and Randolph stood together to welcome their guests. She had laid aside
her mournful widow’s garb, and was arrayed in her shimmering bridal
robes. Ah, how lovely she was in her husband’s eyes as she stood beside
him now! Perhaps never in all her life had she looked more exquisitely
fair. Happiness had lighted her beautiful eyes, and had brought the
rose back to her pale cheeks: she was glorified—transfigured—a vision
of radiant beauty.
He had changed but slightly during his mysterious year of absence.
There were a few lines upon his face that had not been there of old: he
looked like a man who had been through some ordeal, whether mental or
physical it would be less easy to tell; but the same joy and rapture
that emanated, as it were, from Monica was reflected in his face
likewise, and only a keen eye could read to-night the traces of pain or
of sorrow in that strong, proud, manly countenance.
Monica looked at him suddenly, the flush deepening in her cheeks.
“Hush! They are coming!” she said, and waited breathlessly.
The door opened, admitting Mrs. Pendrill, Beatrice, and Tom. There
was a pause—a brief, intense silence, during which the fall of a pin
might have been heard, and then, with one long, low cry, half-sobbing,
half-laughing, Beatrice rushed across the room, and flung herself upon
Randolph.
Monica went straight up to Mrs. Pendrill, and put her arms about her
neck.
“Aunt Elizabeth, he has come home,” she said, in a voice that shook a
little with the tumult of her happiness. “He has just come home—this
very day—Randolph—my husband. Help me to believe it. You must help me
to bear this—as you helped me to bear the other.”
Tom had by this time grasped Randolph by the hand; but neither trusted
his own voice. They were glad that Beatrice covered their silence by
her incoherent exclamations of rapture, and by the flow of questions no
one attempted to answer.
It was all too like a dream for anyone to recollect very clearly what
happened. Raymond and Haddon came in almost at once, new greetings
had to be gone through. How the dinner passed off that night no one
afterwards remembered. There was a deep sense of thankfulness and
joy in every heart; yet of words there were few. But when gathered
round the fire later on in the evening, when they had grown used to
the presence amongst them of one whom they had mourned as dead for
more than a year, Randolph was called upon to tell his tale, which was
listened to in breathless silence.
“I will tell you all I can about it; but there are points yet where my
memory fails me, where I have but little idea what happened. I have a
dim recollection of the night of the wreck, and of leaving the boat;
but I must have received a heavy blow on the head, the doctors tell
me, and I suppose I sank, and the men could not find me. But I was
entangled, it seems, in the rigging of a floating spar, and must have
been carried thus many miles; for I was picked up by an ocean steamer
bound for Australia, which had been driven somewhat out of its course
by the gale. It was not supposed that I could live after so many hours’
exposure. I was quite unconscious, and remained so for a very long
time. There was nothing upon me by which I could be identified, and
of course I could give no account of myself. On board the boat were a
kind-hearted wealthy Australian couple, who had lately lost an only
son, to whom they fancied I bore some slight resemblance. Perhaps for
this cause, perhaps from true kindness of heart, they at once took me
under their special care and protection. There was plenty of space on
board the vessel, and they looked after me as if I had indeed been
their son. They would not hear of my being left behind in hospital on
the way out. They took me under their protection until I should be able
to give an account of myself.
“Of course I knew nothing about all this. I was lying dangerously ill
of brain fever all the while, not knowing where I was, or what was
happening. When we reached Melbourne at last, and I was conveyed to
their luxurious house on the outskirts of the town, I was still in
the same state, relapse following relapse, every time till I gained
a little ground, till for months my life was despaired of. I was
either raving in delirium, or lying in a sort of unconscious stupor,
and without all the skill and care lavished upon me, I suppose I must
have died. But I did not die. Gradually, very gradually, the fever
abated, and I began to come to myself: that is to say, I began to
know the faces around me and to recognise my surroundings; but for
myself, I knew no more who I was, nor whence I had come, than the
infant just born into the world. My memory had gone, had been wiped
clean away; I had no idea of my own identity, no recollection of the
past. The very effort to remember brought on such pain and distress
that I was imperatively commanded to relinquish the attempt. Gradually
some things came back to my mind: I could read, write, understand the
foreign tongues I had mastered, and the sciences I had studied in past
days. As my health slowly improved this kind of knowledge came back
spontaneously and without effort; but my personal history was as a
blank wall, against which I flung myself in vain. It would yield to no
efforts of mine. Distressed and confused, I was obliged to give up, and
wait with what patience I might for the realisation of the hope held
out cheerfully by the clever doctor who attended me. He maintained that
if I would but have patience, some strong association of ideas would
some day bring all back in a flash, and meantime all I had to do was to
get strong and well, so as to be ready for action when that day should
come. I was restless sometimes, but less so than one would fancy, for
the blank was too complete to be distressing. My good friends and
protectors were unspeakably kind and good, and did everything in their
power to ensure my mental and physical well-being; I recovered my
health rapidly, soon my memory was to come back too.”
