Mi^^vi-ix/iNbE 
 
 Author of 
 
 9^», 
 
 iWOOIMGtfTlBkc 
 
 [f < *■ ,%t It>-< 
 
 . •• * f ! 'J ici t 
 
 ri J- r^ i^ '■i 
 
 
 'SlAiiSXtjM
 
 m-t
 
 M O N A'S CHOICE. 
 
 VOL. L. 
 
 a
 
 MONA'S CHOICE 
 
 A NO V EL. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS ALEXANDER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 ' THE WOOING O'T,' ' HER DEAREST FOE,' 
 
 THE admiral's WARD,' 'AT BAY,' 'BY WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., 
 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C 
 
 1887.
 
 EDINBURGH 
 
 COLSTON AND COMPANY 
 
 PRINTERS
 
 8£3 
 
 V.l 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 
 -? 
 
 I. 
 
 A Proposal, . 
 
 ^ 
 
 II. 
 
 Another, 
 
 
 III. 
 
 Yes, . . . . 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 On the Brink, 
 
 
 V. 
 
 The Great King, . 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Tug of War, . 
 
 
 VII. 
 
 A New Life, . 
 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A Chapter of Accidents, . 
 
 
 IX. 
 
 ' Oh, my Prophetic Soul, :^ 
 
 . 
 
 27 
 
 • 
 
 55 
 
 
 85 
 
 
 III 
 
 
 133 
 
 
 158 
 
 
 186 
 
 MY Uncle ! ' 
 
 214
 
 POPUL AR NEW N OVELS. 
 
 Now ready, in One Vol., the Seventh Edition of 
 
 ARMY SOCIETY ; or, Life in a Garrison Town. By John Strange 
 Winter. Author of ' Booties' Baby.' Cloth gilt, 6s. ; also picture 
 boards, ss. 
 
 GARRISON GOSSIP, Gathered in Blankhampton. By the same 
 
 Author. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 
 IN THE SHIRES. By Sir Randal H. Roberts, Bart. Cloth gilt, gs. 6d. 
 THE OUTSIDER. A Sporting Novel. By Hawley Smart. New 
 
 Edition. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT. A Sporting Novel. By Mrs 
 
 Edward Kennard. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 STRAIGHT AS A DIE. By the same Author. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 BY WOMAN'S WIT. By Mrs Alexander. Author of ' The Wooing 
 
 O't.' Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 KILLED IN THE OPEN. By Mrs Edward Kennard. Author of ' The 
 
 Right Sort.' Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 IN A GRASS COUNTRY. By Mrs H. Lovett-Cameron. Author of 
 
 ' A North Country Maid,' etc. (Sixth Edition.) Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 THE BOND OF WEDLOCK. By Mrs Campbell Praed. Author of 
 
 'Nadine.' Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 
 F. Y. WHITE & Co., 31 Soutliaiiiptoii Street, Strand, 
 London, W.C.
 
 MONA'S CHOICE.
 
 MONA'S CHOICE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A PROPOSAL. 
 
 HE * up ' train was expected 
 momentarily at the little junc- 
 tion of Galesford, from whence 
 a line branched off to some 
 villages and the county town. 
 
 A couple of commercial travellers, 
 whose large neatly-strapped cases were 
 piled on a hand-truck, stood at one end 
 of the platform, in conversation of an 
 amusing description, for they laughed loud 
 and frequently. 
 
 VOL. I. A
 
 2 Monas Choice, 
 
 A gentleman, covered from head to foot 
 in a large dark ulster, walked to and fro 
 smoking a cigar, and peering sharply into 
 the thick mist which hid the line up to 
 a few yards beyond the station. 
 
 The loose wrap he wore did not con- 
 ceal his air of distinction. The eyes that 
 watched so eagerly for the train, were 
 light steely blue, his colouring was sun- 
 burnt brown, somewhat too dark for his 
 hair and moustaches. 
 
 ' Five minutes behind time,' he said, 
 glancing at the clock over the door of 
 the booking-office, and addressing one of 
 the two porters who were waiting about. 
 
 * It often is, sir ! You see they have 
 often to wait at Brenton for the Alton- 
 borough passengers. It's express after 
 this.' 
 
 * Look after my luggage ! It is in the 
 waiting-room. My name is on it — Captain 
 Lisle — I'll be back by the six-twenty, and 
 will not forget you.' 
 
 * Thank ye, sir ! I'll take care of it 
 right enough.' 
 
 * Two-fifteen ! and here it comes ! ' ex- 
 claimed Captain Lisle, throwing away his
 
 A Proposal. 3 
 
 cigar as the engine rushed screaming out 
 of the dim distance, and approaching the 
 edge of the platform he peered sharply 
 into the carriages. 
 
 In a first-class compartment a young 
 lady sat alone. Lisle proceeded to open 
 the door. 
 
 * Beg pardon, sir,' said the urbane guard. 
 * This is a ladies' carriage — there's plenty 
 of room in the next.' 
 
 * All right ! I know the lady ; she will 
 permit me to travel a few miles in her 
 company. Will you not '^ ' raising his 
 deer-stalker's cap. 
 
 ' Oh, Captain Lisle ! ' she exclaimed, 
 with a swift blush. ' Yes ! of course.' 
 
 ' Don't cram in any women or babies,' 
 said Lisle aside quickly to the guard, 
 pressing some coin of the realm into his 
 hand. 
 
 * All right, sir ! ' significantly. ' Jump in.' 
 A shrill whistle, and they were off 
 
 * I hope you will forgive my intrusion. 
 But as I had no chance of seeing you after 
 that telegram came, I thought I would try 
 to say good-bye en route! 
 
 He unfastened his ulster, and removed
 
 4 Monds Choice. 
 
 his cap, showing a close crop of crisp 
 brown hair, and a rather good-looking re- 
 solute face. His keen eyes grew softer 
 as they dwelt on his companion. She 
 was worth looking at. Her height, even 
 as she sat reclining in the corner of the 
 carriage, was evidently above the average ; 
 the eyes with which she regarded him 
 were very deep grey — large, liquid, and 
 at the moment pathetic, almost solemn ; 
 her eyebrows were many shades darker 
 than her hair, which admirers called 
 golden, and detractors red, both having 
 a fair show of reason for their opinions. 
 Indeed the contrast between her sunny 
 locks and her nearly black brows and eye- 
 lashes, generally struck those who met her 
 for the first time. Her complexion was 
 of the purely fair description which goes 
 with hair of her colour, — and when in 
 reposej there was a haughty, refined ex- 
 pression about her mouth, which, though 
 finely formed, was not small. Her travel- 
 ling dress of dark green cloth, simple and 
 compact, and a velvet hat of the same 
 colour, with a small plume of black-cock's 
 feathers, was most becoming. As Captain
 
 A Proposal. 5 
 
 Lisle spoke, a quiet smile parted her lips, 
 and she said gently, — 
 
 * I have nothing to forgive : you are very 
 good to take the trouble. I fancied you 
 were at Chillworth Castle by this time, 
 you started so early.' 
 
 ' I started at that unearthly hour to secure 
 some private conversation with you! 
 
 * Indeed!' 
 
 Again a blush, fainter this time, flitted 
 over the lady's cheek. 
 
 * Yes. I am going to say what may 
 perhaps offend you, — to interfere where 
 I certainly have no right, but my sincere 
 interest in you — my — my ardent regret 
 that fortune should treat you so unkindly, 
 urges me to risk making an ass of myself.' 
 
 * You puzzle me ! I feel vaguely there 
 is something I do not quite understand 
 behind this sudden illness of my poor 
 grandmother. Everyone seemed so 
 sorry for me, — and Lady Mary, who is 
 kindness itself, said she feared she had 
 lost a great deal of money. Do tell me 
 what you know. You always seem to me 
 to know everything ! ' 
 
 ' I wish I did not know the present state
 
 6 Monas Choice. 
 
 of affairs, — and I wish 3^ou did not look as 
 if those grand eyes of yours had been 
 wide awake all night. 
 
 Again she smiled, a somewhat tremulous 
 smile this time. 
 
 'Indeed I could not sleep! I was 
 haunted by the recollection of my many 
 quarrels with grannie, — who is really fond 
 of me, and has been very, very good to me! 
 I must try and make up to her for the past.' 
 
 ' I can imagine that Mrs Newburgh's 
 rule is of the iron rod order,' said Captain 
 Lisle. * Nor do I suppose that you are too 
 meek a subject ! I fear,' he added gravely, 
 softly, ' that a terrible reverse awaits her — 
 and you. The speculation in which she 
 has invested her whole capital has come to 
 grief, — and I fear she has lost everything.' 
 
 ' How do you know ? ' 
 
 * Sir Robert Everard told me all par- 
 ticulars last night — when the other men had 
 left the smoking-room. Mrs Newburgh's 
 solicitor is also his. The sudden shock 
 has been too much for her, and brought 
 on a feverish attack.' 
 
 * Do you mean to say that we shall 
 have no money at all.'*'
 
 A Proposal. 7 
 
 * I fear you will not ! Everard spoke 
 openly to me, knowing the interest I take 
 in you, of which I hope you too are 
 aware.' 
 
 ' We have always been very good 
 friends,' she said shyly, with quivering 
 lips. 
 
 ' Yes ! and for that friendship's sake I 
 am about to break my usual habit of not 
 interfering with what does not absolutely 
 concern me, — to risk the snubbing you are 
 quite capable of administering.' 
 
 He paused, and gazed for a moment at 
 the delicate, downcast face opposite to him, 
 his brows contracting in a sudden frown. 
 
 * Why should I snub you?' she asked, 
 without looking up. 
 
 ' Wait till I have finished. Will you be- 
 lieve me when I say that I was as sleep- 
 less as yourself last night ? My fancy — no, 
 I am not an imaginative man — my experi- 
 ence, depicted all the hardship of your lot ; 
 for I have known difficulties — money diffi- 
 culties ; poverty, too, is a hundred-fold 
 worse for a woman, a proud, delicately- 
 nurtured woman, like yourself ; and for 
 you there is no escape, such as a man can
 
 8 Mona s Choice. 
 
 find In a good appointment — I hope for 
 one myself in India before many weeks 
 are over.' 
 
 ' But women can work too,' she said 
 wonderingly. * Why do you try to frighten 
 me ? ' 
 
 ' Because I want you to seize the only 
 way of escape that offers.' 
 ' Escape ? How ? ' 
 
 * Hear me out ! I am going to rush in — 
 probably like a fool — where angels might 
 hesitate to tread ; but I know what life is, 
 and I must open your eyes. After Ever- 
 ard had told me all he knew, I went to ray 
 room, and Waring, who had been dosing 
 over an evening paper — ' 
 
 ' Was he a confidante of our troubles 
 too ? ' she interrupted, with a slight curl of 
 the lip. 
 
 * He was! — that need not affect you. 
 Waring followed, and asked for a few 
 words with me. You know what a shy, 
 awkward fellow he is. Well, I was 
 amazed at his clearness and fluency — pray 
 hear me out. He said he came to consult 
 me, knowing that I had been on tolerably 
 intimate terms with Mrs Newburgh and
 
 A Proposal. 9 
 
 yourself all last season — in short, he con- 
 fessed — what I already guessed — that he 
 was desperately in love with you ; that he 
 was afraid you did not think much of him ; 
 and asked me if, under the circumstances, 
 I thought it would be good form to pro- 
 pose for you ! He said it cut him to the 
 heart, to think of your being deprived of 
 anything that could give you pleasure or 
 comfort, — I must say he spoke like a 
 gentleman.' 
 
 * It was very strange his consulting jj'^^ / ' 
 she exclaimed, with unconscious emphasis. 
 
 * I do not think it was,' he returned, with 
 studied composure, while he watched her 
 varying colour ; * we have become rather 
 chums.' 
 
 'And you?' 
 
 ' I advised him to make the venture, 
 and I made this opportunity to advise you 
 to accept him.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' exclaimed the young lady, sud- 
 denly pressing her handkerchief to her 
 brow. 'There must be an east wind. Such 
 a sharp pain shot through my temple ! 
 Would you draw up that window .'* ' 
 
 The pain was so severe that her voice
 
 lo Monas Choice, 
 
 sounded unsteady. He obeyed — and re- 
 suming his seat and his arguement pro- 
 ceeded, — 
 
 * Waring is not a bad fellow, and he is 
 rich, really rich, no matter if the richness 
 is new or old. He is not as dull as he 
 seems, though dulness is no drawback to 
 a husband. He adores you ! — but he is 
 half afraid of you; you may reign supreme; 
 you can help your grandmother ; you will 
 even thank me hereafter for showing you 
 this way to escape from the horrors of 
 genteel poverty, only you must not hesitate 
 in your acceptance of him.' Lisle went on 
 impressively. ' He is a shy bird ; if you 
 are not kindly, he will flutter away ; you 
 need not affect any passion, simply promise 
 to be his wife. He has a high opinion of 
 your integrity and honour. He will trust 
 you, and when I come back after a few 
 years of broiling, I shall see you, I hope, 
 what you ought to be, a leader and an or- 
 nament of society, perhaps to be rewarded 
 for my enormous unselfishness by a renewal 
 x)f your friendship and confidence ! ' 
 
 While he spoke, his companion had 
 opened her travelling-bag, taken out a
 
 A Proposal. ii 
 
 flask of eau de Cologne, and dropped some 
 on her handkerchief, which she appHed to 
 her forehead. 
 
 *Ah!' she said, ' it is a Httle better!' 
 She raised her eyes to his with a smile, 
 a polite smile. ' You are really very good 
 to take all this trouble for me : it is more 
 than I could expect ! You need not ex- 
 haust yourself in persuasion : I really do 
 not dislike Mr Waring ; on the contrary, 
 he is evidently malleable, and by no means 
 bad-looking, — rather young perhaps, but 
 that is a fault which corrects itself. I 
 had no idea he thought of throwing the 
 handkerchief to me ! I am much obliged 
 for your warning not to scare a shy bird ! 
 It is not always that a man is gifted with 
 a figure as well as a fortune.' 
 
 She spoke with languid composure, 
 keeping her eyes on his. 
 
 ' I am very glad you take so sensible a 
 view of my suggestion,' he returned, with 
 slight suppressed surprise ; * as to looks, 
 that is a matter of taste : I do not admire 
 the "prize-fighter" style myself; but 
 Waring is quite six or seven years older 
 than you are ! I assure you it is a relief to
 
 12 Monas Choice, 
 
 my mind that you deign to accept my 
 counsel, and do not snub me for med- 
 dling.' 
 
 * That would be a bad return for your 
 disinterested friendship. I do not think 
 many people would imagine you capable 
 of so Quixotic an effort to succour a damsel 
 in distress ! You do not do yourself justice, 
 Captain Lisle ! Now, do tell me something 
 of your own plans ! for I reciprocate your 
 friendly interest, I assure you.' 
 
 * My plans,' he repeated, in a different 
 and less steady tone. * They are simple 
 enough. My uncle, General Forester, 
 has promised me an appointment on 
 his staff. It may keep me in India 
 the best part of my life ; but I shall 
 have leave of absence from time to time, 
 and so keep in touch with civilisation.' 
 
 * That will be delightful ! And you 
 really have known common-place money 
 troubles like other people ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; very decidedly yes.' 
 
 He was feeling curiously displaced from 
 his position of superior firmness and 
 worldly knowledge. The unexpected 
 acceptance of his suggestion by this fair
 
 A Proposal. 13 
 
 gentle creature, who was barely nineteen,, 
 threw him off his balance. 
 
 ' Then I hope they are over for ever/ 
 she remarked, in a kindly tone. ' You 
 must pick up a Begum in India. Yet, not 
 I should not like to be less bountiful than 
 you are. I would give you a pretty, as well 
 as a wealthy wife. Mr Waring is hand- 
 some, or rather he will develop into a hand- 
 some man. I think you have chosen well/ 
 
 ' I did not choose at all. I simply did 
 my best to induce you not to throw away 
 a good chance. Are you serious ? I do 
 not quite understand you, Mona.' 
 
 She raised a warning finger playfully. 
 
 ' As I am not, according to you, to keep 
 my name much longer, pray let me hear 
 it always ; it is far prettier than Waring 
 — Miss Joscelyn, if you please.' 
 
 She had grown quite animated ; a faint 
 colour replaced her extreme pallor ; her 
 large eyes sparkled ; she dominated the 
 conversation. Captain Lisle watched her 
 closely ; her manner was quite natural, 
 while his lost the curt decision which char- 
 acterised it at first. She questioned him 
 as to how many horses Waring could
 
 14 Monet s Choice. 
 
 keep, as to where they should live, — said 
 she was glad he was not encumbered with 
 landed estates, as she would like to ramble 
 about, and much more to the same effect, 
 half in jest. At length he looked at his 
 watch. 
 
 ' In ten minutes I must say good-bye,' 
 he said. ' I get out at the next station, and 
 wait for the four-fifty train to Galesford.' 
 
 * What a long tiresome wait. You really 
 have sacrificed yourself to friendship.' 
 
 * I have,' he returned emphatically. ' I 
 wonder if you exactly appreciate the sacri- 
 fice.' 
 
 ' I do indeed.' 
 
 ' May I not call and learn from your 
 own lips how you are going on ? ' 
 
 * You see it is a little uncertain where you 
 may find us. I fear they do not allow visitors 
 at the workhouse, which may be our desti- 
 nation, if Mr Waring has not the goodness 
 to charge himself with our support.' 
 
 * It is too bad that these wealthy new 
 men get the pick of everything ! Ah ! 
 here we are. Do you know, it is awfully 
 hard to say good-bye ; I really feel a little 
 murderous towards Waring.'
 
 A Proposal. 15 
 
 ' Beware ! I have taken him under my 
 protection.' 
 
 *It is not good-bye, however; I will see you 
 in ten days or a fortnight. Till then, addio!' 
 
 He pressed her hand close, she with- 
 drew it in fierce haste ; the next moment 
 he was standing on the platform, yet 
 another, and the train was again in motion. 
 Miss Clifford kissed her hand with a saucy 
 smile as she passed out of sight. The 
 only other passenger who alighted gave 
 up his ticket, and Lisle was left to pace 
 the damp gravel, and think over the con- 
 versation he had just held. 
 
 ' I am well out of it,' was his first 
 thought ; ' but she took my advice rather 
 differently from what I expected. I fancied 
 we would have had high-fiown sentiment, 
 perhaps tears and despair. I suspect I 
 do not quite understand my fair friend. 
 How beautifully fair she is. I did not 
 dream she had so much pluck. By Jove! 
 she turned my flank by her ready accept- 
 ance of my suggestion : but I fancy it 
 was a tremendons blow, for all that ! She 
 was growing fond of me — I know it, I feel 
 it — and / never was so near makinor a fool
 
 1 6 Monas Choice, 
 
 of myself about any woman as about Mona 
 Clifford ; but it would not do ! Matrimony 
 is a hideous institution. Even Mona's fine 
 eyes, and general charm (she is charming !) 
 would lose their effect in a few years — per- 
 haps in a few months, and I might be a 
 brute, or she would think me one. Women 
 are so terribly unpractical and illogical 1 
 If they are worth their salt, they expect 
 the same constancy they bestow ; if they 
 are capable of making allowance, they 
 demand a wide margin for their own 
 vagaries. Now I really am loyal and 
 disinterested in wishing her to marry War- 
 ing. I couldn't possibly undertake her 
 grandmother ! She would be too ex- 
 pensive a luxury. Waring can afford to 
 pension her off; at any rate, Mona will 
 clearly understand that in arranging her 
 future I don't count. It would have been 
 wrong to allow her to make any mistake 
 or lose a good chance. I feel I have done 
 my duty. I wonder If we can renew our 
 platonics at any future time ? Mona at 
 the head of a good establishment would be 
 quite irresistible, and Waring is one of 
 those happy individuals who thinks no
 
 A Proposal. ly 
 
 evil. Yes, I have certainly done the 
 right thing for her and for myself, but 
 there's both force and fire under her in- 
 dolent softness. I wonder how she will 
 turn out. She surely does not admire 
 that big, rugged, overgrown schoolboy. 
 But she may choose to assert she does, 
 till she believes it. Women defy one's cal- 
 culations. Anyhow, I did not make my 
 early start this morning for nothing.' 
 
 Meanwhile Mona was carried deeper 
 and deeper into the gloom of the fast 
 closing October evening. Alone — un- 
 watched, she let loose the reins of her 
 self-control, and yielded to the storm of 
 shame and despair which rent her soul. 
 
 She had indeed ' grown fond ' of Lisle, 
 after months of frequent intercourse, 
 during which he had sought her with 
 so much carefully-veiled assiduity — and 
 won her confidence by a happy assump- 
 tion of elder-brotherly authority, flecked 
 with gleams of passionate admiration, 
 which seemed to flash out in spite of 
 himself, and were real enough. He had 
 roused her interest, and flattered her 
 youthful vanity — for St John Lisle was 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 1 8 Monds Choice, 
 
 a man of good position, a favourite with 
 fine ladies, a smart cavalry officer, of 
 whose success in life no one had a doubt. 
 To feel that she, a simple ddbutante, 
 exercised an influence and attraction on 
 such a man — was infinitely exhilarating. 
 Lisle had been the chum and favourite 
 brother officer of Mrs Newburgh's favour- 
 ite nephew, and this was an excuse for 
 an unusual degree of intimacy — which 
 had increased as time rolled on, and 
 reached a dangerous pitch during their 
 stay at Lady Mary Everard's, the last 
 blissful days enjoyed by Mona. Captain 
 Lisle had beofun to fear that he was 
 going too far, and was annoyed with 
 himself for his reluctance to draw back, 
 when the news of Mrs Newburgh's mis- 
 fortunes — the confession of young Waring, 
 came to relieve him from the gathering 
 difficulties of his situation. Now, a kind 
 of lurid light from the burning of Mona's 
 indignant heart seemed to bring out the 
 bitter truth with stinging distinctness. 
 She seemed to be present at that in- 
 terview between Lisle and Leslie Waring. 
 She knew, as though she had heard the
 
 A Proposal, 19 
 
 words, that Waring — having noticed the 
 understanding between her and the man 
 who was all but her avowed lover, had 
 asked him if they were engaged, — If it 
 would be interfering with his (Lisle's) 
 rights were he to offer himself to her 
 in this crisis of her fortune. Lisle had, 
 no doubt, disclaimed all wish to make 
 her his wife, and coolly given his approval 
 to Waring's pretensions. More, he had not 
 hesitated to recommend his rival ! What 
 a reverse to the picture her fancy had 
 hitherto presented, of Lisle vainly strug- 
 gling against his love for her, — hesitating 
 lest her relatives or herself should not 
 think him a sufficiently good match for 
 her, — of his ecstasy when the time came, 
 and she permitted him to see how dear 
 he had grown. Now behold ! the time 
 of trial came, and he was eager to hand 
 her over to another. How could she 
 have been so blind — so deluded ? Her 
 rage was more against herself than against 
 him. Her long slender fingers clutched 
 the arms of the seat with feverish force, in 
 her agony and self-contempt. How could 
 she have been so weak, so conceited, as
 
 20 Monas Choice. 
 
 to suppose that she had become all In 
 all to such a man as St John Lisle ? Yet, 
 yet he did admire her and seek her ! A 
 hundred instances crowded on her memory 
 which might well have misled her ; im- 
 portant trifles which could not have 
 occurred had he not loved her at the 
 time. If he had, why did he change 
 so suddenly ? What had she done to 
 forfeit the tenderness of which she was 
 so sure ? No ! She was not all self- 
 deceived. He was false, fickle, cruel — 
 she might be less hard upon herself! 
 Then she questioned the prudence of 
 her own action on hearing his astounding 
 proposal. Was it well to have played 
 the part she did, in affecting to entertain 
 it ? Would it have been wiser and more 
 dignified to have rebuked him for his 
 interference, and refused to listen to his 
 pleading ? For the present, every desire 
 was merged in her passionate wish to 
 hide her wounds, and make Lisle believe 
 she was as strong, as worldly, as in- 
 different as himself, — that his conduct did 
 not cost her a pang. What a lesson he 
 had taught her of her own insignificance,
 
 A Proposal. 21 
 
 of the delusions she had trusted. As to 
 poor Waring, she bestowed small con- 
 sideration on his honest affection for her. 
 Of all the house-party at Harrowby Chase, 
 she had taken least notice of him. Their 
 previous intercourse had consisted of a 
 few meetings at evening parties, where 
 he had perseveringly asked her to dance, 
 and she had as perseveringly endeavoured 
 to evade him. Of this he was unaware, 
 as her manners were softly gracious, and 
 she hated to give pain. 
 
 Now this ungraceful, shy, inarticulate 
 young man was thrust upon her by Lisle, 
 who had so often turned him into ridicule. 
 Anything was good enough for a girl who 
 was penniless and almost unprotected ! It 
 would go hard with her, she thought, while 
 her cheeks glowed, and her heart beat 
 fast, — very hard, before she would consent 
 to marry him. It was almost impossible 
 he could desire such a union himself, 
 he always seemed so ill at ease in her 
 presence. She wished him a better fate ! 
 Then the vision of Lisle rose before her, 
 distinguished, self-reliant, strong, always 
 ready to say the right thing — a man with
 
 22 Afonas Choice. 
 
 whom the highest dared not take a liberty, 
 and his voice vibrated again on the chords 
 of memory, his eyes looked into hers. No ! 
 she had not deceived herself — there had 
 been moments when St John Lisle had loved 
 her passionately, and they had gone by 
 for ever. Grannie might regain her little 
 fortune, wealth might pour in upon them, 
 but nothing could ever be to her what 
 it had been. Between the present and 
 the past a great gulf yawned — which 
 nothing could fill up. And poor grannie ! 
 Mona's heart reproached her for having 
 utterly forgotten grannie, who had been 
 so stunned by the terrible loss which had 
 befallen her. How her proud worldly 
 yet sound nature would wither under the 
 disgraces of poverty. Grannie who loved 
 her so well, even while she tyrannised over 
 her — she had often been rebellious, selfish, 
 now she would try and comfort the poor 
 old woman. She had built such hopes 
 too on Mona's success, now everything 
 was crumbled In the dust. The blank 
 dreariness of the future appalled her. 
 How could she live on — and If grannie 
 succumbed to this attack, what was to
 
 A Proposal. 23 
 
 become of her ? At the thous^ht of her 
 isolation, of all the benefits she had re- 
 ceived from her aged protectress, her 
 grief and agitation found vent in a flood 
 of tears, which lasted for many miles, 
 yet brought relief and the calmness of 
 exhaustion. 
 
 The Honorable Mrs Newburgh, sister 
 of the late and aunt of the present Vis- 
 count Sunderline, had had much dis- 
 appointment in her long life. Beginning 
 with all the advantao^es of rank and 
 beauty, she refused numerous excellent 
 offers — to accept, at the mature age of 
 thirty-five, the good-looking horsey son 
 of a Yorkshire squire. He loved her, 
 but he also feared her — which condition 
 of mind led to much concealment of 
 difihculties, and their consequent compli- 
 cation. Mrs Newburgh was a woman 
 of strong will, and some business capacity, 
 and she always held on firmly to her own 
 small fortune. Her only son went into 
 the army, and was killed at Inkerman. 
 Her only daughter, who resembled her 
 father in character, formed a strong 
 attachment to an obscure young Scots-
 
 24 Moitcis Choice. 
 
 man, whom she met accidently in the 
 Highlands, under somewhat romantic cir- 
 cumstances. Mrs Newburgh set her face 
 against so disgraceful a union ; she dragged 
 her pretty daughter from one Continental 
 court to another, and finally tried to force 
 her to marry an Englishman of high 
 position and large fortune. This was too 
 much, and the weak, simple, frightened girl 
 fled to her Scotch lover. Her mother re- 
 nounced her, and never saw her face again. 
 
 From this time Mrs Newburgh devoted 
 herself to increasing her fortune, both by 
 saving and speculating. She returned to 
 London, and once more took her place 
 in society. 
 
 The announcement of her daughter's 
 death made little or no change in her 
 way of life ; she made no attempt to com- 
 municate with the bereaved husband, and 
 seemed to forget she had ever had a 
 daughter. About five years later she 
 was startled by a letter from the minister 
 of a church in the neighbourhood of 
 Glasgow, describing the last moments of 
 Kenneth Craig, who had been a broken 
 man ever since the death of his wife,
 
 A Proposal. 25 
 
 and enclosing a brief letter to Mrs New- 
 burgh from the deceased. In it he simply 
 said that the pay of a bank clerk had 
 been too small to permit him to lay 
 anything by for his little girl, that his 
 own people were poor, that he trusted 
 her mother's mother would so far forgive 
 as not to punish the innocent, and begged 
 her to give the child sufficient education 
 to earn her bread hereafter. She was 
 named, he said, Mona Jocelyn, after her 
 mother and her uncle. 
 
 Mrs Newburgh answered this appeal by 
 sending for the little bright-eyed six-year- 
 ling, and placing her at a school specially 
 arranged for children whose parents were 
 either dead or absent. It was in the 
 country, and kept by a quiet motherly old 
 maid. For some time her grandmother 
 never saw Mona, but one spring, when the 
 child had nearly attained her tenth year, 
 scarlet fever broke out in the school, and 
 little Mona was sent off without a word of 
 warning to Mrs Newburgh, who had been 
 spending a few months in town, and was 
 packed up and ready to start for the 
 Continent.
 
 2 6 Mond s Choice, 
 
 Though dreadfully annoyed by the 
 contretemps, Mrs Newburgh was struck 
 and pleased with the improvement and 
 promise of her granddaughter, especially as 
 she was very like her late uncle, her red- 
 dish hair being a legacy from the plebeian 
 Craigs. Finally she took her abroad, and 
 placed her first at a convent school in 
 Paris, and after in an educational establish- 
 ment of a very superior description at 
 Dresden. Here Mrs Newburgh occasion- 
 ally visited her, and she remained till she 
 was seventeen, when she went to reside 
 with her grandmother in London ; she 
 continued to study music under the best 
 masters, and was always present when 
 Mrs Newburgh received. The spring 
 before the opening of this story, she had 
 been presented, her grandmother was well 
 satisfied with her social success, and hoped 
 for a brilliant marriage, when the blow fell 
 which ruined all. 
 
 It was quite dark when Mona reached 
 St Pancras ; she was utterly weary, and 
 profoundly still. 
 
 As a porter threw open the carriage 
 door, a respectable foreign-looking man.
 
 A Proposal. 27 
 
 somewhat tan-coloured in complexion, and 
 pear shaped In figure, going small to the 
 feet and spreading out roundly above, put 
 him aside. Raising his hat, he said in 
 German, — 
 
 ' Welcome, my fraulein ! I hope you are 
 not fatigued.' 
 
 'Yes, a little, Wehner! How is my 
 erandmother ? ' 
 
 * Better, my fraulein ! but weak ! ah, 
 very weak. She is looking anxiously for 
 you. If you get into the cab, I will find 
 your baggage.' 
 
 >^^^^
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 O N A emplo^^ed the interval 
 passed in the darkness and soli- 
 tude of the cab which conveyed 
 her home, in a resolute effort 
 to regain her self-possession. She dreaded 
 to meet grannie's keen, observant eyes ; 
 she dreaded too, the mood which her severe 
 losses would most probably have induced. 
 Mrs Newburgh, though generally keeping 
 herself well in hand, had her tempers, and 
 Mona became a favourite chiefly because 
 she was not frightened by them. She was 
 far from realising as yet the total loss 
 which had befallen. 
 
 The door was opened by Mrs Newburgh's 
 maid, a very important person, with w^hom
 
 Another. 29 
 
 Mona had not unfrequent differences of 
 opinion. Her face was expressive of ill- 
 temper and disgust. 
 
 ' Mrs Newburgh has been worriting 
 herself and everyone else because she 
 fancies you are late, miss,' was her 
 salutation. 
 
 ' I do not think I am, Hooper !' 
 
