HOW MONA PROVES HERSELF EQUAL--IF NOT SUPERIOR--TO DR. MARY WALKER; AND
HOW GEOFFREY, BY A BASE THREAT, CARRIES HIS POINT.
Old Brian Scully is in his parlor, and comes to meet them as they enter
the hall,--his pipe behind his back.
"Come in, come in," he begins, cheerily, and then, catching sight of
Mona's pale face, stops short. "Why, what has come to ye?" cries he,
aghast, glancing from his niece to Rodney's discolored shirt and torn
coat; "what has happened?"
"It was Tim Ryan," returns Mona, wearily, feeling unequal to a long
story just at present.
"Eh, but this is bad news!" says old Scully, evidently terrified and
disheartened by his niece's words. "Where will it all end? Come in,
Misther Rodney: let me look at ye, boy. No, not a word out of ye now
till ye taste something. 'Tis in bits ye are; an' a good coat it was
this mornin'. There's the whiskey, Mona, agra, an' there's the wather.
Oh! the black villain! Let me examine ye, me son. Why, there's blood on
ye! Oh! the murthering thief!"
So runs on the kindly farmer, smitten to the heart that such things
should be,--and done upon Rodney of all men. He walks round the young
man, muttering his indignation in a low tone, while helping him with
gentle care to remove his coat,--or at least what remains of that once
goodly garment that had for parent Mr. Poole.
"Where's the docther at all, at all?" says he, forcing Geoffrey into a
chair, and turning to Biddy, who is standing open-mouthed in the
doorway, and who, though grieved, is plainly finding some pleasure in
the situation. Being investigated, she informs them the "docther" is
to-night on the top of Carrigfoddha Mountain, and, literally, "won't be
home until morning."
"Now, what's to be done?" says old Brian, in despair. "I know, as well
as if ye tould me, it is Norry Flannigan! Just like those wimmen to be
always troublesome! Are ye sure Biddy?"
"Troth I am, sir. I see him goin' wid me own two eyes not an hour ago,
in the gig an' the white horse, wid the wan eye an' the loose
tail,--that looks for all the world as if it was screwed on to him. An'
'tisn't Norry is callin' for him nayther (though I don't say but she'll
be on the way), but Larry Moloney the sweep. 'Tis a stitch he got this
morning, an' he's gone intirely this time, the people say. An' more's
the pity too, for a dacent sowl he was, an' more nor a mortial sweep."
This eulogy on the departing Larry she delivers with much unction, and a
good deal of check apron in the corner of one eye.
"Never mind Larry," says the farmer, impatiently. "This is the seventh
time he has died this year. But think of Misther Rodney here. Can't ye
do something for him?"
"Sure Miss Mona can," says Biddy, turning to her young mistress, and
standing in the doorway in her favorite position,--that is, with her
bare arms akimbo, and her head to one side like a magpie. "She's raal
clever at dhressin' an' doctherin' an' that."
"Oh, no, I'm not clever," says Mona; "but"--nervously and with downcast
eyes, addressing Geoffrey--"I might perhaps be able to make you a little
more comfortable."
A strange feeling of shyness is weighing upon her. Her stalwart English
lover is standing close beside her, having risen from his chair with his
eyes on hers, and in his shirt-sleeves looking more than usually
handsome because of his pallor, and because of the dark circles that,
lying beneath his eyes, throw out their color, making them darker,
deeper, than is their nature. How shall she bare the arm of this young
Adonis?--how help to heal his wound? Oh, Larry Moloney, what hast thou
not got to answer for!
She shrinks a little from the task, and would fain have evaded it
altogether; though there is happiness, too, in the thought that here is
an occasion on which she may be of real use to him. Will not the very
act itself bring her nearer to him? Is it not sweet to feel that it is
in her power to ease his pain? And is she not only doing what a tender
wife would gladly do for her husband?
Still she hesitates, though betraying no vulgar awkwardness or silly
_mauvaise honte_. Indeed, the only sign of emotion she does show is a
soft slow blush, that, mounting quickly, tips even her little ears with
pink.
"Let her thry," says old Brian, in his soft, Irish brogue, that comes
kindly from his tongue. "She's mighty clever about most things."
"I hardly like to ask her to do it," says the young man, divided between
an overpowering desire to be made "comfortable," as she has expressed
it, and a chivalrous fear that the sight of the nasty though harmless
flesh-wound will cause her some distress. "Perhaps it will make you
unhappy,--may shock you," he says to her, with some anxiety.
