Oh, hame, hame—hame fain wad I be,Hame, hame to my ain countrie,
Oh, hame, hame—hame fain wad I be,Hame, hame to my ain countrie,
and so on.
It touches the hearts of all who hear it as she sings it and brings tears to the eyes of the duchess. So used the little fragile daughter to sing who is now chanting in heaven!
There is no vehement applause as Mona takes her fingers from the keys, but every one says, "Thank you," in a low tone. Geoffrey, going up to her, leans over her chair and whispers, with some agitation,—
"You did not mean it, Mona, did you? You are content here with me?—you have no regret?"
At which Mona turns round to him a face very pale, but full of such love as should rejoice the heart of any man, and says, tremulously,—
"Darling, do you need an answer?"
"Then why did you choose that song?"
"I hardly know."
"I was hateful to you just now, and most unjust."
"Were you? I have forgotten it," replies she, smiling happily, the color coming back to her cheeks. Whereupon Paul Rodney's brows contract, and with a muttered curse he turns aside and leaves the room, and then the house, without another word or backward glance.
"Must you really go, Geoffrey?—really?" asks Mona, miserably, looking the very personification of despair. She has asked the same question in the same tone ever since early dawn, and it is now four o'clock.
"Yes, really. Horrid bore, isn't it?—but county dinners must be attended, and Nicholas will do nothing. Besides, it isn't fair to ask him just now, dear old fellow, when he has so much upon his mind."
"Butyouhave something on your mind, too. You haveme. Why doesn't Jack go?"
"Well, I rather think he has Violet on his mind. Did you ever see anything so spooney as they looked all through dinner yesterday and luncheon to-day? I didn't think it was in Violet."
"Did she never look at you like that?" asks Mona, maliciously; "in the early days, I mean, before—before——"
"I fell a victim to your charms? No. Jack has it all to himself as far as I'm concerned. Well, I must be off, you know. It is a tremendous drive, and I'll barely do it in time. I shall be back about two in the morning."
"Not until two?" says Mona, growing miserable again.
"I can't well get away before that, you know, as Wigley is a good way off. But I'll try all I know. And, after all," says Geoffrey, with a view to cheering her, "it isn't as bad as if I was ordered off somewhere for a week, is it?"
"A week? I should bedeadwhen you came back," declares Mrs. Geoffrey, with some vehemence, and a glance that shows she can dissolve into tears at a moment's notice.
"Some fellows go away for months," says Geoffrey, still honestly bent on cheering her, but unfortunately going the wrong way to work.
"Then they ought to be ashamed of themselves," says Mona, with much indignation. "Months indeed!"
"Why, they can't help it," explains he. "They are sent half the time."
"Then the people who send them should be ashamed! But what about the other half of their time that they spend from home?"
"Oh, I don't know: that was a mere figure of speech," says Mr. Rodney, who is afraid to say such absences are caused by an innate love of freedom and a vile desire for liberty at any cost, and has nothing else handy. "Now don't stay moping up here when I go, but run downstairs and find the girls and make yourself happy with them."
"Happy?" reproachfully. "I shan't know a happy moment until I see you again!"
"Nor I, till I see you," says Geoffrey, earnestly, actually believing what he says himself.
"I shall do nothing but look at the clock and listen for the sound of the horse's feet."
"Mona, you musn't do that. Now, I shall be really annoyed if you insist on sitting up for me and so lose a good night's rest. Now, don't, darling. It will only take it out of you, and make you pale and languid next day."
"But I shall be more content so; and even if I went to bed I could not sleep. Besides, I shall not be companionless when the small hours begin to creep upon me."
"Eh?" says Geoffrey.
"No; I shall have him with me: but, hush! It is quite a secret," placing her finger on her lips.
"'Him'?—whom?"—demands her husband, with pardonable vivacity.
"My own old pet," says Mrs. Geoffrey, still mysteriously, and with the fondest smile imaginable.
"Good gracious, Mona, whom do you mean?" asks he, aghast both at her look and tone.
"Why, Spice, of course," opening her eyes. "Didn't you know. Why, what else could I mean?"
"I don't know, I'm sure; but really the way you expressed yourself, and——Yes, of course, Spice will be company, the very best company for you."
"I think I shall have Allspice too," goes on Mona. "But say nothing. Lady Rodney, if she knew it, would not allow it for a moment. But Jenkins" (the old butler) "has promised to manage it all for me, and to smuggle my dear dogs up to my room without any one being in the least the wiser."
"If you have Jenkins on your side you are pretty safe," says Geoffrey. "My mother is more afraid of Jenkins than you would be of a land-leaguer. Well, good-by again. I must be off."
"What horse are you taking?" asks she, holding him.
"Black Bess."
"Oh, Geoffrey, do you want to break my heart? Sure you know he is the most vicious animal in the whole stables. Take any horse but that."
"Well, if only to oblige you, I'll take Truant."
"What! the horrid brute that puts back his ears and shows the white of his eyes! Geoffrey, once for all, I desire you to have nothing to do with him."
"Anything to please you," says Geoffrey, who is laughing by this time. "May I trust my precious bones to Mazerin? He is quite fifteen, has only one eye, and a shameless disregard for the whip."
"Ye—es; he will do," says Mona, after a second's careful thought, and even now reluctantly.
