"Pray do not be troubled," Mona coldly retorted. "I had no thought of resenting anything which you might consider proper to do. If I thought of the matter at all, it was only in connection with the generally accepted principles of courtesy and good-breeding."
Mr. Hamblin flushed hotly at this keen shaft, but he ignored it, and changed the subject.
"I am sorry to have interrupted you in your reading, Miss Richards. What have you that is interesting?"
"Victor Hugo's 'Les Miserables,'" Mona briefly replied.
"Have you?" the young man eagerly demanded, "I was searching for that book only yesterday. May I look at it one moment? McArthur and I had quite a discussion upon a point regarding Father Madelaine, and we were unable to settle it because we could not find the book."
Mona quietly passed the volume to him; but a blank look overspread his face as he took it.
"Why, it is the original!" he exclaimed, "and I do not read French readily. Are you familiar with it?"
"Oh, yes," and Mona smiled slightly.
She had been accounted the finest French scholar in her class.
Mr. Hamblin regarded her wonderingly.
"Where did you learn French to be able to read it at sight?" he inquired.
"At school."
"But—I thought—" he began, and stopped confused.
"You thought that a common seamstress must necessarily be ignorant, as well as poor," Mona supplemented: "that she would not be likely to have opportunities or ambition for self-improvement. Well, Mr. Hamblin, perhaps some girls in such a position would not, but I honestly believe that there is many a poor girl, who has had to make her own way in life, who is better educated than many of the so-called society belles of to-day."
"I believe it, too, if you are a specimen," her companion returned, as he gazed admiringly into Mona's flushed and animated face.
"At any rate," he added, "you are far more beautiful than the majority of society girls."
"Mr. Hamblin will please reserve his compliments for ears more eager for and more accustomed to them," Mona retorted, with a frown of annoyance.
"Why are you so proud and scornful toward me, Miss Richards?" he appealingly asked. "Can you not see that my admiration for you is genuine—that I really desire to be your friend? And why have you avoided me so persistently of late—why have you rejected my flowers?"
"Because," Mona frankly answered, and meeting his glance squarely, "I know, and you know, that it is not proper for you to offer, nor for me to accept, such attentions, even if I desired them."
"I am my own master; you are your own mistress, if, as you say, you are alone in the world; consequently, such a matter lies between ourselves, without regard to what others might consider as 'proper,' And I may as well make an open confession first as last," he went on, eagerly, and bending nearer to her, with a flushed face. "Ruth, my beautiful Ruth, I love you—I began to love you that morning when we met on the steps before our own door, and every day has only increased my affection for you."
A startled look swept over Mona's face, which had now grown very pale. She had not had a suspicion that she was destined to hear such a declaration as this; it had taken her wholly unawares, and for a moment she was speechless.
But she soon recovered herself.
"Stop!" she haughtily cried "you have no right to use such language to me; you would not presume—you would not dare to do so upon so brief an acquaintance, if I stood upon an equal footing with you, socially. It is only because I am poor and unprotected—because you simply wish to amuse yourself for a time. You would not dare to repeat in the presence of Mrs. Montague what you have just said to me. Now let me pass, if you please, and never presume to address me again as you have to-day."
The indignant girl looked like some beautiful princess as she stood before him and thus resented the insult he had offered her.
Her slight form was held proudly erect, her small head was uplifted with an air of scorn, her eyes blazed forth angry contempt as they met his, while her whole bearing indicated a conscious superiority which both humiliated and stung her would-be suitor.
She had never appeared so beautiful to him before. Her face was as pure as a pearl; her glossy hair, falling loosely away from her white forehead, was simply coiled at the back of her small head, thus revealing its symmetrical proportions to the best advantages. Her great brown eyes glowed and scintillated, her nostrils dilated, her lips quivered with outraged pride and delicacy.
Her dress of dead black fell in soft, clinging folds about her slender form, making her seem taller than she really was, while one hand had been raised to enforce the commands which she had laid upon him.
He thought her the fairest vision he had ever seen, in spite of her indignation against him, and if she had sought to fascinate him—to weave the spell of her witchery more effectually about him, she could have taken no surer way to do so.
He could not fail to admire her spirit—it but served to glorify her in his sight, and made him more eager than before to conquer her.
"Nay, do not leave me thus—do not be so bitter against me, my peerless Ruth," he pleaded. "Perhaps I have been premature in my avowal, but I beg that you will not despise me on that account. Do not judge me so harshly. Lay my impatience rather to my eagerness to win you. I would do anything in the world to make you love me, and now, I fear, I have only been driving you farther from me. I love you, honestly and sincerely, my beautiful Ruth, and I would not only dare to confess it to my aunt, but proclaim it before the world, if that would serve to prove it to you. Ah! teach me how to woo you, my darling; give me but a crumb of hope upon which to feed, and I will try to be satisfied until you can learn to have more confidence in me."
He reached forth his arms as if he would have infolded her; and Mona, who for the moment had been rendered spell-bound by the swift rush of burning words that he had poured forth, seemed suddenly electrified by the act.
She felt both insulted and humiliated by this premature avowal of a love that had not received the slightest encouragement from her, and she recoiled from him with a gesture of contempt.
"I wonder how you have dared to say this to me," she cried, in a voice that quivered with indignation, "when in my very presence you have shown another attentions such as a man has a right to bestow only upon the woman whom he intends to marry. But for the respect I owe myself and my sex, I would like to brand you with a mark that would betray your disloyalty to the world, and make Miss McKenzie despise you as I do; being only a weak woman, however, I must content myself with simply manifesting my scorn, and by telling you to go!" and she pointed authoritatively toward the door with one white taper finger.
A hot, crimson flush dyed the young man's white face with a sense of shame, such as he had never before experienced in the presence of any one, while the purple veins stood out in ridges upon his forehead.
He was completely cowed before her. Conscious himself of the insincerity and unworthiness of his declaration, he knew that she also had read him like an open book, and the knowledge made him fearfully angry; while to be foiled in his purpose and browbeaten by this girl, whom he imagined to be only what she seemed, was more than his indomitable spirit could tamely submit to.
