HOW GEOFFREY AND MONA DILIGENTLY WORK UP THE TRANSFORMATION SCENE; AND
HOW SUCCESS CROWNS THEIR EFFORTS.
In due course the wonderful gown arrives, and is made welcome at the
farm, where Geoffrey too puts in an appearance about two hours later.
Mona is down at the gate waiting for him, evidently brimful of
information.
"Well have you got it?" asks he, in a whisper. Mystery seems to encircle
them and to make heavy the very air they breathe. In truth, I think it
is the veil of secrecy that envelops their small intrigue that makes it
so sweet to them. They might be children, so delighted are they with the
success of their scheme.
"Yes, I have got it," also in a subdued whisper. "And, oh, Geoffrey, it
is just too lovely! It's downright delicious; and satin, too! It
must"--reproachfully--"have cost a great deal, and after all you told me
about being _poor_! But," with a sudden change of tone, forgetting
reproach and extravagance and everything, "it is exactly the color I
love best, and what I have been dreaming of for years."
"Put it on you," says Geoffrey.
"What! _now?_" with some hesitation, yet plainly filled with an
overwhelming desire to show herself to him without loss of time in the
adorable gown. "If I should be seen! Well, never mind; I'll risk it. Go
down to the little green glade in the wood, and I'll be with you before
you can say Jack Robinson."
She disappears, and Geoffrey, obedient to orders, lounges off to the
green glade, that now no longer owns rich coloring, but is strewn with
leaves from the gaunt trees that stand in solemn order like grave
sentries round it.
He might have invoked Jack Robinson a score of times had he so wished,
he might even have gone for a very respectable walk, before his eyes are
again gladdened by a sight of Mona. Minutes had given place to minutes
many times, when, at length, a figure wrapped in a long cloak and with a
light woollen shawl covering her head comes quickly towards him across
the rustic bridge, and under the leafless trees to where he is standing.
Glancing round fearfully for a moment, as though desirous of making sure
that no strange eyes are watching her movements, she lets the loose
cloak fall to the ground, and, taking with careful haste the covering
from her head, slips like Cinderella from her ordinary garments into all
the glories of a _fete_ gown. She steps a little to one side, and,
throwing up her head with a faint touch of coquetry that sits very
sweetly on her, glances triumphantly at Geoffrey, as though fully
conscious that she is looking exquisite as a dream.
The dress is composed of satin of that peculiarly pale blue that in some
side-lights appears as white. It is opened at the throat, and has no
sleeves to speak of. As though some kindly fairy had indeed been at her
beck and call, and had watched with careful eyes the cutting of the
robe, it fits to a charm. Upon her head a little mob-cap, a very marvel
of blue satin and old lace, rests lovingly, making still softer the soft
tender face beneath it.
There is a sparkle in Mona's eyes, a slight severing of her lips, that
bespeak satisfaction and betray her full of very innocent appreciation
of her own beauty. She stands well back, with her head held proudly up,
and with her hands lightly clasped before her. Her attitude is full of
unstudied grace.
Her eyes, as I tell you, are shining like twin stars. Her whole soul is
possessed of this hope, that he for whom almost she lives must think her
good to look at. And good indeed she is, and very perfect; for in her
earnest face lies such inward godliness and sweet trust as make one feel
the better for only a bare glance at her.
Geoffrey is quite dumb, and stands gazing at her surprised at the
amazing change a stuff, a color, can make in so short a time. Beautiful
she always is in his sight, but he wonders that until now it never
occurred to him what a sensation she is likely to create in the London
world. When at last he does give way to speech, driven to break his
curious silence by something in her face, he says nothing of the gown,
but only this.
"Oh, Mona, will you always love me as you do now?"
His tone is full of sadness and longing, and something akin to fear. He
has been much in the world, and has seen many of its evil ways, and this
is the result of his knowledge. As he gazes on and wonders at her
marvellous beauty, for an instant (a most unworthy instant) he distrusts
her. Yet surely never was more groundless doubt sustained, as one might
know to look upon her eyes and mouth, for in the one lies honest love,
and in the other firmness.
Her face changes. He has made no mention of the treasured gown, has said
no little word of praise.
"I have disappointed you," she says, tremulously, tears rising quickly.
"I am a failure! I am not like the others."
"You are the most beautiful woman I ever saw in all my life," returns
Rodney, with some passion.
