Chapter III: Part 3

“Like it! It seems as if you and I were just alone in the world together.” He bent his head and touched her brow with his lips.

“And that contents you, Monica?”

She looked up with eloquent eyes.

“Need you ask that question now?”

His smile expressed an unspeakable happiness; he put his arm about her saying softly:

“There are some questions one never tires of hearing answered, sweet wife. Ah, Monica! when I think of the past, I feel as if it were almost necessary to have lived through that, to know what such happiness as ours can be. It is the former doubt that makes the present certainty so unutterably sweet. Do you ever feel that yourself, my darling?”

He spoke gravely and gently, as they stood together in the golden sunshine. She looked up into his face with deep love and reverence, yet he felt her slight form quiver in his clasp. He looked at her smilingly.

“What is it, Monica?”

“Nothing—only a strange feeling I have sometimes. I know what you mean, Randolph. You are quite, quite right—only do not let us to-day think of the sorrow that went before. Let us be happy with one another.”

“We will, my Monica. You are quite right. This is our bridal holiday, of which circumstances cheated us at the outset, and as such we will enjoy it. Come in to breakfast now; and then we will have the horses out, and you and I will explore our new world together, and forget there is any other before or behind us.”

The shadow fled from Monica’s brow, the happy light came back to her eyes, came back and took up its abode there as if never to depart again. What happy, happy days were those that followed! No one invaded the solitude which was such bliss to the two who had sought it; no foot crossed the threshold of the peaceful home that Randolph had made ready with such care for the reception of his bride.

And yet, as everything must end at last, pleasure as well as pain, joy as well as sorrow, a day came at last when it was needful to leave this happy seclusion, and mingle once again with the busier stream of life that flowed onwards, ever onwards, outside the walls of their retreat.

Engagements had been made before, pledges given to various friends that visits should be paid during that period so dear to the heart of man, “the shooting season.” Little enough did Randolph care for sport in his present mood; far rather would he have spent longer time alone with his wife in happy isolation; but his friends became urgent, letters persecuted them with increased vehemence, and Monica, casting away her first reluctance, roused herself to say at last that she thought they ought to go.

“We shall be together still, Randolph,” she said, with a little laugh. “It is not as if we should not have one another. No one can separate us now, and we ought to be able to be happy anywhere together.”

And yet, when the time came, it was very hard to go. Randolph came upon Monica the last evening at sunset, watching the glorious pageantry of the sky, with something of the old wistfulness upon her face.

“You are sorry to be leaving then, Monica?”

She started, and turned to him, almost as if for protection.

“Yes, I am sorry. We have been so very, very happy here. Randolph, is it very foolish? Sometimes I feel as if such happiness were too great for this world—as if it _could_ not go on always so. It seems almost too beautiful, too perfect. Do you ever feel the same?”

“I know what you mean, sweet wife. Yet I am not afraid of our happiness or of the future. It is love that brings the brightness with it, and I think nothing now can change our love.”

“Ah, no, no!” she cried impetuously; “nothing can change that. You always understand. Randolph, you are so strong, so good, so patient. Ah! what should I do without you now?”

“You have not got to do without me, Monica. A husband cannot be set aside by anyone or anything. You must not let nervous fears get the better of you. Tell me, is anything troubling you to-night?”

“No, no; only that the old feeling will sometimes come back. It is foolish, I know; but I cannot quite rid myself of it.”

“The old feeling?”

“Yes, that some trouble is coming upon me—upon us. I cannot explain; but I feel it sometimes—I feel as if it were coming nearer.”

He did not laugh at her fears. He only said very gently and tenderly:

“I pray God, my sweet wife, that trouble may be very far away from you; yet if it comes, I know it will be bravely, nobly borne, and that the furnace of sorrow will only bring out the gold more bright and pure than ever.”

She glanced at him, and then over the purple moorlands and into the glorious western sky. A look of deep, settled purpose shone out of her eyes, and her face grew calm and resolute. She thought of that moment often in days to come, and of her husband’s words. It was a recollection always fraught with much of strengthening comfort.

The round of inevitable visits to be paid proved less irksome than Monica had anticipated.

Randolph’s friends were pleasant, well-bred people, with whom it was easy to get on, and to make things more easy for Monica, Beatrice Wentworth and her brother were not unfrequently numbered among the house party they were invited to meet.

Both the young earl and his sister were devoted to Monica, and their presence added much to her enjoyment of the different visits that they paid together. Lord Haddon was her constant attendant whenever her husband could not be with her, and his frank, boyish homage was accepted in the spirit in which it was offered. Monica, though much admired and liked, was not “popular” in the ordinary sense of the term. She did not attract round her a crowd of amused admirers, as Beatrice did, and most young men, however much they might admire her stately beauty, found her somewhat difficult to get on with. With elderly people she was more at ease, and a great favourite from her gentleness and peculiar refinement of thought and manner; but for the most part, during the gay doings of the day, she was left to the attendance of Randolph or Haddon, and no arrangement could have been more to her own liking.

Yet one trifling incident occurred to disturb her peace of mind, although she thought she possibly dwelt upon it more than the circumstance warranted.

She was at a large luncheon party, to which her hostess and guests had alike been invited to meet many other parties from surrounding houses.

