She bent her head slightly, and the stranger uncovered again. He was smiling now, and she could not deny that he was very good-looking, and every inch the gentleman.
She had not an idea who he was nor what he could be doing there; but it was no business of hers. He was probably some tourist who had lost his way exploring the beauties of the coast. She was just a little puzzled by the look his face had worn as he turned away: there was a sort of subdued amusement in the dark blue eyes, and his long brown moustache had quivered as if with the effort to subdue a smile. Yet there had been nothing in the least impertinent in his manner; on the contrary, he had been particularly courtly and polished in his bearing. Monica dismissed the subject from her mind, and rode home as the sun dipped beneath the far horizon.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
LORD TREVLYN’S HEIR
Lord Trevlyn sat in his study in the slowly waning daylight, waiting the arrival of his expected guest. Now that the moment had come, he shrank from the meeting a good deal more than he had once believed he should do. It was so long since he had seen a strange face, and his relations with this unknown heir would perhaps be difficult: undoubtedly the situation was somewhat strained. Would the young man think a trap was being set for him in the person of the beautiful Monica? Was he acting a wise or fatherly part in scheming to give her to this stranger, if it should be possible to do so?
He had liked the tone of Randolph Trevlyn’s courteously-worded acceptance of his invitation. He had liked all that he heard of the man himself. He had a sort of presentiment that his wish would in time be realised, that this visit would not be fruitless; but his child’s happiness: would that be secured in securing to her the possession of a well-loved home?
Randolph Trevlyn would hardly be likely to spend any great part of his life at this lonely sea-bound castle. He might pass a few months there, perhaps; but where would the bulk of his time be spent?
Lord Trevlyn tried to picture his beautiful, wayward, freedom-loving daughter mixing in the giddy whirl of London life, learning its ways and following its fashions, and he utterly failed to do so. She seemed indissolubly connected with the wild sea-coast, with the gloomy pine-woods, with the rugged independence of her sea-girt home. Monica a fashionable young countess, leading a gay life of social distraction! The thing seemed impossible.
But he had no time to indulge his imaginings farther. The door opened, and his guest was ushered in. The old earl rose and bade him welcome with his customary simple, stately courtesy. It was growing somewhat dark in that oak-panelled room, and for a minute or two he hardly distinguished the features of the stranger, but the voice and the words in which the young man answered his greeting pleased his fastidious taste, and a haunting dread of which he had scarcely been fully aware faded from his mind at once and for ever in the first moment of introduction.
Lord Trevlyn heaved an unconscious sigh of relief when he resumed his seat, and was able to give a closer scrutiny to his guest. One glance at his face, figure, and dress, together with the pleasant sound of his voice, convinced Lord Trevlyn that this young man was a gentleman in the rather restricted sense in which he employed that elastic term.
He was a handsome, broad-shouldered, powerful man, with a fine figure, dark hair and moustache, dark blue eyes, frank and well-opened, a quiet, commanding air and carriage, and that cast of countenance which plainly showed that the blood of the Trevlyns ran in his veins.
Lord Trevlyn eyed him with quiet satisfaction, and from the conversation that ensued he had no reason to rescind his favourable impression. Randolph Trevlyn was evidently a man of culture and refinement, with a mental capacity distinctly above the average. He was, moreover, emphatically a man of the world in its truest and widest sense – a man who has lived in the world, and studied it closely, learning thereby from its silent teaching the good and the evil thereof.
The two men talked for a time of the family to which they belonged, and the deaths that had lately taken place, bringing this young man so near to the title.
“The Trevlyns seem to be a dying race,” said the old earl, half sadly. “Our family is slowly dying out. I suppose it has done its work in the world, and is not needed any longer in these stirring times. You and my daughter are now the sole representatives of the Trevlyns in your generation, as my sister and I are in ours.”
