XI
‘Goodness me! Alice; how can you remain up here all alone, and by that smouldering fire? Why don’t you come downstairs? Papa 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 told me he liked the way I arrange my hair. Do tell me, dear, if you think it suits me?’
 ‘Very well, indeed; but what else did Captain Hibbert say to you?’
 ‘Well, I’ll tell you something,’ replied Olive, suddenly turning from the glass. ‘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 able to tell you. It is very wicked, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. He put his arm round my waist and kissed me. 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 he 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.’
 ‘And did he ask you to marry him?’
 ‘Oh! of course, 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. Just fancy giving up dear Edward! I assure you I believe he would kill himself if I did. He has often told me I am the only thing worth living for.’
 Alice looked at her beautiful sister questioningly, her good sense telling her that, if Olive 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 in life for a girl but marriage, and was marriage no more than a sensual gratification; did a man seek nothing but a beautiful body that he could kiss and enjoy? Did a man’s desires never turn to mating with one who could sympathize with his 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? ‘Could no man love as she did?’ 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 a one.
 ‘Now what are you thinking about, Alice?’
 ‘I do not know, nothing in particular; one doesn’t know always of what one is thinking! Tell me what they are saying downstairs.’
 ‘But I have told you; that Captain Hibbert preferred my hair like this, and I asked you if you thought he was right, but you hardly looked.’
 ‘Yes, I did, Olive; I think the fashion suits you.’
 ‘You won’t tell anybody that I told you he kissed me? Oh, I had forgotten about Lord Rosshill; he has been fired at. Lord Dungory returned from Dublin, and he brought the evening paper with him. It is full of bad news.’
 ‘What news?’ Alice asked, with a view to escaping from wearying questions; and Olive told her a bailiff’s house had been broken into by an armed gang. ‘They dragged him out of his bed and shot him in the legs before his own door. And an attempt has been made to blow up a landlord’s house with dynamite. And in Queen’s County shots have been fired through a dining-room window — now, what else? I am telling you a lot; I don’t often remember what is in the paper. No end of hayricks were burnt last week, and some cattle have had their tails cut off, and a great many people have been beaten. Lord Dungory says he doesn’t know how it will all end unless the Government bring in a Coercion Act. What do you think, Alice?’
 Alice dropped some formal remarks, and Olive hoped that the state of the country would not affect the Castle’s season. She didn’t know which of the St. Leonard girls would be married first. She asked Alice to guess. Alice said she couldn’t guess, and fell to thinking that nobody would ever want to marry her. It was as if some instinct had told her, and she could not drive the word ‘celibacy’ out of her ears. It seemed to her that she was fichue à jamais, as that odious Lord Dungory would say. She did not remember that she had ever been so unhappy before, and it seemed to her that she would always be unhappy, fichue à jamais.
 But to her surprise she awoke in a more cheerful mood, and when she came down to breakfast Mr. Barton raised his head from the newspaper and asked her if she had heard that Lord Rosshill had been fired at.
 ‘Yes, father. Olive told me so overnight;’ and the conversation turned on her headache, and then on the state of Ireland.
 Mrs. Barton asked if this last outrage would prove sufficient to force the Government to pass a new Coercion Bill.
 ‘I wish they would put me at the head of an army,’ Mr. Barton said, whose thoughts had gone back to his picture — Julius Caesar overturning the Altars of the Druids.
 ‘Papa would look fine leading the landlords against the tenants dressed in Julius Caesar’s big red cloak!’ cried Mrs. Barton, turning back as she glided out of the room, already deep in consideration of what Milord would like to eat for luncheon and the gown she would wear that afternoon. Mr. Barton threw the newspaper aside and returned to his studio; and in the girls’ room Olive and Barnes, the bland, soft smiling maid, began their morning gossip. Whatever subject was started it generally wound round to Captain Hibbert. Alice had wearied of his name, but this morning she pricked up her ears. She 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 Captain Hibbert 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 will Miss Alice think?’
 ‘Never mind what she thinks; you tell her about the steward and all the officers from Gort.’