"I think I see myself behind Mazerin, at this time of day," says Mr. Rodney, heartlessly. "You don't catch me at it, if I know it. I'm not sure what horse I shall have, but I trust to Thomas to give me a good one. For the last time, good-by, you amiable young goose, and don't expect me till I come."
So saying, he embraces her warmly, and, running downstairs, jumps into the dog-cart, and drives away behind the "vicious Black Bess."
Mona watches him from her window, as far as the curve in the avenue will permit, and, having received and returned his farewell wave of the hand, sits down, and taking out her handkerchief, indulges in a good cry.
It is the first time since their marriage that she and Geoffrey have been parted, and it seems to her a hard thing that such partings should be. A sense of desolation creeps over her,—a sense of loneliness she has never known before.
Then she remembers her promise to go down to the girls and abstain from fretting, and, rising bravely, she bathes her eyes, and goes down the marble staircase through the curtained alcove towards the small drawing-room, where one of the servants tells her, the family is assembled.
The door of the room she is approaching is wide open, and inside, as Mona draws nearer, it becomes apparent that some one is talking very loudly, and with much emphasis, and as though determined not to be silenced. Argument is plainly the order of the hour.
As Mona comes still nearer, the words of the speaker reach her, and sink into her brain. It is Lady Rodney who is holding forth, and what she says floats lightly to Mona's ears. She is still advancing, unmindful of anything but the fact that she cannot see Geoffrey again for more hours than she cares to count, when the following words become clear to her, and drive the color from her cheeks,—
"And those dogs forever at her heels!—positively, she is half a savage. The whole thing is in keeping, and quite detestable. How can you expect me to welcome a girl who is without family and absolutely penniless? Why, I am convinced that misguided boy bought her even her trousseau!"
Mona has no time to hear more; pale, but collected, she walks deliberately into the room and up to Lady Rodney.
"You are mistaken in one point," she says, slowly. "I may be savage, penniless, without family,—but I bought my own trousseau. I do not say this to excuse myself, because I should not mind taking anything from Geoffrey; but I think it a pity you should not know the truth. I had some money of my own,—very little, I allow, but enough to furnish me with wedding garments."
Her coming is a thunderbolt, her speech lightning. Lady Rodney changes color, and is for once utterly disconcerted.
"I beg your pardon," she manages to say. "Of course had I known you were listening at the door I should not have said what I did,"—this last with a desire to offend.
"I was not listening at the door," says Mona, with dignity, yet with extreme difficulty: some hand seems clutching at her heart-strings, and he who should have been near to succor her is far away. "I never," haughtily, "listened at a door in all my life.Ishould not understand how to do it." Her Irish blood is up, and there is a distinct emphasis upon the pronoun. "You have wronged me twice!"
Her voice falters. Instinctively she looks round for help. She feels deserted,—alone. No one speaks. Sir Nicholas and Violet, who are in the room, are as yet almost too shocked to have command of words; and presently the silence becomes unbearable.
Two tears gather, and roll slowly down Mona's white cheeks. And then somehow her thoughts wander back to the old farmhouse at the side of the hill, with the spreading trees behind it, and to the sanded floor and the cool dairy, and the warmth of the love that abounded there, and the uncle, who, if rough, was at least ready to believe her latest action—whatever it might be—only one degree more perfect than the one that went before it.
She turns away in a desolate fashion, and moves towards the door; but Sir Nicholas, having recovered from his stupefaction by this time, follows her, and placing his arm round her, bends over her tenderly, and presses her face against his shoulder.
"My dearest child, do not take things so dreadfully to heart," he says, entreatingly and soothingly: "it is all a mistake; and my mother will, I know, be the first to acknowledge herself in error."
"I regret—" begins Lady Rodney, stonily; but Mona by a gesture stays her.
"No, no," she says, drawing herself up and speaking with a touch of pride that sits very sweetly on her; "I beg you will say nothing. Mere words could not cure the wound you have inflicted."
She lays her hand upon her heart, as though she would say, "The wound lies here," and once more turns to the door.
Violet, rising, flings from her the work she has been amusing herself with, and, with a gesture of impatience very foreign to her usual reserve goes up to Mona, and, slipping her arm round her, takes her quietly out of the room.
Up the stairs she takes her and into her own room, without saying a word. Then she carefully turns the key in the door, and, placing Mona in a large and cosey arm-chair, stands opposite to her, and thus begins,—
"Now listen, Mona," she says, in her low voice, that even now, when she is somewhat excited, shows no trace of heat or haste, "for I shall speak to you plainly. You must make up your mind to Lady Rodney. It is the common belief that mere birth will refine most people; but those who cling to that theory will surely find themselves mistaken. Something more is required: I mean the nobility of soul that Nature gives to the peasant as well as the peer. This, Lady Rodney lacks; and at heart, in sentiment, she is—at times—coarse. May I say what I like to you?"
"You may," says Mona, bracing herself for the ordeal.
"Well, then, I would ask you to harden your heart, because she will say many unpleasant things to you, and will be uncivil to you, simply because she has taken it into her head that you have done her an injury in that you have married Geoffrey! But do you take no notice of her rudeness; ignore her, think always of the time that is coming when your own home will be ready for you, and where you can live with Geoffrey forever, without fear of a harsh word or an unkind glance. There must be comfort in this thought."
