Mrs. Geoffrey. Duchess
is still sitting on the grass with her gown spread carefully around her. "Or perhaps" – reluctantly – "it will be better for you to go to the farm, where Bridget will look after you."
"Thank you; so I shall, if you will come with me."
"Don't mind me," says Miss Scully, hastily. "I shall follow you by and by."
"By and by will suit me down to the ground," declares he, easily. "The day is fortunately warm: damp clothes are an advantage rather than otherwise."
Silence. Mona taps the mound beside her with impatient fingers, her mind being evidently great with thought.
"I really wish," she says, presently, "you would do what I say. Go to the farm, and – stay there."
"Well, come with me, and I'll stay till you turn me out.'
"I can't," faintly.
"Why not?" in a surprised tone.
"Because – I prefer staying here."
"Oh! if you mean by that you want to get rid of me, you might have said so long ago, without all this hinting," says Mr. Rodney, huffily, preparing to beat an indignant retreat.
"I didn't mean that, and I never hint," exclaims Mona, angrily; "and if you insist on the truth, if I must explain to you what I particularly desire to keep secret, you – "
"You are hurt!" interrupts he, with passionate remorse. "I see it all now. Stepping into that hateful stream to save me, you injured yourself severely. You are in pain, – you suffer; whilst I – "
"I am in no pain," says Mona, crimson with shame and mortification. "You mistake everything. I have not even a scratch on me; and – I have no shoes or stockings on me either, if you must know all!"
She turns from him wrathfully; and Geoffrey, disgusted with himself, steps back and makes no reply. With any other woman of his acquaintance he might perhaps at this juncture have made a mild request that he might be allowed to assist in the lacing or buttoning of her shoes; but with this strange little Irish girl all is different. To make such a remark would be, he feels, to offer her a deliberate insult.
"There, do go away!" says this woodland goddess. "I am sick of you and your stupidity."
"I'm sure I don't wonder," says Geoffrey, very humbly. "I beg your pardon a thousand times; and – good-by, Miss Mona."
She turns involuntarily, through the innate courtesy that belongs to her race, to return his parting salutation, and, looking at him, sees a tiny spot of blood trickling down his forehead from the wound received awhile since.
On the instant all is forgotten, – chagrin, shame, shoes and stockings, everything! Springing to her little naked feet, she goes to him, and, raising her hand, presses her handkerchief against the ugly stain.
"It has broken out again!" she says, nervously. "I am sure – I am certain – it is a worst wound than you imagine. Ah! do go home, and get it dressed."
"But I shouldn't like any one to touch it except you," says Mr. Rodney, truthfully. "Even now, as your fingers press it, I feel relief."
"Do you really?" asks Mona, earnestly.
"Honestly, I do."
"Then just turn your back for one moment," says Mona simply, "and when my shoes and stockings are on I'll go home with you an' bathe it. Now, don't turn round, for your life!"
"'Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?'" quotes Mr. Rodney; and, Mona having got into her shoes, she tells him he is at liberty to follow her across the rustic bridge lower down, that leads from the wood into Mangle Farm.
"You have spoiled your gown on my account," says Geoffrey, surveying her remorsefully; "and such a pretty gown, too. I don't think I ever saw you looking sweeter than you look to-day. And now your dress is ruined, and it is all my fault!"
"How dare you find a defect in my appearance?" says Mona, with her old gay laugh. "You compel me to retaliate. Just look at yourself. Did you ever see such a regular pickle as you are?"
In truth he is. So when he has acknowledged the melancholy fact, they both laugh, with the happy enjoyment of youth, at their own discomfiture, and go back to the cottage good friends once more.
On the middle of the rustic bridge before mentioned he stops her, to say, unexpectedly, —
"Do you know by what name I shall always call you in my thoughts?"
To which she answers, "No. How should I? But tell me."
"'Bonnie Lesley:' the poet says of her what I think of you."
"And what do you think of me?" She has grown a little pale, but her eyes have not left his.
"To see her is to love her,
And love but her forever;
For nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sie anither,"
quotes Geoffrey, in a low tone, that has something in it almost startling, so full is it of deep and earnest feeling.
Mona is the first to recover herself.
"That is a pretty verse," she says, quietly. "But I do not know the poem. I should like to read it."
Her tone, gentle but dignified, steadies him.
"I have the book that contains it at Coolnagurtheen," he says, somewhat subdued. "Shall I bring it to you?"
"Yes. You may bring it to me – to-morrow," returns she, with the faintest hesitation, which but enhances the value of the permission, whereon his heart once more knows hope and content.
CHAPTER IV
HOW GEOFFREY AND MONA ENTER A CABIN AND SEE ONE OF THE RESULTS OF PARNELL'S ELOQUENCE
But when to-morrow comes it brings to him a very different Mona from the one he saw yesterday. A pale girl, with great large sombrous eyes and compressed lips, meets him, and places her hand in his without a word.
"What is it?" asks he, quick to notice any change in her.
"Oh! haven't you heard?" cries she. "Sure the country is ringing with it. Don't you know that they tried to shoot Mr. Moore last night?"
Mr. Moore is her landlord, and the owner of the lovely wood behind Mangle Farm where Geoffrey came to grief yesterday.
"Yes, of course; but I heard, too, how he escaped his would-be assassin."
"He did, yes; but poor Tim Maloney, the driver of the car on which he was, he was shot through the heart, instead of him! Oh, Mr. Rodney," cries the girl, passionate emotion both in her face and voice, "what can be said of those men who come down to quiet places such as this was, to inflame the minds of poor ignorant wretches, until they are driven to bring down murder on their souls! It is cruel! It is unjust! And there seems no help for us. But surely in the land where justice reigns supreme, retribution will fall upon the right heads."
"I quite forgot about the driver," says Geoffrey, beneath his breath. This remark is unfortunate. Mona turns upon him wrathfully.
"No doubt," she says scornfully. "The gentleman escaped, the man doesn't count! Perhaps, indeed, he has fulfilled his mission now he has shed his ignoble blood for his superior! Do you know it is partly such thoughts as these that have driven our people to desperation! One law for the poor, another for the rich! Friendship for the great, contempt for the needy."
She pauses, catching her breath with a little sob.
"Who is uttering seditious language now?" asks he, reproachfully. "No, you wrong me. I had, indeed, forgotten for the moment all about that unfortunate driver. You must remember I am a stranger here. The peasants are unknown to me. I cannot be expected to feel a keen interest in each one individually. In fact, had Mr. Moore been killed instead of poor Maloney, I shouldn't have felt it a bit the more, though he was the master and the other the man. I can only suffer with those I know and love."
The "poor Maloney" has done it. She forgives him; perhaps because – sweet soul – harshness is always far from her.
"It