Crying for the moon.

Despite the glorious moonlight night which ushered in the new-born year, the first day of that year was abominable; a day of hopeless, incessant rain, falling from a leaden sky in which there was never a break, not a stray gleam of sunshine from morn till eve.
“The new year is like Shakespeare’s Richard,” said Lord Mallow, when he stood in the porch after breakfast, surveying the horizon. “‘Tetchy and wayward was his infancy.’ I never experienced anything so provoking. I was dreaming all night of our ride.”
“Were you not afraid of being like that dreadful man in ‘Locksley Hall’? —
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams,”
asked Vixen mockingly.
She was standing on the threshold, playing with Argus, looking the picture of healthful beauty, in her dark green cloth dress and plain linen collar. All Vixen’s morning costumes were of the simplest and neatest; a compact style of dress which interfered with none of her rural amusements. She could romp with her dog, make her round of the stables, work in the garden, ramble in the Forest, without fear of dilapidated flounces or dishevelled laces and ribbons.
“Violet’s morning-dresses are so dreadfully strong-minded,” complained Mrs. Winstanley. “To look at her, one would almost think that she was the kind of girl to go round the country lecturing upon woman’s rights.”
“No ride this morning,” said Captain Winstanley, coming into the hall, with a bundle of letters in his hand. “I shall go to my den, and do a morning’s letter-writing and accountancy — unless you want me for a shy at the pheasants, Mallow?”
“Let the pheasants be at rest for the first day of the year,” answered Lord Mallow. “I am sure you would rather be fetching up your arrears of correspondence than shooting at dejected birds in a damp plantation; and I am luxurious enough to prefer staying indoors, if the ladies will have me. I can help Miss Tempest to wind her wools.”
“Thanks, but I never do any wool-work. Mamma is the artist in that line.”
“Then I place myself unreservedly at Mrs. Winstanley’s feet.”
“You are too good,” sighed the fair matron, from her arm-chair by the hearth; “but I shall not touch my crewels to-day. I have one of my nervous headaches. It is a penalty I too often have to pay for the pleasures of society. I’m afraid I shall have to lie down for an hour or two.”
And with a languid sigh Mrs. Winstanley wrapped her China crape shawl round her, and went slowly upstairs, leaving Violet and Lord Mallow in sole possession of the great oak-panelled hall; the lady looking at the rain from her favourite perch in the deep window-seat, the gentleman contemplating the same prospect from the open door. It was one of those mild winter mornings when a huge wood fire is a cheerful feature in the scene, but hardly essential to comfort.
Vixen thought of that long rainy day, years ago, the day on which Roderick Vawdrey came of age. How well she remembered sitting in that very window, watching the ceaseless rain, with a chilly sense of having been forgotten and neglected by her old companion. And then, in the gloaming, just when she had lost all hope of seeing him, he had come leaping in out of the wet night, like a lion from his lair, and had taken her in his arms and kissed her before she knew what he was doing.
Her cheeks crimsoned even to-day at the memory of that kiss. It had seemed a small thing then. Now it seemed awful — a burning spot of shame upon the whiteness of her youth.
“He must have thought I was very fond of him, or he would not have dared to treat me so,” she told herself. “But then we had been playfellows so long. I had teased him, and he had plagued me; and we had been really like brother and sister. Poor Rorie! If we could have always been young we should have been better friends.”
“How thoughtful you seem this morning, Miss Tempest,” said a voice behind Vixen’s shoulder.
“Do I?” she asked, turning quickly round. “New Year’s Day is a time to make one thoughtful. It is like beginning a new chapter in the volume of life, and one cannot help speculating as to what the chapter is to be about.”
“For you it ought to be a story full of happiness.”
“Ah, but you don’t know my history. I had such a happy childhood. I drained my cup of bliss before I was a woman, and there is nothing left for me but the dregs, and they — they are dust and ashes.”
There was an intensity of bitterness in her tone that moved him beyond his power of self-control. That she — so fair, so lovely, so deeply dear to him already; she for whom life should be one summer-day of unclouded gladness — that she should give expression to a rooted sorrow was more than his patience could bear.
“Violet, you must not speak thus; you wound me to the heart. Oh, my love, my love, you were born to be the giver of gladness, the centre of joy and delight. Grief should never touch you; sorrow and pain should never come near you. You are a creature of happiness and light.”
“Don’t!” cried Vixen vehemently. “Oh, pray don’t. It is all vain — useless. My life is marked out for me. No one can alter it. Pray do not lower yourself by one word more. You will be sorry — angry with yourself and me — afterwards.”
“Violet, I must speak.”
“To what end? My fate is as fixed as the stars. No one can change it.”
“No mortal perhaps, Violet. But Love can. Love is a god. Oh, my darling, I have learnt to love you dearly and fondly in this little while, and I mean to win you. It shall go hard with me if I do not succeed. Dear love, if truth and constancy can conquer fate, I ought to be able to win you. There is no one else, is there, Violet?” he asked falteringly, with his eyes upon her downcast face.
A burning spot glowed and faded on her cheek before she answered him.
