other's overthrow. In the onset, the vastshoulders and the _deux temps_ were especially successful. One couplehad gone down splendidly before him, another had fallen over theprostrate ones; and in a moment, in positions more or less recumbent, eight people were on the floor. Fears were expressed for the tightdresses, and Violet had shown more of her thin ankles than wasdesirable; but the climax was not reached until a young man, whoseunsteady legs forbade him this part of the fun, established himself in asafe corner, and commenced to push the people over as they passed him. This was the signal for the flight of the chaperons. 

'Now come along, Miss Barton, ' cried Mrs. Barton, catching sight ofAlice; 'and will you, Lord Dungory, look after Olive?'

Lord Rosshill collected the five Honourable Miss Gores, the MissBrennans drew around Mrs. Scully, who, without taking the least noticeof them, steered her way. 

And so ended, at least so far as they were concerned, the ball givenby the spinsters of the county of Galway. But the real end? On thissubject much curiosity was evinced. 

The secret was kept for a time, but eventually the story leaked outthat, overcome by the recollections of still pleasanter evenings spentunder the hospitable roof of the Mayo bachelor, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Lynch andSir Charles had brought in the maid-servants, and that, with jigs forwaltzes, and whiskey for champagne, the gaiety had not been allowed todie until the day was well begun. Bit by bit and fragment by fragmentthe story was pieced together, and, in the secrecy of their bedrooms, with little smothered fits of laughter, the young ladies told each otherhow Sir Charles had danced with the big housemaid, how every time he didthe cross-over he had slapped her on the belly; and then, with morelaughter, they related how she had said: 'Now don't, Sir Charles, Iforbid you to take such liberties. ' And it also became part of the storythat, when they were tired of even such pleasures as these, thegentlemen had gone upstairs to where the poor man with the broken legwas lying, and had, with whiskey and song, relieved his sufferings untilthe Galway train rolled into Ballinasloe. 

XI

'Goodness me! Alice; how can you remain up here all alone, and by thatsmouldering fire? Why don't you come downstairs? Papa says he is quitesatisfied with the first part of the tune, but the second won't comeright; and, as mamma had a lot to say to Lord Dungory, I and CaptainHibbert sat out in the passage together. He told me he liked the way Iarrange my hair. Do tell me, dear, if you think it suits me?'

'Very well, indeed; but what else did Captain Hibbert say to you?'

'Well, I'll tell you something, ' replied Olive, suddenly turning fromthe glass. 'But first promise not to tell anyone. I don't know what Ishould do if you did. You promise?'

'Yes, I promise. '

'If you look as serious as that I shall never be able to tell you. It isvery wicked, I know, but I couldn't help myself. He put his arm round mywaist and kissed me. Now don't scold, I won't be scolded, ' the girlsaid, as she watched the cloud gathering on her sister's face. 'Oh! youdon't know how angry I was. I cried, I assure you I did, and I told himhe had disgraced me. I couldn't say more than that, could I, now? and hepromised never to do it again. It was the first time a man ever kissedme--I was awfully ashamed. No one ever attempted to kiss you, I suppose;nor can I fancy their trying, for your cross face would soon frightenthem; but I can't look serious. '

'And did he ask you to marry him?'

'Oh! of course, but I haven't told mamma, for she is always talking tome about Lord Kilcarney--the little marquis, as she calls him; but Icouldn't have him. Just fancy giving up dear Edward! I assure you Ibelieve he would kill himself if I did. He has often told me I am theonly thing worth living for. '

Alice looked at her beautiful sister questioningly, her good sensetelling her that, if Olive was not intended for him, it was wrong toallow her to continue her flirtation. But for the moment theconsideration of her own misfortunes absorbed her. Was there nothing inlife for a girl but marriage, and was marriage no more than a sensualgratification; did a man seek nothing but a beautiful body that he couldkiss and enjoy? Did a man's desires never turn to mating with one whocould sympathize with his hopes, comfort him in his fears, and united bythat most profound and penetrating of all unions--that of the soul--becollaborator in life's work? 'Could no man love as she did?' She wasready to allow that marriage owned a material as well as a spiritualaspect, and that neither could be overlooked. Some, therefore, thoughtheir souls were as beautiful as the day, were, from purely physicalcauses, incapacitated from entering into the marriage state. Cecilia wassuch a one. 

'Now what are you thinking about, Alice?'

'I do not know, nothing in particular; one doesn't know always of whatone is thinking! Tell me what they are saying downstairs. '

'But I have told you; that Captain Hibbert preferred my hair like this, and I asked you if you thought he was right, but you hardly looked. '

'Yes, I did, Olive; I think the fashion suits you. '

'You won't tell anybody that I told you he kissed me? Oh, I hadforgotten about Lord Rosshill; he has been fired at. Lord Dungoryreturned from Dublin, and he brought the evening paper with him. It isfull of bad news. '

'What news?' Alice asked, with a view to escaping from wearyingquestions; and Olive told her a bailiff's house had been broken into byan armed gang. 'They dragged him out of his bed and shot him in the legsbefore his own door. And an attempt has been made to blow up alandlord's house with dynamite. And in Queen's County shots have beenfired through a dining-room window--now, what else? I am telling you alot; I don't often remember what is in the paper. No end of hayrickswere burnt last week, and some cattle have had their tails cut off, anda great many people have been beaten. Lord Dungory says he doesn't knowhow it will all end unless the Government bring in a Coercion Act. Whatdo you think, Alice?'

Alice dropped some formal remarks, and Olive hoped that the state of thecountry would not affect the Castle's season. She didn't know which ofthe St. Leonard girls would be married first. She asked Alice to guess. Alice said she couldn't guess, and fell to thinking that nobody wouldever want to marry her. It was as if some instinct had told her, and shecould not drive the word 'celibacy' out of her ears. It seemed to herthat she was _fichue à jamais_, as that odious Lord Dungory would say. She did not remember that she had ever been so unhappy before, and itseemed to her that she would always be unhappy, _fichue à jamais_. 

But to her surprise she awoke in a more cheerful mood, and when she camedown to breakfast Mr. Barton raised his head from the newspaper andasked her if she had heard that Lord Rosshill had been fired at. 

'Yes, father. Olive told me so overnight;' and the conversation turnedon her headache, and then on the state of Ireland. 

Mrs. Barton asked if this last outrage would prove sufficient to forcethe Government to pass a new Coercion Bill. 

'I wish they would put me at the head of an army, ' Mr. Barton said, whose thoughts had gone back to his picture--_Julius Caesar overturningthe Altars of the Druids_. 

'Papa would look fine leading the landlords against the tenants dressedin Julius Caesar's big red cloak!' cried Mrs. Barton, turning back asshe glided out of the room, already deep in consideration of what Milordwould like to eat for luncheon and the gown she would wear thatafternoon. Mr. Barton threw the newspaper aside and returned to hisstudio; and in the girls' room Olive and Barnes, the bland, soft smilingmaid, began their morning gossip. Whatever subject was started itgenerally wound round to Captain Hibbert. Alice had wearied of his name, but this morning she pricked up her ears. She was surprised to hear hersister say she had forbidden him ever to visit the Lawlers. At thatmoment the dull sound of distant firing broke the stillness of the snow. 

'I took good care to make Captain Hibbert promise not to go to thisshooting-party the last time I saw him. '

'And what harm was there in his going to this shooting-party?' saidAlice. 

'What harm? I suppose, miss, you have heard what kind of woman Mrs. Lawler is? Ask Barnes, '

'You shouldn't talk in this way, Olive. We know well enough that Mrs. Lawler was not a lady before she married; but nothing can be saidagainst her since. '

'Oh! can't there, indeed? You never heard the story about her and hersteward? Ask Barnes. '

'Oh! don't miss; you shouldn't really!' said the maid. 'What will MissAlice think?'

'Never mind what she thinks; you tell her about the steward and all theofficers from Gort. '

And then Mrs. Lawler's flirtations were talked of until the bell rangfor lunch. Milord and Mrs. Barton had just passed into the dining-room, and Alice noticed that his eyes often wandered in the direction of thepolicemen walking up and down the terrace. He returned more frequentlythan was necessary to the attempt made on Lord Rosshill's life, and itwas a long time before Mrs. Barton could persuade him to drop a Frenchepigram. At last, in answer to her allusions to knights of old and _lagalanterie_, the old lord could only say: '_L'amour est commel'hirondelle; quand l'heure sonne, en dépit du danger, tous les deuxpartent pour les rivages célestes. _' A pretty conceit; but Milord wasnot _en veine_ that morning. The Land League had thrown its shadow overhim, and it mattered little how joyously a conversation might begin, toosoon a reference was made to Griffith's valuation, or the possibility ofa new Coercion Act. 

In the course of the afternoon, however, much to the astonishment ofMilord and Mrs. Barton in the drawing-room and the young ladies who weresitting upstairs doing a little needlework, a large family carriage, hung with grey trappings and drawn by two powerful bay horses, drove upto the hall-door. 

A gorgeous footman opened the door, and, with a momentary display ofexquisite ankle, a slim young girl stepped out. 

'I wonder, ' said Mrs. Barton, 'that Mrs. Scully condescends to come outwith anything less than four horses and outriders. '

'_Elle veut acheter la distinction comme elle vendait du jambon--àfaux poids_, ' said Lord Dungory. 

'Yes, indeed; and to think that the woman we now receive as an equalonce sold bacon and eggs behind a counter in Galway!'

'No, it was not she; it was her mother. '

'Well, she was hanging on to her mother's apron-strings at the time. Youmay depend upon it, this visit is not for nothing; something's in thewind. '

A moment after, looking more large and stately than ever, Mrs. Scullysailed into the room. Mrs. Barton was delighted to see her. It was sogood of her to come, and in such weather as this; and, after havingrefused lunch and referred to the snow and the horses' feet, Mrs. Scullyconsented to lay aside her muff and boa. The young ladies withdrew, whenthe conversation turned on the state of the county and Lord Rosshill'sfortunate escape. As they ascended the stairs they stopped to listen toMr. Barton, who was singing _A che la morte_. 

'The Land League doesn't seem to affect Mr. Barton's spirits, ' saidViolet. 'What a beautiful voice he has!'

'Yes, and nobody designs pictures like papa; but he wouldn't study whenhe was young, and he says he hasn't time now on account of--'

'Now, Alice, for goodness' sake don't begin. I am sick of that LandLeague. From morning till night it is nothing but coercion andGriffith's valuation. '

Violet and Alice laughed at Olive's petulance, and, opening a door, thelatter said:

'This is our room, and it is the only one in the house where tenants, land, and rent are never spoken of. '

'That's something to know, ' said Violet. 'I agree with Olive. If thingsare bad, talking of them won't make them any better. '

Barnes rose from her seat. 

'Now don't go, Barnes. Violet, this is Barnes, our maid. '

There was about Barnes a false air of homeliness; but in a few momentsit became apparent that her life had been spent amid muslins, confidences, and illicit conversations. Now, with motherly care sheremoved a tulle skirt from the table, and Violet, with quick, nervousglances, examined the room. In the middle of the floor stood the largework-table, covered with a red cloth. There was a stand with shelves, filled on one side with railway novels, on the other with worsted work, cardboard-boxes, and rags of all kinds. A canary-cage stood on the top, and the conversation was frequently interrupted by the piercing trillingof the little yellow bird. 

'You're very comfortable. I should like to come and work here with you. I am sick of Fred's perpetual talk about horses; and if he isn't talkingof them his conversation is so improper that I can't listen to it. '

'Why, what does he say?' said Olive, glancing at Barnes, who smiledbenignly in the background. 

'Oh, I couldn't repeat what he says! it's too dreadful. I have to flyfrom him. But he's always at the Goulds' now; he and May are having agreat "case". '

'Oh yes, I know!' said Olive; 'they never left each other at our ball. Don't you remember?'

'Of course I do. And what a jolly ball that was! I never amused myselfso much in my life. If the balls at the Castle are as good, they willdo. But wasn't it sad, you know, about poor Lord Kilcarney receiving thenews of his brother's murder just at that moment? I can see him now, rushing out of the room. '

Violet's manner did not betoken in the least that she thought it sad, and after a pause she said:

'But you haven't shown me your dresses. I loved the one you wore at theball. '

'Yes, yes: I must show you my cream-coloured dinner-dress, and my rubydress, too. You haven't seen that either, ' cried Olive. 'Come along, Barnes, come along. '

'But I see you use your bedroom, too, as a sitting-room?' she said, asshe glanced at the illustrations in a volume of Dickens and threw down avolume of Shelley's poetry. 

'Oh, that's this lady, here!' cried Olive. 'She says she cannot read inour room on account of my chattering, so she comes in here to continueher schooling. I should've thought that she had had enough of it; andshe makes the place in such a mess with bits of paper. Barnes is alwaystidying up after her. '

Alice laughed constrainedly, and taking the cream-coloured dress out ofthe maid's hands, Olive explained why it suited her. Violet had much tosay concerning the pink trimming, and the maid referred to her latemistress's wardrobes. The ruby dress, however, drew forth many littlecries of admiration. Then an argument was started concerning the colourof hair, and, before the glass with hairpins and lithe movements of theback and loins, the girls explained their favourite coiffures. 

'But, Alice, you haven't opened your lips, and you haven't shown me yourdresses. '

'Barnes will show you my dinner-frocks, but I don't think as much aboutwhat I wear as Olive does. '

Violet quickly understood, but, with clever dissimulation, she examinedand praised the black silk trimmed with red ribbons. 'She's angrybecause we didn't look at her dresses first, ' Olive interjected; andViolet came to Alice's rescue with a question: 'Had they heard lately ofLord Kilcarney?' Olive protested that she would sooner die than acceptsuch a little red-haired thing as that for a husband, and Violet laugheddelightedly. 

'Anyway, you haven't those faults to find with a certain officer, nowstationed at Gort, who, if report speaks truly, is constantly seenriding towards Brookfield. '

'Well, what harm is there in that?' said Olive, for she did not feelquite sure in her mind if she should resent or accept the graciousinsinuation. 

'None whatever; I only wish such luck were mine. What with the weather, and papa's difficulties with his herdsmen and his tenants, we haven'tseen a soul for the last month. I wish a handsome young officer wouldcome galloping up our avenue some day. '

Deceived, Olive abandoned herself to the plausive charm of Violet'smanner, and at different times she spoke of her flirtation, and toldmany little incidents concerning it--what he had said to her, how shehad answered him, and how, the last time they had met, he had expressedhis sorrow at being unable to call to see her until the end of the week. 

'He is shooting to-day at the Lawlers', ' said Violet. 

'That I'm sure he's not, ' said Olive, with a triumphant toss of her fairhead; 'for I forbade him to go there. '

Violet smiled, and Olive insisted on an explanation being given. 

'Well, ' exclaimed the girl, more bluntly than she had yet spoken, 'because as we were coming here we saw him walking along one of thecovers. There were a lot of gentlemen, and, just fancy, that dreadfulwoman, Mrs. Lawler, was with them, marching along, just like a man, anda gun under her arm. '

'I don't believe you; you only say that to annoy me, ' cried Olive, trembling with passion. 

'I am not in the habit of telling lies, and don't know why you shouldthink I care to annoy you, ' Violet replied, a little too definitely;and, unable to control her feelings any longer, Olive walked out of theroom. Barnes folded up and put away the dresses, and Alice sought forwords that would attenuate the unpleasantness of the scene. But Violetwas the quicker with her tongue, and she poured out her excuses. 'I amso sorry, ' she said, 'but how could I know that she objected to CaptainHibbert's shooting at the Lawlers', or that he had promised her not togo there? I am very sorry, indeed. '

'Oh I it doesn't matter, ' said Alice hesitatingly. 'You know howexcitable Olive is. I don't think she cares more about Captain Hibbertthan anyone else; she was only a little piqued, you know--the surprise, and she particularly dislikes the Lawlers. Of course, it is veryunpleasant for us to live so near without being able to visit them. '

'Yes, I understand. I am very sorry. Do you know where she is gone? Ishouldn't like to go away without seeing her. '

'I am afraid she has shut herself up in her room. Next time you meet, she'll have forgotten all about it. '

Elated, but at the same time a little vexed, Violet followed Alice downto the drawing-room. 

'My dear child, what a time you have been! I thought you were nevercoming downstairs again, ' said Mrs. Scully. 'Now, my dear Mrs. Barton, we really must. We shall meet again, if not before, at the Castle. '

Then stout mother and thin daughter took their leave; but the largecarriage, with its sumptuous grey trappings, had not reached the crestof the hill when, swiftly unlocking her door, Olive rushed to Barnes forsympathy. 

'Oh the spiteful little cat!' she exclaimed. 'I know why she said that;she's jealous of me. You heard her say she hadn't a lover. I don'tbelieve she saw Edward at all, but she wanted to annoy me. Don't youthink so, Barnes?'

'I'm sure she wanted to annoy you, miss. I could see it in her eyes. Shehas dreadful eyes--those cold, grey, glittering things. I could nevertrust them. And she hasn't a bit on her bones. I don't know if younoticed, miss, that when you were counting your petticoats she wasashamed of her legs? There isn't a bit on them; and I saw her look atyours, miss. '

'Did you really? She's like a rail; and as spiteful as she's lean. Atschool nothing made her so angry as when anyone else was praised; andyou may be sure that jealousy brought her here. She heard how CaptainHibbert admired me, and so came on purpose to annoy me. '

'You may be sure it was that, miss, ' said Barnes, as she bustled about, shutting and opening a variety of cardboard boxes. 

For a moment the quarrel looked as if it were going to end here; but inOlive's brain thoughts leaped as quickly back as forward, and shestartled Barnes by declaring wildly that, if Edward had broken hispromise to her, she would never speak to him again. 

'I don't believe that Violet would have dared to say that she saw him ifit weren't true. '

'Well, miss, a shooting-party's but a shooting-party, and there was atemptation, you know. A gentleman who is fond of sport--'

'Yes; but it isn't for the shooting he is gone. 'Tis for Mrs. Lawler. Iknow it is. '

'Not it, miss. Always admitting that he is there, how could he think ofMrs. Lawler when he's always thinking of you? And, besides, out in thesnow, too. Now, I wouldn't say anything if the weather was fine--like wehad last June--and they giving each other meetings out in the park--'

'But what did you tell me about the steward, and how Mrs. Lawler fell inlove with all the young men who come to her house? And what did thehousemaid tell you of the walking about the passages at night and intoeach other's rooms? Oh, I must know if he's there!'

'I'll find out in the morning, miss. The coachman is sure to know whowas at the shooting-party. '

'In the morning! It will be too late then! I must know this evening!'exclaimed Olive, as she walked about the room, her light brain now flownwith jealousy and suspicion. 'I'll write him a letter, ' she saidsuddenly, 'and you must get someone to take it over. '

'But there's nobody about. Why, it is nearly seven o'clock, ' saidBarnes, who had begun to realize the disagreeableness and danger of theadventure she was being rapidly drawn into. 

'If you can't, I shall go myself, ' cried Olive, as she seized some paperand a pencil belonging to Alice, and sat down to write a note:

'DEAR CAPTAIN HIBBERT, 'If you have broken your promise to me about not going to the Lawlers'I shall never be able to forgive you!' (Then, as through her perturbedmind the thought gleamed that this was perhaps a little definite, sheadded): 'Anyhow, I wish to see you. Come at once, and explain that whatI have heard about you is not true. I cannot believe it. 'Yours ever and anxiously, 'OLIVE BARTON. '

'Now somebody must take this over at once to the Lawlers. '

'But, miss, really at this hour of night, too, I don't know of anyone tosend! Just think, miss, what would your ma say?'

'I don't care what mamma says. It would kill me to wait till morning!Somebody must go. Why can't you go yourself? It isn't more than half amile across the fields. You won't refuse me, will you? Put on your hat, and go at once. '

'And what will the Lawlers say when they hear of it, miss? and I am surethat if Mrs. Barton ever hears of it she will--'

'No, no, she won't! for I could not do without you, Barnes. You haveonly to ask if Captain Hibbert is there, and, if he is there, send theletter up, and wait for an answer. Now, there's a dear! now do go atonce. If you don't, I shall go mad! Now, say you will go, or give me theletter. Yes, give it to me, and I'll go myself. Yes, I prefer to gomyself. '

XII

The result of this missive was that next morning the servants whisperedthat someone had been about the house on the preceding evening. Oliveand Barnes sat talking for hours; and one day, unable to keep hercounsel any longer, Olive told her sister what had happened. The letterthat Barnes had taken across the field for her had, she declared, frightened Edward out of his senses; he had come rushing through thesnow, and had spoken with her for full five minutes under her window. Heloved her to distraction; and the next day she had received a longletter, full of references to his colonel, explaining how entirelyagainst his will and desire he had been forced to accept the invitationto go and shoot at the Lawlers'. Alice listened quietly; as if shedoubted whether Captain Hibbert would have died of consumption orheartache if Olive had acted otherwise, and then advised her sisterquietly; and, convinced that her duty was to tell her mother everything, she waited for an occasion to speak. Mr. Barton was passing down thepassage to his studio, Olive was racing upstairs to Barnes, Mrs. Bartonhad her hand on the drawing-room door; and she looked round surprisedwhen 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; reallyyou and Olive ought to go into the conservatory and see if you can't getsome geraniums. '

'Yes, mamma, I will presently; but it was about Olive that I wanted tospeak, ' 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 thefamily's wisdom?'

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

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

It was now for Mrs. Barton to look embarrassed. 

'Well, really, I don't know; nothing is arranged--I never thought aboutthe matter. What could have made you think she was going to marryCaptain 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 wouldlike Olive to marry, and, if this be so, I thought I had better tell youabout Captain Hibbert. I think she is very much in love with him. '

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

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

'I am afraid people are talking about it, and that surely is notdesirable. '

'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 foryears before had never failed her, Mrs. Barton returned to her sweetlittle flattering manners. 

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

'I think so, mamma, ' said the girl, deceived by this expression ofgoodwill. 'You remember when the Scullys came here? Well, Violet was upin our room, and we were showing her our dresses; the conversationsomehow turned on Captain Hibbert, and when Violet said that she hadseen him that day, as they came along in the carriage, shooting with theLawlers, Olive burst out crying and rushed out of the room. It was veryawkward. Violet said she was very sorry and all that, but--'

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

'Because, it appears, she had previously forbidden him to go there, youknow, 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'sfault; I think she must have lost her head a little, for she sent Barnesover that evening to the Lawlers' with a note, telling Captain Hibbertthat 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 fallinginto masses of white ash, and she thought vaguely of putting on somemore turf; then her attention was caught by the withering ferns in theflower-glasses, then by the soaking pasture-lands, then by the spikybranches of the chestnut-trees swinging against the grey, dead sky. 

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

'She told me, as we were going to bed the other night, mamma, that shenever could care for anyone else; and--and'

'And what, dear?'

'I don't like to betray my sister's confidence, ' Alice answered, 'butI'm sure I had better tell you all: she told me that he had kissed hermany 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 thatOlive was so foolish; I must speak to her about it. This must not occuragain. 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 abouther affairs; you must promise me to make only an indirect use of what Ihave told you. '

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

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

A few minutes passed dreamily, almost unconsciously; Mrs. Barton threwtwo sods of turf on the fire, and resumed her thinking. Her firstfeeling of resentment against her eldest daughter had vanished; and shenow thought solely of the difficulty she was in, and how she could bestextricate herself from it. 'So Olive was foolish enough to allow CaptainHibbert to kiss her in the conservatory!' Mrs. Barton murmured toherself. The morality of the question interested her profoundly. She hadnever allowed anyone to kiss her before she was married; and she wasfull of pity and presentiment for the future of a young girl who couldthus compromise herself. But in Olive's love for Captain Hibbert Mrs. Barton was concerned only so far as it affected the labour and time thatwould 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 momentdoubt. Her daughter was a beautiful girl, would probably be the belle ofthe season; therefore to allow her, at nineteen, to marry athousand-a-year captain would be, Mrs. Barton thought, to prove herselfincapable, if not criminal, in the performance of the most importantduty of her life. Mrs. Barton trembled when she thought of the sendingof the letter: if the story were to get wind in Dublin, it might wreckher hopes of the marquis. Therefore, to tell Barnes to leave the housewould be fatal. Things must be managed gently, very gently. Olive mustbe talked to, how far her heart was engaged in the matter must be foundout, and she must be made to see the folly, the madness of risking herchance of winning a coronet for the sake of a beggarly thousand-a-yearcaptain. And, good heavens! the chaperons: what would they say of her, Mrs. Barton, were such a thing to occur? Mrs. Barton turned from thethought in horror; and then, out of the soul of the old coquette arose, full-fledged, the chaperon, the satellite whose light and glory isdependent on that of the fixed star around which she revolves. 

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

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

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

Olive was now more than ever like her father. Her shoulders had grownwider, and the blonde head and scarlet lips had gained a summerbrilliance and beauty. 

'No, I am not wet, ' she said, looking down at her boots; 'it isn'training; 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 thoughtwhen we came home from school the last time that we would be betterfriends; but, do you know what I think: Alice is a bit sulky. What doyou think, mamma?'

To talk of Alice, to suggest that she was a little jealous, to explainthe difficulty of the position she occupied, to commiserate and lavishmuch 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 resistedthe 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 areat the Castle if she will remain faithful to her books. I am afraid thatMiss 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 tospeak to in the county is Dr. Reed, that little frumpy fellow with hismedicines. I can't understand her. I couldn't care for anyone but anofficer. '

This was the chance Mrs. Barton required, and she instantly availedherself 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 notall as handsome as Captain Hibbert. '

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

Olive tossed her head, and her mother looked at her admiringly, andthere 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 feelfor Alice, in whom she saw nothing but failure, and in the end spiritualspinsterhood. After a pause she said:

'What a splendid match Lord Kilcarney would be, and where would he finda 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 CaptainHibbert. '

'Yes, you like Captain Hibbert, so do I; but a girl like you could notthrow 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 ofvery good family, and he has enough to support me. '

The moment was a supreme one, and Mrs. Barton hesitated to strike andbring the matter to a head. Would it be better, she asked herself, tolet 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 seeyou throw yourself away on Captain Hibbert. I am afraid you have seentoo much of him, and have been led away into caring for him. But take myword for it, a girl's love is only _à fleur de peau_. When you have beento 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 sherushed out of the room. 

Mrs. Barton made no reply, but her resolve was rapidly gaining strengthin 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 bewheedled and coerced. 

Nor did Mrs. Barton for a moment doubt that she would succeed; she hadnever tasted failure; and she stayed only a moment to regret, for shewas too much a woman of the world to waste time in considering hermistakes. The needs of the moment were ever present to her, and she nowdevoted 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, wherewoman was represented as a triumphant creature walking over the headsand hearts of men. '_Le génie de la femme est la beauté_, ' declaredMilord, and again: '_Le coeur de l'homme ne peut servir que de piédestalpour l'idole. '_

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

'Pardon, pardon, madame: _Devant un amour faux on est idolâtre, mais àl'autel d'un vrai, on est chrétien_. '

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

XIII

Mr. Barton could think of nothing but the muscles of the strained backof a dying Briton and a Roman soldier who cut the cords that bound thewhite captive to the sacrificial oak; but it would be no use returningto the studio until these infernal tenants were settled with, and heloitered about the drawing-room windows looking pale, picturesque, andlymphatic. His lack of interest in his property irritated Mrs. Barton. 'Darling, you must try to get them to take twenty per cent. ' At timesshe strove to prompt the arguments that should be used to induce thetenants to accept the proffered abatement, but she could not detach herthoughts from the terrible interview she was about to go through withCaptain Hibbert. She expected him to be violent; he would insist onseeing Olive, and she watched wearily the rain dripping from the woodenedges of the verandah. The last patches of snow melted, and at last acar was seen approaching, closely followed by another bearing fourpolicemen. 

'Here's your agent, ' exclaimed Mrs. Barton hurriedly. 'Don't bring himin here; go out and meet him, and when you see Captain Hibbert welcomehim as cordially as you can. But don't speak to him of Olive, and don'tgive 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 youdidn't tell me you were going to meet your tenants to-day. However, itis too late now. '

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

It was always difficult to say how far Mr. Barton believed in theextravagant remarks he was in the habit of giving utterance to. Heseemed to be aware of their absurdity, without, however, relinquishingall belief in their truth. And now, as he picked his way across the wetstones, his pale hair blown about in the wind, he presented a strangecontrast 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 thingsare gitting worse instid of bither. There's been another bailiff shot inMayo, and we've had a process-server nearly beaten to death down ourside of the counthry. Gad! I was out with the Sub-Sheriff and fiftypolice thrying to serve notices on Lord Rosshill's estate, and we had tocome 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 aswide as a canal. '

'Well, what do you think we had better do with these fellows? Do youthink 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 verynearly to Griffith's. '

'But if they don't take it?'

'Well, I don't know what we will do, for notices it is impossible toserve. Gad! I'll never forgit how we were pelted the other day--suchfiring of stones, such blawing of horns! I think you'll have to givethem 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. Herethey come. '

Turning, the two men watched the twenty or thirty peasants who, withheads set against the gusts, advanced steadily up the avenue, making wayfor a horseman; and from the drawing-room window Mrs. Barton recognizedthe square-set shoulders of Captain Hibbert. After shaking hands andspeaking 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-cutelegance of military boots and trousers, the peasants lifted their hats, and the interview began. 

'Now, boys, ' said Mr. Barton, who thought that a little familiaritywould not be inappropriate, 'I've asked you to meet me so that we mightcome to some agreement about the rents. We've known each other a longtime, and my family has been on this estate I don't know for how manygenerations. Therefore--why, of course, I should be very sorry if we hadany falling out. I don't know much about farming, but I hear everyonesay that this has been a capital year, and . . . I think I cannot do betterthan to make you again the same offer as I made you before--that is tosay, of twenty per cent, abatement all round; that will bring your rentsdown to Griffith's valuation. '

Mr. Barton had intended to be very impressive, but, feeling that wordswere betraying him, he stopped short, and waited anxiously to hear whatanswer the peasant who had stepped forward would make. The old man beganby removing a battered tall-hat, out of which fell a red handkerchief. The handkerchief was quickly thrown back into the crown, and, at anintimation from Mr. Barton, hat and handkerchief were replaced upon thewhite 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, andmy fathers before me, for the past fifty years. And it was inforty-three that the rints was ruz--in the time of your father, the Lordhave mercy on his soul!--but he had an agent who was a hard man, and heruz the rints, and since then we have been in poverty, livin' on yallermail 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 shouldwalk 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 payingtwenty-five shillings an acre. I have my receipts, paid down to the lastgale-day. '

And, still speaking, the old man fumbled in his pockets and produced alarge 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 diedon 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 thesame flooded land. Yer honour can come down any day and see it. It isnot worth, to me, more than fifteen shillings an acre at the bareoutside. But it could be drained, for there is a fall into the marinstream betwixt your honour's property and the Miss Brennans'. Itwouldn't cost more than forty pound, and the Miss Brennans will pay halfif yer honour will pay the other. '

Mr. Barton listened patiently to those peasant-like digressions, whileMrs. Barton listened patiently to the Captain's fervid declarations oflove. He had begun by telling her of the anguish it had caused him tohave been denied, and three times running, admittance to Brookfield. Onewhole 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 tosay, must have long since guessed what were his feelings for herdaughter. 

'We were very sorry to have been out, and it is so unusual that weshould 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 sogallant, and--and--' here Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, for she thoughtthe bitterness of life might be so cunningly wrapped up in sweetcompliments that both could be taken together, like sugared-medicine--inone child-like gulp. 'There is, of course, no one I should prefer to _lebeau capitaine_--there is no one to whom I would confide my Olive morewillingly; but, then, one must look to other things; one cannot liveentirely on love, even if it be the love of a _beau capitaine_. '

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

'I am aware, my dear Mrs. Barton, that I cannot give your daughter theposition 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 benot mistaken, some money of her own; and, as I shall get my majoritywithin the next five years, I may say that we shall begin life uponsomething more than fifteen hundred a year. '

'It is true that I have led you to believe that Olive has money, butIrish money can be no longer counted upon. Were Mr. Barton to create acharge on his property, how would it be possible for him to guaranteethe payment of the interest in such times as the present? We are livingon 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 putit 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 seethey are making their own terms with Mr. Barton. '

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

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

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

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

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

'Give us the land all round at the Government valuation, ' said a man inthe 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 thepeasants; but the League had drawn them too firmly together to be thuseasily divided. They talked amongst themselves in Irish. Then the oldman 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, seemedto exercise an authority over the others. With one accord they followedhim; but, rushing forward, Mr. Scully seized him by the arm, saying:

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

From the drawing-room window Mrs. Barton watched the conflict. On oneside she saw her daughter's beautiful white face becoming the prize of apenniless officer; on the other she saw the pretty furniture, theluxurious idleness, the very silk dress on her back, being torn fromthem, and distributed among a crowd of Irish-speaking, pig-keepingpeasants. She could see that some new and important point was beingargued; and it was with a wrench she detached her thoughts from thepantomime that was being enacted within her view, and, turning toCaptain Hibbert, said:

'You see--you see what is happening. We are--that is to say, we maybe--ruined at any moment by this wicked agitation. As I have saidbefore, there is no one I should like so much as yourself; but, in theface of such a future, how could I consent to give you mydaughter?--that is to say, I could not unless you could settle at leasta 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 ahome as any she has been accustomed to. But a thousand a year isimpossible. I haven't got it. But I can settle five hundred on her, andthere's many a peeress of the realm who hasn't that. Of course fivehundred a year is very little. No one feels it more than I. For had Ithe riches of the world, I should not consider them sufficient to createa place worthy of Olive's beauty. But love must be allowed to count forsomething, 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 happinessfor 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 consentto give up Olive. She loves me. I know she does. My life is bound up inhers. No, I'll never consent to give her up, and I know she won't giveme up. '

'Olive has laughed and flirted with you, but it was only _pour passer letemps_; and I may as well tell you that you are mistaken when you thinkthat she loves you. '

'Olive does love me. I know she does; and I'll not believe she doesnot--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 fromher own lips what she has to say on this matter. '

With the eyes of one about to tempt fortune adventurously, like oneabout to play a bold card for a high stake, Mrs. Barton looked on thetall, handsome man before her; and, impersonal as were her feelings, shecould not but admire, for the space of one swift thought, the palearistocratic face now alive with passion. Could she depend upon Olive tosay 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 suddensunshine, the man's face glowed with delight at the name, and a momentafter, white and drooping like a cut flower, the girl entered. CaptainHibbert 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 ittrue?'

