BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 A l^TOYEL. 
 
 yVW^V^'-^^^V^-A \ ^'^ 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 "rarvLis," "molly bawn," "airy fairy Lilian," "bkadtt** 
 
 DAUGHTERS," ETC. 
 
 "The fairest flower in the garden of creation is a young mind." — Sib 
 J. E. Smith. 
 
 " Aristotle affirmed that beauty was better than all the letters of recom- 
 mendatioa in the world." 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 1896. 
 
^Tt?T 
 
7>i/i<j 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 pAoa 
 
 CHAFTEB 
 
 I. — How Geoffrey declares his intention of spending the autumn 
 
 in Ireland ' 
 
 II. — How GeoflFrey goes to Ireland ; and what he sees there . 13 
 in. — How Geoffrey's heart is claimed by Cupid as a target, and 
 
 how Mona stoops to conquer 23 
 
 IV. — How Geoffrey and Mona enter a cabin and see one of the 
 
 results of Parnell's eloquence ...» - 32 
 
 V. — How Mona betrays what makes Geoffrey jealous; and how 
 
 an appointment is made that is all moonshine . . 43 
 VI. — How the mystic moonbeams throw their rays on Mona; and 
 how Geoffrey, jealous of their admiration, desires to claim 
 
 her as his own "^ 
 
 VII.— How Geoffrey and Mona fall into strange company; and 
 how they profit by it; and how Mona, outstripping 
 wicked vengeance, saves a life ..... 'O 
 
 VIIL — How Geoffrey and Mona plan a transformation scene . 86 
 
 IX.— How Geoffrey and Mona diligently work up the transfor- 
 mation scene ; and how success crowns their efforts . 96 
 X. — How Mona, growing inquisitive, asks questions ; and how 
 Geoffrey, being brought to bay, makes confessions that 
 bode but evil to his future peace, and breed immediate 
 
 war 100 
 
 XI.— How Geoffrey returns to his allegiance— how he discovers 
 his divinity deep in the performance of some mystic rites 
 within the cool precincts of her temple — and how he 
 seeks to reduce her to reason from the top of an inverted 
 
 churn 107 
 
 XII. How Geoffrey tells home secrets, and how Mona comments 
 
 thereon— how death stalks rampant in their path— and 
 how, though Geoffrey declines to " run away," he still 
 
 " lives to fight another day" H* 
 
 1* 6 
 
 154 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 'AOM 
 
 XIII. — How Mona proves herself equal — if not superior — to 
 Dr. Mary Walker; and how GiofFrey, by a base 
 
 threat, carries his point 123 
 
 XIV. — How Geoffrey writes a letter that possesses all the 
 properties of dynamite — and how confusion reigns at 
 
 the Towers 130 
 
 XV. — How Lady Rodney speaks her mind — how Geoffrey 
 does the same — and how Mona declares herself strong 
 
 to conquer 136 
 
 XVI. — How Geoffrey and Mona enter the Towers — and how 
 
 they are received by the inhabitants thereof . • 145 
 XVII. — How Mona rises betimes — and how she encounters a 
 
 stranger amidst the morning dews .... 151 
 XVIII. — How old Sir George hated his first-born — and how he 
 
 made his will — and how the earth swallowed it . 156 
 
 XIX.— How Fate deals harshly with Mona, and how she 
 droops — as might a flower — beneath its unkindly 
 
 touch 160 
 
 XX. — How Mona dances a country dance before a hypercrit- 
 ical audience — and how more eyes than she wots of 
 mark her performance ...... 164 
 
 XXI. — How Nolly, having made himself presentable, tries 
 also to make himself agreeable — and how he suc- 
 ceeds 174 
 
 XXII. — How Mona goes to her first ball — and how she fares 
 
 thereat ......... 18C 
 
 XXIII. — How Mona interviews the duchess — and how she sus- 
 tains conversation with the Rodneys' evil genius . 189 
 XXrV. — How the cloud gathers — and how Nicholas and Dor- 
 othy have their bad quarter of an hour • . . 202 
 XXV. — How discussion waxes rife — and how Nicholas, having 
 made a suggestion that is bitter to the ears of his 
 audience, yet carries his point against all opposi- 
 tion 210 
 
 XXVI. — How Mona goes to Anadale — and how she there sees 
 
 many things as yet to her unknown . . . 217 
 
 XXVII. — How Mona takes a walk abroad — and how she asks 
 
 cross-questions and receives crooked answers . . 226 
 XXVIII. — How the Towers wakes into life — and how Mona shows 
 
 the library to Paul Rodney 239 
 
 XXIX. — How Geoffrey dines out, and how Mona fares during 
 
 his absence 250 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 SHAFTEB '*"'" 
 
 XXX.— How Mona, ghost-like, flits through the old Towers at 
 midnight— how the moon lights her way— and how 
 she meets another ghost more formidable than 
 
 herself 258 
 
 XXXL— How Mona stands her ground— how Paul Rodney be- 
 comes her prisoner — and how Geoffrey on his return 
 home meets with a warm reception . . • 262 
 
 XXXII. — How Mona keeps her own counsel — and how at mid- 
 day she receives a note ...••• 273 
 XXXIII. — How conversation grows rife at the Towers— and how 
 Mona asserts herself— and how Lady Rodney licks 
 
 the dust 284 
 
 XXXW.— How the Rodneys make merry over the secret panel 
 — how Geoffrey questions Mona — and how, when 
 joy is at its highest, evil tidings sweep down upon 
 them .......•• 293 
 
 XXXV.— How Mona comforts Paul Rodney— how night and 
 death descend together — and how Paul Rodney 
 
 disposes of his property 301 
 
 XXXVI. — How Mona defends the dead — and how Lady Lilias 
 
 Eaton waxes eloquent 310 
 
 XXXVII. — How Mona refuses a gallant offer — and how Nolly 
 
 views life through the branches of a Portugal laurel 314 
 XXXVIII. — How Nolly declines to repeat his story — how Jack 
 Rodney tells one instead — and how they all show 
 their surprise about what they knew before . . 322 
 XXXIX. — How wedding-bells can be heard in the distance — 
 how love encompasses Mona — and how at last fare- 
 well is sDoken 827 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HO"W flEOFFRET DECLARES HIS INTENTION OF SPENDING 
 THE AUTUMN IN IRELAND. 
 
 " 1 don't see why I shouldn't put in a month there very 
 comfoftably," says Geoflfrey, indolently, pulling the ears of a 
 pretty, saucy little fat terrier that sits blinking at him, with 
 brown eyes full of love, on a chair close by. " And it will 
 be something new to go to Ireland, at all events. It is rather 
 out of the running these times, so probably will prove interest- 
 ing ; and at least there is a chance that one won't meet every 
 town acquaintance round every corner. That's the worry of 
 going abroad, and I'm heartily sick of the whole thing." 
 
 " You will get murdered," says his mother, quite as indo- 
 lently, half opening her eyes, which are gray as Geoffrey's 
 own. " They always kill people, with things they call pikes, 
 or burn them out of house and home, over there, without 
 either rhyme or reason." 
 
 " They certainly must be a lively lot, if all one hears ia 
 true," says Geoffrey, with a suppressed yawn. 
 
 " You are not really going there, Geoff?" 
 
 " Yes, really." 
 
 " To what part of Ireland ?" 
 
 " Somewhere beyond Bantry : you have heard of Bantry 
 Bay?" 
 
 " Oh, I dare say I I am not sure," says Lady Rodney, 
 pettishly, who is rather annoyed at the idea of his going to 
 Ireland, having other plans in view for him. 
 
 " Ever heard of Botany Bay ?" asks he, idly ; but, this 
 question being distinctly frivolous, she takes no notice of it. 
 
 9 
 
10 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Well, it's in Ireland," he goes on, after a slight but dignified 
 pause. " You have heard of the Emerald Isle, I suppose ? 
 It's the country where they grow potatoes, and say ' bedad' ; 
 and Bantry is somewhere south, I think. I'm never very 
 Bure about anything : that's one of my charms." 
 
 " A very doubtful charm." 
 
 " The name of the place I mean to stay at — my own actual 
 property — is called Coolnagurtheen," goes on Geoffrey, heed- 
 less of her censure. 
 
 "Eh?" says Lady Rodney. 
 
 " Coolnagurtheen." 
 
 " I always said you were clever," says his mother, languidly ; 
 " now I believe it. I don't think if I lived forever I should 
 be able to pronounce such a sad word as that. Do — do the 
 natives speak like that?" 
 
 " I'll tell you when I come back," says Geoffrey, — " if I 
 ever do 1" 
 
 " So stupid of your uncle to leave you a property in such a 
 country !" says Lady Rodney, discontentedly. " But very 
 like him, certainly. He was never happy unless he was buy- 
 ing land in some uninhabitable place. There was that farm 
 in Wallachia, — ^your cousin Jane nearly died of chagrin when 
 she found it was left to her, and the lawyers told her she 
 should take it, whether she liked it or not. Wallachia 1 I 
 don't know where it is, but I am sure it is close to the Bul- 
 garian atrocities 1" 
 
 " Our ' pretty Jane,' on occasions, can talk as much non- 
 sense as — as any woman I ever met," says Geoffrey, — the 
 hesitation being full of filial reverence; " and that may be called, 
 I think, unqualified praise." 
 
 " Better give up the Irish plan, dear, and come with Nich- 
 olas and me to the Nugents. They are easy-going people, and 
 will suit you." 
 
 " Free-and-easy -going would be a more appropriate term, 
 from all I have heard." 
 
 " The shooting there is capital," says his mother, turning a 
 deaf ear to his muttered interruption, " and I don't believe 
 there is anything in Ireland, not even birds." 
 
 " There are landlords, at least ; and very excellent shooting 
 they are, if all accounts be true," says Geoffrey, with a grin, — 
 " to say nothing of the partridge and grouse. Besides, it will 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 11 
 
 be an experience ; and a man should say ' how d'ye do ?' to 
 his tenants sometimes." 
 
 " If you are going to preach to me on that subject, of course 
 I have nothing more to say, But I wish you would come with 
 me to the Nugents." 
 
 " My dear mother, there is hardly anything I wouldn't do 
 for you ; but the Nugent scheme wouldn't suit at all. That 
 girl of the Cheviots is sure to be there, — you know how fond 
 Bessie Nugent is of her ? — and I know she is bent on marry- 
 ing me." 
 
 " Nonsense ! "Would you have me believe you are afraid ol 
 her?" 
 
 " I am afraid of her ; I was never so afraid of any one be- 
 fore. I have made it the business of my life to avoid her ever 
 since last New Year's Day, when some kind fellow told me it 
 was leap-year. You know I never yet said ' No' to any one, 
 and I shouldn't dare begin by saying it to Miss Cheviot. She 
 has such a stony glare, and such a profusion of nose I" 
 
 " And a profusion of gold, too," says Lady Bodney, with a 
 
 " I hope she has, poor soul : she will want it," says Geof- 
 frey, feelingly ; and then he falls to whistling the " Two Oba- 
 diahs'' softly, yet with a relish, beneath his breath. 
 
 " How long do you intend to banish yourself from civilized 
 life?" 
 
 " A month, I dare say. Longer, if I like it ; shorter, if I 
 don't. By the by, you told me the other day it was the dream 
 of your life to see me in Parliament, now that ' Old Nick' 
 has decided on leading a sedentary existence, — a very stupid 
 decision on his part, by the way, so clever as he is." 
 
 " He is not strong, you see : a little thing knocks him up, 
 and he is too impressionable for a public career. But you are 
 different." 
 
 " You think I am not impressionable ? Well, time will tell. 
 I shouldn't care about going into the House unless I weLt 
 there primed and loaded with a real live grievance. Now, 
 why should I not adopt the Irish ? Consider the case as it 
 stands : I go and see them ; I come home, raving about them 
 and their wretched condition, their cruel landlords, their noble 
 endurance, magnificent physique, patient suffering, honest re- 
 venge, and so forth. By Jove ! I feel as if I could do it 
 
12 3/72.9. GEOFFREY. 
 
 already, even before I've seen them," says Mr. Rodney, witK 
 an irreverent laugh. 
 
 " Well, don't go to Dublin, at all events," says his mother, 
 plaintively. " It's wretched form." 
 
 " Is it ? I always heard it was rather a jolly sort of little 
 place, once you got into it — well." 
 
 " What a partisan you do make !" says Lady Rodney, with 
 a faint laugh. " Perhaps after all we should consider Ireland 
 the end and aim of all things. I dare say when you come 
 back you will be more Irish than the Irish." 
 
 " It is a good thing to be in earnest over every matter, 
 however trivial. As I am going to Ireland, you would advise 
 me to study the people, would you not ?" 
 
 " By all means study them, if you are really bent on this 
 tiresome journey. It may do you good. You will at least 
 be more ready to take my advice another time." 
 
 " What a dismal view you take of my trip I Perhaps, in 
 spite of your forebodings, I shall enjoy myself down to the 
 ground, and weep copiously on leaving Irish soil." 
 
 " Perhaps. I hope you won't get into a mess there, and 
 make me more unhappy than I am. We are uncomfortable 
 enough without that. You know you are always doing some- 
 thing bizarre, — something rash and uncommon I" 
 
 " How nice 1" says GeoflFrey, with a careless smile. " Your 
 ' faint praise' fails ' to damn' ! Why, one is nothing nowa- 
 days if not eccentric. Well," moving towards the door, with 
 the fox-terrier at his heels, " I shall start on Monday. That 
 will get me down in time for the 12th. Shall I send you up 
 any birds ?" 
 
 " Thanks, dear ; you are always good," murmurs Lady 
 Rodney, who has ever an eye to the main chance. 
 
 " K there are any," says Geoffrey, with a twinkle in his 
 eye. 
 
 " If there are any," repeats she, unmoved. 
 
MRS. OEOFFRET. 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HOW GEOFFREY GOES TO IRELAND ; AND WHAT HE SEES 
 THERE. 
 
 It is early morn. " The first low breath of waking day 
 stirs the wide air." On bush and tree and opening flower the 
 dew lies heavily, like diamonds glistening in the light of the 
 round sun. Thin clouds of pearly haze float slowly o'er the 
 sky to meet its rays ; and 
 
 Envious streaks 
 Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. 
 
 Geoff'rey, with his gun upon his shoulder, trudges steadily 
 )nward, rejoicing in the freshness of the morning air. 
 
 To his right lies Bantry Bay, that now is spreading itself 
 wt in all its glory to catch the delicate hues of the sky above. 
 They rush to greet it, and, sinking deep down into its watery 
 embrace, lie there all day rocked to and fro by the restless 
 ocean. 
 
 From the hills the scent of the heather is wafted towards 
 him, filling him with a subtle keen sense of youth and glad- 
 ness and the absolute joy of living. His good dog is at his 
 heels ; a boy — procured from some neighboring cabin, and 
 warranted not to wear out, however long the journey to be 
 undertaken or how many the miles to travel — carries his bag 
 beside him. 
 
 Game as yet is not exactly plentiful : neither yesterday nor 
 the day before could it be said that birds flocked to his gun ; 
 there is, indeed, a settled uncertainty as to whether one may 
 or may not have a good day's sport. And yet perhaps this 
 very uncertainty gives an additional excitement to the game 
 
 Here and there a pack is discovered, so unexpectedly as to 
 be doubly welcome. And sometimes a friendly native will 
 tell him of some quiet corner where " his honor" will surely 
 find some birds, " an' be able in the evenin' to show raison for 
 his blazin'." It is a somewhat wild life, but a pleasant one, 
 
 2 
 
14 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 and perhaps, on the whole, Mr. Rodney finds Ireland an agree- 
 able take-in, and the inhabitants of it by no means as eccen- 
 tric or as bloodthirsty as he has been led to believe. He has 
 read innumerable works on the Irish peasantry, calculated to 
 raise laughter in the breasts of those who claim the Emerald 
 Isle as their own, — works written by people who have never 
 seen Ireland, or, having seen it, have thought it a pity to de- 
 stroy the glamour time has thrown oxer it, and so reduce it to 
 commonplaceness. 
 
 He is, for instance, surprised, and indeed somewhat relieved, 
 when he discovers that the drivers of the jaunting-cars that 
 take him on his shooting-expeditions are not all modern Joe 
 Millers, and do not let off witty remarks, like bomb- shells, 
 every two minutes. 
 
 He is perhaps disappointed in that every Irish cloak docs 
 not conceal a face beautiful as a houri's. And he learns by 
 degrees that only one in ten says " bedad," and that " och, 
 murther !" is an expression almost extinct. 
 
 They appear a kindly, gentle, good-humored people, — easily 
 led, no doubt (which is their undoing), but generous to the 
 heart's core ; a people who can speak English fluently (though 
 with a rich brogue) and more grammatically than the Sassen- 
 achs themselves (of their own class), inasmuch as they respect 
 their aspirates and never put an h in or leave one out in the 
 wrong place. 
 
 The typical Irishman, in whom Lever delighted, with his 
 knee-breeches and long-tailed coat, his pig under one arm and 
 his shillalah under the other, is literally nowhere I The cau- 
 been and the dhudheen which we are always hearing about 
 aaay indeed be seen, but they are very usual objects in all 
 lands, if one just alters the names, and scarcely create aston- 
 ishment in the eyes of the on-looker. 
 
 The dhudheen is an institution, no doubt, but the owner of 
 it, as a rule, is not to be found seated on a five-barred gate, 
 with a shamrock pinned in his hat and a straw in his mouth, 
 singing " Rory O'More" or " Paddy O'Rafferty," as the case 
 may be. On the contrary, poor soul, he is found by Geoffrey 
 either digging up his potatoes or stocking his turf for winter 
 use. 
 
 Altogether, things are very disappointing ; though perhaps 
 there is comfort iu the thought that no one is vraiting round 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY 15 
 
 a corner, or lying perdu in a ditch, ready to smash the first 
 comer with a blackthorn stick, or reduce him to submission 
 with a pike, irrespective of cause or reason. 
 
 Rodney, with the boy at his side, is covering ground in a 
 state of blissful uncertainty. He may be a mile from home, 
 or ten miles, for all he knows, and the boy seems none the 
 wiser. 
 
 *' Where are we now ?" says Geoffrey, suddenly, stopping 
 and facing " the boy." 
 
 " I don't know, sir." 
 
 " But you said you knew the entire locality, — couldn't be 
 puzzled within a radius of thirty miles. How far are we 
 from home ?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir. I never was abroad before, an' I'm 
 dead bate now, an' the bag's like lead." 
 
 " You're a nice boy, you are !" says Mr. Rodney. " Here, 
 give me the bag ! Perhaps you would like me to carry you 
 too ; but I shan't, so you needn't ask me. Are you hungry ?" 
 
 " No," says the boy valiantly ; but he looks hungry, and 
 Geoffrey's heart smites him, the more in that he himself is 
 starving likewise. 
 
 " Come a little farther," he says, gently, slinging the heavy 
 bag across his own shoulders. " There must be a farm-house 
 somewhere." 
 
 There is. In the distance, imbedded in trees, lies an ex- 
 tensive farmstead, larger and more home-like than any he has 
 yet seen. 
 
 " Now, then, cheer up, Paddy !" he says to the boy : " yon- 
 der lies an oasis in our howling wilderness." 
 
 Whereat the boy smiles and grins consumedly, as though 
 charmed with his companion's metaphor, though in reality he 
 understands it not at all. 
 
 As they draw still nearer, Geoffrey becomes aware that the 
 farm-yard before him is rich with life. Cocks are crowing, 
 geese are cackling, and in the midst of all this life stands a 
 girl with her back turned to the weary travellers. 
 
 " Wait here," says Geoffrey to his squire, and, going for 
 ward, rests the bag upon a low wall, and waits until the girl in 
 question shall turn her head. When she does move he is still 
 silent, for, behold, she has turned his head ! 
 
 She is country bred, and clothed in country garments, yet 
 
16 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 her beauty is too great to be deniable. Sbe is not " divinely 
 tall." bat rather of medium height, with an oval face, and eyes 
 of " heaven's own blue." Their color changes too, and deepens, 
 and darkens, and grows black and purple, as doth the dome 
 above us. Her mouth is large, but gracious, and full of 
 laughter mixed with truth and firmness. There is no feature 
 that can so truly express character as the mouth. The eyea 
 can shift and change, but the mouth retains its expression 
 always. 
 
 She is clad in a snowy gown of simple cotton, that sits 
 loosely to her lissom figure yet fails to disguise the beauty of 
 it. A white kerchief lies softly on her neck. She has pulled 
 up her sleeves, so that her arms are bare, — her round, soft, 
 naked arms that in themselves are a perfect picture. She is 
 standing with her head well thrown back, and her hands — full 
 of corn — lifted high in the air, as she cries aloud, " Cooee I 
 Cooee !" in a clear musical voice. 
 
 Presently her cry is answered. A thick cloud of pigeons — 
 brown and white and bronze and gray — come wheeling into 
 sight from behind the old house, and tumble down upon her 
 in a reckless fashion. They perch upon her head, her shoul- 
 ders, her white soft arms, even her hands, and one, more adven- 
 turous than the rest, has even tried to find a slippery resting- 
 place upon her bosom. 
 
 " What greedy little things 1" cries she aloud, with the 
 merriest laugh in the world. " Sure you can't eat more than 
 enough, can you ? an' do your best ! Oh, Brownie," reproach- 
 fully, " what a selfish bird you are I" 
 
 Here Geoffrey comes forward quietly, and lifts his hat to her 
 with all the air of a man who is doing homage to a princess. 
 It has occurred to him that perhaps this peerless being in the 
 cotton gown will feel some natural chagrin on being discovered 
 by one of the other sex with her sleeves tucked up. But in 
 this instance his knowledge of human nature receives a severe 
 shock. 
 
 Far from being disconcerted, this farm-yard goddess is not 
 even ashamed (as indeed how could she be ?) of her naked 
 arms, and, coming up to him, rests them upon the upper rung 
 of the entrance-gate and surveys him calmly if kindly. 
 
 " What can I do for you ?" she asks, gently. 
 
 " I think," says Geoffrey, slightly disconcerted by the sweet 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 17 
 
 feisure of her gaze, " I have lost my way. I have been walk- 
 ing since sunri«f and I want you to tell me where I am." 
 
 " You are at Mangle Farm," returns she. Then, judging 
 by the blank expression on his fuce that her words bring him 
 no comfort, she continues with a smile, " That doesn't seem 
 to help you much, does it?" 
 
 He returns her smile in full, — veri/ full. "T confess it 
 doesn't help me at all," he says. " Mangle Farm, I am sure, 
 is the most attractive spot on earth, but it tells me nothina; 
 about latitude or longitude. Give me some further help." 
 
 " Then tell me where you come from, and perhaps I may 
 be able." She speaks softly, but quickly, as do all the Irish, 
 and with a brogue musical but unmistakable. 
 
 " I am staying at a shooting-lodge called Coolnagurtheen. 
 Do you know where that is?" 
 
 " Oh, of course," returns she, with a sudden accession of 
 animation. " I have often seen it. That is where the young 
 English gentleman is staying for the shooting." 
 
 "Quite right. And I am the young English gentleman," 
 says Geofifrey, lifting his hat again by way of introduction. 
 
 "Indeed, are you?" asks she, raising her pretty brows. 
 Then she smiles involuntarily, and the pink flush in her 
 rounded cheeks grows a shade deeper. Yet she does not 
 lower her eyes, or show the slightest touch of confusion. " I 
 might have guessed it," she says, after a minute's survey of 
 the tall gray-coated young man before her. " You are not a 
 bit like the others down here." 
 
 " Am I not ?" says he, humbly, putting on his carefully 
 crestfallen air that has generally been found so highly success- 
 ful. " Tell me my fault." 
 
 " I ^ill — when I find it," returns she, with an irrepressiblo 
 glance, full of native but innocent coquetry, from her beauti- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 At this moment one of the pigeons — a small, pretty thing, 
 bronze-tinged — flies to her, and, resting on her shoulder, 
 makes a tender cooing sound, and picks at her cheek reproach- 
 fully, as though imploring more corn. 
 
 "Would you bite me?" murmurs she, fondly, as the bird 
 flies off again alarmed at the presence of the tall stranger, who 
 already is busy comparing most f:\vorably the face of its mis- 
 tress with the faces of all the fashionable beauties London has 
 b 2* 
 
18 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 been raving about for eighteen months. " Every morning 
 thej torment mo like this," she says, turning to Geoffrey, with 
 a lii.tle pleasant confidential nod. 
 
 " He looked as if he wanted to eat you ; and I'm sure 1 
 don't wonder at it," says Geoffrey, making the addition to his 
 speech in a lower key. 
 
 " And have you walked from Coolnagurtheen this morning ? 
 Why, it is eight miles from this," says she, taking no notice 
 of his last speech. " You could have had no breakfast I" 
 
 " Not yet ; but I suppose there must be a village near here, 
 and an inn, and I want you to direct me how to get to it. I 
 am giving you a great deal of trouble," remorsefully, " but 
 my boy knows nothing." 
 
 He points as he speaks to the ignorant Paddy, who is sitting 
 on the ground with his knees between his hands, crooning a 
 melancholy ditty. 
 
 " The village is two miles farther on. I think you had 
 better come in and breakfast here. Uncle will be very glad 
 to see you," she says, hospitably, " And you must be tired." 
 
 He hesitates. He is tired, and hungry too ; there is no 
 denying it. Even as he hesitates, a girl coming out to the 
 door-step puts her hand over her eyes, and shouts pleasantly 
 from afar to her mistress, — 
 
 " Miss Mona, come in ; the tay will be cold, an' the rashers 
 all spoiled, an' the masther's callin' for ye." 
 
 " Come, hurry," says Mona, turning to Geoffrey, with a 
 light laugh that seems to spring from her very heart. " Would 
 you have the ' tay' get cold while you are making up your 
 mind ? I at least must go." 
 
 She moves from him. 
 
 " Then thank you, and I shall go with you, if you will 
 allow me," says Geoffrey, hurriedly, as he sees her disappearing. 
 
 " Tell your boy to go to the kitchen," says Mona, thought- 
 fully, and, Paddy being disposed of, she and Geoffrey go on 
 to the house. 
 
 They walk up a little gravelled path, on either side of which 
 trim beds of flowers are cut, bordered with stiff box. All 
 Borts of pretty, sweetly-smelling old wild blossoms are bloom- 
 ing in them, as gayly as though they have forgotten the fact 
 that autumn is rejoicing in all its matured beauty. Crimson 
 and white and purple asters stand calmly gazing towards the 
 
RlltS. GEOFFREY. 19 
 
 sky ; here a flaming fiichsia droops its head, and there, apart 
 from all the rest, smiles an enchanting rose. 
 
 "That like a virgin queen salutes the sun 
 Dew-diadem'd." 
 
 Behind the house rises a thick wood, — a " solemn wood," 
 such as Dickens loved to write of, with its lights and shades 
 and ever-varying tints. A gentle wind is rushing through it 
 now ; the faint murmur of some " hidden brook," singing its 
 " quiet tune," falls upon the ear ; some happy birds are warb- 
 ling in the thickets. It is a day whose beauty may be felt. 
 
 " I have no card ; but my name is Geoffrey Rodney," says 
 the young man, turning to his companion. 
 
 " And mine is Mona Scully," returns she, with the smile 
 that seems part of her lips, and which already has engraven 
 itself on Mr. Rodney's heart. " Now, I suppose, we know 
 each other." 
 
 They walk up two steps, and enter a small hall, and then 
 he follows her into a room opening off it, in which breakfast 
 lies prepared. 
 
 It is in Geoffrey's eyes a very curious room, unlike any- 
 thing he has ever seen before ; yet it possesses for him (per- 
 haps for that very reason) a certain charm. It is uncarpeted, 
 but the boards are white as snow, and on them lies a fine 
 sprinkling of dry sand. In one of the windows — whose panea 
 are diamond-shaped — two geraniums are in full flower ; upon 
 the deep seat belonging to the other lie some books and a 
 stocking half knitted. 
 
 An old man, rugged but kindly-featured, rises on his en- 
 trance, and gazes at him expectantly. Mona, going up to 
 him, rests her hand upon his arm, and, indicating Geoffrey 
 by a gesture, says, in a low tone, — 
 
 " He has lost his way. He is tired, and I have asked him 
 in to have some breakfast. He is the English gentleman who 
 is living at Coolnagurtheen." 
 
 " You're kindly welcome, sir," says the old man, bowing 
 with the slow and heavy movement that belongs to the aged. 
 There is dignity and warmth, however, in the salute, and 
 Geoffrey accepts with pleasure the toil-worn hand his host 
 presents to him a moment later. The breakfast is good, and, 
 though composed of only country fare is delicious to th« 
 
20 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 young man, who has been walking since dawn, and whose ap- 
 petite just now would have astonished those dwelling in 
 crowded towns and living only on their excitements. 
 
 The house is homelike, sweet, and one which might perhaps 
 day by day grow dearer to the heart; and this girl, this pretty 
 creature who every now and then turns her eyes on Geoffrey, 
 as though glad in a kindly fashion to see him there, seems a 
 necessary part of the whole, — her gracious presence rendering 
 it each moment sweeter and more desirable. " My precept to 
 all who build is," says Cicero, " that the owner should be an 
 ornament to the house, and not the house to the owner." 
 
 Mona pours out the tea — which is excellent — and puts in 
 the cream — which is a thing to dream of — with a liberal 
 hand. She smiles at Geoffrey across the sugar-bowl, and 
 chatters to him over the big bowl of flowers that lies in the 
 centre of the table. Not a hothouse bouquet faultlessly ar- 
 ranged, by any means, but a great, tender, happy, straggling 
 bunch of flowers that seem to have fallen into their places of 
 their own accord, regardless of coloring, and fill the room with 
 their perfume. 
 
 His host going to the window when breakfast is at an end, 
 Geoffrey follows him ; and both look out upon the little gar- 
 den before them that is so carefully and lovingly tended. 
 
 " It is all her doing," says the old man, — " Mona's, I mean. 
 She loves those flowers more than anything on earth, I think. 
 Her mother was the same ; but she wasn't half the lass that 
 Mona is. Never a mornin' in the cowld winter but she goes 
 out there to see if the frost ha.sn't killed some of 'em the 
 night before." 
 
 " There is hardly any taste so charming or so engrossing as 
 that for flowers," says Geoffrey, making this trite little speech, 
 that sounds like a copy-book, in his most engaging style. 
 " My mother and cousin do a great deal of that sort of thing 
 when at home." 
 
 " Ay, it looks pretty and gives the child something to do." 
 There is a regretful ring in his tone that induces Geoffrey to 
 ask the next question. 
 
 '' Does she — does Miss Scully find country life unsatisfy- 
 ing ? Has she not lived here always ?" 
 
 " Law, no, sir," says the old man, with a loud and hearty 
 laugh. " I think if ye could see the counthry girls round 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 21 
 
 here, an' compare 'em with my Mona, you'd see that for yer- 
 Belf. She's aa fine as the queen to them. Her mother, you 
 see, was the parson's daughter down here ; tip-top she was, 
 and party as a fairy, but mighty delicate; looked as if a 
 March wind would blow her into heaven. Dan — he was a 
 brother of mine, an' a solicitor in Dublin. You've been there, 
 belike?"' 
 
 ■' Yes ; I stopped there for two or three days on my way 
 down here. Well — and — your brother ?" He cannot to him- 
 self explain the interest he feels in this story. 
 
 " Dan ? He was a fine man, surely ; six feet in his stockin', 
 he was, an' eyes like a woman's. He come down here an' met 
 her, an' she married him. Nothing would stop her, though 
 the parson was fit to be tied about it. An' of course he was 
 no match for her, — father bein' only a bricklayer when he be- 
 gan life, — but still I will say Dan was a fine man, an' one to 
 think about ; an' no two ways in him, an' that soft about the 
 heart. He worshipped the ground she walked on ; an' four 
 years after their marriage she told me herself she never had 
 an ache in her heart since she married him. That was fine 
 tellin', sir, wasn't it? Four years, mind ye. Why, when 
 Mary was alive (my wife, sir) we had a shindy twice a week, 
 reg'lar as clock-work. We wouldn't have known ourselves 
 without it ; but, however, that's nayther here nor there," says 
 Mr. Scully, pulling himself up short. " An' I ask yer pardon, 
 sir, for pushing private matters on ye like this." 
 
 " But you have interested me," says Geoff'rey, seating him- 
 self on the broad sill of the window, as though preparing for 
 a long dissertation on matters still unknown. " Pray tell me 
 how your brother and his lovely wife — who evidently was aa 
 wise and true as she was lovely — got on." 
 
 Mr. Rodney's face being of that rare kind that is as tender 
 as it is manly, and by right of its beauty demands confidence, 
 the old man (who dearly loves his own voice) is encouraged to 
 proceed. 
 
 " They didn't get on for long," he says, mournfully, — and 
 what voice is so full of melancholy as the Irish voice when it 
 sinks into sadness ? " When the little one — Mona — was barely 
 five years old, they went to ground ; Mount Jerome got them. 
 Fever it was ; and it carried 'em both off just while ye'd have 
 time to look round ye. Poor souls, they went to the blessed 
 
22 3/i2S. GEOFFREY. 
 
 land together. Perhaps the Holy Virgin knew they would 
 have got on badly without each other anywhere." 
 
 " And the child, — Miss Mona?" asks Geoffrey. 
 
 " She went to live in Anthrim with her mother's sister. 
 Later she got to Dublin, to her aunt there, — another of the 
 parson's daughters, — who married the Provost in Thrinity ; a 
 proud sort he was, an' awful tiresome with his Greeks an' his 
 Romans, an' not the height of yer thumb," says Mr. Scully, 
 with ineffable contempt. " I went to Dublin one day about 
 cattle, and called to see me niece ; an' she took to me, bless 
 her, an' I brought her down with me for change of air, for her 
 cheeks were whiter than a fleece of wool, an' she has stayed 
 ever since. Dear soul 1 I hope she'll stay forever. She ia 
 welcome." 
 
 " She must be a great comfort to you," says Geoffrey from 
 his heart. 
 
 " She is that. More than I can say. An' keeps things to- 
 gether, too. She is clever like her father, an' he was on the 
 fair way to make a fortune. Ay, I always say it, law is the 
 thing that pays in Ireland. A good sound fight sets them up. 
 But I'm keeping you, sir, and your gun is waitin' for ye. If 
 you haven't had enough of me company by this," with another 
 jolly laugh, " I'll take ye down to a field hard by, an' show 
 ye where I saw a fine young covey only yesternight." 
 
 " I — I should like to say good-by to Miss Mona, and thank 
 her for all her goodness to me, before going," says the young 
 man, rising somewhat slowly. 
 
 " Nay, you can say all that on your way back, an' get a 
 half-shot into the bargain," says old Scully, heartily. " You'll 
 hardly beat the potheen I can give ye." He winks knowingly, 
 pats Rodney kindly on the shoulder, and leads the way out of 
 the house. Yet I think Geoffrey would willingly have bar- 
 tered potheen, partridge, and a good deal more, for just one 
 last glance at Mona's beautiful face before parting. Cheered, 
 however, by the prospect that he may see her before night 
 falls, he follows the farmer into the open air. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY 23 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW GEOPFKET's heart is claimed by CUPID AS A 
 TAEGET, AND HOW MONA STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 It is ten days later. The air is growinc; brisker, the flowers 
 bear no new buds. More leaves are falling on the woodland 
 paths, and the trees are throwing out their last bright autumn 
 tints of red and brown and richest orange, that tell all too 
 plainly of the death that lies before them. 
 
 Great cascades of water are rushing from the high hills, 
 tumbling, hurrying, with their own melodious music, into the 
 rocky basins that kind Nature has built to receive them. The 
 soothing voices of the air are growing louder, more full of 
 strength ; the branches of the elms bow down before them ; 
 the gentle wind, a " sweet and passionate wooer," kisses the 
 blushing leaf with perhaps a fiercer warmth than it did a 
 month agone. 
 
 It is in the spring — so we have been told — that " a young 
 man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love ;" yet it is in the 
 autumn that our young man takes to this pleasing if somewhat 
 unsatisfactory amusement. 
 
 Not that he himself is at all aware of the evil case into 
 which he has fallen. He feels not the arrow in his heart, or 
 the tender bands that slowly but surely are winding themselves 
 around him, — steel bands, decked out and hidden by perfumed 
 flowers. As yet he feels no pang ; and, indeed, were any one 
 to even hint at such a thing, he would have laughed aloud at 
 the idea of his being what is commonly termed " in love.'' 
 
 That he — who has known so many seasons, and passed 
 through the practised hands of some of the prettiest women 
 this world can afford, heart-whole, and without a scratch — 
 should fall a victim to the innocent wiles of a little merry 
 Irish girl of no family whatever, seems too improbable even 
 of belief, however lovely beyond description this girl may be 
 (and is), with her wistful, laughing, miscliievous Irish eyes, 
 and her mobile lips, and her disposition half angelic, half full 
 of fire and natural coquetry. 
 
24 MRS. QEOFFREY. 
 
 Beauty, according to Ovid, is a " favor bestowed by the 
 gods;" Theophrastus says it is " a silent cheat;" and Shak- 
 epeare tells us it 
 
 " Is but a vain and doubtful good, 
 A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly, 
 A flower that dieth when first it 'gins to bud. 
 A brittle glass that's broken presently, 
 A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, 
 Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour." 
 
 Mere beauty of form and feature will fade indeed, but 
 Mana's beauty lies not altogether in nose or eyes or mouth, 
 but ratl.sr in her soul, which compels her face to express its 
 lightest meaning. It is in her expression, which varies with 
 each passing thought, changing from "grave to gay, from 
 lively to severe," as the soul within speaks to it, that her chief 
 charm dwells. She is never quite the same for two minutes 
 running, — which is the surest safeguard against satiety. And 
 as her soul is pure and clean, and her face is truly the index 
 to her mind, all it betrays but endears her to and makes richer 
 him who reads it. 
 
 " Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
 Her infinite variety." 
 
 "Whenever these lines come to me I think of Mona. 
 
 It is mid-day, and Geoffrey, gun in hand, is idly stalking 
 through the sloping wood that rises behind Mangle Farm. 
 The shooting he has had since his arrival in Ireland, though 
 desultory, — perhaps because of it, — has proved delightful in 
 his sight. Here coveys come upon one unawares, rising out 
 of fields when least expected, and therefore when discovered 
 possess all the novelty of a gigantic surprise. Now and then 
 he receives kindly warning of birds seen " over-night" in some 
 particular corner, and an offer to escort him to the scene of 
 action without beat of drum. 
 
 As for instance, in the morning hi§ man assails him with 
 the news that Mickey Brian or Dinny Collins (he has grown 
 quite familiar with the gentry around) " is without, an' would 
 like to spake wid him." Need I remark that he has wisely 
 hired his own particular attendant from among the gay and 
 festive youths of Bantry ? 
 
 Whereupon he goes " without," which means to his own 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 25 
 
 nail-door that always stands wide open, and there acknowl- 
 edges the presence of Mickey or Dinny, as the case may he, 
 with a gracious nod. Mickey instantly removes his caubeen 
 and tells " his honor" (regardless of the fact that his honor 
 can tell this for himself) that '' it is a gran' fine day," which 
 as a rule is the first thing an Irish person will always say on 
 greeting you, as though full of thankfulness to the powerH 
 above, in that sweet weather has been given. 
 
 Then follows a long-winded speech on the part of Mickey 
 about birds in general and grouse in particular, finishing up 
 with the announcement that he can tell where the finest covey 
 seen this season lies hidden. 
 
 " An' the biggest birds, an' as full o' corn as iver ye see, 
 the rogues !" 
 
 At this his honor requests Mickey to step into the hall, and 
 with his own hands administers to him a glass of whiskey, 
 which mightily plea.ses the son of Erin, though he plainly 
 feels it his duty to make a face at it as he swallows it off neat. 
 And then Geoffrey sallies forth and goes for the promised 
 covey, followed closely by the excited Mickey, and, having 
 made account of most of them, presses backsheesh into the 
 hands of his informant, and sends him home rejoicing. 
 
 For the most part these bonnie brown birds have found 
 their way into Miss Mona's pantry, and are eaten by that 
 little gourmand with the rarer pleasure that in her secret heart 
 she knows that the giver of them is not blind to the fact that 
 her eyes are faultless and her nose pure Greek. 
 
 Just at this moment he is coming down through brake and 
 furze, past tangling blackberry-bushes that are throwing out 
 leaves of brilliant crimson and softest yellow, and over rust- 
 ling leaves, towards the farm that holds his divinity. 
 
 Ill luck has attended his efforts to-day, or else his thoughts 
 have been wandering in the land where love holds sway, be- 
 cause he is empty-handed. The bonnie brown bird has 
 escaped him, and no gift is near to lay at Mona's shrine. 
 
 As he reaches the broad stream that divides him from the 
 land he would reach, he pauses and tries to think of any 
 decent excuse that may enable him to walk with a bold front 
 up to the cottage door. But no such excuse presents itself. 
 Memory proves false. It refuses to assist him. He is almost 
 in despair. 
 
 B 3 
 
26 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 He tries to persuade himself that there is nothing strange 
 or uncommon in calling upon Wednesday to inquire with 
 anxious solicitude about the health of a young woman whom 
 he had seen happy and robust on Tuesday. But the trial is 
 not successful, and he is almost on the point of flinging up 
 the argument and going home again, when his eye lights upon 
 a fern small but rare, and very beautiful, that, growing on a 
 high rock far above him, overhangs the stream. 
 
 It is a fern for which Mona has long been wishing. Oh I 
 happy thought ! She has expressed for it the keenest ad- 
 miration. Oh I blissful remembrance ! She has not one like 
 it in all her collection. Oh 1 certainty full of rapture. 
 
 Now will he seize this blessed opportunity, and, laden with 
 the spoils of war, approach her dwelling (already she is " she"), 
 and triumphantly, albeit humbly, lay the fern at her feet, and 
 so perchance gain the right to bask for a few minutes in the 
 sunshine of her presence. 
 
 No sooner thought than done I Laying his gun carefully 
 upon the ground, he looks around him to see by what means 
 he shall gain possession of this lucky fern which is growing, 
 deeply rooted in its native soil, far above him. 
 
 A branch of a tree overspreading the water catches his at- 
 tention. It is not strong, but it suggests itself as a means to 
 the desired end. It is indeed slim to a fault, and unsatisfac- 
 tory to an alarming degree, but it must do, and Geoffrey, 
 swinging himself up to it, tries it first, and then standing 
 boldly upon it, leans over towards the spot where the fern can 
 be seen. 
 
 It is rather beyond his reach, but he is determined not to 
 be outdone. Of course, by stepping into the water and climb- 
 ing the slimy rock that holds the desired treasure, it can be 
 gained; but, with a lazy desire to keep his boots dry, he 
 clings to his present position, regardless of the fact that 
 bruised flesh (if nothing worse) will probably be the result of 
 his daring. 
 
 He has stooped very much over indeed. His hand is on 
 the fern ; ho has safely, carefully extracted it, roots and all 
 (one would think I was speaking of a tooth I but this is by 
 the way), from its native home, when cr-r-k goes something ; 
 the branch on which he rests betrays him, and smashinf' hurls 
 him head downwards into the swift but shallow stream belcw. 
 
MRS. GEOFF RET. 27 
 
 A very charming vision clad in Oxford shirting, and with 
 a great white hat tied beneath her rounded chin with blue 
 ribbons, — something in the style of a Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 — emerges from among the low-lying firs at this moment. 
 Having watched the (seemingly) light catastrophe from afar, 
 and being apparently amused by it, she now gives way to un- 
 mistakable mirth and laughs aloud. When Mona laughs, she 
 does it with all her heart, the correct method of suppressing 
 all emotion, be it of joy or sorrow, — regarding it as a recreation 
 permitted only to the vulgar, — being as yet unlearned by her. 
 Therefore her expression of merriment rings gayly and un- 
 checked through the old wood. 
 
 But presently, seeing the author of her mirth does not rise 
 from his watery resting-place, her smile fades, a little fright- 
 ened look creeps into her eyes, and, hastening forward, she 
 reaches the bunk of the stream and gazes into it. Rodney is 
 lying face downwards in the water, his head having come with 
 some force against the sharp edge of a stone against which it 
 is now resting. 
 
 Mona turns deadly pale, and then instinctively loosening 
 the strings of her hat flings it from her. A touch of deter- 
 mination settles upon her lips, so prone to laughter at other 
 times. Sitting on the bank, she draws off her shoes and 
 stockings, and with the help of an alder that droops to the 
 river's brim lowers herself into the water. 
 
 The stream, though insignificant, is swift. Placing her 
 BCrong young arms, that are rounded and fair as those of any 
 court dame, beneath Rodney, she lifts him, and, by a supreme 
 effort, and by right of her fresh youth and perfect health, 
 draws him herself to land. 
 
 In a minute or two the whole affair proves itself a very 
 small thing indeed, with little that can be termed tragical 
 about it. Geoffrey comes slowly back to life, and in the com- 
 ing breathes her name. Once again he is trying to reach the 
 distant fern ; once again it eludes his grasp. He has it ; no, 
 he hasn't ; yes, he has. Then at last he wakes to the fact 
 that he has indeed got it in earnest, and that the blood ia 
 flowing from a slight wound in the back of his head, which 
 is being staunched by tender fingers, and that he himself is 
 lying in Mona's arms. 
 
 He sighs, and looks straight into the lovely frightened eyes 
 
28 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 bending over him. Then the color comes with a sudden rush 
 back into his cheeks as he tells himself she will look upon him 
 as nothing less than a " poor creature" to lose consciousness 
 and behave like a silly girl for so slight a cause. And some- 
 thing else he feels. Above and beyond everything is a sense 
 of utter happiness, such as he has never known before, a 
 thrill of rapture that has in it something of peace, and that 
 conies from the touch of the little brown hand that rests so 
 lightly on his head. 
 
 " Do not stir. Your head is badly cut, an' it bleeds still," 
 says Mona, with a shudder. " I cannot stop it. Oh, what 
 shall I do?" 
 
 " Who got me out of the water ?" asks he, lazily, pretend- 
 ing (hypocrite that he is) to be still overpowered with weak- 
 ness. " And when did you come ?" 
 
 " Just now," returns she, with some hesitation, and a rich 
 accession of coloring, that renders her even prettier than she 
 was a moment since. Because 
 
 " From every blush that kindles in her cheeks, 
 Ten thousand little loves and graces spring." 
 
 Her confusion, however, and the fact that no one else IB 
 near, betrays the secret she fain would hide. 
 
 "Was it you?" asks he, raising himself on his elbow to 
 regard her earnestly, though very loath to quit the spot where 
 late he has been tenant. " You ? Oh, Mona I" 
 
 It is the first time he has ever called her by her Christian 
 name without a prefix. The tears rise to her eyes. Feeling 
 herself discovered, she makes her confession slowly, without 
 looking at him, and with an air of indiflference so badly as- 
 sumed as to kill the idea of her ever attaining eminence upon 
 the stage. 
 
 " Yes, it was I," she says. " And why shouldn't I ? Is 
 it to see you drown I would ? I — I didn't want you to find 
 it out ; but" — quickly — " I would do the same for any one at 
 any time. You know that." 
 
 " I am sure you would," say^ Geofirey, who has risen to 
 his feet and has taken her hand. " Nevertheless, though, as 
 you say, I am but one in the crowd, — and, of course, nothing 
 to you, — I am very glad you did it for me." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 29 
 
 With a little touch of wilfulness, perhaps pride, she with- 
 draws her hand. 
 
 "I dare say," she says, carelessly, purposely mistaking hia 
 meaning: " it must have been cold lying there." 
 
 •' There are things that chill one more than water," returns 
 he, slightly offended by her tone. 
 
 " You are all wet. Do go home and change your clothes," 
 says IMona, who is still sitting on the grass with her gowa 
 spread carefully around her. " Or perhaps" — reluctantly — 
 " it will be better for you to go to the farm, where Bridget 
 will look after you." 
 
 " Thank you ; so I shall, if you will come with me." 
 
 " Don't mind me," says Miss Scully, hastily. " I shall fol- 
 low you by and by." 
 
 " By and by will suit me down to the ground," declares he, 
 easily. "The day is fortunately warm : damp clothes are an 
 advantage rather than otherwise." 
 
 Silence. Mona taps the mound beside her with impatient 
 fingers, her mind being evidently great with thought. 
 
 " I really wish," she says, presently, " you would do what 
 I say. Go to the farm, and — stay there." 
 
 " Well, come with me, and I'll stay till you turn me out." 
 
 " I can't," faintly. 
 
 " Why not?" in a surprised tone. 
 
 " Because — I prefer staying here." 
 
 " Oh ! if you mean by that you want to get rid of me, you 
 might have said so long ago, without all this hinting," says 
 Mr. Rodney, huffily, preparing to beat an indignant retreat. 
 
 " I didn't mean that, and I never hint," exclaims Mona, 
 angrily ; " and if you insist on the truth, if I must explain to 
 you what I particularly desire to keep secret, you " 
 
 " You are hurt !" interrupts he, with passionate remorse. 
 " I see it all now. Stepping into that hateful stream to save 
 me, you injured yourself severely. You are in pain, — you 
 Buffer ; whilst I " 
 
 " I am in no pain," says Mona, crimson with shame and 
 mortification. " You mistake everything. I have not even a 
 scratch on me ; and — I have no shoes or stockings on me 
 either, if you must know all !" 
 
 She turns from him wrathfully ; and Geoffrey, disgusted 
 with himself, steps back and makes no reply. With any other 
 
 8* 
 
30 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 woman of his acquaintance he might perhaps at this juncture 
 have made a mild request that he might be allowed to assist 
 in the lacing or buttoning of her shoes ; but with this strange 
 little Irish girl all is diflFerent. To make such a remark would 
 be, he feels, to offer her a deliberate insult. 
 
 " There, do go away !" says this woodland goddess. " I am 
 sick of you and your stupidity." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't wonder," says Geoffrey, very humbly. 
 " I beg your pardon a thousand times ; and — good-by. Miss 
 Mona." 
 
 She turns involuntarily, through the innate courtesy that 
 belongs to her race, to return his parting salutation, and, look- 
 ing at him, sees a tiny spot of blood trickling down his fore- 
 head from the wound received a while since. 
 
 On the instant all is forgotten, — chagrin, shame, shoes and 
 stockings, everything ! Springing to her little naked feet, she 
 goes to him, and, raising her hand, presses her handkerchief 
 against the ugly stain. 
 
 " It has broken out again !" she says, nervously. " I am sure 
 — I am certain — it is a worse wound than you imagine. Ah I 
 do go home, and get it dressed." 
 
 " But I shouldn't like any one to touch it except you," 
 says Mr. Rodney, truthfully. " Even now, as your fingers 
 press it, I feel relief" 
 
 " Do you really ?" asks Mona, earnestly. 
 
 « Honestly, I do." 
 
 " Then just turn your back for one moment," says Mona, 
 simply, " and when my shoes and stockings are on I'll go 
 home with you an' bathe it. Now, don't turn round, for your 
 life !" 
 
 "'Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?'" 
 quotes Mr. Rodney ; and, Mona having got into her shoes, 
 she tells him he is at liberty to follow her across the rustic 
 bridge lower down, that leads from the wood into Mangle 
 Farm. 
 
 " You have spoiled your gown on my account," says Geof- 
 frey, surveying her remorsefully ; " and such a pretty gown, 
 too. I don't think I ever saw you looking sweeter than you 
 look to-day. And now your dress is ruined, and it is all my 
 fault !" 
 
 "How dare you find a defect in my appearance?" sajs 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 81 
 
 Mona, with her old gay laugh. " You compel me to retaliate. 
 Just look at yourself. Did you ever see such a regular pickle 
 as you are?" 
 
 In truth he is. So when he has acknowledged the melan- 
 choly fact, they both laugh, with the happy enjoyment of 
 youth, at their own discomfiture, and go back to the cottage 
 good friends once more. 
 
 On the middle of the rustic bridge before mentioned ho 
 stops her, to say, unexpectedly, — 
 
 " Do you know by what name I shall always call you in my 
 thoughts?" 
 
 To which she answers, " No. How should I ? But tell 
 me." 
 
 " ' Bonnie Lesley :' the poet says of her what I think of 
 you. 
 
 " And what do you think of me ?" She has grown a little 
 pale, but her eyes have not left his. 
 
 " To see her is to love her, 
 And love but her forever ; 
 For nature made her what she is, 
 And ne'er made sic anither," 
 
 quotes Geoflfrey, in a low tone, that has something in it almost 
 startling, so full is it of deep and earnest feeling. 
 
 Mona is the first to recover herself. 
 
 " That is a pretty verse," she says, quietly. " But I do 
 uot know the poem. I should like to read it." 
 
 Her tone, gentle but dignified, steadies him. 
 
 " I have the book that contains it at Coolnagurtheen," ha 
 says, somewhat subdued. " Shall I bring it to you ?" 
 
 " Yes. You may bring it to me — to-morrow," returns she, 
 with the faintest hesitation, which but enhances the value of 
 the permission, whereon his heart once more knows hope and 
 content. 
 
3S MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HOW GEOFFREY AND MONA ENTER A CABIN AND SEE ONE 
 OF THE RESULTS OF PARNELl's ELOQUENCE. 
 
 But when to-morrow comes it brings to him a very differ- 
 ent Mona from the one he saw yesterday. A pale girl, with 
 great large sombrous eyes and compressed lips, meets him, and 
 places her hand in his without a word. 
 
 " What is it ?" asks he, quick to notice any change in her. 
 
 " Oh ! haven't you heard ?" cries she. " Sure the country 
 IS ringing with it. Don't you know that they tried to shoot 
 Mr. Moore last night ?" 
 
 Mr. Moore is her landlord, and the owner of the lovely 
 wood behind Mangle Farm where Geoffrey came to grief yes- 
 terday. 
 
 " Yes, of course ; but I heard, too, how he escaped his 
 would-be assassin." 
 
 " He did, yes ; but poor Tim Maloney, the driver of the 
 car on which he was, he was shot through the heart, instead 
 of him ! Oh, Mr. Rodney," cries the girl, passionate emotion 
 both in her face and voice, " what can be said of those men 
 who come down to quiet places such as this was, to inflame 
 the minds of poor ignorant wretches, until they are driven to 
 bring down murder on their souls 1 It is cruel. It is unjust. 
 And there seems no help for us. But surely in the land where 
 justice reigns supreme, retribution will fall upon the right 
 heads." 
 
 " I quite forgot about the driver," says Geoffrey, beneath 
 his breath. This remark is unfortunate. Mona turns upon 
 liim wrathfully. 
 
 " No doubt," she says, scornfully. " The gentleman es- 
 caped, the man doesn't count 1 Perhaps, indeed, he has ful- 
 filled his mission now he has shed his ignoble blood for his 
 superior ! Do you know it is partly such thoughts as these 
 that have driven our people to desperation ? One law for the 
 poor, another for the rich! Friendship for the great, con- 
 tempt for the needy." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 33 
 
 She pauses, catching her breath with a little sob. 
 
 " Who is uttering seditious language now ?" asks he, re- 
 proachfully. " No, you wrong me. I had, indeed, forgotten 
 for the moment all about that unfortunate driver. You miist 
 remember I am a stranger here. The peasants are unknown 
 to me. I cannot be expected to feel a keen interest in eacn 
 one individually. In fact, had Mr. 3Ioore been killed instead 
 of poor Maloney, I shouldn't have felt it a bit the more, 
 though he was the master and the other the man. I can only 
 sufter with those I know and love." 
 
 The " poor Maloney" has done it. She forgives him ; 
 perhaps because — sweet soul — harshness is always far from 
 her. 
 
 " It is true," she says, sadly. " I spoke in haste because 
 my heart is sore for my country, and I fear for what we may 
 yet live to see. But of course I could not expect you to feel 
 with me." 
 
 This cuts him to the heart. 
 
 " I do feel with you," he says, hastily. " Do not believe 
 otherwise." Then, as though impelled to it, he says in a low 
 tone, though very distinctly, " I would gladly make your griefs 
 mine, if you would make my joys yours." 
 
 This is a handsome offer, all things considered, but Mona 
 turns a deaf ear to it. She is standing on her door-step at 
 this moment, and now descends until she reaches the tiny 
 gravelled path. 
 
 " Where are you going ?" asks Rodney, afraid lest his last 
 speech has offended her. She has her hat on, — a big Gains- 
 borough hat, round which soft Indian muslin is clinging, and 
 in which she looks notliing less than adorable. 
 
 " To see poor Kitty Maloney, his widow. Last year she 
 was my servant. This year she married ; and now — here is 
 the end of everything — for her." 
 
 "May I go with you?" asks he, anxiously. "These are 
 lawless times, and I dare say Maloney's cabin will be full of 
 roughs. You will feel happier with some man beside you whom 
 you can trust." 
 
 At the word " trust" she lifts her eyes and regards him 
 somewhat steadfastly. It is a short look, yet a very long one, 
 and tells more than she knows. Even while it lasts he swears 
 to himself an oath that he never to his life's end breaks. 
 
34 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Come, then," she says, slowly, " if you will. Though I 
 am not afraid. Why should I be ? Do you forget that I am 
 one of themselves ? My father and I belong to the people." 
 
 She says this steadily, and very proudly, with her head held 
 high, but without looking at him ; which permits Geoffrey to 
 gaze at her exhaustively. There is an unconscious meaning 
 in her words, quite clear to him. She is of " the people," he 
 of a class that looks but coldly upon hers. A mighty river, 
 called Caste, rolls between them, dividing him from her. But 
 shall it ? Some hazy thought like this floats through his brain. 
 They walk on silently, scarcely exchanging a syllable one with 
 the other, until they come within sight of a small thatched 
 house built at the side of the road. It has a manure-heap just 
 in front of it, and a filthy pool to its left, in which an ancient 
 sow is wallowing, whilst grunting harmoniously. 
 
 Two people, a man and a woman, are standing together some 
 yards from the cabin, whispering, and gesticulating violently, 
 as is "their nature to." 
 
 The man, seeing Mona, breaks from the woman, and comes 
 up to her. 
 
 " Go back again, miss," he says, with much excitement. 
 *' They've brought him home, an' he's bad to look at. I've 
 seed him, an' it's given me a turn I won't forget in a hurry. 
 Go home, I tell ye. 'Tis a sight not fit for the eyes of the 
 likes of you." 
 
 " Is he there?" asks Mona, pointing with trembling fingers 
 to the house. 
 
 "Ay, where else?" answers the woman, sullenly, who has 
 joined them. " They brought him back to the home he will 
 never rouse again with step or voice. 'Tis cold he is, an' silent 
 this day." 
 
 " Is — is he covered ?" murmurs Mona, with difficulty, grow- 
 ing pale, and shrinking backwards. Instinctively she lays her 
 hand on llodney's arm, as though desirous of support. He, 
 laying his own hand upon hers, holds it in a warm and com- 
 forting clasp. 
 
 " He's covered, safe enough. They've throwed an ould 
 sheet over him, — over what remains of him this cruel day. 
 Och, wirra-wirra !" cries the woman, suddenly, throwing her 
 hands high above her head, and giving way to a peculiar long, 
 Jow, moaning sound, so eerie, so full of wild despair, and grief 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 35 
 
 past aU consolation, as to make the blood in Rodney's veins 
 run cold. 
 
 " Go back the way ye came," says the man airain, with 
 growing excitement. " This is no place for ye. There is ill 
 luck in yonder house. His soul won't rest in peace, sent out 
 of him like that. If ye go in now, ye'll be soiTy for it. 'Tia 
 a thing ye'll be thinkin' an' dhramin' of till you'll be wishin' 
 the life out of yer cursed body !" 
 
 A little foam has gathered round his lips, and his eyes are 
 wild. Geoffrey, by a slight movement, puts himself between 
 Mona and this man, who is evidently beside himself with some 
 inward fear and horror. 
 
 *' What are ye talkin' about? Get out, ye spalpeen," says 
 the woman, with an outward show of anger, but a warning 
 frown meant for the man alone. " Let her do as she likes. 
 Is it spakin' of fear ye are to Dan Scully's daughter?" 
 
 " Come home, Mona ; be advised by me," says Geoffrey, 
 gently, as the man skulks away, walking in a shambling, un- 
 certain fashion, and with a curious trick of looking every now 
 and then over his shoulder, as though expecting to see an 
 unwelcome follower. 
 
 " No, no ; this is not a time to forsake one in trouble," says 
 Mona, faithfully, but with a long, shivering sigh. " 1 need 
 see nothing, but I must speak to Kitty." 
 
 She walks deliberately forward and enters the cabin, Geof- 
 frey closely following her. 
 
 A strange scene presents itself to their expectant gaze. 
 Before them is a large room (if so it can be called), possessed 
 of no flooring but the bare brown earth that Mother Nature 
 has supplied. To their right is a huge fireplace, where, upon 
 the hearth-stone, turf lies burning dimly, emitting the strong 
 aromatic perfume that belongs to it. Near it crouches an old 
 woman with her blue-checked apron thrown above her head, 
 who rocks herself to and fro in silent grief, and with every 
 long-drawn breath — that seems to break from her breast like 
 a stormy wave upon a desert shore — brings her old withered 
 palms together with a gesture indicative of despair. 
 
 Opposite to her is a pig. sitting quite erect, and staring at 
 her blankly, without the slightest regard to etiquette or nice 
 feeling. He is plainly full of anxiety, yet without power to 
 express it, except in so far as his tail may aid him, which is 
 
86 ^fliS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 limp and prostrate, its very curl being a thing of the past. 
 If any man has impugned the sagacity of pigs, that nan haa 
 erred ! 
 
 In the background, partly hidden by the gathering gloom, 
 some fifteen men, and one or two women, are all huddled to- 
 gether, whispering eagerly, with their faces almost touching. 
 The women, though in a great minority, are plainly having 
 the best of it. 
 
 But Mona's eyes see nothing but one object only. 
 
 On the right side of the fireplace, lying along the wall, is 
 a rude stretcher, — or what appears to be such, — on which, 
 shrouded decently in a white cloth, lies something that chills 
 with mortal fear the heart, as it reminds it of that to which 
 we all some day must come 1 Beneath the shroud the mur- 
 dered man lies calmly sleeping, his face smitten into the mar- 
 ble smile of death. 
 
 Quite near to the poor corpse, a woman sits, young, appa- 
 rently, and with a handsome figure, though now it is bent and 
 bowed with grief. She is dressed in the ordinary garb of the 
 Irish peasant, with a short gown well tucked up, naked feet, 
 and the sleeves of her dress pushed upwards until they almost 
 reach the shoulder, showing the shapely arm and the small 
 hand that, as a rule, belong to the daughters of Erin and be- 
 tray the existence of the Spanish blood that in days gone by 
 mingled with theirs. 
 
 Her face is hidden ; it is lying on her arms, and they are 
 cast, in the utter recklessness and abandonment of her grief, 
 across the feet of him who, only yesterday, had been her 
 " man," — her pride and her delight. 
 
 Just as Mona crosses the threshold, a man, stepping from 
 among the group that lies in shadow, approaching the 
 stretcher, puts forth his hand, as though he would lift the 
 sheet and look upon what it so carefully conceals. But the 
 woman, springing like a tigress to her feet, turns upon him, 
 and waves him back with an imperious gesture. 
 
 "Lave him alone!" cries she; " take yer hands ofi" him I 
 He's dead, as ye well know, the whole of ye. There's no 
 more ye can do to him. Then lave his poor body to the wo- 
 man whose heart is broke for the want of him 1" 
 
 The man draws back hurriedly, and the woman once more 
 Biuks back into her forlorn position. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 37 
 
 " Kitty, can I do anything for you ?" asks Mona, in a gen- 
 tle whisper, bending over her and taking the hand that lies in 
 her lap between both her own, with a pressure full of gentle 
 sympathy. " I know there is nothing I can say ; but can I 
 do nothing to comfort you?" 
 
 " Thank ye, miss. Ye mane it kindly, I know," says the 
 woman, wearily. " But the big world is too small to hold one 
 dhrop of comfort for me. He's dead, ye see !" 
 
 The inference is full of saddest meaning. Even Geofirey 
 feels the tears rise unbidden to his eyes. 
 
 " Poor poul ! poor soul !" says Mona, brokenly ; then she 
 drops her hand, and the woman, turning again to the lifeless 
 body, as though in the poor cold clay lies her only solace, lets 
 her head fall forward upon it. 
 
 Mona, turning, confronts the frightened group in the cor- 
 ner, both men and women, with a face changed and aged by 
 grief and indignation. 
 
 Her eyes have grown darker ; her mouth is stern. To 
 Rodney, who is watching her anxiously, she seems positively 
 transformed. What a terrible power lies within her slight 
 frame to feel both good and evil 1 What sad days may rest 
 in store for this girl, whose face can whiten at a passing griev- 
 ance, and whose hands can tremble at a woe in which only a 
 dependant is concerned I Both sorrow and joy must be to 
 her as giants, strong to raise or lower her to highest elevations 
 or lowest depths. 
 
 " Oh, what a day is this !" cries she, with quivering lips. 
 *' See the ruin you have brought upon this home, that only 
 yestermorn was full of life and gladness ! Is this what hag 
 come of your Land League, and your Home Rulers, and your 
 riotous meetings ? Where is the soul of this poor man, who 
 was hurried to his last account without his priest, and with- 
 out a prayer for pardon on his lips ? And how shall the man 
 who slew him dare to think on his own soul ?" 
 
 No one answers ; the very moanings of the old crone in the 
 chimney-corner are hushed as the clear young voice rings 
 through the house, and then stops abruptly, as though ita 
 owner is overcome with emotion. The men move back a 
 little, and glance uneasily and with some fear at her from 
 under their brows. 
 
 " Oh, the shameful thought that all the world should be 
 4 
 
38 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 looking at us with horror and disgust, as a people too foul for 
 anything but annihilation 1 And what is it you hope to gain 
 by all this madness? Do you believe peace, or a blessing 
 from the holy heavens, could fall and rest on a soil soaked in 
 blood and red with crime ? I tell you no ; but rather a curso 
 will descend, and stay with you, that even Time itself will bo 
 powerless to lift." 
 
 Again she pauses, and one of the men, shuffling his feet 
 nervously, and with his eyes bent upon the floor, says, in a 
 husky tone, — 
 
 " Sure, now, you're too hard on us, Miss Mona. We're 
 innocent of it. Our hands are clean as yer own. We nivir 
 laid eyes on him since yesterday till this blessid minit. Ye 
 should remember that, miss." 
 
 " I know what you would say ; and yet I do denounce you 
 all, both men and boys, — yes, and the women too, — because, 
 though your own actual hands may be free of blood, yet know- 
 ing the vile assassin who did this deed there is not one of you 
 but would extend to him the clasp of good-fellowship and 
 shield him to the last, — a man who, fearing to meet another 
 face to face, must needs lie in ambush for him behind a wall, 
 and shoot his victim without giving him one chance of escape 1 
 Mr. Moore walks through his lands day by day, unprotected 
 and without amis : why did this man not meet him there, 
 and fight him fairly, to the death, if, indeed, he felt that for 
 the good of his country he should die 1 No ! there was danger 
 in that thought," says Mona, scornfully : " it is a safer thing 
 to crouch out of sight and murder at one's will." 
 
 " Then why does he persecute the poor ? We can't live ; 
 yet he won't lower the rints," says a sullen voice from the 
 background. 
 
 " He did lower them. He, too, must live ; and, at all 
 events, no persecution can excuse murder," says Mona, un- 
 daunted. " And who was so good to you as Mr. Moore last 
 winter, when the famine raged round here ? Was not his 
 house open to you all ? Were not many of your children fed 
 by him ? But that is all forgotten now : the words of a few 
 incendiaries have blotted out the remembrance of years of 
 Bteady friendship. Gratitude lies not with you. I, who am 
 one of you, waste my time in speaking. For a very little 
 matter you would shoot me too, no doubt I" 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 39 
 
 This last remark, being in a degree ungenerous, causes a 
 sensation. A young man, stepping out from the confusion, 
 Bays, very earnestly, — 
 
 " I don't think ye have any call to say that to us, Miss 
 Mona. 'Tisn't fair like, when ye know in yer own heart 
 that we love the very sight of ye, and the laste sound of yer 
 voice 1" 
 
 Mona, though still angered, is yet somewhat softened by 
 this speech, as might any woman. Her color fades again, and 
 heavy tears, rising rapidly, quench the fire that only a moment 
 since made her large eyes dark and passionate. 
 
 "Perhaps you do," she says, sadly. "And I, too,— you 
 know how dear you all are to me ; and it is just that that 
 makes my heart so sore. But it is too late to warn. The 
 time is past when words might have availed." 
 
 Turning sorrowfully away, she drops some silver into the 
 poor widow's lap ; whereon Geoffrey, who has been standing 
 close to her all the time, covers it with two sovereigns. 
 
 " Send down to the Farm, and I will give you some 
 brandy," says Mona to a woman standing by, after a length- 
 ened gaze at the prostrate form of Kitty, who makes no sign 
 of life. "She wants it." Laying her hand on Kitty's 
 shoulder, she shakes her gently. " Rouse yourself," she 
 says, kindly, yet with energy. " Try to think of something, 
 — anything except your cruel misfortune." 
 
 " I have only one thought," says the woman, sullenly, " 1 
 can't betther it. An' that is, that it was a bitther day when 
 first I saw the light." 
 
 Mona, not attempting to reason with her again, shakes her 
 head despondingly, and leaves the cabin with Geoffrey at her 
 side. 
 
 For a little while they are silent. He is thinking of 
 Mona ; she is wrapped in remembrance of all that has just 
 passed. Presently, looking at her, he discovers she is crying, 
 — bitterly, though quietly. The reaction has set in, and the 
 tears are running quickly down her cheeks. 
 
 " Mona, it has all been too much for you," exclaims he, 
 with deep concern. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; that poor, poor woman ! I cannot get her face 
 out of my head. How forlorn ! how hopeless I She has lost 
 all she cared for; there is nothing to fall back upon. She 
 
40 MRS. O EOF FRET. 
 
 loved him ; and to have him so cruelly murdered for no 
 crime, and to know that he will never again come in the door, 
 or sit by her hearth, or light his pipe by her fire, — oh, it is 
 horrible 1 It is enough to kill her 1" says Mona, somewhat 
 disconnectedly. 
 
 " Time will soften her grief," says Rodney, with an attempt 
 at soothing. " And she is young ; she will marry again, and 
 form new ties." 
 
 " Indeed she will not 1" says Mona, indignantly. " Irish 
 peasants very seldom do that. She will, I am sure, be faithful 
 forever to the memory of the man she loved." 
 
 " Is that the fashion here? If — if ^^ou loved a man, would 
 you be faithful to him forever ?" 
 
 " But how could I help it ?" says Mona, simply. " Oh, 
 what a wretched state this country is in ! turmoil and strife 
 from morning till night. And yet to talk to those very peo- 
 ple, to mix with them, they seem such courteous, honest, 
 lovable creatures !" 
 
 " I don't think the gentleman in the flannel jacket, who 
 spoke about the reduction of ' rints,' looked very lovable," 
 says Mr. Rodney, without a suspicion of a smile ; " and — I 
 suppose my sight is failing — but I confess I didn't see much 
 courtesy in his eye or his upper lip. I don't think I ever 
 saw so much upper lip before, and now that I have seen it 1 
 don't admire it. I shouldn't single him out as a companion 
 for a lonely road. But no doubt I wrong him." 
 
 " Larry Doolin is not a very pleasant person, I acknowledge 
 that," says Mona, regretfully ; " but he is only one among a 
 number. And for the most part, I maintain, they are both 
 kind and civil. Do you know," with energy, " after all I be- 
 lieve England is most to blame for all this evil work ? We 
 are at heart loyal : you must agree with me in this, when you 
 remember how enthusiastically they received the queen when, 
 years ago, she condescended to pay us a flying visit, never to 
 be repeated. And how gladly we welcomed the Prince of 
 Wales, and how the other day all Ireland petted and made 
 much of the Duke of Connaught I I was in Dublin when he 
 was there ; and I know there was no feeling towards him but 
 loyalty and affection. I am sure," earnestly, " if you asked 
 him he would tell the same story." 
 
 " I'll ask him the very moment I see him," says Geoflfrey, 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 41 
 
 With empressement. " Nothing shall prevent me. And I'll 
 telegraph his answer to you." 
 
 " We should be all good subjects enough, if things were on 
 a friendlier footing," says Moua, too absorbed in her own 
 grievance to notice Mr. Kodney's suppressed but evident en- 
 joyment of her conversation. " But when you despise us, 
 you lead us to hate you." 
 
 " I never heard such awful language," says Rodney. " To 
 ttill me to my face that you hate me. Oh, Miss Mona I How 
 have I merited such a speech ?" 
 
 " You know what I mean," says Mona, reproachfully. 
 " You needn't pretend you don't. And it is quite true that 
 England does despise us." 
 
 " What a serious accusation ! and one I think slightly un- 
 founded. We don't despise this beautiful island or its people. 
 We even admit that you possess a charm to which we can lay 
 no claim. The wit, the verve, the pure gayety that springs 
 direct from the heart that belongs to you, we lack. We are 
 a terribly prosy, heavy lot, capable of only one idea at a time. 
 How can you say we despise you ?" 
 
 " Yes, you do," says Mona, with a little obstinate shake of 
 her head. " You call us dirty, for one thing." 
 
 " Well, but is that altogether a falsehood ? Pigs and smoke 
 and live fowls and babies are, I am convinced, good things in 
 their own way and when well at a distance. But, under the 
 roof with one and in an apartment a few feet square, I don't 
 think I seem to care about them, and I'm sure they can't tend 
 towards cleanliness." 
 
 " I admit all that. But how can they help it, when they 
 have no money and when there are always the dear children ? 
 I dare say we are dirty, but so are other nations, and no one 
 sneers at them as they sneer at us. Are we dirtier than the 
 canny Scots on whom your queen bestows so much of her 
 society ? Tell me that !" 
 
 There is triumph in her eye, and a malicious sparkle, and 
 just a touch of rebellion. 
 
 " What a little patriot !" says Rodney, pretending fear, and 
 stepping back from her. " Into what dangerous company 
 have I fallen! And with what an accent you say '■your 
 queen' ! Do you then repudiate her ? Is she not yours 
 as well ? Do you refiise to acknowledge her ?" 
 
 4* 
 
42 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Why should I ? She never comes near us, never takes 
 the least notice of us. She treats us as though we were a 
 detested branch grafted on, and causing more trouble than we 
 are worth, yet she will not let us go." 
 
 " 1 don't wonder at that. If I were the queen I should 
 not let you go either. And so you throw her over ? Unhappy 
 queen 1 I do not envy her, although she sits upon so great a 
 throne. I would not be cast off by you for the wealth of all 
 the Indies." 
 
 " Oh, you are my friend," says Mona, sweetly. Then, re- 
 turning to the charge, " Perhaps after all it is not so much 
 her fault as that of others. Evil counsellors work mischief in 
 all ages." 
 
 " 'A Daniel come to judgment !' So sage a speech is won- 
 derful from one so young. In my opinion, you ought to go 
 into Parliament yourself, and advocate the great cause. Is it 
 with the present government that you find fault? 
 
 "A government which, knowing not true wisdom, 
 Is scorned abroad, and lives on tricks at home ?" 
 
 says Mr. Rodney, airing his bit of Dryden with conscious 
 pride, in that it fits in so nicely. " At all events, you can't 
 call it 
 
 ' A council made of such as dare not speak, 
 And could not if they durst,' 
 
 because your part of it takes care to make itself heard." 
 
 " How I wish it didn't 1" says Mona, with a sigh. 
 
 The tears are still lingering on her lashes ; her mouth is 
 sad. Yet at this instant, even as Geoffrey is gazing at her 
 and wondering how he shall help to dispel the cloud of sorrow 
 that sits upon her brow, her whole expression changes. A 
 merry gleam comes into her wet eyes, her lips widen and lose 
 their lachrymose look, and then suddenly she throws up her 
 head and breaks into a gay little laugh. 
 
 " Did you see the pig," she says, " sitting up by the fire- 
 place ? All through I couldn't take my eyes off him. He 
 struck me as so comical. There he sat blinking his small 
 eyes and trying to look sympathetic. I am convinced he 
 knew all about it. I never saw so solemn a pig." 
 
 She laughs again with fresh delight at her own thoughtb 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 43 
 
 That pip in the cabin had come back to her, filling her with 
 amusement. Geoffrey regards her with puzzled eyes. "What 
 a strange temperament is this, where smiles and tears can 
 mingle ! 
 
 " What a curious child you are !" he says, at length. " You 
 are never the same for two minutes together." 
 
 " Perhaps that is what makes me so nice," retorts Miss 
 Mona, saucily, the sense of fun still full upon her, making 
 him a small grimace, and bestowing upon him a bewitching 
 glance from under her long dark lashes, that lie like shadows 
 on her cheeks. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HOW MONA BETRAYS WHAT MAKES GEOFFREY JEALOUS, 
 AND HOW AN APPOINTMENT IS MADE THAT IS ALL MOON- 
 SHINE. 
 
 " Yes, it certainly is a charm," says Geoffrey, slowly, " but 
 it puzzles me. I cannot be gay one moment and sad the next. 
 Tell me how you manage it." 
 
 " I can't, because I don't know myself. It is my nature. 
 However depressed I may feel at one instant, the next a pass- 
 ing thought may change my tears into a laugh. Perhaps that 
 is why we are called fickle ; yet it has nothing to do with it : 
 it is a mere peculiarity of temperament, and a rather merciful 
 gift, for which we should be grateful, because, though we re- 
 turn again to our troubles, still the moment or two of forget- 
 fulness soothes us and nerves us for the conflict. I speak, of 
 course, of only minor sorrows : such a grief as poor Kitty's 
 admits of no alleviation. It will last for her lifetime." 
 
 " Will it ?" says Geoffrey, oddly. 
 
 " Yes. One can understand that," replies she, gravely, not 
 heeding the closeness of his regard. " Many things affect me 
 curiously," she goes on, dreamily, — " sad pictures and poetry, 
 and the sound of sweet music." 
 
 " Do you sing ?" asks he, through mere force of habit, as 
 ehe pauses. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
44 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 The answer is so downright, so unlike the usual " a little," 
 or "oh, nothing to signify," or "just when there is nobody 
 else," and so on, that Geoffrey is rather taken aback. 
 
 " I am not a musician," she goes on, evenly, " but soma 
 people admire my singing very much. In Dublin they liked 
 to hear me, when I was with Aunt Anastasia ; and you know 
 a Dublin audience is very critical." 
 
 " But you have no piano ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have : aunty gave me hers when I was leaving 
 town. It was no use to her, and I loved it. I was at school 
 in Portarlington for nearly three years, and when I came back 
 from it I didn't care for Anastasia's friends, and found my 
 only comfort in my music. I am telling you everything, am 
 I not," with a wistful smile, " and perhaps I weary you ?" 
 
 " Weary me ! no, indeed. That is one of the very few 
 unkind things you have ever said to me. How could I weary 
 of your voice ? Go on ; tell me where you keep this magical 
 piano." 
 
 " In my own room. You have not seen that yet. But it 
 belongs to myself alone, and I call it my den, because in it I 
 keep everything that I hold most precious. Some time I will 
 show it to you." 
 
 " Show it to me to-day," says he, with interest. 
 
 " Very well, if you wish." 
 
 " And you will sing me something ?" 
 
 " If you like. Are you fond of singing?" 
 
 " Very. But for myself I have no voice worth hearing. 1 
 sing, you know, a little, which is my misfortune, not my fault ; 
 don't you think so?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; because if you can sing at all — that is, correctly, 
 and without false notes — you must feel music and love it." 
 