 And then Mrs. Lawler’s flirtations were talked of until the bell rang for lunch. Milord and Mrs. Barton had just passed into the dining-room, and Alice noticed that his eyes often wandered in the direction of the policemen walking up and down the terrace. He returned more frequently than was necessary to the attempt made on Lord Rosshill’s life, and it was a long time before Mrs. Barton could persuade him to drop a French epigram. At last, in answer to her allusions to knights of old and la galanterie, the old lord could only say: ‘L’amour est comme l’hirondelle; quand l’heure sonne, en dépit du danger, tous les deux partent pour les rivages célestes.’ A pretty conceit; but Milord was not en veine that morning. The Land League had thrown its shadow over him, and 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 momentary display of exquisite ankle, a slim young girl stepped out.
 ‘I wonder,’ said Mrs. Barton, ‘that Mrs. Scully condescends to come out with anything less than four horses and outriders.’
 ‘Elle veut acheter la distinction comme elle vendait du jambon — à faux poids,’ said Lord Dungory.
 ‘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-strings 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 this; and, after having refused lunch and referred to the snow and the horses’ feet, Mrs. Scully consented to lay aside her muff and boa. The young ladies withdrew, when the conversation turned on the state of the county and Lord Rosshill’s fortunate escape. As they ascended the stairs they stopped to listen to Mr. Barton, who was singing A che la morte.
 ‘The Land League doesn’t seem to affect Mr. Barton’s spirits,’ said Violet. ‘What a beautiful voice he has!’
 ‘Yes, and nobody designs pictures like papa; but he wouldn’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. 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 agree with Olive. If things are bad, talking of them won’t make them any better.’
 Barnes rose from her seat.
 ‘Now don’t go, Barnes. Violet, this is Barnes, our maid.’
 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 trilling of the little yellow bird.
 ‘You’re very comfortable. I should like to come and work here with you. 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.
 ‘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 shown me your dresses. I loved the one you wore at the ball.’
 ‘Yes, yes: I must show you my cream-coloured dinner-dress, and my ruby dress, too. You haven’t seen that either,’ cried Olive. ‘Come along, Barnes, come along.’
 ‘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, 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’ve 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, and 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 mistress’s wardrobes. The ruby dress, however, drew forth many little cries of admiration. Then an argument was started concerning the colour of hair, and, before the glass with hairpins and lithe movements of the back and loins, the girls explained their favourite coiffures.
 ‘But, Alice, you haven’t opened your lips, and you haven’t shown me your dresses.’
 ‘Barnes will show you my dinner-frocks, but I don’t think as much about what I wear as Olive does.’
 Violet quickly understood, but, with clever dissimulation, she examined and praised the black silk trimmed with red ribbons. ‘She’s angry because we didn’t look at her dresses first,’ Olive interjected; and Violet came to Alice’s rescue with a question: ‘Had they heard lately of Lord Kilcarney?’ Olive protested that she would sooner die than accept such a little red-haired thing as that for a husband, and Violet laughed delightedly.
 ‘Anyway, you haven’t those faults to find with a certain officer, 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 were mine. What with the weather, and papa’s difficulties with his herdsmen and his tenants, we haven’t seen a soul for the last month. I wish a handsome young officer would come galloping up our avenue some day.’
 Deceived, Olive abandoned herself to the plausive charm of Violet’s manner, and at different times she spoke of her flirtation, 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.
 ‘He is shooting to-day at the Lawlers’,’ said Violet.
 ‘That I’m sure he’s not,’ said Olive, with a triumphant toss 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 with them, marching along, just like a man, and 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 don’t know why you should think I care to annoy you,’ Violet replied, a little too definitely; and, unable to control her feelings any longer, Olive walked out of the room. Barnes 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 I 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. I am very sorry. Do you know where she is gone? I shouldn’t like to go away without seeing her.’
 ‘I am afraid she has shut herself up in her room. Next time you meet, she’ll 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 Castle.’
 Then stout mother and thin daughter took their leave; but the large carriage, with its sumptuous grey trappings, had not reached the crest 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 that; 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, grey, glittering things. I could never trust them. And she hasn’t a bit on her bones. I don’t know if you noticed, miss, that when you were counting your petticoats she was ashamed of her legs? There isn’t a bit on them; and I saw her look at yours, miss.’