Randolph Trevlyn looked into his kinsman’s face with a great deal of reverence and admiration. He liked to meet a man who was a genuine specimen of the “old school.” He felt a natural reverence for the head of his house, and his liking showed itself in voice and manner. Lord Trevlyn saw this, and was gratified, whilst the younger man was pleased to feel himself in accord with his host. The interview ended with mutual satisfaction on both sides, and Randolph was taken up the great oak staircase, down one or two dim, ghostly corridors, and landed finally in a couple of large panelled rooms, most antiquely and quaintly furnished, in both of which, however, great fires of pine logs were blazing cheerily.
“We dine at eight,” Lord Trevlyn had said, in parting with his guest. “I shall hope then to have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister and my daughter.”
Left alone in his comfortable but rather grim-looking quarters, Randolph broke into a low laugh.
“And so this sombre old place, full of ghosts and phantoms of departed days – this enchanted castle between sea and forest – is the home of the lovely girl I saw yesterday! Incongruous, and yet so entirely appropriate! She wants a setting of her own, different from anything else. It must have been Lady Monica I encountered, the lady of the pine-wood. What a sad, proud, lovely face it was, with its frame of golden hair, and soft eyes like a deer’s; and her voice was as sweet as her face, low, and rich, and full of music. What has been the secret of her life? Some sorrow, I am certain, has overshadowed it. Who will be the happy man to bring the sunshine back to that lovely troubled face? Randolph Trevlyn, do not run on so fast. You are no longer a boy. You must not judge by first impressions; you will know more of her soon.”
Randolph’s encounter with Monica the previous day had been purely accidental. The young man had reached St. Maws one day earlier than he had expected, one day earlier than he had been invited to arrive at the Castle. Some business in Plymouth which he had expected would detain him some days had been despatched with greater speed than he had anticipated, and he had gone on to St. Maws to renew acquaintance with his old friend Pendrill, who lived, as he remembered, in that place.
When he descended to the drawing room it was to find the earl and Lady Diana there before him, and he made as favourable an impression upon the vivacious old lady as he had done before upon her brother. Yet he found his attention straying sometimes from the animated talk of his companion, and his eyes would wander to the door by which Monica must enter.
She came at last, stately, beautiful, statuesque, her dress an antique cream-coloured brocade, that had, without doubt, belonged to some remote ancestress; her golden hair coiled like a crown upon her graceful head. She had that same indescribable air of isolation and remoteness that had struck him so much when he had seen her riding in the wood. She did not lift her eyes when her father presented the stranger to her, but only bent her head very slightly, and sat down by herself, somewhat apart.
But when dinner was announced, and Randolph gave her his arm to lead her in, she raised her eyes, and their glances met. He saw that she recognised him, and yet she gave not the slightest sign of having done so, and her face settled into lines of even more severe gravity than before. He felt that she was annoyed at his having met and addressed her previously, and that she would brook no allusion to the encounter.
His talk with the Pendrills had prepared him somewhat for Monica’s coldness towards himself. It was natural enough, he thought, and perhaps a little interesting, especially as he meant to set himself to win her good-will at last.
He did not make much way during dinner. Monica was very silent, and Lady Diana engrossed almost all his attention; but he was content to bide his time, conscious of the charm of her presence, and of the haunting, pathetic character of her beauty, and deeply touched by the story of her devotion to the crippled, suffering Arthur, which was told him by the earl when they were alone together, with more of detail than he had heard it before.
When he returned to the drawing-room, he went straight up to Monica, and said:
“I am going to ask a favour of you, Lady Monica. I want to know if you will be good enough to introduce me to your brother?”
Her face softened slightly as she raised her eyes to his. It was a happy instinct that had led Randolph to call Arthur by the name she most loved to hear, “your brother.”
“You would like to see him to-night?”
“If it is not too late to intrude upon an invalid, I should very much.”
“I think he would be pleased,” said Monica. “It is so seldom he has any one to talk to.”
