HOW GEOFFREY AND MONA FALL INTO STRANGE COMPANY AND HOW THEY PROFIT BY
IT; AND HOW MONA, OUTSTRIPPING WICKED VENGEANCE, SAVES A LIFE.
"Is it very late?" says Mona, awaking from her happy dreams with a
start.
"Not very," says Geoffrey. "It seems only just now that Mickey and the
dogs left us." Together they examine his watch, by the light of the
moon, and see that it is quite ten o'clock.
"Oh, it is dreadfully late!" says Mona, with much compunction. "Come,
let us hurry."
"Well, just one moment," says Geoffrey, detaining her, "let us finish
what we were saying. Would you rather go to the East or to Rome?"
"To Rome," says Mona. "But do you mean it? Can you afford it? Italy
seems so far away." Then, after a thoughtful silence, "Mr. Rodney----"
"Who on earth are you speaking to?" says Geoffrey.
"To you!" with surprise.
"I am not Mr. Rodney: Jack is that. Can't you call me anything else?"
"What else?" says Mona, shyly.
"Call me Geoffrey."
"I always think of you as Geoffrey," whispers she, with a swift, sweet,
upward glance; "but to say it is so different. Well," bravely, "I'll
try. Dear, dear, _dear_ Geoffrey, I want to tell you I would be as happy
with you in Wicklow as in Rome."
"I know that," says Geoffrey, "and the knowledge makes me more happy
than I can say. But to Rome you shall go, whatever it may cost. And then
we shall return to England to our own home. And then--little rebel that
you are--you must begin to look upon yourself as an English subject, and
accept the queen as your gracious sovereign."
"I need no queen when I have got a king," says the girl, with ready wit
and great tenderness.
Geoffrey raises her hand to his lips. "_Your_ king is also your slave,"
he says, with a fond smile.
Then they move on once more, and go down the road that leads towards the
farm.
Again she has grown silent, as though oppressed with thought; and he too
is mute, but all his mind is crowded with glad anticipations of what the
near future is to give him. He has no regrets, no fears. At length,
struck by her persistent taciturnity, he says, "What is it, Mona?"
"If ever you should be sorry afterwards," she says, miserably, still
tormenting herself with unseen evils,--"if ever I should see discontent
in your eyes, how would it be with me then?"
"Don't talk like a penny illustrated," says Mr. Rodney in a very
superior tone. "If ever you do see all you seem to anticipate, just tell
yourself I am a cur, and despise me accordingly. But I think you are
paying both yourself and me very bad compliments when you talk like
that. Do try to understand that you are very beautiful, and far superior
to the general run of women, and that I am only pretty well so far as
men go."
At this they both laugh heartily, and Mona returns no more to the
lachrymose mood that has possessed her for the last five minutes.
The moon has gone behind a cloud, the road is almost wrapped in complete
gloom, when a voice, coming from apparently nowhere, startles them, and
brings them back from visions of impossible bliss to the present very
possible world.
"Hist, Miss Mona! hist!" says this voice close at Mona's ear. She starts
violently.
"Oh! Paddy," she says, as a small figure, unkempt, and only half clad,
creeps through the hedge and stops short in her path.
"Don't go on, miss," says the boy, with much excitement. "Don't ye. I
see ye coming', an', no matter what they do to me, I says to myself,
I'll warn her surely. They're waitin' for the agint below, an' maybe
they might mistake ye for some one else in the dark, an' do ye some
harm."
"Who are they waiting for?" says Mona, anxiously.
"For the agint, miss. Oh, if ye tell on me now they'll kill me. Maxil,
ye know; me lord's agint."
"Waiting--for what? Is it to shoot him?" asks the girl, breathlessly.
"Yes, miss. Oh, Miss Mona, if ye bethray me now 'twill be all up wid me.
Fegs an' intirely, miss, they'll murdher me out uv hand."
"I won't betray you," she says. "You may trust me. Where are they
stationed?"
"Down below in the hollow, miss,--jist behind the hawthorn-bush. Go home
some other way, Miss Mona: they're bint on blood."
"And, if so, what are you doing here?" says Mona, reprovingly.
"On'y watchin', miss, to see what they'd do," confesses he, shifting
from one foot to the other, and growing palpably confused beneath her
searching gaze.
"Is it murder you want to see?" asks she slowly, in a horrified tone.
"Go home, Paddy. Go home to your mother." Then, changing her censuring
manner to one of entreaty, she says, softly, "Go, because I ask you."
"I'm off, miss," says the miscreant, and, true to his word, darts
through the hedge again like a shaft from a bow, and, scurrying through
the fields, is soon lost to sight.
