Kitabı oku: «Mrs. Geoffrey», sayfa 24

CHAPTER XXXVI
HOW MONA DEFENDS THE DEAD – AND HOW LADY LILIAS EATON WAXES ELOQUENT

As hour follows upon hour, even the most poignant griefs grow less. Nature sooner or later will come to the rescue, and hope "springing eternal" will cast despair into the background. Paul Rodney's death being rather more a shock than a grief to the inmates of the Towers, the remembrance of it fades from their minds with a rapidity that astonishes even themselves.

Mona, as is only natural, clings longest to the memory of that terrible day when grief and gladness had been so closely blended, when tragedy followed so fast upon their comedy that laughter and tears embraced each other and gloom overpowered their sunshine. Yet even she brightens up, and is quite herself again by the time the "merry month of May" comes showering down upon them all its wealth of blossom, and music of glad birds, as they chant in glade and dell.

Yet in her heart the erring cousin is not altogether forgotten. There are moments in every day when she recalls him to her mind, nor does she ever pass the huge tomb where his body lies at rest, awaiting the last trump, without a kindly thought of him and a hope that his soul is safe in heaven.

The county has behaved on the occasion somewhat disgracefully, and has declared itself to a man – without any reservation – unfeignedly glad of the chance that has restored Sir Nicholas to his own again. Perhaps what they just do not say is that they are delighted Paul Rodney shot himself: this might sound brutal, and one must draw the line somewhere, and a last remnant of decency compels them to draw it at this point. But it is the thinnest line possible, and easily stepped across.

Even the duchess refuses to see anything regrettable in the whole affair, and expresses herself to Lady Rodney on the subject of her nephew's death in terms that might almost be called congratulatory. She has been listened to in silence, of course, and with a deprecating shake of the head, but afterwards Lady Rodney is unable to declare to herself that the duchess has taken anything but a sound common-sense view of the matter.

In her own heart, and in the secret recesses of her chamber, Nicholas's mother blesses Mona for having returned the pistol that February afternoon to the troublesome young man (who is so well out of the way), and has entertained a positive affection for the roots of trees ever since the sad (?) accident.

But these unholy thoughts belong to her own breast alone, and are hidden carefully out of sight, lest any should guess at them.

The duke calling at the Towers about a month after Paul Rodney's death, so far forgets himself as to say to Mona, who is present, —

"Awful luck, your getting rid of that cousin, eh? Such an uncomfortable fellow, don't you know, and so uncommonly in the way."

At which Mona had turned her eyes upon him, – eyes that literally flashed rebuke, and had told him slowly, but with meaning, that he should remember the dead could not defend themselves, and that she, for one, had not as yet learned to regard the death of any man as "awful luck."

"Give you my word," said the duke afterwards to a select assembly, "when she looked at me then out of her wonderful Irish eyes, and said all that with her musical brogue, I never felt so small in all my life. Reg'lar went into my boots, you know, and stayed there. But she is, without chaff or that, she really is the most charming woman I ever met."

Lady Lilias Eaton, too, had been rather fine upon the Rodney ups and downs. The history of the Australian's devotion had been as a revelation to her. She had actually come out of herself, and had neglected the Ancient Britons for a full day and a half, – on the very highest authority, – merely to talk about Paul Rodney. Surely "nothing in his life became him like the leaving it: " of all those who would scarcely speak to him when living, not one but converses of him familiarly now he is dead.

"So very strange, so unparalleled in this degenerate age," says Lady Lilias to Lady Rodney speaking of the will episode generally, and with as near an approach to enthusiasm as it is possible to her to produce, "A secret panel? How interesting! We lack that at Anadale. Pray, dear Lady Rodney, do tell me all about it again."

Whereupon Lady Rodney, to whom the whole matter is "cakes and ale," does tell it all over again, relating every incident from the removal of the will from the library by Paul, to his surrender of it next day to Mona.

Lady Lilias is delighted.

"It is quite perfect, the whole story. It reminds me of the ballads about King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table."

"Which? the stealing of the will?" asks Lady Rodney, innocently. She knows nothing about the Ancient Britons, and abhors the very sound of their name, regarding them as indecent, immoral people, who went about insufficiently clothed. Of King Arthur and his round knights (as she will call them, having once got so hopelessly mixed on the subject as to disallow of her ever being disentangled again) she knows even less, beyond what Tennyson has taught her.