A grand battue in the park had drawn away most of the sportsmen, and the ladies were lunching almost by themselves. Monica’s surprise was somewhat great to find in her right-hand neighbour none other than Cecilia Bellamy, with whom her last interview had been anything but agreeable.

Mrs. Bellamy, however, seemed to have forgotten all about that.

“It is really you, Monica. I hoped I should meet you somewhere; I heard you were staying about; I know I’ve behaved badly. I ought to have written to you when your father died. I was awfully sorry, I was indeed. We were always fond of the earl, Conrad and I. He was so good to us when we were children. It was horrid of me not to write, but I never do know how to write a letter of condolence. I hope you’re not very angry with me.”

“Indeed, no,” answered Monica. “Indeed, I never thought about it.”

“I knew you wouldn’t care to hear from me,” pursued the lively little woman. “I didn’t behave nicely to you, Monica, and I’m sorry now I listened to Conrad’s persuasions; but I’m so easy-going, and thought it all fun. I’m sorry now. I really am, for I’ve got shaken in my confidence in Master Conrad. I believe he’ll go to the dogs still, for all his professions. By-the-bye, did you ever see him after you got back to Trevlyn?”

“Once or twice. I believe he was living in his house down there.”

“That dreadful old barn! I can’t think how he can exist there. He will take to drink, and go mad, I do believe, if he stays six months in such a place. Monica, I don’t want to frighten you—I may be silly to think such a thing, but I can’t believe he’s after any good there.”

Monica shivered a little instinctively.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t quite know what I do mean. If you weren’t such an old friend, of course I couldn’t say a word; but you know perhaps that there’s something rather odd sometimes about Conrad.”

“Odd?”

“Yes—I know he’s bad enough; but it’s when he has his odd fits on that he’s worse. I don’t believe he is always altogether responsible. He’s given way, and now he can’t always help himself, I do think. He isn’t mad, of course, but he can be very wild at times,” and she glanced at her companion with something of significance.

“Why do you say all this to me?” asked Monica, with a sort of apprehension.

Mrs. Bellamy laughed a little.

“Why, can’t you see? Don’t you know how he hates your husband?”

Monica’s face blanched a little.

“But you don’t mean——”

“No, no, of course not,” with a short laugh that had little of mirth in it. “I don’t mean anything—only I think, if ever Conrad is lurking about in his wild moods, that Lord Trevlyn had better keep a sharp look out. Your woods and cliffs are nasty lonely places, and it’s always well to be on the safe side.”

Monica sat pale and silent; Mrs. Bellamy laughed again in that half uneasy way.

“Now, don’t look like that, and keep your own counsel. I’m a silly woman, as you know, and nobody minds what I say, but I can’t be quite comfortable without just warning you. For mischief is sometimes done in a moment between two angry men that never can be undone so long as the world lasts. Now don’t go and get frightened, Monica—it may be all a ridiculous fancy; but just keep your eyes open.”

“Thank you, Cecilia,” said Monica quietly. “I will.”

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.

A VISIT TO ARTHUR.

“Are you getting tired of this sort of thing, Monica?” asked Randolph, about three days later.

He had fancied he detected traces of weariness at times—weariness or anxiety: he could hardly have told which—in the lines of her face; and he thought that possibly some trouble was resting upon her. He was very quick to note the least change in one he loved so well.

Her smile, however, was very reassuring.

“I think I should never be really tired of any life you shared, Randolph; but I like being alone together best.”

“I, too,” he responded, with great sincerity. “Monica, as we have done our duty by society now, shall we indulge ourselves once more, and leave the world to wag on its own way, and forget it again for a few more happy weeks?”

Her face was bright and eager.

“Go back to the moorland shooting-box, Randolph?” she questioned.

“No; not that quite. The season is getting a little late for remaining up in the north. I have a better plan in my head for you.”

“Are we going back to Trevlyn, then?”

“Trevlyn is not ready for us; it will be some time before it is. Can you think of nothing else you would like to do?—of nobody you want to see?”

A flush rose suddenly into Monica’s face: her eyes shone with happiness.

“Oh, Randolph! are you going to take me to see Arthur?”

“You would like to go?”

“Above everything.”

“Then the thing is done. We will start next week. I talked about it to the doctor when I saw him, and he advised three months of entire quiet and seclusion whilst he settled down to the new life. After that, he believed there would be no reason at all against his seeing friends from home. I wrote again last week to put the question definitely, and the answer is entirely satisfactory. If you want to go, Monica, the whole question is settled.”

She came close up to him, clasping her hands upon his shoulder, and looking up with loving gratitude and delight.

“You think of everything, Randolph. You are so good to me. It is just the one thing to make my happiness complete: to see my boy again, and make sure with my own eyes that he is well cared for and content with his life. I want to be able to picture him where he is. I want to hear him say that he is happy: that he does not pine after Trevlyn.”

“I think you will have your wish, then, Monica, for, from what I can gather, he is very well pleased with his quarters, and improved health makes life pleasant and full of zest. He has the natural love of change that you never knew, and your inherited love for your old home is not really shared by him to any great extent now that he has tried another life. Trevlyn is not woven into the very fibres of his heart as into yours. I think the home-sickness passed off quickly with him.”