"Then you are really pleased? I am just what you want me to be? Oh! how
you frightened me!" says the girl, laying her hand upon her heart with a
pretty gesture of relief.
"Don't ask me to flatter you. You will get plenty to do that by and by,"
says Geoffrey, rather jealously, rather bitterly.
"'By and by' I shall be your wife," says Mona, archly, "and then my days
for receiving flattery will be at an end. Sure you needn't grudge me a
few pretty words now."
What a world is to be opened up to her! How severe the test to which she
will be exposed! Does she really think the whole earth is peopled with
beings pure and perfect as herself?
"Yes, that is true," he says, in a curious tone, in answer to her words,
his eyes fixed moodily upon the ground. Then suddenly he lifts his head,
and as his gaze meets hers some of the truth and sweetness that belong
to her springs from her to him and restores him once again to his proper
self.
He smiles, and, turning, kneels before her in mock humility that savors
of very real homage. Taking her hand, he presses it to his lips.
"Will your majesty deign to confer some slight sign of favor upon a
very devoted servant?"
His looks betray his wish. And Mona, stooping, very willingly bestows
upon him one of the sweetest little kisses imaginable.
"I doubt your queen lacks dignity," she says, with a quick blush, when
she has achieved her tender crime.
"My queen lacks nothing," says Geoffrey. Then, as he feels the rising
wind that is soughing through the barren trees, he says, hurriedly, "My
darling, you will catch cold. Put on your wraps again."
"Just in one moment," says the wilful beauty. "But I must first look at
myself altogether. I have only seen myself in little bits up to this, my
glass is so small."
Running over to the river that flows swiftly but serenely a few yards
from her, she leans over the bank and gazes down lingeringly and with
love into the dark depths beneath that cast up to her her own fair
image.
The place she has chosen as her mirror is a still pool fringed with
drooping grasses and trailing ferns that make yet more dark the sanded
floor of the stream.
"Yes, I _am_ pretty," she says, after a minute's pause, with a
long-drawn sigh of deepest satisfaction. Then she glances at Geoffrey.
"And for your sake I am glad of it Now, come here and stand beside me,"
she goes on, presently, holding out her hand backwards as though loath
to lose sight of her own reflection. "Let me see how _you_ look in the
water."
So he takes her hand, and together they lean over the brink and survey
themselves in Nature's glass. Lightly their faces sway to and fro as the
running water rushes across the pool,--sway, but do not part; they are
always together, as though in anticipation of that happy time when their
lives shall be one. It seems like a good omen; and Mona, in whose breast
rests a little of the superstition that lies innate in every Irish
heart, turns to her lover and looks at him.
He, too, looks at her. The same thought fills them both. As they are
together there in the water, so (pray they) "may we be together in
life." This hope is sweet almost to solemnity.
The short daylight fades; the wind grows higher; the whole scene is
curious, and very nearly fantastical. The pretty girl in her clinging
satin gown, and her gleaming neck and arms, bare and soft and white, and
the tiny lace-fringed cap that crowns her fairness. The gaunt trees
branching overhead that are showering down upon her all their fading
wealth of orange and crimson and russet-colored leaves, that serve to
throw out the glories of her dress. The brown-green sward is beneath
her, the river runs with noiseless mirth beside her, rushing with faint
music over sand and pebble to the ocean far below. Standing before her
is her lover, gazing at her with adoring eyes.
Yet all things in this passing world know an end. In one short moment
the perfect picture is spoiled. A huge black dog, bursting through the
underwood, flings himself lovingly upon Mona, threatening every moment
to destroy her toilet.
"It is Mr. Moore's retriever!" cries Mona, hurriedly, in a startled
tone. "I must run. Down, Fan! down! Oh, if he catches me here, in this
dress, what will he think? Quick, Geoffrey, give me my shawl!"
She tucks up her dignified train in a most undignified haste, while
Geoffrey covers up all the finery with the crimson shawl. The white
cloud is once more thrown over the dainty cap; all the pretty coloring
vanishes out of sight; and Mona, after one last lingering glance at
Geoffrey, follows its example. She, too, flies across the rural bridge
into the covert of her own small domain.
It is over; the curtain is down; the charming transformation-scene has
reached its end, and the fairy-queen doffing her radiant robes, descends
once more to the level of a paltry mortal.