and curiously carved, shone with the care that had been bestowed upon
them; the vaulted roof had been carefully restored and was a fine
specimen of mediæval skill and beauty. The mullioned window to the
west had been filled with rich stained glass, that gave back a dusky
glimmer through its tinted panes, though the daylight was failing fast.
Near to the window stood the one great feature of the room, an organ,
which Monica’s eyes saw at once was a particularly fine and perfect
instrument. An organ of her very own! It was just like Randolph to
think of it! She gave him one sweet glance of gratitude, and went up to
it in the dim, dusky twilight.
“How good you are to me!” she said softly.
He heard the little quiver in her voice, and bent his head to kiss her;
but he spoke in a lighter tone.
“Do you like it? I am so glad! I thought your home ought not to be
without its music-room. See, Monica, your organ will be a sort of
friend to whom you can confide all your secrets; for you want nobody
to blow it for you. You can set the bellows at work by just turning
this handle, and nobody need disturb your solitude when you want to be
alone.”
She looked up gratefully. He never forgot anything—not even her old
love for solitude.
“I never want to be alone now, Randolph,” she said. “I always want you.”
“And you generally have me, sweet wife. I think we have hardly been
separated for more than a few hours at a time since that happy, happy
day that made you really mine.”
“I want it always to be like that,” said Monica, dreamily; “always like
that.”
He looked at her, and carried the hand that he held to his lips.
“Will you play, Monica?”
She sat down and struck a few dreamy chords, gradually leading up to
the theme that was in her mind. Randolph leaned against the mullioned
window-frame and watched her. He could see, even in the darkness, the
pure, pale outline of her perfect profile, and the crown of her golden
hair that framed her face like an aureole.
“Another dream realised, Monica,” he said softly, as she turned to him
at length.
“What dream, Randolph?”
“A dream that came to me once, in the little cliff church where we were
married, as I watched you—little as you knew it—sitting at the organ,
and playing to yourself, one sunny afternoon. But this is better than
any dream of pictured saint or spirit—my Monica, my own true wife.”
She looked up at him, and came and put her arms about his neck—an
unusual demonstration, even now, for her, and they stood very close
together in the gathering darkness that was not dark to them.
Monica paid an early visit to St. Maws to see her friends, and to
confide to Mrs. Pendrill a little of the wonderful happiness that had
flooded her life with sunshine. Then, too, she wanted to see Tom, and
to ask him the result of the mission he had half promised to undertake.
So far she had learned nothing save that Fitzgerald had not been seen
near Trevlyn for many weeks, and was supposed to have gone abroad.
“Did you see him, Tom?” she asked, when she had found the opportunity
she desired.
“Yes, once or twice. I had a good look at him. I should not call him
exactly mad, though in a decidedly peculiar mental state. We merely
met, as it were, by chance, and talked on indifferent subjects for the
most part. Once he asked me, in a sort of veiled way, for professional
advice, describing certain unpleasant symptoms and sensations. I
advised him to give up the use of spirits, and to try what travelling
would do for him. He seemed to think he would take my advice, and
shortly afterwards he disappeared from the neighbourhood; but where he
has gone I do not know.”
Monica knew that this advice had been followed. “He may go anywhere he
likes, if he will only keep away from here,” she said. “I am very much
obliged to you, Tom, for doing as I asked.”
“Pray don’t mention it.”
“I must mention it, because it was very good of you. Tom, will you come
and stay at Trevlyn next week? We have one or two people coming for the
pheasants, and we want you to make one of the party, if you will.”
“Oh, very well; anything to please. I have had no shooting worth
speaking of so far. I should like a week’s holiday very well.”
So that matter was speedily and easily arranged.
Tom did not ask who were the guests he was to meet, and Monica did not
think of naming such entire strangers, Lord Haddon and Lady Beatrice
Wentworth. She forgot that Tom and the young earl had met once before
on a different occasion.
Those two were to be the first guests. Perhaps later on they would ask
more, but Monica was too entirely happy in her present life to wish it
in any way disturbed, and Randolph by no means cared to be obliged to
give up to guests those happy hours that heretofore he had always spent
with Monica. But Beatrice and her brother had already been invited.
They were his oldest friends, and were Monica’s friends too. She was
glad to welcome them to her old home, and the rapturous admiration that
its beauties elicited would have satisfied a more exacting nature than
hers.
