"Wi' the auld moon in hir arme,"
"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 cottage, 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, approvingly, 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 goes towards the lodge.
"Is there no hope?" asks Geoffrey, gravely.
"None; none. It would be useless to say otherwise. Internal hemorrhage has set in. A few hours, perhaps less, must end it. He knows it himself, poor boy!"
"Oh! can nothing be done?" asks Mona, turning to him eyes full of entreaty.
"My dear, what I could do, I have done," says the little 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, and, 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 Geoffrey, 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 us 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 his last account, poor lad, all too soon."
They have entered the cottage by this time, and are standing in the tiny hall.
"Open that door, Mrs. Geoffrey," says the doctor pointing to his right hand. "I saw you coming, and have prepared 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, falteringly.
"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."
Then Mona, opening the door indicated to her by the doctor, goes into the chamber beyond, and is lost to their view for some time.
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 expectancy 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.
"O 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 be speaks relief. "I knew you would. I felt it; yet I feared. Oh, what comfort to see you again!"
Mona tries to say something,—anything that will be kind and sympathetic,—but words fail her. Her lips part, but no sound escapes them. The terrible reality of the moment terrifies and overcomes her.
"Do not try to make me any commonplace 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 repine."
"But to find you like this"—begins Mona. And then overcome by grief and agitation, she covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears.
"Mona! 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! 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. What 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 smacks of Sadlers' Wells."
He actually laughs, though faintly, and Mona looks up. Perhaps he has forced himself to this vague touch of merriment (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 fellows 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 her own upon it.
"Are you in pain?" she says, in a low, fearful tone. "Do you suffer much?"
"I suffer nothing: I have no pain now. I am inexpressibly, 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 Mona'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 an heroic effort to suppress it, a deep groan escapes him.
"Ah!" 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."
"Ishall feel regret," says, Mona, brokenly, the tears running 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 Shakspeare says about the folly of loving 'a bright particular star'? I always think of you when that line comes to my mind. You are the 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 in a desultory fashion through the wood on leaving you, not caring to return home just then, 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. "Remember 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 disconnectedly, 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:thereour dust may mingle, but inheavenour souls shall meet, I trust,—I hope."
"Heaven," repeats he, with a sigh. "I have forgotten to think of heaven."
"Think of it now, Paul,—now before it is too late," entreats she, piteously. "Try to pray: there is always mercy."
"Pray for me!" says he, in a low tone, pressing her hand. So on her knees, in a subdued voice, sad but earnest, she repeats 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 heart, and she puts up a passionate supplication to heaven that the passing soul beside her, however erring, may reach some haven where rest remaineth!
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!" 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?"
"Geoffrey? Oh, no. It was he who brought me. He bade me hasten lest you should even imagine me careless about coming. And—and—he desired me to 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 send him to my mother: she will look after him for my sake. My poor mother!" he draws his breath quickly.
"Shall I write to her?" asks Mona, gently. "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 has 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!"
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 wandered far away to those earlier days when England was unknown 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!"
Mona looks up startled. The faint rays of the new-born moon are indeed rushing through the casement, and are flinging 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 position; but he resists her.
"Who has taken my orders about the sheep?" he says, in 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 pastures are fresher—greener——"
His voice breaks: with a groan he sinks back again upon his pillow.
"Mona, are you still there?" he says, with a return to consciousness: "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!" he murmurs, faintly.
Alas! how soon will fall upon him that eternal sleep from which no man waketh!
His 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 medicine, 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 moonlight to Mona, 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 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 Geoffrey 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 comfort for the dying.
The minutes go by slowly, slowly; a clock from some distant 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 seems to have fallen.
Thus half an hour goes by. Then Geoffrey, growing uneasy, raises his head and looks at Mona. From where he sits 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! no sound of earth will evermore disturb the slumber of the quiet figure upon which he gazes.
