CHAPTER XI.
MONA IN A TRYING POSITION.
Mona breathed more freely, for she believed from his evasive reply that
Mrs. Montague did not now believe her to be Mona Forester's child.
"I beg you will not tell her," she said, impulsively, and then instantly regretted having made the request.
The young man's face lighted.
If they could have a common secret he believed that he should make some headway in his wooing.
"That will depend upon how kind you are to me," he said, meaningly.
Mona's head went up haughtily again. His presumption, his assurance, both annoyed and angered her.
He affected not to notice her manner, and asked:
"What was your object, Miss Montague, in coming into my aunt's family under an assumed name?"
Mona thought a moment before replying; then she felt that since he already knew so much, it would do no harm to tell him the truth.
"I had no intention at first of going anywhere under an assumed name," she said, gravely. "I applied at an employment bureau for a situation as seamstress, and this position was obtained for me. I did not even know the name of the woman who had engaged me, until I entered Mrs. Montague's house. When I learned the truth, I was tempted to leave at once; but the desire to learn more than I already knew regarding my parentage made me bold to brave discovery, and remain at least for a while, and so upon the spur of the moment I gave the name of Ruth Richards—Ruth is my middle name, and Richards very nearly like that of the man who married my mother—"
"Who married your mother?" questioned Louis Hamblin, in a mocking tone.
"Yes; they were legally married. I at least know that much," said Mona, positively, determined to make him think she fully believed it.
"How did you learn so much?"
"My uncle assured me of the fact only the day before he died."
"Your uncle? You mean Walter Dinsmore, I suppose?"
"Yes; of course."
"How much of your history did he reveal to you?" questioned the young man, eagerly.
"I do not feel under any obligation to tell you that," Mona coldly answered.
"Now, Miss Montague," Louis said, with well assumed frankness and friendliness, "why will you persist in treating me as an enemy? Why will you not have confidence in me, and allow me to help you? I know your whole history—I know, too, from what you have said, that you are ignorant of much that is vital to your interests, and which I could reveal to you, if I chose. Now forget any unpleasantness that may have arisen between us, tell me just what you hoped to learn by remaining in my aunt's family, and, believe me, I stand ready to help you."
Mona lifted her great liquid brown eyes, and searched his face.
Oh, how she longed to know the truth about her mother; but she distrusted him—she instinctively doubted his sincerity.
He read something of this in her glance, and continued, hoping to disarm her suspicions:
"Of course you know that Aunt Margie is, or was, Richmond Montague's second wife—"
"Ah! by that statement you yourself virtually acknowledge that my mother was his first wife," triumphantly interposed Mona. "As I said before, my uncle assured me of the fact, but your admission is worth something to me as corroborative evidence. All that I desire now is tangible proof of it; if you can and will obtain that for me, I shall have some faith in your assertion that you wish to help me."
"Are you so eager to claim, as your father, the man who deserted your mother?" Louis Hamblin asked, with a sneer, and wishing to sound her a little further.
"No; I simply want proof that my mother was a legal wife—I have only scorn and contempt for the man who wronged her," Mona replied, intense aversion vibrating in her tones. "I regard him, as my uncle did, as a knave—a brute."
"Did Walter Dinsmore represent him as such to you?" inquired her companion, in a mocking tone.
"He did; he expressed the utmost contempt and loathing for the man who had ruined his sister's life."
The young man gave vent to a short, derisive laugh.
"I cannot deny the justness of the epithets applied to him," he said, with a sneer, "but, that such terms should have fallen from the immaculate lips of the cultured and aristocratic Walter Dinsmore, rather amuses me, especially as the present Mrs. Dinsmore might, with some reason, perhaps, bring the same charges against him."
"Did you know my uncle?" Mona questioned, with some surprise.
"Not personally; but Mrs. Montague knew him very well years ago."
"Oh! I wonder if you could tell me—" Mona began, greatly agitated, as she recalled the dreadful suspicion that had flashed into her mind regarding her uncle, in connection with her father's death.
"If I could tell you what?" Louis inquired, while he wondered what thought could have so suddenly blanched her face, and sent that look of terror into her beautiful eyes.
"Oh, I want to know—did he—how did my father die?" the young girl cried, in faltering, trembling tones.
Louis Hamblin regarded her with unfeigned astonishment at the question.
"How did your father die?" he repeated. "Why, like any other respectable gentleman—in his own house, and of an incurable disease."
"Oh! then he did die a natural death," breathed Mona, with a sigh of relief that was almost a sob.
"Certainly. Ah!" and her companion appeared suddenly to divine her thoughts, "so you imagined that Walter Dinsmore killed Richmond Montague for the wrong done your mother! Ha! ha! I have no doubt that he felt bitter enough to commit murder, or almost any other act of violence, to avenge her; but let me assure you, Miss Montague, that that high-toned gentleman never soiled his hands with blood; and if that was your thought—"
"It is no matter what I thought," Mona hastily, but coldly, interposed, for she had no intention of confessing any such suspicion; but she was greatly relieved to learn that it had no foundation, and she now bitterly reproached herself for having even momentarily entertained a thought of anything that had been so foreign to her uncle's noble nature.
"To go back to what we were speaking of before," she continued, gravely, "will you furnish me with tangible proof of my mother's marriage? I know that she eloped with Richmond Montague, that they lived together for several months, when he suddenly deserted her, and that there is some mystery connected with that event—something which my uncle hesitated or feared to tell me. I know, too, that he was very anxious to reveal something more to me when he lay dying, and could not, because he had been stricken speechless. But for that fact, I believe I should not now be obliged to ask this favor of you," she concluded, flushing.
"Does it gall you so much, to ask a favor of me?" he inquired, bitterly. "But why," he went on, without waiting for a reply, "are you so exceedingly anxious to obtain this proof? Do you expect by the use of it to secure to yourself the property left by your father? Was that your object in remaining in my aunt's family under an assumed name?"
"No!" Mona vehemently returned. "I would not touch one dollar of his money. I would scorn to profit by so much as a penny of the fortune left by the man who deserted his wife in her sad extremity, and then, when death freed him from the tie which bound him to her, married a woman whom he did not love; who possessed so little of fatherly instinct in his nature, that he never acknowledged his child, nor betrayed the slightest interest in or affection for her. I would never own him for such a purpose; while, were it not for the sake of establishing my mother's honor, I would even repudiate the name I bear," she concluded, looking so proud and beautiful in her righteous scorn that the young man gazed upon her with admiration.
