The boat launched by the rescuing party vanished in the darkness. Monica stood where her husband had left her in the shelter of the cliff, her pale face turned seawards, her eyes fixed upon the glimmering crests of the great waves, as they came rolling calmly in, in their resistless might and majesty. Beatrice had twice come back to her, to assure her with eager vehemence that the danger was very slight, that it was lessening every moment as the wind shifted and abated in force—dangerous, indeed, for the Was it only an hour ago that she had been with her husband at home, telling him of the dim foreboding of coming woe that had haunted her all that day? It seemed to her as if she had all her life been standing beside the dark margin of this tempest-tossed sea, waiting the return of him who made all the happiness of her life—and waiting in vain. Beatrice looked at her once or twice, but Suddenly there was a glad shout of triumph and joy from the fisher-folk, down by the brink of the sea. “Here she is!” “Here she comes!” “Steady, there!” “Ease her a bit!” “This way now!” “Be ready, lads!” “Here she comes!” “Now, then, all together!” “After this wave—NOW!” Cries, shouts, an eager confusion of tongues—the grating of a boat’s keel upon the beach, and then a ringing hearty cheer. “All safe?” “All saved—five of them and a lad.” “Just in time only.” “She wouldn’t have floated five minutes longer.” “She was going down like lead.” What noise and confusion there was—people crowding round, flitting figures passing to and fro in the obscurity, every one talking, all speaking together—such a hubbub as Beatrice had never witnessed before. She stood in glad, impatient expectancy on the outskirts of the little crowd. Why did not Randolph come away from them to Monica? Why did she not hear his voice with the rest? Her heart gave a sudden throb as of terror. “Where is Lord Trevlyn?” Her voice, sharpened by the sudden fear that had seized her, was heard through all the eager clamour of those who stood round. A gleam of moonlight, struggling through the clouds, lighted up the group for a moment. The words went round like wildfire: “Where is Lord Trevlyn?” and men 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 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 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 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 “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 “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 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, 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 “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. 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 “Beatrice,” she said quietly, “where is your brother?” “I don’t know.” “Has he not come in?” “Not that I know of.” “We must inquire. He has been so many hours gone. I am uneasy about him.” “Oh, never mind about him,” said Beatrice, quickly. “He will be all right.” “We must think of him,” she answered. “Tom, it was good of you to come back. What brought you? Did you hear?” “I heard a rumour. Of course I came back. Is there anything I can do?” He spoke abruptly, like a man labouring under some weight of oppression. “I wish you would go and inquire for Lord Haddon. Randolph sent him to the life-boat station, because he believed he would ride over faster than anybody else. I think he should be followed now, if he has not come back. I cannot think what can have detained him so long.” “I will go and make inquiries,” said Tom. “Thank you. I should be much obliged if you would.” But as it turned out, there was no need for him to do this. Even as Monica spoke they became aware of a slight stir in the hall. Uncertain, rapid steps crossed the intervening space, and the next moment Haddon stood before them in the doorway, white, drenched, dishevelled, exhausted, “Beatrice!” he cried, in a strained, unnatural tone. “Say it is not true!” Monica had stepped forward, anxious and startled at his appearance. The look upon her face must have brought conviction home to Haddon’s heart, and this terrible conviction completed the work begun by previous over-fatigue and exhaustion. He made two uncertain steps forward, looked round him in a dazed bewildered way; then putting his hand to his head with a sudden gesture as of pain, called out: “I say, what is it?—Look out!” and Tom had only just time to spring forward “Poor boy!” said Monica gently; “the shock has been too much for him.” decoration |