Mrs. Geoffrey

"It was very unkind," says Mona; "and he has a hateful face."

"He has," says the duke. "But he has his reward, you know: nobody likes him. By the by, what horrid bad times they are having in your land! – ricks of hay burning nightly, cattle killed, everybody boycotted, and small children speared!"

"Oh, no, not that," says Mona. "Poor Ireland! Every one either laughs at her or hates her. Though I like my adopted country, still I shall always feel for old Erin what I could never feel for another land."

"And quite right too," says Lauderdale. "You remember what Scott says:

"'Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land!'"

"Oh, yes, lots of 'em," says Mr. Darling, who has come suddenly up beside them: "for instance, I don't believe I ever said it in all my life, either to myself or to any one else. Are you engaged, Mrs. Geoffrey? And if not, may I have this dance?"

"With pleasure," says Mona.

Paul Rodney, true to his word, has put in an appearance, much to the amazement of many in the room. Almost as Mona's dance with Nolly is at an end, he makes his way to her, and asks her to give him the next. Unfortunately, she is not engaged for it, and, being unversed in polite evasions, she says yes, quietly, and is soon floating round the room with him.

After one turn she stops abruptly, near an entrance.

"Tired?" says Rodney, fixing his black, gloomy eyes upon her.

"A little," says Mona. It is perhaps the nearest approach to a falsehood she has ever made.

"Perhaps you would rather rest for a while. Do you know this is the first time I have ever been inside the Towers?" He says this as one might who is desirous of making conversation, yet there is a covert meaning in his tone. Mona is silent. To her it seems a base thing that he should have accepted the invitation at all.

"I have heard the library is a room well worth seeing," goes on the Australian, seeing she will not speak.

"Yes; every one admires it. It is very old. You know one part of the Towers is older than all the rest."

"I have heard so. I should like to see the library," says Paul, looking at her expectantly.

"You can see it now if you wish," says Mona, quickly, the thought that she may be able to entertain him in some fashion that will not require conversation is dear to her. She therefore takes his arm, and leads him out of the ballroom, and across the halls into the library, which is brilliantly lighted, but just at this moment empty.

I forget if I described it before, but it is a room quite perfect in every respect, a beautiful room, oak-panelled from floor to ceiling, with this peculiarity about it, that whereas three of the walls have their panels quite long, without a break from top to bottom, the fourth – that is, the one in which the fireplace has been inserted – has the panels of a smaller size, cut up into pieces from about one foot broad to two feet long.

The Australian seems particularly struck with this fact. He stares in a thoughtful fashion at the wall with the small panels, seeming blind to the other beauties of the room.

"Yes, it is strange why that wall should be different from the others," Mona says, rather glad that he appears interested in something besides herself. "But it is altogether quite a nice old room, is it not?"

"It is," replies he, absently. Then, below his breath, "and well worth fighting for."

But Mona does not hear this last addition; she is moving a chair a little to one side, and the faint noise it makes drowns the sound of his voice. This perhaps is as well.

She turns up one of the lamps, whilst Rodney still continues his contemplation of the wall before him. Conversation languishes, then dies. Mona, raising her hand to her lips, suppresses valiantly a yawn.

"I hope you are enjoying yourself," she says, presently, hardly knowing what else to say.

"Enjoying myself? – No, I never do that," says Rodney, with unexpected frankness.

"You can hardly mean that?" says Mona, with some surprise.

"I do. Just now," looking at her, "I am perhaps as near enjoyment as I can be. But I have not danced before to-night. Nor should I have danced at all had you been engaged. I have forgotten what it is to be light-hearted."

"But surely there must be moments when – "

"I never have such moments," interrupts he moodily.

"Dear me! what a terribly unpleasant young man!" thinks Mona, at her wits' end to know what to say next. Tapping her fingers in a perplexed fashion on the table nearest her, she wonders when he will cease his exhaustive survey of the walls and give her an opportunity of leaving the room.

"But this is very sad for you, isn't it?" she says, feeling herself in duty bound to say something.

"I dare say it is; but the fact remains. I don't know what is the matter with me. It is a barren feeling, – a longing, it may be, for something I can never obtain."

"All that is morbid," says Mona: "you should try to conquer it. It is not healthy."