"You are very proud-spirited," he remarked; then, with a sly smile, "but as for the name you affect to so despise, it would be an easy matter to change it."
Mona colored at this observation, not because she gave a thought to his meaning, but because she hoped it would not be so very long before she would change the hated name of Montague for the honored one of Palmer.
Her companion noticed the flush, and an eager look flashed into his eyes, while his lips trembled with the torrent of burning words which he longed to pour into her ears. But he controlled himself for the moment, and continued:
"You ask me if I will give you the tangible proof of your mother's marriage. I have told you that I can do so; that I know the whole story of the elopement and the desertion. I can produce absolute proof that Mona Forester was a legal wife."
"Then give it to me—give it to me and I will believe that you are my friend," Mona cried, appealingly, and trembling with excitement at his statement.
"I will do so gladly," the young man said, a smile of triumph curling his lips, "but I can only do so conditionally."
"Conditionally?" repeated Mona, her great eyes flashing up to his face with a startled look.
"Yes. I can produce the certificate proving your father's and mother's honorable marriage. I can give you letters that will also prove it, and prove, too, that your father was not quite so disreputable and heartless as you have been led to believe. There is also a picture of him, painted on ivory, and set in a frame of gold, embellished with costly stones, which he had made for his wife, and there are valuable jewels and other keepsakes which he bestowed upon her with lavish hands, and which now rightly belong to you. All these I will give you if—if you will marry me—if you will be my wife, Mona."
The girl sprang to her feet, every atom of color now gone from her face, and confronted him with haughty mien.
"Your wife!" she began, pantingly. But he would not let her go on—he meant at least to explain himself more fully before allowing her to reject him.
"Yes, why not?" he asked, throwing into his tone all the tenderness he could command, "for I love you, Mona, with all my heart. I have told you so once before, but you would not believe me. You taunted me with unworthy motives, and asserted that I would not dare to confess my affection to my aunt; but I have confessed it, and she is willing that I should win you. I know that I have paid devoted attention to Kitty McKenzie, as you also twitted me of doing, and Aunt Margie wanted me to marry her; but when she found that I had no love to give her, that my heart was set upon you, she yielded the point, and I now have her full and free consent to make you my wife. Do not scorn my suit, Mona; I cannot think of you as Ruth Richards any longer; do not curl your proud lips and flash your glorious eyes upon me with scorn, as you did that day at Hazeldean, for I offer you a warm and loyal heart. I know, that I am not worthy of you," he went on, flushing and speaking humbly for once, for he was terribly in earnest; "I have been guilty of a great many things which I have learned to regret, since I have known you; but I can conquer everything if you will give me your love as an incentive, and I will be a better man in the future. I will even work for you, if you so despise the fortune which your father left and which I have expected to inherit from my aunt. Oh, Mona, do not despise my love for you, for it is the purest attribute of my nature, and—"
"Pray cease," Mona here interposed, for she felt unable to hear any more of this passionate avowal, while she was greatly surprised and really moved by the depth of feeling which he evinced. "I would be the last one," she continued, in kind, grave tones, but with averted eyes and trembling lips, "to despise the true affection of any man. If I said anything to wound you that day at Hazeldean, I regret it now, although I felt at the time that you showed some disrespect in your manner of approaching me. But I cannot be your wife; if you make that the condition"—and her lips curled a trifle here—"of my learning the mystery regarding my father's desertion of my mother, and securing the proof of their marriage; then I must forever relinquish all such hopes, for I could never marry a man—"
"But," he interrupted, excitedly.
"Let me finish," she persisted, lifting her hand to stay his words. "No woman should ever become the wife of a man she cannot love. I do not love you, Mr. Hamblin, and knowing this, you would not respect me if I should yield to your suit. Let me assure you that I honor you for some things you said to-day—that you would be willing to work for one whom you loved; that you would even relinquish a fortune for her sake. Believe me, I respect you and appreciate such an avowal, and only regret that your regard could not have been bestowed upon some one who could return such devotion. I cannot, but, Mr. Hamblin, I feel more friendly toward you at this moment than I have ever felt before. I beg, however," she concluded, sadly, "that you will never address me thus again, for it gives me pain to know that any one's life should be marred through me; put this affection away from you—crush it in your heart, and seek some dear, good girl who will love you and make you happier than I possibly could, if I should yield to your suit without any heart to give you."
"Put this love out of my heart! crush it!" burst forth the young man, with pale lips. "Could you do that, Mona Montague, if the man you loved should stand coldly up before you and bid you to do so?"
Mona flushed, and hot tears sprang into her eyes. She knew, but too well, that she could never crush out of her heart her love for Raymond Palmer.
If Louis Hamblin had bestowed but a tithe of such affection upon her there was indeed a sad future in store for him, and the deepest sympathies of her nature were aroused for him.
"I am sorry—" she began, falteringly, as she lifted her swimming eyes to his face, and both look and tone stirred him to hot rebellion, for he knew well enough of what she had been thinking.
"How sorry are you?" he cried, in a low, intense tone; "sorry enough to try to do for me what you have bidden me do for another? Will you crush your love for Ray Palmer, and bestow it upon me?"
Mona recoiled beneath these fierce, hot words, while she inwardly resented the selfishness and rudeness of his question.
Still she tried to make some allowance for his bitter disappointment and evident suffering.
"I do not think you have any right to speak to me like that," she said, in tones of gentle reproof, though her face was crimson with conscious blushes.
"Have I no right to say to you what you have said to me?" he demanded. "You have said that no woman should marry a man whom she does not love, while, in the very next breath you bid me go 'seek for some dear, good girl,' and ask her to marry me, who can never love any woman but you. Are you considerate—are you consistent?"
"Perhaps not," she returned, sorrowfully, "but I did not mean to be inconsistent or to wound you—I could hardly believe that you cared so deeply! I hoped you might be mistaken in your assertion that no other affection could be rooted in your heart."
"There may be other natures besides your own that are capable of tenacious affection," he retorted, with exceeding bitterness.
"True," Mona said, sighing heavily, "but," driven to desperation, and facing him with sudden resolution, "I cannot respond to your suit as you wish; I can never be your wife, for—perhaps, under the circumstances, I ought to make the confession—I am already pledged to another."
CHAPTER XII.
