Rodney has interviewed the old man, her uncle; has told him of his great and lasting4 love for this pearl among women; has described in a very few words, and without bombast5, his admiration6 for Mona; and Brian Scully (though with sufficient national pride to suppress all undue7 delight at the young man's proposal) has given a hearty8 consent to their union, and is in reality flattered and pleased beyond measure at this match for "his girl." For, no matter how the Irish may rebel against landlordism and aristocracy in general, deep down in their hearts lies rooted an undying fealty9 to old blood.
To his mother, however, he has sent no word of Mona, knowing only too well how the news of his approaching marriage with this "outer barbarian10" (as she will certainly deem his darling) will be received. It is not cowardice11 that holds his pen, as, were all the world to kneel at his feet and implore12 him or bribe13 him to renounce14 his love, all such pleading and bribing15 would be in vain. It is that, knowing argument to be useless, he puts off the evil hour that may bring pain to his mother to the last moment.
When she knows Mona she will love her,—who could help it? so he argues; and for this reason he keeps silence until such time as, his marriage being a fait accompli, hopeless expostulation will be of no avail, and will, therefore, be suppressed.
Meanwhile, the hours go by "laden16 with golden grain." Every day makes Mona dearer and more dear, her sweet and guileless nature being one calculated to create, with growing knowledge, an increasing admiration and tenderness. Indeed, each happy afternoon spent with her serves but to forge another link in the chain that binds17 him to her.
To-day is "so cool, so calm, so bright," that Geoffrey's heart grows glad within him as he walks along the road that leads to the farm, his gun upon his shoulder, his trusty dog at his heels.
All through the air the smell of heather, sweet and fragrant18, reigns19. Far down, miles away, the waves rush inland, glinting and glistening20 in the sunlight.
"Blue roll the waters, blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high."
The birds, as though once more led by the balmy mildness of the day into the belief that summer has not yet forsaken21 them, are singing in the topmost branches of the trees, from which, with every passing breeze, the leaves fall lightly.
From the cabins pale wreaths of smoke rise slowly, scarce stirred by the passing wind. Going by one of these small tenements22, before which the inevitable23 pig is wallowing in an unsavory pool, a voice comes to him, fresh and joyous24, and plainly full of pleasure, that thrills through his whole being. It is to him what no other voice ever has been, or ever can be again. It is Mona's voice!
Again she calls to him from within.
"Is it you?" she says. "Come in here, Geoffrey. I want you."
How sweet it is to be wanted by those we love! Geoffrey, lowering his gun, stoops and enters the lowly cabin (which, to say the truth, is rather uninviting than otherwise) with more alacrity25 than he would show if asked to enter the queen's palace. Yet what is a palace but the abode26 of a sovereign? and for the time being, at least, Rodney's sovereign is in possession of this humble27 dwelling28. So it becomes sacred, and almost desirable, in his eyes.
She is sitting before a spinning-wheel, and is deftly29 drawing the wool through her fingers; brown little fingers they are, but none the less dear in his sight.
"I'm here," she cries, in the glad happy tones that have been ringing their changes in his heart all day.
An old crone is sitting over a turf fire that glows and burns dimly in its subdued30 fashion. Hanging over it is a three-legged pot, in which boil the "praties" for the "boys'" dinners, who will be coming home presently from their work.
"What luck to find you here," says Geoffrey, stooping over the industrious31 spinner, and (after the slightest hesitation32) kissing her fondly in spite of the presence of the old woman, who is regarding them with silent curiosity, largely mingled33 with admiration. The ancient dame34 sees plainly nothing strange in this embrace of Geoffrey's but rather something sweet and to be approved. She smiles amiably35, and nods her old head, and mumbles36 some quaint37 Irish phrase about love and courtship and happy youth, as though the very sight of these handsome lovers fills her withered38 breast with glad recollections of bygone days, when she, too, had her "man" and her golden hopes. For deep down in the hearts of all the sons and daughters of Ireland, whether they be young or old, is a spice of romance living and inextinguishable.
Rising, the old dame takes a chair, dusts it, and presents it to the stranger, with a courtesy and a wish that he will make himself welcome. Then she goes back again to the chimney-corner, and taking up the bellows40, blows the fire beneath the potatoes, turning her back in this manner upon the young people with a natural delicacy41 worthy42 of better birth and better education.
Mona, who has blushed rosy43 red at his kiss, is now beaming on her lover, and has drawn44 back her skirts to admit of his coming a little closer to her. He is not slow to avail himself of this invitation, and is now sitting with his arm thrown across the back of the wooden chair that holds Mona, and with eyes full of heartfelt gladness fixed45 upon her.
