MONA ASKS SOME PERTINENT QUESTIONS.
Mr. Dinsmore's face clouded instantly at Mona's request, but after
thinking a moment, he threw back his head with a resolute air, and said:
"There is not so very much more to tell, Mona--it is the oft repeated
story of too much love and trust on the part of a pure and lovely woman,
and of selfish pleasure and lack of principle on the part of the man
who won her. When your mother was eighteen--just your age to-day,
dear--she fell in love with Richmond Montague, and secretly married him."
"Then she was _legally_ his wife!" burst forth Mona, with pale and
trembling lips. "Oh, I have so feared, from your reluctance to tell me my
mother's history, that--that there was some shame connected with it."
"No--no, dear child; set your heart at rest upon that score. She was
legally married to Richmond Montague; but his first sin against her was
in not making the fact public. He was just starting on a tour abroad and
persuaded her to go with him. He claimed that he could not openly marry
her without forfeiting a large fortune from an aunt, whose only heir he
was, and who was determined that he should marry the daughter of a
life-long friend. She was in feeble health and wanted him to be married
before he went abroad, as she feared she might not live until he should
come back. This he refused to do, although he allowed her to believe that
he intended to marry Miss Barton upon his return. But he did marry your
mother, and they sailed for Europe.
"They spent a few months traveling together, but while they were in
Paris, your father suddenly disappeared, and it became evident to your
mother that she had been deserted. To make matters worse, the people
of the house where they had been living became suspicious of her, accused
her of having been living unlawfully, and drove her away. She was
desperate, and went directly to London, intending to return to America,
but was taken ill there, and was unable to go on.
"Three months later I learned, indirectly, of her wretched condition, and
I hastened to her, as I have already told you, only to find that I was
too late--she had died just three days before my arrival, and only a few
hours after your birth. Oh, Mona! I was heartbroken, for she was all I
had, and the knowledge of her wrongs and sufferings drove me nearly wild;
but--I cannot live over those wretched days--I simply _endured_ them then
because I could not help myself. But, as time passed, I gradually learned
to love _you_--you became my one object in life, and I vowed that I would
do everything in my power to make your life happy, for your mother's
sake, as well as for your own," he concluded in tremulous, husky tones,
while tears stood in his eyes.
"Dear Uncle Walter, no one could have been more kind than you have been,"
the young girl said, nestling closer to him; "you have been both father
and mother to me, and I am very grateful--"
"Hush, Mona! Never speak of gratitude to me," he said, interrupting her,
"for you have been a great comfort to me; you have, indeed, taken the
place of the little girl who never lived to call me father--and--have
helped me to bear other troubles also," he concluded, flushing hotly,
while a heavy frown contracted, his brow.
Mona glanced at him curiously, and wondered what other troubles she had
helped him to bear; but her mind was so full of her own family history
she did not pay much attention to it then. The remark recurred to her
later, however.
"There is one thing more, Uncle Walter," she said, after a thoughtful
pause. "What became of my father?"
Her companion seemed to freeze and become rigid as marble at this
question.
"I wish you would not question me any further, Mona," he said, in a
constrained tone. "Your father forfeited all right to that title from you
before your birth. Cannot you be satisfied with what I have already
told you?"
"No, I cannot," she resolutely replied. "Where did he go? What happened
to him after my mother died? Has he ever been heard of since?" were the
quick, imperative queries which dropped from her lips.
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dinsmore, replying to the last query; "he married
Miss Barton--the girl his aunt had chosen for him--shortly after his
return to this country. The woman had set her heart upon the match, and
died a month after the marriage, leaving her nephew the whole of her
fortune."
"Did he--my father--know that he had a child living?" demanded Mona, in a
constrained tone.
"Certainly."
"And--and--" she began, with crimson cheeks and blazing eyes, then choked
and stopped.
"I know what you would ask--'did he ever wish to claim you?'"
supplemented her companion, a bitter smile curling his white lips. "I
have never been asked to give you up, Mona," he continued, apparently
putting it thus so as to wound her as little as possible; "but I should
not have done so under any circumstances."
"Did he never offer to settle anything upon me out of his abundance?" the
young girl asked, bitterly.
"No; no settlement, no allowance was ever made, I alone have cared for
you. But do not grieve--it has been a very delightful care to me, dear,"
Mr. Dinsmore said, tenderly, while he stroked her soft hair fondly with
a hand that was far from steady.
"Is the--man living now?" Mona demanded, a cold glitter in her usually
gentle eyes.
Mr. Dinsmore threw out his hand with a gesture of agony at this question.
Then suddenly pulling himself together, he hoarsely responded:
"No."
But he turned his face away from her gaze as he said it.
"When and where did he die?"
"Do not ask me. Oh, Mona, for pity's sake, ask me nothing more. I
cannot, I will not bear this inquisition any longer," the man cried,
in a despairing tone.
The young girl's face blanched suddenly at this, and she turned a wild,
startled look upon her companion, as a terrible suspicion flashed into
her mind.
Had her uncle avenged her mother's wrongs?--was his hand stained with her
father's blood, and was this the reason why he was so fearfully agitated
in speaking of these things?
It was an awful thought, and for a moment, every nerve in her body
tingled with pain. All her strength fled, and she dared not question him
further on that point, for her own sake, as well as his.
There was a dead silence for several moments, while both struggled for
the mastery of their emotions; then Mona said, in a low, awed tone:
"Just one thing more, Uncle Walter--is--his other wife living?"
"I believe so."
"Where is she?"
"I do not know."
"Did she care nothing for me?"
"No, she hated your mother, and you a hundred-fold on her account."
