Mrs. Geoffrey

"Mona, it is not – it cannot be – but is it?" asks he incoherently.

"The missing will? Yes – yes —yes!" cries she, raising the hand that is behind her, and holding it high above her head with the will held tightly in it.

It is a supreme moment. A deadly silence falls upon the room, and then Dorothy bursts into tears. In my heart I believe she feels as much relief at Mona's exculpation as at the discovery of the desired deed.

Mona, turning not to Nicholas or to Doatie or to Geoffrey but to Lady Rodney, throws the paper into her lap.

"The will – but are you sure – sure?" says Lady Rodney, feebly. She tries to rise, but sinks back again in her chair, feeling faint and overcome.

"Quite sure," says Mona, and then she laughs aloud – a sweet, joyous laugh, – and clasps her hands together with undisguised delight and satisfaction.

Geoffrey, who has tears in his eyes, takes her in his arms and kisses her once softly, before them all.

"My best beloved," he says, with passionate fondness, beneath his breath; but she hears him, and wonders vaguely but gladly at his tone, not understanding the rush of tenderness that almost overcomes him as he remembers how his mother – whom she has been striving with all her power to benefit – has been grossly maligning and misjudging her. Truly she is too good for those among whom her lot has been cast.

"It is like a fairy-tale," says Violet, with unwonted excitement. "Oh, Mona, tell us how you managed it."

"Well, just after luncheon Letitia, your maid, brought me a note. I opened it. It was from Paul Rodney, asking me to meet him at three o'clock, as he had something of importance to say that concerned not me but those I loved. When he said that," says Mona, looking round upon them all with a large, soft, comprehensive glance, and a sweet smile, "I knew he meant you. So I went. I got into my coat and hat, and ran all the way to the spot he had appointed, – the big chestnut-tree near the millstream: you know it, Geoff, don't you?"

"Yes, I know it," says Geoffrey.

"He was there before me, and almost immediately he drew the will from his pocket, and said he would give it to me if – if – well, he gave it to me," says Mrs. Geoffrey, changing color as she remembers her merciful escape. "And he desired me to tell you, Nicholas, that he would never claim the title, as it was useless to him and it sits so sweetly on you. And then I clutched the will, and held it tightly, and ran all the way back with it, and – and that's all!"

She smiles again, and, with a sigh of rapture at her own success, turns to Geoffrey and presses her lips to his out of the very fulness of her heart.

"Why have you taken all this trouble about us?" says Lady Rodney, leaning forward to look at the girl anxiously, her voice low and trembling.

At this Mona, being a creature of impulse, grows once more pale and troubled.

"It was for you," she says, hanging her head. "I thought if I could do something to make you happier, you might learn to love me a little!"

"I have wronged you," says Lady Rodney, in a low tone, covering her face with her hands.

"Go to her," says Geoffrey, and Mona, slipping from his embrace, falls on her knees at his mother's feet. With one little frightened hand she tries to possess herself of the fingers that shield the elder woman's face.

"It is too late," says Lady Rodney, in a stifled tone. "I have said so many things about you, that – that – "

"I don't care what you have said," interrupts Mona, quickly. She has her arms round Lady Rodney's waist by this time, and is regarding her beseechingly.

"There is too much to forgive," says Lady Rodney, and as she speaks two tears roll down her cheeks. This evidence of emotion from her is worth a torrent from another.

"Let there be no talk of forgiveness between you and me," says Mona, very sweetly, after which Lady Rodney fairly gives way, and placing her arms round the kneeling girl, draws her to her bosom and kisses her tenderly.

Every one is delighted. Perhaps Nolly and Jack Rodney are conscious of a wild desire to laugh, but if so, they manfully suppress it, and behave as decorously as the rest.

"Now I am quite, quite happy," says Mona, and, rising from her knees, she goes back again to Geoffrey, and stands beside him. "Tell them all about last night," she says, looking up at him, "and the secret cupboard."

CHAPTER XXXIV

HOW THE RODNEYS MAKE MERRY OVER THE SECRET PANEL – HOW GEOFFREY QUESTIONS MONA – AND HOW, WHEN JOY IS AT ITS HIGHEST EVIL TIDINGS SWEEP DOWN UPON THEM

At the mention of the word "secret" every one grows very much alive at once. Even Lady Rodney dries her tears and looks up expectantly.