"A love like mine is not to be despised, and you shall yet find it so," he muttered between his tightly shut teeth.
Mona would not deign him a reply, but standing in the same attitude, she again motioned him to go.
Unable longer to endure the unflinching gaze of her clear, scornful eyes, he shrank back through the portieres, which instantly fell into place again, and Mona, with a smile of disdain curving her red lips, went back to her seat by the window.
But all enjoyment in her book was gone; she was much excited, for she had been greatly shaken by the interview and made to feel her position as she never yet had done; and after sitting a few moments gazing sadly out of the window she again went up to her own room.
CHAPTER XVI.
MONA LEARNS SOMETHING OF RAY.
That same evening as Mona was passing up stairs from the laundry, whither she had been to press out the ruffles of a dress, which Mrs. Montague wished to wear at the german a few hours later, she heard the hall-bell ring a resounding peal.
She hastened on, for she did not wish to be observed by strangers, but as she reached the upper landing, she caught some hearty words of welcome from Mr. Wellington, the host, and knew that another guest had arrived.
But she suddenly stopped short, and the color receded from her cheeks, while her heart beat with quick, heavy throbs as she heard the name of Palmer pronounced.
"Can it be possible that Ray Palmer is the newcomer?" she asked herself.
She leaned over the banister, curiosity and an eager longing prompting her to ascertain if he were the guest.
But no, it was not Ray.
She saw instead an elderly gentleman, of benevolent and genial appearance, who seemed to be a valued friend of the family, judging from the enthusiastic greeting which his host accorded him.
"Well, well, Palmer, you are rather late in the week, but none the less welcome on that account," remarked Mr. Wellington. "We have been having gay times, and I have only needed your presence to make my enjoyment complete. But where is that precious son of yours? How is it that Raymond did not come with you?"
Mona held her breath at this.
The question had told her that the new arrival was Ray's father, and that the young man had also been invited to join the gay company that was sojourning beneath the hospitable roof.
She leaned farther over the railing that she might not fail to catch Mr.
Palmer's reply.
"Oh," answered that gentleman, as he removed his overcoat and gloves,
"Ray is not yet quite as strong as we could wish, although he calls
himself well, and he feels hardly equal to much dissipation as yet.
Besides, he is rather depressed just now."
"Over the affair of the diamonds, I suppose?" Mr. Wellington observed.
"Yes, and—some other matter that troubles him."
"I am very sorry. I was depending upon him to help amuse some of our fair young guests," said his host. Then he added, with considerable interest: "Any new developments regarding that remarkable robbery?"
"No; and I do not imagine there ever will be," Mr. Palmer gravely returned.
"Then you have given up all hope of ever recovering them?"
"Well, almost, though I have a detective on the lookout yet, and he thinks if he can get track of the thief in this case, she will prove to be the very woman that he has been searching for during the last three years. He imagines that she is the same one who was concerned in a bold swindle in Chicago about that time."
"Well, I sincerely hope that he will be successful in finding her; such wickedness should not be allowed to prosper," said Mr. Wellington. "I am really sorry about Ray, though—he is such capital company, and there are six or eight wonderfully pretty girls here who will be deeply disappointed when they learn that he is not coming at all."
The two gentlemen passed into the drawing-room just then, and Mona heard nothing more.
She deeply sighed, and continued to stand there for some moments lost in thought.
She could not really make up her mind whether she was more disappointed than rejoiced over Ray's failure to meet this engagement.
It would have been very pleasant to see him again, but it would also have been very humiliating to have him find her there in the capacity of a servant, and ignore her on this account, as Louis Hamblin had done. She still felt most keenly his apparent neglect of her during her troubles, and of course, being entirely ignorant of what had occurred, she attributed it to the most unworthy motives, which, however, did not help to reconcile her to the loss of his friendship.
She gathered from what Mr. Palmer had said about his not being quite strong yet that Ray had been ill, and she wondered, too, what he had meant by his being depressed on account of some other matter that was troubling him.
She had also learned something new about the robbery, of which she had only had a faint hint from the little item which she had read in the paper on the day she went to Mrs. Montague's. She gleaned now that Ray had in some way been responsible for the loss—or, at least felt himself to be so to some extent.
She wished that she could have heard more about him, and she was conscious of a deeper sense of loneliness and friendliness, from this little rift in the cloud that had shut her out of the world where once she had been so happy.
Another sigh escaped her as she slowly turned to go on to her room and almost unconsciously she cried out, with a little sob of pain and longing:
"Oh, Ray, Ray!"
"Aha!"
The ejaculation startled the young girl beyond measure. She did not dream that there was any one near her. She had been so absorbed in observing Mr. Palmer and listening to what had occurred in the lower hall, and in her own sad thoughts, that she was unconscious that any one had stolen up on her unawares, and had also been a witness to the interview between Mr. Palmer and Mr. Wellington, until this exclamation made her look up. She found herself again face to face with Louis Hamblin.
"Aha!" he repeated, in a tone of triumph, but with a frown upon his brow; "that explains why my suit was so disdained this morning! So you know and—love Mr. Raymond Palmer! My pretty Ruth, pray tell me how this young Apollo managed to inspire the princess of sewing-girls with such tender sentiments, that I may profit by his successful method."
"Let me pass!" Mona commanded, as, straight as a young palm, she confronted the insolent fellow with blazing cheeks and flashing eyes.
"It makes you wonderfully pretty to get angry," he returned, with a gleeful chuckle; "but I am not going to let you pass until you tell me when and where you made young Palmer's acquaintance," and he continued to stand directly in her path.
"Do you imagine that you can compel me to say anything?" Mona burst forth, with stinging contempt, her patience all gone. "Let this be the last time that you ever waylay or persecute me with your attentions, for, I give you fair warning, a repetition of such conduct on your part will send me straight to Mrs. Montague with a full report of it."
The young man looked decidedly crestfallen at this spirited threat.
