perhaps have done had he been calmer—did not realise as at another
moment he might have done their deep significance. He was desperately,
passionately in love, carried away inwardly, if not outwardly, by the
tumult of his feelings. He did not realise—it was hardly likely that he
should—that to secure her father’s happiness and the future well-being
and happiness of her brother Monica had promised to be his wife. She
respected him, she liked him, she was resolved to make him a true and
faithful wife; and she knew so little of the true nature of wedded love
that it never occurred to her to think of the injury she might be doing
to him in giving the hand without the heart.
She had been moved and disquieted by Arthur’s words of a few days back.
Her father’s appeal to her that day had touched her to the quick. What
better could she do with her life than secure with it the happiness
of those she loved? How better could she keep her vow towards Arthur
than by making the promise asked of her? Monica thought first of others
in this matter, it is true, and yet there was a strange throb akin
to joy deep down in her heart, when she thought of the love tendered
to her by one she had learned to esteem and to trust. Those sweet,
sudden glimpses of the golden land of sunshine beyond kept flashing
before her eyes, and thrilled her with feelings that made her almost
afraid. She did not know what it all meant. She did not know that it
was but the foreshadowing of the deep love that was rooting itself, all
unknown, in the tenderest fibres of her nature. She never thought she
loved Randolph Trevlyn, but she was conscious of a strange exultation
and stress of feeling, which she attributed to the enthusiasm of the
sacrifice she had made for those she loved. She did not yet know the
secret of her own heart.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
“WOO’D, AND MARRIED, AND A’.”
So Monica had engaged herself to her kinsman, Randolph Trevlyn, and the
neighbourhood, though decidedly astonished at this sudden surrender of
liberty on the part of the fair, unapproachable girl, could not but see
how desirable was the match from every point of view, and rejoice in
the thought that Trevlyn would never lose its well-loved lady.
As for Monica herself, the days passed by as in a dream—a strong
dream of misty sunshine and sweet, faint fragrance, through which she
wandered with uncertain steps, led onward by a sense of brighter light
beyond.
She was not unhappy; indeed, a strange new sense of calm and rest
had fallen upon her since she had laid her hand in Randolph’s and
promised to love him if she could. A few short weeks ago how she would
have chafed against the fetters she wore! Now she hardly felt them as
fetters; they neither galled nor hurt her. Indeed, after the feeling
of uncertainty, of impending change that had hung over her of late,
this peaceful calm was doubly grateful. It seemed at last as if she had
reached the shelter of a safe haven, and pausing there, with a sense
of grateful well-being, she felt as if no storm or tempest could ever
reach her again.
Monica’s nature was not introspective; she did not easily analyse her
feelings. Had she done so now, she might have laid bare a secret deep
down within her that would have surprised her not a little; but she
never attempted to look into her heart, she rather avoided definite
thought; she lived in a sort of vaguely sweet dream, glad and thankful
for the undercurrent of happiness which had so unexpectedly crept into
her life. She did not seek to know its source—it was enough that it was
there.
Randolph was very good to her, she did not attempt to deny that.
Nothing could have been more tender and chivalrous than his manner
towards her. He arrogated none of the rights which an affianced husband
might fairly have claimed; he was content with what she gave him; he
never tried to force her confidence or to win words or promises that
did not come spontaneously to her lips.
She was shy with him for some time after the engagement had been
ratified, more silent and reserved than she had been before; yet there
was a charm in her very silence that went home to his heart, and he
felt that she was nearer to him day by day.
“I will win her yet—heart and soul,” he would say sometimes, with a
thrill of proud joy as he looked into the sweet eyes raised to his,
and read a something in their depths that made his heart throb gladly.
“Give me time, only time, and she shall be altogether mine.”
She never shunned him. She let him be her companion when and where he
would, and she began to look for him, and to feel more satisfied when
he was at her side. He was too wise to overdo her with his society,
or seem to infringe the liberty in which she had grown up; but he
frequently accompanied her on her walks or rides, and he had the
satisfaction of feeling that his presence was not distasteful to her;
indeed, as days went by, and she grew used to the idea that had been at
first so strange, he fancied that there was something of welcome in the
smile that greeted his approach.
