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.
How white she looked as she lay back in her corner of the carriage! how lonely, how frail, how desolate! Randolph’s heart ached for her, for he knew her thoughts were with her sick father and suffering brother; knew that it, not unnaturally, seemed very, very hard to be taken away at a crisis such as the present. She could not estimate the causes that made a change so imperative for her. She could not see why she was hurried away so relentlessly. It had all been very hard upon her, and upon him also, had he had thought to spare for himself; but he was too much absorbed in sorrow for her to consider his own position over-much.
He was indirectly the cause of her grief, and his whole being was absorbed in the longing to comfort her.
She looked so white and wan as the hours passed by, that he grew alarmed about her. He had done before all he could to make her warm and comfortable, and had then withdrawn a little, fancying his close proximity distasteful to her, but she looked so ill at last that he could keep away no longer, and came over to her, taking her hand in his.
“Monica,” he said gently.
The long lashes stirred a little and slowly lifted themselves. The dark eyes were dim and full of trouble. She looked at him wonderingly for a moment, almost as if she did not know him, and then she closed her eyes with a little shuddering sigh.
He was alarmed, and not without cause, for the strain of the past days was showing itself now, and want of rest and sleep had worn down her strength to the lowest ebb. She was so faint and weary that all power of resistance had left her. She let her husband do what he would, submitted passively to be tended like a child, and heaved a sigh that sounded almost like one of relief as he drew her towards him, so that her weary head could rest upon his broad shoulder. There was something restful and supporting, of which she was dumbly conscious in the deep love and protecting gentleness of this strong man.
She only spoke once to him, and that was as they neared their destination, and the lights of the great city began to flash upon her bewildered gaze. Then she sat up, though with an effort, and looking at her husband, said gently:
“You have been very good to me, Randolph.”
His heart bounded at the words, but he only asked. “Are you better, Monica?”
She pressed her hand to her brow.
“My head aches so,” she said, and the white strained look came back to her face. She was almost frightened by the flashing lights and the myriads of people she saw as the train steamed into the terminus; and she could only cling to Randolph’s arm in hopeless bewilderment, as he piloted her through the crowd to the carriage that was awaiting them.
Randolph owned a house near to the Park, in a pleasant open situation. It had been left to him by an uncle, a great traveller, and was quite a museum of costly and interesting treasures, and fitted up in the luxurious fashion that appeals to men who have grown used to Oriental ease and splendour.
The young man had often pictured Monica in such surroundings, had wondered what she would say to it all, how she would feel in a place so strange and unlike anything she had ever known. He had fancied that the open situation of the house would please her, that she might be pleased too by the quaint beauty and harmony of all she saw. He had often pictured the moment when he should lead her into her new home and bid her welcome there, and now, when the time had come, she was so worn out and ill that her heavy eyes could hardly look around her, and all he could do was to support her to her room, to be tended by his old nurse, Wilberforce, whose services he had bespoken for his wife in preference to those of a more youthful and accomplished
femme de chambre
.
For some days Monica was really ill, not with any specific complaint, but prostrated by nervous exhaustion – too weary and exhausted to have a clear idea of what went on around her, only conscious that everything was very strange, that she was far away from Trevlyn, and that strangers were watching over and tending her.
Her husband’s care was unremitting. He was ever by her side. She seemed to turn to him instinctively amid the other strange faces, and to be more quiet and tranquil when he was near. Yet she seldom spoke to him; he was not always certain that she knew him; but that half unconscious dependence was inexpressibly sweet, and Randolph felt hope growing stronger day by day. Surely she was slowly learning to love him; and indeed she was, only she knew it not as yet.
Then a day came when the feverish fancies and distressful exhaustion gave way to more cheering symptoms. Monica could leave her room, and leaning on her husband’s arm, wander slowly about the new home that looked so strange to her. The smiles began to come back to her eyes, a faint flush of colour to her cheeks, and when at length she was laid down upon a luxurious ottoman beside the drawing-room fire, she held her husband’s hand between both of hers, and looked up at him with a glance that went to his very heart.
“You have been so very, very good to me, Randolph, though I have only been a trouble to you all this time. I never thought I could feel like this away from Trevlyn. Indeed I will try to make you happy too.”
He bent down and kissed her, a thrill of intense joy running through him.
“Does that mean that you can be happy here, my Monica?” he asked.
She was always perfectly truthful, and paused a little before answering; yet there was a light in her eyes and a little smile upon her lips.