The doctor, after a short examination of the features (that are even now turning to marble), knits his 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, stooping 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!" entreats faithful Mona, in a miserable tone; "notyet. Remember what I said. I promised to remain with him until the very end."
"You have kept your promise," returns he, solemnly, pressing 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 gamekeeper 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 trembling 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.
No 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 ancestors 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.
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 background. 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 overpowered 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 forgotten. 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 disgracefully, and has declared itself to a man—without any reservation—unfeignedly glad of the chance that has restored Sir Nicholas to his own again. Perhaps what they just donotsay is that they are delighted Paul Rodney shot himself: this might sound 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 afterwards 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 chamber, 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 reallyisthe most charming woman I 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 when living, not one but converses of him familiarly now he is dead.
"So very strange, so 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 interesting! We lack that at Anadale. Pray, dear Lady Rodney, do tell me all about it again."
Whereupon Lady Rodney, to whom the whole matter is "cakes and ale," does tell it all over again, relating every incident 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 as indecent, immoral people, who went about insufficiently clothed. Of King Arthur and his round knights (as shewillcall them, having once got so hopelessly mixed on the subject as to disallow 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 Æsthetic, rather losing faith in her hostess. "I mean about his resigning 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 forward 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 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 am 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 was 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 everyday life. The singular beauty that now attaches to it would disappear. It is the fact that his passion was unrequited, unacknowledged, 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 wondering 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 inquiries."
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 utmostbonhommieand cheerfulness.
It is quite too much for the Æsthetic.
"I don't think youcanmake 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.
Once again they are all at the Towers. Doatie and her brother—who had returned to their own home during March and 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 Rodney. In this thought both she and her betrothed are perfectly 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 sympathetic 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 apparently 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," says Geoffrey, idly.
"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. Darling, with careful surprise. "Yes, it is true; I don't seek 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 same.
"Bless me, Nolly, you are not going to be ill, are you?" says Geoffrey. "Such a burst of eloquence is rare."
"There are times, I confess," goes on Mr. Darling, disposing of Geoffrey's mundane interruption by a contemptuous wave of the hand, "when light breaks in upon me, and a joyful, a thrice-blessed 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 flattened," says Geoffrey, with a laugh.
"I shall go away," declares Nolly; "I shall go aboard,—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 answer, and can never bring herself to say a decided "no" to any one.
"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 they 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 hathIts tune beneath the trees,And through the woodlands swellThe tender trembles of the ringdove's dole."
"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 hathIts tune beneath the trees,And through the woodlands swellThe 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 Rodney in still struggling with the crimson sock,—when the door is opened, and Nolly entering adds himself to the group.
His face is slightly flushed, his whole manner full of importance. 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, compressed voice. "It is an accomplished fact. I heard 'em myself!"
As he makes this last extraordinary remark he looks over his left shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard.
"Who?" "What?" say Mona and Dorothy, in one breath.
"Why, Jack and Violet, of course. They've had it out. They are engaged!"
"No!" says Nicholas; meaning, "How very delightful!"
"And you heard them? Nolly, explain yourself," says his 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! 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 never heard of them," says Dorothy, impatiently. "Do get on to it."
"I did get on to it, if you mean the laurel," says 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 Geoffrey,sotto voce.
"Part of your leg, just below your knee," returns Mr. Darling, 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!"
"Is that all?" says Mona, with quick contempt, seeing him pause. "Why, there is nothing in that! I pinned a flower intoyourcoat only yesterday."
Thenaiveteof this speech is not to be surpassed.
Nolly regards her mournfully.
"I think you needn't be unkinder to me than you can help!" he says, reproachfully. "However, to continue. There's a way of doing 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 fixes 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 his 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!' 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 falling off 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 disagreeably 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.