She never spoke of the future when they should be man and wife, and
only by a hint here and there did he broach the subject or tell of
his private affairs. Both were content for the time being to live in
the present—that present that seemed so calm and bright and full of
promise.
As days and weeks fled by, a colour dawned upon Monica’s cheeks and a
light in her eyes; she grew more beautiful every day or so, thought
those who loved her, and watched her with loving scrutiny; and Mrs.
Pendrill, who was, so to speak, the girl’s good angel in this crisis of
her life, would caress the golden head sometimes, and ask with gentle,
motherly solicitude:
“My Monica is happy, is she not?”
“I think so, Aunt Elizabeth,” Monica answered once, speaking out more
freely than she had done before. “Other people are happy—the dread and
uncertainty about the future seems all gone. Trevlyn is not sad any
longer—it is my own home again, my very own. I cannot quite express it,
but something seems to have come into my life and changed everything.
I am happy often now—nearly always, I think.”
Mrs. Pendrill smiled a little.
“Does your happiness result from the knowledge that you—you and Arthur:
I suppose I must include him—need never leave Trevlyn, and that you
have pleased your father? Tell me, Monica, is that all?”
A faint colour mantled the girl’s face.
“I know it sounds selfish; but I hardly think anyone knows what Trevlyn
is to us, and what Arthur’s welfare is to me.” Then reading the meaning
of the earnest glance bent upon her, she added quickly, “Ah, yes, Aunt
Elizabeth, I know there is _that_ too. He is very, very good to me, and
I will do everything to make him happy, and to be a good wife when the
time comes. Indeed, I do think of him. I know what he is, and what he
deserves—only—only I cannot talk about that even to you.”
“I do not want you to talk, my love, I only want you to feel.”
And very low the answer was spoken.
“I think I do feel.”
Certainly things were going well, very well. It seemed as if the
course of Randolph’s true love might run smoothly enough to the very
end now. Tom Pendrill chaffed him somewhat mercilessly on the easy
victory he had obtained over the somewhat difficult subject, and he
felt an exultant sense of joyful triumph when he compared his position
of to-day with the one he had occupied a week or two back. Monica’s
gentleness and growing dependence upon him were inexpressibly sweet,
the dawn of a quiet happiness in her face filled his heart with
delight. The victory was not quite won yet, but he began to feel a
confidence that it was not far distant.
And this hope would in all probability have been realised in due
course, had it not been for untoward circumstances, and from the
presence of enemies in the camp, one his sworn foe, the other his
champion and ally: but despite this, a born mischief-maker and mar-plot.
So long as Randolph was on the spot all went well. His strong will
dominated all others, and his influence upon Monica produced its own
effect. Love like his could not but win its way to the heart of the
woman he loved.
But Randolph could not remain always at Trevlyn. Hard as it was to
tear himself away, the conventionalities of life demanded his absence
from time to time, and other duties called him elsewhere. And it was
when his back was fairly turned that the mischief-makers began their
task of undoing, as far as was possible, all the good that had been
done.
Randolph had been exceedingly careful to say nothing to Monica about
hastening their marriage. He saw that she took for granted a long
engagement, that she had hardly contemplated as yet the inevitable
end whither that engagement tended; and until he had assured himself
that her heart was wholly his, nothing would have induced him to ask
her to give herself irrevocably to him. When the right moment came she
would surrender herself willingly, for Monica was not one who would
do anything by halves. Till that day came, however, he was resolved to
wait, and breathe no word of the future that awaited them.
Lady Diana was of a different way of thinking. She had been amazed
at Monica’s pliability in the matter of her engagement, so surprised
and so well pleased that, for some considerable time, she had acted
with unusual discretion, and had avoided saying anything to irritate
or alarm the sensitive feelings of her niece. Possibly she stood in
a little unconscious awe of Randolph, for certainly so long as he
remained she was quiet and discreet enough. But when his presence was
once removed, then began a system of petty persecution and annoyance
that was the very thing to rouse in Monica a spirit of opposition and
hostility.
