Kitabı oku: «Mrs. Geoffrey», sayfa 16

CHAPTER XXV
HOW DISCUSSION WAXES RIFE – AND HOW NICHOLAS, HAVING MADE A SUGGESTION THAT IS BITTER TO THE EARS OF HIS AUDIENCE, YET CARRIES HIS POINT AGAINST ALL OPPOSITION

"The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of night." The dusk is slowly creeping up over all the land, the twilight is coming on apace. As the day was, so is the gathering eve, sad and mournful, with sounds of rain and sobbings of swift winds as they rush through the barren beeches in the grove. The harbor bar is moaning many miles away, yet its voice is borne by rude Boreas up from the bay to the walls of the stately Towers, that neither rock nor shiver before the charges of this violent son of "imperial Æolus."

There is a ghostly tapping (as of some departed spirit who would fain enter once again into the old halls so long forgotten) against the window pane. Doubtless it is some waving branch flung hither and thither by the cruel tempest that rages without. Shadows come and go; and eerie thoughts oppress the breast: —

 
"Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud."
 

"What a wretched evening!" says Violet, with a little shiver. "Geoffrey, draw the curtains closer."

"A fit ending to a miserable day," says Lady Rodney, gloomily.

"Night has always the effect of making bad look worse," says Doatie with a sad attempt at cheerfulness. "Never mind; morning will soon be here again."

"But why should night produce melancholy?" says Nicholas, dreamily. "It is but a reflection of the greater light, after all. What does Richter call it? 'The great shadow and profile of day.' It is our own morbid fancies that make us dread it."

"Nevertheless, close the curtains, Geoffrey, and ask Lady Rodney if she would not like tea now," says Violet, sotto voce.

Somebody pokes the fire, until a crimson light streams through the room. The huge logs are good-naturedly inclined, and burst their great sides in an endeavor to promote more soothing thought.

"As things are so unsettled, Nicholas, perhaps we had better put off our dance," says Lady Rodney, presently. "It may only worry you, and distress us all."

"No. It will not worry me. Let us have our dance by all means," says Nicholas, recklessly. "Why should we cave in, in such hot haste? It will give us all something to think about. Why not get up tableaux? Our last were rather a success. And to represent Nero fiddling, whilst Rome was on fire, would be a very appropriate one for the present occasion."

He laughs a little as he says this, but there is no mirth in his laugh.

"Nicholas, come here," says Doatie, anxiously, from out the shadow in which she is sitting, somewhat away from the rest. And Nicholas, going to her finds comfort and grows calm again beneath the touch of the slim little fingers she slips into his beneath the cover of the friendly darkness, "I don't see why we shouldn't launch out into reckless extravagance now our time threatens to be so short," says Jack, moodily. "Let's us entertain our neighbors right royally before the end comes. Why not wind up like the pantomimes, with showers of gold and rockets and the gladsome noise of ye festive cracker?"

"What nonsense some people are capable of talking!" says Violet, with a little shrug.

"Well, why not?" says Captain Rodney, undaunted by this small snub. "It is far more difficult to talk than sense. Any fellow can do that. If I were to tell you that Nolly is sound asleep, and that if he lurches even half a degree more to the right he will presently be lost to sight among the glowing embers" (Nolly rouses himself with a start), "you would probably tell me I was a very silly fellow to waste breath over such a palpable fact, but it would be sense nevertheless. I hope I haven't disturbed you, Nolly? On such a night as this a severe scorching would perhaps be a thing to be desired."

"Thanks. I'll put it off for a night or two," says Nolly, sleepily.

"Besides, I don't believe I was talking nonsense," goes on Jack in an aggrieved tone. "My last speech had very little folly in it. I feel the time is fast approaching when we sha'n't have money even to meet our tailors' bills."

"'In the midst of life we are in debt,'" says Nolly, solemnly. Which is the best thing he could have said, as it makes them all laugh in spite of their pending misfortunes.

"Nolly is waking up. I am afraid we sha'n't have that auto da fe, after all," says Jack in a tone of rich disappointment. "I feel as if we are going to be done out of a good thing."

"What a day we're avin'," says Mr. Darling, disdaining to notice this puerile remark. "It's been pouring since early dawn. I feel right down cheap, – very nearly as depressed as when last night Nicholas stuck me down to dance with the Æsthetic."

"Lady Lilias Eaton, you mean?" asks Lady Rodney. "That reminds me we are bound to go over there to-morrow. At least, some of us."

