gave way to more cheering symptoms. Monica could leave her room, and
leaning on her husband’s arm, wander slowly about the new home that
looked so strange to her. The smiles began to come back to her eyes, a
faint flush of colour to her cheeks, and when at length she was laid
down upon a luxurious ottoman beside the drawing-room fire, she held
her husband’s hand between both of hers, and looked up at him with a
glance that went to his very heart.
“You have been so very, very good to me, Randolph, though I have only
been a trouble to you all this time. I never thought I could feel like
this away from Trevlyn. Indeed I will try to make you happy too.”
He bent down and kissed her, a thrill of intense joy running through
him.
“Does that mean that you can be happy here, my Monica?” he asked.
She was always perfectly truthful, and paused a little before
answering; yet there was a light in her eyes and a little smile upon
her lips.
“It feels very strange,” she said, “and very like a dream. Of course I
miss Trevlyn—of course I would rather be there; but——” and here she
lifted her eyes with the sweetest glance of trusting confidence. “I
know that you know best, Randolph, I know that you judge more wisely
than I can do; and that you always think of my happiness first. You
have been very, very good to me all this time, far better than I
deserve. I am going to be happy here, and when I may go home, I know
you will be the first to take me there.”
He laid his hand upon her head in a tender caress.
“I will, indeed, my Monica,” he answered; “but, believe me, for the
present you are better here. You will grow strong faster away from
Trevlyn than near it.”
She smiled a little, very sweetly.
“I will try to think so, too, Randolph, for I am very sure that you are
wiser than I; and I have learned how good you are to me—always.”
That evening passed very quietly, yet very happily.
Was this the beginning of better things to come?
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
MISCHIEF-MAKERS.
“Now that you have been a fortnight in town, and have begun to feel
settled in your new life,” wrote Lady Diana, “I think it is time you
should be made aware of a few facts relative to your engagement and
marriage, which you are not likely to hear from the lips of your too
indulgent husband, but with which, nevertheless, you ought to be made
conversant, in my opinion, in order that you may the better appreciate
the generous sacrifices made on behalf of you and your family, and
return him the measure of gratitude he deserves for the benefits he
has bestowed.”
Monica was alone when she received this letter, breakfasting in her
little boudoir at a late hour, for although almost recovered now, she
had not yet resumed her old habit of early rising.
She had risen this morning feeling more light at heart than usual. She
had chatted with unusual freedom to her husband, had kissed him before
he went out to keep an appointment with his lawyer, and had promised
to ride with him at twelve o’clock, if he would come back for her. She
had only once been out since her arrival in town, and that was in the
carriage. She was quite excited at the prospect of being in the saddle
again. She had almost told herself that she should yet be happy in
her married life—and now came this cruel, cruel letter to dash to the
ground all her faint dawning hopes.
Lady Diana had felt very well-disposed, even if a little spiteful, as
she had penned this unlucky letter; but she certainly was not nice
in her choice of words or of epithets. Not being sensitive herself,
she had little comprehension of the susceptibilities of others, and
the impression its perusal conveyed to the mind of Monica was that
Randolph had married her simply out of generosity to herself and
regard for her father: that the proposal was none of his own making,
and that his unvarying kindness arose from his knowledge of her very
difficult temper, and a wish to secure for himself by bribes and
caresses a peaceful home and an amiable wife. In conclusion it was
added that Monica, in return for all that had been done for her, must
do her utmost to please and gratify him. Of course he would wish to
show his beautiful wife in the world of fashion to which he belonged.
He would wish her to join in the life of social gaiety to which he
was about to introduce her, and any hanging back on her part would be
most unbecoming and ungrateful. It behoved her to keep in mind all
these facts, to remember the sacrifices he had made for her, and to
act accordingly. He had not chosen a wife from his own world, as it
was presumable he would have preferred to do. He had consented to the
family match proposed to him, and she must do her utmost to make up to
him for the sacrifice he had made.