“Yes, I daresay. I believe I was foolish myself about Trevlyn, and taught him to be foolish too. Why is it that the younger we are, and the less we know, the more we are convinced we are always right? I have made so many, many mistakes. Once I thought you did not love me, Randolph.”

It was sweet to him still to hear her speak thus, with the intonation that always thrilled him through—with the look upon her face so much more eloquent than any words. It was sweet to feel her loving confidence and dependence. Again and again he vowed deep down in his heart that she should never know a trouble from which he could save her.

The journey was approved by both. It would take them away once again from the round of social duties and pleasures—of which for the time being they had had enough—and leave them practically alone together, to be all in all to one another, as was now their greatest happiness.

“It is too bad of you to run away, Monica,” Beatrice grumbled, when she heard the news. “Your brother can’t want you more than we do here. And if you go, you’ll vanish no one knows for how long, as you did before, and then you will go and bury yourselves in your enchanted castle right away by the sea, and nobody will hear of you any more. I call it too bad: just as we were getting to be friends and learning to know you.”

Monica smiled at the imputation of vanishing so entirely.

“You shall hear of us sometimes, I promise you,” she answered. “If you and your brother will not find the ‘enchanted castle’ too dull, I hope you will come and see us there when we go back in the autumn. There are not a great many attractions, I am afraid, but there is some shooting and hunting. I should like to show you Trevlyn some day, Beatrice, though I believe it will be a good deal changed from the place I have sometimes described to you.”

“It is sure to be perfect, whatever it is like,” was the quick response. “I should think we would come—Haddon and I—if ever we get an invitation. I always did long to see Trevlyn, and I am sure he does the same, though he is no hand at pretty speeches, poor old boy!”

Haddon smiled, and coloured a little; but answered frankly enough.

“Lady Trevlyn does not want pretty speeches, as you call it, made to her, Beatrice. She knows quite well what a pleasure it would be to visit her and Randolph at Trevlyn.”

“I should like my husband’s oldest friends to see the place,” she answered, smiling. “So we will call that matter settled when we really do get home; though I do not quite know when that will be.”

Next day Randolph and Monica said good-bye to Scotland, and began their journey southward. They were in no great haste, and travelled by easy stages. Arthur was to be told nothing of the prospective visit, which was to be kept as a surprise till the last moment. Monica was never a very good correspondent, even where Arthur was concerned, and if she posted a letter to him, last thing before leaving England, he would not be surprised at a silence of a fortnight or more, by which time at latest she would be with him.

So they took their time over their journey, and the strangeness of all she saw possessed a curious charm for Monica, when viewed beneath her husband’s protecting care, and in his constant company. He took her to a few quaint Norman towns, with their fine old churches and picturesque streets and market-places; then to Paris, where a few days were passed in seeing the sights, and watching the vivid, hurrying, glittering life of that gay capital.

Steering an erratic course, turning this way and that to visit any place of interest, or any romantic spot that Randolph thought would please his wife, they approached their destination, and presently reached the pretty, picturesque little town, hardly more than a village, which was only just rising to importance, on account of the value of its mineral springs lately discovered.

One good-sized hotel and the doctor’s establishment, both of which stood at the same end of the village, and a little distance from it, testified to the rising importance of the place. Randolph had secured comfortable rooms in the former, where they arrived late one evening.

Monica liked the place; it was not in the least like what she had pictured, far more pretty, more primitive, and more country-like. Wooded hills, surrounded the valley in which it lay. A broad rapid stream ran through it, spanned by more than one grey stone bridge, and the irregularly-built village was quite a picture in its way, with its quaint old houses, with their carved gables and little wooden balconies, and the spire of its church rising above the surrounding trees. Viewed by moonlight, as she saw it first, it was a charming little place; and the charm did not vanish with the more prosaic light of day.

The interview with the doctor was most satisfactory. He was a kindly, simple-minded man, much interested in his patient from a professional standpoint, and fond of the lad for his own sake. Monica’s beauty and sweetness were evidently not lost upon him. He had heard much of her from the young Herr, he explained, and could understand well the feelings he had so often heard expressed.

No, the invalid had not been told of the expected arrival. He did not know but that Lord and Lady Trevlyn were in England. Did the noble lady wish to go to him? He would honour himself by leading the way.

Monica followed him with a beating heart. They went up a wide carpetless staircase, and on the first landing her guide paused, and indicated a certain door.

“He is up; madame can go straight in. A joyful surprise will but do him good.”

Monica turned the handle, and entered, as quietly and calmly as if this had been the daily visit to the old room at Trevlyn. Arthur was lying with his back to the door. He was reading, and did not turn his head, fancying it was the servant entering, as he heard the rustle of a dress.

Monica came and stood behind him, laying her hand upon his head.

“Arthur!” she said softly.

Then he started as if he had been shot.

He sat up with an energy that showed a decided increase of strength, holding out his hands in eager welcome.

“Monica! Monica!” he cried, in a sort of rapturous excitement. “It is Monica herself!”

She bent over him and kissed him again and again, and would have made him lie down again; but he was too excited to obey.

“Monica! My own Monica! When did you come? What does it all mean? Oh, this is too splendid! Where’s Randolph?”

