XXI

Mrs. Barton rarely took anyone into her confidence, and her plan for the

capture of the Marquis was locked within her breast. 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 analyzed, was only that of the courtesan--skin deep.

Two days after she received a note from the Marquis, saying he would be

glad to spend a week with them at Brookfield. She read it quietly,

slipped it into the 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 Dublin 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 determinations, 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 will

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 blond locks with 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 naughty.

'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 chaffs 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!'

'It won't matter much if they do; there aren't a dozen worth two

thousand a year each.'

'No? You are joking, mamma. And the Marquis?'

'That's a secret, dear.'

'Then you don't think he'll propose to me after all; and I gave up

Edward--Captain Hibbert.'

'I thought you had forgotten that horrid man's name. I didn't say, dear,

that the Marquis wouldn't propose to you--of course he will. But we must

leave Dublin to-morrow--I have serious reasons.'

'Oh, mamma, I didn't think you were so cruel, to go back to that hateful

place, where everybody talks of rents, and that odious Land League.'

'Now, I will not allow my darling to cry like that,' exclaimed Mrs.

Barton, and she threw her arms round the girl's shoulders. 'I didn't say

that there wouldn't be a man within seven miles. On the contrary, there

will be one very charming man indeed.'

'What do you mean, mamma?'

'That's a secret--that's a secret.'

Alice was told that she had better come home early that afternoon, so

that she might have plenty of time to pack her own things and help her

sister with hers; and it seemed to her unbelievable that she was at last

leaving that hateful little varnished floor, complimenting old beaux and

young A.D.C.'s.

But if to nobody else, she must say good-bye to May. She had hardly seen

her since the night of the State ball--the night she had given Fred

Scully permission to see her in her room. She found her in the ladies'

drawing-room.

'How do you do, May?'

'Oh, how do you do, Alice? I am so glad to see you. What a dreadful

day!'

'Yes, isn't it? Don't you find it very depressing?'

'I should think I did. I'm feeling rather out of sorts. Do you ever feel

out of sorts? you know, when everything seems as if it were reflected in

a darkened glass? There are times when we girls are nervous and weak,

and ready to quarrel with anyone. I don't know what I wish for now; I

think I should like to go back to the country.'

'We are going back to-morrow morning.'

'You don't say so; and how's that? There are plenty of balls and

afternoon dances. What does Olive say to going home?'

'She doesn't mind. You know mamma always said she would return

immediately after the Castle balls.'

'And now that it is all over, tell me what you think of the Castle. Did

it come up to your expectations?'

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

dancing as you are.'

'Oh, goodness me, goodness me, how ill I do feel,' said May, as she

started and yawned in a way that betokened the nervous lassitude she was

suffering from.

'Perhaps you had better see the doctor,' said Alice significantly.

'I'm worried. Fred hasn't been as nice lately as he used to be.'

'What has he done?'

'Last night he promised to meet me in the Square, and he wrote to say he

couldn't come, that he was forced to go and see an important customer

about some horses.'

'Perhaps he had.'

'I dare say he had, but what of that? It does not make it any less

disagreeable for me to be disappointed.'

'How cross you are, May! I came out on purpose to talk to you on this

very subject. I hope you won't be angry, but I think it is my duty to

tell you that people are beginning to talk about you.'

'And what do they say?'

'Well, they say many unpleasant things; you know how ill-natured people

are.'

'Yes, but what do they say?'

'They say you are desperately in love with Fred Scully.'

'Supposing I were; is there any very great harm in that?'

'I only want to put you on your guard, May dear; and since I have come

here for the purpose of speaking out, I had better do so, however

unpleasant it may be; and I must say that you often forget yourself when

he is in the room, and by your whole manner betray your feelings. You

look at him--'

'You needn't talk. Now that Harding has left town, these moral

reflections come very easy to you!'

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

said:

'Oh, yes; I have watched you in the Castle sitting out dances; and when

girls like you butter! 'Pon my word, it was painful to look at you.'

'Mr. Harding and I talked merely of books and pictures.'

'If you come here to insinuate that Fred and I are in the habit of

indulging in improper conversation. . . . I didn't expect this from you. I

shan't stop another moment. I shan't speak to you again.'

Picking up her novel, and deaf to all explanations, May walked haughtily

out of the room. Alice would have given much to help; and, her heart

filled with gentle disappointment, she returned home. The evening was

spent in packing; and next morning at dawn, looking tired, their eyes

still heavy with sleep, the Bartons breakfasted for the last time in

Mount Street.

