Randolph’s breath came rather fast.

“Does she love me?”

“Presumably she does. Monica would never give her hand for the sake of rank or wealth.”

“No, no,” he answered quickly, and took one or two turns about the darkening room. He was in a strange tumult of conflicting feeling, and did not hear or heed the low-spoken words addressed to the servant, who had just entered with fresh logs for the fire. His heart was [138]beating wildly; he knew not what to think or hope. He asked no more questions, not knowing what to ask.

[138]

And then all at once he saw Monica standing before him, standing with one hand closely locked in that of her father, looking gravely at him in the shadowy twilight, with an inscrutable wistful sweetness in her fathomless eyes.

“Randolph,” said Lord Trevlyn, “here is your promised wife. I give her to you with my blessing. May you both be as happy as you have made me to-day by this mutual act. Be very good to her, guard her and shield her, and love her tenderly. She is used to love and care from her father; let me feel that in her husband’s keeping she will gain and not lose by the change in her future life. Monica, my [139]child, love your husband truly and faithfully. He is worthy of you, and you are worthy of him.”

[139]

Lord Trevlyn placed the hand he held within Randolph’s grasp, and silently withdrew.

For a moment neither moved nor spoke. The young man held the hand of his promised wife between both of his, and stood quite still, looking down with strange intensity of feeling into the half-averted face.

“Monica,” he said at last, “can this be true?”

She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, and then dropped them before his burning glance.

“Monica,” he said again, “can it be true that you love me?”

[140]

[140]

“I will be your wife if you will have me,” she said, in a very clear, low tone. “I will love you—if I can. I will try, indeed. I think I can—some day.”

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