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. I.
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 FIRST.
PAGE
The Trevlyns of Castle Trevlyn 1
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
Monica’s Ride 23
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
Lord Trevlyn’s Heir 43
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
Conrad Fitzgerald 63
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
Sunday at Trevlyn 84
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
In Peril 103
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
“Wilt thou Have this Woman?” 125
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
“Woo’d, and Married, and A’” 145
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
Married 167
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
Mischief-makers 181
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
The Little Rift 206
MONICA.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE TREVLYNS OF CASTLE TREVLYN.
“Good-bye, Monica. I will look in again to-morrow: but I assure you
there is no cause for anxiety. He is not worse than usual, and will be
better soon.”
The doctor was buttoning up his heavy driving-coat as he spoke, and at
the conclusion of the sentence he opened the heavy oak door, letting in
a blast of cold air and a sheet of fine, penetrating rain.
“Oh, Raymond, what weather! I ought not to have sent for you.”
“Nonsense! You know I am weather-proof. Old Jack will find his way
home, if I cannot. Good-bye again.”
The door closed upon the stalwart figure, and Lady Monica Trevlyn was
left standing alone upon the wide staircase, amid the gathering shadows
of the great hall.
Castle Trevlyn was, in truth, a sufficiently grim and desolate place,
both within and without. Tangled park, dense pine woods, and a rocky
iron-bound coast surrounded it, cutting it off, at it were, from
communication with the outside world. Within its walls lay a succession
of vast, stately chambers, few of them now inhabited—regions where
carved black oak, faded tapestry, rusty armour, and antique relics of
bygone days seemed to reign in a sort of mournful grandeur, telling
their own tale of past magnificence and of present poverty and decay.
Yes, the Trevlyns were a fallen race; for the past three generations
the reigning earl had been poor, and the present Lord Trevlyn had
failed to do anything towards restoring the decaying fortunes of his
house. He too was very poor, hence the air of neglect that reigned
around and within the castle.
Monica, however, his only child, was far too well used to the gloom
and grimness of the old castle to be in the least oppressed by it. She
loved her lonely, desolate home with a curious, passionate intensity,
and could not picture anything more perfect than the utter silence and
isolation that hemmed in her life. The idea of desiring a change had
never so much as occurred to her.
Monica was very beautiful, with a beauty of a rare kind, that haunted
the memory of those who saw her, as a strain of music sometimes haunts
the ear. Her face was always pale and grave, and at first sight cold
even to hardness, yet endued with an underlying depth and sweetness
that often eluded observation, though it never failed to make itself
felt. It was a lovely face—like that of a pictured saint for purity of
outline, of a Greek statue for perfection of feature—almost as calm and
colourless as marble itself. Yet, behind the statuesque severity lay
that strange, sad, wistful sweetness which could not quite be hidden
away, and gave to the beholder the idea that some great trouble had
overshadowed the girl’s life. Let us go with her, and see what that
trouble was.
When the door closed upon Raymond Pendrill, she stood for a moment or
two silent and motionless, then turned and mounted the shallow stairs
once more, and, passing down a long corridor, opened the door of a
fire-lit room, and entered softly.
The room had two tenants: one, a great mastiff dog, who acknowledged
Monica’s entrance by gently flopping his tail against the floor; the
other, a lad of seventeen, who lay upon an invalid couch, his face very
white and his brows drawn with pain.
As Monica looked at him her face quivered, and a look of unspeakable
tenderness swept over it, transfiguring it for the moment, and showing
wonderful possibilities in every line and curve. She bent over him,
laying one cool, strong hand upon his hot head.
“Better, Arthur?”
“Yes, getting better. That stuff Raymond gave me is taking the pain
away. Stir up the fire, and sit where I can see you. I like that best.”
Arthur Pendrill, cousin to Raymond Pendrill, the young doctor who had
just left the castle, was the only child by a first marriage of Lord
Trevlyn’s second wife. Hoping for an heir, the earl had married again
when Monica was seven years old, but his hopes had not been realised,
and the second Lady Trevlyn had died only a few years after her union
with him.
Arthur, who had been only a mite of two years old when he first came
to Castle Trevlyn, knew nothing, of course, of any other home; and he
and Monica had grown up like brother and sister, and were tenderly
attached, perhaps all the more so from radical differences of character
and temperament. Their childhood had been uncloudedly happy; they had
enjoyed a glorious liberty in their wild Cornish home that could hardly
have been accorded to them anywhere else. Monica’s had always been the
leading spirit; physically as well as mentally, she had always been
the stronger; but he adored her, and emulated her with the zeal and
enthusiasm of youth. He followed her wherever she led like a veritable
shadow, until that fatal day, five years ago, which had laid him upon
a bed of sickness, and had turned Monica in a few hours’ time from a
child to a woman.
Upon that day there had been a terrible end to the mad-cap exploits in
cliff-climbing in which the girl had always delighted, and Arthur had
been carried back to the castle, as all believed, to die.
He did not die, however, but recovered to a suffering, helpless,
invalid life; and Monica, who held herself sternly responsible for
all, and who had nursed him with a devotion that no mother could have
surpassed, now vowed deep down in her heart that her own life should
henceforth be devoted to him, that for him she would in future live,
and that whatever she could do to lighten his load of pain and make his
future happier should be done, at whatever cost to herself, as the one
atonement possible for the rashness which had cost him so dear.
