Monica, Volume 3 (of 3)

Suddenly a deep silence fell upon all; for in the brightening moonlight they saw that Monica stood amongst them – pale, calm and still, as a spirit from another world.

“Tell me,” she said.

The story was told by one and another. Monica was used to the people and their ways. She gathered without difficulty the substance of the story. The boat had reached, without over-much difficulty or danger, the sinking vessel. She was a small coaling ship, with a crew of seven men and a boy. Two of the former had already been washed away, and the vessel was sinking rapidly. The five survivors were easily rescued; but the lad was entangled in the rigging, and was too much exhausted to free himself and follow. Lord Trevlyn was the first to realise this, and he sprang out of the boat at some peril to himself to the lad’s assistance. Nobody had been able to see in the darkness what had passed, but all agreed that the lad had been handed to those in the boat by a pair of strong arms, and that after an interval of about three minutes – for the boat had swung round, and had to be brought back again, which took a little time – a man had sprung back into the boat, had shouted “All right!” had seized the tiller, and sung out to the crew to “Give way, and put off!” which they had done immediately, glad enough to be clear of the masts of the sinking vessel, which were in dangerous proximity.

No one had been able in the darkness to see the face of the steersman; but all agreed that the voice was “a gentleman’s”; and most mysterious of all was the fact that the boat had been steered to shore with a skill that showed a thorough knowledge of the coast, and that not a man of those who now stood round had ever laid a hand upon the tiller.

A thrill of superstitious awe ran round as this fact became known, together with the terrible certainty that Lord Trevlyn had not returned with them. Was it indeed a phantom hand that had guided the frail bark through the wild, tossing waves? The bravest man there felt a shiver of awe – the women sobbed, and trembled unrestrainedly.

The boat was put to sea once more without a moment’s delay. The wind was dropping, the tide had turned, and the danger was well nigh over. But heads were shaken in mute despair, and old men shook their heads at the bare idea of the survival of any swimmer, who had been left to battle with the waves round the sunken reef on a stormy winter’s night.

Monica stood like a statue; she heeded neither the wailing of the women, the murmurs of sympathy from the men, nor the clasp of Beatrice’s hand round her cold fingers. She saw nothing, heard nothing, save the tossing, the moaning of the pitiless sea.

The boat came back at last – came back in dead, mournful silence. That silence said all that was needed.

Monica stepped towards the weary, dejected men, who had just left the boat for the second time.

“You have done all that you could,” she said gently. “I thank you from my heart.”

And then she turned quietly away to go home – alone.

No one dared follow her too closely; even Beatrice kept some distance behind, sick with misery and sympathetic despair. Monica’s step did not falter. She went back to the spot where her husband had left her, and stood still, looking out over the sea.

“Good-bye, my love – my own dear love,” she said, very softly and calmly. “It has come at last, as I knew it would, when he held me in his arms for the last time on earth. Did he know it, too? I think he did just at the last. I saw it in his brave, tender face as he gave me that last kiss. But he died doing his duty. I will bear it for his sake.” Yet with an irrepressible gesture of anguish she held out her arms in the darkness, crying out, not loud, indeed, but from the very depth of her broken heart, “Ah, Randolph! – husband – my love! my love!”

That was all; that one passionate cry of sorrow. After it calmness returned to her once more. She stepped towards Beatrice, who stood a little way off, and held out her hand.

“Come, dear,” she said. “We must go home.”

Beatrice was more agitated than Monica. She was convulsed with tearless sobs. She could only just command herself to stumble uncertainly up the steep cliff path that Monica trod with ease and freedom.

The moon was shining clearly now. She could see the gaze that her companion turned for one moment over the tossing waste of waters. She caught the softly-whispered words, “Good-bye, dear love! good bye!” and a sudden burst of tears came to her relief; but Monica’s eyes were dry.