She glances anxiously at Mona, who is gazing into the fire with a slight frown upon her brow, that looks sadly out of place on that smooth white surface. At Violet's last words it flies away, not to return.
"Comfort? I think of nothing else," she says, dreamily.
"On no account quarrel with Lady Rodney. Bear for the next few weeks (they will quickly pass) anything she may say, rather than create a breach between mother and son. You hear me, Mona?"
"Yes, I hear you. But must you say this? Have I ever sought a quarrel with—Geoffrey's mother?"
"No, no, indeed. You have behaved admirably where most women would have ignominiously failed. Let that thought console you. To have a perfect temper, such as yours, should be in itself a source of satisfaction. And now bathe your eyes, and make yourself look even prettier than usual. A difficult matter, isn't it?" with a friendly smile.
Mona smiles too in return, though still heavy at heart.
"Have you any rose-water?" goes on Miss Mansergh in her matter-of-fact manner. "No? A good sign that tears and you are enemies. Well, I have, and so I shall send it to you in a moment. You will use it?"
"Oh, yes, thank you," says Mona, who is both surprised and carried away by the other's unexpected eloquence.
"And now a last word, Mona. When you come down to dinner to-night (and take care you are a little late), be gay, merry, wild with spirits, anything but depressed, whatever it may cost you. And if in the drawing-room, later on, Lady Rodney should chance to drop her handkerchief, or that eternal knitting, do not stoop to pick it up. If her spectacles are on a distant table, forget to see them. A nature such as hers could not understand a nature such as yours. The more anxious you may seem to please, the more determined she will be not to be pleased."
"But you like Lady Rodney?" says Mona, in a puzzled tone.
"Very much indeed. But her faults are obvious, and I like you too. I have said more to you of her than I have ever yet said to human being; why, I know not, because you are (comparatively speaking) a stranger to me, whilst she is my very good friend. Yet so it rests. You will, I know, keep faith with me."
"I am glad you know that," says Mona. Then, going nearer to Violet, she lays her hand upon her arm and regards her earnestly. The tears are still glistening in her eyes.
"I don't think I should mind it if I did not feel so much alone. If I had a place in your hearts," she says. "You all like me, I know, but I want to be loved." Then, tremulously, "Will youtryto love me?"
Violet looks at her criticizingly, then she smiles, and, placing her hand beneath Mrs. Geoffrey's chin, turns her face more to the fading light.
"Yes, that is just your greatest misfortune," she says, meditatively. "Love at any price. You would die out of the sunshine, or spoil, which would be worse. You will never be quite happy, I think; and yet perhaps," with a faint sigh, "you get your own good out of your life, after all,—happiness more intense, if briefer, than we more material people can know. There, shall I tell you something? I think you have gained more love in a short time than any other person I ever knew. You have conquered me, at least; and, to tell you the truth," with a slight grimace, "I was quite determined not to like you. Now lie down, and in a minute or two I shall send Halkett to you with the rose-water."
For the first time she stoops forward and presses her lips to Mona's warmly, graciously. Then she leaves her, and, having told her maid to take the rose-water to Mrs. Rodney, goes downstairs again to the drawing-room.
Sir Nicholas is there, silent, but angry, as Violet knows by the frown upon his brow. With his mother he never quarrels, merely expressing disapproval by such signs as an unwillingness to speak, and a stern grave line that grows upon his lips.
"Of course you are all against me," Lady Rodney is saying, in a rather hysterical tone. "Even you, Violet, have taken up that girl's cause!" She says this expectantly, as though calling on her ally for support. But for once the ally fails her. Miss Mansergh maintains an unflinching silence, and seats herself in her low wicker chair before the fire with all the air of one who has made up her mind to the course she intends to pursue, and is not be enticed from it.
"Oh, yes, no doubt I am in the wrong, because I cannot bring myself to adore a vulgar girl who all day long shocks me with her Irishisms," goes on Lady Rodney, almost in tears, born of vexation. "A girl who says, 'Sure you know I didn't' or 'Ah, did ye, now,' or 'Indeed I won't, then!' every other minute. It is too much. What you all see in her I can't imagine. And you too, Violet, you condemn me, I can see."
"Yes, I think you are quite and altogether in the wrong," says Miss Mansergh, in her cool manner, and without any show of hesitation, selecting carefully from the basket near her the exact shade of peacock blue she will require for the cornflower she is working.
Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, sails with offended dignity from the room.
Jenkins, the antediluvian butler, proves himself a man of his word. There are, evidently, "no two ways" about Jenkins. "Seeking the seclusion that her chamber grants" about ten o'clock to-night, after a somewhat breezy evening with her mother-in-law, Mona descries upon her hearthrug, dozing blissfully, two huge hounds, that raise their sleepy tails and heads to welcome her, with the utmost condescension, as she enters her room.
Spice and Allspice are having a real good time opposite her bedroom fire, and, though perhaps inwardly astonished at their promotion from a distant kennel to the sleeping-apartment of their fair mistress, are far too well-bred to betray any vulgar exaltation at the fact.
Indeed, it is probably a fear lest she shall deem them unduly elated that causes them to hesitate before running to greet her with their usual demonstrative joy. Then politeness gets the better of pride, and, rising with a mighty effort, they stretch themselves, yawn, and, going up to her, thrust their soft muzzles into her hands and look up at her with their great, liquid, loving eyes. They rub themselves against her skirts, and wag their tails, and give all other signs of loyalty and devotion.