 ‘Did you really? She’s like a rail; and as spiteful as she’s lean. At school nothing made her so angry as when anyone else was praised; and you may be sure that jealousy brought her here. She heard how Captain Hibbert admired me, and so 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 his 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; but it isn’t for the shooting he is gone. ‘Tis for Mrs. Lawler. 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 say anything if the weather was fine — like we had last June — and they giving each other meetings out in the park — ’
 ‘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 flown with jealousy and suspicion. ‘I’ll write him a letter,’ she said suddenly, ‘and you must get someone to take it over.’
 ‘But there’s nobody about. Why, it is nearly seven o’clock,’ said Barnes, who had begun to realize 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 shall never be able to forgive you!’ (Then, as through her perturbed mind the thought gleamed that this was perhaps a little definite, 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.

‘Yours 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 your ma say?’
 ‘I don’t care what mamma says. It would kill me to wait till morning! Somebody must go. Why can’t you go yourself? It isn’t more than half a mile across the fields. You won’t refuse me, will you? 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 — ’
 ‘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! 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.’

XII
The result of this missive was that next morning the servants whispered that someone had been about the house on the preceding evening. Olive and Barnes sat talking for hours; 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 minutes under her window. He loved her to distraction; and the next 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, and then advised her sister quietly; and, convinced that her duty was to tell her mother everything, she waited for an occasion to speak. Mr. Barton was passing down the passage to his studio, Olive was racing upstairs 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.
 ‘How bare and untidy the room looks at this season of the year; really 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 she laughed coaxingly, and said:
 ‘And what has my grave-faced daughter to say — the learned keeper of the family’s wisdom?’
 Even more than Olive’s — for they were less sincere — Mrs. Barton’s trivialities jarred, and Alice’s ideas had already begun to slip from her, and feeling keenly the inadequacy of her words, she said:
<6>’Well, mamma, I wanted to ask you if Olive is going to marry Captain Hibbert?’
 It was now for Mrs. Barton to look embarrassed.
 ‘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 aren’t at all suited to each other. Why do you ask me?’
<9>’Because I have heard you speak of Lord Kilcarney as a man you would like Olive to marry, 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 girl must amuse herself somehow.’
 It was on Alice’s lips to ask her mother if she thought such conduct quite right, but, checking herself, she said:
 ‘I am afraid people are talking about it, and that surely is not desirable.’
 ‘But why do you come telling me these stories?’ she said.
 ‘Why, mamma, because I thought it right to do so.’
 The word ‘right’ was unpleasant; but, recovering her temper, which for years before had never failed her, Mrs. Barton returned to her sweet little flattering manners.
 ‘Of course, of course, my dear girl; but you do not understand me. What I mean to say is, Have you any definite reason for supposing that Olive is in love with Captain Hibbert, and that people are talking about it?’
 ‘I think so, mamma,’ said the girl, deceived by this expression of goodwill. ‘You remember when the Scullys came here? Well, Violet was up in our room, and we were showing her our dresses; the conversation somehow turned on Captain Hibbert, and when Violet said that she had seen him that day, as they came along in the carriage, shooting with the Lawlers, Olive burst out crying and rushed out of the room. It was very awkward. Violet said she was very sorry and all that, but — ’
 ‘Yes, yes, dear; but why was Olive angry at hearing that Captain Hibbert went out shooting with the Lawlers?’
 ‘Because, it appears, she had previously forbidden him to go there, you know, on account of Mrs. Lawler.’
 ‘And what happened then?’
 ‘Well, that’s the worst of it. I don’t mean to say it was all Olive’s fault; I think she must have lost her head a little, for she sent Barnes over that evening to the Lawlers’ with a note, telling Captain Hibbert that he must come at once and explain. It was eleven o’clock at night, and they had a long talk through the window.’
 Mrs. Barton did not speak for some moments. The peat-fire was falling into masses of white ash, and she thought vaguely of putting on some more turf; then her attention was caught by the withering ferns in the flower-glasses, then by the soaking pasture-lands, then by the spiky branches of the chestnut-trees swinging against the grey, dead sky.
 ‘But tell me, Alice,’ she said at last, ‘for of course it is important that I should know — do you think that Olive is really in love with Captain Hibbert?’