"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 neverhadbeen born. So I threw in my whole soul; but it didn't come off. I was as lively as possible after ten minutes' hard wishing. Then I opened my eyes again and looked,—simply to see if I 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?Ihad nothing to do with it. She hadn't her head onmyshoulder, had she? and it wasn'tmyarm 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, otherwise 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 something, and that the foregoing speech was mere spooning; and I rather lost faith in the situation, when suddenly he said, 'Why do you cry?' And what do you think was her answer? 'Because I am so happy.' Now, fancy any one crying because she was happy!" 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 asks you to marry him: don't you, Mrs. Geoffrey?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. I have never thought about it. Did I cry, Geoffrey, when——" hesitates Mrs. Geoffrey, with a laugh, and a faint sweet blush.
"N—o. As far as I can remember," says Geoffrey, thoughtfully, pulling his moustache, "you were so overcome with delight at the unexpected honor I did you, that——"
"Oh, I dare say," Nicholas, ironically. "You get out!"
"What else did they say, Nolly?" asks Dorothy, in a wheedling tone.
"If they could only hear us now!" 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 few moments, so I heard him say, 'Are you sure you love me?' whereupon she said, 'Areyouquite sure you loveme?' with lots of emphasis. That finished me! Did you ever hear such stuff in your life?" demands Mr. Darling, feeling 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!"
"Nolly, you have no romance in your nature," says Nicholas, severely.
"No, I haven't, if that's romance. Of course there was 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!"
"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. WheneverIam 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 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 agony 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 dying day, and as I was I felt like a condemned criminal."
"Or like the 'sweet little cherub that sits up aloft.' Thereissomething 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 refuse 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!) '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, fishing for compliments in the most indecent manner. 'Handsome! Oh, no,' said Violet. (You reallyshouldhave heard her, Mrs. Geoffrey!) 'I don't think so. Passably good-looking, I allow, but not—not likeyou!' Ha, ha, ha!"
"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!"
"Then she doesn't know what she is talking about," says Mrs. Geoffrey, indignantly. "The idea of comparing Geoffrey with Jack!"
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 enters, followed by Captain Rodney.
As they enter, mirth ceases. A remarkable silence falls upon 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 and confusion that has bound the others in its chains, and restores them to speech.
They all smile, and say, "Yes, indeed," or "Oh, yes, indeed," 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 thepetit soins, the delicate little attentions that the women in a carefully suppressed fashion 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 breaking (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 aconfidantein 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 latter makes some faint polite effort 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, going 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!"
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 earner 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 absorbing 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 utmostbonhommie. 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 everything just now through a rose-colored veil, tells him self 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 littledistrait, 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 nothing but the guilty culprit that he is.
"How you were all laughing when we came in!" says Violet, presently: "we could hear you all along the corridor. What was it about?"
Everybody at this smiles involuntarily,—everybody, that is, except Nolly, who feels faint again, and turns a rich and lively crimson.
"It was some joke, of course?" goes on Violet, not having received any answer to her first question.
"It was," says Nicholas, feeling a reply can no longer be shirked. Then he says, "Ahem!" and turns his glance confidingly upon the carpet.
But Geoffrey to whom the situation has its charm, takes up 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! 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.Shewill understand it."
"I would, of course, with pleasure," stammers the unfortunate Nolly,—"only perhaps Violet heard it before!"
"Well, really, do you know, I think she did!" 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! 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 reverie, having found it impossible to compel Violet's eyes to meet his.
"It is really nothing," says Nolly, feverishly. "You have all heard it before."
"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, casting 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!" 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 of 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 the 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'tallpolitics, 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 Rodney's. On which that young man—being prompt in action—goes quickly up to her, and in sight of the assembled multitude takes her 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 hurriedly 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 Captain 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 abruptly. "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, so 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 congratulations, 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 ourselves; we knew all about it long ago!"
"Yes,longago," says Geoffrey, with animation. "Quite an hour ago."
"Oh! 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 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,alwaysabsent 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 Dorothy, who is quite safe to turn out an inveterate matchmaker 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 other they sound almost similar."
"What! 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."