Monica, Volume 3 (of 3)

“Then there is nothing to be done. He is sinking fast. He cannot live many hours. I doubt if he will last the night.”

Monica’s face was pale and grave.

“Poor Conrad!” she said, beneath her breath.

Tom started, and made a quick movement as of repulsion.

“No one could wish him to live,” he began, almost roughly; “he has hardly a whole bone in his body.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No, nor likely to be. It is not at all probable he will ever open his eyes again. He will most likely sink quietly, without a sound or a sign. I have done all I can for him. Somebody must be with him to watch him, I suppose. It can only be a question of hours now.” A dark cloud hung upon the doctor’s brow. His thoughts were preoccupied. Presently he spoke again – a sort of mutter between his teeth.

“He ought not to be allowed to die here – under this roof. It is monstrous – hateful to think of! Nothing can save him. Yet I suppose it would be murder to move him now.”

Monica looked up quickly.

“Move him! Tom, what are you thinking of?”

“I know it cannot be done,” was the answer, spoken in a stern, dogged tone. “Yet I repeat what I said before: he ought not to be under this roof.”

There was a gentle reproach in the look that Monica bent upon him.

“My husband’s roof and mine will always be a refuge for any whose need is as sore as his. Sometimes I think, Tom, that you are the very hardest man I ever met. His life, I know, is terribly stained; yet it is not for us to judge him.”

It seemed as if Tom were agitated. He gave no outward sign, but his face was pale, his manner curiously harsh and peremptory.

“You do not know,” he said. “Your husband – ”

She stopped him by a gesture.

“My husband would be the first to bid me return good for evil. You know Randolph very little if you do not know that. Conrad is dying, and death wipes out much. He is about to answer for his life to a higher tribunal than ours. Ah! let us not condemn him harshly. Have we not all our sins upon our heads? When my turn comes to answer for mine, let me not have this one added – that I hardened my heart against the dying, and denied the help and succour mutely asked at the last hour.”

“Monica,” said Tom, with one of those swift changes that marked his manner when he was deeply moved, “were I worthy, I would kiss the hem of your garment. As it is, I can only say farewell. God be with you!”

He was gone before she could open her lips again. She stood in a sort of dream, feeling as if some strange thing were about to happen to her.

Night fell upon the castle and its inhabitants, but Monica could not sleep. If ever she closed her eyes in momentary slumber, the same vivid dream recurred again and again, till she was oppressed and exhausted by the effort to escape from it. It was Conrad, always Conrad, begging, praying, beseeching her to come. Sometimes it seemed as if his shadowy form stood beside her, wildly praying the same thing – to come to him – to come before it was too late.

At last she could stand it no longer. She rose and dressed. The clock in the tower struck four. She knew she could sleep no more that night. Why should she not take the watch beside the unconscious dying man, and let the faithful Wilberforce get some rest?

She stole noiselessly to the sick room. There had been no change in the patient’s state. He lived, but could hardly live much longer. Wilberforce would fain have stayed, but Monica dismissed her quietly and firmly, preferring to keep her watch alone.

Profound silence reigned in the great house – silence only broken from time to time by the reverberating strokes of the clock in the tower, or by the sudden sinking of the coal in the grate and the quiet fall of the cinders. There was something inexpressibly solemn in the time, the place, and the office thus undertaken by Monica.

Conrad lay dying – Conrad, once her friend and playmate, then her bitterest, cruellest foe, now? – ah yes, what now? – she asked that question many times of herself. What strange, mysterious power is that of death! How it blots out all hatred, anger, bitterness, and distrust, and leaves in its place a sort of tender, mournful compassion. Who can look upon the face of the dead, and cherish hard thoughts of him that is gone?

Not Monica, at least. Conrad had been to her as the evil genius of one crisis of her life – of more had she but known it. She had said in her heart that she could never forgive him, that she would never voluntarily look upon his face again, and yet here he lay dying beneath her roof, and she was with him. She could not, when it came to the point, leave him to die alone, with only a stranger beside him. He might never know, his eyes would probably never open to the light of this world again; but she should know, and in years to come, when time should, even more than now, have softened all things to her, she knew that she should be glad to think she had shown mercy and compassion towards one in death, who had shown himself in life her bitterest foe.

