HOW THE TOWERS WAKES INTO LIFE--AND HOW MONA SHOWS THE LIBRARY TO PAUL
RODNEY.
Lights are blazing, fiddles are sounding; all the world is abroad
to-night. Even still, though the ball at the Towers has been opened long
since by Mona and the Duke of Lauderdale, the flickering light of
carriage-lamps is making the roads bright, by casting tiny rays upon the
frosted ground.
The fourth dance has come to an end; cards are full; every one is
settling down to work in earnest; already the first touch of
satisfaction or of carefully-suppressed disappointment is making itself
felt.
Mona, who has again been dancing with the duke, stopping near where the
duchess is sitting, the latter beckons her to her side by a slight wave
of her fan. To the duchess "a thing of beauty is a joy forever," and to
gaze on Mona's lovely face and admire her tranquil but brilliant smile
gives her a strange pleasure.
"Come and sit by me. You can spare me a few minutes," she says, drawing
her ample skirts to one side. Mona, taking her hand from Lauderdale's
arm, drops into the proffered seat beside his mother, much to that young
man's chagrin, who, having inherited the material hankering after that
"delightful prejudice," as Theocritus terms beauty, is decidedly _epris_
with Mrs. Geoffrey, and takes it badly being done out of his
_tete-a-tete_ with her.
"Mrs. Rodney would perhaps prefer to dance, mother," he says, with some
irritation.
"Mrs. Rodney will not mind wasting a quarter of an hour on an old
woman," says the duchess, equably.
"I am not so sure of that," says Mona, with admirable tact and an
exquisite smile, "but I shouldn't mind spending an _hour_ with you."
Lauderdale makes a little face, and tells himself secretly "all women
are liars," but the duchess is very pleased, and bends her friendliest
glance upon the pretty creature at her side, who possesses that greatest
of all charms, inability to notice the ravages of time.
Perhaps another reason for Mona's having found such favor in the eyes of
"the biggest woman in our shire, sir," lies in the fact that she is in
many ways so totally unlike all the other young women with whom the
duchess is in the habit of associating. She is _naive_ to an
extraordinary degree, and says and does things that might appear _outre_
in others, but are so much a part of Mona that it neither startles nor
offends one when she gives way to them.
Just now, for example, a pause occurring in the conversation, Mona,
fastening her eyes upon her Grace's neck, says, with genuine
admiration,--
"What a lovely necklace you are wearing!"
To make personal remarks, we all know, is essentially vulgar, is indeed
a breach of the commonest show of good breeding; yet somehow Mrs.
Geoffrey's tone does not touch on vulgarity, does not even belong to the
outermost skirts of ill-breeding. She has an inborn gentleness of her
own, that carries her safely over all social difficulties.
The duchess is amused.
"It is pretty, I think," she says. "The duke," with a grave look, "gave
it to me just two years after my son was born."
"Did he?" says Mona. "Geoffrey gave me these pearls," pointing to a
pretty string round her own white neck, "a month after we were married.
It seems quite a long time ago now," with a sigh and a little smile.
"But your opals are perfect. Just like the moonlight. By the by," as if
it has suddenly occurred to her, "did you ever see the lake by
moonlight? I mean from the mullioned window in the north gallery?"
"The lake here? No," says the duchess.
"Haven't you?" in surprise. "Why it is the most enchanting thing in the
world. Oh, you must see it: you will be delighted with it. Come with me,
and I will show it to you," says Mona, eagerly, rising from her seat in
her impulsive fashion.
She is plainly very much in earnest, and has fixed her large expressive
eyes--lovely as loving--with calm expectancy upon the duchess. She has
altogether forgotten that she is a duchess (perhaps, indeed, has never
quite grasped the fact), and that she is an imposing and portly person
not accustomed to exercise of any description.
For a moment her Grace hesitates, then is lost. It is to her a new
sensation to be taken about by a young woman to see things. Up to this,
it has been she who has taken the young women about to see things. But
Mona is so openly and genuinely anxious to bestow a favor upon her to do
her, in fact, a good turn, that she is subdued, sweetened, nay, almost
flattered, by this artless desire to please her for "love's sake" alone.
