CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 
 934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5042.D7 1896 
 
 A drama in muslin; a realistic novel 
 
 3 1924 013 526 375 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013526375 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 A REALISTIC NOVEL. 
 
 By GEORGE MOORE, 
 
 Author of "A Mummer's Wife," ''A Modem Lover^' etc. 
 
 EIGHTH EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: WALTER SCOTT. LIAITED. 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 
 
 F 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The grey stone cross of the convent-cliurcli was scarcely 
 seen in the dimness of the sun-smitten sky. The convent 
 occupied an entire hilltop, and it overlooked the sea. 
 
 All around was a beautiful garden, and the white dresses 
 of the girls fluttered through the verdurous vistas like the 
 snowy plumage of a hundred doves. Obeying a sudden 
 impulse, a flock of little ones would race through a deluge 
 of leaf-entangled rays towards a pet companion. You see 
 her at the end of a gravel-walk, examining the flower she 
 has just picked : the sunlight glancing along little white 
 legs, proudly and charmingly advanced. The elder girls in 
 their longer skirts were more dignified, but when sight 
 was caught of a favourite sister, they too ran forward, 
 and then retreated timidly, as if afraid of committing an 
 indiscretion. 
 
 It was prize-day in the Convent of the Holy Child, and 
 since early morning all had been busy preparing for the 
 arrival of the Bishop. His throne had been set at one end of 
 the school-hall, and at the other the carpenters had erected a 
 stage for the performance of " King Cophetua," a musical 
 sketch written by Mi.<a Alice Barton for the occasion. But 
 now a pause had come in the labour of the day ; the luncheon, 
 tha* all had been too excited to partake of, was over ; and 
 for the next half -hour, straying over the green swards, or 
 clustered round a garden-bench, the girls talked of the many 
 expectations that the coming hours of the afternoon would 
 1 
 
2 A DEAMA IN M0SLIN. 
 
 set at rest. Their faces were animated with discussion. They 
 spoke of the parts they would play ; of the dresses they 
 would wear ; of the probable winners of the prizes ; of the joya 
 and ambitions that even now absorbed their lives. A charm- 
 ing and infantile peace slept on land and sea. In the distance 
 the grey girdle of water glittered as with the leaping sUver of 
 a myriad fishes ; between the chimneys, under the hill, a fleet 
 of fishing-boats basked in the sun like sparrows. It was 
 almost blinding to lift the eyes, so intense was the radiation 
 of the light; and the downy whiteness of the sky was un- 
 relieved by any splash of blue. Suddenly, a rearrangement 
 of figures on the terrace made one group of girls the centre 
 of the vast panorama. They seemed like a piece of finished 
 sculpture ready to be taken from the peace and meditation 
 of the studio and placed in the noise and staring of the 
 galleries. 
 
 Then a nun called from the sward where the children 
 were playing, and two girls rose from the bench. Their 
 places were quickly appropriated, and the five remaining 
 girls dx-ew together, forming a new and more harmonious 
 group. 
 
 Alice Barton was what is commonly known as a plain girl. 
 At home, during the holidays, she often heard that the dress- 
 maker could not fit her, that her eyes were not so large nor 
 so sweet as her sister's. But the clear, sweet mind was so 
 often revealed in those grey eyes, that the want of beauty 
 was forgotten in love of her personality. Although her 
 shoulders were narrow and prim, her arms long and 
 almost awkward, there was a character about the figure that 
 commanded attention. Alice was now turned twenty, she 
 was the eldest, the best-beloved, and the cleverest girl in the 
 school. It was not, therefore, on account of any backward- 
 ness in her education that she had been kept so long out of 
 society ; but because Mrs. Barton thought that, as her two 
 girls were so different in appearance, it would be well for them 
 to come out together. Against this decision Alice said 
 nothing, and, like a tall arum lily, she had grown in the 
 convent from girl to womanhood. To her the little children 
 ran to be comforted ; and to walk with her in the garden was 
 considered an honour and a pleasure that even the reverend 
 mother was glad to participate in. 
 
 Lady Cecilia Oullen sat next to Alice. At a glance you 
 
A DRAMA IK MUSLIN. 3 
 
 saw she was a hunchback ; but in a standing position her 
 deformity would have appeared less marked than it did at 
 present. It lay principally in her right shoulder, which was 
 higher than her left — now she was seen at her worst. CecUia 
 was the wonder and enigma of the convent. Of a nature 
 more than delicate and sensitive, she shrank from the normal 
 pleasures and loves of life as from the sight of a too coarse 
 display of food ; often an ordinary look, or word, or gesture 
 shocked her, and so deeply that she would remain for hours 
 sitting apart, refusing all consolation. A spot on the table- 
 cloth, or the presence of one repellent to her, was sufficient to 
 extinguish a delight or an appetite. Her fancies were so 
 abrupt and obscure that none could ever be certain what 
 would please or offend her. In one thing only was she con- 
 stant — she loved Alice. There was love in those wilful 
 brown eyes — love that was wild and visionary, and perhaps 
 scarcely sane. And the intensity of this affection had given 
 rise to conjecturing. When other girls spoke of men and 
 admirers, her lip curled : had it not been for her deformity 
 she would have expressed her abhorrence. At home she was 
 considered wayward, if not a little queer, and her wish, there- 
 fore, to remain at school met with no opposition. 
 
 Violet Scully occupied the other end of the garden-bench. 
 She was very thin, but withal elegantly made. Her face 
 was neat and delicate, and it was set with light blue eyes that 
 sparkled as did the misted glitter of the sea. When she was 
 not restlessly changing her place, or looking round as if she 
 fancied someone was approaching, when she was still (which 
 was seldom), a rigidity of feature, and an almost complete want 
 of bosom, gave her the appearance of a convalescent boy. The 
 small aristocratic head was beautifully poised on the swaying 
 neck ; faint, wavy, brown tresses cast light shadows over the 
 small but finely-shaped temples, behind which it was easy to 
 see that a sharp but narrow intelligence was at work — an 
 intelligence that would always dominate weak natures, and 
 triumph in a battle of mean interests. 
 
 May Gould, who stood at the back, her hand leaning affec- 
 tionately on Alice's shoulder, was a very different type of girl. 
 Had she been three inches taller she would have been a 
 magnificent woman — but for her height, which was five feet 
 four, her features were too massive. Although only seven- 
 teen, all the characteristics of her sex were in her distinctly 
 
4 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 marked, and her sensuous nature was reflected in the violet 
 fluidity of her eyes. Her hair was not of an inherited tint. 
 It was of that shade of red that is only seen in the children 
 of dark-haired parents. In great coils it rolled over the 
 dimpled cream of her neck, sweeping with copper threads the 
 vermilion-hued curves of her ear. With the exception of 
 Alice, May was the cleverest girl in the school. For public 
 inspection she made large water-coloured drawings of Swiss 
 scenery; for private view, pen-and-ink sketches of officers 
 sitting in conservatories with young ladies. The former were 
 admired by the nuns, the latter occasioned a vast deal of 
 excitement amid a select few. 
 
 Olive Barton lay on the grass, her arms thrown over her 
 sister's knees. The pose recalled that of Venus in Titian's 
 picture of " Venus and Adonis " ; but of the material beauty 
 of the pagan world there was nothing in Olive's face. It was 
 the mUd and timid loveliness that is the fruit of eighteen 
 hundred years of Christianity. Even now the uplifted throat 
 recalled that of an adoring angel. Olive's hair was the colour 
 of primroses. Her face, with its pronounced nose, was full of 
 all the pseudo-classicality of a cameo. Now the action of 
 listening had distended the limbs, and the skirt was cast into 
 folds that made clear the movement of the body ; the arms 
 and bosom were moulded into amorous plenitudes, and the 
 extremities flowed into chaste slendernesses, that the white 
 stocking and loose convent-shoe could not distort. In the 
 beautiful framework nothing was wanting but a mind. She 
 was, in a word, a human flower — a rose — a carnation that a 
 wicked magician had endowed with the power of speech. 
 
 " I don't see, Alice, why you couldn't have made King 
 Cophetua marry the Princess. Who ever heard of a King 
 marrying a beggar-maid? It seems to me most unnatural. 
 Besides, I hear that lots of people are going to be present, 
 and to be jilted before them all is not very pleasant. I am 
 sure mamma wouldn't like it." 
 
 " But you are not jilted, my dear Olive ; you do not like 
 the King, and you show your nobleness of mind by refusing 
 him." 
 
 " I don't see that ; who ever refused a king ? " 
 
 "Well, what do you want?" exclaimed May, "I never saw 
 anyone so selfish in all my life ; you would not be satisfied 
 unless you played the whole piece by yourself. First you 
 
A hKAJTA tN MUSLIN. 5 
 
 would have your sister beg the nuns to allow you to play the 
 beggar-maid, then you didn't like the part and refused to go 
 on with it ; and hadn't Violet very kindly consented to give 
 the Princess up to you — which she would have played beauti- 
 fully — and agreed to act the beggar-maid, I don't know what 
 we should have done." 
 
 Olive would probably have made a petulant and passionate 
 reply, but at that moment the sound of laughter was 
 heard. It was a man's voice, and the merriment was vapid 
 and loud. 
 
 The girls started to their feet, and, looking past the green 
 garden, they watched a party of visitors who were coming up 
 the drive. 
 
 " 'Tis papa," cried Olive, and, instantly- forgetting her 
 troubles, she rushed forward, laughing as she went. 
 
 " And he is with mamma," said Violet, and with an air of 
 satisfaction she tripped after Olive. The three remaining 
 girls lingered, then advanced shyly. From where they were 
 they could see that someone was attracting a good deal of 
 attention. Presently a tall, handsome man escaped from the 
 two prie.sts who were walking on either side of him, and, 
 after kissing Olive, held her at arm's length and admired her 
 somewhat boisterously. The high aquiline nose which the 
 daughter had inherited made the likeness obvious. Mr. 
 Barton wore a flowing beard, his hair was long, and both 
 were the colour of pale cafe au lait. His appearance was, 
 therefore, somewhat romantic, and he spoke as if he were 
 trying to speak up to it. 
 
 " Here is learning, and here is be.auty, what could any 
 father desire more ? " he exclaimed, after he had bestowed a 
 kiss upon Alice. " I used to kiss you all in old times, but I 
 .suppose you are too big now. How strange ! how strange ! 
 There you are, a row of brunettes and blondes, who, before 
 many daj-s are over, will be charming the hearts of all the 
 young men in Galway. And I suppose it was in talking of 
 . such things you spent the morning ? " 
 
 " Our young charges have been, I assure you, very busy all 
 the morning. We are not as idle as you think, Mr. Barton," 
 said the nun, in a tone of voice that showed that she thought 
 the remark extremely ill-considered. " We have been arrang- 
 ing the stage for the representation of a little play that your 
 dau'diter Alice composed." 
 
6 A DtlAilA IN MUSLIM. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know, she wrote to me about it ; ' King 
 Cophetua ' is the name, isn't it ? I am very curious indeed, 
 for I have set Tennyson's ballad to music myself. I sing it 
 to the guitar — have not had time to have it written down. 
 Life is so hurried, and I keep my thoughts fixed on one 
 thing, or I should have sent it to you. However — however 
 we are all going home to-morrow. I have promised to take 
 charge of Cecilia, and Mrs. Scully is going to look after 
 May." 
 
 " Oh, how nice, how nice that will be 1 " cried Olive, 
 and, catching Violet by the hands, she romped with her for 
 glee. 
 
 Then the nun, taking advantage of this break in the con- 
 versation, said : 
 
 " Come now, young ladies, it is after two o'clock, we shall 
 never be ready in time if you don't make haste — and it won't 
 do to keep the Bishop waiting." 
 
 The priests smiled blandly, and, like a hen gathering h(ir 
 chickens, the Sister hurried away with Violet, Olive, and 
 May. 
 
 " How happy they seem in this beautiful retreat ! " said 
 Mrs. Scully, drawing her black lace shawl about her huge 
 grey-silk shoulders. " How little they know of the troubles 
 of the world ! I am afraid it would be hard to persuade them 
 to leave their convent if they knew the trials that await 
 them." 
 
 " We cannot escape our trials, they are given to us that 
 we may overcome them," said one of the Fathers, who 
 thought that Mrs. ScuUy's remark called for a word of com- 
 ment. 
 
 " I suppose so, indeed,'' said Mrs. Scully ; and, trying to 
 find consolation in the remark, she sighed deeply. Then the 
 other reverend gentleman, as if fearing further religious shop 
 from his confrere, informed Mr. Barton, in a cheerful tone 
 of voice, that he had heard he was a great painter. 
 
 " I don't know — I don't know," replied Mr. Barton, 
 " painting is, after all, only dreaming — I should like to be put 
 at the head of an army, and sent to conquer Africa — my 
 afiairs keep me in Ireland — but when I am seized with an 
 idea I have to rush to put it down." 
 
 Finding no appropriate answer to these somewhat erratic 
 remarks, the priest joined in a discussion that had been 
 
A DRAMA IN ICUSLIN. 7 
 
 started, concerning the action taken by the Church during 
 the present agrarian agitation. Mr. Barton, who was weary 
 of the subject, stepped away, and, sitting on one of the 
 terrace-benches between Cecilia and Alice, he feasted his 
 eyes on the colour-changes that came over the sea, and, in 
 long-drawn-out and disconnected phrases, explained his views 
 on nature and art, until the bell was rung for the children 
 to assemble in the school-hall. 
 
 It was a large room with six windows; these had been 
 covered over with red cloth, and the wall opposite was 
 decorated with plates, flowers, and wreaths woven out of 
 branches of evergreen, oak, and holly. Chairs for the 
 visitors had been arranged in a semicircle around the 
 Bishop's throne — a great square chair approached by steps, 
 and rendered stiU more imposing by the canopy, whose 
 voluminous folds fell on either side like those of a corpulent 
 woman's dress. Opposite was the stage. The footlights 
 were turned down, but the blue mountains and brown palm 
 trees of the drop-curtain, painted by one of the nuns, loomed 
 through the red obscurity of the room. Benches had been 
 set along both walls ; between them a strip of carpet, worked 
 with roses and lilies, down which the girls advanced when 
 called to receive their prizes, stretched its blue and slender 
 length. 
 
 As the girls entered, their voices reminded you of a tree 
 full of April-talking birds. Alice was in great requisition. 
 A kind of place of honour had been made for her, and those 
 who sat next her were looked upon enviously. In the ex- 
 citement of the moment it was forgotten they were going 
 to lose her. For her, every heart was full of admiration ; and 
 many were the mental calculations made as to the number of 
 prizes she would have carried ofiF, had she not, for the last 
 year, been placed by herself, outside of the school classes. 
 There was a suspicion afloat that some special sign of 
 approbation would be made to her ; the form that it would 
 take none ventured to predict ; but it was thought that the 
 usual blue ribbon for good conduct, in so exceptional a case 
 as Alice's, would not be considered suflicient. Then, as a 
 breeze in a garden suddenly blows the flowers different ways, 
 the conversation would change, and, leaning together, groups 
 and couples discussed passionately their chances of obtain- 
 in" rewards for their year's labours. The little children were 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 pushed out of the way, and they sat on the back benches, 
 conscious of their inferiority in point of age. The youngest 
 was a child of eight; but there were many of eleven and 
 thirteen, and, like nurses, these, their narrow shoulders raised, 
 lectured the little ones, all the while arranging their blue 
 sashes for them. It was a pretty sight. The vague, sexless 
 stare of infancy contrasted with the quick glances of the elder 
 girls, whose sharp features hinted at a budding f eminality. 
 
 Then, suddenly, a nun entered, and, in a voice full of trepida- 
 tion and expectancy, announced that the Bishop was coming. 
 The babbling of voices ceased, and, hurriedly, four girls 
 hastened to the pianos placed on either side of the stage — two 
 left-hands struck a series of chords in the bass, the treble notes 
 replied, the eight hands went rattling over the keys ; and, 
 to the gallant measure of a French polka, a stately prelate 
 entered. Everj'one was on her feet in a moment, and the soft 
 clapping of feminine palms resounded through the rooms, 
 drowning for a moment even the slangy strains of the polka. 
 
 But, when the Bishop was seated on his high throne, the 
 back of which extended some feet above his head, and when 
 the crowd of visitors had been accommodated with chairs 
 around him, a nun made her way through the room, seeking 
 anxiously among the girls. She carried in her hand a basket 
 filled with programmes, all rolled and neatly tied with pieces 
 of different coloured ribbon. These she distributed to the ten 
 tiniest little children she could find, and, advancing five from 
 either side, they formed in a line and courtesied to the Bishop. 
 One little dot, whose hair hung about her head like a golden 
 mist, nearly lost her balance ; she was, however, saved from 
 falling by a companion, and then, like a group of kittens, they 
 tripped down the blue stiip of carpet, and handed the pro- 
 grammes to the guests, who leaned forward as if anxious to 
 touch their hands — to stroke their shining hair. The play 
 was now ready to begin, and Alice felt she was going from hot 
 to cold, for when the announcement printed on the programme, 
 that she was the author of the comedy of " King Cophetua," 
 had been read, all eyes were fixed upon her : the Bishop, after 
 eyeing her intently, bent towards the Reverend Mother and 
 whispered to her. Doubtless it was very trjang ; Cecilia 
 clasped Alice's hand, and said, as the nun who had written the 
 introductory music played the last bars, " You must not be 
 afraid, dear, I know it will be all right." 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSUN. 9 
 
 And the little play was as charming as it was guileless. The 
 old legend had been arranged — as might have been expected 
 from a schoolgirl — simply and unaffectedly. The scene opened 
 in a room in the palace of the King, and when a chorus, sup- 
 posed to be sung by the townspeople, was over, a minister 
 entered hurriedly. The little children uttered a cry of delight ; 
 they did not recognise their companion in her strange disguise. 
 A large wig, with brown curls hanging over the shoulders, 
 almost hid the face that had been made to look quite aged by 
 a few clever touches of the pencil about the eyes and mouth. 
 She was dressed in a long garment, something between an 
 ulster and a dressing-gown ; it fell just below her knees, for it 
 had been decided by the Reverend Mother that it were better 
 that there should be a slight display of ankles than the least 
 suspicion of trousers. The subject was a delicate one, and for 
 some weeks past a look of alarm had not left the face of the 
 nun in charge of the wardrobe. But these considerations only 
 amused the girls, and now, delighted at the novelty of her 
 garments, the minister strutted manfully about the stage. 
 Bitterly she complained of the temper of the dowager Queen. 
 " Who could help it if the Bang wouldn't marry ? Who could 
 make him leave his poetry and music for a pretty face if he didn't 
 care to do so ? He had already refused blue eyes, black eyes, 
 brown eyes. However, the new Princess was a very beautiful 
 person, and ought, all things considered, to be accepted by the 
 King. She must be passing through the city at the moment." 
 
 On this the Queen entered. Alice's face contracted with 
 apprehension, for the little girl who played the part had shown 
 such timidity at rehearsal that it was impossible to say that 
 now, in the presence of an audience, she might not grow 
 utterly disconcerted, and fly crying from the stage. The first 
 words she spoke were inaudible, but, gathering courage as she 
 went on, she trailed her white satin, with its large brocaded 
 pattern, in true queenly fashion, and questioned the minister 
 as to his opinion of the looks of the new Princess. But she 
 gave no point to her words. The scene was, fortunately, a 
 short one, and no sooner had they disappeared than a young 
 man entered. He held a lute in his left hand, and with his 
 right he twanged the strings idly. He was King Cophetua. 
 This was the crucial point of the play, and not many words 
 had been spoken before Alice saw her expectations fade, and a 
 bitter sense of disappointment fillod her mind. Many times 
 
10 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 during rehearsal Alice had warned May of the error she was 
 falling into, but May did not seem able to accommodate her- 
 self to the author's view of the character, and, after a few 
 minutes, fell back into her old swagger. And now this was 
 more exaggerated than it had ever been before. Excited by 
 the presence of an audience, by the footlights, by the long 
 coat under which she knew her large well-shaped legs could be 
 seen, she forgot her promises, and strolled about like a man — 
 as she had seen young Scully saunter about the stable-yard at 
 home. She looked, no doubt, very handsome, and, conscious 
 of the fact, she addressed her speeches to a group of young 
 men, who, for no ostensible reason except to get as far away 
 as possible from the Bishop, had crowded into the left-hand 
 corner of the hall. 
 
 And so great was May's misreading of the character, that 
 Alice could hardly realise that she was listening to her own 
 piece. Instead of speaking the sentence, ' My dear mother, I 
 could not marry anyone I did not love ; besides, am I not 
 already wedded to music and poetry 1 ' slowly, dreamily. May 
 emphasised the words so jauntily, that they seemed to be 
 poetic equivalents for wine and tobacco. There was no 
 doubt that things were going too far ; the Reverend Mother 
 frowned, and shifted her position in her chair uneasily ; the 
 Bishop crossed his legs and took snuff methodically. 
 
 But at this moment the attention of the audience was 
 diverted by the entrance of the Princess. May's misbehaviour 
 was forgotten, and a murmur of warm admiration rose through 
 the red twilight. Dressed in a tight-fitting gown of pale blue, 
 opening in front, and finishing in a train held up by the 
 smallest child in the school, Olive moved across the stage 
 like a beautiful bird. Taking a wreath of white roses from 
 her hair, she presented them to the King. He had then to 
 kiss her hand, and with much courtly grace he led her to a 
 chair. In the scene that followed, Alice had striven to be 
 intensely pathetic. She had intended that the King, by a 
 series of kindly-put questions, should gradually win the 
 Princess's confidence, and induce her to tell the truth ; that 
 her affections had already been won by a knight at her father's 
 Court, that she could love none other. Touched by her 
 candour, and interested in her story, the King in turn grows 
 sentimental. 
 
A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 11 
 
 King: But if this knight did not exist; if you had never seen him, 
 jou would, I suppose, have accepted my hand 1 
 
 Princesi : You will not be offended if I tell you the truth ? 
 
 King : No, I promise you. 
 
 Princess: Well, then, I could never have listened to your love. 
 
 King (rising hastily) : Am I then so ugly, so horrible, so vile, that 
 even if your heart were not engaged elsewhe»e you could not have 
 listened to me ? 
 
 Princess : You are neither horrible, nor vile, King Cophetua ; but 
 again promise me secrecy, and I will tell you the whole truth. 
 
 King : I promise you. 
 
 Princess : You are loved by a maiden far more beautiful than I ; 
 she is dying of love for your sake I she has suffered much for her love ; 
 she is suffering still. 
 
 King : And who is this maiden ? 
 
 Princess : Ah 1 She is no more than a beggar-girl ; she lives on 
 charity, the songs she sings, and the flowers she sells in the streets. 
 And now she is poorer than ever, for your royal mother has caused her 
 to be driven out of the city. 
 
 Here the King weeps — lie is supposed to be deeply touched 
 by the Princess's account of the wrongs done to the beggar- 
 girl — and it is finally arranged between him and the Princess 
 that they shall pretend to have come to some violent mis- 
 understanding, and that, in their war of words, they shall 
 insult each other's parents so grossly that all possibilities of a 
 marriage will be for ever at an end. Throwing aside a chair 
 so as to bring the Queen within ear-shot, the King declares 
 that his royal neighbour is an old dunce, and that there is 
 not enough money in his treasury to pay the Court boot- 
 maker ; the Princess retaliates by saying that the royal 
 mother of the crowned head she is addressing is an old cat, 
 who paints her face and beats her maids of honour. 
 
 The play, that up to this point had been considered a 
 little tedious, now riveted the attention of the audience, and 
 when the Queen entered she was greeted with roars of 
 laughter. Aghast, she stands on the threshold, unable to 
 believe her ears, listening to the wild invective with which a 
 powerful King and the Princess of a neighbouring State were 
 attacking each other. 
 
 The applause was deafening. Olive had played her part 
 better than had been expected, and all the white frocks 
 trembled with excitement. The youths in the left-hand cornei 
 craned their heads forward so as not to lose a syllable of what 
 was coming, the Bishop recrossed his legs in a manner that 
 betokened his entire satisfaction ; and, delighted, the mammas 
 
13 A DRAJIA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 and papas whispered together. But the faces of the nuns 
 betrayed the anxiety they felt. Inquiring glances passed 
 beneatli the black hoods ; all the sleek faces grew alive 
 and alarmed. May was now alone on the stage, and there 
 was no saying what indiscretion she might not be guilty of. 
 
 The Reverend Mother, however, had anticipated the 
 danger of the scene, and had sent round word to the nun in 
 charge of the back of the stage, to tell Miss Gould that she 
 was to set the crown straight on her head, and to take her 
 hands out of her pockets. The effect of receiving such 
 instructions from the wings was that May forgot one half her 
 words, and spoke the other half so incorrectly that the 
 I)assage Alice had counted on so much — "At last, thank 
 Heaven, that tiresome trouble is over, and now I shall be 
 free to return to music and poetry " — was rendered into 
 nonsense, and the attention of the audience lost. T^or were 
 matters set straight until a high soprano voice was heard 
 singing : 
 
 Buy, buy, who will buy roses of me ? 
 
 Eoses to weave in your hair. 
 A penny, only a penny for three, 
 
 Boses a queen might wear 1 
 
 Koses 1 I gathered them far away 
 
 In gardens, white and red. 
 Eoses I Make presents of roses to-day, 
 
 And help me to earn my bread. 
 
 With the instinct of a true lover, the King at once divined 
 that this must be the ballad-singer — the beggar-maid who 
 loved him, who, by some secret emissaries of the Queen, had 
 been driven away from the city, homeless and outcast; and, 
 snatching his lute from the wall, he sang a few plaintive 
 verses in response. The strain was instantly taken up, and 
 then, on the current of a plain religious melody, the two 
 voices were united, and, as two perfumes, they seemed to 
 blend and become one. 
 
 Alice would have preferred something less ethereal, for 
 the exigences of the situation demanded that the King should 
 get out of the window and claim the hand of the beggar-maid 
 in the public street. Bat the nun who had composed the 
 music could not be brought to see this, and, after a comic 
 scone between the Queen and the Chancellor, the Kin", 
 
A DRAJIA IN MUSLIN. 18 
 
 followed by his Court and suite, entered, leading the beggar 
 maid by the hand. In a short speech, he told how her 
 sweetness, her devotion, and, above all, her beautiful voice, 
 had won his heart, and that he intended to make her his 
 Queen. Then a curtain was drawn aside. It disclosed a 
 double throne ; and as the young bride ascended the steps to 
 take her place by the side of her royal husband, a joyful 
 chorus was sung, in which allusion was made to a long reign 
 and happy days. 
 
 Everyone was enchanted but Alice. She alone saw how 
 the beauty of her thoughts had been turned into hideousness 
 in the representation ; the idea as it passed into reality had 
 become polluted. She had wished to show how a man, in the 
 trouble and bitterness of life, must yearn for the consoling 
 sympathy of a woman, and how he may find the dove his 
 heart is sighing for in the lowliest bracken ; and, having 
 found her and having recognised that she is the one, he 
 should place her in his bosom, confident that her plumes are 
 as fair and immaculate as those that glitter in the sunlight 
 about the steps and terraces of the palace. Instead of this, 
 she had seen a King who seemed to regard life as a sensual 
 gratification ; and a beggar-maid who looked upon her lover, 
 not timidly, as a new-born flower upon the sun, but as a clever 
 huckstress at a customer who had bought her goods at her 
 valuing. But the audience did not see below the surface, and, 
 in answer to clapping of hands and cries of encore, the curtain 
 was raised once more, and King Cophetua, seated on his 
 throne by the side of his beggar-maid, was shown to them 
 again. Then every eye was radiant, and every lust delighted 
 in the spectacle ; fingers twitched nervously at the folds of 
 serge habit and lace mantle. Even the hearts of the little 
 children rejoiced in the materialisation of the idea, in the 
 crudity of the living picture placed before them. In a vision 
 each girl saw herself selected out of the multitude, crowned 
 with orange-blossoms and led by a noble husband through 
 the dim church, from an altar where the candles burnt like 
 stars, to a life made of riches, adulation, amusement. Like 
 warm vapour, one thought filled the entire hall. The 
 expansive matrons, on whose bosoms had lain this white- 
 frocked generation, leaned to the grey-headed fathers, worn 
 with a life's toil, and sought to express the complete, the 
 fathomless, content that had fallen upon them. It was a 
 
14 A DRAMA IN MDSLIN. 
 
 moment of delirium, even the nuns forgot themselves ; and, 
 their sex asserting itself through all their vows of celibacy, 
 they gloried in having been, at least, the providers of the 
 brides of men ; and in imagination they assisted at the 
 wedding of an entire epoch. 
 
 The excitement did not begin to calm until the tableaux 
 vivants were ready. For, notwithstanding the world- 
 liness of the day, it was thought that Heaven should not 
 be forgotten. The convent being that of the Holy Child, 
 something illustrative of the birth of Christ naturally sug- 
 gested itseK. No more touching or edifying subject than that 
 of the Annunciation could be found. Violet's thin, elegant 
 face seemed representative of an intelligent virginity, and in a 
 long, white dress she knelt at a prie-dieu. Olive, with a pair 
 of wings obtained from the local theatre, and her hair, blonde 
 as an August harvesting, lying along her back, took the part 
 of the Angel. She wore a star on her forehead. 
 
 Then, after an interval that allowed the company to 
 recover their composure, and the carpenter to prepare the 
 stage, the curtain was again raised. This time, the scene 
 was a stable. At the back, in the right-hand corner, 
 there was a manger to which was attached a stuffed 
 donkey; Violet sat on a low stool and held the new-born 
 Divinity in her arms ; May, who for the part of Joseph had 
 been permitted to weai' a false beard, held a staff, and tried to 
 assume the facial expression of a man who has just been blessed 
 with a son. In the foreground knelt the three wise men from 
 the East ; with outstretched hands they held forth their offer- 
 ings of frankincense and myrrh. The picture of the world's 
 Redemption was depicted with such taste, that a murmur of 
 pious admiration sighed throughout the hall. The dove, 
 emblem of purity, was perched on the hajrrack just above the 
 cow's head, and so touchingly did the virgin mother hold the 
 child to her bosom, that every knee quivered, instinct with 
 worship. The humanity of the Bethlehem mystery held the 
 world in the nineteenth, as it had done in the first century. 
 To Alice alone did the representation appear absurd, grotesque ; 
 her clear mind forced her to deny God's presence in a drama, 
 so obviously one of human invention. The stuffed ox and ass 
 were irresistibly comic, but knowing that CecUia's wistful 
 brown eyes were fixed upon her, she bit her lips and avoided a 
 smile. 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 15 
 
 Soon after, a distribution of prizes began. At the end of 
 the room next the stage, a nun stood, holding a large book like 
 a ledger in her hands, and in the midst of a profound silence, 
 she read out : " Miss Alice Barton not having taken part in 
 the studies of the year, we are unable to award her any one 
 of our ordinary prizes, but for the beautiful play of ' King 
 Cophetua,' performed before you all to-day, the Reverend 
 Mother and the Bishop of the Diocese present her with the 
 entire works of Dr. Newman, and for the great example she 
 has always set, by conduct and precept, during the long years she 
 has been with us, she is likewise awarded the blue ribbon." 
 
 The ribbon had been looked upon by everyone from the first 
 as a certainty ; but a special prize, given by the Reverend 
 Mother and the Bishop, was so utterly without precedent in 
 the convent-annals, that the announcement called forth the 
 enthusiasm with which the victory of a favourite general is 
 hailed. Among the girls there was not a pair of hands nor 
 lips still, and as Alice walked back to her place, bearing with 
 her as much as she could carry of the iUustrious cardinal's 
 works, her companions leaned forward to congratulate her. All 
 the way down the line fragments of phrases were heard : 
 " Oh ! Alice, I am so pleased, I am sure you deserve it, I know 
 you deserve it 1 " Cecilia could say nothing, she could only 
 look with delight through the bright tears of pleasure that 
 filled her eyes. 
 
 After this unexpected excitement, the distribution of the 
 rest of the prizes went, necessarily, a little flat : but the 
 Galway girls were uncommonly successful. Violet received a 
 prize for French, May obtained one for Ancient History, 
 Cecilia was awarded a blue ribbon for good conduct, and a book 
 for English composition. In the general happiness, the poor 
 bench-warmers, as the girls who obtained neither books nor 
 ribbons were called, were forgotten. The heavy features of 
 the parents rippled with household smiles, and they watched 
 with delight the delicate features of their children growing 
 grave, as they knelt before the benign Bishop to receive their 
 rewards. In every lull of applause the unctuous voices of the 
 priests were heard chiming : " I am sure she is a good girl. 
 Now, do you not think she gives them a little trouble at home 
 afterwards?" 
 
 Then there was benediction in the convent-church. A real 
 yoang-girls' church : trim, delicate pillars rising like uplifted 
 
16 A BRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 arms, arches gracefully turned as adolescent bosoms, an altar 
 fanciful and light coloured as a toilet-table. And when the 
 last sigh of the organ died in the stillness, and the Bishop 
 turned the host to his white-robed congregation, from the 
 bent heads white veils fell pendulously — immovable as the 
 draperies of the plaster angels that bowed in the niches. 
 
 This brought the business of the day to a close, and when 
 the clock struck six the convent had assumed its customary 
 aspect of peace and refinement. All leave-takings were over 
 for the day ; and only those who were to spend their vacation 
 at St. Leonards, and the Irish girls — who did not start for 
 home till the following morning — remained. These were 
 again talking among themselves, watching, without seeing, 
 the fishing-boats scattered over the rippling sea. The brown 
 sails were now filled with the glories of the sunset ; the air 
 was full of languor and sorrow, and the evening had all 
 the mystic charm of the corpse of a fragile maiden poetised 
 by the ravages of a long malady, perfumed and prepared, 
 according to some antique rite, for a jewel-bespangled bier ; 
 eyelids and cheeks painted, hands set in sculptured poses — 
 the finger-nails tinted with rose. Cloud draperies, striped 
 with orange and garnished with crimson fringes, trailed as 
 the pageant moved ; and overhead the firmamental blue was 
 stretched like a pall of turquoise-tinted silk. From the deeps 
 of the sky the music of colour was chanted, and delioious but 
 inaudible harmonies vibrated through the golden soul of the 
 twilight. Soft and low and melancholy came the strain — it 
 was the music of death, and the dark clouds that waited on 
 either side, were as processional priestesses who, advancing, 
 struck their lyres at each solemn step. 
 
 " And to think," said Alice, " that this is the very last 
 evening we shall ever pass here 1 '' 
 
 " I don't see why you should be so very sorry for that," 
 replied May, " I should have thought that you must have had 
 enough of the place ; why, you have been here nearly ten 
 j'ears 1 I never would have consented to remain so long as 
 that." 
 
 " I did not mind — we have been very happy here, and to 
 say good-bye, and for ever, to friends we have known so long, 
 and who have been so good to us, seems very sad — at least, it 
 does to me." 
 
 " It is all very well for you," said Olive, " I daresay you 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 17 
 
 have been happy here, you have always been the petted and 
 spoilt child of the school. Nothing was ever too good for 
 Alice ; no matter who was wrong or what was done, Alice was 
 sure to be right." 
 
 " I never knew anyone so unreasonable," said Cecilia. 
 " You grumble at everything, and you are always dying of 
 jealousy of your sister." 
 
 " That's not true, and you haven't much to talk of ; after 
 beating your brains out, you only just got the prize for com- 
 position. Besides, if you like the convent as much as I 
 daresay you do, although you aren't a Catholic, you had better 
 stop here with my sister." 
 
 "Oh! Olive, how can you speak to Cecilia in that horrid 
 way ? I am ashamed of you.'' 
 
 " So you are going to turn against me, Alice ; but that's 
 your way — I shan't stay here." 
 
 And in the pale light, the retreating figure of the young 
 girl stood out in beautiful distinctness. Behind her the soft 
 evening swept the sea, effacing with azure the brown sails 
 of the fishing-boats; in front of her the dresses of the 
 girls flitted white through the sombre green of the 
 garden. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Cecilia, " you spoke to her. She is put 
 out because she didn't get a prize, and Sister Agnes told her 
 that she nearly spoilt the play by the stupid way she played 
 the Princess." 
 
 " She will find that that temper of hers will stand in her 
 way if she does not learn to control it," said Violet ; "but, 
 now that she is gone, tell me, Alice, how do you think she 
 played her part ? As far as I can judge, she didn't seem to 
 put any life into it. You meant the Princess to be a sharp, 
 cunning woman of the world, didn't you ? " 
 
 " No, not exactly ; I can't describe my idea very well : but 
 I agree with you that Olive didn't put life into it." 
 
 " Well, anyhow, the play was a great success, and you got, 
 dear Alice, the handsomest prize that has ever been given in 
 the school.'' 
 
 " And how do you think I did the King; did I make him 
 look like a man ? I tried to walk just as Mr. Scully does when 
 he goes down to the stables." 
 
 " You did the part very well. May ; but I think I should 
 like him to have been more sentimental." 
 
 c 
 
18 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " I don't think men are sentimental — at least, not as you 
 think they are. I tried to copy Mr. Scully." 
 
 " My part was a mere nothing. You must ■write me a some- 
 thing, Alice, one of these days ; a coquettish girl, you know, 
 who could twist a man round her fingers ; a lot of havardage 
 in it." 
 
 "I suppose you'll never be able to speak English again, 
 now you've got the prize for French conversation." 
 
 " Sour grapes ! — you wo'ild like to have got it yourself. I 
 worked hard for it, I was determined to get it ; for ma says it 
 is of great advantage in society for a girl to speak French 
 well. You are a bit jealous.'' 
 
 " Jealous 1 I should like to know why I should be jealous. 
 Of what ? I got all I tried for. Beside, the truth about 
 your French prize is, that you may consider yourself very 
 fortunate, for if (she mentioned the name of one of her school- 
 fellows) had not been so shy and timid you would have come 
 off second-best." 
 
 The rudeness of this retort drew a sharp answer from 
 Violet ; and then, in turn, but more often simultaneously, the 
 girls discussed the justice of the distribution. The names of 
 an infinite number of girls were mentioned, but when, in the 
 babbling flow of convent-gossip, a favourite nun was spoken 
 of, one of the chatterers would sigh, and for a moment be 
 silent, absorbed by a sorrow as fragile and as lustral as the 
 splendours that were fading, that were slowly moving away. 
 The violet waters of the bay had darkened ; and, like the 
 separating banners of a homeward-moving procession, the 
 colours of the sky went east and west. The girdle of rubies 
 liad melted, had become the pale red lining of a falling 
 mantle ; the large spaces of gold grew dim ; orange and 
 yellow streamers blended ; lilac and blue pennons faded to 
 deep greys ; dark hoods and dark veils were drawn closer, 
 purple was gathered like garments about the loins, and the 
 night fell. The sky, now decorated with a crescent moon and 
 a few stars, was filled with stillness and adoration; the day's 
 death was exquisite, even human ; and as she gazed on the 
 beautiful corpse lowered amid the fumes of a thousand censers 
 into an under-world, even Violet's egotism began to dream. 
 
 " The evening is lovely : I am glad : it is the last we shall 
 pass here," said the girl, pensively, "and all good-byes are 
 sad." 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 19 
 
 " Yes, we have been happy," said May, " and I too am sorry 
 to leave, but then we couldn't spend our lives here. There 
 are plenty of things to be done at home ; and I suppose we 
 shall all get married one of these days ? And there will be 
 balls and parties before we get married. I don't think that 
 I'd care to get married all at once ; would you, Violet ? " 
 
 " I don't know, perhaps not, unless it was to someone very 
 grand indeed." 
 
 " Oh, would you do that? I don't think I could marry a 
 man unless I loved him," said May. 
 
 " Yes, but you might love someone who was very grand as 
 well as someone who wasn't." 
 
 " That's true enough — but then — " and May stopped, 
 striving to readjust her ideas, which Violet's remark had 
 suddenly disarranged. After a pause she said : 
 
 '' But does your mother intend to bring you to Dublin for 
 the season ? Are you going to be presented this year ? " 
 
 " I hope so ; mamma said I should be, last vacation." 
 
 " I shall take good care that I am ; the best part of the 
 hunting will be over, and I wouldn't miss the Castle balls for 
 anything. Do you like officers 1 " 
 
 The crudity of the question startled Alice, and it was with 
 difficulty she answered she didn't know — that she had not 
 thought about the matter. As she spoke she felt Cecilia's 
 hand press hers more closely. The poor girl knew that, at 
 least for her, the world had neither marriage nor pleasure to 
 give ; and that she was leaving the only place where she could 
 find love — shelter from scornful pity. 
 
 But, unconscious of the pain they were giving, IMay and 
 Violet continued the conversation ; and over the lingering 
 waste of yellow, all that remained to tell where the sun had 
 set, the night fell like a heavy, blinding dust, sadly, and 
 regretfully, as the last handful of earth thrown upon a 
 young girl's grave. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 On the following day the Irish girls, iimler the guid- 
 ance of Mr. Barton and Mrs. Scully, started for Ire- 
 land. The journey was considered fatiguing, but on 
 arriving in Dublin, they stopped at the " Shelbourne," 
 where they were going to spend a few days, the girls having 
 dresses to buy. 
 
 The first evening passed awkwardly, constrainedly ; but on 
 the second, all were on sjaeaking terms. Mrs. Scully looked 
 askance at the curious medley of people, and tried to 
 withdraw her daughter from the society of the fireplace; 
 but Mr. Barton, who had spoken of his pictures to every- 
 body in the room, declared that it was here they should 
 stay when they came to Dublin for the Castle season in 
 February. 
 
 There was, however, little time for either considering 
 or concluding. A letter had arrived from Mrs. Barton, 
 saying that the girls were to attend at Mrs. Symond's, 
 the celebrated dressmaker. As a favour, this lady had 
 agreed to provide everything they would want. They were 
 r.ot even consulted regarding the shade of the ribbon that 
 trimmed the front of their dresses: all had been arranged 
 for them. Among other things, they were each supplied 
 with a dozen pairs of different coloured thread stockings; 
 but for Olive, there were six pairs in silk, and aU prettily 
 embroidered. 
 
 A still more marked distinction was observable in the 
 dresses given to the two girls. Olive had a beautiful cherry- 
 coloured dinner-dress ; the skirt was in tulle, the bodice in 
 stamped silk, trimmed with tulle; and from the waist, en 
 cascade, fell rippling showers of tulle. The dressmaker seemed 
 
 20 
 
A DEAMA IN MCSLIN. 21 
 
 to recognise an inequality between the two sisters, and when 
 she was trying on Olive a cream-coloured dinner-dress, 
 trimmed with pale yellow satin, she explained volubly why it 
 had been chosen ; why the colour would set off the beautiful 
 flaxen hair. An assistant showed Alice a black silk, trimmed 
 with passementerie, relieved with a few bits of red ribbon, and 
 a ball-dress in white corded silk. But it was not until 01i\e 
 put on a dark green cashmere (a coquettish cape with a bow 
 placed on the left shoulder), and Alice a terra-cotta serge, 
 buttoned do'svn the front, that the mother's partiality became 
 too glaringly apparent. Then Olive and Alice might have 
 passed for mistress and maid. 
 
 Alice was too sharp, too intelligent, not to estimate at its 
 full value the injustice that had been done to her. But she 
 argued in favour of the partiality shown to her sister, " it 
 would be a pity not to make the most of Olive's good looks. 
 Was she not the family beauty 1 " As they travelled down in 
 the train they met many young men, who stared, and wei'e 
 anxious to be introduced to Olive. She laughed foolishly, 
 but from her sweet lips silly remarks seemed to fall like pearls 
 of wit, and Alice was surprised to find that in society her 
 sister could talk better than she. 
 
 On arriving at their destination, they first went to Dungory 
 Castle, where they left Lady Cecilia ; they then drove to 
 " Brookfield," which was a mile distant. The air was heavy 
 with heat, and the leaves of the beeches that leaned over 
 the high walls flecked with light shadows the dust-whitened 
 roadway; and as the Dungory domain was passed by 
 sti-eaks of open country became visible. These were 
 barren, rocky, and low-lying, and the cabins of the 
 peasants came out in crude white spots upon the purple 
 mountains. 
 
 In the tiny cornfields the reapers rose from their work to 
 watch. The carriage was swiftly borne along. Mr. Barton 
 commented on the disturbed state of the country. Olive 
 asked if Mr. Parnell was good-looking. A railway-bridge was 
 passed, and a pine-wood aglow with the sunset, and the foot- 
 man got down to open a swinging iron gate. 
 
 This was Brookfield. Sheep grazed on the lawn, at the end 
 of which, on a hill, beneath some chestnut-trees, was the 
 house. It had been built by the late Mr. Barton, out of a 
 farm-building, but the present man, after travelling in Italy, 
 
22 A DBAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 inspired by a sentiment of the picturesque, had added a 
 veiandali ; and for the same reason he had insisted on calling 
 his daughter Olive. 
 
 The rooms, except the bedrooms, were on the groundfloor, 
 and, to maintain a southern character, glass doors opened on 
 what was generally a mass of soaking gravel. But now, on 
 this burning August day, Brookfield was looking its best, and 
 wore its most Italian air. Every breeze was redolent with the 
 pungent odour of hay, the laburnums were folded in flowery 
 mantles of yellow, and in the fragrant shadows of the 
 chestnut trees, Mrs. Barton was seen waving her white hands 
 at some little compliment that Lord Dungory had just paid 
 her. 
 
 " Oh I there's mamma ! " cried Olive. 
 
 Mrs. Barton received her girls with many protestations of 
 affection. She trifled with, as if anxious to set straight, their 
 newly-bought foulards, inquired in brief phrases after their 
 health, their delight at returning home, and the fatigues of 
 the journey. 
 
 " But you must be starving, my dears, and I am afraid the 
 saffron buns are cold. Milord brought us over such a large 
 packet to-day ; we must have some heated up, they won't be 
 a minute." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, I assure you I am not in the least hungry," 
 ciied Olive. 
 
 " Za heaute fua jamais faim, elle se nourrit d'elle mhne,'" 
 replied Lord Dungory, in his most youthful and most gallant 
 manner. 
 
 A thrush -svas pouring forth his soul into the ear of the 
 evening, but his song was less melting than Mrs. Barton's 
 laugh. 
 
 " You see, you find Milord the same as ever ; toujours 
 qalanl ; always thinking of la heaute, et les femvies." 
 
 In looking at Mrs. Barton, you wondered if she were forty. 
 Her hair was touched with dye sufficiently to give it a golden 
 tinge in places where it might be suspected of turning grey ; 
 it was parted in the middle, and was worn, drawn back over 
 the ears, and slightly puffed on each side, in accordance with 
 a fashion that came in with the Empress Eugenie. 
 
 Her face was more than oval — it was heart-shaped. The 
 eyes, long brown almond eyes, attracted attention at once, 
 as would those of a beauty of the last century, sketched by 
 
A CEAHA IN MUSLIM. 23 
 
 Romney in pastel. Mrs. Barton resembled the celebrated 
 portrait of Lady Hamilton. 
 
 Time bad, however, affected her figure more than her face. 
 It was thin, a little bent, and even in youth it had probably 
 resembled Alice's rather than Olive's, which was obviously a 
 heritage that had come to her from her father. 
 
 But Mrs. Barton's figure was singularly in keeping with 
 her moral character ; both were elegant, refined, supple. 
 When she walked, no movement of her limbs was ever 
 visible ; she glided when she crossed a room ; she seemed by 
 preference to avoid the middle of the floor, and to pass as 
 close to the wall as possible. She, therefore, suggested the 
 idea of one who had worked her way through life by means 
 of numberless bye-paths, all lying a little to the left of the 
 main road along which the torrent of men and women poured, 
 and who had been known to them only at intervals as she 
 passed furtively down the end of a vista, or hurriedly crossed 
 an unexpected glade. 
 
 The bent shoulders hinted at a capacity for stooping under 
 awkward branches and passing through difficult places. 
 There was about Mrs. Barton's whole person an air of false- 
 ness, as indescribable as it was bewitching. 
 
 The waves of her white hands, with which she accompanied 
 aU her pretty speeches, seduced, if they did not deceive you. 
 Her artificiality was her charm. 
 
 Never had she been known to weary an acquaintance or a 
 friend with accounts of her troubles, her pains, her hopes ; and 
 when you entered her presence, your own disappointments 
 evaporated in the fumes of the incense she burned in 30UI 
 honour. 
 
 The compliments she paid were often wanting in finesse ; 
 but when accused of this by a wit her defence was pro- 
 foundly philosophical: "What does it matter? Nine- 
 teen people out of twenty believe them, and even the 
 twentieth, who does not, is pleased to hear that he is very 
 nice, and clever, and that all women are in love with him.' 
 And similar wise sayings were often scattered through Mrs 
 Barton's conversation, for she knew well, although her chatter 
 was always en omelette soufflee, a little seasoning thought would 
 not come amiss, even to the lightest appetite. 
 
 Her views of life were practical ones, and, had she ever had 
 aflections or illusions, she had found pleasure in them only as 
 
24 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 long as it had suited her aims and interests to do so. Conscience 
 with her seemed to be merged entirely in the idea of expediency. 
 
 On suitable occasions she would say, sighing, letting the 
 white hand fall negligently over the arm of the chair : " But 
 what are we here for, if it is not to try to get a good place in 
 the nezt world ? Our great aim should be to live respectably 
 without coming to grief in any conspicuous way, and does not 
 religion help us to do this ? Eeligion is all that is respectable, 
 'tis you, 'tis me, it is the future of our children. Society 
 could not hold together a moment without religion." 
 
 Lord Dungory was the kind of man that is often seen with 
 the Mrs. Barton type of woman. He was sixty-seven, but he 
 did not look more than sixty. He was about the m.edium 
 height, and his portly figure was buttoned into a tightly-fitting 
 frock-coat; a shooting-jacket would have been too youthful. 
 A- high sUk hat in the country would have called attention to 
 iis age, so the difficulty of costume was ingeniously compro- 
 mised by a tall felt — a cross between a pot and a chimney- 
 pot. 
 
 For collars, a balance had been struck between the jaw 
 scrapers of old time and the nearest modern equivalent ; and 
 in the tying of the large cravat there was a reminiscence, but 
 nothing more, of the past generation. 
 
 It is easy to read the marking on this shell. Lord Dun- 
 gory was a concession, and he compromised now with time, 
 as he had compromised before in politics, in racing, in friend- 
 ship. At different periods he had passed for a man of ability, 
 but, through powerlessness to stand by an idea, he had never 
 achieved anything very tangible. 
 
 In the course of conversation you gathered that he was on 
 terms of intimacy with the chiefs of the Liberal party, such 
 as Lord Granville and Lord Hartington, and if the listener 
 was credited with any erudition, allusion was made to the 
 most celebrated artists and authors, and to their works. 
 There was a celebrated Boucher in Dungory Castle, which 
 Milord, it was hinted, had bought for some very small sum, 
 many years ago on the Continent ; there was also a cabinet by 
 Buhl and a statue supposed to be a Jean Gougon. The story 
 and the proofs of their authenticity were sometimes spoken of 
 after a set dinner-party. Lord Dungory spoke with consider- 
 able urbanity, and, on all questions of taste, his opinion was 
 engerly sought for. He ga\-e a tone to the ideas put foi'ward 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 25 
 
 in the surrounding country-houses, and it was through him 
 that Mr. Barton held the title of " Genius gone wrong." 
 
 Milord found his artistic sympathies invaluable : they 
 helped to maintain the amenities of his life at Brookfield. 
 It is not an exaggeration to say that for the last ten years he 
 had lived there. 
 
 Half an hour before lunch the carriage drove up to the 
 door ; in the afternoon ho went out to drive, or sat in the 
 drawing-room with Mrs. Barton ; four times in the week he 
 remained to dinner, and did not return home until close on 
 (lidnight. 
 
 Whether he ever made any return to Mrs. Barton for her 
 hospitalities, and if so, in what form he repaid his obligations 
 to her, was, when friends drew together, a favourite topic 
 of conversation in the county of Galway. It had been 
 remarked that the Bartons never dined at Dungory Castle 
 except on state occasions, and it was well-known that the 
 Ladies Cullen hated Mrs. Barton with a hatred as venomous 
 as the poison hid in the fangs of adders. 
 
 But Lord Dungory knew how to charm his tame snakes. 
 For fortune they had but five thousand pounds each, and, 
 although freedom and a London lodging were often dreamed 
 of, the flesh-pots of Dungory Castle continued to be purchased 
 at the price of smiles and civil words exchanged with Mrs. 
 Barton. Besides, as they grew old and ugly, the Ladies 
 CuUen had developed an inordinate passion for the conversion 
 of souls. They had started a school of their own in opposition 
 to the National school, which was under the direction of the 
 priest. To obtain a supply of scholars, and to induce the 
 peasants to eat fat bacon on Friday, were good works that 
 could not be undertaken without funds ; and these were 
 obtained, it was said, by the visits of the Ladies Cullen 
 to Brookfield. Mrs. Gould declared she could estimate to a 
 fraction the prosperity of Protestantism in the parish by the 
 bows these ladies exchanged with Mrs. Barton when their 
 carriages crossed on the roads. 
 
 Now, with face slanted in the pose of the picture of Lady 
 Hamilton, Mrs. Barton distributed her coquettish glances. 
 Olive, looking like a tall, white doe, tossed her fair head. 
 Mr. Barton squared his shoulders, puUed at his fiowing beard, 
 and growled as if he were keeping at bay the deep emotions 
 that wore supposed to be continually throbbing within him. 
 
26 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 Alice sat plain and demure ; her quick, intelligent eyes alone 
 revealed her personality. To a stiunger the scene ■vvouW 
 have appeared a picture of perfect domestic vii-tue. 
 
 The evening was immeasurably calm. The large sloping 
 woods of the Lawler domain fell into masses of deep violet 
 colour ; pale shadows filled the soft meadows that lay between, 
 and from miles away the rooks came flying through the 
 sunset. Overhead the clapping of their wings was heard 
 continuously. 
 
 " And now, my dear children, if you have finished your tea, 
 come, and I will show you your room." 
 
 Then Milord drew his chair closer to IMr. Barton, -and, with 
 a certain parade of interest, asked him if he had been to the 
 Academy : 
 
 " Did you see anything, Arthur, that in design approached 
 vour picture of ' Julius C'losar overturning the Altars of the 
 Druids ? ' " 
 
 " There were some beautiful bits of painting there," replied 
 Arthur, whose modesty forbade him to answer the question 
 diiectly. " I saw some lovely landscapes, and there were 
 some babies' frocks," he added satirically; "in one of these 
 pictures, I saw a rattle painted to perfection." 
 
 " Ah, yes, yes, you don't like the pettiness of family-feeling 
 dragged into Art," replied the courtier. Then he added, with 
 a sigh : " But if you would only condescend to take a Httle 
 more notice of the technique ; the technique is after all — " 
 
 " I am carried along too rapidly by my feelings. I feel 
 that I must get on — that I must get my idea on canvas. 
 But when I was in London I saw such a lovely woman — one 
 of the most exquisite creatures possible to imagine. Oh ! so 
 sweet, and so feminine 1 I have it all in my head. I shall 
 do something like her to-morrow." 
 
 Here he began to sketch with his stick on the grass, and 
 from his face it might be judged he was satisfied with the 
 invisible result. At last he said : 
 
 " You needn't say anything about it, but she sent me some 
 songs, with accompaniments written for the guitar; she said 
 she was most anxious to hear me play the guitar. You shall 
 hear some of the songs to-night." 
 
 At this moment a bell rang ; Arthur growled in imitation 
 of ."v lion, which was his humorous way of declaring he was 
 hungry, and both men got up and walked towards the house. 
 
A DHA.MA IN MUSLIN. 27 
 
 The two tall wax-candles had just been lighted, and, under 
 their red shades, the silver sparkled, the fruit grew luscious 
 as in the glow of a southern sun. A deep, rich twilight fell 
 from the high-hanging red curtains, and half concealed tha 
 painted forms of the women that, in a sort of nightmare 
 nakedness and confusion, were intermingled with the roaring 
 jaws and the dying struggles of many lions and tigers. The 
 Bridal of Trier main was one of Mr. Barton's favourite 
 subjects. 
 
 Olive was radiant with delight. She had been placed next 
 to INIilord, and the compliments of the old courtier, although 
 imperfectly understood from their being in French, at once 
 fevered and bewildered her. The delicately-turned phrases, 
 the stock-in-trade of an old rou6, epigrams faded in the dust, 
 and torn in the racket of fifty years of usage, were new to her, 
 and, in the bright atmosphere of new ideas, she fluttered like 
 a sun-smitten butterfly. 
 
 " La femme est comme une ombre : si vous la suivez, elle 
 vous fuit ; si vous fiuipz, elle vous poursuit," tickled the 
 champagne-excited imagination of the girl, and she laughed 
 with hysterical delight. But Milord had aphorisms for 
 married women, as well as for young girls, and he often 
 leaned over the table to whisper to Mrs. Barton. Once Alice 
 heard him say, " L'amour est la conscience du plaisir donne 
 et refu, la certitude de donner et de recevoir." 
 
 A little frightened, she bent her eyes on her plate, and, 
 later on, she strove to understand when, in speaking of Olive's 
 youth, beauty, and innocence, Milord said : " Gardez Men vos 
 illusions, man enfant, car les illusions sont le miroir de 
 Vamour." 
 
 " Ah I mais il ne/aut pas couvrir trap Vahime avec desfleurs," 
 said Mrs. Barton, as a sailor from his point of vantage might 
 cry " rocks ahead I " 
 
 Arthur only joined occasionally in the conversation, he 
 seemed rapt in dreams. He gazed long and ardently on his 
 daughter, and then sketched with his thumb-nail on the 
 cloth. When they arose from the table, Mrs. Barton said : 
 
 " Now, now, I am not going to allow you gentlemen to 
 spend any more time over your wine ; this is our first evening 
 together ; come into the drawing-room with us, and we shall 
 have some music." 
 
 Like most men of an unevenly-balanced mind, Arthur 
 
28 A DHAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 loved an eccentric costume, and soon after he appeared in a 
 long-tasselled cap and a strangely-coloured smoking jacket ; 
 he wore a pair of high-heeled brocaded slippers, and, twanging 
 a guitar, hummed to himself plaintively. Then when he 
 thought he had been sufficiently admired, he sang " A che la 
 morte," "II Balen" and several other Italian airs, in which 
 frequent allusion was made to the inconstancy of woman's 
 and the truth of man's afiection. At every pause in the music 
 these sentiments were laughingly contested by Mrs Barton. 
 She appealed to Milord. He never had had anything to 
 complain of ; was it not well-kno'ivn that the poor woman had 
 been only too true to him ? Finally, it was arranged there 
 should be a little dancing. 
 
 As Mrs. Barton said, it was of great importance to know if 
 Olive knew the right step, and who could put her up to all 
 the latest fashions as well as Milord? The old gentleman 
 replied in French, and settled his waistcoat, fearing the gar 
 ment was doing him an injustice. 
 
 " But who is to play ? " asked the poetical -looking Arthur, 
 who, on the highest point of the sofa, hummed and tuned his 
 guitar after true troubadour fashion. 
 
 " Alice will play us a waltz," said Mrs. Barton, win- 
 ningly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Alice dear, play us a waltz," cried Olive. 
 
 " You know how stupid I am ; I can't play a note 
 without my music, and it is all locked up in my trunk, 
 upstairs." 
 
 " It won't take you a minute to get it out," said Mrs. 
 Barton, and moving, as if she were on wheels, towards her 
 daughter, she whispered : " Do as I tell you, run upstairs 
 at once, and get your music ; make yourself useful." 
 
 Now that she was grown up Alice had hoped to find con- 
 sideration, if not sympathy. She looked questioningly at her 
 mother and hesitated. But IMrs. Barton had a way of 
 compelling obedience, and the girl went upstairs, to return 
 soon after with a roll of music. At the best of times she had 
 little love of the art, but now, sick with disappointment, and 
 weary from a long railway journey, to spell through the 
 rhythm of the " My Queen " waltz, and the jangle of " L'Espiit 
 Frangais," was to her an odious, and, when the object of it was 
 considered, an abominable duty to perform. She had to 
 keep her whole attention fixed on the page before her : but 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 29 
 
 wlien she raised her eyes, the picture she saw engraved itself 
 on her mind. It was a long time before she could forget 
 Olive's blond, cameo-like profile seen leaning over the old 
 bjau's fat shoulder. Mrs. JBarton laughed and laughed again, 
 declaring the while that it was la grdce et la heaute reunies. 
 Mr. Barton shouted and twanged in measure, the excite- 
 ment gaining on him until he rushed at his wife, and, 
 seizing her round the waist, whirled her and whirled her, 
 holding his guitar above her head. At last they bumped 
 against Milord, and shot the old man and his fair burden on 
 to the nearest sofa. Then Alice thought that her mission at 
 the piano was over ; she rose to go, but Mrs. Barton ordered 
 her to resume her seat, and the dancing was continued till the 
 carriage came up the gravel-sweep to fetch Milord away. This 
 was generally about half-past eleven, and, as he muffled 
 himself up in overcoats, the girls were told to cram his 
 pockets with cigarettes and bonbons. 
 
 " Bedad, I think it is revolvers and policemen you ought 
 to be givin' me, not swatcmates," he said, affecting a 
 brogue. 
 
 " Oh, yes, is it not dreadful ? " exclaimed Mrs. Barton ; " I 
 don't know what we shall do if the Government don't put 
 down the Land League ; we shall all be shot in our beds, 
 some night. Did you hear of that murder the other 
 day?" 
 
 '' And it is said there will be no rents collected this year," 
 said Mr. Barton, as he tightened one of the strings of his 
 guitar. 
 
 " Oh ! do cease that noise 1 " said Mrs. Barton : " And tell 
 me, Lord Dungory, will the Government refuse us soldiers, 
 and police, to put the people out ? " 
 
 " If we go to the Castle, we shall want more money to buy 
 dresses," said Olive. 
 
 " La mer a toujours son ecume jyour liahiller ses deesses," 
 replied Milord, and he got into his carriage, amid pearly 
 peals of laughter from Mrs. Barton, intermingled with a few 
 high notes from Olive, who had ah-eady taken to mimicking 
 her mother. 
 
 While candles were being lighted, further remarks con- 
 cerning the rights of property were made. Then parents and 
 children bid each other good night, and a few moments after 
 the girls found themselves alone in their room. Giving way to 
 
80 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 a sudden burst of emotion, Olive threw herself into her sister's 
 arms : 
 
 " Oh I Alice, how glad I am to be at home again 1 and is it 
 not delightful to think that we shall never have to return to 
 that horrid convent, to those cross nuns, with their lecturing 
 and their lessons ? But what is the matter, dear ? How 
 cross you look 1 I never will say anything to you again. 
 When I do, you always snub me. I can't help being glad I 
 am not going back to St. Leonards. I don't want to spend 
 my life learning lessons, if you do." 
 
 " I am not cross, Olive, and I don't see any harm in your 
 being glad at being at home. I am a little tired, that's all, 
 and my head aches." 
 
 "Tired, are j'ou? I am not a bit — I could go to a ball 
 now — ta ra, ta ra, ta re ra, ta ra ra ra, ta re ra," she sang, as 
 she waltzed round the room. 
 
 " Do you know that I think I look better in my stays than 
 any other way ? and I am glad of it, for I want to look well in 
 a ball-dress. It must be a funny sensation to walk into a 
 room half-undressed, before a lot of men ; for, you know, we 
 shall be just as undressed in our ball-dresses as we are now. 
 I am quite anxious to see how we shall all look. May's arms 
 are too fat, and Violet's are too thin ; I think mine are about 
 the best. I heard Lord Dungory saying something to 
 mamma about ' decoUetee,' but I could not quite make out 
 what he said. He always talks half in French, which is very 
 tiresome. I wish I knew the language like you. But what 
 a nice man Lord Dungory is, and how he seems to admire 
 mamma, and how complimentary he is to ladies 1 I suppose 
 all nice men are. But I do wish I had understood what he 
 said about seeing me ' decolletee.' " 
 
 " Oh, Olive ! " exclaimed Alice, " you should not talk in that 
 way ; it is not nice, and it must be very wrong." 
 
 "Why, I don't think I said anything really wrong, did I? 
 [ am sure I didn't mean to. I am going to say my prayers 
 BOW ; and you, Alice, you haven't said your prayers, and that 
 is far more sinful, I am sure. I should never be able to go to 
 eleep, if I diiln't say my prayers." 
 
 Alice lay very still. Her eyes were closed, but, in the dark- 
 ness, the events and the ideas of the day blazed with a star- 
 like intensity. It seemed to her that she was looking on a 
 picture traced in lines of flame on a black background : every 
 
A DRAMA IN UUSLIN. 31 
 
 angle, every perspective was lucent and precise, but there 
 was no blending of tints, there was no delightful distance. 
 All was so clear and so complete, that the whole was inexplic- 
 able. The girl remembered everything, and she understood 
 nothing. 
 
 She remembered seeing, as they drove up the avenue, the 
 tea-table set beneath the ample chestnut-tree, and her 
 mother's hands waving as she talked to the stately old gentle- 
 man ; again she saw her mother taking them upstairs, to 
 show them their room, and the kind words she had used in 
 explaining everything now splashed into the girl's mind, as 
 stones drop in a well. 
 
 But the dinner-table laughs and artificial compliments, 
 what did they mean ? and the dancing after dinner ? Her 
 thoughts clamoured with a sense of insult. She had not 
 been home for years ; everything appeared so strange. Who 
 was this Lord Dungory ? Why was he always at their house ? 
 And her dislike for her mother's admirer grew momentarily 
 more explicit in her mind. 
 
 Had he not a house, a great big castle 1 What did he 
 want in their poor place ? " Has he not children of his own ? " 
 the girl wailed ; " then why does he not care for them ? Dear 
 little Cecilia, he scarcely asked after her, but seemed jjuite 
 satisfied when told she was all right, and he had thanked papa 
 for the trouble he had in looking after her. Poor dear papa 1 " 
 and as she thought of her father, Alice's thoughts grew kinder, 
 and she shut out the vLsion that arose ; she would not see him 
 dressed in his gaudy smoking-jacket, twanging his guitar, or 
 bumping Lord Dungory and her sister all in a heap on the 
 sofa, or chasing the embroidered slippers which had been sent 
 skimming into different corners of the room. She preferred 
 to imagine him as a great artist, painting noble pictures in his 
 studio, and, fearing to mar her ideal, she refused to analyse the 
 merits of those she had seen, but thought of them simply as 
 beautiful conceptions. She saw him a blond-bearded dreamer, 
 his head filled with pictorial fancies ; and his wife, a pearly, 
 laughing, world-loving woman, her mind never wandering 
 further than the attainment of some social advantage. Then 
 the figure of Lord Dungory again loomed in sight. Suspicion, 
 dark, formless, and fragmentary, forced sleep from Alice's 
 eyes, and a ray from the setting moon illumined the chamber. 
 Raising herself in bed, she allowed her weary eyes to wander. 
 
32 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 The room was a symbol of girlhood. By skilful arrange- 
 ment, Mrs. Barton had created the idea of the playful purity 
 and the daisy-like candour which we so willingly assume as 
 representative of the mind of sweet seventeen. Innocence, 
 piety, and gaiety went, it would appear, trippingly hand-in- 
 hand. Just under the ceiling, some ten feet apart, there were 
 two bright brass crowns, and from them fell, in meek folds, 
 the white curtains. 
 
 Above each pillow, entwined with a rosary, there was a font 
 for holyTvater. The room was papered with a clear paper, 
 covered with light blue spots, relieved with a border in darker 
 blue, representing a sash. The two little hanging bookcases 
 were filled with suitable volumes; half-a-dozen novels by 
 writers acknowledged to understand the ways and usages of 
 good society, a history, a few elegantly-bound books that 
 looked like school-prizes, and a prayer-book or two. The 
 wardrobes were in white-painted wood. Alice's was next the 
 door, Olive's was at the opposite end of the room, facing the 
 beds. There was but one toilet-table, but it was prettilj 
 adorned with flowing skirts, and furnished with tall wax- 
 candles. It stood under the window next the marble wash- 
 stand, with its double sets of basins, jugs and glasses. There 
 were but two pictures. " Le Printemps " was represented by 
 a laughing youth and a maiden, swinging amid budding trees 
 and blossoming flowers. The other showed a loving girl, carv- 
 ing her sweetheart's name on the grandest oak in her father's 
 domain. 
 
 Alice looked anxiously at her sister. The dark masses of 
 hair lying on the pillows v.'ere touched with gold. In a 
 beautiful abandonment of attitude the giil slept ; delicate 
 shadows veiled her face, and from her lips, fresh as fruit, 
 seemed to rise the breath of a beautiful dream. The cover 
 tures floated away in folds, that wei'e melodies ; not a line was 
 defined. Less human she was than a Titian, less precise than 
 a Eaphael ; she was, perhaps, like a figure set by Phidias in 
 a dream of eternal youth, or the nebulous birth of an angel, 
 unfolding its loveliness beneath the suscitating smiles of a 
 god. Olive had now all the beauty of inanimate Nature, 
 and, unconscious of all things, save the sense of living that a 
 rose may feel in the dew-time, she slept. 
 
 But in the beauty of perfect proportions no soul exists; 
 the soul asserts itself in certain bodily imperfections of form, 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIIT. 83 
 
 which, when understood, become irresistible charms. Let us 
 look at the elder sister. 
 
 A thin girl, pale from want of rest ; her pointed shoulders 
 and long arms were not beautiful like Olive's, and she had 
 no thick tresses to scatter over the pUlow ; her brown hair 
 was rolled, and pinned with one hairpin into a small knot. 
 The forehead swept above the marked eyebrows in a wide, 
 clear path ; the hands, although well-shaped, were sinewy and 
 strong. She had not a feature that was either regular or 
 attractive ; but her face was one of interest to the critical 
 observer ; for now, when the quick, uncertain thoughts swept 
 across her mind, the eyes, like a grey lake in a sudden sun, 
 were flooded with bright attractiveness, and the formless 
 features gained, through expression, a precision not their 
 own. 
 
 Both sisters had returned to a home they had not seen for 
 years, both were going to enter a world of which they knew 
 nothing : unanxious, one slept, her brain tranquil as the lines 
 of her own beautiful body ; the other sat wakeful, watching the 
 greying space of window, all her corporal imperfections 
 illustrative of the keen, the yearning, the inquiring, the 
 doubting mind, that burned within. And now as the white 
 room grew whiter in the dawn, with the same thoughts still 
 grinding, still burning in her head — thoughts of her mother, of 
 Lord Dungory, of her father — amid the hoarse voices of shrill- 
 ing cocks, and the metallic voices of chirping birds, the tired 
 girl fell asleep. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Mr. Barton, or Arthur, as lie was usually called, always 
 retired to his studio immediately after breakfast, and, as Mrs. 
 Barton had domestic duties to attend to, the girls were left to 
 themselves. 
 
 Alice was glad to be with her sister. The dark forebodings 
 of the night were forgotten in the gaiety of the morning 
 sunshine, and her thoughts were now but floating remem- 
 brances of home. For there are moments when intervening 
 years render the past lucent, and she pictured the dead life of 
 childhood as one looking through morning mists on a fair 
 prospect — hills and hiU-vUlages f uU of outline and colour — may 
 pictiire the hopes and joys that are unfolding themselves there. 
 The sweet girl by her side was her sister — the sister she had 
 known since babyhood, and as they descended the stairs with 
 their summer hats and sunshades, Alice stopped at the door 
 of the schoolroom. It was here that, only a few yeaKS ago, 
 she had interceded with the dear old governess, and aided 
 Olive to master the difficulties against which the light brain 
 could not contend singly — the hardships of striving to recall 
 the number of continents the world possesses, the impossibility 
 of learning to say definitely if seven times four made twenty- 
 eight or thirty. 
 
 The map of the world still hung on the wall, but the 
 furniture had been removed, and to turn over the dusty books 
 und glance at the dog's-eared pages that they would never 
 again be called upon to study, left a blankness in the heart. 
 
 This room was placed at the further end of a long passage 
 •where the children used to play for hours, buUding strange 
 houses out of boxes of bricks, or dressing dolls in fantastic 
 costumes. Olive had forgotten, but Alice remembered, and 
 her thoughts wandered lovingly through the land of toys. 
 The box of bricks had come from an aunt that was now dead : 
 
 Si 
 
A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 86 
 
 the big doll, mother had brought from Dublin when she went 
 to see the oculist about her eyes ; and then there were other 
 toys, that suggested nothing, and whose history was entirely 
 forgotten. But the clock that stood in the passage was well 
 remembered, and Alice thought how this old-fashioned time- 
 piece used to be the regulator and confidant of all their joys 
 and hopes. She saw herself again listening, amid her sums, 
 for the welcome voice that would call her away ; she saw her- 
 self again examining its grave face and striving to calculate, 
 ■with childish eagerness, if she would have time to buUd another 
 Tower of Babel or put another tack in the doll's frock before 
 the ruthless iron tongue struck the fatal hour. 
 
 " Oh, Olive ! how can you pass here without waiting a 
 moment to look at the dear old clock ? Do you not remember 
 how we used to listen to it when we were children ? " 
 
 " You are a funny girl, Alice, you remember everything. 
 Fancy thinking of that old clock ! I hate it, for it brought 
 me in to lessons when it struck eleven." 
 
 " Yes, but it brought you out to play when it struck twelve. 
 See 1 the hands are just on the hour ; let us wait to hear it 
 strike." 
 
 " Oh ! come on, come on, I want to get out in the garden. 
 I can't waste the whole day waiting for an old clock to stiike. 
 Besides, if it were going we should hear it ticking. How silly 
 you are ! " 
 
 The girls listened vainly for a sound ; and Alice felt as if 
 she had been apprised of the loss of a tried friend when one of 
 the servants told them the clock had been broken some years 
 ago. 
 
 The kitchen-windows looked on a street made by a line of 
 buildings parallel with the house. These were the stables and 
 outhouses, and they formed one of the walls of the garden 
 that lay behind. It was sheltered on the north side by a thin 
 curtain of beeches, filled every evening with roosting rooks. 
 Then, coming round to the front of the house, were the 
 chestnut-trees, the verandah and the rosary, where a little 
 fountain played when visitors were present ; and further back, 
 taking in the chestnut-trees, a wooden paling defended the 
 pleasure-ground from the cows that grazed in the generous 
 expanse of grass extending up to the trees of the Lawler 
 domain. 
 
 Brookfield was, therefore, a small place, but, manifolded in 
 
36 A DRAJIA IN UDSLIN. 
 
 dreams past and present, it extended indefinitely before Alice's 
 eyes, and, absorbed by the sad sweetness of retrospection, she 
 played lovingly with the golden tassels of the laburnum-tree, 
 or lingered over the weed-grown sun-dial, while Olive ran 
 through the rosary from the stables and back again, calling to 
 her sister, making the sunlight ring with her light laughter. 
 Alice was disappointed to find that Olive could feel nothing of 
 what she felt, and she reminded her vainly that it was here 
 they used to play with Nell, the old setter, and that it was 
 there they gave bread to the blind beggar. And when they 
 met the coachman in the yard, it was of the old brown mare 
 she inquired, with which they used to go for such delightful 
 drives, not of the sleek carriage horses that had lately been 
 bought to take them to balls and tennis parties. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Barton's voice was heard calling. Milord 
 had arrived, and they were to go into the garden and piA a 
 few flowers to make a buttonhole for him. Olive darted 
 off at once to execute the commission, and soon returned with 
 a rose set round with some sprays of stephanotis. The old 
 lord was seated in the dining-room, in an armchair which 
 Mrs. Barton had drawn up to the window so that he might 
 enjoy the air. She had placed a table by his side, and, with 
 many little cajoleries, was pouring him out a glass of sherry, 
 and complimenting him, with quite a flutter of words, on his 
 good looks and general appearance. He bowed ceremoniously, 
 smiled urbanely, and Alice, as she entered the room, heard 
 him say : " Qiiand on aime on est toiijours hien portant." 
 
 She stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Barton, who already 
 suspected her of secret criticism, whispered, as she glided 
 across the room : 
 
 " Now, you awkward girl, don't stand there looking foolish ; 
 go and talk to Milord and learn to make yourself agree- 
 able." 
 
 The gii'l felt she was incapable of this, and it pained her to 
 listen to her sister's facile hUarity, and her mother's coaxino' 
 observations. Milord did not, however, neglect her; he 
 made suitable remarks concerning her school successes, and 
 asked appropriate questions anent her little play of " King 
 Cophetua." But whatever interest the subject possessed was 
 found in the fact that Olive had taken the part of the Princess ; 
 and, rearranging the story a little, Mrs. Barton declared, with 
 a shower of little laughs, and many waves of the white hands, 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIK. 37 
 
 thnt " my lady there had refused a king; a nice beginning, 
 indeed, and a pleasant future for her chaperon." 
 
 The few Kooks the house possessed lay on the drawing- 
 room table, or were piled, in dusty confusion, in the 
 bookcase in Mr. Barton's studio ; and, thinking of them, 
 Alice determined she would go and see her father. The 
 thought brought a glow of warmth to the girl's chilling heart, 
 and, full of expectation, sbe knocked at the door. 
 
 Instantly the loud baritone voice ceased singing " II 
 balen," and answered in a high falsetto, " Come in 1 " 
 
 Under the window, a small rickety easel seemed to totter 
 under the weight of an enormous canvas. Thereon was a 
 blonde Titaness, who gathered to her bosom one of the doves 
 the winged boy by her side had just shot in the green trees 
 above her. Arthur was rushing backwards and forwards 
 streaking crimson along the thighs of his lady, but, when 
 he saw his daughter, he hurriedly turned the picture to the 
 wall. 
 
 " Oh 1 I beg your par Jon, papa ; I'm afraid I am inter- 
 rupting you." 
 
 "Not at aU — not at all, I assure you; come in. I will 
 have a cigarette ; there is nothing like reconsidering your work 
 through the smoke of a cigarette. The most beautiful pictures 
 I have ever seen I have seen in the smoke of a cigarette ; 
 Lothing can beat those, particularly if you are lying back 
 looking up at a du-ty ceiling." 
 
 These remarks were not a little disconcerting to Alice, and 
 for some moments she looked round the walls in silent wonder. 
 There, each picture demonstrated how a something less or a 
 something more would have made of a disordered intelligence 
 a genius of the first class. War and women were the two 
 poles of Arthur's mind. " Cain shielding his wife from wild 
 beasts " had often been painted, numberless " Bridals of 
 Triermain " ; and, as for the " Rape of the Sabines," it seemed 
 as if it could never be sufficiently accomplished. Opposite the 
 door was a huge design representing Samson and Delilah ; 
 opposite the fireplace, " Julius Cre.siir overturning the Altars 
 of the Druids " occupied nearly the entire wall. Nymphs and 
 tigers were scattered in between ; canvases were also propped 
 against almost every piece of furniture. 
 
 At last Alice's eyes were suddenly caught by a picture 
 representing three women bathing. It was a very rough 
 
33 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 sketch, but, before she had time to examine it, Arthur turned 
 it against the wall. Why he hid two pictures from her she 
 could not help wondering. It could not be for propiiety's 
 sake for there were nudities on every side of her. 
 
 Then, lying upon the sofa, he explained how so-and-so had 
 told him, when he was a boy in London, that no one since 
 Michael Angelo had been able to design as he could ; how he 
 had modelled a colossal statue of Lucifer before he was six- 
 teen, how he had painted a picture of the battle of Arbela, 
 forty feet by twenty, before he was eighteen ; but that was of 
 no use, the world nowadays only cared for execution, and he 
 could not wait until he had got the bit of ribbon in Delilah's 
 hair to look exactly like silk. 
 
 Alice listened. Her heart was as full of tenderness as 
 her eyes were of admiration, as she watched the blonde, 
 expressionless face — so like Olive's in its pseudo-Greek pro- 
 portions. Nor did the similitude cease there ; and it was 
 easy to see that, from the imaginative but constantly un- 
 hinging intelligence of the father, the next step downwards 
 was the weak, feather-brained daughter. In what secret 
 source, lost far back in the night of generations, was this 
 human river polluted ? Will the pure waters of some tribu- 
 tary again make it clean, or will it grow more and more 
 tainted until finally lost in a shrieking sea of madness 
 whose tumult is heard in the far distance answering pro- 
 phetically the boasts of civilisation ? These are the teriible 
 questions that an examination of the history of families 
 propounds, and to which the scientist can as yet make no 
 answer. Yet, how absolutely consequent are these laws of 
 hjredity. 
 
 Mr. Barton's father had spent fifty years in his studv, 
 imagining himself a Gibbon, and writing impublishable 
 history and biography. The attics were full of his manu- 
 scripts. It was from him Alice had inherited her love of 
 books ; her clear logical intelligence had come from her 
 mother — of her father's brain she had nothing, she was only 
 connected with him by those imaginative faculties that for 
 three generations had characterised the family. 
 
