mean, Randolph. You are quite, quite right—only do not let us to-day
think of the sorrow that went before. Let us be happy with one another.”
“We will, my Monica. You are quite right. This is our bridal holiday,
of which circumstances cheated us at the outset, and as such we will
enjoy it. Come in to breakfast now; and then we will have the horses
out, and you and I will explore our new world together, and forget
there is any other before or behind us.”
The shadow fled from Monica’s brow, the happy light came back to her
eyes, came back and took up its abode there as if never to depart
again. What happy, happy days were those that followed! No one invaded
the solitude which was such bliss to the two who had sought it; no
foot crossed the threshold of the peaceful home that Randolph had made
ready with such care for the reception of his bride.
And yet, as everything must end at last, pleasure as well as pain, joy
as well as sorrow, a day came at last when it was needful to leave this
happy seclusion, and mingle once again with the busier stream of life
that flowed onwards, ever onwards, outside the walls of their retreat.
Engagements had been made before, pledges given to various friends that
visits should be paid during that period so dear to the heart of man,
“the shooting season.” Little enough did Randolph care for sport in his
present mood; far rather would he have spent longer time alone with
his wife in happy isolation; but his friends became urgent, letters
persecuted them with increased vehemence, and Monica, casting away her
first reluctance, roused herself to say at last that she thought they
ought to go.
“We shall be together still, Randolph,” she said, with a little laugh.
“It is not as if we should not have one another. No one can separate us
now, and we ought to be able to be happy anywhere together.”
And yet, when the time came, it was very hard to go. Randolph came upon
Monica the last evening at sunset, watching the glorious pageantry of
the sky, with something of the old wistfulness upon her face.
“You are sorry to be leaving then, Monica?”
She started, and turned to him, almost as if for protection.
“Yes, I am sorry. We have been so very, very happy here. Randolph, is
it very foolish? Sometimes I feel as if such happiness were too great
for this world—as if it _could_ not go on always so. It seems almost
too beautiful, too perfect. Do you ever feel the same?”
“I know what you mean, sweet wife. Yet I am not afraid of our happiness
or of the future. It is love that brings the brightness with it, and I
think nothing now can change our love.”
“Ah, no, no!” she cried impetuously; “nothing can change that. You
always understand. Randolph, you are so strong, so good, so patient.
Ah! what should I do without you now?”
“You have not got to do without me, Monica. A husband cannot be set
aside by anyone or anything. You must not let nervous fears get the
better of you. Tell me, is anything troubling you to-night?”
“No, no; only that the old feeling will sometimes come back. It is
foolish, I know; but I cannot quite rid myself of it.”
“The old feeling?”
“Yes, that some trouble is coming upon me—upon us. I cannot explain;
but I feel it sometimes—I feel as if it were coming nearer.”
He did not laugh at her fears. He only said very gently and tenderly:
“I pray God, my sweet wife, that trouble may be very far away from you;
yet if it comes, I know it will be bravely, nobly borne, and that the
furnace of sorrow will only bring out the gold more bright and pure
than ever.”
She glanced at him, and then over the purple moorlands and into the
glorious western sky. A look of deep, settled purpose shone out of
her eyes, and her face grew calm and resolute. She thought of that
moment often in days to come, and of her husband’s words. It was a
recollection always fraught with much of strengthening comfort.
The round of inevitable visits to be paid proved less irksome than
Monica had anticipated.
Randolph’s friends were pleasant, well-bred people, with whom it was
easy to get on, and to make things more easy for Monica, Beatrice
Wentworth and her brother were not unfrequently numbered among the
house party they were invited to meet.
Both the young earl and his sister were devoted to Monica, and their
presence added much to her enjoyment of the different visits that
they paid together. Lord Haddon was her constant attendant whenever
her husband could not be with her, and his frank, boyish homage was
accepted in the spirit in which it was offered. Monica, though much
admired and liked, was not “popular” in the ordinary sense of the term.
She did not attract round her a crowd of amused admirers, as Beatrice
did, and most young men, however much they might admire her stately
beauty, found her somewhat difficult to get on with. With elderly
people she was more at ease, and a great favourite from her gentleness
and peculiar refinement of thought and manner; but for the most part,
during the gay doings of the day, she was left to the attendance of
Randolph or Haddon, and no arrangement could have been more to her own
liking.