Five years ago that vow had been recorded, and Monica, from a gay,
high-spirited girl, had grown into a pale, silent, thoughtful woman;
but she had never wearied of her self-imposed charge—never faltered in
her resolution. Arthur was her special, sacred charge. Anything that
would conduce to his welfare and happiness was to be accomplished at
whatever cost. So far, to tend and care for him had been her aim and
object of life, and her deep love had made the office sweet. It had
never occurred to her that any contingency could possibly arise by
which separation from him should prove the truest test of her devotion.
Whilst Arthur and Monica were dreaming their own dreams upstairs, by
the light of his dancing fire, no thought of coming changes clouding
the horizon of their imagination, downstairs, in the earl’s study, a
consultation was being held between him and his sister which would have
startled Monica not a little had she heard it.
Lord Trevlyn was a tall, stately, grey-headed man of sixty, with a
finely-chiselled face and the true Trevlyn cast of countenance that his
daughter had inherited. His countenance wore, however, a look of pallor
and ill-health that, to a practised eye, denoted weakness of the heart,
and his figure had lost its old strength and elasticity, and had grown
thin and a little bowed. His expression had much of gentleness mingling
with its pride and austerity, as if, with the advance of years, his
nature had softened and sweetened, as indeed had been the case.
Lady Diana, on the other hand, had grown more sharp and dictatorial
with advancing age. She was a “modish” old lady, who, although quite
innocent of such adornments, always suggested the idea of powder and
patches, high-heeled shoes and hoops. She generally carried a fan in
her hand, dressed richly and quaintly, and looked something like a
human parrot, with her hooked nose, keen black eyes, and quick, sharp
voice and movements. She had an independent and sufficient income
of her own, and divided her time between her London house and her
brother’s Cornish castle. She had always expressed it as her intention
to provide for Monica, as her father could do little for his daughter,
everything going with the entail in the male line; but there was a sort
of instinctive hostility between aunt and niece, of which both were
well aware, and Lady Diana was always deeply offended and annoyed by
Monica’s quiet independence, and her devotion to Arthur.
It was of Monica they were talking this boisterous autumn evening.
“She has a sadly independent spirit,” remarked Lady Diana, sighing, and
fanning herself slowly, although the big panelled room was by no means
warm. “I often think of her future, and wonder what will become of her.”
Lord Trevlyn made no immediate response, but by-and-by said slowly:
“I have been thinking of late very seriously of the future.”
“Why of late?” was the rather sharp question.
“I have not been feeling so well since my illness in the spring.
Raymond Pendrill and his brother have both spoken seriously to me about
the necessity for care. I know what that means—they think my state
critical. If I am taken, what will become of Monica?”
“I shall, of course, provide for her.”
“I know you will do all that is kind and generous; but money is not
everything. Monica is peculiar: she wants controlling, yet——”
“Yet no one can control her: I know that well; or only Arthur and his
whims. She has no companions but her dogs and horses. My blood runs
cold every time I see her on that wild black thing she rides, with
those great dogs bounding round her. There will be another shocking
accident one of these days. She ought to be controlled—taken away from
her extraordinary life. Yet she will not hear of coming to London with
me even on a short visit; she will not even let me speak of it,” and
Lady Diana’s face showed that she was much affronted.
“That is just it,” said Lord Trevlyn, slowly; “her life and Arthur’s
both seem bound up in Trevlyn.”
Lady Diana made a significant gesture, which the earl understood.
“Just so; and yet—unless under most exceptional circumstances—unless
what I hardly dare to hope should happen—she must, they must both
leave it, at some not very distant date.”
The hesitation of Lord Trevlyn’s manner did not escape his sister.
“What do you mean?” she asked abruptly.
“I mean that I have been in correspondence lately with my heir, and
that I expect him shortly at Trevlyn.”
“Your heir?”
“Yes, Randolph Trevlyn, one of the Warwickshire branch. The extinction
of the Trevlyns at Drayton last year, you know, made him the next in
succession. I made inquiries about him, and then entered into personal
communication.”
Lady Diana looked keenly interested.
“What have you made out?”
“That he is very well spoken of everywhere as a young man of high
character and excellent parts. He is wealthy—very wealthy, I believe,
an only son, and enriched by a long minority. He is six or seven and
twenty, and he is not married.”
Lady Diana’s eyes began to sparkle.
“And he is coming here?”
“Yes, next week. Of course I need not tell you what is in my thoughts.
I object to match-making, as a rule. I shall put no pressure upon
Monica of any kind, but if those two should by chance learn to love one
another, I could say my ‘Nunc dimittis’ at any time.”
Lady Diana looked very thoughtful.
“Monica is undoubtedly beautiful,” she said, “and she is interesting,
which perhaps is better.” Her brother, however, made no reply, and as
he did not appear inclined to discuss the matter farther—they were
seldom in entire accord in talking of Monica—she presently rose and
quitted the room, saying softly to herself as she did so, “I should
love to see that proud girl with a husband’s strong hand over her.”
That evening, when alone with his daughter, Lord Trevlyn introduced the
topic most in his thoughts at that time.