 " Well, for my part I hate people who sing a little. I 
 always wish it was even less. I hold that they are a social nui- 
 sance, and ought to be put down by law. My eldest brother 
 Nick sings really very well, — a charming tenor, you know, 
 good enough to coax the birds off the bushes. He does all 
 that sort oi dilettante business, — paints, and reads tremendously 
 about things dead and gone, that can't possibly advantage 
 anybody. Understands old china as well as most people 
 (which isn't saying much), and I think — but as yet this state* 
 ment is unsupported — I think he writes poetry." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 45 
 
 " Does he really ?" asks Mona, with eyes wide open. "I 
 am sure if I ever meet your brother Nick I shall be dreadfully 
 afraid of him." 
 
 " Don't betray me, at all events. He is a touchy sort of 
 fellow, and mightn't like to think I knew that about him. 
 Jack, my second brother, sings too. He is coming home from 
 India directly, and is an awfully good sort, though I think I 
 should rather have old Nick after all." 
 
 " You have two brothers older than you ?" asks Mona, 
 meditatively. 
 
 " Yes ; I am that most despicable of all things, a third 
 son." 
 
 " I have heard of it. A third son would be poor, of course, 
 and — and worldly people would not think so much of him as 
 of others. Is that so?" 
 
 She pauses. But for the absurdity of the thing, ]Mr. Rod- 
 ney would swear there is hope in her tone. 
 
 " Your description is graphic," he answers, lightly, " if 
 faintly unkind; but when is the truth civil? You are right. 
 Younger sons, as a rule, are not run after. Mammas do not 
 hanker after them, or give them their reserve smiles, or pull 
 their skirts aside to make room for them upon small ottomans." 
 
 " That betrays the meanness of the world," says Mona, 
 slowly and with indignation. Has not Geoffrey just declared 
 himself to be a younger son ? 
 
 " Does it ? I was bred in a different belief. In my world 
 the mighty do no wrong ; and a third son is nowhere. He is 
 shunted ; handed on ; if possible, scotched. The sun is not 
 made for kim, or the first waltz, or caviare, or the ' sweet 
 shady side' of anything. In fact, he is ' the man of no ac- 
 count' with a vengeance !" 
 
 " What a shame !" says Mona, angrily. Then she changes 
 her note, and says, with a soft, low, mocking laugh, " How I 
 pity you 1" 
 
 " Thanks. I shall try to believe you, though your mirth is 
 somewhat out of place, and has a tendency towards heartless- 
 ness." (He is laughiuir too.) " Yet there have been in- 
 stances," goes on Mr. Rodney, still smiling, while watching 
 her intently, " when maiden aunts have taken a fancy to third 
 eons, and have died leaving them lots of tin." 
 
 " Eh ?" says Mona. 
 
46 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 *' Tin, — money," explains he. 
 
 " Oh, I dare say. Yes, sometimes ; but — " she hesitates, 
 and this time the expression of her face cannot be misunder- 
 stood : dejection betrays itself in every line — " but it is not so 
 with you, is it ? No aunt has left you anything ?" 
 
 " No, — no aunt," returns Rodney, speaking the solemn truth, 
 yet conveying a lie : " I have not been blessed with maiden 
 aunts wallowing in coin." 
 
 " So I thought," exclaims Mona, with a cheerful nod, that 
 under other circumstances should be aggravating, so full of 
 content it is. " At first I fea — I thoug-ht you were rich, but 
 afterwards I guessed it was your brothers' ground you were 
 shooting over. And Bridget told me, too. She said you 
 could not be well off, you had so many brothers. But I like 
 you all the better for that," says Mona, in a tone that actually 
 savors of protection, slipping her little brown hand through 
 his arm in a kindly, friendly, lovable fashion. 
 
 " Do you ?" says Bodney. He is strangely moved ; he 
 speaks quietly, but his heart is beating quickly, and Cupid's 
 dart sinks deeper in its wound. 
 
 " Is your brother, Mr. Kodney, like you ?" asks Mona, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 He has never told her that his eldest brother is a baronet. 
 Why he hardly knows, yet now he does not contradict her 
 when she alludes to him as Mr. Rodney. Some inward feeling 
 prevents him. Perhaps he understands instinctively that such 
 knowledge will but widen the breach that already exists be- 
 tween him and the girl who now walks beside him with a 
 happy smile upon her flower-like face. 
 
 " No ; he is not like me," he says, abruptly : " he is a much 
 better fellow. He is, besides, tall and rather lanky, with dark 
 eyes and hair. He is like my father, they tell me ; I am like 
 my mother." 
 
 At this Mona turns her gaze secretly upon him. She studies 
 his hair, his gray eyes, his irregular nose, — that ought to have 
 known better, — and his handsome mouth, so resolute, yet so 
 tender, that his fair moustache only half conceals. The world 
 in general acknowledges Mr. Rodney to be a well-looking 
 young man of ordinary merits, but in Mona's eyes he is some- 
 thing more than all this ; and I believe the word " ordinary," 
 as applied to him, would sound ofl'ensive in her ears. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 47 
 
 " I think I should like your mother," she says, naively and 
 very sweetly, lifting her eyes steadily to his. " She is hand- 
 some, of course ; and is she good as she is beautiftil ?" 
 
 Flattery goes a long way with most men, but in this in- 
 etance the subtle poison touches Mr. Kodney even more than 
 it pleases him. He presses the hand that rests upon his arm 
 an eighth of an inch nearer to his heart than it was before, if 
 that be possible. 
 
 " My mother is a real good sort when you know her," he 
 says, evasively ; " but she's rather rough on strangers. How- 
 ever, she is always all there, you know, so far as manners go, 
 and that." 
 
 Miss Mona looks puzzled. 
 
 " I don't think I understand you," she says, at length, 
 gravely. " Where would the rest of her be, if she wasn't all 
 in the same place ?" 
 
 She says this in such perfect good faith that Mr. Rodney 
 roars with laughter. 
 
 " Perhaps you may not know it," says he, " but you aro 
 simply perfection !" 
 
 " So Mr. Moore says," returns she, smiling. 
 
 Had she put out all her powers of invention with a view to 
 routing him with slaughter, she could not have been more 
 successful than she is with this small unpremeditated speech. 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, he could not have be- 
 trayed more thorough and complete discomfiture. 
 
 He drops her arm, and looks as though he is prepared to 
 drop her acquaintance also, at a moment's notice. 
 
 " What has Mr. Moore to do with you ?'' he asks, haughtily. 
 •' Who is he, that he should so speak to you ?" 
 
 " He is our landlord," says Mona, calmly, but with uplifted 
 brows, stopping short in the middle of the road to regard him 
 with astonishment. 
 
 " And thinks you perfection ?" in an impossible tone, losing 
 both his head and his temper completely. " He is rich, I 
 suppose ; why don't you marry him ?" 
 
 Mona turns pale. 
 
 *' To ask the question is a rudeness," she says, steadily, 
 though her heart is cold and hurt. " Yet I will answer 
 you. In our country, and in our class," with an amount 
 of inborn pride impossible to translate, "we do not marry a 
 
48 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 man because he ia ' rich,' or, in other words, sell ourselves for 
 gold." 
 
 Having said this, she turns her back upon him contemptu- 
 ously, and walks towards her home. 
 
 He follows her, full of remorse and contrition. Her glance, 
 even more than her words, has covered him with shame, and 
 cured him of his want of generosity. 
 
 "Forgive me, Mona," he says, with deep entreaty. "I 
 confess my fault. How could I speak to you as I did I I 
 implore your pardon. Great a sinner as I am, surely I shall 
 not knock for forgiveness at your sweet heart in vain 1" 
 
 " Do not ever speak to me like that again," says Mona, 
 turning upon him eyes humid with disappointment, yet free 
 from wrath of any kind. " As for Mr. Moore," with a curl 
 of her short upper lip that it does him good to see, and a 
 quick frown, " why, he is as old as the hills, and as fat as 
 Tichborne, and he hasn't got a single hair on his head 1" 
 
 But that Mr. Rodney is still oppressed with the fear that 
 he has mortally offended her, he could have laughed out loud 
 at this childish speech ; but anxiety helps him to restrain his 
 mirth. Nevertheless he feels an unholy joy as he thinks on 
 Mr. Moore's bald pate, his "too, too solid flesh," and his 
 " many days." 
 
 " Yet he dares to admire you ?" is what he does say, after 
 a decided pause. 
 
 " Sure they all admire me," says Miss Mona, with an ex- 
 asperating smile, meant to wither. 
 
 But Mr. Rodney is determined " to have it out with her," 
 as he himself would say, before consenting to fade away out 
 of her sight. 
 
 " But he wants to marry you. I know he does. Tell mo 
 the truth about that," he says, with flattering vehemence. 
 
 •' Certainly I shall not. It would be very mean, and I 
 wonder at you to ask the question," says Mona, with a great 
 show of virtuous indignation. " Besides," mischievously, " if 
 you know, there is no necessity to tell you anything." 
 
 " Yet answer me," persists he, very earnestly. 
 
 " I can't," says Mona: " it would be very unfair; and be- 
 sides," petulantly, " it is all too absurd. Why, if Mr. Moore 
 were to ask me to marry him ten thousand times again, I 
 ehould never say anything but ' no.' " 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 49 
 
 Unconsciously she has betrayed herself. He hears the 
 word " again" with a strange sinking of the heart. Others, 
 then, are desirous of claiming this wild flower for their own. 
 
 " Oh, Mona, do you mean that?" he says. But Mona, who 
 is very justly incensed, declines to answer him with civility. 
 
 " I begin to think our English cousins are not famous for 
 their veracity,'i< she says, with some scorn. " You seem to 
 doubt every one's word ; or is it mine in particular ? Yet I 
 spoke the truth. I do not want to marry any one." 
 
 Here she turns and looks him full in the face ; and some- 
 thing — it may be in the melancholy of his expression — so 
 amuses her that (laughter being as natural to her lips as per- 
 fume to a flower) she breaks into a sunny smile, and holds 
 out to him her hand in token of amity. 
 
 " How could you be so absurd about that old Moore?" she 
 says, lightly. " Why, he has got nothing to recommend him 
 except his money ; and what good," with a sigh, " does that 
 do him, unless to get him murdered I" 
 
 " If he is as fat as you say, he will be a good mark for a 
 bullet," says Mr. Rodney, genially, almost — I am ashamed to 
 say — hopefully. " I should think they would easily pot him 
 one of these dark nights that are comiug. By this time I 
 suppose he feels more like a grouse than a man, eh ? — ' I'll 
 die game' should be his motto." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't talk like that," says Mona, with a 
 shudder. " It isn't at all nice of you ; and especially when 
 you know how miserable I am about my poor country." 
 
 " It is a pity anything should be said against Ireland," says 
 Rodney, cleverly ; " it is such a lovely little spot." 
 
 " Do you really Hke it?" asks she, plainly delighted. 
 
 " I should rather think so. Who wouldn't ? I went to 
 GlengariflTe the other day, and can hardly fancy anything more 
 lovely than its pure waters, and its purple hills that lie con- 
 tinued in the depths beneath." 
 
 " I have been there. And at Killarney, but only once, 
 though we live so near." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with it," says Rodney. " The 
 easier one can get to a place the more one puts off going. I 
 knew a fellow once, and he lived all his time in London, and 
 I give you my word he had never seen the Crystal Palace. 
 With whom did you go to Killarney?" 
 c d A 
 
60 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 *' With Lady Mary. She was staying; at the castle there ; 
 it was last year, and she asked me to go with her. I was de- 
 lighted. And it was so pleasant, and everything so — so like 
 heaven. The lakes are delicious, so calm, so solitary, so full 
 of thought. Lady Mary is old, but young in manner, and has 
 read and travelled so much, and she likes me," says Mona, 
 naively. " And I like her. Do you know her ?" 
 
 " Lady Mary Crighton ? Yes, I have met her. An old 
 lady with corkscrew ringlets, patches, and hoops ? She is quite 
 grande dame, and witty, like all you Irish people." 
 
 " She is very seldom at home, but I think I like her better 
 than any one I ever met." 
 
 " Do you ?" says Geoffrey, in a tone that means much. 
 
 " Yes, — better than all the women I ever met," corrects 
 Mona, but without placing the faintest emphasis upon the word 
 " women," which omission somehow possesses its charm in 
 Rodney's eyes. 
 
 " Well, I shall go and judge of Killarney myself some day," 
 he says, idly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you must indeed," says the little enthusiast, 
 brightening. " It is more than lovely. How I wish I could 
 go with you !" 
 
 She looks at him as she says this, fearlessly, honestly, and 
 without a suspicion of coquetry. 
 
 " I wish you could !" says Geoffrey from his heart. 
 
 " Well, I can't, you know," with a sigh. " But no matter : 
 you will enjoy the scenery even more by yourself." 
 
 " I don't think I shall," says Geoffrey, in a low tone. 
 
 " Well, we have both seen the bay," says Mona, cheerfully,— - 
 " Bantry Bay, I mean : so we can talk about that. Yet in- 
 deed" — seriously — " you cannot be said to have seen it prop- 
 erly, as it is only by moonlight its full beauty can be appre- 
 ciated. Then, with its light waves sparkling beneath the gleam 
 of the stars, and the moon throwing a path across it that seems 
 to go on and on, until it reaches heaven, it is more satisfying 
 than a happy dream. Do you see that hill up yonder?" 
 pointing to an elevation about a mile distant : " there I some- 
 times sit when the moon is full, and watch the bay below. 
 There is a lovely view from that spot." 
 
 " I wish I could see it !" says Geoffrey, longingly. 
 
 " Well, so you can," returns she, kindly. " Any night when 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 51 
 
 there is a good moon come to me and I will go with you to 
 Carrickdhuve — that is the name of the hill — and show you 
 the bay." 
 
 She looks at him quite calmly, as one might who sees noth- 
 ing in the fact of accompanying a young man to the top of a 
 high mountain after nightfall. And in truth she does see 
 nothing in it. If he wishes to see the bay she loves so well, 
 of course he must see it ; and who so competent to point out 
 to him all its beauties as herself? 
 
 " I wonder when the moon will be full," says Geoffrey, 
 making this ordinary remark in an every- day tone that does 
 him credit, and speaks well for his kindliness and delicacy of 
 feeling, as well as for his power of discerning character. He 
 makes no well-turned speeches about the bay being even more 
 enchanting under such circumstances, or any orthodox com- 
 pliment that might have pleased a woman versed in the world's 
 ways. 
 
 " We must see," says Mona, thoughtfully. 
 
 They have reached the farm again by this time, and Geof- 
 frey, taking up the gun he has left behind the hall-door, — or 
 what old Scully is pleased to call the front door in contradis- 
 tinction to the back door, through which he is in the habit of 
 making his exits and entrances, — holds out his hand to bid 
 her good-by. 
 
 " Come in for a little while and rest yourself," says Mona, 
 hospitably, " while I get the brandy and send it up to poor 
 Kitty." 
 
 It strikes Geoffrey as part of the innate sweetness and gen- 
 uineness of her disposition that, after all the many changes of 
 thought that have passed through her brain on their return 
 journey, her first concern on entering her own doors is for the 
 poor unhappy creature in the cabin up yonder. 
 
 " Don't be long," he says, impulsively, as she disappears 
 down a passage. 
 
 " I won't, then. Sure you can live alone with yourself for 
 one minute," returns she, in very fine Irish ; and, with a part- 
 ing smile, sweet as nectar and far more dangerous, she goes. 
 
 When she is gone, Geoffrey walks impatiently up and down 
 the small hall, conflicting emotions robbing him of the serenity 
 that usually attends his footsteps. He is happy, yet full of a 
 secret gnawing uneasiness that weighs upon him daily, hourly. 
 
62 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 Near Mona — when in her presence — a gladness that amounts 
 almost to perfect happiness is his ; apart from her is unrest. 
 Love, although he is but just awakeninfj to the fact, has laid his 
 chubby hands upon him, and now holds him in thrall ; so that 
 no longer for him is that most desirable thing content, — which 
 means indifference. Rather is he melancholy now and then, 
 and inclined to look on life apart from Mona as a doubtful 
 good. 
 
 For what, after all, is love, but 
 
 " A madness most discreet, 
 A choking gall, and a preserving sweet" ? 
 
 There are, too, dispassionate periods, when he questions the 
 wisdom of giving his heart to a girl lowly born as Mona un- 
 doubtedly is, at least on her father's side. And, indeed, the 
 little drop of blue blood inherited from her mother is so faint 
 in hue as to be scarcely recognizable by those inclined to 
 cavil. 
 
 And these he knows will be many : there would be first his 
 mother, and then Nick, with a silent tongue but brows up- 
 lifted, and after them Violet, who in the home circle is re- 
 garded as Geoffrey's " affinerty," and who last year was asked 
 to Rodney Towers for the express purpose (though she knew 
 it not) of laying siege to his heart and bestowing upon him in 
 return her hand and — fortune. To do Lady Rodney justice, 
 she was never blind to the fortune ! 
 
 Yet Violet, with her pretty, slow, trainante voice and per- 
 fect manner, and small pale attractive face, and great eyes that 
 seem too earnest for the fragile body to which they belong, is 
 as naught before Mona, whose beauty is strong and undeniable, 
 and whose charm lies as much in inward grace as in outward 
 loveliness. 
 
 Though uncertain that she regards him with any feeling 
 stronger than that of friendliness (because of the strange cold- 
 ness that she at times affects, dreading perhaps lest he shall 
 see too quickly into her tender heart), yet instinctively he 
 knows that he is welcome in her sight, and that " the day 
 grows brighter for his coming." Still, at times this strange 
 coldness puzzles him, not understanding that 
 
 "No lesse was she in secret heart affected, 
 But that she masked it in modestie, 
 Tor fcare she should of li;'htnesse bo detected." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 53 
 
 For many days he had not known " that his heart was 
 darkened with her shadow." Only yesterday he might per- 
 haps have denied his love for her, so strange, so uncertain, so 
 undreamt of, is the dawning of a first great attachment. One 
 looks upon the object that attracts, and finds the deepest joy 
 in looking, yet hardly realizes the great truth that she has be- 
 come part of one's being, not to be eradicated until death jr 
 change come to the rescue. 
 
 Perhaps Longfellow has more cleverly — and certainly more 
 tenderly — than any other poet described the earlier approaches 
 of the god of Love, when he says, — 
 
 " Tho first sound in the song of love 
 Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. 
 Hands of invisible spirits touch tho strings 
 Of that mysterious instrument, tho soul, 
 And play the prelude of our fate." 
 
 For Geoffrey the prelude has beer played, and now at last 
 he knows it. Up and down the little hall he paces, his hands 
 behind his back, as is his wont when deep in day-dreams, and 
 asks himself many a question hitherto unthought of Can he 
 — shall he — go farther in this matter? Then this thought 
 presses to the front beyond all others : " Does she — will she — 
 ever love me?" 
 
 " Now, hurry, Bridget," says Mona's low, soft voice, — that 
 " excellent thing in woman." " Don't be any time. Just 
 give that to Kitty, and say one prayer, and be back in tea 
 minutes." 
 
 " Law, Miss Mona, ye needn't tell me ; sure I'm flyin'. I'll 
 be there an' back before ye'll know I'm gone." This from 
 the agile Biddy, as (exhilarated with the knowledge that she 
 is going to see a corpse) she rushes up the road. 
 
 " Now come and see my own room," says Mona, going up 
 to Rodney, and, slipping her hand into his in a little trustful 
 fashion that is one of her many loving ways, she leads him 
 along the hall to a door opposite the kitchen. This she opens, 
 and with conscious pride draws him after her across ita 
 threshold. So holding him, she might at this moment have 
 drawn him to the world's end, — wherever that may be ! 
 
 It is a very curious little room they enter, — yet pretty, 
 withal, and suggestive of care and affection, and certainly not one 
 to be laughed at. Each object that meets tho view seems ra- 
 
 6* 
 
64 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 plete with pleasurable memory, — seems part of its gentle mis- 
 tress. There are two windows, small, and with diamond panes 
 like the parlor, and in the far end is a piano. There are 
 books, and some ornaments, and a hu<^e bowl of sweetly-smelling 
 flowers on the centre-table, and a bracket or two against the 
 walls. Some loose music is lying on a chair. 
 
 " Now I am here, you will sing me something," says Geof- 
 frey, presently. 
 
 " I wonder what kind of songs you like best," says Mona, 
 dreamily, letting her fingers run noiselessly over the keys of 
 the Collard. " If you are like me, you like sad ones." 
 
 " Then I am like you," returns he, quickly. 
 
 " Then I will sing you a song I was sent last week," says 
 Moua, and forthwith sings him " Years Ago," mournfully, 
 pathetically, and with all her soul, as it should be sung. Then 
 she gives him "London Bridge," and then " Rose-Marie," 
 and then she takes her fingers from the piano and looks at 
 him with a fond hope that he will see fit to praise her work. 
 
 " You are an artist," says Geoffrey, with a deep sigh, when 
 she has finished. " Who taught you, child ? But tliere is 
 no use in such a question. Nobody could teach it to you : 
 you must feel it as you sing. And yet you are scarcely to be 
 envied. Your singing has betrayed to me one thing : if ever 
 you suiFer any great trouble it will kill you." 
 
 " I am not going to suffer," says Mona, lightly. " Sorrow 
 only falls on every second generation ; and you know poor 
 mother was very unhappy at one time : therefore I am free. 
 You will call that superstition, but," with a grave shake of 
 her head, " it is quite true." 
 
 " I hope it is," says Geoffrey ; " though, taking your words 
 for gospel, it rather puts me out in the cold. My mother 
 seems to have had rather a good time all through, devoid of 
 anything that might be termed trouble." 
 
 " But she lost her husband," says Mona, gently. 
 
 • " Well, she did. I don't remember about that, you know. 
 I was quite a little chap, and hustled out of sight if I said 
 
 * boo.' But of course she's got over all that, and is as jolly 
 as a sand-boy now," says Geoff'rey, gayly. (If only Lady 
 Rodney could have had heard him comparing her to a "sand- 
 boy"!) 
 
 " Poor thing 1" says Mona, sympathetically, which sym- 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 55 
 
 pathy, by the by, is utterly misplaced, as Lady Rodney 
 thought her husband, if anything, an old bore, and threo 
 months after his death confessed to herself that she was very 
 glad he was no more ! 
 
 " Where do you get your music ?" asks Geoffrey, idly, 
 wondering how " London Bridge" has found its way to this 
 isolated spot, as he thinks of the shops in the pretty village 
 near, where Molloy and Adams, and their attendant sprite 
 called Weatherley, are unknown. 
 
 " The boys send it to me. Anything new that comes out, 
 or anything they think will suit my voice, they post to me at 
 once." 
 
 " The boys !" repeats he, mystified. 
 
 " Yes, the students, I mean. When with aunty in Dublin 
 I knew ever so many of them, and they were very fond of 
 me." 
 
 " I dare say," says Mr. Rodney, with rising ire. 
 
 " Jack Foster and Terry O'Brien write to me very often," 
 goes on Mona, unconsciously. " And indeed they all do oc- 
 casionally, at Christmas, you know, and Easter and Mid- 
 summer, just to ask me how I am, and to tell me how they 
 have got through their exams. But it is Jack and Terry, for 
 the most part, who send me the music." 
 
 " It is very kind of them, I'm sure," says Geoffrey, un- 
 reasonably jealous, as, could ho only have seen the said Terry's 
 shock head of red hair, his fears of rivalry would forever have 
 been laid at rest. " But they are favored friends. You can 
 take presents from them, and yet tlie other day when I asked 
 you if you would like a little gold chain to hang to your 
 mother's watch, you answered me ' that you did not require 
 it' in such a tone as actually froze me and made me feel I had 
 said something unpardonably impertinent." 
 
 " Oh, no," says Mona, shocked at this interpretation of her 
 manner. " I did not mean all that ; only I really did not re- 
 quire it ; at least" — truthfully — " not much. And, besides, 
 a song is not like a gold chain ; and you are quite different 
 from them ; and besides, again," — growing slightly confused, 
 yet with a last remnant of courage, — " there is no reason why 
 you should give me anything. Shall I" — hurriedly — "sing 
 something else for you ?" 
 
 And then she sings again, some old-world song of love and 
 
56 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 chivalry that awakes within one a quick longing for a worthier 
 life. Her sweet voice rings through the room, now glad with 
 triumph, now sad with a " lovely melancholy," as the words 
 and music sway her. Her voice is clear and pure and full of 
 pathos. She seems to follow no rule ; an " f " here or a " p" 
 there, on the page before her, she heeds not, but sings only aa 
 her heart dictates. 
 
 When she has finished, Geoffrey sa3"s " thank you" in a low 
 tone. He is thinking of the last time when some one else 
 sang to him, and of how different the whole scene was from 
 this. It was at the Towers, and the hour, with its dying day- 
 light, rises before him. The subdued light of the summer 
 eve, the open window, the perfume of the drowsy flowers, the 
 pirl at the piano with her small drooping head and her per- 
 fectly trained and very pretty voice, the room, the soft silence, 
 his mother leaning back in her crimson velvet chair, beating 
 time to the music with her long jewelled fingers, — all is re- 
 membered. 
 
 It was in the boudoir they were sitting, and Violet waa 
 dressed in some soft gray dress that shone and turned into 
 palest pearl as she moved. It was his mother's boudoir, the 
 room she most affects, with its crimson and gray coloring and 
 its artistic arrangements, that blend so harmoniously, and are 
 so tremendously becoming to the complexion when the blinds 
 are lowered. How pretty Mona would look in a gray and 
 crimson room ! how 
 
 " What are you thinking of?" asks Mona, softly, breaking ra 
 upon his soliloquy. 
 
 " Of the last time I heard any one sing," returns he, slowly. 
 " I was comparing that singer very unfavorably with you. 
 Your voice is so unlike what one usually hears in drawing- 
 rooms." 
 
 He means highest praise. She accepts his words as a kind 
 rebuke. 
 
 " Is that a compliment?" she says, wistfully. " Is it well 
 to be unlike all the world ? Yet what you say is true, no 
 doubt I suppose I am different from — from all the other 
 people you know." 
 
 This is half a question ; and Geoffrey, answering it from 
 his heart, sinks even deeper into the mire. 
 
 " You are indeed," he says, in a tone so grateful that it 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 57 
 
 ought to have betrayed to her his meaning. But grief and 
 disappointment liavo seized upon her. 
 
 " Yes, of course," she says, dejectedly. A cloud seems to 
 liave fallen upon her happy hour. " When did you hear that 
 — that last singer?" she asks, in a subdued voice. 
 
 " At home," returns he. He is gazing out of the window, 
 with his hands clasped behind his back, and does not pay so 
 much attention to her words as is his wont. 
 
 " Is your home very beautiful ?" asks she, timidly, looking 
 at him the more earnestly in that he seems rapt in contempla- 
 tion of the valley that spreads itself before him. 
 
 " Yes, very beautiful," he answers, thinking of the stately 
 oaks and aged elms and branching beeches that go so far to 
 make up the glory of the ivied Towers. 
 
 " How paltry this country must appear in comparison with 
 your own !" goes on the girl, longing for a contradiction, and 
 staring at her little brown hands, the fingers of which are 
 twining and intertwining nervously with one another. " How 
 glad you will be to get back to your own home 1" 
 
 " Yes, very glad," returns he, hardly knowing what he says. 
 He has gone back again to his first thoughts, — his mother's 
 boudoir, with its old china, and its choice water-colors that 
 line the walls, and its delicate Italian statuettes. In his own 
 home — which is situated about fourteen miles from the Towers, 
 and which is rather out of repair through years of disuse — 
 there are many rooms. He is busy now trying to remember 
 them, and to decide which of them Avould look best decked 
 out in crimson and gray, or blue and silver : he hardly knows 
 which would suit her best. Perhaps, after all 
 
 " How strange it is 1" says Mona's voice, that has now a 
 faint shade of sadness in it. " How people come and go in 
 one's lives, like the waves of the restless sea, now breaking at 
 one's feet, now receding, now " 
 
 " Only to return," interrupts he, quickly. " And — to break 
 at your feet ? to break one's heart, do you mean ? I do not 
 like your simile." 
 
 " You jest," says Mona, full of calm reproach. " I mean 
 how strangely people fall into one's lives and then out again I" 
 She hesitates. Perhaps something in his face warns her, per- 
 haps it is the weariness of her own voice that frightens her, 
 but at this moment her whole expression changes, and a laugh, 
 
58 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 forced but apparently full of gayety, comes from her lips. It 
 is very well done indeed, yet to any one but a jealous lover 
 her eyes would betray her. The usual softness is gone from 
 them, and only a well-suppressed grief and a pride that cannot 
 be suppressed take its place. 
 
 "Wiiy should they fall out again?" says Rodney, a .ittle 
 angrily, hearing only her careless laugh, and — manlike — ig- 
 noring stupidly the pain in her lovely eyes. " Unless people 
 choose to forget." 
 
 " One may choose to forget, but one may not be able to 
 accomplish it. To forget or to remember is not in one's owa 
 power." 
 
 " That is what fickle people say. But what one feels one 
 remembers." 
 
 " That is true, for a time, with some. Forever with 
 others." 
 
 " Are you one of the others ?" 
 
 She makes him no answer. 
 
 " Are you .^" she says, at length, after a long silence. 
 
 " I think so, Moua. There is one thing I shall never for- 
 get." 
 
 " Many things, I dare say," she says, nervously, turning 
 from him. 
 
 " Why do you speak of people dropping out of your life ?" 
 
 " Because, of course, you will, you must. Your world is 
 not mine." 
 
 " You could make it yours." 
 
 " I do not understand," she says, very proudly, throwing up 
 her head with a charming gesture. " And, talking of forget- 
 fulness, do you know what hour it is ?" 
 
 " You evidently want to get rid of me," says Rodney, dis- 
 couraged, taking up his hat. He takes up her hand, too, 
 and holds it warmly, and looks long and earnestly into her 
 face. 
 
 " By the by," he says, once more restored to something 
 like hope, as he notes her drooping lids and changing color and 
 how she hides from his searching gaze her dark, blue, Irish 
 eyes, that, as somebody has so cleverly expressed it, seem 
 " rubbed into her head with a dirty finger," so marked lie the 
 shadows beneath them, that enhance and heighten their 
 beauty, — " by the by, you told me you had a miniature of 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 59 
 
 your mother ia your desk, and you promised to show it to 
 me." He merely says this with a view to gaining more time, 
 and not from any overwhelming desire to see the late Mrs. 
 Scully. 
 
 " It is here," says Mona, rather pleased at his remembering 
 this promise of hers, and, going to a desk, proceeds to open a 
 secret drawer, in which lies the picture in question. 
 
 It is a very handsome picture, and Geoffrey duly admires 
 it ; then it is returned to its place, and Mona, opening the 
 drawer next to it, shows him some exquisite ferns dried and 
 gummed on paper. 
 
 " What a clever child you are !" says Geoffrey, with genuine 
 admiration. " And what is here ?" laying his hand on the 
 third drawer. 
 
 " Oh, do not open that — do not !" says IMona, hastily, in an 
 agony of fear, to judge by her eyes, laying a deterring hand 
 upon his arm. 
 
 " And why not this or any other drawer ?" says Rodney, 
 growing pale. Again jealousy, which is a demon, rises in his 
 breast, and thrusts out all gentler feelings. Her allusion to 
 Mr. Moore, most innocently spoken, and, later on, her refer- 
 ence to the students, have served to heighten within him angry 
 suspicion. 
 
 "Do not!" says Mona, again, as though fresh words are 
 impossible to her, drawing her breath quickly. Her evident 
 agitation incenses him to the last degree. Opening the drawer 
 impulsively, he gazes at its contents. 
 
 Only a little withered bunch of heather, tied by a blade of 
 grass ! Nothing more ! 
 
 Rodney's heart throbs with passionate relief, yet shame 
 covers him ; for he himself, one day, had given her that 
 heather, tied, as he remembers, with that self-same grass ; and 
 she, poor child, had kept it ever since. She had treasured it, 
 and laid it aside, apart from all other objects, among her most 
 sacred possessions, as a thing belovea and full of tender mem- 
 ories ; and his had been the hand to ruthlessly lay bare this 
 bidden secret of her soul. 
 
 He is overcome with contrition, and would perhaps have 
 Baid something betraying his scorn of himself, but she pre- 
 vents him. 
 
 " Yes," she says, with cheeks colored to a rich carmine. 
 
60 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 and flashing eyes, and lips that quiver in spite of all her 
 efforts at control, " that is the bit of heather you gave me, 
 and that is the grass that tied it. I kept it because it reminded 
 me of a day when I was happy. Now," bitterly, " I no longer 
 care for it : for the future it can only bring back to mo an 
 hour when I was grieved and wounded." 
 
 Taking up the hapless heather, she throws it on the ground, 
 and, in a fit of childish spleen, lays her foot upon it and 
 tramples it out of all recognition. Yet, even as she does so, 
 the tears gather in her eyes, and, resting there unshed, trans- 
 figure her into a lovely picture that might well be termed 
 " Beauty in Distress." For this faded flower she grieves as 
 though it were, indeed, a living thing that she has lost. 
 
 " Go r she says, in a choked voice, and with a little passion- 
 ate sob, pointing to the door. " You have done mischief 
 enough." Her gesture is at once imperious and dignified. 
 Then in a softer voice, that tells of sorrow, and with a deep 
 sigh, " At least," she says, " I believed in your honor I" 
 
 The reproach is terrible, and cuts him to the heart. He 
 picks up the poor little bruised flower, and holds it tenderly 
 in his hand. 
 
 " How can I go," he says, without daring to look at her, 
 •' until, at least, I ask for forgiveness ?" He feels more ner- 
 vous, more crushed in the presence of this little wounded Irish 
 girl, with her pride and her grief, than he has ever felt in the 
 presence of an offended fashionable beauty full of airs and 
 caprices. " Mona, love makes one cruel : I ask you to re- 
 member that, because it is my only excuse," he says, warmly 
 " Don't condemn me altogether ; but forgive me once more.' 
 
 "I am always forgiving you, it seems to me," says Mona, 
 coldly, turning from him with a frown. " And as for that 
 heather," facing him again, with eyes shamed but wrathful, 
 " I just kept it because — because — oh, because I didn't like Uf 
 throw it away 1 That was all '" 
 
 Her meaning, in spite of her, is clear ; but Geoffrey doesn't 
 dare so much as to think about it. Yet in his heart he knows 
 that he is glad because of her words. 
 
 " You mustn't think I supposed you kept it for any other 
 purpose," he says, quite solemnly, and in such a depressed 
 tone that Mona almost feels sorry for him. 
 
 He has so far recovered his courage that he has taken hei 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 61 
 
 hand, and is now holding it in a close grasp ; and Mona, 
 though a little frown still lingers on her low, broad forehead, 
 lets her hand so lie without a censure. 
 
 " Mona, do be friends with me," he says at last, desperately, 
 driven to simplicity of language through his very misery. 
 There is a humility in this speech that pleases her. 
 
 " It is really hardly worth talking about," she says, grandly. 
 *' I was foolish to lay so great a stress on such a trifling matter. 
 It doesn't signify, not in the least. But — but," the blood 
 mounting to her brow, " if ever you speak of it again, — if 
 ever you even mention the word ' heather,' — I shall hate 
 you !" 
 
 " That word shall never pass my lips again in your com- 
 pany, — never, I swear !" says he, " until you give me leave. 
 My darling," in a low tone, " if you could only know how 
 vexed I am about the whole affair, and my unpardonable con- 
 duct 1 Yet, Mona, I will not hide from you that this little 
 bit of senseless heather has made me happier than I have ever 
 been before." 
 
 Stooping, he presses his lips to her hand for the first time. 
 The caress is long and fervent. 
 
 " Say I am quite forgiven," he pleads, earnestly, his eyes on 
 hers. 
 
 " Yes. I forgive you," she says, almost in a whisper, with 
 a seriousness that amounts to solemnity. 
 
 Still holding her hand, as though loath to quit it, he moves 
 towards the door ; but before reaching it she slips away from 
 him, and says " Good-by" rather coldly. 
 
 " When am I to see you again ?" says Rodney, anxiously. 
 
 " Oh, not for ever so long," returns she, with much and 
 heartless unconcern. (His spirits sink to zero.) " Certainly 
 not until Friday," she goes on, carelessly. (As this is "Wed- 
 nesday, his spirits once more rise into the seventh heaven.) 
 " Or Saturday, or Sunday, or perhaps some day next week," 
 she says, unkindly. 
 
 " If on Friday night there is a good moon," says Rodney, 
 boldly, '' will you take me, as you promised, to see the Bay ?" 
 
 " Yes, if it is fine," says Mona, after a faint hesitation. 
 
 Then she accompanies him to the door, but gravely, and 
 not with her accustomed gayety. Standing on the door-step 
 he looks at her, and, as though impelled to ask the question 
 
 G 
 
62 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 because of her extreme stillness, he says, " Of what are you 
 thinking?" 
 
 " I am thinking that the man we saw before going into 
 Kitty's cabin is the murderer !" she says, with a strong shudder. 
 
 " T thought so all along," says Geoffrey, gravely. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HOW THE MYSTIC MOONBEAMS THROW THEIR RAYS ON 
 MONA ; AND now GEOFFREY, JEALOUS OP THEIR AD- 
 MIRATION, DESIRES TO CLAIM HER AS HIS OWN. 
 
 Friday is fine, and towards nightfall grows still milder, 
 until it seems that even in tlie dawn of October a summer's 
 night may be born. 
 
 The stars are coming out one by one, — slowly, tranquilly, 
 as though haste has got no part with them. The heavens are 
 clothed in azure. A single star, that sits apai-t from all the 
 rest, is twinkling and gleaming in its blue nest, now throwing 
 out a pale emerald ray, now a blood-red fire, and anon a touch 
 of opal, faint and shadowy, yet more lovely in its vagueness 
 than all the rest, until verily it resembles " a diamond in the 
 sky." 
 
 Geoffrey coming to the farm somewhat early in the evening, 
 Mona takes him round to the yard, where two dogs, hitherto 
 unseen by Geoffrey, lie chained. They are two splendid 
 bloodhounds, that, as she approaches, rise to their feet, and, 
 lifting their massive heads, throw out into the night-air a deep 
 hollow bay that bespeaks welcome. 
 
 " What lovely creatures 1" says Geoffrey, who has a passion 
 for animals: they seem to acknowledge him as a friend. As 
 Mona looses them from their den, they go to him, and, sniff- 
 ing round him, at last open their great jaws into a satisfied 
 yawn, and, raising themselves, rest their paws upon his breast 
 and rub their faces contentedly against his. 
 
 " Now you are their friend forever," says ]\Iona, in a pleased 
 tone. " Once they do that, they mean to tell you they have 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 63 
 
 adopted you. And they like very few people : so it is a com- 
 pliment." 
 
 " I feel it keenly," says Rodney, caressing the handsome 
 creatures aa they crouch at his feet. " Where did you get 
 them ?" 
 
 " From Mr. Moore." A mischievous light comes into her 
 face as she says this, and she laughs aloud. " But, I assure 
 you, not as a love-token. He gave them to me when they 
 were quite babies, and I reared them myself. Are they not 
 lovely ? I call them ' Spice' and ' Allspice,' because one has 
 a quicker temper than the other." 
 
 " The names are original, at all events," says Geoffrey, — 
 " which is a great charm. One gets so tired of ' Rags and 
 Tatters,' ' Beer and Skittles,' ' Cak&s and Ale,' and so forth, 
 where pairs are in question, whether they be dogs or ponies." 
 
 " Shall we set out now ?" says Mona ; and she calls " Mickey, 
 Mickey," at the top of her strong young lungs. 
 
 The man who manages the farm generally — and is a plague 
 and a blessing at the same time to his master — appears round 
 a corner, and declares, respectfully, that he will be ready in a 
 "jiffy" to accompany Miss Mona, if she will just give him 
 time to " clane himself up a bit." 
 
 And in truth the " claniug" occupies a very short period, — 
 or else iMona and Geoffrey heed not the parting moments. 
 For sometimes 
 
 "Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
 Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound." 
 
 " I'm ready now, miss, if you are," says Mickey from tho 
 background, with the utmost bonhomie, and in a tone that 
 implies he is quite willing not to be ready, if it so pleases her, 
 for another five minutes or so, or even, if necessary, to efface 
 himself altogether. He is a stalwart young Hibernian, with 
 rough hair and an honest face, and gray eyes, merry and cun- 
 ning, and so many freckles that he looks like a turkey-egg. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I am quite ready," says Mona, starting some- 
 what guiltily. And then they pass out through the big yard- 
 gate, with the two dogs at their heels, and their attendant 
 squire, who brings up the rear with a soft whistle that rings 
 through the cool night-air and tells the listening stars that tha 
 
64 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 "girl be loves is^iis dear," and his "own, his artless Nora 
 Creana." 
 
 Geoffrey and Mona go up the road with the serenader be- 
 hind them, and, turning aside, she guiding, mount a stile, and, 
 striking across a field, make straight for the high hill that con- 
 ceals the ocean from the farm. Over many fields they travel, 
 until at length they reach the mountain's summit and gazo 
 down upon the beauteous scene below. 
 
 The very air is still. There is no sound, no motion, save the 
 coming and going of their own breath as it rises quickly from 
 their hearts, filled full of passionate admiration for the loveli- 
 ness before them. 
 
 From the high hill on which they stand, steep rocks de- 
 scend until they touch the water's edge, which lies sleeping 
 beneath them, lulled into slumber by the tranquil moon as 
 she comes forth " from the slow opening curtains of the 
 clouds." 
 
 Far down below lies the bay, calm and placid. Not a rip- 
 ple, not a sigh, comes to disturb its serenity or mar the perfect 
 beauty of the silver pathway thrown so lightly upon it by the 
 queen of heaven. It falls there so clear, so unbroken, that 
 almost one might deem it possible to step upon it, and so walk 
 onwards to the sky that melts into it on the far horizon. 
 
 The whole firmament is of a soft azure, flecked here and 
 there with snowy clouds tipped with palest gray. A little 
 cloud — the tenderest veil of mist — hangs between eanh and 
 Bky. 
 
 " The moon is up ; it is the dawn of night; 
 Stands by her side one bold, bright, steady star, 
 Star of her heart. 
 Mother of stars ! the heavens look up to thee." 
 
 Mona is looking up to it now, with a rapt, pensive gaze, her 
 great blue eyes gleaming beneath its light. She is sitting 
 upon the side of the hill, with her hands clasped about her 
 knees, a thoughtful expression on her lovely face. At each 
 side of her, sitting bolt upright on their huge haunches, are 
 the dogs, as though bent on guarding her against all evil. 
 
 Geoffrey, although in reality deeply impressed by the gran- 
 deur of all the surroundings, yet cannot keep his eyes from 
 Mona's face, her pretty attitude, her two mighty defenders. 
 She reminds him in some wise of Una and the lion, though 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 65 
 
 the idea is rather far-fetched ; and he hardly dares speak to 
 her, lest he shall break the spell that seems to lie upon her. 
 
 She herself destroys it presently. 
 
 " Do you like it ?" she asks, gently, bringing her gaze back 
 from the glowing heavens to the earth, which is even more 
 beautiful. 
 
 " The praise I heard of it, though great, was too faint," he 
 answers her, with such extreme sincerity in his tone as touches 
 and gladdens the heart of the little patriot at his feet. She 
 smiles contentedly, and turns her eyes once more with lazy 
 delight upon the sea, where each little point and rock is 
 warmed with heavenly light. She nods softly to herself, but 
 says nothing. 
 
 To her there is nothing strange or new, either in the hour 
 or the place. Often does she come here in the moonlight 
 with her faithful attendant and her two dogs, to sit and dream 
 away a long sweet hour brimful of purest joy, whilst drinking 
 in the plaintive charm that Nature as a rule flings over her 
 choicest paintings. 
 
 To him, however, all is different ; and the hour is fraught 
 with a tremulous joy, and with a vague sweet longing that 
 means love as yet untold. 
 
 " This spot always brings to my mind the thoughts of other 
 people," says Mona, softly. " I am very fond of poetry : are 
 you ?" 
 
 " Very," returns he, surprised. He has not thought of her 
 as one versed in lore of any kind. " What poets do you 
 prefer ?" 
 
 " I have read so few," she says, wistfully, and with hesita- 
 tion. Then, shyly, " I have so few to read. I have a Long- 
 fellow, and a Shakspeare, and a Byron : that is all." 
 
 " Byron ?" 
 
 " Yes. And after Shakspeare, I like him best, and then 
 Longfellow. Why do you speak in that tone ? Don't you 
 like him ?" 
 
 " I think I like no poet half so well. You mistake me," 
 replies he, ashamed of his own surprise at her preference for 
 
 his lordship beneath the calm purity of her eyes. " But 
 
 only — it seemed to me Longfellow would be more suited to 
 you." 
 
 " Well, so I do love him. And just then it was of him I 
 e 6* 
 
66 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 was thinking : when I looked up to the sky his words came 
 back to me. You remember what he eays about the moon 
 rising ' over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the 
 meadows,' and how — 
 
 ' Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 
 Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the augels.' 
 
 That is so sweet, I think." 
 
 " I remember it ; and I remember, too, who watched all 
 that: do you?" he asks, his eyes fixed upon hers. 
 
 *' Yes ; Gabriel — poor Gabriel — and Evangeline," returns 
 she, too wrapt up in recollections of that sad and touching tale 
 to take to heart his meaning : 
 
 ' Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, 
 Sat the lovers, and whispered together.' 
 
 That is the part you mean, is it not ? I know all that poem 
 very nearly by heart." 
 
 He is a little disappointed by the calmness of her answer. 
 
 "Yes; it was of them I thought," he says, turning his 
 head away, — " of the — lovers. I wonder if their evening 
 was as lovely as ours .^" 
 
 Mona makes no reply. 
 
 " Have you ever read Shelley ?" asks he, presently, puzzled 
 by the extreme serenity of her manner. 
 
 She shakes her head. 
 
 " Some of his ideas are lovely. You would like his poetry, 
 I think." 
 
 " What does he say about the moon ?" asks Mona, still with 
 her knees in her embrace, and without lifting her eyes from 
 the quiet waters down below. 
 
 " About the moon ? Oh, many things. I was not think- 
 ing of the moon," with faint impatience ; " yet, as you ask 
 me, I can remember one thing he says about it." 
 
 " Then tell it to me," says Mona. 
 
 So at her bidding he repeats the lines slowly, and in his 
 best manner, which is very good : 
 
 "The cold chaste moon, the queen of heaven's bright isles, 
 Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles! 
 That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame, 
 Which ever is transformed, yet still the same, 
 And warms, but nut illumines." 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 67 
 
 He finishes ; but, to his amazement, and a good deal to his 
 chagrin, on looking at Mona he finds she is wreathed in smiles, 
 — nay, is in fact convulsed with silent laughter. 
 
 " What is amusing you?" asks he, a trifle stifily. — To give 
 way to recitation, and then find your listener in agonies of sup- 
 pressed mirth, isn't exactly a situation one would hanker after. 
 
 " It was the last line," says Mona, in explanation, clearly 
 ashamed of herself, yet unable wholly to subdue her merri- 
 ment. " It reminded me so much of that speech about tea, 
 that they always use at temperance meetings : they call it the 
 beverage ' that cheers but not inebriates.' You said ' that 
 warms but not illumines,' and it sounded exactly like it. 
 Don't you see?" 
 
 He doesn't see. 
 
 " You aren't angry, are you ?" says Mona, now really con- 
 trite. " I couldn't help it, and it loas like it, you know." 
 
 " Angry? no I" he says, recovering himself, as he notices the 
 penitence on the face upraised to his. 
 
 " And do say it is like it," says Mona, entreatingly. 
 
 " It is, the image of it," returns he, prepared to swear to 
 anything she may propose. And then he laughs too, which 
 pleases her, as it proves he no longer bears in mind her evil 
 deed ; after which, feeling she still owes him something, she 
 suddenly intimates to him that he may sit down on the grass 
 close beside her. He seems to find no difiiculty in swiftly 
 following up this hint, and is soon seated as near to her as 
 circumstances will allow. 
 
 But on this picture, the beauty of which is undeniable, 
 Mickey (the barbarian) looks with disfavor. 
 
 " If he's goiu' to squat there for the night, — an' I see ivery 
 prospect of it," says Mickey to himself, — " what on airth's 
 goin' to become of me ?" 
 
 Now, Mickey's idea of " raal grand" scenery is the kitchen 
 fire. Bays and rocks and moonlight, and such like comfort- 
 less stuff, would be designated by him as " all my eye an' Betty 
 Martin." He would consider the bluest water that ever rolled 
 a poor thing if compared to the water that boiled in the big 
 kettle, and sadly inferior to such cold water as might contain 
 a " dhrop of the crathur." So no wonder he views with dis- 
 may Mr. Ilodney's evident intention of spending another half- 
 hour or so on the top of Carrickdhuve. 
 
68 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 Patience has its limits. Mickey's limit comes quicicly. 
 When five more minutes have passed, and the two in his 
 charge still make no sign, he coughs respectfully but very 
 loudly behind his hand. lie waits in anxious hope for the 
 result of this telling manoeuvre, but not the faintest notice is 
 taken of it. Both Mona and Geofi"rey are deaf to the pathetic 
 appeal sent straight from his bronchial tubes. 
 
 Mickey, as he grows desperate, grows bolder. He rises to 
 speech. 
 
 " Av ye plaze, miss, will ye soon be comin' ?" 
 
 " Very soon, Mickey," says Mona, without turning her head. 
 But, though her words are satisfactory, her tone is not. There 
 is a lazy ring in it that speaks of anything but immediate ac- 
 tion. Mickey disbelieves in it. 
 
 " I didn't make up the mare, miss, before comin' out wid 
 yc," he says, mildly, telling this lie without a blush. 
 
 " But it is early yet, Mickey, isn't it ?" says Mona. 
 
 " Awfully early," puts in GeolFrey. 
 
 " It is, miss ; I know it, sir ; but if the ould man comes out 
 an' finds the mare widout her bed, there'll be all the world to 
 pay, an' he'll be screechin' mad." 
 
 " He won't go into the stable to-night," says Mona, com- 
 fortably. 
 
 " He might, miss. It's the very time you'd wish him aisy 
 in his mind that be gets raal troublesome. An' I feel just as 
 if he was in the stable this blessid minit lookin' at tJie poor 
 baste, an' swearin' he'll have the life uv me." 
 
 " And I feel just as if he had gone quietly to bed," says 
 Mona, pleasantly, turning away. 
 
 But Mickey is not to be outdone. "An' there's the pigs, 
 miss," he begins again, presently. 
 
 " What's the matter with them ?" says Mona, with some 
 pardonable impatience. 
 
 " I didn't give them their supper yet, miss ; an' it's very 
 bad for the young ones to be left starvin'. It's on me mind, 
 miss, so that I can't even enjoy me pipe, and it's fresh baccy 
 I have an' all, an' it might as well be dust for what comfort I 
 get from it. Them pigs is callin' for me now like Christians: 
 I can a'most hear them." 
 
 " I shouldn't think deafness is in your family," says Geof- 
 frey, genially. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 69 
 
 " No, sir ; it isn't, sir. We're none of us hard of hearin', 
 
 glory be to . Miss Mona," coaxiiigly, " sure it's only a 
 
 step to the house : wouldn't Misther llodiiey see ye home now, 
 just for wanst?" 
 
 " Why, yes, of course he can," says Mona, without the 
 smallest hesitation. She says it quite naturally, and as though 
 it was the most usual thing in the world for a young man to 
 see a young woman home, through dewy fields and beneath 
 " mellow moons," at half-past ten at night. It is now fully 
 nine, and she cannot yet bear to turn her back upon the en- 
 chanting scene before her. Surely in another hour or so it 
 will be time enough to think of home and all other such pro- 
 Baic facts. 
 
 " Thin I may go, miss?" says Mickey. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you may go," says Mona. Geoffrey says nothing. 
 He is looking at her with curiosity, in which deep love is 
 mingled. She is so utterly unlike all other women he has 
 ever met, with their petty aifectatioiis and mock modesties, 
 their would-be hesitations and their final yielding^. She haa 
 no idea she is doing anything that all the world of women 
 might not do, and can see no reason why she should distrust 
 her friend just because he is a man. 
 
 Even as Geoifrey is looking at her, full of tender thought, 
 one of the dogs, as though divining the fact that she is being 
 left somewhat alone, lays its big head upon her shoulder, and 
 looks at her with large loving eyes. Turning to him in re- 
 sponse, she rubs her soft cheek slowly up and down against 
 his. Geoffrey with all his heart envies the dog. IIow she 
 seems to love it ! how it seems to love her I 
 
 " Mickey, if you are going, I think you may as well take 
 the dogs with you," says Mona : " they, too, will want their 
 suppers. Go, Spice, when I desire you. Good-night, All- 
 spice ; dear darling, — see how he clings to me." 
 
 Finally the dogs are called off, and reluctantly accompany 
 the jubilant Mickey down the hill. 
 
 " Perhaps you are tired of staying here," says Mona, with 
 compunction, turning to Geofi"rey, " and would like to go 
 home ? I suppose every one cannot love this spot as I do. 
 Yes," rising, " I am selfish. Do come home." 
 
 " Tired !" says Geofi"rey, hastily. " No, indeed. Who 
 could tire of anything so divine ? If it is your wish, it ia 
 
70 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 mine also, that we should stay here for a little while longer." 
 Then, struck by the intense relief in her face, he goes on : 
 " How you do enjoy the beauties of Nature ! Do you know 
 I have been studying you since you came here, and I could 
 gee how your whole soul was wrapt in the glory of the sur- 
 rounding prospect? You had no thoughts left for other ob 
 jects, — noG even one for me. For the first time,"' softly, " I 
 learned to be jealous of inanimate things." 
 
 " Yet I was not so wholly engrossed as you imagine," she 
 says, seriously. " I thought of you many times. For one 
 thing, I felt glad that you could see this place with my eyes. 
 But I have been silent, I know ; and — and " 
 
 " How Rome and Spain would encnant you," he says, 
 watching her face intently, " and Switzerland, with its lakes 
 and mountains !" 
 
 " Yes. But I shall never see them." 
 
 " Why not ? You will go there, perhaps, when you are 
 married." 
 
 " No," with a little flickering smile, that has pain and sor- 
 row in it ; " for the simple reason that I shall never marry." 
 
 " But why ?" persists he. 
 
 " Because" — the smile has died away now, and she is look- 
 ing down upon him, as he lies stretched at her feet in the 
 uncertain moonlight, with an expression sad but earnest, — 
 " because, though I am only a farmer's niece, I cannot bear 
 farmers, and, of course, other people would not care for me." 
 
 " That is absurd," says Rodney ; " and your own words 
 refute you. That man called Moore cared for you, and very 
 great impertinence it was on his part." 
 
 " Why, you never even saw him," says Mona, opening her 
 eyes. 
 
 " No ; but I can fancy him, with his horrid bald head. 
 Now, you know," holding up his hand to stop her as she is 
 about to speak, " you know you said he hadn't a hair left on 
 it." 
 
 " Well, he was different," says Mona, giving in ignomini- 
 ously. " I couldn't care for him either ; but what I said is 
 true all the same. Other people would not like me." 
 
 " Wouldn't they ?" says Rodney, leaning on his elbow aH 
 the argument waxes warmer ; " then all I can say is, I never 
 met any ' other people.' " 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 71 
 
 " You have met only them, I suppose, as you belong to 
 them." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that / don't care for you ?" says 
 Rodney, quickly. 
 
 Mona evades a rep^y. 
 
 " How cold it is !" she says, rising, with a little shiver. 
 " Let us go home." 
 
 If she had been nurtured all her life in the fashionable 
 world, she could scarcely have made a more correct speech. 
 Geoffrey is puzzled, nay, more, discomfited. Just in this wise 
 would a woman in his own set answer him, did she mean to 
 repel his advances for the moment. He forgets that no tinge 
 of worldliness lurks in Mona's nature, and feels a certain 
 amount of chagrin that she should so reply to him. 
 
 " If you wish," he says, in a 'courteous tone, but one full 
 of coldness ; and so they commenced their homeward jour- 
 ney. 
 
 " I am glad you have been pleased to-night," says Mona, 
 shyly, abashed by his studied silence. " But," nervously, 
 " Killarney is even more beautiful. You must go there." 
 
 " Yes ; I mean to, — before I return to England." 
 
 She starts perceptibly, which is balm to his heart. 
 
 " To England !" she repeats, with a most mournful attempt 
 at unconcern. " Will — will that be soon ?" 
 
 " Not very soon. But some time, of course, I must go." 
 
 " I suppose so," she says, in a voice from which all joy has 
 flown. " And it is only natural ; you will be happier there." 
 She is looking straight before her. There is no quiver in her 
 tone ; her lips do not tremble ; yet he can see how pale she 
 has grown beneath the vivid moonlight. 
 
 "Is that what you think?" he says, earnestly. " Then for 
 once you are wrong. I have never been — I shall hardly be 
 again — happier than I have been in Ireland." 
 
 There is a pause. Mona says nothing, but, taking out the 
 flower that has lain upon her bosom all night, pulls it to 
 pieces petal by petal. And this is unlike Mona, because 
 flowers are dear to her as sunshine is to them. 
 
 At this moment they come to a high bank, and Geoffrey, 
 having helped Mona to mount it, jun)ps down at the other 
 eide, and holds out his arms to assist her to descend. As she 
 reaches the ground, and while his arms are still round her, 
 
72 ^TRS. GEOFFREV. 
 
 she says, with a sudden effort, and without lifting her eyes, 
 " There is very good snipe-shooting here at Christmas." 
 
 The little pathetic insinuation is as perfect as it is touching. 
 
 " Is there ? Then I shall certainly return for it," says 
 Geoffrey, who is too much of a gentleman to pretend to un- 
 derstand all her words seem to imply. " It is really no jour- 
 ney from this to England." 
 
 " I should think it a long journey," says Mona, shaking 
 her head. 
 
 " Oh, no, you won't," says Rodney, absently. In truth, 
 his mind is wandering to that last little speech of hers, and is 
 trying to unravel it. 
 
 Mona looks at him. How oddly he has expressed him- 
 self! "You won't," he said, instead of "you wouldn't." 
 Does he then deem it possible she will ever be able to cross 
 to that land that calls him son ? She sighs, and, looking 
 down at her little lean sinewy hands, clasps and unclasps 
 them nervously. 
 
 " Why need you go until after Christmas ?" she says, in a 
 tone so low that he can barely hear her. 
 
 " Mona ! Do you want me to stay ?" asks he, suddenly, 
 taking her hands in his. " Tell me the truth." 
 
 " I do," returns she, tremulously. 
 
 " But why ? — why ? Is it because you love me ? Oh, 
 Mona ! If it is that ! At times I have thought so, and yet 
 again I have feared you do not love me as — as I love you." 
 
 " Yon love me ?" repeats she, faintly. 
 
 " With all my heart," says Rodney, fervently. And, in- 
 deed, if this be so, she may well count herself in luck, because 
 it is a very good and true heart of which he speaks. 
 
 " Don't say anything more," says the girl, almost passion- 
 ately, drawing back from him as though afraid of herself. 
 " Do not. The more you say now, the worse it will be for 
 me by and by, when I have to think. And — and — it is all 
 quite impossible." 
 
 "But why, darling? Could you not be happy as my 
 wife ?" 
 
 " Your wife ?" repeats she, in soft, lingering tones, and a lit- 
 tle tender seraphic smile creeps into her eyes and lies lightly 
 on her lips. " But I am not fit to be that, and " 
 
 " Look here," says Geoffrey, with decision, " I will have no 
 
MRS. GEOFFRF.Y. 73 
 
 * buts,' and I prefer taking my answer from your eyes than 
 from your lips. They are kinder. You are going to marry 
 me, you know, and that is all about it. / shall marry you^ 
 whether you like it or not, so you may as well give in with 
 a good grace. And I'll take you to see Rome and all the 
 places we have been talking about, and we shall have a leal 
 good old time. Why don't you look up and speak to me, 
 Mona?" 
 
 " Because I have nothing to say," murmura the girl, in a 
 frozen tone, — " nothing." Then, passionately, " I will not be 
 selfish. I will not do this thing." 
 
 " Do you mean you will not marry me ?" asks he, letting 
 her go, and moving back a step or two, a frown upon his fore- 
 head. " I confess I do not understand you." 
 
 " Try, tt-y to understand me," entreats she, desperately, 
 following him and laying her hand upon his arm. " It is 
 only this. It would not make you happy, — not afterwards, 
 when you could see the ditference between me and the other 
 women you have known. You are a gentleman ; I am only a 
 farmer's niece." She says this bravely, though it is agony to 
 her proud nature to have to confess it. 
 
 " If that is all," says Geoffrey, with a light laugh, laying 
 his hand over the small brown one that still rests upon his 
 arm, " I think it need hardly separate us. You are, indeed, 
 diflFerent from all the other women I have met in my life, — 
 which makes me sorry for all the other women. You are 
 dearer and sweeter in my eyes than any one I have ever 
 known ! Is not this enough ? Mona, are you sure no other 
 reason prevents your accepting me ? Why do you hesitate ?" 
 He has grown a little pale in his turn, and is regarding her 
 with intense and jealous earnestness. Why does she not 
 answer him? Why does she keep her eyes — those honest 
 tell-tales — so obstinately fixed upon the ground ? Why does 
 she show no smallest sign of yielding ? 
 
 " Give me my answer," he says, sternly. 
 " I have given it," returns she, in a low tone, — so low that 
 he has to bend to hear it. " Do not be angry with me ; do 
 
 not— I " 
 
 " ' Who excuses himself, accuses himself,' " quotes Geoffrey. 
 " I want no reasons for your rejection. It is enough that I 
 know you do not care for me." 
 D 7 
 
74 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Oh, no ! it is not that ! you must know it is not that," 
 says Mona, in deep grief. " It is that I cannot marry you I" 
 
 " Will not, you mean I" 
 
 " Well, then, I will not," returns she, with a last effort at 
 determination, and the most miserable face in the world. 
 
 " Oh, if you will not," says Mr. Rodney, wratlifully. 
 
 " I — will — not," says Mona, brokenly. 
 
 " Then I don't believe you !" breaks out Geoffrey, angrily. 
 " I am positive you want to marry me ; and just because of 
 some wretched fad you have got into your head you are deter- 
 mined to make us both wretched." 
 
 " I have nothing in my head," says Mona, tearfully. 
 
 " I don't tliink you can have much, certainly," says Mr. 
 Rodney, with the grossest rudeness, " when you can let a few 
 ridiculous scruples interfere with both our happiness." Then, 
 resentfully, " Do you hate me?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Say so, if you do : it will be honester. If you don't," 
 threateningly, " I shall of course think the contrary." 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 She has turned away from him, grieved and frightened by 
 his vehemence, and, having plucked a leaf from the hedge near 
 her, is trifling absently with it as it lies upon her little trem- 
 bling palm. 
 
 It is a drooping blackberry-leaf from a bush near where she 
 is standing, that has turned from green into a warm and vivid 
 crimson. She examines it minutely, as though lost in wonder 
 at its excessive beauty, for beautiful exceedingly it is, clothed 
 in the rich cloak that Autumn's generosity has flung upon it ; 
 yet, I think, she for once is blind to its charm. 
 
 " I think you had better come home," says Geoffrey, deeply 
 angered with her. " You must not stay here catching cold." 
 
 A little soft woollen shawl of plain white has slipped from 
 her throat and fallen to the ground, unheeded by her in her 
 great distress. Lifting it almost unwillingly, he comes close 
 to her, and places it round her once again. In so doing he 
 discovers that tears are running down her cheeks. 
 
 "Why, Mona, what is this?" exclaims he, his manner 
 changing on the instant from indignation and coldness to 
 warmth and tenderness. " You are crying I My darling 
 girl I There, lay your head on my shoulder, and let us forget 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. "75 
 
 we have ever quarrelled. It is our first dispute ; let it be our 
 last. And, after all," comfortably, " it is much better to have 
 our quarrels before niarriage than after." 
 
 This last insinuation, he flatters himself, is rather cleverly 
 introduced. 
 
 " Oh, if I could be quite, quite sure you would never re- 
 gret it !" says Mona, wistfully. 
 
 " I shall never regret anything, as long as I have you 1" says 
 Rodney. " Be assured of that." 
 
 " I am so glad you are poor," says Mona. " If you were 
 rich or even well ofl", I should never consent, — never !" 
 
 " No, of course not," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly : " as 
 a rule, girls nowadays can't endure men with money." 
 
 This is " sarkassum ;" but Mona comprehends it not. 
 
 Presently, seeing she is again smiling and looking inexpress- 
 ibly happy, for laughter comes readily to her lips, and tears, 
 as a rule, make no long stay with her, — ashamed, perhaps, to 
 disfigure the fair " windows of her soul," that are so " darkly, 
 deeply, beautifully blue," — " So you will come to England with 
 me, after all ?" he says, quite gayly. 
 
 " I would go to the world's end with you," returns she, 
 gently. " Ah ! I think you knew that all along." 
 
 " Well, I didn't," says Rodney. " There were moments, 
 indeed, when I believed m you ; but five minutes ago, when 
 you flung me over so decidedly, and refused to have anything 
 to do with me, I lost faith in you, and began to think you a 
 thorough -going coquette like all the rest. How I wronged 
 you, my dear love ! I should have known that under no cir- 
 cumstances could you be untruthful." 
 
 At his words, a glad light springs to life within her won- 
 derful eyes. She is so pleased and proud that he should so 
 speak of her. 
 
 "Do you know, Mona," says the young man, sorrowfully, 
 " you are too good for me, — a fellow who has gone racket- 
 ing all over the world for years. I'm not half worthy of 
 you." 
 
 " Aren't you ?" says Mona, in her tender fashion, that im- 
 plies so kind a doubt. Raising one hand (the other is im 
 f)risoned), she draws his face down to her own. " I wouldn't 
 jave you altered in any way," she says; " not in the smallest 
 matter. As you are, you are so dear to me you could not b© 
 
76 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 dearer ; and I love you now, and I shall always love you, with 
 all my heart and soul." 
 
 " My sweet angel !" says her lover, pressing her to his heart. 
 And when he says this he is not so far from the ti-uth ; for 
 her tender simplicity and perfect faith and trust bring her very 
 near to heaven 1 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HOW GEOFFREY AND MONA PALL INTO STRANGE COM- 
 PANY ; AND now TIIEY PROFIT BY IT ; AND UOW 
 MONA, OUTSTRIPPING WICKED VENGEANCE, SAVES A LIFE. 
 
 " Is it very late ?" says Mona, awaking from her happy 
 dreams with a start. 
 
 " Not very," says Geoffrey. " It seems only just now that 
 Mickey and the dogs left us." Together they examine his 
 watch, by the light of the moon, and see that it is quite ten 
 o'clock. 
 
 " Oh, it is dreadfully late !" says Mona, with much com- 
 punction. " Come, let us hurry." 
 
 '' Well, just one moment," says Geoffrey, detaining her. 
 " Let us finish what we were saying. ^Vould you rather go to 
 the East or to Rome ?" 
 
 " To Rome," says Mona. " But do you mean it ? Can 
 you afford it? Italy seems so far away." Then, after a 
 thoughtful silence, " Mr. Rodney " 
 
 " Who on earth are you speaking to ?" says Geoffrey. 
 
 " To you !" with surprise. 
 
 " I am not Mr. Rodney : Jack is that. Can't you call mo 
 anything else ?" 
 
 " What else ?" savs Mona, shyly. 
 
 " Call me Geoffrey.' 
 
 " I always think of you as Geoffrey," whispers she, with a 
 swift, sweet upward glance ; " but to say it is so different. Well," 
 bravely, " I'll try. Dear, dear, dear Geoffrey, I want to tell 
 you I would be as happy with you in Wicklow as in Rome." 
 
 " I know that," says Geoffrey, " and the knowledge makes 
 me more happy than I can say. But to Rome you shall go, 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 77 
 
 whatever it may cost. And then we shall return to England 
 to our own home. And then — little rebel that you are — you 
 must begin to look upon yourself as an English subject, and 
 accept the queen as your gracious sovereign." 
 
 " I need no queen when I have got a king," says the girl, 
 with ready wit and great tenderness. 
 
 Geoffrey raises her hand to his lips. " Your king is also 
 your slave," he says, with a fond smile. 
 
 Then they move on once more, and go down the road that 
 leads towards the farm. 
 
 Again she has grown silent, as though oppressed with 
 thought ; and he too is mute, but all his mind is crowded with 
 glad anticipations of what the near future is to give him. Ho 
 has no regrets, no fears. At length, struck by her persistent 
 taciturnity, he says, " What is it, Mona?" 
 
 " If ever you should be sorry afterwards," she says, mis- 
 erably, still tormenting herself with unseen evils, — " if ever I 
 should see discontent in your eyes, how would it be with mo 
 then ?" 
 
 " Don't talk like a penny illustrated," says Mr. Rodney, in 
 a very superior tone. " If ever you do see all you seem to 
 anticipate, just tell yourself I am a cur, and despise me ac- 
 cordingly. But I think you are paying both yourself and me 
 very bad compliments when you talk like that. Do try to 
 understand that you are very beautiful, and far superior to the 
 general run of women, and that I am only pretty well so far 
 as men go." 
 
 At this they both laugh heartily, and Mona returns no 
 more to the lachrymose mood that has possessed her for the 
 last five minutes. 
 
 The moon has gone behind a cloud, the road is almost 
 wrapped in complete gloom, when a voice, coming from ap- 
 parently nowhere, startles them, and brings them back from 
 visions of impossible bliss to the present very possible world. 
 
 " Hist, Miss Mona ! hist 1" says this voice close at Mona's 
 ear. She starts violently. 
 
 " Oh ! Paddy," she says, as a small figure, unkempt, and 
 only half clad, creeps through the hedge and stops short in her 
 path. 
 
 " Don't go on, miss," says the boy, with much excitement. 
 •' Don't ye. I see ye coming', an', no matter what they do 
 
78 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 to me, I says to myself, I'll warn her surely. They're waitin' 
 for the agiut below, an' may-be they miuht mistake ye for 
 some one else in the dark, an' do ye some harm." 
 
 " Who are they waiting for?" says Moua, anxiously. 
 
 " For the agint, miss. Oh, if ye tell on me now they'll kill 
 me. Maxil, ye know ; me lord's agint." 
 
 " Waiting — for what? Is it to shoot him ?" asks the girl, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " Yes, miss. Oh, Miss Mona, if ye bethray me now 'twill 
 be all up wid me. Fegs an' intirely, miss, they'll murdher 
 me out uv hand." 
 
 " I won't betray you," she says. " You may trust me. 
 Whore are they stationed ?" 
 
 " Down below in the hollow, miss, — jist behind the haw- 
 thorn-bush. Go home some other way, Miss Mona : they're 
 bint on blood." 
 
 " And, if so, what are you doing here ?" says Mona, re- 
 provingly. 
 
 " On'y watchin', miss, to see what they'd do," confesses he, 
 shifting from one foot to the other, and growing palpably con- 
 fused beneath her searching gaze. 
 
 " Is it murder you want to see ?" asks she, slowly, in a hor- 
 rified tone. " Go home, Paddy. Go home to your mother." 
 Then, changing her censuring manner to one of entreaty, she 
 says, softly, " Go, because I ask you." 
 
 " I'm off, miss," says the miscreant, and, true to his word, 
 darts through the hedge again like a shaft from a bow, and, 
 scurrying through the fields, is soon lost to sight. 
 
 " Come with me," says Mona to Rodney ; and with an air 
 of settled determination, and a hard look on her usually 
 mobile lips, she moves deliberately towards the hawthorn-bush, 
 that is about a quarter of a mile distant. 
 
 " Mona," says Rodney, divining her intent, " stay you here 
 while I go and expostulate with these men. It is late, dar- 
 ling, and their blood is up, and they may not listen to you, 
 let me speak to them." 
 
 " You do not understand them," returns she, sadly. "And 
 I do. Besides, they will not harm me. There is no fear of 
 that. I am not at all afraid of them. And — I must speak 
 to them." 
 
 He knows her sufficiently well to refrain from further ex- 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 79 
 
 postulation, and just accompanies her silently along the lonely 
 road. 
 
 " It is I, — Mona Scully," she calls aloud, when she is within 
 a hundred yards of the hidiug-pluce. " Tim Kyan, come 
 here : I want you." 
 
 It is a mere guess on her part, — supported certainly by 
 many tales she has heard of this llyan of late, but a guess 
 nevertheless. It proves, however, to be a correct one. A 
 man, indistinct, but unmistakable, shows himself on the top of 
 the wall, and pulls his forelock throuuh force of habit. 
 
 "What are you doing here, TirnV'sajs Moua, bravely, 
 calmly, " at this hour, and with — yes, do not seek to hide it 
 from me — a gun ! And you too, Carthy," peering into the 
 darkness to where another man, less plucky than Ryan, lies 
 concealed. " Ah ! you may well wish to shade your face, since 
 it is evil you have in your heart this night." 
 
 " Do ye mane to inform on us?" says Ryan, slowly, who is 
 " a man of a villainous countenance," laying his hand im- 
 pulsively upon his gun, and glancing at her and Rodney alter- 
 nately with murder in his eyes. It is a critical moment. Rod- 
 ney, putting out his hand, tries to draw her behind him. 
 
 " No, I am not afraid," says the girl, resisting his effort to 
 put himself before her ; and when he would have spoken she 
 puts up her hand, and warns him to keep silence. 
 
 " You should know better than to apply the word ' in- 
 former' to one of my blood," she says, coldly, speaking to 
 Ryan, without a tremor in her voice. 
 
 " I know that," says the man, sullenly. " But what of 
 him ?" pointing to Rodney, the ruffianly look still on his face. 
 " The Englishman, I mane. Is he sure ? It's a life for a life, 
 afther all, when everything is towld." 
 
 He handles the gun again menacingly. Mona, though still 
 apparently calm, whitens perceptibly beneath the cold penetrat- 
 ing rays of the " pale-faced moon" that up above in " heaven's 
 ebon vault, studded with stars unutterably bright," looks down 
 upon her perhaps with love and pity. 
 
 " Tim," she says, " what have I ever done to you that you 
 should seek to make me unhappy?" 
 
 " I have nothing to do with you. Go your ways. It is 
 with him I have to settle," says the man, morosely. 
 
 " Rut / have to do with him," says Moua, distinctly. 
 
CO MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 At this, in spite of everything, Rodney hiughs lightly, and, 
 taking her hand in his, draws it through his arm. There ia 
 love and trust and great content in his laugh. 
 
 " Eh !" says Ryan ; while the other man whom she has 
 called Carthy — and who up to this has appeared desirous of 
 concealing himself from view — now presses forward and re- 
 gards the two with lingering scrutiny. 
 
 "Why, what have you to do with her?" says Ryan, ad- 
 dressing Rodney, a gleam of something that savors of amuse- 
 ment showing itself even in his ill-favored face. For an 
 Irishman, under all circumstances, dearly loves " a courting, a 
 bo7i-mot., and a broil." 
 
 " This much," says Rodney, laughing again : " I am going 
 to marry her, with her leave." 
 
 " If that be so, she'll make you keep from splittin' on us," 
 Bays the man. " So now go ; we've work in hand to-night not 
 fit for her eyes." 
 
 Mona shudders. 
 
 " Tim," she says, distractedly, " do not bring murder on 
 your soul. Oh, Tim, think it over while there is yet time. 
 I have heard all about it ; and I would ask you to remember 
 that it is not Mr. Maxwell's fault that Peggy Madden was 
 evicted, but the fault of his master. If any one must be shot, 
 it ought to be Lord Crighton" (as his lordship is at this 
 moment safe in Constantinople, she says this boldly), " and 
 not his paid servant." 
 
 " I dare say we'll get at the lord by an' by," says Ryan, un- 
 touched. " Go yer ways, will ye ? an' quick too. May-be if 
 ye thry me too far, ye'll learn to rue this night." 
 
 Seeing further talk is useless, Mona slips her hand into 
 Rodney's and leads him down the road. 
 
 But when they have turned a corner and are quite out of 
 sight and hearing, Rodney stops short and says, hurriedly, — 
 
 " Mona, can you mauage to get home by some short way 
 by yourself? Because I must return. I must stand by this 
 man they are going to murder. I must indeed, darling. 
 Forgive me that I desert you here and at such an hour, but I 
 Bee you are safe in the country, and five minutes will take you 
 to the farm, and I cannot let his life be taken without striking 
 a blow for him." 
 
 " And did you think I was content to let him die ?" says 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 81 
 
 Mona, reproachfully. " No ! There is a chance for him still, 
 and I will explain it to you. It is early yet. He seldom 
 passes here before eleven, and it is but a little after ten. I 
 know the hour he usually returns, because he always goes by 
 our gate, and often I bid him good-night in the summer-time. 
 Come with me," excitedly. " I can lead you by a cross-path 
 to the Ballavacky road, by which he must come, and, if we 
 overtake him before he reaches that spot, we can save his life. 
 Come ; do not delay !" 
 
 She turns through a broken gap into a ploughed field, and 
 breaks into a quick run. 
 
 " If we hurry we must meet his car there, and can send 
 him back into Bantry, and so save him." 
 
 All this she breathes forth in disjointed sentences as she 
 rushes, like a light-footed deer, across the ploughed laud into 
 the wet grass beyond. 
 
 Over one high bank, across a stile, through another broken 
 gap, on to a wall, straight and broad, up which Rodney pulls 
 her, carefully taking her down in his arms at the other side. 
 
 Still onward. — lightly, swiftly ; now in sight of the bound- 
 less sea, now diving down into the plain, without faiutness or 
 despondency, or any other feeling but a passionate determina- 
 tion to save a man's life. 
 
 Rodney's breath is coming more quickly, and he is con- 
 scious of a desire to stop and pull himself together — if only 
 for a minute — before bracing himself for a second effort. But 
 to Mona, with her fresh and perfect health, and lithe and lis- 
 som body, and all the rich young blood that surges upward in 
 her veins, excitement serves but to make her more elastic ; and 
 with her mind strung to its highest pitch, and her hot Iri.sh 
 blood aflame, she runs easily onward, until at length the road 
 is reached that is her goal. 
 
 Springing upon the bank that skirts the road on one side, 
 she raises her hands to her head, and listens with all her might 
 for the sound of wheels in the distance. 
 
 But all is still. 
 
 Oh, if they should be too late ! If Maxwell has passed 
 and gone down the other road, and is perhaps now already 
 " done to death" by the cruel treacherous enemy that lieth in 
 wait for him ! 
 
 Her blood heated by her swift run grows cold again as thia 
 / 
 
82 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 thought comes to her, — forced to the front by the fact that 
 " all the air a solemn stillness holds," and that no sound makes 
 itself heard save the faint sighing of the night-wind in the 
 woods up yonder, and the " lone and melancholy voice" of the 
 sea, a mile away, as it breaks upon the silent shore. 
 
 These sounds, vague and harmonious as they are, yet full 
 of mystery and unexplained sadness, but serve to heighten the 
 fear that chills her heart. 
 
 Rodney, standing beside her, watches her anxiously. She 
 throws up her head, and pushes back her hair, and strains her 
 eyes eagerly into the darkness, that not all the moonbeams 
 can make less than night. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! what foul deed may even now be doing while 
 she stands here powerless to avert it, — her eiforts all in vain I 
 How richly shines the sweet heaven, studded with its stars ! 
 how cool, how fragrant, is the breeze ! how the tiny wavelets 
 move and sparkle in the glorious bay below I How fair a 
 world it is to hold such depths of sin ! Why should not rain 
 and storm and howling tempest mark a night so 
 
 But hark I What is this that greets her ear ? The ring of 
 horses' feet upon the quiet road ! 
 
