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diff --git a/old/54942-0.txt b/old/54942-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 253125c..0000000 --- a/old/54942-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3545 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Monica, Volume 3 (of 3), by Evelyn Everett-Green - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Monica, Volume 3 (of 3) - A Novel - -Author: Evelyn Everett-Green - -Release Date: June 20, 2017 [EBook #54942] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONICA, VOLUME 3 (OF 3) *** - - - - -Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet -Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - -MONICA. - - - - -MONICA. - -A Novel. - -BY - -EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN. - -Author of - -“Torwood’s Trust,” “The Last of the Dacres,” -“Ruthven of Ruthven,” Etc. - - -_IN THREE VOLUMES._ - -VOL. III. - - -LONDON: -WARD AND DOWNEY, -12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. -1889. - - - - -PRINTED BY -KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS, -AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. - - PAGE - -Beatrice 1 - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. - -Storm 17 - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. - -Widowed 39 - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. - -Monica 61 - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. - -Haunted 79 - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. - -Lovers 97 - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. - -“As We Forgive” 124 - -CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. - -Lord Haddon 155 - -CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. - -Christmas 177 - -CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND. - -The Last 194 - - - - -MONICA. - - - - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. - -BEATRICE. - - -“Beatrice, I believe my words are coming true, after all. I begin to -think you are getting tired of Trevlyn already.” - -It was Monica who spoke thus. She had surprised Beatrice alone in the -boudoir at dusk one afternoon, sitting in an attitude of listless -dejection, with the undoubted brightness of unshed tears in her eyes. - -But the girl looked up quickly, trying to regain all her usual -animation, though the attempt was not a marked success, and Monica sat -down beside her, and laid one hand upon hers in a sort of mute caress. - -“You are not happy with us, Beatrice, I see it more and more plainly -every day. You have grown pale since you came here, and your spirits -vary every hour, but they do not improve, and you are often sad. I -think Trevlyn cannot suit you. I think I shall have to prescribe change -of air and scene, and a meeting later on in some other place.” - -Monica spoke with a sort of grave gentleness, that indicated a -tenderness she could not well express more clearly. For answer, -Beatrice suddenly flung herself on her knees before her hostess, -burying her face in her hands. - -“Oh, don’t send me away, Monica! Don’t send me away! I could not bear -it—indeed I could not! I am miserable—I am wretched company. I don’t -wonder you are tired of me; but ah! don’t send me away from you, and -from Trevlyn. I think I shall _die_ if you do. Oh, why is the world -such a hard, cruel place?” - -Monica was startled at this sudden outburst, for since the day -following her arrival Beatrice had showed herself unusually reserved. -She had been _distraite_, absorbed, fitful in her moods, but never once -expansive; therefore, this unexpected impulse towards confidence was -the more surprising. - -“Beatrice,” she said gently, “I did not mean to distress you. You know -how very, very welcome you are to stay with us. But you are unhappy; -you are far more unhappy than when you came.” - -Beatrice shook her head vehemently at this point, but Monica continued -in the same quiet way. “You are unhappy, you are restless and -miserable. Beatrice, answer me frankly, would you be happy if Tom -Pendrill were not here? He has already outstayed his original time, and -we could quite easily get rid of him if his presence is a trouble to -you. We never stand on ceremony with Tom, and Randolph could manage it -in a moment.” - -Beatrice lifted a pale, startled face. - -“Tom Pendrill?” she repeated, almost sharply. “What has he got to -do with it? What makes you bring in his name? What do you know -about—about——?” She stopped suddenly. - -“I know nothing except what I see for myself—nothing but what your -face and his tell me. It is easy to see that you have known each -other before, and under rather exceptional circumstances, perhaps. Do -you think it escapes me, that feverish gaiety of yours whenever he is -near—gaiety that is expended in laughing, chatting, flirting, perhaps, -with the other guests, but is never by any chance directed to him? Do -you think I do not notice how quickly that affectation of high spirits -evaporates when he is gone; how many fits of sad musing follow in its -wake? How is it you two never talk to one another? never exchange -anything beyond the most frigid commonplaces? It is not your way to -be so distant and so cool, Beatrice. There must be a reason. Tell me -truly, would you not be happier if Tom Pendrill were to go back to St. -Maws?” - -But Beatrice shook her head again, and heaved a long, shuddering sigh. - -“Oh, no, no!” she said. “Don’t send him away. Nothing really matters -now; nothing can do either good or harm. Let him stay. I think his -heart is made of ice. He does not care; why should I? It is nothing but -my folly and weakness, only it brings it all back so bitterly—all my -pride, and self-will, and stubbornness. Well, I have suffered for it -now.” - -It was plain that a confession was hovering on Beatrice’s lips; that -she was anxious at last to unburden herself of her secret. Monica -helped her by asking a direct question. - -“Were you engaged to him once?” - -“No—no! not quite. I had not got quite so far as that. I might have -been. He asked me to be his wife, and I—I——” She paused, and then went -on more coherently. - -“I will tell you all about it. It was years ago, when I was barely -eighteen—a gay, giddy girl, just ‘out,’ full of fun, very wild and -saucy, and thoroughly spoiled by persistent petting and indulgence. I -was the only daughter of the house, and believed that Lady Beatrice -Wentworth was a being of vast importance. Well, I suppose people -spoiled us because we were orphans. We were all more or less spoiled, -and I think it was the ruin of my eldest brother. He was at Oxford at -the time I am speaking of; and I was taken to Commemoration by some gay -friends of ours, who had brothers and sons at Oxford. - -“It was there I met Tom Pendrill. He was the ‘chum’ of one of the -undergraduate sons of my chaperon, and he was a great man just then. He -had distinguished himself tremendously in the schools, I know—had taken -a double-first, or something, and other things beside. He was quite a -lion in his own set, and I heard an immense deal in his praise, and was -tremendously impressed, quite convinced that there was not such another -man in the world. He was almost always in our party, and he took a -great deal of notice of me. He gave us breakfast in his rooms, and I -sat next him, and helped to do the honours of the table. You can’t -think how proud I was at being singled out by him, how delighted I was -to walk by his side, listening to his words of wisdom, how elevated I -often felt, how taken out of myself into quite a new world of thought -and feeling.” - -Beatrice paused. A smile—half sad, half bitter—played for a moment over -her face; then she took up the thread of her narrative. - -“I need not go into the subject of my feelings. I was very young, and -all the glamour of youth and inexperience was upon me. I had never, -in all my life, come across a man in the least like him—so clever, so -witty, so cultured, and withal with so strong a personality. He was -not silent and cynical, as he is now, but full of life and sparkle, of -brilliance and humour. I was dazzled and captivated. I believed there -had never been such a man in the world before. He was my ideal, my -hero; and he seemed to court me, which was the most wonderful thing of -all. - -“You know what young girls are like? No, perhaps you don’t, and I -will avoid generalities, and speak only of myself. Just because he -captivated me so much—my fancy, my intellect, my heart—just because -I began to feel his power growing so strongly upon me, I grew shy, -frightened, restive. I was very wilful and capricious. I wanted him to -admire me, and I was proud that he seemed to do so; but I did not in -the least want to acknowledge his power over me. I was frightened at -it. I tried to ignore it—to keep it off. - -“So, in a kind of foolish defiance and mistrust of myself, I began -flirting tremendously with a silly young marquis, whom I heartily -despised and disliked. I only favoured him when Tom Pendrill was -present, for I wanted to make him jealous, and to feel my power over -him. Coquetry is born in some women, I believe; I am sure it was born -in me. I did not mean any harm. I never cared a bit for the creature. -I cared for no one but the man I affected now to be tired of. But -rumours got about. I suppose it would have been a very good match for -me. People said I was going to marry the cub, and I only laughed when I -heard the report. I was young, vain, and foolish enough to feel rather -flattered than otherwise.” - -She paused a moment, with another of those bitter-sweet smiles, and -went on very quietly: - -“Why are girls so badly brought up? I was not bad at heart; but I was -vain and frivolous. I loved to inflict pain of a kind upon others, till -I played once too often with edge-tools, and have suffered for it ever -since. Of course, Tom Pendrill heard these reports, and, of course, -they angered him deeply; for I had given him every encouragement. -He did not know the complex workings of a woman’s heart, her wild -struggles for supremacy before she can be content to yield herself up -for ever a willing sacrifice. He did not understand; how should he? I -did not either till it was too late. - -“I saw him once more alone. We were walking by the river one moonlight -night. He was unlike himself—silent, moody, imperious. All of a sudden -it burst out. He asked me almost fiercely if I would be his wife—he -almost claimed my promise as his right—said that I owed him that -reparation for destroying his peace of mind. How my heart leapt as I -heard those words. A torrent of love seemed to surge over me. I was -terrified at the depth of feeling he had stirred up. I struggled with -a sort of fury against being carried away by it, against betraying -myself too unreservedly. I don’t remember what I said; I was terribly -agitated. I believe in my confusion and bewilderment I said something -disgusting about my rank and his—the difference between us. Then he -cast that odious marquis in my teeth, supposed that the report he had -heard was true, that I was going to sell myself for the reversion of a -ducal coronet, since I thought so much of _rank_. I was furious; all -the more furious because I had brought it on myself, though, had he but -known it, it was ungenerous to take me at a disadvantage, and cast my -words back at me like that—words spoken without the least consideration -or intention. But, right or wrong, he did it, and I answered back -with more vehemence than before. I don’t know what I said, but it was -enough for him, at any rate. He turned upon me—I think he almost cursed -me—not in words, but in the cruel scorn expressed in his face and in -his voice. Ah! it hurts me even now. Then he left me without another -word, without a sign or sound of farewell—left me standing alone by -that river. I never saw him again till we met in your drawing-room that -night.” - -Beatrice paused; Monica had taken her hand in token of sympathy, but -she did not speak. - -“Of course, at first I thought he would come back. I never dreamed -he would believe I had really led him on, only to reject him with -contempt, when once he dared to speak his heart to me. We had -quarrelled; and I was very miserable, knowing how foolish I had been; -but I never, never believed for a moment that he would take that -quarrel as final. - -“Two wretched days of suspense followed. Then I heard that he had left -Oxford the morning after our interview by the river, and I knew that -all was over between us. That is the story of my life, Monica; it does -not sound much to tell, but it means a good deal to me. I have never -loved anyone else—I do not think I ever shall.” - -Monica was silent. - -“Neither has he.” - -Beatrice’s eyes were full of a sort of wistful sadness and tender -regret; but she only kissed Monica very quietly, and stole silently -from the room. - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. - -STORM. - - -“Ah, Randolph! I am glad you are in. It is going to be such a rough -night!” - -Monica was sitting by the fire in her own room, waiting for her husband -to join her there, as he always did immediately upon coming in from -his day’s sport. They had one or two more guests at Trevlyn now—men, -friends of Randolph’s in days past; but nothing ever hindered him from -devoting this one hour before dinner to his wife. It was to Monica the -happiest hour of the day. - -“I am so glad to have you safe back. Are you not very wet?” - -“No; I was well protected from the rain; but it has been a disagreeable -sort of day. The other fellows were carried off to dine at Hartland’s. -We came across their party just outside the park, and he begged us all -to accept his hospitality for the night, as the weather was getting -so bad. Haddon and I came home to tell you, but the rest accepted the -invitation. We shall be quite a small party to-night.” - -Monica looked up with a smile. - -“I think I am glad of that, Randolph.” - -He sat down and put his arm about her. - -“Tired of our guests already, Monica?” - -“I don’t know—I like to have your friends, and to help to make them -enjoy themselves; but I don’t think there is any such happiness as -having you all to myself.” - -He held her closer to him, and looked with a proud fond smile into her -face. - -“You feel that too, Monica?” - -“Ah, yes! How could I help it?” - -He fancied she spoke sadly, and would know why. - -“I think I have been sad all day,” she answered; “I am often sad before -a storm, when I hear the wind moaning round the house. It makes me -think of the brave men at sea, and their wives waiting for them at -home.” - -There was a little quiver in her voice as she spoke the last words. -Randolph heard it, and held her very close to him. - -“It is not such a very bad night, Monica.” - -“No; but it makes me think. When you are away, I cannot help feeling -sad, often. Ah, my husband! how can I tell you all that you have been -to me these happy, happy months?” - -“My sweet wife!” he murmured, softly. - -“And other wives love their husbands,” she went on in the same dreamy -way, “and they see them go away over the dark sea, never to come back -any more,” and she shivered. - -“Let us go to the music-room, Monica,” said Randolph. “You shall play -the hymn for those at sea.” - -He knew the power of music to soothe her, when these strange moods of -sadness and fear came upon her. They went to the organ together, and -before half-an-hour had passed Monica was her own calm, serene self -again. - -“Monica,” said Randolph, “can you sing something to me now—now that we -are quite alone together? Do you remember that little sad, sweet song -you sang the night before I went away to Scotland? Will you sing it to -me now? I have so often wanted to hear it again.” - -Monica gave him one quick glance, and struck the preliminary chords -softly and dreamily. - -Wonderfully rich and sweet her voice sounded; but low-toned and deep, -with a subtle searching sweetness that spoke straight to the heart: - - “‘And if thou wilt, remember— - And if thou wilt, forget.’” - -There was the least little quiver in her voice as it died into silence. -Randolph bent over her and kissed her on the lips. - -“Thank you,” he said. “It is a haunting little song in its sad -sweetness. Somehow, it seems like you, Monica.” - -But she made no answer, for at that moment a sound reached their ears -that made them both start, listening intently. Monica’s face grew white -to the lips. - -The sound was repeated with greater distinctness. - -“A gun!” said Randolph. - -“A ship in distress!” whispered Monica. - -A ship in distress upon that cruel, iron-bound coast—a pitch-dark night -and a rising gale! - -Randolph looked grave and resolute. - -“We must see what can be done,” he said. - -Monica’s face was very pale, but as resolute as her husband’s. - -“I will go with you!” she said. - -He glanced at, her, but he did not say her nay. - -In the hall servants were gathering in visible excitement. Lord Haddon -was there, and Beatrice. The distressing signals from the doomed vessel -were urging their imperative message upon every heart. Faces were -flushed with excitement. Every eye was turned upon the master of the -house. - -“Haddon,” he said, “there is not a man on the place that can ride like -you, and you know every inch of the country by this time. Will you do -this?—take the fastest, surest horse in the stable, and gallop to the -nearest life-boat station. You know where it is?