Muslin by George Moore

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In the composition of her dress she had given range to her somewhat
florid 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 hangs
behind a lowering grey cloud, tinged with pink. On this were wonderful
soft-coloured flowers, yellow melting into pink, green fading to
madder-like tints. The bodice and the train were of gold-brown velvet
that matched the gold-brown of the hair. Mrs. Barton was transformed
from the usual Romney portrait to one by Sir Peter Lely; and when she
made her curtsy, Her Excellency's face contracted, and the
ladies-of-honour whispered: 'The harm she does her daughters . . . I
wonder . . .'

'Miss Violet Scully, presented by Mrs. Scully,' shouted the Chamberlain.

Now there was an admixture of curiosity in the admiration accorded to
Violet. Hers was not the plain appealing of Olive's Greek statue-like
beauty; it was rather the hectic erethism of painters and sculptors in a
period preceding the apogee of an art. She was a statuette in biscuit
after a design by Andrea Mantegna. But the traces of this exquisite
atavism were now almost concealed in the supreme modernity of her
attire. From the tiny waist trailed yards of white faille, trimmed with
tulle ruchings, frecked as a meadow with faintly-tinted daisies; the
hips were engarlanded with daisies, and the flowers melted and bloomed
amid snows of faille and tulle.

The Lord-Lieutenant leaned forward to kiss her, but at that moment of
his kiss the thunder crashed so loudly that he withdrew from her, and so
abruptly that Her Excellency looked surprised. The incident passed,
however, almost unperceived. So loud was the thunder, everybody was
thinking of dynamite, and it was some time before even the voluptuous
strains of Liddell's band could calm their inquietude. Nevertheless the
Chamberlain continued to shout:

'Lady Sarah Cullen, Lady Jane Cullen, Mrs. Scully, presented by Lady
Sarah Cullen.'

Then came a batch of people whom no one knew, and in the front of these
the aides-de-camp allowed Alice to pass on to His Excellency. She was
prettily dressed, dragging after her a train of white faille trimmed
with sprays of white heather and tulle, the petticoat being beautifully
arranged with folded draperies of crepe de Chine.

A number of ladies had collected in the farther ante-room, and, in
lines, they stood watching the effluent tide of satin and silk
discharging its volume into the spaces of Patrick's Hall.

XVIII

'I wish Alice would make haste, and not keep us waiting. I suppose she
has got behind a crowd. Here are the Scullys; let's hide, they don't
know a creature, and will hang on us.'

Olive and Mrs. Barton tried to slip out of sight, but they were too
late; and a moment after, looking immense in a train and bodice of Lyons
velvet, Mrs. Scully came up and accosted them.

'And how do you do, Mrs. Barton?' she said, with a desperate effort to
make herself agreeable;

'I must congratulate you. Everyone is admiring your dress; I assure you
your train looked perfectly regal.'

'I am glad you like it,' replied Mrs. Barton; 'but what do you think of
Olive? Do you like her dress?'

'Oh, Olive has no need of my praises. If I were not afraid of making her
too vain I would tell her that all Dublin is talking of her. Indeed, I
heard a gentleman say--a gentleman who, I believe, writes for the
papers--that she will be in the _World_ or _Truth_ next week as the
belle of the season. None of the other young ladies will have a chance
with 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 transformed
into a beautiful daisy. It will be, perhaps, not the Rose nor the Olive
that 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 by
the allusion to the daisy, the humblest of the earth's flowers.

The appearance, however, of Lord Kilcarney brought the conversation to a
close; and, not knowing how to address him, Olive laughed beautifully
from behind her silver fan. They entered Patrick's Hall, where Lord
Dungory, Lord Rosshill, and others were waiting to receive Mrs. Barton,
who sought for a prominent seat, and dealing out pearly laughs and
winsome compliments to her court, she watched Olive, who, according to
orders, had taken Lord Kilcarney to sit on the highest of the series of
benches that lined one side of the room, which she did, and for a moment
Mrs. Barton felt as if she held Dublin under her satin shoe. Alice was
her only trouble. What would she do with this gawk of a girl? But soon
even this difficulty was solved, for Harding came up and asked her if he
might take her to get an ice.

'How absurd we looked dressed up in this way,' said Harding; 'look at
that attorney and the court sword. It would be just as logical to stick
a quill pen behind the ear of a fat pig.'

'Well, the sword--I confess I don't see much meaning in that; but the
rest of the dress is well enough. I don't see why one style of dress
should be more absurd than another, unless it is because it isn't the
fashion.'

