hospitality?” he asked Monica one day, with some appearance of anger.
He had encountered Randolph and the Earl in the park as he came up,
and he was aware that the cold formality of the greeting which passed
between them had not been lost upon the keen observation of the latter.
“I call it detestable taste hanging on here as he does. When is he
leaving?”
“I do not know. Father enjoys his company, and so does Arthur. I have
not heard anything about his going yet.”
“Perhaps you enjoy his company too?” suggested Conrad, with a touch of
insolence in his manner.
A faint flush rose in Monica’s pale face. Her look expressed a good
deal of cool scorn.
“Perhaps I do,” she answered.
Conrad saw at once that he had made a blunder. Face and voice alike
changed, and he said in his gentle, deprecating way:
“Forgive me, Monica. I had no right to speak as I did. It was rude and
unjustifiable. Only if you knew as much as I do about that fellow, you
would not wonder that I hate to see him hanging round you as he is
doing now, waiting, as it were, to step into the place that is his by
legal, but by no moral right. It would be hard to see anyone acting
such a part. It is ten times harder when you know your man.”
Monica looked straight at Conrad.
“What do you know against Mr. Trevlyn? My father is acquainted with all
his past history, and can learn nothing to his discredit. What story
have you got hold of? I would rather hear facts than hints.”
Conrad laughed uneasily.
“I know that he is a cad, and a sneak, and a spy; but I have no wish to
upset your father’s confidence in him. We were at Oxford together, and
of course it was not pleasant to me to hear his boasting of his future
lordship at Trevlyn. That was the first thing that made me dislike him.
Later on I had fresh cause.”
Had Monica been more conversant with the family history, she would have
known that this boasting could never have taken place, as Randolph had
been far enough from the peerage at that time. As it was, she looked
grave and a little severe as she asked:
“Did he do that?” and listened with instinctive repugnance to the
details fabricated by the inventive genius of Conrad.
He next cleverly alluded again to his past follies, and appealed to
Monica’s generosity not to change towards him because he had sinned.
“It is so hard to feel cast off by old friends,” he said, with a very
expressive look at the girl. “I know what it is to see myself cold
shouldered by those to whom I have learned to look up with reverence
and affection. I have suffered very much from misrepresentation and
hardness—suffered beyond what I deserve. I did fall once—I was sorely
tempted, and I did commit one act of ingratitude and deceit that I have
most bitterly repented of. I was very young and sorely tempted, and
I did something which might have placed me in the felon’s dock, and
would have done so had somebody not far away had his will. But I was
forgiven by the man I had injured, and I have tried my utmost since
to make atonement for the past. The hardest part of all has been to
see myself scorned and contemned by those whose good-will I have most
wished to win. Sometimes I have known sorrow that has been akin to
despair. I have been met with coldness and disdain when most I needed
help and sympathy. Monica, you will not help to push me back into the
abyss? You will not help to make me think that repentance is in vain?”
She looked at him very seriously, her eyes full of a sort of thoughtful
surprise.
“I, Conrad. What have I to do with it or with you?”
“This much,” he answered, taking her hand and looking straight into her
eyes: “this much, Monica—that nothing so helps a man who has fallen
once as the friendship of a noble woman like yourself; nothing hurts
him more than her ill-will or distrust. Give me your friendship, and
I will make myself worthy of it; turn your back coldly upon me, and I
shall feel doomed to despair.”
“We have been friends all our lives, Conrad,” said Monica, with gentle
seriousness. “You know that if I could help you in the way you mean I
should like to do so.”
“You will not change—you will not turn your back upon me, whatever he
may say of me?”
She looked at him steadily, and answered, “No.”
“You promise, Monica?”
“There is no need for that, Conrad. When I say a thing I mean it. We
are friends, and I do not change without sufficient reason.”
He saw that he had said enough; he raised her hand to his lips and
kissed it once with a humility and reverence that could not offend her.
Monica wandered down by the lonely cliff path to the shore, revolving
many thoughts in her mind, feeling strangely absorbed and abstracted.