Mona, stooping, caresses them fondly. They are a part of her old life, and dear, therefore, to her own faithful heart. Having partly undressed, she sits down upon the hearthrug with them, and, with both their big heads upon her lap, sits staring into the fire, trying to while away with thought the hours that must elapse before Geoffrey can return to her again.
It is dreary waiting. No sleep comes to her eyes; she barely moves; the dogs slumber drowsily, and moan and start in their sleep, "fighting their battles o'er again," it may be, or anticipating future warfare. Slowly, ominously, the clock strikes twelve. Two hours have slipped into eternity; midnight is at hand!
At the sound of the twelfth stroke the hounds stir uneasily, and sigh, and, opening wide their huge jaws, yawn again. Mona pats them reassuringly: and, flinging some fresh logs upon the fire, goes back once more to her old position, with her chin in the palm of one hand, whilst the other rests on the sleek head of Spice.
Castles within the fire grow grand and tall, and then crumble into dust; castles in Mona's brain fare likewise. The shadows dance upon the walls; silently imperceptibly, the minutes flit away.
One o'clock chimes the tiny timepiece on the mantelshelf; outside the sound is repeated somewhere in the distance in graver, deeper tones.
Mona shivers. Getting up from her lowly position, she draws back the curtains of her window and looks out upon the night. It is brilliant with moonlight, clear as day, full of that hallowed softness, that peaceful serenity, that belongs alone to night.
She is enchanted, and stands there for a minute or two spellbound by the glory of the scene before her. Then a desire to see her beloved lake from the great windows in the northern gallery takes possession of her. She will go and look at it, and afterwards creep on tiptoe to the library, seize the book she had been reading before dinner, and make her way back again to her room without any one being in the least the wiser. Anything will be better than sitting here any longer, dreaming dismal day-dreams.
She beckons to the dogs, and they, coming up to her, follow her out of the room and along the corridor outside their soft velvet paws making no sound upon the polished floor. She has brought with her no lamp. Just now, indeed, it would be useless, such "a wide and tender light," does heaven's lamp fling upon floor and ceiling, chamber and corridor.
The whole of the long north gallery is flooded with its splendor. The oriel window at its farther end is lighted up, and from it can be seen a picture, living, real, that resembles fairy-land.
Sinking into the cushioned embrasure of the window, Mona sits entranced, drinking in the beauty that is balm to her imaginative mind. The two dogs, with a heavy sigh, shake themselves, and then drop with a soft thud upon the ground at her feet,—her pretty arched feet that are half naked and white as snow: their blue slippers being all too loose for them.
Below is the lake, bathed in moonshine. A gentle wind has arisen, and little wavelets silver-tinged are rolling inward, breaking themselves with tender sobs upon the shore.
"The floor of heavenIs thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."
"The floor of heavenIs thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."
The floor itself is pale, nay, almost blue. A little snow is sifted lightly on branch, and grass, and ivied wall. Each object in the sleeping world is quite distinct.
"All things are calm, and fair, and passive; earthLooks as if lulled upon an angel's lapInto a breathless, dewy sleep; so stillThat we can only say of things, they be."
"All things are calm, and fair, and passive; earthLooks as if lulled upon an angel's lapInto a breathless, dewy sleep; so stillThat we can only say of things, they be."
The cold seems hardly to touch Mona, so wrapped she is in the beauties of the night. There is at times a solemn indefinable pleasure in the thought that we are awake whilst all the world sleepeth; that we alone are thinking, feeling, holding high communion with our own hearts and our God.
The breeze is so light that hardly a trembling of the leafless branches breaks the deadly silence that reigns all round:
"A lone owl's hoot,The waterfall's faint drip,Alone disturb the stillness of the scene,"
"A lone owl's hoot,The waterfall's faint drip,Alone disturb the stillness of the scene,"
Tired at length, and feeling somewhat chilled, Mona rouses herself from her reverie, and, followed by her two faithful guardians, moves towards the staircase. Passing the armored men that stand in niches along the walls, a little sensation of fear, a certain belief in the uncanny, runs through her. She looks in a terrified fashion over her left shoulder, and shudders perceptibly. Do dark fiery eyes look upon her in very truth from those ghastly visors?—surely a clank of supernatural armor smote upon her ear just then!
She hastens her steps, and runs down hurriedly into the hall below, which is almost as light as day. Turning aside, she makes for the library, and now (and not till now) remembers she has no light, and that the library, its shutters carefully closed every night by the invaluable Jenkins himself, is of necessity in perfect darkness.
Must she go back for a candle? Must she pass again all those belted knights upon the staircase and in the upper gallery? No! rather will she brave the darkness of the more congenial library, and—but soft—what is that? Surely a tiny gleam of light is creeping to her feet from beneath the door of the room towards which she wends her way.
It is a light, not of stars or of moonbeams, but of abona fidelamp, and as such is hailed by Mona, with joy. Evidently the thoughtful Jenkins has left it lighted there for Geoffrey's benefit when he returns. And very thoughtful, too, it is of him.
All the servants have received orders to go to bed, and on no account to sit up for Mr. Rodney, as he can let himself in in his own way,—a habit of his for many years. Doubtless, then, one of them had placed this lamp in the library with some refreshments for him, should he require them.