'Yes, but that is just the reason; just fancy dressing oneself up in the
costume 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, a
strawberry 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 representing
St. Patrick receiving Pagans into the true faith. The walls were white
painted, the panels were gold-listed. There were pillars at both ends of
the room, and in a top gallery, behind a curtain of evergreen plants,
Liddell's orchestra continued to pour an uninterrupted flood of waltz
melody upon the sea of satin, silk, poplin, and velvet that surged
around the buffet, angrily demanding cream ices, champagne, and
claret-cup. Every moment the crowd grew denser, and the red coats of the
Guards and the black corded jackets of the Rifles stained like spots of
ink and blood the pallor of the background. A few young men looked
elegant and shapely in the velvet and stockings of Court dress. One of
these was Fred Scully. He was with May, who, the moment she caught sight
of Alice, made frantic efforts to reach her.

'My dear, did anyone ever look so nice! You are as sweet--well, a little
sweeter--than you generally are! How do you do, Mr. Harding? And tell
me, Alice, what do you think of my dress?'

May was in cream faille with ruchings of tulle. A beautiful piece of
white lilac nestled upon her right breast.

'You are very nice, May, and I think the white sets off your hair to
advantage.'

'Well, good-bye dear, Fred and I are going into the next room; one is so
pushed about here, but there are nice large velvet sofas there where one
can sit and talk. I advise you to come.'

In the reposing shadows of rich velvet and sombre hangings women leaned
over the sofas, talking to men in uniform, while two strange-looking
creatures, in long garments, walked up and down the room--Dons from
Trinity, 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 Trinity
College.'

'I know he did, and a capacity for passing competitive examinations is
the 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 parish
schools, and frightens his neighbours with the liberality of his
opinions and the rectitude of his life.'

'But have you seen his pamphlets on the amalgamation of the poor
houses?' said Alice, astonished at the slight consideration afforded to
the rural genius.

'I have heard of them. It appears he is going in for politics; but his
politics will be on a par with his saw-mill, and his farmyard in
concrete. 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 her
thoughts detached themselves, she said: 'We didn't see you in the
ladies' drawing-room.'

'I was very busy all the morning. I had two articles to write for one of
my papers and some books to review.'

'How nice it must be to have a duty to perform every day; to have always
an occupation to which you can turn with pleasure.'

'I don't know that I look upon my ink-bottle as an eternal haven of
bliss. Still, I would sooner contribute articles to daily and weekly
papers than sit in the Kildare Street Club, drinking glasses of sherry.
Having nothing to do must be a terrible occupation, and one difficult to
fulfil with dignity and honour. But,' he added, as if a sudden thought
had struck him, 'you must have a great deal of time on your hands; why
don'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 read
them 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, and
not 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 were
going 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 just
before we left.'

'What was it about--what was it called?'

'It was not original--it was an adaptation of Tennyson's ballad of King
Cophetua. You know Miss Gould--she played the King; and Miss Scully, she
played the beggar-maid. But, of course, the whole thing was very
childish.'

At this moment a figure in knee-breeches and flesh-coloured stockings
was seen waving a wand at the far end of the room. He was the usher
clearing the way for the viceregal procession.

The first to appear were the A.D.C.'s. They were followed by the Medical
Department, by the Private Secretary, the Military Private Secretary,
the Assistant Under Secretaries, by the Gentlemen in Waiting, the Master
of the Horse, the Dean of the Chapel Royal, the Chamberlain, the
Gentleman Usher, the Comptroller, the State Steward, walking with a
wand, like a doge in an opera bouffe; then came another secretary, and
another band of the underlings who flock about this mock court. And then
came a heavy-built, red-bearded man, who carried, as one might a baby, a
huge gilt sword in his fat hands. He was followed by their Excellencies.
The long, maroon-coloured breeches preserved their usual
disconsolateness, the teeth and diamonds retained their splendour, and
the train--many yards of azure blue richest Duchesse satin, embroidered
with large bouquets of silver lily of the valley, and trimmed with
plumes of azure blue ostrich feathers, and bunches of silver coral--was
upheld by two tiny children who tottered beneath its enormous weight.
Then another batch of A.D.C.'s-in-Waiting, the ladies of the viceregal
family: their Excellencies' guests and the ladies in attendance--placed
according to their personal precedence--brought up the rear of the
procession.

'Doesn't real, actual life sometimes appear to you, Miss Barton, more
distorted and unreal than a dream? I know it does to me. The spectacle
we have just witnessed was a part of the ages that believed in the
godhead of Christ and the divine right of Kings; but it seems to me
strange that such barbarities should be permitted to loiter.'

'But what has Christianity to do with the procession that has just
passed?'