Beatrice was, as usual, radiant, bewitching, delightful. Monica wished
that Tom had come in time to see her arrival, and listen to her
sparkling flow of talk. Tom professed to be a woman-hater, or next door
to it, but she thought that even he would have to make an exception in
favour of Lady Beatrice Wentworth.
She went upstairs with her guest to her room at length, when Beatrice
suddenly turned towards her, with quite a new expression upon her face.
“Monica,” she said, looking straight into her eyes, “you are
changed—you are different from what you were in London—different even
from what you were in Scotland, though I saw a change then. I don’t
know how to express it, but you are beautified—glorified. What is it?
What has changed you since I first knew you?”
Monica knew right well; but some feelings could not be translated into
words.
“I am very happy,” she said, quietly. “If there is any change, that
must be the cause.”
“Happier than you have ever been before?”
“Yes; I think every week makes me happier. I learn to know my husband
better and better, you see.”
A sudden wistful sadness flashed into the eyes so steadily regarding
her. Monica saw it before it had been blotted out by the arch drollery
of the look that immediately succeeded.
“And it does not wear off, Monica? Sometimes it does, you know—after a
time. Will it ever, in your case, do you think?”
“I think not,” she answered.
“And I think not, too,” answered Beatrice. “Ah me! How happy some
people are!”
She laughed, but there was something of bitterness in the tone. Monica
looked at her seriously.
“Are you not happy, Beatrice?”
The girl’s audacious smile beamed out over her face.
“Don’t I look so?”
“Sometimes—not always.”
“One must have variety before all things, you know,” was the gay
answer. “It would never do to be always in the same style—it lacks
piquancy after a time. Now let me have time to beautify myself in
harmony with this most charming of old places, and come back for me
when you are dressed; I feel as if I should lose my way, or see bogies
in these delightful corridors and staircases.”
And Monica left her guest as desired, coming back, half an hour later,
to find her transformed into the semblance of some pictured dame of
a century or two gone by, in stiff amber brocade, quaintly cut about
the neck and sleeves, and relieved here and there by dazzling scarlet
blossoms. Beatrice never at any time looked like anybody else, but
to-night she was particularly, strikingly original.
“Ah, you black-robed queen, you will just do as a foil for me!” was
the greeting Monica received. “Whenever I see you in any garb, no
matter what it is, I always think it is just one that suits you best of
everything. Are you having a dinner-party to-night?”
“Not exactly. A few men are coming, who have asked Randolph to shoot
since we came back. You and I are the only ladies.”
And then they went down to the empty drawing-room a good half-hour
before any one else was likely to appear.
Beatrice chatted away very brightly. She seemed in gay spirits, and
had a great deal to tell of what had passed since their farewell in
Scotland a month or two ago.
She moved about the drawing-room, examining the various treasures it
contained, and admiring the beauty of the pictures. She was standing
half concealed by the curtains draping a recessed window, when the door
opened, admitting Tom Pendrill. He was in dinner dress, having arrived
about an hour previously.
“You have come then, Tom,” said Monica. “I am glad. I was afraid you
meant to desert us after all.”
“The wish being father to the thought, I presume,” answered Tom,
shaking hands. “By-the-bye, here is a letter from Arthur’s doctor I’ve
brought to show you. He gives a capital account of his patient. Can you
read German writing, or shall I construe? He writes about as crabbedly
as——”
And here Tom stopped short, seeing that Monica was not alone.
“I beg your pardon,” he added, drawing himself up with a
ceremoniousness quite unusual with him.
“Not at all,” answered Monica, quietly. “Let me introduce you to Lady
Beatrice Wentworth—Mr. Tom Pendrill.”
They exchanged bows very distantly. Monica became suddenly aware, in
some subtle, inexplicable fashion, that these two were not strangers
to one another—that this was not their first meeting. Moreover, it
appeared as if their former acquaintance, such as it was, could have
been by no means agreeable to either, for it was easy to see that a
sort of covert antagonism existed between them which neither of them
took over much pains to conceal.
Tom’s face assumed its most sharply cynical expression, as he drew
at once into his hardest shell of distant reserve and sarcastic
politeness.
Beatrice opened her feather fan, and wielded it with a sort of
aggressive negligence. She dropped into a seat beside Monica, and
began to talk to her with an air of studied affectation utterly at
variance with her ordinary manner, ignoring Tom as entirely as if no
introduction had passed between them, and that with an assumption of
hauteur that could only be explained by a deeply-seated antipathy.
