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
"morn, in the white wake of the morning star,
comes furrowing all the orient into gold."
then she rises upon her elbow, and notices how the light comes through the chinks of the shutters. it must be day indeed. the dreary night has fled affrighted; the stars hide their diminished rays. surely
"yon gray lines
that fret the clouds are messengers of day."
there is relief in the thought. she springs from her bed, clothes herself rapidly, and descends to the breakfast room. yet the day thus begun appears to her singularly unattractive. her mind is full of care. she has persuaded geoffrey to keep silence about all that last night produced, and wait, before taking further steps. but wait for what? she herself hardly knows what it is she hopes for.
she makes various attempts at thinking it out. she places her pretty hands upon her prettier brows, under the mistaken impression common to most people that this attitude is conducive to the solution of mysteries; but with no result. things will not arrange themselves.
to demand the will from paul rodney without further proof that it is in his possession than the fact of having discovered by chance a secret cupboard is absurd; yet not to demand it seems madness. to see him, to reason with him, to accuse him of it, is her one desire; yet she can promise herself no good from such an interview. she sighs as she thus seeks aimlessly to see a satisfactory termination to all her meditations.
she is distraite and silent all the morning, taking small notice of what goes on around her. geoffrey, perplexed too, in spirit, wanders vaguely from pillar to post, unable to settle to anything,—bound by mona to betray no hint of what happened in the library some hours ago, yet dying to reveal the secret of the panel-cupboard to somebody.
nolly is especially and oppressively cheerful. he is blind to the depression that marks mona and geoffrey for its own, and quite outdoes himself in geniality and all-round amiability.
violet has gone to the stables to bestow upon her bonny brown mare her usual morning offering of bread; jack, of course, has gone with her.
geoffrey is nowhere just at this moment. doatie and nicholas are sitting hand in hand and side by side in the library, discussing their own cruel case, and wondering for the thousandth time whether—if the worst comes to the worst (of which, alas! there now seems little doubt)—her father will still give his consent to their marriage, and, if so, how they shall manage to live on five hundred pounds a year, and whether it may not be possible for nicholas to get something or other to do (on this subject they are vague) that may help "to make the crown a pound."
mona is sitting in the morning-room, the faithful and ever lively nolly at her side. according to his lights, she is "worth a ship-load of the whole lot," and as such he haunts her. but to-day she fails him. she is absent, depressed, weighed down with thought,—anything but congenial. she forgets to smile in the right place, says, "yes" when courtesy requires "no," and is deaf to his gayest sallies.
when he has told her a really good story.—quite true, and all about the æsthetic, lady lilias, who has declared her intention of calling this afternoon, and against whose wearing society he is strenuously warning her,—and when she has shown no appreciation of the wit contained therein, he knows there is something—as he himself describes it—"rotten in the state of denmark."
"you are not well, are you, mrs. geoffrey?" he says, sympathetically, getting up from his own chair to lean tenderly over the back of hers. nolly is nothing if not affectionate, where women are concerned. it gives him no thought or trouble to be attentive to them, as in his soul he loves them all,—in the abstract,—from the dairymaid to the duchess, always provided they are pretty.
"you are wrong: i am quite well," says mona, smiling, and rousing herself.
"then you have something on your mind. you have not been your usual perfect self all the morning."
"i slept badly last night; i hardly slept at all," she says, plaintively, evading direct reply.
"oh, well, that's it," says mr. darling, somewhat relieved. "i'm an awful duffer not to have guessed that geoffrey's being out would keep you awake."
"yes, i could not sleep. watching and waiting destroy all chance of slumber."
"lucky he," says nolly, fervently, "to know there is somebody who longs for his return when he is abroad; to feel that there are eyes that will mark his coming, and look brighter when he comes, and all that sort of thing. nobody ever cares about my coming," says mr. darling, with deep regret, "except to lament it."
"how melancholy!" says mona, with a nearer approach to brightness than she has shown all day.
"yes. i'm not much," confesses mr. darling, blandly. "others are more fortunate. i'm like 'the man in the street,' subject to all the winds of heaven. why, it would almost tempt a man to stay away from home occasionally to know there was some one longing for his return. it would positively encourage him to dine out whenever he got the chance."
"i pity your wife," says mona, almost severely.
"oh, now, mrs. geoffrey, come—i say—how cruel yon can be!"
"well, do not preach such doctrine to geoffrey," she says, with repentance mixed with pathos.
"i shall do only what you wish," returns he, chivalrously, arranging the cushion that adorns the back of her chair.
the morning wanes, and luncheon declares itself. when it has come to an end, mona going slowly up the stairs to her own room is met there by one of the maids,—not her own,—who hands her a sealed note.
"from whom?" demands mona, lazily, seeing the writing is unknown to her.
