HOW GEOFFREY'S HEART IS CLAIMED BY CUPID AS A TARGET, AND HOW MONA
STOOPS TO CONQUER.
It is ten days later. The air is growing brisker, the flowers bear no
new buds. More leaves are falling on the woodland paths, and the trees
are throwing out their last bright autumn tints of red and brown and
richest orange, that tell all too plainly of the death that lies before
them.
Great cascades of water are rushing from the high hills, tumbling,
hurrying, with their own melodious music, into the rocky basins that
kind nature has built to receive them. The soothing voices of the air
are growing louder, more full of strength; the branches of the elms bow
down before them; the gentle wind, "a sweet and passionate wooer,"
kisses the blushing leaf with perhaps a fiercer warmth than it did a
month agone.
It is in the spring--so we have been told--that "a young man's fancy
lightly turns to thoughts of love;" yet it is in the autumn that _our_
young man takes to this pleasing if somewhat unsatisfactory amusement.
Not that he himself is at all aware of the evil case into which he has
fallen. He feels not the arrow in his heart, or the tender bands that
slowly but surely are winding themselves around him,--steel bands,
decked out and hidden by perfumed flowers. As yet he feels no pang; and,
indeed, were any one to even hint at such a thing, he would have laughed
aloud at the idea of his being what is commonly termed "in love."
That he--who has known so many seasons, and passed through the practised
hands of some of the prettiest women this world can afford, heart-whole,
and without a scratch--should fall a victim to the innocent wiles of a
little merry Irish girl of no family whatever, seems too improbable even
of belief, however lovely beyond description this girl may be (and is),
with her wistful, laughing, mischievous Irish eyes, and her mobile lips,
and her disposition half angelic, half full of fire and natural
coquetry.
Beauty, according to Ovid, is "a favor bestowed by the gods;"
Theophrastus says it is "a silent cheat;" and Shakspeare tells us it
"Is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,
A flower that dieth when first it 'gins to bud,
A brittle glass that's broken presently,
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour."
Mere beauty of form and feature will fade indeed, but Mona's beauty lies
not altogether in nose or eyes or mouth, but rather in her soul, which
compels her face to express its lightest meaning. It is in her
expression, which varies with each passing thought, changing from "grave
to gay, from lively to severe," as the soul within speaks to it, that
her chief charm dwells. She is never quite the same for two minutes
running,--which is the surest safeguard against satiety. And as her soul
is pure and clean, and her face is truly the index to her mind, all it
betrays but endears her to and makes richer him who reads it.
"Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety."
Whenever these lines come to me I think of Mona.
* * * * *
It is midday, and Geoffrey, gun in hand, is idly stalking through the
sloping wood that rises behind Mangle Farm. The shooting he has had
since his arrival in Ireland, though desultory,--perhaps because of
it,--has proved delightful in his sight. Here coveys come upon one
unawares, rising out of fields when least expected, and therefore when
discovered possess all the novelty of a gigantic surprise. Now and then
he receives kindly warning of birds seen "over night" in some particular
corner, and an offer to escort him to the scene of action without beat
of drum.
As for instance, in the morning his man assails him with the news that
Micky Brian or Dinny Collins (he has grown quite familiar with the
gentry around) "is without, an' would like to spake wid him." Need I
remark that he has widely hired his own particular attendant from among
the gay and festive youths of Bantry?
Whereupon he goes "without," which means to his own hall-door that
always stands wide open, and there acknowledges the presence of Mickey
or Dinny, as the case may be, with a gracious nod. Mickey instantly
removes his caubeen and tells "his honor" (regardless of the fact that
his honor can tell this for himself) that "it is a gran' fine day,"
which as a rule is the first thing an Irish person will always say on
greeting you, as though full of thankfulness to the powers above, in
that sweet weather has been given.
Then follows a long-winded speech on the part of Mickey about birds in
general and grouse in particular, finishing up with the announcement
that he can tell where the finest covey seen this season lies hidden.
"An' the biggest birds, an' as full o' corn as iver ye see, the rogues!"
