Muslin by George Moore

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

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

'I am afraid people are talking about it, and that surely is not
desirable.'

'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 for
years before had never failed her, Mrs. Barton returned to her sweet
little flattering manners.

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

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

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

'Because, it appears, she had previously forbidden him to go there, you
know, 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's
fault; I think she must have lost her head a little, for she sent Barnes
over that evening to the Lawlers' with a note, telling Captain Hibbert
that 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 falling
into masses of white ash, and she thought vaguely of putting on some
more turf; then her attention was caught by the withering ferns in the
flower-glasses, then by the soaking pasture-lands, then by the spiky
branches of the chestnut-trees swinging against the grey, dead sky.

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

'She told me, as we were going to bed the other night, mamma, that she
never could care for anyone else; and--and'

'And what, dear?'

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

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

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

A few minutes passed dreamily, almost unconsciously; Mrs. Barton threw
two sods of turf on the fire, and resumed her thinking. Her first
feeling of resentment against her eldest daughter had vanished; and she
now thought solely of the difficulty she was in, and how she could best
extricate herself from it. 'So Olive was foolish enough to allow Captain
Hibbert to kiss her in the conservatory!' Mrs. Barton murmured to
herself. The morality of the question interested her profoundly. She had
never allowed anyone to kiss her before she was married; and she was
full of pity and presentiment for the future of a young girl who could
thus compromise herself. But in Olive's love for Captain Hibbert Mrs.
Barton was concerned only so far as it affected the labour and time that
would 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 moment
doubt. Her daughter was a beautiful girl, would probably be the belle of
the season; therefore to allow her, at nineteen, to marry a
thousand-a-year captain would be, Mrs. Barton thought, to prove herself
incapable, if not criminal, in the performance of the most important
duty of her life. Mrs. Barton trembled when she thought of the sending
of the letter: if the story were to get wind in Dublin, it might wreck
her hopes of the marquis. Therefore, to tell Barnes to leave the house
would be fatal. Things must be managed gently, very gently. Olive must
be talked to, how far her heart was engaged in the matter must be found
out, and she must be made to see the folly, the madness of risking her
chance of winning a coronet for the sake of a beggarly thousand-a-year
captain. And, good heavens! the chaperons: what would they say of her,
Mrs. Barton, were such a thing to occur? Mrs. Barton turned from the
thought in horror; and then, out of the soul of the old coquette arose,
full-fledged, the chaperon, the satellite whose light and glory is
dependent on that of the fixed star around which she revolves.

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

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

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

Olive was now more than ever like her father. Her shoulders had grown
wider, and the blonde head and scarlet lips had gained a summer
brilliance and beauty.

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

To talk of Alice, to suggest that she was a little jealous, to explain
the difficulty of the position she occupied, to commiserate and lavish
much 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 resisted
the 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 are
at the Castle if she will remain faithful to her books. I am afraid that
Miss 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 to
speak to in the county is Dr. Reed, that little frumpy fellow with his
medicines. I can't understand her. I couldn't care for anyone but an
officer.'

This was the chance Mrs. Barton required, and she instantly availed
herself 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 not
all as handsome as Captain Hibbert.'

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

Olive tossed her head, and her mother looked at her admiringly, and
there 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 feel
for Alice, in whom she saw nothing but failure, and in the end spiritual
spinsterhood. After a pause she said:

'What a splendid match Lord Kilcarney would be, and where would he find
a 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 Captain
Hibbert.'

'Yes, you like Captain Hibbert, so do I; but a girl like you could not
throw 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 of
very good family, and he has enough to support me.'

The moment was a supreme one, and Mrs. Barton hesitated to strike and
bring the matter to a head. Would it be better, she asked herself, to
let 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 see
you throw yourself away on Captain Hibbert. I am afraid you have seen
too much of him, and have been led away into caring for him. But take my
word for it, a girl's love is only _a fleur de peau_. When you have been
to 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 she
rushed out of the room.

Mrs. Barton made no reply, but her resolve was rapidly gaining strength
in 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 be
wheedled and coerced.

Nor did Mrs. Barton for a moment doubt that she would succeed; she had
never tasted failure; and she stayed only a moment to regret, for she
was too much a woman of the world to waste time in considering her
mistakes. The needs of the moment were ever present to her, and she now
devoted 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, where
woman was represented as a triumphant creature walking over the heads
and hearts of men. '_Le genie de la femme est la beaute_,' declared
Milord, and again: '_Le coeur de l'homme ne peut servir que de piedestal
pour l'idole.'_

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

'Pardon, pardon, madame: _Devant un amour faux on est idolatre, mais a
l'autel d'un vrai, on est chretien_.'

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

XIII

Mr. Barton could think of nothing but the muscles of the strained back
of a dying Briton and a Roman soldier who cut the cords that bound the
white captive to the sacrificial oak; but it would be no use returning
to the studio until these infernal tenants were settled with, and he
loitered about the drawing-room windows looking pale, picturesque, and
lymphatic. His lack of interest in his property irritated Mrs. Barton.
'Darling, you must try to get them to take twenty per cent.' At times
she strove to prompt the arguments that should be used to induce the
tenants to accept the proffered abatement, but she could not detach her
thoughts from the terrible interview she was about to go through with
Captain Hibbert. She expected him to be violent; he would insist on
seeing Olive, and she watched wearily the rain dripping from the wooden
edges of the verandah. The last patches of snow melted, and at last a
car was seen approaching, closely followed by another bearing four
policemen.