'Were it not for faith, do you think a mock court would be allowed to
promenade in that ludicrous fashion?'

'I'm not sure it is faith that enables them to reverence the sword of
State. Is it not rather that love of ceremonial inherent in us all--more
or less?'

'Perhaps you are right.'

The conversation drifted back to literature; they talked for ten
minutes, and then Alice suggested that it was time she should return to
Mrs. Barton. Patrick's Hall was still crowded, and champagne corks
exploded through the babbling of the voices. The squadron of distressed
damsels had not deserted their favourite corner, and they waited about
the pillars like cabs on a stand. At this hour a middle-aged married
doctor would be welcomed; all were desirous of being seen, if only for a
moment, on the arm of a man. Mrs. Barton's triumph was Caesarean. More
than half-a-dozen old lords and one young man listened to her bewitching
laugh, and were fed on the brown flashing gold of her eyes. Milord and
Rosshill had been pushed aside; and, apart, each sought to convince the
other that he was going to leave town by the evening mail. Well in view
of everyone, Olive had spent an hour with Lord Kilcarney. He had just
brought her back to Mrs. Barton. At a little distance the poor Scullys
stood waiting. They knew no one, even the Bartons had given them a very
cold shoulder. Mrs. Gould, in an old black velvet dress, wondered why
all the nice girls did not get married, and from time to time she
plaintively questioned the passers-by if they had seen May. Violet's
sharp face had grown sharper. She knew she could do something if she
only got a chance. But would she get a chance? The Ladies Cullen, their
plank-like shoulders bound in grey frise velvet and steel, were talking
to her. Suddenly Lady Sarah bowed to Lord Kilcarney, and the bow said,
'Come hither!' Leaving Olive he approached. A moment after he was
introduced to Violet. Her thin face lit up as if from a light within; a
grey cloud dimmed the light of Mrs. Barton's golden eyes, and when she
saw _Him_ in the vestibule helping the Scullys on with their wraps, she
shuddered 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 write
to me. I was deeply interested in your description of the Dublin
festivities, and must try and tell you all the news.

'Everybody here is talking of Olive and Lord Kilcarney. It is said that
he proposed to her at the Drawing-Room. Is this true? I hope so, for she
seems to have set her heart on the match. But she is a great deal too
nice for him. They say that when he is in London he does nothing but go
about from bar-room to bar-room drinking brandies and sodas. It is also
said that he used to spend much of his time with actresses. I hope these
stories are false, but I cannot help thinking. . . . Well, we have often
talked over these things, and you know what my opinions of men are. I
hope I am not doing wrong in speaking like this; but a piece of news has
reached me that forces my thoughts back into the old ways--ways that I
know you have often reproved me for letting my mind wander in. In a
word, 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 you
promise to write and tell me if this be true? I would sooner know the
worst at once--hear that you love him madly, passionately, as I believe
some 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 not
think you do. I have been crying all the morning, crying bitterly;
horrible thoughts have forced themselves on my mind. I have seen (but it
was 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 to
think well before you abandon yourself to a man's power, to a man's
love.

'But you, Alice; you who are so noble, so pure, so lofty-minded, you
would not soil yourself by giving way to such a sentiment. Write! you
will write, and tell me that what I saw in vision was a lie, an
abominable lie! Nay, you do not love Mr. Harding. You will not marry
him; surely you will not. Oh! to be left here alone, never to see you
again--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 what
grieves me doubly is that it must seem to you, dear, that I am only
thinking of myself. I am not; I think of you, I wish to save you from
what must be a life of misery and, worse still, of degradation; for
every man is a degradation when he approaches a woman. I know you
couldn't bear up against this; you are too refined, too pure--I can
sympathize with you. I know, poor little cripple though I be, the
horrors 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 of
men in particular, but I know what the sex is--I know nothing of
individuals, but I know what life is. The very fact of being forced to
live apart has helped me to realize how horrible life is, and how the
passions of men make it vile and abominable. All their tender little
words and attentions are but lust in disguise. I hate them! I could
whip, I could beat, I would torture them; and when I had done my worst I
should not have done enough to punish them for the wrongs they have done
to my sex.

'I know, Alice dear, I am writing violently, that I am letting my temper
get the better of me, and this is very wrong; you have often told me it
is very wrong; but I cannot help it, my darling, when I think of the
danger you are in. I cannot tell you how, but I do know you are in
danger; something, some instinct has put me in communication with you:
there are moments when I see you, yes, see you sitting by that man--I
see you now:--the scene is a long blue drawing-room all aglow with gold
mirrors and wax candles--he is sitting by you, I see you smiling upon
him--my blood boils, Alice--I fear I am going mad; my head drops on the
table, and I strive to shut out the odious sight, but I cannot, I
cannot, I cannot. . . .