“It feels very strange,” she said, “and very like a dream. Of course I miss Trevlyn – of course I would rather be there; but – ” and here she lifted her eyes with the sweetest glance of trusting confidence. “I know that you know best, Randolph, I know that you judge more wisely than I can do; and that you always think of my happiness first. You have been very, very good to me all this time, far better than I deserve. I am going to be happy here, and when I may go home, I know you will be the first to take me there.”
He laid his hand upon her head in a tender caress.
“I will, indeed, my Monica,” he answered; “but, believe me, for the present you are better here. You will grow strong faster away from Trevlyn than near it.”
She smiled a little, very sweetly.
“I will try to think so, too, Randolph, for I am very sure that you are wiser than I; and I have learned how good you are to me – always.”
That evening passed very quietly, yet very happily.
Was this the beginning of better things to come?
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
MISCHIEF-MAKERS
“Now that you have been a fortnight in town, and have begun to feel settled in your new life,” wrote Lady Diana, “I think it is time you should be made aware of a few facts relative to your engagement and marriage, which you are not likely to hear from the lips of your too indulgent husband, but with which, nevertheless, you ought to be made conversant, in my opinion, in order that you may the better appreciate the generous sacrifices made on behalf of you and your family, and return him the measure of gratitude he deserves for the benefits he has bestowed.”
Monica was alone when she received this letter, breakfasting in her little boudoir at a late hour, for although almost recovered now, she had not yet resumed her old habit of early rising.
She had risen this morning feeling more light at heart than usual. She had chatted with unusual freedom to her husband, had kissed him before he went out to keep an appointment with his lawyer, and had promised to ride with him at twelve o’clock, if he would come back for her. She had only once been out since her arrival in town, and that was in the carriage. She was quite excited at the prospect of being in the saddle again. She had almost told herself that she should yet be happy in her married life – and now came this cruel, cruel letter to dash to the ground all her faint dawning hopes.
Lady Diana had felt very well-disposed, even if a little spiteful, as she had penned this unlucky letter; but she certainly was not nice in her choice of words or of epithets. Not being sensitive herself, she had little comprehension of the susceptibilities of others, and the impression its perusal conveyed to the mind of Monica was that Randolph had married her simply out of generosity to herself and regard for her father: that the proposal was none of his own making, and that his unvarying kindness arose from his knowledge of her very difficult temper, and a wish to secure for himself by bribes and caresses a peaceful home and an amiable wife. In conclusion it was added that Monica, in return for all that had been done for her, must do her utmost to please and gratify him. Of course he would wish to show his beautiful wife in the world of fashion to which he belonged. He would wish her to join in the life of social gaiety to which he was about to introduce her, and any hanging back on her part would be most unbecoming and ungrateful. It behoved her to keep in mind all these facts, to remember the sacrifices he had made for her, and to act accordingly. He had not chosen a wife from his own world, as it was presumable he would have preferred to do. He had consented to the family match proposed to him, and she must do her utmost to make up to him for the sacrifice he had made.
A few weeks back such a letter, though it might have hurt Monica’s pride, would not have cut her to the quick, as it did now. In the first place, she would then have simply disbelieved it, whereas recent circumstances had given her a very much greater respect for the opinions of those who knew the world so much better than she did, and who had forecasted so accurately events that had afterwards fulfilled themselves almost as a matter of course. She had begun to distrust her own convictions, to believe more in those of others, who had had experience of life, and could estimate its chances better than she could. She believed her aunt when she told her these things, and the poisoned shaft struck home to her heart. A few days ago she could have borne it better. Her pride would have been hurt, but the sting would have been less keen. She did not know why the doubt of her husband’s love hurt her so cruelly; but hurt her it did, and for a moment she felt stricken to the earth. She had said to herself many times that she did not want such a wealth of love, when she had none on her side to bestow; but yet, when she had learned that it was not hers after all, but was only the counterfeit coin of a hollow world – the bribe by which her submission and gratitude were to be obtained – the knowledge was unspeakably bitter. She felt she would rather have died than have been forced to doubt.
As she dressed for her ride, pride came to the assistance of her crushed spirit. Wilberforce, the faithful servant who had tended and loved Randolph from his infancy, and was ready to love his wife for his sake and her own, was aware of a subtle change in her young mistress that she did not understand, and which she could not well have described. Monica had been very quiet and gentle since her arrival, and very silent too. She was quiet enough to-day; but the gentleness had been replaced by a certain inexplicable
hauteur
. The pale face wore a glow of warm colour; the dark eyes that had been languid and heavy were wide open and full of fire. Monica looked superbly handsome in the brilliant radiance of her beauty, and yet the faithful attendant was not certain that she liked the change in her.
Randolph detected it the moment he entered the room, and found his wife equipped for the proposed ride.