At this his honor requests Mickey to step into the hall, and with his
own hands administers to him a glass of whiskey, which mightily pleases
the son of Erin, though he plainly feels it his duty to make a face at
it as he swallows it off neat. And then Geoffrey sallies forth and goes
for the promised covey, followed closely by the excited Mickey, and,
having made account of most of them, presses backsheesh into the hands
of his informant, and sends him home rejoicing.
For the most part these bonnie brown birds have found their way into
Miss Mona's pantry, and are eaten by that little gourmand with the rarer
pleasure that in her secret heart she knows that the giver of them is
not blind to the fact that her eyes are faultless and her nose pure
Greek.
Just at this moment he is coming down through brake and furze, past
tangling blackberry-bushes that are throwing out leaves of brilliant
crimson and softest yellow, and over rustling leaves, towards the farm
that holds his divinity.
Ill luck has attended his efforts to-day, or else his thoughts have been
wandering in the land where love holds sway, because he is empty-handed.
The bonnie brown bird has escaped him, and no gift is near to lay at
Mona's shrine.
As he reaches the broad stream that divides him from the land he would
reach, he pauses and tries to think of any decent excuse that may enable
him to walk with a bold front up to the cottage door. But no such excuse
presents itself. Memory proves false. It refuses to assist him. He is
almost in despair.
He tries to persuade himself that there is nothing strange or uncommon
in calling upon Wednesday to inquire with anxious solicitude about the
health of a young woman whom he had seen happy and robust on Tuesday.
But the trial is not successful, and he is almost on the point of
flinging up the argument and going home again, when his eye lights upon
a fern small but rare, and very beautiful, that growing on a high rock
far above him, overhangs the stream.
It is a fern for which Mona has long been wishing. Oh! happy thought!
She has expressed for it the keenest admiration. Oh! blissful
remembrance! She has not one like it in all her collection. Oh!
certainty full of rapture.
Now will he seize this blessed opportunity, and, laden with the spoils
of war, approach her dwelling (already she is "she"), and triumphantly,
albeit humbly, lay the fern at her feet, and so perchance gain the right
to bask for a few minutes in the sunshine of her presence.
No sooner thought than done! Laying his gun carefully upon the ground,
he looks around him to see by what means he shall gain possession of
this lucky fern which is growing, deeply rooted in its native soil, far
above him.
A branch of a tree overspreading the water catches his attention. It is
not strong, but it suggests itself as a means to the desired end. It is
indeed slim to a fault, and unsatisfactory to an alarming degree, but it
must do, and Geoffrey, swinging himself up to it, tries it first, and
then standing boldly upon it, leans over towards the spot where the fern
can be seen.
It is rather beyond his reach, but he is determined not to be outdone.
Of course by stepping into the water and climbing the slimy rock that
holds the desired treasure, it can be gained; but with a lazy desire to
keep his boots dry, he clings to his present position, regardless of the
fact that bruised flesh (if nothing worse) will probably be the result
of his daring.
He has stooped very much over indeed. His hand is on the fern; he has
safely carefully extracted it, roots and all (one would think I was
speaking of a tooth! but this is by the way), from its native home, when
cr-r-k goes something; the branch on which he rests betrays him, and
smashing hurls him head downwards into the swift but shallow stream
below.
A very charming vision clad in Oxford shirting, and with a great white
hat tied beneath her rounded chin with blue ribbons,--something in the
style of a Sir Joshua Reynolds,--emerges from among the low-lying firs
at this moment. Having watched the (seemingly) light catastrophe from
afar, and being apparently amused by it, she now gives way to
unmistakable mirth and laughs aloud. When Mona laughs, she does it with
all her heart, the correct method of suppressing all emotion, be it of
joy or sorrow,--regarding it as a recreation permitted only to the
vulgar,--being as yet unlearned by her. Therefore her expression of
merriment rings gayly and unchecked through the old wood.
