it is ten days later,—ten dreary, interminable days, that have struggled into light, and sunk back again into darkness, leaving no trace worthy of remembrance in their train. "swift as swallows' wings" they have flown, scarce breaking the air in their flight, so silently, so evenly they have departed, as days will, when dull monotony marks them for its own.
to-day is cool, and calm, and bright. almost one fancies the first faint breath of spring has touched one's cheek, though as yet january has not wended to its weary close, and no smallest sign of growth or vegetation makes itself felt.
the grass is still brown, the trees barren, no ambitious floweret thrusts its head above the bosom of its mother earth,—except, indeed, those "floures white and rede, such as men callen daisies," that always seem to beam upon the world, no matter how the wind blows.
just now it is blowing softly, delicately, as though its fury of the night before had been an hallucination of the brain. it is "a sweet and passionate wooer," says longfellow, and lays siege to "the blushing leaf." there are no leaves for it to kiss to-day: so it bestows its caresses upon mona as she wanders forth, close guarded by her two stanch hounds that follow at her heels.
there is a strange hush and silence everywhere. the very clouds are motionless in their distant homes.
"there has not been a sound to-day
to break the calm of nature:
nor motion, i might almost say,
of life, or living creature,
of waving bough, or warbling bird,
or cattle faintly lowing:
i could have half believed i heard
the leaves and blossoms growing."
indeed, no sound disturbs the sacred silence save the crisp rustle of the dead leaves, as they are trodden into the ground.
over the meadows and into the wood goes mona, to where a streamlet runs, that is her special joy,—being of the garrulous and babbling order, which is, perhaps, the nearest approach to divine music that nature can make. but to-day the stream is swollen, is enlarged beyond all recognition, and, being filled with pride at its own promotion, has forgotten its little loving song, and is rushing onward with a passionate roar to the ocean.
down from the cataract in the rocks above the water comes with a mighty will, foaming, glistening, shouting a loud triumphant paen as it flings itself into the arms of the vain brook beneath, that only yesterday-eve was a stream, but to-day may well be deemed a river.
up high the rocks are overgrown with ferns, and drooping things, all green and feathery, that hide small caves and picturesque crannies, through which the bright-eyed naiads might peep whilst holding back with bare uplifted arms their amber hair, the better to gaze upon the unconscious earth outside.
a loose stone that has fallen from its home in the mountain-side above uprears itself in the middle of this turbulent stream. but it is too far from the edge, and mona, standing irresolutely on the brink, pauses, as though half afraid to take the step that must either land her safely on the other side or else precipitate her into the angry little river.
as she thus ponders within herself, spice and allspice, the two dogs, set up a simultaneous howl, and immediately afterwards a voice says, eagerly,—
"wait, mrs. rodney. let me help you across."
mona starts, and, looking up, sees the australian coming quickly towards her.
"you are very kind. the river is greatly swollen," she says, to gain time. geoffrey, perhaps, will not like her to accept any civility at the hands of this common enemy.
"not so much so that i cannot help you to cross over in safety, if you will only trust yourself to me," replies he.
still she hesitates, and he is not slow to notice the eloquent pause.
"is it worth so much thought?" he says, bitterly. "it surely will not injure you fatally to lay your hand in mine for one instant."
"you mistake me," says mona, shocked at her own want of courtesy; and then she extends to him her hand, and, setting her foot upon the huge stone, springs lightly to his side.
once there she has to go with him down the narrow woodland path, there being no other, and so paces on, silently, and sorely against her will.
"sir nicholas has sent me an invitation for the 19th," he says, presently, when the silence has become unendurable.
"yes," says mona, devoutly hoping he is going to say he means to refuse it. but such devout hope is wasted.
"i shall go," he says, doggedly, as though divining her secret wish.
"i am sure we shall all be very glad," she says, faintly, feeling herself bound to make some remark.
"thanks!" returns he, with an ironical laugh. "how excellently your tone agrees with your words?"
another pause. mona is on thorns. will the branching path, that may give her a chance of escaping a further tete-a-tete with him, never be reached?
"so warden failed you?" he says, presently, alluding to old elspeth's nephew.
"yes,—so far," returns she, coldly.
"it was a feeble effort," declares he, contemptuously striking with his cane the trunks of the trees as he goes by them.
