HOW MONA GOES TO ANADALE--AND HOW SHE THERE SEES MANY THINGS AS YET TO
HER UNKNOWN.
About half-past two next day they start for Anadale. Not Violet, or
Captain Rodney, who have elected to go on a mission of their own, nor
Nicholas, who has gone up to London.
The frost lies heavy on the ground; the whole road, and every bush and
tree, sparkle brilliantly, as though during the hours when darkness lay
upon the earth the dread daughter of Chaos, as she traversed the expanse
of the firmament in her ebony chariot, had dropped heaven's diamonds
upon the land. The wintry sunshine lighting them up makes soft and
glorious the midday.
The hour is enchanting, the air almost mild; and every one feels half
aggrieved when the carriage, entering the lodge-gates, bears them
swiftly towards the massive entrance that will lead them into the house
and out of the cold.
But before they reach the hall door Geoffrey feels it his duty to bestow
upon them a word or two of warning.
"Now, look here," he says, impressively: "I hope nobody is going to
indulge in so much as a covert smile to-day." He glances severely at
Nolly, who is already wreathed in smiles. "Because the AEsthetic won't
have it. She wouldn't hear of it at any price. We must all be in tense!
If you don't understand what that means, Mona, you had better learn at
once. You are to be silent, rapt, lifted far above all the vulgar
commonplaces of life. You may, if you like, go into a rapture over a
colorless pebble, or shed tears of joy above a sickly lily; but avoid
ordinary admiration."
"The only time I shed tears," says Mr. Darling, irrelevantly, "for many
years, was when I heard of the old chap's death. And they were drops of
rich content. Do you know I think unconsciously he impregnated her with
her present notions; because he was as like an 'ancient Briton' himself
before he died as if he had posed for it."
"He was very eccentric, but quite correct," says Lady Rodney,
reprovingly.
"He was a man who never took off his hat," begins Geoffrey.
"But why?" asks Mona, in amaze. "Didn't he wear one?"
"Yes, but he always doffed it; and he never put one on like ordinary
mortals, he always donned it. You can't think what a difference it
makes."
"What a silly boy you are, Geoff!" says his wife, laughing.
"Thank you, darling," replies he, meekly.
"But what is Lady Lilias like? I did not notice her the other night,"
says Mona.
"She has got one nose and two eyes, just like every one else," says
Nolly. "That is rather disappointing, is it not? And she attitudinizes a
good deal. Sometimes she reclines full length upon the grass, with her
bony elbow well squared and her chin buried in her palm. Sometimes she
stands beside a sundial, with her head to one side, and a carefully
educated and very much superannuated peacock beside her. But I dare say
she will do the greyhound pose to-day. In summer she goes abroad with a
huge wooden fan with which she kills the bumble-bee as it floats by her.
And she gowns herself in colors that make one's teeth on edge. I am sure
it is her one lifelong regret that she must clothe herself at all, as
she has dreams of savage nakedness and a liberal use of the fetching
woad."
"My dear Oliver!" protests Lady Rodney, mildly.
"If she presses refreshments on you, Mona, say, 'No, thank you,' without
hesitation," says Geoffrey, with anxious haste, seeing they are drawing
near their journey's end. "Because if you don't she will compel you to
partake of metheglin and unleavened bread, which means sudden death.
Forewarned is forearmed. Nolly and I have done what we can for you."
"Is she by herself? Is there nobody living with her?" asks Mona,
somewhat nervously.
"Well, practically speaking, no. But I believe she has a sister
somewhere."
"'Sister Anne,' you mean?" says Nolly. "Oh, ay! I have seen her, though
as a rule she is suppressed. She is quite all she ought to be, and
irreproachable in every respect--unapproachable, according to some. She
is a very good girl, and never misses a Saint's Day by any chance, never
eats meat on Friday, or butter in Lent, and always confesses. But she is
not of much account in the household, being averse to 'ye goode olde
times.'"
At this point the house comes in view, and conversation languishes. The
women give a small touch to their furs and laces, the men indulge in a
final yawn that is to last them until the gates of Anadale close behind
them again.
"There is no moat, and no drawbridge, and no eyelet-hole through which
to spy upon the advance of the enemy," says Darling, in an impressive
whisper, just as they turn the curve that leads into the big gravel
sweep before the hall door. "A drawback, I own; but even the very
greatest are not infallible."
It is a lovely old castle, ancient and timeworn, with turrets rising in
unexpected places, and walls covered with drooping ivy, and gables dark
with age.
