Monica, Volume 2 (of 3)

He was forced to spring on one side then, for Monica had urged her horse forward, regardless of his presence, and the flash in her eye made him recoil for a moment; but he was wild with rage, and sprang at her horse, catching him by the bridle.

“You shall hear me!” he cried. “You shall, I say! You have heard his story, now hear mine. He has brought false reports. I know him of old. He is my enemy. He has poisoned others against me before now. Lady Monica, upon my word of honour – ”

“Your honour!”

That was all. Indeed, there was no more to be said. Even Conrad felt that, and his grasp upon the reins relaxed. Monica was not in the least afraid of him. She looked him steadily over as she moved quietly onward, without the least haste or flurry. Her quiet courage, her lofty scorn of him, stung him to madness.

“Very good, Lady Monica – I beg your pardon – Lady Trevlyn, I should say now. Very good. We understand each other excellently well. You have made a promise, only to break it – I will show you how a vow can be kept. I, too, have made a vow in my time. I make another now. I have vowed to ruin the happiness and prosperity of Randolph Trevlyn’s life; now I will do more. I will destroy your peace and happiness also!”

He was following Monica as he spoke, and there was a deep, steady malevolence in every tone of his voice, and in each word that he uttered, which gave something of sinister significance to threats that might well have been mere idle bravado. Monica paid not the slightest heed. She rode on as if she did not even hear; but she wished she had her husband beside her. She was not afraid for herself, only for him; and in his absence it was easy to be haunted by vague, yet terrible, fears.

But days sped by; news from Germany was good. Randolph’s task was accomplished, and he was on his way home; nay, he would be there almost as soon as the letter which announced him. He did not specify exactly how he would come, but he bid her look for him about dusk that very day.

How her heart throbbed with joy! She could not strenuously combat Mrs. Pendrill’s determination to return home at once, so that husband and wife should be alone on his return. She wanted Randolph all to herself. She hungered for him; she hardly knew how to wait for the slowly crawling hours to pass.

She drove Mrs. Pendrill to St. Maws, and on her return wandered aimlessly about the great lonely house, saying to herself, in a sort of ceaseless cadence:

“He is coming. He is coming. He is coming.”

Dusk was falling in the dim house. The shadows were growing black in the gloomy hall, where Monica was restlessly pacing. The last pale gleam of sunlight flickered and faded as she watched and waited with intense expectancy.

A man’s firm step upon the terrace without – a man’s tall shadow across the threshold. Monica sprang forward with a low cry.

“Randolph!”

“Not exactly that, Lady Trevlyn!”

She stopped short, and threw up her head like some beautiful wild creature at bay.

“Sir Conrad, how dare you! Leave my husband’s house this instant! Do you wish him to find you here? Do you wish a second chastisement at his hands?”

Conrad’s face flushed crimson, darkening with the intensity of his rage, as he heard those last words.

He had been drinking deeply; his usual caution and cowardice were merged in a passionate desire for revenge at all costs. And what better revenge could he enjoy at that moment than to be surprised by the master of the house upon his return in company with his wife? Monica had asked him if he wished Randolph to find him there – it was just that wish which had brought him.

“Monica!” he cried passionately, “you shall hear me. I will be heard! You shall not judge me till I can plead my own cause. The veriest criminal is heard in his defence.”

He advanced a step nearer, but she recoiled before him, and pointed to the door.

“Go, Sir Conrad, unless you wish to be expelled by my servants. I will listen to nothing.”

She moved as if to summon assistance, but he sprang forward and seized her hand, holding her wrist in so fierce a grasp that she could neither free herself nor reach the bell. She was a prisoner at his mercy.

But Monica was a true Trevlyn, and a stranger to mere physical fear. The madness in his gleaming eyes, the ferocity of his whole aspect, were sufficiently alarming. She knew in this vast place that it would be in vain to call for help, no one would hear her voice; but she faced her enemy with cool, inflexible courage, trusting to her own strong will, and the inherent cowardice of a man who could thus insult a woman alone in her husband’s house.

“Loose me, Sir Conrad!” she said.

“Not until you have heard me.”

“I will not hear you. I know as much of your story as there is any need I should. Loose me, I say! Do you know that my husband will be here immediately? Do you wish him to expel you from his house?”

Conrad laughed wildly, a sort of demoniac laugh, that made her shudder in spite of herself. Was he mad? Yes, mad with drink and with fury – not irresponsible, yet so blind, so crazed, so possessed with thoughts of vengeance, that he was almost more dangerous than a raving maniac would have been. His eyes glowed with sullen fire. His voice was hoarse and strained.

“Do I wish him to find me here? Yes, I do – I do!” he laughed wildly. “Kiss me, Monica – call me your friend again! There is yet time – show him you are not his slave – show him how you assert yourself in his absence.”

Monica recoiled with a cry of horror; but the strength of madness was upon him. He held her fast by the wrist. It was unspeakably hideous to be alone in that dim place with this terrible madman.

“Monica, I love you – you shall – you must be mine!”

Was that another step without? It was – it was! Thank Heaven he had come!

“Randolph! Randolph! Randolph!”

Monica’s voice rang out with that sudden piercing clearness that bespeaks terror and distress.

The next moment Conrad was hurled backwards, with a force that sent him staggering against the wall, breathless and powerless. Before he could recover himself he was lifted bodily off his feet, shaken like a rat, and literally thrown down the terrace steps, rolling over and over in the descent, till he lay at the foot stunned, bruised and shaken. He picked himself slowly up, muttering curses as he limped away. Little were his curses heeded by the two he had left behind.

Monica, white, trembling, unnerved by all she had gone through during the past minutes, held out her arms to her husband.

“Randolph! Oh, Randolph!”

He clasped her close to his heart, and held her there as if he never meant to let her go. He bent his head over her, and she felt his kisses on her cheek. He did not doubt – he did not distrust her! His strong arms pressed her even closer and closer. She lay against his breast, feeling no wish ever to leave that shelter. Oh, he was so true and noble – her own loving, faithful husband! How she loved him she had never known until that supreme moment.

At last she stirred in his arms and lifted her face to his.

“Randolph, you must never leave me again,” she said. “I cannot bear it – I cannot.”

“I will not, my dear wife,” he answered. “Never again shall aught but death part thee and me.”

She clung to him, half shuddering.

“Ah! do not talk of death, Randolph. I cannot bear it – I cannot listen.”

He pressed a kiss upon her trembling lips.

“Does my wife love me now?” he asked, very gravely and tenderly. “Let me hear it from your own sweet lips, my Monica.”

“Ah, Randolph, I love, I love you;” she lifted her eyes to his as she spoke. There was something almost solemn in their deep, earnest gaze. “Randolph, I do not think any one but your wife could know such a love as mine.”

“Not your husband?” he asked, returning her look with one equally full of meaning. “Monica, you may love as well, but I think you cannot love more than I do.”

She laid her head down again. It was unspeakably sweet to hear him say so, to feel his arms about her, to know that they were united at last, and that nothing could part them now.

“Not even death,” said Monica to herself; “for love like ours is stronger than death.”

“How came that scoundrel here?” asked Randolph, somewhat later as they stood together on the terrace, watching the moonlight on the sea.

“I think he came to frighten me – perhaps to try and hurt us once more by his wicked words and deeds. Randolph, is he mad? He looked so dreadful to-day. He was not the old Conrad I once knew. It was terrible – till you came.”