“Why, Monica,” he said, smiling, “you have got quite a colour. It looks natural to see you dressed for the saddle.”
“Yes,” she answered, coolly: “we must turn over a new leaf now, must we not? You will be dying of
ennui
cooped up at home so long. Let us go out and enjoy ourselves. We must learn to do in Rome as Rome does.”
Randolph felt one keen pang of disappointment that the first return to health and strength should have brought a return of the former coldness and aloofness; but he had gained ground before, and why not now? Could he expect to win his way without a single repulse? So he took courage, and tried to ignore the change he saw in his wife.
He led her down the staircase to the hall door where the horses were waiting, and he saw the sudden flash of joyful recognition that crossed her face.
“Guy!” she exclaimed, “my own little Guy!”
Yes, there could be no mistake about it; it was her own little delicate thorough-bred, standing with ill-repressed excitement at the door, his glossy neck arched in a sort of proud impatience, his supple limbs trembling with eagerness, as he stepped daintily to and fro upon the pavement. He turned his shapely head at the sound of Monica’s voice, pricked his ears, and uttered a low whinney of joyful recognition.
“It was good of you to think of it, Randolph,” she said, a softer light in her eyes as she turned them towards her husband. “It is like a little bit of home having him.”
“I thought you would like him better than a stranger, though I have his counterpart in the stable waiting for you to try. He has been regularly exercised in Piccadilly every morning, and I coaxed him to let me ride him once myself in the Park, though he did not much like it. I don’t think he will be very troublesome now, and I know you are not afraid of his restive moods; though this is very different from Trevlyn.”
Monica’s eyes grew wistful, and her husband saw it. He guessed whither her thoughts had fled, and he let her dream on undisturbed. He exchanged bows with many acquaintances as they passed onwards and entered the Row, and many admiring glances were levelled at his beautiful young wife, whose unusual loveliness and perfect horsemanship alike attracted attention; but he attempted no introductions; and Monica, dreamy and absorbed, noticed nothing, till the sight of Conrad in the Row awoke her to consciousness of her surroundings.
Conrad in London! How long had he been there? Did he bring news from Trevlyn? She looked almost wistfully at Randolph as she returned the young baronet’s bow, but his face wore its rather stern expression, and she dared not attempt to speak with her former friend.
Conrad, however, saw the look, and smiled to himself.
“My day will come yet,” he said.
“Shall we push on, Monica?” asked Randolph. “Guy is aching to stretch his limbs.”
Monica was only too willing, and they had soon reached the farther end of the Row, which was much less full than the other had been.
A pretty, dark, vivacious looking girl, accompanied by a fair-haired young man, rather like her, were approaching with glances of recognition.
“Randolph, I am angry with you – yes, very angry. You have been a whole fortnight in town – I heard so yesterday – and we have never seen you once, and you have never let me have the pleasure of an introduction to your wife. I call it very much too bad!”
“Well, it is never too late to mend,” answered Randolph, smiling. “Monica, may I present to you Lady Beatrice Wentworth, whom I have had the honour of knowing intimately since the days of our early acquaintance, when she wore pinafores and pigtails. Lord Haddon, I think I need not introduce again. You have met before.”
The little flush deepened in Monica’s face. She had fancied the face of the brother was not totally unfamiliar to her; but she did not remember until this moment where or when she could possibly have seen him.
“Oh, Haddon has been raving about Lady Monica ever since the auspicious day when he saw her,” cried Beatrice, gaily. “I hope your father is quite recovered now?” she added, with a touch of quick sympathy, “since you were able to leave him so soon.”
“I think he is much better, thank you,” answered Monica, quietly; “but he was still very ill when I left him.”
“And, Randolph, you have not explained away your guilt yet. Why have you been all this time without letting us see you or your wife? I call it shameful!”
“My wife has been very unwell herself ever since we came up,” answered Randolph. “She has not been fit to see anybody.”
“You should have made an exception in my favour,” persisted Beatrice, bringing her horse alongside of Monica’s, and walking on with her. “You see, I have known Randolph so long, he seems almost like a brother. I feel defrauded when he does not behave himself as such. We must be great friends, Lady Monica, for his sake. He has told us all about you and your delightful Cornish home. I suppose you know all about us, too, and what near neighbours we are – near for London, at least.”
But Monica had never heard the name of the girl beside her. She knew nothing of her husband’s friends, never having taken the least interest in subjects foreign to all her past associations. She hinted something of the kind in a gently indifferent way, that was sincere, without being in the least discourteous. She was wondering why it was that her husband, who could value his own friends and appreciate their good-will, was so strenuously set against receiving the only acquaintance she possessed in this vast city.