THE SECRET OF THE ROYAL MIRROR.
Mona's eyes were averted and she was greatly embarrassed as she made the acknowledgment of her engagement, therefore she could not see the look of anger and evil purpose which suddenly swept every expression of tenderness from Louis Hamblin's face.
He could not speak for a moment, he was so intensely agitated by her confession.
"Of course, I cannot fail to understand you," he remarked, at last. "You mean that you are engaged to Ray Palmer, and that accounts for the attentions which he bestowed upon Ruth Richards at Hazeldean. You two were very clever, but even then I had read between the lines and knew what you have just told me."
"You knew, and yet presumed to make this avowal? You dared to ask another man's promised wife to marry you!" Mona exclaimed, all her embarrassment now gone, her scornful eyes looking straight into his.
"Well, perhaps I should not say I knew, but I surmised," he confessed, his glance wavering beneath hers.
"That is but a poor apology," she retorted, in the same tone as before; "you certainly have betrayed but very little respect for me if you even 'surmised' the truth, and would ask me to regard my plighted troth so lightly as to break it simply to gratify your own selfishness."
"And your respect for me has waned accordingly, I suppose you would be glad to add," Louis Hamblin interposed, with a sneer.
Mona made him no answer. She began to think that she had overestimated the purity of his motives—that all her recent sympathy had been expended upon an unworthy object.
"You will not forget, however, that I made the promise to surrender certain proofs and keepsakes conditional upon your yielding to my suit," he added, with cold resoluteness.
"No honorable man would make such conditions with the woman he professed to love," retorted Mona, with curling lips.
"A man, when he is desperate, will adopt almost any measure to achieve his object," her companion responded, hotly.
"We will not argue the matter further, if you please," Mona said, frigidly, as she took up her book, which she had laid upon the table when she arose, and started to leave the room.
"Mona, do not go away like this—you shall not leave me in such a mood!" the young man cried, as he placed himself in her path. "Do you not see that I am filled with despair—that I am desperate?"
"I am sorry," she answered, gravely, "but I can tell you nothing different—my answer is final, and your own sense of what is right should make you realize and submit to it."
"Then you do not care for the marriage certificate and other proofs?" he said.
Again the young girl's lips curled with infinite scorn.
"Did you suppose that my love and my hand were, like articles of merchandise, to be bought and sold?" she asked, with scathing sarcasm. "Yes, I do care for—I do want the proofs; but they are not to be mentioned in connection with such sacred subjects," she went on, with dignity. "If you were really my friend you would never have suggested anything of the kind; you would have been glad to help me to any proof that would relieve my mind and heart from the harassing doubts regarding the history of my parents. If such proofs exist, as you claim, they rightly belong to me, and you are uncourteous, not to say dishonorable, in keeping them from me."
"People are not in the habit of resigning important documents simply for the sake of preserving themselves from the charge of discourtesy," Louis laconically observed.
"I am to understand from that, I suppose, that you will not give them to me," Mona remarked. "Well, since I know that there was no blame or shame attached to my mother—since I know that she was only a victim to the wickedness of others—it will not matter so very much if I do not have the tangible proofs you possess, and I must try to be content without them."
She made another attempt to leave the room, but he still stood in her way.
"I cannot—I will not give you up," he said, between his tightly locked teeth.
"You will be kind enough to let me pass, Mr. Hamblin." Mona returned, and ignoring his excited assertion.
"No, I will not," he fiercely replied.
She lifted her eyes, and met his angry glance with one so proudly authoritative that he involuntarily averted his own gaze.
"I beg that you will not cause me to lose all faith in you," she quietly remarked.
A hot flush surged to his brow, and he instantly stepped aside, looking crestfallen and half-ashamed.
Without another word, Mona passed from the room and entered her own chamber.
As soon as she had closed and locked the door, she sat down, and tried to think over all that had been said about her mother; this one subject filled all her mind to the exclusion of everything else.
But for Louis Hamblin's last remarks, and the betrayal of his real nature, and his selfish, ignoble purpose, she would have been grieved on his account, but she saw that he was unworthy of her regard, of even one sorrowful thought.
"These papers and keepsakes of which he has told me are mine," she said to herself; "they belong by right to me, and I must—I will have them. That certificate, oh! if I could get but that, I could give myself to Ray without a scruple, and besides I could secure this property which Homer Forester has left to my mother, and then I need not go to Ray quite penniless. These things must be in either Louis Hamblin's or Mrs. Montague's possession—doubtless they are even now somewhere in the house in West Forty-ninth street. I shall tell Mr. Corbin immediately upon my return, and perhaps he will know of some way by which they can be compelled to give them up."
She fell to musing over the matter, little suspecting that the most important treasure of all—the contested marriage certificate—had already fallen into her lover's hands, and was at that moment safely locked in Mr. Corbin's safe, only awaiting her own and Mrs. Montague's return from the South to set her right before the world, both as to parentage and inheritance.
Louis Hamblin remained in Mrs. Montague's parlor until her return from the concert, brooding over the failure of his purpose, and trying to devise some scheme by which he could attain the desire of his heart.
He then gave her a faithful account of his interview with Mona, and they sat far into the night and plotted how best to achieve their object.
Mrs. Montague was now as eager to have Louis marry Mona as she had previously been determined to oppose it.
"I am bound that she shall never go into the Palmer family, if I can prevent it," she said, with a frowning brow. "If I am to be mistress of Mr. Palmer's home, I have no intention of allowing Mona Forester's child to be a blot on my future happiness."
"You are complimentary, Aunt Marg, in your remarks regarding my future wife," Louis sarcastically observed.
"I can't help it, Louis. I bear the girl no good-will, as you have known from the first, and you must make up your mind to accept matters as they are. You are determined to have her and I have given my consent to the marriage from purely selfish motives," Mrs. Montague returned, in a straightforward, matter-of-fact tone. "I would never have consented," she added, with a frown "if I had not feared that there is proof—besides what we possess—of Mona Forester's legal marriage, and that through it we might some time lose our fortune. I should be in despair to be obliged to give it up—life without plenty of money is not worth living, and I consider that I was very shrewd and fortunate in getting possession of that certificate and those other things."
"Did you bring them with you when you left home?"
"No; I never thought of them," Mrs. Montague responded, with a start and a look of anxiety. "It is the first time I ever came away from home without them; but after I received that telegram and letter I had plenty on my mind, I assure you—my chief aim was to get that girl out of New York, and away to some safe place where we could work out our scheme."
