She has crossed the bridge that leads into the Moore , 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 , 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 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 harmless expletive must cow the .
"Look at him, under that fern there!" exclaims Mona, in her clear treble, that has always something sweet and 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 of ferns, drawing after him and holding up to the light the wandering bird, that looks more dead than alive, with all its feathers , and its breath coming in angry cries.
"Oh, you have him!" says Mona, with a beaming smile, that is not 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 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 , whereupon that person, armed with the 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 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 . 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 decent. It would have had a 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, 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 , there is about half a yard between them of passable wall crowned with green sods, across which they can hold sweet 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, ! 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.
"I mean," says Mona, flushing a vivid , "is she stern?"
"Oh, no," says Geoffrey, hastily, recovering himself just in time; "she's all right, you know, my mother; and you'll like her 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 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."
"But you told me no aunt had ever come to your assistance," goes on Mona, remorselessly.
"In that I 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 effort to suppress all outward signs of . "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 .
"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
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading