CHAPTER XIX.
MONA IS JOYFULLY SURPRISED.
"Then you do love me, Mona?" Ray whispered, fondly, after a moment or two of happy silence. "I must hear you say it even though you have tacitly confessed it and my heart exults in the knowledge. I cannot be quite satisfied until I have the blessed confirmation from your own lips."
"You certainly can have no reason to doubt it after such a betrayal as this," Mona tried to say playfully, to shield her embarrassment, as she lifted her flushed face from its resting-place, and shot a glad, bright look into his eyes. Then she added in a grave though scarcely audible voice: "Yes I do love you with all my heart!"
The young man smiled; then with his arm still infolding her he led her beneath the chandelier and turned on a full blaze of light.
"I must read the glad story in your eyes," he said, tenderly, as he bent to look into them. "I must see it shining in your face. Ah, love, how beautiful you are still! And yet there is a sad droop to these lips"—and he touched them softly with his own—"that pains me; there is a heaviness about these eyes which tells of trial and sorrow. My darling, you have needed comfort and sympathy, while I was bound hand and foot, and could not come to you. What did you think of me, dear? But you knew, of course."
"I knew—I hoped there was some good reason," faltered Mona, with downcast eyes.
"You 'hoped!' Then you did think—you feared that I, like other false friends, had turned the cold shoulder on you in your trouble?" he returned, a sorrowful reproach in his tone. "Surely you have known about the stolen diamonds?"
"Yes, I knew that your father had been robbed."
"And about my having been kidnapped also—the papers were full of the story."
Mona looked up, astonished.
"Kidnapped!" she exclaimed. "No; this is the first that I have heard of that."
"Where have you been that you have not seen the papers?" Ray inquired, wonderingly.
"As you doubtless know," Mona replied, "Uncle Walter died very suddenly the day after I attended the opera with you, and for a fortnight afterward I was so overcome with grief and—other troubles, that I scarcely looked at a paper. After that, one day, I saw a brief item referring to the robbery, and it is only since I came here that I had even a hint that you had been ill."
"Come, then, dear, and let me tell you about it, and then I am sure you will absolve me from all willful neglect," Ray said, as he led her to a tête-à-tête and seated himself beside her. "But first tell me," he added, "how I happen to find you here. Are you one of the guests?"
"No," Mona said, blushing slightly, "You know, of course, that I lost home and everything else when I lost Uncle Walter, and now I am simply acting as seamstress and waiting maid to a Mrs. Montague, who is a guest here."
"Ah!" exclaimed the young man, with a start, as he remembered how Mrs. Montague had denied all knowledge of Mona. "I have met the lady—is she a relative of yours?"
"No; at least, I never saw her until I entered her house to serve her."
"My poor child! to think that you should have to go out to do such work," said Ray, with tender regret. "But of course, as you say, I can understand all about it, for that, too, was in the papers; but it was very heartless, very cruel in that Mrs. Dinsmore not to make you any allowance, when she could not fail to know that your uncle wished you to inherit his property. She must be a very obnoxious sort of person, isn't she?"
"I do not know," said Mona, with a sigh; "I have never seen her—at least, not since I was a child, and too young to remember anything about her."
"Do you mean that you did not meet her during the contest for Mr.
Dinsmore's fortune?" questioned Ray in surprise.
"No, she did not appear at all personally; all her business was transacted through her lawyer, as mine was through Mr. Graves," Mona answered.
"Well, it was an inhuman thing for her to do, to take everything and leave you penniless, and obliged to earn your own living. But that is all over now," the young man said, looking fondly into the fair face beside him. "Isn't it, darling? You have told me that you love me, but you have not yet promised me anything. You are going to be my wife, are you not, Mona?"
"I hope so—if you wish—some time," she answered, naively, yet with crimson cheeks and downcast eyes.
He laughed out gladly as he again embraced her.
"'Some time, if I wish,'" he repeated. "Well, I do wish, and the some time must be very soon, too. Ah, my sweet, brown-eyed girlie! how happy I am at this moment! I did not dream that I was to find such a wealth of joy when I came hither at my father's earnest request. I was grieving so for you I had no heart for the gayeties which I knew I should find here; now, however, I shall not find it difficult to be as gay as any one. How glad I am, too, that I came to-night to find you here alone. My father does not expect me until to-morrow; but I had a matter of importance to talk over with him, so ran up on the evening train. But I am forgetting that I have a thrilling story to tell you."
He then related all that had occurred in connection with the bold diamond robbery and his imprisonment and subsequent illness in Doctor Wesselhoff's retreat for nervous patients, while Mona listened with wonder-wide eyes and a paling cheek, as she realized the danger through which her lover had passed.
"What an audacious scheme!" she exclaimed, when he concluded. "How could any woman dare to plan, much less put it into execution! No wonder that you were ill, and you must have been very sick, for you are still thin and pale," Mona said, regarding him anxiously.
"I shall now soon outgrow that," Ray responded, smiling. "It was chiefly anxiety and unhappiness on your account that kept me thin and pale. You will see how quickly I shall recover my normal condition now that I have found you and know that you are all my own. Now tell me all about your own troubles, my darling. Do you know, it seems an age to me since we parted that night at your uncle's door, and you gave me permission to call upon you? My intention then was to seek an interview with Mr. Dinsmore within a day or two, tell him of my love for you, and ask his permission to address you. But, even had no misfortune overtaken me, I could not have done so, since he was stricken that very night; but at least I could have come to you with words of sympathy."
Mona then gave him a detailed account of all that had happened during those dark days, when her only friend lay dead and she felt as if all the world had forsaken her.
"Mona," the young man gravely said, when she had finished her story, "I shall tell my father to-night of this interview—he already knows that I love you—and ask his sanction to our immediate marriage, for I cannot have you remain here among my friends and acquaintances another day in the capacity of a seamstress or waiting-maid."
"But, Ray—" Mona began, then she stopped short, blushing rosily at having thus involuntarily called him by his Christian name. She had always thought of him thus, and it passed her lips before she was aware of it.
He laughed out, amused at her confusion.
"There, dear, you have broken the ice almost without knowing it," he said; "now we shall get on nicely if you do not let it freeze over again; but what were you going to say?"
"I was going to ask you not to speak of—of our relations to each other to any one just yet," Mona returned, with some embarrassment.
"Why not?" Ray demanded, astonished, and looking troubled by the request.
"There are reasons why I must remain for a while longer with Mrs.
Montague," said the young girl.
"Not in the capacity of waiting-maid," Ray asserted, decidedly; "I cannot allow that."