'I am calmer now: you will forgive me, Alice dear? I know I am wrong to
write to you in this way, but there are moments when I realize things
with 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 hideous
nakedness, revealed, as it were, by a sudden flash of lightning. Oh, it
is terrible to think we are thus. Good-bye, dear, I know you will
forgive me, and I hope you will write at once, and will not leave me in
suspense: 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 her
thoughts loomed and floated away. She thought of herself, of Harding, of
their first meeting. The first time she had seen him he was sitting in
the same place and in the same chair as she was sitting in now. She
remembered the first words that had been spoken: the scene was as clear
to her as if it were etched upon her brain; and as she mused she thought
of the importance of that event. Harding was to her what a mountain is
to the level plain. From him she now looked forward and back. 'So people
say that I am in love with him! well, supposing I were, I do not know
that I should feel ashamed of myself.'

The reflection was an agreeable one, and in it her thoughts floated away
like red-sailed barges into the white mists that veil with dreamy
enchantment the wharves and the walls of an ancient town. What did she
know of him? Nothing! He was to her as much, but no more, than the
author of a book in which she was deeply interested: with this
difference:--she could hear him reply to her questions; but his answers
were only like other books, and revealed nothing of his personality. She
would have liked to have known the individual man surrounded with his
individual hopes and sufferings, but of these she knew nothing. They had
talked of all things, but it seemed to her that of the real man she had
never had a glimpse. Never did he unbend, never did he lift the mask he
wore. He was interesting, but very unhuman, and he paraded his ideas and
his sneers as the lay figures did the mail-armour on the castle
stairway. She did not know if he were a good or a bad man; she fancied
he was not very good, and then she grew angry with herself for
suspecting him. But honest or dishonest, she was sure he could love no
one; and she strove to recall his face. She could remember nothing but
the cold merciless eyes--eyes that were like the palest blue porcelain:
'But how ungrateful I am,' thought the girl, and she checked the bitter
flow of reproaches that rose in her mind.

Two old ladies sat on the sofa under the window, their white hair and
white caps coming out very white upon the grey Irish day; and around the
ottoman the young ladies, Gladys and Zoe Brennan, one of the Miss
Duffys, and the girl in red, yawned over circulating novels, longing
that a man might come in--not with hope that he would interest them, but
because they were accustomed to think of all time as wasted that was not
spent in talking to a man.

Nor were they awakened from their languid hopes until Olive came rushing
into the room with a large envelope in her hand.

'Oh, I see,' she said, 'you have got a letter from Cecilia. What does
she say? I got one this morning from Barnes;' and, bending her head,
Olive whispered in Alice's ear: 'She says that everyone is talking in
Galway 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 the
dance?'

'To dinner.'

'Ah, really . . . yes, very lucky.' Her eyes fell, and her look was
expressive of her deep disappointment. A dance--yes, but a dinner and a
dance! Then she continued: 'Ah, the Castle treats us all very badly. I
am glad sometimes when I hear the Land League abusing it. We come up
here, and spend all our money on dresses, and we get nothing for it
except two State balls, and it is no compliment to ask us to them--they
are obliged to. But what do you think of my little coat? It is this that
keeps me warm,' and Miss O'Reilly held out her sealskin for the company
to feel the texture. For the last three weeks she had not failed, on all
occasions, to call attention to this garment--'Signor Parisina had said
it 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--you
know 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 sisters
rolled up their worsted-work preparatory to going upstairs.

In Dublin, during six weeks of the year, the arrival of these large
official envelopes is watched with eagerness. These envelopes are the
balm of Gilead; and the Land League and the hopelessness of matchmaking
are merged and lost for a moment in an exquisite thrill of triumph or
despair. An invitation to the Castle means much. The greyheaded official
who takes you down to dinner may bore you, and, at the dance, you may
find yourself without a partner; but the delight of asking your friends
if you may expect to meet them on such a night, of telling them
afterwards of your successes, are the joys of Dublin. And, armed with
their invitation, the Bartons scored heavily over the Scullys and the
Goulds, 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 style
indeed; and our names will be given in the papers. But I don't think it
will amuse you, dear. All the officials have to be asked--judges,
police-officers, etc. You will probably go down with some old fellow of
sixty: but that can't be helped. At the dance, after, we'll see the
Marquis.'

'I told you, mamma, didn't I, that Barnes wrote that everybody in Galway
said 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 the
point. You will wear your red tulle. I don't know that you look better
in anything else.'

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