 ' I daresay not ; only you see she is all 
 wrong about time — a minute or an hour, 
 it's all one to her. I never thought you 
 would see her alive. After she read about 
 that cruel deceitful, swindling company in 
 the paper, she sent off Mr Wehner for Mr 
 Macquibble. After they had talked a bit, 
 the bell rung sharp ; I was called, and there 
 was Mrs Newburgh in a dead faint. I 
 thought she would never come to. We 
 called the doctor and put her to bed, but 
 she had three more faints before night. 
 Then we telegraphed for you, miss. No- 
 thing would keep her in bed this after- 
 noon, — she got up and dressed.' 
 
 * Poor, dear grannie ! I will go to her 
 at once ! ' 
 
 ' Won't you have a cup of tea first, miss ?" 
 you are looking dreadful bad ! '
 
 30 Mona's Choice. 
 
 ' No, thank you, Hooper ! ' 
 
 She went quickly upstairs to her grand- 
 mother's room, and having paused for a 
 second at the door, went In softly. 
 
 Mrs Newburgh sat at a writing-table 
 covered with letters, papers, account and 
 cheque books — some notes and gold at 
 her right hand. She was wrapped in a 
 morning-gown of dark red cashmere, and 
 her grey hair was neatly arranged under 
 her lace cap ; but Mona was startled by 
 the o^hastliness of her face. Mrs New- 
 burgh had borne the wear and tear of time 
 well, and having accepted her age without 
 a struggle for youthful appearance, did 
 not look her seventy-six years. Now she 
 miorht have been a hundred. Her cheeks 
 seemed thinner and more sunken; wrinkles 
 had come about her mouth, the muscles of 
 which were relaxed into a downward curve; 
 her face was deadly white ; her keen dark 
 ■eyes were dim and frightened ; the hands 
 which lay on the table were yellow and 
 tremulous. Mona's heart thrilled with 
 pity at the sight of such a wreck. 
 
 ' Oh, grannie ! — dear grannie ! ' was all 
 she could say, coming quickly to her, and
 
 Another. 31 
 
 gathering up the cold, withered hands into 
 her own, as she kissed her cheek. 
 
 The old lady clasped her almost con- 
 vulsively. 
 
 ' I thought you would never come,' she 
 whispered brokenly. * Do you know that 
 everything is gone ? — everything ! We 
 cannot stay here. This is the last money 
 I can call my own ' — and she freed one 
 hand to clutch the gold and notes. ' I 
 don't seem able to understand the 
 figures or anything! You will not leave 
 me, Mona ? Hooper is so cross that ' — 
 gathering force by a supreme effort, and 
 speaking with something of her natural 
 decision—' I should in any case dismiss 
 her ; for me all is over. I am too old 
 to struggle any longer. I have fought 
 a brave fight, but Fate is against me. 
 Mona, my child, can you forgive me for 
 losing the little fortune I intended for 
 you ? Somebody told me I ought to 
 draw out of that company — I forget who 
 — I forget all the names ; but I thought I 
 might wait a little longer — the interest 
 was so high — and I have beggared you ! 
 Can you forgive ? '
 
 32 Monas Choice, 
 
 * Forgive you ! ' cried Mona, sinking on 
 her knees and clasping her arms round 
 her trembling grandmother. ' What have 
 I to forgive ? Rather let 7ne pray your 
 forgiveness for my want of obedience and 
 submlssiveness ! Where should I be but 
 for you ? I owe you everything ! Send 
 away Hooper — I will be your maid, your 
 nurse, your servant, — anything that can 
 help or comfort you ! ' 
 
 ' Foolish, hasty child!' murmured Mrs 
 Newburgh, laying her hand tenderly on 
 the young head pressed against her. ' I 
 believe you love me a little.' 
 
 And the poor, deathlike face brightened 
 for a moment, as the sceptical, world- 
 hardened woman caught a breath of the 
 divine consolation human love alone can 
 give, and which all the kingdoms of this 
 world and the glory of them cannot replace. 
 
 * I do love you, dear ! I will do what- 
 ever you wish ; and do not be so cast 
 down — something will be arranged for us. 
 We can go away and live in the country, 
 then we shall not want expensive dresses, 
 and — ' 
 
 ' You little know ! — you little know ! '
 
 Another, 2)7) 
 
 murmured Mrs Newburgh. ' Thank God, 
 I have few debts ! I think I have paid 
 every one — intending to go abroad for 
 some months. This has been an expen- 
 sive year, and there was no time for you to 
 make a good alHance. No time — no time!' 
 
 ' But, grannie dear, you do not know 
 what prince in disguise I may captivate/ 
 said Mona, rising and drawing a chair 
 beside her. ' Penniless girls marry often.' 
 
 She would have said anything to cheer 
 her. 
 
 ' Ay ! but no jewel looks well if it is not 
 well set. Men may not want money with 
 their brides, but they are almost always 
 repulsed by mean surroundings. I see no 
 hope anywhere. None — none ! ' 
 
 There was a long pause. Then Mrs 
 Newburgh began with an effort to explain 
 how matters stood. It was pitiable to 
 hear how she lost the thread of her nar- 
 rative and struggled to regain it — how she 
 called people by wrong names, and repeated 
 herself over and over again, — insisted on 
 having the money counted out before her, 
 and strove to separate it into different por- 
 tions. At last she perceived her own in- 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 34 Moncis Choice, 
 
 ability to convey her meaning, and leant 
 suddenly back in her chair. 
 
 ' Everything fades from me,' she said ; 
 * yet I am not imbecile.' 
 
 * No, no ! dearest grannie ! This con- 
 fusion is only from physical weakness. 
 Do not try yourself any more. I will 
 write to Mr Oakley — to your solicitor — 
 to come here to-morrow ; he will put 
 things in order, and tell me what we 
 ought to do. Let me lock up all these 
 papers and the money, and give you 
 some dinner or tea or something. Think- 
 ing will do us no good. To-night I will 
 tell you all about Lady Mary and my visit, 
 then I will sit by you till you are asleep. 
 Hooper shall put the chair bed beside 
 yours. I shall sleep here to-night.' 
 
 *It would be best,' murmured Mrs New- 
 burgh, gladly resigning herself to her 
 grand - daughter's guidance. * I do not 
 want much ; but for you, — ah, Mona ! 
 it is hard ! You must pay Hooper and 
 send her away, and Wehner too : we 
 want no men-servants now.' 
 
 The explanations of Mrs Newburgh's
 
 Another, 
 
 oo 
 
 trusty solicitor were indeed a revelation 
 to Mona. The mysteries of the stock 
 market were unfolded to her wondering 
 gaze ; and she learned that besides the 
 considerable sum absolutely paid on the 
 purchase of shares, there was a terrible 
 liability in the shape of ' calls ' to the full 
 value of these shares ; and as a banking 
 business was connected with the gold 
 mine association, Mrs Newburgh's whole 
 property was subject to the demands of 
 depositors, and that she could not call a 
 farthinof her own. 
 
 The house in Green Street having been 
 bought by her, Mr Oakley advised Mrs 
 Newburgh remaining in it till obliged to 
 turn out, as she was rent free. He was 
 most useful in paying and dismissing 
 the servants. The German major-domo, 
 Avho had been for many years with Mrs 
 Newburgh, begged to be allowed to re- 
 main till his mistress left — without wages ; 
 it was, he said a bad season to find an- 
 other engagement, and he thought he could 
 be useful to the ladies, even while looking 
 out for a situation, and so he proved himself. 
 
 While these changes were going on,
 
 36 Mo7id s Choice, 
 
 Mona was profoundly anxious about her 
 grandmother. At times she was keen, 
 eager, fully alive to what was going on ; 
 then a cloud would gather over her poor 
 brain, and things seemed to slip from her. 
 She could not bear Mona out of her sight, 
 and was reluctant to let any other relatives 
 approach her. When urged by Oakley to 
 acquaint her nephew, Lord Sunderline, 
 with the state of her affairs, she asked 
 sharply what good that would do ? 
 
 * He has little enough for himself, and 
 never forgave me for adopting Mona.' 
 
 ' But, my dear madam, some steps must 
 be taken to provide for the future.' 
 
 ' I wish Nature would provide for me,' 
 returned Mrs Newburgh, with a deep sigh ;, 
 ' I am a helpless encumbrance now.' 
 
 ' I am sure no one else thinks so,' said the 
 solicitor soothingly. ' Is there not some 
 balance at your bankers that you might 
 place in — say Sir Robert Everard's hand, 
 just to secure some ready money ? ' 
 
 ' I will see ; I will look into my accounts, 
 but for the present I am too tired to dis- 
 cuss anything further.'
 
 Another. 37 
 
 Mrs Newburgh could not, however, com- 
 plain of any want of interest on the part 
 of her numerous friends and acquaintances ; 
 she was overwhelmed with letters of con- 
 dolence, of inquiry, of the most impossible 
 suofCTestions. 
 
 These were generally read aloud by her 
 grand-daughter, or as much of them as she 
 would listen to. Sometimes she would 
 grow feverish over attempted calculations ; 
 sometimes she would sit for hours deadly 
 silent. 
 
 The fourth day after her return home, 
 Mona was as usual in attendance on her 
 grandmother, and making out a list of such 
 necessaries as they might take with them, 
 when two letters arrived by the second de- 
 livery. One was from Sir Robert Everard 
 — a distant cousin of ^Irs Newbureh's — 
 and offered her a cottage which used to 
 be occupied by one of the curates of the 
 parish, suggesting that she might remove 
 some of her furniture there before the 
 final crash came, and adding much kindly 
 counsel. The other was in a bio-, firm but 
 unknown hand. Mona turned to the sicrna- 
 ture — it was ' Leslie Waring.' She had
 
 38 Monas Choice. 
 
 almost forgotten him in the painful excite- 
 ment of the last few days, though the bitter 
 remembrance of Lisle's advice never left 
 her. Every night u^hen she had read or 
 softly talked her grandmother to sleep, 
 when all was still and dark, she lived over 
 again the fiery ordeal of that conversation 
 in the train, and looked, shuddering, at the 
 dreary, lonely future, through which she 
 must do battle alone. To whom could she 
 turn, on whom could she lean, when the 
 man who seemed to hang on her words — 
 whose eyes spoke the warmest devotion, 
 shrank from her at the first mutterings of 
 the storm ? But as to when Mr Waring 
 would declare himself, or whether he ever 
 would, she gave no thought. Now the 
 momentous question on which she would 
 be called to decide stared her in the face, 
 and filled her soul with fear and disgust. 
 
 * I cannot read this letter to you, grannie ; 
 could you read it yourself 1 ' 
 
 ' Why ? What is it ? ' 
 
 ' It is marked private, and is, I see, from 
 Mr Waring ; do you remember him ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I do ! Give it to me. Where are 
 my glasses '^. '
 
 Another. 39 
 
 Mona sat and watched the haggard, 
 hopeless face, as her grandmother perused 
 the Hnes, gradually growing less drawn, 
 less desponding, while her own heart sank 
 lower and beat faster. 
 
 * Thank God,' murmured Mrs Newburgh 
 at last, heaving a deep sigh as she laid down 
 the letter; ' all is not quite lost yet.' Mona 
 did not speak. * Mona ! read it,' she con- 
 tinued ; ' I suppose you know the contents ; 
 read it, I say/ repeated Mrs Newburgh 
 impatiently. 
 
 Mona took it and read with nervous 
 rapidity, — 
 
 ' Dear Mrs Newburgh, — I venture to 
 trouble you with a letter, because I have 
 twice tried in vain to see you or Miss 
 Joscelyn. I feel it is awkward and diffi- 
 cult to approach the subject on which I am 
 about to address you, when I have had so 
 few opportunities of making myself known, 
 but I earnestly hope you will exonerate me 
 from the charge of presumption, and that 
 Miss Joscelyn will not refuse to let me ex- 
 plain myself to her personally. If I dare to 
 be somewhat premature, it is because I be-
 
 40 Monas Choice. 
 
 lleve I might be of some use in the present 
 crisis, were I so fortunate as to be accepted 
 by the lady to whose hand I aspire. In- 
 deed, under any circumstances, I should be 
 proud to be of the smallest service to you, 
 and beg to assure you that I am ready to 
 meet your wishes In all ways. Looking 
 anxiously for your reply. — I am, yours 
 faithfully, Leslie Waring.' 
 
 There was a short silence when Mona 
 ceased. 
 
 ' A very good letter,' said Mrs New- 
 burgh, with a little gasp, looking with 
 pitiful, Imploring eyes at her grandchild. 
 
 ' I wonder if he composed it himself,' 
 observed Mona quietly. 
 
 ' My child, could you make up your 
 mind to marry this young man ? I have 
 noticed his admiration of you. He writes 
 like an honest gentleman. Let me have 
 the comfort of knowing that you have 
 escaped the ills of poverty.' 
 
 ' Oh, grannie, It is a tremendous price 
 to pay for safety ! Mr Waring may 
 be a better man than I deserve ; but I 
 do not care for him. He seems to me
 
 Another. 41 
 
 an awkward big boy, — dull and un- 
 formed.' 
 
 Mrs Newburgh sighed deeply, and 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 ' I leave it to yourself. I am such a 
 failure, I dare not urge my advice on any- 
 one. I was too urgent with your mother. 
 Do as you will, Mona.' 
 
 * Oh ! what ought I to do ? ' exclaimed 
 Mona. * It is awful to think of spend- 
 ing one's whole life with a man to whom 
 you are indifferent ; it is cruel to refuse 
 the only efficient help for you, dear 
 grannie.' 
 
 ' Think of yourself — yourself only ; as 
 for me, I — ' her voice grew feeble, her 
 words inarticulate, her head fell back, and 
 to Mona's dismay she became insen- 
 sible. 
 
 All other considerations were forgotten 
 in the efforts to recover her. The faithful 
 Wehner went swiftly for the doctor, who 
 happened to have returned from his morn- 
 ing rounds and came at once. 
 
 * It's a bad business these repeated 
 attacks,' he said to Mona, after he had 
 seen his patient. ' Her nerves are all
 
 42 Monas Choice. 
 
 wrong. Her mind must be kept at ease 
 somehow. Get her out of this ! ' 
 
 * We expect Sir Robert Everard the 
 day after to-morrow, and then we shall 
 decide what to do,' faltered Mona. 
 
 * The sooner the better, my dear young 
 lady,' returned the doctor, who knew Mrs 
 Newburgh well. * She will go off in one 
 of these attacks, or her mind will become 
 seriously impaired. A woman of her age 
 can hardly stand the shock of such a re- 
 verse. Keep her very quiet ; she seems 
 drowsy — the best thing for her is a good 
 sleep ; do not leave her ; she must be 
 watched. I will look in this evening 
 about seven.' 
 
 Mona's thoughts were sorely troubled 
 as she kept watch at her grandmother's 
 bedside. She knew that her marriage 
 with Waring — or even the prospect of it, 
 would be the best restorative for her only 
 friend, the woman who had been a mother 
 to her, who had saved and worked to 
 amass the means of independent existence 
 for her, who had loved her after her 
 own hard but tenacious fashion. She re- 
 called, with a swelling heart, her grand-
 
 Another. 43 
 
 mother's watchful economy, her self-denial 
 in all things necessary to herself. She did 
 not doubt that any niggardliness towards 
 her grandchild was for her future good. 
 How wise and judicious she had been in 
 her guidance of their lives. If she had 
 shown too strong a tendency to marry her 
 grand-daughter as soon as possible to the 
 highest bidder, she only acted according 
 to her liorhts — to the creed of her world 
 and her period. Was it well for Mona to 
 refuse the means of giving her a longer 
 and brighter spell of life ? Dare she incur 
 the responsibility of her possible death ? 
 What would she gain — what had she to 
 hope for, in an unmarried life, that she 
 should reject this kind-natured man who 
 only asked leave to devote his fortune to 
 her service. With the tendency of youth 
 to believe in the perpetuity of the present, 
 she thought that love with her was over 
 for ever. She could never believe anyone 
 again. She was not angry with Lisle, so 
 much as disenchanted ; her anger was 
 more against herself, for her weakness and 
 credulity. 
 
 A soft tap at the door attracted her at
 
 44 Manas Choice. 
 
 tendon ; she rose and cautiously opened 
 it. 
 
 ' Madame Debrisay is below, wanting 
 to speak with you, ma'am/ said the woman 
 who had replaced both cook and house- 
 maid. 
 
 ^ I should like to see her ; could you 
 stay for a little with Mrs Newburgh while 
 I eo downstairs.' 
 
 ' Yes'm. I think Mr Wehner is just 
 come in. I will ask him to answer the 
 door, and come back directly.' 
 
 Having given a few directions, Mona 
 ran downstairs lightly, well pleased to have 
 a confidential talk with her visitor. 
 
 Madame Debrisay had been her greatest 
 friend when she was at school in Paris. 
 There she had been the junior music mis- 
 tress, and Mona had been immensely at- 
 tracted by the kindliness and good-humour 
 of the hard-working teacher. 
 
 When Mona left, Madame Debrisay 
 moved to London, and with Mrs New- 
 burgh's help contrived to make a good 
 connection as a music and singing mistress. 
 She gave Mona lesssons, or rather assisted 
 her in practising for an expensive master,
 
 Another, 45 
 
 and continued her warmest admirer and 
 devoted friend. Both Madame Debrisay 
 and her late husband the Captain were 
 British subjects, being natives of the 
 Emerald Isle, but she deemed it wise to 
 pose as a foreigner, with a view to obtain- 
 ing a better position in her profession; and 
 possessing dramatic instincts, she played 
 her part artistically, speaking English with 
 a foreign accent, and even brokenly at 
 times, a proceeding she justified by assert- 
 ing that the late Debrisay and herself were 
 really French, being descended from the 
 Huguenots who had fled from the persecu- 
 tions of Louis the Fourteenth. 
 
 The small fireless dining-room looked 
 so dismal and dark that chill November 
 afternoon, that Mona called Wehner to 
 light the gas, that she might see her 
 friend's face. 
 
 ' Oh ! me dear child '(sounded like choild) 
 — her native accent came out when she 
 was much moved, ' I have only just come 
 back from the sea side, and heard some bad 
 news, so I ran round to get at the truth 
 from yourself.' 
 
 * You cannot have heard anything worse
 
 46 Monas Choice, 
 
 than the truth, Deb,' returned Mona. 
 ^ Poor grannie has lost everything. I 
 scarcely know what is to become of us.' 
 
 ' Dieu des Dieux! you don't say so. 
 Don't tell me you have to face the black 
 death ! for that's what poverty is. There 
 is no misfortune like it, and / know. Oh, 
 my dear — my jewel, can you see no way 
 out of it ?' 
 
 ' No ; no way I should care to try.' 
 ' Ha ! there is a blink of hope somewhere 
 then ? How is your dear good grand- 
 mother ? How will she ever bear ''going 
 down ? " ' 
 
 * She is very unwell and weak : I am 
 quite frightened about her.' 
 
 ' And no wonder ! ' 
 
 Madame Debrisay untied her veil, and 
 sat down with a despondent air. She was 
 a plump woman, under middle height, with 
 dark eyes, iron - grey hair, a decidedly 
 turned-up nose, a wide, smiling mouth, 
 which was rarely quite closed over her 
 beautifully white teeth. 
 
 * Tell me all about everything.' 
 
 And Mona explained as far as her 
 imperfect knowledge permitted.
 
 Another, 47 
 
 ' Those promoters and scamps who get 
 up these companies to rob and plunder the 
 world ought to be hung ! I know the 
 cruel way they work. You pay a few 
 pounds on each share, and all goes swim- 
 ingly for a bit, and then you take more, 
 and chuckle over the good income they 
 bring in, never doubting that their value 
 will double by-and-by ; then comes the 
 crash, and you find all you possess clawed 
 up by those villains — and I'm afraid they 
 will make a clean sweep of poor dear 
 Mrs Newburgh's money, that she was so 
 fond of. Not but that she was generous 
 and kind too,' added Madame Debrisay, 
 hastily correcting herself. 
 
 ' I am afraid they will ! I try hard to 
 think what will become of us, — of what I 
 ought to do,' returned Mona, with a deep 
 sigh. ' I fear I am very useless. What 
 can I do to earn money ? ' 
 
 ' You earn money ! Why, it is hard 
 •enough for those who have been trained 
 for work to find the means of existence ; 
 and you — ' here she found her handkerchief 
 necessary. ' That I should live to hear 
 you speak of such a thing ! Not that the
 
 48 Monds Choice. 
 
 work Itself is hard — an idle life is the 
 worst of all ! — it's the looking for it, and 
 the failures, and the waiting. No, my 
 dear, you must make up your mind and 
 marry some nice rich man.' 
 
 Mona laughed, but her laugh was not 
 merry. 
 
 * Dear Deb ! you are as imaginative as 
 ever ! Nice rich men are not plentiful, 
 nor are they ready to marry penniless girls.' 
 
 ' Yes, Englishmen are. And you must 
 not be too hard to please. I remember 
 that night I went to Mrs Vincent's soirde 
 musicale, to play the accompaniments, there 
 was a fine, elegant, distingud man talking 
 to you, and watching you. I asked you 
 about him after, but you would only 
 laugh. You told me his name, but I 
 cannot think of it.' 
 
 ' Mrs Vincent's party,' said Mona, blush- 
 ing. ' There was a crowd of very polite 
 gentlemen there,' she added evasively. 
 
 How well she remembered that blissful 
 evening — what a thrill of pain the mention 
 of it sent through her heart. 
 
 ' Ay ! but this one was more than polite. 
 He was a Captain — Captain Lisle, that's
 
 Another, 49 
 
 it. Now, why wouldn't you take 
 him?' 
 
 ' Because he never asked me for one 
 thing/ said Mona, nerving herself to 
 speak lightly and smile carelessly. * I 
 suspect he is a man who wants a 
 great deal of money, and has very 
 little.' 
 
 ' Oh ! he isn't badly off! I know they 
 were talking of him, and of a rich widow 
 who wanted to marry him, and Mrs Vin- 
 cent said he was too independent to be a 
 fortune-hunter, — that he had six or seven 
 hundred a year, to say nothing of his 
 pay.' 
 
 ' That is not being rich,' returned Mona, 
 trying to evade the subject, but making a 
 mental note of the fact that Lisle was not 
 poor ; then a sudden impulse prompted 
 her to confide her difficulties to her shrewd, 
 sympathising friend. * But I am in a pain- 
 fully undecided state of mind about a really 
 rich man who has written to my grand- 
 mother asking leave to '* pay his ad- 
 dresses to me," as old-fashioned people 
 say.' 
 
 * Thank God ! ' exclaimed Madame 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 Monas Choice, 
 
 Debrlsay devoutly. * And will he do, 
 dear ? ' 
 
 * A week ago I should have said cer- 
 tainly not! Now,' her voice broke, 'when 
 I think of poor grannie's wistful eyes when 
 I hesitated, I feel I ought not to refuse ! 
 Then she fainted away, as if she could bear 
 no more. How can I rob her of her last 
 hope, I, who have been so much trouble ? 
 And yet, the idea of marrying this man is 
 — horrible.' 
 
 Her lips trembled, the long pent-up de- 
 spair and anguish of her heart would be no 
 longer controlled. Covering her face, she 
 burst into tears, struggling hard to suppress 
 the bitter sobs which would come. 
 
 'Why, my darlin', is he a mon- 
 ster?' asked Madame Debrisay, dis- 
 mayed. 
 
 < No — o,' said Mona, when she could 
 articulate. 'He is a good-natured, well- 
 meaning young man, rather tiresome and 
 heavy. I used to dance with him last 
 season, and he called here a few times. 
 Then he was staying at the Chase (oh ! 
 it was such a pleasant party !), but he did 
 not seem to notice me much. Then this
 
 Another. 51 
 
 morning came a letter from him express- 
 ing a wish to marry me.' 
 
 * Small blame to him!' ejaculated Ma- 
 dame Debrisay. ' And are you quite sure 
 he is rich ? ' 
 
 * I know nothing about it, but grannie 
 seems quite sure.' 
 
 * Is he a fright ?' 
 
 ' Well, no. Lady Mary thinks him rather 
 handsome ; but I have seen some quite 
 ugly men I thought better looking.' 
 
 ' I'll ask you just one question more ; 
 don't think I want to pry into your heart, 
 — but, do you love anyone else '^. ' 
 
 ' No, Deb, I do not,' said Mona, believ- 
 ing she spoke the truth, and meeting her 
 friend's eyes steadily. 
 
 ' Then, my dear, you marry him out of 
 hand, and turn your back on misery. That 
 man is the right sort : he stands by you in 
 the time of trouble ; before a year is out, 
 you will be ready to eat him — mark my 
 words ! ' 
 
 * If I could hope to do so!' said Mona, 
 with a deep sigh. 
 
 ' Ah ! Mona, my dear child ! it's better 
 to find love growing after marriage than 
 
 ■"S?5»
 
 52 Monds Choice, 
 
 to watch it die out, and rake the ashes 
 together, and try and try to keep it alight, 
 and burn up your own heart in vain I 
 Take this honest soul, and make him 
 happy, and you'll be happy yourself. A 
 good man is not to be found every day. 
 As for the sort of poetical, graceful, mutual 
 love young creatures dream about, I'll not 
 say it never exists, but it is as scarce as 
 blue roses. My dear, for one heart that 
 can give it, there are a thousand made 
 of coarser stuff. You marry this man, 
 and give your poor dear grandmother a 
 bright sunset before she goes. What's 
 his name ? ' concluded Madame Debrisay 
 abruptly. 
 
 ' Leslie Waring — ' 
 
 ' Hem ! I never heard it before — and 
 I hear a lot of gossip. Is he a new 
 man ? ' 
 
 * I fancy he is, but I know very little 
 about him.' 
 
 ' You are looking ill, very ill, dear. I 
 suppose you never go out ? No ? I 
 thought not. Now my pupils have not 
 come to town yet, so while I have time 
 I'll come over and stay with Mrs New-
 
 Another. 53 
 
 burgh, so that you may take a little walk ; 
 — nothing like fresh air for keeping the 
 nerves in tune.' 
 
 * Thank you very much — and now I am 
 afraid I must go back to grannie. Have 
 you changed your rooms yet .^ How have 
 you been ? I am so selfish about my own 
 troubles that I have forgotten to ask you.' 
 
 ' I am as fresh as the flowers in May. 
 I was dead beat at the end of the season 
 — but it was a g^ood one — so I went to 
 Southsea to stay with the Winklemans. 
 He is bandmaster to one of the regiments 
 there. She is a sweet little Frenchwoman, 
 I knew her in Paris. I had a very nice 
 time, and it freshened me up. I have 
 found very good rooms in Westbourne 
 Villas, and cheaper than what I had. 
 I have a big bedroom, and a nice par- 
 lour. The woman of the house is a 
 widow, and glad to have a permanent 
 tenant. You'll come to see me, dear, 
 one day ? ' 
 
 * Oh, yes ! It is such a comfort to talk 
 to you, and tell you things. You dear, 
 good Deb ! All I have told you is a dead 
 secret.'
 
 54 Monas Choice, 
 
 ' Of course it is. I know I talk a good 
 deal, but I never let out anything I was 
 trusted with. Now, God bless you. 
 Mind you write me word to-morrow that 
 you have agreed to marry Mr Waring. 
 There's my address. Ain't my new cards 
 pretty ? '
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 YES. 
 
 LEEP partially restored Mrs New- 
 burgh ; but next morning her 
 grand-daughter observed that 
 she was restless and watchful 
 — especially of herself. The doctor for- 
 bade her leaving her bed, as the weather 
 was extremely cold, and a chill might be 
 fatal. 
 
 When Mrs Newburgh's toilette de lit 
 was made, and her pillows properly ar- 
 ranged, Mona took her work and sat down 
 beside her — feeling quite sure that her 
 grandmother was making up her mind to 
 speak. This change in the somewhat 
 abrupt, domineering old woman touched
 
 56 Monds Choice, 
 
 her — It was such a confession of utter 
 defeat. 
 
 ' You will be glad to see Sir Robert, 
 grannie,' she began. ' He will give us 
 some good advice.' 
 
 * Not half so good as Mr Oakley can/ 
 returned grannie querulously. 'He is a 
 mere country gentleman, and nothing can 
 save me from total ruin. What troubles 
 me is that letter of Mr Waring's. It 
 ought to be answered. I think I could 
 manage to write, if you bring me the large 
 blotting-book.' 
 
 ' Yes, of course, it ought to be answered,' 
 returned Mona, very gravely. 
 
 ' But how ? ' asked Mrs Newburgh. ' If 
 you refuse to see him, all is over. If you 
 consent, it implies acceptance.' 
 
 * Not quite, grannie. I have been 
 thinking all night long what I ought 
 to do — what I can do. It seems im- 
 possible to decide. I believe I could 
 make up my mind better if I had some 
 conversation with Mr Waring. I am 
 so indifferent, that I do not think his 
 presence would even confuse me.' 
 
 * Do see him, Mona ; your feelings
 
 Ves. 57 
 
 may be touched when you find yourself 
 face to face with a man who sincerely 
 loves you. And this man has proved 
 his sincerity.' 
 
 * Or his determination to gratify his 
 whim, cost what it may,' added Mona. 
 
 * You have no right to impugn his 
 motives. Great as my desire is to see 
 you lifted safe above the bitter flood of 
 poverty, I would not urge you to a 
 repulsive marriage.' 
 
 * Forgive me, grannie. I am un- 
 gracious, selfish. If I marry Mr Waring, 
 I will do it cheerfully.' 
 
 She rose and brought the writing 
 materials. ' I will see him, but I do 
 not promise to accept him, unless — ' 
 
 * Let him plead his own cause,' inter- 
 rupted Mrs Newburgh, stretching out 
 her hand for pen and paper. ' He will 
 induce you to take a different view, I 
 am sure.' With difficulty she traced a 
 few lines, excusing their brevity on the 
 score of illness, and asking him to call 
 on the following day, when Miss Joscelyn 
 would receive him. ' You must address 
 it, dear. He does not know your hand.'
 
 58 Monas Choice, 
 
 * It is of no consequence,' said Mona ; 
 removing the writing materials ; and tak- 
 ing out an envelope, she sat down to 
 direct it. 
 
 ' It is not natural, Mona, to be so 
 cold and indifferent. Yet I have not de- 
 tected any liking on your part for any 
 other man, except, indeed — ' 
 
 * No, no,' interrupted Mona quickly. 
 * I have no preference for any one, rest 
 assured, dear grannie.' 
 
 ' Then, Mona, you will love young 
 Waring when he is your husband.' 
 
 * Oh ! yes, I daresay I shall. Now, 
 grannie, I am going to read you the 
 paper, try and listen — it may rest your 
 brain a little.' 
 
 ' I will, Mona, I will, because you have 
 given me a little hope.' 
 
 The rest of the dull, drear November day, 
 Mona moved slowly perhaps, but firmly, 
 as if keenly alive to the work she had 
 to do. But side by side with her clear 
 perception of duty and responsibility, was 
 another sense of coming pain and sacrifice. 
 Were she alone, with only self to provide 
 for, she could launch herself upon the
 
 Ves. 59 
 
 ocean of life — fearlessly, if hopelessly. But 
 she must not desert her grandmother ! and 
 if she could provide for her in no other 
 way, she was almost bound to provide 
 for her by 'accepting service' — so she 
 termed it in her own mind — with Mr 
 Waring. If only — it was not to be mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Late in the afternoon a card was brought 
 her. 'Captain St John Lisle, — th Hussars.' 
 She thought an instant, pencilled a line on 
 it, ' So sorry ! I cannot leave Mrs New- 
 burgh,' and sent it back to him. 
 
 This incident was in Waring's favour. 
 
 ' I should like to tell him that I am 
 engaged to his protdgd, when we next 
 meet,' she thought. ' Yet how base it is 
 to be thus influenced by pique against 
 one man, in my acceptance of another, — 
 another who perhaps really loves me, 
 for I suppose I shall accept him. As 
 George Elliot says, " One may rave upon 
 the heights, but you know that your per- 
 sistent self awaits you on the plain," the 
 terrible dead level of necessity to which 
 I am fast sinking. But, right or wrong, I 
 will pose to Captain Leslie as a hard-
 
 6o Moiias Choice. 
 
 headed worldling. He shall not pity me, 
 or suspect my contemptible weakness. 
 He shall not fancy he was In such danger 
 of being dragged down by my misfortunes 
 that it was necessary to pass me on to 
 someone else. Could I have betrayed 
 my feelings so completely, that he should 
 think it necessary to take decided measures 
 for self defence ? Yet how utterly I be- 
 lieved in him ! Was I self-deceived, or — 
 but I will not think any more of myself, 
 and my folly, my contemptible folly ! I 
 ought to forget self altogether. It is the 
 best way to be happy. Ah ! shall I ever 
 be happy again ? ' 
 
 Captain Lisle was not the only visitor 
 to Green Street that day. Late in the 
 afternoon, Sir Robert Everard was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 ' I cannot see him,' murmured Mrs 
 Newburgh. ' You must go, Mona — ex- 
 plain how incapable I feel.' 
 