"That is enough--I have heard all that I wish," Mona said, coldly, as she
started to her feet and stood erect and rigid before him. "You said truly
when you told me that the man deserved hatred and contempt. I do hate and
scorn him with all the hate and strength of my nature. I am glad he is
dead. Were he living, and should he ever seek me, I would spurn him as I
would spurn a viper. But oh, Uncle Walter, you must let me lean upon you
more than ever before, for my heart is very, very sore over the wrong
that has been done my poor mother and me. How good you have been to
me--and I love you--I will always love and trust you, and I will never
ask you any more questions."
She flung her arms around his neck, buried her face in his bosom, and
burst into a passion of tears. The sorrowful story to which she had
listened, and the fearful suspicion which, at the last, had so appalled
her, had completely unnerved her.
The man clasped her to him almost convulsively, though a strong shudder
shook his frame, laid his own face caressingly against her soft brown
hair, and let her weep until the fountain of her tears was exhausted,
and he himself had become entirely composed once more.
"My dear child," he said, at last, "let these be the last tears you ever
shed for the wrong done you. I beg you will not allow the memory of it to
make you unhappy, my Mona; for as I have assumed a father's care for you
in the past, so I shall continue to do in the future; you shall never
want for anything that I can give you while I live, and all that I have
will be yours when I am gone. I have made an appointment with my lawyer
for the day after to-morrow," he went on, in a more business-like tone,
"when I purpose making my will, giving you the bulk of my property. I
ought to have done this before; but--such matters are not pleasant to
think about, and I have kept putting it off. Now dry your tears, my dear;
it pains me to see you weep. And here," he added, smiling, and forcing
himself to speak more lightly, "I almost forgot that I had something else
for your birthday. Come, try on these trinkets, for you must wear them to
the opera to-night."
He took a case from his pocket as he spoke, and slipped it into her
hands.
Mona looked up surprised.
"But you have already given me the mirror, Uncle Walter," she said. "I
could not have anything that I should prize more."
"Ah, well, but I could not let a birthday go by without spending a little
money on you," he returned, fondly; "so look at your gifts, and let me
see how they will fit."
Mona obediently opened the case, and found within a pair of narrow gold
bands, studded with diamonds, for her wrists.
"They are lovely," she cried, a smile of pleasure breaking over her
face, "and--I really believe it is the very pair that I was admiring
in Tiffany's window only a few days ago!"
"I shouldn't wonder--sometimes the fairies whisper maidens' wishes in
older ears, eh?" Mr. Dinsmore archly returned, and glad to see the gloom
fading from her face.
"The fairies are great tell-tales then, for you are continually
anticipating my wishes," Mona replied. "But," she added, glancing at the
clock, "I have some little things to attend to before going out this
evening, and I must be about them. A thousand thanks for my diamonds,"
and she kissed him softly as she said it, "and I shall surely wear them
to-night."
"And here is your mirror," he said, taking the box containing it from the
drawer of his desk. "Remember your promise, dear, never to part with it."
"It shall never go out of my possession," she gravely replied, as she
took it, and then quietly left the room.
She was very grave as she went slowly up stairs, and once or twice a
long, sobbing sigh escaped her.
"Oh, why did such a thought ever come to me?" she murmured. "It is
too dreadful, and I will not harbor it for a moment. He is good and
noble--his whole life has been grand and above reproach, and I love
him with all my heart."
That evening, about seven o'clock, Mona Montague went down to the elegant
drawing-room of her uncle's residence, exquisitely clad for the opera.
Her dress was a fine black lace, of a delicate and beautiful pattern,
made over old gold silk, with the corsage cut low and sleeveless, thus
leaving her neck and arms to gleam like alabaster through the meshes
of delicate lace. The heavy edging at the throat was just caught together
with a shell of Etruscan gold, studded with diamonds. Costly solitaires
gleamed in her ears, while her dainty wrists were encircled with Mr.
Dinsmore's gift of the morning. Upon her head she wore a jaunty hat of
black lace, surrounded by a wreath of old gold crushed roses, that
contrasted beautifully with her clear, fair skin and dark eyes. Her
face was bright with anticipation, her cheeks were slightly flushed, and
she was a vision of loveliness to gladden the heart of any beauty-loving
man.
"I have come down to receive your verdict, Uncle Walter," she remarked,
smiling, and sweeping him a graceful courtesy, as he threw down his paper
and arose to meet her, "Will I do?"
His face lighted with love and pride as he ran his eye over her.
"Really, Mona," he said, "you make me almost wish that I were going to
see 'Il Trovatore' with you in Ray Palmer's place. You are a very queen
of beauty to-night."
Mona flushed as he uttered Ray Palmer's name, but she put up her lips to
kiss him for his compliment, and at that moment the young man himself was
announced.
His eyes lighted with admiration, as he approached to salute the
beautiful girl, and a thrill of delight ran through him as he clasped
the hand she so cordially extended.
He was several inches taller than Mona, and a young man of singularly
noble bearing, and perhaps twenty-three years of age.
Dignity of character and sincerity of purpose were stamped upon every
feature of his intelligent face, and gleamed from his frank, genial eyes,
which met yours with a directness that won the heart and confidence
at once, while his manner and bearing as well as every detail of his
dress, betrayed the thorough gentleman.
Mr. Dinsmore smiled complacently as he marked the exchange of greetings
between the two young people. He saw that Mona was deeply interested in
her handsome escort, as her deepening color and drooping eyes plainly
betrayed.
He followed them to the door, and wished them a genial good-night, after
which he went back to his library, saying to himself:
"I could wish nothing better for her. If I can but see her safely settled
in life, I should have little to fear for the future, in spite of the
miserable past. Young Palmer is a fine fellow, and I will favor his suit
with all my heart. Then, with my will signed and sealed, my mind will be
at rest."
Alas! alas! "Man proposes and God disposes."