She understands, indeed, that Sir Launcelot was a very naughty young man, who should not have been received in respectable houses, – especially as he had no money to speak of, – and that Sir Modred and Sir Gawain, had they lived in this critical age, would undoubtedly have been pronounced bad form and expelled from decent clubs. And, knowing this much, she takes it for granted that the stealing of a will or more would be quite in their line: hence her speech.

"Dear Lady Rodney, no," cries the horrified Æsthetic, rather losing faith in her hostess. "I mean about his resigning lands and heritage, position, title, everything – all that a man holds most dear, for a mere sentiment. And then it was so nice of him to shoot himself, and leave her all his money. Surely you must see that?"

She has actually forgotten to pose, and is leaning forward quite comfortably with her arms crossed on her knees. I am convinced she has not been so happy for years.

Lady Rodney is somewhat shocked, at this view of the case.

"You must understand," she says emphatically, "he did not shoot himself purposely. It was an accident, – a pure accident."

"Well, yes, so they say," returns her visitor, airily who is plainly determined not to be done out of a good thing, and insists on bringing in deliberate suicide as a fit ending to this enthralling tale. "And of course it is very nice of every one, and quite right too. But there is no doubt, I think, that he loved her. You will pardon me, Lady Rodney, but I am convinced he adored Mrs. Geoffrey."

"Well, he may have," admits Lady Rodney, reluctantly, who has grown strangely jealous of Mona's reputation of late. As she speaks she colors faintly. "I must beg you to believe," she says, "that Mona up to the very last was utterly unaware of his infatuation."

"Why, of course; of course. One can see that at a glance. And if it were otherwise the whole story would be ruined, – would instantly become tame and commonplace, – would be, indeed," says Lady Lilias, with a massive wave of her large white hand, "I regret to say, an occurrence of everyday life. The singular beauty that now attaches to it would disappear. It is the fact that his passion was unrequited, unacknowledged, and that yet he was content to sacrifice his life for it, that creates its charm."

"Yes, I dare say," says Lady Rodney, who is now wondering when this high-flown visitor will take her departure.

"It is like a romaunt of the earlier and purer days of chivalry," goes on Lady Lilias, in her most prosy tone. "Alas! where are they now?" She pauses for an answer to this difficult question, being in her very loftiest strain of high art depression.

"Eh?" says Lady Rodney, rousing from a day-dream. "I don't know, I'm sure; but I'll see about it; I'll make inquiries."

In thought she had been miles away, and has just come back to the present with a start of guilt at her own neglect of her guest. She honestly believes, in her confusion, that Lady Lilias has been making some inquiries about the secret panel, and therefore makes her extraordinary remark with the utmost bonhommie and cheerfulness.

It is quite too much for the Æsthetic.

"I don't think you can make an inquiry about the bygone days of chivalry," she says, somewhat stiffly, and, having shaken the hand of her bewildered friend, and pecked gently at her cheek, she sails out of the room, disheartened, and wounded in spirit.

CHAPTER XXXVII
HOW MONA REFUSES A GALLANT OFFER – AND HOW NOLLY VIEWS LIFE THROUGH THE BRANCHES OF A PORTUGAL LAUREL

Once again they are all at the Towers. Doatie and her brother – who had returned to their own home during March and April – have now come back again to Lady Rodney, who is ever anxious to welcome these two with open arms. It is to be a last visit from Doatie as a "graceful maiden with a gentle brow," as Mary Howitt would certainly have called her, next month having been decided upon as the most fitting for transforming Dorothy Darling into Dorothy Lady Rodney. In this thought both she and her betrothed are perfectly happy.

Mona and Geoffrey have gone to their own pretty house, and are happy there as they deserve to be, – Mona proving the most charming of chatelaines, so naive, so gracious, so utterly unaffected, as to win all hearts. Indeed, there is not in the county a more popular woman than Mrs. Geoffrey Rodney.

Yet much of their time is spent at the Towers. Lady Rodney can hardly do without Mona now, the pretty sympathetic manner and comprehensive glance and gentle smile having worked their way at last, and found a home in the heart that had so determinedly hardened itself against her.

As to Jack and Violet, they have grown of late into a sort of moral puzzle that nobody can solve. For months they have been gazing at and talking to each other, have apparently seen nothing but each other, no matter how many others may be present; and yet it is evident that no understanding exists between them, and that no formal engagement has been arrived at.