Startled in the drift of her emotions, and believing her confidence hadbeen betrayed, the girl's first impulse was to deny the impeachment. Noabsolute promise of marriage had she given him, and she said:

'No, mamma, I am not engaged. Did Edward--I mean Captain Hibbert--say Iwas 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 thoughtthat--'

'I knew my daughter would not have engaged herself to you, CaptainHibbert, without telling me of it. As I have told you before, we alllike you very much, but this marriage is impossible; and I will neverconsent, at least for the present, to an engagement between you. '

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

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

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

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

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

'There is never any use in forcing on these violent scenes. As I havetold you, there is no one I should prefer to yourself. We always sayhere that there is no one like _le beau capitaine_; but, in the face ofthese bad times, how can I give you my daughter? And you soldiers forgetso 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 Iwill consent to wait if you will consent to our being engaged. '

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Barton did not look as if she intended to answer this question. Theconversation had fallen, and her thoughts had gone back to the tenantsand the reduction that Mr. Scully was now persuading them to accept. Hetalked apart, first with one, then with another. His square bluff figurein a long coarse ulster stood out in strong relief against the greengrass 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 verysorry indeed, that we can't agree; but, after what has passed between usto-day, I do not think you will be justified in again trying to see mydaughter. '

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

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

'Good-morning, Captain Hibbert;' and Mrs. Barton smiled winningly as sherang the bell for the servant to show him out. When she returned to thewindow 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 sorrowfullooks haunted the house. 

A white weary profile was seen on the staircase, a sigh was heard whenshe 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 getup; I cannot allow it. There's nothing that spoils one's good looks likeunhappiness. Instead of being the belle of the season, you'll be acomplete wreck. I must insist on your getting up, and trying to interestyourself 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 seewhat 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'snothing to do here, one never hears of anything but that horrid LandLeague--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 hispainting; but I have nothing since you sent Captain Hibbert away. '

'Yes, yes, my beautiful Olive flower, it is a little dull for you atpresent, and to think that this wicked agitation should have begun thevery season you were coming out! Who could have foreseen such a thing?But come, my pet, I cannot allow you to ruin your beautiful complexionwith foolish tears; you must get up; unfortunately I can't have you inthe drawing-room, I have to talk business with Milord, but you can goout 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 todeath. 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. Partnerswould have to be found, and to have her dragging after her all throughthe Castle season would be intolerable. And all these airs of virtue, and injured innocence, how insupportable they were! Alice, as far asMrs. Barton could see, was fit for nothing. Even now, instead of helpingto console her sister, and win her thoughts away from Captain Hibbert, she shut herself up to read books. Such a taste for reading and mopingshe 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 herfather. But what was the good of thinking of the tiresome girl? Therewere plenty of other things far more important to consider, and thefirst thing of all was--how to make Olive forget Captain Hibbert? Onthis point Mrs. Barton was not quite satisfied with the manner in whichshe had played her part. Olive's engagement had been broken off by tooviolent means, and nothing was more against her nature than (to use herown expression) _brusquer les choses_. Early in life Mrs. Bartondiscovered that she could amuse men, and since then she had devotedherself assiduously to the cultivation of this talent, and the divorcebetween herself and her own sex was from the first complete. She notonly did not seek to please, but she made no attempt to conceal heraversion from the society of women, and her preference for those formsof 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-seatof 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 waveof her hands, and a tinkle of the bell-like laugh, she had dismissedhim. As nothing had cost her a sigh, nothing had been denied her. Butnow all was going wrong. Olive was crying and losing her good looks. Mr. Barton had received a threatening letter, and, in consequence, had for aweek past been unable to tune his guitar; poor Lord Dungory was beingbored to death by policemen and proselytizing daughters. Everything wasgoing wrong. This phrase recurred in Mrs. Barton's thoughts as shereviewed the situation, her head leaned in the pose of the mostplaintive of the pastels that Lord Dungory had commissioned hisfavourite 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 delightfulgestures, 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'smouth, she said: 'I will hear no more of that wicked poetry. '

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

'Hush, hush!'

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

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

'Oh! this is the studious one, ' said Milord, as he took Aliceaffectionately with both hands, and drew her towards him. 'Now look atthis fair brow; I am sure there is poetry here. I was just speaking toyour 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. Isuppose you love Byron?'

'Yes; but not so much as Shelley and Keats, ' said Aliceenthusiastically, forgetting for the moment her aversion to the speakerin 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 minglewith the river; the river with the ocean_. " You know "_Nothing in theworld is single: all things, by a law divine, in one another's beingmingle. 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 withMilord 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 pardonfor a moment, ' said Mrs. Barton, whom a sudden thought had struck, andshe followed her daughter out of the room. 

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

'But what am I to do, mamma? I have often asked Olive to come out withme, 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 goto Dublin. Tell her you heard at Dungory Castle that he was flirtingwith other girls, that he is not worth thinking about, and that theMarquis is in love with her. '

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

Mrs. Barton gave her daughter one quick look, bit her lips, and, withoutanother 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 wasunbearable. But Mrs. Barton never allowed her temper to master her, andin two minutes all memory of Alice had passed out of her mind, and shewas talking business with Lord Dungory. Many important questions had tobe decided. It was known that mortgages, jointures, legacies, and debtsof all kinds had reduced the Marquis's income to a minimum, and that hestood in urgent need of a little ready money. It was known that hisrelations looked to an heiress to rehabilitate the family fortune. Mrs. Barton hoped to dazzle him with Olive's beauty, but it wascharacteristic of her to wish to bait the hook on every side, and shehoped that a little gilding of it would silence the chorus of scorn anddissent that she knew would be raised against her when once her plansbecame known. Four thousand pounds might be raised on the Brookfieldproperty, but, if this sum could be multiplied by five, Mrs. Barton feltshe would be going into the matrimonial market armed to the teeth, andprepared to meet all comers. And, seeking the solution of this problem, Milord and Mrs. Barton sat on the sofa, drawn up close together, theirknees touching; he, although gracious and urbane as was his wont, seemedmore than usually thoughtful. She, although as charmful and cajoling asever, in the pauses of the conversation allowed an expression of anxietyto cloud her bright face. Fifteen thousand pounds requires a good dealof accounting for, but, after many arguments had been advanced on eitherside, it was decided that she had made, within the last seven years, many successful investments. She had commenced by winning five hundredpounds at racing, and this money had been put into Mexican railways. Thespeculation had proved an excellent one, and then, with a few airy andcasual references to Hudson Bay, Grand Trunks, and shares in steamboats, it was thought the creation of Olive's fortune could be satisfactorilyexplained to a not too exacting society. 

Three or four days after, Mrs. Barton surprised the young ladies byvisiting 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 alittle late to-day, is he not?' said Olive. 

'I do not expect him to-day--he is suffering from a bad cold; thisweather 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 shelooked round. Her eyes rested on the cardboard boxes--on the bodice leftupon the work-table--on the book that Alice had laid aside, and shespoke of these things, evidently striving to interest herself in thegirl's occupation. At length she said:

'If the weather clears up I think we might all go for a drive; there isreally no danger. The Land League never has women fired at. We might goand 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 mybeautiful Olive doesn't care for a pack of women, ' said Mrs. Barton--'Olive does not like a pack of women; she would prefer ahandsome young lord, or a duke, or an earl. '

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

'What curious lives those girls do lead, cooped up there by themselves, with their little periodical trip up to the Shelbourne Hotel. Of coursethe two young ones never could have done much; they never open theirlips, but Gladys is a nice girl in her way, and she has some money ofher 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 shewouldn't say no, and she kept him hanging after her until at last off hewent 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 youngas Harry Renley, but he had two thousand a year, and he would have madeher an excellent husband; kept a carriage for her, and a house inLondon: whereas you see she has remained Miss Brennan, goes up everyyear to the Shelbourne Hotel to buy dresses, and gets older and morewithered every day. '

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

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

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

'I don't think so, ' returned Mrs. Barton, and she glanced sharply at herdaughter. 'I would sooner have the worst husband in the world than nohusband. ' Then settling herself like a pleader who has come to theincisive point of his argument, she continued: 'A woman is absolutelynothing without a husband; if she doesn't wish to pass for a failure shemust get a husband, and upon this all her ideas should be set. I havealways found that in this life we can only hope to succeed in what weundertake by keeping our minds fixed on it and never letting it out ofsight until it is attained. Keep on trying, that is my advice to allyoung ladies: try to make yourselves agreeable, try to learn how toamuse men. Flatter them; that is the great secret; nineteen out oftwenty will believe you, and the one that doesn't can't but think itdelightful. Don't waste your time thinking of your books, your painting, your accomplishments; if you were Jane Austens, George Eliots, and RosaBonheurs, it would be of no use if you weren't married. A husband isbetter than talent, better even than fortune--without a husband a womanis nothing; with a husband she may rise to any height. Marriage gives agirl liberty, gives her admiration, gives her success; a woman's wholeposition depends upon it. And while we are on the subject it is as wellto have one's say, and I speak for you both. You, Alice, are too muchinclined to shrink into the background and waste your time with books;and you too, Olive, are behaving very foolishly, wasting your time andyour 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 runningafter you until you had had time to consider the sacrifices you weremaking for him. I have no one's interest in the world, my dear girl, butyour interests. Officers are all very well to laugh, talk, and flirtwith--_pour passer le temps_--but I couldn't allow you to throw yourselfaway on the first man you meet. You will meet hundreds of others quiteas 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 beengaged to him? And I should like to know what is the use of my takingan engaged girl up to the Castle? No one would look at you. '

Olive raised her eyes in astonishment; she had not considered thequestion 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 herwith alarm. 

'Whereas, ' said Mrs. Barton, who saw that her words had the intendedeffect, 'if you were free you would be the season's beauty; nothingwould be thought of but you; you would have lords, and earls, andmarquesses dancing attendance on you, begging you to dance with them;you would be spoken of in the papers, described as the new beauty, andwhat not, and then if you were free--' Here Mrs. Barton heaved a deepsigh, and, letting her white hand fall over the arm of her chair, sheseemed 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 greatprize. 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 soldbacon in a shop in Galway--is thinking of him for her daughter. Ofcourse, if you like to see Violet become a marchioness, right under yournose, 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;--hewas very impertinent to me when I last saw him. He said he would flirtwith you, as long as you would flirt with him, and that he didn't seewhy you shouldn't amuse yourself. That's what I want to warn youagainst--losing your chance of being a marchioness to help an idle youngofficer to while away his time. If I were you, I would tell him, when Inext saw him, that he must not think about it any more. You can put itall down to me; say that I would never hear of it; say that you couldn'tthink of disobeying me, but that you hope you will always remainfriends. You see, that's the advantage of having a mother;--poor mammahas to bear everything. '

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

'Shake hands with him just as if nothing had happened, but don't enterinto conversation; and after lunch I shall arrange that we all go outfor a walk on the terrace. You will then pair off with him, Alice; Olivewill join you. Something will be sure to occur that will give her anopportunity of saying that he must think no more about her--that I wouldnever 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 astate of mind, or we may as well go back to Brookfield. What I tell youto do is right; and if you see nobody at the Castle that you likebetter--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 wasfull of the nervous excitement from which she suffered. 

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

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

'Put into a false position!' said Mrs. Barton. 'I'll hear no more ofthis! 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 sounjust?

And her eyes filled with tears, for since she had left school she hadexperienced only a sense of retreating within herself, but so long asshe was allowed to live within herself she was satisfied. But thisrefuge was no longer available. She must take part in the scuffle; andshe couldn't. But whither to go? There seemed to be no escape from theworld 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 sorelytried. 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 mydifficulties, instead of striving to increase them. ' 'I would doanything to help you, ' exclaimed Alice, deceived by the accent of sorrowwith 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 onlywant you to be with Olive when she tells Captain Hibbert that shecannot--and, now mind, Olive, you tell him plainly that he must notconsider himself engaged to you. '

In the ceremonious drawing-room, patched with fragments of Indiandrapery, Lady Jane and Lady Sarah sat angularly and as far from theirguests as possible, for they suspected that their house was being madeuse of as a battle-ground by Mrs. Barton, and were determined to resentthe impertinence as far as lay in their power. But Milord continued tospeak of indifferent things with urbanity and courtly gestures; and asthey descended the staircase, he explained the beauty of his marblestatues 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 whenthere is company--she is so very sensitive. But that reminds me. Shetold me to tell you that she is dying to see you. You will find herwaiting for you in her room when we have finished lunch. '

'Cecilia is not the only person to be thought of, ' said Milord. 'I willnot allow Alice to hide herself away upstairs for the rest of theafternoon. I hear, Alice, you are a great admirer of Tennyson's_Idylls_. I have just received a new edition of his poems, withillustrations 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 rosefrom table he spoke of his collection of Arundel prints with grace anderudition. Then they all went out to walk on the terrace. But as theirfeet echoed in the silence of the hall, Cecilia, in a voice tremulouswith expectancy, was heard speaking:

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

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

'Alice cannot come now, she is going out to walk with us, dear. She willsee 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 CaptainHibbert, who was standing on the steps of the house, his wide decorativeshoulders defined against a piece of grey sky. 

In despair at her own helplessness, and with a feeling of loathing sostrong that it seemed like physical sickness, Alice went forward andentered into conversation with Captain Hibbert. Lord Dungory, Mrs. Barton, and Olive walked together; Lady Jane and Lady Sarah followed ata little distance. In this order the party proceeded down the avenue asfar as the first gate; then they returned by a side-walk leading throughthe 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 knewthat a drama even as important as that of rent was being enacted. Olivehad joined her sister, and the girls moved forward on either side of thehandsome Captain; and, as a couple of shepherds directing the movementsof their flock, Lord Dungory and Mrs. Barton stood watching. Suddenlyher eyes met Lady Jane's. The glance exchanged was tempered in the hateof years; it was vindictive, cruel, terrible; it shone as menacingly asif the women had drawn daggers from their skirts, and Jane, obeying asudden impulse, broke away from her sister, and called to CaptainHibbert. Fortunately he did not hear her, and, before she could speakagain, 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 Olivedolorously. 

'It doesn't do a girl any harm even if it does leak out that she jilteda man; it makes the others more eager after her. But tell me, dear, Ihope there was no misunderstanding; did you really tell him that it wasno 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; Aliceheard all I said--she'll tell you, '

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

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

The thin, grey, moral eyes of the daughter and the brown, soft, merryeyes of the mother exchanged a long deep gaze of inquiry, and then Aliceburst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. She trembled from too muchgrief, 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 themarquess, ' she shuddered inwardly and wished she might stay at home inGalway and be spared the disgrace of the marriage-market. 

XV

It rained incessantly. Sheets of water, blown by winds that hadtravelled the Atlantic, deluged the county; grey mists trailed mournfuland shapeless along the edges of the domain woods, over the ridges ofthe tenants' holdings. 'Never more shall we be driven forth to die inthe bogs and ditches, ' was the cry that rang through the mist; and, guarded by policemen, in their stately houses, the landlords listened, waiting for the sword of a new coercion to fall and release them fromtheir bondage. The meeting of Parliament in the spring would bring themthis; in the meantime, all who could, fled, resolving not to return tillthe law restored the power that the Land League had so rudely shaken. Some went to England, others to France. Mr. Barton accepted two hundredpounds from his wife and proceeded to study gargoyles and pictures inBruges; and, striving to forget the murders and rumours of murders thatfilled the papers, the girls and their mammas talked of beaux, partners, and trains, in spite of the irritating presence of the Land Leagueagitators who stood on the platforms of the different stations. Thetrain was full of girls. Besides the Bartons, there were the Brennans:Gladys and Zoe--Emily remained at home to look after the place. Three ofthe Miss Duffys were coming to the Drawing-Room, and four of theHonourable Miss Gores; the Goulds and Scullys made one party, and toavoid Mrs. Barton, the Ladies Cullen had pleaded important duties. Theywere to follow in a day or so. 

Lord Dungory's advice to Mrs. Barton was to take a house, and he warnedher against spending the whole season in an hotel, but apparentlywithout avail, for when the train stopped a laughing voice was heard:'Milord, _vous n'êtes qu'un vilain misanthrope_; we shall be verycomfortable at the Shelbourne; we shall meet all the people in Dublinthere, and we can have private rooms to give dinner-parties. '

Hearing this, Alice congratulated herself, for in an hotel she would befreer than she would be in a house let for the season. She would hearsomething, and see a little over the horizon of her family in an hotel. She had spent a week in the Shelbourne on her way home from school, andremembered the little winter-garden on the first landing, and thefountain splashing amid ferns and stone frogs. The ladies' drawing-roomshe knew was on the right, and when she had taken off her hat andjacket, leaving her mother and sister talking of Mrs. Symond and LordKilcarney, she went there hoping to find some of the people whom she hadmet there before. 

The usually skirt-filled ottoman stood vacantly gaping, the littlechairs seemed lonely about the hearthrug, even the sofa where theinvalid ladies sat was unoccupied, and the perforated blinds gave thecrowds that passed up and down the street a shadow-like appearance. Theprospect was not inspiriting, but not knowing what else to do, Alice satdown by the fire, and fell to thinking who the man might be that satreading on the other side of the fireplace. He didn't seem as if he knewmuch about horses, and as he read intently, she could watch himunobserved. At last their eyes met, and when Alice turned away her faceshe felt that he was looking at her, and, perhaps getting nervous underhis examination, she made a movement to stir the fire. 

'Will you allow me?' he said, rising from his chair. 'I beg your pardon, but, if you will allow me, I will arrange the fire. '

Alice let him have the poker, and when he had knocked in the coal-crustand put on some fresh fuel, he said:

'If it weren't for me I don't know what would become of this fire. Ibelieve the old porter goes to sleep and forgets all about it. Now andagain he wakes up and makes a deal of fuss with a shovel and a broom. '

'I really can't say, we only came up from Galway to-day. '

'Then you don't know the famous Shelbourne Hotel! All the events of lifeare accomplished here. People live here, and die here, and flirt here, and, I was going to say, marry here--but hitherto the Shelbournemarriages have resulted in break-offs--and we quarrel here; the friendsof to-day are enemies to-morrow, and then they sit at different ends ofthe room. Life in the Shelbourne is a thing in itself, and a thing to bestudied. '

Alice laughed again, and again she continued her conversation. 

'I really know nothing of the Shelbourne. I was only here once before, and then only for a few days last summer, when I came home from school. '

'And now you are here for the Drawing-Room?'

'Yes; but how did you guess that?'

'The natural course of events: a young lady leaves school, she spendsfour or five months at home, and then she is taken to theLord-Lieutenant's Drawing-Room. '

She liked him none the better for what he had said, and began to wonderhow she might bring the conversation to a close. But when he spoke againshe forgot her intentions, and allowed his voice to charm her. 

'I think you told me, ' he said, 'that you came up from Galway to-day; mayI ask you from what side of the county?'

Another piece of impertinence. Why should he question her? And yet sheanswered him. 

'We live near Gort--do you know Gort?'

'Oh yes, I have been travelling for the last two months in Ireland. Ispent nearly a fortnight in Galway. Lord Dungory lives near Gort. Do youknow him?'

'Very well indeed. He is our nearest neighbour; we see him nearly everyday. Do you know him?'

'Yes, a little. I have met him in London. If I had not been so pressedfor time I should have called upon him when I was in Galway. I passedhis place going to a land meeting--oh, you need not be alarmed, I am nota Land League organizer, or else I should not have thought of calling atDungory Castle. What a pretty drive it is to Gort. '

'Then, do you know a place on the left-hand side of the road, about amile and a half from Dungory Castle?'

'You mean Brookfield?'

'Yes; that is our place. '

'Then you are Miss Barton?'

'Yes, I am Miss Barton; do you know father or mother?'

'No, no; but I have heard the name in Galway. I was spending a few dayswith one of your neighbours. '

'Oh, really!' said Alice, a little embarrassed; for she knew it musthave been with the Lawlers that he had been staying. At the end of along silence she said:

'I am afraid you have chosen a rather unfortunate time for visitingIreland. All these terrible outrages, murders, refusals to pay rent; Iwonder you have not been frightened away. '

'As I do not possess a foot of land--I believe I should say "not landenough to sod a lark"--my claim to collect rent would rest on even aslighter basis than that of the landlords; and as, with the charminginconsistency of your race, you have taken to killing each other insteadof slaughtering the hated Saxon, I really feel safer in Ireland thanelsewhere. I suppose, ' he said, 'you do a great deal of novel-reading inthe country?'

'Oh yes, ' she answered, with almost an accent of voluptuousness in hervoice; 'I spent the winter reading. '

'Because there was no hunting?' replied Harding, with a smile full ofcynical weariness. 

'No, I assure you, no; I do not think I should have gone out huntingeven if it hadn't been stopped, ' said Alice hastily; for it vexed hernot a little to see that she was considered incapable of loving a bookfor its own sake. 

'And what do you read?'

The tone of indifference with which the question was put was not lostupon Alice, but she was too much interested in the conversation to payheed to it. She said:

'I read nearly all Byron, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, and Browning--Ithink I like him better than all the poets! Do you know the scene at St. Praxed's?'

'Yes, of course; it is very fine. But I don't know that I ever caredmuch for Browning. Not only the verse, but the whole mind of the man isuncouth--yes, uncouth _is_ the word I want. He is the Carlyle of Poetry. Have you ever read Carlyle?'

'Oh yes, I have read his _French Revolution_ and his _Life of Schiller_, but that's all. I only came home from school last summer, and at schoolwe never read anything. I couldn't get many new books down in Galway. There were, of course, Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot in the library, but that was all. I once got a beautiful book from Dungory Castle. Iwonder if you ever read it? It is called _Madame Gervaisais_. From thedescriptions of Rome it almost seems to me that I have been there. '

'I know the book, but I didn't know a Catholic girl could admireit--and you are a Catholic, I presume?'

'I was brought up a Catholic. '

'It is one thing to be brought up a Catholic, and another to avoiddoubting. '

'There can surely be no harm in doubting?'

'Not the least; but toward which side are you? Have you fallen into thesoft feather-bed of agnosticism, or the thorny ditch of belief?'

'Why do you say "the soft feather-bed of agnosticism"?'

'It must be a relief to be redeemed from belief in hell; and perhapsthere is no other redemption. '

'And do you never doubt?' she said. 

'No, I can't say I am given much to doubting, nor do I think the subjectis any longer worthy of thought. The world's mind, after much anxiety, arrives at a conclusion, and what sages cannot determine in one age, achild is certain about in the next. Thomas Aquinas was harassed withdoubts regarding the possibility of old women flying through the air onbroomsticks; nowadays were a man thus afflicted he would be surely a fitsubject for Hanwell. The world has lived through Christianity, as it hasthrough a score of other things. But I am afraid I shock you?'

'No, I don't think you do; only I never heard anyone speak in that waybefore--that is all. '

Here the conversation came to a pause, and soon after the presence ofsome ladies rendered its revival impossible. Their evening gownssuggested the dinner-hour, and reminded Alice that she had to prepareherself for the meal. 

All the Galway people, excepting the Honourable Misses Gore and theScullys--who had taken houses in town for the season--dined at _tabled'hote. _ The Miss Duffys were, with the famous Bertha, the terror of the_débutantes. _ The Brennans and the Goulds sat at the same table. May, thinking of Fred, who had promised to come during the evening, leanedback in her chair, looking unutterably bored. Under a window Sir Richardand Sir Charles were immersed in wine and discussion. In earnest tonesthe latter deprecated the folly of indulging in country love; theformer, his hand on the champagne bottle, hiccoughed, 'Mu--ch bettercome up--up Dub--lin, yer know, my boy. But look, look here; I know sucha nice'--a glance round, to make sure that no lady was within earshot;and the conversation lapsed into a still more confidential whisper. 

Mr. Ryan and Mr. Lynch ate their dinner in sullen silence, and at theother end of the long table Mr. Adair--whom it was now confidentlystated Mr. Gladstone could not possibly get on without--talked to Mr. Harding; and when the few dried oranges and tough grapes thatconstituted dessert had been tasted, the ladies got up, and in twos andthrees retired to the ladies' sitting-room. They were followed by LordDungory, Mr. Adair, and Mr. Harding: the other gentlemen--the baronetsand Messrs. Ryan and Lynch--preferring smoke and drink to chatter andoblique glances in the direction of ankle-concealing skirts, went up tothe billiardroom. And the skirts, what an importance they took in thegreat sitting-room full of easy-chairs and Swiss scenery: châlets, lakes, cascades, and chamois, painted on the light-coloured walls. Thebig ottoman was swollen with bustled skirts; the little low seats aroundthe fire disappeared under skirts; skirts were tucked away to hide theslippered feet, skirts were laid out along the sofas to show theelegance of the cut. Then woolwork and circulating novels were produced, and the conversation turned on marriage. Bertha being the only Dublingirl present, all were anxious to hear her speak; after a fewintroductory remarks, she began:

'Oh! so you have all come up to the Castle and are going to bepresented. Well, you'll find the rooms very grand, and the suppers verygood, and if you know a lot of people--particularly the officersquartered here--you will find the Castle balls very amusing. The bestway is to come to town a month before the Drawing-Room, and give a ball;and in that way you get to know all the men. If you haven't done that, Iam afraid you won't get many partners. Even if you do get introduced, they'll only ask you to dance, and you'll never see them again. Dublinis like a racecourse, men come and speak to you and pass on. 'Tispleasant enough if you know people, but as for marriages, there aren'tany. I assure you I know lots of girls--and very pretty girls, too--whohave been going out these six or seven seasons, and who have not beenable to pull it off. '

'And the worst of it is, ' said a girl, 'every year we are growing moreand more numerous, and the men seem to be getting fewer. Nowadays a manwon't look at you unless you have at least two thousand a year. '

Mrs. Barton, who did not wish her daughters to be discouraged from thefirst, settled her skirts with a movement of disdain. Mrs. Gouldpathetically declared she did not believe love to be dead in the worldyet, and maintained her opinion that a nice girl could always marry. ButBertha was not easily silenced, and, being perfectly conversant with hersubject, she disposed of Dublin's claims as a marriage-mart, and shecontinued to comment on the disappointments of girls until theappearance of Lord Dungory and Mr. Harding brought the conversation to asudden close. 

'_Une causerie de femme! que dites-vous?--je le suis--l'amourn'existe plus, et l'âme de l'homme est plus près des sens que l'âme dela femme_, ' said Milord. Everyone laughed; and, with a charming movementof her skirts, Mrs. Barton made room for him to sit beside her. 

Harding withdrew to the other end of the room to resume his reading, andAlice did not dare to hope that he would lay aside his book and come totalk to her. If he did, her mother would ask her to introduce him toher, and she would have to enter into explanations that he and she hadmerely exchanged a few words before dinner. 

She withstood the conversation of the charmed circle as long as shecould, and then boldly crossed the room for a newspaper. Harding rose tohelp her to find one, and they talked together till Milord took him awayto the billiard-room. 

May, who had been vainly expecting Fred the whole evening, said:

'Well, Alice, I hope you have had a nice flirtation?'

'And did you notice, May, how she left us to look for a newspaper. OurAlice is fond of reading, but it was not of reading she was thinkingthis evening. She kept him all to herself at the other end of the room. 'Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, and Alice began to understand that hermother was approving her flirtation. That is the name that her motherwould give her talk with Mr. Harding. 

XVI

During the Dublin Season it is found convenient to give teas: the youngladies have to be introduced to the men they will meet after at theCastle. These gatherings take place at five o'clock in the afternoon;and as Mrs. Barton started from the Shelbourne Hotel for Lady GeorginaStapleton's, she fell to thinking that a woman is never reallyvulnerable until she is bringing out her daughters. Till then the usualshafts directed against her virtue fall harmlessly on either side, butnow they glance from the marriage buckler and strike the daughter infull heart. In the ball-room, as in the forest, the female is mosteasily assailed when guarding her young, and nowhere in the whole animalkingdom is this fact so well exemplified as in Dublin Castle. 

Lady Georgina lived in Harcourt Street, and it was on her way thitherthat something like a regret rose up in Mrs. Barton that she had (shewas forced to confess it) aroused the enmity of women, and persistently. 

Lady Georgina Stapleton was Lord Dungory's eldest sister. She, too, hated Mrs. Barton; but, being poor (Milord used to call himself themilch-cow), she found herself, like the Ladies Cullen, occasionallyobliged to smile upon and extend a welcoming hand to the family enemy;and when Mrs. Barton came to Dublin for the Castle Season, a littlepressure was put upon Lady Georgina to obtain invitations from theChamberlain; the ladies exchanged visits, and there the matter ended, asMrs. Barton and her daughter passed through Stephen's Green, and sheremembered that she had never taken the trouble to conceal her dislikeof the house in Harcourt Street, and some of the hard things she hadsaid when standing on the box-seat of a drag at Punchestown Races hadtravelled back and had found a lasting resting-place in Lady Georgina'swrathful memory. 

'This is considered to be the most artistic house in Dublin, ' said Mrs. Barton, as the servant showed them upstairs. 

'How lovely the camellias look, ' said Olive. 

'And now, Alice, mind, none of your Liberalism in this house, or youwill ruin your sister's chances. '

Lady Georgina wore a wig, or her hair was arranged so as to look likeone. Fifty years had rubbed away much of her youthful ugliness; and, inthe delicate twilight of her rooms, her aristocratic bearing might bemistaken for good looks. 

Lady Georgina was a celebrated needlewoman, and she was now begging LordKilcarney to assist her at a charity bazaar. Few people had yet arrived;and when Harding was announced, Mrs. Barton whispered:

'Here's your friend, Alice; don't miss your chance. '

Then every moment bevies of girls came in and were accommodated withseats, and if possible with young men. Teacups were sent down to bewashed, and the young men were passed from group to group. The youngladies smiled and looked delightful, and spoke of dancing and tennisuntil, replying to an imperative glance from their chaperons, from timeto time they rose to leave; but, obeying a look of supplication fromtheir hostess, the young men remained. 

Lord Kilcarney had been hunted desperately around screens and over everyottoman in the room; and Lady Georgina had proved her goodwill inproportion to the amount of assistance she had lent to her friends inthe chase. Long ago he had been forced away from Olive. Mrs. Bartonendured with stoical indifference the scowls of her hostess; but atlength, compelled to recognize that none of the accidents attendant onthe handing of teacups or the moving of chairs would bring him back, sherose to take her leave. The little Marquis was on his feet in a moment, and, shaking hands with her effusively, he promised to call to see themat the Shelbourne. A glance went round; and of Mrs. Barton's triumphthere could be no doubt. 

'But to-day's success is often a prelude to to-morrow's defeat, ' was LadyGeorgina's comment, and Mrs. Barton and her daughters were discussed asthey walked across the green to their hotel. Nor was Lady Georginaaltogether a false prophet, for next day Mrs. Barton found the Marquis'scards on her table. 'I'm sorry we missed him, ' she said, 'but we haven'ta minute;' and, calling on her daughters to follow, she dashed againinto the whirl of a day that would not end for many hours, though it hadbegun twelve hours ago--a day of haste and anticipation it had been, filled with cries of 'Mamma, ' telegrams, letters, and injunctions not toforget this and that--a day whose skirts trailed in sneers andcriticisms, a hypocritical and deceitful day, a day of intrigue, a dayin which the post-box was the chief factor--a great day withal. 

But above this day, and above all other days, was the day that took themspellbound to the foot of a narrow staircase, a humble flight seemingly, but leading to a temple of tightly-stretched floorcloth, tall wardrobes, and groups and lines of lay figures in eternally ladylike attitudes. 

'Oh! how do you do, Mrs. Barton? We have been expecting you for the lasttwo or three days. I will run upstairs and tell Mrs. Symond that you arehere; she will be so glad to see you. '

'That is Miss Cooper!' explained Mrs. Barton. 'Everyone knows her; shehas been with Mrs. Symond many years. And, as for dear Mrs. Symond, there is no one like her. She knows the truth about everybody. Here shecomes, ' and Mrs. Barton rushed forward and embraced a thin woman withlong features. 

'And how do you do, dear Mrs. Barton, and how well you are looking, andthe young ladies? I see Miss Olive has improved since she was inDublin. ' (In an audible whisper. ) 'Everyone is talking about her. Thereis no doubt but that she'll be the belle of the season. ' (In a stillaudible, but lower tone of voice. ) 'But tell me, is it true that--'

'Now, now, now!' said Mrs. Barton, drowning her words in cascades ofsilvery laughter, 'I know nothing of what you're saying; ha! ha! ha! no, no--I assure you. I will not--'

Then, as soon as the ladies had recovered their composure, a fewquestions were asked about her Excellency, the prospects of the Castleseason, and the fashions of the year. 

'And now tell me, ' said Mrs. Barton, 'what pretty things have you thatwould make up nicely for trains?'

'Trains, Mrs. Barton? We have some sweet things that would make upbeautifully for trains. Miss Cooper, will you kindly fetch over thatcase of silks that we had over yesterday from Paris?'

'The young ladies must be, of course, in white; for Miss Olive I shouldlike, I think, snowdrops; for you, Mrs. Barton, I am uncertain which oftwo designs I shall recommend. Now, this is a perfectly regal material. '

With words of compliment and solicitation, the black-dressed assistantdisplayed the armouries of Venus--armouries filled with the deep blue ofmidnight, with the faint tints of dawn, with strange flowers and birds, with moths, and moons, and stars. Lengths of white silk clear as thenotes of violins playing in a minor key; white poplin falling into foldsstatuesque as the bass of a fugue by Bach; yards of ruby velvet, rich asan air from Verdi played on the piano; tender green velvet, pastoral ashautboys heard beneath trees in a fair Arcadian vale; blue turquoisefaille fanciful as the tinkling of a guitar twanged by a Watteaushepherd; gold brocade, sumptuous as organ tones swelling through thejewelled twilight of a nave; scarves and trains of midnight-blueprofound as the harmonic snoring of a bassoon; golden daffodils violentas the sound of a cornet; bouquets of pink roses and daisies, charmfuland pure as the notes of a flute; white faille, soft draperies of tulle, garlands of white lilac, sprays of white heather, delicate and resonantas the treble voices of children singing carols in dewy English woods;berthas, flounces, plumes, stomachers, lappets, veils, frivolous as thestrains of a German waltz played on Liddell's band. 

An hour passed, but the difficulty of deciding if Olive's dress shouldbe composed of silk or Irish poplin was very great, for, determined thatall should be humiliated, Mrs. Barton laid her plans amid designs fornight and morning; birds fluttering through leafy trees, birds drowsingon bending boughs, and butterflies folding their wings. At a criticalmoment, however, an assistant announced that Mrs. Scully was waiting. The ladies started; desperate effort was made; rosy clouds and veils ofsilver tissue were spoken of; but nothing could be settled, and on thestaircase the ladies had to squeeze into a corner to allow Violet andMrs. Scully to pass. 