"But you ought never to leave such valuables behind," said her nephew; "the house might take fire, and they would be all destroyed."
"That would be but a small loss," the woman retorted. "I have thought a hundred times that I would throw them all into the fire, and thus blot out of existence all that remained of the girl I so hated; but whenever I have attempted to do so I have been unaccountably restrained. But I will do it as soon as we get home again," she resolutely concluded.
Louis Hamblin's eyes gleamed with a strange expression at this threat; but he made no reply to it.
"But let us settle this matter of your marriage," she resumed, after a moment of thought. "The girl shall marry you—I have brought her here for that purpose, and if she will not be reasoned into compliance with our wishes, she shall be compelled or tricked into it. But how, is the question."
"I will agree to almost anything, so that I get her," remarked her nephew, with a grim smile.
The clock on the mantel-piece struck two before they separated, but they had decided on their plan of action, and only awaited the coming day to develop it.
Meanwhile strange things had been happening in Mona's room.
We left her musing over her recent interview with Louis, and deeply absorbed in making plans to obtain possession of the proofs of her mother's marriage, which he had asserted he could produce.
The more she thought of the matter the more determined she became to accomplish her purpose, and she began to grow very anxious to return to New York to consult with Ray and Mr. Corbin.
"I wonder how much longer Mrs. Montague intends to remain here," she murmured. "She said she should return within a fortnight, but nearly that time has expired already. I cannot understand her object in prolonging her stay, since she was disappointed about coming with the party. I believe I will ask her to-morrow how soon we are to go back."
Mona felt very weary after the unusual excitement of the evening; her nerves were also considerably unstrung, and she resolved not to wait for Mrs. Montague's return, but retire at once.
She arose and began to prepare for bed, but having sent some clothing away to be washed that morning, she found that her night-robe had gone with the other articles, and unlocking her trunk, she began to look for another.
"I thought I put an extra one in the tray," she mused, as she searched for but failed to find it.
This obliged her to remove the tray and to unpack some of the contents beneath.
While thus employed she took out a box, and without thinking what it contained, carelessly set it across a corner of the trunk.
She finally found the garment she needed, and then began to replace the clothing which she had been obliged to remove during her search.
While thus engaged she turned suddenly to reach for something that had slipped from her grasp, and in the act she hit her elbow against the box setting on the corner of her trunk, and knocked it to the floor.
"Oh! my mirror!" she cried, in a voice of terror, and hastily gathering up the box, uncovered it to see if the precious relic had been injured.
To her great joy she found that it had not been broken by the fall; but as she lifted it from the box, to examine it still further, the bottom of the frame dropped out, and with it the things which Mr. Dinsmore had concealed within it.
"Mercy!" Mona excitedly exclaimed; "it looks like a little drawer, and here are some letters and a box which some one has hidden in it! Can it be that these things once belonged to Marie Antoinette, and have been inclosed in this secret place all these long years?" she wonderingly questioned.
"No, surely not, for they would be yellow with age," she continued, as she began to examine them.
"Ah!" with a start, and growing pale, "here is a letter addressed to me—For Mona—and in Uncle Walter's handwriting! He must have known about the secret of this mirror, and put these letters here with some special object in view. What can it mean?"
She grew dizzy—almost faint with the excitement of her discovery, and the things dropped from her nerveless fingers upon her lap.
"There is some secret here!" she whispered, as she gazed down at them, an expression of dread in her startled eyes. "Perhaps it is the secret which I have so long wanted to know! Can it be that the mystery of my mother's sad fate is about to be solved—that Uncle Walter had not the courage to tell me all, that never-to-be-forgotten morning, but wrote it out and hid it here for me to find later? Ah!" and she lifted her head as if suddenly recalling something, "this was what he tried to make me understand the day he died! He sent me for the mirror, not to remind me to keep it always, as I thought at the time, but to explain the secret of it, so that I could find what he had hidden here. Oh, how he suffered because he could not show me! Why could I not have understood?" and her tears fell thick and fast, as she thus lived over again that painful experience.
She soon brushed them away, however, and lifting the mirror, examined it carefully.
She found that the tiny drawer would shove smoothly in and out, and she pushed it almost in, but took care not to quite close it.
"There must be a spring somewhere to hold it in place," she murmured, regarding it curiously. "Ah! now I feel it! But how is it operated? How can the drawer be opened again if I shut it entirely?"
She looked the mirror over most carefully, both on the back and front, but at first could detect nothing. But at length, as she still continued to work the drawer in and out, she noticed that the central pearl and gold point at the top of the frame moved slightly as she pressed the drawer close upon the spring, and she believed that she had discovered the Secret of the Royal Mirror.
With a resolute air she shut it entirely and heard the click of the spring as it shot into its socket. Her reason told her that pressure applied to that central point of pearl and gold would at once release the drawer again.
She tried it, and instantly it dropped out upon her lap.
"It is the strangest thing in the world. I feel almost as if I had opened a grave," she murmured, a shiver running along her nerves. "My heart almost fails me when I think of examining its contents—this letter addressed to me, this package of letters, and the tiny box. I wonder what there is in it?"
She looked strangely beautiful as she sat there upon the floor, her face startlingly pale, her eyes seeming larger than ever, with that wondering expression in their liquid depths, while she turned that little box over and over in her trembling hands, as if she tried to gather courage to untie the string that bound its cover on and look within it.
At last she threw up her head with a determined air, gathered up all the things she had found in the secret drawer, and rising, drew a chair to her table, where she sat down to solve the mystery.
CHAPTER XIII.
"I SHOULD THINK WE WERE OUT AT SEA!"
Mona's curiosity prompted her to examine the contents of the little box first.
She untied the narrow ribbon that was bound about it, lifted the cover and a layer of cotton, and discovered the two rings which we already know about.
"My mother's wedding and engagement-ring!" Mona breathed, seeming to know by instinct what they were. "They must have been taken from her fingers after she was dead, and Uncle Walter has kept them all these years for me. Oh, why could he not have told me about them? I should have prized them so." She lifted them from their snowy bed with reverent touch, remarking, as she did so, the size and great beauty of the diamond in the engagement-ring.
"My dear, deeply wronged mother! how I should have loved you!" she murmured. "I wonder if you know how tenderly I feel toward you; if you can see me now and realize that I, the little, helpless baby, for whose life you gave up your own, am longing for you with all my heart and soul."
