Perhaps there was some truth in what Monica had said about her ability to presage coming trouble. At least she was haunted just now by a strange shadow of approaching change that future events justified only too well. She often caught her father’s glance resting upon her with a strange, searching wistfulness, with something almost of pleading and appeal in his face. She had a suspicion that Arthur sometimes looked at her almost in the same way, as if he too would ask some favour of her, could he but bring his mind to do so. Sir Conrad Fitzgerald came from time to time to the Castle. He was cordially received by the Earl and Lady Diana, who had respected and liked his parents, and remembered him well as a fair-haired Monica felt the change most by a certain instinctive and involuntary shrinking from Conrad that she could not in the least explain or justify. She wished to like him; she told herself that she did like him, and yet she was aware that she never felt at ease in his presence, and that he inspired her with a certain indescribable sense of repulsion, which, oddly enough, was shared by her four-footed friends, the dogs. Monica had a theory of her own that dogs brought up much in human society became excellent judges of character, but if so, she ought certainly to modify some of her own opinions, for the dogs all adored Randolph, and welcomed him effusively whenever he appeared; but they shrank back sullenly when Conrad attempted to make advances, and no effort on his part conquered their instinctive aversion. Conrad himself observed this, and it annoyed him. He greatly resented Randolph’s protracted stay at the Castle, as he detested above all things the necessity of encountering him. “How long is that fellow going to palm himself upon your father’s hospitality?” he asked Monica one day, with some appearance of anger. He had encountered “I do not know. Father enjoys his company, and so does Arthur. I have not heard anything about his going yet.” “Perhaps you enjoy his company too?” suggested Conrad, with a touch of insolence in his manner. A faint flush rose in Monica’s pale face. Her look expressed a good deal of cool scorn. “Perhaps I do,” she answered. Conrad saw at once that he had made a blunder. Face and voice alike changed, and he said in his gentle, deprecating way: “Forgive me, Monica. I had no right to speak as I did. It was rude and unjustifiable. Only if you knew as much as I do about that fellow, you would not wonder that I hate to see him hanging round you as he is doing now, waiting, as it were, to step into the place that is his by legal, but by no moral right. It would be hard to see anyone acting such a part. It is ten times harder when you know your man.” Monica looked straight at Conrad. “What do you know against Mr. Trevlyn? My father is acquainted with all his past history, and can learn nothing to his discredit. What story have you got hold of? I would rather hear facts than hints.” Conrad laughed uneasily. “I know that he is a cad, and a sneak, and a spy; but I have no wish to upset your father’s confidence in him. We were at Oxford together, and of course it was not pleasant to me to hear his boasting of his future lordship at Trevlyn. That was the first thing that made me dislike him. Later on I had fresh cause.” Had Monica been more conversant with the family history, she would have known that this boasting could never have taken place, as Randolph had been far enough from the peerage at that time. As it was, she looked grave and a little severe as she asked: “Did he do that?” and listened with instinctive repugnance to the details fabricated by the inventive genius of Conrad. He next cleverly alluded again to his past follies, and appealed to Monica’s generosity not to change towards him because he had sinned. “It is so hard to feel cast off by old friends,” he said, with a very expressive look at the girl. “I know what it is to see myself cold shouldered by those to whom I have learned to look up with reverence and affection. I have suffered very much from misrepresentation and hardness—suffered beyond what I deserve. I did fall once—I was sorely tempted, and I did commit one act of ingratitude and deceit that I have most bitterly repented of. I was very young and sorely tempted, and I did something which might have placed me in the felon’s dock, and would have done so had somebody not far away had his She looked at him very seriously, her eyes full of a sort of thoughtful surprise. “I, Conrad. What have I to do with it or with you?” “This much,” he answered, taking her hand and looking straight into her eyes: “We have been friends all our lives, Conrad,” said Monica, with gentle seriousness. “You know that if I could help you in the way you mean I should like to do so.” “You will not change—you will not turn your back upon me, whatever he may say of me?” She looked at him steadily, and answered, “No.” “You promise, Monica?” “There is no need for that, Conrad. When I say a thing I mean it. We are friends, and I do not change without sufficient reason.” He saw that he had said enough; he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it once with a humility and reverence that could not offend her. Monica wandered down by the lonely cliff path to the shore, revolving many thoughts in her mind, feeling strangely absorbed and abstracted. The wind blew fresh and strong off the sea. The tide rolled in fast, salt, and strong. Monica felt that she wanted to be alone to-day—alone with the great wild ocean that she loved so well, even whilst she feared it too in its fiercer moods. She therefore made her way with the agility