 ‘She told me, as we were going to bed the other night, mamma, that she never could care for anyone else; and — and’
 ‘And what, dear?’
 ‘I don’t like to betray my sister’s confidence,’ Alice answered, ‘but I’m sure I had better tell you all: she told me that he had kissed her many times, and no later than yesterday, in the conservatory.’
 ‘Indeed! you did very well to let me know of this,’ said Mrs. Barton, becoming as earnestly inclined as her daughter Alice. ‘I am sorry that Olive was so foolish; I must speak to her about it. This must not occur again. I think that if you were to tell her to come down here — ’
 ‘Oh no, mamma; Olive would know at once that I had been speaking about her affairs; you must promise me to make only an indirect use of what I have told you.’
 ‘Of course — of course, my dear Alice; no one shall ever know what has passed between us. You can depend upon me. I will not speak to Olive till I get a favourable opportunity. And now I have to go and see after the servants. Are you going upstairs?’
 On Alice, tense with the importance of the explanation, this dismissal fell not a little chillingly; but she was glad that she had been able to induce her mother to consider the matter seriously.
 A few minutes passed dreamily, almost unconsciously; Mrs. Barton threw two sods of turf on the fire, and resumed her thinking. Her first feeling of resentment against her eldest daughter had vanished; and she now thought solely of the difficulty she was in, and how she could best extricate herself from it. ‘So Olive was foolish enough to allow Captain Hibbert to kiss her in the conservatory!’ Mrs. Barton murmured to herself. The morality of the question interested her profoundly. She had never allowed anyone to kiss her before she was married; and she was full of pity and presentiment for the future of a young girl who could thus compromise herself. But in Olive’s love for Captain Hibbert Mrs. Barton was concerned only so far as it affected the labour and time that would have to be expended in persuading her to cease to care for him. That this was the right thing to do Mrs. Barton did not for a moment doubt. Her daughter was a beautiful girl, would probably be the belle of the season; therefore to allow her, at nineteen, to marry a thousand-a-year captain would be, Mrs. Barton thought, to prove herself incapable, if not criminal, in the performance of the most important duty of her life. Mrs. Barton trembled when she thought of the sending of the letter: if the story were to get wind in Dublin, it might wreck her hopes of the marquis. Therefore, to tell Barnes to leave the house would be fatal. Things must be managed gently, very gently. Olive must be talked to, how far her heart was engaged in the matter must be found out, and she must be made to see the folly, the madness of risking her chance of winning a coronet for the sake of a beggarly thousand-a-year captain. And, good heavens! the chaperons: what would they say of her, Mrs. Barton, were such a thing to occur? Mrs. Barton turned from the thought in horror; and then, out of the soul of the old coquette arose, full-fledged, the chaperon, the satellite whose light and glory is dependent on that of the fixed star around which she revolves.
 At this moment Olive, her hands filled with ferns, bounced into the room.
 ‘Oh! here you are, mamma! Alice told me you wanted a few ferns and flowers to brighten up the room.’
 ‘I hope you haven’t got your feet wet, my dear; if you have, you had better go up at once and change.’
 Olive was now more than ever like her father. Her shoulders had grown wider, and the blonde head and scarlet lips had gained a summer brilliance and beauty.
 ‘No, I am not wet,’ she said, looking down at her boots; ‘it isn’t raining; but if it were Alice would send me out all the same.’
 ‘Where is she now?’
 ‘Up in her room reading, I suppose; she never stirs out of it. I thought when we came home from school the last time that we would be better friends; but, do you know what I think: Alice is a bit sulky. What do you think, mamma?’
 To talk of Alice, to suggest that she was a little jealous, to explain the difficulty of the position she occupied, to commiserate and lavish much pity upon her was, no doubt, a fascinating subject of conversation, it had burned in the brains of mother and daughter for many months; but, too wise to compromise herself with her children, Mrs. Barton resisted the temptation to gratify a vindictiveness that rankled in her heart. She said:
 ‘Alice has not yet found her beau cavalier; we shall see when we are at the Castle if she will remain faithful to her books. I am afraid that Miss Alice will then prefer some gay, dashing young officer to her Marmion and her Lara.’