So thinks Mona, and goes steadily on to the library, dreading nothing, and inexpressibly cheered by the thought that gloom at least does not await her there.
Pushing open the door very gently, she enters the room, the two dogs at her heels.
At first the light of the lamp—so unlike the pale transparent purity of the moonbeams—puzzles her sight; she advances a few steps unconsciously, treading lightly, as she has done all along, lest she shall wake some member of the household, and then, passing her hand over her eyes, looks leisurely up. The fire is nearly out. She turns her head to the right, and then—then—she utters a faint scream, and grasps the back of a chair to steady herself.
Standing with his back to her (being unaware of her entrance), looking at the wall with the smaller panels that had so attracted him the night of the dance, is Paul Rodney!
Starting convulsively at the sound of her cry, he turns, and, drawing with lightning rapidity a tiny pistol from his pocket, raises his arm, and deliberately covers her.
For a second Mona's courage fails her, and then it returns with threefold force. In truth, she is nearer death at this moment than she herself quite knows.
"Put down your pistol, sir," she says, hastily. "Would you fire on a woman?" Her tone, though hurried, is not oppressed with fear. She even advances a few steps in his direction. Her words, her whole manner, fill him with admiration. The extreme courage she betrays is, indeed worthy of any man's laudation, but the implied trust in his chivalry touches Paul Rodney more than anything has ever had power to touch him before.
He lowers the weapon at her command, but says nothing. Indeed, what is there to say?
"Place it on the table," says Mona, who, though rich in presence of mind, has yet all a woman's wholesome horror of anything that may go off.
Again he obeys her.
"Now, perhaps, you will explain why you are here?" says Mrs. Geoffrey, speaking as sternly as her soft voice will permit. "How did you get in?"
"Through the window. I was passing, and found it open." There is some note in his voice that might well be termed mocking.
"Open at this hour of the morning?"
"Wide open."
"And the lamp, did you find it burning?"
"Brilliantly."
He lifts his head here, and laughs aloud, a short, unmirthful laugh.
"You are lying, sir," says Mona, contemptuously.
"Yes, deliberately," returns he, with wilful recklessness.
He moves as though to take up the pistol again; but Mona is beforehand with him, and, closing her fingers round it, holds it firmly.
"Do you think you are stronger than I am?" he says, amusement blended with the old admiration in his eyes.
"No, but they are," she says, pointing to her two faithful companions, who are staring hungrily at Rodney and evidently only awaiting the word from Mona to fling themselves upon him.
She beckons to them, and, rising slowly, they advance towards Rodney, who involuntarily moves back a little. And in truth they are formidable foes, with their bloodshot eyes, and bristling coats, and huge jaws that, being now parted, show the gleaming teeth within.
"On guard," says Mona, whereupon both the brutes crouch upon the ground right before Rodney, and fix him seriously and menacingly with their eyes.
"You are certainly too strong for me," says Rodney, with a frown and a peculiar smile.
"As you have refused to explain your presence here to me, you shall remain where you now are until help arrives," says Mona, with evident determination.
"I am content to stay here until the day dawns, if you keep me company," replies he, easily.
"Insolence, sir, is perhaps another part of yourrole," returns she, with cold but excessive anger.
She is clad in a long white dressing-gown, loose, yet clinging, that betrays each curve of hersvelte, lissom figure. It is bordered with swansdown, and some rich white lace, that sits high to her neck and falls over her small hands. Her hair is drawn back into a loose knot, that looks as if it would tumble down her back should she shake her head. She is pale, and her eyes are peculiarly large and dark from excitement. They are fixed upon Rodney with a gaze that belies all idea of fear, and her lips are compressed and somewhat dangerous.
"Is truth insolence?" asks Rodney. "If so, I demand your pardon. My speech, no doubt, was abetise, yet it came from my heart."
"Do not trouble yourself to make any further excuse," says Mona, icily.
"Pray sit down," says Rodney, politely: "if you insist on spending your evening with me, let me at least know that you are comfortable." Again the comicality of the whole proceeding strikes him, and he laughs aloud. He takes, too, a step forward, as if to get her a chair.
"Do not stir," says Mona, hastily, pointing to the bloodhounds. Allspice has risen—so has the hair on his back—and is looking thunder-claps at Paul. A low growl breaks from him. He is plainly bent upon reducing to reason whosoever shall dispute the will of his beloved mistress. "The dogs know their orders, and will obey me. Down, Allspice, down. You will do well, sir, to remain exactly where you are," continues Mona.
"Then get a chair for yourself, at least, as you will not permit me to go to your aid," he entreats. "I am your prisoner,—perhaps," in a low tone, "the most willing captive that ever yet was made."
He hardly realizes the extent of his subjection,—is blind to the extreme awkwardness of the situation. Of Geoffrey's absence, and the chance that he may return at any moment, he is altogether ignorant.
Mona takes no notice of his words, but still stands by the table, with her hands folded, her long white robes clinging to her, her eyes lowered, her whole demeanor like that of some mediæval saint. So thinks Rodney, who is gazing at her as though he would forever imprint upon his brain the remembrance of a vision as pure as it is perfect.
