Mrs. Geoffrey. Duchess
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 me my answer," he says, sternly.
"I have given it," returns she, in a low tone, – so low that he has to bend to hear it. "Do not be angry with me, do not – I – "
"'Who excuses himself, accuses himself,'" quotes Geoffrey. "I want no reasons for your rejection. It is enough that I know you do not care for me."
"Oh, no! it is not that! you must know it is not that," says Mona, in deep grief. "It is that I cannot marry you!"
"Will not, you mean!"
"Well, then, I will not," returns she, with a last effort at determination, and the most miserable face in the world.
"Oh, if you will not," says Mr. Rodney, wrathfully.
"I – will – not," says Mona, brokenly.
"Then I don't believe you!" breaks out Geoffrey, angrily. "I am positive you want to marry me; and just because of some wretched fad you have got into your head you are determined to make us both wretched."
"I have nothing in my head," says Mona, tearfully.
"I don't think you can have much, certainly," says Mr. Rodney, with the grossest rudeness, "when you can let a few ridiculous scruples interfere with both our happiness." Then, resentfully, "Do you hate me?"
No answer.
"Say so, if you do: it will be honester. If you don't," threateningly, "I shall of course think the contrary."
Still no answer.
She has turned away from him, grieved and frightened by his vehemence, and, having plucked a leaf from the hedge near her, is trifling absently with it as it lies upon her little trembling palm.
It is a drooping blackberry-leaf from a bush near where she is standing, that has turned from green into a warm and vivid crimson. She examines it minutely, as though lost in wonder at its excessive beauty, for beautiful exceedingly it is, clothed in the rich cloak that Autumn's generosity has flung upon it; yet I think, she for once is blind to its charms.
"I think you had better come home," says Geoffrey, deeply angered with her. "You must not stay here catching cold."
A little soft woollen shawl of plain white has slipped from her throat and fallen to the ground, unheeded by her in her great distress. Lifting it almost unwillingly, he comes close to her, and places it round her once again. In so doing he discovers that tears are running down her cheeks.
"Why, Mona, what is this?" exclaims he, his manner changing on the instant from indignation and coldness to warmth and tenderness. "You are crying? My darling girl! There, lay your head on my shoulder, and let us forget we have ever quarrelled. It is our first dispute; let it be our last. And, after all," comfortably, "it is much better to have our quarrels before marriage than after."
This last insinuation, he flatters himself, is rather cleverly introduced.
"Oh, if I could be quite, quite sure you would never regret it!" says Mona, wistfully.
"I shall never regret anything, as long as I have you!" says Rodney. "Be assured of that."
"I am so glad you are poor," says Mona. "If you were rich or even well off, I should never consent, – never!"
"No, of course not," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly! "as a rule, girls nowadays can't endure men with money."
This is "sarkassum;" but Mona comprehends it not.
Presently, seeing she is again smiling and looking inexpressibly happy, for laughter comes readily to her lips, and tears, as a rule, make no long stay with her, – ashamed, perhaps, to disfigure the fair "windows of her soul," that are so "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," – "So you will come to England with me, after all?" he says, quite gayly.
"I would go to the world's end with you," returns she, gently. "Ah! I think you knew that all along."
"Well, I didn't," says Rodney. "There were moments, indeed, when I believed in you; but five minutes ago, when you flung me over so decidedly, and refused to have anything to do with me, I lost faith in you, and began to think you a thorough-going coquette like all the rest. How I wronged you, my dear love! I should have known that under no circumstances could you be untruthful."
At his words, a glad light springs to life within her wonderful eyes. She