Part 5

“Presumably she does. Monica would never give her hand for the sake of rank or wealth.”

“No, no,” he answered quickly, and took one or two turns about the darkening room. He was in a strange tumult of conflicting feeling, and did not hear or heed the low-spoken words addressed to the servant, who had just entered with fresh logs for the fire. His heart was beating wildly; he knew not what to think or hope. He asked no more questions, not knowing what to ask.

And then all at once he saw Monica standing before him, standing with one hand closely locked in that of her father, looking gravely at him in the shadowy twilight, with an inscrutable wistful sweetness in her fathomless eyes.

“Randolph,” said Lord Trevlyn, “here is your promised wife. I give her to you with my blessing. May you both be as happy as you have made me to-day by this mutual act. Be very good to her, guard her and shield her, and love her tenderly. She is used to love and care from her father; let me feel that in her husband’s keeping she will gain and not lose by the change in her future life. Monica, my child, love your husband truly and faithfully. He is worthy of you, and you are worthy of him.”

Lord Trevlyn placed the hand he held within Randolph’s grasp, and silently withdrew.

For a moment neither moved nor spoke. The young man held the hand of his promised wife between both of his, and stood quite still, looking down with strange intensity of feeling into the half-averted face.

“Monica,” he said at last, “can this be true?”

She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, and then dropped them before his burning glance.

“Monica,” he said again, “can it be true that you love me?”

“I will be your wife if you will have me,” she said, in a very clear, low tone. “I will love you—if I can. I will try, indeed. I think I can—some day.”

He was too passionately in love himself at that moment to be chilled by this response. It was more than he had ever looked for, that sweet surrender of herself. Protestations of love would sound strangely from Monica’s lips. He hardly even wished to hear them. She must feel some tenderness towards him. She had given herself to him to love and cherish; surely his great love could accomplish the rest.

He drew her gently towards him. She did not resist; she let herself be encircled by his protecting arm.

“I will try to make you very happy,” he said, with a sort of manly simplicity that meant more than the most ardent protestations could have done. “May I kiss you, Monica?”

She lifted her down-bent face a little, and he pressed a kiss upon her brow. She made no attempt to return the caress, but he did not expect it. It was enough that she permitted him to worship her.

“You have made me very happy, Monica,” he said presently, whilst the shadows deepened round them. “Will you not let me hear you say that you are happy too?”

She looked at him at last. He could not read the meaning of that gaze.

“I want to make you happy, my darling,” said Randolph, very softly.

Again that strange, earnest gaze.

“Make my father and Arthur happy,” she said, sweetly and steadily, “and I shall be happy too.”

He did not understand the full drift of those words, as he might perhaps have done had he been calmer—did not realise as at another moment he might have done their deep significance. He was desperately, passionately in love, carried away inwardly, if not outwardly, by the tumult of his feelings. He did not realise—it was hardly likely that he should—that to secure her father’s happiness and the future well-being and happiness of her brother Monica had promised to be his wife. She respected him, she liked him, she was resolved to make him a true and faithful wife; and she knew so little of the true nature of wedded love that it never occurred to her to think of the injury she might be doing to him in giving the hand without the heart.

She had been moved and disquieted by Arthur’s words of a few days back. Her father’s appeal to her that day had touched her to the quick. What better could she do with her life than secure with it the happiness of those she loved? How better could she keep her vow towards Arthur than by making the promise asked of her? Monica thought first of others in this matter, it is true, and yet there was a strange throb akin to joy deep down in her heart, when she thought of the love tendered to her by one she had learned to esteem and to trust. Those sweet, sudden glimpses of the golden land of sunshine beyond kept flashing before her eyes, and thrilled her with feelings that made her almost afraid. She did not know what it all meant. She did not know that it was but the foreshadowing of the deep love that was rooting itself, all unknown, in the tenderest fibres of her nature. She never thought she loved Randolph Trevlyn, but she was conscious of a strange exultation and stress of feeling, which she attributed to the enthusiasm of the sacrifice she had made for those she loved. She did not yet know the secret of her own heart.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

“WOO’D, AND MARRIED, AND A’.”

So Monica had engaged herself to her kinsman, Randolph Trevlyn, and the neighbourhood, though decidedly astonished at this sudden surrender of liberty on the part of the fair, unapproachable girl, could not but see how desirable was the match from every point of view, and rejoice in the thought that Trevlyn would never lose its well-loved lady.

As for Monica herself, the days passed by as in a dream—a strong dream of misty sunshine and sweet, faint fragrance, through which she wandered with uncertain steps, led onward by a sense of brighter light beyond.