"yet i think warden knows more than he cares to tell," says mona, at a venture. why, she herself hardly knows.
he turns, as though by an irrepressible impulse, to look keenly at her. his scrutiny endures only for an instant. then he says, with admirable indifference,—
"you have grounds for saying so, of course?"
"perhaps i have. do you deny i am in the right?" asks she, returning his gaze undauntedly.
he drops his eyes, and the low, sneering laugh she has learned to know and to hate so much comes again to his lips.
"it would be rude to deny that," he says, with a slight shrug. "i am sure you are always in the right."
"if i am, warden surely knows more about the will than he has sworn to."
"it is very probable,—if there ever was such a will. how should i know? i have not cross-examined warden on this or any other subject. he is an overseer over my estate, a mere servant, nothing more."
"has he the will?" asks mona, foolishly, but impulsively.
"he may have, and a stocking full of gold, and the roc's egg, or anything else, for aught i know. i never saw it. they tell me there was an iniquitous and most unjust will drawn up some years ago by old sir george: that is all i know."
"by your grandfather!" corrects mona, in a peculiar tone.
"well, by my grandfather, if you so prefer it," repeats he, with much unconcern. "it got itself, if it ever existed, irretrievably lost, and that is all any one knows about it."
mona is watching him intently.
"yet i feel sure—i know," she says, tremulously, "you are hiding something from me. why do you not look at me when you answer my questions?"
at this his dark face flames, and his eyes instinctively, yet almost against his will, seek hers.
"why?" he says, with suppressed passion. "because, each time i do, i know myself to be—what i am! your truthful eyes are mirrors in which my heart lies bare." with an effort he recovers himself, and, drawing his breath quickly, grows calm again. "if i were to gaze at you as often as i should desire, you would probably deem me impertinent," he says, with a lapse into his former half-insolent tone.
"answer me," persists mona, not heeding—nay, scarcely hearing—his last speech. "you said once it would be difficult to lie to me. do you know anything of this missing will?"
"a great deal. i should. i have heard of almost nothing else since my arrival in england," replies he, slowly.
"ah! then you refuse to answer me," says mona, hastily, if somewhat wearily.
he makes no reply. and for a full minute no word is spoken between them.
then mona goes on quietly,—
"that night at chetwoode you made use of some words that i have never forgotten since."
he is plainly surprised. he is indeed glad. his face changes, as if by magic, from sullen gloom to pleasurable anticipation.
"you have remembered something that i said, for eleven days?" he says, quickly.
"yes. when talking then of supplanting sir nicholas at the towers, you spoke of your project as a 'splendid scheme.' what did you mean by it? i cannot get the words out of my head since. is 'scheme' an honest word?"
her tone is only too significant. his face has grown black again. a heavy frown sits on his brow.
"you are not perhaps aware of it, but your tone is insulting," he begins, huskily. "were you a man i could give you an answer, now, here; but as it is i am of course tied hand and foot. you can say to me what you please. and i shall bear it. think as badly of me as you will. i am a schemer, a swindler, what you will!"
"even in my thoughts i never applied those words to you," says mona, earnestly. "yet some feeling here"—laying her hand upon her heart—"compels me to believe you are not dealing fairly by us." to her there is untruth in every line of his face, in every tone of his voice.
"you condemn me without a hearing, swayed by the influence of a carefully educated dislike," retorts he:
"'alas for the rarity
of christian charity
under the sun!'
but i blame the people you have fallen among,—not you."
"blame no one," says mona. "but if there is anything in your own heart to condemn you, then pause before you go further in this matter of the towers."
"i wonder you are not afraid of going too far," he puts in, warningly, his dark eyes flashing.
"i am afraid of nothing," says mona, simply. "i am not half so much afraid as you were a few moments since, when you could not let your eyes meet mine, and when you shrank from answering me a simple question. in my turn i tell you to pause before going too far."
"your advice is excellent," says he, sneeringly. then suddenly he stops short before her, and breaks out vehemently,——
"were i to fling up this whole business and resign my chance, and leave these people in possession, what would i gain by it?" demands he. "they have treated me from the beginning with ignominy and contempt. you alone have treated me with common civility; and even you they have tutored to regard me with averted eyes."
"you are wrong," says mona, coldly. "they seldom trouble themselves to speak of you at all." this is crueller than she knows.
"why don't i hate you?" he says, with some emotion. "how bitterly unkind even the softest, sweetest women can be! yet there is something about you that subdues me and renders hatred impossible. if i had never met you, i should be a happier man."