The wind blew fresh and strong off the sea. The tide rolled in fast,
salt, and strong. Monica felt that she wanted to be alone to-day—alone
with the great wild ocean that she loved so well, even whilst she
feared it too in its fiercer moods. She therefore made her way with
the agility and sure-footed steadiness of long practice over a number
of great boulders, and along a jutting ledge of rock that stretched
a considerable distance out to sea—a sunken reef that had brought to
destruction many a hapless fisherman’s craft, and more than one stately
vessel.
At high tide it was covered, but it would not be high water for some
hours yet, and Monica, in her restless state of mental tension, had
forgotten that the high spring tides were lashing the sea to fury just
now upon this iron-bound coast, rendered more swift and strong and high
by the steady way in which the wind set towards the land.
Standing on the great flat rock at the end of the sunken reef, a rock
that was never covered even at the highest tides, Monica was soon lost
in so profound a reverie that time flew by unheeded; and only when the
giant waves began to throw their spray about her feet as they dashed
up against the rock, did she suddenly rouse up to the consciousness
that for once in her life she had forgotten herself, and forgotten the
uncertain temper of her tyrant playfellow, and had allowed her retreat
to be cut off.
She looked round her quietly and steadily, not frightened, but fully
conscious of her danger. The reef was already covered; it would be
impossible to retrace her footsteps with the waves dashing wildly over
the sunken rocks. Monica was a bold and practised swimmer, but to swim
ashore in a heavy sea such as was now running was obviously out of the
question. To stand upon that lonely rock until the tide fell again was
a feat of strength and endurance almost equally impossible. Her best
chance lay in being seen from the shore and rescued. Someone might pass
that way, or even come in search of her. Only the daylight was already
failing, and would soon be gone.
Monica looked round her, awed, yet calm, understanding, without
realising, the deadly peril in which she stood. There was always a
boat—her little boat—lying at anchor in the bay, ready for her use at
any moment. Her eyes turned towards it instinctively, and as they did
so she became aware of something bobbing up and down in the water—the
head of a swimmer, as she saw the next moment, swimming out towards her
boat.
Someone must have seen her, then, and as all the fishing-smacks
were out, and there was no way of reaching the anchored boat, save
by swimming, had elected to run some personal risk rather than waste
precious time in seeking aid farther afield.
A glow of gratitude towards her courageous rescuer filled Monica’s
heart, and this did not diminish as she saw the difficulty he had
first in reaching the boat, then in casting it loose, and last, but
not least, in guiding and pushing it towards an uncovered rock and in
getting in. But this difficult and perilous office was accomplished in
safety at last, and the boat was quickly rowed over the heaving, angry
waves to the spot where Monica stood alone, amid the tossing waste of
water.
Nearer and nearer came the tiny craft, and Monica experienced an odd
sensation of mingled surprise and dismay as she recognised in her
preserver none other than Randolph Trevlyn.
But it was not a time in which speeches could be made or thanks spoken.
To bring the boat up to the rock in the midst of the rolling breakers
was a task of no little difficulty and danger, and had not Randolph
been experienced from boyhood in matters pertaining to the sea, he
could not possibly have accomplished the feat unaided and alone.
There was no bungling on Monica’s part, either. With steady nerve and
quiet courage she awaited the moment for the downward spring. It was
made at exactly the right second; the boat swayed, but righted itself
immediately. Randolph had the head round in a moment away from the
dangerous rock. In ten minutes they had reached the shore and had
landed upon the beach.
Not a word had been spoken all that time. Monica had given Randolph one
expressive glance as she took her seat in the boat, and that is all
that had so far passed between them.
When, however, he gave her his hand to help her to disembark, and they
stood together on the shingle, she said, very seriously and gently:
“It was very kind of you to come out to me, Mr. Trevlyn. I think I
should have been drowned but for you,” and she turned her eyes seaward
with a gaze that was utterly inscrutable.
He looked at her a moment intently, and then stooped and picked up his
overcoat, which lay beside his pilot jacket and boots, upon the stones.
“Will you oblige me by putting this on in place of your own wet jacket?
You are drenched with spray.”
She woke up from her reverie then, and looked up quickly, doing as
he asked without a word; but when she had donned the warm protecting
garment, she said:
“You are drenched to the skin yourself.”
“Yes, so a garment more or less is of no consequence. Now walk on,
please; do not wait for me; I will be after you in two minutes.”
