jenkins, the antediluvian butler, proves himself a man of his word. there are, evidently, "no two ways" about jenkins. "seeking the seclusion that her chamber grants" about ten o'clock to-night, after a somewhat breezy evening with her mother-in-law, mona descries upon her hearthrug, dozing blissfully, two huge hounds, that raise their sleepy tails and heads to welcome her, with the utmost condescension, as she enters her room.
spice and allspice are having a real good time opposite her bedroom fire, and, though perhaps inwardly astonished at their promotion from a distant kennel to the sleeping-apartment of their fair mistress, are far too well-bred to betray any vulgar exaltation at the fact.
indeed, it is probably a fear lest she shall deem them unduly elated that causes them to hesitate before running to greet her with their usual demonstrative joy. then politeness gets the better of pride, and, rising with a mighty effort, they stretch themselves, yawn, and, going up to her, thrust their soft muzzles into her hands and look up at her with their great, liquid, loving eyes. they rub themselves against her skirts, and wag their tails, and give all other signs of loyalty and devotion.
mona, stooping, caresses them fondly. they are a part of her old life, and dear, therefore, to her own faithful heart. having partly undressed, she sits down upon the hearthrug with them, and, with both their big heads upon her lap, sits staring into the fire, trying to while away with thought the hours that must elapse before geoffrey can return to her again.
it is dreary waiting. no sleep comes to her eyes; she barely moves; the dogs slumber drowsily, and moan and start in their sleep, "fighting their battles o'er again," it may be, or anticipating future warfare. slowly, ominously, the clock strikes twelve. two hours have slipped into eternity; midnight is at hand!
at the sound of the twelfth stroke the hounds stir uneasily, and sigh, and, opening wide their huge jaws, yawn again. mona pats them reassuringly: and, flinging some fresh logs upon the fire, goes back once more to her old position, with her chin in the palm of one hand, whilst the other rests on the sleek head of spice.
castles within the fire grow grand and tall, and then crumble into dust; castles in mona's brain fare likewise. the shadows dance upon the walls; silently imperceptibly, the minutes flit away.
one o'clock chimes the tiny timepiece on the mantelshelf; outside the sound is repeated somewhere in the distance in graver, deeper tones.
mona shivers. getting up from her lowly position, she draws back the curtains of her window and looks out upon the night. it is brilliant with moonlight, clear as day, full of that hallowed softness, that peaceful serenity, that belongs alone to night.
she is enchanted, and stands there for a minute or two spellbound by the glory of the scene before her. then a desire to see her beloved lake from the great windows in the northern gallery takes possession of her. she will go and look at it, and afterwards creep on tiptoe to the library, seize the book she had been reading before dinner, and make her way back again to her room without any one being in the least the wiser. anything will be better than sitting here any longer, dreaming dismal day-dreams.
she beckons to the dogs, and they, coming up to her, follow her out of the room and along the corridor outside their soft velvet paws making no sound upon the polished floor. she has brought with her no lamp. just now, indeed, it would be useless, such "a wide and tender light," does heaven's lamp fling upon floor and ceiling, chamber and corridor.
the whole of the long north gallery is flooded with its splendor. the oriel window at its farther end is lighted up, and from it can be seen a picture, living, real, that resembles fairy-land.
sinking into the cushioned embrasure of the window, mona sits entranced, drinking in the beauty that is balm to her imaginative mind. the two dogs, with a heavy sigh, shake themselves, and then drop with a soft thud upon the ground at her feet,—her pretty arched feet that are half naked and white as snow: their blue slippers being all too loose for them.
below is the lake, bathed in moonshine. a gentle wind has arisen, and little wavelets silver-tinged are rolling inward, breaking themselves with tender sobs upon the shore.
"the floor of heaven
is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."
the floor itself is pale, nay, almost blue. a little snow is sifted lightly on branch, and grass, and ivied wall. each object in the sleeping world is quite distinct.
"all things are calm, and fair, and passive; earth
looks as if lulled upon an angel's lap
into a breathless, dewy sleep; so still
that we can only say of things, they be."
the cold seems hardly to touch mona, so wrapped she is in the beauties of the night. there is at times a solemn indefinable pleasure in the thought that we are awake whilst all the world sleepeth; that we alone are thinking, feeling, holding high communion with our own hearts and our god.
the breeze is so light that hardly a trembling of the leafless branches breaks the deadly silence that reigns all round:
"a lone owl's hoot,
the waterfall's faint drip,
alone disturb the stillness of the scene,"
tired at length, and feeling somewhat chilled, mona rouses herself from her reverie, and, followed by her two faithful guardians, moves towards the staircase. passing the armored men that stand in niches along the walls, a little sensation of fear, a certain belief in the uncanny, runs through her. she looks in a terrified fashion over her left shoulder, and shudders perceptibly. do dark fiery eyes look upon her in very truth from those ghastly visors?—surely a clank of supernatural armor smote upon her ear just then!
she hastens her steps, and runs down hurriedly into the hall below, which is almost as light as day. turning aside, she makes for the library, and now (and not till now) remembers she has no light, and that the library, its shutters carefully closed every night by the invaluable jenkins himself, is of necessity in perfect darkness.
must she go back for a candle? must she pass again all those belted knights upon the staircase and in the upper gallery? no! rather will she brave the darkness of the more congenial library, and—but soft—what is that? surely a tiny gleam of light is creeping to her feet from beneath the door of the room towards which she wends her way.
it is a light, not of stars or of moonbeams, but of a bona fide lamp, and as such is hailed by mona, with joy. evidently the thoughtful jenkins has left it lighted there for geoffrey's benefit when he returns. and very thoughtful, too, it is of him.
all the servants have received orders to go to bed, and on no account to sit up for mr. rodney, as he can let himself in in his own way,—a habit of his for many years. doubtless, then, one of them had placed this lamp in the library with some refreshments for him, should he require them.
so thinks mona, and goes steadily on to the library, dreading nothing, and inexpressibly cheered by the thought that gloom at least does not await her there.
pushing open the door very gently, she enters the room, the two dogs at her heels.
at first the light of the lamp—so unlike the pale transparent purity of the moonbeams—puzzles her sight; she advances a few steps unconsciously, treading lightly, as she has done all along, lest she shall wake some member of the household, and then, passing her hand over her eyes, looks leisurely up. the fire is nearly out. she turns her head to the right, and then—then—she utters a faint scream, and grasps the back of a chair to steady herself.
standing with his back to her (being unaware of her entrance), looking at the wall with the smaller panels that had so attracted him the night of the dance, is paul rodney!
starting convulsively at the sound of her cry, he turns, and, drawing with lightning rapidity a tiny pistol from his pocket, raises his arm, and deliberately covers her.