Mrs. Geoffrey. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ could you be so absurd about that old Moore?" she says, lightly. "Why he has got nothing to recommend him except his money; and what good," with a sigh, "does that do him, unless to get him murdered!"

      "If he is as fat as you say, he will be a good mark for a bullet," says Mr. Rodney, genially, almost – I am ashamed to say – hopefully. "I should think they would easily pot him one of these dark night that are coming. By this time I suppose he feels more like a grouse than a man, eh? – 'I'll die game' should be his motto."

      "I wish you wouldn't talk like that," says Mona, with a shudder. "It isn't at all nice of you; and especially when you know how miserable I am about my poor country."

      "It is a pity anything should be said against Ireland," says Rodney, cleverly; "it is such a lovely little spot."

      "Do you really like it?" asks she, plainly delighted.

      "I should rather think so. Who wouldn't? I went to Glengariffe the other day, and can hardly fancy anything more lovely than its pure waters, and its purple hills that lie continued in the depths beneath."

      "I have been there. And at Killarney, but only once, though we live so near."

      "That has nothing to do with it," says Rodney. "The easier one can get to a place the more one puts off going. I knew a fellow once, and he lived all his time in London, and I give you my word he had never seen the Crystal Palace. With whom did you go to Killarney?"

      "With Lady Mary. She was staying at the castle there; it was last year, and she asked me to go with her. I was delighted. And it was so pleasant, and everything so – so like heaven. The lakes are delicious, so calm, so solitary, so full of thought. Lady Mary is old, but young in manner, and has read and travelled so much, and she likes me," says Mona, naively. "And I like her. Do you know her?"

      "Lady Mary Crighton? Yes, I have met her. An old lady with corkscrew ringlets, patches, and hoops? She is quite grande dame, and witty, like all you Irish people."

      "She is very seldom at home, but I think I like her better than any one I ever met."

      "Do you?" says Geoffrey, in a tone that means much.

      "Yes, – better than all the women I ever met," corrects Mona, but without placing the faintest emphasis upon the word "women," which omission somehow possesses its charm in Rodney's eyes.

      "Well, I shall go and judge of Killarney myself some day," he says, idly.

      "Oh, yes, you must indeed," says the little enthusiast, brightening. "It is more than lovely. How I wish I could go with you!"

      She looks at him as she says this, fearlessly, honestly, and without a suspicion of coquetry.

      "I wish you could!" says Geoffrey from his heart.

      "Well, I can't, you know," with a sigh. "But no matter: you will enjoy the scenery even more by yourself."

      "I don't think I shall," says Geoffrey, in a low tone.

      "Well, we have both seen the bay," says Mona, cheerfully, – "Bantry Bay I mean: so we can talk about that. Yet indeed" – seriously – "you cannot be said to have seen it properly, as it is only by moonlight its full beauty can be appreciated. Then, with its light waves sparkling beneath the gleam of the stars, and the moon throwing a path across it that seems to go on and on, until it reaches heaven, it is more satisfying than a happy dream. Do you see that hill up yonder?" pointing to an elevation about a mile distant: "there I sometimes sit when the moon is full, and watch the bay below. There is a lovely view from that spot."

      "I wish I could see it!" says Geoffrey, longingly.

      "Well so you can," returns she, kindly. "Any night when there is a good moon come to me and I will go with you to Carrickdhuve – that is the name of the hill – and show you the bay."

      She looks at him quite calmly, as one might who sees nothing in the fact of accompanying a young man to the top of a high mountain after nightfall. And in truth she does see nothing in it. If he wishes to see the bay she loves so well, of course he must see it; and who so competent to point out to him all its beauties as herself?

      "I wonder when the moon will be full," says Geoffrey, making this ordinary remark in an everyday tone that does him credit, and speaks well for his kindliness and delicacy of feeling, as well as for his power of discerning character. He makes no well-turned speeches about the bay being even more enchanting under such circumstances, or any orthodox compliment that might have pleased a woman versed in the world's ways.

      "We must see," says Mona, thoughtfully.

      They have reached the farm again by this time, and Geoffrey, taking up the guns he had left behind the hall door, – or what old Scully is pleased to call the front door in contradistinction to the back door, through which he is in the habit of making his exits and entrances, – holds out his hand to bid her good-by.

      "Come in for a little while and rest yourself," says Mona, hospitably, "while I get the brandy and send it up to poor Kitty."

      It strikes Geoffrey as part of the innate sweetness and genuineness of her disposition that, after all the many changes of thought that have passed through her brain on their return journey, her first concern on entering her own doors is for the poor unhappy creature in the cabin up yonder.

      "Don't be long," he says, impulsively, as she disappears down a passage.

      "I won't, then. Sure you can live alone with yourself for one minute," returns she, in very fine Irish; and, with a parting smile, sweet as nectar and far more dangerous, she goes.

      When she is gone, Geoffrey walks impatiently up and down the small hall, conflicting emotions robbing him of the serenity that usually attends his footsteps. He is happy, yet full of a secret gnawing uneasiness that weighs upon him daily, hourly. Near Mona – when in her presence – a gladness that amounts almost to perfect happiness is his; apart from her is unrest. Love, although he is but just awakening to the fact, has laid his chubby hands upon him, and now holds him in thrall; so that no longer for him is that most desirable thing content, – which means indifference. Rather is he melancholy now and then, and inclined to look on life apart from Mona as a doubtful good.

      For what, after all, is love, but

      "A madness most discreet,

      A choking gall, and a preserving sweet?"

      There are, too, dispassionate periods, when he questions the wisdom of giving his heart to a girl lowly born as Mona undoubtedly is, at least on her father's side. And, indeed, the little drop of blue blood inherited from her mother is so faint in hue as to be scarcely recognizable by those inclined to cavil.

      And these he knows will be many: there would be first his mother, and then Nick, with a silent tongue but brows uplifted, and after them Violet, who in the home circle is regarded as Geoffrey's "affinerty," and who last year was asked to Rodney Towers for the express purpose (though she knew it not) of laying siege to his heart and bestowing upon him in return her hand and – fortune. To do Lady Rodney justice, she was never blind to the fortune!

      Yet Violet, with her pretty, slow, trainante voice and perfect manner, and small pale attractive face, and great eyes that seem too earnest for the fragile body to which they belong, is as naught before Mona, whose beauty is strong and undeniable, and whose charm lies as much in inward grace as in outward loveliness.

      Though uncertain that she regards him with any feeling stronger than that of friendliness (because of the strange coldness that СКАЧАТЬ