Part 29 (1/2)
”Perhaps you do not know whom I mean,” said Mrs. Montague, and paused, determined to make the girl speak.
”Oh, yes, I have heard of him, and I remember reading the notice of his death in a paper,” Mona compelled herself to say, without betraying anything of the pain which smote her heart in recurring thus to her great loss.
Mrs. Montague frowned.
She was not progressing as well as she could have wished in her ”pumping”
operation; but she meant to probe the matter as far as she dared.
”Well,” she went on, ”this niece was supposed by everybody to be Mr.
Dinsmore's heiress; but a discarded wife suddenly made her appearance, after his death, and claimed the whole of his property, and the girl was left without a penny. She must have been terribly cut up about it, for she suddenly disappeared, and cannot be found, and it is this that has so upset young Palmer. He had not committed himself, his father informed me, but was just on the point of declaring his love when Mr. Dinsmore died; and the girl, evidently crushed by her loss, has hidden herself so securely that no one can find her.”
It was fortunate for Mona that her recent troubles had taught her something of self-control, or she must have betrayed herself at this point.
She realized that Mrs. Montague must have a purpose in relating all this to her, and feared it was to verify some suspicion regarding herself.
She now believed that the woman must know all her mother's history, and certain facts regarding her own birth, which she felt that Mr. Dinsmore had, for some reason, withheld from her. This conviction had grown upon her ever since she had been a member of her family, and she hoped, by some means, if she remained long enough with her, to learn the truth.
Still she feared that if Mrs. Montague should discover that she was her husband's daughter she might be so prejudiced against her she would at once dismiss her from her employ, and she would then lose her only chance to solve the questions that puzzled her. But she found it very hard to conceal the great and sudden joy that went thrilling through her as she listened to these facts regarding Ray Palmer's affection for and his loyalty to her.
He had not been unworthy and faithless, as she had imagined; there had been some good reason why he had not come to her during the early days of her trouble. He might have been called suddenly away from New York on business and not been able to return until her home was broken up; and now he was grieving--”wearing the willow,” as Mrs. Montague expressed it--because he could not find her. He loved her! he had been upon the point of telling her so, and this blissful knowledge made the world seem suddenly bright again to the hitherto depressed and grieving girl.
But it would never do to betray anything of this, for then Mrs. Montague would know at once that _she_ was Mona Montague; so she made no sign that she was any more interested in this little romance regarding Ray Palmer's love, than she would have been in that of any stranger. She even forced herself to ignore him altogether, and ask, in a matter-of-fact way:
”Is it not strange, if Mr. Dinsmore had a wife living, that he did not make some provision for his niece, by will?”
”The girl _isn't_ Mona Montague after all, or she never would have asked such a question with that innocent air,” said Mrs. Montague to herself, with some disappointment; ”the strange resemblance must be only a coincidence, striking though it is. But I would really like to know where Walter Dinsmore's niece is. I feel as if I had an enemy in ambush all the time, for she would have it in her power to do me a great deal of harm if she could prove her ident.i.ty. I am half sorry that Ruth doesn't prove to be she, for having her here, under my eye, I could manage her capitally.”
”Why, the papers discussed all that at the time,” she remarked aloud, with some surprise. ”There was considerable excitement over the affair, and sympathy was very strong for the niece. Didn't you read about it?”
”No, I was very much engaged just then, and I did not read any account of it. There, these bows are ready, and I will sew them to the dress,” Mona concluded, rising to get the garment, but trembling with nervous excitement in every limb.
”Ah!” she added, glancing at her fingers, three of which were stained with blood. ”I have p.r.i.c.ked myself with my needle; I hope I have not soiled the ribbon. No, fortunately, I have not,” as she carefully examined it, ”but I will step into the bath-room to wash my hands. I will not be long,” and she immediately left the room again. She had purposely run the needle into her delicate flesh to obtain this respite, for she felt as if she could no longer endure the trying conversation.
”Oh, how she has tortured me!” she sobbed, as she swung the door to after her, and dashed from her eyes the tears which she could no longer restrain. ”I could not bear it another moment, and I must not give way, even now, or she will see that I am unnerved, but I cannot be wholly wretched now that I know that _Ray loves me_!”
A vivid blush mounted to her brow as she whispered the sweet words, and she dashed the cold water over her burning cheeks to cool them.
”Ah!” she continued; ”I judged him wrongfully, and I am sorry. It will be all right if we can but meet again. It must be true that he loved me; he must have confessed it, or his father would not have told Mrs. Montague so.”
She hastily dried her face, and hands, then composing herself, returned to Mrs. Montague's room to find her with her dress on and looking very fair and lovely in the delicately tinted blue cashmere, with the soft ruching in the neck and sleeves and the s.h.i.+ning satin bows at her waist.
The woman glanced sharply at Mona as she entered, but, for all that she could see, the sweet face was as serene as if she were intent only upon her duties as waiting-maid, instead of thrilling with joy over the knowledge of being beloved by one whom, until that hour, she had believed lost to her.
”I will submit her to one more test, and if she can stand it I shall be satisfied,” she said to herself, as she fastened a beautiful pin at her throat, and then turned smilingly to Mona, but with the most innocent air in the world.
”Am I all right, Ruth? Is the dress becoming?” she asked.
”Exceedingly,” Mona returned; ”the color is just suited to you.”
”Thank you, I wonder if Mr. Palmer will also think so. Do you know,” with a conscious laugh and forced blush, but with a covert glance at the girl, ”I am becoming very much interested in that gentleman. I like the son, too, but chiefly for his father's sake. By the way, young Mr. Palmer is to be here for the ball on Monday evening; at least his father is going to telegraph him to come.”