HOW MONA DANCES A COUNTRY DANCE BEFORE A HYPERCRITICAL AUDIENCE--AND HOW
MORE EYES THAN SHE WOTS OF MARK HER PERFORMANCE.
"I hope you have had a nice walk?" says Violet, politely, drawing her
skirts aside to make room for Mona, who had just come in.
It is quite half-past six; and though there is no light in the room,
save the glorious flames given forth by the pine logs that lie on the
top of the coals, still one can see that the occupants of the apartment
are dressed for dinner.
Miss Darling--Sir Nicholas's _fiancee_--and her brother are expected to
night; and so the household generally has dressed itself earlier than
usual to be in full readiness to receive them.
Lady Rodney and Violet are sitting over the fire, and now Mona joins
them, gowned in the blue satin dress in which she had come to meet
Geoffrey, not so many months ago, in the old wood behind the farm.
"Very nice," she says, in answer to Violet's question, sinking into the
chair that Miss Mansergh, by a small gesture, half languid, half kindly,
has pushed towards her, and which is close to Violet's own. "I went up
the avenue, and then out on the road for about half a mile."
"It is a very late hour for any one to be on the public road," says
Lady Rodney, unpleasantly, quite forgetting that people, as a rule, do
not go abroad in pale-blue satin gowns, and that therefore some time
must have elapsed between Mona's return from her walk and the donning of
her present attire. And so she overreaches herself, as clever people
will do, at times.
"It was two hours ago," says Mona, gently. "And then it was quite
daylight, or at least"--truthfully--"only the beginning of dusk."
"I think the days are lengthening," says Violet, quietly, defending Mona
unconsciously, and almost without knowing why. Yet in her heart--against
her will as it were--she is making room for this Irish girl, who, with
her great appealing eyes and tender ways, is not to be resisted.
"I had a small adventure," says Mona, presently, with suppressed gayety.
All her gayety of late has been suppressed. "Just as I came back to the
gate here, some one came riding by, and I turned to see who it was, at
which his horse--as though frightened by my sudden movement--shied
viciously, and then reared so near me as almost to strike me with his
fore-paws. I was frightened rather, because it was all so sudden, and
sprang to one side. Then the gentleman got down, and, coming to me,
begged my pardon. I said it didn't matter, because I was really
uninjured, and it was all my fault. But he seemed very sorry, and (it
was dusk as I told you, and I believe he is short sighted) stared at me
a great deal."
"Well?" says Violet, who is smiling, and seems to see a joke where Mona
fails to see anything amusing.
"When he was tired of staring, he said, 'I suppose I am speaking to----'
and then he stopped. 'Mrs. Rodney,' replied I; and then he raised his
hat, and bowed, and gave me his card. After that he mounted again, and
rode away."
"But who was this gentleman?" says Lady Rodney, superciliously. "No
doubt some draper from the town."
"No; he was not a draper," says Mona, gently, and without haste.
"Whoever he was, he hardly excelled in breeding," says Lady Rodney; "to
ask your name without an introduction! I never heard of such a thing.
Very execrable form, indeed. In your place I should not have given it.
And to manage his horse so badly that he nearly ran you down. He could
hardly be any one we know. Some petty squire, no doubt."
"No; not a petty squire," says Mona; "and I think you do know him. And
why should I be ashamed to tell my name to any one?"
"The question was strictly in bad taste," says Lady Rodney again. "No
well-bred man would ask it. I can hardly believe I know him. He must
have been some impossible person."
"He was the Duke of Lauderdale," says Mona, simply. "Here is his card."
A pause.
Lady Rodney is plainly disconcerted, but says nothing. Violet follows
suit, but more because she is thoroughly amused and on the point of
laughter, than from a desire to make matters worse.
"I hope you had your hat on," says Lady Rodney, presently, in a severe
tone, meant to cover the defeat. She had once seen Mona with the crimson
silk handkerchief on her head,--Irish fashion,--and had expressed her
disapproval of all such uncivilized headdresses.
"Yes; I wore my big Rubens hat, the one with----"
"I don't care to hear about the contents of your wardrobe," interrupts
Lady Rodney, with a slight but unkind shrug. "I am glad, at least, you
were not seen in that objectionable headdress you so often affect."