"Mona must go," says Nicholas, quickly. "Lady Lilias made a point of it. You will go, Mona?"

"I should very much like to go," says Mona, gently, and with some eagerness. She has been sitting very quietly with her hands before her, hardly hearing what is passing around her, – lost, buried in thought.

"Poor infant! It is her first essay," says Nolly, pitifully.

"Wait till to-morrow evening, and see if you will feel as you do now. Your cheerful complaisance in this matter is much to be admired. And Nicholas should be grateful But I think you will find one dose of Lady Lilias and her ancient Briton sufficient for your lifetime."

"You used to be tremendous friends there at one time," says Geoffrey; "never out of the house."

"I used to stay there occasionally when old Lord Daintree was alive, if you mean that," says Nolly, meekly. "As far as I can recollect, I was always shipped there when naughty, or troublesome, or in the way at home; and as a rule I was always in the way. There is a connection between the Eatons and my mother, and Anadale saw a good deal of me off and on during the holidays. It was a sort of rod in pickle, or dark closet, that used to be held over my head when in disgrace."

"Lilias must have been quite a child then," says Lady Rodney.

"She was never a child: she was born quite grown up. But the ancient Britons had not come into favor at that time: so she was a degree more tolerable. Bless me," says Mr. Darling, with sudden animation, "what horrid times I put in there. The rooms were ghastly enough to freeze the blood in one's veins, and no candles would light 'em. The beds were all four-posters, with heavy curtains round them, so high that one had to get a small ladder to mount into bed. I remember one time – it was during harvest, and the mowers were about – I suggested to Lord Daintree he should get the men in to mow down the beds; but no one took any notice of my proposal, so it fell to the ground. I was frightened to death, and indeed was more in awe of the four-posters than of the old man, who wasn't perhaps half bad."

Dorothy from her corner laughs gayly. "Poor old Noll," she says: "it was his unhappy childhood that blighted his later years and made him the melancholy object he is."

"Well, you know, it was much too much, – it was really," says Mr. Darling, very earnestly. "Mrs. Geoffrey, won't you come to my rescue?".

Mrs. Geoffrey, thus addressed, rouses herself, and says, "What can I do for you?" in a far-away tone that proves she has been in thought-land miles away from every one. Through her brain some words are surging. Her mind has gone back to that scene in the conservatory last night when she and Paul Rodney had been together. What was it he had said? What were the exact words he had used? She lays two fingers on her smooth white brow, and lets a little frown – born only of bewildered thought – contract its fairness.

"A scheme," he had said; and then in a moment the right words flash across her brain. "A brilliant chance, a splendid scheme." What words for an honest man to use! Could he be honest? Was there any flaw, any damning clause anywhere in all this careful plot, so cleverly constructed to bring ruin upon the heads of these people who have crept into her tender heart?

"Where are you now, Mona?" asks Geoffrey, suddenly, laying his hand with a loving pressure on her shoulder. "In Afghanistan or Timbuctoo? Far from us, at least." There is a little vague reproach and uneasiness in his tone.

"No; very near you, – nearer than you think," says Mona, quick to notice any variation in his tone, awaking from her reverie with a start, and laying one of her hands over his. "Geoffrey," earnestly, "what is the exact meaning of the word 'scheme'? Would an honest man (surely he would not) talk of scheming?" Which absurd question only shows how unlearned she yet is in the great lessons of life.

"Well, that is rather a difficult question to answer," says Geoffrey. "Monsieur de Lesseps, when dreaming out the Suez Canal, called it a scheme; and he, I presume, is an honest man. Whereas, on the other side, if a burglar were arranging to steal all your old silver, I suppose he would call that a scheme too. What have you on the brain now, darling? You are not going to defraud your neighbor, I hope."

"It is very strange," says Mona, with a dissatisfied sigh, "but I'll tell you all about it by and by."

Instinct warns her of treachery; common sense belies the warning. To which shall she give ear?

"Shall we ask the Carsons to our dance, Nicholas?" asks his mother, at this moment.

"Ask any one you like, – any one, I mean, that is not quite impossible," says Nicholas.

"Edith Carson is very nearly so, I think."

"Is that the girl who spoke to you, Geoffrey, at the tea room door?" asks Mona, with some animation.

"Yes. Girl with light, frizzy hair and green eye."

"A strange girl, I thought, but very pretty. Yes – was it English she talked?"

"Of the purest," says Geoffrey.

"What did she say, Mona?" inquired Doatie.

