Mrs. Geoffrey. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ Geoffrey heed not the parting moments. For sometimes

      "Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,

      Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound."

      "I'm ready now, miss, if you are," says Mickey from the background, with the utmost bonhommie, and in a tone that implies he is quite willing not to be ready, if it so pleases her, for another five minutes or so, or even, if necessary, to efface himself altogether. He is a stalwart young Hibernian, with rough hair and an honest face, and gray eyes, merry and cunning, and so many freckles that he looks like a turkey-egg.

      "Oh, yes, I am quite ready," says Mona, starting somewhat guiltily. And then they pass out through the big yard-gate, with the two dogs at their heels, and their attendant squire, who brings up the rear with a soft whistle that rings through the cool night-air and tells the listening stars that the "girl he loves is his dear," and his "own, his artless Nora Creana."

      Geoffrey and Mona go up the road with the serenader behind them, and, turning aside, she guiding, mount a stile, and, striking across a field, make straight for the high hill that conceals the ocean from the farm. Over many fields they travel, until at length they reach the mountain's summit and gaze down upon the beauteous scene below.

      The very air is still. There is no sound, no motion, save the coming and going of their own breath as it rises quickly from their hearts, filled full of passionate admiration for the loveliness before them.

      From the high hill on which they stand, steep rocks descend until they touch the water's edge, which lies sleeping beneath them, lulled into slumber by the tranquil moon as she comes forth "from the slow opening curtains of the clouds."

      Far down below lies the bay, calm and placid. Not a ripple, not a sigh comes to disturb its serenity or mar the perfect beauty of the silver pathway thrown so lightly upon it by the queen of heaven. It falls there so clear, so unbroken, that almost one might deem it possible to step upon it, and so walk onwards to the sky that melts into it on the far horizon.

      The whole firmament is of a soft azure, flecked here and there with snowy clouds tipped with palest gray. A little cloud – the tenderest veil of mist – hangs between earth and sky.

      "The moon is up; it is the dawn of night;

      Stands by her side one bold, bright, steady star,

      Star of her heart.

      Mother of stars! the heavens look up to thee."

      Mona is looking up to it now, with a rapt, pensive gaze, her great blue eyes gleaming beneath its light. She is sitting upon the side of the hill, with her hands clasped about her knees, a thoughtful expression on her lovely face. At each side of her, sitting bolt upright on their huge haunches, are the dogs, as though bent on guarding her against all evil.

      Geoffrey, although in reality deeply impressed by the grandeur of all the surroundings, yet cannot keep his eyes from Mona's face, her pretty attitude, her two mighty defenders. She reminds him in some wise of Una and the lion, though the idea is rather far-fetched; and he hardly dares speak to her, lest he shall break the spell that seems to lie upon her.

      She herself destroys it presently.

      "Do you like it?" she asks, gently, bringing her gaze back from the glowing heavens, to the earth, which is even more beautiful.

      "The praise I heard of it, though great, was too faint," he answers her, with such extreme sincerity in his tone as touches and gladdens the heart of the little patriot at his feet. She smiles contentedly, and turns her eyes once more with lazy delight upon the sea, where each little point and rock is warmed with heavenly light. She nods softly to herself, but says nothing.

      To her there is nothing strange or new, either in the hour or the place. Often does she come here in the moonlight with her faithful attendant and her two dogs, to sit and dream away a long sweet hour brimful of purest joy, whilst drinking in the plaintive charm that Nature as a rule flings over her choicest paintings.

      To him, however, all is different; and the hour is fraught with a tremulous joy, and with a vague sweet longing that means love as yet untold.

      "This spot always brings to my mind the thoughts of other people," says Mona, softly. "I am very fond of poetry: are you?"

      "Very," returns he, surprised. He has not thought of her as one versed in lore of any kind. "What poets do you prefer?"

      "I have read so few," she says, wistfully, and with hesitation. Then, shyly, "I have so few to read. I have a Longfellow, and a Shakspeare, and a Byron: that is all."

      "Byron?"

      "Yes. And after Shakspeare, I like him best, and then Longfellow. Why do you speak in that tone? Don't you like him?"

      "I think I like no poet half so well. You mistake me," replies he, ashamed of his own surprise at her preference for his lordship beneath the calm purity of her eyes. "But – only – it seemed to me Longfellow would be more suited to you."

      "Well, so I do love him. And just then it was of him I was thinking: when I looked up to the sky his words came back to me. You remember what he says about the moon rising 'over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows,' and how, —

      'Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,

      Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels,

      That is so sweet, I think."

      "I remember it; and I remember, too, who watched all that: do you?" he asks, his eyes fixed upon hers.

      "Yes; Gabriel – poor Gabriel and Evangeline," returns she, too wrapped up in recollections of that sad and touching tale to take to heart his meaning: —

      'Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure

      Sat the lovers, and whispered together.'

      That is the part you mean, is it not? I know all that poem very nearly by heart."

      He is a little disappointed by the calmness of her answer.

      "Yes; it was of them I thought," he says, turning his head away, – "of the – lovers. I wonder if their evening was as lovely as ours?"

      Mona makes no reply.

      "Have you ever read Shelley?" asks he, presently, puzzled by the extreme serenity of her manner.

      She shakes her head.

      "Some of his ideas are lovely. You would like his poetry, I think."

      "What does he say about the moon?" asks Mona, still with her knees in her embrace, and without lifting her eyes from the quiet waters down below.

      "About the moon? Oh, many things. I was not thinking of the moon," with faint impatience; "yet, as you ask me, I can remember one thing he says about it."

      "Then tell it to me," says Mona.

      So at her bidding he repeats the lines slowly, and in his best manner, which is very good: —

      "The cold chaste moon, the queen of heaven's bright isles,

      Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles!

      That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame,

      Which ever is transformed, yet still the same,

      And warms, but not illumines."

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