Monica, Volume 3 (of 3)

She sat still as a marble statue, her hands closely locked together. She spoke no word.

“I thought revenge would be sweet; but it has been bitter – bitter – bitter! I have known no peace night or day. I have been ceaselessly haunted by the sight of that ghastly face – ah, I see it now! Every time I lie down to sleep I am doomed to do that hideous deed again. I have fled time after time from the scene of my crime, only to be dragged back by a power I cannot resist. I knew that a terrible retribution would come; yet I could not keep away. And now – yes, it has come – more terrible than ever I pictured. I am dying – in his house – and you – his wife – are watching over me. Ah, it is frightful! Is there forgiveness with God for sin like mine? You say His mercies are great. Can they cover this hideous deed? Monica, can you forgive?”

He spoke with the wild, passionate appeal of despair. The anguish and remorse in his face were terrible to see; but Monica did not speak. She sat rigid and still, as pale as death, her eyes glowing like living fire in the wild conflict of her feelings. This was terrible – too terrible to be borne.

“Monica, I am dying – dying! The shadows are closing round me. Ah, do not turn away! It is all so dark; if you desert me I am lost indeed! If you were dying you would understand. Monica, you say God is good – merciful. I have asked His pardon again and again for this black sin, and even as I pray it seems as if you – your pale, still face – rises ever between me and the forgiveness I crave. I read by this token that to you I must confess this blackest sin; of you I must ask pardon too. I have repented. I do repent. I would give my life to call him back. Monica, forgive – forgive! Have mercy upon a dying man. As you will one day ask pardon at God’s hands even for your blameless life, give me your pardon ere I die!”

Who shall estimate the struggle that raged in Monica’s soul during the brief moments that followed this appeal – moments that to her were like hours, years, for the concentrated passion of feeling that surged through them? She felt as if she had grown sensibly older, ere, white and shaken by the conflict, she won the victory over herself.

She rose and stood beside him.

“Conrad, I forgive you. May God forgive you as I do.”

A sudden light flashed into his dim eyes. The awful, unspeakable horror passed slowly away. The deep darkness lifted a little – a very little – and Monica saw that it was so.

“I think – you have – saved me,” he whispered, whilst the death damp gathered on his brow. “Monica, you will have your reward for this – I know it – I feel it. Ah! is this death? Monica – it is coming – teach me to pray – I cannot – I have forgotten – help me!”

“I will help you, Conrad. Say it after me. ‘Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven; Give us this day our daily bread; And forgive us our trespasses; As we forgive’ – ”

“‘As we forgive’ – ” Conrad broke off suddenly; a strange look of gladness, of relief, of comprehension, flashing over the face that had been so full of terror and anguish. “‘As we forgive’ – and you have forgiven – then it may be that He will forgive too. I could not believe it before – now I can – God be merciful to me, a sinner!”

Those were his last words. Already his eyes were glazing. The hush as of the shadow of death was filling that dim room. Monica knelt beside the bed, a sense of deep awe upon her, praying with all the strength of her pure soul for the guilty, erring man – her husband’s murderer – dying beneath his roof.

And as she thus knelt and prayed, a sudden sense of her husband’s presence filled all her soul with an inexpressible, indescribable thrill of mingled rapture and awe. She trembled, and her heart beat thick and fast; whether she were in the spirit or out of the spirit she did not know. And then – in deep immeasurable distance, far, far away, and yet distinctly, sweetly clear – unmistakable – the sound of a voice – Randolph’s voice – thrilling through infinity of space:

“Monica! Monica! My wife!”

She started to her feet, quivering in every limb. Conrad’s eyes were fixed upon her with an inexplicable look of joy. Had he heard it too? What did it mean – that strange cry from the spirit world in this hour of death and dawn?

She leant over the dying man.

“Conrad,” she said, in a voice that was full of an emotion too deep for any but the simplest of words, “I forgive you – so does Randolph; and I think God has forgiven you too.”

The clear radiance of another day was shining upon the earth as the troubled, erring spirit was set free, and passed away into the great hereafter, whose secrets shall be read in God’s good time, when all but His Word shall have passed away.

Let us not judge him – for is there not joy with the angels in heaven over one sinner that repenteth?

Yes, all was over now: all the weary warfare of sin and strife; and with a calm majesty in death, that the beautiful face had never worn in life, Conrad Fitzgerald lay dead in Castle Trevlyn.

CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH.

LORD HADDON

“And you forgave him, Monica, you forgave him? The man who had killed your husband?”

It was Beatrice who spoke, and she spoke with a sort of horror in her tone. Tom stood a little apart in the recess of the window, a heavy cloud upon his brow. Lord Haddon was leaning with averted face upon the high carved mantel-shelf.

They had all come over early to Trevlyn to hear the fate of the hapless man who had died in the night. Beatrice felt an unquenchable longing to know if he had spoken before he died – if by chance the terrible secret had escaped in delirium from his lips; and she had insisted on coming with her husband. Her brother, who had arrived unexpectedly the previous evening, had made one of the party. He was hungering for another sight of Monica, and Trevlyn seemed to draw him like a magnet.

Monica’s face had told a tale of its own when she had first appeared; and the whispered question on Beatrice’s lips:

“Did he speak, Monica? Did he say anything?” elicited a reply that led to explanations on both sides, rendering further reserve needless; and Monica told her tale with the quiet calmness of one who has too lately passed through some great mental conflict to be easily disturbed again.

But Beatrice, fiery, impetuous Beatrice, could not understand this calm. She was shaken by a tempest of excitement and wrath.

“You forgave him, Monica? Ah! how could you? Randolph’s murderer!”

“Yes, I forgave him.”

“You should not! You should not! It was not – it could not be right! Monica, I cannot understand you. I think you are made of stone!”

She said nothing; she smiled. That smile was only seen by Haddon. It thrilled him to his heart’s core.

“How came you to be with him at all?” said Tom, almost sternly. “It was not your duty to be there. It was no fit place for you.”

“I think my place is where there is sorrow and need and loneliness,” answered Monica, very gently. “He needed me – and I came to him.”

“He sent for you?”

“I think he did.”

“But you said – ”

Monica lifted her hand; she rose to her feet, passing her hand across her brow.

“You would not understand, dear. There are some things, Beatrice, that you are very slow to learn. You know something of the mysteries of life, but you do not understand anything of those deeper mysteries of death. I have forgiven a dying man, who prayed forgiveness with his latest breath – and you look at me with horror.”

Beatrice gazed at Monica, but yet would not yield her point.

“Mercy can be carried too far – ” but she could not say more, for the look upon Monica’s face brought a sudden sense of choking that would have made her voice falter had she attempted to proceed. Her brother’s murmured words, therefore, were now distinctly heard.

“Not in God’s sight, perhaps.”

Monica turned to him with a swift gesture inexpressibly sweet.

“Ah! you understand,” she said simply. “I am glad you have come just now, Haddon. I shall want help. Will you give it me?”

“I will do anything for you, and esteem it an honour.”

She looked at him steadily.

“Even if it is for one who – for the one who lies upstairs now – dead?”

Haddon bent his head.

“Even for him – at your bidding.”

“Thank you,” she said.