The moments come and go. The fire is dying out. No sound but that of the falling cinders comes to disturb the stillness that reigns within the library. Mona is vaguely, wondering what the end of it all will be. And then at last the silence is broken. A noise upon the gravel outside, a quick rush up the balcony steps; some one emerges from the gloom of the night, and comes into the room through the open window. Mona utters a passionate cry of relief and joy. It is Geoffrey!
Perhaps, just at first, surprise is too great to permit of his feeling either astonishment or indignation. He looks from Paul Rodney to Mona, and then from Mona back to Rodney. After that his gaze does not wander again. Mona, running to him, throws herself into his arms, and there he holds her closely, but always with his eyes fixed upon the man he deems his enemy.
As for the Australian, he has grown pale indeed, but is quite self-possessed, and the usual insolent line round his mouth has deepened. The dogs have by no means relaxed their vigil, but still crouch before him, ready for their deadly spring at any moment. It is a picture, almost a lifeless one, so motionless are all those that help to form it. The fading fire, the brilliant lamp, the open window with the sullen night beyond, Paul Rodney standing upon the hearthrug with folded arms, his dark insolent face lighted up with the excitement of what is yet to come, gazing defiantly at his cousin, who is staring back at him, pale but determined. And then Mona, in her soft white gown, somewhat in the foreground, with one arm (from which the loose sleeve of the dressing-gown has fallen back, leaving the fair rounded flesh to be seen) thrown around her husband's neck, is watching Rodney with an expression on her face that is half haughtiness, half nervous dread. Her hair has loosened, and is rippling over her shoulders, and down far below her waist; with her disengaged hand she is holding it back from her ear, hardly knowing how picturesque and striking is her attitude, and how it betrays each perfect curve of her lovely figure.
"Now, sir speak," she says, at length in rather tremulous tones growing fearful of the lengthened silence. There is a dangerous vibration in the arm that Geoffrey has round her, that gives her warning to make some change in the scene as soon as possible.
For an instant Rodney turns his eyes on her, and then goes back to his sneering examination of Geoffrey. Between them the two dogs still lie, quiet but eager.
"Call off the dogs," says Geoffrey to Mona, in a low tone; "there is no longer any necessity for them. And tell me how you come to be here, at this hour, with this—fellow."
Mona calls off the dogs. They rise unwillingly, and, walking into a distant corner, sit there, as though still awaiting a chance of taking some active part in the coming fray. After which Mona, in a few words, explains the situation to Geoffrey.
"You will give me an explanation at once," says Geoffrey, slowly, addressing his cousin. "What brought you here?"
"Curiosity, as I have already told Mrs. Rodney," returns he, lightly. "The window was open, the lamp burning. I walked in to see the old room."
"Who is your accomplice?" asks Geoffrey, still with studied calmness.
"You are pleased to talk conundrums," says Rodney, with a shrug. "I confess my self sufficiently dull to have never guessed one."
"I shall make myself plainer. What servant did you bribe to leave the window open for you at this hour?"
For a brief instant the Australian's eyes flash fire; then he lowers his lids, and laughs quite easily.
"You would turn a farce into a tragedy," he says, mockingly, "Why should I bribe a servant to let me see an old room by midnight?"
"Why, indeed, unless you wished to possess yourself of something in the old room?"
"Again I fail to understand," says Paul; but his very lips grow livid. "Perhaps for the second time, and with the same delicacy you used at first, you will condescend to explain."
"Is it necessary?" says Geoffrey, very insolently in his turn. "I think not. By the by, is it your usual practice to prowl round people's houses at two o'clock in the morning? I thought all such festive habits were confined to burglars, and blackguards of that order."
"We are none of us infallible," says Rodney, in a curious tone, and speaking as if with difficulty. "You see, even you erred. Though I am neither burglar nor blackguard, I, too enjoy a walk at midnight."
"Liar!" says Geoffrey between his teeth, his eyes fixed with deadly hatred upon his cousin. "Liar—and thief!" He goes a few steps nearer him, and then waits.
"Thief!" echoes Paul in a terrible tone. His whole face quivers, A murderous light creeps into his eyes.
Mona, seeing it, moves away from Geoffrey, and, going stealthily up to the table, lays her hand upon the pistol, that is still lying where last she left it. With a quick gesture, and unseen she covers it with a paper, and then turns her attention once more upon the two men.
"Ay, thief!" repeats Geoffrey, in a voice low but fierce, "It was not without a purpose you entered this house to-night, alone and uninvited. Tell your story to any one foolish enough to believe you. I do not. What did you hope to find? What help towards the gaining of your unlawful cause?"
"Thief!" interrupts Rodney, repeating the vile word again, as though deaf to everything but this degrading accusation. Then there is a faint pause, and then——
Mona never afterwards could say which man was the first to make the attack, but in a second they are locked in each other's arms in a deadly embrace. A desire to cry aloud, to summon help, takes hold of her, but she beats it down, some inward feeling, clear, yet undefined, telling her that publicity on such a matter as this will be eminently undesirable.
Geoffrey is the taller man of the two, but Paul the more lithe and sinewy. For a moment they sway to and fro; then Geoffrey, getting his fingers upon his cousin's throat, forces him backward.
The Australian struggles for a moment. Then, finding Geoffrey too many for him, he looses one of his hands, and, thrusting it between his shirt and waistcoat, brings to light a tiny dagger, very flat, and lightly sheathed.
