Mrs. Geoffrey Part 60

"Morn, in the white wake of the morning star, Comes furrowing all the Orient into gold."

Then she rises upon her elbow, and notices how the light comes through the c.h.i.n.ks of the shutters. It must be day indeed. The dreary night has fled affrighted; the stars hide their diminished rays. Surely

"Yon gray lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day."

There is relief in the thought. She springs from her bed, clothes herself rapidly, and descends to the breakfast room. Yet the day thus begun appears to her singularly unattractive. Her mind is full of care.

She has persuaded Geoffrey to keep silence about all that last night produced, and wait, before taking further steps. But wait for what? She herself hardly knows what it is she hopes for.

She makes various attempts at thinking it out. She places her pretty hands upon her prettier brows, under the mistaken impression common to most people that this att.i.tude is conducive to the solution of mysteries; but with no result. Things will not arrange themselves.

To demand the will from Paul Rodney without further proof that it is in his possession than the fact of having discovered by chance a secret cupboard is absurd; yet not to demand it seems madness. To see him, to reason with him, to accuse him of it, is her one desire; yet she can promise herself no good from such an interview. She sighs as she thus seeks aimlessly to see a satisfactory termination to all her meditations.

She is _distraite_ and silent all the morning, taking small notice of what goes on around her. Geoffrey, perplexed too, in spirit, wanders vaguely from pillar to post, unable to settle to anything,--bound by Mona to betray no hint of what happened in the library some hours ago, yet dying to reveal the secret of the panel-cupboard to somebody.

Nolly is especially and oppressively cheerful. He is blind to the depression that marks Mona and Geoffrey for its own, and quite outdoes himself in geniality and all-round amiability.

Violet has gone to the stables to bestow upon her bonny brown mare her usual morning offering of bread; Jack, of course, has gone with her.

Geoffrey is nowhere just at this moment. Doatie and Nicholas are sitting hand in hand and side by side in the library, discussing their own cruel case, and wondering for the thousandth time whether--if the worst comes to the worst (of which, alas! there now seems little doubt)--her father will still give his consent to their marriage, and, if so, how they shall manage to live on five hundred pounds a year, and whether it may not be possible for Nicholas to get something or other to do (on this subject they are vague) that may help "to make the crown a pound."

Mona is sitting in the morning-room, the faithful and ever lively Nolly at her side. According to his lights, she is "worth a ship-load of the whole lot," and as such he haunts her. But to-day she fails him. She is absent, depressed, weighed down with thought,--anything but congenial.

She forgets to smile in the right place, says, "Yes" when courtesy requires "No," and is deaf to his gayest sallies.

When he has told her a really good story.--quite true, and all about the sthetic, Lady Lilias, who has declared her intention of calling this afternoon, and against whose wearing society he is strenuously warning her,--and when she has shown no appreciation of the wit contained therein, he knows there is something--as he himself describes it--"rotten in the state of Denmark."

"You are not well, are you, Mrs. Geoffrey?" he says, sympathetically, getting up from his own chair to lean tenderly over the back of hers.

Nolly is nothing if not affectionate, where women are concerned. It gives him no thought or trouble to be attentive to them, as in his soul he loves them all,--in the abstract,--from the dairymaid to the d.u.c.h.ess, always provided they are pretty.

"You are wrong: I am quite well," says Mona, smiling, and rousing herself.

"Then you have something on your mind. You have not been your usual perfect self all the morning."

"I slept badly last night; I hardly slept at all," she says, plaintively, evading direct reply.

"Oh, well, that's it," says Mr. Darling, somewhat relieved. "I'm an awful duffer not to have guessed that Geoffrey's being out would keep you awake."

"Yes, I could not sleep. Watching and waiting destroy all chance of slumber."

"Lucky he," says Nolly, fervently, "to know there is somebody who longs for his return when he is abroad; to feel that there are eyes that will mark his coming, and look brighter when he comes, and all that sort of thing. n.o.body ever cares about _my_ coming," says Mr. Darling, with deep regret, "except to lament it."

"How melancholy!" says Mona, with a nearer approach to brightness than she has shown all day.

"Yes. I'm not much," confesses Mr. Darling, blandly. "Others are more fortunate. I'm like 'the man in the street,' subject to all the winds of heaven. Why, it would almost tempt a man to stay away from home occasionally to know there was some one longing for his return. It would positively encourage him to dine out whenever he got the chance."

