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 sh.o.r.e.

"The floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."

The floor itself is pale, nay, almost blue. A little snow is sifted lightly on branch, and gra.s.s, and ivied wall. Each object in the sleeping world is quite distinct.

"All things are calm, and fair, and pa.s.sive; earth Looks as if lulled upon an angel's lap Into a breathless, dewy sleep; so still That 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 G.o.d.

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,"

Tired at length, and feeling somewhat chilled, Mona rouses herself from her reverie, and, followed by her two faithful guardians, moves towards the staircase. Pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.s 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 a _bona fide_ lamp, 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, pa.s.sing 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

HOW MONA STANDS HER GROUND--HOW PAUL RODNEY BECOMES HER PRISONER--AND HOW GEOFFREY ON HIS RETURN HOME MEETS WITH A WARM RECEPTION.

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 pa.s.sing, 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, amus.e.m.e.nt 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 your _role_," returns she, with cold but excessive anger.

She is clad in a long white dressing-gown, loose, yet clinging, that betrays each curve of her _svelte_, 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 a _betise_, yet it came from my heart."

"Do not trouble yourself to make any further excuse," says Mona, icily.