He took both her hands in his and held them hard.
“Yes you will,” he answered. “Say it again.”
She was panting with a strange mixture of feeling; the earth and sky
seemed to spin round together.
“Say it again, Beatrice.”
“I said—I loved you; but I don’t—I will never, never say it again——”
She got no farther, for he held her so closely in his arms that all
speech was impossible for the moment.
“That will do,” he answered. “I don’t want you to say it again. Once is
enough.”
* * * * *
“Monica,” said Beatrice in the softest of whispers as she came into the
quiet room where her brother lay asleep upon the sofa, and Monica sat
dreaming beside the fire. “Ah, Monica, Monica!” and then she stopped
short, kneeling down, and turning her quivering face and swimming eyes
towards the face bent tenderly over her.
Somehow it was never needful to say much to Monica. She always
understood without many words. She bent her head now, and kissed
Beatrice.
“Is it so, then, dear?” she asked.
“Did you know?”
“I knew what you told me yourself, and I could see for myself that he
had not forgotten any more than you.”
“I did not see it.”
“Possibly not—neither did he; but sometimes love is very blind—and very
wilful too.”
Was there a touch of tender reproach in the tone? Beatrice looked at
her earnestly.
“I know what you mean,” she said. “We both want to be master; but I
think—I am afraid—he will have the upper hand now.”
But the smile that quivered over the upturned face was full of such
sweetness and brightness that Monica kissed her again.
“You will not find him such a tyrant as he professes to be. Tom is very
generous and unselfish, despite his affectation of cynicism. I am so
glad you have made him happy at last. I am so glad that our paths in
life will not lie very widely apart.”
Beatrice took Monica’s hand and kissed it.
“I am so happy,” she said simply. “And I owe it all to you.”
Monica caressed the dark head laid against her knee, as Beatrice
subsided into her favourite lowly position at Monica’s feet. Presently
she became aware that the girl’s tears were falling fast.
“Crying, dearest?” she questioned gently.
A stifled sob was the answer.
“What is the matter, my child?”
“Randolph!” was all that Beatrice could get out. Somehow the desolation
of Monica’s life had never come home to her with quite the same sense
of realisation as now, in the hour of her deepest happiness.
“He would be glad,” answered Monica, steadily and sweetly. “He loved
you dearly, Beatrice; and he and Tom were always such friends. It was
his hope that all would come right. If he can see us now, as I often
think he can, he will be rejoicing in your happiness now. You must shed
no tears to-night, dearest, unless they are tears of happiness.”
Beatrice suddenly half rose, and hung her arms round Monica.
“How can you bear it? How can you bear it? Monica, I think you are an
angel. No one in this wide world was ever like you. And to think——” she
shuddered strongly and stopped short.
“You are excited and over-wrought,” said Monica gently. “You must not
let yourself be knocked up, or Tom will scold me when he comes back.
See, Haddon is waking up. He had such a bad headache, poor boy; I hope
he has slept it off. You must tell him the news—it will please him I am
sure.”
“You tell him,” whispered Beatrice, and slipped away to relieve her
over-burdened heart by a burst of tears; for one strange revelation
following upon another had tried her more than she had known at the
time.
Haddon was quietly pleased at the news. He liked Tom; he had fancied
that he and Beatrice were not altogether indifferent to each other, so
this conclusion did not take him altogether by surprise. He was sorry
to think of losing Beatrice, but not as perplexed as he would have been
some months before. Life looked different to him now—more serious and
earnest. He began to have aspirations of his own. He no longer regarded
existence as a sort of pleasant easy game of play.
Certainly it seemed as if the course of true love as regarded Beatrice
and Tom, after passing its early shoals and quicksands, were to run
quietly and smoothly enough now. He came back from St. Maws in time for
dinner, and when dessert was put on the table, he announced his plans
with the hardihood characteristic of the man.
“Aunt Elizabeth is delighted, Beatrice, and so is Raymond,” he said.
“I have told them that we will be married almost at once, within two
months, at least—oh, you needn’t look like that. I think I’ve waited
long enough—pretty well as long as Jacob——”
“Did for Leah—and didn’t like her in the end—don’t make that your
precedent.”
