The land of promise was spreading itself out already before Monica’s eyes, and a dim perception in her heart was telling her that this was so. Yet the sandy desert path still lay before her for awhile, for like many others, her eyes were partially blinded, and she turned from the direct way, and wandered still for awhile in the arid waste. She lacked the faith to grasp the promise; but it was shining before her all the while, and in her heart of hearts she felt it, though she could not yet grasp the truth.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
“WILT THOU HAVE THIS WOMAN?”
Lord Trevlyn was not unobservant of the feelings with which Randolph regarded Monica. Quiet and self-contained as the young man was, his admiration and the pleasure he took in her society was still sufficiently obvious, and his own opinions were triumphantly endorsed by those of Lady Diana.
“He is over head and ears in love with her!” exclaimed that sharp-eyed dame to her brother, about a couple of days after Monica’s rescue by Randolph, of which, however, she luckily knew nothing. Indeed, the story of that adventure had only been told by the girl to Arthur and her father, and both had had the tact and discrimination not to broach the subject to Lady Diana.
“He is over head and ears in love with her, but she gives him not the smallest encouragement, the haughty minx! and he is modest, and keeps his feelings to himself. It seems to me that the time has come when you ought to speak out yourself, Trevlyn; we cannot expect to keep a gay young man like Randolph for ever in these solitudes. Speak to him yourself, and see if you cannot manage to bring about some proper understanding.”
Lord Trevlyn had, in fact, some such idea in his own mind. He and his young kinsman were by this time upon easy and intimate terms. They felt a mutual liking and respect, and had at times very nearly approached the subject so near to the hearts of both. That very night as they sat together in the earl’s study, after the rest of the household had retired, Lord Trevlyn spoke to his guest with frankness and unreserve of the thoughts that had for long been stirring in his mind.
He spoke to his kinsman and heir of his anxieties as to the future of his dearly-loved and only child, who would at his death be only very inadequately provided for. He did not attempt to conceal the hope he had cherished in asking Randolph to be his guest, that some arrangement might be made which should conduce to her future happiness; and just as the young man’s heart began to beat high with the tumult of conflicting feelings within him, the old earl looked him steadily in the face, and concluded with a certain stately dignity that was exceedingly impressive.
“Randolph Trevlyn, I had heard much in your favour before I saw you, so much, indeed, that I ventured to entertain hopes that may sound scheming and cold-blooded when put into words, yet which do not, I trust, proceed from motives altogether unworthy. My daughter is very dear to me. To see her happily settled in life, under the protecting care of one who will truly love and cherish her, has been the deepest wish of my life. In our secluded existence here there has been small chance of realising this wish. I will not deny that in asking you to be our guest it was with hopes I need not farther specify. Some of these hopes have been amply realised. I will not seem to flatter, yet let me say that in you I have found every quality I most hoped to see in the man who is to be my successor here. You are a true Trevlyn, and I am deeply thankful it is so; and besides this, I have lately entertained hopes that another wish of mine is slowly fulfilling itself. I have sometimes thought – let me say it plainly – that you have learned to love my daughter.”
“Lord Trevlyn,” said Randolph, with a calmness of manner that betokened deep feeling held resolutely under control, “I do love your daughter. I think I have done so ever since our first meeting. Every day that passes only serves to deepen my love. If I have your consent to try and win her hand, I shall count myself a happy man indeed, although I fear her heart is not one to be easily moved or won.”
Lord Trevlyn’s face expressed a keen satisfaction and gladness. He held out his hand to his young kinsman, and said quietly:
“You have made a happy man of me, Randolph Trevlyn. In your hands I can place the future of my child with perfect confidence. You love her, and you will care for her, and make her life happy.”
Randolph wrung the proffered hand.
“Indeed you may trust me to do all in my power. I love her with my whole heart. I would lay down my life to serve her.”
