“Married! Married! Married!”

The monstrous vibrating throb of the express train seemed ceaselessly repeating that one word. The sound of it was beaten in upon Monica’s brain as with hot hammers, and yet she did not feel as if she understood what it meant, or realised what happened to her. One thing only was clear to her; that she had been torn away from Trevlyn, from her father, who, though pronounced convalescent, was still in a very precarious state; from Arthur, who after the anxiety and excitement of the past days, was prostrated by a sharp attack of illness; from everything and everybody she held most dear; and cast as it were upon the mercy of a comparative stranger, who did not seem the less strange to her, because he had the right to call himself her husband.

What had happened during the three days that had passed since Monica had stood beside Randolph in the little cliff church, and had pledged herself to him for better or worse?

She herself could not have said, but the facts can be summed up in a few words.

When once Lord Trevlyn had seen Monica led by Randolph to his bedside in her bridal white, and knew that they were man and wife, a change for the better had taken place in his condition, very slight at first, but increasing every hour. Little by little the danger passed away, and for the time at least his life was safe.

But Monica’s mind, no sooner relieved on his account, was thrown into fresh misery and suspense by a bad attack of illness on Arthur’s part, and the strain upon her was so great, that, coming as it did after all the mental conflict she had lately endured, her own health threatened to break down, and this caused no small anxiety in the minds of all about her.

“There is only one thing to be done, and that is to take her right away out of it all,” said Tom Pendrill, with authority. “She will break down as sure as fate if she stays here. The associations of the place are quite too much for her. She will have a brain or nervous fever if she is not taken away. You have a house in London, Trevlyn? Take her there and keep her quiet, but let her have change of scene; let her see fresh faces, and get into new habits, and see the world from a fresh stand-point. It will do her all the good in the world. She may rebel at first, and think herself miserable; but look at her now. What can be worse than the way in which she is going on? Trevlyn is killing her, whether she knows it or not. Let us see what London can do for her.”

No dissentient voice was raised against this suggestion. The earl, Lady Diana, Randolph, and even Arthur, were all in accord, and Monica heard her sentence with that unnatural quietude that had disturbed them all so much.

She did not protest or rebel, but accepted her fate very quietly, as she had accepted the marriage that had been the preliminary step.

How white she looked as she lay back in her corner of the carriage! how lonely, how frail, how desolate! Randolph’s heart ached for her, for he knew her thoughts were with her sick father and suffering brother; knew that it, not unnaturally, seemed very, very hard to be taken away at a crisis such as the present. She could not estimate the causes that made a change so imperative for her. She could not see why she was hurried away so relentlessly. It had all been very hard upon her, and upon him also, had he had thought to spare for himself; but he was too much absorbed in sorrow for her to consider his own position over-much.

He was indirectly the cause of her grief, and his whole being was absorbed in the longing to comfort her.

She looked so white and wan as the hours passed by, that he grew alarmed about her. He had done before all he could to make her warm and comfortable, and had then withdrawn a little, fancying his close proximity distasteful to her, but she looked so ill at last that he could keep away no longer, and came over to her, taking her hand in his.

“Monica,” he said gently.

The long lashes stirred a little and slowly lifted themselves. The dark eyes were dim and full of trouble. She looked at him wonderingly for a moment, almost as if she did not know him, and then she closed her eyes with a little shuddering sigh.

He was alarmed, and not without cause, for the strain of the past days was showing itself now, and want of rest and sleep had worn down her strength to the lowest ebb. She was so faint and weary that all power of resistance had left her. She let her husband do what he would, submitted passively to be tended like a child, and heaved a sigh that sounded almost like one of relief as he drew her towards him, so that her weary head could rest upon his broad shoulder. There was something restful and supporting, of which she was dumbly conscious in the deep love and protecting gentleness of this strong man.

She only spoke once to him, and that was as they neared their destination, and the lights of the great city began to flash upon her bewildered gaze. Then she sat up, though with an effort, and looking at her husband, said gently:

“You have been very good to me, Randolph.”

His heart bounded at the words, but he only asked. “Are you better, Monica?”

She pressed her hand to her brow.

“My head aches so,” she said, and the white strained look came back to her face. She was almost frightened by the flashing lights and the myriads of people she saw as the train steamed into the terminus; and she could only cling to Randolph’s arm in hopeless bewilderment, as he piloted her through the crowd to the carriage that was awaiting them.

Randolph owned a house near to the Park, in a pleasant open situation. It had been left to him by an uncle, a great traveller, and was quite a museum of costly and interesting treasures, and fitted up in the luxurious fashion that appeals to men who have grown used to Oriental ease and splendour.

The young man had often pictured Monica in such surroundings, had wondered what she would say to it all, how she would feel in a place so strange and unlike anything she had ever known. He had fancied that the open situation of the house would please her, that she might be pleased too by the quaint beauty and harmony of all she saw. He had often pictured the moment when he should lead her into her new home and bid her welcome there, and now, when the time had come, she was so worn out and ill that her heavy eyes could hardly look around her, and all he could do was to support her to her room, to be tended by his old nurse, Wilberforce, whose services he had bespoken for his wife in preference to those of a more youthful and accomplished femme de chambre.

For some days Monica was really ill, not with any specific complaint, but prostrated by nervous exhaustion—too weary and exhausted to have a clear idea of what went on around her, only conscious that everything was very strange, that she was far away from Trevlyn, and that strangers were watching over and tending her.

Her husband’s care was unremitting. He was ever by her side. She seemed to turn to him instinctively amid the other strange faces, and to be more quiet and tranquil when he was near. Yet she seldom spoke to him; he was not always certain that she knew him; but that half unconscious dependence was inexpressibly sweet, and Randolph felt hope growing stronger day by day. Surely she was slowly learning to love him; and indeed she was, only she knew it not as yet.

Then a day came when the feverish fancies and distressful exhaustion gave way to more cheering symptoms. Monica could leave her room, and leaning on her husband’s arm, wander slowly about the new home that looked so strange to her. The smiles began to come back to her eyes, a faint flush of colour to her cheeks, and when at length she was laid down upon a luxurious ottoman beside the drawing-room fire, she held her husband’s hand between both of hers, and looked up at him with a glance that went to his very heart.

“You have been so very, very good to me, Randolph, though I have only been a trouble to you all this time. I never thought I could feel like this away from Trevlyn. Indeed I will try to make you happy too.”

He bent down and kissed her, a thrill of intense joy running through him.

“Does that mean that you can be happy here, my Monica?” he asked.

She was always perfectly truthful, and paused a little before answering; yet there was a light in her eyes and a little smile upon her lips.

“It feels very strange,” she said, “and very like a dream. Of course I miss Trevlyn—of course I would rather be there; but——” and here she lifted her eyes with the sweetest glance of trusting confidence. “I know that you know best, Randolph, I know that you judge more wisely than I can do; and that you always think of my happiness first. You have been very, very good to me all this time, far better than I deserve. I am going to be happy here, and when I may go home, I know you will be the first to take me there.”

He laid his hand upon her head in a tender caress.

“I will, indeed, my Monica,” he answered; “but, believe me, for the present you are better here. You will grow strong faster away from Trevlyn than near it.”

She smiled a little, very sweetly.

“I will try to think so, too, Randolph, for I am very sure that you are wiser than I; and I have learned how good you are to me—always.”

That evening passed very quietly, yet very happily.

Was this the beginning of better things to come?