There was but one person in the world of whom he stood in awe, and that was his aunt, Margaret Montague.
He well knew that it would not be for his interest to offend her, and, of all things, he would dread most a revelation of what had occurred in the library that morning, notwithstanding he had affirmed to Mona that he was willing to proclaim his affection before her and the whole world.
Besides, if it should come to the ears of Kitty McKenzie, his prospects of a marriage with that pretty and wealthy young lady would be blighted, and no end of trouble would follow, for Mrs. Montague had determined to effect a union between them, and if he should go contrary to her wishes, she could make it very uncomfortable for him pecuniarily.
Still, he was deeply smitten with the beautiful young seamstress, and was rapidly becoming more so every time he met her.
He had promised himself the pleasure of a secret flirtation with her, while at the same time he intended to continue his attentions to Miss McKenzie in public, and he did not like to be balked in his purpose.
He saw that he could never intimidate her into any concessions; she was far too high-spirited and straightforward; so he must adopt other measures if he would win.
"Certainly you shall pass, if you wish," he said, respectfully, as he stepped aside; "but please do not be quite so unkind; and, by the way, can you tell me what the old codger down below meant by his son being upset about the diamonds?"
He knew well enough, for of course he had seen the accounts of the affair in the papers; but he had an object in wishing to find out how much Mona knew.
"No, I cannot," she coldly replied, as, with uplifted head and haughty bearing, she passed him and entered Mrs. Montague's room.
While this incident was occurring in the hall of the second story, Mr.
Amos Palmer was being introduced to the company below.
His advent caused quite a flutter of excitement among the young ladies; for most of them were acquainted with Ray, who for nearly two years had been a great favorite in society, and they had been led to expect that he was to join their company at Hazeldean.
Great disappointment was expressed when they learned that he was not likely to put in an appearance at all, and Mr. Palmer began to feel sorry that he had not insisted upon having his son come with him.
Mr. Wellington was full of wit and pleasantry, and made merry, as he went around the room with his friend, to introduce the strangers to him.
As they came to Mrs. Montague, he was somewhat surprised when the lady greeted Mr. Palmer with great cordiality.
"I have already the pleasure of Mr. Palmer's acquaintance," she said, with one of her most alluring smiles, as she extended her hand to him, and forthwith she entered into conversation with him, thus effectually chaining him to her side.
He seemed only too well pleased to linger there—he was, in fact, a willing captive to her wiles, a circumstance which the bright eyes of the younger portion of the company did not fail to observe and to comment upon, with something of amusement, and not a little of the match-making spirit of their own mammas.
"Girls!" exclaimed Alice Farwell, a gay, dashing beauty of twenty, to a group of friends whom she had coaxed into a corner, "do you know that a romance has begun here this evening?—a romance that will not be long in culminating in matrimony? Oh! don't go to pluming your feathers," she continued, as there was a general flutter, "for we young Americans will not figure in the story at all, though we may possibly be invited to the wedding. Oh, if it should prove to be the only match of the season!" and with a long-drawn sigh, she glanced mischievously across the room, toward the recent arrival, who was apparently oblivious of all, save the attractions of the charming Mrs. Montague.
Talk of match-making mammas!
This bevy of young girls became so engrossed in watching the progress of the romance which was then being enacted in their presence, that they forgot to flirt themselves, and took pains to help it on in every possible way.
"It will be just the nicest match in the world," said Edith Brown, delightfully. "Mr. Palmer is a fine-looking old gentleman, and Mrs. Montague, though she seems a great deal younger, will make him a lovely wife."
"It will be so suitable, too, for they are both rich, and stand high in society," whispered a third, with an eye to worldly prosperity.
"And she can have all the diamonds she wants," chimed in a little miss of sixteen, "for he is a diamond merchant, you know."
This remark caused a general laugh, and then the conversation turned upon the recent robbery, which was discussed at some length.
"Who would have thought of decoying Ray Palmer into Doctor Wesselhoff's retreat?" exclaimed Alice Farwell. "It was a very daring thing to do. By the way, I wonder what the reason is young Palmer did not come with his father? I can't quite believe he isn't well enough, for I saw him only the day before we left New York, and he was walking down Broadway with as much energy as any one, only he looked a trifle pale and anxious."
"I wish he would come up for the grand hop on next Monday," said Edith Brown. "He is capital company, and a delightful partner. I am going to coax Mr. Palmer to send for him. Come, girls, he has monopolized our pretty widow long enough; suppose we break up the conference and put in our petition."
The merry maidens were nothing loath to have another handsome escort added to their number, and, headed by the audacious Edith, they went in a body to make their request of Mr. Palmer.
"Well, it is too bad to have Ray miss all this," he said, smilingly, when they allowed him an opportunity to reply. "I believe it would do him good to come, and he could not help enjoying himself here," he added, as his genial eyes rested on the bright faces before him. "I believe I will telegraph him in the morning."
The fair petitioners were satisfied with their success, and, dinner being announced just then, the subject was dropped for the time.
After dinner there was a progressive whist party for an hour, at the end of which there was considerable fun occasioned by the awarding of the prizes, and after that everybody was ready for the german.
But great disappointment was expressed when they found that there was one lady lacking to enable them all to participate in the dance.
"What shall we do?—no one wants to sit and look on—it is very stupid, and the rest of us wouldn't enjoy it, either, to have any wallflowers about," Kitty McKenzie regretfully remarked. "Oh! Mrs. Montague," she added, as if the idea had just occurred to her, "there is your pretty seamstress; may she not come, just for this once?"
Mrs. Montague hesitated.
"Please," persisted the generous-hearted Kitty; "she is very nice and lady-like; I am sure no one could object to her, and I know she would enjoy it."
Two or three others seconded the proposal, and the lady then gave her consent, though with evident reluctance.
Miss Kitty, all elated with the success of her project, and never dreaming that Mona would not enjoy it, ran away to bring her down.
She found her in her own room reading a recent magazine.
"Come," she said, with gleaming eyes, "you are to join us in the german.
