Time, with lovers, "flies with swallows' wings;" they neither feel nor it as it passes, so all too full of haste the moments seem. They are to them with love and happiness and sweet content. To-day is an joy, and to-morrow will dawn for no other purpose but to bring them together. So they think and so they believe.
Rodney has interviewed the old man, her uncle; has told him of his great and love for this pearl among women; has described in a very few words, and without , his for Mona; and Brian Scully (though with sufficient national pride to suppress all delight at the young man's proposal) has given a 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 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 " (as she will certainly deem his darling) will be received. It is not that holds his pen, as, were all the world to kneel at his feet and him or him to his love, all such pleading and 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 " 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 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 , . Far down, miles away, the waves rush inland, glinting and 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 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 , before which the pig is wallowing in an unsavory pool, a voice comes to him, fresh and , 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 than he would show if asked to enter the queen's palace. Yet what is a palace but the of a sovereign? and for the time being, at least, Rodney's sovereign is in possession of this . So it becomes sacred, and almost desirable, in his eyes.
She is sitting before a spinning-wheel, and is 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 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 spinner, and (after the slightest ) kissing her fondly in spite of the presence of the old woman, who is regarding them with silent curiosity, largely with admiration. The ancient sees plainly nothing strange in this embrace of Geoffrey's but rather something sweet and to be approved. She smiles , and nods her old head, and some Irish phrase about love and courtship and happy youth, as though the very sight of these handsome lovers fills her 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 , blows the fire beneath the potatoes, turning her back in this manner upon the young people with a natural of better birth and better education.
Mona, who has blushed red at his kiss, is now beaming on her lover, and has 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 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 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 be stared at by the common , 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 at the pot in an anxious manner, gives way to a loud sigh of relief. Lifting the pot from its , 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 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!" . "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 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, with one hand upon her and the other holding tightly a "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 potatoes.
Geoffrey, who would be at any moment as polite to a dairymaid as to a duchess, follows her, a............