href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@35384@[email protected]#CHAPTER_XXVIII" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW THE TOWERS WAKES INTO LIFE—AND HOW MONA SHOWS THE LIBRARY TO PAUL RODNEY.

CHAPTER XXIX. HOW GEOFFREY DINES OUT, AND HOW MONA FARES DURING HIS ABSENCE.

CHAPTER XXX. HOW MONA, GHOST-LIKE, FLITS THROUGH THE OLD TOWERS AT MIDNIGHT—HOW THE MOON LIGHTS HER WAY—AND HOW SHE MEETS ANOTHER GHOST MORE FORMIDABLE THAN HERSELF.

CHAPTER XXXI. HOW MONA STANDS HER GROUND—HOW PAUL RODNEY BECOMES HER PRISONER—AND HOW GEOFFREY ON HIS RETURN HOME MEETS WITH A WARM RECEPTION.

CHAPTER XXXII. HOW MONA KEEPS HER OWN COUNSEL—AND HOW AT MIDDAY SHE RECEIVES A NOTE.
CHAPTER XXXIII. HOW CONVERSATION GROWS RIFE AT THE TOWERS—AND HOW MONA ASSERTS HERSELF—AND HOW LADY RODNEY LICKS THE DUST.

CHAPTER XXXIV. HOW THE RODNEYS MAKE MERRY OVER THE SECRET PANEL—HOW GEOFFREY QUESTIONS MONA—AND HOW, WHEN JOY IS AT ITS HIGHEST EVIL TIDINGS SWEEP DOWN UPON THEM.

CHAPTER XXXV. HOW MONA COMFORTS PAUL RODNEY—HOW NIGHT AND DEATH DESCEND TOGETHER—AND HOW PAUL RODNEY DISPOSES OF HIS PROPERTY.

CHAPTER XXXVI. HOW MONA DEFENDS THE DEAD—AND HOW LADY LILIAS EATON WAXES ELOQUENT.

CHAPTER XXXVII. HOW MONA REFUSES A GALLANT OFFER—AND HOW NOLLY VIEWS LIFE THROUGH THE BRANCHES OF A PORTUGAL LAUREL.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. HOW NOLLY DECLINES TO REPEAT HIS STORY—HOW JACK RODNEY TELLS ONE INSTEAD—AND HOW THEY ALL SHOW THEIR SURPRISE ABOUT WHAT THEY KNEW BEFORE.

CHAPTER XXXIX. HOW WEDDING-BELLS CAN BE HEARD IN THE DISTANCE—HOW LOVE ENCOMPASSES MONA—AND HOW AT LAST FAREWELL IS SPOKEN.

MRS. GEOFFREY

CHAPTER I.

HOW GEOFFREY DECLARES HIS INTENTION OF SPENDING THE AUTUMN IN IRELAND.

"I don't see why I shouldn't put in a month there very comfortably," says Geoffrey, indolently, pulling the ears of a pretty, saucy little fat terrier that sits blinking at him, with brown eyes full of love, on a chair close by. "And it will be something new to go to Ireland, at all events. It is rather out of the running these times, so probably will prove interesting; and at least there is a chance that one won't meet every town acquaintance round every corner. That's the worry of going abroad, and I'm heartily sick of the whole thing."

"You will get murdered," says his mother, quite as indolently, half opening her eyes, which are gray as Geoffrey's own. "They always kill people, with things they call pikes, or burn them out of house and home, over there, without either rhyme or reason."

"They certainly must be a lively lot, if all one hears is true," says Geoffrey, with a suppressed yawn.

"You are not really going there, Geoff?"

"Yes, really."

"To what part of Ireland?"

"Somewhere beyond Bantry; you have heard of Bantry Bay?"

"Oh, I dare say! I am not sure," says Lady Rodney, pettishly, who is rather annoyed at the idea of his going to Ireland, having other plans in view for him.

"Ever heard of Botany Bay?" asks he, idly; but, this question being distinctly frivolous, she takes no notice of it. "Well, it's in Ireland," he goes on, after a slight but dignified pause. "You have heard of the Emerald Isle, I suppose? It's the country where they grow potatoes, and say 'bedad'; and Bantry is somewhere south, I think. I'm never very sure about anything: that's one of my charms."

"A very doubtful charm."

"The name of the place I mean to stay at—my own actual property—is called Coolnagurtheen," goes on Geoffrey, heedless of her censure.

"Eh?" says Lady Rodney.

"Coolnagurtheen."

"I always said you were clever," says his mother, languidly; "now I believe it. I don't think if I lived forever I should be able to pronounce such a sad word as that. Do—do the natives speak like that?"

"I'll tell you when I come back," says Geoffrey,—"if I ever do."

"So stupid of your uncle to leave you a property in such a country!" says Lady Rodney, discontentedly. "But very like him, certainly. He was never happy unless he was buying land in some uninhabitable place. There was that farm in Wallachia,—your cousin Jane nearly died of chagrin when she found it was left to her, and the lawyers told her she should take it, whether she liked it or not. Wallachia! I don't know where it is, but I am sure it is close to the Bulgarian atrocities!"

"Our 'pretty Jane,' on occasions, can talk as much nonsense as—as any woman I ever met," says Geoffrey,—the hesitation being full of filial reverence; "and that may be called, I think, unqualified praise."

"Better give up the Irish plan, dear, and come with Nichols and me to the Nugents. They are easy-going people, and will suit you."

"Free-and-easy-going would be a more appropriate term, from all I have heard."

"The shooting there is capital," says his mother, turning a deaf ear to his muttered interruption, "and I don't believe there is anything in Ireland, not even birds."

"There are landlords, at least; and very excellent shooting they are, if all accounts be true," says Geoffrey, with a grin,—"to say nothing of the partridge and grouse. Besides, it will be an experience; and a man should say 'how d'ye do?' to his tenants sometimes."

"If you are going to preach to me on that subject, of course I have nothing more to say. But I wish you would come with me to the Nugents."

"My dear mother, there is hardly anything I wouldn't do for you; but the Nugent scheme wouldn't suit at all. That girl of the Cheviots is sure to be there,—you know how fond Bessie Nugent is of her?—and I know she is bent on marrying me."

"Nonsense! Would you have me believe you are afraid of her?"

"I am afraid of her; I was never so afraid of any one before. I have made it the business of my life to avoid her ever since last New Year's Day, when some kind fellow told me it was leap-year. You know I never yet said 'No' to any one, and I shouldn't dare begin by saying it to Miss Cheviot. She has such a stony glare, and such a profusion of nose!"

"And a profusion of gold, too," says Lady Rodney, with a sigh.