Lady Diana had set her heart upon a speedy marriage, half afraid that
her niece might change her mind; she took a half spiteful pleasure
in the knowledge that the girl’s independence was at last to be
curbed, and that she was about to take upon herself the common lot of
womanhood. She lost no opportunities of reading homilies on wifely
submission and subjection. She bestirred herself over the matter of the
_trousseau_ as if the day were actually fixed, and Monica’s indignant
protests were laughed at and ignored as if too childish for serious
argument.
The girl began to observe, too, that her father spoke of her marriage
as of something speedily approaching, and that he, Lady Diana, and
even Arthur, seemed to understand that she would spend much of her
time away from Trevlyn, when once that ceremony had taken place. Her
father and brother spoke cheerfully of her leaving them, taking it for
granted that her affianced husband was first in her thoughts, and that
they must make her way easy to go away with him, without one regret
for those left behind. Lady Diana, with more of feminine insight, had
less of kindliness in her method of approaching the subject; but when
she found them all agreed upon the point, the girl felt almost as if
she had been betrayed. There was no Randolph to shield and protect her.
She could not put into written words the tumult of her conflicting
feelings; she could only struggle and suffer, and feel like a wild
thing trapped in the hunter’s toils. Ah, if only Randolph had not left
her! But when the poison had done its work, she ceased even to wish for
him back.
Another enemy to her peace of mind was Conrad Fitzgerald. Monica was
growing to feel a great repugnance to this fair-haired, smooth-tongued
man, despite the nominal friendship that existed between him and those
of her name. She knew that her feelings were changing towards him; but,
like other young things, she was ashamed of any such change, regarding
it as treacherous and ungenerous, especially after the pledge she had
given him.
Conrad thus found opportunities of seeing her from time to time, and
set to work with malicious pleasure to poison her mind against her
affianced husband. She would not listen to a single direct word against
him: that he discovered almost at once, somewhat to his astonishment
and chagrin; but “there are more ways of killing a cat than by hanging
it,” as he said to himself; and a well-directed shaft steeped in
poison, and launched with a practised hand, struck home and did its
work only too well.
He insinuated that after her marriage Trevlyn would never be her home
during her father’s life-time, at least, possibly never any more.
Randolph had property of his own; was it likely he would bury himself
and his beautiful young wife in a desolate place like that? Of course
her care of Arthur would be a thing entirely put on one side. It was
out of the question that she should ever be allowed to devote herself
to him as of old, when once she had placed her neck beneath the
matrimonial yoke. Most likely some excuse would be forthcoming to rid
Trevlyn of the undesirable presence of the invalid. Randolph was not a
man to be deterred by any nice scruples from going his own way. Words
spoken before marriage were never regarded seriously when once the
inevitable step had been taken.
Monica heard, and partly believed—believed enough to make her restless
and miserable. Never a word crossed her lips that could show her trust
in Randolph shaken. She was loyal to him outwardly, but she suffered
keenly, nevertheless. He was not there to give her confidence, as he
could well have done, by his unwavering love and devotion, and in his
absence, the influence he had won slowly waned, and the old fear and
distrust crept back.
It might have vanished had he returned to charm it away: but, alas! he
only came to make Monica his wife in sudden, unexpected fashion, before
her heart was really won.
Lord Trevlyn had been taken dangerously ill. It was an attack similar
to those he had suffered from once or twice before, but in a more
severe form. His life was in imminent danger; nothing could save him,
the doctors agreed, but the most perfect rest of body and mind; and it
seemed as if only the satisfaction of calling Randolph son, of seeing
him Monica’s husband, could secure to him that repose of spirit so
absolutely essential to his recovery.
Monica did not waver when her father looked pleadingly into her face,
and asked if she were ready. Her assent was calmly and firmly spoken,
and after that she left all in other hands, and did not quit her
father’s presence night or day.
He was better for the knowledge that the wish of his heart was about
to be consummated, and she was so utterly absorbed in him as to be all
but unconscious of the flight of time. She knew that days sped by as on
wings. She even heard them speak of “to-morrow” without any stirring of
heart. She was absorbed in care for her almost dying father; she had no
thought to spare for aught else.