She touched the rings tenderly with her lips, tears raining over her cheeks, while sob after sob broke from her.
She wiped away her tears after a little, and tried the rings upon her own fingers, smiling sadly to see how perfectly they fitted.
"Mamma's hand must have been about the size of mine," she said. "I think
I must be very like her in every way."
She slipped the heavy gold band off and bent nearer the light to examine the inside, hoping to find some inscription upon it.
She found only the date, "June 6th, 1861."
"The date of her marriage," she whispered, a little smile of triumph lighting her face, then removing the other ring from her hand, she laid them both back in the box and put it one side, "Now for the letters," she said, taking up the one addressed to herself and carefully cutting one end across the envelope with a little knife taken from her pocket.
She unfolded the closely written sheets, which she drew from it, with hands that trembled with nervous excitement.
The next moment she was absorbed in their contents, and as she read a strange change came over her.
At first there was a quick start, accompanied by a low exclamation of surprise, then a look of wonder shot into her great brown eyes. Suddenly, as she hungrily devoured the pages, her color fled, even her lips became white, and an expression of keen pain settled about her mouth, but she read on and on with breathless interest, turning page after page, until she came to the last one, where she found her uncle's name signed in full.
"Now I know!" burst from her trembling lips, as the sheets fell from her nerveless hands and her voice sounded hollow and unnatural. "How very, very strange! Oh! Uncle Walter, why didn't you tell me? why didn't you—tell me?"
Her lips only formed those last words as her head fell back against her chair, all the light fading out of her eyes, and then she slipped away into unconsciousness. When she came to herself again she was cold, and stiff, and deathly sick.
At first she could not seem to remember what had happened, for her mind was weak and confused. Then gradually all that had occurred came back to her.
She shivered and tried feebly to rub something of natural warmth into her chilled hands, then suddenly losing all self-control, she bowed her face upon them, and burst into a passion of tears.
"Oh, if I had only known before," she murmured over and over again, with unspeakable regret.
But she was worn out, and this excitement could not last.
She made an effort to regain her composure, gathered up the scattered sheets of her uncle's letter, restoring them to the envelope, and then took up the other package which was bound with a scarlet ribbon.
There were half a dozen or more letters and all superscribed in a bold, handsome hand.
"They are my father's letters to my mother," Mona murmured, "but I have no strength to read them to-night."
She put them back, with the other things, into the secret drawer in the mirror, which she restored to its box, and then carefully packed it away in her trunk, with all her clothing except what she wished to put on in the morning.
"I shall go back to New York to-morrow," she said, with firmly compressed lips, as the last thing was laid in its place. "I cannot remain another day in the service of such a woman; and, since I have now learned everything, there is no need; I must go back to Ray and—happiness."
A tender smile wreathed her lips as she prepared to retire, but she could not sleep after she was in bed, even though she was weak and exhausted from the excitement of the last few hours, for her nerves throbbed and tingled with every beat of her pulses, and it was not until near morning that slumber came to her relief.
She was awake long before the gong for breakfast sounded, however, and rising immediately dressed herself for traveling, after which she finished packing, and then went down to breakfast with a grave, resolute face, which betrayed that she had some fixed purpose in her mind.
Mrs. Montague regarded her with some surprise as she noticed her dress, but she made no remark, although she looked troubled and anxious.
As soon as they arose from the table Mona went directly up stairs again, and waited at the door of Mrs. Montague's parlor until that lady made her appearance.
Louis was with her, but Mona ignored his presence, and quietly asked:
"Can I see you alone for a few moments, Mrs. Montague?"
"Certainly," she replied, giving the girl a sharp, curious glance, and immediately preceded her into the room. "Well?" she inquired, turning and facing her, the moment the door was closed, as if already she suspected what was coming.
"I simply wanted to tell you that I am going to return to New York to-day," Mona said, in a tone which plainly indicated that no argument would serve to change her determination.
"Aren't you somewhat premature in your movements? What is your reason for wanting to go home in such a hurry?" Mrs. Montague demanded, with some asperity.
"There are a number of reasons. I have some business to attend to, for one thing," Mona answered.
Mrs. Montague appeared startled by this unlooked-for reply. She had expected that she would complain of Louis' persecution of the previous evening.
"Do you think it just fair, Ruth, to leave me at such short notice?" she inquired, after thinking a moment.
"I am very sorry if my going will annoy you," Mona said, "but you will have Mr. Hamblin for an escort, and so you will not be left alone. I have made up my mind to go, and I would like to leave at as early an hour as possible."
Mrs. Montague saw that it would be useless to oppose her, but a look of cunning leaped into her eyes as she returned, with an assumption of graceful compliance:
"Then we will all go. A few days will not matter much with me; I have been disappointed in almost everything since leaving home, and I am about ready to go back myself. I am sure I do not wish to keep you if you are unhappy or discontented, and so we will take the afternoon boat if you like. I feel a certain responsibility regarding you, and could not think of allowing you to return alone and unprotected," she interposed, a curious smile curving her lips; then she added: "I will have Louis go to secure staterooms immediately, and you can do your packing as soon as you like."
"It is all done. I am ready to go at any hour, but," and Mona flushed, "I should prefer to go by rail, as we could reach New York much more quickly than by boat."
Mrs. Montague frowned at this remark.
"Pray do not be in such an unnecessary hurry, Ruth," she said, with some impatience. "It is much pleasanter traveling by boat than by rail at this season of the year, and I enjoy the water far more. I think you might oblige one by yielding that much," and the woman watched her anxiously as she awaited her reply.
"Very well," Mona said, gravely, though reluctantly. "I will do as you wish. At what hour does the steamer leave?"
"I don't know. I shall have to ask Louis, and I will tell you later. Now, I wish you would baste some fresh ruching on my traveling dress, then you may hem the new vail that you will find upon my dressing-case," and having given these directions, Mrs. Montague hurried from the room to find her nephew.
She met him in the hall, where he had been walking back and forth, for he surmised what the nature of Mona's interview would be, and knew that the time had come for him to act with boldness if he hoped to win the prize he coveted.
"Come into your room, where we shall not be overheard," Mrs. Montague whispered, and leading the way thither, they were soon holding an earnest consultation over this unexpected interruption of the scheme which they had arranged the night before.
They talked for half an hour, after which Mrs. Montague returned to her parlor and Louis at once left the hotel.