The visit to Arthur was a great success. The lad took to Randolph at once, delighted to find him so young, so pleasant, and so companionable. Of course he identified him at once as the hero of Monica’s adventure yesterday, and was amused to hear his account of the meeting. Monica did not stay long in the room; but her absence enabled Arthur to sing her praises as he loved to do, and Randolph listened with a satisfaction that surprised himself. He was very kind to the boy, sincerely sorry for his helpless state, and more than ready to stand his friend if ever there should be occasion. Before he left the invalid that night, he felt that in him, at least, he had secured a staunch and trusty friend.
But during the days that followed he could not hide from himself the fact that Monica avoided him. Indeed, he sometimes hardly saw her from morning till night, and when they did meet at the luncheon or dinner-table, she sat still and silent, scarcely vouchsafing him a word or a look.
The first time Randolph found himself alone with Monica was in this wise: he had been riding about the immediate precincts of the Castle with the earl one morning, and his host was just expressing a wish to extend their ride farther, in order to see some of the best views of the neighbourhood – hesitating somewhat on his own account, as he had been forbidden to exert himself by much exercise – when Monica suddenly appeared, mounted on Guy, and attended by her convoy of dogs, ready for her daily gallop.
Lord Trevlyn’s face softened at her approach; he loved his fair daughter with a deep and tender love.
“Monica, my dear, you have come in good time. I want Mr. Trevlyn to see the view of the Castle from the Black Cliff, and the wonderful archway in the rocks farther along the coast. These fine days must not be wasted; and I feel too tired to undertake the ride myself. Will you act as my substitute, and do the honours of Trevlyn?”
Monica glanced with a sort of mute wistfulness into her father’s pale face, and assented quietly. The next moment she and Randolph were riding side by side over the close soft turf of the sweeping downs.
The girl’s face was set and grave, she seemed lost in thought, and was only roused by the eccentricities of Guy’s behaviour. The spirited little barb resented company even more than his mistress did, and showed his distaste by every means in his power. He was so troublesome that Randolph was half afraid for Monica’s safety, but she smiled at the idea of danger.
“I know Guy too well,” she answered; “it is nothing. He only hates company. He is not used to it.”
“Had you not better have another horse to-day?”
“Let myself be conquered? No, thank you. I always say that if that once were to happen, it would never be safe ever for me to ride Guy again.”
The battle with the horse brought the colour to her face and the light to her eyes. She looked more approachable now as she cantered along beside him (victorious at last, with her dogs bounding about her) than she had ever done before. He drew her out a little about her four-footed favourites, and being a lover of animals himself, and knowing their ways, they found a good deal to say without trenching in any way upon dangerous or personal topics.
They visited the places indicated by Lord Trevlyn, and Randolph admired the beauties of the wild coast with a genuine appreciation that satisfied Monica. Had her companion been anybody but himself – an alien usurper come to spy out the land that would some time be his own – had his praises been less sounded in her ears by Lady Diana, whose praise was in Monica’s eyes worse than any open condemnation – she could almost have found it in her heart to like him; but as it was, jealous distrust drove all kindlier feelings away, and even his handsome person and pleasant address added to her sense of hostility and disfavour.
Why was he to win all hearts – he who would so ruthlessly act the part of tyrant and foe, as soon as his chance came? Did not even his friend, Lady Diana, continually repeat that his succession to the Trevlyn estate must inevitably mean an immediate break-up of all existing forms and usages? Was it not an understood thing that he would exercise his power without considering anything but his strict legal right? Lady Diana knew the world – that world to which Randolph evidently belonged. If this was her opinion, was it not presumably the right one? She sneered openly at the suggestion her niece had once thrown out of the possibility of his granting to Arthur liberty to remain at Trevlyn.
“You foolish child!” she said sharply. “What is Arthur to him? Men do not make sentimental attachments to each other. Arthur has no right here, and Mr. Trevlyn will show him so very plainly when the time comes.”
Was it any wonder that Monica’s heart rose in revolt against this handsome, powerful stranger, who seemed in a manner to hold her whole future in his strong hands? Was it strange she avoided him? Was it difficult to understand that she distrusted him, and that only his present kindness to Arthur and the lad’s affection for him enabled her to tolerate with any kind of submission his presence in the house?