"Yes, Geoffrey and I have made a discovery, – a most important one, – and it has lain heavy on our breasts all day. Now tell them everything about last night, Geoff, from beginning to end."

Thus adjured, – though in truth he requires little pressing, having been devoured with a desire since early dawn to reveal the hidden knowledge that is in his bosom, – Geoffrey relates to them the adventure of the night before. Indeed, he gives such a brilliant coloring to the tale that every one is stricken dumb with astonishment, Mona herself perhaps being the most astonished of all. However, like a good wife, she makes no comments, and contradicts his statements not at all, so that (emboldened by her evident determination not to interfere with anything he may choose to say) he gives them such a story as absolutely brings down the house, – metaphorically speaking.

"A secret panel! Oh, how enchanting! do, do show it to me!" cries Doatie Darling, when this marvellous recital has come to an end. "If there is one thing I adore, it is a secret chamber, or a closet in a house, or a ghost."

"You may have the ghosts all to yourself. I sha'n't grudge them to you. I'll have the cupboards," says Nicholas, who has grown at least ten years younger during the last hour. "Mona, show us this one."

Mona, drawing a chair to the panelled wall, steps up on it, and, pressing her finger on the seventh panel, it slowly rolls back, betraying the vacuum behind.

They all examine it with interest, Nolly being specially voluble on the occasion.

"And to think we all sat pretty nearly every evening within a yard or two of that blessed will, and never knew anything about it!" he says, at last, in a tone of unmitigated disgust.

"Yes, that is just what occurred to me," says Mona, nodding her head sympathetically.

"No? did it?" says Nolly, sentimentally. "How – how awfully satisfactory it is to know we both thought alike on even one subject!"

Mona, after a stare of bewilderment that dies at its birth, gives way to laughter: she is still standing on the chair, and looking down on Nolly, who is adoring her in the calm and perfectly open manner that belongs to him.

Just then Dorothy says, —

"Shut it up tight again, Mona, and let me try to open it." And, Mona having closed the panel again and jumped down off the chair, Doatie takes her place, and, supported by Nicholas, opens and shuts the secret door again and again to her heart's content.

"It is quite simple: there is no deception," says Mr. Darling, addressing the room, with gracious encouragement in his tone, shrugging his shoulders and going through all the airs and graces that belong to the orthodox French showman.

"It is quite necessary you should know all about it," says Nicholas, in a low tone, to Dorothy, whom he is holding carefully, as though under the mistaken impression that young women if left on chairs without support invariably fall off them. "As the future mistress here, you ought to be up to every point connected with the old place."

Miss Darling blushes. It is so long since she has given way to this weakness that now she does it warmly and generously, as though to make up for other opportunities neglected. She scrambles down off the chair, and, going up to Mona, surprises that heroine of the hour by bestowing upon her a warm though dainty hug.

"It is all your doing. How wretched we should have been had we never seen you!" she says, with tears of gratitude in her eyes.

Altogether it is a very exciting and pleasurable moment.

The panel is as good as a toy to them. They all open it by turns, and wonder over it, and rejoice in it. But Geoffrey, taking Mona aside, says curiously, and a little gravely, —

"Tell me why you hesitated in your speech a while ago. Talking of Rodney's giving you the will, you said he offered to give it you if – if – What did the 'if' mean?"

"Come over to the window, and I will tell you," says Mrs. Geoffrey. "He – he – you must take no notice of it, Geoffrey, but he wanted to kiss me. He offered me the will for one kiss, and – "

"You didn't get possession of it in that way?" asks he, seizing her hands and trying to read her face.

"Oh, no! But listen to my story. When he saw how I hated his proposal, he very generously forgave the price, and let me have the document a free gift. That was rather good of him, was it not? because men like having their own way, you know."

"Very self-denying of him, indeed," says Geoffrey, with a slight sneer, and a sigh of relief.

"Had I given in, would you have been very angry?" asks she regarding him earnestly.

"Very."

"Then what a mercy it is I didn't do it!" says Mona, naively. "I was very near it, do you know? I had actually said 'Yes,' because I could not make up my mind to lose the deed, when he let me off the bargain. But, if he had persisted, I tell you honestly I am quite sure I should have let him kiss me."

"Mona, don't talk like that," says Geoffrey, biting his lips.

