Kitabı oku: «Mrs. Geoffrey», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XVIII
HOW OLD SIR GEORGE HATED HIS FIRSTBORN – AND HOW HE MADE HIS WILL – AND HOW THE EARTH SWALLOWED IT

Now, old Sir George Rodney, grandfather of the present baronet, had two sons, Geoffrey and George. Now, Geoffrey he loved, but George he hated. And so great by years did this hatred grow that after a bit he sought how he should leave the property away from his eldest-born, who was George, and leave it to Geoffrey, the younger, – which was hardly fair; for "what," says Aristotle, "is justice? – to give every man his own." And surely George, being the elder, had first claim. The entail having been broken during the last generation, he found this easy to accomplish; and so after many days he made a will, by which the younger son inherited all, to the exclusion of the elder.

But before this, when things had gone too far between father and son, and harsh words never to be forgotten on either side had been uttered, George, unable to bear longer the ignominy of his position (being of a wild and passionate yet withal generous disposition), left his home, to seek another and happier one in foreign lands.

Some said he had gone to India, others to Van Diemen's Land, but in truth none knew, or cared to know, save Elspeth, the old nurse, who had tended him and his father before him, and who in her heart nourished for him an undying affection.

There were those who said she clung to him because of his wonderful likeness to the picture of his grandfather in the south gallery, Sir Launcelot by name, who in choicest ruffles and most elaborate queue, smiled gayly down upon the passers-by.

For this master of the Towers (so the story ran) Elspeth, in her younger days, had borne a love too deep for words, when she herself was soft and rosy-cheeked, with a heart as tender and romantic as her eyes were blue, and when her lips, were for all the world like "cherries ripe."

But this, it may be, was all village slander, and was never borne out by anything. And Elspeth had married the gardener's son, and Sir Launcelot had married an earl's daughter; and when the first baby was born at the "big house," Elspeth came to the Towers and nursed him as she would have nursed her own little bairn, but that Death, "dear, beauteous Death, the jewel of the just, shining nowhere but in the dark," sought and claimed her own little one two days after its birth.

After that she had never again left the family, serving it faithfully while strength stayed with her, knowing all its secrets and all its old legends, and many things, it may be, that the child she nursed at her bosom never knew.

For him – strange as it may seem – she had ever but little love. But when he married, and George, the eldest boy, was given into her arms, and as he grew and developed and showed himself day by day to be the very prototype of his grandsire, she "took to him," as the servants said, and clung to him – and afterwards to his memory – until her dying day.

When the dark, wayward, handsome young man went away, her heart went with him, and she alone perhaps knew anything of him after his departure. To his father his absence was a relief; he did not disguise it; and to his brother (who had married, and had then three children, and had of late years grown estranged from him) the loss was not great. Nor did the young madam, – as she was called, – the mother of our present friends, lose any opportunity of fostering and keeping alive the ill will and rancor that existed for him in his father's heart.

So the grudge, being well watered, grew and flourished, and at last, as I said, the old man made a will one night, in the presence of the gardener and his nephew, who witnessed it, leaving all he possessed – save the title and some outside property, which he did not possess – to his younger son. And, having made this will, he went to his bed, and in the cold night, all alone, he died there, and was found in the morning stiff and stark, with the gay spring sunshine pouring in upon him, while the birds sang without as though to mock death's power, and the flowers broke slowly into life.

But when they came to look for the will, lo! it was nowhere to be found. Each drawer and desk and cabinet was searched to no avail. Never did the lost document come to light.

Day after day they sought in vain; but there came a morning when news of the lost George's demise came to them from Australia, and then the search grew languid and the will was forgotten. And they hardly took pains even to corroborate the tidings sent them from that far-off land but, accepting the rightful heir's death as a happy fact, ascended the throne, and reigned peacefully for many years.

And when Sir George died, Sir Nicholas, as we know, governed in his stead, and "all went merry as a marriage-bell," until a small cloud came out of the south, and grew and grew and waxed each day stronger, until it covered all the land.

For again news came from Australia that the former tidings of George Rodney's death had been false; that he had only died a twelvemonth since; that he had married almost on first going out, and that his son was coming home to dispute Sir Nicholas's right to house and home and title.