"I am not sure that I can tell you, – at least not exactly as she said it," says Mona, with hesitation. "I didn't quite understand her; but Geoffrey asked her how she was enjoying herself, and she said it was 'fun all through;' and that she was amusing herself just then by hiding from her partner, Captain Dunscombe, who was hunting for her 'all over the shop,' – it was 'shop,' she said, wasn't it, Geoff? And that it did her good to see him in a tearing rage, in fact on a regular 'champ,' because it vexed Tricksy Newcombe, whose own particular he was in the way of 'pals.'"

Everybody laughs. In fact, Nolly roars.

"Did she stop there?" he says: "that was unworthy of her. Breath for once must have failed her, as nothing so trivial as want of words could have influenced Miss Carson."

"You should have seen Mona," says Geoffrey. "She opened her eyes and her lips, and gazed fixedly upon the lively Edith. Curiosity largely mingled with awe depicted itself upon her expressive countenance. She was wondering whether she should have to conquer that extraordinary jargon before being pronounced fit for polite society."

"No, indeed," says Mona, laughing. "But it surely wasn't English, was it? That is not the way everybody talks, surely."

"Everybody," says Geoffrey; "that is, all specially nice people. You won't be in the swim at all, unless you take to that sort of thing."

"Then you are not a nice person yourself."

"I am far from it, I regret to say; but time cures all things, and I trust to that and careful observation to reform me."

"And I am to say 'pals' for friends, and call it pure English?"

"It is not more extraordinary, surely, than calling a drunken young man 'tight,'" says Lady Rodney, with calm but cruel meaning.

Mona blushes painfully.

"Well, no; but that is pure Irish," says Geoffrey, unmoved. Mona, with lowered head, turns her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger, and repents bitterly that little slip of hers when talking with the duchess last night.

"If I must ask Edith Carson, I shall feel I am doing something against my will," says Lady Rodney.

"We have all to do that at times," says Sir Nicholas. "And there is another person, mother, I shall be glad if you will send a card to."

"Certainly dear. Who is it?"

"Paul Rodney," replies he, very distinctly.

"Nicholas!" cries his mother, faintly: "this is too much!"

"Nevertheless, to oblige me," entreats he, hastily.

"But this is morbid, – a foolish pride," protests she, passionately, while all the others are struck dumb at this suggestion from Nicholas. Is his brain failing? Is his intellect growing weak, that he should propose such a thing? Even Doatie, who as a rule supports Nicholas through evil report and good, sits silent and aghast at his proposition.

"What has he done that he should be excluded?" demands Nicholas, a little excitedly. "If he can prove a first right to claim this property, is that a crime? He is our cousin: why should we be the only people in the whole countryside to treat him with contempt? He has committed no violation of the law, no vile sin has been laid to his charge beyond this fatal one of wanting his own – and – and – "

He pauses. In the darkness a loving, clinging hand has again crept into his, full of sweet entreaty, and by a gentle pressure has reduced him to calmness.

"Ask him, if only to please me," he says, wearily.

"Everything shall be just as you wish it, dearest," says his mother, with unwonted tenderness, and then silence falls upon them all.

The fire blazes up fiercely, and anon drops its flame and sinks into insignificance once more. Again the words that bear some vague but as yet undiscovered meaning haunt Mona's brain. "A splendid scheme." A vile conspiracy, perhaps. Oh, that she might be instrumental in saving these people from ruin, among whom her lot had been cast! But how weak her arm! How insufficient her mind to cope with an emergency like this!

CHAPTER XXVI
HOW MONA GOES TO ANADALE – AND HOW SHE THERE SEES MANY THINGS AS YET TO HER UNKNOWN

About half-past two next day they start for Anadale. Not Violet, or Captain Rodney, who have elected to go on a mission of their own, nor Nicholas, who has gone up to London.

The frost lies heavy on the ground; the whole road, and every bush and tree, sparkle brilliantly, as though during the hours when darkness lay upon the earth the dread daughter of Chaos, as she traversed the expanse of the firmament in her ebony chariot, had dropped heaven's diamonds upon the land. The wintry sunshine lighting them up makes soft and glorious the midday.

The hour is enchanting, the air almost mild; and every one feels half aggrieved when the carriage, entering the lodge-gates, bears them swiftly towards the massive entrance that will lead them into the house and out of the cold.

But before they reach the hall door Geoffrey feels it his duty to bestow upon them a word or two of warning.