 The girl clasps her hands passionately, and turns her eyes 
 on llodney. 
 
 " Mona, it is — it must be he I" says Geoffrey, taking her 
 hand ; and so they both stand, almost breathless, on the high 
 bank, listening intently. 
 
 Now they can hear the sound of wheels ; and presently a 
 light tax-cart swings round the corner, drawn by a large, bony, 
 bay mare, and in which sits a heavy-looking, elderly man, in a 
 light overcoat. 
 
 " Mr. Maxwell I Mr. Maxwell 1" cries Mona, as he ap- 
 proaches them ; and the heavy man, drawing up, looks round 
 at her with keen surprise, bending his head a little forward, 
 as though the better to pierce the gloom. 
 
 " Miss Scully, is it you?" he says, at length ; " and here at 
 this hour ?" 
 
 " Go back to Bantry," says Mona, not heeding his evident 
 surprise, " at once, — now. Do not delay. There are thoso 
 waiting for you on the Tullymore road who will take your 
 life. I have run all this way to warn you. Oh, g», <^ack, 
 while there is yet time I" 
 
MRS. GEOFFRET. 83 
 
 " Do you mean tliey want to slioot me ?" says Maxwell, in 
 a hurried tone. 
 
 " Yes ; I know it ! Oh, do not wait to ask questions, but 
 go. Even now they may have suspected my purpose, and 
 may be coming here to prevent your ever returning." 
 
 Each moment of delay only helps to increase her nervous 
 excitement. 
 
 "But who are they? and where?" demands the agent, 
 completely taken aback. 
 
 " I can tell you no more ; I will not ; and you must never 
 ask me. It is enough that I speak the truth, and that I have 
 been able to save your life." 
 
 " How can I thank you ?" says Maxwell, " for all " 
 
 " Some other day you can do that. Now go," says Mona, 
 imperiously, waving her hand. 
 
 But Maxwell still lingers, looking first at her and then very 
 intently at her companion. 
 
 " It is late," he says. " You should be at home, child. 
 Who am I, that you should do me so great a service ?" Then, 
 turning quietly to Rodney, " I have not the pleasure of your 
 acquaintance, sir," he says, gravely ; " but I entreat you to 
 take Miss Scully safely back to the Farm without delay." 
 
 " You may depend upon me," says Rodney, lifting his hat, 
 and respecting the elder man's care for the well-being of his 
 beloved, even in the midst of his own immediate danger. 
 Then, in another moment, Maxwell has turned his horse's 
 head, and is soon out of sight. 
 
 The whole scene is at an end. A life has been saved. 
 And they two, Mona and Geoffrey, are once more alone be- 
 neath the " earnest stars." 
 
 " Take me down," says Mona, wearily, turning to her 
 lover, as the last faint ring of the horse's feet dies out on the 
 breeze. 
 
 " You are tired," says he, tenderly. 
 
 " A little, now it is all over. Yet I must make great haste 
 homeward. Uncle Brian will be uneasy about me if he dis- 
 covers my absence, though he knew I was going to the Bay. 
 Come, we must hurry." 
 
 So in silence, but hand in hand, they move back through 
 the dewy meads, meeting no one until they reach the little 
 wooden <rate that leads to her home. 
 
84 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 Here they behold the faithful Biddy, craning her long neck 
 up and down the road, and filled with wildest anxiety. 
 
 " Oh, may I uiver agin see the light," cries this excitable 
 damsel, rushing out to Mona, " if I iver hoped to lay eyes on 
 yer face again 1 Where were ye at all, darlin' ? An' I 
 breakin' me heart wid fear for ye. Did ye know Tim Ryan 
 was out to-night ? When I heerd tell of that from that boy 
 of the Cantys', I thought I'd have dhropped ! 'Tis no good 
 he's up to. Come in, asthore : you must be near kilt with 
 the cowld." 
 
 " No ; I am quite warm," says Mona, in a low, sad tone. 
 
 " 'Tis I've bin prayin' for ye," says Biddy, taking her mis- 
 tress's hand and kissing it fondly. " On me bended knees I 
 was with the blessid beads for the last two hours. An' shure 
 I've had me reward, now I see ye safe home agin. But in- 
 deed. Miss Mona, 'tis a sore time I've had uv it." 
 
 " And Uncle Brian ?" asks Mona, fearfully. 
 
 " Oh, I got the ould man to bed hours ago ; for I knew if 
 he stayed up that he'd get mortial weariu', an' be the death of 
 us if he knew ye were out so late. An' truth to say, Miss 
 Mona," changing her tone from one of extreme joy and thank- 
 fulness to another of the deepest censure, " 'twas the world 
 an' all of bad behavior to be galavantin' out at this hour." 
 
 " The night w.as so lovely, — so mild," says Mona, faintly, 
 concealment in any form being new to her, and very foreign 
 to her truthful nature ; " and I knew Mickey would tell you 
 it was all right." 
 
 "An' what brought him home, the murdherin' scamp,'' 
 gays Miss Bridget, with more vehemence than politeness, " in- 
 fitid of stayin' wid ye to see ye came to no harm ?" 
 
 " He had to see the mare made up, and the pigs fed," says 
 Mona. 
 
 " Is that what he towld ye ? Oh, the blaggard I" says 
 Bridget. " An' nary sign did he do since his return, but sit 
 be the fire an' smoke his dhudheen. Oh, be the powers of 
 Moll Kelly, but I'll pay him out for his lies ! lie's soakin' 
 it now, anyhow, as I sint him up to the top of the hill agin, 
 to see what had become of ye." 
 
 " Bridget," says Mona, " will you go in and get me a cup 
 of tea before I go to bed? I am tired." 
 
 " I will, darlin', shurely," says Bridget, who adores the 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 85 
 
 ground she walks on; and then, turning, she leaves her. 
 Mona lays her hand on Geoffrey's arm. 
 
 " Promise me you will not go back to Coolnagurtheen to- 
 night?" she says, earnestly. "At the inn, down in the vil- 
 lage, they will give you a bed." 
 
 " But, my dearest, why ? There is not the slightest daa- 
 ger now, and my horse is a good one, and I sha'n't be any 
 time getting " 
 
 " I won't hear of it !" says Mona, interrupting him vehe- 
 mently. " You would have to go up that road again," with 
 a strong shudder. " I shall not go in-doors until you give me 
 your honor you will stay in the village to-night." 
 
 Seeing the poor child's terrible fear and anxiety, and that 
 she is completely overwrought, he gives way, and lets her have 
 the desired promise. 
 
 " Now, that is good of you," she says, gratefully, and then, 
 as he stoops to kiss her, she throws her arms around his neck 
 and bursts into tears. 
 
 " You are worn out, my love, my sweetheart," says Geof- 
 frey, very tenderly, speaking to her as though she is in years 
 the child that, in her soul, she truly is. " Come, Mona, you 
 will not cry on this night of all others that has made me yours, 
 and you mine ! If this thought made you as happy as it 
 makes me, you could not cry. Now lift your head, and let 
 me look at you. There ! you have given yourself to me, dar- 
 ling, and there is a good life, I trust, before us : so let us dwell 
 on that, and forget all minor evils. Together we can defy 
 trouble I" 
 
 " Yes, that is a thought to dry all tears," she says,^ very 
 sweetly, checking her sobs and raising her face, on which ia 
 dawning an adorable smile. Then, sighing heavily, — a sigh 
 of utter exhaustion, — " You have done me good," she says. 
 " I shall sleep now ; and you, my dearest, will be safe. Good- 
 night until to-morrow !" 
 
 " How many hours there are in the night that we never 
 count!" says Geoffrey, impatiently. "Good-night, Mona! 
 To-morrow's dawn I shall call my dearest friend." 
 
 8 
 
86 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 now GEOFFREY AND MONA PLAN A TRANSFORMATION 
 
 SCENE, 
 
 Time, with lovers, " flies with swallows' wings ;" they 
 neither feel nor heed it as it passes, so all too full of haste 
 the moments seem. They are to them replete with love 
 and happiness and sweet content. To-day is an accomplished 
 joy, to-morrow will dawn for no other purpose but to bring 
 them together. So they think and so they believe. 
 
 Rodney has interviewed the old man, her uncle ; has told 
 him of his great and lasting love for this pearl among women ; 
 has described in a very few words, and without bombast, his 
 admiration for Mona ; and Brian Scully (though with suffi- 
 cient national pride to suppress all undue delight at the young 
 man's proposal) has given a hearty consent to their union, and 
 is in reality flattered and pleased beyond measure at this 
 match for " his girl." For, no matter how the Irish may 
 rebel against landlordism and aristocracy in general, deep down 
 in their hearts lies rooted an undying fealty to old blood. 
 
 To his mother, however, he has sent no word of Mona, 
 knowing only too well how the news of his approaching mar- 
 riage with this " outer barbarian" (as she will certainly deem 
 his darling) will be received. It is not cowardice that holds 
 his pen, as, were all the world to kneel at his feet and implore 
 him or bribe him to renounce his love, all such pleading and 
 bribing would be in vain. It is that, knowing argument to 
 be useless, he puts ofi" the evil hour that may bring pain to 
 his mother to the last moment. 
 
 When she knows Mona she will love her, — who could help it? 
 BO he argues ; and for this reason he keeps silence until such 
 time as, his marriage being a fait accompli^ hopeless expostu- 
 lation will be of no avail, and will, therefore, be suppressed. 
 
 Meanwhile, the hours go by " laden with golden grain." 
 E' ry day makes Mona dearer and more dear, her sweet and 
 g' leless nature being one calculated to create, with growing 
 k iowlcdge, an increasing admiration and tenderness. Indeed, 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 87 
 
 each happy afternoon spent with her serves but to forge an- 
 other Hnk in the chain that binds him to her. 
 
 To-day is " so cool, so calm, so bright." that Geoffrey's 
 heart grows glad within him as he walks along the road that 
 leads to the farm, his gun upon his shoulder, his trusty dog at 
 his heels. 
 
 All through the air the smell of heather, sweet and fragrant, 
 reigns. Far down, miles away, the waves rush inland, glinting 
 and glistening in the sunlight. 
 
 " Blue roll the waters, blue the skj 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high." 
 
 The birds, as though once more led by the balmy mildness 
 of the day into the belief that summer has not yet forsaken 
 them, are singing in the topmost branches of the trees, from 
 which, with every passing breeze, the leaves fall lightly. 
 
 From the cabins pale wreaths of smoke rise slowly, scarce 
 stirred by the passing wind. Going by one of these small 
 tenements, before which the inevitable pig is wallowing in an 
 unsavory pool, a voice comes to him, fresh and joyous, and 
 plainly full of pleasure, that thrills through his whole being. 
 It is to him what no other voice ever has been, or ever can be 
 again. It is Mona's voice ! 
 
 Again she calls to him from within. 
 
 " Is it you ?" she says, " Come in here, Geoffrey. I want 
 you." 
 
 How sweet it is to be wanted by those we love ! Geoffrey, 
 lowering his gun, stoops and enters the lowly cabin (which, to 
 say the truth, is rather uninviting than otherwise) with more 
 alacrity than he would show if asked to enter the queen's 
 palace. Yet what is a palace but the abode of a sovereign ? 
 and for the time being, at least, Rodney's sovereign is in pos- 
 session of this humble dwelling. So it becomes sacred, and 
 almost desirable, in his eyes. 
 
 She is sitting before a spinning-wheel, and is deftly drawing 
 the wool through her fingers ; brown little fingers they are, 
 but none the less dear in his sight. 
 
 " I'm here," she cries, in the glad happy tones that have 
 been ringing their changes in his heart all day. 
 
 An old crone is sitting over a turf fire that glows and burns 
 dimly in its subdued fashion. Hanging over it is a three- 
 
88 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 legged pot, in which boil the " praties" for the " boys' " dinners, 
 who will be coming home presently from their work. 
 
 " What luck to find you here," says Geoffrey, stooping over 
 the industrious spinner, and (after the slightest hesitation) 
 kissing her fondly in spite of the presence of the old woman, 
 who is regarding them with silent curiosity, largely mingled 
 with admiration. The ancient dame sees plainly nothing 
 strange in this embrace of Geoffrey's, but rather something 
 sweet and to be approved. She smiles amiably, and nods her 
 old head, and mumbles some quaint Irish phrase about love 
 and courtship and happy youth, as though the very sight of 
 these handsome lovers fills her withered breast with glad recol- 
 lections of bygone days, when she, too, liad her " man" and 
 her golden hopes. For deep down in the hearts of all the 
 sons and daughters of Ireland, whether they be young or old, 
 is a spice of romance, living and inextinguishable. 
 
 Rising, the old dame takes a chair, dusts it, and presents it 
 to the stranger, with a courtesy and a wish that he will make 
 himself welcome. Then she goes back again to the chimney- 
 corner, and, taking up the bellows, blows the fire beneath the 
 potatoes, turning her back in this manner upon the young 
 people with a natural delicacy worthy of better birth and 
 better education. 
 
 Mona, who has blushed rosy red at his kiss, is now beaming 
 on her lover, and has drawn back her skirts to admit of his 
 coming a little closer to her. He is not slow to avail himself 
 of this invitation, and is now sitting with his arm thrown 
 across the back of the wooden chair that hulds Mona, and 
 with eyes full of heartfelt gladness fixed upon her. 
 
 " You look like Marguerite. A very lovely Marguerite," 
 says Geoffrey, idly, gazing at her rather dreamily. 
 
 " Except that my hair is rolled up, and is too dark, isn't it? 
 I have read about her, and I once saw a picture of Marguerite 
 in the Gallery in Dublin, and it was very beautiful. I re- 
 member it brought tears to my eyes, and Aunt Anastasia said 
 I was too fanciful to be happy. Her story is a very sad one, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 " Very. And you are not a bit like her, after all," says 
 Geoffrey, with sudden compunction, " because you are going 
 to be as happy as the days are long, if I can make you so." 
 
 " One must not hope for perfect happiness on this earth," 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 89 
 
 says Mona, gravely ; " but at least I know," with a soft and 
 trusting glance at him, " I shall be happier than most people." 
 
 " What a darling you are !" says llodney, in a low tone ; 
 and then something else follows, that, had she seen it, would 
 have caused the weather-beaten old person at the fire another 
 thrill of tender recollection. 
 
 "What are you doing?" asks Geofi"rey, presently, when 
 they have returned to every-day life. 
 
 " I am spinning flax for Betty, because she has rheumatism 
 in her poor shoulder, and can do nothing, and this much flax 
 must be finished by a certain time. I have nearly got through 
 my portion now," says Mona ; "' and then we can go home." 
 
 " When I bring you to my home," says Geoffrey, " I shall 
 have you painted just in that gown, and with a spinning-wheel 
 before you ; and it shall be hung in the gallery among the 
 other — very inferior — beauties." 
 
 " Where?" says Mona, looking up quickly. 
 
 " Oh ! at home, you know," says Mr. Rodney, quickly, dis- 
 covering his mistake. For the moment he had forgotten his 
 former declaration of poverty, or, at least, his consenting 
 silence, when she had asked him about it. 
 
 " In the National Gallery, do you mean ?" asks Mona, with 
 a pretty, puzzled frown on her brow. " Oh, no, Geofi"rey ; I 
 shouldn't like that at all. To be stared at by everybody, — it 
 wouldn't be nice, would it?" 
 
 Rodney laughs, in an inward fashion, biting his lip and 
 looking down. 
 
 " Very well ; you sha'n't be put there," he says. " But 
 nevertheless you must be prepared for the fact that you will 
 undoubtedly be stared at by the common herd, whether you 
 are in the National Gallery or out of it." 
 
 " But why?" says Mona, trying to read his face. " Am I 
 so diiTerent from other people?" 
 
 " Very diS'erent," says Rodney. 
 
 '* That is what I am afraid of always," says Mona, a little 
 wistfully. 
 
 " Don't be afraid. It is quite the correct thing to be eccen- 
 trie nowadays. One is nowhere if not bizarre," says Rodney, 
 laughing ; " so I dare say you will find yourself the very height 
 of the fashion." 
 
 " Now I think you are making fun of me," says Mona, 
 8* 
 
90 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 smiling sweetly ; and, lifting her hand, she pinches his ear 
 liglitly, and very softly, lest she should hurt him. 
 
 Here the old woman at the fire, who has been getting up 
 and down from her three-legged stool during the past few min- 
 utes, and sniffing at the pot in an anxious manner, gives way 
 to a loud sigh of relief. Lifting the pot from its crook, she 
 lays it on the earthen floor. 
 
 Then she strains the water from it, and looks with admira- 
 tion upon its steaming contents. The " murphies" (as, I fear, 
 she calls the potatoes) are done to a turn. 
 
 " May-be," says Betty Corcoran, turning in a genial fashion 
 to Mona and Geoflfrey, " ye'd ate a pratie, would ye, now ? 
 They're raal nice an' floury. Ye must be hungry. Miss Mona, 
 afthcr all the work ye've gone through ; an' if you an' your 
 gintleman would condescind to the like of my dinner, 'tis 
 ready for ye, an' welcome ye are to it. Do, now!" heartily. 
 " The praties is gran' this year, — praises be for all mercies. 
 Amen." 
 
 " They do look nice," says Mona, " and I am hungry. If 
 we won't be a great trouble to you, Betty," with graceful 
 hesitation, " I think we should like some." 
 
 " Arrah ! throuble is it ?" says Betty, scornfully. " Tisn't 
 throuble I'm thinkin' of anyway, when you're by." 
 
 " Will you have something to eat, Geoffrey ?" says Mona. 
 
 " Thank you," says Geofl'rey, " but " 
 
 " Yes, do, alannah 1" says the old lady, standing with one 
 hand upon her hips and the other holding tightly a prodigious 
 " Champion." " 'Twill set ye up afther yer walk." 
 
 *' Then, thank you, Mrs. Corcoran, I will have a potato," 
 Bays Rodney, gratefully, honest hunger and the knowledge 
 that it will please Mona to be friendly with " her people," as 
 Bhe calls them, urging him on. " I'm as hungry as I can be," 
 he says. 
 
 " So ye are, bless ye both I" says old Betty, much delighted, 
 and forthwith, going to her dresser, takes down two plates, 
 and two knives and forks, of pattern unknown and of the 
 purest pot-metal, after which she once more returns to the re- 
 vered potatoes. 
 
 Geoffrey, who would be at any moment as polite to a dairy- 
 maid as to a duchess, follows her, and, much to her discomfort, 
 — though she is too civil to say so, — helps her to lay th«» 
 
MRS. GEOFF REV. 91 
 
 tabic. He even insists on filling a dish with the potatoes, and 
 having severely burned his fingers, and having nobly sup- 
 pressed all appearance of pain, — beyond the dropping of two 
 or three of the esculent roots upon the ground, — brings them 
 in triumph to the spot where Moua is sitting. 
 
 " It might be that ye'd take a dhrop of new milk, too," 
 Bays Betty, " on hospitable thoughts intent," placing before 
 her visitors a little jug of milk she has all day been keeping 
 apart, poor soul ! for her own delectation. 
 
 Not knowing this, Mona and GeoS'rey (whose flask is 
 empty) accept the proflfered milk, and make merry over their 
 impromptu feast, while in the background the old woman 
 smiles upon them and utters little kindly sentences. 
 
 Ten minutes later, having bidden their hostess a hearty 
 farewell, they step out into the open air and walk towards the 
 farm. 
 
 " You have never told me how many people are in your 
 house ?" says Mona, presently. " Tell me now. I know 
 about your mother, and," shyly, " about Nicholas ; but is 
 there any one else?" 
 
 " Well, Jack is home by this time, I suppose, — that's my 
 second brother ; at least he was expected yesterday ; and 
 Violet Mansergh is very often there ; and as a rule, you know, 
 there is always somebody ; and that's all." 
 
 The description is graphic, certainly. 
 
 " Is — is Violet Mansergh a pretty girl ?" asks Mona, grasp- 
 ing instinctively at the fact that any one called Violet Man- 
 sergh may be a possible rival. 
 
 " Pretty ? No. But she dresses very swagger, and always 
 looks nice, and is generally correct all through," replies Mr. 
 Kodney, easily. 
 
 " I know," says Mona, sadly. 
 
 " She's the girl my mother wanted me to marry, you know," 
 goes on Rodney, unobservant, as men always are, of the small 
 signals of distress hung out by his companion. 
 
 " Oh, indeed !" says Mona ; and then, with downcast eyea, 
 " but I d/jut know, because you never told me before." 
 
 " I thought I did," says Geoffrey, waking slowly to a sense 
 of the situation. 
 
 " Well, you didn't," says Mona. "Are you engaged to 
 her?" 
 
92 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " If I was, how could I ask you to marry me ?" returns he, 
 in a tone so hurt that she grows abashed. 
 
 " I hope she isn't in love with you," she says, slowly. 
 
 " You may bet anything you like on that," says Geoffrey, 
 cheerfully. " She cares for me just about as much as I care 
 for her, — which means exactly nothing." 
 
 " I am very glad," says Mona, in a low tone. 
 
 "Why, Mona?" 
 
 " Because I could not bear to think any one was made un- 
 happy by me. It would seem as though some evil eye was 
 resting on our love," says Mona, raising her thoughtful, earn- 
 est eyes to his. " It must be a sad thing when our happiness 
 causes the misery of others." 
 
 " Yet even were it so you would love me, Mona ?" 
 
 " I shall always love you," says the girl, with sweet serious- 
 ness, " better than my life. But in that case I should always, 
 too, have a regret." 
 
 " There is no need for regret, darling," says he. " I am 
 heart-whole, and I know no woman that loves me, or for whose 
 affection I should ask, except yourself" 
 
 " I am indeed dear to you, I think," says Mona, softly and 
 thankfully, growing a little pale through the intensity of her 
 emotion. 
 
 " ' Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee,' " replies he, 
 quite as softly. 
 
 Then she is pleased, and slips her hand into his, and goes 
 along the quiet road beside him with a heart in which high 
 jubilee holds sway. 
 
 " Now tell me something else," she says, after a little bit. 
 " Do all the women you know dress a great deal ?" 
 
 " Some of them ; not all. I know a considerable few who 
 dress so little that they might as well leave it alone." 
 
 " P]h ?" says Mona, innocently, and stares at him with an 
 expression so full of bewilderment, being puzzled by his tone 
 more than his words, that presently Mr. Kodney becomes con- 
 scious of a feeling akin to shame. Some remembrance of a 
 line that speaks of " a soul as white as heaven" comes to him, 
 and he makes haste to hide the real meaning of his words. 
 
 " I mean, some of them dress uncommon badly," he says, 
 with much mendacity and more bad grammar. 
 
 " Now, do they?" says Mona. "I thought they alwaya 
 
MRS. OEOFFREV. 93 
 
 wore lovely clothes. lu books they always do ; but I was too 
 youug when with Aunt Auastasia in Dublin to go out. Some- 
 how, what one imagines is sure to be wrong. I remember," 
 laughing, " when I firmly believed the queen never was seen 
 without her crown on her head." 
 
 " Well, it always is on her head," says Mr. Rodney, at which 
 ridiculous joke they both laugh as gayly as though it were a 
 bon-mot of the first water. That " life is thorny and youth 
 is vain" has not as yet occurred to either of these two. Nay, 
 more were you even to name this thought to them, they would 
 rank it as flat blasphemy, and you a false prophet, — love and 
 laughter being, up to this, the burden of their song. 
 
 Yet after a moment or two the smile fades from Mona's 
 mobile lip, that ever looks as if, in the words of the oid song, 
 " some bee has stung it newly," and a pensive expression takes 
 its place. 
 
 " 1 think I'd like to see myself in a regular evening gown," 
 she says, wistfully. 
 
 " So should I," says Rodney, eagerly, but incorrectly ; " at 
 least, not myself, but you, — in something handsome, you know, 
 open at the neck, and with your pretty arms bare, as they were 
 the first day I saw you." 
 
 " How you remember that, now !" says Mona, with a heav- 
 enly smile, and a faint pressure of the fingers that still rest in 
 his. " Yes, I should like to be sure before I marry you that — 
 that — fashionable clothes would become me. But of course," 
 regretfully, " you will understand I haven't a gown of that sort. 
 I once sat in Lady Crighton's room while her maid dressed her 
 for dinner : so I know all about it." 
 
 She sighs, then looks at the sky, and — sighs again. 
 
 " And do you know," she says, with charming naivete, not 
 looking at him, but biting a blade of grass in a distractingly 
 pretty and somewhat pensive fashion, " do you know her neck 
 and arms are not a patch on mine?" 
 
 " You needn't tell me that. I'm positive they couldn't be 
 named in the same day," says Geoffrey, enthusiastically, who 
 never in his life saw Lady Crighton, or her neck or arms. 
 
 " No, they are not. Geoffrey, peoiJe look much better when 
 they are beautifully dressed, don't they?" 
 
 " Well, on the principle that fine feathers make fine birds, 
 I suppose they do," acknowledges Geoffrey, reluctantly. 
 
94 MRS. QEOFFREF 
 
 At this she glances with scorn upon the quakerish and some- 
 what quaint gray gown in which she Ls clothed, and in which 
 she is looking far sweeter than she knows, for in her face lie 
 " love enshrined and sweet attractive grace." 
 
 " Yet, in spite of all the fine feathers, no one ever crept into 
 my heart but my own Mona," says the young man, putting 
 his hand beneath her chin, which is soft and rounded as a 
 baby's, and turning her face to his. He hates to see the faint 
 chagrin that lingers on it for a moment ; for his is one of those 
 tender natures that cannot bear to see the thing it loves endure 
 the smallest torment. 
 
 " Some women in the great world overdo it," he goes on, 
 " and choose things and colors utterly unsuited to their style. 
 They are slaves to fashion. But 
 
 " ' My love in her attiro doth show her wit; 
 It doth so well become her.' " 
 
 " Ah, how you flatter !" says Mona. Nevertheless, being a 
 woman, and the flattery being directed to herself, she takes it 
 kindly. 
 
 " No, you must not think that. To wear anything that 
 becomes you must be the perfection of dressing. Why weai 
 a Tarn O'Shanter hat when one looks hideous in it? And 
 then too much study spoils efiect : you know what Herrick 
 says: 
 
 "'A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
 I see a wild civility, 
 Does more bewitch me than when art 
 Is too precise in every part.' " 
 
 " How pretty that is I Yet I should like you to see me, if 
 only for once, as you have seen others," says Mona. 
 
 " I should like it too. And it could be managed, couldn't 
 it? I suppose I could get you a dress." 
 
 He says this quickly, yet fearfully. If she should take his 
 proposal badly, what shall he do ? He stares with flattering 
 persistency upon a distant donkey that adorns a neighboring 
 field, and calmly awaits fate. It is for once kind to him. 
 Mona, it is quite evident, fails to see any impropriety in his 
 speech. 
 
 " Could you ?" she says, hopefully. " How ?" 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 95 
 
 Mr. Rodney, basely forsaking the donkey, returns to hia 
 mutton. " There must be a dress-maker in Dublin," he says, 
 " and we could write to her. Don't you know one ?" 
 
 " I don't, but I know Lady Mary and Miss Blake always 
 get their things from a woman called Manning." 
 
 "Then Manning it shall be," says Geoffrey, gayly. "I'll 
 run up to Dublin, and if you give me your measure I'll bring 
 a gown back to you." 
 
 " Oh, no, don't," says Mona, earnestly. Then she stops 
 short, and blushes a faint sweet crimson. 
 
 "But why?" demands he, dense as men will be at times. 
 Then, as she refuses to enlighten his ignorance, slowly the 
 truth dawns upon him. 
 
 " Do you mean that you would really miss me if I left you 
 for only one day ?" he asks, delightedly. " Mona, tell me the 
 truth." 
 
 " Well, then, sure you know I would," confesses she, shyly 
 but honestly. Whereupon rapture ensues that lasts for a full 
 minute. 
 
 " Very well, then ; I sha'n't leave you ; but you shall have 
 that dress all the same," he says. " How shall we arrange 
 about it ?" 
 
 " 1 can give you the size of my waist and my shoulders, 
 and my length," says Mona, thoughtfully, yet with a touch of 
 inspiration. 
 
 " And what color becomes you ? Blue ? that would suit 
 your eyes, and it was blue you used to wear last month." 
 
 " Yes, blue looks very nice on me. Geoffrey, if Uncle Brian 
 hears of this, will he be angry ?" 
 
 " We needn't risk it. And it is no harm, darling, because 
 you will soon be my wife, and then I shall give you every- 
 thing. When the dress comes I'll send it up to you by my 
 man, and you must manage the rest." 
 
 " I'll see about it. And, oh, Geoffrey, I do hope you will 
 like me in it, and think me pretty," she says, anxiously, half 
 fearful of this gown that is meant to transform a " beggar 
 maid" into a queen fit for " King Cophetua." At least such 
 is her reading of the part before her. 
 
 And so it is arranged. And that evening Geoffrey indites 
 a letter to Mrs. Manning, Grafton Street, Dublin, that brings 
 a smile to the lips of that cunning modiste. 
 
96 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 now GEOFFREY AND MONA DILIGENTLY WORK UP THE 
 TRANSFORMATION SCENE; AND HOW SUCCESS CR0WN3 
 THEIR EFFORTS. 
 
 In due course the wonderful gown arrives, and is made 
 welcome at the farm, where Geoffrey too puts in an appearance 
 about two hours later. 
 
 Moua is down at the gate waiting for him, evidently brimful 
 of information. 
 
 " Well, you have got it?" asks he, in a whisper. Mystery 
 seems to encircle them and to make heavy the very air they 
 breathe. In truth, I think it is the veil of secrecy that en- 
 velops their small intrigue that makes it so sweet to them. 
 They might be children, so delighted are they with the success 
 of their scheme. 
 
 " Yes, I have got it," also in a subdued whisper. " And, 
 oh, Geoffrey, it is just too lovely ! It's downright delicious ; 
 and satin, too ! It must" — reproachfully — " have cost a great 
 deal, and after all you told me about being ^joor.' But," with 
 a sudden change of tone, forgetting reproach and extravagance 
 and everything, " it is exactly the color I love best, and what 
 I have been dreaming of for years" 
 
 " Put it on you." says Geoffrey. 
 
 " What ! now T' with some hesitation, yet plainly filled 
 with an overwhelming desire to show herself to him without 
 loss of time in the adorable gown. " If I should be seen ! 
 Well, never mind ; I'll risk it. Go down to the little green 
 glade in the wood, and I'll be with you before you can say 
 Jack Robinson." 
 
 She disappears, and Geoffrey, obedient to orders, lounges 
 oflF to the green glade, that now no longer owns rich coloring, 
 but is strewn with leaves from the gaunt trees that stand in 
 solemn order like grave sentries round it. 
 
 He might have invoked Jack Robinson a score of times 
 had he so wished, he might even have gone for a very respect- 
 able walk, before his eyes are again gladdened by a sight of 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 97 
 
 Mona. Minutes have given place to minutes many times, 
 when, at length, a figure wrapped in a long cloak and with a light 
 woollen shawl covering her head comes quickly towards him 
 across the rustic bridge, and under the leafless trees to where 
 he is standing. 
 
 Glancing round fearfully for a moment, as though desirous 
 of making sure that no strange eyes are watching her move- 
 ments, she lets the loose cloak fall to the ground, and, taking 
 with careful haste the covering from her head, slips like Cin- 
 derella from her ordinary garments into all the glories of a 
 fete gown. She steps a little to one side, and, throwing up 
 her head with a faint touch of coquetry that sits very sweetly 
 on her, glances triumphantly at Geoifrey, as though fully con- 
 scious that she is looking exquisite as a dream. 
 
 The dress is composed of satin of that peculiarly pale blue 
 that in some side-lights appears as white. It is opened at the 
 neck, and has no sleeves to speak of As though some kindly 
 fairy had indeed been at her beck and call, and had watched 
 with careful eyes the cutting of the robe, it fits to a charm. 
 Upon her head a little mob-cap, a very marvel of blue satin 
 and old lace, rests lovingly, making still softer the soft tender 
 face beneath it. 
 
 There is a sparkle in Mona's eyes, a slight severing of her 
 lips, that bespeak satisfaction and betray her full of very in- 
 nocent appreciation of her own beauty. She stands well back, 
 with her head held proudly up, and with her hands lightly 
 clasped before her. Her attitude is full of unstudied grace. 
 
 Her eyes, as I tell you, are shining like twin stars. Her 
 whole soul is possessed of this hope, that he for whom almost 
 she lives must think her good to look at. And good indeed 
 she is, and very perfect ; for in her earnest fece lie such inward 
 godliness and sweet trust as make one feel the better for only 
 a bare glance at her. 
 
 Geoffrey is quite dumb, and stands gazing at her, surprised 
 at the amazing change a stuff, a color, can make in so short a 
 time. Beautiful she always is in his sight, but he wonders 
 that until now it never occurred to him what a sensation she is 
 likely to create in the London world. When at last he does 
 give way to speech, driven to break his curious silence by 
 Bomethiug in her face, he says nothing of the gown, but only 
 this. 
 
 By 9 
 
98 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Oh, Mona, will you always love me as you do now ?" 
 
 His tone is full of sadness and longing and something akin 
 to fear. He has been much in the world, and has seen many 
 of its evil ways, and this is the result of his Knowledge. As 
 he gazes on and wonders at her marvellous beauty, for an in- 
 stant (a most unworthy instant) he distrusts her. Yet surely 
 never was more groundless doubt sustained, as one might 
 know to look upon her eyes and mouth, for in the one lies 
 honest love, and in the other firmness. 
 
 Her face changes. He has made no mention of the treas- 
 ured gown, has said no little word of praise. 
 
 " I have disappointed you," she says, tremulously, tears 
 rising quickly. " I am a failure I I am not like the others." 
 
 "You are the most beautiful woman I ever saw in all my 
 life," returns Rodney, with some passion. 
 
 " Then you are really pleased ? I am just what you want 
 me to be? Oh 1 how you frightened me !" says the girl, lay- 
 ing her hand upon her heart with a pretty gesture of relief. 
 
 " Don't ask me to flatter you. You will get plenty to do 
 that by and by," says Geoffrey, rather jealously, rather bitterly. 
 
 " ' By and by' I shall be your wife," says Mona, archly, 
 " and then my days for receiving flattery will be at an end. 
 Sure you needn't grudge me a few pretty words now." 
 
 What a world is to be opened up to her 1 How severe the 
 test to which she will be exposed 1 Does she really think the 
 whole earth is peopled with beings pure and perfect as herself? 
 
 " Yes, that is true," he says, in a curious tone, in answer to 
 her words, his eyes fixed moodily upon the ground. Then 
 suddenly he lifts his head, and as his gaze meets hers some of 
 the truth and sweetness that belong to her springs from her 
 to him and restores him once again to his proper self. 
 
 He smiles, and, turning, kneels before her in mock humility 
 that savors of very real homage. Taking her hand, he presses 
 it to his lips. 
 
 " Will your majesty deign to confer some slight sign of 
 favor upon a very devoted servant ?" 
 
 His looks betray his wish. And Mona, stooping, very 
 willingly bestows upon him one of the sweetest little kisses 
 imaginable. 
 
 "I doubt your queen lacks dignity," she says, with a quick 
 blush, when she has achievea her tender crime. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 99 
 
 " My queen lacks nothing," says Geoffrey. Then, as he 
 feels the rising wind that is soughing through the barren trees, 
 he says, hurriedly, " My darling, you will catch cold. Put 
 on your wraps again." 
 
 " Just in one moment," says the wilful beauty. " But I 
 must first look at myself altogether. I have only seen myself 
 in little bits up to this, my glass is so small." 
 
 Running over to the river that flows swiftly but serenely a 
 few yards from her, she leans over the bank and gazes down 
 lingeringly and with love into the dark depths beneath that 
 cast up to her her own fair image. 
 
 The place she has chosen as her mirror is a still pool fringed 
 with drooping grasses and trailing ferns that make yet more 
 dark the sanded floor of the stream. 
 
 " Yes, I am pretty," she says, after a minute's pause, with 
 a long-drawn sigh of deepest satisfaction. Then she glances 
 at Geoffrey. " And for your sake I am glad of it. Now, 
 come here and stand beside me," she goes on, presently, hold- 
 ing out her hand backwards as though loath to lose sight of 
 her own reflection. " Let me see how^oit look in the water." 
 
 So he takes her hand, and together they lean over the brink 
 and survey themselves in Nature's glass. Lightly their faces 
 sway to and fro as the running water rushes across the pool, 
 — sway, but do not part ; they are always together, as though 
 in anticipation of that happy time when their lives shall be 
 one. It seems like a good omen ; and Mona, in whose breast 
 rests a little of the superstition that lies innate in every Irish 
 heart, turns to her lover and looks at him. 
 
 He, too, looks at her. The same thought fills them both. 
 As they are together there in the water, so (pray they) " may 
 we be together in life." This hope is sweet almost to solem- 
 nity. 
 
 The short daylight fades ; the wind grows higher ; the 
 whole scene is curious, and very nearly fantastical. The pretty 
 girl in her clinging satin gown, and her gleaming neck and 
 arms, bare and soft and white, and the tiny lace-fringed cap 
 that crowns her fairness. The gaunt trees branching over- 
 head that are showering down upon her all their fading wealth 
 of orange and crimson and russet-colored leaves, that serve to 
 throw out the glories of her dress. The brown-green sward 
 is beneath her, the river runs with noiseless mirth beside her. 
 
100 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 rushing with faint music over sand and pebble to the ocean far 
 below. Standing before her is her lover, gazing at her with 
 adoring eyes. 
 
 Yet all things in this passing world know an end. In one 
 short moment the perfect picture is spoiled. A huge black 
 dog, bursting through the underwood, flings himself lovingly 
 upon Mona, threatening every moment to destroy her toilet. 
 
 " It is Mr. Moore's retriever I" cries Mona, hurriedly, in a 
 startled tone. " I must run. Down, Fan ! down ! Oh, if 
 he catches me here, in this dress, what will he think ? Quick, 
 Geoffrey, give me my shawl 1" 
 
 She tucks up her dignified train in a most undignified haste, 
 while Geoffrey covers up all the finery with the crimson shawl. 
 The white cloud is once more thrown over the dainty cap ; all 
 the pretty coloring vanishes out of sight ; and Mona, after one 
 last lingering glance at Geoffrey, follows its example. She, 
 too, flies across the rural bridge into the covert of her own 
 small domain. 
 
 It is over ; the curtain is down ; the charming transforma- 
 tion-scene has reached its end, and the fairy-queen, doffing her 
 radiant robes, descends once more to the level of a paltry 
 mortal. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HOW MONA, GROWING INQUISITIVE, ASKS QUESTIONS ; AND 
 HOW GEOFFREY, BEING BROUGHT TO BAY, MAKES CON- 
 FESSIONS THAT BODE BUT EVIL TO HIS FUTURE PEACE, 
 AND BREED IMMEDIATE WAR 
 
 " Oh ! catch him I do catch him I" cries Mona. " Loot, 
 there he is again 1 Don't you see ?" with growing excitement. 
 " Over there, under that bush. Why on earth can't you see 
 him ? Ha ! there he is again I Little wretch I Turn him 
 back, Geoffrey ; it is our last chance." 
 
 She has crossed the rustic bridge that leads into the Moore 
 plantations, in hot pursuit of a young turkey that is evidently 
 filled with a base determination to spend his Sunday out. 
 
 Geoffrey is rusking hither and thither, without his hat, and 
 
MRS. QEOFFRET. 101 
 
 without his temper, in a vain endeavor to secure the rebel and 
 reduce him to order. He is growing warm, and his breath is 
 coming more quickly than is exactly desirable ; but, being pos- 
 sessed with the desire to conquer or die, he still holds on. He 
 races madly over the ground, crying " Shoo I" every now and 
 then (whatever that may mean) in a desperate tone, as though 
 impressed with the belief that this simple and apparently 
 harmless expletive must cow the foe. 
 
 " Look at him, under that fern there !" exclaims Mona, in 
 her clear treble, that has always something sweet and plaintive 
 in it. " On your right — no ! not on your left. Sure you 
 know your right, don't you?" with a full, but unconscious, 
 touch of scorn. " Hurry ! hurry ! or he will be gone again. 
 Was there ever such a hateful bird ! With his good food in 
 the yard, and his warm house, and his mother crying for him I 
 Ah ! there you have him 1 No I — yes ! no 1 He is gone 
 again 1" 
 
 " He isn't !" says Geoffrey, panting. " I have him at last I" 
 Whereupon he emerges from a wilderness of ferns, drawing 
 after him and holding up triumphantly to the light the wan- 
 dering bird, that looks more dead than alive, with all its 
 feathers drooping, and its breath coming in angry cries. 
 
 " Oh, you have him !" says Mona, with a beaming smile, 
 that is not reciprocated by the captured turkey. " Hold him 
 tight : you have no idea how artful he is. Sure I knew you'd 
 get him, if any one could !" 
 
 There is admiration blended with relief in her tone, and 
 Geoffrey begins to feel like a hero of Waterloo. 
 
 " Now carry him over the bridge and put him down there, 
 and he must go home, whether he likes it or not," goes on 
 Mona to her warrior, whereupon that renowned person, armed 
 with the shrieking turkey, crosses the bridge. Having gained 
 the other side, he places the angry bird on its mother earth, 
 and with a final and almost tender " Shoo !" sends him scuttling 
 alont' to the farm-yard in the distance, where, no doubt, he ia 
 received either with open arms and kisses, or with a sounding 
 " spank," as our American cousins would say, by his terrified 
 mamma. 
 
 He finds Mona on his return sitting on a bank, laughing 
 and trying to recover her breath. 
 
 " I hardly think this is Sunday work," she says, lightly ; 
 9* 
 
102 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " but the poor little thing would have died if left out all 
 night. Wasn't it well you saw him?" 
 
 " Most fortunate," says Rodney, with deep gravity. " I 
 consider I have been the means of preventing a public calam- 
 ity. Why, that bird might have haunted us later on." 
 
 " Fancy a turkey ghost," says Mona. " How ugly it would 
 be I It would have all its feathers off, of course." 
 
 " Certainly not," says Geoffrey : " I blush for you. I never 
 yet heard of a ghost that was not strictly decent. It would 
 have had a winding sheet, of course. Come, let us go for a 
 walk." 
 
 " To the old fort?" asks Mona, starting to her feet. 
 
 " Anywhere you like. I'm sure we deserve some compen- 
 sation for the awful sermon that curate gave us this morning." 
 
 So they start, in a lazy, happy-go-lucky fashion, for their 
 walk, conversing as they go, of themselves principally, as all 
 true lovers will. 
 
 But the fort, on this evening at least, is never reached. 
 Mona, coming to a stile, seats herself comfortably on the top 
 of it, and looks with mild content around. 
 
 " Are you going no farther ?" asks Rodney, hoping sin- 
 cerely she will say " No." She does say it. 
 
 " It is so nice here," she says, with a soft sigh, and a 
 dreamy smile, wherev ion he too climbs and seats himself be- 
 side her. As they are new situated, there is about half a yard 
 between them of passable wall crowned with green sods, across 
 which they can hold sweet converse with the utmost affability. 
 The evening is fine ; the heavens promise to be fair ; the earth 
 beneath is calm and full of silence as becomes a Sabbath eve ; 
 yet, alas ! Mona strikes a chord that presently flings harmony 
 to the winds. 
 
 " Tell me about your mother," she says, folding her hands 
 easily in her lap. " I mean, — what is she like ? Is she cold, 
 or proud, or stand-off?" There is keen anxiety in her tone. 
 
 " Eh ?" says Geoffrey, rather taken aback. " Cold" and 
 '' proud" he cannot deny, even to himself, are words that suit 
 his mother rather more than otherwise. 
 
 *' I mean," says Mona, flushing a vivid scarlet, ** is she 
 Btern ?" 
 
 " Oh, no," says Geoffrey, hastily, recovering himself just in 
 time J " she's all right, you know, my mother ; and you'll like 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 103 
 
 her awfully when — when you know her, and when — when she 
 knows you." 
 
 " WUl that take her long ?" asks Mona, somewhat wistfully, 
 feeling, without underetanding, some want in his voice. 
 
 " 1 don't see how it could take any one long," says 
 Bodney. 
 
 " Ah I that is because you are a man, and because you love 
 me," says this astute reader of humanity. " But women are 
 so different. Suppose — suppose she never gets to like me ?" 
 
 " Well, even that awful misfortune might be survived. We 
 can live in our own home ' at ease,' as the old song says, until 
 she comes to her senses. By the by, do you know you have 
 never asked me about your future home, — my own place, 
 Leighton Hall ? and yet it is rather well worth asking about, 
 because, though small, it is one of the oldest and prettiest 
 places in the county." 
 
 " Leighton Hall," repeats she, slowly, fixing upon him her 
 dark eyes that are always so full of truth and honesty. " But 
 you told me you were poor. That a third son " 
 
 " Wasn't much I" interrupts Geoffrey, with an attempt at 
 carelessness that rather falls through beneath the gaze of those 
 searching eyes. " Well, no more he is, you know, as a rule, 
 unless some kind relative comes to his assistance." 
 
 " But you told me no maiden aunt had ever come to your 
 assistance," goes on Mona, remorselessly. 
 
 " In that I spoke the truth," says Mr. Rodney, with a 
 shameless laugh, " because it was an uncle who left me some 
 money." 
 
 " You have not been quite true with me," says Mona, in a 
 curious way, never removing her gaze and never returning his 
 smile. " Are you rich, then, if you are not poor?" 
 
 " I'm a long way off being rich," says the young man, who 
 is palpably amused, in spite of a valiant effort to suppress all 
 outward signs of enjoyment. " I'm awfully poor when com- 
 pared with some fiellows, I dare say I must come in for 
 something when my other uncle dies, but at present I have 
 only fifteen hundred pounds a year." 
 
 '■'■Only r says Mona. " Do you know, Mr. Moore has no 
 more than that, and we think him very rich indeed 1 No, 
 you have not been open with me : you should have told me. 
 I haven't ever thought of you to myself as being a rich njan. 
 
104 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 Now I shall have to beein and think of you all over again in 
 quite another light." She is evidently deeply aggrieved. 
 
 " But, my darling child, I can't help the fact that George 
 Rodney left me the Hall," says Geoffrey, deprecatingly, re- 
 ducing the space between them to a mere nothing, and slip- 
 ping his arm round her waist. " And if I was a beggar on 
 the face of the earth, I could not love you more than I do, nor 
 could you, I hope" — reproachfully — " love me better either." 
 
 The reproachful ring in his voice does its intended work. 
 The soft heart throws out resentment, and once more gives 
 shelter to gentle thoughts alone. She even consents to Rod- 
 ney's laying his cheek against hers, and faintly returns the 
 pressure of his hand. 
 
 " Yet I think you should have told me," she whispers, as a 
 last fading censure. " Do you know you have made me very 
 unhappy?" 
 
 " Oh, no, I haven't, now," says Rodney, reassuringly. 
 " You don't look a bit unhappy ; you only look as sweet as 
 an angel." 
 
 " You never saw an angel, so you can't say," says Mona, 
 still sadly severe. " And I am unhappy. How will your 
 mother, Mrs. Rodney, like your marrying me, when you might 
 marry so many other people, — that Miss Mansergh, for in- 
 stance?" 
 
 " Oh, nonsense !" says Rodney, who is in high good humor 
 and can see no rocks ahead. " When my mother sees you she 
 will fall in love with you on the spot, as will everybody else. 
 But look here, you know, you mustn't call her Mrs. Rodney 1" 
 
 " Why ?" says Mona. " I couldn't well call her anything 
 else until I know her." 
 
 " That isn't her name at all," says Geoffrey. " My father 
 was a baronet, you know ; she is Lady Rodney." 
 
 " What !" says Mona. And then she grows quite pale, and, 
 slipping off the stile, stands a few yards away from him. 
 
 " That puts an end to everything," she says, in a dreadful 
 little voice that goes to his heart, " at once. I could never 
 face any one with a title. What will she say when she hears 
 you are going to marry a farmer's niece ? It is shameful of 
 you," says Mona, with as much indignation as if the young 
 man opposite to her, who is making strenuous but vain efforts 
 to speak, has just been convicted of some heinous crime. " It 
 
MRS. QEOFFREV. 105 
 
 is disgraceful I I wonder at you I That is twice you have 
 deceived me." 
 
 " If you would only hear me " 
 
 " I have heard too much already. I won't listen to any 
 more. ' Lady Rodney I' I dare say" — with awful meaning 
 in her tone — '■'you have got a title too T Then, sternly, 
 " Have you ?" 
 
 " No, no indeed, I give you my honor, no," says Geofirey, 
 very earnestly, feeling that Fate has been more than kind to 
 him in that she has denied him a handle to his name. 
 
 " You are sure ?" — doubtfully. 
 
 " Utterly certain." 
 
 " And your brother?" 
 
 " Jack is only Mr. Rodney too." 
 
 " I don't mean him," — severely : " I mean the brother you 
 call ' Old Nick' — Old Nick indeed !" with suppressed anger. 
 
 " Oh, he is only called Sir Nicholas. Nobody thinks much 
 of that. A baronet is really never of the slightest impor 
 tance," says Geoffrey, anxiously, feeling exactly as if he were 
 making an apology for his brother. 
 
 " That is not correct," says Mona. " We have a baronet 
 here. Sir Owen O'Connor, and he is thought a great deal of. 
 I know all about it. Even Lady Mary would have married 
 him if he had asked her, though his hair is the color of an 
 orano'e. Mr. Rodney," — laying a dreadful stress upon the 
 prefix to his name, — " go back to England and" — tragically — 
 " forget me ?" 
 
 " I shall do nothing of the kind," says Mr. Rodney, indig 
 nantly. " And if you address me in that way again I shall 
 cut my throat." 
 
 " Much better do that" — gloomily — " than marry me. 
 Nothing comes of unequal marriages but worry, and despair, 
 and misery, and death,''' says Mona, in a fearful tone, empha- 
 sizing each prophetic word with a dismal nod. 
 
 " You've been reading novels," says Rodney, contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 " No, I haven't," says Mona, indignantly. 
 
 " Then you are out of your mind," says Rodney. 
 
 " No, I am not. Anything but that ; and to be rude"— 
 slowly — " answers no purpose. But I have some common 
 sense, I hope." 
 
106 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " I hate women with common sense. In plainer language 
 it means no heart." 
 
 " Now you speak sensibly. The sooner you begin to hate 
 me the better." 
 
 " A nice time to offer such advice as that," says Rodney, 
 moodily. " But I sha'n't take it. Mona," — seizing her 
 hands and speaking more in passionate excitement than even 
 in love,—" say at once you will keep your word and marry 
 me." 
 
 " Nothing on earth shall bring me to say that," says Mona, 
 Bolemnly. " Nothing I" 
 
 " Then don't," says Rodney, furiously, and, flinging her 
 hands from him, he turns and strides savagely down the hUl, 
 and is lost to sight round the corner. 
 
 But, though " lost to sight," to memory he is most un- 
 pleasantly " dear." Standing alone in the middle of the de- 
 serted field, Mona pulls to pieces, in a jerky, fretful fashion, 
 a blade of grass she has been idly holding during the late 
 warm discussion. She is honestly very much frightened at 
 what she has done, but obstinately declines to acknowledge it 
 even to her own heart. In a foolish but natural manner she 
 tries to deceive herself into the belief that what has happened 
 has been much to her own advantage, and it will be a strict 
 wisdom to rejoice over it. 
 
 " Dear me," she says, throwing up her dainty head, and 
 flinging, with a petulant gesture, the unoffending grass far 
 from her, " what an escape I have had ! How his mother 
 would have hated me 1 Surely I should count it lucky that 
 I discovered all about her in time. Because really it doesn't 
 so very much matter ; I dare say I shall manage to be quite 
 perfectly happy here again, after a little bit, just as I have 
 been all my life — before he came. And when he is gone!'' — 
 ehe pauses, chokes back with stern determination a very heavy 
 eigh, and then goes on hastily and with suspicious bitterness, 
 *' What a temper he has I Horrid ! The way he flung away 
 my hand, as if he detested me, and flounced down that hill, 
 as if he hoped never to set eyes on me again ! With no 
 ' good-by,' or ' by your leave,' or ' with your leave,' or a word 
 of farewell, or a backward glance, or anything! I do hope 
 he has taken me at my word, and that he will go straight 
 back, without seeing me again, to his own odious country." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 107 
 
 She tells herself this lie without a blush, perhaps because 
 she is so pale at the bare thought that her eyes may never 
 again be gladdened by his presence, that the blood refuses to rise. 
 
 A bell tinkles softly in the distance. The early dusk la 
 creeping up from behind the distant hills, that are purple 
 with the soft and glowing heather. The roar of the rushing 
 wavis comes from the bay that lies behind those encircling hills, 
 ■nd i^alls like sound of saddest music on her ear. Now comea 
 
 "Still evening on, and twilight gray 
 Has in her sober livery all things clad." 
 
 And Mona, rousing herself from her unsatisfactory reverie, 
 draws her breath quickly and then moves homeward. 
 
 But first she turns and casts a last lingering glance upon 
 the sloping hill down which her sweetheart, filled with angry 
 thoughts, had gone. And as she so stands, with her hand to 
 her forehead, after a little while a slow smile of conscious 
 power comes to her lips and tarries i-ound them, as though 
 fond of its resting-place. 
 
 Her lips part. An expression that is half gladness, half 
 amusement, brightens her eyes. 
 
 " I wonder," she says to herself, softly, " whether he will 
 be with me at the usual hour to-morrow, or — a little earlier I" 
 
 Then she gathers up her gown and runs swiftly back to the 
 farm. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 UOW GEOFFREY RETURNS TO HIS ALI EGIANCE — HOW HE 
 DISCOVERS HIS DIVINITY DEEP IN THE PERFORMANCE 
 OF SOME MYSTIC RITES WITHIN THE COOL PRECINCTS 
 OP HER TEMPLE — AND HOW HE SEEKS TO REDUCE 
 HER TO REASON FROM THE TOP OP AN INVERTED 
 CHURN. 
 
 To-DAT — that " liberal worldling," that " gay philosopher" 
 — is here ; and last night belongs to us only in so far as it de- 
 serves a place in our memory or has forced itself there in spite 
 of our hatred and repugnance. 
 
108 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 To Rodney, last night is one ever to be remembered as 
 being a period almost without end, and as a perfect specimen 
 of how seven hours can be made to feel like twenty-one. 
 
 Thus at odd moments time can treble itself; but with the 
 blessed daylight come comfort and renewed hope, and Geof- 
 frey, greeting with rapture the happy morn, that, 
 
 "Waked by the circling hours, with rosy hand 
 Unbars the gates of light," 
 
 tells himself that all may yet be right betwixt him and his 
 love. 
 
 His love at this moment — which is closing upon noon — is 
 standing in her cool dairy upon business thoughts intent, yet 
 with a certain look of expectation and anxiety upon her face, 
 — a listening look may best express it. 
 
 To-morrow will be market-day in Bantry, to which the 
 week's butter must go ; and now the churning is over, and 
 the result of it lies cold and rich and fresh beneath Mona's 
 eyes. She herself is busily engaged printing little pats off a 
 large roll of butter that rests on the slab before her ; her 
 sleeves are carefully tucked up, as on that first day when 
 Geoffrey saw her ; and in defiance of her own heart — which 
 knows itself to be sad — she is lilting some little foolish lay, 
 bright and shallow as the October sunshine that floods tho 
 room, lying in small silken patches on the walls and floor. 
 
 In the distance a woman is bending over a keeler making up 
 a huge mass of butter into rolls, nicely squared and smoothed, 
 to make them look their best and handsomest to-morrow. 
 
 " An' a nate color too," says this woman, who is barefooted, 
 beneath her breath, regarding with admiration the yellow tint 
 of the object on which she is engaged. Two pullets, feathered 
 like a partridge, are creeping stealthily into the dairy, their 
 heads turned knowingly on one side, their steps slow and 
 cautious ; not even the faintest chirrup escapes them, lest it 
 be the cause of their instant dismissal. There is no sound 
 anywhere but the soft music that falls from Mona's lips. 
 
 Suddenly a bell rings in the distance. This is the signal 
 for the men to cease from work and go to their dinners. It 
 \nust be two o'clock. 
 
 Two o'clock 1 The song dies away, and Mona's brows con- 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 109 
 
 tract. So late ! — the day is slipping from her, and as yet 
 no word, no sign. 
 
 The bell stops, and a loud knock at the hall-door takes its 
 place. Was ever sweeter sound heard anywhere ? Mona draws 
 her breath quickly, and then, as though ashamed of herself, 
 goes on stoically with her task. Yet for all her stoicism her 
 color comes and goes, and now she is pale, and now " celestial, 
 rosy red, love's proper hue," and now a little smile comes up 
 and irradiates her face. 
 
 So he has come back to her 1 There is triumph in this 
 thought and some natural vanity, but above and beyond all else 
 a great relief that lifts from her the deadly fear that all night 
 has been consuming her and has robbed her of her rest. Now 
 anxiety is at an end, and joy reigns, born of the knowledge 
 that by his speedy surrender he has proved himself her own 
 indeed, and she herself indispensable to his content. 
 
 " 'Tis the English gintleman, miss, — Misther Rodney. He 
 wants to see ye," saj^s the fair Bridget, putting her head in at 
 the doorway, and speaking in a hushed and subdued tone. 
 
 " Very well : show him in here," says Mona, very dis- 
 tinctly, going on with the printing of her butter with a cour- 
 age that deserves credit. There is acrimony in her tone, but 
 laughter in her eyes. While acknowledging a faint soreness 
 at lier heart, she is still amused at his prompt, and therefore 
 flattering, subjection. 
 
 Kodney, standing on the threshold at the end of the small 
 hall, can hear distinctly all that passes. 
 
 " Here, miss, — in the dairy ? Law, Miss Mona I don't." 
 
 " Why?" demands her mistress, somewhat haughtily. " I 
 suppose even the English gentleman, as you call him, can see 
 butter without dying I Show him in at once." 
 
 " But in that apron, miss, and wid yer arms bare-like, an' 
 widout yer purty blue bow ; law, Miss Mona, have sinse, an' 
 don't ye now." 
 
 " Show Mr. Rodney in here, Bridget," says Mona, unflinch- 
 ingly, not looking at the distressed maid, or indeed at any- 
 thing but the unobservant butter. And Bridget, with a sigh 
 that strongly resembles the snort of a war-horse, ushers Mr. 
 Rodney into the dairy. 
 
 " You ?" says Mona, with extreme hauteur and an unpleas- 
 ant amount of well-feigned astonishment. She does not deign 
 
 10 
 
110 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 to go to meet him, or even to turn her head altogether in hia 
 direction, but just throws a swift and studiously unfriendly 
 glance at him from under her long lashes. 
 
 " Yes," replies he, slowly, as though regretful that he can- 
 not deny his own identity, 
 
 " And what has brought you ?" demands she, not rudely or 
 quickly, but as though desirous of obtaining information on a 
 subject that puzzles her. 
 
 " An overwhelming desire to see you again," returns this 
 wise young man, in a tone that is absolutely abject. 
 
 To this it is difficult to make a telling reply. Mona says 
 nothing, she only turns her head completely away from him, 
 as if to conceal something. Is it a smile ? — he cannot tell. 
 And indeed presently, as though to dispel all such idea, she 
 sighs softly but audibly. 
 
 At this Mr. Rodney moves a shade closer to her. 
 
 " What a very charming dairy I" he says, mildly. 
 
 *' Very uncomfortable for you, I fear, after your long 
 ride," says Mona, coldly but courteously. " Why don't you 
 go into the parlor ? I am sure you will find it pleasanter 
 there." 
 
 " I am sure I should not," says Rodney. 
 
 " More comfortable, at least." 
 
 " I am quite comfortable, thank you." 
 
 " But you have nothing to sit on." 
 
 " Neither have you." 
 
 " Oh, I have my work to do ; and, besides, I often prefer 
 standing." 
 
 " So do I, often, — very often," says Mr. Rodney, sadly still, 
 but genially. 
 
 "Are you sure?" — with cold severity. "It is only two 
 days ago since you told me you loved nothing better than au 
 easy-chair." 
 
 " Loved nothing better than a — oh, how you must have 
 misunderstood me I" says Rodney, with mournful earnestness, 
 liberally sprinkled with reproach. 
 
 " I have indeed misunderstood you in maiiy ways." This 
 is unkind, and the emphasis makes it even more so. " Norah, 
 if the butter is finished, you can go and feed the calves." 
 There is a business-like air about her whole manner eminently 
 disheartenino; to a lover out of court. 
 
MRS. OEOFFRET. Ill 
 
 " Very good, miss ; I'm going," says the woman, and with 
 a last touch to the butter she covers it over with a clean wet 
 cloth and moves to the yard door. The two chickens on the 
 threshold, who have retreated and advanced a thousand times, 
 now retire finally with an angry " cluck-cluck," and once more 
 silence reigns. 
 
 " We were talking of love, I think," says Rodney, inno- 
 cently, as though the tender passion as subsisting between the 
 opposite sexes had been the subject of the conversation. 
 
 "Of love generally? — no," with a disdainful glance, — 
 " merely of your love of comfort." 
 
 " Yes, quite so : that is exactly what I meant," returns he, 
 agreeably. It was nut what he meant ; but that doesn't count. 
 " How awfully clever you are," he says, presently, alluding to 
 her management of the little pats, wliich, to say truth, are 
 faring but ill at her hands. 
 
 " is'ot clever," says Mona. " If I were clever I should not 
 take for granted — as I always do — that what people say they 
 must mean. I myself could not wear a double face." 
 
 "That is just like me," says Mr. Kodney, unblushingly, — 
 " the very image of me." 
 
 " Is it ?" — witheringly. Then, with some impatience, " You 
 will be far happier in an arm-chair: do go into the parlor. 
 There is really no reason why you should remain here." 
 
 " There is, — a reason not to be surpassed. And as to the 
 parlor," — in a melancholy tone, — " I could not be happy there, 
 or anywhere, just at present. Unless, indeed," — this in a very 
 low but carefully distinct tone, — " it be here 1" 
 
 A pause. Mona mechanically but absently goes on with her 
 work, avoiding all interchange of glances with her deceitful 
 lover. The deceitful lover is plainly meditating a fresh attack. 
 Presently he overturns an empty churn and seats himself on 
 the top of it in a dejected fashion. 
 
 " I never saw the easy-chair I could compare with this," he 
 Bays, as though to himself, his voice full of truth. 
 
 This is just a little too much. Mona gives way. Standing 
 well back from her butter, she lets her pretty rounded bare 
 arms faJl lightly before her to their full length, and as her 
 fingers clasp each other she turns to Rodney and breaks into 
 a peal of laughter sweet as music. 
 
 At this he would have drawn her into his arms, hoping her 
 
112 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 gayety may mean forgiveness and free absolution for all things 
 Baid and done the day before ; but she recoils from him. 
 
 " No, no," she says ; " all is different now, you know, and 
 you should never have come here again at all ; but" — with 
 charming inconsequence — " why did you go away last evening 
 without bidding me good-night ?" 
 
 " My heart was broken, and by you : that was why. How 
 could you say the cruel things you did ? To tell me it would 
 be better for me to cut my throat than marry you I That was 
 abominable of you, Mona, wasn't it now ? And to make me 
 believe you meant it all, too !" says this astute young man. 
 
 " I did mean that. Of course I cannot marry you," says 
 Mona, but rather weakly. The night has left her in a some- 
 what wavering frame of mind. 
 
 " If you can say that again now, in cold blood, after so 
 many hours of thought, you must be indeed heartless," says 
 llodney ; " and" — standing up — " I may as well go." 
 
 He moves towards the door with " pride in his port, defi- 
 ance in his eye," as Goldsmith would say. 
 
 " Well, well, wait for one moment," says Mona, showing the 
 white feather at last, and holding out to him one slim little 
 hand. He seizes it with avidity, and then, placing his arm 
 round her waist with audacious boldness, gives her an honest 
 kiss, which she returns with equal honesty. 
 
 " Now let us talk no more nonsense," says Rodney, tenderly. 
 " "We belong to each other, and always shall, and that is the 
 solution of the whole matter." 
 
 " Is it ?" says she, a little wistfully. " You think so now ; 
 but if afterwards you should know regret, or " 
 
 "Oh, if — if — ifl" interrupts he. "Is it that you are 
 afraid for yourself? Remember there is ' beggary in the love 
 that can be reckoned.' " 
 
 " That is true," says Mona ; " but it does not apply to me , 
 and it is for you only I fear. Let me say just this: I have 
 thought it all over ; there were many hours in which to think, 
 because I could not sleep " 
 
 " Neither could I," puts in Geoffrey. " But it was hard 
 on you, my darling." 
 
 '• And this is what I would say ; in one year from this I 
 will marry you, if" — with a faint tremble in her tone — " you 
 then still cure to marry me. But not before." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 113 
 
 " A year ! An eternity !" 
 
 " No ; only twelve months," — hastily ; " say no more now : 
 my mind is quite made up." 
 
 " Last week, Mona, you gave me your promise to marry me 
 before Christmas ; can you break it now ? Do you know what 
 an old writer says ? ' Thou oughtest to be nice even to super- 
 stition in keeping thy promises ; and therefore thou shouldst 
 be equally cautious in making them.' Now, you have made 
 yours in all good faith, how can you break it again ?" 
 
 " Ah ! then I did not know all," says Mona. " That was 
 your fault. No ; if I consent to do you this injury you shall 
 at least have time to think it over." 
 
 " Do you distrust me ?" says Rodney, — this time really hurt, 
 because his love for her is in reality deep and strong and 
 thorough. 
 
 " No," — slowly, — " I do not. If I did, I should not love 
 you as — as I do." 
 
 " It is all very absurd," says Rodney, impatiently. " If a 
 year, or two, or twenty, were to go by, it would be all the same ; 
 I should love you then as I love you to-day, and no other 
 woman. Be reasonable, darling ; give up this absurd idea." 
 
 " Impossible," says Mona. 
 
 " ' Impossible is a word only to be found in the dictionary of 
 fools.' You are not a fool. This is a mere fad of yours, and I 
 think you hardly know why you are insisting on it." 
 
 " I do know," says Mona. " First, because I would have 
 you weigh everything carefully, and " 
 
 " Yes, and " 
 
 " You know your mother will object to me," says Mona, 
 with an effort, speaking hurriedly, whilst a little fleck of scarlet 
 flames into her cheeks. 
 
 " Stuff"!" says Mr. Rodney : " that is only piling Ossa upon 
 Pelion : it will bring you no nearer the clouds. Say you will 
 go back to the old arrangement and marry me next morth, or 
 at least the month after." 
 
 " No." 
 
 She stands away from him, and looks at him with a face so 
 pale, yet so earnest and intense, that he feels it will be unwise 
 to argue further with her just now. So instead he takes both 
 her hands and draws her to his side again. 
 
 " Oh, Mona, if you could only know how wretched I was 
 h 10* 
 
114 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 all last night," he says ; " I never put in such a bad time in 
 my life." 
 
 " yes ; I can understand you," said Mona, softly, " for I 
 too was miserable." 
 
 " Do you recollect all you said, or one-half of it ? You 
 said it would be well if I hated you." 
 
 " That was very nasty of me," confesses Mona. " Yet,'* 
 with a sigh, " perhaps I was right." 
 
 " Now, that is nastier," says Geoffrey ; " unsay it." 
 
 " I will," says the girl, impulsively, with quick tears in her 
 eyes. " Don't hate me, my dearest, unless you wish to kill 
 me ; for that would be the end of it." 
 
 " I have a great mind to say something uncivil to you, if 
 only to punish you for your coldness," says Geoffrey, lightly, 
 cheered by her evident sincerity. " But I shall refrain, lest a 
 second quarrel be the result, and I have endured so much 
 during these past few hours that 
 
 ' As I am a Christian faithful man, 
 I would not spend another such a night 
 Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days.' 
 
 From the hour I parted from you till I saw you again I felt 
 downright suicidal." 
 
 " But you didn't cut your throat, after all," says Mona, 
 with a wicked little grimace. 
 
 " Well, no ; but I dare say I shall before I am done with 
 you. Besides, it occurred to me I might as well have a last 
 look at you before consigning my body to the grave." 
 
 " And an unhallowed grave, too. And so yuu really felt 
 miserable when angry with me ? How do you feel now ?" 
 She is looking up at him, with love and content and an ador- 
 able touch of coquetry in her pretty face. 
 
 " ' I feel that I am happier than I know,' " quotes he, 
 Boflly, folding her closely to his heart. 
 
 So peace is restored, and presently, forsaking the pats of 
 butter and the dairy, they wander forth into the open air, to 
 eatch the last mild breezes that belong to the dying day. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 11& 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HOW OEOFFEEY TELLS HOME SECRETS, AND HOW MONA 
 COMMENTS THEREON — HOW DEATH STALKS RAMPANT 
 IN THEIR PATH — AND HOW, THOUGH GEOFFREY DE- 
 CLINES TO "RUN AWAY," HE STILL "LIVES TO FIGHT 
 ANOTHER DAY." 
 
 " And you really mustn't think us such very big people," 
 Bays GeoflFrey, in a deprecating tone, " because we are any- 
 thing but that, and, in fact," — with a sharp contraction of 
 the brow that betokens inward grief, — " there is rather a 
 cloud over us just now." 
 
 " A cloud ?" says Mona. And I think in her inmost heart 
 she is rather glad than otherwise that her lover's people are 
 not on the top rung of the ladder. 
 
 " Yes, — in a regular hole, you know," says Mr. Rodney. 
 " It is rather a complicated story, but the truth is, my grand- 
 father hated his eldest son — my uncle who went to Australia 
 — like poison, and when dying left all the property — none of 
 which was entailed — to his second son, my father." 
 
 " That was a little unfair, wasn't it?" says Mona. " Why 
 didn't he divide it ?" 
 
 " Well, that's just it," returns he. " But, you see, he 
 didn't. He willed the whole thing to my father. He had a 
 long conversation with my mother the very night before his 
 death, in which he mentioned this will, and where it was 
 locked up, and all about it ; yet the curious part of the whole 
 matter is this, that on the morning after his death, when they 
 made search for this will, it was nowhere to be found I Nor 
 have we lieard tale or tidings of it ever since. Though of 
 the fact that it was duly signed, sealed, and delivered there is 
 no doubt." 
 
 " How strange 1" says Mona. " But how then did you 
 manage?" 
 
 " Well, just then it made little difference to us, as, shortly 
 afler my grandfather went off the hooks, we received what 
 we believed to be authenticated tidings of my uncle's death." 
 
il6 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Yes ?" says Mona, who looks, and is, intensely interested. 
 
 " Well, belief, however strong, goes a short way sometimes. 
 An uncommon short way with us." 
 
 " But your uncle's death made it all right, didn't it ?" 
 
 *' No, it didn't : it made it all wrong. But for that lie 
 we should not be in the predicament in which we now find 
 ourselves. You will understand me better when I tell you 
 that the other day a young man turned up who declares him- 
 self to be my uncle George's son, and heir to his land and 
 title. That was a blow. And, as this wretched will is not 
 forthcoming, I fear he will inherit everything. We are dis- 
 puting it, of course, and are looking high and low for the 
 missing will that should have been sought for at the first. 
 But it's very shaky the whole affair." 
 
 " It is terrible," says Mona, with such exceeding earnest- 
 ness that he could have hugged her on the spot. 
 
 " It is very hard on Nick," he says, disconsolately. 
 
 " And he is your cousin, this strange young man ?" 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," replies Mr. Rodney, reluctantly. 
 " But he don't look like it. Hang it, you know," exclaims 
 be, vehemently, " one can stand a good deal, but to have a 
 fellow who wears carbuncle rings, and speaks of his mother as 
 the ' old girl,' call himself your cousin, is more than flesh and 
 blood can put up with : it's — it's worse than the law-suit." 
 
 " It is very hard on Sir Nicholas," says Mona, who would 
 not call him " Nick" now for the world. 
 
 " Harder even than you know. He is engaged to one of 
 the dearest little girls possible, but of course if this affair ter- 
 minates in favor of — " he hesitates palpably, then says, with 
 an effort — " my cousin, the engagement comes to an end." 
 
 " But why?" says Mona. 
 
 *' Well, he won't be exactly a catch after that, you know," 
 says Rodney, sadly. " Poor old Nick ! it will be a come-down 
 for him after all these years." 
 
 *' But do you mean to tell me the girl he loves will give him 
 up just because fortune is frowning on him ?" asks Mona, 
 slowly. " Sure she couldn't be so mean as that." 
 
 " It won't be her fault ; but of course her people will ob- 
 ject, which amounts to the same thing. She can't go against 
 her people, you know." 
 
 " I don't know," says Mona, unconvinced. " I would go 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 117 
 
 against all the people in the world rather than be bad to you, 
 And to forsake him, too, at the very time when he will most 
 want sympathy, at the very hour of his great trouble. Oh 1 
 that is shameful ! 1 shall not like her, I think." 
 
 " I am sure you will, notwithstanding. She is the gayest, 
 brightest creature imaginable, just such another as yourself. 
 If it be true that ' birds of a feather flock together," you and 
 she must amalgamate. You may not get on well with Violet 
 Mansergh, who is somewhat reserved, but I know you will be 
 quite friends with Doatie." 
 
 " What is her name?" 
 
 " She is Lord Steyne's second daughter. The family name 
 is Darling. Her name is Dorothy." 
 
 " A pretty name, too." 
 
 *' Yes, old-fashioned. She is always called Doatie Darling 
 by her fuTuiliars, which sounds funny. She is quite charming, 
 and loved by every one." 
 
 " Yet she would renounce her love, would betray him for 
 the sake of filthy lucre," says Mona, gravely. " 1 cannot un- 
 derstand that." 
 
 " It is the way of her world. There is more in training 
 than one quite knows. Now, you are altogether different. I 
 know that ; it is perhaps the reason why you have made my 
 heart your own. Do not think it flattery when I tell you 
 there are very few like you, Mona, in the world ; but I would 
 have you be generous. Do not let your excellence make you 
 harsh to others. That is a common fault ; and all people, 
 darling, are not charactered alike." 
 
 " Am I harsh ?" says Mona, wistfully. 
 
 " No, you are not," says Geoffrey, grieved to the heart that 
 he could have used such a word towards her. " You are 
 nothing that is not sweet and adorable. And, besides all 
 this, you are, I know, sincerity itself. I feel (and am thank- 
 ful for the knowledge) that were fate to ' steep me in poverty 
 to the very lips,' you would still be faithful to me." 
 
 " I should be all the more faithful : it is then you would 
 feel your need of me," says Mona, simply. Then, as though 
 puzzled, she goes on with a little sigh, " In time, perhaps, I 
 shall understand it all, and how other people feel, and — if it 
 will please you, Geoffrey — I shall try to like the girl you call 
 Doatie." 
 
118 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 " I wish Nick didn't like her so much," says GeoiFrey, sadly. 
 " It will cut him up more than all the rest, if he has to give 
 her up." 
 
 " Geoffrey," says Mona, in a low tone, slipping her hand 
 into his in a half-shamed fashion, " I have five hundred 
 pounds of my own : would it — would it be of any use to Sir 
 Nicholas ?" 
 
 Rodney is deeply touched. 
 
 " No, darling, no ; I am afraid not," he says, very gently. 
 But for the poor child's tender earnestness and good faith, he 
 could almost have felt some faint amusement ; but this offer- 
 ing of hers is to him a sacred thing, and to treat her words as 
 a jest is a thought far from him. Indeed, to give wilful offence 
 to any one, by either word or action, would be very foreign to 
 his nature. For if " he is gentil that doth gentil dedis" be 
 true, Rodney to his finger-tips is gentleman indeed. 
 
 It is growing dusk ; " the shades of night are falling fast," 
 the cold pale sun, that all day long has cast its chill October 
 beams upon a leafless world, has now sunk behind the distant 
 hill, and the sad silence of the coming night " hath set her 
 finger with deep touch upon creation's brow." 
 
 "Do you know," says Mona, with a slight shiver, and a 
 little nervous laugh, pressing closer to his side, " I have lost 
 lialf my courage of late ? I seem to be always anticipating 
 evil." 
 
 Down from the mountain's top the shadows are creeping 
 Btealthily : all around is growing dim, and vague, and myste- 
 rious, in the uncertain light. 
 
 " Perhaps I feel nervous because of all the unhappy things 
 one hears daily," goes on Mona, in a subdued voice. " That 
 murder at Oola, for instance : that was horrible." 
 
 " Well, but a murder at Oola isn't a murder here, you 
 know," says Mr. Rodney, airily. " Let us wait to be melan- 
 choly until it comes home to ourselves, — which, indeed, may 
 be at any moment, youi countrymen are of such a very playful 
 disposition. Do you remember what a lively time we had of it 
 the night we ran to Maxwell's assistance, and what an escape 
 he had?" 
 
 " Ay 1 so he had, — an escape you will never know," says a 
 hoarse voice at this moment, that makes Mona's heart almost 
 cease to beat. An instant later, and two men jump up from 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 119 
 
 the dark ditch in which they have been evidently hiding, and 
 confront Rodney with a look of savage satisfaction upon their 
 faces. 
 
 At the first glance he recognizes them as being the two men 
 with whom Mona had attempted argument and remonstrance 
 on the night elected for Maxwell's murder. They are armed 
 with guns, but wear no disguise, not even the usual band of 
 black crape across the upper half of the face. 
 
 Rodney casts a quick glance up the road, but no human 
 creature is in sight ; nor, indeed, were they here, would they 
 have been of any use. For who in these lawless days would 
 dare defy or call in question any act of the all-powerful Land 
 League ? 
 
 "You, Ryan ?" says Mona, with an attempt at unconcern, 
 but her tone is absolutely frozen with fear. 
 
 " You see me," says the man, sullenly ; " an' ye may guess 
 my errand." He fingers the trigger of his gun in a terribly 
 significant manner as he speaks. 
 
 " I do guess it," she answers, slowly. " Well, kill us 
 both, if it must be so." She lays her arms round Rodney's 
 neck as she speaks, even before he can imagine her meaning, 
 and hides her face on his breast. 
 
 " Stand back," says Ryan, savagely. " Stand back, I tell 
 ye, unless ye want a hole in yer own skin, for his last moment 
 is come." 
 
 " Let me go, Mona," says Geofifrey, forcing her arms from 
 round him and almost flinging her to one side. It is the first 
 and last time he ever treats a woman with roughness. 
 
 " Ha ! That's right," says Ryan. " You hold her, Carthy, 
 while I give this English gentleman a lesson that will carry 
 him to the other world. I'll teach him how to balk me of 
 my prey a second time. D'ye think I didn't know about 
 Maxwell, eh? an' that my life is in yer keepin' ! But yours 
 is in mine now," with a villainous leer, " an' I wouldn't give 
 a thraneen for it." 
 
 Carthy, having caught Mona's arms from behind just a 
 little above the elbow, holds her as in a vice. There is no 
 escape, no hope I Finding herself powerless, she makes no 
 further efl'ort for freedom, but with dilated eyes and parted, 
 bloodless lips, through which her breath comes in quick agon- 
 ized gasps, waits to see her lover murdered almost at her feet. 
 
120 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Now say a short prayer," says Ryan, levelling his gun ; 
 " for yer last hour has come." 
 
