HOW DISCUSSION WAXES RIFE--AND HOW NICHOLAS, HAVING MADE A SUGGESTION
THAT IS BITTER TO THE EARS OF HIS AUDIENCE, YET CARRIES HIS POINT
AGAINST ALL OPPOSITION.
"The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of night." The
dusk is slowly creeping up over all the land, the twilight is coming on
apace. As the day was, so is the gathering eve, sad and mournful, with
sounds of rain and sobbings of swift winds as they rush through the
barren beeches in the grove. The harbor bar is moaning many miles away,
yet its voice is borne by rude Boreas up from the bay to the walls of
the stately Towers, that neither rock nor shiver before the charges of
this violent son of "imperial AEolus."
There is a ghostly tapping (as of some departed spirit who would fain
enter once again into the old halls so long forgotten) against the
window pane. Doubtless it is some waving branch flung hither and thither
by the cruel tempest that rages without. Shadows come and go; and eerie
thoughts oppress the breast:--
"Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud."
"What a wretched evening!" says Violet, with a little shiver. "Geoffrey,
draw the curtains closer."
"A fit ending to a miserable day," says Lady Rodney, gloomily.
"Night has always the effect of making bad look worse," says Doatie with
a sad attempt at cheerfulness. "Never mind; morning will soon be here
again."
"But why should night produce melancholy?" says Nicholas, dreamily. "It
is but a reflection of the greater light, after all. What does Richter
call it? 'The great shadow and profile of day.' It is our own morbid
fancies that make us dread it."
"Nevertheless, close the curtains, Geoffrey, and ask Lady Rodney if she
would not like tea now," says Violet, _sotto voce_.
Somebody pokes the fire, until a crimson light streams through the room.
The huge logs are good-naturedly inclined, and burst their great sides
in an endeavor to promote more soothing thought.
"As things are so unsettled, Nicholas, perhaps we had better put off our
dance," says Lady Rodney, presently. "It may only worry you, and
distress us all."
"No. It will not worry me. Let us have our dance by all means," says
Nicholas, recklessly. "Why should we cave in, in such hot haste? It will
give us all something to think about. Why not get up tableaux? Our last
were rather a success. And to represent Nero fiddling, whilst Rome was
on fire, would be a very appropriate one for the present occasion."
He laughs a little as he says this, but there is no mirth in his laugh.
"Nicholas, come here," says Doatie, anxiously, from out the shadow in
which she is sitting, somewhat away from the rest. And Nicholas, going
to her finds comfort and grows calm again beneath the touch of the slim
little fingers she slips into his beneath the cover of the friendly
darkness, "I don't see why we shouldn't launch out into reckless
extravagance now our time threatens to be so short," says Jack, moodily.
"Let's us entertain our neighbors right royally before the end comes.
Why not wind up like the pantomimes, with showers of gold and rockets
and the gladsome noise of ye festive cracker?"
"What nonsense some people are capable of talking!" says Violet, with a
little shrug.
"Well, why not?" says Captain Rodney, undaunted by this small snub. "It
is far more difficult to talk than sense. Any fellow can do that. If I
were to tell you that Nolly is sound asleep, and that if he lurches even
half a degree more to the right he will presently be lost to sight among
the glowing embers" (Nolly rouses himself with a start), "you would
probably tell me I was a very silly fellow to waste breath over such a
palpable fact, but it would be sense nevertheless. I hope I haven't
disturbed you, Nolly? On such a night as this a severe scorching would
perhaps be a thing to be desired."
"Thanks. I'll put it off for a night or two," says Nolly, sleepily.
"Besides, I don't believe I _was_ talking nonsense," goes on Jack in an
aggrieved tone. "My last speech had very little folly in it. I feel the
time is fast approaching when we sha'n't have money even to meet our
tailors' bills."
"'In the midst of life we are in debt,'" says Nolly, solemnly. Which is
the best thing he could have said, as it makes them all laugh in spite
of their pending misfortunes.
"Nolly is waking up. I am afraid we sha'n't have that _auto da fe_,
after all," says Jack in a tone of rich disappointment. "I feel as if we
are going to be done out of a good thing."
