She has crossed the rustic2 bridge that leads into the Moore plantations3, in hot pursuit of a young turkey that is evidently filled with a base determination to spend his Sunday out.
Geoffrey is rushing hither and thither4, without his hat, and without his temper, in a vain endeavor to secure the rebel and reduce him to order. He is growing warm, and his breath is coming more quickly than is exactly desirable; but, being possessed5 with the desire to conquer or die, he still holds on. He races madly over the ground, crying "Shoo!" every now and then (whatever that may mean) in a desperate tone, as though impressed with the belief that this simple and apparently6 harmless expletive must cow the foe7.
"Look at him, under that fern there!" exclaims Mona, in her clear treble, that has always something sweet and plaintive8 in it. "On your right—no! not on your left. Sure you know your right, don't you?" with a full, but unconscious, touch of scorn. "Hurry! hurry! or he will be gone again. Was there ever such a hateful bird! With his good food in the yard, and his warm house, and his mother crying for him! Ah! there you have him! No!—yes! no! He is gone again!"
"He isn't!" says Geoffrey, panting "I have him at last!" Whereupon he emerges from a wilderness9 of ferns, drawing after him and holding up triumphantly10 to the light the wandering bird, that looks more dead than alive, with all its feathers drooping11, and its breath coming in angry cries.
"Oh, you have him!" says Mona, with a beaming smile, that is not reciprocated12 by the captured turkey. "Hold him tight: you have no idea how artful he is. Sure I knew you'd get him, if any one could!"
There is admiration13 blended with relief in her tone, and Geoffrey begins to feel like a hero of Waterloo.
"Now carry him over the bridge and put him down there, and he must go home, whether he likes it or not," goes on Mona to her warrior14, whereupon that renowned15 person, armed with the shrieking16 turkey, crosses the bridge. Having gained the other side, he places the angry bird on its mother earth, and with a final and almost tender "Shoo!" sends him scuttling17 along to the farmyard in the distance, where, no doubt, he is received either with open arms and kisses, or with a sounding "spank," as our American cousins would say, by his terrified mamma.
He finds Mona on his return sitting on a bank, laughing and trying to recover her breath.
"I hardly think this is Sunday work," she says, lightly; "but the poor little thing would have died if left out all night. Wasn't it well you saw him?"
"Most fortunate," says Rodney, with deep gravity. "I consider I have been the means of preventing a public calamity18. Why, that bird might have haunted us later on."
"Fancy a turkey ghost," says Mona. "How ugly it would be. It would have all its feathers off, of course."
"Certainly not," says Geoffrey: "I blush for you. I never yet heard of a ghost that was not strictly19 decent. It would have had a winding20 sheet, of course. Come, let us go for a walk."
"To the old fort?" asks Mona, starting to her feet.
"Anywhere you like. I'm sure we deserve some compensation for the awful sermon that curate gave us this morning."
So they start, in a lazy, happy-go-lucky fashion, for their walk, conversing21 as they go, of themselves principally as all true lovers will.
But the fort, on this evening at least, is never reached Mona, coming to a stile, seats himself comfortably on the top of it, and looks with mild content around.
"Are you going no farther?" asks Rodney, hoping sincerely she will say "No." She does say it.
"It is so nice here," she says, with a soft sigh, and a dreamy smile, whereupon he too climbs and seats himself beside her. As they are now situated22, there is about half a yard between them of passable wall crowned with green sods, across which they can hold sweet converse23 with the utmost affability. The evening is fine; the heavens promise to be fair; the earth beneath is calm and full of silence as becomes a Sabbath eve; yet, alas24! Mona strikes a chord that presently flings harmony to the winds.
"Tell me about your mother," she says, folding her hands easily in her lap. "I mean,—what is she like? Is she cold, or proud, or stand-off?" There is keen anxiety in her tone.
"Eh?" says Geoffrey, rather taken back. "Cold" and "proud" he cannot deny, even to himself, are words that suit his mother rather more than otherwise.
"Oh, no," says Geoffrey, hastily, recovering himself just in time; "she's all right, you know, my mother; and you'll like her awfully26 when—when you know her, and when—when she knows you."
"Will that take her long?" asks Mona, somewhat wistfully, feeling, without understanding, some want in his voice.