"Why on earth," says Nolly, "can't they tell each other, what they have told the world long ago, that they adore each other? It is so jolly senseless, don't you know?"

"I wonder when you will adore any one, Nolly," says Geoffrey, idly.

"I do adore somebody," returns that ingenuous youth, staring openly at Mona, who is taking up the last stitch dropped by Lady Rodney in the little scarlet silk sock she is knitting for Phyllis Carrington's boy.

"That's me," says Mona, glancing at him archly from under her long lashes.

"Now, how did you find it out? who told you?" asks Mr. Darling, with careful surprise. "Yes, it is true; I don't seek to deny it. The hopeless passion I entertain for you is dearer to me than any other more successful affection can ever be. I worship a dream, – an idea, – and am happier in my maddest moments than others when most same.

"Bless me, Nolly, you are not going to be ill, are you?" says Geoffrey. "Such a burst of eloquence is rare."

"There are times, I confess," goes on Mr. Darling, disposing of Geoffrey's mundane interruption by a contemptuous wave of the hand, "when light breaks in upon me, and a joyful, a thrice-blessed termination to my dream presents itself. For instance, if Geoffrey could only be brought to see things as they are, and have the grace to quit this mortal globe and soar to worlds unknown, I should then fling myself at your feet, and – "

"Oh – well – don't," interrupts Mrs. Geoffrey, hastily.

"Eh! you don't mean to say that after all my devotion you would then refuse me?" asks Mr. Darling, with some disgust.

"Yes, you, and every other man," says Mona, smiling, and raising her loving eyes to her husband.

"I think, sir, after that you may consider yourself flattened," says Geoffrey, with a laugh.

"I shall go away," declares Nolly; "I shall go aboard, – at least as far as the orchard;" then, with a complete change of tone, "By the by, Mrs. Geoffrey, will you come for a walk? Do: the day is 'heavenly fair.'"

"Well, not just now, I think," says Mona, evasively.

"Why not?" persuasively: "it will do you a world of good."

"Perhaps then a little later on I shall go," returns Mona, who, like all her countrywomen, detests giving a direct answer, and can never bring herself to say a decided "no" to any one.

"As you evidently need support, I'll go with you as far as the stables," says Geoffrey, compassionately, and together they leave the room, keeping company until they gain the yard, when Geoffrey turns to the right and makes for the stables, leaving Nolly to wend his solitary way to the flowery orchard.

It is an hour later. Afternoon draws towards evening, yet one scarcely feels the change. It is sultry, drowsy, warm, and full of a "slow luxurious calm."

 
"Earth putteth on the borrow'd robes of heaven,
And sitteth in a Sabbath of still rest;
And silence swells into a dreamy sound,
That sinks again to silence.
The runnel hath
Its tune beneath the trees,
And through the woodlands swell
The tender trembles of the ringdove's dole."
 

The Rodneys are, for the most part, in the library, the room dearest to them. Mona is telling Doatie's fortune on cards, Geoffrey and Nicholas are discussing the merits and demerits of a new mare, Lady Rodney in still struggling with the crimson sock, – when the door is opened, and Nolly entering adds himself to the group.

His face is slightly flushed, his whole manner full of importance. He advances to where the two girls are sitting, and stops opposite Mona.

"I'll tell you all something," he says, "though I hardly think I ought, if you will swear not to betray me."

This speech has the effect of electricity. They all start; with one consent they give the desired oath. The cards fall to the ground, the fortune forgotten; the mare becomes of very secondary importance; another stitch drops in the fated sock.

"They've done it at last," says Mr. Darling, in a low, compressed voice. "It is an accomplished fact. I heard 'em myself!"

As he makes this last extraordinary remark he looks over his left shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard.

"Who?" "What?" say Mona and Dorothy, in one breath.

"Why, Jack and Violet, of course. They've had it out. They are engaged!"

"No!" says Nicholas; meaning, "How very delightful!"

"And you heard them? Nolly, explain yourself," says his sister, severely.

"I'm going to," says Nolly, "if you will just give me time. Oh, what a day I've been havin', and how dear! You know I told you I was going to the orchard for a stroll and with a view to profitable meditation. Well, I went. At the upper end of the garden there are, as you know, some Portugal laurels, from which one can get a splendid survey of the country, and in an evil moment it occurred to me that I should like to climb one of them and look at the Chetwoode Hills. I had never got higher than a horse's back since my boyhood, and visions of my earlier days, when I was young and innocent, overcame me at that – "

"Oh, never mind your young and innocent days: we never heard of them," says Dorothy, impatiently. "Do get on to it."