“Monica, do you never want a little variety? What should you say to a
visitor at Trevlyn?”
“I would try to make one comfortable. Are you expecting anyone, father?”
“Yes, a kinsman of ours: Mr. Trevlyn, whose acquaintance I wish to
make.”
“Who is he? I never heard of him before.”
“No; I have not known much about him myself till lately, when
circumstances made him my heir. Monica, have you ever thought what will
happen at Trevlyn in the event of my death?”
A very troubled look crept into Monica’s dark, unfathomable eyes. Her
face looked pained and strained.
“I think you ought to know, Monica,” said the earl, gently. “Perhaps
you have thought that the estates would pass to you in due course of
time.”
Monica pressed her hands closely together, but her voice was steady,
her words were quietly spoken.
“I do not know if I have ever thought about it; but I suppose I have
fancied you would leave all to Arthur or to me.”
“Exactly, you would naturally inherit all I have to leave; but Trevlyn
is entailed in the male line, and goes with the title. At my death Mr.
Randolph Trevlyn will be the next earl, and all will be his.”
Monica sat very still, feeling as if she had received some sudden
stunning blow; but she could not take in all in a moment the gist of
such intelligence. A woman in some matters, she was a child in others.
“But, father,” she said quietly, and without apparent emotion, “Arthur
is surely much nearer to you than this Mr. Trevlyn, whom you have never
seen?”
The earl smiled half-sadly, and shook his head.
“My dear, you do not understand these things; I feel towards Arthur as
if he were my son, but he is not of my kindred. He is my wife’s son,
not mine; he is not a Trevlyn at all.”
Monica’s troubled gaze rested on her father’s face.
“He cannot live anywhere but at Trevlyn,” she said, slowly. “It would
kill him to take him anywhere else;” and in her heart she added—a
little jealous hostility rising up in her heart against the stranger
and usurper who was coming—“He _ought_ to have it. He is a son and a
brother here. By every law of right Trevlyn should be his.”
Foolish, irrational Monica! Where Arthur was concerned her eyes were
blinded, her reason was warped by her love. And the ways of the great
outside world were so difficult to understand.
Presently she spoke in very low, measured tones, though not without a
little falter in her voice now and then.
“You mean that if—if you were to die—Arthur and I should be turned out
of Trevlyn.”
“You would neither of you have any right to remain,” answered Lord
Trevlyn, choosing his words with care. “You would find a home with your
aunt; and as for Arthur, I suppose he would go to his cousins—unless,
indeed, if he seemed unable to live away from the place, some
arrangement with my successor could be made. Everything would depend on
him, but of course it would be a difficult arrangement.”
She drew a long breath, and passed her hand across her eyes.
“Mr. Trevlyn is coming here, you say?”
“Yes, next week. I think it is right that we should become acquainted
with our kinsman, especially as so much may depend upon him in the
future.”
“I think so too,” answered Monica; and then she quietly left him,
without uttering another word.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
MONICA’S RIDE.
The next morning dawned fair and clear, as is often the case after a
storm. Monica rose early, her first thought, as usual, for Arthur. She
crept on tip-toe to his room, to find him as she had left him, sleeping
calmly—as he was likely now to do for hours, after the attack of the
previous day; and finding herself no longer required by him, the girl
was not long in making up her mind how these early hours of glimmering
daylight were to be spent.
Seven o’clock found her in the saddle, mounted on her glossy black
thorough-bred, who, gentle under her hand, would brook no other rider,
and showed his mettle in every graceful eager movement, and in the
restless quivering of his shapely limbs. His coat shone like satin in
the pale early sunlight; he pranced and curvetted as he felt his rider
upon his back. Monica and her horse together made a picture that for
beauty and grace could hardly meet its match in the length and breadth
of the land.
The girl was perfectly at home in the saddle. She heeded no whit the
pawing of her steed, or the delighted baying of the great hounds who
formed her escort, and whose noise caused Guy’s delicate nerves many a
restive start. She gathered up her reins with practised hand, soothed
him by a gentle caress, and rode quietly and absently out of the great
grass-grown court-yard and through a stretch of tangled park beyond.
Once outside the gates, she turned to the right, and quickly gained
a narrow grass-grown track, which led for miles along the edge of
the great frowning cliffs that almost overhung at a giddy height the
tossing ocean far below. It was a perilous-looking path enough—one
false step would be enough to hurl both horse and rider to certain
destruction, but Monica rode fearlessly onward; she and her horse were
familiar with every step of the way, both knew the wild cliff path, and
both loved it; and Guy stretched his delicate supple limbs in one of
those silent gallops over the elastic turf in which his heart delighted.
Monica seldom passed more than a day without traversing that well-known
track. She loved to feel the fresh salt wind as it blew off the
sea and met her face. Sometimes it was warm and tender as a caress,
sometimes fierce and boisterous, a wet, blinding blast, laden with
spray from the tempest-tossed waves below; but to-day it was a keen,
fresh wind, salt, and strong, and life-giving—a wind that brought the
warm colour to her cheek, the light to her eye and gave a peculiar and
indescribable radiance to her usually cold and statuesque beauty.