—Good! Give the alarm -there, and get all in readiness. If the ship is past our help, and -drifts with the wind, they may be able to save her crew still.” - -Haddon stayed to ask no more. He was off for the stables almost before -the words had left Randolph’s lips. - -Monica was wrapping herself up in her warm ulster; Beatrice followed -her example; the one was flushed, the other pale, but both were bent on -the same object—they must go down to the shore to see what was done. -They could not rest with the sound of those terrible guns ringing in -their ears. - -The night was pitchy black, the sky was obscured by a thick bank of -cloud. The wind blew fierce and strong, what sailors would call “half -a gale.” It was a wild, “dirty” night, but not nearly so bad a one as -they often knew upon that coast. - -The lanterns lighted them down the steep cliff-path, every foot of -which, however, was well known to Monica. She kept close beside her -husband. He gave her his hand over every difficult piece of the road, -Beatrice followed a little more slowly. At last they all stood together -upon the rocky floor of the bay. - -Monica looked out to sea. She was the first to realise what had -happened. - -“She has struck on the reef!” she said. “She does not drift. She has -struck!” - -“And in such a sea she will be dashed to pieces in a very short time,” -said Randolph, as another signal flashed out from the doomed vessel. - -Other lights were moving about the shore. It was plain that the whole -population of the little hamlet had gathered at the water’s edge. -Through the gusts of rain they could see indistinctly moving figures; -they could catch as a faint murmur the loud, eager tones of their -voices. - -“Stay here, Monica,” said Randolph, “under the shelter of this rock. I -must go and see what is being done. Wait here for me.” - -She had held fast by his arm till now! but she loosed his clasp as she -heard these words. - -“You will come back?” she said, striving to speak calmly and steadily. - -“Yes, as soon as I can. I must see what can be done. There seems to be -a boat. I must go and see if it cannot be launched. The sea in the bay -is not so very wild.” - -Randolph was gone already. Beatrice and Monica were left standing in -the lee of a projection of the cliff. They thought they were quite -alone. They did not see a crouching figure not many paces away, -squeezed into a dark fissure of the rock. The night was too obscure -to see anything, save where the flashing lights illumined the gloom. -Even the wild beast glitter of a pair of fierce eyes watching intently -passed unseen and unheeded. - -Monica looked out to sea with a strange fixed yearning in her dark -eyes. She was looking towards the vessel, struck fast upon the very -rock where she had once stood face to face with death. How well she -remembered that moment and the strange calmness that possessed her! -She never realised the peril she was in—it had seemed a small thing -to her then whether she lived or died. She recalled her feelings so -well—was she really the same Monica who had stood so calmly there -whilst the waves leaped up as if to devour her? Where was her old, calm -indifference now?—that strange courage prompted by the want of natural -love for life? - -A sense of revelation swept over Monica at that moment. She had never -really feared, because she had never truly loved. It was not death even -now that she dreaded for herself, or for her husband, but separation. -Danger, even to death, shared with him, would be almost welcome: but to -think of his facing danger alone—that was too terrible. She pressed her -hands closely together. It seemed as if her very soul cried to Heaven -to keep away this dire necessity. Why she suspected its existence she -could not have explained, but the shadow that had hung upon her all day -seemed wrapping itself about her like a cloud. - -“Monica, how you tremble!” said Beatrice. “Are you cold? Are you -afraid?” - -She was trembling herself, but it was with excitement and impatience. - -Monica did not answer, and Beatrice moved a little away. She was too -restless to stand still. - -Monica did not miss her. A storm was sweeping over her soul—one of -those storms that only perhaps come once in a life-time, and that leave -indelible traces behind them. It seemed to her as if all her life long -she had been waiting for this hour—as if everything in her past life -had been but leading up to it. - -Had she not known from her earliest childhood that some day this -beautiful, terrible, pitiless sea was to do her some deadly injury—to -wreck her life and leave her desolate? Ay she had known it always—and -now—had the hour come? - -Not in articulate words did Monica ask this question. It came as a sort -of voiceless cry from the depths of her heart. She did not think, she -did not reason—she only stood quite still, her hands closely clasped, -her white face turned towards the sea, with a mute, stricken look of -pain that yet expressed but a tithe of the bitter pain at her heart. - -But during those few minutes, that seemed a life-time to her, the -battle had been fought out and the victory won. The old calmness had -come back to her. She had not faced this hour all her life to be a -coward now. - -She was a Trevlyn—and when had a Trevlyn ever been known to shrink or -falter before a call of duty? - -Beatrice rushed back with the greatest excitement of manner. - -“They have a boat, but nearly all the men are away—the strong men who -could man it easily. There are a few strong lads, who are willing and -eager to go, and two fishermen; but there are only six in all, and they -don’t know if it is enough. Oh, dear! oh, dear! And those poor people -in the ship! Must they all be drowned?” - -“I think not,” answered Monica, quietly. “I think some means will be -found to save them. Where is Randolph?” - -Randolph was beside her next moment. - -“Ah, if only I were a man,” Beatrice was saying, excitedly. “Ah! why -are women so useless, so helpless? To think of them drowning within -sight of land—and they say the sea does not run so very high. Oh, what -will they do? They cannot let them drown! Randolph, can nothing be -done?” - -“Yes, something can be done,” he answered steadily and cheerfully. “The -boat is being run down. It will not be difficult or dangerous to launch -her in shelter of the cliff. There are six men to man it—all they want -is a coxswain. Monica,” he added, turning to her, and taking both her -hands in his strong clasp, “you have taught me to navigate the Bay of -Trevlyn so well, that I am equal to take that task upon myself. There -are lives to be saved—the danger to the rescuing party is small, they -say so, and I believe they speak the truth. Will you let me go?” - -She looked up to him with a mute entreaty in her eyes. - -“There are lives to be saved, my Monica,” he said, with grave -gentleness. “Are our brothers to go down within sight of land, without -one effort on our part to save them? Have you not wept for such scenes -before now? Have you no pity to-night? Monica, in that vessel on the -rocks there are men, perhaps, whose wives are waiting at home for them, -and praying for their safety. Will you let me go?” - -She spoke at length with manifest effort, though her manner was quite -calm. - -“Is there no one else?” - -“There is no one else.” - -For perhaps ten seconds there was perfect silence between them. - -“Then Randolph, I will let you go.” - -He bent his head and kissed her. - -“I knew my wife would bid me do my duty,” he said proudly; “and believe -me, my life, the danger is not great, and already the wind seems -abating. It is but a small vessel. In all probability one journey will -suffice. We shall not be out of sight, save for the darkness; we shall -be under the lee of the cliff for the best part of the way. The boat is -sound, the men know their work. We shall soon be back in safety, please -God, and then you will be glad that you let me go.” - -She lifted her head and looked at him. - -“Take me with you, Randolph.” - -“My darling, I cannot. It would not be right. We must not load the boat -needlessly, even were there no other reason. Your presence there would -take away half my courage, and perhaps it might necessitate leaving -behind some poor fellow who otherwise might be saved.” - -Monica said no more. She knew that he spoke the truth. - -Her white, still face with its stricken look, went to his heart. He -knew how strangely nervous she was on wild, windy nights. He knew it -would be hard for her to let him go, but she had shown herself his -brave, true Monica, as he knew she would do, and now the kindest thing -he could do was to shorten the parting, and return to her as quickly as -his errand would allow him. - -He held her a moment in his strong arms. - -“Good-bye, my Monica, my own sweet wife. Keep up a brave heart. Kiss me -once and let me go. Whatever happens, we are in God’s hands. Remember -that always.” - -She lifted her pale face, there was something strangely pathetic in its -haunting beauty. - -“Let me see you smile before I go. Tell me again that you bid me do my -duty.” - -Suddenly the old serenity and peace came back to the upturned face. The -smile he asked for shone in her sweet eyes. - -“Good-bye, my Randolph—my husband—good-bye. Yes, I do bid you do your -duty. May God bless and keep you always.” - -For a moment they stood together, heart pressed to heart, their lips -meeting in one long, lingering kiss; for one moment a strange shadow as -of farewell seemed to hang upon them, and they clung together as if no -power on earth could separate them. - -The next moment he was gone, and Monica, left alone, stretched out her -hands in the darkness. - -“Oh, my love! my love!” - -It was the one irrepressible cry from the depths of her heart; the -next moment she repeated dreamily to herself the words that had lately -passed her husband’s lips: - -“‘Whatever happens, we are in God’s hands. Remember that always.’ -Randolph, I will! I will!” - -A ringing cheer told her that the boat was off. Nobody had seen the -slim figure that had slunk after Randolph down to the beach. No one, -in the darkness and general excitement, had seen that same slim figure -leap lightly and noiselessly into the boat, and crouch down in the -extreme end of the bow. - -Conrad Fitzgerald had witnessed the parting between husband and wife; -he had heard every word that had passed between them; and now, as he -crouched with a tiger-like ferocity in the bottom of the boat, he -muttered: - -“This time he shall not escape me!” - - - - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. - -WIDOWED. - - -The boat launched by the rescuing party vanished in the darkness. -Monica stood where her husband had left her in the shelter of the -cliff, her pale face turned seawards, her eyes fixed upon the -glimmering crests of the great waves, as they came rolling calmly in, -in their resistless might and majesty. - -Beatrice had twice come back to her, to assure her with eager vehemence -that the danger was very slight, that it was lessening every moment as -the wind shifted and abated in force—dangerous, indeed, for the poor -fellows in the doomed vessel that had struck upon the fatal reef, but -not very perilous for the willing and eager and experienced crew that -had started off to rescue them. Beatrice urged this many times upon -Monica; but the latter stood quite still and spoke not a word; only -gazed out to sea with the same strange yearning gaze that was like a -mute farewell. - -Was it only an hour ago that she had been with her husband at home, -telling him of the dim foreboding of coming woe that had haunted her -all that day? It seemed to her as if she had all her life been standing -beside the dark margin of this tempest-tossed sea, waiting the return -of him who made all the happiness of her life—and waiting in vain. - -Beatrice looked at her once or twice, but did not speak again. -Presently she moved down towards the water’s edge. Surely the boat -would be coming back now! - -Suddenly there was a glad shout of triumph and joy from the -fisher-folk, down by the brink of the sea. - -“Here she is!” “Here she comes!” “Steady, there!” “Ease her a bit!” -“This way now!” “Be ready, lads!” “Here she comes!” “Now, then, all -together!” “After this wave—NOW!” - -Cries, shouts, an eager confusion of tongues—the grating of a boat’s -keel upon the beach, and then a ringing hearty cheer. - -“All safe?” - -“All saved—five of them and a lad.” “Just in time only.” “She wouldn’t -have floated five minutes longer.” “She was going down like lead.” - -What noise and confusion there was—people crowding round, flitting -figures passing to and fro in the obscurity, every one talking, all -speaking together—such a hubbub as Beatrice had never witnessed before. -She stood in glad, impatient expectancy on the outskirts of the little -crowd. Why did not Randolph come away from them to Monica? Why did she -not hear his voice with the rest? Her heart gave a sudden throb as of -terror. - -“Where is Lord Trevlyn?” - -Her voice, sharpened by the sudden fear that had seized her, was heard -through all the eager clamour of those who stood round. A gleam of -moonlight, struggling through the clouds, lighted up the group for a -moment. The words went round like wildfire: “Where is Lord Trevlyn?” -and men looked each other in the face, growing pale with conscious -bewilderment. Where, indeed, was Lord Trevlyn? He was certainly not -amongst them; yet he had undoubtedly steered the boat to shore. Where -was he now? Men talked in loud, rapid tones. Women ran hither and -thither, wringing their hands in distressful excitement, hunting for -the missing man with futile eagerness. What had happened? Where could -he be? - -Suddenly a deep silence fell upon all; for in the brightening moonlight -they saw that Monica stood amongst them—pale, calm and still, as a -spirit from another world. - -“Tell me,” she said. - -The story was told by one and another. Monica was used to the people -and their ways. She gathered without difficulty the substance of the -story. The boat had reached, without over-much difficulty or danger, -the sinking vessel. She was a small coaling ship, with a crew of seven -men and a boy. Two of the former had already been washed away, and the -vessel was sinking rapidly. The five survivors were easily rescued; -but the lad was entangled in the rigging, and was too much exhausted -to free himself and follow. Lord Trevlyn was the first to realise -this, and he sprang out of the boat at some peril to himself to the -lad’s assistance. Nobody had been able to see in the darkness what had -passed, but all agreed that the lad had been handed to those in the -boat by a pair of strong arms, and that after an interval of about -three minutes—for the boat had swung round, and had to be brought back -again, which took a little time—a man had sprung back into the boat, -had shouted “All right!” had seized the tiller, and sung out to the -crew to “Give way, and put off!” which they had done immediately, glad -enough to be clear of the masts of the sinking vessel, which were in -dangerous proximity. - -No one had been able in the darkness to see the face of the steersman; -but all agreed that the voice was “a gentleman’s”; and most mysterious -of all was the fact that the boat had been steered to shore with a -skill that showed a thorough knowledge of the coast, and that not a man -of those who now stood round had ever laid a hand upon the tiller. - -A thrill of superstitious awe ran round as this fact became known, -together with the terrible certainty that Lord Trevlyn had _not_ -returned with them. Was it indeed a phantom hand that had guided the -frail bark through the wild, tossing waves? The bravest man there felt -a shiver of awe—the women sobbed, and trembled unrestrainedly. - -The boat was put to sea once more without a moment’s delay. The wind -was dropping, the tide had turned, and the danger was well nigh over. -But heads were shaken in mute despair, and old men shook their heads -at the bare idea of the survival of any swimmer, who had been left to -battle with the waves round the sunken reef on a stormy winter’s night. - -Monica stood like a statue; she heeded neither the wailing of the -women, the murmurs of sympathy from the men, nor the clasp of -Beatrice’s hand round her cold fingers. She saw nothing, heard nothing, -save the tossing, the moaning of the pitiless sea. - -The boat came back at last—came back in dead, mournful silence. That -silence said all that was needed. - -Monica stepped towards the weary, dejected men, who had just left the -boat for the second time. - -“You have done all that you could,” she said gently. “I thank you from -my heart.” - -And then she turned quietly away to go home—alone. - -No one dared follow her too closely; even Beatrice kept some distance -behind, sick with misery and sympathetic despair. Monica’s step did not -falter. She went back to the spot where her husband had left her, and -stood still, looking out over the sea. - -“Good-bye, my love—my own dear love,” she said, very softly and calmly. -“It has come at last, as I knew it would, when he held me in his arms -for the last time on earth. Did he know it, too? I think he did just at -the last. I saw it in his brave, tender face as he gave me that last -kiss. But he died doing his duty. I will bear it for his sake.” Yet -with an irrepressible gesture of anguish she held out her arms in the -darkness, crying out, not loud, indeed, but from the very depth of her -broken heart, “Ah, Randolph!