 And now, as she listened to her father babbling nonsense 
 about his artistic capabilities, her heart and her mind were 
 at variance. A want of knowledge of painting might blind 
 her to the defects of his pictures (there was in them all a 
 
A Dr.AMA IN MUSLIN. 80 
 
 certain crude merit of design), but it was impossible to 
 deceive herself into thinking his conversation more than a sort 
 of mild folly. In turn he spoke of himself as a great hunter, 
 a great painter, a great singer, and, fact curious to note, in 
 what he said there were flashes of humour and intelligence. 
 For, in common with hundreds of his countrymen, Arthur 
 had a trick of never appearing to thoroughly believe in his 
 follies, and he sometimes seemed purposely to laugh at 
 himself, as if by so doing he might nip all hostile criticism in 
 the bud. He was a libtle bewildering. Alice, nevertheless, 
 spent a pleasant afternoon chatting of Rome and art, and she 
 learned, before she went upstairs to dress for dinner, that he 
 was better than her mother, who, under a coaxing manner, 
 concealed a hard and even bitter disposition. 
 
 A week passed away. Mrs. Barton went out for long 
 drives with Olive, and Alice lived alone and apparently for- 
 gotten. Then the dresses came down from Mrs. Symond's, 
 and Lord Dungory announced that he was going to give a 
 great dinner-party. 
 
 Arthur, who rarely dined out, handed the ladies into the 
 carriage. 
 
 Mrs. Barton was beautifully dressed in black satin ; jet 
 ornaments were woven about her bosom and shoulders ; a 
 diamond star glittered in the golden-brown hair. Olive was 
 lost in a mass of tulle, that fell like crimson foam about her. 
 Alice wore a black silk trimmed with passementerie and red 
 ribbons. It was a delicious evening, sweet with sunset and 
 corn. Behind the Clare mountain the pale transitory colours 
 of the hour faded, and the women, their bodies and their 
 thoughts swayed together by the motion of the vehicle, 
 listened to the irritating barking of the cottage-dog. Surlily 
 a peasant, returning from his work, his frieze coat swung ovei 
 one shoulder, stepped aside; a bare-legged woman, sur- 
 rounded by her half -naked children, leaving the potato she 
 was peeling in front of her door, gazed, like her husband, 
 after the rolling vision of elegance that went by her, and 
 her obtuse brain probably summed up the implacable decrees 
 of Destiny in the phrase : 
 
 " Shure there misht be a gathering at the big house this 
 evening." 
 
 " But tell me, mamma,'' said Olive after a long silence, " how 
 much champagne ought I to drink at dinner ! You know it 
 
40 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 is a long time since I have tasted it ; indeed, I don't remember 
 that I ever did taste it." 
 
 Sirs. Barton laughed softly : 
 
 " Well, dear, I don't think that two glasses could do you 
 any harm ; but I would not advise you to drink any more." 
 
 " And what shall I say to the man who takes me dowTi 
 to dinner? Shall I have to begin the conversation, or will 
 he?" 
 
 " He will be sure to say something ; you need not trouble 
 yourself about that. I think we shall meet some nice men 
 to-night. Captain Hibbert will be theie ; he is very hand- 
 some and well-connected. I hoj)e he will take you down. 
 Then there will be the Honourable Mr. Burke. He is a nice 
 little man, but there's not much in him, and he hasn't a penny. 
 His brother is Lord Kilcarney, a confirmed bachelor. Then 
 there will be Mr. Adair ; he is very well off. He has at least 
 four thousand a year in the country ; but it would seem that 
 he does not care for women. He is very clever ; he writes 
 pamphlets. He used to sympathise with the Land League, 
 but the outrages went against his conscience. You never 
 know what he really does think. He admii-es Gladstone, and 
 Gladstone says he can't do without him." 
 
 They had now passed the lodge-gales, and were driving 
 through the park. Herds of fallow-deer moved away, but 
 the broad bluff forms of the red-deer gazed steadf.astly as lions 
 from the crest of a hill. The house was not yet visible. 
 
 " Did you ever meet Lady Dungory, mamma ? " asked Alice. 
 " Is she dead 1 " 
 
 " No, dear, she is not dead, but it would be bettor perhaps 
 if she were. She behaved veiy badly. Lord Dungory had 
 to get separated from her. No one ever speaks of her now ; 
 mind, you are warned I " 
 
 At this moment the carriage stopped before a modern house, 
 built between two massive Irish towers entirely covered with 
 huge ivy. The plate-glass squai'e windows and rose blinds 
 were a strange anachronism. 
 
 " I am afraid we are a little late," said Mrs. Barton to the 
 .servant as he relieved them of their sorties de hal. 
 
 " Eight o'clock has just struck, ma'am." 
 
 " The two old tilings will make faces at us, I know,'' 
 murmured IMi-s. Barton as she ascemleil the steps. 
 
 Ou either side thuie were ca>ijs of stulled birds, a fox lay 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 41 
 
 in wait for a pheasant on the right, an otter devoured a trout 
 on the left. These attested the sporting tastes of a former 
 generation ; the white-marble statues of nymphs sleeping 
 in the shadows of the different landings, and the Oriental 
 di-aperies with which each cabinet was hung, suggested the 
 dilettantism of the present owner. 
 
 Mrs. Barton walked on in front ; the girls drew together 
 like birds. They were amazed at the stateliness of the library ; 
 and they marvelled at the richness of the chandeliers and the 
 curiously -assorted pictures. The company was assembled in a 
 small room at the end of the suite. 
 
 Two tall, bony, high-nosed women advanced and shook 
 iands menacingly with Jlrs. Barton. They were dressed alike 
 in beautiful gowns of gold-brown plush. 
 
 With a cutting stare, and a few cold conventional words, 
 they welcomed Olive and Alice home to the country again. 
 Lord Dungory whispered something to Mrs. Barton. Olive 
 passed across the room, the black coats gave way, and, as a white 
 rose in a blood-coloured glass, her shoulders rose out of the red 
 tulle. Captain Hibbert twisted his brown-gold moustache, and, 
 with the critical gaze of the connoisseur, examined the 
 undulating lines of the arms, the delicate waist, and the 
 sloping hips : her skirts seemed to fall before his looks. 
 
 Immediately after, the roaring of a gong was heard, and 
 the form of the stately butler was seen approaching. Lord 
 Dungory and Lady Jane exchanged looks ; the former offered 
 his arm to Mrs. Gould ; the latter, her finger on her lips, in 
 a movement expressive of profound meditation, said : 
 
 " Mr. Ryan, wiU you take down Mrs. Barton ; Mr. Scully, 
 will you take Miss Olive Barton ; Mr. Adair, will you take 
 l\Iiss Gould ; Mr. Lynch, will you take Miss Alice Barton ; 
 Mr. Burke, will you take my sister ? " Then, smiling at the 
 thought that she had checkmated her father, who had ordered 
 that Olive Barton should go down with Captain Hibbert, she 
 took Captain Hibbert's arm, and followed the dinner-party. 
 About the marble statues and stuffed birds on the staircase, 
 flowed a murmur of amiability, and, during a pause, skirts 
 were settled amid the chairs, which the powdered footmen 
 drew back ceremoniously to make way for the guests to 
 pass. 
 
 A copy of MurO-lo's Madonna presenting the Divine Child 
 to St. Joseph hung over the fireplace ; between the windows 
 
49 A DRAJHA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 another Madonna stood on a half-moon, and when Lord 
 Dungory said, " For what we are going to receive, the Lord 
 make us truly thankful," these pictures helped the company 
 to realise a suitable although momentary emotion. 
 
 Turtle -soup was handed round. The soft steaming frag- 
 rance mixed with the fresh perfume of the roses that bloomed 
 in a silver vase beneath the light of the red-shaded wax- 
 candles ; a tree covered with azaleas spread notes of delicate 
 colour over the gold screen that hid the door by which the 
 servants came and went, 
 
 "Oh! Lady Sarah," exclaimed Mrs. Gould, "I do not 
 know how you have such beautiful flowers — and in this 
 wretched climate 1 " 
 
 " Yes, it is very trying, but then we have a great deal of 
 glass." 
 
 " Which do you prefer, roses or azaleas ? " asked Mrs. 
 Barton. 
 
 " Les roses sont les Jleurs en corsage, mats les azalees sent les 
 ^eurs en peignoir.'' 
 
 Lady Sarah and Lady Jane, who had both overheard the 
 remark, levelled indignant glances at their father, scornful 
 looks at Mrs. Barton, and, to avoid further amatory allusions, 
 Ijiuly Sarah said : 
 
 " I do not think we shall soon have bread, much loss 
 flowers, to place on our tables, if the Government do not step in 
 and put down the revolution that is going on in this country." 
 
 Everyone, except the young girls, looked questioningly at 
 each other, and the mutuality of their interests on this point 
 became at once apparent. 
 
 " Ah 1 Lord Dungory, do you think we shall be able to 
 collect our rents this year ? What reduction do you intend 
 to give?" 
 
 Lord Dungory, who had no intention of showing his hand, 
 said : 
 
 "The Land League has, I believe, advised the people to 
 pay no more than GriiHth's valuation ; I do not know if your 
 lands are let very much above it ? " 
 
 " If you have not seen the Evening Mail you have probably 
 not heard of the last terrible outrage," said Captain Hibbert . 
 and, amid a profound silence, he continued : " I do not know 
 if anybody here is acquainted with a Mr. Macnamara; he 
 lives in Meath." 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 43 
 
 " Oh ! you don't say anjrthing has happened to him 1 I 
 knew his cousin," exclaimed Mrs. Gould. 
 
 Captain Hibbert looked round with his bland, good-looking 
 stare, and, as no nearer relative appeared to be present, he 
 resumed his story : 
 
 " He was, it seems, sitting smoking after dinner, when 
 suddenly two shots were fired through the windows." 
 
 At this moment a champagne-cork slipped through the 
 butler's fingers and went oflTwith a bang. 
 
 " Oh ! goodness me 1 what's that ? " exclaimed Mrs. Gould, 
 and, to pass off their own fears, everyone was glad to laugh at 
 the old lady. It was not until Captain Hibbert told that Mr. 
 Macnamara had been so severely wounded that his Hfe was 
 despaired of, that the chewing faces became grave again. 
 
 " And I hear that Macnamara had the foinest harses in 
 Mathe," said Mr. Ryan ; " I very nearly sold him one last 
 year at the harse show." 
 
 Mr. Ryan was the laughing-stock of the country, and a list 
 of the grotesque sayings he was supposed, on diflerent occa- 
 sions, to have been guilty of, was constantly in progress of 
 development. He lived with his cousin, Mr. L3'nch, and, in 
 conjunction, they farmed large tracts of land. Mr. Byan was 
 short and thick ; a sort of mixture between a herd and a hunts- 
 man. Mr. Lynch was taller and larger, and a pair of mutton- 
 chop whiskers made his bloated face look bigger still. On 
 either side of the white tablecloth their dirty hands fumbled 
 at their shirt-studs that constantly threatened to fall through 
 the worn buttonholes. They were, nevertheless, received 
 every-where, and Pathre, as Mr. E3'an was called by his friends^ 
 was permitted the licences that are usually granted to the 
 buffoon. All eyes were now turned on him. 
 
 " Arrah I " he said, " I wouldn't moind the lague being hard 
 on them who lives out of the counthry, spendin' their cash on 
 liquor and theatres in London, but what can they have agift 
 us who stops at home, mindin' our properties and riding om 
 harses 1" 
 
 This criticism of justice, as administered by the league, did 
 not, however, seem to meet with the entire approval of those 
 present. Mr. Adair looked grave; he evidently thought it 
 was based on a superficial notion of political economy. Mr. 
 Burke, a very young man with tiny red moustache and a 
 curious habit of wriggling his long weak neck, feeling his 
 
44 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 amusements were being unfairly attacked, broke the silence he 
 had till then preserved, and said : 
 
 '' I haven't an acre of land in the world, but if my brother 
 chooses to live in London, I don't see why he should be 
 deprived of his rents. For my part, I like the Gaiety Theatre, 
 and so does my brother. Plave you seen the ' Forty Thieves,' 
 Lady Jane ? Capital piece — I saw it twenty times." 
 
 " I think what Pathre, me cousin, means to say,'' said IMr. 
 Lynch, declining the venison the servant offered him, " is that 
 there are many in the country who don't deserve much con- 
 sideration. I am alluding to those who acquired their 
 property in the land courts, and the Cromwellians, and the — 
 I mean the rack-renters." 
 
 The sudden remembrance that Lord Dungory dated from the 
 time of James so upset Mr. Lynch, that he called back the ser- 
 vant and accepted the venison, which he failed, however, to eat. 
 
 " I do not see," said Lord Dungory, with the air of a man 
 whose words are conclusive, " why we should go back to the 
 time of Cromwell to discuss the rights of property, rather than 
 to that of the early Kings of Ireland. If there be a returning, 
 why not at once put in a claim on the part of the Irish Elk ? 
 No ! there must be some finality in human afTairs." And on 
 this phrase the conversation came to a pause. 
 
 But if the opinions of those present were not in accord 
 concerning the rights of property, their tastes in what might 
 be considered agreeable conversation certainly differed as 
 widely. The heavy jaws and flabby cheeks of age and middle- 
 age grew hopelessly dejected, and their vision of poverty had 
 become so intolerably distinct that they saw not the name of 
 the entree on the menu, and the cotelettes d, la re/orme were 
 turned to porridge in their mouths. Olive's white face 
 twitched from time to time with nervous annoyance. Alice 
 looked up in a sort of mild despair as she strove to answer the 
 questions Mr. Lynch plied her with, under his whiskey-heated 
 breath. May had fallen into a state of morose lassitude. If 
 ]\Ir. Adair would only leave her alone she would not so much 
 mind, but, whenever he gave up the hope of being able to 
 introduce his repudiation of Mr. Davitt's system for the 
 nationalisation of the land, he explained to her how success- 
 fully he had employed concrete in the construction of his 
 farm-buUdings. When this subject was exhausted, he fell 
 back upon his sawmill. 
 
A DIIAMA IN MUSLIN. 45 
 
 But the moment came when the girls' eyes met : it was 
 like the meeting of friends in a wilderness ; and, more or less 
 definitely according to their characters, their looks said : 
 " Well, if this is society, we might as well have remained in 
 our convent." 
 
 But at this moment Captain Hibbert looked so admiringly 
 at Olive that she instantly forgot her disappointments ; and 
 at the same time Mr. Scully succeeded in making May 
 understand that he would infinitely prefer to be near her 
 than Lady Sarah. In return for this expression of feeling 
 the young lady determined to risk a remark across the table ; 
 but she was cut short by Mrs. rionld, who pithily summed up 
 the p'^liticrl pi<"nation iu the words : 
 
 " The way I look at it is like this : Will the Government 
 help us to get our rents, or will it not ? Mr. Forster's Act 
 does not seem to be able to do that. There's May there who 
 has been talking all the morning of Castle seasons, and 
 London seasons, and I don't know what; really I don't see 
 how it is to be done if the Land League " 
 
 " And Mr. Pamell's a gentleman, too. I wonder how he 
 can ally himself with such blackguards," gently insinuated 
 Mrs. Barton, who saw a husband lost in the politician. 
 
 " But the difficulty the Government find themselves in is 
 that the Land League is apparently a legal organisation," 
 said Lord Dungory in the midst of a profound silence. 
 
 " A society legal, that exists and holds its power through an 
 organised system of outrage ! Mind you, as I have always 
 said, the landlords have brought all their misfortunes upon 
 themselves ; they have often behaved disgracefully — but I 
 would, nevertheless, put down the outrages ; yes, I would put 
 down the outrages, and at any cost." 
 
 " And what would yer do ? " asked Mr. Ryan. " De yer 
 know that the herds are being coerced now 1 we'd get on well 
 enough were it not for that." 
 
 " In the beginning of this year Mr. Forster asked Parliament 
 for special powers. How has he used those powers ! Without 
 trial, five hundred people have been thrown into prison, and 
 each fresh arrest is answered by a fresh outrage ; and when 
 the warrant is issued, and I suppose it will be issued sooner or 
 later, for the arrest of Mr. Parnell, I should not be surprised 
 to hear of a general strike being made against rent. The con- 
 sequences of such an event wUl be terrific ; but let these conse- 
 
46 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 quences, I say, rest on Mr. Forster's head. I shall have no 
 word of pity for him. His government is a disgrace to 
 Liberalism, and I fear he has done much to prejudice our ideal 
 in the eyes of the world." 
 
 Lord Dungory and Lady Jane exchanged smiles ; and poor 
 crotchety Mr. Adair leaned forward his large, bald brow, 
 obscured by many obscure ideals, and sought for words. 
 After a pause he continued : 
 
 " But I was speaking of Flanders. From the time of 
 Charles the Fifth the most severe laws were enacted to put 
 down the outrages, but there was an undercurrent of 
 sympathy with the outragemonger which kept the system, 
 alive until 1840. Then the Government took the matter in 
 hand, and treated outragemongering as what it is — an act 
 of war ; and quai tered troops on the inhabitants and stamped 
 the disease out in a few years. Of course I could not, and 
 would not, advocate the employment of such drastic measures 
 in Ireland ; but I would put down the outrages with a firm 
 hand, and I would render them impossible in the future by 
 the creation of peasant-proprietors." 
 
 Then, amid the juicy odours of cut pineapple, and the 
 tepid flavours of Burgundy, Mr. Adair warmed to his subject, 
 and proceeded to explain that absolute property did not exist 
 in land in Ireland before 1600, and, illustrating his arguments 
 with quotations from Arthur Young, he spoke of the planta- 
 tion of Ulster, the leases of the eighteenth century, the Pro- 
 testants in the North, the employment of labour ; until, at last, 
 inebriated with theory, he asked the company what was the 
 end of government ? 
 
 This was too much, and, seeing the weary faces about him, 
 Lord Dungory deteimined to change the subject of convei'sa- 
 tion : 
 
 " The end of government t " he said ; " I am afraid that 
 vou would get many different answers to that question. A^k 
 ihese young ladies; they will tell you, probably, that it is to 
 ha\-e des beaux aniants et des joi/euses amours, and I am not sure 
 that they are not right." 
 
 Mrs. Barton's coaxing laugh was heard, and then reference 
 was made to the detachment of the Connaught Eangei's 
 stationed at Galway, and the possibility of their giving a 
 dance was eagerly discussed. Mr. Eyan had a word to say 
 Hnent the hunting prospect, and, when IMay Gould declared 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 47 
 
 she was going to ride straight and not miss a meet, she com- 
 pleted the conquest of Mr. Scully, and encouraging glances 
 were exchanged between them until Lady Sarah looked 
 inquiringly round the table — then she pushed back her chair. 
 All rose, and a moment after, through the twilight of the 
 drawing-room, colour and nudity were scattered in picturesque 
 confusion. 
 
 Every mind was occupied by one thought — how the pleasure 
 of the dinner-party had been spoiled by that horrible Land 
 League discussion. All wondered who had introduced the 
 subject, and the blame was fixed upon Mr. Adair. Mrs. 
 Gould, in her homely way, came to the point at once : 
 
 " People say he is so clever, but I am sure I can't see it. 
 H« has spent a fortune in building farmyards in concrete, 
 and his sawmill, I hear, costs him twenty pounds a month 
 dead loss, and he is always writing letters to the papers. I 
 never can think much of a man who writes to the papers." 
 
 " A most superior man," said Lady Sarah, who, notwith- 
 standing her thirty-five years, had not entirely given up hope. 
 " He took honours at Trinity." 
 
 Then Mr. Burke and Lord Kilcarney were spoken of, and 
 some new anecdotes were told of Mr. Ryan. The famous one 
 — how he had asked a lady to show him her docket at the 
 Galway ball, when she told him that she was engaged for all 
 the dances, excited — as it never failed to do — a good deal of 
 laughter. Mrs. Barton did not, however, join in the conver- 
 sation ; she knew, if she did, that the Ladies Cullen would bo 
 as rude as the absence of Milord, and the fact that she was a 
 guest in their house, would allow them to be. Mrs. Barton's 
 mind was now occupied with one thought, and, leaning back 
 in her chair, she yielded herself entirely to it. Although the 
 dinner-party had been spoiled by Mr. Adair's uncontrollable 
 desire to impart information, she had, nevertheless, noticed 
 Jhat Captain JJibbert had been very much struck with Olive's 
 Beauty. She was aware that her daughter was a beautiful 
 girl, but whether men would want to marry her Mrs. Barton 
 did not know. Captain Hibbert's conduct would help her to 
 arrive at a decision. Slie certainly dreamed of a title for 
 Olive. Lord Kilcarney was, alas ! not to be thought of. Ah ! 
 if Mr. Burke were only Lord Kikarney 1 But he was not. 
 However, Captain Hibbert would be a fairly good match. 
 He was of escellent family, and had five hundred a year, 
 
48 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 and in England ; — but to snatch up the very first fish that 
 came by ! There was no saying whom they would meet at 
 the Castle. Still, to encoui'age a flirtation could be no harm ; 
 if they met anything better, it could be broken ofi"; if they 
 did not, it would be a very nice match indeed. Besides, 
 there was no denying that Olive was a little too naive in her 
 manner. Captain Hibbert's society would brush that off, and 
 Olive would go up to the Castle with the reputation of having 
 made a conquest. 
 
 Such were IMrs. Barton's thoughts as she sat, her hands 
 laid like china ornaments on her lap ; her feet were tueted 
 under the black-pleated skirt, and she sometimes raised hei 
 Greuze-like eyes and looked at her daughter. 
 
 The girls were grouped around a small table, on which 
 stood a feather-shaded lamp. In clear voices and clear 
 laughs they were talking of each other's dresses. IMay had 
 just stood up to show oft' her skirt. She was a superb 
 specimen of a fat girl ; and in a glow of orange ribbons and 
 red hair she commanded admiration. 
 
 " And to think she is going to waste her time with that 
 dissipated young man, Mr. Scully I " thought Mrs. Barton. 
 Then Olive stood up : she was all rose, and when, laughing, 
 with a delicious movement of the arms she hitched back her 
 bustle, she lost her original air, and looked as might have 
 done the Fornarina when not sitting in immortality. It was 
 the battle of blonde tints : Olive, with primroses and corn ; 
 May, with a cadmium yellow and red gold. 
 
 " And now, Alice, get up and let's see you 1 " she cried, 
 catching hold of her sistei's arm. 
 
 Still resisting, Alice rose to her feet, and May, who was full 
 of good nature, made some judicious observations. 
 
 " And how difierent we all look from what we did at the 
 convent ! — do you remember our white frocks ? " 
 
 Alice's face lit up with a sudden remembrance, and she 
 said : 
 
 " But why. Lady Sarah, have we not seen Cecilia ? I 
 have been thinking of her during dinner. I hope she is not 
 ill?" 
 
 " Oh I dear me, no; but poor Cecilia does not care to como 
 down when there is company." 
 
 " But can I not see her ? '' 
 
 " Oh, certainly ; you will find her in her room. ]3ut you 
 
A DBAHA IN MUSLIN. 49 
 
 do not know the way ; I will ring for my maid, she will show 
 you." 
 
 At this moment men's voices were heard on the staircase. 
 The ladies all looked up ; the light defining the corner of a 
 forehead, the outline of a nose and chin, bathing a neck in 
 warm shadow, modelling a shoulder with grey tints, sending 
 a thousand rays flashing through the diamonds on the bosom, 
 touching the finger-rings, and lastly dying away amid the 
 folds of the dresses that trailed on the soft carpet. Mr. Ryan, 
 walking with his habitual roll, and his hands in his pockets, 
 entered — his tie was under his left ear. Mr. Lynch, haunted 
 by the idea that he had not made himself agreeable to Alice 
 during dinner, sat down beside her. Mr. ScuUy made a rush 
 for May. Tall, handsome Captain Hibbert, with his air of 
 conventional high-style, quitted Lord Dungory, and asked 
 Olive what they had been saying since they left the dining- 
 room. Mr. Burke tried to join in the conversation, but Mr. 
 Ryan, thinking it would be as well not to let the occasion slip 
 of speaking of a certain " bay harse who'd jump any thin'," 
 took him confidentially by the sleeve. 
 
 " Now, look here, will yer," he began. The rest of his 
 remarks were lost in the hum of the conversation, and, by 
 well-bred transitions, observations were made on the dancing 
 and hunting prospects of the season. Mr. Adair took no 
 interest in such subjects, and, to everyone's relief, he remained 
 silent. May and Fred Scully had withdrawn to a corner of 
 the room where they could talk more at their ease ; Captain 
 Hibbert was conscious of nothing but Olive and her laughter, 
 which rippled and tinkled through an odour of cofiee. 
 
 Little by little she was gaining the attention of the room, 
 Mr. Adair ceased to listen to Lord Dungory, who was ex- 
 plaining why Leonardo da Vinci was a greater painter than 
 Titian. Mr. Lynch left off talking to Alice ; the little blonde 
 honourable looked sillier and sillier as his admiration grew 
 upon him. Mrs. Barton, to hide her emotion, engaged in an 
 ardent discussion, concerning the rearing of calves, with Mrs. 
 Gould. Lady Sarah bit her lip, and, unable to endure her enemy's 
 triumph any longer, she said in her most mellifluous tone: 
 
 " Want you to sing us something, Captain Hibbert." 
 
 " Well, really, Lady Sarah, I should be veiy glad, but I 
 don't think, you know — I am not sure I could manage without 
 my music." 
 
50 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " I shall be very glad to accompany you. I tliink I know 
 " In the Gloaming," and I have heard you sing that." 
 
 Olive, at a sign from her mother, entreated, and when the 
 gallant Captain rolled from under the brown-gold moustache 
 the phrase, " Oh ! my darling," all strove not to look at her, 
 and when he dropped his voice to a whisper, and sang of his 
 aching heart, a feeling prevailed that all were guilty of an 
 indiscretion in listening to such an intimate avowal. Then 
 he sang two songs more, equally filled with references to 
 tears, blighted love, and the possibility of meeting in other 
 years, and Olive hung doAvn her head, overcome by the fine 
 sentiments which she felt were addressed to her. 
 
 MeanwhUe, Alice had been left listening, alone and 
 unnoticed. She was aware that her sister was the object of 
 all eyes and thoughts ; she was gaining the triumph that men 
 are agreed may be ambitioned without impropriety by women. 
 Alice was a healthy-bodied girl, every organ in her functioned 
 admirably, and the blood flowed as warm in her as in her 
 beautiful sister. Certainly the men about her did not in the 
 least correspond with her ideal, but this scarcely rendered 
 the fact that they neglected her less bitter. Presently 
 she asked Lady Sarah if she might go upstairs and see 
 Cecilia. 
 
 She found the little cripple leaning over the bannisters 
 listening to the sound of voices. 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! is it you? I expected you to come to see 
 me when you left the gentlemen in the dining-room." 
 
 " I couldn't come before, dear," said Alice, kissing her 
 friend. " Just as I was asking Lady Sarah the way to your 
 room we heard them coming." 
 
 " And how did you like the party ? and which of the men 
 did you think the nicest 2 " 
 
 " I did not care for any of them ; and oh 1 that odious Mr. 
 Lynch ! " 
 
 Cecilia's eyes flashed with a momentary gleam of satisfac- 
 tion. " Yes, aren't they horrid ? and the way they leer at 
 women, isn't it beastly ? " Alice did not .answer, and, without 
 atransitional phrase, Cecilia spoke of a little excursion — a walk 
 to the Brennaiis, who lived two miles distant — that she had 
 been planning for the last few days. 
 
 In about twenty minutes Mrs. Barton was heard calling 
 to Alice, and Loi'd Dungory, with a profusion of giucious 
 
A DBAUA ID UUSLIN. 61 
 
 words and compliments, put them into the carriage. Then, 
 in the close intimacy of the brougham, of upheaved petticoats 
 and skirts, conversation began : 
 
 " Oh, mamma 1 did you see how cross little Mr. Burke 
 looked because he could not get near me ? and tell me, do 
 you think I looked well in my pink tulle ? Captain Hibbert 
 said something about my belying my name ; that I ought to 
 be called Rose or Lily. I really didn't know what he meant. 
 I think Rose a hateful name. And what did you think of 
 May — she looked very well in that black-net with yellow 
 ribbons, did she not ? And I think she likes Mr. Scully. He 
 often looked up at me, but she wouldn't let him get away. Do 
 you think he admired me ? " 
 
 Then, after a pause, the thin arms and bosoms of the Ladies 
 CuUen were ridiculed, the relative dirt of Messrs. Ryan and 
 Lynch disputed, the tiresomeness of Mr. Adair alluded to, 
 until the conversation returned again to the success that 
 Olive had achieved, and the certainty that her dress became 
 her to perfection. 
 
 Around them the barren country lay submerged in shadows ; 
 the ridge of the uplands melted into the drifting grey of the 
 sky, and every moment the hearth-fire of a cabin started into 
 or disappeared from sight. They burned, steadfast and 
 solitary, in the dim wastes that stretched from hill to hill, 
 or were seen in clusters between the dark blowing foliage of 
 the roadside poplars ; and as the carriage passed, on a door- 
 way full of yellow light, the form of a man was often sketched 
 in menacing black. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 During the next three or four days, the girls' life at Brook- 
 field settled down into certain grooves. 
 
 Now Alice knew that about half-past one o'clock she 
 would hear the wheels of Lord Dungory's carriage roll up to 
 the haU-doors. Mrs. Barton would be dressed to receive 
 him ; the glass of sherry, the little table, the coaxing laughs, 
 and the compliments would be all prepared and served out 
 with automatic precision. Sometimes, however, they were 
 interrupted by CaptaLa Hibbert, who came riding over from 
 Gort. Then Mrs. Barton would propose a walk in the shrub- 
 beries, and with surprising ease the old and the young couple 
 fell in, and sympathised with each other's habits. From her 
 window Alice often saw them, and in fancy heard the crisp, 
 courtly compliments of the portly, but tightly buttoned-up 
 old lord, and the drawled-out platitudes of the tail and hand- 
 some captain. 
 
 And to these arrangements Mr. Barton paid no heed 
 whatever. Immediately after breakfast he retired to his 
 studio. When he was in painting-humour, the baritone voice 
 roared in imitation of a lion ; when he was in a musical mood, 
 it shouted forth some old Italian air to the tinkling of the 
 guitar. And the great room, with its strange pictures, its 
 smell of tobacco, its litter of books and old newspapers — in a 
 word, its air of candour, of idea — had for Alice, weary of the 
 rest of the house, an indescribable fascination. Dearly she 
 would have liked to have sat and talked, as he painted the 
 story of the man-eater ; but it distressed her to listen to the 
 languid nonsense he spoke of his genius, and she noticed that, 
 being now engaged on many nudities, her presence embarrassed 
 him. It was, therefore, essential for her to discover how the 
 hours might best be filled, and in which of the things within 
 her reach she was most interested. 
 
A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 63 
 
 Mrs. Barton had decided that the young ladies were to 
 have a maid to themselves; — a maid who, in a certain 
 sense, would be a companion, and who could rearrange, and, if 
 necessary, copy a dress from the original model. Barnes was 
 not what would be imagined ; she was a large woman of forty, 
 but she concealed her age under a light, smiling manner. 
 Generally she was to be found sewing in the room that had 
 once been the nursery, but which had lately been refurnished, 
 and converted into a kind of plain sitting-room— a workroom, 
 where the young ladies were supposed to read, embroider, 
 and write their letters. Once, Captain Hibbert, with many 
 reprimands for his indiscretion, was brought up to see this 
 feminine nook. 
 
 Barnes received him with smiles of recognition ; smiles that 
 said : Oh 1 of you, sir, I have heard much from my young 
 ladies — Miss Olive in particular. 
 
 These insidious agreeabilities soon won the younger sister's 
 heart ; and when not in the drawing-room with him, as he was 
 now called, mistress and maid, the work-basket and the skirt 
 of a dress between them, sat for hours whispering together. 
 If Alice came into the room, the conversation came to a full 
 stop, or lapsed into a series ot giggles, or sometimes plucking 
 np courage, and as if anxious to rid the room of her sister's 
 presence, Olive told how Barnes was going out next Sunday 
 with her young man. Alice revolted against the odours of the 
 kitchen, which these conferences exhaled, and she would steal 
 away to walk about the grounds by herself, or in the fragrant 
 shadows of the chestnut-trees, sit for hours absorbed in the 
 lofty charms of Sir Walter Scott's novels. They suited her 
 present mood, and, until the day came when she was to meet 
 Cecilia, she stood on ramparts with Amy Robsart, and, riding 
 on palfreys, experienced aU the passion and despair of 
 Leicester's great betrayal. 
 
 The girls had given each other rendezvous at the gate of 
 Dungory Castle. Lover was never more anxious to meet 
 mistress than this little deformed girl to see her friend ; and 
 Alice could see her walking hurriedly up and down the gravel- 
 sweep in front of the massive grey-stone Lodge. 
 
 " She will see me next time she turns," thought Alice, and 
 immediately after Cecilia uttered a joyful cry and ran forward. 
 
 " Oh ! so it is you, Alice. I am so glad. I thought you 
 were going to disappoint me." 
 
64 A DEAJIA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " And why, dear, did you think I was going to disappoint 
 you ! " said Alice, stooping to liiss the wan, wistful face. 
 
 " I don't know — I can't say, but I fancied something would 
 happen," (and the great brown eyes began to melt with tears 
 of delight) " I had, you know, set my heart on this walk 
 with you." 
 
 This confession of love was delicious. 
 
 " I am sure the pleasure is as much mine as yours ; and now, 
 whither lies our way ? " 
 
 " Through the deer-park, through the oakwood, across the 
 fields into the highroad, and then you are at the gate." 
 " Won't that be too far for you ? " 
 
 " Oh, not at all ; it is not more than a mile-and-a-half , but 
 for you, you had to come another mile-and-a-half. It is fully 
 that from here to Brookfield. But tell me, dear," said Cecilia, 
 clinging to her friend's arm, " why have you not been over to 
 see me before ? It is not kind of you ; we have been home 
 from school now over a fortnight, and, except on the night of 
 the dinner-party, I haven't seen you once." 
 
 " I was coming over to see you last week, dear, but, to tell 
 you the truth, mamma prevented me. I cannot think why, 
 but somehow she does not seem to care that I should go to 
 Uungory Castle. But for the matter of that, why did j'ou 
 not come and see me? I have been expecting you every 
 day. Why haven't you been ? " 
 
 " I couldn't come either. My sisters advised me — I mean, 
 insisted on my stopping at home." 
 " And why 1 " 
 
 " I really can't say," replied Cecilia. 
 
 And now Alice knew the Ladies C^ullen hated Mrs. Barton 
 for her intimacy with Lord Dungory. Shrinking with sliama 
 she longed to talk the matter out, but dared not ; while 
 Cecilia regretted she had spoken ; for, with the quickness of 
 the deformed, she knew that Alice had divined the truth of th? 
 family feud. The silence was irritating, and then, with theit 
 parasols slanting to the west, they talked of indifierent things, 
 The sun fell like lead upon the short grass of the deer-park, 
 and the frizzled heads of the hawthorns. On the right, the 
 green masses of the oakwood shut in the view, and the stately 
 red-deer, lolling their high necks, marched away through the 
 hillocks, as if offended at their solitude being disturbed. One 
 poor crippled hind walked with a wretched sidling movement, 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 56 
 
 and Alice hoped Cecilia would not notice it, lest it should 
 remind her of her own misfortune. 
 
 " I am sure," she said, " we never knew finer weather than 
 this in England. I don't think there could be finer weather, 
 and still they say the tenants are worse off than ever ; that 
 no rent at all, at least nothing above Griffith's valuation, will 
 be paid." 
 
 " Do they speak much of Griffith's valuation at Dungorv 
 Castle 1 " 
 
 " Oh I they never cease, and — and — I don't know whether 
 I ought to say, but it won't matter with you ? I suppose — 
 mind, you must not breathe a word of this at Brookfield — the 
 fact is my sisters' school — you know they have a school, and 
 go in for trying to convert the people — well, this has got 
 papa into a great deal of trouble. The Bishop has sent do-svn 
 another priest — I think they call it a mission — and we are 
 going to be preached against, and papa received a threatening 
 letter this morning. He is going, I believe, to apply for 
 poUce." 
 
 "And is this on account of the proselytising ? '' 
 
 " Oh ! no, not entirely ; he has refused to give his tenants 
 Griffith's valuation ; but it makes one very unpopular to be 
 denounced by the priest. I assure you, papa is very angry. 
 He told Sarah and Jane this morning at breakfast that he'd 
 have no more of it ; that they had no right to go into the poor 
 people's houses and pull the children from under the beds, 
 and ask why they were not at school ; that he didn't care of 
 what religion they were as long as they paid the rent ; and 
 that he wasn't going to have his life endangered for such 
 nonsense. There was an awful row at home this morning. 
 For my own part, I must say I sympathise with papa. 
 Besides the school, Sarah has, you know, a shop, where she 
 sells bacon, sugar, and tea at cost price, and it is well-known 
 that those who send their children to the school will never be 
 asked to pay their bills. She wanted me to come and help 
 to weigh out the meal, Jane being confined to her room with 
 a sick headache, but I got out of it. I would not, if I could, 
 convert those poor people. You know, I often fancy — T mean 
 fear — I often sympathise too much with your creed. It was 
 only at service last Sunday I was thinking of it ; our religion 
 seems so cold, so cheerless compared to yours. You remember 
 the convent-church at St. Leonards — the incense, the vest- 
 
66 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 ments, the white-veiled congregation — oh, how beautiful it 
 was ; we shall never be so happy again 1 " 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and how cross we used to think those dear 
 nuns. You remember Sister Mary, how she used to lecture 
 Violet for getting up to look out of the windows. What used 
 she to say 1 ' Do you want, miss, to be taken for a housemaid 
 or scullery-maid, staring at people in that way as they pass 1 ' " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; that's exactly how she used to speak," exclaimed 
 Cecilia, laughing. And, as the girls advanced through the 
 oakwood, they helped each other through the briers and over 
 the trunks of fallen trees, talking, the while, of their past life, 
 which now seemed to them but one long, sweet joy. A 
 reference to how May Gould used to gallop the pony round 
 and round the field at the back of the convent was inter- 
 rupted by the terrifying sound of a cock-pheasant getting 
 up from some bracken under their very feet ; and, amid the 
 scurrying of rabbits in couples and half-dozens, modest 
 allusion was made to the girls who had been expelled in '76. 
 Absorbed in the sweetness of the past, the girls mused, until 
 they emerged from the shade of the woods into the glare and 
 dust of the highroad. Then came a view of rocky country, with 
 harvesters working in tiny fields, and then the great blue 
 background of the Clare Mountains was suddenly unfolded. 
 A line and a bunch of trees indicated the Brennan domain. 
 The gate-lodge was in ruins, and the weed-grown avenue was 
 covered with cowdung. 
 
 " Which of the girls do you like best ? " said Alice, who 
 wished to cease thinking of the poverty in which the 
 spinsters lived. 
 
 " Emily, I think ; she does not say much, but she is 
 more sensible than the other two. Gladys wearies me with 
 her absurd affectations; Zoe is well enough, but what 
 names ! " 
 
 " Yes, Emily has certainly the best of the names," Alice 
 replied, laughing. 
 
 " Are the IMiss Brennans at home ? " said Cecilia, when the 
 maid opened the hall-door. 
 
 " Yes, miss — I mean your ladyship — will you walk in ? " 
 
 " You'll see, they'll keep us waiting a good half -hour while 
 they put on their best frocks," said Cecilia, as she sat down 
 in a faded armchair in the middle of the room. A piano 
 was rolled close against the wall, the two rosewood cabinets 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 67 
 
 were Bymmetrically placed on either side of the further 
 window ; from brass rods the thick, green curtains hung in 
 stifi folds, and, since the hanging of some water-colours, done 
 by Zoe before leaving school, no alterations, except the 
 removal of the linen covers from the furniture when visitors 
 were expected, had been made in the arrangement of the 
 room. 
 
 The Brennan family consisted of three girls — Gladys, Zoe, 
 and Emily. Thirty-three, thirty-one, and thirty were their 
 respective ages. Their father and mother, dead some ten or a 
 dozen years, had left them joint proprietors of a small pro- 
 perty of seven hundred a year. Gossip had magnified this 
 to three thousand, and they were, therefore, known as the 
 heiresses of Kinavarah. All three were dumpty and dark, 
 and in snub-noses and blue eyes their Celtic blood was easily 
 recognisable. Every year they went to spend a month at the 
 Shelborne Hotel in Dublin, and they returned with quite a 
 little trousseau. Gladys and Zoe always dressed alike, from 
 the bow round the neck to the bow on the little shoe that 
 they so artlessly withdrew when in the presence of gentlemen. 
 Gladys' formula for receiving visitors never varied : 
 
 " Oh, how do you do — it is really too kind of you to give 
 yourself all this trouble to come and see us." 
 
 Immediately after Zoe put out her hand. Her manner 
 was more jocose : 
 
 " How d'ye do ? We are, I am sure, delighted to see you. 
 will you have a cup of tea ? I know you will." 
 
 EmUy, being considered too shy and silent, did not often 
 come down to receive company. On her devolved the entire 
 management of the house and servants ; the two elder sisters 
 killed time in the way they thought would give least offence 
 to their neighbours. 
 
 Being all St. Leonards girls, the conversation immediately 
 turned on convent-life. "Was madame this there? Had 
 madame that left ? " Garden, chapel, school, hall, dormitory, 
 refectory were visited ; every nun was passed in review, 
 and, in the lightness and gaiety of the memories invoked, 
 even the wrinkling faces of the spinsters flushed and looked 
 fresh again. Then, sighing, they recalled the hopes that had 
 withered, and the conversation came to a pause. 
 
 Allusion was made to the disturbed state of the country, 
 and to a gentleman who, it was reported, was going to be 
 
58 A DRAMA IN MtrSLIN. 
 
 married. But, as AJice did not know the person whose ante- 
 cei-lents were being called into question, she took an early 
 opportunity of asking Gladys if she cared for riding ? "iNo, 
 they never went to ride now : they used to, but they came in 
 so fatigued that they could not talk to Emily ; so they had 
 given up riding." Did they care for driving ? " Yes, pretty 
 well; but there was no place to drive to except into Gort, 
 and as people had been unjust enough to say that there were 
 always to be seen in Gort, they had given up driving ; unless, 
 of course, they went to call on friends." Then tea was 
 brought in ; and, apropos of a casual reference to conventual 
 buttered toast, the five girls talked, until nearly six o'clock, 
 of theii' girlhood — of things that would never have any 
 further influence in their lives, of happiness they would never 
 experience again. At last Alice and Cecilia pleaded that they 
 must be getting home. 
 
 As they walked across the fields, the girls only spoke 
 occasionally. Alice strove to see clear, but her thoughts 
 were clouded, scattered, diffused. Force herself as she would, 
 still no conclusion seemed possible ; all was vague and con- 
 tradictory. She had talked to these Brennans, seen how 
 they lived, could guess what their past was, what their future 
 must be. In that neat little house, their uneventful life 
 dribbled away in maiden idleness ; neither hope nor despair 
 broke the cruel triviality of their days — and yet, was it their 
 fault ? No ; for what could they do if no one would marry 
 them ? — a woman could do nothing without a husband. There 
 is a reason for the existence of a pack-horse, but none for 
 that of an unmarried woman. She can achieve nothing — she 
 has no duty but, bj' blotting herself out, to shield herself from 
 the attacks of ever-slandoring friends. Alice had looked 
 forward to a husband anil a home as the certain accomplish- 
 ment of years ; now she saw that a woman, independently of 
 her own will, may remain single. 
 
 " I wonder," she said, forgetting for the moment she was 
 speaking to CecUia, " I wonder none of those Brennans get 
 married ; you can't call them ugly girls, and they have some 
 money. How dreadfully lonely they must be living there by 
 themselves 1 " 
 
 " I think they are far happier as they are,'' said Cecilia, 
 .and her bro\vn eyes set in liquid-blue looked strangely at 
 Alice as she helped her over the low wall. The girls walked 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. C9 
 
 in silence through the tomb-like stillness of the silver-firs; 
 and their thou;4hts were sharp as the needles that scratched 
 the pale sky. Cecilia continued : 
 
 " It may seem odd of me to say so — of course I would no^ 
 say this to anyone but you — but I assure you, even if I were 
 as nice as you are, dear, nothing would induce me to marry. 
 I never took the slightest pleasure in any man's conversation, 
 
 and the idea Oh ! it seems to me too revolting, and we 
 
 make so little of ourselves. Now at home it never ceases. 
 Jane at^ks papa if he has seen the So-and-sos, and immediately 
 Sarah chimes in : ' Well, they have been going out a long 
 time now, and they don't seem to be pulling off anjiihing. I 
 never believed in her flirtation with such a man ; they did 
 their veiy best to hook him, but it was no go, he slipped 
 through their fingers,' etc. Don't you agree with me, Alice ? 
 But no, I know you don't,'' she said, breaking off suddenly — 
 " I know you like men ; I feel you do. Don't you ? " 
 
 " Well, since you put it so plainly, I confess I should like 
 to know nice men. I do not care for those I have met 
 hitherto, particularly those I saw at dinner the other night ; 
 but I believe there are nice men in the world." 
 
 " Oh ! no there aren't." 
 
 " Well, Cecilia, I don't see how j'ou can speak so positively 
 as that ; you have seen as yet very little of the world." 
 
 "Ahl yes, but I know it; I can guess it all, I know it 
 instinctively, and I hate it." 
 
 " There is nothing else, so we must make the best of it." 
 
 " But there is something else — there is God, and the love 
 of beautiful things. I spent all day yesterday playing Bach's 
 Passion music, and the hours passed like a dream until my 
 sisters came in from walking and began to talk about 
 marriage and men. It made me feel sick — it was horrible ; 
 and it is such things that make me hate life — and I do hate 
 it ; it is the way we are brought back to earth, and forced to 
 realise how vile and degraded we are. Society seems to me 
 no better than a pigsty ; but in the beautiful convent — that 
 we shall, alas ! never see again — it was not so. There, at 
 least, life was pure — yes, and beautiful. Do you not 
 remember that beautiful white church with all its white 
 pillars and statues, and the dark -robed nuns, and the white- 
 veiled girls, their veUs falling from their bent heads ? They 
 often seemed to me like angels. I am sure that Heaven 
 
60 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 must be very much like that — pure, desirelesg, contem- 
 plative." 
 
 Amazed, Alice looked at her friend ; she had never heard 
 her speak like this before. But Cecilia did not see her ; tho 
 prominent eyes of the mystic were veiled with strange 
 glamour, and, with divine gourmandise, she savoured the 
 ineffable sweetness of the vision, and as the sensuality of her 
 nature revolted against the warmth of a lover's kiss, it yielded 
 to the cold aisle made lovely with the white body of God set 
 in gold above the distant altar. After a long silence, she 
 said : 
 
 " I often wonder, Alice, how you can think as you do ; and, 
 strange to say, no one suspects that you are an unbeliever; 
 you are so good in all except that one point." 
 
 " But surely, dear, it is not a merit to believe ; it is hardly 
 a thing that we can call into existence." 
 
 " You should pray for faith." 
 
 " I don't see how I can pray if I have not f.aith." 
 
 " Oh ! you argue too well for me. You are too clever ; but 
 I would ask you, Alice — you never told me — did you never 
 believe in God, I mean when you were a little child ? " 
 
 " I suppose I must have, but, as well as I can remember, it 
 was only in a very half-hearted way ; much as I believed La 
 hobgoblins. Belief never touched me. I could never quite 
 bring myself to credit that there was a Being far away, 
 sitting behind a cloud, who kept his eye on all the different 
 worlds, and looked after them just as a stationmaster looks 
 after the arrival and departure of trains from some huge 
 terminus." 
 
 " Alice ! how can you talk so ? Are you not afraid that 
 something awful might happen to you for talking of the 
 Creator of all things in that way ? " 
 
 " Why should I be afraid, and why should that Being, if 
 he exists, be angry with me for my sincerity ! If he is all- 
 powerful, it rests with Himself to make me believe." 
 
 They had now accomplished the greater part of their 
 journey, and, a little tired, had sat do%vn to rest on a portion 
 of a tree left by the woodcutters. Gold rays slanted through 
 the glades, enveloping and rounding off the tall smooth trunks 
 that rose branchless to a height of thirty, even forty, feet ; 
 and the pink clouds, seen through the arching dome of green, 
 were vague as the picture on some dim cathedral-roof. 
 
A DKAUA IN IIUSUN. 61 
 
 "In places like these, I wonder you don't feel God's 
 presence." 
 
 " On the contrary, the charm of nature is broken when you 
 introduce a ruling official." 
 
 " Alice 1 how can you — you who are so good — speak in that 
 way ? " At that moment a dead leaf rustled through the 
 silence — " And do you think that we shaU. die like that leaf ? 
 That, like it, we shall become a part of the earth and be for- 
 gotten as utterly ! " 
 
 " I am afraid I do. That frail, fluttering thing was once a 
 bud ; it lived the summer-life of a leaf : now it will decay 
 through the winter, and perhaps the next, iintil it finally 
 becomes part of the earth. Everything in nature I see pursu- 
 ing the same course ; why should I imagine myself an exception 
 to the general rule ? " 
 
 " What, then, is the meaning of life ? " 
 
 " Alas ! we know nothing ; we are perhaps no more than a 
 lot of flies struggling in a water-jug. It is a very cruel creed. 
 The sense of annihilation is a black, a heavy burden to bear, 
 and no one will ever know what I have suflfered. I am isolated 
 from the rest of the world. At home I am like a stranger ; I 
 have not a thought in common with anyone." 
 
 " Alice, you must not cry. Am I not your friend ? Yes, I 
 am more than a friend ; I cannot tell you how I love you ; I 
 do not know myself, and I often feel afraid of my love, so 
 strange does it seem." 
 
 " Oh 1 yes, Cecilia, I know you love me, and I am thankful 
 that I have such a friend ; without you I should not be able to 
 bear up." 
 
 And, their souls longing for storms, tears, relief, effusion, the 
 girls threw their arms round each other's necks and wept. 
 
 This outburst of feeling had long been preparing ; for days 
 it had lain aching on their hearts. After their convent — where, 
 in an atmosphere of general sympathy, flower-like their lives 
 had grown — the girls had found the woi'ld cold and heartrend- 
 ing, and, in the severance of ties, nought but their friendship 
 had remained. AHce had accepted it at first from pity, and 
 then had abandoned herself, overcome by the power of an all- 
 giving love. But they who can always accept, think little of 
 the worth ; and untU now she had not even dreamed the 
 meaning of it. A moment of eflSasion had revealed it. Words 
 were unnecessary, and, intent on their happiness, absorbed in 
 
62 A. DBAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 the dolorous felicities of their sensations, the girls walked 
 onward in silence. Ideas evaporated like perfumes, and only 
 the short sharp cry of a bird broke the mild calm of the 
 woods. 
 
 "Now, Alice,'' said Cecilia, when they reached the turning 
 that made parting inevitable, and there was something of the 
 passion of the lover in her voice, " promise me you will come 
 and see me soon again. You wUl not leave me so long, you 
 will write ; I sli;ill not be able to live if I do not hoar from 
 
 you." 
 
 At that moment the sound of horse-hoofs was heard, and 
 a pair of cream-coloured ponies, with a florid woman driving 
 determinedly, came sweeping round the corner. 
 
 " What a strange person 1 " said Alice, watching the blue 
 veil and the brightly-dyed hair. 
 
 " Don't you know who she is ? " said Cecilia; " that is your 
 neighbour, Mrs. Lawler." 
 
 " Oh 1 is it really ? I have been so long at school that I 
 linow nobody — I have been anxious to see her. Why, I 
 wonder, do people speak of her so mysteriously ? " 
 
 " You must surely have heard that she is not visited ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; but I did not quite undei'stand. Your 
 father was saying something the other day about IMr. 
 Lawlei's shooting-parties ; then mamma looked at him ; 
 he laughed and spoke of ' hs colomhes da Cythere.' I 
 intended to ask mamma what he meant, but somehow I 
 forgot." 
 
 " She is one of those. . . they call them bad women ; women 
 tliat men give money to and disgrace. In the towns the}' walk 
 aliout the streets by night." 
 
 " Oh ! really I " said Alice ; and the conversation came 
 to a sudden pause. They had never spoken upon such 
 a subject before, and the presence of the deformed girl 
 roiulered it a doubly painful one. In hor embarrassment, 
 Alice said : 
 
 " Then I wonder Mr. Lawler married her. Was it his 
 fault that ? " 
 
 " Oh I I don't think so," Cecilia replied, scornfully : " but 
 what does it matter 1 — she was quite good enough for him. 
 ilen are always the worst." 
 
 Alice did not dare to pui'sue the conversation. At every 
 moment a new Cecilia was revealing herself, the existence of 
 
A DIIASIA IN MUSLIN. 63 
 
 whom Alice had not even suspected in the old. She knew 
 that she herself was altered, that the last few weeks had 
 taught her much, had strangely modified her ideas of life and 
 things, but this was nothing to the transformation she thought 
 she perceived in her friend. In reality Cecilia was the least 
 changed. In her case circumstances had developed nothing ; 
 it had merely unveiled a state of soul that had existed for 
 years in its present condition ; and Alice, as she hurried home, 
 wondered if the minds of the other girls were the same as they 
 were at school. She confessed she could see but little change 
 in her sister : !May she had scarcely spoken to since they left 
 school, and Violet she had not met since they parted at 
 Athenry for their different homes. "Wlien she entered the 
 house she heard Olive talking : 
 
 " He said, mamma, that I would be the handsomest girl at 
 the drawing-room." 
 
 " And what did you say, dear ? " 
 
 " I asked him how he knew ; was that right ? " 
 
 " Quite right, and what did he say then ? " 
 
 " He said, because he had never seen anybody so handsome, 
 and as he had seen everybody in London, he supposed — I for- 
 get the exact words, but they were very nice, I am sure he 
 admired my new hat ; but you — you haven't told me how you 
 liked it. Do you think I should wear it down on my eyes, or 
 a bit back ? " 
 
 " I think it very becoming as it is ; but tell me more about 
 Captain Hibbert." 
 
 " He told me he was coming to meet us at mass ; you know 
 be is a Roman Catholic." 
 
 " I know he is, dear, and am very glad." 
 
 " If he weren't, he wouldn't be able to meet us at mass.'' 
 
 At this proof of the superiority of Catholic over other forms 
 of worship jMrs. Barton laughed, and, when Alice came down- 
 stairs, the Captain Hibbert discussion was being continued in 
 the studio. According to old-established custom, on the 
 arrival of his family, Arthur had turned his nudities to the 
 wall, and now sitting, one leg tucked under him, on the sofa, 
 tbrov/ing back from time to time his long blonde locks, he 
 hummed an Italian air. 
 
 " Why, Alice," said Mrs. Barton, " how tired you look, dear I 
 Will vou have a cup of tea ? it will freshen you up, you have 
 been walking yourself to death." 
 
64 A DRAMA IN HCSLIN. 
 
 " Thanks, mamma, I will have a cup of tea ; Cecilia and I 
 went to see the Brennans." 
 
 "And are any of them going to be married yett" said 
 Olive. 
 
 " I really don't know ; I didn't ask them." 
 
 " Well, they ought to be doing something with themselves ; 
 they have been trying it on long enough. They have been 
 going up to the Shelbourne for the last ten years. Did they 
 show you the dresses they brought down this season ? They 
 haven't worn them yet — they keep them wrapped up in silver 
 paper." 
 
 Amazed, Alice looked at her sister ; whence had come this 
 flow of bitter gossiping ? 
 
 " And how did you hear all that ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh 1 one hears everything: I don't live with my nose 
 buried in a book like you. That was all very well in the 
 convent." 
 
 " But what have I done that you should speak to me in that 
 way?" 
 
 " Now, Alice dear," said Mrs. Barton, coaxingly, " don't 
 get angry. I assure you Olive didn't mean it." 
 
 " No, indeed, I did not," exclaimed the corn-coloured girl, 
 holding her sister by the arms and forcing her back into the 
 chair. 
 
 Arthur's attention, however, had been too deeply absorbed 
 in the serenade in " Don Pasquale," to give heed to the 
 feminine bickering with which his studio was ringing , until 
 he was startled suddenly from his musical dreaming by an 
 angry exclamation from his wife. 
 
 The picture of the bathers, which Alice had seen begun, 
 had been only partially turned to the wall, and Mrs. Barton 
 had caught sight of one of the faces of the women. After 
 examining it for a few moments, she got up, and, without a 
 word, she seized the picture. Olive uttered a cry, and, 
 looking terrified, Arthur broke off in the middle of a bar. 
 The two naked creatures who were taking a dip in the quiet, 
 sunlit pool were Olive and Mrs. Barton ; and, so grotesque 
 were the likenesses, that Alice could not refrain from 
 laughing. 
 
 " This is monstrous I this is disgraceful, sir ; how often have 
 I forbidden you to paint my face on any of your shameless 
 pictures 1 " exclaimed Mrs. Barton, purple with rage ; " and 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 66 
 
 your daiighter too — and just as she is coming out! Do you 
 want to ruin us ? I should like to know what anyone would 
 think if — " and, unable to complete her sentence, either men- 
 tally or aloud, Mrs. Barton wheeled the easel, on which the 
 larger picture stood, into the full light of the window. 
 
 If Arthur had wounded the susceptibilities of his family 
 before, he had outraged them now. The great woman, wha 
 had gathered to her bosom one of the doves her naked son, 
 Cupid, had knocked out of the trees with his bow and arro\^; 
 was Olive. The white face and its high nose, beautiful as 
 a head by Canova is beautiful ; the corn-like tresses, pUed on 
 the top of the absurdly small head, were, beyond mistaking, 
 Olive. Mrs. Barton stammered for words; Olive burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Oh I papa, how could you disgrace me in that way ? Oh ! 
 I am disgraced 1 there's no use in my going to the drawing- 
 room now." 
 
 " My dear, my dear, I assure you I can change it with a 
 flick of the brush," said the blond delinquent; "admiration 
 carried away by idea — I promise you I'U change it." 
 
 " Come away, Ohve, come away," said Mrs. Barton, casting 
 a look of burning indignation at her husband. " If you cry 
 like that, OHve, you won't be fit to be looked at, and Captain 
 Hibbert is coming here to-night." 
 
 "When they had left the room, Arthur looked inquiringly at 
 Alice. 
 
 " This is very disagreeable," he said ; " I really didn't think 
 the likeness was so marked as all that ; I assure you I didn't. 
 I must do something to alter it — I might change the colour of 
 the hair ; but no, I can't do that, the entire scheme of colour 
 depends upon that. It is a great pity, for it is one of my 
 best things ; the features I might alter, and yet it is very 
 hard to do so, without losing the character. I wonder if • 
 were to make the nose straighter — Alice, dear, would yot 
 mind turning your head this way ? " 
 
 " Oh 1 no, no, no, papa dear ! you aren't going to put my 
 face upon it ; " and she ran smothered with laughter from the 
 room. 
 
 When this little quarrel was over and done, when Arthur 
 had altered, beyond recognition, the faces in his picture, and 
 Olive had ceased to consider herself a disgraced girl, the 
 allusion that liad been made to Mass as a means of meeting 
 
 F 
 
66 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 Captain HiLbert remained lilje a sting in Alice's memory. 
 It surprised lier at all sorts of odd moments, and often forced 
 lier, under many diiTerent impulses of mind, to reconsider the 
 TCligious problem more passionately and intensely than she had 
 ever done before. She asked herself if she had ever believed t 
 Perhaps in very early youth, in a sort of vague, half-hearted 
 K'ay she had taken for granted the usual traditional ideas of 
 Qeaven and hell, but even then, she remembered, she used to 
 wonder how it was that time was found for everything else 
 but God. If he existed it seemed to her that monks and nuns, 
 or puritans of the sternest type, were alone in the right. And 
 yet she couldn't quite feel that they were right. She had 
 always been intensely conscious of the grotesque contrast be- 
 tween a creed like tkrtt of the Christian, and having dancing and 
 French lessons, and going to garden-parties, yes, and making 
 wreaths and decorations for churches at Christmas-time. If 
 one only believed, and had but a shOling, surely the only logical 
 way of spending it was to give it to the poor, or a missionary — 
 and yet nobody seemed to think so. Priests and bishops did 
 not do so, she herself did not want to do so ; still, so long 
 as Alice believed, she was unable to get rid of the idea. 
 Teachers might say what they pleased, but the creed they 
 taught spoke for itself, and prescribed an impossible ideal, an 
 unsatisfactory ideal which aspu-ed to no more than saving 
 snesclf after all. 
 
 This represents the religious struggle that had filled Alice's 
 mind from her twelfth to her sixteenth year. Then a few 
 Dooks read : Darwin on the origin of Species, a History of the 
 French Revolution, E^Ton, Shelley's Satires on the aljsurdity 
 of Eevelation, the Immaculate Conception, and belief in God, 
 an all-seeing, all-powerful, and Eternal Governor of the Uni- 
 verse, burst, like a wind-filled bladder under the point of a pin. 
 How, then, with this rectitude of soul, had she consented to 
 live so many years conforming outwardly to all the tenets of 
 a religion which she recognised as an absurdity ? The explana- 
 tion of this seeming anomaly is found in the last line of the 
 preceding paragraph : " An unsatisfactory ideal, which aspires 
 to no more than saving oneself after all." In every nature 
 there is a dominating force, which decides victory or defeat 
 on all occasions. In Alice, this took the form of supreme 
 unselfishness ; she could not — it was impossible for her to do 
 or say anything — when, by so doing, she knew she might 
 
A. DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 67 
 
 cause sviffering, or give pain to anyone, even an enemy. And 
 it was thLs defect in Alice Barton's character that forced her 
 yitilessly, against any will of her o^vn, to enact, to live up to 
 tvhat she deemed a lie. Often she had longed, and longed 
 jgain, until she was sick with grief and longing, to tell the 
 truth and be saved the mummery of attending at Mass, of 
 iowing her head at the elevation of the Host. But when she 
 sealised the consternation, the agony of mind, it would cause 
 \he nuns she loved, she held back the word — cowardly, 
 treacherously if you will ; but it was this treachery — this 
 imperfection, that linked her to and made her of the same 
 nature as the four other heroines of this story. Cecilia alone 
 had guessed the truth, and, at the first hint, Alice had told 
 her all. The confession was a supreme relief ; but, while 
 unable to accept the counsel to ruthlessly break the oneness 
 of their lives, she had hoped, she had looked forward to acting 
 independently, and living an individual life at home. But at 
 home, as in the convent, her resolution failed her. Her 
 courage sank in the terrible and chilling tides of loneliness 
 that surged about her ; and the ever-present sense of mental 
 separateness frightened her from aU confidences. Since she 
 had been at home, all her ideas and sensations had received 
 violent contradiction ; not one of the many practical rectitudes 
 of which she had so fondly dreamed, had been found; and, 
 therefore, in the brutal overthrow and wreck of so many 
 illusions and hopes, her religious convictions and projects had 
 been more than usually forgotten. 
 
 But they had again become the acute strain in this sym- 
 phony of sufiering ; and now the weekly exhibition of best 
 clothes, sUk hats, carriages, gravity, collectedness, public 
 iproof of the world's unworldliness : proof that all, no matter 
 what the facts said, did possess an ideal, horrified this straight- 
 Eouled girl, until she felt the life she was leading as a leprosy 
 upon her. Twenty times she had determined to speak to her 
 mother, twenty times something had occurred to prevent her. 
 Friday and Saturday went by, and, as the hour approached 
 when they should go to Mass to meet Captain Hibbert, the 
 desire to say that her going to chapel was but a mockery, 
 and to beg to be allowed to stay away, grew almost irresist- 
 ible. It was only a foolish fear that such a declaration 
 might interfere with her sister's prospects that stayed the 
 words as they rose to her lips; and at last, her gloves on 
 
68 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 and prayer-book in hand, slie found herself packed into the 
 brougham, watching the expressionless church-going faces of 
 her family. From afar the clanging of a high swinging bell 
 was heard, and the harsh reverberations travelling over the 
 rocky to^vnlands summoned the cottagers to God. The stona 
 pillars of the chapel-gateway stared with bright yellow pro- 
 clamations. The tenant-farmers were called upon to assemble 
 by thousands and assert their rights. Landlordism and 
 land-grabbing must be put down. Messrs. I. M. Brady, M.P., 
 Matthew Hagan, and P. Flanagan wo ild addi-ess the meeting. 
 
 The roadway was fiUed with young peasants in frieze 
 coats and pot-hats ; they stood in silent groups, or leaned 
 in lines along the low wall that marked the precincts of 
 the chapel. A look of quiet cunning overspread their faces, 
 and showed that they guessed the annoyance the Land 
 League proclamation would cause the gentry. Here and 
 there was seen an old man in a traditional tail-coat and 
 knee-breeches, walking apart, mumbling his toothless gums, 
 evidently as incapable of thinking as of dressing up to 
 the ideas of the present generation. And, mimicking 
 modesty, came the girls — thick, short, fit for work in the 
 fields ; some with rosy cheeks, nice, with their shawls 
 folded about their shoulders, their hair drawn into a knot, 
 and tied with a ribbon at the back of their heads ; others 
 like nothing at all, in cheap millinery bought in the county- 
 towns — shapeless hats with ostrich feathers of nameless hues 
 — formless mantles. There was no giggling; only the very 
 shyest glance to see if their boys were near. The bell continued 
 to clang, and the servants from the different gentlemen's estab- 
 lishments passed in ; they were a class in themselves, and were 
 sleek, cringing, bashful under the public gaze. 
 
 " Now, Arthur — do you hear ? — you mustn't look at those 
 horrid papers 1 " Mrs. Barton whispered to her husband ; " we 
 must pretend not to see them. I wonder how Father 
 Shannon can allow such a thing, making the house of God 
 into — into I don't know what, for the purpose of preaching 
 robbery and murder. Just look at the country-people, how 
 sour and wicked they look — don't they, Alice ? '' 
 
 " Well, I don't know that they do, mamma," said Alice, 
 who had already begun to see something wrong in each big 
 house being surrounded by a hundred small ones, all working 
 to keep it in sloth and luxury. 
 
A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 69 
 
 "I don't know how it is, you always contradict me, and 
 you seem to take pleasure in holding opinions that no one else 
 does." 
 
 Then they entered a large whitewashed building. In the 
 middle of the earthen floor there was a stone basin filled with 
 water, into which each person dipped a hand, and therewith 
 blessed themselves. 
 
 A plaster angel knelt at each side of the altar ; the 
 chancel-window was made out of extensive squares of yellow 
 and green glass, which, coming against the raw glare of 
 whitewash, had a hideous effect. On the left-hand side, 
 next to the communion-rails, half-a-dozen prie-Dieu and 
 cushions had been set ; and this one trace of comfort and 
 aristocracy had a pert and curious look in this very rural church. 
 
 " Goodness me ! " said Olive, " who in the world can those 
 people be in our pew ? " 
 
 Mrs. Barton trembled a little. Had the peasants seized 
 the religious possessions of their oppressors ? Dismissing the 
 suspicion, she examined the backs indicated by Olive. 
 
 " Why, my dear, it is the Goulds ; what can have brought 
 them all this way ? " 
 
 " I don't know; but isn't it nice of them to come?" The 
 expected boredom of the service was forgotten, and Olive 
 shook hands warmly with Mrs. Gould and May. 
 
 " Why, you must have driven fifteen miles ; where arc your 
 horses 1 " 
 
 " We took the liberty of sending the carriage on to Brook- 
 5eld, and we are coming on to lunch with you; that is to 
 say, if you will let us ? " cried May. 
 
 " Of course, of course ; but how nice of you 1 " 
 
 " Oh ! we have such news ; but it was courageous of us 
 to come all this way. Have you seen those terrible procla- 
 mations ? '' 
 
 " Indeed we have. Just fancy a priest allowing his chapel 
 to be turned into a political — political what shall I call it ? " 
 
 " Bear-garden," suggested May. 
 
 " And Father Shannon is going to take the chair at the 
 meeting ; he wouldn't get his dues if he didn't." 
 
 " Hush, hush 1 they may hear you ; but you were saying 
 something about news." 
 
 " Oh ! don't ask me," said Mrs. Gould ; " that's May's affair 
 — such work 1 " 
 
70 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Say quickly I what is it, IMay ? " 
 
 " Look here, girls, I can't explain everything now ; but we 
 are' going to give a ball ; that is to say, all the young girls 
 are going to subscribe. It will only cost us about three 
 pounds apiece — that is to say, if we can get forty subscribers 
 — we have got twenty already, and we hope you wUl join us. 
 It is going to be called the spinsters' ball. But there is such 
 a lot to be done ; the supper to be got together, the decorations 
 of the room (splendid room, the old schoolhouse, you know). 
 We are going to ask you to let us take Alice away with us." 
 
 The conversation was here interrupted by the appeai-ance 
 of the priest, a large fat man, whose new, thick-soled boots 
 creaked terribly as he ascended the steps of the altar. lie 
 was preceded by two boys dressed in white and black surplices. 
 They rang little brass bells furiously, and immediately a great 
 trampling of feet was heard. The peasants came, coughing 
 and grunting with monotonous, animal-like voices; and the 
 sour odour of cabin-smoked frieze arose, and was almost 
 visible in the great beams of light that poured through the 
 eastern windows; and whifFs of unclean leather, mingled 
 with a smell of a sick child, flaccid as the prayer of the 
 mother who grovelled, beating her breast, before the third 
 Station of the Cross; and Olive and May, exchanging looks 
 of disgust, drew forth cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, and in 
 unison the perfumes of white rose and eau d'opoponax 
 evaporated softly. 
 
 Alice watched the ceremony of Mass, and the falseness of 
 it jarred upon her terribly. The mumbled Latin, the by-play 
 with the wine and water, the mumming of the uplifted hands, 
 were so appallingly trivial, and, worse still, all realisation 
 of the idea seemed impossible to the mind of the congregation. 
 Passing by, without scorn, the belief that the white wafer the 
 priest held above his head, in this lonely Irish chapel, was 
 the Creator of the twenty millions of suns in the MUky Way, 
 she mused on the faith as exhibited by those who came to 
 worship, and that which would have, which must have, inspired 
 them, were Christianity now, as it once was, a burning, a 
 vital force in the world. Looking round, what did she see ? 
 Here, at her elbow, were the gentry. How elegantly they 
 prayed, with what refinement I Their social position was as 
 manifest in their religion as in their homes, thoLr language, 
 their food. The delicate eyelids were closed from time to 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIW. ?1 
 
 time ; the long slim iingers held tlie gilt missals with the same 
 well-bred grace as they would a fan ; their thoughts would have 
 passed from one to the other witliout embarrassment. Clearly 
 tliey considered one the complement of the other. At the Eleva- 
 tion, the delicate necks were bowed, and, had lovers been whis- 
 pering in their ears, greater modesty could not have been shown. 
 
 They had come to be in the absolute presence of God, 
 the Distributor of Eternal rewards and punishments — and yet 
 they had taken advantage of this stupendous mystery to 
 meet for the purpose of arranging the details of the ball. 
 
 The peasantry filled the body of the church. They prayed 
 coarsely, ignorantly, with the same brutality as they lived. 
 Just behind Alice a man groaned. He cleared his throat with 
 loud guffaws : she listened to hear the saliva fall : it splashed 
 on the earthen floor. Further away a circle of dried and 
 yellowing faces bespoke centuries of damp cabins, brutalising 
 toil, occasional starvation. They moaned and sighed, a prey 
 to the gross superstition of the moment. One man, bent 
 double, beat a ragged shirt with a clenched fist ; the women of 
 forty, with cloaks drawn over their foreheads and trailing on 
 the ground in long black folds, crouched until only the lean 
 hard-worked hands that held the rosary were seen over the 
 bench-raU. The young men stared arrogantly, wearied by the 
 length of the service. 
 
 They, too, had come to be in the absolute presence of God — 
 the Distributor of Eternal rewards and punishments^— and yet 
 they had taken advantage of the occasion of this stupendous 
 mystery to meet for the purpose of arranging a land meeting. 
 
 Alice was troubled, as if by the obscure sensations of a 
 nightmare. Surely, if their belief — gentry and peasants, she 
 put them together — was not a mockery, a mere familiar \isage, 
 they could not be so indifferent as they were. If they did 
 realise that the white wafer was God — God the Creator! 
 before whom all things are nothing — something more full cff 
 meaning, more worthy than this little Sunday mummery 
 would be the result. The early Christians, forgetting theii 
 food, had died in starving ecstasy in the desert 1 Then Alice 
 felt, more calmly than she had ever done before, that what 
 she was now witnessing was but the dust of an old-world 
 faith, the sweeping away of which had only been delayed 
 because a man is idle, and "loves to lie abed in the unclean 
 straw of his intellectual habits." 
 
72 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 Soon after came the sermon — to Alice an incomprehensible 
 jargon of ideas. The Ladies Cullen were denounced for 
 proselytising. Instances were given : they had pursued one 
 poor boy untU he took refuge in an empty house, the door of 
 which he was fortunately enabled to fasten against them; 
 they had sent a sick woman blankets, in which they had not 
 neglected to enclose some tracts; tracts that declared that 
 reading the Bible — the Bible being admittedly the word of 
 God — must be the way to know Him. Amateur shopkeeping, 
 winter clothing, wood, turf, presents of meal, wine, and 
 potatoes were all vigorously attacked as the wiles of the Evil 
 One to lead the faithful from the true Church. 
 
 In the frieze-clad crowd, the tall, thin young man, in broad- 
 cloth, probably a Land League organiser, ground his teeth as 
 the priest spoke. Evidently he saw political capital in what 
 was being said, and was turning it over in his mind, thinking 
 how he could make use of it at the meeting. The gentry 
 bent their heads meekly, seeing only, in the denunciation of 
 proselytising, another stick being handed to the national party, 
 ivith which the landlords would be attacked. 
 
 At last it was all over. The peasants tramped away to the 
 meeting where they would lay claim to the land that they 
 tilled ; the young ladies would soon return to their fine house 
 to consider the skii-ts they would wear at the ball ; and the 
 house of God, the plea that had brought together so many 
 conflicting interests, would remain forlorn and forgotten for 
 another week. As they walked out of chapel catechismKjlasses 
 were being formed, and, looking into the future, Alice saw 
 from the new seed only a scantier harvesting than that she 
 had just witnessed, sprung from a similar semination, but in a 
 less-impoverished soil. 
 
 A circle of children was formed ; a big boy or girl stood in 
 the middle, and he or she put the questions. 
 
 " Who made the world ? " 
 
 " God made the world 1 " 
 
 " Who is God 2 " 
 
 " God is the Creator and SovcreigTi Lord of Heaven, and 
 earth, and all things." 
 
 " How many Gods are there? " 
 
 " There is but one God, who will reward the just and 
 punish the wicked," etcetera, etcetera. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 As they returned from cliurch, a horseman was seen riding 
 rapidly towards them. It was Captain Hibbert. The move- 
 ment of his shoulders, as he reined in his mettlesome bay, was 
 picturesque. Never was a batch of ladies more favourably 
 impressed by his beauty. Their glances were enveloping and 
 absorbing ; and he was coaxingly and gushingly upbraided 
 for neglect of his religious duties. 
 
 During lunch, curiosity rendered May and Mrs. Gould 
 nearly speechless ; but their carriage had not turned into the 
 highroad, on its way home, when the latter melted into a 
 shower of laudatory words and phrases : 
 
 " What a charming man Captain Hibbert is ! no wonder 
 you young ladies like the military. He is so good-looking 
 — and such good manners. Do you not think so, Alice 
 dear 1 " 
 
 "I think the Captain a very handsome man — indeed, I 
 believe that there are not two opinions on the subject." 
 
 " And Olive — I do not remember that I ever saw a more 
 beautiful girl. Such hair ! and her figure so sylph-like ! I 
 do not know what the young ladies will do — she will cut 
 everybody out at the Castle 1 " 
 
 "I don't know about that," said May, jauntily; "what 
 tne man will turn his nose up at, another will go wild 
 lifter." 
 
 Mrs. Gould did not answer ; but her lips twitched, and 
 Alice guessed she was annoyed that May could not express 
 herself less emphatically. In a few moments the conversation 
 was continued : 
 
 " At any rate. Captain Hibbert seems to think there is no 
 jne lik e Olive ; and they would make a handsome couple. 
 What do you think, Alice ? Is there any chance of there 
 being a match ! " 
 
 73 
 
74 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " I really can't tell you, Mrs. Gould. Olive, as you say, is 
 a very beautiful girl, and I suppose Captain Hibbert admires 
 her; but I don't think that either has, up to the present, 
 thought of the matter more seriously." 
 
 " You must admit, Alice, that he seems a bit gone on 
 her," said May, with a direct determination to annoy her 
 mother. 
 
 "May, dear, you should not talk in that slangy way; you 
 never used to, you have picked it up from Mr. Scully. Da 
 you know Mr. Scully, Alice? Violet's brother." 
 
 " Yes, I met him the night we dined at Lord Dungory's.'' 
 
 " Oh, of course you did. Well, I admit I do not like him ; 
 but May does. They go out training horses together. I don't 
 mind that ; but I wish she would not imitate his way of talk- 
 ing. He has been a very wild young man." 
 
 " Now, mother dear, I wish you would leave off abusing 
 Fred. I have repeatedly told you that 1 don't like it." 
 
 The acerbity of this remark was softened by May's manner, 
 and, throwing her arms on her mother's shoulders, she com- 
 menced to coax and cajole her. 
 
 The Goulds were of an excellent county family. They hnii 
 for certainly three generations lived in comfortable idleness, 
 watching from their big square house the different collections 
 of hamlets toiling and moiling, and paying their rents every 
 gale day. It was said that some ancestor, whose portrait still 
 existed, had gone to India and come back with the money that 
 had jDurchased the greater part of the property. But, be this 
 as it may, in Galway three generations of landlordism are 
 considered sufficient repentance for shopkeeping in Gort, not 
 to speak of Calcutta. Since then the family history had been 
 stainless. Father and son had in turn put their horses out to 
 grass in AprU, had begun to train them again in August, haij 
 boasted at the Dublin horse-show of having been out cub- 
 hunting, had ridden and drunk hard from the age of twentj 
 to seventy. But, by dying at fifty-iive, the late squire had, 
 deviated slightly from the regular line, and the son and heit 
 being only twelve, a pause had come in the hereditary life 
 of the Goulds. In the interim, however, May had apparently 
 resolved to keep up the traditions so far as her sex was s\ip- 
 posed to allow her. 
 
 They lived in one of those box-like mansions, so many of 
 which were built in Ireland under the Georges. On either 
 
A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 75 
 
 side trees had been planted, and they stretched to the right 
 and left like the wings of a theatre. In front there was a 
 green lawn, at the back » sloppy stableyard. The latter was 
 May's especial delight, and when Mr. Scully was with them 
 it seemed impossible to induce her to leave it. Frequently 
 this young man rode over to Beechgrove, and towards the 
 end of the afternoon it became easy to persuade him to stay 
 to dinner. Then, as the night darkened and the rain began 
 to fall, the inhospitality of turning him out was insisted on 
 by ]\Iay, and Mrs. Gould sent up word that a room was to be 
 prepared for him. Next morning he sent home for a change 
 of things, and thus it was not infrequent for him to protract- 
 his visit to the extent of three or four days. 
 
 His great friend, Mrs. Llanly — a lady who had jumped 
 five feet, four months before the birth of her sixth chUd — 
 had said that his was a " wasted life," and the plirase, 
 summing up what most people thought of him, gained 
 currency, and was now generally used whenever his conduct 
 was criticised or impeached. After having been in London, 
 where he spent some years in certaia vague employments, 
 and having contracted as much debt as his creditors would 
 permit, and more than his father would pay, he had gone 
 through the Bankruptcy Court, and returned home to wearily 
 drag through life, through days and weeks so appallingly idle, 
 that he often feared to get out of bed in the morning. At 
 first his father had tried to make use of him in his agency 
 business, and it was principally owing to Mr. Tred's bullying 
 and insolent manners that Mr. Scully was now unable to leave 
 his house unless accompanied by police. 
 
 Fred was about thirty years of age. His legs were long, 
 his hands were bony, and stableyard was written in capital 
 letters on his face. He carried a Sportsman under his arm, 
 a penny and a half-crown jingled in his pocket; and as 
 he walked he lashed the trousers and boots, whose elegancj 
 wa,s an echo of the old Regent Street days, with an ash- 
 plant. 
 