To-day she felt strangely restless and uneasy. A sort of haunting
fear was upon her, a presentiment of coming trouble, that was perhaps
all the harder to bear from its very vagueness. She had never before
realised that the future would bring any change to the course of her
life, save that of gradually increasing age. Not for an instant had
it ever occurred to her that a possibility such as that hinted at last
night by her father could by any chance arise. That she and Arthur
might ever have to leave Trevlyn seemed the wildest of all wild dreams,
and yet that is what in all probability must happen in the event of her
father’s death. Monica shuddered at the bare idea. Her beautiful dark
eyes glowed strangely. It must not, it should not be. It would be too
cruel, too hard, too unjust!
In deep abstraction, Monica rode along the cliff for some three miles,
then turning her horse’s head inland, she crossed an open space of
wind-swept down, leaped a low stone wall, and found herself in a
road, which she followed for some considerable distance. It led at
length to the quaint little town of St. Maws, a pretty little place,
nestling down in a wooded hollow, and intersected by a narrow inlet
from the sea, which was spanned by a many-arched bridge. All the trees
in the neighbourhood seemed to have collected round St. Maws, and
its inhabitants were justly proud of their stately oaks and graceful
beeches.
Monica rode quietly through the empty streets, returning now and again
a salutation from some tradesman or rustic. It was still early—only
eight o’clock—and the sleepy little place was slowly awaking from
its night’s repose. At the far end of the town stood a good-sized
house, well hidden from view behind a high brick wall. Guy turned
in at the gate of his own accord, and, following a short, winding
carriage drive, halted before the front door. The house was of
warm red brick, mellowed by age; there was an indescribable air of
comfort and hospitality hanging over it. It was mantled by glossy
ivy, and its gables, steep pitched roof, and twisted chimneys were
charmingly picturesque. The door stood wide open as if to invite
entrance. Monica’s hounds had already announced her approach, and
a tall, wiry-looking man of some thirty summers was standing upon
the threshold. He was not much like his brother, the blue-eyed,
brown-bearded Raymond, having a thin, sharp, closely-shaved face, very
keen penetrating eyes, and a cynical mouth. Tom Pendrill was himself a
doctor, like his brother; but he did not practise on his own account,
being a man of scientific predilections, with a taste for authorship.
His college fellowship rendered him independent of lucrative
employment, and, save for assisting his brother with critical cases,
his time was spent in study and research.
“Well, Monica, you are abroad early to-day,” was his greeting. Arthur’s
cousins had been like cousins to Monica almost ever since she could
remember. “You have come to breakfast, of course?”
“I came to tell Raymond not to trouble to call at Trevlyn to-day, if
he is busy. Arthur is much better. I want to see Aunt Elizabeth; but I
should like some breakfast very much.”
“I will take your horse,” said Tom, as the girl slipped from the
saddle. “You will find Aunt Elizabeth in the breakfast-room.”
The “Aunt Elizabeth” thus alluded to was the widow of the Pendrills’
uncle, and she had lived with them for many years, keeping their house,
and bringing into it that element of womanly refinement and comfort
which can never be found in a purely bachelor establishment. The young
men were both warmly attached to her, as was her other nephew, Arthur,
at the Castle. As for Monica, “Aunt Elizabeth” had been to her almost
like a mother, supplying that great want in the girl’s life of which
she was only vaguely conscious—the want of tender womanly comprehension
and sympathy in the trials and troubles of childhood and youth.
It had been her habit for many years to bring all her troubles to Mrs.
Pendrill. She did not discuss them with Arthur. Her mission was to
soothe and cheer him, not to infect him with any fears or sorrows. He
was her boy, her charge, her dearly-loved brother, but Aunt Elizabeth
was her confidant and friend.
She was a very sweet-looking old lady, with snow-white hair, and a
gentle, placid, earnest face. She greeted Monica with a peculiarly
tender smile, and asked after Arthur with the air of one who loved him.
“He is better,” said Monica, “much better, or I could not have come.
He is asleep; he will most likely sleep till noon. I want to talk to
you, Aunt Elizabeth. I felt I must come to you. When breakfast is over,
please let us go somewhere together. There is so much I want to say.”
When they found themselves at length secure from interruption in Mrs.
Pendrill’s pretty little parlour, Monica stood very quiet for a minute
or two, and then turning abruptly to her aunt, she asked:
“Is my father very much out of health?”
Mrs. Pendrill was a little startled.
“What makes you ask that, my love?”
“I can hardly say—I think it is the way he looked, the way he spoke.
Please tell me the truth, dear Aunt Elizabeth. I have nobody but you to
turn to,” and there was a pathetic quiver in the voice as well as in
the pale, sweet face.
Mrs. Pendrill did not try to deceive her. She knew from both her
nephews that Lord Trevlyn’s health was in a very precarious state, and
she loved Monica too well not to wish to see her somewhat prepared for
a change that must inevitably fall upon her sooner or later. She had
always shrunk from thinking of this trouble, she shrank from bringing
it home to Monica now; but a plain question had been asked, and her
answer must not be too ambiguous.
Monica listened very quietly, as was her wont, not betraying any
emotion save in the strained look of pain in her great dark eyes. Then
very quietly, too, she told Mrs. Pendrill what her father had said the
previous evening about his heir, and about the prospective visit.
