Mrs. Geoffrey Part 43

"'Our'? How you a.s.sociate yourself with these Rodneys!" he says, scornfully; "yet you are as unlike them as a dove is unlike a hawk. How came you to fall into their nest? And so if I could only consent to efface myself you would like me better,--tolerate me in fact? A poor return for annihilation. And yet," impatiently, "I don't know. If I could be sure that even my memory would be respected by you----." He pauses and pushes back his hair from his brow.

"Why could you not have stayed in Australia?" says Mona, with some excitement. "You are rich; your home is there; you have pa.s.sed all your life up to this without a t.i.tle, without the tender a.s.sociations that cling round Nicholas and that will cost him almost his life to part with. You do not want them, yet you come here to break up our peace and make us all utterly wretched."

"Not you," says Paul, quickly. "What is it to you? It will not take a penny out of your pocket. Your husband," with an evil sneer, "has his income secured. I am not making you wretched."

"You are," says Mona, eagerly. "Do you think," tears gathering in her eyes, "that I could be happy when those I love are reduced to despair?"

"You must have a large heart to include all of them," says Rodney with a shrug. "Whom do you mean by 'those you love?' Not Lady Rodney, surely.

She is scarcely a person, I take it to inspire that sentiment in even your tolerant breast. It cannot be for her sake you bear me such illwill?"

"I bear you no illwill; you mistake me," says Mona, quietly: "I am only sorry for Nicholas, because I do love him."

"Do you?" says her companion, staring at her, and drawing his breath a little hard. "Then, even if he should lose to me lands, t.i.tle, nay, all he possesses, I should still count him a richer man than I am."

"Oh, poor Nicholas!" says Mona sadly, "and poor little Doatie!"

"You speak as if my victory was a foregone conclusion," says Rodney.

"How can you tell? He may yet gain the day, and I may be the outcast."

"I hope with all my heart you will," says Mona.

"Thank you," replies he stiffly; "yet, after all, I think I should bet upon my own chance."

"I am afraid you are right," says Mona. "Oh, why did you come over at all?"

"I am very glad I did," replies he, doggedly. "At least I have seen you.

They cannot take that from me. I shall always be able to call the remembrance of your face my own."

Mona hardly hears him. She is thinking of Nicholas's face as it was half an hour ago when he had leaned against the deserted doorway and looked at pretty Dorothy.

Yet pretty Dorothy at her very best moments had never looked, nor ever could look, as lovely as Mona appears now, as she stands with her hands loosely clasped before her, and the divine light of pity in her eyes, that are s.h.i.+ning softly like twin stars.

Behind her rises a tall shrub of an intense green, against which the soft whiteness of her satin gown gleams with a peculiar richness. Her gaze is fixed upon a distant planet that watches her solemnly through the window from its seat in the far-off heaven, "silent, as if it watch'd the sleeping earth."

She sighs. There is pathos and sweetness and tenderness in every line of her face, and much sadness. Her lips are slightly parted, "her eyes are homes of silent prayer." Paul, watching her, feels as though he is in the presence of some gentle saint, sent for a s.p.a.ce to comfort sinful earth.

A pa.s.sionate admiration for her beauty and purity fills his breast: he could have fallen at her feet and cried aloud to her to take pity upon him, to let some loving thought for him--even him too--enter and find fruitful soil within her heart.

"Try not to hate me," he says, imploringly, in a broken voice, going suddenly up to her and taking one of her hands in his. His grasp is so hard as almost to hurt her. Mona awakening from her reverie, turns to him with a start. Something in his face moves her.

"Indeed, I do not hate you," she says impulsively. "Believe me, I do not. But still I fear you."

Some one is coming quickly towards them. Rodney, dropping Mona's hand, looks hurriedly round, only to see Lady Rodney approaching.

"Your husband is looking for you," she says to Mona, in an icy tone.

"You had better go to him. This is no place for you."

Without vouchsafing a glance of recognition to the Australian, she sweeps past, leaving them again alone. Paul laughs aloud.

"'A haughty spirit comes before a fall,'" quotes he contemptuously.

"I must go now. Good-night," says Mona, kindly if coldly. He escorts her to the door of the conservatory There Lauderdale, who is talking with some men, comes forward and offers her his arm to take her to the carriage. And then adieux are said, and the duke accompanies her downstairs, whilst Lady Rodney contents herself with one of her sons.

