MONA DECLINES A PROPOSAL.
Mrs. Montague next took a square pasteboard box from the secret
compartment in the table, and opened it.
On a bed of pure white cotton there lay some exquisite jewelry. A pearl
and diamond cross, a pair of unusually large whole pearls for the ears,
and two narrow but costly bands for the wrists, set with the same
precious gems.
"Pearls!" sneered the woman, giving the box, with its contents, an angry
shake. "He used to call her his 'pearl,' and so, forsooth, he had to
represent his estimate of her in some tangible form. There is nothing
of the pearl-like nature about me," she continued, with a short, bitter
laugh. "I am more like the cold, glittering diamond, and give me pure
crystallized carbon every time in preference to any other gem. He wasn't
niggardly with her on that score, either," she concluded, lifting the
upper layer of cotton, and revealing several diamond ornaments beneath.
"She was a proud little thing, though," she mused, after gazing upon them
in silence for a moment, "to go off and leave all these trinkets behind
her. I'd have taken them with me and made the most of them. They haven't
done me much good, however, since they came into my possession. I never
could wear them without feeling as I did just now about the letters. I
might have sold them, I suppose, and I don't know why I haven't done so,
unless it is because they are all marked."
She covered them and threw the box from her with a passionate gesture,
and then searched for a moment in silence among the remaining contents of
the table.
She finally found what she wanted, apparently, for a look of triumph
swept over her face.
It was a folded document, evidently of parchment.
"Ha, ha! prove your shrewd inferences, my keen-witted lawyer, if you
can," she muttered, exultantly, as she unfolded it, and ran her eyes over
it. "Mona Forester's child the heir to the bulk of my husband's property,
indeed! Perhaps, but she will have to prove it before she can get it. How
fortunate that I helped myself to these precious keepsakes when he was
off his guard; even he did not dream that I had this," and she shook the
parchment until it rattled noisily through the room; then refolding it,
she put it carelessly aside, and turned once more to what remained to be
examined.
"Here is that exquisite point-lace fan," she said, lifting a long, narrow
box, and removing the lid. "I never had a point-lace fan until I bought
it for myself; and here is that picture; I never had his likeness painted
on ivory and set in a frame of rubies! Ha! Miss Mona, you were a favored
wench, but your triumph was of short duration."
It is impossible to convey any idea of the bitterness of the woman's
tone, or the vindictiveness of her look, as she took from a velvet case
the picture of a handsome young man, of perhaps twenty-five years,
painted on ivory, and encircled with a costly frame of gold set with
rubies.
"You loved her," she cried, fiercely, as she gazed with all her soul in
her eyes upon that attractive face, while her whole frame shook with
emotion. "Nothing was too costly or elegant for your petted darling; her
slightest wish was your law, while for me you had scarcely a word or a
look of affection; you were like ice upon which not even the lava-tide of
my idolatry could make the slightest impression. Is it any wonder that I
hated her for having absorbed all that I craved? Is it strange that I
exulted when they drove her from her apartments in Paris, believing her
to be a thing too vile to be tolerated by respectable people. Well, she
had his love, but I had him--I vowed that I would win, and--I did."
But, evidently, the memory of her triumph was not a very comforting one,
for she suddenly dropped her face upon the hands that still clasped the
picture, and burst into a torrent of tears, while deep sobs shook her
frame, and she seemed utterly overwhelmed by the tempest of her grief.
Surely in this woman's nature there were depths which no one, who
had seen her the center of attraction in the thronged and brilliant
drawing-rooms in high-life, would have believed possible to her.
Suddenly, in the midst of this unusual outburst, there came a knock upon
the door.
The sound seemed to give her a terrible start in her nervous state.
She half sprang from her chair, a look of guilt and fear sweeping over
her flushed and tear-stained face, the table before her gave a sudden
lurch, and before she could put out her hand to save it, it went over
and fell to the floor with a crash, spilling its contents, and snapping
the lid to the secret compartment short off at its hinges.
"What is it?--who is there?" Mrs. Montague demanded, as she went toward
the door, while she tried to control her trembling voice to speak
naturally.
"What has happened?--I thought I heard a fall," came the response in the
anxious tones of Mona's voice.