Very solemn thoughts filled her mind as she sat in that quiet room, in which a strong young life was quickly ebbing away. Would the sin-stained soul pass into the shadowy land of the hereafter in silence and darkness, without one moment for preparation – perhaps for repentance? Would some slight gleam of consciousness be granted? would it be vouchsafed to him to wake once more in this world, to give some sign to the earnest, silent watcher whether he had tried to make his peace with God before he was called to his last account?

The lamp burned low – flickered in its socket. That strange blue film, the first forerunner of the coming day, stole solemnly into that quiet room. Suddenly Monica became aware that Conrad’s eyes were open, and fixed intently upon her face. She rose and stood beside him.

“You are here?” he said, in a strange low voice. “I felt that you would hear me call – and would come. I knew I could not – die – till I had told you all.”

She did not know how far he was conscious. His words were strange, but his eye was calm and quiet. He took the stimulant she held to his lips. It gave him an access of strength.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“At Trevlyn.”

A strange look flitted over his face.

“Ah! I remember now – I fell. And I have been brought to Trevlyn – to die – and you, Monica, are with me. It is well.”

She hardly knew what to say, or how to answer the awed look in those dying eyes. He bent a keen glance upon her.

“Will it be soon?” he asked; and she knew that the “it” meant death. She could not deceive him. She bent her head in assent, as she said:

“Very soon, I think.”

His eyes never left her face. His own face moved not a muscle, but its expression changed moment by moment in a way she could not understand.

“There is not much time left, Monica. Sit down by me where I can see you. I must make a confession to you before I die.”

“Not to me, Conrad,” said Monica gently. “Confess your sins to our Father in Heaven. He alone can grant forgiveness; and His mercies are very great.”

“Forgiveness!” the word was spoken with an intensity of bitterness that startled Monica. The horror was deepening each moment in his eyes. She began to feel that it was reflected in her own. What did it all mean?

“God is very merciful,” she said gently, commanding herself so that he should not see her agitation.

“You do not know,” he interrupted almost fiercely. “Wait till I have told you all.”

“Why should you tell me, Conrad? I know much of your past life. I know that you have sinned. Ask God’s forgiveness before it is too late. It is against Him, not me, that you have sinned.”

“Against Him and you,” he answered with a grave intensity of manner that plainly showed him master of his faculties. “Listen to me, Monica – you shall listen! I cannot carry the guilty secret to the grave. Death looks me in the face – he holds me by the hand, but he will not let me leave this world till I have told you all.”

A sort of horror fell upon Monica. She neither spoke nor moved.

“Monica, turn your face this way. I want to see it. I must see it. You remember the night, a year ago, when – your husband – went away?”

She bent her head in silence.

“Did you know that I was there – in the boat with him?”

She raised her head, and looked at him speechlessly.

“I was there,” he said, “but nobody knew, nobody suspected. I was on the shore before you. I saw you cling to him. I heard every word that passed. I think a demon entered into my soul as you kissed each other that night. ‘Kiss her!’ I said, ‘kiss her – you shall never kiss her again!’ Monica, I think sometimes I am mad – I was mad, possessed, that night. I had no will, no power to resist the evil spirit within me. He went down to the boat. I followed. In the black darkness nobody saw me swing myself in. You know the story the men told when they came back – it was all true enough. The crew of the sinking vessel had been rescued. Your husband left the boat to help the little lad. I followed him, unknown to all. He had already handed the boy into the boat when I came stealthily up to him; the boat had swung round, and for a moment was lost in darkness before it could be brought up again. This was my chance. It was pitchy dark, and he did not see me, though I was close beside him. I had the great boat-hook in my hand; we were both sinking with the sinking vessel. I steadied myself, and brought the metal end of the weapon with all my strength upon his head. He sank without a cry. I saw his head, covered with blood, and his glassy eyes above the water for a moment – the sight has haunted me ever since – then I sprang into the boat. ‘All right!’ I shouted, and the men pulled off with a will, without a suspicion or a doubt. Almost before the boat reached the shore I sprang out, and vanished in the darkness before any one had seen me. My vow of vengeance was fulfilled. I murdered your husband Monica – do you understand? – I murdered him in cold blood! What have you to say to me?”