Monica, Volume 1 (of 3)

Randolph looked at her keenly.

“Do you know all?”

“Yes,” she answered steadily, “I know all. It is very bad; but he has repented.”

“I have seen no signs of repentance.”

“Have you ever given yourself the chance to do so?”

He was still gazing earnestly at her.

“Monica,” he said, very gravely, “be advised by me. Do not make yourself Fitzgerald’s champion.”

“I do not intend,” she answered, coldly, “but neither will I be his judge.”

There was silence for a moment, then Randolph spoke.

“We will discuss this question no further. It is a painful one for me. I can never meet that man in friendship; I could wish that you could be content to forget him too; but he is an old friend. You are not connected with the dark passages in his life, and if his repentance is sincere I will not forbid your meeting him or speaking to him, if you find yourself in his company. It goes against me, I confess, Monica. But I do not feel I have the right to say more. If you are acquainted with the story of his life, you are able to form your own estimate of his deserts.”

The subject ended there, but it left a sort of sore constraint in the minds of both. It was almost with a feeling of relief a few mornings later that Randolph opened a letter from the bailiff of his Scotch estate, requesting the presence of the master for a few days. The young man had been getting his shooting-box renovated and beautified for the reception of his young wife, hoping to prevail upon her in the autumn to come north with him, and his own presence on the spot had become a matter of necessity.

Monica heard of his proposed absence with perfect quietness, which, however, hid a good deal of sinking at heart. She did not venture to ask to accompany him, nor did she suggest, as he had half feared, returning to Trevlyn. She assented quietly to the proposition, and gave no outward sign of dismay.

Randolph sighed as he noted her indifference. Once she would have dreaded being left alone in the strange world of London, have begged him not to leave her, but now she was quite happy to see him depart. He was gradually growing sorrowfully convinced that his marriage had been a great mistake, and that Monica’s love would never be his. There had been sweet moments both before and after marriage, but they were few and far between, and the hope he had once so ardently cherished was growing fainter every day.

However, life must go on in its accustomed groove, and the night before his departure was spent with Beatrice and her brother, who were giving a select dinner party. Randolph and Monica seldom spent an evening at home alone now.

Beatrice Wentworth’s little parties were very popular. She was an excellent hostess, her endless sparkle and flow of spirit kept her guests well amused, and she treated her numerous admirers with a provoking friendliness and equality that was diverting to witness. Lord Haddon was a favourite, too, from his good-natured simplicity and frankness; and there was an easy unconstrained atmosphere about their house that made it a pleasant place of resort to its habitués.

Monica had grown fond of Beatrice, in her quiet, undemonstrative fashion, and felt more at home in her house than in any other. Sometimes when those two were alone together Beatrice would lay aside that brilliant sparkle and flow of spirit, and lapse into a sudden gravity and seriousness that would have astonished many of her friends and acquaintances had they chanced to witness it. Sometimes Monica fancied at such moments that some kind of cloud rested upon the handsome, dashing girl, that her past held some tear-stained page, some sad or painful memory; and it was this conviction that had won Monica’s confidence and friendship more than anything else. She could not make a true friend of any one who had never known sorrow.

To-night Monica was unusually distraite, sad and heavy at heart, she hardly knew why; finding it unusually difficult to talk or smile, or to hide from the eyes of others the melancholy that oppressed her. She felt a strange craving for her husband’s presence. She wanted him near her. She longed to return to those first days of married life, when his compassion for her made him so tender, when he was always with her, and she believed that he loved her. Sometimes she had been almost happy then, despite the wrench from the old associations and the strangeness of all around. Now she was always sad and heavy-hearted; and to-night she was curiously oppressed.

It was only at this house that she could ever be persuaded to sing, and to-night it was not till the end of the evening that Lord Haddon’s entreaties prevailed with her. She rose at last and crossed to the piano, and sitting down without any music before her, sang a simple melodious setting to some words of Christina Rossetti’s: —

“When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress-tree.Be the green grass above me,With showers and dew-drops wet;And if thou wilt, remember —And if thou wilt, forget.“I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingale,Sing on as if in pain.But dreaming through the twilight,Which doth not rise nor set,I haply may remember —And haply may forget.”

As she sang, the room, the company, all faded from her view and from her mind – all but Randolph. One strange longing filled her soul – the longing that she might indeed lie sleeping and at rest in some quiet, wind-swept spot, her spirit hovering free – to see if her husband ever came to stand beside that grave, to see if he would in such a case remember – or forget.

For herself Monica, knew well that remembrance would be her portion. She never could forget.

There was a wonderful sweetness and pathos in her voice as she sang. The listeners held their breath, and sudden tears started to Beatrice’s eyes. When the last note had died away, Randolph crossed the room and laid his hand upon his wife’s shoulder. There was a subdued murmur all through the room, but she only heard her husband’s voice.

“That was very sweet, Monica,” he said gently. “I have never heard it before; but you make it sound so unutterably sad.”

She looked up at him wistfully.

“I think sad songs are always sweetest – they are more like life, at least.”

His eyes were very full of tenderness; she saw it, and it almost unmanned her.

“I am so tired, Randolph; will you take me home? The carriage will not be here, but it is such a little way. I should like best to walk.”

A very few moments later they were out in the warm, spring air, under the twinkling stars. She held his arm closely. Her hand trembled a little, he fancied. He drew her light lace wrap more closely round her, thinking she felt chilled. At this little mark of thoughtfulness she looked up at him with a tremulous smile.

“I shall miss you when you are gone, Randolph,” she said, softly. “You will not be long away?”

His heart beat high, but his words were very quietly spoken.

“No Monica, only four or five days.”

“And you will take care of yourself? You will come back safe – you will not get into any danger!”

“Why no,” he answered with a smile. “Danger! What are you thinking about, Monica?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes my heart is very heavy. It is heavy to-night. Promise you will take care of yourself – for my sake.”

Randolph did not, after all, go away quite comfortless.

END OF VOL. I