 Sir Robert was a thorough country 
 gentleman. He seemed to bring an 
 atmosphere of the woods and fields with 
 him into the chill, dull dining-room, which 
 had a deserted air. A middle-aged.
 
 Ves. 6 1 
 
 middle-sized man, plump and rosy, with 
 pepper - and - salt - coloured mutton - chop 
 whiskers, looking always as if he had 
 come fresh from a bath. His shirt fronts 
 were the snowiest, his clothes the glossiest, 
 his voice had a mellow ring in it, which 
 atoned for the loud, authoritative key in 
 which he usually spoke. 
 
 ' Well ! ' he exclaimed, taking Mona's 
 hand in one of his, and patting it with 
 the other, ' how is the poor grannie ?' 
 I protest I never was more cut up than 
 when I found how desperately she has 
 been swindled ! She would stick to the 
 ship, in spite of all that Oakley or I 
 could say. The few solvent shareholders 
 backed out some time ago, and the rest 
 are mostly men of straw, so they'll not 
 leave Mrs Newburgh a rap.' 
 
 * Poor dear grannie is very, very miser- 
 able, Sir Robert. It is curious that so 
 clever a woman should have believed in 
 what many of her friends and advisers 
 doubted ? ' 
 
 * She was always obstinate, my dear, 
 devilish obstinate ! However, I have a 
 bit of good news. A friend of mine wants
 
 62 Mo7tas Choice, 
 
 to buy the house. He will give a decent 
 sum too ; and I want your grandmother to 
 convey the money to me for you, or some 
 legal jugglery of that kind. Go, ask her 
 if she will be able to see me and Oakley 
 to-morrow, that we may settle about it. 
 It will be a something between you and 
 want' 
 
 ' I will go and tell her,' said Mona, 
 hastening away. ' Will it be enough to 
 save me from the necessity of marrying 
 anyone ? ' she thought. 
 
 Sir Robert Everard put his hands In his 
 pockets, and paced the room whistling 
 softly. 
 
 * Poor old soul ! won't last long, I dare- 
 say. The girl will marry : no doubt of 
 that ; she is deuced handsome — a well-bred 
 one too. Would run smooth and easy 
 in double harness. Fellows are cooler and 
 more cautious than they were in my days, 
 but there are plenty of rich ones who 
 might indulge themselves in a handsome, 
 penniless wife.' 
 
 ' My grandmother will be glad to see 
 you to-morrow at twelve,' said Mona, 
 coming back.
 
 Ves. 63 
 
 ^ All right ; just sit down and write a 
 line to Oakley, asking him to meet me 
 here. We will have a consultation, then 
 we'll see what is best to be done ; we 
 must secure whatever money Mrs New- 
 burgh gets for the house from the claws 
 of the liquidators. Lady Mary wants 
 her, — both of you — to come down to the 
 Chase. I am going to shoot in Ross- 
 shire ; Eveline comes with me. The 
 other two are going for a month with 
 their aunt to Biarritz ; so you will be 
 quite quiet. A change will do your 
 grandmother a lot of good, and set her 
 up again, hey ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you so much ; it would indeed. 
 I am afraid it will be some time before 
 she can be moved,' returned Mona, who 
 shrank from the idea of visiting the Chase 
 again. 
 
 ' You would be all the better for being 
 turned out to grass yourself, my dear,' he 
 resumed kindly. ' It's hard lines for a 
 young thing like you to be plunged 
 into such trouble. Why, you are not 
 as old as Eveline. I suppose grand- 
 mamma is not in the sweetest temper ;
 
 64 Monas Choice. 
 
 — a little hard in the mouth just now, 
 eh?' 
 
 * Oh, no, Sir Robert ; she is an angel. 
 She seems to have lost faith in herself ; 
 she has not the force to insist on any- 
 thing- ; it breaks my heart to see her so 
 pitifully gentle/ 
 
 ' She must be badly hit. I am awfully 
 sorry for her — for both of you. Just write 
 that, my dear, will you ? I'll post it as 
 I go along. And I must leave you now. 
 I am going to dine with Rivers. You 
 remember Rivers who was at the Chase 
 when you were with us ? Rich old dog — 
 won't spend a penny on anything but 
 his dinners — they are first-rate. He is 
 a crotchety old sinner ; seldom goes to 
 any one's house. Lady Mary was rather 
 proud of his staying nearly a week with 
 us ; but he did not get such dinners in 
 my house as he has in his own.' 
 
 Sir Robert Everard talked on in his 
 kindly, easy way while Mona wrote the 
 note. 
 
 Mr Oakley obeyed the summons. 
 Mrs Newburgh, revived by her new 
 hopes, was up and dressed when Sir
 
 Ves, 65 
 
 Robert and the solicitor arrived. She 
 had, with the help of Wehner's arm, 
 descended to the drawing-room ; but she 
 looked like the ghost of her former self. 
 
 Then ensued a long, melancholy dis- 
 cussion, at which Mrs Newburgh insisted 
 her grand-daughter should be present, and 
 from which the latter gathered that it was 
 of no use endeavouring to save anything 
 out of the wreck — that whatever the un- 
 fortunate shareholders possessed must pass 
 into the clutches of the company's credi- 
 tors ; a call had already been made, and 
 would be followed by others, until all was 
 swallowed up. It was therefore deemed 
 more prudent for Mrs Newburgh to re- 
 side in the house she had bought, than to 
 move to another for which she would have 
 to pay rent. Her income had of course 
 been narrowed to a miserable eighty or 
 ninety pounds a year, and even on that 
 she could not long count. 
 
 * You see, Mona, the condition to which 
 we are reduced,' said Mrs Newburgh, 
 when their friendly counsellors, with grave 
 faces and kindly-expressed sympathy, had 
 withdrawn. * I purposely asked you to be 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 66 Monds Choice. 
 
 present at this conference, that you might 
 understand the true state of the case. I 
 leave you to draw your own conclusions. 
 No, dear, do not re-open the discussion. 
 I trust to your own common-sense and 
 right feehng. I am quite exhausted. 
 Ring for Wehner to help me to my room. 
 I can see no one else to-day — no one — 
 remember, Mona.' 
 
 Thus cut off from remonstrance, Mona 
 felt she was left to her fate and Mr 
 Waring ; grannie was resolved to leave 
 the decision — the responsibility — to her. 
 
 Mrs Newburgh had not long returned 
 to her own room, and had just taken 
 some refreshment, when Mr Waring's 
 card was brought. A strong feeling of 
 humiliation and disgust rose in Mona's 
 heart ; the calm indifference of which she 
 boasted the previous day failed her at the 
 moment of trial. 
 
 ' Do not keep the poor young man 
 waiting,' said Mrs Newburgh. 
 
 * It is frightful, having to go deliberately 
 to listen to an offer of marriage ! ' cried 
 Mona, starting up and walking to the 
 window instead of the door.
 
 Ves. 67 
 
 ' I thought you would not mind.' 
 
 ' I thought so ; but I will go, dear 
 grannie.' 
 
 She came back quickly, kissed the 
 old woman's cheek, and disappeared. 
 
 Mona went rapidly downstairs, and 
 straight into the dining-room, without 
 allowing herself to pause for a moment 
 — half frightened, half angry, at her 
 own faintness of spirit. 
 
 Mr Waring stood on the hearthrug. 
 He was not so tall as Lisle ; his broad 
 shoulders and rather short neck further 
 diminished his height. He was built 
 more for strength than grace, and though 
 not fat, was, it must be admitted, fleshy. 
 His hair was dark, almost black, abundant 
 and wavy, and his broad, good-humoured 
 face was redeemed from absolute plainness 
 by a pair of fine soft dark brown eyes. 
 He was in general ruddy and fresh-looking, 
 but the excitement, indeed it may be said 
 the terror of the moment, had blanched 
 his cheeks, till he met Mona's eyes, when 
 he blushed furiously. 
 
 She hesitated after she had crossed 
 the threshold, and closed the door, stand-
 
 68 Monas Choice. 
 
 ing tall, stately, infinitely sad, in the 
 simplest morning dress of black silk and 
 cashmere she possessed, a lace scarf 
 pinned round her throat with an old- 
 fashioned brooch, her bright hair turned 
 loosely back surmounting her fair pale face 
 like an aureole. 
 
 ' I am so much, so very much obliged 
 to you for seeing me ! ' exclaimed Waring, 
 starting forward to take her hand, which 
 he shook nervously, and dropped im- 
 mediately. Mona murmured something, 
 he did not hear what, and sat down be- 
 side the fire. 
 
 Waring resumed his position on the 
 hearthrug. An awful pause ensued. Mona 
 gazed at the glowing coals, and thought 
 of Lisle's expressive voice and perfect, 
 easy self-possession. Waring cudgelled 
 his brain for some suitable phrase to 
 open the dreaded yet longed for conver- 
 sation. The result was a restless change 
 of attitude, and the words. ' Awful nasty 
 weather.' His voice was strong and harsh. 
 * I hope you took no cold on your journey 
 to town.' 
 
 It was an unlucky allusion.
 
 Ves. 69 
 
 * Not a cold; I had a slight c/n/l,' returned 
 Mona, who had some sense of humour. 
 
 She raised her eyes as she spoke, and 
 meeting his, could not restrain a kindly 
 smile, feeling no little sympathy with his 
 uneasiness and evident sense of difficulty. 
 
 ' You are amused, I daresay,' he cried, 
 his power of speech unlocked by the 
 magic of her smiling eyes ; ' you 77ius^ be 
 amused, to hear me blundering like an 
 idiot about the weather, when my heart 
 and mind are filled with hope and fear. 
 Tell me. Miss Joscelyn, did Mrs New- 
 burgh show you my letter?' 
 
 ' She did.' 
 
 ' And will you — will you let me tell 
 you how awfully I was taken with you 
 the very first time I ever saw you 
 at that Richmond dinner Lady Mary 
 Everard gave last year, — before you 
 were presented, you know ? ' 
 
 ' Were you there? ' asked Mona dreamily. 
 
 At that dinner she had first met Lisle. 
 He had not spoken to her, but she had 
 even then felt a degree of attraction to 
 him which surprised her, and he had 
 remarked her — or — said so.
 
 70 Monas Choice. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't suppose you saw me. I 
 never can push. Young Everard and 
 some other fellows were round you all 
 the time; but I have thought of you ever 
 since. Do you know, last season's balls 
 were the first I ever went to. I thought 
 they were all rot. I like the racing set 
 better. I used to go only for the chance 
 of meeting you, — and you would scarcely 
 ever dance with me. To be sure, I 
 am a stupid beggar about dancing.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 * I think I always gave some dances,' 
 said Mona, rather at a loss what to reply. 
 
 * Oh, you were always civil ! ' exclaimed 
 Waring, taking a little cup from the 
 mantelpiece and turning it round and 
 round as if examining the pattern. 
 ' Not like some girls, who are either 
 killing sweet, or snub you right and left. 
 You are gentle and grave. I used to 
 think I should never have the pluck to 
 ask you to marry me, but — a — you see, 
 when Mrs Newburgh came to grief, I 
 was ashamed of not offering at least to 
 be of use to you.' 
 
 ' And are you content that I should
 
 Ves. 7 1 
 
 accept you as a refuge from the Ills of 
 poverty ? ' asked Mona, looking gravely, 
 calmly at him. 
 
 ' I am,' said Waring, after a minute's 
 pause, putting down the cup, and speak- 
 ing more collectedly. ' It's not pleasant, 
 of course, but I have faith in you. If you 
 promise to be my wife, you will try to 
 like me, and I'll try to please you with 
 all my soul and with all my strength, as 
 somebody says in the Bible, I think,' 
 added Waring, to enforce his professions 
 — his religious studies were slight, and 
 somewhat mixed. ' And it will go hard 
 if I don't get you to love me, unless — un- 
 less,' his large brown eyes grew implor- 
 ing — ' you care for some other fellow ! 
 For God's sake, don't say you love any 
 other fellow ! I never fancied you did.' 
 
 ' I do not indeed.' Her tone carried 
 conviction to her hearer. 
 
 * Then — then, Miss Joscelyn, could you 
 make up your mind to marry me ? I 
 think you might grow to like me by- 
 and-by, and I need not say I would 
 be delighted to carry out any plan, a7iy^ 
 with emphasis, ' that you think would
 
 72 Monds Choice. 
 
 be best for Mrs Newburgh's com- 
 fort?' 
 
 ' It is a tremendous question to answer,' 
 said Mona, hesitating-, yet feeling she 
 must accept him. There was no other 
 way left, and she was touched by his 
 unaffected humility. * Yesterday or the 
 day before I looked on you as a stranger ; 
 to-day I am to decide if I am to pass 
 my whole life with you or not. I must 
 say what sounds unkind, that I do 7iot 
 love you, that if this great misfortune 
 had not befallen Mrs Newburgh, I should 
 probably have refused you — so I do not 
 deserve your love ! ' 
 
 * But I cannot help giving it to you ! 
 And if you do make up your mind to 
 take me, you might just let me forget 
 that you were driven to it.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I am very ungracious. There 
 is another circumstance I ought to men- 
 tion ; you may not like to know that 
 my name is not Joscelyn. My grand- 
 mother always called me by my second 
 baptismal name ; I am really Mona Craig. 
 My father was of very humble origin, I 
 believe; and Mrs Newburgh never for-
 
 Ves. 73 
 
 gave my mother for marrying him ; but 
 I dearly loved him as a little child, 
 though I have forgotten what he was 
 like.' 
 
 ' I don't care what your name is, as 
 long as you will take mine. / am no 
 great thing as regards family myself. I 
 have heard something of Mrs Newburgh's 
 whim before.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ?' 
 
 ' I don't fancy that anything is a secret,' 
 said Waring. ' Perhaps it is not fair to 
 press you for an answer to-day. But 
 you see time flies, and I long to be able 
 to tell Sir Robert Everard that I have 
 a riorht to discuss with him what is best 
 to be done. Don't you fancy that I 
 would hold back because you refused 
 me. Whether you say yes or no, I would 
 ask nothing better than to be of use to 
 you ; but not being a relation, it would 
 be awkward for — ' 
 
 ' It would be impossible,' interrupted 
 Mona, in a low tone ; then pressing her 
 clasped hands together tightly, she said 
 with some solemnity, — * Since you believe 
 I could make you happy — '
 
 74 Mona's Choice. 
 
 * You will be my wife ? ' interrupted 
 Waring eagerly in his turn. 
 
 * I will, Mr Waring, and try to be a 
 good one.' She grew very pale as she 
 spoke. 
 
 * You are a great deal too good for 
 me ; and as you do not care for any other 
 fellow, perhaps you may end by caring 
 for me.' 
 
 There was an awkward pause, then 
 Waring walked over to the writing-table 
 and took up a paper-knife with which he 
 played nervously. 
 
 ' There are one or two things I should 
 like to tell you, if you do not mind '^. 
 
 ' What can he be going to confess ? ' 
 thought Mona. She however only bent 
 her head in silence. 
 
 ' I have not been as steady as I ought 
 to be,' resumed Waring, looking down 
 and growing red. ' You see, my brother 
 and myself were brought up by an old 
 bachelor guardian. We had no women 
 in the house, and that made us rather 
 rough. Then I have lost a good bit at 
 cards and races. I'm a little too fond 
 o play, but — now that you are so very
 
 Ves. 75 
 
 good as to promise me your hand, I 
 have an object to live for, and I will 
 never touch a card again, and never lay 
 anything beyond a pony on a race, and, 
 and I'll try to be — not unworthy of you. 
 I will indeed ! Now, have I your per- 
 mission to go and tell Sir Robert 
 Everard ? He is a good fellow, and 
 we'll settle something about Mrs New- 
 burgh. She ought to get out of town 
 away from annoyances.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' returned Mona, touched 
 by his eagerness to serve her. ' I am 
 most grateful to you, Mr Waring.' 
 
 ' Couldn't you manage to call me 
 Leslie?' he said entreatingly. 'If you 
 knew how I long to hear my name from 
 your lips ! and to call you Mona. It's not 
 a happy enough name for you, but I 
 love it all the same. I can't call you 
 Mona, if you say Mr Waring.' 
 
 * It seems so strange,' murmured 
 Mona. 
 
 ' Well, never mind to-day ; but I may 
 go to Sir Robert ? ' 
 
 * You may,' said Mona, with white 
 lips.'
 
 76 Mond s Choice. 
 
 ' Thank you ! ' cried Waring, his eyes 
 lighting up, his whole face radiant, and 
 so far carried away with joy that he took 
 and kissed her hand, letting it drop 
 directly. * I suppose I ought to go 
 away now ? ' he said humbly, ' but 1 
 should like to stay. It is almost impossible 
 to believe that you have really promised 
 to marry me, that I may stay and talk 
 to you, and will not have to give up 
 my place to anyone ! That fellow Lisle 
 always came and turned me out when 
 we were at Harrowby Chase ; but he 
 isn't half bad. Do you know, it was he 
 that advised me to try my chance with 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' Did you want advising ? ' said Mona, 
 in an unsteady voice. 
 
 ' No, not advising, only heartening up ! 
 Tell me — would you like to travel on 
 the Continent ? I haven't been much 
 abroad myself. Of course I always go 
 to Paris for the Grand Prix, and to the 
 Baden Races — but you ? ' 
 
 * Everything must depend on my grand- 
 mothers condition,' interrupted Mona. 
 'And, Mr Waring — if you do not think
 
 Ves. yy 
 
 it very rude — I think I must go to her 
 now.' 
 
 * You are looking very white,' he said 
 tenderly, ' so I will leave you ; but I 
 hope you are not unhappy, and if there 
 is anything you would wish me to do, 
 you will say so ? ' 
 
 Poor Mona longed to cry. 
 
 ' I only wish you to go away ! ' she 
 said, pressing her hand to her heart. ' I 
 am a good deal shaken and upset ; to- 
 morrow — ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! I may come to-morrow ! 
 And Mona (I may call you Mona, mayn't 
 I ? ), when you are talking to Mrs 
 Newburgh, just say to her from me 
 that it would be so much better if we 
 — if, that is, if the marriage was to take 
 place soon — quite soon ! I should be so 
 much better able to be of use. You'll 
 not think me a bore for insisting on 
 this ? but it would really be better, putting 
 my feelings quite out of the question.' 
 
 * I shall be guided by what you and 
 Sir Robert and grannie think best,' 
 faltered Mona. ' I am afraid I must 
 go now.*
 
 'j^ Monet s Choice. 
 
 ' When may I come to-morrow ? ' asked 
 Waring, lingering. 
 
 ' Oh ! at two or three ! ' 
 
 * Well, I see you are tired, and you'll 
 think kindly of me ? You know I would 
 do anything for you, anything ! ' 
 
 * Oh, yes, I will ! And now good- 
 bye/ 
 
 Waring caught her hand and looked 
 eagerly at her. For one dread moment 
 her heart fainted within her. Was he 
 going to ask for a kiss ? If he had as- 
 pired to such a favour, he wisely post- 
 poned the demand, and again pressing 
 her long, slight fingers to his lips, he 
 left the room. 
 
 Mona ascended the stairs very slowly 
 and deliberately, painfully conscious that 
 she had fully committed herself. It now 
 remained to complete the sacrifice by as- 
 suming a cheerful aspect before her grand- 
 mother. Then, when she had satisfied 
 her, she might escape to regulate her 
 own thoughts, to face the situation she 
 had accepted. 
 
 'Well, Mona?' said Mrs Newburgh, 
 looking eagerly with her pitiful eyes in-
 
 Yes. 79 
 
 to her grand-daughter's face as she ap- 
 proached, while her thin, tremulous hands 
 grasped the arms of her chair nervously. 
 
 ' Well, dear granny,' sitting down by 
 her and taking one of her hands in both 
 her own, ' I have heard all Mr Waring 
 had to say, and I have promised to marry 
 him.' 
 
 Mrs Newburgh did not reply. She 
 pressed Mona's hand, and, leaning back 
 in her chair, the tension of her muscles 
 relaxed, and a peaceful expression stole 
 over her face. 
 
 ' You have done well, Mona,' she said, 
 after a minute's silence. ' You will yet 
 thank me for urging you to this. Yet I 
 did not 7irge ; I only recommended you.' 
 
 ' That was all. Mr Waring and I 
 have been making our confessions. I 
 told him that I was not in love with him, 
 and that had we not met with such a re- 
 verse of fortune, I should probably have 
 refused him ; and he told me that he had 
 not been too steady, and was addicted to 
 gambling.' 
 
 ' You were imprudent, Mona. It is 
 not wise to be too frank with the man
 
 8o Monas Choice, 
 
 you are going to marry. He, no doubt, 
 will overlook everything now ; but wait 
 till the first cloud comes between you, 
 and he will remind you that you did not 
 care for him.' 
 
 * I think Mr Waring is a man who 
 would forgive anything except deceit ; 
 and as I have nothing to hide, I shall 
 try to be absolutely truthful with him.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is best ; but, Mona, be truth- 
 ful with me. Are you quite free from 
 any fancy for — for anyone else ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly free, dear granny,' this very 
 steadily. 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' ejaculated Mrs New- 
 burgh. * You have always been a sen- 
 sible, cool-headed girl, and I firmly be- 
 lieve you will be a prosperous, happy 
 woman. Your conduct in this matter 
 has repaid me for all I have done.' 
 
 * It is very sweet to hear you say so,' 
 said Mona gently. 
 
 ' Tell me,' resumed Mrs Newburgh, 
 * is Mr Waring anxious that his marriage 
 should take place soon ? ' 
 
 * He is ; he begged me to say so when 
 speaking to you. He left me to see
 
 Ves. 8 1 
 
 Sir Robert Everard, and consult with 
 him.' 
 
 * That is well. He is our nearest of 
 kin in town. Do not oppose this excel- 
 lent young man's desire for a speedy 
 union, Mona. " There's many a slip 'twixt 
 cup and lip." ' 
 
 ' Young ! ' repeated Mona dreamily. 
 * He is almost too young for me.' 
 
 * Nonsense ! ' cried Mrs Newburgh^ 
 with something of her former briskness. 
 
 ' He must be seven or eight years older 
 than you are. What more would you 
 want ? ' 
 
 ' He seems a kind of overgrown school- 
 boy — so unfinished and undecided. I 
 feel quite an old woman of the world- 
 near him.' 
 
 ' So much the better. The superior 
 ripeness of your nature will give you in- 
 fluence over him. But I do not think 
 he is so much a boy as you fancy. I 
 know he is a favourite among men, and 
 that always is a good sign.' 
 
 And so on for half-an-hour and more. 
 Mrs Newburgh was quite talkative ; she 
 arranged her grand - daughter's future 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 82 Mo7ids Choice. 
 
 household, greatly to her own satisfac- 
 tion, and settled the amount of pin 
 money she ought to have. 
 
 At last Mona was set free to com- 
 mune with her own heart in her chamber, 
 where she sat very still, reviewing her 
 brief past, and trying to sketch the pro- 
 bable future. 
 
 The immediate past was too delight- 
 ful to be dwelt upon, yet it had been a 
 delusion. She had grown to believe 
 that she was an object of tender inter- 
 est, of admiration bordering on adora- 
 tion, to a man of wide experience, of 
 acknowledged taste, and behold, his 
 mode of showing sympathy with her in 
 her sudden eclipse was to pass her on 
 to another. She had been but a mo- 
 ment's amusement to this man, and she 
 — it shocked and frightened her to per- 
 ceive how dear he had become. No 
 doubt, in her inexperience, she had ex- 
 aggerated much, and accepted many 
 things as meaning more than he in- 
 tended. She was too proud to complain 
 of him even to herself; all she cared for 
 was to hide the depth of the impression
 
 Ves. 83 
 
 he had stamped upon her heart, — to 
 make him believe that she too had but 
 amused herself, and that she was quite 
 ready to seize an advantageous opportunity. 
 She was not revengeful or resentful, only 
 ground to the dust of self-abasement, and 
 ready to adopt any expedient to hide 
 her gaping, bleeding wounds! Then, 
 as to the future, was it right or high- 
 principled to seize upon the honest, 
 generous affection of Leslie Waring, and 
 turn it into a shield behind which to hide 
 her total rout ? She thouorht she could 
 bear everything, if only ^/iz's ingredient 
 could be eliminated from the witches' 
 cauldron of mischief which had been 
 outpoured on her unoffending head. 
 He zuas an honest gentleman ; she could 
 have liked him well as a friend or a 
 brother — but as a husband ! The idea 
 was almost intolerable ! How could she 
 honour and obey a mere boy, to whom 
 she felt infinitely superior in tact and 
 knowledge ? What support or guidance 
 could he afford her ? But she was 
 pledged to him ; she must not fail him ; 
 she was still more profoundly pledged to
 
 84 Monds Choice. 
 
 her kind grandmother. Like a Roman 
 who was unable to pay his debts, she 
 could but sell herself into slavery, Not 
 that poor Leslie Waring would make a 
 slave of her ; he only asked to enslave 
 himself. How was she to live through 
 the weary interval of her engagement ? 
 How could she brace herself to affect 
 an interest in life '^. And then the recol- 
 lection of his appealing look at parting 
 made her cheek grow pale and her 
 heart beat. Could she again refuse him 
 the kiss he would certainly ask ? — the 
 man she had promised to marry, to love 
 and cherish till death ' did them part.' 
 She shuddered, and turned from the 
 thought, leaving the future — its sufferings, 
 its obligations — to the chapter of accidents^ 
 as poor puzzled mortals so often must.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ON THE BRINK. 
 
 T JOHN LISLE had not, how- 
 ever, come off as scathless as 
 Mona imagined. He had never 
 been so hard hit by a girl before. 
 His taste and ambitions led him to bestow 
 his devotion generally on married women, 
 as easier, safer, and more am^using. 
 Hitherto his love had been from his 
 life a thing * exceedingly apart.' Mona's 
 ordinary reserve, broken by occasional 
 gleams of enthusiasm and earnestness, in- 
 terested him, by the constant suggestion 
 of discoveries yet to make ; while her 
 style of face and figure were delightful 
 to his eye. In short, her attraction was 
 irresistible ; he was angry with himself
 
 86 Monds Choice. 
 
 for yielding to it as he did — for marriage, 
 even the most brilHant marriage, would 
 not suit his views and plans for years 
 to come. Still it grew more and more 
 delightful to be with Mona, to watch for 
 the slight, reluctantly-granted indications 
 of preference which he from time to time 
 won from her ; nothing ever flattered him 
 so deliciously as the first drooping of her 
 white eyelids over the proud, steady eyes 
 that had for months met his gaze so 
 calmly ; the slight tremble of her hand 
 as it lay in his ; the sweet composure 
 which veiled what he perceived from 
 all the world. He was absurdly occupied 
 with this quiet, inexperienced girl, who 
 was so womanly, though so young. She 
 cost him some uncomfortable moments 
 too ; still he never so lost his head as 
 to think seriously of marriage. Years 
 hence, when he had attained a high 
 position, and wanted a dignified, well- 
 regulated home, he might look out for 
 a richly-dowered, highly-connected wife. 
 Now, Mona, though well born, on one 
 side at least, was for all purposes of 
 advancement the merest nobody ; yet
 
 On the Brink. 87 
 
 what a disturblnor influence she exercised 
 on his heart or circulation, or whatever 
 it was that throbbed in his pulses, and 
 prompted him to unpleasant spasms of 
 imprudence ! All this irritation had reached 
 its highest pitch during his visit to Har- 
 rowby Chase ; and so softened was the 
 cool-headed man of the world, that, when 
 the blow fell on Mrs Newburgh, which 
 he knew meant life-long poverty to Mona 
 were she not soon rescued, he really 
 thought how he could best serve her, 
 after he had considered how he could 
 soonest disentangle himself from the 
 meshes which he felt were weaving 
 themselves round him in the pleasant, 
 free intercourse of country-house life. 
 
 He therefore caught eagerly at Leslie 
 Waring's proposition, and resolved that 
 no illusions about himself should inter- 
 fere to prevent Mona accepting the 
 deliverance offered to her. 
 
 Resolute as he was, both by nature 
 and cultivation, he half-dreaded the in- 
 terview he had planned so cunningly. 
 He expected tears, agitation, despair, 
 however she might seek to hide their
 
 88 Monds Choice, 
 
 real source. He even anticipated some 
 delightful moments. When sympathising 
 in her distress, and deploring the exi- 
 gency of his own narrow circumstances, 
 he might offer consolation in a tender 
 ■embrace, and a few — perhaps a good 
 many — passionate kisses. 
 
 Her mode of receiving his communi- 
 cation amazed him. He did not know 
 what to think. He felt almost sure 
 that she loved him, and even more sure 
 that at the present stage of her exist- 
 ence she was unworldly, and remarkably 
 indifferent to rank and riches. He could 
 not understand how it was that she fell 
 in so readily with his suggestion, and 
 was, in truth, mortified in no small degree, 
 when he found that the elaborate scheme 
 of soothing caresses and ingenious rea- 
 soning he had prepared, was so much 
 trouble wasted. If she had cared for 
 him, she could not be so good hum- 
 ouredly composed, — some stinging words 
 would have escaped her lips, some indi- 
 cation of the rage and pain that must 
 be gnawing her heart would have been 
 visible.
 
 On the Brink. 89 
 
 He was absurdly anxious to see her 
 again — to ascertain if she still kept up 
 the same friendly ease which had baffled 
 him. Meantime he waited in London 
 while his uncle was engaged in arrang- 
 ing with the military big-wigs the details 
 of his new command. It would be much 
 better to go out to India free and un- 
 fettered, to know Mona was unable to 
 reproach him. Still, an odd soreness 
 surrounded her image, which was so 
 deeply stamped upon his mind. He 
 was determined to see her again. 
 
 A few days after having called in 
 vain at Mrs Newburgh's, Lisle had been 
 breakfasting with General Stafford, and 
 had remained for some time discussing 
 plans. Walking down Piccadilly to his 
 club, he found himself face to face with 
 Sir Robert Everard. 
 
 ' Ha, Lisle ! did not know you were 
 in town ! ' cried the Baronet. 
 
 * And I did not expect to see you 
 at this season, too ? ' 
 
 * I was obliged to come up on account 
 of Mrs Newburgh's business. They 
 won't leave the old woman a rap. First
 
 90 Monas Choice, 
 
 call made yesterday — fifty pounds a share. 
 That will pretty well clear her out. Very 
 foolish to have gone so deep as she 
 did. However, all's well that ends well. 
 Leslie Waring has proposed to Miss 
 Joscelyn, is accepted, and I can tell you, 
 " Haste to the Wedding " is the tune 
 now, ha, ha, ha ! — most lucky. Capital 
 fellow, Waring ! going to do the thing 
 handsomely ; but he and the grand- 
 mother are in such a deuce of a hurry 
 that he has decided on a post-nuptial 
 settlement, so I fancy the marriage will 
 come off in a week or so — no grass 
 growing allowed.' 
 
 ' Very glad to hear it. Miss Joscelyn 
 is far too charming a person to be sub- 
 jected to the revolting ills of poverty. 
 Waring is a lucky fellow to be able to 
 seize what is no doubt a fortunate op- 
 portunity.' 
 
 ' Ay, the fair lady might have given 
 a different answer had this crash not 
 come. No matter, Mona was always a 
 good, quiet girl, — one of the domesticated 
 sort, that will stick to her house and 
 her man.'
 
 On the Brink. 91 
 
 ' A somewhat cat-like character,' said 
 Lisle, laughing. ' To me, Miss Joscelyn 
 is an ideal woman.' 
 