"Indeed I must, Ray," Mona persisted, but with an appealing note in her voice; "and I will tell you why. I told you that Mrs. Montague was no relative; she is not really, and yet—she was my father's second wife."
"Mona! you astonish me," cried her lover, regarding her wonderingly.
"It is true, and there is some mystery connected with my own mother and my early history which I am exceedingly anxious to learn. Uncle Walter told me something of it only the day before he died; but I am very sure that he kept back certain portions of the story which I ought to know, and which he was also anxious to tell me when he was dying, and could not. I have no means even of proving my identity; if I had, I suppose that I could claim some of this wealth of which Mrs. Montague appears to have abundance, and I am sure that she has some proof in her possession. I want to get it, and that is why I am anxious to remain with her a little longer. Let me tell you everything," Mona went on, hurriedly, as Ray seemed about to utter another protest to her wish. "As I understand the story, my father was dependent upon a rich aunt who wished him to marry the present Mrs. Montague; but he, being in love with my mother, was opposed to so doing, although he was anxious to secure the fortune. As he was about to start on a European tour he married my mother and took her with him, none of his friends apparently suspecting the union.
"Now comes a part of the story which I cannot understand. They traveled for several months; but, while in Paris, my father suddenly disappeared, and my mother, believing herself deserted, in her pride and humiliation, immediately left the city, doubtless with the intention of returning to America. She was taken ill in London, however, and there, a few months later, I was born, and she died only a few hours afterward. Uncle Walter heard of her sad condition, and hastened to her, but was three days too late, and found only a poor weak infant upon whom to expend his love and care. It seems very strange to me that she did not write to him at the time she fled from Paris; but I suppose, since she had eloped with and been secretly married to my father, she was too proud and sensitive to appeal to any one. Later, my father married this Miss Barton to please his aunt and secure the fortune which he so much desired. I do not know anything about his after-life. I questioned Uncle Walter, but he would not talk about him—the most that he would tell me was that he was dead, but how, or when he died, I could never learn, and I do not know as there even exists any proof of his legal marriage with my mother, although my uncle confidentially asserted that she was his lawful wife. I believe, however, that such proofs do exist and that they are in Mrs. Montague's possession."
Mona then proceeded to relate how she had happened to secure the position she now occupied.
"It seems very strange," she said, "that fate should have thrown me thus into her home, and somehow I have a suspicion that she must have been concerned in the great wrong done my mother—that it was because of her influence that my father never owned nor provided for me. And now," Mona continued, flushing a deep crimson, "I am obliged to confess something of which I am somewhat ashamed. When I found myself in Mrs. Montague's home, and had resolved to remain, I knew that she would instantly suspect my identity if I should give her my true name. This, of course, I did not wish her to do, and so when she asked me what she should call me, I told her 'Ruth Richards,' The name Ruth really belongs to me, but Richards is assumed. Now, Ray, you can understand why I do not wish to have Mrs. Montague undeceived regarding my identity, as she must be if you insist upon at once proclaiming our relations. I am very strongly impressed that she knows the secret of my father's desertion of my mother, and also that she could prove, if she would, that I am the child of their legal marriage."
Ray Palmer had grown very grave while listening to Mona's story, and when she spoke of her assumed name it was evident, from the frown on his brow, that he did not approve of having her hide herself from the world in any such way.
"Why not ask her outright, then?" inquired this straightforward young man, as the young girl concluded.
"That would never do at all," said Mona. "Uncle Walter told me that she hated my mother, and me a hundred-fold on her account, and she would not be very likely to put any proofs into my hands, especially when they would be liable to be very detrimental to her own interests."
"True, I did not think of that," returned Ray, thoughtfully. "But how do you expect to obtain possession of these proofs, even if she has them, and how long must I wait for you?" he gloomily added.
"I do not know, Ray," she answered, with a sigh. "I do not see my way very clearly. I keep hoping, and something seems to hold me to this position in spite of myself. Let me remain three or six months longer; then if I do not succeed—"
"I will concede three months, but no more," Ray interposed, decidedly; then added: "What does it matter whether you know all this history or not? It cannot be anything of vital importance, or that will affect your future in any way. I wish you would let me speak to my father and announce our engagement at once, my darling."
"Nay, please, Ray, let me have my way in this," Mona pleaded, with crimson cheeks. She could not tell him that she felt sensitive about becoming his wife until she could have absolute proof of the legal marriage of her father and mother.
He bent down and looked earnestly into her face.
"Mona, is that the only reason why you wish to wait? You do not shrink from our union from any doubt of your own heart—of your love for me, or mine for you?" he gravely asked.
"No, indeed, Ray," and she put out both her hands to him, with an eagerness that entirely reassured him even before she added: "I cannot tell you how glad, how restful, how content I am since your coming to-night. I was so lonely and sorrowful, the future looked so dark and cheerless because I feared I had lost you; but now all is bright."
She dropped her face again upon his breast to hide the blushes this confession had called up, and the happy tears also that were dropping from her long lashes.
He gathered her close to his heart, thrilling at her words.
"Then I will try to be patient for three months, love," he murmured, "and meantime I suppose you will have to be Ruth Richards to me as well as to others."
"Yes, it will not do to have my real name known—that will spoil all," Mona replied, with a sigh, for her truthful soul recoiled with as much aversion from all deception as he possibly could do.
"And am I not to see you during all this time?" Ray ruefully asked.
"Oh, yes; not to see you would be unbearable to me," Mona responded quickly. "Can you not manage to have some one introduce me to you as Miss Richards while you are here? then neither Mrs. Montague nor any one else would think it strange if you should seek me occasionally; only—"
"Only what?" inquired the young man, wondering to see her color so vividly and appear so embarrassed.
"Perhaps I should not tell you," Mona said, with some hesitation, "and yet you must learn the fact sooner or later from some other sources; but Mrs. Montague appears to be growing quite fond of your father, who is very attentive to her, and she might not exactly like—"
"She might not like to have the son of the man for whom she is angling to pay attention to her seamstress, is what you were going to say?" Ray interposed, laughing, yet with a look of annoyance sweeping over his fine face.
"Something like it, perhaps," Mona responded, flushing again.
"Well, I do not believe she is going to land her fish, if you will pardon the slang phrase," said the young man, confidently. "My father has successfully resisted the allurements of the gentler sex for too many years to succumb at this late day; so you and I need give ourselves no uneasiness upon that score. Does he know you as Ruth Richards?"
"Yes, if indeed he knows me at all. I have received no introduction to him, and I only knew him from hearing Mr. Wellington greet him and inquire regarding the lost diamonds," Mona explained. Then she added: "Do you expect to recover them, Ray? have you any clew?"