"how can you be happy with a weight upon your heart?" says mona, following out her own thoughts irrespective of his. "give up this project, and peace will return to you."
"no, i shall pursue it to its end," returns, he, with slow malice, that makes her heart grow cold, "until the day comes that shall enable me to plant my heel upon these aristocrats and crush them out of recognition."
"and after that what will remain to you?" asks she, pale but collected. "it is bare comfort when hatred alone reigns in the heart. with such thoughts in your breast what can you hope for?—what can life give you?"
"something," replies he, with a short laugh. "i shall at least see you again on the 19th."
he raises his hat, and, turning abruptly away, is soon lost to sight round a curve in the winding pathway. he walks steadily and with an unflinching air, but when the curve has hidden him from her eyes he stops short, and sighs heavily.
"to love such a woman as that, and be beloved by her, how it would change a man's whole nature, no matter how low he may have sunk," he says, slowly. "it would mean salvation! but as it is—no, i cannot draw back now: it is too late."
meantime mona has gone quickly back to the towers her mind disturbed and unsettled. has she misjudged him? is it possible that his claim is a just one after all, and that she has been wrong in deeming him one who might defraud his neighbor?
she is sad and depressed before she reaches the hall door, where she is unfortunate enough to find a carriage just arrived, well filled with occupants eager to obtain admission.
they are the carsons, mustered in force, and, if anything, a trifle more noisy and oppressive than usual.
"how d'ye do, mrs. rodney? is lady rodney at home? i hope so," says mrs. carson, a fat, florid, smiling, impossible person of fifty.
now, lady rodney is at home, but, having given strict orders to the servants to say she is anywhere else they like,—that is, to tell as many lies as will save her from intrusion,—is just now reposing calmly in the small drawing-room, sleeping the sleep of the just, unmindful of coming evil.
of all this mona is unaware; though even were it otherwise i doubt if a lie could come trippingly to her lips, or a nice evasion be balanced there at a moment's notice. such foul things as untruths are unknown to her, and have no refuge in her heart. it is indeed fortunate that on this occasion she knows no reason why her reply should differ from the truth, because in that case i think she would stand still, and stammer sadly, and grow uncomfortably red, and otherwise betray the fact that she would lie if she knew how.
as things are, however, she is able to smile pleasantly at mrs. carson, and tell her in her soft voice that lady rodney is at home.
"how fortunate!" says that fat woman, with her broad expansive grin that leaves her all mouth, with no eyes or nose to speak of. "we hardly dared hope for such good luck this charming day."
she doesn't put any g into her "charming," which, however, is neither here or there, and is perhaps a shabby thing to take notice of at all.
then she and her two daughters quit the "coach," as carson pere insist on calling the landau, and flutter through the halls, and across the corridors, after mona, until they reach the room that contains lady rodney.
mona throws open the door, and the visitors sail in, all open-eyed and smiling, with their very best company manners hung out for the day.
but almost on the threshold they come to a full stop to gaze irresolutely at one another, and then over their shoulders at mona. she, marking their surprise, comes hastily to the front, and so makes herself acquainted with the cause of their delay.
overcome by the heat of the fire, her luncheon, and the blessed certainty that for this one day at least no one is to be admitted to her presence, lady rodney has given herself up a willing victim to the child somnus. her book—that amiable assistant of all those that court siestas—has fallen to the ground. her cap is somewhat awry. her mouth is partly open, and a snore—gentle, indeed, but distinct and unmistakable—comes from her patrician throat.
it is a moment never to be forgotten!
mona, horror-stricken, goes quickly over to her, and touches her lightly on the shoulder.
"mrs. carson has come to see you," she says, in an agony of fear, giving her a little shake.
"eh? what?" asks lady rodney, in a dazed fashion, yet coming back to life with amazing rapidity. she sits up. then in an instant the situation explains itself to her; she collects herself, bestows one glance of passionate anger upon mona, and then rises to welcome mrs. carson with her usual suave manner and bland smile, throwing into the former an air meant to convey the flattering idea that for the past week she has been living on the hope of seeing her soon again.
she excuses her unwonted drowsiness with a little laugh, natural and friendly, and begs them "not to betray her." clothed in all this sweetness she drops a word or two meant to crush mona; but that hapless young woman hears her not, being bent on explaining to mrs. carson that, as a rule, the irish peasantry do not go about dressed only in glass beads, like the gay and festive zulus, and that petticoats and breeches are not utterly unknown.
this is tough work, and takes her all her time, as mrs. carson, having made up her mind to the beads, accepts it rather badly being undeceived, and goes nearly so far as telling mona that she knows little or nothing about her own people.
then violet and doatie drop in, and conversation becomes general, and presently the visit comes to an end, and the carsons fade away, and mona is left to be bear the brunt of lady rodney's anger, which has been steadily growing, instead of decreasing, during the past half-hour.
