'My night has no eve, And my day has no morning.'

At home--in Sydney, I mean--the life was different. It was free, unfettered, and in a degree lawless. It suited me better."

"Then why don't you go back?" suggests Mona, simply.

"Because I have work to do here," retorts he, grimly. "Yet ever since I first set foot on this soil, contentment has gone from me. Abroad a man lives, here he exists. There, he carries his life in his hand, and trusts to his revolver rather than to the most learned of counsels, but here all is on another footing."

"It is to be regretted you cannot like England, as you have made up your mind to live in it; and yet I think----" She pauses.

"Yes--you think; go on," says Rodney, gazing at her attentively.

"Well, then, I think it is only _just_ you should be unhappy," says Mona, with some vehemence. "Those who seek to scatter misery broadcast among their fellows should learn to taste of it themselves."

"Why do you accuse me of such a desire?" asks he, paling beneath her indignation, and losing courage because of the unshed tears that are gleaming in her eyes.

"When you gain your point and find yourself master here, you will know you have made not only one, but many people miserable."

"You seem to take my success in this case as a certainty," he says, with a frown. "I may fail."

"Oh, that I could believe so!" says Mona, forgetful of manners, courtesy, everything, but the desire to see those she loves restored to peace.

"You are candor itself," returns he, with a short laugh, shrugging his shoulders. "Of course I am bound to hope your wish may be fulfilled. And yet I doubt it. I am nearer my object to-night than I have ever been before; and," with a sardonic smile, "yours has been the hand to help me forward."

Mona starts, and regards him fixedly in a puzzled, uncertain manner.

What he can possibly mean is unknown to her; but yet she is aware of some inward feeling, some instinct such as animals possess, that warns her to beware of him. She shrinks from him, and in doing so a slight fold of her dress catches in the handle of a writing-table, and detains her.

Paul, dropping on his knees before her, releases her gown; the fold is in his grasp, and still holding it he looks up at her, his face pale and almost haggard.

"If I were to resign all hope of gaining the Towers, if I were to consent to leave your people still in possession," he says, pa.s.sionately, but in a low tone, "should I earn one tender thought in your heart? Speak, Mona! speak!"

I am sure at even this supreme moment it never enters Mona's brain that the man is actually making love to her. A deep pity for him fills her mind. He is unhappy, justly so, no doubt, but yet unhappy. A sure pa.s.sport to her heart.

"I do not think unkindly of you," she says, gently, but coldly. "And do as your conscience dictates, and you will gain not only my respect, but that of all men."

"Bah!" he says, impatiently, rising from the ground and turning away.

Her answer has frozen him again, has dried up the momentary desire for her approbation above all others that only a minute ago had agitated his breast.

At this moment Geoffrey comes into the room and up to Mona. He takes no notice whatever of her companion, "Mona, will you come and sing us something?" he says, as naturally as though the room is empty. "Nolly has been telling the d.u.c.h.ess about your voice, and she wants to hear you. Anything simple, darling,"--seeing she looks a little distressed at the idea: "you sing that sort of thing best."

"I hardly think our dance is ended yet, Mrs. Rodney," says the Australian, defiantly, coming leisurely forward, his eyes bent somewhat insolently upon Geoffrey.

"You will come, Mona, to oblige the d.u.c.h.ess," says Geoffrey, in exactly as even a tone as if the other had never spoken. Not that he cares in the very least about the d.u.c.h.ess; but he is determined to conquer here, and is also desirous that all the world should appreciate and admire the woman he loves.

"I will come, of course," says Mona, nervously, "but I am afraid she will be disappointed. You will excuse me, Mr. Rodney, I am sure,"

turning graciously to Paul, who is standing with folded arms in the background.

"Yes, I excuse _you_," he says, with a curious stress upon the p.r.o.noun, and a rather strained smile. The room is filling with other people, the last dance having plainly come to an end. Geoffrey, taking Mona's arm, leads her into the hall.

"Dance no more to-night with that fellow," he says quickly, as they get outside.

"No?" Then, "Not if you dislike it of course. But Nicholas made a point of my being nice to him. I did not know you would object to my dancing with him."

"Well, you know it now. I do object," says Geoffrey, in a tone he has never used to her before. Not that it is unkind or rude, but cold and unlover-like.

"Yes, I know it now!" returns she, softly, yet with the gentle dignity that always belongs to her. Her lips quiver, but she draws herself up to her fullest height, and, throwing up her head, walks with a gait that is almost stately into the presence of the d.u.c.h.ess.

"You wish me to sing to you," she says, gently, yet so unsmilingly that the d.u.c.h.ess wonders what has come to the child. "It will give me pleasure if I can give _you_ pleasure, but my voice is not worth thinking about."

"Nevertheless, let me hear it," says the d.u.c.h.ess. "I cannot forget that your face is musical."

Mona, sitting down to the piano, plays a few chords in a slow, plaintive fashion, and then begins. Paul Rodney has come to the doorway, and is standing there gazing at her, though she knows it not. The ballroom is far distant, so far that the sound of the band does not break upon the silence of the room in which they are a.s.sembled. A hush falls upon the listeners as Mona's fresh, pathetic, tender voice rises into the air.

It is an old song she chooses, and simple as old, and sweet as simple. I almost forget the words now, but I know it runs in this wise:

Oh, hame, hame--hame fain wad I be, Hame, hame to my ain countrie,

and so on.

It touches the hearts of all who hear it as she sings it and brings tears to the eyes of the d.u.c.h.ess. So used the little fragile daughter to sing who is now chanting in heaven!

There is no vehement applause as Mona takes her fingers from the keys, but every one says, "Thank you," in a low tone. Geoffrey, going up to her, leans over her chair and whispers, with some agitation,--

"You did not mean it, Mona, did you? You are content here with me?--you have no regret?"

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,--

"Darling, do you need an answer?"

"Then why did you choose that song?"

"I hardly know."

"I was hateful to you just now, and most unjust."

"Were you? I have forgotten it," replies she, smiling happily, the color coming back to her cheeks. Whereupon Paul Rodney's brows contract, and with a muttered curse he turns aside and leaves the room, and then the house, without another word or backward glance.

CHAPTER XXIX.

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

"Must you really go, Geoffrey?--really?" asks Mona, miserably, looking the very personification of despair. She has asked the same question in the same tone ever since early dawn, and it is now four o'clock.

"Yes, really. Horrid bore, isn't it?--but county dinners must be attended, and Nicholas will do nothing. Besides, it isn't fair to ask him just now, dear old fellow, when he has so much upon his mind."