Muslin by George Moore

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'It won't matter much if they do; there aren't a dozen worth two
thousand 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 up
Edward--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 must
leave Dublin to-morrow--I have serious reasons.'

'Oh, mamma, I didn't think you were so cruel, to go back to that hateful
place, 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 say
that there wouldn't be a man within seven miles. On the contrary, there
will 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, so
that she might have plenty of time to pack her own things and help her
sister with hers; and it seemed to her unbelievable that she was at last
leaving that hateful little varnished floor, complimenting old beaux and
young A.D.C.'s.

But if to nobody else, she must say good-bye to May. She had hardly seen
her since the night of the State ball--the night she had given Fred
Scully 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 dreadful
day!'

'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 feel
out of sorts? you know, when everything seems as if it were reflected in
a 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; I
think 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 and
afternoon dances. What does Olive say to going home?'

'She doesn't mind. You know mamma always said she would return
immediately after the Castle balls.'

'And now that it is all over, tell me what you think of the Castle. Did
it come up to your expectations?'

'I don't know that I think much about the matter. I am not so fond of
dancing as you are.'

'Oh, goodness me, goodness me, how ill I do feel,' said May, as she
started and yawned in a way that betokened the nervous lassitude she was
suffering 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 he
couldn't come, that he was forced to go and see an important customer
about some horses.'

'Perhaps he had.'

'I dare say he had, but what of that? It does not make it any less
disagreeable for me to be disappointed.'

'How cross you are, May! I came out on purpose to talk to you on this
very subject. I hope you won't be angry, but I think it is my duty to
tell 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 people
are.'

'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 come
here for the purpose of speaking out, I had better do so, however
unpleasant it may be; and I must say that you often forget yourself when
he is in the room, and by your whole manner betray your feelings. You
look at him--'

'You needn't talk. Now that Harding has left town, these moral
reflections come very easy to you!'

Alice blushed a little; she trembled, and pursuing her advantage, May
said:

'Oh, yes; I have watched you in the Castle sitting out dances; and when
girls 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 of
indulging in improper conversation. . . . I didn't expect this from you. I
shan't stop another moment. I shan't speak to you again.'

Picking up her novel, and deaf to all explanations, May walked haughtily
out of the room. Alice would have given much to help; and, her heart
filled with gentle disappointment, she returned home. The evening was
spent in packing; and next morning at dawn, looking tired, their eyes
still heavy with sleep, the Bartons breakfasted for the last time in
Mount Street.

At the Broadstone they met Lord Dungory. Then, their feet and knees
cosily wrapped up in furs, with copies of the _Freeman's Journal_ lying
on the top, they deplored the ineffectiveness of Mr. Forster's Coercion
Act. Eight hundred people were in prison, and still the red shadow of
murder pointed across the land. Milord read from the newspaper:

'A dastardly outrage was committed last night in the neighbourhood of
Mullingar. A woman named Mary ---- had some differences with her sister
Bridget ----. One day, after some angry words, it appears that she left
the house, and seeing a man working in a potato-field, she asked him if
he could do anything to help her. He scratched his head, and, after a
moment's reflection, he said he was going to meet a "party," and he
would see what could be done. On the following day he suggested that
Bridget 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 the
house, not caring to see her sister shot in her presence, but Pat
declared that her absence would excite suspicion. In the words of one of
the murderers, the deed was accomplished "nately and without unnecessary
fuss."'

'I wonder,' said Mrs. Barton, 'what those wretches will have to do
before the Government will consent to suspend the Habeas Corpus Act, and
place the country in the hands of the military. Do they never think of
how wickedly they are behaving, and of how God will punish them when
they die? Do they never think of their immortal souls?'

'_L'ame du paysan se vautre dans la boue comme la mienne se plait dans
la soie_.'

'_Dans la soie! dans la soie! oh, ce Milord, ce Milord!'_

'_Oui, madame_,' he added, lowering his voice, '_dans le blanc paradis
de votre corsage_.'