"Come with me," says Mona to Rodney; and with an air of settled
determination, and a hard look on her usually mobile lips, she moves
deliberately towards the hawthorn-bush, that is about a quarter of a
mile distant.
"Mona," says Rodney, divining her intent, "stay you here while I go and
expostulate with these men. It is late, darling, and their blood is up,
and they may not listen to you. Let me speak to them."
"You do not understand them," returns she, sadly. "And I do. Besides,
they will not harm me. There is no fear of that. I am not at all afraid
of them. And--I _must_ speak to them."
He knows her sufficiently well to refrain from further expostulation,
and just accompanies her silently along the lonely road.
"It is I,--Mona Scully," she calls aloud, when she is within a hundred
yards of the hiding-place. "Tim Ryan, come here: I want you."
It is a mere guess on her part,--supported certainly by many tales she
has heard of this Ryan of late, but a guess nevertheless. It proves,
however, to be a correct one. A man, indistinct, but unmistakable, shows
himself on the top of the wall, and pulls his forelock through force of
habit.
"What are you doing here, Tim?" says Mona, bravely, calmly, "at this
hour, and with--yes, do not seek to hide it from me--a gun! And you too,
Carthy," peering into the darkness to where another man, less plucky
than Ryan lies concealed. "Ah! you may well wish to shade your face,
since it is evil you have in your heart this night."
"Do ye mane to inform on us?" says Ryan, slowly, who is "a man of a
villanous countenance," laying his hand impulsively upon his gun, and
glancing at her and Rodney alternately with murder in his eyes. It is a
critical moment. Rodney, putting out his hand, tries to draw her behind
him.
"No, I am not afraid," says the girl, resisting his effort to put
himself before her; and when he would have spoken she puts up her hands,
and warns him to keep silence.
"You should know better than to apply the word 'informer' to one of my
blood," she says, coldly, speaking to Ryan, without a tremor in her
voice.
"I know that," says the man, sullenly. "But what of him?" pointing to
Rodney, the ruffianly look still on his face. "The Englishman, I mane.
Is he sure? It's a life, for a life afther all, when everything is
towld."
He handles the gun again menacingly. Mona, though still apparently calm,
whitens perceptibly beneath the cold penetrating rays of the "pale-faced
moon" that up above in "heaven's ebon vault, studded with stars
unutterably bright," looks down upon her perhaps with love and pity.
"Tim," she says, "what have I ever done to you that you should seek to
make me unhappy?"
"I have nothing to do with you. Go your ways. It is with him I have to
settle," says the man, morosely.
"But _I_ have to do with him," says Mona, distinctly.
At this, in spite of everything, Rodney laughs lightly, and, taking her
hand in his, draws it through his arm. There is love and trust and great
content in his laugh.
"Eh!" says Ryan; while the other man whom she has called Carthy--and who
up to this has appeared desirous of concealing himself from view--now
presses forward and regards the two with lingering scrutiny.
"Why, what have you to do with her?" says Ryan, addressing Rodney, a
gleam of something that savors of amusement showing itself even in his
ill-favored face. For an Irishman, under all circumstances, dearly loves
"a courting, a _bon-mot_, and a broil."
"This much," says Rodney, laughing again: "I am going to marry her, with
her leave."
"If that be so, she'll make you keep from splittin' on us," says the
man. "So now go; we've work in hand to-night not fit for her eyes."
Mona shudders.
"Tim," she says, distractedly, "do not bring murder on your soul. Oh,
Tim, think it over while there is yet time. I have heard all about it;
and I would ask you to remember that it is not Mr. Maxwell's fault that
Peggy Madden was evicted, but the fault of his master. If any one must
be shot, it ought to be Lord Crighton" (as his lordship is at this
moment safe in Constantinople, she says this boldly), "and not his paid
servant."
"I dare say we'll get at the lord by an' by" says Ryan, untouched. "Go
yer ways, will ye? an' quick too. Maybe if ye thry me too far, ye'll
learn to rue this night."
Seeing further talk is useless, Mona slips her hand into Rodney's and
leads him down the road.
But when they have turned a corner and are quite out of sight and
hearing, Rodney stops short and says, hurriedly,--
"Mona, can you manage to get home by some short way by yourself? Because
I must return. I must stand by this man they are going to murder. I must
indeed, darling. Forgive me that I desert you here and at such an hour,
but I see you are safe in the country, and five minutes will take you to
the farm, and I cannot let his life be taken without striking a blow for
him."
