"Mr. Wellington looking for Miss Richards, did you say, Mrs. Montague?" Ray inquired, quickly improving his opportunity, and looking about him in search of that gentleman. "Ah! I see him yonder—Miss Richards, allow me to conduct you to him."

He offered his arm in a ceremonious way, as any new acquaintance might have done, and led her slowly toward the spot where Mr. Wellington was standing, while Mrs. Montague watched them, with a frown upon her brow.

"I believe I was a fool to allow her to come down; she is far too pretty to appear in public with me; any one would suppose her to be an equal," she muttered, irritably. "Who would have believed," she added, "that she could have gotten herself up in that bewitching style, with only a few bits of white ribbon and not a single ornament! I wonder where she got her violets? She has exquisite taste, anyhow."

But Ray and Mona were unconscious of these jealous remarks. They were oblivious of everything just then, except the presence of each other and the fortunate circumstances which had thrown them together.

"My darling," Ray said, under his breath, "that was very cleverly managed, was it not? Don't you think I am quite a tactician? I caught sight of you the moment you appeared; then that bright fairy, Kitty McKenzie, arrived upon the scene, and I knew that my opportunity had come."

"But you almost took my breath away, Ray, when you bore me off so unceremoniously before Mrs. Montague's disapproving eyes," Mona murmured in response.

"Unceremonious!" the young man retorted, with assumed surprise, and a roguish smile. "Why, I thought I was excessively formal."

"Yes, in your manner to me; but you did not ask the lady's permission to conduct me to the host."

"How was I supposed to know that Miss Richards, to whom I had just been introduced, was not a guest as well as the more gorgeous, but less lovely, Mrs. Montague?" questioned the young lover, lightly. "But," he continued, with a sigh, "I cannot bear this sort of thing a great while. When I see you looking like some beautiful young goddess, I find it very difficult to assume an indifferent exterior. I nearly forgot myself a moment ago."

"Perhaps it would have been better if I had remained quietly in my own room," Mona archly returned, as she gave him a mischievous glance out of her bright eyes.

He drew the hand that lay on his arm close to his side with a fond pressure.

"Indeed, no!" he said, tenderly; "it is better to meet you thus than not at all. But must I give you up to Mr. Wellington?" he continued, in a wistful tone, as they drew near the gentleman. "No; I will ask him to direct me to the balcony, and I will conduct you there myself."

"Ah, Miss Richards, I have been looking for you," Mr. Wellington remarked, as his eye fell upon the fair girl. "It is almost time for the opening promenade, and you ought to be in your seat, so as not to miss anything. But wait a moment; I must speak to this gentleman first," he concluded, as some one approached him.

"Pray, Mr. Wellington, since you are so engaged, let me conduct Miss Richards to the balcony," Ray here interposed, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

Mr. Wellington, with a look of relief, readily assented to the proposition, and Ray and his companion were thus permitted to enjoy a little more of each other's society.

They easily found their way to the balcony, where Ray secured a good position for his fiancee.

"I suppose I will have to leave you now," he whispered in her ear; "I am engaged to Miss Wellington for the promenade; but, by and by, Mona, I shall steal away and come to you again."

"Do not leave the dancing on my account, Ray," Mona pleaded; "it is all so bright and lovely down there. I know you will enjoy it."

"I should, if I could have you with me," he interrupted, fondly; "but, as I cannot, I would much prefer to remain quietly here with you—only that would not do, I suppose."

"No, indeed," she returned, decidedly. "Now you must go, for the orchestra is beginning to play."

He left her, with a fond hand-clasp that brought a happy smile to her red lips, and went below to seek his host's daughter.

Mona was very glad, later on, that she was not below with the dancers, for she saw quite a number of people from New York, whom she knew, and she would not have cared to be recognized by them—or rather snubbed by them.

It was a brilliant scene when the grand procession formed.