"Well, but, after all, one can't be much of a friend if one can't sacrifice one's self sometimes for those one loves," says Mrs. Geoffrey, reproachfully. "You would have done it yourself in my place!"

"What! kiss the Australian? I'd see him – very well – that is – ahem! I certainly would not, you know," says Mr. Rodney.

"Well, I suppose I am wrong," says Mona, with a sigh. "Are you very angry with me, Geoff? Would you ever have forgiven me if I had done it?"

"I should," says Geoffrey, pressing her hands. "You would always be to me the best and truest woman alive. But – but I shouldn't have liked it."

"Well, neither should I!" says Mrs. Geoffrey, with conviction. "I should perfectly have hated it. But I should never have forgiven myself if he had gone away with the will."

"It is quite a romance," says Jack Rodney: "I never heard anything like it before off the stage." He is speaking to the room generally. "I doubt if any one but you, Mona, would have got the will out of him. He hates the rest of us like poison."

"But – bless me! – how awfully he must be in love with you to resign the Towers for your sake!" says Nolly, suddenly giving words to the thought that has been tormenting him for some time.

As this is the idea that has haunted every one since the disclosure, and that they each and all have longed but feared to discuss, they now regard Nolly with admiration, – all save Lady Rodney, who, remembering her unpleasant insinuations of an hour ago, moves uneasily in her chair, and turns an uncomfortable crimson.

Mona is, however, by no means disconcerted; she lifts her calm eyes to Nolly's, and answers him without even a blush.

"Do you know it never occurred to me until this afternoon?" she says, simply; "but now I think – I may be mistaken, but I really do think he fancies himself in love with me. A very silly fancy, of course."

"He must adore you; and no wonder, too," says Mr. Darling, so emphatically that every one smiles, and Jack, clapping him on the back, says, —

"Well done, Nolly! Go it again, old chap!"

"Oh, Mona, what courage you showed! Just imagine staying in the library when you found yourself face to face with a person you never expected to see, and in the dead of night, with every one sound asleep! In your case I should either have fainted or rushed back to my bedroom again as fast as my feet could carry me; and I believe," says Dorothy, with conviction, "I should so far have forgotten myself as to scream every inch of the way."

"I don't believe you would," says Mona. "A great shock sobers one. I forgot to be frightened until it was all over. And then the dogs were a great support."

"When he held the pistol to your forehead, didn't you scream then?" asks Violet.

"To my forehead?" says Mona, puzzled; and then she glances at Geoffrey, remembering that this was one of the slight variations with which he adorned his tale.

"No, she didn't," interposes he, lightly. "She never funked it for a moment: she's got any amount of pluck. He didn't exactly press it against her forehead, you know; but," airily, "it is all the same thing."

"When you got the pistol so cleverly into your own possession, why on earth didn't you shoot him?" demands Mr. Darling, gloomily, who evidently feels bloodthirsty when he thinks of the Australian and his presumptuous admiration for the peerless Mona.

"Ah! sure you know I wouldn't do that, now," returns she, with a stronger touch of her native brogue than she has used for many a day; at which they all laugh heartily, even Lady Rodney chiming in as easily as though the day had never been when she had sneered contemptuously at that selfsame Irish tongue.

"Well, 'All's well that ends well,'" says Captain Rodney, thoughtlessly. "If that delectable cousin of ours would only sink into the calm and silent grave now, we might even have the title back without fear of dispute, and find ourselves just where we began."

It is at this very moment the library door is suddenly flung open, and Jenkins appears upon the threshold, with his face as white as nature will permit, and his usually perfect manner much disturbed. "Sir Nicholas, can I speak to you for a moment?" he says, with much excitement, growing positively apoplectic in his endeavor to be calm.

"What is it, Jenkins? Speak!" says Lady Rodney, rising from her chair, and staying him, as he would leave the room, by an imperious gesture.

"Oh, my lady, if I must speak," cries the old man, "but it is terrible news to tell without a word of warning. Mr. Paul Rodney is dying: he shot himself half an hour ago, and is lying now at Rawson's Lodge in the beech wood."

Mona grows livid, and takes a step forward.

"Shot himself! How?" she says, hoarsely, her bosom rising and falling tumultuously. "Jenkins, answer me."

"Tell us, Jenkins," says Nicholas, hastily.