Randolph passed his hand across his eyes. No one spoke, every eye was
fixed upon his face.
“It did so very strangely: it was one hot afternoon in November—our
summer, you know”—he named the date and the hour, and Monica heard it
with a sudden thrill. Allowing for the discrepancy of time, it was
during the moments that she watched by Conrad Fitzgerald’s dying bed
that her husband’s memory was given back to him.
“I was looking over some old English newspapers, idly, purposelessly,
when I came upon a detailed account of the wreck, and of my own
supposed death. As I read—I cannot describe what it was like—my memory
came back to me in a great flood, like overwhelming waves. It seemed,
Monica, as if my spirit were carried on wings to Trevlyn, as if I were
hovering over you in some mysterious way impossible to describe. I
called your name aloud. I knew that I was close to you, at Trevlyn—it
is useless to attempt to define what I felt. When I came to myself they
told me I had fainted; but that was not so. I had been on a journey,
that is all, and had returned. My memory was restored from that hour,
clearly and distinctly; the doctor thought there might be lapses, that
I might never be the same man again as I had been once; but I have felt
no ill effects since. Little more remains to be told. My first instinct
was to telegraph; but not knowing what had happened in my absence,
knowing I must long have been given up for lost, I was afraid to do
so, lest hopeless confusion should result. Instead, I took the first
home-bound steamer, and reached London late last night. I found out at
the house there where Monica was, and came on here by the first train.
I have come back home to spend my Christmas with you.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND.
THE LAST.
“Monica, I could not tell you last night—it was all so sudden, so
wonderful—but I think you know, without any words of mine, how glad,
how thankful, I am.”
It was Haddon who spoke, spoke with a glad, frank, joyous sincerity,
that beamed in his eye and sounded in every tone of his voice. Monica
gave him both her hands, looking up into his face with her sweetest
smile.
“I know, Haddon; I know. I am sure of it. Is he not almost a brother to
you?—and are you not the best of brothers to me?”
“At least I will try to be,” he answered gladly. “I cannot tell you how
happy this has made me.”
She was glad, too: glad to see him so happy, so heart-whole. He had
loved her with the loyal love of a devoted chivalrous knight, had loved
her for her sorrow and her loneliness; but she was comforted now, and
he was able to rejoice with her. It was all very good—just as she would
have it.
Ah! what a day of joy and thanksgiving it was! How Monica’s heart beat
as she knelt by her husband’s side that glad Christmas morning in
the little cliff church, when, in the pause just before the General
Thanksgiving, the grey-headed clergyman, with a little quiver in his
voice, announced that Randolph Trevlyn desired to return thanks to
Almighty God for preservation from great perils, and for restoration to
his home.
Her voice faltered in the familiar words, and many suppressed sobs were
heard in the little building, but they were sobs of joy and gratitude,
and tears of healing and of happiness stole down Monica’s cheeks. It
was like some beautiful dream, and yet too sweet not to be true.
In the afternoon Monica and Randolph went out alone together; first
into the whispering pine woods, and then out upon the breezy cliff,
hard beneath their feet with the winter’s frost.
He let her lead him whither she would. He had no thought to spare for
aught beside herself. They were together once again. What more could
they need?
But Monica had an object in view; and as they walked, engrossed in
each other, in sweet communion of soul and interchange of thought, or
the almost sweeter silence of perfect peace and tranquillity, she led
him once more towards the little cliff church; though only when she was
unlatching the gate to enter the quiet grave-yard did he arouse to the
sense of their surroundings.
“Why, Monica,” he said, “why have you brought me here? We are too late
for service.”
“I know,” she answered; “but come. I want to show you something.”
Her face wore an expression he did not understand. He followed her in
silence to a secluded corner, where, beneath a dark yew tree, stood a
green mound, at the head of which a wooden cross had been temporarily
erected.
