IX

As they returned from church, a horseman was seen riding rapidly towards

them. It was Captain Hibbert. The movement of his shoulders, as he

reined in his mettlesome bay, was picturesque, 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. Don't you

think so, Alice dear?'

'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!'

'I don't know about that,' said May jauntily; 'what one man will turn

his nose up at, another will go wild after.'

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 one like Olive;

and they'd make a handsome couple. What do you think, Alice? Is there

any chance of there being a match?'

'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 shouldn't talk in that slangy way; you never used to;

you have picked it up from Mr. Scully. Do 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 don't like him; but May does.

They go out training horses together. I don't mind that; but I wish she

wouldn't imitate his way of talking. 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 I 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 commenced to coax and cajole

her.

The Goulds were of an excellent county family. They had 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 purchased 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 April, had begun to train them

again in August, had boasted at the Dublin horse-show of having been out

cub-hunting, had ridden and drunk hard from the age of twenty to

seventy. But, by dying at fifty-five, the late squire had deviated

slightly from the regular line, and the son and heir 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 supposed 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 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 a 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. He

frequently rode over to Beechgrove, and towards the end of the afternoon

it became easy to persuade him to stay to dinner. And, as the night

darkened and the rain began to fall, the inhospitality of turning him

out was insisted on by May, 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. Manly--a lady who had jumped five feet, four

months before the birth of her sixth child--had said that his was a

'wasted life,' and the phrase, summing up what most people thought of

him, gained currency, and was now generally used whenever his conduct

was criticized or impeached. After having been in London, where he spent

some years in certain 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 drag

through life wearily, 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. Fred'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 boot, whose

elegance was an echo of the old Regent Street days, with an ash-plant.

Such was the physiology of this being, and from it the psychology is

easy to surmise: a complete powerlessness to understand that there was

anything in life worth seeking except pleasure--and pleasure to Fred

meant horses and women. Of earthly honour the greatest was to be well

known in an English hunting country; 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 corresponded. 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-off

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 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 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 rushing of delirium. Then his evening

manners fascinated her, and, as he leaned back smoking in the

dining-room arm-chair, his patent-leather shoes propped up against the

mantelpiece, 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 sympathized with him when he

explained how hardly fate had dealt with him in not giving him £5,000 a

year, to be spent in London and Northamptonshire.

He cursed Ireland as the most hideous hole under the sun; he frightened

Mrs. Gould by reiterated assurances that the Land League would 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 newspaper and falling asleep with the stump of a

burned-out cigarette between his lips. After breakfast he was seen

slouching through the laurels on his way to the stables. From the

kitchen and the larder--where the girls 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--still 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 was about her skirts; but when he was gone

she returned to her old, glad, affectionate ways and to her work.

The girls delighted in each other's society, and the arrangements for

their ball were henceforth 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 spinsters in

Galway--a jolly lucky thing it would be if there weren't; wouldn't it,

Alice?'

Alice was busy trying to disentangle a difficult sentence. Her startled

face made May laugh.

'It isn't cheering, is it?'

'I didn't hear what you were saying,' she answered, a little vexed at

being misunderstood. 'But fifty, surely, is a great number. Are there so

many unmarried women in Galway?'

'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 comfortably

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 girls with good fortunes like the Brennans

didn't get married.'

'You said the fact was there was no 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 the Brennans

looked too high, that they wanted gentlemen, eldest sons of county

families; but if they'd 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 suffer it.'

'I say it! I know nothing about it. I've only just come back from school;

it is you who tell me these things when we are sitting here alone of an

evening.'

Mrs. Gould's face again became purple, and she protested vehemently: 'I

shall leave the room, May. I will not suffer 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 exaggerate. I am very

sorry. But, there's a dear, sit down, and we won't say any more about

it.'

'You do annoy one, May, and I believe you do it on purpose. And you know

exactly what will be disagreeable to say, and you say it,' replied Mrs.

Gould; and she raised her skirt so 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, though she was sorry

for Mrs. Gould.

'So we were,' cried May; 'we were speaking of the Brennans. Do you know

their friends the Duffys? 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 forebodings, May

continued:

'Then there are Lord Rosshill's seven daughters; they are all maidens,

and are likely to remain so.'

'Are they all unmarried?' asked Alice.

'Of course they are!' exclaimed Mrs. Gould; 'how could they be anything

else? Didn't they all want to marry people in their father's position?

And that wasn't possible. There're seven Honourable Miss Gores, and one

Lord Rosshill--so they all remained in single blessedness.'

'Who's making ill-natured remarks now?' exclaimed May triumphantly.