Monica tried to include Tom in the conversation; but he declined to be
included, returned an indifferent answer, and withdrew to a distant
corner of the room, where he remained deeply engrossed, as it seemed,
in the study of a photographic album.
Monica was perplexed. She could not imagine what it all meant. She had
never heard the Pendrills speak of Lady Beatrice Wentworth, and she was
sufficiently acquainted with Tom’s history to render this perplexity
the greater. She was certain Mrs. Pendrill had heard the name of her
expected guest, and it had aroused no emotion in her. Yet she would
presumably know the name of a lady towards whom her nephew cherished
so great an antipathy. Monica could not make it out. But one thing was
plain enough: those two were sworn foes, and intended to remain so—and
they were guests beneath the same roof!
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND.
AN ENIGMA.
It was a relief when the other men came in, and when dinner was
announced. Randolph evidently knew nothing of any disturbing element in
the party as he handed Beatrice in to dinner, and again made a sort of
attempt to introduce her to Tom, who was seated opposite, not knowing
that Monica had already had an opportunity of performing that little
ceremony.
“You are two of my oldest friends, you know,” said their host, in
his pleasant, easy fashion, “and you are both my guests now, so you
will have a capital opportunity of expatiating together upon my many
perfections.”
“No need for that, Randolph,” answered Beatrice, gaily. “They speak too
loud for themselves, and your wife’s eyes tell too many tales of them.
You know I never could bear paragons. If you turn into one, I shall
have no more to say to you.”
“You are very cutting, Beatrice; almost as much so as Tom here. It is
really rather a trying position to be hedged in between a clever woman
and a clever man.”
“If you call me a clever woman again, Randolph, I’ll never forgive you.
I abominate the whole race!” cried Beatrice, hotly; “and as for clever
men—I _detest_ them!”
This was said so heartily as to elicit a guffaw of laughter from a
ruddy-faced young gentleman of sporting tastes, who was her neighbour
on the other side. She turned to him with one of her most sparkling
glances.
“Now you, I am quite certain, agree with me. Your face tells me you
do. Don’t you think that it is the clever people who make the world an
intolerable place?”
“They’re the greatest nuisance out,” assented that young gentleman,
cordially. “I always did say so. I was never clever. I was plucked
three times, I think, for my little-go.”
“Then you and I are sure to be great friends,” said Beatrice, laughing.
“I am quite, quite sure I should _never_ have passed any examination if
I had been a man. I was at Oxford once, long ago; and oh! you know, the
only men that were any good at all were those who had been ‘plucked,’
as they call it, or fully expected to be. The clever, good, precocious
boys were—oh! well, let us not think of them. It takes away one’s
appetite!”
The sporting gentleman laughed, and enjoyed this summary verdict; but
Randolph just glanced across at his wife. He, too, was aware that there
was something odd in Beatrice’s manner. He detected the covert vein of
bitterness in her tone; and he was as much at a loss to understand it
as any one else could be. Tom’s face and impenetrable silence puzzled
him likewise.
Dinner, however, passed smoothly enough. Beatrice was very lively, and
her witticisms kept all the table alive. Her young neighbour lost his
heart to her at once, and she flirted with him in the most frank and
open fashion possible. She could be very fascinating when she chose,
and to-night, after the first edge had been taken off her sallies, she
was, undoubtedly, exceedingly attractive.
If there was something a little forced in her mirth, at least nobody
detected it, save those who knew her very well, and not even all of
those, for Haddon was obviously unconscious that anything was wrong,
and talked to Monica in the most unconcerned fashion possible. What Tom
thought of it all nobody could hazard an opinion.
At length Monica gave the signal to her animated guest, and they two
withdrew together. Beatrice laughed gaily, as she half walked half
waltzed across the hall, humming a dance tune the while.
“What a lovely place this would be for a dance!” she exclaimed,
“a masked, or, better still, a fancy dress ball. Shouldn’t we look
charming in these panelled rooms, flitting about this great baronial
hall, and up and down that delightful staircase? Monica, you and
Randolph mustn’t get lazy; you must live up to your house. It is too
beautiful to be wasted. If you don’t know how to manage matters, I must
come and teach you?”