And now where was the missing will? Almost all the old servants were dead or scattered. The gardener and his nephew wore no more; even old Elspeth was lying at rest in the cold churchyard, having ceased long since to be even food for worms. Only her second nephew – who had lived with her for years in the little cottage provided for her by the Rodneys, when she was too old and infirm to do aught but sit and dream of days gone by – was alive, and he, too, had gone to Australia on her death and had not been heard of since.

It was all terrible, – this young man coming and the thought that, no matter how they might try to disbelieve in his story, still it might be true.

And then the young man came, and they saw that he was very dark, and very morose, and very objectionable. But he seemed to have more money than he quite know what to do with; and when he decided on taking a shooting-box that then was vacant quite close to the Towers, their indignation knew no bounds. And certainly it was execrable taste, considering he came there with the avowed determination to supplant, as lord and master, the present owner of the Towers, the turrets of which he could see from his dining room windows.

But, as he had money, some of the county, after the first spasm, rather acknowledged him, as at least a cousin, if not the cousin. And because he was somewhat unusual, and therefore amusing, and decidedly liberal, and because there was no disgrace attaching to him, and no actual reason why he should not be received, many houses opened their doors to him. All which was bitter as wormwood to Lady Rodney.

Indeed, Sir Nicholas himself had been the very first to set the example. In his curious, silent, methodical fashion, he had declared to his mother (who literally detested the very mention of the Australian's name, as she called him, looking upon him as a clean-born Indian might look upon a Pariah) his intention of being civil to him all round, as he was his father's brother's child; and as he had committed no sin, beyond trying to gain his own rights, he would have him recognized, and treated by every one, if not with cordiality, at least with common politeness.

But yet there were those who did not acknowledge the new-comer, in spite of his wealth and the romantic story attaching to him, and the possibility that he might yet be proved to be the rightful baronet and the possessor of all the goodly lands that spread for miles around. Of these the Duchess of Lauderdale was one; but then she was always slow to acknowledge new blood, or people unhappy enough to have a history. And Lady Lilias Eaton was another; but she was a young and earnest disciple of æstheticism, and gave little thought to anything save Gothic windows, lilies, and unleavened bread. There were also many of the older families who looked askance upon Paul Rodney, or looked through him, when brought into contact with him, in defiance of Sir Nicholas's support, which perhaps was given to this undesirable cousin more in pride than generosity.

And so matters stood when Mona came to the Towers.

CHAPTER XIX
HOW FATE DEALS HARSHLY WITH MONA, AND HOW SHE DROOPS – AS MIGHT A FLOWER – BENEATH ITS UNKINDLY TOUCH

To gain Lady Rodney's friendship is a more difficult thing than Mona in her ignorance had imagined, and she is determined to be ice itself to her poor little guest. As for her love, when first Mona's eyes lit upon her she abandoned all hope of ever gaining that.

With Captain Rodney and Sir Nicholas she makes way at once, though she is a little nervous and depressed, and not altogether like her usual gay insouciant self. She is thrown back upon herself, and, like a timid snail, recoils sadly into her shell.

Yet Nature, sooner or later, must assert itself; and after a day or two a ringing laugh breaks from her, or a merry jest, that does Geoffrey's heart good, and brings an answering laugh and jest to the lips of her new brothers.

Of Violet Mansergh – who is still at the Towers, her father being abroad and Lady Rodney very desirous of having her with her – she knows little. Violet is cold, but quite civil, as Englishwomen will be until they know you. She is, besides, somewhat prejudiced against Mona, because – being honest herself – she has believed all the false tales told her of the Irish girl. These silly tales, in spite of her belief in her own independence of thought, weigh upon her; and so she draws back from Mona, and speaks little to her, and then of only ordinary topics, while the poor child is pining for some woman to whom she can open her mind and whom she may count as an honest friend "For talking with a friend," says Addison, "is nothing else but thinking aloud."

Of Lady Rodney's studied dislike Mona's sensitive nature could not long remain in ignorance; yet, having a clear conscience, and not knowing in what she has offended, – save in cleaving to the man she loves, even to the extent of marrying him, – she keeps a calm countenance, and bravely waits what time may bring.

To quarrel with Geoffrey's people will be to cause Geoffrey silent but acute regret, and so for his sake, to save him pain, she quietly bears many things, and waits for better days. What is a month or two of misery, she tells herself, but a sigh amidst the pleasures of one's life? Yet I think it is the indomitable pluck and endurance of her race that carries her successfully through all her troubles.

