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.’