A few weeks back such a letter, though it might have hurt Monica’s
pride, would not have cut her to the quick, as it did now. In the
first place, she would then have simply disbelieved it, whereas recent
circumstances had given her a very much greater respect for the
opinions of those who knew the world so much better than she did, and
who had forecasted so accurately events that had afterwards fulfilled
themselves almost as a matter of course. She had begun to distrust
her own convictions, to believe more in those of others, who had had
experience of life, and could estimate its chances better than she
could. She believed her aunt when she told her these things, and the
poisoned shaft struck home to her heart. A few days ago she could have
borne it better. Her pride would have been hurt, but the sting would
have been less keen. She did not know why the doubt of her husband’s
love hurt her so cruelly; but hurt her it did, and for a moment she
felt stricken to the earth. She had said to herself many times that she
did not want such a wealth of love, when she had none on her side to
bestow; but yet, when she had learned that it was not hers after all,
but was only the counterfeit coin of a hollow world—the bribe by which
her submission and gratitude were to be obtained—the knowledge was
unspeakably bitter. She felt she would rather have died than have been
forced to doubt.
As she dressed for her ride, pride came to the assistance of her
crushed spirit. Wilberforce, the faithful servant who had tended
and loved Randolph from his infancy, and was ready to love his wife
for his sake and her own, was aware of a subtle change in her young
mistress that she did not understand, and which she could not well have
described. Monica had been very quiet and gentle since her arrival, and
very silent too. She was quiet enough to-day; but the gentleness had
been replaced by a certain inexplicable _hauteur_. The pale face wore
a glow of warm colour; the dark eyes that had been languid and heavy
were wide open and full of fire. Monica looked superbly handsome in the
brilliant radiance of her beauty, and yet the faithful attendant was
not certain that she liked the change in her.
Randolph detected it the moment he entered the room, and found his
wife equipped for the proposed ride.
“Why, Monica,” he said, smiling, “you have got quite a colour. It looks
natural to see you dressed for the saddle.”
“Yes,” she answered, coolly: “we must turn over a new leaf now, must we
not? You will be dying of _ennui_ cooped up at home so long. Let us go
out and enjoy ourselves. We must learn to do in Rome as Rome does.”
Randolph felt one keen pang of disappointment that the first return to
health and strength should have brought a return of the former coldness
and aloofness; but he had gained ground before, and why not now? Could
he expect to win his way without a single repulse? So he took courage,
and tried to ignore the change he saw in his wife.
He led her down the staircase to the hall door where the horses were
waiting, and he saw the sudden flash of joyful recognition that crossed
her face.
“Guy!” she exclaimed, “my own little Guy!”
Yes, there could be no mistake about it; it was her own little delicate
thorough-bred, standing with ill-repressed excitement at the door, his
glossy neck arched in a sort of proud impatience, his supple limbs
trembling with eagerness, as he stepped daintily to and fro upon the
pavement. He turned his shapely head at the sound of Monica’s voice,
pricked his ears, and uttered a low whinney of joyful recognition.
“It was good of you to think of it, Randolph,” she said, a softer light
in her eyes as she turned them towards her husband. “It is like a
little bit of home having him.”
“I thought you would like him better than a stranger, though I have his
counterpart in the stable waiting for you to try. He has been regularly
exercised in Piccadilly every morning, and I coaxed him to let me ride
him once myself in the Park, though he did not much like it. I don’t
think he will be very troublesome now, and I know you are not afraid of
his restive moods; though this is very different from Trevlyn.”
Monica’s eyes grew wistful, and her husband saw it. He guessed
whither her thoughts had fled, and he let her dream on undisturbed.
He exchanged bows with many acquaintances as they passed onwards
and entered the Row, and many admiring glances were levelled at
his beautiful young wife, whose unusual loveliness and perfect
horsemanship alike attracted attention; but he attempted no
introductions; and Monica, dreamy and absorbed, noticed nothing, till
the sight of Conrad in the Row awoke her to consciousness of her
surroundings.
Conrad in London! How long had he been there? Did he bring news from
Trevlyn? She looked almost wistfully at Randolph as she returned the
young baronet’s bow, but his face wore its rather stern expression, and
she dared not attempt to speak with her former friend.
Conrad, however, saw the look, and smiled to himself.
“My day will come yet,” he said.
