all through the night mona scarcely shuts her eyes, so full is her mind of troubled and perplexing thoughts. at last her brain grows so tired that she cannot pursue any subject to its end, so she lies silently awake, watching for the coming of the tardy dawn.
at last, as she grows weary for wishing for it,—
"morning fair
comes forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray"
and light breaks through shutter and curtain, and objects pale and ghostly at first soon grow large and intimate.
"brown night retires; young day pours in apace,
and opens all a lawny prospect wide."
naturally an early riser, mona slips noiselessly from her bed, lest she shall wake geoffrey,—who is still sleeping the sleep of the just,—and, going into his dressing-room, jumps into his bath, leaving hers for him.
the general bath-room is to geoffrey an abomination; nothing would induce him to enter it. his own bath, and nothing but his own bath, can content him. to have to make uncomfortable haste to be first, or else to await shivering the good pleasure of your next-door neighbor, is according to mr. rodney, a hardship too great for human endurance.
having accomplished her toilet without the assistance of a maid (who would bore her to death), and without disturbing her lord and master, she leaves her room, and, softly descending the stairs, bids the maid in the hall below a "fair good-morning," and bears no malice in that the said maid is so appalled by her unexpected appearance that she forgets to give her back her greeting. she bestows her usual bonnie smile upon this stricken girl, and then, passing by her, opens the hall door, and sallies forth into the gray and early morning.
"the first low fluttering breath of waking day
stirs the wide air. thin clouds of pearly haze
float slowly o'er the sky, to meet the rays
of the unrisen sun."
but which way to go? to mona all round is an undiscovered country, and for that reason possesses an indiscribable charm. finally, she goes up the avenue, beneath the gaunt and leafless elms, and midway, seeing a path that leads she knows not whither, she turns aside and follows it until she loses herself in the lonely wood.
the air is full of death and desolation. it is cold and raw, and no vestige of vegetation is anywhere. in the distance, indeed, she can see some fir-trees that alone show green amidst a wilderness of brown, and are hailed with rapture by the eye, tired of the gray and sullen monotony. but except for these all is dull and unfruitful.
still, mona is happy: the walk has done her good, and warmed her blood, and brought a color soft and rich as carmine, to her cheeks. she has followed the winding path for about an hour, briskly, and with a sense of bien-etre that only the young and godly can know, when suddenly she becomes aware that some one was following her.
she turns slowly, and finds her fellow-pedestrian is a young man clad in a suit of very impossible tweed: she blushes hotly, not because he is a young man, but because she has no hat on her head, having covered her somewhat riotous hair with a crimson silk handkerchief she had found in geoffrey's room, just before starting. it covers her head completely, and is tied under the chin connemara fashion, letting only a few little love-locks be seen, that roam across her forehead, in spite of all injunctions to the contrary.
perhaps, could she only know how charmingly becoming this style of headdress is to her flower-like face, she would not have blushed at all.
the stranger is advancing slowly: he is swarthy, and certainly not prepossessing. his hair is of that shade and texture that suggests unpleasantly the negro. his lips are a trifle thick, his eyes like sloes. there is, too, an expression of low cunning in these latter features that breeds disgust in the beholder.
he does not see mona until he is within a yard of her, a thick bush standing between him and her. being always a creature of impulse, she has stood still on seeing him, and is lost in wonder as to who he can be. one hand is lifting up her gown, the other is holding together the large soft white fleecy shawl that covers her shoulders, and is therefore necessarily laid upon her breast. her attitude is as picturesque as it is adorable.
the stranger, having come quite near, raises his head, and, seeing her, starts naturally, and also comes to a standstill. for a full half-minute he stares unpardonably, and then lifts his hat. mona—who, as we have seen, is not great in emergencies—fails to notice the rudeness, in her own embarrassment, and therefore bows politely in return to his salutation.
she is still wondering vaguely who he can be, when he breaks the silence.