'How do you do, Olive? How do you do, Alice? and you, Mrs. Barton, howdo you do? And what are you going to wear? Have you decided on yourdress?'

'Oh! That is a secret that could be told to no one; oh, not for worlds!'said Mrs. Barton. 

'I'm sure it will be very beautiful, ' replied Mrs. Scully, with just areminiscence of the politeness of the Galway grocery business in hervoice. 

'I hear you have taken a house in Fitzwilliam Square for the season?'said Mrs. Barton. 

'Yes, we are very comfortable; you must come and see us. You are at theShelbourne, I believe?'

'Come to tea with us, ' cried Violet. 'We are always at home about five. '

'We shall be delighted, ' returned Mrs. Barton. 

Mrs. Scully's acquaintance with Mrs. Symond was of the slightest; but, knowing that claims to fashion in Dublin are judged by the intimacy youaffect with the dressmaker, she shook her warmly by the hand, andaddressed her as dear Mrs. Symond. To the Christian name of Helen noneless than a Countess dare to aspire. 

'And how well you are looking, dear Mrs. Symond; and when are you goingto take your daughters to the Castle?'

'Oh, not for some time yet; my eldest is only sixteen. '

Mrs. Symonds had three daughters to bring out, and she hoped when herfeet were set on the redoubtable ways of Cork Hill, her fashionablecustomers would extend to her a cordial helping hand. Mrs. Symonds' wasone of the myriad little schemes with which Dublin is honeycombed, andalthough she received Mrs. Scully's familiarities somewhat coldly, shekept her eyes fixed upon Violet. The insidious thinness of the girl'sfigure, and her gay, winsome look interested her, and, as if speaking toherself, she said:

'You will want something very sweet; something quite pure and lovely forMiss Scully?'

Mother and daughter were instantly all attention, and Mrs. Symondcontinued:

'Let me see, I have some Surat silk that would make up sweetly. MissCooper, will you have the kindness to fetch those rolls of Surat silk wereceived yesterday from Paris?'

Then, beautiful as a flower harvesting, the hues and harmonies of earth, ocean, and sky fell before the ravished eyes. The white Surat silk, chaste, beautiful, delicious as that presentiment of shared happinesswhich fills a young girl's mind when her fancy awakens in the softspring sunlight; the white faille with tulle and garlands of whitelilac, delicate and only as sensuous as the first meetings ofsweethearts, when the may is white in the air and the lilac is in bloomon the lawn; trains of blue sapphire broché looped with blue ostrichfeathers, seductive and artificial as a boudoir plunged in a dream ofEss. Bouquet; dove-coloured velvet trains adorned with tulips and tiedwith bows of brown and pink--temperate as the love that endures when thefiery day of passion has gone down; bodices and trains of daffodil silk, embroidered with shaded maple-leaves, impure as lamp-lit andpatchouli-scented couches; trains of white velouture festooned withtulle; trails of snowdrops, icy as lips that have been bought, and coldas a life that lives in a name. 

The beautiful silks hissed as they came through the hands of theassistants, cat-like the velvet footfalls of the velvet fell; it was awitches' Sabbath, and out of this terrible caldron each was to draw hershare of the world's gifts. Smiling and genial, Mrs. Symond stirred theingredients with a yard measure; the girls came trembling, doubting, hesitating; and the anxious mothers saw what remained of theirjeopardized fortunes sliding in a thin golden stream into the flamingfurnace that the demon of Cork Hill blew with unintermittent breath. 

Secrets, what secrets were held on the subject of the presentationdresses! The obscure Hill was bound with a white frill of anticipation. Olive's fame had gone forth. She was admitted to be the new Venus, andLord Kilcarney was spoken of as likely to yield to her the covetedcoronet. Would he marry her without so much as looking at another girl?was the question on every lip, and in the jealousy thus created theappraisers of Violet's beauty grew bolder. Her thinness was condoned, and her refinement insisted upon. Nor were May Gould and her chancesoverlooked by the gossips of Merrion Square. Her flirtation with FredScully was already a topic of conversation. 

Alice knew she was spoken of pityingly, but she hungered little afterthe praise of the Dubliners, and preferred to stay at home and talk toHarding in the ladies' drawing-room rather than follow her mother andsister in their wild hunt after Lord Kilcarney. Through the afternoonteas of Merrion Square and Stephen's Green the chase went merrily. 

XVII

On the night of the Drawing-Room, February 20, 1882, the rain rushedalong the streets; wind, too, had risen, and, threatening to tear everywindow from its sash, it careered in great gusts. Sky there was none, nor sight of anything save when the lightning revealed the outline ofthe housetops. The rattling and the crashing of the thunder wasfearsome, and often, behind their closely drawn curtains, the girlstrembled, and, covering their faces with their hands, forgot the articleof clothing they were in search of. In their rooms all was warm andsnug, and gay with firelight and silk; the chaperons had whispered thatwarm baths were advisable, and along the passages the ladies'-maidspassed hurriedly, carrying cans of hot water, sponges, anddrying-sheets. 

Alice and Olive slept in two rooms on the third floor, on either side oftheir mother; May and Mrs. Gould were on the fourth, and next to May wasFred Scully, who, under the pretext of the impossibility of his agreeingwith his mother concerning the use of a latch-key, had lately moved intothe hotel. May was deeply concerned in Fred's grievance, and, discussingit, or the new Shelbourne scandal--the loves of the large lady and thelittle man at the other end of the corridor--they lingered about eachother's bedroom-doors. Alice could now hear them talking as theydescended the staircase together; then a burst of smothered laughter, and May came in to see her. 

'Oh, how nice you look!'

'If you don't "mash" Mr. Harding to-night, he'll be a tough one indeed. Did I tell you I was talking to him yesterday in the ladies'drawing-room? He is very enticing, but I can't quite make him out: Ithink he despises us all; all but you; about you he said all kinds ofnice things--that you were so clever, and nice, and amusing. And tellme, dear, ' said May, in her warm, affectionate way, 'do you really likehim--you know what I mean?'

May's eyes and voice were so full of significance that to pretend tomisunderstand was impossible. 

'I like Mr. Harding well enough. It is very pleasant to have him to talkto. I am sure I don't want to run down my own sex--there are plentyonly too anxious to do that--but I am afraid that there is not a girl inDublin who thinks of anything except how she is to get married. '

'I don't know about that, ' said May, a little offended. 'I suppose ifyou think of a man at all, you think of how he likes you. '

The defiant tone in which these words were spoken was surprising; and, for a moment, Alice stood staring blankly at this superb cream-fleshedgirl, superb in her dress of cream faille, her sensual beauty poetizedby the long veils which hung like gossamer-webs from the coils of hercopper-gleaming hair. 

'I am afraid, May, ' she said, 'that you think a great deal too much ofsuch things. I don't say anything against Mr. Scully, but I think itright to tell you that he is considered a very dangerous young man; andI am sure it does a girl no good to be seen with him. It was he who . . . '

'Now I'll not hear you abuse Fred, ' cried May. 'We are great friends; Ilike you better than any other girl, and if you value our friendship, you'll not speak to me again like this. I wouldn't put up with it, no, not from my own mother. '

The girl moved towards the door hastily, but Alice laid her hand on herarm, saying:

'You mustn't be angry, May; perhaps you're right; I shouldn't meddle inthings that don't concern me; but then we have been so long friends thatI couldn't help--'

'I know, I know, ' the girl answered, overcome as it were by anatmosphere. 'You were speaking only for my good; but if you're friendswith a person, you can't stand by and hear them abused. I know peoplespeak badly of Fred; but then people are so jealous--and they are alljealous of Fred. '

The girls examined each other's dresses, and at the end of a longsilence May said:

'What an extraordinary thing this Drawing-Room is when one comes tothink of it. Just fancy going to all this expense to be kissed by theLord-Lieutenant--a man one never saw before. Will you feel ashamed whenhe kisses you?'

'Well, I don't know that I have thought much about it, ' said Alice, laughing. 'I suppose it doesn't matter, it is only a ceremony, not areal kiss. '

At this moment Mrs. Barton's voice was heard calling: 'Now, Alice, Alice, where are you? We are waiting for you! Make haste, for goodness'sake; we are very late as it is. '

The trail of a sachet-scented petticoat could be detected on this lengthof Brussels carpet, the acrid vulgarity of eau de Cologne hung like acurtain before an open door, a vision of white silk gleamed for a momentas it fled from room to room: men in a strange garb--black velvet andsteel buttons--hurried away, tripping over their swords, furtivelyashamed of their stockinged calves. On the first landing, about thewinter-garden, a crowd of German waiters, housemaids, billiard-playerswith cigars in their teeth and cues in their hands, had collected;underneath, in the hall, the barmaids, and old ladies, wrapped up inrugs and shawls to save them from the draughts, were criticizing thedresses. Olive's name was on every lip, and to see her all werebreathless with expectation; her matrimonial prospects were discussed, and Lord Kilcarney was openly spoken of. 'Ah! here she is! there sheis!' was whispered. The head-porter, wild with excitement, shouted forMrs. Barton's carriage; three under-porters distended huge umbrellas;the door was opened, an immense wind tore through the hall, sending theold ladies flying back to their sitting-room, and the Bartons, holdingtheir hair and their trains, rushed across the wet pavement and tookrefuge in the brougham. 

'Did one ever see such weather?' said Mrs. Barton. 'I hope your hairisn't ruffled, Olive?'

'No, mamma, I think it is all right. '

Reassured, Mrs. Barton continued: 'I don't think there ever was acountry so hateful as Ireland. What with rain and Land League. I wonderwhy we live here! Did you notice the time, Alice, as we left the hotel?'

'Yes, mamma; it was twenty-five minutes to ten. '

'Oh! we are very late; we shan't be there before ten. The thing to do isto get there about half-past nine; the Drawing-Room doesn't begin beforeeleven; but if you can get into the first lot you can stand at theentrance of Patrick's Hall. I see, Alice, your friend Harding is goingto the Drawing-Room. Now, if you do what I tell you, you won't miss him;for it does look so bad to see a girl alone, just as if she was unableto get a man. '

While Mrs. Barton continued to advise her girls, the carriage rolledrapidly along Stephen's Green. It had now turned into Grafton Street;and on the steep, rain-flooded asphalte, they narrowly escaped anaccident. The coachman, however, steadied his horses, and soon the longcolonnades of the Bank of Ireland were seen on the left. From this pointthey were no longer alone, and except when a crash of thunder drownedevery other sound, the rattling of wheels was heard behind and in frontof them. Carriages came from every side: the night was alive withflashing lamps; a glimpse of white fur or silk, the red breast of auniform, the gold of an epaulette, were seen, and thinking of the blockthat would take place on the quays, the coachmen whipped up theirhorses; but soon the ordering voices of the mantled and mountedpolicemen were heard, and the carriages came to a full stop. 

'We are very late; hundreds will pass before us, ' said Mrs. Bartondespairingly, as she watched the lines of silk-laden carriages thatseemed to be passing them by. But it was difficult to make sure ofanything; and fearful of soiling their gloves, they refrained fromtouching the breath-misted windows. 

Despite the weather the streets were lined with vagrants, patriots, waifs, idlers of all sorts and kinds. Plenty of girls of sixteen andeighteen came out to see the 'finery. ' Poor little things in batteredbonnets and draggled skirts, who would dream upon ten shillings a week;a drunken mother striving to hush a child that cries beneath a drippingshawl; a harlot embittered by feelings of commercial resentment; troopsof labourers; hang-dog faces, thin coats, torn shirts; Irish-Americans, sinister faced, and broad-brimmed. Never were poverty and wealth broughtinto plainer proximity. In the broad glare of the carriage lights theshape of every feature, even the colour of the eyes, every glance, everydetail of dress, every stain of misery were revealed to the silkenexquisites who, a little frightened, strove to hide themselves withinthe scented shadows of their broughams; and in like manner the bloom onevery aristocratic cheek, the glitter of every diamond, the richness ofevery plume, were visible to the wondering eyes of those who stoodwithout in the wet and the cold. 

'I wish they wouldn't stare so, ' said Mrs. Barton; 'one would think theywere a lot of hungry children looking into a sweetmeat shop. The policeought really to prevent it. '

'And how wicked those men in the big hats look, ' said Olive; 'I'm surethey would rob us if they only dared. '

At last the order came that the carriages were to move on, and theyrolled on, now blocked under the black rain-dripping archway of theCastle yard, now delayed as they laboriously made the tour of thequadrangle. Olive doubted if her turn would ever come; but, by slowdegrees, each carriage discharged its cargo of silk, and at last Mrs. Barton and her daughters found themselves in the vestibule, takingnumbers for their wraps at the cloak-rooms placed on either side of thestairway. 

The slender figures ascending to tiny naked shoulders, presented apiquant contrast with the huge, black Assyrian, bull-like policemen, whoguarded the passage, and reduced, by contrast, to almost doll-likeproportions the white creatures who went up the great stairway. Overheadan artificial plant, some twenty feet wide, spread a decorativegreenness; the walls were lined with rifles, and at regular intervals, in lieu of pictures, were set stars made out of swords. There were alsothree suits of plate armour, and the grinning of the helmets of old-timecontrasted with the bearskin-shrouded faces of the red guardsmen. Andthrough all this military display the white ware tripped past powderedand purple-coated footmen, splendid in the splendour of pink calves andsalmon-coloured breeches. 

As the white mass of silk pushed along the white-painted corridor, thesense of ceremony that had till then oppressed it, evaporated in thefumes of the blazing gas, and something like a battle began in the bluedrawing-room. Heat and fatigue soon put an end to all coquetting betweenthe sexes. The beautiful silks were hidden by the crowd; only theshoulders remained, and, to appease their terrible ennui, the men gazeddown the backs of the women's dresses. Shoulders were there, of alltints and shapes. Indeed, it was like a vast rosary, alive with white, pink, and cream-coloured flowers; of Maréchal Niels, Souvenir deMalmaisons, Mademoiselle Eugène Verdiers, Aimée Vibert Scandens. Sweetlyturned, adolescent shoulders, blush-white, smooth and even as the petalsof a Marquise Mortemarle; the strong, commonly turned shoulders, abundant and free as the fresh rosy pink of the Anna Alinuff; thedrooping white shoulders, full of falling contours as a pale MadameLacharme; the chlorotic shoulders, deadly white, of the almost greenishshade that is found in a Princess Clementine; the pert, the daintylittle shoulders, filled with warm pink shadows, pretty and compact asCountess Cécile de Chabrillant; the large heavy shoulders full of vulgarmadder tints, coarse, strawberry-colour, enormous as a Paul Neron;clustering white shoulders, grouped like the blossoms of an Aimée VibertScandens, and, just in front of me, under my eyes, the flowery, thevoluptuous, the statuesque shoulders of a tall blonde woman of thirty, whose flesh is full of the exquisite peach-like tones of a MademoiselleEugène Verdier, blooming in all its pride of summer loveliness. 

To make way for this enormous crowd, the Louis XV. Sofas and arm-chairshad been pushed against the walls, and an hour passed wearily, in allits natural impudence, in this beautiful drawing-room, the brain achingwith dusty odour of poudre de riz, and the many acidities of evaporatingperfume; the sugary sweetness of the blondes, the salt flavours of thebrunettes, and this allegro movement of odours was interrupted suddenlyby the garlicky andante, deep as the pedal notes of an organ, that theperspiring armpits of a fat chaperon exhaled slowly. 

At last there was a move forwards, and a sigh of relief, a grunt ofsatisfaction, broke from the oppressed creatures; but a line ofguardsmen was pressing from behind, and the women were thrown hither andthither into the arms and on to the backs of soldiers, police officers, county inspectors, and Castle underlings. Now a lady turns pale, andwhispers to her husband that she is going to faint; now a young girl'spetticoats have become entangled in the moving mass of legs! She criesaloud for help; her brother expostulates with those around. He isscarcely heeded. And the struggle grows still more violent when itbecomes evident that the guardsmen are about to bring down the bar; and, begging a florid-faced attorney to unloose his sword, which had becomeentangled in her dress, Mrs. Barton called on her daughter, and, slipping under the raised arms, they found themselves suddenly in asquare, sombre room, full of a rich, brown twilight. In one corner therewas a bureau, where an attendant served out blank cards; in another thewhite plumes nodded against the red glare that came from thethrone-room, whence Liddell's band was heard playing waltz tunes, andthe stentorian tones of the Chamberlain's voice called the ladies'names. 

'Have you got your cards?' said Mrs. Barton. 

'I have got mine, ' said Olive. 

'And I have got mine, ' said Alice. 

'Well, you know what to do? You give your card to the aide-de-camp, hepasses it on and spreads out your train, and you walk right up to HisExcellency; he kisses you on both cheeks, you curtsy, and, at the fardoor, two aides-de-camp pick up your train and place it on your arm. '

The girls continued to advance, experiencing the while the nerveatrophy, the systolic emotion of communicants, who, when the bell rings, approach the altar-rails to receive God within their mouths. 

The massive, the low-hanging, the opulently twisted gold candelabra, thesmooth lustre of the marble columns are evocative of the persuasivegrandeur of a cathedral; and, deep in the darkness of the pen, a vastcongregation of peeresses and judges watch the ceremony in devoutcollectiveness. How symmetrical is the place! A red, a well-trimmedbouquet of guardsmen has been set in the middle of the Turkey carpet;around the throne a semicircle of red coats has been drawn, and above itflow the veils, the tulle, the skirts of the ladies-of-honour--they seemlike white clouds dreaming on a bank of scarlet poppies--and the longsad legs, clad in maroon-coloured breeches, is the Lord-Lieutenant, theteeth and the diamonds on his right is Her Excellency. And now alingering survival of the terrible Droit de Seigneur--diminished andattenuated, but still circulating through our modern years--thisceremony, a pale ghost of its former self, is performed; and, havingreceived a kiss on either cheek, the _débutantes_ are free to seek theirbridal beds in Patrick's Hall. 

'Miss Olive Barton, presented by Mrs. Barton!' shouted the Chamberlain. 

Olive abandoned her train to the aides-de-camp; she saw their bentbacks, felt their nimble fingers exhibiting this dress whereon Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Symond had for days been expending all the poetry oftheir natures. What white wonder, what manifold marvel of art! Dress ofsnow satin, skirt quite plain in front. Bodice and train of whitepoplin; the latter wrought with patterns representing night and morning:a morning made of silver leaves with silver birds fluttering throughleafy trees, butterflies sporting among them, and over all a sunriseworked in gold and silver thread; then on the left side the same sunsank amid rosy clouds, and there butterflies slept with folded wing, andthere birds roosted on bending boughs; veils of silver tissue softenedthe edges of the train, silver stars gleamed in the corn-coloured hair, the long hands, gloved with white undressed kid, carried a silver fan;she was adorably beautiful and adorably pale, and she floated throughthe red glare, along the scarlet line, to the weary-looking man inmaroon breeches, like some wonderful white bird of downy plumage. Hekissed her on both cheeks; and she passed away to the farther door, where her train was caught up and handed to her by two aides-de-camp. Hehad seemed to salute her with deference and warmth; his kiss was morethan ceremonial, and eager looks passed between the ladies-of-honourstanding on the estrade; the great bouquet of red-coats placed in themiddle of the floor, animated by one desire, turned its sixteen heads togaze after the wonderful vision of blonde beauty that had come--that hadgone. Mrs. Barton experienced an instant thrill of triumph, and advancedinto the throne. 

In the composition of her dress she had given range to her somewhatflorid taste. The front was brocade, laid upon a ground of grey-pink, shot with orange, and the effect was such as is seen when the sun hangsbehind a lowering grey cloud, tinged with pink. On this were wonderfulsoft-coloured flowers, yellow melting into pink, green fading tomadder-like tints. The bodice and the train were of gold-brown velvetthat matched the gold-brown of the hair. Mrs. Barton was transformedfrom the usual Romney portrait to one by Sir Peter Lely; and when shemade her curtsy, Her Excellency's face contracted, and theladies-of-honour whispered: 'The harm she does her daughters . . . Iwonder . . . '

'Miss Violet Scully, presented by Mrs. Scully, ' shouted the Chamberlain. 

Now there was an admixture of curiosity in the admiration accorded toViolet. Hers was not the plain appealing of Olive's Greek statue-likebeauty; it was rather the hectic erethism of painters and sculptors in aperiod preceding the apogee of an art. She was a statuette in biscuitafter a design by Andrea Mantegna. But the traces of this exquisiteatavism were now almost concealed in the supreme modernity of herattire. From the tiny waist trailed yards of white faille, trimmed withtulle ruchings, frecked as a meadow with faintly-tinted daisies; thehips were engarlanded with daisies, and the flowers melted and bloomedamid snows of faille and tulle. 

The Lord-Lieutenant leaned forward to kiss her, but at that moment ofhis kiss the thunder crashed so loudly that he withdrew from her, and soabruptly that Her Excellency looked surprised. The incident passed, however, almost unperceived. So loud was the thunder, everybody wasthinking of dynamite, and it was some time before even the voluptuousstrains of Liddell's band could calm their inquietude. Nevertheless theChamberlain continued to shout:

'Lady Sarah Cullen, Lady Jane Cullen, Mrs. Scully, presented by LadySarah Cullen. '

Then came a batch of people whom no one knew, and in the front of thesethe aides-de-camp allowed Alice to pass on to His Excellency. She wasprettily dressed, dragging after her a train of white faille trimmedwith sprays of white heather and tulle, the petticoat being beautifullyarranged with folded draperies of crêpe de Chine. 

A number of ladies had collected in the farther ante-room, and, inlines, they stood watching the effluent tide of satin and silkdischarging its volume into the spaces of Patrick's Hall. 

XVIII

'I wish Alice would make haste, and not keep us waiting. I suppose shehas got behind a crowd. Here are the Scullys; let's hide, they don'tknow a creature, and will hang on us. '

Olive and Mrs. Barton tried to slip out of sight, but they were toolate; and a moment after, looking immense in a train and bodice of Lyonsvelvet, Mrs. Scully came up and accosted them. 

'And how do you do, Mrs. Barton?' she said, with a desperate effort tomake herself agreeable;

'I must congratulate you. Everyone is admiring your dress; I assure youyour train looked perfectly regal. '

'I am glad you like it, ' replied Mrs. Barton; 'but what do you think ofOlive? Do you like her dress?'

'Oh, Olive has no need of my praises. If I were not afraid of making hertoo vain I would tell her that all Dublin is talking of her. Indeed, Iheard a gentleman say--a gentleman who, I believe, writes for thepapers--that she will be in the _World_ or _Truth_ next week as thebelle of the season. None of the other young ladies will have a chancewith her. '

'Oh, I don't know about that, ' exclaimed Mrs. Barton, laughing merrily;'haven't you got your Violet?--whom, by the way, you have transformedinto a beautiful daisy. It will be, perhaps, not the Rose nor the Olivethat will carry off the prize, but the daisy. '

Violet glanced sharply at Mrs. Barton, and there was hate in the glance;for, although her mother did not, she understood well what was meant bythe allusion to the daisy, the humblest of the earth's flowers. 

The appearance, however, of Lord Kilcarney brought the conversation to aclose; and, not knowing how to address him, Olive laughed beautifullyfrom behind her silver fan. They entered Patrick's Hall, where LordDungory, Lord Rosshill, and others were waiting to receive Mrs. Barton, who sought for a prominent seat, and dealing out pearly laughs andwinsome compliments to her court, she watched Olive, who, according toorders, had taken Lord Kilcarney to sit on the highest of the series ofbenches that lined one side of the room, which she did, and for a momentMrs. Barton felt as if she held Dublin under her satin shoe. Alice washer only trouble. What would she do with this gawk of a girl? But sooneven this difficulty was solved, for Harding came up and asked her if hemight take her to get an ice. 

'How absurd we looked dressed up in this way, ' said Harding; 'look atthat attorney and the court sword. It would be just as logical to sticka quill pen behind the ear of a fat pig. '

'Well, the sword--I confess I don't see much meaning in that; but therest of the dress is well enough. I don't see why one style of dressshould be more absurd than another, unless it is because it isn't thefashion. '

'Yes, but that is just the reason; just fancy dressing oneself up in thecostume of a bygone time. '

'And is everything that isn't the fashion ridiculous?'

'Ah, there, I fancy, you have the best of the argument. Waiter, astrawberry ice. But did you say you would have strawberry?'

'I don't think I did, for I prefer lemon. '

The centre of the ceiling was filled with an oval picture representingSt. Patrick receiving Pagans into the true faith. The walls were whitepainted, the panels were gold-listed. There were pillars at both ends ofthe room, and in a top gallery, behind a curtain of evergreen plants, Liddell's orchestra continued to pour an uninterrupted flood of waltzmelody upon the sea of satin, silk, poplin, and velvet that surgedaround the buffet, angrily demanding cream ices, champagne, andclaret-cup. Every moment the crowd grew denser, and the red coats of theGuards and the black corded jackets of the Rifles stained like spots ofink and blood the pallor of the background. A few young men lookedelegant and shapely in the velvet and stockings of Court dress. One ofthese was Fred Scully. He was with May, who, the moment she caught sightof Alice, made frantic efforts to reach her. 

'My dear, did anyone ever look so nice! You are as sweet--well, a littlesweeter--than you generally are! How do you do, Mr. Harding? And tellme, Alice, what do you think of my dress?'

May was in cream faille with ruchings of tulle. A beautiful piece ofwhite lilac nestled upon her right breast. 

'You are very nice, May, and I think the white sets off your hair toadvantage. '

'Well, good-bye dear, Fred and I are going into the next room; one is sopushed about here, but there are nice large velvet sofas there where onecan sit and talk. I advise you to come. '

In the reposing shadows of rich velvet and sombre hangings women leanedover the sofas, talking to men in uniform, while two strange-lookingcreatures, in long garments, walked up and down the room--Dons fromTrinity, who argued with Mr. Adair earnestly. 

'He is one of the lights of your county, is he not?' said Harding, indicating Mr. Adair. 

'Oh, yes, ' replied Alice, 'he took honours and a gold medal at TrinityCollege. '

'I know he did, and a capacity for passing competitive examinations isthe best proof of a man's incapacity for everything else. '

'Do you know him?'

'Yes, a little. He wears his University laurels at forty, builds parishschools, and frightens his neighbours with the liberality of hisopinions and the rectitude of his life. '

'But have you seen his pamphlets on the amalgamation of the poorhouses?' said Alice, astonished at the slight consideration afforded tothe rural genius. 

'I have heard of them. It appears he is going in for politics; but hispolitics will be on a par with his saw-mill, and his farmyard inconcrete. Mr. Adair is a well-known person. Every county in England, Ireland, and Scotland, possesses and is proud of its Mr. Adair. '

Alice wondered for some moments in silence; and when suddenly herthoughts detached themselves, she said: 'We didn't see you in theladies' drawing-room. '

'I was very busy all the morning. I had two articles to write for one ofmy papers and some books to review. '

'How nice it must be to have a duty to perform every day; to have alwaysan occupation to which you can turn with pleasure. '

'I don't know that I look upon my ink-bottle as an eternal haven ofbliss. Still, I would sooner contribute articles to daily and weeklypapers than sit in the Kildare Street Club, drinking glasses of sherry. Having nothing to do must be a terrible occupation, and one difficult tofulfil with dignity and honour. But, ' he added, as if a sudden thoughthad struck him, 'you must have a great deal of time on your hands; whydon't you write a novel?'

'Everybody can't write novels. '

'Oh yes, they can. '

'Is that the reason why you advise me to write one?

'Not exactly. Did you ever try to write a story?'

'No, not since I was at school. I used to write stories there, and readthem to the girls, and . . . '

'And what?'

'Oh, nothing; it seems so absurd of me to talk to you about such things;you will only laugh at me just as you did at Mr. Adair. '

'No, I assure you, I am very loyal to my friends. '

'Friends!'

'I should have thought that friendship was a question of sympathy, andnot one of time: but I will withdraw the word. '

'Oh, no, I didn't mean that--I am sure I am very glad . . . '

'Very well, then, we will be friends; and now tell me what you weregoing to say. '

'I have forgotten--what was I saying?'

'You were telling me about something you had written at school. '

'Oh, yes, I remember. I did a little play for the girls to act justbefore we left. '

'What was it about--what was it called?'

'It was not original--it was an adaptation of Tennyson's ballad of KingCophetua. You know Miss Gould--she played the King; and Miss Scully, sheplayed the beggar-maid. But, of course, the whole thing was verychildish. '

At this moment a figure in knee-breeches and flesh-coloured stockingswas seen waving a wand at the far end of the room. He was the usherclearing the way for the viceregal procession. 

The first to appear were the A. D. C. 's. They were followed by the MedicalDepartment, by the Private Secretary, the Military Private Secretary, the Assistant Under Secretaries, by the Gentlemen in Waiting, the Masterof the Horse, the Dean of the Chapel Royal, the Chamberlain, theGentleman Usher, the Comptroller, the State Steward, walking with awand, like a doge in an opera bouffe; then came another secretary, andanother band of the underlings who flock about this mock court. And thencame a heavy-built, red-bearded man, who carried, as one might a baby, ahuge gilt sword in his fat hands. He was followed by their Excellencies. The long, maroon-coloured breeches preserved their usualdisconsolateness, the teeth and diamonds retained their splendour, andthe train--many yards of azure blue richest Duchesse satin, embroideredwith large bouquets of silver lily of the valley, and trimmed withplumes of azure blue ostrich feathers, and bunches of silver coral--wasupheld by two tiny children who tottered beneath its enormous weight. Then another batch of A. D. C. 's-in-Waiting, the ladies of the viceregalfamily: their Excellencies' guests and the ladies in attendance--placedaccording to their personal precedence--brought up the rear of theprocession. 

'Doesn't real, actual life sometimes appear to you, Miss Barton, moredistorted and unreal than a dream? I know it does to me. The spectaclewe have just witnessed was a part of the ages that believed in thegodhead of Christ and the divine right of Kings; but it seems to mestrange that such barbarities should be permitted to loiter. '

'But what has Christianity to do with the procession that has justpassed?'

'Were it not for faith, do you think a mock court would be allowed topromenade in that ludicrous fashion?'

'I'm not sure it is faith that enables them to reverence the sword ofState. Is it not rather that love of ceremonial inherent in us all--moreor less?'

'Perhaps you are right. '

The conversation drifted back to literature; they talked for tenminutes, and then Alice suggested that it was time she should return toMrs. Barton. Patrick's Hall was still crowded, and champagne corksexploded through the babbling of the voices. The squadron of distresseddamsels had not deserted their favourite corner, and they waited aboutthe pillars like cabs on a stand. At this hour a middle-aged marrieddoctor would be welcomed; all were desirous of being seen, if only for amoment, on the arm of a man. Mrs. Barton's triumph was Cæsarean. Morethan half-a-dozen old lords and one young man listened to her bewitchinglaugh, and were fed on the brown flashing gold of her eyes. Milord andRosshill had been pushed aside; and, apart, each sought to convince theother that he was going to leave town by the evening mail. Well in viewof everyone, Olive had spent an hour with Lord Kilcarney. He had justbrought her back to Mrs. Barton. At a little distance the poor Scullysstood waiting. They knew no one, even the Bartons had given them a verycold shoulder. Mrs. Gould, in an old black velvet dress, wondered whyall the nice girls did not get married, and from time to time sheplaintively questioned the passers-by if they had seen May. Violet'ssharp face had grown sharper. She knew she could do something if sheonly got a chance. But would she get a chance? The Ladies Cullen, theirplank-like shoulders bound in grey frisé velvet and steel, were talkingto her. Suddenly Lady Sarah bowed to Lord Kilcarney, and the bow said, 'Come hither!' Leaving Olive he approached. A moment after he wasintroduced to Violet. Her thin face lit up as if from a light within; agrey cloud dimmed the light of Mrs. Barton's golden eyes, and when shesaw _Him_ in the vestibule helping the Scullys on with their wraps, sheshuddered as if struck with a blast of icy wind. 

XIX

 'DUNGORY CASTLE, GORT, 'Co. GALWAY. 

'MY DEAREST ALICE, 'I was so delighted to hear from you; it was very good of you to writeto me. I was deeply interested in your description of the Dublinfestivities, and must try and tell you all the news. 

'Everybody here is talking of Olive and Lord Kilcarney. It is said thathe proposed to her at the Drawing-Room. Is this true? I hope so, for sheseems to have set her heart on the match. But she is a great deal toonice for him. They say that when he is in London he does nothing but goabout from bar-room to bar-room drinking brandies and sodas. It is alsosaid that he used to spend much of his time with actresses. I hope thesestories are false, but I cannot help thinking. . . . Well, we have oftentalked over these things, and you know what my opinions of men are. Ihope I am not doing wrong in speaking like this; but a piece of news hasreached me that forces my thoughts back into the old ways--ways that Iknow you have often reproved me for letting my mind wander in. In aword, darling Alice, I hear that you are very much taken up with a Mr. Harding, a writer, or painter, or something of that sort. Now, will youpromise to write and tell me if this be true? I would sooner know theworst at once--hear that you love him madly, passionately, as I believesome women love men. But you, who are so nice, so good, so beautiful, you could not love a man thus. I cannot think you could--I will notthink you do. I have been crying all the morning, crying bitterly;horrible thoughts have forced themselves on my mind. I have seen (but itwas not true though it seemed so clear; visions are not always true)this man kissing you! Oh! Alice, let me warn you, let me beg of you tothink well before you abandon yourself to a man's power, to a man'slove. 

'But you, Alice; you who are so noble, so pure, so lofty-minded, youwould not soil yourself by giving way to such a sentiment. Write! youwill write, and tell me that what I saw in vision was a lie, anabominable lie! Nay, you do not love Mr. Harding. You will not marryhim; surely you will not. Oh! to be left here alone, never to see youagain--I could not bear it, I should die. You will not leave me to die, Alice dear, you will not; write and tell me you will not. And whatgrieves me doubly is that it must seem to you, dear, that I am onlythinking of myself. I am not; I think of you, I wish to save you fromwhat must be a life of misery and, worse still, of degradation; forevery man is a degradation when he approaches a woman. I know youcouldn't bear up against this; you are too refined, too pure--I cansympathize with you. I know, poor little cripple though I be, thehorrors of married life. I know what men are--you smile your own kind, sweet smile; I see it as I write; but you are wrong: I know nothing ofmen in particular, but I know what the sex is--I know nothing ofindividuals, but I know what life is. The very fact of being forced tolive apart has helped me to realize how horrible life is, and how thepassions of men make it vile and abominable. All their tender littlewords and attentions are but lust in disguise. I hate them! I couldwhip, I could beat, I would torture them; and when I had done my worst Ishould not have done enough to punish them for the wrongs they have doneto my sex. 