"I pity your wife," says Mona, almost severely.

"Oh, now, Mrs. Geoffrey, come--I say--how cruel yon can be!"

"Well, do not preach such doctrine to Geoffrey," she says, with repentance mixed with pathos.

"I shall do only what you wish," returns he, chivalrously, arranging the cushion that adorns the back of her chair.

The morning wanes, and luncheon declares itself. When it has come to an end, Mona going slowly up the stairs to her own room is met there by one of the maids,--not her own,--who hands her a sealed note.

"From whom?" demands Mona, lazily, seeing the writing is unknown to her.

"I really don't know, ma'am. Mitch.e.l.l gave it to me," says the girl, in an injured tone. Now, Mitch.e.l.l is Lady Rodney's maid.

"Very good," says Mona, indifferently, after which the woman, having straightened a cushion or two, takes her departure.

Mona, sinking languidly into a chair, turns the note over and over between her fingers, whilst wondering in a disjointed fashion as to whom it can be from. She guesses vaguely at the writer of it, as people will when they know a touch of the hand and a single glance can solve the mystery.

Then she opens the letter, and reads as follows:

"In spite of all that has pa.s.sed, I do entreat you to meet me at three o'clock this afternoon at the river, beneath the chestnut-tree. Do not refuse. Let no shrinking from the society of such as I am deter you from granting me this first and last interview, as what I have to say concerns not you, but those you love. I feel the more sure you will accede to this request because of the heavenly pity in your eyes last night, and the grace that moved you to address me as you did. I shall wait for you until four o'clock. But let me not wait in vain.--P. R."

So runs the letter.

"The man is eccentric, no matter what Geoffrey may say," is Mona's first thought, when she has perused it carefully for the second time. Then the belief that it may have something to do with the restoration of the lost will takes possession of her, and makes her heart beat wildly. Yes, she will go; she will keep this appointment whatever comes of it.

She glances at her watch. It is now a quarter past three; so there is no time to be lost. She must hasten.

Hurriedly she gets into her furs, and, twisting some soft black lace around her throat, runs down the stairs, and, opening the hall door without seeing any one, makes her way towards the appointed spot.

It is the 20th of February; already winter is dying out of mind, and little flowers are springing everywhere.

"Daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight."

Each bank and root of mossy tree is studded with pale primroses that gleam like stars when the morning rises to dim their l.u.s.tre. My lady's straw-bed spreads its white carpet here and there; the faint twitter of birds is in the air, with "liquid lapse of murmuring streams;" every leaf seems bursting into life, the air is keen but soft, the clouds rest lightly on a ground of spotless blue; the world is awake, and mad with youthful glee as

"Spring comes slowly up this way"

Every flower has opened wide its pretty eye, because the sun, that so long has been a stranger, has returned to them, and is gazing down upon them with ardent love. They--fond nurslings of an hour--accept his tardy attentions, and, though, still chilled and _desolee_ because of the sad touches of winter that still remain, gaze with rapt admiration at the great Phoebus, as he sits enthroned above.

Mona, in spite of her haste, stoops to pluck a bunch of violets and place them in her breast, as she goes upon her way. Up to this the beauty of the early spring day has drawn her out of herself, and compelled her to forget her errand. But as she comes near to the place appointed for the interview, a strange repugnance to go forward and face Paul Rodney makes her steps slower and her eyes heavy. And even as she comprehends how strongly she shrinks from the meeting with him, she looks up and sees the chestnut-tree in front of her, and the stream rushing merrily to the ocean, and Paul Rodney standing in his favorite att.i.tude with his arms folded and his sombre eyes fixed eagerly upon her.

"I have come," she says, simply, feeling herself growing pale, yet quite self-possessed, and strong in a determination not to offer him her hand.

"Yes. I thank you for your goodness," returns he, slowly.

Then follows an uncomfortable silence.

"You have something important to say to me," says Mona, presently, seeing he will not speak: "at least, so your letter led me to believe."

"It is true; I have." Then some other train of thought seems to rush upon him; and he goes on in a curious tone that is half mocking, yet wretched above every other feeling; "You had the best of me last night, had you not? And yet," with a sardonic laugh. "I'm not so sure, either.

See here."

Slowly he draws from his pocket a paper, folded neatly, that looks like some old parchment. Mona draws her breath quickly, and turns first crimson with emotion, then pale as death. Opening it at a certain page, he points out to her the signature of George Rodney, the old baronet.