The pavilion had been very tastefully decorated, and one would hardly have believed that there were only bare, rough boards behind the artistically draped damask silk and lace, which had been used in profusion to conceal them. The spacious room was brilliantly lighted; flowers and potted plants were everywhere, making the place bright with their varied hues, and sending forth their fragrance into every nook and corner, while the fine orchestra was concealed behind a screen of palms, mingled with oleanders in full bloom.

There must have been at least two hundred people present, the gentlemen, of course, in full evening dress, while the ladies' costumes were of exceeding richness and beauty, yet among them all, it is doubtful if there was one so happy as the lovely girl who sat so quietly in the balcony and watched the gay scene in which she could not mingle.

There were a good many people sitting there with her, and not a few regarded her with curious and admiring interest, and judged from her dress that she was in mourning, and that she was thus debarred, by the customs of society, from appearing in a ball-room as one of the dancers. That she was a lady no one doubted for a moment, for her every look and movement betrayed it.

Now and then Ray's fond glances would seek her, and, catching her eye, a little nod or smile plainly told her how he longed to be with her.

Mona saw Mrs. Montague conspicuous among the dancers, and she appeared to enter into the spirit of the occasion with almost the zest of a young girl during her first season; while it was noticed that Mr. Palmer was her companion more frequently than any other person.

She had come in with him for the grand march, and when the procession for supper was formed she was again upon his arm.

But Mona could not see Ray anywhere among this crowd, and the occupants of the balcony also going below for refreshment, she found herself almost alone in the pavilion.

But it was not for long, for presently she caught the sound of a quick, elastic step, and the next moment her lover was beside her.

"Come back a little, dear, where we can sit in the shadow of the draperies, and we will have a precious half-hour all by ourselves," he said, in a low tone; "then in a few moments a servant will bring us up some supper."

"How thoughtful you are, Ray! But, truly, I do not care for anything to eat," Mona returned, as she arose and followed him to a cozy nook, where the draperies would partially conceal them from observation.

"I do, my brown-eyed lassie," Ray responded, emphatically; "after the violent exercise of the last two hours I am quite sure my inner man needs replenishing. Ah, James, you're a good fellow," he continued, as a tan-colored son of the South now made his appearance, bearing a tray of tempting viands. "Here, take this and drink my health by and by; but come back and get your tray in the course of half an hour."

The darky showed two rows of brilliant teeth as Ray slipped a silver dollar into his hand; then with a cheerful "Yes, sir—thank'ee, sir," and a low bow he disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

Mona was hungry, in spite of her assertion to the contrary, and she enjoyed the rich treat that Ray had so thoughtfully provided for her, while he was full of fun and gayety, and they had a merry time up there all by themselves.

When the dancers began to return, Ray quietly remarked:

"My darling, I am not going down to the company again; I feel guilty to have you sit moping here, while I am playing the gallant cavalier to other girls."

Mona laughed out softly, but gleefully, at this speech.

"I trust you will always be as conscientious and dutiful, my loyal knight," she roguishly retorted.

"You will never have cause to question my loyalty, my own," he whispered, with a look that brought a bright color into her cheeks.

"But I have not been moping," Mona resumed. "I have enjoyed being here and watching the dancers very much, and you know I could not join them even if my present position did not debar me," she tremulously concluded.

"True; I had not thought of that," the young man said, gravely, as his eye swept over her black dress.

"So, then, if you feel that your duty is below, do not hesitate about leaving me," Mona urged.

"I am not going," he firmly reiterated. "I have been formally introduced to 'Miss Richards,' and I have a perfect right to cultivate her acquaintance if I choose."

Mona did not urge him further; she saw that he really wished to stay, and she was only too happy to have him there by her side; and so the lovers passed two delightful hours, watching the gay throng below, now and then exchanging fond looks or a few low spoken words, and only one pair of eyes among the multitude espied and recognized them.

These belonged to Louis Hamblin, whose eyes lighted with sudden triumph, while an evil smile played over his face as he saw them.

"I thought so," he muttered, as he noticed Ray Palmer's attitude of devotion. "That would prove the truth of my suspicions, if nothing else did so."