“Can you not see how empty my life is?” she asked with a bitter laugh. “No; there is no one else. I stand quite alone. Death took my father from me; your friend has robbed me of my mother. My old playfellow, Roderick Vawdrey, belongs to his cousin. I belong to nobody.”
“Let me have you then, Violet. Ah, if you knew how I would cherish you! You should be loved so well that you would fancy yourself the centre of the universe, and that all the planets revolved in the skies only to please you. Love, let me have you — priceless treasure that others know not how to value. Let me keep and guard you.”
“I would not wrong you so much as to marry you without loving you, and I shall never love any more,” said Vixen, with a sad steadfastness that was more dispiriting than the most vehement protestation.
“Why not?”
“Because I spent all my store of love while I was a child. I loved my father — ah, I cannot tell you how fondly. I do not think there are many fathers who are loved as he was. I poured out all my treasures of affection at his feet. I have no love left for a husband.”
“What, Violet, not if your old friend Roderick Vawdrey were pleading?” asked Lord Mallow.
It was an unlucky speech. If Lord Mallow had had a chance which he had not, that speech would have spoiled it. Violet started to her feet, her cheeks crimson, her eyes flashing.
“It is shameful, abominable of you to say such a thing!” she cried, her voice tremulous with indignation. “I will never forgive you for that dastardly speech. Come, Argus.”
She had mounted the broad oak stairs with light swift foot before Lord Mallow could apologise. He was terribly crestfallen.
“I was a brute,” he muttered to himself. “But I hit the bull’s-eye. It is that fellow she loves. Hard upon me, when I ask for nothing but to be her slave and adore her all the days of my life. And I know that Winstanley would have been pleased. How lovely she looked when she was angry — her tawny hair gleaming in the firelight, her great brown eyes flashing. Yes, it’s the Hampshire squire she cares for, and I’m out of it. I’ll go and shoot the pheasants,” concluded Lord Mallow savagely; “those beggars shall not have it all their own way to-day.”
He went off to get his gun, in the worst humour he had ever been in since he was a child and cried for the moon.
He spent the whole day in a young oak plantation, ankle-deep in oozy mud, moss, and dead fern, making havoc among the innocent birds. He was in so bloodthirsty a temper, that he felt as if he could have shot a covey of young children, had they come in his way, with all the ferocity of a modern Herod.
“I think I’ve spoiled Winstanley’s coverts for this year, at any rate,” he said to himself, as he tramped homewards in the early darkness, with no small hazard of losing himself in one of those ghostly plantations, which were all exactly alike, and in which a man might walk all day long without meeting anything nearer humanity than a trespassing forest pony that had leapt a fence in quest of more sufficing food than the scanty herbage of the open woods.
Lord Mallow got on better than might have been expected. He went east when he ought to have gone west, and found himself in Queen’s Bower when he fancied himself in Gretnam Wood; but he did not walk more than half-a-dozen miles out of his way, and he got home somehow at last, which was much for a stranger to the ground.
The stable clock was chiming the quarter before six when he went into the hall, where Vixen had left him in anger that morning. The great wood fire was burning gaily, and Captain Winstanley was sitting in a Glastonbury chair in front of it. “Went for the birds after all, old fellow,” he said, without looking round, recognising the tread of Lord Mallow’s shooting-boots. “You found it too dismal in the house, I suppose? Consistently abominable weather, isn’t it? You must be soaked to the skin.”
“I suppose I am,” answered the other carelessly. “But I’ve been soaked a good many times before, and it hasn’t done me much harm. Thanks to the modern inventions of the waterproof-makers, the soaking begins inside instead of out. I should call myself parboiled.”
“Take off your oilskins and come and talk. You’ll have a nip, won’t you?” added Captain Winstanley, ringing the bell. “Kirschenwasser, cura?oa, Glenlivat — which shall it be?”
“Glenlivat,” answered Lord Mallow, “and plenty of it. I’m in the humour in which a man must either drink inordinately or cut his throat.”
“Were the birds unapproachable?” asked Captain Winstanley, laughing; “or were the dogs troublesome?”
“Birds and dogs were perfect; but —— Well, I suppose I’d better make a clean breast of it. I’ve had a capital time here —— Oh, here comes the whisky. Hold your hand, old fellow!” cried Lord Mallow, as his host poured the Glenlivat somewhat recklessly into a soda-water tumbler. “You mustn’t take me too literally. Just moisten the bottom of the glass with whisky before you put in the soda. That’s as much as I care about.”
“All right. You were saying ——”
“That my visit here has been simply delightful, and that I must go to London by an early train to-morrow.”
“Paradoxical!” remarked the Captain. “That sounds like your well-bred servant, who tells you that he has nothing to say against the situation, but he wishes to leave you at the end of his month. What’s the matter, dear boy? Do you find our Forest hermitage too dull?”
“I should ask nothing kinder from Fate than to be allowed to spend my days in your Forest. Yes, I would say good-bye to the green hills and vales of County Cork, and become that detestable being, an absentee, if — if — Fortune smiled on me. But she doesn’t, you see, and I must go. Perhaps you may have perceived, Winstanley — perhaps you may not have been altogether averse from the idea — in a word, I have fallen over head and ears in love with your bewitching stepdaughter.”
“My dea............