"The loose train of thy amber-drooping hair."
"The loose train of thy amber-drooping hair."
She is very sweet to look at, and attractive and lovable.
"Her angel's faceAs the great eye of heaven shined bright,And made a sunshine in the shady place."
"Her angel's faceAs the great eye of heaven shined bright,And made a sunshine in the shady place."
Such is Nicholas's betrothed, to whom, as she gazes on her, all at once, in the first little moment, Mona's whole soul goes out.
She has shaken hands with everybody, and has kissed Lady Rodney, and is now being introduced to Mona.
"Your wife, Geoffrey?" she says, holding Mona's hand all the time, and gazing at her intently. Then, as though something in Mrs. Geoffrey's beautiful face attracts her strangely, she lifts her face and presses her soft lips to Mona's cheek.
A rush of hope and gladness thrills Mona's bosom at this gentle touch. It is the very first caress she has ever received from one of Geoffrey's friends or relations.
"I think somebody might introduce me," says a plaintive voice from the background, and Dorothy's brother, putting Dorothy a little to one side, holds out his hand to Mona. "How d'ye do, Mrs. Rodney?" he says, pleasantly. "There's a dearth of etiquette about your husband that no doubt you have discovered before this. He has evidently forgotten that we are comparative strangers; but we sha'n't be long so, I hope?"
"I hope not, indeed," says Mona giving him her hand with a very flattering haste.
"You have come quite half an hour earlier than we expected you," says Sir Nicholas, looking with fond satisfaction into Miss Darling's eyes. "These trains are very uncertain."
"It wasn't the train so much," says Doatie, with a merry laugh, "as Nolly: we weren't any time coming, because he got out and took the reins from Hewson, and after that I rather think he took it out of your bays, Nicholas."
"Well, I never met such a blab! I believe you'd peach on your grandmother," says her brother, with supreme contempt. "I didn't do 'em a bit of harm, Rodney I give you my word."
"I'll take it," says Nicholas; "but, even if you did, I should still owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing Doatie here thirty minutes before we hoped for her."
"Now make him your best curtsey, Dolly," says Mr. Darling, seriously; "it isn't everyday you will get such a pretty speech as that."
"And see what we gained by our haste," says Dorothy, smiling at Mona. "You can't think what a charming sight it was. Like an old legend or a fairy-tale. Was it a minuet you were dancing?"
"Oh, no; only a country dance," says Mona, blushing.
"Well, it was perfect: wasn't it, Violet?"
"I wish I could have seen it better," returns Violet, "but, you see, I was playing."
"I wish I could have seen it forever," says Mr. Darling, gallantly, addressing Mona; "but all good things have an end too soon. Do you remember some lines like these? they come to me just now:
When you do dance, I wish youA wave o' the sea, that you might ever doNothing but that."
When you do dance, I wish youA wave o' the sea, that you might ever doNothing but that."
"Yes, I recollect; they are from the 'Winter's Tale.' I think," says Mona, shyly; "but you say too much for me."
"Not half enough," says Mr. Darling, enthusiastically.
"Don't you think, sir, you would like to get ready for dinner?" says Geoffrey, with mock severity. "You can continue your attentions to my wife later on,—at your peril."
"I accept the risk," says Nolly, with much stateliness and forthwith retires to make himself presentable.
Mr. Darling is a flaxen-haired young gentleman of about four-and-twenty, with an open and ingenuous countenance, and a disposition cheerful to the last degree. He is positively beaming with youth and good spirits, and takes no pains whatever to suppress the latter; indeed, if so sweet-tempered a youth could be said to have a fault, it lies in his inability to hold his tongue. Talk he must, so talk he does,—anywhere and everywhere, and under all circumstances.
He succeeds in taking Mona down to dinner, and shows himself particularly devoted through all the time they spend in the dining-room, and follows her afterwards to the drawing-room, as soon as decency will permit. He has, in fact, fallen a hopeless victim to Mona's charms, and feels no shame in the thought that all the world must notice his subjugation. On the contrary, he seems to glory in it.
"I was in your country, the other day," he says, pushing Mona's skirts a little to one side, and sinking on to the ottoman she has chosen as her own resting-place. "And a very nice country it is."
"Ah! were you really there!" says Mona, growing at once bright and excited at the bare mention of her native land. At such moments she falls again unconsciously into the "thens," and "sures," and "ohs!" and "ahs!" of her Ireland.
"Yes, I was indeed. Down in a small place cabled Castle-Connell, near Limerick. Nice people in Limerick, but a trifle flighty, don't you think? Fond of the merry blunderbuss, and all that, and with a decided tendency towards midnight maraudings."
"I am afraid you went to almost the worst part of Ireland," says Mona, shaking her head. "New Pallas, and all round Limerick, is so dreadfully disloyal."
"Well, that was just my luck, you see," says Darling "We have some property there. And, as I am not of much account at home, 'my awful dad' sent me over to Ireland to see why the steward didn't get in the rents. Perhaps he hoped the natives might pepper me; but, if so, it didn't come off. The natives, on the contrary, quite took to me, and adopted me on the spot. I was nearly as good as an original son of Erin in a week."
"But how did you manage to procure their good graces?"
"I expect they thought me beneath their notice, and, as they wouldn't hate me, they were forced to love me. Of course they treated the idea of paying up as a good joke, and spoke a great deal about a most unpleasant person called Griffith and his valuation, whatever that may be. So I saw it was of no use, and threw it up,—my mission, I mean. I had capital shooting, as far as partridges were concerned, but no one dreamed of wasting a bullet upon me. They positively declined to insert a bit of lead in my body. And, considering I expected some civility of the kind on going over, I felt somewhat disappointed, and decidedly cheap."
"We are not so altogether murderous as you seem to think," says Mona, half apologetically.
"Murderous! They are a delightful people, and the scenery is charming, you know, all round. The Shannon is positively lovely. But they wouldn't pay a farthing. And, 'pon my life, you know," says Mr. Darling, lightly, "I couldn't blame 'em. They were as poor as poor could be, regular out-at-elbows, you know, and I suppose they sadly wanted any money they had. I told the governor so when I came back, but I don't think he seemed to see it; sort of saidhewanted it too, and then went on to make some ugly and most uncalled-for remarks about my tailor's bill, which of course I treated with the contempt they deserved."
"Well, but it was a little hard on your father, wasn't it?" says Mona, gently.
"Oh, it wasn't much," says the young man, easily; "and he needn't have cut up so rough about it. I was a failure, of course, but I couldn't help it; and, after all, I had a real good time in spite if everything, and enjoyed myself when there down to the ground."
"I am glad of that," says Mona, nicely, as he pauses merely through a desire for breath, not from a desire for silence.