"No, it will not shock me," returns Mona, quietly; whereupon he sits
down, and Biddy puts a basin on the table, and Mona, with trembling
fingers, takes a scissors, and cuts away the shirt-sleeve from his
wounded arm. Then she bathes it.
After a moment she turns deadly pale, and says, in a faint tone, "I know
I am hurting you: I _feel_ it." And in truth I believe the tender heart
does feel it, much more than he does. There is an expression that
amounts to agony in her beautiful eyes.
"_You_ hurt me!" replies he, in a peculiar tone, that is not so peculiar
but it fully satisfies her. And then he smiles, and, seeing old Brian
has once more returned to the fire and his pipe, and Biddy has gone for
fresh water, he stoops over the reddened basin, and, in spite of all the
unromantic surroundings, kisses her as fondly as if roses and moonbeams
and dripping fountains and perfumed exotics were on every side. And
this, because true romance--that needs no outward fire to keep it
warm--is in his heart.
And now Mona knows no more nervousness, but with a steady and practised
hand binds up his arm, and when all is finished pushes him gently
(_very_ gently) from her, and "with heart on her lips, and soul within
her eyes," surveys with pride her handiwork.
"Now I hope you will feel less pain," she says, with modest triumph.
"I feel no pain," returns he, gallantly.
"Well said!" cries the old man from the chimney-corner, slapping his
knee with delight; "well said, indeed! It reminds me of the ould days
when we'd swear to any lie to please the lass we loved. Ay, very good,
very good."
At this Mona and Geoffrey break into silent laughter, being overcome by
the insinuation about lying.
"Come here an' sit down, lad," says old Scully, unknowing of their
secret mirth, "an' tell me all about it, from start to finish,--that
Ryan's a thundering rogue,--while Mona sees about a bed for ye."
"Oh, no," says Rodney, hastily. "I have given quite too much trouble
already. I assure you I am quite well enough now to ride back again to
Bantry."
"To Bantry," says Mona, growing white again,--"to-night! Oh, do you want
to kill me and yourself?"
"She has reason," says the old man, earnestly and approvingly, rounding
his sentence after the French fashion, as the Irish so often will: "she
has said it," he goes on, "she always does say it; she has brains, has
my colleen. Ye don't stir out of this house to-night, Mr. Rodney; so
make up yer mind to it. With Tim Ryan abroad, an' probably picked up and
carried home by this time, the counthry will be all abroad, an' no safe
thravellin' for man or baste. Here's a cosey sate for ye by the fire:
sit down, lad, an' take life aisy."
"If I was quite sure I shouldn't be dreadfully in the way," says
Geoffrey, turning to Mona, she being mistress of the ceremonies.
"Be quite sure," returns she, smiling.
"And to-morrow ye can go into Banthry an' prosecute that scoundrel
Ryan," says Scully, "an' have yer arm properly seen afther."
"So I can," says Geoffrey. Then, not for any special reason, but
because, through very love of her, he is always looking at her, he turns
his eyes on Mona. She is standing by the table, with her head bent down.
"Yes, to-morrow you can have your arm re-dressed," she says, in a low
tone, that savors of sadness; and then he knows she does not want him to
prosecute Ryan.
"I think I'll let Ryan alone," he says, instantly, turning to her uncle
and addressing him solely, as though to prove himself ignorant of Mona's
secret wish. "I have given him enough to last him for some time." Yet
the girl reads him him through and through, and is deeply grateful to
him for this quick concession to her unspoken desire.
"Well, well, you're a good lad at heart," says Scully, glad perhaps in
his inmost soul, as his countrymen always are and will be when a
compatriot cheats the law and escapes a just judgment. "Mona, look after
him for awhile, until I go an' see that lazy spalpeen of mine an' get
him to put a good bed undher Mr. Rodney's horse."
When the old man has gone, Mona goes quietly up to her lover, and,
laying her hand upon his arm,--a hand that seems by some miraculous
means to have grown whiter of late,--says, gratefully,--
"I know why you said that about Ryan, and I thank you for it. I should
not like to think it was your word had transported him."
"Yet, I am letting him go free that he may be the perpetrator of even
greater crimes."
"You err, nevertheless, on the side of mercy, if you err at all;
and--perhaps there may be no other crimes. He may have had his lesson
this evening,--a lasting one. To-morrow I shall go to his cabin,
and----"
"Now, once for all, Mona," interrupts he, with determination, "I
strictly forbid you ever to go to Ryan's cottage again."