"Yes, we have a slight one, we think, and that is one reason why I am here to-night. The detective in our employ sent a telegram to my father yesterday mentioning the fact, but he thought it best for me to come up to-night and talk the matter over more fully with him, and hurry him back to New York early on Tuesday morning. A woman is being shadowed upon the suspicion of having committed a bold swindle in Chicago, and Mr. Rider thinks, without any doubt, that she is the same person who so cleverly did us out of our diamonds."
"Hark! please," said Mona, as just then she caught the sound of voices in the distance, "the party is returning from evening service, and I must not be found here with you."
"I am loath to let you go, my brown-eyed sweetheart," Ray tenderly responded.
"And I to go," Mona answered softly, "but it is best that I should; we must both be judicious for a while—we must not be too exacting when we have had this great new happiness come to us so unexpectedly," and she lifted her luminous eyes to him.
He clasped her to him again.
"Good-night, my darling," he said; then with one lingering kiss upon her lips, he let her go, and she stole softly up stairs, with a joyous heart and step, while Ray drew a paper from his pocket, and was apparently deeply absorbed in its contents when the party entered the house.
A good deal of surprise was expressed when his arrival was discovered, and he was accorded a warm welcome by the host and hostess as well as by every guest.
CHAPTER XX.
MR. RIDER MAKES AN ARREST.
While the festivities were in progress at Hazeldean, some incidents of a somewhat singular character were occurring in New York.
It will be remembered that Mr. Palmer and his son met Mrs. Montague for the first time at the reception given by Mrs. Merrill; also that their attention was attracted to a lady who wore a profusion of unusually fine diamonds—a Mrs. Vanderheck.
We know how Ray was introduced to her, and repeated her name as Vander_beck_, with an emphasis on the beck; how she started, changed color, and glanced at him curiously as he did so, and seemed strangely ill at ease while conversing with him afterward, and a little later abruptly took her leave.
The next day, the young man communicated these suspicious circumstances to the private detective whom his father had employed to look up his stolen diamonds, and from that time Mrs. Vanderheck had been under close surveillance by that shrewd official.
Mr. Rider was a very energetic man, and, by dint of adroit inquiries and observations, learned that she was a woman who devoted most of her time to social life—was very gay, very fond of dress and excitement of every kind. She did not, however, resemble in any way the Mrs. Vanderbeck who had conducted the robbery of the Palmer diamonds, although, he argued, she might easily enough be an accomplice.
The detective interviewed Doctor Wesselhoff, who was now as eager as any one to assist in the discovery of those who so imposed upon him, and obtained a minute description of the other woman who had arranged for Ray Palmer to become an inmate of his institution, and he thought that possibly by the aid of a clever disguise, Mrs. Vanderheck might have figured as Mrs. Walton, the pretended mother of the pretended monomaniac.
Consequently, energetic Mr. Rider had followed close upon her track, bound to discover her real character.
She resided in a fine brown-stone mansion up town; sported an elegant carriage and a spanking pair of bays, and, to all appearances, possessed an unlimited bank account.
She was sometimes attended on her drives by a gentleman, many years older than herself, who appeared to be something of an invalid, and who, as far as the detective could learn, was engaged in no business whatever.
These latter facts increased his suspicions, for the reason that the woman who had robbed Mr. Palmer had wished to submit her selections to the sanction of an invalid husband.
Disguised as a spruce young coachman, Mr. Rider managed to ingratiate himself with a pretty, but rather vain young servant-girl in Mrs. Vanderheck's employ, and by means of well-turned compliments, re-enforced now and then with some pretty gift, he managed to keep himself well posted regarding the mistress' movements and her social engagements, and then he diligently followed up his espionage by frequenting the many receptions and balls which she attended.
At these places she was always magnificently attired and seldom wore any ornaments except diamonds, of which she appeared to possess an endless store, and all were of great beauty and value.
It was at a Delmonico ball, which was given in honor of a person of royal descent, and on the Friday evening preceding Ray Palmer's visit to Hazeldean, that Mr. Rider found his plans ripe for action and accomplished his great coup de grâce.
He had learned, through the pretty servant-girl, that Mrs. Vanderheck was to grace the occasion with her presence and was to be attired in a costume of unusual richness and elegance—"with diamonds enough to blind you," the lively and voluble Fanny had boasted to her admirer.
Consequently the detective got himself up in elaborate style, obtained a ticket for the ball by some means best known to himself, and, when the festivities were at their height, slipped in upon the brilliant scene.
He was not long in "spotting" his prey, who was conspicuous in white brocaded velvet and white ostrich tips, while her person was literally ablaze with diamonds.
"Great Scott!" the man muttered, as he ran his keen eye over her gorgeous attire; "it is a mystery to me how any woman dare wear such a fortune upon her person; she is liable to be murdered any day. Why, she—Aha!"
His heart gave a sudden leap, and for a moment, as he afterward described his sensations, it seemed as if some one had struck him on the head with a club, for he actually saw stars and grew so dizzy and confused that he could scarcely stand; for—in the woman's ears he caught sight of a gleaming pair of crescents!
He soon recovered himself, however, and took a second look. He had, as we know, been looking for those peculiar ornaments for more than three years, and now he had found them, as he had always believed he should, upon a gay woman of fashion in the midst of fashionable admirers.
It did not take him long to decide upon his course of action, and he was now again the cool and collected detective, although the fierce glitter in his eyes betrayed some relentless purpose in his mind.
He made his way quietly into a corner, where he stood covertly watching the brilliant woman, and comparing her appearance with a description that was written in cipher upon some tablets which he took from his pocket.
"'Very attractive, about twenty-eight or thirty years, rather above medium height, somewhat inclined toward embonpoint, fair complexion, blue eyes, short, curling red hair,'—Hum!" he softly interposed at this point, "she answers very well to all except the red hair; but drop a red wig over her light-colored pate, tint her eyebrows and lashes with the same color, and I'll wager my badge against a last year's hat we'd have the Bently widow complete. There can be no doubt about the crescents, though, and that cross on her bosom looks wonderfully like the one that Palmer described to me. I suppose she thought no one would be on the lookout for it here, and she could safely wear it with all the rest, I always said the same woman put up both jobs," he interposed, with a satisfied chuckle. "Guess I'll take a nearer look at the stones, though, before I do anything desperate."
He put up his tablets, and began to move slowly about the rooms; but his eagle eye never once left the form of the woman in white brocaded velvet.
Three hours later, Mrs. Vanderheck, wrapped in an elegant circular of crimson satin, bordered with ermine, and attended by her maid and a dignified policeman as a body-guard, swept down the grand stair-way leading from the ball-room to the street, on her way to her carriage.
