HOW MONA DEFENDS THE DEAD--AND HOW LADY LILIAS EATON WAXES ELOQUENT.
As hour follows upon hour, even the most poignant griefs grow less.
Nature sooner or later will come to the rescue, and hope "springing
eternal" will cast despair into the background. Paul Rodney's death
being rather more a shock than a grief to the inmates of the Towers, the
remembrance of it fades from their minds with a rapidity that astonishes
even themselves.
Mona, as is only natural, clings longest to the memory of that terrible
day when grief and gladness had been so closely blended, when tragedy
followed so fast upon their comedy that laughter and tears embraced each
other and gloom overpowered their sunshine. Yet even she brightens up,
and is quite herself again by the time the "merry month of May" comes
showering down upon them all its wealth of blossom, and music of glad
birds, as they chant in glade and dell.
Yet in her heart the erring cousin is not altogether forgotten. There
are moments in every day when she recalls him to her mind, nor does she
ever pass the huge tomb where his body lies at rest, awaiting the last
trump, without a kindly thought of him and a hope that his soul is safe
in heaven.
The county has behaved on the occasion somewhat disgracefully, and has
declared itself to a man--without any reservation--unfeignedly glad of
the chance that has restored Sir Nicholas to his own again. Perhaps what
they just do _not_ say is that they are delighted Paul Rodney shot
himself: this might sound brutal, and one must draw the line somewhere,
and a last remnant of decency compels them to draw it at this point. But
it is the thinnest line possible, and easily stepped across.
Even the duchess refuses to see anything regrettable in the whole
affair, and expresses herself to Lady Rodney on the subject of her
nephew's death in terms that might almost be called congratulatory. She
has been listened to in silence, of course, and with a deprecating shake
of the head, but afterwards Lady Rodney is unable to declare to herself
that the duchess has taken anything but a sound common-sense view of the
matter.
In her own heart, and in the secret recesses of her chamber, Nicholas's
mother blesses Mona for having returned the pistol that February
afternoon to the troublesome young man (who is so well out of the way),
and has entertained a positive affection for the roots of trees ever
since the sad (?) accident.
But these unholy thoughts belong to her own breast alone, and are hidden
carefully out of sight, lest any should guess at them.
The duke calling at the Towers about a month after Paul Rodney's death,
so far forgets himself as to say to Mona, who is present,--
"Awful luck, your getting rid of that cousin, eh? Such an uncomfortable
fellow, don't you know, and so uncommonly in the way."
At which Mona had turned her eyes upon him,--eyes that literally flashed
rebuke, and had told him slowly, but with meaning, that he should
remember the dead could not defend themselves, and that she, for one,
had not as yet learned to regard the death of any man as "awful luck."
"Give you my word," said the duke afterwards to a select assembly, "when
she looked at me then out of her wonderful Irish eyes, and said all that
with her musical brogue, I never felt so small in all my life. Reg'lar
went into my boots, you know, and stayed there. But she is, without
chaff or that, she really _is_ the most charming woman I ever met."
Lady Lilias Eaton, too, had been rather fine upon the Rodney ups and
downs. The history of the Australian's devotion had been as a revelation
to her. She had actually come out of herself, and had neglected the
Ancient Britons for a full day and a half,--on the very highest
authority,--merely to talk about Paul Rodney. Surely "nothing in his
life became him like the leaving it:" of all those who would scarcely
speak to him when living, not one but converses of him familiarly now he
is dead.
"So very strange, so unparalleled in this degenerate age," says Lady
Lilias to Lady Rodney speaking of the will episode generally, and with
as near an approach to enthusiasm as it is possible to her to produce,
"A secret panel? How interesting! We lack that at Anadale. Pray, dear
Lady Rodney, do tell me all about it again."
Whereupon Lady Rodney, to whom the whole matter is "cakes and ale," does
tell it all over again, relating every incident from the removal of the
will from the library by Paul, to his surrender of it next day to Mona.
Lady Lilias is delighted.
"It is quite perfect, the whole story. It reminds me of the ballads
about King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table."
"Which? the stealing of the will?" asks Lady Rodney, innocently. She
knows nothing about the Ancient Britons, and abhors the very sound of
their name, regarding them as indecent, immoral people, who went about
insufficiently clothed. Of King Arthur and his round knights (as she
_will_ call them, having once got so hopelessly mixed on the subject as
to disallow of her ever being disentangled again) she knows even less,
beyond what Tennyson has taught her.
She understands, indeed, that Sir Launcelot was a very naughty
young man, who should not have been received in respectable
houses,--especially as he had no money to speak of,--and that Sir Modred
and Sir Gawain, had they lived in this critical age, would undoubtedly
have been pronounced bad form and expelled from decent clubs. And,
knowing this much, she takes it for granted that the stealing of a will
or more would be quite in their line: hence her speech.
"Dear Lady Rodney, no," cries the horrified AEsthetic, rather losing
faith in her hostess. "I mean about his resigning lands and heritage,
position, title, everything--all that a man holds most dear, for a mere
sentiment. And then it was so nice of him to shoot himself, and leave
her all his money. Surely you must see that?"
She has actually forgotten to pose, and is leaning forward quite
comfortably with her arms crossed on her knees. I am convinced she has
not been so happy for years.
Lady Rodney is somewhat shocked, at this view of the case.
"You must understand," she says emphatically, "he did not shoot himself
purposely. It was an accident,--a pure accident."
"Well, yes, so they say," returns her visitor, airily who is plainly
determined not to be done out of a good thing, and insists on bringing
in deliberate suicide as a fit ending to this enthralling tale. "And of
course it is very nice of every one, and quite right too. But there is
no doubt, I think, that he loved her. You will pardon me, Lady Rodney,
but I am convinced he adored Mrs. Geoffrey."
"Well, he may have," admits Lady Rodney, reluctantly, who has grown
strangely jealous of Mona's reputation of late. As she speaks she colors
faintly. "I must beg you to believe," she says, "that Mona up to the
very last was utterly unaware of his infatuation."
"Why, of course; of course. One can see that at a glance. And if it were
otherwise the whole story would be ruined,--would instantly become tame
and commonplace,--would be, indeed," says Lady Lilias, with a massive
wave of her large white hand, "I regret to say, an occurrence of
everyday life. The singular beauty that now attaches to it would
disappear. It is the fact that his passion was unrequited,
unacknowledged, and that yet he was content to sacrifice his life for
it, that creates its charm."
"Yes, I dare say," says Lady Rodney, who is now wondering when this
high-flown visitor will take her departure.
"It is like a romaunt of the earlier and purer days of chivalry," goes
on Lady Lilias, in her most prosy tone. "Alas! where are they now?" She
pauses for an answer to this difficult question, being in her very
loftiest strain of high art depression.
"Eh?" says Lady Rodney, rousing from a day-dream. "I don't know, I'm
sure; but I'll see about it; I'll make inquiries."
In thought she had been miles away, and has just come back to the
present with a start of guilt at her own neglect of her guest. She
honestly believes, in her confusion, that Lady Lilias has been making
some inquiries about the secret panel, and therefore makes her
extraordinary remark with the utmost _bonhommie_ and cheerfulness.
It is quite too much for the AEsthetic.
"I don't think you _can_ make an inquiry about the bygone days of
chivalry," she says, somewhat stiffly, and, having shaken the hand of
her bewildered friend, and pecked gently at her cheek, she sails out of
the room, disheartened, and wounded in spirit.