was glad to know the secret of Conrad’s past, the cause of her
husband’s disdain and distrust of the man. It was natural, she thought,
that Randolph, as a friend of Colonel Hamilton’s, should feel deep
indignation at the ingratitude and treachery of the fraud, and yet she
felt a sort of relief that it was nothing blacker and baser. She had
begun to have an undefined feeling, since she had entered somewhat into
the tumultuous life of the great world, that there were depths of folly
and sin and crime beneath its smooth, polished surface, of whose very
existence she had never dreamed before.
When she returned home that day, and said from whose house she had just
come, she fancied a shade gathered on her husband’s brow. “Do you not
go there rather often, Monica?”
“We were friends as children,” she said. “Am I to give up everything
that seems connected with the past—with my home?”
“I lay no embargo upon you, Monica,” he said; “or at least only one:
I cannot permit Sir Conrad Fitzgerald to visit my wife, nor enter my
house. If his sister is your friend, and you wish to continue the
friendship, I say nothing against it. You shall be the judge whether or
not you visit at a house your husband cannot enter, and run the risk of
meeting a man whose hand he can never touch. You shall do exactly as
you wish in the matter. I leave you entire liberty.”
A flush rose slowly in Monica’s face.
“I want to do what is right to every one,” she said. “You put things
very hardly, Randolph. You only see one side, and even that you view
very harshly. I have heard Conrad’s story; it is very painful and
shameful; but he has repented—he has indeed, and done all he could to
make amends. I have been taught that repentance makes atonement, even
in God’s sight. I cannot sit in judgment then, and condemn him utterly.”
Randolph looked at her keenly.
“Do you know all?”
“Yes,” she answered steadily, “I know all. It is very bad; but he has
repented.”
“I have seen no signs of repentance.”
“Have you ever given yourself the chance to do so?”
He was still gazing earnestly at her.
“Monica,” he said, very gravely, “be advised by me. Do not make
yourself Fitzgerald’s champion.”
“I do not intend,” she answered, coldly, “but neither will I be his
judge.”
There was silence for a moment, then Randolph spoke.
“We will discuss this question no further. It is a painful one for me.
I can never meet that man in friendship; I could wish that you could
be content to forget him too; but he is an old friend. You are not
connected with the dark passages in his life, and if his repentance is
sincere I will not forbid your meeting him or speaking to him, if you
find yourself in his company. It goes against me, I confess, Monica.
But I do not feel I have the right to say more. If you are acquainted
with the story of his life, you are able to form your own estimate of
his deserts.”
The subject ended there, but it left a sort of sore constraint in the
minds of both. It was almost with a feeling of relief a few mornings
later that Randolph opened a letter from the bailiff of his Scotch
estate, requesting the presence of the master for a few days. The young
man had been getting his shooting-box renovated and beautified for the
reception of his young wife, hoping to prevail upon her in the autumn
to come north with him, and his own presence on the spot had become a
matter of necessity.
Monica heard of his proposed absence with perfect quietness, which,
however, hid a good deal of sinking at heart. She did not venture
to ask to accompany him, nor did she suggest, as he had half feared,
returning to Trevlyn. She assented quietly to the proposition, and gave
no outward sign of dismay.
Randolph sighed as he noted her indifference. Once she would have
dreaded being left alone in the strange world of London, have begged
him not to leave her, but now she was quite happy to see him depart.
He was gradually growing sorrowfully convinced that his marriage had
been a great mistake, and that Monica’s love would never be his. There
had been sweet moments both before and after marriage, but they were
few and far between, and the hope he had once so ardently cherished was
growing fainter every day.
However, life must go on in its accustomed groove, and the night before
his departure was spent with Beatrice and her brother, who were giving
a select dinner party. Randolph and Monica seldom spent an evening at
home alone now.
Beatrice Wentworth’s little parties were very popular. She was an
excellent hostess, her endless sparkle and flow of spirit kept her
guests well amused, and she treated her numerous admirers with a
provoking friendliness and equality that was diverting to witness.