“Well, don’t interrupt,” proceeded Tom imperturbably. “We’ve got
it all beautifully arranged. I’m going to take part of the regular
practice, as Raymond has always been bothering me to do ever since
it increased so much, and we’re to have half the house for our
establishment, and he and Aunt Elizabeth the other. It was originally
two houses, and lends itself excellently to that arrangement, though I
dare say practically we shall be all one household, as you and our aunt
have managed to hit it off so well. Monica, can’t Beatrice be married
from Trevlyn when Haddon is well enough to give her away? It would
save a lot of bother. I hate flummery, and I’m sure she does too. Come
now, Beatrice, don’t laugh. Don’t you think that would be an excellent
arrangement? Here we are; what is the good of getting all split up
again? You’ll be losing your heart to another marquis if I let you out
of my sight.”
Her eyes were dancing with mischievous merriment. She was more than
ready to enter the lists.
“Just listen to the tyrant—trying to keep me a prisoner already! trying
to take everything into his own hands—and not content without adding
insult to injury!”
His eyes too were alight; but his mouth was grim.
“I have not forgotten how you served me last time, my lady.”
“At Oxford?”
“At Oxford.”
“Monica, listen. I will tell you how I served him. I had eyes for no
one but him, silly girl that I was; I was with him morning, noon and
night. Child as I was at the time, careless and inexperienced, even
_I_ was absolutely ashamed at the open preference I showed him; I blush
even now to think of the undisguised way in which I flung myself at
a particularly hard head. And yet he pretends he did not understand!
If that is so, then for real, downright, hopeless stupidity and
obtuseness, commend me to an Oxford double-first-class-man!”
Beatrice might get the best of it in an encounter of tongues, but Tom
had his own way in the settlement of their affairs, possibly because
her resistance was but a pretence. What, indeed, had they to wait for,
when they had been waiting so many long years for one another?
Nothing clouded the horizon of their happiness. Even the hideous shadow
which had been in a sense the means of bringing them together seemed
to have vanished with the sudden disappearance of Conrad Fitzgerald
from the neighbourhood. Upon the very day following Tom’s visit to
him, he left his house, ill and weak as he was, to join his sister at
Mentone. His servant accompanied him. The desolate house was shut up
once more, and Tom Pendrill sincerely hoped that the haunting baleful
influence of that wild and wicked nature had passed from their lives
for ever.
And Beatrice after all was married at Trevlyn, in the little cliff
church that had seen the hands of Randolph and Monica joined in
wedlock. She resisted a good while, feeling afraid that it would be
painful to Monica—a second wedding, and that within a few months of her
own widowhood. But Monica took part with Tom, and the bride elect gave
way, only too delighted at heart to be with Monica to the very last.
It was a very quiet wedding—as quiet as Monica’s own—even the people
gathered together in the little church had hardly changed. Only one
short year had passed since Monica in her snowy robes had stood before
that little altar, with the marriage vow upon her lips—only a year ago,
and now?
Yet Monica’s face was very calm and sweet. She shed no tears, she
seemed to have no sad thoughts for herself, however others might feel.
One pair of grey eyes seldom wandered from her face as the simple
ceremonies of the day proceeded. One heart was far more occupied with
thoughts of the pale-faced widow than of the blooming bride.
Haddon quitted Trevlyn almost immediately after his sister. The words
of thanks he tried to speak faltered on his tongue, and would not come.
Monica understood, and answered by one of her sweetest smiles.
“You were Randolph’s friend; you are my friend now. You must not try
to thank me. I am so very glad to think of the link that binds us
together. I shall not lose sight of you whilst Beatrice is so near. You
will come again some day?”
“Yes, Lady Trevlyn,” he answered quietly, “I will come again;” and he
raised the hand he held for one moment very reverently to his lips.
As he drove away he looked back, and saw Monica still standing upon the
terrace.
“Yes,” he said quietly to himself, “I will come back—some day.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH.
“AS WE FORGIVE.”
A year had passed away since that fatal night when Randolph had left
his wife standing on the shore—had gone away in the darkness and had
returned no more: a year had passed, with its chequered lights and
shades, but the anniversary of her husband’s death found Monica, as he
had left her, at Trevlyn—alone.