"are there no servants in my house," demands she, in a terrible tone, addressing mona a steely light coming into her blue eyes that mona knows and hates so well, "that you must feel it your duty to guide my visitors to my presence?"
"if i made a mistake i am sorry for it."
"it was unfortunate mona should have met them at the hall door,—edith carson told me about it,—but it could not be helped," says violet calmly.
"no, it couldn't be helped," says little doatie. but their intervention only appears to add fuel to the fire of lady rodney's wrath.
"it shall be helped," she says, in a low, but condensed tone. "for the future i forbid any one in my house to take it upon them to say whether i am in or out. i am the one to decide that. on what principle did you show them in here?" she asks, turning to mona, her anger increasing as she remembers the rakish cap: "why did you not say, when you were unlucky enough to find yourself face to face with them, that i was not at home?"
"because you were at home," replies mona, quietly, though in deep distress.
"that doesn't matter," says lady rodney: "it is a mere formula. if it suited your purpose you could have said so—i don't doubt—readily enough."
"i regret that i met them," says mona, who will not say she regrets she told the truth.
"and to usher them in here! into one of my most private rooms! unlikely people, like the carsons, whom you have heard me speak of in disparaging terms a hundred times! i don't know what you could have been thinking about. perhaps next time you will be kind enough to bring them to my bedroom."
"you misunderstand me," says mona, with tears in her eyes.
"i hardly think so. you can refuse to see people yourself when it suits you. only yesterday, when mr. boer, our rector, called, and i sent for you, you would not come."
"i don't like mr. boer," says mona, "and it was not me he came to see."
"still, there was no necessity to insult him with such a message as you sent. perhaps," with unpleasant meaning, "you do not understand that to say you are busy is rather more a rudeness than an excuse for one's non-appearance."
"it was true," says mona: "i was writing letters for geoffrey."
"nevertheless, you might have waived that fact, and sent down word you had a headache."
"but i hadn't a headache," says mona, bending her large truthful eyes with embarrassing earnestness upon lady rodney.
"oh, if you were determined—" returns she, with a shrug.
"i was not determined: you mistake me," exclaims mona, miserably. "i simply hadn't a headache: i never had one in my life,—and i shouldn't know how to get one!"
at this point, geoffrey—who has been hunting all the morning—enters the room with captain rodney.
"why, what is the matter?" he says, seeing signs of the lively storm on all their faces. doatie explains hurriedly.
"look here," says geoffrey. "i won't have mona spoiled. if she hadn't a headache, she hadn't, you know, and if you were at home, why, you were, and that's all about it. why should she tell a lie about it?"
"what do you mean, geoffrey?" demands his mother, with suppressed indignation.
"i mean that she shall remain just as she is. the world may be 'given to lying,' as shakspeare tells us, but i will not have mona tutored into telling fashionable falsehoods," says this intrepid young man facing his mother without a qualm of a passing dread. "a lie of any sort is base, and a prevarication is only a mean lie. she is truthful, let her stay so. why should she learn it is the correct thing to say she is not at home when she is, or that she is suffering from a foolish megrim when she isn't? i don't suppose there is much harm in saying either of these things, as nobody ever believes them; but—let her remain as she is."
"is she also to learn that you are at liberty to lecture your own mother?" asks lady rodney, pale with anger.
"i am not lecturing anyone," replies he, looking very like her, now that his face has whitened a little and a quick fire has lit itself within his eyes. "i am merely speaking against a general practice. 'dare to be true: nothing can need a lie,' is a line that always returns to me. and, as i love mona better than anything on earth, i shall make it the business of my life to see she is not made unhappy by any one."
at this mona lifts her head, and turns upon him eyes full of the tenderest love and trust. she would have dearly liked to go to him, and place her arms round his neck, and thank him with a fond caress for this dear speech, but some innate sense of breeding restrains her.
any demonstration on her part just now may make a scene, and scenes are ever abhorrent. and might she not yet further widen the breach between mother and son by an ill-timed show of affection for the latter?