She too rises, lays her hand on Mona's arm, and walks through the long
room, and past the county generally, to "see the lake by moonlight." Yet
it is not for the sake of gazing upon almost unrivalled scenery she
goes, but to please this Irish girl, whom so very few can resist.
"Where has Mona taken the duchess?" asks Lady Rodney of Sir Nicholas
half an hour later.
"She took her to see the lake. Mona, you know, raves about it, when the
moon lights it up.
"She is very absurd, and more troublesome and unpleasant than anybody I
ever had in my house. Of course the duchess did not want to see the
water. She was talking to old Lord Dering about the drainage question,
and seemed quite happy, when that girl interfered. Common courtesy
compelled her, I suppose, to say yes to--Mona's--proposition."
"I hardly think the duchess is the sort of woman to say yes when she
meant no," says Nicholas, with a half smile. "She went because it so
pleased her, and for no other reason. I begin to think, indeed, that
Lilian Chetwoode is rather out of it, and that Mona is the first
favorite at present. She has evidently taken the duchess by storm."
"Why not say the duke too?" says his mother, with a cold glance, to whom
praise of Mona is anything but "cakes and ale." "Her flirtation with him
is very apparent. It is disgraceful. Every one is noticing and talking
about it. Geoffrey alone seems determined to see nothing! Like all
under-bred people, she cannot know satisfaction unless perched upon the
topmost rung of the ladder."
"You are slightly nonsensical when on the subject of Mona," says Sir
Nicholas, with a shrug. "Intrigue and she could not exist in the same
atmosphere. She is to Lauderdale what she is to everyone else,--gay,
bright, and utterly wanting in self-conceit. I cannot understand how it
is that you alone refuse to acknowledge her charms. To me she is like a
little soft sunbeam floating here and there and falling into the hearts
of those around her, carrying light, and joy, and laughter, and merry
music with her as she goes."
"You speak like a lover," says Lady Rodney, with an artificial laugh.
"Do you repeat all this to Dorothy? She must find it very interesting."
"Dorothy and I are quite agreed about Mona," replies he, calmly. "She
likes her as much as I do. As to what you say about her encouraging
Lauderdale's attentions, it is absurd. No such evil thought could enter
her head."
At this instant a soft ringing laugh, that once heard is not easily
forgotten, comes from an inner room, that is carefully curtained and
delicately lighted, and smites upon their ears.
It is Mona's laugh. Raising their eyes, both mother and son turn their
heads hastily (and quite involuntarily) and gaze upon the scene beyond.
They are so situated that they can see into the curtained chamber and
mark the picture it contains. The duke is bending over Mona in a manner
that might perhaps be termed by an outsider slightly _empresse_, and
Mona is looking up at him, and both are laughing gayly,--Mona with all
the freshness of unchecked youth, the duke with such a thorough and
wholesome sense of enjoyment as he has not known for years.
Then Mona rises, and they both come to the entrance of the small room,
and stand where Lady Rodney can overhear what they are saying.
"Oh! so you can ride, then," says Lauderdale, alluding probably to the
cause of his late merriment.
"Sure of course," says Mona. "Why, I used to ride the colts barebacked
at home."
Lady Rodney shudders.
"Sometimes I long again for a mad, wild gallop straight across country,
where nobody can see me,--such as I used to have," goes on Mona, half
regretfully.
"And who allowed you to risk your life like that?" asks the duke, with
simple amazement. His sister before she married was not permitted to
cross the threshold without a guardian at her side. This girl is a
revelation.
"No one," says Mona. "I had no need to ask permission for anything. I
was free to do what I wished."
She looks up at him again with some fire in her eyes and a flush upon
her cheeks. Perhaps some of the natural lawlessness of her kindred is
making her blood warm. So standing, however, she is the very embodiment
of youth and love and sweetness, and so the duke admits.
"Have you any sisters?" he asks, vaguely.
"No. Nor brothers. Only myself.
"'I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too!'"
She nods her head gayly as she says this, being pleased at her apt
quotation from the one book she has studied very closely.