 " Has it ?" says Rodney, fiercely. " Then I'll make the 
 most of it," and before the other can find time to fire he 
 flings himself upon him, and grasps his throat with murderous 
 force. 
 
 In an instant they are locked in each other's arms. Ryan 
 wrestles violently, but is scarcely a match for Rodney, whose 
 youth and training tell, and who is actually fighting for dear 
 life. In the confusion the gun goes oif, and the bullet, pass- 
 ing by Rodney's arm, tears away a piece of the coat with it, 
 and also part of the flesh. But this he hardly knows till 
 later on. 
 
 To and fro they sway, and then both men fall heavily to 
 the ground. Presently they are on their feet again, but this 
 time Rodney is master of the unloaded gun. 
 
 " Leave the girl alone, and come here," shouts Ryan 
 furiously to Carthy, who is still holding Mona captive. The 
 blood is streaming from a large cut on his forehead received 
 in his fall. 
 
 " Coward !" hisses Rodney between his teeth. His face is 
 pale as death ; his teeth are clenched ; his gray eyes are flaming 
 fire. His hat has fallen ofi" in the struggle, and his coat, 
 which is a good deal torn, betrays a shirt beneath deeply 
 stained with blood. He is standing back a little from his op- 
 ponent, with his head thrown up, and his fair hair lying well 
 back from his brow. 
 
 " Come on," he says, with a low furious laugh, that has no 
 mirth in it, but is full of reckless defiance. " But first," to 
 Ryan, " I'll square accounts with you." 
 
 Advancing with the empty gun in his hands, he raises it, 
 and, holding it by the barrel, brings it down with all his might 
 upon his enemy's skull. Ryan reels, staggers, and once more 
 licks the dust. But the wretched weapon — sold probably at 
 the back of some miserable shebeen in Bantry for any price 
 ranging from five-and-six to one guinea — snaps in two at this 
 moment from the force of the blow, so leaving Rodney, spent 
 and weak with loss of blood, at the mercy of his second op- 
 ponent. 
 
 Carthy, having by this time freed himself from Mona's de- 
 taining grasp, — who, seeing the turn afi'airs have taken, has 
 
MRS. OEOFFRET. 121 
 
 clung to him with all her strenc^th, and so hampered his efforts 
 to go to his companion's assistance, — comes to the front. 
 
 But a hand-to-hand encounter is not Mr. Carthy's forte. 
 He prefers being propped up by friends and acquaintances, 
 and thinks a duel h la mart a poor speculation. Now, seeing 
 liis whilom accomplice stretched apparently lifeless upon tho 
 ground, his courage (what he has of it), like Bob Acres', 
 oozes out through his palms, and a curious shaking, that 
 surely can't be fear, takes possession of his knees. 
 
 Moreover, he has never before had a gun in his own keep- 
 ing ; and the sensation, though novel, is not so enchanting as 
 he had fondly hoped it might have been. He is plainly shy 
 about the managing of it, and in his heart is not quite sure 
 which end of it goes off. However, he lifts it with trembling 
 fingers, and deliberately covers Eodney. 
 
 Tyro as he is, standing at so short a distance from his an- 
 tagonist, he could have hardly failed to blow him into bits, 
 and probably would have done so, but for one little incident. 
 
 Mona, whose Irish blood by this time is at its hottest, on 
 finding herself powerless to restrain the movements of Carthy 
 any longer, had rushed to the wall near, and, made strong by 
 love and excitement, had torn from its top a heavy stone. 
 
 Now, turning back, she aims carefully for Carthy's head, 
 and flings the missile from her. A woman's eye in such cases is 
 seldom sure, and now the stone meant for his head falls short, 
 and, hitting his arm, knocks the gun from his nerveless fingers. 
 
 This brings the skirmish to an end. Carthy, seeing all is 
 lost, caves in, and, regardless of the prostrate figure of his 
 companion, jumps hurriedly over the low wall, and disappears 
 in the night-mist that is rolling up from the bay. 
 
 Rodney, lifting the gun, takes as sure aim as he can at the 
 form of the departing hero ; but evidently the bullet misses 
 its mark, as no sound of fear or pain comes to disturb the 
 utter silence of the evening. 
 
 Then he turns to Mona. 
 
 " You have saved my life," he says, in a tone that trem 
 bles for the first time this evening, " my love ! my brave girl ! 
 But what an ordeal for you !" 
 
 " I felt nothing, nothing, but the one thing that I was 
 powerless to help you," says Mona, passionately; "that was 
 bitter." 
 
 » 11 
 
122 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " What spirit, what courage, you displayed ! At first I 
 feared you would faint " 
 
 " While you still lived ? While I might be of some use to 
 you? No!" says Mona, her eyes gleaming. "To myself I 
 said, there will be time enough for that later on." Then, with 
 a little dry sob, " There will be time to die later on." 
 
 Here lier eyes fall upon llyau's motionless figure, and a 
 ehudder passes over her. 
 
 " Is he dead ?" she asks, in a whisper, pointing without 
 looking at their late foe. Rodney, stooping, lays his hand on 
 the ruffian's heart. 
 
 " No, he breathes," he says. " He will live, no doubt. 
 Vermin are hard to kill. And if he docs die," bitterly, " what 
 matter ? Dog ! Let him lie there I The road is too good a 
 place for him." 
 
 " Come home," says Mona, faintly. Now the actual danger 
 is past, terror creeps over her, rendering her a prey to imag- 
 inary sights and sounds. " There may be others. Do not 
 delay." 
 
 In ignorance of the fact that Geofirey has been hurt in the 
 fray, she lays her hand upon the injured arm. Instinctively 
 he shrinks from the touch. 
 
 " What is it?" she says, fearfully, and then, " Your coat is 
 wet — I feel it. Oh, Geoffrey, look at your shirt. It is 
 blood I" Her tone is full of horror. " What have they done 
 to you ?" she says, pitifully. " You are hurt, wounded !" 
 
 " It can't be much," says Geoffrey, who, to confess the truth, 
 is by this time feeling a little sick and faint. " I never knew 
 I was touched till now. Come, let us get back to the farm." 
 
 " I wonder you do not hate me," says Mona, with a broken- 
 hearted sob, " when you remember I am of the same blood as 
 these wretches." 
 
 " Hate you !" replies he, with a smile of ineffable fondness, 
 " my preserver and my love I" 
 
 She is comforted in a small degree by his words, but fear 
 and depression still hold her captive. She insists upon his 
 leaning on her, and he, seeing she is bent on being of some 
 eervice to him, lays his hand lightly on her shoulder, and so 
 they go slowly homeward. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 123 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HOW MONA PROVES HERSELF EQUAL — IP NOT SUPERIOR 
 — TO DR. MARY WALKER; AND HOAV GEOFFREY, BY A 
 BASE THREAT, CARRIES HIS POINT. 
 
 Old Brian Scully is in his parlor, and comes to meet them 
 as they enter the hall, — his pipe behind his back. 
 
 " Come in, come in," he begins, cheerily, and then, catch- 
 ing sight of Mona's pale ftice, stops short. " Why, what has 
 come to ye?" cries he, aghast, glancing from his niece to 
 Rodney's discolored shirt and torn coat; "what has hap- 
 pened ?" 
 
 " It was Tim Ryan," returns Mona, wearily, feeling unequal 
 to a long story just at present. 
 
 " P]h, but this is bad news !" says old Scully, evidently 
 terrified and disheartened by his niece's words. " Where will 
 it all end? Come in, Misther Rodney: let me look at ye, 
 boy. No, not a word out of ye now till ye taste something. 
 'Tis in bits ye are ; an' a good coat it was this mornin'. 
 There's the whiskey, Mona, agra, an' there's the wather. Oh 1 
 the black villain ! Let me examine ye, me son. Why, there's 
 blood on ye I Oh ! the murthering thief!" 
 
 So runs on the kindly farmer, smitten to the heart that such 
 things should be, — and done upon Rodney of all men. He 
 walks round the young man, muttering his indignation in a 
 low tone, while helping him with gentle care to remove his 
 coat, — or at least what remains of that once goodly garment 
 that had for parent Mr. Poole. 
 
 " Where's the docther at all, at all ?" says he, forcing Geof- 
 frey into a chair, and turning to Biddy, who is standing open- 
 mouthed in the doorway, and who, though grieved, is plainly 
 finding some pleasure in the situation. Being investigated, 
 she informs them the " docther" is to-night on the top of 
 Carrigfoddha Mountain, and, literally, " won't be home until 
 morning." 
 
 " Now, what's to be done ?" says old Brian, in despair. 
 " I know, as well as if ye tould me, it is Norry Flannigan I 
 
124 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 Just like those wimmen to be always troublesome I Are yo 
 sure, Biddy?" 
 
 " Troth I am, sir. I see him goin' wid me own two eyes 
 not an hour ago, in the gig an' the white horse, wid the wan 
 eye an' the loose tail, — that looks for all the world as if it was 
 screwed on to him. An' 'tisn't Norry is callin' for him nayther 
 (though I don't say but she'll be on the way), but Larry 
 Moloney the sweep. 'Tis a stitch he got this mornin,' an' he'a 
 gone intirely this time, the people say. An' more's the pity 
 f<io, for a dacent sowl he was, an' more nor a inortial sweep." 
 
 This eulogy on the departing Larry she delivers with much 
 unction, and a good deal of check apron in the corner of one eye. 
 
 " Nevermind Larry," says the farmer, impatiently. " This 
 is the seventh time he has died this year. But think of 
 Misther Rodney here. Can't ye do something for him?" 
 
 " Sure Miss Mona can," says Biddy, turning to her young 
 mistress, and standing in the doorway in her favorite position, 
 
 that is, with her bare arms akimbo, and her head to one 
 
 side like a magpie. " She's raal clever at dhressin' an' do'^ 
 therin' an' that." 
 
 " Oh, no, I'm not clever," says Mona ; " but" — nervously 
 and with downcast eyes, addressing Geoffrey — " I might per- 
 haps be able to make you a little more comfortable." 
 
 A strange feeling of shyness is weighing upon her. Her 
 stalwart English lover is standing close beside her, having 
 risen from his chair with his eyes on hers, and in his shirt- 
 sleeves looking more than usually handsome because of his 
 pallor, and because of the dark circles that, lying beneath his 
 eyes, throw out their color, making them darker, deeper, than 
 is their nature. How shall she bare the arm of this young 
 Adonis? — how help to heal his wound? Oh, Larry Mo- 
 loney, what hast thou not got to answer for I 
 
 She shrinks a little from the task, and would fain have 
 evaded it altogether ; though there is happiness, too, in the 
 thought that here is an occasion on which she may be of real 
 use to him. Will not the very act itself bring her nearer to 
 him ? Is it not sweet to feel that it is in her power to ease his 
 pain ? And is she not only doing what a tender wife would 
 gladly do for her husband ? 
 
 Still she hesitates, though betraying no vulgar awkward- 
 ness or silly mauvaise hoiite. Indeed, the only sign of emo 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 125 
 
 tion she does show is a soft slow blush, that, mounting quickly, 
 tips even her little ears with pink. 
 
 " Let her thry," says old Brian, in his soft, Irish brogue, 
 that comes kindly from his tongue. " She's mighty clever 
 about most things." 
 
 " I hardly like to ask her to do it," says the young man, 
 divided between an overpowering desire to be made " comfort- 
 able," as she has expressed it, and a chivalrous fear that the 
 sight of the nasty though harmless flesh-wound will cause her 
 some distress. " Perhaps it will make you unhappy, — may 
 shock you," he says to her, with some anxiety. 
 
 " No, it will not shock me," returns Mona, quietly ; where- 
 upon he sits down, and Biddy puts a basin on the table, and 
 Mona, with trembling fingers, takes a scissors, and cuts away 
 the shirt-sleeve from his wounded arm. Then she bathes it. 
 
 After a moment she turns deadly pale, and says, in a faint 
 tone, " I know I am hurting you : Ifeel it." And in truth I 
 believe the tender heart does feel it, much more than he does. 
 There is an expression that amounts to agony in her beautiful 
 eyes. 
 
 " You hurt me !" replies he, in a peculiar tone, that is not 
 60 peculiar but it fully satisfies her. And then he smiles, 
 and, seeing old Brian has once more returned to the fire and 
 his pipe, and Biddy has gone for fresh water, he stoops over 
 the reddened basin, and, in spite of all the unromantic sur- 
 roundings, kisses her as fondly as if roses and moonbeams and 
 dripping fountains and perfumed exotics were on every side. 
 And this, because true romance — that needs no outward fire 
 to keep it warm — is in his heart. 
 
 And now Mona knows no more nervousness, but with a 
 steady and practised hand binds up his arm, and when all is 
 finished pushes him gently {very gently) from her, and " with 
 heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes," surveys with pride 
 her handiwork. 
 
 " Now I hope you will feel less pain," she says, with mod- 
 est triumph. 
 
 " I feel no pain," returns he, gallantly. 
 
 " Well said !" cries the old man from the chimney-comer, 
 slapping his knee with delight ; " well said, indeed I It r&- 
 minds me of the ould days when we'd swear any lie to please 
 the lass we loved. Ay, very good, very good." 
 
 11* 
 
126 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 At this Mona and Geoffrey break into silent laughter, being 
 overcome by the insinuation about lying. 
 
 " Come here an' sit down, lad," says old Scully, unknowing 
 of their secret mirth, " an' tell me all about it, from start to 
 finish, — that Ryan's a thundering rogue, — while Mona seen 
 about a bed for ye." 
 
 " Oh, no," says Rodney, hastily. " I have given quite too 
 much trouble already. I assure you I am quite well enough 
 now to ride back again to Bantry." 
 
 " To Bantry," says Mona, growing white again, — " to- 
 night 1 Oh, do you want to kill me and yourself?" 
 
 " She has reason," says the old man, earnestly and approv- 
 ingly, rounding his sentence after the French fashion, as the 
 Irish so often will : " she has said it,'' he goes on, " she always 
 does say it ; she has brains, has my colleen. Ye don't stir out 
 of this house to-night, Mr. Rodney ; so make up yer mind to 
 it. With Tim Ryan abroad, an' probably picked up and 
 carried home by this time, the counthry will be all abroad, an' 
 no safe thravelliu' for man or baste. Here's a cosey sate for 
 ye by the fire : sit down, lad, an' take life aisy." 
 
 " If I was quite sure I shouldn't be dreadfully in the way," 
 says Geoffrey, turning to Mona, she being mistress of the 
 ceremonies. 
 
 " Be quite sure," returns she, smiling. 
 
 " And to-morrow ye can go into Banthry an' prosecute that 
 scoundrel Ryan," says Scully, " an' have yer arm properly seen 
 afther." 
 
 " So I can," says Geoffrey. Then, not for any special rea- 
 Bon, but because, through very love of her, he is always look- 
 ing at her, he turns his eyes on Mona. She is standing by 
 the table, with her head bent down. 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow you can have your arm redressed," she 
 says, in a low tone, that savors of sadness ; and then he knows 
 she does not want him to prosecute Ryan. 
 
 " I think I'll let Ryan alone," he says, instantly, turning to 
 her uncle and addressing him solely, as though to prove him- 
 self ignorant of Mona's secret wish. " I have given him 
 enough to last him some time." Yet the girl reads him 
 through and through, and is deeply grateful to him for this 
 quick concession to her unspoken desire. 
 
 " Well, well, you're a good lad at heart," says Scully, glad 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 127 
 
 perhaps in his inmost soul, as his countrymen always are and 
 will be when a compatriot cheats the law and escapes a just 
 judgment. " Mona, look after him for a while, until I go 
 an' see that lazy spalpeen of mine an' get him to put a good 
 bed undher Mr. Rodney's horse." 
 
 When the old man has gone, Mona goes quickly up to her 
 lover, and, laying her hand upon his arm, — a hand that seems 
 by some miraculous means to have grown whiter of late, — 
 says, gratefully, — 
 
 " I know why you said that about Ryan, and I thank you 
 for it. I should not like to think it was your word had trans- 
 ported him." 
 
 " Yet, I am letting him go free that he may be the perpe- 
 trator of even greater crimes." 
 
 " You err, nevertheless, on the side of mercy, if you err at 
 all ; and — perhaps there may be no other crimes. He may 
 have had his lesson this evening, — a lasting one. To-morrow 
 I shall go to his cabin, and " 
 
 " Now, once for all, Mona," interrupts he, with determina- 
 tion, " I strictly forbid you ever to go to Ryan's cottagfl 
 again." 
 
 It is the first time he has ever used the tone of authority 
 towards her, and involuntarily she shrinks from him, and 
 glances up at him from under her long lashes in a half- 
 frightened, half-reproachful fashion, as might an offended 
 child. 
 
 Following her, he takes both her hands, and, holding them 
 closely, draws her back to her former position beside him. 
 
 " Forgive me : it was an ugly word," he says : " I take it 
 back. I shall never forbid you to do anything, Mona, if my 
 doing so must bring that look into your eyes. Yet surely 
 there are moments in every woman's life when the man who 
 loves her, and whom she loves, may claim from her obedience, 
 when it is for her own good. However, let that pass. I 
 now entreat you not to go again to Ryan's cabin." 
 
 Releasing her hands from his firm grasp, the girl lays them 
 lightly crossed upon his breast, and looks up at him with per- 
 fect trust : 
 
 " Nay," she says, very sweetly and gravely, " you mistake 
 me. I am glad to obey you. I shall not go to Ryan's house 
 again." 
 
128 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 There is both dignity and tenderness in her tone. She 
 gazes at him earnestly for a moment, and then suddenly slips 
 one arm round his neck. 
 
 '* Geoffrey," she says, with a visible effort. 
 
 " Yes, darling." 
 
 " I want you to do something for my sake." 
 
 " I will do anything, my own." 
 
 " It is for my sake ; but it will break my heart." 
 
 " Mona ! what are going to say to me?" 
 
 " I want you to leave Ireland, — not next month, or next 
 week, but at once. To-morrow, if possible." 
 
 " My darling, why?" 
 
 " Because you are not safe here : your life is in danger. 
 Once Ryan is recovered, he will not be content to see you 
 living, knowing his life is in your hands ; every hour you 
 will be in danger. Whatever it may cost me, you must go." 
 
 "That's awful nonsense, you know," says Kodney, lightly. 
 *' When he sees I haven't taken any steps about arresting 
 him, he will forget all about it, and bear no further ill will." 
 
 " You don't understand this people as I do. I tell you he 
 will never forgive his downfall the other night, or the thought 
 that he is in your power." 
 
 " Well, at all events I sha'n't go one moment before I said 
 I should," says Rodney. 
 
 " It is now my turn to demand obedience," says Mona, with 
 a little wan attempt at a smile. " Will you make every hour 
 of my life unhappy ? Can I live in the thought that each 
 minute may bring me evil news of you, — may bring me 
 tidings of your death ?" Here she gives way to a passionate 
 burst of grief, and clings closer to him, as though with her 
 soft arms to shield him from all danger. Her tears touch 
 him. 
 
 " Well, I will go," he says, " on one condition, — that you 
 come with me." 
 
 " Impossible 1" drawing back from him. " How could I be 
 ready ? and, besides, I have said I will not marry you until a 
 year goes by. How can I break my word?" 
 
 " That word should never have been said. It is better 
 broken." 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 " Very well. I shall not ask you to break it. But I shall 
 
MRS. GEOFFREF. 129 
 
 stay on here. And if," says this artful young man, in a pur- 
 posely doleful tone, " anything should happen, it will " 
 
 " Don't say it 1 don't !" cries Mona, in an agony, stopping 
 his mouth with her hand. " Do not I Yes, I give in. I 
 will go with you. I will marry you any time you like, tho 
 sooner the better," — feverishly ; " anything to save your life I" 
 
 This is hardly complimentary, but Geoffrey passes it over. 
 
 " This day week, then," he says, having heard, and taken 
 to heart the wisdom of, the old maxim about striking while 
 the iron is hot. 
 
 " Very well," says Mona, who is pale and thoughtful. 
 
 And then old Brian comes in, and Geoffrey opens out to 
 him this newly-devised plan ; and after a while the old farmer, 
 with tears in his eyes, and a strange quiver in his voice that 
 cuts through Mona's heart, gives his consent to it, and mur- 
 murs a blessing on this hasty marriage that is to deprive him 
 of all he best loves on earth. 
 
 And so they are married, and last words are spoken, and 
 adieux said, and sad tears fall, and for many days her own 
 land knows jMona no more. 
 
 And that night, when she is indeed gone, a storm comes 
 up from the sea, and dashes the great waves inward upon the 
 rocky coast. And triumphantly upon their white bosoms the 
 sea-mews ride, screaming loudly their wild sweet song that 
 mingles harmoniously with the weird music of the winds and 
 waves. 
 
 And all the land is rich with angry beauty beneath the 
 rays of the cold moon, that 
 
 " O'er the dark her silver mantle throws ;" 
 
 and the sobbing waves break themselves with impotent fury 
 upon the giant walls of granite that line the coast, and the 
 clouds descend upon the hills, and the sea-birds shriek aloud, 
 »nd all nature seems to cry for Mona. 
 
 But to the hill of Carrickdhuve, to sit alone and gaze m 
 loving silence on the heuven-bom grandeur of earth and sky 
 and sea, comes Mona Scully no more forever. 
 
130 MRS. OEOFFREV. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 now GEOFFREY WRITES A LETTER THAT POSSESSES ALL 
 TUE PROPERTIES OF DYNAMITE — AND HOW CONFUSION 
 REIGNS AT THE TOWERS. 
 
 In the house of Rodney there is mourning and woe. 
 Horror has fallen upon it, and something that touches oa 
 disgrace. Lady Rodney, leaning back in her chair with her 
 scented handkerchief pressed close to her eyes, sobs aloud and 
 refuses to be comforted. 
 
 The urn is hissing angrily, and breathing forth defiance 
 with all its might. It is evidently possessed with the belief 
 that the teapot has done it some mortal injury, and is waging 
 on it war to the knife. 
 
 The teapot, meanwhile, is calmly ignoring its rage, and is 
 positively turning up its nose at it. It is a very proud old 
 teapot, and is looking straight before it, in a very dignified 
 fashion, at a martial row of cups and saucers that are drawn 
 up in battle-array and are only waiting for the word of com- 
 mand to march upon the enemy. 
 
 But this word comes not. In vain does the angry urn hiss. 
 The teapot holds aloft its haughty nose for naught. The cups 
 and saucers range themselves in military order all for nothing. 
 Lady Rodney is dissolved in tears. 
 
 " Oh I Nicholas, it can't be true I it really can't .'" she says, 
 alluding to the news contained in a letter Sir Nicholas is read- 
 ing with a puzzled brow. 
 
 He is a tall young man, about thirty-two, yet looking 
 younger, with a somewhat sallow complexion, large dreamy 
 brown eyes, and very fine sleek black hair. He wears neither 
 moustache nor whiskers, principally for the very good reason 
 that Nature has forgotten to supply them. For which per- 
 haps he should be grateful, as it would have been a cruel 
 thing to hide the excessive beauty of his mouth and chin and 
 perfectly-turned jaw. These are his chief charms, being mild 
 and thoughtful, yet a trifle firm, and in perfect accordance 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 131 
 
 with the upper part of his face. He is hardly handsome, but 
 is certainly attractive. 
 
 In manner he is somewhat indolent, silent, perhaps lazy. 
 But there is about him a subtle charm that 3ndears him to all 
 who know him. Perhaps it is his innate horror of offendint; 
 the feelings of any one, be he great or small, and perhaps ii .a 
 his inborn knowledge of humanity, and the power he pos- 
 sesses (with most other sensitive people) of being able to read 
 the thoughts of those with whom he comes in contact, that 
 enables him to avoid all such offence. Perhaps it is his 
 honesty, and straightforwardness, and general, if inactive, kind- 
 liness of disposition. 
 
 He takes little trouble about anything, certainly none to 
 make himself popular, yet in all the country-side no man is so 
 well beloved as he is. It is true that a kindly word here, or a 
 smile in the right place, does more to make a man a social idol 
 than substantial deeds of charity doled out by an unsympa- 
 thetic hand. This may be unjust; it is certainly beyond dis- 
 pute the fact. 
 
 Just now his forehead is drawn up into a deep frown, as he 
 reads the fatal letter that has reduced his mother to a Niobe. 
 Another young man, his brother. Captain Rodney, who is two 
 or three years younger than he, is looking over his shoulder, 
 while a slight, brown-haired, very aristocratic-looking girl is 
 endeavoring, in a soft, modulated voice, to convey comfort to 
 Lady Rodney. 
 
 Breakfast is forgotten ; the rolls and the toast and the kid- 
 neys are growing cold. Even her own special little square of 
 home-made bread is losing its crispness and fulling into a de- 
 jected state, which shows almost more than anything else 
 could that Lady Rodney is very far gone indeed. 
 
 Violet is growing as nearly frightened as good breeding 
 will permit at the protracted sobbing, when Sir Nicholas 
 Bpeaks. 
 
 " It is inconceivable 1" he says to nobody in particular. 
 " What on earth does he mean ?" He turns the letter round 
 and round between his fingers as though it were a bombshell ; 
 though, indeed, he need not at this stage of the proceedings 
 have been at all afraid of it, as it has gone off long ago and 
 reduced Lady Rodney to atoms. " I shouldn't have thought 
 Geoffrey was that sort of fellow." 
 
132 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " But what is it ?" asks Miss Mansergh from behind Lady 
 Rodney's chair, just a little impatiently. 
 
 " Why, Geoffrey's been and gone and got married," says 
 Jack Rodney, pulling his long fair moustache, and speaking 
 rather awkwardly. It has been several times hinted to him, 
 since his return from India, that, Violet Mansergh being re- 
 served for his brother Geoffrey, any of his attentions in that 
 quarter will be eyed by the family with disfavor. And now 
 to tell her of her quondam lover's defection is not pleasant. 
 Nevertheless he watches her calmly as he speaks. 
 
 " Is that all ?" says Violet, in a tone of surprise certainly, 
 but as certainly in one of relief 
 
 " No, it is 7iot all," breaks in Sir Nicholas. " It appears from 
 this," touching the bombshell, " that he has married a — a — • 
 young woman of very inferior birth." 
 
 " Oh ! that is really shocking," says Violet, with a curl of 
 her very short upper lip. 
 
 " I do hope she isn't the under-housemaid," said Jack, 
 moodily. " It has grown so awfully common. Three fellows 
 this year married under-housemaids, and people are tired of it 
 now ; one can't keep up the excitement always. Anything 
 new might create a diversion in his favor, but he's done for if 
 be has married another under-housemaid." 
 
 " It is worse," says Lady Rodney, in a stifled tone, coming 
 out for a brief instant from behind the deluged handkercbiof. 
 " He has married a common farmer's niece I" 
 
 " Well, you know that's better than a farmer's common 
 niece," says Jack, consolingly. 
 
 " What does he say about it ?" asks Violet, who shows no 
 sign whatever of meaning to wear the willow for this mis- 
 guided Benedict, but rather exhibits all a woman's natural 
 curiosity to know exactly what he has said about the interest 
 ing event that has taken place. 
 
 Sir Nicholas again applies himself to the deciphering of the 
 detested letter. " ' He would have written before, but saw no 
 good in making a fuss beforehand,' " he reads slowly. 
 
 " Well, there's a good deal of sense in that," says Jack. 
 
 " ' Quite the loveliest girl in the world,' with a heavy stroke 
 under the ' quite.' That's always so, you know : uothiuo; new 
 or striking about that." Sir Nicholas all through is sp«>idng 
 in a tone uniformly moody and disgusted. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 133 
 
 " It is a point in her favor nevertheless," says Jack, who 
 is again looking over his shoulder at the letter. 
 
 " ' She is charming at all points,' " goes on Sir Nicholas, 
 deliberately screwing his glass into his eye, " ' with a mind as 
 eweet as her face.' Oh, it is absurd !'' says Sir Nicholas, im- 
 patiently. " He is evidently in the last stage of imbecility. 
 Hopelessly bewitched." 
 
 " And a very good thing, too," puts in Jack, tolerantly : 
 " it won't last, you know, so he may as well have it strong 
 while he is about it." 
 
 " What do you know about it ?" says Sir Nicholas, turning 
 the tables in the most unexpected fashion upon his brother, 
 and looking decidedly ruffled, for no reason that one can see, 
 considering it is he himself is condemning the whole matter 
 so heartily. " As he is married to her, I sincerely trust his 
 afifection for her may be deep and lasting, and not misplaced. 
 She may be a very charming girl." 
 
 " She may," says Jack. " Well, go on. What more does 
 he say ?" 
 
 " ' He will write again. And he is sure we shall all love 
 her when we see her.' That is another sentence that goes 
 without telling. They are always sure of that beforehand. 
 They absolutely arrange our feelings for us I I hope he wiU 
 be as certain of it this time six months, for all our sakes." 
 
 " Poor girl ! I feel honestly sorry for her," says Jack, with 
 a mild sigh. " What an awful ass he has made of himself 1" 
 
 " And ' he is happier now than he has ever been in all his 
 life before.' Pshaw !" exclaims Sir Nicholas, shutting up the 
 letter impatiently. " He is mad !" 
 
 " Where does he write from?" asks Violet. 
 
 " From the Louvre. They are in Paris." 
 
 " He has been married a whole fortnight and never deigned 
 to tell his own mother of it until now," says Lady llodney, 
 hysterically. 
 
 " A whole fortnight ! And he is as much in love with 
 her as ever I Oh! she can't be half bad," says Captain 
 Rodney, hopefully. 
 
 " Misfortunes seem to crowd upon us," says Lady Rodney, 
 Ditterly. 
 
 *' I suppose she is a Roman Catholic," says Sir Nicholas, 
 musingly. 
 
 12 
 
134 MRS. OEOFFREV. 
 
 At this Lady Rodney sits quite upright, and turns appeal- 
 ingly to Violet. " Oh, Violet, I do hope not," she says. 
 
 " Nearly all the Irish farmers are," returns Miss Mansergh, 
 reluctantly. " When I stay with Uncle Wilfrid in West- 
 nieath, I see them all going to mass every Sunday morning. 
 Of course" — kindly — " there are a few Protestants, but they 
 are very few." 
 
 " This is too dreadful I" moans Lady Rodney, sinking back 
 again in her chair, utterly overcome by this last crowning 
 blow. She clasps her hands with a deplorable gesture, and 
 indeed looks the very personification of disgusted woe. 
 
 " Dear Lady Rodney, I shouldn't take that so much to 
 heart," says Violet, gently, leaning over her. " Quite good 
 people are Catholics now, you know. It is, indeed, the fash- 
 ionable religion, and rather a nice one when you come to think 
 of it." 
 
 " I don't want to think of it," says her friend, desperately. 
 
 " But do," goes on Violet, in her soft, even monotone, that 
 is so exactly suited to her face. " It is rather pleasant think- 
 ing. Confession, you know, is so soothing ; and then there 
 are always the dear saints, with their delightful tales of roses 
 and lilies, and tears that turn into drops of healing balm, and 
 their bones that lie in little glass cases in the churches abroad. 
 It is all so picturesque and pretty, like an Italian landscape. 
 And it is so comfortable, too, to know that, no matter how 
 naughty we may be here, we can still get to heaven at last by 
 doing some great and charitable deed." 
 
 " There is something in that, certainly," says Captain Rod- 
 ney, with feeling. " I wonder, now, what great and charitable 
 deed I could do." 
 
 " And then isn't it sweet to think," continues Violet, 
 warming to her subject, " that when one's friends are dead 
 one can still be of some service to them, in praying for their 
 Bouls ? It seems to keep them always with one. They don't 
 seem so lost to us as they would otherwise." 
 
 " Violet, please do not talk like that; I forbid it," says 
 Lady Rodney, in a horrified tone. " Nothing could make me 
 think well of anything connected with this — this odious girl ; 
 and when you speak like that you quite upset me. You will 
 be having your name put in that horrid list of perverts in the 
 ' Whitehall Review' if you don't take care." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 135 
 
 ** You really will, you know," says Captain Rodney, warn- 
 Ingly ; then, as though ambitious of piling up the agony, he says, 
 iotto voce, yet loud enough to bo heard, " I wonder if Geoff 
 will go to mass with her?" 
 
 " It is exactly what I expect to hear next," says Geoff's 
 mother, with the calmness of despair. 
 
 Then there is silence for a full minute, during which Miss 
 Mansergh casts a reproachful glance at the irrepressible 
 Jack. 
 
 " Well, I hope he has married a good girl, at all events," 
 Bays Sir Nicholas, presently, with a sigh. But at this reason- 
 able hope Lady Rodney once more gives way to bitter sobs. 
 
 " Oh, to think Geoffrey should marry ' a good girl' I" she 
 says weeping sadly. " One would think you were speaking 
 of a servant ! Oh 1 it is too cruel !" Here she rises and 
 makes for the door, but on the threshold pauses to confront 
 Sir Nicholas with angry eyes. " To hope the wretched boy 
 had married ' a good girl' I" she says, indignantly : " I never 
 heard such an inhuman wish from one brother to another 1" 
 
 She withers Sir Nicholas with a parting glance, and then 
 quits the room, Violet in her train, leaving her eldest son en- 
 tirely puzzled. 
 
 " What does she mean ?" asks he of his brother, who is dis- 
 tinctly amused. " Does she wish poor old Geoff had mamed 
 a bad one ? I confess myself at fault." 
 
 And so does Captain Rodney. 
 
 Meantime, Violet b having rather a bad time in the 
 boudoir. Lady Rodney refuses to see light anywhere, and 
 talks on in a disjointed fashion about this disgrace that has 
 befallen the family. 
 
 " Of course I shall never receive her ; that is out of the 
 question, Violet : I could not support it." 
 
 " But she will be living only six miles from you, and the 
 county will surely call, and that will not be nice for you," says 
 Violet. 
 
 " I don't care about the county. It must think what it 
 likes ; and when it knows her it will sympathize with me. 
 Oh I what a name I Scully 1 Was there ever so dreadful a 
 name?" 
 
 " It is not a bad name in Ireland. There are very good 
 people of that name: the Vincent Scullys, — everybody has 
 
136 MRS. OEOFFREF. 
 
 heard of them," says Violet, gently. But her friend will not 
 consent to believe anything that may soften the thought of 
 Mona. The girl has entrapped her son, has basely captured 
 him and made him her own beyond redemption ; and what 
 words can be bad enough to convey her hatred of the woman 
 who has done this deed ? 
 
 " I meant him for you," she says, in an ill-advised moment, 
 addressing the girl who is bending over her couch assiduously 
 and tenderly applying eau-de-cologne to her temples. It is 
 just a little too much. Miss Mansergh fails to see the com- 
 pliment in this remark. She draws her breath a little quickly, 
 and as the color comes her temper goes. 
 
 " Dear Lady Rodney, you are really too kind," she says, in 
 a tone soft and measured as usual, but without the sweetness. 
 In her heart there is something that amounts as nearly to in- 
 dignant anger as so thoroughly well-bred and well regulated a 
 girl can feel. " You are better, I think," she says, calmly, 
 without any settled foundation for the thought ; and then she 
 lays down the perfume-bottle, takes up her handkerchief, and, 
 with a last unimportant word or two, walks out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HOW LADY RODNEY SPEAKS HER MIND — HOW GEOFFREY 
 DOES THE SAME — AND HOW MONA DECLARES HERSELF 
 STRONG TO CONQUER. 
 
 It is the 14th of December, and " bitter chill." Upon all 
 the lawns and walks at the Towers, " Nature, the vicar of the 
 almightie Lord," has laid its white winding-sheet. In the 
 long avenue the gaunt and barren branches of the stately elms 
 are bowed down with the weight of the snow, that fell softly 
 but heavily all last night, creeping upon the sleeping world 
 with such swift and noiseless wings that it recked not of its 
 visit till the chill beams of a wintry sun betrayed it. 
 
 Each dark-green leaf in the long shrubberies bears its own 
 sparkling burden. The birds hide shivering in the laurestine, 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 137 
 
 — that in spite of frost and cold is breaking into blossom,-^ 
 and all around looks frozen. 
 
 " Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
 And the winter winds are wearily sighing;" 
 
 yet there is grandeur, too, in the scene around, and a beauty 
 scarcely to be rivalled by June's sweetest efforts. 
 
 Geoffrey, springing down from the dog-cart that has been 
 sent to the station to meet him, brushes the frost from his 
 hair, and stamps his feet upon the stone steps. 
 
 Sir Nicholas, who has come out to meet him, gives him a 
 hearty hand-shake, and a smile that would have been charming 
 if it had not been funereal. Altogether, his expression is such 
 as might suit the death-bed of a beloved friend. His coun- 
 tenance Ls of an unseemly length, and he plainly looks on 
 Geoffrey as one who has fallen upon evil days. 
 
 Nothing daunted, however, by this reception, Geoffrey re- 
 turns his grasp with interest, and, looking fresh and young 
 and happy, runs past him, up the stairs, to his mother's room, 
 to beard — as he unfilially expresses it^ — the lioness in her den. 
 It is a very cosey den, and, though claws may be discovered 
 in it, nobody at the first glance would ever suspect it of such 
 dangerous toys. Experience, however, teaches most things, 
 and Geoffrey has douued armor for the coming encounter. 
 
 He had left Mona in the morning at the Grosvenor, and had 
 run down to have it out with his mother and get her permission 
 to bring Mona to the Towers to be introduced to her and his 
 brothers. This he preferred to any formal calling on their parts. 
 
 " You see, our own house is rather out of repair from being 
 untenanted for so long, and will hardly be ready for us for a 
 month or two," he said to Mona : '• I think I will run down 
 to the Towers and tell my mother we will go to her for a little 
 while." 
 
 Of course this was on the day after their return to England, 
 before his own people knew of their arrival. 
 
 " I shall like that very much," Mona had returned, inno- 
 cently, not dreaming of the ordeal that awaited her, — because 
 in such cases even the very best men will be deceitful, and 
 Geoffrey had rather led her to believe that his mother would 
 be chai-med with her, and that she was more pleased than 
 otherwise at their marriage. 
 
 12* 
 
138 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 When she made him this little trustful speech, however, he 
 had felt some embarrassment, and had turned his attentiwi 
 upon a little muddy boy who was playing pitch-and-toss, irre- 
 epective of consequences, on the other side of the way. 
 
 And Mona had marked his embarrassment, and had quickly, 
 with all the vivacity that belongs to her race, drawn her own 
 conclusions therefrom, which were for the most part correct. 
 
 But to Geoffrey — lest the telling should cause him unhappi- 
 Dess — she had said nothing of her discovery ; only when the 
 morning came that saw him depart upon his mission (now so 
 well understood by her), she had kissed him, and told him to 
 " hurry, hurry, hurri/ back to her," with a little sob between 
 each word. And when he was gone she had breathed an 
 earnest prayer, poor child, that all might yet be well, and then 
 told herself that, no matter what came, she would at least be 
 a faithful, loving wife to him. 
 
 To her it is always as though he is devoid of name. It is 
 always " he" and " his" and " him," all through, as though 
 no other man existed upon earth. 
 
 "Well, mother?" says Geoffrey, when he has gained her 
 room and received her kiss, which is not exactly all it ought 
 to be after a five months' separation. He is her son, and of 
 course she loves him, but — as she tells herself — there are some 
 things hard to forgive. 
 
 " Of course it was a surprise to you," he says. 
 
 " It was more than a ' surprise.' That is a mild word," 
 Bays Lady Rodney. She is looking at him, and is telling her- 
 self what a goodly son he is, so tall and strong and bright and 
 handsome. He might have married almost any one 1 And 
 
 now now No, she cannot forgive. " It was, and must 
 
 always be, a lasting grief," she goes on, in a low tone. 
 
 This is a bad beginning. Mr. Rodney, before replying, 
 iudiciously gains time, and makes a diversion by poking the 
 
 fire. 
 
 " I should have written to you about it sooner," he says at 
 last, apologetically, hoping half his mother's resentment arises 
 from a sense of his own negligence, '' but I felt you would 
 object, and so put it off from day to day." 
 
 " I heard of it soon enough," returns his mother, gloomily, 
 without lifting her eyes from the tiny feathered fire-screen she 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 139 
 
 is holding. " Too soon ! That sort of thing seldom tarries. 
 * For evil news rides post, while good news baits.' " 
 
 " Wait till you see her," says Geoffrey, after a little pause, 
 with full fliith in his own recipe. 
 
 " I don't want to see her," is the unflinching and most un- 
 gracious reply. 
 
 " My dear mother, don't say that," entreats the young man, 
 earnestly, going over to her and placing his arm round her 
 neck. He is her favorite sou, of which he is quite aware, 
 and so hopes on. " What is it you object to?" 
 
 " To everything 1 How could you think of bringing a 
 daughter-in-law of — of — her description to your mother?" 
 
 " How can you describe her, when you have not seen her?" 
 
 " She is not a lady," says Lady Kodney, as though that 
 should terminate the argument. 
 
 " It entirely depends on what you consider a lady," says 
 Geoffrey, calmly, keeping his temper wonderfully, more indeed 
 for Mona's sake than his own. " You think a few grand- 
 fathers and an old name make one : I dare say it does. It 
 ought, you know ; though I could tell you of several striking 
 exceptions to that rule. But I also believe in a nobility that 
 belongs alone to nature. And Mona is as surely a gentle- 
 woman in thought and deed as though all the blood of all the 
 Howards was in her veins." 
 
 " I did not expect you would say anything else," returns 
 she, coldly. " Is she quite without blood ?" 
 
 " Her mother was of good family, I believe." 
 
 " You believe 1" "with ineffable disgust. " And have you 
 not even taken the trouble to make sure ? How late in life 
 you have developed a trusting disposition !" 
 
 " One might do worse than put faith in Mona," says Geof- 
 frey, quickly. " She is worthy of all trust. And she is 
 quite charming, — quite. And the very prettiest girl I ever 
 saw. You know you adore beauty, mother," — insinuatingly, 
 — " and she is sure to create a furor when presented." 
 
 " Presented I" repeats Lady Rodney, in a dreadful tone. 
 " And would you present a low Irish girl to your sovereign ? 
 And just now, too, when the whole horrid nation is in such 
 disrepute." 
 
 " You mustn't call her names, you know ; she is my wife," 
 Bays Eodney, gently, but with dignity, — " the woman I love 
 
140 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 and honor most on earth. When you see her you will un- 
 derstand how the word ' low' could never apply to her. She 
 looks quite correct, and is perfectly lovely." 
 
 " You are in love," recurns his mother, contemptuously. 
 " At present you can see no fault in her ; but later on, when 
 you come to compare her with the other women in your own 
 set, when you see them together, I only hope you will see no 
 diftereuce between them, and feel no regret." 
 
 She says this, however, as though it is her one desire that 
 he may know regret, and feel a diflerence that will be over- 
 whelming. 
 
 " Thank you," says Geoffrey, a little dryly, accepting her 
 words as they are said, not as he feels they are meant. 
 
 Then there is another pause, rather longer than the last. 
 Lady Rodney trifles with the fan in a somewhat excited fash- 
 ion, and Geoffrey gazes, man-like, at his boots. At last his 
 mother breaks the silence. 
 
 " Is she — is she noisy?" she asks, in a faltering tone. 
 
 " Well, she can laugh, if you mean that," says Geoffrey, 
 somewhat superciliously. And then, as though overcome 
 with some recollection in which the poor little criminal who is 
 before the bar bore a humorous part, he lays his head down 
 upon the mantel-piece and gives way to hearty laughter him- 
 self. 
 
 " I understand," says Lady Rodney, faintly, feeling her 
 burden is " greater than she can bear." " She is, without 
 telling, a young woman who laughs uproariously at everything, 
 — no matter what, — and takes good care her vulgarity shall 
 be read by all who run." 
 
 Now, I can't explain why, but I never knew a young man 
 who was not annoyed when the girl he loved was spoken of as 
 a " young woman." Geoffrey takes it as a deliberate insult. 
 
 " There is a limit to everything, — even my patience," he 
 says, not looking at his mother, " Mona is myself, and even 
 from you, my mother, whom I love and reverence, I will not 
 take a disparaging word of her." 
 
 There is a look upon his face that recalls to her his dead 
 father, and Lady Rodney grows silent. The husband of her 
 youth had been dear to her, in a way, until age had soured 
 him, and this one of all his three children most closely resem- 
 bled him, both in form and in feature; hence, perhaps, her lovo 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 141 
 
 for him. She lowers her eyes, and a slow blush — for the 
 blood rises with difficulty in the old — suffuses her face. 
 
 And then Geoffrey, marking all this, is vexed within him- 
 self, and, going over to her, lays his arm once more around 
 her neck, and presses his cheek to hers. 
 
 " Don't let us quarrel," he says, lovingly. And this time 
 she returns his caress very fondly, though she cannot loso 
 sight of the foct that he has committed a social error not to 
 be lightly overlooked. 
 
 " Oh, Geoffrey, how could you do it?" she says, reproach- 
 fully, alluding to his marriage, — " you whom I have so loved. 
 What would your poor father have thought had he lived to see 
 this unhappy day? You must have been mad." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I was," says Geoffrey, easily : " we are all 
 mad on one subject or another, you know ; mine may be Mona. 
 She is an excuse for madness, certainly. At all events, I know 
 I am happy, which quite carries out your theory, because, as 
 Dryden says, — 
 
 'There is a pleasure sure 
 In being mad, whioL none but madmen linow.* 
 
 I wish you would not take it so absurdly to heart. I haven't 
 married an heiress, I know ; but the whole world does not 
 hinge on money." 
 
 " There was Violet," says Lady Rodney. 
 
 " I wouldn't have suited her at all," says Geoffrey. " I 
 should have bored her to extinction, even if she had conde- 
 scended to look at me, which I am sure she never would." 
 
 He is not sure of anything of the kind, but he says it 
 nevertheless, feeling he owes so much to Violet, as the con- 
 versation has drifted towards her, and he feels she is placed 
 — though unknown to herself — in a false position. 
 
 " I wish you had never gone to Ireland !" says Lady Rod- 
 ney, deeply depressed. " My heart misgave me when you 
 went, though I never anticipated such a climax to my fears. 
 What possessed you to fall in love with her?" 
 
 "'She is pretty to walk with, 
 And witty to talk with. 
 And pleasant, too, to think on,'" 
 
 quotes Geoffrey, lightly. " Arc not those three reasons sufiEi- 
 
142 MRS. QEOFFREY. 
 
 cient? If not, I could tell you a score of others, I may 
 briug her dowu to see you ?" 
 
 " It will be very bitter to me," says Lady Rodney. 
 
 " It will not : I promise you that ; only do not be too preju- 
 diced in her disfavor. I want you to know her, — it is my 
 greatest desire, — or I should not say another word after your 
 last speech, which is not what I hoped to hear from you. 
 Leii^hton, as you know, is out of repair, but if you will not 
 receive us we can spend the rest of the winter at Home, or 
 anywhere else that may ociur to us." 
 
 " Of course you must come here," says Lady Rodney, who 
 is afraid of the county and what it will say if it discovers she 
 is at loggerheads with her son and his bride. But there is no 
 welcome in her tone. And Geoffrey, greatly discouraged, yet 
 determined to part friends with her for Mona's sake, — and 
 trusting to the latter's sweetness to make all things straight 
 in the future, — after a few more desultory remarks takes his 
 departure, with the understanding on both sides that he and 
 his wife are to come to the Towers on the Friday following 
 and take up their quarters there until Leighton Hull is ready 
 to receive them. 
 
 With mingled feelings he quits his home, and all the way 
 up to London in the afternoon train weighs with himself the 
 momentous question whether he shall or shall not accept the 
 unwilling invitation to the Towers, wrung from his mother. 
 
 To travel here and there, from city to city and village to 
 village, with Mona, would be a far happier arrangement. 
 But underlying all else is the longing that the wife whom he 
 adores and the mother whom he loves should be good friends. 
 
 Finally, he throws up the mental argument, and decides on 
 letting things take their course, telling himself it will be a 
 simple matter to leave the Towers at any moment, should their 
 visit there prove unsatisfactory. At the farthest, Leighton 
 must be ready for them in a month or so. 
 
 Getting back to the Grosvenor, he runs lightly up the 
 stairs to the sitting-room, and, opening the door very gently, 
 — bent in a boyish f\ishion on giving her a " rise," — enters 
 softly, and looks around for his darling. 
 
 At the farthest end of the room, near a window, lying back 
 in an arm-chair, lies Mona, sound asleep. 
 
 One hand is beneath her cheek, — that is soft and moist as 
 
MRS. QEOFFREY. 143 
 
 a child's might be in innocent slumber, — the other is thrown 
 above her head. She is exquisite in her abamlon, but very 
 paJe, and her breath comes unevenly. 
 
 Geoflfrey, stooping over her to wake her with a kiss, marks 
 all this, and also that her eyelids are tinged with pink, as 
 though from excessive weeping. 
 
 Half alarmed, he lays his hand gently on her shoulder, and, 
 as she struggles quickly into life again, he draws her into hia 
 arms. 
 
 " Ah, it is you !" cries she, her face growing glad again. 
 
 " Yes ; but you have been crying, darling 1 What has 
 happened ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing," says Mona, flushing. " I suppose I was 
 lonely. Don't mind me. Tell me all about yourself and your 
 visit." 
 
 " Not until you tell me what made you cry." 
 
 " Sure you know I'd tell you if there was anything to tell," 
 replies she, evasively. 
 
 " Then do so," returns he, quite gravely, not to be deceived 
 by her very open attempts at dissimulation. " What made 
 you unhappy in my absence?" 
 
 " If you must know, it is this," says Mona, laying her hand 
 in his and speaking very earnestly. " I am afraid I have 
 done you an injury in marrying you 1" 
 
 " Now, that is the first unkind thing you have ever said to 
 me," retorts he. 
 
 " I would rather die than be unkind to you," says Mona, 
 running her fingers with a glad sense of appropriation through 
 his hair. " But this is what I mean : your mother will never 
 forgive your marriage ; she will not love me, and I shall bo 
 the cause of creating dissension between her and you." Again 
 tears fill her eyes. 
 
 " But there you are wrong. There need be no dissensions ; 
 my mother and I are very good friends, and she expects us 
 both to go to the Towers on Friday next." 
 
 Then he tells her all the truth about his interview with his 
 mother, only suppressing such words as would be detrimental 
 ta the cause he has in hand, and miglit give her pain. 
 
 " And when she sees you all will be well," he says, still 
 clinging bravely to his faith in this panacea for all evils. 
 •' Everything rests with you." 
 
144 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " I will do my best," says Mona, earnestly ; " but if I fail, 
 — if after all my eflPorts your mother still refuses to love me, 
 how will it be then ?" 
 
 " As it is now ; it need make no difference to us ; and in- 
 deed I will not make the trial at all if you shrink from it, or 
 if it makes you in the faintest dep-ee unhappy." 
 
 " I do not shrink from it," replies she, bravely : " I would 
 brave anything to be friends with your mother." 
 
 " Very well, then : we will make the attempt," says he, 
 gayly. " ' Nothing venture, nothing have.' " 
 
 " And ' A dumb priest loses his benefice,' " quotes Mona, 
 in her turn, almost gayly too. 
 
 " Yet remember, darling, whatever comes of it," says Rod- 
 ney, earnestly, " that you are more to me than all the world, 
 — my mother included. So do not let defeat — if we should 
 be defeated — cast you down. Never forget how I love you." 
 In his heart he dreads for her the trial that awaits her. 
 
 *' I do not," she says, sweetly. " I could not : it is my 
 dearest remembrance ; and somehow it has made me strong to 
 coiKjuer, Geoffrey," — flushing, and raising herself to her full 
 height, as though already arming for action, — " I feel, I 
 know, I shall in the end succeed with your mother." 
 
 She lifts her luminous eyes to his, and regards him fixedly 
 as she speaks, full of hopeful excitement. Her eyes have 
 always a peculiar fascination of their own, apart from the rest 
 of her face. Once looking at her, as though for the first time 
 impressed with this idea, Geoffrey had said to her, " I never 
 look at your eyes that I don't feel a wild desire to close them 
 with a kiss." To which she had made answer in her little, 
 lovable way, and with a bewitching glance from the lovely 
 orbs in question, " If that is how you mean to do it, you 
 may close them just as often as ever you like." 
 
 Now he takes advantage of this general permission, and 
 closes them with a soft caress. 
 
 " She must be harder-hearted than I think her, if she can 
 resist you," he says, fondly. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 145 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HOW GEOFFREY AND MONA ENTER THE TOWERS — AND HOW 
 THEY ARE RECEIVED BY THE INHABITANTS THEREOF, 
 
 The momentous Friday comes at last, and about noon Mona 
 and GeoflPrey start for the Towers. They are not, perhaps, in 
 the exuberant spirits that should be theirs, considerino; they 
 are going to spend their Christmas in the bosom of their 
 family, — at all events, of Geoffrey's family, which naturally for 
 the future she must acknowledge as hers. They are indeed 
 not only silent, but desponding, and as they get out of the 
 train at Greatham and enter the carriage sent by Sir Nicholas 
 to meet them their hearts sink nearly into their boots, and 
 for several minutes no words pass between them. 
 
 To Geoffrey perhaps the coming ordeal bears a deeper shade ; 
 as Mona hardly understands all that awaits her. That Lady 
 Rodney is a little displeased at her son's marriage she can 
 readily believe, but that she has made up her mind beforehand 
 to dislike her, and intends waging with her war to the knife, 
 is more than has ever entered into her gentle mind. 
 
 " Is it a long drive, Geoff?" she asks, presently, in a trem- 
 bling tone, slipping her hand into his in the old fashion. 
 
 " About six miles. I say, darling, keep up your spirits : if 
 we don't like it, we can leave, you know. But" — alluding to 
 her subdued voice — " don't be imagining evil." 
 
 " I don't think I am," says Mona ; " but the thought of 
 meeting people for the first time makes me feel nervous. Is 
 your mother tall, Geoffrey ?" 
 
 " Very," 
 
 " And severe-looking? You said she was like you." 
 
 " Well, so she is ; and yet I suppose our expressions are 
 dissimilar. Look here," says Geoffrey, suddenly, as though 
 compelled at the last moment to give her a hint of what is 
 coming, " I want to tell you about her, — my mother I mean : 
 she is all right, you know, in every way, and very charming 
 in general, but just at first one might imagine her a little 
 diffi'jult I" 
 
 Q k 1.3 
 
14G MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 "What's that?" asked Mona. "Don't speak of your 
 mother as if she was a chromatic scale." 
 
 " I mean she seems a trifle cold, unfriendly, and — er — 
 that," says Geoffrey. " Perhaps it would be a wise thing for 
 you to make up your mind what you will say to her on first 
 meeting her. She will come up to you, you know, and give 
 you her hand like this," taking hers, " and " 
 
 " Yes, I know," says Mona, eagerly interrupting him. " And 
 then she will put her arms round me, and kiss me just Uke 
 this," suiting the action to the word. 
 
 "Like that? Not a bit of it," says Geoffrey, who haa 
 given her two kisses for her one: "you mustn't expect it. 
 She isn't in the least like that. She will meet you probably 
 as though she saw you yesterday, and say, 'How d'ye do? 
 I'm afraid you have had a very long and cold drive.' And 
 then you will say " 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " Yes, I shall say " anxiously. 
 
 " You — will — say " Here he breaks down ignomini- 
 
 ously, and confesses by bis inability to proceed that he doesn't 
 in the least know what it is she can say. 
 
 " I know," says Mona, brightening, and putting on an air 
 80 different from her own usual unaffected one as to strike 
 her listener with awe. " I shall say, ' Oh ! thanks, quite 
 too awfully much, don't you know? but Geoffrey and I 
 didn't find it a bit long, and we were as warm as wool all the 
 time.' " 
 
 At this appalling speech Geoffrey's calculations fall through, 
 and he gives himself up to undisguised mirth. 
 
 " If you say all that," he says, " there will be wigs on the 
 green : that's Irish, isn't it ? or something like it, and very 
 well applied too. The first part of your speech sounded like 
 Toole or Brough, I'm not sure which." 
 
 " Well, it was in a theatre I heard it," confesses Mona, 
 meekly : " it was a great lord who said it on the stage, so I 
 thought it would be all right." 
 
 " Great lords are not necessarily faultlessly correct, either 
 on or off the stage," says Geoffrey. " But, just for choice, I 
 prefer them off it. No, that will not do at all. When my 
 mother addresses you, you are to answer her back again in 
 tones even colder than her own, and say " 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 147 
 
 "But, Geoffrey, why should I be cold to your mother? 
 Sure you wouldn't have me be uncivil to her, of all people ?" 
 
 " Not uncivil, but cool. You will say to her, ' It was 
 rather better than I anticipated, thank you.' And then, if 
 you can manage to look bored, it will be quite correct, so far, 
 and you may tell yourself you have scored one." 
 
 " I may say that horrid speech, but I certainly can't pro- 
 tend I was bored during our drive, because I am not," says 
 Mona. 
 
 " I know that. If I was not utterly sure of it I should 
 instantly commit suicide by precipitating myself under tho 
 carriage-wheels," says Geoffrey. " Still — ' let us dissemble.' 
 Now say what I told you." 
 
 So Mrs. Rodney says, " It was rather better than I antici- 
 pated, thank you," in a tone so icy that his is warm beside it. 
 
 " But suppose she doesn't say a word about the drive ?" 
 says Mona, thoughtfully. " How will it be then ?" 
 
 " She is safe to say something about it, and that will do for 
 anything," says Rodney, out of the foolishness of his heart. 
 
 And now the horses draw up before a brilliantly-lighted 
 hall, the doors of which are thrown wide open as though in 
 hospitable expectation of their coming. 
 
 Geoffrey, leading his wife into the hall, pauses beneath a 
 central swinging lamp, to examine her critically. The foot- 
 man who is in attendance on them has gone on before to an- 
 nounce their coming ; they are therefore for the moment 
 alone. 
 
 Mona is looking lovely, a little pale perhaps from some nat- 
 ural agitation, but her pallor only adds to the lustre of her 
 great blue eyes and lends an additional sweetness to the ripe- 
 ness of her lips. Her hair is a little loose, but eminently be- 
 coming, and altogether she looks as like an exquisite painting 
 as one can conceive. 
 
 " Take off your hat," says Geoffrey, in a tone that g^laddens 
 her heart, so full it is of love and admiration ; and, having 
 removed her hat, she follows him through halls and one or two 
 anterooms until they reach the library, into which the man 
 ushers them. 
 
 It is a very pretty room, filled with a subdued light, and 
 with a blazing fire at one end. All bespeaks warmth, and 
 home, and comfort, but to Mona in her present state it is deso- 
 
148 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 lation itself. The three occupants of the room rise as she 
 enters, and Mona's heart dies within her as a very tall statu- 
 esque woman, drawing herself up languidly from a lounging- 
 chair, comes leisurely up to her. There is no welcoming haste 
 in her movements, no gracious smile, for which her guest is 
 thirsting, upon her thin lips. 
 
 She is dressed in black velvet, and has a cap of richest old 
 luce upon her head. To the quick sensibilities of the Irish 
 girl it becomes known without a word that she is not to look 
 for love from this stately woman, with her keen scrutinizing 
 glance and cold unsmiling lips. 
 
 A choking sensation, rising from her heart, almost stops 
 Mona's breath ; her mouth feels parched and dry ; her eyes 
 widen. A sudden fear oppresses her. How is it going to be 
 in all the future ? Is Geoffrey's — her own husband's — mother 
 to be her enemy ? 
 
 Lady Rodney holds out her hand, and Mona lays hers 
 within it. 
 
 " So glad you have come," says Lady Rodney, in a tone 
 that belies her words, and in a sweet silvery voice that chills 
 the heart of her listener. " We hardly thought we should 
 see you so soon, the trains here are so unpunctual. I hope 
 the carriage was in time ?" 
 
 She waits apparently for an answer, at which Mona grows 
 desperate. For in reality she has heard not one word of the 
 labored speech made to her, and is too frightened to think of 
 anything to say except the unfortunate lesson learned in the 
 carriage and repeated secretly so often since. She looks 
 round helplessly for Geoffrey ; but he is laughing with his 
 brother, Captain Rodney, whom he has not seen since his re- 
 turn from India, and so Mona, cast upon her own resources, 
 
 It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you," not 
 in the haughty tone adopted by her half an hour ago, but in 
 an unnerved and frightened whisper. 
 
 At this remarkable answer to a very ordinary and polite 
 question, Lady Rodney stares at Mona for a moment, and 
 then turns abruptly away to greet Geoffrey. Whereupon 
 Captain Rodney, coming forward, tells Mona he is glad to see 
 her, kindly but carelessly ; and then a young man, who has 
 been standing up to this silently upon the hearth-rug, advances, 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 149 
 
 and takes Mona's hand in a warm clasp, and looks down upon 
 her with very friendly eyes. 
 
 At his touch, at his glance, the first sense of comfort Mona 
 has felt since her entry into the room falls upon her. This 
 man, at least, is surely of the same kith and kin as Geoffrey, 
 and to him her heart opens gladly, gratefully. 
 
 He has heard the remarkable speech made to his mother, 
 and has drawn his own conclusions therefrom. " Geoffrey 
 has been coaching the poor little soul, and putting absurd 
 words into her mouth, with — as is usual in all such cases — a 
 very brilliant result." So he tells himself, and is, as we 
 know, close to the truth. 
 
 He tells Mona she is very welcome, and, still holding her 
 hand, draws her over to the fire, and moves a big arm-chair 
 in front of it, in which ho ensconces her, bidding her warm 
 herself, and make herself (as he says with a kindly smile that 
 has still kinder meaning in it) " quite at home." 
 
 Then he stoops and unfastens her sealskin jacket, and takes 
 it off her, and in fact pays her all the little attentions that lie 
 in his power. 
 
 " You are Sir Nicholas ?" questions she at last, gaining 
 courage to speak, and raising her eyes to his full of entreaty, 
 and just a touch of that pathos that seems of right to belong 
 to the eyes of all Irishwomen. 
 
 " Yes," returns he, with a smile. " I am Nicholas." He 
 ignores the formal title. " Geoffrey, I expect, spoke to you 
 of me as ' old Nick ;' he has never called me anything else 
 since we were boys." 
 
 " He has often called you that ; but," — shyly, — " now 
 that I have seen you, I don't think the name suits you a 
 bit." 
 
 Sir Nicholas is quite pleased. There is a sort of uncon- 
 scious flattery in the gravity of her tone and expression that 
 amuses almost as much as it pleases him. What a funny 
 child she is 1 and how unspeakably lovely 1 Will Doatie like 
 her? 
 
 But there is yet another introductioa to be gone through. 
 From the doorway Violet Mansergh comes up to Geoffrey, 
 clad in some soft pale shimmering stuff, and holds cat to hia; 
 her hand. 
 
 " What a time you have been away 1" she says, with a 
 18* 
 
150 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 pretty, slow smile, that has not a particle of embarrassment or 
 consciousness in it, thouj^h she is quite aware that Jack llod- 
 ney is watching her closely. Perhaps, indeed, she is secretly 
 amused at his severe scrutiny. 
 
 " You will introduce me to your wife ?" she asks, after a 
 few minutes, in her even, trainante voice, and is then taksn 
 up to the big arm-chair before the fire, and is made known to 
 Mona. 
 
 " Dinner will be ready in a few minutes : of course wo 
 shall excuse your dressing to-night," says Lady Rodney, ad- 
 dressing her son far more than Mona, though the words pre- 
 sumably are meant for her. Whereupon Mona, rising from 
 her chair with a sigh of relief, follows Geoffrey out of the 
 room and up stairs. 
 
 "Well?" says Sir Nicholas, as a deadly silence continues 
 for some time after their departure, " what do you think of 
 her?" 
 
 " She is painfully deficient ; positively without brains," says 
 Lady Rodney, with conviction. " What was the answer she 
 made me when I asked about the carriage ? Something utterly 
 outside the mark." 
 
 " She is not brainless ; she was only frightened. It cer- 
 tainly was an ordeal coming to a house for the first time to be, 
 in effect, stared at. And she is very young." 
 
 " And perhaps unused to society," puts in Violet, mildly. 
 As she speaks she picks up a tiny feather that has clung to 
 her gown, and lightly blows it away from her into the air. 
 
 " She looked awfully cut up, poor little thing," says Jack, 
 kindly. " You were the only one she opened her mind to, 
 Nick. What did she say ? Did she betray the ravings of a 
 lunatic or the inanities of a fool ?" 
 
 " Neither." 
 
 " Then, no doubt, she heaped upon you priceless gems of 
 [rish wit in her mother-tongue?" 
 
 " She said very little ; but she looks good and true. After 
 all, Geoffrey might have done worse." 
 
 " Worse !" repeats his mother, in a withering tone. In 
 this mood she is not nice, and a very little of her suffices. 
 
 " She is decidedly good to look at, at all events," says 
 Nicholas, shifting ground. " Don't you think so, Violet?" 
 
 " I think she is the loveliest woman I ever saw," returns 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 151 
 
 Miss Mansergh, quietly, without enthusiasm, but with deci- 
 Biou. If cold, she is just, and above the pettiness of disliking 
 a woman because she may be counted more worthy of admi- 
 ration than herself. 
 
 " I am glad you are all pleased," says Lady Rodney, in a 
 peculiar tone ; and then the gong sounds, and they all rise, as 
 Geoffrey and Mona once more make their appearance. Sir 
 Nicholas gives his arm to Mona, and so begins her first even- 
 ing at the Towers. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 HOW MONA RISES BETIMES — AND HOW SHE ENCOUNTEfia 
 A STRANGER AMIDST THE MORNING DEWS. 
 
 All through the night Mona scarcely shuts her eyes, so 
 full is her mind of troubled and perplexing thoughts. At last 
 her brain grows so tired that she cannot pursue any subject to 
 its end, so she lies silently awake, watching for the coming of 
 the tardy dawn. 
 
 At last, as she grows weary for wishing for it, — 
 
 " Morning fair 
 Comes forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray ;" 
 
 and light breaks through shutter and curtain, and objects pale 
 and ghostly at first soon grow large and intimate. 
 
 " Brown night retires ; young day pours in apace, 
 And opens all a lawny prospect wide." 
 
 Naturally an early riser, Mona slips noiselessly from her bed, 
 lest she shall wake Geoffrey, — who is still sleeping the sleep 
 of the just, — and, going into his dressing-room, jumps into hia 
 bath, leaving hers for him. 
 
 The general bath-room is to Geoffrey an abomination : 
 nothing would induce him to enter it. His own bath, and 
 nothing but his own bath, can content him. To have to make 
 uncomfortable haste to be first, or else to await shivering tho 
 
152 MRS. QEOFFRET. 
 
 good pleasuro of your next-door neighbor, is, according to Mi 
 Rodney, a hardship too great for human endurance. 
 
 Having accomplished her toilet without the assistance of a 
 maid (who would bore her to death), and without disturbing 
 her lord and master, she leaves her room, and, softly descend- 
 ing the stairs, bids the maid in the hall below a " fair good- 
 morning," and bears no malice in that the said maid is so ap- 
 palled by her unexpected appearance that she forgets to give 
 her back her greeting. She bestows her usual bonnie smile 
 upon this stricken girl, and then, passing by her, opens the hall 
 door, and sallies forth into the gray and early morning. 
 
 " The first low fluttering breath of waking day 
 Stirs the wide air. Thin clouds of pearly haze 
 Float slowly o'er the sky, to meet the rays 
 Of the unrisen sun." 
 
 But which way to go ? To Mona all round is an undiscovered 
 country, and for that reason possesses an indescribable charm. 
 Finally, she goes up the avenue, beneath the gaunt and leafless 
 elms, and midway, seeing a small path that leads she knows not 
 whither, she turns aside and follows it, until she loses herself 
 in the lonely wood. 
 
 The air is full of death and desolation. It is cold and raw, 
 and no vestige of vegetation is anywhere. In the distance, 
 indeed, she can see some fir-trees that alone show green amidst 
 a wilderness of brown, and are hailed with rapture by the eye, 
 tired of the gray and sullen monotony. But except for these 
 all is dull and unfruitful. 
 
 Still, Mona is happy : the walk has done her good, andl 
 warmed her blood, and brought a color, soft and rich as car- 
 mine, to her cheeks. She has followed the winding path for 
 about an hour, briskly, and with a sense of hien-etre that only 
 the young and godly can know, when suddenly she becomes 
 aware that some one is following her. 
 
 She turns slowly, and finds her fellow-pedestrian is a young 
 man clad in a suit of very impossible tweed : she blushes 
 hotly, not because he is a young man, but because she has no 
 hat on her head, having covered her somewhat riotous hair 
 with a crimson silk handkerchief she had found in Geoffrey's 
 room, just before starting. It covers her head completely, and 
 is tied under the chin Connemara fashion, letting only a few 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 153 
 
 little love-locks be seen, that roam across her forehead, in spite 
 of all injunctions to the contrary. 
 
 Perhaps, could she only know how charmingly becoming 
 this style of head-dress is to her flower-like face, she would 
 not have blushed at all. 
 
 The stranger is advancing slowly : he is swarthy, and cer- 
 tainly not prepossessing. His hair is of that shade and tex- 
 ture that suggests unpleasantly the negro. His lips are a 
 trifle thick, his eyes like sloes. There is, too, an expression 
 of low cunning in these latter features that breeds distrust in 
 the beholder. 
 
 He does not see Mona until he is within a yard of her, a 
 thick bush standing between him and her. Being always a 
 creature of impulse, she has stood still on seeing him, and is 
 lost in wonder as to who he can be. One hand is lifting up 
 her gown, the other is holding together the large soft white 
 fleecy shawl that covers her shoulders, and is therefore neces- 
 sarily laid upon her breast. Her attitude is as picturesque as 
 it is adorable. 
 
 The stranger, having come quite near, raises his head, 
 and, seeing her, starts naturally, and also comes to a stand- 
 still. For a full half-minute he stares unpardonably, and then 
 lifts his hat. Mona — who, as we have seen, is not great in 
 emergencies — fails to notice the rudeness, in her own em- 
 barrassment, and therefore bows politely in return to his salu- 
 tation. 
 
 She is still wondering vaguely who he can be, when he 
 breaks the silence. 
 
 " It is an early hour to be astir," he says, awkwardly ; then, 
 finding she makes no response, he goes on, still more awk- 
 wardly. " Can you tell me if this path will lead me to the 
 road for Plumston ?" 
 
 Plumston is a village near. The first remark may sound 
 too free and easy, but his manner is decorous in the extreme. 
 In spite of the fact that her pretty head is covered with a silk 
 handkerchief in lieu of a hat, he acknowledges her " within the 
 line," and knows instinctively that her clothes, though sim- 
 plicity itself, are perfect both in tint and in texture. 
 
 He groans within him that he cannot think of any speech 
 bordering on the Grandisonian, that may be politely addressed 
 to this sylvan nymph ; but all such speeches fail him. Who 
 
154 MRS. QEOFFJIEY. 
 
 can she be ? Were ever eyes so liquid before, or lips so full 
 of feeling? 
 
 " I am sorry I can tell you nothing," says Mona, shaking 
 her head. " I was never in this wood before ; I know nothing 
 of it." 
 
 " / should know all about it," says the stranger, with a 
 curious contraction of the muscles of his face, which it may 
 be he means for a smile. " In time I shall no doubt, but at 
 present it is a sealed book to me. But the future will break 
 all seals as far at least as Kodney Towers is concerned." 
 
 Then she knows she is speaking to " the Australian" (as 
 she has heard him called), and, lifting her head, examines his 
 face with renewed interest. Not a pleasant face by any means, 
 yet not altogether bad, as she tells herself in the generosity 
 of her heart. 
 
 " I am a stranger; I know nothing;," she says again, hardly 
 knowing what to say, and moving a little as though she would 
 depart. 
 
 " I suppose I am speaking to Mrs. Rodney," he says, guess- 
 ing wildly, yet correctly as it turns out, having heard, as all 
 the country has besides, that the bride is expected at the 
 Towers during the week. He has never all this time removed 
 his black eyes from the perfect face before him with its crim- 
 son head-gear. He is as one fascinated, who cannot yet ex- 
 plain where the fascination lies. 
 
 " Yes, I am Mrs. Rodney," says Mona, feeling some pride 
 in her wedded name, in spite of the fact that two whole months 
 have gone by since first she heard it. At this question, though, 
 as coming from a stranger, she recoils a little within herself, 
 and gathers up her gown more closely with a gesture impossi- 
 ble to misunderstand. 
 
 " You haven't asked me who I am," says the stranger, as 
 though eager to detain her at any cost, still without a smile, 
 and always with his eyes fixed upon her face. It seems as 
 though he positively cannot remove them, so riveted are they. 
 
 "No;" she might in all truth have added, "because I did 
 not care to know," but what she does say (for incivility even 
 to an enemy would be impossible to Mona) is, " I thought 
 perhaps you might not like it." 
 
 Even this is a small, if unconscious, cut, considering what 
 objectionable curiosity he evinced about her name. But the 
 
MRS. OEOFFRET. 155 
 
 Australian is above small cuts, for the good reason that he 
 Beldom sees them. 
 
 " I am Paul Rodney," he now volunteers, — " your husband's 
 cousin, you know. I suppose," with a darkening of his whole 
 face, " now I have told you who I am, it will not sweeten your 
 liking for me." 
 
 " I have heard of you," says Mona, quietly. Then, point- 
 ing towards that part of the wood whither he would go, she 
 says, coldly, " I regret I cannot tell you where this path leads 
 to. Good-morning." 
 
 With this she inclines her head, and without another word 
 goes back by the way she has come. 
 
 Paul Rodney, standing where she has left him, watches her 
 retreating figure until it is quite out of sight, and the last 
 gleam of the crimson silk handkerchief is lost in the distance, 
 with a curious expression upon his face. It is an odd mixture 
 of envy, hatred, and admiration. If there is a man on earth 
 he hates with a cordial hatred, it is Geoffrey Rodney, who at 
 no time has taken the trouble to be even outwardly civil to 
 him. And to think this peerless creature is his wife ! For 
 thus he designates Mona. — the Australian being a man who 
 would be almost sure to call the woman he admired a " peer- 
 less creature." 
 
 When she is quite gone, he pulls himself together with a 
 jerk, draws a heavy sigh, and, thrusting his hands deep into 
 his pockets, continues his walk. 
 
 At breakfast Mona betrays the fact that she has met Paul 
 Rodney during her morning ramble, and tells all that passed 
 between him and her, — on being closely questioned, — which 
 news has the effect of bringing a cloud to the brow of Sir 
 Nicholas and a frown to that of his mother. 
 
 " Such presumption, walking in our wood without permis- 
 sion," she says, haughtily. 
 
 " My dear mother, you forget the path leading from the 
 southern gate to Plumston Road has been open to the public 
 for generations. He was at perfect liberty to walk there." 
 
 " Nevertheless, it is in very bad taste his taking advantage 
 of that absurd permission, considering how he is circumstanced 
 with regard to us," says Lady Rodney. " You wouldn't do 
 it yourself, Nicholas, though you find excuses for him." 
 
156 MRS. QEOFFREY. 
 
 A very faint smile crosses Sir Nicholas's lips. 
 
 " Oh, no, I shouldn't," he says, gently ; and then the sub. 
 ject drops. 
 
 And here perhaps it will bd as well to explain the trouble 
 that at this time weighs heavily upon the llodney family. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HOW OLD SIR GEORGE HATED HIS FIRST-BORN — AND HOW 
 HE MADE HIS WILL — AND HOW THE EARTH SWAL- 
 LOWED IT. 
 
 Now, old Sir George Rodney, grandfather of the present 
 baronet, had two sons, Geoffrey and George. Now, Geoffrey 
 he loved, but George he hated. And so great by years did 
 this hatred grow that afler a bit he sought how he should 
 leave the property away from his eldest-born, who was George, 
 and leave it to Geoffrey, the younger, — which was hardly fair ; 
 for " what," says Aristotle, " is justice ? — to give every man 
 his own." And surely George, being the elder, had first 
 claim. The entail having been broken during the last genera- 
 tion, he found this easy to accomplish ; and so after many 
 days he made a will, by which the younger son inherited all, 
 to the exclusion of the elder. 
 
 But before this, when things had gone too far between 
 father and son, and harsh words never to be forgotten on 
 either side had been uttered, George, unable to bear longer 
 the ignominy of his position (being of a wild and passionate 
 yet withal generous disposition), left his home, to seek another 
 and happier one in foreign lands, 
 
 Some said he had gone to India, others to Van Diemen'a 
 Land, but in truth none knew, or cared to know, save Elspeth, 
 the old nurse, who had tended him and his father before him, 
 and who in her heart nourished for him an undying affection. 
 
 There were those who said she clung to him because of his 
 wonderful likeness to the picture of his grandfather in the 
 south gallery, Sir Launcelot by name, who, in choicest rufl^ea 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 157 
 
 and most elaborate queue, smiled gayly down upon the passers- 
 by- 
 
 For this master of the Towers (so the story ran) Elspeth, 
 in her younger days, had borne a love too deep for words, 
 when she herself was soft and rosy-cheeked, with a heart as 
 tender and romantic as her eyes were blue, and when her lips 
 were for all the world like " cherries ripe." 
 
 But this, it may be, was all village slander, and was never 
 borne out by anythiug. And Elspeth had married the gar- 
 dener's son, and Sir Launcelot had married an earl's daughter; 
 and when the first baby was born at the " big house," Elspeth 
 came to the Towers and nursed him as she would have nursed 
 her own little bairn, but that Death, " dear, beauteous Death, 
 the jewel of the just, shining nowhere but in the dark," sought 
 and claimed her own little one two days after its birth. 
 
 After that she had never again left the family, serving it 
 faithfully while strength stayed with her, knowing all its 
 secrets and all its old legends, and many things, it may be, 
 that the child she nursed at her bosom never knew. 
 
 For him — strange as it may seem — she had ever but little 
 love. But when he married, and George, the eldest boy, was 
 given into her arms, and as he grew and developed, and 
 showed himself day by day to be the very prototype of his 
 grandsire, she " took to him," as the servants said, and clung 
 to him — and afterwards to his memory — until her dying day. 
 
 When the dark, wayward, handsome young man went away, 
 her heart went with him, and she alone perhaps knew any- 
 thing of him after his departure. To his father his absence 
 was a relief; he did not disguise it; and to his brother (who 
 had married, and had then three children, and had of late 
 years grown estranged from him) the loss was not great. Nor 
 did the young madam, — as she was sailed, — the mother of our 
 {)resent friends, lose any opportunity of fostering and keeping 
 alive the ill will and rancor that existed for him in his father's 
 heart. 
 
 So the grudge, being well watered, grew and flourished, and 
 at last, as I said, the old man made a will one night, in the 
 
 f)re8ence of the gardener and his nephew, who witnessed it, 
 eaving all he possessed — save the title and some outside prop- 
 erty, which he did not possess — to his younger son. And, 
 having made this will, he wont to his bed, and in the cold 
 
 11 
 
158 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 night, all alone, he died there, and was found in the morning 
 stiff and stark, with the gay spring sunshine pouring in upon 
 him, while the birds sang without as though to mock death's 
 power, and the flowers broke slowly into life. 
 
 But when they came to look for the will, lo ! it was no- 
 where to be found. Each drawer and desk and cabinet was 
 searched to no avail. Never did the lost document come to 
 light. 
 
 Day after day they sought in vain ; but there came a morn- 
 ing when news of the lost George's demise came to them from 
 Australia, and then the search grew languid and the will was 
 forgotten. And they hardly took pains even to corroborate 
 the tidings sent them from that far-off land, but, accepting the 
 rightful heir's death as a happy fact, ascended the throne, and 
 reigned peacefully for many years. 
 