 ' I suspect a little ideal goes a long 
 way with you.' 
 
 * Oh ! I am a more imaginative person 
 than you think. I must call and offer 
 my congratulations.' 
 
 ' Well, you had better look in for tea. 
 Mrs Newburgh comes down w^hen the 
 house is shut up, and the lights are 
 lit — then you won't interrupt the billing 
 and cooing, ha, ha, ha ! Good-bye.' 
 
 * Well-meaning old idiot,' muttered 
 Lisle, as he went on his way with knit 
 brows. ' *' The billing and cooing," — how 
 infernally suggestive. I will just drop 
 in at that particular period, and see if 
 I can interpret the indications aright.' 
 
 Lisle was, however, too impatient to 
 calculate time accurately, and Mona w^as 
 talking with a lady when he was an- 
 nounced. A dark-eyed well-dressed lady, 
 in black cashmere, and bugles with many 
 touches of yellow in tufts of ribbon, and 
 chrysanthemums in her bonnet, enlivening 
 the whole.
 
 92 Mond s Choice. 
 
 Mona had a slight colour, and looked 
 remarkably well. She received Lisle 
 with quiet civility, and immediately in- 
 troduced him to ' Madame Debrisay/ 
 Lisle bowed low, while he mentally con- 
 signed the objectionable third party to 
 the infernal regions. Madame Debrisay 
 looked very keenly at him, and closed 
 her lips with unusual tightness. 
 
 Having inquired tenderly for Mrs 
 Newburgh, Lisle said, in a soft tone, — 
 
 * I presume, from what Sir Robert 
 Everard told me, I may venture to offer 
 my very sincere congratulations on your 
 approaching marriage with my good friend 
 Leslie.' 
 
 * Thank you very much,' returned Mona, 
 with sweet gravity. 
 
 There was a pause — mercifully broken 
 by Madame Debrisay, who, with a marked 
 French accent, observed, — 
 
 * He is most amiable, the young gentle- 
 man, and deserves the good fortune which 
 has befallen him.' 
 
 ' Those concerned in affairs of this kind 
 are usually considered angels all round,' 
 said Lisle cynically. ' In this case, I only
 
 On the Brink. 93 
 
 feel inclined to believe in the angelic 
 qualities of one. May I hope to have 
 the pleasure of seeing Mrs Newburgh ? ' 
 
 * She rarely comes down till past three, 
 I will let her know you are here ; you 
 were always a favourite of hers.' 
 
 Mona rang, and sent a message to 
 Mrs Newburgh to that effect ; then 
 Madame Debrisay began to make her 
 adieux. 
 
 ' I ought not to take up any more of 
 your time, chdrie! 
 
 * Pray do not go away yet,' cried 
 Mona, with suspicious eagerness. 
 
 ' She does not want to be alone with 
 me,' thought Lisle. ' Why does not that 
 horrid woman go ? She must know she 
 is in the way.' 
 
 'Indeed, dear, I have one or two 
 things to do before I go home, for next 
 week I shall be in harness again ; but I 
 will be with you by ten o'clock to-mor- 
 row. Nothing like the early hours for 
 shopping ; and make my compliments 
 to— ' 
 
 ' Mr Waring,' announced Wehner, 
 and Wearing entered, with an eager, not
 
 94 Moncds Choice. 
 
 to say anxious, expression, as if not too 
 certain how he would be received. 
 
 Madame Debrisay, who was near the 
 door, made him a respectful courtesy, 
 and he greeted her first. 
 
 ' How do you do, madame ? Not go- 
 ing, I hope, because I have come in.' 
 
 Here he paused, for Mona turned to 
 him with a kind, welcoming smile, so 
 much the sweetest she had ever bestowed 
 on him, that he grew positively radiant, 
 and evidently forgot there was anyone 
 else present. Lisle took it all in, and 
 gazed with surprise and admiration at 
 Mona. If this was acting, it was a mar- 
 vellous imitation of nature ; if not, what 
 a weather-cock this grave, gently-digni- 
 fied young creature must be ! 
 
 ' I think grannie would like to see you,' 
 said Mona, following Madame Debrisay. 
 * Excuse me for a moment,' looking 
 back to her visitors. ' Oh ! why do you 
 pfo, Deb ? I dread these tete-d-tete in- 
 terviews.' 
 
 * But Captain Lisle is a third, dear.' 
 ' Oh, he will go away directly.' 
 
 * Ah ! my child, don't give way to these
 
 On the Brink, 95 
 
 whims. Sure you'll have to pass your 
 whole life tete-a-tete with him ; and he 
 is good — real, downright good. Make 
 much of him. Go back now, and I'll not 
 fail to be with you to-morrow at ten.' 
 
 At the other side of the door, Lisle 
 was congratulating Waring in the frank- 
 est and most cordial manner. 
 
 * I consider a great deal is due to me 
 for spiriting you up, my dear fellow. 
 Nothing venture, nothing have — so you 
 won a prize any man might be proud 
 of.' 
 
 ' Haven't I though ! I went to the 
 right man for advice. I say, Lisle, won't 
 you be my best man ? ' 
 
 * I am afraid I'll be half way to India 
 when the happy event comes off.' 
 
 ' Oh ! we are going ahead at a great 
 rate. We — or I should say I — hope to 
 fix it for Tuesday fortnight.' 
 
 ' Sharp work, eh ? ' 
 
 Here Mona returned. 
 
 ' I do not think my grandmother will 
 come down just yet, Captain Lisle.' 
 
 ' Sorry I shall not have the pleasure 
 of seeing her. I shall be going to India
 
 96 Monds Choice. 
 
 In about six weeks, and I have to go to 
 Paris to see my sister, etc., etc' The 
 talk flowed on in ordinary channels for a 
 few minutes, and then Lisle rose to take 
 leave. * Should I not see you again as 
 Miss Joscelyn,' he said, as he pressed 
 her hand, ' you will remember that you 
 have my warmest good wishes for your 
 happiness. I shall pay my respects to 
 Mrs Newburgh on my return to London ; 
 so goodbye.' 
 
 Mona flushed, and paled quickly. 
 
 * And I wish you all possible success ; 
 so goodbye,' she said slowly. 
 
 Waring, in his gratitude, went with 
 him downstairs, and bid him an effusive 
 farewell at the hall door, returning in 
 high glee to Mona, who was putting 
 some more coal on the fire. 
 
 ' Oh, let me do that. Why do you 
 trouble? Isn't the room hot enough.'^' 
 
 * Grannie will be down soon, and she 
 never finds it warm.' 
 
 ' Not just yet, I hope. Somehow or 
 other I never seem to get a moment 
 alone with you, Mona. I was glad to 
 see the back of Lisle, though he is a
 
 On the Brink, 97 
 
 capital fellow. I don't know that I like 
 any fellow better ; but I was dying to 
 tell you how happy you made me just 
 now when I came in ; you really looked 
 as if you were glad to see me. If I 
 thought you were going to be fond of 
 me, even half as fond of me as I am of 
 you, why, I should be almost off my 
 head with joy.' 
 
 ' You are too good to me,' she returned 
 sadly, for his words and tone touched her. 
 
 * I know,' he went on, ' that you do not 
 care much for me now, but I begin to 
 hope you will. Give me your hand : how 
 lonof and slender it is ! You could not 
 do much with it, Mona. Why do you 
 draw it away ? Hallo ! your ring has 
 slipped off! I don't like that. Let me 
 put it on again. Now, give me a kiss 
 for luck ; you have never given me but 
 one kiss, and I have dreamed of it ever 
 since — just one more, Mona ! ' 
 
 And Mona — shocked at her own re- 
 luctance, ashamed of her own coldness 
 towards the man who had given her his 
 whole heart — compelled herself to turn 
 her pale, fair face to him. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 98 Monds Choice. 
 
 Clasping her hand in both his own, 
 Waring bent down and pressed his lips 
 lingeringly on hers. He scarcely dared 
 to embrace her. His frame trembled; 
 his eyes were moist. 
 
 ' Say Leslie, I will try to love you,' 
 he whispered. 
 
 * I will try — I will indeed, Leslie,' she 
 repeated. ' I have been so uneasy and 
 unhappy about poor grannie ; and I never 
 thought of marrying so soon ; and alto- 
 gether I have been shaken and nervous 
 — so you must forgive me if I seem 
 stupid.' 
 
 * Stupid ! You stupid ! What an idea ! ' 
 Meanwhile Lisle walked down the 
 
 street in anything but pleasant self- 
 commune. 
 
 * I certainly troubled myself unneces- 
 sarily about my charming young friend. 
 She has thrown me over easily enough ; 
 ihe must think me a soft idiot to have 
 troubled myself advising or directing 
 her. Were I to remain in town, I 
 might teach Mrs Leslie Waring that 
 I was no foolish stripling, to be tossed 
 aside with indifference and impunity
 
 On the Brink. 99 
 
 when fate offered her fairer fortune ! 
 She knows that it cost me a bad 
 quarter of an hour to give her up for 
 her own good. Who can calculate on 
 the strange variations of feminine nature ? ' 
 
 So argued Lisle, with the degree of 
 logic usual in men whose vanity has 
 been wounded. He was quite willing 
 that Mona should be taken out of his 
 way, but he should have liked to see 
 her weeping — broken-hearted at the loss 
 of his fascinating self. Yet, although 
 horribly irritated, he probably never 
 longed more passionately to be in 
 Waring's place — always provided the 
 engagement, marriage, what you will, 
 was not to be permanent. 
 
 Both Mrs Newburgh and Sir Robert 
 Everard were very urgent that the 
 wedding should take place as soon as 
 possible. Waring, though eager on 
 this point, was too fearful of incurring 
 Mona's displeasure to express himself 
 as warmly as he felt. It was always, 
 ' What would you like, Mona ? ' ' What- 
 ever you choose, dear ! ' This excessive 
 deference to her wishes almost wearied
 
 lOO Monas Choice, 
 
 her. In her present mood she did not 
 care to think or decide about anything. 
 Nor did she oppose the wishes of her 
 relatives. She had fully committed her- 
 self ; perhaps the sooner the question of 
 her future was fixed beyond recall, the 
 sooner she would throw off the disturbing 
 pain which the possibility of escape 
 created, so long as she was still un- 
 married. Moreover, she hated to receive 
 the presents with which Leslie Waring 
 tried to overwhelm her. It cost her an 
 effort to thank him, and still another 
 to explain that it would be more pleasing 
 to her to take them from her husband's 
 hands. 
 
 She was completely cured of her love for 
 the man St John Lisle had proved him- 
 self to be ; but both heart and fancy 
 clung still to the being her imagination 
 had depicted. It was too soon to endure 
 the thought of another lover. Had 
 time been granted her for the effer- 
 vescence of her spirit to subside — for 
 her cruel wounds to heal, she might 
 have been won to regard Waring with 
 kindly affection ; as it was, her whole
 
 On the Brink, loi 
 
 nature revolted from being forcibly 
 plunged into the tremendous intimacy 
 of married life with a stranger. 
 
 This period of engagement was by 
 no means as blissful as Waring anti- 
 cipated. Mona, though gentle and 
 complaisant, was cold — colder than she 
 knew — and Waring was sometimes 
 tempted to ask her if the sacrifice to 
 which she had consented was too cruel. 
 Then some strain of compassion would 
 steal over her heart, and thrill her voice 
 or soften her eyes, and the poor boy — 
 for he was but a boy, in spite of his 
 years — would be lifted to the seventh 
 heaven of joyous anticipation. He had 
 the most unbounded faith in Mona, and 
 he had her assurance that she did not 
 love anyone. His devotion, then, must 
 win her. How formidable the rivalry 
 of that first unfulfilled dream of love 
 was, he could not know. Would he 
 learn it hereafter '^. 
 
 ' Well, Mrs Nevvburgh,' said Sir Robert 
 Everard, who had again come up to town 
 on his relative's account, ' I am very 
 glad that everything is so satisfactorily
 
 I02 Moncis Choice. 
 
 settled. I must say Mona is a capital, 
 sensible girl, and makes no fuss or 
 bother about clothes. Waring's idea of 
 doing their shopping together in Paris 
 is first-rate. He will sign a will in his 
 wife's favour as soon as they return 
 from church ; and meantime the post- 
 nuptial settlement is being prepared. 
 Really, Waring is most generous. What 
 are you going to do ? ' 
 
 ' I am going to stay on here. I think 
 my poor house is tolerably safe for a 
 few months. Mr Waring talks of rent- 
 ing a place in some good hunting county 
 — indeed, I think he is in treaty for one — 
 and he has very courteously invited me 
 to make my home with him. For the 
 present, I have accepted. So old a 
 woman as I have become in the last 
 month, cannot be much in the way, 
 and probably I shall not trouble them 
 long. Though infinitely relieved, and 
 thankful that Mona is provided for so 
 happily, I do not gather strength. 
 These terrible, palpitations and faint- 
 ness seem to sap my life ; but I am not 
 uneasy ; my work is done — quite done 1 '
 
 On the Brink, 103 
 
 * Come, come ! I hope to drink your 
 health on your eightieth birthday, my dear 
 lady ! we must have no doleful ideas of 
 that kind. So the happy day is fixed 
 for the first. Lady Mary and the girls 
 will come up the day before, and that 
 will be all the company.' 
 
 * Yes, all ! It is very good of you to 
 curtail your visit to the moors on our 
 account.' 
 
 * "Blood is thicker than water'" returned 
 Sir Robert, and after a little further 
 cheerful talk and gossip, which did not 
 seem to interest Mrs Newburgh as much 
 as it used, the Baronet took leave. 
 
 * Your mistress does not pick up as 
 fast as we could wish,' he said to Wehner, 
 who helped him on with his overcoat 
 in the hall. 
 
 * No, Sir Robert. She is not strong ; 
 she is very weak — weaker each day. It 
 grieves me to the heart.' 
 
 ' Ay ! she is a good mistress. Now 
 you will be sent adrift before long, I 
 am afraid.' 
 
 * Yes, sir.' 
 
 * Well, I'll bear you in mind.'
 
 I04 Monas Choice, 
 
 * Thank you, Sir Robert.' 
 
 This conversation had taken place 
 when Mona was engaged in some unavoid- 
 able shopping with Madame Debrisay. 
 Having done all they could before the 
 light failed them, Mona begged to be 
 allowed to take tea with her friend. 
 
 'You know I have never seen your 
 new rooms, Deb.' 
 
 * Then come, and welcome. We will go 
 into Whiteley's and get some tea-cakes. 
 Tea-cakes are, to my mind — or maybe I 
 ought to say to my palate — the ne plus 
 ultra of goody ! I suppose Mrs New- 
 burgh will not mind your being late ? ' 
 
 ' No ; she knows I am with you ; besides. 
 Sir Robert Everard is to be in town to- 
 day, and she likes to have his visits all 
 to herself. They have many memories 
 in common, — though he is much younger.' 
 
 ' And Mr Waring ? ' 
 
 * He has gone down to Leicestershire 
 to look at a place that is to be let there.' 
 
 *Well, well, you are the lucky girl, 
 Mona ! ' 
 
 * I suppose so.' 
 
 They drove on in silence to the
 
 On the Brink, 105 
 
 Universal Provider's, and thence walked 
 to Madame Debrisay's new quarters. 
 
 'How nice and quiet it is here!' cried 
 Mona, taking off her hat and drawing a 
 chair to the fire, which Madame Debri- 
 say stirred and incited to burning, with 
 some sticks drawn from a cupboard be- 
 side the fireplace. * Quite a good-sized 
 room too; but, Deb dear, it might be 
 tidier ! ' 
 
 ' So it might ; but, ma belle, I have 
 no time ; and what does the poor slave 
 of a girl know of tidiness ? besides, if 
 she tried her hand, I'd never find my 
 bits of things.' 
 
 Mona's remark was not uncalled for. 
 The apartment was sadly littered. A cot- 
 tage piano had an old Indian shawl ar- 
 ranged as a drapery at the back, one 
 side of which was unfastened ; piles of 
 music lay on it, and on a broken-backed 
 chair ; a heap of crumpled newspapers 
 on another ; a small round table was 
 crowded with plants, many of them with- 
 ered ; and sundry garments in process of 
 mending or making were loosely rolled 
 too^ether on the ottoman. This, and a
 
 io6 Moncis Choice. 
 
 generally undusted aspect, did not improve 
 the appearance of the room. It was on 
 the ground floor, and looked out on a 
 general garden, which at that season was 
 anything but cheerful. 
 
 * I have an elegant bedroom to the 
 front/ resumed Madame Debrisay. 'Come 
 and look at it.' Passing a glass door 
 at the top of the kitchen stair, she 
 opened it, and called, — ' Amelia, bring 
 up the tea kettle ; I'll boil it myself.' 
 * It's a great convenience being able to 
 cry down for what you want. Now, 
 there's my bedroom. I am afraid it 
 is not in much better order than the 
 other.' 
 
 * I can't say that it is, Deb, but it is 
 nearly as large as the other. I wonder 
 you do not make this your salon. The 
 lookout is more cheerful.' 
 
 ' I am not much in by daylight. Then 
 you see the other room has a fine white 
 marble chimney-piece. It was intended 
 for the drawing-room. These houses 
 used to be expensive, but they have 
 come down like myself. Come along, 
 and I'll make the tea.'
 
 Oil the Brink, 107 
 
 * I think,' said Mona presently, as 
 she slowly stirred her cup, ' it would 
 be nice to do some of the housework 
 oneself.' 
 
 ' I suspect a little of it would go a 
 long w^ay with you. It's little work 
 you'll have to do. There's an easy life 
 before — ' 
 
 * " To sit on a cushion and sew up a 
 seam, and eat ripe strawberries, sugar, 
 and cream " all day long, is not exactly 
 my idea of a blissful existence,' said 
 Mona. 
 
 ' Now, my darling, I am going to 
 give you a good scolding. You are 
 looking pale and thin, and your eyes 
 are as solemn as if you were going to 
 a funeral. Is that the way to treat the 
 dear, generous, elegant young man who's 
 ready to worship the ground you walk 
 on ? What is it you want ? I did 
 not think you w^ere the sort of girl who 
 would cry for the moon.' 
 
 ' Nor am I,' returned Mona thought- 
 fully. ' I know, Deb, that Mr Waring 
 is too good for me — ' 
 
 * I don't say that. No one on earth
 
 io8 Monds Choice, 
 
 is too good for you, in my mind/ in- 
 terrupted Madame Debrisay. 
 
 ' But — let me confess myself to you. 
 I would give anything — anything not to 
 be obliged to marry him. It is foolish, 
 unreasonable. I know it is. Yet I 
 have such a vision of weariness before 
 me. I know I shall be sick to death 
 of being with him. I never know what 
 to say to him.' 
 
 ' I warrant he knows what to say to 
 you I ' cried Madame. 
 
 * No ! indeed he does not! He can 
 only tell me I am perfection, and that 
 he adores me.' 
 
 * It's a style of conversation few young 
 ladies would object to.' 
 
 ' Well, I do. Yet I am so sorry for 
 him. Poor fellow, he does love me.' 
 
 * Ah ! well you see some of that 
 will rub off when he is married. A 
 lover is one thing, and husband is quite 
 another. Then oughtened you to be 
 glad to make a human being happy ? ' 
 
 * Shall I make him happy ? I doubt 
 it. Oh, Deb, Deb ! I would give 
 the world for freedom and work. I
 
 On the Brink. 109 
 
 am tired of pleasure and an aimless 
 existence.' 
 
 * Dieti des Diettx ! Does that mean 
 you are in love with some penniless, 
 scamp ? ' 
 
 * No, dear. At least I am guiltless 
 of marrying one man while my heart 
 aches for another.' 
 
 * Then there is something underneath 
 I do not understand. If you don't 
 care for anyone else, all will come 
 right. You talk to me a year hence, 
 and you'll have a different story to tell 
 Now, ril not speak another word on 
 the subject. I hate talking of what 1 
 don't understand. Take another cup, my 
 angel.' 
 
 For all reply, Mona burst into tears^ 
 not a violent outburst, but a quietly 
 bitter flow, with deep suppressed sobs. 
 
 * My dear child ! what's all this 
 about ? ' cried Madame Debrisay, witk 
 unfeigned concern. ' What's troubling 
 you ? Sure, you used to tell me all 
 your sorrows when you used to come 
 to me for your music lesson in Paris. 
 Tell me now,'
 
 1 1 o Monds Choice. 
 
 ^ I really have nothing to tell,' said 
 Mona, struggling with her tears. ' It 
 is just a nervous attack, — a " crise," as 
 you used to call it. I have felt tearful 
 and unstrung ever since I was startled 
 by grannie's telegram at Harrowby Chase, 
 and I have been on the stretch ever 
 since. I suppose it sounds very foolish, 
 Deb, but I wish I could come and 
 live with you, and help you in some 
 way, rather than — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! hush — hush — my darling. You 
 are meant for better things. There's 
 no one would be so welcome as your- 
 self; but there is a different life before 
 you.' 
 
 * Should I really be welcome to you. 
 Deb, suppose everyone turned from me ? ' 
 
 * Hoot toot ! Yes, of course. Come 
 — I must not let you talk any more 
 nonsense. I'll make the girl call a 
 cab, and take you straight away home.'
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE GREAT KING. 
 
 Sh( 
 
 I ME flew swiftly. A red frosty 
 sun, rose on the morning before 
 Mona was to be changed into 
 Mrs Leslie Waring, 
 had been persuaded to sleep in 
 her own room again, as Mrs Newburgh 
 seemed so much better, and quite re- 
 conciled to a nice new maid — sent her 
 from the country by Lady Mary 
 Everard. 
 
 * How is my grandmother?' was Mona's 
 first question, when this functionary 
 brought her hot water. 
 
 ' Nicely, miss ; she was fast asleep when 
 I left the room.'
 
 1 1 2 Monas Choice, 
 
 ' I will ring as soon as I am dressed. 
 Did you speak to Mrs Newburgh ?' 
 
 'No, miss; she looked so still and 
 quiet, I thought it best not to disturb 
 her. 
 
 * Perhaps you are right ! I will come 
 directly.' 
 
 Mrs Newburgh's eyes were open when 
 her grand - daughter approached, she 
 smiled, kindly and faintly. When Mona 
 asked her if she would like to get up, 
 she smiled a peculiar dreamy kind of 
 smile, and murmured in a muffled 
 voice, — 
 
 ' Yes, dear, of course I should.' 
 Mona therefore put her arm under 
 her shoulders to help her in rising, which 
 was always a little difficult. 
 
 * Thank you, my love,' she said, in 
 the same indistinct way, smiling as she 
 spoke, and sitting on the side of the 
 bed ; her feet did not at first touch the 
 floor. 
 
 Assisted by Mona, she put them dowri 
 resolutely, but fell back immediately, 
 silent and motionless. 
 
 It took all Monas strength to keep
 
 The Great King. 1 1 
 
 »> 
 
 her inert form from slipping off the 
 bed, while she stretched her hand to the 
 bell-rope which hung beside it. The new 
 lady's-maid came running at the summons. 
 
 ' Help me to lay her down ! ' whispered 
 Mona. 
 
 She felt terrified ; this was somehow 
 different from ^Irs Newburgh's usual 
 fainting fits. 
 
 The maid assisted to place her in bed. 
 She was rigid, and very heavy. 
 
 ' Fan her, Ellen,' said Mona, as she 
 turned away to get some restorative. 
 
 ' Lord bless us, ma'am ! ' exclaimed the 
 woman, in an awe-struck tone ; ' I do 
 believe she is gone ! ' 
 
 'Impossible!' cried Mona, rushing to 
 her side. ' Why she has only just been 
 speaking to me. She often faints ; send 
 for the doctor.' 
 
 ' Ah ! no doctor will do her any good, 
 poor lady ; her heart is quite still,' laying 
 her hand on it, 'and her eyes, — just look 
 at them, miss — open and glassy.' 
 
 Mona took one of the helpless hands 
 in both her own : the touch chilled her. 
 
 ' I cannot believe it. Try and give 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 1 14 Monas Choice. 
 
 her this,' hastily measuring out the pre- 
 scribed quantity of medicine. 
 
 Ellen shook her head — and obeyed. 
 It was in vain. Wehner was despatched 
 for the doctor, but before he came — 
 Mona's hopes were over. Her grand- 
 mother, her one real friend was dead. 
 She could not doubt what that grey 
 pallor, the deadly stillness, the stiffened 
 form meant — still she could not realise 
 that she should never hear her speak, 
 never turn to her for guidance, never 
 attend to her little wants again. 
 
 The doctor came quickly, and at once 
 declared that life was quite extinct, — that 
 he had always anticipated a sudden death 
 for his patient. Her heart was weak, 
 and so much emotion as had tried her 
 of late, had rendered all exertion, all 
 agitation, dangerous ; and probably the 
 effort to rise, and stand up, was the 
 final feather which broke the strained 
 cord of life. 
 
 There was no more to be done ! What 
 desolation there is in that sentence. All 
 the warmth of the most glowing love, 
 all the force of the strongest will, are
 
 The Great King. 115 
 
 powerless to roll away the stone from 
 the sepulchre of our hopes, once death 
 has placed it there ! 
 
 It seemed to poor dazed Mona that 
 Sir Robert and Lady Mary Everard 
 appeared as if by magic. What a solace 
 it was to throw herself into kind Lady 
 Mary's arms, and tell her brokenly how 
 deeply she mourned the thoughtful — if 
 tyrannical protectress, to whom misfor- 
 tune had linked her so closely. 
 
 ' Well, dear, you may rest assured that 
 the near prospect of your marriage 
 soothed and brightened her last hours ; 
 and it is a great comfort to know she 
 was in a happy frame of mind. Sir 
 Robert has sent round to Mr Waring. 
 He will be here immediately, no doubt, 
 and will be your best support.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no ! You are best. You 
 knew poor dear grannie so well, and she 
 was so fond of you.' 
 
 ' Dear old lady ! Of course, at such 
 a painful crisis, old friends count for a 
 great deal. I think, dear, you must come 
 back with me to Charles Street. I can- 
 not leave you here alone.'
 
 1 1 6 Monds Choice. 
 
 ' No, Lady Mary, I will not leave the 
 house while poor grannie lies helpless 
 here. I feel bound to keep by her to 
 the last.' 
 
 A message from Sir Robert brought 
 Waring as fast as a well-paid driver could 
 urge his horse. He was quite sorry for 
 the old lady, who had always treated him 
 with kindly deference. He was deeply 
 sympathetic with his peerless Mona, du^ 
 he was principally put out because he 
 knew that in commonest decency his 
 marriage must be delayed. Mona was 
 not in the drawing-room when he reached 
 it, and he was somewhat discomfited 
 when Lady Mary came and explained 
 that Mona was too much overcome to 
 see him, — that she was in her own room. 
 
 * But she 7i>z// see me presently, will 
 she not ? ' he asked appealingly. ' I 
 thought it might be a comfort to her 
 to talk to me.' 
 
 * No doubt it will be. At this moment 
 she is terribly upset.' 
 
 It was not till considerably later — after 
 Waring and Sir Robert had arranged 
 the details of the funeral, and all that
 
 The Great King, 117 
 
 appertained to it — that Mona was in- 
 duced to see her affianced husband. 
 
 Lady Mary thought it was kindest to 
 leave them alone, for which poor Waring 
 thanked her from the depths of his heart, 
 but the interview was productive of little 
 pleasure to him. 
 
 Mona was ready enough to speak of 
 her sorrow. She was gently grateful for 
 his sympathy, but she would not sit 
 beside him, her head on his shoulder, 
 and his arm round her, nor did she 
 permit a course of consolation com- 
 pounded of whispers, kisses, and assur- 
 ances that the whisperer would be brother 
 and sister and grandmother and every- 
 thing to her. She was so dazed and 
 overwhelmed that Waring was gravely 
 uneasy about her, and it was an immense 
 relief to him to know that Madame 
 Debrisay (who had heard of the sad 
 event in some occult manner) was in 
 the house, and would spend the night 
 with her favourite pupil. 
 
 Established custom governs all things 
 — the deepest grief — the wildest joy.
 
 1 1 8 Monds Choice. 
 
 The dreary days — which Hngered yet 
 went so swiftly — sped on, and poor Mrs 
 Newburgh was laid in her grave. Her 
 will, leaving all she possessed to Mona, 
 was duly read — her few jewels and per- 
 sonalities packed up. The former went 
 with Mona to Harrowby Chase. Her 
 books, her favourite chair, a few pieces 
 of plate and china, were taken charge 
 of by Madame Debrisay, and the Green 
 Street house, pending the action of the 
 liquidators, was to be let. 
 
 Mona took cold on her journey, and 
 for a fortnight was very unwell — so 
 feverish, in fact, as to wander in her 
 speech, and to cause her kind hosts a 
 good deal of anxiety. Her nerves had 
 been greatly shaken ; she was weaker 
 and more depressed than could have 
 been anticipated. She was very averse 
 to speak, and used to sit brooding for 
 hours. 
 
 She was utterly lonely. She had no 
 near relative. The Everards were more 
 closely allied by friendship than by blood 
 to Mrs Newburgh. She had heard of 
 many other cousins in her grandmother's
 
 The Great King. 119 
 
 lifetime, but she felt they did not count. 
 Of Lord Sunderline, her nearest of kin, 
 she knew but very little, nor was that 
 little attractive. 
 
 Pondering these things, she grew af- 
 frighted at the stern aspect of the world 
 she was going to face, for, as she collected 
 her faculties and studied her circum- 
 stances, she grew more and more averse 
 to fulfil her engagement with Leslie 
 Waring. The great motive was gone, 
 and an irresistible longing for freedom, 
 however poverty stricken, seized her. 
 The idea of so close a union with a 
 mere good - natured sportsman, who in 
 no way touched her imagination, whose 
 offensive affection wearied her, whose 
 personal appearance was unpleasant to 
 her eye, became infinitely repugnant as 
 she dwelt upon it. It was hardly fair 
 to him either to let him plunge into the 
 irrevocable in ignorance of her aversion. 
 Better let him bear a temporary pang 
 now, than incur the misery long drawn 
 out of an ill - assorted, unsympathetic 
 marriage. 
 
 Her resolution to break with him grew
 
 I20 Monds Choice. 
 
 rapidly stronger almost before she was 
 aware she had formed it. Then she 
 began to see that she was enjoying 
 Lady Mary's kind hospitality under false 
 pretences. She did not for a moment 
 doubt that her refusal to marry Waring 
 would bring down, if not a storm of 
 wrath — for Lady Mary and her family 
 were far too well - bred to be violently 
 angry — but an iceberg of disapprobation. 
 She must remove herself from the shelter 
 of their roof before she struck the blow 
 that would give poor Waring so much 
 temporary pain. (She felt sure it would 
 be but temporary.) And where could 
 she go ? There was no one but her 
 faithful Madame Debrisay on whom she 
 could count, and even she would be very 
 very angry. Still her purpose grew clearer 
 and firmer as her nervous system began 
 to recover the shock it had sustained. 
 
 ' Pray, dear, did poor Mrs Newburgh 
 leave any ready money ? ' asked Lady 
 Mary, coming into her husband's dressing- 
 room, where he was occupied with his 
 toilette, after a sharp and satisfactory 
 run with the Daleshire hounds.
 
 The Great King, 121 
 
 ' Yes ; a few hundreds, which she put 
 in my hands to meet immediate ex- 
 penses. Why do you ask ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Mona told me to ask you ! She 
 came downstairs to luncheon to-day, 
 looking very white and miserable, poor 
 child ; she seems restless, and anxious 
 to go out of the way of our Christmas 
 gathering. She proposes to spend a 
 short time with Madame Debrisay — a 
 very respectable person ; she gave 
 Evelyn music lessons, and — ' 
 
 ' Why the deuce doesn't she marry 
 Waring straight off, and go away with 
 him } that's the sort of change that 
 would set her up.' 
 
 ' Well, you see, she feels it would be 
 indecently soon after her grandmother's 
 death.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! nonsense ! Why, nothing 
 would please the old lady so much, 
 even if she were in heaven, as to know 
 the knot was absolutely tied ! You 
 make her hear reason. Let us send 
 for Waring ; she has her wedding- 
 gown, and we will marry them next 
 week.'
 