—husband—my love! my love!” - -That was all; that one passionate cry of sorrow. After it calmness -returned to her once more. She stepped towards Beatrice, who stood a -little way off, and held out her hand. - -“Come, dear,” she said. “We must go home.” - -Beatrice was more agitated than Monica. She was convulsed with tearless -sobs. She could only just command herself to stumble uncertainly up the -steep cliff path that Monica trod with ease and freedom. - -The moon was shining clearly now. She could see the gaze that her -companion turned for one moment over the tossing waste of waters. She -caught the softly-whispered words, “Good-bye, dear love! good bye!” and -a sudden burst of tears came to her relief; but Monica’s eyes were dry. - -As they entered the castle hall, they saw that the ill news had -preceded them. Pale-faced servants, both men and women, stood awed and -trembling, waiting, as it seemed, for their mistress. A sound as of -hushed weeping greeted them as they entered. - -No one ever forgot the look upon Monica’s face as she entered her -desolated home. It was far more sad in its unutterable calm than the -wildest expression of grief could have been. Nobody dared to speak a -word, save the old nurse who had tended Randolph from childhood. She -stepped forward, the tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. - -“Oh, my lady! my lady!” she sobbed. - -Monica paused, looked for one moment at the faithful servant; then bent -her head, and kissed her. - -“Dear nurse,” she said gently, “you always loved him;” and then she -passed quietly on to the music-room—the room that she and her husband -had quitted together less than three hours before, and shut herself up -there—alone. - -Beatrice dared not follow. She let Wilberforce take her upstairs, and -tend her like a child, whilst they mingled their tears together over -the brave young life cut short in its manhood’s strength and prime. -Randolph’s nurse was no stranger to Beatrice, and it was easy for the -good woman to speak with authority to one whom she had known as a -child, force her to take some nourishment, and exchange wet garments -for dry. She could not be induced to go to bed, exhausted though she -was, but the wine and soup did her good, and the hearty burst of -weeping had relieved her overcharged heart. She felt more like herself -when, after an hour’s time, she went downstairs again; but, oh! what a -different house it was from what it had been a few hours back! - -It was by that time eleven o’clock. Monica was still shut up in the -music-room. Nothing had been heard of Haddon; she had hardly even given -him a thought. She went down slowly to the hall, and found herself -face to face with Tom Pendrill. He wore his hat and great coat. He -had evidently just arrived in haste. As he removed the former she was -startled at the look upon his face. She had not believed it capable of -expressing so much feeling. - -“Beatrice,” he said hoarsely, “is it true?” - -He did not know he had called her by her Christian name, and she hardly -noticed it at the moment. She only bent her head and answered: - -“Yes, it is true.” - -Together they passed into the lighted drawing-room, and stood on either -side the glowing hearth, looking at each other fixedly. - -“Where is Monica?” - -“In the music-room, alone. They were there together when the guns -began. It will kill her, I am certain it will!” - -“No,” answered Tom quietly; “she will not die. It would be happier for -her if she could.” - -Beatrice looked at him with quivering lips. - -“Oh!” she said at last. “You understand her?” - -“Yes,” he answered absently, looking away into the fire. “I understand -her. She will not die.” - -Both were very silent for a time. Then he spoke. - -“You were there?” - -“Yes.” - -“Tell me about it.” - -“You have not heard?” - -“Only the barest outline. Sit down and tell me all.” - -She did not resent his air of authority. She sat down, and did his -bidding. Tom listened in deep silence, weighing every word. - -He made no comment on the strange story; but a very dark shadow rested -upon his sharp featured face. - -He was a man of keen observation and acuteness of perception, and his -mind often leaped to a conclusion that no present premises seemed to -justify. Not for a moment would he have given utterance to the question -that had suggested itself to his mind; but there it was, repeating -itself again and again with persistent iteration. - -“Can there have been foul play?” - -He spoke not a word, his face told no tales; but he was musing -intently. Where was that half mad fellow, Fitzgerald; who some months -ago had seemed on the high-road to drink himself to madness or death? -He had not been heard of for some time past; but Tom could not get the -question out of his mind. - -In the deep silence that reigned in the room every sound could be heard -distinctly. Beatrice suddenly started, for they were aware that the -door of the music-room had been opened, and that Monica was coming -towards them. The girl turned pale, and looked almost frightened. Tom -stood up as his hostess appeared, setting his face like a flint. - -The long hour that had seemed like a life-time to the wife—the -widow—how could they bring themselves to think of her as such?—had left -no outward traces upon Monica. Her face was calm and still, and very -pale, but it was not convulsed by grief, and her eyes did not look as -though they had shed tears, although there was no hardness in their -depths. They shone with something of star-like brightness, at once -soft and brilliant. The sweet serenity that had long been the habitual -expression of her face seemed intensified rather than changed. - -“Beatrice,” she said quietly, “where is your brother?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“Has he not come in?” - -“Not that I know of.” - -“We must inquire. He has been so many hours gone. I am uneasy about -him.” - -“Oh, never mind about him,” said Beatrice, quickly. “He will be all -right.” - -“We must think of him,” she answered. “Tom, it was good of you to come -back. What brought you? Did you hear?” - -“I heard a rumour. Of course I came back. Is there anything I can -do?” He spoke abruptly, like a man labouring under some weight of -oppression. - -“I wish you would go and inquire for Lord Haddon. Randolph sent him to -the life-boat station, because he believed he would ride over faster -than anybody else. I think he should be followed now, if he has not -come back. I cannot think what can have detained him so long.” - -“I will go and make inquiries,” said Tom. - -“Thank you. I should be much obliged if you would.” - -But as it turned out, there was no need for him to do this. Even as -Monica spoke they became aware of a slight stir in the hall. Uncertain, -rapid steps crossed the intervening space, and the next moment Haddon -stood before them in the doorway, white, drenched, dishevelled, -exhausted, leaning as if for support against the framework, whilst his -eyes sought those of his sister with a strange look of dazed horror. - -“Beatrice!” he cried, in a strained, unnatural tone. “Say it is not -true!” - -Monica had stepped forward, anxious and startled at his appearance. The -look upon her face must have brought conviction home to Haddon’s heart, -and this terrible conviction completed the work begun by previous -over-fatigue and exhaustion. He made two uncertain steps forward, -looked round him in a dazed bewildered way; then putting his hand to -his head with a sudden gesture as of pain, called out: - -“I say, what is it?—Look out!” and Tom had only just time to spring -forward and guide his fall as he dropped in a dead faint upon the -couch hard by. - -“Poor boy!” said Monica gently; “the shock has been too much for him.” - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. - -MONICA. - - -Lord Haddon was carried upstairs by Tom’s direction, and put to bed at -once, but it was a very long time before he recovered consciousness, -and the doctor’s face was grave when he rejoined Monica and Beatrice an -hour later. - -Afterwards they learned that he had reached the life-boat station, only -to find the boat out in another direction, that he had lost his way -in the darkness, and had been riding for hours over trackless moors, -wet through by driving storms of rain, obliged often to halt, despite -the cold and wet, to wait for passing gleams of moonlight to show him -his way; and this after a long day’s shooting and a long fast. He had -reached the castle at last, utterly worn out and exhausted, only to -hear the terrible news of the death of his best friend. The strain had -been too much, and he had given way. - -He awoke to consciousness only in a high state of fever, with pain in -every joint; and Beatrice, in answer to Tom’s question, admitted that -her brother had had a sharp attack of rheumatic fever some three years -before, and had always been rather susceptible to cold and damp ever -since. - -Tom looked gravely at Monica. - -“I was afraid he was in for something of that kind.” - -“Poor boy!” she said again, very gently. “I am so sorry. You will stay -with us, Tom? It will be a comfort to have you.” - -“Of course I will stay,” he answered, in his abruptest fashion. “I -shall sit up with Haddon to-night. You two must go to bed at once—I -insist upon it.” - -“Come, Beatrice,” said Monica, holding out her hand. “We must obey -orders you see.” - -As they went together up the broad staircase, Beatrice said, with a -little sob: - -“I cannot bear to think of our giving you all this trouble—just now.” - -But Monica stopped her by a kiss. - -“Have you not learned by this time Beatrice, that the greatest help in -bearing our own sorrows is to help others with their burdens? I am -grieved for you, dear, that this other trouble should have come; but -Tom is very clever, and we will all nurse him back to health again. -Good-night, dearest. You must try to sleep, that you may be strong -to-morrow.” - -The next day Lord Haddon was very ill—dangerously ill—the fever -ran very high, other unfavourable symptoms had showed themselves. -Tom’s face was grave and absorbed, and Raymond, who came over at -his brother’s request, looked even more anxious. Yet possibly this -alarming illness of a guest beneath her roof was the very best thing -that could have happened, as far as Monica herself was concerned. But -for his illness, Beatrice and her brother must have left Trevlyn at -once; it was probable that Monica would have elected to remain there -entirely alone during the early days of her widowhood, alone in her own -desolation, more heart-breaking to witness than any wild abandonment -of grief, alone without even those last melancholy offices to perform, -without even the solemn pageantry of a funeral to give some little -occupation to the mind, or to bring home in its own incontrovertible -way the fact that a loved being has passed away from the world for ever. - -Randolph had, as it were, vanished from this life almost as if spirited -away. There was nothing to be done, no obsequies to be performed. For -just a few days a faint glimmer of hope existed in some minds that a -passing vessel might have picked him up, that a telegram announcing his -safety might yet arrive; but at the end of a week every spark of such -hope had died out, and Monica, who had never from the first allowed -herself to be so buoyed up, put on her heavy widow’s weeds with the -steady unflinching calmness that had characterised her throughout. - -She devoted herself to the task of nursing Lord Haddon, in which task -she showed untiring care and skill. All agreed that it was best for -her to have her thoughts and attention occupied in some quiet labour -of love like this, and certainly her skill at this time was such as to -render her services almost invaluable to the patient. - -Haddon lay for weeks in a very critical state, racked with pain and -burning with fever. Without being always delirious, he was not in any -way master of himself, and no one could soothe, or quiet, or compose -him, during these long, weary days, except Monica. She seemed to -possess a power that acted upon him like a charm. He might not always -know her—very often he did not appear to recognise her, but he always -felt her influence. At her bidding he would cease the restless tossing -and muttering that exhausted his strength and gave him much needless -pain. He would take from her hand food that no one else could persuade -him to touch. She could often soothe him to sleep, simply by the sound -of her voice, or the touch of her hand upon his burning brow. - -“If he pulls through it will be your doing,” Tom sometimes said to -her. And Monica felt she could not do enough for the youth, who had -suffered all this in carrying out her husband’s last command, and who -had succumbed when his task was done, in hearing of the fate that had -befallen his friend. - -A curious bond seemed established between those two, the power of which -he felt with a throb of keen joy almost akin to pain, when at last the -fever was subdued, and he began to know in a feeble, uncertain sort of -fashion, what it was that had happened, and how life had been going -with him during the past weeks. - -It was of Monica he asked the account of that terrible night, and from -her lips he learned the story to which none else had dared to allude -in her presence. It was he who talked to her of Randolph, recalled -incidents of the past, talked of their boyish days and the escapades -they had indulged together, passing on to the increase of mutual -understanding and affection that had bound them together as manhood -advanced. - -Nobody else talked to her like this. Haddon never could have done so, -had not weakness and illness brought them into such close communion -one with another. His feelings towards Monica were those of simple -adoration—he worshipped the very ground she trod on. He often felt -that to die with her hand upon his head, her eyes looking gently and -kindly into his, was all and more than he could wish. His intense -loving devotion gave him a sort of insight into her true nature, and he -knew by instinct that he did not hurt her when he talked to her of him -who was gone. Perhaps from no other lips could Monica have borne that -name to be spoken just then; but Haddon in his hours of wandering had -talked so much of Randolph, that she had grown used to hear him speak -of the husband she had loved and lost, and she knew by the way in which -he had betrayed himself then how deeply and truly he loved him. - -When the fever had gone, and the patient lay white and weak, hardly -able to move or speak, yet with a mind cleared from the haunting -shadows of delirium, eager to know the history of all that had passed, -it had not seemed very hard then, in answer to the wistful look in the -big grey eyes, and the whispered words from the pale lips to tell him -all the truth; and the ice once broken thus, it had been no effort to -talk of Randolph afterwards, and to let Haddon talk of him too. - -This outlet did her good. She was not a woman to whom talking was -a necessity, yet it was better for her to speak sometimes of the -sorrow that was weighing upon her crushed spirit; and it was far, far -easier to do this to a listener like Haddon, who from his weakness -and prostration could rise to no great heights of sympathy, could -offer no attempt at consolation, could only look at her with wistful -earnestness, and murmur a broken word from time to time, than it would -have been to those who would have met her with a burst of tears, or -with those quiet caresses and marks of sympathy that must surely have -broken down her hardly-won composure and calm. - -So this illness of Haddon’s had really been a boon to her, and perhaps -to others as well; but for a few weeks Monica’s life seemed passed in -a sort of dream, and she was able to notice but little that passed -around her. She was wrapped in a strange trance—she lived in the past -with her husband, who sometimes hardly seemed to have left her. Only -when ministering to the needs of the young earl did she arouse herself -from her waking dream, and even then it sometimes seemed as if the -dream were the reality, and the reality a dream. - -Tom was a great deal at Trevlyn just now. For a long time Haddon’s -condition was so exceedingly critical that his presence was almost a -necessity, and when the patient gradually became convalescent, Monica -needed his help in getting through the business formalities that began -to crowd upon her when all hopes of Randolph’s rescue became a thing of -the past. - -Monica was happy at least in this—there was no need for her to leave -her old home—no new earl to claim Trevlyn, and banish her from the -place she loved best in the world. The Trevlyns were a dying race, as -it seemed. Randolph and Monica were the last of their name, and the -entail expired with him. Trevlyn was hers, as well as all her husband’s -property. She was a rich woman, but in the first instance it was -difficult to understand the position, and she naturally turned in her -perplexity to Tom Pendrill, who was a thorough man of business, shrewd -and hard-headed, and who, from his long acquaintance and connection -with Trevlyn, understood more about the estate than anybody else she -could have selected. He was very good to her, as she always said. -He put himself entirely at her disposal, and played the part of a -kind and wise brother. His dry, matter-of-fact manner of dealing with -transfer of property, and such-like matters, was in itself a comfort. -She was never afraid of talking things over with him. He kept sentiment -studiously and entirely in the back-ground. Although she knew perfectly -that his sympathy for her was very great, he never obtruded it upon her -in the least; it was offered and accepted in perfect silence on both -sides. - -Mrs. Pendrill, too, was a good deal at Trevlyn. She yearned over Monica -in the days of her early widowhood, and she had grown very fond of -Beatrice and her brother. Haddon wanted so very much care and nursing -that Mrs. Pendrill’s presence in the house was often a help to all. -Whilst Monica was in the sick room, she and Beatrice spent many long -hours together, and strange intimacy of thought sprang up between those -two who were so far from each other in age