On the evening of that day Randolph stood before her, holding her hands
in his warm clasp.
“Is this your wish, my Monica?”
She thrilled a little beneath his ardent gaze, a momentary sense of
comfort and protection came over her in his presence; but physical
languour blunted her feelings; she was too weary even to feel acutely.
“It is my wish,” she answered gently.
He bent his head and kissed her tenderly and lingeringly, looking
earnestly into the pale, sweet face that seemed not quite so responsive
as it had done when he saw it last; but he could not read the look
it wore. He kissed her and went away, breathing half sadly, half
triumphantly, the word “To-morrow.”
Lady Diana, ever indefatigable and contriving, had managed as if by
magic to have all things in readiness; rich white satin and brocade,
orange blossom and lace veil—all was in readiness—as if she had had
weeks for her preparations.
Monica started and half recoiled as she saw the bridal dress laid out
for her adornment, but she was quiet and passive in the hands of her
attendants as they arrayed her in her snowy robes, and well she repaid
their efforts. Only Lady Diana felt any dissatisfaction.
“Why, child,” she said, impatiently, “you look like a snow maiden. You
might be a nun about to take the veil instead of a bride going to her
wedding. I have no patience with such pale looks. Randolph will think
we have brought him a corpse for his bride.”
Randolph was waiting in the little church on the cliff. His heart beat
thick and fast; he himself began to feel as if he were living in a
dream. He could not realise that the time had come when he was to call
Monica his own.
Lady Diana and Mrs. Pendrill were there, and a friend of his own, young
Lord Haddon, who had accompanied him from town the previous day, to
play the part of best man at the ceremony. There was a little rustle
and little stir outside, and then Monica entered, leaning on Tom
Pendrill’s arm, and, without once lifting her eyes, walked steadily up
the church, till she stood beside Randolph.
Never, perhaps, had she looked more lovely, yet never, perhaps, more
remote and unapproachable, than when she stood before the altar in her
bridal robes, to pledge herself for better for worse to the man who
loved her, till death should them part.
He looked at her with a strange pang and aching at heart; but the
moment was not one when hesitation or drawing back was possible.
In a few more minutes Monica and Randolph Trevlyn were made man and
wife.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
MARRIED.
“Married! Married! Married!”
The monstrous vibrating throb of the express train seemed ceaselessly
repeating that one word. The sound of it was beaten in upon Monica’s
brain as with hot hammers, and yet she did not feel as if she
understood what it meant, or realised what happened to her. One thing
only was clear to her; that she had been torn away from Trevlyn, from
her father, who, though pronounced convalescent, was still in a very
precarious state; from Arthur, who after the anxiety and excitement
of the past days, was prostrated by a sharp attack of illness; from
everything and everybody she held most dear; and cast as it were upon
the mercy of a comparative stranger, who did not seem the less strange
to her, because he had the right to call himself her husband.
What had happened during the three days that had passed since Monica
had stood beside Randolph in the little cliff church, and had pledged
herself to him for better or worse?
She herself could not have said, but the facts can be summed up in a
few words.
When once Lord Trevlyn had seen Monica led by Randolph to his bedside
in her bridal white, and knew that they were man and wife, a change for
the better had taken place in his condition, very slight at first, but
increasing every hour. Little by little the danger passed away, and for
the time at least his life was safe.
But Monica’s mind, no sooner relieved on his account, was thrown into
fresh misery and suspense by a bad attack of illness on Arthur’s part,
and the strain upon her was so great, that, coming as it did after all
the mental conflict she had lately endured, her own health threatened
to break down, and this caused no small anxiety in the minds of all
about her.
“There is only one thing to be done, and that is to take her right away
out of it all,” said Tom Pendrill, with authority. “She will break
down as sure as fate if she stays here. The associations of the place
are quite too much for her. She will have a brain or nervous fever if
she is not taken away. You have a house in London, Trevlyn? Take her
there and keep her quiet, but let her have change of scene; let her see
fresh faces, and get into new habits, and see the world from a fresh
stand-point. It will do her all the good in the world. She may rebel at
first, and think herself miserable; but look at her now. What can be
worse than the way in which she is going on? Trevlyn is killing her,
whether she knows it or not. Let us see what London can do for her.”
