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 lourestine—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 in such as might suit the death-bed of a beloved friend, his countenance is 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 returns 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 maybe discovered in it, nobody at the first glance would ever suspect it of such dangerous toys. experience, however, teaches most things, and geoffrey has donned 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, innocently, 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 charmed with her, and that she was most pleased than otherwise at their marriage.
when she made him this little trustful speech, however, he had felt some embarrassment, and had turned his attention upon a little muddy boy who was playing pitch-and-toss, irrespective 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 unhappiness—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, hurry 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," says lady rodney. she is looking at him, is telling herself what a goodly son he is, so tall and strong and bright and handsome. he might have married almost any one! 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, judiciously 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 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 faith in his own recipe.
"i don't want to see her," is the unflinching and most ungracious 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 son, of which he is quite aware, and so hopes on. "what is it you object to?"
"to everything! 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 rodney, 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 grandfathers 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 gentlewoman 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!" 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, geoffrey, 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!" 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," says rodney, gently, but with dignity,—"the woman i love and honor most on earth. when you see her you will understand how the word 'low' could never apply to her. she looks quite correct, and is perfectly lovely."
"you are in love," returns 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 difference between them, and feel no regret."
she says this, however, as though it is her one desire he may know regret, and feel a difference that be overwhelming.
"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 fashion, 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 mantelpiece and gives way to hearty laughter himself.
"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 resembled him, both in form and in feature; hence, perhaps, her love 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 himself, 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 lose sight of the fact that he has committed a social error not to be lightly overlooked.
"oh, geoffrey, how could you do it?" she says, reproachfully, 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, which none but madmen know.'
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 condescended 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 conversation 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 rodney, 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, "are not these three reasons sufficient? if not, i could tell you a score of others. i may bring her down 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 prejudiced 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. leighton, as you know, is out of repair, but if you will not receive us we can spend the rest of the winter at rome or anywhere else that may occur 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 to take up their quarters there until leighton hall 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 a 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 fashion 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 a child's might be in innocent slumber,—the other is thrown above her head. she is exquisite in her abandon, but very pale, and her breath comes unevenly.
geoffrey, stooping over 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 his arms.
"ah, it is you!" cries she, her face growing glad again.
"yes; but you have been crying, darling! 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!"
"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 be 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 to the cause he has in hand, and might 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.'
"i will do my best," says mona, earnestly; "but if i fail,—if after all my efforts your mother still refuses to love me, how will it be then?"
"as it is now; it need make no difference to us; and indeed i will not make the trial at all if you shrink from it, or if it makes you in the faintest degree 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 rodney, 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 conquer, 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.