"I did get on to it, if you mean the laurel," says Nolly with calm dignity. "I climbed most manfully, and, beyond slipping all down the trunk of the tree twice, and severely barking my shins, I sustained no actual injury."

"What on earth is a shin?" puts in Geoffrey, sotto voce.

"Part of your leg, just below your knee," returns Mr. Darling, undaunted. "Well, when I got up at last, I found a capital place to sit in, with a good branch to my back, and I was so pleased with myself and my exploit that I really think – the day is warm, you know – I fell asleep. At least I can remember nothing until voices broke upon my ear right below me."

Here Mona and Dorothy grow suddenly deeply interested, and lean forward.

"I parted the leaves of the laurel with cautious hand and looked down. At my very feet were Jack and Violet, and" – mysteriously – "she was pinning a flower into his coat!"

"Is that all?" says Mona, with quick contempt, seeing him pause. "Why, there is nothing in that! I pinned a flower into your coat only yesterday."

The naivete of this speech is not to be surpassed.

Nolly regards her mournfully.

"I think you needn't be unkinder to me than you can help!" he says, reproachfully. "However, to continue. There's a way of doing things, you know, and the time Violet took to arrange that flower is worthy of mention; and when at last it was settled to her satisfaction, Jack suddenly took her hands in his, just like this, Mrs. Geoffrey," going on his knees before Mona, and possessing himself of both her hands, "and pressed them against his heart, like this and said he – "

Nolly pauses.

"Oh, Nolly, what?" says Mona; "do tell us." She fixes her eyes on his.

"'What darling little hands you have!'" begins Nolly, quite innocently.

"Well, really!" says Mona, mistaking him. She moves back with a heightened color, disengages her hands from his and frowns slightly.

"I wasn't alluding to your hands; though I might," says Nolly, pathetically. "I was only going to tell you what Jack said to Violet. 'What darling little hands you have!' he whispered, with the very silliest expression on his face I ever saw in my life; 'the prettiest hands in the world. I wish they were mine.' 'Gracious powers!' said I to myself, 'I'm in for it;' and I was as near falling off the branch of the tree right into their arms as I could be. The shock was too great. I suppressed a groan with a manful determination to 'suffer and be strong,' and – "

"Never mind all that," says Doatie: "what did she say?"

By this time both Nicholas and Geoffrey are quite convulsed with delight.

"Yes, go on, Noll: what did she say?" repeats Geoffrey, the most generous encouragement in his tone. They have all, with a determination worthy of a better cause, made up their minds to forget that they are listening to what was certainly never meant for them to hear. Or perhaps consideration for Nolly compels them to keep their ears open, as that young man is so overcome by the thought of what he has unwillingly gone through, and the weight of the secret that is so disagreeably his, that it has become a necessity with him to speak or die; but I believe myself it is more curiosity than pity prompts their desire for information on the subject in hand.

"I didn't listen," says Nolly, indignantly. "What do you take me for? I crammed my fingers into my ears, and shut my eyes tight, and wished with all my heart I had never been born. If you wish very hard for anything, they say you will get it. So I thought if I threw my whole soul into that wish just then I might get it, and find presently I never had been born. So I threw in my whole soul; but it didn't come off. I was as lively as possible after ten minutes' hard wishing. Then I opened my eyes again and looked, – simply to see if I oughtn't to look, – and there they were still; and he had his arm round her, and her head was on his shoulder, and – "

"Oh, Nolly!" says Dorothy, hastily.

"Well, it wasn't my fault, was it? I had nothing to do with it. She hadn't her head on my shoulder, had she? and it wasn't my arm was round her," says Mr. Darling losing patience a little.

"I don't mean that; but how could you look?"

"Well, I like that!" says her brother. "And pray what was to happen if I didn't? I gave 'em ten minutes; quite sufficient law, I think. If they couldn't get it over in that time, they must have forgotten their native tongue. Besides, I wanted to get down; the forked seat in the laurel was not all my fancy had painted it in the beginning, and how was I to know when they were gone unless I looked? Why, otherwise I might be there now. I might be there until next week," winds up Mr. Darling, with increasing wrath.

"It is true," puts in Mona. "How could he tell when the coast was clear for his escape, unless he took a little peep?"