"Nothing very serious has happened," returned Mrs. Montague, frowning,
for the girl, who so closely resembled the rival she hated, coming to her
just at that moment, irritated her exceedingly. "I simply upset something
just as you knocked. What do you want?"
"I only came to ask if I should finish your tea-gown in the morning, or
do the mending, as usual;" Mona replied.
"Finish the tea-gown. I shall need it for the afternoon."
"Very well; I am sorry if I disturbed you, Mrs. Montague. Good-night,"
and Mona turned away from the door wondering what could have caused
such a clatter within the woman's room.
Mrs. Montague went back to the bay-window, righted the table, rearranged
its contents, and fitted the broken lid over them with hands that still
trembled with her recent excitement.
"What a pity that the lid is broken," she muttered, impatiently, "for now
it will do no good to lock it. I cannot help it, however, and perhaps no
one will suspect that there is a secret compartment beneath the slab."
She carefully replaced the heavy marble, moved the table to its usual
position, and then, worn out with the conflict she had experienced,
retired for the night.
But she did not sleep well; she was nervous, and tossed uneasily upon
her bed until far into the small hours of the morning, when she finally
dropped into a fitful slumber.
She was aroused from this about eight o'clock the following day by Mary,
who came as usual to bring her a cup of coffee, which she always drank
before rising. There also lay upon the tray a yellow official-looking
envelope.
"What is this?" Mrs. Montague demanded, as she seized it and regarded it
with some anxiety.
"A telegram, marm. A messenger brought it just as I was coming up
stairs," the girl replied.
Her mistress tore it open and devoured its contents with one sweeping
glance.
Instantly her face flushed a deep crimson, and she crushed the message
hastily within her hand, while she began to drink her coffee, but seemed
to become deeply absorbed in her own thoughts while doing so.
A few moments later she arose and dressed herself rapidly, but all the
time appeared preoccupied and troubled about something.
"I believe I shall let Louis marry her if he wants to. I could settle the
hundred thousand on him, and stipulate that they go West, or somewhere
out of the State, to live. I believe I'll do it," she murmured once,
while thus engaged, "that is, if--"
She did not finish the sentence, but, with a resolute step and air, went
down to her breakfast.
She had no appetite, however, and after dallying at the table for half an
hour or so, she went up stairs again and entered the sewing-room.
She found Mona busy at work upon the tea-gown--a beautiful robe of
old-rose cashmere, made up with a lighter shade of heavy armure silk.
"Can you finish it in season?" she inquired.
"Oh, yes, easily. I have about an hour's more work to do upon it," the
young girl answered.
"That is well, for I want you to go down town to do some shopping for me.
I cannot attend to it, as I wish to keep fresh for my high-tea this
afternoon," Mrs. Montague returned, flushing slightly. Then she added:
"I will make out a list of what I need, and you may go as soon as the
dress is done."
Mona was pleased with the commission, for the morning was lovely, and
she had felt unusually weak and weary ever since rising. The close
application to which she had been subjected since her return from
Hazeldean--for she had been hurried with spring sewing--had worn upon
her.
A feeling of discouragement had also taken possession of her, for she
seemed no nearer learning the truth about her mother than when she had
first come there.
She was confident that Mrs. Montague had been her father's second wife,
and she fully believed that she must have in her possession papers,
letters, or some other documents that would reveal all that she wished
to know regarding Richmond Montague's first marriage, and give her some
information regarding the great sorrow that had so blighted the life of
his beautiful young wife.
She had promised that she would give herself to Ray at the end of three
months; he still held her to that promise, and six weeks of the time had
already elapsed, and she seemed to be no nearer the attainment of her
desires than when she had made it.
True, she had found the picture of her mother, and learned that her name
was Mona Forester. She had also discovered that a relative had been
seeking for her with the desire of leaving her all that he possessed.
But all this was very unsatisfactory, for she had not gained the
slightest clew by which to prove herself to be the child of Mona
Forester, or any one else.
It was all a wearisome and harrowing tangle, and it wore both upon her
spirits and her strength.
It was true, too, that she had found Ray, and learned that he loved her.