As she stepped out across the pavement and was about to enter the vehicle, a quiet, gentlemanly looking person approached her and saluted her respectfully.
"Madame—Mrs. Vander_beck_," with an intentional emphasis on the last syllable, "you are my prisoner!"
The woman gave a violent start as she caught the name, and darted a keen glance of inquiry at him, all of which Mr. Rider was quick to note.
Then she drew herself up haughtily.
"Sir, I do not know you, and my name is not Vander_beck_; you have made a mistake," she said, icily.
"I have made no mistake. You are the woman I have been looking for, for more than three years, whether you spell your name with a b, an h, or in a different way altogether; and I repeat—you are my prisoner."
Mr. Rider laid his hand firmly but respectfully on her arm, as he ceased speaking, to enforce his meaning.
She shook him off impatiently.
"What is the meaning of this strange proceeding?" she demanded, indignantly; then turning to the policeman who attended her, she continued, in a voice of command: "I appeal to you for protection against such insolence."
"How is this, Rider?" now inquired the officer, who recognized the detective, and was astonished beyond measure by this unexpected arrest.
"She has on her person diamonds that I have been looking for, for over three years, and I cannot afford to let them slip through my fingers after such a hunt as that," the detective quietly explained.
"It is false!" the woman stoutly and indignantly asserted. "I wear no jewelry that is not my own property. Everything I have was either given to me or purchased with my husband's money."
"I trust you will be able to prove the truth of your assertions, madame," Mr. Rider quietly returned. "If you can do so, you will, of course, have no further trouble. But I must do my duty. I have been employed to search for a pair of diamond crescents which properly belong to a person in Chicago. I have seen such a pair in your ears to-night. You also wear a cross like one that I am searching for, and I shall be obliged to take you into custody until the matter can be properly investigated."
Mrs. Vanderheck was evidently very much startled and upset by this information, yet she behaved with remarkable fortitude, considering the trying circumstances.
"What am I to do?" she inquired, again appealing to the policeman attending her. "The crescents he mentions are mine—I bought them almost three years ago in Boston. Of course, I know that I must prove my statement, and I think I can if you will give me time, for I believe I still have the bill of sale in my possession. I will look it up, and if"—turning to the detective—"you will call upon me some time to-morrow you shall have it."
Mr. Rider smiled, for the unsophisticated suggestion amused him immensely.
"I cannot lose sight of you, madame," he said, courteously. "What you have said may be true; I shall be glad, on your account, if it proves so; but my duty to others must be rigidly enforced, and so I am obliged to arrest you."
"But I cannot submit to an arrest; you surely do not mean that I—a woman in my position—am to be imprisoned on the charge of theft!" exclaimed the woman, growing deadly white.
"The law is no respecter of persons or position, madame," laconically responded the detective.
"What can I do?" Mrs. Vanderheck cried, in a tone of despair.
"Rider, I am afraid you have made a mistake," the policeman now remarked, in a low tone; "the woman is all right. I've acted as escort for her on such occasions as these for the last two years."
The detective looked astonished and somewhat perplexed at this statement.
If Mrs. Vanderheck had led a respectable life in New York for two years, and was as well known to this officer as he represented, he also began to fear that he might have made a mistake.
"You are willing to defer the arrest if she can furnish ample security for her appearance when wanted?" the policeman asked, after a moment of thought.
"Ye-es; but responsible parties must vouch for her," Mr. Rider answered, with some hesitation.
The woman seized the suggestion with avidity.
"Oh, then, I have a dozen friends who will serve me," she cried, eagerly. "Come back to the ball-room with me and you shall have security to any amount." and with a haughty air she turned back and entered the brilliantly lighted building which she had recently left.
The policeman conducted them into a small reception-room, and Mrs. Vanderheck sent her card, with a few lines penciled on it, to a well-known banker, who was among the guests in the ball-room, requesting a few moments' personal conversation with him.
The gentleman soon made his appearance, and was greatly astonished and no less indignant upon being informed of what had occurred.
But he readily understood that the matter in hand must be legally settled before the lady could be fully acquitted. He therefore unhesitatingly gave security for her to the amount required by the detective, but politely refused to receive, as a guarantee of her integrity, the costly ornaments which Mrs. Vanderheck offered him then and there for the service so kindly rendered.
She, then, without a murmur, delivered over to the detective, in the presence of her friend, the policeman, and her maid, the contested crescents and cross, and was then allowed to take her departure, with her attendants, without further ceremony.
Early the next morning the following message went flashing over the
Western wires to Chicago, addressed thus:
"To JUSTIN CUTLER, ESQ.:—Crescents found. Come at once to identify.
Bring bogus ones.
"RIDER."
The detective then sought Mr. Palmer, but upon being informed that he was out of town, and would not return until the early part of the coming week, he related to Ray what had happened on the previous evening, and advised him to communicate the fact as soon as possible, to his father, and notify him that an examination would take place at ten o'clock on the following Tuesday.
Ray had already telegraphed, in answer to his father's message, that he would come to Hazeldean on Monday for the ball, and at first he thought he would make no change in his plans. The news was good news, and would keep for a day or two, he told himself.
But the detective's enthusiasm over the arrest was so contagious, he found himself wishing that his father could also know what had occurred.
He had an engagement for that evening—which was Saturday—so he could not go to Hazeldean that day, and finally contented himself by commissioning Mr. Rider to drop Mr. Palmer a message, giving him a hint of the arrest, and then arranged to go himself to explain more fully, by the Sunday evening train.
It almost seemed as if fate had purposely arranged it thus, that he might find Mona alone as he did, to declare his love, and win in return the confession of her affection for him.
The moment his father entered the house and met him, on his return from the evening service at the village, he realized that some great change had come over him; he was very different from the depressed, anxious-eyed son whom he had left only a few days previous.
He could hardly attribute it entirely to the news of the arrest of the supposed thief of the diamonds, and yet he could think of nothing else, for he firmly believed that Walter Dinsmore's niece had left New York after her uncle's death, and he had no reason to believe that Ray had found trace of her.
But whatever had caused the change—whatever had served to bring back the old light to his eyes, the old smile to his lips, and all his former brightness and energy of manner, he was grateful for it, and he hailed the result with a delight that made itself manifest in the hearty grip of his hand and his eager-toned:
"How are you, Ray, my boy? I am glad to see you."
CHAPTER XXI.
MONA AND RAY HAVE ANOTHER INTERVIEW.
Mona was very happy as she went up to her room after her interview with Ray that eventful Sunday evening, during the early part of which life had seemed darker than usual to her.