"Go on, Nolly," says Nicholas.

"Well, Violet was crying (not loudly, you know, but quite comfortably): so then I thought I had been mistaken, and that probably she had a toothache, or a headache, or something, and that the foregoing speech was mere spooning; and I rather lost faith in the situation, when suddenly he said, 'Why do you cry?' And what do you think was her answer? 'Because I am so happy.' Now, fancy any one crying because she was happy!" says Mr. Darling, with fine disgust. "I always laugh when I'm happy. And I think it rather a poor thing to dissolve into tears because a man asks you to marry him: don't you, Mrs. Geoffrey?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. I have never thought about it. Did I cry, Geoffrey, when – " hesitates Mrs. Geoffrey, with a laugh, and a faint sweet blush.

"N – o. As far as I can remember," says Geoffrey, thoughtfully, pulling his moustache, "you were so overcome with delight at the unexpected honor I did you, that – "

"Oh, I dare say," Nicholas, ironically. "You get out!"

"What else did they say, Nolly?" asks Dorothy, in a wheedling tone.

"If they could only hear us now!" murmurs Geoffrey, addressing no one in particular.

"Go on, Nolly," says Doatie.

"You see, I was so filled with the novelty of the idea that it is the correct thing to weep when seated on your highest pinnacle of bliss, that I forgot to put my fingers in my ears again for a few moments, so I heard him say, 'Are you sure you love me?' whereupon she said, 'Are you quite sure you love me?' with lots of emphasis. That finished me! Did you ever hear such stuff in your life?" demands Mr. Darling, feeling justly incensed. "When they have been gazing into each other's eyes and boring us all to death with their sentimentality for the last three months, they coolly turn round and ask each other if they are sure they are in love!"

"Nolly, you have no romance in your nature," says Nicholas, severely.

"No, I haven't, if that's romance. Of course there was nothing for it but to shut my eyes again and resign myself to my fate. I wonder I'm not dead," says Nolly, pathetically. "I never put in such a time in my life. Well, another quarter of an hour went by, and then I cautiously opened my eyes and looked again, and – would you believe it?" – indignantly, – "there they were still!"

"It is my opinion that you looked and listened all the time; and it was shamefully mean of you," says Dorothy.

"I give you my honor I didn't. I neither saw nor heard but what I tell you. Why, if I had listened I could fill a volume with their nonsense. Three-quarters of an hour it lasted. How a fellow can take forty-five minutes to say, 'Will you marry me?' passes my comprehension. Whenever I am going to do that sort of thing, which of course," looking at Mona, "will be never now, on account of what you said to me some time since, – but if ever I should be tempted, I shall get it over in twenty seconds precisely: that will even give me time to take her hand and get through the orthodox embrace."

"But perhaps she will refuse you," says Mona, demurely.

"No such luck. But look here, I never suffered such agony as I did in that laurel. It's the last tree I'll ever climb. I knew if I got down they would never forgive me to their dying day, and as I was I felt like a condemned criminal."

"Or like the 'sweet little cherub that sits up aloft.' There is something cherubic about you, do you know Nolly, when one comes to think of it. But finish your tale."

"There isn't much more; but yet the cream of the joke remains," says Nolly, laughing heartily. "They seemed pretty jolly by that time, and he was speaking. 'I was afraid you would refuse me,' he said, in an imbecile tone. 'I always thought you liked Geoffrey best.' 'Geoffrey!' said Violet. (Oh, Mrs. Geoffrey, if you could have heard her voice!) 'How could you think so! Geoffrey is all very well in his way, and of course I like him very much, but he is not to be compared with you.' 'He is very handsome,' said Jack, fishing for compliments in the most indecent manner. 'Handsome! Oh, no,' said Violet. (You really should have heard her, Mrs. Geoffrey!) 'I don't think so. Passably good-looking, I allow, but not – not like you!' Ha, ha, ha!"

"Nolly, you are inventing," says Mrs. Geoffrey, sternly.

"No; on my word, no," says Nolly, choking with laughter, in which he is joined by all but Mona. "She said all that, and lots more!"

"Then she doesn't know what she is talking about," says Mrs. Geoffrey, indignantly. "The idea of comparing Geoffrey with Jack!"

At this the laughter grows universal, Geoffrey and Nicholas positively distinguishing themselves in this line, when just at the very height of their mirth the door opens, and Violet enters, followed by Captain Rodney.