CHAPTER XXIII.

LOUIS HAMBLIN IS JEALOUS OF RAY.

It was after one o'clock when Mona told Ray that she must go to her room, so as to be in readiness to assist Mrs. Montague when she came up from the pavilion.

Ray was loath to let her go; he longed to keep her there with him until the last moment, but he felt that she was the best judge of her duty, and he would not interfere with it, since he had conceded the point of her remaining with Mrs. Montague for the present.

He arose to accompany her through the pavilion and drawing-room to the hall.

"Will it not be better for me to go alone?" asked Mona, fearing that she might be made conspicuous by this attention.

"Through all that crowd!" exclaimed her lover, surprised. "No, indeed; I would not allow any lady whom I knew to go unattended, and since it is known that I have been formally presented to Miss Richards, why should I not treat her with becoming politeness?"

Mona made no further objection, but quietly took his arm and allowed him to have his way. She was proud and happy to know that Ray was noble-minded enough to have no fear of being seen publicly showing courtesy to a simple seamstress.

As they were passing through the drawing-room Mona caught sight of Mrs. Montague and Mr. Palmer sitting in an alcove by themselves.

Both glanced up, for the young couple were obliged to pass near them, and Mrs. Montague frowned as she saw her waiting-maid, for the second time that evening, upon the arm of Ray.

Mr. Palmer flushed and appeared somewhat embarrassed as he met his son's eye, although he nodded and smiled in his usual genial way.

Reaching the main hall, Ray led Mona to the foot of the stairs, and held out his hand for a parting clasp.

"Good-night, my darling," he said, bending over her and speaking in a low tone. "Do you know that you are all the world to me, and I shall impatiently count the days until I can claim you—three months hence at the farthest! I must say good-by, too," he added, "as we leave for New York early in the morning; but I shall try to see you again in a few days."

Mona smiled, a delicate flush suffusing her face at his fond words; then, responding to his good-night, she went quickly up stairs and sought her room, firmly believing that she was the happiest person at Hazeldean, and that her lover was the noblest man in the world.

Louis Hamblin had seen the young couple leave the pavilion, and following them at a distance, had watched them with a jealous eye as they took leave of each other.

Another pair of eyes were also peering at them over the banister in the upper hall, and a beautiful face clouded over with anger and jealousy when Ray bent, with that earnest, luminous look, to whisper his parting in Mona's ear.

They belonged to a brilliant society belle, Miss Josephine Holt, who had long entertained a secret affection for Ray.

She also knew Mona, having met her in society earlier in the season, and had been jealous of the young man's attentions to her.

She wondered at finding her there at Hazeldean, for she knew of her loss of fortune. She slipped out of sight into a dressing-room as Mona came up stairs, and, finding Miss Merrill there, asked her, in an indifferent tone, as Mona passed the door, who the young lady was.

"Oh, that is Ruth Richards—Mrs. Montague's waiting-maid," was the reply.

A smile of scorn leaped to Miss Holt's proud lips as she heard the name.

"Ruth Richards," she repeated to herself. "So this is how she disappeared so suddenly out of the knowledge of everybody. A common waiting-maid, and too proud to sail under her own name! I wonder if she is a relative of Mrs. Montague? If she is, perhaps that lady objected to having it known, and so called her Ruth Richards. Can it be possible that Ray Palmer is attentive to her now? Does he know that she is sailing under false colors? I think I will look into this state of affairs a little!"

The young lady donned her wraps and took her departure from Hazeldean, but with an angry frown upon her brow, for her enjoyments of the evening had been entirely spoiled by the little scene which she had just witnessed.

After Ray left Mona he drew his outside coat on over his evening dress and went out into the grounds for a quiet smoke and to think, for he felt troubled and nervous.

His father's flush and embarrassment, as he caught his eye while passing through the drawing-room, were a revelation to him.

Mona had spoken to him of his attentions to Mrs. Montague, and he had also observed them, since coming to Hazeldean, but he had hoped that they were only temporary, and would not amount to anything serious.

