Beatrice would lay aside that brilliant sparkle and flow of spirit, and lapse into a sudden gravity and seriousness that would have astonished many of her friends and acquaintances had they chanced to witness it. Sometimes Monica fancied at such moments that some kind of cloud rested upon the handsome, dashing girl, that her past held some tear-stained page, some sad or painful memory; and it was this conviction that had won Monica’s confidence and friendship more than anything else. She could not make a true friend of any one who had never known sorrow.

[219]

To-night Monica was unusually distraite, sad and heavy at heart, she hardly knew [220]why; finding it unusually difficult to talk or smile, or to hide from the eyes of others the melancholy that oppressed her. She felt a strange craving for her husband’s presence. She wanted him near her. She longed to return to those first days of married life, when his compassion for her made him so tender, when he was always with her, and she believed that he loved her. Sometimes she had been almost happy then, despite the wrench from the old associations and the strangeness of all around. Now she was always sad and heavy-hearted; and to-night she was curiously oppressed.

[220]

It was only at this house that she could ever be persuaded to sing, and to-night it was not till the end of the evening that Lord Haddon’s entreaties prevailed with [221]her. She rose at last and crossed to the piano, and sitting down without any music before her, sang a simple melodious setting to some words of Christina Rossetti’s:—

[221]

As she sang, the room, the company, all faded from her view and from her mind—all but Randolph. One strange longing filled her soul—the longing that she might [222]indeed lie sleeping and at rest in some quiet, wind-swept spot, her spirit hovering free—to see if her husband ever came to stand beside that grave, to see if he would in such a case remember—or forget.

[222]

For herself Monica, knew well that remembrance would be her portion. She never could forget.

There was a wonderful sweetness and pathos in her voice as she sang. The listeners held their breath, and sudden tears started to Beatrice’s eyes. When the last note had died away, Randolph crossed the room and laid his hand upon his wife’s shoulder. There was a subdued murmur all through the room, but she only heard her husband’s voice.

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