"Now, look here," he says, impressively: "I hope nobody is going to indulge in so much as a covert smile to-day." He glances severely at Nolly, who is already wreathed in smiles. "Because the Æsthetic won't have it. She wouldn't hear of it at any price. We must all be in tense! If you don't understand what that means, Mona, you had better learn at once. You are to be silent, rapt, lifted far above all the vulgar commonplaces of life. You may, if you like, go into a rapture over a colorless pebble, or shed tears of joy above a sickly lily; but avoid ordinary admiration."

"The only time I shed tears," says Mr. Darling, irrelevantly, "for many years, was when I heard of the old chap's death. And they were drops of rich content. Do you know I think unconsciously he impregnated her with her present notions; because he was as like an 'ancient Briton' himself before he died as if he had posed for it."

"He was very eccentric, but quite correct," says Lady Rodney, reprovingly.

"He was a man who never took off his hat," begins Geoffrey.

"But why?" asks Mona, in amaze. "Didn't he wear one?"

"Yes, but he always doffed it; and he never put one on like ordinary mortals, he always donned it. You can't think what a difference it makes."

"What a silly boy you are, Geoff!" says his wife, laughing.

"Thank you, darling," replies he, meekly.

"But what is Lady Lilias like? I did not notice her the other night," says Mona.

"She has got one nose and two eyes, just like every one else," says Nolly. "That is rather disappointing, is it not? And she attitudinizes a good deal. Sometimes she reclines full length upon the grass, with her bony elbow well squared and her chin buried in her palm. Sometimes she stands beside a sundial, with her head to one side, and a carefully educated and very much superannuated peacock beside her. But I dare say she will do the greyhound pose to-day. In summer she goes abroad with a huge wooden fan with which she kills the bumble-bee as it floats by her. And she gowns herself in colors that make one's teeth on edge. I am sure it is her one lifelong regret that she must clothe herself at all, as she has dreams of savage nakedness and a liberal use of the fetching woad."

"My dear Oliver!" protests Lady Rodney, mildly.

"If she presses refreshments on you, Mona, say, 'No, thank you,' without hesitation," says Geoffrey, with anxious haste, seeing they are drawing near their journey's end. "Because if you don't she will compel you to partake of metheglin and unleavened bread, which means sudden death. Forewarned is forearmed. Nolly and I have done what we can for you."

"Is she by herself? Is there nobody living with her?" asks Mona, somewhat nervously.

"Well, practically speaking, no. But I believe she has a sister somewhere."

"'Sister Anne,' you mean?" says Nolly. "Oh, ay! I have seen her, though as a rule she is suppressed. She is quite all she ought to be, and irreproachable in every respect – unapproachable, according to some. She is a very good girl, and never misses a Saint's Day by any chance, never eats meat on Friday, or butter in Lent, and always confesses. But she is not of much account in the household, being averse to 'ye goode olde times.'"

At this point the house comes in view, and conversation languishes. The women give a small touch to their furs and laces, the men indulge in a final yawn that is to last them until the gates of Anadale close behind them again.

"There is no moat, and no drawbridge, and no eyelet-hole through which to spy upon the advance of the enemy," says Darling, in an impressive whisper, just as they turn the curve that leads into the big gravel sweep before the hall door. "A drawback, I own; but even the very greatest are not infallible."

It is a lovely old castle, ancient and timeworn, with turrets rising in unexpected places, and walls covered with drooping ivy, and gables dark with age.

A terrace runs all along one side of the house, which is exposed to view from the avenue. And here, with a gaunt but handsome greyhound beside her, stands a girl tall and slim, yet beautifully moulded. Her eyes are gray, yet might at certain moments be termed blue. Her mouth is large, but not unpleasing. Her hair is quite dark, and drawn back into a loose and artistic coil behind. She is clad in an impossible gown of sage green, that clings closely to her slight figure, nay, almost desperately, as though afraid to lose her.

One hand is resting lightly with a faintly theatrical touch upon the head of the lean greyhound, the other is raised to her forehead as though to shield her eyes from the bright sun.

Altogether she is a picture, which, if slightly suggestive of artificiality, is yet very nearly perfection. Mona is therefore agreeably surprised, and, being – as all her nation is – susceptible to outward beauty, feels drawn towards this odd young woman in sickly green, with her canine friend beside her.

Lady Lilias, slowly descending the stone steps with the hound Egbert behind her, advances to meet Lady Rodney. She greets them all with a solemn cordiality that impresses everybody but Mona, who is gazing dreamily into the gray eyes of her hostess and wondering vaguely if her lips have ever smiled. Her hostess in return is gazing at her, perhaps in silent admiration of her soft loveliness.

