Mona smiles brightly--as might any true woman--at so warm a compliment.

But Doatie, putting on a pathetic little _moue_ that just suits her baby face, walks over to her _fiance_ and looks up at him with appealing eyes.

"Don't altogether forget _me_, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 the _nil admirari_ system 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 quite _bona fide_ sense 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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.

CHAPTER XXIII.

HOW MONA INTERVIEWS THE d.u.c.h.eSS--AND HOW SHE SUSTAINS CONVERSATION WITH THE RODNEYS' EVIL GENIUS.

For some time they talk together, and then the d.u.c.h.ess, fearing lest she may be keeping Mrs. Geoffrey from the common amus.e.m.e.nt 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 d.u.c.h.ess.

"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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess, meaningly.

"No?" raising an innocent face. "To much trouble, you think, perhaps.