 Such was the physiology of this being; from it the 
 psychology is easy to surmise : a complete powerlessness to 
 understand that there was an3rthing in life worth seeking 
 except pleasure— and pleasure to Fred meant horses, women, 
 eating — beyond these three gratifications he neither thought, 
 felt, nor saw. Of earthly honour the greatest was to be well- 
 
76 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 known in an English hunting-county, and he was not averse 
 to speaking of certain ladies of title, with whom he had 
 been on intimate terms, and with whom, it was said, he cor- 
 responded. On occasions he would read or recite poems, 
 cut from the pages of the Society Journals, to his lady 
 friends. 
 
 May, however, saw nothing but the outside. The already 
 peeling-ofT varnish of a few years of London life satisfied her. 
 Given a certain versatility in turning a complimentary phrase, 
 the abundant ease with which he explained, not his ideas, 
 for he had none, but his tastes, which, although few, were 
 pronounced, add to these the remnant of fashion that still 
 lingered in his wardrobe — scarfs from the Burlington Arcade, 
 scent from Bond Street, cracked patent-leather shoes and 
 mended silk stockings — and it will be understood how May 
 built something that did duty for an ideal out of this broken- 
 down swell. 
 
 She was a girl of violent blood, and, excited by the large air 
 of the hunting-field, she followed Fred's lead fearlessly : to feel 
 the life of the horse throbbing underneath her, passioned and 
 fevered her flesh until her mental exaltation reached the rush- 
 ing of delirium. Then his evening agreeabiLities fascinated 
 her, and, as he leaned back smoking in the dining-room arm- 
 chair, his patent-leather shoes propped up against the mantel- 
 piece, he showed her glimpses of a wider world than she knew 
 of — and the girl's eyes softened as she listened to his accounts 
 of the great life he had led, the county-houses he had visited, 
 and the legendary runs he had held his own in. She 
 sympathised with him when he explained how hardly fate had 
 dealt with him in not giving him £'5,000 a year, to be spent, 
 not in this God-forsaken country, but in London and North- 
 amptonshire. Both were sensualists, if you will. The girl was 
 now ruled by her appetites because she was young, strong, and 
 nealthy; but there was a higher nature underneath, which 
 might assert itself when the first j-ears of passionate youth 
 were done. With the man, however, it was different. He 
 was a sensualist because his nature was idle, gross, vulgar, 
 selfish. For him no redemption was possible. He would 
 dissipate to the end, descending yearly in the social scale. 
 
 After breakfast, he began to chatter. He cursed Ireland 
 as the most hideous hole under the sun ; he frightened Mrs. 
 Gould by reiterated assurances that the Land League would 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 77 
 
 leave them all beggars ; and, having established this point, he 
 proceeded to develop his plan for buying young horses, 
 training them, and disposing of them in the English market. 
 Eventually he dismissed his audience by taking up the news- 
 paper and falling asleep with the stump of a burned-out 
 cigarette between his lips. Nothing more was heard of him 
 for an hour ; then he was seen slouching through the laurels 
 on his way to the stables. From the kitchen and the larder — ■ 
 where the gu'ls were immersed in calculations anent the 
 number of hams, tongues, and sirloins of beef that would be 
 required — he could be seen passing ; and as May stood on no 
 ceremony with Alice, whistling to her dogs, and sticking 
 both hands into the pockets of her blue dress, she rushed 
 after him, the mud of the yard oozing through the loose, 
 broken boots which she insisted on wearing. Behind the 
 stables there was a small field that had lately been converted 
 into an exercise-ground, and there the two would stand for 
 hours, watching a couple of goat-like colts, mounted by 
 country lads — stUl in corduroy and hobnails — walking round 
 and round. 
 
 Mrs. Gould was clearly troubled by this very plain conduct. 
 Once or twice she allowed a word of regret to escape her, and 
 Alice could see that she lived in awe of her daughter. And 
 May, there was no doubt, was a little lawless when Fred w;is 
 about her skirts ; but when he was gone she returned to her 
 old, glad, affectionate ways. 
 
 Then unease, suspicion, dread, vanished, and were replaced 
 by confidence and all the amenities of country-life. The girls 
 delighted in each other's society, and the arrangements for 
 their ball were to them a continual occupation. The number 
 of letters that had to be written was endless. Sitting at 
 either end of the table in the drawing-room, their pens 
 scratched and their tongues rattled together ; and, penetrated 
 with the intimacy of home, all kinds of stories were told, and 
 the whole country was passed in review. 
 
 " And do you know," said May, raising her eyes from the 
 letter she was writing, "when this affair was first started 
 mamma was afraid to go in for it ; she said we'd find it hard 
 to hunt up fifty spinsters in Galway." 
 
 " I said fifty who would subscribe — a very different thing 
 indeed." 
 
 Oh, no you didn't, mamma ; you said there weren't fifty 
 
78 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 spinsters in Galway — a jolly lucky thing it would be if there 
 weren't ; wouldn't it, Alice ? " 
 
 Heedless of the conversation, Alice was busy trying to dis- 
 entangle a diiEcult sentence. Her startled face made May 
 laugh. 
 
 " It isn't cheering, is it ? " 
 
 " I did not hear what you were saying,'' she answered, a 
 little vexed at being misunderstood. " But fifty, surely, is a 
 great number j are there so many unmarried women in 
 Galway 2 " 
 
 " I should think there are,'' replied May, as if glorying in 
 the fact. " Who are there down your side of the country ? 
 Let's count. To begin with, there are the Brennans — there 
 are three of them, and all three are out of the running, 
 distanced." 
 
 "Now, May, how can you talk like that? " said Mrs. Gould, 
 and she pulled up her skirt so that she could roast her fat 
 thick legs more comfoitably before the fire. There being no 
 man present, she undid a button or two of her dress. 
 
 " You said so yourself the other day, mother." 
 
 " No, I didn't, May, and I wish you wouldn't vex me. What 
 I say I stand by, and I merely wondered why gMs with good 
 fortunes like the Brennans didn't get married." 
 
 " You said the fact was there was on one to marry." 
 
 " May, I will not allow you to contradict me ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Gould ; and she grew purple to the roots of her white 
 hair. "I said that the Brennans looked too high, that they 
 wanted gentlemen, eldest sons of county families, if you ■ 
 please ; that if they had been content to marry in their own 
 position of life they would have been married long ago." 
 
 " Well, mother dear, there's no use being angry about it ; 
 let the thing pass. You know the Brennans, Alice ; they are 
 neighbours of yours." 
 
 " Yes, Cecilia and I walked over to see them the other day ; 
 we had tea with them." 
 
 "Their great hunting-ground is the Shelbourne Hotel — 
 they take it in turns, a couple of them go up every six 
 months." 
 
 " How can you say such things. May ? I will not allow it." 
 
 "I say it! I know nothing about it. I have only just 
 come back from school ; it is you who tell me these thiugs 
 when we are sittina; here alone of an evening." 
 
A dhama in muslin. 79 
 
 Mrs. Gould's face again became purple, and vehemently slie 
 protested : " I shall leave the room, May. I will not stand it 
 one moment longer. I can't think how it is you dare speak 
 to me in that way ; and, what is worse, attribute to me such 
 ill-natured remarks." 
 
 "Now, mother dear, don't bother, perhaps I did ex- 
 aggerate. I am, very sorry. But, there's a dear, sit down 
 ind we won't say any more about it." 
 
 " You do annoy one so. May, and I believe you do it on 
 purpose. You know exactly what will be disagreeable to say, 
 Knd you say it," replied Mrs. Gould ; and she raised her skirt 
 BO as to let the heat of the fire into her petticoats. 
 
 " Thank God that's over," May whispered to Alice; "but 
 what were we talking about ? " 
 
 " I think you were making out a list of the Galway 
 spinsters," said Alice, who could not help feeling a little 
 amused, notwithstanding the gravity of the situation. 
 
 " So we were," cried May ; " we were speaking of the 
 Brennans. Do you know their friends the Dufiys? There 
 are five of them. That's a nice little covey of love-birds ; I 
 don't think they would fly away if they saw a sportsman 
 coming into the field." 
 
 " I never heard a girl talk like that," murmured Mrs. 
 Gould, without raising her face from the fire, " that wasn't 
 punished for it. Perhaps, my lady, you will find it hard 
 enough to suit yourself. Wait until you have done two or 
 three Castle seasons. "We'll see how you'll speak then." 
 
 Without paying any attention to these maternal fore- 
 bodings. May continued : 
 
 " Then there are Lord Eosshill's seven daughters ; they are 
 all maidens, and are likely to remain so." 
 
 " Are they all unmarried ? " asked Alice. 
 
 " Of com-se they are 1 " exclaimed Mrs. Gould ; " how could 
 they be anything else ? Did they not want all to marry people 
 in their father's position ? and that was not possible. There 
 are seven Honourable Miss Gores, and one Lord Eosshill^ 
 so they all remained in single blessedness." 
 
 " Who's making ill-natui-ed remarks now 1 " exclaimed May 
 triumphantly. 
 
 " I am not making iU-natured remarks ; I am only saying 
 what's true. My advice to young girls is that they should bo 
 glad to have those who will take them. If they can't make a 
 
80 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 good marriage let them make a bad marriage ; • for, believe me, 
 it is far better to be minding your own children than your 
 sister's or your brother's children. And I can assure you, in 
 these days of competition, it is no easy matter to get settled." 
 
 " It is the same now as ever it was, and there are plenty 
 of nice young men. It does not prove, because a whole lot 
 of old sticks of things can't get married, that I shan't." 
 
 "I didn't say you wouldn't get married. May; I am sure 
 that any man would be only too glad to have you ; but what 
 I say is that these grand matches that girls dream of are not 
 possible nowadays. Nice young men 1 I daresay ; there are 
 lots of them, I know them ; young scamps without a shilling, 
 who amuse themselves with a girl until they are tired of her, 
 and then, off they go. Now, then, let's count up the good 
 matches that are going in the county " 
 
 At this moment the servant was heard at the door bringing 
 in the tea. 
 
 " Oh ! bother ! " exclaimed Mrs. Gould, settling her dress 
 hurriedly. The interval was full of secret irritation ; and 
 passionately the three woman watched the methodical butler 
 place the urn on the table, turn up the lamp that was 
 burning low, and bring chairs forward from the furthest 
 corners. It seemed to them that he would never leave the 
 room. 
 
 " On your side of the county," said Mrs. Gould, as soon as 
 the door was closed, " there is our brace of baronets, as they 
 are called. But poor Sir Richard — I am afraid he is a bad 
 case — and yet he never took to drink until he was five-and- 
 thirty; and as for Sir Charles — of course there are great 
 advantages, he has a very fine property ; but still many girls 
 might — and I can quite understand their not liking to marry 
 him." 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Gould, what is wrong with him ? " Alice 
 asked, innocently. 
 
 "Don't you know?" said May, winking. "Haven't you 
 heard ? But I forgot, he isn't your side of the county. He's 
 married already ; at least, so they say." 
 
 " It is very sad, very sad, indeed," murmured Mrs. Gould, 
 ' he'd have been a great match." 
 
 " And to whom is he married ? " said Alice, whose curiosity 
 w.os awakened by the air of mystery with which the baronot 
 was surrounded. 
 
A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 81 
 
 " "Well, he's not exactly married," replied May, laughing, 
 " but he has a large family." 
 
 " May, I -will not allow it ; it is very wrong of you, indeed, 
 to talk like that " 
 
 " Now, mother dear, don't get into a passion ; where's the 
 harm? The whole country knows it ; Violet was talking of it 
 to me only the other day. There isn't a man within a mile 
 of us, so we needn't be on our Ps and Qs." 
 
 Alice looked up surprised. "Was a woman's modesty nothing 
 more than a veil of ignorance which she drew down her face 
 when a man appeared in sight ? It had not struck her quite 
 in this light before. 
 
 " And who is the mother of all these children ? " she asked, 
 determinedly. 
 
 " A country-woman with whom he lives,'' said May. " Just 
 fancy marrying a man with a little dirty crowd of illegitimate 
 children running about the stableyard ! " 
 
 " The usual thing in such cases is to emigrate them,'' said 
 IMrs. Gould, philosophically j and she again distended herself 
 before the fire. 
 
 " Emigrate them 1 " cried May ; " if he emigrated them to 
 the moon, I wouldn't marry such a man ; would you, Alice 1 " 
 
 "I certainly would not like to," replied the girl; and her 
 sense of humour being now tickled by the conversation, she 
 added slyly, " but you were counting up the good matches in 
 the county." 
 
 " Ah 1 so we were," said the old lady ; " well, there is Mr. 
 Adair. I am sure no girl would wish for a better husband." 
 
 " Oh, the old frump ! why he must be forty if he's a day. 
 You remember, Alice, it was he who took me down to dinner 
 at Lord Dungory's. He precious near killed me with his 
 pamphlet on the Amalgamation of the Unions, which was 
 then in the hands of the printer ; and the other, in which he 
 had pulled Mr. Parnell's ears, " Ireland under the Land 
 League," and the series of letters he was thinking of contri- 
 buting to the Irish Times on high-farming versus peasant- 
 proprietors. I shall never forget him. Just fancy, Alice, 
 living with such a man as that ! " 
 
 " "Well, I don't know what you girls think," said Mrs. 
 Gould, whose opinions were moods of mind rather than con- 
 victions ; " but I assure you he passes for being the cleverest 
 man in the county; and it is said that Gladstone is only 
 
82 A DKA5IA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 ■waiting to give him a cLance. But, as you like ; he won't do, 
 so let him pass. Then there is Mr. Ryan, he ought to be 
 well off; he farms thousands of acres." 
 
 " Oh ! you might as well marry a herd at once. Did you 
 ever hear what he once said to a lady at a ball ; you know, 
 about the docket ? " 
 
 Alice said that she had heard the story, and the conversa- 
 tion turned on Mr. Lynch. Mrs. Gould admitted that he was 
 the worse of the two. 
 
 " He smells so dreadfully of whiskey," said Alice, timidly. 
 
 " Ah ! you see she is coming out of her shell at last," 
 exclaimed May. " I saw you weren't having a very good time 
 of it when he took you down to dinner at Dungory Castle. I 
 wonder they were asked. Fred told me that he had never 
 heard of their having been there before." 
 
 " It is very difEicult to make up a number sometimes," sug- 
 gested Mrs. Gould ; " but they are certainly very coarse. I 
 hear, when Mr. Ryan and Mr. LjTich go to fairs, that they 
 sleep with their herdsman, and in Mayo there is a bachelor's 
 house where they have fine times — whiskey- drinking and 
 dancing until three o'clock in the mornincf." 
 
 " And where do the ladies come from, May ? " asked Alice ; 
 for she now looked on the gud as an inexhaustible fund of in- 
 formation. 
 
 " Plenty of ladies in the village,'' replied Mrs. Gould, rubbing 
 her shins complacently ; " that's what I used to hear of in my 
 day, and I believe the custom is not even yet quite extinct." 
 
 " And are there no other beaux in the county? Does that 
 exhaust the list ? " 
 
 "Oh! no; but there's something against them all. There 
 are a few landlords who live away, and whom nobody knows 
 anything of. Then there are some boys at school; but 
 they are too young ; there is Mr. Eeed, the dispensary doctor. 
 ^Ir. Burke has only two hundred a year; but if his brother 
 were to die he would be the Marquis of Kilcarney. He'd be 
 II, great match then, in point of position ; but I hear the estates 
 aie teriibly encumbered." 
 
 " Has the present Marquis no children ? " said Alice. 
 
 " He's not married," said Mrs. Gould ; " he's a confirmed old 
 bachelor. Just fancy, there's twenty years between the 
 brothers. I remember, in old times, the present Marquis used 
 to be the groat beau at the Castle. Oh ! wasn't he hunted i I 
 
A DItAMA IN MUSLl:f. 83 
 
 don't believe there was a girl in Dublin who didn't have a try 
 at him. Then who else is there ? I suppose I daren't mention 
 the name of Mr. Fred Scully or May will fly at me." 
 
 "No, mother dear, I won't fly at you; but what is the use 
 of abusing Fred ? — we have known him all our lives. If he has 
 spent his money he has done no worse than a hundred other 
 young men. I know I can't marry him, and I am not in love 
 with him ; but I must amuse myself with something. I can't 
 sit here all day listening to you lamenting over the Land 
 League ; and, after a certain number of hours, conjecturing 
 whether Mickey Moran will or will not pay his rent becomes 
 monotonous." 
 
 " Now don't vex me. May ; for I won't stand it," said Mrs. 
 Gould, getting angry. " When you ask me for a new dress 
 j'ou don't think of what you are saying now. It was only the 
 other day you were speaking to me of refurnishing this room. 
 I should liie to know how that's to be done if there was no 
 one to look after Mickey Moran's rent ? " 
 
 It was a large, dull room, where the emaciated forms of 
 narrow, antique sofas were seen dimly in the musty-smelling 
 twilight. Screens worked in hideous red and green wools 
 stood in the vicinity of the fireplace, the walls were lined with 
 dismal pictures in the style of Poussin, and the floor, hidden in 
 dark shadow and sunken in places, conveyed an instant idea of 
 damp and mildew. 
 
 " I think that something ought to be done," said May. 
 " Just look at these limp curtains ! Did you ever see anything 
 so dreary ? Are they brown, or red, or chocolate ? " 
 
 " They satisfied your betters," said Mrs. Gould, as she 
 lighted her bedroom -candle. "Goodness me!" she added, 
 glancing at the gilt clock that stood on the high, stucco, white- 
 painted chimney-piece, amid a profusion of jingling glass can- 
 dekbra, "it is really half -past twelve o'clock ! " 
 
 " Gracious me ! there's another evening wasted ; we must 
 really try and be more industrious. It is too late to do any- 
 thing further to-night," said May. " Come on, Alice, it is 
 tiiiie to go to bed." 
 
 During the whole of the next week, until the very night of 
 the ball, the girls hadn't a moment they could call their own. 
 It was impossible to say how time went. There were so 
 many things to think of — to remind each other of. Nobody 
 knew what they had done last, or what they should do next. 
 
84 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 The principle on which the ball had been arranged was this : 
 the forty-five spinsters who had agreed to bear the expense, 
 which it was guaranteed would not exceed £3 10s. apiece, 
 were supplied each with five tickets to be distributed among 
 their friends. To save money, the supper had been provided 
 by the Goulds and Manlys, and day after day the rich smells 
 of roast-beef and the salt vapours of boiling hams trailed 
 along the passages, and ascended through the bannisters of the 
 staircases in Beech Grove and Manly Park. Fifty chickens 
 had been killed ; presents of woodcock and snipe were received 
 from all sides ; salmon had arrived from Galway ; cases of 
 cliampagne from Dublin. As a, wit said, " Circe has prepared 
 a banquet and is calling us in." 
 
 Alter much hesitation, a grammar-school, built by an enter- 
 prising landlord for an inappreciative population that had 
 declined to support it, was selected as the most suitable loca- 
 tion for the festivities. It lay about a mile from the town, 
 and this was in itself an advantage. To the decoration of the 
 rooms May and Fred diligently applied themselves. Off they 
 went every morning, the carriage filled with yards of red cloth, 
 branches of evergreen, oak and holly, flags and Chinese 
 lanterns. You see them : Fred mounted on a high ladder. 
 May and the maid striving to hand him a long garland which 
 is to be hung between the windows. You see them, leaning 
 over the counter of a hardware-shop, explaining how oblong 
 and semicircular pieces of tin are to be provided with places 
 for candles (the illumination of the room had remained an un- 
 solved problem until ingenious Fred had hit upon this plan) ; 
 you see them running up the narrow staircases, losing them 
 selves in the twisty passages, calling for the housekeeper ; you 
 see them trying to decide which is the gentlemen's cloakroom, 
 which the ladies', and wondering if they will be able to hire 
 enough furniture in the town to arrange a sitting-room for the 
 clmperons. 
 
 As May said, " We shall have them hanging about our heels 
 the whole evening if we don't try to make them comfortable." 
 
 At last the evening of the ball arrived, and, as the clocks 
 ^^•ere striking eight, dressed and ready to start, Alice knocked 
 at May's door. 
 
 " What ! dressed already? " said May, as she leaned towards 
 the glass, illuminated on either side with wax-candles, and 
 looked into the whiteness of her bosom. She wore a costume 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 85 
 
 of Prussian-blue velvet and silk ; the bodice (entirely of 
 velvet) was pointed back and front, and a berthe of moresque 
 lace softened the contrast between it and the cream tints of 
 the skin. These and the flame-coloured hair were the spirits 
 of the shadowy bedchamber ; whereas Alice, in her white 
 corded-silk, her clear candid eyes, was the truer Madonna 
 whose ancient and inferior prototype stood on her bracket in 
 a forgotten corner. 
 
 " Oh ! how nice you look 1 " exclaimed May ; " I don't think 
 I ever saw anyone look so pure." 
 
 Alice smUed ; and, interpreting the smile, May said : 
 " I am afraid you don't think so much of me." 
 " I am sure, May, you look very nice indeed, and just as 
 you would like to look.' 
 
 To May's excitable mind it was not dii£cult to suggest a 
 new train of thought, and she immediately proceeded to 
 explain why she had chosen her present dress. 
 
 " I knew that you, and Olive, and Violet, and Lord knows 
 how many others would be in white, and, as we shall all have 
 to wear white at the drawing-room, I thought I would appear 
 in this. But isn't the whole thing delightful ? I am engaged 
 already for several dances, and I have been practising the 
 step all day with Fred." Then, singing to herself, she 
 waltzed in front of the glass at the immediate risk of falling 
 into the bath. 
 
 •* Five-and-forty spinsters baked in a pie I 
 When the pie was opened the maids began to sing. 
 Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the King ? " 
 
 " Oh 1 dear, there's my garter coming down ! " and, dropping 
 on to the sofa, the girl hitched up the treacherous article of 
 dress. " And tell me what you think of my legs," she said, 
 advancing a pair of stately calves. " Violet says they are too 
 large." 
 
 "They seem to me to be all right; but. May dear, you 
 haven't got a petticoat on." 
 
 "You can't wear petticoats with these tight dresses ; one 
 can't move one's legs as it is." 
 
 " But don't you think you'll feel cold — catch cold ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it ; no danger of cold when you have 
 shammy-leather drawers." 
 
 Then, overcome by her exuberant feelings, May began to 
 
86 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 sing: " Five-and-forty spinsters balied in a pie," etc. " Five- 
 iind-forty," she said, breaking ofT, " have subscribed. I 
 wonder how many will be married by this time next year. 
 You know, I shouldn't care to be married all at once ; I'd 
 ■want to see the world a bit first. Even if I liked a man, I 
 shouldn't care to marry him now ; time enough in about three 
 years' time, when one is beginning to get tired of flirtations 
 and parties. I have often wondered what it must be like. 
 Just fancy waking up and seeing a man's face on the pillow, 
 or for — — " 
 
 " No, no. May ; I will not ; you must not. I will not 
 listen to these improper conversations ! " 
 
 " Now, don't get angry, there's a dear, nice ghi ; you are 
 worse than Violet, 'pon my word you are ; but we must be 
 oli'. It is a good half -hour's drive, and we shall want to bo 
 there before nine. The people wUl begin to come in about 
 that time." 
 
 Mrs. Gould was asleep in the drawing-room, and, as they 
 awoke her, the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel out- 
 side. The three women followed each other into the carriage. 
 Lilotted out in a far corner, Mrs. Gould thought vaguely of 
 asking May not to dance more than three times with Fred 
 Scully, and May chattered to Alice or looked impatiently 
 through the misted windows for the familiar signs ; the shadow 
 of a tree on the sky, or the obscure outline of a farm-building 
 that would teU. how near they were to their destination. 
 Suddenly the carriage tui-ned to the right, and entered a sort 
 of crescent. There were hedges on both sides, through which 
 vague forms were seen scrambling, but May humorously 
 explained that as no very unpopular landlord was going to 
 be present, it was not thought that an attempt would bo 
 made to blow up the building : and, conscious of the beautif al 
 night which hung like a blue mysterious flower above them, 
 they passed through a narrow doorway draped with red- 
 stiiped canvas. IMay called upon her mother to admire the 
 decorations and approve of the different arrangements. 
 
 The school-hall and refectory had been transformed into 
 ball and supper rooms, and the narrow passages intervening 
 were hung with red cloth and green garlands of oak and holly. 
 On crossing threads Chinese lanterns were wafted luminously, 
 
 " What taste Fred has 1 " said May, pointing to the huge 
 arrangement that covered the cud wall. "And haven't my 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 87 
 
 tin candelabra turned out a success ? There will be no grease, 
 and the room couldn't be better lighted." 
 
 " But look ! " said Alice, " look at all those poor people 
 staring in at the window. Isn't it dreadful that they, in the 
 dark and cold, should be watching us dancing in our beautiful 
 dresses, and in our warm bright room ? " 
 
 " You don't want to ask them in, do j'ou 1 " 
 
 " Of course not, but it seems very sinister ; does it not seem 
 so to you ? " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by its being sinister ; but 
 sinister or not sinister, it couldn't be helped ; for if we had 
 nailed up every window we should have simply died of heat." 
 
 '•'I hope you won't think of opening the windows too 
 soon," said Mrs. Gould. "You must think of us poor 
 chaperons, who will be sitting still all night." 
 
 Then, in the gaping silence, the three ladies listened to the 
 melancholy harper, and the lachrymose fiddlers who, on the 
 estrade in the far corner, sat tuning their instruments. At 
 last the people began to come in. The first were a few stray 
 black-coats, then feminine voices were heard in the passages, 
 and necks and arms, green toilettes and white satin shoes, 
 were seen passing and taking seats. Two Miss Duffys, the 
 fattest of the four, were with their famous sister Bertha. 
 Bertha was rarely seen in Galway ; she lived with an aunt in 
 Dublin, where her terrible tongue was dreaded by the 
 debutantes at the Castle. Now, in a yellow dress as loud and 
 as hard as her voice, she stood explaining that she had come 
 down expressly for the ball. Opposite, the Honourable Miss 
 Gores made a group of five ; and a few men who preferred 
 consideration to amusement made their way towards them. 
 The Brennans— Gladys and Zoe — as soon as they saw Alice, 
 asked after Lord Dungory ; and all the girls were anxious to 
 see Violet. 
 
 Hers was the charm of an infinite fragility. The bosom, 
 whose curves were so faint that they were epicene, was set in 
 a bodice of white brocM, joining a skirt of white satin, with an 
 overskirt of tulle, and the only touch of colour was a bunch 
 of pink and white azaleas worn on the left-shoulder. And how 
 irresistibly suggestive of an Indian carved ivory were the wee 
 foot, the thin arm, the slender cheek ! 
 
 "How sweet you look, Violet," said Alice, with frank 
 admii'ation in her eyes. 
 
88 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Tlaanks for saying so ; 'tisn't often we girls pay each other 
 compliments ; but you, you do look ever so nice in that white 
 silk. It becomes j''ou perfectly." 
 
 In a few moments they were talking of the nuns they 
 had so lately quitted. Violet had spoken also of the little 
 play, " King Cophetua," and of her desire to act in theatricals ; 
 but she could not keep her attention fixed, and she said 
 abruptly : 
 
 "Do you see Mr. Burke over there? If his brother died 
 he would be a marquis. Do you know him ? " 
 
 " Yes, I met him at dinner at Dungory Castle." 
 
 " "Well, introduce him to me if you get a chance." 
 
 " I am afraid you will find him stupid." 
 
 " Oh ! that doesn't matter ; 'tis good form to be seen 
 dancing with an Honourable. Do you know many men in 
 the room ? " 
 
 Alice admitted she knew no one, and, lapsing into silence, 
 the gir-ls scanned the ranks for possible partners. Poor Sir 
 Eichard, already very drunk, his necktie twisted under his 
 right-ear, was vainly attempting to say something to those 
 whom he knew, or fancied he knew. Sir Charles, forgetful 
 of the family at home, was flirting with a young girl whose 
 mother was probably formulating the details of a new emi- 
 gration scheme. Dirty Mr. Ryan, his hands thrust deep into 
 the pockets of his baggy trousers, whispered words of counsel 
 to Mr. Lynch : a rumour had gone abroad that Captain 
 Hibbert was going to hunt that season in Galway, and would 
 want a couple of horses. Mr. Adair was making grotesque 
 attempts to talk to a lady of dancing. On every side voices 
 were heard speaking of the distances they had achieved : some 
 had driven twenty, some thirty mUes. 
 
 Already the first notes of the waltz had been shrieked out 
 by the fiddle, and Mr. Fred Scully, with May's red tresses on 
 his shoulder, was about to start, when Mrs. Barton and Olive 
 entered. She was in white silk, so tightly drawn back that 
 every line of her supple thighs, and every plumpness of the 
 superb haunches was seen ; and the double garland of 
 geraniums that encircled the tulle veiling seemed like flowers 
 of blood scattered on virgin snow. Iler beauty imposed 
 admu'ation ; and, murmuring assent, the dancers involuntarily 
 drew into lines, and this pale uncoloured loveliness, her high 
 nose seen, and her silly laugh heard, by the side of her shaip 
 
A DHAMA IN MUSLIN. 89 
 
 bl■o^^^l-eyed mother, passed down the room. Lord Dungory 
 and Lord Eosshill advanced to meet them ; a moment after 
 Captain Hibbert and Mr. Burke came up to ask for dances ; 
 a waltz was accorded to each. The triumph was complete. 
 Such was the picture that a circling crowd of black-coats 
 instantly absorbed ; the violinist scraped, and the harper 
 twanged intermittently ; a band of f oxhunters arrived ; girls 
 had been chosen, and in the small space of floor that re- 
 mained the white skirts and red tail coats passed and repassed, 
 borne along by the indomitable rhythm of Strauss. 
 
 An hour passed : perspiration had begun to loosen the 
 work of the curling-tongs ; dust bad thickened the voices, but 
 the joy of exercise was in every head and limb. A couple 
 would rush off for a cup of tea, or an ice, and then, pale and 
 breathless, return to the fray. Mrs. Manly was the gayest. 
 Pushing her children out of her skirts, she called upon 
 May: 
 
 "Now then. May, have you got a partner? We are going 
 to have a real romp — we are going to have Kitchen Lancers. 
 I'll undertake to see everybody through them." 
 
 A select few, by signs, winks, and natural instinct, were 
 drawn towards this convivial circle ; but, notwithstanding all 
 her efforts to make herself understood, Mrs. Manly was sadly 
 hampered by the presence of a tub-like old lady who, with a 
 small boy, was seeking a vis-ct-vis. 
 
 " My dear May, we can't have her here, we are going to 
 romp, anyone can see that. TeU her we are going to dance 
 Kitchen Lancers." 
 
 But the old lady could not be made to understand, and it 
 was with difficulty that she was disentangled from the sixteen. 
 At that moment the appearance of a waiter with a telegi-am 
 caused the dancers to pause. Mr. Burke's name was 
 whispered in front of the messenger ; but he who, until that 
 evening, had been Mr. Burke, was now the Marquis of 
 Kil(;arney. The smiling mouth drooped to an expression of 
 fear as he tore open the envelope. One glance was enough ; 
 he looked about the room like one dazed j then, as his eyes 
 fell upon the vague faces seen looking thro\igh the wet 
 November pane, he muttered. " Oh ! you brutes I you brutes 1 
 so you have shot my brother ! " 
 
 Unchecked, the harper twanged and the fiddler scraped 
 out the tune of theii' lancers. Few really knew what Lad 
 
90 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 happened, and the newly-made marquis had to fight his way 
 through women who, in skin-tight Ji'ssses, danced with 
 wantoning movements of the hips, and threw themselves 
 into the arms of men to be, in true kitchen-fashion, whirled 
 round and round with prodigious violence. 
 
 Nevertheless, Lord Dungory and Lord Eosshill could not 
 conceal their annoyance ; both felt keenly that they had com- 
 promised themselves by remaining in the room after the news 
 of so dreadful a catastrophe. But, as Mrs, Barton was anxious 
 that her daughter's success should not be interfered with, 
 nothing could be done but to express sympathy in appro- 
 priate words. Nobody, Lord Dungory declared, could regi'et 
 the dastardly outrage that had been committed more than he. 
 He had kno-\vn Lord Kilcarney many years, and he had always 
 found him a man whom no one could fail to esteem. The 
 earldom was one of the oldest in Ireland, but the marquisato 
 did not go back further than the last few years. Beaconsfield 
 had given him a step in the peerage ; no one knew why. 
 Most curious man — most retu-ing — hated society. Then Lord 
 Rosshill related an anecdote concerning an enormous water- 
 jump that he and Lord Kilcarney had taken together ; and he 
 also spoke of the late Marquis's aversion to matrimony, and 
 hinted that he had once refused a match which would have 
 relieved the estates of all debt. But he could not be per- 
 suaded ; indeed, he had never been kno^\'n to pay any woman 
 the slightest attention. 
 
 " It is to be hoped the present Marquis won't prove so 
 difficult to please," said Mrs. Cxould. The rem.ark was an un- 
 fortunate one, and the chaperons present resented this viola- 
 tion of their secret thoughts. Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Scully 
 suddenly withdrew their eyes, which till then had been gently 
 following their daughters through the figures of the dance, 
 and, forgetting what they foresaw would be the cause of future 
 enmity, united in condemning JMrs. Gould. Obeying a glance 
 of the Lady Hamilton eyes, Lord Dungory said : 
 
 " On cherche I'amour dans lea boudoirs, non pas dans hs 
 cimetieres, madame." Then he added (but this time only for 
 the private ear of Mrs. Barton) : " La mer ne rend passes marts, 
 niais la tombe noiis donne souvent les ecussoiis." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed Mrs. Barton, " ce Milord, il trouve 
 Vesprit partout ; " and her light coaxing laugh dissipated this 
 
A DHAMA IN MUSLIN. 01 
 
 And Alice ? Although conscious of her deficiency in the 
 trois temps, determined not to give in without an effort, she 
 had allowed May to introduce her to a couple of oificers ; but 
 to execute the step she knew theoretically, or to talk to her 
 partner when he had dragged her, breathless, out of the bump- 
 ing dances, she found to be equally impossible. Too clearly 
 did she see that he thovight her a plain girl, too keenly did 
 she feel that, knowing nothing of hunting or of London 
 theatres, and having read only one book of Ouida's, it would 
 be vain for her to hope to interest him. An impassable gulf 
 ya%vned between his ideas and hers. Yet everyone else seemed 
 happy as building birds. Behind screens, under staircases, at 
 the end of dark passages, there were cooing couples. Girls 
 she had known at St. Leonards as incapable of learning, or 
 even understanding the simplest lessons, seemed suddenly to 
 have grown bright, clever, agreeable — capable, in a word, of 
 fulfilling that only duty which falls to the lot of women : of 
 amusing men. But she could not do this, and must, there- 
 fore, resign herself to an aimless life of idleness, and be con- 
 tent in a few years to take a place amid the Miss Breunans, 
 the Ladies CuUen, the Miss Dufiys, the Honourable Miss 
 Gores, whom she saw sitting round the walls " waiting to be 
 asked," as did the women in the old Babylonian Templo. 
 
 Such was the attitude of Alice's mind as she sat 
 wearily answering Mrs. Gould's tiresome questions, not 
 daring to approach her mother, who was laughing with 
 Olive, Captain Hibbert, and Lord Dungory. Waltz after 
 waltz had been played, and her ears reeked with their crying 
 strain. One or two men had asked her " if they might have 
 the pleasure ; " but she was determined to try dancing no 
 more, and had refused them. At last, at the earnest request 
 of Mrs. Gould, she had allowed Dr. Eeed to take her in to 
 supper. He was an earnest-eyed, stout, commonplace man, 
 and looked some years over thirty. Alice, however, found she 
 could get on with him better than with her other partners, 
 and when they left the clattering supper-room, where plates 
 were being broken and champagne being drunk by the gallon, 
 sitting on the stairs, he talked to her tOl voices were heard 
 calling for his services. A dancer had been thrown and had 
 broken his leg. Alice saw something carried towards her, and, 
 rushing towards May, Avhom she saw in the doorway, she a.sked 
 for an explanation. 
 
92 A DRAMA IN 1I0SLIN. 
 
 " Oil, nothing, nothing 1 he slipped down — -has broken or 
 sprained his ankle — that's all. Why aren't you dancing ? 
 Greatest fun in the world — just beginning to get noisy — and 
 we are going it. Come on, Fred ; come on ! " 
 
 To the rowdy tune of the Posthorn polka the different 
 couples were dashing to and fro — all a little drunk with 
 emotion and champagne. As if fascinated, the eye followed 
 the shoulders of a tall, florid-faced man. Doing the deux temps, 
 in two or three prodigious jumps he traversed the room. His 
 partner, a tiny creature, looked a crushed bird within the 
 circle of his terrible arm. Like a collier labouring in a heavy 
 sea, a county doctor lurched from side to side, overpowered 
 by the fattest of the Miss DufFys. A thin, trim youth, with 
 bright eyes glancing hither and thither, executed a complex 
 step, and glided with surprising dexterity in and out, and 
 through this rushing mad mass of light toilettes and flying 
 coat-tails. Marks, too, of conflict were visible. Mr. Ryan 
 had lost some portion of his garment in an obscure misunder- 
 standing in the supper-room. All Mr. Lynch's studs had 
 gone, and his shirt was in a precarious state; drunken Su- 
 Richard had not been carried out of the room before strewing 
 the floor with his necktie and fragments of his gloves. But, 
 in the intense excitement, these details were forgotten. The 
 harper twanged still more violently at his strings, the fiddler 
 rasped out the agonising tune more screechingly than ever ; 
 and as the delhium of the dance fevered this horde of well- 
 bred people the desire to exercise their animal force grew 
 irresistible, and they charged, intent on each other's over- 
 throw. In the onset, the vast shoulders and the deux temps 
 were especially successful. One couple had gone down splen- 
 didly before him, another had fallen over the prostrate ones ; 
 and in a moment, in positions more or less recumbent, eight 
 people were on the floor. Fears were expressed for the tight 
 dresses, and Violet had shown more of her thin ankles than 
 was desirable ; but the climax was not reached until a young 
 man, whose unsteady legs forbade him this part of the fun, 
 established himself in a safe corner, and commenced to push 
 the people over as they passed him. This was the signal for 
 the flight of the chaperons. 
 
 "Now come along, Miss Barton," cried Mrs. Barton, catch- 
 ing sight of Alice ; " and will you, Lord Dungory, look after 
 Olive?" Lord Ros.sliill collected the five Honourable Mi^ 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 03 
 
 Goies, the Miss Brennans drew around Mrs. Scully, who, 
 without taking the least notice of them, steered her way. 
 
 And so ended, at least so far as they were concerned, the 
 ball given by the spinsters of the county of Galway. But the 
 real end ? On this subject much curiosity was evinced. 
 
 The secret was kept for a tm-.e, but eventually they learned 
 that, overcome by the recollections of still pleasanter 
 evenings spent under the hospitable roof of the Mayo 
 bachelor, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Lynch and Sir Charles had brought 
 in the maid-servants, and that, with jigs for waltzes, and 
 whiskey for champagne, the gaiety had not been allowed to 
 die until the day was well begun. Bit by bit and fragment 
 by fragment the story was pieced together, and, in the secrecy 
 of their bedrooms, with little smothered fits of laughter, the 
 young ladies told each other how Sir Charles had danced with 
 the big housemaid, how every time he did the cross over 
 he had slapped her on the stomach; and then, with more 
 laughter they related how she had said : " Now don't. Sir 
 Charles, I forbid you to take such liberties." And it also 
 became part of the story that, when they were tired of even 
 such pleasures as these, the gentlemen had gone upstairs to 
 where the poor man with the broken leg was lying, and had, 
 with whiskey and song, relieved his sufferings until the Galwa3- 
 train rolled into Ballinaaloo, 
 
CnAriER VL 
 
 After the ball at Bullinasloe, the county people saw very 
 little of each other. The summer had been prolonged into 
 autumn, but now, for whole days together, the ram came down 
 persistently ; the green pasture-lands seemed as if they were 
 going to be washed into the brown bogs, and the blue of the 
 Clare mountains was rarely seen through the drifting grey 
 of the mists. But the weather rarely prevents Galway from 
 enjoying itself ; there were graver reasons for the seclusion 
 in Avhioh the county lay f)uried. Mr. Forster's Coercion Bill 
 had failed. Seven hundred people, including many members 
 of Parliament, had been thro\vn into prison ; wild arrests 
 were made in every town and village ; but as each fresh ring 
 was cut, like some fabulous dragon, the Land League put 
 forth ten, and in the humid Irish winter it grew in strength, 
 winding itself steadily between the classes, momentarily 
 drawing all within its power. Even hunting had ceased to be 
 talked of. The poisoned covers, the shrieking mobs that bad 
 attended the last meets and had stoned the red horsemen into 
 flight, were gloouiily alluded to ; and the good old days were 
 remembered, with hardly a hope that their like would ever be 
 seen again. 
 
 The air was filled with threats, murder, and rumours of 
 many murdei'S. I^and Ijcague meetings were held in every 
 town, in every village, and rustic orators fearlessly proclaimed 
 the extermination of the ownei-s of the soil. Each post 
 brought letters marked with coffins and crossbones, or almost 
 equally melancholy epistles from agents, declaring that the 
 law was in abeyance, that whole armies of people assem- 
 bled to prevent the bailiffs from serving their notices of 
 eviction. Some of them had been thrown into lakes, others had 
 been dragged out of their beds and shot in the legs, for daring 
 to disregard the occult law that from Seventy -nine to Eighty- 
 si 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 05 
 
 two governed the island. It was a time of darkness and 
 constant alarms. It was by night that prosperous tenants 
 and leaseholders paid their rents ; the reductions that the 
 League demanded often amounted to the entire balance coming 
 to the mortgaged landowners : and they saw themselves 
 deprived of their only means of existence. For how many 
 generations had they lived upon the taxed soil? For how 
 long, when other industries had failed, had they laughed and 
 said : " The fools ! there is nothing lilie the land ; all else 
 fails, but that cannot be taken away." And now they saw 
 that which they had taken to be eternal, vanishing from them 
 even as a vapour. An entire race, a whole caste, saw them- 
 selves driven out of their soft, warm couches of idleness, and 
 forced into the struggle for life. The prospect appalled them ; 
 birds with shorn wings could not gaze more helplessly on the 
 high trees where they had built, as they thought, their nests 
 out of the reach of evil winds. Wliat could they do with their 
 empty brains ? What could they do with their feeble hands 1 
 Like an avenging spirit, America rose above the horizon of 
 theii- vision, and the plunge into its shadowy arms threatened, 
 terrified them now, as it had terrified the famine-stricken 
 peasants of Forty-nine. 
 
 The landlords were divided by conflicting interests. 
 Those whose estates were encumbered with mortgages were 
 for holding out, but the majority, who had debts to meet, 
 found themselves forced to agree to the League's demands ; 
 and, for fear of drawing attention on themselves individual)}', 
 they shrank from meeting in council, and decHned to adopt 
 any common coxn-se of defence. The suddenness of the 
 attack and the unity of the combination took from them all 
 strength to resist ; and, helplessly wailing by their firesides, 
 e\ery morning they read aloud the articles in the Baili/ Express, 
 calling on the Government to pass Coercion Bills, and force 
 the people to pay their just debts. Would the Government 
 come to their assistance 1 This was the qviestion that burned 
 in every brain ; it was the pulse of every hour ; and, with 
 avid eyes, eack fragment of news was read, until at last the 
 interest was reversed, and the leaders of the agitation hailed 
 murder with less delight than the landlords, who now saw 
 in each fresh outrage a means of forcing the Government to 
 protect their jeopardised fortunes. What would Parliament 
 do for them when it met/ was askea unceasingly; and, 
 
96 A DItAMA IN UUSLIS'. 
 
 listening to long lamentations and cries for help, the girls 
 lived wearily. On their young hearts the shadow of calamity 
 fell lightly; and they dreamed unflinchingly of their white 
 dresses, while the island rooked with the roar of five million 
 peasants claiming the right to own the laud that they 
 tilled. 
 
 As elsewhere, life at Brookfield was filled with forebodings. 
 During breakfast Mrs. Barton did not cease to advise her 
 husband as to the course he should pursue with his tenants 
 should they refuse his last ofier of twenty per cent, abate- 
 ment. But, when Milord arrived, the little table was drawn 
 forward, the glass of sherry poured out, and, just as if rents 
 were being punctually paid, white hands were waved, and 
 the coaxing laugh began to dissipate the gloom in which the 
 League usually draped the morning hours. The ancient 
 lovers sat together on the sofa, undisturbed by the reourrmg 
 vision of the four policemen who faced the sweep in front of 
 the house, or the tinkling of Mr. Barton's guitar, which was 
 heard when the servant opened the door to announce that 
 luncheon was ready. 
 
 Olive complained, and she often begged of her mother to 
 leave the country. Mrs. Barton could not do this ; but when 
 Captain Hibbert returned from London she allowed him to 
 continue his flirtation. She did so partly to give Olive an 
 occupation, partly that she might perfect herself in the art of 
 amusing gentlemen — an accomplishment that would be 
 required of her when they met the Lord Kilcarney at the 
 Castle. For Mrs. Barton had decided that her daughter was 
 to be a marchioness ; she did not doubt but the web 
 of love that was being woven would be disentangled without 
 difficulty when the time came ; and Olive sat for hours 
 knitting purses, working embroidered smoking-caps, and 
 lauphing and talking with Barnes. But for Alice there was 
 nothing. On leaving school she had hoped that all jealousies 
 would be lost in the uniting intimacies of home, and that she 
 would live in the assurance of a sister's love. A vain dream ! 
 Worldly necessities and ambitions had torn them u-revocably 
 apart. In the bright summer-days when the country was 
 lovely and sweet with sunshine, when there were visits and 
 tennis-parties, she had only seen the shadow of the dreary 
 truth flitting by her; but now, with its face of implacable 
 horror, it stood ever by her, with its cold eyes starmg into 
 
A DHAMA IN MUSLIN. 97 
 
 her very soul. In the bleak winter noons, sitting with some 
 wearying novel fallen on her knees, listening to the swishing 
 of the long rain, or looking out on the blank snow-laden 
 country, with its sepulchral mountains disappearing in the 
 grey masses of cloud that the evening, like winding-sheets, 
 slowly and silently unrolled, she realised, seeing all along the 
 far-reaching range of consequences, that she was no more 
 than a plain girl, whom no man would care to marry, and who 
 would have to live without any aim or object in life, an ever- 
 increasing burden to her people, an object of derision to her 
 acquaintances. 
 
 For days, for weeks, for months past, aU she had seen or 
 heard had forced the girl to gaze longer and more minutely 
 in the face of this stern fact, and in its ever-varying expres- 
 sion she found new cruelties ; the store seemed to be inex- 
 haustible. She was, above all, alone, terribly alone ; to none 
 could she turn for a look or a word of comfort. Her mother 
 was alien to her in all f eeliags and ideas of things ; her father 
 and sister ? they were very kind, but there was no use in think- 
 ing of them now. She was alone, oh 1 yes, terribly alone. 
 Her heart was a desert ; its solitude a&ighted her, and she 
 cried out in her anguish. Thoughts that scorched, desires she 
 could not control, persecuted her, and so persistently that, at 
 last, they seemad part and parcel of her habitual thought ; and 
 she was shaken with sudden and quick revulsions of feeling. 
 "Was she never to know ? Was this life of weak idleness to 
 continue for ever ? These were the questions that, with a 
 terrible intensity and unintermission of appeal, presented 
 themselves to her mind. 
 
 To-day she had been to see Cecilia, and had come back 
 more tired and pained than ever. The strange, passionate 
 alfection had not soothed, and the ascetic vision of life re- 
 morselessly insisted on by the cripple jarred on Alice's already 
 overstrained feelings, till now, in her brain, fevered with 
 loneliness and tense with natural want of love, there surged 
 backwards and forwards, like a ghastly and unceasing dream, 
 all the terrible allusions she had heard that day made to the 
 long families of unmarried girls in the county, and Cecilia's 
 pessimistic ridicule and sneers at all the joys of life. Cold 
 and weary, she sat watching the night falling over the waste 
 of immaculate snow. 
 
 And pallid even as the snow, the scroll that held her life's 
 
 H 
 
98 A DRAMA IN KUSLIIJ. 
 
 history was unfolded ; and with agonised mind she sti'0\'e to 
 read the decrees of Pate. But through her gazing eyes the 
 plain of virginal snow, fleclied with the cold blue shadows 
 of the trees, sank into her soul, bleaching it of every hope of 
 joy ; and, gathering suggestions from the surroundings, she 
 saw a white path extending before her — a sterile way that she 
 would have to tread — a desolate way, with no songs in its 
 sullen air, but only sad sighs, and only stainless tears, falling, 
 falling, ever falling — falling silently. Grey was the gloom 
 that floated, and overworn were the spectres that passed 
 therein ; and the girl buried her face in her hands, as if to 
 shut out the vision of the journey she would have to go. 
 She foretasted the idleness she would have courageously to 
 drink to the last ; she foresaw the lonely death that would in 
 the end overtake her. Her life was a grey tint, unillumined 
 by lamp of delight or star of duty. She had not been included 
 in the scheme of existence ; there was no end for her to attain, 
 no height for her to climb ; and now, looldng into the future, 
 she could see no issue for the love and energy which throbbed 
 within her. Must it all die? How horrible, how narrow, 
 how indefensible, how unintelligent did the laws that guarded 
 a young girl's life from the living touch of the world appear 
 to her to be ! and, as a prisoner will raise his arms to beat 
 do^vn the walls of his cell, she appealed against them all : 
 " Give me a duty, give me a mission to perform, and I will 
 live ! " she cried despau'ingly ; " but, oh ! save me from this grey 
 dream of idleness !" Then, her thoughts full of obtuse agony, 
 she considered the martj-rdom v.hioh was awaiting tei", and 
 from which no escape seemed possible. The scroll of the years 
 was again uni'olled before her — she saw herself growing old, 
 amid bits of lace, faded flowers, and chattering chaperons. 
 Those were the joys life had reserved for her; her pains 
 would be the languors and irritations of endless idleness, and 
 the sour sneermg of gui acquaintances. She saw herself 
 sitting amid them : the Bronnans, the Dufiys, the Honourable 
 Miss Gores, and hosts of others, all waiting until someone 
 would take pity and ask them to dance. Bor this, and only 
 this, the whole system of their education had been devised. 
 They had been dressed out in a little French, a little music, 
 a little watercolour-painting — for this, and only this : to 
 snigger, to cajole, to chatter to any man who would con- 
 descend to listen to them, and to gladly marry any man who 
 
A DHAKA la MUSLIN. 9ft 
 
 would imdertake to keep tliem. For this, and only this, did 
 the flower-adorned bosoms swell sweetly beneath the laced 
 corsets; for this were the white smiles that greeted the 
 partners approaching; for this were the red laughs that 
 cajoled behind shadowy curtains ; for this were the pretty 
 feet advanced, ^vith the flesh seen through the open work of 
 the stocking ; for this, and only this, was the pleading azure 
 of the adoring eyes. 
 
 And from this awful mummery in muslin there was no 
 escape. It would continue until the comedy became tragedy ; 
 until, with aching hearts and worn faces, they would be forced 
 aside by the crush of the younger generation ; and, looking 
 aghast in the face of their five and thirty years, read there 
 their sentence to die, as they had lived, ignorant of life and 
 its meaning. Oh ! never to know, born never to know, con- 
 demned never to know, t>.o one joy in which gain is forgotten 1 
 was the cry that echoed through the bleakness of the girl's 
 heart. Black was her despair — black as the black cloud that 
 hunted the moon. Passing, it let the white rays splinter; 
 and, in the rapid succession of light and gloom, Alice's 
 thoughts turned, changed, trembled, and were broken. 
 
 Oh ! what a terrible cruelty is a girl's life ! She with a 
 plain face is like a seed fallen upon a rock. There she will 
 remain to perish, while around her the green crop will grow 
 gladly in May and April winds, and ripen to sunmier fulness 
 under July and August suns. She will see her companions 
 becoming brides, and then mothers ; and, if she lives out her 
 useless life to the end, she will see grandchildren crowding 
 about their knees ; each age will bring them new interests, 
 while each succeeding year will rob her pitilessly of any 
 hopes- and joys she may still cling to. For her there is 
 nothing, nothing, nothing ! Her life is weak and sterile, even 
 as the plain of moonlight-stricken snow. Like it, she will 
 fade, will pass into a moist and sunless grave, without leaving 
 a trace of herself on the earth — this beautiful earth, built out 
 of and made lovely with love. Yes, built out of love — for all 
 is love. Spring, with amorous hands, will withdraw the 
 chaste veil of winter's maidenhood, and the world, like a bride 
 arrayed in flowers and expectation, will be but a universal 
 shrine, wherein is worshipped the deity. All then shall be 
 ministrants of love. Sweet winds shall join herb and flowers, 
 and through the purple night soft-winged moths shall carry 
 
100 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 the desiro of every pl.ant and blossom ; La the light air the 
 wings of mating bii'ds shall mingle, and upon the earth the 
 lowliest animals be united ; only woman is forbidden to obey 
 the one universal instinct, coequal with the music of the 
 spheres, and eternal even as it. 
 
 Then, filled with pale presentiment, the girl cried out : 
 " Oh ! give me life, give me love ! " and her anguish was like 
 the wail of the frozen bird, that wailed its thin life away in 
 the silent light of the stars. Alice loved her life ; and she 
 wished to live it sincerely, and in all its fulness. She 
 demanded love, it was only love that could relieve her from 
 the torture she was suffering — a husband had always formed 
 part of her thoughts. She remembered, when a child, having 
 once seen a pair of lovers walking with their arms about 
 each other. For months she had dreamed of their kisses, 
 striving at the same time to invent for them suitable words 
 and phrases ; and she reminded herself how she had always 
 joyed in things relating to motherhood ; how the spectacle 
 of a mother nursing her child had once delighted her, and how 
 she had looked forward to the day when she would perform 
 the same sweet office. But now she knew that that hope 
 was vain. In an hour one truth had become terribly distinct, 
 and, in the nightmare-terrors of her mind, strange thoughts, 
 thoughts of which she was ashamed, passed and mockingly 
 taunted her, and it required all the strength of her intelli- 
 gence to regain her mental balance. Was she impure ? She 
 did not wish to be, but she trembled to think of her life pure 
 from end to end — pure as that plain of virgin snow. Then the 
 sorrow that rose out of her soul became part of the sorrow of 
 others ; and, pale and lonely as the glittering trees that laised 
 l,heir faces to the sky, she saw the girls she had seen at 
 the ball passing stainless and sterile through the generation 
 of which she was but a single unit. The moon had risen out 
 of the clouds, and hanging like a night-lamp, blanching the 
 draperies of the distant woods, the land was flooded with so 
 divine an effulgence, that in the disordered imagination of the 
 girl it seemed to be the white bed of celibacy in which the 
 ^\•hole county was sleeping. 
 
 Yes ; all were sull'eiing alike, all were enduring the same 
 white death ! Yet as her thoughts passed from the contem- 
 plation of the collective pain, and fixed themselves again on 
 the raw of her own individual grief, she again believed she 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 101 
 
 was the most miserable of all. For did not her companions 
 at least hold that human life was but the hour of darkness 
 that precedes the dawn of an eternal day — a day of glory and 
 original light ? But to her even this consolation was denied ; 
 and now, in the prostration of her ideas, she called out, though 
 she well knew it to be impossible, to be fed at this table of 
 thin hope. " What does it matter ? " she cried ; " nothing 
 matters ; and even if it be no active force in their lives, though 
 they believe in it no more than in the flirtation of yesterday, 
 it fills better than woolwork, or tennis-playing, or small-talk, 
 the void of our objectless days. The duty of worshipping is an 
 emotion if it be no more ; even to the most heedless it supplies 
 the sensation of having done something ; and, to those who 
 allow their souls to be absorbed by the myth, it supplies an 
 adequate motive to live and to suffer pain." 
 
 But for her, who knew that life was but a pilgrimage to 
 the worm, there was no escape ; untU death she would drift, 
 a dead leaf, adown the tepid and trivial current of her life, 
 unless — then the word marriage sighed through her thoughts. 
 It came suddenly upon her like a gust of sweet perfume; and, 
 through the gloom of dying and dead illusions, she dreamed of 
 a love around which, flowerwise, two lives should twining grow, 
 always unfolding their hopes and joys to an equal light. Nor was 
 there in her vision any of the lascivious dependency which she 
 daily saw taken for the highest aim. What she saw ■\yas an 
 ideal couple, journeying with a firm step through life, sharing 
 burdens and sorrows, that were made lighter by the sharing. 
 Fragments of history came back to her ; and, in a confused 
 and disjointed way, she realised how men have bought women, 
 imprisoned women, kept women as a sort of common property ; 
 but that throughout the ages they have never been considered 
 as anything more than objects of luxury or necessity. " How 
 then," she asked passionately, " can we be really noble and 
 pure, while we are still decked out in innocence, virtue, and 
 belief as ephemeral as the muslins we wear ! Until we are 
 free to think, until we are their sisters in thought, we cannot 
 hope to become the companions, the friends, the supports of 
 men." Alice thought clearly and directly ; but, as is often the 
 case with subjective natures, she shrank from the glare and 
 the rough shocks of the practical contest. Although she now 
 rebelled against social, as she had long done against religious 
 laws, she was ready to outwardly conform to the former as to 
 
102 A DItAMA IN jrnSLIN. 
 
 the latter. Having the divine power to create, and to live an 
 interior life, she often forgot the reality of existence, until, 
 with awakening hands, it shook her, as on the present occasion, 
 rudely from her dreams. Light laughter was now heard 
 ascending the stau-case, and, as Olive burst into the moon- 
 whitened room, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Goodness me ! Alice ; how can you remain up here all 
 alone, and by that smouldering fire? Why don't you come 
 do^vnstairs ? It has been so pleasant. Papa has been humming 
 to himself. He says he is quite satisfied with the first part of 
 the tune, but the second won't come right ; and, as mamma 
 had a lot to say to Lord Dungory, I and Captain Hibbert sat 
 out in the passage together. He was awfully nice. Lie told 
 me that I was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and that he 
 had never seen me looking so sweet. But tell me, do tell me, 
 how 3''ou think this way of doing up my hair suits me ? " 
 
 " Very well, indeed ; but what else did Captain Hibbert say 
 to you 2 " 
 
 " Well, I'U tell you something," replied Olive, suddenly 
 turning from the glass. And, assuming a pose, scarcely less 
 aftected than those of the dancing-girls by Canova, she con- 
 tinued : " But first promise not to tell anyone. I don't know 
 what I should do if you did. You promise ? " 
 
 "Yes, I promise." 
 
 " If you look as serious as that I shall never be nlile to tell 
 you. It is very wicked, I know, but I couldn't help myself. 
 He put his arm round my waist and kissed mo. Now don't 
 scold, I won't be scolded," the girl said, as she watched the 
 cloud gathering on her sister's face. " Oh ! you don't know how 
 angry I was. I cried, I assure you I did, and I told him ho 
 had disgraced me. I couldn't say more than that, could I, 
 now ? and he promised never to do it again. It was the first- 
 time a man ever kissed me — I was awfully ashamed. No one 
 ever attempted to kiss you, I suppose ; nor can I fancy their 
 trying, for your cross face would soon frighten them ; but I 
 can't look serious." 
 
 The words cut like a keen steel ; and, quivering with pain, 
 Alice said : " And did he ask you to marry him ? " 
 
 " Oh ! of course he did, but I haven't told mamma, for she 
 is always talking to me about Lord Kilcarney — the little 
 marquis, as she calls him ; but I couldn't have him. Ju>t 
 fancy giving up dear Edward ! I assure 5'ou that I believe 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIJf. lOd 
 
 that he would Mil himself if I did. He has often told mo 
 that I am the only thing that is worth living for." 
 
 Alice looked questioningly at the silly beauty before her. 
 She had already determined to speak to her mother about 
 Captain Hibbert ; for her good sense told her that, if in the 
 end the girl was not intended for him, it was wrong to allow 
 her to continue her flirtation. But, for the moment, the 
 consideration of her own misfortunes absorbed her. Was 
 there nothing — and all happiness seemed to lie in the balance 
 ^in marriage but a sensual gratification ; and did a man seek 
 for nothing but a beautiful body that he could kiss and enjoy ? 
 Did his desires never turn to mating with one who could 
 sympathise with Lis hopes, comfort him in his fears ; and 
 united by that most profound and penetrating of all unions — 
 that of the soul — be collaborator in life's work ? If so, lifo 
 were indeed a lovely thing ! and, like a glad bird, the girl's 
 heart soared through the silver skies of her dream, until 
 the unanswerable question again struck her ; " Could no man 
 love as she did ? " 
 
 All she had heard and seen said no; but, unconvinccil, 
 she, with a painful reiteration, insisted that if women did not 
 think of men so, why should men be so degraded ? Nor did 
 her soul-searching cease at this point. The mind that had 
 asserted its independence amid such surroundings as Alice's, 
 that had not shrunk from following the guidance of reason, 
 and accepting its conclusion that religion, being no truth, was 
 to be cast aside as an idle folly, would not falter now. How- 
 ever repugnant it might be to her present feeling, she was 
 ready to allow that marriage owned a material as well as a 
 spiritual aspect, and that neither could be overlooked. Some, 
 therefore, though their souls were as beautiful as the day, were, 
 from purely physical causes, incapacitated from entering into 
 the marriage-state. Cecilia was such an one I Did she, Alice, 
 share the same fate ? and, her brain throbbing with terrors as 
 intimate and intense as the pulsing of her blood, the girl that 
 night, straight and stark, her head buried in the pillow, asked 
 herself if she were not proper for a husband's love ; her limbs, 
 were they not as strong and as healthy, if not as fair as her 
 sister's ? " Yes ! yes ! " and the darkness answered again 
 "Yes;" but looking through the length of years, in spite cf 
 all, she saw herself for ever sleeping in celibacy. 
 
 " She knew she would never be married." It was as if 
 
104 A dhama in muslin. 
 
 some instinct had told her. The words clashed in her ears ; 
 she forced their meaning deep into her heart — she strove to 
 wipe away each hope as it gleamed within the mirror of her 
 despair. 
 
 When the girls came down to breakfast Mrs. Barton left 
 off lecturing her husband, and, as with an air of relief he 
 stretched his embroidered-slippered feet to the fire and con- 
 tinued reading the Daily Express, she said : 
 
 "Lord Rosshill has been fired at, and only just escaped 
 with his life." 
 
 " I am glad it was not Lord Dungory," replied Olive. 
 
 " Of course," said Mrs. Barton, slightly embarrassed ; " but 
 Lord Rosshill is not a young man, and " 
 
 " Neither is Lord Dungory," chimed in Olive, as she helped 
 herself to an egg. 
 
 " I wish you would not interrupt me, Olive," said Mrs. 
 Barton. " I was going to say that the nervous shock must be 
 dreadful, even if one does escape with one's life from an 
 assassin." 
 
 Then Mr. Barton read from the Daily Express the account 
 of a dastardly murder in Kerry. A bailift's house had been 
 broken into hy an armed gang, and the unfortunate man had 
 been dragged out of bed and shot before his own door. In 
 Meath an attempt had been made to blow up a landlord's house 
 with dynamite ; in Queen's County shot had been fired 
 through a diningroom wmdow, and two large hay-yards had 
 been maliciously burned ; in Wicklow forty head of cattle 
 had had their tads cut off ; in Roscommon and in Galway two 
 men, occupying farms from which tenants had been evicted, 
 had been so seriously beaten that their lives were despaired of. 
 This list of crimes was considered large ; but so absorbed was 
 each family in its own private interest, that the news of the 
 outrages committed in the East and South was received with 
 indifference ; and it was not until Lord Rossliill's escape and 
 the probable reductions he would make to his tenants had 
 been fully discussed, that any reference was made to the rest 
 of Ireland. At last Mrs. Barton said, after glancing her eye 
 over the columns of the paper, to assure herself of the accuracy 
 of her husband's reading : 
 
 " I wonder if all this will suffice to force the Government 
 to pass a new Coercion Bill." 
 
 " I wish they would put me at the head of au army, ' said 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 105 
 
 Mr. Barton, whose thoughts had gone back to his picture of 
 the "Altars of the Druids." 
 
 " Dressed in Julius Csesar's big red cloak, on the great white 
 horse, wouldn't papa look fine, leading the landlords against 
 the tenants 1 " cried Mrs. Barton, in her winsomest manner. 
 She treated her husband exactly as she did Milord ; indeed, 
 just as she did everybody else. 
 
 After breakfast the party separated. Mrs. Barton went 
 to dress to receive Lord Dungory ; Mr. Barton retired 
 to his studio. In the girls' room Olive and Barnes gossiped 
 incessantly, and the bland, soft-smiling maid ripped the 
 body of a ball-dress, while the corn-coloured beauty trimmed 
 a smoking-cap with yellow braid. In brief phrases she referred 
 to, and with scornful little laughs commented on, the matri- 
 monial prospects of difierent young ladies. 
 
 Captain Hibbert's name was frequently mentioned, and 
 Alice was surprised to hear her sister say she had forbidden 
 him ever to visit the Lawlers. At that moment the dull 
 sound of distant firing broke the stillness of the snow. 
 
 " I took good care to make him promise not to go to this 
 shooting-party the last time I saw him." 
 
 " And what harm was there in his going to this shooting- 
 party ? " said Alice. 
 
 " What harm ? I suppose, miss, you have heard what kind 
 of woman Mrs. Lawler is ? Ask Barnes." 
 
 "You shouldn't talk in this way, Olive. We know well 
 enough that Mrs. Lawler was not a lady before she married ; 
 but nothing can be said against her since." 
 
 " Oh ! can't there, indeed ? You never heard the story 
 about her and her steward ? Ask Barnes." 
 
 " Oh ! don't, miss ; you shouldn't really," said the maid. 
 " What wiU Miss Alice think ? " 
 
 " Never mind what she thinks ; you tell her about the 
 steward and all the officers from Gort." 
 
 Then Mrs. Lawler's flirtations were talked of until the 
 bell rang for lunch. Milord was there, notwithstanding the 
 news of the attempt made on Lord Eosshill's life ; but he 
 was obviously a little frightened, and, in spite of the waving 
 of white hands and the excitement of cajoling laughter, his 
 eyes wandered occasionally in the direction of the policemen 
 who paced the snow in the front of the house. Mrs. Barton, 
 who looked upon herself as a kind of lotus-flower, and whose 
 
106 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 highest aim was to make the man to whom she was talking 
 forget the cares of life, worked hard, but in answer to all her 
 allusions to knights of old and la galanterie, the old lord could 
 only say: " L' amour est comme Vhirondelle ; quand Vheure 
 Sonne, en depit du danger, tons les deux partent pour les 
 rivages celestes." This was the only epigram he attempted. 
 Mrs. Barton, seriously alarmed, consulted her glass that 
 evening ; but she was not to blame. The Land League had 
 thro^vn its shadow over all, and out of that shadow no one 
 could lift their thoughts. It mattered little how joyously a 
 conversation might begin, too soon a reference was made 
 to Griffith's valuation, or the possibility of a new Coercion 
 Act. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon, however, much to the 
 astonishment of Milord and Mrs. Barton in the drawing-room, 
 and the young ladies who were sitting upstairs doing a little 
 needlework, a large family carriage, hung with grey trappings, 
 and drawn by two powerful bay horses, drove up to the hall- 
 door. 
 
 A gorgeous footman opened the door, and, with a momen- 
 tary display of exquisite ankle, a slim young girl stepped out. 
 It was Violet Scully. 
 
 " I wonder," said Mrs. Barton, " that Mrs. Scully con- 
 descends to come out with anything less than four horses and 
 outriders." 
 
 "Bile veut aclirler ladistinction comme elle vendait du jambon 
 — a faux poids," said Lord Lungory. 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and to think that the woman we now receive 
 as an equal once sold bacon and eggs behind a counter in 
 Galway ! " 
 
 " No, it was not she, it was her mother." 
 
 " Well, she was hanging on to her mother's apron-strinss 
 at the time. You may depend upon it, this visit is not for 
 nothing ; something's in the wind." 
 
 A moment after, looking more large and stately than 
 ever, Mrs. Scully sailed into the room. Mrs. Barton was 
 delighted to see her ; it was so good of her to come, and in 
 such weather as thLs. Then, after having refused lunch, and 
 referred to the snow and the horses' feet, Mrs. Scully con- 
 sented to lay aside her muff and boa. The young ladies 
 withdrew, when the conversation turned on the state of 
 the county, and Lord Piosshill's fortunate escape. As thoy 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 107 
 
 oseencled the stairs they stopped to listen to Mr. iiarton, wlio 
 was singing " A die la morte." 
 
 " The Land League does not seem to afFeot Mr. Barton's 
 spirits," said Violet ; " what a beautiful voice he has ! " 
 
 " Yes, and nobody designs pictures like papa ; but he 
 wo^Tldn't study when he was young, and he says he hasn't 
 time now on account of " 
 
 " Now, Alice, for goodness' sake don't begin. I am sick of 
 that Land League. It is too awful ; from morning till night 
 it is nothing but coercion and Griffith's valuation." 
 
 Violet and Alice laughed at Olive's petulance, and, opening 
 a door, the latter said : 
 
 " This is our room, and it is the only one in the house where 
 tenants, land, and rent are never spoken of." 
 
 " That's something to know," said Violet. " I agijee with 
 Olive ; if things are bad, talking of them won't make them 
 any better." 
 
 When the girls entered Barnes rose from her seat. Siie 
 smiled encouragingly, blandly, and retreated. 
 
 "Now don't go, Barnes. Do you know Miss Scully? Violet, 
 this is Barnes, our maid." 
 
 Violet acknowledged the introduction. There was about 
 Barnes a false air of homeliness ; but in a few moments it 
 became apparent that her life had been spent amid muslins, 
 confidences, and illicit conversations. Now, with motherly 
 care she removed a tulle skirt from the table, and Violet, with 
 quick, nervous glances, examined the room. In the middle of 
 the floor stood the large work-table, covered with a red cloth. 
 There was a stand with shelves, filled on one side with railway 
 novels, on the other with worsted work, cardboard-boxes, and 
 rags of all kinds. A canary-cage stood on the top, and the 
 conversation was frequently interrupted by the piercing trill- 
 ing of the little yellow bird. Then the pierglass was plastered 
 with Christmas cards, and, amid robin redbreasts and babies, 
 a photograph of Captain Hibbei-t caught the eye. 
 
 " You're very comfortable ; I should like to come and work 
 here with you. I wish we didn't live so far apart ; one does 
 get so tired of one's brother's company. I am sick of Fred's 
 perpetual talk about horses ; and if he isn't talking of them 
 his conversation is so improper that I can't listen to it." 
 
 " Why, what does he say ? " said Olive, glancing at Barnes, 
 who smiled benignly in the background. 
 
108 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Oh ! I couldn't repeat what he says ; it's too dreadful ; 
 I have to fly from him. But he's always at the Goulds' now ; 
 he and May are having a great ' case.' " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I know," said Olive; " they never left each other 
 at our ball ; don't you remember ? " 
 
 " Of course I do. And what a jolly ball that was ! I never 
 amused myself so much in my life. If the balls at the Castle 
 are as good they will do. But wasn't it sad, you know, about 
 poor Lord Kilcarney receiving the news of his brother's 
 murder just at that moment ? I can see him now, rushing out 
 of the room." 
 
 Violet's manner did not betoken in the least that she 
 thought it sad, and after a pause she said : 
 
 " But you haven't shoAvn me your dresses. I did like that 
 one you wore at the ball." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I want to show you my cream-coloured dinner- 
 dress ; and my ruby dress, you haven't seen that either," cried 
 Olive. " Come along, Barnes, come along.'' Then, stopping at 
 the door, she turned to Alice : " Aren't you coming too 1 " 
 
 Alice demurred, then acceded. In the bedroom, all was 
 in perfect order ; and the pierglass was filled with the snow- 
 white room and fragments of the snow-covered lands. Violet 
 declared herself delighted. 
 
 " But I see you use your bedroom, too, as a sitting-room ? " 
 she said, as she glanced at the illustrations in a volume of 
 Dickens, and threw down a volume of Shelley's poetry. 
 
 " Oh 1 that's this lady, here," cried Olive. " She says she 
 cannot read in our room on account of my chattering; so she 
 comes in here to continue her schooling. I should have 
 thought that she had had enough of it; and she makes the 
 place in such a mess with bits of paper. Barnes is always 
 tidying up after her." 
 
 Alice laughed constrainedly. Taking the cream-coloured 
 dress out of the maid's hands, Olive explained why it suited 
 her. Violet had much to say concerning the pink trimming-, 
 and the maid referred to her late mistresses' wardrobes. The 
 ruby dress, however, drew forth many little cries of admira- 
 tion. Then an argument was started concerning the colour 
 of hair, and, before the glass with hairpins and lithe move- 
 ments of the back and loins, the girls explained their favourite 
 coiffures. 
 
 In the meanwhile Alice stood waiting. A long silence 
 
A DKAMA IK MUSLIN. 109 
 
 had fallen, and, as if stinick by a sudden tliouglit, Viokt 
 said : 
 
 " But, my goodness, Alice, you haven't opened your lips, 
 and you haven't sho^vn me your dresses. What's the 
 matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing's the matter," said the girl passionately ; and, 
 speaking out of the flood of bitterness in which her soul 
 lay, she added, "I have no dresses to show; you have seen 
 the best." 
 
 " She is angry because we didn't look at her dresses first," 
 exclaimed Olive ; and she ran to the door to prevent her sister 
 from leaving the room. The interruption was a timely one, 
 and Alice, with tears turned to laughter, said : 
 
 " Barnes will show you my dinner-frocks, but I don't think 
 as much about what I wear as Olive does." 
 
 Violet's quick intelligence, quick as the ever-glancing eyes, 
 understood at once the whole truth, but, with clever dissimu- 
 lation, she examined and praised the black silk trimmed with 
 red ribbons. Then allusion was made to Lord Kilcarney. 
 Violet was clearly interested, and, as Alice noticed, she seemed 
 specially pleased when Olive, with vain tossings of the head 
 and vain words, strove to turn him into ridicule ; and, when 
 the girl protested that she would sooner die than accept such 
 a little red-haired thing as that for a husband, Violet laughed 
 delightedly. 
 
 " Anyway, you have not those faults to find with a certain 
 ofiicer, now stationed at Gort, who, if report speaks truly, is 
 constantly seen riding towards Brookfield." 
 
 " Well, what harm is there in that ? " said Olive, for she did 
 not feel quite sure in her mind if she should resent or accept 
 the gracious insinuation. 
 
 " None whatever ; I only wish such luck was mine. What 
 with the weather, and papa's difficulties with his herds and 
 his tenants, we haven't seen a soul for the last month. I wish 
 a handsome young ofiicer would come galloping up our avenue 
 some day." 
 
 Deceived, Olive abandoned herself to the plausive charm of 
 Violet's manner, and at difierent times she spoke of her flirta- 
 tion, and told many little incidents concerning it — what he had 
 said to her, how she had answered him, and how, the last time 
 they had met, he had expressed his sorrow at being unable to 
 call to see her until the end of the week. 
 
110 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " He is shooting to-day at the Lawlers'," said Violet. 
 " That I'm sure he's not," said Olive, with a triumphant 
 loss of her fair head ; " for I forbade him to go there." 
 
 Violet smiled, and Olive insisted on an explanation being 
 given. 
 
 " Well," exclaimed the girl, more bluntly than she had yet 
 spoken, "because as we were coming here we saw him 
 walking along one of the covers. There were a lot of 
 gentlemen, and, just fancy, that dreadful woman, Mrs. Lawler, 
 was shooting with them. She was marching along, just like 
 a man, with a gun under her arm." 
 
 " I don't believe you ; you only say that to annoy me," 
 cried Olive, trembling with passion. 
 
 " I am not in the habit of telling lies, and do not know 
 why you should think that I would care to annoy you," Violet 
 replied, a little too definitely ; and, unable to control her feel- 
 ings any longer, Olive walked out of the room. Barnes, with 
 black looks, folded up and put away the dresses, and Alice 
 sought for words that would attenuate the unpleasantness of 
 the scene. But Violet was the quicker with her tongue, and 
 she poured out her excuses. " I am so sorry," she said, " but 
 how could I know that she objected to Captain Hibbert's 
 shooting at the Lawlers', or that he had promised her not to 
 go there ? I am very sorry, indeed." 
 
 " Oh ! it doesn't matter," said Alice, hesitatingly. " You 
 know how excitable Olive is. I don't think she cares more 
 about Captain Hibbert than anyone else ; she was only a little 
 piqued, you know — the surprise, and she particularly dislikes 
 the Lawlers. Of course, it is very unpleasant for us to live so 
 near without being able to visit them." 
 
 " Yes, I understand ; but 1 am very sorry. Do you know 
 where she is gone to, for I shouldn't like to go away without 
 seeing her ? " 
 
 " I am afraid she has shut herself up in her room. It 
 would only make her worse to see her now ; next time you 
 meet, she will have forgotten all about it." 
 
 Elated, but at the same time a little vexed, Violet followed 
 Alice down to the drawing-room. 
 
 " My dear child, what a time you have been ! I thought 
 you were never coming downstairs again," said Mrs. Scully. 
 " Now, my dear Mrs. Barton, we really must. "We shall meet 
 again, if not before, at the Castlo." 
 
L DItASIA IxN IIUSMN. Ill 
 
 Then stout mother and thin daughter took their leave ; 
 but the large carriage, with its sumptuous grey trappings, had 
 not reached the crust of the hill, when, swiftly unlocking her 
 door, Olive rushed to Barnes for sympathy. 
 
 " Oh ! the spiteful little cat ! " she exclaimed. " I know 
 why she said thatj she's jealous of me. You heard her say 
 she hadn't a lover. I don't believe she saw Edward at all, 
 but she wanted to annoy me ; don't you think so, Barnes ? " 
 
 " I'm sure she wanted to annoy you, miss. I could see it in 
 her eyes. She has dreadful eyes — those cold, gxey, glittering 
 things, I could never trust them. And she has not a bit on 
 her bones. Did you see that, when you were counting your 
 petticoats, she was afraid to lift hers up ? — she was ashamed 
 of her legs. There isn't, I'll be bound, a bit on them, and I 
 saw her look at yours, miss." 
 
 " Did you really ! " Olive replied laughing. " I am so glad 
 of that ; and isn't she thin ? She's like a rail ; and she was 
 always spiteful. I remember her at school. Nothing made 
 her so angry as when anyone else was praised ; and you may 
 be sure that that brought her here. She heard how Captain 
 Hibbert admired me, and she came on purpose to annoy me." 
 
 " You may be sure it was that, miss," said Barnes, as she 
 bustled about, shutting and opening a variety of cardboard 
 boxes. 
 
 For a moment the quarrel looked as if it were going to end 
 here ; but in Olive's brain thoughts leaped as quickly back as 
 forward, and she startled Barnes by declaring wildly that, if 
 Edward had broken Ms promise to her, she would never speak 
 to him again. 
 
 " I don't believe that "Violet would have dared to say that 
 she saw him if it weren't true." 
 
 " "Well, miss, a shooting-party's but a shooting-party, and 
 there was a temptation, you know. A gentleman who is fond 
 of sport ! " 
 
 " Yes j but it isn't for the shooting he is gone : 'tis for Mrs. 
 Xawler. I know it is." 
 
 " Not it, miss. Always admitting that he is there, how 
 could he think of Mrs. Lawler when he's always thinking of 
 you? And, besides, out in the snow, too. Now, I wouldn't 
 fuj anything, were it fine weather, weather like we had last 
 June, and they were giving each other meetings out in tho 
 park " 
 
112 A DRAJIA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 *' But what did you tell me about the steward, and how 
 Mrs. Lawler fell in love with all the young men who come to 
 her house? And what did the housemaid tell you of the 
 walking about the passages at night, and into each other's 
 rooms ? Oh ! I must know if he's there ! " 
 
 " I'll find out in the morning, miss. The coachman is sure 
 to know who was at the shooting-party." 
 
 " In the morning ! it will be too late then ! I must know 
 this evening ! " exclaimed Olive, as she walked about the room, 
 her light brain now &owu with jealousy and suspicion. " I'll 
 write him a letter," she said suddenly, " and you must get 
 someone to take it over." 
 
 " But who can I get at this hour, miss? Why, it is nearly 
 seven o'clock," said Barnes, who had begun to realise the 
 disagreeableness and danger of the adventure she was being 
 rapidly drawn into. 
 
 " If you can't, I shall go myself," cried Olive, as she seized 
 some paper and a pencil belonging to Alice, and sat down to 
 write a note : 
 
 " Dear Captain Hibbert, — If you have broken your promise 
 to me about not going to the Lawlers', I shaU never be able 
 to forgive you I " (then, as through her perturbed mind the 
 thought gleamed that this was perhaps a little definite, a little 
 conclusive, she added) : " Anyhow, I wish to see you. Come 
 at once, and explain that what I have heard about you is not 
 true. I cannot believe it. 
 