Randolph read the letters it bore:
“C. F.,” followed by a date, and beneath, the simple, familiar words—
“_Requiescat in pace._”
Strange, perhaps, that Monica should have cared for this lonely grave,
in which was laid to rest one who had, as she believed, robbed her life
of all its brightness and joy. Strange that she, in the absence of
friend or kinsman, should have charged herself with keeping it, and of
erecting there some monument to mark who lay there low. Strange—yet so
it was.
Her husband looked at her questioningly.
“Conrad’s grave—yes,” she answered quietly. “Randolph, look at the
date.”
He did so, and started a little.
“He died at dawn that day, Randolph. You know what was happening then
at the other side of the world?”
There was a strange look of awe upon her face as she spoke, which was
reflected in his also. She came and stood close beside him.
“Randolph, do you know that he was there—that night?—that he tried to
kill you?”
He had taken off his hat as he stood beside the grave, with the
instinctive reverence for the dead—even though it be a dead
foe—characteristic of a noble mind. Now he passed his hand across his
brow and through his thick dark hair.
“I thought that was a delusion of fever—a sort of hideous vision
founded on no reality. Monica, was it so?”
“It was.”
“How do you know?”
“I had it from his own lips.”
He gazed at her without speaking; something in her face awed and
silenced him.
“Randolph, listen,” she said. “I must tell you all. Six weeks ago,
the evening before _that_ day, he was brought, shattered and dying,
to Trevlyn; he had fallen from the cliffs, no skill could serve to
prolong his life. I knew nothing then—he was profoundly unconscious,
yet as the night wore away some strange intuition came upon me that
he wanted me, that he was beseeching me to come to him. I went—he was
still unconscious. I sent Wilberforce away and watched by him myself.
Randolph, at dawn he awoke to consciousness—he told me all his awful
tale—he said he had murdered you—I believed it was true. He was
dying—dying in darkness and in dread, and he prayed for my forgiveness
as if his salvation hung upon it. Randolph, Randolph, how can I tell
you?—I cannot, no I cannot—no one could understand,” for a moment she
pressed her hand upon her eyes, looking up again in a few seconds with
a calm glance that was like a smile. “He was dying, Randolph, and I
forgave him—I forgave him freely and fully—and he died in peace. Stop,
that is not all. Randolph, as I knelt beside his bed, praying for
the sin-stained spirit then taking its flight, I felt that you were
with me; I had never before felt the strange overshadowing presence
that I did then—you were there, your own self. I heard your voice far
away, yet absolutely clear, like a call from some distant, snow-clad
mountain-top, infinitely far—‘Monica! Monica! My wife!’ I think Conrad
heard it too, for he died with a smile on his lips. Randolph, I am sure
that you were with me in that strange, awful hour. I knew it then—I
know it better now. Randolph, I think that love is stronger than all
else—time, space, death itself. Nothing touched our love. I think it is
like eternity.”
A deep look of awe had stamped itself upon Randolph’s face. He put his
arm round Monica, and for a very long while they stood thus, neither
attempting to speak or to move.
At last he woke from his reverie, and looked down at her with a strange
light shining in his eyes.
“And you forgave him, Monica?”
She looked up and met his gaze unfalteringly.
“I forgave him, Randolph; was I wrong?”
He stooped and kissed her.
“My wife, I thank God that you did forgive him. His life was full of
sin and sorrow—but at least its end was peace. May God pardon him as
you did—as I do.”
There was a strange sweet smile in her eyes as she lifted them to his.
“Ah, Randolph!” she said softly, “I knew you would understand. Oh, my
husband, my husband!”
He held her in his arms, and she looked up at him with a sweet, tender
smile. Then her eyes wandered dreamily out over the wide sea beneath
them.
“There is nothing sad there now, Randolph. It will never separate us
again.”
He looked down at her with a world of love in his eyes; yet as they
turned away his glance rested for one moment upon the lonely grave he
had been brought to see, and lifting his hat once more, he murmured
beneath his breath—“Requiescat in pace.”
Then drawing his wife’s hand within his arm, he led her homewards
to Trevlyn, whilst the sun set in a blaze of golden glory over the
boundless shining sea.
THE END.
Transcriber's Notes
Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_
End of Project Gutenberg's Monica, Volume 3 (of 3), by Evelyn Everett-Green