and position. Haddon, too, -was fond of the gentle-faced old lady, and he loved sometimes to get -her all to herself, and make her talk to him of Monica. - -His illness had left its traces upon the earl. He had, despite his -five-and-twenty years, seemed but a lad all this while; but when he -left his bed, it was curious to see how much of boyishness had passed -out of his face, how much quiet, thoughtful manliness had taken its -place. - -Nobody quite knew how or why this change had been so marked. Perhaps -the shock of his friend’s death had had something to do with it: -perhaps the danger he had himself been in. Very near indeed to the -gates of death had the young man stood. He had almost trodden the -shadowy valley, even though his steps had been retraced to the land of -the living. Perhaps it was this knowledge that made him pass as it were -in one bound from boyhood to manhood—or was there some other cause at -work? - -His face wore a look of curious purpose and resolution, oddly combined -with a sort of mute, determined patience: his pale, sharpened face, -that had changed so much during the past weeks, was changed in -expression even more than in contour. His grey eyes, once always full -of boyish merriment and laughter, were grave and earnest now: the eyes -of a man full of thought, expressive of a hidden yet resolute purpose. -These hollow eyes followed Monica about with unconscious persistency, -and rested upon her with a sense of perfect content. When he grew a -little stronger, and could just rise from the sofa and trail himself -across the room, it was strange to mark how eager he was to render her -those little instinctive attentions that come naturally from a man to a -woman. - -Sometimes Monica would accept them with a smile, oftener she would -restrain him with a gentle commanding gesture, and bid him keep quiet -till he was stronger; but she accepted his chivalrous admiration in -the spirit in which it was offered, and let him look upon himself as -her especial knight, as well he might, since to her skill and care Tom -plainly told him he owed his life. - -She let him talk to her of Randolph, though none of the others dared to -breathe that name. Sometimes she played to him in the dimness of the -music-room—and even he hardly knew how privileged he was to be admitted -there. She regarded him in the light of a loved brother, and felt -tenderly towards him, as one who had done and suffered much in the same -cause that had cost her gallant husband his life. What he felt towards -her would be more difficult to analyse. At present he simply worshipped -her, with a humble, devout singleness of purpose that elevated his -whole nature. The vague, fleeting, distant hope that some day it might -be given to him to comfort her had hardly yet entered into the region -of conscious thought. - - - - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH - -HAUNTED. - - -Christmas had come and gone whilst Lord Haddon lay hovering between -life and death. As the year turned, he began to regain health and -strength; but his progress was exceedingly slow, and all idea of -leaving Trevlyn was for the present entirely out of the question. A -journey in mid-winter was not to be thought of. It would be enough to -bring the whole illness back again; and Monica would not listen when he -sometimes said, with diffidence and appeal, that he feared they were -encroaching too much upon her hospitality and goodness. In truth, -neither brother nor sister were in haste to leave Trevlyn, or to leave -Monica alone in her desolate widowhood; and as Haddon’s state of health -rendered a move out of the question, the situation was accepted with -the more readiness. - -Monica was able now to resume something of the even tenor of her -way, to take up her daily round of duties, and shape out her life in -accordance with her strangely altered circumstances. - -All the old sense of dread connected with the sea had now vanished -entirely. It never frowned upon her now. It was her friend always—the -haunting presentiment of dread had passed away with the actual -certainty. Henceforward nothing could hold for her any great measure of -terror. She had passed through the very worst already. - -Sometimes Monica had a strange feeling that she was not alone during -her favourite twilight pacings by the sea. She had a sense of being -watched—followed—and the uneasiness of the dogs added to this -impression. It troubled her but little, however. She had no fears for -herself—she knew, too, that she was a little fanciful, and that it was -hardly likely in reality that her footsteps were dogged. - -But one dim January evening, as she pursued her way along the margin -of the sea, she was startled by seeing some large object lying dark -upon the pebbly beach. Her heart beat more fast than was its wont, for -she saw as she approached that it was the figure of a man, lying face -downwards upon the damp stones. - -He did not look like a fisherman, he was too well dressed, and there -seemed something not altogether unfamiliar in the aspect of the -slight, well-proportioned figure. For a moment she could not recall -the association, but as the dogs ran up snuffing and growling, the -man started and sat up, revealing the pale, haggard face of Conrad -Fitzgerald. - -Monica recoiled with an instinctive gesture of aversion. She had not -seen him since those summer days when she had been haunted by the -vision of his vindictive face and sinister eyes. But how he had changed -since then! She could not help looking at him, he was so pale, so thin; -his face was lined as if by pain, and his fiery eyes were set in deep -hollows. There was something rather awful in his appearance, yet he did -not look so wicked, so repulsive, as he had done many times before. - -A strange look of terror gleamed in his eyes as they met those of -Monica. - -“Go away!” he cried wildly. “What do you come here for? Why do you look -at me like that? Go—in mercy, go!” - -Monica was startled at his wild words and looks. Surely he was mad. But -if so, she must show no fear of him; she knew enough to be aware of -that. - -“What are you doing out here in the dark?” she said. “You ought not to -be lying there this cold night. You had better go home, or you will -lose your way in the dark.” - -He laughed wildly. - -“Lose my way in the dark! It is always dark now—always, since that dark -night—ha! ha!—that night!” His laugh was terrible in its wild despair. -“Why do you look at me? Why do you speak to me? You should not! You -should not! You would not if——oh, God! are you a ghost too?” - -Such an awful look of horror shone out of his eyes that Monica’s blood -ran cold. His gaze was fixed on vacancy. He looked straight at her, yet -as if he did not see her, but something beyond. The anguish and despair -painted upon that wild, yet still beautiful, face smote Monica’s heart -with a sense of deep sorrow and pity. - -“I am no ghost, Conrad,” she answered gently, trying if the sound of -the old name would drive that wild madness out of his eyes. “Why are -you afraid? What are you looking at? There is nothing there.” - -For his eyes were still glaring wildly into the darkness beyond, and as -Monica spoke he lifted his arm, and pointed to something out at sea. - -“Don’t look at me!” he whispered hoarsely, yet not as if he addressed -Monica. “Don’t speak to me! If you speak, I shall go mad! I shall go -mad, I say! Why do you haunt me so? Why do you look always like that? -I had a right—all is fair in love and war—and hate! Why did you give -me the chance? I had a vow—a vow in heaven—or hell! Ah! ha! Revenge is -sweet, after all!” and he burst into a wild, discordant laugh, dreadful -to hear. - -Monica shuddered, a sense of horror creeping over her. She did -not catch the whole of his words, lost as that hoarse whisper was -sometimes in the sullen plash of the advancing waves. The words were -not addressed to her, but to some imaginary object visible only to the -eye of madness. She attached no meaning to what she heard. She had -no clue by which to unravel the workings of his disordered mind. Yet -it was terrible to see his terror-stricken face, and listen to the -exclamations addressed to a phantom foe. She tried to recall him to -himself. - -“Conrad, there is no one here but ourselves. You have been dreaming.” - -Conrad turned his wild eyes towards her, but continued to point wildly -over the sea. - -“Can you not see him? There—out there! His head—his eyes—ah, those -eyes!—as he looked _then_—then! Ah, don’t look so at me, I say! You -will kill me!” - -He buried his face in his hands and shuddered from head to foot. -Monica, despite the shiver of horror that crept over her, felt more -strongly than anything else a deep pity for one whose mind was so -visibly shattered. Much of the past could be condoned to one whose -mental faculties were so terribly unstrung. She came one step nearer, -and laid her hand upon his arm. - -“You should not be out here alone,” she said. “You had better go home. -It is growing dark already. If you will come with me to the lodge, -I will see that you have a lantern; or, if you like, I will send a -servant with a lantern with you.” She felt, indeed, that he was hardly -in a condition to be out alone. She wished Tom Pendrill could see him -now. But at the touch of her hand Conrad sprang back as if she had -struck him. His eyes were full of shrinking horror. - -“Go away!” he said fiercely, “your hand burns me—it burns me, I say! -How can you look at me or touch me? What have I done that you come here -day by day to torment me? Is it not enough that _he_ leaves me no peace -night or day?—that he brings me down to this cursed place, whether I -will or no, but you must haunt me too? Ah, it is too much—it is too -much, I say!” - -She could not catch all these rapidly-uttered words, but she read the -hopeless misery of his face. - -“I do not wish to distress you, Conrad. Will you go home quietly now? -You are not well; you should not be out here alone. Have you anybody -there to take care of you?” - -He laughed again, and flung his arms above his head with a wild gesture -of despair. - -“You say this to me—you! you! It only wanted this. My God, this is too -much!” - -He turned from her and sprang away in the darkness. She heard his steps -as he dashed recklessly up the cliff path—so recklessly that she half -expected to hear the sound of a slip and a fall—and then as he reached -the summit and turned inland, they died away into silence. - -Monica drew a long breath of relief when she found herself alone. -There was something expressibly awful in talking alone to a madman in -the dimness of the dying day, in hearing his wild words addressed to -some phantom shadow seen only by his disordered vision. She shivered -a little as she turned towards him. She could stay no longer in that -lonely place. - -She met Tom looking out for her on her return. He said something about -her staying out too long in the darkness. She laid her hand upon his -arm, and pacing up and down the dark avenue, she told him of her -adventure with the madman. - -“Tom, I am certain he ought to see a doctor. Will you not see if you -can do something for him?” - -She could not see the expression of Tom’s face. Had she been able to -do so, she would have been startled. His voice was very cold as he -answered: - -“I am not a lunacy commissioner, Monica.” - -She was surprised, and a little hurt. - -“You are very hard, Tom. You saw him once before, why not again?” - -“If he, or his friends for him, require medical advice, I suppose they -are capable of sending for it,” he said, adding with sudden fierceness, -as it seemed to her, “Monica, Conrad Fitzgerald, ill or well, is -nothing to you. It is not fit you should waste a single thought upon -that scoundrel again!” - -She was surprised at his vehemence; it was so unlike Tom to speak with -heat. What had there been in her account of the meeting to discompose -him so greatly? Before she could attempt to frame the question, he had -asked one of her—asked it abruptly, as it seemed irrelevantly. - -“How long has Fitzgerald been in these parts?” - -“I don’t know? I have never seen him till to-night, nor heard of him at -all?” - -“Nor I. Go in, Monica. It is too late for you to be out.” - -“And you?” - -“I will come presently.” - -“And you will think about what I asked you?” - -“I will think about it—yes.” - -The tone was enigmatic. She could not make Tom out at all, but she went -in at his bidding. She knew that he wished to be alone, that he had -something disturbing upon his mind, though what it was she could not -divine. - -Tom, as it turned out, had no choice in the matter; for his brother -sent to him next day a message to the effect that Fitzgerald’s servant -had been to him with a very sad account of his master, who seemed to be -suffering under an acute attack of delirium tremens. Raymond thought -his brother, who had seen him once before, had better go the next day -in a casual sort of way, and see if he could do anything. Fitzgerald -was furious at the idea of having a doctor near him; but possibly he -would not regard Tom in that light, and the servants would do all they -could to obtain for him access to their master. They were terrified at -his ravings, and half afraid he would do himself or them an injury if -not placed under proper control. - -So Tom, upon the following afternoon, started for the old dilapidated -house, without saying a word to anyone as to his destination, and was -eagerly admitted by a haggard-looking servant, who said that his master -was “terrible bad to-day—it was awful like to hear him go on,” and -expressed it as his opinion that he was almost past knowing who was -near him, he was so wild and delirious. He had kept his bed for the -past two days, having been very ill since coming in, wet and exhausted, -on the night Monica had seen him. Between the attacks of delirium he -was as weak as a child; and with this much of warning and explanation, -Tom was ushered upstairs. - -An hour later he left that desolate house with a quick, firm tread, -that broke, as he turned a corner and was concealed from view, almost -to a run. His face was very pale; it looked thinner and sharper than -it had done an hour before, and his eyes were full of an unspeakable -horror. Now and again a sort of shudder ran through his frame; but -no word passed his tightly-compressed lips. He hurried through the -tangled park as if some deadly malaria lurked there. He hardly drew his -breath until he had left the trees and brake behind, and had plunged -into the wild trackless moor; even then, goaded by his thoughts, he -plunged blindly along for a mile or more, until at last, breathless and -exhausted, he sank face downwards upon the heather, trembling in every -limb. - -How long he lay there he never knew. He was roused at last by a touch -upon his shoulder, and raising himself with a start, he looked straight -into the startled eyes of Beatrice Wentworth. - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. - -LOVERS. - - -Tom sprang to his feet, and the two stood gazing at one another for a -moment in mute surprise. - -“You are ill,” said Beatrice; “you are as white as a sheet. What is the -matter?” - -She spoke anxiously. She looked half frightened at his strange looks; -he saw it, and recovered himself instantly. It was perhaps the first -time he had ever been taken unawares, and he was not altogether pleased -that it had happened now. - -“What are you doing out here all alone?” he asked peremptorily. - -“What are you doing lying on the ground on a cold January evening?” she -retorted. “Do you want to get rheumatic fever, too?” - -“Answer my question first. What are you doing out here, miles away from -home, with the darkness coming on, too?” - -“I lost my way,” she answered carelessly. “I never can keep my bearings -in these strange, wild places, where everything looks alike.” - -“Then I must take you home,” said Tom shortly. - -“You said you were going to dine at St. Maws to-night,” she objected. - -“I shall take you home first,” he said. - -“It will be ever so much out of your road. Just show me the way. I -shall find it fast enough.” - -“I dare say—After having lost it in broad daylight. You must come with -me. I cannot trust you.” - -Beatrice flushed hotly as she turned and walked beside him. Was more -meant than met the ear? - -“There is not the least need you should,” she said haughtily, and -seemed disposed to say no more. - -Tom spoke first, spoke in his abrupt peremptory fashion. He was -absorbed and distrait. She tried not to feel disappointed at his words. - -“Lady Beatrice, is it true that you knew Randolph Trevlyn intimately -for many years?” - -“Ever since I can remember. He was almost like a brother to us.” - -“Do you know if he ever had an enemy?” - -Beatrice looked up quickly into his pale face. - -“Why do you ask?” - -“That is my affair. I do not ask without a reason. Think before you -answer—if you can.” - -“Randolph was always such a favourite,” she began, but was interrupted -by a quick impatient gesture from Tom. - -“Don’t chatter,” he said, almost rudely, “think!” - -Oddly enough this brusque reminder did not offend her. She saw that -Tom’s nerves were all on edge, that they were strung to a painful -pitch of tension. She began to catch some of his earnestness and -determination. - -Beatrice was taken out of herself, and from that moment her manner -changed for the better. She thought the matter over in silence. - -“I have heard that Sir Conrad Fitzgerald had an old grudge against him.” - -“Ah!” breathed Tom softly. - -“But I fancied, perhaps, that Monica’s influence had made them friends. -Randolph knew some disreputable story connected with Sir Conrad’s past -life—Haddon knows more about it than I do—and he always hated him for -it.” - -“Ah!” said Tom again. - -“Why do you ask?” questioned Beatrice again; but he gave her no answer. -He was wrapped in deep thought. She looked at him once or twice, but -said no more. He was the first to speak, and the question was a little -significant. - -“You were down on the shore with Monica and Trevlyn that night, were -you not?” - -“Yes.” - -“Was Fitzgerald there, too?” - -She looked at him with startled eyes. - -“No; certainly not.” - -“Can you be sure of that? Was there moon enough to show plainly -everything that went on?” - -Beatrice put up her hand to her head. - -“No,” she answered. “I ought not to have spoken so positively. It was -too dark to see anything. There might have been dozens of people there -whom I might never have seen. I was much too anxious and excited -to keep a sharp look-out—why should I?