She understands, indeed, that Sir Launcelot was a very naughty young man, who should not have been received in respectable houses,--especially as he had no money to speak of,--and that Sir Modred and Sir Gawain, had they lived in this critical age, would undoubtedly have been p.r.o.nounced bad form and expelled from decent clubs. And, knowing this much, she takes it for granted that the stealing of a will or more would be quite in their line: hence her speech.

"Dear Lady Rodney, no," cries the horrified sthetic, rather losing faith in her hostess. "I mean about his resigning lands and heritage, position, t.i.tle, everything--all that a man holds most dear, for a mere sentiment. And then it was so nice of him to shoot himself, and leave her all his money. Surely you must see that?"

She has actually forgotten to pose, and is leaning forward quite comfortably with her arms crossed on her knees. I am convinced she has not been so happy for years.

Lady Rodney is somewhat shocked, at this view of the case.

"You must understand," she says emphatically, "he did not shoot himself purposely. It was an accident,--a pure accident."

"Well, yes, so they say," returns her visitor, airily who is plainly determined not to be done out of a good thing, and insists on bringing in deliberate suicide as a fit ending to this enthralling tale. "And of course it is very nice of every one, and quite right too. But there is no doubt, I think, that he loved her. You will pardon me, Lady Rodney, but I am convinced he adored Mrs. Geoffrey."

"Well, he may have," admits Lady Rodney, reluctantly, who has grown strangely jealous of Mona's reputation of late. As she speaks she colors faintly. "I must beg you to believe," she says, "that Mona up to the very last was utterly unaware of his infatuation."

"Why, of course; of course. One can see that at a glance. And if it were otherwise the whole story would be ruined,--would instantly become tame and commonplace,--would be, indeed," says Lady Lilias, with a ma.s.sive wave of her large white hand, "I regret to say, an occurrence of everyday life. The singular beauty that now attaches to it would disappear. It is the fact that his pa.s.sion was unrequited, unacknowledged, and that yet he was content to sacrifice his life for it, that creates its charm."

"Yes, I dare say," says Lady Rodney, who is now wondering when this high-flown visitor will take her departure.

"It is like a romaunt of the earlier and purer days of chivalry," goes on Lady Lilias, in her most prosy tone. "Alas! where are they now?" She pauses for an answer to this difficult question, being in her very loftiest strain of high art depression.

"Eh?" says Lady Rodney, rousing from a day-dream. "I don't know, I'm sure; but I'll see about it; I'll make inquiries."

In thought she had been miles away, and has just come back to the present with a start of guilt at her own neglect of her guest. She honestly believes, in her confusion, that Lady Lilias has been making some inquiries about the secret panel, and therefore makes her extraordinary remark with the utmost _bonhommie_ and cheerfulness.

It is quite too much for the sthetic.

"I don't think you _can_ make an inquiry about the bygone days of chivalry," she says, somewhat stiffly, and, having shaken the hand of her bewildered friend, and pecked gently at her cheek, she sails out of the room, disheartened, and wounded in spirit.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

HOW MONA REFUSES A GALLANT OFFER--AND HOW NOLLY VIEWS LIFE THROUGH THE BRANCHES OF A PORTUGAL LAUREL.

Once again they are all at the Towers. Doatie and her brother--who had returned to their own home during March and April--have now come back again to Lady Rodney, who is ever anxious to welcome these two with open arms. It is to be a last visit from Doatie as a "graceful maiden with a gentle brow," as Mary Howitt would certainly have called her, next month having been decided upon as the most fitting for transforming Dorothy Darling into Dorothy Lady Rodney. In this thought both she and her betrothed are perfectly happy.

Mona and Geoffrey have gone to their own pretty house, and are happy there as they deserve to be,--Mona proving the most charming of chatelaines, so naive, so gracious, so utterly unaffected, as to win all hearts. Indeed, there is not in the county a more popular woman than Mrs. Geoffrey Rodney.

Yet much of their time is spent at the Towers. Lady Rodney can hardly do without Mona now, the pretty sympathetic manner and comprehensive glance and gentle smile having worked their way at last, and found a home in the heart that had so determinedly hardened itself against her.