"You speak like a book," says Rodney, with an unlovely laugh; "but advice seldom cures. I only know that I have learned what stagnation means. I may alter in time, of course, but just at present I feel that

'My night has no eve,And my day has no morning.'

At home – in Sydney, I mean – the life was different. It was free, unfettered, and in a degree lawless. It suited me better."

"Then why don't you go back?" suggests Mona, simply.

"Because I have work to do here," retorts he, grimly. "Yet ever since I first set foot on this soil, contentment has gone from me. Abroad a man lives, here he exists. There, he carries his life in his hand, and trusts to his revolver rather than to the most learned of counsels, but here all is on another footing."

"It is to be regretted you cannot like England, as you have made up your mind to live in it; and yet I think – " She pauses.

"Yes – you think; go on," says Rodney, gazing at her attentively.

"Well, then, I think it is only just you should be unhappy," says Mona, with some vehemence. "Those who seek to scatter misery broadcast among their fellows should learn to taste of it themselves."

"Why do you accuse me of such a desire?" asks he, paling beneath her indignation, and losing courage because of the unshed tears that are gleaming in her eyes.

"When you gain your point and find yourself master here, you will know you have made not only one, but many people miserable."

"You seem to take my success in this case as a certainty," he says, with a frown. "I may fail."

"Oh, that I could believe so!" says Mona, forgetful of manners, courtesy, everything, but the desire to see those she loves restored to peace.

"You are candor itself," returns he, with a short laugh, shrugging his shoulders. "Of course I am bound to hope your wish may be fulfilled. And yet I doubt it. I am nearer my object to-night than I have ever been before; and," with a sardonic smile, "yours has been the hand to help me forward."

Mona starts, and regards him fixedly in a puzzled, uncertain manner. What he can possibly mean is unknown to her; but yet she is aware of some inward feeling, some instinct such as animals possess, that warns her to beware of him. She shrinks from him, and in doing so a slight fold of her dress catches in the handle of a writing-table, and detains her.

Paul, dropping on his knees before her, releases her gown; the fold is in his grasp, and still holding it he looks up at her, his face pale and almost haggard.

"If I were to resign all hope of gaining the Towers, if I were to consent to leave your people still in possession," he says, passionately, but in a low tone, "should I earn one tender thought in your heart? Speak, Mona! speak!"

I am sure at even this supreme moment it never enters Mona's brain that the man is actually making love to her. A deep pity for him fills her mind. He is unhappy, justly so, no doubt, but yet unhappy. A sure passport to her heart.

"I do not think unkindly of you," she says, gently, but coldly. "And do as your conscience dictates, and you will gain not only my respect, but that of all men."

"Bah!" he says, impatiently, rising from the ground and turning away. Her answer has frozen him again, has dried up the momentary desire for her approbation above all others that only a minute ago had agitated his breast.

At this moment Geoffrey comes into the room and up to Mona. He takes no notice whatever of her companion, "Mona, will you come and sing us something?" he says, as naturally as though the room is empty. "Nolly has been telling the duchess about your voice, and she wants to hear you. Anything simple, darling," – seeing she looks a little distressed at the idea: "you sing that sort of thing best."

"I hardly think our dance is ended yet, Mrs. Rodney," says the Australian, defiantly, coming leisurely forward, his eyes bent somewhat insolently upon Geoffrey.

"You will come, Mona, to oblige the duchess," says Geoffrey, in exactly as even a tone as if the other had never spoken. Not that he cares in the very least about the duchess; but he is determined to conquer here, and is also desirous that all the world should appreciate and admire the woman he loves.

"I will come, of course," says Mona, nervously, "but I am afraid she will be disappointed. You will excuse me, Mr. Rodney, I am sure," turning graciously to Paul, who is standing with folded arms in the background.

"Yes, I excuse you," he says, with a curious stress upon the pronoun, and a rather strained smile. The room is filling with other people, the last dance having plainly come to an end. Geoffrey, taking Mona's arm, leads her into the hall.

"Dance no more to-night with that fellow," he says quickly, as they get outside.

"No?" Then, "Not if you dislike it of course. But Nicholas made a point of my being nice to him. I did not know you would object to my dancing with him."