 1 2 2 Monds Choice. 
 
 ' I wish I could,' ejaculated Lady 
 Mary. 
 
 * By the way, what has become of 
 Waring ? ' 
 
 ^ He has gone to see his old guardian 
 about some business ; to pass away the 
 time, I fancy, till Mona is well enough 
 to see him. He was quite distracted 
 about her at first, poor fellow. I really 
 do not think she is half as grateful to 
 him as she ought to be.' 
 
 * No ; I daresay not — it would be un- 
 feminine ! But he ought not to put up 
 with such rubbish. Who is this woman 
 she wants to go to ? ' 
 
 * I told you, my dear. She is a pro- 
 fessor of music, well known to us all.' 
 
 * Well, you ought to ascertain what 
 Waring thinks about it — he has a right 
 to be consulted.' 
 
 * I do not think he would object. Then 
 he could stay in London and see her 
 every day ; whereas a man so much in 
 love is rather a nuisance in a house.' 
 
 * Oh, manage it your own way ! 
 Marry them out of hand if you can. 
 Perhaps it might be as well to let her
 
 The Great King. 123 
 
 go ; for I want a really nice party to 
 meet Lord Finistoun, who is a capital 
 fellow, and it is his first visit here. 
 Mind you, I don't think Mona is treat- 
 ing Waring well ; you ought to influence 
 her.' 
 
 ' That is not so easily done. She 
 has some of the Newburgh blood, you 
 know, and thinks she knows her own 
 mind.' 
 
 ' Bah ! I thought better of Mona.' 
 
 The jovial country gentleman was too 
 much occupied with his pleasures and 
 affairs to trouble about feminine crotchets 
 — all that was Lady Mary's work. 
 
 Meantime, Mona had not been idle. 
 She wrote to her ' dear Deb,' begging 
 leave to visit her, as she felt herself 
 an impediment to the party Lady Mary 
 wished to assemble, and also because 
 she had more to say than she could 
 write. 
 
 This brought a speedy, rapturous reply. 
 
 Then Mona applied herself to compose, 
 re-write, and copy her difficult letter to 
 Leslie Waring. 
 
 It was even a worse task than she
 
 124 Mona s Choice. 
 
 anticipated. All her selfish longing for 
 deliverance was for the moment swal- 
 lowed up in sorrow for the pain she 
 was about to inflict. Nothing kept her 
 steady to her purpose so much as her 
 conviction that she was doing right, — 
 that she was delivering Leslie as well 
 as herself. She was more than one 
 day over her task ; for Evelyn Everard, 
 an exceedingly girlish girl, who had taken 
 a violent fancy to her, was constantly 
 running into her room with her work, 
 or book, or for the avowed intention 
 of * enlivening' her. 
 
 It was accomplished at last, however ; 
 but Mona waited to post it till she was 
 safe in town, even though she left two 
 of Waring's epistles unanswered. In- 
 deed, her replies had always been few 
 and scanty — so much so, that even he 
 had become restless and dissatisfied. 
 He hoped, however, that a personal in- 
 terview would put all matters right. 
 Mona had had so severe a shock in 
 the sudden death of her grandmother 
 in her very arms, that she must be shown 
 all patience and consideration.
 
 The Great King. 1 2 5 
 
 It was with a nervous sense of guilt, 
 of being a deceiver, that Mona took 
 leave of Lady Mary and her daughters. 
 She took advantage of the Vicar's wife's 
 company, as she was going to town for 
 a rare visit, and she thus avoided the 
 cost and worry of having a smart lady's- 
 maid sent with her. 
 
 It was a grey blustering afternoon 
 when she reached St Pancras, and found 
 Madame Debrisay waiting for her. 
 
 * My dear, you do look bad ! Come, 
 get into the cab. I will find your 
 things.' 
 
 * I have only this small portmanteau 
 and bonnet-box for the present.' 
 
 ' That's right. I am sure you are 
 not fit to be out in such weather, get 
 in ; dear.' 
 
 ' I must post this letter first,' said 
 Mona, her lips quivering. 
 
 ' Very well. Give it to me. Oh, 
 yes ; quite right,' glancing at the address. 
 * You must keep him informed of your 
 whereabouts. It's hard times for him, 
 poor fellow, all this delay.' The long 
 drive to Westbourne Villas passed almost
 
 126 Monas Choice. 
 
 in silence on Mona's side. To Madame 
 Debrisay silence was abhorrent, and she 
 poured out much information respecting 
 the changes she had made in her dwell- 
 ing — the additional pupils promised her 
 next month. ' I am glad I have the 
 rest of this one comparatively free. I 
 can give a little time to you, my dear 
 child. And here we are, thank God ! 
 You will be the better of a cup of tea.' 
 Mona was, indeed, thankful to have, 
 so far, accomplished her purpose as to 
 be under the roof of her only sympath- 
 etic friend ; but her heart fainted within 
 her at the thought of the confession she 
 had to make. If Madame Debrisay 
 refused to harbour her, what was she to 
 do ? Meantime that busy woman flitted 
 to and fro. She stirred the already 
 glowing fire, made the kettle boil up, 
 infused the tea, and cut brown bread 
 and butter with immense energy, while 
 Mona — having put aside her bonnet and 
 cloak — lay back in a comfortable little 
 basket-chair — indescribable despondency 
 expressed in every line of her slight 
 form — her hands clasped and motionless.
 
 The Great King. 127 
 
 ' There now,' said madame, placing 
 a small table with a cup of tea and 
 plate of bread and butter beside her 
 young guest, ' take that, and get warmed. 
 Then say your say, for I can see your 
 heart is full. It's like a ghost you are 
 — an uneasy ghost, dear, that hasn't 
 contrived to deliver its message.' 
 
 ' I have no doubt of it,' returned 
 Mona, with a faint smile. ' You de- 
 scribe what I feel myself to be, exactly.' 
 
 Madame Debrisay looked at her with 
 kind, compassionating eyes, and stirred 
 her own tea reflectively — remaining silent 
 for an unusual length of time. 
 
 ' Now,' she said, when the refection 
 was finished — having rapidly packed up 
 the cups and saucers, and popped (no 
 other word conveys the action) the 
 tray outside — ' now, come, open your 
 heart to me, dear, for I know you are 
 in trouble.' 
 
 ' I am indeed,' returned Mona, in a 
 voice that faltered and shook in a way 
 far more touching than the most violent 
 burst of tears. ' I have determined to 
 break off my engagement ! '
 
 128 Monas Choice. 
 
 ' And you within a day of being his 
 wife, if your dear sainted grandmother 
 hadn't been swept away in a minute ! 
 No, I won't listen to you. It's mad, 
 and bad, and not like yourself at all ! 
 What will Sir Robert say, and — and 
 Lady Mary ? Who'd have thought you'd 
 be so cruel and false ? I must say it, 
 dear ! Indeed, I knew there was 
 misfortune coming, since I had your 
 note. And something told me you 
 wouldn't marry him. Ah ! my poor 
 Waring ! you deserved better at her 
 hands ! ' 
 
 * I knew you would be angry,' said 
 Mona sadly, ' but I cannot help it. I 
 cannot marry him, or anyone. Life 
 is too hard ! ' 
 
 * Ah ! then do you think you'll make 
 it softer by keeping single } I know 
 better. Life is cruel to a single woman 
 that's poor, and pretty, and delicately 
 reared, as you are. How do you mean 
 to live ? What can you do to earn 
 a crust ? ' 
 
 ' Not much, certainly ; but I have 
 the will, and I am persevering ; and don't
 
 The Great King. 129 
 
 speak so cruelly, Deb, for I feel heart- 
 broken.' 
 
 * God forgive me,' said madame sol- 
 emnly. ' He knows I would share my 
 last loaf with you, and will too ; but I 
 am angry with you, my darling. You 
 are flying in the face of Providence, 
 and driving an excellent young man to 
 an early grave.' 
 
 ' I do not think that. Deb. Nay, 
 I suppose in a month or two he will 
 be in love with someone else. I do 
 not think he is the sort of man who 
 will destroy himself for an ideal.' 
 
 * Tell me the truth, Mona, my dear child. 
 Are you in love with another, — some 
 poor creature you can't marry ? ' 
 
 ' No ; in truth I am not. There is 
 not a man on the face of the earth at 
 this moment I would willingly marry.' 
 
 * I believe you, for I never knew you 
 speak falsely yet ; but there is something 
 under it all I can't make out. I always 
 thought there was. Maybe you will tell 
 me one day. Now, listen to me. If 
 you ever cared for your dear, good, 
 generous grandmother, don't be in a 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 I30 
 
 Monas Choice, 
 
 hurry ; just say your prayers, and think. 
 Believe me, it's awfully hard to pick up 
 a living, especially when you haven't 
 anyone to take you by the hand. And 
 you have turned everyone against ye, or 
 you will. Don't quarrel with the poor 
 young fellow that has given you his 
 whole heart. Take a day or two to 
 think what you're doing.' 
 
 ' I have done it, Deb,' stretching out 
 her hand, and laying it on her friend's 
 plump arm. ' You posted the letter to 
 him yourself, just now.' 
 
 ' Ah ! that was base of you — base, to 
 take my hand to deal the blow. I'll 
 never forgive you, never ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, you will — you must,' rising and 
 kneeling beside her, while she clasped her 
 arms round her waist. * I have no one in 
 the world to turn to but you. Deb, and I 
 cannot marry this man — I cannot indeed.' 
 
 * And you have written to him ? Then 
 he will never rest satisfied without see- 
 ing you ; and when he comes, in the name 
 of God, let him persuade you.' 
 
 * I cannot promise that^ Deb, dear. I 
 will not see him if I can help it ; but if
 
 The Great King. 1 3 1 
 
 he insists, why, I will. He has a right 
 to so much, and I cannot refuse.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is something. No, don't re- 
 fuse ; you let him persuade you when he 
 does find. I'll be bound when he opens 
 his lips and tells you how he has trusted 
 to your word, he will bring you round. 
 Promise me you will hear him.' 
 
 ' I will,' said Mona gently ; ' and if he 
 insists on keeping me to my word, I will 
 keep it ; but — but after reading my letter, 
 I do not think he will.' 
 
 ' Don't be too sure of that. Now tell 
 me, have you told Lady Mary } ' 
 
 ' Not yet. I thought I would wait 
 till I had his answer.' 
 
 ' That's right. He'll come and speak 
 his answer himself, or I am much mis- 
 taken, and — well, we'll wait and see what 
 it will be.' 
 
 ' He will not hold me to my word ? ' 
 
 * I am not so sure. Anyway, I'll talk 
 no more to you about him this day. 
 You are just tired and done for. We'll 
 leave the matter to Heaven ; and you 
 must rest. Do you remember what you 
 said in your unlucky letter ? '
 
 1^2 
 
 Monas Choice. 
 
 * Yes. I told him I was driven by 
 my grandmother's position to accept 
 him ; that I was heartily ashamed of hav- 
 ing misled him ; that I felt it was only 
 just to tell him that I did not, and could 
 not, love him as a wife ought to love ; 
 that I deeply deplored the pain I gave 
 him, and humbly begged his forgiveness ; 
 that I thanked him for his goodness, 
 and prayed that he would forget me, and 
 soon be happy with someone more 
 worthy than myself.' 
 
 * Ah ! I know — the usual sort of thing. 
 It would serve you right if he never re- 
 plied. Ah, Mona, Mona ! this is the 
 biggest mistake ever you made. Still, 
 I'll not turn my back on you, my poor 
 child, and maybe — maybe your luck 
 won't leave you yet.'
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE TUG OF WAR. 
 
 |HE change from the luxurious 
 elegance of the ' Chase ' to 
 Madame Debrisay's London 
 lodgings, was about as great 
 as can be imagined. 
 
 Yet the house was not mean. The 
 * widow woman ' who owned it had a 
 certain refinement. Instead of the usual 
 extremely unlaced and unkempt ' slavey,' 
 she had an elderly servant of neat and 
 imposing aspect, who had been with her 
 for years, and who was rather a terror 
 to Madame Debrisay. 
 
 The lodger who occupied the upper 
 floor was a steady elderly city clerk, of 
 remarkable punctuality and precision.
 
 134 Monds Choice. 
 
 Still the tone of the homely dwelling 
 was new to Mona, who had been accus- 
 tomed to the aristocratic, if narrow, 
 nicety of her grandmothers house, or the 
 distinction of her relatives' establishments. 
 The only members of the family who 
 had accepted Mrs Newburgh's grand- 
 daughter frankly and cordially, were Sir 
 Robert and Lady Mary Everard. The 
 rest looked on her as an interloper, an 
 offshot tainted by an admixture of blood 
 that was anything but blue. Of this she 
 was but dimly conscious. While under 
 her grandmother's wing, she had been 
 received with decent civility ; now, she 
 felt keenly that she was about to alien- 
 ate the only real friends she possessed 
 — to sink from the level of the New- 
 burgh traditions to that of struggling, 
 almost adventurous, nobodies. Yet she 
 did not regret the desperate step she 
 had taken. Why, at her age, should 
 she link herself for a long life to a 
 thraldom that would irk her soul } 
 Youth demands so much. It takes the 
 friction of a life-time to teach modera- 
 tion and the wisdom of compromise.
 
 The Tug of War, 135 
 
 To Mona, the notion of temperate 
 liking, instead of devotion to an ideal 
 hero, and the importunate adoration of 
 a man whom she considered common- 
 place and dull, was intolerable. Above 
 all, she was so disenchanted with life, 
 and love, and dreams of perfection, by 
 St John Lisle's conduct, that she fancied 
 it was impossible the scattered fragments 
 of imagination's shining temple could 
 ever be reformed — not knowing the 
 marvellous recuperative powers of time 
 and nature. 
 
 Fatigue made her sleep so profoundly, 
 that it took some moments of waking 
 consciousness before she recognised where 
 she was. The sound of someone moving 
 reminded her that she was sharing 
 Madame Debrisay's room, and presently 
 that lady came out fully dressed from 
 behind a large Japanese screen, which 
 converted one corner into a dressing 
 closet. 
 
 * And how did you sleep, dear ? ' 
 
 * Oh, well ; too well ! ' exclaimed Mona. 
 
 * Well, stay where you are. I'll bring 
 you a cup of coffee and a bit of toast,
 
 136 Monds Choice, 
 
 for I have a long, busy day before me. 
 I go to Mrs Ardell's grand establishment 
 first, over at Kensington. I am there 
 for four mortal hours, then I get a bit 
 of food ; and give two private lessons in 
 the same neighbourhood, so I am obliged 
 to leave you nearly all day. But business 
 is business.' 
 
 ' Of course it is ; do not mind me ! ' 
 
 ' My good landlady will give you some- 
 thing to eat at her dinner time, and we 
 will have a cosy tea together when I 
 come in.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Deb.' 
 
 ' You see I have taken your advice, 
 and changed my rooms. I was just 
 ready in time for you, my lamb ; the 
 front room is better for a sitting-room.' 
 
 She hurried away, and returned sooner 
 than Mona could have expected, with a 
 fragrant cup of cafd au lait and a slice 
 of buttered toast. 
 
 Once more she put in her head with 
 a cheerful — 
 
 'I'm off now, make yourself comfort- 
 able, dear ; there are some books and a 
 lot of Family Heralds in the next room ;
 
 The Tug of War. 1 3 7 
 
 there are splendid stories in them, they 
 make your hair stand on end, and forget 
 the time. Take the hand-bell if you 
 want anything — none of the other bells 
 will ring. Good-bye, dear.' 
 
 Mona dressed slowly, and went into 
 the sitting-room. It was a stormy, wet 
 day. The rain beat against the one large 
 bow window which lighted it, and which 
 looked over a small square of grass, with 
 a flower-bed in the middle, and a couple 
 of trees next the railings, that divided 
 it from the street. It was a fairly well- 
 kept front garden, but at the present 
 time, being strewn with dead leaves, and 
 sodden with rain, it was not a cheerful 
 prospect. The fire had been hastily 
 loaded with coal, and had succumbed to 
 the load. The table-cover was crooked ; 
 a very irregular pile of newspapers. 
 Heralds^ programmes of concerts, over- 
 flowed an occasional table ; but the 
 furniture was good and in good order, 
 though extremely mixed as to style and 
 pattern ; some of it, in fact, was Madame 
 Debrisay's, and some her landlady's. 
 
 The hand-bell evoked a tall, hard-
 
 13S Monds Choice, 
 
 featured woman, with thick grizzled halr» 
 a spotless cap, and a dark print dress. 
 
 * The fire's gone out ? ' she repeated, in 
 a high-pitched tone. * I daresay madame 
 thinks coals '11 light of theirselves ; she 
 just pitches them on, whether there is 
 a spark alive or not. I'll fetch a few 
 sticks, miss.' 
 
 The fire burning, the hearth swept, and 
 a few tidying touches bestowed on the 
 room, made a vast improvement. 
 
 Mona threw herself into an arm-chair, 
 and tried to think what was best to do. 
 What pressed most upon her mind was 
 the painful necessity of communicating 
 with Lady Mary. She ought not to be 
 left in ignorance of her intentions, but 
 would it not be well to hear first what 
 Leslie Waring would say. Yes, she would 
 wait. 
 
 The previous evening she had posted 
 a few lines to the Chase, announcing her 
 safe arrival, she might therefore post- 
 pone her next letter for twenty - four 
 hours. 
 
 By this time, her refusal to ratify her 
 engagement had been read by her lover
 
 The Tug of War. 139 
 
 and she quivered at the idea of the 
 pain and mortification she had inflicted. 
 Ke would be awfully angry. Indeed, 
 she hoped he would. It might help him 
 to throw off his grief. He would write 
 severely : she dreaded his letter — but 
 surely he would be too bitterly offended 
 to come in person to reproach her ; that 
 possibility was unspeakably terrible. 
 
 The dreary hours went slowly by — 
 slowly, yet fast. She could not form 
 any conception of what her future might 
 be. Her powers of imagination, of con- 
 jecture, paused, paralysed, before the 
 bristling difficulties of the present. 
 
 She could hardly expect a letter from 
 Waring till the next day. He was 
 staying — not very far away, in Hamp- 
 shire — with the gentleman who had 
 been his guardian, and for whom he 
 had a great regard. This man was — 
 Mona felt, rather than knew — opposed 
 to his marriaore with herself. She was 
 convinced that he considered her not 
 sufficiently well off or important to be 
 a suitable match for his ex-ward. He 
 would assist to rouse Waring's wrath.
 
 140 Monds Choice. 
 
 against her, and would not let him 
 lower himself by a personal Interview. 
 
 She strove to swallow a morsel or 
 two of the dinner set before her ; she 
 tried to gather the sense of an agonising 
 tale In the London Reader, and Interest 
 herself In the tremendous persecutions 
 of the heroine. All In vain. Time, how- 
 ever, was rolling on ; she might soon 
 expect Madame Debrlsay. Four o'clock 
 struck when she had gone Into the 
 bedroom to seek for some piece of fancy 
 work (which Madame Debrlsay infinitely 
 preferred to mending her clothes), when 
 the sound of the front-door bell, followed 
 by a step in the next room, made her 
 hope that her kind hostess had returned. 
 Going quickly in to greet her, she be- 
 held Jane, the servant, in the act of 
 lighting the gas, while by the window, 
 looking paler — sterner than she thought 
 he could, stood Leslie Waring ! 
 
 ^ Good-morning,' he said stiffly. * I 
 thought I should find you in.' 
 
 This while Jane pulled down the 
 blind and retired. Then he made a 
 step forward to where Mona stood,
 
 The T2io^ of W^ar, 141 
 
 motionless — her tremblinor hands locked 
 together, her eyes wide-opened, gazing 
 at him. 
 
 ' Do you seriously mean what you 
 have written here ? ' he asked, in a 
 thick, unsteady voice, as he drew forth 
 and opened her letter. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said ; ' I do.' 
 
 ' Then I have a right to ask the reason 
 of this sudden change. What have 1 
 done to deserve it ? ' 
 
 * You have deserved nothing but good 
 and gratitude from me,' faltered Mona, 
 sinking into a chair, for she felt her 
 limbs unable to support her. 
 
 * Then why do you desert me ? ' 
 
 ' I told you in my letter — the whole 
 truth ; I can not love you as a wife 
 ought to love.' 
 
 * We agreed to get over that difficulty, 
 I hoped to win your affection, if you 
 were quite free from any other attach- 
 ment.' 
 
 * And I am, Mr Waring ! There is 
 not a man in existence whom I would 
 accept at this moment. But ' — she was 
 growing calmer under the desperate ne-
 
 1142 Monds Choice, 
 
 cessity of explanation — ' I also told you 
 — what, indeed, I blushed to write — that 
 my grandmother's wish, her overpowering 
 need, induced me to consent to what, 
 otherwise, I should not have ac- 
 cepted.' 
 
 ' I understand. Then, Mona, you 
 have treated me very badly. You took 
 me when I was necessary to you ; you 
 throw me aside when you think you 
 can do without me ! And I love you 
 so ! I thought I was going straight 
 into heaven when you promised to be 
 my wife ! I had faith In your promise 
 to try and love me ; and, after all, you 
 were only sacrificing yourself to main- 
 tain your grandmother — a sacrifice you 
 gladly escape as soon as you can ! You 
 have broken your contract ! ' 
 
 ' You are justly angry. I cannot de- 
 fend myself. But do you not think you 
 will be happier with some woman fairer 
 and better than I am, who will love you 
 heartily, and — ' 
 
 * No one will ever be so fair and good 
 as you seem to me ; and as you reject 
 .me, how am I to believe that anyone
 
 The T7tg oj War, 143 
 
 will love me ? You had every reason to 
 love me, yet you could not.' 
 
 * Love cannot reason.' 
 
 ' Then you know what love is ? * cried 
 Waring sharply. ' There is something 
 still in your heart which you will not 
 speak out! Ah, Mona ! why can I not 
 please you ? Why are you so cruel ? 
 You have destroyed my life ! ' 
 
 There was such passionate despair in 
 his voice that Mona was profoundly 
 moved. That she had cruelly, selfishly, 
 wronged him was borne in upon her 
 with constraining force. She felt guilty, 
 culpable, to the last degree ; and waver- 
 ing in her resolution, — wishing, if possible, 
 to do the right thing, she stammered, — 
 
 ' If — if you think it worth accepting, 
 I will retract that letter, and — and do 
 my best.' 
 
 ' No ! ' interrupted Waring, with a 
 dignity of which she did not imagine 
 him capable. * You cannot endure me ! 
 I do not want a victim ! I love you 
 too well for that. But, ah, Mona, it is 
 an agony to think you will have to face 
 the roughness of life ! Whether you love
 
 144 Moncis Choice. 
 
 me or not — whether you desert me or 
 not — I would gladly give half I possess 
 to shield you from all you dare to face. 
 Promise you will let me help you if you 
 need help — promise, Mona ! ' 
 
 * Surely,' she cried, greatly touched — 
 ' surely Heaven has cursed you with 
 something of a woman's heart, or you 
 would not feel so tenderly and gener- 
 ously for one who has pained and 
 wounded you ! I feel your superiority, 
 and I humbly beg your forgiveness. I 
 will always think of you as a true 
 gentleman. May you find greater hap- 
 piness than I could bestow. Here — 
 take this back ! ' 
 
 ' Pray keep it,' he said, as she held 
 out her engagement ring of diamonds. 
 
 ' I cannot, Mr Waring ; you must take 
 it back ! ' 
 . He thrust it on his finger. 
 
 ' Then it is all over between us ! ' he 
 said passionately ; ' all quite over ! Per- 
 haps it is better so. It would have broken 
 my heart to try in vain to win )our love ; 
 and, dear as you are, I would not have 
 you without it. Good-bye, Mona ! you
 
 The Tug of War, 145 
 
 have taught me how unlovable I am ; 
 yet I might have made you happy.' 
 
 With a slight despairing gesture of the 
 hand he turned and left her. 
 
 Left her in a state of terrible agitation 
 and doubt. 
 
 She did not expect to be so completely 
 routed, so utterly ashamed. He was 
 stronger and nobler than she thought. 
 She had broken with him, and she had 
 lost him. She had offered to retract, and 
 he had rejected her. 
 
 It pained her infinitely to think that his 
 opinion of her had been lowered, — that 
 she had been so faithless to her promise. 
 
 Yet she knew that had she renewed, 
 or kept to the engagement, she would be 
 miserable. 
 
 * He will forget me soon,' she told her- 
 self. ' To-day his bearing was dignified 
 and earnest, his feelings were deeply 
 moved — to-morrow, his eye will be caught 
 by some one of the many charming girls 
 he meets, and he will be far happier than 
 with one whose heart is dead, like mine.' 
 
 She sat long quite still, thinking pain- 
 fully, confusedly. Then she nerved her- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 146 Monds Choice, 
 
 self to seek her writing materials, and 
 begin a letter to Lady Mary. 
 
 What a task it was. How worthless and 
 ungrateful her own conduct seemed to her 
 as she strove to explain it and excuse 
 herself. How insufficient, how puerile 
 her objections must seem to those who 
 had not the key to the puzzle — that key 
 none should ever get. She knew that 
 had she never met Lisle, had she been 
 heart whole, she might have grown to 
 like Waring sufficiently well to be happy. 
 But Lisle had lifted a corner of the veil 
 which hides the mysteries of life from 
 young eyes, and given her a glimpse of 
 human passion and the enchantment of it ; 
 — now nothing less glowing could satisfy 
 her — all else was tame and weak. And 
 this hero whomi she had invested with 
 all the attributes of noblest manhood, 
 strength, and tenderness, the masterful 
 decision of a fine intellect, the gentleness 
 of a knight-errant, he had shown him- 
 self to her in his true colours, and swept 
 away the illusions which had gathered 
 round his image in her mind for ever. 
 She said truly there wa3 not a vestige
 
 The Titg of War. 147 
 
 of love in her heart for any man, nor 
 did she believe she could ever believe in 
 another. 
 
 She did not dream of the enormous 
 recuperative powers which youth pos- 
 sesses. Still it was a bitter blow, that 
 sent her reeling back from the threshold 
 of life, to recover as best she could her 
 vanished hopes of truth and tenderness 
 — respectful love, everlasting constancy. 
 
 She had not completed her difficult 
 letter, when Madame Debrisay came in. 
 
 ' I am quite done up ! ' she cried. ' Such 
 vile w^eather ! I will change my boots, 
 and be with you in a minute. But I have 
 a new pupil, so my Wednesdays will be 
 well filled at Kensington. We'll talk over 
 everything at tea.' 
 
 The kindly woman's horror and amaze- 
 ment when Mona disclosed the dreadful 
 fact that Waring had come to answer 
 her letter in person, and had gone away 
 in sorrow and indignation, can be better 
 imagined than described. 
 
 She was too deeply affected for speech. 
 She pushed back her chgiir from the table, 
 and sat a silent image of grief. , \
 
 148 Monas Choice. 
 
 ' And is there nothing to be done ! ' she 
 ejaculated. ' Dieu des Dieux ! It was my 
 last hope, that when he came himself and 
 you saw him face to face, drowned in 
 sorrow, you'd have given way. How had 
 you the heart to refuse him again ? ' 
 
 * But he did not ask me, dear Deb. 
 He very properly said he did not want a 
 victim. I think more highly of him than 
 I ever did before ; but I am sure I have 
 done right in acting as I have, and he 
 will thank me yet ! ' 
 
 * It is a downright tempting of Provi- 
 dence. Ah ! Mona, you'll rue the day 
 yet. And to make me post that letter I 
 Ah! if I had known what was in it, I'd 
 have torn it into smithereens before your 
 face. What will become of you now '^ 
 Everyone's hand will be against you.' 
 
 * Except yours, dear friend.' 
 
 * I tell you what. My hand is just 
 itching to box your ears, though it will 
 never put you from me. If I only knew 
 the truth. You are keeping back some- 
 thing — I know you are. Ah! and Sir 
 Robert Everard. Won't he be in the 
 fury, and Lady Mary. Well, well! I've
 
 The Tug of Wa7\ 149 
 
 had many a sore disappointment ; but I 
 think this is about the worst. If your 
 poor dear grandmamma could look from 
 her grave — I mean down from heaven 
 — I wonder what she would say ! ' 
 
 * Enlightened as she probably is by 
 the knowledo^e of another world, she 
 would, no doubt, approve of what I have 
 done.' 
 
 * It would be queer knowledge ! ' 
 
 For the rest of the evening Madame 
 Debrisay kept silence, or nearly complete 
 silence, which was, of course, pain and 
 grief to her — while Mona finished and 
 despatched her letter. 
 
 In due time it was answered, in rather 
 a distracted fashion, by Lady Mary. She 
 said she tliought dear Mona must be 
 under the influence of temporary insanity ; 
 that Sir Robert was going up to London 
 to see what was really the matter ; and 
 that she prayed Heaven there might not 
 be any secret mischief at the bottom of 
 this unfortunate affair. 
 
 The idea of facing Sir Robert alone 
 was too much for poor Mona. 
 
 * He will certainly be here to-morrow.
 
 150 Monas Choice, 
 
 Could you manage to stay at home, dear, 
 dear Deb ? ' she said imploringly. 
 
 * Well, and I don't wonder you are 
 frightened to see him ! He will be like 
 a raging lion — small blame to him! 
 There, don't turn so white. I am a bit 
 of a wild beast myself to speak so harsh 
 to a bit of a girl like you ! If I did not 
 dread a hard, poverty-stricken life for you, 
 I wouldn't be so mad. God knows, if 
 my own baby girl had lived, I couldn't 
 love her better than I do you ! Yes, I 
 will stay by you, my lamb. It will be a 
 tolerably free day to-morrow. I'll write 
 and put off my early lessons, for you may 
 be sure he will come up hot foot the first 
 thing in the morning to row us out of the 
 place.' 
 
 This assurance was some stay to Mona. 
 She was very low — she had been for some 
 time unable to eat, and her nerves had 
 suffered severely from the shock of her 
 grandmother's sudden death. It made 
 Madame Debrisay's soft heart ache to see 
 how thin and white her pet pupil had 
 grown, how she started and trembled at 
 any sudden noise, and, above all, at her
 
 The Ttig of War. 1 5 1 
 
 steady effort to be calm and helpful. It 
 was almost too much for her, this waiting 
 for what the morrow should bring forth. 
 She knew Sir Robert, though kind, was 
 choleric, and, like all sensitive creatures, 
 she shrank from rough words ; she strove 
 to strengthen herself by reflecting that she 
 was the best judge of what was best for 
 her own happiness, — that she had a right 
 to decide for herself, — that she was not 
 bound to obey Sir Robert, though she 
 hated to contradict him. 
 
 Madame Debrisay put on her best black 
 silk dress, and a pretty little morning cap 
 of Brussels lace, in honour of the occasion ; 
 and Mona swept away the confused mass 
 of papers into the bedroom, and put the 
 place into order, adding a few Christmas 
 roses and geraniums, which she had per- 
 suaded Madame Debrisay to let her buy. 
 She knew how revolted the orderly bar- 
 onet would be by any untidiness or a 
 sordid lodging-house look, and she had a 
 vague fear that he might take her from the 
 asylum she had sought. 
 
 As Madame had anticipated. Sir Robert 
 came between eleven and twelve. A
 
 152 Monas Choice. 
 
 glance at his broad, usually good-hum- 
 oured face, showed how great was the 
 wrath he had accumulated. 
 
 He came abruptly into the room, and 
 without a word of greeting, exclaimed, — 
 
 ' What the deuce is the meaning of your 
 extraordinary conduct, Mona ? Have you 
 quite lost your senses ? ' 
 
 * No, Sir Robert. I have been making 
 up my mind to break off my engagement 
 ever since my grandmother died,' she said, 
 gaining courage when absolutely under fire. 
 
 * By George ! you ought to be ashamed 
 to confess it. To throw off a young 
 fellow that is a great deal too good for 
 you, the moment a pressing necessity was 
 removed. I never was so humiliated in 
 my life as when Waring came to speak 
 to me last night. You have settled your- 
 self in his estimation : there will be no 
 drawing him on again — a pretty position 
 you have landed us all in. What's to 
 become of you, I'd like to know ?' 
 