Three days after life at Brookfield had resumed its ordinary course.
Once breakfast was over, Arthur retired to the consideration of the
pectoral muscles of the ancient Briton, Milord drank his glass of sherry
at half-past one, and Mrs. Barton devoted herself to the double task of
amusing him and encouraging Olive with visions of future fame. Alice was
therefore left definitely to herself, and without hindrance or comment
was allowed to set up her writing-table, and spend as much time as she
pleased in her bedroom.

Several sheets of foolscap paper covered with large open handwriting lay
upon the table. Upon the first page, with a line ruled beneath it, stood
the title: 'The Diary of a Plain Girl--Notes and Sensations.' She had
just laid aside her pen and was waiting for Cecilia.

'Oh, Alice darling, how are you? I am delighted--I am so delighted to
see you. Let me kiss you, let me see you; I have been longing for you
for weeks--for months.'

Alice bent her face down, and then, holding each other's hands, the
girls stood looking through a deep and expressive silence into each
other's eyes.

'I wish, Alice, I could tell you how glad I am to have you back: it
seems like heaven to see you again. You look so nice, so true, so sweet,
so perfect. There never was anyone so perfect as you, Alice.'

'Cecilia dear, you shouldn't talk to me like that; it is absurd. Indeed,
I don't think it is quite right.'

'Not quite right,' replied the cripple sadly; 'what do you mean? Why is
it wrong--why should it be wrong for me to love you?'

'I don't mean to say that it is wrong; you misunderstand me;
but--but--well, I don't know how to explain myself, but--'

'I know, I know, I know,' said Cecilia, and her nervous sensitivity
revealed thoughts in Alice's mind--thoughts of which Alice herself was
not distinctly conscious, just as a photograph exposes irregularities in
the texture of a leaf that the naked eye would not perceive.

'If Harding were to speak to you so, you wouldn't think it wrong.'

Alice's face flushed a little, and she said, with a certain resoluteness
in her voice, 'Cecilia, I wish you wouldn't talk to me in this way. You
give me great pain.'

'I am sorry if I do, but I can't help it. I am jealous of the words that
are spoken to you, of the air you breathe, of the ground you walk upon.
How, then, can I help hating that man?'

'I do not wish to argue this point with you, Cecilia, nor am I sure that
I understand it. There is no one I like better than you, dear, but that
we should be jealous of each other is absurd.'

'For you perhaps, but not for me.' Cecilia looked at Alice
reproachfully, and at the end of a long and morose silence she said:

'You received the long letter I wrote to you about him?'

'Yes, Cecilia, and I answered it. It seems to me very foolish to
pronounce condemnatory opinion on the whole world; and particularly for
you who have seen so little of it.'

'That doesn't matter. People are blinded by their passions; but when
these have worn themselves out, they see the truth in all its horrible
nakedness. One of these days you'll tell me that I am right. You have
been a good deal in the world lately; tell me if you have found it
beautiful. You didn't believe me when I told you that men were vile and
abominable; you said there were good men in the world, that you were
sure of it. Have you found them? Was Mr. Harding so very perfect?'

Alice coloured again; she hesitated, and in the silence Cecilia again
divined her friend's thoughts.

'A very poor ideal indeed, it seems to me that you set yourself--to make
the best of this wretched world.'

'I cannot understand what good can come of craving after the
unattainable,' said Alice, looking earnestly out of her grey sharp eyes.

'True beauty lies only in the unattainable,' said Cecilia, lifting her
eyes with that curious movement of the eyeball by which painters
represent faith and mysticism.

At the end of a long silence, Alice said:

'But you'll have some tea, will you not, Cecilia?'

'Yes; but don't let us go downstairs.'

'We'll have it up here; Barnes will bring it up.'

'Oh, that will be so nice.'

The girls drew closer to the fire, and in its uniting warmth they looked
into the ardent face of their friendship, talking, at first, conscious
of the appropriateness of their conversation; but soon forgetful of the
more serious themes they had been discussing, questions were asked and
answered, and comments passed, upon the presentations, the dresses, the
crowds, upon all their acquaintances.

'It is given out, Alice dear, that Lord Kilcarney is coming down to stay
at Brookfield. Is it true?'

'I have heard nothing of it. Whom did you hear it from?'