Yet one trifling incident occurred to disturb her peace of mind,
although she thought she possibly dwelt upon it more than the
circumstance warranted.
She was at a large luncheon party, to which her hostess and guests had
alike been invited to meet many other parties from surrounding houses.
A grand battue in the park had drawn away most of the sportsmen, and
the ladies were lunching almost by themselves. Monica’s surprise was
somewhat great to find in her right-hand neighbour none other than
Cecilia Bellamy, with whom her last interview had been anything but
agreeable.
Mrs. Bellamy, however, seemed to have forgotten all about that.
“It is really you, Monica. I hoped I should meet you somewhere; I
heard you were staying about; I know I’ve behaved badly. I ought to
have written to you when your father died. I was awfully sorry, I was
indeed. We were always fond of the earl, Conrad and I. He was so good
to us when we were children. It was horrid of me not to write, but I
never do know how to write a letter of condolence. I hope you’re not
very angry with me.”
“Indeed, no,” answered Monica. “Indeed, I never thought about it.”
“I knew you wouldn’t care to hear from me,” pursued the lively little
woman. “I didn’t behave nicely to you, Monica, and I’m sorry now I
listened to Conrad’s persuasions; but I’m so easy-going, and thought
it all fun. I’m sorry now. I really am, for I’ve got shaken in my
confidence in Master Conrad. I believe he’ll go to the dogs still, for
all his professions. By-the-bye, did you ever see him after you got
back to Trevlyn?”
“Once or twice. I believe he was living in his house down there.”
“That dreadful old barn! I can’t think how he can exist there. He will
take to drink, and go mad, I do believe, if he stays six months in such
a place. Monica, I don’t want to frighten you—I may be silly to think
such a thing, but I can’t believe he’s after any good there.”
Monica shivered a little instinctively.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t quite know what I do mean. If you weren’t such an old friend,
of course I couldn’t say a word; but you know perhaps that there’s
something rather odd sometimes about Conrad.”
“Odd?”
“Yes—I know he’s bad enough; but it’s when he has his odd fits on that
he’s worse. I don’t believe he is always altogether responsible. He’s
given way, and now he can’t always help himself, I do think. He isn’t
mad, of course, but he can be very wild at times,” and she glanced at
her companion with something of significance.
“Why do you say all this to me?” asked Monica, with a sort of
apprehension.
Mrs. Bellamy laughed a little.
“Why, can’t you see? Don’t you know how he hates your husband?”
Monica’s face blanched a little.
“But you don’t mean——”
“No, no, of course not,” with a short laugh that had little of mirth
in it. “I don’t mean anything—only I think, if ever Conrad is lurking
about in his wild moods, that Lord Trevlyn had better keep a sharp look
out. Your woods and cliffs are nasty lonely places, and it’s always
well to be on the safe side.”
Monica sat pale and silent; Mrs. Bellamy laughed again in that half
uneasy way.
“Now, don’t look like that, and keep your own counsel. I’m a silly
woman, as you know, and nobody minds what I say, but I can’t be quite
comfortable without just warning you. For mischief is sometimes done in
a moment between two angry men that never can be undone so long as the
world lasts. Now don’t go and get frightened, Monica—it may be all a
ridiculous fancy; but just keep your eyes open.”
“Thank you, Cecilia,” said Monica quietly. “I will.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.
A VISIT TO ARTHUR.
“Are you getting tired of this sort of thing, Monica?” asked Randolph,
about three days later.
He had fancied he detected traces of weariness at times—weariness or
anxiety: he could hardly have told which—in the lines of her face; and
he thought that possibly some trouble was resting upon her. He was very
quick to note the least change in one he loved so well.
Her smile, however, was very reassuring.
“I think I should never be really tired of any life you shared,
Randolph; but I like being alone together best.”
“I, too,” he responded, with great sincerity. “Monica, as we have done
our duty by society now, shall we indulge ourselves once more, and
leave the world to wag on its own way, and forget it again for a few
more happy weeks?”