"I had, really. There was one fellow, a perfect giant,—Terry O'Flynn was his name,—and he and I were awful chums. We used to go shooting together every day, and got on capitally. He was a tremendously big fellow, could put me in his pocket, you know, and forget I was there until I reminded him. He was a farmer's son, and a very respectable sort of man. I gave him my watch when I was coming away, and he was quite pleased. They don't have much watches, by the by, the lower classes, do they."
At this Mona breaks into a sweet but ringing laugh, that makes Lady Rodney (who is growing sleepy, and, therefore, irritable) turn, and fix upon her a cold, reproving glance.
Geoffrey, too, raises his head and smiles, in sympathy with his wife's burst of merriment, as does Miss Darling, who stops her conversation with Sir Nicholas to listen to it.
"What are you talking about?" asks Geoffrey, joining Mona and her companion.
"How could I help laughing," says Mona. "Mr. Darling has just expressed surprise at the fact that the Irish peasantry do not as a rule possess watches." Then suddenly her whole face changes from gayety to extreme sorrow. "Alas! poor souls!" she says, mournfully, "they don't, as a rule, have even meat!"
"Well, I noticed that, too. Theredidseem to be a great scarcity of that raw material," answers Darling, lightly. "Yet they are a fine race in spite of it. I'm going over again to see my friend Terry before very long. He is the most amusing fellow, downright brilliant. So is his hair, by the by,—the very richest crimson."
"But I hope you were not left to spend your days with Terry?" says Mona, smiling.
"No. All the county people round when they heard of me—which, according to my own mental calculations on the subject, must have been exactly five minutes after my arrival—quite adopted me. You are a very hospitable nation, Mrs. Rodney; nobody can deny that. Positively, the whole time I was in Limerick I could have dined three times every day had I so chosen."
"Bless me!" says Geoffrey; "what an appalling thought! it makes me feel faint."
"Rather so. In their desire to feed me lay my only danger of death. But I pulled through. And I liked every one I met,—really you know," to Mona, "and no humbug. Yet I think the happiest days I knew over there were those spent with Terry. It was rather a sell, though, having no real adventure, particularly as I had promised one not only to myself but to my friends when starting for Paddy-land. I beg your pardon a thousand times! Ireland, I mean."
"I don't mind," says Mona. "We are Paddies, of course."
"I wish I was one!" says Mr. Darling, with considerable effusion. "I envy the people who can claim nationality with you. I'd be a Paddy myself to-morrow if I could, for that one reason."
"What a funny boy you are!" says Mona, with a little laugh.
"So they all tell me. And of course what every one says is true. We're bound to be friends, aren't we?" rattles on Darling pleasantly. "Our mutual love for Erin should be a bond between us."
"I hope we shall be; I am sure we shall," returns Mona, quickly. It is sweet to her to find a possible friend in this alien land.
"Not a doubt of it," says Nolly, gayly. "Every one likes me, you know. 'To see me is to love me, and love but me forever,' and all that sort of thing; we shall be tremendous friends in no time. The fact is, I'm not worth hating; I'm neither useful nor ornamental, but I'm perfectly harmless, and there is something in that, isn't there? Every one can't say the same. I'm utterly certainyoucan't," with a glance of admiration.
"Don't be unkind to me," says Mona, with just a touch of innocent and bewitching coquetry. She is telling herself she likes this absurd young man better than any one she has met since she came to England, except perhaps Sir Nicholas.
"That is out of my power," says Darling, whom the last speech—and glance that accompanied it—has completely finished. "I only pray you of your grace never to be unkind to me."
"What a strange name yours is!—Nolly," says Mona, presently.
"Well, I wasn't exactly born so," explains Mr. Darling, frankly; "Oliver is my name. I rather fancy my own name, do you know; it is uncommon, at all events. One don't hear it called round every corner, and it reminds one of that 'bold bad man' the Protector. But they shouldn't have left out the Cromwell. That would have been a finishing stroke. To hear one's self announced as Oliver Cromwell Darling in a public room would have been as good as a small fortune."
"Better," says Mona, laughing gayly.
"Yes, really, you know. I'm in earnest," declares Mr. Darling, laughing too. He is quite delighted with Mona. To find his path through life strewn with people who will laugh with him, or even at him, is his idea of perfect bliss. So he chatters on to her until, bed-hour coming, and candles being forced into notice, he is at length obliged to tear himself away from her and follow the men to the smoking-room.
Here he lays hands on Geoffrey.
"By Jove, you know, you've about done it," he says, bestowing upon Geoffrey's shoulder a friendly pat that rather takes the breath out of that young man's body. "Gave you credit for more common sense. Why, such a proceeding as this is downright folly. You are bound to pay for your fun, you know, sooner or later."
"Sir," says Mr. Rodney, taking no notice of this preamble, "I shall trouble you to explain what you mean by reducing an inoffensive shoulder-blade to powder."
"Beg pardon, I'm sure," says Nolly, absently. "But"—with sudden interest—"do you know what you have done? You have married the prettiest woman in England."
"I haven't," says Geoffrey.
"You have," says Nolly.
"I tell you I have not," says Geoffrey. "Nothing of the sort. You are wool-gathering."
"Good gracious! he can't mean that he is tired of her already," exclaims Mr. Darling, in an audible aside. "That would be too much even for our times."
At this Geoffrey gives way to mirth. He and Darling are virtually alone, as Nicholas and Captain Rodney are talking earnestly about the impending lawsuit in a distant corner.
"My dear fellow, you have overworked your brain," he says, ironically: "You don't understand me. I am not tired of her. I shall never cease to bless the day I saw her,"—this with great earnestness,—"but you say I have married the handsomest woman in England, and she is not English at all."
"Oh, well, what's the odds?" says Nolly. "Whether she is French, or English, Irish or German, she has just the loveliest face I ever saw, and the sweetest ways. You've done an awfully dangerous thing. You will be Mrs. Rodney's husband in no time,—nothing else, and you positively won't know yourself in a year after. Individuality lost. Name gone. Nothing left but your four bones. You will be quite thankful forthem, even, after a bit."
"You terrify me," says Geoffrey, with a grimace. "You think, then, that Mona is pretty?"
"Pretty doesn't express it. She is quite intense; and new style, too, which of course is everything. You will present her next season, I suppose? You must, you know, if only in the cause of friendship, as I wouldn't miss seeing Mrs. Laintrie's and Mrs. Whelon's look of disgust when your wife comes on the scene for worlds!"
"Her eyes certainly are——" says Geoffrey.
"She is all your fancy could possibly paint her; she is lovely and divine. Don't try to analyze her charms, my dear Geoff. She is just the prettiest and sweetest woman I ever met. She is young, in the 'very May morn of delight,' yet there is nothing of that horrid shyness—thatmauvaise honte—about her that, as a rule, belongs to the 'freshness of morning.' Her laugh is so sweet, so full of enjoyment."