She was not unhappy; indeed, a strange new sense of calm and rest had fallen upon her since she had laid her hand in Randolph’s and promised to love him if she could. A few short weeks ago how she would have chafed against the fetters she wore! Now she hardly felt them as fetters; they neither galled nor hurt her. Indeed, after the feeling of uncertainty, of impending change that had hung over her of late, this peaceful calm was doubly grateful. It seemed at last as if she had reached the shelter of a safe haven, and pausing there, with a sense of grateful well-being, she felt as if no storm or tempest could ever reach her again.

Monica’s nature was not introspective; she did not easily analyse her feelings. Had she done so now, she might have laid bare a secret deep down within her that would have surprised her not a little; but she never attempted to look into her heart, she rather avoided definite thought; she lived in a sort of vaguely sweet dream, glad and thankful for the undercurrent of happiness which had so unexpectedly crept into her life. She did not seek to know its source—it was enough that it was there.

Randolph was very good to her, she did not attempt to deny that. Nothing could have been more tender and chivalrous than his manner towards her. He arrogated none of the rights which an affianced husband might fairly have claimed; he was content with what she gave him; he never tried to force her confidence or to win words or promises that did not come spontaneously to her lips.

She was shy with him for some time after the engagement had been ratified, more silent and reserved than she had been before; yet there was a charm in her very silence that went home to his heart, and he felt that she was nearer to him day by day.

“I will win her yet—heart and soul,” he would say sometimes, with a thrill of proud joy as he looked into the sweet eyes raised to his, and read a something in their depths that made his heart throb gladly. “Give me time, only time, and she shall be altogether mine.”

She never shunned him. She let him be her companion when and where he would, and she began to look for him, and to feel more satisfied when he was at her side. He was too wise to overdo her with his society, or seem to infringe the liberty in which she had grown up; but he frequently accompanied her on her walks or rides, and he had the satisfaction of feeling that his presence was not distasteful to her; indeed, as days went by, and she grew used to the idea that had been at first so strange, he fancied that there was something of welcome in the smile that greeted his approach.

She never spoke of the future when they should be man and wife, and only by a hint here and there did he broach the subject or tell of his private affairs. Both were content for the time being to live in the present—that present that seemed so calm and bright and full of promise.

As days and weeks fled by, a colour dawned upon Monica’s cheeks and a light in her eyes; she grew more beautiful every day or so, thought those who loved her, and watched her with loving scrutiny; and Mrs. Pendrill, who was, so to speak, the girl’s good angel in this crisis of her life, would caress the golden head sometimes, and ask with gentle, motherly solicitude:

“My Monica is happy, is she not?”

“I think so, Aunt Elizabeth,” Monica answered once, speaking out more freely than she had done before. “Other people are happy—the dread and uncertainty about the future seems all gone. Trevlyn is not sad any longer—it is my own home again, my very own. I cannot quite express it, but something seems to have come into my life and changed everything. I am happy often now—nearly always, I think.”

Mrs. Pendrill smiled a little.

“Does your happiness result from the knowledge that you—you and Arthur: I suppose I must include him—need never leave Trevlyn, and that you have pleased your father? Tell me, Monica, is that all?”

A faint colour mantled the girl’s face.

“I know it sounds selfish; but I hardly think anyone knows what Trevlyn is to us, and what Arthur’s welfare is to me.” Then reading the meaning of the earnest glance bent upon her, she added quickly, “Ah, yes, Aunt Elizabeth, I know there is _that_ too. He is very, very good to me, and I will do everything to make him happy, and to be a good wife when the time comes. Indeed, I do think of him. I know what he is, and what he deserves—only—only I cannot talk about that even to you.”

“I do not want you to talk, my love, I only want you to feel.”

And very low the answer was spoken.

“I think I do feel.”

Certainly things were going well, very well. It seemed as if the course of Randolph’s true love might run smoothly enough to the very end now. Tom Pendrill chaffed him somewhat mercilessly on the easy victory he had obtained over the somewhat difficult subject, and he felt an exultant sense of joyful triumph when he compared his position of to-day with the one he had occupied a week or two back. Monica’s gentleness and growing dependence upon him were inexpressibly sweet, the dawn of a quiet happiness in her face filled his heart with delight. The victory was not quite won yet, but he began to feel a confidence that it was not far distant.

And this hope would in all probability have been realised in due course, had it not been for untoward circumstances, and from the presence of enemies in the camp, one his sworn foe, the other his champion and ally: but despite this, a born mischief-maker and mar-plot.

So long as Randolph was on the spot all went well. His strong will dominated all others, and his influence upon Monica produced its own effect. Love like his could not but win its way to the heart of the woman he loved.

But Randolph could not remain always at Trevlyn. Hard as it was to tear himself away, the conventionalities of life demanded his absence from time to time, and other duties called him elsewhere. And it was when his back was fairly turned that the mischief-makers began their task of undoing, as far as was possible, all the good that had been done.