'Well, the Duffys wrote it to my sisters. The Duffys, you know, have all
the Dublin news.'

'What dreadful gossips they are! And the wonderful part of it is that
they often tell you that things have happened long before they do
happen.'

'Yes; I have noticed that. They anticipate the news.'

The girls laughed lightly, and Cecilia continued:

'But tell me, which do you think he admires most, Olive or Violet? The
rumour goes that he pays Violet great attentions. The family is, of
course, wild about it. She hasn't a penny piece, and Olive, they say,
has a good deal of money.'

'I don't know.'

'You must show me the dress you wore. You described it beautifully in
your letter. You must have looked very sweet. Did everybody say so?'

'I am not sure that they did. Men, you know, do not always admire what
women do.'

'I should think not. Men only admire beastliness.'

'Cecilia dear, you shouldn't talk like that; it isn't nice.'

Cecilia looked at Alice wistfully, and she said:

'But tell me about the presentations. I suppose there were an immense
number of people present?'

'Yes, and particularly _debutantes_; there were a great number presented
this year. It was considered a large Drawing-Room.'

'And how are you presented? I've heard my sister speak about it, but I
never quite understood.'

At that moment Barnes brought in the tea. She set it on a little table
used for the purpose.

'There is a letter for you, miss, on the tray,' she said as she left the
room; 'it came by the afternoon post.'

Without answering, Alice continued to pour out the tea, but when she
handed Cecilia her cup, she said, surprised at the dull, sullen stare
fixed upon her:

'What is the matter? Why do you look at me like that?'

'That letter, I am sure, is from Harding; it is a man's handwriting.'

She had been expecting that letter for days.

'Oh! give it me,' she said impulsively.

'There it is; I wouldn't touch it. I knew you liked that man; but I
didn't expect to find you corresponding with him. It is shameful; it
isn't worthy of you. You might have left such things to May Gould.'

'Cecilia, you have no right to speak to me in that way; you are
presuming too much on our friendship.'

'Oh, yes, yes; but before you met him I could not presume too much upon
our friendship.'

'If you want to know why I wrote to Mr. Harding, I'll tell you.'

'It was you who wrote to him, then?'

'Yes, I wrote to him.'

'Oh, yes, yes, yes; I see it all now,' cried Cecilia, and she walked
wildly to and fro, her eye tinged with a strange glare. 'Yes, I see it
all. This room, that was once a girl's room, is now Harding's room. He
is the atmosphere of the place. I was conscious of it when I entered,
but now it is visible to me--that manuscript, that writing-table, that
letter. Oh yes, it is Harding, all is Harding!'

'Cecilia, Cecilia, think, I beg of you, of what you are saying.'

But when Alice approached and strove to raise her from the pillow upon
which she had thrown herself, she started up and savagely confronted
her.

'Don't touch me, don't touch me!' she cried. 'I cannot bear it. What are
you to me, what am I to you? It is not with me you would care to be, but
with _him_. It is not my kiss of friendship that would console you, but
his kiss of passion that would charm you. . . . Go to him, and leave me to
die.'

'Was this insanity?' And then, forgetful of the abuse that was being
showered upon her, Alice said:

'Cecilia dear, listen; I'll forgive the language you have used toward
me, for I know you do not know what you are saying. You must be ill . . .
you cannot be in your right senses to-day, or you would not speak like
that.'

'You would soothe me, but you little dream of the poison you are
dropping on my wounds. You never understood, you are too far removed
from me in thought and feeling ever to understand--no, your spirituality
is only a delusion; you are no better at heart than May Gould. It is the
same thing: one seeks a husband, another gratifies herself with a lover.
It is the same thing--where's the difference? It is animal passion all
the same. And that letter is full of it--it must be--I am sure it is.'

'You are very insulting, Cecilia. Where have you thrown my letter?'

The letter had fallen beneath the table. Alice made a movement towards
it, but, overcome by mad rage, Cecilia caught it up and threw it into
the fire. Alice rescued her letter, and then, her face full of stern
indignation, she said:

'I think, Cecilia, you had better leave my room, and before you come to
see me again, I shall expect to receive a written apology for the
outrageous way you have behaved.'