"If you mean me to repeat all this back again, you will find yourself jolly well mistaken; because, understand at once, I sha'n't do it," says Geoffrey. "I'm not going to have a hand in my undoing; and such unqualified praise is calculated to turn any woman's head. Seriously, though," says Geoffrey, laying his hands on Darling's shoulders, "I'm tremendously glad you like her."
"Don't!" says Darling, weakly. "Don't put it in that light. It's too feeble. If you said I was madly in love with your wife you would be nearer the mark, as insanity touches on it. I haven't felt so badly for years. It is right down unlucky for me, this meeting with Mrs. Rodney."
"Poor Mona!" says Geoffrey; "don't tell her about it, as remorse may sadden her."
"Look here," says Mr. Darling, "just try one of these, do. They are South American cigarettes, and nearly as strong as the real thing, and quite better: they are a new brand. Try 'em; they'll quite set you up."
"Give me one, Nolly," says Sir Nicholas, rousing from his reverie.
It is the day of Lady Chetwoode's ball, or to be particular, for critics "prove unkind" these times, it is the day to which belongs the night that has been selected for Lady Chetwoode's ball; all which sounds very like the metre of the house that Jack built.
Well, never mind! This ball promises to be a great success. Everybody who is anybody is going, from George Beatoun, who has only five hundred pounds a year in the world, and the oldest blood in the county, to the duchess, who "fancies" Lilian Chetwoode, and has, in fact, adopted her as her last "rave." Nobody has been forgotten, nobody is to be chagrined: to guard against this has cost both Sir Guy and Lilian Chetwoode many an hour of anxious thought.
To Mona, however, the idea of this dance is hardly pure nectar. It is half a terror, half a joy. She is nervous, frightened, and a little strange. It is the first time she has ever been to any large entertainment, and she cannot help looking forward to her owndebutwith a longing mingled largely with dread.
Now, as the hour approaches that is to bring her face to face with half the county, her heart fails her, and almost with a sense of wonder she contrasts her present life with the old one in her emerald isle, where she lived happily, if with a certain dulness, in her uncle's farmhouse.
All day long the rain has been pouring, pouring; not loudly or boisterously, not dashing itself with passionate force against pane and gable, but falling with a silent and sullen persistency.
"No walks abroad to-night," says Mr. Darling, in a dismal tone, staring in an injured fashion upon the drenched lawns andpleasauncesoutside. "No Chinese lanterns, no friendly shrubberies,—nothing!"
Each window presents an aspect in a degree more dreary than the last,—or so it appears. The flower-beds are beaten down, and are melancholy in the extreme. The laurels do nothing but drip drip, in a sad aside, "making mournful music for the mind." Whilst up and down the elm walk the dreary wind goes madly, sporting and playing with the raindrops, as it rushes here and there.
Indoors King Bore stalks rampant. Nobody seems in a very merry mood. Even Nolly, who is generally game for anything, is a prey to despair. He has, for the last hour, lost sight of Mona!
"Let us do something, anything, to get rid of some of these interminable hours," says Doatie, flinging her book far from her. It is not interesting, and only helps to add insult to injury. She yawns as much as breeding will permit, and then crosses her hands behind her dainty head. "Oh! here comes Mona. Mona, I am so bored that I shall die presently, unless you suggest a remedy."
"Your brother is better at suggestions than I am," says Mona, gently, who is always somewhat subdued when in the room with Lady Rodney.
"Nolly, do you hear that? Come over to the fire directly, and cease counting those hateful raindrops. Mona believes in you. Isn't that joyful news? Now get out of your moody fit at once, like a dear boy."
"I sha'n't," says Mr. Darling, in an aggrieved tone. "I feel slighted. Mrs. Rodney has ofmalice prepensesecluded herself from public gaze at least for an hour. I can't forget allthatin one moment."
"Where have you been?" asks Lady Rodney, slowly turning her head to look at Mona. "Out of doors?" Her tone is unpleasant.
"No. In my own room," says Mona.
"Oh, Nolly! do think of some plan to cheat the afternoon of an hour or two," persists Doatie, eagerly.
"I have it," says her brother with all the air of one who has discovered a new continent. "Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs."
At this Doatie turns her back on him, while Mona breaks into a peal of silver laughter.
"Would you not like to do that?" demands Nolly, sadly "I should. I'm quite in the humor for it."
"I am afraid we are not," says Violet, smiling too. "Think of something else."
"Well, if you allwillinsist upon a change, and desire something more lively, then,—
'For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,And tell sad stories of the death of kings.'
'For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,And tell sad stories of the death of kings.'
Perhaps after all you are right, and that will be better It will be rather effective, too, if uncomfortable, our all sitting on the polished floor."
"Fancy Nolly quoting Shakspeare," says Geoffrey, who has just entered, and is now leaning over Mona's chair. He stoops and whispers something in her ear that makes her flush and glance appealingly at Doatie. Whereon Miss Darling, who is quick to sympathize, rises, and soon learns what the whisper has been about.
"Oh! how charming!" she cries, clapping her hands. "The very thing! Why did we not think of it before? To teach Mona the last new step! It will be delicious." Good-natured Doatie, as she says this, springs to her feet and runs her hand into Mona's. "Come," she says. "Before to-night, I promise you, you shall rival Terpsichore herself."
"Yes, she certainly must learn before to-night," says Violet, with sudden and unexpected interest, folding and putting away her work as though bent on other employment. "Let us come into the ballroom."
"Do you know no other dances but those—er—very Irish performances?" asks Lady Rodney, in a supercilious tone, alluding to the country dance Mona and Geoffrey had gone through on the night of Doatie's arrival.
"No. I have never been to a ball in all my life," says Mona distinctly. But she pales a little at the note of contempt in the other's voice. Unconsciously she moves a few steps nearer to Geoffrey, and holds out her hand to him in a childish entreating fashion.
He clasps it and presses it lightly but fondly to his lips. His brow darkens. The little stern expression, so seldom seen upon his kindly face, but which is inherited from his father, creeps up now and alters him preceptibly.
"You mistake my mother," he says to Mona, in a peculiar tone, looking at Lady Rodney, not at her. "My wife is, I am sure, the last person she would choose to be rude to; though, I confess, her manner just now would mislead most people."
With the frown still on his forehead, he draws Mona's hand through his arm, and leads her from the room.
Lady Rodney has turned pale. Otherwise she betrays no sign of chagrin, though in her heart she feels deeply the rebuke administered by this, her favorite son. To have Mona be a witness of her defeat is gall and wormwood to her. And silently, without any outward gesture, she registers a vow to be revenged for the insult (as she deems it) that has just been put upon her.