"i really don't know, ma'am. mitchell gave it to me," says the girl, in an injured tone. now, mitchell is lady rodney's maid.
"very good," says mona, indifferently, after which the woman, having straightened a cushion or two, takes her departure.
mona, sinking languidly into a chair, turns the note over and over between her fingers, whilst wondering in a disjointed fashion as to whom it can be from. she guesses vaguely at the writer of it, as people will when they know a touch of the hand and a single glance can solve the mystery.
then she opens the letter, and reads as follows:
"in spite of all that has passed, i do entreat you to meet me at three o'clock this afternoon at the river, beneath the chestnut-tree. do not refuse. let no shrinking from the society of such as i am deter you from granting me this first and last interview, as what i have to say concerns not you, but those you love. i feel the more sure you will accede to this request because of the heavenly pity in your eyes last night, and the grace that moved you to address me as you did. i shall wait for you until four o'clock. but let me not wait in vain.—p. r."
so runs the letter.
"the man is eccentric, no matter what geoffrey may say," is mona's first thought, when she has perused it carefully for the second time. then the belief that it may have something to do with the restoration of the lost will takes possession of her, and makes her heart beat wildly. yes, she will go; she will keep this appointment whatever comes of it.
she glances at her watch. it is now a quarter past three; so there is no time to be lost. she must hasten.
hurriedly she gets into her furs, and, twisting some soft black lace around her throat, runs down the stairs, and, opening the hall door without seeing any one, makes her way towards the appointed spot.
it is the 20th of february; already winter is dying out of mind, and little flowers are springing everywhere.
"daisies pied, and violets blue,
and lady-smocks all silver white,
and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
do paint the meadows with delight."
each bank and root of mossy tree is studded with pale primroses that gleam like stars when the morning rises to dim their lustre. my lady's straw-bed spreads its white carpet here and there; the faint twitter of birds is in the air, with "liquid lapse of murmuring streams;" every leaf seems bursting into life, the air is keen but soft, the clouds rest lightly on a ground of spotless blue; the world is awake, and mad with youthful glee as
"spring comes slowly up this way"
every flower has opened wide its pretty eye, because the sun, that so long has been a stranger, has returned to them, and is gazing down upon them with ardent love. they—fond nurslings of an hour—accept his tardy attentions, and, though, still chilled and desolee because of the sad touches of winter that still remain, gaze with rapt admiration at the great ph[oe]bus, as he sits enthroned above.
mona, in spite of her haste, stoops to pluck a bunch of violets and place them in her breast, as she goes upon her way. up to this the beauty of the early spring day has drawn her out of herself, and compelled her to forget her errand. but as she comes near to the place appointed for the interview, a strange repugnance to go forward and face paul rodney makes her steps slower and her eyes heavy. and even as she comprehends how strongly she shrinks from the meeting with him, she looks up and sees the chestnut-tree in front of her, and the stream rushing merrily to the ocean, and paul rodney standing in his favorite attitude with his arms folded and his sombre eyes fixed eagerly upon her.
"i have come," she says, simply, feeling herself growing pale, yet quite self-possessed, and strong in a determination not to offer him her hand.
"yes. i thank you for your goodness," returns he, slowly.
then follows an uncomfortable silence.
"you have something important to say to me," says mona, presently, seeing he will not speak: "at least, so your letter led me to believe."
"it is true; i have." then some other train of thought seems to rush upon him; and he goes on in a curious tone that is half mocking, yet wretched above every other feeling; "you had the best of me last night, had you not? and yet," with a sardonic laugh. "i'm not so sure, either. see here."
slowly he draws from his pocket a paper, folded neatly, that looks like some old parchment. mona draws her breath quickly, and turns first crimson with emotion, then pale as death. opening it at a certain page, he points out to her the signature of george rodney, the old baronet.
"give it to me!" cries she, impulsively, her voice, trembling. "it is the missing will. you found it last night. it belongs to nicholas. you must—nay," softly, beseechingly, "you will give it to me."
"do you know all you ask? by relinquishing this iniquitous deed i give up all hope of ever gaining this place,—this old house that even to me seems priceless. you demand much. yet on one condition it shall be yours."
"and the condition?" asks she, eagerly, going closer to him. what is it that she would not do to restore happiness to those she has learned to love so well?
"a simple one."
"name it!" exclaims she, seeing he still hesitates.
he lays his hands lightly on her arm, yet his touch seems to burn through her gown into her very flesh. he stoops towards her.
"for one kiss this deed shall be yours," he whispers, "to do what you like with it."
mona starts violently, and draws back; shame and indignation cover her. her breath comes in little gasps.
"are you a man, to make me such a speech?" she says, passionately, fixing her eyes upon him with withering contempt.