He did not return until nearly lunch time, when, in Mona's presence, he informed his aunt that the staterooms were secured, and the boat would leave at seven that evening.
"If you will get your trunks ready I will send them aboard early, and then I shall have no trouble about baggage at the last moment, and can look after your wraps and satchels," he remarked, as he glanced significantly at his aunt.
"Mine are ready to strap, and Ruth's was packed before breakfast, so they can be sent off as soon as you like," Mrs. Montague returned.
He attended to the strapping of them himself, and a little later they were taken away.
Mona wondered somewhat at this arrangement. She thought the trunks might just as well have gone with them, but concluded that Louis did not wish to be troubled with them at the last moment, as he had said.
At half-past six they left the hotel, and drove to the pier where the steamboat lay.
Louis hurried the ladies on board, and to their staterooms, telling them to make haste and get settled, as dinner would be served as soon as the boat left the landing.
He had secured three staterooms for their use, another circumstance which appeared strange to Mona, as she and Mrs. Montague had occupied one together in coming down the river.
"Perhaps," she said to herself, "she is angry because I insisted upon going home, and does not wish to have me with her. I believe, however, I shall like it best by myself."
She arranged everything to her satisfaction, and then sat down by her window to wait until the gong should sound for dinner, but a strange feeling of depression and of homesickness seemed to settle over her spirits, while her thoughts turned with wistful fondness to her lover so far away in New York, and she half regretted that she had not insisted upon returning by rail.
She wondered that she did not hear Mrs. Montague moving about in her stateroom, but concluded that she had completed, her arrangements for the night and gone on deck.
Presently the last signal was given, and the steamer swung slowly away from the levee. A few moments later the gong sounded for dinner, and Mona went out into the saloon to look for her companions.
She met Louis Hamblin at the door leading to the dining-saloon, but he was alone.
"Where is Mrs. Montague?" Mona inquired, and wondering if he was going to be sick, for he looked pale, and seemed ill at ease.
"Hasn't she been with you?" he asked, appearing surprised at her question. "I thought she was in her stateroom."
"No, I did not hear her moving about," Mona replied, "so supposed she had come out."
"Perhaps she is on deck; if you will wait here I will run up to look for her," Louis remarked, and Mona sat down as he walked away.
He presently returned, but alone.
"She is not up stairs," he said; "I will go to her stateroom; perhaps she has been lying down; she said she had a headache this afternoon."
Again he left Mona, but came back to her in a few minutes, saying:
"Yes, it is as I thought; she isn't feeling well, and doesn't care to go down to dinner. I am to send her a cup of tea, and then she will retire for the night. Shall we go down now? You must be hungry," he concluded, smiling.
Mona would have much preferred to go by herself, and have him do the same, but she did not wish to have any words with him about it, so quietly followed him to the table, and took her seat beside him.
He was very polite and attentive, supplying all her wants in a thoughtful but unobtrusive way, and did not once by word or look remind her of anything disagreeable.
The dinner was a lengthy affair, and it was after eight when they left the dining-saloon, when Mona at once retreated to her stateroom to rid herself of Louis Hamblin's companionship. On her way thither she rapped upon Mrs. Montague's door, and asked:
"Cannot I do something for you, Mrs. Montague?"
There was no response from within, and thinking she must be asleep, Mona passed on to her own room.
It was growing quite dark, and Mona, feeling both weary and sleepy from the restlessness and wakefulness of the previous night, resolved to retire at once.
She felt really relieved, although a trifle lonely to be in a stateroom by herself, but she fell asleep almost immediately, and did not awake until the gong sounded for breakfast.
She felt much refreshed, and after dressing went and knocked upon Mrs. Montague's door to inquire if she had rested well, and if she could do anything for her.
There was no reply, and thinking perhaps she was still asleep, or had already arisen, she went up on deck to get a breath of air before going to breakfast.
"Why!" she exclaimed on looking around her, as she reached the deck, "how very wide the river must be just here; I did not observe it to be so when we came down; perhaps, though, we passed this point during the night, but I did not suppose we could get out of sight of land on the Mississippi."
A storm was evidently brewing; indeed, it was already beginning to rain, the wind blew, and the vessel rolled considerably.
Mona could see nothing of either Mrs. Montague or Louis, and found that she could not walk about to search for them, for all at once she began to feel strangely dizzy and faint.
"Can it be that I am going to be sick?" she murmured, "I was not coming down, for there was not much motion to the boat, but now it rolls and pitches as if it were out on the broad ocean."
She was growing rapidly worse, and, retreating to her stateroom, she crept again into her berth, and rang for the stewardess.
She was ill all that day—so ill that she could not think of much but her own feelings, although she did wonder now and then if Mrs. Montague was prostrated like herself. She must be, she thought, or she certainly would come to her.
Once she asked the stewardess if she was ill, and the woman had briefly replied that everybody was sick, and then hurried out to answer some other call.
But during the next day Mona began to rally, and the stewardess advised her to go up on deck, saying that the fresh air would do much toward improving her condition. She assisted her to dress, and helped her up stairs to a chair, covered her with a warm robe, and then left her alone.
Mona at first was so faint and weary from her exertions that she did not pay much attention to her surroundings. She lay with her eyes closed for a while, but finally the air made her feel better, and she began to look about her.
An expression of wonder and anxiety instantly overspread her white face.
Where were the banks of the river, so green and bright, which had made the southward trip so delightful?
The sun was shining brightly, for the storm had passed and the sky was cloudless, but, looking in every direction, she could discern no land—all about her was but a wide waste of deep blue water.
"Why!" she cried, "I should think we were out at sea!"
She looked greatly disturbed, but just at that moment she saw Louis Hamblin coming toward her, and she noticed that he also looked somewhat pale, as if he, too, had been suffering from sea-sickness.
"You are really better," he smilingly observed as he reached her side; "you have had a severe siege as well as I."
"Then you have been sick?" Mona observed, but turning away from the intense look which he bent upon her.
"Indeed, I have. I have but just ventured out of my berth," he returned, shrugging his shoulders over painful memories.
"How is Mrs. Montague? I have not seen her since we left New Orleans,"
Mona inquired.
A peculiar look came into Louis Hamblin's eyes.
"Well, she has been under the weather, too, and has not cared to see any one," he said. "She simply wants to be let alone, like most people who suffer from sea-sickness."