The duke loses his head a little.
"Do you know," he says, slowly, staring at her the while, "you are the
most beautiful woman I ever saw?"
"Ah! so Geoffrey says," returns she, with a perfectly unembarrassed and
pleased little laugh, while a great gleam of tender love comes into her
eyes as she makes mention of her husband's name. "But I really am not
you know."
This answer, being so full of thorough unconsciousness and childish
_naivete_, has the effect of reducing the duke to common sense once
more, and of making him very properly ashamed of himself. He feels,
however, rather out of it for a minute or two, which feeling renders him
silent and somewhat _distrait_. So Mona, flung upon her own resources,
looks round the room seeking for inspiration, and presently finds it.
"What a disagreeable-looking man that is over there!" she says: "the man
with the shaggy beard, I mean, and the long hair."
She doesn't want in the very least to know who he is, but thinks it her
duty to say something, as the silence being protracted grows
embarrassing.
"The man with the mane? that is Griffith Blount. The most objectionable
person any one could meet, but tolerated because his tongue is so awful.
Do you know Colonel Graves? No! Well, he has a wife calculated to
terrify the bravest man into submission, and last year when he was going
abroad Blount met him, and asked him before a roomful 'if he was going
for pleasure, or if he was going to take his wife with him.' Neat,
wasn't it? But I don't remember hearing that Graves liked it."
"It was very unkind," says Mona; "and he has a hateful face."
"He has," says the duke. "But he has his reward, you know: nobody likes
him. By the by, what horrid bad times they are having in your
land!--ricks of hay burning nightly, cattle killed, everybody boycotted,
and small children speared!"
"Oh, no, not that," says Mona. "Poor Ireland! Every one either laughs at
her or hates her. Though I like my adopted country, still I shall always
feel for old Erin what I could never feel for another land."
"And quite right too," says Lauderdale. "You remember what Scott says:
"'Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!'"
"Oh, yes, lots of 'em," says Mr. Darling, who has come suddenly up
beside them: "for instance, I don't believe I ever said it in all my
life, either to myself or to any one else. Are you engaged, Mrs.
Geoffrey? And if not, may I have this dance?"
"With pleasure," says Mona.
* * * * *
Paul Rodney, true to his word, has put in an appearance, much to the
amazement of many in the room. Almost as Mona's dance with Nolly is at
an end, he makes his way to her, and asks her to give him the next.
Unfortunately, she is not engaged for it, and, being unversed in polite
evasions, she says yes, quietly, and is soon floating round the room
with him.
After one turn she stops abruptly, near an entrance.
"Tired?" says Rodney, fixing his black, gloomy eyes upon her.
"A little," says Mona. It is perhaps the nearest approach to a
falsehood she has ever made.
"Perhaps you would rather rest for a while. Do you know this is the
first time I have ever been inside the Towers?" He says this as one
might who is desirous of making conversation, yet there is a covert
meaning in his tone. Mona is silent. To her it seems a base thing that
he should have accepted the invitation at all.
"I have heard the library is a room well worth seeing," goes on the
Australian, seeing she will not speak.
"Yes; every one admires it. It is very old. You know one part of the
Towers is older than all the rest."
"I have heard so. I should like to see the library," says Paul, looking
at her expectantly.
"You can see it now if you wish," says Mona, quickly, the thought that
she may be able to entertain him in some fashion that will not require
conversation is dear to her. She therefore takes his arm, and leads him
out of the ballroom, and across the halls into the library, which is
brilliantly lighted, but just at this moment empty.
I forget if I described it before, but it is a room quite perfect in
every respect, a beautiful room, oak-panelled from floor to ceiling,
with this peculiarity about it, that whereas three of the walls have
their panels quite long, without a break from top to bottom, the
fourth--that is, the one in which the fireplace has been inserted--has
the panels of a smaller size, cut up into pieces from about one foot
broad to two feet long.
The Australian seems particularly struck with this fact. He stares in a
thoughtful fashion at the wall with the small panels, seeming blind to
the other beauties of the room.