“Here,” answered that familiar voice, just within the door. “Well, my boy, how are you getting on? Like a house on fire, eh? Monica and I are on our wedding trip, you know. We thought we would finish it off by coming to have a look at you. Well, you look pretty comfortable up here, and have made fine progress, I hear, since I saw you last. Like everything as much as you make out in your letters, eh?”

“Oh! I’m all right enough. Never mind me. Tell me about yourselves. Whose idea was this? I call it just splendid!”

“Randolph’s idea,” answered Monica. “All the good ideas are his now, Arthur. We have come to stay a whole fortnight with you; and when I have seen everything with my own eyes, and am quite convinced that everybody is treating you well, I shall go home content to Trevlyn, to wait till you can join us there.”

“I mustn’t think of that just yet,” answered Arthur, cheerfully. “My old doctor says it will be a year—perhaps two—before I shall really be on my legs again; but he is quite sure he is going to cure me, which is all that matters. I am awfully comfortable here, and there are some jolly little children of his, who come and amuse me by the hour together. Oh, yes! I have capital times. I couldn’t be more comfortable anywhere: and if you and Randolph come sometimes to see me, I shall have nothing left to wish for.”

Certainly Arthur was surrounded by every luxury that wealth could bestow. There was none of the foreign bareness about his rooms that characterised its other apartments. Randolph had ordered everything that could possibly add to his comfort, and make things home-like for him, even to the open fire-place, with its cheerful fire of logs, although the stove still retained its place, and in cold weather did valuable service in keeping an even temperature in the room.

Arthur’s visitors had made him gradually understand how much more sumptuously he was lodged than other patients, and he well knew to whom he owed the luxuries he enjoyed. He explained all this to Monica, and in her own sweet way she thanked her husband for his tenderness towards her boy.

“I always feel as if Arthur were a sort of link between us, Monica,” he said. “I am sure he was in those old days, when we were strangers to each other. I owe him a great deal that he knows nothing about. Were it only for that, I must always love him, and feel towards him as towards a brother.”

Quickly and happily the days slipped by and the pleasant visit drew to its close. It lengthened out into nearly three weeks; but at last the news came that Trevlyn was ready for its master and mistress, and Arthur bid a brave farewell to those who had done so much for him, and settled himself with cheerful readiness to his winter with his new friends. A visit next spring and summer was confidently promised, and he saw his guest go with an unselfish brightness that was in no way assumed.

Monica was quite happy about him now, and, though the parting was a little hard, she was as brave as he. She turned her face homeward with a light heart. Only one little cloud of anxiety lay upon her heart. “What was Conrad Fitzgerald doing? Was he still lurking about Trevlyn?”

Even that question was destined to be answered in a satisfactory manner before many days had passed.

They travelled rapidly homewards, as the season was advancing, and they were anxious to be once more at Trevlyn.

They were in a train, which had stopped at some station, when another train from an opposite direction steamed up and also stopped. Monica, leaning back in her corner seat, noticed nothing for a time, but was roused to the consciousness that she was being intently regarded by a passenger in the opposite train, whose face was pressed close against the glass.

For some seconds she resisted the impulse to look; but as she felt the glance withdrawn, she presently turned her eyes in the direction of the half-seen face, and then she started violently.

Conrad Fitzgerald, his face pale and sharp, wearing a frightfully malevolent expression, was gazing, or rather glaring, at her husband, with eyes like those of a wild beast, in their fiery, hungry hate.

Randolph, seated opposite her, reading the paper, was perfectly unconscious of the proximity of his foe; but Monica recoiled with a feeling of horror she could hardly have explained.

The next moment the train had moved on. At least, it was some comfort to know that they were being rapidly carried in opposite directions. Yet it was long before she could forget the vindictive hatred of the gaze she had seen directed towards her husband.

Would Conrad Fitzgerald ever do him the deadly injury he had vowed?

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.

BACK AT TREVLYN.

“Randolph! Can this really be Trevlyn?”

The young countess stood in all her radiant loveliness upon the threshold of her old home, and turned her happy face towards the husband who stood beside her, watching with a smile in his eyes for the effect to be produced by his labour of love.

“Can this really be Trevlyn?”

“You seemed destined never to know your old home again when you have been banished from it, Monica,” he answered, smiling. “Well, is it as much changed as you expected?”

“It is perfect,” said Monica simply; adding, after another long look round her: “If only my father could have seen this—could have lived to witness the realisation of his dream!”

But he would not let her indulge one sad thought that should cloud the brightness of this happy home-coming. He kissed her gently in token of his sympathy, and then drew her towards the blazing fire, whose dancing flames were illuminating the great hall.

“Does it realise your dream, too, my Monica?” he asked softly.

She looked up in his face, deep feeling welling up in the glance of her soft dark eyes.

“To be with you is my dream, Randolph. That is enough for me.”

He saw that she was moved, and knew that the associations of Trevlyn, the old home, were crowding upon her. Without speaking, he led her towards a door, which in old days led to a room vast and empty, save for the odds and ends of lumber that gradually accumulated there. Monica glanced up in a sort of surprise as he turned the handle. Why was he taking her there?

She paused on the threshold, and looked about her in mute amaze.