Many things had happened during that year. Beatrice had married and
settled happily in the picturesque red house at St. Maws as Tom
Pendrill’s loving, brilliant wife. Monica had been to Germany once
again, to assure herself with her own eyes of the truth of the
favourable reports sent to her. She had had the satisfaction of seeing
how great an improvement had taken place in Arthur’s condition; that
although the cure was slow—would most likely need a second, possibly
even a third year before it would be absolutely complete, yet it was
practically certain, if he and those who held his fate in their hands
would but have patience and perseverance. The boy was quite happy in
the establishment of which he was a member. He had gone through the
most trying part of the treatment, and was enthusiastic about the
kindness and skill of his doctor. He had made many friends, and had
quite lost the home-sickness that had occasionally troubled him at
first. He was delighted to see Monica again. He was insistant that she
should come to see him often; but he did not even wish to return to
Trevlyn till he could do so whole and sound, as a man in good health
and strength, instead of a helpless invalid.
Monica was summoned from Germany by the news of the dangerous illness
of Lady Diana, who died only a few days after the arrival of her niece.
She had been talking of making a permanent home at Trevlyn now that
Monica was so utterly alone, but her death stopped all such schemes;
and so it came about that in absolute solitude the young widowed
countess took up her abode for the winter in the great silent castle
beside the sea.
The sea still exercised its old fascination over Monica. Her happiest
hours were spent wandering by its brink or riding along the breezy
cliff. It was a friend indeed to her in those days, it frowned upon her
no more. It had done its worst already—it had taken away the light of
her life. Might it not be possible—was there not something of promise
in its eternal music? Could it be that in some unexpected, mysterious
way it would bring back some of the light that had been taken
away—would be the means of uniting once again the hearts that had been
so cruelly sundered? Strange thoughts and fancies flitted often through
her brain, formless and indistinct, but comforting withal.
Returning to the castle at dusk one day, after one of these solitary
rambles, she found an unusual bustle and excitement stirring there.
Wilberforce hurried forward to explain the cause of the unwonted
tumult.
“I hope I have not done wrong, my lady. You were not here to give
orders, and I could only act as I felt you would wish. A lad came
running in with a scared face not half an hour back, saying there was a
man lying at the foot of the cliffs, as if he had fallen over. I scarce
think he can be alive if that be so; but I told the men that if he
was—as there is no other decent house near—I thought you would wish——”
“That he should be brought here. Quite right, Wilberforce. Is there a
room ready? Has Mr. Pendrill been sent for?”
“The groom has gone this twenty minutes. Living or dead, he must have a
doctor to him. The maids are getting the east room ready, yet I doubt
if he can be living after such a fall.”
“He may not have fallen over the cliff. He may have been scaling it,
and have dropped from but a small height. See that everything likely to
be needed is ready. He may be here almost immediately now.”
She went up to the bed-room herself, to see if it were ready should
there be need. It was probably only some poor tramp or fisherman who
had met with the accident—no matter, he should be tended at Trevlyn, he
should lie in its most comfortable guest-chamber, he should have every
care that wealth could supply. Monica knew too well the dire results
that might follow a slip down those hard, treacherous cliffs not to
feel peculiarly tender and solicitous over another victim.
The steady tramp of feet ascending the stairs and approaching the
room where she stood, roused Monica to the knowledge that the injured
man was not dead, and that they were bringing him up to be tended and
nursed as she had directed. The door was pushed open; six men carried
in their burden upon an improvised stretcher, and laid it just as it
was upon the bed. Monica stepped forward, and then started, growing a
little pale; for she recognised in the death-like rigid face before her
the well-known countenance of Conrad Fitzgerald.
She could not look without a shudder at that shattered frame,
and Wilberforce shook her head gravely, marvelling that he yet
breathed. None save professional hands dared touch him, so distorted
and dislocated was every limb; and yet by one of those strange
coincidences, not altogether uncommon in cases of accident, the
beautiful face was entirely untouched, not marred by a scratch or
contusion. Death-like unconsciousness had set its seal upon those
chiselled, marble features, and had wiped from them every trace of
passion or of vice.