"Yes, it is strange why that wall should be different from the others,"
Mona says, rather glad that he appears interested in something besides
herself. "But it is altogether quite a nice old room, is it not?"
"It is," replies he, absently. Then, below his breath, "and well worth
fighting for."
But Mona does not hear this last addition; she is moving a chair a
little to one side, and the faint noise it makes drowns the sound of his
voice. This perhaps is as well.
She turns up one of the lamps, whilst Rodney still continues his
contemplation of the wall before him. Conversation languishes, then
dies. Mona, raising her hand to her lips, suppresses valiantly a yawn.
"I hope you are enjoying yourself," she says, presently, hardly knowing
what else to say.
"Enjoying myself?--No, I never do that," says Rodney, with unexpected
frankness.
"You can hardly mean that?" says Mona, with some surprise.
"I do. Just now," looking at her, "I am perhaps as near enjoyment as I
can be. But I have not danced before to-night. Nor should I have danced
at all had you been engaged. I have forgotten what it is to be
light-hearted."
"But surely there must be moments when----"
"I never have such moments," interrupts he moodily.
"Dear me! what a terribly unpleasant young man!" thinks Mona, at her
wits' end to know what to say next. Tapping her fingers in a perplexed
fashion on the table nearest her, she wonders when he will cease his
exhaustive survey of the walls and give her an opportunity of leaving
the room.
"But this is very sad for you, isn't it?" she says, feeling herself in
duty bound to say something.
"I dare say it is; but the fact remains. I don't know what is the matter
with me. It is a barren feeling,--a longing, it may be, for something I
can never obtain."
"All that is morbid," says Mona: "you should try to conquer it. It is
not healthy."
"You speak like a book," says Rodney, with an unlovely laugh; "but
advice seldom cures. I only know that I have learned what stagnation
means. I may alter in time, of course, but just at present I feel that
'My night has no eve,
And my day has no morning.'
At home--in Sydney, I mean--the life was different. It was free,
unfettered, and in a degree lawless. It suited me better."
"Then why don't you go back?" suggests Mona, simply.
"Because I have work to do here," retorts he, grimly. "Yet ever since I
first set foot on this soil, contentment has gone from me. Abroad a man
lives, here he exists. There, he carries his life in his hand, and
trusts to his revolver rather than to the most learned of counsels, but
here all is on another footing."
"It is to be regretted you cannot like England, as you have made up your
mind to live in it; and yet I think----" She pauses.
"Yes--you think; go on," says Rodney, gazing at her attentively.
"Well, then, I think it is only _just_ you should be unhappy," says
Mona, with some vehemence. "Those who seek to scatter misery broadcast
among their fellows should learn to taste of it themselves."
"Why do you accuse me of such a desire?" asks he, paling beneath her
indignation, and losing courage because of the unshed tears that are
gleaming in her eyes.
"When you gain your point and find yourself master here, you will know
you have made not only one, but many people miserable."
"You seem to take my success in this case as a certainty," he says, with
a frown. "I may fail."
"Oh, that I could believe so!" says Mona, forgetful of manners,
courtesy, everything, but the desire to see those she loves restored to
peace.
"You are candor itself," returns he, with a short laugh, shrugging his
shoulders. "Of course I am bound to hope your wish may be fulfilled. And
yet I doubt it. I am nearer my object to-night than I have ever been
before; and," with a sardonic smile, "yours has been the hand to help me
forward."
Mona starts, and regards him fixedly in a puzzled, uncertain manner.
What he can possibly mean is unknown to her; but yet she is aware of
some inward feeling, some instinct such as animals possess, that warns
her to beware of him. She shrinks from him, and in doing so a slight
fold of her dress catches in the handle of a writing-table, and detains
her.
Paul, dropping on his knees before her, releases her gown; the fold is
in his grasp, and still holding it he looks up at her, his face pale and
almost haggard.
"If I were to resign all hope of gaining the Towers, if I were to
consent to leave your people still in possession," he says,
passionately, but in a low tone, "should I earn one tender thought in
your heart? Speak, Mona! speak!"