Lord Haddon was a favourite, too, from his good-natured simplicity and
frankness; and there was an easy unconstrained atmosphere about their
house that made it a pleasant place of resort to its _habitués_.
Monica had grown fond of Beatrice, in her quiet, undemonstrative
fashion, and felt more at home in her house than in any other.
Sometimes when those two were alone together Beatrice would lay aside
that brilliant sparkle and flow of spirit, and lapse into a sudden
gravity and seriousness that would have astonished many of her friends
and acquaintances had they chanced to witness it. Sometimes Monica
fancied at such moments that some kind of cloud rested upon the
handsome, dashing girl, that her past held some tear-stained page, some
sad or painful memory; and it was this conviction that had won Monica’s
confidence and friendship more than anything else. She could not make a
true friend of any one who had never known sorrow.
To-night Monica was unusually _distraite_, sad and heavy at heart, she
hardly knew why; finding it unusually difficult to talk or smile, or
to hide from the eyes of others the melancholy that oppressed her. She
felt a strange craving for her husband’s presence. She wanted him near
her. She longed to return to those first days of married life, when his
compassion for her made him so tender, when he was always with her, and
she believed that he loved her. Sometimes she had been almost happy
then, despite the wrench from the old associations and the strangeness
of all around. Now she was always sad and heavy-hearted; and to-night
she was curiously oppressed.
It was only at this house that she could ever be persuaded to sing,
and to-night it was not till the end of the evening that Lord Haddon’s
entreaties prevailed with her. She rose at last and crossed to the
piano, and sitting down without any music before her, sang a simple
melodious setting to some words of Christina Rossetti’s:—
“When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree.
Be the green grass above me,
With showers and dew-drops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember—
And if thou wilt, forget.
“I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale,
Sing on as if in pain.
But dreaming through the twilight,
Which doth not rise nor set,
I haply may remember—
And haply may forget.”
As she sang, the room, the company, all faded from her view and from
her mind—all but Randolph. One strange longing filled her soul—the
longing that she might indeed lie sleeping and at rest in some quiet,
wind-swept spot, her spirit hovering free—to see if her husband ever
came to stand beside that grave, to see if he would in such a case
remember—or forget.
For herself Monica, knew well that remembrance would be her portion.
She never could forget.
There was a wonderful sweetness and pathos in her voice as she sang.
The listeners held their breath, and sudden tears started to Beatrice’s
eyes. When the last note had died away, Randolph crossed the room and
laid his hand upon his wife’s shoulder. There was a subdued murmur all
through the room, but she only heard her husband’s voice.
“That was very sweet, Monica,” he said gently. “I have never heard it
before; but you make it sound so unutterably sad.”
She looked up at him wistfully.
“I think sad songs are always sweetest—they are more like life, at
least.”
His eyes were very full of tenderness; she saw it, and it almost
unmanned her.
“I am so tired, Randolph; will you take me home? The carriage will not
be here, but it is such a little way. I should like best to walk.”
A very few moments later they were out in the warm, spring air, under
the twinkling stars. She held his arm closely. Her hand trembled a
little, he fancied. He drew her light lace wrap more closely round her,
thinking she felt chilled. At this little mark of thoughtfulness she
looked up at him with a tremulous smile.
“I shall miss you when you are gone, Randolph,” she said, softly. “You
will not be long away?”
His heart beat high, but his words were very quietly spoken.
“No Monica, only four or five days.”
“And you will take care of yourself? You will come back safe—you will
not get into any danger!”
“Why no,” he answered with a smile. “Danger! What are you thinking
about, Monica?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes my heart is very heavy. It is heavy to-night.
Promise you will take care of yourself—for my sake.”
Randolph did not, after all, go away quite comfortless.
END OF VOL. I.
Transcriber's Notes
Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_
End of Project Gutenberg's Monica, Volume 1 (of 3), by Evelyn Everett-Green