Still, she grows a little pale and dispirited after a while, for

 
"Dare, when it once is entered in the breast,
Will have the whole possession ere it rest."
 

One day, speaking of Sir Nicholas to Lady Rodney, she had – as was most natural – called him "Nicholas." But she had been cast back upon herself and humiliated to the earth by his mother's look of cold disapproval and the emphasis she had laid upon the "Sir" Nicholas when next speaking of him.

This had widened the breach more than all the rest, though Nicholas himself, being quite fascinated by her, tries earnestly to make her happy and at home with him.

About a week after her arrival – she having expressed her admiration of ferns the night before – he draws her hand through his arm and takes her to his own special sanctum, – off which a fernery has been thrown, he being an enthusiastic grower of that lovely weed.

Mona is enchanted with the many varieties she sees that are unknown to her, and, being very much not of the world, is not ashamed to express her delight. Looking carefully through all, she yet notices that a tiny one, dear to her, because common to her sweet Killarney, is not among his collection.

She tells him of it, and he is deeply interested; and when she proposes to write and get him one from her native soil, he is glad as a schoolboy promised a new bat, and her conquest of Sir Nicholas is complete.

And indeed the thought of this distant fern is as dear to Mona as to him. For to her comes a rush of tender joy, as she tells herself she may soon be growing in this alien earth a green plant torn from her fatherland.

"But I hope you will not be disappointed when you see it," she says, gently. "You have the real Killarney fern, Sir Nicholas, I can see; the other, I speak of, though to me almost as lovely, is not a bit like it."

She is very careful to give him his title ever since that encounter with his mother.

"I shall not be disappointed. I have read all about it," returns he, enthusiastically. Then, as though the thought has just struck him, he says, —

"Why don't you call me Nicholas, as Geoffrey does?"

Mona hesitates, then says, shyly, with downcast eyes, —

"Perhaps Lady Rodney would not like it."

Her face betrays more than she knows.

"It doesn't matter in the least what any one thinks on this subject," says Nicholas, with a slight frown, "I shall esteem it a very great honor if you will call me by my Christian name. And besides, Mona, I want you to try to care for me, – to love me, as I am your brother."

The ready tears spring into Mona's eyes. She is more deeply, passionately grateful to him for this small speech than he will ever know.

"Now, that is very kind of you," she says, lifting her eyes, humid with tears, to his. "And I think it will take only a very little time to make me love you!"

After this, she and Sir Nicholas are even better friends than they have been before, – a silent bond of sympathy seeming to exist between them. With Captain Rodney, though he is always kind to her, she makes less way, he being devoted to the society of Violet, and being besides of such a careless disposition as prevents his noticing the wants of those around, – which is perhaps another name for selfishness.

Yet selfish is hardly the word to apply to Jack Rodney, because at heart he is kindly and affectionate, and, if a little heedless and indifferent, is still good au fond. He is light hearted and agreeable, and singularly hopeful: —

 
"A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
And confident to morrow."
 

During the past month he has grown singularly domestic, and fond of home and its associations. Perhaps Violet has something to do with this, with her little calm thoroughbred face, and gentle manners, and voice low and trainante. Yet it would be hard to be sure of this, Captain Rodney being one of those who have "sighed to many," without even the saving clause of having "loved but one." Yet with regard to Mona there is no mistake about Jack Rodney's sentiments. He likes her well (could she but know it) in all sincerity.

Of course everybody that is anybody has called on the new Mrs. Rodney. The Duchess of Lauderdale who is an old friend of Lady Rodney's, and who is spending the winter at her country house to please her son the young duke, who is entertaining a houseful of friends, is almost the first to come. And Lady Lillias Eaton, the serious and earnest-minded young æsthetic, – than whom nothing can be more coldly and artistically correct according to her own school, – is perhaps the second: but to both, unfortunately, Mona is "not at home."

And very honestly, too, because at the time of their visits, when Lady Rodney was entertaining them in the big drawing-room and uttering platitudes and pretty lies by the score, she was deep in the recesses of the bare brown wood, roaming hither and thither in search of such few flowers as braved the wintry blasts.

For all this Lady Rodney is devoutly thankful. She is glad of the girl's absence. She has no desire to exhibit her, prejudice making Mona's few defects to look monstrous in her eyes. Yet these same defects might perhaps be counted on the fingers of one hand.