'I know, Alice dear, I am writing violently, that I am letting my temperget the better of me, and this is very wrong; you have often told me itis very wrong; but I cannot help it, my darling, when I think of thedanger you are in. I cannot tell you how, but I do know you are indanger; something, some instinct has put me in communication with you:there are moments when I see you, yes, see you sitting by that man--Isee you now:--the scene is a long blue drawing-room all aglow with goldmirrors and wax candles--he is sitting by you, I see you smiling uponhim--my blood boils, Alice--I fear I am going mad; my head drops on thetable, and I strive to shut out the odious sight, but I cannot, Icannot, I cannot. . . . 

'I am calmer now: you will forgive me, Alice dear? I know I am wrong towrite to you in this way, but there are moments when I realize thingswith such horrible vividness that I am, as it were, maddened with pain. Sometimes I awake in the night, and then I see life in all its hideousnakedness, revealed, as it were, by a sudden flash of lightning. Oh, itis terrible to think we are thus. Good-bye, dear, I know you willforgive me, and I hope you will write at once, and will not leave me insuspense: that is the worst torture. With love to our friends Olive, May, and Violet, believe me, darling Alice, 'Yours affectionately, 'CECILIA CULLEN. '

She read steadily, word by word, and then let the letter fall. 

Her vision was not precise, but there were flashes of sun in it, and herthoughts loomed and floated away. She thought of herself, of Harding, oftheir first meeting. The first time she had seen him he was sitting inthe same place and in the same chair as she was sitting in now. Sheremembered the first words that had been spoken: the scene was as clearto her as if it were etched upon her brain; and as she mused she thoughtof the importance of that event. Harding was to her what a mountain isto the level plain. From him she now looked forward and back. 'So peoplesay that I am in love with him! well, supposing I were, I do not knowthat I should feel ashamed of myself. '

The reflection was an agreeable one, and in it her thoughts floated awaylike red-sailed barges into the white mists that veil with dreamyenchantment the wharves and the walls of an ancient town. What did sheknow of him? Nothing! He was to her as much, but no more, than theauthor of a book in which she was deeply interested: with thisdifference:--she could hear him reply to her questions; but his answerswere only like other books, and revealed nothing of his personality. Shewould have liked to have known the individual man surrounded with hisindividual hopes and sufferings, but of these she knew nothing. They hadtalked of all things, but it seemed to her that of the real man she hadnever had a glimpse. Never did he unbend, never did he lift the mask hewore. He was interesting, but very unhuman, and he paraded his ideas andhis sneers as the lay figures did the mail-armour on the castlestairway. She did not know if he were a good or a bad man; she fanciedhe was not very good, and then she grew angry with herself forsuspecting him. But honest or dishonest, she was sure he could love noone; and she strove to recall his face. She could remember nothing butthe cold merciless eyes--eyes that were like the palest blue porcelain:'But how ungrateful I am, ' thought the girl, and she checked the bitterflow of reproaches that rose in her mind. 

Two old ladies sat on the sofa under the window, their white hair andwhite caps coming out very white upon the grey Irish day; and around theottoman the young ladies, Gladys and Zoe Brennan, one of the MissDuffys, and the girl in red, yawned over circulating novels, longingthat a man might come in--not with hope that he would interest them, butbecause they were accustomed to think of all time as wasted that was notspent in talking to a man. 

Nor were they awakened from their languid hopes until Olive came rushinginto the room with a large envelope in her hand. 

'Oh, I see, ' she said, 'you have got a letter from Cecilia. What doesshe say? I got one this morning from Barnes;' and, bending her head, Olive whispered in Alice's ear: 'She says that everyone is talking inGalway of when I shall be a marchioness!'

'Is that the letter?' asked Alice innocently. 

'No, you silly, this is a Castle invitation. '

The Brennans and the girl in red looked up. 

'Ah, is it for to-night or to-morrow?' said the latter. 

'For to-morrow. '

'Now, I wonder if there will be one for me. Is it to dinner or to thedance?'

'To dinner. '

'Ah, really . . . Yes, very lucky. ' Her eyes fell, and her look wasexpressive of her deep disappointment. A dance--yes, but a dinner and adance! Then she continued: 'Ah, the Castle treats us all very badly. Iam glad sometimes when I hear the Land League abusing it. We come uphere, and spend all our money on dresses, and we get nothing for itexcept two State balls, and it is no compliment to ask us to them--theyare obliged to. But what do you think of my little coat? It is this thatkeeps me warm, ' and Miss O'Reilly held out her sealskin for the companyto feel the texture. For the last three weeks she had not failed, on alloccasions, to call attention to this garment--'Signor Parisina had saidit was lovely. ' Here she sighed--Signor Parisina had left the hotel. 'And I have a new dress coming home--it is all red--a cardinal silk--youknow nothing but red suits me!'

'Is the hall-porter distributing the invitations?' asked Gladys Brennan. 'Did he give you yours?'

'No, ours was, of course, directed to mamma; I found it in her room. '

'Then perhaps--' Zoe did not finish the sentence, and both sistersrolled up their worsted-work preparatory to going upstairs. 

In Dublin, during six weeks of the year, the arrival of these largeofficial envelopes is watched with eagerness. These envelopes are thebalm of Gilead; and the Land League and the hopelessness of matchmakingare merged and lost for a moment in an exquisite thrill of triumph ordespair. An invitation to the Castle means much. The greyheaded officialwho takes you down to dinner may bore you, and, at the dance, you mayfind yourself without a partner; but the delight of asking your friendsif you may expect to meet them on such a night, of telling themafterwards of your successes, are the joys of Dublin. And, armed withtheir invitation, the Bartons scored heavily over the Scullys and theGoulds, who were only asked to the dance. 

'And what will the dinner be like, mamma?' asked Olive. 

'It will be very grand. Lord Cowper does things in very good styleindeed; and our names will be given in the papers. But I don't think itwill amuse you, dear. All the officials have to be asked--judges, police-officers, etc. You will probably go down with some old fellow ofsixty: but that can't be helped. At the dance, after, we'll see theMarquis. '

'I told you, mamma, didn't I, that Barnes wrote that everybody in Galwaysaid he was in love with me, and had proposed?'

'You did, dear; and it does no harm for the report to have got about, for if a thing gets very much spoken of, it forces a man to come to thepoint. You will wear your red tulle. I don't know that you look betterin anything else. '

Whatever Mrs. Barton's faults may have been, she did her duty, as sheconceived it, by her daughter; and during the long dinner, through theleaves of the flowering-plants, she watched her Olive anxiously. Ahundred and twenty people were present. Mothers and eligible daughters, judges, lords, police-officers, earls, poor-law inspectors, countesses, and Castle officials. Around the great white-painted, gold-listed wallsthe table, in the form of a horseshoe, was spread. In the soothing lightof the shaded lamps the white glitter of the piled-up silver danced overthe talking faces, and descended in silvery waves into the bosoms of thewomen. Salmon and purple-coloured liveries passed quickly; and in thefragrance of soup and the flavours of sherry, in the lascivious pleasingof the waltz tunes that Liddell's band poured from a top gallery, thegoodly company of time-servers, panders, and others forgot their fearsof the Land League and the doom that was now waxing to fulness. 

To the girls the dinner seemed interminable, but at the 'private dance'afterwards those who were known in official circles, or were fortunateenough to meet their friends, amused themselves. It took place in theThrone-Room. As the guests arrived they scanned each other narrowly. People who had known each other from childhood upwards, as they met onthe landing, affected a look of surprise: 'Oh, so you are here? I wonderhow you got your invitation? Well, I suppose you are better than I tookyou to be!' Acquaintances saluted each other more cordially than wastheir wont: he or she who had dined at the Castle took his or her placeat once among the _élite;_ he or she who had come to dance washenceforth considered worthy of a bow in Grafton Street. For Dublin is acity without a conviction, without an opinion. Things are right andwrong according to the dictum of the nearest official. If it be notabsolutely ill-bred to say you think this, or are inclined to take suchor such a view, it is certainly more advisable to say that theAttorney-General thinks so, or that on one occasion you heard the StateSteward, the Chamberlain, or any other equally distinguished underling, express this or that opinion. Castle tape is worn in time of mourningand in the time of feasting. Every gig-man in the Kildare Street wearsit in his buttonhole, and the ladies of Merrion Square are found to begartered with it. 

Mrs. Barton's first thought was to get Olive partners. Milord and LordRosshill were sent hither and thither, and with such good result thatthe whole evening the beauty was beset with A. D. C. 's. But the Marquishad danced three times with Violet Scully, and Mrs. Barton vented heranger on poor Alice. The girl knew no one, nor was there time tointroduce her to men. She was consequently sent off with Milord to seewhere the Marquis was hiding; and she was commissioned to tell hersister to answer thus when Lord Kilcarney asked for another dance: 'I amengaged, _cher marquis_, but for you, of course, I shall have to throwsome poor fellow over. ' Mrs. Barton did not know how to play a waitinggame. Her tactics were always to grapple with the enemy. She was aHannibal: she risked all to gain all. Mrs. Scully, on the contrary, watched the combat from afar--as Moltke did the German lines when theyadvanced upon Paris. 

The Bartons were not invited to the next private dance, which wasannoying, and after long conjecturing as to the enemy that had servedthem this trick, they resigned themselves to the inevitable, and beganto look forward to the State ball given on the following Monday. 

As they mounted the stairway Mrs. Barton said:

'You know we turn to the left this time and enter Patrick's Hall by thisend; the other entrance is blocked up by the daïs--only the three andfour season girls stand about the pillars. There they are drawn up inbattle array. '

'I declare Olive Barton is here!' whispered the redoubtable Bertha;'this doesn't look as if the beaux were coming forward in theirhundreds. It is said that Lord Kilcarney has given her up for VioletScully. '

'I'm not a bit surprised, ' said the girl in red; 'and, now I think ofit, all the beauties come to the same end. I'll just give her a couplemore Castle seasons. It is that that will pull the fine feathers out ofher. '

St. Patrick's Hall was now a huge democratic crush. All the little sharpglances of the 'private dances, ' 'What, you here!' were dispensed withas useless, for all were within their rights in being at the ball. Theypushed, laughed, danced. They met as they would have met in Rotten Row, and they took their amusement with the impartiality of pleasure-seekersjigging and drinking in a marketplace on fair-day. On either side of theHall there were ascending benches; these were filled with chaperons and_débutantes_, and over their heads the white-painted, gold-listed wallswere hung with garlands of evergreen oak interwoven with the celebratedsilver shields, the property of the Cowper family, and in front of thecurtains hanging about the daïs, the maroon legs of His Excellency, andthe teeth and diamonds of Her Excellency, were seen passing to and fro, and up and down to the music of oblivion that Liddell dispensed with aflowing arm. 

'Now aren't the Castle balls very nice?' said Bertha; 'and how are youamusing yourself?'

'Oh, very much indeed, ' replied the poor _débutante_ who had not even abrother to take her for a walk down the room or to the buffet for anice. 

'And is it true, Bertha, ' asks the fierce aunt--'you know all thenews--that Mr. Jones has been transferred to another ship and has goneoff to the Cape?'

'Yes, yes, ' replied the girl; 'a nice end to her beau; and afterdinnering him up the whole summer, too. '

Alice shuddered. What were they but snowflakes born to shine for amoment and then to fade, to die, to disappear, to become part of theblack, the foul-smelling slough of mud below? The drama in muslin wasagain unfolded, and she could read each act; and there was a 'curtain'at the end of each. The first was made of young, hopeful faces, thesecond of arid solicitation, the third of the bitter, malignant tonguesof Bertha Duffy and her friend. She had begun to experience the worsthorrors of a Castle ball. She was sick of pity for those around her, andher lofty spirit resented the insult that was being offered to her sex. 

'Have you been long here, Miss Barton?' She looked up. Harding was byher! 'I have been looking out for you, but the crowd is so great that itis hard to find anyone. '

'I think we arrived about a quarter to eleven, ' Alice answered. 

Then, after a pause, Harding said: 'Will you give me this waltz?' Sheassented, and, as they made their way through the dancers, he added:'But I believe you do not care about dancing. If you'd prefer it, wemight go for a walk down the room. Perhaps you'd like an ice? This isthe way to the buffet. '

But Alice and Harding did not stop long there; they were glad to leavethe heat of gas, the odour of sauces, the effervescence of the wine, thedetonations of champagne, the tumult of laughter, the racing of plates, the heaving of bosoms, the glittering of bodices, for the peace and thepale blue refinement of the long blue drawing-room. How much of oursentiments and thoughts do we gather from our surroundings; and theshining blue of the turquoise-coloured curtains, the pale dead-blue ofthe Louis XV. Furniture, and the exquisite fragility of the glasschandeliers, the gold mirrors rutilant with the light of some hundredsof tall wax candles, were illustrative of the light dreams and delicatelassitude that filled the souls of the women as they lay back whisperingto their partners, the crinolettes lifting the skirts over the edges ofthe sofas. Here the conversation seems serious, there it is smiling, andbroken by the passing and repassing of a fan. 

'Only four days more of Dublin, ' said Harding; 'I have settled, orrather the fates have settled, that I am to leave next Saturday. '

'And where are you going? to London?'

'Yes, to London. I am sorry I am leaving so soon; but it can't behelped. I have met many nice people here--some of whom I shall not beable to forget. '

'You speak as if it were necessary to forget them--it is surely alwaysbetter to remember. '

'I shall remember you. '

'Do you think you will?'

At this moment only one thing in the world seemed to be of much realimportance--that the man now sitting by her side should not be takenaway from her. To know that he existed, though far from her, would bealmost enough--a sort of beacon-light--a light she might never reach to, but which would guide her . . . Whither?

In no century have men been loved so implicitly by women as in thenineteenth; nor could this be otherwise, for putting aside the fact thatthe natural wants of love have become a nervous erethism in the strugglethat a surplus population of more than two million women has created, there are psychological reasons that to-day more than ever impel women toshrink from the intellectual monotony of their sex, and to view withincreasing admiration the male mind; for as the gates of the harem arebeing broken down, and the gloom of the female mind clears, it becomescertain that woman brings a loftier reverence to the shrine of man thanshe has done in any past age, seeing, as she now does, in him theincarnation of the freedom of which she is vaguely conscious and whichshe is perceptibly acquiring. So sets the main current that is bearingcivilization along; but beneath the great feminine tide there is anundercurrent of hatred and revolt. This is particularly observable inthe leaders of the movement; women who in the tumult of theiraspirations, and their passionate yearnings towards the new ideal, andthe memory of the abasement their sex have been in the past, and arestill being in the present, subjected to, forget the laws of life, andwith virulent virtue and protest condemn love--that is to say, love inthe sense of sexual intercourse--and proclaim a higher mission for womanthan to be the mother of men: and an adjuvant, unless corrected bysanative qualities of a high order, is, of course, found in any physicaldefect. But as the corporeal and incorporeal hereditaments of AliceBarton and Lady Cecilia Cullen were examined fully in the beginning ofthis chapter, it is only necessary to here indicate the order ofideas--the moral atmosphere of the time--to understand the efflorescenceof the two minds, and to realize how curiously representative they areof this last quarter of the nineteenth century. 

And it was necessary to make that survey of psychical cause and effectto appreciate the sentiments that actuated Alice in her relationshipwith Harding. She loved him, but more through the imagination than theheart. She knew he was deceiving her, but to her he meant so much thatshe had not the force of will to cast him off, and abandoned herself tothe intellectual sensualism of his society. It was this, and nothingmore. What her love might have been it is not necessary to analyze; inthe present circumstances, it was completely merged in the knowledgethat he was to her, light, freedom, and instruction, and that when heleft, darkness and ignorance would again close in upon her. They had notspoken for some moments. With a cruelty that was peculiar to him, hewaited for her to break the silence. 

'I am sorry you are going away; I am afraid we shall never meet again. '

'Oh yes, we shall, ' he replied: 'you'll get married one of these daysand come to live in London. '

'Why should I go to live in London?'

'There are Frenchmen born in England, Englishmen born in France. Heinewas a Frenchman born in Germany--and you are a Kensingtonian. I seenothing Irish in you. Oh, you are very Kensington, and therefore youwill--I do not know when or how, but assuredly as a stream goes to theriver and the river to the sea, you will drift to your nativeplace--Kensington. But do you know that I have left the hotel? Therewere too many people about to do much work, so I took rooms inMolesworth Street--there I can write and read undisturbed. You mightcome and see me. '

'I should like to very much, but I don't think I could ask mother tocome with me; she is so very busy just now. '

'Well, don't ask your mother to come; you won't be afraid to comealone?'

'I am afraid I could not do that. '

'Why not? No one will ever know anything about it. '

'Very possibly, but I don't think it would be a proper thing to do--Idon't think it would be a _right_ thing to do. '

'Right! I thought we had ceased to believe in heaven and hell. '

'Yes; but does that change anything? There are surely duties that we oweto our people, to our families. The present ordering of things may beunjust, but, as long as it exists, had we not better live in accordancewith it?'

'A very sensible answer, and I suppose you are right. '

Alice looked at him in astonishment, but she was shaken too intensely inall her feelings to see that he was perfectly sincere, that his answerwas that of a man who saw and felt through his intelligence, and not hisconscience. 

The conversation had come to a pause, and the silence was brokensuddenly by whispered words, and the abundant laughter that wasseemingly used to hide the emotions that oppressed the speakers. Finallythey sat down quite close to, but hidden from, Alice and Harding by ascreen, and through the paper even their breathing was audible. All thedancers were gone; there was scarcely a white skirt or black coat in thepale blueness of the room. Evidently the lovers thought they were wellout of reach of eavesdroppers. Alice felt this, but before she couldrise to go Fred Scully had said--

'Now, May, I hope you won't refuse to let me come and see you in yourroom to-night. It would be too cruel if you did. I'll steal along thepassage; no one will hear, no one will ever know, and I'll be so verygood. I promise you I will. '

'Oh, Fred, I'm afraid I can't trust you; it would be so very wicked. '

'Nothing is wicked when we really love; besides, I only want to talk toyou. '

'You can talk to me here. '

'Yes, but it isn't the same thing; anyone can talk to you here. I wantto show you a little poem I cut out of a newspaper to-day for you. I'llsteal along the passage--no one will ever know. '

'You'll promise to be very good, and you won't stop more than fiveminutes. '

The words were spoken in low, soft tones, exquisitely expressive of theoverthrow of reason and the merging of all the senses in the sweetabandonment of passion. 

Alice sat unable to move, till at last, awakening with a pained look inher grey eyes, she touched Harding's hand with hers, and, laying herfinger on her lips, she arose. Their footfalls made no sound on thedeep, soft carpet. 

'This is very terrible, ' she murmured, half to herself. 

Harding had too much tact to answer; and, taking advantage of theappearance of Violet Scully, who came walking gaily down the room on theMarquis's arm, he said:

'Your friend Miss Scully seems to be in high spirits. '

Violet exchanged smiles with Alice as she passed. The smile was one oftriumph. She had waltzed three times with the Marquis, and was now goingto sit out a set of quadrilles. 

'What a beautiful waltz the _Blue Danube_ is!' she said, leading heradmirer to where the blue fans were numerous. Upon the glistening pianostood a pot filled with white azaleas; and, in the pauses of theconversation, one heard the glass of the chandeliers tinkling gently tothe vibration of the music. 

'It is a beautiful waltz when I am dancing it with you. '

'I am sure you say that to every girl you dance with. '

'No, I shouldn't know how to say so to anyone but you, ' said the littleman humbly; and so instinct were the words with truth that the girl, inthe violence of her emotion, fancied her heart had ceased to beat. 

'But you haven't known me a fortnight, ' she answered involuntarily. 

'But that doesn't matter; the moment I saw you, I--I--liked you. It isso easy to know the people we--like; we know it at once--at least I do. '

She was more self-possessed than he, but the words 'Am I--am I going tobe a marchioness?' throbbed like a burning bullet sunk into the verycentre of her forehead. And to maintain her mental equipoise she wasforced, though by doing so she felt she was jeopardizing her chances, tocoquette with him. After a long silence she said:

'Oh, do you think we know at first sight the people we like? Do youbelieve in first impressions?'

'My first and last impressions of you are always the same. All I know isthat when you are present all things are bright, beautiful, andcheering, and when you are away I don't much care what happens. Now, these Castle balls used to bore me to death last year; I used to go intoa back room and fall asleep. But this year I am as lively as a kitten--Ithink I could go on for ever, and the Castle seems to me the mostglorious place on earth. I used to hate it; I was as bad as Parnell, butnot for the same reasons, of course. Now I am only afraid he will havehis way, and they'll shut the whole place up. Anyhow, even if they do, Ishall always look back upon this season as a very happy time. '

'But you do not really think that Parnell will be allowed to have hisway?' said Violet inadvertently. 

'I don't know; I don't take much interest in politics, but I believethings are going to the bad. Dublin, they say, is undermined with secretsocieties, and the murder that was committed the other day in SackvilleStreet was the punishment they inflict on those whom they suspect ofbeing informers, even remotely. '

'But don't you think the Government will soon be obliged to step in andput an end to all this kind of thing?'

'I don't know; I'm afraid they'll do nothing until we landlords are allruined. '

Violet's thin face contracted. She had introduced a subject that mightprevent him from ever proposing to her. She knew how heavily theKilcarney estates were mortgaged; and, even now, as she rightlyconjectured, the poor little man was inwardly trembling at the folly ithad been on his lips to speak. Three of his immediate ancestors hadmarried penniless girls, and it was well known that another love-matchwould precipitate the property over that precipice known to every Irishlandowner--the Encumbered Estates Court. But those dainty temples, sofinely shaded with light brown tresses, that delicately mouldedhead--delicate as an Indian carven ivory, dispelled all thoughts of hisproperty, and he forgot his duty to marry an heiress. Violet meanwhile, prompted by her instinct, said the right words:

'But things never turn out as well or as badly as we expect them to. '

This facile philosophy went like wine to the little Marquis's head, andhe longed to throw himself at the feet of his goddess and thank her forthe balm she had poured upon him. The gloom of approaching ruindisappeared, and he saw nothing in the world but a white tulle skirt, athin foot, a thin bosom, and a pair of bright grey eyes. Vaguely hesought for equivalent words, but loud-talking dancers passed into theroom, and, abashed by their stares, the Marquis broke off a floweringbranch and said, stammering the while incoherently:

'Will you keep this in memory of this evening?'

Violet thrust the flowers into her bosom, and was about to thank him, when an A. D. C. Came up and claimed her for the dance. She told him hewas mistaken, that she was engaged; and, taking Lord Kilcarney's arm, they made their way in silence back to the ball-room. Violet wassatisfied; she felt now very sure of her Marquis, and, as theyapproached Mrs. Scully, a quick glance said that things were going assatisfactorily as could be desired. Not daring to trust herself to thegossip of the chaperons, this excellent lady sat apart, maintaining thesolitary dignity to which the Galway counter had accustomed her. Shereceived the Marquis with the same smile as she used to bestow on herbest customers, and they talked for a few minutes of the differentaspects of the ball-room, of their friends, of things that did notinterest them. Then Violet said winsomely, affecting an accent ofcommand that enchanted him:

'Now I want you to go and dance with someone else; let me see--what doyou say to Olive Barton? If you don't, I shall be in her mother's blackbooks for the rest of my life. Now go. We shall be at home to-morrow;you might come in for tea;' and, suffocated with secret joy, LordKilcarney made his way across the room to Mrs. Barton, who foolishlycancelled a couple of Olive's engagements, and sent her off to dancewith him, whereas wise Violet sat by her mother, refusing all herpartners; but, when _God Save the Queen_ was played, she accepted LordKilcarney's arm, and they pressed forward to see the Lord-Lieutenant andHer Excellency pass down the room. 

Violet's eyes feasted on the bowing black coats and light toilettes, and, leaning on her escutcheon, she dreamed vividly of the followingyear when she would take her place amid all these noble people, and, ashigh as they, stand a peeress on the daïs. 

XX

'So you couldn't manage to keep him after all, my lady? When did heleave the hotel?'

'Mr. Harding left Dublin last Monday week. '

Alice wondered if her mother hated her; if she didn't, it was difficultto account for her cruel words. And this was the girl's grief, and shefeared that hatred would beget hatred, and that she would learn to hateher mother. But Mrs. Barton was a loving and affectionate mother, whowould sacrifice herself for one child almost as readily for the other. In each of us there are traits that the chances of life have neverrevealed; and though she would have sat by the bedside, even if Alicewere stricken with typhoid fever, Mrs. Barton recoiled spitefully like acat before the stern rectitudes of a nature so dissimilar from her own. She had fashioned Olive, who was now but a pale copy of her motheraccording to her guise: all the affectations had been faithfullyreproduced, but the charm of the original had evaporated like a perfume. It would be rash to say that Mrs. Barton did not see that the weaponswhich had proved so deadly in her hands were ineffectual in herdaughter's; but twenty years of elegant harlotry had blunted her finerperceptions, and now the grossest means of pushing Olive and the Marquismorally and physically into each other's arms seemed to her the best. Alice was to her but a plain girl, whose misfortune was that she hadever been born. This idea had grown up with Mrs. Barton, and fifteenyears ago she had seen in the child's face the spinster of fifty. Butsince the appearance of Harding, and the manifest interest he had shownin her daughter, Mrs. Barton's convictions that Alice would never beable to find a husband had been somewhat shaken, and she had almostconcluded that it would be as well--for there was no knowing what men'stastes were--to give her a chance. Nor was the dawning fancy dispelledby the fact that Harding had not proposed, and the cutting words she hadaddressed to the girl were the result of the nervous irritation causedby the marked attention the Marquis was paying Violet Scully. 

For, like Alice, Mrs. Barton never lived long in a fool's paradise, andshe now saw that the battle was going against her, and would mostassuredly be lost unless a determined effort was made. So she delayednot a moment in owning to herself that she had committed a mistake ingoing to the Shelbourne Hotel. Had she taken a house in Mount Street orFitzwilliam Place, she could have had all the best men from the barrackscontinually at her house. But at the hotel she was helpless; there weretoo many people about, too many beasts of women criticizing her conduct. Mrs. Barton had given two dinner-parties in a private room hired for theoccasion; but these dinners could scarcely be called successful. On oneoccasion they had seven men to dinner, and as some half-dozen moreturned in in the evening, it became necessary to send down to theladies' drawing-room for partners. Bertha Duffy and the girl in red ofcourse responded to the call, but they had rendered everything odious bycontinuous vulgarity and brogue. Then other mistakes had been made. Acharity costume ball had been advertised. It was to be held in theRotunda. An imposing list of names headed the prospectus, and it wasconfidently stated that all the lady patronesses would attend. Mrs. Barton fell into the trap, and, to her dismay, found herself and hergirls in the company of the rag, tag, and bobtail of Catholic Dublin:Bohemian girls fabricated out of bed-curtains, negro minstrels that anapplication of grease and burnt cork had brought into a filthyexistence. And from the single gallery that encircled this tomb-likebuilding the small tradespeople looked down upon the multicoloured crowdthat strove to dance through the mud that a late Land League meeting hadleft upon the floor; and all the while grey dust fell steadily into thedancers' eyes and into the sloppy tea distributed at counters placedhere and there like coffee-stands in the public street. 

'I never felt so low in my life, ' said the lady who always brought backan A. D. C. From the Castle, and the phrase was cited afterwards as beingadmirably descriptive of the festival. 

When it became known that the Bartons had been present at this ball, that the beauty had been seen dancing with the young Catholic nobodies, their names were struck off the lists, and they were asked to no moreprivate dances at the Castle. Lord Dungory was sent to interview theChamberlain, but that official could promise nothing. Mrs. Barton's handwas therefore forced. It was obligatory upon her to have some placewhere she could entertain officers; the Shelbourne did not lend itselfto that purpose. She hired a house in Mount Street, and one thatpossessed a polished floor admirably suited to dancing. 

Then she threw off the mask, and pirate-like, regardless of the laws ofchaperons, resolved to carry on the war as she thought proper. She'dhave done once and for ever with those beasts of women who abused andcriticized her. Henceforth she would shut her door against them all, andit would only be open to men--young men for her daughters, elderly menfor herself. At four o'clock in the afternoon the entertainment began. Light refreshments, consisting of tea, claret, biscuits, and cigarettes, were laid out in the dining-room. Having partaken, the company, consisting of three colonels and some half-dozen subalterns, wentupstairs to the drawing-room. And in recognition of her flirtation withHarding, a young man replaced Alice at the piano, and for half-a-crownan hour supplied the necessary music. 

Round and round the girls went, passing in turn out of the arms of anold into those of a young man, and back again. If they stayed their feetfor a moment, Mrs. Barton glided across the floor, and, with insinuatinggestures and intonations of voice, would beg of them to continue. Shedeclared that it was _la grâce et la beauté_, etc. The merriment did notcease until half-past six. Some of the company then left, and some fewwere detained for dinner. A new pianist and fresh officers arrived aboutnine o'clock, and dancing was continued until one or two in the morning. To yawning subalterns the house in Mount Street seemed at first like alittle paradise. The incessant dancing was considered fatiguing, butthere were interludes in which claret was drunk, cigarettes smoked, andloose conversation permitted in the dining-room. 

Then the dinners! Mrs. Barton's dinners are worthy of special study. Hercircle of acquaintances being limited, the same guests were generallyfound at her table. Lord Dungory always sat next to her. He displayedhis old-fashioned shirt-front, his cravat, his studs, his urbanity, hisFrench epigram. Lord Rosshill sat opposite him; he was thin, melancholy, aristocratic, silent, and boring. There was a captain who, since he hadleft the army, had grown to the image of a butler, and an ashen-tintedyoung man who wore his arm in a sling; and an old man, who looked like adirty and worn-out broom, and who put his arm round the backs of thechairs. These and three A. D. C. 's made up the party. There was verylittle talking, and what there was was generally confined to asking theyoung ladies if they had been to the Castle, and if they liked dancing. 

The Marquis was a constant, although an unwilling guest at all theseentertainments. He would fain have refused Mrs. Barton's hospitalities, but so pressing was she that this seemed impossible. There were timeswhen he started at the postman's knock as at the sound of a LandLeaguer's rifle. Too frequently his worst fears were realized. '_Moncher Marquis_, it will give us much pleasure if you will dine with usto-morrow night at half-past seven. ' 'Dear Mrs. Barton, I regretextremely that I am engaged for to-morrow night. ' An hour later, '_Moncher Marquis_, I am very sorry you cannot come to-morrow night, butThursday will suit us equally well. ' What was to be done? A secondexcuse would result only in a proposal to fix a day next week; betteraccept and get it over. He must do this or send a rude message to theeffect that he was engaged for every day he intended to dine out thatseason, and he lacked the moral courage to write such a letter. Mrs. Barton's formula for receiving the Marquis never varied. If he arrivedearly he found Olive waiting to receive him in the drawing-room. She wasalways prepared with a buttonhole, which she insisted on arranging andpinning into his coat. Then allusion was made to the forget-me-nots thatthe bouquet was sure to contain; and laughing vacantly--for laughterwith Olive took the place of conversation--she fled through the rooms, encouraging him to pursue her. During dinner attempts were made toexchange a few words, but without much success. Nor was it until Olivepelted him with flowers, and he replied by destroying another bouquetand applying it to the same purpose, that much progress was made towardsintimacy. But this little scene was exceptional, and on all otheroccasions Lord Kilcarney maintained an attitude of reserve. 

Mrs. Barton was at her wits' end. Three days ago she had met him walkingin Grafton Street with Violet; yesterday she had caught sight of himdriving towards Fitzwilliam Place in a four-wheeler. She had fortunatelya visit to pay in that neighbourhood, and was rewarded by seeing theMarquis's cab draw up before the Scullys' door. The mere fact that heshould use a cab instead of an outside car was a point to consider, butwhen she noticed that one of the blinds was partially drawn down, herheart sank. Nor did the secret of this suspicious visit long remain herexclusive property. As if revealed by those mysteriously subtle oral andvisual faculties observed in savage tribes, by which they divine theapproach of their enemies or their prey, two days had not elapsed beforethe tongue of every chaperon was tipped with the story of thefour-wheeler and the half-drawn blind, but it was a distinctlylatter-day instinct that had led these ladies to speak of there havingbeen luggage piled upon the roof of this celebrated cab. Henceforth eye, ear, and nostril were open, and in the quivering ardour of the chasethey scattered through the covers of Cork Hill and Merrion Square, passing from one to the other, by means of sharp yelps and barkings, every indication of the trail that came across their way. Sometimeshearkening to a voice they had confidence in, they rallied at a singlepoint, and then an old bitch, her nose in the air, her capstringshanging lugubriously on either side of her weatherbeaten cheeks, wouldutter a deep and prolonged baying; a little farther on the scent wasrecovered, and, with sterns wagging and bristles erect, they hunted thequarry vigorously. Every moment he was expected to break--fear was evenexpressed that he might end by being chopped. 

The Shelbourne Hotel was a favourite meet, and in the ladies'drawing-room each fresh piece of news was torn with avidity. Theconsumption of notepaper was extraordinary. Two, three, four, and evenfive sheets of paper were often filled with what these scavengeressescould rake out of the gutters of gossip. 'Ah! me arm aches, and thesleeve of me little coat is wore; I am so eager to write it all off tome ant, that I am too impatient to wait to take it off, ' was the verbalform in which the girl in red explained her feelings on the subject. Bertha Duffy declared she would write no more; that she was ruiningherself in stamps. Nor were the pens of the Brennans silent; and lookingover their shoulders, on which the mantles of spinsterhood were fastdescending, one read: 'I hear they danced at the Castle three timestogether last night . . . A friend of mine saw them sitting in MerrionSquare the whole of one afternoon. . . . They say that if he marries her, that he'll be ruined. . . . The estates are terribly encumbered . . . Hisfamily are in despair about it. . . . Violet is a very nice girl, but weall know her mother sold bacon behind a counter in Galway. . . . He neverlooks at Olive Barton now; this is a sad end to her beau, and afterfeeding him up the whole season. . . . He dined there three times a week:Mrs. Barton took the house on purpose to entertain him. . . . It is saidthat she offered him twenty thousand pounds if he'd marry herdaughter. . . . The money that woman spends is immense, and no one knowswhence it comes. '

In these matrimonial excitements the amatories of the lady who broughtthe A. D. C. Home from the Castle passed unheeded. The critical gaze ofher friends was sorely distracted, and even the night porter forgot toreport the visits of her young gentlemen. May, too, profited largely bythe present ferment of curiosity; and, unobserved, she kept her trystswith Fred Scully at the corners of this and that street, and in thehotel they passed furtively down this passage and up that pair ofstairs; when disturbed they hid behind the doors. 