—and there was not a gleam of -moonlight till many minutes after the boat got back, and the confusion -was very great all the time. Why do you talk so? Why do you ask such a -question?” - -She spoke with subdued excitement and insistance. - -“_Somebody_ was in that boat unknown to the crew,” he answered -significantly. - -“Was there?” - -“Somebody steered the boat to shore. You do not share, I presume, in -the popular belief of the phantom coxswain?” - -Beatrice stopped short, trembling and scared. - -“You think——?” but she could only get out those two words; she knew not -how to frame the question. - -He bent his head. “I do.” - -But she put out her hand with a quick, passionate gesture, as if -fighting with some hideous phantom. - -“Ah! no! no! It could not be. It would be too unspeakably awful—too -horrible! How do you know? How can you say such things? What has put -such a hideous thought into your mind?” - -“I came from standing by Fitzgerald’s bed, listening to his words of -wandering, his delirious outbursts. It is plain enough what phantoms -are haunting him now—what pictures he is seeing, as he lies in the -stupor of drink and opium. He is trying to drown thought and remorse, -but he has not succeeded yet.” - -Beatrice shuddered strongly, and faltered a little in her walk. Tom -took her hand and placed it within his arm. - -“You are tired, Beatrice?” - -“No; but it is so awful. Tom”—calling him so as unconsciously as he had -called her Beatrice—“must Monica know this? Oh! it was cruel enough -before—but this——” - -“She shall never know,” said Tom quickly. “To what end should we add -this burden to what she carries now? No one could prove it—it may be -nothing more than some sick fancy, engendered by the thought of what -might have been. Mind you, I have no moral doubts myself; but the man -is practically mad, and no confession or evidence given by him would be -accepted. He has fulfilled his vow—he has murdered—practically murdered -his foe; but Monica must be spared the knowledge: she must never know.” - -“No, never! never!” cried Beatrice; and her voice expressed so much -feeling, that Tom turned and looked at her in the fading light. - -“Have you a heart after all, Beatrice?” he asked. - -She made no answer; her heart beat wildly, answering in its own fashion -the question asked, but not in a way that he could hear. - -“Beatrice,” rather fiercely, “why did you not marry the marquis?” - -“Because I loathed him.” - -“You did not always loathe him?” - -“I did, I did, always.” - -“You flirted with him disgracefully, then.” - -She looked up with something of pleading in her dark eyes. - -“I was but eighteen.” - -“Do you never flirt now?” - -She looked up again, her eyes flashing strangely. - -“What right have you to ask such a question?” - -“The right of the man who loves you,” he answered, in the same -half-fierce, half-bitter way—“who loves you with every fibre of his -being; and although he has proved you vain and frivolous and heartless -once and again, cannot tear your image from his heart. Do not think -I am complaining. I suppose you have a right to please yourself; but -sometimes I feel as if no man had ever been treated so abominably as I -have been by you.” - -“You by me!” she answered, panting in her excitement, “when it was you -who left me in a fury, without one word of farewell.” - -“I thought I had had my _congé_ pretty distinctly.” - -“You had had nothing of the kind—nothing but a few wild confused -words from a mere child, frightened and bewildered by happiness and -nervousness into the silliest of speeches a silly girl could make at -such a moment. But you cannot understand—you never will—you are made of -stone, I think.” - -He turned upon her quickly. - -“I wish I were, sometimes,” he said; “I wish it when I am near you. You -make me love you—I am powerless in your hands, and you—you——” - -“I love you with all my heart. I have never loved anybody else, and you -have behaved cruelly, disgracefully to me always.” The words came all -at once in one vehement burst of passion. - -He stopped short, wheeled round, and stood facing her. He could only -just see her face as they stood thus in the gathering dusk. - -“Beatrice,” he said, slowly, “what did you say just now? Say it again.” - -Defiance shone out of her eyes. - -“I will not!” she said, her cheeks flaming. - -He took both her hands in his and held them hard. - -“Yes you will,” he answered. “Say it again.” - -She was panting with a strange mixture of feeling; the earth and sky -seemed to spin round together. - -“Say it again, Beatrice.” - -“I said—I loved you; but I don’t—I will never, never say it again——” - -She got no farther, for he held her so closely in his arms that all -speech was impossible for the moment. - -“That will do,” he answered. “I don’t want you to say it again. Once is -enough.” - - * * * * * - -“Monica,” said Beatrice in the softest of whispers as she came into the -quiet room where her brother lay asleep upon the sofa, and Monica sat -dreaming beside the fire. “Ah, Monica, Monica!” and then she stopped -short, kneeling down, and turning her quivering face and swimming eyes -towards the face bent tenderly over her. - -Somehow it was never needful to say much to Monica. She always -understood without many words. She bent her head now, and kissed -Beatrice. - -“Is it so, then, dear?” she asked. - -“Did you know?” - -“I knew what you told me yourself, and I could see for myself that he -had not forgotten any more than you.” - -“I did not see it.” - -“Possibly not—neither did he; but sometimes love is very blind—and very -wilful too.” - -Was there a touch of tender reproach in the tone? Beatrice looked at -her earnestly. - -“I know what you mean,” she said. “We both want to be master; but I -think—I am afraid—he will have the upper hand now.” - -But the smile that quivered over the upturned face was full of such -sweetness and brightness that Monica kissed her again. - -“You will not find him such a tyrant as he professes to be. Tom is very -generous and unselfish, despite his affectation of cynicism. I am so -glad you have made him happy at last. I am so glad that our paths in -life will not lie very widely apart.” - -Beatrice took Monica’s hand and kissed it. - -“I am so happy,” she said simply. “And I owe it all to you.” - -Monica caressed the dark head laid against her knee, as Beatrice -subsided into her favourite lowly position at Monica’s feet. Presently -she became aware that the girl’s tears were falling fast. - -“Crying, dearest?” she questioned gently. - -A stifled sob was the answer. - -“What is the matter, my child?” - -“Randolph!” was all that Beatrice could get out. Somehow the desolation -of Monica’s life had never come home to her with quite the same sense -of realisation as now, in the hour of her deepest happiness. - -“He would be glad,” answered Monica, steadily and sweetly. “He loved -you dearly, Beatrice; and he and Tom were always such friends. It was -his hope that all would come right. If he can see us now, as I often -think he can, he will be rejoicing in your happiness now. You must shed -no tears to-night, dearest, unless they are tears of happiness.” - -Beatrice suddenly half rose, and hung her arms round Monica. - -“How can you bear it? How can you bear it? Monica, I think you are an -angel. No one in this wide world was ever like you. And to think——” she -shuddered strongly and stopped short. - -“You are excited and over-wrought,” said Monica gently. “You must not -let yourself be knocked up, or Tom will scold me when he comes back. -See, Haddon is waking up. He had such a bad headache, poor boy; I hope -he has slept it off. You must tell him the news—it will please him I am -sure.” - -“You tell him,” whispered Beatrice, and slipped away to relieve her -over-burdened heart by a burst of tears; for one strange revelation -following upon another had tried her more than she had known at the -time. - -Haddon was quietly pleased at the news. He liked Tom; he had fancied -that he and Beatrice were not altogether indifferent to each other, so -this conclusion did not take him altogether by surprise. He was sorry -to think of losing Beatrice, but not as perplexed as he would have been -some months before. Life looked different to him now—more serious and -earnest. He began to have aspirations of his own. He no longer regarded -existence as a sort of pleasant easy game of play. - -Certainly it seemed as if the course of true love as regarded Beatrice -and Tom, after passing its early shoals and quicksands, were to run -quietly and smoothly enough now. He came back from St. Maws in time for -dinner, and when dessert was put on the table, he announced his plans -with the hardihood characteristic of the man. - -“Aunt Elizabeth is delighted, Beatrice, and so is Raymond,” he said. -“I have told them that we will be married almost at once, within two -months, at least—oh, you needn’t look like that. I think I’ve waited -long enough—pretty well as long as Jacob——” - -“Did for Leah—and didn’t like her in the end—don’t make that your -precedent.” - -“Well, don’t interrupt,” proceeded Tom imperturbably. “We’ve got -it all beautifully arranged. I’m going to take part of the regular -practice, as Raymond has always been bothering me to do ever since -it increased so much, and we’re to have half the house for our -establishment, and he and Aunt Elizabeth the other. It was originally -two houses, and lends itself excellently to that arrangement, though I -dare say practically we shall be all one household, as you and our aunt -have managed to hit it off so well. Monica, can’t Beatrice be married -from Trevlyn when Haddon is well enough to give her away? It would -save a lot of bother. I hate flummery, and I’m sure she does too. Come -now, Beatrice, don’t laugh. Don’t you think that would be an excellent -arrangement? Here we are; what is the good of getting all split up -again? You’ll be losing your heart to another marquis if I let you out -of my sight.” - -Her eyes were dancing with mischievous merriment. She was more than -ready to enter the lists. - -“Just listen to the tyrant—trying to keep me a prisoner already! trying -to take everything into his own hands—and not content without adding -insult to injury!” - -His eyes too were alight; but his mouth was grim. - -“I have not forgotten how you served me last time, my lady.” - -“At Oxford?” - -“At Oxford.” - -“Monica, listen. I will tell you how I served him. I had eyes for no -one but him, silly girl that I was; I was with him morning, noon and -night. Child as I was at the time, careless and inexperienced, even -_I_ was absolutely ashamed at the open preference I showed him; I blush -even now to think of the undisguised way in which I flung myself at -a particularly hard head. And yet he pretends he did not understand! -If that is so, then for real, downright, hopeless stupidity and -obtuseness, commend me to an Oxford double-first-class-man!” - -Beatrice might get the best of it in an encounter of tongues, but Tom -had his own way in the settlement of their affairs, possibly because -her resistance was but a pretence. What, indeed, had they to wait for, -when they had been waiting so many long years for one another? - -Nothing clouded the horizon of their happiness. Even the hideous shadow -which had been in a sense the means of bringing them together seemed -to have vanished with the sudden disappearance of Conrad Fitzgerald -from the neighbourhood. Upon the very day following Tom’s visit to -him, he left his house, ill and weak as he was, to join his sister at -Mentone. His servant accompanied him. The desolate house was shut up -once more, and Tom Pendrill sincerely hoped that the haunting baleful -influence of that wild and wicked nature had passed from their lives -for ever. - -And Beatrice after all was married at Trevlyn, in the little cliff -church that had seen the hands of Randolph and Monica joined in -wedlock. She resisted a good while, feeling afraid that it would be -painful to Monica—a second wedding, and that within a few months of her -own widowhood. But Monica took part with Tom, and the bride elect gave -way, only too delighted at heart to be with Monica to the very last. - -It was a very quiet wedding—as quiet as Monica’s own—even the people -gathered together in the little church had hardly changed. Only one -short year had passed since Monica in her snowy robes had stood before -that little altar, with the marriage vow upon her lips—only a year ago, -and now? - -Yet Monica’s face was very calm and sweet. She shed no tears, she -seemed to have no sad thoughts for herself, however others might feel. -One pair of grey eyes seldom wandered from her face as the simple -ceremonies of the day proceeded. One heart was far more occupied with -thoughts of the pale-faced widow than of the blooming bride. - -Haddon quitted Trevlyn almost immediately after his sister. The words -of thanks he tried to speak faltered on his tongue, and would not come. - -Monica understood, and answered by one of her sweetest smiles. - -“You were Randolph’s friend; you are my friend now. You must not try -to thank me. I am so very glad to think of the link that binds us -together. I shall not lose sight of you whilst Beatrice is so near. You -will come again some day?” - -“Yes, Lady Trevlyn,” he answered quietly, “I will come again;” and he -raised the hand he held for one moment very reverently to his lips. - -As he drove away he looked back, and saw Monica still standing upon the -terrace. - -“Yes,” he said quietly to himself, “I will come back—some day.” - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. - -“AS WE FORGIVE.” - - -A year had passed away since that fatal night when Randolph had left -his wife standing on the shore—had gone away in the darkness and had -returned no more: a year had passed, with its chequered lights and -shades, but the anniversary of her husband’s death found Monica, as he -had left her, at Trevlyn—alone. - -Many things had happened during that year. Beatrice had married and -settled happily in the picturesque red house at St. Maws as Tom -Pendrill’s loving, brilliant wife. Monica had been to Germany once -again, to assure herself with her own eyes of the truth of the -favourable reports sent to her. She had had the satisfaction of seeing -how great an improvement had taken place in Arthur’s condition; that -although the cure was slow—would most likely need a second, possibly -even a third year before it would be absolutely complete, yet it was -practically certain, if he and those who held his fate in their hands -would but have patience and perseverance. The boy was quite happy in -the establishment of which he was a member. He had gone through the -most trying part of the treatment, and was enthusiastic about the -kindness and skill of his doctor. He had made many friends, and had -quite lost the home-sickness that had occasionally troubled him at -first. He was delighted to see Monica again. He was insistant that she -should come to see him often; but he did not even wish to return to -Trevlyn till he could do so whole and sound, as a man in good health -and strength, instead of a helpless invalid. - -Monica was summoned from Germany by the news of the dangerous illness -of Lady Diana, who died only a few days after the arrival of her niece. -She had been talking of making a permanent home at Trevlyn now that -Monica was so utterly alone, but her death stopped all such schemes; -and so it came about that in absolute solitude the young widowed -countess took up her abode for the winter in the great silent castle -beside the sea. - -The sea still exercised its old fascination over Monica. Her happiest -hours were spent wandering by its brink or riding along the breezy -cliff. It was a friend indeed to her in those days, it frowned upon her -no more. It had done its worst already—it had taken away the light of -her life. Might it not be possible—was there not something of promise -in its eternal music? Could it be that in some unexpected, mysterious -way it would bring back some of the light that had been taken -away—would be the means of uniting once again the hearts that had been -so cruelly sundered? Strange thoughts and fancies flitted often through -her brain, formless and indistinct, but comforting withal. - -Returning to the castle at dusk one day, after one of these solitary -rambles, she found an unusual bustle and excitement stirring there. -Wilberforce hurried forward to explain the cause of the unwonted -tumult. - -“I hope I have not done wrong, my lady. You were not here to give -orders, and I could only act as I felt you would wish. A lad came -running in with a scared face not half an hour back, saying there was a -man lying at the foot of the cliffs, as if he had fallen over. I scarce -think he can be alive if that be so; but I told the men that if he -was—as there is no other decent house near—I thought you would