Tom Pendrill was amongst them long before they looked for him. He had
met the messenger not far from Trevlyn, and had come at once. He turned
Monica out of the room with a stern precipitancy that perplexed her
somewhat, as did also the expression of his face, which she did not
understand. He shut himself up with his patient, retaining the services
of Wilberforce and one of the men.
It was two hours before she saw him again.
Monica wandered up and down the dark hall, revolving many things in
her mind. What had brought Conrad so suddenly back at this melancholy
time of the year? She had believed him abroad with his sister, with
whom he seemed to have spent his time since his disappearance early in
the spring. What had brought him back now? And why did he so haunt the
frowning, treacherous cliffs of Trevlyn? Was he mad? But why did his
madness always drive him to this spot? She asked many such questions of
herself, but she could answer none of them.
At last Tom came down. His face looked as if carved in flint. She could
not read the meaning of his glance.
“Is he dead?” she asked softly.
“He cannot last long. If he has any relations near, they should be
telegraphed for.”
“His sister is in Italy, I believe. There is no one else that I know
of.”
“Then there is nothing to be done. He is sinking fast. He cannot live
many hours. I doubt if he will last the night.”
Monica’s face was pale and grave.
“Poor Conrad!” she said, beneath her breath.
Tom started, and made a quick movement as of repulsion.
“No one could wish him to live,” he began, almost roughly; “he has
hardly a whole bone in his body.”
“Is he conscious?”
“No, nor likely to be. It is not at all probable he will ever open his
eyes again. He will most likely sink quietly, without a sound or a
sign. I have done all I can for him. Somebody must be with him to watch
him, I suppose. It can only be a question of hours now.” A dark cloud
hung upon the doctor’s brow. His thoughts were preoccupied. Presently
he spoke again—a sort of mutter between his teeth.
“He ought not to be allowed to die here—under _this_ roof. It is
monstrous—hateful to think of! Nothing can save him. Yet I suppose it
would be murder to move him now.”
Monica looked up quickly.
“Move him! Tom, what are you thinking of?”
“I know it cannot be done,” was the answer, spoken in a stern, dogged
tone. “Yet I repeat what I said before: he ought not to be under this
roof.”
There was a gentle reproach in the look that Monica bent upon him.
“My husband’s roof and mine will always be a refuge for any whose
need is as sore as his. Sometimes I think, Tom, that you are the very
hardest man I ever met. His life, I know, is terribly stained; yet it
is not for us to judge him.”
It seemed as if Tom were agitated. He gave no outward sign, but his
face was pale, his manner curiously harsh and peremptory.
“You do not know,” he said. “Your husband——”
She stopped him by a gesture.
“My husband would be the first to bid me return good for evil. You know
Randolph very little if you do not know that. Conrad is dying, and
death wipes out much. He is about to answer for his life to a higher
tribunal than ours. Ah! let us not condemn him harshly. Have we not all
our sins upon our heads? When my turn comes to answer for mine, let me
not have this one added—that I hardened my heart against the dying, and
denied the help and succour mutely asked at the last hour.”
“Monica,” said Tom, with one of those swift changes that marked his
manner when he was deeply moved, “were I worthy, I would kiss the hem
of your garment. As it is, I can only say farewell. God be with you!”
He was gone before she could open her lips again. She stood in a sort
of dream, feeling as if some strange thing were about to happen to her.
Night fell upon the castle and its inhabitants, but Monica could not
sleep. If ever she closed her eyes in momentary slumber, the same vivid
dream recurred again and again, till she was oppressed and exhausted by
the effort to escape from it. It was Conrad, always Conrad, begging,
praying, beseeching her to come. Sometimes it seemed as if his shadowy
form stood beside her, wildly praying the same thing—to come to him—to
come before it was too late.
At last she could stand it no longer. She rose and dressed. The clock
in the tower struck four. She knew she could sleep no more that night.
Why should she not take the watch beside the unconscious dying man, and
let the faithful Wilberforce get some rest?
She stole noiselessly to the sick room. There had been no change in
the patient’s state. He lived, but could hardly live much longer.
Wilberforce would fain have stayed, but Monica dismissed her quietly
and firmly, preferring to keep her watch alone.