As to Jack and Violet, they have grown of late into a sort of moral puzzle that n.o.body can solve. For months they have been gazing at and talking to each other, have apparently seen nothing but each other, no matter how many others may be present; and yet it is evident that no understanding exists between them, and that no formal engagement has been arrived at.

"Why on earth," says Nolly, "can't they tell each other, what they have told the world long ago, that they adore each other? It is so jolly senseless, don't you know?"

"I wonder when you will adore any one, Nolly," says Geoffrey, idly.

"I do adore somebody," returns that ingenuous youth, staring openly at Mona, who is taking up the last st.i.tch dropped by Lady Rodney in the little scarlet silk sock she is knitting for Phyllis Carrington's boy.

"That's me," says Mona, glancing at him archly from under her long lashes.

"Now, how did you find it out? who told you?" asks Mr. Darling, with careful surprise. "Yes, it is true; I don't seek to deny it. The hopeless pa.s.sion I entertain for you is dearer to me than any other more successful affection can ever be. I worship a dream,--an idea,--and am happier in my maddest moments than others when most same.

"Bless me, Nolly, you are not going to be ill, are you?" says Geoffrey.

"Such a burst of eloquence is rare."

"There are times, I confess," goes on Mr. Darling, disposing of Geoffrey's mundane interruption by a contemptuous wave of the hand, "when light breaks in upon me, and a joyful, a thrice-blessed termination to my dream presents itself. For instance, if Geoffrey could only be brought to see things as they are, and have the grace to quit this mortal globe and soar to worlds unknown, I should then fling myself at your feet, and----"

"Oh--well--don't," interrupts Mrs. Geoffrey, hastily.

"Eh! you don't mean to say that after all my devotion you would then refuse me?" asks Mr. Darling, with some disgust.

"Yes, you, and every other man," says Mona, smiling, and raising her loving eyes to her husband.

"I think, sir, after that you may consider yourself flattened," says Geoffrey, with a laugh.

"I shall go away," declares Nolly; "I shall go aboard,--at least as far as the orchard;" then, with a complete change of tone, "By the by, Mrs.

Geoffrey, will you come for a walk? Do: the day is 'heavenly fair.'"

"Well, not just now, I think," says Mona, evasively.

"Why not?" persuasively: "it will do you a world of good."

"Perhaps then a little later on I shall go," returns Mona, who, like all her countrywomen, detests giving a direct answer, and can never bring herself to say a decided "no" to any one.

"As you evidently need support, I'll go with you as far as the stables,"

says Geoffrey, compa.s.sionately, and together they leave the room, keeping company until they gain the yard, when Geoffrey turns to the right and makes for the stables, leaving Nolly to wend his solitary way to the flowery orchard.

It is an hour later. Afternoon draws towards evening, yet one scarcely feels the change. It is sultry, drowsy, warm, and full of a "slow luxurious calm."

"Earth putteth on the borrow'd robes of heaven, And sitteth in a Sabbath of still rest; And silence swells into a dreamy sound, That sinks again to silence.

The runnel hath Its tune beneath the trees, And through the woodlands swell The tender trembles of the ringdove's dole."

The Rodneys are, for the most part, in the library, the room dearest to them. Mona is telling Doatie's fortune on cards, Geoffrey and Nicholas are discussing the merits and demerits of a new mare, Lady Rodney in still struggling with the crimson sock,--when the door is opened, and Nolly entering adds himself to the group.

His face is slightly flushed, his whole manner full of importance. He advances to where the two girls are sitting, and stops opposite Mona.

"I'll tell you all something," he says, "though I hardly think I ought, if you will swear not to betray me."

This speech has the effect of electricity. They all start; with one consent they give the desired oath. The cards fall to the ground, the fortune forgotten; the mare becomes of very secondary importance; another st.i.tch drops in the fated sock.

"They've done it at last," says Mr. Darling, in a low, compressed voice.

"It is an accomplished fact. I heard 'em myself!"

As he makes this last extraordinary remark he looks over his left shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard.

"Who?" "What?" say Mona and Dorothy, in one breath.