I have Mrs. Montague's permission, and we are all waiting for you."
"I thank you very much Miss McKenzie," Mona responded, flushing, "but I do not believe I will go down."
"Oh, do; we need just one more lady, and some of the gentlemen will have to sit it out if you do not. Miss Nellie Wellington has to play for us, or she would dance, so please come," Miss Kitty urged, looking disappointed enough over Mona's unexpected refusal.
Mona shrank from joining the dancers, or from mingling with the company, for several reasons.
She had no heart for dancing, so soon after her uncle's death; she disliked to go among people who would regard her as an inferior, and only tolerate her presence because she would help to "fill out," while last, but not least, she wished to keep out of Louis Hamblin's way.
But she did not like to appear disobliging or unappreciative of Miss
McKenzie's kindness, and a bright idea suddenly occurred to her.
"I really do not care to dance, Miss McKenzie, although it is very thoughtful of you to invite me; but if it will be agreeable to the company, I will take Miss Wellington's place at the piano, and she can make up the desired number."
"Oh, can you play?" cried Kitty, both astonished and delighted. "That will help us out, and I am sure it is very nice of you to offer, for I think it is awfully stupid to play for dancing. Come, then, and I know everybody will be surprised as well as pleased."
And winding her arm about the slender waist of the fair seamstress, they went down stairs together, Miss McKenzie chatting away as sociably as if they had always been friends and equals.
Mrs. Montague lifted her eyebrows with well-bred astonishment when the young lady informed the company that Miss Richards preferred to preside at the piano, and a number of others appealed to share her surprise, and looked somewhat skeptical, also.
They were more amazed still when she modestly took her seat and began her duties, for Mona was perfectly at home in music, and soon made the room ring with inspiring melody for the eager dancers.
"Who is that beautiful and talented girl?" Amos Palmer asked of his host, when the young people were tired of dancing, and Mona quietly withdrew from the room.
"Her name is Ruth Richards, I believe," Mr. Wellington replied.
"You 'believe!' Isn't she a guest here?" inquired Mr. Palmer, with surprise.
"No; she is simply a maid in the employ of Mrs. Montague."
"Well, it is a great pity."
"What is a great pity?"
"That such a lovely young lady should have to serve any one in that capacity; she is beautiful and talented enough to fill any position."
And this was Amos Palmer's opinion regarding Ray's unknown lady-love.
CHAPTER XVII.
MRS. MONTAGUE QUESTIONS MONA.
"Where did you learn to play the piano, Ruth?" Mrs. Montague inquired the next morning, while Mona was engaged in assisting her to dress, and she turned a searching glance upon her as she put the question.
To conceal the flush that mounted to her brow, Mona stooped to pick up a pin.
It had not occurred to her, when she offered to play for the dancing the previous evening, that such proficiency in music would be regarded as something very unusual in a sewing-girl, and might occasion remark.
Her only object had been to oblige Kitty McKenzie and avoid dancing with the guests.
"I had a relative who gave me lessons for a while," she said, in reply to
Mrs. Montague's query.
"For a while!" repeated that lady, who had not been unobservant of the flush. "You finger the piano as if you had been accustomed to diligent practice all your life, and you must have had the best of instruction, too."
"I am very fond of music, and it was never any task to me to practice," Mona remarked. Then she added, to change the topic: "Shall I baste this ruffle in the full width, or shall I set it down a trifle?"
Mrs. Montague smiled at the tact of her pretty companion, in thus attempting to draw her attention to her own affairs.
A good many things had convinced her of late that her seamstress had not been reared in poverty, and certain suspicions, that had startled her when she first saw her, were beginning to force themselves again upon her.
"You can set it down a trifle," she replied; then she asked, persistently returning to the previous question: "Why do you not give music lessons, since you play so well, instead of sewing for your living? I should suppose it would be a much more congenial occupation."
"There are so many music teachers, and one needs a reputation in order to obtain pupils; besides, people would doubtless regard me as too young to have had much experience in teaching. There, I have finished this—is there anything else I can do for you?" and Mona laid the dress she had been at work upon on a chair, and stood awaiting further orders.
"Yes; the buckle on this slipper needs to be more securely fastened. It is true that there are legions of music teachers. Was this relative of yours a teacher?"
"Oh, no; he simply bore the expense of my instruction."
"I suppose he cannot be living, or you would not be sewing for me," Mrs.
Montague remarked, with another searching glance.
"No," was the brief reply, and hot tears rushed to Mona's eyes, blinding her so that she could hardly see where to put her needle.
She then made some remark to the effect that she needed some stronger silk, and left the room to hide the grief which she found so hard to control.
"Aha! this relative must be the friend for whom she is in mourning—he cannot have been dead very long, for the girl is unable to speak of him without tears," muttered Mrs. Montague, thoughtfully, a heavy frown settling on her brow. "There is some mystery about her which I am bound to ferret out; she is exceedingly reticent about herself—I wonder if my suspicions can be correct?" she continued, her face settling into hard, revengeful lines. "She certainly looks enough like that girl to be her child. If I were sure, I would not spare her; I would crush her, for the hate that I bore her mother, notwithstanding she is so useful to me. Ha, ha!" and the laugh was exceedingly bitter, "it would seem like the irony of fate to have her child thrown thus into my power. But if she is Mona Montague why does she call herself Ruth Richards? what can be her object? Can it be possible," she added, with a startled look, "that she has been told her history, and she has engaged herself to me with the purpose of trying to obtain the proofs of it? Is she deep enough for that? or has she been advised to adopt such a course? She seems to be very frank and innocent, intent only upon doing her work well and pleasing me. Yet, if she should get hold of any of those proofs, she could make a great deal of trouble for me. I believe I shall have to destroy them, although I always feel as if a ghost were haunting me whenever I touch them. I shall never be satisfied until I learn Ruth's history. I'll attack her about the Palmers; if she is Mona Montague—the girl that Ray Palmer loves—she certainly will betray herself if I take her unawares; although she did not appear to know Mr. Palmer, last evening."