Dorothy Darling, who has been listening anxiously to all that has passed, and who is very grieved thereat, now speaks boldly.
"I am afraid," she says to Lady Rodney, quite calmly, having a little way of her own of introducing questionable topics without giving offence,—"I am afraid you do not like Mona?"
At this Lady Rodney flings down her guard and her work at the same time, and rises to her feet.
"Like her," she says, with suppressed vehemence. "How should I like a woman who has stolen from me my son, and who can teach him to be rude even to his own mother?"
"Oh, Lady Rodney, I am sure she did not mean to do that."
"I don't care what she meant; she has at all events done it. Like her! A person who speaks of 'Jack Robinson,' and talks of the 'long and short of it.' How could you imagine such a thing! As for you, Dorothy, I can only feel regret that you should so far forget yourself as to rush into a friendship with a young woman so thoroughly out of your own sphere."
Having delivered herself of this speech, she sweeps from the room, leaving Violet and Dorothy slightly nonplussed.
"Well, I never heard anything so absurd!" says Doatie, presently, recovering her breath, and opening her big eyes to their widest. "Such a tirade, and all for nothing. If saying 'Jack Robinson' is a social crime, I must be the biggest sinner living, as I say it just when I like. I think Mona adorable, and so does every one else. Don't you?"
"I am not sure. I don't fall in love with people at first sight. I am slow to read character," says Violet, calmly. "You, perhaps, possess that gift?"
"Not a bit of it, my dear. I only say to myself, such and such a person has kind eyes or a loving mouth, and then I make up my mind to them. I am seldom disappointed; but as to reading or studying character, that isn't in my line at all. It positively isn't in me. But don't you think Lady Rodney is unjust to Mona?"
"Yes, I think she is. But of course there are many excuses to be made for her. An Irish girl of no family whatever, no matter how sweet, is not the sort of person one would select as a wife for one's son. Come to the ballroom. I want to make Mona perfect in dancing."
"You want to make her a success to-night," says Dorothy, quickly. "I know you do. You are a dear thing, Violet, if a little difficult. And I verily believe you have fallen as great a victim to the charms of this Irish siren 'without family' as any of us. Come, confess it."
"There is nothing to confess. I think her very much to be liked, if you mean that," says Violet, slowly.
"She is a perfect pet," says Miss Darling, with emphasis, "and you know it."
Then they adjourn to the ballroom, and Sir Nicholas is pressed into the service, and presently Jack Rodney, discovering where Violet is, drops in too, and after a bit dancing becomes universal. Entering into the spirit of the thing, they take their "preliminary canter" now, as Nolly expresses it, as though to get into proper training for the Chetwoodes' ball later on. And they all dance with Mona, and show a great desire that she shall not be found wanting when called upon by the rank, beauty, and fashion of Lauderdale to trip it on the "light fantastic toe."
Even Jack Rodney comes out of himself, and, conquering his habitual laziness, takes her in hand, and, as being the best dancer present,par excellence, teaches and tutors, and encourages her until Doatie cries "enough," and protests with pathos she will have no more of it, as she is not going to be cut out by Mona at all events in the dancing line.
So the day wears to evening; and the rain ceases, and the sullen clouds scud with a violent haste across the tired sky. Then the stars come out, first slowly, one by one, as though timid early guests at the great gathering, then with a brilliant rush, until all the sky,
"Bespangled with those isles of lightSo wildly, spiritually bright."
"Bespangled with those isles of lightSo wildly, spiritually bright."
shows promise of a fairer morrow.
Mona, coming slowly downstairs, enters with lagging steps the library, where tea is awaiting them before they start.
She is gowned in a cream-colored satin that hangs in severe straight lines, and clings to her lissom rounded figure as dew clings to a flower. A few rows of tiny pearls clasp her neck. Upon her bosom some Christmas roses, pure and white as her own soul, lie softly; a few more nestle in her hair, which is drawn simply back and coiled in a loose knot behind her head; she wears no earrings and very few bracelets.
One of the latter, however, is worthy of note. It is a plain gold band on which stands out a figure of Atalanta posed as when she started for her famous race. It had been sent to her on her marriage by Mr. Maxwell, in hearty remembrance, no doubt, of the night when she by her fleetness had saved his life.
She is looking very beautiful to-night. As she enters the room, nearly every one stops talking, and careless of good breeding, stares at her. There is a touch of purity about Mona that is perhaps one of her chiefest charms.
Even Lady Rodney can hardly take her eyes from the girl's face as she advances beneath the full glare of the chandelier, utterly unconscious of the extent of the beauty that is her rich gift.
Sir Nicholas, going up to her, takes her by both hands, and leads her gently beneath the huge bunch of mistletoe that still hangs from the centre-lamp. Here, stooping, he embraces her warmly. Mona, coloring, shrinks involuntarily a few steps backward.
"Forgive me, my sister," says Nicholas, quickly. "Not the kiss, but the fact that until now I never quite understood how very beautiful you are!"
Mona smiles brightly—as might any true woman—at so warm a compliment. But Doatie, putting on a pathetic littlemouethat just suits her baby face, walks over to herfianceand looks up at him with appealing eyes.
"Don't altogether forgetme, Nicholas," she says, in her pretty childish way, pretending (little rogue that she is) to be offended.
"You, my own!" responds Nicholas, in a very low tone, that of course means everything, and necessitates a withdrawal into the curtained recess of the window, where whisperings may be unheard.
Then the carriages are announced, and every one finishes his and her tea, and many shawls are caught up and presently all are driving rapidly beneath the changeful moon to Chetwoode.
Now, strange as it may seem, the very moment Mona sets her foot upon the polished ballroom floor, and sees the lights, and hears the music, and the distant splashing of water in some unknown spot, and breathes the breath of dying flowers, all fears, all doubts, vanish; and only a passionate desire to dance, and be in unison with the sweet sounds that move the air, overfills her.
Then some one asks her to dance, and presently—with her face lit up with happy excitement, and her heart throbbing—she is actually mingling with the gay crowd that a moment since she has been envying. In and out among the dancers they glide, Mona so happy that she barely has time for thought, and so gives herself up entirely to the music to the exclusion of her partner. He has but a small place in her enjoyment. Perhaps, indeed, she betrays her satisfaction rather more than is customary or correct in an age when thenil admirarisystem reigns supreme. Yet there are many in the room who unconsciously smile in sympathy with her happy smile, and feel warmed by the glow of natural gladness that animates her breast.
After a little while, pausing beside a doorway, she casts an upward glance at her companion.
"I am glad you have at last deigned to take some small notice of me," says he, with a faint touch of pique in his tone. And then, looking at him again, she sees it is the young man who had nearly ridden over her some time ago, and tells herself she has been just a little rude to his Grace the Duke of Lauderdale.