"You look like Marguerite. A very lovely Marguerite," says Geoffrey, idly, gazing at her rather dreamily.
"Except that my hair is rolled up, and is too dark, isn't it? I have read about her, and I once saw a picture of Marguerite in the Gallery in Dublin, and it was very beautiful. I remember it brought tears to my eyes, and Aunt Anastasia said I was too fanciful to be happy. Her story is a very sad one, isn't it?"
"Very. And you are not a bit like her, after all," says Geoffrey, with sudden compunction, "because you are going to be as happy as the days are long, if I can make you so."
"One must not hope for perfect happiness on this earth," says Mona, gravely; "but at least I know," with a soft and trusting glance at him, "I shall be happier than most people."
"What a darling you are!" says Rodney, in a low tone; and then something else follows, that, had she seen it, would have caused the weatherbeaten old person at the fire another thrill of tender recollection.
"What are you doing?" asks Geoffrey, presently, when they have returned to everyday life.
"I am spinning flax for Betty, because she has rheumatism46 in her poor shoulder, and can do nothing, and this much flax must be finished by a certain time. I have nearly got through my portion now," says Mona; "and then we can go home."
"When I bring you to my home," says Geoffrey, "I shall have you painted just in that gown, and with a spinning-wheel before you; and it shall be hung in the gallery among the other—very inferior—beauties."
"Where?" says Mona, looking up quickly.
"Oh! at home, you know," says Mr. Rodney, quickly, discovering his mistake. For the moment he had forgotten his former declaration of poverty, or, at least, his consenting silence, when she had asked him about it.
"In the National Gallery, do you mean?" asks Mona, with a pretty, puzzled frown on her brow. "Oh, no, Geoffrey; I shouldn't like that at all. To be stared at by everybody,—it wouldn't be nice, would it?"
Rodney laughs, in an inward fashion, biting his lip and looking down.
"Very well; you sha'n't be put there," he says. "But nevertheless you must be prepared for the fact that you will undoubtedly47 be stared at by the common herd48, whether you are in the National Gallery or out of it."
"But why?" says Mona, trying to read his face. "Am I so different from other people?"
"Very different," says Rodney.
"That is what I am afraid of always," says Mona, a little wistfully.
"Don't be afraid. It is quite the correct thing to be eccentric nowadays. One is nowhere if not bizarre," says Rodney, laughing; "so I dare say you will find yourself the very height of fashion."
"Now I think you are making fun of me," says Mona, smiling sweetly; and, lifting her hand, she pinches his ear lightly, and very softly, lest she should hurt him.
Here the old woman at the fire, who has been getting up and down from her three-legged stool during the past few minutes, and sniffing49 at the pot in an anxious manner, gives way to a loud sigh of relief. Lifting the pot from its crook50, she lays it on the earthen floor.
Then she strains the water from it, and looks with admiration upon its steaming contents. "The murphies" (as, I fear, she calls the potatoes) are done to a turn.
"Maybe," says Betty Corcoran, turning in a genial51 fashion to Mona and Geoffrey, "ye'd ate a pratie, would ye, now? They're raal nice an' floury. Ye must be hungry, Miss Mona, afther all the work ye've gone through; an' if you an' your gintleman would condescind to the like of my dinner, 'tis ready for ye, an' welcome ye are to it. Do, now!" heartily52. "The praties is gran' this year,—praises be for all mercies. Amen."
"They do look nice," says Mona, "and I am hungry. If we won't be a great trouble to you, Betty," with graceful53 Hesitation, "I think we should like some."
"Arrah! throuble is it?" says Betty, scornfully. "Tisn't throuble I'm thinkin' of anyway, when you're by."
"Will you have something to eat Geoffrey?" says Mona.
"Thank you," says Geoffrey, "but——"
"Yes, do, alannah!" says the old lady, standing54 with one hand upon her hips55 and the other holding tightly a prodigious56 "Champion." "'Twill set ye up afther yer walk."
"Then, thank you, Mrs. Corcoran, I will have a potato," says Rodney, gratefully, honest hunger and the knowledge that it will please Mona to be friendly with "her people," as she calls them, urging him on. "I'm as hungry as I can be," he says.
"So ye are, bless ye both!" says old Betty, much delighted, and forthwith, going to her dresser, takes down two plates, and two knives and forks, of pattern unknown and of the purest pot-metal, after which she once more returns to the revered57 potatoes.
Geoffrey, who would be at any moment as polite to a dairymaid as to a duchess, follows her, and, much to her discomfort,—though she is too civil to say so,—helps her to lay the table. He even insists on filling a dish with the potatoes, and having severely58 burned his fingers, and having nobly suppressed all appearance of pain,—beyond the dropping of two or three of the esculent roots upon the ground,—brings them in triumph to the spot where Mona is sitting.