I am sure at even this supreme moment it never enters Mona's brain that
the man is actually making love to her. A deep pity for him fills her
mind. He is unhappy, justly so, no doubt, but yet unhappy. A sure
passport to her heart.
"I do not think unkindly of you," she says, gently, but coldly. "And do
as your conscience dictates, and you will gain not only my respect, but
that of all men."
"Bah!" he says, impatiently, rising from the ground and turning away.
Her answer has frozen him again, has dried up the momentary desire for
her approbation above all others that only a minute ago had agitated his
breast.
At this moment Geoffrey comes into the room and up to Mona. He takes no
notice whatever of her companion, "Mona, will you come and sing us
something?" he says, as naturally as though the room is empty. "Nolly
has been telling the duchess about your voice, and she wants to hear
you. Anything simple, darling,"--seeing she looks a little distressed at
the idea: "you sing that sort of thing best."
"I hardly think our dance is ended yet, Mrs. Rodney," says the
Australian, defiantly, coming leisurely forward, his eyes bent somewhat
insolently upon Geoffrey.
"You will come, Mona, to oblige the duchess," says Geoffrey, in exactly
as even a tone as if the other had never spoken. Not that he cares in
the very least about the duchess; but he is determined to conquer here,
and is also desirous that all the world should appreciate and admire the
woman he loves.
"I will come, of course," says Mona, nervously, "but I am afraid she
will be disappointed. You will excuse me, Mr. Rodney, I am sure,"
turning graciously to Paul, who is standing with folded arms in the
background.
"Yes, I excuse _you_," he says, with a curious stress upon the pronoun,
and a rather strained smile. The room is filling with other people, the
last dance having plainly come to an end. Geoffrey, taking Mona's arm,
leads her into the hall.
"Dance no more to-night with that fellow," he says quickly, as they get
outside.
"No?" Then, "Not if you dislike it of course. But Nicholas made a point
of my being nice to him. I did not know you would object to my dancing
with him."
"Well, you know it now. I do object," says Geoffrey, in a tone he has
never used to her before. Not that it is unkind or rude, but cold and
unlover-like.
"Yes, I know it now!" returns she, softly, yet with the gentle dignity
that always belongs to her. Her lips quiver, but she draws herself up to
her fullest height, and, throwing up her head, walks with a gait that is
almost stately into the presence of the duchess.
"You wish me to sing to you," she says, gently, yet so unsmilingly that
the duchess wonders what has come to the child. "It will give me
pleasure if I can give _you_ pleasure, but my voice is not worth
thinking about."
"Nevertheless, let me hear it," says the duchess. "I cannot forget that
your face is musical."
Mona, sitting down to the piano, plays a few chords in a slow, plaintive
fashion, and then begins. Paul Rodney has come to the doorway, and is
standing there gazing at her, though she knows it not. The ballroom is
far distant, so far that the sound of the band does not break upon the
silence of the room in which they are assembled. A hush falls upon the
listeners as Mona's fresh, pathetic, tender voice rises into the air.
It is an old song she chooses, and simple as old, and sweet as simple. I
almost forget the words now, but I know it runs in this wise:
Oh, hame, hame--hame fain wad I be,
Hame, hame to my ain countrie,
and so on.
It touches the hearts of all who hear it as she sings it and brings
tears to the eyes of the duchess. So used the little fragile daughter to
sing who is now chanting in heaven!
There is no vehement applause as Mona takes her fingers from the keys,
but every one says, "Thank you," in a low tone. Geoffrey, going up to
her, leans over her chair and whispers, with some agitation,--
"You did not mean it, Mona, did you? You are content here with me?--you
have no regret?"
At which Mona turns round to him a face very pale, but full of such love
as should rejoice the heart of any man, and says, tremulously,--
"Darling, do you need an answer?"
"Then why did you choose that song?"
"I hardly know."
"I was hateful to you just now, and most unjust."
"Were you? I have forgotten it," replies she, smiling happily, the color
coming back to her cheeks. Whereupon Paul Rodney's brows contract, and
with a muttered curse he turns aside and leaves the room, and then the
house, without another word or backward glance.