Again she did his bidding in the same dreamy way, and walked on towards
the ascent by the steep cliff path. He was not long in following her,
and they walked in almost unbroken silence to the Castle. When they
reached the portal, Monica paused, and raised her eyes once more to his
face.
“You have saved my life to-day,” she said. “I am—I think I am—very
grateful to you.”
Arthur’s excitement and delight when he heard of the adventure were
very great.
“So he saved you, Monica—at the risk of his life? Ah, that just proves
it!”
“Proves what?”
“Why, that he is in love with you, of course, just as he ought to be,
and will marry you some day, make us all happy; and keep us all at
Trevlyn. What could be more delightful and appropriate?”
A wave of colour swept over Monica’s face.
“You are a foolish boy, Arthur.”
“I am not a foolish boy!” he answered, exultingly; “I know what I am
saying. Randolph _does_ love you; I can see it more plainly every day.
He loves you with all his heart, and some day soon he will ask you to
be his wife. Of course you will say yes—you must like him, I am sure,
as much as every one else does; and then everything will come right,
and we shall all be perfectly happy. Things always do come right in the
end, if we only will but believe it.”
Monica sat very still, a strange, dream-like feeling stealing over her.
Arthur’s playful words shed a sudden flood of light upon much that had
been dark before, and for a moment she was blinded and dazzled.
Randolph Trevlyn loved her! Yes, she could well believe it, little as
she knew of love, thinking of the glance bent upon her not long ago,
which had thrilled her then, she knew not why.
Monica trembled, yet she was dimly conscious of a strange under-current
of startled joy beneath the troubled waters of doubt, despondency,
and perplexity. She could not understand herself, nor read her heart
aright, yet it seemed as if through the lifting of the clouds, she
obtained a rapid passing glimpse of a land of golden sunshine beyond,
whither her face and footsteps alike were turned—as a traveller amid
the mountain mists sees before him now and again the bright sunny
smiling valley beneath which he will shortly reach.
The land of promise was spreading itself out already before Monica’s
eyes, and a dim perception in her heart was telling her that this was
so. Yet the sandy desert path still lay before her for awhile, for like
many others, her eyes were partially blinded, and she turned from the
direct way, and wandered still for awhile in the arid waste. She lacked
the faith to grasp the promise; but it was shining before her all the
while, and in her heart of hearts she felt it, though she could not yet
grasp the truth.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
“WILT THOU HAVE THIS WOMAN?”
Lord Trevlyn was not unobservant of the feelings with which Randolph
regarded Monica. Quiet and self-contained as the young man was,
his admiration and the pleasure he took in her society was still
sufficiently obvious, and his own opinions were triumphantly endorsed
by those of Lady Diana.
“He is over head and ears in love with her!” exclaimed that sharp-eyed
dame to her brother, about a couple of days after Monica’s rescue by
Randolph, of which, however, she luckily knew nothing. Indeed, the
story of that adventure had only been told by the girl to Arthur and
her father, and both had had the tact and discrimination not to broach
the subject to Lady Diana.
“He is over head and ears in love with her, but she gives him not the
smallest encouragement, the haughty minx! and he is modest, and keeps
his feelings to himself. It seems to me that the time has come when
you ought to speak out yourself, Trevlyn; we cannot expect to keep
a gay young man like Randolph for ever in these solitudes. Speak to
him yourself, and see if you cannot manage to bring about some proper
understanding.”
Lord Trevlyn had, in fact, some such idea in his own mind. He and his
young kinsman were by this time upon easy and intimate terms. They felt
a mutual liking and respect, and had at times very nearly approached
the subject so near to the hearts of both. That very night as they
sat together in the earl’s study, after the rest of the household had
retired, Lord Trevlyn spoke to his guest with frankness and unreserve
of the thoughts that had for long been stirring in his mind.
He spoke to his kinsman and heir of his anxieties as to the future of
his dearly-loved and only child, who would at his death be only very
inadequately provided for. He did not attempt to conceal the hope he
had cherished in asking Randolph to be his guest, that some arrangement
might be made which should conduce to her future happiness; and just as
the young man’s heart began to beat high with the tumult of conflicting
feelings within him, the old earl looked him steadily in the face,
and concluded with a certain stately dignity that was exceedingly
impressive.