Her face was bright and eager.
“Go back to the moorland shooting-box, Randolph?” she questioned.
“No; not that quite. The season is getting a little late for remaining
up in the north. I have a better plan in my head for you.”
“Are we going back to Trevlyn, then?”
“Trevlyn is not ready for us; it will be some time before it is. Can
you think of nothing else you would like to do?—of nobody you want to
see?”
A flush rose suddenly into Monica’s face: her eyes shone with happiness.
“Oh, Randolph! are you going to take me to see Arthur?”
“You would like to go?”
“Above everything.”
“Then the thing is done. We will start next week. I talked about it to
the doctor when I saw him, and he advised three months of entire quiet
and seclusion whilst he settled down to the new life. After that, he
believed there would be no reason at all against his seeing friends
from home. I wrote again last week to put the question definitely, and
the answer is entirely satisfactory. If you want to go, Monica, the
whole question is settled.”
She came close up to him, clasping her hands upon his shoulder, and
looking up with loving gratitude and delight.
“You think of everything, Randolph. You are so good to me. It is just
the one thing to make my happiness complete: to see my boy again, and
make sure with my own eyes that he is well cared for and content with
his life. I want to be able to picture him where he is. I want to hear
him say that he is happy: that he does not pine after Trevlyn.”
“I think you will have your wish, then, Monica, for, from what I can
gather, he is very well pleased with his quarters, and improved health
makes life pleasant and full of zest. He has the natural love of change
that you never knew, and your inherited love for your old home is not
really shared by him to any great extent now that he has tried another
life. Trevlyn is not woven into the very fibres of his heart as into
yours. I think the home-sickness passed off quickly with him.”
“Yes, I daresay. I believe I was foolish myself about Trevlyn, and
taught him to be foolish too. Why is it that the younger we are, and
the less we know, the more we are convinced we are always right? I
have made so many, many mistakes. Once I thought you did not love me,
Randolph.”
It was sweet to him still to hear her speak thus, with the intonation
that always thrilled him through—with the look upon her face so
much more eloquent than any words. It was sweet to feel her loving
confidence and dependence. Again and again he vowed deep down in his
heart that she should never know a trouble from which he could save her.
The journey was approved by both. It would take them away once again
from the round of social duties and pleasures—of which for the time
being they had had enough—and leave them practically alone together, to
be all in all to one another, as was now their greatest happiness.
“It is too bad of you to run away, Monica,” Beatrice grumbled, when she
heard the news. “Your brother can’t want you more than we do here. And
if you go, you’ll vanish no one knows for how long, as you did before,
and then you will go and bury yourselves in your enchanted castle right
away by the sea, and nobody will hear of you any more. I call it too
bad: just as we were getting to be friends and learning to know you.”
Monica smiled at the imputation of vanishing so entirely.
“You shall hear of us sometimes, I promise you,” she answered. “If you
and your brother will not find the ‘enchanted castle’ too dull, I hope
you will come and see us there when we go back in the autumn. There are
not a great many attractions, I am afraid, but there is some shooting
and hunting. I should like to show you Trevlyn some day, Beatrice,
though I believe it will be a good deal changed from the place I have
sometimes described to you.”
“It is sure to be perfect, whatever it is like,” was the quick
response. “I should think we would come—Haddon and I—if ever we get an
invitation. I always did long to see Trevlyn, and I am sure he does the
same, though he is no hand at pretty speeches, poor old boy!”
Haddon smiled, and coloured a little; but answered frankly enough.
“Lady Trevlyn does not want pretty speeches, as you call it, made to
her, Beatrice. She knows quite well what a pleasure it would be to
visit her and Randolph at Trevlyn.”
“I should like my husband’s oldest friends to see the place,” she
answered, smiling. “So we will call that matter settled when we really
do get home; though I do not quite know when that will be.”
Next day Randolph and Monica said good-bye to Scotland, and began their
journey southward. They were in no great haste, and travelled by easy
stages. Arthur was to be told nothing of the prospective visit, which
was to be kept as a surprise till the last moment. Monica was never a
very good correspondent, even where Arthur was concerned, and if she
posted a letter to him, last thing before leaving England, he would
not be surprised at a silence of a fortnight or more, by which time at
latest she would be with him.
