Muslin by George Moore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Jane, now, Jane, I beg of you--'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XV

It rained incessantly. Sheets of water, blown by winds that had
travelled the Atlantic, deluged the county; grey mists trailed mournful
and shapeless along the edges of the domain woods, over the ridges of
the tenants' holdings. 'Never more shall we be driven forth to die in
the 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 from
their bondage. The meeting of Parliament in the spring would bring them
this; in the meantime, all who could, fled, resolving not to return till
the law restored the power that the Land League had so rudely shaken.
Some went to England, others to France. Mr. Barton accepted two hundred
pounds from his wife and proceeded to study gargoyles and pictures in
Bruges; and, striving to forget the murders and rumours of murders that
filled the papers, the girls and their mammas talked of beaux, partners,
and trains, in spite of the irritating presence of the Land League
agitators who stood on the platforms of the different stations. The
train was full of girls. Besides the Bartons, there were the Brennans:
Gladys and Zoe--Emily remained at home to look after the place. Three of
the Miss Duffys were coming to the Drawing-Room, and four of the
Honourable Miss Gores; the Goulds and Scullys made one party, and to
avoid Mrs. Barton, the Ladies Cullen had pleaded important duties. They
were to follow in a day or so.

Lord Dungory's advice to Mrs. Barton was to take a house, and he warned
her against spending the whole season in an hotel, but apparently
without avail, for when the train stopped a laughing voice was heard:
'Milord, _vous n'etes qu'un vilain misanthrope_; we shall be very
comfortable at the Shelbourne; we shall meet all the people in Dublin
there, and we can have private rooms to give dinner-parties.'

Hearing this, Alice congratulated herself, for in an hotel she would be
freer than she would be in a house let for the season. She would hear
something, 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, and
remembered the little winter-garden on the first landing, and the
fountain splashing amid ferns and stone frogs. The ladies' drawing-room
she knew was on the right, and when she had taken off her hat and
jacket, leaving her mother and sister talking of Mrs. Symond and Lord
Kilcarney, she went there hoping to find some of the people whom she had
met there before.

The usually skirt-filled ottoman stood vacantly gaping, the little
chairs seemed lonely about the hearthrug, even the sofa where the
invalid ladies sat was unoccupied, and the perforated blinds gave the
crowds that passed up and down the street a shadow-like appearance. The
prospect was not inspiriting, but not knowing what else to do, Alice sat
down by the fire, and fell to thinking who the man might be that sat
reading on the other side of the fireplace. He didn't seem as if he knew
much about horses, and as he read intently, she could watch him
unobserved. At last their eyes met, and when Alice turned away her face
she felt that he was looking at her, and, perhaps getting nervous under
his 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-crust
and put on some fresh fuel, he said:

'If it weren't for me I don't know what would become of this fire. I
believe the old porter goes to sleep and forgets all about it. Now and
again 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 life
are accomplished here. People live here, and die here, and flirt here,
and, I was going to say, marry here--but hitherto the Shelbourne
marriages have resulted in break-offs--and we quarrel here; the friends
of to-day are enemies to-morrow, and then they sit at different ends of
the room. Life in the Shelbourne is a thing in itself, and a thing to be
studied.'

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 spends
four or five months at home, and then she is taken to the
Lord-Lieutenant's Drawing-Room.'

She liked him none the better for what he had said, and began to wonder
how she might bring the conversation to a close. But when he spoke again
she 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; may
I ask you from what side of the county?'

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

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

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

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

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

'Then, do you know a place on the left-hand side of the road, about a
mile 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 days
with one of your neighbours.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And what do you read?'

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

'I read nearly all Byron, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, and Browning--I
think 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 cared
much for Browning. Not only the verse, but the whole mind of the man is
uncouth--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 school
we 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. I
wonder if you ever read it? It is called _Madame Gervaisais_. From the
descriptions 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 admire
it--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 avoid
doubting.'

'There can surely be no harm in doubting?'

'Not the least; but toward which side are you? Have you fallen into the
soft 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 perhaps
there 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 subject
is any longer worthy of thought. The world's mind, after much anxiety,
arrives at a conclusion, and what sages cannot determine in one age, a
child is certain about in the next. Thomas Aquinas was harassed with
doubts regarding the possibility of old women flying through the air on
broomsticks; nowadays were a man thus afflicted he would be surely a fit
subject for Hanwell. The world has lived through Christianity, as it has
through 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 way
before--that is all.'

Here the conversation came to a pause, and soon after the presence of
some ladies rendered its revival impossible. Their evening gowns
suggested the dinner-hour, and reminded Alice that she had to prepare
herself for the meal.