"It appears he had a pocket-pistol with him, Sir Nicholas, and going home through the wood he stumbled over some roots, and it went off and injured him fatally. It is an internal wound, my lady. Dr. Bland, who is with him, says there is no hope."

"No hope!" says Mona, with terrible despair in her voice: "then I have killed him. It was I returned him that pistol this evening. It is my fault, – mine. It is I have caused his death."

This thought seems to overwhelm her. She raises her hands to her head, and an expression of keenest anguish creeps into her eyes. She sways a little, and would have fallen, but that Jack Rodney, who is nearest to her at this moment, catches her in his arms.

"Mona," says Nicholas, roughly, laying his hand on her shoulder, and shaking her slightly, "I forbid you talking like that. It is nobody's fault. It is the will of God. It is morbid and sinful of you to let such a thought enter your head."

"So it is really, Mrs. Geoffrey, you know," says Nolly, placing his hand on her other shoulder to give her a second shake. "Nick's quite right. Don't take it to heart; don't now. You might as well say the gunsmith who originally sold him the fatal weapon is responsible for this unhappy event, as – as that you are."

"Besides, it may be an exaggeration," suggests Geoffrey "he may not be so bad as they say."

"I fear there is no doubt of it, sir," says Jenkins, respectfully, who in his heart of hearts looks upon this timely accident as a direct interposition of Providence. "And the messenger who came (and who is now in the hall, Sir Nicholas, if you would wish to question him) says Dr. Bland sent him up to let you know at once of the unfortunate occurrence."

Having said all this without a break, Jenkins feels he has outdone himself, and retires on his laurels.

Nicholas, going into the outer hall, cross-examines the boy who has brought the melancholy tidings, and, having spoken to him for some time, goes back to the library with a face even graver than it was before.

"The poor fellow is calling for you, Mona, incessantly," he says. "It remains with you to decide whether you will go to him or not. Geoffrey, you should have a voice in this matter, and I think she ought to go."

"Oh, Mona, do go – do," entreats Doatie, who is in tears. "Poor, poor fellow! I wish now I had not been so rude to him."

"Geoffrey, will you take me to him?" says Mona, rousing herself.

"Yes. Hurry, darling. If you think you can bear it, you should lose no time. Minutes even, I fear, are precious in this case."

Then some one puts on her again the coat she had taken off such a short time since, and some one else puts on her sealskin cap and twists her black lace round her white throat, and then she turns to go on her sad mission. All their joy is turned to mourning, their laughter to tears.

Nicholas, who had left the room again, returns now, bringing with him a glass of wine, which he compels her to swallow, and then, pale and frightened, but calmer than she was before, she leaves the house, and starts with Geoffrey for the gamekeeper's lodge, where lies the man they had so dreaded, impotent in the arms of death.

Night is creeping up over the land. Already in the heavens the pale crescent moon just born rides silently, —

"Wi' the auld moon in hir arme,"

A deep hush has fallen upon everything. The air is cold and piercing. Mona shivers, and draws even closer to Geoffrey, as, mute, yet full of saddest thought, they move through the leafless wood.

As they get within view of the windows of Rawson's cottage, they are met by Dr. Bland, who has seen them coming, and has hurried out to receive them.

"Now, this is kind, – very kind," says the little man, approvingly, shaking both their hands. "And so soon, too; no time lost. Poor soul! he is calling incessantly for you, my dear Mrs. Geoffrey. It is a sad case, – very – very. Away from every one he knows. But come in; come in."

He draws Mrs. Geoffrey's hand through his arm, and goes towards the lodge.

"Is there no hope?" asks Geoffrey, gravely.

"None; none. It would be useless to say otherwise. Internal hemorrhage has set in. A few hours, perhaps less, must end it. He knows it himself, poor boy!"

"Oh! can nothing be done?" asks Mona, turning to him eyes full of entreaty.

"My dear, what I could do, I have done," says the little man, patting her hand in his kind fatherly fashion; "but he has gone beyond human skill. And now one thing: you have come here, I know, with the tender thought of soothing his last hours: therefore I entreat you to be calm and very quiet. Emotion will only distress him, and, if you feel too nervous, you know – perhaps – eh?"

"I shall not be too nervous," says Mona, but her face blanches afresh even as she speaks; and Geoffrey sees it.

"If it is too much for you, darling, say so," whispers he; "or shall I go with you?"