 " Tours ever and anxiously, 
 
 " Olive Barton." 
 
 " Now somebody must take this over at once to the 
 Lawlers." 
 
 " But, miss ! really at this hour of night, too, I don't know 
 of anyone to send. Just think, miss, what would youi- ma 
 say?" 
 
 " I don't care what mamma says. It would kill me to wait 
 till morning 1 Someone must go. "Why can't j'ou go yom self ? 
 It isn't more than half a mile across the fields. Now, you 
 won't refuse me, ^^•ill you ? Now put on your hat, and go at 
 once." 
 
 " And what will the Lawlers say when they hear of it, 
 miss ? and I am sure that if Mrs. Barton ever hears of it she 
 will " 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 113 
 
 " No, no, she won't ! for I could not do without you, Barnes. 
 You have only to ask if Captain Hibbert is there, and, if he is 
 there, send the letter up, and wait for an answer. Now, 
 there's a dear ! now do go at once. If you don't I shall go 
 mad 1 Now say you will go ; or give me the letter. Yes, 
 give it to me, and I'll go myself. Yes, I prefer to go myself.' 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The result of tliis missive was ttat next morning the servants 
 whispered that someone had been about the house on the pre- 
 ceding evening. Alice noticed Olive's restlessness when she 
 was not with Barnes ; with knees set, and little smothered 
 laughs and quiet glances, they sat talking for hours. There 
 was a secret between them j and one day, unable to keep her 
 counsel any longer, Olive told her sister what had happened. 
 The letter that Barnes had taken across the field for her had, 
 she declared, frightened Edward out of his senses; he had 
 come rushing through the snow, and had spoken with her for 
 full five miautes under her window. He loved her to distrac- 
 tion ; and on the following day she had received a long letter, 
 full of references to his colonel, explaining how entirely 
 against his will and desire he had been forced to accept the 
 invitation to go and shoot at the Lawlers'. Alice listened 
 quietly; as if she doubted whether Captain Hibbert would 
 have died of consumption or heartache if Olive had acted 
 otherwise ; whereat the beauty flaunted out of the room, and 
 no attempt was made to stop her ; Alice knew it would be vain 
 to argue, and, as she sat, holding her knees with her long 
 arms, her distress of mind was visible in her eyes ; too often 
 she was uncertain about things ; and she always felt, though 
 she could not determine what it was, that a duty was awaiting 
 her. Now, irritated against Barnes for the hypocritical way 
 in which she had acted, Alice sought to convince herself that 
 the best course to follow would be to tell her mother of what had 
 happened. Mrs. Barton's intentions were always inscrutable, 
 but Alice could not believe that the serious turn Olive's flirta- 
 tion was taking was altogether ignored. If so, what did mother 
 mean by her allusions to the mai'quis, whom they were to meet 
 at the Castle, and who, she said, would most assuredly be 
 captured by Olive ! 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 115 
 
 Then a week passed, and Captain Hibbert had been to see 
 them four times. He had hung over Olive's shoulder as she 
 sat at the piano, walked with her in the shrubberies, and one 
 wet day they had spent hours together in the greenhouse. 
 And that night Olive told her sister, as they went to bed, in 
 broken and passionate words, how she loved him ; and, wUd 
 with excitement, she confessed that he had kissed her many 
 times. She knew it was very wrong, she had told him he was 
 very wicked • she had threatened that she would not sit alone 
 with him again, unless he promised to respect her. And he 
 had promised. 
 
 Alice advised her sister quietly ; but she resolved to speak 
 to her mother of Captain Hibbert, and an occasion for so doing 
 presented itself on the following morning. Mr. Barton was 
 passing down the passage to his studio, Olive was racing up- 
 stairs to Barnes, Mrs. Barton had her hand on the drawing- 
 room-door ; and she looked round surprised when she saw that 
 her daughter was following her. 
 
 " I want to speak to you, mamma." 
 
 " Come in, dear." 
 
 Alice shut the door behind her. Already the interview 
 seemed to take an important character, and before the glass 
 Mrs. Barton affected to arrange her hair with soft touches of 
 the weak, white hands. The room was warm. The red-satin 
 cushions of the basket-armchairs gleamed in the vivid lights 
 cast by the swiftly-burning peat ; and the ferns in the flower- 
 glasses trembled and withered iu the grey dimness of an 
 uncertain Irish day. 
 
 " How bare and untidy the room looks at this season of the 
 year ; reaUy you and Olive ought to go into the conservatory 
 and see if you can't get some geraniums." 
 
 " Yes, mamma, I will presently ; but it was about Olive 
 that I wanted to speak," said Alice, in a strained and anxious 
 way. 
 
 " What a bore that girl is with her serious face," thought 
 Mrs. Barton ; but, as it was her habitual policy to take things 
 pleasantly, she laughed coaxingly, and said — 
 
 "And what has my grave-faced daughter to say — the 
 learned keeper of the family wisdom ? " 
 
 Even more than Olive's — for they were less sincere — Mrs. 
 Bai-ton's trivialities jarred the quiet tone of Alice's mind; 
 already her ideas had begun to slip from her, and she to fear 
 
116 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 that she was committing an indiscretion. But at last, fooling 
 keenly the inadequacy of her words, she said : 
 
 " Well, mamma, I wanted to ask you if Olive is going to 
 marry Captain Hibbert ? " 
 
 It was now for Mrs Barton to look embariassed ; she had 
 clearly not anticipated the question. 
 
 " Well, really, I don't know ; nothing is arranged — I never 
 thought about the matter. What could have made you think 
 she was going to marry Captain Hibbert? In my opinion 
 they are not at all suited to each other. Why do you ask 
 me?" 
 
 " Because I have heard jou speak of Lord Kilcarney as a 
 man you would like Olive to many, and, if this be so, I 
 thought I had better tell you about Captain Hibbert. I think 
 she is very much in love with him." 
 
 " Oh ! nonsense ; it is only to kill time. A giil 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." 
 
 The brown, the almond, the Lady Hamilton eyes, now grew 
 for a moment almost stern ; but the mask that, independent of 
 real sorrow or gladness, had cajoled for twenty years, did not 
 fall — it only trembled, an effort of will replaced it — and Alice 
 hardly guessed what was passing in her mother's mind. Mrs. 
 Barton was sorely annoyed. The sight of the tall, puritanic 
 gii-1, looking at her with her clear grey candid eyes, irritated 
 her ; and she struggled with the knowledge that she had acted 
 unwisely. 
 
 " But why do you come telling me these stories ? " she 
 said. 
 
 " Why, mamma," said Alice, astonished at the question, 
 " because I thought it right to do so." 
 
 The word "ri_L,'ht" was unpleasant; but, recovering her 
 temper, which for years before had never failed her, Mrs. 
 Burton returned to her sweet little flattering manners. 
 
 " Of course, of course, my dear gii'l ; but you do not under- 
 stand me. What I mean to say is : have you any definite 
 reason for supposmg that Olive is in love with Captain 
 H ibbert, and that people are talking about it ! " 
 
 " I think so, mamma," said the girl, deceived by this expres- 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 117 
 
 sion of good-will. "You remember when the SCUII3S came 
 here J Well, Violet was up in our room, and we wei-e sbowing 
 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 1 " 
 
 " 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, telHng Captain Hibbert that he must come at once ami 
 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 at last said, " 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 said 
 earnestly, " but I am sure I had better tell you the truth : 
 she told me that he had kissed her many times, yesterday 
 afternoon, 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 1 no, mamma, Olive wo'old know at once that I had 
 
118 A DBAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 beon speaking about her afiairs; you must promise me to 
 make only an indirect use of what I have told you." 
 
 " Of course — of course, my dear AHce; 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 ; and never did she think she had seen 
 Mrs. Barton look so grave. Now her elbow was leaned on 
 the mantel-board, on the hand the head was rested, and, above 
 the gold-tinted hair, branched the blue knotted Dresden 
 candlesticks. The fragile Wedg^vood tea-service, the old 
 silver cardcases, the Pompadour fans that filled the sandal- 
 wood cabinets hanging between the windows, slept in a twilight 
 as pale as the memory in which the givers lived. The givers had 
 gone as the waves go, leaving only a few shells behind them ; 
 but from the further wall, standing on an unassailable crag, 
 on the beach of a stormy sea, milord looked down upon this 
 pleasant oasis. 
 
 A few minutes passed dieamily, 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 
 fiom it. " So Olive was foolish enough to allow Captain 
 Hibbert to kiss her in the conservatory 1 " Mrs. Barton mur- 
 mui'ed to herself. The morality of the question interested her 
 piofoundly. 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 gill who could thus compromise her- 
 self. But in Olive's love for Captain Hibbert Mrs. Barton 
 was concerned only so far as it aflfected 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 five-hundred-a-year captain 
 would be, Mrs. Barton thought, to prove herself incapable, if 
 not criminal, in the performance of the most important duty 
 
A DEAMA IN MtlSLlN. 119 
 
 of her life. Mrs. Barton trembled when she thought of the 
 sending of the letter : if the story were to get mnd in Dublin 
 it might wreck her hopes of the marquis. Therefore, to tell 
 Barnes to leave the house would be fatal. Things must bo 
 managed easily, 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 five- 
 hundred-a-year captain. And, good heavens ! the chaperons : 
 what would they say of her, Mrs. Barton, were such a thing 
 to occur i 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 invitingly revolves. 
 
 At this moment Olive, her hands filled with ferns, bounced 
 into the room. 
 
 " Oh 1 here you are, mamma 1 Alice told me you wanted a 
 few ferns and iiowers to make the room look a little tidy. 
 She sent me out to the greenhouse for them." 
 
 " I hope you haven't got you feet wet, my dear ; if you 
 have, you had better go up at once and change," said Mrs. 
 Barton. 
 
 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 is not raining ; but if it were Alice would send me out all 
 the same." 
 
 " "VVTiere is she now ? " 
 
 " Up in her room reading, I suppose ; she never stirs out 
 of it. I never saw such a girl in my life. 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 com- 
 miserate and lavish much pity upon her was, no doubt, a 
 fascinating subject of conversation, it had bumod in tho 
 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 ranked 
 in her heart. She said : 
 
120 A CUAJIA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Alice has not yet found her heau cavalizr ; 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. Eeed, 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 jjour faire 
 passer le temps." 
 
 " Yes, ma ! " cried Olive, proud of ha\'ing understood so 
 much French; " doesn't time pass quickly with them ? " 
 
 " It flies, my dear, and they fly away, and then we take np 
 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 nice as Captain Hibbert." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed they are," said Mrs. Barton, laughing; "wait 
 until we get to Dublin ; you have no idea what nice men we 
 shall meet there ; and then 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, laughed nervously, but said nothing. 
 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 certain spinsterhood. After a pause she said : 
 
 " What a splendid match Lord Ealcarney 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 1 " 
 
 " And why not, my dear girl 1 " 
 
 " 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 five-hundred-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 
 
A DHAMA IN MUSLIN. 121 
 
 ilearly, and I like him ; he is of very good family, and he has 
 cno'.igh 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 slide 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 thiow 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 cl Jleur de 2}eau. 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 did not think you were so cruel ! " ex- 
 claimed Olive — and she rushed out of the room. 
 
 jNIrs. 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 eails, dukes, lords, and princes who were waiting 
 for Olive at the Castle. 
 
 In the afternoon Mrs. Barton made her come down to the 
 drawing-room, where woman was represented as a triumphant 
 creature walking towards great but undetermined success 
 over the heads and hearts of men. " Le genie de la femme est 
 la heaute," declared Milord, and again : " Le cceur de I'homme ne 
 peut servir que de piedestal pour I'idole." 
 
 " Oh ! mUord, milord ! " said Mrs. Barton. " So in worship- 
 ping us you are idolators. I'm ashamed of you." 
 
 " Pardon, pardon, madam : Bevant tin amour faux on est 
 idoldtre, mais a I'autel d'un vrai, on est chrelien." 
 
 And in such lugubiious gaiety the girl grieved. Captain 
 Ilibbeit had been refused admission ; he had -(vritten, but his 
 letters had been intercepted ; and holding them in her hand 
 
122 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 Mrs. Earton explained that she could not consent to such a 
 marriage ; while she dazzled the girl with visions of the 
 honours that awaited the future Marchioness of Kilcamey. 
 " An engaged girl is not noticed at the Castle. You don't 
 know what nice fellows 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. Distracted by girlish love and 
 vanity, Olive hesitated many days, but at length she was per- 
 suaded to at least try to captivate the marquis before she 
 honoured the captain with her hand. Then 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. 
 
 The letter was scarcely gone when it transpired that it 
 was on the morrow that Mr. Barton had arranged to meet his 
 tenants. But it was impossible to countermand her appoint- 
 ment, and Mrs. Barton spent the evening talking to Olive of 
 Castle and London seasons, amusement, admiration, successes 
 carried off in the face of many disappointed rivals. Alice, 
 too, was ordered, before she went to sleep, to say something 
 to this effect : that it would be absurd for Olive to waste her 
 beauty on a five-hundred-a-year captain ; that she was worthy 
 of a downed head. 
 
 During breakfast nest morning, all — Mr. Barton, perhaps, 
 excepted — felt that momentous events were gradually nearing 
 them. He could think of nothing but the muscles of the 
 strained back of a dying Briton, and a Roman soldier who cut 
 tho cords that bound the white captive to the sacrificial oak. 
 He declared that 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, liis presenca irritated Mrs. Barton. 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 could she depend on the girl to refuse him to his face ! 
 The question clanged like a bell within her brain : and she 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 123 
 
 watched wearily the rain dripping from the wooden edges of 
 the verandah, and the last patches of snow melting around the 
 roots of the chestnut-trees. At last a car was seen approach- 
 ing : it was 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. 
 Eut 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 
 yon did not 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, trpng 
 to find his hat. " I would, I assure you, give twenty pounds 
 to be out of the whole thing. I cannot 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 Conne- 
 mara. I have always thought my military genius more allied 
 to that of Napoleon than to that of "Wellington." 
 
 It was always diflS.cult to say how far Mr. Barton believed 
 in the extravagant remarks he was in the habit of giving 
 utterance to. Not being devoid of humour, he perceived their 
 absurdity, although he seemed to doubt the entire inaccuracy 
 of what he said. And now, as he picked his way across the wet 
 stones, his pale hair blown about in the wild wind, he pre- 
 sented a strange contrast with the short-set vulgar man who 
 had just got down from the car. Mr. Scully, having lived 
 all his life among bullocks, partook of their animality. His 
 thick legs were encased in gaiters, and he wore a long ulster. 
 
 "How d' yer do, Barton?" he exclaimed; " d' yer know 
 that I think things are gitting worse instid of loither. 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 1 I was out with the Sub-Sheriff and fifty police thryiiig 
 to serve notices on Lord Eosshill'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 had 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 1 the Lague is gittin' stronger 
 
124 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 ivcry day, Barton. But they ouglit 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 blawmg 
 of horns I 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 1 "— 
 
 "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 wild gusts, advanced steadily 
 up the avenue. They gave way to a horseman, and, from the 
 drawing-room window, Mrs. Barton recognised the square-set 
 shoulders of Captain Hibbert. After shaking hands and 
 hpeaking 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 theii' hats, and the interview began. 
 
 " Now, boys," said Mr. Barton, who thought that a little 
 familiarity would not be inappropriate, " I have asked you to 
 meet me so that we might come to some agreement about the 
 rents. We have 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 now ! . . . 
 well, I think I cannot do better than to make you again the 
 K:iiue ofier as I made you before, that is to say, of twenty per 
 ceiit. 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 betra3Tng 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 toohigli; we cannot pay tho 
 present rint, at least without a reduction. I have been a tinent 
 
A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 125 
 
 on the property, and my fathei-s before me, for tlie 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 1 — but he 
 had an agent who vias 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 shiUin'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 
 sliUlings an acre at the bare-outside. But it could be drained, 
 for there is a fall into the marin stream betwixt yer 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 digres- 
 sions 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 sufTered, for she, he 
 ventured to say, must have long since gueiised 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. Baiton, 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 hand- 
 some, no one so nice, no one so gallant, and — and — " here Mrs. 
 Barton laughed meriily ;^for she thought the disagreeabilities 
 of life might be so cunningly WTapped up in sweet compliments 
 
126 A DEAJIA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 that both could be taken together like sugared medicine — in one 
 childlike 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 heau capitaine." 
 
 The last phrase was spoken with another merry little laugh, 
 and another wave of the white hands. Nevertheless, the 
 man's face darkened. The eyebrows were contracted, the 
 straight white nose seemed to grow straighter, and he twirled 
 his moustache angrUy. 
 
 " I am aware, my dear Mrs. Barton, that T 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, which is two, 
 I have five hundred a year ; Miss Barton has, if I be not 
 mistaken, some money of her own; and, as I shall get my 
 majority vnthin the next five years, I may say that we shall 
 begin life upon something more than a thousand 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 do^vn ; this year the tenants may 
 pay at twenty per cent, reduction, but next year they may 
 I'ef use to pay at all. Look out there ; you see they are making 
 their own terms with Mr. Barton." 
 
 " I should be delighted to give jovl thirty per cent, if I could 
 afford it," said Mr. Burton, as soon as the question of reduction, 
 that had been lost in schemes for draining, and discussion con- 
 cerning 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 1 " exclaimed a peasant, " arrah 1 he'l) 
 go back quicker than he came." 
 
 " Maybe he wouldn't go back at all," cried another, chucli 
 liuir. " We'd make an Oirishman of him for ever." 
 
A. DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 127 
 
 " 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, sajring : 
 
 " 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, her 
 little selfish soul racked with dividual doubt. 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 sUk dress on her back, being 
 torn from them, and distributed among a crowd of Irish- 
 speaking, pig-keeping peasants. Her eyes gleamed with 
 hatred of them. 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 agita- 
 tion. 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 upqp her. 
 She has been brought up in every luxury." 
 
128 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " That may be, Mrs. Barton. I hope to give her quite aa 
 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 mil sacrifice your 
 daughter's happiness for the sake of a little wretched pride ? " 
 
 "Why press the matter further? — why cannot we remain 
 friends?" 
 
 " Friends 1 yes, I hope we shall remain friends ; but I will 
 never consent to give up Olive. She loves me, I know she 
 does ; my life is bound up in hers. No I will never consent, 
 Mrs. Barton, to give her up, and I know she won't give me 
 up." 
 
 " Olive has lauglied and flirted with you, but it was only 
 pour passer le tempn, and I may as well tell you that you are 
 mistaken when you think that she loves you." 
 
 " OUve does love me, I know she does, and I will not believe 
 she does not — at least until she tells me so. I consider I am 
 engaged to her, and I must beg of you, Mrs. Barton, to allow 
 me to see her and hear from her own lips what she has to say 
 on this matter." 
 
 With the eyes of one about to tempt fortune adventurously, 
 like one about to play a bold card for a high stake, Mrs. Barton 
 looked on the tall handsome man before her, and, imper- 
 sonal as were her feelings, she could not but admire, for the 
 space of one swift thought, the pale aristocratic face now alive 
 with passion. Could she depend upon Olive to say " no " to 
 him ? The impression of the moment was that no girl would. 
 Noveithiless, she must risk the interview. Gliding towards 
 the door with her usual cat-like motion, she called to the girl 
 several times. Then, as a cloud that grows bright in the 
 sudden sunshine, the man's face glowed with delight, and a 
 moment after, white and drooping as a flower, the girl entered. 
 Captain Hibbert made a movement as if he were going to rush 
 forward to meet her j she looked as if she would have opened 
 
A DKAJIA IN MUSLIN 129 
 
 her carms to receive him, but Mrs. Barton's words fell between 
 them like a sword. 
 
 "Olive," she said, "I hear you are engaged to Captain 
 ITibbert 1 Is it true ? " 
 
 Startled in the drift of her emotions, and believing her con- 
 fidence had been betrayed, the girl's first impulse was to deny 
 the impeachment. No absolute promise of marriage had she 
 given him, and she said : 
 
 " No, mamma, I am not engaged ; did Edward, I mean 
 Captain Hibbert, say I was engaged to him ? I am sure " 
 
 " Did you not tell me Olive, that you loved me better than 
 anyone else ? Did you not even say you could never love any- 
 one else ? If I had thought that— " 
 
 " I knew my daughter would not have engaged herself to 
 you. Captain Hibbert, without telling me of it. As I have 
 told you before, we all like you very much, but this marriage 
 is impossible ; and I will never consent, at least for the pre- 
 sent, to an engagement between you." 
 
 " Olive, have you nothing to say ? I wUl not give you up 
 unless you tell me yourself that I must do so." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, what shall I do ! " said Olive, bursting into 
 a passionate flood of tears. 
 
 " Say what I told you to say," whispered Mrs. Barton. 
 
 " You see, Edward, that mamma won't consent, at least not 
 for the present, to our engagement." 
 
 This was enough for Mrs. Barton's purpose, and, soothing 
 her daughter with many words, she led her to the door. Then, 
 confronting Captain Hibbert, she said, with something of her 
 old wheedling manner : 
 
 "There is never any use in forcing on these violent scenes. 
 As I have told you, there is no one I should prefer to your- 
 self. We always say here, that there is no one like le beait 
 caintaine, but, in the face of these bad times, how can I give 
 you my daughter i And you soldiers forget so quickly. In a 
 year's time you will have forgotten all about Olive." 
 
 " That is not true ; I shall never forget her. I cannot for- 
 get her ; but I will consent to wait if you wUl consent to our 
 being engaged." 
 
 " No, Captain Hibbert, I think it is better not ; I do not 
 ajiprove of those long engagements." 
 
 " Then you will forget what has passed between us, and let 
 us be the same friends as we were before J " 
 
 K 
 
130 A DRAJIA IN SIUSLIJf. 
 
 " I iiope we shall always remain friends ; but I do not think 
 for my daughter's peace of mind, it would be advisable for us 
 to see as much of each other as we have hitherto done. And I 
 hope you will promise me not to communicate with my Olive 
 in any way." 
 
 " Why should I enter into promises with you, Mrs. Barton, 
 when you decline to enter into any with me ? " 
 
 Mrs. Barton did not look as if she intended to answer this 
 question. The conversation had fallen, and her thoughts had 
 gone back to the tenants and the reduction, and Mr. Scully 
 was now persuading them to accept twenty-five per cent. He 
 talked apart, first with one, then with another. His square 
 bluff figure in a long coarse ulster stood out in strong relief 
 against the green grass and the evergreens ; — Mr. Barton, 
 intensely wearied, shivered in his thin studio-clothes, and 
 overhead the gaunt branches of the chestnuts reeled in a wUd 
 wet wind. 
 
 " Thin it is decided yer pay at twinty-foive per cint,'' said 
 Mr. Scully. 
 
 " Then, Captain Hibbert," said Mrs. Barton a little sternly, 
 " I am very sorry indeed that we can't agree, but, after what 
 has passed between us to-day, I do not think you will be justi- 
 fied in again trying to see my daughter." 
 
 " Begad, sor, they were all aginst me for agraying to take 
 the twinty-foive," whispered the well-to-do tenant who was 
 talking to the agent. 
 
 " I fail to understand," said Captain Hibbert, haughtily, 
 " that Miss Barton said anything that would lead me to suppose 
 that she mshed me to give her up. However, I do not see 
 tliat anything would be gained by discussing this matter 
 further — good morning, Mrs. Barton." 
 
 " Good morning, Captain Hibbert," and Mrs. Barton smiled 
 winuingly as she rang the bell for the servant to show him out. 
 When she returned to the window the tenants were following 
 Mr. Scully into the rent-ofiice, and, with a feeling of real 
 satisfaction she murmured to herself — 
 
 " Well, after all, nothing ever turns out as badly as wo 
 expect it." 
 
CIIArXER VIII. 
 
 But, although Mrs. Barton had bidden the captain awMT, 
 Olive's sorrowful looks haunted the house. 
 
 A white weary profile was seen on the staircase, a sigh was 
 heard when she left the room; and when, after hours of 
 absence, she was sought for, she was constantly found lying 
 at full length, crying upon her bed. Mrs. Eaiton began to 
 fear seriously for her daughter's beauty. 
 
 " My dear, it distresses me to see you in this state. You 
 really must get up ; I cannot allow it. There's nothing tha t 
 spoils one's good looks like unhappiness. Instead of being the 
 belle of the season, you'll be a complete wreck. I must insist 
 on your getting up, and trying to interest yourself in 
 something." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, don't, don't ! I wish I were dead, I am sick 
 cf everything 1 " 
 
 " Sick of everything ? " said Mrs. Barton, laughing. " Whj^, 
 my dear child, you have tasted nothing yet. Wait until we get 
 to the Castle ; you'll see what a lot of Captain Hibberts there will 
 be after this pretty face ; that's to say if you don't spoil it in 
 the meantime with fretting." 
 
 There was an insidious magic in Mrs. Barton's laugh; it 
 was artificial, irresistible, gleeful, birdlike as an opera by 
 OlTenbach ; it was characteristic of the woman ; it tempted you 
 to look upon life lightly ; it helped you to play -with, to twirl 
 your worst sorrows round your finger. Had fate favoured 
 Mrs. Barton she might have been a royal courtezan. 
 
 Olive smiled through her tears : 
 
 " But, mamma," she said, "how can I help thinking of him ? 
 - — there's nothing to do here, one never hears of anything but 
 that horrid Land League — whether the Government will or 
 will not lielp the landlords, whether Paddy So-and-so will or 
 will not pay his rent. I am sick of it. Milord comes to see 
 
132 A DRAMA IN MCSHX. 
 
 you, and Alice likes reading-books, and papa has his painting ; 
 but I have nothing since you sent Captain Hibbert away." 
 
 " Yes, yes, my beautiful Olive flower, it is a little dull for you 
 at present, and to think that this wicked agitation should have 
 begun the very season you were coming out 1 Who could have 
 foreseen such a thing ? But come, my pet, I cannot allow you 
 to ruin your beautiful complexion with foolish tears ; you must 
 get up ; unfortunately I can't have 5-ou in the drawing-room, 
 I have to talk business with milord, but you can go out for a 
 walk with Alice — it is not raining to-day." 
 
 "Oh! no; I couldn't go out to walk with Alice, it would 
 bore me to death. She never talks about anything that 
 interests me." 
 
 For a moment the sweet pastel-like expression of Mrs. 
 Barton's features was lost. She foresaw the trouble this plain 
 girl would be to chaperon. The annoyance of having to find 
 her partners would be great, and to have her dragging after 
 her all through the Castle season would be intolerable. And 
 all these airs of virtue, and injured innocence, how insupport- 
 able they were 1 Alice, as far as Mrs. Barton could see, was fit 
 for nothing. Even now, instead of heliiing to console her 
 sister, and win her thoughts away from Captain Ilibbevt, she 
 shut herself up to read books. Such a taste for reading and 
 moping she had never seen in a girl before — voila un type de 
 vieille fille. Whom did she take after ? Certainly not after 
 her mother, nor yet her father. It was impossible to say 
 whom she did take after, unless it was after her grand- 
 father — the old frump in the white waistcoat, over the dining- 
 room chimneypiece — who had spent his life ivriting histories, 
 and whose manuscripts tilled sevei-al large trunks, piled away 
 overhead in an attic. But what was the good of thinking of 
 the tiresome gii-1 ? There weie plenty of other thing far more 
 important to consider, and the first thing of all was — how to 
 make Olive forget Cajituin Hibbert ? On this point Mrs. 
 Barton was not quite satisfied with the manner in which she 
 had played her part. Olive's engagement had been broken 
 off by too violent means, and nothing was more against 
 hrr nature than (to use her own expression) to brusqitcr 
 les choses. Early in life Mrs. Barton discovered that she 
 could amuse men, and since then she had devoted herself 
 assiduously to the cultivation of this talent, and the divorce 
 between herself and her own sex was from the first complete. 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 133 
 
 She not only did not seek to please, but she made no attempt 
 to conceal her aversion to the society of women, and her 
 preference for those forms of entertainment where they were 
 f ovmd in fewest numbers. Ealls were, therefore, never much to 
 her taste ; at the dinner-table she was freer, but it was on the 
 racecourse that she reigned supreme. From the box-seat of a 
 drag the white hands were waved, the cajoling laugh was set 
 going ; and fashionably-dressed men, ■\vith race-glasses about 
 their shoulders, came crowding and climbing about her like 
 bees about their queen. Mrs. Barton had passed from flirta- 
 tion to flirtation without a violent word. With a wave of her 
 hands she had called the man she wanted; with a wave of 
 her hands, and a tinkle of the bell-like laugh, she had dismissed 
 him. Nothing had apparently cost her a sigh; apparently 
 nothing had ever been denied her. Success had always been 
 hers. But now all was going wrong. Olive was whining and 
 ciying and losing her good looks. Mr. Barton had received a 
 threatening letter, and, in consequence, had for a week pa.st 
 been unable to tune his guitar ; poor Lord Dungory was being 
 bored to death by protecting policemen and proselytising 
 daughters. Decidedly everything was going wrong. This 
 phrase was recurrent in Mrs. Barton's thoughts as she reviewed 
 the situation. Her head was leaned in the pose of the most 
 plaintive of the pastels that Lord Dungory had commissioned 
 his favourite artist to execute in imitation of the Lady 
 Hamilton portraits. And now, his finger on his lip, like 
 harlequin glancing after columbine, the old gentleman, who 
 had entered on tiptoe, exclaimed : 
 
 '• A rez vans ru, dans Bnrcclnne 
 Utie Andalouse au sein hruni ? 
 PdU conime un beau soir d'Automne ; 
 C'l'H ma maUrcsse, ma lionne ! 
 La Marqiiesa d'Amalequi." 
 
 Instantly the silver laugh was set a-tinkling, and, with 
 delightful gestures, milord was led captive to the sofa. " C'est 
 I'aurore qui vient pour dissiper les brumes du matin," Mrs. 
 Barton declared as she settled her skirts over her ankles. 
 
 " Qu'elle est sujjer'be en son dhordre 
 Quind elle tomle. . . ." 
 
 " Hush, hush I " exclaimed Mrs. Barton, bursting with 
 laughter; and, placing her hand (which was instantly fer- 
 
lC-1 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 vently kissed) upon milord's mouth, she said : " I will hear no 
 more of that wicked poetry." 
 
 " What ! hear no more of the divine Alfred de Musset ? '•' 
 milord answered, as if a little discouraged. 
 
 At this moment Alice entered. She had come from hor 
 room to fetch a book, but, obeying an involuntary impulse, 
 on seeing the couple on the sofa, she tried to retreat ; and 
 she added to her own and their embari-assment by uttering 
 some ill-expi-essed excuses. 
 
 " My dear, don't run away like that," said Mrs. Barton; 
 " don't behave like a charity-school girl ; come in. I think 
 you know Lord Dungory." 
 
 " Oh I this is the studious one," said milord, as he took 
 Alice affectionately with both hands, and drew her towaixls 
 him. " Now look at this fair brow, I am sure there is poetry 
 here. I was just speaking to your mother about Alfi'ed de 
 IMusset. He is not quite proper, it is true, for you girls ; but 
 oh 1 what passion 1 lie is the poet of passion. I suppose you 
 love Byron ? " 
 
 " Yes, but not so much as Shelley and Keats," said Alice, 
 enthusiastically, forgetting for the moment her aversion to the 
 speaker in the allusion to her favourite pursuit. 
 
 " The study of Shelley is the fashion of the day. You 
 know, I suppose, the little piece entitled ' Love's Philosophy ' l 
 — ' The fountains mingle with the river ; the river with the 
 ocean.' You know ' Nothing in the world is single i all things, 
 by a law divine, in one another's being mingle. Why not I 
 with thine?'" 
 
 " Oh I yes, and the ' Sensitive Plant,' is it not lovely ? " 
 
 " There is your book, my dear ; you must run away now j 
 I have to talk with milord about important business." 
 
 Milord looked disappointed at being thus interrupted in 
 his quotations; but he allowed himself to be led back to the 
 sofa. " I beg your pardon for a moment," said Mrs. Barton, 
 whom a sudden thought had struck; and she followed her 
 daughter out of the room. 
 
 " Instead of wasting your time reading all this love-poetry, 
 Alice, it would be much better if you would devote a little of 
 your time to your sister ; she is left all alone, and you know I 
 don't care that she should be always in Barnes' society." 
 
 " But what am I to do, mamma ? I have often asked Olivo 
 to come out with me, but she says I don't amuse lier." 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 13S 
 
 " I want } ou to « in her thoughts away from that horrid man, 
 Captain Hibbert," said Mrs. Barton, trying to conceal her 
 vindictiveness ; " she is grieving her heart out and will be a 
 wreck before we go to Dublin. Tell her you heard at Dungory 
 Castle that he was flirting with other girls ; that he is not 
 worth thinking about, and that the Marquis is in love with 
 her." 
 
 " But that would be scarcely the truth, mamma," Alica 
 replied, hesitatingly. 
 
 Mrs. Barton gave her daughter one quick look ; bit her lips, 
 and, without another word, returned to milord. Everything 
 was decidedly going wrong ; and to be annoyed by that gawk 
 of a girl in a time like the present, was unbearable. But Mrs. 
 Barton never allowed her temper to master her, and in two 
 minutes all memory of Alice had passed out of her mind, and 
 she was talking business with Lord Dungory. Many impor- 
 tant questions had to be decided. It was known that mort- 
 gages, jointures, legacies, and debts of all kinds had reduced tlie 
 Marquis's income to a minimum, and that he stood in urgent 
 need of a little ready-money. It was known that his relations 
 looked to an heiress to rehabilitate the family fortunes. Mrs. 
 Barton hoped to dazzle him with Olive's beauty, but it was 
 characteristic of her to wish to bait the hook on every side, 
 and she hoped that a little gilding of it would silence the 
 chorus of scorn and dissent that she knew would be raised 
 against her, when once her plans became known. Four 
 thousand pounds might be raised on the Brookfield property, 
 but, if this sum could be multiplied by five, Mrs. Barton felt 
 she would be going into the matrimonial-market armed to the 
 teeth, and prepared to meet all comers. And, seeking the 
 solution of this problem, milord and Mrs. Barton sat on the 
 sofa, drawn up close together, their knees touching ; he, 
 although gracious and urbane as was his wont, seemed more 
 than usually thoughtful ; she, although as charmful and cajol- 
 ing as ever, in the pauses of the conversation, allowed an 
 expression of anxiety to cloud her bright face. Pifteen 
 thousand pounds requires a good deal of accounting for ; but, 
 after many arguments had been advanced on either side, it was 
 decided that she had made, within the last seven years, many 
 successful investments. She had commenced by winning five 
 hundred pounds at racing, and this money had been put into 
 Mexican railways. The speculation had proved an oxcellcut 
 
138 A DRAltA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 one, and then with a fovv' airy and casual references to Hudson 
 Bay, Grand Ti'unks, and shfires in steamboats, it was thought 
 the creation of Olive's fortune could be satisfactorily explained 
 to a not too exacting society. 
 
 Three or four days after, ilrs. Barton surprised the young 
 ladies by visiting them in the sitting-room. Barnes was 
 working at the machine, Olive stood drumming her fingers 
 idly against the window-pane. 
 
 " Just fancy seeing j'ou, mamma 1 I was looking out for 
 milord ; he is a little late to-day, is he not ? " said OUve. 
 
 " I do not expect him to-day — he is suffering from a bad cold ; 
 this weather is dreadfully trying — but how snug you are ia 
 your little room ; and Alice is absolutely doing needlework." 
 
 " I wonder what I am doing wrong now," thought the girl. 
 
 Barnes left the room. Mrs. Barton threw some turf upon 
 the fire, and she looked round. Her eyes rested on the card- 
 board boxes — on the bodice left upon the work-table — on the 
 book that Alice had laid aside. In brief phrases she spoke of 
 these things, evidently striving to interest herself in the girl's 
 occupation. At length she said : 
 
 " If the weather clears up I think we might all go for a 
 drive ; there is really no danger. The Land League never 
 has women fired at. We might go and see the Brennans. 
 Wliat do you think, Olive ? " 
 
 " I don't care to go off there to see a pack of women," the 
 girl replied, still drumming her fingers on the ivindow-pane. 
 
 " Now, Olive, don't answer so crossly, but come and .sit 
 down here by me," and, to make room for her, Mrs. Barton 
 moved nearer to Alice. " So my beautiful Olive doesn't care 
 for a pack of women,'' said Jlrs. Barton, and the room 
 resounded with the silver tinkling of her laughter. " Olive 
 does not like a pack of women ; she would prefer a handsome 
 young Lord, or a Duke, or an Earl." 
 
 Olive turned up her lips contemptuously, for she guessed 
 her mother's meaning. 
 
 " What curious lives those girls do lead, cooped up there by 
 themselves; with their little periodical trip up to the Shel- 
 bourne Hotel. Of course the two young ones never could have 
 done much ; they never open their lips, but Gladys is a nice 
 girl in her way, and she has some money of her own. I 
 wonder she wasn't picked up." 
 
 " I should like to know who would care for her ! " 
 
A DHA5IA IN MUSLIU. 137 
 
 " She had a very good chance once ; but she wouldn't say yes, and 
 she wouldn't say no, and she kept him hanging after her until at 
 last off he went and married someone else. He was a Mr. Blake. 
 
 " Oh 1 that was his name ; and why wouldn't she marry him ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know — folly I suppose. He was of course not 
 so young as Harry Eenley, but he had two thousand a year, and he 
 would have made her an excellent husband ; kept a carriage for 
 her, and a house in London : whereas you see she has remained 
 Miss Brennan, goes up every year to the Shelbourne Hotel to 
 buy dresses, and gets older and more withered every day." 
 
 " I know they lead a stupid life down here, but mightn't 
 they go abroad and travel ? '' asked Alice ; " they are no longer 
 so very young." 
 
 "A woman can do nothing until she is married," Mrs. 
 Barton answered decisively. 
 
 " But some husbands treat their wives infamously ; isn't no 
 husband better than a bad husband ? " 
 
 " I don't think so," returned Mrs. Barton, and she glanced 
 sharply at her daughter. " I would sooner have the worst 
 husband in the world than no husband." Then settling her- 
 self like a pleader who has come to the incisive point of his 
 argument, she continued : " A woman is absolutely nothing 
 without a husband : if she does not wish to pass for a failure 
 she must get a husband : and upon this all her ideas should be 
 set. I have always found that in this life we can only hope to 
 succeed in what we undertake by keeping our minds fixed on it 
 and never letting it out of sight until it is attained. Keep on 
 trying, that is my advice to all young ladies : try to make 
 yourselves agreeable, try to learn how to amuse men. Flatter 
 them ; that is the great secret ; nineteen out of twenty will 
 believe you, and the one that doesn't can't but think it 
 delightful. Don't waste your time thinking of your books, 
 your painting, your accomplishments; if you were Jane 
 Austens, George Eliots, and Eosa Bonheurs, it would be of no 
 use if you weren't married. A husband is better than talent, 
 better even than fortune— without a husband a woman is no- 
 thing ; with a husband she may rise to any height. Marriage 
 gives a girl liberty, gives her admiration, gives her success ; a 
 woman's whole position depends upon it. And whUe we are 
 on the subject it is as well to have one's say, and I speak for 
 you both. You, Alice, are too much inclined to shrink into 
 the backgiound and waste your time with those horrid books ; 
 
108 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 and you too, Olive, are behaving very foolishly, wasting your 
 time and your complexion over a silly girlish flirtation." 
 
 " There's no use talking about that. You have forbidden 
 him the house ; you can't do any more." 
 
 " No, Olive, all I did was to insist that he should not come 
 running after you until you had had time to consider the 
 sacrifices you were making for him. I have no one's interests 
 in the world, my dear girl, but your interests. Officers are all 
 very well to laugh, talk, and flirt with — -pour passer le temps — 
 but I could not allow you to throw yourself away on the first 
 man you meet. You will meet hundreds of others quite as 
 handsome and as nice at the Castle." 
 
 " I never could care for anyone else." 
 
 " Wait until you have seen the others. Besides what do 
 5'ou want ? to be engaged to him ? And I should like to 
 know what is the use of my taking an engaged gu'l up to the 
 Castle ? No one would look at you." 
 
 Olive raised her eyes in astonishment ; she had not con- 
 sidered the question from this point of view, and the suggestion 
 that, if engaged, she might as well stop at home, for no one 
 would look at her, clearly filled her with alarm. 
 
 " Whereas," said Mrs, Barton, who saw that her words had 
 the intended effect, " if you were free you would be the belle 
 of the season ; nothing would be thought of but you ; you 
 would have lords, and earls, and marquesses dancing attendance 
 on you, begging you to dance with them ; you would be spoken 
 of in the papers, described as the new beauty and what 
 not, and then if you were free ! " Here Mrs. Barton heaved 
 a deep sigh, and, letting her white hand fall over the arm of 
 her chair, she seemed to abandon herself to the irrevocable 
 decrees of destiny. 
 
 " Well, what then, mamma ? " asked Olive excitedly. " I 
 am free, am I not ? " 
 
 '• Then you could cut out the other girls, and carry off the 
 great prize. They are all watching him ; he will go to one of 
 you for certain. I hear that Mrs. Scully — that great, fat, 
 common creature, who sold bacon in a shop in Galway — is 
 thinking of him for her daughter. Of course, if you like to 
 see Violet become a marchioness, right under your nose, you 
 can do so. 
 
 " But what do you want me to do ? " exclaimed the coronot- 
 daz/.lcd girl. 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 139 
 
 " Merely to think no more of Captain Hibbert. But I did 
 not tell you ; — ho was vory impertinent to me when I last saw 
 him. He said he would flirt with you, as long as you would 
 flirt with him, and that he didn't see why you shouldn't amnse 
 yourself. That's what I want to warn you against— losing 
 your chance of being a marchioness to help an idle young 
 officer to wile away his time. If I were you, I would tell 
 him, when I nest saw him, that he must not think about it 
 any more. You can put it all down to me ; say that I would 
 never hear of it ; say that you couldn't think of disobeying 
 me, but that j'ou hope you will always remain friends. You 
 see that's the advantage of having a mother ; — poor mamma 
 has to bear everything." 
 
 Olive made no direct answer, but she laughed nervously, 
 and in a manner that betokened assent ; and, having so far 
 won her way, Mrs. Barton determined to conclude. But she 
 could not invite Captain Hibbert to the house 1 The better 
 plan would be to meet on neutral ground. A luncheon party 
 at Dungory Castle instantly suggested itself ; and three days 
 after, as they drove through the park, Mrs. Barton explained 
 to Olive, for the last time, how she .should act if she wished to 
 become the Marchioness of Kilcarney. 
 
 " Shake hands with him just as if nothing had happened, 
 but don't enter into conversation ; and after lunch I shall 
 arrange that we all go out for a walk on the terrace. You will 
 then pair off with him, Alice ; Olive will join you. Something 
 will be sure to occur that will give her an opportunity of 
 saying that he must think no more about her — that I would 
 never consent." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, it is very hard, for I can never forget him." 
 
 " Now, my dear girl, for goodness' sake don't work yourself 
 up into a state of mind, or we may as well go back to Brook- 
 field. What I tell you to do is right ; and if you see nobody 
 at the Castle that you like better — well, then it will be time 
 enough. I want you to be, at least, the beauty of one 
 season." 
 
 This argument again turned the scales. Olive laughed, but 
 her laugh was full of the nervous excitement from which she 
 suffered. " I shan't know what to say," she exclaimed, tossing 
 her head, " so I hope you will help me out of my difficulty, 
 Alice." 
 
 " I WL^h I could be left out of it altogether," said the girl, 
 
140 A DRAMA IN MUSLIIT. 
 
 who was sitting with her back to the horpcs. " It seems to me 
 that I am being put into a very false position ! " 
 
 " Put into a false position ! " said Mrs. Earton ; and for a 
 moment the melting, Greuze-like eyes hardened and flashed 
 with golden lights. " I'll hear no more of this ! If you won't 
 do as you are told you had better go back to St. Leonards — 
 such wicked jealousy." 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! " said Alice wounded to the quick, " how 
 can you be so unjust ? " She could say no more ; and her eyes 
 filled with acute tears. Since she had left school she had 
 experienced little but a sense of retreating within herself, to 
 escape the blinding and filthy rain of falsehood that swept in 
 from all sides. But now the last refuge, the last verge had 
 been reached. To live, to think, to act as did those by whom 
 she was surrounded was impossible. Whither to go ? A 
 broken world seemed to slide and reel beneath her feet. Why 
 was she not like the others ? — why could she not think as they 
 did ? her soul cried out in its anguish ; and for the pain it 
 caused her, she almost hated the invincible goodness of her 
 nature. Mrs. Barton was a close observer, and, seeing her 
 temper had betraj'ed her into a grave indiscretion, she said : 
 
 " I am sorry, Alice dear, for having spoken so crossly ; bvit 
 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 know how much depends — • 
 But dry your eyes, my dear, for goodness' sake. Here we are 
 at the door. I only want 3'ou 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 meeting of the lovers Mrs. Barton scored a point. 
 The Captain was visibly perplexed and emliarrassed, whereas 
 Olive laughed, and seemed at her ease. In the ceremonious 
 drawing-room, patched with fragments of Indian drapery, 
 Lady Jane and Lady Sarnh sat angularly and as far from 
 their guests as possilDle. The spinsters suspected that their 
 house was being made u.se of as a battle-ground by Mrs. 
 
A DRAMA IN SIUSLIN. 141 
 
 Barton, and tliey 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 
 nvai-ble statues and his stuffed laii-ds. 
 
 " But, Lady Jane, ^\ hei e is Cecilia ? I hope she is not 
 unwell ? " 
 
 " Oh, no; Cecilia is quite well, thank you. But she never 
 comes dowTa 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 upstaii'S 
 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 Dor6 : charming 
 artist, full of poetry, fancy, sweetness, imagination. Do you 
 admire J)ot&, Captain Kibbert 1 " 
 
 The Captain declared that he admired Dor6 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 
 v.ith expectancy, was heard speaking : 
 
 " Alice, come upstairs ; I am waiting for you." Alice made 
 a movement as if to comply, but, stepping under the banister, s. 
 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," said Alice eagerly, for in her heart 
 still vibrated the pain caused by Lady Sarah's pitiless remark : 
 " Cecilia never comes down when there is company." 
 
 " There will be plenty of time to see her later on," whis- 
 pered Mrs. Barton, sweetly and insidiously. " Eemember 
 what you promised me," and she pointed to Captain Hibbert, 
 who was standing on the steps of the house, his wide decora- 
 tive 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 
 
142 A DEAMA IX 5IUSL1K. 
 
 Hibbert. Lord Dungory, Mrs. Barton, and Olive wallced 
 together; Lady Jane and Lady Sarah followed at a littlo 
 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 
 Dangory and Mrs. Barton stood watching. Suddenly her 
 eyes met Lady Jane's. The glance excliunged was tempered 
 in the hatred 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 Ilibbert. For- 
 tunately 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 ft 
 penny to spend this year." 
 
BOOK ir. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Now, dear, tell me, I want to hear all about it," 
 
 IJarton, as the carriage left the steps of Dungory Castle. 
 
 " What did he say P " 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, mamma, I am afraid I have broken his 
 heart," replied Olive dolorously. Then she laughed a little. 
 
 " 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, 1 
 can't ; Alice heard all I said — she'll tell you." 
 
 " No, no, don't appeal to me ; it's no afiair of mine," es- 
 claimed the girl more impetuously than she had intended. 
 
 " I am surprised at you, Alice ; you shouldn't give way to 
 temper in that way. Come tell me at once what happened." 
 
 The thin, grey, candid eyes of the daughter, and the brown, 
 soft, false eyes of the mother, exchanged a long deep gaze of 
 inquiry, and then Alice burst into an uncontrollable fit of 
 weeping. 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," a sense of the moral degradation, to which she had 
 been so cruelly subjected, came upon her like the foul odoui-s 
 of fi dirty kitchen issuing through a grating. 
 
 The time for departure was now drawing near ; the day of 
 departure had been fixed ; only one more week of Galway 
 remained to be endured. But that week hung heavier than 
 all the rest, and the hours limped slowly away. It rained 
 incessantly. Sheets of water, blown thitherward by winds that 
 had travelled the Atlantic, deluged the county ; grey mistf) 
 trailed mournful and shapeless along the edges of the domain 
 
 143 
 
144 A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 woods, over the ridges of the tenants' holdings. Gloom, gloom, 
 January gloom, and yet no gloom to deaden the cries for 
 vengeance for the_assassination of landlords, of agents — for the 
 cold-blooded torturings of bailiffs, caretakers, and other deadly 
 deeds done in the darkness ; no gloom to hide the informer, and 
 the peasant cruelty that fell upon defenceless cattle ; not gloom 
 enough to stifle the lowing of the red-dripping mutilations 
 that filled the humid darkness of the fields. 
 
 The year was drawing to its close — a year of plenty, but 
 bitter with the memory of years of famine. With hunger 
 still in their eyes the peasants had risen out of their wet 
 hovels ; they seemed to be innumerable as ants ; they filled the 
 I'oadways at night, and on each Sunday, from the Land 
 League platforms, their outcry for a higher life rattled, and 
 lolled, and cracked, like thunder, until the very air trembled 
 with retributive victory and doom. " 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 hundi-ed 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 plat- 
 forms of the difierent 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 Dufiys were coming to the drawing-room, and 
 four of the Honourable Miss Gores ; the Goulds and Scultys 
 made one party, and they were accompanied by the illustrious 
 Frod. To avoid Mrs. Barton, the Ladies Cullen had pleaded 
 important duties. They were to follow in a da}' or so. 
 
 Lord Dungoiy talked incessantly to Mrs. Barton. He 
 advised her to take a house, and warned her against spending 
 tlie whole season in an hotel, but apparently without avail, for 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIJT. 145 
 
 whenever the train stopped a laughing voice was heard : 
 " Milord, Vous n'etes qu'un vUain 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.'' And, hearing this, Alice congratulated her- 
 self. Pier practical mind had determined to make the best of 
 the present ordering of things. She did not expect to be ad- 
 mired, she knew she would find but few partners, and would 
 have to sit neglected by her mother's side during the long 
 Castle balls. But anything was better than to remain in Gal- 
 way, where there was nothing to do but listen to Olive crying 
 after Captain Hibbert, read accounts of dreadful murders, and 
 watch her mother flirting with Milord. Dublin society would 
 be at least a glimpse of the world ; and she would hear something, 
 and see a little over the horizon of her famUy. She therefore 
 looked forward with avidity to two months' life in the Shel- 
 bourne; she thought of the surprise of new faces, and the 
 charm of unexpected impressions. Nor was she disappointed. 
 For, even on entering the haU, she was amused by the quick 
 voice of the busy porter, by the sight of the piled-up luggage. 
 The little winter-garden on the first landing, and the fountain 
 splashing amid ferns and stone frogs, were remembered. 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. 
 
 But for the presence of one man, the room was deserted. 
 The usually skirt-filled ottoman stood vacantly gaping, the 
 little chairs seemed lonely about the hearthrug, even the sofa, 
 where sat the invalid old ladies, was unoccupied, and the per- 
 forated blinds gave the crowds that passed up and down the 
 street a shadow-like appearance. The prospect was not in- 
 spiriting, but not knowing what else to do, Alice sat down by 
 the fire. Presently she became conscious that the eyes of the 
 man on the other side of the rug were fixed upon her. She 
 looked up and was at once impressed with his appearance. It 
 was John Harding.* 
 
 " I wonder who he is," thought Alice ; and, averting her 
 eyes, she looked into the fire, seeing there, as in a mirror, the 
 
 » See " A Jlodern Lover," and " A Mammer'a Wife." 
 I. 
 
146 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 sharp clean-cut nose, the pointed chin, the long wavy brown 
 hair, and the cold, close-set, keen-sighted, passionless blue eyes. 
 His arched insteps, silk socks, and elegant shoes were very 
 visible : and he shifted his long legs from time to time, as he 
 strove, with a stumpy bit of pencil, that would not mark, to 
 correct the MS. that lay upon his knees. Then Alice won- 
 dered what he was writing. She could not help thinking he 
 was the nicest man she had seen ; and, looking at him again, 
 half-curiously, half -admiringly, she lapsed into dreams of him. 
 He worked for some minutes laboriously, twisting his pencil 
 from side to side, until at last, with an exclamation of disgust, 
 he shut the book. Their eyes met again ; and even when 
 Alice, in shame, turned her face away, she felt that he was 
 examining her closely and intently. Would he never leave 
 off? Growing nervous, and afraid of scrutiny, she made a 
 movement to stir the lire. 
 
 " Will you allow me 1 " 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. When he had knocked in 
 the coal-crust, and put on some fresh fuel, he said : — 
 
 " If it were not for me I do not 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." 
 
 So brightly, and with such keen inflexions of voice, were 
 these words spoken, that Alice looked up at once surprised 
 and amused. She was vaguely conscious that it was not 
 perhaps quite the correct thing to do to enter into conversa- 
 tion, but before she was well aware she had answered : 
 
 " I really can't say, we only came up from Galway to- 
 day." 
 
 " Then you don't know the famous Shelbourne Hotel 1 Oh, 
 it is quite an institution. All the events of life are accom- 
 plished 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. Oh ! life in the Shelbourne is 
 a thing in itself, and a thing to be studied." 
 
 Alice laughed again; and again she continued her conversa- 
 tion. 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 147 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Alice remained silent. There was an accent of cynical 
 satire in Mr. Harding's words that had suddenly jarred her 
 feelings. He had touched a chord sharply that had long been 
 vibrating in the darkness of her consciousness. She liked him 
 none the better for what he had said, and for a moment 
 longed to 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 
 country 1 " 
 
 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 
 Dangory lives near Gort. Do you know him P " 
 
 "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 
 organiser, or else I should not have thought of calling at Dun- 
 gory Castle. Beautiful place it is, and what a pretty drive it 
 is from there to Gort. 1 know the road perfectly." 
 
 '• 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." 
 
148 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Oh, really I " said Alice, a little embarrassed ; for she 
 knew it must have been with the Lawlers that he had beea 
 staying. At the end of a long silence, she said : 
 
 " I am afraid you have chosen a rather unfortunate timo 
 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. Besides, I am 
 interested in agrarian outrage and the non-payment of rent." 
 
 Alice raised an alarmed face ; she looked inquiiingly into 
 Harding's expressionless e3'es. 
 
 " There is no need to be frightened," he said, laughing. "I 
 am not a Land League agitator, nor am I an American 
 adventurer." 
 
 In a pretty and embarrassed way the girl smiled. "Words 
 rose to her lips to ask him what he was doing in Ireland j but 
 she checked herself and looked into the fire. 
 
 He watched her curiously for a few moments, then he said, 
 assuming an air of indifference : 
 
 " I am in Ireland for the purpose of writing a couple of 
 review articles. When they have appeared I shall add to 
 them, and then they will come out in book form." 
 
 " Oh ! you are a writer then P " said Alice with girlish im- 
 pulsiveness. 
 
 " Yes, but I write as little as I can about politics." 
 
 " What are your favourite subjocts ! " 
 
 " I write principally novels." 
 
 " rteally 1 " said the girl, trembling with admiration and 
 wonder. 
 
 Daring the last six months her sole companions had been 
 boolcs ; and when, forgetful of the written pages, her fancy 
 floated above them through pale-coloured reveries, dying light, 
 ami dusky waters, shuddering beneath scintillating skies of 
 \';inishing thought — how often, in a sweet pulsing vision, the 
 authors : shadow-shapcn forms, ti-ailing their garments of 
 dream : had passed before her. How often had she not longed 
 to approach nearer, to linger within sound of theii- voices I 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 149 
 
 But as yet she had not thought of any of her heroes — and she 
 had many — as living men : she had seen them only in the 
 clear mirrors of their words ; and therefore, to this imaginative 
 girl, the sensation of hearing suddenly that the young stranger, 
 in whom she was already interested, was a writer of novels, 
 was at once a little blinding and bewildering ; and she was 
 conscious of a sort of mental overbalancing. It did not occur 
 to her to think whether he wrote good novels or bad novels ; 
 she was merely carried along upon a rushing sense of curiosity, 
 of wonder. He looked strange, he spoke differently from 
 anj^one she had ever known before, she felt her being 
 quickening. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " you do a great deal of novel-reading 
 in the country ? " 
 
 It astonished her to hear him speak so lightly of what she 
 held so sacred : " 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 con- 
 sidered 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, Tenn3'son, and 
 Browning. ... I think I like him better than all the poets ! 
 Do you know the scene at St. Praxed's ? Is it not lovely ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course, there's no doubt but that 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." 
 
 In Alice, whose judgments had been dictated by the heart 
 rather than the intelligence, and who knew nothing of the 
 contrasting of ideas to make mental pictures, nor of the gleam 
 of paradox that makes daylight in a sentence, Mr. Harding's 
 remarks produced nearly a pained sense of losing grip ; such a 
 feeling of inability to follow as is created by the sudden rush 
 
150 JL DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 of horsemen, by the soaring of a bird or balloon. Presently 
 he said : 
 
 " 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. 
 But I wonder if I have read anything of yours ? " 
 
 " I should not think so ; my books are not supposed to be 
 fit reading for young ladies." 
 
 " Oh ! really," and Alice looked into the fire dreadfully dis- 
 concerted. Poor Alice ! after six months of loneliness and 
 misery in the country, amid people whom she did not under- 
 stand, who did not understand her, this man was a light that 
 she felt she must follow, must know. But at every step she 
 took forward, he pushed her back. Oh ! it was cruel of him. 
 Never had she met the author of a book before ; and an invin- 
 cible curiosity burned within her. She wanted him to tell her 
 how he thought, dreamed, and felt towards life, men, and 
 things ; but he gave her no encouragement. At last she 
 screwed up courage to make one more attempt. 
 
 "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 Eome it almost 
 seems to me that I have been there." 
 
 " I know the book perfectly, but I did not know that 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 thorny ditch of agnosticism, or the soft 
 feather-bed of belief ? " 
 
 " Why do you say ' the thorns of agnosticism ' ? " 
 
 Harding laughed : — " Well, I don't know that they ever 
 tormented me very much, but wiiting gets you into an anti- 
 thetical way of speaking." 
 
 Alice did not understand ; and being more anxious to hear 
 something of him than to talk about herself — not because sho 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 151 
 
 w;xs afraid to speak her opinious, but merely because his person- 
 ality seemed to her of such paramount importauco compared 
 with her own — she said : 
 
 " And do you never doubt 1 " 
 
 " 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 ; and Bethlehem, Nazareth, and the Dove have already 
 been bequeathed to the vaudevillists of the future. But I am 
 afraid I shock you 1 " 
 
 " 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 toilettes suggested the dinner-hour, and reminded 
 Alice she had to prepare for table d'Mte; and she went up- 
 stairs, her heart filled with Mr. Harding. His fearless speech 
 was what the sea-wind and the blue and white aspects of a 
 distant mountain range are to the convict. Her life seemed 
 suddenly to have grown larger, clearer; she felt as if the 
 breathing of the dawn were on her face. 
 
 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'hdte. The Miss Dufiys 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 Su- 
 Piichard and Sir Charles were immersed in wine and discussion. 
 In earne.st 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. 
 
153 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 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 incessantly to Mr. Harding. He 
 explained the statistics he had collected concerning the peasant 
 proprietors of France and Belgium ; he unfolded his plans for 
 the draining of Ireland, and those for the creation of national 
 sawmills, the reclaiming of the bogs, the crushing of the Land 
 League, the planting of beetroot, and the establishment of 
 sugar-refineries. According to Mr. Adair, these schemes 
 should be put forward simultaneously ; and he did not allow 
 Harding to talk to the young lady on his right until he had 
 obtained a promise from him to read the pamphlet on the 
 amalgamation of the unions. 
 
 When dinner was over, and 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 billiard-room. 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 dis- 
 appeared 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 
 wore 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 — par- 
 ticularly the officers quartered here — you will find the Castle 
 balls very amusing. The best way to do 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, 1 
 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 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. . 1 53 
 
 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 mairiages, there are none. I assure you I know lots 
 of girls — and very nice girls too — who have been going out 
 these six or seven seasons, and who have not been able to pull 
 it off." 
 
 "And ahl" said a girl, speaking with a terrible brogue, 
 " the worst of it is that the stock is for iver increasing, every 
 year we are growing more and more numerous, an th' men, 
 oh ! th' men seem to be gettin' fewer. Nowadays a man 
 won't look at you unless j'ou have at least two thousand a 
 year." 
 
 The crudity of this speech seemed to startle the company ; 
 and Mrs. Barton, who did not wish her daughters to be dis- 
 couraged 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 get on. But Bertha was not 
 easily silenced, and, being perfectly conversant with her sub- 
 ject, 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. 
 
 " line causerie defomme I que dites-vous 2 — je. le sais — I'araour 
 n'existe plus, et I'dme de I'homme est plus pres des sens que I'dnie 
 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. He introduced the novelist to Mrs. 
 Barton, and, after a few words, he was passed on to Olive. 
 
 Alice watched -with pleading eyes ; but she scarcely dared to 
 hope that Harding would speak to her again. He would be 
 drawn, like the rest, into that vortex of blonde beauty, light 
 laughter, gay smiles, caprice, desire of change, vain words. 
 And why not ? How could he care for a girl without much 
 figure, and not an attractive feature in her face. . . . And 
 yet, and yet . . . And in the circling phases and passages 
 of her thought she lost consciousness of the scene enacted 
 around her until she suddenly heard Harding's voice address- 
 ing her. He had at first spoken eagerly to Olive, but her white 
 and red grimacing did not interest him, and he had taken the 
 earliest opportunity of slipping away. Perplexed, Olive looked 
 at her mother, and Mrs. Barton cast a glance of disdain 
 
154 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 on Harding's back. The moment was tense with feminine 
 pa-ssion. All eyes — but above all those of the girl in red^thcn 
 brightened with pleasure. The throwing of this small pebble 
 against the omnipotence of beauty afforded much delight. 
 
 In Alice, however, the tenderness of hope tempered the 
 more acrid sweets of triumph ; and she lost herself in the 
 individuality of the man before her. Putting aside his usual 
 sneer, he sympathised with her, talked of life, and the meaning 
 it seemed to him to bear ; he spoke to her of the books she 
 had read, and he told of his own ; he described pictures, poems, 
 statues in a few words; anecdotes, bitter criticisms, and serene 
 aspirations passed, lingered, disappeared, and passed again. In 
 a word, over the intellectual counter he flaunted samples of 
 everything he had in stock ; and the girl saw God in the 
 literary shopboy. 
 
 He was, however, obviously interested in her; and when 
 IMUord took him away to smoke a cigar, May, who had been 
 \-ainly expecting Fred the whole evening, said : 
 
 " Well, Alice, I hope you have had a nice flirtation ? " 
 
 Alice blushed to the roots of her hair ; but she turned pale 
 a moment after when Mrs. Barton said, ivith a ripple of 
 laughter : 
 
 " Alice's flirtations are harmless enough ; they never go 
 further than talking of a lot of books, or old newspapers." 
 
 But Alice and Harding were instantly forgotten when 
 Bertha Duffy declared that, very possibly, there would be no 
 Drawing-room held that year. Murder was more common in 
 Dublin than in the country ; and the Lord Lieutenant dared 
 not stir a yard without an escort of soldiers. Consolation was, 
 however, found in Mrs. Gould's remark, that if the Castle 
 were blown up with dynamite the conspirators would probably 
 choose the day of the Lev6e rather than that on which the 
 Drawing-room wa.s held, but to this the girl in red answered 
 that that would be only out of the frying-pan into the fire, for 
 all possibilities of marriage would then be for ever at an end. 
 The conversation, however, languished ; eyes were raised from 
 wool-work and novel in gentle consideration, and said, as 
 plainly as eyes could, " There's no use wasting our time talk- 
 ing here ; no more men will come in to-night." And about 
 half -past ten a movement of retiring was made ; but the en- 
 trance of a tall young man, in evening dress, arrested it. 
 
 Bowing to the girl in red, he went to the piano and sang 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 1C5 
 
 two love songs. Then slie who had been shunned on the plea 
 of vulgai'ity became at once an object of interest, and was 
 eagerly questioned concerning the young singer. He had 
 spoken a few words to her yesterday afternoon. He had come 
 fiom London to sing at Lady So-and-so's concert, and had 
 achieved so great a success there that he had been persuaded 
 to stay on for another concert. From a distant sofa an old 
 lady declared him to be Signor Parisina, the composer of the 
 lovely songs that everybody had heard of. The girl in red 
 preferred his high. Bertha DufTy liked his low notes, and both 
 agreed he had no middle notes at all. Then his compositions 
 were passionately discussed. Gladys Brennan allowed that 
 his melodies were pretty, but insisted that they were inade- 
 quately harmonised — an opinion she attempted to modify on 
 hearing that he had taken the prize for harmony at Milan. 
 The old lady on the distant sofa gave some details of the 
 young man's life. He was going to marry a lady much older 
 than himself, and one who sang excruciatingly out of tune. 
 
 " In tune, or out of tune, I should like to know who wiU 
 care for him or his songs once he's married," said Mrs. Barton ; 
 and this conclave of ladies bowed their heads in silent acqui- 
 escence. 
 
CHAPTER IT. 
 
 " Now, my dear Alice, do make haste ; it is most important that 
 we should arrive early. Lord Kilcarney is going to be there ; 
 and the moment he comes into the room he'll be surrounded. 
 That old cat, Lady Georgina, will introduce every girl in the 
 place to him ; nothing would please her so much as to prevent 
 him from getting near Olive." 
 
 Lady Georgina Stapleton was Lord Dungory's 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. When Mrs. Barton 
 came 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. JSTor had 
 ]Mrs. Barton ever taken the trouble to conceal her abhorrenco 
 of the house in Merrion Square — and some of the hard things 
 she had said when standing on a box-seat of a drag at the 
 Punchestown races, pouring silvery laughter into Milord's 
 infatuated ears, had travelled back and found a lasting resting- 
 place in his sister's wrathful memory. 
 
 But a woman is never vulnerable until she is bringing out 
 her daughters ; and in these days when girls are a drug in the 
 market, the struggle for existence becomes terribly intense for 
 her. She fears every look, she trembles under every word ; 
 she finds herself cringing before the weakest. Until 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 
 60 well exemplified as in Dublin Castle. 
 
 Mrs. Barton was too clever not to feel conscious of her 
 
 106 
 
A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 157 
 
 weakness ; and as much as she could regret anything, she 
 now regretted the persistency with which she had roused the 
 enmity of women. For the first time she began to recognise 
 their power, and she remembered that there were not ten, not 
 seven, not five upon whom she could count for one single word 
 of sympathy or defence. All, for spite and self^nterest, would 
 strive to separate Olive from Lord Kilcarney. The quarry was 
 a ten-antlered stag ; but even now, before the beast had broken 
 cover, she felt that the terrible huntswomen, with a loud 
 cracking of whips, would drive her from the trail. Her own 
 marriage had been decided quickly : an unexpected opportunity 
 had presented itself, and she had seized it. But in the great 
 matrimonial hunts women have to hunt in packs. At the 
 death they may fight among themselves, and the slyest wUl 
 carry oS the prey ; but to ensure a kill at the commencement of 
 the chase a certain esprit de corps is necessary, or in the coverts 
 and hidden turns of fashionable life the quarry will slip away 
 unperceived. And now whether she should, or should not 
 enter into the army of the elite, Mrs. Barton was still undecided. 
 It was a difficult question. Personally she believed in indivi- 
 daal efibrt ; but, it being the girls' first season, she feared it 
 might be " remarked " if they were seen nowhere but at the 
 Castle. It would be as well to show Olive off in some few 
 drawing-rooms ; and if the odious women made themselves 
 too disagreeable, well, she could withdraw and give dinner- 
 parties in a private room at the Shelbourne. There they would 
 have Lord Kilcarney all to themselves, and he was what they 
 wanted. 
 
 During the season in Dublin it is found convenient to give 
 teas : the young ladies have to be introduced to the men they 
 will meet afterwards at the Castle. These gatherings take 
 place at five o'clock in the afternoon ; and as Mrs. Barton 
 passed along the streets on her way to Lady Georgina's, she 
 reflected on the appearance of the town. Its present anima- 
 tion she declared could not be taken as in the least represen- 
 tative of the normal condition of things. Once the Castle 
 season ended, aU would lapse into the usual state of torpor 
 and indLfierence. 
 
 " I assure you, my dears, we are all on the brink of ruin, we 
 are dancing on the edge of a precipice. In flying from Galway 
 we thought we had fled from the Land League ; but I was 
 talking to Lord Dungory this morning, and he says that the 
 
158 A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 city is undermined, that a network of conspiracy is spread all 
 over the place. He says thei'O are assassins waiting and watch- 
 ing night and day to kill the Lord Lieutenant, and that there 
 ai-e so many plots hatching for the blowing up of the Castle, 
 that even now it is doubtful if it will be considered safe to hold 
 a Drawing-room." 
 
 " Oh ! Mamma, I think I should die, if there were to be no 
 Drawing-room." 
 
 " Of course there'll be a Drawing-room ; but it only shows 
 what a terrible state things must be in that such rumours 
 should be put forth. The shopkeepers are complaining dread- 
 fully. Mrs. Symond says she has to give three years' credit. 
 You see lots of people have shut up their houses ; I am afraid 
 there will not be many parties ; it is all the fault of that wicked 
 Land League, and the Government won't put it down, nor yet 
 the Pope. What's the use in our subscribing to his Church if 
 he'll do nothing for us ? " 
 
 The weary, the woebegone, the threadbare streets — yes, 
 threadbare conveys the moral idea of Dublin in 188:i. 
 Stephen's Green, recently embellished by a wealthy nobleman 
 with gravel walks, mounds and ponds, looked like a school- 
 treat set out for the entertainment of charity children. And 
 melancholy Merrion Square ! broken pavements, unpainted 
 hall-doors, rusty area railings, meagre outside curs hidden 
 almost out of sight in the deep gutters — how infinitely pitiful ! 
 
 The Dublin streets stare the vacant and helpless stare of a 
 beggar selling matches on a doorstep, and the feeble cries for 
 amusement are like those of the child beneath the ragged 
 shawl for the red gleam of a passing soldier's coat. On either 
 side of you, there is a bawling ignorance or plaintive decay. 
 Look at the houses ! Like crones in borrowed bonnets some 
 are fashionable with flowers in the rotting window frames — 
 others languish in silly cheerfulness like women living on the 
 proceeds of the pawnshop ; others — those with brasss-plates on 
 the doors — are evil smelling as the prescriptions of the thread- 
 bare doctor, ball! as the bill of costs of the servile attorney. 
 And the souls of the Dubliners blend and harmonise with 
 their connatural surroundings. 
 
 We are in a land of echoes and shadows. Lying, 
 mincing, grimacing — careless of all but the pleasures of 
 scandal and marriage, trailing their ignorance, arrogantly 
 the poor shades go by. Gossip and waltz tunes are all 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIM. 159 
 
 tbat they know. Is there a girl or young man in Dublin 
 who has read a play of Shakespeare, a novel of Balzac, a 
 poem of Shelley ? Is there one who could say for certain that 
 Leonardo da Vinci was neither comic-singer nor patriot ? — No. 
 Like children, the young and the old, run hither and thither, 
 seeking in Liddell oblivion of the Land League. Catholic in 
 name, they curse the Pope for not helping them in their afflic- 
 tion; moralists by tradition, they accept at their parties 
 women who parade their lovers to the town from the top of a 
 tramcar. In Dublin there is baptism in tea and communion 
 in a cutlet. 
 
 We are in a land of echoes and shadows. Smirking, pre- 
 tending, grimacing, the poor shades go by, waving a mock- 
 English banner over a waxwork show : policemen and bailiffs 
 in front, landlords and agents behind, time-servers, Castle 
 hirelings, panderers and worse on the box ; nodding the while 
 their dollish cardboard heads, and distributing to an angry 
 populace, on either side, much bran and brogue. Shadows, 
 echoes, and nothing more. See the girls ! How their London 
 fashions sit upon them ; how they strive to strut and lisp like 
 those they saw last year in Hyde Park. See the young men 
 — the Castle bureaucrats — how they splutter their recollections 
 of English plays, English scenes, English noblemen. See the 
 pot-hatted Gigmen of the Kildare Street Club ! The green 
 flags of the League are passing ; the cries of a new Ireland 
 awaken the dormant air; but the Gigmen foam at their 
 windows and spit out mongrel curses on the land that refuses 
 to call them Irishmen. 
 
 " The country is going to the devil 1 " cries one. 
 
 " Oh ! that brute Gladstone 1 '' moans a second. 
 
 " Are you going to Lady Georgina's tea, this afternoon ? " 
 asks a third. 
 
 " Of course ; the whole club is to be there, I believe." 
 
 Notwithstanding her limited income, Lady Georgina was 
 a person of taste. Her stair-carpets were neither worn nor 
 dusty, but fresh and red, and, on the first landing a conserva- 
 tory full of red and white camellias struck vibrating notes of 
 colour. 
 
 "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 
 
160 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " 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. Now, as she bent over her tea-table, the aristocratic 
 grace of her figure was drawn across the narrow width 
 of grey daylight, which divided the handsome curtains. 
 In accordance with the latest London craze, the walls were 
 sprinkled with Dresden and Wedgwood teacups, placed upon 
 red velvet itageres. The sofas were luxurious, and each recess 
 was beautifully composed with statues, and screens in crewel 
 work — Lady Georgina was a celebrated needlewoman. She 
 was now begging Lord Kilcarney to assist her at a charity 
 bazaar; and from over the cream -jug she launched an 
 indignant and comprehensive glance at Olive as a place was 
 made for her next to him. Few people had as yet arrived : 
 but 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 accom- 
 modated 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 smUed 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 good will in proportion to the amount of assistance she 
 had accorded to her friends in the chase. Long ago he had been 
 forced away from Olive. Mrs. Barton endured with stoical 
 indiflerence the scowls of her hostess ; but at length, com- 
 pelled to recognise 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 efTu- 
 sively, 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. 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 161 
 
 Hours went, hours of anticipation, of broken dreams ; hours 
 filled with calls for " Mamma," with injunctions not to forget 
 this thing and that ; nervous, fragile hours, whose skirts trailed 
 in remembrances, in condemnatory criticisms of young men ; 
 hours overweighted with rendezvous and visits ; hours em- 
 bittered by regrets at having missed Lord Kilcarney the day 
 he called at the Shelbourne. 
 
 But the day above all other days was assuredly that when 
 they paid their first visit to Mrs. Symond. The drive, 
 how long it was ! The cab, how it slipped sideways along the 
 tram-lines ! At last it stopped, and the women squeezed them- 
 selves out. A very narrow staircase covered with oilcloth. 
 The portal to the temple of Hymen was bare, and as bland as 
 an introduction in good society. There was no wrinkle in the 
 tightly -stretched floorcloth ; and the prim lay figures exhibited 
 morning dresses in eternally ladylike attitudes. The walls 
 were lined with tall wardrobes, and the rustling of silver 
 paper was as continuous as the murmur of a fountain. 
 
 " Oh ! how do you do, Mrs. Barton ! We have been expect- 
 ing you for the last two or three days. I will run upstairs 
 and tell Mrs. Symond that you are here ; she wUl be so 
 glad to see you." 
 
 "That is Miss Cooper! " explained Mrs. Barton. " Every- 
 one knows her ; she has been with Mrs. Symond many 
 years. And, as for dear Mrs. Symond, there is no one like 
 her." 
 
 To this sympathetic dressmaker all fashionable hips and 
 bosoms were confided, and all high-bred griefs and scandals ; 
 and when the giggling Countess left, the sighing Marchioness 
 was received with genial sympathy. Mrs. Symond was a 
 thin woman with long features, and a mild and affable manner. 
 The moment she appeared at the door Mrs. Barton rushed for- 
 ward, and the women kissed each other profusely. 
 
 " And how do you do, dear Mrs. Barton, and how well you 
 are looking, and the young ladies ? I see Miss Olive has im- 
 proved since she was in Dublin." (In an audible whisper) 
 " Everyone is talking about her. There is no doubt but that 
 she'll be the belle of the season.'' (In a still audible, but lower 
 tone of voice.) " But tell me, is it true that " 
 
 " Now, now, now ! '' said Mrs. Barton, drowning her words 
 in cascades of silvery laughter, " I know nothing of what you're 
 Buying ; ha ! ha 1 ha ! no, no — I assure you. I will not " 
 
 M 
 
162 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 Then, as soon as the ladies had recovered their composure, a 
 few questions were asked about her Excellency, the prospects 
 of the Castle season, and the fashions of the year. 
 
 "And now tell me," said Mrs. Barton, " what pretty things 
 have you that would make up nicely for trains ? " 
 
 " Trains, Mrs. Barton ? We have some sweet things that 
 would make up beautifully for trains. Miss Cooper, will you 
 kindly fetch over that case of silks that we had over yesterday 
 from Paris ? " 
 
 " The young ladies must be, of course, in white ; for Miss 
 Olive I should like, I think, snowdrops ; for you, Mrs. Barton, 
 I am uncertain which of two designs I shall recommend. 
 Now this is a perfectly regal material." 
 
 With words of compliment and solicitation, the black- 
 dressed assistant displayed the armouries of Venus — armouries 
 filled with the deep blue of midnight, with the faint tints of 
 dawn, with strange flowers and birds, with moths, and moons, 
 and stars. Lengths of white silk clear as the notes of violins 
 playing in a minor key; white poplin falling into folds 
 statuesque as the bass of a fugue by Bach ; yards of ruby 
 velvet, rich as an air from Verdi played on the piano ; tender 
 green velvet, pastoral as hautboys heard beneath trees in a 
 fair Arcadian vale ; blue turquoise faille Frangaise fanciful as 
 the tinkling of a guitar twanged by a Watteau shepherd ; 
 gold brocade, sumptuous as organ tones swelling through the 
 jewelled t^vilight of a nave ; scarves and trains of mid- 
 night-blue profound as the harmonic snoring of a bassoon ; 
 golden daffodils violent as the sound of a cornet ; bouquets of 
 pink roses and daisies, charmful and pure as the notes of a 
 flute ; white faille, soft draperies of tulle, garlands of white 
 lilac, sprays of white heather, delicate and resonant as the 
 treble voices of childien singing carols in dewy English 
 woods ; bei'tlias, flounces, plume.-^, stomachers, lappets, veils, 
 fiivolous as the strains of a German waltz played on Lid Jell's 
 band. 
 
 An hour passed, but the difiioulty of deciding if Olive's 
 dress should be composed of silk or Irish poplin was very 
 great, for determined that all should be humiliated Mrs. 
 Barton laid her plans amid designs for night and morning ; 
 birds fluttering through leafy trees, birds drowsing on bending 
 boughs, and butterflies folding their wings. At a critical 
 moment, however, an assistant announced that Mrs. Scully 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 163 
 
 was waiting. The ladies started ; desperate effort was made ; 
 rosy clouds and veils of silver tissue were spoken of; but 
 nothing could be settled, and on the staircase the ladies 
 had to squeeze into a corner to allow Violet and Mrs. Scully to 
 pass. 
 
 " How do you do, Olive ? How do you do, Alice 1 and you, 
 Mrs. Bai-ton, how do you do ? And what are you going to 
 wear ? Have you decided on your dress ? " 
 
 " Oh 1 That is a secret that could be told to no one ; oh, 
 not for worlds I " said Mrs. Barton. 
 
 " I'm sure it will be very beautiful," replied Mrs. Scully, 
 with just a reminiscence of the politeness of the Galway 
 grocery business in her voice. 
 
 " I hear you have taken a house in Fitzwilliam Square for 
 the season ? " said Mrs. Barton. 
 
 " Yes, we are very comfortable ; you must come and see us. 
 You are at the Shelbourne, I believe ? " 
 
 " Come to tea with us," cried Violet. " We are always at 
 home about five." 
 
 " We shall be delighted," returned Mrs. Barton. 
 
 Mrs. Scully's acquaintance with Mrs. Symond was of the 
 slightest ; but, knowing that claims to fashion in Dublin are 
 judged by the intimacy you affect with the dressmaker, she 
 shook her warmly by the hand, and addressed her as dear Mrs. 
 Symond. To the Christian name of Helen none less than 
 a Countess dare to aspire. 
 
 "And how well you are looking, dear Mrs. Symond; and 
 when are you going to take your daughters to the Castle ? " 
 
 " Oh, not for some time yet ; my eldest is only sixteen." 
 
 Mrs. Symond had three daughters to bring out, and she 
 hoped when her feet were set on the redoubtable ways of Cork 
 Hill, her fashionable customers would extend to her a cordial 
 helping hand. Mrs. Symond's was one of the myriad little 
 schemes with which Dublin is honeycombed, and although she 
 received Mrs. Scully's familiarities somewhat coldly, she kept 
 her eyes fixed upon Violet. The insidious thinnesses of the 
 girl's figure, and her gay, winsome look interested her, and 
 as if speaking to herself she said : 
 
 "You will want something very sweet; something quite 
 pure and lovely for Miss Scully P " 
 
 Mother and daughter were instantly all attention, and Mrs. 
 Symond contiuued : 
 
164 A DRAMA IN MUSIIK. 
 
 " Let me see, I have some Surat silk that would make 
 up sweetly. Miss Cooper, will you have the kindness to 
 fetch those rolls of Surat silk we received yesterday from 
 Paris!" 
 