"you have heard me," retorts he, coldly, angered to the last degree by the extreme horror and disgust she has evinced at his proposal. he deliberately replaces the precious paper in his pocket, and turns as if to go.
"oh, stay?" she says, faintly, detaining him both by word and gesture.
he turns to her again.
she covers her eyes with her hands, and tries vainly to decide on what is best for her to do. in all the books she has ever read the young woman placed in her position would not have hesitated at all. as if reared to the situation, she would have thrown up her head, and breathing defiance upon the tempter, would have murmured to the sympathetic air, "honor above everything," and so, full of dignity, would have moved away from her discomfited companion, her nose high in the air. she would think it a righteous thing that all the world should suffer rather than one tarnish, however slight, should sully the brightness of her fame.
for the first time mona learns she is not like this well-regulated young woman. she falls lamentably short of such excellence. she cannot bring herself to think the world of those she loves well lost for any consideration whatever. and after all—this horrid condition—it would be over in a moment. and she could run home with the coveted paper, and bathe her face in sweet cold water. and then again she shudders. could she bathe the remembrance of the insult from her heart?
she presses her hands still closer against her eyes, as though to shut out from her own mind the hatefulness of such a thought. and then, with a fresh effort, she brings herself back once more to the question that lies before her.
oh, if by this one act of self-sacrifice she could restore the towers with all its beauty and richness to nicholas, and—and his mother,—how good a thing it would be! but will geoffrey ever forgive her? ah, sure when she explains the matter to him, and tells him how and why she did it, and how her heart bled in the doing of it, he will put his arms round her and pardon her sin. nay, more, he may see how tender is the longing that compels her to the deed.
she uncovers her eyes, and glances for a bare instant at rodney. then once more the heavily-fringed lids close upon the dark-blue eyes, as if to hide the anguish in them, and in a smothered voice she says, with clenched teeth and a face like marble, "yes, you may kiss me,—if you will."
there is a pause. in shrinking doubt she awaits the moment that shall make him take advantage of her words. but that moment never comes. in vain she waits. at length she lifts her eyes, and he, flinging the parchment at her feet, cries, roughly,—
"there! take it. i can be generous too."
"but," begins mona, feebly, hardly sure of her blessed release.
"keep your kiss," exclaims he, savagely, "since it cost you such an effort to give it, and keep the parchment too. it is yours because of my love for you."
ashamed of his vehemence, he stoops, and, raising the will from the ground, presents it to her courteously. "take it: it is yours," he says. mona closes her fingers on it vigorously, and by a last effort of grace suppresses the sigh of relief that rises from her heart.
instinctively she lowers her hand as though to place the document in the inside pocket of her coat, and in doing so comes against something that plainly startles her.
"i quite forgot it," she says, coloring with sudden fear, and then slowly, cautiously, she draws up to view the hated pistol he had left in the library the night before. she holds it out to him at arm's length, as though it is some noisome reptile, as doubtless indeed she considers it. "take it," she says; "take it quickly. i brought it to you, meaning to return it. good gracious! fancy my forgetting it! why, it might have gone off and killed me, and i should have been none the wiser."
"well, i think you would, for a moment or two at least," returns he, smiling grimly, and dropping the dangerous little toy with some carelessness into his own pocket.
"oh, do take care!" cries mona, in an agony: "it is loaded. if you throw it about in that rough fashion, it will certainly go off and do you some injury."
"blow me to atoms, perhaps, or into some region unknown," says he, recklessly. "a good thing, too. is life so sweet a possession that one need quail before the thought of resigning it?"
"you speak as one might who has no aim in life, says mona, looking at him with sincere pity. when mona looks piteous she is at her best. her eyes grow large, her sweet lips tremulous, her whole face pathetic. the role suits her. rodney's heart begins to beat with dangerous rapidity. it is quite on the cards that a man of his reckless, untrained, dare-devil disposition should fall madly in love with a woman sans peur et sans reproche.
"an aim!" he says, bitterly. "i think i have found an end to my life where most fellows find a beginning."
"by and you will think differently," says mona, believing he alludes to his surrender of the rodney property "you will get over this disappointment."
"i shall,—when death claims me," replies he.
"nay, now," says mona, sweetly, "do not talk like that. it grieves me. when you have formed a purpose worth living for, the whole world will undergo a change for you. what is dark now will seem light then; and death will be an enemy, a thing to battle with, to fight with desperately until one's latest breath. in the meantime," nervously, "do be cautious about that horrid weapon: won't you, now?"
"you ask me no questions about last night," he says, suddenly; "and there is something i must say to you. get rid of that fellow ridgway, the under-gardener. it was he opened the library window for me. he is untrustworthy, and too fond of filthy lucre ever to come to good. i bribed him."
he is now speaking with some difficulty, and is looking, not at her, but at the pattern he is drawing on the soft loam at his feet.