Randolph had been exceedingly careful to say nothing to Monica about hastening their marriage. He saw that she took for granted a long engagement, that she had hardly contemplated as yet the inevitable end whither that engagement tended; and until he had assured himself that her heart was wholly his, nothing would have induced him to ask her to give herself irrevocably to him. When the right moment came she would surrender herself willingly, for Monica was not one who would do anything by halves. Till that day came, however, he was resolved to wait, and breathe no word of the future that awaited them.

Lady Diana was of a different way of thinking. She had been amazed at Monica’s pliability in the matter of her engagement, so surprised and so well pleased that, for some considerable time, she had acted with unusual discretion, and had avoided saying anything to irritate or alarm the sensitive feelings of her niece. Possibly she stood in a little unconscious awe of Randolph, for certainly so long as he remained she was quiet and discreet enough. But when his presence was once removed, then began a system of petty persecution and annoyance that was the very thing to rouse in Monica a spirit of opposition and hostility.

Lady Diana had set her heart upon a speedy marriage, half afraid that her niece might change her mind; she took a half spiteful pleasure in the knowledge that the girl’s independence was at last to be curbed, and that she was about to take upon herself the common lot of womanhood. She lost no opportunities of reading homilies on wifely submission and subjection. She bestirred herself over the matter of the _trousseau_ as if the day were actually fixed, and Monica’s indignant protests were laughed at and ignored as if too childish for serious argument.

The girl began to observe, too, that her father spoke of her marriage as of something speedily approaching, and that he, Lady Diana, and even Arthur, seemed to understand that she would spend much of her time away from Trevlyn, when once that ceremony had taken place. Her father and brother spoke cheerfully of her leaving them, taking it for granted that her affianced husband was first in her thoughts, and that they must make her way easy to go away with him, without one regret for those left behind. Lady Diana, with more of feminine insight, had less of kindliness in her method of approaching the subject; but when she found them all agreed upon the point, the girl felt almost as if she had been betrayed. There was no Randolph to shield and protect her. She could not put into written words the tumult of her conflicting feelings; she could only struggle and suffer, and feel like a wild thing trapped in the hunter’s toils. Ah, if only Randolph had not left her! But when the poison had done its work, she ceased even to wish for him back.

Another enemy to her peace of mind was Conrad Fitzgerald. Monica was growing to feel a great repugnance to this fair-haired, smooth-tongued man, despite the nominal friendship that existed between him and those of her name. She knew that her feelings were changing towards him; but, like other young things, she was ashamed of any such change, regarding it as treacherous and ungenerous, especially after the pledge she had given him.

Conrad thus found opportunities of seeing her from time to time, and set to work with malicious pleasure to poison her mind against her affianced husband. She would not listen to a single direct word against him: that he discovered almost at once, somewhat to his astonishment and chagrin; but “there are more ways of killing a cat than by hanging it,” as he said to himself; and a well-directed shaft steeped in poison, and launched with a practised hand, struck home and did its work only too well.

He insinuated that after her marriage Trevlyn would never be her home during her father’s life-time, at least, possibly never any more. Randolph had property of his own; was it likely he would bury himself and his beautiful young wife in a desolate place like that? Of course her care of Arthur would be a thing entirely put on one side. It was out of the question that she should ever be allowed to devote herself to him as of old, when once she had placed her neck beneath the matrimonial yoke. Most likely some excuse would be forthcoming to rid Trevlyn of the undesirable presence of the invalid. Randolph was not a man to be deterred by any nice scruples from going his own way. Words spoken before marriage were never regarded seriously when once the inevitable step had been taken.

Monica heard, and partly believed—believed enough to make her restless and miserable. Never a word crossed her lips that could show her trust in Randolph shaken. She was loyal to him outwardly, but she suffered keenly, nevertheless. He was not there to give her confidence, as he could well have done, by his unwavering love and devotion, and in his absence, the influence he had won slowly waned, and the old fear and distrust crept back.

It might have vanished had he returned to charm it away: but, alas! he only came to make Monica his wife in sudden, unexpected fashion, before her heart was really won.

Lord Trevlyn had been taken dangerously ill. It was an attack similar to those he had suffered from once or twice before, but in a more severe form. His life was in imminent danger; nothing could save him, the doctors agreed, but the most perfect rest of body and mind; and it seemed as if only the satisfaction of calling Randolph son, of seeing him Monica’s husband, could secure to him that repose of spirit so absolutely essential to his recovery.

Monica did not waver when her father looked pleadingly into her face, and asked if she were ready. Her assent was calmly and firmly spoken, and after that she left all in other hands, and did not quit her father’s presence night or day.