The floor was of polished parquetrie work; the panelled walls, quaintly and curiously carved, shone with the care that had been bestowed upon them; the vaulted roof had been carefully restored and was a fine specimen of mediæval skill and beauty. The mullioned window to the west had been filled with rich stained glass, that gave back a dusky glimmer through its tinted panes, though the daylight was failing fast. Near to the window stood the one great feature of the room, an organ, which Monica’s eyes saw at once was a particularly fine and perfect instrument. An organ of her very own! It was just like Randolph to think of it! She gave him one sweet glance of gratitude, and went up to it in the dim, dusky twilight.

“How good you are to me!” she said softly.

He heard the little quiver in her voice, and bent his head to kiss her; but he spoke in a lighter tone.

“Do you like it? I am so glad! I thought your home ought not to be without its music-room. See, Monica, your organ will be a sort of friend to whom you can confide all your secrets; for you want nobody to blow it for you. You can set the bellows at work by just turning this handle, and nobody need disturb your solitude when you want to be alone.”

She looked up gratefully. He never forgot anything—not even her old love for solitude.

“I never want to be alone now, Randolph,” she said. “I always want you.”

“And you generally have me, sweet wife. I think we have hardly been separated for more than a few hours at a time since that happy, happy day that made you really mine.”

“I want it always to be like that,” said Monica, dreamily; “always like that.”

He looked at her, and carried the hand that he held to his lips.

“Will you play, Monica?”

She sat down and struck a few dreamy chords, gradually leading up to the theme that was in her mind. Randolph leaned against the mullioned window-frame and watched her. He could see, even in the darkness, the pure, pale outline of her perfect profile, and the crown of her golden hair that framed her face like an aureole.

“Another dream realised, Monica,” he said softly, as she turned to him at length.

“What dream, Randolph?”

“A dream that came to me once, in the little cliff church where we were married, as I watched you—little as you knew it—sitting at the organ, and playing to yourself, one sunny afternoon. But this is better than any dream of pictured saint or spirit—my Monica, my own true wife.”

She looked up at him, and came and put her arms about his neck—an unusual demonstration, even now, for her, and they stood very close together in the gathering darkness that was not dark to them.

Monica paid an early visit to St. Maws to see her friends, and to confide to Mrs. Pendrill a little of the wonderful happiness that had flooded her life with sunshine. Then, too, she wanted to see Tom, and to ask him the result of the mission he had half promised to undertake. So far she had learned nothing save that Fitzgerald had not been seen near Trevlyn for many weeks, and was supposed to have gone abroad.

“Did you see him, Tom?” she asked, when she had found the opportunity she desired.

“Yes, once or twice. I had a good look at him. I should not call him exactly mad, though in a decidedly peculiar mental state. We merely met, as it were, by chance, and talked on indifferent subjects for the most part. Once he asked me, in a sort of veiled way, for professional advice, describing certain unpleasant symptoms and sensations. I advised him to give up the use of spirits, and to try what travelling would do for him. He seemed to think he would take my advice, and shortly afterwards he disappeared from the neighbourhood; but where he has gone I do not know.”

Monica knew that this advice had been followed. “He may go anywhere he likes, if he will only keep away from here,” she said. “I am very much obliged to you, Tom, for doing as I asked.”

“Pray don’t mention it.”

“I must mention it, because it was very good of you. Tom, will you come and stay at Trevlyn next week? We have one or two people coming for the pheasants, and we want you to make one of the party, if you will.”

“Oh, very well; anything to please. I have had no shooting worth speaking of so far. I should like a week’s holiday very well.”

So that matter was speedily and easily arranged.

Tom did not ask who were the guests he was to meet, and Monica did not think of naming such entire strangers, Lord Haddon and Lady Beatrice Wentworth. She forgot that Tom and the young earl had met once before on a different occasion.

Those two were to be the first guests. Perhaps later on they would ask more, but Monica was too entirely happy in her present life to wish it in any way disturbed, and Randolph by no means cared to be obliged to give up to guests those happy hours that heretofore he had always spent with Monica. But Beatrice and her brother had already been invited. They were his oldest friends, and were Monica’s friends too. She was glad to welcome them to her old home, and the rapturous admiration that its beauties elicited would have satisfied a more exacting nature than hers.

Beatrice was, as usual, radiant, bewitching, delightful. Monica wished that Tom had come in time to see her arrival, and listen to her sparkling flow of talk. Tom professed to be a woman-hater, or next door to it, but she thought that even he would have to make an exception in favour of Lady Beatrice Wentworth.

She went upstairs with her guest to her room at length, when Beatrice suddenly turned towards her, with quite a new expression upon her face.

“Monica,” she said, looking straight into her eyes, “you are changed—you are different from what you were in London—different even from what you were in Scotland, though I saw a change then. I don’t know how to express it, but you are beautified—glorified. What is it? What has changed you since I first knew you?”

Monica knew right well; but some feelings could not be translated into words.

“I am very happy,” she said, quietly. “If there is any change, that must be the cause.”

“Happier than you have ever been before?”

“Yes; I think every week makes me happier. I learn to know my husband better and better, you see.”

