CHAPTER XVI.

HOW GEOFFREY AND MONA ENTER THE TOWERS-AND HOW THEY ARE RECEIVED BY THE INHABITANTS THEREOF.

THE momentous Friday comes at last, and about noon Mona and Geoffrey start for the Towers. They are not perhaps in the exuberant spirits that should be theirs, considering they are going to spend their Christmas in the bosom of their family-at all events of Geoffrey's family-which naturally for the future she must acknowledge as hers. They are indeed not only silent, but desponding, and as they get out of the train at Greatham and enter the carriage sent by Sir Nicholas to meet them their hearts sink nearly into their boots, and for several minutes no words pass between them.

To Geoffrey perhaps the coming ordeal bears a deeper shade; as Mona hardly understands all that awaits her. That Lady Rodney is a little displeased at her son's marriage she can readily believe, but that she has made up her mind beforehand to dislike her, and intends waging with her war to the knife, is more than has ever entered into her gentle mind.

Is it a long drive, Geoff?' she asks presently in a trembling tone, slipping her hand into his in the old fashion.

About six miles. I say, darling, keep up your spirits; if we don't like it, we can leave, you know. But-alluding to her subdued voice- don't be imagining evil.'

'I don't think I am,' says Mona, but the thought

of meeting people for the first time makes me feel nervous. Is your mother tall, Geoffrey?'

'Very.'

'And severe-looking? You said she was like you.' "Well, so she is, and yet I suppose our expressions are dissimilar. Look here,' says Geoffrey suddenly, as though compelled at the last moment to give her a hint of what is coming. I want to tell you about her, my mother I mean; she is all right, you know, in every way, and very charming in general, but just at first one might imagine her a little difficult!'

What's that?' asks Mona.

Don't speak of your mother as if she was a chromatic scale.'

'I mean she seems a trifle cold, unfriendly, and—er -that,' says Geoffrey. Perhaps it would be a wise thing for you to make up your mind what you will say to her on first meeting her. She will come up to you, you know, and give you her hand like this,' taking hers, and

'Yes, I know,' says Mona, eagerly interrupting him. 'And then she will put her arms round me, and kiss me just like this,' suiting the action to the word.

'Like that, not a bit of it,' says Geoffrey, who has given her two kisses for her one, you mustn't expect it. She isn't in the least like that. She will meet you probably as though she saw you yesterday, and say, "How d'ye do, I'm afraid you have had a very long and cold drive?" And then you will say say

A pause.
"Yes, I shall say-
"You-will-say-

anxiously.

Here he breaks down ignominiously, and confesses by his inability to proceed that he doesn't in the least know what it is she can say.

"I know,' says Mona, brightening, and putting on an air so different to her own usual unaffected one, as to strike her listener with awe. I shall say: "Oh! thanks, quite too awfully much, don't you know, but

Geoffrey and I didn't find it a bit long, and we were as warm as wool all the time.”›

At this appalling speech Geoffrey's calculations fall through, and he gives himself up to undisguised mirth.

'If you say all that,' he says, 'there will be wigs on the green; that's Irish, isn't it? or something like it, and very well applied too. The first part of your speech sounded like Toole or Brough, I'm not sure which.'

'Well, it was in a theatre I heard it,' confesses Mona meekly; ‘it was a great lord who said it on the stage, so I thought it would be all right.'

Great lords are not necessarily faultlessly correct, either on or off the stage,' says Geoffrey. But just for choice, I prefer them off it. No, that will not do at all. When my mother addresses you, you are to answer her back again in tones even colder than her own, and say

'But, Geoffrey, why should I be cold to your mother? Sure you wouldn't have me be uncivil to her, of all people?'

Not uncivil, but cool. You will say to her, "It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you." And then, if you can manage to look bored, it will be quite correct, so far, and you may tell yourself you have scored one.'

'I may say that horrid speech, but I certainly can't pretend I was bored during our drive, because I am not,' says Mona.

'I know that. If I was not utterly sure of it I should instantly commit suicide by precipitating myself under the carriage wheels,' says Geoffrey. 'Still-"let us dissemble." Now say what I told you.'

So Mrs. Rodney says, 'It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you,' in a tone so icy that his is warm beside it.

'But suppose she doesn't say a word about the drive?' says Mona thoughtfully, 'how will it be then?'

'She is safe to say something about it, and that will do for anything,' says Rodney out of the foolishness of his heart.

And now the horses draw up before a brilliantly lighted hall, the doors of which are thrown wide open as though in hospitable expectation of their coming.

Geoffrey leading his wife into the hall, pauses beneath a central swinging lamp, to examine her critically. The footman who is in attendance on them has gone on before to announce their coming; they are therefore for the moment alone.

Mona is looking lovely, a little pale perhaps from some natural agitation, but her pallor only adds to the lustre of her great blue eyes, and lends an additional sweetness to the ripeness of her lips. Her hair is a little loose, but eminently becoming, and altogether she looks as like an exquisite painting as one can conceive.

'Take off your hat,' says Geoffrey in a tone that gladdens her heart, so full it is of love and admiration; and having removed her hat she follows him through halls and one or two anterooms until they reach the library, into which the man ushers them.

It is a very pretty room, filled with a subdued light, and with a blazing fire at one end. All bespeaks warmth, and home, and comfort, but to Mona in her present state it is desolation itself. The three occupants of the room rise as she enters, and Mona's heart dies within her as a very tall statuesque woman, drawing herself up languidly from a lounging chair, comes leisurely up to her. There is no welcoming haste in her movements, no gracious smile, for which her guest is thirsting, upon her thin lips.

She is dressed in black velvet, and has a cap of richest old lace upon her head. To the quick sensibilities of the Irish girl it becomes known without a word that she is not to look for love from this stately woman, with her keen scrutinising glance, and cold unsmiling lips.

A choking sensation, rising from her heart, almost stops Mona's breath, her mouth feels parched and dry, her eyes widen. A sudden fear oppresses her. How is it going to be in all the future? Is Geoffrey's-her own husband's-mother to be her enemy?

Lady Rodney holds out her hand, and Mona lays hers within it.

'So glad you have come,' says Lady Rodney in a tone that belies her words, and in a sweet silvery voice that chills the heart of her listener. 'We hardly thought we should see you so soon, the trains here are so unpunctual. I hope the carriage was in time?'

She waits apparently for an answer, at which Mona grows desperate. For in reality she has heard not one word of the laboured speech made to her, and is too frightened to think of anything to say except the unfortunate lesson learned in the carriage, and repeated secretly so often since. She looks round helplessly for Geoffrey; but he is laughing with his brother, Captain Rodney, whom he has not seen since his return from India, and so Mona, cast upon her own resources, says:

'It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you,' not in the haughty tone adopted by her half an hour ago, but in an unnerved and frightened whisper.

At this remarkable answer to a very ordinary and polite question, Lady Rodney stares at Mona for a moment, and then turns abruptly away to greet Geoffrey. Whereupon Captain Rodney coming forward tells Mona he is glad to see her, kindly but carelessly; and then a young man, who has been standing up to this silently upon the hearthrug, advances, and takes Mona's hand in a warm clasp, and looks down upon her with very friendly eyes.

At his touch, at his glance, the first sense of comfort Mona has felt since her entry into the room falls upon her. This man, at least, is surely of the same kith and kin as Geoffrey, and to him her heart opens gladly, gratefully.