"And I went to the utmost trouble to get an introduction," goes on Lauderdale, in an aggrieved voice; "because I thought you might not care about that impromptu ceremony at the lodge-gate; and yet what do I receive for my pains but disappointment? Have you quite forgotten me?"
"No. Of course I remember you now," says Mona, taking all this nonsense as quitebona fidesense in a maddeningly fascinating fashion. "How unkind I have been! But I was listening to the music, not to our introduction, when Sir Nicholas brought you up to me, and—and that is my only excuse." Then, sweetly, "You love music?"
"Well, I do," says the duke. "But I say that perhaps as a means of defence. If I said otherwise, you might think me fit only 'for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.'"
"Oh, no! you don't look like that," says Mona, with a heavenly smile. "You do not seem like a man that could not be 'trusted.'"
He is delighted with her ready response, her gayety, her sweetness, her freshness; was there ever so fair a face? Every one in the room by this time is asking who is the duke's partner, and Lady Chetwoode is beset with queries. All the women, except a very few, are consumed with jealousy; all the men are devoured with envy of the duke. Beyond all doubt the pretty Irish bride is the rage of the hour.
She chatters on gayly to the duke, losing sight of the fact of his rank, and laughing and making merry with him as though he were one of the ordinary friends of her life. And to Lauderdale, who is susceptible to beauty and tired of adulation, such manner has its charm, and he is perhaps losing his head a little, and is conning a sentence or two of a slightly tender nature, when another partner coming up claims Mona, and carries her away from what might prove dangerous quarters.
"Malcolm, who was that lovely creature you were talking to just now?" asks his mother, as Lauderdale draws near her.
"That? Oh, that was the bride, Mrs. Rodney," replies he. "She is lovely, if you like."
"Oh, indeed!" says the duchess, with some faint surprise. Then she turns to Lady Rodney, who is near her, and who is looking cold and supercilious. "I congratulate you," she says, warmly. "What a face that child has! How charming! How full of feeling! You are fortunate in securing so fair a daughter."
"Thank you," says Lady Rodney, coldly, letting her lids fall over her eyes.
"I am sorry I have missed her so often," says the duchess, who had been told that Mona was out when she called on her the second time, and who had been really not at home when Mona returned her calls. "But you will introduce me to her soon, I hope."
Just at this moment Mona comes up to them, smiling and happy.
"Ah! here she is," says the duchess, looking at the girl's bright face with much interest, and turning graciously towards Mona. And then nothing remains but for Lady Rodney to get through the introduction as calmly as she can, though it is sorely against her will, and the duchess, taking her hand, says something very pretty to her, while the duke looks on with ill-disguised admiration in his face.
They are all standing in a sort of anteroom, curtained off, but only partly concealed from the ballroom. Young Lady Chetwoode, who, as I have said, is a special pet with the duchess, is present, with Sir Guy and one or two others.
"You must give me another dance, Mrs. Rodney, before your card is quite full," says the duke, smiling. "If, indeed, I am yet in time."
"Yes, quite in time," says Mona. Then she pauses, looking at him so earnestly that he is compelled to return her gaze. "You shall have another dance," she says, in her clear voice, that is perfectly distinct to every one; "but you must not call me Mrs. Rodney: I am only Mrs. Geoffrey!"
A dead silence follows. Lady Rodney raises her head, scenting mischief in the air.
"No?" says Lauderdale, laughing. "But why, then? There is no other Mrs. Rodney, is there?"
"No. But there will be when Captain Rodney marries. And Lady Rodney says I have no claim to the name at all. I am only Mrs. Geoffrey."
She says it all quite simply, with a smile, and a quick blush that arises merely from the effort of having to explain, not from the explanation itself. There is not a touch of malice in her soft eyes or on her parted lips.
Lady Chetwoode looks at her fan and then at Sir Guy. The duchess, with a grave expression, looks at Lady Rodney. Can her old friend have proved herself unkind to this pretty stranger? Can she have already shown symptoms of that tyrannical temper which, according to the duchess, is Lady Rodney's chief bane? She says nothing, however, but, moving her fan with a beckoning gesture, draws her skirts aside, and motions to Mona, to seat herself beside her.
Mona obeys, feeling no shrinking from the kindly stout lady who is evidently bent on being "all things" to her. It does occur, perhaps, to her laughter-loving mind that there is a paucity of nose about the duchess, and a rather large amount of "too, too solid flesh;" but she smothers all such iniquitous reflections, and commences to talk with her gayly and naturally.
For some time they talk together, and then the duchess, fearing lest she may be keeping Mrs. Geoffrey from the common amusement of a ballroom, says, gently,—
"You are not dancing much?"
"No," says Mona, shaking her head. "Not—not to-night. I shall soon."
"But why not to-night?" asks her Grace, who has noticed with curiosity the girl's refusal to dance with a lanky young man in a hussar uniform, who had evidently made it the business of the evening to get introduced to her. Indeed, for an hour he had been feasting his eyes upon her fresh young beauty, and, having gone to infinite trouble to get presented to her, had been rewarded for his trouble by a little friendly smile, a shake of the head, and a distinct but kindly refusal to join in the mazy dance.
"But why?" asks the duchess.
"Because"—with a quick blush—"I am not accustomed to dancing much. Indeed, I only learned to-day, and I might not be able to dance with every one."
"But you were not afraid to dance with Lauderdale, my son?" says the duchess, looking at her.
"I should never be afraid of him," returns Mona. "He has kind eyes. He is"—slowly and meditatively—"very like you."
The duchess laughs.
"He may be, of course," she says. "But I don't like to see a gay child like you sitting still. You should dance everything for the night."
"Well, as I say, I shall soon," returns Mona, brightening, "because Geoffrey has promised to teach me."
"If I were 'Geoffrey,' I think I shouldn't," says the duchess, meaningly.
"No?" raising an innocent face. "To much trouble, you think, perhaps. But, bless you, Geoffrey wouldn't mind that, so long as he was giving me pleasure." At which answer the duchess is very properly ashamed of both her self and her speech.
"I should think very few people would deem it a trouble to serve you," she says, graciously. "And perhaps, after all, you don't much care about dancing."
"Yes, I do," says Mona, truthfully. "Just now, at least. Perhaps"—sadly—"when I am your age I sha'n't."
This is abetiseof the first water. And Lady Rodney, who can hear—and is listening to—every word, almost groans aloud.
The duchess, on the contrary, gives way to mirth, and, leaning back in her chair, laughs softly but with evident enjoyment. Mona contemplates her curiously, pensively.
"What have I said?" she asks, half plaintively. "You laugh, yet I did not mean to be funny. Tell me what I said."