"bribed him?" says mona, in an indescribable tone.
"yes. i knew about the secret panel from warden, old elspeth's nephew, who alone, i think, knew of its existence. i was determined to get the will. it seemed to me," cries he, with sudden excitement, "no such great crime to do away with an unrighteous deed that took from an elder son (without just cause) his honest rights, to bestow them upon the younger. what had my father done? nothing! his brother, by treachery and base subterfuge, supplanted him, and obtained his birthright, while he, my father, was cast out, disinherited, without a hearing."
his passion carries mona along with it.
"it was unjust, no doubt; it sounds so," she says, faintly. yet even as she speaks she closes her little slender fingers resolutely upon the parchment that shall restore happiness to nicholas and dear pretty dorothy.
"to return to ridgway," says paul rodney, pulling himself up abruptly. "see him yourself, i beg of you, as a last favor, and dismiss him. send him over to me: i will take him back with me to australia and give him a fresh start in life. i owe him so much, as i was the first to tempt him into the wrong path; yet i doubt whether he would have kept straight even had he not met me. he is mauvais sujet all through."
"surely," thinks mona to herself, "this strange young man is not altogether bad. he has his divine touches as well as another."
"i will do as you ask," she says, wondering when the interview will come to an end.
"after all, i am half glad nicholas is not to be routed," he says, presently, with some weariness in his tone. "the game wasn't worth the candle; i should never have been able to do the grand seigneur as he does it. i suppose i am not to the manner born. besides, i bear him no malice."
his tone, his emphasis on the pronoun, is significant.
"why should you bear malice to any one?" says mona uneasily.
"your husband called me 'thief.' i have not forgotten that," replies he, gloomily, the dark blood of his mother's race rushing to his cheek. "i shall remember that insult to my dying day. and let him remember this, that if ever i meet him again, alone, and face to face, i shall kill him for that word only."
"oh, no! no!" says mona, shrinking from him. "why cherish such revenge in your heart? would you kill me too, that you speak like this? fling such thoughts far from you, and strive after good. revenge is the food of fools."
"well, at least i sha'n't have many more opportunities of meeting him," says rodney. "i shall leave this country as soon as i can. tell nicholas to keep the title with the rest. i shall never use it. and now," growing very pale, "it only remains to say good-by."
"good-by," says mona, softly, giving him her hand. he keeps it fast in both his own. just at this moment it dawns upon her for the first time that this man loves her with a love surpassing that of most. the knowledge does not raise within her breast—as of course it should do—feelings of virtuous indignation: indeed, i regret to say that my heroine feels nothing but a deep and earnest pity, that betrays itself in her expressive face.
"last night you called me paul. do you remember? call me it again, for the last time," he entreats, in a low tone. "i shall never forget what i felt then. if ever in the future you hear good of me, believe it was through you it sprung to life. till my dying day your image will remain with me. say now, 'good-by, paul,' before i go."
"good by, dear paul," says mona, very gently, impressed by his evident grief and earnestness.
"good-by, my—my beloved—cousin," he says, in a choked voice. i think the last word is an afterthought. he is tearing himself from all he holds most sacred upon earth, and the strain is terrible. he moves resolutely a a few yards away from her, as though determined to put space between him and her; yet then he pauses, and, as though powerless to withdraw from her presence, returns again, and, flinging himself on his knees before her, presses a fold of her gown to his lips with passionate despair.
"it is forever!" he says, incoherently. "oh, mona, at least—at least promise you will always think kindly of me."
"always—indeed, always!" says mona, with tears in her eyes; after which, with a last miserable glance, he strides away, and is lost to sight among the trees.
then mrs. geoffrey turns quickly, and runs home at the top of her speed. she is half sad, yet half exultant, being filled to the very heart with the knowledge that life, joy, and emancipation from present evil lie in her pocket. this thought crowns all others.
as she comes to the gravel walk that leads from the shrubberies to the sweep before the hall door, she encounters the disgraced ridgway, doing something or other to one of the shrubs that has come to grief during the late bad weather.
he touches his hat to her, and bids her a respectful "good afternoon," but for once she is blind to his salutation. nevertheless, she stops before him, and, in a clear voice, says, coldly,—
"for the future your services will not be required here. your new master, mr. paul rodney, whom you have chosen to obey in preference to those in whose employ you have been, will give you your commands from this day. go to him, and after this try to be faithful."
the boy—he is little more—cowers beneath her glance. he changes color, and drops the branch he holds. no excuse rises to his lips. to attempt a lie with those clear eyes upon him would be worse than useless. he turns abruptly away, and is dead to the towers from this moment.
