Mrs. Geoffrey

Here and there are basins of water on which lilies can lie and sleep dreamily through a warm and sunny day. A sundial, old and green with honorable age, uprears itself upon a chilly bit of sward. Near it lie two gaudy peacocks sound asleep. All seems far from the world, drowsy, careless, indifferent to the weals and woes of suffering humanity.

"It is like the garden of the palace where the Sleeping Beauty dwelt," whispers Mona to Nolly; she is delighted, charmed, lost in admiration.

"You are doing it beautifully: keep it up," whispers he back: "she'll give you something nice if you sustain that look for five minutes longer. Now! – she is looking; hurry – make haste – put it on again!"

"I am not pretending," says Mona, indignantly; "I am delighted: it is the most enchanting place I ever saw. Really lovely."

"I didn't think it was in you," declares Mr. Darling, with wild but suppressed admiration. "You would make your fortune on the stage. Keep it up, I tell you; it couldn't be better."

"Is it possible you see nothing to admire?" says Mona, with intense disgust.

"I do. More than I can express. I see you," retorts he; at which they both give way to merriment, causing Geoffrey, who is walking with Lady Lilias, to dodge behind her back and bestow upon them an annihilating glance that Nolly afterwards describes as a "lurid glare."

The hound stalks on before them; the peacocks wake up and rend the air with a discordant scream. Lady Lilias, coming to the sundial, leans her arm upon it, and puts her head in the right position. A snail slowly travelling across a broad ivy-leaf attracts her attention; she lifts it slowly, leaf and all, and directs attention to the silvery trail it has left behind it.

"How tender! how touching!" she says, with a pensive smile, raising her luminous eyes to Geoffrey: whether it is the snail, or the leaf, or the slime, that is tender and touching, nobody knows; and nobody dares ask, lest he shall betray his ignorance. Nolly, I regret to say, gives way to emotion of a frivolous kind, and to cover it blows his nose sonorously. Whereupon Geoffrey, who is super-naturally grave, asks Lady Lilias if she will walk with him as far as the grotto.

"How could you laugh?" says Mona, reproachfully.

"How couldn't I?" replies he. "Come; let us follow it up to the bitter end."

"I never saw anything so clean as the walks," says Mona, presently: "there is not a leaf or a weed to be seen, yet we have gone through so many of them. How does she manage it?"

"Don't you know?" says Mr. Darling, mysteriously. "It is a secret, but I know you can be trusted. Every morning early she has them carefully swept, with tea-leaves to keep down the dust, and if the tea is strong it kills the weeds."

Then they do the grotto, and then Lady Lilias once more leads the way indoors.

"I want you to see my own work," she says, going up markedly to Mona. "I am glad my garden has pleased you. I could see by your eyes how well you appreciated it. To see the beautiful in everything, that is the only true religion." She smiles her careful absent smile again as she says this, and gazes earnestly at Mona. Perhaps, being true to her religion, she is noting "the beautiful" in her Irish guest.

With Philippa they have some tea, and then again follow their indefatigable hostess to a distant apartment that seems more or less to jut out from the house, and was in olden days a tiny chapel or oratory.

It has an octagon chamber of the most uncomfortable description, but no doubt artistic, and above all praise, according to some lights. To outsiders it presents a curious appearance, and might by the unlearned be regarded as a jumble of all ages, a make-up of objectionable bits from different centuries; but to Lady Lilias and her sympathizers it is simply perfection.

The furniture is composed of oak of the hardest and most severe. To sit down would be a labor of anything but love. The chairs are strictly Gothic. The table is a marvel in itself for ugliness and in utility.

There are no windows; but in their place are four unpleasant slits about two yards in length, let into the thick walls at studiously unequal distances. These are filled up with an opaque substance that perhaps in the Middle Ages was called glass.

There is no grate, and the fire, which has plainly made up its mind not to light, is composed of Yule-logs. The floor is shining with sand, rushes having palled on Lady Lilias.

Mona is quite pleased. All is new, which in itself is a pleasure to her, and the sanded floor carries her back on the instant to the old parlor at home, which was their "best" at the Farm.

"This is nicer than anything," she says, turning in a state of childish enthusiasm to Lady Lilias. "It is just like the floor in my uncle's house at home."

"Ah! indeed! How interesting!" says Lady Lilias, rousing into something that very nearly borders on animation. "I did not think there was in England another room like this."

"Not in England, perhaps. When I spoke I was thinking of Ireland," says Mona.

"Yes?" with calm surprise. "I – I have heard of Ireland, of course. Indeed, I regard the older accounts of it as very deserving of thought; but I had no idea the more elevated aspirations of modern times had spread so far. So this room reminds you of – your uncle's?"

"Partly," says Mona. "Not altogether: there was always a faint odor of pipes about Uncle Brian's room that does not belong to this."

"Ah! Tobacco! First introduced by Sir Walter Raleigh," murmurs Lady Lilias, musingly. "Too modern, but no doubt correct and in keeping. Your uncle, then," – looking at Mona, – "is beyond question an earnest student of our faith."

"A – student?" says Mona, in a degree puzzled.

Doatie and Geoffrey have walked to a distant slit. Nolly is gazing vacantly through another, trying feebly to discern the landscape beyond. Lady Rodney is on thorns. They are all listening to what Mona is going to say next.

"Yes. A disciple, a searcher after truth," goes on Lady Lilias, in her Noah's Ark tone. "By a student I mean one who studies, and arrives at perfection – in time."

"I don't quite know," says Mona, slowly, "but what Uncle Brian principally studies is – pigs!"