"It was only a little touch of nature," explains her Grace. "On that congratulate yourself. Nature is at a discount these days. And I—I love nature. It is so rare, a veritable philosopher's stone. You only told me what my glass tells me daily,—that I am not so young as I once was,—that, in fact, when sitting next pretty children like you, I am quite old."
"DidI say all that?" asks Mrs. Geoffrey, with wide eyes. "Indeed, I think you mistake. Old people have wrinkles, and they do not talk as you do. And when one is sweet to look at, one is never old."
To pay a compliment perfectly one must, I think, have at least a few drops of Irish blood in one's veins. As a rule, the happy-go-lucky people of Ireland can bring themselves to believe thoroughly, and without hypocrisy, in almost anything for the time being,—can fling themselves heart and soul into their flatteries, and come out of them again as victors. And what other nation is capable of this? To make sweet phrases is one thing; to look as if you felt or meant them is quite another.
The little suspicion of blarney trips softly and naturally from Mona's tongue. She doesn't smile as she speaks, but looks with eyes full of flattering conviction at the stout but comely duchess. And in truth it may be that in Mona's eyes she is sweet to look at, in that she has been kind and tender towards her in her manner.
And the duchess is charmed, pleased beyond measure That faint touch about the wrinkles was the happiest of the happy. Only that morning her Grace, in spite of her unapproachable maid and unlimited care, had seen an additional line around her mouth that had warned her of youth's decline, and now to meet some one oblivious of this line is sweet to her.
"Then you didn't go out much in Ireland?" she says, thinking it more graceful to change the conversation at this point.
"Out? Oh, ever so much," says Mrs. Geoffrey.
"Ah!" says the duchess, feeling puzzled. "Then perhaps they don't dance in Ireland.
"Yes, they do indeed, a great deal; at least I have heard so."
"Then I suppose when there you were too young to go out?" pursues the poor duchess, striving for information.
"I wasn't," says Mona: "I went out a great deal. All day long I was in the open air. That is what made my hands so brown last autumn."
"Were they brown?"
"As berries," says Mona, genially.
"At least they are a pretty shape," says the duchess glancing at the slim little hands lying gloved in their owner's lap. "But I don't think you quite understood the 'going out' in the light that I did. I mean, did you go much into society?"
"There wasn't much society to go into," says Mona, "and I was only fifteen when staying with Aunt Anastasia. She," confidentially, "made rather a grand match for us, you know." (Lady Rodney grinds her teeth, and tells herself she is on the point of fainting.) "She married the Provost of Trinity College; but I don't think he did her any good. She is the oddest old thing! Even to think of her now makes me laugh. You should have seen her," says Mrs. Geoffrey, leaning back in her chair, and giving way to her usual merry laugh, that rings like a peal of silver bells, "with her wig that had little curls all over it, and her big poke-bonnet like a coal-scuttle!"
"Well, I really wish I had seen her," says the good-humored duchess, smiling in sympathy, and beginning to feel herself more capable of thorough enjoyment than she has been for years. "Was she witty, as all Irish people are said to be?"
"Oh, dear, no," says Mona, with an emphatic shake of her lovely head. "She hadn't the least little bit of wit in her composition. She was as solemn as an Eng——I mean a Spaniard (they are all solemn, are they not?), and never made a joke in her life, but she was irresistibly comic all the same." Then suddenly, "What a very pretty little woman that is over there, and what a lovely dress!"
"Very pretty indeed, and quite good taste and that. She's a Mrs. Lennox, and her husband is our master of the hounds. She is always quite correct in the matter ofclothes." There is an awful reservation in her Grace's tone, which is quite lost upon Mona. "But she is by no means little in her own opinion, and in fact rather prides herself upon her—er—form generally," concludes the duchess, so far at a loss for a word as to be obliged to fall back upon slang.
"Her form!" says Mrs. Geoffrey, surveying the tiny Mrs. Lennox from head to foot in sheer wonderment. "She need hardly pride herself on that. She hasn't much of it, has she?"
"Yes,—in her own estimation," says the duchess, somewhat severely, whose crowning horror is a frisky matron, to which title little Mrs. Lennox may safely lay claim.
"Well, I confess that puzzles me," says Mona, knitting her straight brows and scanning the small lady before her with earnest eyes, who is surrounded by at least a dozen men, with all of whom she is conversing without any apparent effort. "I really think she is the smallest woman I ever saw. Why, I am only medium height, but surely I could make two of her. At least I have more figure, or form, as you call it, than she has."
The duchess gives it up. "Yes, and a far better one, too," she says, amiably, declining to explain. Indeed, she is delighted to meet a young woman who actually regards slang as a foreign and unstudied language, and shrinks from being the first to help her to forget the English tongue. "Is there much beauty in Ireland?" she asks, presently.
"Yes, but we are all so different from the English. We have no pretty fair hair in Ireland, or at least very little of it."
"Do you admire our hair? And we are all so heartily tired of it," says the duchess. "Well, tell me more about your own land. Are the women all like you? In style, I mean. I have seen a few, of course, but not enough to describe a whole."
"Like me? Oh, no," says Mrs. Geoffrey. "Some of them are really beautiful, like pictures. When I was staying with Aunt Anastasia—the Provost's wife, you remember—I saw a great many pretty people. I saw a great many students, too," says Mona, brightening, "and liked them very much. They liked me, too."
"How strange!" says the duchess, with an amused smile. "Are you quite sure of that?"
"Oh, quite. They used to take me all over the college, and sometimes to the bands in the squares. They were very good to me."
"They would be, of course," says the duchess.
"But they were troublesome, very troublesome," says Mrs. Geoffrey, with a retrospective sigh, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands together on her lap. "You can't imagine what a worry they were at times,—always ringing the college bell at the wrong hours, and getting tight!"
"Getting what?" asks the duchess, somewhat taken aback.
"Tight,—screwed,—tipsy, you know," replies Mona, innocently. "Tight was the word they taught me. I think they believed it sounded more respectable than the others. And the Divinity boys were the worst. Shall I tell you about them?"
"Do," says the duchess.
"Well, three of them used to come to see Aunt Anastasia; at least theysaidit was auntie, but they never spoke to her if they could help it, and were always so glad when she went to sleep after dinner."
"I think your Aunt Anastasia was very good to them," says the duchess.
"But after a bit they grew very tiresome. When I tell you they all three proposed to me every day for a week, you will understand me. Yet even that we could have borne, though it was very expensive, because they used to go about stealing my gloves and my ribbons, but when they took to punching each other's heads about me auntie said I had better go to Uncle Brian for a while: so I went; and there I met Geoffrey," with a brilliant smile.