The man whom she loved was true, in spite of the doubt and sorrow she had experienced over his apparent neglect. She had not after all built her hopes upon shifting sand; she had not reared an idol in her heart only to have to hurl it from its shrine as false and worthless. Oh, no; her lover was a man to be reverenced—to be proud of, and to be trusted under all circumstances.
She exulted in these facts almost as much as in the knowledge of his love for her, and she dropped to sleep with joy in her heart, smiles on her lips, and tears of gratitude flashing like diamonds on her long brown lashes.
The next morning she seemed almost like a new creature. The world had suddenly acquired a wonderful brightness and beauty, and it was a delight even to exist.
It was no hardship to be a seamstress or even a waiting-maid, so long as she was blessed with Raymond Palmer's love and with the prospect of becoming his wife in the near future.
Involuntarily a gay little song rippled from her lips while she was dressing, and the unusual sound catching Mrs. Montague's ear caused a look of surprise to sweep over her face, for she had never heard Ruth Richards sing so much as a note before.
"The girl has a sweet, flexible voice. I wonder if she is going to surprise me, every now and then, with some new accomplishment! Maybe I have an embryo prima-donna in my employ!" she muttered, with a scornful smile.
Her surprise was not diminished when she saw the happy girl with her bright and animated manners and the new love-light shining on her face, making it almost dazzling in its intensified loveliness.
"What has come over you, Ruth?" Mrs. Montague inquired, regarding her curiously. "One would almost imagine you were going to the ball yourself to-night, you appear to be so happy and elated."
"I believe there must be something unusually exhilarating in the atmosphere," Mona replied, a gleeful little laugh rippling over her smiling lips, although she blushed beneath the woman's searching look. "Don't you think that excitement is sometimes infectious?—and surely everybody has been active and gay for days. I like to see people happy, and then the morning is perfectly lovely."
Truly the world was all couleur de rose to her since love's elixir had given a new impetus to her heart-pulses!
Mrs. Montague frowned slightly, for somehow the girl's unusual mood annoyed her.
She could not forget her exceeding loveliness on Saturday evening, when she had been arrayed in the festal robe which she herself was to wear at the ball, and the memory of it nettled her.
Perhaps, she thought, Ruth remembered it also, and was secretly exulting over the fact of her own beauty. Exceedingly vain herself, she was quick to suspect vanity in others, and this thought only increased her irritation.
"I'd give a great deal if she wasn't so pretty; and—and that style of beauty always annoys me," she said to herself, with a feeling of angry impatience.
And giving a sudden twitch to a delicate ruffle, which she had begun to arrange upon the corsage of a dress, to show Mona how she wanted it, she made a great rugged tear in the filmy fabric, thus completely ruining the frill.
This only served to increase her ill humor.
"There! now I cannot wear this dress at dinner to-day," she cried, flushing angrily over the mishap, "for the frill is ruined."
"Haven't you something else that you can use in its place?" Mona quietly asked.
"No; nothing looks as well on this corsage as these wide, fleecy frills of crape lisse. It is the only dress, too, that I have not already worn here, and I was depending upon it for to-day," was the irritable response.
Mona thought she had plenty of laces and ruffles that would have answered very well, and which might easily have been substituted, but she did not think it best to make any further suggestions to her in her present mood.
"I know what I can do," Mrs. Montague continued, after a moment, in a milder tone. "I saw some ruffling very nearly like this in a milliner's window at Rhinebeck, when I was out riding on Saturday. There are some other little things that I shall want for this evening, and you may take a walk by and by to get them for me."
Rhinebeck was a full mile away, and Mrs. Montague could easily have arranged to have Mona ride, for a carriage was sent every morning for the mail; but it did not occur to her to do so, or if it did, she evidently did not care to put herself to that trouble.
Mona, however, did not mind the walk—indeed, on the whole, she was rather glad of the privilege of getting out by herself into the sunshine which was so in harmony with her own bright mood. Still she could not help feeling that it was rather inconsiderate of Mrs. Montague to require her to walk two miles simply to gratify a mere whim.
It was about nine o'clock when she started out upon her errand, and as she ran down the steps and out upon the broad avenue, her bright eyes went glancing eagerly about, for Mona had secretly hoped that she might catch a glimpse of and perhaps even secure a few words with her lover.
But Ray was nowhere visible, being just at that moment in the smoking-room with several other gentlemen.
Mr. Palmer, the senior, however, was walking in the park, and evidently deeply absorbed in the consideration of some important matter, for his hands were clasped behind him, his head was bowed, and his eyes fixed upon the ground.
But he glanced up as Mona passed him, and his eyes lighted as they fell upon her beautiful face.
He lifted his hat and bowed as courteously to her as he would have done to Mrs. Montague herself, and Mona's heart instantly warmed toward him for his politeness as she returned his salute.
"She is the prettiest girl in the house if she is only a waiting-maid," he muttered, as he turned for a second to look at the graceful figure after Mona had passed him. "How finely she carries herself—how elastic her step!"
Another pair of observing eyes had also caught sight of her by this time, and mental comments of a far different character were running through a younger brain.
The smoking-room at Hazeldean was in the third story of the south wing of the house, and overlooked the avenue and park, as well as a broad stretch of country beyond, and Ray Palmer, sitting beside one of the windows—apparently listening to the conversation of his companions, but really thinking of his interview with Mona the previous evening—espied his betrothed just as she was leaving the grounds of Hazeldean and turning into the main road.
He knocked the ashes from his cigar, took another whiff or two, then laid it down, and turned to his host, who was sitting near him.
"I believe I would like a canter across the country this bright morning, Mr. Wellington," he remarked. "May I beg the use of a horse and saddle for a couple of hours?"
"Certainly, Mr. Palmer—whatever I have in the stable in the form of horses or vehicles is as the disposal of my guests," was the courteous reply. "It is a fine morning for a ride," the gentleman added, "and perchance," with an arch smile, "you may be able to find some bright-eyed maiden who would be glad to accompany you."
Ray thanked him, and then hastened away to the stable to select his horse—his companion he knew he would find later on. In less than fifteen minutes from the time he had seen Mona leave the grounds he was cantering in the same direction; but she was a rapid walker, and he did not overtake her until she had nearly reached the village.
She caught the sound of a horse's hoofs behind her, but did not like to look back to see who was approaching, and it was only when the equestrian was close beside her that she glanced up to find the fond, smiling eyes of her lover resting upon her.
The glad look of welcome which leaped into her own eyes and flashed over her face told him how well he was beloved far better than any words could have done.