Fortunately this dagger refuses to be shaken from its hold. Mona, feeling that fair play is at an end, and that treachery is asserting itself, turns instinctively to her faithful allies the bloodhounds, who have risen, and, with their hair standing straight on their backs, are growling ominously.
Cold, and half wild with horror, she yet retains her presence of mind, and, beckoning to one of the dogs, says imperiously, "At him, Spice!" pointing to Paul Rodney.
Like a flash of lightning, the brute springs forward, and, flinging himself upon Rodney, fastens his teeth upon the arm of the hand that holds the dagger.
The extreme pain, and the pressure—the actual weight—of the powerful animal, tell. Rodney falls back, and with an oath staggers against the mantelpiece.
"Call off that dog," cries Geoffrey, turning savagely to Mona. Whereupon, having gained her purpose, Mona bids the dog lie down, and the faithful brute, exquisitely trained, and unequal to disobedience, drops off his foe at her command and falls crouching to the ground, yet with his eyes red and bloodshot, and his breath coming in parting gasps that betray the wrath he would gladly gratify.
The dagger has fallen to the carpet in the struggle, and Mona, picking it up, flings it far from her into the darksome night through the window. Then she goes up to Geoffrey, and laying her hand upon his breast, turns to confront their cousin.
Her hair is falling like a veil all round her; through it she looks out at Rodney with eyes frightened and imploring.
"Go, Paul!" she says, with vehement entreaty, the word passing her lips involuntarily.
Geoffrey does not hear her. Paul does. And as his own name, coming from her lips, falls upon his ear, a great change passes over his face. It is ashy pale; his lips are bloodless; his eyes are full of rage and undying hatred: but at her voice it softens, and something that is quite indescribable, but is perhaps pain and grief and tenderness and despair combined, comes into it. Her lips—the purest and sweetest under heaven—have deigned to address him as one not altogether outside the pale of friendship,—of common fellowship. In her own divine charity and tenderness she can see good in others who are not (as he acknowledges to himself with terrible remorse) worthy to touch the very hem of her white skirts.
"Go," she says, again, entreatingly, still with her hand on Geoffrey's breast, as though to keep him back, but with her eyes on Paul.
It is a command. With a last lingering glance at the woman who has enthralled him, he steps out through the window on to the balcony, and in another moment is lost to sight.
Mona, with a beating heart, but with a courage that gives calmness to her outward actions, closes the window, draws the shutters together, bars them, and then goes back to Geoffrey, who has not moved since Rodney's departure.
"Tell me again how it all happened," he says, laying his hands on her shoulders. And then she goes through it again, slowly, carefully.
"He was standing just there," she says, pointing to the spot where first she had seen Paul when she entered the library, "with his face turned to the panels, and his hand up like this," suiting the action to the word. "When I came in, he turned abruptly. Can he be eccentric?—odd? Sometimes I have thought that——"
"No; eccentricity is farther from him than villainy. But, my darling, what a terrible ordeal for you to come in and find him here! Enough to frighten you to death, if you were any one but my own brave girl."
"The dogs gave me courage. And was it not well I did bring them? How strange that I should have wished for them so strongly to-night! That time when he drew out the dagger!—my heart failed me then, and but for Spice what would have been the end of it?" She shudders. "And yet," she says, with sudden passion, "even then I knew what I should have done. I had his pistol. I myself would have shot him, if the worst came to the worst. Oh, to think that that man may yet reign here in this dear old house, and supplant Nicholas!"
Her eyes fill with tears.
"He may not,—there is a faint chance,—but of course the title is gone, as he has proved his birth beyond dispute."
"What could he have wanted? When I came in, he turned pale and levelled the pistol at me. I was frightened, but not much. When I desired him, he laid down the pistol directly, and then I seized it. And then——"
Her eyes fall upon the hearthrug. Half under the fender a small piece of crumpled paper attracts her notice. Still talking, she stoops mechanically and picks it up, smooths it, and opens it.
"Why, what is this?" she says, a moment later; "and what a curious hand! Not a gentleman's surely."
"One of Thomas'sbillet-doux, no doubt," says Geoffrey, dreamily, alluding to the under-footman, but thinking of something else.
"No, no; I think not. Come here, Geoffrey; do. It is the queerest thing,—like a riddle. See!"
He comes to her and looks over her shoulder at the paper she holds. In an ugly unformed hand the following figures and words are written upon it,—
"7—4. Press top corner,—right hand."
This is all. The paper is old, soiled, and has apparently made large acquaintance with pockets. It looks, indeed, as if much travel and tobacco are not foreign to it. Geoffrey, taking it from Mona, holds it from him at full length, with amiable superciliousness, between his first finger and thumb.
"Thomas has plainly taken to hieroglyphics,—if it be Thomas," he says. "I can fancy his pressing his young woman's right hand, but her 'top corner' baffles me. If I were Thomas, I shouldn't hanker after a girl with a 'top corner;' but there is no accounting for tastes. It really is curious, though, isn't it?" As he speaks he looks at Mona; but Mona, though seemingly returning his gaze, is for the first time in her life absolutely unmindful of his presence.
Slowly she turns her head away from him, and, as though following out a train of thought, fixes her eyes upon the panelled wall in front of her.