But presently, seeing the author of her mirth does not rise from his
watery resting-place, her smile fades, a little frightened look creeps
into her eyes, and, hastening forward, she reaches the bank of the
stream and gazes into it. Rodney is lying face downwards in the water,
his head having come with some force against the sharp edge of a stone
against which it is now resting.
Mona turns deadly pale, and then instinctively loosening the strings of
her hat flings it from her. A touch of determination settles upon her
lips, so prone to laughter at other times. Sitting on the bank, she
draws off her shoes and stockings, and with the help of an alder that
droops to the river's brim lowers herself into the water.
The stream, though insignificant, is swift. Placing her strong young
arms, that are rounded and fair as those of any court dame, beneath
Rodney, she lifts him, and, by a supreme effort, and by right of her
fresh youth and perfect health, draws him herself to land.
In a minute or two the whole affair proves itself a very small thing
indeed, with little that can be termed tragical about it. Geoffrey comes
slowly back to life, and in the coming breathes her name. Once again he
is trying to reach the distant fern; once again it eludes his grasp. He
has it; no, he hasn't; yet, he has. Then at last he wakes to the fact
that he has indeed _got it_ in earnest, and that the blood is flowing
from a slight wound in the back of his head, which is being staunched by
tender fingers, and that he himself is lying in Mona's arms.
He sighs, and looks straight into the lovely frightened eyes bending
over him. Then the color comes with a sudden rush back into his cheeks
as he tells himself she will look upon him as nothing less than a "poor
creature" to lose consciousness and behave like a silly girl for so
slight a cause. And something else he feels. Above and beyond everything
is a sense of utter happiness, such as he has never known before, a
thrill of rapture that has in it something of peace, and that comes from
the touch of the little brown hand that rests so lightly on his head.
"Do not stir. Your head is badly cut, an' it bleeds still," says Mona,
with a shoulder. "I cannot stop it. Oh, what shall I do?"
"Who got me out of the water?" asks he, lazily, pretending (hypocrite
that he is) to be still overpowered with weakness. "And when did you
come?"
"Just now," returns she, with some hesitation, and a rich accession of
coloring, that renders her even prettier than she was a moment since.
Because
"From every blush that kindles in her cheeks,
Ten thousand little loves and graces spring."
Her confusion, however, and the fact that no one else is near, betrays
the secret she fain would hide.
"Was it you?" asks he, raising himself on his elbow to regard her
earnestly, though very loath to quit the spot where late he has been
tenant. "You? Oh, Mona!"
It is the first time he has ever called her by her Christian name
without a prefix. The tears rise to her eyes. Feeling herself
discovered, she makes her confession slowly, without looking at him, and
with an air of indifference so badly assumed as to kill the idea of her
ever attaining prominence upon the stage.
"Yes, it was I," she says. "And why shouldn't I? Is it to see you drown
I would? I--I didn't want you to find out; but"--quickly--"I would do
the same for _any one_ at _any_ time. You know that."
"I am sure you would," says Geoffrey, who has risen to his feet and has
taken her hand. "Nevertheless, though, as you say, I am but one in the
crowd,--and, of course, nothing to you,--I am very glad you did it for
me."
With a little touch of wilfulness, perhaps pride, she withdraws her
hand.
"I dare say," she says, carelessly, purposely mistaking his meaning: "it
must have been cold lying there."
"There are things that chill one more than water," returns he, slightly
offended by her tone.
"You are all wet. Do go home and change your clothes," says Mona, who is
still sitting on the grass with her gown spread carefully around her.
"Or perhaps"-reluctantly--"it will be better for you to go to the farm,
where Bridget will look after you."
"Thank you; so I shall, if you will come with me."
"Don't mind me," says Miss Scully, hastily. "I shall follow you by and
by."
"By and by will suit me down to the ground," declares he, easily. "The
day is fortunately warm: damp clothes are an advantage rather than
otherwise."
Silence. Mona taps the mound beside her with impatient fingers, her mind
being evidently great with thought.
"I really wish," she says, presently, "you would do what I say. Go to
the farm, and--stay there."
