"Alas! Geoffrey has told me everything," says Mona, "That is why I am now seeking for you. I thought, I _knew_, you were unhappy, and I wanted to tell you how I suffer with you."

By this time they have reached Dorothy's room, and now, sitting down, gaze mournfully at each other. Mona is so truly grieved that any one might well imagine this misfortune, that is rendering the very air heavy, in her own, rather than another's. And this wholesale sympathy, this surrendering of her body and mind to a grief that does not touch herself, is inexpressibly sweet to her poor little friend.

Kneeling down by her, Dorothy lays her head upon Mona's knee, and bursts out crying afresh.

"Don't now," says Mona, in a low, soothing tone folding her in a close embrace; "this is wrong, foolish. And when things come to the worst they mend."

"Not always," sobs Doatie. "I know how it will be. We shall be separated,--torn asunder, and then after a while they will make me marry somebody else; and in a weak moment I shall do it! And then I shall be utterly wretched for ever and ever."

"You malign yourself," says Mona. "It is all impossible. You will have no such weak moment, or I do not know you. You will be faithful always, until he can marry you, and, if he never can, why, then you can be faithful too, and go to your grave with his image only in your heart That is not so bad a thought, is it?"

"N--ot very," says Doatie, dolefully.

"And, besides, you can always see him, you know," goes on Mona, cheerfully. "It is not as if death had stolen him from you. He will be always somewhere; and you can look into his eyes, and read how his love for you has survived everything. And perhaps, after some time, he may distinguish himself in some way and gain a position far grander than mere money or rank can afford, because you know he is wonderfully clever."

"He is," says Dorothy, with growing animation.

"And perhaps, too, the law may be on his side: there is plenty of time yet for a missing will or a--a--useful witness to turn up. That will,"

says Mona, musingly, "must be somewhere. I cannot tell you why I think so, but I am quite sure it is still in existence, that no harm has come to it. It may be discovered yet."

She looks so full of belief in her own fancy that she inspires Doatie on the spot with a similar faith.

"Mona! There is no one so sweet or comforting as you are," she cries, giving her a grateful hug. "I really think I do feel a little better now."

"That's right, then," says Mona, quite pleased at her success.

Violet, coming in a few moments later, finds them still discussing the all-important theme.

"It is unfortunate for every one," says Violet, disconsolately, sinking in a low chair. "Such a dear house, and to have it broken up and given into the possession of such a creature as that." She shrugs her shoulders with genuine disgust.

"You mean the Australian?" says Dorothy. "Oh, as for him, he is perfectly utter!--such a man to follow in Nicholas's footsteps!"

"I don't suppose any one will take the slightest notice of him," says Violet: "that is one comfort."

"I don't know that: Lilian Chetwoode made him welcome in her house last night," says Doatie, a little bitterly.

"That is because Nicholas will insist on proving to every one he bears him no malice, and speaks of him persistently as his cousin. Well, he may be his cousin; but there is a limit to everything," says Violet, with a slight frown.

"That is just what is so n.o.ble about Nicholas," returns Doatie, quickly.

"He supports him, simply because it is his own quarrel. After all, it matters to n.o.body but Nicholas himself: no one else will suffer if that odious black man conquers."

"Yes, many will. Lady Rodney,--and--and Jack too. He also must lose by it," says Violet, with suppressed warmth.

"He may; but how little in comparison! n.o.body need be thought of but my poor Nicholas," persists Doatie, who has not read between the lines, and fails therefore in putting a proper construction upon the faint delicate blush that is warming Violet's cheek.

But Mona has read, and understands perfectly.

"I think every one is to be pitied; and Jack more than most,--after dear Nicholas," she says, gently, with such a kindly glance at Violet as goes straight to that young woman's heart, and grows and blossoms there forever after.

CHAPTER XXV.