And so she rattled on, first on one theme, and then on another, in
restless, aimless fashion, as people do who are talking against time,
or talking with a purpose, determined not to let silence fall between
them and their companions. It was easy to see that Beatrice wished to
avoid any confidential conversation—wished to escape from any kind of
questioning, or from quiet talk, of whatever description it might be.
When at length she did let Monica go back to the drawing-room, it was
not with any idea of silence. She went straight to the piano, and began
playing stormily.
Presently, after dashing off fragments vocal and instrumental in a
sort of confused medley, Monica, growing dreamy as she listened to the
succession of changing harmonies, she began once again with more of
purpose and of passion in her voice—indeed, there was so much of pain
and passion, that Monica was aroused to listen.
“My heart, my heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart, my heart is like an apple-tree,
Whose boughs are hung with thick-set fruit.
My heart, my heart is like a rainbow-shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart, my heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love, my love has come to me.
My heart——”
And then the singer’s voice failed utterly; a dismal discordant chord
broke the eager harmonies that had followed one another so rapidly.
Beatrice broke into a sudden storm of tears, and hurried from the room
without a word.
Monica sat aghast and bewildered. What could it all mean? Was she
by chance to come upon the secret sorrow of Beatrice’s life?—the
sorrow she had half suspected sometimes, but had never heard in any
way explained. Was it to be explained to her now? Was Tom Pendrill
connected with that sorrow? If so, what part had he taken? Could
they ever have been lovers? Did she not remember, long ago, hearing
something of a suspicion on Mrs. Pendrill’s part that Tom had been
“jilted” by the woman he loved? Was there not a time, long ago, when
he was not the reserved, cynical man he affected now to be; but was
genial, brilliant, the pleasantest of companions? Yes, Monica was sure
of it—was certain that he had changed, and changed somewhat suddenly,
many years since; but she had paid but little heed to the matter then,
as it was about that time when every faculty was absorbed in watching
over Arthur, who long lay hovering between life and death. Changes
after that passed almost unheeded. Had not her whole life been changed
too?
She did not follow Beatrice, however, to try and comfort her, or
attempt to force her confidence. She treated her as she would wish
herself to be treated in similar case; and shortly after the gentlemen
had joined them, had the satisfaction of seeing Beatrice come back as
brilliant and full of vivacity as ever, and there was no need after
her appearance, to wonder how the evening should be passed, it seemed
quite sufficient entertainment for the company to sit in a circle round
her, and hear Beatrice talk. Tom Pendrill was the one exception. He did
not attempt to join the magic ring. He took Monica a little apart, and
talked over with her the latest news from Germany.
When the guests had departed, and Beatrice, as well as her brother and
Monica, had gone upstairs, Tom turned his face towards Randolph with
its hardest and most cynical look.
“Tell you what, Trevlyn, don’t you ask that poor young fellow Radlet
here again, so long as that arrant flirt is a guest under your roof.”
Randolph simply smiled.
“The ‘arrant flirt,’ as you are polite enough to call my guest, is one
of my oldest friends. Kindly keep that fact in mind in talking of her
to me.”
“I am not talking of her. I am talking of poor young Radlet.”
“It seems to me that poor young Radlet, as you call him, is very well
able to take care of himself.”
“Oh, you think that, do you? Shows how much _you_ know! Can’t you see
she was doing her very best to enslave his fancy, and that he was
falling under the spell as fast as ever he could?”
“Pooh! Nonsense!” answered Randolph; “they were just exchanging a
little of the current coin that is constantly passing in gay society.
Young Radlet is not a green-horn. They understand their game perfectly.”
“She does, of course—no one better; but it’s a question if he does.”
“Well, he’s a greater fool than he looks, if he does not!” answered
Randolph. “Does he expect a girl like Beatrice Wentworth to be enslaved
by his charms in the course of a few hours? The thing’s a manifest
absurdity!”
“Possibly; but that woman can make a man think anything.”
Randolph looked at his friend with some attention.
“You seem to have formed very exhaustive conclusions about Lady
Beatrice Wentworth.”
It almost seemed as if Tom coloured a little as he turned impatiently
away.
Next day Beatrice seemed to have regained her usual even flow of
spirits. She met Tom at breakfast as she would meet any guest under the
same roof, and neither courted nor avoided him in any way. He seemed to
take his cue from her; but his face still wore the thin-lipped cynical
expression that betrayed a certain amount of subdued irritation.