“Shall we push on, Monica?” asked Randolph. “Guy is aching to stretch
his limbs.”
Monica was only too willing, and they had soon reached the farther end
of the Row, which was much less full than the other had been.
A pretty, dark, vivacious looking girl, accompanied by a fair-haired
young man, rather like her, were approaching with glances of
recognition.
“Randolph, I am angry with you—yes, very angry. You have been a whole
fortnight in town—I heard so yesterday—and we have never seen you once,
and you have never let me have the pleasure of an introduction to your
wife. I call it very much too bad!”
“Well, it is never too late to mend,” answered Randolph, smiling.
“Monica, may I present to you Lady Beatrice Wentworth, whom I have
had the honour of knowing intimately since the days of our early
acquaintance, when she wore pinafores and pigtails. Lord Haddon, I
think I need not introduce again. You have met before.”
The little flush deepened in Monica’s face. She had fancied the face of
the brother was not totally unfamiliar to her; but she did not remember
until this moment where or when she could possibly have seen him.
“Oh, Haddon has been raving about Lady Monica ever since the auspicious
day when he saw her,” cried Beatrice, gaily. “I hope your father is
quite recovered now?” she added, with a touch of quick sympathy, “since
you were able to leave him so soon.”
“I think he is much better, thank you,” answered Monica, quietly; “but
he was still very ill when I left him.”
“And, Randolph, you have not explained away your guilt yet. Why have
you been all this time without letting us see you or your wife? I call
it shameful!”
“My wife has been very unwell herself ever since we came up,” answered
Randolph. “She has not been fit to see anybody.”
“You should have made an exception in my favour,” persisted Beatrice,
bringing her horse alongside of Monica’s, and walking on with her. “You
see, I have known Randolph so long, he seems almost like a brother.
I feel defrauded when he does not behave himself as such. We must be
great friends, Lady Monica, for his sake. He has told us all about you
and your delightful Cornish home. I suppose you know all about us,
too, and what near neighbours we are—near for London, at least.”
But Monica had never heard the name of the girl beside her. She
knew nothing of her husband’s friends, never having taken the least
interest in subjects foreign to all her past associations. She hinted
something of the kind in a gently indifferent way, that was sincere,
without being in the least discourteous. She was wondering why it
was that her husband, who could value his own friends and appreciate
their good-will, was so strenuously set against receiving the only
acquaintance she possessed in this vast city.
Nevertheless, when, upon a forenoon two days later, at an hour she
knew her husband was away, Conrad presented himself in her boudoir,
following the man who had brought his card without waiting to be
invited, Monica was conscious of a feeling of distinct displeasure
and distrust. She knew very little of the ways of the world, but she
felt that he had no right to be there, forcing himself upon her in her
private room, when her husband would hardly speak to him or receive
him, and that he merited instant dismissal.
But then came a revulsion of feeling. Was he not her childhood’s
friend? Had she not promised not to turn her back upon him, and help
to drive him to despair by her coldness? Had he not come with news of
Trevlyn and of home? And in that last eager thought all else was lost,
and she met him gladly, almost eagerly.
He told her all she longed to know. He came primed with the latest news
from Trevlyn. His manner was quiet and gentle. He was very cautious not
to alarm or disturb her.
“I shall not be able to see much of you in the future, Monica,” he
said, “but you will let me call myself still your friend?”
She bent her head in a sort of assent.
“And will you let me take a friend’s privilege, and ask one question.
Are you happy in your new life?”
Monica’s face took a strange expression.
“It is very gay, very lively. I shall like it better as I get more used
to it.”
“I see,” he answered, very gently, “I understand. And when are you
going home again?”
“I am at home now,” she answered, steadily.
He looked searchingly at her.
“I thought Trevlyn was to be always home. Has he thrown off the mask so
soon?”
“I think,” said Monica, with a little gleam in her eye, “that you
forget you are speaking of my husband.”
Conrad’s eyes gleamed too; but she did not see it.
“Forgive me, Monica; I did forget. It is all so strange and sudden.
Then he makes you happy? Tell me that! Let me have the assurance that
at least he makes his captive happy.”