But to-night it was only too evident that the beautiful and dashing widow had acquired a strong influence over his father, and he began to fear that he was seriously contemplating making her his wife.

He was startled and shocked—not because of any unreasonable jealousy, or a selfish aversion to the thought of having his father take a congenial companion into his home; but he feared she was not a woman to make him happy. She was gay and worldly; she lived for and in the excitement of society, while Mr. Palmer was more quiet and domestic in his tastes.

Besides, he had somehow became imbued with the idea that she was lacking in principle. Perhaps what Mona had told him about her, in connection with her mother's history, might have given him this impression; but, whatever had caused it, he shrank with the greatest repugnance from having her become the wife of his father.

Still he felt helpless to prevent it; he experienced great delicacy about making any objections if his father should intimate a wish to change his condition, and he could readily see that by so doing he would not only deeply wound him, but be likely to make an enemy of Mrs. Montague.

So these were the things he wished to think over by himself, and that sent him out into the grounds after he had left Mona.

The night was a beautiful one. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon was sailing in matchless majesty through the star-studded vault above, while the brilliantly lighted house and park, with the entrancing music from the pavilion floating out to him on the still air, added their charm to the scene.

Ray lighted his cigar and strolled down the avenue, his heart filled with conflicting emotions. He was very happy in his new relations with Mona, yet strangely uneasy and depressed regarding his father's prospects.

There was a line of great Norway spruce trees along one side of the avenue, not far from the main road, and as Ray, deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, was passing these, a figure suddenly stepped out from among them and accosted him.

It was Louis Hamblin.

"Ah, Palmer," he said, affably, "out for a smoke? Give me a light, will you?"

"Certainly," Ray responded, cordially, and politely extended his cigar to him.

The man made use of it, then returned it, with thanks, remarking, as he turned to walk along with him:

"Glorious night, this!"

"Indeed it is—we seldom have so perfect an evening," Ray heartily responded.

"Quite a blow-out, too," added Mr. Hamblin, who was somewhat given to slang. "Wellington is a generous old codger, and has done things up in fine style."

"Yes, I should say the ball has been a great success, at least everybody has appeared to enjoy it," Ray politely replied.

He was not very well pleased with the young man's enforced companionship; he would have much preferred to be left to his own reflections.

"That is so, and there were lots of pretty girls on the floor," Mr. Hamblin went on, in his free-and-easy style, "and the costumes were exceptionally fine, too. By the way," with a covert look at Ray, "that Miss Montague is a remarkably beautiful girl."

Ray felt a great inward shock go through him at this observation, and he was on his guard in an instant.

"Miss Montague!" he repeated, bending a keen glance upon his companion, "was there a Miss Montague here this evening?"

"I beg ten thousand pardons, Palmer," the young man broke forth, with well-assumed confusion, "I don't know why I used that name, 'pon my word I don't, unless it was because of association. I'd heard, you know, that you were attentive at one time to a Miss Montague, niece to that rich old chap, Dinsmore, who died recently. The name I should have spoken, however, was Miss Richards, with whom I saw you talking a while ago."

Louis Hamblin had at once suspected Mona's identity, upon discovering the lovers sitting together in the balcony. He was confirmed in this suspicion when he followed them from the pavilion and observed their tender parting in the hall, and so he had dogged Ray's steps, when he went out for a walk, with the express purpose of pumping him, and had thus tried to take him off his guard by speaking of Mona in the way he did.

"Ah, yes," Ray quietly responded, for he had seen through the trick at once; "Miss Kitty McKenzie introduced me to Miss Richards early in the evening. She is an interesting girl, and she informs me that she is in the employ of your aunt, Mrs. Montague."

"Yes, she's seamstress, or something of that sort," Mr. Hamblin returned, knocking the ashes from his cigar. "Deuced shame, isn't it, that a pretty, lady-like girl like her should have to work at such a trade for her living? I—I believe," with a sly glance at Ray, "if I wasn't dependent on Aunt Margie—that is, if I had a fortune of my own—I'd like nothing better than to marry the girl and put her in a position more befitting her beauty."