A terrace runs all along one side of the house, which is exposed to view
from the avenue. And here, with a gaunt but handsome greyhound beside
her, stands a girl tall and slim, yet beautifully moulded. Her eyes are
gray, yet might at certain moments be termed blue. Her mouth is large,
but not unpleasing. Her hair is quite dark, and drawn back into a loose
and artistic coil behind. She is clad in an impossible gown of sage
green, that clings closely to her slight figure, nay, almost
desperately, as though afraid to lose her.
One hand is resting lightly with a faintly theatrical touch upon the
head of the lean greyhound, the other is raised to her forehead as
though to shield her eyes from the bright sun.
Altogether she is a picture, which, if slightly suggestive of
artificiality, is yet very nearly perfection. Mona is therefore
agreeably surprised, and, being--as all her nation is--susceptible to
outward beauty, feels drawn towards this odd young woman in sickly
green, with her canine friend beside her.
Lady Lilias, slowly descending the stone steps with the hound Egbert
behind her, advances to meet Lady Rodney. She greets them all with a
solemn cordiality that impresses everybody but Mona, who is gazing
dreamily into the gray eyes of her hostess and wondering vaguely if her
lips have ever smiled. Her hostess in return is gazing at her, perhaps
in silent admiration of her soft loveliness.
"You will come first and see Philippa?" she says, in a slow peculiar
tone that sounds as if it had been dug up and is quite an antique in its
own way. It savors of dust and feudal days. Every one says he or she
will be delighted, and all try to look as if the entire hope of their
existence is centred in the thought that they shall soon lay longing
eyes on Philippa,--whose name in reality is Anne, but who has been
rechristened by her enterprising sister. Anne is all very well for
everyday life, or for Bluebeard's sister-in-law; but Philippa is art of
the very highest description. So Philippa she is, poor soul, whether she
likes it or not.
She has sprained her ancle, and is now lying on a couch in a small
drawing room as the Rodneys are ushered in. She is rather glad to see
them, as life with an "intense" sister is at times trying, and the
ritualistic curate is from home. So she smiles upon them, and manages to
look as amiable as plain people ever can look.
The drawing-room is very much the same as the ordinary run of
drawing-rooms, at which Mona feels distinct disappointment, until,
glancing at Lady Lilias, she notices a shudder of disgust run through
her frame.
"I really cannot help it," she explains to Mona, in her usual slow
voice, "it all offends me so. But Philippa must be humored. All these
glaring colors and hideous pieces of furniture take my breath away. And
the light----By and by you must come to some of my rooms; but first, if
you are not tired, I should like you to look at my garden; that is, if
you can endure the cold."
They don't want to endure the cold; but what can they say? Politeness
forbids secession of any kind, and, after a few words with the saintly
Philippa, they follow their guide in all meekness through halls and
corridors out into the garden she most affects.
And truly it is a very desirable garden, and well worth a visit. It is
like a thought from another age.
Yew-trees--grown till they form high walls--are cut and shaped in prim
and perfect order, some like the walls of ancient Troy, some like steps
of stairs. Little doors are opened through them, and passing in and out
one walks on for a mile almost, until one loses one's way and grows
puzzled how to extricate one's self from so charming a maze.
Here and there are basins of water on which lilies can lie and sleep
dreamily through a warm and sunny day. A sundial, old and green with
honorable age, uprears itself upon a chilly bit of sward. Near it lie
two gaudy peacocks sound asleep. All seems far from the world, drowsy,
careless, indifferent to the weals and woes of suffering humanity.
"It is like the garden of the palace where the Sleeping Beauty dwelt,"
whispers Mona to Nolly; she is delighted, charmed, lost in admiration.
"You are doing it beautifully: keep it up," whispers he back: "she'll
give you something nice if you sustain that look for five minutes
longer. Now!--she is looking; hurry--make haste--put it on again!"
"I am not pretending," says Mona, indignantly; "I am delighted: it is
the most enchanting place I ever saw. Really lovely."
"I didn't think it was in you," declares Mr. Darling, with wild but
suppressed admiration. "You would make your fortune on the stage. Keep
it up, I tell you; it couldn't be better."
"Is it possible you see nothing to admire?" says Mona, with intense
disgust.
"I do. More than I can express. I see you," retorts he; at which they
both give way to merriment, causing Geoffrey, who is walking with Lady
Lilias, to dodge behind her back and bestow upon them an annihilating
glance that Nolly afterwards describes as a "lurid glare."
The hound stalks on before them; the peacocks wake up and rend the air
with a discordant scream. Lady Lilias, coming to the sundial, leans her
arm upon it, and puts her head in the right position. A snail slowly
travelling across a broad ivy-leaf attracts her attention; she lifts it
slowly, leaf and all, and directs attention to the silvery trail it has
left behind it.