He tried now to make her talk of herself, of Arthur, of her home and her life there, but she became at once impenetrably silent. Her face assumed its old look of statuesque hauteur. The ride back to the Castle was a very silent one. Randolph had enjoyed the hour he had spent in the company of Lady Monica, but he could not flatter himself that much ground had been gained.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
CONRAD FITZGERALD
Whether Monica would ever have thawed towards him of her own free will Randolph Trevlyn could not tell; but during a sharp attack of illness that prostrated Arthur at this juncture, he was so much in the sick boy’s room, and so kind and patient and helpful there, that the girl’s coldness began insensibly to melt; and before the attack had passed, he felt that if she did not share her brother’s liking for him, at least the old antipathy, hostility, had somewhat abated.
They rode out together sometimes now, exploring the country round the Castle, or galloping over the wind-swept moors. Monica was generally silent, always reserved and unapproachable, and yet he felt that a certain vantage-ground had been gained, and he did not intend to allow it to slip away. Unconsciously almost to himself, the wish had grown to win the heart of this wild, beautiful, lonely young creature. Yet the charm of her solitary tamelessness was so great that he hardly wished the spell to be too suddenly broken. He could not picture Monica other than she was – and yet he was growing to love her with every fibre of his being.
But fortune was not kind to Randolph, as an incident that quickly followed showed him.
He and Monica had ridden one day across a wild sweep of trackless moorland, when they came in sight of a picturesque Elizabethan house, in a decidedly dilapidated condition, whose red brick walls and mullioned windows took Randolph’s fancy. He asked who lived there.
“No one now,” answered Monica, with a touch as of regret in her voice; “no one has lived there for years and years. Once it was such a bright, happy home – we used to play there so often, Arthur and I, when we were children; but the master died, the children were taken away, and the house was shut up. That was ten years ago. I have never been there since.”
“Who is the owner? Does he never reside here now?”
“He has never been back. I believe he is not rich, and could not keep up the place. He must be about five-and-twenty by this time. He is Sir Conrad Fitzgerald – he was such a nice boy when I used to play with him.”
Randolph started suddenly; he controlled himself in a moment, but Monica’s eyes were very quick, and she had seen the instinctive recoil at the sound of the name.
“Do you know Conrad Fitzgerald?” she asked.
“We have met,” he answered, somewhat grimly. “I do not claim the honour of his acquaintance.”
Monica glanced at him. She saw something in the stern lines of Randolph’s face that told a tale of its own. She was not afraid to state the conclusion she reached by looking at him.
“That means that you have quarrelled,” she said.
“I am not at liberty to explain what it means,” was the answer, spoken with a certain stern gravity, not lost upon Monica. She had never seen her companion look like this before. The strength and resolution of his face compelled a sort of involuntary respect, yet she revolted against hearing the friend and playmate of her childhood tacitly condemned by this stranger.
“I do not like innuendoes, Mr. Trevlyn,” she said. “If you have anything to say against a man I think it is better spoken out.”
“I have nothing at all to say upon the subject of Sir Conrad Fitzgerald,” he answered, quietly.
“Ungenerous! unmanly!” was Monica’s mental comment. “I cannot bear hearing a character hinted away. I loved Conrad once, and he loved me. I do not believe he has done anything for which he should be condemned.”
Randolph thought little of the few chance words respecting Sir Conrad Fitzgerald at the time when they were spoken; but he was destined to think a good deal about that individual before many days had passed.
Finding his way to Arthur’s room towards dusk one day, as he often did, he was surprised to find quite a little group around the glowing fire. Monica and the dogs were objects sufficiently familiar to him by this time, but who was that graceful, fair-haired youth who sat beside the girl, his face turned towards her and away from Randolph, whilst he made some gay, laughing rejoinder to her in a very sweet, musical voice?