It was fortunate, for Mona's sake, that they were walking in the shadow of the tall spruces, or Louis Hamblin must have seen the look of wrath that kindled on Ray's face at the presumptuous speech.

His first impulse was to hurl the conceited puppy to the ground for daring to speak of his betrothed in that flippant manner; but such a demonstration he knew would involve serious consequences, and at once betray Mona's identity and make it impossible for her to learn anything from Mrs. Montague regarding her mother's history.

He had a terrible struggle within himself for a moment before he could control his anger sufficiently to make any reply. But after two or three vigorous puffs at his Havana, he managed to say, with some degree of calmness, though with an undertone of sarcasm, which he could not restrain, and which did not fail to make itself felt:

"Really, Hamblin, your philanthropic spirit is a great credit to you, and doubtless Miss Richards would appreciate it if she could know of your deep interest in her. But, if I am not mistaken, I have heard that you are contemplating matrimony in another quarter—that Miss McKenzie is the bright, particular star in your firmament; and she is really a charming young lady in my estimation."

"Oh, Kitty is well enough," returned Mr. Hamblin, with a shrug of his shoulders, "but a fellow doesn't quite relish having a girl thrust upon him. Aunt Marg is set upon my marrying her, and it's human nature, you know, never to want to do anything under compulsion, but to be inclined to do just what you know you must not. Eh, Palmer?"

What could the fellow mean? Ray asked himself. Did he still suspect, in spite of his efforts to conceal the fact, who Ruth Richards really was? And did he mean to imply, by his moralizing, that he knew how Ray longed to thrash him for his insolence, and yet knew he must not, for fear of compromising the girl he loved?

Then, too, he could not help despising him for the slighting and insulting way in which he had spoken of Kitty McKenzie, who, he felt, was far too true and lovely a girl to throw herself away upon such a flippant and unprincipled fellow.

He knew that he could not tamely submit to much more conversation of such a nature, so he merely replied in an absent tone.

"Perhaps." Then tossing away his cigar, he added: "I believe I heard a clock strike two a few moments ago. I think I shall go in and retire, as I have important business to attend to in the morning."

"Sure enough! I heard something about the case of the diamond robbery coming off to-morrow," responded Mr. Hamblin, in an eager tone. "That was a queer affair throughout, wasn't it?—and the story about the Bently woman is another—it got into the papers in spite of all old Vanderheck's efforts to bribe the reporters to silence. Do you credit the theory that the same woman was concerned in both swindles?"

"I hardly know what to think about it," Ray answered. "We do not even know yet whether the cross belongs to us; but Mr. Rider is confident that Mrs. Bently, of the Chicago affair, and Mrs. Vanderbeck, or 'heck'—whatever her name may be—are one and the same person."

"Well, it is certain that Mrs. Vanderheck, of New York, who figures so conspicuously in society, has an enormous store of diamonds, however she came by them," Louis Hamblin remarked.

Then, having reached the house, Ray bade him a brief good-night, and went immediately up to his room.

He found his father there before him and walking up and down the floor in an unusually thoughtful mood.

"Ah, Ray!" he said, as his son entered, "I have been waiting for you. I want to have a little talk with you before we go to bed."

"About the examination of to-morrow?" Ray inquired, with a keen glance.

"No—about—Ray, how would you like it if I should—well, to out with it at once—if I should marry again?" and the embarrassed old gentleman grew crimson even to the bald spot upon his head, as he then blundered through his question.

Ray sat down before he allowed himself to reply.

Now that the crisis had really come, he found he had less strength to meet it than he had anticipated.

"Well, father," he gravely said, after a moment of thought, "if you think that a second marriage is essential to your comfort and happiness, I should not presume to oppose it."

Mr. Palmer bent an anxious look upon his son.

"And yet you do not exactly approve of the plan?" he observed.

Ray looked up and frankly met his father's eye.