Mrs. Gould lived in ignorance of all this chambering folly, spending hertime either writing letters or gossiping about Lord Kilcarney in thedrawing-room. And when she picked up a fragment of fresh news she lostnot a moment, but put on her bonnet and carried it over to Mount Street. So assiduous was she in this self-imposed duty, that Mrs. Barton wasobliged at last to close her door against this obtrusive visitor. 

But one day, after a moment of intense reflection, Mrs. Barton concludedthat she was losing the battle--that now, in the eleventh hour, it couldonly be snatched out of defeat by a bold and determined effort. She satdown and penned one of her admirable invitations to dinner. An hourlater a note feebly pleaded a 'previous engagement. ' Undaunted, she satdown again and wrote: 'Tomorrow will suit us equally well. ' The Marquisyielded; and Lord Dungory was ordered, when he found himself alone withhim in the dining-room, to lose no opportunity of insisting upon theimminent ruin of all Irish landlords. He was especially enjoined to saythat, whatever chance of escape there was for the owners of unencumberedproperties, the doom of those who had mortgages to pay had been sounded. Milord executed his task with consummate ability; and when the _grandparti_ entered the drawing-room, his thoughts were racked with horribleforebodings. The domain woods, the pride of centuries, he saw plunderedand cut down; lawns, pleasure-grounds, and gardens distributed amongpeasants, and he, a miserable outcast, starving in a Belgianboarding-house. Mrs. Barton's eyes brightened at the distressedexpression of his face. Olive brought in the buttonhole and went to thepiano; Milord engaged Alice's attention; and the Marquis was led intothe adjoining room. 

'The season is now drawing to its close, ' Mrs. Barton said; 'we shall besoon returning to Galway. We shall be separating. I know Olive likesyou, but if there is no--if it is not to be, I should like to tell hernot to think about it any more. '

The Marquis felt the earth gliding. What could have tempted the woman tospeak like this to him? What answer was he to make her? He struggledwith words and thoughts that gave way, as he strove to formulate asentence, like water beneath the arms of one drowning. 

'Oh, really, Mrs. Barton, ' he said, stammering, speaking like one in adream, 'you take me by surprise. I did not expect this; you certainlyare too kind. In proposing this marriage to me, you do me an honour Idid not anticipate, but you know it is difficult offhand, for I am boundto say . . . At least I am not prepared to say that I am in love with yourdaughter. . . . She is, of course, very beautiful, and no one admires hermore than I, but--'

'Olive will have twenty thousand pounds paid down on her wedding-day;not promised, you know, but paid down; and in the present times I thinkthis is more than most girls can say. Most Irish properties areembarrassed, mortgaged, ' she continued, risking everything to gaineverything, 'and twenty thousand pounds would be a material help to mostmen. At my death she will have more; I--'

'Oh, Mrs. Barton, do not let us speak of that!' cried the little man. 

'And why not? Does it prove that because we are practical, we do notcare for a person? I quite understand that it would be impossible foryou to marry without money, and that Olive will have twenty thousandpaid down on her wedding-day will not prevent you from being very fondof her. On the contrary, I should think--'

'Twenty thousand pounds is, of course, a great deal of money, ' said thelittle man, shrinking, terror-stricken, from a suddenly protrudingglimpse of the future with which Milord had previously poisoned hismind. 

'Yes, indeed it is, and in these times, ' urged Mrs. Barton. 

The weak grey eyes were cast down, abashed by the daring determinationof the brown. 

'Of course Olive is a beautiful girl, ' he said. 

'And she is so fond of you, and so full of affection. . . . '

The situation was now tense with fear, anxiety, apprehension; and withresolute fingers Mrs. Barton tightened the chord until the required notevibrated within the moral consciousness. The poor Marquis felt hisstrength ebbing away; he was powerless as one lying in the hot chamberof a Turkish bath. Would no one come to help him? The implacable melodyof _Dream Faces_, which Olive hammered out on the piano, agonized him. If she would stop for one moment he would find the words to tell hermother that he loved Violet Scully and would marry none other. But bang, bang, bang the left hand pounded the bass into his stunned ears, and theeyes that he feared were fixed upon him. He gasped for words, he feltlike a drunkard who clutches the air as he reels over a precipice, andthe shades of his ancestors seemed to crowd menacingly around him. Hestrove against his fears until a thin face with luminous eyes shonethrough the drifting wrack like a stars. 

'But we have seen so little of each other, ' he said at last; 'MissBarton is a great beauty, I know, and nobody appreciates her beauty morethan I, but I am not what you call in love with her. '

He deplored the feebleness of his words, and Mrs. Barton swooped uponhim again. 

'You do not love her because, as you say, you have seen very little ofeach other. We are going down to Brookfield to-morrow. We shall be veryglad if you will come with us, and in the country you will have anopportunity of judging, of knowing her: and she is such an affectionatelittle thing. '

Affrighted, the Marquis sought again for words, and he glanced at historturer timidly, like the hare on the ever-nearing hounds. Why did shepursue him, he asked, in this terrible way? Had she gone mad? What washe to say? He had not the courage to answer no to her face. Besides, ifViolet would not have him, he might as well save the family estates. IfViolet refused him! Then he didn't care what became of him! He sought, and he struggled for words, for words that would save him; and, in thishour of deep tribulation, words came and they saved him. 

'I have a great deal of business to attend to to-morrow. I am--that isto say, my solicitor is, raising for me a large sum of money at four percent. On one large mortgage I am paying six per cent. , therefore if Ican get the money at four I shall be by some hundreds of pounds a richerman than I am at present. At the end of the week this matter will besettled. I will write to you and say when I shall be able to accept yourinvitation. '

Mrs. Barton would have preferred to have brought the matter at once to aconclusion, but in the hesitation that ensued, the Marquis, unable towithstand the strain set upon his feelings any longer, moved away fromher. And in the next room, to save himself from further persecution, heengaged at once in conversation with Alice. Ten minutes after he saidgood-night. To get out of the light into the dark, to feel the cool windupon his cheek, oh! what a relief! 'What could have persuaded that womanto speak to me as she did? She must be mad. ' He walked on as if in adream, the guineas she had promised him chinking dubiously through hisbrain. Then stopping suddenly, overcome by nerve-excitement, he threwhis arms in the air: his features twitched convulsively. The spasmpassed; and, unconscious of all save the thoughts that held and torehim--their palpitating prey--he walked onwards. . . . Black ruin on oneside, and oh! what sweet white vision of happiness on the other! Why washe thus tortured--why was he thus torn on the rack of such a terriblediscussion? He stopped again, and his weak neck swayed plaintively. Then, in the sullen calm that followed, the thought crossed his mind: Ifhe only knew. . . . She might refuse him; if so, he did not care whatbecame of him, and he would accept the other willingly. But would sherefuse him? That he must know at once. If she did refuse, he would, atall events, escape the black looks of his relations, and in thecowardice of the thought the weary spirit was healed, assuaged, as tiredlimbs might be in a bath of cool, clear water. Why lose a moment? It wasonly half-past ten--an 'outside' would take him in less than two minutesto Fitzwilliam Place. Yes, he would go. 

And as the car clattered he feasted on the white thin face and the greyallurements of her eyes. But if she weren't at home. 

He was shown upstairs. Mother and daughter were alone, talking over thefire in the drawing-room. Nothing could be more propitious, but hisfears returned to him, and when he strove to explain the lateness of hisvisit his face had again grown suddenly haggard and worn. Violetexchanged glances, and said in looks, if not in words: 'It is clear theyhave been hunting him pretty closely to-day. '

'I must apologize, ' he said, 'for calling on you at such an hour; Ireally did not think it was so late, but the fact is I was ratheranxious to see. . . . '

'But won't you sit down, Lord Kilcarney?' said Violet. 'I assure you wenever go to bed before twelve, and sometimes we sit up here untilone--don't we, mamma?'

Mrs. Scully smiled jocosely, and the Marquis sat down. In an instant hisfate was decided. Overcome by the girl's frail sweetness, by thepellucid gaiety of her grey eyes, he surrendered; and his name andfortune fluttered into her lap, helplessly as a blown leaf. He said:

'I came to see you to-night . . . I took the liberty of calling on you atthis late hour, because things had occurred that . . . Well, I mean . . . You must have observed that I was attached to you. I don't know if youguessed it, but the fact is that I never cared for anyone as I do foryou, and I felt I could bear with uncertainty no longer, and that I mustcome to-night, and ask you if you will have me. '

Violet raised her eyes. 

'Say yes, ' murmured the Marquis, and it seemed to him that in the wordslife had fallen from his lips. 

'Yes, ' was the answer, and he clasped the thin hand she extended to him. 

'Ah, how happy you have made me, I never thought such honours were instore for me, ' exclaimed Mrs. Scully. The discipline of years was lostin a moment; and, reverting to her long-buried self, she clasped theMarquis to her agitated bosom. Violet looked annoyed, ashamed; and Mrs. Scully, whom excitement had stripped of all her grand manners, said:

'And now, me dear children, I'll leave you to yerselves. '

The lovers sat side by side. Violet thought of the great love she hadinspired, and the Marquis of the long years of happiness thatwould--that must now be his, of the frail grace that as a bland odourseemed to float about his beloved. And now that she was his, he wouldhave her know that his love of her rose out of his deepest sense ofsoul; but words were weak: he seemed to be tongue-tied. 

'Where did you dine to-night?' she said suddenly. 

'With the Bartons. '

He told her everything--of the proposal and the invitation toBrookfield. 

'And are you going down to Galway to stay with them?'

'Of course not. How can you ask such a question?'

'And why not--why shouldn't you go? I wish you would, ' she added; andthe light in her grey eyes was malign. 

'You're joking? You surely don't mean what you say. I thought you saidyou loved me. '

'Yes, my dear Harry, that is the very reason. We love each other, therefore I know I can trust you. '

He pressed the hand--the silken skin, the palm delicately moist--inrecognition of her kind words. 

'I wouldn't go for anything in the world. I hate those people. 'Pon myword, I don't think anything would tempt me to spend a week with them inthe country. '

'Yes; I could. '

The Marquis laughed. 'Yes, you could--you could tempt me to do anything. But why should you want me to go and spend a week with them in Galway?'

'Because, dear, they were rude to me; because, ' she added, casting downher eyes--'because they tried to buy you from me. That is why I shouldlike to humiliate them. '

The enchantment of the Marquis was completed, and he said:

'What, a whole week away from you! a whole week with Mrs. Barton! Icould not endure it. '

'What, not for my sake?'

'Anything for your sake, darling. ' He clasped her in his arms, and thenthey lapsed into silence that to him was even sweeter than the kiss shehad given him. Love's deepest delight is the ineffable consciousness ofour own weakness. We drink the sweetened cup in its entirety when, having ceased to will, we abandon ourselves with the lethal languors ofthe swimmer to the vague depths of dreams. And it was past midnight whenthe Marquis left Fitzwilliam Place. The ladies accompanied himdownstairs; their hands helped him to his hat and coat, and then thelock slipped back sharply, and in the gloom, broken in one spot by thelow-burning gas, the women wondered. 

'Oh, mamma, mamma, mamma! I am so happy!' the girl exclaimed, and, weeping passionately, she threw herself for rest upon Mrs. Scully'sarms. 

'Yes, my child; you have been very good, you have made me very happy. You'll be a marchioness. Who would have thought I'd have lived to seeall this honour when I served in the little shop at Galway!'

At the mention of the shop Violet recovered her composure, and motherand daughter listened to the receding footfalls. 

'I wonder if he is happy, ' Violet murmured; 'as happy as I am. For I dolike him. He is a good sort. '

'Your happiness is a different happiness, ' Mrs. Scully answered. 

Like a flowering tree, a luxuriant joy bloomed in the Marquis's heart;in its shade and fragrance his thoughts lay supinely; and, a prey tomany floating and fanciful imaginings, he walked onwards through thedarkness. In the lowering skies he saw the fair face that had led him tothe verge on which he now stood. 

'Was anybody as happy as he? And what did his happiness mean?' he askedhimself. 

Shades flitted across yellow window-panes, and he remembered he hadreceived an invitation for this very ball. 

Cats slunk through the area railings; policemen moved from their hidingcorners; a lover passed on with his dreams. 

XXI

Mrs. Barton rarely took anyone into her confidence, and her plan for thecapture of the Marquis was locked within her breast. Not to her husband, nor yet to Milord, did she think of going for advice. Her specialexperience of life had taught her to trust none, to be self-reliant, andnever to give up hope. For as she often said, it is the last effort thatwins the battle. Mrs. Barton's knowledge of the world, when it came tobe analyzed, was only that of the courtesan--skin deep. 

Two days after she received a note from the Marquis, saying he would beglad to spend a week with them at Brookfield. She read it quietly, slipped it into the pocket of the black silk that covered the unseenfeet, and glided out of the room. Every detail was clear to her. Theymust leave Dublin to-morrow morning; they need not trouble about callingon a pack of women, but they would have all their men friends to dinner. 

Mr. Barton, when he was informed of these sudden determinations, was inthe act of rehearsing a song he was to sing the following day at aconcert. 

'But, my dear, ' he said, tightening one of the strings; 'the public willbe awfully disappointed. '

'Yes, my dear, yes; I am very sorry, but I have my reasons--seriousreasons; and in this world we must only do what's right. '

'Then in the next world we shall be able to do everything that's wrong, 'said Mr. Barton; and he threw back his blond locks with troubadour-likewaves of his lymphatic hand. 'I shall like the next world better thanthis, ' he added, and his wife and daughter laughed; for papa wassupposed to be very naughty. 

'Olive, dear--'

'Oh, mamma, I wish you wouldn't call me Olive. I shall change my name. Captain Talbot was chaffing me about it yesterday. Everybody chaffs meabout it. '

'Never mind, my dear; it makes a subject of conversation. But I wasgoing to tell you that we shall have to start for Brookfield to-morrow. '

'Go to Brookfield! I couldn't possibly leave Dublin yet a while; whatwould all my young men do--they'd die of broken hearts!'

'It won't matter much if they do; there aren't a dozen worth twothousand a year each. '

'No? You are joking, mamma. And the Marquis?'

'That's a secret, dear. '

'Then you don't think he'll propose to me after all; and I gave upEdward--Captain Hibbert. '

'I thought you had forgotten that horrid man's name. I didn't say, dear, that the Marquis wouldn't propose to you--of course he will. But we mustleave Dublin to-morrow--I have serious reasons. '

'Oh, mamma, I didn't think you were so cruel, to go back to that hatefulplace, where everybody talks of rents, and that odious Land League. '

'Now, I will not allow my darling to cry like that, ' exclaimed Mrs. Barton, and she threw her arms round the girl's shoulders. 'I didn't saythat there wouldn't be a man within seven miles. On the contrary, therewill be one very charming man indeed. '

'What do you mean, mamma?'

'That's a secret--that's a secret. '

Alice was told that she had better come home early that afternoon, sothat she might have plenty of time to pack her own things and help hersister with hers; and it seemed to her unbelievable that she was at lastleaving that hateful little varnished floor, complimenting old beaux andyoung A. D. C. 's. 

But if to nobody else, she must say good-bye to May. She had hardly seenher since the night of the State ball--the night she had given FredScully permission to see her in her room. She found her in the ladies'drawing-room. 

'How do you do, May?'

'Oh, how do you do, Alice? I am so glad to see you. What a dreadfulday!'

'Yes, isn't it? Don't you find it very depressing?'

'I should think I did. I'm feeling rather out of sorts. Do you ever feelout of sorts? you know, when everything seems as if it were reflected ina darkened glass? There are times when we girls are nervous and weak, and ready to quarrel with anyone. I don't know what I wish for now; Ithink I should like to go back to the country. '

'We are going back to-morrow morning. '

'You don't say so; and how's that? There are plenty of balls andafternoon dances. What does Olive say to going home?'

'She doesn't mind. You know mamma always said she would returnimmediately after the Castle balls. '

'And now that it is all over, tell me what you think of the Castle. Didit come up to your expectations?'

'I don't know that I think much about the matter. I am not so fond ofdancing as you are. '

'Oh, goodness me, goodness me, how ill I do feel, ' said May, as shestarted and yawned in a way that betokened the nervous lassitude she wassuffering from. 

'Perhaps you had better see the doctor, ' said Alice significantly. 

'I'm worried. Fred hasn't been as nice lately as he used to be. '

'What has he done?'

'Last night he promised to meet me in the Square, and he wrote to say hecouldn't come, that he was forced to go and see an important customerabout some horses. '

'Perhaps he had. '

'I dare say he had, but what of that? It does not make it any lessdisagreeable for me to be disappointed. '

'How cross you are, May! I came out on purpose to talk to you on thisvery subject. I hope you won't be angry, but I think it is my duty totell you that people are beginning to talk about you. '

'And what do they say?'

'Well, they say many unpleasant things; you know how ill-natured peopleare. '

'Yes, but what do they say?'

'They say you are desperately in love with Fred Scully. '

'Supposing I were; is there any very great harm in that?'

'I only want to put you on your guard, May dear; and since I have comehere for the purpose of speaking out, I had better do so, howeverunpleasant it may be; and I must say that you often forget yourself whenhe is in the room, and by your whole manner betray your feelings. Youlook at him--'

'You needn't talk. Now that Harding has left town, these moralreflections come very easy to you!'

Alice blushed a little; she trembled, and pursuing her advantage, Maysaid:

'Oh, yes; I have watched you in the Castle sitting out dances; and whengirls like you butter! 'Pon my word, it was painful to look at you. '

'Mr. Harding and I talked merely of books and pictures. '

'If you come here to insinuate that Fred and I are in the habit ofindulging in improper conversation. . . . I didn't expect this from you. Ishan't stop another moment. I shan't speak to you again. '

Picking up her novel, and deaf to all explanations, May walked haughtilyout of the room. Alice would have given much to help; and, her heartfilled with gentle disappointment, she returned home. The evening wasspent in packing; and next morning at dawn, looking tired, their eyesstill heavy with sleep, the Bartons breakfasted for the last time inMount Street. 

At the Broadstone they met Lord Dungory. Then, their feet and kneescosily wrapped up in furs, with copies of the _Freeman's Journal_ lyingon the top, they deplored the ineffectiveness of Mr. Forster's CoercionAct. Eight hundred people were in prison, and still the red shadow ofmurder pointed across the land. Milord read from the newspaper:

'A dastardly outrage was committed last night in the neighbourhood ofMullingar. A woman named Mary ---- had some differences with her sisterBridget ----. One day, after some angry words, it appears that she leftthe house, and seeing a man working in a potato-field, she asked him ifhe could do anything to help her. He scratched his head, and, after amoment's reflection, he said he was going to meet a "party, " and hewould see what could be done. On the following day he suggested thatBridget might be removed for the sum of one pound. Mary ---- could not, however, procure more than fifteen shillings, and a bargain was struck. On the night arranged for the assassination Mary wished to leave thehouse, not caring to see her sister shot in her presence, but Patdeclared that her absence would excite suspicion. In the words of one ofthe murderers, the deed was accomplished "nately and without unnecessaryfuss. "'

'I wonder, ' said Mrs. Barton, 'what those wretches will have to dobefore the Government will consent to suspend the Habeas Corpus Act, andplace the country in the hands of the military. Do they never think ofhow wickedly they are behaving, and of how God will punish them whenthey die? Do they never think of their immortal souls?'

'_L'âme du paysan se vautre dans la boue comme la mienne se plaît dansla soie_. '

'_Dans la soie! dans la soie! oh, ce Milord, ce Milord!'_

'_Oui, madame_, ' he added, lowering his voice, '_dans le blanc paradisde votre corsage_. '

Three days after life at Brookfield had resumed its ordinary course. Once breakfast was over, Arthur retired to the consideration of thepectoral muscles of the ancient Briton, Milord drank his glass of sherryat half-past one, and Mrs. Barton devoted herself to the double task ofamusing him and encouraging Olive with visions of future fame. Alice wastherefore left definitely to herself, and without hindrance or commentwas allowed to set up her writing-table, and spend as much time as shepleased in her bedroom. 

Several sheets of foolscap paper covered with large open handwriting layupon the table. Upon the first page, with a line ruled beneath it, stoodthe title: 'The Diary of a Plain Girl--Notes and Sensations. ' She hadjust laid aside her pen and was waiting for Cecilia. 

'Oh, Alice darling, how are you? I am delighted--I am so delighted tosee you. Let me kiss you, let me see you; I have been longing for youfor weeks--for months. '

Alice bent her face down, and then, holding each other's hands, thegirls stood looking through a deep and expressive silence into eachother's eyes. 

'I wish, Alice, I could tell you how glad I am to have you back: itseems 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 isit 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 sensitivityrevealed thoughts in Alice's mind--thoughts of which Alice herself wasnot distinctly conscious, just as a photograph exposes irregularities inthe 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 resolutenessin her voice, 'Cecilia, I wish you wouldn't talk to me in this way. Yougive me great pain. '

'I am sorry if I do, but I can't help it. I am jealous of the words thatare 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 thatI understand it. There is no one I like better than you, dear, but thatwe should be jealous of each other is absurd. '

'For you perhaps, but not for me. ' Cecilia looked at Alicereproachfully, 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 topronounce condemnatory opinion on the whole world; and particularly foryou who have seen so little of it. '

'That doesn't matter. People are blinded by their passions; but whenthese have worn themselves out, they see the truth in all its horriblenakedness. One of these days you'll tell me that I am right. You havebeen a good deal in the world lately; tell me if you have found itbeautiful. You didn't believe me when I told you that men were vile andabominable; you said there were good men in the world, that you weresure of it. Have you found them? Was Mr. Harding so very perfect?'

Alice coloured again; she hesitated, and in the silence Cecilia againdivined her friend's thoughts. 

'A very poor ideal indeed, it seems to me that you set yourself--to makethe best of this wretched world. '

'I cannot understand what good can come of craving after theunattainable, ' said Alice, looking earnestly out of her grey sharp eyes. 

'True beauty lies only in the unattainable, ' said Cecilia, lifting hereyes with that curious movement of the eyeball by which paintersrepresent 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 lookedinto the ardent face of their friendship, talking, at first, consciousof the appropriateness of their conversation; but soon forgetful of themore serious themes they had been discussing, questions were asked andanswered, and comments passed, upon the presentations, the dresses, thecrowds, upon all their acquaintances. 

'It is given out, Alice dear, that Lord Kilcarney is coming down to stayat 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 allthe Dublin news. '

'What dreadful gossips they are! And the wonderful part of it is thatthey often tell you that things have happened long before they dohappen. '

'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? Therumour goes that he pays Violet great attentions. The family is, ofcourse, 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 inyour 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 whatwomen 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 immensenumber of people present?'

'Yes, and particularly _débutantes_; there were a great number presentedthis year. It was considered a large Drawing-Room. '

'And how are you presented? I've heard my sister speak about it, but Inever quite understood. '

At that moment Barnes brought in the tea. She set it on a little tableused for the purpose. 

'There is a letter for you, miss, on the tray, ' she said as she left theroom; 'it came by the afternoon post. '

Without answering, Alice continued to pour out the tea, but when shehanded Cecilia her cup, she said, surprised at the dull, sullen starefixed 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 Ididn't expect to find you corresponding with him. It is shameful; itisn'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 arepresuming too much on our friendship. '

'Oh, yes, yes; but before you met him I could not presume too much uponour 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 walkedwildly to and fro, her eye tinged with a strange glare. 'Yes, I see itall. This room, that was once a girl's room, is now Harding's room. Heis 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, thatletter. 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 uponwhich she had thrown herself, she started up and savagely confrontedher. 

'Don't touch me, don't touch me!' she cried. 'I cannot bear it. What areyou to me, what am I to you? It is not with me you would care to be, butwith _him_. It is not my kiss of friendship that would console you, buthis kiss of passion that would charm you. . . . Go to him, and leave me todie. '

'Was this insanity?' And then, forgetful of the abuse that was beingshowered upon her, Alice said:

'Cecilia dear, listen; I'll forgive the language you have used towardme, 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 likethat. '

'You would soothe me, but you little dream of the poison you aredropping on my wounds. You never understood, you are too far removedfrom me in thought and feeling ever to understand--no, your spiritualityis only a delusion; you are no better at heart than May Gould. It is thesame thing: one seeks a husband, another gratifies herself with a lover. It is the same thing--where's the difference? It is animal passion allthe 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 towardsit, but, overcome by mad rage, Cecilia caught it up and threw it intothe fire. Alice rescued her letter, and then, her face full of sternindignation, she said:

'I think, Cecilia, you had better leave my room, and before you come tosee me again, I shall expect to receive a written apology for theoutrageous way you have behaved. '

In a few days came a humble and penitent letter; Cecilia returned, hereyes full of tears, and begged to be forgiven; the girls resumed theirfriendship, but both were conscious that it was neither so bright nor socommunicative as in the olden days. 

XXII

'Something has happened to my learned daughter, ' said Mr. Barton, and hecontinued his thumb-nail sketch on the tablecloth. 'What is it?' headded indolently. 

Alice passed the cheque and the memorandum across the table. 'Threepounds for three articles contributed to the ---- during the month ofApril. '

'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 manas well as any of us. '

Mrs. Barton did not willingly wound. She saw life from the point of viewof making use of men, that was all; and when Alice walked out of theroom, Mrs. Barton felt sorry for what she had said, and she would havegone to comfort her daughter if Olive had not, at that moment, stood inimminent need of comfort. 

'I suppose, ' she said pettishly, 'the letter you received this morningis 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 topostpone his visit to Monday week or Wednesday fortnight. Mrs. Bartonreplied that they would be very glad to see him when he found itconvenient to come and see them. She did not inquire into the reason ofhis rudeness, she was determined to fight the battle out to the end, andshe did not dare to think that he was being prompted by that beast of agirl, 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, butthat, unless he dies in the meantime, he will be with us on thetwentieth of the month, and will--if we'll have him--stop three weekswith 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 metreat poor Edward shamefully, and for no purpose, after all. '

'Now, Olive, you mustn't speak like that. Go upstairs and ask Barnes ifshe 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 Burkesintimately, particularly Lady Emily's maid, and Barnes got a letter fromher friend the other day, saying that Lady Emily was delighted at theidea of her brother marrying you, dear, and that he thinks of nobodyelse, speaks of nobody else. Run up and speak to her about it. '

As we have seen, Mrs. Barton had drugged Olive's light brain withvisions of victories, with dancing, dresses, admiration; but now, in thetiring void of country days, memories of Edward's love and devotion werecertain to arise. He made, however, no attempt to renew his courtship. At Gort, within three miles, he remained silent, immovable as one of theClare mountains. Sometimes his brown-gold moustache and square shoulderswere caught sight of as he rode rapidly along the roads. He had oncebeen seen sitting with Mrs. Lawler behind the famous cream-colouredponies; and to allude to his disgraceful conduct without woundingOlive's vanity was an art that Mrs. Barton practised daily; and to keepthe girl in spirits she induced Sir Charles, who it was reported wasabout to emigrate his family to the wilds of Maratoga, to come and staywith them. If a rumour were to reach the Marquis's ears, it might helpto bring him to the point. In any case Sir Charles's attentions to Olivewould keep her in humour until the great day arrived. 

Well convinced that this was her last throw, Mrs. Barton resolved tosmear the hook well with the three famous baits she was accustomed toangle with. They were--dinners, flattery, and dancing. Accordingly, anorder was given to the Dublin fishmonger to send them fish daily for thenext three weeks, and to the pastrycook for a French cook. The store offlattery kept on the premises being illimitable, she did not troubleabout that, but devoted herself to the solution of the problem of howshe should obtain a constant and unfailing supply of music. Once shethought of sending up to Dublin for a professional pianist, but wasobliged to abandon the idea on account of the impossibility of devisingsuitable employment for him during the morning hours. A tune or twomight not come in amiss after lunch, but to have him hanging about theshrubberies all the morning would be intolerable. She might ask a coupleof the Brennans or the Duffys to stay with them, but they would be inthe way, and occupy the Marquis's time, and go tell-taling all over thecountry; no, that wouldn't do either. Alice's playing was wretched. Itwas a wonderful thing that a girl like her would not make some effort toamuse men--would not do something. Once Olive was married, she (Mrs. Barton) would try to patch up something for this gawk of a girl--marryher to Sir Charles; excellent match it would be, too--get all thechildren emigrated first: and if he would not have her, there was SirRichard. It was said that he was quite reformed--had given up drink. Butthere was no use thinking of that: for the present she would have to putup with the girl's music, which was wretched. 

Olive fell in with her mother's plans, and she angled industriously forLord Kilcarney. She did not fail to say in or out of season, '_Il n'y apersonne comme notre cher Marquis_, ' and as the turbot and fruit, thathad arrived by the afternoon train from Dublin, were discussed, Milorddid not cease to make the most appropriate remarks. Referring to thebouquet 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_. ' Andagain: '_Les regardes des amoureux sont la lumière comme le baiser estla vie du monde_. '

After dinner no time was lost, although the Marquis pleaded fatigue, insettling Alice at the piano, and dancing began in sober earnest. Aftereach waltz Olive conducted him to the dining-room; she helped himliberally to wine, and when she held a match to his cigarette theirfingers touched. But to find occupation for the long morning hours ofher young couple was a grave trouble to Mrs. Barton. She was determinedto make every moment of the little Marquis's stay in Galway moments ofsunshine; but mental no more than atmospheric sunshine is to be had bythe willing, and the poor little fellow seemed to pine in his Galwaycage like a moulting canary. He submitted to all the efforts made in hisbehalf, but his submission was that of a victim. After breakfast healways attempted to escape, and if he succeeded in eluding Mrs. Barton, he would remain for hours hidden in the laurels, enwrapped in summermeditations, the nature of which it was impossible even to conjecture. In the afternoon he spoke of the burden of his correspondence, and whenthe inevitable dancing was spoken of, he often excused himself on theground of having a long letter to finish. If it were impossible for herto learn the contents of these letters, Mrs. Barton ardently desired toknow to whom they were addressed. Daily she volunteered to send specialmessengers to the post on his account; the footman, the coachman, andpony-chaise, were in turn rejected by him. 

'Thank you, Mrs. Barton, thank you, but I should like to avail myself ofthe chance of a constitutional. '

'_La santé de notre petit Marquis avant tout_, ' she would exclaim, withmuch 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 beencentred on a picnic. They were now within a few days of the first ofMay, and there was enough sunshine in the air to justify an excursion toKinvarra Castle. It is about four miles distant, at the end of a longnarrow bay. 

Mrs. Barton applied herself diligently to the task of organization. Having heard from Dublin of the hoax that was being played on theirenemy, the Ladies Cullen consented to join the party, and they broughtwith them one of the Honourable Miss Gores. The Duffys and Brennansnumbered their full strength, including even the famous Bertha, who wasstaying with her sisters on a visit. The Goulds excused themselves onaccount of the distance and the disturbed state of the country. Mrs. Barton found, therefore, much difficulty in maintaining the notedcharacteristic of her parties. Sir Richard and Sir Charles had agreed tocome; Mr. Adair, Mr. Ryan, and Mr. Lynch were also present. They droveup 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 pointedout that in the seventeenth century people lived in Irelandnaked--speaking Latin habitually--without furniture or tapestries orpaintings or baths. The Castle suggested a military movement to Mr. Barton. 

'If things get any worse, we might all retire into this castle. Theladies will stand on the battlements, and I will undertake to hold theplace for ever against those village ruffians. '

'I do not think there will be any necessity for that, ' replied Mr. Adairsententiously. 'I think that these last terrible outrages have awakenedthe Government to a sense of their responsibility. I have reason tobelieve that immediate steps will be taken to crush this infamousconspiracy. '

Lord Dungory interposed with a neat epigram, and Mr. Adair fell totelling how he would crush the Land League out of existence if theGovernment 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 andprosperity. I have always been a Liberal, but I confess that I entirelyfail to understand the action the Government are taking in the presentcrisis. '

As Lord Dungory was about to reply that he did not believe that thepeasants could continue to resist the Government indefinitely, thepolice-sergeant in charge of the picnic-party approached, his faceovercast. 

'We've just received bad news from Dublin, my lord. The worst. LordFrederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were murdered this evening in thePhoenix Park. It is unfortunately true, sir; I've the telegram with me. 'And he handed the yellow envelope to Lord Dungory, who, after glancingat 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 itwas under the walls of old Kinvarra Castle that the picnic-party heardthe awful news. 

Then, in turn, each ejaculated a few words. 

Mrs. Barton said: 'It is dreadful to think there are such wicked peoplein the world. '

Mr. Adair said: 'There can be no doubt but that we have arrived at thecrisis; Europe will ring with the echoes of the crime. '

Olive said: 'I think they ought to hang Mr. Parnell; I believe it was hewho drove the car. '

Mr. Barton said: 'The landlords and Land-Leaguers will have to do what Isay; they will have to fight it out. Now, at their head, I believe by aseries 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 thisaphorism, but he relapsed into his consideration of Mr. Gladstone'spolitical integrity. The conversation had fallen, but at the end of along 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 ofthe entire company: 'What do you mean, sir? Have you gone mad? Do younot 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 ifthey hadn't been we'd have been--there's the long and the short of it. Iknow the counthry well, and I know that in six months more, without aproper Coercion Act, we'd have been burned in our beds. '

The unanswerableness of Mr. Ryan's words, and the implacable certaintywhich forced itself into every heart, that he spoke but the truth, didnot, however, make the company less inclined to oppose the utilitarianview he took of the tragedy. 

Unfinished phrases . . . 'Disgraceful' . . . 'Shocking' . . . 'Inconceivable' . . . 'That anyone should say such a thing' . . . Werepassed round, and a disposition was shown to boycott Mr. Ryan. 

Mr. Adair spoke of not sitting in the room where such opinions wereexpressed, 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 calmtroubled lives, suggested that 'people did not mean all they said. ' Mr. Ryan, however, maintained through it all an attitude of stolidindifference, the indifference of a man who knows that all must comeback sooner or later to his views. 

