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 n.o.bility 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--coa.r.s.e. 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 pa.s.s) 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 you _try_ to 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 peac.o.c.k blue she will require for the cornflower she is working.

Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, sails with offended dignity from the room.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

HOW MONA, GHOST-LIKE, FLITS THROUGH THE OLD TOWERS AT MIDNIGHT--HOW THE MOON LIGHTS HER WAY--AND HOW SHE MEETS ANOTHER GHOST MORE FORMIDABLE THAN HERSELF.

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 antic.i.p.ating 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 rea.s.suringly: 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.