There is, for example, her unavoidable touch of brogue, her little gesture of intense excitement, and irrepressible exclamation when anything is said that affects or interests her, and her laugh, which, if too loud for ordinary drawing-room use, is yet so sweet and catching that involuntarily it brings an answering laugh to the lips of those who hear it.

All these faults, and others of even less weight, are an abomination in the eyes of Lady Rodney, who has fallen into a prim mould, out of which it would now be difficult to extricate her.

"There is a set of people whom I cannot bear," says Chalmers, "the pinks of fashionable propriety, whose every word is precise, and whose every movement is unexceptionable, but who, though versed in all the categories of polite behavior, have not a particle of soul or cordiality about them."

Such folk Chalmers hated; and I agree with Chalmers. And of this class is Lady Rodney, without charity or leniency for the shortcomings of those around her. Like many religious people, – who are no doubt good in their own way, – she fails to see any grace in those who differ from her in thought and opinion.

And by degrees, beneath her influence, Mona grows pale and distrait and in many respects unlike her old joyous self. Each cold, reproving glance and sneering word, – however carefully concealed – falls like a touch of ice upon her heart, chilling and withering her glad youth. Up to this she has led a bird's life, gay, insouciant, free and careless. Now her song seems checked, her sweetest notes are dying fast away through lack of sympathy. She is "cribbed, cabined, and confined," through no fault of her own, and grows listless and dispirited in her captivity.

And Geoffrey, who is blind to nothing that concerns her notices all this, and secretly determines on taking her away from all this foolish persecution, to London or elsewhere, until such time as their own home shall be ready to receive them.

But at this break in my history, almost as he forms this resolution, an event occurs that brings friends to Mona, and changes in toto the aspect of affairs.

CHAPTER XX
HOW MONA DANCES A COUNTRY DANCE BEFORE A HYPERCRITICAL AUDIENCE – AND HOW MORE EYES THAN SHE WOTS OF MARK HER PERFORMANCE

"I hope you have had a nice walk?" says Violet, politely, drawing her skirts aside to make room for Mona, who had just come in.

It is quite half-past six; and though there is no light in the room, save the glorious flames given forth by the pine logs that lie on the top of the coals, still one can see that the occupants of the apartment are dressed for dinner.

Miss Darling – Sir Nicholas's fiancee– and her brother are expected to night; and so the household generally has dressed itself earlier than usual to be in full readiness to receive them.

Lady Rodney and Violet are sitting over the fire, and now Mona joins them, gowned in the blue satin dress in which she had come to meet Geoffrey, not so many months ago, in the old wood behind the farm.

"Very nice," she says, in answer to Violet's question, sinking into the chair that Miss Mansergh, by a small gesture, half languid, half kindly, has pushed towards her, and which is close to Violet's own. "I went up the avenue, and then out on the road for about half a mile."

"It is a very late hour for any one to be on the public road," says Lady Rodney, unpleasantly, quite forgetting that people, as a rule, do not go abroad in pale-blue satin gowns, and that therefore some time must have elapsed between Mona's return from her walk and the donning of her present attire. And so she overreaches herself, as clever people will do, at times.

"It was two hours ago," says Mona, gently. "And then it was quite daylight, or at least" – truthfully – "only the beginning of dusk."

"I think the days are lengthening," says Violet, quietly, defending Mona unconsciously, and almost without knowing why. Yet in her heart – against her will as it were – she is making room for this Irish girl, who, with her great appealing eyes and tender ways, is not to be resisted.

"I had a small adventure," says Mona, presently, with suppressed gayety. All her gayety of late has been suppressed. "Just as I came back to the gate here, some one came riding by, and I turned to see who it was, at which his horse – as though frightened by my sudden movement – shied viciously, and then reared so near me as almost to strike me with his fore-paws. I was frightened rather, because it was all so sudden, and sprang to one side. Then the gentleman got down, and, coming to me, begged my pardon. I said it didn't matter, because I was really uninjured, and it was all my fault. But he seemed very sorry, and (it was dusk as I told you, and I believe he is short sighted) stared at me a great deal."

"Well?" says Violet, who is smiling, and seems to see a joke where Mona fails to see anything amusing.