This was a great comfort, and she knew she had but to tell him that she
was ready to go to him, and he would at once make her his wife; but--a
flush of shame flooded her face every time she thought of it--she was
continually haunted by the fear that her mother might never have been
Richmond Montague's wife--that possibly she might have no legal right to
the name she bore, in spite of her uncle's assurance to the contrary, and
she shrank from marrying Ray if any such stigma rested upon her.
She had never breathed these fears to him--she kept hoping that some
accident, or some remark from Mrs. Montague, would throw light on the
perplexing mystery.
But Mrs. Montague never referred in any way to her past life in her
presence. She had never once mentioned her husband, and, of course,
Mona had not dared to ask her any questions upon these subjects.
"I can never marry Ray until I know," she had told herself over and over
in great distress, "for I love him too well ever to bring any blight upon
his life."
She had had a dim hope that Mr. Corbin might in some way manage to
unravel the mystery, and yet she could not see that he had anything more
tangible to work upon than she herself had.
Mona finished the dress and carried it to Mrs. Montague, who seemed very
much pleased with it.
"You are a lovely seamstress, Ruth, and a good, faithful girl," she said,
as she carefully examined the neatly made garment. "But for one thing,"
she added, as she covertly searched the girl's fair face, "I believe I
should grow really fond of you."
This remark put Mona on her guard in a moment, though it also set her
heart to beating with a vague hope.
"Thank you for your praise of my work, Mrs. Montague," she quietly said,
"but," lifting a wondering glance to her face, "what is the one thing
that I lack to win your esteem? If I am at fault in any way I should be
glad to know and correct it."
"You lack nothing. It is because you so much resemble a person whom I
used to detest--I am unaccountably antagonized by it," said the woman,
frowning, for the clear eyes, looking so frankly into hers, were
wondrously like Mona Forester's.
"Oh, I suppose you refer to the person whose picture I found up stairs
a while ago," said Mona.
"Yes," and Mrs. Montague looked slightly ashamed of her confession; "I
imagine you think I am somewhat unjust to allow my prejudice to extend to
you on that account, and I know I am; but the power of association is
very strong, and I did hate that girl with all my heart."
Mona was trying to acquire courage to ask what reason she could have
for hating any one who looked so gentle and inoffensive, when the woman
resumed, with some embarrassment:
"Louis scolded me for the feeling when I mentioned it to him--he is not
tainted in any such way, I assure you. Do you know, Ruth," with a little
laugh of assumed amusement, "that he is very fond of you?"
Mona's face was all ablaze in an instant--her eyes likewise, although she
was greatly surprised to learn that the young man had betrayed his liking
for her to his aunt.
"I trust that Mr. Hamblin has not led you to believe that I have ever
encouraged any such feeling on his part," she coldly remarked.
"I know that you have been very modest and judicious, Ruth; but what
if I should tell you that the knowledge of his preference does not
displease me; that, on the whole, I rather approve of his regard for
you?" questioned Mrs. Montague, observing her closely.
"From what you told me a moment ago, I should suppose you would feel
anything but approval," Mona replied, without being able to conceal her
scorn of this sanction to Louis Hamblin's presumption.
"What do you mean?" demanded her companion, with some sharpness.
"I refer to the prejudice which you confessed to entertaining against
me."
"But did I not acknowledge that it was unjust? And when one confesses
wrong and is willing to correct it, credit should not be withheld," Mrs.
Montague retorted, with some warmth. "But seriously, Ruth," she
continued, with considerable eagerness, "Louis is very much in earnest
about this matter. He has dutifully asked my permission to address you,
and I believe it would be for his happiness and interest to have a good
wife, such as I am confident you would make. I know that he has betrayed
something of this feeling to you, or I should not presume to speak to you
about it; but my reason for so doing is that I thought perhaps you might
feel more free to accept his suit if you knew that I approved of the
union."
Mona was trembling now with mingled excitement and indignation.
Excitement over the discovery that Louis Hamblin had really been in
earnest when he had made love to her at Hazeldean, and indignation that
he should still presume to think that she would marry him after the
decided rebuff she had given him at that time. She was also astonished
that Mrs. Montague should propose such a thing after what she had said,
on the night of the ball, about her "angling for Ray Palmer, and
imagining herself to be his equal in any respect."