He believed it would be better to speak his mind freely than to dissemble in any way.

"I cannot fail to understand your meaning, for, of course, I have not been blind of late," he remarked. "I have seen how agreeable the society of Mrs. Montague is to you, and, judging from appearances, yours is no less so to her. I am bound to confess that she is a very handsome woman and very charming also in company. Still it is plain to be seen that she is a thorough society woman, and the question in my mind is, would you, with your more quiet tastes and disposition, enjoy sharing the kind of life that she leads?"

"But—I think—I hope that she would enjoy quiet home life and—my companionship, more than society, after our marriage," Mr. Palmer remarked, with some confusion.

Ray smiled slightly, for he saw that his father was very far gone, and he doubted if any argument would convince him that the fascinating widow would not be satisfied to settle down to the quieter joys of domestic life, even after she had succeeded in capturing the wealthy diamond merchant.

Still he resolved that he would say all that he had to say now, and then leave the matter with him to decide as his heart and judgment dictated.

"I hope that you will not deceive yourself, father," he said. "Mrs. Montague's nature is one that craves excitement and admiration, and she has been so long accustomed to this kind of life I imagine it would be impossible for her to resign it, cheerfully, for any one. Of course I know but very little of her personally, and I do not wish to judge her unfairly; but I should be very sorry to have you take any step which you would be likely to hereafter regret."

Mr. Palmer looked grave. His judgment, his common sense told him that Ray was right; that the gay woman of the world would not be willing to sacrifice her pleasures to his wishes, would never meet the wants of his more quiet and home-loving nature.

But he had been blinded and captivated by Mrs. Montague's wiles and preference for his society; he had, in fact, been led on so far that he saw no way of maintaining his dignity and honor except by making her a formal offer of his hand.

"You have no personal objection to her, I hope, Ray," he said, without replying to his remarks. "I assure you," he added, "the change shall not affect your prospects in any way. I will make handsome settlements upon you, and turn over the business to you before I take any important step."

"Thank you, sir," Ray heartily responded, but realizing that the matter was as good as settled, and it would be useless to discuss it any further. "Of course I should not feel at liberty to oppose you, were I so inclined, in a matter which concerns you so exclusively; as I said before, if you feel that such an alliance will be for your comfort and happiness, I would not wish to lay any obstacle in your way."

"You are very good, my son," Mr. Palmer returned, and yet he felt far from comfortable over the very doubtful approbation of his choice.

He had made up his mind to marry Mrs. Montague; he had indeed been almost upon the point of offering himself to her, just as Ray and Mona had passed through the drawing-room, when he had suddenly resolved to wait and consult his son, before taking the irrevocable step. He felt that he owed it to him to do so, for they had been good friends and confidants for so many years.

"I must be looking out for number one, you know," he added, trying to speak playfully; "for you will be getting married yourself one of these days, and the old home would be very lonely without you."

Ray wondered, with a twinge of bitterness, if his father could have forgotten how often he had told him that he "could never bear to be separated from him, and that when he found a wife to suit him, he must bring her home to brighten up the house and help to take care of him."

Now, it was evident, from what he had just said, that he would be expected to make a home for himself and his bride elsewhere.

"I wish you could find the girl you love, Ray," he went on, wistfully, as he did not reply. "It is rather hard on you that she should have disappeared so unaccountably. By the way, who was that lovely maiden with you a while ago?"

"She was introduced to me as Miss Richards," Ray responded, evasively, and flushing slightly.

Mr. Palmer looked up, surprised.

"So it was!" he exclaimed; "but I did not recognize her; and yet I thought there was something familiar about her. I suppose it was because she was in evening dress. Well, she is a charming little girl, anyhow. I only hope your Mona is as pretty, and that you'll find her soon. But suppose we go to bed," he said, with a weary sigh; "I'm tired, and we must be off early to-morrow morning."

The conclusion of this story, and what fortunes befell Mona, are fully told in the sequel to this volume entitled "True Love's Reward."

THE END