So they took their time over their journey, and the strangeness of all
she saw possessed a curious charm for Monica, when viewed beneath her
husband’s protecting care, and in his constant company. He took her to
a few quaint Norman towns, with their fine old churches and picturesque
streets and market-places; then to Paris, where a few days were passed
in seeing the sights, and watching the vivid, hurrying, glittering life
of that gay capital.
Steering an erratic course, turning this way and that to visit any
place of interest, or any romantic spot that Randolph thought would
please his wife, they approached their destination, and presently
reached the pretty, picturesque little town, hardly more than a
village, which was only just rising to importance, on account of the
value of its mineral springs lately discovered.
One good-sized hotel and the doctor’s establishment, both of which
stood at the same end of the village, and a little distance from it,
testified to the rising importance of the place. Randolph had secured
comfortable rooms in the former, where they arrived late one evening.
Monica liked the place; it was not in the least like what she had
pictured, far more pretty, more primitive, and more country-like.
Wooded hills, surrounded the valley in which it lay. A broad rapid
stream ran through it, spanned by more than one grey stone bridge, and
the irregularly-built village was quite a picture in its way, with
its quaint old houses, with their carved gables and little wooden
balconies, and the spire of its church rising above the surrounding
trees. Viewed by moonlight, as she saw it first, it was a charming
little place; and the charm did not vanish with the more prosaic light
of day.
The interview with the doctor was most satisfactory. He was a kindly,
simple-minded man, much interested in his patient from a professional
standpoint, and fond of the lad for his own sake. Monica’s beauty
and sweetness were evidently not lost upon him. He had heard much of
her from the young Herr, he explained, and could understand well the
feelings he had so often heard expressed.
No, the invalid had not been told of the expected arrival. He did not
know but that Lord and Lady Trevlyn were in England. Did the noble lady
wish to go to him? He would honour himself by leading the way.
Monica followed him with a beating heart. They went up a wide
carpetless staircase, and on the first landing her guide paused, and
indicated a certain door.
“He is up; madame can go straight in. A joyful surprise will but do him
good.”
Monica turned the handle, and entered, as quietly and calmly as if this
had been the daily visit to the old room at Trevlyn. Arthur was lying
with his back to the door. He was reading, and did not turn his head,
fancying it was the servant entering, as he heard the rustle of a dress.
Monica came and stood behind him, laying her hand upon his head.
“Arthur!” she said softly.
Then he started as if he had been shot.
He sat up with an energy that showed a decided increase of strength,
holding out his hands in eager welcome.
“Monica! Monica!” he cried, in a sort of rapturous excitement. “It is
Monica herself!”
She bent over him and kissed him again and again, and would have made
him lie down again; but he was too excited to obey.
“Monica! My own Monica! When did you come? What does it all mean? Oh,
this is too splendid! Where’s Randolph?”
“Here,” answered that familiar voice, just within the door. “Well, my
boy, how are you getting on? Like a house on fire, eh? Monica and I
are on our wedding trip, you know. We thought we would finish it off
by coming to have a look at you. Well, you look pretty comfortable up
here, and have made fine progress, I hear, since I saw you last. Like
everything as much as you make out in your letters, eh?”
“Oh! I’m all right enough. Never mind me. Tell me about yourselves.
Whose idea was this? I call it just splendid!”
“Randolph’s idea,” answered Monica. “All the good ideas are his now,
Arthur. We have come to stay a whole fortnight with you; and when I
have seen everything with my own eyes, and am quite convinced that
everybody is treating you well, I shall go home content to Trevlyn, to
wait till you can join us there.”
“I mustn’t think of that just yet,” answered Arthur, cheerfully. “My
old doctor says it will be a year—perhaps two—before I shall really be
on my legs again; but he is quite sure he is going to cure me, which
is all that matters. I am awfully comfortable here, and there are
some jolly little children of his, who come and amuse me by the hour
together. Oh, yes! I have capital times. I couldn’t be more comfortable
anywhere: and if you and Randolph come sometimes to see me, I shall
have nothing left to wish for.”