"Pigs!" repeats Lady Lilias, plainly taken aback.

"Yes; pigs!" says Mona, sweetly.

There is a faint pause, – so faint that Lady Rodney is unable to edge in the saving clause she would fain have uttered. Lady Lilias, recovering with wonderful spirit from so severe a blow, comes once more boldly to the front. She taps her white taper fingers lightly on the table near her, and says, apologetically, – the apology being meant for herself, —

"Forgive me that I showed surprise. Your uncle is more advanced than I had supposed. He is right. Why should a pig be esteemed less lovely than a stag? Nature in its entirety can know no blemish. The fault lies with us. We are creatures of habit: we have chosen to regard the innocent pig as a type of ugliness for generations, and now find it difficult to see any beauty in it."

"Well; there isn't much, is there?" says Mona, pleasantly.

"No doubt education, and a careful study of the animal in question, might betray much to us," says Lady Lilias. "We object to the uncovered hide of the pig, and to his small eyes; but can they not see as well as those of the fawn, or the delicate lapdog we fondle all day on our knees? It is unjust that one animal should be treated with less regard than another."

"But you couldn't fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing every minute more and more mixed.

"No, no; but it should be treated with courtesy. We were speaking of the size of its eyes. Why should they be despised? Do we not often in our ignorance and narrow mindedness cling to paltry things and ignore the truly great? The tiny diamond that lies in the hollow of our hands is dear and precious in our sight, whilst we fail to find beauty in the huge boulder that is after all far more worthy of regard, with its lights and shades, its grand ruggedness, and the soft vegetable matter that decks its aged sides, rendering their roughness beautiful."

Here she gets completely out of her depths, and stops to consider from whence this train of thought sprung. The pig is forgotten, – indeed, to get from pigs to diamonds and back again is not an easy matter, – and has to be searched for again amidst the dim recesses of her brain, and if possible brought to the surface.

She draws up her tall figure to its utmost height, and gazes at the raftered ceiling to see if inspiration can be drawn from thence. But it fails her.

"You were talking of pigs," says Mona, gently.

"Ah! so I was," says Lady Lilias, with a sigh of relief: she is quite too intense to feel any of the petty vexations of ordinary mortals, and takes Mona's help in excellent part. "Yes, I really think there is loveliness in a pig when surrounded by its offspring. I have seen them once or twice, and I think the little pigs – the – the – "

"Bonuvs," says Mona, mildly, going back naturally to the Irish term for those interesting babies.

"Eh?" says Lady Lilias.

"Bonuvs," repeats Mona, a little louder, at which Lady Rodney sinks into a chair, as though utterly overcome. Nolly and Geoffrey are convulsed with laughter. Doatie is vainly endeavoring to keep them in order.

"Oh, is that their name? – a pretty one too – if – er – somewhat difficult," says Lady Lilias, courteously. "Well as I was saying, in spite of their tails, they really are quite pretty."

At this Mona laughs unrestrainedly; and Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, says, —

"Dear Lady Lilias, I think we have at last nearly taken in all the beauties of your charming room. I fear," with much suavity, "we must be going."

"Oh, not yet," says Lady Lilias, with the nearest attempt at youthfulness she has yet made. "Mrs. Rodney has not half seen all my treasures."

Mrs. Rodney, however, has been foraging on her own account during this brief interlude, and now brings triumphantly to light a little basin filled with early snowdrops.

"Snowdrops, – and so soon," she says, going up to Lady Lilias, and looking quite happy over her discovery. "We have none yet at the Towers."

"Yes, they are pretty, but insignificant," says the Æsthete, contemptuously. "Paltry children of the earth, not to be compared with the lenten or the tiger lily, or the fiercer beauty of the sunflower, or the hues of the unsurpassable thistle!"

"I am very ignorant I know," says Mrs. Geoffrey, with her sunny smile, "but I think I should prefer a snowdrop to a thistle."

"You have not gone into it," says Lady Lilias, regretfully. "To you Nature is as yet a blank. The exquisite purple of the stately thistle, that by the scoffer is called dull, is not understood by you. Nor does your heart swell beneath the influence of the rare and perfect green of its leaves, which doubtless the untaught deemed soiled. To fully appreciate the yieldings and gifts of earth is a power given only to some." She bows her head, feeling a modest pride in the thought that she belongs to the happy "some." "Ignorance," she says, sorrowfully, "is the greatest enemy of our cause."

"I am afraid you must class me with the ignorant," says Mona, shaking her pretty head. "I know nothing at all about thistles, except that donkeys love them!"

Is this, can this be premeditated, or is it a fatal slip of the tongue? Lady Rodney turns pale, and even Geoffrey and Nolly stand aghast. Mona alone is smiling unconcernedly into Lady Lilias's eyes, and Lady Lilias, after a brief second, smiles back at her. It is plain the severe young woman in the sage-green gown has not even noticed the dangerous remark.

"You must come again very soon to see me," she says to Mona, and then goes with her all along the halls and passages, and actually stands upon the door-steps until they drive away. And Mona kisses hands gayly to her as they turn the corner of the avenue, and then tells Geoffrey that she thinks he has been very hard on Lady Lilias, because, though she is plainly quite mad, poor thing, there is certainly nothing to be disliked about her.

CHAPTER XXVII

HOW MONA TAKES A WALK ABROAD – AND HOW SHE ASKS CROSS-QUESTIONS AND RECEIVES CROOKED ANSWERS

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-dayTo 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 heardThe 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 rarityOf Christian charityUnder 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.