Mona returned at this moment, and Mrs. Montague's musings were cut short.
The young girl had recovered her self-control, and was as calm and collected as usual; even more so, for she had told herself that she must be more on her guard or she would betray her identity.
Mrs. Montague appeared to have forgotten all about their recent conversation, and chatted sociably about various topics for a while. But suddenly she asked:
"Did you observe the new arrival last night, Ruth?"
"Do you mean that portly gentleman, who is slightly bald, and with whom you went out for refreshments?" Mona inquired, lifting a frank, inquiring look to her companion, though her heart beat fast at this reference to Ray's father.
"Yes; he is very fine-looking, don't you think so?"
"Perhaps so—rather," replied Mona, reflectively.
"That is 'rather' doubtful praise, I am afraid," observed Mrs. Montague, with a light laugh. "I think he is a very handsome old gentleman, and he is certainly a decidedly entertaining companion. You know who he is, I suppose."
"I do not think that I heard anybody address him by name while I was in the drawing-room; of course; I was not introduced to any one," Mona evasively answered.
"His name is Palmer," Mrs. Montague remarked, as she bent a searching look upon the young girl.
But Mona had herself well in hand now, and she made no sign that the name was a familiar one to her.
"He has a son who is strikingly good looking, too," Mrs. Montague continued. "I met them both at a reception in New York a little while ago, and was greatly attracted to them, though just now the young man is rather unhappy—in fact, he is wearing the willow for some girl whom he imagines he loves."
Mrs. Montague paused to note the effect of this conversation, but Mona had finished fastening the buckle on the slipper, and quietly taken up some other work, though her pulses were beating like trip-hammers.
"It seems," the woman resumed, her keen eyes never leaving the fair face opposite to her, "that he has long been very fond of a girl whose surname is the same as mine—a Miss Mona Montague. She was a niece of that wealthy Mr. Dinsmore, who died so suddenly in New York a short time ago."
It seemed to Mona that her heart must leap from her bosom as she listened to this reference to herself; but, with every appearance of perfect composure, she measured off some ribbon that she was making into bows, and severed it with a sharp clip of her scissors.
"Perhaps you do not know whom I mean," said Mrs. Montague, and paused, determined to make the girl speak.
"Oh, yes, I have heard of him, and I remember reading the notice of his death in a paper," Mona compelled herself to say, without betraying anything of the pain which smote her heart in recurring thus to her great loss.
Mrs. Montague frowned.
She was not progressing as well as she could have wished in her "pumping" operation; but she meant to probe the matter as far as she dared.
"Well," she went on, "this niece was supposed by everybody to be Mr. Dinsmore's heiress; but a discarded wife suddenly made her appearance, after his death, and claimed the whole of his property, and the girl was left without a penny. She must have been terribly cut up about it, for she suddenly disappeared, and cannot be found, and it is this that has so upset young Palmer. He had not committed himself, his father informed me, but was just on the point of declaring his love when Mr. Dinsmore died; and the girl, evidently crushed by her loss, has hidden herself so securely that no one can find her."
It was fortunate for Mona that her recent troubles had taught her something of self-control, or she must have betrayed herself at this point.
She realized that Mrs. Montague must have a purpose in relating all this to her, and feared it was to verify some suspicion regarding herself.
She now believed that the woman must know all her mother's history, and certain facts regarding her own birth, which she felt that Mr. Dinsmore had, for some reason, withheld from her. This conviction had grown upon her ever since she had been a member of her family, and she hoped, by some means, if she remained long enough with her, to learn the truth. Still she feared that if Mrs. Montague should discover that she was her husband's daughter she might be so prejudiced against her she would at once dismiss her from her employ, and she would then lose her only chance to solve the questions that puzzled her. But she found it very hard to conceal the great and sudden joy that went thrilling through her as she listened to these facts regarding Ray Palmer's affection for and his loyalty to her.
He had not been unworthy and faithless, as she had imagined; there had been some good reason why he had not come to her during the early days of her trouble. He might have been called suddenly away from New York on business and not been able to return until her home was broken up; and now he was grieving—"wearing the willow," as Mrs. Montague expressed it—because he could not find her. He loved her! he had been upon the point of telling her so, and this blissful knowledge made the world seem suddenly bright again to the hitherto depressed and grieving girl.
But it would never do to betray anything of this, for then Mrs. Montague would know at once that she was Mona Montague; so she made no sign that she was any more interested in this little romance regarding Ray Palmer's love, than she would have been in that of any stranger. She even forced herself to ignore him altogether, and ask, in a matter-of-fact way:
"Is it not strange, if Mr. Dinsmore had a wife living, that he did not make some provision for his niece, by will?"
"The girl isn't Mona Montague after all, or she never would have asked such a question with that innocent air," said Mrs. Montague to herself, with some disappointment; "the strange resemblance must be only a coincidence, striking though it is. But I would really like to know where Walter Dinsmore's niece is. I feel as if I had an enemy in ambush all the time, for she would have it in her power to do me a great deal of harm if she could prove her identity. I am half sorry that Ruth doesn't prove to be she, for having her here, under my eye, I could manage her capitally."
"Why, the papers discussed all that at the time," she remarked aloud, with some surprise. "There was considerable excitement over the affair, and sympathy was very strong for the niece. Didn't you read about it?"
"No, I was very much engaged just then, and I did not read any account of it. There, these bows are ready, and I will sew them to the dress," Mona concluded, rising to get the garment, but trembling with nervous excitement in every limb.
"Ah!" she added, glancing at her fingers, three of which were stained with blood. "I have pricked myself with my needle; I hope I have not soiled the ribbon. No, fortunately, I have not," as she carefully examined it, "but I will step into the bath-room to wash my hands. I will not be long," and she immediately left the room again. She had purposely run the needle into her delicate flesh to obtain this respite, for she felt as if she could no longer endure the trying conversation.