Certainly Arthur was surrounded by every luxury that wealth could
bestow. There was none of the foreign bareness about his rooms that
characterised its other apartments. Randolph had ordered everything
that could possibly add to his comfort, and make things home-like for
him, even to the open fire-place, with its cheerful fire of logs,
although the stove still retained its place, and in cold weather did
valuable service in keeping an even temperature in the room.
Arthur’s visitors had made him gradually understand how much more
sumptuously he was lodged than other patients, and he well knew to
whom he owed the luxuries he enjoyed. He explained all this to Monica,
and in her own sweet way she thanked her husband for his tenderness
towards her boy.
“I always feel as if Arthur were a sort of link between us, Monica,” he
said. “I am sure he was in those old days, when we were strangers to
each other. I owe him a great deal that he knows nothing about. Were it
only for that, I must always love him, and feel towards him as towards
a brother.”
Quickly and happily the days slipped by and the pleasant visit drew
to its close. It lengthened out into nearly three weeks; but at last
the news came that Trevlyn was ready for its master and mistress, and
Arthur bid a brave farewell to those who had done so much for him,
and settled himself with cheerful readiness to his winter with his new
friends. A visit next spring and summer was confidently promised, and
he saw his guest go with an unselfish brightness that was in no way
assumed.
Monica was quite happy about him now, and, though the parting was a
little hard, she was as brave as he. She turned her face homeward with
a light heart. Only one little cloud of anxiety lay upon her heart.
“What was Conrad Fitzgerald doing? Was he still lurking about Trevlyn?”
Even that question was destined to be answered in a satisfactory manner
before many days had passed.
They travelled rapidly homewards, as the season was advancing, and
they were anxious to be once more at Trevlyn.
They were in a train, which had stopped at some station, when another
train from an opposite direction steamed up and also stopped. Monica,
leaning back in her corner seat, noticed nothing for a time, but was
roused to the consciousness that she was being intently regarded by a
passenger in the opposite train, whose face was pressed close against
the glass.
For some seconds she resisted the impulse to look; but as she felt the
glance withdrawn, she presently turned her eyes in the direction of the
half-seen face, and then she started violently.
Conrad Fitzgerald, his face pale and sharp, wearing a frightfully
malevolent expression, was gazing, or rather glaring, at her husband,
with eyes like those of a wild beast, in their fiery, hungry hate.
Randolph, seated opposite her, reading the paper, was perfectly
unconscious of the proximity of his foe; but Monica recoiled with a
feeling of horror she could hardly have explained.
The next moment the train had moved on. At least, it was some comfort
to know that they were being rapidly carried in opposite directions.
Yet it was long before she could forget the vindictive hatred of the
gaze she had seen directed towards her husband.
Would Conrad Fitzgerald ever do him the deadly injury he had vowed?
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.
BACK AT TREVLYN.
“Randolph! Can this really be Trevlyn?”
The young countess stood in all her radiant loveliness upon the
threshold of her old home, and turned her happy face towards the
husband who stood beside her, watching with a smile in his eyes for the
effect to be produced by his labour of love.
“Can this really be Trevlyn?”
“You seemed destined never to know your old home again when you have
been banished from it, Monica,” he answered, smiling. “Well, is it as
much changed as you expected?”
“It is perfect,” said Monica simply; adding, after another long look
round her: “If only my father could have seen this—could have lived to
witness the realisation of his dream!”
But he would not let her indulge one sad thought that should cloud the
brightness of this happy home-coming. He kissed her gently in token of
his sympathy, and then drew her towards the blazing fire, whose dancing
flames were illuminating the great hall.
“Does it realise your dream, too, my Monica?” he asked softly.
She looked up in his face, deep feeling welling up in the glance of her
soft dark eyes.
“To be with you is my dream, Randolph. That is enough for me.”
He saw that she was moved, and knew that the associations of Trevlyn,
the old home, were crowding upon her. Without speaking, he led her
towards a door, which in old days led to a room vast and empty, save
for the odds and ends of lumber that gradually accumulated there.
Monica glanced up in a sort of surprise as he turned the handle. Why
was he taking her there?
She paused on the threshold, and looked about her in mute amaze.