 Then beautiful as a flower harvesting, the hues and 
 harmonies of earth, ocean, and sky fell before the ravished 
 eyes. The white Surat silk, chaste, beautiful, delicious as 
 that presentiment of shared happiness which fills a young girl's 
 mind when her fancy awakens in the soft spring sunlight; 
 the white faille Fran^aise with tulle and garlands of white lilac, 
 delicate and only as sensuous as the first meetings of sweet- 
 hearts, when the may is white in the air and the lilac is in 
 bloom on the lawn ; trains of blue sapphire broch6 looped 
 with blue ostrich feathers, seductive and artificial as a boudoir 
 plunged in a dream of Ess. bouquet; dove-coloured velvet 
 trains adorned with tulips and tied with bows of brown 
 and pink — temperate as the love that endures when the fiery 
 day of passion has gone down ; corsages and trains of daffodil 
 silk, embroidered with shaded maple-leaves, impure as lamp-lit 
 and patchouli-scented couches; trains of white velouture 
 festooned with tulle ; trails of snowdrops, icy as lips that have 
 been bought, and cold as a life that lives in a name. 
 
 The beautiful silks hissed as they came through the hands 
 of the assistants, cat-like the velvet footfalls of the velvet fell ; 
 it was a witches' Sabbath, and out of this terrible cauldron 
 each was to draw her share of the world's gifts. Smiling and 
 genial, Mrs. Symond stirred the ingredients with a yard 
 measure ; the girls came trembling, doubting, hesitating ; 
 and the anxious mothers saw what remained of their jeopar- 
 dised fortunes sliding in a thin golden stream into the flaming 
 furnace that the demon of Cork Hill blew with unintermittent 
 breath. 
 
 Secrets, what secrets were held on the subject of the pre- 
 sentation dresses ! The obscure Hill was bound with a white 
 frUl of anticipation. Olive's fame had gone forth. She was 
 admitted to be the new Venus, and Lord Kilcarney was spoken 
 of as likely to yield to her the coveted coronet. Would he 
 marry her without so much as looking at another girl ? was 
 the question on every lip, and in the jealousy thus generated 
 the appraisers of Violet's beauty grew bolder. Her thinness 
 was condoned, and her refinement insisted upon. Nor were 
 May Gould and her chances overlooked by the gossips of 
 
A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 165 
 
 Merrion Square. Her flirtation with Fred Scully was already 
 a topic of conversation. 
 
 Alice knew she was spoken of pityingly, but she hungered 
 little after the pn^ise of the Dubliners, and she preferred to 
 stay at home and talk to Harding in the ladies' drawing-room, 
 rather than follow her mother and sister in their wild hunt after 
 Lord Kilcarney. Through the afternoon teas of Merrion 
 Square and Stephen's Green the chase went merrily. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 On the night of the Drawing-room, February 20th, 1882, the 
 rain rushed along the streets — and it could be heard wildly 
 splashing on the flagstones. A wind, too, had risen ; and, 
 threatening to tear every window from its sash, it careered in 
 great and fearsome gusts : sky there was none, nor sight of 
 anything save when the lightning revealed the outline of the 
 housetops. The rattling and the crashing of the thunder was 
 appalling ; and often, behind their closely-drawn curtains, the 
 girls trembled, and, covering their faces in their hands, forgot 
 the article of clothing they were in search of. In their rooms 
 all was warm and snug and gay with firelight and silk : the 
 chaperons had whispered that warm baths were advisable, and 
 along the passages the ladies'-maids passed hurriedly, carrying 
 cans of hot water, sponges, and drying-sheets. 
 
 Alice and Olive slept in two rooms on the third floor, on 
 either side of their mother ; May and Mrs. Gould were on the 
 fourth, and next to May was Fred Scully, who, under the 
 pretext of the impossibility of his agreeing with his mother 
 concerning the use of a latch-key, had lately moved into the 
 hotel. May was deeply concerned in Fred's grievance ; and 
 discussing it, or the new Shelbourne scandal — the loves of the 
 large lady and the little man at the other end of the corridor — 
 they lingered about each other's bedroom-doors. Alice could 
 now hear them talking as they descended the staircase to- 
 gether ; then a burst of smothered laughter, and May came in 
 to see her. 
 
 " Oh ! how nice you look ! " 
 
 Nothing perhaps is diviner than the emotion which calls 
 from us praise of things wholly different from ourselves. So 
 far is it removed from sense, so closely allied is it to the brain, 
 that it becomes the calm wiU-less knowledge that Schopenhauer 
 holds up to us as the highest ideal to be attained. And to this 
 
 166 
 
A DRAMA IN AIUSLIN. 167 
 
 round, soft-limbed girl, whose white flesh burned and was alive 
 with the wants of the flesh, there was in Alice's candid eyes — 
 revealing as they did her natiu'al powerlessness to do aught 
 but live up to the practical rectitudes of life, as she conceived 
 them to exist — that charm, that assuagement, that vision of 
 purity, that elevation which the Catholic draws from his God- 
 crowned altar, which the traveller breathes when, as Words- 
 worth expresses it, the " shades of evening .... connect the 
 landscape to the quiet of the sky." There is always a close 
 and intimate, though not always an obvious analogy, between 
 our mental and physical characteristics. It, however, was 
 very apparent in the present instances. The soft, the melting 
 the almost fluid eyes, the bosom large and just a little falling, 
 the full hips, the absence of any marked point or line, the rolling 
 roundness of every part of the body definitely announced a 
 want of fixed principle, and a somewhat gross and sensual 
 temperament ; whereas the bright, affectionate, but slightly 
 hard eyes, the thin arms and straight hips and shoulders, were 
 admirably suggestive of the clear, the fixed, the almost stern 
 mind ; yes, a mind so well ordered that it could, and did, ex- 
 clude all thoughts to which it could not at once accord a frank 
 welcome. 
 
 " If you don't ' mash ' Mr. Harding to-night, he will be a 
 tough one indeed. Did I tell you I was talking to him yester- 
 day in the ladies' drawing-room — he is very nice, but I can't 
 qviite make him out : I think he despises us all ; all but you ; 
 about you he said all kinds of nice things : that you were so 
 clever, and nice, and amusing. And tell me, dear," said May, 
 in her warm, afiectionate way, " do you really like him — you 
 know what I mean ? " 
 
 May's eyes and voice were so full of significance, that to 
 pretend to misunderstand was impossible ; and a hot feeling of 
 resentment, almost 'of disgust, filled Alice's thoughts; but 
 mastering it, she said as quietly as she could : 
 
 " I like Mr. Harding well enough. It is very nice to have 
 him to talk to. To spend hour after hour listening to the 
 crowd of ignorant gossiping women who live here is too 
 dreadful. I am sure I don't want to run down my own sex — 
 there are plenty only too anxious to do that — but I am afraid 
 that there is not a girl in Dublin who thinks of anything 
 except how she is to get married." 
 
 " T don't know about that," said May, a little offended. " I 
 
168 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 suppose if you tliink of a man at all, you think of how he 
 likes you." 
 
 The defiant tone in which these words were spoken was 
 surprising ; and, for a moment, Alice stood staring blankly at 
 this superb cream-fleshed girl — superb in her dress of cream 
 faille, her sensual beauty poetised by the long veils which 
 hung like gossamer-webs from the coils of her copper-gleaming 
 hair. 
 
 " I am afraid. May,'' she said, " that you think a great deal 
 too much of such things. I don't say anything against Mr. 
 Scully, but I think it right to tell you that he is considered 
 a very dangerous young man ; and I am sure it does a girl no 
 good to be seen with him. It was he who. . . ." 
 
 " Now I will not hear you abuse Fred," cried May. " We 
 are great friends ; I like you better than any other girl, and 
 if you value our friendship you will not speak to me again 
 like this. I would not put up with it, no, not from my own 
 mother." 
 
 The girl moved hastily towards the door, but Alice laid her 
 hand on her arm, saying : 
 
 " You must not be angry, May; perhaps you are right; I 
 should not have meddled in things that do not concern me ; 
 but then we have been so long friends that I could not 
 help. . . ." 
 
 " I know, I know," said the girl yielding at once to the subtle 
 cerebral charm that Alice's mien and motions so constantly 
 brought into play. " You were speaking only for my good ; 
 but if you are friends with a person you can't stand by and 
 hear them abused. I know people speak badly of Fred; 
 but then people are so jealous — and they are all jealous of 
 Fred." 
 
 Then the conversation came to a pause, and the girls 
 examined each other's dresses. At the end of a long silence 
 May said : 
 
 " What an extraordinary thing this Drawing-room is when 
 one comes to think of it. Just fancy going to all this expense 
 to be kissed by the Lord-Lieutenant : a man one never saw 
 before. Will you feel ashamed when he kisses you ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know that I have thought much about it," 
 said Alice, laughing. " I suppose it docs not matter, it is only 
 a ceremony, not a real kiss." 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Barton's voice was heard, calling 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIJf. 169 
 
 — "Now, Alice, Alice, where are you? We are waiting for 
 you — make haste, for goodness' sake ; we are very late as 
 it is." 
 
 Staircase and corridor were empty and silent. The trail 
 of a sachet-scented petticoat could be detected on this length 
 of Brussels carpet, the acrid vulgarity of eau de Cologne hung 
 like a curtain before an open door, a vLsion of white silk 
 gleamed for a moment as it fled from room to room : men in a 
 strange garb — black velvet and steel buttons — furtively 
 hurried away, tripping over their swords, and ashamed of their 
 stockinged calves. On the first landing, about the winter- 
 garden, a crowd of German waiters, housemaids, — billiard- 
 players, with cigars in their teeth and cues in their hands, had 
 collected ; underneath, in the hall, the barmaids, and old ladies, 
 wrapped up in rugs and shawls to save them from the terrible 
 di-aughts, were criticising the dresses. Olive's name was on 
 every lip, and to see her all were breathless with expectation ; 
 her matrimonial prospects were discussed ; and Lord Kilcarney 
 was openly spoken of. " Ah ! here she is, there she is ! " was 
 whispered. The head-porter, wild with excitement, shouted 
 for Mrs. Barton's carriage; three under-porters distended huge 
 umbrellas ; the door was opened, an immense wind tore through 
 the hall, sending the old ladies flying back to then- sitting- 
 room, and the Bartons, holding their hair and their trains, 
 rushed across the wet pavement and took refuge in the 
 brougham. 
 
 " Did one ever see such weather ? " said Mrs. Barton. " I 
 hope your hair isn't rufiled, Olive ? " 
 
 " No, mamma, I think it is all right." 
 
 Reassured, Mrs. Barton continued : " I don't think there 
 ever was a country so hateful as Ireland. What with rain 
 and Land League. I wonder why we live hei-e 1 Did you 
 notice the time, Alice, as we left the hotel ? " 
 
 " Yes, mamma ; it was twenty-five minutes to ten." 
 
 " Oh ! we are very late ; we shan't be there before ten. The 
 thing to do is to get there about half-past nine ; the Drawing- 
 room does not begin before eleven ; but if you can get into the 
 first lot you can stand at the entrance of Patrick's Hall, and 
 have the pick of the men as they come through. That's the 
 place to stand ; all the Dublin gu'ls know that trick — I'll show 
 you when we arrive. And you, Alice, I see your friend 
 Harding is going to the Drawing-room. Now, if you do what 
 
170 A DRAlrA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 I tell you, you won't miss him ; and I do hope you won't, for to 
 have you hanging about my skirts the whole evening : and it 
 does look so bad to see a girl alone, just as if she were unable 
 to get a man." 
 
 While Mrs. Barton continued to advise her girls, the 
 carriage rolled rapidly along Stephen's Green. It had now 
 turned into Grafton Street ; and on the steep, rain-flooded 
 asphalte, they narrowly escaped an accident. The coachman, 
 however, steadied his horses, and soon the long colonnades of 
 the Bank of Ireland were seen on the left. From this point 
 they were no longer alone, and except when a crash of thunder 
 drowned every other sound, the rattling of wheels was heard 
 behind and in front of them. Carriages came from every side : 
 the night was alive with flashing lamps ; a glimpse of white fur 
 or silk, the red-breast of a uniform, the gold of an epaulette, 
 were seen, and then lost a moment after in the devouring 
 darkness. Thinking of the block that would take place on the 
 quays, the coachmen whipped up their horses ; but soon the 
 ordering voices of the mantled and mounted policemen wero 
 heard, and the carriages came to a full stop. 
 
 " We are very late ; hundreds will pass before us,'' said 
 Mrs. Barton, despairingly, as she watched the lines of silk- 
 laden carriages that seemed to be passing them by. But it 
 was difficult to make sure of anything ; and fearful of soiling 
 their gloves they refrained from touching the breath-misted 
 windows. On the glazed roof the rain pattered madly. 
 
 " Did you ever see such a pack of women ; there seems to 
 be nothing else ; it wouldn't be a bad joke if half of them took 
 the wrong tvirning and drove into the river instead of going to 
 the Castle — and for all they'll get there 1 " 
 
 Olive laughed with her usual facile lightness, then the three 
 women screamed — and for one electric instant the city 
 appeared in hideous silhouette upon a chalky-white sky. A 
 narrow drain-like river wedged between high-stone embank- 
 ments ; right along in a slight curve the perspective floats, 
 and a few factory chimneys close a sinister horizon of whiskey 
 and beer. On the left is squalor multiform and terrible. The 
 plaster, in huge scabs falls from the walls, and the flaring 
 light of a tallow candle reveals a dismantled room. You see 
 a huge shouldered mother, a lean-faced crone, and a squatting 
 tailor that poverty chains till midnight to his work-board ; 
 you see a couple of coarse girls, maids of all work, who smile 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 171 
 
 and call to the dripping coachmen on the boxes ; and there 
 are low shops filled with cheap cigars and tobncco, shops 
 where old clothes rot in fetid confusion, shops exhaling the 
 rancid odours of decaying vegetables, shops dingy with rusting 
 iron and cracked china, shops that traffic in obscene goods and 
 prints ; shops and streets that are but a leer of malign decre- 
 pitude. And as you near the Castle the traces of the destroyer 
 become more apparent — more foul. Beneath the upas tree 
 the city, even to her remotest suburb, has withered ; but that in 
 the immediate shadow — Ship Street — was black, plague-spotted, 
 pestilential, and, as a corpse, quick with the life of the worm. 
 
 Notwithstanding the terrible weather the streets were lined 
 with vagrants, patriots, waifs, idlers of all sorts and kinds. 
 Plenty of girls of sixteen and eighteen come out to see the 
 " finery." Poor little things in battered bonnets and draggled 
 skirts, who would dream upon ten shillings a week ; a drunken 
 mother striving to hush a child that dies beneath a di'ipping 
 shawl ; a harlot embittered by feelings of commercial resent- 
 ment ; troops of labourers battered and bruised with toil : you 
 see their hang-dog faces, their thin coats, their shirts torn and 
 revealing the beast-like hair on their chests ; you see also the 
 Irish- Americans, with their sinister faces, and broad-brimmed 
 hats, standing scowling beneath the pale flickering gas-lamps, 
 and, when the block brought the carriages to a standstill, some- 
 times no more than a foot of space separated their occupants 
 from the crowd on the pavement's edge. Never were poverty 
 and wealth brought into plainer proximity. In the broad 
 glare of the carriage lights the shape of every feature, even the 
 colour of the eyes, every glance, every detail of dress, every 
 stain of misery were revealed to the silken exquisites who, a 
 little frightened, strove to hide themselves within the scented 
 shadows of their broughams : and in like manner, the bloom 
 on every aristocratic cheek, the glitter of every diamond, the 
 richness of every plume were visible to the avid eyes of those 
 who stood without in the wet and the cold. 
 
 " I wish they would not stare so," said JMrs. Baiton; "one 
 would think they were a lot of hungry children looking into a 
 sweetmeat shop. The police ought really to prevent it." 
 
 " And how wicked those men in the big hats look," said 
 Olive, " I'm sure they would rob us if they only dared." 
 
 Alice thought of the Galway ball, with the terrible faces 
 looking in at the window. 
 
172 A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 The garish lightning again illumined the sky, and showed 
 the steps and the columns of a church crowded with huddled 
 groups, and single climbing figures. The thunder rattled with 
 a volubility so terrible that it seemed as if the heavens were 
 speaking for the freedom-dreaming nation, now goaded and 
 gagged with Coercion Bills. On and on the carriages rolled, 
 now blocked under the black rain-dripping archway of the 
 Castle yard, now delayed as they laboriously made the tour 
 of the quadrangle. Olive doubted if her turn would ever 
 come ; but, by slow degrees, each carriage discharged its cargo 
 of silk, and at last Mrs. Barton and her daughters found 
 themselves in the vestibule, taking numbers for their wraps 
 at the cloak-rooms placed on either side of the stairway. 
 
 The slender figures ascending to tiny naked shoulders, pre- 
 nonted a piquant contrast with the huge, black Assyrian 
 bull-like policemen, who, guarded the passage, and reduced, by 
 contrast, to almost doll-like proportions the white creatures 
 who went up the great stairway. Overhead an artificial plant, 
 some twenty feet wide, spread a decorative greenness ; the walls 
 were lined with rifles ; and at regular intervals, in lieu of 
 pictures, were set stars made out of swords. There were also 
 three suits of plate armour ; and the grinning of the helmets 
 of old time contrasted with the bearskin shrouded faces of the 
 red guardsmen. And through all this military display the 
 white ware tripped to the great muslin market. The air was 
 agleam with diamonds, pearls, skin, and tulle veils. Powdered 
 and purple-coated footmen stood, splendid in the splendour of 
 pink calves and salmon-coloured breeches, on every landing ; 
 and as the white mass of silk pushed along the white-painted 
 corridor, the sense of ceremony that had till then oppressed it, 
 evaporated in the fumes of the blazing gas. 
 
 But the battle for existence did not really begin until the 
 blue drawing-room was reached. There heat and fatigue soon 
 put an end to all coquetting between the sexes. The beautiful 
 silks were hidden by the crowd ; only the shoulders remained, 
 and, to appease their terrible ennui, the men gazed down the 
 backs of the women's dresses stupidly. Shoulders were there, 
 of all tints and shapes. Indeed, it was like a vast rosary, alive 
 with white, pink, and cream-colovired flowers : of Marechal 
 Niels, Souvenir de Malmaisons, Mademoiselle Eugene Verdiers, 
 Aim6e Vibert Scandens. Sweetly turned, adolescent shoulders, 
 blush white, smooth and even as the petals of a Marquiso 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 173 
 
 Mortemarle ; the strong, commonly turned shoulders, abundant 
 and free as the fresh rosy pink of the Anna Alinuffj the 
 drooping white shoulders, full of falling contours as a pale 
 Madame Lacharme ; the chlorotic shoulders, deadly white, 
 of the almost greenish shade that is found in a Princess 
 Clementine ; the pert, the dainty little shoulders, filled with 
 warm pink shadows, pretty and compact as Countess Cecile 
 de Chabrillant; the large heavy shoulders full of vulgar 
 madder tints, coarse, strawberry colour, enormous as a Paul 
 Neron ; clustering white shoulders, grouped like the blossoms 
 of an Aim6e Vibert Scandens, and, just in front of me, under 
 my eyes, the flowery, the voluptuous, the statuesque 
 shoulders of a tall blonde woman of thirty, whose flesh is 
 full of the exquisite peach-like tones of a Mademoiselle 
 Eugene Verdier, blooming in all its pride of summer 
 loveliness. 
 
 To make way for this enormous crowd, the Louis XV, 
 sofas and armchairs had been pushed against the walls. Large 
 blue fans outspread ornamented every corner. Chandeliers of 
 exquisite fragility, covered with crystal balls, hung against the 
 blue silk curtains, with which the long line of windows on the 
 right were draped ; and in the gold mirrors on the left, all 
 rutilant with quick flames, and the white slimnesses of the wnx 
 candles, a blurred and grotesque picture of the flesh -floweis 
 below was reflected. 
 
 An hour passed wearily, and in this beautiful drawing-room 
 humanity sufiered in all its natural impudence. Momentarily 
 the air grew hotter and more sUicious ; the brain ached with 
 the dusty odour of poudre de ris, and the many acidities of 
 evaporating perfume ; the sugary sweetness of the blondes, 
 the salt flavours of the brunettes, and this allegro movement 
 of odours was interrupted suddenly by the garlicky andante, 
 deep as the pedal notes of an organ, that the perspiring arms 
 of a fat chaperon slowly exhaled. 
 
 At last there was a move forwards, and a sigh of relief, a 
 grunt of satisfaction, broke from the oppressed creatures : but 
 a line of guardsmen was pressing from behind, and the women 
 were thrown hither and thither into the arms and on to the 
 backs of soldiers, police officers, county inspectors and castle 
 underlings. Now a lady turns pale, and whispers to her hus- 
 band that she is going to faint; now a young girl's pettico.'its 
 Lave become entangled in the moving mass of legs ! She cries 
 
] 74 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 aloud for help : her brother expostulates with those around. 
 He is scarcely heeded. 
 
 The heart sickens in the crush. How curious the faces 
 seem ! Here are a few silhouettes. Look at the tall woman of 
 fifty with a hooked-nose and orange hair ; she peeps over that 
 shoulder and tries to keep within view of her daughter ; next 
 to her is a fat man with an eyebrow and an eyeglass ; there is a 
 waistless lady with red hair ; her daughter — a tiny thing — has 
 inherited the mother's red hair. A little to the right is a bald 
 head that the heat has turned to crimson ; and you see the 
 sallow man with the foxy beard, and the tiny little old woman, 
 who looks as if she were down a well, so entirely is she lost 
 between four tall men ; you see that male profile ? how distinct 
 it comes out against the pillar ! By your side a weak gii-1 is 
 being driven along by a couple of police officers : very pitifully 
 she holds up her train with both hands. 
 
 But the struggle grows still more violent when it becomes 
 evident that the guardsmen are about to bring down the bar 
 and stop further exit ; and begging a florid-faced attorney to 
 unloose his sword, which had become entangled in her dress, 
 Mrs. Barton called on her daughter, and slipping under the 
 raised arms, they found themselves suddenly in a square, 
 sombre room, full of a rich, brown twilight. In one corner 
 there was a bureau, where an attendant served out blank 
 cards; in another the white plumes nodded against the red 
 glare that came from the throne-room, whence Liddell's band 
 was heard playing waltz tunes, and the stentorian tones of the 
 chamberlain's voice called the ladies' names. 
 
 " Have you got your cards ? " said Mrs. Barton. 
 
 " I have got mine," said Olive. 
 
 " And I have got mine," said Alice. 
 
 " Well, you know what to do ? You give your card to the 
 aiile-de-camp, he passes it on and spreads out your train, and 
 you walk right to His Excellency ; he kisses you on both 
 cheeks, you courtesy, and, at the far door, two aides-de-camp 
 pick up your train and place it on your arm." 
 
 The girls continued to advance, experiencing the while the 
 nerve atrophy, the systolic emotion of communicants, who 
 when the bell rings, approach the altar rails to receive God 
 within their mouths. 
 
 The massive, the low-hanging, the opulently twisted gold 
 candelabra, the smooth lustre of the marble columns are 
 
A DHAMA IN MUSLIN. 175 
 
 evocative of the persuasive grandeur of a cathedral ; and, deep 
 in the darkness of the pen, a vast congregation of peeresses 
 and judges watch the ceremony in devout collectiveness. 
 How symmetrical is the place ! A red, a well-trimmed 
 bouquet of guardsmen has been set in the middle of the 
 Turkey-carpet ; around the throne a semicircle of red coats 
 has been drawn, and above it flow the veils, the tulle, the 
 skirts of the ladies of honour — they seem like white clouds 
 dreaming on a bank of scarlet poppies — and the long 
 sad legs, clad in maroon-coloured breeches, is the Lord- 
 Lieutenant, the teeth and the diamonds on his right is Her 
 Excellency. And now a lingering survival of the terrible 
 Droit de Seigneur — diminished and attenuated, but still circu- 
 lating through our modern years — this ceremony, a pale ghost 
 of its former self, is performed ; and, having received a kiss 
 on either cheek, the debutantes are free to seek their bridal 
 beds in Patrick's Hall. 
 
 " Miss Olive Barton, presented by Mrs. Barton I " shouted 
 the chamberlain. Olive abandoned her train to the aides-de- 
 camp; she saw their bent backs, felt their nimble fingers 
 exhibiting this dress whereon Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Symond 
 had for days been expending all the poetry of their natures. 
 What white wonder, what manifold marvel of art 1 Dress of 
 snow satin, skirt quite plain in front. Bodice and train of white 
 poplin ; the latter wrought with patterns representing night 
 and morning : a morning made of silver leaves with silver birds 
 fluttering through leafy trees, butterflies sporting among them, 
 and over all a sunrise worked in gold and silver thread ; then 
 on the left side the same sun sank amid rosy clouds, and there 
 butterflies slept with folded wing, and there birds roosted on 
 bending boughs ; veils of silver tissue softened the edges of the 
 train, and silver-stars gleamed in the corn-coloured hair, and 
 the long hands, gloved with white undressed kid, carried a 
 silver fan. She was adorably beautiful and adorably pale ; and 
 like some wonderful white bird of downy plumage she sailed 
 through the red glare, along the scarlet line, unto the weary- 
 Ipoking man in maroon breeches. He kissed her on both 
 cheeks ; she courtesied to the vice-regal lips, and passed away 
 to the further door, where her train was caught up and handed 
 to her by two aides-de-camp. 
 
 Notwithstanding the automatic precision of the ceremonials, 
 eager looks passed between the ladies of honour standing on 
 
17fi A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 the estrade. Even the superb bouquet of red coats placed in 
 the middle of the floor, animated by one desire, turned its 
 sixteen heads to gaze after the wonderful vision of blonde 
 beauty that had come — that had gone. Mrs. Barton experienced 
 an instant thrill of triumph, and her train was spread out by 
 the aides-de-camp. In the composition of her dress she had 
 given free range to her somewhat florid taste. The front was 
 brocade, laid upon a ground of grey-pink, shot with orange, 
 and the efiect 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 
 \\ere of gold-brown velvet that matched the gold-brown of the 
 hair. Mrs. Barton was transformed from the usual Eomney 
 portrait to one by Sir Peter Lely : and when she made her 
 courtesy. 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. 
 
 There was an admixture of curiosity in the admiration ac- 
 corded to Violet. Hers was not the plain appealing of Olive's 
 Gieek 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 
 fran9aise, trimmed with tulle ruchings, frccked 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 kissed her, and so warmly that Her 
 Excellency looked up surprised, but her annoyance was lost in 
 the crashing of the thunder which at that moment broke in 
 terrific claps over their heads. Everyone thought instinctively 
 of dynamite, and it was some time before even the voluptuous 
 strains of Liddell's band could calm their inquietude. Never- 
 theless the chamberlain continued to shout : 
 
 " Lady Sarah Cullen, Lady Jane Cullen, Mrs. Scully, pre- 
 sented by Lady Sarah Cullen." Then came a batch of people 
 ■whom no one knew, and in the midst of those the ai(lot.-d9- 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 177 
 
 camp allowed Alice to pass. Even in the trying orJoal of 
 submitting to His Excellency's lips she preserved her grave, 
 candid demeanour. Slie was prettily dressed. A train of 
 white faille trimmed with sprays of white heather and tulle, 
 the petticoat being beautifully arranged with folded draperies 
 of crfepe de Chine. 
 
 A number of ladies had collected in the further 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. 
 Mrs. Barton and Olive ^yere there. 
 
 " I wish Alice would make haste and not keep us waiting. 
 [ suppose she has got behind a whole crowd of people. 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 corsage of Lyons velvet, Mrs. Scully came up and accosted 
 them. 
 
 "And how do you do, Mrs. Barton?" she said, with a 
 desperate eflfbrt to make herself agreeable ; " I must congratu- 
 late you ; everyone is admiring your dress ; I assure you your 
 train looked perfectly regal." 
 
 "I am so 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 aU 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, " have you not got your Violet ? whom, by 
 the way, you have transformed into a beautiful daisy. It will 
 be, perhaps, not the Kose 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 under- 
 stood 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 
 
178 A DEAStA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 entered Patrick's Hall. There Lord Dangory, Lord Rosshill, 
 and others were waiting to receive Mrs. Barton. Establishing 
 herself where she could be seen ; and dealing out pearly laughs 
 and winsome compliments to her court, she watched OUve, 
 who, according to orders, had t.aken Lord Kilcarney to sit on 
 the highest of the series of benches that lined one side of the 
 room. It was a double tiiumph, and for a moment Mrs. 
 Barton felt as if she held Dublin under her satin shoe. Alice 
 was her only trouble ! she had slipped behind the file of white 
 women, who, \Aith eyes liquid with invitation, crowded about 
 the doorway hoping to seize the men as they came through. 
 What would she do with this gawk of a giri ? — 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 look 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." 
 
 " WeU, 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 is not 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 is not the fashion ridiculous t " 
 Alice asked, somewhat earnestly. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 They were in an immense hall. 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 bufiet, 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 Kifles stained like 
 spots of ink and blood the lugubrious pallor of the background. 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 179 
 
 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 3'ou generally are ! How do you 
 do, Mr. Harding. And tell me, Alice, what do you think of 
 my dress 1 " 
 
 May was in cream faille with ruchings of tulle. A beautiful 
 piece of white lilac nestled upon her right breast. She was all 
 white, save the furnace of her hair. She drew herself up for 
 Alice to see her ; and Harding watched Fred, who was lost in 
 sensual contemplation. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Alice felt Harding had read through May ; but he said 
 nothing, and, thanking him inwardly for his silence, they 
 passed from the glare of Patrick's Hall into the reposing 
 shadows of rich velvet and sombre hangings. In amorous 
 attitudes, women leaned over the sofas, talking to men in uni- 
 form, and two strange-looking creatures, in long garments, 
 walked up and down the room. They were Dons from Trinity, 
 and they argued earnestly with Mr. Adair. 
 
 " 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 is not a capacity for passing competi- 
 tive examinations the best proof of a man's incapacity for every- 
 thing 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 i " said Alice, astonished at the slight considera- 
 tion afforded to the rural genius. 
 
 " I have heard of them. It appears he is going in for 
 
180 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 politics ; but his politics will be on a par with his saw -mill, 
 and his farmyard in concrete. Mr. Adair Ls a well-known 
 person. Every county in England, Ireland, and Scotland, 
 possesses and is pi-oud of its Mr. Adair." 
 
 Alice wondered for some moments in silence ; and when 
 suddenly her thoughts detached themselves she said : " Have 
 you been writing a great deal ? We did not 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 do not know that I look upon my ink-bottle as an 
 eternal haven of bliss. Still, I would sooner contribute articles 
 to daily and weekly papeis 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 yoiu: hands ; 
 why don't you do some writing 1 " 
 
 " Oh, what should I write about ? " said Alice, blushing a 
 little, but pleased at the compliment paid to her. 
 
 " I suppose the right and proper thing for a. young lady to 
 write is a novel. 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 
 aljout 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 ! we have only known each other a week." 
 
 " 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 did not mean that — I am sure I am vei-y 
 glad . . . ." 
 
 " Very well, then, we will be friends ; and now tell me 
 what you were going to say." 
 
 " I have foi-gotten — what was I saying ? " 
 
 "You were telling me about something you had written at 
 school." 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 181 
 
 " Oh, yes, I remember. I did a little play for tlie girls to 
 act just before we left.'" 
 
 " What was it about — what was it called 1 " 
 
 " It was not oi-iginal — 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." 
 
 " I don't know about that. You certainly ought to try to do 
 something when you go back to Galway. If you wiU send me 
 an article or a short story I will tell you what I think of it, 
 and see what can be done with it. I am going back to London 
 in about ten days." 
 
 " So soon ! '' 
 
 Harding had not time to answer, for 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 Vice-regal procession. 
 
 The first to appear were the A.D.O.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 
 tTsher, the Comptroller, the State Steward, walking with a 
 ^^■and, Eke a doge in an opera boufTe ; then came another secre- 
 tary, and another band of the underlings who swarm about 
 this mock court like flies about a choice pile of excrement. 
 Then came a heavy-built, red-bearded man, and he 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 enor- 
 mous weight. Then another batch of A.D.C.s in Waiting, 
 the ladies of the Vice-regal family : their Excellencies' guests 
 and the ladies in attendance— placed according to their per- 
 sonal precedence — brought up the rear of the procession. And 
 with all the gravity of a funeral the cortege passes between the 
 ranks of the women : their naked shoulders are the mourners, 
 their skirts are the cerecloths that enwrap this poor ghost of 
 
182 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 royalty : criminal-like, its living ears filled with the dirges 
 the skies are ringing, it passes down the long room, retui-ning 
 to its gruesome throne, a throne that is an open bier, a throne 
 that is even now its eternal sepulchre of shame. 
 
 " Does not real, actual life sometimes appear to you. Miss 
 Barton, more distorted and unreal than the wildest midnight 
 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 
 utterly bewildei-ing that such barbarities should be permitted 
 to loiter about the portals of this age of reason." 
 
 " But what has Christianity to do with the procession that 
 has just passed ? " 
 
 " Everything ; a nation cannot be republican as long as it is 
 Christian. Republicanism is common sense ; Christianity is 
 faith, and faith is the power of believing what you know is not 
 true ; and Christ and the Viceroy share the crutch between 
 them. Were it not for faith do you think a mock court ' that 
 an earthquake rocks and swings ' could go promenading about 
 in that ludicrous fashion ! " 
 
 " I'm not sure that it is faith that enables them to prome- 
 nade the state sword about. It seems to me more that power 
 of living in the present time which most people possess to such 
 an extraordinary degree." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," and Harding glanced at Alice in 
 surprise. 
 
 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 
 ciowded, 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. The more knowing — the five- 
 season girls — plied thoir tricks hither and thither, passing, on 
 trumped-up excuses, from chaperon to chaperon. 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 Coesarean. 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 Eosshill had been pvished aside : and, 
 apart, each sought to convince the other that he was going to 
 
A DHAMA IN J10SLTIT. 183 
 
 leave to\\'n 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 frisd velvet 
 and steel, were talking to her. Suddenly Lady Sarah bowed 
 to Lord Kilcarney, and the bow said, " Come here ! " 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 Eim in the vestibule helping the Scullys on with 
 their wraps, she shuddered as if struck with a blast of icy 
 wind. 
 
CIIAPTEE IV. 
 
 " Duiigoi-y 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 
 Bay 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 pii;'ce of news has reached me that 
 forces my thovights back into the old wa}-s — ways that I know 
 you have often reproved me for letting my mind wander in. 
 In a word, daiiing Alice, I hear that jon aie 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 1 I would sooner know the worst at once — hear that 
 you love him madly, passionatel}', 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 
 w ill not think you do. I have been crying all the morning, 
 cr}'ing bitterly ; hoi-rible thoughts have forced themselves on 
 my mind. I have seen (but it was not true though it seemed 
 so clear ; visions are not ahvaj^s true) this man kissing you ! 
 Oh ! Alice, let me warn )'ou, let me beg of you to think well 
 before you abandon youiself to a man's power, to a man's love. 
 It is a vile and degrading thing. How women can endure it 
 
 184 
 
A DRAMA IN SIUSLIN. IffS 
 
 I don't know ; tiio thought fills me with horror. Women 
 are pure, men are obscene animals. Their love is our 
 degradation. Love ! a nice name they give it. How can n 
 sentiment that is merely a gratification of the lowest passions 
 be love t And that is all they seek ; I know it ; in their 
 heart of hearts they despise us. 
 
 " 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 1 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. Ob ! 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 wUl 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, 
 1 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 sympathise 
 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. I 
 express myself badly, but you guess what I mean. The very 
 fact of being forced to live apart has helped me to realise how 
 horrible life is, and how the passions of men make it vUe 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 ; some- 
 thing, 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 sittmg 
 
186 A BHAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 by you, I see you smiling upon him — my blood boils, Alice 
 — 1 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 realise 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, 
 dailing Alice, 
 
 " Yours afl^ctionately, 
 
 "Cecilia Ctjllen." 
 
 Alice read steadily, word by word ; then she let the letter 
 and her hands fall on her lap ; and, engrossed in the picture it 
 revealed of Cecilia's obscured and perturbed mind, she forgot 
 the imminent happiness that played, that flashed like a sun- 
 beam about her. It was a sweet and radiant delight to dream 
 that Harding loved her ; but she knew he did not love her : 
 still, why should she force the knife into her soul, and, turning 
 from it, she looked into the gloomy and distorting mirror that 
 Cecilia held menacingly to her : and very sinister life and love 
 seemed therein. "And to live in eternal communion with 
 such a picture," thought the girl ; " and if it be a true reflec- 
 tion ! " 
 
 She shuddered. " But no ; things are only as we choose to 
 see them ; " and, on strong bright wings, her thoughts rose out 
 of the abyss into which they had been, for a moment, forced 
 to gaze; and through all the terrors of original ignorance her 
 confidence in humanity remained unshaken. Is not a good 
 man — and there are good men — of all knowable things the 
 highest ? Then why should we tu.rn away from the highest 
 good 1 Thus Alice reasoned — she who denied the Bethlehem 
 man-god, and was content to accept this poor miserable terrene 
 life of ours as the end of all consciousness, while Cecilia, she 
 who cried out angrily against the flesh, as if it were a foul and 
 leprous thing, Ijowed in complete humbleness of spirit before 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 187 
 
 that most human of all gods — human even unto bastardy— 
 that a foolish world has accepted as divine. 
 
 How various and how intricate ai-e the questions with which 
 we find ourselves confronted in the course of any cerebral 
 investigation! How curiously mental characteristics stop 
 short where you would espect to find a long continuity 1 how 
 mysteriously they wander from their natal lines into crooked 
 devious ways, and then, suddenly, how they come flowing back 
 in a great stream, difiering absolutely in colour and current, 
 from the source from which they started 1 And yet, if these 
 apparent contradictions were to be pursued closely through the 
 deeps of the night of creation, each could be demonstrated as 
 logical as any theorem in Euclid, either by heredity, or by 
 accidental variations of the physical nature, which in turn react 
 upon the brain. But here we must be brief; and in our 
 diagnosis of the origin of the mind of the writer of the letter, 
 and that of the reader, it will be only necessary to call attention 
 to the fundamental and main Hnes on which each brain waa 
 constructed. 
 
 Alice Barton's power to judge between right and wrong, 
 her love of sentiment, her collectedness, yes, I wUl say her 
 reasoned collectedness were, as has been already partially shown, 
 the consequence of the passivity of the life and nature of her 
 grandfather (the historian) ; her power of will, and her clear, 
 concise intelligence were inherited from her mother, and these 
 qualities being placed in a perfectly healthy subject, a subject 
 in whom every organ functioned admirably, the result was a 
 mind that turned instinctively from mysticism and its adjuncts 
 — foolish hope and wild rspiration — to the natural duties and 
 interests of life, its plain and simple rectitudes as she saw 
 them revealed in the general history of mankind. And 
 Cecilia's dark and illogical mind can also be accounted for. 
 Her hatred of all that concerned sexual passion was consequent 
 on her father's age and her mother's loathing for him during 
 conception and pregnancy; and then, if it be considered that 
 this transmitted hatred was planted and left to germinate in 
 a misshapen body, it will be understood how a weird love of 
 the spiritual, of the mystical, was the almost inevitable psychical 
 characteristic that a human being born under such circumstances 
 would possess. 
 
 Alice sat on a low chair, her feet set against the fender, and 
 her hands laid on Cecilia's letter. Her vision was not precise, 
 
188 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 but there were flashes of sun in it, and her thoughts loomed 
 and floated away. She thought of herself, of Harding, of then* 
 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. Haiding 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. But suddenly she began to think definitely. 
 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 sur- 
 rounded 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. Alice was very 
 loyal. But honest or dishonest, she was sure he could love no 
 one, and a bitter heart-pang brought her thoughts to a pause ; 
 and she strove to recall his face. She could remember nothing 
 but the cold merciless eyes — eyes that were like the palest 
 blue porcelain : " Why had he been so nice if he meant no 
 more ? But how ungrateful I am," thought the girl, and she 
 checked the bitter flow of reproaches that rose in her mind. 
 
 It was in the ladies' drawing-room. Two old ladies sat on 
 the sofa under the window, their white hair and white caps 
 coming out very white upon the grey Iiish day. They knitted 
 methodically ; and around the ottoman the young ladies, Gladys 
 and Zoe Brennan, one of the Miss Duffys, and the gu'l in red, 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 189 
 
 yawned over circulating novels. They longed that a man 
 might come in — not mth 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 OUve 
 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-moiTOW ? " 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 — 
 " Signer 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 1 " 
 
 " No, ours was, of course, du'ected to mamma ; I found it in 
 her room." 
 
 "Then perhaps" . . . Zoe did not finish the sentence, and 
 both sisters rolled up their woi-sted-work preparatory to going 
 upstaii-s. 
 
190 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 In Dablin, during six weeks of the year, the arrival of these 
 large oflS.oial envelopes is watched with an eagerness that words 
 cannot describe. 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 
 grey-headed 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 after- 
 wards 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, &c. You will pro- 
 bably 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." 
 
 Whatever Mrs. Barton's faults may have been, she did her 
 duty, as she conceived it, by her daughter ; and during the 
 long dinner, through the leaves of the flowering plants, she 
 watched her Olive anxiously. A hundred-and-twenty people 
 were present. Mothers and eligible daughters, judges, lords, 
 police-officers, earls, poor-law inspectors, countesses, and Castle 
 officials. Around the great white-painted, gold-listed walls 
 the table, in the form of a horseshoe, was spread. In the 
 soothing light of the shaded lamps, the white glitter of the 
 piled-up silver danced over the talking faces, and descended in 
 silvery waves into the bosoms of the women. Salmon and 
 purple-coloured liveries passed quickly; and in the fragrance 
 of soup and the flavours of sherry, in the lascivious pleasing 
 of the waltz tunes that Liddell's band poured from a top 
 galluiy, tlio gooJly company of time-servers, panders, and 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 191 
 
 others, forgot tlieir fears of the Land League, and the doom 
 that was now waxing to fulness. 
 
 To the girls the dinner seemed interminable, but at the 
 " private dance " afterwards those who were kno'ivn in official 
 circles, or were fortunate enough to meet their friends, amused 
 themselves. It took place in the Throne Room. As the guests 
 arrived they scanned each other narrowly. People, who had 
 known each other from childhood upwards, as they met on the 
 landing, affected a look of surprise : " Oh 1 so you are here ? I 
 wonder how you got your invitation ? Well, I suppose you are 
 better than I took you to be 1 " Acquaintances saluted each 
 other more cordially than was their wont : he or she who had 
 dined at the Castle took his or her place at once among the 
 elite : he or she who had come to dance was henceforth con- 
 sidered worthy of a bow in Grafton Street. For Dublin is a 
 city without a conviction, without an opinion. Things are 
 right and wrong according to the dictum of the nearest official. 
 If it be not absolutely iU-bred to say you think this, or are 
 inclined to take such or such a view, it is certainly more ad- 
 visable to say that the Attorney-General thinks so, or that on 
 one occasion you heard the State Steward, the Chamberlain, 
 or any other equally distinguished underling express this or 
 that opinion. Castle tape is worn in time of mourning and in 
 the time of feasting. Every gigman in the Kildare Street 
 wears it in his buttonhole, and the ladies of Merrion Square 
 are found to be gartered with it. 
 
 Mrs. Barton's first thought was to get Olive partners. Milord 
 and Lord Eosshill were sent hither and thither, and with such 
 good result that the whole evening the beauty was beset with 
 A.D.C.s. But the marquis had danced three times with Violet 
 Scully, and Mrs. Barton vented her anger on poor Alice. The 
 girl knew no one, nor was there time to introduce her to men. 
 She was consequently sent off with milord to see where the 
 marquis was hiding ; and she was commissioned to tell her sister 
 to answer thus when Lord KUcarney asked for another dance : 
 " I am engaged, cher marquis, but for you of course I shall have 
 to throw some poor fellow over." Mrs. Barton knew not how to 
 play a waiting game. Her tactics were always to grapple with 
 the enemy. She was a Hannibal : she risked aU to gain aU. 
 Mrs. Scully, on the contrary, watched the combat from afar 
 —as Moltke did the German linea when they advanced upou 
 Paris. 
 
192 A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 The Bartons were not invited to the next private dance, and 
 they had to look forward to the State ball given on the follow- 
 ing Monday. As they mounted the stairway Mrs. Barton said : 
 
 " You know we turn to the left this time and enter Patrick's 
 Hall by this end ; the other entrance is blocked up by the dais ; 
 and the wall-flowers, you will find, have shifted their camp. It 
 is considered somewhat bad form, to stand about the pillars ; 
 but the great thing is to get hold of the best men. We shan't 
 have long to wait, and then we'll move up to the dais." 
 
 St. Patrick's Hall was now a huge democratic crush. All the 
 little sharp glances of the " private dance," " What, you 
 here ! " were dispensed with as useless, for all were within 
 their rights in being at the ball. They pushed, laughed, 
 danced. They met as they would have met in Rotten I\ow, 
 and they took their amusement with the impartiality of 
 pleasure-seekers jigging and drinking in a market-place on 
 fair-day. On either side of the hall there were ascending 
 benches; these were filled with chapex'ons and debutantes, a.nd 
 over their heads the white-painted gold-listed walls were hung 
 with garlands of evergreen oak interwoven with the celebrated 
 silver shields, the property of the Cowper famUy, and in front 
 of the curtains hanging about the dais, the maroon legs of His 
 Excellency, and the teeth and diamonds of Her Excellencj', 
 were seen passing to and fro, and up and down to the music of 
 oblivion that Liddell dispensed with a flowing arm. 
 
 The darling dream of the Dubliner is to dance in this quad- 
 rille — it is the highest honour he can ever hope to attain — but, 
 for the moment, all minds Avcre set on the realisation of a more 
 immediate prospect. About the pillars the three and four- 
 season girls were di'awn up in battle array ; and, their eyes 
 liquid with invitation, they sought to attract the attention of 
 the men as they went in. The girl in reil, the Brennans, the 
 Miss Duffys led the assault ; even the honourable Miss Goies 
 were there. 
 
 " I declare Olive Barton is here ! " whispered the redoubtable 
 Berbha ; " tliis doesn't look as if the beaux were coming forward 
 in their hundreds. It is said that Lord Kilcarney has given 
 her up for Violet Scully." 
 
 "I'm not a bit surprised," said the girl in red; " and, now 
 I think of it, all the beauties come to the same end. I'll just 
 give her a couple more Castle seasons. It is that that will piiU 
 the fine feathers out of hei'." 
 
A DRAJIA IN MUSLIN. 193 
 
 But the beauty was soon spied out by some three or four 
 A.D.C.s; an English lord engaged her for a couple of waltzes, 
 and, in triumph, Mrs. Barton made her way up to the dais 
 where she had given appointment to Lord Dungory, Lord Eoss- 
 hill, and her other admirers. One of them, an old man of 
 sixty, took Alice out for a waltz, and when it was over she 
 was free to listen to her mother's laughter, and to watch, until 
 her eyes ached, the whirling of white and rose tulle and the 
 pushing of black cloth shoulders. She was not alone. She was 
 but one of the many debutantes who, amid the chaperons, 
 sat wearily waiting on the high benches. Some are but seven- 
 teen, and their sweet, clear eyes seem as a bright morning, full 
 of beautiful possibilities. 
 
 Alice was beginning to see to the end, and, as the old 
 sad thoxights came back to her, she thought of the resultlefs life, 
 the life of white idleness that awaited nearly all of them. 
 What were they but snow-flakes born to shine for a moment 
 and then to fade, to die, to disappear, to become part of the 
 black, the foul -smelling slough of mud below ? The drama in 
 muslin was again unfolded, and she could read each act ; and 
 there was a " curtain " at the end of each. The first was made 
 of young, hopeful faces, the second of arid solicitation, the 
 third of the bitter, malignant tongues of Bertha Duffy and 
 her friend. They are talking now to a pale little martyr who 
 has spoken to no one, who has not even a brother to take her 
 for a walk down the room, or to the buffet for an ice. 
 
 " And are not the Castle balls very nice ? " said Bertha, 
 " and how are you amusing yourself 1 " 
 
 " Oh, very much indeed," replied the poor debutante. 
 
 "And is it true. Bertha," asks the fierce aunt, " you know 
 all the news, that Mr. Jones has been transferred to another 
 ship and has gone off to the Cape ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied the girl with a coarse laugh; "a nice 
 end to her beauj and after diunering him up the whole sum- 
 mer too." 
 
 Alice shuddered. Was it possible, she asked herself, that 
 she was listening to the conversation of people who passed for, 
 and who believed themselves to be, ladies ? And to think that 
 only a few years are required to degrade a girl full of sweetness 
 and promise to the level of that horrible harlot-like creature 
 with the yellow hair and wide mouth ! And by what delicate 
 degrees is the soul befouled in this drama of muslin, and how 
 
 o 
 
194 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 little is there left for any use of life when, after torture and 
 disgrace, the soul, that was once so young, appears on the 
 stage for the fourth act. Examine the meagi-e minds of the 
 Ladies CuUen and the Honourable Miss Gores, listen to their 
 narrow bigotries, and think that once these poor old things 
 were fresh, hopeful, full of aspiration. Now if they could 
 rise for a moment out of their living death it would be like 
 the skeleton in Goya's pictui'e, to lift the tomb and write on 
 the headstone : " Nada." 
 
 An hour passed, and Alice had begun to experience the 
 worst horrors of a Castle ball. She was sick of pity for those 
 around her, and her lofty spirit resented the insult that was 
 offered to her sex. At last Haiding came up. Mrs. Barton 
 loceived him with enthusiasm : she at once called his attention 
 to Alice, and in a way that seemed to imply " Por goodness 
 sake take her ofT; thank heavens there's someone who can put 
 up with a plain girl." 
 
 " Have you been long here. Miss Barton ? " he said, leaning 
 towards her ; " I have been looking out for you, but the crowd 
 is so great that it is hard to find anyone." 
 
 " I think we arrived about a quaiter to eleven," Alice 
 answered, somewhat eagei'ly. 
 
 Then, after a pause, Harding said : " Will you give me this 
 waltz? " Alice assented, and, as they made tlieir way through 
 the dancers, he added : " But I believe you do not care about 
 dancing. If you would prefer it, we might go for a walk down 
 the room. Peihaps you would like an ice 'i This is the way 
 to the buffet." 
 
 But Alice and Harding did not stop long there; they were 
 glad to lea-\'e the heat of gas, the odour of sauces, the effer- 
 vescence of the wine, the detonations of champagne, the tumult 
 of laughter, the racing of plates, the heaving bosoms, the 
 glitteruig corsets for tlio peace and the pale blue refinement 
 of the long blue drawing-i'oom. How much of our sentiments 
 and thoughts do we gather from our surroundings ; and the 
 shining blue of the turquoise-coloured curtains, the pale dead 
 blue of the Louis XV. furniture, and the exquisite fragility of 
 the glass chandeliei's, the gold mirrors lutilaut with the light 
 of some hundreds of tall wax candles, were illustrative of the 
 light dreams and delicate lassitude that filled the souls of the 
 Vv'omeu as they lay back whispering to their partners, the 
 crinolettes lifting the skirts over the eil"cs of the sofas. 
 
A UltAMA IN MUSLiN. 106 
 
 Here tho conversation seems serious, there it is smiling, and 
 
 broken by the passing and repassing of a fan. 
 
 " Only four days more of Dublin," said Harding; "I have 
 
 settled, or rather the fates have settled, that I am to leave 
 
 next Saturday." 
 
 " And where are 3-ou going ; to London ? •' 
 
 " Yes, to London. I am sorry I am leaving so soon ; but it 
 
 can't be helped. I have met many nice people here — some 
 
 whom I shall not be able to forget." 
 
 " You speak as if it were necessary to forgot them — it is 
 
 surely always better to remember." 
 
 " I shall certainly remember you. Besides, I intend to 
 
 write, and you have promised to send me some of your 
 
 work. There is no doubt but that I shall be able to get it 
 
 published." 
 
 " It is veiy kind of you," said Alice, hesitatingly. " I doubt 
 my powers of being able to do anything good enough, but I 
 shall be very glad to hear from you." 
 
 At this moment only one thing in the world seemed to be of 
 muct real importance ; it wn,s that the man now sitting by her 
 side ohould not be utterly taken away. To know that he 
 existed, though far from her, would be almost enough, for 
 would he not be to her a sort of beacon-light — a light she 
 migW; never reach to, but which would break the darkness she 
 dreaded ? • In no century have men been loved so implicitly by 
 women as in the nineteenth ; nor could this be otherwise, for 
 putting aside the fact that the natural wants of love have 
 become a nervous erethism in the struggle that a surplus popula- 
 tion of more than two million women has created, there are 
 psychological reasons that to-day more than ever impel women 
 to shrink from the intellectual monotony of their sex, and to 
 view with increasing admiration the free, the vigorous intelli- 
 gence of the male. For as the gates of the harem are being 
 bjoken down, and the gloorn of the female mind clears, and 
 grows keenly alive to the sensations and ideas of modern life, 
 it becomes axiomatically sure that Woman brings a loftier 
 reverence to the shrine of Man than she has done in any past 
 age, seeing, as she now does, in him the incarnation of the 
 freedom of which she is vaguely conscious and which she is 
 perceptibly acquiring. So sets the main current that is 
 beaiing civilisation along; but beneath the great feminine 
 tide there is an under-current of hatred and revolt. ThLs is 
 
196 A DRAMA IN JIUSLIN. 
 
 particularly observable in the leaders of the movement ; 
 women who in the tumult of their aspirations, and their 
 passionate yearnings towards the new ideal, and the memory 
 of the abasement their sex have been in the past, and are 
 still being in the present, subjected to, forget the immutability 
 of the laws of life, and with virulent virtue and protest con- 
 demn love — that is to say love in the sense of sexual inter- 
 course — and proclaim a higher mission for woman than to be 
 the mother of men : and an adjuvant, unless corrected by 
 sanative qualities of a high order, is, of course, found in any 
 physical (lefect. But as the corporeal and incorporeal heredita- 
 ments of Alice Barton and Lady Cecilia Cullen were examined 
 fully in the beginning of this chapter, it is only necessary to 
 here indicate the order of ideas — the moral atmosphere of the 
 time — to understand the efflorescence of the two minds, and 
 to realise how curiously representative they are of this last 
 quarter of the nineteenth century. 
 
 And it was necessary to make that survey of psychical cause 
 and effect to appreciate the sentiments that actuated Alice in 
 her relationship with Harding. She loved him, but more 
 through the imagination than the heart. She knew he was 
 deceiving her, but to her he meant so much that she had not 
 the force of will to cast him off, and abandoned herself to the 
 intellectual sensualism of his society. It was this, and nothing 
 more. What her love might have been it is not necessary to 
 analyse ; in the present circumstances, it was completely merged 
 in the knowledge that ho was, to her, light, freedom, and 
 instruction, and that when he left, darkness and ignorance 
 would again close in upon her. They had not spoken for some 
 moments. With a cruelty that was peculiar to him, he waited 
 for her to break the silence. 
 
 "And what will you do," she said, at last, "when you 
 return to London ? " 
 
 " You mean, what literary work shall I bo engaged upon? 
 I shall first of all finish off my articles on Ireland " 
 
 " I thought they were done long ago." 
 
 " Yes, but I got an order from America — the Americans 
 li:iy very well — for a series of descriptive sketches. I shall not 
 h,- long knocking them off, and then I shall do some fiction." 
 
 "What do you call descriptive sketches?" 
 
 " Well, my idea is to take a series of representative characters 
 ' — the landlord, the grazier, the tenant fannci-, the moonlighter, 
 
A DEAJIA IN MUSLIN. 197 
 
 tlie parson, tho priest — and tell their history, their manner of 
 life, and their aims and ambitions. There are many curiou.s 
 and interesting things to be said — the last flicker of Pro- 
 testantism, the gradual absorbing of the glebe lands, and the 
 apparent triumph of Catholicism." 
 
 " Then you think that Catholicism is likewise doomed ? " 
 
 " Of course I do. The Roman Church is shattered to its 
 base. Christ, if you will, was a radical, but the Church of 
 Christ was built on conservative foundations, in comparison to 
 which those of the House of Lords are socialistic, communistic, ^ 
 and every other ' istic' Now, for tlie first time, we see the 
 bishops of Rome waving the red flag of revolution. If a cat 
 has nine, superstition has ninety-nine lives ; but it is hardly 
 credible that a Church that has existed eighteen hundred years 
 through the vivifying power of one set of principles should be 
 able to gain a new lease of life by the recanting of all its old 
 opinions. The priests have to get their dues, and to get them 
 they have to mount the Land League platform. The need of 
 the moment is the greatest need of all." 
 
 " And you think they will eventually die of the bread they 
 are now eating ? " 
 
 " Of course republicanism and common-sense will not put 
 up with their nonsense for very long ; and it is my firm belief 
 that in fifty — say a hundred — years priests and parsons, in 
 common with other fortune-tellers, will be prosecuted under 
 the Yagrancy Acts." 
 
 One of the many threads that drew Alice, fascinated, towards 
 Harding was the quick flight of his thought, and the rapid and 
 daring way in which he expressed it. She had sufiiciently 
 mastered the old weakness of belief, and she was not shocked 
 but only a little startled at his utterances. Now she laughed 
 softly, amused by the wit and epigrammatic force of his con- 
 versation. 
 
 Harding was not quite sincere. He ppoke with a view to 
 effect ; he desired to astonish, and, if possible, to have the girl 
 think of him when he was gone as something quite excep- 
 tional — something she would never see again. Alice's 
 thoughts, however, had passed from the literary souvenirs 
 that he was pouring upon her, and she thought now of his 
 departure, and the loneliness it would bring to her. Without 
 seeking a transitional phrase, she raised her eyes to his and 
 said unaSectedly : 
 
108 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " I am Sony you are going away : I am afraid we sliall never 
 meet again." 
 
 "Oh, yes, we shall," he replied : "you'll get married one of 
 these days and come and live in London." 
 " Why should I go to live in London ? " 
 " Watch life as it flows and breaks about us : do you not 
 see that man's moral temperament leads him sooner or later 
 back to his connatural home ? And we must not confuse 
 home with the place'of our buth. There are Frenchmen born 
 in England, Englishmen born in France. Heine was a 
 Frenchman born in Germany — and you are a Kensingtonian. 
 I see nothing Irish in you. Oh, you are very Ken- 
 sington, and therefore you wUl — I do not know when or 
 how, but assuredly as a stream goes to the river and the 
 river to the sea, you will drift to your native place — Ken- 
 sington. Your tastes will bring you there; you'll be 
 writing novels one of these days in Kensington, I wouldn't 
 mind betting." 
 
 " I don't like you to laugh at me.'' 
 
 " I assure you I am not laughing at you. Have you net 
 promised me to try your hand at an article or two and a shoi-t 
 story, which I am going to get published for you 1 " 
 " Yes, I said I would try." 
 
 " And you promise to write to me ? — I shall be most 
 interested to hear how you are getting on." 
 
 *' I shall have to write to you if I send you the story." 
 " You might send it without a letter." 
 
 " I should not be so rude as that, And, you must not forget, 
 you promised to give me one of your books." 
 
 " Yes, I'll bring you one to-morrow. But do you know that 
 I have left the hotel ? There were too many people about 
 to do much work, so I took rooms in Molesworth Street — 
 there I can write and read undisturbed. You might come and 
 see me." 
 
 " I should like to very much, but I don't think I could ask 
 mother to come with me ; she is so very busy just now." 
 
 " Well, don't ask your mother to come ; you won't be afraid 
 to come alone ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I could not do that.'' 
 
 " Why not ? No one will ever know anything about it." 
 " Very possibly, but I don't think it would be a proper thing 
 to do — I don't think it would be a 7-ight thinjj to do." 
 
i DRAMA IN MUSLIN'. 199 
 
 " Tlight ! I thonglit we had ceased to believe in hoaven and 
 hell." 
 
 "Yes, but does that change anything? There are surely 
 duties that we owe to our people, to our families. The present 
 ordering of things may be unjust, but, as long as it exists, had 
 we not better live in accordance with it ? " 
 
 " A very sensible answer, and I suppose you are right." 
 
 Alice looked at him in astonishment, but she was shaken too 
 intensely in all her feelings to see that he was perfectly sincere, 
 that his answer was that of a man who saw and felt through 
 his intelligence and not his conscience. 
 
 The conversation had suddenly come to a pause, and the 
 silence that intervened was full of nervous apprehension. Then 
 it was broken by whispered words, and the abundant laughter 
 that was seemingly used to hide the emotions that oppressed 
 the speakers. Finally they sat down quite close to, but hidden 
 from, Alice and Harding by a screen, and through the paper 
 even their breathing was audible. All the dancers were gone ; 
 there was scarcely a white skirt or black coat in the pale blue- 
 ness of the room. Evidently the lovers thought they were 
 well out of reach of eavesdroppers. Alice felt this, but before 
 she could rise to go, Fred Scully had said — 
 
 " Now, May, I hope you won't refuse to let me come and see 
 you in your room to-night. It would be too cruel if you did. 
 I'll steal along the passage ; no one will hear, no one will ever 
 know, and I'll be so very good ; I promise you I will." 
 
 " Oh, Fred, I'm afraid I can't trust you ; it would be so very 
 wicked." 
 
 "Nothing is wicked when we really love; besides, I only 
 want to talk to you." 
 
 " You can tali to me here." 
 
 " Yes, but it isn't the same thing ; anyone can talk to you 
 here. I want to show you a little poem I cut out of a news- 
 paper to-day for you. I'll steal along the passage — no one will 
 ever know." 
 
 " You'll promise to be very good, and you won't stop more 
 than five minutes." 
 
 The words were spoken in low soft tones, exquisitely expres- 
 sive of the overthrow 'of reason and the merging of all thq 
 senses in the sweet abandonment of passion. 
 
 Alice sat unable to move ; she was trembling like a bird held to 
 a man's breast. At l.T-st, awakening with a pained look in her grey 
 
200 A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 eyes, she touched Hai'ding's hand with hei-s, and, laying her 
 finger on her lips, she arose. Their footfalls made no sound 
 on the deep soft carpet ; they stole away unperceived. 
 
 " This is very terrible," she murmured, half to herself. 
 
 Harding had too much tact to answer ; and, taking advan- 
 tage of the appearance of Violet Scully, who came walkmg 
 gaily down the room on the Marquis's arm, he said — 
 
 " Your friend Miss Scully seems to be in high spirits." 
 
 Violet eschanged smiles with Alice as she passed. The smile 
 was one of triumph. She had waltzed three times with the 
 Marquis, and was now going to sit out a set of quadrilles. 
 
 " What a beautiful waltz the ' Blue Danube ' is ! " she said, 
 leading her admirer to where the blue fans were numerous. 
 Upon the gUstening piano stood a pot filled with white 
 azaleas ; and, in the pauses of the conversation, you heard tht 
 glass of the chandeliers tinkling gently to the vibration of the 
 music. 
 
 " It is a beautiful waltz when I am dancing it with you." 
 
 " I am sure you say that to every girl you dance with." 
 
 " No, I should not know how to say so to anyone but you,'' 
 said the little man humbly ; and so instinct were the words 
 with truth that the girl, in the violence of her emotion, fancied 
 her heart had ceased to beat. 
 
 " But you have not known me a fortnight," she answered 
 involuntarily. 
 
 " But that doesn't matter ; the moment I saw you, I — I — 
 liked you. It is so easy to know the people we — like ; we 
 know it at once ; at least I do." 
 
 She was more self-possessed than he, but the words " Am I 
 • — am I going to be a marchioness ? " throbbed like a burning 
 bullet sunk into the very centre of her forehead. And to 
 maintain her mental equipoise she was forced, though by doing 
 so she felt she was jeopardising her chances, to coquette with 
 him. After a long silence she said — 
 
 " Oh, do you think we know at first sight the people we 
 like ? Do you believe in first impressions ? " 
 
 " My fii'st and last impressions of you are always the same. 
 All I know is, that when you are present all things are bright, 
 beautiful, and cheering, and when you are away I don't much 
 care what happens. Now, these Castle balls used to bore me 
 to death last year ; I used to go into a back room and fall 
 asleep, but this year I am as lively as a kitten — I think I could 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 201 
 
 go on for ever, and tlie Castle seems to me the most glorious 
 place on eartli. I used to hate it ; I was as bad as Parnell, 
 but not for the same reasons, of course. Now I am only 
 afraid he will have his way, and they'll shut the whole place 
 up. Anyhow, even if they do, I shall always look back upon 
 tliis season as a very happy time." 
 
 " But you do not really think that Parnell will be allowed to 
 have his way ? " said Violet, inadvertently. 
 
 " I don't know, I don't take much interest in politics, but I 
 believe things are going terribly to the bad. Dublin, they say, 
 is undermined with secret societies, and the murder that was 
 committed the other day in Sackville Street was the punish- 
 ment they inflict on those whom they even remotely suspect of 
 being informers." 
 
 " But don't you think the Government wUl soon be obliged 
 to step in and put an end to all this kind of thing ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I'm afraid they'll do nothing until we land- 
 lords are all irretrievably ruined." 
 
 Violet's thin face contracted. She had introduced a subject 
 that might prevent him from ever proposing to her. She knew 
 how terribly the Kilcarney estates were mortgaged ; and, even 
 now, as she rightly conjectured, the poor little man waa 
 inwardly trembling at the folly it had been on his lips to speak. 
 Three of his immediate ancestors had married penniless girls, 
 and it was well-known that another love match would preci- 
 pitate the property over that precipice known to every Irish 
 landowner — ^the Encumbered Estates Court. But those ex- 
 quisitely shapen temples, so exquisitely shaded with light 
 brown tresses, that delicately moulded head — delicate as an 
 Indian carven ivoiy, dispelled all shadows and fears and waxed 
 the sole, the omnipotent and omnipresent desire of his hfe. 
 
 She thought not of the renunciation she was making of love 
 and passion. Her miad was blank to all but one desire, and 
 in the nervous sensitivity of the moment, will, conscious 
 and unconscious, became one, and the violent emotion of expec- 
 tancy produced the phenomenon of involuntary, although 
 intelligent action. The girl obeyed an unconscious conception, 
 that is to say an instinct, and uttered the precise words that 
 the occasion demanded : 
 
 " But things never turn out as well or as badly as we expect 
 them to." 
 
 This facile philosophy went like wine to the little marquis's 
 
203 A DRAMA IN MUSLTM. 
 
 head. He longed to throw himself at the feet of his goddess 
 and thank lui- for the balm she had poured upon him. The 
 gloom of approaching ruin disappeared, and he saw nothing in 
 the world but a white tulle skirt, a thin foot, a thin bosom, 
 and a pair of bright grey eyes. Vaguely he sought for equiva- 
 lent words, but loud-talking dancers passed into the room. In 
 arid and vulgar curiosity they stared at the couple sitting 
 under the azaleas; and, abashed by their looks, the marquis 
 broke off a flowering branch and said, stammering the -while 
 incoherently : 
 
 " AVill you keep this in memoi'y of this evening 1 " 
 
 Violet thrust the flowers into her bosom, and "was about to 
 thank him, when an A.D.C. came up and claimed her for the 
 dance. Coldly she told him he was mistaken, that she was 
 engaged ; and, taking Lord Kilcarney's arm, they made their 
 \\ ay in silence back to the ball-roora. 
 
 On the whole, Violet was satisfied ; she felt now very sure 
 of her marquis, and, as they approached ilrs. Scully, a quick 
 glance said that things were going as satisfactorily as could be 
 desired. Not daring to trust herself to the gossip of the 
 chaperons, this excellent lady sat apart, maintaining the 
 solitary dignity to which the Galway counter had accustomed 
 her ; and she received the marquis "with the same smile as she 
 used to bestow on her best customers. He sat beside Violet. 
 They talked for a few minutes of the different aspects of the 
 ball-room, of their friends, of things that did not interest 
 them. Then she said winsomely, affecting an accent of 
 command that enchanted him : 
 
 "Now I want you to go and dance with someone else; let 
 me see — what do you say to Olive Barton ? If you don't, I 
 shall be in her mothei's black books for the rest of my life. 
 Now go. We shall be at home to-morrow ; you might come 
 in for tea." 
 
 The marquis declared he would be delighted, and, suffocated 
 with secret joy, he made his way across the room to where 
 Mrs. Barton was sitting. He was received with waves of the 
 white hands and an abundance of laughter. Mrs. Barton was 
 too wise to show her disappointment, and, cancelling a couple 
 of Olive's engagements, she sent her off to dance with him. 
 
 Violet sat by her mother, lef using all her partners ; but, 
 when " God save the Queen " was played, she accepted Lord 
 Kilcarney's arm, and they pressed forward to see the Lord- 
 
A rHAMA IN MUSLIN. 20f! 
 
 Lieutenant and Her Excellency pass down the room. Violet's 
 eyes feasted on the bowing black coats and light toilettes, and, 
 leaning on her escutcheon, she dreamed vividly of the follow- 
 ing year when she would take her place amid all these noble 
 people, and, as high as they, stand a peeress on the dais. 
 This moment of vision was the keenest pleasure in her life : 
 and so ended the ball. 
 
 As the Bartons drove through the wet and forlorn streets 
 of Dublin, Olive said : 
 
 " Did you notice, mamma, how often that beast of a girl, 
 Violet Scully, danced with Lord KUcarney ? " 
 
 " I don't think he danced oftener with her than he did with 
 you, dear," Mrs. Barton answered, a little wearily. " It would 
 not look well if he remained with you the whole night." And, 
 weary of the racket of music, wine, and gaslight, the women 
 gazed through the misted windows. The city lay mysteriously 
 dead — immovable and mute beneath the moon, like a starved 
 vagrant in the last act of a melodrama. 
 
 To be alone, to He down, to forgot. She had too much to 
 think of ; to-morrow she would think of it all, but now she 
 was tired and wanted rest. But for Alice there was no rest 
 that night. Her brain was on fire with what she had seen 
 and heard. It seemed to her as if she had lived through a 
 hundred years ; and, as she lay under the sheets, all the old 
 sorrows came as a river, rushing through the darkness. She 
 was but a poor plain girl whom no one would ever marry, u, 
 poor plain girl who saw her little hopes -wrecked daily before 
 her despairing eyes, whose fine feelings were daily brutalised 
 by those with whom she was, and would ever be, forced to 
 live. And to think, to know — ah ! yes, to know — that the 
 world, the fair beauteous world, with all its adventures, possi- 
 bilities, and achievements, would — must — remain to her for 
 ever a blank ; and through no fault of her own, but because 
 she was bvit a poor plain girl whom no one would ever think 
 of marrying ! 
 
 Seen from afar all things in nature are of equal worth ; and 
 the nearest thiogs, when viewed with the eyes of God, are 
 raised to those heights of tragic awe which conventionality 
 would limit to the death of kings or patriots. The history of 
 a nation as often lies hidden in social wrongs and domestic 
 griefs as in the story of revolution, and if it be for the 
 historian to narrate the one, it is for -the novelist to dissect 
 
204 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 and explain the other ; and wlio would say which is of the 
 most vital importance — the thunder of the people against the 
 oppression of the Castle, or the unnatural sterility, the cruel 
 idleness of mind and body of the muslin martyrs who cover 
 with their white skirts the shames of Cork Hill ? 
 
 Alice knew well that Harding would not marry her, but the 
 knowledge did not lessen her terror of losing him, or her fear 
 of the lonely monotony of girl-life that would again close in 
 upon her. And to think that never, never, never, would any 
 door of escape be open to her ! And to think that the fair 
 world with all its adventures and aspirations would never, 
 never be known to her, would remain the thinnest of thin 
 dreams. And why? But unlike the night when, before 
 the snow-drowned plain, she cried out against the silence of 
 t-pinsterhood and all its manifold meanings, she now thought 
 she would be content if things could only remain unchanged. 
 Before, she had demanded marri;ige as a right, but love was 
 then an abstract passion, now it was a distinct desire possessing 
 for her an intrinsic value. And little as it was characteristic of 
 her to reproach, she now reproached him. Why, oh why, had 
 he been so kind when he must have known from the 
 beginning that all must end ! and then, suddenly as light- 
 ning sears the face of night, a burning thought of May Gould 
 tore the veil of giief. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Was there no other way to retain your lover ? Was Cecilia 
 
 right, and did a man care for you for nothing else ? 
 * * * » » * 
 
 Still what matter ? May, at least, was not lonely and friendless; 
 she, at least, would know what the I'est of them might never know! 
 
 These thoughts were awakened into consciousness by the 
 action of neivous passion ; and, astonished, Alice raised her 
 head, finding within heiself no will for the idea. She buried 
 her face in the pillow as if to escape from the impure thoughts 
 with which she was unwittingly assailed. 
 
 But, oh, the punishment and the shame ! Her brain reeled, 
 Oh, the terrible drama that was being enacted ! Hoav far 
 away? Only a few yards: only a little lath and plaster 
 separated them. Could nothing be done to save, to avert ? 
 Alas, nothing — always the same answer : she was only a plain 
 girl who could do nothing but endure. 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 " So you couldn't manage to keep him after all, my lady 1 
 When did he leave the hotel 2 " 
 
 " Mr. Harding left Duhlin last Monday week." 
 Alice wondered if her mother hated her ; if she did not, it 
 was difficult to account for the bitterness and the cruelty of 
 her words. This was to the girl a great grief. She did not 
 suspect that Mrs. Barton was a loving and affectionate mother, 
 who would sacrifice herself for one child almost as readily as 
 for the other. In each of us there are traits that the chances 
 of life have never revealed ; and though she would have sat 
 by the bedside, even if Alice were stricken with typhoid fever, 
 Mrs. Barton recoiled spitefully like a cat before the stern 
 rectitudes of a nature so dissimilar from her own ; and then 
 the feline claws would appear through the .soft velvet paws. 
 Olive, on the contrary, she had fashioned according to her 
 guise, and all the cajolery which had been employed in the 
 last twenty years, and we know with what triumphant success, 
 was thrust upon the girl for buckler and spear. She was now 
 but a pale copy of her mother : all the affectation had been 
 faithfully reproduced, but the charm of the original had 
 evaporated like a perfume. It would be I'ash to say that Mi-s. 
 Barton did not see that the weapons which had proved so deadly 
 in her hands were worthless and ineffectual in her daughter's : 
 but twenty years of elegant harlotry had blunted her finer 
 perceptions, and now the grossest means of pushing Olive and the 
 marquis morally and physically into each other's arms seemed 
 to her the best. Alice was to her but a plain girl, whose mis- 
 fortune was that she had ever been born. This idea had 
 grown up with Mrs. Barton, and fifteen years ago she had 
 seen in the child's face the spinster of fifty. But since the 
 appearance of Harding, and the manifest interest he had 
 shown in her daughter, Mrs. Barton's convictions that Alice 
 
 203 
 
206 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 would never be able to find a husband Lad been somewhat 
 shaken, and she had almost concluded that it would be as ■^^•ell 
 — for there was no knowing what men's tastes were — to give 
 her a chance. Nor was the dawning fancy dispelled by the 
 fact that Harding had not proposed, and the cutting words 
 she had addressed to the girl were the result of the nervous 
 irritation caused by the marked attention the marquis was 
 paying Violet Scully. 
 
 For, like Alice, Mrs. Barton never lived long in a fool's 
 paradise, and she now saw that the battle was going against 
 her, and would most assuredly be lost unless a determined 
 ellbrt was made. Ajid she also delayed not a moment in 
 owning to herself that she had committed a mistake in going 
 to the Shelbourne Hotel. Had she taken a house in Mount 
 Street or Fitzwilliam Place, she could have had all the best 
 men from the barracks continually at her house. But at the 
 hotel she was helpless ; theie were too many people about, too 
 many beasts of women criticising her conduct. Mrs. Barton 
 had given two dinner-parties in a private room hked for tlie 
 occasion ; but these dinners could scarcely be called successful. 
 On one occasion they had seven men to dinner, and as some 
 lialf -dozen more tiu-ned in in the evening, it became necessary 
 to send down to the ladies' drawing-room for partners. Bertha 
 Duffy and the gii-1 in red of course responded to the call, but 
 they had rendered everything odious by continuous vulgarity 
 and brogue. Then other mistakes had been made. A charity 
 costume ball had been advertised. It was to be held in the 
 Rotunda. An imposing list of names headed the prospectus, 
 and it was confidently stated that all the lady patronesses would 
 attend. Mi'S. Eaiton fell into the trap, and, to her dismay, 
 found herself and her girls in the company of the rag, tag, and 
 bobtail of Catholic Dublin : Bohemian gii'ls fabricated out of 
 bedcrtains, negro minstrels that an application of grease and 
 burnt cork had brought into a filthy existence. And from the 
 single gallery that encircled this tomb-like building, the small 
 tiudespeople looked down upon the multicoloured crowd that 
 strove to dance through the mud that a late Land League 
 meeting had left vipon the floor ; and through the yellow glaro 
 of the gas the grey dust fell steadily into the dancers' eyes and 
 nito the sloppy tea distributed at counters placed here and 
 there like coflee-stonds in the public street. 
 
 " I never felt so low in my life," said the lady who always 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 207 
 
 brought back an A.D.C. from the Castle, and the phrnse was 
 cited afterwards as being admirably descriptive of the fete. 
 
 AVhen it became known that the Bartons had been present 
 at this ball, that the beauty had been seen dancing with the 
 young Catholic nobodies, their names were struck off the lists, 
 and they were asked to no more private dances at the Castle. 
 Lord Dungory was sent to interview the Chamberlain, but 
 that official could promise nothing. Mrs. Barton's hand was 
 therefore forced. It was obligatory upon her to have some 
 place where she could entertain officers ; the Shelbourne did 
 not lend itself to that purpose. Sirs. Barton hired a house in 
 Mount Street, one that possessed a polished floor admirably 
 suited to dancing. 
 
 Then she threw off the mask, and pirate-like, regardless of 
 the laws of chaperons, resolved to carry on the war as she 
 thought proper. She'd have done once and for ever with those 
 beasts of women who abused and criticised her. Henceforth 
 she would shut her door agaiiast them all, and it would only be 
 open to men — young men for her daughters, elderly men for 
 herself. At four o'clock in the afternoon the entertainment 
 began. Light refreshments, consisting of tea, claret, biscuits, 
 and cigarettes, were laid out in the dining-room. Having 
 partaken, the company, consisting of three colonels and some 
 half-dozen subalterns, went up-stairs to the di-awing-room. 
 And in recognition of her flu-tation with Harding, a young 
 man replaced Alice at the piano, and for half-a-crown an hour 
 supplied the necessary music. 
 
 Kound and round the girls went, passing in turn out of the 
 arms of an old into those of a young man, and back again. 
 If they stayed their feet for a moment, Mrs. Baiion glided 
 across the floor, and, with insinuating gestures and intonations 
 of voice, would beg of them to continue. She declared that it 
 was la grdce et la heaute, &c. The merriment did not cease 
 untQ half -past sis. Some of the company then left, and some 
 few were detained for dinner. A new pianist and fresh 
 officers arrived about nine o'clock, and dancing was continued 
 until one or two in the morning. To 3'awning subalterns the 
 liouse in Mount Street seemed at first like a little paradise. 
 !!;he incessant dancing was considered fatiguing, but there 
 were interludes in which claret was drunk, cigarettes smoked, 
 ami loose conversation permitted in the dining-room. 
 
 Then the dinners ! Mrs. Barton's dinners are worthy of 
 
208 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 special study. Her circle of acquaintances being limited, the 
 same guests were generally found at her table. Lord Dungory 
 always sat next to her. He displayed his old-fashioned shirt- 
 front, his cravat, his studs, his urbanity, his French epigram. 
 Kosshill sat opposite him; he was thin, melancholy, aristo- 
 cratic, silent, and boring. There was a captain who, since he 
 had left the army, had grown to tlie image of a butler, and 
 an ashen-tinted young man who wore his arm in a sling, and 
 an old man who looked like a dirty and worn-out broom ; and 
 who put his arm round the backs of the chairs. These and three 
 A.D.C.s made up the party. There was very little talking, 
 and what there was was generally confined to asking the young 
 ladies if they had been to the Castle, and if they liked dancing. 
 Mr. Barton, who had just returned from Holland, was fuU of 
 strange views concerning Dutch art, and a still stranger plan 
 for defending his country in case of invasion. 
 