"You will come first and see Philippa?" she says, in a slow peculiar tone that sounds as if it had been dug up and is quite an antique in its own way. It savors of dust and feudal days. Every one says he or she will be delighted, and all try to look as if the entire hope of their existence is centred in the thought that they shall soon lay longing eyes on Philippa, – whose name in reality is Anne, but who has been rechristened by her enterprising sister. Anne is all very well for everyday life, or for Bluebeard's sister-in-law; but Philippa is art of the very highest description. So Philippa she is, poor soul, whether she likes it or not.

She has sprained her ancle, and is now lying on a couch in a small drawing room as the Rodneys are ushered in. She is rather glad to see them, as life with an "intense" sister is at times trying, and the ritualistic curate is from home. So she smiles upon them, and manages to look as amiable as plain people ever can look.

The drawing-room is very much the same as the ordinary run of drawing-rooms, at which Mona feels distinct disappointment, until, glancing at Lady Lilias, she notices a shudder of disgust run through her frame.

"I really cannot help it," she explains to Mona, in her usual slow voice, "it all offends me so. But Philippa must be humored. All these glaring colors and hideous pieces of furniture take my breath away. And the light – By and by you must come to some of my rooms; but first, if you are not tired, I should like you to look at my garden; that is, if you can endure the cold."

They don't want to endure the cold; but what can they say? Politeness forbids secession of any kind, and, after a few words with the saintly Philippa, they follow their guide in all meekness through halls and corridors out into the garden she most affects.

And truly it is a very desirable garden, and well worth a visit. It is like a thought from another age.

Yew-trees – grown till they form high walls – are cut and shaped in prim and perfect order, some like the walls of ancient Troy, some like steps of stairs. Little doors are opened through them, and passing in and out one walks on for a mile almost, until one loses one's way and grows puzzled how to extricate one's self from so charming a maze.

Here and there are basins of water on which lilies can lie and sleep dreamily through a warm and sunny day. A sundial, old and green with honorable age, uprears itself upon a chilly bit of sward. Near it lie two gaudy peacocks sound asleep. All seems far from the world, drowsy, careless, indifferent to the weals and woes of suffering humanity.

"It is like the garden of the palace where the Sleeping Beauty dwelt," whispers Mona to Nolly; she is delighted, charmed, lost in admiration.

"You are doing it beautifully: keep it up," whispers he back: "she'll give you something nice if you sustain that look for five minutes longer. Now! – she is looking; hurry – make haste – put it on again!"

"I am not pretending," says Mona, indignantly; "I am delighted: it is the most enchanting place I ever saw. Really lovely."

"I didn't think it was in you," declares Mr. Darling, with wild but suppressed admiration. "You would make your fortune on the stage. Keep it up, I tell you; it couldn't be better."

"Is it possible you see nothing to admire?" says Mona, with intense disgust.

"I do. More than I can express. I see you," retorts he; at which they both give way to merriment, causing Geoffrey, who is walking with Lady Lilias, to dodge behind her back and bestow upon them an annihilating glance that Nolly afterwards describes as a "lurid glare."

The hound stalks on before them; the peacocks wake up and rend the air with a discordant scream. Lady Lilias, coming to the sundial, leans her arm upon it, and puts her head in the right position. A snail slowly travelling across a broad ivy-leaf attracts her attention; she lifts it slowly, leaf and all, and directs attention to the silvery trail it has left behind it.

"How tender! how touching!" she says, with a pensive smile, raising her luminous eyes to Geoffrey: whether it is the snail, or the leaf, or the slime, that is tender and touching, nobody knows; and nobody dares ask, lest he shall betray his ignorance. Nolly, I regret to say, gives way to emotion of a frivolous kind, and to cover it blows his nose sonorously. Whereupon Geoffrey, who is super-naturally grave, asks Lady Lilias if she will walk with him as far as the grotto.

"How could you laugh?" says Mona, reproachfully.

"How couldn't I?" replies he. "Come; let us follow it up to the bitter end."

"I never saw anything so clean as the walks," says Mona, presently: "there is not a leaf or a weed to be seen, yet we have gone through so many of them. How does she manage it?"

"Don't you know?" says Mr. Darling, mysteriously. "It is a secret, but I know you can be trusted. Every morning early she has them carefully swept, with tea-leaves to keep down the dust, and if the tea is strong it kills the weeds."

Then they do the grotto, and then Lady Lilias once more leads the way indoors.