"It might be that ye'd take a dhrop of new milk, too," says Betty, "on hospitable59 thoughts intent," placing before her visitors a little jug60 of milk she has all day been keeping apart, poor soul! for her own delectation.
Not knowing this, Mona and Geoffrey (whose flask61 is empty) accept the proffered62 milk, and make merry over their impromptu63 feast, while in the background, the old woman smiles upon them and utters little kindly64 sentences.
Ten minutes later, having bidden their hostess a hearty farewell, they step out into the open air and walk towards the farm.
"You have never told me how many people are in your house?" says Mona, presently. "Tell me now. I know about your mother, and," shyly, "about Nicholas; but is there any one else?"
"Well, Jack65 is home by this time, I suppose,—that's my second brother; at least he was expected yesterday; and Violet Mansergh is very often there; and as a rule, you know, there is always somebody; and that's all."
"Is—is Violet Mansergh a pretty girl?" asks Mona, grasping instinctively67 at the fact that any one called Violet Mansergh may be a possible rival.
"Pretty? No. But she dresses very swagger, and always looks nice, and is generally correct all through," replies Mr. Rodney, easily.
"I know," says Mona, sadly.
"She's the girl my mother wanted me to marry, you know," goes on Rodney, unobservant, as men always are, of the small signals of distress68 hung out by his companion.
"Oh, indeed!" says Mona; and then, with downcast eyes, "but I don't know, because you never told me before."
"I thought I did," says Geoffrey, waking slowly to a sense of the situation.
"Well, you didn't," says Mona. "Are you engaged to her?"
"If I was, how could I ask you to marry me?" returns he, in a tone so hurt that she grows abashed69.
"I hope she isn't in love with you," she says, slowly.
"You may bet anything you like on that," says Geoffrey, cheerfully. "She cares for me just about as much as I care for her,—which means exactly nothing."
"I am very glad," says Mona, in a low tone.
"Why, Mona?"
"Because I could not bear to think any one was made unhappy by me. It would seem as though some evil eye was resting on our love," says Mona, raising her thoughtful, earnest eyes to his. "It must be a sad thing when our happiness causes the misery70 of others."
"Yet even were it so you would love me, Mona?"
"I shall always love you," says the girl, with sweet seriousness, "better than my life. But in that case I should always, too have a regret."
"There is no need for regret, darling," says he. "I am heart-whole, and I know no woman that loves me, or for whose affection I should ask, except yourself."
"I am indeed dear to you, I think," says Mona, softly and thankfully, growing a little pale through the intensity71 of her emotion.
"'Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee,'" replies he, quite as softly.
Then she is pleased, and slips her hand into his, and goes along the quiet road, beside him with a heart in which high jubilee72 holds sway.
"Now tell me something else," she says, after a little bit. "Do all the women you know dress a great deal?"
"Some of them; not all. I know a considerable few who dress so little that they might as well leave it alone."
"Eh?" says Mona, innocently, and stares at him with an expression so full of bewilderment, being puzzled by his tone more than his words, that presently Mr. Rodney becomes conscious of a feeling akin39 to shame. Some remembrance of a line that speaks of "a soul as white as heaven" comes to him, and he makes haste to hide the real meaning of his words.
"Now, do they?" says Mona. "I thought they always wore lovely clothes. In books they always do; but I was too young when with Aunt Anastasia in Dublin to go out. Somehow, what one imagines is sure to be wrong. I remember," laughing, "when I firmly believed the queen never was seen without her crown on her head."
"Well, it always is on her head," says Mr. Rodney, at which ridiculous joke they both laugh as gayly as though it were a bon-mot of the first water. That "life is thorny74, and youth is vain" has not as yet occurred to either of these two. Nay75, more, were you even to name this thought to them, they would rank it as flat blasphemy76, and you a false prophet—love and laughter being, up to this, the burden of their song.
Yet after a moment or two the smile fades from Mona's mobile lip that ever looks as if, in the words of the old song, "some bee had stung it newly," and a pensive77 expression takes its place.
"I think I'd like to see myself in a regular evening gown," she say, wistfully.
"So should I," says Rodney, eagerly, but incorrectly; "at least, not myself, but you,—in something handsome, you know, open at the neck, and with your pretty arms bare, as they were the first day I saw you."
"How you remember that, now!" says Mona, with a heavenly smile, and a faint pressure of the fingers that still rest in his. "Yes, I should like to be sure before I marry you that—that—fashionable clothes would become me. But of course," regretfully, "you will understand I haven't a gown of that sort. I once sat in Lady Crighton's room while her maid dressed her for dinner: so I know all about it."