 ‘I should think so, indeed. She says that the only man she cares to speak to in the county is Dr. Reed, that little frumpy fellow with his medicines. I can’t understand her. I couldn’t care for anyone but an officer.’
 This was the chance Mrs. Barton required, and she instantly availed herself of it. ‘The red-coat fever!’ she exclaimed, waving her hands. ‘There is no one like officers pour faire passer le temps’
 ‘Yes, ma!’ cried Olive, proud of having understood so much French; ‘doesn’t time pass quickly with them?’
 ‘It flies, my dear, and they fly away, and then we take up with another. They are all nice; their profession makes them that.’
 ‘But some are nicer than others; for instance, I am sure they are not all as handsome as Captain Hibbert.’
 ‘Oh! indeed they are,’ said Mrs. Barton, laughing; ‘wait until we get to Dublin; you have no idea what charming men we shall meet there. We shall find a lord or an earl, or perhaps a marquis, who will give a coroneted carriage to my beautiful girl to drive in.’
 Olive tossed her head, and her mother looked at her admiringly, and there was love in the sweet brown deceit of the melting eyes; a hard, worldly affection, but a much warmer one than any Mrs. Barton could feel for Alice, in whom she saw nothing but failure, and in the end spiritual spinsterhood. After a pause she said:
 ‘What a splendid match Lord Kilcarney would be, and where would he find a girl like my Olive to do the honours of his house?’
 ‘Oh! mamma, I never could marry him!’
 ‘And why not, my dear girl?’
 ‘I don’t know, he’s a silly little fool; besides, I like Captain Hibbert.’
 ‘Yes, you like Captain Hibbert, so do I; but a girl like you could not throw herself away on a thousand-a-year captain in the army.’
 ‘And why not, mamma?’ said Olive, who had already begun to whimper; ‘Captain Hibbert loves me, I know, very dearly, and I like him; he is of very good family, and he has enough to support me.’
 The moment was a supreme one, and Mrs. Barton hesitated to strike and bring the matter to a head. Would it be better, she asked herself, to let things go by and use her influence for the future in one direction? After a brief pause she decided on the former course. She said:
 ‘My dear child, neither your father nor myself could ever consent to see you throw yourself away on Captain Hibbert. I am afraid you have seen too much of him, and have been led away into caring for him. But take my word for it, a girl’s love is only à fleur de peau. When you have been to a few of the Castle balls you’ll soon forget all about him. Remember, you are not twenty yet; it would be madness.’
 ‘Oh! mamma, I didn’t think you were so cruel!’ exclaimed Olive, and she rushed out of the room.
 Mrs. Barton made no reply, but her resolve was rapidly gaining strength in her mind: Olive’s flirtation was to be brought at once to a close. Captain Hibbert she would admit no more, and the girl was in turn to be wheedled and coerced.
 Nor did Mrs. Barton for a moment doubt that she would succeed; she had never tasted failure; and she stayed only a moment to regret, for she was too much a woman of the world to waste time in considering her mistakes. The needs of the moment were ever present to her, and she now devoted herself entirely to the task of consoling her daughter. Barnes, too, was well instructed, and henceforth she spoke only of the earls, dukes, lords, and princes who were waiting for Olive at the Castle.
 In the afternoon Mrs. Barton called Olive into the drawing-room, where woman was represented as a triumphant creature walking over the heads and hearts of men. ‘Le génie de la femme est la beauté,’ declared Milord, and again: ‘Le coeur de l’homme ne peut servir que de piédestal pour l’idole.’
 ‘Oh! Milord, Milord!’ said Mrs. Barton. ‘So in worshipping us you are idolaters. I’m ashamed of you.’
 ‘Pardon, pardon, madame: Devant un amour faux on est idolâtre, mais à l’autel d’un vrai, on est chrétien.’
 And in such lugubrious gaiety the girl grieved. Captain Hibbert had been refused admission; he had written, but his letters had been intercepted; and holding them in her hand Mrs. Barton explained she could not consent to such a marriage, and continued to dazzle the girl with visions of the honours that awaited the future Marchioness of Kilcarney. ‘An engaged girl is not noticed at the Castle. You don’t know what nice men you’ll meet there; have your fun out first,’ were the arguments most frequently put forward; and, in the excitement of breaking off Olive’s engagement, even the Land League was forgotten. Olive hesitated, but at length allowed herself to be persuaded to at least try to captivate the marquis before she honoured the captain with her hand. No sooner said than done. Mrs. Barton lost not a moment in writing to Captain Hibbert, asking him to come and see them the following day, if possible, between eleven and twelve. She wanted to speak to him on a matter which had lately come to her knowledge, and which had occasioned her a good deal of surprise.