“Aunt Elizabeth,” said Monica suddenly after a long pause, betraying
for the first time the emotion she felt, “Aunt Elizabeth, I do not wish
to be wicked or ungenerous, but I _hate_ that man! He has no right
to be at Trevlyn, yet he will some day come and turn out Arthur and
me. I cannot help hating him for it; but oh, if only he would be good
to Arthur, if only he would let him stay, I could bear anything else
I think. _Do_ you think he would be generous, and would let him keep
his own little corner of the Castle? It does not seem much to ask, yet
father thought it might be difficult. Arthur is so patient, so good,
he might learn to love him—he might even adopt him, so to speak. Am
I very foolish to hope such things, Aunt Elizabeth?—they do not seem
impossible to me.”
Mrs. Pendrill mused a little while.
“Has this Mr. Trevlyn any family?”
“I do not know. Father did not speak of a wife. I fancy he is an old
bachelor.”
“He is old, then?”
“I fancy he is elderly, or at any rate middle-aged, or father would
hardly care to have him on a visit. He must be younger than father, of
course, but I do not know anything more about him. Oh, it will be very
hard; but if he will only be good to Arthur, I will try to bear the
rest.”
“I am sure you will, my Monica,” said Mrs. Pendrill tenderly. “I am
sure you will never be ungenerous or act unworthily. A dark cloud seems
hanging over your life, but there is light behind, though we cannot
always see it. And, remember, my darling, that gold shines all the
brighter for having been tried in the furnace.”
“I know the fellow,” said Tom Pendrill, an hour later, when Monica had
gone, and he had heard from his aunt part of what had passed between
them. “Monica is out about his age; he can’t be more than six or seven
and twenty, and a right good fellow he is too, and would make my lady
a capital husband, if he is not married already. Randolph Trevlyn
was at Oxford; I knew him there pretty well, though he was only an
undergraduate when I had taken my degree. The name sounded home-like,
and I made friends with him. He wasn’t anywhere near the title then,
but I suppose there have been deaths in the family since. Well, well,
the earl is quite right to have him down, and if he could manage to
fall in love with Monica and marry her, it would simplify matters
wonderfully; but that wild bird will need a good deal of training
before she will come at a husband’s call, and there is such a thing as
spreading the snare too much in the sight of the quarry.”
No thought of this kind, however, entered into Monica’s head. She was
far too unversed in the ways of the world to entertain the smallest
suspicion of the hopes entertained on her account. She thought a
good deal of the coming guest as the days went by—thought of him
with bitterness, with aversion, with mistrust, but in the light of a
possible husband—never for a single instant.
It was the day before the stranger was expected, and Monica, as the
sun was sinking in the sky, was riding alone in the pine wood that
surrounded the Castle. She was grave and pre-occupied, as she had
been for the week past, haunted by the presage of coming sorrow and
change. Her face was pale and sad, yet there was a wonderful depth of
sweetness in its expression of wistful melancholy. The setting sun,
slanting through the ruddy trunks of the tall pines, shone full upon
her, lighting her golden hair, and making an aureole of glory round her
head, showing off with peculiar clear distinctness the graceful outline
of her supple figure and the beauty of the horse she rode.
She was in a very thoughtful mood, so absent and pre-occupied as to
be quite lost to outside impressions, when Guy suddenly swerved and
reared, with a violence that would have unseated a less practised
rider. Monica was not in the least alarmed, but the movement aroused
her from her reverie, and she was quickly made aware of what had
frightened the horse.
A tall, broad-shouldered young man stepped forward, and laid a hand
upon Guy’s bridle, lifting his hat at the same time, and disclosing a
broad brow, with a sweeping wave of dark hair lying across it.
“I beg a thousand pardons; I believe I frightened your horse. He is
evidently unused to the sight of trespassers. I trust you have not been
alarmed.”
Monica smiled at the notion; her face had been somewhat set and cold
till the apology had been made. The stranger had no right to be there,
certainly, but his frank admission of the fact went far to palliate
the crime. She allowed herself to smile, and the smile was in itself a
revelation.
“It does not matter,” she said quietly. “I know the wood is perplexing;
but if you keep bearing to the west you will find the road before long.
No, I was not frightened, thank you. Good afternoon.”
She bent her head slightly, and the stranger uncovered again. He was
smiling now, and she could not deny that he was very good-looking, and
every inch the gentleman.
She had not an idea who he was nor what he could be doing there; but it
was no business of hers. He was probably some tourist who had lost his
way exploring the beauties of the coast. She was just a little puzzled
by the look his face had worn as he turned away: there was a sort of
subdued amusement in the dark blue eyes, and his long brown moustache
had quivered as if with the effort to subdue a smile. Yet there had
been nothing in the least impertinent in his manner; on the contrary,
he had been particularly courtly and polished in his bearing. Monica
dismissed the subject from her mind, and rode home as the sun dipped
beneath the far horizon.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
LORD TREVLYN’S HEIR
Lord Trevlyn sat in his study in the slowly waning daylight, waiting
the arrival of his expected guest. Now that the moment had come, he
shrank from the meeting a good deal more than he had once believed
he should do. It was so long since he had seen a strange face, and
his relations with this unknown heir would perhaps be difficult:
undoubtedly the situation was somewhat strained. Would the young man
think a trap was being set for him in the person of the beautiful
Monica? Was he acting a wise or fatherly part in scheming to give her
to this stranger, if it should be possible to do so?