And presently, although the sting remained, the memory of the wasp thathad stung seemed to be lost. Milord and Mr. Adair engaged in a long andlearned discussion concerning the principles of Liberalism, in thecourse of which many allusions were made to the new Coercion Bill, which, it was now agreed, Mr. Gladstone would, in a few days, lay beforeParliament. The provisions of this Bill were debated. Milord spoke of anAct 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 notbe over-estimated; Mr. Barton declared in favour of a militaryexpedition--a rapid dash into the heart of Connemara. But theconversation languished, and in the ever-lengthening silences all foundtheir thoughts reverting to the idea brutally expressed by Mr. Ryan:_Yes, they were glad; for if Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke hadnot been assassinated, every landowner in the country would have beenmurdered. _

There was no dancing that evening; and as the night advanced the dangerof 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 finallyarranged that they should join their police-forces, and spend the nightat his place. Sir Charles was sleeping at Brookfield; Milord had fourpolicemen with him; and as all would have to pass his gate, he did notanticipate that even the Land League would venture to attack thirteenarmed men. Mr. Barton, who saw the picturesque in everything, declared, when he came back, that they looked like a caravan starting for apilgrimage across the desert. After a few further remarks, the ladiesrose to retire; but when Mrs. Barton gave her hand to Lord Kilcarney, hesaid, his voice trembling a little:

'I'm afraid I must leave you to-morrow, Mrs. Barton. I shall have to runover 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 stopa 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 toknow if you have come to any conclusion about what I spoke to you of inDublin. If it is not to be, I should like to know, that I might tell thegirl, so that she might not think anything more about--'

'What am I to say, what am I to do?' thought the Marquis. 'Oh! why doesthis woman worry me? How can I tell her that I wouldn't marry herdaughter for tens of thousands of pounds?' 'I think, Mrs. Barton--Imean, I think you will agree with me that until affairs in Ireland growmore settled, it would be impossible for anyone to enter into anyengagements 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 toescape Mrs. Barton as he might a piece of falling rock. With a desperateeffort he said:

'Yes, Mrs. Barton--yes, I agree with you, twenty thousand pounds is agreat deal of money; but I think we had better wait until the Lords havepassed the new Coercion Bill--say nothing more about this--leave it anopen question. '

And on this eminently unsatisfactory answer the matter ended; even Mrs. Barton saw she could not, at least for the present, continue to pressit. Still she did not give up hope. 'Try on to the end; we never knowthat it is not the last little effort that will win the game, ' was theaphorism with which she consoled her daughter, and induced her to writeto Lord Kilcarney. And almost daily he received from her flowers, supposed to be emblematical of the feeling she entertained for him; andfor these Alice was sometimes ordered to compose verses and suitablemottoes. 

XXIII

But Lord Kilcarney's replies to these letters seldom consisted of morethan a few well-chosen words, and he often allowed a week, and sometimesa fortnight, to elapse before answering at all. Olive--too vain andsilly to understand the indifference with which she was treated--whinedand fretted less than might have been expected. She spent a great dealof her time with Barnes, who fed her with scandal and flattery. But astorm was about to break, and in August it was known, without anypossibility 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 ofCrime, were the two interests present in the mind of Irish landlordismduring the summer of '82. Immediately the former event was publiclyannounced, every girl in Dublin ran to her writing desk to confirm toher friends and relatives the truth of the news which for the last twomonths she had so resolutely anticipated. The famous Bertha, the terrorof the _débutantes_, rushed to Brookfield, but she did not get therebefore the Brennans, and the result was a meeting of these families ofgirls in Mrs. Barton's drawing-room. Gladys was, however, the personchosen 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 nothave contrived an answer that would have shielded her better from thedart that Gladys was preparing to hurl. The girl winced; and diviningthe 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 beenpresent. She glanced at her mother in astonishment; and Gladys, fearingutter 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 itwill annoy me. '

'My dear Olive, how can it annoy you? You know very well you refusedhim, ' said Mrs. Barton, risking the danger of contradiction. 'Gladys isonly telling us the news. '

'News, indeed; a pack of lies. I know her well; and all because--becauseshe didn't succeed in hooking the man she was after in the Shelbournelast year. I'm not going to listen to her lies, if you are;' and onthese 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 reasonwhy dear Olive wouldn't like to hear that Lord Kilcarney was engaged toViolet. '

'Not at all, not at all. I assure you that whatever question there mayonce have been, I give you my word, was broken off a long time ago; theydid not suit each other at all, ' said Mrs. Barton. Now that she wasrelieved of the presence of her young, the mother fought admirably. Butin 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, themoment they entered the room. 'Have you heard the news? all isdefinitely settled between the little Marquis and Violet. We were alltalking of it; I am so glad for her sake. Of course it is very grand tobe a marchioness, but I'm afraid she'll find her coronet a poorsubstitute for her dinner. You know what a state the property is in. Shehas married a beggar. The great thing after all, nowadays, is money. '

It would have been better perhaps not to have spoken of Lord Kilcarney'smortgages, but the Marquis's money embarrassments were the weak point inViolet's marriage, but it would not be natural (supposing that Olive hadherself refused Lord Kilcarney) for her not to speak of them. So sheprattled on gaily for nearly an hour, playing her part admirably, extricating herself from a difficult position and casting somedoubt--only a little, it is true, but a little was a gain on the storythat Olive had been rejected. 

As soon as her visitors left the room, and she went to the window towatch the carriages drive away and to consider how she might console herdaughter--persuade her, perhaps, that everything had happened for thebest. 

'Oh, mamma, ' she said, rushing into the room, 'this is terrible; whatshall 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 Ishall 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 littleMarquis with his encumbered property; if he were fool enough to lethimself be entrapped by that designing little beast, Violet Scully, somuch the worse for him; we shall get someone far grander than he. It isnever wise for a girl to settle herself off the first season she comesout. '

'It is all very well to say that now, but you made me break off withdear 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 wretchedMarquis. There will be a whole crowd of English dukes and earls at theCastle next year; men who haven't a mortgage on their property, and whowill all fight for the hand of my beautiful Olive. Mr. Harding, Alice'sfriend, will put your portrait into one of the Society papers as theGalway 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 ofyour 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 shewas tossing her head nervously, declaring she was miserable, and oftenshe burst out crying for no assignable cause. Mrs. Barton consoled andflattered gaily; but the sweet placid countenance was sometimes a littletroubled. As the girls left the breakfast-room one morning she said, asif asking their advice:

'I have just received an invitation from Dungory Castle; they are givinga 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 beartheir sneers; those Brennans and the Duffys are sure to be there. '

'Bertha's in Dublin, ' said Mrs. Barton, in an intonation of voice alittle too expressive of relief. 

'Gladys is just as bad; and then there's that horrid Zoe. Oh! I couldn'tbear 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 havenothing to do or to think of. '

There could be little doubt that the Ladies Cullen had got up thetennis-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 tothreaten to put down the school if they did not keep a guard on theirtongues), and if Olive would only put a bold face on it and captivateSir Charles, this very disagreeable business might blow over. Furtherthan this Mrs. Barton's thoughts did not travel, but they were clear andprecise thoughts, and with much subtlety and insinuative force sheapplied herself to the task of overcoming her daughter's weakness andstrengthening her in this overthrow of vanity and self-love. But to thetennis-party they must go. Milord, too, was of opinion that they couldnot absent themselves, and he had doubtless been able to arrive at avery clear understanding with Lady Sarah and Lady Jane concerning thefuture of Protestantism in the parish, for on the day of thetennis-party no allusion was made to Lord Kilcarney's visit toBrookfield; certain references to his marriage were, of course, inevitable, but it was only necessary to question Mr. Adair on his viewsconcerning the new Coercion Act to secure for Mrs. Barton an almostcomplete immunity from feminine sarcasm. 

'I do not deny, ' said Mr. Adair, 'that the Crimes Bill will restoretranquillity, but I confess that I can regard no Government assatisfactory that can only govern by the sword. '

These sentiments being but only very partially appreciated by the restof the company, the conversation came to an awkward pause, and Lady Janesaid as she left the room:

'I do not know a more able man on a county board than Mr. Adair. He tookhonours 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 himselfto 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 theinterruption:

'Now, I hope Mr. Adair will not write a pamphlet, or express himself tooopenly concerning the Crimes Act. The question of the day is theorganization of the Land Act, and I hear that Mr. Gladstone says it willbe impossible to get on without Mr. Adair's assistance. '

'Every six months, ' said Mrs. Gould, 'it is given out that Gladstonecannot go on without him; but somehow Gladstone does manage to get onwithout 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, andAlice asked if she might go up to see Cecilia. More visitors arrived;the Brennans, the Duffys, the five Honourable Miss Gores, and thecompany adjourned to the tennis ground. Mr. Lynch was anxious to haveMay for a partner, but she refused him somewhat pettishly, declaring atthe same time that she had given up tennis, and would never touch aracquet again. Her continuous silence and dejected appearance createdsome surprise, and her cheeks flushed with passion when her mother saidshe 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 acrossthe pleasure grounds. Dungory Castle was surrounded by heavy woods andovertopping clumps of trees. As the house was neared, these were filledin with high laurel hedges and masses of rhododendron, and an opening inthe branches of some large beech-trees revealed a blue and beautifulaspect of the Clare mountains. 

'I wonder what May is angry about?' Cecilia said to Alice as theywatched the tennis playing from their window; 'suppose those horrid menare 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 veryconscious led her through the shrubberies towards the place where shealready expected to find May. And dreaming of reconciliation, of arenewal of friendship, Alice walked through the green summer of theleaves, listening to the infinite twittering of the birds, and startledby the wood-pigeons that from time to time rose boisterously out of thehigh branches. On a garden bench, leaning forward, her hands rested onher knees, May sat swinging her parasol from side to side, playing withthe fallen leaves. When she looked up, the sunlight fell full upon herface, and Alice saw that she was crying. But affecting not to see thetears, 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'shelp. '

The ungraciousness of the words was lost in the accent of grief withwhich they were spoken. 

'I assure you I don't wish to be inquisitive, ' Alice repliedsorrowfully, 'nor do I come to annoy you with good advice, but the lasttime we met we didn't part good friends. . . . I was merely anxious toassure 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 pulledher down into the seat beside her; 'I am awfully sorry for my rudenessto you--to you who are so good--so good. Oh, Alice dear, you willforgive me, will you not?' and sobbing very helplessly, she threwherself into her friend's arms. 

'Oh, of course I forgive you, ' cried Alice, deeply affected. 'I had noright 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 wastried you would forgive me. '

'I do forgive you, May dear; but tell me, cannot I help you now? Youknow that you can confide in me, and I will do any thing in my power tohelp 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 notin 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 thatall had been decided in a few hours, and that he was to sail nextmorning. He's gone out with some racehorses, and expects to win a lot ofmoney. 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, butit was too late even then. '

Alice trembled; she had already guessed the truth, but hoping when sheknew 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 thewood. Involuntarily their eyes followed a small bird that ran up branchafter branch of a beech-tree, pecking as it went. It seemed like a toymouse, so quick and unvarying were its movements. At last May said, andvery dolorously:

'Alice, I thought you were kinder; haven't you a word of pity? Why tellyou, 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 thanwords can express, and I didn't speak because I was trying to think ofsome way of helping you. '

'Oh! there's no--no way of helping me, dear. There's nothing for me todo but to die. ' And now giving way utterly, the girl buried her face inher hands and sobbed until it seemed that she would choke in thickgrief. 

'Oh! May, May dear, you mustn't cry like that: if anyone were to comeby, what would they think?'

'What does it matter? Everyone will know sooner or later--I wish I weredead--dead and out of sight for ever of this miserable world. '

'No, May, ' said Alice, thinking instinctively of the child, 'you mustn'tdie. Your trial is a terrible one, but people before now have got overworse. I am trying to think what can be done. '

Then May raised her weeping face, and there was a light of hope in hereyes. She clasped Alice's hand. Neither spoke. The little brown birdpursued his way up and down the branches of the beech; beyond it lay thesky, and the girls, tense with little sufferings, yearned into thisvision of beautiful peace. 

At last Alice said: 'Did you tell Mr. Scully of the trouble? Does heknow--'

'He was away, and I didn't like to write it to him; his departure forAustralia 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 whatshe 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 sheis, you know how she talks, she would never leave off abusing theScullys; and then, I don't know how, but somehow everybody would get toknow about it. But find it out they will, sooner or later; it is only aquestion of time. '

'No, no, May, they shall know nothing of this--at least, not if I canhelp it. '

'But you can't help it. '

'There is one thing quite certain; you must go away. You cannot stop inGalway. '

'It is all very well talking like that, but where can I go to? A girlcannot move a yard away from home without people wanting to know whereshe 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 despairhad not courage to deny the possibility of the plan. 

'You needn't tell her where you are, ' replied Alice; and then shehesitated, feeling keenly conscious of the deception she was practising. But her unswerving common sense coming, after a moment's reflection, toher aid, she said: 'You might say that you were going to live in theconvent. 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, itseems 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 beingforced 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 ofher face, and she said:

'But how shall I live? Who will support me? I cannot ask mother formoney without awakening suspicion. '

'I think, May, I shall be able to give you almost all the money youwant, ' 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 fornewspapers, and have made nearly twenty pounds. That will be all youwill want for the present, and I shall be able, I hope, to makesufficient to keep you supplied. '

'I don't think that anyone was ever as good as you, Alice. You make mefeel ashamed of myself. '

'I am doing only what anyone else would do if they were called upon. Butwe have been sitting here a long time now, and before we go back to thetennis-ground we had better arrange what is to be done. When do youpropose leaving?'

'I had better leave at once. It is seven months ago now--no one suspectsas yet. '

'Well, then, when would you like me to send you the money? You can haveit 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 yourletters at Brookfield?'

'Quite sure; there's not the slightest danger. ' She did not question theadvice she had given, and she felt sure that the Reverend Mother, if aproper appeal were made to her common sense, would consent to concealthe girl's fault. Two months would not be long passing, but the expensesof this time would be heavy, and she, Alice, would have to meet themall. She trembled lest she might fail to do so, and she tried to reckonthem up. It would be impossible to get rooms under a pound a week, andto live, no matter how cheaply, would cost at least two pounds; threepounds a week, four threes are twelve! The twenty pounds would scarcelycarry her over a month, she would not be well for at least two; and thenthere was the doctor, the nurse, the flannels for the baby. Alice triedto calculate, thinking plainly and honestly. If a repulsive detail rosesuddenly up in her mind, she did not shrink, nor was she surprised tofind 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 towardsher friend. And how to do this was the problem that presented itselfunceasingly for solution. She felt that somehow she would have to earntwenty pounds within the next month. Out of the _Lady's Paper_, in which'Notes and Sensations of a Plain Girl at Dublin Castle, ' was stillrunning, she could not hope to make more than thirty shillings a week; amagazine had lately accepted a ten-page story worth, she fancied, aboutfive pounds, but when they would print it and pay her was impossible tosay. She could write the editor an imploring letter, asking him toadvance her the money. But even then there was another nine pounds tomake up. And to do this seemed to her an impossibility. She could notask her father or mother; she would only do so if the worst came to theworst. She would write paragraphs, articles, short stories, and wouldsend them to every editor in London. One out of three might turn uptrumps. 

 'GARDNER STREET, 'MOUNTJOY SQUARE. 'DARLING ALICE, 'I have been in Dublin now more than a week. I did not write to youbefore because I wished to write to tell you that I had done all youtold me to do. The first thing I did was to go to the convent. Would youbelieve it, the new Rev. Mother is Sister Mary who we knew so well atSt. 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 somany memories, so many old associations, that I burst out crying, and itseemed to me impossible that I should ever be able to find courage totell her the truth. None will ever know what it cost me to speak thewords. They came to me all of a sudden, and I told her everything. Ithought she would reproach me and speak bitterly, but she only said, "Mypoor child, I am sorry you hadn't strength to resist temptation; yourtrial is a dreadful one. " She was very, very kind. Her face lighted upwhen 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 theworld. " Then I insisted that it was your idea that I should seek helpfrom the convent, but she said that it was my duty to go to my motherand tell her the whole truth. Oh, my darling Alice, I cannot tell youwhat a terrible time I went through. We were talking for at least twohours, and it was only with immense difficulty that I at last succeededin making her understand what kind of person poor mamma is, and howhopeless it would be to expect her to keep any secret, even if herdaughter'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, sawthe matter in its proper light, and she has consented to receive all myletters, and if mother writes, to give her to understand that I am safewithin the convent walls. It is very good of her, for I know the awfulrisk 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 kindwoman. The name I go by is Mrs. Brandon (you will not forget to directyour letters so), and I said that my husband was an officer, and hadgone out to join his regiment in India. I have a comfortable bedroom onthe 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 dayseem like twelve centuries. I have not even a book to read, and I nevergo out for fear of being seen. In the evening I put on a thick veil andgo for a walk in the back streets. But I cannot go out before nine; itis not dark till then, and I cannot stop out later than ten on accountof the men who speak to you. My coloured hair makes me look fast, and Iam so afraid of meeting someone I know, that this short hour is as fullof 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 betelling my unfortunate story half an hour after in the pitilessdrawing-rooms of Merrion Square. Oh, Alice darling, you are the onlyfriend I have in the world. If it were not for you, I believe I shoulddrown myself in the Liffey. No girl was ever so miserable as I. I cannottell you how I feel, and you cannot imagine how forlorn it all is; and Iam 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 thetennis-court; now I can scarcely crawl. And the strange sickeningfancies: I see things in the shops that tempt me, sometimes it is a drybiscuit, sometimes a basket of strawberries; but whatever it is, I standand look at it, long for it, until weary of longing and standing with asort 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 wretchedhard chair by the window; and I cry; and I watch the summer night andall the golden stars, and I cannot say what I think of during all theselong and lonely hours; I only know that I cannot find energy to go tobed. And I never sleep a whole night through; the cramp comes on soterribly that I jump up screaming. Oh, Alice, how I hate _him!_ When Ithink of it all I see how selfish men are; they never think of us--theyonly 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 redand mottled. When you saw me a fortnight ago I was all right: it isextraordinary what a change has come about. I think it was the journeyand the excitement; there would be no concealing the truth now. It islucky I left Galway when I did. 

'Mother gave me five pounds on leaving home. My ticket cost nearlythirty shillings, a pound went in cabs and hotel expenses, and mybreakfasts brought my bill up yesterday to two pounds--I cannot thinkhow, for I only pay sixteen shillings for my room--and when it was paidI had only a few shillings left. Will you, therefore, send the money youpromised, 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 notconsider if May might have spared her the physical details with whichher letter abounded; she did not stay to think of the cause, of theresult; for the moment she was numb to ideas and sensations that werenot those of humble human pity for humble human suffering: like thewaters of a new baptism, pity made her pure and whole, and the falseshame 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'shelp--plans that were charming for their simplicity, their sweethomeliness. 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, itwould be necessary to go into Gort to register the letter. Gort was twomiles away; and if she asked for the carriage her mother might proposethat the letters should be sent in by a special messenger. This ofcourse was impossible, and Alice, for the first time in her life foundherself obliged to tell a deliberate lie. For a moment her consciencestood at bay, but she accepted the inevitable and told her mother thatshe had some MSS. To register, and did not care to entrust them to otherhands. It was a consolation to know that eighteen pounds were safelydespatched, but she was bitterly unhappy, and the fear that money mightbe wanting in the last and most terrible hours bound her to her desk aswith a chain; and when her tired and exhausted brain ceased to formulatephrases, the picture of the lonely room, the night walks, and thesuffering of the jaded girl, stared her in the face with a terribledistinctness. Her only moments of gladness were when the post brought acheque from London. Sometimes they were for a pound, sometimes forfifteen shillings. Once she received five pounds ten--it was for herstory. 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. Idid not write before, because I didn't feel in the humour to doanything. Thank goodness! I'm not sick any more, though I don't knowthat it isn't counterbalanced by the dreadful faintness and the constantmovement. Isn't it awful to sit here day after day, watching myself, andknowing the only relief I shall get will be after such terrible pain? Iwoke up last night crying with the terror of it. Cervassi says there arecases on record of painless confinements, and in my best moods I thinkmine is to be one of them. I know it is wrong to write all these thingsto a good girl like you, but I think talking about it is part of thecomplaint, and poor sinner me has no one to talk to. Do you remember myold black cashmere? I've been altering it till there's hardly a bit ofthe original body left; but now the skirt is adding to my troubles bygetting shorter and shorter in front. It is now quite six inches off theground, and instead of fastening it I have to pin the placket-hole, andthen 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, andall the accounting for it, and everything else, will be on yourshoulders. Good-bye, dear; I shan't write again, at least not tillafterwards. And if there is an afterward, I shall never be able to thankyou 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 writethat last line; I will scratch it out. You will not be angry, dear. I amtoo 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 wasgolden in the light of evening. The autumn-coloured foliage of thechestnuts lay mysteriously rich and still, harmonizing in measured toneswith the ruddy tints of the dim September sunset. The country dozed asif satiated with summer love. Heavy scents were abroad--the pungentodours of the aftermath. A high baritone voice broke the languidsilence, and, in embroidered smoking-jacket and cap, Mr. Barton twangedhis guitar. Milord had been thrown down amid the hay; and Mrs. Bartonand Olive were showering it upon him. The old gentleman's legs were inthe air. 

Crushing the letter, Alice's hands fell on the table; she burst intotears. But work was more vital than tears; and, taking up her pen, shecontinued her story--penny journal fiction of true love and unendinghappiness 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 eachpain went. It is such a relief; but I mustn't write much. It is such afunny screwed-up-looking baby, and I don't feel any of those maternalsentiments that you read about--at least not yet. And it always criesjust when I am longing to go to sleep. Thank you again and again for allyou have done for me and been to me. I feel awfully weak. 'Always affectionately yours, 'MAY GOULD. '

XXIV

Then Alice heard that the baby was dead, and that a little money wouldbe required to bury it. Another effort was made, the money was sent; andthe calm of the succeeding weeks was only disturbed by an uneasy desireto see May back in Galway, and hear her say that her terrible secret wasover and done with for ever. One day she was startled by a quicktrampling of feet in the corridor, and May rushed into the room. Shethrew herself into Alice's arms and kissed her with effusion, withtears. The girls looked at each other long and nervously. One was paleand over-worn, her spare figure was buttoned into a faded dress, and herhair was rolled into a plain knot. The other was superb with health, andher face was full of rose-bloom. She was handsomely dressed in greenvelvet, and her copper hair flamed and flashed beneath a small bonnetwith mauve strings. 

'Oh, Alice, how tired and pale you look! You have been working too hard, and all for me! How can I thank you? I shall never be able to thankyou--I cannot find words to tell you how grateful I am--but I amgrateful, Alice, indeed I am. '

'I am sure you are, dear. I did my best for you, it is true; and thankheaven I succeeded, and no one knows--I do not think that anyone evensuspects. '

'No, not a soul. We managed it very well, didn't we? And the ReverendMother behaved splendidly--she just took the view that you said shewould. She saw that no good would come of telling mamma about me when Imade her understand that if a word were said my misfortune would bebelled all over the country in double-quick time. But, Alice dear, I hada terrible time of it, two months waiting in that little lodging, afraidto go out for fear someone would recognize me; it was awful. And often Ihadn't enough to eat, for when you are in that state you can't eateverything, and I was afraid to spend any money. You did your best tokeep me supplied, dear, good guardian angel that you are. ' Then theimpulsive girl flung herself on Alice's shoulders, and kissed her. 'Butthere were times when I was hard up--oh, much more hard up than youthought I was, for I didn't tell you everything; if I had, you wouldhave worried yourself into your grave. Oh, I had a frightful time of it!If one is married one is petted and consoled and encouraged; but alonein a lodging--oh, it was frightful. '

'And what about the poor baby?' said Alice. 

'The poor little thing died, as I wrote you, about ten days after it wasborn. I nursed it, and I was sorry for it. I really was; but of course. . . Well, it seems a hard thing to say, but I don't know what I shouldhave done with it if it had lived. Life isn't so happy, is it, evenunder the best of circumstances?'

The conversation came to a sudden close. At last the nervous silencethat intervened was broken by May:

'We were speaking about money. I will repay you all I owe you some day, Alice dear. I will save up all the money I can get out of mother. She issuch a dear old thing, but I cannot understand her. Not a penny did shesend me for the first six weeks, and then she sent me £25; and it waslucky she did, for the doctor's bill was something tremendous. And Ibought this dress and bonnet with what was left . . . I ought to haverepaid you first thing, but I forgot it until I had ordered the dress. '

'I assure you it does not matter, May; I shall never take the money fromyou. If I did, it would take away all the pleasure I have had in servingyou. '

'Oh, but I will insist, Alice dear; I could not think of such a thing. But there's no use in discussing that point until I get the money. . . . Tell me, what do you think of my bonnet?'

'I think it very nice indeed, and I never saw you looking better. '

And thus ended May Gould's Dublin adventure. It was scarcely spoken ofagain, and when they met at a ball given by the officers stationed inGalway, Alice was astonished to find that she experienced no antipathywhatever towards this rich-blooded young person. 'My dear guardianangel, come and sit with me in this corner; I'd sooner talk to you thananyone--we won't go down yet a while--we'll make the men wait;' and whenshe put her arms round Alice's waist and told her the last news ofViolet and her Marquis, Alice abandoned herself to the caress and heardthat thirty years ago the late Marquis had entered a grocer's shop inGalway to buy a pound of tea for an importuning beggar: 'And what do youthink, my dear?--It was Mrs. Scully who served it out to him; and do youknow what they are saying?--that it is all your fault that Olive did notmarry Kilcarney. '

'My fault?'

'Your fault, because you gave the part of the beggar-maid to Violet, andif Olive had played the beggar-maid and hadn't married Kilcarney, thefault would have been laid at your door just the same. '

The pale cheeks of Lord Rosshill's seven daughters waxed a hectic red;the Ladies Cullen grew more angular, and smiled and cawed more cruelly;Mrs. Barton, the Brennans, and Duffys cackled more warmly andcontinuously; and Bertha, the terror of the _débutantes_, beat the bigdrum more furiously than ever. The postscripts to her letters wereparticularly terrible: 'And to think that the grocer's daughter shouldcome in for all this honour. It is she who will turn up her nose at usat the Castle next year. ' 'Ah, had I known what was going to happen itis I who would have pulled the fine feathers out of her. ' Day after day, week after week, the agony was protracted, until every heart grew wearyof the strain put upon it and sighed for relief. But it was impossibleto leave off thinking and talking; and the various accounts oforange-blossoms and the bridesmaids that in an incessant postal streamwere poured during the month of January into Galway seemed to provokerather than abate the marriage fever. The subject was inexhaustible, andlittle else was spoken of until it was time to pack up trunks andprepare for the Castle season. The bride, it was stated, would bepresent at the second Drawing-Room in March. 

Nevertheless Alice noticed that the gladness of last year was gone outof their hearts; none expected much, and all remembered a little of thedisappointments they had suffered. A little of the book had been read;the lines of white girls standing about the pillars in Patrick's Hall, the empty waltz tunes and the long hours passed with their chaperonswere terrible souvenirs to pause upon. Still they must fight on to thelast; there is no going back--there is nothing for them to go back to. There is no hope in life for them but the vague hope of a husband. Sothey keep on to the last, becoming gradually more spiteful and puerile, their ideas of life and things growing gradually narrower, until, intheir thirty-fifth or fortieth year, they fall into the autumn heaps, tolie there forgotten, or to be blown hither or thither by every wind thatblows. 

Two of Lord Rosshill's daughters had determined to try their luck again, and a third was undecided; the Ladies Cullen said that they had theirschool to attend to and could not leave Galway; poverty compelled theBrennans and Duffys to remain at home. Alice would willingly have donethe same, but, tempted by the thin chance that she might meet withHarding, she yielded to her mother's persuasions. Harding did not returnto Dublin, and her second season was more barren of incident than thefirst. The same absence of conviction, the same noisy gossiping andinability to see over the horizon of Merrion Square, the same servileadoration of officialism, the same meanness committed to secure aninvitation to the Castle, the same sing-song waltz tunes, the samemiserable, mocking, melancholy, muslin hours were endured by the samewhite martyrs. 

And if the Castle remained unchanged, Mount Street lost nothing of itsoriginal aspect. Experience had apparently taught Mrs. Barton nothing;she knew but one set of tricks--if they failed she repeated them: shewas guided by the indubitableness of instinct rather than by the morewandering light that is reason. Mr. Barton, who it was feared might talkof painting, and so distract the attention from more serious matters, was left in Galway, and amid eight or nine men collected here, there, and everywhere out of the hotels and barrack-rooms, the three ladies satdown to dinner. 

Mrs. Barton, who could have talked to twenty men, and have kept themamused, was severely handicapped by the presence of her daughters. Olive, at the best of times, could do little more than laugh; and asAlice never had anything to say to the people she met at her mother'shouse, the silences that hung over the Mount Street dinner-table werefunereal in intensity and length. From time to time questions were askedrelating to the Castle, the weather, and the theatre. 

Therefore, beyond the fact that neither Lord Kilcarney nor Mr. Hardingwas present, the girls passed their second season in the same manner astheir first. _Les deux pièces de résistance_ at Mount Street were adissipated young English lord and a gouty old Irish distiller, and Mrs. Barton was making every effort to secure one of these. A pianist wasordered to attend regularly at four o'clock. And now if Alice wasrelieved of the duty of spelling through the doleful strains of 'DreamFaces, ' she was forced to go round and round with the distiller until anextra glass of port forced the old gentleman to beg mercy of Mrs. Barton. At one o'clock in the morning the young lord used to enter theKildare Street Club weary. But not much way was made with either, andwhen one returned to London and the other to a sick-bed, Olive abandonedherself to a series of flirtations. At the Castle she danced with allwho asked her, and she sat out dances in the darkest corners of the mostdistant rooms with every officer stationed in Dublin. Mrs. Barton neverrefused an invitation to any dance, no matter how low, and in all theobscure 'afternoons' in Mount Street and Pembroke Street Olive's blondecameo-like face was seen laughing with every official of Cork Hill andthe gig-men of Kildare Street. 

In May the Bartons went abroad, and Olive flirted with foreigntitles--French Counts, Spanish Dukes, Russian Princes, Swedish noblemenof all kinds, and a goodly number of English refugees withirreproachable neckties and a taste for baccarat. In the balmy gardensof Ostend and Boulogne, jubilant with June and the overture ofMasaniello, Milord and Mrs. Barton walked in front, talking and laughinggracefully. Olive chose him who flattered her the most outrageously; andAlice strove hard to talk to the least objectionable of the men she wasbrought in contact with. Amid these specious talkers there were a fewwho reminded her of Mr. Harding, and she hoped later on to be able toturn her present experiences to account. There was, of course, muchdining at cafés and dining at the casinos, and evening walks along thedark shore. Alice often feared for her sister, but the girl's vanity andlightheadedness were her safeguards, and she returned to Galway only alittle wearied by the long chase after amusement. 

The soft Irish summer is pleasant after the glare of foreign towns, andthe country, the rickety stone walls and the herds of cattle, the deepcurved lines of the plantations of the domain lands, the long streaks ofbrown bog, the flashing tarns of bog-water, and the ruined cottage, laydozing in beautiful silvery haze. There was much charm for Alice inthese familiar signs; and, although she did not approve of--although shewould not care ever to meet them again--the people she had met at Ostendand Dieppe had interested her. She had picked up ideas and had receivedimpressions, and with these germinating in her, a time of quiet, a timefor reading and thinking, came as a welcome change after the noise ofcasinos and the glitter of fireworks. The liberty she had enjoyed, thesense it had brought with it that she was neither a doll nor a victim, had rendered her singularly happy. The plot of a new story was singingin her head, the characters flitted before her eyes, and to think ofthem or to tell Cecilia of them was a pleasure sufficient for all herdaily desire. Olive, too, was glad. The sunlight has gone into herblood, and she romps with her mother and Milord amid the hay, or, stretched at length, she listens to the green air of the lawn, herdreams ripple like water along a vessel's side, the white wake of thepast in bubble behind her; and when the life of the landscape is burntout, and the day in dying seems to have left its soul behind, she standswatching, her thoughts curdling gently, the elliptical flight of theswallows through the gloom, and the flutter of the bats upon the deadsky. 

But the thoughtless brain, fed for many weeks upon noise and glitter, soon began to miss its accustomed stimulants, and Mrs. Barton was quickto comprehend sudden twitchings of the face and abrupt movements of thelimbs. And, keenly alive to what was passing in her daughter's mind, sheinsisted on Olive's accompanying her to the tennis-parties with whichthe county teemed. Sir Charles, Mr. Adair, and even poor Sir Richardwere put forward as the most eligible of men. 

'It is impossible to say when the big fish will be caught; it is oftenthe last try that brings him to land, ' murmured Mrs. Barton. But Olivehad lost courage, and could fix her thoughts on no one. And, often whenthey returned home, she would retire to her room to have a good cry. 

'Leave me alone, Alice; oh, go away. Don't tease me, don't tease me! Ionly want to be left alone. '

'But listen, dear; can I do anything for you?'

'You! no, no, indeed you can't. I only want to be left alone. I am somiserable, so unhappy; I wish I were dead!'

'Dead?'

'Yes, dead; what's the use of living when I know that I shall be an oldmaid? We shall all be old maids. What's the use of being pretty, either, when Violet, though she be but a bag of bones, has got the Marquis? Ihave been out two seasons now, and nothing has come of all the trying. And yet I was the belle of the season, wasn't I, Alice?' And now, looking more than ever like a cameo Niobe, Olive stared at her sisterpiteously. 'Oh yes, Alice, I know I shall be an old maid; and isn't itdreadful, and I the belle of the season? It makes me so unhappy. No oneever heard of the belle (and I was the belle not of one, but of twoseasons) remaining an old maid. I can understand a lot of ugly thingsnot getting married, but I--'

Alice smiled, and half ironically she asked herself if Olive reallysuffered. No heart-pang was reflected in those blue mindless eyes; therewas no heart to wound: only a little foolish vanity had been bruised. 

'And to think, ' cried this whimpering beauty, when Alice had seen hersuccessfully through a flood of hysterical tears, 'that I was sillyenough to give up dear Edward. I am punished for it now, indeed I am;and it was very wicked of me--it was a great sin. I broke his heart. Butyou know, Alice dear, that it was all mamma's fault; she urged me on;and you know how I refused, how I resisted her. Didn't I resist--tellme. You know, and why won't you say that I did resist?'

'You did, indeed, Olive; but you must not distress yourself, or you willmake yourself ill. '

'Yes, perhaps you are right, there's nothing makes one look so ugly ascrying, and if I lost my looks and met Edward he might not care for me. He'd be disappointed, I mean--but I haven't lost my looks; I am just aspretty as I was when I came out first. Am I not, Alice?'

'Indeed you are, dear. '

'You don't think I have gone off a bit--now do tell me? and I want toask you what you think of my hair in a fringe; Papa says it isn'tclassical, but that's nonsense. I wish I knew how Edward would like meto wear it. '

'But you mustn't think of him, Olive dear; you know mother would neverhear of it. '

'I can't help thinking of him. . . . And now I will tell you something, Alice, if you promise me on your word of honour not to scold me, and, above all, not to tell mamma. '

'I promise. '

'Well, the other day I was walking at the end of the lawn feeling sovery miserable. You don't know how miserable I feel; you are nevermiserable, for you think of nothing but your books. Well (mind, you havegiven me your word not to tell anyone), I saw Captain Hibbert ridingalong the road, and when he saw me he stopped his horse and kissed hishand to me. '

'And what did you do?'

