Monica, Volume 1 (of 3)

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.

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.