"What a day we're avin'," says Mr. Darling, disdaining to notice this
puerile remark. "It's been pouring since early dawn. I feel right down
cheap,--very nearly as depressed as when last night Nicholas stuck me
down to dance with the AEsthetic."
"Lady Lilias Eaton, you mean?" asks Lady Rodney. "That reminds me we are
bound to go over there to-morrow. At least, some of us."
"Mona must go," says Nicholas, quickly. "Lady Lilias made a point of it.
You will go, Mona?"
"I should very much like to go," says Mona, gently, and with some
eagerness. She has been sitting very quietly with her hands before her,
hardly hearing what is passing around her,--lost, buried in thought.
"Poor infant! It is her first essay," says Nolly, pitifully.
"Wait till to-morrow evening, and see if you will feel as you do now.
Your cheerful complaisance in this matter is much to be admired. And
Nicholas should be grateful But I think you will find one dose of Lady
Lilias and her ancient Briton sufficient for your lifetime."
"You used to be tremendous friends there at one time," says Geoffrey;
"never out of the house."
"I used to stay there occasionally when old Lord Daintree was alive, if
you mean that," says Nolly, meekly. "As far as I can recollect, I was
always shipped there when naughty, or troublesome, or in the way at
home; and as a rule I was always in the way. There is a connection
between the Eatons and my mother, and Anadale saw a good deal of me off
and on during the holidays. It was a sort of rod in pickle, or dark
closet, that used to be held over my head when in disgrace."
"Lilias must have been quite a child then," says Lady Rodney.
"She was never a child: she was born quite grown up. But the ancient
Britons had not come into favor at that time: so she was a degree more
tolerable. Bless me," says Mr. Darling, with sudden animation, "what
horrid times I put in there. The rooms were ghastly enough to freeze the
blood in one's veins, and no candles would light 'em. The beds were all
four-posters, with heavy curtains round them, so high that one had to
get a small ladder to mount into bed. I remember one time--it was during
harvest, and the mowers were about--I suggested to Lord Daintree he
should get the men in to mow down the beds; but no one took any notice
of my proposal, so it fell to the ground. I was frightened to death, and
indeed was more in awe of the four-posters than of the old man, who
wasn't perhaps half bad."
Dorothy from her corner laughs gayly. "Poor old Noll," she says: "it was
his unhappy childhood that blighted his later years and made him the
melancholy object he is."
"Well, you know, it was much too much,--it was really," says Mr.
Darling, very earnestly. "Mrs. Geoffrey, won't you come to my rescue?".
Mrs. Geoffrey, thus addressed, rouses herself, and says, "What can I do
for you?" in a far-away tone that proves she has been in thought-land
miles away from every one. Through her brain some words are surging. Her
mind has gone back to that scene in the conservatory last night when she
and Paul Rodney had been together. What was it he had said? What were
the exact words he had used? She lays two fingers on her smooth white
brow, and lets a little frown--born only of bewildered thought--contract
its fairness.
"A scheme," he had said; and then in a moment the right words flash
across her brain. "A brilliant chance, a splendid scheme." What words
for an honest man to use! Could he be honest? Was there any flaw, any
damning clause anywhere in all this careful plot, so cleverly
constructed to bring ruin upon the heads of these people who have crept
into her tender heart?
"Where are you now, Mona?" asks Geoffrey, suddenly, laying his hand with
a loving pressure on her shoulder. "In Afghanistan or Timbuctoo? Far
from us, at least." There is a little vague reproach and uneasiness in
his tone.
"No; very near you,--nearer than you think," says Mona, quick to notice
any variation in his tone, awaking from her reverie with a start, and
laying one of her hands over his. "Geoffrey," earnestly, "what is the
exact meaning of the word 'scheme'? Would an honest man (surely he would
not) talk of scheming?" Which absurd question only shows how unlearned
she yet is in the great lessons of life.
"Well, that is rather a difficult question to answer," says Geoffrey.
"Monsieur de Lesseps, when dreaming out the Suez Canal, called it a
scheme; and he, I presume, is an honest man. Whereas, on the other side,
if a burglar were arranging to steal all your old silver, I suppose he
would call that a scheme too. What have you on the brain now, darling?
You are not going to defraud your neighbor, I hope."
"It is very strange," says Mona, with a dissatisfied sigh, "but I'll
tell you all about it by and by."