"How tender! how touching!" she says, with a pensive smile, raising her
luminous eyes to Geoffrey: whether it is the snail, or the leaf, or the
slime, that is tender and touching, nobody knows; and nobody dares ask,
lest he shall betray his ignorance. Nolly, I regret to say, gives way to
emotion of a frivolous kind, and to cover it blows his nose sonorously.
Whereupon Geoffrey, who is super-naturally grave, asks Lady Lilias if
she will walk with him as far as the grotto.
"How could you laugh?" says Mona, reproachfully.
"How couldn't I?" replies he. "Come; let us follow it up to the bitter
end."
"I never saw anything so clean as the walks," says Mona, presently:
"there is not a leaf or a weed to be seen, yet we have gone through so
many of them. How does she manage it?"
"Don't you know?" says Mr. Darling, mysteriously. "It is a secret, but I
know you can be trusted. Every morning early she has them carefully
swept, with tea-leaves to keep down the dust, and if the tea is strong
it kills the weeds."
Then they do the grotto, and then Lady Lilias once more leads the way
indoors.
"I want you to see my own work," she says, going up markedly to Mona. "I
am glad my garden has pleased you. I could see by your eyes how well you
appreciated it. To see the beautiful in everything, that is the only
true religion." She smiles her careful absent smile again as she says
this, and gazes earnestly at Mona. Perhaps, being true to her religion,
she is noting "the beautiful" in her Irish guest.
With Philippa they have some tea, and then again follow their
indefatigable hostess to a distant apartment that seems more or less to
jut out from the house, and was in olden days a tiny chapel or oratory.
It has an octagon chamber of the most uncomfortable description, but no
doubt artistic, and above all praise, according to some lights. To
outsiders it presents a curious appearance, and might by the unlearned
be regarded as a jumble of all ages, a make-up of objectionable bits
from different centuries; but to Lady Lilias and her sympathizers it is
simply perfection.
The furniture is composed of oak of the hardest and most severe. To sit
down would be a labor of anything but love. The chairs are strictly
Gothic. The table is a marvel in itself for ugliness and in utility.
There are no windows; but in their place are four unpleasant slits about
two yards in length, let into the thick walls at studiously unequal
distances. These are filled up with an opaque substance that perhaps in
the Middle Ages was called glass.
There is no grate, and the fire, which has plainly made up its mind not
to light, is composed of Yule-logs. The floor is shining with sand,
rushes having palled on Lady Lilias.
Mona is quite pleased. All is new, which in itself is a pleasure to her,
and the sanded floor carries her back on the instant to the old parlor
at home, which was their "best" at the Farm.
"This is nicer than anything," she says, turning in a state of childish
enthusiasm to Lady Lilias. "It is just like the floor in my uncle's
house at home."
"Ah! indeed! How interesting!" says Lady Lilias, rousing into something
that very nearly borders on animation. "I did not think there was in
England another room like this."
"Not in England, perhaps. When I spoke I was thinking of Ireland," says
Mona.
"Yes?" with calm surprise. "I--I have heard of Ireland, of course.
Indeed, I regard the older accounts of it as very deserving of thought;
but I had no idea the more elevated aspirations of modern times had
spread so far. So this room reminds you of--your uncle's?"
"Partly," says Mona. "Not altogether: there was always a faint odor of
pipes about Uncle Brian's room that does not belong to this."
"Ah! Tobacco! First introduced by Sir Walter Raleigh," murmurs Lady
Lilias, musingly. "Too modern, but no doubt correct and in keeping. Your
uncle, then,"--looking at Mona,--"is beyond question an earnest student
of our faith."
"A--student?" says Mona, in a degree puzzled.
Doatie and Geoffrey have walked to a distant slit. Nolly is gazing
vacantly through another, trying feebly to discern the landscape
beyond. Lady Rodney is on thorns. They are all listening to what Mona is
going to say next.
"Yes. A disciple, a searcher after truth," goes on Lady Lilias, in her
Noah's Ark tone. "By a student I mean one who studies, and arrives at
perfection--in time."
"I don't quite know," says Mona, slowly, "but what Uncle Brian
principally studies is--pigs!"
"Pigs!" repeats Lady Lilias, plainly taken aback.
"Yes; pigs!" says Mona, sweetly.
There is a faint pause,--so faint that Lady Rodney is unable to edge in
the saving clause she would fain have uttered. Lady Lilias, recovering
with wonderful spirit from so severe a blow, comes once more boldly to
the front. She taps her white taper fingers lightly on the table near
her, and says, apologetically,--the apology being meant for herself,--
"Forgive me that I showed surprise. Your uncle is more advanced than I
had supposed. He is right. Why should a pig be esteemed less lovely than
a stag? Nature in its entirety can know no blemish. The fault lies with
us. We are creatures of habit: we have chosen to regard the innocent pig
as a type of ugliness for generations, and now find it difficult to see
any beauty in it."