"And did you think I was content to let him die" says Mona,
reproachfully. "No! There is a chance for him still, and I will explain
it to you. It is early yet. He seldom passes here before eleven, and it
is but a little after ten. I know the hour he usually returns, because
he always goes by our gate, and often I bid him good-night in the
summer-time. Come with me," excitedly. "I can lead you by a cross-path
to the Ballavacky road, by which he must come, and, if we overtake him
before he reaches that spot, we can save his life. Come; do not delay!"
She turns through a broken gap into a ploughed field, and breaks into a
quick run.
"If we hurry we must meet his car there, and can send him back into
Bantry, and so save him."
All this she breathes forth in disjointed sentences as she rushes, like
a light-footed deer, across the ploughed land into the wet grass
beyond.
Over one high bank, across a stile, through another broken gap, on to a
wall, straight and broad, up which Rodney pulls her, carefully taking
her down in his arms at the other side.
Still onward,--lightly, swiftly: now in sight of the boundless sea, now
diving down into the plain, without faintness or despondency, or any
other feeling but a passionate determination to save a man's life.
Rodney's breath is coming more quickly, and he is conscious of a desire
to stop and pull himself together--if only for a minute--before bracing
himself for a second effort. But to Mona, with her fresh and perfect
health, and lithe and lissom body, and all the rich young blood that
surges upward in her veins, excitement serves but to make her more
elastic; and with her mind strung to its highest pitch, and her hot
Irish blood aflame, she runs easily onward, until at length the road is
reached that is her goal.
Springing upon the bank that skirts the road on one side, she raises her
hands to her head, and listens with all her might for the sound of
wheels in the distance.
But all is still.
Oh, if they should be too late! If Maxwell has passed and gone down the
other road, and is perhaps now already "done to death" by the cruel
treacherous enemy that lieth in wait for him!
Her blood heated by her swift run grows cold again as this thought comes
to her,--forced to the front by the fact that "all the air a solemn
stillness holds," and that no sound makes itself heard save the faint
sighing of the night-wind in the woods up yonder, and the "lone and
melancholy voice" of the sea, a mile away, as it breaks upon the silent
shore.
These sounds, vague and harmonious as they are, yet full of mystery and
unexplained sadness, but serve to heighten the fear that chills her
heart.
Rodney, standing beside her, watches her anxiously. She throws up her
head, and pushes back her hair, and strains her eyes eagerly into the
darkness, that not all the moonbeams can make less than night.
Alas! alas! what foul deed may even now be doing while she stands here
powerless to avert it,--her efforts all in vain! How richly shines the
sweet heaven, studded with its stars! how cool, how fragrant, is the
breeze! How the tiny wavelets move and sparkle in the glorious bay
below. How fair a world it is to hold such depths of sin! Why should not
rain and storms and howling tempest mark a night so----
But hark! What is this that greets her ear? The ring of horse's feet
upon the quiet road!
The girl clasps her hands passionately, and turns her eyes on Rodney.
"Mona, it is--it must be!" says Geoffrey, taking her hand; and so they
both stand, almost breathless, on the high bank, listening intently.
Now they can hear the sound of wheels; and presently a light tax-cart
swings round the corner, drawn by a large, bony, bay mare, and in which
sits a heavy-looking, elderly man, in a light overcoat.
"Mr. Maxwell! Mr. Maxwell!" cries Mona, as he approaches them; and the
heavy man, drawing up, looks round at her with keen surprise, bending
his head a little forward, as though the better to pierce the gloom.
"Miss Scully, is it you?" he says, at length; "and here at this hour?"
"Go back to Bantry," says Mona, not heeding his evident surprise, "at
once,--_now_. Do not delay. There are those waiting for you on the
Tullymore road who will take your life. I have run all this way to warn
you. Oh, go back, while there is yet time!"
"Do you mean they want to shoot me?" says Maxwell, in a hurried tone.
"Yes; I know it! Oh, do not wait to ask questions, but go. Even now they
may have suspected my purpose, and may be coming here to prevent your
ever returning."
Each moment of delay only helps to increase her nervous excitement.
"But who are they? and where?" demands the agent, completely taken
aback.
"I can tell you no more; I will not; and you must never ask me. It is
enough that I speak the truth, and that I have been able to save your
life."
"How can I thank you?" says Maxwell, "for all----"
"Some other day you can do that. Now go," says Mona, imperiously, waving
her hand.
But Maxwell still lingers, looking first at her and then very intently
at her companion.
"It is late," he says. "You should be at home, child. Who am I, that
you should do me so great a service?" Then, turning quietly to Rodney,
"I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir," he says, gravely;
"but I entreat you to take Miss Scully safely back to the Farm without
delay."
"You may depend upon me," says Rodney, lifting his hat, and respecting
the elder man's care for the well-being of his beloved, even in the
midst of his own immediate danger. Then, in another moment, Maxwell has
turned his horse's head, and is soon out of sight.