At the Broadstone they met Lord Dungory. Then, their feet and knees

cosily wrapped up in furs, with copies of the _Freeman's Journal_ lying

on the top, they deplored the ineffectiveness of Mr. Forster's Coercion

Act. Eight hundred people were in prison, and still the red shadow of

murder pointed across the land. Milord read from the newspaper:

'A dastardly outrage was committed last night in the neighbourhood of

Mullingar. A woman named Mary ---- had some differences with her sister

Bridget ----. One day, after some angry words, it appears that she left

the house, and seeing a man working in a potato-field, she asked him if

he could do anything to help her. He scratched his head, and, after a

moment's reflection, he said he was going to meet a "party," and he

would see what could be done. On the following day he suggested that

Bridget might be removed for the sum of one pound. Mary ---- could not,

however, procure more than fifteen shillings, and a bargain was struck.

On the night arranged for the assassination Mary wished to leave the

house, not caring to see her sister shot in her presence, but Pat

declared that her absence would excite suspicion. In the words of one of

the murderers, the deed was accomplished "nately and without unnecessary

fuss."'

'I wonder,' said Mrs. Barton, 'what those wretches will have to do

before the Government will consent to suspend the Habeas Corpus Act, and

place the country in the hands of the military. Do they never think of

how wickedly they are behaving, and of how God will punish them when

they die? Do they never think of their immortal souls?'

'_L'âme du paysan se vautre dans la boue comme la mienne se plaît dans

la soie_.'

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

'_Oui, madame_,' he added, lowering his voice, '_dans le blanc paradis

de votre corsage_.'

Three days after life at Brookfield had resumed its ordinary course.

Once breakfast was over, Arthur retired to the consideration of the

pectoral muscles of the ancient Briton, Milord drank his glass of sherry

at half-past one, and Mrs. Barton devoted herself to the double task of

amusing him and encouraging Olive with visions of future fame. Alice was

therefore left definitely to herself, and without hindrance or comment

was allowed to set up her writing-table, and spend as much time as she

pleased in her bedroom.

Several sheets of foolscap paper covered with large open handwriting lay

upon the table. Upon the first page, with a line ruled beneath it, stood

the title: 'The Diary of a Plain Girl--Notes and Sensations.' She had

just laid aside her pen and was waiting for Cecilia.

'Oh, Alice darling, how are you? I am delighted--I am so delighted to

see you. Let me kiss you, let me see you; I have been longing for you

for weeks--for months.'

Alice bent her face down, and then, holding each other's hands, the

girls stood looking through a deep and expressive silence into each

other's eyes.

'I wish, Alice, I could tell you how glad I am to have you back: it

seems like heaven to see you again. You look so nice, so true, so sweet,

so perfect. There never was anyone so perfect as you, Alice.'

'Cecilia dear, you shouldn't talk to me like that; it is absurd. Indeed,

I don't think it is quite right.'

'Not quite right,' replied the cripple sadly; 'what do you mean? Why is

it wrong--why should it be wrong for me to love you?'

'I don't mean to say that it is wrong; you misunderstand me;

but--but--well, I don't know how to explain myself, but--'

'I know, I know, I know,' said Cecilia, and her nervous sensitivity

revealed thoughts in Alice's mind--thoughts of which Alice herself was

not distinctly conscious, just as a photograph exposes irregularities in

the texture of a leaf that the naked eye would not perceive.

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

Alice's face flushed a little, and she said, with a certain resoluteness

in her voice, 'Cecilia, I wish you wouldn't talk to me in this way. You

give me great pain.'

'I am sorry if I do, but I can't help it. I am jealous of the words that

are spoken to you, of the air you breathe, of the ground you walk upon.

How, then, can I help hating that man?'

'I do not wish to argue this point with you, Cecilia, nor am I sure that

I understand it. There is no one I like better than you, dear, but that

we should be jealous of each other is absurd.'

'For you perhaps, but not for me.' Cecilia looked at Alice

reproachfully, and at the end of a long and morose silence she said:

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

'Yes, Cecilia, and I answered it. It seems to me very foolish to

pronounce condemnatory opinion on the whole world; and particularly for

you who have seen so little of it.'

'That doesn't matter. People are blinded by their passions; but when

these have worn themselves out, they see the truth in all its horrible

nakedness. One of these days you'll tell me that I am right. You have

been a good deal in the world lately; tell me if you have found it

beautiful. You didn't believe me when I told you that men were vile and

abominable; you said there were good men in the world, that you were

sure of it. Have you found them? Was Mr. Harding so very perfect?'