All the Galway people, excepting the Honourable Misses Gore and the
Scullys--who had taken houses in town for the season--dined at _table
d'hote._ The Miss Duffys were, with the famous Bertha, the terror of the
_debutantes._ The Brennans and the Goulds sat at the same table. May,
thinking of Fred, who had promised to come during the evening, leaned
back in her chair, looking unutterably bored. Under a window Sir Richard
and Sir Charles were immersed in wine and discussion. In earnest tones
the latter deprecated the folly of indulging in country love; the
former, his hand on the champagne bottle, hiccoughed, 'Mu--ch better
come up--up Dub--lin, yer know, my boy. But look, look here; I know such
a 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 the
other end of the long table Mr. Adair--whom it was now confidently
stated Mr. Gladstone could not possibly get on without--talked to Mr.
Harding; and when the few dried oranges and tough grapes that
constituted dessert had been tasted, the ladies got up, and in twos and
threes retired to the ladies' sitting-room. They were followed by Lord
Dungory, Mr. Adair, and Mr. Harding: the other gentlemen--the baronets
and Messrs. Ryan and Lynch--preferring smoke and drink to chatter and
oblique glances in the direction of ankle-concealing skirts, went up to
the billiardroom. And the skirts, what an importance they took in the
great sitting-room full of easy-chairs and Swiss scenery: chalets,
lakes, cascades, and chamois, painted on the light-coloured walls. The
big ottoman was swollen with bustled skirts; the little low seats around
the fire disappeared under skirts; skirts were tucked away to hide the
slippered feet, skirts were laid out along the sofas to show the
elegance of the cut. Then woolwork and circulating novels were produced,
and the conversation turned on marriage. Bertha being the only Dublin
girl present, all were anxious to hear her speak; after a few
introductory remarks, she began:

'Oh! so you have all come up to the Castle and are going to be
presented. Well, you'll find the rooms very grand, and the suppers very
good, and if you know a lot of people--particularly the officers
quartered here--you will find the Castle balls very amusing. The best
way 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, I
am 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. Dublin
is like a racecourse, men come and speak to you and pass on. 'Tis
pleasant enough if you know people, but as for marriages, there aren't
any. I assure you I know lots of girls--and very pretty girls, too--who
have been going out these six or seven seasons, and who have not been
able to pull it off.'

'And the worst of it is,' said a girl, 'every year we are growing more
and more numerous, and the men seem to be getting fewer. Nowadays a man
won'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 the
first, settled her skirts with a movement of disdain. Mrs. Gould
pathetically declared she did not believe love to be dead in the world
yet, and maintained her opinion that a nice girl could always marry. But
Bertha was not easily silenced, and, being perfectly conversant with her
subject, she disposed of Dublin's claims as a marriage-mart, and she
continued to comment on the disappointments of girls until the
appearance of Lord Dungory and Mr. Harding brought the conversation to a
sudden close.

'_Une causerie de femme! que dites-vous?--je le suis--l'amour
n'existe plus, et l'ame de l'homme est plus pres des sens que l'ame de
la femme_,' said Milord. Everyone laughed; and, with a charming movement
of 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, and
Alice did not dare to hope that he would lay aside his book and come to
talk to her. If he did, her mother would ask her to introduce him to
her, and she would have to enter into explanations that he and she had
merely exchanged a few words before dinner.

She withstood the conversation of the charmed circle as long as she
could, and then boldly crossed the room for a newspaper. Harding rose to
help her to find one, and they talked together till Milord took him away
to 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. Our
Alice is fond of reading, but it was not of reading she was thinking
this evening. She kept him all to herself at the other end of the room.'
Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, and Alice began to understand that her
mother was approving her flirtation. That is the name that her mother
would give her talk with Mr. Harding.

XVI

During the Dublin Season it is found convenient to give teas: the young
ladies have to be introduced to the men they will meet after at the
Castle. These gatherings take place at five o'clock in the afternoon;
and as Mrs. Barton started from the Shelbourne Hotel for Lady Georgina
Stapleton's, she fell to thinking that a woman is never really
vulnerable until she is bringing out her daughters. Till then the usual
shafts directed against her virtue fall harmlessly on either side, but
now they glance from the marriage buckler and strike the daughter in
full heart. In the ball-room, as in the forest, the female is most
easily assailed when guarding her young, and nowhere in the whole animal
kingdom is this fact so well exemplified as in Dublin Castle.

Lady Georgina lived in Harcourt Street, and it was on her way thither
that something like a regret rose up in Mrs. Barton that she had (she
was 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 the
milch-cow), she found herself, like the Ladies Cullen, occasionally
obliged to smile upon and extend a welcoming hand to the family enemy;
and when Mrs. Barton came to Dublin for the Castle Season, a little
pressure was put upon Lady Georgina to obtain invitations from the
Chamberlain; the ladies exchanged visits, and there the matter ended, as
Mrs. Barton and her daughter passed through Stephen's Green, and she
remembered that she had never taken the trouble to conceal her dislike
of the house in Harcourt Street, and some of the hard things she had
said when standing on the box-seat of a drag at Punchestown Races had
travelled back and had found a lasting resting-place in Lady Georgina's
wrathful 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 you
will ruin your sister's chances.'

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

Lady Georgina was a celebrated needlewoman, and she was now begging Lord
Kilcarney 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 with
seats, and if possible with young men. Teacups were sent down to be
washed, and the young men were passed from group to group. The young
ladies smiled and looked delightful, and spoke of dancing and tennis
until, replying to an imperative glance from their chaperons, from time
to time they rose to leave; but, obeying a look of supplication from
their hostess, the young men remained.

Lord Kilcarney had been hunted desperately around screens and over every
ottoman in the room; and Lady Georgina had proved her goodwill in
proportion to the amount of assistance she had lent to her friends in
the chase. Long ago he had been forced away from Olive. Mrs. Barton
endured with stoical indifference the scowls of her hostess; but at
length, compelled to recognize that none of the accidents attendant on
the handing of teacups or the moving of chairs would bring him back, she
rose 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 them
at the Shelbourne. A glance went round; and of Mrs. Barton's triumph
there could be no doubt.

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

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