'I am not making ill-natured remarks; I am only saying what's true. My

advice to young girls is that they should be glad to have those who will

take them. If they can't make a 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 doesn't 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 aren't possible nowadays. Nice young men! I

dare say; and plenty 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 the three women watched the

methodical butler place the urn on the table, turn up the lamp that was

burning low, and bring chairs forward from the farthest corners.

'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 was awakened by

the air of mystery with which the baronet was surrounded.

'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 P's and

Q's.'

'And who is the mother of all these children?' Alice asked.

'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

stable-yard!'

'The usual thing in such cases is to emigrate them,' said Mrs. Gould

philosophically; and she again distended herself before the fire.

'Emigrate them!' cried May; 'if he emigrated them to the moon, I

wouldn't marry such a man; would you, Alice?'

'I certainly wouldn't like to,' 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! 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. And he

talked all the time of 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 contributing to the _Irish Times_

on high-farming _versus_ peasant proprietors. 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 convictions, 'but I assure you

he passes for being the cleverest man in the county; and it is said that

Gladstone is only waiting to give him a chance. 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.'

'One might as well marry a herdsman 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 conversation turned on

Mr. Lynch. Mrs. Gould admitted that he was the worser 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 difficult to make up a number sometimes,' suggested Mrs.

Gould; 'but they are certainly very coarse. I hear, when Mr. Ryan and

Mr. Lynch 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 morning.'

'And where do the ladies come from, May?' asked Alice, for she now

looked on the girl as an inexhaustible fund of information.

'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 isn't 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 of whom nobody knows anything. Then there

are some boys at school; but they are too young; there is Mr. Reed, the

dispensary doctor. Mr. Burke has only two hundred a year; but if his

brother were to die he would be the Marquis of Kilcarney. He'd be a

great match then, in point of position; but I hear the estates are

terribly 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 great beau at the Castle.

I 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 you 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 like to know how that's to be done if

there was no one to look after Mickey Moran's rent?'

The girls looked round the large, dull room. Emaciated forms of narrow,

antique sofas were seen dimly in the musty-smelling twilight. Screens

worked in red and green wools stood in the vicinity of the fireplace,

the walls were lined with black pictures, 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 candelabra, '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 anything further to-night,' said

May. 'Come on, Alice, it is time to go to bed.'

X

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. 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 banisters 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 champagne from Dublin. As a wit said, 'Circe has

prepared a banquet and is calling us in.'

After much hesitation, a grammar-school, built by an enterprising

landlord for an inappreciative population that had declined to support

it, was selected as the most suitable location 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.

Away 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 unsolved problem

until ingenious Fred had hit upon this plan); you see them running up

the narrow staircases, losing themselves 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 chaperons.

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 were

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 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!' exclaimed May; 'I don't think I ever saw anyone

look so pure.'

Alice smiled; 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 difficult 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'd 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!

When the pie was opened the maids began to sing,

Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the King!"

'Oh, 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 sing:

'Five-and-forty spinsters baked in a pie,' etc. 'Five-and-forty,' she

said, breaking off, '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 girl; you're worse than

Violet, 'pon my word you are; but we must be off. It is a good

half-hour's drive, and we shall want to be there before nine. The people

will 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 outside. The girls hopped into

the carriage. Mrs. Gould pulled herself in, and, blotted out in a far

corner, thought vaguely of asking May not to dance more than three times

with Fred Scully; 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 tell how near

they were to their destination. Suddenly the carriage turned 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 be made to blow up the building;

and, conscious of the beautiful night which hung like a blue mysterious

flower above them, they passed through a narrow doorway draped with

red-striped canvas.

'Now, mother, what do you think of the decorations? Do say a word of

praise.'

'I've always said, May, that you have excellent taste.'

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!' said May, pointing to the huge arrangement that

covered the end wall. 'And haven't my 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 you?'

'Of course not, but it seems very sinister; doesn't it 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 blackcoats, 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 _débutantes_ at the Castle. 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, who they feared would seem thin in a low dress.

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

_broché_, 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 admiration in her

eyes.

'Thanks 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 you perfectly.' And then, her thoughts straying suddenly from

Alice's dress, she said:

'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 girls

scanned the ranks for possible partners. Poor Sir Richard, 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 emigration 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

miles.