In a few days came a humble and penitent letter; Cecilia returned, her
eyes full of tears, and begged to be forgiven; the girls resumed their
friendship, but both were conscious that it was neither so bright nor so
communicative as in the olden days.

XXII

'Something has happened to my learned daughter,' said Mr. Barton, and he
continued his thumb-nail sketch on the tablecloth. 'What is it?' he
added indolently.

Alice passed the cheque and the memorandum across the table. 'Three
pounds for three articles contributed to the ---- during the month of
April.'

'You don't mean to say, Alice, you got three pounds for your writing?'
said Mrs. Barton.

'Yes, mother, I have, and I hope to make ten pounds next month. Mr.
Harding says he can get me lots of work.'

'So my lady then, with all her shy ways, knows how to make use of a man
as well as any of us.'

Mrs. Barton did not willingly wound. She saw life from the point of view
of making use of men, that was all; and when Alice walked out of the
room, Mrs. Barton felt sorry for what she had said, and she would have
gone to comfort her daughter if Olive had not, at that moment, stood in
imminent need of comfort.

'I suppose,' she said pettishly, 'the letter you received this morning
is from the Marquis, to say he won't be here next Tuesday?'

It was. For as the day fixed for his arrival at Brookfield approached,
he would write to apologize, and to beg that he might be allowed to
postpone his visit to Monday week or Wednesday fortnight. Mrs. Barton
replied that they would be very glad to see him when he found it
convenient to come and see them. She did not inquire into the reason of
his rudeness, she was determined to fight the battle out to the end, and
she did not dare to think that he was being prompted by that beast of a
girl, Violet Scully.

'He writes a very nice letter indeed. He says he has a very bad cold,
and doesn't like to show himself at Brookfield with a red nose, but
that, unless he dies in the meantime, he will be with us on the
twentieth of the month, and will--if we'll have him--stop three weeks
with us.'

'I knew the letter was a put-off. I don't believe he admires me at all,
the little beast; and I know I shall never be a marchioness. You made me
treat poor Edward shamefully, and for no purpose, after all.'

'Now, Olive, you mustn't speak like that. Go upstairs and ask Barnes if
she has heard anything lately?'

'Oh, I'm sick of Barnes; what has she heard?'

'She is a great friend of Lady Georgina's maid, who knows the Burkes
intimately, particularly Lady Emily's maid, and Barnes got a letter from
her friend the other day, saying that Lady Emily was delighted at the
idea of her brother marrying you, dear, and that he thinks of nobody
else, speaks of nobody else. Run up and speak to her about it.'

As we have seen, Mrs. Barton had drugged Olive's light brain with
visions of victories, with dancing, dresses, admiration; but now, in the
tiring void of country days, memories of Edward's love and devotion were
certain to arise. He made, however, no attempt to renew his courtship.
At Gort, within three miles, he remained silent, immovable as one of the
Clare mountains. Sometimes his brown-gold moustache and square shoulders
were caught sight of as he rode rapidly along the roads. He had once
been seen sitting with Mrs. Lawler behind the famous cream-coloured
ponies; and to allude to his disgraceful conduct without wounding
Olive's vanity was an art that Mrs. Barton practised daily; and to keep
the girl in spirits she induced Sir Charles, who it was reported was
about to emigrate his family to the wilds of Maratoga, to come and stay
with them. If a rumour were to reach the Marquis's ears, it might help
to bring him to the point. In any case Sir Charles's attentions to Olive
would keep her in humour until the great day arrived.