and sure-footed steadiness of At high tide it was covered, but it would not be high water for some hours yet, and Monica, in her restless state of mental tension, had forgotten that the high spring tides were lashing the sea to fury just now upon this iron-bound coast, rendered more swift and strong and high by the steady way in which the wind set towards the land. Standing on the great flat rock at the end of the sunken reef, a rock that was never covered even at the highest tides, Monica was soon lost in so profound a She looked round her quietly and steadily, not frightened, but fully conscious of her danger. The reef was already covered; it would be impossible to retrace her footsteps with the waves dashing wildly over the sunken rocks. Monica was a bold and practised swimmer, but to swim ashore in a heavy sea such as was now running was obviously out of the question. To stand upon that lonely rock until the Monica looked round her, awed, yet calm, understanding, without realising, the deadly peril in which she stood. There was always a boat—her little boat—lying at anchor in the bay, ready for her use at any moment. Her eyes turned towards it instinctively, and as they did so she became aware of something bobbing up and down in the water—the head of a swimmer, as she saw the next moment, swimming out towards her boat. Someone must have seen her, then, and A glow of gratitude towards her courageous rescuer filled Monica’s heart, and this did not diminish as she saw the difficulty he had first in reaching the boat, then in casting it loose, and last, but not least, in guiding and pushing it towards an uncovered rock and in getting in. But this difficult and perilous office was accomplished in safety at last, and the boat was quickly rowed over the heaving, angry waves to the spot where Monica stood alone, amid the tossing waste of water. Nearer and nearer came the tiny craft, But it was not a time in which speeches could be made or thanks spoken. To bring the boat up to the rock in the midst of the rolling breakers was a task of no little difficulty and danger, and had not Randolph been experienced from boyhood in matters pertaining to the sea, he could not possibly have accomplished the feat unaided and alone. There was no bungling on Monica’s part, either. With steady nerve and quiet courage she awaited the moment for the downward spring. It was made at exactly the right second; the boat swayed, but righted itself immediately. Randolph had the head round in a moment away from the Not a word had been spoken all that time. Monica had given Randolph one expressive glance as she took her seat in the boat, and that is all that had so far passed between them. When, however, he gave her his hand to help her to disembark, and they stood together on the shingle, she said, very seriously and gently: “It was very kind of you to come out to me, Mr. Trevlyn. I think I should have been drowned but for you,” and she turned her eyes seaward with a gaze that was utterly inscrutable. He looked at her a moment intently, and then stooped and picked up his overcoat, “Will you oblige me by putting this on in place of your own wet jacket? You are drenched with spray.” She woke up from her reverie then, and looked up quickly, doing as he asked without a word; but when she had donned the warm protecting garment, she said: “You are drenched to the skin yourself.” “Yes, so a garment more or less is of no consequence. Now walk on, please; do not wait for me; I will be after you in two minutes.” Again she did his bidding in the same dreamy way, and walked on towards the ascent by the steep cliff path. He was not long in following her, and they walked in “You have saved my life to-day,” she said. “I am—I think I am—very grateful to you.” Arthur’s excitement and delight when he heard of the adventure were very great. “So he saved you, Monica—at the risk of his life? Ah, that just proves it!” “Proves what?” “Why, that he is in love with you, of course, just as he ought to be, and will marry you some day, make us all happy; and keep us all at Trevlyn. What could be more delightful and appropriate?” A wave of colour swept over Monica’s face. “You are a foolish boy, Arthur.” “I am not a foolish boy!” he answered, exultingly; “I know what I am saying. Randolph does love you; I can see it more plainly every day. He loves you with all his heart, and some day soon he will ask you to be his wife. Of course you will say yes—you must like him, I am sure, as much as every one else does; and then everything will come right, and we shall all be perfectly happy. Things always do come right in the end, if we only will but believe it.” Monica sat very still, a strange, dream-like feeling stealing over her. Arthur’s playful words shed a sudden flood of light upon much that had been dark before, and for a moment she was blinded and dazzled. Randolph Trevlyn loved her! Yes, she could well believe it, little as she knew of love, thinking of the glance bent upon her not long ago, which had thrilled her then, she knew not why. Monica trembled, yet she was dimly conscious of a strange under-current of startled joy beneath the troubled waters of doubt, despondency, and perplexity. She could not understand herself, nor read her heart aright, yet it seemed as if through the lifting of the clouds, she obtained a rapid passing glimpse of a land of golden sunshine beyond, whither her face and footsteps alike were turned—as a traveller amid the mountain mists sees before him now and again the bright sunny smiling valley beneath which he will shortly reach. The land of promise was spreading itself decoration |