HOW DISCUSSION WAXES RIFE--AND HOW NICHOLAS, HAVING MADE A SUGGESTION THAT IS BITTER TO THE EARS OF HIS AUDIENCE, YET CARRIES HIS POINT AGAINST ALL OPPOSITION.

"The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of night." The dusk is slowly creeping up over all the land, the twilight is coming on apace. As the day was, so is the gathering eve, sad and mournful, with sounds of rain and sobbings of swift winds as they rush through the barren beeches in the grove. The harbor bar is moaning many miles away, yet its voice is borne by rude Boreas up from the bay to the walls of the stately Towers, that neither rock nor shiver before the charges of this violent son of "imperial olus."

There is a ghostly tapping (as of some departed spirit who would fain enter once again into the old halls so long forgotten) against the window pane. Doubtless it is some waving branch flung hither and thither by the cruel tempest that rages without. Shadows come and go; and eerie thoughts oppress the breast:--

"Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud."

"What a wretched evening!" says Violet, with a little shiver. "Geoffrey, draw the curtains closer."

"A fit ending to a miserable day," says Lady Rodney, gloomily.

"Night has always the effect of making bad look worse," says Doatie with a sad attempt at cheerfulness. "Never mind; morning will soon be here again."

"But why should night produce melancholy?" says Nicholas, dreamily. "It is but a reflection of the greater light, after all. What does Richter call it? 'The great shadow and profile of day.' It is our own morbid fancies that make us dread it."

"Nevertheless, close the curtains, Geoffrey, and ask Lady Rodney if she would not like tea now," says Violet, _sotto voce_.

Somebody pokes the fire, until a crimson light streams through the room.

The huge logs are good-naturedly inclined, and burst their great sides in an endeavor to promote more soothing thought.

"As things are so unsettled, Nicholas, perhaps we had better put off our dance," says Lady Rodney, presently. "It may only worry you, and distress us all."

"No. It will not worry me. Let us have our dance by all means," says Nicholas, recklessly. "Why should we cave in, in such hot haste? It will give us all something to think about. Why not get up tableaux? Our last were rather a success. And to represent Nero fiddling, whilst Rome was on fire, would be a very appropriate one for the present occasion."

He laughs a little as he says this, but there is no mirth in his laugh.

"Nicholas, come here," says Doatie, anxiously, from out the shadow in which she is sitting, somewhat away from the rest. And Nicholas, going to her finds comfort and grows calm again beneath the touch of the slim little fingers she slips into his beneath the cover of the friendly darkness, "I don't see why we shouldn't launch out into reckless extravagance now our time threatens to be so short," says Jack, moodily.

"Let's us entertain our neighbors right royally before the end comes.

Why not wind up like the pantomimes, with showers of gold and rockets and the gladsome noise of ye festive cracker?"

"What nonsense some people are capable of talking!" says Violet, with a little shrug.

"Well, why not?" says Captain Rodney, undaunted by this small snub. "It is far more difficult to talk than sense. Any fellow can do that. If I were to tell you that Nolly is sound asleep, and that if he lurches even half a degree more to the right he will presently be lost to sight among the glowing embers" (Nolly rouses himself with a start), "you would probably tell me I was a very silly fellow to waste breath over such a palpable fact, but it would be sense nevertheless. I hope I haven't disturbed you, Nolly? On such a night as this a severe scorching would perhaps be a thing to be desired."

"Thanks. I'll put it off for a night or two," says Nolly, sleepily.

"Besides, I don't believe I _was_ talking nonsense," goes on Jack in an aggrieved tone. "My last speech had very little folly in it. I feel the time is fast approaching when we sha'n't have money even to meet our tailors' bills."

"'In the midst of life we are in debt,'" says Nolly, solemnly. Which is the best thing he could have said, as it makes them all laugh in spite of their pending misfortunes.

"Nolly is waking up. I am afraid we sha'n't have that _auto da fe_, after all," says Jack in a tone of rich disappointment. "I feel as if we are going to be done out of a good thing."