As they entered the castle hall, they saw that the ill news had preceded them. Pale-faced servants, both men and women, stood awed and trembling, waiting, as it seemed, for their mistress. A sound as of hushed weeping greeted them as they entered.

No one ever forgot the look upon Monica’s face as she entered her desolated home. It was far more sad in its unutterable calm than the wildest expression of grief could have been. Nobody dared to speak a word, save the old nurse who had tended Randolph from childhood. She stepped forward, the tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.

“Oh, my lady! my lady!” she sobbed.

Monica paused, looked for one moment at the faithful servant; then bent her head, and kissed her.

“Dear nurse,” she said gently, “you always loved him;” and then she passed quietly on to the music-room – the room that she and her husband had quitted together less than three hours before, and shut herself up there – alone.

Beatrice dared not follow. She let Wilberforce take her upstairs, and tend her like a child, whilst they mingled their tears together over the brave young life cut short in its manhood’s strength and prime. Randolph’s nurse was no stranger to Beatrice, and it was easy for the good woman to speak with authority to one whom she had known as a child, force her to take some nourishment, and exchange wet garments for dry. She could not be induced to go to bed, exhausted though she was, but the wine and soup did her good, and the hearty burst of weeping had relieved her overcharged heart. She felt more like herself when, after an hour’s time, she went downstairs again; but, oh! what a different house it was from what it had been a few hours back!

It was by that time eleven o’clock. Monica was still shut up in the music-room. Nothing had been heard of Haddon; she had hardly even given him a thought. She went down slowly to the hall, and found herself face to face with Tom Pendrill. He wore his hat and great coat. He had evidently just arrived in haste. As he removed the former she was startled at the look upon his face. She had not believed it capable of expressing so much feeling.

“Beatrice,” he said hoarsely, “is it true?”

He did not know he had called her by her Christian name, and she hardly noticed it at the moment. She only bent her head and answered:

“Yes, it is true.”

Together they passed into the lighted drawing-room, and stood on either side the glowing hearth, looking at each other fixedly.

“Where is Monica?”

“In the music-room, alone. They were there together when the guns began. It will kill her, I am certain it will!”

“No,” answered Tom quietly; “she will not die. It would be happier for her if she could.”

Beatrice looked at him with quivering lips.

“Oh!” she said at last. “You understand her?”

“Yes,” he answered absently, looking away into the fire. “I understand her. She will not die.”

Both were very silent for a time. Then he spoke.

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You have not heard?”

“Only the barest outline. Sit down and tell me all.”

She did not resent his air of authority. She sat down, and did his bidding. Tom listened in deep silence, weighing every word.

He made no comment on the strange story; but a very dark shadow rested upon his sharp featured face.

He was a man of keen observation and acuteness of perception, and his mind often leaped to a conclusion that no present premises seemed to justify. Not for a moment would he have given utterance to the question that had suggested itself to his mind; but there it was, repeating itself again and again with persistent iteration.

“Can there have been foul play?”

He spoke not a word, his face told no tales; but he was musing intently. Where was that half mad fellow, Fitzgerald; who some months ago had seemed on the high-road to drink himself to madness or death? He had not been heard of for some time past; but Tom could not get the question out of his mind.

In the deep silence that reigned in the room every sound could be heard distinctly. Beatrice suddenly started, for they were aware that the door of the music-room had been opened, and that Monica was coming towards them. The girl turned pale, and looked almost frightened. Tom stood up as his hostess appeared, setting his face like a flint.

The long hour that had seemed like a life-time to the wife – the widow – how could they bring themselves to think of her as such? – had left no outward traces upon Monica. Her face was calm and still, and very pale, but it was not convulsed by grief, and her eyes did not look as though they had shed tears, although there was no hardness in their depths. They shone with something of star-like brightness, at once soft and brilliant. The sweet serenity that had long been the habitual expression of her face seemed intensified rather than changed.

“Beatrice,” she said quietly, “where is your brother?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has he not come in?”