She sighs, then looks at the sky, and—sighs again.
"And do you know," she says, with charming naivete, not looking at him, but biting a blade of grass in a distractingly pretty and somewhat pensive fashion, "do you know her neck and arms are not a patch on mine?"
"You needn't tell me that. I'm positive they couldn't be named in the same day," says Geoffrey, enthusiastically, who never in his life saw Lady Crighton, or her neck or arms.
"No, they are not. Geoffrey, people look much better when they are beautifully dressed, don't they?"
"Well, on the principle that fine feathers make fine birds, I suppose they do," acknowledges Geoffrey, reluctantly.
At this she glances with scorn upon the quakerish and somewhat quaint gray gown in which she is clothed, and in which she is looking far sweeter than she knows, for in her face lie "love enshrined and sweet attractive grace."
"Yet, in spite of all the fine feathers, no one ever crept into my heart but my own Mona," says the young man, putting his hand beneath her chin, which is soft and rounded as a baby's, and turning her face to his. He hates to see the faint chagrin78 that lingers on it for a moment; for his is one of those tender natures that cannot bear to see the thing it loves endure the smallest torment79.
"Some women in the great world overdo80 it," he goes on, "and choose things and colors utterly81 unsuited to their style. They are slaves to fashion. But
It doth so well become her.'"
"Ah, how you flatter!" says Mona. Nevertheless, being a woman, and the flattery being directed to herself, she takes it kindly.
"No, you must not think that. To wear anything that becomes you must be the perfection of dressing83. Why wear a Tam O'Shanter hat when one looks hideous84 in it? And then too much study spoils effect: you know what Herrick says:—
"'A careless shoe-string in whose tie
I see a wild civility,
Does more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.'"
"How pretty that is! Yet I should like you to see me, if only for once, as you have seen others," says Mona.
"I should like it too. And it could be managed, couldn't it? I suppose I could get you a dress."
He says this quickly, yet fearfully. If she should take his proposal badly, what shall he do? He stares with flattering persistency85 upon a distant donkey that adorns86 a neighboring field, and calmly awaits fate. It is for once kind to him. Mona, it is quite evident, fails to see any impropriety in his speech.
"Could you?" she says hopefully. "How?"
Mr. Rodney, basely forsaking87 the donkey, returns to his mutton. "There must be a dressmaker in Dublin," he says, "and we could write to her. Don't you know one?"
"I don't, but I know Lady Mary and Miss Blake always get their things from a woman called Manning."
"Then Manning it shall be," says Geoffrey, gayly. "I'll run up to Dublin, and if you give me your measure I'll bring a gown back to you."
"But why?" demands he, dense89 as men will be at times. Then, as she refuses to enlighten his ignorance, slowly the truth dawns upon him.
"Do you mean that you would really miss me if I left you for only one day?" he asks, delightedly. "Mona, tell me the truth."
"Well, then, sure you know I would," confesses she, shyly but honestly. Whereupon rapture90 ensues that lasts for a full minute.
"Very well, then; I shan't leave you; but you shall have that dress all the same," he says. "How shall we arrange about it?"
"I can give you the size of my waist and my shoulders, and my length," says Mona, thoughtfully, yet with a touch of inspiration.
"And what color becomes you? Blue? that would suit your eyes, and it was blue you used to wear last month."
"Yes, blue looks very nice on me. Geoffrey, if Uncle Brian hears of this, will he be angry?"
"We needn't risk it. And it is no harm, darling, because you will soon be my wife, and then I shall give you everything. When the dress comes I'll send it up to you by my man, and you must manage the rest."
"I'll see about it. And, oh, Geoffrey, I do hope you will like me in it, and think me pretty," she says, anxiously, half fearful of this gown that is meant to transform a "beggar maid" into a queen fit for "King Cophetua." At least such is her reading of the part before her.
And so it is arranged. And that evening Geoffrey indites91 a letter to Mrs. Manning, Grafton Street, Dublin, that brings a smile to the lips of that cunning modiste.
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1
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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fealty
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barbarian
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cowardice
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implore
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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bribing
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laden
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binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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fragrant
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reigns
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glistening
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Forsaken
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tenements
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inevitable
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joyous
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alacrity
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abode
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humble
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dwelling
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deftly
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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industrious
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hesitation
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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dame
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amiably
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mumbles
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quaint
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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bellows
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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46
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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47
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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50
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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53
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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56
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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68
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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82
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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86
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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88
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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90
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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indites
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| vt.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作（indite的第三人称单数形式） | |
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