Then she grew very pale with a sudden suspicion. Perhaps Mrs. Montague
had discovered who she was, possibly Mr. Corbin had been to her to
question her, and had aroused her suspicions that she was Mona Montague,
and she was plotting to marry her to her nephew in order to keep her
fortune in the family, and thus tie Mona's hands to render her incapable
of mischief.
These thoughts inspired her with fresh hope and courage, for she told
herself that if this was the woman's object, there must be some proofs
in existence that her mother's marriage with Richmond Montague had been
legal.
But Mrs. Montague was waiting for some answer, and she could not stop to
consider these points very fully now.
"I thank you," she said, trying hard to curb the scorn that was surging
fiercely within her, "but I shall be obliged to decline a union with Mr.
Hamblin--I could never become his wife."
"Why not, pray?" sharply demanded her companion.
"Because I believe that marriage should never be contracted without
mutual love, and I do not love Mr. Hamblin," Mona returned, with cold
positiveness.
"Really?" Mrs. Montague sneered, with a frowning brow, "one would suppose
that a person in your position--a poor seamstress--would be only too glad
to marry a handsome young man with Louis' prospects--for he will
eventually inherit my fortune if he out-lives me."
"Then, perhaps, it will be a surprise to you to learn that there is one
poor seamstress in the world who does not regard marriage with a rich
young man as the most desirable end to be achieved in life," Mona
responded, with quiet sarcasm.
Mrs. Montague grew crimson with anger.
"Then you would not marry my nephew if he should offer himself to you?"
she indignantly inquired.
"No, madame; I could not. With all due appreciation of the honor intended
me, I should be obliged to decline it."
The girl spoke with the utmost respect and courtesy, yet there was a
slight inflection upon certain words which irritated Mrs. Montague almost
beyond endurance.
"Perhaps you are already in love with some one else--perhaps you imagine
that you may win young Palmer, upon whom you so indelicately forced your
society at Hazeldean," she snapped.
Mona could not quite conceal all emotion at this unexpected attack, and a
lovely color stole into her cheeks, at which the watchful woman opposite
her was quick to draw her own conclusions, even though the fair girl made
no reply to her rude speech.
"Let me disabuse your mind at once of any such hopes and aspirations,"
Mrs. Montague continued, with increased asperity, "for they will never be
realized, since Ray Palmer is already engaged."
This statement was made upon the strength of what she had learned from
Mr. Palmer regarding Ray's affection for Mr. Dinsmore's niece, and his
own approval of the union if the young lady could be found.
Poor Mona's powers of endurance were tried to the utmost by this thrust,
and she longed to proclaim, there and then, that she knew it--that she
was the young man's promised wife.
But the time for such an avowal was not yet ripe; a few weeks longer, if
she could have patience, and then she hoped there would be no occasion
for further secrecy.
She put a strong curb upon herself, and simply bowed to show that she had
heard and understood Mrs. Montague's statement.
The effort, however, drove every atom of color from her face, and seeing
this, Mrs. Montague believed that she had planted a sharp thorn in her
bosom.
She did not wish to antagonize her, however, and she was almost sorry
that she had said so much; but she was a creature of impulse when her
will was thwarted, and did not always stop to choose her words.
She had, for certain reasons, yielded her objections to Louis marrying
her, and now this unexpected opposition on Mona's part only served to
make her determined to carry the point, for the sake of conquering her,
if for no other.
"Well, we will not quarrel over the matter, Ruth," she said, in a
conciliatory tone. "Of course I have no right to coerce you in such a
matter, and you are too useful to me to be driven away by contesting
the point. So we will drop the subject; and now if you will take this
memorandum and go about the shopping I shall be obliged to you. I shall
need all my strength for this evening, because I am to have a large
company to entertain, and--"
She abruptly paused, and seemed a trifle confused for a moment. Then she
asked, with unusual consideration:
"Shall I send you in the carriage?"
"No, I should prefer to take a car down town and then walk about to the
different stores. I sit so much I shall be glad of the exercise," Mona
replied, as she turned to leave the room, but wondering what Mrs.
Montague had been going to add when she stopped so suddenly.