"Well, come with me, and I'll stay till you turn me out.'
"I can't," faintly.
"Why not?" in a surprised tone.
"Because--I prefer staying here."
"Oh! if you mean by that you want to get rid of me, you might have said
so long ago, without all this hinting," says Mr. Rodney, huffily,
preparing to beat an indignant retreat.
"I didn't mean that, and I never hint," exclaims Mona, angrily; "and if
you insist on the truth, if I must explain to you what I particularly
desire to keep secret, you----"
"You are hurt!" interrupts he, with passionate remorse. "I see it all
now. Stepping into that hateful stream to save me, you injured yourself
severely. You are in pain,--you suffer; whilst I----"
"I am in no pain," says Mona, crimson with shame and mortification. "You
mistake everything. I have not even a scratch on me; and--I have no
shoes or stockings on me either, if you must know all!"
She turns from him wrathfully; and Geoffrey, disgusted with himself,
steps back and makes no reply. With any other woman of his acquaintance
he might perhaps at this juncture have made a mild request that he might
be allowed to assist in the lacing or buttoning of her shoes; but with
this strange little Irish girl all is different. To make such a remark
would be, he feels, to offer her a deliberate insult.
"There, do go away!" says this woodland goddess. "I am sick of you and
your stupidity."
"I'm sure I don't wonder," says Geoffrey, very humbly. "I beg your
pardon a thousand times; and--good-by, Miss Mona."
She turns involuntarily, through the innate courtesy that belongs to her
race, to return his parting salutation, and, looking at him, sees a tiny
spot of blood trickling down his forehead from the wound received awhile
since.
On the instant all is forgotten,--chagrin, shame, shoes and stockings,
everything! Springing to her little naked feet, she goes to him, and,
raising her hand, presses her handkerchief against the ugly stain.
"It has broken out again!" she says, nervously. "I am sure--I am
certain--it is a worst wound than you imagine. Ah! do go home, and get
it dressed."
"But I shouldn't like any one to touch it except you," says Mr. Rodney,
truthfully. "Even now, as your fingers press it, I feel relief."
"Do you really?" asks Mona, earnestly.
"Honestly, I do."
"Then just turn your back for one moment," says Mona simply, "and when
my shoes and stockings are on I'll go home with you an' bathe it. Now,
don't turn round, for your life!"
"'Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?'" quotes Mr.
Rodney; and, Mona having got into her shoes, she tells him he is at
liberty to follow her across the rustic bridge lower down, that leads
from the wood into Mangle Farm.
"You have spoiled your gown on my account," says Geoffrey, surveying her
remorsefully; "and such a pretty gown, too. I don't think I ever saw you
looking sweeter than you look to-day. And now your dress is ruined, and
it is all my fault!"
"How dare you find a defect in my appearance?" says Mona, with her old
gay laugh. "You compel me to retaliate. Just look at yourself. Did you
ever see such a regular pickle as you are?"
In truth he is. So when he has acknowledged the melancholy fact, they
both laugh, with the happy enjoyment of youth, at their own
discomfiture, and go back to the cottage good friends once more.
On the middle of the rustic bridge before mentioned he stops her, to
say, unexpectedly,--
"Do you know by what name I shall always call you in my thoughts?"
To which she answers, "No. How should I? But tell me."
"'Bonnie Lesley:' the poet says of her what I think of you."
"And what do you think of me?" She has grown a little pale, but her eyes
have not left his.
"To see her is to love her,
And love but her forever;
For nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sie anither,"
quotes Geoffrey, in a low tone, that has something in it almost
startling, so full is it of deep and earnest feeling.
Mona is the first to recover herself.
"That is a pretty verse," she says, quietly. "But I do not know the
poem. I should like to read it."
Her tone, gentle but dignified, steadies him.
"I have the book that contains it at Coolnagurtheen," he says, somewhat
subdued. "Shall I bring it to you?"
"Yes. You may bring it to me--to-morrow," returns she, with the
faintest hesitation, which but enhances the value of the permission,
whereon his heart once more knows hope and content.