No dissentient voice was raised against this suggestion. The earl, Lady
Diana, Randolph, and even Arthur, were all in accord, and Monica heard
her sentence with that unnatural quietude that had disturbed them all
so much.
She did not protest or rebel, but accepted her fate very quietly, as
she had accepted the marriage that had been the preliminary step.
How white she looked as she lay back in her corner of the carriage! how
lonely, how frail, how desolate! Randolph’s heart ached for her, for he
knew her thoughts were with her sick father and suffering brother; knew
that it, not unnaturally, seemed very, very hard to be taken away at a
crisis such as the present. She could not estimate the causes that made
a change so imperative for her. She could not see why she was hurried
away so relentlessly. It had all been very hard upon her, and upon him
also, had he had thought to spare for himself; but he was too much
absorbed in sorrow for her to consider his own position over-much.
He was indirectly the cause of her grief, and his whole being was
absorbed in the longing to comfort her.
She looked so white and wan as the hours passed by, that he grew
alarmed about her. He had done before all he could to make her warm
and comfortable, and had then withdrawn a little, fancying his close
proximity distasteful to her, but she looked so ill at last that he
could keep away no longer, and came over to her, taking her hand in his.
“Monica,” he said gently.
The long lashes stirred a little and slowly lifted themselves. The dark
eyes were dim and full of trouble. She looked at him wonderingly for a
moment, almost as if she did not know him, and then she closed her eyes
with a little shuddering sigh.
He was alarmed, and not without cause, for the strain of the past days
was showing itself now, and want of rest and sleep had worn down her
strength to the lowest ebb. She was so faint and weary that all power
of resistance had left her. She let her husband do what he would,
submitted passively to be tended like a child, and heaved a sigh that
sounded almost like one of relief as he drew her towards him, so that
her weary head could rest upon his broad shoulder. There was something
restful and supporting, of which she was dumbly conscious in the deep
love and protecting gentleness of this strong man.
She only spoke once to him, and that was as they neared their
destination, and the lights of the great city began to flash upon her
bewildered gaze. Then she sat up, though with an effort, and looking
at her husband, said gently:
“You have been very good to me, Randolph.”
His heart bounded at the words, but he only asked. “Are you better,
Monica?”
She pressed her hand to her brow.
“My head aches so,” she said, and the white strained look came back
to her face. She was almost frightened by the flashing lights and the
myriads of people she saw as the train steamed into the terminus; and
she could only cling to Randolph’s arm in hopeless bewilderment, as he
piloted her through the crowd to the carriage that was awaiting them.
Randolph owned a house near to the Park, in a pleasant open situation.
It had been left to him by an uncle, a great traveller, and was quite
a museum of costly and interesting treasures, and fitted up in the
luxurious fashion that appeals to men who have grown used to Oriental
ease and splendour.
The young man had often pictured Monica in such surroundings, had
wondered what she would say to it all, how she would feel in a place so
strange and unlike anything she had ever known. He had fancied that the
open situation of the house would please her, that she might be pleased
too by the quaint beauty and harmony of all she saw. He had often
pictured the moment when he should lead her into her new home and bid
her welcome there, and now, when the time had come, she was so worn out
and ill that her heavy eyes could hardly look around her, and all he
could do was to support her to her room, to be tended by his old nurse,
Wilberforce, whose services he had bespoken for his wife in preference
to those of a more youthful and accomplished _femme de chambre_.
For some days Monica was really ill, not with any specific complaint,
but prostrated by nervous exhaustion—too weary and exhausted to have a
clear idea of what went on around her, only conscious that everything
was very strange, that she was far away from Trevlyn, and that
strangers were watching over and tending her.
Her husband’s care was unremitting. He was ever by her side. She seemed
to turn to him instinctively amid the other strange faces, and to be
more quiet and tranquil when he was near. Yet she seldom spoke to him;
he was not always certain that she knew him; but that half unconscious
dependence was inexpressibly sweet, and Randolph felt hope growing
stronger day by day. Surely she was slowly learning to love him; and
indeed she was, only she knew it not as yet.