"It is illiterate writing, certainly; and the whole concern dilapidated to the last degree," goes on Rodney, still regarding the soiled paper with curiosity mingled with aversion. "Any objection to my putting it in the fire?"
"'7—4,'" murmurs she, absently, still staring intently at the wall.
"It looks like the production of a lunatic,—a very dangerous lunatic,—anhabitueof Colney Hatch," muses Geoffrey, who is growing more and more puzzled with the paper's contents the oftener he reads it.
"'Top corner,—right hand,'" goes on Mona, taking no heed of him, and speaking in the same low, mysterious, far-off tone.
"Yes, exactly; you have it by heart; but what does it mean, and what are you staring at that wall for?" asks he, hopelessly, going to her side.
"It means—the missing will," returns she, in a voice that would have done credit to a priestess of Delphi. As she delivers this oracular sentence, she points almost tragically towards the wall in question.
"Eh!" says Geoffrey, starting, not so much at the meaning of her words as at the words themselves. Have the worry and excitement of the last hour unsettled her brain!
"My dear child, don't talk like that," he says, nervously: "you're done up, you know. Come to bed."
"I sha'n't go to bed at all," declares Mrs. Geoffrey, excitedly. "I shall never go to bed again, I think, until all this is cleared up. Geoffrey, bring me over that chair."
She motions impatiently with her hand, and Geoffrey, being compelled to it by her vehemence, draws a high chair close to that part of the wall that seems to have claimed her greatest attention.
Springing up on it, she selects a certain panel, and, laying one hand on it as if to make sure it is the one she wants, counts carefully six more from it to the next wall, and three from it to the floor. I think I have described these panels before as being one foot broad and two feet long.
Having assured herself that the panel selected is the one she requires, she presses her fingers steadily against the upper corner on the side farthest from the fire. Expectation lies in every line of her face, yet she is doomed to disappointment. No result attends her nervous pressure, but distinct defeat. The panel is inexorable. Nothing daunted, she moves her hand lower down, and tries again. Again failure crushes her; after which she makes one last attempt, and, touching the very uppermost corner, presses hard.
Success at last rests with her. Slowly the panel moves, and, sliding to one side, displays to view a tiny cupboard that for many years has been lost sight of by the Rodney family. It is very small, about half a foot in depth, with three small shelves inside. But, alas! these shelves are empty.
Geoffrey utters an exclamation, and Mona, after one swift comprehensive glance at the rifled cupboard, bursts into tears. The bitter disappointment is more than she can bear.
"Oh! it isn't here! He has stolen it!" cries she, as one who can admit of no comfort. "And I felt so sure I should find it myself. That was what he was doing when I came into the room. Ah, Geoffrey, sure you didn't malign him when you called him a thief."
"What has he done?" asks Geoffrey, somewhat bewildered and greatly distressed at her apparent grief.
"He has stolen the will. Taken it away. That paper you hold must have fallen from him, and contains the directions about finding the right panel. Ah! what shall we do now?"
"You are right: I see it now," says Geoffrey, whitening a little, "Warden wrote that paper, no doubt," glancing at the dirty bit of writing that has led to the discovery. "He evidently had his knowledge from old Elspeth, who must have known of this secret hiding-place from my great-grandfather. My father, I am convinced, knew nothing of it. Here, on the night of my grandfather's death, the old woman must have hidden the will, and here it has remained ever since until to-night. Yet, after all, this is mere supposition," says Geoffrey. "We are taking for granted what may prove a myth. The will may never been placed here, and he himself——"
"Itwasplaced here; I feel it, I know it," says Mona, solemnly, laying her hand upon the panel. Her earnestness impresses him. He wakes into life.
"Then that villain, that scoundrel, has it now in his possession," he says, quickly. "If I go after him, even yet I may come up with him before he reaches his home, and compel him to give it up."
As he finishes he moves towards the window, as though bent upon putting his words into execution at once, but Mona hastily stepping before him, gets between it and him, and, raising her hand, forbids his approach.
"You may compel him to murder you," she says, feverishly, "or, in your present mood, you may murder him. No, you shall not stir from this to-night."
"But—" begins he, impatiently, trying gently to put her to one side.
"I will not listen," she interrupts, passionately. "I know how you both looked a while ago. I shall never forget it; and to meet again now, with fresh cause for hatred in your hearts, would be——No. There is crime in the very air of to-night."
She winds her arms, around him, seeing he is still determined to go, and, throwing back her head, looks into his face.
"Besides, you are going on a fool's errand," she says, speaking rapidly, as though to gain time. "He has reached his own place long ago. Wait until the morning, I entreat you, Geoffrey. I—" her lips tremble, her breath comes fitfully—"I can bear no more just now."
A sob escapes her, and falls heavily on Geoffrey's heart. He is not proof against a woman's tears,—as no true man ever is,—especiallyhertears, and so he gives in at once.
"There, don't cry, and you shall have it all your own way," he says, with a sigh. "To-morrow we will decide what is to be done."
"To-day, you mean: you will only have to wait a few short hours," she says, gratefully. "Let us leave this hateful room," with a shudder. "I shall never be able to enter it again without thinking of this night and all its horrors."
Sleep, even when she does get to bed, refuses to settle upon Mona's eyelids. During the rest of the long hours that mark the darkness she lies wide awake, staring upon vacancy, and thinking ceaselessly until