"I don't see how it could take any one long," says Rodney.
"Ah! that is because you are a man, and because you love me," says this astute28 reader of humanity. "But women are so different. Suppose—suppose she never gets to like me?"
"Well, even that awful misfortune might be survived. We can live in our own home 'at ease,' as the old song says, until she comes to her senses. By and by, do you know you have never asked me about your future home,—my own place, Leighton Hall? and yet it is rather well worth asking about, because, though small, it is one of the oldest and prettiest places in the county."
"Leighton Hall," repeats she, slowly, fixing upon him her dark eyes that are always so full of truth and honesty. "But you told me you were poor. That a third son——"
"Wasn't much!" interrupts Geoffrey, with an attempt at carelessness that rather falls through beneath the gaze of those searching eyes. "Well, no more he is, you know, as a rule, unless some kind relative comes to his assistance."
"In that I spoke30 the truth," says Mr. Rodney, with a shameless laugh, "because it was an uncle who left me some money."
"You have not been quite true with me," says Mona, in a curious way, never removing her gaze and never returning his smile. "Are you rich, then, if you are not poor?"
"I'm a long way off being rich," says the young man, who is palpably amused, in spite of a valiant31 effort to suppress all outward signs of enjoyment32. "I'm awfully poor when compared with some fellows. I dare say I must come in for something when my other uncle dies, but at present I have only fifteen hundred pounds a year."
"Only!" says Mona. "Do you know, Mr. Moore has no more than that, and we think him very rich indeed! No, you have not been open with me: you should have told me. I haven't ever thought of you to myself as being a rich man. Now I shall have to begin and think of you a lover again in quite another light." She is evidently deeply aggrieved33.
"But, my darling child, I can't help the fact that George Rodney left me the Hall," says Geoffrey, deprecatingly, reducing the space between them to a mere34 nothing, and slipping his arm round her waist. "And if I was a beggar on the face of the earth, I could not love you more than I do, nor could you, I hope"—reproachfully—"love me better either."
The reproachful ring in his voice does its intended work. The soft heart throws out resentment35, and once more gives shelter to gentle thoughts alone. She even consents to Rodney's laying his cheek against hers, and faintly returns the pressure of his hand.
"Yet I think you should have told me," she whispers, as a last fading censure36. "Do you know you have made me very unhappy?"
"Oh, no, I haven't, now," says Rodney, reassuringly37 "You don't look a bit unhappy; you only look as sweet as an angel."
"You never saw an angel, so you can't say," says Mona, still sadly severe. "And I am unhappy. How will your mother, Mrs. Rodney, like your marrying me, when you might marry so many other people,—that Miss Mansergh, for instance?"
"Oh, nonsense!" says Rodney, who is in high good humor and can see no rocks ahead. "When my mother sees you she will fall in love with you on the spot, as will everybody else. But look here, you know, you mustn't call her Mrs. Rodney!"
"Why?" says Mona. "I couldn't well call her any thing else until I know her."
"That isn't her name at all," says Geoffrey. "My father was a baronet, you know: she is Lady Rodney."
"What!" says Mona And then she grows quite pale, and, slipping off the stile, stands a few yards away from him.
"That puts an end to everything," she says, in a dreadful little voice that goes to his heart, "at once. I could never face any one with a title. What will she say when she hears you are going to marry a farmer's niece? It is shameful38 of you," says Mona, with as much indignation as if the young man opposite to her, who is making strenuous39 but vain efforts to speak, has just been convicted of some heinous40 crime. "It is disgraceful! I wonder at you! That is twice you have deceived me."
"If you would only hear me——"
"I have heard too much already. I won't listen to any more. 'Lady Rodney!' I dare say"—with awful meaning in her tone—"you have got a title too!" Then, sternly, "Have you?"
"No, no indeed. I give you my honor, no," says Geoffrey, very earnestly, feeling that Fate has been more than kind to him in that she has denied him a handle to his name.
"You are sure?"—doubtfully.
"And your brother?"
"I don't mean him,"—severely: "I mean the brother you called 'Old Nick'—Old Nick indeed!" with suppressed anger.