"Oh, how she has tortured me!" she sobbed, as she swung the door to after her, and dashed from her eyes the tears which she could no longer restrain. "I could not bear it another moment, and I must not give way, even now, or she will see that I am unnerved, but I cannot be wholly wretched now that I know that Ray loves me!"
A vivid blush mounted to her brow as she whispered the sweet words, and she dashed the cold water over her burning cheeks to cool them.
"Ah!" she continued; "I judged him wrongfully, and I am sorry. It will be all right if we can but meet again. It must be true that he loved me; he must have confessed it, or his father would not have told Mrs. Montague so."
She hastily dried her face, and hands, then composing herself, returned to Mrs. Montague's room to find her with her dress on and looking very fair and lovely in the delicately tinted blue cashmere, with the soft ruching in the neck and sleeves and the shining satin bows at her waist.
The woman glanced sharply at Mona as she entered, but, for all that she could see, the sweet face was as serene as if she were intent only upon her duties as waiting-maid, instead of thrilling with joy over the knowledge of being beloved by one whom, until that hour, she had believed lost to her.
"I will submit her to one more test, and if she can stand it I shall be satisfied," she said to herself, as she fastened a beautiful pin at her throat, and then turned smilingly to Mona, but with the most innocent air in the world.
"Am I all right, Ruth? Is the dress becoming?" she asked.
"Exceedingly," Mona returned; "the color is just suited to you."
"Thank you, I wonder if Mr. Palmer will also think so. Do you know," with a conscious laugh and forced blush, but with a covert glance at the girl, "I am becoming very much interested in that gentleman. I like the son, too, but chiefly for his father's sake. By the way, young Mr. Palmer is to be here for the ball on Monday evening; at least his father is going to telegraph him to come."
"Is he?" said Mona, absently, while she appeared to be engrossed with something which she had suddenly discovered about the new morning robe. But the statement that Ray was coming to Hazeldean had given her an inward start that made every nerve in her body bound as if an electric current had been applied to them. "This skirt does not seem to hang just right," she added, dropping upon her knees, as if to ascertain the cause. "Ah! it was only caught up—it is all right now."
She smoothed the folds into place and arose, while, the breakfast-bell ringing at that moment, Mrs. Montague passed from the room, very nearly if not quite satisfied that Ruth Richards was an entirely different person from Mona Montague.
Poor over-wrought Mona, however, fled into her own chamber, and locked the door the moment she was alone.
She sank into the nearest chair, buried her face in her hands, and fell to sobbing nervously.
"How can I bear it?" she murmured. "It is perfectly dreadful to have to live such a life of deception. I never would have been guilty of it if I had not been caught just as I was; but I could not give her my real name, for she would have known at once who I am; and I do so want to find out just why my father deserted my mother, and what there was between him and Uncle Walter that was so terrible. Perhaps I never shall, but I mean to stay with her for a while and try. She is a strange woman," the young girl went on, musingly. "Sometimes I think she is kind and good, then again she seems like a designing and unprincipled person. Can it be possible that she is contemplating an alliance with Mr. Palmer? She certainly received his attentions last evening with every appearance of pleasure, and he seemed to be equally delighted with her society. I wonder if Ray will like it? Somehow the thought of it is not agreeable to me, if—if—"
A vivid blush suffused Mona's cheeks as she reached this point in her soliloquy, as if she was overcome at having allowed her thoughts to run away with her to such an extent.
"So Ray is coming to Hazeldean for the ball on Monday evening," she continued, after a while. "Shall I see him? Yes, I shall try to," with an air of resolution. "If he loves me as well as I love him, why should any foolish sensitiveness prevent my allowing him to make it manifest, if he wishes? I do not believe I have any right to ruin both our lives by hiding myself from him. I will prove him in this way; but I must see him alone, so that no one will know that I am Mona Montague, instead of Ruth Richards, the sewing-girl. What if he should ignore me?" she added, with sudden fear and growing very white; then, with renewed confidence: "He will not; if he has been noble enough to confess his feelings to his father, he will not hide them from me. He is noble and true, and I will not doubt him."
CHAPTER XVIII.
"MY DARLING, I LOVE YOU!"
Mr. Palmer, true to his promise to the fair young guests at Hazeldean, telegraphed to Ray the next morning requesting him to come up for the ball on Monday. Later in the day he received a reply from the young man stating that he would do so, although he did not mention the hour when he should arrive.
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were gay and busy days, for the ball was to be a grand affair, and everybody was anxious to do all possible honor to the occasion and made preparations accordingly.
Mrs. Montague, however, was not so busy but that she managed to spend a good deal of her time with Mr. Palmer, who seemed to renew his youth in her presence, and was so gallant and attentive that the young people, who were exceedingly interested in watching the progress of this middle-aged romance, were kept in a constant flutter of amused excitement. Mr. Wellington and his wife were also considerably diverted by the affair.
"I'm afraid Palmer is a 'gone goose,'" the gentleman laughingly remarked to his spouse, after they had retired to their room on Saturday evening.
"It looks like it," the lady returned; "and really," she added, with some impatience, "there is something almost ridiculous to me in seeing an old man like him dancing attendance upon a gay young widow like Mrs. Montague."
"Young! How old do you imagine her to be?" inquired Mr. Wellington.
"She cannot be much over thirty, and she dresses in a way to make her look even younger than that," the lady responded. "At all events, she seems like a mere girl beside portly, bald-headed Mr. Palmer, and I am afraid that he will regret it if he allows himself to become entangled in her net."
"I see that you are not in favor of the match," replied Mr. Wellington, much amused over his wife's earnestness.
"No, Will; I confess I am not," she said, gravely. "I knew Amos Palmer's first wife, and she was a devoted, care-taking, conscientious woman, never sparing herself when she could add to the comfort and happiness of her family. But this woman is entirely different—she cares very little for anything but society. I admit she is very delightful company—a charming person to have in the house at such a time as this; but I doubt her ability to make Mr. Palmer happy, and I never would have believed that he could have had his head so thoroughly turned by any woman. I thought he was bound up in making money, to leave to that handsome son of his."