"I want you to see my own work," she says, going up markedly to Mona. "I am glad my garden has pleased you. I could see by your eyes how well you appreciated it. To see the beautiful in everything, that is the only true religion." She smiles her careful absent smile again as she says this, and gazes earnestly at Mona. Perhaps, being true to her religion, she is noting "the beautiful" in her Irish guest.

With Philippa they have some tea, and then again follow their indefatigable hostess to a distant apartment that seems more or less to jut out from the house, and was in olden days a tiny chapel or oratory.

It has an octagon chamber of the most uncomfortable description, but no doubt artistic, and above all praise, according to some lights. To outsiders it presents a curious appearance, and might by the unlearned be regarded as a jumble of all ages, a make-up of objectionable bits from different centuries; but to Lady Lilias and her sympathizers it is simply perfection.

The furniture is composed of oak of the hardest and most severe. To sit down would be a labor of anything but love. The chairs are strictly Gothic. The table is a marvel in itself for ugliness and in utility.

There are no windows; but in their place are four unpleasant slits about two yards in length, let into the thick walls at studiously unequal distances. These are filled up with an opaque substance that perhaps in the Middle Ages was called glass.

There is no grate, and the fire, which has plainly made up its mind not to light, is composed of Yule-logs. The floor is shining with sand, rushes having palled on Lady Lilias.

Mona is quite pleased. All is new, which in itself is a pleasure to her, and the sanded floor carries her back on the instant to the old parlor at home, which was their "best" at the Farm.

"This is nicer than anything," she says, turning in a state of childish enthusiasm to Lady Lilias. "It is just like the floor in my uncle's house at home."

"Ah! indeed! How interesting!" says Lady Lilias, rousing into something that very nearly borders on animation. "I did not think there was in England another room like this."

"Not in England, perhaps. When I spoke I was thinking of Ireland," says Mona.

"Yes?" with calm surprise. "I – I have heard of Ireland, of course. Indeed, I regard the older accounts of it as very deserving of thought; but I had no idea the more elevated aspirations of modern times had spread so far. So this room reminds you of – your uncle's?"

"Partly," says Mona. "Not altogether: there was always a faint odor of pipes about Uncle Brian's room that does not belong to this."

"Ah! Tobacco! First introduced by Sir Walter Raleigh," murmurs Lady Lilias, musingly. "Too modern, but no doubt correct and in keeping. Your uncle, then," – looking at Mona, – "is beyond question an earnest student of our faith."

"A – student?" says Mona, in a degree puzzled.

Doatie and Geoffrey have walked to a distant slit. Nolly is gazing vacantly through another, trying feebly to discern the landscape beyond. Lady Rodney is on thorns. They are all listening to what Mona is going to say next.

"Yes. A disciple, a searcher after truth," goes on Lady Lilias, in her Noah's Ark tone. "By a student I mean one who studies, and arrives at perfection – in time."

"I don't quite know," says Mona, slowly, "but what Uncle Brian principally studies is – pigs!"

"Pigs!" repeats Lady Lilias, plainly taken aback.

"Yes; pigs!" says Mona, sweetly.

There is a faint pause, – so faint that Lady Rodney is unable to edge in the saving clause she would fain have uttered. Lady Lilias, recovering with wonderful spirit from so severe a blow, comes once more boldly to the front. She taps her white taper fingers lightly on the table near her, and says, apologetically, – the apology being meant for herself, —

"Forgive me that I showed surprise. Your uncle is more advanced than I had supposed. He is right. Why should a pig be esteemed less lovely than a stag? Nature in its entirety can know no blemish. The fault lies with us. We are creatures of habit: we have chosen to regard the innocent pig as a type of ugliness for generations, and now find it difficult to see any beauty in it."

"Well; there isn't much, is there?" says Mona, pleasantly.

"No doubt education, and a careful study of the animal in question, might betray much to us," says Lady Lilias. "We object to the uncovered hide of the pig, and to his small eyes; but can they not see as well as those of the fawn, or the delicate lapdog we fondle all day on our knees? It is unjust that one animal should be treated with less regard than another."

"But you couldn't fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing every minute more and more mixed.

"No, no; but it should be treated with courtesy. We were speaking of the size of its eyes. Why should they be despised? Do we not often in our ignorance and narrow mindedness cling to paltry things and ignore the truly great? The tiny diamond that lies in the hollow of our hands is dear and precious in our sight, whilst we fail to find beauty in the huge boulder that is after all far more worthy of regard, with its lights and shades, its grand ruggedness, and the soft vegetable matter that decks its aged sides, rendering their roughness beautiful."