"Ray!" she exclaimed, in a joyous tone, as he drew rein beside her, and unhesitatingly laid her hand within the strong palm which he extended to her.
"My darling!" he returned, as he leaped to the ground, "this is an unexpected pleasure! I hardly dared to hope that I should see you alone to-day. How does it happen that you are so far from Hazeldean and walking?"
"Mrs. Montague had a few errands which she wished me to do for her in the village," Mona explained.
"Could she not have arranged for you to ride?" Ray asked, with a frown, and flushing to have his dear one's comfort so ignored.
"Oh, I do not mind the walk in the least," she hastened to say. "The morning is very lovely, and I am glad, on the whole, for I should have missed you if I had ridden."
"True, I saw you just as you were leaving Hazeldean, and so came after you," Ray returned, smiling.
They were just entering Rhinebeck now, and Mona looked anxiously up and down the street.
She feared that some of the other guests at Hazeldean might be about and see her with Ray if they should go through the place together.
He was quick to note the anxiety, and to understand its cause.
"How long will it take you to make your purchases, Mona?" he inquired, looking at his watch.
"Half an hour, perhaps," she replied.
"Well, then, I will leave you here, for a little trot about the country, and meet you again at this spot at the end of thirty minutes. I cannot resist the temptation to have a little chat with you on the way home," Ray returned, and, with another fond pressure of the hand, he leaped again upon his horse and galloped away.
With a rapidly beating heart and flushed cheeks, Mona hurried on her way. She made her purchases with all possible dispatch, then, as she had a few minutes to spare, she slipped into a hot-house, where flowers were cultivated for the city market, and bought a bunch of white violets, and a few sprays of heliotrope, then she turned her footsteps back toward Hazeldean.
She had hardly reached the spot where she had parted from Ray, when she heard him coming in the distance.
He joined her in another moment, and springing from the saddle, he threw the bridle-rein over his arm and walked beside her, leading his horse.
They had not proceeded far when they came to a place where another road appeared to branch off from the road they were on.
"Let us turn here," Ray said. "I have been exploring while you were in the village, and I found that this is a kind of lane, hedged on either side with a thick growth of pines, and leads back to the main road farther on. It is a little roundabout, but we shall not be likely to meet any one whom we know, and we shall feel far more freedom."
Mona was very glad to adopt this plan, and wandering slowly along beneath the shadows of the heavy pines, the lovers soon forgot that there was any one else in the world except themselves.
They talked over more fully the incidents of the weeks of their separation, but Ray dwelt a good deal upon the story of the stolen diamonds, and Mona could not fail to observe that he was very much troubled about the affair.
"It is a great loss," he remarked, with a sigh, "and though I cannot feel that I am culpably blamable, yet I do not cease to reproach myself for having been so thoroughly fooled by that woman. If I had only retained my hold upon the package, she never could have got it."
"But you may recover the diamonds, even now," Mona remarked. "You say that the detective arrested a woman on Friday evening as the suspected party."
"Yes, he suspects her in connection with another case, which he has been at work upon for over three years," and Ray related the story of the stolen crescents, then continued: "At the Delmonico ball he saw this Mrs. Vanderheck with them in her ears, and a cross like one that we lost, so he arrested her upon suspicion of both robberies, but somehow I am not very sanguine that we shall recover the stones."
"Did you not see the cross?" Mona asked.
"No; Mr. Rider had deposited it somewhere for safe keeping. It will be produced at the examination to-morrow. But, really, Mona," Ray interposed, with a nervous laugh, "I feel worse over the fact of having been so taken in by this pretended Mrs. Vanderbeck, than over the pecuniary loss."
The poor fellow felt very much as Justin Cutler felt when he learned how he had been tricked into paying a large price for the pair of paste crescents.
"How did the woman look, Ray? Describe her to me," Mona said.
She experienced a strange fascination in the story with all its curious details.
Ray gave a vivid word-picture of the beautiful woman, her dress, her carriage, and even her driver, for everything connected with that unexampled experience was indelibly stamped upon his mind.
"You say her dress was badly torn," Mona musingly observed, when he had concluded the account of the discovery, and what had followed their getting out of the carriage and entering Doctor Wesselhoff's office.
"Yes, there was quite a rent in it, and I imagine this circumstance was not premeditated in the plan of her campaign, for she certainly was annoyed to have the beautiful cloth torn, although she tried to make light of it," Ray replied, then added: "And later in the day I found a piece of the goods adhering to my clothing."
"Did you?" questioned Mona, eagerly.
"Yes, and if I should ever see that dress again I could easily identify it, for I have the piece now and could fit it into the rent. But doubtless my lady has disposed of that costume long before this. Here is the piece, though—I have kept it, thinking it might possibly be of use some time."
Ray drew forth his pocket-book as he spoke, opened it, took out a folded paper, and handed it to Mona.
She opened it, and found carefully pinned within, a scrap of mauve colored ladies' cloth, in the form of a ragged acute angle.
"It is almost like broadcloth—very fine and heavy," she exclaimed. "It is a lovely color, too, and must have been a very beautiful costume."
"It was, and dangerously so," said Ray, dryly. "I admired it exceedingly, especially the fit and make of it."
"I imagine it might have been found in some dye-house shortly after, if you had only thought of it and known where to look," Mona thoughtfully observed.
"That is a bright idea," said Ray, quickly. "I honestly believe that women would make keener and better detectives than men. But," with a sigh, "I'm afraid it is too late now to put your theory to the test, and perhaps I have brushed against its folds on the street a dozen times since in a different color. Well, I suppose I must try to reconcile myself to the inevitable and make up my mind that the stones are gone beyond recovery, unless this Mrs. Vanderheck should prove to be the thief. I have not much faith in the detective's theory, that the Chicago adventuress and our diamond thief are one and the same."
"There seems to be a singular coincidence about the name of the lady who so imposed upon you, and that of the one who is now under arrest," Mona remarked.
"Yes, the only difference is in one letter, and if Mrs. Vanderheck does not prove to be my charmer, or connected with her in any way, I shall be tempted to believe that she purposely took a name so similar in order to throw suspicion upon this woman," said the young man, thoughtfully.
"That may be; and is it not a little suspicious, too, that Mrs. Vanderbeck should have mentioned an invalid husband when Mrs. Vanderheck really has one?" Mona inquired.
"I had not thought of that before," Ray replied. "Still another singular circumstance comes to my mind just at this moment. At the time I was introduced to Mrs. Vanderheck, at Mrs. Merrill's reception, I repeated the name as if it was spelled with a 'b,' and emphasized the last syllable. The woman started, glanced at me curiously, and changed color a trifle, while she did not seem to quite recover her self-possession throughout our conversation."