"Oh, he is only called Sir Nicholas. Nobody thinks much of that. A baronet is really never of the slightest importance," says Geoffrey, anxiously, feeling exactly as if he were making an apology for his brother.
"That is not correct," says Mona. "We have a baronet here, Sir Owen O'Connor, and he is thought a great deal of. I know all about it. Even Lady Mary would have married him if he had asked her, though his hair is the color of an orange. Mr. Rodney,"—laying a dreadful stress upon the prefix43 to his name,—"go back to England and"—tragically—"forget me?"
"I shall do nothing of the kind," says Mr. Rodney, indignantly. "And if you address me in that way again I shall cut my throat."
"Much better do that"—gloomily—"than marry me Nothing comes of unequal marriages but worry, and despair, and misery44, and death," says Mona, in a fearful tone, emphasizing each prophetic word with a dismal45 nod.
"You've been reading novels," says Rodney, contemptuously.
"No, I haven't," says Mona, indignantly.
"Then you are out of your mind," says Rodney.
"No, I am not. Anything but that; and to be rude"—slowly—"answers no purpose. But I have some common sense, I hope."
"I hate women with common sense. In plainer language it means no heart."
"Now you speak sensibly. The sooner you begin to hate me the better."
"A nice time to offer such advice as that," says Rodney, moodily46. "But I shan't take it. Mona,"—seizing her hands and speaking more in passionate47 excitement than even in love,—"say at once you will keep your word and marry me."
"Nothing on earth shall bring me to say that," says Mona, solemnly. "Nothing!"
"Then don't," says Rodney, furiously, and flinging her hands from him, he turns and strides savagely48 down the hill, and is lost to sight round the corner.
But, though "lost to sight," to memory he is most unpleasantly "dear." Standing27 alone in the middle of the deserted49 field, Mona pulls to pieces, in a jerky, fretful fashion, a blade of grass she has been idly holding during the late warm discussion. She is honestly very much frightened at what she has done, but obstinately50 declines to acknowledge it even to her own heart. In a foolish but natural manner she tries to deceive herself into the belief that what has happened has been much to her own advantage, and it will be a strict wisdom to rejoice over it.
"Dear me," she says, throwing up her dainty head, and flinging, with a petulant51 gesture, the unoffending grass far from her, "what an escape I have had! How his mother would have hated me! Surely I should count it lucky that I discovered all about her in time. Because really it doesn't so very much matter; I dare say I shall manage to be quite perfectly52 happy here again, after a little bit, just as I have been all my life—before he came. And when he is gone"—she pauses, chokes back with stern determination a very heavy sigh, and then goes on hastily and with suspicious bitterness, "What a temper he has! Horrid53! The way he flung away my hand, as if he detested54 me, and flounced down that hill, as if he hoped never to set eyes on me again! With no 'good-by,' or 'by your leave,' or 'with your leave,' or a word of farewell, or a backward glance, or anything! I do hope he has taken me at my word, and that he will go straight back, without seeing me again, to his own odious55 country."
She tells herself this lie without a blush, perhaps because she is so pale at the bare thought that her eyes may never again be gladdened by his presence, that the blood refuses to rise.
A bell tinkles56 softly in the distance. The early dusk is creeping up from behind the distant hills, that are purple with the soft and glowing heather. The roar of the rushing waves comes from the bay that lies behind those encircling hills, and falls like sound of saddest music on her ear. Now comes
Has in her sober livery all things clad.
And Mona, rousing herself from her unsatisfactory reverie, draws her breath quickly and then moves homeward.
But first she turns and casts a last lingering glance upon the sloping hill down which her sweetheart, filled with angry thoughts, had gone. And as she so stands, with her hand to her forehead, after a little while a slow smile of conscious power comes to her lips and tarries round them, as though fond of its resting-place.
Her lips part. An expression that is half gladness, half amusement, brightens her eyes.
"I wonder," she says to herself, softly, "whether he will be with me at the usual hour to-morrow, or,—a little earlier!"
Then she gathers up her gown and runs swiftly back to the farm.
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1
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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28
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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30
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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31
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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32
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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40
heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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46
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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47
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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48
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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50
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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51
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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54
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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56
tinkles
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| 丁当声，铃铃声( tinkle的名词复数 )； 一次电话 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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