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

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

It was always difficult to say how far Mr. Barton believed in the
extravagant remarks he was in the habit of giving utterance to. He
seemed to be aware of their absurdity, without, however, relinquishing
all belief in their truth. And now, as he picked his way across the wet
stones, his pale hair blown about in the wind, he presented a strange
contrast 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 things
are gitting worse instid of bither. There's been another bailiff shot in
Mayo, and we've had a process-server nearly beaten to death down our
side of the counthry. Gad! I was out with the Sub-Sheriff and fifty
police thrying to serve notices on Lord Rosshill's estate, and we had to
come 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 as
wide as a canal.'

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

'But if they don't take it?'

'Well, I don't know what we will do, for notices it is impossible to
serve. Gad! I'll never forgit how we were pelted the other day--such
firing of stones, such blawing of horns! I think you'll have to give
them 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. Here
they come.'

Turning, the two men watched the twenty or thirty peasants who, with
heads set against the gusts, advanced steadily up the avenue, making way
for a horseman; and from the drawing-room window Mrs. Barton recognized
the square-set shoulders of Captain Hibbert. After shaking hands and
speaking 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-cut
elegance of military boots and trousers, the peasants lifted their hats,
and the interview began.

'Now, boys,' said Mr. Barton, who thought that a little familiarity
would not be inappropriate, 'I've asked you to meet me so that we might
come to some agreement about the rents. We've known each other a long
time, and my family has been on this estate I don't know for how many
generations. Therefore--why, of course, I should be very sorry if we had
any falling out. I don't know much about farming, but I hear everyone
say that this has been a capital year, and . . . I think I cannot do better
than to make you again the same offer as I made you before--that is to
say, of twenty per cent, abatement all round; that will bring your rents
down to Griffith's valuation.'

Mr. Barton had intended to be very impressive, but, feeling that words
were betraying him, he stopped short, and waited anxiously to hear what
answer the peasant who had stepped forward would make. The old man began
by removing a battered tall-hat, out of which fell a red handkerchief.
The handkerchief was quickly thrown back into the crown, and, at an
intimation from Mr. Barton, hat and handkerchief were replaced upon the
white 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, and
my fathers before me, for the past fifty years. And it was in
forty-three that the rints was ruz--in the time of your father, the Lord
have mercy on his soul!--but he had an agent who was a hard man, and he
ruz the rints, and since then we have been in poverty, livin' on yaller
mail 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 should
walk 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 paying
twenty-five shillings an acre. I have my receipts, paid down to the last
gale-day.'

And, still speaking, the old man fumbled in his pockets and produced a
large 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 died
on 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 the
same flooded land. Yer honour can come down any day and see it. It is
not worth, to me, more than fifteen shillings an acre at the bare
outside. But it could be drained, for there is a fall into the marin
stream betwixt your honour's property and the Miss Brennans'. It
wouldn't cost more than forty pound, and the Miss Brennans will pay half
if yer honour will pay the other.'

Mr. Barton listened patiently to those peasant-like digressions, while
Mrs. Barton listened patiently to the Captain's fervid declarations of
love. He had begun by telling her of the anguish it had caused him to
have been denied, and three times running, admittance to Brookfield. One
whole 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 to
say, must have long since guessed what were his feelings for her
daughter.

'We were very sorry to have been out, and it is so unusual that we
should 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 so
gallant, and--and--' here Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, for she thought
the bitterness of life might be so cunningly wrapped up in sweet
compliments that both could be taken together, like sugared-medicine--in
one child-like gulp. 'There is, of course, no one I should prefer to _le
beau capitaine_--there is no one to whom I would confide my Olive more
willingly; but, then, one must look to other things; one cannot live
entirely on love, even if it be the love of a _beau capitaine_.'

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

'I am aware, my dear Mrs. Barton, that I cannot give your daughter the
position 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 be
not mistaken, some money of her own; and, as I shall get my majority
within the next five years, I may say that we shall begin life upon
something more than fifteen hundred a year.'

'It is true that I have led you to believe that Olive has money, but
Irish money can be no longer counted upon. Were Mr. Barton to create a
charge on his property, how would it be possible for him to guarantee
the payment of the interest in such times as the present? We are living
on 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 put
it 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 see
they are making their own terms with Mr. Barton.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the drawing-room window Mrs. Barton watched the conflict. On one
side she saw her daughter's beautiful white face becoming the prize of a
penniless officer; on the other she saw the pretty furniture, the
luxurious idleness, the very silk dress on her back, being torn from
them, and distributed among a crowd of Irish-speaking, pig-keeping
peasants. She could see that some new and important point was being
argued; and it was with a wrench she detached her thoughts from the
pantomime that was being enacted within her view, and, turning to
Captain Hibbert, said:

'You see--you see what is happening. We are--that is to say, we may
be--ruined at any moment by this wicked agitation. As I have said
before, there is no one I should like so much as yourself; but, in the
face of such a future, how could I consent to give you my
daughter?--that is to say, I could not unless you could settle at least
a 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 a
home as any she has been accustomed to. But a thousand a year is
impossible. I haven't got it. But I can settle five hundred on her, and
there's many a peeress of the realm who hasn't that. Of course five
hundred a year is very little. No one feels it more than I. For had I
the riches of the world, I should not consider them sufficient to create
a place worthy of Olive's beauty. But love must be allowed to count for
something, 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 happiness
for the sake of a little wretched pride?'

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