'I don't know what I did. He called me, and then I saw Milord comingalong the road, and fled but, oh, isn't it cruel of mamma to haveforbidden Edward to come and see us? and he loving me as much as ever. '

This was not the moment to advise her sister against clandestinemeetings with Captain Hibbert; she was sobbing violently, and Alice hadto assure her again and again that no one who had been the belle of theseason had ever remained an old maid. But Alice (having well in mind thefate that had befallen May Gould) grew not a little alarmed when, in thecourse of next week, she suddenly noticed that Olive was in the habit ofgoing out for long walks alone, and that she invariably returned in astate of high spirits, all the languor and weariness seeming to havefallen from her. 

Alice once thought of following her sister. She watched her open thewicket and walk across the meadows towards the Lawler domain. There wasa bypath there leading to the highroad, but the delicacy of theirposition in relation to the owners prevented the Bartons from evermaking use of it. Nor did Alice fail to notice that about the same time, Barnes, on the pretence of arranging the room for the evening, wouldstrive to drive her from her writing-table, and beds were made andunmade, dresses were taken out of the wardrobe, and importuningconversations were begun. But, taking no heed of the officious maid, Alice, her thoughts tense with anxiety, sat at her window watching theslender figure of the girl growing dim in the dying light. Once she didnot return until it was quite dark, and, reproaching herself for havingremained so long silent, Alice walked across the pleasure-grounds tomeet her. 

'What, you here?' cried Olive, surprised at finding her sister waitingfor her at the wicket. She was out of breath; she had evidently beenrunning. 

'Yes, Olive, I was anxious to speak to you--you must know that it isvery wrong to meet Captain Hibbert--and in the secrecy of a wood!'

'Who told you I had been to meet Captain Hibbert? I suppose you havebeen following me!'

'No, Olive, I haven't, and you have no right to accuse me of suchmeanness. I have not been following you, but I cannot help putting twoand two together. You told me something of this once before, and sincethen you have scarcely missed an evening. '

'Well, I don't see any harm in meeting Edward; he is going to marry me. '

'Going to marry you?'

'Yes, going to marry me; is there anything so very extraordinary inthat? Mamma had no right to break off the match, and I am not going toremain an old maid. '

'And have you told mother about this?'

'No, where's the use, since she won't hear of it?'

'And are you going to run away with Captain Hibbert?'

'Run away with him!' exclaimed Olive, laughing strangely. 'No, of courseI am not. '

'And how are you to marry him if you don't tell mother?'

'I shall tell her when the time comes to tell her. And now, Alice dear, you will promise not to betray me, won't you? You will not speak aboutthis to anyone, you promise me? If you did, I know I should go mad orkill myself. '

'But when will you tell mother of your resolution to marry CaptainHibbert?'

'Tell her? I'll tell her to-morrow if you like; that is to say, if youwill give me your word of honour not to speak to her about my meetingEdward in the Lawler Wood. '

Afterwards Alice often wondered at her dullness in not guessing thetruth. But at the time it did not occur to her that Olive might havemade arrangements to elope with Captain Hibbert; and, on theunderstanding that all was to be explained on the following day, shepromised to keep her sister's secret. 

XXV

Lord Dungory dined at Brookfield that evening. He noticed that Olive wasnervous and restless, and he reminded her of what a French poet had saidon the subject of beauty. But she only turned her fair head impatiently, and a little later on when her mother spoke to her she burst into tears. Nor was she as easily consoled as usual, and she did not become calmuntil Mrs. Barton suggested that her dear child was ill, and that shewould go upstairs and put her to bed. Then, looking a little alarmed, Olive declared she was quite well, but she passionately begged to beleft alone. As they left the dining-room she attempted to slip away;Alice made a movement as if to follow her, but Mrs. Barton said:

'Leave her to herself, Alice; she would rather be left alone. She hasoverstrained her nerves, that is all. '

Olive heard these words with a singular satisfaction, and as sheascended the stairs from the first landing, her heart beat lessviolently. On the threshold of her room she paused to listen for thedrawing-room door to shut. Through the silent house the lock soundedsharply. 

'I hope none of them will come upstairs bothering after me, ' the girlmurmured to herself. 'If they do I shall go mad;' and standing in themiddle of the floor she looked round the room vacantly, unable tocollect her thoughts. The wardrobe was on her right, and, seeing herselfin the glass, she wondered if she were looking well. Her eyes wanderedfrom her face to her shoulders, and thence to her feet. Going over tothe toilette-table she sought amid her boots, and, having selected astrong pair, she began to button them. Her back was turned to the door, and at the slightest sound she started. Once or twice the stairscreaked, and she felt something would occur to stop her. Her heart wasbeating so violently that she thought she was going to be ill; and shealmost burst out crying because she could not make up her mind if sheshould put on a hat and travelling-shawl, or run down to the wood as shewas, to meet the Captain. 'He will surely, ' she thought, 'have somethingin the carriage to put around me, but he may bring the dog-cart, and itlooks very cold. But if Alice or mamma saw me coming downstairs with ashawl on, they'd suspect something, and I shouldn't be able to get away. I wonder what time it is? I promised to meet Edward at nine; he'll ofcourse wait for me, but what time is it? We dined at half-past seven; wewere an hour at dinner, half-past eight, and I have been ten minuteshere. It must be nearly nine now, and it will take me ten minutes to getto the corner of the road. The house is quiet now. '

Olive ran down a few steps, but at that moment heavy footsteps and ajingling of glasses announced that the butler was carrying glasses fromthe dining-room to the pantry. 'When will he cease, when will he cease;will he hang about that passage all night?' the girl asked herselftremblingly; and so cruel, so poignant had her suspense become, that hadit been prolonged much further her overwrought nerves would have givenway, and she would have lapsed into a fit of hysterics. But thetray-full of glasses she had heard jingling were now being washed, andthe irritative butler did not stir forth again. This was Olive'sopportunity. From the proximity of the drawing-room to the hall-door itwas impossible for her to open it without being heard; the kitchen-doorwas equally, even more, dangerous, and she could hear the servantsstirring in the passages; there was no safe way of getting out of thehouse unseen, except through the dining-room. 

The candles were lighted, the crumbs were still on the tablecloth;passing behind the red curtain she unlocked the French window, and sheshivered in the keen wind that was blowing. 

It was almost as bright as day. A September moon rose red, and in abroken and fragmentary way the various aspects of the journey that laybefore her were anticipated: as she ran across the garden swards she sawthe post-horses galloping in front of her; as her nervous fingers stroveto unfasten the wicket, she thought of the railway-carriage; and as shepassed under the great dark trunks of the chestnut-trees she dreamed ofEdward's arm that would soon be cast protectingly around her, and hisface; softer than the leafy shadows above her, would be leaned upon her, and his eyes filled with a brighter light than the moon's would lookdown into hers. 

The white meadow that she crossed so swiftly gleamed like the sea, andthe cows loomed through the greyness like peaceful apparitions. But thedark wood with its sepulchral fir-tops and mysteriously spreadingbeech-trees was full of formless terror, and once the girl screamed asthe birds flew with an awful sound through the dark undergrowth. Agloomy wood by night has terrors for the bravest, and it was only thecertainty that she was leaving girl-life--chaperons, waltz-tunes, andbitter sneering, for ever--that gave courage to proceed. A bit ofmoss-grown wall, a singularly shaped holly-bush, a white stone, tookfantastic and supernatural appearances, and once she stopped, paralyzedwith fear, before the grotesque shadow that a dead tree threw over anunexpected glade. A strange bird rose from the bare branches, and atthat moment her dress was caught by a bramble, and, when her shriek torethe dark stillness, a hundred wings flew through the pallor of thewaning moon. 

At the end of this glade there was a paling and a stile that Olive wouldhave to cross, and she could now hear, as she ran forward, the needlesof the silver firs rustling with a pricking sound in the wind. The heavybranches stretched from either side, and Olive thought when she hadpassed this dernful alley she would have nothing more to fear; and sheran on blindly until she almost fell in the arms of someone whom sheinstantly believed to be Edward. 

'Oh! Edward, Edward, I am nearly dead with fright!' she exclaimed. 

'I am not Edward, ' a woman answered. Olive started a step backwards; shewould have fainted, but at the moment the words were spoken Mrs. Lawler's face was revealed in a beam of weak light that fell through avista in the branches. 

'Who are you? Let me pass. '

'Who am I? You know well enough; we haven't been neighbours for fifteenyears without knowing each other by sight. So you are going to run awaywith Captain Hibbert!'

'Oh, Mrs. Lawler, let me pass. I am in a great hurry, I cannot wait; andyou won't say anything about meeting me in the wood, will you?'

'Let you pass, indeed; and what do you think I came here for? Oh, I knowall about it--all about the corner of the road, and the carriage andpost-horses! a very nice little plan and very nicely arranged, but I'mafraid it won't come off--at least, not to-night. '

'Oh, won't it, and why?' cried Olive, clasping her hands. 'Then it wasEdward who sent you to meet me, to tell me that--that--What hashappened?'

'Sent me to tell you! Whom do you take me for? Is it for a--well, a nicepiece of cheek! I carry your messages? Well, I never!'

'Then what did you come here for--how did you know? . . . '

'How did I know? That's my business. What did I come here for? What doyou think? Why, to prevent you from going off with Teddy. '

'With Teddy!'

'Yes, with Teddy. Do you think no one calls him Teddy but yourself?'

Then Olive understood, and, with her teeth clenched she said, 'No, itisn't true; it is a lie; I will not believe it. Let me pass. Whatbusiness have you to detain me?--what right have you to speak to me? Wedon't know you; no one knows you: you are a bad woman whom no one willknow. '

'A bad woman! I like that--and from you. And what do you want to be, whyare you running away from home? Why, to be what I was. We're all alike, the same blood runs in our veins, and when the devil is in us we musthave sweethearts, get them how we may: the airs and graces come onafter; they are only so much trimming. '

'How dare you insult me, you bad woman? Let me pass; I don't know whatyou mean. '

'Oh yes, you do. You think Teddy will take you off to Paris, and spoonyou and take you out; but he won't, at least not to-night. I shan't givehim up so easily as you think for, my lady. '

'Give him up! What is he to you? How dare you speak so of my futurehusband? Captain Hibbert only loves me, he has often told me so. '

'Loves nobody but you! I suppose you think that he never kissed, orspooned, or took anyone on his knee but you. Well, I suppose at twentywe'd believe anything a man told us; and we always think we are gettingthe first of it when we are only getting someone else's leavings. But itisn't for chicks of girls like you that a man cares, it isn't to you aman comes for the love he wants; your kisses are very skim milk indeed, and it is we who teach them the words of love that they murmurafterwards in your ears. '

The women looked at each other in silence, and both heard the needlesshaken through the darkness above them. Mrs. Lawler stood by the stile, her hand was laid on the paling. At last Olive said:

'Let me pass. I will not listen to you any longer; nor do I believe aword you have said. We all know what you are; you are a bad woman whomno one will visit. Let me pass!' and pushing passionately forward sheattempted to cross the stile. Then Mrs. Lawler took her by the shoulderand threw her roughly back. She fell to the ground heavily. 

'Now you had better get up and go home, ' said Mrs. Lawler, and sheapproached the prostrate girl. 'I didn't mean to hurt you; but youshan't elope with Teddy if I can prevent it. Why don't you get up?'

'Oh! my leg, my leg; you have broken my leg!'

'Let me help you up. '

'Don't touch me, ' said Olive, attempting to rise; but the moment she puther right foot to the ground she shrieked with pain, and fell again. 

'Well, if you are going to take it in that way, you may remain where youare, and I can't go and ring them up at Brookfield. I don't think therewill be much eloping done to-night, so farewell. '

XXVI

About ten o'clock on the night of Olive's elopement, Alice knockedtremblingly at her mother's door. 

'Mother, ' she said, 'Olive is not in her room, nor yet in the house; Ihave looked for her everywhere. '

'She is downstairs with her father in the studio, ' said Mrs. Barton;and, signing to her daughter to be silent, she led her out of hearing ofBarnes, who was folding and putting some dresses away in the wardrobe. 

'I have been down to the studio, ' Alice replied in a whisper. 

'Then I am afraid she has run away with Captain Hibbert. But we shallgain nothing by sending men out with lanterns and making a fuss; by thistime she is well on her way to Dublin. She might have done better thanCaptain Hibbert, but she might also have done worse. She will write tous in a few days to tell us that she is married, and to beg of us toforgive her. '

And that night Mrs. Barton slept even more happily, with her mind morecompletely at rest, than usual; whereas Alice, fevered with doubt andapprehension, lay awake. At seven o'clock she was at her window, watching the grey morning splinter into sunlight over the quiet fields. Through the mist the gamekeeper came, and another man, carrying a womanbetween them, and the suspicion that her sister might have been killedin an agrarian outrage gripped her heart like an iron hand. She randownstairs, and, rushing across the gravel, opened the wicket-gate. Olive was moaning with pain, but her moans were a sweet reassurance inAlice's ears, and without attempting to understand the man's story ofhow Miss Olive had sprained her ankle in crossing the stile in theirwood, and how he had found her as he was going his rounds, she gave theman five shillings, thanked him, and sent him away. Barnes and thebutler then carried Olive upstairs, and in the midst of much confusionMr. Barton rode down the avenue in quest of Dr. Reed--galloped down theavenue, his pale hair blowing in the breeze. 

'I wish you had come straight to me, ' said Mrs. Barton to Alice, as soonas Barnes had left the room. 'We'd have got her upstairs between us, andthen we might have told any story we liked about her illness. '

'But the Lawlers' gamekeeper would know all about it. '

'Ah, yes, that's true. I never heard of anything so unfortunate in mylife. An elopement is never very respectable, but an elopement that doesnot succeed, when the girl comes home again, is just as bad as--I cannotthink how Olive could have managed to meet Captain Hibbert and arrangeall this business, without my finding it out. I feel sure she must havehad the assistance of a third party. I feel certain that all this isBarnes's doing. I am beginning to hate that woman, with her perpetualsmile, but it won't do to send her away now; we must wait. ' And on thesewords Mrs. Barton approached the bed. 

Shaken with sudden fits of shivering, and her teeth chattering, Olivelay staring blindly at her mother and sister. Her eyes were expressiveat once of fear and pain. 

'And now, my own darling, will you tell me how all this happened?'

'Oh, not now, mother--not now . . . I don't know; I couldn't help it. . . . You mustn't scold me, I feel too ill to bear it. '

'I am not thinking of scolding you, dearest, and you need not tell meanything you do not like. . . . I know you were going to run away withCaptain Hibbert, and met with an accident crossing the stile in theLawler Wood. '

'Oh, yes, yes; I met that horrid woman, Mrs. Lawler; she knew all aboutit, and was waiting for me at the stile. She said lots of dreadfulthings to me . . . I don't remember what; that she had more right toEdward than I--'

'Never mind, dear; don't agitate yourself thinking of what she said. '

'And then, as I tried to pass her, she pushed me and I fell, and hurt myankle so badly that I could not get up; and she taunted me, and she saidshe could not help me home because we were not on visiting terms. And Ilay in that dreadful wood all night. But I can't speak any more, I feeltoo ill; and I never wish to see Edward again. . . . The pain of my ankleis something terrible. '

Mrs. Barton looked at Alice expressively, and she whispered in her ear:

'This is all Barnes's doing, but we cannot send her away. . . . We must puta bold face on it, and brave it out. '

Dr. Reed was announced. 

'Oh, how do you do, doctor? . . . It is so good of you to come at once.. . . We were afraid Mr. Barton would not find you at home. I am afraidthat Olive has sprained her foot badly. Last night she went out for awalk rather late in the evening, and, in endeavouring to cross a stile, she slipped and hurt herself so badly that she was unable to returnhome, and lay exposed for several hours to the heavy night dews. I amafraid she has caught a severe cold. . . . She has been shivering. '

'Can I see her foot?'

'Certainly. Olive, dear, will you allow Dr. Reed to see your ankle?'

'Oh, take care, mamma; you are hurting me!' shrieked the girl, as Mrs. Barton removed the bedclothes. At this moment a knock was heard at thedoor. 

'Who on earth is this?' cried Mrs. Barton. 'Alice, will you go and see?Say that I am engaged, and can attend to nothing now. '

When Alice returned to the bedside she drew her mother imperativelytowards the window. 'Captain Hibbert is waiting in the drawing-room. Hesays he must see you. '

At the mention of Captain Hibbert's name Mrs. Barton's admirablygoverned temper showed signs of yielding: her face contracted and shebit her lips. 

'You must go down and see him. Tell him that Olive is very ill and thatthe doctor is with her. And mind you, you must not answer any questions. Say that I cannot see him, but that I am greatly surprised at hisforcing his way into my house after what has passed between us; that Ihope he will never intrude himself upon us again; that I cannot have mydaughter's life endangered, and that, if he insists on persecuting us, Ishall have to write to his Colonel. '

'Do you not think that father would be the person to make suchexplanations?'

'You know your father could not be trusted to talk sensibly for fiveminutes--at least, ' she said, correcting herself, 'on anything that didnot concern painting or singing. . . . But, ' she continued, following herdaughter to the door, 'on second thoughts I do not think it would beadvisible to bring matters to a crisis. . . . I do not know how this affairwill affect Olive's chances, and if he is anxious to marry her I do notsee why he should not; . . . She may not be able to get any better. So youhad better, I think, put him off--pretend that we are very angry, andget him to promise not to try to see or to write to Olive until, let ussay, the end of the year. It will only make him more keen on her. '

When Alice opened the drawing-room door Captain Hibbert rushed forward;his soft eyes were bright with excitement, and his tall figure wasthrown into a beautiful pose when he stopped. 

'Oh, I beg your pardon. Miss Barton. I had expected your sister. '

'My sister is very ill in bed, and the doctor is with her. '

'Ill in bed!'

'Yes, she sprained her ankle last night in attempting to cross the stilein the wood at the end of our lawn. '

'Oh, that was the reason . . . Then . . . Can I see your sister for a fewminutes?'

'It is quite impossible; and my mother desires me to say that she isvery much surprised that you should come here. . . . We know all about yourattempt to induce Olive to leave her home. '

'Then she has told you? But if you knew how I love her, you would notblame me. What else could I do? Your mother would not let me see her, and she was very unhappy at home; you did not know this, but I did, andif luck hadn't been against me--Ah! but what's the use in talking ofluck; luck was against me, or she would have been my wife now. And whata little thing suffices to blight a man's happiness in life; what alittle, oh, what a little!' he said, speaking in a voice full ofbitterness; and he buried his face in his hands. 

Alice's eyes as she looked at him were expressive of her thoughts--theybeamed at once with pity and admiration. He was but the ordinaryhandsome young man that in England nature seems to reproduce ineverlasting stereotype. Long graceful legs, clad in tight-fittingtrousers, slender hips rising architecturally to square wide shoulders, a thin strong neck and a tiny head--yes, a head so small that an artistwould at once mark off eight on his sheet of double elephant. And now helay over the back of a chair weeping like a child; in the intensity ofhis grief he was no longer commonplace; and as Alice looked at thissuperb animal thrown back in a superb abandonment of pose, her heartfilled with the natural pity that the female feels always for the malein distress, and the impulse within her was to put her arms about himand console him; and then she understood her sister's passion for him, and her mind formulated it thus: 'How handsome he is! Any girl wouldlike a man like that. ' And as Alice surrendered herself to thosesensuous, or rather romantic feelings, her nature quickened to a senseof pleasure, and she grew gentler with him, and was glad to listen whilehe sobbed out his sorrows to her. 

'Oh, why, ' he exclaimed, 'did she fall over that thrice-accursed stile!In five minutes more we would have been in each other's arms, and forever. I had a couple of the best post-horses in Gort; they'd have takenus to Athenry in a couple of hours, and then--Oh! what luck, whatluck!'

'But do you not know that Olive met Mrs. Lawler in the wood, and that itwas she who--'

'What do you say? You don't mean to tell me that it was Mrs. Lawler whoprevented Olive from meeting me? Oh, what beasts, what devils womenare, ' he said; 'and the worst of it is that one cannot be even withthem, and they know it. If you only knew, ' he said, turning almostfiercely upon Alice, 'how I loved your sister, you would pity me; but Isuppose it is all over now. Is she very ill?'

'We don't know yet. She has sprained her ankle very badly, and isshivering terribly; she was lying out all night in the wet wood. '

He did not answer at once. He walked once or twice up and down the room, and then he said, taking Alice's hand in his, 'Will you be a friend tome, Miss Barton?' He could get no further, for tears were rolling downhis cheeks. 

Alice looked at him tenderly; she was much touched by the manifestationof his love, and at the end of a long silence she said:

'Now, Captain Hibbert, I want you to listen to me. Don't cry any more, but listen. '

'I dare say I look a great fool. '

'No, indeed you do not, ' she answered; and then in kindly worded phrasesshe told him that, at least for the present, he must not attempt tocorrespond with Olive. 'Give me your word of honour that you willneither write nor speak to her for, let us say, six months, and I willpromise to be your friend. '

'I will do anything you ask me to do, but will you in return promise towrite and tell me how she is getting on, and if she is in any danger?'

'I think I can promise to do that; I will write and tell you how Oliveis in a few days. Now we must say good-bye; and you will not forget yourpromise to me, as I shall not forget mine to you. '

When Alice went upstairs, Dr. Reed and Mrs. Barton were talking on thelanding. 

'And what do you think, doctor?' asked the anxious mother. 

'It is impossible to say. She has evidently received a severe nervousshock, and this and the exposure to which she was subjected may developinto something serious. You will give her that Dover's powder to-night, and you will see that she has absolute quiet and rest. Have you got areliable nurse?'

'Yes, the young ladies have a maid; I think Barnes can be trusted tocarry out your orders, doctor. '

'Oh, mamma, I hope you will allow me to nurse my sister; I should notlike to leave her in charge of a servant. '

'I am afraid you are not strong enough, dear. '

'Oh, yes, I am; am I not strong enough, doctor?'

Dr. Reed looked for a moment steadily at Alice. 'Your sister will, ' hesaid, 'require a good deal of looking after. But if you will not overdoit, I think you seem quite strong enough to nurse her. But you must notsit up at night with her too regularly; you must share the labour withsomeone. '

'She will do that with me, ' said Mrs. Barton, speaking more kindly, Alice thought, than she had ever heard her speak before. 

Then a wailing voice was heard calling to Alice. 

'Go in and see what she wants, dear, but you will not encourage her totalk much; the doctor does not wish it. '

The room did not look the same to Alice as it had ever looked before. Her eyes fell on the Persian rugs laid between the two white beds andthe tall glass in the wardrobe where Olive wasted half-an-hour everyevening, examining her beauty. Would she ever do so again? Now a brokenreflection of feverish eyes and blonde hair was what remained. The whitecurtains of the chimneypiece had been drawn aside, a bright fire wasburning, and Barnes was removing a foot-pan of hot water. 

'Sit down here by me, Alice; I want to talk to you. '

'The doctor has forbidden you to talk, dear; he says you must haveperfect rest and quiet. '

'I must talk a little to you; if I didn't I should go mad. '

'Well, what is it, dear?'

'I will tell you presently, ' said the sick girl, glancing at Barnes. 

'You can tidy up the room afterwards, Barnes; Miss Olive wants to talkto me now. '

'Oh, Alice, tell me, ' cried the girl, when the servant had left theroom, 'I don't want to ask mamma--she won't tell me the exact truth; butyou will. Tell me what the doctor said. . . . Did he say I was going todie?'

'Going to die? Olive, who ever heard of such a thing? You really mustnot give way to such fancies. '

'Well, tell me what he said. '

'He said that you had received a severe nervous shock, that you had beensubjected to several hours' exposure, that you must take great care ofyourself, and, above all, have perfect rest and quiet, and not exciteyourself, and not talk. '

'Is that all he said? Then he cannot know how ill I feel; perhaps Iought to see another doctor. But I don't believe anyone could do me muchgood. Oh, I feel wretchedly ill, and somehow I seem to know I am goingto die! It would be very horrible to die; but young girls no older thanI have died--have been cut off in the beginning of their life. And wehave seen nothing of life, only a few balls and parties. It would beterrible to die so soon. When Violet carried off the Marquis I felt sobitterly ashamed that I thought I would have liked to die; but notnow--now I know that Edward loves me I would not care to die; it wouldbe terrible to die before I was married. Wouldn't it, Alice? . . . But youdon't answer me; did you never think about death?'

Then, as the thin wailing voice sank into her ears, Alice started fromher dreams, and she strove to submit her attention to her sister. 

'Yes, dear, of course I have. Death is, no doubt, a very terrible thing, but we can do no good by thinking of it. '

'Oh yes, we should, Alice, for this is not the only world--there isanother and a better one; and, as mamma says, and as religion says, weare only here to try and get a good place in it. You are surprised tohear me speak like this; you think I never think of anything but thecolour of a bonnet-string, but I do. '

'I am sure you do, Olive; I never doubted it; but I wish you would nowdo what the doctor orders, and refrain from talking and excitingyourself, and try and get well. You may then think of death and othergloomy things as much as you like. '

'You don't understand, Alice; one can't think of death, then--one has somuch else to think of; one is so taken up with other ideas. It is onlywhen one is ill that one really begins to see what life is. You havenever been ill, and you don't know how terribly near death seems to havecome--very near. Perhaps I ought to see the priest; it would be just aswell, just in case I should die. Don't you think so?'

'I don't think there is any more danger of your dying now than there wasa month ago, dear, and I am sure you can have nothing on your mind thatdemands immediate confession, ' she said, her voice trembling a little. 

'Oh yes, I have, Alice, and a very great deal; I have been very wicked. '

'Very wicked!'

'Well, I know you aren't pious, Alice, and perhaps you don't believethere is harm in such things, but I do; and I know it was very wrong, and perhaps a mortal sin, to try to run away with Edward. But I lovedhim so very dearly, and I was so tired of staying at home and beingtaken out to parties. And when you are in love with a man you forgeteverything. At least I did; and when he asked to kiss me I couldn'trefuse. You won't tell anyone, Alice dear, that I told you this. ' Aliceshook her head, and Olive continued, in spite of all that the doctor hadsaid:

'But you don't know how lonely I feel at home; you never feel lonely, Idare say, for you only think of your books and papers, and don't realizewhat a disgrace it would be if I didn't marry, and after all the troublethat mamma has taken. But I don't know what will become of me now. I'mgoing to be dreadfully ill, and when I get well I shall be pretty nolonger; I am sure I am looking wretchedly. I must see myself--fetch theglass, Alice, Alice. '

Olive lay whining and calling for her sister, and when Dr. Reed came heordered several inches of the pale silky hair to be cut away and a coldlotion to be applied to the forehead, and some sliced lemons were givento her to suck. 

The clear blue eyes were dull, the breathing quick, the skin dry andhot; and on the following day four leeches had to be applied to herankle. They relieved her somewhat, and, when she had taken her draught, she sank to sleep. But as the night grew denser, Alice was suddenlyawakened by someone speaking wildly in her ear: 'Take me away, dear! Iam sick of home; I want to get away from all these spiteful girls. Iknow they are laughing at me because Violet cut me out with the Marquis. We shall be married, shan't we, the moment we arrive in Dublin? It'shorrible to be married at the registrar's, but it's better than notbeing married at all. But do you think they will catch us up? It wouldbe dreadful to be taken back home, I couldn't bear it. Oh, do drive on;we don't seem to be moving. You see that strange tree on the right, wehaven't passed it yet; I don't think we ever shall. Whip up that bayhorse; don't you see he is turning round, wants to go back? I am surethat this isn't the road; that man at the corner told you a lie. I knowhe was mocking at us--I saw it in his eye. . . . Look, look, Edward! Oh, look--it is papa, or Lord Dungory, I can't tell which, he won't lift hiscloak. ' And then the vision would fade, and she would fancy herself inthe wood, arguing once again with Mrs. Lawler. 'No, what you say isn'ttrue; he never loved you. How could he? You are an old woman. Let mepass--let me pass. Why do you speak to me? We don't visit, we never didvisit you. No; it was not at our house you met Edward. You were on thestreets; and Edward shall not, he could not, think of running away withyou--will you, darling? Oh, help me, help me out of this dreadful wood. I want to go home, but I can't walk. That terrible bird is stillwatching me, and I dare not pass that tree till you drive it away. '

The two beds, with their white curtains and brass crowns, showed throughthe pale obscurity, broken only by the red-glowing basin where anight-light burnt, and the long tongues of flame that the blazing peatscattered from time to time across the darkened ceiling. The solitude ofthe sleeping house grew momentarily more intense in Alice's brain, andshe trembled as she strove to soothe her sister, and covered the hotfeverish arms over with the bedclothes. 

'What sort of night has Olive had?' Mrs. Barton asked when she came inabout eight. 

'Not a very quiet one; I am afraid she's a little delirious. '

'Dr. Reed promised to be here early. How do you feel, dear?' Mrs. Bartonasked, leaning over the bed. 

'Oh, very ill; I can scarcely breathe, and I have such a pain in myside. '

'Your lips look very sore, dear; do they hurt you?'--Olive only moaneddismally--and, looking anxiously at her elder daughter, she said:

'And you, too, Alice, are not looking well. You are tired, and mustn'tsit up another night with your sister. To-night I'll take your place. '

'Oh, mother, no! I assure you it is a pleasure to me to nurse Olive. Iam very well indeed; do not think about me. '

'Indeed, I will think about you, and you must do as I tell you. I'lllook after Olive, and you must try and get a good night's rest We willtake it in turns to nurse her. And now come down to breakfast. Barnes, you'll not think of leaving Miss Olive until we come back; and, if anychange occurs, ring for me immediately. '

When Dr. Reed arrived, Alice was again sitting by the bedside. 

'And how is our patient to-day?'

'I cannot say she is any better; she has a distressing cough, and lastnight I am afraid she was a little delirious. '

'Ah, you say the cough is distressing?'

'I am afraid I must call it distressing; is that a very bad sign?'

'Probably there is not much wrong, but it would be better to ascertainthe condition of the patient, and then we may be able to do something torelieve her. '

The doctor drew a stethoscope from his pocket, and they lifted thepatient into a sitting position. 

'I should like to examine her chest;' and his fingers moved to unfastenher night-gown. 

'Don't expose me, ' she murmured feebly. 

'Now, Olive dear, remember it is only the doctor; let him examine you. '

Olive's eyes were a dull filmy blue, the lips were covered with sores, and there was a redness over the cheekbones--not the hectic flush ofphthisis, but a dusky redness. And the patient was so weak that duringthe stethoscopic examination her head fell from side to side as she wasmoved, and when the doctor pressed her right side her moans werepregnant with pain. 

'Now let me see the tongue. Dry and parched. '

'Shall I die, doctor?' the girl asked feebly and plaintively as she sankamidst the pillows. 

'Die! no, not if you take care of yourself and do what you are told. '

'But tell me, Dr. Reed, ' Alice asked. 'You can tell me the truth. '

'She'll get well if she takes care of herself. It is impossible to say. No one can predict the turn pneumonia will take. '

'Pneumonia! What is that?'

'Congestion of the lungs, or rather an advanced stage of it. It is morecommon in men than in women, and it is the consequence of long exposureto wet and cold. '

'Is it very dangerous?'

'Very; and now let me tell you that it is all-important that thetemperature of the room should not be allowed to vary. I attended a caseof it some three or four miles from here, but the damp of the cabin wasso great that it was impossible to combat the disease. The cottage, orrather hovel, was built on the edge of a soft spongy bog, and so wet wasit that the woman had to sweep the water every morning from the floor, where it collected in great pools. I am now going to visit an evictedfamily, who are living in a partially roofed shed fenced up by theroadside. The father is down with fever, and lies shivering, withnothing to drink but cold water. His wife told me that last week itrained so heavily that she had to get up three times in the night towring the sheets out. '

'And why were they evicted?'

'Oh, that is a long story; but it is a singularly characteristic one. Inthe first place, he was an idle fellow; he got into difficulties andowed his landlord three years' rent. Then he got into bad hands, and wasprevented from coming to terms with his landlord. There was a lot ofjobbing going on between the priest and the village grocer, and finallyit was arranged that the latter should pay off the existing debt if thelandlord could be forced into letting him the farm at a "fair rent, "that is to say, thirty per cent reduction on the old rent. Inrecognition of his protecting influence, the priest was to take a thirdof the farm off the grocer's hands, and the two were then to conjointlyrack-rent poor Murphy for the remaining third portion, which he would beallowed to retain for a third of the original rent; but the NationalLeague heard of their little tricks, and now the farm is boycotted, andMurphy is dying in the ditch for the good of his _counthry_. '

'I thought boycotting was ended, that the League had lost all power. '

'It has and it hasn't. Sometimes a man takes a farm and keeps it indefiance of his neighbours; sometimes they hunt him out of it. It ishard to come to a conclusion, for when in one district you hear of rentsbeing paid and boycotted farms letting freely, in another, only a fewmiles away, the landlords are giving reductions, and there are farmslying waste that no one dare look at. In my opinion the fire is onlysmouldering, and when the Coercion Act expires the old organization willrise up as strong and as triumphant as before. This is a time of respitefor both parties. '

The conversation then came to a sudden pause. Alice felt it would be outof place for her to speak her sympathies for the Nationalistic cause, and she knew it would be unfair to lead the doctor to express his. So atthe end of a long silence, during which each divined the other'sthoughts, she said:

'I suppose you see a great deal of the poor and the miseries theyendure?'

'I have had good opportunities of studying them. Before I came here Ispent ten years in the poorest district in Donegal. I am sure therewasn't a gentleman's house within fifteen miles of me. '

'And didn't you feel very lonely?'

'Yes, I did, but one gets so used to solitude that to return to theworld, after having lived long in the atmosphere of one's own thoughts, is painful. The repugnance that grows on those who live alone to hearingtheir fellow-creatures express their ideas is very remarkable. It mustbe felt to be understood; and I have often wondered how it was that Inever met it in a novel. '

'It would be very difficult to write. Do you ever read fiction?'

'Yes, and enjoy it. In my little home amid the northern bogs, I used tolook forward when I had finished writing, to reading a story. '

'What were you writing?'

'A book. '

'A book!' exclaimed Alice, looking suddenly pleased and astonished. 

'Yes, but not a work of fiction--I am afraid I am too prosaic anindividual for that--a medical work. '

'And have you finished your book?'

'Yes, it is finished, and I am glad to say it is in the hands of aLondon publisher. We have not yet agreed about the price, but I hope andbelieve that, directly and indirectly, it will lead to putting me into asmall London practice. '

'And then you will leave us?'