He was better for the knowledge that the wish of his heart was about to be consummated, and she was so utterly absorbed in him as to be all but unconscious of the flight of time. She knew that days sped by as on wings. She even heard them speak of “to-morrow” without any stirring of heart. She was absorbed in care for her almost dying father; she had no thought to spare for aught else.

On the evening of that day Randolph stood before her, holding her hands in his warm clasp.

“Is this your wish, my Monica?”

She thrilled a little beneath his ardent gaze, a momentary sense of comfort and protection came over her in his presence; but physical languour blunted her feelings; she was too weary even to feel acutely.

“It is my wish,” she answered gently.

He bent his head and kissed her tenderly and lingeringly, looking earnestly into the pale, sweet face that seemed not quite so responsive as it had done when he saw it last; but he could not read the look it wore. He kissed her and went away, breathing half sadly, half triumphantly, the word “To-morrow.”

Lady Diana, ever indefatigable and contriving, had managed as if by magic to have all things in readiness; rich white satin and brocade, orange blossom and lace veil—all was in readiness—as if she had had weeks for her preparations.

Monica started and half recoiled as she saw the bridal dress laid out for her adornment, but she was quiet and passive in the hands of her attendants as they arrayed her in her snowy robes, and well she repaid their efforts. Only Lady Diana felt any dissatisfaction.

“Why, child,” she said, impatiently, “you look like a snow maiden. You might be a nun about to take the veil instead of a bride going to her wedding. I have no patience with such pale looks. Randolph will think we have brought him a corpse for his bride.”

Randolph was waiting in the little church on the cliff. His heart beat thick and fast; he himself began to feel as if he were living in a dream. He could not realise that the time had come when he was to call Monica his own.

Lady Diana and Mrs. Pendrill were there, and a friend of his own, young Lord Haddon, who had accompanied him from town the previous day, to play the part of best man at the ceremony. There was a little rustle and little stir outside, and then Monica entered, leaning on Tom Pendrill’s arm, and, without once lifting her eyes, walked steadily up the church, till she stood beside Randolph.

Never, perhaps, had she looked more lovely, yet never, perhaps, more remote and unapproachable, than when she stood before the altar in her bridal robes, to pledge herself for better for worse to the man who loved her, till death should them part.

He looked at her with a strange pang and aching at heart; but the moment was not one when hesitation or drawing back was possible.

In a few more minutes Monica and Randolph Trevlyn were made man and wife.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

MARRIED.

“Married! Married! Married!”

The monstrous vibrating throb of the express train seemed ceaselessly repeating that one word. The sound of it was beaten in upon Monica’s brain as with hot hammers, and yet she did not feel as if she understood what it meant, or realised what happened to her. One thing only was clear to her; that she had been torn away from Trevlyn, from her father, who, though pronounced convalescent, was still in a very precarious state; from Arthur, who after the anxiety and excitement of the past days, was prostrated by a sharp attack of illness; from everything and everybody she held most dear; and cast as it were upon the mercy of a comparative stranger, who did not seem the less strange to her, because he had the right to call himself her husband.

What had happened during the three days that had passed since Monica had stood beside Randolph in the little cliff church, and had pledged herself to him for better or worse?

She herself could not have said, but the facts can be summed up in a few words.

When once Lord Trevlyn had seen Monica led by Randolph to his bedside in her bridal white, and knew that they were man and wife, a change for the better had taken place in his condition, very slight at first, but increasing every hour. Little by little the danger passed away, and for the time at least his life was safe.

But Monica’s mind, no sooner relieved on his account, was thrown into fresh misery and suspense by a bad attack of illness on Arthur’s part, and the strain upon her was so great, that, coming as it did after all the mental conflict she had lately endured, her own health threatened to break down, and this caused no small anxiety in the minds of all about her.

“There is only one thing to be done, and that is to take her right away out of it all,” said Tom Pendrill, with authority. “She will break down as sure as fate if she stays here. The associations of the place are quite too much for her. She will have a brain or nervous fever if she is not taken away. You have a house in London, Trevlyn? Take her there and keep her quiet, but let her have change of scene; let her see fresh faces, and get into new habits, and see the world from a fresh stand-point. It will do her all the good in the world. She may rebel at first, and think herself miserable; but look at her now. What can be worse than the way in which she is going on? Trevlyn is killing her, whether she knows it or not. Let us see what London can do for her.”

No dissentient voice was raised against this suggestion. The earl, Lady Diana, Randolph, and even Arthur, were all in accord, and Monica heard her sentence with that unnatural quietude that had disturbed them all so much.

She did not protest or rebel, but accepted her fate very quietly, as she had accepted the marriage that had been the preliminary step.