"Well, you know it now. I do object," says Geoffrey, in a tone he has never used to her before. Not that it is unkind or rude, but cold and unlover-like.

"Yes, I know it now!" returns she, softly, yet with the gentle dignity that always belongs to her. Her lips quiver, but she draws herself up to her fullest height, and, throwing up her head, walks with a gait that is almost stately into the presence of the duchess.

"You wish me to sing to you," she says, gently, yet so unsmilingly that the duchess wonders what has come to the child. "It will give me pleasure if I can give you pleasure, but my voice is not worth thinking about."

"Nevertheless, let me hear it," says the duchess. "I cannot forget that your face is musical."

Mona, sitting down to the piano, plays a few chords in a slow, plaintive fashion, and then begins. Paul Rodney has come to the doorway, and is standing there gazing at her, though she knows it not. The ballroom is far distant, so far that the sound of the band does not break upon the silence of the room in which they are assembled. A hush falls upon the listeners as Mona's fresh, pathetic, tender voice rises into the air.

It is an old song she chooses, and simple as old, and sweet as simple. I almost forget the words now, but I know it runs in this wise:

Oh, hame, hame – hame fain wad I be,Hame, hame to my ain countrie,

and so on.

It touches the hearts of all who hear it as she sings it and brings tears to the eyes of the duchess. So used the little fragile daughter to sing who is now chanting in heaven!

There is no vehement applause as Mona takes her fingers from the keys, but every one says, "Thank you," in a low tone. Geoffrey, going up to her, leans over her chair and whispers, with some agitation, —

"You did not mean it, Mona, did you? You are content here with me? – you have no regret?"

At which Mona turns round to him a face very pale, but full of such love as should rejoice the heart of any man, and says, tremulously, —

"Darling, do you need an answer?"

"Then why did you choose that song?"

"I hardly know."

"I was hateful to you just now, and most unjust."

"Were you? I have forgotten it," replies she, smiling happily, the color coming back to her cheeks. Whereupon Paul Rodney's brows contract, and with a muttered curse he turns aside and leaves the room, and then the house, without another word or backward glance.

CHAPTER XXIX

HOW GEOFFREY DINES OUT, AND HOW MONA FARES DURING HIS ABSENCE

"Must you really go, Geoffrey? – really?" asks Mona, miserably, looking the very personification of despair. She has asked the same question in the same tone ever since early dawn, and it is now four o'clock.

"Yes, really. Horrid bore, isn't it? – but county dinners must be attended, and Nicholas will do nothing. Besides, it isn't fair to ask him just now, dear old fellow, when he has so much upon his mind."

"But you have something on your mind, too. You have me. Why doesn't Jack go?"

"Well, I rather think he has Violet on his mind. Did you ever see anything so spooney as they looked all through dinner yesterday and luncheon to-day? I didn't think it was in Violet."

"Did she never look at you like that?" asks Mona, maliciously; "in the early days, I mean, before – before – "

"I fell a victim to your charms? No. Jack has it all to himself as far as I'm concerned. Well, I must be off, you know. It is a tremendous drive, and I'll barely do it in time. I shall be back about two in the morning."

"Not until two?" says Mona, growing miserable again.

"I can't well get away before that, you know, as Wigley is a good way off. But I'll try all I know. And, after all," says Geoffrey, with a view to cheering her, "it isn't as bad as if I was ordered off somewhere for a week, is it?"

"A week? I should be dead when you came back," declares Mrs. Geoffrey, with some vehemence, and a glance that shows she can dissolve into tears at a moment's notice.

"Some fellows go away for months," says Geoffrey, still honestly bent on cheering her, but unfortunately going the wrong way to work.

"Then they ought to be ashamed of themselves," says Mona, with much indignation. "Months indeed!"

"Why, they can't help it," explains he. "They are sent half the time."

"Then the people who send them should be ashamed! But what about the other half of their time that they spend from home?"

"Oh, I don't know: that was a mere figure of speech," says Mr. Rodney, who is afraid to say such absences are caused by an innate love of freedom and a vile desire for liberty at any cost, and has nothing else handy. "Now don't stay moping up here when I go, but run downstairs and find the girls and make yourself happy with them."