'I am afraid so. There are many friends I shall miss--that I shall bevery sorry to leave, but--'

'Oh, of course it would not do to miss such a chance. '

They fell to discussing the patient, and when the doctor left, Aliceproceeded to carry out his instructions concerning the patient, and, these being done, she sat down by the bedside and continued her thoughtsof him with a sense of pleasure. She remembered that she had alwaysliked him. Yes, it was a liking that dated as far back as the spinsters'ball at Ballinasloe. He was the only man there in whom she had taken theslightest interest. They were sitting together on the stairs when thatpoor fellow was thrown down and had his leg broken. She remembered howshe had enjoyed meeting him at tennis-parties, and how often she hadwalked away with him from the players through the shrubberies; and aboveall she could not forget--it was a long sweet souvenir--the beautifulafternoon she had spent with him, sitting on the rock, the day of thepicnic at Kinvarra Castle. She had forgotten, or rather she had nevernoticed, that he was a short, thick-set, middle-aged man, that he woremutton-chop whiskers, and that his lips were overhung by a long darkmoustache. His manners were those of an unpolished and somewhatcommonplace man. But while she thought of his grey eyes her heart wasthrilled with gladness, and as she dreamed of his lonely life of labourand his ultimate hopes of success, all her old sorrows and fears seemedto have evaporated. Then suddenly and with the unexpectedness of anapparition the question presented itself: Did she like him better thanHarding? Alice shrank from the unpleasantness of the thought, and didnot force herself to answer it, but busied herself with attending to hersister's wants. 

While the dawn of Alice's happiness, Olive lay suffering in all the direhumility of the flesh. Hourly her breathing grew shorter and morehurried, her cough more frequent, and the expectoration that accompaniedit darker and thicker in colour. The beautiful eyes were now turgid anddull, the lids hung heavily over a line of filmy blue, and a thick scalylayer of bloody tenacious mucus persistently accumulated and covered thetiny and once almost jewel-like teeth. For three or four days thesesymptoms knew no abatement; and it was over this prostrated body, weakened and humiliated by illness, that Alice and Dr. Reed read love ineach other's eyes, and it was about this poor flesh that their handswere joined as they lifted Olive out of the recumbent position she hadslipped into, and built up the bowed-in pillows. And as it had once beenall Olive in Brookfield, it was now all Alice; the veil seemed suddenlyto have slipped from all eyes, and the exceeding worth of this plaingirl was at last recognized. Mrs. Barton's presence at the bedside didnot soothe the sufferer; she grew restless and demanded her sister. Andthe illness continued, her life in the balance till the eighth day. Itwas then that she took a turn for the better; the doctor pronounced herout of danger, and two days after she lay watching Alice and Dr. Reedtalking in the window. 'Were they talking about her?' she asked herself. She did not think they were. It seemed to her that each was interestedin the other. 'Laying plans, ' the sick girl said to herself, 'forthemselves. ' At these words her senses dimmed, and when she awoke shehad some difficulty in remembering what she had seen. 

XXVII

'Ah, _ce cher Milord, comme il est beau, comme il est parfait!_'exclaimed Mrs. Barton, as she led him to his chair and poured out hisglass of sherry. 

But there was a gloom on his face which laughter and compliments failedfor a moment to dissipate--at last he said:

'Ah, Mrs. Barton, Mrs. Barton! if I hadn't this little retreat to takerefuge in, to hide myself in, during some hours of the day, I should notbe able to bear up--Brookfield has prolonged my life for--'

'I cannot allow such sad thoughts as these, ' said Mrs. Barton laughing, and waving her white hands. 'Who has been teasing _notre cher_ Milord?What have dreadful Lady Jane and terrible Lady Sarah been doing to him?'

'I shall never forget this morning, no, not if I lived to a thousand, 'the old gentleman murmured plaintively. 'Oh, the scenes--the scenes Ihave been through! Cecilia, as I told you yesterday, has been fillingthe house with rosaries and holywater-fonts; Jane and Sarah have beenbreaking these, and the result has been tears and upbraidings. Lastnight at dinner I don't really know what they didn't say to each other;and then the two elder ones fell upon me and declared that it was all myfault, that I ought never to have sent my daughter to a Catholicconvent. I was obliged to shut myself up in the study and lock the door. Then this morning, when I thought it was all over, it began again worsethan ever; and then in the middle of it all, when Jane asked Cecilia howmany Gods there were in the roll of bread she was eating if the priestwere to bless it--if a Papist wasn't one who couldn't worship God tillsomebody had turned Him into a biscuit--a most injudicious observation, I said so at the time, and I must apologize to you, my dear Mrs. Barton, for repeating it, but I am really so upset that I scarcely know what Iam saying. Well, Jane had no sooner spoken than Cecilia overthrew theteacups and said she wasn't going to stay in the house to hear herreligion insulted, and without another word she walked down to theparish priest and was baptized a Catholic; nor is that all. She returnedwith a scapular round her neck, a rosary about her waist, and a Pope'smedal in her hand. I really thought Jane and Sarah would have fainted;indeed I am sure they would have fainted if Cecilia hadn't declared thatshe was going to pack up her things and return at once to St. Leonardsand become a nun. Such an announcement as this was, of course, farbeyond fainting, and . . . But no, I will not attempt to describe it, butI can assure you I was very anxious to get out of the house. '

'Cecilia going to be a nun; oh, I am so glad!' exclaimed Olive. 'It isfar the best thing she could do, for she couldn't hope to be married. '

'Olive, Olive!' said Mrs. Barton, 'you shouldn't speak so openly. Weshould always consider the religious prejudices of others. Of course, asCatholics we must be glad to hear of anyone joining the true Church, butwe should remember that Milord is going to lose his daughter. '

'I assure you, my dear Mrs. Barton, I have no prejudices. I look uponall religions as equally good and equally bad, but to be forced to livein a perpetual discussion in which teacups are broken, concerningscapulars, bacon and meal shops, and a school which, putting aside thequestion of expense, makes me hated in the neighbourhood, I regard asintolerable; and when I go home this evening, I shall tell Jane that theschool must be put down or carried on in a less aggressive way. I assureyou I have no wish to convert the people; they are paying their rentsvery well now, and I think it absurd to upset them; and the fact ofhaving received Cecilia into the Church might incline the priest verymuch towards us. '

'And Cecilia will be so happy in that beautiful convent!' suggested Mrs. Barton. 

'_C'est le génie du Catholicisme de nous débarrasser des filleslaides. _'

And upon this expression of goodwill towards the Church of RomeCecilia's future life was discussed with much amiability. Mrs. Bartonsaid she would make a sweet little nun; Olive declared that she wouldcertainly go to St. Leonard's to see her 'professed'; and Milord'sdescription of Lady Sarah's and Lady Jane's ill-humour was consideredvery amusing, and just as he was about to recount some new incident--onethat had escaped his memory till then--the door opened and the servantannounced Dr. Reed. 

'Now, what can he want? Olive is quite well. He looks at her tongue andfeels her pulse. How do you do, Dr. Reed? Here is your patient, whom youwill find in the best health and spirits. '

As he was about to reply, Alice came into the room, and she tried tocarry on the conversation naturally. But the silence of Mrs. Barton andMilord made this difficult; Dr. Reed was not a ready talker, and thismorning his replies were more than ever awkward and constrained. At lastit dawned on Alice that he wanted to speak to her alone; and in answerto a remark he had made concerning the fever dens in Gort she said:

'I wanted to ask you a question or two about typhoid fever, Dr. Reed;one of my heroines is going to die of it, and I should like to avoidmedical impossibilities. May I show you the passage?'

'Certainly, Miss Barton; I shall be delighted to help you--if I can. '

As soon as Alice left the room to fetch her manuscript the doctorhurriedly bade his patient, Milord, and Mrs. Barton, good-bye. 

'Aren't you going to wait to see Alice?' Mrs. Barton asked. 

'I have to speak to the boy in charge of my car; I shall see Miss Bartonas she comes downstairs. '

Mrs. Barton looked as if she thought this arrangement not a littlesingular, but she said nothing; and when Alice came running downstairswith a roll of MSS. In her hand, she attempted to explain her difficultyto the doctor. He made a feeble attempt to listen to the passage sheread aloud to him; and when their eyes met across the paper she saw hewas going to propose to her. 

'Will you walk down the drive with me? and we will talk of that as we goalong. '

Her hat was on the hall-table; she took it up, and in silence walkedwith him out on the gravel. 

'Will I put the harse up, sor?' cried the boy from the outside car. 

'No; follow me down the avenue. '

It was a wild autumn evening, full of wind and leaves. The great greenpasture-lands, soaked and soddened with rain, rolled their monotonousgreen turf to the verge of the blown beech-trees, about which the rooksdrifted in picturesque confusion. Now they soared like hawks, or onstraightened wings were carried down a furious gust across thetumultuous waves of upheaved yellow, and past the rift of cold crimsonthat is tossed like a banner through the shadows of evening. 

'I came here to tell you that I am going away; that I am leaving Irelandfor ever. I've bought the practice I spoke to you of in Notting Hill. '

'Oh, I am so glad!'

'Thank you! But there is another and more important matter on which Ishould like to speak to you. For a long time back I had resolved toleave Ireland a sad or an entirely happy man. Which shall it be? You arethe only woman I ever loved--will you be my wife?'

'Yes, I will. '

'I was afraid to ask you before. But, ' he added, sighing, 'I shan't beable to give you a home like the one you are leaving. We shall have tobe very economical; we shall not have more than three hundred a year tolive upon. Will you be satisfied with that?'

'I hope, indeed--I am sure we shall get on very well. You forget that Ican do something to keep myself, ' she added, smiling. 'I have two orthree orders. '

She passed her arm through Dr. Reed's; and as he unfolded his plans toher, he held her hand warmly and affectionately in his: and as thetwilight drifted it was wrapped like a veil about them. The rooks ingreat flitting flocks passed over their heads, the tempestuous crimsonof the sky had been hurled further away, and only the form of the greyhorse, that the boy had allowed to graze, stood out distinctly in thegloom that descended upon the earth. 

XXVIII

On the very first opportunity she could find Alice told her mother thatDr. Reed had proposed to her, and that she had accepted him. Mrs. Bartonsaid it was disgraceful, and that she would never hear of such amarriage; and when the doctor called next day she acquainted him withher views on the subject. She told him he had very improperly takenadvantage of his position to make love to her daughter; she reallydidn't know how he could ever have arrived at the conclusion that amatch was possible, and that for the future his visits must cease atBrookfield. And when Alice heard what had passed between Dr. Reed andher mother she wrote, assuring him that her feelings towards him wouldremain uninfluenced by anything that anyone might say. All the same, itmight be as well, having regard for what had happened, that the marriageshould take place with the least possible delay. 

She took this letter down to the post-office herself, and when shereturned she entered the drawing-room and told Mrs. Barton what she haddone. 

'I wish you had shown me the letter before you sent it. There is nothingwe need advice about so much as a letter. '

'Yes, mother, ' replied Alice, deceived by the gentleness of Mrs. Barton's manner; 'but we seemed to hold such widely different views onthis matter that there did not seem to be any use in discussing it. '

'Mother and daughter should never hold different views; my children'sinterests are my interests--what interests have I now but theirs?'

'Oh, mother! Then you will consent to this marriage?'

Mrs. Barton's face always changed expression before a direct question. 'My dear, I would consent to anything that would make you happy; but itseems to me impossible that you could be happy with Dr. Reed. I wonderhow you could like him. You do not know--I mean, you do not realize whatthe intimacies of married life are. They are often hard to put up with, no matter who the man may be, but with one who is not a gentleman--'

'But, mother, Dr. Reed seems to me to be in every way a gentleman. Whois there more gentlemanly in the country? I am sure that from everypoint of view he is preferable to Mr. Adair or Sir Charles, or SirRichard or Mr. Ryan, or his cousin, Mr. Lynch. '

'My darling child, I would sooner see you laid in your coffin thanmarried to either Mr. Ryan or Mr. Lynch; but that is not the question. It is, whether you had not better wait for a few years before you throwyourself away on such a man as Dr. Reed. I know that you have beengreatly tried; nothing is so trying to a girl as to come out with hersister who is the belle of the season, and I must say you have shown agreat deal of pluck; and perhaps I haven't been considerate enough. ButI, too, have had my disappointments--Olive's affairs did not, as youknow, turn out as well as I had expected, and to see you now marry onewho is so much beneath us!'

'Mother, dear, he is not beneath us. There is no one who has earned hiscareer but Dr. Reed; he owes nothing to anyone; he has done it all byhis own exertions; and now he has bought a London practice. '

'Then you do not love him; it is only for the sake of settling yourselfin life that you are marrying him?'

'I respect Dr. Reed more than any man living; I bear for him a mostsincere affection, and I hope to make him a good wife. '

'You don't love him as you did Mr. Harding? If you will only wait youmay get him. The tenants are paying their rents very well, and I amthinking of going to London in the spring. '

The girl winced at the mention of Harding, but she looked into hermother's soft appealing brown eyes; and, reading clearer than she hadever read before all the adorable falseness that lay therein, sheanswered:

'I do not want to marry Mr. Harding; I am engaged to Dr. Reed, and I donot intend to give him up. '

This answer was given so firmly that Mrs. Barton lost her temper for amoment, and she said:

'And do you really know what this Dr. Reed originally was? Lord Dungoryis dining here to-night; he knows all about Dr. Reed's antecedents, andI am sure he will be horrified when he hears that you are thinking ofmarrying him. '

'I cannot recognize Lord Dungory's right to advise me on any course Imay choose to take, and I hope he will have the good taste to refrainfrom speaking to me of my marriage. '

'What do you mean? How dare you speak to me like that, you impertinentgirl!'

'I am not impertinent, mother, and I hope I shall never be impertinentto you; but I am now in my twenty-fifth year, and if I am ever to judgefor myself, I must do so now. '

Alice was curiously surprised by her own words; it seemed to her that itwas some strange woman, and not herself--not the old self with whom shewas intimately acquainted--who was speaking. Life is full of theseepoch-marking moments. We have all at some given time experienced thesensation of finding ourselves either stronger or weaker than we hadever before known ourselves to be; Alice now for the first time feltthat she was speaking and acting in her own individual right; and theknowledge as it thrilled through her consciousness was almost a physicalpleasure. But notwithstanding the certitude that never left her of thepropriety of her conduct, and the equally ever-present sentiment of thehappiness that awaited her, she suffered much during the next ten days, and she was frequently in tears. Cecilia had started for St. Leonardswithout coming to wish her good-bye, and the cruel sneers, insinuationsof all kinds against her and against Dr. Reed, which Mrs. Barton nevermissed an occasion of using, wounded the girl so deeply, that it wasonly at the rarest intervals that she left her room--when she walked tothe post with a letter, when the luncheon or dinner bell rang. Why sheshould be thus persecuted, Alice was unable to determine; and why herfamily did not hail with delight this chance of getting rid of a plaingirl, whose prospects were limited, was difficult to say; nor could thegirl arrive at any notion of the pleasure or profit it might be toanyone that she should waste her life amid chaperons and gossip, insteadof taking her part in the world's work. And yet this seemed to be hermother's idea. She did not hesitate to threaten that she would neitherattend herself, nor allow Mr. Barton to attend the ceremony. Alice mightmeet Dr. Reed at the corner of the road, and be married as best shecould. Alice appealed to her father against this decision, but she soonhad to renounce the hope of obtaining any definite answer. He had beenpreviously told that if he attempted any interference, his supply ofpaints, brushes, canvases, and guitar-strings would be cut off, and, ashe was at present deeply engaged on a new picture of _Julius Cæsaroverturning the Altars of the Druids_, he hesitated before thealternatives offered to him. He spoke with much affection; he regrettedthat Alice could not see her way to marrying somebody whom her mothercould approve! He explained the difficulties of his position, and thenecessity of his turning something out--seeing what he really could dobefore the close of the year. Alice was disappointed, and bitterly, butshe bore her disappointment bravely, and she wrote to Dr. Reed, tellinghim what had occurred, and proposing to meet him on a certain day at theParish Church, where Father Shannon would marry them; and, that if herefused, they would proceed to Dublin, and be married at the RegistryOffice. In a way Alice would have preferred this latter course, but hergood sense warned her against the uselessness of offering any tooviolent opposition to the opinions of the world. And so it was arranged;and sad, weary, and wretched, Alice lingered through the last few daysof the life that had always been to her one of humiliation, and whichnow towards its close had quieted to one of intense pain. 

The Brennans had promised to meet her in the chapel, and one day, as shewas sitting by her window, she saw May in all the glory of her copperhair, drive a tandem up to the door. This girl threw the reins to thegroom, and rushed to her friend. 

'And how do you do, Alice, and how well you are looking, and how pleasedI am to see you. I would have come before, only my leader was coughingand I couldn't take him out. Oh, I was so wild; it is always like that;nothing is so disappointing as horses; whenever you especially requirethem they are laid up, and you can't imagine the difficulty I had to gethim along; I must really get another leader; he was trying to turn roundthe whole way--if it hadn't been for the whip. I took blood out of himthree times running. But I know you don't care anything about horses, and I want to hear about this marriage. I am so glad, so pleased, buttell me, do you like him? He seems a very nice sort of man, you know, aman that would make a woman happy. . . . I am sure you will be happy withhim, but it is dreadful to think we are going to lose you. I shall, Iknow, be running over to London on purpose to see you; but tell me, whatI want to know is, do you like him? Would you believe it, I never oncesuspected there was anything between you?'

'Yes, my dear May, ' Alice replied smiling, 'I do like Edward Reed; nordo I think that I should ever like any other man half as much: I haveperfect confidence in him, and where there is not confidence therecannot be love. He has bought a small practice in Notting Hill, whichwith care and industry he hopes may be worked up into a substantialbusiness. We shall be very poor at first, but we shall be able to makeboth ends meet. '

'I can see it all; a little suburban semi-detached house, with greenVenetian blinds, a small mahogany sideboard, and a clean cappedmaid-servant; and in the drawing-room you won't have a piano--you don'tcare for music, but you'll have some basket chairs, and small bookcases, and a tea-table with tea-cakes at five--oh, won't you look quiet andgrave at that tea-table. But tell me, it is all over the county thatMrs. Barton won't hear of this marriage, and that she won't allow yourfather to go to the chapel to give you away. It is a shame, and for thelife of me I can't see what parents have to do with our marriages, doyou?'

Without waiting for an answer, May continued the conversation, and withvehemence she passed from one subject to another utterly disconnectedwithout a transitional word of explanation. She explained how tiresomeit was to sit at home of an evening listening to Mrs. Gould bemoaningthe state of the country; she spoke of her terrier, and this led up to acritical examination of the good looks of several of the officersstationed at Gort; then she alluded to the last meet of the hounds, andshe described the big wall she and Mrs. Manly had jumped together; a newhat and an old skirt that she had lately done up came in for a passingremark, and, with an abundance of laughter, May gave an account of aluncheon-party at Lord Rosshill's; and, apparently verbatim, she toldwhat each of the five Honourable Miss Gores had said about the marriage. Then growing suddenly serious, she said:

'It is all very well to laugh, but, when one comes to think of it, it isvery sad indeed to see seven human lives wasting away, a whole family ofgirls eating their hearts out in despair, having nothing to do but topop about from one tennis-party to another, and chatter to each other ortheir chaperons of this girl and that who does not seem to be gettingmarried. You are very lucky indeed, Alice--luckier than you think youare, and you are quite right to stick out and do the best you can foryourself in spite of what your people say. It is all very well for themto talk, but they don't know what we suffer: we are not all made alike, and the wants of one are not the wants of another. I dare say you neverthought much about that sort of thing; but as I say, we are not all madealike. Every woman, or nearly every one, wants a husband and a home, andit is only natural she should, and if she doesn't get them thetemptations she has to go through are something frightful, and if wemake the slightest slip the whole world is down upon us. I can talk toyou, Alice, because you know what I have gone through. You have been avery good friend to me--had it not been for you I don't know what wouldhave become of me. You didn't reproach me, you were kind and had pityfor me; you are a sensible person, and I dare say you understood that Iwasn't entirely to blame. And I wasn't entirely to blame; thecircumstances we girls live under are not just--no, they are not just. We are told that we must marry a man with at least a thousand a year, orremain spinsters; well, I should like to know where the men are who havea thousand a year, and some of us can't remain spinsters. Oh! you arevery lucky indeed to have found a husband, and to be going away to ahome of your own. I wish I were as lucky as you, Alice, indeed I do, forthen there would be no excuse, and I could be a good woman. You won'thate me too much, will you, Alice? I have made a lot of goodresolutions, and they shall be kept some day. '

'Some day! You don't mean that you are again--'

'No; but I've a lover. It is dreadfully sinful, and if I died I shouldgo straight to hell. I know all that. I wish I were going to be married, like you! For then one is out of temptation. Haven't you a kind word forme? Won't you kiss me and tell me you don't despise me?'

'Of course I'll kiss you, May; and I am sure that one of these days youwill--'

Alice could say no more; and the girls kissed and cried in each other'sarms, and the group was a sad allegory of poor humanity's triumph, andpoor humanity's more than piteous failures. At last they wentdownstairs, and in the hall May showed Alice the beautifulwedding-present she had bought her, and the girl did not say that shehad sold her hunter to buy it. 

XXIX

At Brookfield on the morning of December 3, '84, the rain fellpersistently in the midst of a profound silence. The trees stood starkin the grey air as if petrified; there was not wind enough to waft thefalling leaf; it fell straight as if shotted. 

Not a living thing was to be seen except the wet sheep, nor did anythingstir either within or without till an outside car, one seat overturnedto save the cushions from the wet, came careering up the avenue. Therewas a shaggy horse and a wild-looking driver in a long, shaggy friezeulster. Even now, at the last moment, Alice expected the drawing-roomdoor to open and her mother to come rushing out to wish her good-bye. But Mrs. Barton remained implacable, and after laying one more kiss onher sister's pale cheek, Alice, in a passionate flood of tears, wasdriven away. 

In streaming mackintoshes, and leaning on dripping umbrellas, she foundher husband, and Gladys and Zoe Brennan, waiting for her in the porch ofthe church. 

'Did you ever see such weather?' said Zoe. 

'Isn't it dreadful!' said Gladys. 

'It was good of you to come, ' said Alice. 

'It was indeed!' said the bridegroom. 

'What nonsense!' said Zoe. 'We were only too pleased; and if to-day bewet, to-morrow and the next and the next will be sunshine. 

And thanking Zoe inwardly for this most appropriate remark, the partyascended the church toward the altar-rails, where Father Shannon wasawaiting them. Large, pompous, and arrogant, he stood on hisaltar-steps, and his hands were crossed over his portly stomach. Oneither side of him the plaster angels bowed their heads and folded theirwings. Above him the great chancel window, with its panes of green andyellow glass, jarred in an unutterable clash of colour; and the greatwhite stare of the chalky walls, and the earthen floor with its tub ofholy water, and the German prints absurdly representing the suffering ofChrist, bespoke the primitive belief, the coarse superstition, of whichthe place was an immediate symbol. Alice and the doctor looked at eachother and smiled, but their thoughts were too firmly fixed on the actualproblem of their united lives to wander far in the most hidden ways ofthe old world's psychical extravagances. What did it matter to them whatabsurd usages the place they were in was put to?--they, at least, wereonly making use of it as they might of any other public office--thepolice-station, where inquiries are made concerning parcels left incabs; the Commissioner before whom an affidavit is made. And it servedits purpose as well as any of the others did theirs. The priest joinedtheir hands, Edward put the ring on Alice's finger, and the usualprayers did no harm if they did no good; and having signed their namesin the register and bid good-bye to the Miss Brennans, they got into thecarriage, man and wife, their feet set for ever upon one path, theirinterests and delights melted to one interest and one delight, theirseparate troubles merged into one trouble that might or might not bemade lighter by the sharing; and penetrated by such thoughts they leanedback on the blue cushions of the carriage, happy, and yet a littlefrightened. 

Rather than pass three hours waiting for a train at the little stationof Ardrahan, it had been arranged to spend the time driving to Athenry;and, as the carriage rolled through the deliquefying country, the eyesof the man and the woman rested half fondly, half regretfully, andwholly pitifully, on all the familiar signs and the wild landmarks whichduring so many years had grown into and become part of the texture oftheir habitual thought; on things of which they would now have to whollydivest themselves, and remember only as the background of their youngerlives. Through the streaming glass they could see the strip of bog; andthe half-naked woman, her soaked petticoat clinging about her red legs, piling the wet peat into the baskets thrown across the meagre back of astarveling ass. And farther on there were low-lying, swampy fields, andbetween them and the roadside a few miserable poplars with cabins sunkbelow the dung-heaps, and the meagre potato-plots lying about them; andthen, as these are passed, there are green enclosures full of fatteningkine, and here and there a dismantled cottage, one wall still black withthe chimney's smoke, uttering to those who know the country a tale ofeviction. Beyond these, beautiful plantations sweep along the crests ofthe hills, the pillars of a Georgian house showing at the end of avista. The carriage turned up a narrow road, and our travellers cameupon a dozen policemen grouped round a roadside cottage, out of whichthe furniture had just been thrown. The family had taken shelter fromthe rain under a hawthorn-tree, and the agents were consulting withtheir bailiffs if it would not be as well to throw down the walls of thecottage. 

'If we don't, ' one of the men said, 'they will be back again as soon asour backs are turned, and our work will have to be begun all overagain. '

'Shocking, ' Alice said, 'that an eviction scene should be our lastglimpse of Ireland. Let us pay the rent for them, Edward, ' and as shespoke the words the thought passed through her mind that her almsgivingwas only another form of selfishness. She wished her departure to beassociated with an act of kindness. She would have withdrawn herrequest, but Edward's hand was in his pocket and he was asking the agenthow much the rent was. Five years' rent was owing--more than thetravellers had in their purses. 

'It is well that we cannot assist them to remain here, ' said Edward. 'Circumstances are different, and they will harden; none is of use here. Of what use--'

'You believe, then, that this misery will last for ever?'

'Nothing lasts in Ireland but the priests. And now let us forgetIreland, as many have done before us. '

 * * * * *

Two years and a half have passed away, and the suburban home predictedby May, when she came to bid Alice a last good-bye, arises before thereader in all its yellow paint and homely vulgarity. In this suburb wefind the ten-roomed house with all its special characteristics--adining-room window looking upon a commodious area with dust and coalholes. The drawing-room has two windows, and the slender balcony isgenerally set with flower-boxes. Above that come the two windows of thebest bedroom belonging to Mr. And Mrs. , and above that again the windowsof two small rooms, respectively inhabited by the eldest son anddaughter; and these are topped by the mock-Elizabethan gable whichenframes the tiny window of a servant's room. Each house has a pair oftrim stone pillars, the crude green of the Venetian blinds jars thecultured eye, and even the tender green of the foliage in the crescentseems as cheap and as common as if it had been bought--as everythingelse is in Ashbourne Crescent--at the Stores. But how much does thiscrescent of shrubs mean to the neighbourhood? Is it not there that theold ladies take their pugs for their constitutional walks, and is it notthere that the young ladies play tennis with their gentlemanacquaintances when they come home from the City on a Saturday afternoon?

In Ashbourne Crescent there is neither Dissent nor Radicalism, butgeneral aversion to all considerations which might disturb belief in allthe routine of existence, in all its temporal and spiritual aspects, asit had come amongst them. The fathers and the brothers go to the Cityevery day at nine, the young ladies play tennis, read novels, and beg tobe taken to dances at the Kensington Town Hall. On Sunday the air isalive with the clanging of bells, and in orderly procession every familyproceeds to church, the fathers in all the gravity of umbrellas andprayer-books, the matrons in silk mantles and clumsy ready-made elasticsides; the girls in all the gaiety of their summer dresses with livelybustles bobbing, the young men in frock-coats which show off their broadshoulders--from time to time they pull their tawny moustaches. Eachhouse keeps a cook and housemaid, and on Sunday afternoons, when theskies are flushed with sunset and the outlines of this human warren growharshly distinct--black lines upon pale red--these are seen walkingarm-in-arm away towards a distant park with their young men. 

Ashbourne Crescent, with its bright brass knockers, its white-cappedmaid-servant, and spotless oilcloths, will pass away before some greattide of revolution that is now gathering strength far away, deep downand out of sight in the heart of the nation, is probable enough; but forthe moment it is, in all its cheapness and vulgarity, more than anythingelse representative, though the length and breadth of the land besearched, of the genius of Empire that has been glorious through thelong tale that nine hundred years have to tell. Ashbourne Crescent maypossibly soon be replaced by something better, but at present itcommands our admiration, for it is, more than all else, typical England. Neither ideas nor much lucidity will be found there, but much belief inthe wisdom shown in the present ordering of things, and much plain senseand much honesty of purpose. Certainly, if your quest be for hecticemotion and passionate impulses, you would do well to turn your stepsaside; you will not find them in Ashbourne Crescent. There life flowsmonotonously, perhaps sometimes even a little moodily, but it is builtupon a basis of honest materialism--that materialism without which theworld cannot live. And No. 31 differs a little from the rest of thehouses. The paint on its walls is fresher, and there are no flowers onits balcony: the hall-door has three bells instead of the usual two, andthere is a brass plate with 'Dr. Reed' engraved upon it. The cook istalking through the area-railings to the butcher-boy; a smartparlourmaid opens the door, and we see that the interior is as orderly, commonplace, and clean as we might expect at every house in thecrescent. The floorcloths are irreproachable, the marble-painted wallsare unadorned with a single picture. On the right is the dining-room, amahogany table bought for five pounds in the Tottenham Court Road, adozen chairs to match, a sideboard and a small table; green-paintedwalls decorated with two engravings, one of Frith's 'Railway Station, 'the other of Guido's 'Fortune. ' Further down the passage leading to thekitchen-stairs there is a second room: this is the Doctor'sconsulting-room. A small bookcase filled with serious-looking volumes, amahogany escritoire strewn with papers, letters, memoranda of all sorts. The floor is covered with a bright Brussels carpet; there are twoleather armchairs, and a portrait of an admiral hangs over thefireplace. 

Let us go upstairs. How bright and clean are the high marble-paintedwalls! and on the first landing there is a large cheaply colouredwindow. The drawing-room is a double room, not divided by curtains butby stiff folding-doors. The furniture is in red, and the heavy curtainsthat drape the windows fall from gilt cornices. In the middle of thefloor there is a settee (probably a reminiscence of the ShelbourneHotel); and on either side of the fireplace there are sofas, and aboutthe hearthrug many arm-chairs to match with the rest. Above thechimneypiece there is a gilt oval mirror, worth ten pounds. The secondroom is Alice's study; it is there she writes her novels. A table inblack wood with a pile of MSS. Neatly fastened together stands in onecorner; there is a bookcase just behind; its shelves are furnished withimaginative literature, such as Shelley's poems, Wordsworth's poems, Keats' poems. There are also handsome editions of Tennyson and Browning, presents from Dr. Reed to his wife. You see a little higher up the shelfa thin volume, Swinburne's _Atalanta in Calydon_, and next to it isWalter Pater's _Renaissance_--studies in art and poetry. There are alsomany volumes in yellow covers, evidently French novels. 

The character of the house is therefore essentially provincial, andshows that its occupants have not always lived amid the complexinfluences of London life--viz. , is not even suburban. Nevertheless, here and there traces of new artistic impulses are seen. On themantelpiece in the larger room there are two large blue vases; on asmall table stands a pot in yellow porcelain, evidently from Morris's;and on the walls there are engravings from Burne Jones. Every Thursdayafternoon numbers of ladies, all of whom write novels, assemble here todrink tea and talk of their work. 

It is now eleven o'clock in the morning. Alice enters her drawing-room. You see her: a tall, spare woman with kind eyes, who carries her armsstiffly. She has just finished her housekeeping, she puts down herbasket of keys, and with all the beautiful movement of the young mothershe takes up the crawling mass of white frock, kisses her son andsettles his blue sash. And when she has talked to him for a few minutesshe rings the bell for nurse; then she sits down to write. As usual, herpen runs on without a perceptible pause. Words come to her easily, butshe has not finished the opening paragraph of the article she is writingwhen the sound of rapid footsteps attracts her attention, and Olivebursts into the room. 

'Oh, Alice, how do you do? I couldn't stop at home any longer, I am sickof it. '

'Couldn't stop at home any longer, Olive; what do you mean?'

'If you won't take me in, say so, and I'll go. '

'My dear Olive, I shall be delighted to have you with me; but why can'tyou stop at home any longer--surely there is no harm in my asking?'

'Oh, I don't know; don't ask me; I am so miserable at home; I can't tellyou how unhappy I am. I know I shall never be married, and the perpetualtrying to make up matches is sickening. Mamma will insist on riches, position, and all that sort of thing--those kind of men don't want toget married--I am sick of going out; I won't go out any more. We nevermissed a tennis-party last year; we used to go sometimes ten miles tothem, so eager was mamma after Captain Gibbon, and it did not come off;and then the whole country laughs. '

'And who is Captain Gibbon? I never heard of him before. '

'No, you don't know him: he was not in Galway in your time. '

'And Captain Hibbert! Have you heard from him since he went out toIndia?'

'Yes, once; he wrote to me to say that he hoped to see me when he camehome. '

'And when will that be?'

'Oh, I don't know; when people go out to India one never expects to seethem again. '

Seeing how sore the wound was, Alice did not attempt to probe it, butstrove rather to lead Olive's thoughts away from it, and gradually thesisters lapsed into talking of their acquaintances and friends, and ofhow life had dealt with them. 

'And May, what is she doing?'

'She met with a bad accident, and has not been out hunting lately. Shewas riding a pounding match with Mrs. Manly across country: May's horsecame to grief at a big wall, and broke several of her ribs. They say shehas given up riding--now she does nothing but paint. You remember howwell she used to paint at school. '

'And the Brennans?'

'Oh, they go up to the Shelbourne every year, but none of them aremarried; and I am afraid that they must be very hard up, for their landis very highly let, and the tenants are paying no rent at allnow--Ireland is worse than ever; we shall all be ruined, and they sayHome Rule is certain. But I am sick of the subject. '

Then the Duffys, the Honourable Miss Gores, and the many other familiesof unmarried girls--the poor muslin martyrs, whose sufferings were thetheme of this book, were again passed in review; their failuressometimes jeeringly alluded to by Olive, but always listened topityingly by Alice--and, talking thus of their past life, the sistersleant over the spring fire that burnt out in the grate. At the end of along silence Alice said:

'Well, dear, I hope you have come to live with us, or at any rate to payus a long visit. '

 THE END