"That accounts for her absence and silence," thought Mona. Then she asked: "Is it not very strange that we do not see the banks of the river? One would almost imagine that we were far out at sea."
Again that peculiar look swept over the young man's face.
"And so we are," he quietly answered, after a momentary pause.
"What?" exclaimed Mona, in a startled tone, and turning her blanched face upon him with a look of terror.
"Do not be excited, Miss Montague," he coolly observed. "Aunt Margie simply took a sudden freak to go home by sea; she thought the voyage would be beneficial to her. She did not confide her plans to you, as she feared you would object and insist upon going home alone by rail."
Mona flushed hotly. She was very indignant that Mrs. Montague should have done such a thing without consulting her, and she deeply regretted that she had not insisted upon acting according to her own wishes.
She had no suspicion even now of the wretched deception that had been practiced upon her, but she did not now wonder so much that the woman had so persistently kept out of her way, and she felt so angry that she did not care to meet her again until they should land.
"When shall we get to New York?" she inquired, in a low, cold tone.
"We shall land some time this evening," Louis Hamblin evasively replied, but watching her with curious interest.
Mona gave utterance to a sigh of relief, but did not appear to notice how he had worded his sentence.
She believed that in a few hours more she would forever sever all connections with this bold, bad woman who had been guilty of so much wrong; that she would forever be freed from the society and attentions of her no less unprincipled and disagreeable nephew.
She resolved to go at once to Mr. Graves, then send word to Ray of her return, when she would reveal all that she had learned about herself, and all her troubles would be over. There was now no reason why she should not become his wife as soon as he desired.
She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes, thus signifying to Mr.
Hamblin that she did not wish to continue their conversation.
He moved away from her, but continued to watch her covertly, smiling now and then to himself as he thought of the developments reserved for her.
When the sun began to decline Mona arose to return to her stateroom, but she was still so weak she could not walk steadily.
The young man sprang at once to her side.
"Let me help you," he cried, offering his arm to her.
She was obliged to take it, much as she disliked to do so, and he assisted her to the door of her stateroom, where, touching his hat politely, he left her.
She lay down to rest for a while before gathering up her things preparatory to going ashore, but the effort of coming down stairs had so wearied her that almost immediately she fell into a sound sleep.
CHAPTER XIV.
MONA FINDS FRIENDS.
When Mona awoke again it was dark.
The lamps were lighted in the saloon, however, and shone dimly into her stateroom through the glass in the door.
She at once became conscious that the steamer had stopped, while the confusion and bustle on deck told her that they had arrived in port and the vessel was being unloaded.
She hastily arose and dressed to go ashore, and she had hardly completed her toilet when some one rapped upon her door.
Opening it she found Louis Hamblin standing outside.
"We have arrived," he said. "How soon can you be ready to go ashore?"
"Immediately," Mona replied, then asked: "Where is Mrs. Montague?"
"Waiting for us in the carriage. I thought I would take one invalid at a time," he responded, smiling.
"What time is it, please?" the young girl asked, thoughtfully.
"Nearly ten o'clock. We are very late arriving to-night."
Mona looked blank at this reply, for she felt that it would be too late to go to Mr. Graves' that night. She would be obliged to go home with Mrs. Montague after all, and remain until morning. So she said nothing about her plans, but followed Louis above to the deck, out across the gangway to the pier, where a perfect babel prevailed, although at that moment, in the excitement of getting ashore, she did not notice anything peculiar about it.
The young man hurried her to the carriage, which proved to be simply a transportation coach belonging to some hotel, and was filled with people.
"We have concluded to go to a hotel for to-night, since it is so late and the servants did not know of our coming," Louis explained, as he assisted his companion to enter the vehicle, which, however, was more like a river barge than a city coach.
"I do not see Mrs. Montague," Mona said, as she anxiously tried to scan the faces of the passengers, and now noticed for the first time that most of them appeared to be foreigners, and were talking in a strange language.
"Can it be possible that I have made a mistake and got into the wrong carriage?" said Louis, with well-feigned surprise. "There were two going to the same hotel, and she must be in the other. She is safe enough, however, and it is too late for us to change now," he concluded, as the vehicle started.
Mona was very uncomfortable, but she could not well help herself, and so was obliged to curb her anxiety and impatience as best she could.
A ride of fifteen or twenty minutes brought them to the door of a large and handsome hotel, where they alighted, and Louis, giving her bag and wrap to the porter, who came bowing and smiling to receive them, told Mona to follow him into the house while he looked after the trunks.
Without suspecting the truth, although she was sure she had never been in that portion of the city before, the young girl obeyed, but as she stepped within the handsomely lighted entrance, she was both confused and alarmed by the fact that she could not understand a word of the language that was being spoken around her, while she now observed that the hotel had a strangely foreign air about it.
"There is something very wrong about this," she said to herself. "It does not seem like New York at all, and I do not like the idea of Mrs. Montague keeping herself so aloof from me. Even if she were sick, or angry with me, she might at least have shown some interest in me. I do not like Louis Hamblin's manner—he does not appear natural. I wish—oh, I wish I had gone home by rail. I am sure this is not New York. I am afraid there is something wrong."
She arose and walked about the room, into which the porter had shown her, feeling very anxious and trembling with nervousness. It was very strange, too, that Louis did not make his appearance.
Even while these thoughts occupied her mind he came into the room, and
Mona sprang toward him.
"What does this mean?" she demanded, confronting him with blazing eyes and burning cheeks.
"What does what mean?" he asked, but his glance wavered before hers.
"This strange hotel—these foreign-looking, foreign-speaking people? Why does not Mrs. Montague come to me? Everything is very mysterious, and I want you to explain."
"Aunt Margie has gone to her room, and—" Louis began, ignoring every other question.
"I do not believe it!" Mona interrupted, with a sinking heart, as the truth began to dawn upon her. "I have not seen her since we left New Orleans. I have seen only you. There is some premeditated deception in all this. I do not believe that we are in New York at all. Where are we? I demand the truth."
Louis Hamblin saw that he could deceive her no longer; he had not supposed he could keep the truth from her as long as he had.
"We are in Havana, Cuba," he braced himself to reply, with some appearance of composure, which he was far from feeling.
"Havana!—Cuba!" cried Mona, breathlessly. "Ah! that explains the foreign language—and I do not know Spanish." Then facing him again with an air and look that made him cower, in spite of his bravado, she sternly asked: "Why are we here?"