Already the first notes of the waltz had been shrieked out by the

cornet, and Mr. Fred Scully, with May's red tresses on his shoulder, was

about to start, when Mrs. Barton and Olive entered. Olive, in white

silk, so tightly drawn back that every line of her supple thighs, and

every plumpness of her superb haunches was seen; and the double garland

of geraniums that encircled the tulle veiling seemed like flowers of

blood scattered on virgin snow. Her beauty imposed admiration; 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 sharp, brown-eyed mother, passed down the

room. Lord Dungory and Lord Rosshill advanced to meet them; a moment

after Captain Hibbert and Mr. Burke came up to ask for dances; a waltz

was promised to each. A circling crowd of black-coats instantly absorbed

the triumphant picture; the violinist scraped, and the harper twanged

intermittently; a band of fox-hunters arrived; girls had been chosen,

and in the small space of floor that remained the white skirts and red

tail coats passed and repassed, borne along Strauss's indomitable

rhythms.

An hour passed: perspiration had begun to loosen the work of

curling-tongs; dust had 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 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-à-vis._

'My dear May, we can't have her here, we are going to romp; anyone can

see that. Tell 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 telegram 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

Kilearney. 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. Then, as his eyes fell upon the vague faces seen looking

through the wet November pane, he muttered: 'Oh! you brutes, you brutes!

so you have shot my brother!'

Unchecked, the harper twanged and the fiddler scraped out the tune of

their Lancers. Few really knew what had happened, and the newly-made

marquis had to fight his way through women who, in skin-tight dresses,

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 Rosshill could not conceal their

annoyance; both felt keenly that they had compromised 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

appropriate words. Nobody, Lord Dungory declared, could regret the

dastardly outrage that had been committed more than he. He had known

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 marquisate did not go back farther than the last few years.

Beaconsfield had given him a step in the peerage; no one knew why. A

very curious man--most retiring--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

persuaded; indeed, he had never been known to pay any woman the

slightest attention.

'It is to be hoped the present Marquis won't prove so difficult to

please,' said Mrs. Gould. The remark was an unfortunate one, and the

chaperons present resented this violation 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 Mrs. Gould. Obeying a glance of the Lady Hamilton

eyes, Lord Dungory said:

'_On cherche l'amour dans les boudoirs, non pas dans les cimetières,

madame_.' Then he added (but this time only for the private ear of Mrs.

Barton), '_La mer ne rend pas ses morts, mais la tombe nous donne

souvent les écussons_.'

'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Mrs. Barton, '_ce Milord, il trouve l'esprit

partout_;' and her light coaxing laugh dissipated this moment of

ball-room gloom.

And Alice? Although conscious of her deficiency in the _trois temps_,

determined not to give in without an effort, she had suffered May to

introduce her to a couple of officers; but to execute the step she knew

theoretically, or to talk to her partner when he had dragged her,

breathless, out of the bumping dances, she found to be difficult, so

ignorant was she of hunting and of London theatres, and having read only

one book of Ouida's, it would be vain for her to hope to interest her

partner in literature. The other girls seemed more at home with their

partners, and while she walked with hers, wondering what she should say

next, she noticed behind screens, under staircases, at the end of dark

passages, girls whom she had known at St. Leonards incapable of

learning, or even understanding the simplest lessons, suddenly

transformed as if by magic into bright, clever, agreeable girls--capable

of fulfilling that only duty which falls to the lot of women: of amusing

men. But she could not do this, and must, therefore, resign herself to

an aimless life of idleness, and be content in a few years to take a

place amid the Miss Brennans, the Ladies Cullen, the Miss Duffys, the

Honourable Miss Gores, those whom she saw sitting round the walls

'waiting to be asked,' as did the women in the old Babylonian Temple.

Such was her criticism of life 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. Reed 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 talk to him

better than with her other partners, and when they left the clattering

supper-room, where plates were being broken and champagne was being

drunk by the gallon, sitting on the stairs, he talked to her till 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, whom she saw in the doorway, she asked for an explanation.

'Oh, nothing, nothing! 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; and,

as if fascinated, Alice's eyes followed the shoulders of a tall,

florid-faced man. Doing the _deux temps_, he traversed the room in two

or three prodigious jumps. 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 misunderstanding in the supper-room. All Mr. Lynch's studs

had gone, and his shirt was in a precarious state; drunken Sir Richard

had not been carried out of the room before strewing the floor with his

necktie and fragments of his gloves. But these details were forgotten in

the excitement. The harper twanged still more violently at his strings,

the fiddler rasped out the agonizing tune more screechingly than ever;

and as the delirium 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 overthrow. In the onset, the vast

shoulders and the _deux temps_ were especially successful. One couple

had gone down splendidly 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, catching sight of

Alice; 'and will you, Lord Dungory, look after Olive?'

Lord Rosshill collected the five Honourable Miss Gores, 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 time, but eventually the story leaked out

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 belly; 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 Galway train rolled into Ballinasloe.