 The marquis was a constant, although an unwilling guest at 
 all these entertainments. He would fain have refused Mrs. 
 Barton's hospitalities, but so pressing was she that this seemed 
 impossible. There were times when he started at the postman's 
 knock as at the sound of a Laud Leaguer's rifle. Too frequently 
 his worst fears were realised. " Mon cher marquis, it will give 
 us much pleasure if you will dine with us to-morrow night at 
 half -past seven." "Dear Mrs. Barton, I regret extremely that 
 I am engaged for to-morrow night." An hour later, " Mon cher 
 marquis, I am very sorry you cannot come to-morrow night, but 
 Thursday will suit us equally well." What was to be done ? A 
 second excuse would result only in a proposal to fix a day next 
 week — better accept and get it over. He must do this or send 
 a rude message to the efiect that he was engaged for every 
 day he intended to dine out that season, and he lacked the 
 moral courage to write such a letter. Mrs. Barton's formula for 
 receiving the marquis never varied. If he arrived early he 
 found Olive waiting to receive him in the drawing-room. 
 She was always prepaied with a buttonhole, which she insisted 
 on arranging and pinning into his coat. Then allusion was 
 made to the forget-me-nots that the botiquet was sure to con- 
 tain ; and laughing vacantly — for laughter with Olive took the 
 place of conversation — she fled through the rooms, encouraging 
 him to pursue her. During dinner attempts were made to 
 exchange a few words, but without much success. Nor was it 
 until Olive pelted him with flowers, and he replied by destroying 
 
A DEAMA IN MVSMN. 209 
 
 another bouquet and applying it to the same purpose, tliat 
 much progress was made towards intimacy. But this little 
 scene was exceptional, and on all other occasions Lord KUcarney 
 maintained an attitude of unfaltering reserve. 
 
 Mrs. Barton was at her wits' end. Three days ago she had 
 met him walking in Grafton Street with Violet ; yesterday she 
 had caught sight of him driving towards FitzwilUam Place in a 
 four-wheeler. Remembering she had a visit to pay in that 
 neighbourhood, she gave the necessary directions to her coach- 
 man, and was rewarded by seeing the marquis's cab draw up 
 before the Scullys' door. The mere fact that he should use a 
 cab instead of an outside car was a subject to pause upon, but 
 when she noticed that one of the blinds was partially drawn 
 down, her heart sank within her. Nor did the secret of this 
 suspicious visit long remain her exclusive property. As if 
 revealed by those mysteriously subtle oral and visual faculties 
 observed in savage tribes, by which they divine the approach of 
 their enemies or their prey, two days had not elapsed before 
 the tongue of every chaperon was tipped with the story of the 
 foiir-wheeler and the half-drawn bhnd, but it was a distinctly 
 latter-day instinct that had led these ladies to speak of there 
 having been luggage piled upon the roof of this celebrated cab. 
 Henceforth eye, ear, and nostril were open, and in the quiver- 
 ing ardour of the chase they scattered through the covers of 
 Cork TTill and Merrion Square, passing from one to the other, 
 by means of sharp yelps and barkings, every indication of the 
 trail that came across their way. Sometimes hearkening to a 
 voice they had confidence in, they would rally at a single point, 
 
 and then an old b , her nose in the air, her capstrings hanging 
 
 lugubriously on either side of her weatherbeaten cheeks, woidd 
 utter a deep and prolonged baying ; then a little further on the 
 scent was recovered, and, with sterns wagging and bristles erect, 
 they hunted the quarry vigorously. Every moment he was 
 expected to break — fear was even expressed that he might end 
 by being chopped. 
 
 The Shelbourne Hotel was a favourite meet ; and in the 
 ladies' drawing-room each fresh piece of news was torn with 
 avidity. The consumption of note-paper was terrific. Two, 
 three, four, and even five sheets of paper were often filled with 
 what these scavengeresses could rake out of the gutters of 
 gossip. " Ah ! me arm aches, and the sleeve of me little coat 
 is wore ; I am so eager to write it all oif to me ant, that I am 
 
 p 
 
210 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 too impatient to wait to take it off," was the verbal form in 
 which the girl in red explained her feelings on the subject. 
 Bertha Duffy declared she would write no more ; that she was 
 ruLuing herself in stamps. Nor were the pens of the Brennans 
 silent; and looking over the meek shoulders on which the 
 mantles of spinsterhood were fast descending, you read : " I 
 hear they danced at the Castle three times together last night, 
 ... a friend of mine saw them sitting in Merrion Square the 
 whole of one afternoon. . . . They say that if he marries her, 
 that he'll be ruined. . . . The estates are terribly encum- 
 bered, . . . his family are in despair about it. . . . Violet 
 is a very nice girl, but we all know her mother sold bacon 
 behind a counter in Galway. . . . He never looks at Olive 
 Barton now ; this is a sad end to her beau, and after feeding 
 him the whole season. . . . He dined there three times a 
 week : Mrs. Barton took the house on purpose to entertain 
 him. ... It is said that she oifered him twenty thousand 
 pounds if he'd marry her daughter. . . The money that woman 
 spends is immense, and no one knows where it comes from." 
 
 In these matrimonial excitements the amatories of the lady 
 who brought the A.D.C. home from the Castle passed un- 
 heeded. The critical gaze of her friends was sorely distracted, 
 and even the night porter forgot to report the midnight visits 
 of her young gentlemen. May too profited largely by the 
 present ferment of curiosity; and, unobserved, she made 
 rendezvous with Fred Scully at the corners of this and that 
 street, and in the hotel they passed furtively down this passage 
 and up that pair of stairs, and when disturbed they hid behind 
 the doors. And Mrs. Gould lived in ignorance of all this 
 chambering folly, and spent her time either writing letters or 
 gossiping about Lord Kilcarney in the drawing-room. And 
 when she picked up a fragment of fresh news she lost not a 
 moment, but put on her bonnet and carried it over to Mount 
 Street. So assiduous was she in this self-imposed duty, that 
 Mrs. Barton was obliged at last to close her door against this 
 obtrusive visitor. 
 
 But one day, after a moment of intense reflection, Mrs. 
 Barton concluded that she was losing the battle — that now, in 
 the eleventh hour, it could only be snatched out of defeat by a 
 bold and determined efibrt. Then she sat down and penned 
 one of her admirable invitations to dinner. An hour later a 
 note feebly pleaded a " previous engagement." Undaunted, 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 211 
 
 she sat down again and wrote : " To-morrow will suit us equally 
 well." The marquis yielded; and Lord Dungory was 
 ordered, when he found himself alone with him in the dining- 
 room, to lose no opportunity of insisting upon the imminent 
 ruin of all Irish landlords. He was especially enjoined to say 
 that, whatever chance of escape there was for the owners of 
 unencumbered properties, the doom of those who had mortgages 
 to pay had been sounded. Milord executed his task with con- 
 summate ability; and when the grand parti entered the 
 drawing-room, his thoughts were racked with horrible fore- 
 bodings. The domain, woods, the pride of centuries, he saw 
 plundered and cut down ; lawns, pleasure-grounds, and gardens 
 had been distributed among peasants, and he, a miserable out- 
 cast, starved in a Belgian boarding-house. Mrs. Barton's eyes 
 brightened at the distressed expression of his face. The victim 
 was prepared for the altar; in his buttonhole he wore the 
 flowers, and to play the music of sacrifice Olive took her place 
 at the piano. Milord engaged Alice's attention ; Mrs. Barton, 
 like a coaxing cat, glided up to the marquis and led him into 
 the adjoining room. 
 
 " The season is now drawing to its cIosa," she said winningly, 
 " we shall be soon returning to Galway. We shall be separat- 
 ing. Olive thinks there is no one like le marquis. I know 
 she likes you, but if there is no — no — if it is not to be, I 
 should like to tell her not to think about it any more." 
 
 The marquis felt as if the earth were gliding beneath his 
 feet. "What could have tempted the woman to speak like this 
 to him ? What answer was he to make her ? He struggled 
 with words and thoughts that gave way, as he strove to formu- 
 late a sentence, like water beneath the arms of one drown- 
 ing. 
 
 " Oh, really, Mrs. Barton," he said, stammering, speaking 
 like one in a dream, " you take me by svu-prise. I did not 
 expect this; you certainly are too kind. In proposing this 
 marriage to me, you do me an honovir I did not anticipate, but 
 you know it is difficult off hand, for I am bound to say . . at 
 least I am not prepared to say that I am in love with your 
 daughter. . . . She is, of course, very beautiful, and no one 
 admires her more than I, but " 
 
 " Olive will have twenty thousand pounds paid down on her 
 wedding day ; not promised, you know, but paid down ; and 
 in the present times I think this is more than most girls can 
 
212 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 say. Most Irish properties are embarrassed, mortgaged," slio 
 continued, risking everything to gain everything, " and 
 twenty thousand pounds would be a material help to most 
 men. At my death she will have more, I " 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Barton, do not let us speak of that I " cried the 
 little man. 
 
 " And why not ? Does it prove that because we are 
 practical, we do not care for a person ? I quite understand 
 that it would be impossible for you to marry without money, 
 and that Olive will have twenty thousand paid down on her 
 wedding day will not prevent you from being very fond of her. 
 On the contrary, I should think " 
 
 " Twenty thousand pounds is, of course, a great deal of 
 money," said the little man, shrinking, terror-stricken, from a 
 suddenly protruding glimpse of the future with which milord 
 hail previously poisoned his mind. 
 
 " Yes, indeed it is, and in these times," urged Mrs. Barton. 
 
 The weak grey eyes were cast down, abashed by the daring 
 determination of the brown. 
 
 " Of course Olive is a beautiful girl," he said. 
 
 " And she is so fond of you . . . she is so nice and so full of 
 afTection ..." 
 
 The situation was now tense with fear, anxiety, apprehen- 
 sion ; and with resolute fingers Mrs. Barton tightened the 
 chord until the required note vibrated within the moral 
 consciousness. The poor marquis felt his strength ebbing 
 away ; he was powerless as one lying in the hot chamber of a 
 Turkish bath. Would no one come to help him ? The implac- 
 able melody of " Dream Faces," which Olive hammered out on 
 the piano, agonised him. If she would stop for one moment 
 he would find the words to tell her mother that he loved 
 Violet Scully and would marry none other. But bang, bang, 
 bang the left hand pounded the bass into his stunned eai's, and 
 the eyes that he feai-ed were fixed upon him. He gasped for 
 Words, he felt like a drunkard who clutches the air as he reels 
 over a precipice, and the shades of his ancestors seemed to 
 crowil menacingly around him. He sti'0-\-e against his fears 
 until a thin face with luminous eyes broke through the drift- 
 ing mists like a star. 
 
 " But we have seen so little of each other," he said at last; 
 " Miss Barton is a great beauty, I know, and nobody appre- 
 ciates her beauty more than I, but I am not what you call in 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 213 
 
 love witli lier." He deplored the feebleness of his words, and 
 Mrs. Barton swooped upon him again. 
 
 " You do not love her because, as you say, you have seen 
 very little of each other. We are going down to Brookfield 
 to-morrow. We shall be very glad if you will come with us, 
 and there you will have an opportunity of judging, of knowing 
 her : and she is such an affectionate little thing." 
 
 Appalled, the marquis sought again for words, and he 
 glanced at his torturer timidly, as the hare looks back on the 
 ever-nearing hounds. Why did she pursue him, he asked, in 
 this terrible way ? Had she gone mad ? What was he to say 1 
 Ho had not the courage to answer " No " to her face. Besides, 
 if Violet would not have him, he might as well save the family 
 estates. If Violet refused him ! Ah, he did not care what 
 became of him then ! He sought, and he struggled for words, 
 for words that would save him; and, in this hour of deep 
 tribulation, words came and they saved him. 
 
 " I have a great deal of business to attend to to-morrow. I 
 am — that is to say, my solicitor is, raising for me a large sum 
 of money at four per cent. On one large mortgage I am 
 paying six per cent., therefore if I can get the money at four 
 I shall be by some hundreds of pounds a richer man than I 
 am at present. At the end of the week this matter will be 
 settled. I will write to you and say when I shall be able to 
 accept your invitation." 
 
 Mrs. Barton would have preferred to have brought the 
 matter at once to a conclusion, but in the hesitation that 
 ensued, the marquis, unable to withstand the strain set upon 
 his feelings any longer, moved away from her. And in the 
 next room, to save himseK from further persecution, he en- 
 gaged at once in conversation with Alice. Ten minutes after 
 he said good-night. To get out of the light into the dark, to 
 feel the cool wind upon his cheek, oh 1 what a relief it was ! 
 " What could have persuaded that woman to speak to me as 
 she did ? She must be mad." He walked on as if in a dream ; 
 the guineas she had promised him chinking dubiously through 
 his brain. Then stopping suddenly, overcome by nerve excite- 
 ment, he threw his arms in the air : his features twitched con- 
 vulsively. The spasm passed; and, unconscious of all save 
 the thoughts that held and tore him — their palpitating prey — 
 he walked onwards. . . . Black ruin on one side, and oh ! 
 what sweet white vision of happiness on the other ! Why was 
 
214 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 he thtis tortured — why was he thus torn on the rack of such 
 a terrible discussion ? He stopped again, and his weak neck 
 swayed plaintively. Then, in the sullen calm that followed, 
 the thought crossed his mind : — If he only knew . . . She 
 might refuse him ; if so, he did not care what became of him. 
 . . . He would accept the other willingly . . . But would she 
 refuse him ? That he must know at once ... he could not 
 return to his hotel, the uncertainty was more than he coiald 
 bear. ... If she did refuse, he would, at all events, escape 
 the black looks of his relations. In the cowardice of the 
 thought the weary spirit was healed, assuaged, as tired limbs 
 might be in a bath of cool, clear water. Darkness faded, and 
 the skies seemed to glow as if with a double dawn. Why lose 
 a moment ? It was only half-past ten — an " outside " would 
 take him in less than two minutes to Fitzwilliam Place. Yes, 
 he would go. 
 
 And as the car clattered he feasted on the white thin face 
 and the grey allurements of the bright eyes. He would not 
 think — it was paradise to banish thought. 
 
 He was shown upstairs. The ladies were alone, talking 
 over the fire in the drawing-room. Nothing could be more 
 propitious, but his fears returned to him, and when he strove 
 to explain the lateness of his visit, his face had again grown 
 suddenly haggard and worn. Violet exchanged glances, and 
 said in looks, if not in words, " It is clear they have been 
 hunting him pretty closely to-day." 
 
 " I must apologise," he said, " for calling on you at such an 
 hour ; I really did not think it was so late, but the fact is I 
 was rather anxious to see . . ." 
 
 "But won't you sit down. Lord Kilcarney?" said Violet. 
 " I assure you we never go to bed before twelve ; and some- 
 times we sit up here untU one — don't we, mamma ? " 
 
 Mrs. Scully smiled jocosely, and the marquis sat do^vn. In 
 an instant his fate was decided. Overcome by the girl's fi'ail 
 sweetness, by the pellucid gaiety of her grey eyes, he sur- 
 rendered ; and his name and fortune fluttered into her lap, 
 helplessly as a blown leaf. He said — 
 
 " I came to see you to-night. . . I took the liberty of calling 
 on you at this late hour, because things had occurred that 
 . . . well, I mean . . . you must have observed that I was 
 attached to you. I don't know if you guessed it, but the fact 
 is that I never cared for anyone as I do for you, and I felt I 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 215 
 
 could bear with uncertainty no longer, and that I must come 
 to-night, and ask you if you will have me." 
 
 Violet raised her eyes — " Say yes," murmured the marquis, 
 and it seemed to him that in the words life had fallen from his 
 lips. 
 
 " Yes,'' was the answer, and he chxsped the thin hand she 
 instinctively extended to him. 
 
 " Ah, how happy you have made me, I never thought such 
 honours were in store for me," exclaimed Mrs. ScuUy. The 
 discipline of years was lost in a moment ; and, reverting to her 
 long-buried self, she clasped the marquis to her agitated 
 bosom with all the naturalness of a Galway shopgirl. Violet 
 looked annoyed, ashamed, and Mrs. Scully, whom excitement 
 had stripped of all her grand manners, said — 
 
 " And new, me dear children, I'll leave yeu to yerselves.'' 
 
 The lovers sat side by side. Violet thought of how grand it 
 would be to be a marchioness, of her triumph over the other 
 girls ; the marquis of the long years of happiness that would 
 — that must now be his, of the fraU grace that as a bland 
 odour seemed to float about his beloved. And now that she 
 was his he would have her know the infinitude and the im- 
 perishability of his affection ; but words were weak, and he 
 seemed to be too far away. 
 
 " Where did you dine to-night ? " she said suddenly. 
 
 " With the Bartons." 
 
 Then he told her everything — of the proposal and the invi- 
 tation to Brookfield. 
 
 " And are you going down to Galway to stay with them ? " 
 
 " Of course not. Oh, my darling, how can you ask such a 
 question ? " 
 
 " And why not^why should you not go ? I wish you would," 
 she added ; and the light in her grey eyes was malign. 
 
 " You are joking ? you surely do not mean what you say. I 
 thought you said you loved me." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Harry, that is the very reason. We lovo 
 each other, therefore I know I can trust you." 
 
 He pressed the hand — the silken skin, the palm delicately 
 moist— in recognition of her kind words. 
 
 " I wouldn't go for anything in the world. I hate those 
 people. Ton my word, I don't think anything would tempt 
 me to spend a week with them in the country." 
 
 ««Yes, Icould." 
 
216 A dhajia in muslin. 
 
 The marquis laughed — " Yes you could, you could tempt me 
 to do anything. But why should you want me to go and spend 
 a week with them in Galway ? " 
 
 " Because, dear, they were rude to me ; because," she added, 
 casting down her eyes, " because they tried to buy you from 
 me. That is why I should like to humiliate them." 
 
 The enchantment of the marquis was completed, and he 
 said : 
 
 " AVhat, a whole week away from you, darling 1 a whole 
 week with Mrs. Barton ! I could not endure it." 
 
 " What, not for my sake ? " 
 
 " Anything for your sake, darling." He clasped her in his 
 arms, and then they lapsed into silence that to him was even 
 sweteer than the kiss she had given him. Love's deepest 
 delight is the inefTable consciousness of our own weakness. 
 We drink the sweetened cup in its entirety when, having 
 ceased to will, we abandon ourselves with the lethal languors 
 of the swimmer to the vague depths of dreams. 
 
 And it was past midnight when the marquis left FitzwiUiam 
 Place. The ladies accompanied him downstairs ; their hands 
 helped him to his hat and coat, and at last he left, looking 
 unutterable to-morrows as he went. Then the lock slipped 
 back shai'ply, and in the low gloom, broken in one spot by the 
 low-burning gas, the women wondered, — tense with the 
 stricken emotion of Mary and Mary Magdalene at the door of 
 the Sepulchre. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, mamma, mamma, I am so liappy ! " the girl 
 exclaimed, and, weeping passionately, she threw herself for 
 rest upon Mrs. Scully's arms. 
 
 " Yes, me choild, me choild, yer have been very good, yer 
 have made me very happy, you'll be a mairchioness. Who wid 
 iver have thought I'd have lived to see all this honour when I 
 served in the little shop at Galway ! " 
 
 At the mention of the shop Violet recovered her com- 
 posure, and mother and daughter listened to the receding 
 footfalls. 
 
 Like a flowering tree, a luxuriant joy bloomed in the 
 marquis's heart ; in its fragrant shade and fresh colour his 
 thoughts lay supinely, and a prey to all sorts of floating and 
 fanciful imaginings, he walked onwards through the darkness. 
 When he lifted his eyes, he saw in the lowering skies only the 
 fair face that had led him with the imdncible light of a star 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 217 
 
 to the verge on which he now stood. Now his consciousness 
 was vast and vague. Filled with silence, the street stretched 
 before him, and the heaped evergreens of Merrion Square 
 exhaled moist and evil-smelling airs. Even the sharp network 
 of the leafless trees was lost in the all-blurring shadow ; cats 
 crouched through the area railings, policemen moved from 
 their hiding corners : that was all : and the lover passed on 
 with his dreams. 
 
 But on the north side of the Square he stopped. There 
 were carriages, and one house was illuminated for dancing, and 
 shades flitted across the yellow window-panes. 
 
 He remembered he had received an invitation for this very 
 ball, and he knew that if he entered, every eye would be fixed 
 upon him. The chaperons would ogle, wheedle, cajole ; the girls 
 would insinuate, smirk, and tell lies to their partners if they saw 
 the remotest chance of his asking them to dance. To dance 
 twice with him meant fame for a week in Merrion Square. 
 There were a few girls there who had money, many who pre- 
 tended to have a great deal. The tricks of the Irish heiress 
 are legion, and the lies of the Irish chaperon are as infinite as 
 the sands on the shore. The marquis had sufiered, but the 
 time of peace was near, and it was an exquisite delight to know 
 that true love and false love would soon be impotent to torture 
 him. For soon he will possess her — her whom his heart longs 
 for. He might have had any ; not one would have refused to 
 come to his coronet ; they would have come as readily as a light 
 o' love to a sovereign. He might have had any of them ; he 
 might have had Olive Barton. His face contracted ; all was 
 hateful to him now but Violet ; but he suddenly remem- 
 bered how he had refused twenty thousand pounds, and before 
 him rose the spectre of the Land League, and he started as if 
 it had laid its cold hand upon him. Yes, he might have had 
 twenty thousand pounds, and twenty thousand pounds would 
 have paid ofi" how many mortgages ! But then he wouldn't 
 have had Violet, and life without Violet would be a living 
 tomb ! — no, no, he could not have borne it. He had done 
 wrong, but it was not his fault ; it was not his fault. And, 
 shuddering in his glazed shoes and thin evening clothes, he 
 pursued his way through the shadowy night. 
 
 For hours he walked onwards — here and there, he knew not 
 whither. Often he awoke, surprised to find himself staring at 
 something he did not see. Once he stopped to gaze at 
 
218 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 O'Connell's Statue. This was the man who had begun the 
 work ; it was he who had withdrawn the key-stone of the 
 edifice, soon to fall and crush all beneath its ruins. Then he 
 found himself walking to and fro beneath the colonnades of 
 the Bank of Ireland. Here was the silent power that pro- 
 tected him ; but soon the buyers and sellers would be scourged 
 out of the temple and a new power established — a power that 
 would turn him a beggar upon the world. And sometimes he 
 was seen examining the long grey line that is Trinity College. 
 All this would go too. This ancient seat of wisdom and learn- 
 ing would perish before the triumphant and avenging peasant. 
 For him the country, and for him the town ; and for the old 
 race of the Kilcarneys poverty and banishment. Shivering 
 with fear rather than the drizzling rain that fell, the little 
 marquis pursued his way. Yes, he was a ruined man. "Wealth, 
 position, and power were slipping from him; all he possessed 
 in the world was that thin white face — delicate and subtile as 
 an Indian carven ivory. But oh, that was all his — his for ever 
 and ever ; and, in the light of the blowing gas the weak face 
 was stricken with a look of inefTable passion. 
 
 Like a carrier ovei'borne by the loads hung on either side of 
 his shoulders, the marquis staggered beneath balancing weights 
 of happiness and fear. He knew not what to think or what to 
 do. He could not return to his hotel ; and, by turns lost in 
 moments of emparadised tenderness and overwhelmed in dark 
 and abortive despair, he walked aimlessly, listening to the wild 
 wandering dream with which his brain was bewildered. Twice 
 he had crossed the river. The glooms of Saokville Street were 
 filled with vague groups and single figures. There was a taint of 
 assassination and doom in the air. Parnell, Davitt, Dillon, and 
 other leaders of the Irish party had been cast into prison, and 
 every day and hour writs for the arrest of suspected persons were 
 issued by the Castle ; and in return the revolt of the people be- 
 came more determined and implacable. In the mist and mud of 
 the slums plots and counter-plots were hatched, and, breaking 
 their shells, they emerged like reptiles into a terrible and multi- 
 form existence ; out of the slime they crawled in strange and 
 formless confusion, and in the twilight of nationhood they fought 
 the obscure and blind battle of birth. Conspiracy, and nothing 
 but conspiracy — conspiracy to strike the knife into the ruler, 
 conspiracy to shoot the informer, conspiracy to overthrow rival 
 conspiracy. Oaths were administered of secrecy, of vengeance. 
 
k DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 219 
 
 The assassin followed his victim down darksome alleys, along 
 the wide squares of the aristocracy ; cries of murder were 
 heard — a pistol-shot — one, two, three broke the s':illness. men 
 were seen passing, a body was found the next day, and all 
 further knowledge of the deed was lost for ever. The brown, 
 sullen Liffey rolls by ; has it borne all away ? Many a secret 
 it holds, and a dark and mighty accomplice it seems in the 
 crimes that now convulse men's souls. Day and night silently 
 scavenging, its wandering water lulls echoes of oaths of blood- 
 shed, the mirksome current reflects but a moment the livid 
 flame of incendiarism, swiftly it bears away the body of the 
 victim, and, sunk deep in its unfathomable mud lie the 
 abandoned knives. Even now the marquis as he walked, deaf 
 to all things, shrouded with sorrow and crowned with love, 
 had heard pistol-shots and mysterious cries. But he had passed 
 on heedless ; and now he stands in the centre of O'Connell's 
 bridge. His eyes are fixed upon the mud-stream that flows 
 deep down in the stone embankments; and as the night 
 deepens into the small hours of the morning his grief grows 
 unbearable. Remorse has followed him — the dreary, unre- 
 lenting remorse of those too weak by nature for repentance. 
 Now he remembers for the hundredth time how he has sacrificed 
 the grand old name with all its grand associations. The shades 
 of his ancestors crowd about : and how regretfully they 
 seem to reproach him ! At every moment the meaning of the 
 word " ruin " grows more distinct ; and in distorted vision he 
 sees down the long succession of consequences. Since his child- 
 hood he had been told that it was his duty to restore by 
 matrimony his ancient name to its ancient prestige and power ; 
 and he had sacrificed all for that little thin white face that he 
 could see now shining before him — a rare, a seductive jewel 
 If he had never met her he would have done what was right ; 
 but, having once seen her, he could not but act as he had done. 
 No, it was not his fault — he was not to blame. He could not 
 have lived without her ; she was life to him, and to possess 
 life he had to accept ruin. Yes, ruin; he knows it well 
 enough. That terrible Land League would ruin him — that 
 terrible Land League that he could feel about him. It 
 hovered in the air like an evil spirit, and, sooner or later, it 
 would descend and tear and rend him as a prey. Yes, he was 
 ruined, utterly ruined. But with twenty or thirty thousand 
 pounds he would have been able to fight it and to conquer it; 
 
220 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 and then, as his thoughts go back to Olive, his face falls upon 
 his hands, and he weeps. 
 
 And the darkness grows thicker, but the man still stands on 
 the bridge. Ai'ound him every street is deserted. On the 
 right murder has ended for the night ; on the left, towards 
 Merrion Square, the violins have ceased to sing in the ball- 
 rooms ; and in their white beds the girls sleep their white 
 sleep of celibacy. Passion and grief have ceased to trouble the 
 aching heart, if not for ever, at least for awhile : the murderer's 
 and the virgin's reality are sunk beneath a swift-rolling tide 
 of dreams — a tide deeper than the river thit flows beneath the 
 tears of the lonely lover. All but he are at rest ; and now the 
 city sleeps ; wharves, walls, and bridges are veiled and have 
 disappeared in the fog that has crept up from the sea ; the 
 shameless squalor of the outlying streets is enwrapped in the 
 grey mist, but over them and dark against the sky the Castle 
 still stretches out its arms as if for some monstrous embrace. 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 CnAPTEE I. 
 
 Mrs . Barton rarely took anyone into her confidence, and her 
 plan for the capture of the marquis was locked within her 
 breast. Certainly not to her husband, nor yet to milord, did 
 she think of going for advice. Her special experience of life 
 had taught her to trust none, to be self-reliant, and never to give 
 up hope. For as she often said, it is the last effort that wins 
 the battle. Mrs. Barton's knowledge of the world, when it 
 came to be analysed, was only that of the courtesan — hfleur 
 de peau. 
 
 Two days after she received a note from the marquis, saying 
 he would be glad to spend a fortnight with them at Brookfield. 
 She read it quietly, slipped it into tho pocket of the black silk 
 that covered the unseen feet, and glided out of the room. 
 Every detail was clear to her. They must leave Dubhn to- 
 morrow morning : they need not trouble about calling on a 
 pack of women ; but they would have all their men friends to 
 dinner. 
 
 Mr. Barton, when he was informed of these sudden deter- 
 minations, was in the act of rehearsing a song he was to sing 
 the following day at a concert. 
 
 " But, my dear," he said, tightening one of the strings, 
 " the public wiU be awfully disappointed." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, yes ; I am very sorry, but I have my reasons 
 — serious reasons ; and in this world we must only do what's 
 right." 
 
 " Then in the next world we shall be able to do everything 
 that's wrong," said Mr. Barton, and he threw back his blonde 
 locks wth troubadour-like waves of his lymphatic hand. " I 
 shall like the next world better than this," he added, and his 
 wife and daughter laughed, for papa was supposed to be very 
 jiaughty. 
 
 221 
 
223 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Olive dear " 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I wish you wouldn't call me Olive. , . . 
 I shall change my name. . . . Captain Talbot was chaffing 
 me about it yesterday ; . . . everybody chafis me about it." 
 
 " Never mind, my dear ; it makes a subject of conversation. 
 But I was going to tell you that we shall have to start for 
 Brookfield to-morrow." 
 
 " Go to Brookfield ! I couldn't possibly leave Dublin yet a 
 while ; what would all my young men do — they'd die of broken 
 hearts 1 " 
 
 " It won't matter much if they do ; there aren't a dozen 
 worth two thousand a year each." 
 
 " No 1 you are joking, mamma. And the marquis I " 
 
 " That's a secret, dear." 
 
 " Then you don't think he'll propose to me after all ; and 1 
 gave up Edward — Captain Hibbert." 
 
 " I thought you had forgotten that horrid man's name. I 
 did not say, dear, that the marquis would not propose to you 
 — of course he will. But we must leave Dublin to-morrow — I 
 have serious reasons." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I did not think you were so cruel ; to go 
 back to that hateful place, where there isn't a man within 
 seven miles of one, and where everybody talks of rents and 
 that odious Land League." 
 
 " Now, I will not allow my darling to cry like that," ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Barton, and she threw her arms round the girl's 
 shoulders. " I did not say that there wouldn't be a man 
 within seven miles. On the contrary, there wiU be someone 
 very nice indeed." 
 
 " What do you mean, mamma ? " 
 
 " That's a secret — that's a secret ; " and peals of rippling 
 laughter effectually silenced all further questioning. 
 
 Alice was told briefly 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. Was it possible 
 that so soon, that at last, they were going to leave this thrice- 
 hateful place? Latterly it had become doubly abhorrent to 
 her ; at every hour, at every moment her senses of sight, feel- 
 ing, and hearing were outraged. But it was all over .... 
 the words sang in her ears. What happiness, what happiness 
 to know she was leaving that hateful little varnished floor, 
 that she was to escape from those complimenting old beaux, 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 228 
 
 and the youthful rudenesses of young A.D.C.s. Kot their 
 taces would she see, nor their voices would she hear again, nor 
 would she again feel their arms about her. At Brookfield she 
 would be alone ; she would have her books and a table to write 
 upon. The prospect emparadised her. Yes, she would really 
 try and do something. Yes, she had an idea. She did not 
 know if she would be able to work it out, but she would try. 
 The girl trembled with pleasure — she would do her best, and 
 she would send it to Harding; he would tell her what he 
 thought of it, and to hope to hear from him would be some- 
 thing to live for. 
 
 Mrs. Barton had advised Alice and Olive not to caU on the 
 Scullys ; and now, as Alice stood on the doorstep, she wondered 
 at these orders. She had hardly seen May since the night of 
 the State ball — the night she had given Fred Scully the 
 terrible permission to see her in her room. Alice had long 
 determined to speak to May on this subject, but somehow the 
 opportunity had always slipped from herj she would go to 
 her now. 
 
 May was sitting alone in the ladies' drawing-room. Iler 
 eyes had wandered from the pages of her novel, and she stared 
 vaguely at the passers-by who went, with umbrellas aslant, 
 through the wet air. The tints of the red furniture were 
 vague, and all the little velvet chairs slept in the grey trailing 
 shadows with which the room was filled. An immense heap 
 of coal-dust smouldered dismally in the grate. 
 
 " How do you do, May ? " 
 
 " Oh, how do you do, Alice 1 I am so glad to see you. 
 Come and sit near the fire. 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 1 wish for now ; I 
 think I should like to go back to the country." 
 
 " We are going back to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Nonsense; you don't say so ; and how's that ? The Castle 
 may be over, or nearly so, but there are plenty of balls and 
 afternoon dances. What does Olive say to going home 1 " 
 
 " She doesn't mind. You know mamma always said she 
 would return immediately after the Castle balls." 
 
224 A DUAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 "And novr that it is all over, tell me what you think of tlie 
 Castle. Did it come vip 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. 
 
 "But ... I don't know; . . . then there are other things 
 that worry me .... I don't think that Fred has been as nice 
 lately as ... he used to be." 
 
 " What has he done 2 " 
 
 " 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 f It does not make it 
 any less disagreeable for me to lie 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 1 " 
 
 " Well, they say many unpleasant things ; you know how Ul- 
 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 eas}' to you ! " 
 
 Alice blushed a little ; she trembled, and pursuing her ad- 
 vantage. May said : 
 
 "Oh, yes; I have watched you in the Castle sitting out 
 d.anoes ; and when girls like you do butter ! . . . 'Pon my 
 word, it was painful to look at you." 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 226 
 
 " I am sure," said Alice, speaMng without consideration, 
 " that nobody could think ... no one would dream of suspect- 
 ing. . . . 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 should not 
 have expected this from you. I shall not stop another moment. 
 I shall not speak with 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 ineffec- 
 tiveness 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 neigh- 
 bourhood 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 sus- 
 picion. 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 J 
 Do they never think of their immortal souls ! " 
 
 Q 
 
226 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " L'ame du paysan se vautre dans la bouo comme la mienne 
 so plait dans la soie." 
 
 " Dans la soie ! dans la soie ! oh, ce milord, ce milord 1 " 
 
 " Oui, madame," he added, lowering his voice, " dans le blano 
 paradis de ton corsage." 
 
 Three days after life at Brookfield had resumed its ordinary 
 course. Once breakfast was over, Arthur retired to the con- 
 sideration 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 \ip her writing-table, and spend 
 as much time as she pleased in her bedroom. 
 
 She had already begun work. 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. 
 Suddenly footsteps were heaid in the corridor. 
 
 " 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 Cecilia lay sobbing with joy 
 upon her shoulder for some moments. Then, holding each 
 other's hands, the girls stood looking through a deep and 
 expressive silence into each other's eyes. Cecilia's eyes ! — large, 
 mellow depths of hght, vague and melancholy with the yearning 
 of the soul. You see the high shoulders ; the chin and neck 
 how curiously advanced. But little is seen but the eyes ! the 
 eyes of the deformed, deep, di'camy depths of brown, luminous 
 with a strange weariness, that we who are normal, straight, and 
 strong, can neither feel nor undei'stand. The bro\vii is now 
 liquescent ; it burns, and becomes golden with passion ; it melts 
 and softens to strange tenderness. The eyes of the deformed I — 
 deep enigmatic eyes, never will your secret be revealed ; there 
 is a trouble that words cannot speak, but that e3'es may some- 
 times suggest : — the melting questioning grief of the spaniel 
 that would tell his master of his love. There was something 
 dog-like in the lavish aflection with which Cecilia welcomed 
 her friend ; and, like the dumb animal, she seemed to suffer 
 fioiij her inability to expiess her joy in words. 
 
A DRAMA IN JIL'SLIN. 227 
 
 " 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 
 nice 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 would not think 
 it wrong." 
 
 Alice coloured deeply, and she said, with a certain resolute- 
 ness in her voice, " Cecilia, I wish you would not talk to mo 
 in this way. You give me great pain." 
 
 "I am sorry if I do, but I cannot 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 ? " 
 
 The teeth gnawed at the lips, and the eyes were shot with 
 strange flames. Alice trembled : she was obscurely troubled. 
 At last she said : 
 
 " I do not Vvrish to argue this point with you, Cecilia, nor 
 am 1 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 
 Vv'orld ; and particulaily 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 
 
228 A DKAMA IJJ MUSLIN. 
 
 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 ; teU me if you have found it beautiful. You did not 
 believe me when I told you that men were vile and abomin- 
 able ; you said there were good men in the world . . . that 
 }'ou were sure of it. . . Have you found thorn ? . . . Was Mr. 
 Harding so very perfect 1 " 
 
 Alice coloured ; she hesitated, and in the silence Cecilia 
 again divined her friend's thouglits. 
 
 " I do not know that I found the world very different from 
 what I expected to find it. Of course there is evil — and a 
 great deal of evil ; and if you wUl fix your ej'es upon it, and 
 brood over it, of course life seems to you only a black and 
 hideous thing ; but there is much good — yes, there is good 
 even in things evil ; and if we only think of the goodness we 
 become happier even if we do not become better ; and I cannot 
 but think that the best and the most feasible mode of life is 
 to try to live up to the ordinary and simple laws of nature of 
 which we are but a part." Here Alice paused, and she sought 
 vainly to define her ideas. She was conscious of the truth that 
 conscience is no more than the indirect laws — the essence of 
 the laws transmitted by heredity ; and had she been able to 
 formulate her thought she would have said, " and the ideal 
 life should, it seems to me, lie in the reconciliation — no, recon- 
 ciliation is not the word I want ; I scarcely know how to 
 express myself — well, in making the two ends meet — in making 
 the ends of nature the ends also of what we call our conscience." 
 
 How often do we find — nay, do we not always find — that 
 the festhetic and philosophic aspirations of an epoch^ideas 
 which we believe to have been the invention of individuals, 
 are but the intellectual atmosphere of that epoch breathed in 
 greater or less quantities by all ? Nor does the phenomenon 
 cease here ; for the sensitivity of some is so great that they 
 anticipate — obeying an unknown law of attraction — ideas not 
 yet in existence, but wliich are quickening in the womb of the 
 world. Wordsworth is an exaiiijile of this foreseeing, fore- 
 feeling, forehearing. For at the time of writing the " Excur- 
 sion " the influence of the German pessimists had not 
 penetrated into England ; Schopenhauer was an unknown 
 name ; and yet poet and philosopher seem but the expansion of 
 a single mind. 
 
 Is it therefore unnatural or even extraordinary that Alice 
 
A DRAMA I:^f MUSLIN, S29 
 
 Barton, who is if anything a representative woman of 1885, 
 should have, in an obscure and formless way, divined the 
 doctrines of Eduard van Hartman, the entire and uncondi- 
 tional resignation of personal existence into the arms of the 
 cosmic process ? Cecilia, as has been shown, with her black 
 hatred of life concentrated upon a loathing of the origin of 
 existence, was but another manifestation of the same stratum 
 of thought. 
 
 " 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, wiU. you not, Cecilia ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but do not let us go downstairs." 
 
 " Oh, no ; 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. These 
 moments were inexpressibly delicious. Thoy talked, at first, 
 conscious of the appropriateness of their conversation ; but 
 soon forgetful of the more serious themes they had been dis- 
 cussing, 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 Kiloarney is coming 
 down to stay at Brookfield. Is it true ? " 
 
 "I have heard nothing of it. Whom did you hear it 
 from ? " 
 
 " "Well, the Dufiys 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 J 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 
 
SCO A dhama in muslin. 
 
 fnniily is, of course, wild about it. Slie hasn't a penny 
 piece, and . . . and Olive, they say, has a good deal of 
 money." 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 " But you, Alice dear, I suppose you were immensely 
 admired. You must have been . . . You must show me 
 the dress you wore .... You described it beautifully in your 
 letter. . . . You must have looked verj' 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 should not talk like that ; it is not nice." 
 
 CecUia 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 1 I've heard my sister speak 
 about it, but I never quite understood." 
 
 " The Lord Lieutenant is standing under his throne, and all 
 his Court are about him — j'our name is called out by the 
 Chamberlain — a couple of A.D.C.s take your train from your 
 arm, spread it along the iloor, and you walk up to his Excel- 
 lency, and he kisses you on both cheeks." 
 
 " Oh, how beastly 1 You mean to say, Alice, that that man 
 kissed you 1 " 
 
 "Yes, he did. But it is only a fashion, a ceremony — a 
 stupid one I gi-ant you — but I can't say . . ." 
 
 " You mean to say it did not disgust you ? " Then after a 
 pause she added, " Perhaps you wished it Avere Mr. Harding." 
 
 Had Cecilia not been Cecilia, Alice would have answered 
 differently, but disarmed by the Icve reflected in the luminous 
 eyes she said : 
 
 " I believe you do not wish to give me pain, but you can 
 hardly be blind to the fact that such observations are almost 
 meant to wound my feelings." 
 
 " Oh, Alice ; no, indeed 1 I do not wish to give you pain 
 but . . . ." 
 
 At that moment Barnes brought in the tea. She set it on 
 n little table used for the purpose. "There is a letter for you, 
 
A DRAMA IX MUSLIM. 231 
 
 miss, on tho 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 
 liandwTiting." 
 
 Like a lamp Alice's face was illumined. She had been ex- 
 pecting 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 did not expect to find you corresponding with him. 
 It is shameful ; it is not 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; bvit before you met him I could not ha\e 
 presumed too much upon our friendship." 
 
 " If you want to know why I wrote to ]\Ir. Haroiing, I'll teL 
 you." 
 
 " It was you who wrote to him, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, I wrote to him. Mr. Harding is, as you have heard, 
 a literary man ; he is known to all the newspaper editors and 
 publishers in London. He was very kind when I met him in 
 Dublin ; he not only advised and encouraged me to write, but 
 he ofiered to take anything I might send him to the editors, 
 and try and get it accepted. I see no reason why I should not 
 avail myself of the helping hand he extends to me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, yes ; avail yourself of his assistance ; do what 
 you like. 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 ! All I loved is gone ! . • . The 
 whiteness, the purity, the feminacy, all is gone I . . . Tho 
 shadow of a man has fallen across our friendship; it is 
 blackened, it is worthless. Ci-uel, cniel ! Why am I thus 
 tortured ? why do I suffer ? The one thing I thought pure is 
 
232 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN 
 
 soiled. There is neither purity nor peace in the -world ; the 
 same blackness, always the same blackness. The same horrible 
 passion that degrades, that disgraces, that makes animals of us ! 
 There is no escaping from it — it is everywhere, it is eternal, it 
 is omnipotent. We are hemmed in on every side by vileness ; 
 there is no escape ; no, no, no ; . . . my last hope is gone, 
 and I am alone in this horrible, this ignominious world. Oh 
 that I might die, for I can bear with it no longer ! And we 
 all come, we all spring from the same abomination — vile, loath- 
 some, detestable. Take pity, oh, take pity ! let me die ! Oh, 
 God, take pity! " 
 
 " Cecilia, Ccilia, think, I beg of you, of what you are say- 
 ing." But when Alice approached and strove to raise the 
 deformed girl from the pillow upon which she had thrown 
 herself, she started up and savagely confronted her. 
 
 " Don't touch me, don't touch me 1 " she cried ; " I caimot 
 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 bsing 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." 
 
 " Eight senses 1 " replied the girl bitterly ; " you would 
 soothe me, but you little dream of the poison you are dropping 
 on my wounds. Bight senses ! the words show me how much 
 too much I expected of you. 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 gi-atifies herself with a lover. 
 It is the same thing, where's the difierence ? 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 to ? " 
 
 The letter had fallen beneath the table. Alice made a 
 movement towaids it, but, overcome by mad rage, Cecilia 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 233 
 
 caught it up and threw it into the fire. Alice rescued her 
 letter, and then, hei' face full of stern indignation, she 
 said : 
 
 " I think, Cecilia, yon 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. They love best to whom all is impossible but 
 love. It was so with Cecilia, and Alice had much to live for 
 now. Every morning she went up to her room to write, and 
 in the evenings, deaf to silly chatter and laughter, she read 
 thoughtfully and industriously. She read the books she had 
 heard Harding speak of. The remembrance of the man 
 endeared them to her, and she believed they would help to 
 educate her better than others she might choose for herself. 
 Her mind being simple, logical, direct— so unbHnded by side- 
 lights that it often touched, if it did not merge in, the com- 
 monplace — found, without difficulty, words that were at least 
 the appropriate equivalents of the thoughts she wished to ex- 
 press : not being possessed of that supreme power of seeing 
 more than one aspect of her subject, which is genius, her exe- 
 cution was facile and sure as the conception was moderate and 
 well balanced. Her choice of subject was always healthy and 
 practical, and she wrote short stories and a newspaper article 
 unfalteringly : her work as it unfolded itself was an image of 
 the writer's own integrity and good sense. And if her writ- 
 ings excited neither nervous surprise nor any subtle emotion, 
 they did not provoke contempt by stupidity or vulgarity. She 
 saw life from a normal and sensible standpoint, and her merit 
 lay not in the peculiarity or the keenness of her vision, but in 
 the clearness and the common sense she infused into the writ- 
 ing, as she would have done into any other business she might 
 have undertaken. Aufond, the artistic question troubled her 
 little, but when the first cheque came, when it fell out of the 
 envelope into her lap, her fingers trembled, and, clutching the 
 piece of paper, she went down to breakfast. Joy bubbled in 
 her brain. To know that she could do something, that she 
 would not prove a drag, a hindrance upon the wheel of life, 
 was an effervescent delight. 
 
2.1 t A DRAJJA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Something has happened to my learned daughter," said 
 JNlr. 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. Sir. Harding says he can get me lots of work." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha 1" laughed Mrs. Barton, "so my lady then, 
 with all her shy ways, knows how to make use of a man as well 
 n.s any of us." 
 
 Mrs. Barton, however, did not willingly wound. She saw 
 life from the point of view of making use of men : voUa tout. 
 And when Alice walked out of the room, Mrs. Barton felt 
 sorry for what she had said, and she would have gone to com- 
 fort 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 2 " 
 
 It was. For as the day fixed for his arrival at Brookfield 
 approached, he would write to apologise, 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 abomin- 
 able 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 does not 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 it was a put-oflf. I don't believe he admires meat 
 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, ma cherie, jou must not speak like that. Go up- 
 stairs and ask Barnes if she has heard anything lately ? " 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLTN. 235 
 
 " 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, particulai-ly Lady Emily's maid, and 
 Barnes got a letter from her friend the other daj', saying that 
 Lady EmUy 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." 
 
 Mrs. Barton's keenest anxiety was Captain Hibbert. She 
 had, as we have seen, successfully drugged Olive's light brain 
 with visions of victories and honours ; with dancing, dresses, 
 admiration ; but now, in the tiring void of country days, the 
 remembrance of Edward's love and devotion was inevitable. 
 He made no attempt to renew his courtship. At Gort, within 
 three mUes, 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 it was known 
 that he spent most of his time with her. To allude to his dis- 
 graceful 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 she could get up a little excitement, and 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. Sir 
 Charles was treated as every man was treated at Brookfield. 
 He was told he was charming, delightful, fascinating ; on all 
 occasions he was presented with bouquets ; and he was sent 
 away in the nick of time. 
 
 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 
 
236 A DltAMA IN MUSLIlf. 
 
 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 — no, it would not do. She might ask a couple 
 of the Brennans or the Duffys to stay with them, but they 
 would be in the way, occupy the marquis's time, and go tell- 
 taling all over the country ; no that wouldn't do either. And 
 Alice did play so badly 1 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 think- 
 ing of that : for the present she would have to put up with the 
 girl's music, which was wretched. 
 
 OUve fell in with her mother's plans, and she angled indus- 
 triously for Lord KUcarney. She did not fail to say in or out of 
 season : II rCy 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 : 
 
 11 y a des amants partout ou U y a des oiseaux et des roses , 
 and again : 
 
 Les regards des amoureux sont la lumiere comme le haiser 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 be always 
 attempted to escape, and if he succeeded in eluding Mrs. Barton, 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN, 237 
 
 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 
 tliey were addressed. Daily she volunteered to send special 
 messengers to the post on his account ; the footman, the coach- 
 man, and pony-chaise, were in turn rejected by him. 
 
 " Thanlc you, Mrs. Barton, thank you, but I should like to 
 avail myself of the chance of a constitutional." 
 
 " La sante de noire petit marquis avant tout," she would 
 exclaim with much silvery laughter and all the habitual move- 
 ments 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; and it stands on the seashore — a 
 rocky shore f uU of seaweed, and the sea flows up a long narrow 
 bay. 
 
 Mrs. Barton applied herself diligently to the task of organisa- 
 tion. 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 Duflfys and Brennans numbered their f uU strength, 
 including even the famous Bertha, who was staying with her 
 sisters on a visit. Tlie 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. Eyan, and Mr. Lynch were 
 also present. They drove up on outside cars, and were all 
 attended by a body-guard of policemen. 
 
 " I'm afraid we shall get nothing better than a married man, 
 even if we get that," whispered Bertha. 
 
 Mrs. Barton was the life of the party. She flattered every- 
 one — bank clerks and police officers — and her laughter 
 echoed amid the groined arches. Through the mullioned 
 windows beyond the green sea-water, the white town of 
 
233 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 Kinvarra nestled beneath the mountains ; it suggested a 
 military movement to Mr. Barton. 
 
 " If things get any worse, we might all retire into this 
 castle. The ladies will stand on the battlements, and I will 
 undertake to hold the place for ever against those village 
 ruffians." 
 
 " I do not think there will be any necessity for that," replied 
 Mr. Adair sententiously. " I think that these last terrible 
 outrages have awakened the Government to a sense of their 
 responsibility. I have reason to believe that immediate steps 
 will be taken to crush this infamous conspiracy." 
 
 Wlien lunch was over, the party dispersed for a walk, and 
 the usual remarks concerning Mr. Adau' wei'e made. " A very 
 clever man, an able man. He took honours at Trinity. It is 
 true he does not care for ladies' society, but I hear that 
 (Gladstone says he cannot do without him." Nor was the 
 famous anecdote about Mr. Ryan, the docket, and the Gal way 
 ball omitted. Then the police officers posted their men on 
 the different headlands, and flirtation was supposed to begin, 
 but Olive and the marquis occupied everybody's attention, 
 and Mrs. Barton's injudiciousness was severely commented 
 upon. 
 
 " But there is no knowing ; he may be bought off yet,'' said 
 Bertha. 
 
 " They say that Alice Barton is awfully clever, that 
 she is making a fortune by writing stories," said Gladys 
 Biennan. 
 
 " All that's only to give herself airs. If she can't be pretty 
 she'd be clever; she's gone off for a walk with Dr. Reed." 
 
 " If she is clever, she got her cleverness from her father," 
 said another girl. " I don't pretend to understand painting, 
 but he does look handsome now, that fair beard and str.aight 
 nose. I call him perfectly lovely ; I'd prefer him to Milord 
 any day." 
 
 " I dare say )'ou would, but not when you were paying the 
 housekeeper's bills or giving your daughter a fortune," exclaimed 
 Bertha coarsely. 
 
 Although Mrs. Barton remained strangely blind to the 
 ridicule she excited in her friends, she was keenly alive to the 
 fact that the marquis seemed uninfluenced by Olive's beauty, 
 nor did the knowledge of her twenty thousand pounds appear 
 to soften his heart. To admit defeat would, however, be vain, 
 
A DliAMA IN' MUSLIN. 230 
 
 and under the most adverse circumstances Mrs. Barton 
 struggled on manfully to the end. And day after day the 
 same line of conduct was implacably adhered to. At ten 
 o'clock he was caught and sent to play tennis or walk in the 
 garden with Olive. The girl's feelings may be divined in the 
 sudden twitching of the facial muscles ; the man is sunk in a 
 state of nervous lethargy, from which he makes periodic efforts 
 to rouse himself. The sun is shining brilliantly. The laurels 
 afford but little shade, and along the flower border two butter- 
 flies flap their white wings in the sheeny air. The lovers 
 had not spoken for the last five minutes : their ideas follow 
 the butterflies fatuously. Rousing himself with a supreme 
 effort, the marquis asked : 
 
 " Are you very fond of flowers, Miss Barton ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, I delight in them. Come to the gi-eenhouse and 
 I'll gather you a bouquet." 
 
 While the bouquet was being cut and prepared a few 
 remarks were made, but when it was pinned into the button- 
 hole another morose silence fell, and they sought in vain to 
 disentangle themselves from its meshes. 
 
 During the marquis's stay at Brookfield there were f requeut 
 dinner parties. On May 7 Mr. Adair, Mr. Ryan, and Sir 
 Charles, were seated beneath Mr. Barton's different versions of 
 the " Bridal of Triermain," which he declared to possess "all 
 the beauties of Raphael, and other beauties besides." A mag- 
 nificent turbot was on the table. Lord Dungory had just 
 delivered himself of a neat epigram, and Mr. Adair was ex- 
 plaining how he would crush the Land League out of exist- 
 ence if the Government would place him in supreme power 
 for the space of one month. " That is all I would ask : one 
 month to restore this island to peace and prosperity. I have 
 always been a Liberal, but I confess that I entirely fail to 
 understand the action the Government are taking in the 
 present crisis. Mr. Forster's Coercion Bill was, as I always 
 said, an absurd and ineffective measure. I have always placed 
 my faith in Mr. Gladstone, and I refuse to believe in the 
 existence of the Kilmainham treaty; it has, I am convinced, 
 no existence in fact ; it is no more than a Tory device. . . . 
 And then how do you explain the appointment of Lord 
 Frederick Cavendish ? " 
 
 At that moment the butler entered the room with an 
 cntr6e. Speaking to Mr, Barton he said : 
 
240 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Very dreadful news haa just been received in Gort, Fir : 
 Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were murdered last 
 night in the Phoenix Park." 
 
 The knives and forks dropped clinking on the plates as the 
 entire company looked up with white terror painted upon 
 their faces. Mr. Adair was the first to speak : 
 
 " This is," he said, " an infamous and lying report that has 
 been put into circulation. . . ." 
 
 " It is, unfortunately, quite true, sir ; it is in all the Sunday 
 papers ? " 
 
 " Have you got a paper ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 A paper was handed to Mr. Adair, and he read aloud the 
 account of the Phoenix Park murders. All eyes were fixed 
 upon him ; and when he raised his eyes from the paper, the 
 fixity of the glances he encountered shocked him. It was one 
 of those moments when terror seems to force the soul into the 
 eyes, as a ray of sunlight fills dead and sullen waters with an 
 image of the sky. No one spoke, and Mrs. Barton's hospitable 
 board was encircled with the vague abandonment of sailors 
 who feel the sinking vessel for the last time lifting herself for 
 a final plunge before settling down into the deep. 
 
 Then in turn, each ejaculated a few words. Mrs. Barton 
 said, " It is dreadful to think there are such wicked people in 
 tlie world." 
 
 Mr. Adair said, " There can be no doubt but that we have 
 aiiived at the crisis ; Europe will ring with the echoes of the 
 crime." 
 
 Olive said, " I think they ought to hang Mr. Parnell ; I 
 believe it was he who drove the car." 
 
 Mr. Barton said, " The landlords and land-leaguers will have 
 to do what I say ; they will have to fight it out. Now, at 
 their head, I believe by a series of rapid marches . . ." 
 
 " Arthur, Arthur, I beg of you," exclaimed Mrs. Barton, 
 waving her white hand impatiently. 
 
 •' We shall all have to emigrate," Sir Charles murmuied 
 reflectively. 
 
 " The law is in abeyance," said Jlr. Lynch. 
 
 " Precisely," replied Milord ; " and as I once said to Lord 
 Granville, ' Lts mceurs sont les hmnmes, mats la loi est la raison 
 du pays' " 
 
 ISIr. Adair looked up; he seemed about to contest the truth 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 241 
 
 of this aphorism, but he relapsed into his consideration of Mr. 
 Gladstone's political integrity. The conversation had fallen, 
 but at the end of a long silence Mr. Ryan said, " Begorra, I 
 am very glad they were murthered." 
 
 All drew back instinctively. This was too horrible, and 
 doubt of Mr. Ryan's sanity was expressed on every face. 
 
 At last Mr. Adair said, conscious that he was expressing the 
 feelings of the entire company, " What do you mean, sir ? 
 Have you gone mad 1 Do you not know that this is no fitting 
 time for bufToonery ? " 
 
 " Will ye hear me cousin out ? " said Mr. Lynch. 
 
 "Begorra, I'm glad they were murthered," continued Mr. 
 Ryan ; " for if they hadn't been we'd have been — there's the 
 long and the short of it. I know the counthry well, and I 
 know that in six months more, without a proper Coercion 
 Act, we'd have been burned in our beds." 
 
 The unanswerableness of Mr. Ryan's words, and the implac- 
 able certainty which forced itself into every heart, that he 
 spoke but the truth, did not, however, make the company less 
 inclined to oppose the utilitarian view he took of the 
 tragedy. 
 
 Unfinished phrases ..." Disgraceful " . . . " Shock- 
 ing "... " Inconceivable "... " That anyone should say 
 such a thing "... were passed round, and a disposition 
 was shown to boycott Mr. Ryan. 
 
 Mr. Adair spoke of not sitting in the room where such 
 opinions were expressed, but Milord was seen whispering to 
 him, and Mrs. Barton, always anxious to calm troubled waters, 
 suggested that " people did not mean all they said." Mr. 
 Ryan, however, maintained through it all an attitude of stolid 
 indifference, the indifference of a mnn who knows that all 
 must come back sooner or later to his views. 
 
 And presently, although the sting remained, the memory of 
 the wasp that had stung seemed to be lost. Milord and Mr. 
 Adair engaged in a long and learned discussion concerning the 
 principles of Liberalism, in the course of which many allusions 
 were made to the new Coercion BUI, which, it was now agreed, 
 Mr. Gladstone would, in a few days, lay before Parliament. 
 The provisions of this bill were eagerly debated. Milord spoke 
 of an Act that had been in force consequent on the Fenian 
 rising in '69. Mr. Adair was of opinion that the importance 
 of a new Coercion Act ponld not be over estimated ; Mr. Bnvtnn 
 
242 A DEASTA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 declared in favour of a military expedition — a rapid dash into 
 the heart of Oonnemara. But the conversation languished, 
 and in the ever-lengthening silences all found their thoughts 
 reverting to the idea brutally expressed by Mr. Ryan : — Yes, 
 they were glad ;for if Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke 
 had not been assassinated, every landowner in the country would 
 have been murdered. 
 
 There was no dancing that evening ; and as the night 
 advanced the danger of the long drive home increased in 
 intensity in the minds of Messrs. Lynch and Ryan. They sat 
 on either side of Mr. Adair, and it was finally arranged that 
 they should unite their police-forces, and spend the night at 
 his place. Sir Charles was sleeping at Brookfield j Milord had 
 four policemen with him ; and as all would have to pass his 
 gate, he did not anticipate that even the Land League would 
 ventui-e to attack thirteen armed men. Mr. Barton, who saw 
 the picturesque in everything, declared, when he came back, 
 that they looked like a caravan starting for a pilgrimage across 
 the desert. After a few further remarks the ladies rose to 
 retire, but when Mrs. Barton gave her hand to Lord KUcarney, 
 he said, his voice trembling a little : 
 
 " I'm afraid I must leave you to-morrow, Mrs. Barton. I 
 shall have to run over to London to vote in the House of 
 Lords. . . . You know that " 
 
 jMrs. Barton led the poor little man into the further corner 
 of the room, and making a place for him by her side, she said : 
 
 " Of course we are very sorry you are leaving — we should 
 like you to stop a little longer with us. . . . Is it impossible 
 for you . . . ?" 
 
 " I am afraid so, Mrs. Barton .... it is very kind of you, 
 but . . . ." 
 
 " It is a great pity," she answered ; " but before we part I 
 should like to know if you have come to any conclusion about 
 what I spoke to you of in Dublin. If it is not to be, I should 
 like to know, that I might tell the girl, so that she might not 
 think anything more about . . . ." 
 
 " What am I to say, what am I to do ? " thought the mar- 
 quis. " Oh 1 why does this woman worry me ? . . . How can 
 I tell her that I wouldn't marry her daughter for tens of 
 thousands of pounds ! " "I think Mrs. Barton ... I mean, 
 I think you will agree with me that until affairs in Ireland 
 grow more settled, it would be impossible for anyone to enter 
 
A DRAMA IW MUSLIN. 243 
 
 into any engagements whatever. We are all on the brink of 
 ruin." 
 
 " But twenty thousand pounds would settle a great deal." 
 
 The little marquis was conscious of annihilation, and he 
 sought to escape Mrs. Barton as he might a piece of falling 
 rock. With a desperate effort he said : 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Barton, yes, I agree with you, twenty thousand 
 pounds is a great deal of money ; but I think we had better 
 wait until the Lords have passed the new Coercion Bill — say 
 nothing more about this — leave it an open question." 
 
 And on this eminently unsatisfactory answer the matter 
 ended ; even Mrs. Barton saw she could not, at least for the 
 present, continue to press it. Still she did not give up hope. 
 " Try on to the end ; we never know that it is not the last 
 little effort that will win the game," was the aphorism with 
 which she consoled her daughter, and induced her to write to 
 Lord Kilcarney. And almost daUy he received from her 
 flowers, supposed to be emblematical of the feeling she enter- 
 tained for him ; and for these Alice was sometimes ordered to 
 compose verses and suitable mottoes. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 But Lord Kilcarney's replies to these letters seldom consisted 
 of niore than a few 'well-chosen words, and he often allowed a 
 week, and sometimes a fortnight, to elapse before answering at 
 all. Olive — too vain and silly to understand the indifference 
 with which she ^\■as treated — whined and fretted less than 
 might have been expected. She spent a great deal of her 
 time with Barnes, who fed her with scandal and flattery. 
 But a storm was about to break, and in August it was known, 
 without any possibility of a doubt, that the marquis was 
 engaged to Violet Scully, and that then- marriage was settled 
 for the autumn. 
 
 And this marriage, and the passing of the Bill for the 
 Prevention of Crime, were the two interests present in the 
 mind of Irish landlordism during the summer of '82. Imme- 
 diately the former event was publicly announced, every girl in 
 Dublin ran to her wi-iting-desk to confirm to her friends and 
 relatives the truth of the news which for the last two months 
 she had so resolutely anticipated. The famous Bertha, the 
 terror of the debutantes, rushed to Brookfield, but she did not 
 get there before the Brennans, and the result was a meeting 
 of these families of girls in Mrs. Barton's drawing-room. 
 Gladys was, however, the person chosen by God and herself to 
 speak the wonderful words : 
 
 " Of course you have heard the news, Mrs. Barton ? " 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Barton, a little nervously ; " what is it 1 " 
 
 " Oh, yes, what is it ? " exclaimed Olive. " Anyone going to 
 bo married ? " 
 
 " Yes — can you guess ? " 
 
 "No; tell me quick . . . no, do tell me. Are you going 
 to be married ? " 
 
 Had Olive been suddenly dowered with the wit of Congrevo 
 she could not have contrived an answer that would have 
 
 344 
 
A DRAMA IN UUSLIN. 2-15 
 
 shielded her better from the dart that Gladys was preparing to 
 hurl. The girl winced ; and divining the truth in a moment 
 of inspiration, Mrs. Barton said : 
 
 " Ah ! I know ; Lord Kilcarney is engaged to Violet 
 Scully." 
 
 The situation was almost saved, and would have been had 
 Olive not been present. She glanced at her mother in astonish- 
 ment; and Gladys, fearing utter defeat, hurled her dart 
 recklessly. 
 
 " Yes," she exclaimed, " and their marriage is fixed for this 
 autumn." 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it. . . . You only say so because 
 you think it will annoy me." 
 
 " My dear Olive, how can it annoy you ? You know very 
 well you refused him," said Mrs. Barton, risking the danger 
 of contradiction. " Gladys is only telling us the news." 
 
 " News, indeed ; a pack of lies. ... I know her well ; and 
 all becaiTse she is jealous of me ; . . . . because she didn't 
 succeed in hooking the man she was after in the Shelbourne 
 last year. 1 am not going to listen to her lies, if you are," 
 and on those words Olive flaunted passionately out of the 
 room. 
 
 " So very sorry, really," exclaimed Zee. " We really did 
 not know . . . indeed we did not. We covild not have 
 known that, that there was any reason why dear Olive would 
 not like to hear that Lord Kilcarney was engaged to Violet." 
 
 " Not at all, not at all. I assure you that whatever question 
 there may once have been, I give you my word, was broken off 
 a long time ago ; they did not suit each other at all," said Mrs. 
 Barton. And now that she was relieved of the presence of 
 her young, the mother fought admirably. But in a few 
 minutes the enemy was reinforced by the arrival of the Hon. 
 Miss Gores. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do ? I am so glad to see you," said Mrs. 
 Barton the moment they entered the room. " Have you heard 
 the news ? all is definitely settled between the little marquis 
 and Violet. We were all talking of it ; I am so glad for her 
 sake, of course ic is very grand to be a marchioness, but I'm 
 afraid she'll find her coronet a poor substitute for her 
 dinner. . . . You know what a state the property is 
 in . . . She has married a beggar. The great thing after 
 all, nowadays, is money." 
 
246 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 Mrs. Barton's cunning did not save her from the error of 
 abusing the man she had failed to catch, but she kept her 
 enemies at bay while they drank their tea and discussed the 
 state of Loid Kilcarney's liabilities. Nor did she herself 
 realise the thoroughness of her humiliation and defeat till the 
 young ladies had wished her good-bye. She stood by the 
 window watching their carriages growing smaller as they 
 receded through the sheep-grazed lawn of Brookfield. What 
 was she to say to her daughter ? Her step she now heard on 
 the stairs. What falsehood would suit the occasion best ? she 
 asked herself hmriedly. Pale and trembling, Olive opened 
 the door. 
 
 " Oh, mamma," she said, "this is terrible; what shall we do 
 — ^what shall we do ? " 
 
 " What's terrible, my beautiful darling? " 
 
 Olive looked through her languor and tears ; and she 
 answered, petulantly : 
 
 " Oh, you know very well I'm disgraced ; he's going to marry 
 Violet, and I shall not be a marchioness after all." 
 
 " If my beautiful darling likes she can be a duchess," replied 
 Mrs. Barton with a silvery laugh. 
 
 " I don't understand, mamma." 
 
 " I mean that we are not entirely dependent on that wretched 
 little marquis with his encumbered property ; if he was fool 
 enough to let himself be entrapped by that designing little 
 beast, Violet Scully, so much the worse for him ; we shall get 
 someone far grander than he. It is never wise for a girl to 
 settle herself off the first season she comes out." 
 
 " It is all very well to say that now, but you made me break 
 off with dear Edward, who was ever so nice, and loved me 
 dearly." 
 
 Mrs. Barton winced, but she answered almost immediately, 
 " My dear, we shall get someone a great deal grander than 
 that wretched marquis. There will be a whole crowd of 
 English dukes and earls at the Castle next year ; men who 
 haven't a mortgage on their property, and who will all fight 
 for the hand of my beautiful Olive. Mr. Harding, Alice's 
 friend, will put your portrait into one of the Society papers as 
 the Galway beauty, and then next year you may be her Grace.'' 
 
 " And how will they do my portrait, mamma? " 
 
 " I think you look best, darling, with your hair done up on 
 the top of your head, in the French fashion.'' 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 247 
 
 " Oh ! do you think so ! You don't like the way I hare it 
 done in now ? " said the girl ; and laughing, she ran to the 
 glass to admire herself. "Barnes said I looked sweet this 
 morning." 
 
 As quickly as an April sky brightens, Olive passed from 
 grief to glee ; her light mind could support no idea for any 
 length of time. Concerning Lord Kilcarney she had never 
 entertained a single personal thought ; she had been fevered 
 with visions of rank and power ; — her life had been one of 
 nervous suspense. But now the carefully calculated future 
 which she had learned long to regard as her own had vanished, 
 and into the mental vacuum febrile sensations of loneliness, of 
 emptiness, of dispossession, had suddenly rushed. She tossed 
 her head nervously, declaring she was miserable, and often she 
 burst out crying for no assignable cause. Mrs. Barton con- 
 soled and flattered gaUy ; but the sweet placid countenance 
 was sometimes a little troubled. As the girls left the break- 
 fast-room one morning she said, as if asking their advice : 
 
 " I have just received an invitation from Dungory Castle ; 
 they are giving a tennis party and they want us to go to 
 lunch." 
 
 " Oh 1 mamma, I don't want to go," cried Olive. 
 
 " And why, my dear ? " 
 
 " Oh ! because everybody knows about the marquis, and I 
 couldn't bear their sneers ; those Brennans and the DufFys are 
 sure to be there." 
 
 "Bertha's in Dublin," said Mrs. Barton, in an intonation of 
 voice a little too expressive of relief. 
 
 " Gladys is just as bad, and then there's that horrid Zoe. 
 Oh 1 I couldn't bear it." 
 
 " It wOl look as if we were avoiding them ; they will only 
 talk the more. I always think it is best to put a bold face on 
 everything. Sir Charles will be there for certain ; you know 
 he admires you ; if I were you I would monopolise him the 
 whole afternoon. The old is quickly forgotten in the new 
 flirtation." 
 
 " I couldn't, I couldn't, I really couldn't, mamma," exclaimed 
 Olive, and she burst into tears. " I'm broken-hearted, that's 
 what I am. I have nothing to do or to think of." 
 
 Mrs. Barton winced a little before this manifestation of 
 hysterical feeling ; but of course it did not change, nor did it 
 alter, in any way, the light in which she habitually viewed her 
 
'Ji8 A DRAJIA IN MaSLTfr. 
 
 own and her daughter's life. The marquis afiair had not come 
 off; but she had done her best, and no one can do more than 
 their best, and now she would do her best to get out of the 
 difficulty. There could be little doubt that the Ladies CuUen 
 had got up the tennis party so that they might have an oppor- 
 tunity of sneering at her, but Milord would keep them in 
 check (it might be as well to tell him to threaten to put down 
 the school if they did not keep a guard on their tongues), 
 and if Olive would only put a bold face on it and captivate 
 Sir Charles, this very disagreeable business might blow over. 
 Further than this, Mrs. Barton's thoughts did not travel, but 
 they were clear and precise thoughts, and with much subtlety 
 and insinuative force she applied herself to the task of over- 
 coming her daughter's weakness and strengthening her in this 
 overthrow of vanity and self-love. At Brookfield Milord was 
 more profuse than ever in French flattery ; and at Dungory 
 Castle he had doubtless been able to arrive at a very clear 
 understanding with Lady Sarah and Lady Jane concerning the 
 future of Protestantism in the parish, for on the day of the 
 tennis party no allusion was made to Lord Kilcarney^s visit 
 to Brookfield ; certain references to his marriage were, of 
 course, inevitable, but it was only necessary to question Mr. 
 Adair on his views concerning the new Coercion Act, to 
 secure for Mrs. Barton an almost complete immunity from 
 feminine sarcasm. 
 
 " I do not deny," said Mr. Adair, " that the Crimes Bill 
 will restore tranquillity, but I confess that I can regard no 
 Government as satisfactoiy that can only govern by the 
 sword." 
 
 These sentiments being but only very partially appreciated 
 by the rest of the comjiany, the conversation came to an 
 awk^vai'd pause, and Lady Jane said as she left the room : 
 
 " I do not know a more able man on a county board than 
 Mr. Adair. He took honours at Trinity, and if he has not 
 done as much since as we expected, it is because he is too 
 honourable, too conscientious, to ally himself to any particular 
 party." 
 
 "That was always the way with Lord Dungory," suggested 
 Mrs. Gould. 
 
 La.dy Jane bit her lip and continued, without taking notice 
 of the interruption : 
 
 " Now I hope Mr. Ad.iir will not write a pamphlet, or 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSI.IN. 249 
 
 express himself too openly concerning the Crimes Act. The 
 question of the day is the organisation of the Land Act, and 
 I hear that Mr. Gladstone says it will be impossible to get on 
 without Mr. Adair's assistance." 
 
 " Every sis months it is given out that Gladstone cannot go 
 on without him, but somehow Gladstone does manage to get 
 on without him ; and then we never hear any more about 
 it." 
 
 Lady Jane looked angry ; and all wondered at Mrs. Gould's 
 want of tact, but at that moment the footman announced 
 Messrs. Ryan and Lynch, and Alice asked if she might go up 
 to see Cecilia. More visitors arrived; the Brennans, the 
 Duffys, the five Honourable Miss Gores, and the company ad- 
 journed to the tennis ground. Mr. Lynch was anxious to have 
 May for a partner, but she refused him somewhat pettishly, 
 declaring at the same time that she had given up tennis, and 
 would never touch a racquet again. Her contiuuous silence 
 and dejected appearance created some surprise, and her cheeks 
 flushed with passion when her mother said she didn't know 
 what had come over May lately. Then obeying an impulse, 
 May rose to her feet, and leaving the tennis players she walked 
 across the pleasure gi'ounds. Dungory Castle was surrounded 
 by heavy woods and overtopping clumps of trees. As the 
 house was neared, these were filled in with high laurel hedges 
 and masses of rhododendron, and an opening in the branches 
 of some large beech trees revealed a blue and beautiful aspect 
 of the Clare mountains. 
 
 " I wonder what May is angry about ! " Cecilia said to Alice 
 as they watched the tennis playing from their window; "I 
 suppose those horrid men are annoying her." 
 
 " I never saw her refuse to play tennis before," Alice replied 
 demurely. And ten minutes after, some subtle desire of which 
 she was not very conscious led her through the shrubberies to- 
 wards the place where she already expected to find May. And 
 dreaming of reconciliation, of a renewal of friendship, Alice 
 walked through the green summer of the leaves, listening to the 
 infinite twittering of the birds, and startled by the wood pigeons 
 that from time to time rose boisterously out of the high 
 branches. On a garden bench, leaning forward, her hands 
 rested on her knees, May sat swinging her parasol from side 
 to side, playing with the fallen leaves. When she looked up, 
 the sunlight fell full upon heiface, and Alice saw that she was 
 
250 A DBAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 crying. But affecting not to see She tears, she said speaking 
 rapidly : 
 
 " Oh, May dear, I have been looking for you. The last time 
 we . . ." 
 
 But interrupted here by a choking sob, she found herself 
 forced to say : 
 
 " My dear May, what is the matter ? Can I do anything for 
 you!" 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; only leave me ; don't question me. I don't 
 want anyone's help." 
 
 The ungraciousness of the words was lost in the accent of 
 grief with which they were spoken. 
 
 " I assure you I do not wish to be inquisitive,'' Alice replied 
 sorrowfully, " nor do I come to annoy you with good advice, 
 but the last time we met we did not part good friends. . . I 
 was merely anxious to assure you that I bore no ill-feeling, but 
 of course, if you . . ," 
 
 " Oh, no, no," cried May ; reaching and catching at Alice's 
 arm, she pulled her down into the seat beside her; "I am 
 awfully sorry for my rudeness to you — to you who are so good 
 — so good. Oh, Alice dear, you will forgive me, will you 
 not 1 " and sobbing very helplessly, she threw herself into her 
 friend's arms. 
 
 " Oh, of course I forgive you," cried Alice, deeply affected. 
 " I had no right to lecture you in the way I did, but I meant 
 it for the best, indeed I did." 
 
 " I know you did, but I lost my temper. Ah, if you knew 
 how sorely I was tried you would forgive me." 
 
 " I do forgive you. May dear ; but tell me, cannot I help you 
 now ? You know that you can confide in me, and I will do 
 anything in my power to help you." 
 
 " No one can help me now," said the girl, sullenly. 
 
 Alice did not speak at once, but at the end of a long silence 
 she said : 
 
 " Does Ficd Scully love you no more ? " 
 
 " I do not know whether he does or not ; nor does it 
 matter much . . . he's not in Ireland . . . he's far away by 
 this time." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " He's gone to Australia. He wrote to me about two 
 months ago to say that all had been decided in a few hours, 
 and that he was to sail next morning. He's gone out with 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN, 251 
 
 some racehorses ... he expects to win a lot of money . . . 
 he'll be back again in a year." 
 
 " A year is not long to wait ; you'll see him when he comes 
 back." 
 
 "I don't think I should care to see him again. . . . Oh, 
 you were right, Alice, to warn me against him. ... I was 
 foolish not to listen to you . . . but it was too late even 
 then." 
 
 Alice trembled : she had already guessed the truth, but 
 hoping when she knew all hope was vain, she said : 
 
 " You had better tell me, May ; you know I am to be 
 trusted." 
 
 " The truth is too horrible to tell. Can't you guess it ? " 
 
 The conversation fell, and the girls sat staring into the 
 depths of the wood. Involuntarily their eyes followed a small 
 biid that ran up branch after branch of a beech tree, pecking 
 as it went. It seemed like a toy mouse, so quick and unvary- 
 ing were its movements. At last May said, and very 
 dolorously : 
 
 " Alice, I thought you were kinder ; have you no word of 
 pity ? Why tell you, why ask me to tell you ? Oh 1 what a fool 
 I was ! " 
 
 " Oh ! no, no. May, you did right to tell me. I am more 
 sorry for you than wordd can express, but I did not speak be- 
 cause I was trying to think of some way of helping you." 
 
 " Oh 1 there's no- — no way of helping me, dear. There's 
 nothing for me to do but to die." And now giving way utterly, 
 the girl buried her face in her hands and sobbed until it 
 seemed that she would choke in thick grief. 
 
 " Oh 1 May, May dear, you must not cry like that : if any- 
 one were to come by, what would they think ? " 
 
 " What does it matter ? Everyone will know sooner or later 
 — I wish I were dead- — dead and out of sight for ever of this 
 miserable world." 
 
 " No, May," said Alice, thinking instinctively of the chUd 
 " you must not die. Your trial is a terrible one, but people 
 before now have got over worse. I am trying to think what 
 can be done." 
 
 Then May raised her weeping face, and there was a light of 
 hope in her eyes. She clasped Alice's hand. Neither spoke. 
 The little brown bird pursued his way up and down the 
 branches of the beech ; beyond it lay the sky, and the girls, 
 
253 A EltAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 tense with little sufferings, yearned into this vision of beauti- 
 ful peace. 
 
 At last Alice said, " Did you tell Mr. Scully of the trouble ? 
 . . . does he know ? . . ." 
 
 " He was away, and I did not like to write it to him ; his 
 departure for Australia took me quite by sui'prise." 
 
 " Have you told your mother 1 '' 
 
 " Oh no, I'd rather die than tell her ; I couldn't tell her. 
 You know what she is." 
 
 " I think she ought to be told ; she would take you abroad." 
 
 " Oh no, Alice dear ; it would never do to tell mamma. 
 You know what she is, you know how she talks, she would 
 never leave off abusing the Scullys ; and then, I don't know 
 how, but somehow everybody would get to know about it. 
 But find it out they will, sooner or later ; it is only a question 
 of time. And I shall be disgraced ; no one will ever marry me 
 then." 
 
 Something — but something she would not have been able to 
 explain to herself — jarred Alice's feelings in these last words. 
 She looked at May inquiringly, then the expression of her face 
 changed, and she said : 
 
 " No, no. May, they shall know nothing of this — at least, 
 not if I can help it." 
 
 " But you cannot help it." 
 
 " There is one thing quite certain ; you must go away. You 
 cannot stop in Gahvay." 
 
 " It is all very well talking like that, but where can I go to ? 
 A girl cannot move a yard away from home without people 
 wanting to know where she has gone, i wish I could die ; I 
 am more miserable and unhappy than you can imagine." 
 
 Alice's eyes filled with tears. Never was the human soul 
 more strikingly reflected in small grey eyes ; the grave and 
 exquisite kindness of a beautiful soul, and to this you must 
 add the natural pity that every woman feels for another in 
 the distressful period of child-bearing. 
 
 " You might go up to Dublin," she said, " and live in 
 lodging?;." 
 
 " And what excuse should I give to mother ? " said May, who 
 in her despair had not courage to deny the possibility of the 
 plan. 
 
 " You need not tell her where you are," replied Alice ; and 
 then she hesitated, feeling keenly conscious of the deception 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 203 
 
 she was practising. But her unswerving common sense coming, 
 after a moment's reflection, to her aid, she said : " You might 
 say that you were going to live in tho convent. Go to the 
 Mother Superior, tell her of your imminent need, beg of her, 
 persuade her to receive and forward your letters ; and in that 
 way, it seems to me that no one need be the wiser of what is 
 going to happen." 
 
 The last words were spoken slowly, as if with a sense of 
 shame at being forced to speak thus. May raised her face, 
 now aflame with hope and joy. 
 
 " Oh, Alice, how kind of you ; how can I ever thank you ? " 
 said the girl. Then a moment after the light died out of her 
 face and she said : 
 
 " But how shall I live ? Who will support me ? I cannot 
 ask mother for money without awakening suspicion.'' 
 