"Well; there isn't much, is there?" says Mona, pleasantly.
"No doubt education, and a careful study of the animal in question,
might betray much to us," says Lady Lilias. "We object to the uncovered
hide of the pig, and to his small eyes; but can they not see as well as
those of the fawn, or the delicate lapdog we fondle all day on our
knees? It is unjust that one animal should be treated with less regard
than another."
"But you couldn't fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing
every minute more and more mixed.
"No, no; but it should be treated with courtesy. We were speaking of the
size of its eyes. Why should they be despised? Do we not often in our
ignorance and narrow mindedness cling to paltry things and ignore the
truly great? The tiny diamond that lies in the hollow of our hands is
dear and precious in our sight, whilst we fail to find beauty in the
huge boulder that is after all far more worthy of regard, with its
lights and shades, its grand ruggedness, and the soft vegetable matter
that decks its aged sides, rendering their roughness beautiful."
Here she gets completely out of her depths, and stops to consider from
whence this train of thought sprung. The pig is forgotten,--indeed, to
get from pigs to diamonds and back again is not an easy matter,--and has
to be searched for again amidst the dim recesses of her brain, and if
possible brought to the surface.
She draws up her tall figure to its utmost height, and gazes at the
raftered ceiling to see if inspiration can be drawn from thence. But it
fails her.
"You were talking of pigs," says Mona, gently.
"Ah! so I was," says Lady Lilias, with a sigh of relief: she is quite
too intense to feel any of the petty vexations of ordinary mortals, and
takes Mona's help in excellent part. "Yes, I really think there is
loveliness in a pig when surrounded by its offspring. I have seen them
once or twice, and I think the little pigs--the--the----"
"Bonuvs," says Mona, mildly, going back naturally to the Irish term for
those interesting babies.
"Eh?" says Lady Lilias.
"Bonuvs," repeats Mona, a little louder, at which Lady Rodney sinks into
a chair, as though utterly overcome. Nolly and Geoffrey are convulsed
with laughter. Doatie is vainly endeavoring to keep them in order.
"Oh, is that their name?--a pretty one too--if--er--somewhat difficult,"
says Lady Lilias, courteously. "Well as I was saying, in spite of their
tails, they really are quite pretty."
At this Mona laughs unrestrainedly; and Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly,
says,--
"Dear Lady Lilias, I think we have at last nearly taken in all the
beauties of your charming room. I fear," with much suavity, "we must be
going."
"Oh, not yet," says Lady Lilias, with the nearest attempt at
youthfulness she has yet made. "Mrs. Rodney has not half seen all my
treasures."
Mrs. Rodney, however, has been foraging on her own account during this
brief interlude, and now brings triumphantly to light a little basin
filled with early snowdrops.
"Snowdrops,--and so soon," she says, going up to Lady Lilias, and
looking quite happy over her discovery. "We have none yet at the
Towers."
"Yes, they are pretty, but insignificant," says the AEsthete,
contemptuously. "Paltry children of the earth, not to be compared with
the lenten or the tiger lily, or the fiercer beauty of the sunflower, or
the hues of the unsurpassable thistle!"
"I am very ignorant I know," says Mrs. Geoffrey, with her sunny smile,
"but I think I should prefer a snowdrop to a thistle."
"You have not gone into it," says Lady Lilias, regretfully. "To you
Nature is as yet a blank. The exquisite purple of the stately thistle,
that by the scoffer is called dull, is not understood by you. Nor does
your heart swell beneath the influence of the rare and perfect green of
its leaves, which doubtless the untaught deemed soiled. To fully
appreciate the yieldings and gifts of earth is a power given only to
some." She bows her head, feeling a modest pride in the thought that she
belongs to the happy "some." "Ignorance," she says, sorrowfully, "is the
greatest enemy of our cause."
"I am afraid you must class me with the ignorant," says Mona, shaking
her pretty head. "I know nothing at all about thistles, except that
donkeys love them!"
_Is_ this, _can_ this be premeditated, or is it a fatal slip of the
tongue? Lady Rodney turns pale, and even Geoffrey and Nolly stand
aghast. Mona alone is smiling unconcernedly into Lady Lilias's eyes, and
Lady Lilias, after a brief second, smiles back at her. It is plain the
severe young woman in the sage-green gown has not even noticed the
dangerous remark.
"You must come again very soon to see me," she says to Mona, and then
goes with her all along the halls and passages, and actually stands upon
the door-steps until they drive away. And Mona kisses hands gayly to her
as they turn the corner of the avenue, and then tells Geoffrey that she
thinks he has been very hard on Lady Lilias, because, though she is
plainly quite mad, poor thing, there is certainly nothing to be disliked
about her.