"it is an early hour to be astir," he says, awkwardly; then, finding she makes no response, he goes on, still more awkwardly. "can you tell me if this path will lead me to the road for plumston?"
plumston is a village near. the first remark may sound too free and easy, but his manner is decorous in the extreme. in spite of the fact that her pretty head is covered with a silk handkerchief in lieu of a hat, he acknowledges her "within the line," and knows instinctively that her clothes, though simplicity itself, are perfect both in tint and in texture.
he groans within him that he cannot think of any speech bordering on the grandisonian, that may be politely addressed to this sylvan nymph; but all such speeches fail him. who can she be? were ever eyes so liquid before, or lips so full of feeling?
"i am sorry i can tell you nothing," says mona, shaking her head. "i was never in this wood before; i know nothing of it."
"i should know all about it," says the stranger, with a curious contraction of the muscles of his face, which it may be he means for a smile. "in time i shall no doubt, but at present it is a sealed book to me. but the future will break all seals as far at least as rodney towers is concerned."
then she knows she is speaking to "the australian," (as she has heard him called), and, lifting her head, examines his face with renewed interest. not a pleasant face by any means, yet not altogether bad, as she tells herself in the generosity of her heart.
"i am a stranger; i know nothing," she says again, hardly knowing what to say, and moving a little as though she would depart.
"i suppose i am speaking to mrs. rodney," he says, guessing wildly, yet correctly as it turns out, having heard, as all the country has besides, that the bride is expected at the towers during the week. he has never all this time removed his black eyes from the perfect face before him with its crimson headgear. he is as one fascinated, who cannot yet explain where the fascination lies.
"yes, i am mrs. rodney," says mona, feeling some pride in her wedded name, in spite of the fact that two whole months have gone by since first she heard it. at this question, though, as coming from a stranger, she recoils a little within herself, and gathers up her gown more closely with a gesture impossible to misunderstand.
"you haven't asked me who i am," says the stranger, as though eager to detain her at any cost, still without a smile, and always with his eyes fixed upon her face. it seems as though he positively cannot remove them, so riveted are they.
"no;" she might in all truth have added, "because i did not care to know," but what she does say (for incivility even to an enemy would be impossible to mona) is, "i thought perhaps you might not like it."
even this is a small, if unconscious, cut, considering what objectionable curiosity he evinced about her name. but the australian is above small cuts, for the good reason that he seldom sees them.
"i am paul rodney," he now volunteers,—"your husband's cousin, you know. i suppose," with a darkening of his whole face, "now i have told you who i am, it will not sweeten your liking for me."
"i have heard of you," says mona, quietly. then, pointing towards that part of the wood whither he would go, she says, coldly, "i regret i cannot tell you where this path leads to. good-morning."
with this she inclines her head, and without another word goes back by the way she has come.
paul rodney, standing where she has left him, watches her retreating figure until it is quite out of sight, and the last gleam of the crimson silk handkerchief is lost in the distance, with a curious expression upon his face. it is an odd mixture of envy, hatred, and admiration. if there is a man on earth he hates with cordial hatred, it is geoffrey rodney who at no time has taken the trouble to be even outwardly civil to him. and to think this peerless creature is his wife! for thus he designates mona,—the australian being a man who would be almost sure to call the woman he admired a "peerless creature."
when she is quite gone, he pulls himself together with a jerk, and draws a heavy sigh, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, continues his walk.
at breakfast mona betrays the fact that she has met paul rodney during her morning ramble, and tells all that passed between him and her,—on being closely questioned,—which news has the effect of bringing a cloud to the brow of sir nicholas and a frown to that of his mother.
"such presumption, walking in our wood without permission," she says, haughtily.
"my dear mother, you forget the path leading from the southern gate to plumston road has been open to the public for generations. he was at perfect liberty to walk there."
"nevertheless, it is in very bad taste his taking advantage of that absurd permission, considering how he is circumstanced with regard to us," says lady rodney. "you wouldn't do it yourself, nicholas, though you find excuses for him."
a very faint smile crosses sir nicholas's lips.
"oh, no, i shouldn't," he says, gently; and then the subject drops.
and here perhaps it will be as well to explain the trouble that at this time weighs heavily upon the rodney family.