"Happy?" reproachfully. "I shan't know a happy moment until I see you again!"

"Nor I, till I see you," says Geoffrey, earnestly, actually believing what he says himself.

"I shall do nothing but look at the clock and listen for the sound of the horse's feet."

"Mona, you musn't do that. Now, I shall be really annoyed if you insist on sitting up for me and so lose a good night's rest. Now, don't, darling. It will only take it out of you, and make you pale and languid next day."

"But I shall be more content so; and even if I went to bed I could not sleep. Besides, I shall not be companionless when the small hours begin to creep upon me."

"Eh?" says Geoffrey.

"No; I shall have him with me: but, hush! It is quite a secret," placing her finger on her lips.

"'Him'? – whom?" – demands her husband, with pardonable vivacity.

"My own old pet," says Mrs. Geoffrey, still mysteriously, and with the fondest smile imaginable.

"Good gracious, Mona, whom do you mean?" asks he, aghast both at her look and tone.

"Why, Spice, of course," opening her eyes. "Didn't you know. Why, what else could I mean?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; but really the way you expressed yourself, and – Yes, of course, Spice will be company, the very best company for you."

"I think I shall have Allspice too," goes on Mona. "But say nothing. Lady Rodney, if she knew it, would not allow it for a moment. But Jenkins" (the old butler) "has promised to manage it all for me, and to smuggle my dear dogs up to my room without any one being in the least the wiser."

"If you have Jenkins on your side you are pretty safe," says Geoffrey. "My mother is more afraid of Jenkins than you would be of a land-leaguer. Well, good-by again. I must be off."

"What horse are you taking?" asks she, holding him.

"Black Bess."

"Oh, Geoffrey, do you want to break my heart? Sure you know he is the most vicious animal in the whole stables. Take any horse but that."

"Well, if only to oblige you, I'll take Truant."

"What! the horrid brute that puts back his ears and shows the white of his eyes! Geoffrey, once for all, I desire you to have nothing to do with him."

"Anything to please you," says Geoffrey, who is laughing by this time. "May I trust my precious bones to Mazerin? He is quite fifteen, has only one eye, and a shameless disregard for the whip."

"Ye – es; he will do," says Mona, after a second's careful thought, and even now reluctantly.

"I think I see myself behind Mazerin, at this time of day," says Mr. Rodney, heartlessly. "You don't catch me at it, if I know it. I'm not sure what horse I shall have, but I trust to Thomas to give me a good one. For the last time, good-by, you amiable young goose, and don't expect me till I come."

So saying, he embraces her warmly, and, running downstairs, jumps into the dog-cart, and drives away behind the "vicious Black Bess."

Mona watches him from her window, as far as the curve in the avenue will permit, and, having received and returned his farewell wave of the hand, sits down, and taking out her handkerchief, indulges in a good cry.

It is the first time since their marriage that she and Geoffrey have been parted, and it seems to her a hard thing that such partings should be. A sense of desolation creeps over her, – a sense of loneliness she has never known before.

Then she remembers her promise to go down to the girls and abstain from fretting, and, rising bravely, she bathes her eyes, and goes down the marble staircase through the curtained alcove towards the small drawing-room, where one of the servants tells her, the family is assembled.

The door of the room she is approaching is wide open, and inside, as Mona draws nearer, it becomes apparent that some one is talking very loudly, and with much emphasis, and as though determined not to be silenced. Argument is plainly the order of the hour.

As Mona comes still nearer, the words of the speaker reach her, and sink into her brain. It is Lady Rodney who is holding forth, and what she says floats lightly to Mona's ears. She is still advancing, unmindful of anything but the fact that she cannot see Geoffrey again for more hours than she cares to count, when the following words become clear to her, and drive the color from her cheeks, —

"And those dogs forever at her heels! – positively, she is half a savage. The whole thing is in keeping, and quite detestable. How can you expect me to welcome a girl who is without family and absolutely penniless? Why, I am convinced that misguided boy bought her even her trousseau!"

Mona has no time to hear more; pale, but collected, she walks deliberately into the room and up to Lady Rodney.