Randolph recognised that laugh and that voice with another start of dismay. His face set itself in very stern lines, and he would have withdrawn in silence had he been able to do so unobserved; but Arthur saw him as he moved to go, and cried gladly:
“Oh, here is Randolph – that is right. Our old friend and our new one must be introduced. Sir Conrad Fitzgerald – Mr. Randolph Trevlyn.”
Randolph’s eyes were fixed full upon the face of the younger man as he made the slightest possible inclination of the head. His hand had unconsciously clenched itself in a gesture that was a little significant. Monica’s eyes were fixed upon Conrad. Was it possible that he quailed and flinched a little beneath the steady gaze bent upon him? She did not think so, she was sure it could not be; no, he was only drawing himself up to return that cold salutation with one expressive of sovereign contempt.
Not a word was exchanged between the two men. Randolph sat down beside Arthur, and began to talk to him. Conrad drew nearer to Monica, and entered into a low-toned conversation with her. His voice sounded tender and caressing, and ever and anon such words as these reached young Trevlyn’s ears:
“Do you remember, Monica?” – “Ah, those sweet days of childhood!” – “You have not forgotten?” – “How often have I thought of it all.”
Evidently they were discussing the happy past – the bright days that had been shared by them before the cloud had fallen upon Monica’s life. Randolph could not keep his eyes away from her face. It was lit up with a new expression, half sad, and yet strangely – infinitely sweet. Conrad’s face was very beautiful too, with its delicate, almost effeminate colouring and serious, melancholy blue eyes. He had been a lovely child, and his beauty had not faded with time. It had stood him in good stead in many crises of his life, and was doing so still. There is an irrational association in most minds between beauty and goodness.
But Randolph’s face grew more and more dark as he watched the pair opposite. Old memories were stirring within him, and at last he rose and quitted the room, feeling that he could no longer stand the presence of that man within it, could no longer endure to see him bending over Monica, and talking to her in that soft, caressing way.
Conrad looked after him, a vindictive light in his soft blue eyes. As the door closed he uttered a low laugh.
“What is it?” asked Arthur.
“Oh, nothing. I was only wondering how long he would be able to brazen it out?”
“Brazen what out?”
“Why, sitting there with my eye upon him. Couldn’t you see how restless he got?”
“Restless!” repeated Arthur, quickly. “Why should he be restless?”
Conrad laughed again.
“Never mind, my boy. I bear him no malice. The least said the soonest mended.”
Monica was silent and a little troubled. She liked to understand things plainly. It seemed to her an unnatural thing for two men to be at almost open feud, yet unwilling to say a word as to the cause of their mutual antagonism. She thought that if they met beneath her father’s roof they should be willing to do so as friends.
Her gravity did not escape Conrad’s notice.
“Has he been maligning me already?” he asked, suddenly, with a subdued flash in his eyes.
“No,” answered Monica, with a sort of involuntary coldness. “He has not said a word. I do not think,” she added presently, with a gentle dignity of manner, “that I should listen very readily from the lips of a stranger to stories detrimental to an old companion and playmate, told behind his back.”
Conrad gave her a look of humble gratitude. He would have taken her hand and kissed it had she been anybody else, but somehow, demonstrations of such a kind always seemed impossible where Monica was concerned. Even to him she was decidedly unapproachable.
“It is good indeed of you to say so,” he said; “but, Monica – I may call you Monica still, may I not? as I have always thought of you all these long years – you might hear stories to my detriment that would not be untrue. There have been faults and follies and sins in my past life that I would gladly blot out if I could. I have been wild and reckless often. I lost my parents very young, as you know, and it is hard for a boy without home and home influences to grow up as he should do.” Conrad paused, and then added, with a good deal of feeling: “Monica, can a man do more than repent the past? Can nothing ever wipe away the stain, and give him back his innocence again? Must he always bear about the shadow of sorrow and shame?”