wish——” - -“That he should be brought here. Quite right, Wilberforce. Is there a -room ready? Has Mr. Pendrill been sent for?” - -“The groom has gone this twenty minutes. Living or dead, he must have a -doctor to him. The maids are getting the east room ready, yet I doubt -if he can be living after such a fall.” - -“He may not have fallen over the cliff. He may have been scaling it, -and have dropped from but a small height. See that everything likely to -be needed is ready. He may be here almost immediately now.” - -She went up to the bed-room herself, to see if it were ready should -there be need. It was probably only some poor tramp or fisherman who -had met with the accident—no matter, he should be tended at Trevlyn, he -should lie in its most comfortable guest-chamber, he should have every -care that wealth could supply. Monica knew too well the dire results -that might follow a slip down those hard, treacherous cliffs not to -feel peculiarly tender and solicitous over another victim. - -The steady tramp of feet ascending the stairs and approaching the -room where she stood, roused Monica to the knowledge that the injured -man was not dead, and that they were bringing him up to be tended and -nursed as she had directed. The door was pushed open; six men carried -in their burden upon an improvised stretcher, and laid it just as it -was upon the bed. Monica stepped forward, and then started, growing a -little pale; for she recognised in the death-like rigid face before her -the well-known countenance of Conrad Fitzgerald. - -She could not look without a shudder at that shattered frame, -and Wilberforce shook her head gravely, marvelling that he yet -breathed. None save professional hands dared touch him, so distorted -and dislocated was every limb; and yet by one of those strange -coincidences, not altogether uncommon in cases of accident, the -beautiful face was entirely untouched, not marred by a scratch or -contusion. Death-like unconsciousness had set its seal upon those -chiselled, marble features, and had wiped from them every trace of -passion or of vice. - -Tom Pendrill was amongst them long before they looked for him. He had -met the messenger not far from Trevlyn, and had come at once. He turned -Monica out of the room with a stern precipitancy that perplexed her -somewhat, as did also the expression of his face, which she did not -understand. He shut himself up with his patient, retaining the services -of Wilberforce and one of the men. - -It was two hours before she saw him again. - -Monica wandered up and down the dark hall, revolving many things in -her mind. What had brought Conrad so suddenly back at this melancholy -time of the year? She had believed him abroad with his sister, with -whom he seemed to have spent his time since his disappearance early in -the spring. What had brought him back now? And why did he so haunt the -frowning, treacherous cliffs of Trevlyn? Was he mad? But why did his -madness always drive him to this spot? She asked many such questions of -herself, but she could answer none of them. - -At last Tom came down. His face looked as if carved in flint. She could -not read the meaning of his glance. - -“Is he dead?” she asked softly. - -“He cannot last long. If he has any relations near, they should be -telegraphed for.” - -“His sister is in Italy, I believe. There is no one else that I know -of.” - -“Then there is nothing to be done. He is sinking fast. He cannot live -many hours. I doubt if he will last the night.” - -Monica’s face was pale and grave. - -“Poor Conrad!” she said, beneath her breath. - -Tom started, and made a quick movement as of repulsion. - -“No one could wish him to live,” he began, almost roughly; “he has -hardly a whole bone in his body.” - -“Is he conscious?” - -“No, nor likely to be. It is not at all probable he will ever open his -eyes again. He will most likely sink quietly, without a sound or a -sign. I have done all I can for him. Somebody must be with him to watch -him, I suppose. It can only be a question of hours now.” A dark cloud -hung upon the doctor’s brow. His thoughts were preoccupied. Presently -he spoke again—a sort of mutter between his teeth. - -“He ought not to be allowed to die here—under _this_ roof. It is -monstrous—hateful to think of! Nothing can save him. Yet I suppose it -would be murder to move him now.” - -Monica looked up quickly. - -“Move him! Tom, what are you thinking of?” - -“I know it cannot be done,” was the answer, spoken in a stern, dogged -tone. “Yet I repeat what I said before: he ought not to be under this -roof.” - -There was a gentle reproach in the look that Monica bent upon him. - -“My husband’s roof and mine will always be a refuge for any whose -need is as sore as his. Sometimes I think, Tom, that you are the very -hardest man I ever met. His life, I know, is terribly stained; yet it -is not for us to judge him.” - -It seemed as if Tom were agitated. He gave no outward sign, but his -face was pale, his manner curiously harsh and peremptory. - -“You do not know,” he said. “Your husband——” - -She stopped him by a gesture. - -“My husband would be the first to bid me return good for evil. You know -Randolph very little if you do not know that. Conrad is dying, and -death wipes out much. He is about to answer for his life to a higher -tribunal than ours. Ah! let us not condemn him harshly. Have we not all -our sins upon our heads? When my turn comes to answer for mine, let me -not have this one added—that I hardened my heart against the dying, and -denied the help and succour mutely asked at the last hour.” - -“Monica,” said Tom, with one of those swift changes that marked his -manner when he was deeply moved, “were I worthy, I would kiss the hem -of your garment. As it is, I can only say farewell. God be with you!” - -He was gone before she could open her lips again. She stood in a sort -of dream, feeling as if some strange thing were about to happen to her. - -Night fell upon the castle and its inhabitants, but Monica could not -sleep. If ever she closed her eyes in momentary slumber, the same vivid -dream recurred again and again, till she was oppressed and exhausted by -the effort to escape from it. It was Conrad, always Conrad, begging, -praying, beseeching her to come. Sometimes it seemed as if his shadowy -form stood beside her, wildly praying the same thing—to come to him—to -come before it was too late. - -At last she could stand it no longer. She rose and dressed. The clock -in the tower struck four. She knew she could sleep no more that night. -Why should she not take the watch beside the unconscious dying man, and -let the faithful Wilberforce get some rest? - -She stole noiselessly to the sick room. There had been no change in -the patient’s state. He lived, but could hardly live much longer. -Wilberforce would fain have stayed, but Monica dismissed her quietly -and firmly, preferring to keep her watch alone. - -Profound silence reigned in the great house—silence only broken from -time to time by the reverberating strokes of the clock in the tower, or -by the sudden sinking of the coal in the grate and the quiet fall of -the cinders. There was something inexpressibly solemn in the time, the -place, and the office thus undertaken by Monica. - -Conrad lay dying—Conrad, once her friend and playmate, then her -bitterest, cruellest foe, now?—ah yes, what now?—she asked that -question many times of herself. What strange, mysterious power is -that of death! How it blots out all hatred, anger, bitterness, -and distrust, and leaves in its place a sort of tender, mournful -compassion. Who can look upon the face of the dead, and cherish hard -thoughts of him that is gone? - -Not Monica, at least. Conrad had been to her as the evil genius of -one crisis of her life—of more had she but known it. She had said -in her heart that she could never forgive him, that she would never -voluntarily look upon his face again, and yet here he lay dying beneath -her roof, and she was with him. She could not, when it came to the -point, leave him to die alone, with only a stranger beside him. He -might never know, his eyes would probably never open to the light of -this world again; but she should know, and in years to come, when time -should, even more than now, have softened all things to her, she knew -that she should be glad to think she had shown mercy and compassion -towards one in death, who had shown himself in life her bitterest foe. - -Very solemn thoughts filled her mind as she sat in that quiet room, -in which a strong young life was quickly ebbing away. Would the -sin-stained soul pass into the shadowy land of the hereafter in -silence and darkness, without one moment for preparation—perhaps for -repentance? Would some slight gleam of consciousness be granted? would -it be vouchsafed to him to wake once more in this world, to give some -sign to the earnest, silent watcher whether he had tried to make his -peace with God before he was called to his last account? - -The lamp burned low—flickered in its socket. That strange blue _film_, -the first forerunner of the coming day, stole solemnly into that quiet -room. Suddenly Monica became aware that Conrad’s eyes were open, and -fixed intently upon her face. She rose and stood beside him. - -“You are here?” he said, in a strange low voice. “I felt that you would -hear me call—and would come. I knew I could not—die—till I had told you -all.” - -She did not know how far he was conscious. His words were strange, but -his eye was calm and quiet. He took the stimulant she held to his lips. -It gave him an access of strength. - -“Where am I?” he asked. - -“At Trevlyn.” - -A strange look flitted over his face. - -“Ah! I remember now—I fell. And I have been brought to Trevlyn—to -die—and you, Monica, are with me. It is well.” - -She hardly knew what to say, or how to answer the awed look in those -dying eyes. He bent a keen glance upon her. - -“Will it be soon?” he asked; and she knew that the “it” meant death. -She could not deceive him. She bent her head in assent, as she said: - -“Very soon, I think.” - -His eyes never left her face. His own face moved not a muscle, but its -expression changed moment by moment in a way she could not understand. - -“There is not much time left, Monica. Sit down by me where I can see -you. I must make a confession to you before I die.” - -“Not to me, Conrad,” said Monica gently. “Confess your sins to our -Father in Heaven. He alone can grant forgiveness; and His mercies are -very great.” - -“Forgiveness!” the word was spoken with an intensity of bitterness that -startled Monica. The horror was deepening each moment in his eyes. She -began to feel that it was reflected in her own. What did it all mean? - -“God is very merciful,” she said gently, commanding herself so that he -should not see her agitation. - -“You do not know,” he interrupted almost fiercely. “Wait till I have -told you all.” - -“Why should you tell me, Conrad? I know much of your past life. I know -that you have sinned. Ask God’s forgiveness before it is too late. It -is against Him, not me, that you have sinned.” - -“Against Him _and_ you,” he answered with a grave intensity of manner -that plainly showed him master of his faculties. “Listen to me, -Monica—you shall listen! I cannot carry the guilty secret to the grave. -Death looks me in the face—he holds me by the hand, but he will not let -me leave this world till I have told you all.” - -A sort of horror fell upon Monica. She neither spoke nor moved. - -“Monica, turn your face this way. I want to see it. I must see it. You -remember the night, a year ago, when—your husband—went away?” - -She bent her head in silence. - -“Did you know that I was there—in the boat with him?” - -She raised her head, and looked at him speechlessly. - -“I was there,” he said, “but nobody knew, nobody suspected. I was on -the shore before you. I saw you cling to him. I heard every word that -passed. I think a demon entered into my soul as you kissed each other -that night. ‘Kiss her!’ I said, ‘kiss her—you shall never kiss her -again!’ Monica, I think sometimes I am mad—I was mad, possessed, that -night. I had no will, no power to resist the evil spirit within me. He -went down to the boat. I followed. In the black darkness nobody saw me -swing myself in. You know the story the men told when they came back—it -was all true enough. The crew of the sinking vessel had been rescued. -Your husband left the boat to help the little lad. I followed him, -unknown to all. He had already handed the boy into the boat when I -came stealthily up to him; the boat had swung round, and for a moment -was lost in darkness before it could be brought up again. This was my -chance. It was pitchy dark, and he did not see me, though I was close -beside him. I had the great boat-hook in my hand; we were both sinking -with the sinking vessel. I steadied myself, and brought the metal end -of the weapon with all my strength upon his head. He sank without a -cry. I saw his head, covered with blood, and his glassy eyes above the -water for a moment—the sight has haunted me ever since—then I sprang -into the boat. ‘All right!’ I shouted, and the men pulled off with a -will, without a suspicion or a doubt. Almost before the boat reached -the shore I sprang out, and vanished in the darkness before any one had -seen me. My vow of vengeance was fulfilled. I murdered your husband -Monica—do you understand?—I murdered him in cold blood! What have you -to say to me?” - -She sat still as a marble statue, her hands closely locked together. -She spoke no word. - -“I thought revenge would be sweet; but it has been -bitter—bitter—bitter! I have known no peace night or day. I have been -ceaselessly haunted by the sight of that ghastly face—ah, I see it now! -Every time I lie down to sleep I am doomed to do that hideous deed -again. I have fled time after time from the scene of my crime, only to -be dragged back by a power I cannot resist. I knew that a terrible -retribution would come; yet I could not keep away. And now—yes, it has -come—more terrible than ever I pictured. I am dying—in his house—and -you—his wife—are watching over me. Ah, it is frightful! Is there -forgiveness with God for sin like mine? You say His mercies are great. -Can they cover this hideous deed? Monica, can _you_ forgive?” - -He spoke with the wild, passionate appeal of despair. The anguish and -remorse in his face were terrible to see; but Monica did not speak. She -sat rigid and still, as pale as death, her eyes glowing like living -fire in the wild conflict of her feelings. This was terrible—too -terrible to be borne. - -“Monica, I am dying—dying! The shadows are closing round me. Ah, do -not turn away! It is all so dark; if you desert me I am lost indeed! -If you were dying you would understand. Monica, you say God is -good—merciful. I have asked His pardon again and again for this black -sin, and even as I pray it seems as if you—your pale, still face—rises -ever between me and the forgiveness I crave. I read by this token that -to you I must confess this blackest sin; of you I must ask pardon too. -I have repented. I do repent. I would give my life to call him back. -Monica, forgive—forgive! Have mercy upon a dying man. As you will one -day ask pardon at God’s hands even for your blameless life, give me -your pardon ere I die!” - -Who shall estimate the struggle that raged in Monica’s soul during -the brief moments that followed this appeal—moments that to her were -like hours, years, for the concentrated passion of feeling that surged -through them? She felt as if she had grown sensibly older, ere, white -and shaken by the conflict, she won the victory over herself. - -She rose and stood beside him. - -“Conrad, I forgive you. May God forgive you as I do.” - -A sudden light flashed into his dim eyes. The awful, unspeakable horror -passed slowly away. The deep darkness lifted a little—a very little—and -Monica saw that it was so. - -“I think—you have—saved me,” he whispered, whilst the death damp -gathered on his brow. “Monica, you will have your reward for this—I -know it—I feel it. Ah! is this death? Monica—it is coming—teach me to -pray—I cannot—I have forgotten—help me!” - -“I will help you, Conrad. Say it after me. ‘Our Father which art in -Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on -earth as it is in Heaven; Give us this day our daily bread; And forgive -us our trespasses; As we forgive’——” - -“‘As we forgive’——” Conrad broke off suddenly; a strange look of -gladness, of relief, of comprehension, flashing over the face that -had been so full of terror and anguish. “‘As we forgive’—and you have -forgiven—then it may be that He will forgive too. I could not believe -it before—now I can—God be merciful to me, a sinner!” - -Those were his last words. Already his eyes were glazing. The hush as -of the shadow of death was filling that dim room. Monica knelt beside -the bed, a sense of deep awe upon her, praying with all the strength of -her pure soul for the guilty, erring man—her husband’s murderer—dying -beneath his roof. - -And as she thus knelt and prayed, a sudden sense of her husband’s -presence filled all her soul with an inexpressible, indescribable -thrill of mingled rapture and awe. She trembled, and her heart beat -thick and fast; whether she were in the spirit or out of the spirit -she did not know. And then—in deep immeasurable distance, far, far -away, and yet distinctly, sweetly clear—unmistakable—the sound of a -voice—Randolph’s voice—thrilling through infinity of space: - -“Monica! Monica! My wife!” - -She started to her feet, quivering in every limb. Conrad’s eyes were -fixed upon her with an inexplicable look of joy. Had he heard it too? -What did it mean—that strange cry from the spirit world in this hour of -death and dawn? - -She leant