"When he was tired of staring, he said, 'I suppose I am speaking to – ' and then he stopped. 'Mrs. Rodney,' replied I; and then he raised his hat, and bowed, and gave me his card. After that he mounted again, and rode away."

"But who was this gentleman?" says Lady Rodney, superciliously. "No doubt some draper from the town."

"No; he was not a draper," says Mona, gently, and without haste.

"Whoever he was, he hardly excelled in breeding," says Lady Rodney; "to ask your name without an introduction! I never heard of such a thing. Very execrable form, indeed. In your place I should not have given it. And to manage his horse so badly that he nearly ran you down. He could hardly be any one we know. Some petty squire, no doubt."

"No; not a petty squire," says Mona; "and I think you do know him. And why should I be ashamed to tell my name to any one?"

"The question was strictly in bad taste," says Lady Rodney again. "No well-bred man would ask it. I can hardly believe I know him. He must have been some impossible person."

"He was the Duke of Lauderdale," says Mona, simply. "Here is his card."

A pause.

Lady Rodney is plainly disconcerted, but says nothing. Violet follows suit, but more because she is thoroughly amused and on the point of laughter, than from a desire to make matters worse.

"I hope you had your hat on," says Lady Rodney, presently, in a severe tone, meant to cover the defeat. She had once seen Mona with the crimson silk handkerchief on her head, – Irish fashion, – and had expressed her disapproval of all such uncivilized headdresses.

"Yes; I wore my big Rubens hat, the one with – "

"I don't care to hear about the contents of your wardrobe," interrupts Lady Rodney, with a slight but unkind shrug. "I am glad, at least, you were not seen in that objectionable headdress you so often affect."

"Was it the Rubens hat with the long brown feather?" asks Violet, sweetly, turning to Mona, as though compelled by some unknown force to say anything that shall restore the girl to evenness of mind once more.

"Yes; the one with the brown feather," returns Mona, quickly, and with a smile radiant and grateful, that sinks into Violet's heart and rests there.

"You told the duke who you were?" breaks in Lady Rodney at this moment, who is in one of her worst moods.

"Yes; I said I was Mrs. Rodney."

"Mrs. Geoffrey Rodney, would have been more correct. You forget your husband is the youngest son. When Captain Rodney marries, his wife will be Mrs. Rodney."

"But surely until then Mona may lay claim to the title," says Violet, quickly.

"I do not wish to lay claim to anything," says Mona, throwing up her head with a little proud gesture, – "least of all to what does not by right belong to me. To be Mrs. Geoffrey is all I ask."

She leans back in her chair, and brings her fingers together, clasping them so closely that her very nails grow white. Her thin nostrils dilate a little, and her breath comes quickly, but no angry word escapes her. How can her lips give utterance to a speech that may wound the mother of the man she loves!

Violet, watching her, notes the tumult in her mind, and, seeing how her will gains mastery over her desire, honors her for her self-control.

Then Jack comes in, and Sir Nicholas, and later on Geoffrey.

"No one can say we are not in time," says Jack, gayly. "It is exactly" – examining closely the ormolu-clock upon the mantelpiece – "one hour before we can reasonably expect dinner."

"And three-quarters. Don't deceive yourself, my dear fellow: they can't be here one moment before a quarter to eight."

"Then, in the meantime, Violet, I shall eat you," says Captain Rodney, amiably, "just to take the edge off my appetite. You would be hardly sufficient for a good meal!" He laughs and glances significantly at her slight but charming figure, which is petite but perfect, and then sinks into a low chair near her.

"I hear this dance at the Chetwoodes' is to be rather a large affair," says Geoffrey, indifferently. "I met Gore to-day, and he says the duchess is going, and half the county."

"Does he mean going himself?" says Nicholas, idly. "He is here to-day, I know, but one never knows where he may be to-morrow, he is so erratic."

"He is a little difficult; but, on the whole, I think I like Sir Mark better than most men," says Violet, slowly.

Whereupon Jack Rodney instantly conceives a sudden and uncalled for dislike towards the man in question.

"Lilian is such a dear girl," says Lady Rodney; "she is a very general favorite. I have no doubt her dance will be a great success."

"You are speaking of Lady Chetwoode? Was it her that called last week?" asks Mona, timidly, forgetting grammar in her nervousness.

"Yes; it was her that called last week," returns her amiable mother-in-law, laying an unmistakable stress upon the pronoun.