"We are here in accordance with Mrs. Montague's plans," he answered.
"Mrs. Montague had no right to bring me here without consulting me," the young girl returned, passionately. "Where is Mrs. Montague?"
"I expect that Aunt Marg is in New York by this time," Louis Hamblin now boldly asserted.
"What?" almost shrieked Mona, smitten to the heart with terror at this intelligence. "Oh! you cannot mean to tell me that you and I have come to Havana alone! That—that—"
A hot blush mounted to her forehead, and for a moment she was utterly overcome with shame and horror over the terrible situation.
"Yes, that is just what we have done," Louis returned, a desperate gleam coming into his eyes, for he began to realize that he had no weak spirit to deal with.
There was a prolonged and ominous silence after this admission, while Mona tried to rally her sinking spirits and think of some plan of escape from her dreadful position.
When she did speak again she was white to her lips, but in her eyes there shone a resolute purpose which plainly indicated that she would never tamely submit to the will of the man before her.
"How have you dared to do this thing?" she demanded, but so quietly that he regarded her in astonishment.
"I have dared because I was bound to win you, Mona, and there seemed no other way," he returned, in a passionate tone.
"And did you imagine for one moment that you could accomplish your purpose by decoying me into a strange country?"
"Yes; but, Mona—"
"Then you have yet to learn that you have made a great mistake," was the haughty rejoinder. "It is true that I am comparatively helpless in not being able to understand the language here; but there are surely people in Havana—there must even be some one in this hotel—who can speak either French or German, if not English, and to whom I shall appeal for protection."
"That will do you little good," retorted Louis, flushing with anger at the threat, "and I may as well tell you the truth first as last. Mona, you will have to give yourself to me, you will have to be my wife. Mrs. Montague and I have both decided that it shall be so, and we have taken pains to prevent any failure of our plan. You may appeal as much as you wish to people here—they cannot understand you, and you will only lay yourself liable to scandal and abuse; for, Mona, you and I came to Havana, registered as man and wife, and our names stand upon the register of this hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Hamblin, of New York, where already the story of our elopement from New Orleans has become the talk of the town."
The deadly truth was out at last, and Mona, smitten with despair, overcome by the revelation of the dastardly plot of which she was the victim, sank helplessly upon the nearest chair, quivering with shame and horror in every nerve, and nearly fainting from the shock which the knowledge of her terrible danger had sent vibrating through her very soul.
She covered her face with her hands, and tried to think, but her temples throbbed like hammers, her brain seemed on fire, and her mind was in a perfect chaos.
She sat thus for many minutes, until Louis Hamblin, who was hardly less excited than herself in view of his anxiety as to what would be the result of this critical interview, could endure the silence no longer, and quietly but kindly remarked:
"Mona, I think it is best that you should go to your room and rest; it is late, and you are both weary and excited. To-morrow we will talk this matter over again, and I hope that you will then be more reasonable."
The sound of his voice aroused all her outraged womanhood, and springing to her feet again, she turned upon him with all the courage of a lioness at bay.
"I understand you," she cried. "I know why you and that unprincipled woman have so plotted against me. You were afraid, in spite of what I told you the other night, that I would demand your fortune, if I once learned the whole truth about myself. I have learned it, and I have the proof of it also. A message came to me, after my interview with you, telling me everything."
"I do not believe you," Louis Hamblin faltered, but growing very pale at this unexpected information.
"Do you not? Then let me rehearse a little for your benefit," Mona continued, gathering courage as she went on, and in low but rapid tones she related something of the secret which she had discovered in the royal mirror—enough to convince him that she knew the truth, and could, indeed, prove it.
"Now," she continued, as she concluded this recital, "do you think that I will allow you to conquer me? You have been guilty of a dastardly act. Mrs. Montague has shown herself to be lacking in humanity, honor, and every womanly sentiment; but I will not be crushed; even though you have sought to compromise me in this dreadful way I will not yield to you. Your wife I am not, and no writing me as such upon steamer and hotel registers can ever make me so. You may proclaim from one end of New York to the other that I eloped with you from New Orleans, but it will not serve your purpose, and the one for whom I care most will never lose faith in me. And, Louis Hamblin, hear me; the moment I find myself again among English-speaking people, both you and Mrs. Montague shall suffer for this outrage to the extent of the law. I will not spare you."
"That all sounds very brave, no doubt," Louis Hamblin sneered, but inwardly deeply chagrined by her dauntless words and bearing, "but you are in my power, Miss Montague, and I shall take measures to keep you so until I tame that haughty spirit somewhat. You will be only too glad to marry me yet, for I have gone too far in this matter to be balked now. When you leave Havana you will go as Mrs. Louis Hamblin, or you will never go."
"I would rather never go than as your wife, and I will defy you until I die!" was the spirited retort, and the man before her knew that she meant it.
He wondered at her strength of purpose and at her courage. Many girls, finding themselves in such a woeful strait, would have been entirely overcome—would have begged and pleaded in abject fear or weakly yielded to circumstances, and married him, but Mona only seemed to gather courage as difficulties closed around her.
She looked very lovely, too. She had lost a little flesh and color during her illness on shipboard, and her face was more delicate in its outlines than usual. She would have been very pale but for the spot of vivid scarlet that glowed on each cheek, and which was but the outward sign of the inextinguishable spirit that burned within her. Her eyes gleamed with a relentless fire and her slight but perfect form was erect and resolute in its bearing.
Louis Hamblin for the moment felt himself powerless to combat with such mental strength, and ignoring entirely what she had just avowed, again asked:
"Will you go to your room now?"
He did not wait for any reply, but touched a bell, and a waiter almost immediately appeared to answer the call.
Louis signified to him that his companion wished to retire, whereupon the man took her bag and wrap and motioned Mona to follow him.
With despair in her heart, but a dauntless mien, the fair girl obeyed, and crossing the wide entrance hall, mounted the great staircase to the second story.
As they were passing through a long upper hall a door suddenly opened, and a gentleman came out of one of the rooms.
Mona's heart gave a leap of joy as she saw him, for she was almost sure that he was an American, and she was on the point of speaking to him, but he passed her so quickly she had no opportunity.
She was rejoiced, however, to observe that her guide stopped before the door of a room next to the one which the stranger had just left, and she resolved that she would listen for his return, and manage to communicate with him in some way before morning.