It is a triumph, if Mona only knew it, but she is full of sad reflections, and is just now wrapped up in mournful thoughts of Nicholas and little Dorothy. Misfortune seems flying towards them on strong swift wings. Can nothing stay its approach, or beat it back in time to effect a rescue? If they fail to find the nephew of the old woman Elspeth in Sydney, whither he is supposed to have gone, or if, on finding him they fail to elicit any information from him on the subject of the lost will, affairs may be counted almost hopeless.

"Mona," says Geoffrey, to her suddenly, in a low whisper, throwing his arm round her (they are driving home, alone in the small night-brougham)--"Mona, do you know what you have done to-night? The whole room went mad about you. They would talk of no one else. Do not let them turn your head."

"Turn it where, darling?" asks she, a little dreamily.

"Away from me," returns he, with some emotion, tightening his clasp around her.

"From you? Was there ever such a dear silly old goose," says Mrs.

Geoffrey, with a faint, loving laugh. And then, with a small sigh full of content, she forgets her cares for others for awhile, and, nestling closer to him, lays her head upon his shoulder and rests there happily until they reach the Towers.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HOW THE CLOUD GATHERS--AND HOW NICHOLAS AND DOROTHY HAVE THEIR BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR.

The blow so long expected, yet so eagerly and hopefully scoffed at with obstinate persistency, falls at last (all too soon) upon the Towers.

Perhaps it is not the very final blow that when it comes must shatter to atoms all the old home-ties, and the tender links that youth has forged, but it is certainly a cruel shaft, that touches the heart strings, making them quiver. The first thin edge of the wedge has been inserted: the sword trembles to its fall: _c'est le commencement de la fin_.

It is the morning after Lady Chetwoode's ball. Every one has got down to breakfast. Every one is in excellent spirits, in spite of the fact that the rain is racing down the window-panes in torrents, and that the post is late.

As a rule it always is late, except when it is preternaturally early; sometimes it comes at half-past ten, sometimes with the hot water. There is a blessed uncertainty about its advent that keeps every one on the tiptoe of expectation, and probably benefits circulation.

The postman himself is an inst.i.tution in the village, being of an unknown age, in fact, the real and original oldest inhabitant, and still with no signs of coming dissolution about him, thereby carrying out d.i.c.ken's theory that a dead post-boy or a dead donkey is a thing yet to be seen. He is a h.o.a.ry-headed old person, decrepit and garrulous, with only one leg worth speaking about, and an ear trumpet. This last is merely for show, as once old Jacob is set fairly talking, no human power could get in a word from any one else.

"I am always so glad when the post doesn't arrive in time for breakfast," Doatie is saying gayly. "Once those horrid papers come, every one gets stupid and engrossed, and thinks it a positive injury to have to say even 'yes' or 'no' to a civil question. Now see how sociable we have been this morning, because that dear Jacob is late again. Ah! I spoke too soon," as the door opens and a servant enters with a most imposing pile of letters and papers.

"Late again, Jermyn," says Sir Nicholas, lazily.

"Yes, Sir Nicholas,--just an hour and a half. He desired me to say he had had another 'dart' in his rheumatic knee this morning, so hoped you would excuse him."

"Poor old soul!" says Sir Nicholas.

"Jolly old bore!" says Captain Rodney, though not unkindly.

"Don't throw me over that blue envelope, Nick," says Nolly: "I don't seem to care about it. I know it, I think it seems familiar. You may have it, with my love. Mrs. Geoffrey, be so good as to tear it in two."

Jack is laughing over a letter written by one of the fellows in India; all are deep in their own correspondence.

Sir Nicholas, having gone leisurely through two of his letters, opens a third, and begins to peruse it rather carelessly. But hardly has he gone half-way down the first page when his face changes; involuntarily his fingers tighten over the luckless letter, crimping it out of all shape.

By a supreme effort he suppresses an exclamation. It is all over in a moment. Then he raises his head, and the color comes back to his lips.

He smiles faintly, and, saying something about having many things to do this morning, and that therefore he hopes they will forgive his running away from them in such a hurry he rises and walks slowly from the room.