"Was it the Rubens hat with the long brown feather?" asks Violet,
sweetly, turning to Mona, as though compelled by some unknown force to
say anything that shall restore the girl to evenness of mind once more.
"Yes; the one with the brown feather," returns Mona, quickly, and with a
smile radiant and grateful, that sinks into Violet's heart and rests
there.
"You told the duke who you were?" breaks in Lady Rodney at this moment,
who is in one of her worst moods.
"Yes; I said I was Mrs. Rodney."
"Mrs. Geoffrey Rodney, would have been more correct. You forget your
husband is the youngest son. When Captain Rodney marries, _his_ wife
will be Mrs. Rodney."
"But surely until then Mona may lay claim to the title," says Violet,
quickly.
"I do not wish to lay claim to anything," says Mona, throwing up her
head with a little proud gesture,--"least of all to what does not by
right belong to me. To be Mrs. Geoffrey is all I ask."
She leans back in her chair, and brings her fingers together, clasping
them so closely that her very nails grow white. Her thin nostrils dilate
a little, and her breath comes quickly, but no angry word escapes her.
How can her lips give utterance to a speech that may wound the mother of
the man she loves!
Violet, watching her, notes the tumult in her mind, and, seeing how her
will gains mastery over her desire, honors her for her self-control.
Then Jack comes in, and Sir Nicholas, and later on Geoffrey.
"No one can say we are not in time," says Jack, gayly. "It is
exactly"--examining closely the ormolu-clock upon the mantelpiece--"one
hour before we can reasonably expect dinner."
"And three-quarters. Don't deceive yourself, my dear fellow: they can't
be here one moment before a quarter to eight."
"Then, in the meantime, Violet, I shall eat you," says Captain Rodney,
amiably, "just to take the edge off my appetite. You would be hardly
sufficient for a good meal!" He laughs and glances significantly at her
slight but charming figure, which is _petite_ but perfect, and then
sinks into a low chair near her.
"I hear this dance at the Chetwoodes' is to be rather a large affair,"
says Geoffrey, indifferently. "I met Gore to-day, and he says the
duchess is going, and half the county."
"Does he mean going himself?" says Nicholas, idly. "He is here to-day, I
know, but one never knows where he may be to-morrow, he is so erratic."
"He is a little difficult; but, on the whole, I think I like Sir Mark
better than most men," says Violet, slowly.
Whereupon Jack Rodney instantly conceives a sudden and uncalled for
dislike towards the man in question.
"Lilian is such a dear girl," says Lady Rodney; "she is a very general
favorite. I have no doubt her dance will be a great success."
"You are speaking of Lady Chetwoode? Was it her that called last week?"
asks Mona, timidly, forgetting grammar in her nervousness.
"Yes; it was her that called last week," returns her amiable
mother-in-law, laying an unmistakable stress upon the pronoun.
No one is listening, fortunately, to this gratuitous correction, or hot
words might have been the result. Sir Nicholas and Geoffrey are laughing
over some old story that has been brought to their recollection by this
idle chattering about the Chetwoodes' ball; Jack and Violet are deep in
some topic of their own.
"Well, she danced like a fairy, at all events, in spite of her size,"
says Sir Nicholas, alluding to the person the funny story had been
about.
"You dance, of course," says Lady Rodney, turning to Mona, a little
ashamed, perhaps, of her late rudeness.
"Oh, yes," says Mona, brightening even under this small touch of
friendliness. "I'm very fond of it, too. I can get through all the steps
without a mistake."
At this extraordinary speech, Lady Rodney stares in bewilderment.
"Ah! Walzes and polkas, you mean?" she says, in a puzzled tone.
"Eh?" says Mrs. Geoffrey.
"You can waltz?"
"Oh, no!" shaking her lovely head emphatically, with a smile. "It's
country dances I mean. Up the middle and down again, and all that,"
moving her hand in a soft undulating way as though keeping it in accord
with some music that is ringing in her brain. Then, sweetly, "Did _you_
ever dance a country dance?"
"Never!" says Lady Rodney, in a stony fashion. "I don't even know what
you mean."
"No?" arching her brows, and looking really sorry for her. "What a pity!
They all come quite naturally to me. I don't remember ever being taught
them. The music seemed to inspire me, and I really dance them very well.
Don't I Geoff?"