She started a little; but Conrad’s face expressed nothing but the
quietest, sincerest good-will and sympathy.
“He is very, very good to me,” she said, quietly. “He studies me as
I have never been studied before. All my wishes are forestalled: he
thinks of everything, he does everything. I cannot tell you how good he
is. I have never known anything like it before. Did you ever see anyone
more surrounded by beauty and luxury than I am?”
He looked at her steadily. She knew that she had evaded his question—a
question he had no right to put, as she could not but feel—and that he
knew she had done so.
“Ah!” he murmured, “the gilded cage, the gilded cage; but only a cage,
after all. Monica, forgive me for expressing a doubt; but I know the
man so well, and my whole soul revolts at seeing you dragged as it
were at his chariot wheels for all the world to look at and admire. To
take you from your wild free home, and bribe you into submission—I hate
to think of it!”
Monica’s cheek had flushed suddenly; but before she could frame a
rejoinder the door opened to admit Randolph. He carried in his hand
some hot-house flowers, which he had brought for his wife. He stopped
short when he saw who was Monica’s guest, and her cheek flamed anew,
for she knew he would not understand how she came to receive him in
her private room, and she felt that by a want of firmness and _savoir
faire_ she had allowed herself to be placed in a false position.
Conrad’s exit was effected with more despatch than dignity, yet he
contrived in his farewell words to insinuate that he had passed a very
happy morning with his hostess, instead of a brief ten minutes.
Randolph did not speak a word, but stood leaning against the
chimney-piece with a stern look on his handsome face. Monica was angry
with herself and with Conrad, yet she felt half indignant at the way
her husband ignored her guest.
“Monica,” said Randolph, speaking first, “I am sorry to have to say it;
but I cannot receive Sir Conrad Fitzgerald as a guest beneath my roof.”
“You had better give your orders, then, accordingly.”
He stepped forward and took her hand.
“Surely, Monica, you cannot have any real liking for this man?”
“I do not know what you call real liking. We have been friends from
childhood; and I do not easily change. He was always welcomed to my
father’s house.”
“Your father did not know his history.”
“Perhaps not; but I do. At least I know this much: that he has sinned
and has repented. Is not repentance enough?”
“_Has_ he repented?”
“Yes, indeed he has.”
Randolph’s face expressed a fine incredulity and scorn. There was no
relenting in its lines. Monica was not going to sue longer.
“Am I also to be debarred from seeing Cecilia, his sister, who is
married, and not living so very far away? Am I to give her up, too—my
old playmate?”
“I have nothing against Mrs. Bellamy, except that she is his sister. I
suppose you need not be very intimate?”
Monica’s overwrought feelings vented themselves in a burst of
indignation.
“I see what you want to do—to separate me from all my friends—to break
all old ties—to make me forget all but your world, your life. I am to
like your friends, to receive them, and be intimate with them; but I
am to turn my back with scorn on all whom I have known and loved. You
are very hard, Randolph, very hard. It is not that I care for Conrad—I
know he has done wrong, though I do believe in his repentance. I liked
him once, and Cecilia too; I should like to know them still. They are
not much to me, but they belong to the old life—which you do not—which
nothing does here. Can you not see how hard it is, and how unjust, to
try and cut me off from everything?”
He looked at her with a great pity in his eyes, and then gently put the
flowers into her hand.
“I brought them for you to wear to-night, Monica. Will you have them?
Believe me, my child, I would do much to spare you pain, yet in some
things I must be the judge. Some day, perhaps, I shall be able to make
my meaning plain; meantime I must ask my wife to trust me.” He stooped
and kissed her pale brow, and went away without another word.
Monica stood still and silent, the fragrant, spotless blossoms, his
gift, clasped close in her hands.
“Randolph, Randolph!” she murmured, “if you only loved me I could bear
anything; but they all see it—only I am blind—it is the golden cage
with its captive, and they know the ways of their world so well, so
well! He bribes me with gifts, with kind words, but it is only the
peaceful home and the handsome wife that he wants—not me myself, not
my heart, my love. Well, he shall have what he craves. I will not
disappoint him. I will do his bidding in all things. He has got his
prize—let that content him—but for the wifely love, the wifely trust I
have striven so to offer—he does not care for them—let them go, like
these.” She pressed the flowers for a moment to her lips, and then
flung them from the open casement.