“Randolph Trevlyn, I had heard much in your favour before I saw you,
so much, indeed, that I ventured to entertain hopes that may sound
scheming and cold-blooded when put into words, yet which do not, I
trust, proceed from motives altogether unworthy. My daughter is very
dear to me. To see her happily settled in life, under the protecting
care of one who will truly love and cherish her, has been the deepest
wish of my life. In our secluded existence here there has been small
chance of realising this wish. I will not deny that in asking you to be
our guest it was with hopes I need not farther specify. Some of these
hopes have been amply realised. I will not seem to flatter, yet let me
say that in you I have found every quality I most hoped to see in the
man who is to be my successor here. You are a true Trevlyn, and I am
deeply thankful it is so; and besides this, I have lately entertained
hopes that another wish of mine is slowly fulfilling itself. I have
sometimes thought—let me say it plainly—that you have learned to love
my daughter.”
“Lord Trevlyn,” said Randolph, with a calmness of manner that betokened
deep feeling held resolutely under control, “I do love your daughter.
I think I have done so ever since our first meeting. Every day that
passes only serves to deepen my love. If I have your consent to try and
win her hand, I shall count myself a happy man indeed, although I fear
her heart is not one to be easily moved or won.”
Lord Trevlyn’s face expressed a keen satisfaction and gladness. He held
out his hand to his young kinsman, and said quietly:
“You have made a happy man of me, Randolph Trevlyn. In your hands I can
place the future of my child with perfect confidence. You love her, and
you will care for her, and make her life happy.”
Randolph wrung the proffered hand.
“Indeed you may trust me to do all in my power. I love her with my
whole heart. I would lay down my life to serve her.”
“As you have demonstrated already,” said the old earl, with a grave
smile. “I have not thanked you for saving my child’s life. I hope in
the future she will repay the debt by making your life happy, as you,
I am convinced, will make hers.”
Randolph’s bronzed cheek flushed a little at these words.
“Lord Trevlyn,” he said, “to gain your goodwill and assent in this
matter is a source of great satisfaction to me; but I cannot blind
my eyes to the fear that Lady Monica herself, with whom the decision
must rest, has not so far given me any encouragement to hope that she
regards me as anything beyond a mere acquaintance and chance guest.
I love her too well, I think, not to be well aware of her feelings
towards me, and I cannot flatter myself for a moment by the belief that
these are anything warmer than a sort of gentle liking, little removed
from indifference.”
The earl’s face was full of thought.
“Monica’s nature is peculiar,” he said; “her feelings lie very deep,
and are difficult to read; no one can really know what they may be.”
“I admit that; yet I confess I have little hope—at least in the
present.”
“Whilst I,” said Lord Trevlyn, quietly, “have little fear.”
An eager look crossed Randolph’s face.
“You think——”
“I cannot easily explain what I think, but I believe there will be
less difficulty with Monica than you anticipate. She does not yet know
her own heart—that I admit. She may be startled at first, but that is
not necessarily against us. Will you let me break this matter to her?
Will you let me act as your ambassador? I understand Monica as you
can hardly do. Will you let me see if I cannot plead your cause as
eloquently as you can do it for yourself? Trust me it will be better
so. My daughter and I understand one another well.”
Randolph was silent a moment, then he said, very gravely and seriously:
“If you think that it will be best so, I gladly place myself in your
hands. I confess I should find it difficult to approach the subject
myself—at any rate at present. But”—he paused a moment, and looked the
other full in the face—“pardon me for saying as much—you do not propose
putting any pressure upon your daughter? Believe me, I would rather
never see her face again than feel that she accepted me as a husband
under any kind of compulsion or restraint.”
Lord Trevlyn smiled a smile of approval.
“You need not fear,” he answered, quietly. “Monica’s nature is not one
to submit tamely to any kind of coercion, nor am I the man to attempt
to constrain her feelings upon a matter so important as this.”
“And if,” pursued Randolph, with quiet resolution, “Lady Monica
declines the proposal made to her on my behalf, I shall request you to
join with me in breaking the entail; for I can never consent to be the
means of taking from her that which by every moral right is hers. I
could not for a moment tolerate the idea of wresting from her the right
to style herself, as she has always been styled, the Lady of Trevlyn.