Monica’s face was grave and thoughtful. She shook her head as she replied:
“It is no use coming to me with hard questions, Conrad; I know so little, so very little of the world you live in. Yet it seems to me that it would be hard indeed if repentance did not bring forgiveness in its wake.”
“‘Who with repentance is not satisfied,
Is not of heaven nor of earth.’”
quoted Arthur, lazily. “What is it you have done? Can’t you tell us all the story, and let us judge for ourselves – old friends and playmates as we are?”
“I should like to,” answered Conrad, gently. “Some day I will; but do not let us spoil this first meeting with bitter memories. Let it be enough for me to have come home, and have found my friends unchanged towards me. May I venture still to call you my friends?”
“To be sure,” cried Arthur, readily; but Conrad’s eyes were fixed on Monica’s face; and she saw it, and looked back at him with her steady, inscrutable gaze.
“I do not think I change easily,” she said, with her gentle dignity of manner. “You were my friend and playmate in our happy childhood. I should like to think of you always as a friend.”
“Of course,” put in Arthur, gaily; “of course we are all friends, and you must make friends with Randolph, too. He is such a good fellow.”
“I have no objection at all,” answered Conrad, with a short laugh. “The difficulty, I imagine, will be on his side. Some men never forget or forgive any one who succeeds in finding them out.”
“Oh, we will manage Randolph, never fear. You are ready, then, to make it up if he is?”
“Most certainly,” was the ready answer.
“He is the nobler man of the two,” said Monica to herself – at least her reason and judgment said so; her instinct, oddly enough, spoke in exactly opposite words; but surely it was right to listen first to the voice of reason.
“I say, Randolph,” said Arthur, half an hour later, when the young baronet had taken his departure and the other guest had returned to the invalid’s room. “Conrad is quite willing to make it up with you.”
Randolph’s smile was a little peculiar.
“Sir Conrad Fitzgerald is very kind.”
“Well, you know, it’s always best to make friends, isn’t it? Deadly feuds are a nuisance in these days, don’t you think so?”
Randolph smiled again; but his manner was certainly a little baffling.
“Come now, Randolph,” persisted Arthur, with boyish insistence, “you won’t hang back now that he is ready for the reconciliation. He is the injured party, is he not?”
There was rather a strange light in Randolph’s dark blue eyes. His manner was exceedingly quiet, yet he looked as if he could be a little dangerous.
“Possibly,” was the rather inconclusive answer.
“You know he has come to stay some little time in the neighbourhood, and he will often be here. It will be so awkward if you are at daggers drawn all the time.”
“My dear boy, you need not put yourself about. I will take care that there shall be no annoyance to anybody.”
“You will make friends, then?”
“I will meet Sir Conrad Fitzgerald, whenever he is your father’s guest, with the courtesy due from one man to another, when circumstances bring them together beneath the roof of the same hospitable host. But to take his hand in reconciliation or friendship is a thing that I cannot and will not do. Do you understand now?”
Arthur looked at him intently, as for once Monica was doing also.
“Randolph,” he said, a little inconsequently, “do you know I think I could almost be afraid of you sometimes. I never saw you look before as you looked just then.”
The stern lines on Randolph’s face relaxed a little but he still looked grave and pre-occupied, sitting with his elbow on his knee, leaning forward, and pulling his moustache with an abstracted air.
“You are rather unforgiving too, I think,” pursued the boy. “Conrad admitted he had done wrong, but he is very sorry for the past; and I think it is hard when old offences, repented of, are not consigned to oblivion.”
Randolph was silent.
“Don’t you agree?”
Still only impenetrable silence.
“Come, Randolph, don’t be so mysterious and so revengeful. Let us have the whole story, and judge for ourselves.”
“Excuse me, Arthur; but the life of Sir Conrad Fitzgerald is not one that I choose to discuss. His affairs are no concern of mine, nor, if you will pardon my saying so, any concern of yours, either. You are at liberty to renew past friendship with him if it pleases you to do so; but it is useless to ask me to do the same.”
And with that Randolph rose, and quitted the room without another word.