 * I will try to take care of myself and 
 not to trouble anyone.' 
 
 * Take care of yourself! Why, you 
 have acted like a perfect idiot.'
 
 The Ttig of War. 153 
 
 * Well, Sir Robert,' put in Madame 
 Debrisay, ' I must say it is the first time 
 Miss Joscelyn has ever been told so ! 
 Marriage is a very serious undertaking, 
 and thouorh it miorht have been more 
 satisfactory to her friends if she had 
 married Mr Waring, she has a right to 
 do what she feels is best for her own 
 happiness, and Mr Waring's too.' 
 
 Sir Robert Everard stared at her, with 
 a ' Who are you ? ' expression, as if 
 amazed at her daring to speak. 
 
 ' Oh, indeed ! Perhaps she is acting 
 under your advice ? ' 
 
 * No, indeed. Sir Robert ! Madame 
 Debrisay has been dreadfully angry with 
 me. I confess I deserve that you should 
 all be angry with me ; still I do not 
 regret what I have done.' 
 
 * I haven't patience to listen to you, and — 
 and I wash my hands of you. I don't suppose 
 Waring would accept any overture now.' 
 
 *And I shall certainly not make any,' 
 said Mona quickly. 
 
 * Then what is to become of you ? You 
 haven't a rap, and my doors shall be closed 
 against you ! '
 
 154 Monds Choice, 
 
 ' But mine are open to her,' said 
 Madame Debrisay, with dignity. 
 
 * I suspect, and I told Lady Mary so/ 
 he continued, without heeding her, ' that 
 there is some clandestine love affair under 
 all this. You have inherited your mother's 
 taste for a low-born lover.' 
 
 ' If I find as good a husband, I shall 
 be fortunate,' cried Mona, with spirit ; 
 ' nor should / be marrying beneath me. 
 / have no wish to deny my kind, good 
 father.' 
 
 * Then, why did you drop his name ? ' 
 
 ' I did not ; poor grannie called me 
 by my second baptismal name before I 
 knew what a surname meant; but from 
 this time forward, I will resume my 
 father's.' 
 
 * But you are known as a connection 
 of my wife's. I will not have you dis- 
 grace us ; and I will not support you, 
 unless I know we shall be spared 
 that—' 
 
 * Disgrace you, indeed ! ' cried Madame 
 Debrisay. * Who mentions disgrace in 
 the same breath with Mona's name. You 
 are forgetting yourself, Sir Robert ! You
 
 The Tug of War, 1 5 5 
 
 may have a right to be angry perhaps, 
 but don't let your anger make you for- 
 get you are a gentleman.' 
 
 ' By George ! it's enough to make a 
 saint swear, to see you prefer a place 
 like this to a good position. I can't take 
 the charge of your future ! You are too 
 headstrong ; and, after Lady Mary and 
 myself, Mona, you haven't a friend on 
 earth ! ' 
 
 ' I suppose / count for nothing ? ' said 
 Madame Debrisay. ' I am certainly a 
 mere roomkeeper. I can't offer my dear 
 young friend the splendours of Harrowby 
 Chase, but I have an unblemished char- 
 acter, and owe no man a farthing. I 
 work for my living, and I make it in- 
 dependently. Moreover, I can put Mona 
 in the way of doing the same, if she 
 is in earnest. Though I am not worth 
 a word or a look, my ancestors were 
 Norman knights when I daresay yours 
 herded their cattle, Sir Robert Everard ; 
 so your young kinswoman has a friend 
 on earth, besides yourself and her lady- 
 ship.' 
 
 Sir Robert looked at her amazed, then
 
 156 Monas Choice. 
 
 in a changed tone, and with a gleam of 
 amusement in his eyes, he said, — 
 
 ' If I seemed rude, I regret it. Your 
 young friend's unprincipled conduct to a 
 worthy gentleman — who interceded for 
 her, madam, absolutely interceded for her 
 — has irritated me beyond endurance.' 
 
 Madame Debrisay bowed her forgiveness. 
 
 ' I only wish to stay here, and to be 
 forgotten,' said Mona. 
 
 Sir Robert played with his watch-chain 
 for a minute in silence. 
 
 ' I believe it would be best,' he said 
 a last. ' I renounce you from this time 
 forth, nor will I allow Lady Mary nor 
 my girls to hold any communication with 
 you. I have a couple of hundred pounds 
 still in my hands of Mrs Newburgh's 
 money, after paying funeral expenses and 
 other things. I will send you a cheque 
 for it, and whatever belongs to you at 
 the Chase.' 
 
 ' I have already put everything to- 
 gether, anticipating this expulsion,' said 
 Mona. 
 
 Sir Robert made a step or two towards 
 the door, and paused irresolute.
 
 The T2ig of Wa7\ 157 
 
 * I'll give you another chance. Will 
 you authorise me to make overtures to 
 Waring? I'll do my best for you, if 
 you will.' 
 
 * It is impossible I could consent to 
 such a proposal ! ' cried Mona. 
 
 ' Then I have no more to say, nor 
 shall I ever see you again if I can 
 help it.' 
 
 He turned to go. 
 
 ' Though you are so angry, Sir Robert, 
 I am not the less grateful for all your 
 kindness,' sobbed Mona. ' I do love 
 Lady Mary and Evelyn dearly : it is a 
 cruel punishment never to see them 
 
 agam. 
 
 * I have no patience with sentimental 
 bosh,' he returned harshly. ' Your actioa 
 proves how much of real regard you 
 have for any of us.' And seizing his hat 
 he left the room. 
 
 The next instant they heard the front 
 door shut violently, and saw him walk 
 rapidly down the road. 

 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A N E W L I F E. 
 
 O that's done,' said Madame 
 
 Debrlsay, stirring the fire with 
 
 some force, and putting down 
 
 the poker with a clang. 
 
 ' How awfully angry he is ! ' exclaimed 
 
 Mona, still standing where Sir Robert had 
 
 left her. 
 
 * My dear,' returned Madame Debrlsay, 
 'he is a brute. He might be angry — / 
 am angry ; but he had no business to 
 speak as he did ; and / might have been 
 the wall, for all the notice he took of me. 
 I trust and hope he will not do you out 
 of any money you ought to have.' 
 
 ' Oh, Deb ! how can you think of such 
 a thing ? Sir Robert Everard is the soul
 
 A New Life. 159 
 
 of honour, though he is rather hasty in 
 temper.' 
 
 ' When people lose their tempers, they 
 often lose their heads and their sense of 
 justice. You may be foolish — I don't 
 deny you are — but I cannot bear to see 
 you crushed and miserable.' 
 
 ' I am unhappy, but I am not quite 
 crushed. It rouses me to hear people 
 talk as if there was no chance of salvation 
 for me except as Leslie Waring's wife. 
 I am young and willing to work ; why 
 should I not earn my living independently, 
 as you said 't ' 
 
 'Why, of course I spoke up bold to 
 that tyrant ; but between you and me, 
 the beginning is awful hard work. Still 
 I have an idea. You must wait till I 
 think it out. Meantime, I must go ; 
 and you, dear, just take a book, and lie 
 down on the sofa and try to sleep. No 
 one can keep their wits clear when they 
 feel weak and worn out. Then if I can 
 get back in time, we'll have a walk. You 
 must get acquainted with this neighbour- 
 hood.
 
 i6o Monas Choice. 
 
 An awful quiet settled down on Mona 
 after these ag^itatine interviews. There 
 was nothing more to do, — nothing more 
 to be resisted. She did not regret what 
 she had done, but the reaction was pro- 
 found. A great gulf seemed to have 
 yawned between her present and her past, 
 which nothing could bridge over. 
 
 Her boxes arrived from Harrowby 
 Chase, and a formal list of disbursements 
 on account of the late Mrs Newburgh 
 from Sir Robert Everard, accompanied by 
 a cheque for a hundred and fifty-three 
 pounds, thirteen and fourpence, the balance 
 due to her. 
 
 ' There, dear Deb, there is my whole 
 fortune ! What shall I do with it ? ' 
 
 * We must take care of it, ma belle — 
 great care. Let me see. I had better 
 lodge it to my account, and I will give 
 you an acknowledgment that I owe you 
 that amount. I am proud to say I have 
 an account at a bank. Began with the 
 Post Office Savings Bank, dear ; but as 
 my connection grew, through your dear 
 grandmother and others, I gathered 
 enough to move a step higher. I make
 
 A New Life. 16 r 
 
 a fair amount for four months of the year 
 — more than I ever hoped to do once — 
 then rather less for four more — a trifle 
 for two — and two don't count at all. If 
 my health is spared, I hope to provide for 
 my old age.' 
 
 * I know you are a wonderful woman, 
 dearest Deb. But I cannot live upon 
 you. What scheme had you in your head 
 for me the other day ? ' 
 
 * I will tell you. Now I am getting a 
 name, people begin to bother me to teach 
 quite little children, and I believe I have 
 reached that point where a few airs would 
 do me good. So I shall say I cannot 
 undertake children under — oh! I'll fix an 
 age by-and-by ; but that I should like 
 them to be trained for a year, or whatever 
 time it suits to say, by my pupil and 
 assistant ; that I will see what progress 
 they are making occasionally, and that 
 they may be considered as under my 
 tuition, though at half-price. It will 
 take, my dear, like wildfire. You are 
 a very fair musician. We'll go into 
 partnership, and make a good thing of 
 it/ 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 1 62 Monds Choice, 
 
 * What a splendid idea ! Do you really 
 think I can teach ? ' 
 
 ' Not a doubt of it ; but I can tell you 
 it's horrid work, and needs the patience of 
 Job. I begin to believe there is nothing 
 on earth so rare as a good ear ! You will 
 get on, I am certain, only don't be too 
 anxious, and be sure you give yourself 
 airs. The public is a nettle that stings 
 if it is too tenderly touched.' 
 
 ' I am not naturally meek, but I shall 
 certainly feel anxious.' 
 
 ' Have faith in yourself, dear ; it's the 
 only way to get on. Then you have a 
 bit of money for present use, and a 
 splendid lot of clothes. You shall pay 
 me for your board when you begin to 
 earn two guineas a week. Then we'll do 
 well. Though you were made for a dif- 
 ferent life, and so was I, dear — very 
 different. I was the belle of Ballykill- 
 ruddery, when it was headquarters for 
 the district, though I say it that should 
 not. Ah, well, God's will be done ! Who 
 knows what good fortune is in store for 
 you. I can tell you, you are in luck to 
 have your troubles early ; mine didn't
 
 A New Life, 163 
 
 begin rightly till I was eight-and-twenty 
 — over twenty years ago — and now the 
 best hope is to make enough to die 
 easy. Whereas there's a chance still 
 of the beautiful young prince turning up 
 for you.' 
 
 ' Not nowadays, dear Deb ! And when 
 do you think I may begin my battle for 
 independence ? ' 
 
 ' I spoke about you last week to 
 Mrs Mathewson. Her eldest daughter 
 screeches under my direction : I cannot 
 keep her voice down ; and there's a little 
 thing of ten she wants me to take for the 
 piano. Now I'll hand her over to you — 
 they are rolling in riches ! Here's a book 
 on teaching the piano, in German. You 
 study it, and follow it. Practise up a few 
 of your noisiest pieces. People seem to 
 think you can teach music with your 
 fingers, instead of your head. They are 
 so taken with a few gymnastics on the 
 keyboard.' 
 
 * Yes, Deb, I will practise diligently. 
 I haven't touched the piano since poor 
 grannie died.' 
 
 'Well, it's time you began. You have
 
 164 Mona s Choice. 
 
 a pretty touch and a fluent finger. As 
 to singing ; come, let us try that duet 
 Signor Boccaricho taught you last winter. 
 What ages away that winter seems to 
 have gone.' 
 
 'Ah! does it not?' said Mona, with 
 a deep sigh. 
 
 And all the glorious spring-time which 
 succeeded it ; the dawn of dazzling delight 
 when she first perceived that Lisle 
 quietly but persistently sought her ; the 
 charm of the delicious secrecy which 
 wrapped their mutual, silent under- 
 standing ; the history of those few 
 months which had been the cul- 
 mination, so far, of her life, flashed 
 through her memory — clear, vivid, in- 
 stantaneous. But she turned resolutely 
 from the picture. 
 
 ' Where is the book ? ' she asked. 
 * I will begin my preparations at once. 
 I must do credit to your recommenda- 
 tion. I long to make a start in real 
 life.' 
 
 Reality is a serious thing, yet it has 
 its inspirations. The sense of doing 
 real work, — of earning hard money,
 
 A New Life. 165 
 
 has a dignity in its laboriousness which 
 scarcely anything else bestows ; and 
 Mona would have rejoiced in this new 
 development of energy, had she not 
 been so deeply wounded. Her sudden, 
 complete renunciation by her valued 
 friends at Harrowby Chase cut her to 
 the soul, especially as she felt she had 
 in a measure deserved it. Her bitter 
 disappointment in Lisle was more regret 
 for the loss of an illusion than sorrow 
 for a personal bereavement. In her 
 short experience of society, she had no 
 friendships or intimacies save with Sir 
 Robert Everard's family. It was this 
 abandonment that depressed and sad- 
 dened her. Her upbringing had not 
 been luxurious. Mrs Newburgh was 
 a strict economist, though a flavour of 
 stateliness pervaded her life ; moreover, 
 Mona had been old enough to know 
 there v/as a degree of uncertainty about 
 her position and her future before her 
 grandmother had finally and completel)' 
 adopted her. Yet the life of that one 
 season had been delightful. Mona's was 
 an imaginative and poetic nature, though
 
 1 66 Monas Choice. 
 
 not without its practical side. The 
 brilHant and beautiful surroundings of 
 the society to which her grandmother 
 belonged charmed her senses, and she 
 had not seen enough of it to perceive 
 the deficiencies which appertain to it as 
 to all human growths. There was, 
 however, a sound, true heart under her 
 fair, quiet exterior which made a home, 
 however homely, not only bearable, but 
 likeable, were love only an inmate to 
 bind the inmates together with the 
 golden links of tender sympathy. Then 
 came the balm of constant employment. 
 What a blessing was enfolded in the 
 divine decree, * In the sweat of thy 
 brow, shalt thou eat bread.' 
 
 It was a curious, trying sensation the 
 giving of her first lesson. If the well- 
 dressed, demure little damsel to whom 
 it was administered only knew how 
 awfully afraid her elegant-looking teacher 
 was of her, all chance of discipline would 
 have been over. But silence, backed 
 by gravity, is a splendid cover for nerv- 
 ousness ; and Mona did not utter a 
 word beyond what teaching required,
 
 A New Life, 167 
 
 nor did she ever feel the same panic 
 
 again. 
 
 ' She has beautiful frocks, mamma/ 
 was the sentence of the little ten-year 
 old. ' Her black cloth must be tailor- 
 made — it fits like a glove ; and she has 
 sitch beautiful jet ear-rings ! ' 
 
 Nor did the young lady doubt that a 
 music - teacher so attired must be de- 
 serving of all attention. 
 
 So the new life was fully inaugurated 
 soon after Christmas — that Christmas 
 which poor Leslie Waring had hoped 
 would be so heavenly bright — which 
 Madame Debrisay and Mona quietly 
 and sadly celebrated together. The 
 former — who was a Catholic if she were 
 anything — accompanied her young pro- 
 tdgde to church, and enjoyed a particu- 
 larly crisp French novel over the fire 
 for the rest of the day ; while Mona 
 sat long at the piano, playing from 
 memory and dreaming over the past. 
 She gave few thoughts to the future. 
 
 * And,' thought Madame Debrisay, 
 * she might be dining in splendour — in 
 Paris, or Rome, or London — with pow-
 
 i68 Monas Choice, 
 
 dered flunkies behind her chair ; not 
 that there is much comfort to be got 
 from them I Well, well, there's no 
 accounting for a young girl's whims ; 
 but I'm as sure as I am sitting here 
 that there's another man in the case, 
 and, please God, if nothing is said she'll 
 forget him.' 
 
 So the days and weeks flew past, 
 and Mona, with the blessed facility of 
 youth, began to revive. A simple life, 
 plenty to do, the society of a kindly 
 and amusing companion, are wholesome 
 tonics. Madame Debrisay was extremely 
 amusing. She had been largely educated 
 by observation. She was at once scep- 
 tical and credulous : her mind was utterly 
 imtrained — yet a certain keen mother- 
 wit and largeness of heart made her 
 judgment, on the whole, clear. She 
 was still quick in temper, though it 
 had been much chastened, and also ex- 
 tremely resentful of small slights. 
 
 Now it so happened that the gentle- 
 man who occupied the drawing - room 
 floor had a pet dog — a rough terrier — 
 which he firmly believed was of the true
 
 A New Life. 169 
 
 * Dandie DInmont ' breed, and which 
 madame pronounced to be a ' thorough- 
 bred mongrel.' It was an ill-tempered 
 brute, and used to attack the house 
 cat, which Madame Debrisay had taken 
 under her protection. Dandie, as the 
 dog was called, more than once pursued 
 the cat into madame's sacred apartment, 
 and on one occasion had worried a small 
 fur rug, by which she, for some reason, 
 set great store. 
 
 A wrathful messas^e had therefore been 
 despatched to the owner, requesting him 
 to keep his favourite chained up, as he 
 had destroyed some valuable property. 
 The reply — which was no doubt never 
 intended to meet Madame Debrisay's 
 ear — was to the effect that Mr Rigden 
 was ' Willing to pay half-a-crown for 
 any twopenny-halfpenny damage inflicted 
 on her rags and jags.' This was in- 
 tolerable ; the blood of all the Debrisays 
 — she was a Debrisay by birth as well 
 as by marriage — rose in an indignant 
 tide at the affront. Madame Debrisay 
 sought a personal interview in the hall ; 
 and as Mr Rigden was in a hurry to
 
 170 Monas Choice. 
 
 catch his omnibus, her dignity and stern 
 remonstrance made not the sHghtest im- 
 pression. He told her hastily she should 
 not heed the mischievous representations 
 of a servant ; that although he had cer- 
 tainly uttered the words attributed to 
 him, he did not mean them to be re- 
 peated. He was quite willing to pay 
 for damages, but he would not chain up 
 his dog to please Mrs Debrisay, or any- 
 one else. So saying he departed hastily, 
 and slammed the door behind him. 
 
 * The ill - mannered barbarian ! ' as 
 Madame Debrisay observed to Maria. 
 ' A roturier^ my dear ; a roturier, pur 
 et simple! 
 
 After this there was a running fire of 
 hostilities, for Madame Debrisay was by 
 no means disposed to turn her cheek to 
 the smiter. 
 
 Things had settled down to a regular 
 routine. The depth of the winter was 
 over ; Parliament had met, and Mona 
 had nearly as much to do as she could 
 accomplish without fatigue, though she 
 was quite willing to do more. Madame 
 even talked of making a little excursion
 
 A New Life. 171 
 
 to the sea-side at the dead season, if 
 things continued to prosper. 
 
 Mona was returning late one after- 
 noon, after one of her busiest days. She 
 was weary, but more hopeful, though 
 she was thinking how this time last year 
 she was looking forward to the mingled 
 joy and terror of being presented. It 
 was a little hard to be so suddenly 
 dragged down, and carried away from 
 all the gaieties and pleasures, the so- 
 ciety and distinction, that she had en- 
 joyed a few months ago, and to which 
 she felt she should never return. Yet 
 there was no bitterness in her regret ; 
 she felt that she was singularly fortunate 
 in having found such a friend and such 
 a home. 
 
 Her reflections were suddenly broken 
 in upon by a familiar voice exclaiming, — 
 ' By Jove ! it is Mona ! Mona Joscelyn ! ' 
 and she found her further progress 
 barred by Bertie Everard, Sir Robert's 
 only son, who was studying law, hav- 
 ing no military proclivities, and think- 
 ing legal knowledge would be useful in 
 managing the family estate, which was
 
 172 Monds Choice. 
 
 by no means flourishing under his 
 father's munificent rule. 
 
 ' Bertre ! I never dreamed of meet- 
 ing you,' as though the ban which had 
 fallen on her had been ' banishment.' — 
 that an encounter between two inhabit- 
 ants of the same town had been there- 
 by rendered impossible. 
 
 ' Nor did I. I thought you had emi- 
 grated, or been sent to a penitentiary, 
 or some such thing. You see, when 
 anyone drops out of sight in London, 
 it is such a drop in the ocean, that he 
 or she leaves no trace behind. I am 
 quite glad to see you. Come, tell me 
 all about yourself. Evy has wept gallons 
 over you. She wanted to write, and 
 the Lord knows what, but my mother 
 strictly forbade her. You are an awful 
 black sheep, you know — a lost mutton.' 
 
 ' Of course I am,' said Mona, smil- 
 ing. She understood her cousin's dry 
 bluntness. ' But you must acknowledge 
 I have kept out of sight and not troubled 
 you.' 
 
 * Yes ; it is quite true. Now I have 
 met you, I am amazed to find you still
 
 A New Life. 173 
 
 exist. How have you managed it, 
 Mona ? ' 
 
 * Why trouble about details ? I ex- 
 ist, and want nothing — that is enough.' 
 
 * Wonderful woman ! Where are you 
 going ? ' 
 
 ' Home.' 
 
 * Home? Is it far?* 
 
 * Not very.' 
 
 ' Let me come with you.' 
 
 * If you like. I am glad to have a 
 chance of hearing about you all.' 
 
 This brief colloquy took place on the 
 Broad Walk, Kensington Gardens, 
 Mona was crossing from a house in 
 Queen's Gate, where her last lesson had 
 been given. 
 
 Bertie Everard, a tall, thin, bony 
 young man, most accurately got up, and 
 as unlike father or mother as could be 
 imagined, turned and accompanied her 
 towards the Bays water Road. 
 
 ' Do you know, you are looking 
 fairly well ? Cheeks not quite so round, 
 eyes a trifle more sombre than they 
 were last year, but you are a pretty — 
 no, a handsome girl still, Mona.'
 
 174 MoncHs Choice, 
 
 ' I suppose one does not grow old in 
 five or six months.' 
 
 ' No ; but the tradition in our family 
 is that you have been eating the bread 
 of misery, and precious little of that, 
 bedewed with the water of affliction, 
 and—' 
 
 ' And you were all content that I 
 should, though we were such good 
 friends, and enjoyed so many happy 
 days together.' 
 
 ' It was all your own fault, you know. 
 You took your own course. I daresay, 
 if you asked her, my mother would have 
 helped you ; but she wasn't bound to 
 look you up. Sentimental generosity is 
 out of date altogether.' 
 
 ' I do not suppose it would have been 
 a weakness of yours, at anyrate. How- 
 ever, you need not fear for me. I get 
 bread enough, and to spare, and very 
 pleasant bread, too. Now, tell me some 
 news. How is your dear mother ? She 
 was always so good.' 
 
 ' She is exceedingly flourishing and 
 busy, for Evelyn is going to be married 
 — very good match — to Lord Finistoun.
 
 A New Life, 175 
 
 He is a pleasant, easy-going fellow, — 
 rather an ass, but that will suit Evy. 
 She hasn't much brains herself.' 
 
 ' She has sense enough not to think 
 she has all the brains of the family, as 
 you do, Bertie.' 
 
 ' Yes, I do, and I am no great things 
 after all. Your troubles have not taken the 
 sharp edge off your tongue, Miss Joscelyn,' 
 he said, laughing. 
 
 ' There is no ]\Iiss Joscelyn now. I 
 have resumed my poor father's name. 
 It is more suited to my fortunes and 
 fancy.' 
 
 ' By Jove ! And what is it ? Craig ? 
 Um ! It was a queer notion of Mrs 
 Newburgh's to suppress it. Nobody 
 cares or thinks about names now, except 
 for what they are worth on paper } I 
 suppose you haven't heard or seen any 
 thing of Waring ? ' 
 
 ' No ; of course not.' 
 
 ' Nor anyone else either ! Can't think 
 what's become of him. Some one did 
 say he was training a colt for the Derby. 
 I daresay he is glad enough now that 
 you have broke with him. Can't under-
 
 1/6 Monds Choice. 
 
 stand why men marry ! — must be an awful 
 bore.' 
 
 * I have no doubt he is obHged to me.' 
 
 ' And you are deucedly sorry you gave 
 him the chance, eh ? ' 
 
 ' You would not believe me if I denied 
 it.' 
 
 ' Well, no, I would not, though you are 
 a rum sort of a girl, Mona. I always 
 liked you. You say what you think, and 
 you held your own with that grandmother 
 of yours, who was as big a tyrant as I 
 have met. You are a fool, too, in many 
 ways, — ready to cut your own throat for an 
 idea ; but there's something taking about 
 you. I never thought St John Lisle 
 would lose his head as he did on your 
 account. He kept it very quiet, but I 
 saw through him. I see through a great 
 many things.' 
 
 ' I never credited you with such powers 
 of imagination before, Bertie.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't try that tone with me. I 
 know what I am talking about. Of course 
 he would only marry a woman with lots 
 of money, as I think you had wit enough 
 to know. He is enjoying himself in
 
 A New Life. 177 
 
 India. I had a letter from him some 
 time ago, — asked why he had not seen 
 your marriage announced — asked it in a 
 postscript — always a bad sign of womanish 
 weakness. Where do you live, for Heaven's 
 sake ? We must be approaching the far 
 west.* 
 
 ' Do not come any further, Bertie — 
 you will die of fatigue.' 
 
 'No, I will not, but you will, if it's a few 
 miles further out ; let me secure a cab, 
 before we leave the haunts of civilisation 
 behind us.' 
 
 ' I think ten minutes more will bring 
 us to our destination ; but, to copy your 
 own amiable candour, I would rather you 
 did not come. You will only satisfy your 
 curiosity, and carry away materials for a 
 ridiculous description, to make Evy and 
 Geraldine laugh.' 
 
 ' Why should you begrudge us our 
 innocent mirth .-^ It is an absurd preju- 
 dice to feel injured by being what is 
 called ''turned into ridicule." You have 
 only to show a stolidly indifferent front, 
 and you rob ridicule of its whole 
 power.' 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 1 yS Monas Choice. 
 
 * I wonder how you v/ould like being 
 laughed at yourself, Bertie ?' 
 
 ' Should not mind ; but I am not ridi- 
 culous — I am too natural, and always say 
 what I think.' 
 
 ' I often — I mean I used often, to 
 wonder if you are as hard and heartless 
 as you seem.' 
 
 ' I believe I am ; but come on, I am 
 determined to see your lair, and I do 
 not dine till eight, so I have plenty of 
 time.' 
 
 ' I cannot prevent you, but I do not 
 want you.' They walked a few paces 
 in silence, then Mona asked, — ' And 
 is Evelyn happy ? Does she seem 
 happy ? ' 
 
 ' Happy as a child with a new toy — 
 she and Finistoun make idiots of them- 
 selves in the most approved manner. It 
 will be a great piece of news for her 
 this rencontre with you.' 
 
 ' Does she still care for me } ' 
 
 ' She seemed to do so the last time we 
 mentioned you.' 
 
 ' That was not recently ? ' — smiling. 
 
 ' No, not very.'
 
 A New Life. 179 
 
 ' I live here,' said Mona, after a short 
 silence, pausing before Madame Debrisay's 
 abode. 
 
 ' x\h I queer little box.' 
 
 ' We,' said Mona gravely, ' consider it 
 a splendid residence ; pray walk in, as 
 you will come.' 
 
 ' You are horridly inhospitable,' said 
 Everard, laughing, and he followed her 
 into the house. 
 
 On opening the door, Madame Debrisay 
 was discovered resting in an arm-chair, 
 beside a table set for tea. Her bonnet 
 lay on the floor beside her, and her thick 
 and undeniably disordered black hair was 
 uncovered. 
 
 ' This is Bertie Everard,' said Mona 
 quietly; ' Evelyn's brother.' 
 
 ' Very pleased to see him I'm sure,' 
 said madame, rising bravely to face 
 the intruder, and not deigning to pick 
 up her bonnet. ' Your sister was 
 
 one of my most charming pupils.' 
 
 She fancied the visit was a freewill 
 offering of friendship to Mona, and 
 she was highly delighted with the 
 visitor.
 
 i8o Monds Choice. 
 
 * Oh, indeed ! ' returned Everard. * I 
 should not have thought it.' 
 
 * And you find your sweet cousin look- 
 ing well ! I have done my best to take 
 care of her.' 
 
 ' My cousin ? ' elevating his eye- 
 brows. * Can you tell me the exact 
 degree, Mona ? — first, second, twenty- 
 fifth.?' 
 
 * Oh ! a cousin removed to the van- 
 ishing point of relationship. I have not 
 the faintest wish to claim you, Bertie.' 
 
 * Really, Mona, my dear, that is not the 
 retort courteous.' 
 
 ' If you knew Mr Everard better, dear 
 Madame Debrisay, you would know that 
 he despises courtesy in himself and 
 others.' 
 
 * I only hate shams/ said Bertie frankly. 
 ' Let me offer you a cup of tea,' said 
 
 Madame Debrisay, rather scandalised. 
 
 ' Thank you ; I shall be glad of it, 
 after our long, dusty walk. Really, it's 
 not so bad, now we have got here,' 
 looking round with visible examination. 
 * It is a better room than mine in the 
 Temple ! '
 
 A New Life. i8i 
 
 * Is that possible ? ' cried Mona. 
 
 ' And in better order. Did you fasten 
 up that drapery at the back of the piano, 
 Mona?' 
 
 ' She did, sir,' said Madame Debrisay 
 proudly ; ' and, if you'd like to know, the 
 stuff is oriental chintz, and we paid four- 
 pence three farthings a yard for it at 
 Whiteley's sale.' 
 
 * By George ! you don't say so ! ' He 
 was deeply interested in pounds, shillings, 
 and pence. ' Why, it looks capital.' 
 
 So saying, he took the milk jug and 
 peeped into it. 
 
 * I regret it is not cream,' said Madame 
 Debrisay, colouring. 
 
 ' Yes ! cream is an improvement, but 
 the tea is very good.' 
 
 ' It would do you good, Bertie, if you 
 would swallow the contents of the jug, 
 provided it supplied you with the milk 
 of human kindness, which you need so 
 much.' 
 
 ' That's very smart. Miss Craig, but I 
 don't want any such stuff in my composi- 
 tion. Your milky kindly people are gen- 
 erally asses, and are imposed upon right
 
 1 82 Monds Choice. 
 
 and left. Miss Craig's manners haven't 
 improved since she came to stay with you, 
 ma'am.' 
 
 * There is no use in trying to pierce 
 your tough skin, Bertie. The hippo- 
 potamus is invulnerable to bullets.' 
 
 * Yes, but he is an ugly beast ! ' added 
 Madame Debrisay, with a gently reflective 
 air. 
 
 Bertie laughed, not quite so easily as 
 usual ; and there was a pause while he 
 sipped his tea. 
 
 ' That's rather a good picture,' he 
 said at length, nodding to a portrait 
 of a refined foreign - looking man, with 
 beautiful lace ruffles and cravatte, and 
 a costume of some two hundred years 
 ago. 
 
 ' It is the picture of M. Le Baron 
 Debrisay de Coulanges, my grand- 
 father's great - grandfather, who led a 
 party of his co-religionists to Ireland, 
 after the revocation of the Edict of 
 Nantes,' said Madame Debrisay, with 
 dignity. 
 
 ' The deuce he did ! what a bad 
 choice. It's a good portrait. French
 
 A New Life. 185 
 
 portraits generally are. Who is the 
 artist ? ' 
 
 * That I cannot tell ; there are only 
 initials on the picture.' 
 
 ' Pity it hasn't a well-known name on 
 it. It would fetch a good price.' 
 
 ' No price would tempt me to part 
 with it ! ' cried madame proudly. 
 
 * Oh, indeed ! Now, tell me, how do you 
 manage to rub along ? ' 
 
 * Madame Debrisay and I have entered 
 into partnership ; she takes the big pupils, 
 and I take the little ones.' 
 
 * By George ! Does the squalling and 
 strumming pay for all this ? ' waving his 
 teaspoon comprehensively round. 
 