 " T think, IMay, I shall be able to give you almost all the 
 money you want," replied Alice, in a hesitating and slightly 
 embarrassed manner. 
 
 " You, Alice ? " 
 
 " But I haven't told you ; I have been writing a good deal 
 lately for newspapers, and have made nearly twenty pounds. 
 That will be aU you will want for the present, and I shall be 
 able, I hope, to make suflS.cient to keep you supplied." 
 
 May clasped her hands ; her eyes flooded with tears, and she 
 was breathless with worship. It was a heavenly right to 
 see Alice ; she loved the stifi" staid shoulders, and the whole 
 personality seemed to her now to be a symbol of earthly good j 
 and she thought vaguely of the Virgin. In Alice's face, however, 
 there was no divine vapidity, but grand belief in this world, and 
 faith in its ultimate perfectibility. She did not utter words 
 of blame or reproach, they did not seem to her necessary. 
 And it is doubtful, even if they had done so, if she could have 
 spoken : an instinct, rather than a conscious sense of modesty, 
 would have silenced her : she would have felt that anything 
 she might say in reproof would be indirect praise of her own 
 good conduct. As it was, nothing was present to her mind 
 but one aching, throbbing thought — the thought of her friend's 
 imminent need, and of how she (Alice Barton) might help her 
 successfully through her trouble. 
 
 " I don't think that anyone was ever as good as you, Alice. 
 You make me feel more ashamed of myself." 
 
 " You mustn't talk in that way, dear. I am doing only 
 
264 A DRAMA IN MUSLTN. 
 
 what anyone else would do if tliey were called upon. But wo 
 have been sitting here a long time now, and before we go back 
 to the tennis-ground we had better arrange what is to be done. 
 When do you propose leaving 1 " 
 
 " I had better leave at once .... it is seven mouths ago 
 now .... no one suspects sis yet. . . ." 
 
 "Well, then, when would you like me to send you the 
 money ? You can have it at once if you like." 
 
 " Oh, thanks, dear ; mother will give me enough to last me 
 a little while, and I will write to you from Dublin. You are 
 sure no one sees your letters at Brookfield ? " 
 
 " Quite sure ; there's not the slightest danger." 
 
 As they drove home that evening, Mrs. Barton babbled 
 about Sir Charles and his prospects of marriage, of the odious 
 Ladies Cullen, and how the dear Milord had kept them in 
 order ; and, tickled by the remembrances of his looks, 
 frowns, and winks, mother and daughter waved their white 
 hands, and laughed consumedly. Alice sitting opposite them, 
 her back to the horses, turned to pull down the blind, 
 that she might save her eyes from the rays of the 
 setting sun, now lying poised like a golden shield in a rift 
 in the amphitheatrical mountains ; every perspective and 
 aspect came out in trenchant outline, and, in the intense rever- 
 beration of the light, rooks and bushes appeared like bronze, 
 and the tarns of the sterile landscape like flashes of silver. 
 But now, the blinds being do^vn, the carriage was iilled with 
 blue shadow, and Alice set herseK to think of the duties she had 
 undertaken. She did not question the advice she had given, and 
 she felt sure that the rev. mother, if a proper appeal were made 
 to her common sense, would consent to conceal the girl's fault. 
 Two months would not be long passing, but the expenses of 
 this time would be heavy, and she, Alice, would have to meet 
 them all. She trembled for fear she might fail to do so, and she 
 tried to reckon them up. It would be impossible to get rooms 
 under a pound a week, and to live, no matter how cheaply, would 
 cost at least two pounds ; three pounds a week, four threes are 
 twelve 1 The twenty pounds would scarcely carry her over a 
 month, she would not be well for at least two ; and then there 
 was the doctor, the nurse, the flannels for the baby. Alice tried 
 to calculate, thinking plainly and honestly. If a repulsive detail 
 rose suddenly up in her mind, she did not shrink, nor was she sur- 
 prised to find herself thinkingof such things, she did so as a matter 
 
A. DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 256 
 
 of course, keeping her thoughts fixed on the one object of doing 
 her duty towards her friend. And how to do this was the prob- 
 lem that presented itself unceasingly for solution. She felt that 
 somehow she would have to earn twenty pounds within the next 
 month. Out of the Lady's Paper, in which " Notes and Sensa- 
 tions of a Plain Girl at Dublin Castle," was still running, she 
 could not hope to make more than thirty shillings a week ; a 
 magazine had lately accepted a ten-page story worth, she fancied, 
 about five pounds, but when they would print it and pay her was 
 impossible to say. She could write the Editor an imploring 
 letter, asking him to advance herthe money. But even then there 
 was another nine pounds to make up. And to do this seemed 
 to her an impossibility. She could not ask her father or mother, 
 she would only do so if the worst came to the worst. And if 
 she wrote to Harding, he might, instead of helping her, give 
 her the money out of his own pocket. But no, he couldn't do 
 that ; the fact that the articles were printed was a proof that 
 they were paid for. Yes, she might write to him, and in the 
 meantime she must work. She would write paragraphs, 
 articles, short stories, and would send them to every editor in 
 London. One out of three might turn up trumps. So Alice 
 reasoned ; and ten hours a day were spent at her writing-table. 
 You see the white room ; the two white beds, the white cur- 
 tains hanging from the two brass crowns, the chimneypiece 
 covered with tiny ornaments, and the fireplace shut in with 
 white embroidered curtains ; you see the white wall-paper 
 freckled with small flowers, the two engravings (the Youth and 
 Maiden swinging, the Girl carvingher Lover's Name ontheBeech- 
 tree). You see the two little bookcases filled with neatly bound 
 volumes — a few choice novels and some prayer-books : the rosa- 
 ries still hanging from the holy-water fonts. You remember 
 when you first saw this room ? Is it the same now as it was 
 then ? Not exactly. A writing-table has been set in the win- 
 dow; it is covered with papers and MSS., Darwin's "Origin 
 of Species," Matthew Arnold and James Thomson have been 
 added to the bookshelves ; Carlyle's Essays — a sixpenny edition 
 — lies on the sofa, at the foot of the beds. And the girl herself ? 
 You remember when you saw her in this room — the ante-room 
 of society — ^for the first time. She was troubled and full of 
 fear then, she is troubled and full of fear now ; but it is not 
 the same trouble, nor is it the same fear. Hope has beat its 
 trembling wings, has buzzed out its trembling life, and she is 
 
266 A DRAurA i:^ muslin, 
 
 content to crawl up tho false, the implacable but glittering 
 pane, only pausing here and there to see, to consider tlie fuller 
 life of others, knowing well she cannot change the eternal issues 
 of things of which she is but a fragment. She is almost with- 
 out envy ; and the clouds which now dim the bright brow are 
 not for her own, but her friend's affliction. She has just 
 received her first letter from May, who is living in a Dubliu 
 lodging. It runs as follows : 
 
 "Gardner Street, Mountjoy Square. 
 " Darling Alice,^ 
 
 " I have been in Dublin now more than a week. I did not 
 write to you before because I wished to write to tell you that f 
 had done all you told me to do. The first thing I did was to 
 go to the convent. Would you believe it, the new rev. mother 
 is Sister Mary who we knew so well at St. Leonards ? She has 
 been transferred to the branch convent in Dublin. She was so 
 kind, so delighted to see me, but the sight of her dear face 
 awoke so many memories, so many old associations, that I burst 
 out crying, and it seemed to me impossible that I should ever 
 be able to find courage to tell her the dreadful truth. None 
 will ever know what it cost me to speak the words. They came 
 to me all of a sudden ; I threw myself at her feet and told her 
 everything. I thought she would reproach me and speak 
 bitterly, but she only said, ' My poor child, I am sorry you 
 had not strength to resist temptation ; your trial is a 
 dreadful one.' She was very, very kind. Her face lighted up 
 when I spoke of you, and she said: ' Sweet girl; she was 
 always an angel ; one of these days she will come back to us. 
 She is too good for the world.' Then I insisted that it was 
 your idea that I should seek help from the convent, but she 
 said that it was my duty to go to my mother and tell her the 
 whole truth. Oh, my darling Alice, I cannot tell you what s, 
 terrible time I went through. We were talking for at least 
 two hours, and it was only with immense difficulty that I at 
 last succeeded in making her understand what kind of person 
 poor mamma is, and how hopeless it would be to expect her to 
 keep any secret, even if her daughter's honour was in question. 
 I told her how she would run about, talking in her mild 
 unmeaning way of ' poor May and that shameful Mr. Scully;' 
 [ind, at last, tho rev. mother, as you prophesied she would, saw 
 tlie matter in its proper light, and she has consented to receive 
 
A DRAJIA IN MUSLIN. 267 
 
 nil my letters, Mid if mother writes, to give her to understand 
 that I am safe within the convent walls. It is awfully good of 
 her, for I know the awful risk she is wilfully incurring so as 
 to help me out of my trouble. 
 
 " The house I am staying in is nice enough, and the landlady 
 seems a kind woman. The name I go by is Mrs. Brandon (you 
 will not forget to direct your lettois so), and I said that my 
 husband was an officer, and had gone out to join his regiment 
 in India. I have a comfortable bedroom on the third floor. 
 There are two windows, and they look out on the street. 
 The time seems as if it would never pass ; the twelve hours of 
 the day seem like twelve centuries. I have not even a book 
 to read, and I never go out for fear of being seen. In the 
 evening I put on a thick veil and go for a walk in the back 
 streets. But I cannot go out before nine, it is not dark till 
 then, and I cannot stop out later than ten on account of the 
 men who speak to you. My coloured hair makes me look 
 fast, and I am so afraid of meeting someone I know, that this 
 short hour is as full of misery as those that preceded it. Every 
 passer-by seems to know me, to recognise me, and I cannot help 
 imagining that he or she will be telling my unfortunate story 
 half an hour after in the pitiless drawing-rooms of Merrion 
 Square. Oh, Alice darling, you are the only friend I have in 
 the world. If it were not for you, I believe I should drown 
 myself in the Liffey. No girl was ever so miserable as I. I 
 cannot teU you how I feel, and you cannot imagine how for 
 lorn it all is ; and I am so ill. I am always hungry, and 
 always sick, and always longing. Oh, these longings ; you may 
 think they are nothing, but they are dreadful. You remem- 
 ber how active I used to be, how I used to run about the 
 tennis court ; now I can scarcely crawl. And the strange 
 sickening fancies ; I see things in the shops that tempt me, 
 sometimes it is a dry biscuit, sometimes a basket of straw- 
 berries, but wha.tever it is I stand and look at it, long for it, 
 until weary of longing and standing with a sort of weight 
 weighing me down, and my stays all rucking up to my neck, I 
 crawl home. There I am all alone ; and I sit in the dark 
 on a wretched hard chair by the window ; and I cry ; and 
 I watch the summer night and all the golden stars, 
 and I cannot say what I think of dui'ing all these long 
 and lonely hours ; I only know that I cannot find energy 
 to go to bed. And I never sleep a whole night through j 
 
 B 
 
268 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 the cramp comes on so terribly that I jump up screaming. Oh, 
 Alice, how I hate him. When I think of it all I see how 
 selfish men are ; they never think of us — they only think of 
 themselves. You would scarcely know me if you saw me now ; 
 all my complexion, you know what a pretty complexion it was, 
 is all red and mottled. When you saw me a fortnight ago I 
 was all right : it is extraordinary what a change has come 
 about. I think it was the journey, and the excitement ; there 
 would be no concealing the truth now. It was lucky I left 
 Galway when I did. 
 
 " Mother gave me five pounds on leaving home. My ticket 
 cost nearly thirty shillings, a pound went in cabs and hotel 
 expenses, and my breakfasts brought my bill up yesterday to 
 two pounds — I cannot think how, for I only pay sixteen 
 shillings for my room — and when it was paid I had only a few 
 shillings left. Will you, therefore, send me the money you 
 promised, if possible, by return of post ? 
 
 " Yours aflTectionately, 
 
 " Mat Gould." 
 
 The tears started to Alice's eyes as she read the letter. She 
 did not consider if May might have spared her the physical 
 details with which her letter abounded ; she did not stay to 
 think of the cause, of the result ; for the moment she was 
 numb to ideas and sensations that were not those of humble 
 human pity for humble human suUbring ; like the waters of a 
 new baptism pity made her pure and whole, and the false 
 shame of an ancient world fell from hor. Jjeaning her head 
 on her strong woU-shapcd hand, she set to arranging her little 
 plans for her friend's help — plans that wore charming for their ■ 
 simplicity, their sweet homeliness. The lettei' she had just 
 read had come by the aftei'noon post. If she were to send 
 May tliu money she ^^•roto for that evening, it would be 
 noccs.sary to go into Gort to register the letter. Gort was two 
 miles away ; aud if sho aslvcd for the carriage her mother 
 might propose that the letters should be sent in by a special 
 messougcr. This of course w.as impossible, and Alice, for the 
 first time in lier life, found herself obliged to tell a deliberate 
 lie. For a moment her conscience stood at bay, but she 
 accepted the inevitable and told Mrs. Barton that she had 
 some MSS. to I'egister, and did not care to entrust them to other 
 hands. It was a consolation to know that eighteen pounds 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 259 
 
 were safely despatched, but she was bitterly unhappy, she cried 
 bitterly ; — and she wrote to Harding to ask him if he could 
 assist her in getting rid of two articles. The fear that money 
 might be wanting in the last and most terrible hours bound 
 her to her desk as with a chain ; and when her tired and 
 exhausted brain ceased to formulate phrases, the picture of the 
 lonely room, the night walks, and the sviffering of the jaded 
 girl stared her in the face with a terrible distinctness. Her 
 only moments of gladness were when the post brought a cheque 
 from London. Sometimes they were for a pound, sometimes 
 for fifteen shillings. Once she received five pounds ten — it was 
 for her story. On the 10th of September she received the 
 following letter : — 
 
 " Darling Alice, — 
 
 " Thanks a thousand times for your last letter, and the 
 money enclosed. It came in the nick of time, for I was run 
 almost to my last penny. I did not write before, because I 
 didn't feel in the humour to do anything. Thank goodness 
 I'm not sick any more, though I don't know that it isn't 
 counterbalanced by the dreadful faintness and the constant 
 movement. Isn't it awful to sit hero day after day watching 
 myself, and knowing the only relief I shall get will be after 
 such terrible pain? I woke up last night crying with the 
 terror of it. Cervassi says there are cases on record of pain- 
 less confinements, and in my best moods I think mine is to be 
 one of them. I know it is awfully wrong to write all these 
 things to a good girl like you, but I think talking about it is 
 part of the complaint ; and poor sinner me has no one to talk 
 to. Do you remember my old black cashmere? I've been 
 altering it tUl there's hardly a bit of the original body left ; 
 but now the skirt is adding to my troubles by getting shorter 
 and shorter in front. It is now quite six inches off the ground, 
 and instead of fastening it I have to pin the placket-hole and 
 then it falls nearly right. . . Don't tell me you will send me 
 the money to buy myself anything new, because, much as I 
 have done, miserable degraded wretch though I be, I can yet 
 appreciate what I am costing you in all ways, and I don't 
 want to add to it. Only three weeks longer, and then . . . 
 But there, I won't look forward, because I know I am going 
 to die . . . and all the accounting for it, and everything else, 
 will be on your shoulders. Good-bye, dear, I shan't >vrite 
 
200 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 again, at least not till afterwards ; and if there is an after- 
 ward, I shall never be able to thank you properly ; but still I 
 think it will be a weight off you. Is it so, dear ? do you 
 wish I were dead ? I know you don't. It was unkind to write 
 tliat last line : I will scratch it out. You will not be angi-y, 
 dear. I am too wretched to know what I am writing, and I 
 want to lie down. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 " May Gould." 
 
 Outside the air was limpid with sunlight, and the newly- 
 mown meadow was golden in the light of evening. The 
 autumn-coloured foliage of the chestnuts lay mysteriously rich 
 and still, harmonising in measured tones with the ruddy tints 
 of the dim September sunset. The country dozed as if satiated 
 with summer love. Heavy scents were abroad — the pungent 
 odours of the aftermath. A high baritone voice broke the 
 languid silence, and, in embroidered smoking-jacket and cap, 
 Mr. Barton twanged his guitar. Milord had been thrown 
 down amid the hay ; and Mrs. Barton and Olive, with much 
 M'lxery laughter, and much waving of white hands, were 
 showering it upon him. The old gentleman's legs were in 
 the air. 
 
 Crushing the letter, Alice's hands fell on the table ; she 
 burst into tears. But work was more vital than tears, and, 
 taking up her pen, she continued her story — penny journal 
 fiction of true love and unending happiness in the end. A 
 month later she received this note : 
 
 " Dearest, — 
 
 " Just a line in pencil — I mustn't sit up — ^to tell you it is 
 all over, and all I said was, " Thank God ! thank God ! " over 
 and over again, as each pain went. It is such a relief ; but I 
 mustn't write much. It is such a funny screwed-up looking 
 1 lalj}', and I don't feel any of those maternal sentiments that 
 you read about — at least not yet. And it always cries just 
 when I am longing to go to sleep. Thank you again and 
 ag;dn for all you have done for me and been to me. I feel 
 awfully W(.-;ik. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 " May Gould." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Then Alice heard that the baby was dead, and that a little 
 money would be required to bury it. Another effort was 
 made ; the money was sent ; and the calm of the succeeding 
 weeks was only disturbed by an uneasy desire to see May back 
 in Galway, and hear her say that her terrible secret was over 
 and done with for ever. One day she was startled by a quick 
 trampling of feet in the corridor, and May rushed into the 
 room. She threw herself into Alice's arms and kissed her 
 with effusion, with tears. The girls looked at each other long 
 antl nervously. One was pale and over-worn, her spare figure 
 was buttoned into a faded dress, and her hair was rolled into 
 a plain knot. The other was superb with health, and her face 
 was full of rose-bloom. She was handsomely dressed in green 
 velvet, and her copper hair flamed and flashed beneath a small 
 bonnet with mauve strings. 
 
 " Oh, Alice, how tired and pale you look 1 You have been 
 working too hard, and all for me. How can I thank you ? I 
 shall never be able to thank you . . . but believe me, it makes 
 me so unhappy ... I cannot find words to tell you how 
 grateful I am — but I am grateful, Alice . . . indeed I am." 
 
 " I am sure you are, dear. I did my best for you, it ia 
 true ; and thank heaven I succeeded, and no one knows . . . 
 I do not think that anyone even suspects." 
 
 "No, not a soul. We managed it very well, didn't we, 
 dear? And the reverend mother behaved splendidly — she 
 just took the view that you said she would, She saw that 
 no good would come of telling mamma about me when I 
 made her understand that if a word were said my misfortune 
 would be belled all over the country in double-quick time. 
 But, Alice dear, I had a terrible time of it; two months 
 waiting in that horrible little lodging, afraid to go out for fear 
 someone would recognise me ; it was awful. And often I 
 
 361 
 
262 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 hadn't enougli to eat, for when you are in that state you can't 
 eat everything, and I was afraid to spend any money. You 
 did your best to keep me supplied, dear, good guardian angel 
 that you are." Then the impulsive girl flung herself on Alice's 
 shoulders, and kissed her. " But there were times when I 
 was hard up, oh, much more hard up than you thought I was ; 
 for I didn't tell you everything : if I had you would have 
 worried yourself into your grave. Oh, I had a frightful 
 time of it 1 If one is married one is petted and consoled 
 and encouraged, but alone in a lonely lodging — oh, it was 
 frightful." 
 
 "And what about the poor baby ?" said Alice, whose dis- 
 appointment rose like an acid odour to her head. 
 
 " Oh, isn't it dreadful of me ? I was forgetting all about it. 
 The poor little thing died, as I -wrote you, about ten days after 
 it was bom. I nursed it ; and I was so sorry for it. I really 
 was ; but of course . . . well it seems a hard thing to say — but 
 I don't know what I should have done with it if it had lived. 
 Life isn't so happy, is it, even under the best of cu'cum- 
 stances ? " 
 
 Alice bit her lips. She was beset with dark and painful 
 emotions, and words failing her, the conversation came to a 
 suddau close. At last the nervous silence that intervened was 
 broken by May : 
 
 " We were speaking about money. I will repay you all I 
 owe you some day, Alice dear. I will save up all the money I 
 can get out of mother. She is such a dear old thing, but I 
 cannot understand her ; not a penny did she send me for the 
 first six weeks, and then she sent me £25; and it was lucky 
 she did, for the doctor's bill was something tremendous. And 
 I bought this dress and bonnet with what was left ... I 
 ought to have repaid you first thing; but I forgot it until I 
 had ordered the dress." 
 
 " I assure you it does not matter. May ; I shall never take 
 the money from you. If I did, it would take away all the 
 pleasure I have had in serving you." 
 
 " Oh, but I will insist, Alice dear, I could not think of such 
 a thing. But there's no use in discussing that point until I 
 get the money .... Tell me, what do you think of my 
 bonnet ? " 
 
 " I think it very nice indeed ; and I never saw you looking 
 better." 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 263 
 
 When May left the room Alice felt her despair growing 
 thicker ; it descended upon her gloomily, silently. Was this 
 all she had worked for, was this all she had striven for ? She 
 had attained her end, but, oh, how trivial it appeared when 
 compared with the terrible anxiety that had gone to achieve it. 
 And, without pausing to consider if she were right, her soul 
 revolted from accepting as an adequate result of her sufferings 
 this somewhat gross picture of satisfaction. And is it not 
 ever so? Does not the inevitable grossness of those who 
 fight in the outward battle always jar the pensive sadness of 
 others who see life from a distance as a faintly drawn landscape 
 veiled in delicate twilight, and whose victories are won over 
 themselves rather than over circumstances and opponents ? 
 
 And in her present mood the fresh colour, the new dress and 
 bonnet, the triumphant air, were infinitely painful and repellent 
 to Alice. She coidd not rid herself of a sense of injustice done, 
 nor could she avoid seeing that it was she, and not May, who 
 wore the penitential garb and mien. Then life appeared to 
 her a little as it did to Cecilia — as a libidinous monster couch 
 ing in a cave, with red jaws dripping with foul spume. Could 
 Cecilia be right after all ? If the elegant sanctity of cloistered 
 nuns be the only possible life, and all joys vile except passion- 
 less and intellectual interests ... if ... . Oh, if ... " But 
 no, no," the girl wailed out in despair. " There is no absolute 
 right ; what is right for one is not right for all. She does not 
 feel what I feel — she does not suflfer as I suflTer." The old, the 
 terrible dream, the grey fear of having been born to die without 
 having lived, again possessed her, again laid hands upon her, held 
 her with its cold, cruel, and strangling fingers. She shuddered. 
 The world disappeared — ^was engulfed in the quick fever of the 
 flesh j and, her teeth chattering slightly, she said, "I have my 
 work at least," and, with her brain throbbing — a throbbing 
 that died slowly away as the mind cleared — she wrote steadily 
 for two hours. 
 
 And thus ended, ended as completely as if everyone con- 
 cerned ill it liad been sunk in the deepest depths of the sea, May 
 Gould's Dublin adventure. It was scarcely spoken of again, 
 and when they met at n, ball given by the officers stationed 
 in Gralway, Alice was astonished to find that she experienced no 
 antipathy whatever towards this rich-blooded young person. 
 " My dear guardian angel, come and sit with me in this 
 corner ; I'd sooner talk to you than anyone — we won't go 
 
264 A DBASIA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 down yet awhile- — we'll make the men wait." May was full 
 of affectionate impulses, and her outspokenness was often 
 inexpressibly seductive. " Now I won't let you go, dear," she 
 would say to her girl friends when they came to see her; "we 
 have only a leg of mutton — mother is economising — hut you 
 must stay and eat it with us." Her charm was the ever- 
 varying but ever-recognisable charm that all frankly sensual 
 natures exercise; and when she put her arms round Alice's 
 waist and told her the last news of Violet and her marquis, 
 Alice abandoned herself to the caress and listened. 
 
 Violet's marriage and the collection of rents were now the 
 two subjects that possessed the heart of Gal way. Rents were 
 being paid ; and, as an old suit of clothes drawn out of its 
 slumber in the back of the wardrobe wdU come out looking 
 spick and span, Galway in the autumn of 1882 bloomed into 
 all its old freshness and vigour. The landlords cried the Land 
 Act was ruin, but only to conceal their joy. For they knew 
 that if the Government fixed their rents, the Government 
 would have to enforce the payment of those rents. The 
 Arrears Act had passed, and it would put large sums of money 
 into their pockets. The Land League, which Mr. Forster's 
 Coercion Act had failed to put down, but, as we have already 
 seen, had not failed to disorganise, had during the imprison- 
 ment of its leaders become broken up into small parties. 
 And these, swollen with rancorous jealousies and separate 
 ambitions, had, in their efibrts to crush each other, almost 
 forgotten the existence of their common foe — landlordism, and 
 great wrongs had been committed. The burden of terror had 
 slipped from the landlords' shoulders on to the peasantry. All 
 who had private grievances had taken advantage of these 
 seasons of lawlessness to avenge them. No one could trust his 
 next-door neighbour. Armed gangs demanding money broke 
 into the cottages by night. It had become plain to all that 
 rent-paying was preferable to an occult, an ever-imminent 
 danger from which none could make sure of defending them- 
 selves. Therefore the Crimes Bill, vrisely and judiciously 
 administered by Lord Spencer, came an equal blessing to all, 
 and the lurid phantom of the League vanished ; yes, vanished 
 suddenly as a card up the sleeve of a skilful conjurer. 
 
 The harvest had been plentiful, stock of all kinds was in 
 great demand, a craze for money-making had set in ; none 
 could afford to run the risk of having his cattle houghed, an 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIIT. 2G5 
 
 in a moment — ^literally in six weeks — all the colossal machinery, 
 so far-reaching in its consequences, tumbled into a dust so fine 
 that the winds of autumn seemed to have axrried it away. 
 Peasants and landlords rubbed their eyes, stated aghast, and 
 then, laughing like people awakening from a nightmare, they 
 resumed their ordinary occupations. The change was as 
 marvellous as any transformation-scene. People thought 
 differently, spoke differently, acted differently; stock was 
 bought and sold without restrictions of any kind ; carriages 
 filled with pink-dressed young ladies traversed the country, 
 and the training of horses occupied every manly and many a 
 female mind. The stoning of the hounds, the poisoning of 
 the covers, were only remembered as an ugly dream ; in a ti-ice 
 the gentry disbanded their black-coated bodyguards, and 
 resumed their own red coats. Mr. Scully summed up the 
 situation when he said, " Rents paid, cattle high, Land League 
 dead." He might have added, " And my daughter's going to 
 marry a marquis." Mrs. Barton wondered he did not, but 
 Mr. Scully was a man of business, and he never interfered 
 with his womenfolk. 
 
 Mrs. Barton had, indeed, thought of dismissing him from the 
 agency, but after much consideration she had decided that this 
 bit of revenge would keep, and would be employed with greater 
 effect later on. For the present it was clear to her that she 
 would have to pretend that she had never gone in for Lord 
 KUcarney, and make Violet Scully a handsome present. To 
 do this was disagreeable, and it was, if possible, still more 
 galling to listen with a smiling face to all the different accounts 
 of the wedding with which Mrs. Barton was afflicted. Mrs. 
 Goiild was the chief torturer. All letters concerning the event 
 she forwarded to Brookfield. She was full of information con- 
 cerning the bitterness with which the family viewed the 
 match, she had a store of racy anecdotes of how the Ladies 
 Burke had received Mrs. Scully, and she could furnish the 
 latest details of a recently-resuscitated legend. For it was 
 now fox-mally asserted, and with all due emphasis, that thirty 
 years ago the late marquis had entered a grocer's shop in 
 Galway to buy a pound of tea for an importuning beggar: 
 "And what do you think my dear? — it was Mrs. Scully who 
 served it out to him." And when somebody, it never was 
 known who, but it was said to have been Olive, suggested 
 that it was all fate, for Violet had played the beggar-maid to 
 
260 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 King Cophetua, the brain-excitement grew acute as that 
 attendant on solemn rites, — and, overcome with mysticity, the 
 women lay prone before the coincidence. 
 
 At such stories Mrs. Barton laughed bewitchingly ; but Mrs. 
 Gould's mission in life was neither to soothe troubled waters 
 nor to fan raging fires, she merely propagated gossip industri- 
 ously. Her information might be dubious, but it was always 
 abundant ; and if her words were sometimes as balm, they 
 were sometimes as poison. She is now declaring that the 
 Kilcarney estates will still yield two thousand a year to the 
 young couple to live upon ; a grey cloud steals over Mrs. 
 Barton's face, but Mrs. Gould continues ruthlessly : 
 
 " And Kilcarney Castle ! " She would read from a letter she 
 had received only that morning from a cousin of hers. " There 
 are three avenues and five staircases, and six towers ; " and 
 the three avenues, the five staircases, and the six towers 
 passioned the county of Galway for more than a month. 
 
 But, although the foremost, Mrs. Gould was not the only 
 news-dep6t in the county. Everyone had arranged with their 
 Dublin friends for a constant supply of the latest details, and 
 during the winter months the letters fell like rain ; and they 
 were circulated lite magazines. The Brennans, the Duifys, 
 the Ladies Cullen were in constant communication. An on- 
 dit about a wedding present was sufficient cause for a visit ; 
 a scrap of information concerning the bridesmaids took in 
 the female mind the importance that the filing of a judicial 
 rent did in the male. The orchestra of praise was gradually 
 working up to a crescendo. The riches that awaited the bride 
 were shrieked forth by the fiddle-like voices of the Brennans 
 and Dufiys, and, trumpeting loudly, the Ladies Cullen an- 
 nounced news from the peerage. For, besides the Marquis's 
 immediate relatives, Violet would be connected with an infinite 
 number of grand people; a duke, it was whispered, was among 
 the number. Lord So-and-so had presented her with one of 
 the finest pearl necklaces that money could buy, and the 
 Marquis of So-and-so with a tiara of diamonds, and Earls of 
 This and That with sets of Sevres china. There were bracelets, 
 oriental vases, dressing-cases, card-cases, fans ; and all the corres- 
 pondents spoke rapturously of a marble group of clustering 
 doves. 
 
 Then there was the trousseau. Everybody brought fresh 
 details ; picturesque descriptions of the trimmings of the 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 267 
 
 morning gowns were given, and elaborate accounts in technical 
 language were forwarded of the evening toilettes — toilettes that 
 she would wear in Roman society, for it was understood that tho 
 bride and bridegroom would proceed direct to Italy. Nothing 
 was omitted. There were to be so many pairs of embroidered 
 slippers, so many embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs — mention 
 was even made of the lace-trimmed chemises and drawers en 
 batiste, with a blue ribbon above tho knee. 
 
 The letters continued to fall like rain, and the country lived 
 in a state of nervous irritation. The pale cheeks of Lord 
 Eosshill's seven daughters waxed a hectic red ; the Ladies 
 Cullen grew more angular, and smiled and cawed more cruelly ; 
 Mrs. Barton, the Brennans, and Duffys cackled more warmly 
 and continuously; and Bertha, the terror of the debutantes, 
 beat the big driun more furiously than ever. The postscripts 
 to her letters were particularly terrible : " And to think that 
 the grocer's daughter should come in for all this honour. It 
 is she who wiU turn up her nose at us at the Castle next year." 
 " Ah, had I known what was going to happen it is I who 
 would have pulled the fine feathei-s out of her." Day after 
 day, week after week, the agony was protracted, until every 
 heart grew weary of the strain put upon it and sighed for 
 relief. But it was impossible to leave off thinking and talking ; 
 and the various accounts of orange-blossoms and the brides- 
 maids, that in an incessant postal stream were poured during 
 the month of January into Gal way, seemed to provoke rather 
 than abate the marriage fever. The subject was inexhaustible, 
 and little else was spoken of until it was time to pack up trunks 
 and prepare for the Castle season. The bride, it was stated, 
 would be present at the second Drawing-room ia March. 
 
 Nevertheless Alice noticed that the gladness of last year was 
 gone out of their hearts ; none expected much, and all remem- 
 bered a little of the disappointments they had suffered. A 
 little of the book had been read; the lines of white girls 
 standing about the pillars in Patrick's Hall, the empty waltz 
 tunes and the long hours passed with their chaperons were 
 terrible souvenirs to pause upon. StUl they must fight on to 
 the last, there is no going back — there is nothing for them to go 
 back to. There is no hope in life for them but the vague hope of 
 a husband. So they keep on to the last, becoming gradually 
 more spiteful and puerile, their ideas of life and things 
 growing gradually narrower, until, in their thirty-fifth or 
 
268 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 fortieth year, they fall into the autumn heaps, to lie there 
 forgotten, or to be blown hither or thither by every wind 
 that blows — poor old women who have never lived at all. 
 
 Two of Lord RosshUl's daughters had determined to try 
 their luck again, and a third was undecided^; the Ladies 
 CuUen said that they had their school to attend to and 
 could not leave Galway ; poverty compelled the Brennans 
 and Daifys to remain at home. Alice would willingly have 
 done the same, but, tempted by the thin chance that she 
 might meet with Harding, she yielded to her mother's per- 
 suasions. But in this she was disappointed, and she found 
 Dublin more lamentable and soul-wearying than ever. It 
 presented no new feature. The same absence of conviction, 
 the same noisy gossiping, and inability to see over the horizon 
 of Merrion Square, the same servile adoration of officialism, 
 the same meanness committed to secure an invitation to the 
 Castle, the same sing-song waltz tunes, the same miserable, 
 mocking, melancholy, muslin hours were endured by the same 
 white martyrs. The marchioness passes down the room, and 
 their eyes glisten with envy and their lips suck greedUy at the 
 probability that she will be sold up in a year. But the present 
 is the present, and she enjoys it. She will sometimes acknow- 
 ledge acquaintanceship with her old schoolfellows ; and with 
 the Bartons she is especially affable ; she has fought and beaten 
 them ; — she can afford to be generous, and she often dines with 
 them in Mount Street. 
 
 And if the Castle remained unchanged, Mount Street lost 
 nothing of its original aspect. Experience had apparently 
 taught Mrs. Barton nothing ; she knew but one set of tricks— 
 if they failed she repeated them : she was guided by the indubi- 
 tableness of instinct rather than by the more wandering light 
 that is reason. Mr. Barton, who it was feared might talk of 
 painting, and so distract the attention from more serious 
 matters, was left in Galway, and amid eight or nine men col- 
 lected here, there, and everywhere out of the hotels and barrack- 
 rooms, the three ladies sat down to dinner. Mrs. Barton, who 
 could have talked to twenty men, and have kept them amused, 
 was severely handicapped by the presence of her daughters. 
 Olive, at the best of times, could do little more than laugh ; and 
 as Alice never had anything to say to the people she met at 
 her mother's house, the silences that hung over the Mount 
 SLrcot dinnei-table were funereal in intensity and length. 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 209 
 
 From time to time questions were asked relating to tlie Castle, 
 the weather, and the theatre. 
 
 Therefore beyond the fact that neither Lord Kilcarney nor 
 Mr. Harding was present, the girls passed their second season 
 in the same manner as their first. Les deux pieces de resistance 
 at Mount Street were a dissipated young English lord and 
 a gouty old Irish distiller; and Mrs. Barton was making 
 every effort to secure one of these. A pianist was ordered 
 to attend regularly at four o'clock. And now if Alice was 
 relieved of the duty of spelling through the doleful strains 
 of "Dream Faces," she was forced to go round and round 
 with the distiller until an extra glass of port forced the 
 old gentleman to beg mercy of Mrs. Barton. At one o'clock in 
 the morniug the young lord used to enter the Kildare Street 
 Club extenuated. But not much way was made with either, 
 and when one returned to London and the other to a sick-bed, 
 Olive abandoned herself to a series of flirtations. At the 
 Castle she danced with aU who asked her, and she sat out 
 dances in the darkest corners of the most distant rooms with 
 every ofiicer stationed in Dublin. Mrs. Barton never refused an 
 invitation to any dance, no matter how low, and in all the obscure 
 " afternoons " in Mount Street and Pembroke Street Olive's 
 blonde cameo-like face was seen laughing with every paltry 
 official of Cork Hill and the gewgaw gig-men of Kildare Street. 
 
 In May the Bartons went abroad. Then followed the 
 interminable series of flirtations with foreign titles. French 
 Counts, Spanish Dukes, Russian Princes, Swedish noblemen 
 of all kinds, and a goodly number of English refugees with irre- 
 proachable neckties and a taste for baccarat. And in the 
 balmy gardens of Ostend and Boulogne, jubilant with June 
 and the overture of Masaniello, Milord and Mrs. Barton 
 walked in front, talking and laughing gracefully. Olive chose 
 him who flattered her the most outrageously ; and Alice strove 
 hard to talk to the least objectionable of the men she was 
 brought in contact with. Amid these specious talkers there 
 were a few who reminded her of Mr. Harding, and she hoped 
 later on to be able to turn her present experiences to account. 
 There was, of course, much dining at cafte and dining at the 
 casinos, and evening walks along the dark shore. Alice often 
 feared for her sister, but the girl's vanity and lightheadedness 
 were her safeguards, and she returned to Galway only a little 
 wearied by the long chase after amusement. 
 
270 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 The soft Irish summer is pleasant after the glare of foreign 
 towns. Now all the mountain perspectives are veiled in hazo, 
 in Ireland an unfailing promise of a continuance of fair 
 weather, and the country lies green-dozing in the silvery 
 light. You know it all ! The rickety stone walls and the 
 herds of cattle, the deep curved lines of the plantations of the 
 domain lands, the long streaks of brown bog, the flashing 
 tarns of bog-water, and the ruined cottage. For Alice there 
 was much charm in these familiar signs ; and, although she 
 did not approve of — although she would not care ever to 
 meet tbem. again — the people she had met at Ostend and 
 Dieppe had interested her. They were at least neither so 
 narrow-minded nor so ignorant as the Dubliners ; and from 
 them, although not in a great and effective way, she had 
 picked up ideas of the variety of life, and now with these 
 ideas germinating in her, a time of quiet, a time for reading 
 and thinking, came after the noise of casinos and the glitter 
 of fireworks as a welcome change. The liberty she had 
 enjoyed, the sense it had brought with it that she was neither 
 a doll nor a victim, had rendered her singularly happy. The 
 plot of a new story was singing in her head, the characters 
 flitted before her eyes, and to think of them, or to tell Cecilia 
 of them, was a pleasure sufficient for all her daily desire. 
 Olive, too, was glad. The sunlight has gone into her blood, 
 and she romps with her mother and milord amid the hay, or, 
 stretched at length, she listens to the green air of the lawn, 
 and her dreams ripple like water along a vessel's side, and the 
 white wake of the past bubbles and glistens behind her ; and 
 when the life of the landscape is burnt out, and the day in 
 dying seems to have left its soul behind, she stands watching, 
 lier thoughts curdling gently, the elliptical flight of the swallows 
 through the gloom, and the flatter of the bats upon the dead 
 sky. 
 
 But the evenings were long and silent, and the thoughtless 
 brain, fed for many weeks upon noise and glitter, soon began 
 to miss its accustomed stimulants. In the morning she sat 
 vi'ith Barnes and tried to occupy hei'self with a little fancy- 
 work, but the mechanical action of the fingers it involved 
 irritated her, and the love-stories told by the smiling maid 
 fostered the nerve-atrophy from which the girl sufTered. And 
 all the quid: febrile revulsions of feeling were manifested in 
 sudden twitchings of the face, and abrupt movements of the 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 271 
 
 limbs. Mrs. Barton was keenly alive to what was passing lu 
 her daughter's mind, and she insisted on Olive's accompanying 
 her to the tennis parties with which the county teemed. Sir 
 Charles, Mr. Adair, and even poor Sir Richard were put 
 forward as the most eligible of men. 
 
 " It is impossible to say when the big fish will be caught ; 
 it is often the last try that brings him to land," murmured 
 Mrs. Barton. But Olive had lost courage, and could fix her 
 thoughts on no one. And, often when they returned home, 
 she would retire to her room to have a good cry. One 
 evening Alice found her lying on her bed sobbing bitterly. 
 
 " Oh, Olive," exclaimed Alice, " what is the matter with 
 you ? What are you crying about in that way ? " 
 
 "Leave me alone, Alice j oh, go away .... don't tease 
 me, don't tease me .... I only want to be left alone." 
 
 " But listen, dear ; can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 " You ! no, no, indeed you can't .... I only want to be 
 left alone ; that isn't much to ask .... I am so miserable, 
 so unhappy ; I wish I were dead." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 " Yes, dead ; what's the use of living when I know that I 
 shall be an old maid ? . . . . We shall all be old maids. . . . 
 What's the use of being pretty, either, when Violet, bag of 
 bones that she is, got the marquis after all ? .... I have 
 been out two seasons now, and nothing has come of all the 
 trying. And yet I was the belle of the season, wasn't I, 
 Alice ? " And now, looking more than ever like a cameo 
 Niobe, Olive stared at her sister piteously. " Oh, yes, Alice, 
 I know I shall be an old maid ; and isn't it dreadful, and I 
 the belle of the season ? It makes me so unhappy .... no 
 one ever heard of the belle (and I was the belle not of one 
 but of two seasons) remaining an old maid. ... I can 
 understand a lot of ugly things not getting married, but 
 I " 
 
 Alice smiled, and half ironically she asked herself if Olive 
 really suffered. No heart-pang was I'eflected in those blue 
 mindless eyes ; there was no heart to wound : only a little 
 foolish vanity had been bruised. 
 
 " And to think," cried this whimpering beauty, when Alice 
 had seen her successfully through a flood of hysterical tears, 
 " that I was silly enough to give up dear Edward. ... I am 
 punished for it now .... indeed I am ; and it was very 
 
272 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 wicked of me — it was a great sin. I broke hLs heart. But 
 you know, Alice dear, that it was all mamma's fault; she 
 urged me on ; and you know how I refused, how I resisted 
 licr. . . . Didn't I resist — tell me? You know, and why 
 won't you say that I did resist ? " 
 
 " You did, indeed, Olive ; but you must not distress your- 
 self, or you will make yourself ill." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps you are right, there's nothing makes one look 
 so ugly as crying .... and if I lost my looks and met 
 Edward he might not care for me .... he'd be disappointed, 
 I mean — but I haven't lost my looks ; I am just as pretty as 
 I was when I came out first. Am I not, Alice ? " 
 
 " Indeed you are, dear." 
 
 "You don't think I have gone off a bit — now do tell me ? 
 and I want to ask you what you think of my hair in a fringe ; 
 Papa says it isn't classical, but that's nonsense. I wish I 
 knew how Edward would like me to wear it." 
 
 "But you mustn't think of him, Olive dear; you know 
 mother would never hear of it." 
 
 " I can't help thinking of him. . . . And now I will tell you 
 something, Alice, if you promise me on your word of honour 
 not to scold me, and, above all, not to tell mamma," 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 " Well, the other day I was walking at the end of the lawn 
 feeling so very miserable. You don't know how miserable 1 
 feel ; you are never miserable, for you think of nothing but 
 your books. Well, mind you have given me your word not to 
 tell anyone ... I saw Captain Hibbert riding along the road, 
 and when he saw me he stopped his horse and kissed his hand 
 to me." 
 
 " And what did you do ?" 
 
 " I don't know what 1 did ... ho called me, and then I 
 saw Milord coming along the road, and I fled ; but, oh, isn't it 
 cruel of mamma to have forbidden Edward to come and see us 1 
 and he loves me as much as ever, I know he does." 
 
 This was not the moment to advise her sister against 
 clandestine meetings with Captain Hibbert ; she was sobbing 
 violently, and Alice had to assure her again and again that no 
 one who had been the belle of the season had ever remained 
 an old maid. But Alice (having well in mind the fate that 
 had befallen May Gould) grew not a little alarmed wheji, 
 in the course of next week, she suddenly noticed that Olive 
 
A' DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 273 
 
 was in the habit of going out for long walks alone : and that 
 slie invariably returned in a state of high spirits, all the 
 languor and weariness seeming to have fallen from her. 
 
 Alice once thought of following her sister. She watched 
 her open the wicket-gate and walk across the meadows towards 
 the Lawler domain.. There was a bypath there leading to the 
 highroad, but the delicacy of their position in relation to the 
 owners prevented the Bartons from ever making use of it. 
 Nor did Alice fail to notice that about the same time, Barnes, 
 on the pretence of arranging the room for the evening, would 
 strive to drive her from her writing-table, and beds were made 
 and unmade, dresses were taken out of the wardrobe, and 
 importuning conversations were begun. But, taking no heed 
 of the officious maid, Alice, her thoughts tense with anxiety, 
 sat at her window watching the slender figure of the girl 
 growing dim in the dying light. Once she did not return 
 until it was quite dark, and, reproaching herself bitterly for 
 having remained so long sUent, Alice walked across the pleasure- 
 grounds to meet her. 
 
 " What, you here ? " cried Olive, surprised at finding her 
 sister waiting for her at the wicket. She was out of breath j 
 she had evidently been running. 
 
 " Yes, OHve, I was anxious to speak to you — you must know 
 that it is very wrong to meet Captain Hibbert, — and in the 
 secrecy of a wood 1 " 
 
 " Who told you I had been to meet Captain Hibbert 1 I 
 suppose you have been following me ? " 
 
 " No, Olive, 1 have not, and you have no right to accuse me 
 of such meanness. I have not been following you, but I 
 cannot help putting two and two together. You told me 
 something of this once before, and since then you have scarcely 
 missed an evening." 
 
 " Well, I don't see any harm in meeting Edward ; he is going 
 to marry me." 
 
 " Going to marry you ? " 
 
 " Yes, going to marry me; is there anything so very extra- 
 ordinary in that 1 . . . . Mamma had no right to break ofi" the 
 match, and I am not going to remain an old maid." 
 
 "And have you told mother about this J" 
 
 " No, Where's the use, since she won't hear of it?" 
 
 " And are you going to run away with Captain Hib- 
 bert ! " 
 
 T 
 
274 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " ilun away with him ! " exclaimed Olive, laughing strangely. 
 " iSTo, of course I am not." 
 
 " And how are you to marry him if you don't tell 
 mother ? " 
 
 " I shall tell her when the time comes to tell her. And now, 
 Alice dear, you will promise not to betray me, won't you ? You 
 win not speak about this to anyone, you promise me ? if you did 
 I know I should go mad or kill myself." 
 
 " But when will you tell mother of your resolution to marry 
 Captain ffibbert?" 
 
 " Tell her ? I'll tell her to-morrow if you like ; that is to say 
 if you will give me your word of honour not to speak to her 
 about my meeting Edward in the Lawler Wood." 
 
 Afterwards Alice often wondered at her dulness in not 
 guessing the truth. But at the time it did not occur to her 
 that Olive might have made arrangements to elope with Cap- 
 tain Hibbert ; and, on the understanding that all was to be 
 explained on the following day, she promised to keep her sister's 
 secret. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Lord Dungory dined at Brookfield that evening. He noticed 
 that Olive was nervous and restless, and he reminded her of 
 what a French poet had said on the subject of beauty. But 
 she only turned her fair head impatiently, and a little later on 
 when her mother spoke to her she burst into tears. Nor was 
 she as easily consoled as usual, and she did not become calm 
 until Mrs. Barton suggested that her dear child was ill, and 
 that she would go upstairs and put her to bed. Then, looking 
 a little alarmed, Olive declared she was quite well, but she 
 passionately begged to be left alone. As they left the dining- 
 room she attempted to slip away ; Alice made a movement as 
 if to follow her, but Mrs. Barton said : 
 
 " Leave her to herself, Alice ; she would rather be left alone. 
 She has overstrained her nerves, that is all." 
 
 Olive heard these words with a singular satisfaction, and as 
 she ascended the stairs from the first landing her heart beat 
 less violently. On the threshold of her room she paused to 
 listen for the drawing-room door to shut. Through the sUent 
 house the lock sounded sharply. 
 
 " I hope none of them will come upstairs bothering after me," 
 the girl murmured to herself ; " if they do I shall go mad." 
 And standing in the middle of the floor she looked round the 
 room vacantly, unable to collect her thoughts. The wardrobe 
 was on her right, and, seeing herself in the glass, she wondered 
 if she were looking well. Her eyes wandered from her face 
 to her shoulders, and hence to her feet. Going over to the 
 toilette-table she sought amid her boots, and having selected 
 a strong pair, she commenced to button them. Her back was 
 turned to the door, and at the slightest sound she started into 
 an upright position and seized the hair-brushes. Once or twice 
 the stairs creaked, and she felt something would occur to stop 
 her. Her heart was beating so violently that she thought sha 
 
276 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 was going to be ill ; and she almost burst out crying because she 
 could not make up her mind if she should put on a hat and 
 travelling-shawl, or run down to the wood as she was, to meet 
 the Captain. " He will surely," she thought, " have something 
 in the carriage to put around me, but he may bring the dog- 
 cart, and it looks very cold, very cold . . . But if Alice or 
 mamma saw me coming downstairs with a shawl on, they 
 would at once suspect something, and I should never be able 
 to get away ... I wonder what time it is ... I promised to 
 meet Edward at nine, he will of course wait for me, but what 
 time is it? . . . We dined at half -past seven . . . we were an 
 hour at dinner, half-past eight, and I have been ten minutes 
 here ... It must be nearly nine now . . . and it will take 
 me ten minutes to get to the corner of the road . . . The house 
 is quiet now." 
 
 On the top of the stairs the girl listened. Nothing could be 
 hoard but the occasional tinkling of a guitar, and the high 
 notes of a baritone voice singing II Balen. 
 
 Olive ran down a few steps, but at that moment heavy foot- 
 steps and a jingling of glasses announced that the butler was 
 carrying glasses from the dining-room to the pantry. " When 
 wiU he cease, when will he cease ; will he hang about that 
 passage all night ? " the girl asked herself tremblingly ; and so 
 cruel, so poignant had her suspense become, that had it been 
 prolonged much further her overwrought nerves would have 
 given way, and she would have lapsed into a fit of hysterics. 
 But the tray full of glasses she had heard jingling were now 
 being washed, and the irritative butler did not stir forth 
 fi;;ain. This was Olive's opportunity. From the proximity 
 of the drawing-room to the hall-door it was impossible for her 
 to open it without being heard ; the kitchen-door was equall}', 
 even more, dangerous, and she could hear the servants sturing 
 in the passages ; there was no safe way of getting out of the 
 house unseen, except through the dining-room. 
 
 The candles were lighted, the crumbs were stUl on the table- 
 cloth ; passing behind the red curtain she unlocked the French 
 window, and a moment she shivered in the keen wind that was 
 blowing. 
 
 It was almost as bright as day A September moon soared 
 like a bird above the dark woods ; here indicated sharply, with 
 the ebony leaves of the high branches stamped on the clear sky, 
 to the right and left floating away in grey and mazy lines that 
 
A DBAMA IN MUSLIN. 277 
 
 melted and disappeared in the blue elusive distance. The 
 house lay log-like in the white glow, and the chestnut-trees 
 threw back shadows upon the sward. 
 
 There was an icy stillness in the air, and the pale high moon 
 seemed so lonely that instinctively the girl shrank from her 
 resolution. But her thoughts were febrile and weak, and a 
 moment after she was peering from behind a buttress, wonder- 
 ing if the drawing-room blinds were down, and she might pass 
 the windows without being seen. In a broken and frag- 
 mentary way the various aspects of the journey that lay 
 before her were anticipated : as she ran across the garden 
 swards she saw the post-horses galloping in front of her ; as 
 her nervous fingers strove to unfasten the wicket, she thought 
 of the railway-carriage; and as she passed under the great 
 dark trunks of the chestnut-trees she dreamed of Edward's 
 arm that would soon be cast protectingly around her, and his 
 face, softer than the leafy shadows above her, would be leaned 
 upon her, and his eyes filled with a brighter light than the 
 moon's would look down into hers. 
 
 The white meadow that she crossed so swiftly gleamed like 
 the sea, and the cows loomed through the greyness like peaceful 
 apparitions. But the dark wood with its sepulchral fir-tops and 
 mysteriously-spreading beech-trees was full of formless terror, 
 and once the girl screamed as the birds flew with an awful sound 
 through the dark undergrowth. A gloomy wood by night has 
 terrors for the bravest, and it was only the certainty that she 
 was leaving girl-life — chaperons, waltz-tunes, and bitter 
 sneering, for ever — that gave courage to proceed. A bit of 
 mossgrown wall, a singularly-shaped holly-bush, a white stone, 
 took fantastic and supernatural appearances, and once she 
 stopped, paralysed with fear, before the grotesque shadow that 
 a dead tree threw over an unexpected glade. A strange bird 
 rose from the bare branches, and at that moment her dress was 
 caught by a bramble, and, when her shriek tore the dark still- 
 ness, a hundred wings flew through the pallor of the waning 
 moon. 
 
 At the end of this glade there was a paling and a stile that 
 Olive would have to cross, and she could now hear, as she ran 
 forward, the needles of the silver firs rustling with a pricking 
 sound in the wind. The heavy branches stretched from either 
 side, and Olive thought when she had passed this dernful alley 
 she would have nothing more to fear ; and she ran on blindly 
 
278 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 until she almost foil in the arms of someone whom she instantly 
 believed to be Edward. 
 
 " Oh ! Edward, Edward, I am nearly dead with fright ! " slie 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " I am not Edward," a woman answered. Olive started a 
 step backwards ; she would have fainted, but at the moment 
 the words were spoken Mrs. Lawler's face was revealed in a 
 beam of weak light that fell through a vista in the branches. 
 
 " Who are you ? Let me pass." 
 
 " Who am I ? You know well enough ; we haven't been 
 neighbours for fifteen years without knowing each other by 
 sight. So you are going to run away with Captain Hibbert ! " 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Lawler, let me pass .... I am in a great 
 hurry, I cannot wait ; and you won't say anything about meet- 
 ing me in the wood, will you ? " 
 
 " Let you pass, indeed . . . and what do you think 1 came 
 here for ? Oh, I know all about it — all about the corner of 
 the road, and the carriage and post-horses ! a very nice little 
 plan and very nicely arranged, but I'm afraid it won't come off 
 — at least, not to-night." 
 
 " Oh, won't it, and why ? " cried Olive, clasping her hands. 
 " Then it was Edward who sent you to meet me, to tell me 
 that — that . . . What has happened ? " 
 
 " Sent me to tell you 1 " . . . Whom do you take me for ? 
 Is it for a . . . well, a nice piece of cheek 1 I carry your 
 messages ? Well, I never ! " 
 
 "Then what did you come here for — how did you 
 know? ..." 
 
 " How did I know ? That's my business. What did I come 
 here for ? What do you think ? Why, to prevent you from 
 going off with Teddy." 
 
 " With Teddy ! " 
 
 " Yes, with 'Teddy. Do you think no one calls him Teddy 
 but yourself ? " 
 
 Then Olive understood, and, with her teeth clenched she said, 
 " No, it isn't true ; it is a lie ; I will not believe it. . . . Let 
 me pass. . . . What business have you to detain me? — what 
 right have you to speak to me 1 We don't know you. . . no 
 one knows you : you are a bad woman whom no one will 
 know." 
 
 " A bad woman 1 I like that — and from you. And what 
 do you want to be, why are you running away from home ? 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 279 
 
 AYliy, to be wliat I was. . . . We're all alike, the same blood 
 runs in our veins, and when the devil is in us we must have 
 sweethearts, get them how we may : the airs and graoes come 
 on after ; they are only so much trimming." 
 
 " How dare you insult me, you bad woman 1 Let me pass ; 
 T don't know what you mean." 
 
 " Oh yes, you do. You think Teddy will take you off to 
 Paris, and spoon you and take you out ; but he won't, at 
 least not to-night. I shan't give him up so easily as you think, 
 my lady." 
 
 " Give him up ! What is he to you ? How dare you speak 
 so of my future husband J Captain Hibbert only loves me, he 
 has often told me so." 
 
 " Loves nobody but you 1 I suppose you think that he 
 never kissed, or spooned, or took anyone on his knee but you 
 . . . Well, I suppose at twenty we'd believe anything a man 
 told us ; and we always think we are getting the first of it 
 when we are only getting someone else's leavings. But it isn't 
 for chicks of girls like you that a man cares, it isn't to you a 
 man comes for the love he wants ; your kisses are very skim- 
 milk indeed. It is in our arms that they learn what passion 
 is ; it is we who teach them the words of love that they murmur 
 afterwai'ds in your ears." 
 
 The form here is nineteenth century, but the spirit is 
 eternal ; and, looking on Mrs. Lawler, drawn up to her full 
 height, her opera-cloak white and vague beneath the light of 
 a pale moon, it was easy to associate her and her aims with the 
 dignity of a heroine of a Greek drama. The women looked at 
 each other in silence, and both heard the needles shaken 
 through the darkness above them. Mrs. Lawler stood by the 
 stile, her hand was laid on the paling. At last Olive said : 
 
 " I-^t me pass. I wiU not listen to you any longer; nor do 
 I believe a word you have said. We all know what you are ; 
 you are a bad woman whom no one will visit. Let me pass," 
 and pushing passionately forward she attempted to cross the 
 stile. Then Mrs. Lawler took her by the shoulder and threw 
 her roughly back. She fell heavily to the ground. 
 
 " Now you had better get up and go home," said Mrs. 
 Lawler, and she approached the prostrate girl. "T didn't 
 mean to hurt you ; but you shan't elope with Teddy if I can 
 prevent it. Why don't you get up ? " 
 
 " Oh 1 my leg, my leg; you have broken my leg 1" 
 
280 A DRAMA IN MUSLISr. 
 
 " Let me help you up.'' 
 
 " Don't touch me, you vile creature," said Olive attempting 
 to rise ; but the moment she put her right foot to the ground 
 she shrieked with pain, and fell again. 
 
 " Well, if you are going to take it in that way, you may 
 remain where you are, and I can't go and ring them up at 
 Brookfield. I don't think there will be much eloping done to- 
 night, so farewell." 
 
 Many and passionate were the efforts Olive made to rise, 
 but the pain was too piercing, and, unable to reach the paling, 
 she lay on the wet ground moaning, and listening between her 
 moans for hours to the mysterious noises and still more mys- 
 terious sUences of the night. The moon rose higher and 
 higher, and, wan and pale as the girl's face, floated over the 
 tall fu-s ; and the fantastic shadow of the dead tree turned and 
 turned until it became lost in other shadows ; and the bird of 
 prey came back with a loud clapping of wings, and it roosted 
 till dawn on the topmost branch. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 About ton o'clock on the night of Olive's elopement, Alico 
 knocked tremblingly at her mother's door. 
 
 " Mother," she said, " Olive is not in her room, nor yet in 
 the house ; I have looked for her everywhere." 
 
 " She is downstairs with her father in the studio," said 
 Mrs. Barton ; and, signing to her daughter to be silent, she 
 led her out of hearing of Barnes, who was folding and putting 
 some dresses away in the wardrobe. 
 
 "I have been down to the studio,'' Alice replied in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Then I am afraid she has run away with Captain Hibbert. 
 But we shall gain nothing by sending men out with lanterns 
 and making a fuss ; by this time she is well on her way to 
 Dublin. She might have done better than Captain Hibbert, 
 but she might also have done worse. She will write to us in 
 a few days to tell us that she is married, and to beg of us to 
 forgive her." 
 
 And that night Mrs. Barton slept even more happily, with 
 her mind more completely at rest, than usual ; whereas Alice, 
 fevered with doubt and apprehension, lay awake. At seven 
 o'clock she was at her window, watching the grey morning 
 splinter into sunlight over the quiet fields. But suddenly all 
 vaporous thoughts of Olive and her lover were crushed into 
 silence, and, paralysed with fear, Alice watched the gamekeeper 
 coming towards the house with a woman in his arms. The sus- 
 picion that her sister might have been killed in an agrarian 
 outrage gripped her heart like an iron hand. She ran down- 
 stairs, and, rushing across the gravel, opened the wicket-gate. 
 Olive was moaning with pain, but her moans were a sweet re- 
 assurance in Alice's ears, and without attempting to understand 
 the man's story of how Miss Olive had sprained her ankle in 
 
283 A DEAMA IN HUSLIN. 
 
 crossing the stile in their wood, and how he ]iad found her as 
 he was going his rounds, she gave the man five shillings, 
 thanked him, and sent him away. Barnes and the butler then 
 carried Olive upstairs, and in the midst of much confusion Mr. 
 Barton rode down the avenue in quest of Dr. Reed — galloped 
 down the avenue, his pale haii- blo'sving in the breeze. 
 
 " I wish you had come straight to me," said Mrs. Barton to 
 Alice, as soon as Barnes had loft the room. " We'd have got 
 her upstairs between us, and then we might have told any 
 story we liked about her illness." 
 
 " But the Lawlers' gamekeeper would know all about it." 
 
 " Ah, yes, tliat's true. I never heard of anytliing so unfor- 
 tunate in my life. An elopement is never very respectable, 
 but an elopement that does not succeed, when the girl comes 
 home again is just as bad as .... I cannot think how Olive 
 could have managed to meet Captain Hibbort and arrange all 
 this business, without my finding it out. I feel sure she must 
 have had the assistance of a third party. I feel certain that 
 all this is Barnes' doing. I am beginning to hate that woman, 
 with her perpetual smile, but it won't do to send her away 
 now ; we must wait." And on these words Mrs. B.arton 
 approached the bed. 
 
 Shaken with sudden fits of shivering, and her teeth chatter- 
 ing, Olive lay staring blindly at her mother and sister. Her 
 eyes were expressive at once of fear and pain. 
 
 " And now, my own darling, will you tell me how all this 
 happened ! " 
 
 " Oh, not now, mother, not now ... I don't know ; I 
 couldn't help it. . . . You mustn't scold me, I feel too ill to 
 bear it." 
 
 "I am not thinking of scolding you, dearest, and you need 
 not tell me anything you do not like. ... I know you were 
 going to run away with Captain Hibbert, and met with an 
 accident crossing the stile in the Lawler Wood." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ; I met that horrid woman, IMrs. Lawler ; 
 she knew all about it, and was waiting for me at the stile 
 She said lots of dreadful things to me ... I don't remember 
 what ; that she had more right to Edward than I . . ." 
 
 " Never mind, dear ; don't agitate yourself thinking of what 
 she said . . . ." 
 
 " And then, as I tried to pass her, she pushed me and 1 
 fell, and hurt my ankle so badly that I could not get up ; and 
 
A DRAMA IN JtUSLIN. 283 
 
 she taunted me, and she said she could not help me home 
 because we were not on visiting terms. And I lay in that 
 dreadful wood all night. But I can't speak any more, I feel 
 too ill J and I never wish to see Edward again .... the pain 
 of my ankle is something terrible." 
 
 Mrs. Barton looked at Alice expressively, and she whispered 
 m her ear : 
 
 " This is all Barnes' doing, but we cannot send her away . , , 
 We must put a bold face on it, and brave it out." 
 Dr. Eeed was announced. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do, doctor ? .... It was so good of you 
 to come at once. . . . "We were afraid Mr. Barton would not 
 find you at home. I am afraid that Olive has sprained her 
 foot badly. Last night she went out for a walk rather late 
 in the evening, and, in endeavouring to cross a stile, she 
 slipped and hurt herself so badly that she was unable to 
 return home, and lay exposed for several hours to the heavy 
 night dews. I am afraid she has caught a severe cold. . . . 
 Sbo has been shivering . . . ." 
 "Can I see her foot?" 
 
 " Certainly. Olive, dear, will you allow Dr. Eeed to see 
 your ankle ? " 
 
 " Oh, take care, mamma ; you are hurting me ! " shrieked 
 the girl, as Mrs. Barton removed the bedclothes. At this 
 moment a knock was heard at the door. 
 
 " Who on earth is this 1 " cried Mrs. Barton. " Alice, wiU 
 you go and see ! Say that I am engaged, and can attend to 
 nothing now." 
 
 When Alice returned to the bedside she drew her mother 
 imperatively towards the window. " Captain Hibbert is wait- 
 ing in the drawing-room. He says he must see you." 
 
 At the mention of Captain Hibbert's name Mrs. Barton's 
 admirably-governed temper showed signs of yielding : her face 
 contracted and she bit her lips. 
 
 " You must go down and see him. Tell him that Olive is 
 very ill and that the doctor is with her. And mind you, you 
 must not answer any questions. Say that I cannot see him, 
 but that I am greatly surprised at his forcing his way into my 
 house after what has passed between us ; that I hope he will 
 never intrude himself upon us again ; that I cannot have my 
 daughter's life endangered, and that, if he insists on persecuting 
 us, I shall have to write to his Colonel." 
 
284 A DKAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Do you not think that father would be the person to make 
 such explanations ? " 
 
 " You know your father could not be trusted to talk sensibly 
 for five minutes — at least," she said, correcting herself, " on 
 anything that did not concern painting or singing . . . But," 
 she continued, following her daughter to the door, " on second 
 thoughts I do not think it would be advisable to bring matters 
 to a crisis ... I do not know how this affair will affect Olive's 
 chances, and if he is anxious to marry her I do not see why he 
 should not . . . she may not be able to get any better. So 
 you had better, I think, put him off — pretend that we are veiy 
 angry, and get him to promise net to try to see or to write to 
 Olive until, let us say, the end of the year. It will only make 
 him more keen on her." 
 
 When Alice opened the drawing-room door Captain Hibbert 
 rushed forward ; his soft eyes were bright with excitement, 
 and his tall figure was thrown into a beautiful pose when he 
 stopped. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon. Miss Barton. I had expected 
 your sister." 
 
 " My sister is very ill in bed, and the doctor is with her." 
 
 " 111 in bed 1 " 
 
 " Yes, she sprained her ankle last night in attempting to 
 cross the stUe in the wood at the end of our lawn." 
 
 " Oh, that was the reason . . . then . . . Can I see your 
 sister for a few minutes ? " 
 
 "It is quite impossible; and my mother desires me to say 
 
 that she is very surprised that you should come here 
 
 We know all aliout your attempt to induce Olive to leave her 
 home." 
 
 " Then she has told you ? But if you knew how I love her 
 you would not blame me. What else could I do? Your 
 mother would not let me see her, and she was very unhappy at 
 home ; you did not know this, but I did, and if luck hadn't 
 been against me. . . . Ah ! but what's the use in talking of 
 luck ; luck was against me, or she would have been my wife 
 now. And what a little thing suffices to blight a man's 
 happiness in life ; what a little, oh, what a little I " he said, 
 speaking in a voice full of bitterness, and he buried his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 Alice's eyes as she looked at him were expressive of her 
 thoughts — they beamed at once with pity and admiration. lie 
 
A. DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 285 
 
 was but the ordinary liandsome young man that in England 
 nature seems t) reproduce in everlasting stereotype. Long 
 graceful legs, clad in tight-fitting trousers, slender hips rising 
 architecturally to square wide shoulders, a thin strong neck 
 and a tiny head — yes, a head so small that an artist would at 
 once mark off eight on his sheet of double elephant. And 
 now he lay over the back of a chair weeping like a chUd, 
 in the intensity of his grief he was no longer commonplace, 
 and as Alice looked at this superb animal thrown back 
 in a superb abandonment of pose, her heart filled with 
 the natural pity that the female feels always for the male in 
 distress, and the impulse within her was to put her arms about 
 him and console Tiim ■ and then she understood her sister's 
 passion for him, and her mind formulated it thus : " How 
 handsome he is 1 Any girl would like a man like that." And 
 as Alice surrendered herself to those sensuous, or rather 
 romantic feelings, her nature quickened to a sense of pleasure, 
 and she grew gentler with him, and was glad to listen while 
 he sobbed out his sorrows to her. 
 
 " Oh, why, " he exclaimed, " did she fall over that thrice- 
 accursed stUe ! In five minutes more we would have been 
 locked in each other's arms, and for ever. I had a couple of 
 the best post-horses in Gort ; they'd have taken us to Athenry 
 in a couple of hours, and then . . • Oh 1 what luck, what 
 luck 1 " 
 
 " But do you not know that Olive met Mrs. Lawler in the 
 wood, and that it was she who . . ." 
 
 " What do you say ? . . . You don't mean to tell me that 
 it was Mrs. Lawler who prevented Olive from meeting me ? " 
 Then grinding his teeth he said, " Oh 1 the vileness and the 
 baseness ! So she dared do that, the beastly creature ! " and, 
 looking a tower of athletic grace, he raised his arms, as if he 
 would crush his enemy into the earth. 
 
 "Oh, what beasts, what devils women are," he said; 
 " and the worst of it is that one cannot be even with them, 
 and they know it. . . . If you only knew," he said, 
 turning almost fiercely upon Alice, " how I loved your sister, 
 you would pity me; but I suppose it is all over now. Is she 
 very iU ? " 
 
 "We don't know yet. She has sprained her ankle very 
 ba,dly, and is shivering terriby ; she was lying out all night in 
 the wet wood." 
 
286 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 He did not answer at once. He walked once or t^vice up 
 and down the room, and then he said, taking Alice's hand in 
 his, "Will you be a friend to me, Miss Barton?" He could 
 get no further, for tears were rolling doivn his cheeks. 
 
 Alice looked at him tenderly ; she was much touched by the 
 manifestation of his love, and at the end of a long silence she 
 said — 
 
 " Now, Captain Hibbert, I want you to listen to me. Don't 
 cry any more, but listen." 
 
 " I daresay I look a great fool." 
 
 " No, indeed you do not," she answered ; and then in kindly- 
 worded phrases she told liim that, at least for the present, 
 he must not attempt to correspond with Olive. " Give me 
 your word of honour that you will neither write nor speak to 
 her for, let us say, six months, and I will promise to be your 
 friend." 
 
 " I will do anything you ask me to do, but will you in return 
 promise to write and tell me how she is getting on, and if she 
 is in any danger ? " 
 
 " I think I can promise to do that ; I will write and tell you 
 how Olive is in a few days. Now we must say good-bye ; and 
 you will not forget your promise to me, as I shall not f oi'get mine 
 to you." 
 
 When Alice went upstairs. Dr. Reed and Mrs. Barton were 
 talking on the landing. 
 
 " And what do you think, doctor ? " asked the anxious 
 mother. 
 
 " It is impossible to say. She has evidently received a severe 
 nervous shock, and this and the exposure to which she was 
 svibjected may develop into something serious. You wUl give 
 her that Dover's powder to-night, and you will see that she 
 has absolute quiet and rest. Have you got a reliable 
 nurse ? " 
 
 " Yes, the young ladies have a maid; I think Barnes can bo 
 trusted to carry out your orders, doctor." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I hope you will allow me to nurse my sister; 
 I should not like to leave her in charge of a servant." 
 
 " I am afraid you are not strong enough, dear." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am ; am I not strong enough, doctor ? " 
 
 Dr. Reed looked for a moment steadily at Alice. " Your 
 sister will," he said, " require a good deal of looking after. But 
 if you will not oveido it I think you seem quite strocL,' 
 
A DItAMA IN MUSLIN. 287 
 
 enotigh to nurse her. But you must not sit up at night 
 with her too regularly ; j'ou must share the lahour with 
 someone." 
 
 " She will do that with me," said Mrs. Barton, speaking 
 more kindly, Alice thought, than she had ever heard her speak 
 before. 
 
 Then a wailing voice was heard calling to Alice. 
 
 " Go in and see what she wants, dear, but you will not 
 encourage her to talk much ; the doctor does not wish it." 
 
 The room did not look the same to Alice as it had ever 
 looked before. Her eyes fell on the Persian rugs laid be- 
 tween the two white beds and the tall glass in the warbrobe 
 wlicie Olive wasted half-an-hour every evening, examining 
 her beauty. Would she ever do so again ? Now a broken 
 reflection of feverish eyes and blonde hair was what remained. 
 The white curtains of the chimneypiece had been drawn aside, 
 a bright fire was burning, and Barnes was removing a foot-pan 
 of hot water. 
 
 " Sit down here by me, Alice ; I want to talk to you." 
 
 " The doctor has forbidden you to talk, dear ; he says you 
 must have perfect rest and quiet." 
 
 " I must talk a little to you ; if I didn't I should go mad." 
 
 "Well, what is it dear?" 
 
 " I will tell you presently," said the sick giil, glancing at 
 Barnes. 
 
 " You can tidy up the room afterwards, Barnes ; Miss Olive 
 ■wants to talk to me now." 
 
 " Oh, Alice, tell me," cried the girl when the servant had 
 left the room, " I don't want to ask mamma — she won't tell 
 me the exact truth ; but you will. Tell me what the doctor 
 said . . . did he say I was going to die ? " 
 
 " Going to die ? Olive, who ever heard of such a thing ? 
 You really must not give way to such fancies." 
 
 " Well, tell me what he said." 
 
 " He said that you had received a severe nervous shock, that 
 you had been subjected to several hours' exposure, that you 
 must take gieat care of yourself, and, above all, have perfect 
 rest and quiet, and not excite yourself and not talk." 
 
 " Is that all he said ? Then he cannot know how ill I feel ; 
 perhaps I ought to see another doctor. But I don't believe 
 anyone could do me much good. Oh, I feel wretchedly ill, and 
 Bomehow I seem to know I am going to die 1 It would be 
 
288 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 very horrible to die : but young girls no older than I have died 
 — have been cut off in the beginning of their life. And we 
 have seen nothing of life, only a few balls and parties. It 
 would be terrible to die so soon. When Violet caiTied ofl 
 the marquis I felt so bitterly ashamed that I thought 
 I would have liked to die ; but not now^now I know that 
 Edward loves me I would not care to die ; it would be terrible 
 
 to die before I was married. Wouldn't it, Alice ? 
 
 But you don't answer me ; did you never think about 
 death?" 
 
 Then, as the thin wailing voice sank into her ears, Alice 
 started from her dreams, and she strove to submit her atten- 
 tion to her sister. 
 
 "Yes, dear, of course I have. Death is, no doubt, a very 
 terrible thing, but we can do no good by thinking of it." 
 
 " Oh yes, we should, Alice, for this is not the only world — 
 there is another and a better one ; and, as mamma says, and 
 as religion says, we are only here to try and get a good place 
 in it. You are surprised to hear me speak like this ; you think 
 I never think of anything but the colour of a bonnet-string, 
 but I do." 
 
 " I am sure you do, Olive ; I never doubted it ; but 1 wish 
 you would now do what the doctor orders, and refrain from 
 talking and exciting yourself, and try and get well. You may 
 then think of death and other gloomy things as much as you 
 like." 
 
 " You don't understand, Alice ; one can't think of death 
 then — one has so much else to think of ; one is so taken up 
 v.ith other ideas. It is only when one is ill that one really 
 begins to see what life is. You have never been ill, and you 
 don't know how terribly near death seems to have come — 
 very near. Perhaps I ought to see the priest; it would 
 be just as well, just in case I should die. Don't you think 
 
 BO?" 
 
 " I don't think there is any more danger of your dying now 
 tlian there was a month ago, dear, and I am sure you can have 
 nothing on your mind that demands immediate confession," 
 she said, her voice trembling a little. 
 
 " Oh yes, I have, Alice, and a very great deal ; I have been 
 very wicked." 
 
 " Very wicked ! " 
 
 " Well, I knonv you aren't pious, Alice, and perhans you 
 
A DRAMA TN MUSLIN. 289 
 
 don't believe there is harm in such things, but I do ; and I 
 know it was very wrong, and perhaps a mortal sin, to try to 
 run away with Edward." 
 
 Alice drew a long breath. 
 
 " But I loved him so very dearly, and I was so tired of 
 staying at home and being taken out to parties ; and then 
 everything seemed to be going wrong. For, although I was 
 the belle of the season, I did not get as many offers of marriage 
 as I expected. Edward was, after all, the only one who pro- 
 posed to me, and I was afraid of remaining an old maid ; and 
 when you are in love with a man you forget everything . . . 
 at least I did ; and when he asked to kiss me I couldn't refuse. 
 You will not tell anyone, Alice dear, that I told you this." 
 Alice shook her head, and Olive continued, in spite of all 
 that the doctor had said. 
 
 " But you don't know how lonely I feel at home ; you never 
 feel lonely, I dare say, for you only think of your books and 
 papers, and don't realise what a disgrace it would be if I 
 didn't marry, and after all the trouble that mamma has 
 taken . . but I don't know what will become of me now. I 
 am going to be dreadfully ill, and when I get well I shall be 
 pretty no longer; I am sure I am looking wretchedly; I 
 -must see myself — fetch the glass, Alice, Alice." 
 
 All that day and night Alice remained in the sickroom. 
 Towards morning she lay down ; but every five minutes she 
 was disturbed : suffering from intense nervousness, Olive lay 
 whining and calling incessantly to her. And when Barnes 
 came and suddenly raised the blinds there were shrieks of 
 pain ; and the room had to be kept darkened. Dr. Eeed said 
 that at present he could not speak with any certainty, but he 
 ordered several inches of the pale silky hair to be cut away and 
 a cold lotion to be applied to the forehead, and some sliced 
 lemons were given to her to suck. She was obviously very ill. 
 The clear blue eyes were dull, the breathing quick, the 
 skin dry and hot; and on the following day four leeches 
 had to be applied to her ankle. They relieved her some- 
 what, and, when she had taken her draught, she sank to 
 sleep. But as the night grew denser and the silence of the 
 house was tomb-like, Alice, who was dozing, was suddenly 
 awakened by someone speaking wildly in her ear. Olive was 
 delirious. Fancying herself with Edward, she cried, " Oh, 
 take me away, dear I I am sick of home ; I want to get away 
 
 u 
 
290 i. DEAMA IK MUSLIN. 
 
 from all these spiteful girls ... I know thoy are liiugliing at 
 me because Violet cut me out with the marquis. Wo shall be 
 married, shan't we, the moment we arrive in Dublin ? It is 
 horrible to be married at the registrar's, but it is better thuu 
 not being married at all . . . But do you think they will catch 
 us up ? It would be dreadful to be taken back home, I could 
 not bear it. . . Oh, do drive on ; we don't seem to be moving. 
 . . . You see that strange tree on the right, we have not 
 passed it yet ; I don't think we ever shall. Whip up that bay 
 horse ; don't you see that he is turning round, that he wants 
 to go back 1 And I am sure that this is not the road ; that 
 man at the comer told you a lie. I know he was mocking at 
 us — I saw it in his eye. . . . Look, look, Edward 1 Oh, look 
 — it is papa, or Lord Dungory, I can't tell which, he will not 
 lift his cloak." . . . Then the vision would fade from her 
 delirious bram, and she would fancy herself in the wood, 
 arguing once again with Mrs. Lawler. " No, what you say is 
 not true ; he never loved you ; how could he ? You are an old 
 woman. . . . Let me pass — ^let me pass. . . . Why do you 
 speak to me ? We don't visit, we never did visit you. No ; 
 it was not at our house you met Edward. . . . You are a bad 
 woman ; and Edward shall not, he could not, think of running 
 away with you — will you, darling ? Oh ! help me, help me 
 out of this dreadful wood. I want to go home, but I cannot 
 ^\'alk . . . and that terrible bird is still watching me, and I 
 dare not pass that tree until you di-ive it away." 
 
 Now only the two beds, with their white curtains and brass 
 crowns, loomed through the pale obscurity, broken only by the 
 red-glowing basin where a nightlight burnt, and the long 
 tongues of flame that the blazing peat scattered from time to 
 time across the darkened ceiling. The solitude of the sleeping 
 house grew momentarily more intense in Alice's brain, and 
 she trembled as she strove to soothe her sister, and covered 
 the hot feverish arms over with the bedclothes. But gradually 
 tlie lonely hours wore themselves away, and the morning 
 broke with all its welcome sounds of fluttering wings, and 
 footfalls in the echoing corridors. 
 
 About eight o'clock Mrs. Barton came in. " What sort of 
 night has Olive had ? " she asked anxiously. 
 
 " Not a very quiet one ; I am afraid she was a little delirious." 
 
 " Dr. Reed promised to be here early. How do you feel, 
 dear ! " Mrs. Barton asked, loaning over the bed. 
 
A dhama in muslin. 291 
 
 " Oh, very ill ; I can scarcely breathe, and I hn^'e such a 
 pain in my side." 
 
 " Your lips look very sore, dear ; do they hurt you ? " — 
 Olive only moaned dismally — and, looldng anxiously at her 
 elder daughter, she said : 
 
 "And you, too, Alice, you are not looking well ; you are 
 looking very tired. You must not sit up another night with 
 you sister. To-night T will take your place." 
 
 " Oh, mother, no ! I assure you it is a pleasure to me to 
 nurse Olive. I am very well indeed ; do not think about me." 
 
 " Indeed, I will think about you, and you must do as I tell 
 you. I will look after Olive, and you must try and get a 
 good night's rest. We will take it in turns to nurse her. 
 An d now come do^vn to breakfast ; a cup of hot coffee will d(o 
 you all the good in the world. Barnes, you will not think of 
 leaving Miss Olive until we come back ; and, if any change 
 occurs, ring for me immcdiatelj'." 
 