However, sport was the all-prevailing topic of the hour, and as soon as
breakfast was concluded, the men departed, with the dogs and keepers in
their wake.
“What would you like to do, Beatrice?” asked Monica when the sportsmen
had disappeared. “We have the whole day before us.”
“Like to do? Why, everything must be delightful in this lovely
out-of-the-world place. Monica, no wonder you are just yourself—not
one bit like any one else—brought up here with only the sea, and the
clouds, and the sunshine for companions and playmates. I used to look
at you in a sort of wonder, but I understand it all now. You ought
always to live at Trevlyn—never anywhere else. What should I like to
do? Why, anything. Suppose we ride. I should love to gallop along
the cliffs with you. I want to see the queer little church Haddon
described to me, where you were married, and the picturesque little
town where—where Randolph and he put up on the eve of that day. I want
to see everything that belongs to your past life, Monica. It interests
me more than I can express.”
Monica smiled in her tranquil fashion.
“Very well; you shall gratify your wish. I will order the horses at
once. If we go to St. Maws, I ought to go and see Aunt Elizabeth—Mrs.
Pendrill that is, aunt to Arthur, and to Tom Pendrill and his brother.
She is sure to want us to stay to luncheon with her if we do. She will
be all alone; Tom here, and Raymond on his rounds. Would you dislike
that, Beatrice? She is a sweet old lady, and seems more a part of my
past life than anything else I can show you, though I could not perhaps
explain why.”
A curious light shone in Beatrice’s eyes.
“Dislike it! I should like it above everything. I love old ladies. They
are so much more interesting than young ones, I often wish I were old
myself—not middle-aged, you know, but really old, _very_ old, with
lovely white hair, and a waxen face all over tiny wrinkles, like my own
grandmother—the most beautiful woman without exception that I ever saw.
Yes, Monica, let us do that. It will be delightful. Why did you never
mention the Pendrills to me before?”
She put the question with studied carelessness. Yet Monica was certain
it was asked with effort.
“Did I not? I thought I used to tell you so much about my past life.”
“So you did; but I never heard that name.”
“You knew Arthur was a Pendrill.”
“Indeed I did not. He was always Arthur to you. I wonder I never asked
his surname; but somehow I never did. I had a vague idea that some such
people as these Pendrills existed; but I never heard you name them.”
“Perhaps you heard, and forgot it?” suggested Monica tentatively.
“That I am sure I never did,” was the very emphatic answer.
Beatrice was delighted with her morning’s ride. It was a beautiful
autumn day, and everything was looking its best. The sea flashed and
sparkled in the sunlight; the sky was clear and soft above them, the
horses, delighted to feel the soft turf beneath their feet, pranced
and curvetted and galloped, with that easy elastic motion that is so
peculiarly exhilarating.
The girl herself looked peculiarly and vividly beautiful, and Monica
was not surprised at the affectionate interest Mrs. Pendrill evinced in
her from the first moment of introduction.
But she was a little surprised at the peculiar sweetness of Beatrice’s
demeanour towards the old lady. Whilst retaining all her arch
brightness and vivacity, the girl managed to infuse into her manner,
her voice, and her words something gentle and deferential and winning
that was inexplicably fascinating; all the more so from its evident
unconscious sincerity.
Mrs. Pendrill was charmed with the beauty and sweetness of the girl,
and it seemed as if Beatrice on her side was equally fascinated. When
the time came to say good-bye, and the old lady held both her hands,
and gazed into her bright face, as she asked for another visit very
soon, she stooped suddenly, and kissed her with pretty, spontaneous
warmth.
“Come again! Of course I will, as often as Monica will bring me.
Good-bye, Mrs. Pendrill—Aunt Elizabeth I should _like_ to say”—with a
little rippling laugh. “I think you are just fit to be Monica’s ‘Saint
Elizabeth.’ Is it the air of this place that makes you all so perfectly
delightful? I shall have to come and live here too, I think.”
And as she and Monica rode home together over the sweeping downs,
Beatrice turned to her after a long pause of silence and said:
“Monica, it was a dangerous experiment asking me to Trevlyn.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t feel as if I should ever want to leave it again. And
I’m a dreadful sort of creature when I’m bent on my own way.”
Monica smiled.
“You will have to turn me out neck and crop in the end, I firmly
believe. I feel I should just take root here, and never wish to go.”