No one is listening, fortunately, to this gratuitous correction, or hot words might have been the result. Sir Nicholas and Geoffrey are laughing over some old story that has been brought to their recollection by this idle chattering about the Chetwoodes' ball; Jack and Violet are deep in some topic of their own.

"Well, she danced like a fairy, at all events, in spite of her size," says Sir Nicholas, alluding to the person the funny story had been about.

"You dance, of course," says Lady Rodney, turning to Mona, a little ashamed, perhaps, of her late rudeness.

"Oh, yes," says Mona, brightening even under this small touch of friendliness. "I'm very fond of it, too. I can get through all the steps without a mistake."

At this extraordinary speech, Lady Rodney stares in bewilderment.

"Ah! Walzes and polkas, you mean?" she says, in a puzzled tone.

"Eh?" says Mrs. Geoffrey.

"You can waltz?"

"Oh, no!" shaking her lovely head emphatically, with a smile. "It's country dances I mean. Up the middle and down again, and all that," moving her hand in a soft undulating way as though keeping it in accord with some music that is ringing in her brain. Then, sweetly, "Did you ever dance a country dance?"

"Never!" says Lady Rodney, in a stony fashion. "I don't even know what you mean."

"No?" arching her brows, and looking really sorry for her. "What a pity! They all come quite naturally to me. I don't remember ever being taught them. The music seemed to inspire me, and I really dance them very well. Don't I Geoff?"

"I never saw your equal," says Geoffrey, who, with Sir Nicholas, has been listening to the last half of the conversation, and who is plainly suppressing a strong desire to laugh.

"Do you remember the evening you taught me the country dance that I said was like an old-fashioned minuet? And what an apt pupil I proved! I really think I could dance it now. By the by, my mother never saw one danced. She" – apologetically – "has not been out much. Let us go through one now for her benefit."

"Yes, let us," says Mona, gayly.

"Pray do not give yourselves so much trouble on my account," says Lady Rodney, with intense but subdued indignation.

"It won't trouble us, not a bit," says Mrs. Geoffrey, rising with alacrity. "I shall love it, the floor is so nice and slippery. Can any one whistle?"

At this Sir Nicholas gives way and laughs out loud, whereon Mona laughs too, though she reddens slightly, and says, "Well, of course the piano will do, though the fiddle is best of all."

"Violet, play us something," says Geoffrey, who has quite entered into the spirit of the thing, and who doesn't mind his mothers "horrors" in the least, but remembers how sweet Mona used to look when going slowly and with that quaint solemn dignity of hers "through her steps."

"I shall be charmed," says Violet; "but what is a country dance? Will 'Sir Roger' do?"

"No. Play anything monotonous, that is slow and dignified besides, and it will answer; in fact, anything at all," says Geoffrey, largely, at which Violet smiles and seats herself at the piano.

"Well, just wait till I tuck up the tail of my gown," says Mrs. Geoffrey, airily flinging her pale-blue skirt over her white bare arm.

"You may as well call it a train; people like it better," says Geoffrey. "I'm sure I don't know why, but perhaps it sounds better."

"There can be scarcely any question about that," says Lady Rodney, unwilling to let any occasion pass that may permit a slap at Mona.

"Yet the Princess D – always calls her train a 'tail,'" says Violet, turning on her piano-stool to make this remark, which is balm to Mona's soul: after which she once more concentrates her thoughts on the instrument before her, and plays some odd old-fashioned air that suits well the dance of which they have been speaking.

Then Geoffrey offers Mona his hand, and leads her to the centre of the polished floor. There they salute each other in a rather Grandisonian fashion, and then separate.

The light from the great pine fire streams over all the room, throwing a rich glow upon the scene, upon the girl's flushed and earnest face, and large happy eyes, and graceful rounded figure, betraying also the grace and poetry of her every movement.

She stands well back from Geoffrey, and then, without any of the foolish, unlovely bashfulness that degenerates so often into awkwardness in the young, begins her dance.

It is a very curious and obsolete, if singularly charming, performance, full of strange bows, and unexpected turnings, and curtseys dignified and deep.

As she advances and retreats, with her svelte figure drawn to its fullest height, and her face eager and intent upon the business in hand, and with her whole heart thrown apparently into the successful accomplishment of her task, she is looking far lovelier than she herself is at all aware.