"I never saw your equal," says Geoffrey, who, with Sir Nicholas, has
been listening to the last half of the conversation, and who is plainly
suppressing a strong desire to laugh.
"Do you remember the evening you taught me the country dance that I said
was like an old-fashioned minuet? And what an apt pupil I proved! I
really think I could dance it now. By the by, my mother never saw one
danced. She"--apologetically--"has not been out much. Let us go through
one now for her benefit."
"Yes, let us," says Mona, gayly.
"Pray do not give yourselves so much trouble on my account," says Lady
Rodney, with intense but subdued indignation.
"It won't trouble us, not a _bit_," says Mrs. Geoffrey, rising with
alacrity. "I shall love it, the floor is so nice and slippery. Can any
one whistle?"
At this Sir Nicholas gives way and laughs out loud, whereon Mona laughs
too, though she reddens slightly, and says, "Well, of course the piano
will do, though the fiddle is best of all."
"Violet, play us something," says Geoffrey, who has quite entered into
the spirit of the thing, and who doesn't mind his mothers "horrors" in
the least, but remembers how sweet Mona used to look when going slowly
and with that quaint solemn dignity of hers "through her steps."
"I shall be charmed," says Violet; "but what is a country dance? Will
'Sir Roger' do?"
"No. Play anything monotonous, that is slow and dignified besides, and
it will answer; in fact, anything at all," says Geoffrey, largely, at
which Violet smiles and seats herself at the piano.
"Well, just wait till I tuck up the tail of my gown," says Mrs.
Geoffrey, airily flinging her pale-blue skirt over her white bare arm.
"You may as well call it a train; people like it better," says Geoffrey.
"I'm sure I don't know why, but perhaps it sounds better."
"There can be scarcely any question about that," says Lady Rodney,
unwilling to let any occasion pass that may permit a slap at Mona.
"Yet the Princess D---- always calls her train a 'tail,'" says Violet,
turning on her piano-stool to make this remark, which is balm to Mona's
soul: after which she once more concentrates her thoughts on the
instrument before her, and plays some odd old-fashioned air that suits
well the dance of which they have been speaking.
Then Geoffrey offers Mona his hand, and leads her to the centre of the
polished floor. There they salute each other in a rather Grandisonian
fashion, and then separate.
The light from the great pine fire streams over all the room, throwing a
rich glow upon the scene, upon the girl's flushed and earnest face, and
large happy eyes, and graceful rounded figure, betraying also the grace
and poetry of her every movement.
She stands well back from Geoffrey, and then, without any of the
foolish, unlovely bashfulness that degenerates so often into
awkwardness in the young, begins her dance.
It is a very curious and obsolete, if singularly charming, performance,
full of strange bows, and unexpected turnings, and curtseys dignified
and deep.
As she advances and retreats, with her _svelte_ figure drawn to its
fullest height, and her face eager and intent upon the business in hand,
and with her whole heart thrown apparently into the successful
accomplishment of her task, she is looking far lovelier than she herself
is at all aware.
Even Lady Rodney for the moment has fallen a prey to her unpremeditated
charms, and is leaning forward anxiously watching her. Jack and Sir
Nicholas are enchanted.
The shadows close them in on every side. Only the firelight illumines
the room, casting its most brilliant and ruddy rays upon its central
figures, until they look like beings conjured up from the olden times,
as they flit to and fro in the slow mysterious mazes of the dance.
Mona's waxen arms gleam like snow in the uncertain light. Each movement
of hers is full of grace and _verve_. Her entire action is perfect.
"Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light.
And, oh! she dances such a way,
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight."
The music, soft and almost mournful, echoes through the room; the feet
keep time upon the oaken floor; weird-like the two forms move through
the settled gloom.
The door at the farthest end of the room has been opened, and two people
who are as yet invisible stand upon the threshold, too surprised to
advance, too enthralled, indeed, by the sight before them to do so.
Only as Mrs. Geoffrey makes her final curtesy, and Geoffrey, with a
laugh, stoops forward to kiss her lips instead of her hand, as
acknowledgment of her earnest and very sweet performance, thereby
declaring the same to have come to a timely end, do the new-comers dare
to show themselves.
"Oh, how pretty!" cries one of them from the shadow as though grieved
the dance has come so quickly to an end "How lovely!"