XIII
Mr. Barton could think of nothing but the muscles of the strained back of a dying Briton and a Roman soldier who cut the cords that bound the white captive to the sacrificial oak; but it would be no use returning to the studio until these infernal tenants were settled with, and he loitered about the drawing-room windows looking pale, picturesque, and lymphatic. His lack of interest in his property irritated Mrs. Barton. ‘Darling, you must try to get them to take twenty per cent.’ At times she strove to prompt the arguments that should be used to induce the tenants to accept the proffered abatement, but she could not detach her thoughts from the terrible interview she was about to go through with Captain Hibbert. She expected him to be violent; he would insist on seeing Olive, and she watched wearily the rain dripping from the wooden edges of the verandah. The last patches of snow melted, and at last a car was seen approaching, closely followed by another bearing four policemen.
 ‘Here’s your agent,’ exclaimed Mrs. Barton hurriedly. ‘Don’t bring him in here; go out and meet him, and when you see Captain Hibbert welcome him as cordially as you can. But don’t speak to him of Olive, and don’t give him time to speak to you; say you are engaged. I don’t want Mr. Scully to know anything about this break-off. It is most unfortunate you didn’t tell me you were going to meet your tenants to-day. However, it is too late now.’
 ‘Very well, my dear, very well,’ said Mr. Barton, trying to find his hat. ‘I would, I assure you, give twenty pounds to be out of the whole thing. I can’t argue with those fellows about their rents. I think the Government ought to let us fight it out. I should be very glad to take the command of a flying column of landlords, and make a dash into Connemara. I have always thought my military genius more allied to that of Napoleon than to that of Wellington.’
 It was always difficult to say how far Mr. Barton believed in the extravagant remarks he was in the habit of giving utterance to. He seemed to be aware of their absurdity, without, however, relinquishing all belief in their truth. And now, as he picked his way across the wet stones, his pale hair blown about in the wind, he presented a strange contrast with the short-set man who had just jumped down from the car, his thick legs encased in gaiters, and a long ulster about them.
 ‘Howd’ yer do, Barton?’ he exclaimed. ‘D’yer know that I think things are gitting worse instid of bither. There’s been another bailiff shot in Mayo, and we’ve had a process-server nearly beaten to death down our side of the counthry. Gad! I was out with the Sub-Sheriff and fifty police thrying to serve notices on Lord Rosshill’s estate, and we had to come back as we wint. Such blawing of horns you niver heard in yer life. The howle counthry was up, and they with a trench cut across the road as wide as a canal.’
 ‘Well, what do you think we had better do with these fellows? Do you think they will take the twenty per cent.?’
 ‘’Tis impossible to say. Gad! the Lague is gittin’ stronger ivery day, Barton. But they ought to take it; twenty per cent. will bring it very nearly to Griffith’s.’
 ‘But if they don’t take it?’
 ‘Well, I don’t know what we will do, for notices it is impossible to serve. Gad! I’ll never forgit how we were pelted the other day — such firing of stones, such blawing of horns! I think you’ll have to give them the thirty; but we’ll thry them at twinty-foive.’
 ‘And if they won’t take it — ?’
 ‘What! the thirty? They’ll take that and jumping, you needn’t fear. Here they come.’
 Turning, the two men watched the twenty or thirty peasants who, with heads set against the gusts, advanced steadily up the avenue, making way for a horseman; and from the drawing-room window Mrs. Barton recognized the square-set shoulders of Captain Hibbert. After shaking hands and speaking a few words with Mr. Barton, he trotted round to the stables; and when he walked back and entered the house, in all the clean-cut elegance of military boots and trousers, the peasants lifted their hats, and the interview began.