 ' It does ; but then you must remember 
 it is all in the fourpence three farthings 
 style of expense,' said Madame Debrisay. 
 
 ' Gad, what heaps of money we waste ! ' 
 exclaimed Everard, putting down his cup. 
 ' What sums my father gets through ! 
 I suppose you never go to parties or 
 things of that kind, so living out here 
 is of no consequence.' 
 
 ' There are people who give parties, 
 living even here,' said Mona.
 
 184 Monas Choice, 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, and we sometimes go to the 
 theatre, and enjoy it very much.' 
 
 ' Well, it's evident you are not break- 
 ing your heart, Mona. If you like the 
 theatre, I will send you a box. I know 
 a couple of managers — amusing vaga- 
 bonds, they dine with me sometimes — so 
 I can ask them.' 
 
 ' Thank you ! We shall be very glad. 
 Now it is half-past six, Bertie ; you had 
 better go.' 
 
 'Yes, I will. Is there a cab to be 
 had in this neighbourhood ? ' 
 
 ' Why not adopt the habits of the 
 country, and try an omnibus ; threepence 
 to Tottenham Court Road, a shilling cab 
 fare on to the Temple.' 
 
 ' Capital idea. Why one might live 
 for half nothing up here.' 
 
 ' There are no rooms to let in this 
 house, Bertie.' 
 
 * That is a pity. Good-morning, Mrs 
 Debrisay ; good-bye, Mona.' 
 
 ' Happy to see you again,' said 
 Madame Debrisay. ' You are really 
 quite a character.'
 
 A New Life, 185 
 
 * What the deuce does she mean ? ' 
 asked Everard of himself, as he took up 
 his neatly-rolled umbrella, and opened the 
 door, while Madame Debrisay screamed 
 after him to turn right and go on to 
 a large church where the city omnibuses 
 passed every ten minutes. 
 
 ^ 
 
 iiP
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS. 
 
 jHE variable spring, the hot dusty 
 summer days, succeeded each 
 other, and the partners worked 
 steadily through all. 
 They had gleams of diversion too, for 
 Madame Debrisay hadfriends and acquaint- 
 ances of her own profession who often 
 gave her tickets for concerts, and orders 
 for the theatre. These were amusements 
 of which Mona had enjoyed but little 
 during her residence with her grand- 
 mother, whose fixed principle it was 
 never to pay for anything of the sort. 
 They were a source of great enjoyment, 
 for Mona was peculiarly alive to beauty.
 
 A Chapter of Accidents, 187 
 
 and harmony, and had something of the 
 dramatic gift herself. 
 
 With the exaggeration of youth, she 
 reproached herself for being so slight 
 and trivial as to forget too quickly the 
 sorrows and disappointments of the by- 
 gone year. Of all the trials which had 
 been crowded into a few months, the 
 one which came back to her oftenest 
 was her breaking with Leslie Waring, 
 She always wished to hear of him, but 
 he had passed away completely out of 
 her life. 
 
 Bertie Everard's remark respecting 
 Lisle's admiration for herself, dwelt long 
 on her mind. There was a certain 
 comfort in it : it soothed her wounded 
 a7no2tr propre to know that she was 
 not altogether self-deceived. But the 
 impression of St John Lisle was fast 
 fading. Now and then in the park, at 
 the theatre, some soldierly-looking man 
 of fashion would remind her of him, and 
 she thought with a sigh of the difference 
 between the style of such cavaliers and 
 the ordinary toilers with whom it was 
 her lot to associate in future. Still she
 
 1 88 Monds Choice. 
 
 began to look at that future with less 
 of fear than she did, and even ventured 
 on a little castle building respecting a 
 visit to Germany next year, for which 
 she and Madame Debrisay agreed to 
 * save up,' and not to dissipate any of 
 their little store in a sea-side trip this 
 somewhat wet season. 
 
 Of course Bertie Everard forgot all 
 about the orders ; nor did Evelyn pay 
 the visit Mona looked for so eagerly ; 
 but the announcement of her marriage 
 — with a long list of wedding presents, 
 including ' an Indian shawl from Her 
 Majesty ' — at the end of March, and 
 her departure for a prolonged tour on 
 the Continent, explained her non-appear- 
 ance. 
 
 London is a great world. In no 
 other place can anyone be so success- 
 fully hidden ; and though Mona moved 
 about everywhere with a freedom that 
 was new and delightful to her, she never 
 encountered her aristocratic relatives but 
 once, when she saw Lady Mary and 
 her second daughter driving down Picca- 
 dilly. She was, however, lost in the
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 189 
 
 humble pedestrian crowd, and passed 
 unnoticed. 
 
 A very hot July had driven away 
 all Madame Debrisay's pupils, save two 
 or three. The ranks of Mona's were 
 also thinned, and both were planning a 
 course of needlework and reading during 
 the approaching time of rest. 
 
 The dog days had compelled their 
 fellow lodger to muzzle the objection- 
 able terrier — which made him unusually 
 rampant when the torture was removed 
 in the house. 
 
 Mona had been out one morning to 
 do some small housekeeping errands as 
 Madame Debrisay had a headache, and 
 on re-entering the house with a latch 
 key, was surprised to hear a sound of 
 snarling and scuffling in their sitting 
 room, the door of which was open. 
 Going in quickly, she beheld Madame 
 Debrisay, her cap slightly awry, en- 
 deavouring to drag a lace shawl from 
 the fangs of Dandie, who, snarling and 
 yelping, held on like grim death, stretch- 
 ing the shawl to its fullest length, and 
 dancing backwards, while she struck at
 
 iQo Monas Choice. 
 
 him ineffectually with a small hearth 
 brush. 
 
 ' Diable de bete!' she exclaimed. ' Keep 
 away from him, Mona. I believe he 
 is going mad.' 
 
 ' I believe he is only frightened and 
 angry. Let it go, and probably he 
 will too.' 
 
 This diverting Madame Debrisay's 
 attention, she relaxed her grasp. The 
 dog gave a vigorous pull, and trotted 
 triumphantly with the lace in his mouth 
 — head and tail erect — into the hall, 
 where he proceeded to tear it vehe- 
 mently. 
 
 ' Just look at that ! The only decent 
 thing I have to put on my shoulders 
 when I go out. Get away with you, 
 you cur ! ' — a thrust of the brush — ' Call 
 him off, Jane ! ' — another thrust — ' Take 
 that ' — throwing the brush at him 
 finally. 
 
 This routed the foe. He jumped 
 back, and Mona quickly snatched up 
 the shawl. 
 
 ' Me beautiful Chantilly shawl,' almost 
 wept Madame Debrisay. ' I got it at
 
 A Chapter of Accidents, 191 
 
 a sale the last year you were with us 
 in Paris. Thirty-five francs seventy, 
 and it's worth two hundred! It was 
 as good as new. I will not live in 
 the house with such a brute ! He will 
 be tearing our eyes out next ! 1 felt 
 a little better after that cup of tea 
 you brought me, so I did up my hair, 
 and came in. Who should I see but 
 my gentleman perched on the table 
 •where I had laid my shawl after fold- 
 ing it up, scratching himself — no less 
 — in the middle of me beautiful lace. 
 I made one dash at it, and tumbled 
 the brute off. Instead of running 
 away, he turned round with real bour- 
 geois impudence — like his master's — 
 fastened his ugly teeth in one corner, 
 and would not let go.' 
 
 ' I am sure, ma'am,' said the landlady, 
 coming in, ' I am that sorry — I don't 
 know how to express it. I don't know 
 what's in the dog. He is always try- 
 ing to run up here, as if he knew it 
 worrited you.' 
 
 ' I have no doubt he does,' returned 
 Madame Debrisay, examining her lace.
 
 192 Monds Choice. 
 
 ' Look here ! There's a tear for you ! 
 
 Here's another! It's just ruined.' 
 
 * I think I can mend it, dear,' said 
 Mona sympathetically. 
 
 ' Now, Mrs Puddiford,' insisted Madame 
 Debrisay impressively, to her landlady, 
 ' I give you your choice — either that 
 savage brute leaves the house, or / 
 will.' 
 
 * I'm sure, Madame Debrisay, ma'am, 
 it would vex me sore to see you leave. 
 Such a quiet lodger, and sure money. 
 I will speak to Mr Rigden, ma'am, 
 and see if he can send the dog to 
 the country. He is a good lodger too ! 
 but that taken up with the dog I 
 don't know he will ever part with 
 it.' 
 
 ' I neither know nor care,' said Madame 
 Debrisay solemnly. ' I give you two 
 days to expel the venomous cur, at the 
 end of which time, should he remain, 
 consider I have given notice.' 
 
 ' Dear, dear ! why will gentlemen 
 fancy these wild beasts ? ' almost whim- 
 pered the landlady. 
 
 ^ Gentlemen ! ' repeated Madame De-
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 193 
 
 brisay, with a fine scorn, as she regulated 
 her cap. 
 
 ' To think how nicely settled I am, 
 with two such first - rate lodgers, and 
 then to think of being upset by a nasty 
 dog. Ah ! get out with you ! ' 
 
 This to the audacious animal, who 
 dared to present himself on the threshold 
 with an inquiring look. A violent flick 
 of the duster she had brought, in anti- 
 cipation of something to be ^ wiped up/ 
 again routed Dandie. 
 
 ' Be sure you explain matters to Mr 
 Rigden this night ! ' said Madame De- 
 brisay, with emphasis ; ' and let me know 
 the result. Either he sends away his dog 
 — or goes away with his dog — or Miss 
 Craig and I go, this day week ! ' tragically. 
 
 ' I will, ma'am ! — I will ! ' sniffed the 
 little landlady. ' I foresee a heap of 
 trouble. Mr Rigden — he is that ob- 
 stinate and touchy ! ' 
 
 'And you will find I can be touchy 
 too, when I stand on my rights. Now, 
 Mrs Puddiford, I wish to hear no more 
 about this until you bring me your de- 
 cision to-morrow.' 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 194 Monas Choice. 
 
 The landlady retired, pressing the cor- 
 ner of her duster to her eyes ; while the 
 yelps of the dog were heard from below, 
 where he was being tied up. 
 
 ' I think, dear Deb, I saw the very 
 net which would go with the ground of 
 this shawl,' said Mona, examining it 
 carefully, ' at Peter Robinson's ; then I 
 could lay the broken pattern over it, 
 and copy it with black filloselle.' 
 
 ' I'm sure, if anyone could, it's your- 
 self. You have the clever fingers ! ' 
 
 * You see, I did a good deal of lace 
 work at the convent, and other work, 
 in Germany. I am really fond of my 
 needle. I do not even disdain darning- 
 stockings, provided they are taken in 
 time ; there is something soothing in 
 those long, even lines of running.' 
 
 ' Well, I am sure you are welcome 
 to mend all mine, for I hate it ! But 
 I don't like to see you sitting silent 
 over your stitchery with a pale, sad 
 face, as if you were comparing the 
 present with the past. Ah ! it's a ter- 
 rible change for you ! ' 
 
 * Not half so bad as you imagine,
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 195 
 
 Deb. The comfort of being with yotc 
 Is great ; the consolation of being able 
 to help myself is enormous ; and at 
 twenty — I shall be twenty in a couple 
 of months — there is so much of life to 
 be explored, that I may find an unex- 
 pected oasis ! I am not always think- 
 ing of the past when I seem in a brown 
 study — I am sometimes speculating on 
 matters that puzzle me, which are 
 probably beyond me, still they have a 
 fascination.' 
 
 ' What are they, chdrie ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, there are a great variety of 
 puzzling things. One, for instance, is 
 the awful risk of marrying. It seems 
 to me that the rarest of all qualities in 
 human nature is constancy — yet marriage 
 is for life ! Your own character and 
 taste may change several times before 
 you are forty-five or fifty, and how can 
 you still love the same person ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, don't talk like a heathen, child ! 
 True love grows with your growth and 
 always sees the same charm in the 
 thing it loves — unless, indeed, that 
 thing proves faithless and cruel ; even
 
 196 Monas Choice. 
 
 then, some natures cannot be choked 
 off; 
 
 ' I cannot understand that,' returned 
 Mona. ' I understand forgiving a great 
 deal — even faithlessness and change — 
 for sake of the old love ; but to love 
 anyone who was indifferent to me, seems 
 impossible.' 
 
 ' Stick to that, my dear ; it will carry 
 you safe through a good deal. But I 
 don't think you know much of love, or 
 you'd know, as I do, that it hopeth all 
 things and endureth all things.' 
 
 * I can believe that of a mother's — a 
 sister's — a friend's love. But the love 
 of lovers is different. There is a per- 
 sonal feeling in that, which, if it evapor- 
 ates, can never, I fancy, be recalled ; 
 nor do I see that one can complain of 
 its disappearance. There is nothing to 
 be done but to resign it without a 
 struggle, and let one's own passion ex- 
 hale and die out as fast as possible.' 
 
 * I declare, you talk like a book ! It's 
 all very fine ; but it's natural feeling, 
 not reason, that rules such matters — 
 and so much the better for us poor
 
 A Chapter of A ccidents. 1 9 7 
 
 miserable creatures. Yours is a man's 
 creed — not a woman's, dear. Men never 
 will be constant.' 
 
 ' Very likely not ! Then another 
 tremendous puzzle is life. Why are 
 we sent here to endure so much cer- 
 tain pain — to taste such uncertain joy?* 
 
 ' You are getting beyond me alto- 
 gether ! Good men tell us, to work out 
 our salvation.' 
 
 * Yes, good men of your church ; but 
 mine says that I never can ! — that a 
 mental act of faith — which to many 
 minds is impossible — will do more at the 
 last moment than a lifetime of tender 
 consideration for others — of self-sacrifice 
 — of purity.' 
 
 * Par exeynple ! You would make a 
 first-rate Catholic, Mona. I am no 
 great things myself, but I would be 
 proud to see you in the true Church. 
 Ah, there's nothing like it, as churches 
 go ! God forgive me, I haven't been to 
 confession for a year and more ! ' 
 
 ' Never mind, dear Deb ; your goodness 
 to me will more than make up for that 
 omission. But there is small chance of
 
 198 Monas Choice, 
 
 my becoming a Catholic ; can you not 
 see that ? ' 
 
 * No, I can't. I tell you what I can 
 see, that although you are an angel to 
 me, there is a good dash of his Satanic 
 Majesty in you.' 
 
 ^ Perhaps there is. So be it, if it 
 will help me in the battle of life ! As 
 far as I can see, the one unpardonable 
 sin of life is poverty.' 
 
 ' Of life, Mona ? No ; of society. 
 Yes, life is world-wide, society is a cor- 
 ner — often a shabby corner. Faith, 
 dear, you and I are a brace of philo- 
 sophers ; only we are too wise to have 
 a theory. Here's dinner ; I hope it 
 will be more digestible than your doc- 
 trines.' 
 
 The next day was stormy, with heavy 
 thunder-showers, and Madame Debrisay 
 would not hear of Mona taking a journey 
 to town in search of materials to repair 
 the damage done by the delinquent 
 Dandie. Moreover, a council of war had 
 to be held. 
 
 Mr Rigden was observed that morning 
 to draw his umbrella from the stand with
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 199 
 
 a degree of violence which upset all the 
 other umbrellas and sticks, and ' banged ' 
 the front door with a recklessness which 
 was in itself a causiis belli. Soon after, 
 Mrs Puddiford appeared with a rueful 
 countenance. 
 
 * Well'm, I have spoken to Mr Rigden. 
 He is noways inclined to hear reason ! ' 
 
 ' He wouldn't be a man if he did, un- 
 less it were on his own side ! ' ejaculated 
 madame. 
 
 ' He spoke most disrespectful,' con- 
 tinued the landlady, beginning to play 
 with the corner of her apron. * He said 
 he would stand no more d — d nonsense 
 (them was his words, ma'am), and was 
 sorry he had just begun a month, as he 
 would have to pay for it (he is a monthly 
 tenant) ; that he would look out for 
 rooms, and as soon as ever he found 
 another place, free from cantankerous old 
 women, he'd leave, if he forfeited a fort- 
 night's rent. I am sorry to say he so 
 far forgot himself, but them was his very 
 words, ma'am.' 
 
 * I assure you, Mrs Puddiford, it is not 
 of the slightest consequence whether Mr
 
 200 Mona s Choice. 
 
 RIgden considers me old and cantankerous 
 or not. I congratulate you on getting rid 
 of a troublesome, ill-bred inmate ! ' 
 
 ' Well, that may be ; but it is hard to 
 lose six pounds a month ! ' 
 
 ' Very well, Mrs Puddiford, if you prefer 
 it, we will turn out, and leave Mr Rigden 
 to make a menagerie of your house ! ' 
 
 'No, Madame Debrisay ; far from it! 
 You and Miss Craig are real ladies, and I 
 would be grieved to see you leave ; only 
 six pounds are six pounds, and there is the 
 dead season coming on ! ' 
 
 ' Season indeed ! Do you fancy the sea- 
 son affects an out-of-the-way population of 
 clerks and teachers ? Miss Craig and I 
 will look out for you, and praise you up to 
 the skies as the best of landladies, which 
 you are ! ' 
 
 ' I am sure, ma'am, you are very good, 
 and I believe you are lucky ! I am not 
 sorry Mr Rigden is going, only for the 
 money! He was desp'rate partic'lar, and 
 the dog is a hindrance ! ' 
 
 * Of course it is — shocking brute ! We 
 will do our best for you, Mrs Puddi- 
 ford.'
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 201 
 
 ' I am sure,' added Madame Debrisay, 
 sotto voce, when Mrs P. had gone, ' I 
 hope I'll succeed, for if her rooms remain 
 empty she'll think I have lost her her 
 six pounds a month, and " there will be 
 wigs on the green ! " ' 
 
 ' I hope nothing disagreeable will arise, 
 for I have grown quite at home here ! ' 
 exclaimed Mona. 
 
 ' That man had a nice little room above 
 stairs for his lumber. If I could get her a 
 good lodger at six pounds a month without 
 it, she might let you have it for a song,' 
 said Madame Debrisay reflectively. 
 
 ' Ah, Deb, you are a profound 
 schemer ! ' 
 
 The next day was bright and fresh after 
 the thunder, and Mona having given a 
 lesson in Gloucester Place early in the 
 afternoon, went on to Regent's Circus to 
 match the lace, intending to make ma- 
 dame's shawl as good as new. 
 
 Having done her shopping, she crossed 
 to the other side, and walked a little way 
 towards Tottenham Court Road, hoping 
 to find room in an omnibus, without having
 
 202 Mona!s Choice. 
 
 to struggle at the regular stopping-place. 
 Presently a Royal Oak omnibus came up, 
 and paused before she hailed it. Mona 
 hastened to enter as soon as an elderly 
 and somewhat decrepit-looking man had 
 descended, with the help of a stick and a 
 baggy umbrella. 
 
 The omnibus moved on before the old 
 gentleman had one foot clear of the step, 
 and he fell prone on the damp, profusely 
 watered ground. The driver of a hansom 
 could hardly draw up quickly enough to 
 prevent his horse from trampling on the 
 prostrate figure, which seemed unable to 
 recover the perpendicular. 
 
 Mona, by a natural impulse, bent down 
 to assist him, and a burly policeman soon 
 set him on his feet. 
 
 ' No bones broke,' he said cheerfully, 
 feeling his legs and arms. * Here's your 
 stick and umbrella. You go into the 
 confectioner's there, and take summat. 
 You'll be as right as a trivet in five 
 minutes.' 
 
 So saying, he proceeded on his stately 
 march, leaving the sufferer standing, with 
 difficulty supporting his trembling self on
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 203 
 
 his stick, and looking round him with a 
 pitiful expression of bewilderment. 
 
 ' I am afraid you are hurt?' said Mona 
 kindly. She did not like to desert him, 
 for she felt he was not a Londoner. 
 
 ' I've just an awfu' pain i' my back,' 
 he said pantingly, 'and feel dazed like. 
 If I could sit doon a bit.' 
 
 ' Come into this shop and have a glass 
 of water ;' and she guided him to a pastry- 
 cook's close by, where she found a chair, 
 and feeling alarmed at the old man's 
 extreme pallor, asked if he would not try a 
 little brandy and water. 
 
 ' Ay,' he said ; ' I must have something 
 to raise my heart ! ' 
 
 His eyes closed partially, and Mona 
 begged an attendant to bring the restor- 
 ative. Her patient was a small, spare 
 man, with thin grey hair, small whiskers, 
 faded blue eyes, a contemptuously up- 
 turned nose, and a wide, thin-lipped 
 mouth. He was neatly dressed in a 
 pepper-and-salt coloured suit, and though 
 not a gentleman, was by no means of 
 the workman class, nor yet like a city 
 clerk.
 
 204 Monas Choice, 
 
 * Try and take a little of this,' urged 
 Mona. 
 
 ' Thank ye, thank ye/ 
 
 He put the glass to his lips and drank 
 very slowly. * The Lord be thankit,' he 
 said, placing it half emptied on the table, 
 ' for saving my life; but I am sair shaken! ' 
 Again he drank. ' Ow ! ' — he uttered a 
 strange sound between a groan and a 
 sigh. * It was near a' ower wi' me ! I 
 am much beholden to you, my young 
 leddy. I must try an' get awa' to my 
 bed, but I can scarce stan'. I had better 
 get into a cab.' 
 
 ' You had better rest a few minutes 
 first,' said Mona, who felt sincere com- 
 passion for him. ' I am afraid you are 
 more hurt than you think.' 
 
 ' I am a puir frail bodie. Eh, but my 
 back is twisted ! What'll they ask now 
 for a cab' — he called it a ' cawb' — ' to 
 Camden Town .-^ ' 
 
 ' I am not sure — eighteenpence or two 
 shillings.' 
 
 'It's a cruel, costly place ; but,' apolo- 
 getically, ' I canna' help it; I'll just pay for 
 the spirits and water, and gang my lane.'
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 205 
 
 He dived into a side pocket — he routed 
 out his trouser pockets — his breast pocket 
 — all in vain. 
 
 * Guid preserve us ! — it's clean gane 1 
 My pocket has been picked ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is dreadful ! I hope you 
 had not much in it ? ' 
 
 * Too much to lose ! A bit gold, half- 
 a-crown, and a saxpence. Now I canna 
 pay for my drap o' speerits.' 
 
 ' That is a mere trifle — I will pay for 
 it.' Going to the counter, she said, — ' This 
 poor gentleman's purse has been taken, 
 I must pay for what he has had.' 
 
 * I daresay it is an accident that may 
 happen to him again, if he finds kind 
 young ladies to pay for him,' said the 
 buxom woman behind the desk, smiling — 
 'sixpence, please.' 
 
 * Do you feel equal to go home,' said 
 Mona, who was beginning to feel a little 
 ashamed of her Quixotic attentions to 
 this elderly waif. ' I will get you a cab 
 if you like.' 
 
 ' Wait a bit. Where do you bide ? 
 I want to pay ye what you've laid 
 oot.'
 
 2o6 Monds Choice. 
 
 ' Oh ! never mind ; it does not matter.' 
 
 * Ye are a Scotch lassie ? ' 
 
 ' No, I never was in Scotland.' 
 
 * Ah ! I thocht ye v^ere, from yer bonnie 
 reed heid." 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Mona, laughing. 
 
 She could not bear to have her hair 
 considered red. 
 
 ' Weel, I'll no leave this till I know 
 where I'll find ye.' 
 
 * There is my card then, but I live ever 
 so far away. Pray do not trouble about 
 me ; I am very glad to have been of any 
 use to you.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but you were ! you have saved 
 my life. If you had not stood between 
 me and that cawb, I'd have been a deid 
 mon ! I'll try and get home.' 
 
 Struggling to his feet, and seizing his 
 umbrella, he hobbled to the door. Mona 
 followed him. 
 
 * You'll hear from me,' said the old man, 
 thrusting the card into his breast-pocket ; 
 * and I'll never forget ye, never. Could 
 you find me a shut-up cawb. I canna 
 bide yon things, wi' the driver stuck up 
 behind.'
 
 A Chapter of Accidents, 207 
 
 * Yes ; there is one ! ' 
 
 A very battered vehicle drew up. 
 
 'You drive me to Mrs Smith's, number 
 saxty-sax CaroHna Crescent, King's Road, 
 Camden Town — d'ye know it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' What will ye charge ? ' 
 
 ' Two and sixpence.' 
 
 * Two and sixpence ! Whar do you 
 think ye'll go to ? Naw, eighteenpence.' 
 
 ' Ask for his card, and make the people 
 at your house settle it,' suggested Mona. 
 
 * Make it two shillin', and I take you 
 safe and aisy.' 
 
 ' Vara weel. Good-bye, missee ; I can- 
 not help thinking you are a Scotch lassie.' 
 
 With infinite difficulty and many groans, 
 he scrambled in, dropping his umbrella 
 during the process. Mona picked it up 
 and gave it to him. He seated himself 
 with his back to the horse, smJling and 
 nodding to his young protectress as he 
 drove slowly away. 
 
 ' What a funny adventure ! ' thought 
 Mona. ' I wonder if Madame Debrisay 
 will scold me.' 
 
 But Madame Debrisay was in a placid
 
 2o8 Monds Choice. 
 
 mood when Mona reached home — for 
 madame had her moods. She had passed 
 the morning and some of the afternoon 
 auditing her own and Mona's accounts. 
 The result was, on the whole, satis- 
 factory, though, — * The way money slips 
 through your fingers is most amazing,' 
 she observed ; ' though we have done 
 pretty well, we couldn't afford a trip 
 anywhere — not prudently ; and you cannot 
 put by anything. At all events, you have 
 not reduced your own bit of money much, 
 that's a comfort ; keep a tight hold of it, 
 dear.' 
 
 Having heard her friend's summary, and 
 assisted to reduce the sea of small account 
 books, scribbled scraps of paper, bills, and 
 receipts to something like order, Mona 
 related her adventure, and madame did 
 not scold. 
 
 ' Well it was funny ! Maybe the old 
 gentleman is a millionaire in disguise ! 
 they are generally queer. Maybe your 
 sixpence will prove the sprat that caught 
 a whale.' 
 
 ' You have too much imagination. Deb,' 
 said Mona, laughing. ' There was nothing
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 209 
 
 of the millionaire about my old man. He 
 was too humble for a moneyed man. If 
 they are queer, they are generally con- 
 sequential. I fancy he will make his 
 way here. He is very feeble, however, 
 and I imagine "cawbs" — as he calls them — 
 are too costly for his taste. I am almost 
 sorry I gave him my card, but he was 
 quite determined to have it. He seemed 
 so dazed and helpless, I felt grieved for 
 him ; but he is not by any means 
 attractive.' 
 
 * Well I shall be curious to see what 
 will come of it ! It is my belief that 
 your meeting didn't happen for nothing,' 
 and Madame Debrlsay shook her head 
 solemnly. ' I believe you are a lucky girl, 
 Mona.' 
 
 * Only lucky in having you to befriend 
 me ! Your cap is very crooked, dear — go 
 and put on your bonnet ! I am not a 
 bit tired. Let us indulge in a hansom 
 to Kensington Gardens, and stroll about 
 till it is time for a late tea.' 
 
 From some unrevealed cause, there 
 seems to be a tendency in events to 
 accumulate at intervals, like the seventh 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 2IO Monds Choice, 
 
 wave, which scientists tells us is always 
 the larorest. So after the monotonous 
 ripple of many quiet weeks, the crop of 
 incident which has been ripening, bursts 
 its bounds and expends itself in a few 
 days. 
 
 The Saturday following Mona's rescue 
 of the old Scotchman, she was surprised 
 and delighted by the receipt of a letter 
 from Evelyn Everard, now Lady 
 Finistoun. 
 
 After voluminous apologies for her 
 silence, she expressed her warm sym- 
 pathy with her ' dearest cousin.' 
 
 ' They were all so angry with you, 
 that, without giving myself the trouble 
 to think (my usual way, you know), I 
 took for granted that you were a 
 dreadful criminal ; still I was as fond 
 of you as ever — but mother would not 
 hear of my writing. Then I was so 
 bewildered about Finistoun. He came 
 and went, and some people thought he 
 was going to marry Lady Georgina 
 Fitz-Maurice ; but / did not. At last it 
 was all settled ; then we were frantically 
 busy, and then I was travelling so
 
 A Chapter of Accidents. 211 
 
 much, and so selfishly happy, I never 
 gave a thought to anyone, which is dis- 
 graceful, I know. Now, dear, that I am 
 married to the nicest, kindest, pleasant- 
 est of men, I feel you were quite right 
 to refuse Mr Waring. Poor man — I 
 liked him very much. It must be quite 
 awful to be united to anyone you can- 
 not love with all your heart. Of course 
 if Mrs Newburgh had lived, it would 
 have been different. I have told Finis- 
 toun all about you. He remembers you 
 last year, and admires you very much. 
 He says you are a plucky girl, but does 
 not think you w^ere wise to throw over 
 Leslie Waring. The best of men, dear 
 Mona, have very little sentiment about 
 other people's marriages. Let us hope 
 they have about their own. I do trust 
 you are not very unhappy. Bertie said 
 he met you, and that you were looking 
 well, and seemed quite bright. Are you 
 still living with that nice, pleasant Mrs 
 Debrisay? Pray give her my kind re- 
 gards. I am sure I used to try her 
 patience. Tell her I had some singing 
 lessons when we were in Milan, and
 
 212 Monds Choice. 
 
 Signer Squallicini — a great man, I as- 
 sure you — said I had been very well 
 taught. 
 
 * We are getting tired of moving about, 
 and intend returning in August to Scot- 
 land. Finistoun has a deer forest in the 
 Western Highlands. We shall be there 
 almost all the autumn. If I can at all 
 manage it, I will come and see you as 
 I pass through London ; and you must 
 come and stay with me. I am sure you 
 will like Finistoun ; he is not exactly 
 handsome, but distingud, and really very 
 clever. My father thinks very highly of 
 him ; and he is a sound Conservative. 
 The dear mother is flourishing, and looks 
 forward to presenting Geraldine next 
 season. It is lonely, not having a 
 daughter '' out." Good - bye, dearest 
 Mona. You will forgive my neglect, 
 and grant I had a good excuse. — Ever 
 your attached Evelyn Finistoun.' 
 
 * I am not so sure about that,' said 
 Mona, smiling, as she put the letter 
 which she had read aloud, back into its 
 envelope. * But I am most grateful to
 
 A Chapter of Accidents, 213 
 
 her for writing at all. She is really a 
 nice, dear thing.' 
 
 ' So she is. I am glad Squallicini 
 thought she had been well taught. I 
 have heard of him. He gets his guinea 
 a lesson. I daresay I can do just as 
 well, and I thought my fortune made 
 when I first got seven-and-six. Why, 
 Mona, there's a little man trying to 
 open the gate — an old man, with a stick 
 and an umbrella. It must be your mil- 
 lionaire.'
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ' OH, MY PROPHETIC SOUL, MY UNCLE ! ' 
 
 
 term- 
 
 N a few minutes the severe Jane 
 entered, and told them there 
 was * a — gentleman ' — she hesi- 
 tated before pronouncing the 
 wanting to see Miss Craig.' 
 * Show him in at once, Jane,' said 
 Madame Debrisay graciously, and the 
 hero of Mona's adventure came in slowly, 
 having left his hat in the hall. 
 
 He had rather a low, wide head, and 
 a kind of reluctant smile. 
 
 ' You'll excuse me,' he said, falling on 
 to a chair, rather than taking a seat, ' but 
 I am varra frail. It's a long way from 
 the station here. I told you, missee, I 
 would not forget ye, and I haven't'
 
 * Oh, my Prophetic Soul, 77ty Uncle / ' 215 
 
 His exceedingly Scotch accent must 
 be imagined. 
 
 * Very pleased to receive you, sir/ 
 said Madame Debrisay blandly. 
 
 * But you should not have taken the 
 trouble,' added Mona compassionately. 
 
 ' I wanted to come,' he said, wiping 
 his brow with a red cotton pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. ' First, I wanted to pay ye 
 back your siller ' — he extracted a small 
 bag purse from his trousers-pocket, and 
 took out sixpence ; ' and there it is,' 
 laying it on the table. ' Next, I wanted 
 to ask you a few questions, if you don't 
 mind.' 
 