He had liked the tone of Randolph Trevlyn’s courteously-worded
acceptance of his invitation. He had liked all that he heard of the
man himself. He had a sort of presentiment that his wish would in time
be realised, that this visit would not be fruitless; but his child’s
happiness: would that be secured in securing to her the possession of a
well-loved home?
Randolph Trevlyn would hardly be likely to spend any great part of his
life at this lonely sea-bound castle. He might pass a few months there,
perhaps; but where would the bulk of his time be spent?
Lord Trevlyn tried to picture his beautiful, wayward, freedom-loving
daughter mixing in the giddy whirl of London life, learning its ways
and following its fashions, and he utterly failed to do so. She seemed
indissolubly connected with the wild sea-coast, with the gloomy
pine-woods, with the rugged independence of her sea-girt home. Monica a
fashionable young countess, leading a gay life of social distraction!
The thing seemed impossible.
But he had no time to indulge his imaginings farther. The door opened,
and his guest was ushered in. The old earl rose and bade him welcome
with his customary simple, stately courtesy. It was growing somewhat
dark in that oak-panelled room, and for a minute or two he hardly
distinguished the features of the stranger, but the voice and the words
in which the young man answered his greeting pleased his fastidious
taste, and a haunting dread of which he had scarcely been fully aware
faded from his mind at once and for ever in the first moment of
introduction.
Lord Trevlyn heaved an unconscious sigh of relief when he resumed his
seat, and was able to give a closer scrutiny to his guest. One glance
at his face, figure, and dress, together with the pleasant sound of his
voice, convinced Lord Trevlyn that this young man was a gentleman in
the rather restricted sense in which he employed that elastic term.
He was a handsome, broad-shouldered, powerful man, with a fine figure,
dark hair and moustache, dark blue eyes, frank and well-opened, a
quiet, commanding air and carriage, and that cast of countenance which
plainly showed that the blood of the Trevlyns ran in his veins.
Lord Trevlyn eyed him with quiet satisfaction, and from the
conversation that ensued he had no reason to rescind his favourable
impression. Randolph Trevlyn was evidently a man of culture and
refinement, with a mental capacity distinctly above the average. He
was, moreover, emphatically a man of the world in its truest and
widest sense—a man who has lived in the world, and studied it closely,
learning thereby from its silent teaching the good and the evil thereof.
The two men talked for a time of the family to which they belonged, and
the deaths that had lately taken place, bringing this young man so near
to the title.
“The Trevlyns seem to be a dying race,” said the old earl, half sadly.
“Our family is slowly dying out. I suppose it has done its work in the
world, and is not needed any longer in these stirring times. You and
my daughter are now the sole representatives of the Trevlyns in your
generation, as my sister and I are in ours.”
Randolph Trevlyn looked into his kinsman’s face with a great deal of
reverence and admiration. He liked to meet a man who was a genuine
specimen of the “old school.” He felt a natural reverence for the
head of his house, and his liking showed itself in voice and manner.
Lord Trevlyn saw this, and was gratified, whilst the younger man was
pleased to feel himself in accord with his host. The interview ended
with mutual satisfaction on both sides, and Randolph was taken up
the great oak staircase, down one or two dim, ghostly corridors, and
landed finally in a couple of large panelled rooms, most antiquely and
quaintly furnished, in both of which, however, great fires of pine logs
were blazing cheerily.
“We dine at eight,” Lord Trevlyn had said, in parting with his guest.
“I shall hope then to have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister
and my daughter.”
Left alone in his comfortable but rather grim-looking quarters,
Randolph broke into a low laugh.
“And so this sombre old place, full of ghosts and phantoms of departed
days—this enchanted castle between sea and forest—is the home of
the lovely girl I saw yesterday! Incongruous, and yet so entirely
appropriate! She wants a setting of her own, different from anything
else. It must have been Lady Monica I encountered, the lady of the
pine-wood. What a sad, proud, lovely face it was, with its frame of
golden hair, and soft eyes like a deer’s; and her voice was as sweet as
her face, low, and rich, and full of music. What has been the secret of
her life? Some sorrow, I am certain, has overshadowed it. Who will be
the happy man to bring the sunshine back to that lovely troubled face?
Randolph Trevlyn, do not run on so fast. You are no longer a boy. You
must not judge by first impressions; you will know more of her soon.”
Randolph’s encounter with Monica the previous day had been purely
accidental. The young man had reached St. Maws one day earlier than
he had expected, one day earlier than he had been invited to arrive
at the Castle. Some business in Plymouth which he had expected would
detain him some days had been despatched with greater speed than he had
anticipated, and he had gone on to St. Maws to renew acquaintance with
his old friend Pendrill, who lived, as he remembered, in that place.
When he descended to the drawing room it was to find the earl and Lady
Diana there before him, and he made as favourable an impression upon
the vivacious old lady as he had done before upon her brother. Yet he
found his attention straying sometimes from the animated talk of his
companion, and his eyes would wander to the door by which Monica must
enter.