 ‘Now, boys,’ said Mr. Barton, who thought that a little familiarity would not be inappropriate, ‘I’ve asked you to meet me so that we might come to some agreement about the rents. We’ve known each other a long time, and my family has been on this estate I don’t know for how many generations. Therefore — why, of course, I should be very sorry if we had any falling out. I don’t know much about farming, but I hear everyone say that this has been a capital year, and ... I think I cannot do better than to make you again the same offer as I made you before — that is to say, of twenty per cent, abatement all round; that will bring your rents down to Griffith’s valuation.’
 Mr. Barton had intended to be very impressive, but, feeling that words were betraying him, he stopped short, and waited anxiously to hear what answer the peasant who had stepped forward would make. The old man began by removing a battered tall-hat, out of which fell a red handkerchief. The handkerchief was quickly thrown back into the crown, and, at an intimation from Mr. Barton, hat and handkerchief were replaced upon the white head. He then commenced:
 ‘Now, yer honour, the rints is too high; we cannot pay the present rint, at least without a reduction. I have been a tinent on the property, and my fathers before me, for the past fifty years. And it was in forty-three that the rints was ruz — in the time of your father, the Lord have mercy on his soul! — but he had an agent who was a hard man, and he ruz the rints, and since then we have been in poverty, livin’ on yaller mail and praties, and praties that is watery; there is no diet in them, yer honour. And if yer honour will come down and walk the lands yerself, yer wi’ see I am spaking the truth. We ask nothing better than yer should walk the lands yerself. There is two acres of my land, yer honour, flooded for three months of the year, and for that land I am paying twenty-five shillings an acre. I have my receipts, paid down to the last gale-day.’
 And, still speaking, the old man fumbled in his pockets and produced a large pile of papers, which he strove to push into Mr. Barton’s hand, alluding all the while to the losses he had sustained. Two pigs had died on him, and he had lost a fine mare and foal. His loquacity was, however, cut short by a sturdy, middle-aged peasant standing next him.
 ‘And I, too, yer honour, am payin’ five-and-twenty shillin’s for the same flooded land. Yer honour can come down any day and see it. It is not worth, to me, more than fifteen shillings an acre at the bare outside. But it could be drained, for there is a fall into the marin stream betwixt your honour’s property and the Miss Brennans’. It wouldn’t cost more than forty pound, and the Miss Brennans will pay half if yer honour will pay the other.’
 Mr. Barton listened patiently to those peasant-like digressions, while Mrs. Barton listened patiently to the Captain’s fervid declarations of love. He had begun by telling her of the anguish it had caused him to have been denied, and three times running, admittance to Brookfield. One whole night he had lain awake wondering what he had done to offend them. Mrs. Barton could imagine how he had suffered, for she, he ventured to say, must have long since guessed what were his feelings for her daughter.
 ‘We were very sorry to have been out, and it is so unusual that we should be,’ said Mrs. Barton, leaning forward her face insinuatingly. ‘But you were speaking of Olive. We say here that there is no one like le beau capitaine, no one so handsome, no one so nice, no one so gallant, and — and — ‘ here Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, for she thought the bitterness of life might be so cunningly wrapped up in sweet compliments that both could be taken together, like sugared-medicine — in one child-like gulp. ‘There is, of course, no one I should prefer to le beau capitaine — there is no one to whom I would confide my Olive more willingly; but, then, one must look to other things; one cannot live entirely on love, even if it be the love of a beau capitaine.’
 Nevertheless, the man’s face darkened. The eyebrows contracted, the straight white nose seemed to grow straighter, and he twirled his moustache angrily.
 ‘I am aware, my dear Mrs. Barton, that I cannot give your daughter the position I should like to, but I am not as poor as you seem to imagine. Independent of my pay I have a thousand a year; Miss Barton has, if I be not mistaken, some money of her own; and, as I shall get my majority within the next five years, I may say that we shall begin life upon something more than fifteen hundred a year.’
 ‘It is true that I have led you to believe that Olive has money, but Irish money can be no longer counted upon. Were Mr. Barton to create a charge on his property, how would it be possible for him to guarantee the payment of the interest in such times as the present? We are living on the brink of a precipice. We do not know what is, and what is not, our own. The Land League is ruining us, and the Government will not put it down; this year the tenants may pay at twenty per cent. reduction, but next year they may refu