"Well, it appears that Cupid can make fools of the best of us," Mr. Wellington returned, with a roguish glance at his wife; "and we do not discover the fact until the noose is irrevocably knotted about our necks. By the way, speaking of accumulating money makes me remember that Palmer had a telegram to-day, telling him that the detective whom he employed on that affair of the diamonds thinks that he is on the track of the thief at last."
"Is that so?" said Mrs. Wellington, with surprise. "Do you imagine that he will ever recover the stones?"
"He may—some of the larger ones, for they had been submitted to an expert; but I doubt if he ever sees many of them again," her husband replied.
* * * * *
During these last two days Mona had been kept steadily employed in performing various duties for Mrs. Montague.
That lady's costume for the ball was to be of great elegance and beauty.
The material was a rich garnet velvet, brocaded in white and gold, with point-lace garniture.
It had not been quite finished before they left New York, and Mona found no little difficulty in setting the many last stitches, for she had had but small experience in finishing garments of any kind, and Mrs. Montague was very particular.
It was quite late in the evening when she completed her task, and, with a sigh of relief, laid the beautiful costume upon the bed, ready for Mrs. Montague's inspection when she should come up stairs for the night.
There was something of regret also mingled with her feeling that she, too, could not join the festivities on Monday evening. She had dearly loved society during the little while she had mingled with it, and the pleasurable excitement of the last few days, which kept all the young ladies in a constant flutter, made her long to be one among them.
It was about half-past two when Mrs. Montague made her appearance, looking flushed and elated, for she had just parted from Mr. Palmer, who had begged her to attend service at the village church with him the next morning. The request was so impressively expressed that she imagined her conquest was nearly complete, and she was therefore in high spirits.
She caught sight of her ball-dress immediately upon entering the room.
"How lovely it is, Ruth," she remarked, "and you have arranged the lace very tastefully upon the corsage. I believe it will be exceedingly becoming. I only wish I could see myself as others will see me on Monday night, and know just how I am going to look. Ruth," she added, suddenly, as if inspired with a bright idea, "you are about my height; suppose you put on the dress and let me get just the effect; that is, if you are not too tired and do not mind being made a show figure, here all by ourselves."
Mona smiled slightly over the woman's vanity, but she was willing to oblige, and so signified her readiness to put the dress on, and in less than ten minutes she had metamorphosed herself from the quiet, retiring sewing-girl into a brilliant society belle.
The dress was a trifle loose for her, yet it was not a bad fit, while her pure neck and arms were as white as the costly lace, which fell in soft folds over them.
Mrs. Montague marveled at the exquisite fairness of her skin, and told herself that she had never realized, until that moment, how very beautiful her young seamstress was.
"You must put everything on, even to the jewels that I shall wear," she said, bringing a large case from one of her trunks, and exhibiting an almost childish eagerness to get the full effect of her costume.
She opened the case, and taking a diamond necklace of great beauty and value from it, clasped it about the girl's milk-white neck. Then she fastened some fine solitaires in her small ears; three or four pins, each having a blazing stone for its head, were tucked amid the glossy braids of her hair, and two glittering snakes were wound about her beautifully rounded arms.
"Now for the fan, and you will be complete," cried Mrs. Montague, as she brought an exquisite affair composed of white ostrich tips, with a bird of Paradise nestling in its center, and handed it to Mona.
Then she stood off to admire the tout ensemble, and just at that moment there came a tap upon her door.
She went immediately to open it, and found her nephew standing outside.
"I've come for the money, Aunt Margie," he said. "I thought I'd better have it to-night, since I am going to town on the early train, and did not like to disturb you in the morning."
"Very well, I will get it for you, and I hope that Madame Millaise will have the mantle ready for you, for I must have it on Monday evening to throw over my shoulders after dancing," Mrs. Montague responded, as she turned back to get her purse.
She was on the point of closing the door, for she did not care to have her nephew know what was going on within the room. But Mr. Louis Hamblin was very keen. He knew from her manner that something unusual was occurring, and so he boldly pushed on after her, and entered the chamber before she was aware of his intention.
He stopped suddenly, however, the moment he had crossed the threshold, stricken with astonishment, as his glance rested upon Mona.
He had known that the girl was unusually lovely, but he was not quite prepared to see such a vision of beauty as now greeted his eyes.
"Jove! Aunt Marg, isn't she a stunner?" he cried, under his breath. "You won't see one at the ball Monday night that can hold a candle to her!"
Mona had flushed a vivid scarlet when he had so unceremoniously forced his way into the room; but at his bold compliment she turned haughtily away from his gaze with the air of an offended queen.
Her bearing, though full of scorn, was replete with grace and dignity, while the voluminous train of the rich dress made her slender form seem even taller and more regal than it really was.
Mrs. Montague had been no less impressed with the young girl's beauty, but it would have affected her no more than that of a wax figure would have done had no one else been present to remark it. Now, however, at Louis' high praise, a feeling of envy sprang up in her heart, and a frown of annoyance gathered on her brow.
"I wish you would go out, Louis," she said, sharply. "It is very rude of you to thus force yourself into my room."
"Come now, Aunt Marg, that's a good one, when all my life I have been in the habit of running in and out of your room, to do your bidding like a lackey," the young man retorted, mockingly. "But really this is an unexpected treat," he added, wickedly. "Miss Richards, in these fine togs, is the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen. And—'pon my word, Aunt Marg, I really believe she looks like—"
"Louis!" came in a sharp, warning cry from Mrs. Montague's lips, as she wheeled around upon him, her blazing eyes having a dangerous gleam in them.
"Like—a picture that I have seen somewhere," he quietly finished, but with a meaning smile and intonation. "How you do snap a fellow up, Aunt Margie! Here, give me the money, and I will clear out before another blast!"
Mrs. Montague handed him a roll of bills, telling him in an icy tone to be sure and get back as early as possible on Monday; and then, as he beat a retreat before her offended looks, she sharply shut the door upon him.