Alice coloured again; she hesitated, and in the silence Cecilia again

divined her friend's thoughts.

'A very poor ideal indeed, it seems to me that you set yourself--to make

the best of this wretched world.'

'I cannot understand what good can come of craving after the

unattainable,' said Alice, looking earnestly out of her grey sharp eyes.

'True beauty lies only in the unattainable,' said Cecilia, lifting her

eyes with that curious movement of the eyeball by which painters

represent faith and mysticism.

At the end of a long silence, Alice said:

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

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

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

'Oh, that will be so nice.'

The girls drew closer to the fire, and in its uniting warmth they looked

into the ardent face of their friendship, talking, at first, conscious

of the appropriateness of their conversation; but soon forgetful of the

more serious themes they had been discussing, questions were asked and

answered, and comments passed, upon the presentations, the dresses, the

crowds, upon all their acquaintances.

'It is given out, Alice dear, that Lord Kilcarney is coming down to stay

at Brookfield. Is it true?'

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

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

the Dublin news.'

'What dreadful gossips they are! And the wonderful part of it is that

they often tell you that things have happened long before they do

happen.'

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

The girls laughed lightly, and Cecilia continued:

'But tell me, which do you think he admires most, Olive or Violet? The

rumour goes that he pays Violet great attentions. The family is, of

course, wild about it. She hasn't a penny piece, and Olive, they say,

has a good deal of money.'

'I don't know.'

'You must show me the dress you wore. You described it beautifully in

your letter. You must have looked very sweet. Did everybody say so?'

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

women do.'

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

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

Cecilia looked at Alice wistfully, and she said:

'But tell me about the presentations. I suppose there were an immense

number of people present?'

'Yes, and particularly _débutantes_; there were a great number presented

this year. It was considered a large Drawing-Room.'

'And how are you presented? I've heard my sister speak about it, but I

never quite understood.'

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

used for the purpose.

'There is a letter for you, miss, on the tray,' she said as she left the

room; 'it came by the afternoon post.'

Without answering, Alice continued to pour out the tea, but when she

handed Cecilia her cup, she said, surprised at the dull, sullen stare

fixed upon her:

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

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

She had been expecting that letter for days.

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

'There it is; I wouldn't touch it. I knew you liked that man; but I

didn't expect to find you corresponding with him. It is shameful; it

isn't worthy of you. You might have left such things to May Gould.'

'Cecilia, you have no right to speak to me in that way; you are

presuming too much on our friendship.'

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

our friendship.'

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

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

'Yes, I wrote to him.'

'Oh, yes, yes, yes; I see it all now,' cried Cecilia, and she walked

wildly to and fro, her eye tinged with a strange glare. 'Yes, I see it

all. This room, that was once a girl's room, is now Harding's room. He

is the atmosphere of the place. I was conscious of it when I entered,

but now it is visible to me--that manuscript, that writing-table, that

letter. Oh yes, it is Harding, all is Harding!'

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

But when Alice approached and strove to raise her from the pillow upon

which she had thrown herself, she started up and savagely confronted

her.

'Don't touch me, don't touch me!' she cried. 'I cannot bear it. What are

you to me, what am I to you? It is not with me you would care to be, but

with _him_. It is not my kiss of friendship that would console you, but

his kiss of passion that would charm you. . . . Go to him, and leave me to

die.'

'Was this insanity?' And then, forgetful of the abuse that was being

showered upon her, Alice said:

'Cecilia dear, listen; I'll forgive the language you have used toward

me, for I know you do not know what you are saying. You must be ill . . .

you cannot be in your right senses to-day, or you would not speak like

that.'

'You would soothe me, but you little dream of the poison you are

dropping on my wounds. You never understood, you are too far removed

from me in thought and feeling ever to understand--no, your spirituality

is only a delusion; you are no better at heart than May Gould. It is the

same thing: one seeks a husband, another gratifies herself with a lover.

It is the same thing--where's the difference? It is animal passion all

the same. And that letter is full of it--it must be--I am sure it is.'

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

The letter had fallen beneath the table. Alice made a movement towards

it, but, overcome by mad rage, Cecilia caught it up and threw it into

the fire. Alice rescued her letter, and then, her face full of stern

indignation, she said:

'I think, Cecilia, you had better leave my room, and before you come to

see me again, I shall expect to receive a written apology for the

outrageous way you have behaved.'

In a few days came a humble and penitent letter; Cecilia returned, her

eyes full of tears, and begged to be forgiven; the girls resumed their

friendship, but both were conscious that it was neither so bright nor so

communicative as in the olden days.