over the dying man. - -“Conrad,” she said, in a voice that was full of an emotion too deep for -any but the simplest of words, “I forgive you—so does Randolph; and I -think God has forgiven you too.” - -The clear radiance of another day was shining upon the earth as the -troubled, erring spirit was set free, and passed away into the great -hereafter, whose secrets shall be read in God’s good time, when all but -His Word shall have passed away. - -Let us not judge him—for is there not joy with the angels in heaven -over one sinner that repenteth? - -Yes, all was over now: all the weary warfare of sin and strife; and -with a calm majesty in death, that the beautiful face had never worn in -life, Conrad Fitzgerald lay dead in Castle Trevlyn. - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. - -LORD HADDON. - - -“And you forgave him, Monica, you forgave him? The man who had killed -your husband?” - -It was Beatrice who spoke, and she spoke with a sort of horror in her -tone. Tom stood a little apart in the recess of the window, a heavy -cloud upon his brow. Lord Haddon was leaning with averted face upon the -high carved mantel-shelf. - -They had all come over early to Trevlyn to hear the fate of the hapless -man who had died in the night. Beatrice felt an unquenchable longing -to know if he had spoken before he died—if by chance the terrible -secret had escaped in delirium from his lips; and she had insisted on -coming with her husband. Her brother, who had arrived unexpectedly -the previous evening, had made one of the party. He was hungering for -another sight of Monica, and Trevlyn seemed to draw him like a magnet. - -Monica’s face had told a tale of its own when she had first appeared; -and the whispered question on Beatrice’s lips: - -“Did he speak, Monica? Did he say anything?” elicited a reply that led -to explanations on both sides, rendering further reserve needless; and -Monica told her tale with the quiet calmness of one who has too lately -passed through some great mental conflict to be easily disturbed again. - - -But Beatrice, fiery, impetuous Beatrice, could not understand this -calm. She was shaken by a tempest of excitement and wrath. - -“You forgave him, Monica? Ah! how could you? Randolph’s murderer!” - -“Yes, I forgave him.” - -“You should not! You should not! It was not—it could not be right! -Monica, I cannot understand you. I think you are made of stone!” - -She said nothing; she smiled. That smile was only seen by Haddon. It -thrilled him to his heart’s core. - -“How came you to be with him at all?” said Tom, almost sternly. “It was -not your duty to be there. It was no fit place for you.” - -“I think my place is where there is sorrow and need and loneliness,” -answered Monica, very gently. “He needed me—and I came to him.” - -“He sent for you?” - -“I think he did.” - -“But you said——” - -Monica lifted her hand; she rose to her feet, passing her hand across -her brow. - -“You would not understand, dear. There are some things, Beatrice, that -you are very slow to learn. You know something of the mysteries of -life, but you do not understand anything of those deeper mysteries of -death. I have forgiven a dying man, who prayed forgiveness with his -latest breath—and you look at me with horror.” - -Beatrice gazed at Monica, but yet would not yield her point. - -“Mercy can be carried too far——” but she could not say more, for the -look upon Monica’s face brought a sudden sense of choking that would -have made her voice falter had she attempted to proceed. Her brother’s -murmured words, therefore, were now distinctly heard. - -“Not in God’s sight, perhaps.” - -Monica turned to him with a swift gesture inexpressibly sweet. - -“Ah! you understand,” she said simply. “I am glad you have come just -now, Haddon. I shall want help. Will you give it me?” - -“I will do anything for you, and esteem it an honour.” - -She looked at him steadily. - -“Even if it is for one who—for the one who lies upstairs now—dead?” - -Haddon bent his head. - -“Even for him—at your bidding.” - -“Thank you,” she said. - -“I will take you home now, Beatrice,” said Tom, curtly. “We are not -wanted here.” - -Monica looked questioningly at him, as she gave him her hand, to see -what this abruptness might signify. He returned her gaze with equal -intensity. - -“I believe you are an angel, Monica,” he said, lifting her hand for a -moment to his lips; “but there are moments when fallen mortals like -ourselves feel the angelic presence a little overpowering.” - - -Monica, as she had said, wanted the help of some man of business, as -there was a good deal to be done in connection with Conrad’s sudden -death: a good many trying formalities to be gone through, as well as -much correspondence, and in Lord Haddon she found an able and willing -assistant. - -He saw much of Monica in those days. He was often at Trevlyn—hardly a -day passed without his riding or driving across on some errand—and she -was often at St. Maws herself, for Beatrice’s momentary flash of anger -had been rapidly quenched in deep contrition and humility; and both she -and her husband treated Monica with the sort of reverential tenderness -that seemed to meet her now on all hands. - -Lord Haddon watched her day by day, wondering if ever he should dare -to breathe a word of the hopes that filled his heart, reading in her -calm face and in the sisterly gentleness and fondness with which she -treated him, how little conscious she was of the purpose that possessed -his soul. Sometimes he paused and shrank from troubling the still -waters of their sweet, calm friendship, but then again the thought -of leaving her in her loneliness and isolation seemed too sad and -mournful, if by any devotion and love he could lighten the burden of -her sorrow, and bring back something of the lost happiness into her -life. Haddon was very humble, very self-distrustful; he did not expect -to accomplish much, but he felt that he would gladly lay down his life, -if by that act he could do anything to comfort her. To die for her -would, however, be purposeless: the next thing was to try and live for -her. - -And so one day, as they paced the lonely shore together, on a chill -cloudy winter’s afternoon, he put his fate to the touch. - -She had noticed his silence—his abstraction: he had not been quite -himself all day. Presently they reached a sheltered nook amongst some -rocks not far from the water’s edge, and she sat down, motioning him to -do the same. She looked at him with gentle, friendly concern. - -“Is anything the matter?” she asked. “Have you something on your mind?” - -He turned his head, looked into her eyes, and answered: - -“Yes.” - -“Can I help you?” she continued, in the same sweet way. “You help me so -often, that it is my turn to help you now if I can.” - -He looked with a glance she could not altogether understand. - -“Monica,” he said, “may I speak to you?—may I tell you something? I -have tried to do so before, and have failed; but I ought not to go on -longer without speaking. Have I your permission to tell you what is on -my mind?” - -He did not often call her by her Christian name: only in moments of -excitement, when his soul was stirred within him. The unconscious way -in which it dropped now from his lips told that he was deeply moved. -A sort of vague uneasiness arose within her, but she looked into his -troubled, resolute face, and answered: - -“Tell me if you wish it, Haddon”—although she shrank, without knowing -why, from the confession she was to hear. - -“Monica,” he said, not looking at her, but out over the sea, and -speaking with a manly resolution and fluency unusual with him, the -outcome of a very earnest purpose, “I am going to speak to you at -last, and I must ask you beforehand to pardon my presumption, of which -I am as well aware as you can ever be. Monica, I think that no woman -in the wide world is like you. I have thought so ever since I saw you -first, in your bridal robes, standing beside Randolph in that little -church over yonder. When I saw you then—nay, pardon me if I pain you; -I should not have recalled the memory, and yet I cannot help it—I -said within myself that you were one to be worshipped with the truest -devotion of a man’s heart; and the more I saw of you in later life, the -deeper did that feeling sink into my soul. He, your husband, had been -as a brother to me, and to feel that I was thus brought near to you, -admitted to friendship and to confidence, was a source of keen pleasure -such as I can ill describe. You did not know your power over me, -Monica. I hardly knew it myself; but I think I would at any time have -laid down my life either for him or for you. I know I would that fatal -night—but I must not pain you more. When I awoke, Monica, from that -long fever, to find you watching beside me, to hear that he, my friend, -was dead, and you left all alone in your desolation—Monica, Monica, how -can I hope to express to you what I felt? It is not treachery to his -memory—believe me, it is not. If I could call him back, ah! how gladly -would I do it!—at the cost of my life if need be—but that can never, -never be! I know I can never fill _his_ place. I know I am utterly -unworthy of the boon I ask; but if a life-long devotion, if a love -that will never change nor falter, if the ceaseless care of one, who -is yours wholly and entirely, can ever help to fill the blank, can in -ever so small a degree make up to you for that one irretrievable loss, -believe me, it will be the greatest happiness I can ever know. Monica, -need I say more? Have I said too much? I only ask leave to watch over -you, to comfort you, to love you; I ask nothing for myself—only the -right to do this. Can you not give it to me? God helping me, you shall -never repent it if you do.” - -A long pause followed this confession—this appeal. Monica’s face -had expressed many fluctuating feelings as he had proceeded with his -speech. Now it was full of a sort of divine compassion and tenderness: -a look sometimes seen in a pictured saint or Madonna drawn by a master -hand. - -“You are so good,” she said, very low; “so very, very good; and it -grieves me so sadly to give you pain.” - -He turned his head and looked at her. His eyes darkened with sudden -sorrow. - -“I have spoken too soon,” he said, in the same gentle, self-contained -way. “I have tried to be patient, but seeing you lonely and sad makes -it so hard. I should have waited longer—it is only a year now since. -Monica, do not think me hard or callous to say it, but time is a great -softener—a great healer. I do not mean that you will ever forget; but -years will go by, and you are still quite young, very young to live -your life always alone. Think of the years that lie before you. Must -they all be spent alone? Monica, do not answer me yet; but if in time -to come—if you want a friend, a helper—let me—can you think of me? -Ah! how can I say it? Can I ever be more to you than I am now? You -understand: you have only to call me, to command me—I will come.” - -He spoke with some agitation now, but it was quickly subdued. It seemed -as if he would have left her, but she laid her hand upon his arm and -detained him. - -“Haddon,” she said, softly, “I am lonely and I do want a friend. You -have been a friend to me always; I trust and love you as a brother. -May I not do so always? Can you not be content with that? Must it -end with us, that love and trust? I should miss it sorely if it were -withdrawn.” - -Her sweet, pleading face was turned towards him. There was a sort of -struggle in the young man’s mind: then he answered quietly: - -“It shall be so, if you wish it,” he said. “My chiefest wish is for -your happiness. But——” - -She checked him by a look. - -“Haddon, I am Randolph’s wife!” - -His eyes gave the reply his tongue would never have uttered. She -answered as if he had spoken. - -“Yes, he is dead. Did you think that made any difference? Ah, you -do not understand. When I gave myself to Randolph, I gave myself for -ever—not for a time only but for always. He is my husband. I am his -wife. Nothing can change that.” - -“Not even death?” - -The words were a mere whisper; yet she heard them. It seemed as if a -sudden ray of light shone upon the face she turned towards him. He was -awed; he watched her in mute silence. - -“Ah! no,” she said, very softly, “not death—death least of all. Death -can only divide us, it cannot touch our love. Ah! you do not know, you -do not understand. How can I make it clear to you? Love is like nothing -else in the world—it is us, our very selves. _Somewhere_——” Monica -clasped her hands together, and stretched them out before her towards -the eternal ocean, with a gesture more eloquent than any words, whilst -the light upon her face deepened in intensity every moment as her eyes -fixed themselves upon the far horizon. “_Somewhere_ he is waiting for -me to come to him—he, my husband, my love; and though he may not come -back to me, I shall go to him in God’s good time, and when I join him -in the great, eternal home, I must go to him as he left me—with nothing -between us and our love; and there will be no parting there, no more -death, and no more sea.” - -Her words died away in silence; but her parted lips, her shining eyes, -the light upon her face, spoke an eloquent language of their own. Her -companion sat and looked at her in mute, breathless silence, not -unmixed with awe. - -He knew his cause was lost. He knew she could never, never be his; -yet, strange to say, he was not saddened or cast down, for by this -revelation of her innermost heart he felt himself uplifted and -ennobled. His idol was not shattered. Monica was, as ever, enshrined -in his heart—the one ideal woman to be worshipped, reverenced, adored. -Even in this supreme hour of his life, when the airy fabric of his -dreams was crumbling into dust about him, he had a perception that -perhaps even thus it was best. He never could be worthy of her, and now -he might still call himself her friend; had she not said so herself? - -There was a long, long silence between them. Then he moved, kneeling on -one knee before her, and taking her hand in his. - -“Monica,” he said, “I understand now. I shall never trouble you again. -You have judged well, very well; it is like you, and that is enough. -But before I go may I crave one boon?” - -“And that is——?” - -“That you forget all that I have said, all the wild, foolish words that -I have spoken; and let me keep my old place—as your brother and friend.” - -She looked at him with her own gentle smile. - -“I wish for nothing better,” she answered. “I cannot afford to lose my -friend.” - -He pressed her hand for one moment to his lips, and was gone without -another word. - -Tears slowly welled up in Monica’s eyes as she rose at last, and stood -looking out over the vast waste of heaving grey sea—sad, colourless, -troubled. - -“Like my life,” she said softly to herself. And yet she had just put -away a love that might at least have cast a glow upon it, and gilded -its dim edges. - -She stretched out her hand with a sort of mute gesture of entreaty. - -“Ah! Randolph, husband, come back to me! I am so lonely, so desolate!” - -Even as she spoke, the setting sun, as it touched the horizon, broke -through the bank of cloud which had veiled it all the day, and flooded -the sea as with liquid gold—that cold grey sea that she had just been -likening to her own future life. - -She could not help an involuntary start. - -“Is it an omen?” she asked; and despite the heavy load at her heart, -she went home somewhat comforted. - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. - -CHRISTMAS. - - -It was Christmas Eve; the light was just beginning to wane, and -Monica’s work was done at last. She was free now until the arrival of -her guests—the Pendrills and Lord Haddon—should give her new occupation -in hospitable care for them. - -Monica had been too busy for thoughts of self to intrude often upon -her during these past days. She wished to be busy; she tried to occupy -herself from morning to night, for she found that the aching hunger of -her heart was more eased by loving deeds of mercy and kindness than -in any other way—self more fully lost in ceaseless care for others. -But when all was done, every single thing disposed of, nothing more -left to think of or to accomplish; then the inevitable reaction set in, -and with a heart aching to pain, almost to despair, Monica entered the -music-room, and sat down to her organ. - -She played with a sort of passionate appeal that was infinitely -pathetic, had any one been there to hear; she threw all the yearning -sadness of her soul into her organ, and it seemed to answer her back -with a promise of strong sympathy and consolation. Insensibly she was -soothed by the sweet sounds she evoked. She fell into a dreamy mood, -playing softly in a minor key, so softly that through the door that -stood ajar, she became aware of a slight subdued tumult in the hall -without, to which she gave but a dreamy attention at first. - -The bell had pealed sharply, steps had crossed the hall, the door had -been opened, and then had followed the tumultuous sounds expressive of -astonishment that roused Monica from her dreamy reverie. She supposed -the party from St. Maws had arrived somewhat before the expected time, -and rose, and had made a few steps forward when she suddenly stopped -short and stood motionless—spell-bound—what was it she had heard?