"Take off that dress!" she abruptly commanded of Mona.
Deeply wounded by her ungracious tone, as well as indignant at what had just occurred, the fair girl quickly divested herself of the costly apparel, and then, wishing the woman a quiet good-night, withdrew to her own room.
But nothing could make her very unhappy with the glad refrain that was continually ringing in her heart:
"Ray is coming! I shall see him!" she kept saying over and over. All other emotions were swallowed up in the joy of this, and she was soon sleeping the sweet, restful sleep of youth and dreaming of the one she loved.
But Mrs. Montague was terribly excited when she found herself alone.
"I should never have thought of it if Louis had not spoken, I was so absorbed in the costume," she muttered, as she stood in the middle of the floor and tried to compose herself. "I could almost swear that she was Mona come back to life. She looked almost exactly as she did that night in Paris—shall I ever forget it?—when I told her, and she drew herself up in that proud way; and she had a garnet dress on, too. She does look wonderfully like that picture! Louis was quick to see it, and I will have it destroyed when I return to New York. I can't imagine why I have kept it all these years. Ugh! I feel almost as if I had seen a ghost."
She shook herself, as if to dispel these uncanny thoughts, and then disrobing, retired to rest.
Sunday was a lovely day—more mild and spring-like even than the previous ones had been.
Some of the guests at Hazeldean went to Rhinebeck to attend the morning service, Mr. Palmer and Mrs. Montague among the number; but most of them remained within doors until evening, when Mr. Wellington, their host, requested, as a favor, that all would attend a special service at one of the village churches, where a college friend was to preach, and he wished to give him as large an audience as possible. He also hinted, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes, that they would do well to take their pocket-books along, as a collection would be taken to help to pay for a new organ which the society had just purchased.
It was a glorious evening, and, everybody appearing to partake of the enthusiasm of the host, the whole party set out to walk to the church.
No one thought of asking Mona to go, and thus the young girl was left entirely alone in the house, except for the servants, who were by themselves in the basement.
She was very lonely, and felt both sad and depressed, as she saw the party pass out of sight down the avenue, and for a moment she was tempted to rebel against her hard lot, and the neglect of others, who might at least have remembered that she had a soul to be benefited by Sabbath services as well as they.
She even shed a few tears of regret, for she was young and buoyant, and would dearly have loved to join that gay company of youths and maidens, if she could have done so as an equal.
But after a few moments she bravely wiped away the crystal drops, saying:
"I will not grieve; I will not give up to anything until I have seen Ray. If he is true, the world will be bright, though everybody else gives me the cold shoulder—and he will be here to-morrow. But I am a trifle lonely, all by myself in this great house. I believe I will run down to the music-room and play for a little while. No one is here to be disturbed by it, and I shall not be afraid of critics."
So she went slowly down the dimly lighted stairs to a room on the right of the hall, where, without even turning up the gas, she seated herself at the piano.
The "dim religious light" was rather pleasant to her, in her tender mood, and she could see well enough for her purpose.
She ran her skilled fingers lightly over the keys of the sweet-toned instrument, and almost immediately her whole soul began to wake up to the rich harmony which she evoked.
She played a few selections from Beethoven's "Songs Without Words," sang a ballad or two, and was just upon the point of getting up to look for a book of Sabbath hymns, when a step behind her caused her to turn to ascertain who was intruding upon her solitude.
She saw standing in the doorway leading from the hall, a tall form clad in a long overcoat and holding his hat in his hand.
She could not distinguish his features, but courteously arose to go forward to see who the stranger was, when he spoke, and his tones thrilled her instantly to the very center of her being.
"Pardon me," he began. "I rang the bell, but no one answered it, and, the door being ajar, I ventured to enter. Can you tell me—Ah!—Mona!"
The speaker had also advanced into the room as he spoke, but the light was too dim for him to recognize its occupant until he reached her side, although she had known him the instant he spoke.
His start and exclamation of surprise, the glad, almost exultant tone as he uttered her name, told the fair girl all she needed to know to prove that Ray Palmer was loyal to her, in spite of all the reverses of fortune, of friends, of position, and to prove him the noble character she had always believed him to be.
He stretched forth an eager hand, and grasped hers with a fervor which told her how deeply he was moved to find her, even before his words confirmed it.
"Oh! I have not made a mistake, have I?" he asked, bending his luminous face closer to hers, eager to read a welcome there. "I have found you—at last? If you knew—if I could tell you—But first tell me that you are glad to see me," he concluded, somewhat incoherently.
Mona's hand lay unresisting in his clasp, and a feeling of restful peace filled her heart, as she lifted her glad face to him.
"No, you have made no mistake—it is I, Mona Montague, and I am very"—with a little sob of joy, which she could not control—"very glad to see you again, Mr. Palmer."
"My darling!" he said, made bold by her look, her tone, but more by the little sob, which his own heart told him how to interpret. "Tell me yet more—I cannot wait—I have been so hungry for the sight of your dear face, for the sound of your voice, and I thought that I had lost you. I love you, Mona, with all my heart and strength, and this unexpected meeting has so overcome me that the truth must be told. Are you still 'glad'?—will you make me glad by telling me so?"
"But—Mr. Palmer—" Mona began, tremulously, hardly able to credit her ears, hardly able to believe that this great and almost overwhelming joy was a reality, and not some illusive dream. "I am afraid you forget—"
"What have I forgotten?" he gently asked, but without releasing her hand.
"That my uncle is gone. I have no home, friends, position! Do you know—"
"I know that you are Mona Montague—that I love you, and that I have found you," he interrupted, his own voice quivering with repressed emotion, his strong frame trembling with eager longing, mingled with something of fear that his suit might be rejected.
"Then I am glad," breathed Mona, and the next moment she was folded close to Raymond Palmer's manly bosom, where she could feel the beating of the strong, true, loyal heart of her lover while with his lips pressed upon her silken hair he murmured fond words which betrayed how deep and absorbing his affection was for her—how he had longed for her and how bitterly he had suffered because he could not find her.