At this voice every one starts! Mona, slipping her hand into Geoffrey's,
draws him to one side; Lady Rodney rises from her sofa, and Sir Nicholas
goes eagerly towards the door.
"You have come!" cries he, in a tone Mona has never heard before, and
then--there is no mistake about the fact that he and the shadow have
embraced each other heartily.
"Yes, we have indeed," says the same sweet voice again, which is the
merriest and softest voice imaginable, "and in very good time too, as it
seems. Nolly and I have been here for fully five minutes, and have been
so delighted with what we have seen that we positively could not stir.
Dear Lady Rodney, how d'ye do?"
She is a very little girl, quite half a head shorter than Mona, and, now
that one can see her more plainly as she stands on the hearthrug,
something more than commonly pretty.
Her eyes are large and blue, with a shade of green in them; her lips are
soft and mobile; her whole expression is _debonnaire_, yet full of
tenderness. She is brightness itself; each inward thought, be it of
grief or gladness, makes itself outwardly known in the constant changes
of her face. Her hair is cut above her forehead, and is quite golden,
yet perhaps it is a degree darker than the ordinary hair we hear
described as yellow. To me, to think of Dorothy Darling's head is always
to remind myself of that line in Milton's "Comus," where he speaks of
"The loose train of thy amber-drooping hair."
She is very sweet to look at, and attractive and lovable.
"Her angel's face
As the great eye of heaven shined bright,
And made a sunshine in the shady place."
Such is Nicholas's betrothed, to whom, as she gazes on her, all at once,
in the first little moment, Mona's whole soul goes out.
She has shaken hands with everybody, and has kissed Lady Rodney, and is
now being introduced to Mona.
"Your wife, Geoffrey?" she says, holding Mona's hand all the time, and
gazing at her intently. Then, as though something in Mrs. Geoffrey's
beautiful face attracts her strangely, she lifts her face and presses
her soft lips to Mona's cheek.
A rush of hope and gladness thrills Mona's bosom at this gentle touch.
It is the very first caress she has ever received from one of Geoffrey's
friends or relations.
"I think somebody might introduce me," says a plaintive voice from the
background, and Dorothy's brother, putting Dorothy a little to one side,
holds out his hand to Mona. "How d'ye do, Mrs. Rodney?" he says,
pleasantly. "There's a dearth of etiquette about your husband that no
doubt you have discovered before this. He has evidently forgotten that
we are comparative strangers; but we sha'n't be long so, I hope?"
"I hope not, indeed," says Mona giving him her hand with a very
flattering haste.
"You have come quite half an hour earlier than we expected you," says
Sir Nicholas, looking with fond satisfaction into Miss Darling's eyes.
"These trains are very uncertain."
"It wasn't the train so much," says Doatie, with a merry laugh, "as
Nolly: we weren't any time coming, because he got out and took the reins
from Hewson, and after that I rather think he took it out of your bays,
Nicholas."
"Well, I never met such a blab! I believe you'd peach on your
grandmother," says her brother, with supreme contempt. "I didn't do 'em
a bit of harm, Rodney I give you my word."
"I'll take it," says Nicholas; "but, even if you did, I should still owe
you a debt of gratitude for bringing Doatie here thirty minutes before
we hoped for her."
"Now make him your best curtsey, Dolly," says Mr. Darling, seriously;
"it isn't everyday you will get such a pretty speech as that."
"And see what we gained by our haste," says Dorothy, smiling at Mona.
"You can't think what a charming sight it was. Like an old legend or a
fairy-tale. Was it a minuet you were dancing?"
"Oh, no; only a country dance," says Mona, blushing.
"Well, it was perfect: wasn't it, Violet?"
"I wish I could have seen it better," returns Violet, "but, you see, I
was playing."
"I wish I could have seen it forever," says Mr. Darling, gallantly,
addressing Mona; "but all good things have an end too soon. Do you
remember some lines like these? they come to me just now:
When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that."
"Yes, I recollect; they are from the 'Winter's Tale.' I think," says
Mona, shyly; "but you say too much for me."
"Not half enough," says Mr. Darling, enthusiastically.
"Don't you think, sir, you would like to get ready for dinner?" says
Geoffrey, with mock severity. "You can continue your attentions to my
wife later on,--at your peril."
"I accept the risk," says Nolly, with much stateliness and forthwith
retires to make himself presentable.