It is the 14th of December, and "bitter chill." Upon all the lawns and walks at the Towers, "Nature, the vicar of the almightie Lord," has laid its white winding-sheet. In the long avenue the gaunt and barren branches of the stately elms are bowed down with the weight of the snow, that fell softly but heavily all last night, creeping upon the sleeping world with such swift and noiseless wings that it recked not of its visit till the chill beams of a wintry sun betrayed it.
Each dark-green leaf in the long shrubberies bears its own sparkling burden. The birds hide shivering in the lourestine—that in spite of frost and cold is breaking into blossom,—and all around looks frozen.
"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing;"
yet there is , too, in the scene around, and a beauty scarcely to be rivalled by June's sweetest efforts.
Geoffrey, springing down from the dog-cart that has been sent to the station to meet him, brushes the frost from his hair, and stamps his feet upon the stone steps.
Sir Nicholas, who has come out to meet him, gives him a hand-shake, and a smile that would have been charming if it had not been . Altogether, his expression in such as might suit the death-bed of a beloved friend, His is of an unseemly length, and he plainly looks on Geoffrey as one who has fallen upon evil days.
Nothing , however, by this reception, Geoffrey returns his grasp with interest, and, looking fresh and young and happy, runs past him, up the stairs, to his mother's room, to beard—as he unfilially expresses it—the lioness in her . It is a very cosey den, and, though claws maybe discovered in it, nobody at the first glance would ever suspect it of such dangerous toys. Experience, however, teaches most things, and Geoffrey has donned armor for the coming encounter.
He had left Mona in the morning at the Grosvenor, and had run down to have it out with his mother and get her permission to bring Mona to the Towers to be introduced to her and his brothers. This he preferred to any formal calling on their parts.
"You see, our own house is rather out of repair from being untenanted for so long, and will hardly be ready for us for a month or two," he said to Mona: "I think I will run down to the Towers and tell my mother we will go to her for a little while."
Of course this was on the day after their return to England, before his own people knew of their arrival.
"I shall like that very much," Mona had returned, innocently, not dreaming of the that awaited her,—because in such cases even the very best men will be deceitful, and Geoffrey had rather led her to believe that his mother would be charmed with her, and that she was most pleased than otherwise at their marriage.
When she made him this little trustful speech, however, he had felt some , and had turned his attention upon a little muddy boy who was playing pitch-and-toss, irrespective of consequences, on the other side of the way.
And Mona had marked his embarrassment, and had quickly, with all the that belongs to her race, her own conclusions therefrom, which were for the most part correct.
But to Geoffrey—lest the telling should cause him unhappiness—she had said nothing of her discovery; only when the morning came that saw him depart upon his mission (now so well understood by her), she had kissed him, and told him to "hurry, hurry, hurry back to her," with a little between each word. And when he was gone she had breathed an earnest prayer, poor child, that all might yet be well, and then told herself that, no matter what came, she would at least be a faithful, loving wife to him.
To her it is always as though he is of name. It is always "he" and "his" and "him," all through, as though no other man existed upon earth.
"Well, mother?" says Geoffrey, when he has gained her room and received her kiss, which is not exactly all it ought to be after a five months' separation. He is her son, and of course she loves him, but—as she tells herself—there are some things hard to forgive.
"Of course it was a surprise to you," he says.
"It was more than a 'surprise.' That is a mild word," says Lady Rodney. She is looking at him, is telling herself what a goodly son he is, so tall and strong and bright and handsome. He might have married almost any one! And now—now——? No, she cannot forgive. "It was, and must always be, a grief," she goes on, in a low tone.
This is a bad beginning. Mr. Rodney, before replying, gains time, and makes a diversion by the fire.
"I should have written to you about it sooner," he says at last, apologetically, hoping half his mother's arises from a sense of his own , "but I felt you would object, and so put it off from day to day."
"I heard of it soon enough," returns his mother, gloomily, without lifting her eyes from the tiny feathered fire-screen she is holding. "Too soon! That sort of thing seldom tarries. 'For evil news rides post, while good news baits.'"
"Wait till you see her," says Geoffrey, after a little pause, with full faith in his own recipe.
"I don't want to see her," is the unflinching and most ungracious reply.
"My dear mother, don't say that," the young man, earnestly, going over to her and placing his arm round her neck. He is her favorite son, of which he is quite aware, and so hopes on. "What is it you object to?"
"To everything! How could you think of bringing a daughter-in-law of—of—her description to your mother?"
"How can you describe her, when you have not seen her?"
"She is not a lady," says Lady Rodney, as though that should terminate the argument.
"It depends on what you consider a lady," says Geoffrey, calmly, keeping his temper wonderfully, more indeed for Mona's sake than his own. "You think a few grandfathers and an old name make one: I dare say it does. It ought, you know; though I could tell you of several striking exceptions to that rule. But I also believe in a nobility that belongs alone to nature. And Mona is as surely a gentlewoman in thought and deed as though all the blood of all the Howards was in her ."
"I did not expect you would say anything else," returns she, coldly. "Is she quite without blood?"
"Her mother was of good family, I believe."
"You believe!" with disgust. "And have you not even taken the trouble to make sure? How late in life you have developed a trusting !"
"One might do worse than put faith in Mona," says, Geoffrey, quickly. "She is of all trust. And she is quite charming,—quite. And the very prettiest girl I ever saw. You know you adore beauty, mother,"—insinuatingly,—"and she is sure to create a when presented."
"Presented!" repeats Lady Rodney, in a dreadful tone. "And would you present a low Irish girl to your sovereign? And just now, too, when the whole nation is in such disrepute."
"You mustn't call her names, you know; she is my wife," says Rodney, gently, but with dignity,—"the woman I love and honor most on earth. When you see her you will understand how the word 'low' could never apply to her. She looks quite correct, and is lovely."
"You are in love," returns his mother, contemptuously. "At present you can see no fault in her; but later on when you come to compare her with the other women in your own set, when you see them together, I only hope you will see no difference between them, and feel no regret."
She says this, however, as though it is her one desire he may know regret, and feel a difference that be overwhelming.
"Thank you," says Geoffrey, a little dryly, accepting her words as they are said, not as he feels they are meant.
Then there is another pause, rather longer than the last, Lady Rodney trifles with the fan in a somewhat excited fashion, and Geoffrey gazes, man-like, at his boots. At last his mother breaks the silence.
"Is she—is she noisy?" she asks, in a tone.
"Well, she can laugh, if you mean that," says Geoffrey somewhat . And then, as though overcome with some recollection in which the poor little criminal who is before the bar bore a humorous part, he lays his head down upon the mantelpiece and gives way to hearty laughter himself.
"I understand," says Lady Rodney, faintly, feeling her burden is "greater than she can bear." "She is, without telling, a young woman who laughs uproariously, at everything,—no matter what,—and takes good care her vulgarity shall be read by all who run."
Now, I can't explain why but I never knew a young man who was not annoyed when the girl he loved was spoken of as a "young woman." Geoffrey takes it as a deliberate insult.
"There is a limit to everything,—even my p............