 And when Sir George died, Sir Nicholas, as we know, gov- 
 erned in his stead, and " all went merry as a marriage-bell," 
 until a small cloud came out of the south, and grew and grew 
 and waxed each day stronger, until it covered all the land. 
 
 For again news came from Australia that the former tidings 
 of George llodney's death had been flilsc ; that he had only 
 died a twelvemonth since ; that he had married almost on first 
 going out, and that his son was coming home to dispute Sir 
 Nicholas's right to house and home and title. 
 
 And now where was the missing will ? Almost all the old 
 servants were dead or scattered. The gardener and his 
 nephew were no more ; even old Elspeth was lying at rest in 
 the cold church-yard, having ceased long since to be even 
 food for worms. Only her second nephew — who had lived 
 with her for years in the little cottage provided for her by the 
 Rodneys, when she was too old and infirm to do aught but sit 
 and dream of days gone by — was alive, and he, too, had gone 
 to Australia on her death, and had not been heard of since. 
 
 It was all terrible, — this young man coming, and the 
 thought that, no matter how they might try to disbelieve ia 
 his story, still it might be true. 
 
 And then the young man came, and they saw that he was 
 very dark, and very morose, and very objectionable. But he 
 seemed to have more money than he quite knew what to do 
 with ; and when he decided on taking a shooting-box that then 
 was vacant quite close to the Towers, their indignation knew no 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 159 
 
 bounds. And certainly it was in execrable taste, considering 
 he came there with the avowed determination to supplant, aa 
 lord and master, the present owner of the Towers, the turrets 
 of which he could see from his dining-room windows. 
 
 But, as he had money, some of the county, after the first 
 spasm, rather acknowledged him, as at least a cousin, if not the 
 cousin. And because he was somewhat unusual, and there- 
 fore amusing, and decidedly liberal, and because there was no 
 disgrace attaching to him, and no actual reason why he should 
 not be received, many houses opened their doors to him. All 
 which was bitter as wormwood to Lady Rodney. 
 
 Indeed, Sir Nicholas himself had been the very first to set 
 the example. In his curious, silent, methodical fashion, he 
 had declared to his mother (who literally detested the very 
 mention of the Australian's name, as she called him, looking 
 upon him as a clean-born Indian might look upon a Pariah) 
 his intention of being civil to him all round, as he was his 
 father's brother's child ; and as he had committed no sin, be- 
 yond trying to gain his own rights, he would have him recog- 
 nized, and treated by every one, if not with cordiality, at least 
 with common politeness. 
 
 But yet there were those who did not acknowledge the new- 
 comer, in spite of his wealth and the romantic story attaching 
 to him, and the possibility that he might yet be proved to be 
 the rightful baronet and the possessor of all the goodly lands 
 that spread for miles around. Of these the Duchess of Lau- 
 derdale was one ; but then she was always slow to acknowledge 
 new blood, or people unhappy enough to have a history. And 
 Lady Lilias Eaton was another ; but she was a young and 
 earnest disciple of aestheticism, and gave little thought to 
 anything save Gothic windows, lilies, and unleavened bread. 
 There were also many of the older families who looked askance 
 upon Paul Rodney, or looked through him, when brought into 
 contact with him, in defiance of Sir Nicholas's support, which 
 perhaps was given to this undesirable cousin more in pride 
 than generosity. 
 
 And so matters stood when Mona came to the Towers. 
 
ICO MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 HOW FATE DEALS HARSHLY WITH MONA, AND HOW SHK 
 DROOPS — AS MIGHT A FLOWER BENEATH ITS UN- 
 KINDLY TOUCH. 
 
 To gain Lady Rodney's friendship is a more difficult thing 
 than Mona in her ignorance had imagined, and she is deter- 
 mined to be ice itself to her poor little guest. As for her love, 
 when first Mona's eyes lit upon her she abandoned all hope of 
 ever gaining that. 
 
 With Captain Rodney and Sir Nicholas she makes way at 
 once, though she is a little nervous and depressed, and not 
 altogether like her usual gay insouciant self. She is thrown 
 back upon herself, and, like a timid snail, recoils sadly into 
 her shell. 
 
 Yet Nature, sooner or later, must assert itself; and after a 
 day or two a ringing laugh breaks from her, or a merry jest, 
 that does Geoffrey's heart good, and brings an answering laugh 
 and jest to the lips of her new brothers. 
 
 Of Violet Mansergh — who is still at the Towers, her father 
 being abroad and Lady Rodney very desirous of having her 
 with her — she knows little. Violet is cold, but quite civil, aa 
 Englishwomen will be until they know you. She is, besides, 
 somewhat prejudiced against Mona, because — being honest 
 herself — she has believed all the false tales told her of the 
 Irish girl. These silly tales, in spite of her belief in her own 
 independence of thought, weigh upon her ; and so she draws 
 back from Mona, and speaks little to her, and then of only 
 ordinary topics, while the poor child is pining for some woman 
 to whom she can open her mind and whom she may count as 
 an honest friend. " For talking with a friend," says Addison, 
 " is nothing else but thinking aloud." 
 
 Of Lady Rodney's studied dislike Mona's sensitive nature 
 could not long remain in ignorance ; yet, having a clear con- 
 science, and not knowing in what she has offended, — save in 
 cleaving to the man she loved, even to the extent of marrying 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. KJl 
 
 him, — she keeps a calm countenance, and bravely waits what 
 time may bring. 
 
 To quarrel with GeoflPrey's people will be to cause Geoffrey 
 silent but acute regret, and so for his sake, to save him pain, 
 she quietly bears many things, and waits for better days, 
 What is a month or two of misery, she tells herself, but » 
 sigh amidst the pleasures of one's life? Yet I think it is the 
 indomitable pluck and endurance of her race that carries her 
 successfully through all her troubles. 
 
 Still, she grows a little pale and dispirited after a while, 
 for 
 
 " Care, when it once is entered in the breast, 
 Will have the whole possession ere it rest." 
 
 One day, speaking of Sir Nicholas to Lady Rodney, she 
 had — as was most natural — called him " Nicholas." But she 
 had been cast back upon herself and humiliated to the earth 
 by his mother's look of cold disapproval and the emphasis she 
 had laid upon the " Sir" Nicholas when next speaking of him. 
 
 This had widened the breach more than all the rest, though 
 Nicholas himself, being quite fascinated by her, tries earnestly 
 to make her happy and at home with him. 
 
 About a week after her arrival — she having expressed her 
 admiration of ferns the night before — he draws her hand 
 through his arm and takes her to his own special sanctum, — 
 off which a fernery has been thrown, he being an enthusiastic 
 grower of that lovely weed. 
 
 Mona is enchanted with the many varieties she sees that 
 are unknown to her, and, being very much not of the world, 
 is not ashamed to express her delight. Looking carefully 
 through all, she yet notices that a tiny one, dear to her, be- 
 cause common to her sweet Killarney, is not among his col- 
 lection. 
 
 She tells him of it, and he is deeply interested ; and when 
 she proposes to write and get him one from her native soil, he 
 is as glad as a school-boy promised a new bat, and her con- 
 quest of Sir Nicholas is complete. 
 
 And indeed the thought of this distant fern is as dear to 
 Mona as to him. For to her comes a rush of tender joy, as 
 she tells herself she may soon be growing in this alien earth 
 a green plant torn from her fatherland. 
 I 14* 
 
162 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " But I hope you will not be disappointed when you see it," 
 ehe says, gently. " You have the real Killarney fern, Sir 
 Nicholas, I can see ; the other, I speak of, though to me al- 
 most as lovely, is not a bit like it." 
 
 She is very careful to give him his title ever since that en- 
 counter with his mother. 
 
 " I shall not be disappointed. I have read all about it," re- 
 turns he, enthusiastically. Then, as though the thought baa 
 just struck him, he says, — 
 
 " Why don't you call me Nicholas, as Geoifrey does?" 
 
 Mona hesitates, then says, shyly, with downcast eyes, — 
 
 " Perhaps Lady llodney would not like it." 
 
 Her face betrays more than she knows. 
 
 " It doesn't matter in the least what any one thinks on thia 
 subject," says Nicholas, with a slight frown. " I shall esteem 
 it a very great honor if you will call me by my Christian 
 name. And besides, Mona, I want you to try to care for me, 
 — to love me, as I am your brother." 
 
 The ready tears spring into Mona's eyes. She is more 
 deeply, passionately grateful to him for this small speech than 
 he will ever know. 
 
 " Now, that is very kind of you," she says, lifting her eyes, 
 humid with tears, to his. " And I think it will take only a 
 very little time to make me love you I" 
 
 After this, she and Sir Nicholas are even better friends than 
 they have been before, — a silent bond of sympathy seeming to 
 exist between them. With Captain Rodney, though he is al- 
 ways kind to her, she makes less way, he being devoted to the 
 society of Violet, and being besides of such a careless dispo- 
 sition as prevents his noticing the wants of those around,— 
 which is perhaps another name for selfishness. 
 
 Yet selfish is hardly the word to apply to Jack Rodney, 
 because at heart he is kindly and aifectionate, and, if a little 
 heedless and indiflferent, is still good au fond. He is lights 
 hearted and agreeable, and singularly hopeful : 
 
 " A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
 And confident to-morrows." 
 
 During the past month he has grown singularly domestic, 
 and fond of home and its associations. Perhaps Violet has 
 something to do with this, with her little calm thoroughbred 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 1G3 
 
 tacc, and gentle manners, and voice low and trainante. Yet 
 it would be hard to be sure of this, Captain Rodney beiug 
 one of those who have " sighed to many," without even the 
 saving clause of having " loved but one." Yet with regard 
 to Mona there is no mistake about Jack Rodney's sentiments. 
 He likes her well (could she but know it) in all sincerity. 
 
 Of course everybody that is anybody has called on the new 
 Mrs. Rodney. The Duchess of Lauderdale, who is an old 
 friend of Lady Rodney's, and who is spending the winter at 
 her country house to please her son the young duke, who is 
 entertaining a houseful of friends, is almost the first to come. 
 And Lady Lilias Eaton, the serious and earnest-minded young 
 aesthetic, — than whom nothing can be more coldly and artis- 
 tically correct according to her own school, — is perhaps the 
 second ; but to both, unfortunately, Mona is " not at home." 
 
 And very honestly, too, because at the time of their visits, 
 vhen Lady Rodney was entertaining them in the big drawing- 
 room and uttering platitudes and pretty lies by the score, she 
 was deep in the recesses of the bare brown wood, roaming 
 hither and thither in search of such few flowers as braved the 
 wintry blasts. 
 
 For all this Lady Rodney is devoutly thankful. She is 
 glad of the girl's absence. She has no desire to exhibit her, 
 prejudice making Mona's few small defects look monstrous in 
 her eyes. Yet these same defects might perhaps be counted 
 on the fingers of one hand. 
 
 There is, for example, her unavoidable touch of brogue ; 
 her little gesture of intense excitement, and irrepressible ex- 
 clamation when anything is said that affects or interests her, 
 and her laugh, which, if too loud for ordinary drawing-room 
 use, is yet so sweet and catching that involuntarily it brings 
 an answering laugh to the lips of those who hear it. 
 
 All these faults, and others of even less weight, are an 
 abomination in the eyes of Lady Rodney, who has fallen into a 
 prim mould, out of which it would now be difficult to extricate 
 her. 
 
 " There is a set of people whom I cannot bear," says Chal- 
 mers, " the pinks of fashionable propriety, whose every word 
 is precise, and whose every movement is unexceptionable, but 
 who, though versed in all the categories of polite behavior, 
 have not a particle of soul or cordiality about them." 
 
104 MJiS- GEOFFREY. 
 
 Such folk Chalmers hated; and I agree with Chalmers. 
 And of this class is Lady Rodney, without charity or leniency 
 for the shortcomings of those around her. Like many relig- 
 ious people, — who are no doubt good in their own way, — sho 
 fails to see any grace in those who differ from her in thought 
 and opinion. 
 
 And by degrees, beneath her influence, Mona grows pale 
 and distrait and in many respects unlike her old joyous self. 
 Each cold reproving glance and sneering word — however care- 
 fully concealed — falls like a touch of ice upon her heart, chill- 
 ing and withering her glad youth. Up to this she has led a 
 bird's life, gay, insouciant, free, and careless. Now her song 
 seems checked, her sweetest notes are dying fast away through 
 lack of sympathy. She is " cribbed, cabined, and confined," 
 through no fault of her own, and grows listless and dispirited 
 in her captivity. 
 
 And Geoff"rey, who is blind to nothing that concerns her, 
 notices all this, and secretly determines on taking her away 
 from all this foolish persecution, to London or elsewhere, until 
 Buch time as their own home shall be ready to receive them.^ 
 
 But at this break in my history, almost as he forms this 
 resolution, an event occurs that brings friends to Mona, and 
 changes in toto the aspect of affairs. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 HOW MONA DANCES A COUNTRY DANCE BEFORE A HYPER- 
 CRITICAL AUDIENCE — AND HOW MORE EYES THAN SHK 
 WOTS OP MARK HER PERFORMANCE. 
 
 " I HOPE you have had a nice walk ?" says Violet, politely, 
 drawing her skirts aside to make room for Mona, who has just 
 eome in. 
 
 It is quite half-past sis ; and though there is no light in the 
 room, save the glorious flames given forth by the pine logs 
 that lie on the top of the coals, still one can see that the occu- 
 pants of the apartment are dressed for dinner. 
 
 Miss Darling — Sir Nicholas's /aHce'e — and her brother are 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 165 
 
 expected to-night ; and so the household generally has dressed 
 itself earlier than usual to be in full readiness to receive 
 them. 
 
 Lady Rodney and Violet are sitting over the fire, and now 
 Mona joins them, gowned in the blue satin dress in which she 
 had come to meet GeoflFrey, not so many months ago, in th« 
 Did wood behind the farm. 
 
 " Very nice," she says, in answer to Violet's question, sink- 
 ing into the chair that Miss Mansergh, by a small gesture, 
 half languid, half kindly, has pushed towards her, and which 
 is close to Violet's own. " I went up the avenue, and then 
 out on the road for about half a mile." 
 
 " It is a very late hour for any one to be on a public road," 
 says Lady Rodney, unpleasantly, quite forgetting that people, 
 as a rule, do not go abroad in pale-blue satin gowns, and that 
 therefore some time must have elapsed between Mona's return 
 from her walk and the donning of her present attire. And 
 so she overreaches herself, as clever people will do, at times. 
 
 " It was two hours ago," says Mona, gently. " And then 
 it was quite daylight, or at least" — truthfully — " only the 
 beginning of dusk." 
 
 " I think the days are lengthening," says Violet, quietly, 
 defending Mona unconsciously, and almost without knowing 
 why. Yet in her heart — against her will as it were — she is 
 making room for this Irish girl, who, with her great appealing 
 eyes and tender ways, is not to be resisted. 
 
 " I had a small adventure," says Mona, presently, with sup- 
 pressed gayety. All her gayety of late has been suppressed 
 " Just as I came back to the gate here, some one came riding 
 by, and I turned to see who it was, at which his horse — as 
 though frightened by my sudden movement — shied viciously, 
 and then reared so near me as almost to strike me with his 
 fore-paws. I was frightened rather, because it was all so sud- 
 den, and sprang to one side. Then the gentleman got down, 
 and, coming to me, begged my pardon. I said it didn't matter, 
 because I was really uninjured, and it was all my fault. But 
 he seemed very sorry, and (it was dusk as I told you, and I 
 believe he is short-sighted) stared at me a great deal." 
 
 " "Well ?" says Violet, who is smiling, and seems to see a 
 joke where Mona fails to see anything amusing. 
 
 " When he was tired of staring, he said, ' I suppose I am 
 
106 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 epeaking to ' and then he stopped. * Mrs. Rodney,' re- 
 plied I ; and then he raised his hat, and bowed, and gave mo 
 his card. After that he mounted again, and rode away." 
 
 " But who was this gentleman ?" says Lady Rodney, super- 
 ciliously. " No doubt some draper from the town." 
 
 " No ; he was not a draper," says Mona, gently, and with- 
 out haste. 
 
 " Whoever he was, he hardly excelled in breeding," says 
 Lady Rodney ; " to ask your name without an introduction I 
 I never heard of such a thing. Very execrable form, indeed. 
 In your place I should not have given it. And to manage his 
 horse so badly that he nearly ran you down. He could hardly 
 be any one we know. Some petty squire, no doubt." 
 
 " No ; not a petty squire," says Mona ; " and I think you do 
 know him. And why should I be ashamed to tell my name 
 to any one?" 
 
 " The question was strictly in bad taste," says Lady Rodney, 
 again. " No well-bred man would ask it. I can hardly be- 
 lieve I know him. He must have been some impossible per- 
 son." 
 
 " He was the Duke of Lauderdale," says Mona, simply. 
 " Here is his card." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 Lady Rodney is plainly disconcerted, but says nothing. 
 Violet follows suit, but more because she is thoroughly amused 
 and on the point of laughter, than from a desire to make mat- 
 ters worse. 
 
 " I hope you had your hat on," says Lady Rodney, pres- 
 ently, in a severe tone, meant to cover her defeat. She had 
 once seen Mona with the crimson silk handkerchief on her 
 head, — Irish fashion, — and had expressed her disapproval of 
 all such uncivilized head-dresses. 
 
 " Yes ; I wore my big Rubens hat, the one with " 
 
 " I don't care to hear about the contents of your wardrobe," 
 interrupts Lady Rodney, with a slight but unkind shrug. " I 
 am glad, at least, you were not seen in that objectionable head- 
 dress you so often aflfect." 
 
 " Was it the Rubens hat with the long brown feather ?" 
 asks Violet, sweetly, turning to Mona, as though compelled 
 by some unknown force to say anything tbat shall restore the 
 girl to evenness of mind once luore. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 167 
 
 " Yes ; the one with the brown feather," returns Mona, 
 quickly, and with a smile radiant and grateful, that sinks into 
 Violet's heart and rests there. 
 
 " You told the duke who you were ?" breaks in Lady Rod- 
 ney at this moment, who is in one of her worst moods. 
 
 " Yes ; I said I was Mrs. Rodney." 
 
 " iNIrs. Geoffrey Rodney, would have been more correct 
 You forget your husband is the youngest son. When Captain 
 Rodney marries, his wife will be Mrs. Rodney." 
 
 " But surely until then Mona may lay claim to the title," 
 says Violet, quickly. 
 
 " I do not wish to lay claim to anything," says Mona, 
 throwing up her head with a little proud gesture, — " least of 
 all to what does not by right belong to me. To be Mrs. 
 Geoffrey is all I ask." 
 
 She leans back in her chair, and brings her fingers together, 
 clasping them so closely that her very nails grow white. Her 
 thin nostrils dilate a little, and her breath comes quickly, but 
 no angry word escapes her. How can her lips give utterance 
 to a speech that may wound the mother of the man she 
 loves ! 
 
 Violet, watching her, notes the tumult in her mind, and, 
 seeing how her will gains mastery over her desire, honors her 
 for her self-control. 
 
 Then Jack comes in, and Sir Nicholas, and later on 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 " No one can say we are not in time," says Jack, gayly. 
 " It is exactly" — examining closely the ormolu-clock upon the 
 mantelpiece — " one hour before we can reasonably expect 
 dinner." 
 
 " And three-quarters. Don't deceive yourself, my dear fel- 
 low : they can't be here one moment before a quarter to eight." 
 
 " Then, in the mean time, Violet, I shall eat you," says 
 Captain Rodney, amiably, "just to take the edge off my ap- 
 petite. You would be hardly sufficient for a good meal l" 
 He laughs and glances significantly at her slight but charm- 
 ing figure, which is petite but perfect, and then sinks into a 
 low chair near her. 
 
 " I hear this dance at the Chetwoodes' is to be rather a 
 large affair," says Geoffrey, indifferently. " I met Gore to- 
 day, and he says the duchess is going, and half the county." 
 
168 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Does he mean going himself?" says Nicholas, idly. " He 
 is here to-day, I know, but one never knows where he may be 
 to-morrow, he is so erratio." 
 
 " He is a little difl&cult ; but, on the whole, I think I like 
 Sir Mark better than most men," says Violet, slowly. 
 
 Whereupon Jack Rodney instantly conceives a sudden and 
 uncalled-fur dislike towards the man in question. 
 
 " Lilian is such a dear girl," says Lady Rodney ; " she is a 
 very general favorite. I have no doubt her dance will be a 
 great success." 
 
 " You are speaking of Lady Chetwoode ? Was it her that 
 called last week ?" asks Mona, timidly, forgetting grammar in 
 her nervousness. 
 
 " Yes ; it was her that called last week," returns her amiable 
 mother-in-law, laying an unmistakable stress upon the pronoun. 
 
 No one is listening, fortunately, to this gratuitous correction, 
 or hot words might have been the result. Sir Nicholas and 
 Geoffrey are laughing over some old story that has been 
 brought to their recollection by this idle chattering about the 
 Chetwoodes' ball ; Jack and Violet are deep in some topic of 
 their own. 
 
 " Well, she danced like a fairy, at all events, in spite of 
 her size," says Sir Nicholas, alluding to the person the funny 
 story had been about. 
 
 " You dance, of course," says Lady Rodney, turning to 
 Mona, a little ashamed, perhaps, of her late rudeness. 
 
 " Oh, yes," says Mona, brightening even under this small 
 touch of friendliness. " I'm very fond of it, too. I can get 
 through all the steps without a mistake." 
 
 At this extraordinary speech, Lady Rodney stares in be- 
 wilderment. 
 
 " Ah I Waltzes and polkas, you mean ?" she says, in a 
 puzzled tone. 
 
 " Eh ?" says Mrs. Geoffrey. 
 
 " You can waltz ?" 
 
 " Oh, no !" shaking her lovely head emphatically, with a 
 smile. " It's country dances I mean. Up the middle and 
 down again, and all that," moving her hand in a soft undu- 
 lating way as though keeping it in accord with some music 
 that is ringing in her brain. Then, sweetly, " Did ycm ever 
 dance a country dantiP ?" 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY 169 
 
 " Never !" says Lady Rodney, in a stony fashion. " I 
 don't even know what you mean," 
 
 " No ?" arching her brows, and looking really sorry for her. 
 *' What a pity ! They all come quite naturally to me. I 
 don't remember ever being taught them. The music seemed 
 to inspire me, and I really dance them very well. Doq'^ I, 
 Geoff?" 
 
 " I never saw your equal," says Geoffrey, who, with Sir 
 Nicholas, has been listening to the last half of the conversa- 
 tion, and who is plainly suppressing a strong desire to laugh. 
 
 " Do you remember the evening you taught me the coun 
 try dance that I said was like an old-fashioned minuet ? And 
 what an apt pupil I proved ! I really think I could dance it 
 now. By the by, my mother never saw one danced. She" — 
 apologetically — " has not been out much. Let us go through 
 one now for her benefit." 
 
 " Yes, let us," says Mona, gayly. 
 
 " Pray do not give yourselves so much trouble on my ac- 
 count," says Lady Rodney, with intense but subdued indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 " It won't trouble us, not a hit" says Mrs. Geoffrey, rising 
 with alacrity. " I shall love it, the floor is so nice and slip- 
 pery. Can any one whistle?" 
 
 At this Sir Nicholas gives way and laughs out loud, whereon 
 Mona laughs too, though she reddens slightly, and says, " Well, 
 of course the piano will do, though the fiddle is best of all." 
 
 " Violet, play us something," says Geoffrey, who has quite 
 entered into the spirit of the thing, and who doesn't mind his 
 mother's " horrors" in the least, but remembers how sweet 
 Mona used to look when going slowly and with that quaint 
 solenm dignity of hers " through her steps." 
 
 " I shall be charmed," says Violet ; " but what is a country 
 dance ? Will ' Sir Roger' do ?" 
 
 " No. Play anything monotonous, that is slow and digni- 
 fied besides, and it will answer ; in fact, anything at all," says 
 Geoffrey, largely, at which Violet smiles and seats herself at 
 the piano. 
 
 " Well, just wait till I tuck up the tail of my gown," says 
 Mrs. Geoffrey, airily flinging her pale-blue skirt over her white 
 bare arm. 
 
 " You may as well call it a train ; people like it better," says 
 
 H 15 
 
170 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 GeoflPrey. " I'm sure I don't know why, but perhaps it sounda 
 better." 
 
 " There can be scarcely any question about that," says Lady 
 Rodney, unwilling to let any occasion pass that may permit a 
 slap at Moua. 
 
 *' Yet the Princess D always calls her train a ' tail,' " 
 
 Bays Violet, turning on her piano-stool to make this remark, 
 which is balm to Mona's soul ; after which she once more con- 
 centrates her thoughts on the instrument before her, and plays 
 bome odd old-fashioned air that suits well the dance of which 
 they have been speaking. 
 
 Then Geoifrey offers Mona his hand, and leads her to the 
 centre of the polished floor. There they salute each other in 
 a rather Grandisonian fashion, and then separate. 
 
 The light from the great pine fire streams over all the room, 
 throwing a rich glow upon the scene, upon the girl's flushed 
 and earnest face, and large happy eyes, and graceful rounded 
 figure, betraying also the grace and poetry of her every move- 
 ment. 
 
 She stands well back from Geoffrey, and then, without any 
 of the foolish, unlovely bashfulness that degenerates so often 
 into awkwardness in the young, begins her dance. 
 
 It is a very curious and obsolete, if singularly charming, 
 performance, full of strange bows, and unexpected turnings, 
 and curtseys dignified and deep. 
 
 As she advances and retreats, with her svelte figure drawn 
 to its fullest height, and her face eager and intent upon the 
 business in hand, and with her whole heart thrown apparently 
 into the successful accomplishment of her task, she is looking 
 far lovelier than she herself is at all aware. 
 
 Even Lady Rodney for the moment has fallen a prey to her 
 unpremeditated charms, and is leaning forward anxiously 
 watching her. Jack and Sir Nicholas are enchanted. 
 
 The shadows close them in on every side. Only the fire- 
 light illumines the room, casting its most brilliant and ruddy 
 rays upon its central figures, until they look like beings con- 
 jured up from the olden times, as they flit to and fro in the 
 slow mysterious mazes of the dance. 
 
 Mona's naked arms gleam like snow in the uncertain light. 
 Each movement of hers is full of grace and verve. Her entire 
 action is perfect. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 171 
 
 " Her feet beneath her petticoat 
 Like little mice, stole in and out. 
 
 As if they feared the light. 
 And, oh ! she dances such a way, 
 No suu upon an Easter day 
 
 Is half 80 fine a sight." 
 
 The music, soft and almost mournful, echoes through (he 
 room ; the feet keep time upon the oaken floor ; weird-like tho 
 two forms move through the settled gloom. 
 
 The door at the farthest end of the room has been opened, 
 and two people who are as yet invisible stand upon the thresh- 
 old, too surprised to advance, too enthralled, indeed, by the 
 sight before them to wish to do so. 
 
 Only as Mrs. GeoflFrey makes her final curtsey, and Geoffrey, 
 with a laugh, stoops forward to kiss her lips instead of her 
 hand, as acknowledgment of her earnest and very sweet per- 
 fonnance, thereby declaring the same to have come to a timely 
 end, do the new-comers dare to show themselves. 
 
 " Oh, how pretty 1" cries one of them from the shadow, as 
 though grieved the dance has come so quickly to an end. 
 "How lovely!" 
 
 At this voice every one starts I Mona, slipping her hand 
 into Geoffrey's, draws him to one side ; Lady Rodney rises 
 from her sofa, and Sir Nicholas goes eagerly towards the door. 
 
 " You have come !" cries he, in a tone Mona has never 
 heard before, and then — there is no mistake about the fact 
 that he and the shadow have embraced each other heartily. 
 
 " Yes, we have indeed," says the same sweet voice again, 
 which is the merriest and softest voice imaginable, " and in 
 very good time too, as it seems. Nolly and I have been hero 
 for fully five minutes, and have been so delighted with what 
 we have seen that we positively could not stir. Dear Lady 
 Rodney, how d'ye do ?" 
 
 She is a very little girl, quite half a head shorter than 
 Mona, and, now that one can see her more plainly as she 
 Btands on the hearth-rug, something more than commonly 
 pretty. 
 
 Her eyes are large and blue, with a shade of green in them , 
 her lips are soft and mobile ; her whole expression is dibon- 
 naire, yet full of tenderness. She is brightness itself; each 
 inward thought, be it of grief or gladness, makes itself out^ 
 wardly known in the constant changes of her face. Her hair 
 
172 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 is cut above her forehead, and is quite golden, yet perhaps it 
 is a degree darker than the ordinary hair we hear described 
 as yellow. To me, to think of Dorothy Darling's head ia 
 always to remind myself of that line in Milton's " Comus," 
 where he speaks of 
 
 " The loose train of thy amber-drooping hair." 
 
 She is very sweet to look at, and attractive and lovable. 
 
 " Her angel's face 
 As the great eye of heaven shined bright, 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place." 
 
 Such is Nicholas's betrothed, to whom, as she gazes on her, 
 all at once, in the first little moment, Mona's whole soul goes 
 out. 
 
 She has shaken hands with everybody, and has kissed Lady 
 Rodney, and is now being introduced to Mona. 
 
 " Your wife, Geoffrey ?" she says, holding Mona's hand all 
 the time, and gazing at her intently. Then, as though some- 
 thing in Mrs. Geoffrey's beautiful face attracts her strangely, 
 she lifts her face and presses her soft lips to Mona's cheek. 
 
 A rush of hope and gladness thrills Mona's bosom at this 
 gentle touch. It is the very first caress she has ever received 
 from one of Geoffrey's friends or relations. 
 
 " I think somebody might introduce me," says a plaintive 
 voice from the background, and Dorothy's brother, putting 
 Dorothy a little to one side, holds out his hand to Mona. " How 
 d'ye do, Mrs. Rodney ?" he says, pleasantly. " There's a 
 dearth of etiquette about your husband that no doubt you 
 have discovered before this. He has evidently forgotten that 
 we are comparative strangers ; but we sha'n't be long so, I 
 hope?" 
 
 " I hope not, indeed," says Mona, giving him her hand with 
 a very flattering haste. 
 
 " You have come quite half an hour earlier than we ex- 
 pected you," says Sir Nicholas, looking with fond satisfaction 
 into Miss Darling's eyes. " These trains are very uncertain." 
 
 " It wasn't the train so much," says Doatie, with a merry 
 laugh, " as Nolly : we weren't any time coming, because ho 
 got out and took the reins from Hewson, and after that I 
 rather think he took it out of your bays, Nichola.s." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 173 
 
 " Well, I never met such a blab I I believe you'd peaeh on 
 your grandmother," says her brother, with supreme contempt. 
 " I didn't do 'em a bit of harm, Rodney, I give you my word." 
 
 " I'll take it," says Nicholas ; " but, even if you did, I 
 should still owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing Doatie 
 here thirty minutes before we hoped for her." 
 
 " Now make him your best curtsey, Dolly," says Mr. Dar- 
 ling, seriously : " it isn't every day you will get such a pretty 
 speech as that," 
 
 " And see what we gained by our haste," says Dorothy, 
 smiling at Mona. " You can't think what a charming sight 
 it was. Like an old legend or a fairy-tale. Was it a minuet 
 you were dancing?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; only a country dance," says Mona, blushing. 
 
 " Well, it was perfect: wasn't it, Violet?" 
 
 " I wish I could have seen it better," returns Violet, " but, 
 you see, I was playing." 
 
 " I wish I could have seen it forever," says Mr. Darling, 
 gallantly, addressing Mona ; " but all good things have an end 
 too soon. Do you remember some lines like these ? they come 
 to me just now : 
 
 " When you do dance, I wish you 
 A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that." 
 
 " Yes, 1 recollect : they are from the ' Winter's Tale,' I 
 think," says Mona, shyly ; " but you say too much for me," 
 
 " Not half enough," says Mr, Darling, enthusiastically. 
 
 " Don't you think, sir, you would like to get ready for din- 
 ner?" says Geoffrey, with mock severity, " You can continue 
 your attentions to my wife later on, — at your peril." 
 
 " I accept the risk," says Nolly, with much stateliness, and 
 forthwith retires to make himself presentable. 
 
 16* 
 
174 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 HOW NOLLY, HAVING MADE HIMSELF PRESENTABLE, TRIES 
 ALSO TO MAKE HIMSELF AGREEABLE — AND HOW HE 
 SUCCEEDS. 
 
 Me. Darling is a flaxen-haired young gentleman of about 
 four-and-twenty, with an open and ingenuous countenance, 
 and a disposition cheerful to the last degree. He is positively 
 beaming with youth and good spirits, and takes no pains what- 
 ever to suppress the latter ; indeed, if so sweet-tempered a 
 youth could be said to have a fault, it lies in his inability to 
 hold his tongue. Talk he must, so talk he does, — anywhere 
 and everywhere, and under all circumstances. 
 
 He succeeds in taking Mona down to dinner, and shows 
 himself particularly devoted through all the time they spend 
 in the dining-room, and follows her afterwards to the drawing- 
 room, as soon as decency will permit. He has, in fact, fallen 
 a hopeless victim to Mona's charms, and feels no shame in the 
 thought that all the world must notice his subjugation. On 
 the contrary, he seems to glory in it. 
 
 " I was in your country the other day," he says, pushing 
 Mona's skirts a little to one side, and sinking on to the otto- 
 man she has chosen as her own resting-place. " And a very 
 nice country it is." 
 
 " Ah 1 were you really there 1" says Mona, growing at oncB 
 bright and excited at the bare mention of her native land. 
 At such moments she falls again unconsciously into the " thens," 
 and " sures," and " ohs !" and " ahs !" of her Ireland. 
 
 " Yes, I was indeed. Down in a small place called Castle- 
 Council, near Limerick. Nice people in Limerick, but a trifle 
 flighty, don't you think ? Fond of the merry blunderbuss, 
 and all that, and with a decided tendency towards midnight 
 maraudings." 
 
 " T am afraid you went to almost the worst part of Ire- 
 land," says IMona, shaking her head. " New Pallas, and all 
 round Limerick, is so dreadfully disloyal." 
 
 " Well, that was just my luck, you see," says Darling. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 175 
 
 " We have some property there. And, as I am not of much 
 account at home, ' my awful dad' sent me over to Ireland to 
 Bee why the steward didn't get in the rents. Perhaps he 
 hoped the natives might pepper me ; but, if so, it didn't come 
 off. The natives, on the contrary, quite took to me, and 
 adopted me on the spot. I was nearly as good as an original 
 Bon of Erin in a week." 
 
 " But how did you manage to procure their good graces?" 
 
 " I expect they thought me beneath their notice, and, as they 
 wouldn't hate me, they were forced to love me. Of course 
 they treated the idea of paying up as a good joke, and spoke 
 a great deal about a most unpleasant person called Griffith and 
 his valuation, whatever that may be. So I saw it was of no 
 use, and threw it up, — my mission, I mean. I had capital 
 shooting, as far as partridges were concerned, but no one 
 dreamed of wasting a bullet upon me. They positively de- 
 clined to insert a bit of lead in my body. And, considering I 
 expected some civility of the kind on going over, I felt some 
 what disappointed, and decidedly cheap." 
 
 " We are not so altogether murderous as you seem to think," 
 gays INIona, half apologetically. 
 
 " Murderous ! They are a delightful people, and the scenery 
 is charming, you know, all round. The Shannon is positively 
 lovely. But they wouldn't pay a farthing. And, 'pon my 
 life, you know," says Mr. Darling, lightly, " I couldn't blame 
 'em. They were as poor as poor could be, regular out-at- 
 elbows, you know, and I suppose they sadly wanted any money 
 they had. I told the governor so when I came back, but I 
 don t think he seemed to see it ; sort of said he wanted it too, 
 and then went on to make some ugly and most uncalled-for 
 remarks about my tailor's bill, which of course I treated with 
 the contempt they deserved." 
 
 " Well, but it was a little hard on your father, wasn't it ?" 
 says Mona, gently. 
 
 " Oh, it wasn't much," says the young man, easily; "an! 
 he needn't have cut up so rough about it. I was a failure, of 
 X)urse, but I couldn't help it ; and, after all, I had a real good 
 time in spite of everything, and enjoyed myself when there 
 down to the ground." 
 
 " I am glad of that," says Mona, nicely, as he pauses merely 
 through a desire for breath, not from a desire for silence. 
 
176 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " I had, really. There was one fellow, a perfect giant,^ 
 Terry CFlynu was his uame, — and he and I were awful 
 chums. We used to go shooting together every day, and got 
 on capitally. He was a tremendously big fellow, could put 
 me in his pocket, you know, and forget I was there until I re- 
 minded him. He was a farmer's son, and a very respectable 
 sort of man. I gave him my watch when I was coming away, 
 and he was quite pleased. They don't have much watches, 
 by the by, the lower classes, do they." 
 
 At this Mona breaks into a sweet but ringing laugh, that 
 makes Lady Rodney (who is growing sleepy, and, therefore, 
 irritable) turn, and fix upon her a cold, reproving glance. 
 
 Geoffrey, too, raises his head and smiles, in sympathy with 
 his wife's burst of merriment, as does Miss Darling, who stops 
 her conversation with Sir Nicholas to listen to it. 
 
 "What are you talking about?" asks Geoffrey, joining 
 Mona and her companion. 
 
 " How could I help laughing," says Mona. " Mr. Darling 
 has just expressed surprise at the fact that the Irish peasantry 
 do not as a rule possess watches." Then suddenly her whole 
 face changes from gayety to extreme sorrow. " Alas ! poor 
 souls !" she says, mournfully, " they don't, as a rule, have even 
 meat !" 
 
 " Well, I noticed that, too. There did seem to be a great 
 scarcity of that raw material," answers Darling, lightly. " Yet 
 they are a fine race in spite of it. I'm going over again to 
 see my friend Terry before very long. He is tlie most amusing 
 fellow, downright brilliant. So is his hair, by the by, — the 
 very richest crimson." 
 
 " But I hope you were not left to spend your days with 
 Terry ?" says Mona, smiling. 
 
 " No. All the county people round when they heard of 
 me — which, according to my own mental calculations on the 
 subject, must have been exactly five minutes after my arrival 
 — quite adopted me. You are a very hospitable nation, Mrs. 
 Kodney ; nobody can deny that. Positively, the whole time 
 I was in Limerick I could have dined three times every day 
 had I so chosen." 
 
 " Bless ixe !" says Geoffrey ; " what an appalling thought! 
 it makes me feel faint." 
 
 " llather so. In their desire to feed me lay my only danger 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 177 
 
 of death. But I pulled through. And I liked every one 1 
 met, — really, you know," to Mona, " and no humbug. Yet I 
 think the happiest days I knew over there were those spent 
 with Terry. It was rather a sell, though, having no real 
 adventure, particularly as I had promised one not only to my- 
 self but to my friends when starting for Paddy-land. I beg 
 your pardon a thousand times 1 Ireland, I mean." 
 
 " I don't mind," says Mona. " We are Paddies, of course." 
 
 " I wish I was one !" says Mr. Dai-ling, with considerable 
 effusion. " I envy the people who can claim nationality with 
 you. I'd be a Paddy myself to-morrow if I could, for that 
 one reason." 
 
 " What a funny boy you are !" says Mona, with a little 
 laugh. 
 
 " So they all tell me. And of course what every one says 
 is true. We're bound to be friends, aren't we ?" rattles on 
 Darling, pleasantly. " Our mutual love for Erin should be a 
 bond between us." 
 
 " I hope we shall be ; I am sure we shall," returns Mona, 
 quickly. It is sweet to her to find a possible friend in this 
 alien land. 
 
 '' Not a doubt of it," says Nolly, gayly. " Every one likes 
 me, you know. ' To see me is to love me, and love but me 
 forever,' and all that sort of thing ; we shall be tremendous 
 friends in no time. The fact is, I'm not worth hating ; I'm 
 neither useful nor ornamental, but I'm perfectly harmless, and 
 there is something in that, isn't there ? Every one can't say 
 the same. I'm utterly certain i/ou can't," with a glance of 
 admiration. 
 
 " Don't be unkind to me," says Mona, with just a touch of 
 innocent and bewitching coquetry. She is telling herself she 
 likes this absurd youtig man better than any one she has met 
 since she came to England, except perhaps Sir Nicholas. 
 
 " That i^j out of my power," says Darling, whom the last 
 speech — and glance that accompanied it — has completely fin- 
 ished. " I only pray you of your grace never to be unkind 
 to me.' 
 
 " What a strange name yours is ! — Nolly," says Mona, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 " Well, I wasn't exactly born so," explains Mr. Darling, 
 frankly ; " Oliver is my name. I rather fancy my own name, 
 
178 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 do you know ; it is uncommon, at all events. One don't hear 
 it called round every corner, and it reminds one of that ' bold 
 bad man' the Protector. But they shouldn't have left out the 
 Cromwell. That would have been a finishing stroke. To hear 
 ene's self announced as Oliver Cromwell Darling in a public 
 room would have been as good as a small fortune." 
 
 " Better," says Mona, laughing gayly. 
 
 " Yes, really, you know, I'm in earnest," declares Mr. 
 Darling, laughing too. He is quite delighted with Mona. 
 To find his path through life strewn with people who will 
 laugh with him, or even at him, is his idea of perfect bliss. 
 So he chatters on to her until, bed-hour coming, and candles 
 being forced into notice, he is at length obliged to tear him- 
 self away from her and follow the men to the smoking-room. 
 
 Here he lays hands on Geoffrey. 
 
 " By Jove, you know, you've about done it," he says, be- 
 Btowing upon Geoffrey's shoulder a friendly pat that rather 
 takes the breath out of that young man's body. " Gave you 
 credit for more common sense. Why, such a proceeding as 
 this is downright folly. You are bound to pay for your fuu, 
 you know, sooner or later." 
 
 " Sir," says Mr. Rodney, taking no notice of this pream- 
 ble, " I shall trouble you to explain what you mean by re- 
 ducing an inoffensive shoulder-blade to powder." 
 
 " Beg pardon, I'm sure," says Nolly, absently. " But" — 
 with sudden interest — " do you know what you have done? 
 You have married the prettiest woman in England." 
 
 " I haven't," says Geoffrey. 
 
 " You have," says Nolly. 
 
 " I tell you I have not," says Geoffrey. " Nothing of the 
 sort. You are wool-gathering." 
 
 " Good gracious ! he can't mean that he is tired of her 
 already," exclaims Mr. Darling, in an audible aside. " That 
 would be too much even for our times." 
 
 At this Geoffrey gives way to mirth. He and Darling are 
 virtually alone, as Nicholas and Captain Rodney are talking 
 earnestly about the impending law-suit in a distant corner. 
 
 " My dear fellow, you have overworked your brain," he 
 Bays, ironically : " You don't understand me. I am not tired 
 of her. I shall never cease to bless the day I saw her," — 
 — this with great earnestness, — " but you say 1 have married 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 179 
 
 the handsomest woman in England, and she is not English at 
 all." 
 
 " Oh, well, what's the odds ?" says Nolly. " "Whether she 
 IS French or English, Irish or German, she has just the love- 
 liest face I ever saw, and the sweetest ways. You've done an 
 awfully dangerous thing. You will be Mrs. Rodney's hus- 
 band in no time, — nothing else, and you positively won't know 
 yourself in a year after. Individuality lost. Name gone. 
 Nothing left but your four bones. Y'ou will be quite thank- 
 ful for them, even, after a bit." 
 
 " You terrify me," says Geoffrey, with a grimace. " You 
 think, then, that Moua is pretty ?" 
 
 " Pretty doesn't express it. She is quite intense ; and new 
 style, too, which of course is everything. You will present 
 her next season, I suppose ? You must, you know, if only in 
 the cause of friendship, as I wouldn't miss seeing Mrs. Lain- 
 trie's and Mrs. Whelon's look of disgust when your wife comes 
 on the scene for worlds 1" 
 
 " Her eyes certainly are " says Geoffrey. 
 
 " She is all your fancy could possibly paint her : she is 
 lovely and divine. Don't try to analyze her charms, my dear 
 Geoff. She is just the prettiest and sweetest woman I ever 
 met. She is young, in the ' very May morn of delight,' yet 
 there is nothing of that horrid shyness — that mauvaise Jionte 
 — about her that, as a rule, belongs to the ' freshness of morn- 
 ing.' Her laugh is so sweet, so full of enjoyment." 
 
 " If you mean me to repeat all this back again, you will 
 find yourself jolly well mistaken ; because, understand at 
 once, I sha'n't do it," says Geoffrey. " I'm not going to have 
 a hand in my undoing ; and such unqualified praise is calcu- 
 lated to turn any woman's head. Seriously, though," says 
 Geoffrey, laying his hands on Darling's shoulders, " I'm tre- 
 mendously glad you like her." 
 
 " Don't !" says Darling, weakly. " Don't put it in that 
 light. It's too feeble. If you said I was madly in love with 
 your wife you would be nearer the mark, as insanity touches 
 on it. I haven't felt so badly for years. It is right down 
 unlucky for me, this meeting with Mrs. Rodney." 
 
 " Poor Mona !" says Geoffrey ; " don't tell her about it, as 
 remorse may sadden her " 
 
 " Look here," says Mr. Darling, "just try one of these, do. 
 
180 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 They are South American cigarettes, and nearly as strong aa 
 the real thing, and quite better : they are a new brand. Try 
 'em ; they'll quite set you up." 
 
 " Give me one, Nolly," says Sir Nicholas, rousing from his 
 revory. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 HOW MONA GOES TO HER FIRST BALL — AND HOW SHE 
 FARES THEREAT. 
 
 It is the day of Lady Chetwoode's ball, or, to be particular, 
 for critics " prove unkind" these times, it is the day to which 
 belongs the night that has been selected for Lady Chetwoode's 
 ball ; all which sounds very like the metre of the house that 
 Jack built. 
 
 Well, never mind I This ball promises to be a great suc- 
 cess. Everybody who is anybody is going, from George 
 Beatoun, who has only five hundred pounds a year in the 
 world, and the oldest blood in the county, to the duchess, who 
 " fiincies" Lilian Chetwoode, and has, in fact, adopted her aa 
 her last " rave." Nobody has been forgotten, nobody is to be 
 chagrined : to guard against this has cost both Sir Guy and 
 Lilian Chetwoode many an hour of anxious thought. 
 
 To Mona, however, the idea of this dance is hardly pure 
 nectar. It is half a terror, half a joy. She is nervous, 
 frightened, and a little strange. It is the first time she has 
 ever been to any large entertainment, and she cannot help 
 looking forward to her own debUt with a longing mingled 
 largely with dread. 
 
 Now, as the hour approaches that is to bring her face to 
 face with half the county, her heart fails her, and almost with 
 a sense of wonder she contrasts her present life with the old 
 one in her emerald isle, where she lived happily, if with a 
 certain dulness, in her uncle's farm-house. 
 
 All day long the rain has been pouring, pouring ; not loudly 
 or boisterously, not dashing itself with passionate force against 
 pane and gable, but falling with a silent and sullen persistency. 
 
 " No walks abroad to-night," says Mr. Darling, in a dismal 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 181 
 
 tone, stanng in an injured fashion upon the drenched lawns 
 and pZeasai/ftce.s outside. " No Cliiuese lanterns, no friendly 
 shrubberies, — nothing /" 
 
 Each window presents an aspect in a degree more dreary 
 than the last, — or so it appears. The flower-beds are beaten 
 down, and are melancholy in the extreme. The laurels do 
 nothing but drip, drip, in a sad aside, " making mournful 
 music for the mind." Whilst up and down the elm walk the 
 dreary wind goes madly, sporting and playing with the rain- 
 drops, as it rashes here and there. 
 
 Indoors King Bore stalks rampant. Nobody seems in very 
 merry mood. Even Nolly, who is generally game for any- 
 thing, is a prey to despair. He has, for the last hour, lost 
 eight of Mona ! 
 
 "" Let us do something, anything, to get rid of some of 
 these interminable hours," says Doatie, flinging her book far 
 from her. It is not interesting, and only helps to add insult 
 to injury. She yawns as much as breeding will permit, and 
 then crosses her hands behind her dainty head. " Oh ! here 
 comes Mona. Mona, I am so bored that I shall die presently, 
 unless you suggest a remedy." 
 
 *' Your brother is better at suggestions than I am," says 
 Mona, gently, who is always somewhat subdued when in the 
 room with Lady Rodney. 
 
 " Nolly, do you hear (hat ? Come over to the fire directly, 
 and cease counting those hateful rain-drops. Mona believes 
 in you. Isn't that joyful news ? Now get out of your moody 
 fit at once, like a dear boy." 
 
 " I sha'n't," says ]\Ir. Darling, in an aggrieved tone. " I 
 feel slighted. IMrs. Rodney has of malice prepense secluded 
 herself from public gaze at least for an hour. I can't forget 
 all that in one moment." 
 
 " Where have you been ?" asks Lady Rodney, slowly, 
 turning her head to look at Mona. " Out of doors?" Hei 
 tone is unpleasant. 
 
 " No. In my own room," says Mona. 
 
 " Oh, Nolly ! do think of some plan to cheat the afternoon 
 of an hour or two," persists Doatie, eagerly. 
 
 " I have it," says her brother, with all the air of one who 
 has discovered a new continent. " Let's talk of graves, of 
 worms, and epitaphs." 
 
 16 
 
182 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 At this Dontie turns her back on him, while Mona breaks 
 into a peal of silvery laughter. 
 
 " Would you not like to do that?" demands Nolly, sadly. 
 *' I should. I'm quite in the humor for it." 
 
 " I am afraid we are not," says Violet, smiling too. " Think 
 of something else." 
 
 " Well, if you all toill insist upon a change, and iesir«> 
 something more lively, then, — 
 
 'For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, 
 And tell sad stories of the death of kings.' 
 
 Perhaps after all you are right, and that will be better. It 
 will be rather effective, too, if uncomfortable, our all sitting on 
 the polished floor." 
 
 " Fancy Nolly quoting Shakspeare," says Geoffrey, who has 
 just entered, and is now leaning over Mona's chair. He stoops 
 and whispers something in her ear that makes her flush and 
 glance appealingly at Doatie. Whereon Miss Darling, who is 
 quick to sympathize, rises, and soon learns what the whisper 
 has been about. 
 
 " Oh ! how charming !" she cries, clapping her hands. " The 
 very thing ! Why did we not think ol' it before ? To teach 
 Mona the last new step ! It will be delicious." Good-natured 
 Doatie, as she says this, springs to her feet and runs her hand 
 into Mona's. " Come," she says. " Before to-night, I promise 
 you, you shall rival Terpsichore herself 
 
 " Yes, she certainly must learn before to-night," says Violet, 
 with sudden and unexpected interest, folding and putting away 
 her work as though bent on other employment. " Let us 
 come into the ball-room." 
 
 " Do you know no other dances but those — er — very Irish 
 
 f)erformances ?" asks Lady Rodney, in a supercilious tone, al- 
 uding to the country dance IMona and Geoffrey had gone 
 through on the night of Doatie's arrival. 
 
 " No. I have never been to a ball in all my life," says Mona, 
 distinctly. But she pales a little at the note of contempt in 
 the other's voice. Unconsciously she moves a few steps nearer 
 to Geoffrey, and holds out her hand to him in a childish en- 
 treating fashion. 
 
 He clasps it and presses it lightly but fondly to his lips. 
 Elis brow darkens. The little stern expression, so seldom seen 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 183 
 
 upon his kindly face, but which is inherited from his father, 
 creeps up now and alters him perceptibly. 
 
 " You mistake my mother," he says to Mona, in a peculiar 
 tone, looking at Lady Rodney, not at her. " My wife is, I am 
 sure, the last person she would choose to be rude to ; though, 
 I confess, her manner just now would mislead most people." 
 
 With the frown still on his forehead, he draws Mona's hand 
 through his arm, and leads her from the room. 
 
 Lady Rodney has turned pale. Otherwise she betrays no 
 sign of chagrin, though in her heart she feels deeply the re- 
 buke administered by this, her favorite son. To have Mona 
 be a witness of her defeat is gall and wormwood to her. And 
 silently, without any outward gesture, she registers a vow to 
 be revenged for the insult (as she deems it) that has just been 
 put upon her. 
 
 Dorothy Darling, who has been listening anxiously to all 
 that has passed, and who is very grieved thereat, now speaks 
 boldly. 
 
 " I am afraid," she says to Lady Rodney, quite calmly, 
 having a little way of her owu of introducing questionable 
 topics without giving oflfence, — " I am afraid you do not like 
 Mona?" 
 
 x\t this Lady Rodney flings down her guard and her work 
 at the same time, and rises to her feet. 
 
 " Like her," she says, with suppressed vehemence. " How 
 should I like a woman who has stolen from me my son, and 
 who can teach him to be rude even to his own mother?" 
 
 " Oh, Lady Rodney, I am sure she did not mean to do that." 
 
 " I don't care what she meant ; she has at all events done 
 it. Like her I A person who speaks of ' Jack Robinson,' 
 and talks of the ' long and the short of it.' How could you 
 imagine such a thing ! As for you, Dorothy, I can only feel 
 regret that you should so far forget yourself as to rush into a 
 friendship with a young woman so thoroughly out of your 
 own sphere." 
 
 Having delivered herself of this speech, she sweeps from 
 the room, leaving Violet and Dorothy slightly nonplussed. 
 
 " Well, I never heard anything so absurd I" says Doatie, 
 presently, recovering her breath, and opening her big eyes to 
 their widest. " Such a tirade, and all for nothing. If say- 
 ing ' Jack Robinson' is a social crime, T must be the biggest 
 
184 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 sinner living, as I say it just when I like. I think Mona 
 adorable, and so does every one else. Don't you ?" 
 
 " I am not sure. I don't fall in love with people at first 
 sight. I am slow to read character," says Violet, calmly. 
 " You, perhaps, possess that gift ?" 
 
 " Not a bit of it, my dear. I only say to myself, such and 
 such a person has kind eyes or a loving mouth, and then I 
 make up my mind to them. I am seldom disappointed ; but 
 as to reading or studying character, that isn't in my line at 
 all. It positively isn't in me. But don't you think Lady 
 Rodney is unjust to Mona?" 
 
 " Yes, I think she is. But of course there are many ex- 
 cuses to be made for her. An Irish girl of no family what- 
 ever, no matter how sweet, is not the sort of person one would 
 select as a wife for one's son. Come to the ball-room. I want 
 to make Mona perfect in dancing." 
 
 " You want to make her a success to-night," says Dorothy, 
 quickly. " I know you do. You are a dear thing, Violet, if 
 a little difficult. And I verily believe you have fallen as great 
 a victim to the charms of this Irish siren ' without family' as 
 any of us. Come, confess it." 
 
 " There is nothing to confess. I think her very much to 
 be liked, if you mean that," says Violet, slowly. 
 
 " She is a perfect pet," says Miss Darling, with emphasis, 
 " and you know it." 
 
 Then they adjourn to the ball-room, and Sir Nicholas is 
 pressed into the service, and presently Jack Rodney, discover- 
 ing where Violet is, drops in too, and after a bit dancing be- 
 comes universal. Entering into the spirit of the thing, they 
 take their " preliminary canter" now, as Nolly expresses it, as 
 though to get into proper training for the Chetwoodes' ball 
 later on. And they all dance with Mona, and show a great 
 desire that she shall not be found wanting when called upon 
 by the rank, beauty, and fashion of Lauderdale to trip it on 
 the " light fantastic toe." 
 
 Even Jack Rodney comes out of himself, and, conquering 
 his habitual laziness, takes her in hand, and, as being the best 
 dancer present, j^ar excellence, teaches and tutors and encour- 
 ages her until Doatie cries " enough," and protests with pathos 
 she will have no more of it, as she is not going to be cut out 
 by Mona at all events in the dancing line. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 185 
 
 So the day wears to evening ; and the rain ceases, and the 
 sullen clouds scud with a violent haste across the tired sky. 
 Then the stars come out, first slowly, one by one, as though 
 timid early guests at the great gathering, then with a brilliant 
 rush, until all the sky, 
 
 "Bespangled with those isles of light 
 So wildly, spiritually bright," 
 
 shows promise of a fairer morrow. 
 
 Mona, coming slowly down-stairs, enters with lagging steps 
 the library, where tea is awaiting them before they start. 
 
 She is gowned in a cream-colored satin that hangs in severe 
 straight lines, and clings to her lissom rounded figure as dew 
 clings to a flower. A few rows of tiny pearls clasp her neck. 
 Upon her bosom some Christmas roses, pure and white as her 
 own soul, lie softly ; a few more nestle in her hair, which is 
 drawn simply back and coiled in a loose knot behind her 
 head ; she wears no ear-rings and very few bracelets. 
 
 One of tlie latter, however, is worthy of note. It is a plain 
 gold band on which stands out a figure of Atalanta posed as 
 when slie started for her famous race. It had been sent to 
 her on her marriage by Mr. Maxwell, in hearty remembrance, 
 no doubt, of the night when she by her fleetness had saved 
 his life. 
 
 She is looking very beautiful to-night. As she enters the 
 room, nearly every one stops talking, and, careless of good 
 breeding, stares at her. There is a touch of purity about 
 Mona that is perhaps one of her chiefest charms. 
 
 Even Lady Kodney can hardly take her eyes from the girl's 
 face as she advances beneath the full glare of the chandelier, 
 utterly unconscious of the extent of the beauty that is her 
 rich gift. 
 
 Sir Nicholas, going up to her, takes her by both hands, and 
 leads her gently beneath the huge bunch of mistletoe that still 
 hangs from the centre-lamp. Here, stooping, he embraces her 
 warmly. Mona, coloring, shrinks involuntarily a few steps 
 backward. 
 
 " Forgive me, my sister," says Nicholas, quickly. " Not 
 the kiss, but the fact that until now I never quite understood 
 how very beautiful you are I" 
 
 Mona smiles brightly — as might any true woman — at so 
 16* 
 
186 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 warm a compliment. But Doatie, putting on a pathetic little 
 mmie that just suits her baby face, walks over to her fianc6 
 and looks up at him with appealing eyes. 
 
 " Don't altogether forget me, Nicholas," she says, in her 
 pretty childish way, pretending (little rogue that she is) to be 
 offended. 
 
 " You, my own !" responds Nicholas, in a very low tone, 
 that of course means everything, and necessitates a withdrawal 
 into the curtained recess of the window, where whisperings 
 may be unheard. 
 
 Then the carriages are announced, and every one finishes his 
 and her tea, and many shawls are caught up, and presently all 
 are driving rapidly beneath the changeful moon to Chetwoode. 
 
 Now, strange as it may seem, the very moment Mona set3 
 her foot upon the polished ball-room floor, and sees the lights, 
 and hears the music, and the distant splashing of water in 
 some unknown spot, and breathes the breath of dying flowers, 
 all fears, all doubts, vanish ; and only a passionate desire to 
 dance, and be in unison with the sweet sounds that move the 
 air, overfills her. 
 
 Then some one asks her to dance, and presently — with her 
 face lit up with happy excitement, and her heart throbbing — 
 she is actually mingling with the gay crowd that a moment 
 since she has been envying. In and out among the dancers 
 they glide, Mona so happy that she barely has time for thought, 
 and so gives herself up entirely to the music to the exclusion 
 of her partner. He has but a small place in her enjoyment. 
 Perhaps, indeed, she betrays her satisfaction rather more than 
 is customary or correct in an age when the nil admirari sys- 
 tem reigns supreme. Yet there are many in the room who 
 unconsciously smile in sympathy with her happy smile, and 
 feel warmed by the glow of natural gladness that animates her 
 breast. 
 
 After a little while, pausing beside a doorway, she casts an 
 upward glance at her companion. 
 
 " I am glad you have at last deigned to take some small 
 notice of me," says he, with a faint touch of pique in his 
 tone. And then, looking at him again, she sees it is the 
 young man who had nearly ridden over her some time ago, 
 and tells herself she has been just a little rude to his Grace 
 the Duke of Lauderdale. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 187 
 
 " And I went to the utmost trouble to get an introduction," 
 goes on Lauderdale, in an aggrieved voice ; " because I thought 
 you niiglit not care about that impromptu ceremony at the 
 lodge-gates; and yet what do I receive for my pains but dis- 
 appointment? Have you quite forgotten me?" 
 
 " No. Of course I remember you now," says Mona, taking 
 all this nonsense as quite bond fide sense, in a maddeningly 
 fascinating fashion. " How unkind I have been ! But I was 
 listening to the music, not to our introduction, when Sir Nich- 
 olas brought you up to me, and — and that is my only excuse." 
 Then, sweetly, " You love music ?" 
 
 " Well, I do," says the duke. " But I say that perhaps as 
 a means of defence. If I said otherwise, you might think me 
 fit only ' for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.' " 
 
 " Oh, no ! you don't look like that," says Mona, with a 
 heavenly smile. " You do not seem like a man that could 
 not be ' trusted.' " 
 
 He is delighted with her ready response, her gaycty, her 
 Bweetness, her freshness ; was there ever so fair a face ? Every 
 one in the room by this time is asking who is the duke's part- 
 ner, and Lady Chetwoode is beset with queries. All the wo- 
 men, except a very few, are consumed with jealousy ; all the 
 men are devoured with envy of the duke. Beyond all doubt 
 the pretty Irish bride is the rage of the hour. 
 
 She chatters on gayly to the duke, losing sight of the fact 
 of his rank, and laughing and making merry with him as 
 though he were one of the ordinary friends of her life. And 
 to Lauderdale, who is susceptible to beauty and tired of ad- 
 ulation, such manner has its charm, and he is perhaps losing 
 his head a little, and is conning a sentence or two of a slightly 
 tender nature, when another partner coming up claims Mona, 
 and carries her away from what might prove dangerous 
 quarters. 
 
 " Malcolm, who was that lovely creature you were talking to 
 just now ?" asks his mother, as Lauderdale draws near her. 
 
 "That? Oh, that was the bride, Mrs. Rodney," replies 
 he. " She is lovely, if you like." 
 
 " Oh, indeed !" says the duchess, with some faint surprise. 
 Then she turns to Lady Kodney, who is near her, and who is 
 looking cold and supercilious. " I congratulate you," she 
 says, warmly. " What a face that child has 1 Hew charmine; ! 
 
188 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 How full of feeling I You are fortunate in securing so fair a 
 daughter." 
 
 " Thank you," says Lady Rodney, coldly, letting her lids 
 fall over her eyes. 
 
 " I am sorry I have missed her so often," says the duchess, 
 who had been told that Mona was out when she called on her 
 the second time, and who had been really not at home when 
 Mona returned her calls. " But you will introduce me to her 
 soon, I hope." 
 
 Just at this moment Mona comes up to them, smiling and 
 happy. 
 
 " Ah 1 here she is," says the duchess, looking at the girl's 
 bright face with much interest, and turning graciously tow- 
 ards Mona. And then nothing remains but for Lady Rodney 
 to get through the introduction as calmly as she can, though 
 it is sorely against her will, and the duchess, taking her hand, 
 says something very pretty to her, while the duke looks on 
 with ill-disguised admiration in his face. 
 
 They are all standing in a sort of anteroom, curtained off, 
 but only partly concealed from the ball-room. Young Lady 
 Cbetwoode, who, as I have said, is a special pet with the 
 duchess, is present, with Sir Guy and one or two others. 
 
 " You must give me another dance, Mrs. Rodney, before 
 your card is quite full," says the duke, smiling. " If, indeed, 
 I am yet in time." 
 
 " Yes, quite in time," says Mona. Then she pauses, look- 
 ing at him so earnestly that he is compelled to return her 
 gaze. " You shall have another dance," she says, in her clear 
 voice, that is perfectly distinct to every one ; " but you must 
 not call me Mrs. Rodney : I am only Mrs. Geoffrey I" 
 
 A dead silence follows. Lady Rodney raises her head, 
 scenting mischief in the air. 
 
 " No ?" says Lauderdale, laughing. " But why, then ? 
 There is no other Mrs. Rodney, is there ?" 
 
 " No. But there will be when Captain Rodney marries. 
 And Lady Rodney says I have no claim to the name at all. 
 I am only Mrs. Geoffrey." 
 
 She says it all quite simply, with a smile, and a quick blush 
 that arises merely from the effort of having to explain, not 
 from the explanation itself There is not a touch of malice 
 in her soft eyes or on her parted lips. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 189 
 
 Lady Ctetwoode looks at her fan and then at Sir Guy. 
 The duchess, with a grave expression, looks at Lady Rodney. 
 Can her old friend have proved herself unkind to this pretty 
 stranger? Can she have already shown symptoms of that 
 tyrannical temper which, according to the duchess, is Lady 
 Rodney's chief bane? She says nothing, however, but, 
 moving her fan with a beckoning gesture, draws her skirts 
 aside, and motions to Mona to seat herself beside her. 
 
 Mona obeys, feeling no shrinking from the kindly stout lady 
 who is evidently bent on being " all things" to her. It does 
 occur, perhaps, to her laughter-loving mind that there is a 
 paucity of nose about the duchess, and a rather large amount 
 of "too, too solid flesh;" but she smothers all such iniqui- 
 tous reflections, and commences to talk with her gayly and 
 naturally. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 now MONA INTERVIEWS THE DUCHESS — AND HOW SHE 
 SUSTAINS CONVERSATION WITH THE RODNEYS* EVIL 
 GENIUS. 
 
 For some time they talk together, and then the duchess, 
 fearing lest she may be keeping Mrs. Geoffrey from the com- 
 mon amusement of a ball-room, says, gently, — 
 
 " You are not dancing much ?" 
 
 " No," says Mona, shaking her head. " Not — not to-night. 
 I shall soon." 
 
 " But why not to-night?" asks her Grace, who has noticed 
 with curiosity the girl's refusal to dance with a lanky young 
 man in a hussar uniform, who had evidently made it the busi- 
 ness of the evening to get introduced to her. Indeed, for an 
 hour he had been feasting his eyes upon her fresh young 
 beauty, and, having gone to infinite trouble to get presented 
 to her, had been rewarded for his trouble by a little friendly 
 smile, a shake of the head, and a distinct but kindly refusal to 
 join in the mazy dance. 
 
 " But why ?" asks the duchess. 
 
 " Because" — with a quick blush — " I am not accustomed to 
 
190 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 dancing much. Indeed, I only learned to-day, and I might 
 not be able to dance with every one." 
 
 " But you were not afraid to dance with Lauderdale, my 
 Bon ?" says the duchess, looking at her. 
 
 " I should never be afraid of him," returns Mona. " He 
 has kind eyes. He is" — slowly and meditatively — " very like 
 you." 
 
 The duchess laughs. 
 
 " He may be, of course," she says. " But I don't like to 
 see a gay child like you sitting still. You should dance every- 
 thing for the night." 
 
 " Well, as I say, I shall soon," returns Mona, brightening, 
 " because Geoffrey has promised to teach me." 
 
 " If I were ' Geoffrey,' I think I shouldn't," says the 
 duchess, meaningly. 
 
 " No ?" raising an innocent face. " Too much trouble, 
 you think, perhaps. But, bless you, Geoffrey wouldn't mind 
 that, so long as he was giving me pleasure." At which answer 
 the duchess is very properly ashamed of both herself and her 
 speech. 
 
 " I should think very few people would deem it a trouble 
 to serve you," she says, graciously. " And perhaps, after all, 
 you don't much care about dancing." 
 
 " Yes, I do," says Mona, truthfully. " Just now, at least. 
 Perhaps" — sadly — " when I am your age I sha'n't." 
 
 This is a hetise of the first water. And Lady Rodney, 
 who can hear — and is listening to — every word, almost groans 
 aloud. 
 
 The duchess, on the contrary, gives way to mirth, and, 
 leaning back in her chair, laughs softly but with evident 
 enjoyment. Mona contemplates her curiously, pensively. 
 
 " What have I said ?" she asks, half plaintively. " You 
 laugh, yet I did not mean to be funny. Tell me what I 
 said." 
 
 " It was only a little touch of nature," explains her Grace. 
 " On that congratulate yourself Nature is at a discount 
 these days. And I — I love nature. It is so rare ; a veritable 
 philosopher's stone. You only told me what my glass tells 
 me daily, — that I am not so young as I once was, — that, in 
 fact, when sitting next pretty children like you, I am quite 
 old." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 191 
 
 " Did I say all that ?" asks Mrs. Geoffrey, with wide eyes. 
 *' Indeed, I think you mistake. Old people have wrinkles, and 
 they do not talk as you do. And when one is sweet to look 
 at, one is never old." 
 
 To pay a compliment perfectly one must, I think, have at 
 least a few drops of Irish blood in one's veins. As a rule, 
 the happy-go-lucky people of Ireland can bring themselves 
 to believe thoroughly, and without hypocrisy, in almost any- 
 thing for the time being, — can fling themselves heart and 
 soul into their flatteries, and come out of them again as vic- 
 tors. And what other nation is capable of this? To make 
 sweet phrases is one thing ; to look as if you felt or meant 
 them is quite another. 
 
 The little suspicion of blarney trips softly and naturally 
 from Mona's tongue. She doesn't smile as she speaks, but 
 looks with eyes full of flattering conviction at the stout but 
 comely duchess. And in truth it may be that in Mona's eyes 
 she is sweet to look at, in that she has been kind and tender 
 towards her in her manner. 
 
 And the duchess is charmed, pleased beyond measure. 
 That faint touch about the wrinkles was the happiest of the 
 happy. Only that morning her Grace, in spite of her unap- 
 proachable maid and unlimited care, had seen an additional 
 line around her mouth that had warned her of youth's decline, 
 and now to meet some one oblivious of this line is sweet to 
 her. 
 
 " Then you didn't go out much in Ireland ?" she says, 
 thinking it more graceful to change the conversation at this 
 point. 
 
 " Out ? Oh, ever so much," says Mrs. Geoffrey. 
 
 " Ah !" says the duchess, feeling puzzled. " Then perhaps 
 they don't dance in Ireland ?" 
 
 *' Yes, they do indeed, a great deal ; at least I have heard 
 
 80." 
 
 " Then I suppose when there you were too young to go 
 out?" pursues the poor duchess, striving for information. 
 
 " I wasn't," says Mona : " I went out a great deal. All day 
 long I was in the open air. That is what made my hands so 
 brown last autumn." 
 
 " Were they brown?" 
 
 " As berries," says Mona, genially. 
 
192 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " At least they are a pretty shape," says the duchess, glanc- 
 ing at the slim little hands lying gloved in their owner's lap. 
 " But I don't think you quite understood the ' going out' in 
 the light that 1 did. I mean, did you go much into society ?" 
 
 " There wasn't much society to go into," says Mona, " and 
 I was only fifteen when staying with Aunt Anastasia. She," 
 confidentially, " made rather a grand match for us, you know." 
 (lisdy Rodney grinds her teeth, and tells herself she is on the 
 point of fainting.) " She married the Provost of Trinity 
 College ; but I don't think he did her any good. She is the 
 oddest old thing ! Even to think of her now makes me 
 laugh. You should have seen her," says Mrs. Geofi"rey, lean- 
 ing back in her chair, and giving way to her usual merry 
 laugh, that rings like a peal of silver bells, " with her wig 
 that had little curls all over it, and her big poke-bonnet like a 
 coal-scuttle!" 
 
 " Well, I really wish I had seen her," says the good- 
 humored duchess, smiling in sympathy, and beginning to feel 
 herself more capable of thorough enjoyment than she has 
 been for years. " Was she witty, as all Irish people are said 
 to be?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, no," says Mona, with an emphatic shake of her 
 lovely head. " She hadn't the least little bit of wit in her 
 
 composition. She was as solemn as an Eng 1 mean a 
 
 Spaniard (they are all solemn, are they not?), and never made 
 a joke in her life, but she was irresistibly comic all the same." 
 Then suddenly, " What a very pretty little woman that is over 
 there, and what a lovely dress !" 
 
 " Very pretty indeed, and quite good taste and that. She's 
 a Mrs. Lennox, and her husband is our master of the hounds. 
 She is always quite correct in the matter of clothes." There 
 is an awful reservation in her Grace's tone, which is quite lost 
 upon Mona. " But she is by no means little in her own 
 opinion, and in fact rather prides herself upon her — er — form 
 generally," concludes the duchess, so far at a loss for a word 
 as to be obliged to fall back upon slang. 
 
 " Her form !" says Mrs. Geofirey, surveying the tiny Mrs. 
 Lennox from head to foot in sheer wonderment. " She need 
 hardly pride herself on that. She hasn't much of it, has 
 Bhc?" 
 
 " Yes, — in her own estimation," says the duchess, some- 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 193 
 
 what severely, whose crowning horror is a frisky matron, to 
 which title little Mrs. Lennox may safely lay claim. 
 
 " "Well, I confess that puzzles me," says Mona, knitting her 
 straight brows and scanning the small lady before her with 
 earnest eyes, who is surrounded by at least a dozen men, with 
 all of whom she is conversing without any apparent eflFort. 
 " I really think she is the smallest woman I ever saw. Why, 
 I im only medium height, but surely I could make two of 
 her. At least I have more figure, or form, as you call it, than 
 she has." 
 
 The duchess gives it up. " Yes, and a far better one, too," 
 she says, amiably, declining to explain. Indeed, she is de- 
 lighted to meet a young woman who actually regards slang as 
 a foreign and unstudied language, and shrinks from being the 
 first to help her to forget the English tongue. " Is there 
 much beauty in Ireland ?" she asks, presently. 
 
 " Yes, but we are all so different from the English. We 
 have no pretty fair hair in Ireland, or at least very little of it." 
 
 " Do you admire our hair? And we are all so heartily 
 tired of it," says the duchess. " Well, tell me more about 
 your own land. Are the women all like you ? In style, I 
 mean. I have seen a few, of course, but not enough to de- 
 scribe a whole." 
 
 "Like me? Oh, no," says Mrs. Geoffrey. "Some of 
 them are really beautiful, like pictures. When I was staying 
 with Aunt Anastasia — the Provost's wife, you remember — I 
 saw a great many pretty people. I saw a great many students, 
 too," says Mona, brightening, " and liked them very much. 
 They liked me, too." 
 
 " How strange !" says the duchess, with an amused smile. 
 " Are you quite sure of that?" 
 
 " Oh, quite. They used to take me all over the college, and 
 sometimes to the bands in the squares. They were very good 
 to me." 
 
 " They would be, of course," says the duchess. 
 
 '* But they were troublesome, very troublesome," says Mrs. 
 Geoffrey, with a retrospective sigh, leaning back in her chair 
 and folding her hands together on her lap. " You can't 
 imagine what a worry they were at times, — always ringing the 
 college bell at the wrong hours, and getting tight 1" 
 
 " Getting what?" asLj the duchess, somewhat taken aback. 
 I n 17 
 
194 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Tight, — screwed, — tipsy, you know," replies Mona, inno- 
 cently. " Tight was the word they taught me. I think they 
 believed it sounded more respectable than the others. And 
 the Divinity boys were the worst Shall I tell you about 
 them ?" 
 
 " Do 1" says the duchess. 
 
 " Well, three of them used to come to see Aunt Anastasia ; 
 at least they said it was auntie, but they never spoke to her 
 if they could help it, and were always so glad when she went 
 to sleep after dinner." 
 
 " I think your aunt Anastasia was very good to them," says 
 the duchess. 
 
 " But after a bit they grew very tiresome. When I tell you 
 they all three proposed to me every day for a week, you will 
 understand me. Yet even that we could have borne, though 
 it was very expensive, because they used to go about stealing 
 my gloves and my ribbons, but when they took to punching 
 each other's heads about me auntie said I had better go to 
 Uncle Brian for a while : so I went ; and there I met Geof- 
 frey," with a brilliant smile. 
 
 " I think Geoffrey owes those Divinity boys more than he 
 can ever pay," says the duchess, very prettily. " You must 
 come and see me soon, child. I am an old woman, and seldom 
 stir from home, except when I am positively ordered out by 
 Malcolm, as I was to-night. Come next Thursday. There are 
 some charming trifles at the old Court that may amuse you, 
 though I may fail to do so." 
 
 " I sha'n't want any trifles to amuse me, if you will talk to 
 me," says Mona. 
 
 " Well, come early. And now go and danoe with Mr. 
 Darling. He has been looking at me very angrily for the last 
 three minutes. By the by," putting up her glasses, " is thai 
 little girl in the lemon-colored gown his sister ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that is Sir Nicholas's Doatie Darling," returns Mona, 
 with a light laugh. And then Nolly leads her away, and, 
 feeling more confident with him, she is once again dancing as 
 gayly as the best. 
 
 " Your foot is plainly • on your native heath,' " says Nolly, 
 " though your name may not be ' McGregor.' What on earth 
 were you saying to that old woman for the last four hours ?" 
 
 *' It was only twenty minutes," says Mona. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 195 
 
 " Twenty minutes ! By Jove, she must be more interesting 
 than we thought," says Mr. Darjing, '• if you can put it at 
 that time. I thought she was going to eat you, she looked so 
 pleased with you. And no wonder, too I" with a loud and a 
 hearty sigh. 
 
 *' She was very nice to me," says Mona, "and is, I think, a 
 very pleasant old lady. She asked me to go and see her next 
 Thursday." 
 
 " Bless my stars !" says Nolly ; " you have been going it. 
 That is the day on which she will receive no one but her chief 
 pets. The duchess, when she comes down here, reverses the 
 order of things. The rest have an ' at home' day. She has 
 a ' not at home' day." 
 
 " Where are people when they are not at home ?" asks 
 Mona, simply. 
 
 " That's the eighth wonder of the world," says Mr. Dar- 
 ling, mysteriously. " It has never yet been discovered. Don't 
 seek to pry too closely into it ; you might meet with a rebuff." 
 
 " How sad Nicholas looks !" says Mona, suddenly. 
 
 In a doorway, somewhat out of the cru.sh. Sir Nicholas is 
 standing. His eyes are fixed on Dorothy, who is laughing 
 with a gay and gallant plunger in the distance. He is looking 
 depressed and melancholy ; a shadow seems to have fallen into 
 his dark eyes. 
 
 " Now he is thinking of that horrid lawsuit again," says 
 Nolly, regretfully, who is a really good sort all round. " Let 
 us go to him." 
 
 " Yes ; let me go to him," says Mona, quickly ; " I shall 
 know what to say better than you." 
 
 After a little time she succeeds in partially lif\:ing the cloud 
 that has fallen on her brother. He has grown strangely fond 
 of her, and finds comfort in her gentle eyes and sympathetic 
 mouth. Like all the rest, he has gone down before Mona, and 
 found a place for her in his heart. He is laughing at some 
 merry absurdity of hers, and is feeling braver, more hopeful, 
 when a little chill seems to pass over him, and, turning, he 
 confronts a tall dark young man who has come leisurely — but 
 with a purpose — to where he and Mona are standing. 
 
 It is Paul Rodney. 
 
 Sir Nicholas, just moving his glass from one eye to the 
 Other, says " Good-evening" to him, bending his head courts- 
 
196 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 ously, nay, very civilly, though without a touch or suspicioa 
 of fVicndliuess. He does not put out his hand, however, and 
 Paul llodney, having acknowledged his salutation by a bow 
 colder and infinitely more distant than his own, turns to 
 Mona. 
 
 " You have not quite forgotten me, I hope, Mrs. Rodney. 
 You will give me one dance ?" 
 
 His eyes, black and faintly savage, seem to burn into hers. 
 
 '' No ; I have not forgotten you," says Mona, shrinking away 
 from him. As she speaks she looks nervously at Nicholas. 
 
 '' Go and dance, my dear," he says, quickly, in a tone that 
 decides her. It is to please him, for his sake, she must do 
 this thing ; and so, without any awkward hesitation, yet with- 
 out undue haste, she turns and lays her hand on the Australian's 
 arm. A few minutes later she is floating round the room in 
 his arms, and, passing by Geoff"rey, though she sees him not, 
 is seen by him. 
 
 "Nicholas, what is the meaning of this?" says Geofi"rey, a 
 few moments later, coming up with a darkening brow to 
 where Nicholas is leaning against a wall. " What has pos- 
 sessed Mona to give that fellow a dance ? She must be mad, 
 or ignorant, or forgetful of everything. She was with you : 
 why did you not prevent it?" 
 
 " My dear fellow, let well alone," says Nicholas, with his 
 slow, peculiar smile, " It was I induced Mona to dance with 
 * that fellow,' as you call him. Forgive me this injury, if in- 
 deed you count it one." 
 
 " I don't understand you," says Geofi"rey, still rather hotly. 
 
 " I think I hardly understand myself: yet I know I am 
 possessed of a morbid horror lest the county should think I 
 am uncivil to this man merely because he has expressed a 
 hope that he may be able to turn me out of doors. His hope 
 may be a just one. I rather think it is : so it pleased me tliat 
 Mona should dance with him, if only to show the room that 
 he is not altogether tabooed by us." 
 
 " But I wish it had been any one but Mona," says Geoffrey, 
 Btill agitated. 
 
 " But who ? Doatie will not dance with him, and Vio- 
 let he never asks. I fell back, then, upon the woman who 
 has so little malice in her heart that she could not be ungra- 
 cious to any one. Against her will she read my desire in my 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 197 
 
 eyes, and has so far sacrificed herself for my sake. I had no 
 right to compel your wife to this satisfying of my vanity, yet 
 I could not resist it. Forget it ; the dance will soon be over." 
 
 " It seems horrible to me that Mona should be on friendly 
 terms with your enemy," says Geoifrey, passionately. 
 
 " He is not my enemy. My dear boy, spare me a three-aot 
 drama. What has the man done, beyond wearing a few 
 gaudy rings, and some oppressive neckties, that you should 
 hate him as you do? It is unreasonable. And, besides, he 
 is in all probability your cousin. Parkins and Slow declare 
 they can find no flaw in the certificate of his birth ; and — ia 
 not every man at liberty to claim his own ?" 
 
 " If he claims my wife for another dance, I'll " begins 
 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 " No, you won't," interrupts his brother, smiling. " Though 
 I think the poor child has done her duty now. Let him pass. 
 It is he should hate me, not I him." 
 
 At this Geoffrey says something under his breath about 
 Paul Rodney that he ought not to say, looking the while at 
 Nicholas with a certain light in his blue eyes that means not 
 only admiration but affection. 
 
 Meantime, Mona, having danced as long as she desires with 
 this enemy in the camp, stops abruptly before a curtained en- 
 trance to a small conservatory, into which he leads her before 
 she has time to remonstrate: indeed, there is no apparent 
 reason why she should. 
 
 Her companion is singularly silent Scarce one word has 
 escaped him since she first laid her hand upon his arm, and 
 now again dumbness, or some hidden feeling, seals his lips. 
 Of this Mona is glad. She has no desire to converse with 
 him, and is just congratulating herself upon her good fortune 
 In that he decUnes to speak with her, when he breaks the wel- 
 come silence. 
 
 " Have they taught you to hate me already ?" he asks, in 
 a low, compressed tone, that makes her nerves assert them- 
 selves. 
 
 " I have been taught nothing," she says, with a most suc- 
 cessful grasp at dignity. " They do not speak of you at the 
 Towers, — at lea.st, not unkindly." She looks at him as she 
 Bays this, but lowers her eyes as she meets his. This dark, 
 vehement young man almost frightens her, 
 
 17* 
 
198 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Yet, in spite of what you say, you turn from me, you 
 despise me," exclaims he, with some growing excitement. 
 
 " Why should I despise you ?" asks she, slowly, opening 
 her eyes. 
 
 The simple query confounds him more than might a more 
 elaborate one put by a clever worldling. Why, indeed ? 
 
 " I was thinking about this impending law-suit," he stam 
 mers, uneasily. " You know of it, of course ? Yet why 
 should I be blamed ?" 
 
 " No one blames you," says Mona ; " yet it ia hard that 
 Nicholas should be made unhappy." 
 
 " Other people are unhappy, too," says the Australian, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " Perhaps they make their own unhappiness," says Mona, 
 at random. " But Nicholas has done nothing. He is good 
 and gentle always. He knows no evil thoughts. He wishes 
 ill to no man." 
 
 " Not even to me ?" with a sardonic laugh. 
 
 " Not even to you," very gravely. There is reproof in her 
 tone. They are standing somewhat apart, and her eyes have 
 been turned from him. Now, as she says this, she changes 
 her position slightly, and looks at him very earnestly. From 
 the distant ball-room the sound of the dying music comes sadly, 
 sweetly ; a weeping fountain in a corner mourns bitterly, as it 
 seems to Mona, tear by tear, perhaps for some lost nymph. 
 
 " Well, what would you have me do ?" demands he, with 
 some passion. " Throw up everything ? Lands, title, posi- 
 tion ? It is more than could be expected of any man." 
 
 " Much more," says Mona ; but she sighs as she says it, and 
 a little look of hopelessness comes into her face. It is so easy 
 to read Mona's face. 
 
 "You are right," he says, with growing vehemence : "no 
 man would do it. It is such a brilliant chance, such a splendid 
 
 scheme ." He checks himself suddenly. Mona looks at 
 
 him curiously, but says nothing. In a second he recovers 
 himself, and goes on : " Yet because I will not relinquish my 
 just claim you look upon me with hatred and contempt." 
 
 " Oh, no," says Mona, gently ; " only I should like you 
 better, of course, if you were not the cause of our undoing." 
 
 " ' Our' ? How you associate yourself with these Rodneys I" 
 he says, scornfully ; " yet you are as unlike them as a dove ia 
 
MRS. OEOFFREF. 199 
 
 nnlike a hawk. How came you to fall into their nest ? And 
 BO if I could only consent to efface myself you would like me 
 better, — tolerate me in fact? A poor return for annihilation. 
 And yet," impatiently, " I don't know. If I could be sure 
 
 that even my memory would be respected by you ." He 
 
 pauses and pushes back his hair from his brow. 
 
 " "Why could you not have stayed in Australia ?" says Mona, 
 with some excitement. " You are rich ; your home is there ; 
 you have passed all your life up to this without a title, with- 
 out the tender associations that cling round Nicholas and that 
 will cost him almost his life to part with. You do not want 
 them, yet you come here to break up our peace and make ua 
 all utterly wretched." 
 
 " Not you," says Paul, quickly, " What is it to you ? It 
 will not take a penny out of your pocket. Your husband," 
 with an evil sneer, " has his income secured. I am not mak- 
 ing you wretched." 
 
 " You are," says Mona, eagerly. " Do you think," tears 
 gathering in her eyes, " that 1 could be happy when those I 
 love are reduced to despair?" 
 
 " You must have a large heart to include all of them," says 
 Rodney, with a shrug. " Whom do you mean by ' those you 
 love ?' Not Lady llodney, surely. She is scarcely a person, 
 I take it, to inspire that sentiment in even your tolerant breast. 
 It cannot be for her sake you bear me such ill will ?" 
 
 " I bear you no ill will ; you mistake me," says Mona, 
 quietly : " I am only sorry for Nicholas, because I do love him." 
 
 " Do you ?" says her companion, staring at her, and draw- 
 ing his breath a little hard. " Then, even if he should lose 
 to me lands, title, nay, all he possesses, I should still count 
 him a richer man than I am." 
 
 " Oh, poor Nicholas 1" says Mona, sadly, " and poor little 
 Doatie 1" 
 
 " You speak as if my victory was a foregone conclusion," 
 Bays llodney. " How can you tell ? He may yet gain the 
 day, and I may be the outcast." 
 
 " I hope with all my heart you will," says Mona. 
 
 " Thank you," replies he, stiflBy ; " yet, after all, I think I 
 should bet upon my own chance." 
 
 " I am afraid you are right," says Mona. " Oh, why did 
 you come over at all ?" 
 
200 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " I am very glad I did," replies he, doggedly. " At least 
 I have seen you. They cannot take that from me. I shall 
 always be able to call the remembrance of your face my own." 
 
 Mona hardly hears him. She is thinking of Nicholas's 
 face as it was half an hour ago when he leaned against the 
 deserted doorway and looked at pretty Dorothy. 
 
 Yet pretty Dorothy at her very best moments had nevei 
 looked, nor ever could look, as lovely as Mona appears now, as 
 she stands with her hands loosely clasped before her, and the 
 divine light of pity in her eyes, that are shining softly like 
 twin stars. 
 
 Behind her rises a tall shrub of an intense green, against which 
 the soft whiteness of her satin gown gleams with a peculiar 
 richness. Her gaze is fixed upon a distant planet that watches 
 her solemnly through the window from its seat in the far-off 
 heaven, " silent, as if it watch'd the sleeping earth." 
 
 She sighs. There is pathos and sweetness and tenderness 
 in every line of her face, and much sadness. Her lips are 
 slightly parted, " her eyes are homes of silent prayer." Paul, 
 watching her, feels as though he Ls in the presence of some 
 gentle saint, sent for a space to comfort sinful earth. 
 
 A passionate admiration for her beauty and purity fills his 
 breast ; he could have fallen at her feet and cried aloud to her 
 to take pity upon him, to let some loving thought for him — • 
 even him too — enter and find fruitful soil within her heart. 
 
 " Try not to hate me," he says, imploringly, in a broken 
 voice, going suddenly up to her and taking one of her hands in 
 his. His grasp is so hard as almost to hurt her. Mona, 
 awakening from her revery, turns to him with a start. Some- 
 thing in his face moves her. 
 
 " Indeed, I do not hate you," she says, impulsively. " Be 
 lieve me, I do not. But still I fear you." 
 
 Some one is coming quickly towards them. Rodney, drop- 
 ping Mona's hand, looks hurriedly round, only to see Lady 
 Rodney approaching. 
 
 " Your husband is looking for you," she says to Mona, in 
 an icy tone. " You had better go to him. This is no place 
 for you." 
 
 Without vouchsafing a glance of recognition to the Aus- 
 tralian, she sweeps past, leaving them again alone. Paul 
 laughs aloud. 
 
MRS!. GEOFFREY. , 
 
 " ' A haughty spirit comes before a fall,' " quotes he, coo- 
 temptuously. 
 
 " I must go now. Good-night," says Mona, kindly if 
 coldly. He escorts her to the door of the conservatory. 
 There Lauderdale, who is talking with some men, comes for- 
 ward and oiFers her his arm to take her to the carriage. And 
 then adieux are said, and the duke accompanies her down-stairs, 
 whilst Lady Rodney contents herself with one of her sons. 
 
 It is a triumph, if Mona only knew it, but she is full of 
 Bad reflections, and is just now wrapped up in mournful 
 thoughts of Nicholas and little Dorothy. Misfortune seems 
 flying towards them on strong swift wings. Can nothing stay 
 its approach, or beat it back in time to eff'ect a rescue ? If 
 they fail to find the nephew of the old woman Elspeth in 
 Sydney, whither he is supposed to have gone, or if, on finding 
 him, they fail to elicit any information from him on the sub- 
 ject of the lost will, aft'airs may be counted almost hopeless. 
 
 " Mona," says Geofi"rey to her suddenly, in a low whisper, 
 throwing his arm round her (they are driving home alone 
 in the small night-brougham), — " Mona, do you know what 
 you have done to-night ? The whole room went mad about 
 you. They would talk of no one else. Do not let them turn 
 your head." 
 
 " Turn it where, darling ?" asks she, a little dreamily. 
 
 " Away from me," returns he, with some emotion, tighten- 
 ing his clasp round her. 
 
 " From you ? Was there ever such a dear silly old goose," 
 says Mrs. Geoifrey, with a faint, loving laugh. And then, 
 with a small sigh full of content, she forgets her cares for 
 others for a while, and, nestling closer to him, lays her head 
 upon his shoulder and rests there happily until they reach the 
 Towers. 
 
202 MRS. OEOFFREV. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HOW THE CLOUD GATHERS — AND HOW NICHOLAS AND 
 DOROTHY HAVE THEIR BAD QUARTER OP AN HOUR. 
 
 The blow so long expected, yet so eagerly and hopefully 
 BcofFed at with obstinate persistency, falls at last (all too soon) 
 upon the Towers. Perhaps it is not the very final blow that 
 when it comes must shatter to atoms all the old home-ties, and 
 the tender links that youth has forged, but it is certainly a 
 cruel shaft, that touches the heart-strings, making them quiver. 
 The first thin edge of the wedge has been inserted ; the sword 
 trembles to its fall ; cest le commencement de la fin.' ^ 
 
 It is the morning after Lady Chetwoode's ball. Every one 
 has got down to breakfast. Every one is in excellent spirits, 
 in spite of the fact that the rain is racing down the window- 
 panes in torrents, and that the post is late. 
 
 As a rule it always is late, except when it is pretematurally 
 early : sometimes it comes at half-past ten, sometimes with 
 the hot water. There is a blessed uncertainty about its ad- 
 vent that keeps every one on the tiptoe of expectation, and 
 probably benefits circulation. 
 
 The postman himself is an institution in the village, being 
 of an unknown age, in fact, the real and original oldest in- 
 habitant, and still with no signs of coming dissolution about 
 him, thereby carrying out Dickens's theory that a dead post- 
 boy or a dead donkey is a thing yet to be seen. He is a 
 lioary-headed old person, decrepit and garrulous, with only one 
 leg worth speaking about, and an ear trumpet. This last is 
 merely for show, as once old Jacob is set fairly talking, no 
 human power could get in a word from any one else. 
 
 " I am always so glad when the post doesn't arrive in time 
 for breakfast," Doatie is saying, gayly. " Once those horrid 
 papers come, every one gets stupid and engrossed, and thinks 
 it a positive injury to have to say even ' yes' or ' no' to a civil 
 question. Now see how sociable we have been this morning, 
 because that dear Jacob is late again. Ah 1 I spoke too soon," 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 203 
 
 a» the door opens and a servant enters with a most imposing 
 pile of letters and papers. 
 
 " Late ajrain, Jermyn," says Sir Nicholas, lazily. 
 
 " Yes, Sir Nicholas, — ^just an hour and a half. He desired 
 me to say he had had another ' dart' in his rheumatic knee thia 
 morning, so hoped you would excuse him." 
 
 " Poor old soul !" says Sir Nicholas. 
 
 "Jolly old bore !" says Captain Rodney, though not unkindly. 
 
 " Don't throw me over that blue envelope, Nick," says 
 Nolly : " I don't seem to care about it. I know it, I think : 
 it seems familiar. You may have it, with my love. Mrs. 
 Geoffrey, be so good as to tear it in two." 
 
 Jack is laughing over a letter written by one of the fellows 
 in India ; all are deep in their own correspondence. 
 
 Sir Nicholas, having gone leisurely through two of his let- 
 ters, opens a third, and begins to penise it rather carelessly. 
 But hardly has he gone half-way down the first page when 
 his fiice changes ; involuntarily his fingers tighten over the 
 luckless letter, crimping it out of all shape. By a supreme 
 effort he suppresses an exclamation. It is all over in a mo- 
 ment. Then he raises his head, and the color comes back to 
 bis lips. He smiles faintly, and, saying something about hav- 
 ing many things to do this morning, and that therefore he 
 hopes they will forgive his running away from them in such a 
 hurry, he rises and walks slowly from the room. 
 
 Nobody has noticed that anything is wrong. Only Doatie 
 turns very pale, and glances nervously at Geoffrey, who an- 
 swers her frightened look with a perplexed one of his own. 
 
 Then, as breakfast was virtually over before the letters came, 
 they all rise, and disperse themselves as fancy dictates. But 
 Geoffrey goes alone to where he knows he shall find Nicholas 
 \v his own den. 
 
 An hour later, coming out of it again, feeling harassed and 
 anxious, he finds Dorothy walking restlessly up and down the 
 corridor outside, as though listening for some sound she pines 
 to hear. Her pretty face, usually so bright and dihonnaire, 
 is pale and sad. Her lips are trembling. 
 
 " May I not see Nicholas, if only for a moment ?" she says, 
 plaintively, gazing with entreaty at Geoffrey. At which Nich- 
 olas, hearing from within the voice that rings its changes on 
 his heart from morn till eve, calls aloud to her, — 
 
204 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Come in, Dorothy. I want to speak to you." 
 
 So she goes in, and Geoflfrey, closing the door behind her, 
 leaves them together. 
 
 She would have gone to him then, and tried to console him 
 in her own pretty fashion, but he motions her to stay where 
 she is. 
 
 " Do not come any nearer," he says, hastily, " I can tell it 
 all to you better, more easily, when I cannot see you." 
 
 So Doatie, nervous and miserable, and with unshed tears in 
 her eyes, stands where he tells her, with her hand resting on 
 the back of an arm-chair, while he, going over to the window, 
 deliberately turns his face from hers. Yet even now he seems 
 to find a diflficulty in beginning. There is a long pause ; and 
 then 
 
 " They — they have found that fellow, — old Elspeth's 
 nephew," he says, in a husky tone. 
 
 " Where ?" asks Doatie, eagerly. 
 
 " In Sydney. In Paul Rodney's employ. In his very house." 
 
 " Ah !" says Doatie, clasping her bauds. " And " 
 
 " He says he knows nothing about any will." 
 
 Another pause, longer than the last. 
 
 " He denies all knowledge of it. I suppose he has been 
 bought up by the other side. And now what remains for us 
 to do ? That was our last chance, and a splendid one, as 
 there are many reasons for believing that old Elspeth either 
 burned or hid the will drawn up by my grandfather on the 
 night of his death ; but it has failed us. Yet I cannot but 
 think this man Warden must know something of it. How 
 did he discover Paul Rodney's home ? It has been proved 
 that old Elspeth was always in communication with my uncle 
 up to the hour of her death ; she must have sent Warden to 
 Australia then, probably with this very will she had been so 
 carefully hiding for years. If so, it is beyond all doubt 
 burned or otherwise destroyed by this time. Parkins writes 
 to me in despair." 
 
 " This is dreadful 1" says Doatie. " But" — brightening — 
 ** surely it is not so bad as death or disgrace, is it ?" 
 
 " It means death to me," replies he, in a low tone. " It 
 means that I shall lose you." 
 
 " Nicholas," cries she, a little sharply, " what is it you 
 would say ?" 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 205 
 
 " Nay, hear me, ' exclaims he, turning for the first time to 
 confront her ; and, as he does, she notices the ravafz;es that 
 the last hour of anxiety and trouble have wrought upon his 
 face. He is looking thin and haggard, and rather tired. All 
 her heart goes out to him, and it is with difficulty she restrains 
 her desire to run to him and encircle him with her soft arms. 
 But something in his expression prevents her. 
 
 " Hear me," he says, passionately : " if I am worsted in this 
 fight — and I see no ray of hope anywhere — I am a ruined 
 man. I shall then have literally only five hundred a year that 
 I can call my own. No home ; no title. And such an income 
 as that, to people bred as you and I have been, means simply 
 penury. AH must be at an end between us, Dorothy. We 
 must try to forget that we have ever been more than ordinary 
 friends." 
 
 This tirade has hardly the effect upon Dorothy that might 
 be desired. She still stands firm, utterly unshaken by the 
 storm that has just swept over her (frail child though she is), 
 and, except for a slight touch of indignation that is fast 
 £Towing within her eyes, appears unmoved. 
 
 " You may try just as hard as ever you like," she says, with 
 dignity : " I shan't !" 
 
 " So you think now ; but by and by you will find the press- 
 ure too great, and you will go with the tide. If I were to 
 work for years and years, I could scarcely at the end achieve 
 a position fit to offer you. And I am thirty-two, remember, 
 — not a boy beginning life, with all the world and time before 
 him, — and you are only twenty. By what right should I sac- 
 rifice your youth, your prospects? Some other man, some 
 one more fortunate, may perhaps " 
 
 Here he breaks down ignomiuiously, considering the amount 
 of sternness he had summoned to his aid when commencing, 
 and, walking to the mantel-piece, lays his arms on it, and his 
 head upon his arms. 
 
 " You insult me," says Dorothy, growing even whiter than 
 ehe was before, " when you speak to me of — of " 
 
 Then she, too, breaks down, and, going over to him, delib- 
 erately lifts one of his arms and lays it round her neck, after 
 which she places both hers gently round his, and so, having 
 comfortably arranged herself, proceeds to indulge in a hearty 
 burst of tears. This is, without exception, the very wisest 
 
 18 
 
206 MliS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 course she could have taken, as it fin<:;htcns the life out of 
 Nicholas, and brings him to a more proper frame of mind in 
 no time. 
 
 " Oh, Dorothy, don't do that 1 Don't, my dearest, my pet !" 
 he entreats. " I won't say another word, not one, if you will 
 only stop." 
 
 " You have said too much already, and there shant be an 
 end of it, as you declared just now," protests Doatie, vehe- 
 mently, who declines to be comforted just yet, and is perhaps 
 finding some sorrowful enjoyment in the situation. " I'll take 
 very good care there sha'n'tl And I won't let you give me 
 up. I don't care how poor you are. And I must say I think 
 it is very rude and heartless of you, Nicholas, to want to hand 
 me over to ' some other* man,' as if I was a book or a parcel I 
 ' Some other man,' indeed !" winds up Miss Darling, with a 
 final sob and a heavy increase of righteous wrath. 
 
 " But what is to be done ?" asks Nicholas, distractedly, 
 though inexpressibly cheered by these professions of loyalty 
 and devotion. " Your people won't hear of it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, they will," returns Doatie, emphatically. " They 
 will probably hear a great deal of it ! I shall speak of it 
 morning, noon, and night, until out of sheer vexation of spirit 
 they will come in a body and entreat you to remove me. 
 Ah !" regretfully, " if only I had a fortune now, how sweet it 
 would be ! I never missed it before. We are really very 
 unfortunate." 
 
 " We are, indeed. But I think your having a fortune 
 would only make matters worse." Then he grows despairing 
 once more. " Dorothy, it is madness to think of it. I am 
 speaking only wisdom, though you are angry with me for it. 
 Why encourage hope where there is none?" 
 
 " Because ' the miserable hath no other medicine but only 
 hope,' " quotes she, very sadly. 
 
 " Yet what does Feltham say ? ' He that hopes too much 
 shall deceive himself at last.' Your medicine is dangerous, 
 darling. It will kill you in the end. Just think, Dorothy, 
 how could you live on five hundred a year ?" 
 
 " Other people have done it, — do it every day," says Dor- 
 othy, stoutly. She has dried her eyes, and is looking almost 
 as pretty as ever. " We might find a dear nice little house 
 somewhere, Nicholas," this rather vaguely, " might wo not ? 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 207 
 
 with some fiimiture in Queea Anne's style. Queen Anne, 
 or what looks like her, is not so very expensive now, is she ?" 
 
 "No," says Nicholas, "she isn't; though I should consider 
 her dear at any price." He is a depraved young man, who 
 declines to see beauty in ebony and gloom. " But," with a 
 sigh, " I don't think you quite understand, darling." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do," says Dorothy, with a wise shake of her 
 blonde head ; " you mean that probably we shall not be ablo 
 to order any furniture at all. Well, even if it comes to sitting 
 on one horrid kitchen deal chair with you, Nicholas, I sha'n't 
 mind it a scrap." She smiles divinely, and with the utmost 
 cheerfulness, as she says this. But then she has never tried 
 to sit on a deal chair, and it is a simple matter to conjure up 
 a smile when woes are imaginary. 
 
 " You are an angel," says Nicholas. And, indeed, con- 
 sidering all things, it is the least he could have said. " If we 
 weather this storm, Dorothy," he goes on, earnestly, — " if, by 
 any chance. Fate should reinstate me once more firmly in tho 
 position I have always held, — it shall be my proudest remem- 
 brance that in my adversity you were faithful to me, and 
 were content to share my fortune, evil though it showed itself 
 to be." 
 
 They are both silent for a little while, and then Dorothy 
 says, softly, — 
 
 " Perhaps it will all come right at last. Oh ! if some kind 
 good fairy would but come to our aid and help us to confound 
 our enemies !" 
 
 " I am afraid there is only one fairy on earth just now, and 
 that is you," says Nicholas, with a faint smile, smoothing 
 back her pretty hair with loving fingers, and gazing fondly 
 into the blue eyes that have grown so big and earnest during 
 their discussion. 
 
 " I mean a real fairy," says Dorothy, shaking her head. " If 
 she were to come now this moment and say, ' Dorothy' " 
 
 " Dorothy," says a voice outside at this very instant, so ex 
 actly as Doatie pauses that both she and Nicholas start simul- 
 taneously. 
 
 " That is Mona's voice," says Doatie. " 1 must go. 
 Finish your letters, and come for me then, and we can go into 
 the garden and talk it all over again. Come in, Mona : I am 
 here." 
 
208 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 She opens the door, and runs almost into Mona's arms, who 
 is evidently searching for her everywhere. 
 
 " Ah ! now, I have disturbed you," says Mrs. Geoffrey, 
 pathetically, to whom lovers are a rare delight and a sacred 
 study. " How stupid of me 1 Sure you needn't have come 
 out, when you knew it was only me. And of course he wants 
 you, poor dear fellow. I thought you were in the small 
 drawing-room, or I shouldn't have called you at all." 
 
 " It doesn't matter. Come upstairs with me, Mona. I 
 want to tell you all about it," says Doatie. The reaction has 
 set in, and she is again tearful, and reduced almost to despair. 
 
 " Alas 1 Geoffrey has told me everything," says Mona. 
 " That is why I am now seeking for you. I thought, 1 
 knew, you were unhappy, and I wanted to tell you how I 
 suffer with you." 
 
 By this time they have reached Dorothy's room, and now, 
 sitting down, gaze mournfully at each other. Mona is so 
 truly grieved that any one might well imagine this misfortune, 
 that is rendering the very air heavy, is her own, rather than 
 another's. And this wholesale sympathy, this surrendering 
 of her body and mind to a grief that does not touch herself, 
 is inexpressibly sweet to her poor little friend. 
 
 Kneeling down by her, Dorothy lays her head upon Mona'a 
 knee, and burets out crying afresh. 
 
 " Don't, now," says Mona, in a low, soothing tone, folding 
 her in a close embrace ; " this is wrong, foolish. And when 
 things come to the worst they mend." 
 
 " Not always," sobs Doatie. " I know how it will be. We 
 shall be separated, — torn asunder, — and then after a while 
 they will make me marry somebody else ; and in a weak 
 moment I shall do it 1 And then I shall be utterly wretched 
 for «ver and ever." 
 
 " You malign yourself," says Mona. " It is all impossible. 
 You will have no such weak moment, or I do not know you. 
 You will be faithful always, until he can marry you, and, if 
 ho never can, why, then you can be faithful too, and go to 
 your grave with his image only in your heart. That is not 
 60 bad a thought, is it ?" 
 
 " N — ot very," says Doatie, dolefully. 
 
 " And, besides, you cau always see him, you know," goes 
 on Mona, cheerfully. "It is not as if death had stolen him 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 209 
 
 from you. He will be always somewhere ; and you can look 
 into his eyes, and read how his love for you has survived 
 everything. And perhaps, after some time, he may distinguish 
 himself in some way and gain a position far grander than 
 mere money or rank can afford, because you know he is won- 
 derfully clever." 
 
 " He is," says Dorothy, with growing animation. 
 
 " And perhaps, too, the law may be on his side : there ia 
 plenty of time yet for a missing will or a — a — useful witness 
 to turn up. That will," says Mona, musingly, " must be 
 somewhere. I cannot tell you why I think so, but I am quite 
 sure it is still in existence, that no harm has come to it. It 
 may be discovered yet." 
 
 She looks so full of belief in her own fancy that she in- 
 spires Doatie on the spot with a similar faith. 
 
 " Mona ! There is no one so sweet oi 3omfortiug as you 
 are," she cries, giving her a grateful hug. " I really think I 
 do feel a little better now." 
 
 " That's right, then," says Mona, quite pleased at her 
 success. 
 
 Violet, coming in a few moments later, finds them still dis- 
 cussing the all-important theme. 
 
 " It is unfortunate for every one," says Violet, discon- 
 Bolately, sinking into a low chair. " Such a dear house, and to 
 have it broken up and given into the possession of such a 
 creature as that." She shrugs her shoulders with genuine 
 disgust. 
 
 " You mean the Australian?" says Dorothy, " Oh, as for 
 him, he is perfectly utter I — such a man to follow in Nicholas's 
 footsteps !" 
 
 " I don't suppose any one will take the slightest notice of 
 him," says Violet : " that is one comfort." 
 
 " I don't know that : Lilian Chetwoode made him welcome 
 in her house last night," says Doatie, a little bitterly. 
 
 " That is because Nicholas will insist on proving to every 
 one he bears him no malice, and speaks of him persistently as 
 his cousin. Well, he may be his cousin ; but there is a limit 
 to everything," says Violet, with a sliglit frown. 
 
 " That is just what is so noble about Nicholas," returns 
 Doatie, quickly. " He supports him, simply because it is his 
 ©wn quarrel. After all, it matters to nobody but Nicholas 
 V 18* 
 
210 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 himself: no one else will suffer if that odious black man con- 
 quers." 
 
 "Yes, many will. Lady Rodney, — and — and Jack too. 
 He also must lose by it," says Violet, with suppressed warmth. 
 
 " He may ; but how little in comparison I Nobody need be 
 thought of but my poor Nicholas," persists Doatie, who has 
 not read between the lines, and fails therefore in putting a 
 proper construction upon the faint delicate blush that is warm- 
 ing Violet's cheek. 
 
 But Mona has read, and understands perfectly. 
 
 " I think every one is to be pitied ; and Jack more than 
 iiiGSt, — after dear Nicholas," she says, gently, with such a 
 kindly glance at Violet as goes straight to that young woman's 
 heart, and grows and blossoms there forever after. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 HOW DISCUSSION WAXES RIPE — AND HOW NICHOLAS, 
 HAVING MADE A SUGGESTION THAT IS BITTER TO 
 THE EARS OP HIS AUDIENCE, YET CARRIES HIS POINT 
 AGAINST ALL OPPOSITION. 
 
 " The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings 
 of night." The dusk is slowly creeping up over all the land • 
 the twilight is coming on apace. As the day was, so is the 
 gathering eve, sad and mournful, with sounds of rain and 
 sobbings of swift winds as they rush through the barren 
 beeches in the grove. The harbor bar is moaning many miles 
 away, yet its voice is borne by rude Boreas up from the bay to 
 the walls of the stately Towers, that neither rock nor shiver 
 before the charges of this violent son of " imperial ^olus." 
 
 There is a ghostly tapping (as of some departed spirit who 
 would fain enter once again into the old halls so long forgot- 
 ten) against the window-pane. Doubtless it is some waving 
 branch flung hither and thither by the cruel tempest that rages 
 without. Shadows come and go ; and eerie thoughta oppress 
 the breast : 
 
MRS. QEOFFRET. 211 
 
 " Whilst the eoritoh-owl, soritohing load, 
 Puts the wretch that lies in woo 
 In remembrance of a shroud." 
 
 " What a wretched evening I" says Violet, with a little 
 shiver. " Geoffrey, draw the curtains closer." 
 
 " A fit ending to a miserable day," says Lady Kodney, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " Night has always the effect of making bad look worse," 
 says Doatie, with a' sad attempt at cheerfulness. "Never 
 mind ; morning will soon be here again." 
 
 " But why should night produce melancholy ?" says Nich- 
 olas, dreamily. " It is but a reflection of the greater light, 
 after all. What does Richter call it? — 'The great shadow 
 and profile of day.' It is our own morbid fancies that make 
 us dread it." 
 
 " Nevertheless, close the curtains, Geoffrey, and ask Lady 
 Rodney if she would not like tea now," says Violet, sotto voce. 
 
 Somebody pokes the fire, until a crimson light streams 
 through the room. The huge logs are good-naturedly in- 
 clined, and burst their groat sides in an endeavor to promote 
 more soothing thought. 
 
 " As things are so unsettled, Nicholas, perhaps we had better 
 put off our dance," says Lady Rodney, presently. " It may 
 only worry you, and distress us all." 
 
 " No. It will not worry me. Let us have our dance by 
 all means," says Nicholas, recklessly. " Why should we cave 
 in, in such hot haste ? It will give us all something to think 
 about. Why not get up tableaux ? Our last were rather a 
 success. And to represent Nero fiddling, whilst Rome was on 
 fire, would be a very appropriate one for the present occasion." 
 
 He laughs a little as he says this, but there is no mirth in 
 his laugh. 
 
 " Nicholas, come here," says Doatie, anxiously, from out 
 the shadow in which she is sitting, somewhat away from the 
 rest. And Nicholas, going to her, finds comfort and grows 
 calm again beneath the touch of the slim little fingers she 
 slips into his beneath the cover of the friendly darkness. 
 
 " I don't see why we shouldn't launch out into reckless ex- 
 travagance now our time threatens to be so short," says Jack, 
 moodily. " Let's entertain our neighbors right royally before 
 the end comes. Why not wind up like the pantomimes, with 
 
212 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 showers of gold and rockets and the gladsome noise of ' ye 
 festive cracker' ?" 
 
 " What nonsense some people are capable of talking 1" saya 
 Violet, with a little shrug. 
 
 " "Well, why not ?" says Captain Rodney, undaunted by 
 this small snub. " It is far more difficult to talk than sense. 
 Any fellow can do that. If I were to tell you that Nolly is 
 sound asleep, and that if he lurches even half a degree more 
 to the right he will presently be lost to sight among the glow- 
 ing embers" (Nolly rouses himself with a start)," you would 
 probably tell me I was a very silly fellow to waste breath over 
 such a palpable fact, but it would be sense nevertheless. I 
 hope I haven't disturbed you, Nolly ? On such a night as this 
 a severe scorching would perhaps be a thing to be desired." 
 
 " Thanks. I'll put it oft' for a night or two," says Nolly, 
 sleepily. 
 
 " Besides, I don't believe I was talking nonsense," goes on 
 Jack, in an aggrieved tone. " My last speech had very little 
 folly in it. I feel the time is fast approaching when we sha'n't 
 have money even to meet our tailors' bills." 
 
 " ' In the midst of life we are in debt,' " says Nolly, sol- 
 emnly. Which is about the best thing he could have said, as 
 it makes them all laugh in spite of their pending misfortunes. 
 
 " Nolly is waking up. I am afraid we sha'n't have that 
 auto dafi^ after all," says Jack, in a tone of rich disappoint- 
 ment. " I feel as if we are going to be done out of a good 
 thing." 
 
 " ' What a day we're avin',' " says Mr. Darling, disdaining 
 to notice this puerile remark. " It's been pouring since early 
 dawn. I feel right down cheap, — very nearly as depressed as 
 when last night Nicholas stuck me to dance with the Esthetic." 
 
 "Lady Lilias Eaton, you mean?" asks Lady Rodney. 
 " That reminds me we are bound to go over there to-morrow. 
 At least, some of us." 
 
 " Mona must go," says Nicholas, quickly. " Lady Lilias 
 made a point of it. You will go, Mona ?" 
 
 " I should very much like to go," says Mona, gently, and 
 with some eagerness. She has been sitting very quietly with 
 her hands before her, hardly hearing what is passing around 
 her, — lost, buried in thought. 
 
 " Poor infant ! It is her first essay," gays Nolly, pitifully. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 213 
 
 •' Wait till to-morrow evening, and see if you will feci as you 
 (io now. Your cheerful complaisance in this matter is much 
 to be admired. And Nicholas should be grateful. But I 
 think you will find one dose of Lady Lilias and her ancient 
 Britons sufficient for your lifetime." 
 
 " You used to be tremendous friends there at one time," 
 says Geoffrey ; " never out of the house." 
 
 " I used to stay there occasionally when old Lord Daintree 
 was alive, if you mean that," says Nolly, meekly. " As far 
 as I can recollect, 1 was always shipped there when naughty, 
 or troublesome, or in the way at home ; and as a rule I was 
 always in the way. There is a connection between the Eatona 
 and my mother, and Anadale saw a good deal of me off and 
 on during the holidays. It was a sort of rod in pickle, or dark 
 closet, that used to be held over my head when in disgrace." 
 
 " Lilias must have been quite a child then," says Lady 
 Rodney. 
 
 " She was never a child : she was born quite grown up. But 
 the ancient Britons had not come into favor at that time : so 
 she was a degree more tolerable. Bless me," says Mr. Darling, 
 with sudden animation, " what horrid times I put in there. 
 The rooms were ghastly enough to freeze the blood in one'a 
 veins, and no candles would light 'em. The beds were all 
 four-posters, with heavy curtains round them, so high that 
 one had to get a small ladder to mount into bed. I remember 
 one time — it was during harvest, and the mowers were about 
 — I suggested to Lord Daintree he should get the men in to 
 mow down the beds ; but no one took any notice of my pro- 
 posal, so it fell to the ground. I was frightened to death, and 
 indeed was more in awe of the four-posters than of the old 
 man, who wasn't perhaps half bad." 
 
 Dorothy from her corner laughs gayly. " Poor old Noll," 
 she says: "it was his unhappy childhood that blighted his 
 later years and made him the melancholy object he is." 
 
 " Well, you know, it was much too much, — it was really," 
 gays Mr. Darling, very earnestly. " Mrs. Geoffrey, won't you 
 come to my rescue ?" 
 
 Mrs. Geoffrey, thus addressed, rouses herself, and says, 
 " What can I do for you?" in a far-away tone that proves she 
 has been in thought-land miles away from every one. 
 
 Through her brain some words are surging. Her mind has 
 
214 MRS. OEOFFREV. 
 
 gone back to that scene in the conservatory last night when 
 she and Paul Rodney had been together. What was it he 
 had said? What were the exact words he had used? She 
 lays two fingers on her smooth white brow, and lets a little 
 frown — born only of bewildered thought — contract its fairness. 
 
 " A scheme," he had said ; and then in a moment the right 
 words flash across her brain. " A brilliant chance, a splendid 
 scheme." What words for an honest man to use ! Could 
 he be honest ? Was there any flaw, any damning clause any- 
 where in all this careful plot, so cleverly constructed to bring 
 ruin upon the heads of these people who have crept into her 
 t<;nder heart? 
 
 " Where are you now, Mona?" asks Geoffrey, suddenly, lay- 
 ing his hand with a loving pressure on her shoulder. " In 
 Afghanistan or Timbuctoo ? Far from us, at least." There 
 is a little vague reproach and uneasiness in his tone. 
 
 " No ; very near you, — nearer than you think," says Mona, 
 quick to notice any variation in his tone, awaking from her 
 revery with a start, and laying one of her hands over his. 
 " Geoffrey," earnestly, " what is the exact meaning of the 
 word ' scheme' ? Would an honest man (surely he would 
 not) talk of scheming?" Which absurd question only shows 
 how unlearned she yet is in the great lessons of life. 
 
 " Well, that is rather a difficult question to answer," says 
 Geoffrey. " Monsieur de Lesseps, when dreaming out the 
 Suez Canal, called it a scheme ; and he, I presume, is an hon- 
 est man. Whereas, on the other side, if a burglar were ar- 
 ranging to steal all your old silver, I suppose he would call 
 that a scheme too. What have you on the brain now, darling ? 
 You are not going to defraud your neighbor, I hope." 
 
 " It is very strange," says Mona, with a dissatisfied sigh ; 
 *' but I'll tell you all about it by and by." 
 
 Instinct warns her of treachery ; common sense belies the 
 warning. To which shall she give ear ? 
 
 " Shall we ask the Carsons to our dance, Nicholas ?" asks 
 his mother, at this moment. 
 
 " Ask any one you like, — any one, I mean, that is not quite 
 impossible," says Nicholas. 
 
 " Edith Carson is very nearly so, I think." 
 
 " Is that the girl who spoke to you, Geoffrey, at the tea- 
 room door ?" asks Mona, with some animation. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 215 
 
 " Yes. Girl with light, frizzy hair and green eye." 
 " A strange girl, I thought, but very pretty. Yet — was it 
 English she talked?" 
 
 " Of the purest," says Geoffrey. 
 *' What did she say, Mona?" inquired Doatie. 
 " I am not sure that I can tell you, — at least not exactly as 
 she said it," says Mona, with hesitation. " I didn't quite un- 
 derstand her ; but Geoffrey asked her how she was enjoying 
 herself, and she said it was ' fun all through ;' and that she 
 was amusing herself just then by hiding from her partner, 
 Captain Dunscombe, who was hunting for her ' all over the 
 ^liop,' — it was ' shop' she said, wasn't it, Geoff? And that it 
 did her good to see him in a tearing rage, in fact on a regular 
 ' champ,' because it vexed Tricksy Newcorabe, whose own par- 
 ticular he was in the way of ' pals.' " 
 
 Everybody laughs. In fact, Nolly roars. 
 " Did she stop there ?" he says : " that was unworthy of 
 her. Breath for once must have failed her, as nothing so 
 trivial as want of words could have influenced Miss Carson." 
 " You should have seen Mona," says Geoffrey. " She 
 opened her eyes and her lips, and gazed fixedly upon the 
 lively Edith. Curiosity largely mingled with awe depicted 
 itself upon her expressive countenance. She was wondering 
 whether she should have to conquer that extraordinary jargon 
 before being pronounced fit for polite society." 
 
 <'No, indeed," says Mona, laughing. "But it surely 
 wasn't English, was it ? That is not the way everybody talks, 
 surely." 
 
 " Everybody," says Geoffrey ; " that is, all specially nice 
 people. You won't be in the swim at all, unless you take to 
 that port of thing." 
 
 " Then you are not a nice person yourself." 
 " I am far from it, I regret to say ; but time cures all 
 things, and I trust to that and careful observation to reform 
 me." 
 
 " And I am to say ' pals' for friends, and call it pure Eng- 
 lish?" 
 
 " It is not more extraordinary, surely, than calling a drunken 
 young man * tight,' " says I<ady Rodney, with calm but cruel 
 meaning. 
 
 Mona blushes painfully. 
 
216 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Well, no ; but that is pure Irish," says Geoffrey, unmoved. 
 Mona, with lowered head, turns her wedding-ring round and 
 round upon her finger, and repents bitterly that little slip of 
 hers when talking with the duchess last night. 
 
 " If I must ask Edith Carson, I shall feel I am doing 
 something against my will," says Lady Rodney. 
 
 " We have all to do that at times," says Sir Nicholas. " And 
 there is another person, mother, I shall be glad if you will 
 eend a card to." 
 
 " Certainly, dear. Who is it ?" 
 
 " Paul Rodney," replies he. very distinctly. 
 
 " Nicholas !" cries his mother, faintly : " this is too much I" 
 
 " Nevertheless, to oblige me," entreats he, hastily. 
 
 " But this is morbid, — a foolish pride," protests she, pas- 
 sionately, whilst all the others are struck dumb at this sug- 
 gestion from Nicholas. Is his brain failing ? Is his intellect 
 growing weak, that he should propose such a thing ? Even 
 Doatie, who as a rule supports Nicholas through evil report 
 and good, sits silent and aghast at his proposition. 
 
 " What has he done that he should be excluded ?" demands 
 Nicholas, a little excitedly. " If he can prove a first right to 
 claim this property, is that a crime ? He is our cousin : why 
 should we be the only people in the whole country-side to 
 treat him with contempt? He has committed no violation 
 of the law, no vile sin has been laid to his charge beyond this 
 fatal one of wanting his own — and — and " 
 
 He pauses. In the darkness a loving, clinging hand has 
 again crept into his, full of sweet entreaty, and by a gentle 
 pressure has reduced him to calmness. 
 
 " Ask him, if only to please me," he says, wearily. 
 
 " Everything shall be just as you wish it, dearest," says his 
 mother, with unwonted tenderness, and then silence falls upon 
 them all. 
 
 The fire blazes up fiercely, and anon drops its flame and 
 sinks into insignificance once more. Again the words that 
 bear some vague but as yet undiscovered meaning haunt 
 Mona's brain. " A splendid scheme." A vile conspiracy, 
 perhaps. Oh that she might be instrumental in saving these 
 people from ruin, among whom her lot has been cast 1 But 
 how weak her arm I How insufficient her mind to cope with 
 an emergency like this ! 
 
MRS. OEOFFREV. 217 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 HOW MONA GOES TO ANADALE — AND HOW SUE THERE 
 SEES MANY THINGS AS YET TO HER UNKNOWN. 
 
 About half-past two next day they start for Anadale. Not 
 Violet, or Captain Rodney, who have elected to go on a mis- 
 Bion of their own, nor Nicholas, who has gone up to London. 
 
 The frost lies heavy on the ground ; the whole road, and 
 every bush and tree, sparkles brilliantly, as though during tha 
 hours when darkness lay upon the earth the dread daughter 
 of Chaos, as she traversed the expanse of the firmament in 
 her ebony chariot, had dropped heaven's diamonds upon the 
 land. The wintry sunshine lighting them up makes soft and 
 glorious the midday. 
 
 The hour is enchanting, the air almost mild ; and every one 
 feels half aggrieved when the carriage, entering the lodge- 
 gates, bears them swiftly towards the massive entrance that 
 will lead them into the house and out of the cold. 
 
 But before they reach the hall door Geoffrey feels it his 
 duty to bestow upon them a word or two of warning. 
 
 " Now, look here," he says, impressively : " I hope nobody 
 is going to indulge in so much as a covert smile to-day." He 
 glances severely at Nolly, who is already wreathed in smiles. 
 *' Because the -^Esthetic won't have it. She wouldn't hear of 
 it at any price. We must all be intense ! If you don't un- 
 derstand what that means, Mona, you had better learn at 
 once. You are to be silent, rapt, lifted far above all the 
 vulgar commonplaces of life. You may, if you like, go into 
 a rapture over a colorless pebble, or shed tears of joy above a 
 sickly lily ; but avoid ordinary admiration." 
 
 " The only time I shed tears," says IMr. Darling, irrele- 
 vantly, " for many years, was when I heard of the old chap'a 
 death. And they were drops of rich content. Do you know 
 I think unconsciously he impregnated her with her present 
 notions ; because he was as like an ' ancient Briton' himself 
 before he died as if he had posed for it." 
 K 19 
 
218 ^RS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " He was very eccentric, but quite correct," says Lady 
 Rodney, reprovingly. 
 
 " He was a man who never took off his hat," begins Geof- 
 frey. 
 
 " But why ?" asks Mona, in amaze. " Didn't he wear 
 one ?" 
 
 " Yes, but he always doffed it ; and he never put one on 
 like ordinary mortals, he always donned it. You can't think 
 what a difference it makes." 
 
 " What a silly boy you are, Geoff!" says his wife, laughing. 
 
 " Thank you, darling," replies he, meekly. 
 
 *' But what is Lady Lilias like ? I did not notice her the 
 other night," says Mona. 
 
 " She has got one nose and two eyes, just like every one 
 else," says Nolly. " That is rather disappointing, is it not ? 
 And she attitudinizes a good deal. Sometimes she reclines 
 full length upon the grass, with her bony elbow well squared 
 and her chin buried in her palm. Sometimes she stands be- 
 side a sun-dial, with her head to one side, and a carefully edu- 
 cated and very much superannuated peacock beside her. But 
 I dare say she will do the greyhound pose to-day. In summer 
 she goes abroad with a huge wooden fan with which she kills 
 the bumble-bee as it floats by her. And she gowns herself in 
 colors that make one's teeth on edge. I am sure it is her one 
 life-long regret that she must clothe herself at all, as she has 
 dreams of savage nakedness and a liberal use of the fetching 
 woad." 
 
 " My dear Oliver 1" protests Lady Rodney, mildly. 
 
 " If she presses refreshments on you, Mona, say, ' No, 
 thank you,' without hesitation," says Geoffrey, with anxious 
 haste, seeing they are drawing near their journey's end. " Be- 
 cause if you don't she will compel you to partake of metheglin 
 and unleavened bread, which means sudden death. Fore- 
 warned is forearmed. Nolly and I have done what we cau 
 for you." 
 
 " Is she by herself? Is there nobody living with her ?" 
 asks Mona, somewhat nervously. 
 
 *' Well, practically speaking, no. But I believe she has a 
 sister somewhere." 
 
 " ' Sister Anne,' you mean ?" says Nolly. " Oh, ay ! I 
 have seen her, though as a rule she is suppressed. She is 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 219 
 
 quite all she ought to be, and irreproachable in every respect, 
 — unapproachable, according to some. She is a very gooa 
 girl, and never misses a Saint's Day by any chance, never eats 
 meat on Friday, or butter in Lent, and always confesses. But 
 she is not of much account in the household, being averse to 
 ' ye goode olde times.' " 
 
 At this point the house comes in view, and conversation 
 languishes. The women give a small touch to their furs and 
 laces, the men indulge in a final yawn that is to last them 
 until the gates of Anadale close behind them again. 
 
 " There is no moat, and no drawbridge, and no eyelet-hole 
 through which to spy upon the advance of the enemy," says 
 Darling, in an impressive whisper, just as they turn the curve 
 that leads into the big gravel sweep before the hall door. 
 " A drawback, 1 own f but even the very greatest are not in- 
 fallible." 
 
 It is a lovely old castle, ancient and time-worn, with turrets 
 rising in unexpected places, and walls covered with drooping 
 ivy, and gables dark with age. 
 
 A terrace runs along one side of the house, which is ex- 
 posed to view from the avenue. And here, with a gaunt but 
 handsome greyhound beside her, stands a girl tall and slim, 
 yet beautifully moulded. Her eyes are gray, yet might at 
 certain moments be termed blue. Her mouth is large, but 
 not unpleasing. Her hair is quite dark, and drawn back into 
 a loose and artistic coil behind. She is clad in an impossible 
 gown of sage green, that clings closely to her slight figure, 
 nay, almost desperately, as though afraid to lose her. 
 
 One hand is resting lightly with a faintly theatrical touch 
 upon the head of the lean greyhound, the other is raised to 
 her forehead as though to shield her eyes from the bright 
 Bun. 
 
 Altogether she is a picture, which, if slightly suggestive of 
 artificiality, is yet very nearly perfection. Mona is therefore 
 agreeably surprised, and, being — as all her nation is — sus- 
 ceptible to outward beauty, feels drawn towards this odd 
 young woman in sickly green, with her canine friend beside 
 her. 
 
 Lady Lilias, slowly descending the stone steps with the 
 hound Egbert behind her, advances to meet Lady Rodney. 
 She greets them all with a solemn cordiality that impresses 
 
220 ^^^''^- OEOFFREY. 
 
 everybody but Mona, who ia gazing dreamily into the gray 
 eyes of her hostess and wondering vaguely if her lips have ever 
 smiled. Her hostess in return is gazing at her, perhaps in 
 silent admiration of her soft loveliness. 
 
 " You will come first and see Fhilippa ?" she says, in a slow 
 peculiar tone that sounds as if it had been dug up and is quite 
 an antique in its own way. It savors of dust and feudal days. 
 Every one says he or she will be delighted, and all try to look 
 as if the entire hope of their existence is centred in the 
 thought that they shall soon lay longing eyes on Philippa, — 
 whose name in reality is Anne, but who has been rechristened 
 by her enterprising sister. Anne is all very well for every- 
 day life, or for Bluebeard's sister-in-law; but Philippa is art 
 of the very highest description. So Philippa she is, poor 
 soul, whether she likes it or not. 
 
 She has sprained her ankle, and is now lying on a couch 
 in a small drawing-room as the Rodneys are ushered in. She 
 is rather glad to see them, as life with an " intense" sister is 
 at times trying, and the ritualistic curate is from home. So 
 she smiles upon them, and manages to look as amiable as plain 
 people ever can look. 
 
 The drawing-room is very much the same as the ordinary 
 run of drawing-rooms, at which Mona feels distinct disappoint- 
 ment, until, glancing at Lady Lilias, she notices a shudder of 
 disgust run through her frame. 
 
 " I really cannot help it," she explains to Mona, in hei 
 usual slow voice, " it all offends me so. But Philippa must 
 be humored. All these glaring colors and hideous pieces of 
 
 furniture take my breath away. And the light By and 
 
 by you must come to some of my rooms ; but first, if you are 
 not tired, I should like you to look at my garden ; that is, if 
 you can endure the cold." 
 
 They don't want to endure the cold ; but what can they 
 say ? Politeness forbids secession of any kind, and, after a 
 few words with the saintly Philippa, they follow their guide 
 in all meekness through halls and corridors out into the gar- 
 den she most affects. 
 
 And truly it is a very desirable garden, and well worth a 
 visit. It is like a thought from another age. 
 
 Yew-trees — grown till they form high walls — are cut and 
 shaped in prim and perfect order, pome like the walls of an- 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 221 
 
 cient Troy, some like steps of stairs. Little doors are opened 
 through them, and passing in and out one walks on for a mile 
 almost, until one loses one's way and grows puzzled how to 
 extricate one's self from so charming a maze. 
 
 Here and there are basins of water on which lilies can lie 
 and sleep dreamily through a warm and sunny day. A sun- 
 dial, old and green with honorable age, uproars itself upon a 
 chilly bit of sward. Near it lie two gaudy peacocks sound 
 asleep. All seems far from the world, drowsy, careless, indif- 
 ferent 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." 
 
 " 1 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 after- 
 wards 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, com- 
 ing to the sun-dial, 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 
 emile, raising her luminous eyes to Geoffrey : whether it is the 
 snail, or the leaf, or the slime, that is tender and touching, 
 (lubody knows ; and nobody dares ask, lest he shall betray his 
 
222 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 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 supernaturally 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 careftilly 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 in-doors. 
 
 " 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 is an octagon chamber of the most uncomfortable descrip- 
 tion, 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 inutility. 
 
 There are no windows ; but in their place are four unpleas- 
 ant slits about two yards in length, let into the thick walls at 
 studiously unequal distances. These are filled up with an 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 223 
 
 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 I 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 Geoflfrey 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 I" repeats Lady Lilias, plainly taken aback. 
 
 *' Yes ; pigs 1" says Mona, sweetly. 
 
224 MRS. QEOFFRET. 
 
 Tliere is a faint pause, — so faint that Lady Rodney is un- 
 able 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 en- 
 tirety can know no blemi.sh. 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 deli- 
 cate 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 vege- 
 table matter that decks its aged sides, rendering their rough- 
 ness 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. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 22^ 
 
 *« You were talking of pigs," says Mona, gently. 
 
 " Ah 1 so I was," says Lady Lilias, with a sigh of relief : 
 ehe 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 sur- 
 rounded by its offspring. I have seen them once or twice, 
 and I think the little pigs — the — the " 
 
 " Bonuvs," says IMona, 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 — some- 
 what 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 Bodney, 
 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 youthfiilness she has yet made. " Mrs. Bodney has not half 
 Been all my treasures." 
 
 Mrs. Bodney, however, has been foraging on her own ac- 
 count 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 -Esthete, 
 contemptuously. " Paltry children of the earth, not to be 
 -Rompared with the lenten or the tiger lily, or the fiercer 
 beauty of the sunflower, or the hues of the unsurpassable 
 thistle I" 
 
 " I am very ignorant, 1 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. 
 P 
 
226 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " 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 tha 
 influence of the rare and perfect jrreen 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 1" 
 
 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 
 eage-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 XXVIL 
 
 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, 
 »<» days will, when dull monotony marks them for its own. 
 
 To-day is cool, and calm, and bright. Almost one fancies 
 
MRS. GEOFFREV. 227 
 
 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 " fioures white and rede, soch as mea 
 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 cris| 
 rustle of the dead leaves, as they are trodden into the ground 
 
 Over the meadows and into the wood goes Mona, to whert 
 a streamlet runs, that is her special joy, — being of the gar- 
 rulous 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 iti 
 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 tri- 
 umphant paean as it flings itself into the arms of the vain 
 brook beneath, that only yester-eve was a stream, but to-day 
 may well be deemed a river. 
 
 Up high the rocks are overgrown with ferns, and drooping 
 
228 MRS. GEOFFREY 
 
 tilings, all green and feathery, that hide small caves and pi(^ 
 turosque crannies, through which the brightrcyed 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 moun- 
 tain-side above uprears itself in the middle of this turbulent 
 Btroam. 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 after- 
 wards 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, set- 
 ting her foot upon the huge stone, springs lightly to his side. 
 
 Once there she has to go with him down the narrow wood- 
 land 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. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 229 
 
 " Thanks !" returns he, with an ironical laugh. " How 
 excelleutly your tone agrees with your words 1" 
 
 Another pause. Mona is on thorns. Will the branching 
 path, that may give her a chance of escaping a further tete-d- 
 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 overtseer 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 1 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 I" 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, irre- 
 trievably 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 
 20 
 
230 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 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 1 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 ]\Iona, 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 p]nglaud," replies he, slowly. 
 
 " Ah 1 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 an- 
 ticipation. 
 
 " 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 insult- 
 ing," 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 
 Bchemer, a swindler, what you will !"' 
 
 "Even in my thoughts I never applied those words to you," 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 231 
 
 Bays 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 Ime 
 of his face, in every tone of his voice. 
 
 " You condemn me without a hearing, swayed by the influ- 
 ence 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 i/ou 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, snecringly. Then 
 suddenly he stops short before her, and breaks out vehe- 
 mently : 
 
 " Were I to fling up this whole business and resign my 
 chance, and leave these people in possession, what should I 
 gain by it ?" demands he. " They have treated me from tho 
 beginning with ignominy and contempt. You alone have 
 treated me with common civility ; and even you they havo 
 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 1 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?" 
 Bays Mona, following out her own thoughts irrespective of his. 
 *' Give up this project, and peace will return to you." 
 
232 MliS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " No, I shall pursue it to its end," returns he, with slow 
 malice, that makes her heart grow cold, " until the day cornea 
 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 ar- 
 rived, 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 llodney 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, sleep- 
 ing the sleep of the just, unmindful of coming evil. 
 
 Of all this Mona is unaware ; though even were it other- 
 wise 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 arc unknown to her, and have no 
 
MRS. OEOFFREV. 233 
 
 refiige in her heart. It is indeed fortunate tliat on this occa- 
 gion she knows no reason why her reply should diflor 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 ex 
 pansive 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, how- 
 ever, is neither here nor there, and is perhaps a shabby thing 
 to take notice of at all. 
 
 Then she and her two daughters quit the " coach," as Car- 
 son ph-e insists on calling the landau, and flutter through the 
 halls, and across the corridors, after Mona, until they reach 
 the room that contains Lady lloduey. 
 
 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 tJiey come to a full itop, 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 amia- 
 ble assistant of all those that court siestas — has fallen to the 
 ground. Her cap is somewhat awry. Her mouth Ls partly 
 open, and a snore — gentle, indeed, but distinct and unmistak- 
 able — comes from her patrician throat. 
 
 It is a moment never to be forgotten I 
 
 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 daised fashion, yo> 
 20* 
 
234 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 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 
 Buave 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. 
 Cai'son, having made up her mind to the beads, accepts it 
 rather badly being undeceived, and goes nearly so far as tell- 
 ing Mona that she knows little or nothing about her owu 
 people. 
 
 Then Violet and Doatie drop in, and conversation becomes 
 general, and presently the visit comes to an end, and the Car- 
 sons fade away, and Mona is left to 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, the 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," says Mona, earn- 
 estly. 
 
 " 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 Rod- 
 ney's wrath. 
 
 " It shall be helped," she says, in a low, but condensed tone. 
 *' For the future I forbid any one in my liouse 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, 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 235 
 
 turning to Mona, ber 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 — 
 1 don't doubt — readily enough." 
 
 " I regret that I met them," says Mona, who will not Bay 
 she regrets she told the truth. 
 
 " And to usher them in here I 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. Per- 
 haps 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 rec- 
 tor, 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 i-ather 
 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 Rod- 
 ney. 
 
 " 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 1" 
 
 At this point, Geoffrey — who has been hunting all the 
 morning — enters the room with Captain Rodney. 
 
236 MRS. QEOFFRET. 
 
 '* Why, what is the matter ?" he says, seeing signs of the 
 lively storm on all their faces. Doatie explains hurriedly. 
 
 " Look here," says GeoflFrey. " 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 
 or a passing dread. " A lie of any sort is base, and a pre- 
 varication 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 any one," 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 iiave 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 tliere 
 no compromise ? I have heard of women who have made a 
 point of running into the kitchen-garden when unwelcome 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 237 
 
 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 rests, 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? No- 
 body, except the naughty little boys in tracts, and they always 
 break their legs off apple-trees, or else get drowned on a Sun- 
 day 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 puz- 
 zled 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 upou 
 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, apolo- 
 getically, "but how shall I avoid it?" 
 
238 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " 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 head- 
 ache," retorts Mona, triumphantly. 
 
 " Oh, you are incorrigible 1" 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 night- 
 mare, 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 head- 
 aches 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 ' " 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 239 
 
 *' Hush, Dorothy 1 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 merri- 
 ment. 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 HOW THE TOWERS WAKES INTO LIFE — AND HOW MONA 
 SHOWS THE LIBRARY TO PAUL RODNEY. 
 
 Lights are blazing, fiddles are sounding ; all the world is 
 abroad to-night. Even still, though the ball at the Towers 
 has been opened long since by Mona and the Duke of Lau- 
 derdale, the flickering light of carriage-lamps is making the 
 roads bright, by casting tiny rays upon the frosted ground. 
 
 The fourth dance has come to an end ; cards are full ; every 
 one is settling down to work in earnest ; already the first touch 
 of satisfaction or of carefully-suppressed disappointment is 
 making itself felt. 
 
 Mona, who has again been dancing with the duke, stopping 
 near where the duchess is sitting, the latter beckons her to 
 her side by a slight wave of her fan. To the duchess " a 
 thing of beauty is a joy forever," and to gaze on Mona's lovely 
 face and admire her tranquil but brilliant smile gives her a 
 strange pleasure. 
 
 " Come and sit by me. You can spare me a few minutes," 
 she says, drawing her ample skirts to one side. Mona, taking 
 her hand from Lauderdale's arm, drops into the proffered seat 
 beside his mother, much to that young man's chagrin, who, 
 having inherited the maternal hankering' after that " delight- 
 fiil prejudice," as Theocritus terms beauty, is decidedly ipris 
 with Mrs. Geoffrey, and takes it badly being dune out of his 
 tite-d-tete with her. 
 
240 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 '* Mrs. Rodney would perhaps prefer to dance, mother," he 
 eays, with some irritation. 
 
 " Mrs. Rodney will not mind wasting a quarter of an hour 
 on an old woman," says the duchess, equably. 
 
 " I am not so sure of that," says Mona, with admirable 
 tact and an exquisite smile, " but I shouldn't mind spending 
 an hour with you." 
 
 Lauderdale makes a little face, and tells himself secretly 
 " all women are liars," but the duchess is very pleased, and 
 bends her friendliest glance upon the pretty creature at her 
 side, who possesses that greatest of all charms, inability to no- 
 tice the ravages of time. 
 
 Perhaps another reason for Mona's having found such favor 
 in the eyes of " the biggest woman in our shire, sir," lies in 
 the fact that she is in many ways so totally unlike all the other 
 young women with whom the duchess is in the habit of asso- 
 ciating. She is naive to an extraordinary degree, and says 
 and does things that might appear outrd in others, but are 
 so much a part of Mona that it neither startles nor oflfeuds 
 one when she gives way to them. 
 
 Just now, for example, a pause occurring in the conversa- 
 tion, Mona, fastening her eyes upon her Grace's neck, says, 
 with genuine admiration, — 
 
 " What a lovely necklace you are wearing !" 
 
 To make personal remarks, we all know, is essentially vulgar, 
 is indeed a breach of the common&st show of good breeding ; 
 yet somehow Mrs. Geoffrey's tone does not touch on vulgarity, 
 does not even belong to the outermost skirts of ill-breeding. 
 She has an inborn gentleness of her own, that carries her 
 safely over all social difficulties. 
 
 The duchess is amused. 
 
 " It is pretty, I think," she says. " The duke," with a 
 grave look, " gave it to me just two years after my son was 
 born." 
 
 " Did he ?" says Mona. " Geoffrey gave me these pearls," 
 pointing to a pretty string round her own white neck, " a month 
 after we were married. It seems quite a long time ago now," 
 with a sigh and a little smile. " But your opals are perfect. 
 Just like the moonlight. By the by," as if it has suddenly 
 occurred to her, " did you ever see the lake by moonlight ? I 
 mean from the muUioned window in the north gallery ?" 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 241 
 
 " The lake here ? No," says the duchess. 
 
 " Haven't you ?" in surprise. " Why it it the most en- 
 chanting thing in the world. Oh, you must see it : you will 
 be delighted with it. Come with me, and I will show it to 
 you," says Mona, eagerly, rising from her stiat in her impul- 
 sive fashion. 
 
 She is plainly very much in earnest, and has fixed her large 
 expressive eyes — lovely as loving — with calm expectancy upon 
 the duchess. She has altogether forgotten that she is a duchess 
 (perhaps, indeed, has never quite grasped the fact), and that 
 she is an imposing and portly person not accustomed to exer- 
 cise of any description. 
 
 For a moment her Grace hesitates, then is lost. It is to 
 her a new sensation to be taken about by a young woman to 
 see things. Up to this it has been she who has taken the 
 young women about to see things. But Mona is so openly 
 and genuinely anxious to bestow a favor upon her, to do her, 
 in fact, a good turn, that she is subdued, sweetened, nay, al- 
 most flattered, by this artless desire to please her for " love's 
 sake" alone. 
 
 She too rises, lays her hand on Mona's arm, and walks 
 through the long room, and past the county generally, to " see 
 the lake by moonlight." Yet it is not for the sake of gazing 
 upon almost unrivalled scenery she goes, but to please this 
 Irish girl, whom so very few can resist. 
 
 " Where has Mona taken the duchess ?" asks Lady Rodney 
 of Sir Nicholas half an hour later. 
 
 " She took her to see the lake. Mona, you know, raves 
 about it, when the moon lights it up." 
 
 " She is very absurd, and more troublesome and unpleasant 
 than anybody I ever had in my house. Of course the duchess 
 did not want to see the water. She was talking to old Lord 
 Dering about the drainage question, and seemed quite happy, 
 when that girl interfered. Common courtesy compelled her, I 
 suppose, to say yes to — Mona's — proposition." 
 
 " I hardly think the duchess is the sort of woman to say 
 yes when she meant no," says Nicholas, with a half smile. 
 " She went because it so pleased her, and for no other reason. 
 I begin to think, indeed, that Lilian Chetwoode is rather out 
 of it, and that Mona is the first favorite at present. She has 
 evidently taken the duchess by storm." 
 L y 21 
 
242 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Why not say the duke too ?" says his mother, with a cold 
 glance, to whom praise of Mona is anything but " cakes and 
 ale." " Her flirtation with him is very apparent. It is dis- 
 graceful. Every one is noticing and talking about it. Geof- 
 frey alone seems determined to see nothing 1 Like all under- 
 bred people, she cannot know satisfaction unless perched upoa 
 the topmost rung of the ladder." 
 
 " You are slightly nonsensical when on the subject of 
 Mona," says Sir Nicholas, with a shrug. " Intrigue and she 
 could not exist in the same atmosphere. She is to Lauderdale 
 what she is to every one else, — gay, bright, and utterly want- 
 ing in self-conceit. I cannot understand how it is that you 
 alone refuse to acknowledge her charms. To me she is like a 
 little soft sunbeam floating here and there, and falling into the 
 hearts of those around her, carrying light, and joy, and laugh- 
 ter, and merry music with her as she goes." 
 
 " You speak like a lover," says Lady Rodney, with an arti- 
 ficial laugh. " Do you repeat all this to Dorothy ? She must 
 find it very interesting." 
 
 " Dorothy and I are quite agreed about IMona," replies he, 
 calmly. " She likes her as much as I do. As to what you 
 say about her encouraging Lauderdale's attentions, it is absurd. 
 No such evil thought could enter her head." 
 
 At this instant a soft ringing laugh, that once heard is not 
 easily forgotten, comes from an inner room, that is carefully 
 curtained and delicately lighted, and smites upon their ears. 
 
 It is I\Iona's laugh. Raising their eyes, both mother and 
 son turn their heads hastily (and quite involuntarily) and gaze 
 upon the scene beyond. They are so situated that they can 
 see into the curtained chamber and mark the picture it con- 
 tains. The duke is bending over Mona in a manner that 
 might perhaps be termed by an outsider slightly empress^, and 
 Mona is looking up at him, and both are laughing gayly, — 
 Mona with all the freshness of unchecked youth, the duke 
 with such a thorough and wholesome sense of enjoyment aa 
 he has not known for years. 
 
 Then Mona rises, and they both come to the entrance ol 
 the small room, and stand where Lady Rodney can overhear 
 what they are saying. 
 
 " Oh ! so you can ride, then," says Lauderdale, alluding 
 probably to the cause of his late merriment. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 243 
 
 " Sure of course," says Mona. " Why, I used to ride the 
 
 3olts barebacked at home." 
 
 Lady Rodney shudders. 
 
 " Sometimes I long again for a mad, wild gallop straight 
 across country, where nobody can see me, — such as I used to 
 have," goes on Mona, half regretfully. 
 
 " And who allowed you to risk your life like that ?" asks 
 the duke, with simple amazement. His sister before she 
 married was not permitted to cross the threshold without a 
 guardian at her side. This girl is a revelation. 
 
 " No one," says Mona. " I had no need to ask permission 
 for anything. I was free to do what I wished." 
 
 She looks up at him again with some fire in her eyes and 
 a flush upon her cheeks. Perhaps some of the natural law- 
 lessness of her kindred is making her blood warm. So stand- 
 ing, however, she is the verj' embodiment of youth and love 
 and sweetness, and so the duke admits. 
 
 " Have you any sisters?" he asks, vaguely. 
 
 " No. Nor brothers. Only myself. 
 
 " ' r am all the daughters of my father's house, 
 And all the brothers too !'" 
 
 She nods her head gayly as she says this, being pleased at 
 her apt quotation from the one book she has studied very 
 closely. 
 
 The duke loses his head a little. 
 
 " Do you know," he says, slowly, staring at her the while, 
 " you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw ?" 
 
 " Ah ! so Geoffrey says," returns she, with a perfectly un- 
 embarrassed and pleased little laugh, while a great gleam of 
 tender love comes into her eyes as she makes mention of her 
 husband's name. " But I really am not, you know." 
 
 This answer, being so full of thorough unconsciousness and 
 childish naivete, has the effect of reducing the duke to com- 
 mon sense once more, and of making him very properly 
 ashamed of himself He feels, however, rather out of it for 
 a minute or two, which feeling renders him silent and some- 
 what distrait. So Mona, flung upon her own resources, looka 
 round the room seeking for inspiration, and presently finds it. 
 
 " What a disagreeable-looking man that is over there I" sho 
 
244 MRS. OEOFFREV. 
 
 Bays : " the man with the shaggy beard, I mean, and the long 
 hair." 
 
 She doesn't want in the very least to know who he is, but 
 thinks it her duty to say something, as the silence being pro- 
 tracted grows embarrassing. 
 
 "The man with the mane? that is GriflBth Blount. The 
 most objectionable person any one could meet, but tolerated be- 
 cause his tongue is so awful. Do you know Colonel Graves ? 
 No I Well, he has a wife calculated to terrify the bravest 
 man into submission, and last year when he was going abroad 
 Blount met him, and asked him before a roomful ' if he was 
 going for pleasure, or if he was going to take his wife with 
 him.' Neat, wasn't it? But I don't remember hearing 
 that Graves liked it.' 
 
 " 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 I — 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 besides 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 aave 
 this dar.ce?" 
 
 " 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 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 245 
 
 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 
 tliis is the first time I have ever been inside the Towers ?" 
 lie says this as one might who is desirous of making conver- 
 sation, 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 ball-room, 
 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 per- 
 fect 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 third — that is, the one in which the fir» 
 place has been inserted — has the panels of a smaller size, cut 
 dp 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." 
 
 21* 
 
246 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 But Mona docs 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 con- 
 tinues his contemplation of the wall before him. Conversa- 
 tion 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 sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " 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 en- 
 gaged. 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 llishion on the table nearest her, 
 fihe wonders when he will cease his exhaustive survey of tho 
 walls and give her an opportunity of leaving the room. 
 
 " But that 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 T can never obtain." 
 
 " All that is morbid," says Mona: "you should try to con- 
 quer 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 dilTerent. It 
 was free, unfettered, and in a degree lawless. It suited me 
 better." 
 
MRS. O EOF FRET. 247 
 
 " 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, a.s you have 
 
 made up your mind to live in it ; and yet I think " She 
 
 pauses. 
 
 u Yes— you think ; go on," says Rodney, gazing at her 
 
 attentively. 
 
 " Well, then, I think it is only just you should be un- 
 happy," 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 IMona, forgetful of man- 
 ners, 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 aa 
 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 hor, releases her gown ; 
 the fold is in his grasp, and still holding it he looks up at her, 
 his face pale and almost haggard. 
 
£48 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " 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 ten- 
 der thought in your heart ? Speak, Mona I speak I" 
 
 I am sure at even this supreme moment it never entera 
 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 
 jp 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," 
 lays the Australian, defiantly, coming leisurely forward, his 
 eyes bent somewhat insolently upon Geoffrey. 
 
 " You will come, Mona, to oblige the duchess," says Geof- 
 frey, 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 stand- 
 ing 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. Greoffrey, taking Mona's arn^, 'eads her into the hall. 
 
 " Dance no more to-night with that I'ellow," he says, quickly, 
 as they get outside. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 249 
 
 "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 1" 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 un- 
 smilingly 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 can- 
 not forget that your face is musical." 
 
 Mona, sitting down to the piano, plays a few chords in a 
 slow, plaintive fashion, and then begins. Pad Rodney has 
 come to the doorway, and is standing there gazing at her, 
 though she knows it not. The ball-room 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 »-ises 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 jyhispers, 
 with some agitation, — 
 
 "■ You did not mean it, Mona, did you ? You are content 
 here with mo ? — you have no regret ?" 
 
 At which Mona turns round to him a face very pale, but 
 
250 MRS. OEOFFREV. 
 
 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 liodney'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. 
 
 flow GEOFFREY DINES OUT, AND HOW MONA FARES DUR- 
 ING 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 din- 
 ner yesterday and luncheon to-day ? I didn't think it was in 
 Violet." 
 
 " Did she never look at you like that?" asks Mona, mali- 
 ciously ; " 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. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 251 
 
 " I can't well get away before that, you know, as "Wi^ley ia 
 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," de- 
 clares 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 I 
 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," 
 pays Mr. Bodney, 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 down-stairs and find the 
 girls and make yourself happy with them." 
 
 " Happy ?" reproachfully. " I sha'n't know a happy mo- 
 ment 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 mustn't do that. Now, I shall be really an- 
 noyed 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 nest 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 1 It is quite a 
 secret," placing her finger on her lips. 
 
 " ' Him' ? — whom ?" — demands her husband, with pardon- 
 able vivacity. 
 
252 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 " My own old pet," says Mrs. Geoffrey, stUl 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 prom- 
 ised 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. " JMy 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 I 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 disre- 
 gard 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 down- 
 stairs, jumps into the dog-cart, and drives away behind the 
 " vicious Black Bess." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 253 
 
 Mona watches him from her window, as far as the curve m 
 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 Geof- 
 frey 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 cur- 
 tained 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 hold- 
 ing 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 de- 
 testable. How can you expect me to welcome a girl who is 
 without family and absolutely penniless? Why, I am con- 
 vinced that misguided boy bought her even her trousseau 1" 
 
 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 
 Bhould 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 ma 
 with wedding garments." 
 
 Her coming is a thunderbolt, her speech lightning. Lady 
 Rodney changes color, and is for once utterly disconcerted. 
 
 22 
 
254 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " 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 f\\r away. " I never," haughtily, " listened at a door in all 
 my life, /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 IMona's white cheeks. 
 And then somehow her thoughts wander back to the old farm- 
 house 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 stupefac- 
 tion 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 mis- 
 take ; and my mother will, I know, be the first to acknowl- 
 edge 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 wih 
 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 amua- 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 255 
 
 ing herself with, and, with a gesture of impatience very for- 
 eign 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, with- 
 out 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 
 uow, 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 un- 
 civil to you, simply because she has taken it into her head 
 that you have done her an injury in that you have man-ied 
 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 ?" 
 
 " Y?s, 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 whera 
 most women would have ignominiously failed. Let that 
 thought console you. To have a perfect temper, such as 
 
256 MRS. QEOFFREV. 
 
 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, 
 
 Mona smiles too in return, though still heavy at heart. 
 
 "Have you any rose-water ?" goes on Miss Mansergh in 
 her matter-of-fact manner. " No ? A good sign that tears 
 and you are enemies. Well, I have, and so I shall send it to 
 you in a moment. You will use it ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, thank you," says Mona, who is both surprised 
 and carried away by the other's unexpected eloquence. 
 
 "And now a last word, Mona. When you come down to 
 dinner to-night (and take care you are a little late), be gay, 
 merry, wild with spirits, anything but depressed, whatever it 
 may cost you. And if in the drawing-room, later on, Lady 
 Rodney should chance to drop her handkerchief, or that eter- 
 nal knitting, do not stoop to pick it up. If her spectacles are 
 on a distant table, forget to see them. A nature such as hers 
 could not understand a nature such a.s yours. The more anx- 
 ious you may seem to please the more determined she will bo 
 not to be pleased." 
 
 "But you like Lady Rodney?" says Mona, in a puzzled 
 tone. 
 
 " Very much indeed. But her faults are obvious, and I 
 like you too. I have said more to you of her than I have 
 ever yet said to human being ; why, I know not, because you 
 are (comparatively speaking) a stranger to me, whilst she is 
 my very good friend. Yet so it rests. You will, I know, 
 keep faith with me." 
 
 " I am glad you know that," says Mona. Then, going 
 nearer to Violet, she lays her hand upon her arm and regards 
 her earnestly. The tears are still glistening in her eyes. 
 
 " I don't think I should mind it if I did not feel so much 
 alone. If I had a place in your hearts," she says. " You all 
 like me, I know, but I want to be loved." Then, tremulously, 
 " Will you try to love me ?" 
 
 Violet looks at her criticizingly, then she smiles, and, plac- 
 ing her hand beneath Mrs. Geoffrey's chin, turns her faco 
 more to the fading light. 
 
 " Yes, that i^ just your greatest misfortune," she says, med- 
 itatively. " Love at any price. You would die out of the 
 Bunshine, or spoil, which would be worse. You will never be 
 
MRS. GEO F FEE y. 267 
 
 quite happy, I think ; and yet perhaps," with a faint sigh, 
 " you get your own good out of your life, after all, — happiness 
 more intense, if briefer, than we more material people can 
 know. There, shall I tell you something ? I think you have 
 gained more love in a short time than any other person I ever 
 knew. You have conquered me, at least ; and, to tell you the 
 truth," with a slight grimace, " I was quite determined not t^ 
 like you. Now lie down, and in a minute or two I shall send 
 Halkett to you with the rose-water." 
 
 For the first time she stoops forward and presses her lips to 
 Mona's warmly, graciously. Then she leaves her, and, having 
 told her maid to take the rose-water to Mrs. Rodney, goes 
 down-stairs again to the drawing-room. 
 
 Sir Nicholas is there, silent, but angry, as Violet knows by 
 the frown upon his brow. With his mother he never quar- 
 rels, merely expressing disapproval by such signs as an unwil- 
 lingness to speak, and a stern grave line that grows upon his 
 lips. 
 