The whole scene is at an end. A life has been saved. And they two, Mona
and Geoffrey, are once more alone beneath the "earnest stars."
"Take me down," says Mona, wearily, turning to her lover, as the last
faint ring of the horse's feet dies out on the breeze.
"You are tired," says he, tenderly.
"A little, now it is all over. Yet I must make great haste homeward.
Uncle Brian will be uneasy about me if he discovers my absence, though
he knew I was going to the Bay. Come, we must hurry."
So in silence, but hand in hand, they move back through the dewy meads,
meeting no one until they reach the little wooden gate that leads to her
home.
Here they behold the faithful Biddy, craning her long neck up and down
the road, and filled with wildest anxiety.
"Oh, may I niver agin see the light," cries this excitable damsel,
rushing out to Mona, "if I iver hoped to lay eyes on yer face again!
Where were ye at all, darlin'? An' I breakin' me heart wid fear for ye.
Did ye know Tim Ryan was out to-night? When I heerd tell of that from
that boy of the Cantys', I thought I'd have dhropped. 'Tis no good he's
up to. Come in, asthore: you must be near kilt with the cowld."
"No; I am quite warm," says Mona, in a low, sad tone.
"'Tis I've bin prayin' for ye," says Biddy, taking her mistress's hand
and kissing it fondly. "On me bended knees I was with the blessid beads
for the last two hours. An' shure I've had me reward, now I see ye safe
home agin. But indeed, Miss Mona, 'tis a sore time I've had uv it."
"And Uncle Brian?" asks Mona, fearfully.
"Oh, I got the ould man to bed hours ago; for I knew if he stayed up
that he'd get mortial wearin', an' be the death of us if he knew ye were
out so late. An' truth to say, Miss Mona," changing her tone from one of
extreme joy and thankfulness to another of the deepest censure, "'twas
the world an' all of bad behavior to be galavantin' out at this hour."
"The night was so lovely,--so mild," says Mona, faintly, concealment in
any form being new to her, and very foreign to her truthful nature; "and
I knew Mickey would tell you it was all right."
"An' what brought him home, the murdherin' scamp," says Miss Bridget,
with more vehemence than politeness, "instid of stayin' wid ye to see ye
came to no harm?"
"He had to see the mare made up, and the pigs fed," says Mona.
"Is that what he towld ye? Oh, the blaggard!" says Bridget. "An' nary
sign did he do since his return, but sit be the fire an' smoke his
dhudheen. Oh, be the powers of Moll Kelly, but I'll pay him out for his
lies? He's soakin' it now, anyhow, as I sint him up to the top of the
hill agin, to see what had become of ye."
"Bridget," says Mona, "will you go in and get me a cup of tea before I
go to bed? I am tired."
"I will, darlin', shurely," says Bridget, who adores the ground she
walks on; and then, turning, she leaves her. Mona lays her hand on
Geoffrey's arm.
"Promise me you will not go back to Coolnagurtheen to-night?" she says,
earnestly. "At the inn, down in the village, they will give you a bed."
"But, my dearest, why? There is not the slightest danger now, and my
horse is a good one, and I sha'n't be any time getting----"
"I won't hear of it!" says Mona, interrupting him vehemently. "You would
have to go up _that road_ again," with a strong shudder. "I shall not go
indoors until you give me your honor you will stay in the village
to-night."
Seeing the poor child's terrible fear and anxiety, and that she is
completely overwrought, he gives way, and lets her have the desired
promise.
"Now, that is good of you," she says, gratefully, and then, as he stoops
to kiss her, she throws her arms around his neck and bursts into tears.
"You are worn out, my love, my sweetheart," says Geoffrey, very
tenderly, speaking to her as though she is in years the child that, in
her soul, she truly is. "Come, Mona, you will not cry on this night of
all others that has made me yours and you mine! If this thought made you
as happy as it makes me, you _could_ not cry. Now lift your head, and
let me look at you. There! you have given yourself to me, darling, and
there is a good life, I trust, before us; so let us dwell on that, and
forget all minor evils. Together we can defy trouble!"
"Yes, that is a thought to dry all tears," she says, very sweetly,
checking her sobs and raising her face, on which is dawning an adorable
smile. Then, sighing heavily,--a sigh of utter exhaustion,--"You have
done me good," she says. "I shall sleep now; and you my dearest, will be
safe. Good-night until to-morrow!"
"How many hours there are in the night that we never count!" says
Geoffrey, impatiently. "Good-night, Mona! To-morrow's dawn I shall call
my dearest friend."