She came at last, stately, beautiful, statuesque, her dress an
antique cream-coloured brocade, that had, without doubt, belonged to
some remote ancestress; her golden hair coiled like a crown upon her
graceful head. She had that same indescribable air of isolation and
remoteness that had struck him so much when he had seen her riding
in the wood. She did not lift her eyes when her father presented the
stranger to her, but only bent her head very slightly, and sat down by
herself, somewhat apart.
But when dinner was announced, and Randolph gave her his arm to lead
her in, she raised her eyes, and their glances met. He saw that she
recognised him, and yet she gave not the slightest sign of having done
so, and her face settled into lines of even more severe gravity than
before. He felt that she was annoyed at his having met and addressed
her previously, and that she would brook no allusion to the encounter.
His talk with the Pendrills had prepared him somewhat for Monica’s
coldness towards himself. It was natural enough, he thought, and
perhaps a little interesting, especially as he meant to set himself to
win her good-will at last.
He did not make much way during dinner. Monica was very silent, and
Lady Diana engrossed almost all his attention; but he was content to
bide his time, conscious of the charm of her presence, and of the
haunting, pathetic character of her beauty, and deeply touched by the
story of her devotion to the crippled, suffering Arthur, which was told
him by the earl when they were alone together, with more of detail
than he had heard it before.
When he returned to the drawing-room, he went straight up to Monica,
and said:
“I am going to ask a favour of you, Lady Monica. I want to know if you
will be good enough to introduce me to your brother?”
Her face softened slightly as she raised her eyes to his. It was a
happy instinct that had led Randolph to call Arthur by the name she
most loved to hear, “your brother.”
“You would like to see him to-night?”
“If it is not too late to intrude upon an invalid, I should very much.”
“I think he would be pleased,” said Monica. “It is so seldom he has any
one to talk to.”
The visit to Arthur was a great success. The lad took to Randolph
at once, delighted to find him so young, so pleasant, and so
companionable. Of course he identified him at once as the hero of
Monica’s adventure yesterday, and was amused to hear his account of the
meeting. Monica did not stay long in the room; but her absence enabled
Arthur to sing her praises as he loved to do, and Randolph listened
with a satisfaction that surprised himself. He was very kind to the
boy, sincerely sorry for his helpless state, and more than ready to
stand his friend if ever there should be occasion. Before he left the
invalid that night, he felt that in him, at least, he had secured a
staunch and trusty friend.
But during the days that followed he could not hide from himself the
fact that Monica avoided him. Indeed, he sometimes hardly saw her
from morning till night, and when they did meet at the luncheon or
dinner-table, she sat still and silent, scarcely vouchsafing him a word
or a look.
The first time Randolph found himself alone with Monica was in this
wise: he had been riding about the immediate precincts of the Castle
with the earl one morning, and his host was just expressing a wish to
extend their ride farther, in order to see some of the best views of
the neighbourhood—hesitating somewhat on his own account, as he had
been forbidden to exert himself by much exercise—when Monica suddenly
appeared, mounted on Guy, and attended by her convoy of dogs, ready for
her daily gallop.
Lord Trevlyn’s face softened at her approach; he loved his fair
daughter with a deep and tender love.
“Monica, my dear, you have come in good time. I want Mr. Trevlyn to see
the view of the Castle from the Black Cliff, and the wonderful archway
in the rocks farther along the coast. These fine days must not be
wasted; and I feel too tired to undertake the ride myself. Will you act
as my substitute, and do the honours of Trevlyn?”
Monica glanced with a sort of mute wistfulness into her father’s pale
face, and assented quietly. The next moment she and Randolph were
riding side by side over the close soft turf of the sweeping downs.
The girl’s face was set and grave, she seemed lost in thought, and
was only roused by the eccentricities of Guy’s behaviour. The spirited
little barb resented company even more than his mistress did, and
showed his distaste by every means in his power. He was so troublesome
that Randolph was half afraid for Monica’s safety, but she smiled at
the idea of danger.
“I know Guy too well,” she answered; “it is nothing. He only hates
company. He is not used to it.”
“Had you not better have another horse to-day?”
“Let myself be conquered? No, thank you. I always say that if that once
were to happen, it would never be safe ever for me to ride Guy again.”
The battle with the horse brought the colour to her face and the
light to her eyes. She looked more approachable now as she cantered
along beside him (victorious at last, with her dogs bounding about
her) than she had ever done before. He drew her out a little about
her four-footed favourites, and being a lover of animals himself, and
knowing their ways, they found a good deal to say without trenching in
any way upon dangerous or personal topics.
They visited the places indicated by Lord Trevlyn, and Randolph admired
the beauties of the wild coast with a genuine appreciation that
satisfied Monica. Had her companion been anybody but himself—an alien
usurper come to spy out the land that would some time be his own—had
his praises been less sounded in her ears by Lady Diana, whose praise
was in Monica’s eyes worse than any open condemnation—she could almost
have found it in her heart to like him; but as it was, jealous distrust
drove all kindlier feelings away, and even his handsome person and
pleasant address added to her sense of hostility and disfavour.