"You are mistaken in one point," she says, slowly. "I may be savage, penniless, without family, – but I bought my own trousseau. I do not say this to excuse myself, because I should not mind taking anything from Geoffrey; but I think it a pity you should not know the truth. I had some money of my own, – very little, I allow, but enough to furnish me with wedding garments."

Her coming is a thunderbolt, her speech lightning. Lady Rodney changes color, and is for once utterly disconcerted.

"I beg your pardon," she manages to say. "Of course had I known you were listening at the door I should not have said what I did," – this last with a desire to offend.

"I was not listening at the door," says Mona, with dignity, yet with extreme difficulty: some hand seems clutching at her heart-strings, and he who should have been near to succor her is far away. "I never," haughtily, "listened at a door in all my life. I should not understand how to do it." Her Irish blood is up, and there is a distinct emphasis upon the pronoun. "You have wronged me twice!"

Her voice falters. Instinctively she looks round for help. She feels deserted, – alone. No one speaks. Sir Nicholas and Violet, who are in the room, are as yet almost too shocked to have command of words; and presently the silence becomes unbearable.

Two tears gather, and roll slowly down Mona's white cheeks. And then somehow her thoughts wander back to the old farmhouse at the side of the hill, with the spreading trees behind it, and to the sanded floor and the cool dairy, and the warmth of the love that abounded there, and the uncle, who, if rough, was at least ready to believe her latest action – whatever it might be – only one degree more perfect than the one that went before it.

She turns away in a desolate fashion, and moves towards the door; but Sir Nicholas, having recovered from his stupefaction by this time, follows her, and placing his arm round her, bends over her tenderly, and presses her face against his shoulder.

"My dearest child, do not take things so dreadfully to heart," he says, entreatingly and soothingly: "it is all a mistake; and my mother will, I know, be the first to acknowledge herself in error."

"I regret – " begins Lady Rodney, stonily; but Mona by a gesture stays her.

"No, no," she says, drawing herself up and speaking with a touch of pride that sits very sweetly on her; "I beg you will say nothing. Mere words could not cure the wound you have inflicted."

She lays her hand upon her heart, as though she would say, "The wound lies here," and once more turns to the door.

Violet, rising, flings from her the work she has been amusing herself with, and, with a gesture of impatience very foreign to her usual reserve goes up to Mona, and, slipping her arm round her, takes her quietly out of the room.

Up the stairs she takes her and into her own room, without saying a word. Then she carefully turns the key in the door, and, placing Mona in a large and cosey arm-chair, stands opposite to her, and thus begins, —

"Now listen, Mona," she says, in her low voice, that even now, when she is somewhat excited, shows no trace of heat or haste, "for I shall speak to you plainly. You must make up your mind to Lady Rodney. It is the common belief that mere birth will refine most people; but those who cling to that theory will surely find themselves mistaken. Something more is required: I mean the nobility of soul that Nature gives to the peasant as well as the peer. This, Lady Rodney lacks; and at heart, in sentiment, she is – at times – coarse. May I say what I like to you?"

"You may," says Mona, bracing herself for the ordeal.

"Well, then, I would ask you to harden your heart, because she will say many unpleasant things to you, and will be uncivil to you, simply because she has taken it into her head that you have done her an injury in that you have married Geoffrey! But do you take no notice of her rudeness; ignore her, think always of the time that is coming when your own home will be ready for you, and where you can live with Geoffrey forever, without fear of a harsh word or an unkind glance. There must be comfort in this thought."

She glances anxiously at Mona, who is gazing into the fire with a slight frown upon her brow, that looks sadly out of place on that smooth white surface. At Violet's last words it flies away, not to return.

"Comfort? I think of nothing else," she says, dreamily.

"On no account quarrel with Lady Rodney. Bear for the next few weeks (they will quickly pass) anything she may say, rather than create a breach between mother and son. You hear me, Mona?"

"Yes, I hear you. But must you say this? Have I ever sought a quarrel with – Geoffrey's mother?"

"No, no, indeed. You have behaved admirably where most women would have ignominiously failed. Let that thought console you. To have a perfect temper, such as yours, should be in itself a source of satisfaction. And now bathe your eyes, and make yourself look even prettier than usual. A difficult matter, isn't it?" with a friendly smile.