 " Of course you are all against me," Lady Rodney is say- 
 ing, in a rather hysterical tone. " Even you, Violet, have 
 taken up that giri's cause 1" She says this expectantly, as 
 though calling on her ally for support. But for once the ally 
 fails her. Miss Mansergh maintains an unflinching silence, 
 and seats herself in her low wicker chair before the fire with 
 all the air of one who has made up her mind to the course 
 she intends to pursue, and is not be enticed from it. 
 
 " Oh, yes, no doubt I am in the wrong, because I cannot 
 bring myself to adore a vulgar girl who all day long shocks 
 me with her Irishisms," goes on Lady Rodney, almost in tears, 
 born of vexation. " A girl who says, ' Sure you know I 
 didn't,' or ' Ah ! did ye, now,' or ' Indeed I won't, then !' every 
 other minute. It is too much. What you all see in her I 
 can't imagine. And you too, Violet, you condemn me, I can 
 see." 
 
 " Yes, I think you are quite and altogether in the wrong," 
 nays Miss Mansergh, in her cool manner, and without any 
 show of hesitation, selecting carefully from the basket near 
 her the exact shade of peacock blue she will require for th« 
 cornflower she is working. 
 
 Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, sails with ofi"eudod dignity 
 from the room. 
 
 r 22* 
 
258 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 HOW MONA, GHOST-LIKE, FLITS THROUGH THE OLD TOWERU 
 AT MIDNIGHT — HOW THE MOON LIGHTS HER WAY — AND 
 HOW SHE MEETS ANOTHER GHOST MORE FORMIDABLE 
 THAN HERSELF. 
 
 Jenkins, the antediluvian butler, proves himself a man of 
 his word. There are, evidently, '' no two ways" about Jen- 
 kins. " Seeking the seclusion that her chamber grants" about 
 ten o'clock to-night, after a somewhat breezy evening with 
 her mother-in-law, Mona descries upon her hearth-rug, dozing 
 blissfully, two huge hounds, that raise their sleepy tails and 
 heads to welcome her, with the utmost condescension, as she 
 enters her room. 
 
 Spice and Allspice are having a real good time opposite her 
 bedroom fire, and, though perhaps inwardly astonished at their 
 promotion from a distant kennel to the sleeping-apartment of 
 their fair mistress, are far too well bred to betray any vulgar 
 exaltation at the fact. 
 
 Indeed, it is probably a fear lest she shall deem them 
 unduly elated that causes them to hesitate before running 
 to greet her with their usual demonstrative joy. Then po- 
 liteness gets the better of pride, and, rising with a mighty 
 eflPort, they stretch themselves, yawn, and, going up to her, 
 thrust their soft muzzles into her hands and look up at her 
 with their great, liquid, loving eyes. They rub themselves 
 against her skirts, and wag their tails, and give all other signs 
 of loyalty and devotion. 
 
 Mona, stooping, caresses them fondly. They are a part of 
 her old life, and dear, therefore, to her own faithful heart. 
 Having partly undressed, she sits down upon the hearth rug 
 with them, and, with both their big heads upon her lap, sit« 
 staring into the fire, trying to while away with thought the 
 hours that must elapse before Geoffrey can return to her again. 
 
 It is dreary waiting. No sleep comes to her eyes ; she 
 barely moves ; the dogs slumber drowsily, and moan and star* 
 in their sleep, " fighting their battles o'er again," it may be, 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 259 
 
 or anticipating future warfare. Slowly, ominously, the clock 
 strikes twelve. Two hours have slipped into eternity ; mid- 
 night is at hand 1 
 
 At the sound of the twelfth stroke the hounds stir uneasily, 
 and sigh, and, opening wide their huge jaws, yawn again. 
 IMona pats them reassuringly, and, flinging some fresh logs 
 upon the fire, goes back once more to her old position, with 
 her chin in the palm of one hand, whilst the other rests on 
 the sleek head of Spice. 
 
 Castles within the fire grow grand and tall, and then crum- 
 ble into dust ; castles in Mona's brain fare hkewise. The 
 shadows dance upon the walls ; silently, imperceptibly, the 
 minutes flit away. 
 
 One o'clock chimes the tiny timepiece on the mantel-shelf, 
 outside the sound is repeated somewhere in the distance in 
 graver, deeper tones. 
 
 Mona shivers. Getting up from her lowly position, she 
 draws back the curtains of her window and looks out upon 
 the night. It is brilliant with moonlight, clear as day, full 
 of that hallowed softness, that peaceful serenity, that belongs 
 alone to night. 
 
 She is enchanted, and stands there for a minute or two 
 spell-bound by the glory of the scene before her. Then a 
 desire to see her beloved lake from the great windows in the 
 northern gallery takes possession of her. She will go and 
 look at it, and afterwards creep on tiptoe to the library, seize 
 the book she had been reading before dinner, and make her 
 way back again to her room without any one being in the 
 least the wiser. Anything will be better than sitting here 
 any longer, dreaming dismal day-dreams. 
 
 She beckons to the dogs, and they, coming up to her, fol- 
 low her out of the room and along the corridor outside, their 
 soft velvet paws making no sound upon the polished floor. 
 She has brought with her no lamp. Just now, indeed, it would 
 be useless, such " a wide and tender light" does heaven's 
 lamp fling upon floor and ceiling, chamber and comdor. 
 
 The whole of the long north gallery is flooded with its 
 splendor. The oriel window at its farther end is lighted up, 
 and from it can be seen a picture, living, real, that resembles 
 fairy-land. 
 
 vSinkiug into the cushioned embrasure of the window, Mona 
 
260 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 sits entranced, drinking in the beauty that is balm to her im- 
 aginative mind. The two dogs, with a heavy sigh, shake 
 themselves, and then drop with a soft thud upon the ground 
 at her feet, — her pretty arched feet that are half naked and 
 white as snow, their blue slippers being all too loose for them. 
 Below is the lake, bathed in moonshine, A gentle wind 
 has arisen, and little wavelets silver-tinged are rolling inward, 
 breaking themselves with tender sobs upon the shore. 
 
 " The floor of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold." 
 
 TIjc floor itself is pale, nay, almost blue. A little snow is 
 sifted lightly on branch, and grass, and ivied wall. Each 
 object in the sleeping world is quite distinct. 
 
 " All things are calm, and fair, and passive; earth 
 Looks as if lulled upon an angel's lap 
 Into a breathless, dewy sleep ; so still 
 That we can only say of things, they be." 
 
 The cold seems hardly to touch Mona, so wrapt she is in 
 the beauties of the night. There is at times a solemn inde- 
 finable pleasure in the thought that we are awake whilst all 
 the world sleepeth ; that we alone are thinking, feeling, holding 
 high communion with our own hearts and our God. 
 
 The breeze is so light that hardly a trembling of the leafless 
 branches breaks the deadly silence that reigns all round : 
 
 " A lono owl's hoot, 
 The waterfall's faint drip. 
 Alone disturb the stillness of the scene." 
 
 Tired at length, and feeling somewhat chilled, Mona rouses 
 herself from her revery, and, followed by her two faithful 
 guardians, moves towards the staircase. Passing the armored 
 men that stand in niches all along the walls, a little sensation 
 of fear, a certain belief in the uncanny, runs through her. 
 She looks in a terrified fashion over her left shoulder, and 
 shudders perceptibly. Do dark fiery eyes look upon her in 
 very truth from those ghastly visors ? — surely a clank of super- 
 natural armor smote upon her ear just then I 
 
 She hastens her steps, and runs down hurriedly into the 
 
MRS. OEOFFREV. 261 
 
 hall below, which is almost as light as day. Turning aside, 
 she makes for the library, and now (and not till now) remem- 
 bers she has no light, and that the library, having its shutter:> 
 carefully closed every night by the invaluable Jenkins himself, 
 is of necessity in perfect darkness. 
 
 Must she go back for a caudle? Must she pass again all 
 those belted knights upon the staircase and in the upper gal- 
 lery ? No I rather will she brave the darkness of the more 
 congenial library, and — but soft — what is that ? Surely a 
 tiny gleam of light is creeping to her feet from beneath the 
 door of the room towards which she wends her way. 
 
 It is a light, not of stars or of moonbeams, but of a bond 
 fide lamp, and as such is hailed by Mona with joy. Evi- 
 dently the thoughtful Jenkins has left it lighted there for 
 Geoffrey's benefit when he returns. And very thoughtful, too, 
 it is of him. 
 
 All the servants have received orders to go to bed, and on 
 no account to sit up for Mr. Rodney, as he can let himself in 
 in his own way, — a habit of his for many years. Doubtless, 
 then, one of them had placed this lamp in the library with 
 some refreshments for him, should he require them. 
 
 So thinks Mona, and goes steadily on to the library, dread- 
 ing nothing, and inexpressibly cheered by the thought that 
 gloom at least does not await her there. 
 
 Pushing open the door very geutly, she enters the room, 
 the two dogs at her heels. 
 
 At first the light of the lamp — so unlike the pale trans- 
 parent purity of the moonbeams — puzzles her sight ; she ad- 
 vances a few steps unconsciously, treading lightly, as she has 
 done all along, lest she shall wake some member of the house- 
 hold, and then, piissing her hand over her eyes, looks leisurely 
 up. The fire is nearly out. She turns her head to the right, 
 ftnd then — then — she utters a faint scream, and grasps the 
 back of a chair to steady herself. 
 
 Standing with his back to her (being unaware of her en 
 trance), looking at the wall with the smaller panels that had 
 80 attracted him the night of the dance, is Paul Rodney I 
 
 Starting convulsively at the sound of her cry, he turns, and, 
 drawing with lightning rapidity a tiny pistol from his pocket, 
 raises his arm, and deliberately covers her. 
 
262 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 HOW MOXA STANDS HER GROUND — HOW PAUL RODNEY 
 BECOMES HER PRISONER — AND HOW GEOFFREY ON HIS 
 RETURN HOME MEETS WITH A WARM RECEPTION. 
 
 For a second Mona's courage fails her, and then it returns 
 again with threefold force. In truth, she is nearer death at 
 this moment than she herself quite knows. 
 
 " Put down your pistol, sir," she says, hastily. " Would 
 you fire on a woman ?" Her tone, though hurried, is not 
 oppressed with fear. She even advances a few steps in his 
 direction. Her words, her whole manner, fill him with admi- 
 ration. The extreme courage she betrays is, indeed, worthy 
 of any man's laudation, but the implied trust in his chivalry 
 touches Paul Rodney more than anything has ever had power 
 to touch him before. 
 
 He lowers the weapon at her command, but says nothing. 
 Indeed, what is ther*; to say ? 
 
 " Place it on the table," says Mona, who, though rich in 
 presence of mind, ha.» yet all a woman's wholesome horror of 
 anything that may go ofi^. 
 
 Again he obeys hei. 
 
 " Now, perhaps, yov will explain why you are here ?" says 
 Mrs. Geofi"rey, speakin<? as sternly as her soft voice will per- 
 mit. " How did you get in ?" 
 
 " Through the window. I was passing, and found it open." 
 There is some note ip his voice that might well be termed 
 mocking 
 
 " Open at this hour of the morning?" 
 
 " Wide open." 
 
 " And the lamp, did tou find it burning ?" 
 
 « Brilliantly." 
 
 He lifts his head her^- and laughs aloud, a short unmirth- 
 ful laugh. 
 
 " You are lying, sir,' says Mona, contemptuously. 
 
 " Yes, deliberately,'' returns he, with wilful recklessness. 
 
 He moves as thougl to take up the pistol again ; but Mona 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 263 
 
 is beforehand with him, and, closing her fingers round it, holds 
 it firmly. 
 
 " Do you think you are stronger than I am ?" he says, 
 amusement blended with the old admiration in his eyes. 
 
 " No, but they are," she says, pointing to her two faithful 
 companions, who are staring hungrily at llodney and evidently 
 only waiting the word from Mona to fling themselves upon 
 him. 
 
 She beckons to them, and, rising slowly, they advance to- 
 wards Rodney, who involuntarily moves back a little. And 
 in tnith they are formidable foes, with their bloodshot eyes, 
 and bristling coats, and huge jaws that, being now parted, 
 Bhow the gleaming teeth within. 
 
 " On guard," says Mona, whereupon both the brutes crouch 
 upon the ground right before Rodney, and fix him seriously 
 and menacingly with their eyes. 
 
 " You are certainly too strong for me," says Rodney, with 
 a frown and a peculiar smile. 
 
 " As you have refused to explain your presence here to me, 
 you shall remain where you now are until help arrives," says 
 Mona, with evident determination. 
 
 " I am content to stay here until the day dawns, if you 
 keep me company," replies he, easily. 
 
 " Insolence, sir, is perhaps another part of your role^^^ re- 
 turns she, with cold but excessive anger. 
 
 She is clad in a long white drossing-gown, loose, yet cling- 
 ing, that betrays each curve of her svelte., lissom figure. It is 
 bordered with swan's-down, and some rich white lace, that sits 
 high to her neck and falls over her small hands. Her hair is 
 drawn back into a loose knot, that looks as if it would tumble 
 down her back should she shake her head. She is pale, and 
 her eyes are peculiarly large and dark from excitement. They 
 are fixed upon Rodney with a gaze that belies all idea of fear, 
 and her lips are compressed and somewhat dangerous. 
 
 "Is truth insolence?" asks Rodney. "If so, I demand 
 your pardon. My speech, no doubt, was a betise, yet it came 
 from my heart." 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself to make any further excuse," says 
 Mona, icily. 
 
 " Pray sit down," says Rodney, politely : " if you insist on 
 spending your evening with me, let me at least know that you 
 
264 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 are comfortable." Again the comicality of the whole proceed- 
 ing strikes him, and he laughs aloud. He takes, too, a step 
 forward, as if to get her a chair. 
 
 " Do not stir," says Moua, hastily, pointing to the blood- 
 hounds. Allspice has risen — so has the hair on his back — 
 and ia looking thuuder-claps at Paul. A low growl breaka 
 trom him. He is plainly bent upon reducing to reason who- 
 soever shall dispute the will of his beloved mistress. " The 
 dogs know their orders, and will obey me. Down, Allspice, 
 down. You will do well, sir, to remain exactly where you 
 are," continues Mona. 
 
 " Then get a chair for yourself, at least, as you will not 
 permit me to go to your aid," he entreats. " I am your 
 prisoner, — perhaps," in a low tone, " the most willing captive 
 that ever yet was made." 
 
 He hardly realizes the extent of his subjection, — is blind to 
 the extreme awkwardness of the situation. Of Geoffrey's 
 absence, and the chance that he may return at any moment, 
 he is altogether ignorant. 
 
 Mona takes no notice of his words, but still stands by the 
 table, with her hands folded, her long white robes clinging to 
 her, her eyes lowered, her whole demeanor like that of some 
 mediaeval saint. So thinks Rodney, who is gazing at her aa 
 though he would forever imprint upon his brain the remem- 
 brance of a vision as pure as it is perfect. 
 
 The moments come and go. The fire is dying out. No 
 sound but that of the falling cinders comes to disturb the still- 
 ness that reigns within the library. Mona is vaguely wonder- 
 ing what the end of it all will be. And then at last the 
 silence is broken. A noise upon the gravel outside, a quick 
 rush up the balcony steps ; some one emerges from the gloom 
 of the night, and comes into the room through the open 
 window, Mona utters a passionate cry of relief and joy. It 
 is Geoffrey 1 
 
 Perhaps, just at first, surprise is too great to permit of his 
 feeling either astonishment or indignation. He looks from 
 Paul Rodney to Mona, and then from Mona back to Rodney. 
 After that his gaze does not wander again. Mona, running 
 to him, throws herself into his arms, and there he holds her 
 closely, but always with his eyes fixed upon the man he deems 
 his enemy. 
 
MRS. OEOFFREV. 2G5 
 
 As for the Australian, he has grown pale indeed, but is 
 quite self-possessed, and the usual insolent line round his 
 mouth has deepened. The dogs have by no means relaxed 
 their vigil, but still crouch before him, ready for their deadly 
 spring at any moment. It is a picture, almost a lifeless one, 
 so motionless are all those that help to form it. The fading 
 lire, the brilliant lamp, the open window with the sullen night 
 beyond, Paul Rodney standing upon the hearth-rug with 
 folded arms, his dark insolent face lighted up with the excite- 
 ment of what is yet to come, gazing defiantly at his cousin, 
 who is staring back at him, pale but determined. And then 
 Mona, in her soft white gown, somewhat in the foreground, 
 with one arm (from which the loose sleeve of the dressing- 
 gown has fallen back, leaving the fair rounded flesh to be 
 Been) thrown around her husband's neck, is watching Rodney 
 with an expression on her face that is half haughtiness, half 
 nervous dread. Her hair has loosened, and is rippling over 
 her shoulders, and down far below her waist ; with her dis- 
 engaged hand she is holding it back from her ear, hardly 
 knowing how picturesque and striking is her attitude, and 
 how it betrays each perfect curve of her lovely figure. 
 
 " Now, sir, speak," she says, at length, in rather tremulous 
 tones, growing fearful of the lengthened silence. There is a 
 dangerous vibration in the arm that Geoffrey has round her, 
 that gives her warning to make some change in the scene as 
 soon as possible. 
 
 For an instant Rodney turns his eyes on her, and then goes 
 back to his sneering examination of Geoffrey. Between them 
 the two dogs still lie, quiet but eager. 
 
 " Call off the dogs," says Geoffrey to Mona, in a low tone; 
 " there is no longer any necessity for them. And tell me how 
 you come to be here, at this hour, with this — fellow." 
 
 Mona calls off the dogs. They rise unwillingly, and, walk- 
 ing into a distant corner, sit there, as though still awaiting a 
 chance of taking some active part in the coming fray. After 
 which Mona, in a few words, explains the situation to Geoffrey. 
 
 " You will give me an explanation at once," says Geoffrey, 
 slowly, addressing his cousin. " What brought you here ?" 
 
 " Curiosity, as I have already told Mrs. Rodney," returns 
 he, lightly. " The window was open, the lamp burning. I 
 walked in to sec the old room." 
 U 23 
 
266 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Wlio 13 your accomplice ?" asks Geoffrey, still with studied 
 calmness. 
 
 " You are pleased to talk conundrums," says Rodney, with 
 a shrug. " I confess myself sufficiently dull to have never 
 guessed one. ' 
 
 " I shall make myself plainer. "Wliat servant did you 
 bribe to leave the window open for you at this hour ?" 
 
 For a brief instant the Australian's eyes flash fire ; then he 
 lowers his lids, and laughs quite easily. 
 
 " You would turn a farce into a tragedy," he says, mock- 
 ingly. " Why should I bribe a servant to let me see an old 
 room by midnight?" 
 
 " Why, indeed, unless you wished to possess yourself of 
 something in the old room ?" 
 
 \ " Again I fail to understand," says Paul ; but his very lips 
 grow livid. " Perhaps for the second time, and with the 
 same delicacy you used at first, you will condescend to 
 explain." 
 
 " Is it necessary ?" says Geoffrey, very insolently in his turn. 
 " I think not. By the by, is it your usual practice to prowl 
 round people's houses at two o'clock in the morning? I 
 thought all such festive habits were confined to burglars, and 
 blackguards of that order." 
 
 " We are none of us infallible," says Rodney, in a curious 
 tone, and speaking as if with difficulty. " You see, even you 
 erred. Though I am neither burglar nor blackguard, I, too, 
 enjoy a walk at midnight." 
 
 " Liar !" says Geoffrey between his teeth, his eyes fixed with 
 deadly hatred upon his cousin. " Liar — and thief I" He 
 goes a few steps nearer to him, and then waits. 
 
 " Thief!" echoes Paul, in a terrible tone. His whole face 
 quivers. A murderous light creeps into his eyes. 
 
 Mona, seeing it, moves away from Geoffrey, and, going 
 Btealthily up to the table, lays her hand upon the pistol, that 
 is still lying where last she left it. With a quick gesture, and 
 unseen, she covers it with a paper, and then turns her atten- 
 tion once more upon the two men. 
 
 "Ay, thief!" repeats Geoffrey, in a voice low but fierce. 
 " It was not without a purpose you entered this house to-night, 
 alone, and uninvited. Tell your story to any one foolish 
 enough to believe you. I do not. What did you hope to 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 267 
 
 find? What help towards the gaining of your unlawful 
 cause ?" 
 
 " Thief!" interrupts Rodney, repeating the vile word again, 
 as though deaf to everything but this degrading accusation. 
 Then there is a faint pause, and then 
 
 Mona never afterwards could say which man was the first 
 tc make the attack, but in a second they are locked in each 
 other's arms in a deadly embrace. A desire to cry aloud, to 
 summon help, takes hold of her, but she beats it down, some 
 inward feeling, clear, yet undefined, telling her that publicity 
 on such a matter as this will be eminently undesirable. 
 
 Geoffrey is the taller man of the two, but Paul the more 
 lithe and sinewy. For a moment they sway to and fro ; then 
 Geoffrey, getting his fingers upon his cousin's throat, forces 
 him backward. 
 
 The Australian struggles for a moment. Then, finding 
 Geoffrey too many for him, he looses one of his hands, and, 
 thrusting it between his shirt and waistcoat, brings to light a 
 tiny dagger, very flat, and lightly sheathed. 
 
 Fortunately, this dagger refuses to be shaken from its hold. 
 Mona, feeling that fair play is at an end, and that treachery is 
 asserting itself, turns instinctively to her faithful allies the 
 bloodhounds, who have risen, and, with their hair standing 
 straight on their backs, are growling ominously. 
 
 Cold, and half wild with horror, she yet retains her pres- 
 ence of mind, and, beckoning to one of the dogs, says, im- 
 periously, " At him, Spice !" pointing to Paul Rodney. 
 
 Like a flash of lightning, the brute springs forward, and, 
 flinging himself upon Rodney, fastens his teeth upon the arm 
 of the hand that holds the dagger. 
 
 The extreme pain, and the pressure — tlie actual weight — 
 of the powerful animal, tell. Rodney falls back, and with an 
 oath staggers against the mantel-piece. 
 
 " Call off that dog," cries Geoff"rey, turning savagely to 
 Mona. Whereupon, having gained her purpose, Mona bids 
 the dog lie down, and the faithful brute, exquisitely trained, 
 and unequal to disobedience, drops off his foe at her command, 
 and falls crouching to the ground, yet with his eyes red and 
 bloodshot, and his breath coming in panting gasps that betray 
 the wrath he would gladly gratify. 
 
 The dagger has fallen to the carpet in the struggle, and 
 
268 MRS. GEOFFREY . 
 
 Mona, picking it up, flings it far from her into the darksome 
 night through the window. Then she goes up to Geoffrey, 
 and, laying her hand upon his breast, turns to confront their 
 cousin. 
 
 Her hair is falling like a veil all round her ; through it she 
 looks out at Rodney with eyes frightened and imploring. 
 
 " Go, Paul I" she says, with vehement entreaty, the word 
 passing her lips involuntarily. 
 
 Geoffrey does not hear her. Paul does. And as his own 
 name, coming from her lips, falls upon his ear, a great change 
 passes over his face. It is ashy pale ; his lips are bloodless; 
 his eyes are full of rage and undying hatred ; but at her voice 
 it softens, and something that is quite indescribable, but is 
 perhaps pain and grief and tenderness and despair combined, 
 comes into it. Her lips — the purest and sweetest under 
 heaven — have deigned to address him as one not altogether 
 outside the pale of friendship, — of common fellowship. In 
 her own divine charity and tenderness she can see good in 
 others who are not (as he acknowledges to himself with ter- 
 rible remorse) worthy to touch the very hem of her white 
 skirts. 
 
 " Go," she says, again, entreatingly, still with her hand on 
 Geoffrey's breast, as though to keep him back, but with her 
 eyes on Paul. 
 
 It is a command. With a last lingering glance at the 
 woman who has enthralled him, he steps out through the 
 window on to the balcony, and in another moment is lost to 
 sight. 
 
 Mona, with a beating heart, but with a courage that gives 
 calmness to her outward actions, closes the window, draws the 
 shutters together, bars them, and then goes back to Geoffrey, 
 who has not moved since Rodney's departure. 
 
 " Tell me again how it all happened," he says, laying hia 
 bands on her shoulders. And then she goes through it again, 
 slowly, carefully. 
 
 " He was standing just there," she says, pointing to the 
 spot where first she had seen Paul when she entered the 
 library, " with his face turned to the panels, and his hand up 
 like this," suiting the action to the word. " When I came in, 
 he turned abruptly. Can ho be eccentric ? — odd ? Sometimes 
 1 have thought that " 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 269 
 
 " No ; eccentricity is farther from him than villainy. But, 
 my darling, what a terrible ordeal for you to come in and find 
 him here I Enough to frighten you to death, if you were 
 any one but my own brave girl." 
 
 " The dogs gave me courage. And was it not well I did 
 bring them ? How strange that I should have wished for 
 them so strongly to-night 1 That time when he drew out the 
 dagger ! — my heart failed me then, and but for Spice what 
 would have been the end of it ?" She shudders. " And 
 yet," she says, with sudden passion, " even then I knew what 
 I should have done. I had his pistol. I myself would have 
 shot him, if the worst came to the worst. Oh, to think that 
 that man may yet reign here in this dear old house, and sup- 
 plant Nicholas !" 
 
 Her eyes fill with tears. 
 
 " He may not, — there is a faint chance, — but of course the 
 title is gone, as he has proved his birth beyond dispute." 
 
 " What could he have wanted ? When I came in, he 
 turned pale and levelled the pistol at me. I was frightened, 
 but not much. When I desired him, he laid down the pistol 
 directly, and then I seized it. And then " 
 
 Her eyes fall upon the hearth-rug. Half under the fender 
 a small piece of crumpled paper attracts her notice. Still 
 talking, she stoops mechanically and picks it up, smooths it, 
 and opens it. 
 
 "Why, what is this?" she says, a moment later; "and 
 what a curious hand ! Not a gentleman's surely." 
 
 " One of Thomas's billef-doux, no doubt," says Geoffrey, 
 dreamily, alluding to the under-footman, but thinking of 
 something else. 
 
 " No, no ; I think not. Come here, Geofirey ; do. It is 
 the queerest thing, — like a riddle. See !" 
 
 He comes to her and looks over her shoulder at the paper 
 she holds. In an ugly unformed hand the following figures 
 and words are written upon it : 
 
 " 7 — i. Press top corner, — right hand." 
 
 This is all. The paper is old, soiled, and has apparently 
 made large acquaintance with pockets. It looks, indeed, as 
 if much travel and tobacco are not foreign to it. Geoffrey, 
 taking it from Mona, holds it from him at full length, with 
 amiable superciliousness, bctwoon his first fiuijer and thumb. 
 
 2iJ* 
 
270 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " Thomas has plainly taken to hieroglyphics, — if it be 
 Thomas," he says. " I can fancy his pressing his young 
 woman's right hand, but her ' top corner' baifles me. If I 
 were Thomas, I should't hanker after a girl with a ' top cor- 
 ner ;' but there is no accounting for tastes. It really ia 
 curious, though, isn't it ?" As he speaks he looks at Mona j 
 but Mona, though seemingly returning his gaze, is for tho 
 first time in her life absolutely unmindful of his presence. 
 
 Slowly she turns her head away from him, and, as though fol- 
 lowing out a train of thought, fixes her eyes upon the panelled 
 wall in front of her. 
 
 " It is illiterate writing, certainly ; and the whole concern 
 dilapidated to the last degree," goes on Mr. llodney, still re- 
 garding the soiled paper with curiosity mingled with aversion 
 " Any objection to my putting it in the fire ?" 
 
 " ' 7 — 4,' " murmurs she, absently, still staring intently at 
 the wall. 
 
 " It looks like the production of a lunatic, — a very dangerous 
 lunatic, — an habitue of Colney Hatch," muses Geofi"rey, who 
 is growing more and more puzzled with the paper's contents 
 the oftcner he reads it. 
 
 " ' Top corner, — right hand,' " goes on Mona, taking no 
 heed of him, and speaking in the same low, mysterious, far- 
 ofi" tone. 
 
 "Yes, exactly; you have it by heart; but what does it 
 mean, and what are you staring at that wall for?" asks he, 
 hopelessly, going to her side. 
 
 " It means — the missing will," returns she, in a voice that 
 would have done credit to a priestess of Delphi. As she de- 
 livers this oracular sentence, she points almost tragically to- 
 wards the wall in question. 
 
 " Eh !" says Geoffrey, starting, not so much at the meanmg 
 yf her words as at the words themselves. Have the worry 
 and excitement of the last hour unsettled her brain I 
 
 " My dear child, don't talk like that," he says, nervously: 
 "you're done up, you know. Come to bed." 
 
 " I sha'n't go to bed at all," declares Mrs. Geoffrey, ex- 
 citedly. " I shall never go to bed again, I think, until all 
 this is cleared up. Geoffrey, bring me over that chair." 
 
 She motions impatiently with her hand, and Geoffrey, being 
 compelled to it by her vehemence, draws a high chair close to 
 
MRS. QEOFFREV. 271 
 
 that part of the wall that seems to have claimed her greatest 
 attention. 
 
 Springing up on it, she selects a certain panel, and, laying 
 one hand on it as if to make sure it is the one she wants, 
 counts carefully six more from it to the next wall, and three 
 trom it to the floor. I think I have described these panels 
 before as being one foot broad and two feet long. 
 
 Having assured herself that the panel selected is the one she 
 requires, she presses her fingers steadily against the upper 
 corner on the side farthest from the fire. Expectation lies in 
 every line of her face, yet she is doomed to disappointment. 
 No result attends her nervous pressure, but distinct defeat. 
 The panel is inexorable. Nothing daunted, she moves her 
 hand lower down, and tries again. Again failure crushes her ; 
 after which she makes one last attempt, and, touching the very 
 uppermost corner, presses hard. 
 
 Success at last rests with her. Slowly the panel moves, 
 and, sliding to one side, displays to view a tiny cupboard that 
 for many years has been lost sight of by the Rodney I'amily. 
 It is very small, about half a foot in depth, with three small 
 shelves inside. But, alas ! these shelves are empty. 
 
 Geofi"rey utters an exclamation, and Mona, after one swift 
 comprehensive glance at the rifled cupboard, bursts into tears. 
 The bitter disappointment is more than she can bear. 
 
 " Oh ! it isn't here I He has stolen it !" cries she, as one 
 who can admit of no comfort. " And I felt so sure I should 
 find it myself. That was what he was doing when I came 
 into the room. Ah, Geoffrey, sure you didn't malign him 
 ■when you called him a thief." 
 
 " What has he done?" asks Geofi'rey, somewhat bewildered 
 and greatly distressed at her apparent grief 
 
 " He has stolen the will. Taken it away. That paper you 
 hold must have fiiUen from him, and contains the directions 
 about finding the right panel. Ah ! what shall we do now ?" 
 " You are right: I see it now," says Geofi'rey, whitening a 
 little. " Worden wrote this paper, no doubt," glancing at the 
 dirty bit of writing that has led to the discovery. " He evi- 
 dently had his knowledge from old Elspeth, who must have 
 known of this secret hiding-place from my great-grandfather. 
 My father, I am convinced, knew nothing of it. Here, on 
 the ni^ht of my grandfather's death, the old woman must 
 
272 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 have hidden the will, and here it has remained ever since until 
 to-night. Yet, after all, this is mere supposition," says Geof- 
 fi'ey. " We are taking for granted what may prove a myth, 
 The will may never have been placed here, and he him- 
 self " 
 
 " It was placed here ; I feel it, I know it," says Mona, sol- 
 emnly, laying her hand upon the panel. Her earnestnesa im- 
 presses him. He wakes into life. 
 
 " Then that villain, that scoundrel, has it now in his pos- 
 session," he says, quickly. " If I go after him, even yet I may 
 come up with him before he reaches his home, and compel him 
 to give it up." 
 
 As he finishes he moves towards the window, as though 
 bent upon putting his words into execution at once, but Mona, 
 hastily stepping before him, gets between it and him, and, 
 raising her hand, forbids his approach. 
 
 " You may compel him to murder you," she says, feverishly, 
 " or, in your present mood, you may murder him. No, you 
 shall not stir from this to-night." 
 
 " But — " begins he, impatiently, trying gently to put her 
 to one side. 
 
 " I will not listen," she interrupts, passionately. " I know 
 how you both looked a while ago. I shall never forget it ; 
 and to meet again now, with fresh cause for hatred in your 
 
 hearts, would be No. There is crime in the very air 
 
 to-night." 
 
 She winds her arms around him, seeing he is still deter- 
 mined to go, and, throwing back her head, looks into his 
 face. 
 
 " Besides, you are going on a fool's errand," she says, speak- 
 ing rapidly, as though to gain time. " He has reached his own 
 place long ago. Walt until the morning, I entreat you, Geof- 
 frey. I — " her lips tremble, her breath comes fitfully — " I cau 
 bear no more just now." 
 
 A sob escapes her, and falls heavily on Geoffrey's heart. 
 He is not proof against a woman's tears, — as no true man ever 
 is, — especially her tears, and so he gives in at once. 
 
 " There, don't cry, and you shall have it all your own way," 
 he says, with a sigh. " To-morrow we will decide what is to 
 be done." 
 
 " To-day, you moan : you will only have to wait a few short 
 
MRS. QEOFFRET. 273 
 
 hours," she says, gratefully. " Let us leave this hateful 
 room," with a shudder. " I shall never be able to enter it 
 again without thinking of this night and all its horrors." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 HOW MONA KEEPS HER OWN COUNSEL — AND HOW AT 
 MID-DAY SHE RECEIVES A NOTE. 
 
 Sleep, even when she does get to bed, refuses to settle upon 
 Mona's eyelids. During the rest of the long hours that mark 
 the darkness she lies wide awake, staring upon vacancy, and 
 thinking ceaselessly until 
 
 "Morn, in the white wake of the mornil? star, 
 Comes furrowing all the Orient into gold." 
 
 Then she rises upon her elbow, and notices how the light 
 comes through the chinks of the shutters. It must be day 
 indeed. The dreary night has fled affrighted ; the stars hide 
 their diminished rays. Surely 
 
 " Yon gray lines 
 That fret the clouds are messengers of day." 
 
 There is relief in the thought. She springs from her bed, 
 clothes herself rapidly, and descends to the breakfast-room. 
 Yet the day thus begun appears to her singularly unattractive. 
 Her mind is full of care. She has persuaded Geoffrey to 
 keep silence about all that last night produced, and wait, be- 
 fore taking further steps. But wait for what ? She herself 
 hardly knows what it is she hopes for. 
 
 She makes various attempts at thinking it out. She places 
 her pretty hands upon her prettier brows, under the mistaken 
 impression common to most people that this attitude is condu- 
 cive to the solution of mysteries; but with no result. Things 
 will not arrange themselves. 
 
 To demand the will from Paul Rodney without further 
 proof that it Ls in his possession than the fact of having dis- 
 covered by chance a secret cupboard is absurd ; yet not to de- 
 
274 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 mand it seems madness. To see him, to reason with him, to 
 accuse him of it, is her one desire ; yet she can promise hpx- 
 self no good from such an interview. She sighs as she thus 
 seeks aimlessly to see a satisfactory termination to all her med- 
 itations. 
 
 She is distraite and silent all the morning, taking small no- 
 tice of what goes on around her. Geoffrey, perplexed too in 
 spirit, wanders vaguely from pillar to post, unable to settle to 
 anything, — bound by Mona to betray no hint of what hap- 
 pened in the library some hours ago, yet dying to reveal the 
 secret of the panel-cupboard to somebody. 
 
 Nolly is especially and oppressively cheerful. He is blind 
 to the depression that marks Mona and GeofiTrey for its own, 
 and quite outdoes himself in geniality and all-round amiability. 
 
 Violet has gone to the stables to bestow upon her bonny 
 brown mare her usual morning offering of bread ; Jack, of 
 course, has gone with her. 
 
 Geoffrey is nowhere just at this moment. Doatie and 
 Nicholas are sitting hand in hand and side by side in the 
 library, discussing their own cruel case, and wondering for the 
 thousandth time whether — if the worst comes to the worst 
 (of which, alas ! there now seems little doubt) — her father 
 will still give his consent to their marriage, and, if so, how 
 they shall manage to live on five hundred pounds a year, and 
 whether it may not be possible for Nicholas to get something 
 or other to do (on this subject they are vague) that may help 
 " to make the crown a pound." 
 
 Mona is sitting in the morning-room, the faithful and ever- 
 lively Nolly at her side. According to his lights, she is 
 *' worth a ship-load of the whole lot," and as such he haunts 
 her. But to-day she fails him. She is absent, depressed, 
 weighed down with thought, — anything but congenial. She 
 forgets to smile in the right place, says " Yes" when courtesy 
 requires " No," and is deaf to his gayest sallies. 
 
 When he has told her a really good story, — quite true, and 
 all about the -Esthetic, Lady Lilias, who has declared her in- 
 tention of calling this afternoon, and against whose wearing 
 society he is strenuously warning her, — and when she has 
 shown no appreciation of the wit contained therein, he knows 
 there is something — as he himself describes it — " rotten in 
 the state of Denmark." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 2Y5 
 
 " You are not well, are you, Mrs. Geoffrey ?" be says, sym- 
 pathetically, getting up from his own chair to lean tenderly 
 over the back of hers. Nolly is nothing if not affectionate, 
 where women are concerned. It gives him no thought or 
 trouble to be attentive to them, as in his soul he loves them 
 all, — in the abstract, — from the dairy-maid to the duchess, 
 always provided they are pretty. 
 
 " You are wrong : I am quite well," says Mona, smiling, 
 and rousing herself. 
 
 " Then you have something on your mind. You have not 
 been your usual perfect self all the morning." 
 
 " I slept badly last night ; I hardly slept at all," she says, 
 plaintively, evading direct reply. 
 
 " Oh, well, that's it," says Mr. Darling, somewhat relieved. 
 " I'm an awful duffer not to have guessed that Geoffrey's being 
 out would keep you awake." 
 
 " Yes, I could not sleep. Watching and waiting destroy 
 all chance of slumber." 
 
 " Lucky he," says Nolly, fervently, " to know there is some- 
 body who longs for his return when he is abroad ; to feel that 
 there are eyes that will mark his coming, and look brighter 
 when he comes, and all that sort of thing. Nobody ever cares 
 about my coming," says Mr. Darling, with deep regret, " ex- 
 cept to lament it." 
 
 " How melancholy !" says Mona, with a nearer approach to 
 brightness than she has shown all day. 
 
 " Yes. I'm not much," confesses Mr. Darling, blandly. 
 " Others are more fortunate. I'm like ' the man in the street,' 
 subject to all the winds of heaven. Why, it would almost 
 tempt a man to stay away from home occasionally to know 
 there was some one longing for his return. It would posi- 
 tively encourage him to dine out whenever he got the chance." 
 
 " I pity your wife," says Mona, almost severely. 
 
 " Oh, now, Mrs. Geoffrey, come — I say — how cruel you 
 can be !" 
 
 " Well, do not preach such doctrine to Geoffrey," she says, 
 with repentance mixed with pathos. 
 
 " I shall do only what you wish," returns he, chivalrously, 
 arranging the cushion that adorns the back of her chair. 
 
 The morning wanes, and luncheon declares itself When 
 it has come to an end, Mona going slowly up the stairs to her 
 
276 ^RS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 own room is met there by one of the maids, — not her own, — 
 who hands her a sealed note. 
 
 " From whom ?" demands Mona, lazily, seeing the writing 
 is unknown to her. 
 
 " I really don't know, ma'am. Mitchell gave it to me," 
 Bays the girl, in an injured tone. Now, Mitchell is Lady 
 Rodney's maid. 
 
 " Very good," says Mona, indifferently, after which the 
 woman, having straightened a cushion or two, takes her 
 departure. 
 
 Mona, sinking languidly into a chair, turns the note over 
 and over between her fingers, whilst wondering in a dis- 
 jointed fashiun as to whom it can be from. She guesses 
 vaguely at the writer of it, as people will when they know a 
 touch of the hand and a single glance can solve the mystery. 
 
 Then she opens the letter, and reads as follows ; 
 
 " In spite of all that has passed, I do entreat you to meet 
 me at three o'clock this afternoon at the river, beneath the 
 chestnut-tree. Do not refuse. Let no shrinking from the 
 society of such as I am deter you from granting me this first 
 and last interview, as what I have to say concerns not you, 
 but those you love. I feel the more sure you will accede to 
 this request because of the heavenly pity in your eyes last 
 night, and the grace that moved you to address me as you 
 did. I shall wait for you until four o'clock. But let me not 
 wait in vain. — P. R." 
 
 So runs the letter. 
 
 " The man is eccentric, no matter what Geoffrey may say," 
 is Mona's first thought, when she has perused it carefully for 
 the second time. Then the belief that it may have something 
 to do with the restoration of the lost will takes possession of 
 her, and makes her heart beat wildly. Yas, she will go ; she 
 will keep this appointment whatever comes of it. 
 
 She glances at her watch. It is now a quarter-past three ; 
 80 there is no time to be lost. She must hasten. 
 
 Hurriedly she gets into her furs, and, twisting some soft 
 black lace around her throat, runs down the stairs, and, open- 
 ing the hall door without seeing any one, makes her way to- 
 wards the appointed spot. 
 
 It is the 20th of February ; already winter is dying out of 
 mind, and little flowers are springing everywhere. 
 
MRS. OEOFFREV. 277 
 
 " Daisies pied, and violets blue, 
 
 And lady-smocks all silver-white. 
 And cuekoo-buds of yellow hue 
 
 Do paint the meadows with delight." 
 
 Each bank and root of mossy tree is studded with pale prim- 
 roses that gleam like stars when the morninc; rises to dim their 
 lustre. My lady's straw-bed spreads its white carpet here and 
 there ; the faint twitter of birds is in the air, with " liquid 
 lapse of murmuring streams ;" every leaf seems bursting into 
 life, the air is keen but soft, the clouds rest lightly on a 
 ground of spotless blue ; the world is awake, and mad with 
 youthful glee as 
 
 "Spring comes slowly up this way." 
 
 Every flower has opened wide its pretty eye, because the sun, 
 that so long has been a stranger, has returned to them, and 
 is gazing down upon them with ardent love. They — fond 
 nuislings of an hour — accept his tardy attentions, and, though 
 Btill chilled and disoU because of the sad touches of winter 
 that still remain, gaze with rapt admiration at the great 
 Phoebus, as he sits enthroned above. 
 
 Mona, in spite of her haste, stoops to pluck a bunch of 
 violets and place them in her breast, as she goes upon her way. 
 Up to this the beauty of the early spring day has drawn her 
 out of herself, and compelled her to forget her errand. But 
 as she comes near to the place appointed for the interview, 
 a strange repugnance to go forward and face Paul Rodney 
 makes her step slower and her eyes heavy. And even as she 
 comprehends how strongly she shrinks from the meeting with 
 him, she looks up and sees the chestnut-tree in front of her, 
 and the stream rushing merrily to the ocean, and Paul Ptodney 
 standing in his favorite attitude with his arms folded and hia 
 sombre eyes fixed eagerly upon her. 
 
 * I have come," she says, simply, feeling herself growing 
 pale, yet quite self-possossed, and strong in a determinatioa 
 not to offer him her hand. 
 
 " Yes. I thank you for your goodness," returns he, 
 slowly. 
 
 Then follows an uncomfortable silence. 
 
 " You have something important to say to me," says Mona, 
 
 f)rcsently, seeing he will not speak : " at least, so your letter 
 ed me to believe." 
 
 24 
 
278 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " It is true ; I have." Then some other train of thought 
 Becms to rush upon him ; and he goes on in a curious tone 
 that is lialf mocking, yet wretched above every other feeling : 
 " You had the best of me last night, had you not ? And yet," 
 with a sardonic laugh, " I'm not so sure, either. See here." 
 
 Slowly he draws from his pocket a paper, folded neatly, 
 that looks like some old parchment. Mona draws her breath 
 quickly, and turns first crimson with emotion, then pale as 
 death. Opening it at a certain page, he points out to her the 
 Bignature of George Rodney, the old baronet. 
 
 " Give it to me 1" cries she, impulsively, her voice tremb- 
 ling. " It is the missing will. You found it last night. It 
 belongs to Nicholas. You must — nay," softly, beseechingly, 
 " you will give it to me." 
 
 " Do you know all you ask? By relinquishing this iniqui- 
 tous deed I give up all hope of ever gaining this place, — this 
 old house that even to me seems priceless. You demand 
 much. Yet on one condition it shall be yours." 
 
 " And the condition ?" asks she, eagerly, going closer to 
 him. What is it she would not do to restore happiness to 
 those she has learned to love so well ? 
 
 " A simple one." 
 
 " Name it !" exclaims she, seeing he still hesitates. 
 
 He lays his hands lightly on her arm, yet his touch seems 
 to burn through her gown into her very flesh. He stoops 
 towards her. 
 
 " For one kiss this deed shall be yours," he whispers, " to 
 do what you like with it." 
 
 Mona starts violently, and draws back ; shame and indig- 
 nation cover her. Her breath comes in little gasps. 
 
 " Are you a man, to make me such a speech ?" she says, 
 passionately, fixing her eyes upon him with withering con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " You have heard me," retorts he, coldly, angered to the 
 last degree by the extreme horror and disgust she has evinced 
 at his proposal. He deliberately replaces the precious paper 
 in his pocket, and turns as if to go. 
 
 " Oh, stay !" she says, faintly, detaining him both by word 
 and gesture. 
 
 He turns to her again. 
 
 She covers her eyes with her hands, and tries vainly to de« 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 279 
 
 cide on what is best for her to do. In all the books she has 
 ever read the young woman placed in her position would not 
 have hesitated at all. As if reared to the situation, she would 
 have thrown up her head, and, breathing defiance upon the 
 tempter, would have murmured to the sympathetic air, " Honor 
 above everything," and so, full of dignity, would have moved 
 away from her discomfited companion, her nose high in the 
 air. She would think it a righteous thing that all the world 
 should suflfer rather than one tarnish, however slight, should 
 sully the brightness of her fame. 
 
 For the first time Mona learns she is not like this well-reg- 
 ulated young woman. She falls lamentably short of such ex- 
 cellence. She cannot bring hereelf to think the world of those 
 she loves well lost for any consideration whatever. And after 
 all — this horrid condition — it would be over in a moment. 
 And she could run home with the coveted paper, and bathe 
 her face in sweet cold water. And then again she shudders. 
 Could she bathe the remembrance of the insult from her 
 heart ? 
 
 She presses her hands still closer against her eyes, as though 
 to shut out from her own mind the hatefulness of such a 
 thought. And then, with a fresh effort, she brings herself 
 back once more to the question that lies before her. 
 
 Oh, if by this one act of self-sacrifice she could restore the 
 Towers with all its beauty and richness to Nicholas, and — and 
 his mother, — how good a thing it would be ! But will Geof- 
 frey ever forgive her ? Ah, sure when she explains the matter 
 to him, and tells him how and why she did it, and how her 
 heart bled in the doing of it, he will put his arms round her 
 and pardon her sin Nay, more, he may see how tender is the 
 longing that compels her to the deed. 
 
 She uncovers her eyes, and glances for a bare instant at 
 Rodney. Then once more the heavily-fringed lids close upon 
 the dark-blue eyes, as if to hide the anguish in them, and in 
 a smothered voice she says, with clenched teeth and a face like 
 marble, " Yes, you may kiss me, — if you will." 
 
 There is a pause. In shrinking doubt she awaits the mo- 
 ment that shall make him take advantage of her words. But 
 that moment never conies. In vain she waits. At length 
 she lifts her eyes, and he, flinging the parchment at her feet, 
 cries, roughly, — 
 
280 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 " There I take it. / can be generous too." 
 
 " But," begins ]\Iona, feebly, hardly sure of her blessed 
 release. 
 
 " Keep your kiss," exclaims he, savagely, " since it cost yeu 
 such an effort to give it, and keep the parchment too. It is 
 yours because of my love for you." 
 
 Ashamed of his vehemence, he stoops, and, raising the will 
 from the ground, presents it to her courteously. " Take it : 
 it is yours," he says. Mona closes her fingers on it vigorously, 
 and by a last effort of grace suppresses the sigh of relief that 
 rises from her heart. 
 
 Instinctively she lowers her hand as though to place the 
 document in the inside pocket of her coat, and in doing so 
 comes against something that plainly startles her. 
 
 " I quite forgot it," she says, coloring with sudden fear, and 
 then slowly, cautiously, she draws up to view the hated pistol 
 he had left in the library the night before. She holds it out 
 to him at arm's length, jis though it is some noisome reptile, 
 as doubtless indeed she considers it. " Take it," she says ; 
 " take it quickly. I brought it to you meaning to return it. 
 Good gracious ! fancy my forgetting it 1 Why, it might have 
 gone off and killed me, and I should have been none the 
 wiser." 
 
 " Well, I think you would, for a moment or two at least," 
 returns he, smiling grimly, and dropping the dangerous little 
 toy with some carelessness into his own pocket 
 
 " Oh, do take care !" cries Mona, in an agony : " it is 
 loaded. If you throw it about in that rough fashion, it will 
 certainly go off and do you some injury." 
 
 " Blow me to atoms, perhaps, or into some region unknown," 
 says he, recklessly. " A good thing, too. Is life so sweet a 
 possession that one need quail before the thought of resign- 
 ing it?" 
 
 " You speak as one might who has no aim in life," says 
 Mona, looking at him with sincere pity. When Mona looks 
 
 f)iteous she is at her best. Her eyes grow large, her sweet 
 ips tremulous, her whole face pathetic. The role suits her. 
 Rodney's heart begins to beat with dangerous rapidity. It is 
 quite on the cards that a man of his reckless, untrained, dare- 
 devil disposition should fall madly in love with » woman sana 
 peur et sans reproche. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 281 
 
 " An aim 1" he Bays, bitterly. " I think I have found an 
 end to my life where most fellows find a beginning." 
 
 " By and by you will think differently," says Mona, be- 
 lieving he alludes to his surrender of the Rodney property. 
 " You will get over this disappointment." 
 
 " I shall, — when death claims me," replies he. 
 
 " Nay, now," says Mona, sweetly, " do not talk like that. 
 It grieves me. When you have formed a purpose worth liv- 
 ing for, the whole world will undergo a change for you. What 
 is dark now will seem light then ; and death will be an enemy, 
 a thing to battle with, to fight with desperately until one's 
 latest breath. In the mean time," nervously, " do be cau- 
 tious about that horrid weapon : won't you, now ?" 
 
 " You ask me no questions about last night," he says, sud 
 denly ; " and there is something I must say to you. Get rid 
 of that fellow Kidgway, the under-gardener. It was he 
 opened the library window for me. He is untrustworthy, and 
 too fond of filthy lucre ever to come to good. I bribed him." 
 
 He is now speaking with some difficulty, and is looking, 
 not at her, but at the pattern he is drawing on the soft loam 
 at his feet. 
 
 " Bribed him ?" says Mona, in an indescribable tone. 
 
 " Yes. I knew about the secret panel from Warden, old 
 Elspeth's nephew, who alone, I think, knew of its existence. 
 I was determined to get the will. It seemed to me," cries he, 
 with sudden excitement, " no such great crime to do away 
 with an unrighteous deed that took from an elder son (with- 
 out just cause) his honest rights, to bestow them upon the 
 younger. What had my father done ? Nothing I His 
 brother, by treachery and base subterfuge, supplanted him, 
 and obtained his birthright, while he, my father, was cast 
 out, disinherited, without a hearing." 
 
 His passion carries Mona along with it. 
 
 •• It was unjust, no doubt ; it sounds so," she says, faintly. 
 Yet even as she speaks she closes her little slender fingers res- 
 olutely upon the parchment that shall restore happiness to 
 Nicholas and dear pretty Dorothy. 
 
 " To return to Ridgway," says Paul Rodney, pulling him- 
 self up abruptly. " See him yourself, I beg of you, as a last 
 favor, and dismiss him. Send him over to me : I will take 
 him back with me to Australia and give him a fresh start ia 
 
 24* 
 
282 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 life. I owe him bo much, as I was the first to tempt him into 
 the wrong path ; yet I doubt whetlier he would have kept 
 Btraiglit even had he not met me. He is mauvais sujet all 
 through." 
 
 " Surely," thinks Mona to herself, " this strange young man 
 is not altogether bad. He has his divine touches as well as 
 another." 
 
 " I will do as you ask," she says, wondering when the in- 
 terview will come to an end. 
 
 " After all, I am half glad Nicholas is not to be routed," 
 he says, presently, with some weariness in his tone. " The 
 game wasn't worth the caudle. I should never have been able 
 to do the grand seigneur as he docs it. I suppose I am not 
 to the manner born. Besides, I bear him no malice." 
 
 His tone, his emphasis on the pronoun, is significant, 
 
 "Why should you bear malice to any one?" says Mona, 
 uneasily. 
 
 " Your husband called me ' thief.' I have not forgotten 
 that," replies he, gloomily, the dark blood of his mother's race 
 rushing to his cheek. " I shall remember that insult to my 
 dying day. And let him remember this, that if ever I meet 
 liim again, alone, and face to face, I shall kill him for that 
 word only." 
 
 " Oh, no ! no I" says Mona, shrinking from him. " Why 
 cherish such revenge in your heart ? Would you kill me too, 
 that you speak like this? Fling such thoughts far from you, 
 and strive after good. Revenge is the food of fools." 
 
 " Well, at least I sha'n't have many more opportunities of 
 meeting him," says Rodney. " I shall leave this country as 
 soon as I can. Tell Nicholas to keep the title with the rest, 
 I shall never use it. And now," growing very pale, " it only 
 remains to say good-by." 
 
 " Good-by," says Mona, softly, giving him her hand. Ho 
 keeps it fast in both his own. Just at this moment it dawns 
 upon her for the first time that this man loves her with a love 
 surpassing that of most. The knowledge does not raise within 
 her breast — as of course it should do — feelings of virtuous 
 indignation : indeed, I regret to say that my heroine feels 
 nothing but a deep and earnest pity, that betrays itself in her 
 expressive face. 
 
 "Last night you called mo Paul. Do you remember? 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 283 
 
 Call mc it again, for the last time," he entreats, in a low tone. 
 " I shall never forget what I felt then. If ever in tlie future 
 you hear good of me, believe it was through you it sprung to 
 life. Till my dying day your image will remain with me. 
 Say now, ' Good-by, Paul,' before I go." 
 
 " Good-by, dear Paul," says Mona, very gently, impressed 
 by his evident grief and earnestness. 
 
 " Good-by, my — my beloved — cousin," he says, in a choked 
 voice. I think the last word is an after-thought. He is tear- 
 ing himself from all he holds most sacred upon earth, and the 
 strain is terrible. He moves resolutely a few yards away from 
 her, as though determined to put space between him and her ; 
 yet then he pauses, and, as though powerless to withdraw 
 from her presence, returns again, and, flinging himself on his 
 knees before her, presses a fold of her gown to his lips with 
 passionate despair. 
 
 " It is forever !" he says, incoherently. " Oh, Mona, at 
 'east — at least promise you will always think kindly of me." 
 
 " Always — indeed, always !" says Mona, with tears in her 
 ■.yes ; after which, with a last miserable glance, he strides 
 away, and is lost to sight among the trees. 
 
 Then Mrs. Geoifrey turns quickly, and runs home at the 
 top of her speed. She is half sad, yet half exultant, being 
 filled to the very heart with the knowledge that life, joy, and 
 emancipation from present evil lie in her pocket. This 
 thought crowns all others. 
 
 As she comes to the gravel walk that leads from the shi-ub- 
 beries to the sweep before the hall door, she encounters the 
 disgraced llidgway, doing something or other to one of the 
 shrubs that has come to grief during the late bad weather. 
 
 He touches his hat to her, and bids her a respectful 
 "good-afternoon," but for once she is blind to his salutation. 
 Nevertheless, she stops before him, and, in a clear voice, feiys, 
 coldly, — 
 
 " For the future your services will not be required here. 
 Your new master, Mr. Paul Rodney, whom you have chosen 
 to obey in preference to those in whose employ you have been, 
 will give you your commands from this day. Go to him, and 
 after this try to be faithful." 
 
 The boy — he is little more — cowers beneath her glanco. 
 He changes color, and drops the branch he holds. No excuse 
 
284 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 rises to his lips. To attempt a lie with those clear eyes upon 
 him would be worse than useless. He turns abruptly away, 
 and is dead to the Towers from this moment. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 now CONVERSATION GROWS RIFE AT THE TOWERS — AND 
 now MONA ASSERTS HERSELF — AND HOW LADY RODNEY 
 LICKS THE DUST. 
 
 " Where can Mona be ?" says Doatie, suddenly. 
 
 We must go back one hour. Lady Lilias Eaton has come 
 and gone. It is now a quarter to five, and Violet is pouring 
 out tea in the library. 
 
 " Yes ; where is Mona ?" says Jack, looking up from the 
 cup she has just given him. 
 
 " I expect I know more than most about her," says Nolly, 
 who is enjoying himself immensely among the sponge- and 
 the plum-cakes. " I told her the Esthetic was likely to call 
 this afternoon, and advised her strongly to make her escape 
 while she could." 
 
 " She evidently took your advice," says Nicholas. 
 
 " Well, I went rather minutely into it, you know. 1 ex 
 plained to her how Lady Lilias was probably going to discuss 
 the new curfew-bell in all its bearings ; and I hinted gloomily 
 at tlie ' Domesday Book.' Tliat fetched her. She vamoosed 
 on the spot." 
 
 " Nothing makes me so hungry as Lady Lilias," says 
 Doatie, comfortably. She is lying back in a huge arm-chair 
 that is capable of holding three like her, and is devouring 
 bread-and-butter like a dainty but starved little fairy. Nich- 
 olas, sitting beside her, is holding her tea-cup, her own special 
 tea-cup of gaudy Sevres. " She is very trying, isn't she, 
 Nicholas ? What a dazzling skin she has 1 — the very whitest 
 I ever saw." 
 
 " Well, that is in her favor, I really think," says Violet, in 
 her most unprejudiced manner. " If she were to leave off 
 her rococo toilettes, and take to Elise or Worth like other 
 
MRS. OEOFFREV. 285 
 
 people, and give up posing, and try to behave like a rational 
 being, ebe might almost be called handsome." 
 
 No one seconds this rash opinion. There is a profound 
 silence. Miss Mansergh looks mildly round for support, and, 
 meeting Jack's eyes, stops there. 
 
 " Well, really, you know, yes. I think there is something 
 special about her," he says, feeling himself in duty bound to 
 Bay something. 
 
 "So there is; something specially awful," responds Nolly, 
 pensively. " She frightens me to death. She has an ' eye 
 like a gimlet.' When I call to mind the day my father in- 
 veigled me into the library and sort of told me I couldn't do 
 better than go in for Lilias, my knees give way beneath me 
 and smite each otiier with fear. I shudder to think what part 
 in her mediaeval programme would have been allotted to me." 
 
 "You would have been her henchman, — is that right, Nich- 
 olas? — or her vai-let," says Dorothy, with conviction. " And 
 you would have had to stain your skin, and go round with a 
 cross-bow, and with your mouth widened from ear to ear to 
 give you the correct look. All aesthetic people have wide 
 mouths, have they not, Nicholas ?" 
 
 " Bless me, what an enthralling picture!" says Mr. Darling. 
 " You make me regret all I have lost. But perhaps it is not 
 yet too late. I say, Dolly, you are eating nothing. Have 
 some more bread-and-butter or cake, old girl. You don't half 
 take care of yourself" 
 
 " Well, do you know, I think I will take another bit of 
 cake," says Doatie, totally unabashed. "And — cut it thick. 
 After all, Noll, I don't believe Lilias would ever marry you, 
 or any other man : she wouldn't know what to do with you." 
 
 " It is very good of you to say that," says Nolly, meekly 
 but gratefully. " It gives me great support. You honestly 
 believe, then, that I may escape ?" 
 
 " Just fancy the Esthetic with a husband, and a baby on 
 her knee." 
 
 " Like ' Loraine Loraine Loree,' " says Violet, laughing. 
 
 " Did she have both together on her knee ?" asks Dorothy, 
 vaguely. " She must have found it heavy." 
 
 " Oh, one at a time," says Nolly. " She couldn't do it all 
 at once. Such a stretch of fancy requires thought." 
 
 At this moment, Geoffrey — who has been absent — saunters 
 
286 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 into the room, and, after a careless glance around, says, liglitl) , 
 afi if missing something, — 
 
 "Where is Mona?" 
 
 " Well, we thought you would know," says Lady Rodney, 
 speaking for the first time. 
 
 "Yes. Where is she?'' says Doatie : " that is just what 
 we all want to know. She won't get any tea if she doesn't 
 come presently, because Nolly is bent on finishing it. Nolly," 
 with plaintive protest, " don't be greedy." 
 
 " We thought she was with you," says Captain llodney, idly. 
 
 " She is out," says Lady Kodney, in a compressed tone. 
 
 " Is she ? It is too late for her to be out," returns Geof- 
 frey, thinking of the chill evening air. 
 
 " Quite too late," acquiesces his mother, meaningly. " It 
 is, to say the least of it, very strange, very unseemly. Out at 
 this hour, and alone, — if, indeed, she is alone !" 
 
 Her tone is so unpleasant and so significant that silence 
 falls upon the room. GeolFrey says nothing. Perhaps he 
 alone among them fails to understand the meaning of her 
 words. He seems lost in thought. So lost, that the others, 
 watching him, wonder secretly what the end of his medita- 
 tions will bring forth : yet, one and all, they mistake him : no 
 doubt of Mona ever has, or ever will, I think, cross his mind. 
 
 Lady Rodney regards him curiously, trying to read his 
 downcast face. Has the foolish boy at last been brought to 
 see a flaw in his idol of clay ? 
 
 Nicholas is looking angry. Jack, sinking into a chair near 
 Violet, says, in a whisper, that " it is a beastly shame his 
 mother cannot let Mona alone. She seems, by Jove 1 bent on 
 turning Geoflfrey against her." 
 
 " It is cruel," says Violet, with suppressed but ardent ire. 
 
 " If — if you loved a fellow, would anything turn you 
 against him ?" asks he, suddenly, looking her full in the face. 
 
 And she answers, — 
 
 " Nothing. Not all the talking in the wide world," with a 
 brilliant blush, but with steady earnest eyes. 
 
 Nolly, mistrustful of Geoffrey's silence, goes up to him, 
 and, laying his hands upon his shoulders, says, quietly, — 
 
 " Mrs. Geoffrey is incapable of making any mistake. How 
 silent you are, old fellow !" 
 
 " Eh ?" says Geoffrey, rousing himself and smiling geuially. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 287 
 
 " A mistake ? Oh, no. She never makes mistakes. I was 
 thinking of something else. But she really ought to be in 
 now, you know ; she will catch her death of cold." 
 
 The utter want of suspicion in his tone drives Lady Rod- 
 ney to open action. To do her justice, dislike to Mona has 
 80 warped her judgment that she almost believes in the evii 
 she seeks to disseminate about her. 
 
 " You are wilfully blind," she says, flushing hotly, and 
 smoothing with nervous fingers an imaginary wrinkle from her 
 gown. " Of course I explained matters as well as I could to 
 Mitchell, but it was very awkward, and very unpleasant, and 
 servants are never deceived." 
 
 " I hardly think I follow you," says Geoffrey, in a frozen 
 tone. " In regard to what would you wish your servants de- 
 ceived ?" 
 
 " Of course it is quite the correct thing your taking it in 
 this way," goes on his mother, refusing to be warned, and 
 speaking with irritation, — "the only course left open; but it 
 is rather absurd with me. We have all noticed your wife's 
 extraordinary civility to that shocking young man. Such bad 
 taste on her part, considering how he stands with regard to 
 us, and the unfortunate circumstances connected with him. 
 But no good ever comes of unequal marriages." 
 
 " Now, once for all, mother — " begins Nicholas, vehemently, 
 but Geoffrey, with a gesture, silences him. 
 
 " I am perfectly content, nay, more than content, with the 
 match I have made," he says, haughtily ; " and if you are al- 
 luding to Paul Kodney, I can only say I have noticed nothing 
 reprehensible in Mona's treatment of him." 
 
 " You ai-e very much to be admired," says his mother, in 
 an abominable tone. 
 
 " I see no reason why she should not talk to any man she 
 pleases. I know her well enough to trust her anywhere, and 
 am deeply thankful for such knowledge. In fact," with somo 
 passion, sudden but subdued, " I feel as though in discussing 
 her in this cold-blooded fashion I am doing her some grievous 
 wrong." 
 
 " It almost amounts to it," says Nicholas, with a frown. 
 
 " Besides, I do not understand what you mean," says Geof- 
 frey, still regarding his mother with angry eyes. " Why con- 
 nect Mona's absence with Paul Rodney?" 
 
288 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 " I shall tell you," exclaims she, in a higher tone, her pale- 
 blue eyes flashing. " Two hours ago my own maid received 
 a note from Paul Rodney's man directed to your wife. When 
 she read it she dressed herself and went from this house in 
 the direction of the wood. If you cannot draw your own con- 
 clusions from these two facts, you must be duller or more ob- 
 Btinate than I give you credit for." 
 
 She ceases, her work accomplished. The others in the room 
 grow weak with fear, as they tell themselves that things are 
 growing too dreadful to be borne much longer. When the 
 silence is quite insupportable, poor little Dorothy struggles to 
 the front. 
 
 " Dear Lady Rodney," she says, in a tremulous tone, " are 
 you quite sure the note was from that — that man ?" 
 
 " Quite sure," returns her future mother-in-law, grimly. 
 " I never speak, Dorothy, without foundation for what I say." 
 
 Dorothy, feeling snubbed, subsides into silence and the 
 shadow that envelopes the lounge on which she is sitting. 
 
 To the surprise of everybody, Geoffrey takes no open notice 
 of his mother's speech. He does not give way to wrath, nor 
 does he open his lips on any subject. His face is innocent of 
 anger, horror, or distrust. It changes, indeed, beneath the 
 glow of the burning logs, but in a manner totally unexpected. 
 An expression that might even be termed hope lights it up. 
 Like this do his thoughts run : " Can it be possible that the 
 Australian has caved in, and, fearing publicity after last night's 
 fiasco, surrendered the will to Mona ?" 
 
 Possessed with this thought, — which drowns all others, — 
 he clasps his hands behind his back and saunters to the win- 
 dow. " Shall he go and meet Mona and learn the truth at 
 once ? Better not,, perhaps ; she is such a clever child that it 
 is as well to let her achieve victory without succor of any 
 sort." 
 
 He leans against the window and looks out anxiously upon 
 the darkening twilight. His mother watches him with curious 
 eyes. Suddenly he electrifies the whole room by whistling in 
 a light and airy fashion his favorite song from " Madame Fa- 
 vart." It is the " Artless Thing," and nothing less, and he 
 whistles it deliberately and dreamily from start to finish. 
 
 It seems such a direct running commentary on Mona's sup- 
 posed ill deed that every one — as by a single impulse — looks 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 289 
 
 up. Nolly and Jack Rodney exchange covert glances. But 
 for the depression that reigns all round, I think these two 
 would have given way to frivolous merriment. 
 
 " By Jove, you know, it is odd," says GeoflPrey, presently, 
 speaking as one might who has for long been following out a 
 train of "thought by no means unpleasant, " his sending for her, 
 and that: there must be something in it. Rodney didn't 
 write to her for nothing. It must have been to — --" Here 
 be checks himself abruptly, remembering his promise to Mona 
 to say nothing about the scene in the library. " It certainly 
 means something," he winds up, a little tamely. 
 "No doubt," "returns his mother, sneeringly. 
 " My dear mother," says GeofiPrey, coming back to the fire- 
 light, " what you would insinuate is too ridiculous to be taken 
 any notice of" Every particle of his former passion has died 
 from his voice, and he is now quite calm, nay, cheerful. " But 
 at the same timo I must ask you to remember you are speak- 
 ing of my wife." 
 
 " I do remember it," replies she, bitterly. 
 Just at this moment a light step running up the stairs out- 
 (ride and across the veranda makes itself heard. Every one 
 looks expectant, and the slight displeasure dies out of Geof- 
 frey's face. A slender, graceful figure appears at the window, 
 and taps lightly. 
 
 " Open the window, Geofi"," cries Mona, eagerly, and as he 
 obeys her commands she steps into the room with a certain 
 touch of haste about her movements, and looks round upon 
 them earnestly, — some peculiar expression, born of a glad 
 thought, rendering her lovely face even more perfect than 
 usual. 
 
 There is a smile upon her lips; her hands ai-e clasped 
 behind her. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come, darling," says little Dorothy, 
 taking ofi" her hat, and laying it on a chair near her. 
 
 Geoffrey removes the heavy lace that lies round her throat, 
 »nd then leads her up to the hearth-rug nearly opposite to his 
 mother's arm-chair. 
 
 "Where have you been, Mona?" he asks, quietly, gazing 
 into the great honest liquid eyes raised so willingly to his own. 
 " You shall gue.ss," says Mrs. Geoffrey, gayly, with a little 
 laugh. " Now, where do you think ?" 
 N i 26 
 
290 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 Geoffrey says nothing. But Sir Nicholas, as though im- 
 pulsively, says, — 
 
 " In the wood ?" 
 
 Perhaps he is afraid for her. Perhaps it is a gentle hint to 
 her that the truth will be best. Whatever it may be, Mona 
 understands him not at all. His mother glances up sharply. 
 
 " Why, so I was," says Mona, opening her eyes with some 
 surprise, and with an amused smile. " What a good guess, and 
 considering how late the hour is, too !" 
 
 She smiles again. Lady Rodney, watching her intently, 
 tells herself if this is acting it is the most perfectly done thing 
 she ever saw in her life, either on the stage or off it. 
 
 Geoffrey's arm slips from his wife's shoulders to her rounded 
 waist. 
 
 " Perhaps, as you have been so good at your first guess 
 you will try again," says Mona, still addressing Nicholas, and 
 speaking in a tone of unusual light-heartedness, but so stand- 
 ing that no one can see why her hands are so persistently 
 clasped behind her back. " Now tell me who I was with." 
 
 This is a thunderbolt. They all start guiltily, and regard 
 Mona with wonder. What is she going to say next ? 
 
 " So," she says, mockingly, laughing at Nicholas, " you can- 
 not play the seer any longer ? Well, I shall tell you. I was 
 with Paul Rodney !" 
 
 She is plainly quite enchanted with the sensation she is 
 creating, though she is far from comprehending how com- 
 plete that sensation is. Something in her expression appeals 
 to Doatie's heart and makes her involuntarily go closer to her. 
 Her face is transfigured. It is full of love and unselfish joy 
 and happy exultation : always lovely, there is at this moment 
 something divine about her beauty. 
 
 " What have you got behind your back ?" says Geoffrey, 
 suddenly, going up to her. 
 
 She flushes, opens her lips as if to speak, and yet is dumb, 
 — perhaps through excess of emotion. 
 
 " Mona, it is not — it cannot be — but is it?" asks he, inco- 
 herently. 
 
 " The missing will ? Yes — yes — yes .'" cries she, raising 
 the hand that is behind her, and holding it high above her 
 head with the will held tightly in it. 
 
 It is a supreme moment. A deadly silence falls upon the 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 291 
 
 room, and then Dorothy bursts into tears. In my heart I 
 believe she feels as much relief at Mona's exculpation as at 
 the discovery of the desired deed. 
 
 Mona, turning not to Nicholas or to Doatie or to Geoffrey 
 but to Lady Rodney, throws the paper into her lap. 
 
 "The will — but are you sure — sure?" says Lady Rodney, 
 feebly. She tries to rise, but sinks back again in her chair, 
 feeling faint and overcome. 
 
 " Quite sure," says Mona, and then she laughs aloud, — a 
 sweet, joyous laugh, — and clasps her hands together with un- 
 disguised delight and satisfaction. 
 
 Geoffrey, who has tears in his eyes, takes her in his arms 
 and kisses her once softly before them all. 
 
 " My best beloved," he says, with passionate fondness, be- 
 neath his breath ; but she hears him, and wonders vaguely 
 but gladly at his tone, not understanding the rush of tender- 
 ness that almost overcomes him as he remembers how his 
 mother — whom she has been striving with all her power to 
 benefit — has been grossly maligning and misjudging her. 
 Truly she is too good for those among whom her lot has been 
 cast. 
 
 " It is like a fairy-tale," says Violet, with unwonted excite- 
 ment. " Oh, Mona, tell us how you managed it." 
 
 " Well, just after luncheon Letitia, your maid, brought me 
 a note. I opened it. It was from Paul Rodney, asking me 
 to meet him at three o'clock, as he had something of impor- 
 tance to say that concerned not me but those I loved. When 
 he said that," says Mona, looking round upon them all with a 
 large, soft, comprehensive glance, and a sweet smile, " I knew 
 he meant i/ou. So I went. I got into my coat and hat, and 
 ran all the way to the spot he had appointed, — the big chestnut- 
 tree near the mill-stream : you know it, Geoff, don't you?" 
 
 " Yes, I know it," says Geoffrey. 
 
 " He was there before me, and almost immediately he drew 
 the will from his pocket, and said he would give it to me if 
 — if — Well, he gave it to me," says Mrs. Geoffrey, changing 
 color as she remembers her merciful escape. " And he desired 
 me to tell you, Nicholas, that he would never claim the title, 
 as it was useless to him and it sits so sweetly on you. And 
 then I clutched the will, and held it tightly, and ran all the 
 way back with it, and — and that's all 1" 
 
292 AJIiS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 She smiles again, and, with a sigh of rapture at her own 
 succjcss, turns to Geoffrey and presses her lips to his out of 
 the very fulness of her heart. 
 
 " Why have you taken all this trouble about us ?" says Lady 
 Rodney, leaning forward to look at the girl anxiously, her voice 
 low and trembling. 
 
 At this Mona, being a creature of impulse, grows onoe more 
 pale and troubled. 
 
 " It was for you," she says, hanging her head. " I thought 
 if I could do something to make you happier, you might learn 
 to love me a little 1" 
 
 " I have wronged you," says Lady Rodney, in a low tone, 
 covering her face with her hands. 
 
 " Go to her," says Geoffrey, and Mona, slipping from his 
 embrace, falls on her knees at his mother's feet. With one 
 little frightened hand she tries to possess herself of the fingers 
 that shield the elder woman's face. 
 
 " It is too late," says Lady Rodney, in a stifled tone. " I 
 have said so many things about you, that — that " 
 
 " I don't care what you have said," interrupts Mona, quickly. 
 She has her arras round Lady Rodney's waist by this time, 
 and is regarding her beseechingly. 
 
 " There is too much to forgive," says Lady Rodney, and as 
 she speaks two tears roll down her cheeks. This evidence of 
 emotion from her is worth a torrent from another. 
 
 " Let there be no talk of forgiveness between you and me," 
 eays Mona, very sweetly, after which Lady Rodney fairly gives 
 way, and, placing her arms round the kneeling girl, draws her 
 to her bosom and kisses her tenderly. 
 
 Every one is delighted. Perhaps Nolly and Jack Rodney 
 are conscious of a wild desire to laugh, but, if so, they man- 
 fully suppress it, and behave as decorously as the rest. 
 
 " Now I am quite, quite happy," says Mona, and, rising 
 from her knees, she goes back again to Geoffrey, and stands 
 beside him. " Tell them all about last night," she says, look- 
 ing up at him, " and the secret cupboard." 
 
MRS. QEOFFRET. 293 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 now THE RODNEYS MAKE MERRY OVER THE SECRET 
 
 PANEL HOW GEOFFREY QUESTIONS MONA — AND HOW, 
 
 WHEN JOY IS AT ITS HIGHEST, EVIL TIDINGS SWEEP 
 DOWN UPON THEM. 
 
 At the mention of the word " secret" every one grows very 
 much alive at once. Even Lady Rodney dries her tears and 
 looks up expectantly. 
 
 " Yes, Geoffrey and I have made a discovery, — a most im- 
 portant one, — and it has lain heavy on our breasts all day. 
 Now tell them everything about last night, Geoff, from be- 
 ginning to end." 
 
 Thus adjured, — though in truth he requires little pressing, 
 having been devoured with a desire since early dawn to reveal 
 the hidden knowledge that is in his bosom, — Geoffrey relates 
 to them the adventure of the night before. Indeed, he gives 
 such a brilliant coloring to the tale that every one is stricken 
 dumb with astonishment, Mona herself perhaps being the 
 most astonished of all. However, like a good wife, she makes 
 no comments, and contradicts his statements not at all, so that 
 (emboldened by her evident determination not to interfere 
 with anything he may choose to say) he gives them such a 
 story as absolutely brings down the house, — metaphorically 
 speaking. 
 
 " A secret panel ! Oh, how enchanting I do, do show it to 
 me 1" cries Doatie Darling, when this marvellous recital has 
 come to an end. " If there is one thing I adore, it is a secret 
 chamber, or a closet in a house, or a ghost." 
 
 " You may have the ghosts all to yourself I sha'n't grudge 
 them to you. I'll have the cupboards," says Nicholas, who 
 has grown at least ten years younger during the last hour. 
 " Mona, show us this one." 
 
 Mona, drawing a chair to the panelled wall, steps up on it, 
 and, pressing her finger on the seventh panel, it slowly rolli 
 back, betraying the vacuum behind. 
 
 25» 
 
294 MRS. GEOFFREV. 
 
 They all examine it with interest, Nolly being specially 
 voluble on the occasion. 
 
 " And to think we all sat pretty nearly every evening 
 within a yard or two of that blessed will, and never knew any- 
 thing about it 1" he says, at last, in a tone of unmitigated 
 disgust. 
 
 " Yes, that is just what occurred to me," says Mona, nod- 
 ding her head sympathetically, 
 
 " No ! did it?" says Nolly, sentimentally. " How — how 
 awfully satisfactory it is to know we both thought alike on 
 even one subject !" 
 
 Mona, after a stare of bewilderment that dies at its birth, 
 gives way to laughter : she is still standing on the chair, and 
 looking down on Nolly, who is adoring her in the calm and 
 perfectly open manner that belongs to him. 
 
 Just then Dorothy says, — 
 
 " Shut it up tight again, Mona, and let me try to open it." 
 And, Mona having closed the panel again and jumped down 
 off the chair, Doatie takes her place, and, supported by Nicho- 
 las, opens and shuts the secret door again and again to her 
 heart's content. 
 
 " It is quite simple : there is no deception," says Mr. Dar- 
 ling, addressing the room, with gracious encouragement in his 
 tone, shrugging his shoulders and going through all the airs 
 and graces that belong to the orthodox French showman. 
 
 " It is qui*-e necessary you should know all about it," saya 
 Nicholas, in a low tone, to Dorothy, whom he is holding care- 
 fully, as though under the mistaken impression that young 
 women if left on chairs without support invariably fail off 
 them. " As the future mistress here, you ought to be up to 
 every point connected with the old place." 
 
 Miss Darling blushes. It is so long since she has given 
 way to this weakness that now she does it warmly and gener- 
 ously, as though to make up for other opportunities neglected. 
 She scrambles down off the chair, and, going up to Mona, 
 surprises that heroine of the hour by bestowing upon her a 
 warm though dainty hug. 
 
 " It is all your doing. How wretched we should have been 
 had we never seen you I" she says, with tears of gratitude in 
 her eyes. 
 