A sudden wistful sadness flashed into the eyes so steadily regarding her. Monica saw it before it had been blotted out by the arch drollery of the look that immediately succeeded.

“And it does not wear off, Monica? Sometimes it does, you know—after a time. Will it ever, in your case, do you think?”

“I think not,” she answered.

“And I think not, too,” answered Beatrice. “Ah me! How happy some people are!”

She laughed, but there was something of bitterness in the tone. Monica looked at her seriously.

“Are you not happy, Beatrice?”

The girl’s audacious smile beamed out over her face.

“Don’t I look so?”

“Sometimes—not always.”

“One must have variety before all things, you know,” was the gay answer. “It would never do to be always in the same style—it lacks piquancy after a time. Now let me have time to beautify myself in harmony with this most charming of old places, and come back for me when you are dressed; I feel as if I should lose my way, or see bogies in these delightful corridors and staircases.”

And Monica left her guest as desired, coming back, half an hour later, to find her transformed into the semblance of some pictured dame of a century or two gone by, in stiff amber brocade, quaintly cut about the neck and sleeves, and relieved here and there by dazzling scarlet blossoms. Beatrice never at any time looked like anybody else, but to-night she was particularly, strikingly original.

“Ah, you black-robed queen, you will just do as a foil for me!” was the greeting Monica received. “Whenever I see you in any garb, no matter what it is, I always think it is just one that suits you best of everything. Are you having a dinner-party to-night?”

“Not exactly. A few men are coming, who have asked Randolph to shoot since we came back. You and I are the only ladies.”

And then they went down to the empty drawing-room a good half-hour before any one else was likely to appear.

Beatrice chatted away very brightly. She seemed in gay spirits, and had a great deal to tell of what had passed since their farewell in Scotland a month or two ago.

She moved about the drawing-room, examining the various treasures it contained, and admiring the beauty of the pictures. She was standing half concealed by the curtains draping a recessed window, when the door opened, admitting Tom Pendrill. He was in dinner dress, having arrived about an hour previously.

“You have come then, Tom,” said Monica. “I am glad. I was afraid you meant to desert us after all.”

“The wish being father to the thought, I presume,” answered Tom, shaking hands. “By-the-bye, here is a letter from Arthur’s doctor I’ve brought to show you. He gives a capital account of his patient. Can you read German writing, or shall I construe? He writes about as crabbedly as——”

And here Tom stopped short, seeing that Monica was not alone.

“I beg your pardon,” he added, drawing himself up with a ceremoniousness quite unusual with him.

“Not at all,” answered Monica, quietly. “Let me introduce you to Lady Beatrice Wentworth—Mr. Tom Pendrill.”

They exchanged bows very distantly. Monica became suddenly aware, in some subtle, inexplicable fashion, that these two were not strangers to one another—that this was not their first meeting. Moreover, it appeared as if their former acquaintance, such as it was, could have been by no means agreeable to either, for it was easy to see that a sort of covert antagonism existed between them which neither of them took over much pains to conceal.

Tom’s face assumed its most sharply cynical expression, as he drew at once into his hardest shell of distant reserve and sarcastic politeness.

Beatrice opened her feather fan, and wielded it with a sort of aggressive negligence. She dropped into a seat beside Monica, and began to talk to her with an air of studied affectation utterly at variance with her ordinary manner, ignoring Tom as entirely as if no introduction had passed between them, and that with an assumption of hauteur that could only be explained by a deeply-seated antipathy.

Monica tried to include Tom in the conversation; but he declined to be included, returned an indifferent answer, and withdrew to a distant corner of the room, where he remained deeply engrossed, as it seemed, in the study of a photographic album.

Monica was perplexed. She could not imagine what it all meant. She had never heard the Pendrills speak of Lady Beatrice Wentworth, and she was sufficiently acquainted with Tom’s history to render this perplexity the greater. She was certain Mrs. Pendrill had heard the name of her expected guest, and it had aroused no emotion in her. Yet she would presumably know the name of a lady towards whom her nephew cherished so great an antipathy. Monica could not make it out. But one thing was plain enough: those two were sworn foes, and intended to remain so—and they were guests beneath the same roof!

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND.

AN ENIGMA.

It was a relief when the other men came in, and when dinner was announced. Randolph evidently knew nothing of any disturbing element in the party as he handed Beatrice in to dinner, and again made a sort of attempt to introduce her to Tom, who was seated opposite, not knowing that Monica had already had an opportunity of performing that little ceremony.

“You are two of my oldest friends, you know,” said their host, in his pleasant, easy fashion, “and you are both my guests now, so you will have a capital opportunity of expatiating together upon my many perfections.”

“No need for that, Randolph,” answered Beatrice, gaily. “They speak too loud for themselves, and your wife’s eyes tell too many tales of them. You know I never could bear paragons. If you turn into one, I shall have no more to say to you.”

“You are very cutting, Beatrice; almost as much so as Tom here. It is really rather a trying position to be hedged in between a clever woman and a clever man.”

“If you call me a clever woman again, Randolph, I’ll never forgive you. I abominate the whole race!” cried Beatrice, hotly; “and as for clever men—I _detest_ them!”

This was said so heartily as to elicit a guffaw of laughter from a ruddy-faced young gentleman of sporting tastes, who was her neighbour on the other side. She turned to him with one of her most sparkling glances.