“As you have demonstrated already,” said the old earl, with a grave smile. “I have not thanked you for saving my child’s life. I hope in the future she will repay the debt by making your life happy, as you, I am convinced, will make hers.”
Randolph’s bronzed cheek flushed a little at these words.
“Lord Trevlyn,” he said, “to gain your goodwill and assent in this matter is a source of great satisfaction to me; but I cannot blind my eyes to the fear that Lady Monica herself, with whom the decision must rest, has not so far given me any encouragement to hope that she regards me as anything beyond a mere acquaintance and chance guest. I love her too well, I think, not to be well aware of her feelings towards me, and I cannot flatter myself for a moment by the belief that these are anything warmer than a sort of gentle liking, little removed from indifference.”
The earl’s face was full of thought.
“Monica’s nature is peculiar,” he said; “her feelings lie very deep, and are difficult to read; no one can really know what they may be.”
“I admit that; yet I confess I have little hope – at least in the present.”
“Whilst I,” said Lord Trevlyn, quietly, “have little fear.”
An eager look crossed Randolph’s face.
“You think – ”
“I cannot easily explain what I think, but I believe there will be less difficulty with Monica than you anticipate. She does not yet know her own heart – that I admit. She may be startled at first, but that is not necessarily against us. Will you let me break this matter to her? Will you let me act as your ambassador? I understand Monica as you can hardly do. Will you let me see if I cannot plead your cause as eloquently as you can do it for yourself? Trust me it will be better so. My daughter and I understand one another well.”
Randolph was silent a moment, then he said, very gravely and seriously:
“If you think that it will be best so, I gladly place myself in your hands. I confess I should find it difficult to approach the subject myself – at any rate at present. But” – he paused a moment, and looked the other full in the face – “pardon me for saying as much – you do not propose putting any pressure upon your daughter? Believe me, I would rather never see her face again than feel that she accepted me as a husband under any kind of compulsion or restraint.”
Lord Trevlyn smiled a smile of approval.
“You need not fear,” he answered, quietly. “Monica’s nature is not one to submit tamely to any kind of coercion, nor am I the man to attempt to constrain her feelings upon a matter so important as this.”
“And if,” pursued Randolph, with quiet resolution, “Lady Monica declines the proposal made to her on my behalf, I shall request you to join with me in breaking the entail; for I can never consent to be the means of taking from her that which by every moral right is hers. I could not for a moment tolerate the idea of wresting from her the right to style herself, as she has always been styled, the Lady of Trevlyn. This is her rightful home, and I shall appeal to you, if my suit fails, to assist me in installing her there for life.”
The old earl looked much moved.
“This is very noble of you – most noble and generous: but we will not talk of it yet. I am not sure that I could bring myself to help in separating the old title from the old estate. You are very generous to think of making the sacrifice; whether I ought to permit you to do so is another thing. At least let us wait and see what our first negotiation brings forth. Monica ought to know – ” he paused, smiled, and held out his hand. “Good-night. I will speak to my daughter upon the first opportunity. You shall have your answer to-morrow.”
The next day Randolph spent at St. Maws with Tom Pendrill. He felt that whilst his fate hung in the balance it would be impossible to remain at Trevlyn. He rode across to his friend’s house quite early in the day, and twilight had fallen before he returned to the sombre precincts of the Castle.
He made his way straight to the earl’s study; the old man rose quickly upon his entrance, and held out his hand. His face beamed with an inward happiness and satisfaction.
“I wish you joy, Randolph,” he said, wringing the young man’s hand. “We may congratulate each other, I think. Monica is yours – take her, with her father’s blessing. It seems to me as if I had nothing left to wish for now, save to see you made my son, for such indeed you are to me now.”
Randolph stood very still. He could hardly believe his own ears. He had not for a moment expected any definite answer, save a definite refusal.
“Lady Monica consents to be my wife?” he questioned. “Are you sure that this is so?”
“I am quite sure. I had it from her own lips.”
Randolph’s breath came rather fast.
“Does she love me?”
“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.