CHAPTER XLIV.
A CRIMSON STREAK.
As soon as tea was over, Mona rose to go. Jenny begged her to stay all night, for the wind was howling most dismally through the pine-trees; but Mona laughed at the idea of danger or difficulty, and set out with a light heart. She had scarcely found herself alone, however, in the wild and gusty night, when she began to regret her own rashness. She was groping her way slowly along the carriage-drive, with the guidance of the hedge, when, with a sudden sense of protection, she caught sight of lamps at the gate.
Dudley came forward as soon as he heard her step.
"That is right," he said, with a chime of gladness in his beautiful voice; "I thought you would obey orders."
"I am naturally glad to receive the commendation of my superior officer."
"Is Jenny back?"
"Yes. All is well,—for to-night at least. I must go out as early as possible to-morrow. It was one of the most beautiful sights I ever saw in my life;" and Mona described what had taken place.
"You have done a good day's work," Dudley said, after a pause.
"Oh, I did nothing. I laughed at my own heroics when I heard Maggie's 'Mither!'"
"No doubt; but Maggie's part would have fallen rather flat, if you had not borne all the brunt of the disclosure."
"Are you going to visit your patient?"
"Is there any necessity?"
"None whatever, I imagine."
"Then I shall have the pleasure of driving you home."
"Oh no, thank you! I would rather walk."
They were standing now in the full light of the lamps. Dudley waxed bold.
"Look me in the face, Miss Maclean, and tell me that that is true."
Mona raised her eyes with a curious sensation, as if the ground were slipping from under her feet.
"No," she said, "it is not true. I rather dread the walk; but—you know I cannot come with you."
"Why not?"
She frowned at his persistence; then met his eyes again.
"Because I should not do it by daylight," she said proudly.
There was a minute's silence.
"Burns' substitute comes to-morrow," he said carelessly.
Her face changed very slightly, but sufficiently to catch his quick eye.
"And as soon as I have discussed things with him, I have promised to carry my old aunt off to warmer climes. I shan't be back here till August."
No answer. A sudden blast of wind swept along the road, and she instinctively laid hold of the shaft of the gig for support.
Dudley held out his hand.
"It is a high step," he said, "but I think you can manage it."
Mona took his hand almost unconsciously, tried to say something flippant, failed utterly, and took her seat in the gig without a word.
"Am I drugged?" she thought, "or am I going mad?"
Never in all her life had she so utterly failed in savoir-faire. She felt vaguely how indignant she would be next day at her own weakness and want of pride; but at the moment she only knew that it was good to be there with Dr Dudley.
He arranged the rug over her knees, and took the reins.
"Is this better than walking?" he asked in a low voice, stooping down to catch her answer.
Only for a moment she tried to resist the influence that was creeping over her.
"Yes," she said simply.
"Are you glad you came?"
And this time she did not try at all.
"Yes."
"That's good!" The reins fell loosely on the mare's back. "Peggy's tired," he said. "Don't hurry, old girl. Take your time."
Mona shivered nervously.
"You are cold," he said, taking a plaid from the back of the seat. "Will you put this round you?"
"No, thank you; I am not really cold, and I have no hands. I should be blown away altogether if I did not hold on to this iron bar."
"Should you?" he said, with a curious intonation in his voice. "Take the reins."
He put them in her hand, unfolded the plaid, and stooped to put it round her shoulders. In a momentary lull of the storm, he fancied he felt her warm breath on his chilled cheek; a little curl of her hair, dancing in the wind, brushed his hand lightly like a cobweb; and she sat there, unguarded as a child, one hand holding the reins, the other grasping the rail of the gig.
Then Dudley forgot himself. His good resolutions were blotted out, and he felt only a gambler's passionate desire to stake all in one mad throw. If it failed, he was a ruined man; but, if it succeeded, what treasure-house could contain his riches? He could not wait,—he could not, he could not! One moment would tell him all, and he must know it. The future might have pleasures of its own in store, but would it ever bring back this very hour, of night, and storm, and solitude, and passionate desire?
So the arm, that passed round Mona to arrange the plaid, was not withdrawn. "Give me the reins," he said firmly, with that calmness which in hours of intense excitement is Nature's most precious gift to her sons; "give me the reins and let go the rail—I will take care of you."
And with a touch that was tender, but fearless with passion, his strong arm drew her close.
And Mona? why did she not repulse him? Never, since she was a little child, had any man, save Sir Douglas and old Mr Reynolds, done more than touch her hand; and now she obeyed without a word, and sat there silent and unresisting. Why? Because she knew not what had befallen her; because, with a last instinct of self-preservation, she held her peace, lest a word should betray the frantic beating of her heart.
"This is death," she thought; but it was life, not death. Dudley's eye had gauged well the promise of that folded bud; and now, in the sunshine of his touch, on that wild and wintry night, behold a glowing crimson streak!
And so Ralph knew that this woman would be his wife.
Not a word passed between them as Peggy trotted slowly homewards. Mona could not speak, and Ralph rejoiced to think that he need not. When they reached Miss Simpson's door, he sprang down, lifted Mona to the ground, raised her hands to his lips, and stood there waiting, till the door had shut in the light.