Nevertheless, when, upon a forenoon two days later, at an hour she knew her husband was away, Conrad presented himself in her boudoir, following the man who had brought his card without waiting to be invited, Monica was conscious of a feeling of distinct displeasure and distrust. She knew very little of the ways of the world, but she felt that he had no right to be there, forcing himself upon her in her private room, when her husband would hardly speak to him or receive him, and that he merited instant dismissal.
But then came a revulsion of feeling. Was he not her childhood’s friend? Had she not promised not to turn her back upon him, and help to drive him to despair by her coldness? Had he not come with news of Trevlyn and of home? And in that last eager thought all else was lost, and she met him gladly, almost eagerly.
He told her all she longed to know. He came primed with the latest news from Trevlyn. His manner was quiet and gentle. He was very cautious not to alarm or disturb her.
“I shall not be able to see much of you in the future, Monica,” he said, “but you will let me call myself still your friend?”
She bent her head in a sort of assent.
“And will you let me take a friend’s privilege, and ask one question. Are you happy in your new life?”
Monica’s face took a strange expression.
“It is very gay, very lively. I shall like it better as I get more used to it.”
“I see,” he answered, very gently, “I understand. And when are you going home again?”
“I am at home now,” she answered, steadily.
He looked searchingly at her.
“I thought Trevlyn was to be always home. Has he thrown off the mask so soon?”
“I think,” said Monica, with a little gleam in her eye, “that you forget you are speaking of my husband.”
Conrad’s eyes gleamed too; but she did not see it.
“Forgive me, Monica; I did forget. It is all so strange and sudden. Then he makes you happy? Tell me that! Let me have the assurance that at least he makes his captive happy.”
She started a little; but Conrad’s face expressed nothing but the quietest, sincerest good-will and sympathy.
“He is very, very good to me,” she said, quietly. “He studies me as I have never been studied before. All my wishes are forestalled: he thinks of everything, he does everything. I cannot tell you how good he is. I have never known anything like it before. Did you ever see anyone more surrounded by beauty and luxury than I am?”
He looked at her steadily. She knew that she had evaded his question – a question he had no right to put, as she could not but feel – and that he knew she had done so.
“Ah!” he murmured, “the gilded cage, the gilded cage; but only a cage, after all. Monica, forgive me for expressing a doubt; but I know the man so well, and my whole soul revolts at seeing you dragged as it were at his chariot wheels for all the world to look at and admire. To take you from your wild free home, and bribe you into submission – I hate to think of it!”
Monica’s cheek had flushed suddenly; but before she could frame a rejoinder the door opened to admit Randolph. He carried in his hand some hot-house flowers, which he had brought for his wife. He stopped short when he saw who was Monica’s guest, and her cheek flamed anew, for she knew he would not understand how she came to receive him in her private room, and she felt that by a want of firmness and
savoir faire
she had allowed herself to be placed in a false position.
Conrad’s exit was effected with more despatch than dignity, yet he contrived in his farewell words to insinuate that he had passed a very happy morning with his hostess, instead of a brief ten minutes.
Randolph did not speak a word, but stood leaning against the chimney-piece with a stern look on his handsome face. Monica was angry with herself and with Conrad, yet she felt half indignant at the way her husband ignored her guest.
“Monica,” said Randolph, speaking first, “I am sorry to have to say it; but I cannot receive Sir Conrad Fitzgerald as a guest beneath my roof.”
“You had better give your orders, then, accordingly.”
He stepped forward and took her hand.
“Surely, Monica, you cannot have any real liking for this man?”
“I do not know what you call real liking. We have been friends from childhood; and I do not easily change. He was always welcomed to my father’s house.”
“Your father did not know his history.”
“Perhaps not; but I do. At least I know this much: that he has sinned and has repented. Is not repentance enough?”
“
Has
he repented?”
“Yes, indeed he has.”
Randolph’s face expressed a fine incredulity and scorn. There was no relenting in its lines. Monica was not going to sue longer.
“Am I also to be debarred from seeing Cecilia, his sister, who is married, and not living so very far away? Am I to give her up, too – my old playmate?”
“I have nothing against Mrs. Bellamy, except that she is his sister. I suppose you need not be very intimate?”
Monica’s overwrought feelings vented themselves in a burst of indignation.
“I see what you want to do – to separate me from all my friends – to break all old ties – to make me forget all but your world, your life. I am to like your friends, to receive them, and be intimate with them; but I am to turn my back with scorn on all whom I have known and loved. You are very hard, Randolph, very hard. It is not that I care for Con