 "When Dr. Reed arrived, Alice was again sitting by the 
 bedside. She rose to meet him. She noticed that he looked 
 at her intently, but all was forgotten in the question : 
 
 " And how is our patient to-day ? " 
 
 "I cannot say she is any better; she has a distressing 
 cough, and last night I am afraid she was a little delirious." 
 
 " Ah, you say the cough is very distressing 1 " 
 
 " I am afraid I must call it distressing ; is that a very bad 
 sign ? " 
 
 " Probably there is not much wrong, but it would be better 
 to ascertain the condition of the patient, and then we may be 
 able to do something to relieve her." 
 
 They approach the bed. The doctor draws a stethoscope 
 fvom. his pocket. From either side they aid each other, and 
 they lift the patient into a sitting position. 
 
 " I should like to examine her chest," said the doctor, and 
 Ids fingers moved to unfasten her chemise. Olive looked at 
 him at once timidly and suspiciously. 
 
 " Don't expose me," she miu'mured feebly, and, notwith- 
 standing her condition, she blushed to the roots of her flaxen hair. 
 
 "Now, Olive dear, remember it is only the doctor; let him 
 examine you." 
 
 It was with difficulty Alice said the words. She felt her 
 position sharply, but she mastered her sense of false shame and 
 
292 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 then forgot it in the keen sensations of pity which the sight of 
 the poor sick beauty inspired. 
 
 The eyes were now but dull filmy blue, the lips were covered 
 with sores, and there was a circumscribed redness over the 
 .Jieekbones — not the hectic flush of phthisis, but the dusky red 
 that is characteristic of pneumonia. And so weak was the 
 patient that during the stethoscopic examination Alice had to 
 support her ; her head fell from side to side as she was moved, 
 and when the doctor pressed her right side her moans were 
 pregnant with pain. 
 
 " Now let me see the tongue. . . . Dry and parched." 
 
 " Shall I die, doctor ? " the girl asked feebly and plaintively 
 as she sank amidst the pillows. 
 
 " Die ! no, not if you take care of yourself and do what you 
 are told." 
 
 " But tell me. Dr. Eeed. . . . you can tell me the truth. 
 Is Olive dangerously ill, is her life in danger ? " Alice asked 
 anxiously as they moved away from the bed towards the 
 window, towards Alice's work-table. 
 
 " She win get well if she takes care of herself; she is suffer- 
 ing from an acute attack of pneumonia." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " Congestion of the lungs, or rather an advanced stage of it. 
 It is more common in men than in women, and it is the conse- 
 qvience of long exposure to wet and cold." 
 
 " Is it very dangerous ? " 
 
 " No, not if the patient is taken great care of ; and now let 
 me tell you that it is all-important that the temperature of 
 the room should not be allowed to vary. I attended a case 
 of it some three or four miles from here, but the damp of the 
 cabin was so great that it was impossible to combat the disease. 
 The cottage, or rather hovel, was built on the edge of a soft 
 spongy bog, and so wet was it that the woman had to sweep 
 the water every morning from the floor where it collected 
 in great pools. The poverty that these peasants endure is 
 something shocking. I am now going to visit an evicted 
 family, who are living in a partially-roofed shed fenced up by 
 the roadside. There, in the most sheltered corner, the father, 
 down with fever, lies shivering, with nothing to drink but cold 
 water, nothing to eat but a potato. The wife told me that last 
 week it rained so heavily that she had to get up three times in 
 the night to ■wring the sheets out." 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 293 
 
 " And why were they evicted ? " 
 
 " Oh, that is a long story ; but it is a singularly charactei-istic 
 one. In the first place he was an idle fellow; he got into 
 dilliculties and owed his landlord three years' rent. Then he 
 got into bad hands, and was prevented from coming to terms 
 with his landlord. Mr. Scully, who is the agent, did his best to 
 come to terms, but there was a lot of jobbing going on between 
 the priest and the village grocer. It was arranged that the 
 latter should pay off the existing debt if the landlord could be 
 forced into letting him the farm at a ' fair rent,' that is to 
 say, thirty per cent, reduction on the old rent. Then, in recog- 
 nition of his protecting influence, the priest was to take a third 
 of the farm off the grocer's hands, and the two were then to 
 conjointly rack-rent poor Murphy for the remaining third 
 portion, which he would be allowed to retain for a third 
 of the original rent ; but the National League heard of then- 
 little tricks, and now the farm is boycotted, and Murphy is dying 
 in the ditch for the good of his counthry." 
 
 " I thought boycotting was ended, that the League had lost 
 all power." 
 
 " It has and it hasn't. Sometimes a man takes a farm and 
 keeps it in defiance of his neighbours ; sometimes they hunt 
 him out of it. It is hard to come to a conclusion, for when in 
 one district you hear of rents being paid and boycotted farms 
 letting freely, in another, only a few miles away, the landlords 
 are giving reductions, and there are farms lying waste, that no 
 one dare look at. In my opinion the fire is only smouldering, 
 and when the Coercion Act expires the old organisation will 
 rise up as strong and as triumphant as before. This is a time 
 of respite for both parties." 
 
 The conversation then came to a sudden pause. Alice felt 
 it would be out of place for her to speak her sympathies for the 
 Nationalistic cause, and she knew it would be unfair to lead the 
 doctor to express his. So at the end of a long silence, during 
 which each divined the other's thoughts, she said : 
 
 " I suppose you see a great deal of the poor and the miseries 
 they endure ? " 
 
 " I have had good opportunities of studying them. Before 
 I came here I spent ten years in the poorest district in Donegal. 
 I am sure there wasn't a gentleman's house within fifteen miles 
 of me." 
 
 " And did you not often feel very lonely ?''* 
 
294 A DnAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Yes, 1 did, but ono gets so used to solitudo that to return 
 to the world, after having lived long in the atmosphere of one's 
 o\vn thoughts, can only be achieved by violent and most painful 
 victories over oneself. I cannot tell you how distracting and 
 wearying I found society when I first came to live at Gort. 
 The repugnance that gi-ows on those who live alone to hearing 
 their fellow-creatures express their ideas is very strange. It 
 must be felt to bo understood; .and it is curious I liavo never 
 seen the sentiment, I may call it a situation, dealt with in 
 fiction." 
 
 " Do you ever read fiction ? " 
 
 " Yes, and enjoy it. I cannot tell you how, in my liltlo 
 home amid the northern bogs, I used to look forward when I 
 had finished writing, to spending an hour before going to bed 
 with a volume of Thackeray or George Eliot." 
 
 " Wliat were you writing? " 
 
 "A book." 
 
 "A book!" exclaimed Alice, looking suddenly pleased and 
 astonished. 
 
 " Yes, but not a work of fiction — I am afraid I am too pro- 
 saic an individual for that — a medical work." 
 
 " And have you finished your book ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is finished, and I am glad to say it is in the hands 
 of a London publisher. We have not yet agreed about the 
 price, but I hope and believe that, directly and indirectly, it 
 will lead to putting me into a small London practice." 
 
 " And then you will leave us ? " 
 
 " I am afraid so. Theie .are many fiiends I shall miss — that 
 I shall be very sorry to leave, but . . ." 
 
 " Oh, of course it would not do to miss such a chance." 
 
 When the doctor left, Alice proceeded to carry out his 
 instructions concerning the patient, and, these being done, she 
 sat down b}' the bedside and continued her thoughts of him 
 with a sense of pleasure. She remembered that she had 
 always liked him. Yes, it was a liking that dated as far back 
 OS the spinsters' ball at Ballinasloe. He was the only man there 
 in whom she had taken the slightest interest. They were 
 sitting together on the stairs when that poor fellow was thrown 
 down and had his leg broken. She remembered how she had 
 enjoyed meeting him at tennis-parties, and how often she had 
 walked away with him from the players through the shrub- 
 beries; and above all she could not forget — it wa=! a long 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 205 
 
 sweet sonveiiir — the beautiful aftoiiioon she had spent ■\vitli 
 him, sitting on the rock, the day of the picnic at ICinvarra Castle. 
 ] t all seemed very strange to her, she was a little perplexed, 
 and was only conscious of her happiness as one lying in the 
 sun is of the pleasant blowing of the south wind. With the 
 coming of her breath her bosom heaved, and as her dreams 
 floated delicately before her, she thought of the doctor's eyes. 
 They were grey, and her memory seemed filled with their 
 bright quick glances. The rest of his face was a little vague to 
 her. She had forgotten, or rather she had never thoroughly 
 understood, that he was a short, thick-set, middle-aged man, 
 that he wore mutton-chop whiskers and that his Ups were 
 overhung by a long dark moustache. His manners were 
 those of an unpolished and somewhat commonplace man. But 
 while she thought of his grey eyes her heart was thrilled with 
 gladness, and as she dreamed of his lonely life of labour 
 and his ultimate hopes of success, all her old sorrows and 
 fears seemed to have evaporated, to have departed like chilly 
 mists. Then suddenly and with the unexpectedness of an 
 apparition the question presented itself, did she like him 
 better than Harding ? Alice shrank from the unpleasantness 
 of the thought, nor did she force herself to answer it; but 
 perhaps to escape from it, and there was a touch of cowardice 
 in the acts, she busied herself with attending to her sister's 
 wants. 
 
 And while Alice was thus happy, Olive lay suffering in all 
 the dire humility of the flesh. Hourly her breathing grew 
 shorter and more hurried, -her cough more frequent, and the 
 expectoration that accompanied it darker and thicker in colour. 
 The beautiful eyes were now turgid and dull, the lids hung 
 heavily over a line of filmy blue, and a thick scaly layer ot 
 bloody tenacious mucus persistently accumulated and covered 
 the tiny and once almost jewel-like teeth. For three or four 
 days these symptoms knew no abatement ; and it was over 
 this prostrated body, weakened and humiliated by illness, that 
 Alice and Dr. Reed read love in each other's eyes, and it was 
 about this poor flesh that their hands were joined as they lifted 
 Olive out of the recumbent position she had slipped into, and 
 built up the bowed-in pillows. And as it had once been all 
 Olive in Brookfield, it was now all Alice; the veil seemed 
 suddenly to have slipped from all eyes, and the exceeding 
 worth of this plain giil was at la.st recognised. Nowhere 
 
296 A DEAMA IN MDfBLIN. 
 
 could her place be supplied. Mrs. Barton's presence at the 
 bedside did not soothe the sufferer ; she grew restless and de- 
 manded her sister. Dr. Eeed took heed of the devotion and 
 care that was ministered with such loving hands in the sick- 
 room and when not attending the patient he and this straight- 
 souled girl, so wide in her sympathies, so deep in her love of 
 natural things, would often withdraw to the window-recess, 
 and for long half -hours stand talking there, looking at each 
 other from time to time with quick, with meditative, with 
 interested eyes. Each conversation began thus : — 
 
 " And do you think my sister is better to-day 1 " 
 
 " I am afraid she will not begin to show signs of any real 
 improvement until the ninth day. The malady must take its 
 course." 
 
 " Still I do not think she suffers so much as she did yester- 
 day ; I am sure her ankle is not so painful : the bran-poultices 
 have relieved her of much pain." 
 
 " I know nothing better for a sprain than a bran-poultice." 
 
 Then they would speak of indifferent things — of their 
 friends, of the state of the country, of the Land Bill, of Mr. 
 Barton's pictures. But, yielding to their emotion, they soon 
 spoke of what was uppermost in their minds — of the MSS. on 
 the table, of the London publisher. And the doctor, who had 
 latterly developed a taste for fiction, seemed to be always either 
 borrowing or returning a volume of Charlotte Bronte : and in 
 talking of the rights and wrongs of Rochester's love for Jane, 
 and Maggie Tulliver's for Stephen, the lovers revealed to each 
 other their present state of soul. , One day Olive, who was 
 getting better, turned herself painfully in bed and watched 
 the group by the window — watched Alice's tall, thin, pre- 
 Eaphaelite figure, so characteristic of her spiritual and intense 
 self, and the doctor's bluff shoulders and square weather-beaten 
 face, so characteristic of his nature, that would have been com- 
 mon-place were it not for its determination. Both were seen in 
 profile .against the window. Their lips moved as Holbein's 
 lips seem to move. Dr. Reed's fat Holbein hand was laid on 
 the table ; and the sick girl faded amid the white sheets like 
 a white rose in the snow, while her sick blue eyes stared 
 fadingly, in all the dim unreality of a drawing by Westall. 
 
 When the doctor went, when the sisters were alone Olive 
 baid : 
 
 " Alice, do you like Dr. Eeed ? Would you maiiy him 1 " 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Henceforth Dr. Eeed was constantly at Brookfield. He was 
 there more frequently than the state of the patient demanded ; 
 and Alice felt that the attentions he was paying her would 
 soon be noticed by the visitors. Cecilia she especially dreaded. 
 More than once she had observed that the wistful brown eyes 
 were fixed upon when she sat apart talking with him j and 
 she knew how even a remote suspicion that he liked her 
 would thrill the strange girl's heart with pain. But Cecilia 
 said nothing ; the days passed, and, feeling more at ease, Alice 
 was beginning to allow her liking for the doctor to grow into, 
 to become part of the nature of her mind. 
 
 One afternoon the girls were sitting alone in the bedroom. 
 Cecilia had just come in; Alice had asked her to wait until 
 a paragraph was finished. In the silence the pen scratched 
 along sharply, and Alice's thoughts pursued the flying words 
 to a elose, when she was startled by an abrupt exclamation. 
 Turning she saw the crooked girl, her hand clasped feverishly, 
 staring wildly upwards. 
 
 " Oh ! how beautiful the Prayer Book is 1 I pity you, 
 Alice ; how I pity y«u ! " 
 
 " Goodness me, Cecilia, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " Alas ! you would not understand ! But oh ! if you knew 
 the pain I suffer, the pain that is mine when I think of the 
 sin that is yours, and the awful end that must overtake you ! 
 But you 1 you know nothing of the short starting sleeps, the 
 dream -haunted vigils, the vicious demon-shapen terrors, intense, 
 terrible, and profound, and the silences filled with the cries 
 of the damned ; and in this figuration of the judgment and 
 the doom I see . . . but no, no, no, it is not true ; it cannot 
 be! 
 
 " Alice, listen to me ; listen and let me tell you how terrible 
 it is to know that you, my darling friend, would, were you to 
 
 2»7 
 
298 A DRAilA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 (lie this ujomcut, be damned to all etei-nity. Oh ! it is fear- 
 some, it is cruel ; and my heart is eaten away with grief. AiiJ 
 the helplessness and hopelessness are so hard to bsar. It ia 
 vain to reason with you . . . one can but pray for you, and I 
 have pra3'ed until my soul was sick with famine for the holy 
 face of God. And ah ! how often in my loneliness do I ciy 
 aloud the beautiful litany of Jesus and that of his Virgin 
 Mother — Tower of Ivory, House of Gold, Arh of the Covenant 
 . . . and I sing until in happy prayer I forget the wretched- 
 ness, the abominations of our lives, and remember only the 
 days when we all sang together those pure, those sinless chants 
 in that white, girl-like convent-church. And those dear, those 
 black-robed nuns. ... I can see them. . . . the serge habits 
 trail in straight sculptured folds upon the pavement, they bow 
 their peaceful faces before the Altar . . . Alice, I am right, 
 you are wrong 1 There is no true happiness in this life unless 
 indeed we recognise it as a means of attaining God. The way 
 to Him is a long and bitter one, but He has given us prayer ; 
 pure sparkling fountains at which we may drink, and gain 
 .strength and courage to pursue our journey to the illimitable 
 prospect of peace which awaits us beyond the sun. All other 
 hopes and desires aie vain as even I have found. They pass 
 and perish like things of sand, and mad and bruised with grief 
 we turn to God for confidence, for relief. And then, if we ask 
 fervidly, all shall be given to us, and in our hearts shall awake 
 a rapture of joy such as those who put their faith in mortal 
 sense shall never know ; and then the mUd felicities of forgive- 
 ness shall cool our faces like the flowing of a breath, and our 
 sin shall dissolve like a little cloud and be forgiven, as mine 
 has dissolved and is now forgotten. But you ! you know not 
 of my sin, of my sin I Yes, Alice, I have sinned, and deeply, 
 for I desired more than God had willed to give me, and I 
 have suflfered accordingly. Yes, Alice, I had desired more than 
 God had willed to give me, for I desired you. I desired to 
 possess you wholly and entirely. I was jealous of the flowers 
 you wore in your bosom, of evei-ything your eyes rested upon. 
 I remember once, you were talking at the time to one of those 
 officers from Gort, your hair got entangled in the carving of 
 the chair ; but before I could get up he had loosened it. I could 
 have spat in his face ; I could have killed him ; I hated hini 
 for days and nights — I was very wicked. I oflended God. 
 But I have done penance for Diy sin, I have conqueied my 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. TOQ 
 
 pnssi'on. Yes, I have left for ever (.he life of desire and bavo 
 ciitoied into that of prayer; and a mild and exquisite world is 
 the woi-ld of prayer ! There, there are no frozen morns nor fiery 
 noons, but long pensive evenings, and all w.'io live there are 
 thrilled with happiness, and all who dream there dream of 
 mansuctudc and calm. And there we walk as in a garden of 
 straight walks, seeing the happy end from afar; heedless we 
 pass by the dark coverts of doubt and the red flowerage of too 
 keen rejoicings. There sadness may not endure, nor is there 
 delight nor grief nor terrifying morrows ; and in the wan 
 enchantment of ouv evenings we pass onwards in calm and 
 holy procession ; and our ranks are never broken save when 
 one, with quiet cn.otion, steps aside to gather the taU roses of 
 Resignation ; with i a'e lips she kisses them, with pale hands 
 weaves thcai into a wreath that she shall bear bloomful to the 
 thither side of death. Yes, the flowers of Eesignation are 
 sweet to gather, and our reward shall be seventy times greater 
 than our pain, when we, the pure, the undegi-aded by earthly 
 vice and passion, on bended knees, with radia,nt robes flowing 
 as water about us, shall oiler the tear -starred chaplets of resigna- 
 tion to Him — Iliin who will one day come, with His Father 
 and white attendance of Seraphim, to punish the wicked and 
 to welcome the chosen to those high realms of Heaven where 
 every song is a breathing perfume and every look a note of 
 undying love. My soul is thriUcd, is pierced with the long 
 delight of contemplation ; my heart is bruised, and the wine 
 of ecstasy bubbles to my lips ; the fumes of strange, keen, and 
 unconquerable joy rise to my brain, and in uncontrollable and 
 ever-ascending vision — vision keen and impalpable, my life 
 reeks to thee — to thee and to God. Yes, in the mysticity of 
 God's love, and thine, my delight shall wax and wane ; in the 
 arms of God I faint— my soul sickens, I falter, I yield myself. 
 . . . No, Alice, no ; Alice, thou who art mine, mine in eteinity, 
 I am speaking wildly, madly ; you do not understand me — no, 
 you do not imderstand, for you have not prayed as I have 
 prayed ; you have not spent the whole night on your knees 
 gazing on the pale tranquillity of the skies — the home of God 
 — and there, soaring with white and vigorous wings, I shall go 
 when the hour comes for my spirit to tear this impeding veil 
 of flesh, past the holy stars of Heaven, and enter an eternity 
 of happy prayer and unapparent love. But you have not 
 pi-nyed, and can know nothing of the joys of prayer ! They 
 
800 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 are bright and durable, while the satisfaction on the attain- 
 ment of which your mind is so irrevocably set is but an ash- 
 grey blossom that grows pale as it blooms — a degrading 
 m.oment that dulls the sense and implants its festering sting." 
 
 "CeciHa! CeciHa ! " 
 
 " I mean, Alice, that you must pray for faith to believe ; oh, 
 think, think of your soul; think of what you risk by your 
 persistent denial of God, of Him who died to save your soul 1 
 Think, oh think, of that imperishable gift born to live through 
 an eternity of happiness or of torment ! Think, oh think, of 
 what agony would be mine, if by God's most infinite grace I 
 should be permitted to pass through the heavenly gate and 
 from my place among the blessed should look down and see 
 you ! No, no ; God in His great mercy would spare me that. 
 But if I should hear, or feel, or somehow get to know that the 
 long tale of Eternity's delights would to lute and lyre be cease- 
 lessly sung without ever syllabling the sweet name of Alice 1 
 , . . Think, oh think ! . . . Have you no pity ? " 
 
 " Darling CecOia, what would you wish me to do ? Surely 
 God will not punish me for not doing what He has not given 
 me strength to do ? " 
 
 " Alice, you must not speak like that; you are blaspheming 
 your Creator. Tell me, can nothing be done to help you, to 
 save you ? Ah, if you knew the lofty hopes that were once 
 mine, of the high ideal life I once dreamed to live with you ; 
 a pure ecstatic life untouched by any degrading passion, un- 
 assaUed by any base desires I But alas ! all my hopes are 
 withered, all my love is in the dust, for no more than the rest 
 can you hold aloof : like the rest you demand the joys and satis- 
 factions of the flesh ; but, unlike May and Violet, you shall not 
 live and be satisfied with them. They shall become loathsome 
 in your eyes, they shall sicken in your sight and mind, and when 
 the first fever of curiosity and desire has passed, you shall drink 
 the draught in horror ; you shall long to dash down the brutal 
 cup, your lips and mouth shall burn as with poison, and your 
 heart shall wither within you, and your yearning soul shall call 
 to be delivered of its uncleanness. You shall wring your hands 
 and weep Ln secret, but in vain ; for you will be then as a 
 slave chained to daily and nightly degradation, and none shall 
 be able to break your fetters but death. Now you see rnan'a 
 love in the fair moonlight of your imagination, but di-aw 
 nearer, and its animal exhalations shall poison your nostrils, 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 301 
 
 and all its foul abominations shall be revealed to you. No 
 more than the others do you know the torture you are pro- 
 paring for yourself, no more than the others do you realLse 
 the misery and the shame of the life you are choosing. My 
 heart bleeds for you. I am sick of grief." 
 
 " Cecilia, darling Cecilia, you must not sob like that. Tell 
 me why you are grieving, tell me what I can do ; you know T 
 love you." 
 
 " No, between you and me there is an abyss that cannot be 
 bridged over. No, no ; leave me ; I do not want your 
 sympathy. Your heart is no longer mine ; it is full of base 
 passion and vile desire ; your love for that man hangs about 
 you like an odour ; to me it is a visible presence and it revolts 
 me." 
 
 " Cecilia dear, you are excited, you do not know what you 
 are saying . . . Were it anyone else ! " 
 
 " If it were anyone else ! I am no more to you than anyone 
 else ! " 
 
 " Indeed you are, Cecilia ; I love you better than anyone in 
 the world ! " 
 
 " Ah ! Better than anyone except him." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why seek to deceive me ? I know the truth, but I have 
 prayed for grace and am prepared to bear my pain. And my 
 pain ! Oh, God ! Thou, who knowest all things, Thou canst 
 judge of its sharpness and its bitterness. Thou in thine 
 infinite mercy hast estimated the burden and deemed it befitting 
 to be laid upon me ; and for Thy sweet sake, Lord, I will, 
 as bravely as may be, bear my cross to the end until I lay it 
 one day at Thy feet, and at Thy white feet beg mercy of Thee. 
 For Thou in Thine infinite wisdom hast taken heed of its 
 weight and my power. Alas ! not that of man nor woman, 
 but that of a poor little cripple — a girl cripple — weak and 
 deformed in body, but endowed with a soul capable of feeling 
 every passing pain, and a heart in which every wandering 
 grief may make its nest. My lot has been set about with grief 
 and sufferings that none will ever know of ; sharp keen agony, 
 and mad sorrows that have made life to me a black, a sullen 
 martyrdom. 
 
 " Here, none may take account of other than physical pain, 
 but I know that the mind is capable of keener torturing tha a 
 the mere flesh is ever conscious of. Ah, those terrible moments 
 
30i A DRAJIA IN 5IUSLIN. 
 
 when life is revealed to mc in all its natural ignominy and horror! 
 Purblind we walk, only dimly aware of tlio abominations about 
 us, and thus we are enabled to boar the agony that wo cal] 
 life. But there are moments, terrible moments in the middle 
 watches of the night, when we wake to the truth, and seeing 
 things in their fearsome, in their leprous deformity, cry aloud 
 in our pain, cry aloud for oblivion. And then in the tumult 
 of our despair we turn our faces to the wall and moan, and 
 like children weep ourselves to sleep. Such a martyrdom is 
 and shall be mine until Jesus the Kedeemer comes and wel- 
 comes me into that place where there are neither tears nor 
 laughter, and where the weary are at rest. And may that 
 time come soon, I most humbly pray ; for of peace and love 
 there is none here for me. I have known but solitude and 
 suffering ; I have spoken and not been heard ; I have loved and 
 it has availed me nothing. Others are contented with 
 externals, but I see the truth — the awful, the hideous, the 
 monstrous truth. In a solitude as deep as the airless silence 
 of the moon I live — I and the Truth. Long, too long, have wo 
 counted out together the abominable record of human life; and, as 
 in suUen joy we traced the footmarks of man through the eternal 
 slime, we have alternately given way to bitter exultation and 
 blind despair ; and now we are tired of both. Yes, it would 
 seem that my heart has grown dumb. I do not long for life's 
 joys, its pains I despise ; but to live with a thousand beings, 
 all apparently made to your own image and likeness, and to 
 know that not one either feels or understands as you feel and 
 understand, is unnecessary sufiering ; and it is lawful to con- 
 fess you are not of the world's company, and to fly from it. 
 No, Alice, no ; you, no more than the rest, have understood 
 mo. I have loved you . . . well; but that is over now, and I 
 must go hence and learn to bear the burden that Christ has 
 given me to bear." 
 
 '' But, Cecilia, I am not going to leave you : I do not under- 
 stand." 
 
 " Yes, 3'ou do ; you know well enough that you will marry 
 him, and you will moreover go away with him and I shall be 
 left alone." 
 
 " Cecilia, I assure you that he has never spoken a word of 
 love to me; I have no reason to thinlc that he ever thought of 
 asking mo to marry him." 
 
 " It is very clear indeed that he holds for you that sentiment 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 8U3 
 
 which men dignify with the name of love. His blood is on 
 fii-e with it ; when he looks at you . . . oh, it is horrible ! I 
 will not think of it." 
 
 " Cecilia, for shame 1 Surely it is wicked to speak like 
 that. Surely you are sinning against your religion, which of 
 all the religions the world has known is most human ; indeed, 
 I may say, the most domestic. Think, do not your theories 
 involve a condemnation of the life of Christ, and all that 
 concerns it ? " 
 
 " Hush, Alice, hush, — that was no more than an infinitely 
 mysterious, and an infinitely beautiful dream." As she 
 spoke she raised her face, the light fell on the retreating 
 temples, and the prominent eyes of the mystic were rolled 
 upward wildl}', almost convulsively. 
 
 Then Alice looked straight out of her plain, earnest eyes. 
 She was stirred to the depths of her being with wonder, with 
 a strange wonder in which there were mingled sensations of 
 horror and curiosity. And, at the same time, as there are 
 often in a violet sky vanishing touches of delicate blue so 
 pleasantly suggestive of sunshine that they are, as it were, 
 thoughts of happiness and pleasure, a sweet humming joy 
 fluttered down upon her heart like wings upon a nest that 
 was soon to grow alive with fledglings. In that moment 
 Alice knew she was to be a wife. A soft voice cooed deliciously 
 about her heart, but she strove not to list«n. Afterwards 
 she was ashamed of having experienced so much gladness in 
 the presence of one whom life had crowned with much grief. 
 At last she said : 
 
 " But, Cecilia, you must remember that mariiage is a 
 saciament that is permitted by God." 
 
 " Marriage is a concession to the weak in spirit." 
 
 " Then do you really think it is impossible to love a man 
 purely. And, admitting for a moment that Dr. Eeed does 
 want to marry me, do you think " (here Alice spoke with a 
 slight hesitation in her voice) "it would be incompatible 
 with the married state for a pure and holy affection to exist 
 between us, a belief in each other's truth, and much firm 
 dependence on the strength of our double life ? " 
 
 " Marriage is lawful, but for all that its passions are no 
 whit less gross and no less detestable than those of an)' other 
 form of concubinage, and he or she who would love as the 
 angels love in heaven, who would taste the love that fills tlie 
 
804 A DRAirA IN 1IUSLI5. 
 
 eternal spaces of heaven, must fly from all that is too con- 
 clusive of the earth ; must not seek to make a spiritual 
 banquet serve for worldly meat and drink. The real and 
 the ideal are not one but twain, and the twain will never 
 turn to one. Before you, myriad brides — bright and radiant 
 maidens — have gone to the marriage-bed, but only to return, 
 as you will, abashed, defiled, and mad with the ignominy and the 
 shame ; you, too, like them will know the truth when it is 
 too late. Darling, my heart is your heart, and your affections 
 are mine as mine are yours. I see it all. Oh God ! how 
 clear the vision is ! Listen, in horrible nightmare I have 
 endured .... yes, I have known the abominable mart3Tdom 
 which you will suffer. And now I can see it — a fearsome 
 monster waiting you from afar. All is dread darkness about 
 him, but his eyes gleam; his breath stirs the shuddering 
 silence. . . . Ah I it is too horrible ! I will see no more. 
 And, darling, I can only pity you, can but hold these arms to 
 you for a last time. Then you will be alone, and the love I 
 shall send out to you will but barely reach you, and will not 
 help you to live. You will be alone, you will have no one by 
 to comfort you, to wipe away you tears, to bid you bear your 
 lot for Christ's most holy sake. But I shall pray, I shall pray 
 by day and night, for I shall know all, and you too will know 
 all, and in your agony your thoughts will lean to CecUia, 
 to her who now seems to you no more than a strange-minded 
 cripple girl, to her who now seems to you but a dark-minded 
 cynic to whom all earthly joy is unholy and vile.'' 
 
 " But surely, Cecilia, you do not think all men are gross 
 and degraded — you do not hate your o^vn father ? " 
 
 Cecilia did not answer, but her lips curled disdainfully, and 
 it was easy to guess the dark and terrible thoughts that 
 agitated her. 
 
 " I cannot go into that question,'' she said abruptly ; " all I 
 have in my heart to tell concerns the futility of material 
 pleasures, and the terrible future you are preparing for 
 yourself. I have thought long and profoundly of the meaning 
 of life ; my deformity, forcing me to stand out of the swell- 
 ing of the crowd, has given me occasion to see as from a 
 tower, and from my silent and lonely place I have watched 
 and have seen the terrible end that awaits all earthly delight — 
 shame, loathing, weariness. But I am not the cynic that you 
 declare me. 1 believe there are many pleasures in life, but 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 805 
 
 they are found in resignation, in calm, and never in stormful 
 joy and violent ends. The real, the alDiding gladness of this 
 life is approached in prayer, in yearning for an ideal that 
 cannot be ours in this life, but which we may attain in the 
 next." 
 
 " An unattainable ideal ! Of what service can it then be to 
 us?" 
 
 " The value of an ideal lies in the fact of its unattainable- 
 ness, otherwise it would be worthless and valueless to guide 
 us, to lead us through our mortal night. And to gain power 
 to conquer our baser passions we set our eyes upon si fair, 
 unalterable star : in rare moments its beauty will shine upon 
 our tired faces, and our hearts shall wax joyful, and burdens 
 grow light upon our bending shoulders. Then we must pray. 
 Prayer is a Divine cordial poured out of heaven that our souls 
 may drink of and be refreshed ; prayer is a flower fallen from 
 heaven that man may cull and place it in his bosom and walk 
 on assured of his Divine importance ; and I have drunk of 
 this cordial ; I have gathered this rose and have been made 
 strong and whole with sweet drink and immortal perfume, 
 and may now pursue my journey to the end without fear of 
 falling by the wayside. Life has been defeated, its thorns 
 have been trampled under foot, and its temptations disdained. 
 For I, even a poor girl cripple like me, have been given not 
 only sorrows and pains to bear, but even temptations to over- 
 come. That you do not believe, and you cannot perhaps 
 realise, what I suifered when I saw you, my only friend, being 
 stolen from me. Then what was loathing grew to hate, and I 
 called upon God to curse, to kill, to relieve me of my enemy j 
 to crush him who will degrade with his vile usage her to whom 
 my thoughts turn as the sunflower must to the sun, her who 
 has been to me, poor, lonely and sorrowful me, an ideal of love, 
 of light, and of grace." 
 
 " Cecilia, darling, you shall not be alone. You shall come 
 and live with us . . . that is to say, if what you have spoken 
 of is to be." 
 
 " Live with you, with him ! For ever in sight of your 
 domestic aflfection ; to become a part of it 1 No, I shall seek 
 peace from you, from all too disturbing passion, in God and 
 the hope of heaven. I shall return to that place where alone 
 there may exist for me some small portion of earthly happiness 
 —the Convent of the Holy Child." 
 
306 A DItAJ[A IS MUSLIN. 
 
 " But you are not a Roman Catholic ! " 
 
 " I have always been one in sentiment, I shall now become one 
 in God, and I shall take the veil ; and in those beautiful black 
 robes, in that beautiful woman's church, in the silent sacra- 
 mental hours, my soul shall lose consciousness of all things 
 save of the white presence of God ; and there, when my heart 
 has grown quieter, I shall pray for you, Alice ; and my prayei's 
 shall be heard ; and if ever you come to me, if you should ever 
 whisper in my ear that you had learnt to believe in our Divine 
 Lord, if you should ever kneel by me in that beautiful convent 
 church and in our old places, and our spirits be mingled in the 
 sweet mutuality of prayer, I should forget all past griefs, or 
 rather I should say that for the ultimate happiness they bore, 
 they were worth enduring." 
 
 Tears stood in Alice's eyes ; her heart was too full for words, 
 but she took her friend in her arms and kissed her — the caiess 
 was passionately, and even violently returned. 
 
CHAPTER VIL 
 
 A WEEK later Mrs. Barton sat waiting in her drawing-room to 
 receive Milord. A bit of news had reached her and she was 
 anxious to verify it. From time to time she raised her soft 
 brown eyes to look at the clock. It was after one : con- 
 sequently he would arrive in a few minutes. And as if in 
 anticipation of his smiles the heart-shaped face was slanted in 
 the Lady Hamilton pose; the feet were tucked neatly away 
 beneath the black silk dress, the hands lay thereon like little 
 white china ornaments. There was about Mrs. Barton always 
 an air of qaiet refinement ; and Mrs. Barton looked more Mrs. 
 Barton now than ever. The sweet cunning of the face was 
 apparent in the grey Irish air that illumined the room, bringing 
 out in aggressive distinctness the plaintive pastels, the gim- 
 crack cabinets hung in the corners and between the windows, 
 and over-laden with Dresden figures, French fans, ivories, and 
 silver card-cases. Olive, looking as fragile as any toy, lay on 
 the sofa, and the decanter of sherry on his little table was 
 ready waiting for Milord. Suddenly the noise of wheels was 
 heard, and a moment after the old lord entered. He was as 
 hale and as hearty as ever ; but the times had been passing him 
 rapidly by of late, and the excessive courtliness, the expansive 
 shirt front, the elaborate necktie with the ends hanging about, 
 the elaborate stud were now more suggestive of high-class 
 comedy than of real life. 
 
 " Ah, ce cher Milord, comme il est beau, comme il est 
 parfait ! " exclaimed Mrs. Barton as she led hun to his chair 
 and poured out his glass of sherry. 
 
 But there was a gloom on his face which laughter and 
 compliments failed for a moment to dissipate — at last he 
 said : 
 
 " Ah, Mrs. Barton, Mrs. Barton ! if I had not this little 
 retreat to take refuge in, to hide myself in, during some hours 
 
 301 
 
808 A DEAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 of the day, I should not be able to bear up — Brookfield has 
 prolonged my life for . . ." 
 
 " I cannot allow such sad thoughts as these," said Mrs. 
 Barton laughing, and waving her white hands. " Who has 
 been teasing notre cher Milord ? What have dreadful Lady 
 Jane and terrible Lady Sarah been doing to him ! " 
 
 " I shall never forget this morning, no, not if I lived to a 
 thousand," the old gentleman murmured, plaintively. " Oh, 
 the scenes, the scenes I have gone through ! Cecilia, as I told 
 you yesterday, has been filling the house with rosaries and 
 holyTvater-fonts ; Jane and Sarah have been breaking these, 
 and the result has been tears and upbraidings. . . . Last night 
 at dinner I don't really know what they didn't say to each 
 other ; and then the two elder ones fell upon me and declared 
 that it was all my fault, that I ought never to have sent my 
 daughter to a Catholic convent. I was obliged to shut myself 
 up in the study and lock the door. Then this morning when 
 I thought it was all over it began again worse than ever ; and 
 then in the middle of it all when Jane asked Cecilia how many 
 Gods there were in the roll of bread she was eating if the 
 priest were to bless it ... a most injudicious observation, I 
 said so at the time, and I must apologise to you, my dear Mrs. 
 Barton for repeating it, but I am really so upset that I 
 scarcely know what I am saying . . well, Jane had no sooner 
 spoken than Cecilia overthrew the teacups and said she was 
 not going to stay in the house to hear her religion insulted, 
 and without another word she walked down to the parish 
 priest and was baptised a Catholic; nor is that all, she re- 
 turned with a scapular round her neck, a rosary about her 
 waist, and a Pope's medal in her hand. I really thought Jane 
 and Sarah would have fainted ; indeed I am sure they would 
 have faulted if Cecilia hadn't declared that she was going to pack 
 up her things and return at once to St. Leonard's and become a 
 nun. Such an announcement as this was of course far beyond 
 fainting and . . . but no, I will not attempt to describe 
 it, but I can assure you I was very anxious to get out of the 
 house." 
 
 " Cecilia going to be a nun ; oh, I am so glad ! " exclaimed 
 Olive. " It is far the best thing slie could do, for she couldn't 
 hope to be married." 
 
 " Olive, Olive ! " said Mrs. Barton, " you should not speak 
 Bo openly. We should always consider the religious prejudices 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. SO 9 
 
 of others. Of course, as Catholics we must be glad to hear of 
 anyone joining the true Church, but we should remember that 
 Milord is going to lose his daughter." 
 
 " I assure you my dear Mrs. Barton, I have no prejudices. 
 I look upon all religions as equally good, but to be forced to 
 live in a perpetual discussion in which teacups are broken, 
 concerning scapulars, bacon and meal shops, and a school 
 which, putting aside the question of expense, makes me hated 
 in the neighbourhood, I regard as intolerable, and when I go 
 home this evening I shaU tell Jane that the school must be 
 put down or carried on in a less aggressive way. I assure 
 you I have no wish to convert the people ; they are paying 
 their rents very well now, and I think it absurd to upset 
 them ; and the fact of having received CecUia into the Church 
 might incline the priest very much towards us." 
 
 " And Cecilia will be so happy in that beautiful convent 1 " 
 suggested Mrs. Barton. 
 
 " O'est le genie du Catholicisme de nous debarrasser des files 
 laides." 
 
 And upon this expression of goodwill towards the Church 
 of Rome, Cecilia's future life was discussed with much amia- 
 bility. Mrs. Barton said she would make a sweet little nun ; 
 Olive declared that she would certainly go to Saint Leonard's 
 to see her " professed," and Milord's description of Lady Sarah's 
 and Lady Jane's ill-humour was considered irresistibly comic, 
 and he was forced to tell the story of his woes again and 
 again. 
 
 Soon after, the servant announced Dr. Reed, and Alice 
 came downstairs. 
 
 Mrs. Barton was annoyed at the Doctor's visit, and she 
 showed her annoyance by maintaining a discourteous silence. 
 
 " What can he want here every day ? " she thought ; " this 
 is the third time this week he has called, and Olive is as well 
 as ever she was. He feels her pulse and looks at her tongue 
 and says it is a very satisfactory recovery. We all know that ! 
 I wish he'd go, and let me hear something more about Cecilia's 
 conversion." 
 
 Dr. Reed's society manners were none of the best, and 
 now, facing Milord's urbanity and Mrs. Barton's indifference, 
 he sat on the edge of his chair, a picture of drawing-room 
 misery. Alice, who knew he had come to see her, strove to 
 make matters easy, and she industriously alluded to all 
 
310 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 possible topics of conversation. But without much effect : the 
 Doctor evidently had something on his mind, and after an 
 answer had been given the conversation came to an abiupt 
 close. Then she guessed that he wanted to speak to her alone ; 
 and in reply to a remark he had made concerning the fever 
 dens in Gort she said : 
 
 " I wanted to ask you a question or two about typhoid-fever, 
 Dr. Reed ; one of my heroines is going to die of it, and I 
 should like to avoid medical impossibilities. May I show you 
 the passage ? " 
 
 " Certainly, Miss Barton ; I shall be delighted to give you 
 any assistance in my power." 
 
 When Alice left the room to fetch her manuscript, the 
 Doctor hurriedly bid his patient. Milord and Mrs. Barton good- 
 bye. The latter said : 
 
 " Won't you wait to see Alice ? " 
 
 " I have to speak to the boy in charge of my car ; I shall 
 see Miss Barton as she comes downstahs." 
 
 Mrs. Barton looked as if she thought this arrangement not 
 a little singular, but she said nothing, and when Alice camo 
 running downstairs with a roll of MSS. in her hand, she 
 attempted to explain her difficulty to the Doctor. Pie made 
 a feeble attempt to listen to the passage she read aloud to 
 him ; and when their eyes met across the paper she saw he 
 was going to propose to her. 
 
 " Will you walk down the avenue with me ? and we ivill 
 talk of that as we go along." 
 
 Her hat was on the hall table, she took it up and in silence 
 walked with him out on the gravel. 
 
 "Will I put the harse up, sorl" cried the boy from the 
 outside car. 
 
 " No, follow me down the avenue." 
 
 It was a wild autumn evening, full of wind and leaves. 
 The great green pexsture lands, soaked and soddened with rain, 
 rolled their monotonous green turf to the verge of the blown 
 bi'cch-trees, about which the roolis drifted in picturesque con- 
 fusion. Now they soared like hawks, or on straightened wings 
 WL're carried down a furious gust across the tumultuous waves 
 of upheaved yellow, and past the rift of cold crimson that is 
 tossed like a banner through the shadows of evening. 
 
 The lovers walked onwards in silence ; and, as the landscape 
 daikeucd, their lives seemed to grow brighter in the auroral 
 
A DRAMA IJf MUSTJN. 311 
 
 light of a new day : and the echoes of the old world 
 sounded dim as the shuffling of the horse that tramped 
 leisurely behind them. At lixst he said : 
 
 " I came here to tell you that I am going away ; that I am 
 leaving Ireland for ever. I have been able to make very 
 satisfactory arrangements with my publisher; my book has 
 turned out very successful indeed, and the result is that I 
 ha\e bought the practice I spoke to you of in Notting Hill." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad." 
 
 " Thank you ! but there is another and more importnut 
 matter on which I should like to speak to you. For a long 
 time back I had resolved to leave Ireland a sad or an entirely 
 happy man. Which shall it be ! You are the only woman I 
 ever loved — will you be my wife ! " 
 
 " Yes, I Avill." 
 
 Dr. Heed's face flushed with pleasure, and his eyes gleamed 
 with delight. " Is this possible ? How happy you have made 
 me. Heaven seems to await me. But," he added sighing, 
 " I shall not be able to give you a home like the one you are 
 leaving ; we shall have to be very economical ; we shall not 
 have more than tliree hundred a year to live upon. You will 
 never be able to be satisfied with that." 
 
 " I hope, indeed — I am sure we shall get on very well ; you 
 forget that I can do something myself," she added smiling. 
 " I have two or three orders ; I do not think I am exaggerat- 
 ing when I say I shall be able to make two hundred a year, 
 and that at the very least." 
 
 " Then we shall bear life's burden equally ? " 
 
 " No, not quite equally, but as nearly as Nature will allow 
 ug." 
 
 Then Alice passed her arm through Dr. Reed's ; and as he 
 unfolded his plans to her, he held her hand warmly and 
 affectionately in his : and as the twilight drifted it was 
 wrapped like a veil about them. The rooks in great flitting 
 iioclis passed over their heads, the tempestuous crimson of the 
 sky had been hurled further away and only the form 
 of the grey horse, that the boy had allowed to graze, stood out 
 distinctly in the beautiful gloom that descended upon the 
 eaith. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Alice, as she walked back to the house, was conscious of 
 many sensations of triumph ; sensations of which she was 
 ashamed, but which she could not entirely repress. They 
 thronged upon her rapidly — dizzily as the fumes of a strong 
 wine. And she had to yield a little ; she had to listen a little 
 to the thoughts that sung in her ears : " Yes, I shall be 
 maixied, and those girls will envy me ; they who always sneered 
 at me, who said I was a plain girl who would never be able to 
 do anything for herself. Well, I shall be married before them 
 after all." 
 
 And on the very first opportunity she could find, Alice told 
 her mother that Dr. Eeed had proposed to her, and that she 
 had accepted him. Mrs. Barton said it was disgraceful, and 
 that she would never hear of such a marriage ; and when the 
 doctor called next day she acquainted him with her views on 
 the subject. She told him he had very improperly taken 
 advantage of his position to make love to her daughter ; she 
 really didn't know how he could ever have arrived at the con- 
 clusion that a match was possible, and that for the future his 
 visits must cease at Brookfield. 
 
 When Alice heard what had passed between Dr. Reed and 
 her mother, she immediately wrote to him, expressing her 
 regret for what had happened. She assured him that her 
 feelings towards him would remain uninfluenced by anything 
 that anyone might say ; and she urged that as it would be very 
 painful for her to live at home while opposing her family's 
 wishes on such a very important question, it would be as well 
 that the marriage should take place with the least possible 
 delay. She took this letter down to the Post Office herself, 
 and when she returned she entered the drawing-ioom and told 
 Mis. Barton what she had done. 
 
 312 
 
A. DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 313 
 
 " I wish you had shown me the letter before you sent it. 
 There is nothing we need advice about so much as a letter." 
 
 " Yes, mother," replied Alice, deceived by the gentleness of 
 Mrs. Barton's manner, " but we seemed to hold such widely 
 different views on this matter that there did not seem to be 
 any use in discussing it." 
 
 " Mother and daughter should never hold different views ; 
 my children's interests are my interests — what interests have 
 I now but theirs ? " 
 
 " Oh, mother, then you will consent to this marriage ? " 
 
 Mrs. Barton's face always changed expression before a du'ect 
 question. " My dear, I would consent to anything that would 
 make you happy, but it seems to me impossible that you could 
 be happy with Dr. Reed. You must remember that he is 
 scarcely a gentleman ; have you not noticed how coarse and 
 vulgar he is ? And just fancy having to put up with, all that I 
 You do not know, I mean, you do not realise what the inti- 
 macies of married life are — they are often hard to put up with, 
 no matter who the man may be — but with one who is not a 
 gentleman ..." 
 
 " But, mother. Dr. Reed seems to me to be in every way a 
 gentleman. Who is there more gentlemanly in the country ? 
 I am sure that from every point of view he is preferable to 
 Mr. Adair or Sir Charles, or Sir Richard or Mr. Ryan, or his 
 cousin, Mr. Lynch." 
 
 " My darling chUd, I would sooner see you laid in your 
 coffin than married to either Mr. Ryan or !Mr. Lynch ; but 
 that is not the question, it is, whether you had not better wait 
 for a few years before you throw yourself away on such a man as 
 Dr. Reed. I know that you have been greatly tried ; nothing 
 is so trying to a girl as to come out with her sister who is the 
 belle of the season, and I must say you have borne up with a 
 great deal of pluck and have always shown a great deal of self- 
 restraint ; and perhaps I have not been considerate enough, 
 but I too have had my disappointments — Olive's affairs did 
 not, as you know, turn out as well as I had expected, and to 
 see you now marry one who is so much beneath us ! " 
 
 " Mother, dear, he is not beneath us. There is no one who 
 has got on like Dr. Reed, and he owes nothing to anyone ; he 
 has done it all by his own exertions ; and now his book is a 
 success and he has bought a London practice. No, I cannot 
 miss this chance of settling myself in liife." 
 
314 A DRAMA IN MUSUN. 
 
 "Then you do not love him, it is only for the sake of settling 
 yourself in life that you are marrying him ? " 
 
 " I respect Dr. EeeJ more than any man living ; I bear for 
 him a most sincere affection, and I hope to make him a good 
 wife." 
 
 " You don't love him as }-ou did Mr. HaiJing ? If you will 
 only wait you may get him. The tenants are paying their 
 rents very well, and I am thinking of going to London in the 
 spring." 
 
 The girl winced at the mention of Harding, but she looked 
 into her mother's soft appealing brown eyes; and, reading 
 clearer than she had ever read before all the adorable falseness 
 that lay therein, she answered : 
 
 "I do not want to marry Mr. Harding; I am engaged to 
 Dr. Reed and I do not intend to give him up." 
 
 This answer was given so firmly that Mrs. Barton lost her 
 temper for a moment and she said : 
 
 " And do you really know what this Dr. Reed originally 
 was ? Do you know that his father kept a small shop in the 
 village of Out and that the man you are thinking of marry- 
 ing was educated at the National School, and that he used to run 
 there without shoes or stockings. Lord Dungory is dining 
 here to-night ; he knows all about Dr. E.eed's antecedents, and 
 I am svire he will be horrified when he hears that you are 
 thinking of marrying him." 
 
 " I cannot recognise Lord Dungory's right to advise me on 
 any course I may choose to take, and I hope he will have the 
 good taste to refrain from speaking to me of my marriage." 
 
 " What do you mean ? Plow dare you speak to me like 
 that, you impertinent girl 1 " 
 
 " I am not impertinent, mother, and I hope I shall never 
 111' impertinent to you ; but I am now in my twenty-fifth 
 year, and if I am ever to judge for myself, I must do so now." 
 
 Alice was curiously surprised by her own words ; it seemed 
 to her that it was some strange woman, and not herself — not the 
 old self with whom she was intimately acquainted, who was 
 speaking. Life is full of these epoch-marking moments. We 
 have all at some given time experienced the sensation of finding 
 ourselves either stronger or weaker than we had ever before 
 known ourselves to be ; Alice now for the first time felt that 
 she was speaking and acting in her own individual right ; 
 and the knowledge as it thrilled through her consciousness 
 
X DRAMA IN MUSLIM. 315 
 
 was almost a pliysical pleasure. l>ut notwithstanding tbo 
 certitude that never left her of the propriety of her conduct, 
 and the equally ever-present sentiment of the happiness that 
 awaited her, she suffered much during the next ten days, and 
 she was frequently in tears. Cecilia's grief — she had started 
 for St. Leonard's without coming to wish her goodbye — and 
 the cruel sneers, insinuations of all kinds against her and 
 against Dr. Reed, which Mrs. Barton never missed an 
 occasion of using, wounded the girl so deeply, that it was only 
 at the rarest intervals that she left her room — when she 
 walked to the post with a letter, when the luncheon or 
 dinner-bell rang. Why she should be thus persecuted, Alice 
 was unable to determine ; and why her family did not hail 
 with delight this chance of getting rid of a plain girl, whose 
 prospects were limited, was difficult to say j nor could the 
 girl arrive at any notion of the pleasure or profit it might be 
 to anyone that she should waste her life amid chaperons and 
 gossip, instead of taking her part in the world's work. And 
 yet this seemed to be Mrs. Barton's inscrutable idea of what 
 was right to do ; and she did not hesitate to threaten that 
 she would neither attend herself, nor allow Mr. Barton to 
 attend the ceremony ; and that Alice might meet Dr. Reed at 
 the corner of the road, and be married as best she could. 
 Alice appealed to her father against this decision, but she 
 soon had to renounce the hope of obtaining any definite 
 answer. He had been previously told that if he attempted 
 any interference, his supply of paints, brushes, canvases, 
 and guitar-strings would be cut off, and, as he was at present 
 deeply engaged on a new picture of Julius Csesar overturning 
 the altars of the Druids, he hesitated before the alternatives 
 offered to him. He spoke with much affection : he regretted 
 that Alice could not see her way to marrying someone whom 
 her mother could approve 1 He explained the difficulties of 
 his position, and the necessity of his turning something out 
 
 seeing what he really could do before the close of the year. 
 
 Alice was bitterly disappointed, but she bore her disappoint- 
 ment bravely, and she wrote to Dr. Reed, telling him what 
 had occurred, and proposing to meet him on a certain day at 
 the Parish Church, where Father Shannon would marry them ; 
 and, that if he refused, they would proceed to Dublin, and be 
 married at the Registry Office. In a way Alice would have 
 preferred this latter course, but her good sense warned her 
 
316 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 against the uselessness of offering any too violent opposition to 
 the opinions of the world. And so it was arranged ; and sad, 
 weary and wretched, Alice lingered through the last few days 
 of the life that had always been to her one of humiliation, 
 and which now towards its close had quieted to one of intense 
 pain. Thus, all had been settled, and the last few sands of 
 girl-life were slipping through the inverted glass, and disap- 
 pearing into the obscure void of the past. The Brennans had 
 promised to meet her in the chapel, and one day as she was 
 sitting by her window, she saw May in all the glory of her 
 copper hair, drive a tandem up to the door. This girl, a little 
 too corpulent, threw the reins to the groom, and rushed to her 
 friend. 
 
 "And how do you do, Alice, and how well you are looking, 
 and how pleased I am to see you. . . I would have come 
 before, only my leader was coughing and I could not take him 
 out. . . Oh, I was so wild, it is always like that ; nothing is 
 so disappointing as horses ; whenever you especially require 
 them they are laid up . . and you can't imagine the difficulty 
 I had to get him along ; I must really get another leader ; he 
 was trying to turn round the whole way . . if it hadn't been 
 for the whip . . I took blood out of him three times running. 
 But I know you don't care anything about horses, and I want 
 to hear about this marriage . . L am so glad, so pleased . . 
 but (/ell me, do you like him ? He seems a very nice sort of 
 man, you know, a man that would make a woman happy. . 
 I am sure you will be happy mth him, but it is dreadful to 
 think we are going to lose you . . I shall, I know, be running 
 over to London on purpose to see you . . but tell me, what I 
 want to know is, do you like him ? AVould you beUeve it, I 
 never once suspected there was anything between you ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear Maj-," Alice replied, smiling, " I do like 
 Edward Reed ; nor do I think that I should ever like any 
 other man half as much : I have perfect confidence in him, 
 and where there is not confidence there cannot be love. His 
 book has succeeded very well ; he has bought a small practice 
 in Netting Hill, which with care and industry he hopes may 
 be worked up into a substantial business. We shall be very 
 poor at first, but with what I shall make by ^vriting I have no 
 doubt but we shall be able to make both ends meet." 
 
 " Well, being both writers you will suit each other well 
 enough, and I'm sure it will be awfully jolly to go away and 
 
A DRAMA IN JI0SLIX 817 
 
 live in London. I can see it all ; a little suburban semi- 
 detached house, with green Venetian blinds, a small mahogany 
 sideboard, and a clean capped maid-servant; and in the 
 drawing-room you won't have a piano — you don't care for 
 music, but you'll have some basket chairs, and small book- 
 cases, and a tea-table with tea cakes at five — oh, won't you 
 look quiet and grave at that tea-table . . but tell me, it is all 
 over the county that Mrs. Barton won't hear of this marriage, 
 and that she won't allow your father to go to the chapel to 
 give you away. It is an awful shame, and for the life of 
 me I can't see what parents have to do ^^'ith our marriage, do 
 you?" 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, May continued the conversa- 
 tion, and with florid vehemence she passed from one subject to 
 another utterly disconnected without a transitional word of ex- 
 planation. She explained how tiresome it was to sit at home of 
 an evening listening to Mrs. Gould bemoaning the state of the 
 country ; she spoke of her terrier, and this led up to a critical 
 examination of the good looks of several of the officers 
 stationed at Gort ; then she alluded to the last meet of the 
 hovinds, and she described the big wall she and Mrs. Manley 
 had jumped together; a new hat and an old skirt that she 
 had lately done up came in for a passing remark, and, with 
 an abundance of laughter. May gave an account of a luncheon 
 party at Lord Rosshill's ; and, apparently verbatim, she told 
 what each of the five Honourable Miss Gores had said 
 about the marriage. Then growing suddenly serious, she 
 said : 
 
 " It is all very well to laugh, but, when one comes to think 
 of it, it is very sad indeed to see seven human lives wasting 
 away, a whole family of girls eating their hearts out in blank 
 despair, having nothing to do but to pop about from one tennis 
 party to another, and chatter to each other or their chaperons 
 of this girl and that who does not seem to be getting married. 
 You are very lucky indeed, Alice — luckier than you think you 
 are, and you are quite right to stick out and do the best you 
 can for yourself in spite of what your people say. It is all 
 very well for them to talk, but they don't know what we 
 suffer : we are not all made alike, and the wants of one are 
 not the wants of another. I daresay you never thought much 
 about that sort of thing ; but as I say, we are not all made 
 alike. Every woman, or nearly every one, wants a husband and 
 
313 A DllAilA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 a home, and it is only natural she should, and if she doesn't 
 get them the temptations she has to go through are something 
 frightful, and if we make the slightest slip the whole world is 
 down upon us. I can talk to you, Alice, because you know 
 what I have gone through. . You have been a very good 
 friend to me — had it not been for you I don't know what 
 would have become of me. You did not reproach me, you 
 were kind and had pity for me ; you are a sensible person and 
 I daresay you understood that I was not entirely to blame. 
 And I was not entirely to blame ; the circumstances we girls 
 live under are not just — no, they are not just. We are told 
 that we must marry a man with at least a thousand a year, or 
 remain spinsters ; well, I should like to know where the men 
 are who have a thousand a year, and some of us can't remain 
 spinsters. Oh I you are very lucky indeed to have found a 
 husband, and to be going away to a home of your own . . I 
 wish I were as lucky as you, Alice, indeed I do, for then there 
 would be no excuse, and I could be a good woman." 
 
 Then May lost all control over her feelings, and she burst 
 into a passionate flood of teai-s. " Oh ! Alice, Alice, I am very 
 wicked — T am not worthy to speak to you." 
 
 " May, what do you mean ; surely you don't mean to say 
 that you are again " 
 
 " Oh, no; but I am dreadfully sinful. If you knew all you 
 would not speak to me : and if I died now I should go straight 
 to Hell I" 
 
 " I did not know Fred Scully had come back." 
 
 " Nor has he ; it was not he." 
 
 " Who was it ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me what does it matter ? " 
 
 '■ I am very sorry. . Do you love him very much ? " 
 
 " No, no ; it was nn old man." * *' -" ••' "' 
 
 Alice shuddered ; her face contracted in an expression of 
 disgust, and teai's rose to her eyes. Will slipped away, and it 
 seemed to her as if she had suddenly entered a cold, miasmal 
 place, and the chill that sank through her flesh was such as is 
 inhaled at the damp mouth of an earthward descending cavei'n, 
 wherein dark pools lie brooding beyond the eye of day, un- 
 silvered even by the light of a falling star. A ghoul-like 
 terror tortured her ; and frantically she longed to shut out the 
 
A DHAMA IN MUSLIN. 810 
 
 vision that danced and leered through her thoughts, and that 
 fouled with its greyness the beautiful cream and burning copper 
 of the girl's neck and hair. 
 
 " You won't hate me too much, wiU you, Alice ? I have 
 made a lot of good resolutions, and they shall be kept. All is 
 not my fault I assure you. I am determined to be a good 
 woman yet. I wish I were going to be married like you I 
 Then one is out of temptation. Haven't you a kind word for 
 mc ? Avon't you kiss me and tell me you don't despise me ? " 
 
 " Of course I'll kiss you. May. . . I am awfully sorry, but 
 I am sure that one of these days — that you will bo for the 
 future " 
 
 Alice could say no more ; and the giils kissed and cried in 
 each other's arms, and the group was a sad allegory of poor 
 humanity's triumph, and poor humanity's more than piteous 
 failures. 
 
 Then the girls dried their eyes and strove to speak of 
 indifferent things, but their hearts were tense with emotion, 
 and the conversation came to sudden and irritating closes. 
 
 At last they went downstairs, and in the hall, May showed 
 Alice the beautiful wedding-present she had bought her, and 
 the girl did not say that she had sold her huuter to buy il. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 At Brookfielcl on tlie morning of the 3rd of December, 
 '84, tlie rain fell persistently in the midst of a profound 
 silence. The spike-like branches of the beech and chestnut 
 trees stood stark in the grey air as if petrified ; for there was 
 not wind enough to waft the falling leaf, and it fell straight 
 as if shotted. The sheep strove to graze ; the green-painted 
 verandah and the glass doors were lugubrious anachronisms ; 
 and in the soaring silence and the engulfing rain there was a 
 distinct sensation of tragedy. 
 
 Not a living thing was to be seen except the wet sheep, nor 
 did anything stir either within or without ; and the house, 
 liko a poor belated organ-woman with white head-dress and 
 Southern earrings, looked as if it were trying to crouch, to 
 escape, to hide itself from the merciless rain. Suddenly an 
 outside car, one seat overturned to save the cushions from the 
 wet, came careering up tlie avenue. At a glance you saw it 
 was a post-car. There was the shaggy horse and the wild-look- 
 ing driver in a long, shaggy frieze ulster. He rang the bell. 
 The door was opened by a young woman. She was crying 
 bitterly. Shouldering her portmanteau, the carman proceeded 
 at once, with a piece of rope which he drew from his coat- 
 poiki't, to fasten it in front of the shaggy horse's tail. Even 
 now, at the last moment, Alice expected the drawing-room door 
 to open and her mother to come rushing out to wish her good- 
 liye. But Mrs. Barton remained implacable, and after laying 
 one more kiss on her sister's pale cheek, Alice, in a passionate 
 Jlood of tears, was driven .away from the home where she had 
 known so much grief and pain. She went straight to the 
 chapel. 
 
 In streaming macintoshes, and leaning on dripping umbrellas, 
 she found her husband, and Gladys and Zoe Bronnan waiting 
 for her in the porch of the church. Everybody felt a littlo 
 
A DUAMA IN MUSLIN. 821 
 
 miserable, and the women strove to kiss each other's wet 
 faces. 
 
 »' Did you ever see such weather ? " said Zoe. 
 
 *' Is it not dreadful ! " said Gladys. 
 
 " It was good of you to come," said Alice. 
 
 " It was indeed I " said the bridegroom, who felt he was 
 obliged to say something. 
 
 " What nonsense ! " said Zoe ; " we were only too pleased ; 
 and if to-day be wet, to-morrow and the next and the next will 
 be sunshine, at least for you." 
 
 And thanking Zoe inwardly for this most appropriate 
 remark, the party ascended the church toward the altar-rails, 
 where Father Shannon was awaiting them. Large, pompous, 
 and arrogant, he stood on his altar-steps, and his hands were 
 crossed over his portly stomach. On either side of him the 
 plaster angels bowed their heads and folded their wings. 
 Above him, the great chancel window, with its panes of green 
 and yellow glass, jarred in an unutterable clash of colour j and 
 the great white stare of the chalky walls, and the earthen 
 f.oor with its tub of holywater, and the German prints 
 absurdly representing the suffering of Christ, bespoke the 
 primitive belief, the coarse superstition of which the place was 
 an immediate symbol. Alice and the Doctor looked at each other 
 and smiled, but their thoughts were too firmly fixed on the 
 actual problem of their united lives to wander far in the most 
 hidden ways of the old world's psychical extravagances. What 
 did it matter to them what absurd usages the place they were 
 in was put to ? — they, at least, were only making use of it as 
 they might of any other public office ; the police station, where 
 inquiries are made concerning parcels left in cabs ; the Com- 
 missioner before whom an affidavit is made. And it served its 
 purpose as well as any of the others did theirs. The priest joined 
 their hands, Edward put the ring on Alice's finger, and the 
 usual prayers did no harm if they did no good ; and having 
 signed their names in the register and bid good-bye to the 
 Miss Brennans, they got into the carriage, man and wife, their 
 feet set for ever upon one path, their interests and delights 
 melted to one interest and one delight, their separate troubles 
 merged into one trouble that might or might not be made 
 lighter by the sharing : and penetrated by such thoughts 
 they leaned back on the blue cushions of the carriage, happy, 
 and yet a little frightened. 
 
322 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 Father than pass three hours waiting for a train at the little 
 station of Ardrahan, it had been arranged to spend the time 
 driving to Athenry ; and, as the carriage rolled through the 
 deliquefying country, the eyes of the man and the woman rested 
 half fondly, half regretfully, and wholly pitifully on all the 
 familiar signs and the wild landmarks, which during so many 
 years had grown into and become part of the texture of their 
 habitual thought ; on things of which they would now have to 
 wholly divest themselves, and remember only as the back- 
 ground of their younger lives. Through the streaming glass 
 they could see the inevitable strip of bog ; and the half -naked 
 woman, her soaked petticoat clinging about her red legs, piling 
 the wet peat into the baskets thrown across the meagre back 
 of a starveling ass. The poor animal turned its tail to the 
 swiftly-rolling vehicle. And further on there are low-lying 
 swampy fields, and between them and the roadside a few miser- 
 able poplars with cabins sunk below the dung-heaps, and the 
 meagre potato-plots lying about them; and then, as these 
 are passed, there are green enclosures full of fattening kine, 
 and here and there a dismantled cottage, one wall still black 
 with the chimney's smoke, uttering to those who know the 
 country a tale of eviction and the consequent hoiTors : despair, 
 hunger, revenge, and death. And above all these, sweeping 
 along the crests of the hills, are long lines of beautiful planta- 
 tions, and, looking past the great gateways and the outlying 
 fir-woods, between the masses of the beeches you can see the 
 white Martello-tower-like houses of the landlords. Alice and 
 Edward knew them all, could as they passed away from them 
 for ever see the furniture in their rooms, catch the intonation 
 of their voices, understand their enthusiasm for the Coercion 
 Acts. Writs could now be served, the land-hunger was as 
 keen as ever, and the farms of e\'icted tenants could be relet 
 \\ ithout difficulty or danger. 
 
 Sudilrnly the carriage turned up a narrow road. The 
 coachman stojipi.:d to inquire the way, and our travellers were 
 the unwilling witnesses of one of those scenes for which 
 Iieland is so infamously famous — an eviition. The cabin was 
 a fair specimen of its kind. It was built of rough stone 
 without mortar, and through the chinlcs all the winds of 
 heiiven were free to wander. There was a potato-field at tlie 
 back, and n mud-heap in front, and through the slush the 
 shattered door was approached by stepping-stones. From the 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. S23 
 
 exterior it is easy to imagine the interior — a dark, fetid hole, 
 smelling of smoke, potato-skins, and damp. And about this 
 miserable tenement there were grouped a dozen policemen 
 armed with rifles, two men in pot-hats and long ulsters, and 
 a dozen or fifteen peasants come to watch the proceedings. 
 An old woman of seventy had been placed for shelter beneath 
 a hawthorn-bush ; six young children clung about their shriek- 
 ing mother ; the man, with nothing but a pair of trousers and 
 a ragged shirt to protect him from the terrible rain, stood a 
 picture of speechless despair on the dung-heap, amid a mass 
 of infamous bedding, and a few wooden stools that had been 
 dragged from the house by the landlord's agents. 
 
 " Is it not terrible that human creatures should endure 
 such misery ? " exclaimed Alice. 
 
 " Yes, it is very shocking, it is horrible, let us do something 
 for them ; suppose we pay the rent for them, it cannot be 
 much, and restore them to their miserable home. We cannot 
 leave Ireland with such a shocking picture engraved on our 
 minds for ever." 
 
 "Yes, yes, Edward, do pay the rent for them — it is too 
 terrible." 
 
 The transaction was soon concluded, the man was handed a 
 receipt, and told he might put his things back into his house. 
 All were taken by surprise ; but, when the first shock was over, 
 uttering a wild cry, the woman, dragging her children forward, 
 threw herself on her knees and invoked a thousand blessings on 
 the heads of her benefactors. It was a strange sight— the 
 old bedridden grandmother, beneath her hawthorn-bush, 
 clasped her palsied hands; the half -naked mother and the 
 half-naked children, the man in his tattered shirt, kneeling 
 in line in front of their frightful hovel, in the middle of this 
 barren Irish road, in the long wash of the rain, conscious of 
 nothing but a wild savage feeling of gratitude, shouted forth 
 a primitive thanksgiving for what they deemed a deliverance 
 from evil : " May Heaven bless you, may Christ Jesus our 
 Lord and His Holy Mother this day watch over you 1" 
 
 The agents laughed coarsely. One said : — " There are 
 plinty more of them over the hill on whom he can exercoise 
 his charity if he should feel so disposed ! " 
 
 " It would save us a dale of throuble and ixpense if he 
 would ; but to whom do we go next ? Mick Flanagan ! Where 
 does he live ? " 
 
824 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " I show you, yer honour,'' exclaimed half a dozen peasants, 
 " this way, not a couple of hundred yards from here, close to 
 the public, where we may have a drap if yer honour feels so 
 inclined." 
 
 "And to think," said Dr. Reed reflectively, "that they are 
 the same peasants that we once saw so firmly banded that it 
 seemed as if nothing would ever again separate them, that 
 nothing would ever again render them cowardly and untrue 
 to each other ; is it possible that those -ivretched hirelings, so 
 ready to betray, so eager to lick the hand that smites them, 
 are the same men whom we saw two years ago united by one 
 thought, organised by one determination to resist the oppressor, 
 marching firmly to nationhood ? And when one thinks of the 
 high hopes and noble ambitions that were lavished for the 
 redemption of these base creatures, one is disposed to admit 
 in despair the fatality of all human efTort, and, hearkening 
 to the pessimist, concede with a Mephistophelean grin that all 
 here is vileness and degradation." 
 
 " Of humanity we must not think too much ; for the present 
 we can best serve it by learning to love each other." 
 
 Then Edward put his arm about Alice and drew her towards 
 him. The painful incident they had just witnessed had already 
 borne fruit ; and, absorbed in the contemplation of a happiness 
 which seemed to them immeasurable, as profound as the misevy 
 of the unfortunate people they had rescued from death, the 
 lovers leaned back in the shadow of the carriage and listened 
 to the ceaseless splashing of the rain which filled the ear and 
 mingled with the cries of startled lapwings. 
 
 Two years and a half have passed away, and the suburban 
 home predicted by May, when she came to bid Alice a last 
 good-bye, arises before the reader in all its yellow paint and 
 homely vulgarity. Here you find the ten-roomed house with 
 all its special characteristics. Let us examine the frontage, 
 a dining-room window looking upon a commodious area with 
 dust and coal-holes. The drawing-room has two windows, and 
 the slender balcony is generally set with flower-boxes. Above 
 that come the two windows of the best bedroom belonaing to 
 Mr. and Mrs., and above that again the windows of two small 
 rooms, respectively inhabited by the eldest son and daughter ; 
 and these are topped by the mock-Elizabethan gable which 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 825 
 
 enframes the tiny window of a servant's room. Each house has 
 a pair of trim stone pillars, the crude green of the Venetian 
 blinds jars the cultured eye, and even the tender green of the 
 foliage in the crescent seems as cheap and as common as if it 
 had been bought — as everything else is in Ashbourne Crescent 
 — at the Stores. But how much does this crescent of shrubs 
 mean to the neighbourhood ? Is it not there that the old 
 ladies take their pugs for their constitutional walks, and is it not 
 there that the young ladies play tennis with their gentleman 
 acquaintances when they come home from the City on a Satur- 
 day afternoon ? 
 
 In Ashbourne Crescent there is neither Dissent nor Eadi- 
 calism, but general aversion to all considerations which 
 might disturb belief in all the routine of existence, in all its 
 temporal and spiritual aspects, as it had come amongst them. 
 The fathers and the brothers go to the City every day at nine, 
 the young ladies play tennis, read novels, and beg to be taken 
 to dances at the Kensington Town Hall. On Sunday the aii- 
 is alive with the clanging of bells, and in orderly procession 
 every family proceeds to church, the fathers in all the gravity 
 of umbrellas and prayer-books, the matrons in silk mantles and 
 clumsy ready-made elastic-sides ; the girls in all the gaiety of 
 their summer dresses with lively bustles bobbing, the young 
 men in frock-coats which show oiT their broad shoulders — from 
 time to time they pull their ta^vny moustaches. Each house 
 keeps a cook and housemaid, and on Sunday afternoons, when 
 the skies are flushed with sunset and the outlines of this 
 human warren grow harshly distinct — black lines upon pale 
 red — these are seen walking arm-in-arm away towards a 
 distant park with their young men. 
 
 To some this air of dull well-to-do-ness may seem as in- 
 tolerable, as obscene in its way as the look of melancholy 
 silliness which the Dubliners and their dirty city wear 
 60 unintermittently. One is the inevitable decay which 
 must precede an outburst of national energy; the other 
 is the smug optimism, that fund of materialism, on which 
 a nation lives, and which in truth represents the bulwarks 
 wherewith civilisation defends itself against those sempiter- 
 nal storms which, like atmospheric convulsions, by destroying, 
 renew the tired life of man. And that Ashbourne Crescent, 
 with its bright brass knockers, its white-capped maidservant, and 
 spotless oilcloths, will in the dim future pass away before some 
 
826 A DllAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 great tide of revolution that is now gathering strength far away, 
 deep down and out of sight in the heart of the nation, is 
 probable enough ; but it is cei'tainly now, in all its cheapness 
 and vulgarity, more than anything else representative, though 
 the length and breadth of the land be searched, of the genius of 
 Empire that has been glorious through the long tale that 
 nine hundred years have to tell. Ashbourne Crescent may 
 possibly soon be replaced by something better, but at present 
 it commands our admiration, for it is, as has been said, more 
 than all else, typical England. Neither ideas nor much 
 lucidity will be found there, but much belief in the wisdom 
 shown in the present ordering of things, and much plain sense 
 and much honesty of purpose. Certainly if your quest be for 
 hectic emotion and passionate impulses you would do well to 
 turn your steps aside, you will not find them in Ashbourne 
 Crescent ; there life flows monotonously, perhaps sometimes 
 even a little moodily, but it is built upon a batis of honest 
 materialism — that materialism without which the world cannot 
 live ; which, let the word be said, is the Light of the world. 
 Human greatness at Ashbourne Crescent is as good as it be, 
 aud it teems mth all the delights of home and habit, delights 
 that alone are assuaging, and to which even the most ardent 
 spirits turn in the end and accept humbly and with admiration 
 and love. 
 
 No. 31 differs a little from the rest of the houses. The paint 
 on its walls is fresher, ml there are no flowers on its balcony : 
 the hall-door has tli) ee bells instead of the usual two, and 
 there is a brass plate, with " Dr. Eeed " engraved upon it. 
 The cook is talking through the area-railings to the 
 butcher-boy ; a very smart parlourmaid opens the door, and 
 we see that the interior is as orderly, commonplace, and clean 
 as we might expect at every house in the crescent. The floor- 
 cloths are irreproachable, the marble-painted woJls are un- 
 adorned with a single picture. On the right is the dining- 
 room, a mahogany table bought for five pounds in the 
 Tottenham Court Road, a dozen chau-s to match, a sideboard 
 and a small table ; green-painted walls decorated with two 
 engravings, one of Frith's " Railway Station," the other of 
 Guido's " Fortune.'' The room is rigid and bare. Further 
 down the passage leading to the kitchen-stairs there is a 
 =;ccond room : this is the Doctor's consulting-room. A small 
 bookcase filled with serious-looking volumes, a mahogany 
 
A DRAMA IN MtJSLIN. 827 
 
 escritdire strewn with papers, letters, memoranda of all sorts. 
 The floor is covered with a bright Brussels carpet ; there are 
 two leather armchairs, and a portrait of an admiral hangs over 
 the fireplace. 
 
 Let us go upstairs. How bright and clean are the high 
 marble-painted walls ! and on the first landing there is a 
 large cheaply-coloured window. The drawing-room is a 
 double room, not iivided by curtains but by stiff folding d( c rs. 
 The furniture is in red, and the heavy curtains that drape the 
 windows fall from gilt cornices. In the middle of the floor 
 there is a settee (probably a reminiscence of the Shelbourne 
 Hotel) ; and on either side of the fireplace there are sofas, and 
 about the hearthrug many armchairs to match with the rest. 
 Above the chimneypiece there is a gilt oval mirror, worth ten 
 pounds. The second room is Alice's study ; it is there she 
 writes her novels. A table in black wood with a pile of 
 MSS. neatly fastened together stands in one comer ; there is a 
 bookcase just behind ; its shelves are furnished with imagina- 
 tive literature, such as Shelley's poems, Wordsworth's poems, 
 Keats' poems. There are also handsome editions of Tennj'son 
 and Browning, presents from Dr. Reed to his wife. You see 
 a. little higher up the shelf a thin volume, Swinburne's 
 " Atalanta in Calydon," and next to it is Walter Pater's Eenais- 
 sance — studies in art and poetry. There are also many 
 volumes in yellow covers, evidently Frenc h novels. 
 
 The character of the house is therefore essentially pro- 
 vincial, and shows that its occupants have not always lived 
 amid the complex influences of London life, viz., is not even 
 suburban. Nevertheless here and there traces of new artistic 
 impulses are seen. On the mantelpiece in the larger room 
 there are two large blue vases ; on a small table stands a pot 
 in yellow porcelain, evidently from Morris' ; and on the walls 
 there are engravings from Burne Jones. Every Thursday 
 afternoon numbers of ladies, all of whom write novels, as- 
 semble here to drink tea and talk of their work. 
 
 It is now eleven o'clock in the morning. Alice enters her 
 drawing-room. You see her : a tall, spare woman with kind 
 eyes, who carries her arms stiffly. She has just finished her 
 housekeeping, she puts down her basket of keys, and with all 
 the beautiful movement of the young mother she takes up Ihc 
 crawling mass of white frock, kisses her son and settles his 
 blue sash. And when she has talked to him for a few minutes 
 
828 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 ste rings the bell for nurse : then she sits down to write. As 
 usual her pen runs on without a perceptible pause. Words 
 come to her easily, but she has not finished the opening para- 
 graph of the article she is writing when the sound of rapid 
 footsteps attracts her attention, and Olive bursts into the 
 room. 
 
 " Oh, Alice, how do you do ! I couldn't stop at home any 
 longer, I am sick of it." 
 
 " Couldn't stop at home any longer, Olive, what do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " If you won't take me in, say so, and I'll go." 
 
 "My dear Olive, I shall be delighted to have you with me: 
 but why can't you stop at home any longer — surely there is 
 no harm in my asking ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; don't ask me ; I am so miserable at 
 home ; I can't tell you how unhappy I am. I know I shall 
 never be married, and the perpetual trying to make up matches 
 is sickening. Mamma will insist on riches, position and all that 
 sort of thing — those kind of men don't want to get married — I 
 am sick of going out ; I won't go out any more. We never 
 missed a tennis party last year ; we used to go sometimes 
 ten miles to them, so eager was mamma after Captain 
 Gibbon, and it did not come off; and then the whole country 
 laughs." 
 
 " And who is Captain Gibbon ? I never heard of him before." 
 
 " No, you don't know him : he was not in Galway in your 
 time." 
 
 " And Captain Hibbert 1 Have you heard from him since 
 he went out to India ? " 
 
 " Yes, once ; he wrote to me to say that he hoped to see me 
 when he came home." 
 
 " And when will that be ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know; when people go out to India one never 
 expects to see them again." 
 
 Seeing how sore the wound was, Alice did not attempt to 
 probe it, but strove rather to lead Olive's thoughts away from 
 it, and gradually the sisters lapsed into talking of their 
 acquaintances and friends, and of how life had dealt with 
 them, 
 
 " And May, what is she doing ? " 
 
 " She met with a bad accident, and has not been out hunting 
 lately. She was riding a pounding match with Mrs. Manloy 
 
A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 329 
 
 across country ; May's horse came to grief at a big wall, 
 and broke several of her ribs. They say she has given up 
 riding — now she does nothing but paint. You remember how 
 well she used to paint at school." 
 
 " And the Brennans ! " 
 
 " Oh, they go up to the Shelbourne every year, but none of 
 them are married ; and I am afraid that they must be very 
 hard up, for their land is very highly let, and the tenants are 
 paying no rent at all now — Ireland is worse than ever ; we 
 shall all be ruined, and they say Home Kule is certain. But 
 I am sick of the subject." 
 
 Then the Duflfys, the Honourable Miss Gores, and the many 
 other families of unmarried girls — the poor muslin martyrs, 
 whose sufferings were the theme of this book, were again 
 passed in review ; their failures sometimes jeeringly alluded 
 to by Olive, but always listened to pityingly by Alice — and, 
 talking thus of their past life, the sisters leant over the spring 
 fire that burnt out in the grate. At the end of a long silence, 
 Alice said : 
 
 " Well, dear, I hope you have come to live with us, or at 
 any rate, to pay us a long visit." 
 
 XHE END. 
 
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 I CHRISTIAN YEAR 
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 3 LONGFELLOW 
 
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