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, and 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 sufficient 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 marriage 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 off 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? so he argues; and for this reason he keeps silence until such time as, his marriage being a fait accompli, hopeless expostulation will be of no avail, and will, therefore, be suppressed.
meanwhile, the hours go by "laden with golden grain." every day makes mona dearer and more dear, her sweet and guileless nature being one calculated to create, with growing knowledge, an increasing admiration and tenderness. indeed, each happy afternoon spent with her serves but to forge another link 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 sky
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 possession 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-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 recollections of bygone days, when she, too, had 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 holds 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 remember 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," 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 rodney, in a low tone; and then something else follows, that, had she seen it, would have caused the weatherbeaten old person at the fire another thrill of tender recollection.
"what are you doing?" asks geoffrey, presently, when they have returned to everyday 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, discovering 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, geoffrey; 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 different from other people?"
"very different," 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 eccentric nowadays. one is nowhere if not bizarre," says rodney, laughing; "so i dare say you will find yourself the very height of fashion."
"now i think you are making fun of me," says mona, smiling sweetly; and, lifting her hand, she pinches his ear lightly, 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 minutes, 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 admiration upon its steaming contents. "the murphies" (as, i fear, she calls the potatoes) are done to a turn.
"maybe," says betty corcoran, turning in a genial fashion to mona and geoffrey, "ye'd ate a pratie, would ye, now? they're raal nice an' floury. ye must be hungry, miss mona, afther 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 geoffrey, "but——"
"yes, do, alannah!" 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," says rodney, gratefully, honest hunger and the knowledge that it will please mona to be friendly with "her people," as she calls them, urging him on. "i'm as hungry as i can be," he says.
"so ye are, bless ye both!" 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 revered potatoes.
geoffrey, who would be at any moment as polite to a dairymaid as to a duchess, follows her, and, much to her discomfort,—though she is too civil to say so,—helps her to lay the table. he even insists on filling a dish with the potatoes, and having severely burned his fingers, and having nobly suppressed 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 mona is sitting.
"it might be that ye'd take a dhrop of new milk, too," says 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 geoffrey (whose flask is empty) accept the proffered 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, grasping instinctively at the fact that any one called violet mansergh may be a possible rival.
"pretty? no. but she dresses very swagger, and always looks nice, and is generally correct all through," replies mr. rodney, 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 eyes, "but i don't 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?"
"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 unhappy by me. it would seem as though some evil eye was resting on our love," says mona, raising her thoughtful, earnest 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 seriousness, "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."
"eh?" 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. rodney becomes conscious 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 always wore lovely clothes. in books they always do; but i was too young when with aunt anastasia in dublin to go out. somehow, 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 old song, "some bee had stung it newly," and a pensive expression takes its place.
"i think i'd like to see myself in a regular evening gown," she say, 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 heavenly 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, people 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.
at this she glances with scorn upon the quakerish and somewhat quaint gray gown in which she is 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 attire 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 wear a tam o'shanter hat when one looks hideous in it? and then too much study spoils effect: 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! 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?"
mr. rodney, basely forsaking the donkey, returns to his mutton. "there must be a dressmaker 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 shan't leave you; but you shall have that dress all the same," he says. "how shall we arrange about it?"
"i 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 everything. 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.