“Now you, I am quite certain, agree with me. Your face tells me you do. Don’t you think that it is the clever people who make the world an intolerable place?”

“They’re the greatest nuisance out,” assented that young gentleman, cordially. “I always did say so. I was never clever. I was plucked three times, I think, for my little-go.”

“Then you and I are sure to be great friends,” said Beatrice, laughing. “I am quite, quite sure I should _never_ have passed any examination if I had been a man. I was at Oxford once, long ago; and oh! you know, the only men that were any good at all were those who had been ‘plucked,’ as they call it, or fully expected to be. The clever, good, precocious boys were—oh! well, let us not think of them. It takes away one’s appetite!”

The sporting gentleman laughed, and enjoyed this summary verdict; but Randolph just glanced across at his wife. He, too, was aware that there was something odd in Beatrice’s manner. He detected the covert vein of bitterness in her tone; and he was as much at a loss to understand it as any one else could be. Tom’s face and impenetrable silence puzzled him likewise.

Dinner, however, passed smoothly enough. Beatrice was very lively, and her witticisms kept all the table alive. Her young neighbour lost his heart to her at once, and she flirted with him in the most frank and open fashion possible. She could be very fascinating when she chose, and to-night, after the first edge had been taken off her sallies, she was, undoubtedly, exceedingly attractive.

If there was something a little forced in her mirth, at least nobody detected it, save those who knew her very well, and not even all of those, for Haddon was obviously unconscious that anything was wrong, and talked to Monica in the most unconcerned fashion possible. What Tom thought of it all nobody could hazard an opinion.

At length Monica gave the signal to her animated guest, and they two withdrew together. Beatrice laughed gaily, as she half walked half waltzed across the hall, humming a dance tune the while.

“What a lovely place this would be for a dance!” she exclaimed, “a masked, or, better still, a fancy dress ball. Shouldn’t we look charming in these panelled rooms, flitting about this great baronial hall, and up and down that delightful staircase? Monica, you and Randolph mustn’t get lazy; you must live up to your house. It is too beautiful to be wasted. If you don’t know how to manage matters, I must come and teach you?”

And so she rattled on, first on one theme, and then on another, in restless, aimless fashion, as people do who are talking against time, or talking with a purpose, determined not to let silence fall between them and their companions. It was easy to see that Beatrice wished to avoid any confidential conversation—wished to escape from any kind of questioning, or from quiet talk, of whatever description it might be. When at length she did let Monica go back to the drawing-room, it was not with any idea of silence. She went straight to the piano, and began playing stormily.

Presently, after dashing off fragments vocal and instrumental in a sort of confused medley, Monica, growing dreamy as she listened to the succession of changing harmonies, she began once again with more of purpose and of passion in her voice—indeed, there was so much of pain and passion, that Monica was aroused to listen.

“My heart, my heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart, my heart is like an apple-tree,
Whose boughs are hung with thick-set fruit.
My heart, my heart is like a rainbow-shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart, my heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love, my love has come to me.
My heart——”

And then the singer’s voice failed utterly; a dismal discordant chord broke the eager harmonies that had followed one another so rapidly. Beatrice broke into a sudden storm of tears, and hurried from the room without a word.

Monica sat aghast and bewildered. What could it all mean? Was she by chance to come upon the secret sorrow of Beatrice’s life?—the sorrow she had half suspected sometimes, but had never heard in any way explained. Was it to be explained to her now? Was Tom Pendrill connected with that sorrow? If so, what part had he taken? Could they ever have been lovers? Did she not remember, long ago, hearing something of a suspicion on Mrs. Pendrill’s part that Tom had been “jilted” by the woman he loved? Was there not a time, long ago, when he was not the reserved, cynical man he affected now to be; but was genial, brilliant, the pleasantest of companions? Yes, Monica was sure of it—was certain that he had changed, and changed somewhat suddenly, many years since; but she had paid but little heed to the matter then, as it was about that time when every faculty was absorbed in watching over Arthur, who long lay hovering between life and death. Changes after that passed almost unheeded. Had not her whole life been changed too?

She did not follow Beatrice, however, to try and comfort her, or attempt to force her confidence. She treated her as she would wish herself to be treated in similar case; and shortly after the gentlemen had joined them, had the satisfaction of seeing Beatrice come back as brilliant and full of vivacity as ever, and there was no need after her appearance, to wonder how the evening should be passed, it seemed quite sufficient entertainment for the company to sit in a circle round her, and hear Beatrice talk. Tom Pendrill was the one exception. He did not attempt to join the magic ring. He took Monica a little apart, and talked over with her the latest news from Germany.

When the guests had departed, and Beatrice, as well as her brother and Monica, had gone upstairs, Tom turned his face towards Randolph with its hardest and most cynical look.

“Tell you what, Trevlyn, don’t you ask that poor young fellow Radlet here again, so long as that arrant flirt is a guest under your roof.”

Randolph simply smiled.

“The ‘arrant flirt,’ as you are polite enough to call my guest, is one of my oldest friends. Kindly keep that fact in mind in talking of her to me.”

“I am not talking of her. I am talking of poor young Radlet.”