 * Certainly not.' 
 
 He did not reply immediately, but 
 looked inquisitively and sharply round 
 the room. 
 
 ' You have a nice, tidy place ; a bit of 
 garden is pleasant. It's better, a good 
 deal, than where I am. Maybe it costs 
 more. I pay a guinea a week for a bed- 
 room and share of a sitting-room.' 
 
 * We pay very little more for two rooms 
 all to ourselves,' said Madame Debri- 
 say.
 
 2i6 Monas Choice. 
 
 * Is she your mother?' he asked, look- 
 ing at Mona. 
 
 ' No, not my mother, though she be- 
 haves Hke one.' 
 
 * Ah ! And are you sure you have no 
 Scotch blood ? ' 
 
 * My father was Scotch.' 
 
 He drew forth her card, and looked 
 at it, slowly reading out, * Miss M. J. 
 Craig.' 
 
 ' What does the M. and the J. stand 
 for ? ' 
 
 ' Mona Joscelyn.' 
 
 * They are not varra Christian - like 
 names. Where did your father live ? ' 
 
 ' In Glasgow.' 
 
 * Ah ! And now, what was your 
 mother's name ? ' 
 
 * Newburgh.' 
 
 * Ay, just so. Your father's name was 
 John Craig, and he was a clerk in the 
 Western Bank of Scotland ? ' 
 
 * His name was John ; but I know 
 little else about him. I remember faintly 
 that he was kind and loving.' 
 
 * Well, / knew him, — knew him from 
 his babyhood. My name is Craig^ — Alex-
 
 * Oh^ my Prophetic Soul^ my Uncle / ' 217 
 
 ander Craig, and I am your father's 
 eldest brother.' 
 
 * Indeed!' cried Mona, touched, nay, 
 even pleased, to meet anyone of her 
 father's blood. ' Then you are my 
 uncle, my own uncle ! ' 
 
 * I am that,' he returned earnestly. 
 
 ' But, my dear sir,' ejaculated Madame 
 Debrisay — ' forgive the caution of an old 
 woman of the world — can you supply 
 some proof that you are this dear child's 
 nearest relative ? ' 
 
 ' You are right to be cautious, mem. 
 I have a letter from my niece's grand- 
 mother, written near fifteen years ago, 
 offering to take her and provide for her, 
 if her father's people would undertake 
 never to come nigh her or interfere with 
 her. I was a bachelor, and a busy man. 
 I never approved of my brother's mar- 
 riage. He took a wife from a class that 
 despised his own, so I just let the poor 
 wean go. I loved your father,' he con- 
 tinued, looking at Mona, ' almost like 
 a son. You have a look of him, and 
 a bonnie reed heid like his. Your 
 mother was a pretty, dark-haired lassie ;
 
 2i8 Monas Choice, 
 
 but I lost him when he married. She 
 was too fine for me, and I lived away 
 from them. Here's your grandmother's 
 letter.' He took out a large pocket- 
 book, from the recesses of which he 
 drew a letter, and, handing it to Mona, 
 observed, — * It's not over ceevil. She is 
 just ane of those aristocrats that think 
 a' the world's dirt but themselves.' 
 
 Mona took it, and read the short sharp 
 statement of Mrs Newburgh's require- 
 ments, which was addressed to ' Mr 
 Alexander Craig.' 
 
 ' It is indeed poor grannie's writing,' she 
 said, passing it to Madame Debrisay. * I 
 am glad to find you, uncle !' and she gave 
 her hand to her new-found relative. 
 
 * Thank you ! ' he exclaimed, holding it a 
 minute. ' It was just the guidin' o' Pro- 
 vidence that brought you to yon fearsome 
 street to help me. When I looked in 
 your face, I felt you were nae that strange. 
 But whar's your grandmither ? ' 
 
 * In her grave,' said Mona sadly. * She 
 died suddenly — in my arms.' 
 
 * I hope she was weel prepared ! And 
 when was she called ? '
 
 ' Oh^ 7ny Prophetic Soul, my Uncle / ' 219 
 
 ' She died last November ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, aweel ! she'll have fund oot by this 
 time that the poor and lowly of this v^arld 
 are the elect of the next.' 
 
 ' Mrs Newburgh was a true Christian 
 and a real lady,' put in Madame Debrisay 
 emphatically. 
 
 ' They dinna always hang togither,' re- 
 turned their new acquaintance. 
 
 ' She was very, very good to me,' said 
 Mona. 
 
 ' Anyway, you've had a wise-like up- 
 bringing. You are not ashamed of your 
 Uncle Sandy, though he is a plain bodie ?' 
 
 'Ashamed! No, indeed.' 
 
 * Now ' — he called it ' noo ' — ' tell me 
 how ye come to be here with this leddy ? 
 I thouorht the Honourable Mrs New- 
 bur^h ' — with somewhat sarcastic stress on 
 
 * the Honourable' — 'was to leave you a 
 fortin'.' 
 
 ' Alas ! my dear sir, my dear young 
 friend's story has been a real tragedy,' 
 began Madame Debrisay, who proceeded, 
 with suitable modulations of voice, to 
 
 * recite ' the tale of Mrs Newburgh's 
 losses, and Mona's consequent poverty —
 
 2 20 MoiiaJs Choice. 
 
 of the necessity for her labouring in order 
 to Hve, and being reduced to her present 
 position. 
 
 Uncle Sandy listened with profound 
 attention. 
 
 ' Reduced, ye ca' it,' he said. * It's 
 no " reducing " for an honest lassie to 
 earn her own bread, which is mair hon- 
 ourable than the honours of the peer- 
 age ! So you live here, my dearie ! Ah, 
 there's a good drap of Craig bluid in yer 
 veins, or you would not have set up for 
 yourself, like a wise lassie. If ye can 
 keep a roof like this over your head, you 
 canna be doing so bad.' 
 
 ' Remember my dear Madame Debrlsay 
 pays by far the larger half.' 
 
 * And what is she to you '^, ' 
 Mona explained. 
 
 ' I think,' said Uncle Sandy, with grave, 
 deliberate approbation, ' that you are just 
 a pair of varra honest, respectable women.' 
 
 * Thank you, uncle,' said Mona, laughing. 
 ' We are both proud of your verdict.' 
 
 * Perhaps,' said Madame Debrisay in- 
 sinuatingly, * perhaps your uncle would 
 stay and share our modest mid-day repast.
 
 'Oh, my Prophetic Sotd, 7ny Uncle!' 221 
 
 We have but a little cold roast beef, a 
 salad, and '^omelette aux fines herbes,'' 
 but at least it will avert the pangs of 
 hunger/ 
 
 'Roast beef, did you say?' asked Mr 
 Craig anxiously ; ' I canna digest boiled ! 
 But you're varra good, and I shall be happy 
 to join you, for the pleeshure of your 
 society ! As I told you, I am varra frail. 
 I v/orked hard a' my youth under a fine 
 man, Mr Kenneth Maceachern, of Mac- 
 eachern & Leslie's, the great jute manu- 
 facturers. He retired, but he just missed 
 the occupation, and went off like a puff of 
 wind. I keepit on, and saved a bit, and 
 my old master remembered me in his will, 
 so, as I found my health failing, and new- 
 men coming into the firm, I thought I 
 would rest and try to recover. I took 
 a cottage an' a bit farm awa' in the 
 west, but I got rheumatics, and grew 
 worse, so I cam' up to try a great London 
 doctor, and was recommended to yon place 
 in Camden Town. The son of one of our 
 clerks lodges there ; but he is out a' day, 
 and I suspect a' the night too. I am just 
 wearyin' o't ; but I am not half cured yet.
 
 222 Monds Choice, 
 
 I wonder now if this place is much further 
 from Harley Street?' 
 
 * By no means, my dear sir ! ' cried 
 Madame Debrisay. 'It is a shorter and 
 a pleasanter drive. I presume you are 
 consulting the famous Dr Swaithem ? ' 
 
 'That's the man. He is awfu' costly.* 
 ' What matter ! so long as you can re- 
 gain your precious health. I think you 
 would find this neighbourhood more salu- 
 brious, and in every way preferable.' 
 ' It may be. I will think of it.' 
 
 * Will you not take the arm-chair, 
 uncle?' said Mona ; 'that is such an un- 
 comfortable one.' 
 
 ' Thank ye ; it's weel thought on.' 
 With various groans and twitches, Uncle 
 Sandy transferred himself to the seat re- 
 commended. ' Ye see,' he explained, ' I 
 have been sair afflicted with a weakness 
 in the spine ; it's a sore hindrance. I 
 have been nigh a month in London, and 
 I've not heard one of the famous preachers 
 yet. I have not had many opportunities, 
 and I am weel aware of my own defeec- 
 encies ; but if it was not for my puir 
 frail body, I could improve myself rarely
 
 ' Oh, my Prophetic Soul, 7ny Uncle / ' 223 
 
 in this great cawpital. There's lectures, 
 and concerts, and sermons, and the 
 like.' 
 
 ' But I hope you will get stronger, 
 uncle ; then you will be able to enjoy 
 this wonderful town,' said Mona kindly, 
 touched by the poor man's desire to go to 
 school again in his old age. 
 
 Here Madame Debrisay slipped quietly 
 from the room — to make some addition to 
 dinner, Mona did not doubt. 
 
 ' Tell me,' said Uncle Sandy — the hoarse 
 whisper in which he usually spoke inten- 
 sified — * tell me, what does she make 
 you pay her for living here ? ' 
 
 ' She does not chaj^ge me anything. I 
 pay my share of our food and fire — that is 
 all' 
 
 * Ah ! and she is no of your blood } ' 
 
 * No ; I came to know her seven or 
 eight years ago, as I told you.' 
 
 * It is just wonderful,' he ejaculated, and 
 sat silent for some time, with a curious, 
 half- satisfied, half- mocking smile in his 
 face. 
 
 Then the prim figure of Jane appeared, 
 and she proceeded to lay the cloth.
 
 224 Monas Choice. 
 
 The dinner was very successful. Uncle 
 Sandy was exceedingly communicative as 
 to what he might and might not eat. At 
 first he said he would take nothing but 
 cold water to drink; then he fancied there 
 was a slight taste — he could not exactly 
 define what — in the water, and when 
 he perceived this, he had always been 
 warned to qualify the water with a drop of 
 spirits. He supposed they hadn't any 
 whisky ? No ; well he would do with a 
 trifle of brandy. ' The next time I come 
 to see ye/ he said, with an air of great 
 generosity, ' I'll bring you a bottle of 
 real good stuff — it's far wholesomer than 
 brandy.' He seemed to enjoy his repast, 
 and afterwards made many inquiries into 
 Madame Debrisay's history. He was also 
 profoundly interested in the prices current 
 of all articles of consumption in London. 
 Then, noticing the piano, he begged his 
 niece to sing him a song. She complied. 
 Before she was half through it he stopped 
 her by observing that he had an uncom- 
 mon ear for music, but that it must be 
 Scotch music. So Mona changed her 
 tune to ' Oh ! wert thou in the cauld blast/
 
 ' Oh, viy Pi'ophetic Soul, 7?iy Uncle / ' 225 
 
 which gave him great delight. He nodded 
 his head and tapped the carpet with his 
 stick in time to the music, and declared 
 with feeble energy, that there were no 
 songs like Scotch songs — no intelligence 
 comparable to that of Scotsmen — no 
 church system like that of Scotland. 
 Then he looked at his watch, and said he 
 was sorry, but he must leave them ; that it 
 was the only cheerful afternoon he had 
 spent since he came to London, and ex- 
 pressed his resolution to look for lodgings 
 in their neighbourhood. 
 
 ' Pray, let me get you a cab,' said Mona. 
 ' You will be so very tired walking all the 
 way to the station a second time.' 
 
 * Hoot, toot ! I am stronger since lately, 
 and money is not so plentiful as to let me 
 hire cabs everywhere I go. Naw, naw. 
 I'll just walk to the station. I have my 
 ticket to Gower Street, and I will get on 
 fine from that for tippence. Good-bye, 
 my lassie. I'll no forget how ye helpit 
 your uncle. Good-bye to you, mem. 
 Maybe you'll help me to find a respectable 
 lodging. I can't come again till the day 
 after to-morrow, for I have to see the 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2 26 Manas Choice. 
 
 doctor; but if it is any way fine, I'll not 
 fail you.' 
 
 Mona went out to open the garden gate 
 for him, and watched him hobbling down 
 the road for a moment or two, and then 
 returned to Madame Debrisay. 
 
 ' What an extraordinary encounter ! ' 
 cried Mona, throwing herself into a 
 corner of the sofa, and laughing unre- 
 strainedly. * I imagine Uncle Sandy is a 
 character, and I really am sorry for his ill 
 health and loneliness ; but I am afraid 
 he will be rather a bore if he settles 
 near us. He seems to have fascinated 
 you, dear Deb.' 
 
 * Poor creature. I did feel for him, and 
 I think he is naturally a very superior 
 man. But, Mona, my child, it's for your 
 sake I spoke. Now Providence has 
 thrown him in your way, I don't want 
 you to lose your hold on him. Keep him 
 by you, dear, and he will leave you all his 
 money. No one can provide much for old 
 age by teaching, and you must think of 
 the future, fna belled 
 
 * But how can you fancy he is rich ? 
 He is evidently extremely careful of
 
 * Oh, my Prophetic Soul, my Uncle /' 227 
 
 money, and he did not let fall one word 
 by which one could be authorised to con- 
 sider him rich. He may have saved 
 enough to live on, and pay his doctor's 
 bill, but that will be about all.' 
 
 'Well,' returned Madame Debrisay, 
 
 * there is no use arguing about what 
 neither of us can be sure of. I have my 
 ideas pretty strong, and I am sure you 
 are not the girl to turn your back upon a 
 relation because he is poor.' 
 
 ' I should hope not indeed !' cried Mona. 
 ' I am quite willing to do my best for the 
 poor old man ; but he will worry us if he 
 is anywhere near.' 
 
 ' It will not be for long,' said Madame 
 Debrisay soothingly. ' He will be going 
 back to his place in the west of Scotland 
 as soon as he is cured.' 
 
 ' His place,' cried Mona, laughing. 
 
 * His cottage and farm, you mean.' 
 
 ' Never mind. He has enough to move 
 about with, and pay doctors ; and you 
 might as well have it after him, poor 
 fellow. I do not think he is long for 
 this world.' 
 
 Mona laughed more heartily.
 
 2 28 Monds Choice. 
 
 * You wicked, grasping Deb ! ' she ex- 
 claimed. ' You want to turn me into a 
 legacy hunter! I assure you I will be 
 kind and attentive to my poor father's 
 brother, whether he has a cottage or a 
 castle. He will probably not stay here 
 long, and we may as well make him happy. 
 He must have had a dull life. It must be 
 very hard to feel life slipping away before 
 you have known enjoyment.' 
 
 * Ah. my dear, don't you be downcast — 
 times will mend.' 
 
 * Do not fancy I am grumbling. I have 
 some very bright days to look back upon ' 
 — a quick deep sigh, — ' and the present is 
 far from being unhappy. Only, the Mona 
 Joscelyn of this time last year has dis- 
 appeared for ever, and Mona Craig, a 
 more useful and sensible young woman, 
 has replaced her.' 
 
 * If I could see you rich and free, and 
 in your proper place, I would die happy ; 
 and who knows I may yet see you get the 
 better of those cold-hearted Everards.' 
 
 * They are not cold-hearted. They 
 had a right to be angry, and I have 
 no feeling of resentment against them.
 
 * Oh, my Prophetic Soul, my Uncle / ' 229 
 
 though they 7night have asked what had 
 become of me.' 
 
 ' If that is not coldness, I do not know 
 what is. 
 
 A few more days brought them to 
 August. During these days Uncle Sandy 
 made no sign. Indeed, both Madame 
 Debrisay and Mona were too much occu- 
 pied with lessons, some of which were 
 crowded together to allow of pupils leaving 
 town, and with their own affairs generally, 
 to think much about him. 
 
 Both partners were looking forward to 
 the delights of rest well earned. Mona 
 was quietly but profoundly thankful that 
 she had not been obliged to earn her 
 bread among indifferent strangers, — that 
 she had been supported by the warm 
 sympathy of a true friend. 
 
 Bereft of sympathy, life would be but 
 a struggling mass of discordant atoms, 
 without coherence, without harmony. Jus- 
 tice might guide our actions — even gener- 
 osity might bestow its bounty ; yet, 
 needing that centripetal attraction, human 
 souls would fly further and further from
 
 230 Monet s Choice. 
 
 each other. Sympathy, too, is the in- 
 forming soul of genius. The power to 
 put one's self in another's place, — to under- 
 stand by the magic of fellow feeling his 
 strength and weakness,— to penetrate those 
 dusky mental corners where lurk the mean- 
 ness and deceit of which he is ashamed, 
 and by which he is nevertheless actuated, — 
 the broad kindliness that disdains no atom 
 of humanity, but sees a possible self in the 
 poorest and most fallen — these bestow the 
 faculty of true second sight on him who 
 perceives much, because he loves much. 
 Madame Debrisay and Mona were happy 
 together, because they thoroughly under- 
 stood each other. 
 
 There were depths in Mona's nature, 
 perhaps, beyond the reach of madame's 
 plummet ; but there was nothing in hers 
 to make it discordant. Indeed, the more 
 it was called upon, the more readily 
 did it respond — as a high-mettled steed 
 answers to the spur, or breaks its heart 
 in the attempt. 
 
 Mona enjoyed the pleasure of answering 
 Lady Finistoun's letter. It was so de- 
 lightful to be remembered after many days.
 
 * O/i, my Prophetic Sottl, my Uncle /' 231 
 
 The last lesson had been given — the 
 last promises to write ' directly they re- 
 turned to town,' spoken, and Madame 
 Debrisay and her junior partner, meeting 
 accidentally in the train, walked home 
 together. 
 
 ' I do think,' said the former, ' that 
 ours is the neatest garden in the villas ; 
 but I fancy the trees are turning a 
 little already. 
 
 ' The green has deepened, that is all,' 
 returned Mona. ' Look, Deb ! Mrs Pud- 
 diford has put up a card. Mr Rigden 
 must be going sooner than we thought.' 
 
 ' Well, I shall not be sorry, though 
 I must say the dog has behaved very 
 well lately. I will ask Mrs Puddiford to 
 come up after tea. I suppose he is going. 
 I do hope she will let the rooms soon. 
 It certainly is a bad season.' 
 
 * Yes ; she will fret a good deal if 
 she does not.' 
 
 And Mrs Puddiford disclosed a tale of 
 woe. 
 
 Mr Rigden had returned early, and 
 informed her that he had found better 
 and cheaper rooms, — that he was going
 
 232 Monas Choice, 
 
 away to the country the next day, — 
 that he would take his dog, and would 
 not return, therefore Mrs Puddlford 
 might make out his account at once, 
 as he did not intend to hold any further 
 communication with her. 
 
 * He spoke that disdainful, ma'am, 
 that I felt choked like ! To lose a 
 good, regular-paying lodger, and hfm 
 parting unfriendly, is trying.' 
 
 * No doubt it is, Mrs Puddiford, 
 but you will have nearly a fortnight's 
 rent, and in that time I'll find another 
 tenant for you. I have one in my 
 eye.' 
 
 ' Well'm, and I hope you will succeed, 
 for the sight of those rooms lying empty 
 is enough to give me indigestion.' 
 
 ' Who do you think of. Deb ? Not 
 my uncle ! ' exclaimed Mona, when the 
 landlady had retreated. 
 
 ' Yes, I do, dear. Then I could 
 keep my eye on him, and it would give 
 us much less trouble to look after his 
 little wants if he were in the same 
 house.' 
 
 * Well, really, Deb, I am afraid he
 
 * Oh, my Prophetic Sotcl, my Uncle /' 233 
 
 would bore us greatly — though it is 
 rather unkind and selfish to say so.' 
 
 ' Yes it is, cherie, and I am ashamed 
 of you. But let the poor soul have 
 a bit of comfort while he is in this 
 strange wilderness of a place ; it will 
 help him to get better all the quicker, 
 and then he will be off to his residence 
 in the west of Scotland. Perhaps he 
 will return our hospitalities, by inviting 
 us to stay with him next year. I'd 
 like a month in the Highlands, and 
 if you will only be guided by me, 
 house and land and all will be yours.' 
 
 ' House and land ! Why, Deb, you 
 are more imaginative than ever. How- 
 ever, do as you like. I am awfully 
 selfish, I am afraid, but I dread that 
 poor Uncle Sandy may spoil our holiday.' 
 
 The following morning brought a letter 
 from Mr Craig, written in what had 
 been a business hand, now run to seed, 
 and exceedingly shaky. 
 
 He had been, he said, exceedingly un- 
 well, and confined to the house with a bad 
 cold ; that he was now considerably better, 
 and proposed calling on Wednesday first,
 
 234 Monas Choice. 
 
 when he hoped his niece and her friend 
 — the orthography of whose name had 
 escaped him — would assist in finding him 
 suitable lodgings, as his present abode was 
 cold and damp, and most prejudicial to 
 his peculiar condition.' 
 
 * Wednesday first ! ' repeated Mona. 
 ' Does he mean Wednesday next ? — that 
 will be to-morrow.' 
 
 * He will come just in the nick of 
 time ! ' exclaimed Madame Debrisay. ' He 
 is the very man for the rooms upstairs, 
 and they are the rooms for him. Now, 
 leave everything to me.' 
 
 ' Very well, dear, I know you only want 
 to serve me.' 
 
 Madame Debrisay lost no time in 
 advising Mrs Puddiford to put the 
 rooms in order, as it was probable that 
 a gentleman would look at them next day. 
 
 ' A very advantageous tenant, Mrs 
 Puddiford,' added madame, with some 
 importance. * He is wealthy, but some- 
 what eccentric. He does not wish to 
 be considered poor, or to seem poor — 
 still he is sound and reliable, and will 
 be most punctual.'
 
 * Oh, my Prophetic Soul, my Uncle /' 235 
 
 * I am sure, ma'am, it will be rare luck 
 to let my rooms straight off! and to a 
 relation of Miss Craio^'s too.' 
 
 ' I will come up and look at them, Mrs 
 Puddiford.' 
 
 * They are all in disorder now, ma'am ; 
 but I never let real dirt lay about.' 
 
 So Madame Debrisay ascended, and 
 remained some time absent. 
 
 When she returned, she took up the 
 needlework she had left, and said gravely, — 
 
 * Mona, my heart, write a line to your 
 uncle ; ask him to take his bit of dinner 
 with us to-morrow, and mention that there 
 are rooms to let in this house ; but if they 
 do not suit him we will look for others.' 
 
 ' I will ask him to dinner, certainly ; but 
 let us leave the question of lodgings to the 
 chapter of accidents.' 
 
 ' Mona, I feel a conviction that you 
 should not let that nice old man slip 
 through your fingers.' 
 
 ' Dearest Deb ! why do you talk as if 
 you were a greedy legacy-hunter, when 
 you are really the most generous and 
 disinterested of mortals ! I will do all I 
 can for my uncle, but I will not let him
 
 236 Monds Choice. 
 
 interfere with my life — nor would I, If I 
 believed he had many thousands to be- 
 queath, which I do not' 
 
 Madame Debrlsay opened her lips to 
 speak, and then closed them firmly, keep- 
 ing silent for some Instants. 
 
 ' Well, dear,' she said at length, ' maybe 
 you are right. I am a little Inclined to 
 follow '' Will-o'-the-wIsps ;" take your own 
 way,' 
 
 * You are a wise Deb after all,' returned 
 Mona, going to the writing-table, and 
 beginning a note to her uncle. ' Of 
 course, if he chooses to take the rooms, I 
 will make no objection.' 
 
 * We will go out after dinner,' observed 
 Madame Debrlsay, ' and I'll get some 
 ribbon for your hat. You will see if I 
 don't turn out something equal to Madame 
 Isabelle.' 
 
 ' I have no doubt you can — ' 
 And Madame Debrlsay glided skilfully 
 away from the subject In dispute. 
 
 * There's " The World," ma'am, just 
 come in,' said Mrs Puddiford next morn- 
 ing. ' Mr Rigden, he have left no ad- 
 dress, and I think I need not worrit my-
 
 * Oh, my Prophetic Soul, my Uficle / ' 237 
 
 self about it ; so I leave it with you to 
 look at.' 
 
 ' Thank you ! ' returned Madame De- 
 brisay. * I daresay there isn't a word 
 of truth in all these papers say ; but it 
 amuses one at an idle holiday time to 
 look at it.' 
 
 ' Yes ! poor grannie used to read it, and 
 laugh and grumble all the time. It was 
 amusing to hear her comparisons of the 
 present with the past. She was very 
 clever. She never railed at the differences 
 which had come about. She evidently 
 preferred things as they used to be, but 
 accepted changes as inevitable, and 
 probably improvements for a younger 
 generation.' 
 
 'Ah! del!' interrupted Madame De- 
 brisay. ' Listen to this. It is a paragraph 
 among " What people say " : — 
 
 ' " Play has been unusually high for the 
 time of year at Monte Carlo. One trio has 
 lost or won large sums, and the habitues 
 of the Salle de Jeu have, night after night, 
 hung absorbed on the fluctuations of their 
 fortunes. One of these is a Russian 
 prince, well known in fashionable circles^
 
 238 Monds Choice, 
 
 both in London and Paris. Another is 
 an Austrian baron, celebrated for his 
 theatrical speculations. The third, whose 
 luck at first astonished the oldest fre- 
 quenters of these famous rooms, is a young 
 Englishman of good fortune and respect- 
 able connections — Mr Leslie Waring — 
 whose horse was the favourite for the 
 Derby, and was so unexpectedly beaten, 
 seemed to have recovered the favour of 
 the fickle godess, but has since lost very 
 heavily. He shows great pluck, and is 
 said to await with confidence * the turn of 
 the tide.' " '' 
 
 Madame laid down the paper with a 
 sigh. 
 
 * I am sorry for that poor fellow ! ' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' And so am I ; heartily sorry,' said 
 Mona, stopping short in her task of re- 
 arranging some flowers. 
 
 ' Ah ! if he had had a good wife to keep 
 him straight.' 
 
 ' Don't ! ' cried Mona. * Don't ! I can- 
 not bear it. And you are mistaken, Deb ; 
 it is not my fault. Mr Waring told me 
 himself his tendency was to gamble — his
 
 * Oh, my Prophetic Soul, 7ny Ujtcle / ' 239 
 
 natural inclination. He was honest and 
 true, poor fellow ! Oh ! has he no friend 
 to keep him straight ! ' 
 
 ' Hum ! the friend that could have 
 guided him, he couldn't get.' 
 
 ' Still, I cannot — I will not blame my- 
 self. He has forgotten me long ago ; 
 and as I am sure I should have made 
 him but a cold, unsympathetic wife, he 
 might have gambled all the same, if I 
 had married him. You are too cruel, 
 Deb!' 
 
 * Ah ! grand Dieu ! Don't cry, my 
 darlin'. You'll look a perfect fright, when 
 your uncle comes ! and, old or young, 
 none of them have any feeling for an 
 ill-looking woman. Besides, you are quite 
 right. If the poor young man was a 
 born gambler, maybe he would have 
 beggared you. Do not think any more 
 about him. You have done the flowers 
 beautifully.' 
 
 ' But I can't help thinking ! I really 
 liked Mr Waring. He had a fine nature 
 in some ways, and oh ! I do hope he 
 is none the worse, really — for having 
 met me.'
 
 240 Monds Choice, 
 
 ' Well, there is no use in troubling your 
 head about him now ? ' 
 
 Mona made no reply, but she did 
 not think the less. 
 
 Uncle Sandy arrived in a * cawb,' and 
 Madame Debrisay in her neat black 
 dress — she never wore colours — and a 
 pretty lace cap, went out to assist his 
 descent from the vehicle. A sharp 
 wrangle ensued over the fare, from which 
 Mr Craig — cool, persistent, and utterly 
 impervious to insult, where ' siller ' was 
 concerned — came forth triumphant. 
 
 Mona, who had been making sauce for 
 the salad, according to Madame De- 
 brisay 's recipe, had just placed the salad 
 bowl on the table, when he stumped 
 in with the aid of stick and um- 
 brella. 
 
 ' Weel,' he said, tumbling into a chair 
 and holding out his hand to Mona, ' I 
 did not think I would live to see you 
 again, but here I am.' 
 
 * You are looking better than I hoped 
 to see you,' she said kindly. 
 
 * Eh ! I have been awfu' bad, and I 
 am varra lonely in yon place. Women-
 
 * Oh, 77zy Prophetic Sotd, my Uncle / ' 241 
 
 kind are aye thoughtful for the sick and 
 weak, and I am pleased to take my bit 
 dinner wi' you.' 
 
 ' And we are glad to see you.' 
 
 ' Can ye cook ? ' was his next ques- 
 tion. 
 
 ' Well, not much.' 
 
 ' You see, my dear sir,' cried Madame 
 Debrisay, ' the dear child has not much 
 opportunity of learning ; but she has a 
 natural aptitude which I endeavour to 
 cultivate.' 
 
 ' That's right ; every woman ought to 
 cook. Ye see, that's their natural work, 
 that and doctoring — I don't mean pre- 
 scribing medicine, but seeing to its being 
 swallowed.' 
 
 By this time dinner had been placed 
 on the table, and Uncle Sandy appreciated 
 a fried sole, some boiled fowl with white 
 sauce, and a ' choiifietir au gratin,' pre- 
 pared by Madame Debrisay's own and 
 still pretty hands. 
 
 He spoke little while he ate, belonging 
 to that unaffected class who think that 
 dinner means eating — not social enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 242 Monas Choice, 
 
 When he had had enough, he pushed 
 away his plate, and glancing at Madame 
 Debrisay and Mona, who had been 
 quietly waiting for him, returned thanks at 
 some length, and then — very deliberately 
 took a phial from his pocket, dropped a 
 certain quantity into a glass, added water, 
 and drank it. 
 
 * Ah ! ' he said, * I have had a good 
 dinner, which is conducive to digestion. 
 Now, Mona, what is the meaning of that 
 bit card in the window ; is it to say 
 the rooms are to let ? ' 
 
 * They are, uncle.' 
 
 * Then, if they are not too costly, I 
 will take them. That young man — auld 
 Robertson's son — has not behaved as 
 he should, and it is as well I should 
 have my brother's daughter to look after 
 me.' 
 
 ' I shall be very happy to do all I 
 can for you, uncle ; but you must re- 
 member that when my pupils come back 
 to town, I shall be obliged to go out 
 a. great deal.' 
 
 * Never mind. Pupils or no pupils, you 
 stick to me.'
 
 ' Oh, my Prophetic Soul, my Uncle / ' 243 
 
 Madame Debrisay gave a slight nod 
 and a proud glance, expressing, ' Didn't I 
 tell you,' most distinctly. 
 
 ' I'll look after you, if you will look 
 after me ? ' he continued. ' Whenever 
 madame will come with me, I will go 
 upstairs and see the place.' 
 
 This intention was duly carried out, 
 and Uncle Sandy, after careful ex- 
 amination, pronounced all to be ' very 
 good.' 
 
 ' It would suit me weel to bide under 
 the same roof with ye both ' (he said 
 * baith '), * and I do not wish to give 
 any trouble. When ye buy for yersels, 
 ye can buy for me. When ye have 
 a pleasant book ye can lend it to me, 
 and when I am frailer than my ordinair, 
 she,' a nod to Mona, * can read to me. 
 Noo, I'll give a — I don't mind, twenty- 
 five shillin' a week, for the twa rooms.' 
 
 ' Let us see Mrs Puddiford,' quoth 
 Madame Debrisay. 
 
 Whereupon a long discussion arose. 
 Mr Craig had no objection to be a 
 monthly tenant. 
 
 ' I have let my wee place for two
 
 244 Monet s Choice. 
 
 years,' he said, 'and I can bide better 
 here than elsewhere,' 
 
 So after some hagghng", for he would 
 not hear of looking elsewhere, he became 
 Mrs Puddiford's tenant from the following 
 Monday, at the large rent of five pounds 
 ten per month. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
 
 IW