It is the first time he has ever used the tone of authority towards her,
and involuntarily she shrinks from him, and glances up at him from under
her long lashes in a half frightened, half-reproachful fashion, as might
an offended child.
Following her, he takes both her hands, and, holding them closely, draws
her back to her former position beside him.
"Forgive me: it was an ugly word," he says, "I take it back. I shall
never forbid you to do anything, Mona, if my doing so must bring that
look into your eyes. Yet surely there are moments in every woman's life
when the man who loves her, and whom she loves, may claim from her
obedience, when it is for her own good. However, let that pass. I now
entreat you not to go again to Ryan's cabin."
Releasing her hands from his firm grasp, the girl lays them lightly
crossed upon his breast, and looks up at him with perfect trust,--
"Nay," she says, very sweetly and gravely, "you mistake me. I am glad to
obey you. I shall not go to Ryan's house again."
There is both dignity and tenderness in her tone. She gazes at him
earnestly for a moment, and then suddenly slips one arm round his neck.
"Geoffrey," she says with a visible effort.
"Yes, darling."
"I want you to do something for my sake."
"I will do anything, my own."
"It is for my sake; but it will break my heart."
"Mona! what are you going to say to me?"
"I want you to leave Ireland--not next month, or next week, but at once.
To-morrow, if possible."
"My darling, why?"
"Because you are not safe here: your life is in danger. Once Ryan is
recovered, he will not be content to see you living, knowing his life is
in your hands; every hour you will be in danger. Whatever it may cost
me, you must go."
"That's awful nonsense, you know," says Rodney, lightly. "When he sees I
haven't taken any steps about arresting him, he will forget all about
it, and bear no further ill will."
"You don't understand this people as I do. I tell you he will never
forgive his downfall the other night, or the thought that he is in your
power."
"Well, at all events I shan't go one moment before I said I should,"
says Rodney.
"It is now my turn to demand obedience," says Mona, with a little wan
attempt at a smile. "Will you make every hour of my life unhappy? Can I
live in the thought that each minute may bring me evil news of you,--may
bring me tidings of your death?" Here she gives way to a passionate
burst of grief, and clings closer to him, as though with her soft arms
to shield him from all danger. Her tears touch him.
"Well, I will go," he says, "on one condition,--that you come with me."
"Impossible!" drawing back from him. "How could I be ready? and,
besides, I have said I will not marry you until a year goes by. How can
I break my word?"
"That word should never have been said. It is better broken."
"Oh, no."
"Very well. I shall not ask you to break it. But I shall stay on here.
And if," says this artful young man, in a purposely doleful tone,
"anything _should_ happen, it will----"
"Don't say it! don't!" cries Mona, in an agony, stopping his mouth with
her hand. "Do not! Yes, I give in. I will go with you. I will marry you
any time you like, the sooner the better,"--feverishly; "anything to
save your life!"
This is hardly complimentary, but Geoffrey passes it over.
"This day week, then," he says, having heard, and taken to heart the
wisdom of, the old maxim about striking while the iron is hot.
"Very well," says Mona, who is pale and thoughtful.
And then old Brian comes in, and Geoffrey opens out to him this
newly-devized plan; and after a while the old farmer, with tears in his
eyes, and a strange quiver in his voice that cuts through Mona's heart,
gives his consent to it, and murmurs a blessing on this hasty marriage
that is to deprive him of all he best loves on earth.
And so they are married, and last words are spoken, and adieux said, and
sad tears fall, and for many days her own land knows Mona no more.
And that night, when she is indeed gone, a storm comes up from the sea,
and dashes the great waves inward upon the rocky coast. And triumphantly
upon their white bosoms the sea-mews ride, screaming loudly their wild
sweet song that mingles harmoniously with the weird music of the winds
and waves.
And all the land is rich with angry beauty beneath the rays of the cold
moon, that
"O'er the dark her silver mantle throws;"
and the sobbing waves break themselves with impotent fury upon the giant
walls of granite that line the coast, and the clouds descend upon the
hills, and the sea-birds shriek aloud, and all nature seems to cry for
Mona.
But to the hill of Carrickdhuve, to sit alone and gaze in loving silence
on the heaven-born grandeur of earth and sky and sea, comes Mona Scully
no more forever.