"I think Geoffrey owes those Divinity boys more than he can ever pay," says the duchess, very prettily. "You must come and see me soon, child. I am an old woman, and seldom stir from home, except when I am positively ordered out by Malcom, as I was to-night. Come next Thursday. There are some charming trifles at the old Court that may amuse you, though I may fail to do so."
"I sha'n't want any trifles to amuse me, if you will talk to me," says Mona.
"Well, come early. And now go and dance with Mr. Darling. He has been looking at me very angrily for the last three minutes. By the by," putting up her glasses, "is that little girl in the lemon-colored gown his sister?"
"Yes; that is Sir Nicholas's Doatie Darling," returns Mona, with a light laugh. And then Nolly leads her away, and, feeling more confident with him, she is once again dancing as gayly as the best.
"Your foot is plainly 'on your native heath,'" says Nolly, "though your name may not be 'McGregor.' What on earth were you saying to that old woman for the last four hours?"
"It was only twenty minutes," says Mona.
"Twenty minutes! By Jove, she must be more interesting than we thought," says Mr. Darling, "if you can put it at that time. I thought she was going to eat you, she looked so pleased with you. And no wonder, too:" with a loud and a hearty sigh.
"She was very nice to me," says Mona, "and is, I think, a very pleasant old lady. She asked me to go and see her next Thursday."
"Bless my stars!" says Nolly; "youhavebeen going it. That is the day on which she will receive no one but her chief pets. The duchess, when she comes down here, reverses the order of things. The rest have an 'at home' day. She has a 'not at home' day."
"Where are people when they are not at home?" asks Mona, simply.
"That's the eighth wonder of the world," says Mr. Darling, mysteriously. "It has never yet been discovered. Don't seek to pry too closely into it; you might meet with a rebuff."
"How sad Nicholas looks!" says Mona, suddenly.
In a doorway, somewhat out of the crush, Sir Nicholas is standing. His eyes are fixed on Dorothy, who is laughing with a gay and gallant plunger in the distance. He is looking depressed and melancholy; a shadow seems to have fallen into his dark eyes.
"Now he is thinking of that horrid lawsuit again," says Nolly, regretfully, who is a really good sort all round. "Let us go to him."
"Yes; let me go to him," says Mona, quickly; "I shall know what to say better than you."
After a little time she succeeds in partially lifting the cloud that has fallen on her brother. He has grown strangely fond of her, and finds comfort in her gentle eyes and sympathetic mouth. Like all the rest, he has gone down before Mona, and found a place for her in his heart. He is laughing at some merry absurdity of hers, and is feeling braver, more hopeful, when a little chill seems to pass over him, and, turning, he confronts a tall dark young man who has come leisurely—but with a purpose—to where he and Mona are standing.
It is Paul Rodney.
Sir Nicholas, just moving his glass from one eye to the other, says "Good evening" to him, bending his head courteously, nay, very civilly, though without a touch, or suspicion of friendliness. He does not put out his hand, however, and Paul Rodney, having acknowledged his salutation by a bow colder and infinitely more distant than his own, turns to Mona.
"You have not quite forgotten me, I hope, Mrs. Rodney. You will give me one dance?"
His eyes, black and faintly savage, seem to burn into hers.
"No; I have not forgotten you," says Mona, shrinking away from him. As she speaks she looks nervously at Nicholas.
"Go and dance, my dear," he says, quickly, in a tone that decides her. It is to please him, for his sake, she must do this thing; and so, without any awkward hesitation, yet without undue haste, she turns and lays her hand on the Australian's arm. A few minutes later she is floating round the room in his arms, and, passing by Geoffrey, though she sees him not, is seen by him.
"Nicholas, what is the meaning of this?" says Geoffrey, a few moments later, coming up with a darkening brow to where Nicholas is leaning against a wall. "What has possessed Mona to give that fellow a dance? She must be mad, or ignorant, or forgetful of everything. She was with you: why did you not prevent it?"
"My dear fellow, let well alone," says Nicholas, with his slow, peculiar smile. "It was I induced Mona to dance with 'that fellow,' as you call him. Forgive me this injury, if indeed you count it one."
"I don't understand you," says Geoffrey, still rather hotly.
"I think I hardly understand myself: yet I know I am possessed of a morbid horror lest the county should think I am uncivil to this man merely because he has expressed a hope that he may be able to turn me out of doors. His hope may be a just one. I rather think it is: so it pleased me that Mona should dance with him, if only to show the room that he is not altogether tabooed by us."
"But I wish it had been any one but Mona," says Geoffrey, still agitated.
"But who? Doatie will not dance with him, and Violet he never asks. I fell back, then, upon the woman who has so little malice in her heart that she could not be ungracious to any one. Against her will she read my desire in my eyes, and has so far sacrificed herself for my sake. I had no right to compel your wife to this satisfying of my vanity, yet I could not resist it. Forget it; the dance will soon be over."
"It seems horrible to me that Mona should be on friendly terms with your enemy," says Geoffrey, passionately.
"He is not my enemy. My dear boy, spare me a three-act drama. What has the man done, beyond wearing a few gaudy rings, and some oppressive neckties, that you should hate him as you do? It is unreasonable. And, besides, he is in all probability your cousin. Parkins and Slow declare they can find no flaw in the certificate of his birth; and—is not every man at liberty to claim his own?"
"If he claims my wife for another dance, I'll——" begins Geoffrey.
"No, you won't," interrupts his brother, smiling. "Though I think the poor child has done her duty now. Let him pass. It is he should hate me, not I him."
At this Geoffrey says something under his breath about Paul Rodney that he ought not to say, looking the while at Nicholas with a certain light in his blue eyes that means not only admiration but affection.
Meantime, Mona, having danced as long as she desires with this enemy in the camp, stops abruptly before a curtained entrance to a small conservatory, into which he leads her before she has time to remonstrate: indeed, there is no apparent reason why she should.
Her companion is singularly silent. Scarce one word has escaped him since she first laid her hand upon his arm, and now again dumbness, or some hidden feeling, seals his lips.
Of this Mona is glad. She has no desire to converse with him, and is just congratulating herself upon her good fortune in that he declines to speak with her, when he breaks the welcome silence.
"Have they taught you to hate me already?" he asks, in a low, compressed tone, that make her nerves assert themselves.
"I have been taught nothing," she says, with a most successful grasp at dignity. "They do not speak of you at the Towers,—at least, not unkindly." She looks at him as she says this, but lowers her eyes as she meets his. This dark, vehement young man almost frightens her.
"Yet, in spite of what you say, you turn from me, you despise me," exclaims he, with some growing excitement.
"Why should I despise you?" asks she, slowly, opening her eyes.
The simple query confounds him more than might a more elaborate one put by a clever worldling. Why indeed?