Why was he to win all hearts—he who would so ruthlessly act the part of
tyrant and foe, as soon as his chance came? Did not even his friend,
Lady Diana, continually repeat that his succession to the Trevlyn
estate must inevitably mean an immediate break-up of all existing forms
and usages? Was it not an understood thing that he would exercise his
power without considering anything but his strict legal right? Lady
Diana knew the world—that world to which Randolph evidently belonged.
If this was her opinion, was it not presumably the right one? She
sneered openly at the suggestion her niece had once thrown out of the
possibility of his granting to Arthur liberty to remain at Trevlyn.
“You foolish child!” she said sharply. “What is Arthur to him? Men do
not make sentimental attachments to each other. Arthur has no right
here, and Mr. Trevlyn will show him so very plainly when the time
comes.”
Was it any wonder that Monica’s heart rose in revolt against this
handsome, powerful stranger, who seemed in a manner to hold her whole
future in his strong hands? Was it strange she avoided him? Was it
difficult to understand that she distrusted him, and that only his
present kindness to Arthur and the lad’s affection for him enabled her
to tolerate with any kind of submission his presence in the house?
He tried now to make her talk of herself, of Arthur, of her home and
her life there, but she became at once impenetrably silent. Her face
assumed its old look of statuesque _hauteur_. The ride back to the
Castle was a very silent one. Randolph had enjoyed the hour he had
spent in the company of Lady Monica, but he could not flatter himself
that much ground had been gained.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
CONRAD FITZGERALD.
Whether Monica would ever have thawed towards him of her own free will
Randolph Trevlyn could not tell; but during a sharp attack of illness
that prostrated Arthur at this juncture, he was so much in the sick
boy’s room, and so kind and patient and helpful there, that the girl’s
coldness began insensibly to melt; and before the attack had passed, he
felt that if she did not share her brother’s liking for him, at least
the old antipathy, hostility, had somewhat abated.
They rode out together sometimes now, exploring the country round the
Castle, or galloping over the wind-swept moors. Monica was generally
silent, always reserved and unapproachable, and yet he felt that a
certain vantage-ground had been gained, and he did not intend to allow
it to slip away. Unconsciously almost to himself, the wish had grown to
win the heart of this wild, beautiful, lonely young creature. Yet the
charm of her solitary tamelessness was so great that he hardly wished
the spell to be too suddenly broken. He could not picture Monica other
than she was—and yet he was growing to love her with every fibre of his
being.
But fortune was not kind to Randolph, as an incident that quickly
followed showed him.
He and Monica had ridden one day across a wild sweep of trackless
moorland, when they came in sight of a picturesque Elizabethan house,
in a decidedly dilapidated condition, whose red brick walls and
mullioned windows took Randolph’s fancy. He asked who lived there.
“No one now,” answered Monica, with a touch as of regret in her voice;
“no one has lived there for years and years. Once it was such a bright,
happy home—we used to play there so often, Arthur and I, when we were
children; but the master died, the children were taken away, and the
house was shut up. That was ten years ago. I have never been there
since.”
“Who is the owner? Does he never reside here now?”
“He has never been back. I believe he is not rich, and could not keep
up the place. He must be about five-and-twenty by this time. He is Sir
Conrad Fitzgerald—he was such a nice boy when I used to play with him.”
Randolph started suddenly; he controlled himself in a moment, but
Monica’s eyes were very quick, and she had seen the instinctive recoil
at the sound of the name.
“Do you know Conrad Fitzgerald?” she asked.
“We have met,” he answered, somewhat grimly. “I do not claim the honour
of his acquaintance.”
Monica glanced at him. She saw something in the stern lines of
Randolph’s face that told a tale of its own. She was not afraid to
state the conclusion she reached by looking at him.
“That means that you have quarrelled,” she said.
“I am not at liberty to explain what it means,” was the answer, spoken
with a certain stern gravity, not lost upon Monica. She had never seen
her companion look like this before. The strength and resolution of his
face compelled a sort of involuntary respect, yet she revolted against
hearing the friend and playmate of her childhood tacitly condemned by
this stranger.
“I do not like innuendoes, Mr. Trevlyn,” she said. “If you have
anything to say against a man I think it is better spoken out.”
“I have nothing at all to say upon the subject of Sir Conrad
Fitzgerald,” he answered, quietly.
“Ungenerous! unmanly!” was Monica’s mental comment. “I cannot bear
hearing a character _hinted_ away. I loved Conrad once, and he loved
me. I do not believe he has done anything for which he should be
condemned.”
Randolph thought little of the few chance words respecting Sir Conrad
Fitzgerald at the time when they were spoken; but he was destined to
think a good deal about that individual before many days had passed.
Finding his way to Arthur’s room towards dusk one day, as he often
did, he was surprised to find quite a little group around the glowing
fire. Monica and the dogs were objects sufficiently familiar to him by
this time, but who was that graceful, fair-haired youth who sat beside
the girl, his face turned towards her and away from Randolph, whilst
he made some gay, laughing rejoinder to her in a very sweet, musical
voice?
Randolph recognised that laugh and that voice with another start of
dismay. His face set itself in very stern lines, and he would have
withdrawn in silence had he been able to do so unobserved; but Arthur
saw him as he moved to go, and cried gladly:
“Oh, here is Randolph—that is right. Our old friend and our new one
must be introduced. Sir Conrad Fitzgerald—Mr. Randolph Trevlyn.”