Instinct warns her of treachery; common sense belies the warning. To
which shall she give ear?
"Shall we ask the Carsons to our dance, Nicholas?" asks his mother, at
this moment.
"Ask any one you like,--any one, I mean, that is not quite impossible,"
says Nicholas.
"Edith Carson is very nearly so, I think."
"Is that the girl who spoke to you, Geoffrey, at the tea room door?"
asks Mona, with some animation.
"Yes. Girl with light, frizzy hair and green eye."
"A strange girl, I thought, but very pretty. Yes--was it English she
talked?"
"Of the purest," says Geoffrey.
"What did she say, Mona?" inquired Doatie.
"I am not sure that I can tell you,--at least not exactly as she said
it," says Mona, with hesitation. "I didn't quite understand her; but
Geoffrey asked her how she was enjoying herself, and she said it was
'fun all through;' and that she was amusing herself just then by hiding
from her partner, Captain Dunscombe, who was hunting for her 'all over
the shop,'--it was 'shop,' she said, wasn't it, Geoff? And that it did
her good to see him in a tearing rage, in fact on a regular 'champ,'
because it vexed Tricksy Newcombe, whose own particular he was in the
way of 'pals.'"
Everybody laughs. In fact, Nolly roars.
"Did she stop there?" he says: "that was unworthy of her. Breath for
once must have failed her, as nothing so trivial as want of words could
have influenced Miss Carson."
"You should have seen Mona," says Geoffrey. "She opened her eyes and her
lips, and gazed fixedly upon the lively Edith. Curiosity largely mingled
with awe depicted itself upon her expressive countenance. She was
wondering whether she should have to conquer that extraordinary jargon
before being pronounced fit for polite society."
"No, indeed," says Mona, laughing. "But it surely wasn't English, was
it? That is not the way everybody talks, surely."
"Everybody," says Geoffrey; "that is, all specially nice people. You
won't be in the swim at all, unless you take to that sort of thing."
"Then you are not a nice person yourself."
"I am far from it, I regret to say; but time cures all things, and I
trust to that and careful observation to reform me."
"And I am to say 'pals' for friends, and call it pure English?"
"It is not more extraordinary, surely, than calling a drunken young man
'tight,'" says Lady Rodney, with calm but cruel meaning.
Mona blushes painfully.
"Well, no; but that is pure Irish," says Geoffrey, unmoved. Mona, with
lowered head, turns her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger,
and repents bitterly that little slip of hers when talking with the
duchess last night.
"If I must ask Edith Carson, I shall feel I am doing something against
my will," says Lady Rodney.
"We have all to do that at times," says Sir Nicholas. "And there is
another person, mother, I shall be glad if you will send a card to."
"Certainly dear. Who is it?"
"Paul Rodney," replies he, very distinctly.
"Nicholas!" cries his mother, faintly: "this is too much!"
"Nevertheless, to oblige me," entreats he, hastily.
"But this is morbid,--a foolish pride," protests she, passionately,
while all the others are struck dumb at this suggestion from Nicholas.
Is his brain failing? Is his intellect growing weak, that he should
propose such a thing? Even Doatie, who as a rule supports Nicholas
through evil report and good, sits silent and aghast at his proposition.
"What has he done that he should be excluded?" demands Nicholas, a
little excitedly. "If he can prove a first right to claim this property,
is that a crime? He is our cousin: why should we be the only people in
the whole countryside to treat him with contempt? He has committed no
violation of the law, no vile sin has been laid to his charge beyond
this fatal one of wanting his own--and--and----"
He pauses. In the darkness a loving, clinging hand has again crept into
his, full of sweet entreaty, and by a gentle pressure has reduced him to
calmness.
"Ask him, if only to please me," he says, wearily.
"Everything shall be just as you wish it, dearest," says his mother,
with unwonted tenderness, and then silence falls upon them all.
The fire blazes up fiercely, and anon drops its flame and sinks into
insignificance once more. Again the words that bear some vague but as
yet undiscovered meaning haunt Mona's brain. "A splendid scheme." A vile
conspiracy, perhaps. Oh, that she might be instrumental in saving these
people from ruin, among whom her lot had been cast! But how weak her
arm! How insufficient her mind to cope with an emergency like this!