"still, sometimes, you know, it is awkward to adhere to the very letter of the law," says jack rodney, easily. "is there no compromise? i have heard of women who have made a point of running into the kitchen-garden when unwelcome visitors were announced, and so saved themselves and their principles. couldn't mona do that?"
this speech is made much of, and laughed at for no reason whatever except that violet and doatie are determined to end the unpleasant discussion by any means, even though it may be at the risk of being deemed silly. after some careful management they get mona out of the room, and carry her away with them to a little den off the eastern hall, that is very dear to them.
"it is the most unhappy thing i ever heard of," begins doatie, desperately. "what lady rodney can see to dislike in you, mona, i can't imagine. but the fact is, she is hateful to you. now, we," glancing at violet, "who are not particularly amiable, are beloved by her, whilst you, who are all 'sweetness and light,' she detests most heartily."
"it is true," says violet, evenly. "yet, dear mona, i wish you could try to be a little more like the rest of the world."
"i want to very much," says poor mona, her eyes filling with tears. "but," hopelessly, "must i begin by learning to tell lies?" all this teaching is very bitter to her.
"lies! oh, fie!" says doatie. "who tells lies? nobody, except the naughty little boys in tracts, and they always break their legs off apple-trees, or else get drowned on a sunday morning. now, we are not drowned, and our legs are uninjured. no, a lie is a horrid thing,—so low, and in such wretched taste. but there are little social fibs that may be uttered,—little taradiddles,—that do no harm to anybody, and that nobody believes in, but all pretend to, just for the sake of politeness."
thus doatie, looking preternaturally wise, but faintly puzzled at her own view of the question.
"it doesn't sound right," says mona, shaking her head.
"she doesn't understand," puts in violet, quickly. "mona, are you going to see everybody that may choose to call upon you, good, bad, and indifferent, from this till you die?"
"i suppose so," says mona lifting her brows.
"then i can only say i pity you," says miss mansergh, leaning back in her chair, with the air of one who would say, "argument here is in vain."
"i sha'n't want to see them, perhaps," says mona, apologetically, "but how shall i avoid it?"
"ah, now, that is more reasonable; now we are coming to it," says doatie, briskly. "we 'return to our muttons.' as lady rodney, in a very rude manner, tried to explain to you, you will either say you are not at home, or that you have a headache. the latter is not so good; it carries more offence with it, but it comes in pretty well sometimes."
"but, as i said to lady rodney, suppose i haven't a headache," retorts mona, triumphantly.
"oh, you are incorrigible!" says doatie, leaning back in her chair in turn, and tilting backward her little flower-like face, that looks as if even the most harmless falsehood must be unknown to it.
"could you not imagine you had one?" she says, presently as a last resource.
"i could not," says mona. "i am always quite well." she is standing before them like a culprit called to the bar of justice. "i never had a headache, or a toothache, or a nightmare, in my life."
"or an umbrella, you should add. i once knew a woman like that, but she was not like you," says doatie. "well, if you are going to be as literal as you now are, until you call for your shroud, i must say i don't envy you."
"be virtuous and you'll be happy, but you won't have a good time," quotes violet; "you should take to heart that latest of copy-book texts."
"oh, fancy receiving the boers whenever they call!" says doatie, faintly, with a deep sigh that is almost a groan.
"i sha'n't mind it very much," says mona, earnestly. "it will be after all, only one half hour out of my whole day."
"you don't know what you are talking about," says doatie, vehemently. "every one of those interminable half-hours will be a year off your life. mr. boer is obnoxious, but florence is simply insupportable. wait till she begins about the choir, and those hateful school-children, and the parish subsidies; then you perhaps will learn wisdom, and grow headaches if you have them not. violet, what is it jack calls mr. boer?"
"better not remember it," says violet, but she smiles as she calls to mind jack's apt quotation.
"why not? it just suits him: 'a little, round, fat, oily man of——'"
"hush, dorothy! it was very wrong of jack," interrupts violet. but mona laughs for the first time for many hours—which delights doatie.
"you and i appreciate jack, if she doesn't, don't we, mona?" she says, with pretty malice, echoing mona's merriment. after which the would-be lecture comes to an end, and the three girls, clothing themselves in furs, go for a short walk before the day quite closes in.