“It seems to me that poor young Radlet, as you call him, is very well able to take care of himself.”

“Oh, you think that, do you? Shows how much _you_ know! Can’t you see she was doing her very best to enslave his fancy, and that he was falling under the spell as fast as ever he could?”

“Pooh! Nonsense!” answered Randolph; “they were just exchanging a little of the current coin that is constantly passing in gay society. Young Radlet is not a green-horn. They understand their game perfectly.”

“She does, of course—no one better; but it’s a question if he does.”

“Well, he’s a greater fool than he looks, if he does not!” answered Randolph. “Does he expect a girl like Beatrice Wentworth to be enslaved by his charms in the course of a few hours? The thing’s a manifest absurdity!”

“Possibly; but that woman can make a man think anything.”

Randolph looked at his friend with some attention.

“You seem to have formed very exhaustive conclusions about Lady Beatrice Wentworth.”

It almost seemed as if Tom coloured a little as he turned impatiently away.

Next day Beatrice seemed to have regained her usual even flow of spirits. She met Tom at breakfast as she would meet any guest under the same roof, and neither courted nor avoided him in any way. He seemed to take his cue from her; but his face still wore the thin-lipped cynical expression that betrayed a certain amount of subdued irritation. However, sport was the all-prevailing topic of the hour, and as soon as breakfast was concluded, the men departed, with the dogs and keepers in their wake.

“What would you like to do, Beatrice?” asked Monica when the sportsmen had disappeared. “We have the whole day before us.”

“Like to do? Why, everything must be delightful in this lovely out-of-the-world place. Monica, no wonder you are just yourself—not one bit like any one else—brought up here with only the sea, and the clouds, and the sunshine for companions and playmates. I used to look at you in a sort of wonder, but I understand it all now. You ought always to live at Trevlyn—never anywhere else. What should I like to do? Why, anything. Suppose we ride. I should love to gallop along the cliffs with you. I want to see the queer little church Haddon described to me, where you were married, and the picturesque little town where—where Randolph and he put up on the eve of that day. I want to see everything that belongs to your past life, Monica. It interests me more than I can express.”

Monica smiled in her tranquil fashion.

“Very well; you shall gratify your wish. I will order the horses at once. If we go to St. Maws, I ought to go and see Aunt Elizabeth—Mrs. Pendrill that is, aunt to Arthur, and to Tom Pendrill and his brother. She is sure to want us to stay to luncheon with her if we do. She will be all alone; Tom here, and Raymond on his rounds. Would you dislike that, Beatrice? She is a sweet old lady, and seems more a part of my past life than anything else I can show you, though I could not perhaps explain why.”

A curious light shone in Beatrice’s eyes.

“Dislike it! I should like it above everything. I love old ladies. They are so much more interesting than young ones, I often wish I were old myself—not middle-aged, you know, but really old, _very_ old, with lovely white hair, and a waxen face all over tiny wrinkles, like my own grandmother—the most beautiful woman without exception that I ever saw. Yes, Monica, let us do that. It will be delightful. Why did you never mention the Pendrills to me before?”

She put the question with studied carelessness. Yet Monica was certain it was asked with effort.

“Did I not? I thought I used to tell you so much about my past life.”

“So you did; but I never heard that name.”

“You knew Arthur was a Pendrill.”

“Indeed I did not. He was always Arthur to you. I wonder I never asked his surname; but somehow I never did. I had a vague idea that some such people as these Pendrills existed; but I never heard you name them.”

“Perhaps you heard, and forgot it?” suggested Monica tentatively.

“That I am sure I never did,” was the very emphatic answer.

Beatrice was delighted with her morning’s ride. It was a beautiful autumn day, and everything was looking its best. The sea flashed and sparkled in the sunlight; the sky was clear and soft above them, the horses, delighted to feel the soft turf beneath their feet, pranced and curvetted and galloped, with that easy elastic motion that is so peculiarly exhilarating.

The girl herself looked peculiarly and vividly beautiful, and Monica was not surprised at the affectionate interest Mrs. Pendrill evinced in her from the first moment of introduction.

But she was a little surprised at the peculiar sweetness of Beatrice’s demeanour towards the old lady. Whilst retaining all her arch brightness and vivacity, the girl managed to infuse into her manner, her voice, and her words something gentle and deferential and winning that was inexplicably fascinating; all the more so from its evident unconscious sincerity.

Mrs. Pendrill was charmed with the beauty and sweetness of the girl, and it seemed as if Beatrice on her side was equally fascinated. When the time came to say good-bye, and the old lady held both her hands, and gazed into her bright face, as she asked for another visit very soon, she stooped suddenly, and kissed her with pretty, spontaneous warmth.

“Come again! Of course I will, as often as Monica will bring me. Good-bye, Mrs. Pendrill—Aunt Elizabeth I should _like_ to say”—with a little rippling laugh. “I think you are just fit to be Monica’s ‘Saint Elizabeth.’ Is it the air of this place that makes you all so perfectly delightful? I shall have to come and live here too, I think.”

And as she and Monica rode home together over the sweeping downs, Beatrice turned to her after a long pause of silence and said:

“Monica, it was a dangerous experiment asking me to Trevlyn.”

“Why?”