—only -the sound of a voice—a man’s voice. - -“Where is your mistress?” - -The words were uttered in a clear, deep, ringing tone, that seemed to -her to waken every echo in the castle into wild surging life. The very -air throbbed and palpitated around her—her temples seemed as if they -would burst. What was the meaning of that sound—that wild tumult of -voices? Why did she stand as if carved in stone, growing white to the -very lips, whilst thrill upon thrill ran through her frame, and her -heart beat to suffocation? What did it all portend? Whose was the voice -she had just heard—that voice from the dead? _Who_ was it that stood in -the hall without? - -The door was flung open. A tall, dark figure stood in the dim light. - -“Monica!” - -Monica neither spoke nor moved. The cry of awe and of rapture that rose -from her heart could not find voice in which to utter itself—but what -matter? She was in her husband’s arms. Her head lay upon his breast. -His lips were pressed to her cold face in the kisses she had never -thought to feel again. Randolph had come back. She could not speak. She -had no will to try and frame a single word. He held her in his arms; he -strained her ever closer and closer. She felt the tumultuous beating of -his heart as she lay in his arms, powerless to move or think. She heard -his murmured words, broken and hoarse with the passionate feeling of -that supreme moment. - -“My wife! Monica! My wife!” - -And then for a time she knew no more. Sight and hearing alike failed -her; it seemed as if a slumber from heaven itself sealed her eyes and -stole away her senses. - -When she came to herself she was on a sofa in her own room, and -Randolph was kneeling beside her. She did not start to see him there. -For a moment it seemed as if he had never left her. She smiled her own -sweet smile. - -“Randolph! Have I been asleep—dreaming?” - -He took her hands in his, and bent to kiss her lips. - -“It has been a long dream, my Monica, and a dark one; but it is over at -last. My darling, my darling! God grant I may not be dreaming now!” - -She smiled like a tired child. She had a perception that something -overpoweringly strange and sudden had happened, but she did not want to -rouse herself just yet to think what it must all mean. - - -Two hours later, in the great drawing-room ablaze with light, Monica -and Randolph stood together to welcome their guests. She had laid aside -her mournful widow’s garb, and was arrayed in her shimmering bridal -robes. Ah, how lovely she was in her husband’s eyes as she stood beside -him now! Perhaps never in all her life had she looked more exquisitely -fair. Happiness had lighted her beautiful eyes, and had brought the -rose back to her pale cheeks: she was glorified—transfigured—a vision -of radiant beauty. - -He had changed but slightly during his mysterious year of absence. -There were a few lines upon his face that had not been there of old: he -looked like a man who had been through some ordeal, whether mental or -physical it would be less easy to tell; but the same joy and rapture -that emanated, as it were, from Monica was reflected in his face -likewise, and only a keen eye could read to-night the traces of pain or -of sorrow in that strong, proud, manly countenance. - -Monica looked at him suddenly, the flush deepening in her cheeks. - -“Hush! They are coming!” she said, and waited breathlessly. - -The door opened, admitting Mrs. Pendrill, Beatrice, and Tom. There -was a pause—a brief, intense silence, during which the fall of a pin -might have been heard, and then, with one long, low cry, half-sobbing, -half-laughing, Beatrice rushed across the room, and flung herself upon -Randolph. - -Monica went straight up to Mrs. Pendrill, and put her arms about her -neck. - -“Aunt Elizabeth, he has come home,” she said, in a voice that shook a -little with the tumult of her happiness. “He has just come home—this -very day—Randolph—my husband. Help me to believe it. You must help me -to bear this—as you helped me to bear the other.” - -Tom had by this time grasped Randolph by the hand; but neither trusted -his own voice. They were glad that Beatrice covered their silence by -her incoherent exclamations of rapture, and by the flow of questions no -one attempted to answer. - -It was all too like a dream for anyone to recollect very clearly what -happened. Raymond and Haddon came in almost at once, new greetings -had to be gone through. How the dinner passed off that night no one -afterwards remembered. There was a deep sense of thankfulness and -joy in every heart; yet of words there were few. But when gathered -round the fire later on in the evening, when they had grown used to -the presence amongst them of one whom they had mourned as dead for -more than a year, Randolph was called upon to tell his tale, which was -listened to in breathless silence. - -“I will tell you all I can about it; but there are points yet where my -memory fails me, where I have but little idea what happened. I have a -dim recollection of the night of the wreck, and of leaving the boat; -but I must have received a heavy blow on the head, the doctors tell -me, and I suppose I sank, and the men could not find me. But I was -entangled, it seems, in the rigging of a floating spar, and must have -been carried thus many miles; for I was picked up by an ocean steamer -bound for Australia, which had been driven somewhat out of its course -by the gale. It was not supposed that I could live after so many hours’ -exposure. I was quite unconscious, and remained so for a very long -time. There was nothing upon me by which I could be identified, and -of course I could give no account of myself. On board the boat were a -kind-hearted wealthy Australian couple, who had lately lost an only -son, to whom they fancied I bore some slight resemblance. Perhaps for -this cause, perhaps from true kindness of heart, they at once took me -under their special care and protection. There was plenty of space on -board the vessel, and they looked after me as if I had indeed been -their son. They would not hear of my being left behind in hospital on -the way out. They took me under their protection until I should be able -to give an account of myself. - -“Of course I knew nothing about all this. I was lying dangerously ill -of brain fever all the while, not knowing where I was, or what was -happening. When we reached Melbourne at last, and I was conveyed to -their luxurious house on the outskirts of the town, I was still in -the same state, relapse following relapse, every time till I gained -a little ground, till for months my life was despaired of. I was -either raving in delirium, or lying in a sort of unconscious stupor, -and without all the skill and care lavished upon me, I suppose I must -have died. But I did not die. Gradually, very gradually, the fever -abated, and I began to come to myself: that is to say, I began to -know the faces around me and to recognise my surroundings; but for -myself, I knew no more who I was, nor whence I had come, than the -infant just born into the world. My memory had gone, had been wiped -clean away; I had no idea of my own identity, no recollection of the -past. The very effort to remember brought on such pain and distress -that I was imperatively commanded to relinquish the attempt. Gradually -some things came back to my mind: I could read, write, understand the -foreign tongues I had mastered, and the sciences I had studied in past -days. As my health slowly improved this kind of knowledge came back -spontaneously and without effort; but my personal history was as a -blank wall, against which I flung myself in vain. It would yield to no -efforts of mine. Distressed and confused, I was obliged to give up, and -wait with what patience I might for the realisation of the hope held -out cheerfully by the clever doctor who attended me. He maintained that -if I would but have patience, some strong association of ideas would -some day bring all back in a flash, and meantime all I had to do was to -get strong and well, so as to be ready for action when that day should -come. I was restless sometimes, but less so than one would fancy, for -the blank was too complete to be distressing. My good friends and -protectors were unspeakably kind and good, and did everything in their -power to ensure my mental and physical well-being; I recovered my -health rapidly, soon my memory was to come back too.” - -Randolph passed his hand across his eyes. No one spoke, every eye was -fixed upon his face. - -“It did so very strangely: it was one hot afternoon in November—our -summer, you know”—he named the date and the hour, and Monica heard it -with a sudden thrill. Allowing for the discrepancy of time, it was -during the moments that she watched by Conrad Fitzgerald’s dying bed -that her husband’s memory was given back to him. - -“I was looking over some old English newspapers, idly, purposelessly, -when I came upon a detailed account of the wreck, and of my own -supposed death. As I read—I cannot describe what it was like—my memory -came back to me in a great flood, like overwhelming waves. It seemed, -Monica, as if my spirit were carried on wings to Trevlyn, as if I were -hovering over you in some mysterious way impossible to describe. I -called your name aloud. I knew that I was close to you, at Trevlyn—it -is useless to attempt to define what I felt. When I came to myself they -told me I had fainted; but that was not so. I had been on a journey, -that is all, and had returned. My memory was restored from that hour, -clearly and distinctly; the doctor thought there might be lapses, that -I might never be the same man again as I had been once; but I have felt -no ill effects since. Little more remains to be told. My first instinct -was to telegraph; but not knowing what had happened in my absence, -knowing I must long have been given up for lost, I was afraid to do -so, lest hopeless confusion should result. Instead, I took the first -home-bound steamer, and reached London late last night. I found out at -the house there where Monica was, and came on here by the first train. -I have come back home to spend my Christmas with you.” - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND. - -THE LAST. - - -“Monica, I could not tell you last night—it was all so sudden, so -wonderful—but I think you know, without any words of mine, how glad, -how thankful, I am.” - -It was Haddon who spoke, spoke with a glad, frank, joyous sincerity, -that beamed in his eye and sounded in every tone of his voice. Monica -gave him both her hands, looking up into his face with her sweetest -smile. - -“I know, Haddon; I know. I am sure of it. Is he not almost a brother to -you?—and are you not the best of brothers to me?” - -“At least I will try to be,” he answered gladly. “I cannot tell you how -happy this has made me.” - -She was glad, too: glad to see him so happy, so heart-whole. He had -loved her with the loyal love of a devoted chivalrous knight, had loved -her for her sorrow and her loneliness; but she was comforted now, and -he was able to rejoice with her. It was all very good—just as she would -have it. - -Ah! what a day of joy and thanksgiving it was! How Monica’s heart beat -as she knelt by her husband’s side that glad Christmas morning in -the little cliff church, when, in the pause just before the General -Thanksgiving, the grey-headed clergyman, with a little quiver in his -voice, announced that Randolph Trevlyn desired to return thanks to -Almighty God for preservation from great perils, and for restoration to -his home. - -Her voice faltered in the familiar words, and many suppressed sobs were -heard in the little building, but they were sobs of joy and gratitude, -and tears of healing and of happiness stole down Monica’s cheeks. It -was like some beautiful dream, and yet too sweet not to be true. - -In the afternoon Monica and Randolph went out alone together; first -into the whispering pine woods, and then out upon the breezy cliff, -hard beneath their feet with the winter’s frost. - -He let her lead him whither she would. He had no thought to spare for -aught beside herself. They were together once again. What more could -they need? - -But Monica had an object in view; and as they walked, engrossed in -each other, in sweet communion of soul and interchange of thought, or -the almost sweeter silence of perfect peace and tranquillity, she led -him once more towards the little cliff church; though only when she was -unlatching the gate to enter the quiet grave-yard did he arouse to the -sense of their surroundings. - -“Why, Monica,” he said, “why have you brought me here? We are too late -for service.” - -“I know,” she answered; “but come. I want to show you something.” - -Her face wore an expression he did not understand. He followed her in -silence to a secluded corner, where, beneath a dark yew tree, stood a -green mound, at the head of which a wooden cross had been temporarily -erected. - -Randolph read the letters it bore: - -“C. F.,” followed by a date, and beneath, the simple, familiar words— - - “_Requiescat in pace._” - -Strange, perhaps, that Monica should have cared for this lonely grave, -in which was laid to rest one who had, as she believed, robbed her life -of all its brightness and joy. Strange that she, in the absence of -friend or kinsman, should have charged herself with keeping it, and of -erecting there some monument to mark who lay there low. Strange—yet so -it was. - -Her husband looked at her questioningly. - -“Conrad’s grave—yes,” she answered quietly. “Randolph, look at the -date.” - -He did so, and started a little. - -“He died at dawn that day, Randolph. You know what was happening then -at the other side of the world?” - -There was a strange look of awe upon her face as she spoke, which was -reflected in his also. She came and stood close beside him. - -“Randolph, do you know that he was there—that night?—that he tried to -kill you?” - -He had taken off his hat as he stood beside the grave, with the -instinctive reverence for the dead—even though it be a dead -foe—characteristic of a noble mind. Now he passed his hand across his -brow and through his thick dark hair. - -“I thought that was a delusion of fever—a sort of hideous vision -founded on no reality. Monica, was it so?” - -“It was.” - -“How do you know?” - -“I had it from his own lips.” - -He gazed at her without speaking; something in her face awed and -silenced him. - -“Randolph, listen,” she said. “I must tell you all. Six weeks ago, -the evening before _that_ day, he was brought, shattered and dying, -to Trevlyn; he had fallen from the cliffs, no skill could serve to -prolong his life. I knew nothing then—he was profoundly unconscious, -yet as the night wore away some strange intuition came upon me that -he wanted me, that he was beseeching me to come to him. I went—he was -still unconscious. I sent Wilberforce away and watched by him myself. -Randolph, at dawn he awoke to consciousness—he told me all his awful -tale—he said he had murdered you—I believed it was true. He was -dying—dying in darkness and in dread, and he prayed for my forgiveness -as if his salvation hung upon it. Randolph, Randolph, how can I tell -you?—I cannot, no I cannot—no one could understand,” for a moment she -pressed her hand upon her eyes, looking up again in a few seconds with -a calm glance that was like a smile. “He was dying, Randolph, and I -forgave him—I forgave him freely and fully—and he died in peace. Stop, -that is not all. Randolph, as I knelt beside his bed, praying for -the sin-stained spirit then taking its flight, I felt that you were -with me; I had never before felt the strange overshadowing presence -that I did then—you were there, your own self. I heard your voice far -away, yet absolutely clear, like a call from some distant, snow-clad -mountain-top, infinitely far—‘Monica! Monica! My wife!’ I think Conrad -heard it too, for he died with a smile on his lips. Randolph, I am sure -that you were with me in that strange, awful hour. I knew it then—I -know it better now. Randolph, I think that love is stronger than all -else—time, space, death itself. Nothing touched our love. I think it is -like eternity.” - -A deep look of awe had stamped itself upon Randolph’s face. He put his -arm round Monica, and for a very long while they stood thus, neither -attempting to speak or to move. - -At last he woke from his reverie, and looked down at her with a strange -light shining in his eyes. - -“And you forgave him, Monica?” - -She looked up and met his gaze unfalteringly. - -“I forgave him, Randolph; was I wrong?” - -He stooped and kissed her. - -“My wife, I thank God that you did forgive him. His life was full of -sin and sorrow—but at least its end was peace. May God pardon him as -you did—as I do.” - -There was a strange sweet smile in her eyes as she lifted them to his. - -“Ah, Randolph!” she said softly, “I knew you would understand. Oh, my -husband, my husband!” - -He held her in his arms, and she looked up at him with a sweet, tender -smile. Then her eyes wandered dreamily out over the wide sea beneath -them. - -“There is nothing sad there now, Randolph. It will never separate us -again.” - -He looked down at her with a world of love in his eyes; yet as they -turned away his glance rested for one moment upon the lonely grave he -had been brought to see, and lifting his hat once more, he murmured -beneath his breath—“Requiescat in pace.” - -Then drawing his wife’s hand within his arm, he led her homewards -to Trevlyn, whilst the sun set in a blaze of golden glory over the -boundless shining sea. - - -THE END. - - - - -Transcriber's Notes - - -Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. - -Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Monica, Volume 3 (of 3), by Evelyn Everett-Green - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONICA, VOLUME 3 (OF 3) *** - -***** This file should be named 54942-0.txt or 54942-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/9/4/54942/ - -Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet -Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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