"I was thinking about this impending lawsuit," he stammers, uneasily. "You know of it, of course? Yet why should I be blamed?"
"No one blames you," says Mona; "yet it is hard that Nicholas should be made unhappy."
"Other people are unhappy, too," says the Australian, gloomily.
"Perhaps they make their own unhappiness," says Mona, at random. "But Nicholas has done nothing. He is good and gentle always. He knows no evil thoughts. He wishes ill to no man."
"Not even to me?" with a sardonic laugh.
"Not even to you," very gravely. There is reproof in her tone. They are standing somewhat apart, and her eyes have been turned from him. Now, as she says this, she changes her position slightly, and looks at him very earnestly. From the distant ballroom the sound of the dying music comes sadly, sweetly; a weeping fountain in a corner mourns bitterly, as it seems to Mona, tear by tear, perhaps for some lost nymph.
"Well, what would you have me do?" demands he, with some passion. "Throw up everything? Lands, title, position? It is more than could be expected of any man."
"Much more," says Mona; but she sighs as she says it, and a little look of hopelessness comes into her face. It is so easy to read Mona's face.
"You are right," he says, with growing vehemence: "no man would do it. It is such a brilliant chance, such a splendid scheme——." He checks himself suddenly. Mona looks at him curiously, but says nothing. In a second he recovers himself, and goes on: "Yet because I will not relinquish my just claim you look upon me with hatred and contempt."
"Oh, no," says Mona, gently; "only I should like you better, of course, if you were not the cause of our undoing."
"'Our'? How you associate yourself with these Rodneys!" he says, scornfully; "yet you are as unlike them as a dove is unlike a hawk. How came you to fall into their nest? And so if I could only consent to efface myself you would like me better,—tolerate me in fact? A poor return for annihilation. And yet," impatiently, "I don't know. If I could be sure that even my memory would be respected by you——." He pauses and pushes back his hair from his brow.
"Why could you not have stayed in Australia?" says Mona, with some excitement. "You are rich; your home is there; you have passed all your life up to this without a title, without the tender associations that cling round Nicholas and that will cost him almost his life to part with. You do not want them, yet you come here to break up our peace and make us all utterly wretched."
"Not you," says Paul, quickly. "What is it to you? It will not take a penny out of your pocket. Your husband," with an evil sneer, "has his income secured. I am not making you wretched."
"You are," says Mona, eagerly. "Do you think," tears gathering in her eyes, "that I could be happy when those I love are reduced to despair?"
"You must have a large heart to include all of them," says Rodney with a shrug. "Whom do you mean by 'those you love?' Not Lady Rodney, surely. She is scarcely a person, I take it to inspire that sentiment in even your tolerant breast. It cannot be for her sake you bear me such illwill?"
"I bear you no illwill; you mistake me," says Mona, quietly: "I am only sorry for Nicholas, because I do love him."
"Do you?" says her companion, staring at her, and drawing his breath a little hard. "Then, even if he should lose to me lands, title, nay, all he possesses, I should still count him a richer man than I am."
"Oh, poor Nicholas!" says Mona sadly, "and poor little Doatie!"
"You speak as if my victory was a foregone conclusion," says Rodney. "How can you tell? He may yet gain the day, and I may be the outcast."
"I hope with all my heart you will," says Mona.
"Thank you," replies he stiffly; "yet, after all, I think I should bet upon my own chance."
"I am afraid you are right," says Mona. "Oh, why did you come over at all?"
"I am very glad I did," replies he, doggedly. "At least I have seen you. They cannot take that from me. I shall always be able to call the remembrance of your face my own."
Mona hardly hears him. She is thinking of Nicholas's face as it was half an hour ago when he had leaned against the deserted doorway and looked at pretty Dorothy.
Yet pretty Dorothy at her very best moments had never looked, nor ever could look, as lovely as Mona appears now, as she stands with her hands loosely clasped before her, and the divine light of pity in her eyes, that are shining softly like twin stars.
Behind her rises a tall shrub of an intense green, against which the soft whiteness of her satin gown gleams with a peculiar richness. Her gaze is fixed upon a distant planet that watches her solemnly through the window from its seat in the far-off heaven, "silent, as if it watch'd the sleeping earth."
She sighs. There is pathos and sweetness and tenderness in every line of her face, and much sadness. Her lips are slightly parted, "her eyes are homes of silent prayer." Paul, watching her, feels as though he is in the presence of some gentle saint, sent for a space to comfort sinful earth.
A passionate admiration for her beauty and purity fills his breast: he could have fallen at her feet and cried aloud to her to take pity upon him, to let some loving thought for him—even him too—enter and find fruitful soil within her heart.
"Try not to hate me," he says, imploringly, in a broken voice, going suddenly up to her and taking one of her hands in his. His grasp is so hard as almost to hurt her. Mona awakening from her reverie, turns to him with a start. Something in his face moves her.
"Indeed, I do not hate you," she says impulsively. "Believe me, I do not. But still I fear you."
Some one is coming quickly towards them. Rodney, dropping Mona's hand, looks hurriedly round, only to see Lady Rodney approaching.
"Your husband is looking for you," she says to Mona, in an icy tone. "You had better go to him. This is no place for you."
Without vouchsafing a glance of recognition to the Australian, she sweeps past, leaving them again alone. Paul laughs aloud.
"'A haughty spirit comes before a fall,'" quotes he contemptuously.
"I must go now. Good-night," says Mona, kindly if coldly. He escorts her to the door of the conservatory There Lauderdale, who is talking with some men, comes forward and offers her his arm to take her to the carriage. And then adieux are said, and the duke accompanies her downstairs, whilst Lady Rodney contents herself with one of her sons.
It is a triumph, if Mona only knew it, but she is full of sad reflections, and is just now wrapped up in mournful thoughts of Nicholas and little Dorothy. Misfortune seems flying towards them on strong swift wings. Can nothing stay its approach, or beat it back in time to effect a rescue? If they fail to find the nephew of the old woman Elspeth in Sydney, whither he is supposed to have gone, or if, on finding him they fail to elicit any information from him on the subject of the lost will, affairs may be counted almost hopeless.
"Mona," says Geoffrey, to her suddenly, in a low whisper, throwing his arm round her (they are driving home, alone in the small night-brougham)—"Mona, do you know what you have done to-night? The whole room went mad about you. They would talk of no one else. Do not let them turn your head."
"Turn it where, darling?" asks she, a little dreamily.
"Away from me," returns he, with some emotion, tightening his clasp around her.
"From you? Was there ever such a dear silly old goose," says Mrs. Geoffrey, with a faint, loving laugh. And then, with a small sigh full of content, she forgets her cares for others for awhile, and, nestling closer to him, lays her head upon his shoulder and rests there happily until they reach the Towers.