 Altogether it is a very exciting and pleasurable moment. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 295 
 
 Tlie panel is as good as a toy to them. They all open it 
 by turns, and wonder over it, and rejoice in it. But Geoflrey, 
 taking Mona aside, says, curiously, and a little gravely, — 
 
 " Tell me why you hesitated in your speech a while ago. 
 Talking of Rodney's giving you the will, you said he offered 
 to give it you if — if What did the ' if mean ?" 
 
 " Come over to the window, and I will tell you," says Mrs. 
 Geoffrey. " He — he — you must take no notice of it, Geof- 
 frey, but he wanted to kiss me. He offered me the will for 
 one kiss, and " 
 
 "You didn't get possession of it in that way?" asks he, 
 seizing her hands and trying to read her face. 
 
 " Oh, no ! But listen to my story. When he saw how I 
 hated his proposal, he very generously forgave the price, and 
 let me have the document a free gift. That was rather good 
 of him, was it not? because men like having their own way, 
 you know." 
 
 " Very self-denying of him, indeed," says Geoffrey, with a 
 slight sneer, and a sigh of relief. 
 
 " Had I given in, would you have been very angry?" asks 
 she, regarding him earnestly. 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " Then what a mercy it is I didn't do it !" says Mona, 
 naively. " I was very near it, do you know ? I had actually 
 said ' Yes,' because I could not make up my mind to lose the 
 deed, when he let me off the bargain. But, if he had per- 
 sisted, 1 tell you honestly I am quite sure I should have let 
 him kiss me." 
 
 " Mona, don't talk like that," says Geoffrey, biting his 
 lips. 
 
 " Well, but, after all, one can't be much of a friend if one 
 can't sacrifice one's self sometimes for those one loves," says 
 Mrs. Geoffrey, reproachfully. " You would have done it 
 yourself in my place 1" 
 
 " What ! kiss the Australian ? I'd see him — very well — 
 that is — ahem ! I certainly would not, you know," says Mr. 
 Rodney. 
 
 " Well, I suppose I am wrong," says Mona, with a sigh. 
 " Are you very angry with me, Geoff? Would you ever have 
 forgiven me if I had done it?" 
 
 " I should," says Geoffrey, pressing her hands. " You 
 
296 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 would always be to me the best and truest woman alive. Bui 
 — but I shouldn't have liked it." 
 
 " Well, neither should I ?" says Mrs. GtJofiFrey, with convic- 
 tion. " I should perfectly have hated it. But I should never 
 have forgiven myself if he had gone away with the will." 
 
 " It is quite a romance," says Jack Rodney : " I never 
 heard anything like it before off the stage." He is speaking 
 to the room generally. " I doubt if any one but you, Mona, 
 would have got the will out of him. He hates the rest of us 
 like poison." 
 
 " But — bless me ! — how awfully he must be in love with 
 you to resign the Towers for your sake 1" says Nolly, suddenly 
 giving words to the thought that has been tormenting him for 
 some time. 
 
 As this is the idea that has haunted every one since the 
 disclosure, and that they each and all have longed but feared 
 to discuss, they now regard Nolly with admiration, — all save 
 Lady Rodney, who, remembering her unpleasant insinuations 
 of an hour ago, moves uneasily in her chair, and turns an 
 uncomfortable crimson. 
 
 Mona is, however, by no means disconcerted : she lifts her 
 calm eyes to Nolly's, and answers him without even a blush. 
 
 " Do you know it never occurred to me until this after 
 noon ?" she says, simply ; " but now I think — I may be mis- 
 taken, but I really do think he fancies himself in love with 
 me. A very silly fancy, of course." 
 
 " He must adore you ; and no wonder, too," says Mr. Dar- 
 ling, so emphatically that every one smiles, and Jack, clapping 
 him on the back, says, — 
 
 " Well done, Nolly ! Go it again, old chap !" 
 
 " Oh, Mona, what courage you showed ! Just imagine 
 staying in the library when you found yourself face to face 
 with a person you never expected to see, and in the dead of 
 night, with every one sound asleep ! In your case I should 
 either have fainted or rushed back to my bedroom again aa 
 fast as my feet could carry me ; and I believe," says Dorothy, 
 with conviction, " I should so far b^-ve forgotten myself as to 
 scream every inch of the way." 
 
 " I don't believe you would," say? Mona. " A great shock 
 sobers one. I forgot to be frighten&'l uot^ '^ v^^ all ot«t. 
 And then the dogs were a great support ' 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 297 
 
 " "WTien he held the pistol to your forehead, didn't you scream 
 then ?" asks Violet. 
 
 "To my forehead?" says Mona, puzzled; and then she 
 glances at Geoffrey, remembering that this was one of th« 
 slight variations with which he adorned his tale. 
 
 *' No, she didn't," interposes he, lightly. " She never 
 funked it for a moment : she's got any amount of pluck. Ho 
 didn't exactly press it against her forehead, you know ; but," 
 airily, " it is all the same thing." 
 
 " When you got the pistol so cleverly into your own posses- 
 sion, why on earth didn't you shoot him?" demands Mr. Dar- 
 ling, gloomily, who evidently feels bloodthirsty when he 
 thinks of the Australian and his presumptuous admiration for 
 the peerless Mona. 
 
 " Ah I sure you know I wouldn't do that, now !" returns 
 she, with a stronger touch of her native brogue than she haa 
 used for many a day ; at which they all laugh heartily, even 
 Lady Rodney chiming in as easily as though the day had 
 never been when she had sneered contemptuously at that self- 
 same Irish tongue. 
 
 " Well, ' All's well that ends well,' " says Captain Rodney, 
 thoughtlessly. " If that delectable cousin of ours would only 
 sink into the calm and silent grave now, we might even have 
 the title back without fear of dispute, and find ourselves just 
 where we began." 
 
 It is at this very moment the library door is suddenly flung 
 open, and Jenkins appears upon the threshold, with his face 
 as white as nature will permit, and hLs usually perfect manner 
 much disturbed. " Sir Nicholas, can I speak to you for a mo- 
 ment?" he says, with much excitement, growing positively 
 apoplectic in his endeavor to be calm. 
 
 " What is it, Jenkins ? Speak I" says Lady Rodney, ris- 
 ing from her chair, and staying him, as he would leave the 
 room, by an imperious gesture. 
 
 " Oh, my lady, if I must speak," cries the old man, " but 
 it is terrible news to tell without a word of warning. Mr. 
 Paul Rodney is dying : he shot himself half an hour ago, and 
 is lying now at Rawson's Lodge in the beech wood." 
 
 Mona grows livid, and takes a step forward. 
 
 " Shot himself! How ?" she says, hoarsely, her bosom ris. 
 ing and falling tumultuously. " Jenkins, answer me." 
 
298 MRS. QEOFFRET. 
 
 " Tell us, Jenkins," says Nicholas, hastily. 
 
 " It appears he had a pocket-pistol with him. Sir Nicholas, 
 and going home through the wood he stumbled over some 
 roots, and it went off and injured him fatally. It is an in- 
 ternal wound, my lady. Dr. Bland, who is with him, says 
 there is no hope." 
 
 " No hope !" says Mona, with terrible despair in her voice : 
 " then I have killed him. It was I returned him that pistol 
 this evening. It is my fault, — mine. It is I have caused 
 his death." 
 
 This thought seems to overwhelm her. She raises her 
 hands to her head, and an expression of keenest anguish 
 creeps into her eyes. She sways a little, and would have 
 fallen, but that Jack Rodney, who is nearest to her at this 
 moment, catches her in his arms. 
 
 " Mona," says Nicholas, roughly, laying his hand on her 
 shoulder, and shaking her slightly, " I forbid you talking like 
 that. It is nobody's fault. It is the will of God. It is 
 morbid and sinful of you to let such a thought enter your 
 head." 
 
 " So it is really, Mrs. Geoffrey, you know," says Nolly, 
 placing his hand on her other shoulder to give her a second 
 shake. " Nick's quite right. Don't take it to heart ; don't, 
 now. You might as well say the gunsmith who originally 
 sold him the fatal weapon is responsible for this unhappy 
 event, as — as that you are." 
 
 "Besides, it may be an exaggeration," suggests Geoffrey: 
 " he may not be as bad as they say." 
 
 " I fear there is no doubt of it, sir," says Jenkins, respects 
 fully, who in his heart of hearts looks upon this timely acci- 
 dent as a direct interposition of Providence. " And the mes- 
 senger who came (and who is now in the hall, Sir Nicholas, 
 if you would wish to question him) says Dr. Bland sent him 
 up to let you know at once of the unfortunate occurrence." 
 
 Having said all this without a break, Jenkins feels he has 
 outdone himself, and retires on his laurels. 
 
 Nicholas, going into the outer hall, cross-examines the 
 boy who has brought the melancholy tidings, and, having 
 spoken to him for some time, goes back to the library with a 
 face even graver than it was before. 
 
 " The poor fellow is calling for you, Mona, incessantly," he 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 299 
 
 says. " It remains with you to decide whether you will go 
 to him or not. Geoifrey, you should have a voice in this mat^ 
 ter, and I think she ought to go." 
 
 " Oh, Mona, do go — do," entreats Doatie, who is in tears. 
 " Poor, poor fellow ! I wish now I had not been so rude 
 to him." 
 
 " Geoffrey, will you take me to him ?" says Mona, rousing 
 herself. 
 
 " Yes. HuiTy, darling. If you think you can bear it, 
 you should lose no time. Minutes even, I fear, are precious 
 in this case." 
 
 Then some one puts on her again the coat she had taken off 
 Buch a short time since, and some one else puts on her seal- 
 skin cap and twists her black lace round her white throat, 
 and then she turns to go on her sad mission. All their joy is 
 turned to mourning, their laughter to tears. 
 
 Nicholas, who had left the room again, returns now, bring- 
 ing with him a glass of wine, which he compels her to swal- 
 low, and then, pale and frightened, but calmer than she wa^ 
 before, she leaves the house, and starts with Geoffrey for the 
 gamekeeper's lodge, where lies the man they had so dreaded, 
 impotent in the arms of death. 
 
 Night is creeping up over the land. Already in the hea- 
 vens the pale crescent moon just born rides silently, — 
 
 " Wi' the auld moon in hir arme." 
 
 A deep hush has fallen upon everything. The air is cold and 
 piercing. Mona shivers, and draws even closer to Geoffrey, 
 as, mute, yet full of saddest thought, they move through the 
 leafless wood. 
 
 As they get within view of the windows of Rawson's cot- 
 tage, they are met by Dr. Bland, who has seen them coming, 
 and has hurried out to receive them. 
 
 " Now, this is kind, — very kind," says the little man. ap- 
 provingly, shaking both their hands. " And so soon, too ; no 
 time lost. Poor soul ! he is calling incessantly for you, my 
 dear Mrs. Geoffrey. It is a sad case, — very — very. Away 
 from every one he knows. But come in ; come in." 
 
 He draws Mrs. Geoffrey's hand through his arm, and go<w 
 towards the lodge. 
 
 " Is there no hope?" asks Geoffrey, gravely. 
 
300 MRS. OE0FFRE7. 
 
 " None ; none. It would be useless to say otherwise. In- 
 ternal hemorrhage has set in. A few hours, perhaps leag moat 
 end it. He knows it himself, poor boy !" 
 
 " Oh I can nothing be done ?" asks Mona, turning to him 
 eyes full of entreaty. 
 
 " My dear, what I could do, I have done," says the littlo 
 man, patting her hand in his kind fatherly fashion ; " but he 
 has gone beyond human skill. And now one thing : you 
 have come here, I know, with the tender thought of soothing 
 his last hours : therefore I entreat you to be calm and very 
 quiet. Emotion will only distress him, atd, if you feel too 
 nervous, you know — perhaps — eh ?" 
 
 " I shall not be too nervous," says Mona, but her face 
 blanches afresh even as she speaks ; and Geoffrey sees it. 
 
 " If it is too much for you, darling, say so," whispers he ; 
 " or shall I go with you ?" 
 
 " It is better she should go alone," says Dr. Bland. " He 
 would be quite unequal to two ; and, besides, — pardon me,— 
 from what he has said to me I fear there were unpleasant 
 passages between you and him." 
 
 " There were," confesses Geofirey, reluctantly, and in a low 
 tone. *' I wish now from my soul it had been otherwise. I 
 regret much that has taken place." 
 
 " We all have regrets at times, dear boy, the very best of 
 us," says the little doctor, blowing his nose : " who among ug 
 is faultless ? And really the circumstances were very trying 
 for you, — very — eh ? Yes, of course one understands, you 
 know ; but death heals all divisions, and he is hurrying to hia 
 last account, poor lad, all too soon." 
 
 They have entered the cottage by this time, and are stanJ- 
 ing in the tiny hall. 
 
 " Open that door, Mrs. Geoffrey," says the doctor, point- 
 ing to his right hand. " I saw you coming, and have pro- 
 pared him for the interview. I shall be just here, or in the 
 next room, if you should want me. But I can do little for 
 him more than I have done." 
 
 " You will be near too, Geoffrey ?" murmurs Mona, falter- 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I promise for him," says Dr. Bland. " In 
 fact, I have something to say to your husband that must be 
 told at once." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 301 
 
 Then Mona, opening the door indicated to her by the doc- 
 tor, goes into the chamber beyond, and is lost to their view 
 for some time. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 HOW MONA COMFORTS PAUL RODNEY — HOW NIGHT AND 
 DEATH DESCEND TOGETHER — AND HOW PAUL RODNEY 
 DISPOSES OF HIS PROPERTY. 
 
 On a low bed, with his eyes fastened eagerly upon the door, 
 lies Paul Rodney, the dews of death already on his face. 
 
 There is no disfigurement about him to be seen, no stain 
 of blood, no ugly mark ; yet he is touched by the pale hand 
 of the destroyer, and is sinking, dying, withering beneath it. 
 He has aged at least ten years within the last fatal hour, 
 while in his eyes lies an expression so full of* hungry expect- 
 ancy and keen longing as amounts almost to anguish. 
 
 As Mona advances to his side, through the gathering gloom 
 of fast approaching night, pale almost as he is, and trembling 
 in every limb, this miserable anxiety dies out of his face, 
 leaving behind it a rest and peace unutterable. 
 
 To her it is an awful moment. Never before has she stood 
 face to face with dissolution, to wait for the snapping of the 
 chain, — the breaking of the bowl. " Neither the sun nor 
 death," says La Rochefoucauld, "can be looked at steadily ;" 
 and now " Death's thousand doors stand open" to receive this 
 man that but an hour agone was full of life as she is now. 
 His pulses throbbed, his blood coursed lightly through his 
 veins, the grave seemed a far-off destination ; yet here he lies, 
 smitten to the earth, beaten down and trodden under, with 
 nothing further to anticipate but the last change of all. 
 
 " Death ! thou strange, mysterious power, seen every day, 
 yet never understood but by the incommunicative dead, what 
 art thou ? ' 
 
 " You have come," he says, with a quick sigh that bespeaks 
 relief. " I knew you would. I felt it ; yet I feared. Oh, 
 what comlbrt to see you again I" 
 
 Mona tries to say somethintr, — anything that will be kind 
 20 
 
302 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 and sympathetic, — but words fail her. Her lips part, but no 
 sound escapes them. The terrible reality of the moment ter- 
 rifies and overcomes her. 
 
 " Do not try to make me any common-place speeches," says 
 Rodney, marking her hesitation. He speaks hastily, yet with 
 evident difficulty. " I am dying. Nothing can alter that 
 But death has brought you to my side again, so I cannot re- 
 pine." 
 
 " But to find you like this" — begins Mona. And then, 
 OTercome by grief and agitation, she covers her face with her 
 hands, and bursts into tears. 
 
 " Mona 1 Are you crying for me ?" says Paul Rodney, as 
 though surprised. " Do not. Your tears hurt me more than 
 this wound that has done me to death." 
 
 " Oh, if I had not given you that pistol," sobs Mona, who 
 cannot conquer the horror of the thought that she has helped 
 him to his death, " you would be alive and strong now." 
 
 " Yes, — and miserable I you forget to add that. Now 
 everything seems squared. In the grave neither grief nor 
 revenge can find a place. And as for you, what have you to 
 do with my fate ? — nothing. Why should you not return to 
 me my own ? and why should I not die by the weapon I had 
 dared to level against yourself? There is a justice in it that 
 emacks of Sadlers' Wells." 
 
 He actually laughs, though faintly, and Mona looks up. 
 Perhaps he has forced himself to this vague touch of merri- 
 ment (that is even sadder than tears) just to please and rouse 
 her from her despondency, — because the laugh dies almost 
 as it is born, and an additional pallor covers his lips in its 
 stead. 
 
 " Listen to me," he goes on, in a lower key, and with some 
 slight signs of exhaustion. " I am glad to die, — unfeignedly 
 glad : therefore rejoice with me ! Why should you waste a 
 tear on such as I am ? Do you remember how I told you 
 (barely two hours ago) that my life had come to an end where 
 other i'ellows hope to begin theirs ? I hardly knew myself 
 how prophetic my words would prove." 
 
 " It is terrible, terrible," says Mona, piteously, sinking on 
 her knees beside the bed. One of his hands is lying outside 
 the coverlet, and, with a gesture full of tender regret, she lays 
 hor own upon it. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 303 
 
 " Are you in pain ?" she says, in a low, fearful tone. " Do 
 you suflFer much ?" 
 
 "I suffer nothing: I have no pain now. I am inexpressi- 
 bly happy," replies he, with a smile radiant, though languid. 
 Forgetful of his unfortunate state, he raises his other hand, 
 and, bringing it across the bed, tries to place it on Fiona's. 
 But the action is too much for him. His face takes a leaden 
 hue, more ghastly than its former pallor, and, in spite of au 
 heroic effort to suppress it, a deep groan escapes him. 
 
 " Ah I" says Mona, springing to her feet, and turning to 
 the door, as though to summon aid ; but he stops her by a 
 gesture. 
 
 '' No, it is nothing. It will be over in a moment,' gasps 
 he. " Give me some brandy, and help me to cheat Death of his 
 prey for a little time, if it be possible." 
 
 Seeing brandy on a table near, she pours a little into a glass 
 with a shaking hand, and, passing her arm beneath his neck, 
 holds it to his parched lips. 
 
 It revives him somewhat. And presently the intenser pallor 
 dies away, and speech returns to him. 
 
 " Do not call for assistance," he whispers, imploringly. 
 " They can do me no good. Stay with me. Do not forsake 
 me. Swear you will remain with me to — to the end." 
 
 " I promise you faithfully," says Mona. 
 
 " It is too much to ask, but I dread being alone," he goes 
 on, with a quick shudder of fear and repulsion. " It is a dark 
 and terrible journey to take, with no one near who loves one, 
 with no one to feel a single regret when one has departed." 
 
 "/shall feel regret," says Mona, brokenly, the tears run 
 ning down her cheeks. 
 
 "Give me your hand again," says Rodney, after a pause; 
 and when she gives it to him he says, " Do you know this is 
 the nearest approach to real happiness I have ever known in 
 all my careless, useless life? What is it Shakspearo says 
 about the folly of loving ' a bright particular star' ? I always 
 think of you when that line comes to my mind. You are tho 
 star; mine is the folly." 
 
 He smiles again, but Mona is too sad to smile in return. 
 
 *' How did it happen ?" she asks, presently. 
 
 " I don't know myself. I wandered Iti a desultory fashion 
 through the wood on leaving you, not caring to return home 
 
804 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 just tlj«n, and I was thinking of — of you, of course — when 
 I stumbled against something (they tell me it was a gnarled 
 root that had thrust itself above ground), and then there was 
 a report, and a sharp pang ; and that was all. I remember 
 nothing. The gamekeeper found me a few minutes later, and 
 had me brought here." 
 
 " You are talking too much," says Mona, nervously. 
 
 " I may as well talk while I can : soon you will not be able 
 to hear me, when the grass is growing over me," replies he, 
 recklessly. " It was hardly worth my while to deliver you up 
 that will, was it ? Is not Fate ironical ? Now it is all as it 
 was before I came upon the scene, and Nicholas has the title 
 without dispute. I wish we had been better friends, — he at 
 least was civil to me, — but I was reared with hatred in my 
 heart towards all the Rodneys ; I was taught to despise and 
 fear them as my natural enemies, from my cradle." 
 
 Then, after a pause, " Where will they bury me?" he asks, 
 suddenly. '' Do you think they will put me in the family 
 vault ?" He seems to feel some anxiety on this point. 
 
 " Whatever you wish shall be done," says Mona, earnestly, 
 knowing she can induce Nicholas to accede to any request of 
 hers. 
 
 " Are you sure ?" asks he, his face brightening. " Re- 
 member how they have drawn back from me. I was their 
 own first-cousin, — the son of their father's brother, — yet they 
 treated me as the veriest outcast." 
 
 Then Mona says, in a trembling voice and rather discon- 
 nectedly, because of her emotion, " Be quite sure you shall 
 be — buried — where all the other baronets of Rodney lie at 
 rest." 
 
 " Thank you," murmurs he, gratefully. There is evidently 
 comfort in the thought. Then after a moment or two he goes 
 on again, as though following out a pleasant idea : " Some day, 
 perhaps, that vault will hold you too ; and there at least we 
 shall meet again, and be side by side." 
 
 •' I wish you would not talk of being buried," says Mona, 
 with a sob. " There is no comfort in the tomb : there our 
 dust may mingle, but in heaven our souls shall meet, I trust, 
 — I hope." 
 
 " Heaven," repeats he, with a sigh. " I have forgotten to 
 think of heaven." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 305 
 
 " Think of it now, Paul, — now before it is too late," 
 entreats she, piteonsly. ," Try to pray : there is always 
 mercy." 
 
 " Fray for me I" says he, in a low tone, pressing her hand. 
 So on her knees, in a subdued voice, sad but earnest, she re- 
 peats what prayers she can remember out of the grand Service 
 that belongs to us. One or two sentences from the Litany 
 come to her ; and then some words rise from her own heai't, 
 and she puts up a passionate supplication to heaven that the 
 passing soul beside her, however erring, may reach some haven 
 where rest remaineth 1 
 
 Some time elapses before he speaks again, and Mona is 
 almost hoping he may have fallen into a quiet slumber, when 
 he opens his eyes and says, regretfully, — 
 
 " What a different life mine might have been had I known 
 you earlier I" Then, with a faint flush, that vanishes almost 
 as it comes, as though without power to stay, he says, " Did 
 your husband object to your coming here ?" 
 
 "Geofirey? Oh, no. It was he who brought me. He 
 badft me hasten lest you should even imagine me careless 
 about coming. And — and — he desired me say how he regrets 
 the harsh words he uttered and the harsher thoughts he may 
 have entertained towards you. Forgive him, I implore you, 
 and die in peace with him and all men." 
 
 " Forgive him !" says Rodney. " Surely, however unkind 
 the thoughts he may have cherished for me, I must forget and 
 forgive them now, seeing all he has done for me. Has he not 
 made smooth my last hours ? Has he not lent me you ? Tell 
 him I bear him no ill will." 
 
 " I will tell him," says Mona. 
 
 He is silent for a full minute ; then he says, — 
 
 " I have given a paper to Dr. Bland for you : it will explain 
 what I wish. And, Mona, there are some papers in my room : 
 will you see to them for me and have them burned ?" 
 
 " I will burn them with my own hands," says Mona. 
 
 " How comforting you are ! — how you understand," he says, 
 with a quick sigh. " There is something else : that fellow 
 Ridgway, who opened the window for me, he must be seen 
 to. Let him have the money mentioned in the paper, and 
 Bend him to my mother : she will look after him for my sake. 
 My poor mother !" he draws his breath quickly, 
 u 26* 
 
306 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 " Shall I write to her ?" asks Mona, gt .tly. " Say what 
 you wish done." 
 
 '* It would be kind of you," says he, gratefully. " She 
 will want to know all, and you will do it more tenderly than 
 the others. Do not dwell upon my sins ; and say I died — 
 happy. Let her too have a copy of the paper Dr. Bland haa 
 now." 
 
 " I shall remember," says Mona, not knowing what the 
 paper contains. " And who am I, that I should dwell upon 
 the sins of another ? Are you tired, Paul ? How fearfully 
 pale you are looking 1" 
 
 He is evidently quite exhausted. His brow is moist, his 
 eyes are sunken, his lips more pallid, more death-like than 
 they were before. In little painful gasps his breath comes 
 fitfully. Then all at once it occurs to Mona that though he 
 is looking at her he does not see her. His mind has wan- 
 dered far away to those earlier days when England was un- 
 known and when the free life of the colony was all he desired. 
 
 As Mona gazes at him half fearfully, he raises himself 
 suddenly on his elbow, and says, in a tone far stronger than 
 he has yet used, — 
 
 " How brilliant the moonlight is to-night ! See — watch" 
 — eagerly — " how the shadows chase each other down the 
 Ranger's Hill 1" 
 
 Mona looks up startled. The faint rays of the new-born 
 moon are indeed rushing through the casement, and are fling- 
 ing themselves languidly upon the opposite wall, but they are 
 pale and wan, as moonlight is in its infancy, and anything but 
 brilliant. Besides, Rodney's eyes are turned not on them, but 
 on the door that can be seen just over Mona's head, where no 
 beams disport themselves, however weakly. 
 
 " Lie down : you will hurt yourself again," she says, trying 
 gently to induce him to return to his former recumbent posi- 
 tion ; but he resists her. 
 
 "Who has taken my orders about the sheep?" he says, la 
 a loud voice, and in an imperious tone, his eyes growing 
 bright but uncertain. " Tell Grainger to see to it. My 
 father spoke about it again only yesterday. The upper pas- 
 tures are fresher — greener " 
 
 His voice breaks : with a groan he sinks back again upon 
 his pillow. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 307 
 
 " Mona, are you still there ?" he says, with a return to oon- 
 sciousness : " did I dream, or did my father speak to me ? 
 How the night comes on !" He sighs wearily. " I am so 
 tired, — so worn out : if I could only sleep I" he murmurs, 
 faintly. 
 
 Alas ! how soon will fall upon him that eternal sleep from 
 which no man waketh I 
 
 Hia breath grows fainter^ his eyelids close. 
 
 Some one comes in with a lamp, and places it on a distant 
 table, where its rays cannot distress the dying man. 
 
 Dr. Bland, coming into the room, goes up to the bedside and 
 feels his pulse, and tries to put something between his lips, 
 but he refuses to take anything. 
 
 " It will strengthen you," he says, persuasively. 
 
 " No, it is of no use : it only wearies me. My best medi- 
 cine, my only medicine, is here," returns Paul, feebly pressing 
 Mona's hand. He is answering the doctor, but he does not 
 look at him. As he speaks, his gaze is riveted upon Mona. 
 
 Dr. Bland, putting down the glass, forbears to torment him 
 further, and moves away ; Geoffrey, who has also come in, 
 takes his place. Bending over the dying man, he touches 
 him lightly on the shoulder. 
 
 Paul turns his head, and as he sees Geoffrey a quick spasm 
 that betrays fear crosses his face. 
 
 " Do not take her away yet, — not yet," he says, in a faint 
 whisper. 
 
 " No, no. She will stay," says Geoffrey, hurriedly : " I 
 only want to tell you, my dear fellow, how grieved I am for 
 you, and how gladly I would undo many things — if I could." 
 
 The other smiles faintly. He is evidently glad because of 
 Geoffrey's words, but speech is now very nearly impossible to 
 him. His attempt to rise, to point out the imaginary moon- 
 light to 3Iona, has greatly wasted his small remaining stock of 
 life, and now but a thin partition, frail and broken, lies between 
 him and that inexorable Rubicon we all must one day pass. 
 
 Then he turns his head away again to let his eyes rest on 
 Mona, as though nowhere else can peace or comfort be found. 
 
 Geoffrey, moving to one side, stands where he can no longer 
 be seen, feeling instinctively that the ebbing life before him 
 finds its sole consolation in the thought of Mona. She is all 
 
308 MRS. QEOFFREY. 
 
 he desires. From her he gains courage to face the coming 
 awful moment, when he shall have to clasp the hand of Death 
 and go forth with him to meet the great unknown. 
 
 Presently he closes his fingers upon hers, and, looking up, 
 she sees his lips are moving, though no sound escapes them. 
 Leaning over him, she bends her face to his and whispers 
 softly, — 
 
 " What is it?"- 
 
 " It is nearly over," he gasps, painfully. " Say good-by to 
 me. Do not quite forget me, — not utterly. Give me some 
 small place in your memory, though — so unworthy." 
 
 " I shall not forget ; I shall always remember," returns she, 
 the tears running down her cheeks ; and then, through divine 
 pity, and perhaps because GeoiFrey is here to see her, she 
 stoops and lays her lips upon his forehead. 
 
 Never afterwards will she forget the glance of gratitude 
 that meets hers, and that lights up all his face, even his dim 
 eyes, as she grants him this gentle pitiful caress. 
 
 " Pray for me," he says. 
 
 And then she falls upon her knees again, and Geoffrey in 
 the background, though unseen, kneels too ; and Mona, in a 
 broken voice, because she is crying very bitterly now, whispers 
 some words of comfbrt for the dying. 
 
 The minutes go by slowly, slowly ; a clock from some dis- 
 tant steeple chimes the hour. The soft pattering of rain upon 
 the walk outside, and now upon the window-pane, is all the 
 sound that can be heard. 
 
 In the death-chamber silence reigns. No one moves ; their 
 very breathing seems hushed. Paul Rodney's eyes are closed. 
 No faintest movement disturbs the slumber into which he 
 eeems to have fallen. 
 
 Thus half an hour goes by. Then Geoffrey, growing un- 
 easy, raises his head and looks at Mona. From where he sita 
 the bed is hidden from him, but he can see that she is still 
 kneeling beside it, her hand in Rodney's, her face hidden in 
 the bedclothes. 
 
 The doctor at this instant returns to the room, and, going 
 on tiptoe (as though fearful of disturbing the sleeper) to where 
 Mona is kneeling, looks anxiously at Rodney. But, alas I no 
 sound of earth will evermore disturb the slumber of the quiet 
 ^gure upon which he gazes. 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 309 
 
 The doctor, after a short examination of the features (that 
 are even now turning to marble), knits bis brows, and, going 
 over to Geoffrey, whispers something into his ear while pointing 
 to Mona. 
 
 " At once," he says, with emphasis. 
 
 Geoffrey starts. He walks quickly up to Mona, and, stoop- 
 ing over her, very gently loosens her hand from the other 
 hand she is holding. Passing his arm round her neck, he 
 turns her face deliberately in his own direction — as though to 
 keep her eyes from resting on the bed — and lays it upon his 
 own breast. 
 
 " Come," he says, gently. 
 
 " Oh, not yet 1" entreats faithful Mona, in a miserable tone ; 
 " not yet. Remember what I said. I promised to remain 
 with him until the very end." 
 
 " You have kept your promise," returns he, solemnly, press- 
 ing her face still closer against his chest. 
 
 A strong shudder runs through her frame ; she grows a 
 little heavier in his embrace. Seeing she has fainted, he lifts 
 her in his arms and carries her out of the room. 
 
 Later on, when they open the paper that had been given by 
 the dead man into the keeping of Dr. Bland, and which 
 proves to be his will, duly signed and witnessed by the game- 
 keeper and his son, they find he has left to Mona all of which 
 he died possessed It amounts to about two thousand a year ; 
 of which one thousand is to come to her at once, the other on 
 the death of his mother. 
 
 To Ridgway, the under-gardener, he willed three hundred 
 pounds, " as some small compensation for the evil done to 
 him," so runs the document, written in a distinct but trem- 
 bling hand. And then follow one or two bequests to those 
 friends he had left in Australia, and some to the few from 
 whom he had received kindness in colder England. 
 
 N") one is forgotten by him ; though once " he is dead and 
 laid in grave" he is forgotten by most. 
 
 They put him to rest in the family vault, where his ances- 
 tors lie side by side, — as Mona promised him, — and write Sir 
 Paul Rodney over his head, giving him in death the title they 
 would gladly have withheld from him in life. 
 
310 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 HOW MONA 1<EPENDS THE DEAD — AND UOW LADY LILIA/t 
 EATON WAXES ELOQUENT. 
 
 As hour follows upon hour, even the most poignant griefs 
 grow less, Nature sooner or later will come to the rescue, 
 and hope " springing eternal" will cast despair into the back- 
 ground. Paul Rodney's death being rather more a shock 
 than a grief to the inmates of the Towers, the remembrance 
 of it fades from their minds with a rapidity that astonishes 
 even themselves. 
 
 Mona, as is only natural, clings longest to the memory of 
 that terrible day when grief and gladness had been so closely 
 blended, when tragedy followed so fast upon their comedy 
 that laughter and tears embraced each other and gloom over- 
 powered their sunshine. Yet even she brightens up, and is 
 quite herself again by the time the " merry month of May" 
 comes showering down upon them all its wealth of blossom, 
 and music of glad birds, as they chant in glade and dell. 
 
 Yet in her heart the erring cousin is not altogether forgot- 
 ten. There are moments in every day when she recalls him 
 to her mind, nor does she ever pass the huge tomb where his 
 body lies at rest, awaiting the last trump, without a kindly 
 thought of him and a hope that his soul is safe in heaven. 
 
 The county has behaved on the occasion somewhat disgrace- 
 fully, and has declared itself to a man — without any reserva- 
 tion — unfeignedly glad of the chance that has restored Sir 
 Nicholas to his own again. Perhaps what they just do not say 
 is that they are delighted Paul Rodney shot himself: this might 
 Bound brutal, and one must draw the line somewhere, and a 
 last remnant of decency compels them to draw it at this point. 
 But it is the thinnest line possible, and easily stepped across. 
 
 Even the duchess refuses to see anything regrettable in the 
 whole affair, and expresses herself to Lady Rodney on the 
 subject of her nephew's death in terms that might almost be 
 called congratulatory. She has been listened to in silence, of 
 course, and with a deprecating shake of the head, but after- 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 311 
 
 wards Lady Rodney is unable to declare to herself that the 
 duchess has taken anything but a sound common-sense view 
 of the matter. 
 
 In her own heart, and in the secret recesses of her cham- 
 ber, Nicholas's mother blesses Mona for having returned the 
 pistol that February afternoon to the troublesome young man 
 (who is so well out of the way), and has entertained a positive 
 affection for the roots of trees ever since the sad (?) accident. 
 
 But these unholy thoughts belong to her own breast alone, 
 and are hidden carefully out of sight, lest any should guess at 
 them. 
 
 The duke, calling at the Towers about a month after Paul 
 Rodney's death, so far forgets himself as to say to Mona. who 
 is present, — 
 
 "Awful luck, your getting rid of that cousin, eh? Such 
 an uncomfortable fellow, don't you know, and so uncommonly 
 in the way." 
 
 At which Mona had turned her eyes upon him. — eyes that 
 literally flashed rebuke, and had told him slowly, but with 
 meaning, that he should remember the dead could not defend 
 themselves, and that she, for one, had not as yet learned to 
 regard the death of any man as " awful luck." 
 
 " Give you my word," said the duke afterwards to a select 
 assembly, " when she looked at me then out of her wonderful 
 Irish eyes, and said all that with her musical brogue, I never 
 felt so small in all my life. Reg'lar went into my boots, you 
 know, and stayed there. But she is, without chaff or that, 
 she really is the most charming woman 1 ever met." 
 
 Lady Lilias Eaton, too, had been rather fine upon the 
 Rodney ups and downs. The history of the Australian's 
 devotion had been as a revelation to her. She had actually 
 come out of herself, and had neglected the Ancient Britons 
 for a full day and a half, — on the very highest authority, — 
 merely to talk about Paul Rodney. Surely " nothing in his 
 life became him like the leaving it :" of all those who would 
 scarcely speak to him wheu living, not one but converses of 
 him familiarly now he Is dead. 
 
 " So very strange, so almost unparalleled in this degenerate 
 age," says Lady Lilias to Lady Rodney, speaking of the will 
 episode generally, and with as near an approach to enthusiasm 
 as it is possible to her to produce. " A secret panel ! How 
 
312 MRS. OEOFFRET. 
 
 interesting! "We lack that at Anadale. Pray, dear Lady 
 Rodney, do tell ino all about it again." 
 
 Whereupon Lady Rodney, to •whom the whole matter is 
 " cakes and ale," does tell it all over again, relating every inci- 
 dent, from the removal of the will from the library by Paul, 
 to his surrender of it next day to Mona. 
 
 Lady Lilias is delighted. 
 
 " It is quite perfect, the whole story. It reminds me of 
 the ballads about King Arthur's Knights of the Round 
 Table." 
 
 " Which ? the stealing of the will ?" asks Lady Rodney, 
 innocently. She knows nothing about the Ancient Britons, 
 and abhors the very sound of their name, regarding them aa 
 indecent, immoral people, who went about insufficiently clothed. 
 Of King Arthur and his round knights (as she wiU call them, 
 having once got so hopelessly mixed on the subject as to dis- 
 allow of her ever being disentangled again) she knows even 
 less, beyond what Tennyson has taught her. 
 
 She understands, indeed, that Sir Launcelot was a very 
 naughty young man, who should not have been received in 
 respectable houses, — especially as he had no money to speak 
 of, — and that Sir Modred and Sir Gawain, had they lived in 
 this critical age, would undoubtedly have been pronounced 
 bad form and expelled from decent clubs. And, knowing this 
 much, she takes it for granted that the stealing of a will or 
 more would be quite in their line : hence her speech. 
 
 " Dear Lady Rodney, no," cries the horrified Esthetic, 
 rather losing faith in her hostess. " I mean about his resign- 
 ing lands and heritage, position, title, everything — all that a 
 man holds most dear, for a mere sentiment. And then it was 
 so nice of him to shoot himself, and leave her all his money. 
 Surely you must see that ?" 
 
 She has actually forgotten to pose, and is leaning fonvard 
 quite comfortably with her arms crossed on her knees. I am 
 convinced she has not been so happy for years. 
 
 Lady Rodney is somewhat shocked at this view of the case. 
 
 " You must understand," she says, emphatically, " he did 
 not shoot himself purposely. It was an accident, — a pure 
 accident." 
 
 " Well, yes, so they say," returns her visitor, airily, who is 
 plainly determined not to be done out of a good thing, and 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 313 
 
 insists on bringing in deliberate suicide as a fit ending to this 
 enthralling tale. " And of course it is very nice of every 
 one, and quite right too. But there is no doubt, I think, that 
 he loved her. You will pardon me, Lady Rodney, but I ana 
 convinced he adored Mrs. Geoffrey." 
 
 " Well, he may have," admits Lady Rodney, reluctantly, 
 who has grown strangely jealous of Mona's reputation of late. 
 As she speaks she colors faintly. " I must beg you to believe," 
 she says, " that Mona up to the very last wa3 utterly unaware 
 of his infatuation." 
 
 " Why, of course ; of course. One can see that at a 
 glance. And if it were otherwise the whole story would be 
 ruined, — would instantly become tame and commonplace, — 
 would be, indeed," says Lady Lilias, with a massive wave of 
 her large white hand, " I regret to say, an occurrence of every- 
 day life. The singular beauty that now attaches to it would 
 disappear. It is the fact that his passion was unrequited, un 
 acknowledged, and that yet he was content to sacrifice his life 
 for it, that creates its charm !" 
 
 " Yes, I dare say," says Lady Rodney, who is now wonder- 
 ing when this high-flown visitor will take her departure. 
 
 " It is like a romaunt of the earlier and purer days of 
 chivalry," goes on Lady Lilias, in her most prosy tone. 
 " Alas ! where are they now ?" She pauses for an answer to 
 this difficult question, being in her very loftiest strain of high 
 art depression. 
 
 " Eh ?" says Lady Rodney, rousing from a day-dream. " I 
 don't know, I'm sure ; but I'll see about it ; I'll make in- 
 quiries." 
 
 In thought she had been miles away, and has just come 
 back to the present with a start of guilt at her own neglect of 
 her guest. She honestly believes, in her confusion, that Lady 
 Lilias has been making some inquiries about the secret panel, 
 and therefore makes her extraordinary remark with the utm *st 
 honhomie and cheerfulness. 
 
 It is quite too much for the ^Esthetic. 
 
 *' I don't think you can make an inquiry about the bygone 
 days of chivalry," she says, somewhat stiffly, and, having 
 shaken the hand of her bewildered friend, and pecked gently 
 at her cheek, she sails out of the room, disheartened, and 
 wounded in spirit. 
 
 o 27 
 
314 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 HOW MONA REFUSES A GALLANT OFFER — AND UOW 
 NOLLY VIEWS LIFE THROUGH THE BRANCHES OF A 
 PORTUGAL LAUREL. 
 
 Once again they are all at the Towers. Doatie and her 
 brother — who had returned to their own home during March 
 hnd April — have now come back again to Lady Rodney, who 
 is ever anxious to welcome these two with open arms. It is to 
 be a last visit from Doatie as a " graceful maiden with a 
 gentle brow," as Mary Howitt would certainly have called 
 her, next month having been decided upon as the most fitting 
 for transforming Dorothy Darling into Dorothy Lady Rod- 
 ney. In this thought both she and her betrothed are per- 
 fectly happy. 
 
 Mona and Geoffrey have gone to their own pretty house, 
 and are happy there as they deserve to be, — Mona proving the 
 most charming of chatelaines, so naive, so gracious, so utterly 
 unaffected, as to win all hearts. Indeed, there is not in the 
 county a more popular woman than Mrs. Geoffrey Rodney. 
 
 Yet much of their time is spent at the Towers. Lady 
 Rodney can hardly do without Mona now, the pretty sym- 
 pathetic manner and comprehensive glance and gentle smile 
 having worked their way at last, and found a home in the 
 heart that had so determinedly hardened itself against her. 
 
 As to Jack and Violet, they have grown of late into a sort 
 of moral puzzle that nobody can solve. For months they 
 have been gazing at and talking to each other, have appar- 
 ently seen nothing but each other, no matter how many others 
 may be present ; and yet it is evident that no understanding 
 exists between them, and that no formal engagement has 
 been arrived at. 
 
 " Why on earth," says Nolly, " can't they tell each other, 
 what they have told the world long ago, that they adore 
 each other? It is so jolly senseless, don't you know?" 
 
 " I wonder when you will adore any one, Nolly," saya 
 Geoflfrey, idly. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 315 
 
 " I do adore somebody," returns that ingenuous youth, 
 staring openly at Mona, who is taking up the last stitch 
 dropped by Lady Rodney in the little scarlet silk sock she is 
 knitting for Phyllis Carrington's boy. 
 
 "That's me," says Mona, glancing at him archly from 
 under her long lashes. 
 
 " Now. how did you find it out ? who told you ?" asks Mr. 
 Dirling, with careful surprise. " Yes, it is true ; I don't 
 Biek to deny it. The hopeless passion I entertain for you is 
 dearer to me than any other more successful affection can ever 
 be. I worship a dream, — an idea, — and am happier in my 
 maddest moments than others when most sane." 
 
 " Bless me, Nolly, you are not going to be ill, are you ?" say* 
 Geoffrey. " Such a burst of eloquence is rare." 
 
 "There are times, I confess," goes on Mr. Darling, dis- 
 posing of Geoffrey's mundane interruption by a contemptu- 
 ous wave of the hand, " when light breaks in upon me, and a 
 joyful, a thrice-blessod termination to my dream presents 
 itself. For instance, if Geoffrey could only be brought to see 
 things as they are, and have the grace to quit this mortal 
 globe and soar to worlds unknown, I should then fling myself 
 at your feet, and " 
 
 " Oh — well — don't," interrupts Mrs. Geoffrey, hastily. 
 
 " Eh ! you don't mean to say that after all my devotion 
 you would then refuse me ?" asks Mr. Darling, with some 
 disgust. 
 
 " Yes, you, and every other man," says Mona, smiling, and 
 raising her loving eyes to her husband. 
 
 " I think, sir,"after that you may consider yourself flat- 
 tened," says Geoffrey, with a laugh. 
 
 "I shall go away," declares Nolly; "I shall go abroad, — 
 at least as far as the orchard ;" then, with a complete change 
 of tone, " By the by, Mrs. Geoffrey, will you come for a 
 walk ? Do : the day is ' heavenly fair.' " 
 
 " Well, not just now, I think," says Mona, evasively. 
 
 " Why not ?" persuasively : " it will do you a world of 
 good." 
 
 " Perhaps then a little later on I shall go," returns Mona, 
 who, like all her countrywomen, detests giving a direct an- 
 swer, and can never bring herself to say a decided " no" to 
 any one. 
 
316 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 " As you evidently need support, I'll go with you as far as 
 the stables," says Geoffrey, compassionately, and together 
 they leave the room, keeping company until tliey gain the 
 yard, when Geoffrey turns to the right and makes for the 
 stables, leaving Nolly to wend his solitary way to the flowery 
 orchard. 
 
 It is an hour later. Afternoon draws towards evening, yet 
 one scarcely feels the change. It is sultry, drowsy, warm, and 
 full of a " slow luxurious calm." 
 
 "Earth putteth on the borrow'd robes of heaven, 
 And sitteth in a Sabbath of still rest; 
 And silence swells into a dreamy sound, 
 That sinks again to silence. 
 
 The runnel hath 
 Its tune beneath the trees, 
 And through tho woodlands swell 
 The tender trembles of the ringdove's dole." 
 
 The Rodneys are, for the most part, in the library, the 
 room dearest to them. Mona is telling Doatie's fortune on 
 cards, Geoffrey and Nicholas are discussing the merits and 
 demerits of a new mare. Lady llodney is still struggling with 
 the crimson sock, — when the door is opened, and Nolly en- 
 tering adds himself to the group. 
 
 His face is slightly flushed, his whole manner full of im- 
 portance. He advances to where the two girls are sitting, and 
 stops opposite Mona. 
 
 " I'll tell you all something," he says, " though I hardly 
 think I ought, if you will swear not to betray me." 
 
 This speech has the effect of electricity. They all start ; 
 with one consent they give the desired oath. The cards fall to 
 the ground, the fortune forgotten ; the mare becomes of very 
 secondary importance , another stitch drops in the fated sock. 
 
 " They've done it at last," says Mr. Darling, in a low, eom- 
 pres!3ed voice. " It is an accomplished fact. I heard 'em 
 myself 1" 
 
 As he makes this last extraordinary remark he looks over 
 bis left shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard. 
 
 "Who?" "What?" say Mona and Dorothy, in one 
 breath. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 317 
 
 ■' Why, Jack and Violet, of course. They've had it out. 
 They are engaged !" 
 
 " No !" says Nicholas ; meaning, " How very delightful I" 
 
 " And you heard them ? Nolly, explain yourself," says hia 
 sister, severely. 
 
 " I'm going to," says Nolly, " if you will just give me time. 
 ' Oh, what a day I've been havin', and how dear 1' You know 
 I told you I was going to the orchard for a stroll and with a 
 view to profitable meditation. Well, I went. At the upper 
 end of the garden there are, as you know, some Portugal 
 laurels, from which one can get a splendid survey of the 
 country, and in an evil moment it occurred to me that I 
 should like to climb one of them and look at the Chetwoode 
 Hills. I had never got higher than a horse's back since my 
 boyhood, and visions of my earlier days, when I was young 
 and innocent, overcame me at that " 
 
 " Oh, never mind your young and innocent days : we nevei 
 heard of them," says Dorothy, impatiently. " Do get on to 
 it." 
 
 *' I did get on to it, if you mean the laurel," saya Nolly 
 with calm dignity. " I climbed most manfully, and, beyond 
 slipping all down the trunk of the tree twice and severely 
 barking my shins, I sustained no actual injury." 
 
 " What on earth is a shin ?" puts in Geoflfrey, sotto voce. 
 
 " Part of your leg, just below your knee," returns Mr. Dai 
 ling, undaunted. " Well, when I got up at last, I found a 
 capital place to sit in, with a good branch to my back, and I 
 was so pleased with myself and my exploit that I really think 
 — the day is warm, you know — I fell asleep. At least I can 
 remember nothing until voices broke upon my ear right below 
 me. 
 
 Here Mona and Dorothy grow suddenly deeply interested, 
 and lean forward. 
 
 " I parted the leaves of the laurel with cautious hand and 
 looked down. At my very feet were Jack and Violet, and" — 
 mysteriously — " she was pinning a flower into his coat I" 
 
 " Is that all ?" says Mona, with quick contempt, eeemg 
 him pause. " Why, there is nothing in that I I pinned a 
 flower into your coat only yesterday." 
 
 The naivetd of this speech is not to be surpassed. 
 
 Nolly regards her mournfully. 
 27* 
 
318 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 " I think you needn't be unkinder to me than you can 
 help I" he says, reproachfully. " However, to continue. 
 There's a way of doin<^ things, you know, and the time Violet 
 took to arrange that flower is worthy of mention ; and when 
 at last it was settled to her satisfaction, Jack suddenly took 
 her hands in his, just like this, Mrs. Geoffrey," going on his 
 knees before Mona, and possessing himself of both her hands, 
 *' and pressed them against his heart, like this, and said 
 he " 
 
 Nolly pauses. 
 
 " Oh, Nolly, what ?" says Mona ; " do tell us." She fixea 
 her eyes on his. 
 
 " ' What darling little hands you have !' " begins Nolly, 
 quite innocently. 
 
 " Well, really !" says Mona, mistaking him. She moves 
 back with a heightened color, disengages her hands from hifi 
 and frowns slightly. 
 
 " I wasn't alluding to your hands ; though I might." says 
 Nolly, pathetically. " I was only going to tell you what Jack 
 said to Violet. ' What darling little hands you have 1' he 
 whispered, with the very silliest expression on his face I ever 
 saw in my life; 'the prettiest hands in the world. I wish 
 they were mine.' ' Gracious powers !' said I to myself, ' I'm 
 in for it ;' and I was as near foiling oiF the branch of the 
 tree right into their arms as I could be. The shock was too 
 great. I suppressed a groan with a manful determination to 
 * suffer and be strong,' and " 
 
 " Never mind all that," says Doatie : " what did she say ?" 
 
 By this time both Nicholas and Geoffrey are quite convulsed 
 with delight. 
 
 " Yes, go on, Noll : what did she say ?" repeats Geoffrey, 
 the most generous encouragement in his tone. They have all, 
 with a determination worthy of a better cause, made up their 
 minds to forget that they are listening to what was certainly 
 never meant for them to hear. Or perhaps consideration for 
 Nolly compels them to keep their ears open, as that young man 
 is so overcome by the thought of what he has unwillingly 
 gone through, and the weight of the secret that is so disagree- 
 ably his, that it has become a necessity with him to speak or 
 die ; but I believe myself it is more curiosity than pity prompts 
 their desire for information on the subject in hand. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 319 
 
 " I didn't listen," says Nolly, indignantly. " What do you 
 take me for ? I crammed my fingers into my ears, and shut 
 my eyes tight, and wished with all my heart I had never been 
 born. If you wish very hard for anything, they say you will 
 get it. So I thought if I threw my whole soul into that wish 
 just then I might get it, and find presently I never had been 
 born. So I threw in my whole soul ; but it didn't come ofi. 
 I was as lively as possible after ten minutes' hard wishing 
 Then I opened my eyes again and looked, — simply to see if 1 
 oughtn't to look, — and there they were still ; and he had his 
 arm round her, and her head was on his shoulder, and " 
 
 " Oh, Nolly !" says Dorothy, hastily. 
 
 " Well, it wasn't my fault, was it ? / had nothing to do 
 with it. She hadn't her head on my shoulder, had she ? and 
 it wasn't my arm was round her," says Mr. Darling, losing 
 patience a little. 
 
 " I don't mean that ; but how could you look ?" 
 
 " Well, I like that !" says her brother. " And pray what 
 was to happen if I didn't ? I gave 'em ten minutes ; quite 
 sufficient law, I think. If they couldn't get it over in that 
 time, they must have forgotten their native tongue. Besides, 
 I wanted to get down ; the forked seat in the laurel was not 
 all my fancy had painted it in the beginning, and how was I 
 to know when they were gone unless I looked ? Why, other- 
 wise I might be there now. I might be there until next 
 week," winds up Mr. Darling, with increasing wrath. 
 
 " It is true," puts in Mona. " How could he tell when the 
 coast was clear for his escape, unless he took a little peep ?" 
 
 " Go on, Nolly," says Nicholas. 
 
 " Well, Violet was crying (not loudly, you know, but quite 
 comfortably) : so then I thought I had been mistaken, and 
 that probably she had a toothache, or a headache, or some- 
 thing, and that the foregoing speech was mere spooning ; and 
 I rather lost faith in tlie situation, when suddenly he said, 
 « Why do you cry ?' And what do you think was her an- 
 swer ? ' Because I am so happy.' Now, fancy any one cry- 
 ing because she was happy 1" says Mr. Darling, with fine 
 disgust. " I always laugh when I'm happy. And I think it 
 rather a poor thing to dissolve into tears because a man aska 
 you to marry him : don't you, Mrs. Geofi'rey ?" 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure. I have never thought about it. 
 
320 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 Did I cry, Geoffrey, when " hesitates Mrs. Geoffrey, with 
 
 a laugh, and a faint sweet blush. 
 
 " N — 0. As far as I can remember," says Geoffrey, thought- 
 fully, pulling his moustache, " you were so overcome with de- 
 light at the unexpected honor I did you, that " 
 
 " Oh, I dare say," says Nicholas, ironically. " You get 
 out!" 
 
 " What else did they say, Nolly ?" asks Dorothy, in a 
 wheedling tone. 
 
 " If they could only hear us now I" murmurs Geoffrey, 
 addressing no one in particular. 
 
 " Go on, Nolly," says Doatie. 
 
 " You see, I was so filled with the novelty of the idea that 
 it is the correct thing to weep when seated on your highest 
 pinnacle of bliss, that I forgot to put my fingers in my ears 
 again for a moment, so I heard him say, ' Are you sure you 
 love me ?' whereupon she said, ' Are you quite sure you love 
 me f with lots of emphasis. That finished me I Did you 
 ever hear such stuff in your life?" demands Mr. Darling, feel- 
 ing justly incensed. " When they have been gazing into each 
 other's eyes and boring us all to death with their sentimentality 
 for the last three months, they coolly turn round and ask each 
 other if they are sure they are in love 1" 
 
 " Nolly, you have no romance in your nature," says Nich- 
 olas, severely. 
 
 " No, I haven't, if that's romance. Of course there waa 
 nothing for it but to shut my eyes again and resign myself to 
 my fate. I wonder I'm not dead," says Nolly, pathetically. 
 ** I never put in such a time in my life. Well, another quarter 
 of an hour went by, and then I cautiously opened my eyes 
 and looked again, and — would you believe it?" — indignantly, 
 — " there they were still 1" 
 
 " It is my opinion that you looked and listened all the 
 time ; and it was shamefully mean of you," says Dorothy. 
 
 " I give you my honor I didn't. I neither saw nor heard 
 but what I tell you. Why, if I had listened I could fill a 
 volume with their nonsense. Three-quarters of an hour it 
 lasted. How a fellow can take forty-five minutes to say, ' Will 
 you marry me ?' passes my comprehension. Whenever 1 am 
 going to do that sort of thing, which of course," looking at 
 Mona, " will be never now, on account of what you said to me 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 321 
 
 some time since, — but if ever I should be tempted, I shall get 
 it over in twenty seconds precisely : that will even give me 
 time to take her hand and get through the orthodox embrace." 
 
 " But perhaps she will refuse you," says Mona, demurely, 
 
 " No such luck. But look here, I never suffered such agonj 
 as I did in that laurel. It's the last tree I'll ever climb. I 
 knew if I got down they would never forgive me to their dy- 
 ing day, and as I was I felt like a condemned criminal.*" 
 
 " Or like the ' sweet little cherub that sits up aloft ' ? There 
 is something cherubic about you, do you know, Nolly, when 
 one comes to think of it. But finish your tale." 
 
 " There isn't much more ; but yet the cream of the joke 
 remains," says Nolly, laughing heartily. " They seemed 
 pretty jolly by that time, and he was speaking. 'I was afraid 
 you would reftise me,' he said, in an imbecile tone. ' I always 
 thought you liked Geoffrey best.' ' Geoffrey !' said Violet. 
 (Oh, Mrs. Geoffrey, if you could have heard her voice 1) 
 ' How could you think so ! Geoffrey is all very well in his 
 way, and of course I like him very much, but he is not to be 
 compared with you.' ' He is very handsome,' said Jack, fish- 
 ing for compliments in the most indecent manner. ' Hand- 
 pome ! Oh, no,' said Violet. (You really should have heard 
 her, Mrs. Geoffrey!) 'I don't think so. Passably good- 
 looking, I allow, but — not like you V Ha, ha, ha I" 
 
 " Nolly, you are inventing," says Mrs. Geoffrey, sternly. 
 
 " No ; on my word, no," says Nolly, choking with laughter, 
 in which he is joined by all but Mona. " She said all that, 
 and lots more 1" 
 
 " Then she doesn't know what she is talking about," eaya 
 Mrs. Geoffrey, indignantly. " The idea of comparing Geoffirey 
 with Jackl" 
 
 At this the laughter grows universal, Geoffrey and Nicholas 
 positively distinguishing themselves in this line, when just at 
 the very height of their mirth the door opens, and Violet ea- 
 ters, followed by Captain Rodney. 
 
322 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 now NOLLT DECLINES TO REPEAT HIS STORY — HOW JACK 
 RODNEY TELLS ONE INSTEAD — AND HOW THEY ALL 
 SHOW THEIR SURPRISE ABOUT WHAT THEY KNEW 
 BEFORE. 
 
 As they enter, mirth ceases. A remarkable silence falls 
 apon the group. Everybody looks at anything but Violet and 
 her companion. 
 
 These last advance in a leisurely manner up the room, yet 
 with somewhat of the sneaking air of those who are in the 
 possession of embarrassing news that must be told before much 
 time goes by. The thought of this perhaps deadens their 
 perception and makes them blind to the fact that the others 
 are unnaturally quiet. 
 
 " It has been such a charming day," says Violet, at last, in 
 a rather mechanical tone. Yet, in spite of its stiltedness, 
 it breaks the spell of consternation aud confusion that has 
 bound the others in its chains, and restores them to speech. 
 
 They all smile, and say, " Yes, indeed," or " Oh, yes, in- 
 deed," or plain " Yes," in a breath. They all feel intensely 
 obliged to Violet for her very ordinary little remark. 
 
 Then it is enchanting to watch t\\Q. petit soins, the delicate 
 little attentions that the women in a carefully suppressed fash- 
 ion lavish upon the bride-elect, — as she already is to them. 
 There is nothing under heaven so dear to a woman's heart 
 as a happy love-affair, — except, indeed, it be an unhappy one. 
 Just get a woman to understand you have broken or are break- 
 ing (the last is the best) your heart about any one, and she 
 will be your friend on the spot. It is so unutterably sweet to 
 her to be a confidante in any secret where Dan Cupid holds 
 first place. 
 
 Mona, rising, pushes Violet gently into her own chair, a 
 little black-and-gold wicker thing, gaudily cushioned. 
 
 " Yes, sit there," she says, a new note of tender sympathy 
 in her tone, keeping her hand on Violet's shoulder as the 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 323 
 
 latter makes some faint polite eifort to rise again. " You must 
 indeed. It is such a dear, cosey, comfortable little chair." 
 
 Why it has become suddenly necessary that Violet should 
 be made cosey and comfortable she omits to explain. 
 
 Then Dorothy, goint); up to the new-comer, removes her 
 hat from her head, and pats her cheeks, and tells her with one 
 of her loveliest smiles that she has " such a delicious color, 
 dearest ! just like a wee bit of fresh apple-blossom 1" 
 
 Apple-blossom suggests the orchard, whereon Violet reddens 
 perceptibly, and Nolly grows cold with fright, and feels a little 
 more will make him faint. 
 
 Lastly, Lady Rodney comes to the front with — 
 
 " You have not tired yourself, dear, I hope. The day has 
 been so oppressively warm, more like July than May. Would 
 you like your tea now, Violet? We can have it half an hour 
 earlier if you wish." 
 
 All these evidences of affection Violet notices in a dreamy, 
 far-off fashion : she is the happier because of them ; yet she 
 only appreciates them languidly, being filled with one absorb- 
 ing thought, that dulls all others. She accepts the chair, 
 the compliment, and the tea with grace, but with somewhat 
 vague gratitude. 
 
 To Jack his brothers are behaving with the utmost bon- 
 Jiomie. They have called him " old fellow" twice, and once 
 Geoffrey has slapped him on the back with a heartiness well 
 meant, and no doubt encouraging, but trying. 
 
 And Jack is greatly pleased with them, and, seeing every- 
 thing just now through a rose-colored veil, tells himself he is 
 specially blessed in his own people, and that Geoffrey and old 
 Nick are two of the decentest old men alive. Yet he too is 
 a little distrait, being lost in an endeavor to catch Violet's 
 eyes, — which eyes refuse persistently to be so caught. 
 
 Nolly alone of all the group stands aloof, joining not at all 
 in the unspoken congratulations, and feeling indeed like noth- 
 ing but the guilty culprit that he is. 
 
 " How you were all laughing when we came in I" says 
 Violet, presently ; " we could hear you all along the corridor. 
 Wbat was it about?" 
 
 Everybody at this smiles involuntarily, — everybody, that is, 
 except Nolly, who feels faint again, and turns a rich and lively 
 orimsoQ. 
 
324 MJiS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 " It was some joke, of couree?" goes on Violet, not having 
 received any answer to her first question. 
 
 " It was," says Nicholas, feeling a reply can no longer be 
 Bhirked. Then he says^ " Ahem 1" and turns his glance con- 
 fidingly upon the carpet. 
 
 But Geoffrey, to whom the situation has its charm, takes 
 tip the broken thread. 
 
 " It was one of Nolly's good things," he says, genially. 
 " And you know what he is capable of when he likes 1 It 
 was funny to the last degree, — calculated to set any ' table in 
 a roar.' — Give it to us again, Nolly. It bears repeating. — 
 Ask him to tell it to you, Violet.'^ 
 
 " Yes, do, Nolly," says Violet. 
 
 "Go on, Noll," exclaims Dorothy, in her most encouraging 
 tone. " Let Violet hear it. She will understand it." 
 
 " I would, of course, with pleasure," stammers the unfortu- 
 nate Nolly, — " only perhaps Violet heard it before I" 
 
 " Well, really, do you know, I think she did I" says Mona, 
 so demurely that they all smile again. 
 
 " I call this beastly mean," says Mr. Darling to Geoffrey in 
 an indignant aside. " You all gave your oaths to secrecy 
 before I began, and now you are determined to betray me. I 
 call it right-down shabby. And I sha'n't forget it to any of 
 you, let me tell you that." 
 
 " My dear fellow, you can't have forgotten it so soon," says 
 Geoffrey, pretending to misunderstand this vehement whisper. 
 " Don't be shy I or shall I refresh your memory ? It was, 
 you remember, about " 
 
 " Oh, yes — yes — I know ; it doesn't matter ; (I'll pay you 
 out for this"), says Nolly, savagely, in an aside. 
 
 " Well, I do like a good story," says Violet, carelessly. 
 
 •' Then Nolly's last will suit you down to the ground," says 
 Nicholas. " Besides its wit, it possesses the rare quality of 
 being strictly true. It really occurred. It is founded on fact. 
 He himself vouches for the truth of it." 
 
 " Oh, go on ; do," says Mr. Darling, in a second aside, who 
 is by this time a brilliant purple from fear and indignation. 
 
 " Let's have it," says Jack, waking up from his revery, 
 having found it impossible to compel Violet's eyes to meet his. 
 
 '- It is really nothing," says Nolly, feverishly. " You havfl 
 all heard it before." 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 326 
 
 " I said so," murmurs Mona, meekly. 
 
 " It is quite an old story," goes on Nolly. 
 
 " It is, in fact, the real and original ' old, old story,' " says 
 Geoffrey, innocently, smiling mildly at the leg of a distant 
 table. 
 
 " If you are bent on telling 'em, do it all at once," whispers 
 Nolly, castiug a withering glance at the smiling Geoffrey. " It 
 will save time and trouble." 
 
 " I never saw any one feel the heat so much as our Oliver," 
 says Geoffrey, pleasantly. " His complexion waxeth warm." 
 
 " Would you like a fan, Nolly ?" says Mona, with a laugh, 
 yet really with a kindly view to rescuing him from his present 
 dilemma. " Do you think you could find me mine ? I fancy 
 I left it in the morning-room." 
 
 " I am sure I could," says Nolly, bestowing upon her a 
 grateful glance, after which he starts upon his errand with 
 suspicious alacrity. 
 
 " How odd Nolly is at times I" says Violet, yet without any 
 very great show of surprise. She is still wrapped in her own 
 dream of delight, and is rather indifferent to objects in which 
 but yesterday she would have felt an immediate interest. 
 " But, Nicholas, what was his story about? He seems quite 
 determined not to impart it to me." 
 
 " A mere nothing," says Nicholas, airily ; " we were merely 
 chaffing him a little, because you know what a mess he makes 
 of anything of that sort he takes in hand." 
 
 " But what was the subject of it ?" 
 
 " Oh — well — those thirty-five charming compatriots ot 
 Mona's who are now in the House of Commons, or, rather, out 
 of it. It was a little tale that related to their expulsion thp 
 other night by the Speaker — and — er — other things." 
 
 " If it was a political quip," says Violet, " I shouldn't care 
 about it." 
 
 This is fortunate. Every one feels that Nicholas is not 
 only clever, but singularly lucky. 
 
 " It wasn't all politics, of course," he says, carefully. 
 
 Whereupon every one thinks he is a bold and daring man 
 thus to risk fortune again. 
 
 It is at this particular moment that Violet, inadvertently 
 raising her head, lets her eyes meet Jack Ilodney's. On 
 which that young man — being prompt in action — goes quickly 
 
 28 
 
326 MRS. OEOFFREY. 
 
 up to her, and in sight of the assembled multitude takes hei 
 hand in his. 
 
 " Violet, you may as well tell them all now as at any other 
 time," he says, persuasively. 
 
 " Oh, no, not now," pleads Violet, hastily. She rises hur- 
 riedly from her seat, and lays her disengaged hand on his lips. 
 For once in her life she loses sight of her self-possession, and 
 a blush, warm and rich as carmine, mantles on her cheek. 
 
 This fond coloring, suiting the exigencies of the moment, 
 suits her likewise. Never before has she looked so entirely 
 pretty. Her lips tremble, her eyes grow pathetic. And Cap- 
 tain Rodney, already deeply in love, grows one degree more 
 impressed with the fact of his own good fortune in having 
 secured so enviable a bride. 
 
 Passing his arm round her, he draws her closer to him. 
 
 " Mother, Violet has promised to marry me," he says, ab- 
 ruptly. " Haven't you, Violet?" 
 
 And Violet says, " Yes," obediently, and then the tears 
 come into her eyes, and a smile is born upon her lips, so sweet, 
 60 new, as compels Doatie to whisper to Mona, a little later 
 on, that she " didn't think it was in Violet to look like that." 
 
 Here of course everybody says the most charming thing he 
 or she can think of at a moment's notice ; and then they all 
 kiss Violet, and Nolly, coming back at this auspicious instant 
 with the fan and recovered temper, joins in the general con- 
 gratulations, and actually kisses her too, though Geoffrey 
 whispers " traitor" to him in an awful tone, as he goes forward 
 to do it. 
 
 " It is the sweetest thing that could have happened," says 
 Dorothy, enthusiastically. " Now Mona and you and I will 
 be real sisters." 
 
 " What a surprise it all is !" says Geoffrey, hypocritically. 
 
 *' Yes, isn't it ?" says Dorothy, quite in good faith ; " though 
 I don't know after all why it should be ; we could see for ouT" 
 selves ; we knew all about it long ago !" 
 
 " Yes, long ago," says Geoffrey, with animation. " Quite 
 an hour ago." 
 
 " Oh I hardly !" says Violet, with a soft laugh and another 
 blush. " How could you ?" 
 
 " A little bird whispered it to us," explains Geoffrey, lightly. 
 Then, taking pity on Nolly's evident agony, he goes on, " that 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 327 
 
 is, you know, we guessed it ; you were so long absent, and — 
 and that." 
 
 There is something deplorably lame about this exposition, 
 when you take into consideration the fact that the new lovers 
 have been, during the past two months, always absent from 
 the rest of the family, as a rule. 
 
 But Violet is content. 
 
 " It is like a fairy-tale, and quite as pretty," says little Dor- 
 othy, who is quite safe to turn out an inveterate match-maker 
 when a few more years have rolled over her sunny head. 
 
 " Or like Nolly's story that he declines telling me," says 
 Violet, with a laugh. 
 
 " Well, really, now you say it," says Geoffrey, as though 
 suddenly struck with a satisfactory idea, " it is uncommonly 
 like Nolly's tale : when you come to compare one with the 
 Dther they sound almost similar." 
 
 " What I How could Jack or I resemble an Irish member ?" 
 asks she, with a little grimace. 
 
 " Everything has its romantic side," says Geoffrey ; " even 
 an Irish member, I dare say. And when you do induce Nolly 
 to favor you with his last joke, you will see that it is positively 
 bristling with romance." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 BOW WEDDING-BELLS CAN BE HEARD IN THE DISTANCE — 
 HOW LOVE ENXOMPASSES MONA — AND HOW AT LAST 
 PAEEWELL IS SPOKEN. 
 
 And now what remains to be told ? But little, I think ! 
 For my gentle Mona has reached that haven where she would 
 be! 
 
 Violet and Dorothy are to be married next month, both on 
 the same day, at the same hour, in the same church, — St. 
 George's, Hanover Scjuare, without telling. From old Lord 
 Steyne's house in Mayfair, by Dorothy's special desire, both 
 marriages are to take place, Violet's father being somewhat 
 
328 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 erratic in bis tastes, and in fact at this moment wandering aim- 
 lessly among the Himalayas. 
 
 Mona is happier than words can say. She is up to her 
 eyes in the business, that business sweetest to a woman's soul, 
 the ordering and directing and general management of a 
 trousseau. In her case she is doubly blessed, because she hag 
 the supervising of two I 
 
 Her sympathy is unbounded, her temper equal to the most 
 trying occasions, her heart open to the most petty grievances ; 
 she is to the two girls an unfailing source of comfort, — a 
 refuge where they may unrebuked pour out the indignation 
 against their dress-makers that seems to rage unceasingly 
 within their breasts. 
 
 Indeed, as Dorothy says one day, out of the plenitude of 
 her heart, " How we should possibly have got on without you, 
 Mona, I shudder to contemplate." 
 
 Geoflfrey happening to be present when this flattering re- 
 mark is made, Violet turns to him and says impulsively, — 
 
 " Oh, Geoflfrey, Wiisn't it well you went to Ireland and met 
 Mona ? Because if you had stayed on here last autumn we 
 might have been induced to marry each other, and then what 
 would have become of poor Jack ?" 
 
 " What, indeed ?" says Geoflfrey, tragically. " Worse still, 
 what would have become of poor Mona?" 
 
 " What is it you would say ?" exclaims Mona, threateningly, 
 turning towards him a lovely face she vainly tries to clothe 
 with anger. 
 
 '' It is insupportable such an insinuation," says the lively 
 Doatie. " Violet, Mona's cause is ours : what shall we do to 
 him?" 
 
 " ' Brain him with his lady's fan 1' " quotes Violet, gayly, 
 snatching up Mona's fan that lies on a prie-dleu near, and 
 going up to Geoflfrey. 
 
 So determined is her aspect that Geoflfrey shows the white 
 leather, and, crying " mea culpa,''' beats a hasty retreat. 
 
 From morn to dewy eve, nothing is discussed in bower or 
 boudoir but flounces, frills, and furbelows, — three /''s that are 
 considered at the Towers of far more vital importance than 
 those other three of Mr. Parnell's forming. And Mona, hav- 
 ing proved herself quite in good taste in the matter of her 
 own gowns, and almost an artist where coloring is concerned, 
 
MRS. OEOFFREY. 329 
 
 is appealed to by both girls on all occasions about such things 
 as must be had in readiness " Against their brydale day, which 
 is not long." — As, for instance : 
 
 " Mona, do you think Elise is right ? she is so very posi- 
 tive ; are you sure heliotrope is the correct shade to go with 
 this?" Or— 
 
 " Dearest Mona, I must interrupt you again. Are you 
 very busy? No? Oh, then do come and look at the last 
 bonnet Madame Verot has just sent. She says there will 
 be nothing to equal it this season. But," in a heart-broken 
 voice, " I cannot bring myself to think it becoming." 
 
 Lady Rodney, too, is quite happy. Everything has come 
 right ; all is smooth again ; there is no longer cause for chagrin 
 and never-ending fear. With Paul Rodney's death the latter 
 feeling ceased, and Mona's greatness of heart has subdued the 
 former. She has conquered and laid her enemy low : without 
 the use of any murderous force the walls have fallen down be- 
 fore her, and she has marched into the citadel with colors 
 flying. 
 
 Yet does she not triumph over her beaten foe ; nay, so 
 different is it with her that she reaches forth her hand to 
 raise her again, and strives by every tender means in her 
 power to obliterate all memory of the unpleasant past. 
 
 And Lady Rodney is very willing that it should be obliter- 
 ated. Just now, indeed, it is a favorite theory of hers that 
 she could never have been really uncivil to dear Mona (she is 
 always " dear Mona" of late days) but for the terrible anxiety 
 that lay upon her, caused by the Australian and the missing 
 will, and the cruel belief that soon Nicholas would be banished 
 from the home where he had reigned so long as master. Had 
 things gone happily with her, her mind would not have been 
 BO warped, and she would have learned at once to understand 
 and appreciate the sweetness of the dear girl's character I And 
 8o on. 
 
 Mona accepts this excuse for bygone injustice, and even 
 encourages her mother-in-law to enlarge upon it, — seeing how 
 comfortable it i.s to her so to do, — and furthermore tries hard 
 in her own kind heart to believe in it also. 
 
 She is perhaps as near being angry with Geoffrey as she 
 can bj when one day he pooh-poohs this charitable thought 
 and gives it as his belief that worry had nothing to do with 
 
 28* 
 
330 MRS. GEOFFREY. 
 
 it, aud that his mother behaved uncommonly badly all 
 through, and that sheer obstinacy and bad temper was the 
 cause of the whole matter. 
 
 " She had made up her mind that you would be insupport- 
 able, and she couldn't forgive you because you weren't," says 
 that astute young man, with calm conviction. " Don't you 
 be taken in, Mona." 
 
 But Mona in such a case as this prefers being " taken in" 
 (though she may object to the phrase), and in process of time 
 grows positively fond of Lady Kodney. 
 
 " In company with so divme a face, no rancorous thoughts 
 could live," said the duke on one memorable occasion, alluding 
 to Mona, which speech was rather a lofty soar for His Grace, 
 he being for the most part of the earth, earthy. 
 
 Yet in this he spoke the truth, echoing iSpeuser (though 
 unconsciously), where he says, — 
 
 "So every spirit, as it is most pure 
 And hath in it the more of heavenly light, 
 So it the fairer bodie doth procure 
 To habit in. 
 
 For of the soule the bodie forme doth take, 
 For soulo is forme and doth the bodie make." 
 
 With Lady Rodney she will, I think, be always the favor- 
 ite daughter. She is quite her right hand now. She can 
 hardly get on without her, and tells herself her blankest days 
 are those when Mona aud Geoffrey return to their own home, 
 and the Towers no longer echoes to the musical laugh of old 
 Brian Scully's niece, or to the light footfall of her pretty 
 feet. Violet and Dorothy will no doubt be dear ; but Mona, 
 having won it against much odds, will ever hold first place in 
 her affections. 
 
 After all, she has proved a great success. She has fought 
 her fight, and gained her victory ; but the conquered has deep 
 reason to be grateful to her victor. 
 
 Where would they all be now but for her timely entry 
 into the library on that night never to be forgotten, and her 
 influence over the poor dead-and-gone cousin ? Even in the 
 matter of fortune she has not been behindhand, Paul Rod- 
 ney's death having enriched her beyond all expectation. 
 Without doubt, therefore, there is good reason to rejoice over 
 Mrs. Geoffrey. 
 
MRS. GEOFFREY. 331 
 
 To this name, given to her in such an unkindly spirit, 
 Moaa clings with singular pertinacity. Once, when Nolly has 
 called her by it in Lady Rodney's hearing, the latter raises 
 her head, and a remorseful light kindles in her eyes ; and 
 when Mr. Darling has taken himself away she turns entreat- 
 ingly to Mona, and, with a warm accession of coloring, says, 
 earnestly, — 
 
 " My dear, I behaved badly to you in that matter. Let 
 me tell Oliver to call you Mrs. Rodney for the future. It is 
 your proper name." 
 
 But Mona will not be entreated ; sweetly, but firmly, she 
 declines to alter the sobriquet given her so long ago now. 
 With much gentleness she tells Lady Rodney that she loves 
 the name ; that it is dearer to her than any other could ever 
 be ; that to be Mrs. Geoffrey is the utmost height of her 
 very highest ambition ; and to change it now would only 
 cause her pain and a vague sense of loss. 
 
 So after this earnest protest no more is ever said to her 
 upon the subject, and Mrs. Geoffrey she is now to her friends, 
 and Mrs. Geoffrey, I think, she wUl remain to the end of 
 the chapter. 
 
 THE END. 
 
By Marie Corelli. 
 
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 Cloth, Ji.oo. 
 
 " The works of this author are always pure in character, and can be safely put 
 into the hands of young as well as o\d,."—Norristown Herald. 
 
 " A wide circle of admirers always welcome a new work by this favorite author. 
 Her style is pure and interesting, and she depicts marveUously well the daily social 
 ufe of the English people."— i/. Louis Republic. 
 
 ], B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. PHILADELPHIA. 
 
By John Strange Winter. 
 
 (Mrs. Arthur Stannard.) 
 
 A Magnificent Young Man. 
 
 l2mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " There is a happy mingling of comedy and tragedy in A Magnificent Young 
 AfiM. It is a stor)' with an original plot, involving a secret marriage, the mysteri- 
 ous disappearance of a bridegroom, and the experiences of a young girl, who 
 refuses to clear her reputation, even to the mother of her unacknowledged husband, 
 until such a time as he shall give permission. The plot is well sustained, the in- 
 cidents and dialogue are entertaining, and the mystery is kept up long enough to 
 hold the close attention of the reader to the last chapter." — Boston Beacon. 
 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 l2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " Of the incidents of the work before us, the plot is highly entertaining, and 
 incidentally we meet the Bishop of Blankhampton, whose matrimonial affairs were 
 ably discussed in a book previously ■written. It is a very pleasant and readable 
 book, and we are glad to see it." — h'orrtstown Herald. 
 
 Aunt Johnnie. 
 
 l2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, ^i. 00. 
 
 " Mrs. Stannard preserves her freshness and vivacity in a wonderful way. 
 'Aunt Johnnie' is as bright and amusing a story as any that she has written, and 
 it rattles on from the first chapter to the last with unabated gayety and vigor. The 
 hero and heroine are both charming, and the frisky matron who gives the story its 
 name is a capitally managed character. 1 he novel is exactly suited to the season, 
 and is stu-e to be very popular." — Uiarleston News and Courier. 
 
 The Other Man's Wife. 
 
 l2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, ^ 1. 00. 
 
 " The hero and heroine have a charm which is really unusual in these hack- 
 neyed personages, for they are most attractive and wholesome types. Indeed, 
 wholesomeness may be said to be the most notable characteristic of this author's 
 work." — N. Y. Telegram. 
 
 Only Human. 
 
 i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, ^l. 00. 
 
 " A bright and interesting story. . . . Its pathos and humor are of the 
 same admirable quality that is found in all the other novels by this author." — Boston 
 Gazette. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.