Randolph, lost in silent thought, standing at a window below, saw the
white blossoms as they fell to the earth, and knew what they were and
whence they had come.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
THE LITTLE RIFT.
A little misunderstanding easily arises between two people not yet in
perfect accord—so very soon arises, and is so difficult to lay to rest.
Randolph saw plainly now, that Monica’s late gentleness had been caused
simply by exhaustion and ill-health. She had submitted to his caressing
care merely because she had been too weak to resist, but the first
indication of restored health had been the effort to repel him. He was
grieved and saddened by this conviction, but he accepted his fate with
quiet patience. He would draw back a little, stand aside, as it were,
and let her feel her way in the new life; and win her confidence, if
he could, by slow and imperceptible degrees. He did not despair of
winning her yet. He had had more than one of those rapturous moments
when he had felt that she was _almost_ his. He would not give up, but
he would be more self-restrained and reserved. He would not attempt too
much at once.
Monica was keenly conscious of the change in her husband’s manner,
though she could not understand why it was that it cut her so deeply.
She was conscious of the great blank in her life, and though her face
was always calm and quiet, her manner gently cold and tinged with
sadness, yet she tried in all things to study her husband’s wishes,
and to follow out any hints he might let fall as to his tastes and
feelings.
She made no effort to see anything of Cecilia Bellamy, her former
child-friend, and even when that vivacious little woman sought her out,
and tried to strike up a great friendship, she did not respond with
any ardour. Mrs. Bellamy, indeed, was not at all a woman that Monica
would be inclined to cultivate at this crisis of her life; they had
almost nothing in common, but the past was a sort of link that could
not entirely be broken. Cecilia appeared to love to talk of Trevlyn;
she was always eager to hear the latest news from thence, to recall
the by-gone days of childhood, and bring back the light and colour to
Monica’s face by reminiscences of the past.
But the young wife tried to be loyal to her husband’s wishes, and was
laughed at by her friend for her “old fashioned” ways. Once, when
in course of conversation, Conrad’s name was mentioned between them,
Monica asked, in her straightforward way, what it was that he had done
to draw upon him censure and distrust.
“Why, do you not even know that much? Poor boy! I will tell you all
about it. He was very young, and you know we are miserably poor. He
got into bad company, and that led him into frightful embarrassments.
He got so miserable and desperate at last that I believe his mind was
almost unhinged for a time, and in the end,” lowering her voice to a
whisper, “he forged a cheque in the name of a rich friend. Of course it
was a mad thing to do. He paid his debts, but the fraud was discovered
within a few weeks, and you know what _might_ have happened. Colonel
Hamilton, however, who had been a kind friend to Conrad before, forgave
him, and took no steps against him; and the poor boy was so shocked
and humiliated that he quite turned over a new leaf, and has been
perfectly steady ever since. He was working hard to pay off the debt,
but Colonel Hamilton died before he could do so. Randolph Trevlyn,
your husband, my dear, was intimate with the Colonel, and knew all
about this. He had always disliked Conrad—I suspect they were rivals
once in the affections of some lady, and that he did not get the best
of the rivalry—and I always believe it was through him that the story
leaked out. At any rate, people did hear something, and poor Conrad
got dreadfully cold-shouldered. He had always been wild and reckless,
and people are so fond of hitting a man when he is down. But I call
it very unkind and unjust, and I did think that an old friend like you
would be above it. It hurts Conrad dreadfully to find you so cold to
him. I should have thought you would have liked to help him to recover
the ground he had lost.”
“That can hardly be my office now,” said Monica, gravely.
“But at least you need not be unkind. I do assure you the poor boy has
gone through quite enough, as it is.”
“You have told me the whole truth about his past, Cecilia?” asked
Monica, after a brief silence. “There is nothing worse you are keeping
back?”
Mrs. Bellamy clasped her hands together with a little gesture of
astonished dismay.
“Is not forgery bad enough for you, Monica? What _has_ your husband
been telling you? Did you think he had committed a murder?”