"That does seem rather strange, considering all things," said Mona. "Perhaps, after all, she may prove to be your adventuress; and yet she must be a very bold one to flaunt her plunder so recklessly and in the very presence of people who would be sure to recognize it."
They changed the subject after that, and chatted upon topics of a more tender and interesting nature.
It was a delightful walk in the mild February air, and a pleasant interview, and both were loath to part when they suddenly found themselves at the other end of the pine-shadowed lane where it curved into the main road again.
Ray took a tender leave of his dear one, then mounting his horse, rode back over the way they had just traversed, while Mona went on to Hazeldean.
CHAPTER XXII.
MONA ATTENDS THE BALL AT HAZELDEAN.
Mona found considerable excitement and confusion prevailing upon her return, for carpenters and decorators were busy about the house; flowers and plants were being carried in from the conservatory; the caterer and his force were arranging things to their minds, in the dining-room and kitchen, and everybody, guests included, was busy and in a flutter of anticipation over the approaching festivities.
"It seems to me that you were gone a long while," Mrs. Montague curtly remarked, as Mona entered her room.
"Was I?" the young girl asked, pleasantly; then she added: "Well, two miles make quite a walk."
Mrs. Montague flushed at the remark.
She was well aware that she had been unreasonable in requiring so much, just to secure a few articles which she might have very well done without, and this thought did not add to her comfort.
She made no reply, but quietly laid out some work for Mona, whom she kept busily employed during the remainder of the day.
The young girl cheerfully performed all that was required of her, however; her interview with Ray had served to sweeten every task for that day, while she hoped that she might secure another opportunity, before it was over, for a few more words with him.
But after dinner Mrs. Montague came up stairs better-natured than she had been all day, and turning to Mona, as she entered the room, she asked:
"Have you none but mourning dresses with you? nothing white, or pretty, for evening?"
"No; my dresses are all black; the only thing I have that would be at all suitable for evening is a black net," Mona answered, wondering, with rising color, why she had asked the question.
"That might do with some white ribbons to liven it up a bit," said Mrs. Montague, thoughtfully. Then she explained: "Mr. Wellington has arranged a balcony in the dancing hall for some friends who are coming to the ball, just to look on for a while, and he has just said to me that there would be a seat for you, if you cared to see the dancing."
Mona looked up eagerly at this.
She dearly loved social life, and she had wished, oh, so much! that she might have the privilege of witnessing the gay scenes of the evening.
"That is very kind of Mr. Wellington," she gratefully remarked.
"Get your dress, and let me look at it," continued Mrs. Montague, who would not commit herself to anything until she could be sure that her seamstress would make a respectable appearance among Mr. Wellington's friends.
He had requested as a favor that Miss Richards might be allowed this privilege in return for having so kindly relieved his daughter at the piano a few evenings previous.
Mona brought the dress—a rich, heavy net, made over handsome black silk, which had been among her wardrobe for the previous summer, when she went to Lenox with her uncle.
"That will be just the thing, only it needs something to relieve its blackness," said Mrs. Montague, while she mentally wondered at the richness of the costume.
"I have some narrow white taste in my trunk, which I can perhaps use to make it a little more suitable for the occasion, if you approve," Mona quietly remarked.
"Yes, fix it as you like," the lady returned, indifferently, adding: "that is if you care about going into the pavilion."
"Thank you; I think I should enjoy watching the dancers for a while," the young girl returned.
Perhaps, she thought, she might be able to snatch another brief interview with Ray. At all events she should see him, and that would be worth a great deal.
Her nimble fingers were very busy after that running her white ribbons into the meshes of her dress.
She wove three rows of the narrow, feather-edged taste into each of the flounces, and the effect was very pretty. Then she did the same between the puffs of the full sleeves, tying some dainty bows where she joined them, and finished the neck to correspond.
This was hardly completed when she was called to assist Mrs. Montague in dressing, and by the time she was ready to descend her good humor was thoroughly restored, for she certainly was a most regal looking woman in her elegant and becoming toilet.
"I do not believe there will be another dress here this evening as beautiful as this," Mona remarked, as she fastened the last fold in place, her pretty face flushing with genuine admiration for the artistic costume.
"It is handsome, and I look passably young in it, too; how old should you take me to be Ruth?" Mrs. Montague asked, with a smiling glance at her own reflection in the mirror.
"A trifle over thirty, perhaps," Mona replied, and the little exultant laugh which broke from her companion told her that she felt highly flattered by that estimate of her years.
"There!" she remarked, as she drew on her gloves, "you need do nothing more for me; go now and get ready yourself, or you will miss the opening promenade."
Mona hastened away to her own room, where she had everything laid out in the most orderly manner, ready to put on, and if Mrs. Montague could have seen the dainty undergarments and skirts spread upon her bed; the costly kid boots and silken hose for her pretty feet, she might have arched her eyebrows more than ever over the extravagant taste of her seamstress.
Mona arranged her hair with great care, as she had worn it on the evening when she attended the opera with Ray, and this done she was soon ready.
She looked lovely. The black net, with its dainty white trimmings, was very becoming to her delicate complexion. The lining to the corsage had been cut low, and her pure white neck gleamed like marble through the meshes of the dusky lace. There was no lining, either, to her sleeves and her beautifully rounded arms looked like bits of exquisite sculpture. She had turned the lace away in the shape of a V at her throat, and now finished it by pinning to her corsage the cluster of white violets which she had purchased in the morning.
She regretted that she had no gloves with her suitable for the occasion, but since she was only to sit in the balcony, she thought it would not matter much if she wore none, and her small white hands, with their rose-tinted finger-tips, were by no means unsightly objects.
She was very happy and light-hearted, as she turned for one last look in her mirror before leaving her room.
She smiled involuntarily at her own loveliness, and gave a gay little nod at the charming reflection as she turned away.
Then she went out and softly down a back stair-way to avoid the crowds of people who were going up and down the front way.
But, on reaching the lower floor, she was obliged to cross the main hall and drawing-room in order to reach the pavilion, which Mr. Wellington had caused to be erected outside on the lawn for dancing, and which was connected with the house by a covered passage leading from one of the long windows of the drawing-room.
Mona stood in the doorway a moment, feeling slightly embarrassed at the thought of going unattended to search for her seat in the balcony.
Just then a round, white arm was slipped about her waist, and a gay, girlish voice cried in her ear:
"Oh, Miss Richards! how perfectly lovely you look! Are you coming to the ball?"
Mona turned and smiled into the bright face of Kitty McKenzie, who was radiant in pink silk and white tulle.