"It is better she should go alone," says Dr. Bland. "He would be quite unequal to two; and besides, – pardon me, – from what he has said to me I fear there were unpleasant passages between you and him."

"There were," confesses Geoffrey, reluctantly, and in a low tone. "I wish now from my soul it had been otherwise. I regret much that has taken place."

"We all have regrets at times, dear boy, the very best of us," says the little doctor, blowing his nose: "who among us is faultless? And really the circumstances were very trying for you, – very – eh? Yes, of course one understands, you know; but death heals all divisions, and he is hurrying to his last account, poor lad, all too soon."

They have entered the cottage by this time, and are standing in the tiny hall.

"Open that door, Mrs. Geoffrey," says the doctor pointing to his right hand. "I saw you coming, and have prepared him for the interview. I shall be just here, or in the next room, if you should want me. But I can do little for him more than I have done."

"You will be near too, Geoffrey?" murmurs Mona, falteringly.

"Yes, yes; I promise for him," says Dr. Bland. "In fact, I have something to say to your husband that must be told at once."

Then Mona, opening the door indicated to her by the doctor, goes into the chamber beyond, and is lost to their view for some time.

CHAPTER XXXV

HOW MONA COMFORTS PAUL RODNEY – HOW NIGHT AND DEATH DESCEND TOGETHER – AND HOW PAUL RODNEY DISPOSES OF HIS PROPERTY

On a low bed, with his eyes fastened eagerly upon the door, lies Paul Rodney, the dews of death already on his face.

There is no disfigurement about him to be seen, no stain of blood, no ugly mark; yet he is touched by the pale hand of the destroyer, and is sinking, dying, withering beneath it. He has aged at least ten years within the last fatal hour, while in his eyes lies an expression so full of hungry expectancy and keen longing as amounts almost to anguish.

As Mona advances to his side, through the gathering gloom of fast approaching night, pale almost as he is, and trembling in every limb, this miserable anxiety dies out of his face, leaving behind it a rest and peace unutterable.

To her it is an awful moment. Never before has she stood face to face with dissolution, to wait for the snapping of the chain, – the breaking of the bowl. "Neither the sun nor death," says La Rochefoucauld, "can be looked at steadily;" and now "Death's thousand doors stand open" to receive this man that but an hour agone was full of life as she is now. His pulses throbbed, his blood coursed lightly through his veins, the grave seemed a far-off destination; yet here he lies, smitten to the earth, beaten down and trodden under, with nothing further to anticipate but the last change of all.

"O Death! thou strange, mysterious power, seen every day yet never understood but by the incommunicative dead, what art thou?"

"You have come," he says, with a quick sigh that be speaks relief. "I knew you would. I felt it; yet I feared. Oh, what comfort to see you again!"

Mona tries to say something, – anything that will be kind and sympathetic, – but words fail her. Her lips part, but no sound escapes them. The terrible reality of the moment terrifies and overcomes her.

"Do not try to make me any commonplace speeches," says Rodney, marking her hesitation. He speaks hastily, yet with evident difficulty. "I am dying. Nothing, can alter that. But death has brought you to my side again, so I cannot repine."

"But to find you like this" – begins Mona. And then overcome by grief and agitation, she covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears.

"Mona! Are you crying for me?" says Paul Rodney, as though surprised. "Do not. Your tears hurt me more than this wound that has done me to death."

"Oh, if I had not given you that pistol," sobs Mona, who cannot conquer the horror of the thought that she has helped him to his death, "you would be alive and strong now."

"Yes, – and miserable! you forget to add that. Now everything seems squared. In the grave neither grief nor revenge can find a place. And as for you, what have you to do with my fate? – nothing. What should you not return to me my own? and why should I not die by the weapon I had dared to level against yourself? There is a justice in it that smacks of Sadlers' Wells."

He actually laughs, though faintly, and Mona looks up. Perhaps he has forced himself to this vague touch of merriment (that is even sadder than tears) just to please and rouse her from her despondency, – because the laugh dies almost as it is born, and an additional pallor covers his lips in its stead.

"Listen to me," he goes on, in a lower key, and with some slight signs of exhaustion. "I am glad to die, – unfeignedly glad: therefore rejoice with me! Why should you waste a tear on such as I am? Do you remember how I told you (barely two hours ago) that my life had come to an end where other fellows hope to begin theirs? I hardly knew myself how prophetic my words would prove."