This is her rightful home, and I shall appeal to you, if my suit fails,
to assist me in installing her there for life.”
The old earl looked much moved.
“This is very noble of you—most noble and generous: but we will not
talk of it yet. I am not sure that I could bring myself to help in
separating the old title from the old estate. You are very generous
to think of making the sacrifice; whether I ought to permit you to
do so is another thing. At least let us wait and see what our first
negotiation brings forth. Monica ought to know——” he paused, smiled,
and held out his hand. “Good-night. I will speak to my daughter upon
the first opportunity. You shall have your answer to-morrow.”
The next day Randolph spent at St. Maws with Tom Pendrill. He felt that
whilst his fate hung in the balance it would be impossible to remain at
Trevlyn. He rode across to his friend’s house quite early in the day,
and twilight had fallen before he returned to the sombre precincts of
the Castle.
He made his way straight to the earl’s study; the old man rose quickly
upon his entrance, and held out his hand. His face beamed with an
inward happiness and satisfaction.
“I wish you joy, Randolph,” he said, wringing the young man’s hand. “We
may congratulate each other, I think. Monica is yours—take her, with
her father’s blessing. It seems to me as if I had nothing left to wish
for now, save to see you made my son, for such indeed you are to me
now.”
Randolph stood very still. He could hardly believe his own ears. He had
not for a moment expected any definite answer, save a definite refusal.
“Lady Monica consents to be my wife?” he questioned. “Are you sure that
this is so?”
“I am quite sure. I had it from her own lips.”
Randolph’s breath came rather fast.
“Does she love me?”
“Presumably she does. Monica would never give her hand for the sake of
rank or wealth.”
“No, no,” he answered quickly, and took one or two turns about the
darkening room. He was in a strange tumult of conflicting feeling, and
did not hear or heed the low-spoken words addressed to the servant, who
had just entered with fresh logs for the fire. His heart was beating
wildly; he knew not what to think or hope. He asked no more questions,
not knowing what to ask.
And then all at once he saw Monica standing before him, standing with
one hand closely locked in that of her father, looking gravely at him
in the shadowy twilight, with an inscrutable wistful sweetness in her
fathomless eyes.
“Randolph,” said Lord Trevlyn, “here is your promised wife. I give her
to you with my blessing. May you both be as happy as you have made me
to-day by this mutual act. Be very good to her, guard her and shield
her, and love her tenderly. She is used to love and care from her
father; let me feel that in her husband’s keeping she will gain and not
lose by the change in her future life. Monica, my child, love your
husband truly and faithfully. He is worthy of you, and you are worthy
of him.”
Lord Trevlyn placed the hand he held within Randolph’s grasp, and
silently withdrew.
For a moment neither moved nor spoke. The young man held the hand of
his promised wife between both of his, and stood quite still, looking
down with strange intensity of feeling into the half-averted face.
“Monica,” he said at last, “can this be true?”
She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, and then dropped them before
his burning glance.
“Monica,” he said again, “can it be true that you love me?”
“I will be your wife if you will have me,” she said, in a very clear,
low tone. “I will love you—if I can. I will try, indeed. I think I
can—some day.”
He was too passionately in love himself at that moment to be chilled
by this response. It was more than he had ever looked for, that sweet
surrender of herself. Protestations of love would sound strangely
from Monica’s lips. He hardly even wished to hear them. She must feel
some tenderness towards him. She had given herself to him to love and
cherish; surely his great love could accomplish the rest.
He drew her gently towards him. She did not resist; she let herself be
encircled by his protecting arm.
“I will try to make you very happy,” he said, with a sort of manly
simplicity that meant more than the most ardent protestations could
have done. “May I kiss you, Monica?”
She lifted her down-bent face a little, and he pressed a kiss upon her
brow. She made no attempt to return the caress, but he did not expect
it. It was enough that she permitted him to worship her.
“You have made me very happy, Monica,” he said presently, whilst the
shadows deepened round them. “Will you not let me hear you say that you
are happy too?”
She looked at him at last. He could not read the meaning of that gaze.
“I want to make you happy, my darling,” said Randolph, very softly.
Again that strange, earnest gaze.
“Make my father and Arthur happy,” she said, sweetly and steadily,
“and I shall be happy too.”