Mrs. Geoffrey. Duchess

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      "No," with a little flickering smile, that has pain and sorrow in it; "for the simple reason that I shall never marry."

      "But why?" persists he.

      "Because" – the smile has died away now, and she is looking down upon him, as he lies stretched at her feet in the uncertain moonlight, with an expression sad but earnest, – "because, though I am only a farmer's niece, I cannot bear farmers, and, of course, other people would not care for me."

      "That is absurd," says Rodney; "and your own words refute you. That man called Moore cared for you, and very great impertinence it was on his part."

      "Why, you never even saw him," says Mona, opening her eyes.

      "No; but I can fancy him, with his horrid bald head. Now, you know," holding up his hand to stop her as she is about to speak, "you know you said he hadn't a hair left on it."

      "Well, he was different," says Mona, giving in ignominiously. "I couldn't care for him either; but what I said is true all the same. Other people would not like me."

      "Wouldn't they?" says Rodney, leaning on his elbow as the argument waxes warmer; "then all I can say is, I never met any 'other people.'"

      "You have met only them, I suppose, as you belong to them."

      "Do you mean to tell me that I don't care for you?" says Rodney, quickly.

      Mona evades a reply.

      "How cold it is!" she says, rising, with a little shiver. "Let us go home."

      If she had been nurtured all her life in the fashionable world, she could scarcely have made a more correct speech. Geoffrey is puzzled, nay more, discomfited. Just in this wise would a woman in his own set answer him, did she mean to repel his advances for the moment. He forgets that no tinge of worldliness lurks in Mona's nature, and feels a certain amount of chagrin that she should so reply to him.

      "If you wish," he says, in a courteous tone, but one full of coldness; and so they commence their homeward journey.

      "I am glad you have been pleased to-night," says Mona, shyly, abashed by his studied silence. "But," nervously, "Killarney is even more beautiful. You must go there."

      "Yes; I mean to, – before I return to England."

      She starts perceptibly, which is balm to his heart.

      "To England!" she repeats, with a most mournful attempt at unconcern, "Will – will that be soon?"

      "Not very soon. But some time, of course, I must go."

      "I suppose so," she says, in a voice from which all joy has flown. "And it is only natural; you will be happier there." She is looking straight before her. There is no quiver in her tone; her lips do not tremble; yet he can see how pale she has grown beneath the vivid moonlight.

      "Is that what you think?" he says, earnestly. "Then for once you are wrong. I have never been – I shall hardly be again – happier than I have been in Ireland."

      There is a pause. Mona says nothing, but taking out the flower that has lain upon her bosom all night, pulls it to pieces petal by petal. And this is unlike Mona, because flowers are dear to her as sunshine is to them.

      At this moment they come to a high bank, and Geoffrey, having helped Mona to mount it, jumps down at the other side, and holds out his arms to assist her to descend. As she reaches the ground, and while his arms are still round her, she says, with a sudden effort, and without lifting her eyes, "There is very good snipe-shooting here at Christmas."

      The little pathetic insinuation is as perfect as it is touching.

      "Is there? Then I shall certainly return for it," says Geoffrey, who is too much of a gentleman to pretend to understand all her words seem to imply. "It is really no journey from this to England."

      "I should think it a long journey," says Mona, shaking her head.

      "Oh, no, you won't," says Rodney, absently. In truth, his mind is wandering to that last little speech of hers, and is trying to unravel it.

      Mona looks at him. How oddly he has expressed himself! "You won't," he said, instead of "you wouldn't." Does he then deem it possible she will ever be able to cross to that land that calls him son? She sighs, and, looking down at her little lean sinewy hands, clasps and unclasps them nervously.

      "Why need you go until after Christmas?" she says, in a tone so low that he can barely hear her.

      "Mona! Do you want me to stay?" asks he, suddenly, taking her hands in his. "Tell me the truth."

      "I do," returns she, tremulously.

      "But why? – why? Is it because you love me? Oh, Mona! If it is that! At times I have thought so, and yet again I have feared you do not love me as – as I love you."

      "You love me?" repeats she, faintly.

      "With all my heart," says Rodney, fervently. And, indeed, if this be so, she may well count herself in luck, because it is a very good and true heart of which he speaks.

      "Don't say anything more," says the girl, almost passionately, drawing back from him as though afraid of herself. "Do not. The more you say now, the worse it will be for me by and by, when I have to think. And – and – it is all quite impossible."

      "But why, darling? Could you not be happy as my wife?"

      "Your wife?" repeats she, in soft, lingering tones, and a little tender seraphic smile creeps into her eyes and lies lightly on her lips. "But I am not fit to be that, and – "

      "Look here," says Geoffrey, with decision, "I will have no 'buts,' and I prefer taking my answer from your eyes than from your lips. They are kinder. You are going to marry me, you know, and that is all about it. I shall marry you, whether you like it or not, so you may as well give in with a good grace. And I'll take you to see Rome and all the places we have been talking about, and we shall have a real good old time. Why don't you look up and speak to me, Mona?"

      "Because I have nothing to say," murmurs the girl, in a frozen tone, – "nothing." Then passionately, "I will not be selfish. I will not do this thing."

      "Do you mean you will not marry me?" asks he, letting her go, and moving back a step or two, a frown upon his forehead. "I confess I do not understand you."

      "Try, try to understand me," entreats she, desperately, following him and laying her hand upon his arm. "It is only this. It would not make you happy, – not afterwards, when you could see the difference between me and the other women you have known. You are a gentleman; I am only a farmer's niece." She says this bravely, though it is agony to her proud nature to have to confess it.

      "If that is all," says Geoffrey, with a light laugh, laying his hand over the small brown one that still rests upon his arm, "I think it need hardly separate us. You are, indeed, different from all the other women I have met in my life, – which makes me sorry for all the other women. You are dearer and sweeter in my eyes than any one I have ever known! Is not this enough? Mona, are you sure no other reason prevents your accepting me? Why do you hesitate?" He has grown a little pale in his turn, and is regarding her with intense and jealous earnestness. Why does she not answer him? Why does she keep her eyes – those honest telltales – so obstinately fixed upon the ground? Why does she show no smallest sign of yielding?

      "Give СКАЧАТЬ