"No, only as a spectator," she replied, with an answering smile. "Mr. Wellington has kindly offered me a seat in the balcony, where I shall enjoy watching the merrymakers."
"But do you not like to dance yourself?" questioned the girl.
"Oh, yes, indeed. I used to enjoy it very much," Mona replied, with a little sigh.
"Then I think it is a great pity that you cannot join us to-night," returned Miss Kitty, regretfully, for she had caught the sigh; "only," she added, with sudden thought, "being in mourning, perhaps you would rather not."
"No, I should not care to dance to-night," Mona returned, and then she became conscious that a familiar form was approaching the spot where they stood.
It was not an easy matter for her to keep back her color as Ray drew near, and try to appear as if she had never seen him before. She knew that he was choosing this opportunity to be formally introduced to her.
But the voluble Miss McKenzie saluted him in her frank outspoken manner.
"Oh, Mr. Palmer," she cried, "are not the rooms lovely?—the flowers, the lights, indeed all the decorations?"
"They are, truly, Miss McKenzie; and," he added, with a merry smile, as he glanced at her bright face and figure, and then turned his gaze upon Mona, "there are some other lovely adornments about the rooms, besides those so skillfully used by the professional decorator."
"Thank you—of course that was intended as a compliment to ourselves," the quick-witted little lady returned, as she dropped him a coquettish courtesy; "and," turning to Mona, "perhaps you would like an introduction to my friend. Miss Richards, allow me to present you to Mr. Palmer."
Ray bowed low over the white hand which Mona mechanically offered him, and which he clasped in a way to send a thrill leaping along her nerves that made the violets upon her bosom quiver, as if a breath of wind had swept over them.
She barely had time to acknowledge the presentation, however, when an icy voice behind her remarked:
"Miss Richards, Mr. Wellington is looking for you to conduct you to your seat in the balcony."
Turning, Mona saw Mrs. Montague regarding her with a look of cold displeasure, and she knew that she must have witnessed her introduction to Ray, and disapproved of it.
But she was secretly glad that she had been so near, for now she could feel free to recognize her lover whenever they met, without the fear of being questioned as to how she happened to know him.
"Mr. Wellington looking for Miss Richards, did you say, Mrs. Montague?" Ray inquired, quickly improving his opportunity, and looking about him in search of that gentleman. "Ah! I see him yonder—Miss Richards, allow me to conduct you to him."
He offered his arm in a ceremonious way, as any new acquaintance might have done, and led her slowly toward the spot where Mr. Wellington was standing, while Mrs. Montague watched them, with a frown upon her brow.
"I believe I was a fool to allow her to come down; she is far too pretty to appear in public with me; any one would suppose her to be an equal," she muttered, irritably. "Who would have believed," she added, "that she could have gotten herself up in that bewitching style, with only a few bits of white ribbon and not a single ornament! I wonder where she got her violets? She has exquisite taste, anyhow."
But Ray and Mona were unconscious of these jealous remarks. They were oblivious of everything just then, except the presence of each other and the fortunate circumstances which had thrown them together.
"My darling," Ray said, under his breath, "that was very cleverly managed, was it not? Don't you think I am quite a tactician? I caught sight of you the moment you appeared; then that bright fairy, Kitty McKenzie, arrived upon the scene, and I knew that my opportunity had come."
"But you almost took my breath away, Ray, when you bore me off so unceremoniously before Mrs. Montague's disapproving eyes," Mona murmured in response.
"Unceremonious!" the young man retorted, with assumed surprise, and a roguish smile. "Why, I thought I was excessively formal."
"Yes, in your manner to me; but you did not ask the lady's permission to conduct me to the host."
"How was I supposed to know that Miss Richards, to whom I had just been introduced, was not a guest as well as the more gorgeous, but less lovely, Mrs. Montague?" questioned the young lover, lightly. "But," he continued, with a sigh, "I cannot bear this sort of thing a great while. When I see you looking like some beautiful young goddess, I find it very difficult to assume an indifferent exterior. I nearly forgot myself a moment ago."
"Perhaps it would have been better if I had remained quietly in my own room," Mona archly returned, as she gave him a mischievous glance out of her bright eyes.
He drew the hand that lay on his arm close to his side with a fond pressure.
"Indeed, no!" he said, tenderly; "it is better to meet you thus than not at all. But must I give you up to Mr. Wellington?" he continued, in a wistful tone, as they drew near the gentleman. "No; I will ask him to direct me to the balcony, and I will conduct you there myself."
"Ah, Miss Richards, I have been looking for you," Mr. Wellington remarked, as his eye fell upon the fair girl. "It is almost time for the opening promenade, and you ought to be in your seat, so as not to miss anything. But wait a moment; I must speak to this gentleman first," he concluded, as some one approached him.
"Pray, Mr. Wellington, since you are so engaged, let me conduct Miss Richards to the balcony," Ray here interposed, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
Mr. Wellington, with a look of relief, readily assented to the proposition, and Ray and his companion were thus permitted to enjoy a little more of each other's society.
They easily found their way to the balcony, where Ray secured a good position for his fiancée.
"I suppose I will have to leave you now," he whispered in her ear; "I am engaged to Miss Wellington for the promenade; but, by and by, Mona, I shall steal away and come to you again."
"Do not leave the dancing on my account, Ray," Mona pleaded; "it is all so bright and lovely down there. I know you will enjoy it."
"I should, if I could have you with me," he interrupted, fondly; "but, as I cannot, I would much prefer to remain quietly here with you—only that would not do, I suppose."
"No, indeed," she returned, decidedly. "Now you must go, for the orchestra is beginning to play."
He left her, with a fond hand-clasp that brought a happy smile to her red lips, and went below to seek his host's daughter.
Mona was very glad, later on, that she was not below with the dancers, for she saw quite a number of people from New York, whom she knew, and she would not have cared to be recognized by them—or rather snubbed by them.
It was a brilliant scene when the grand procession formed.
The pavilion had been very tastefully decorated, and one would hardly have believed that there were only bare, rough boards behind the artistically draped damask silk and lace, which had been used in profusion to conceal them. The spacious room was brilliantly lighted; flowers and potted plants were everywhere, making the place bright with their varied hues, and sending forth their fragrance into every nook and corner, while the fine orchestra was concealed behind a screen of palms, mingled with oleanders in full bloom.
There must have been at least two hundred people present, the gentlemen, of course, in full evening dress, while the ladies' costumes were of exceeding richness and beauty, yet among them all, it is doubtful if there was one so happy as the lovely girl who sat so quietly in the balcony and watched the gay scene in which she could not mingle.