Profound silence reigned in the great house—silence only broken from
time to time by the reverberating strokes of the clock in the tower, or
by the sudden sinking of the coal in the grate and the quiet fall of
the cinders. There was something inexpressibly solemn in the time, the
place, and the office thus undertaken by Monica.
Conrad lay dying—Conrad, once her friend and playmate, then her
bitterest, cruellest foe, now?—ah yes, what now?—she asked that
question many times of herself. What strange, mysterious power is
that of death! How it blots out all hatred, anger, bitterness,
and distrust, and leaves in its place a sort of tender, mournful
compassion. Who can look upon the face of the dead, and cherish hard
thoughts of him that is gone?
Not Monica, at least. Conrad had been to her as the evil genius of
one crisis of her life—of more had she but known it. She had said
in her heart that she could never forgive him, that she would never
voluntarily look upon his face again, and yet here he lay dying beneath
her roof, and she was with him. She could not, when it came to the
point, leave him to die alone, with only a stranger beside him. He
might never know, his eyes would probably never open to the light of
this world again; but she should know, and in years to come, when time
should, even more than now, have softened all things to her, she knew
that she should be glad to think she had shown mercy and compassion
towards one in death, who had shown himself in life her bitterest foe.
Very solemn thoughts filled her mind as she sat in that quiet room,
in which a strong young life was quickly ebbing away. Would the
sin-stained soul pass into the shadowy land of the hereafter in
silence and darkness, without one moment for preparation—perhaps for
repentance? Would some slight gleam of consciousness be granted? would
it be vouchsafed to him to wake once more in this world, to give some
sign to the earnest, silent watcher whether he had tried to make his
peace with God before he was called to his last account?
The lamp burned low—flickered in its socket. That strange blue _film_,
the first forerunner of the coming day, stole solemnly into that quiet
room. Suddenly Monica became aware that Conrad’s eyes were open, and
fixed intently upon her face. She rose and stood beside him.
“You are here?” he said, in a strange low voice. “I felt that you would
hear me call—and would come. I knew I could not—die—till I had told you
all.”
She did not know how far he was conscious. His words were strange, but
his eye was calm and quiet. He took the stimulant she held to his lips.
It gave him an access of strength.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“At Trevlyn.”
A strange look flitted over his face.
“Ah! I remember now—I fell. And I have been brought to Trevlyn—to
die—and you, Monica, are with me. It is well.”
She hardly knew what to say, or how to answer the awed look in those
dying eyes. He bent a keen glance upon her.
“Will it be soon?” he asked; and she knew that the “it” meant death.
She could not deceive him. She bent her head in assent, as she said:
“Very soon, I think.”
His eyes never left her face. His own face moved not a muscle, but its
expression changed moment by moment in a way she could not understand.
“There is not much time left, Monica. Sit down by me where I can see
you. I must make a confession to you before I die.”
“Not to me, Conrad,” said Monica gently. “Confess your sins to our
Father in Heaven. He alone can grant forgiveness; and His mercies are
very great.”
“Forgiveness!” the word was spoken with an intensity of bitterness that
startled Monica. The horror was deepening each moment in his eyes. She
began to feel that it was reflected in her own. What did it all mean?
“God is very merciful,” she said gently, commanding herself so that he
should not see her agitation.
“You do not know,” he interrupted almost fiercely. “Wait till I have
told you all.”
“Why should you tell me, Conrad? I know much of your past life. I know
that you have sinned. Ask God’s forgiveness before it is too late. It
is against Him, not me, that you have sinned.”
“Against Him _and_ you,” he answered with a grave intensity of manner
that plainly showed him master of his faculties. “Listen to me,
Monica—you shall listen! I cannot carry the guilty secret to the grave.
Death looks me in the face—he holds me by the hand, but he will not let
me leave this world till I have told you all.”
A sort of horror fell upon Monica. She neither spoke nor moved.
“Monica, turn your face this way. I want to see it. I must see it. You
remember the night, a year ago, when—your husband—went away?”
She bent her head in silence.
“Did you know that I was there—in the boat with him?”
She raised her head, and looked at him speechlessly.