Mrs. Geoffrey Part 49

"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 cla.s.s 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 pa.s.sages, 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.

CHAPTER XXVII.

HOW MONA TAKES A WALK ABROAD--AND HOW SHE ASKS CROSS-QUESTIONS AND RECEIVES CROOKED ANSWERS.

It is ten days later,--ten dreary, interminable days, that have struggled into light, and sunk back again into darkness, leaving no trace worthy of remembrance in their train. "Swift as swallows' wings"

they have flown, scarce breaking the air in their flight, so silently, so evenly they have departed, as days will, when dull monotony marks them for its own.

To-day is cool, and calm, and bright. Almost one fancies the first faint breath of spring has touched one's cheek, though as yet January has not wended to its weary close, and no smallest sign of growth or vegetation makes itself felt.

The gra.s.s is still brown, the trees barren, no ambitious floweret thrusts its head above the bosom of its mother earth,--except, indeed, those "floures white and rede, such as men callen daisies," that always seem to beam upon the world, no matter how the wind blows.

Just now it is blowing softly, delicately, as though its fury of the night before had been an hallucination of the brain. It is "a sweet and pa.s.sionate wooer," says Longfellow, and lays siege to "the blushing leaf." There are no leaves for it to kiss to-day: so it bestows its caresses upon Mona as she wanders forth, close guarded by her two stanch hounds that follow at her heels.

There is a strange hush and silence everywhere. The very clouds are motionless in their distant homes.

"There has not been a sound to-day To break the calm of Nature: Nor motion, I might almost say, Of life, or living creature, Of waving bough, or warbling bird, Or cattle faintly lowing: I could have half believed I heard The leaves and blossoms growing."

Indeed, no sound disturbs the sacred silence save the crisp rustle of the dead leaves, as they are trodden into the ground.

Over the meadows and into the wood goes Mona, to where a streamlet runs, that is her special joy,--being of the garrulous and babbling order, which is, perhaps, the nearest approach to divine music that nature can make. But to-day the stream is swollen, is enlarged beyond all recognition, and, being filled with pride at its own promotion, has forgotten its little loving song, and is rushing onward with a pa.s.sionate roar to the ocean.

Down from the cataract in the rocks above the water comes with a mighty will, foaming, glistening, shouting a loud triumphant paen as it flings itself into the arms of the vain brook beneath, that only yesterday-eve was a stream, but to-day may well be deemed a river.

Up high the rocks are overgrown with ferns, and drooping things, all green and feathery, that hide small caves and picturesque crannies, through which the bright-eyed Naiads might peep whilst holding back with bare uplifted arms their amber hair, the better to gaze upon the unconscious earth outside.

A loose stone that has fallen from its home in the mountain-side above uprears itself in the middle of this turbulent stream. But it is too far from the edge, and Mona, standing irresolutely on the brink, pauses, as though half afraid to take the step that must either land her safely on the other side or else precipitate her into the angry little river.

As she thus ponders within herself, Spice and Allspice, the two dogs, set up a simultaneous howl, and immediately afterwards a voice says, eagerly,--

"Wait, Mrs. Rodney. Let me help you across."

Mona starts, and, looking up, sees the Australian coming quickly towards her.

"You are very kind. The river is greatly swollen," she says, to gain time. Geoffrey, perhaps, will not like her to accept any civility at the hands of this common enemy.

"Not so much so that I cannot help you to cross over in safety, if you will only trust yourself to me," replies he.

Still she hesitates, and he is not slow to notice the eloquent pause.

"Is it worth so much thought?" he says, bitterly. "It surely will not injure you fatally to lay your hand in mine for one instant."

"You mistake me," says Mona, shocked at her own want of courtesy; and then she extends to him her hand, and, setting her foot upon the huge stone, springs lightly to his side.

Once there she has to go with him down the narrow woodland path, there being no other, and so paces on, silently, and sorely against her will.

"Sir Nicholas has sent me an invitation for the 19th," he says, presently, when the silence has become unendurable.

"Yes," says Mona, devoutly hoping he is going to say he means to refuse it. But such devout hope is wasted.

"I shall go," he says, doggedly, as though divining her secret wish.

"I am sure we shall all be very glad," she says, faintly, feeling herself bound to make some remark.

"Thanks!" returns he, with an ironical laugh. "How excellently your tone agrees with your words?"

Another pause. Mona is on thorns. Will the branching path, that may give her a chance of escaping a further _tete-a-tete_ with him, never be reached?

"So Warden failed you?" he says, presently, alluding to old Elspeth's nephew.

"Yes,--so far," returns she, coldly.

"It was a feeble effort," declares he, contemptuously striking with his cane the trunks of the trees as he goes by them.

"Yet I think Warden knows more than he cares to tell," says Mona, at a venture. Why, she herself hardly knows.

He turns, as though by an irrepressible impulse, to look keenly at her.

His scrutiny endures only for an instant. Then he says, with admirable indifference,--

"You have grounds for saying so, of course?"

"Perhaps I have. Do you deny I am in the right?" asks she, returning his gaze undauntedly.

He drops his eyes, and the low, sneering laugh she has learned to know and to hate so much comes again to his lips.

"It would be rude to deny that," he says, with a slight shrug. "I am sure you are always in the right."

"If I am, Warden surely knows more about the will than he has sworn to."

"It is very probable,--if there ever was such a will. How should I know?

I have not cross-examined Warden on this or any other subject. He is an overseer over my estate, a mere servant, nothing more."

"Has he the will?" asks Mona, foolishly, but impulsively.

"He may have, and a stocking full of gold, and the roc's egg, or anything else, for aught I know. I never saw it. They tell me there was an iniquitous and most unjust will drawn up some years ago by old Sir George: that is all I know."

"By your grandfather!" corrects Mona, in a peculiar tone.