Well convinced that this was her last throw, Mrs. Barton resolved to
smear the hook well with the three famous baits she was accustomed to
angle with. They were--dinners, flattery, and dancing. Accordingly, an
order was given to the Dublin fishmonger to send them fish daily for the
next three weeks, and to the pastrycook for a French cook. The store of
flattery kept on the premises being illimitable, she did not trouble
about that, but devoted herself to the solution of the problem of how
she should obtain a constant and unfailing supply of music. Once she
thought of sending up to Dublin for a professional pianist, but was
obliged to abandon the idea on account of the impossibility of devising
suitable employment for him during the morning hours. A tune or two
might not come in amiss after lunch, but to have him hanging about the
shrubberies all the morning would be intolerable. She might ask a couple
of the Brennans or the Duffys to stay with them, but they would be in
the way, and occupy the Marquis's time, and go tell-taling all over the
country; no, that wouldn't do either. Alice's playing was wretched. It
was a wonderful thing that a girl like her would not make some effort to
amuse men--would not do something. Once Olive was married, she (Mrs.
Barton) would try to patch up something for this gawk of a girl--marry
her to Sir Charles; excellent match it would be, too--get all the
children emigrated first: and if he would not have her, there was Sir
Richard. It was said that he was quite reformed--had given up drink. But
there was no use thinking of that: for the present she would have to put
up with the girl's music, which was wretched.

Olive fell in with her mother's plans, and she angled industriously for
Lord Kilcarney. She did not fail to say in or out of season, '_Il n'y a
personne comme notre cher Marquis_,' and as the turbot and fruit, that
had arrived by the afternoon train from Dublin, were discussed, Milord
did not cease to make the most appropriate remarks. Referring to the
bouquet that she had pinned into the Marquis's buttonhole, he said:

'_Il y a des amants partout ou il y a des oiseaux et des roses_.' And
again: '_Les regardes des amoureux sont la lumiere comme le baiser est
la vie du monde_.'

After dinner no time was lost, although the Marquis pleaded fatigue, in
settling Alice at the piano, and dancing began in sober earnest. After
each waltz Olive conducted him to the dining-room; she helped him
liberally to wine, and when she held a match to his cigarette their
fingers touched. But to find occupation for the long morning hours of
her young couple was a grave trouble to Mrs. Barton. She was determined
to make every moment of the little Marquis's stay in Galway moments of
sunshine; but mental no more than atmospheric sunshine is to be had by
the willing, and the poor little fellow seemed to pine in his Galway
cage like a moulting canary. He submitted to all the efforts made in his
behalf, but his submission was that of a victim. After breakfast he
always attempted to escape, and if he succeeded in eluding Mrs. Barton,
he would remain for hours hidden in the laurels, enwrapped in summer
meditations, the nature of which it was impossible even to conjecture.
In the afternoon he spoke of the burden of his correspondence, and when
the inevitable dancing was spoken of, he often excused himself on the
ground of having a long letter to finish. If it were impossible for her
to learn the contents of these letters, Mrs. Barton ardently desired to
know to whom they were addressed. Daily she volunteered to send special
messengers to the post on his account; the footman, the coachman, and
pony-chaise, were in turn rejected by him.

'Thank you, Mrs. Barton, thank you, but I should like to avail myself of
the chance of a constitutional.'

'_La sante de notre petit Marquis avant tout_,' she would exclaim, with
much silvery laughter and all the habitual movements of the white hands.
'But what do you say: I am sure the young ladies would like a walk,
too?'

With a view to picturesque effect Mrs. Barton's thoughts had long been
centred on a picnic. They were now within a few days of the first of
May, and there was enough sunshine in the air to justify an excursion to
Kinvarra Castle. It is about four miles distant, at the end of a long
narrow bay.

Mrs. Barton applied herself diligently to the task of organization.
Having heard from Dublin of the hoax that was being played on their
enemy, the Ladies Cullen consented to join the party, and they brought
with them one of the Honourable Miss Gores. The Duffys and Brennans
numbered their full strength, including even the famous Bertha, who was
staying with her sisters on a visit. The Goulds excused themselves on
account of the distance and the disturbed state of the country. Mrs.
Barton found, therefore, much difficulty in maintaining the noted
characteristic of her parties. Sir Richard and Sir Charles had agreed to
come; Mr. Adair, Mr. Ryan, and Mr. Lynch were also present. They drove
up on outside cars, and were all attended by a bodyguard of policemen.

And very soon everybody fell to babbling of the history of the Castle,
which nobody knew: Ireland has had few chroniclers. Lord Dungory pointed
out that in the seventeenth century people lived in Ireland
naked--speaking Latin habitually--without furniture or tapestries or
paintings or baths. The Castle suggested a military movement to Mr.
Barton.

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