Muslin | Page 8

of mind by refusing him.'
'I don't see that. Whoever refused a King?'
'Well, what do you want?' exclaimed May. 'I never saw anyone so
selfish in all my life; you wouldn't be satisfied unless you played the
whole piece by yourself.'
Olive would probably have made a petulant and passionate reply, but at
that moment visitors were coming up the drive.
'It's papa,' cried Olive.
'And he is with mamma,' said Violet; and she tripped after Olive.
Mr. Barton, a tall, handsome man, seemed possessed of all the beauty
of a cameo, and Olive had inherited his high aquiline nose and the
moulding of his romantic forehead; and his colour, too. He wore a
flowing beard, and his hair and beard were the colour of pale
cafe-au-lait. Giving a hand to each daughter, he said:
'Here is learning and here is beauty. Could a father desire more? And
you, Violet, and you, May, are about to break into womanhood. I used
to kiss you in old times, but I suppose you are too big now. How
strange--how strange! There you are, a row of brunettes and blondes,
who before many days are over will be charming the hearts of all the
young men in Galway. I suppose it was in talking of such things that
you spent the morning?'
'Our young charges have been, I assure you, very busy all the morning.
We are not as idle as you think, Mr. Barton,' said the nun in a tone of
voice that showed that she thought Mr. Barton's remark ill-considered.
'We have been arranging the stage for the representation of a little play
that your daughter Alice composed.'

'Oh yes, I know; she wrote to me about it. King Cophetua is the name,
isn't it? I am very curious indeed, for I have set Tennyson's ballad to
music myself. I sing it to the guitar, and if life were not so hurried I
should have sent it to you. However--however, we are all going home
to-morrow. I have promised to take charge of Cecilia, and Mrs. Scully
is going to look after May.'
'Oh, how nice! Oh, how jolly that will be!' Olive cried; and, catching
Violet by the hands, she romped with her for glee.
But the nun, taking advantage of this break in the conversation, said:
'Come, now, young ladies, it is after two o'clock; we shall never be
ready in time if you don't make haste--and it won't do to keep the
Bishop waiting.' Like a hen gathering her chickens, the Sister hurried
away with Violet, Olive, and May.
'How happy they seem in this beautiful retreat!' said Mrs. Scully,
drawing her black lace shawl about her grey-silk shoulders. 'How little
they know of the troubles of the world! I am afraid it would be hard to
persuade them to leave their convent if they knew the trials that await
them.'
'We cannot escape our trials,' a priest said, who had just joined the
group; 'they are given to us that we may overcome them.'
'I suppose so, indeed,' said Mrs. Scully; and, trying to find consolation
in the remark, she sighed. Another priest, as if fearing further religious
shop from his fellow-worker, informed Mr. Barton, in a cheerful tone
of voice, that he had heard he was a great painter.
'I don't know--I don't know,' replied Mr. Barton; 'painting is, after all,
only dreaming. I should like to be put at the head of an army, but when
I am seized with an idea I have to rush to put it down.'
Finding no appropriate answer to these somewhat erratic remarks, the
priest joined in a discussion that had been started concerning the action
taken by the Church during the present agrarian agitation. Mr. Barton,

who was weary of the subject, stepped aside, and, sitting on one of the
terrace benches between Cecilia and Alice, he feasted his eyes on the
colour-changes that came over the sea, and in long-drawn-out and
disconnected phrases explained his views on nature and art until the
bell was rung for the children to assemble in the school-hall.

II
It was a large room with six windows; these had been covered over
with red cloth, and the wall opposite was decorated with plates, flowers,
and wreaths woven out of branches of ilex and holly.
Chairs for the visitors had been arranged in a semicircle around the
Bishop's throne--a great square chair approached by steps, and rendered
still more imposing by the canopy, whose voluminous folds fell on
either side like those of a corpulent woman's dress. Opposite was the
stage. The footlights were turned down, but the blue mountains and
brown palm-trees of the drop-curtain, painted by one of the nuns,
loomed through the red obscurity of the room. Benches had been