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At which Mona turns round to him a face very pale, but full of such love as should rejoice the heart of any man, and says, tremulously,— One hand is beneath her cheek,—that is soft and moist as a child's might be in innocent slumber,—the other is thrown above her head. She is exquisite in her abandon, but very pale, and her breath comes unevenly. To-day—that "liberal worldling," that "gay philosopher"—is here; and last night belongs to us only in so far as it deserves a place in our memory or has forced itself there in spite of our hatred and repugnance..
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"It is worse," says Lady Rodney, in a stifled tone, coming out for a brief instant from behind the deluged handkerchief. "He has married a common farmer's niece!" "Ah, how you flatter!" says Mona. Nevertheless, being a woman, and the flattery being directed to herself, she takes it kindly. Hurriedly she gets into her furs, and, twisting some soft black lace around her throat, runs down the stairs, and, opening the hall door without seeing any one, makes her way towards the appointed spot. "It appears he had a pocket-pistol with him, Sir Nicholas, and going home through the wood he stumbled over some roots, and it went off and injured him fatally. It is an internal wound, my lady. Dr. Bland, who is with him, says there is no hope.".
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