Lord Trevlyn sat in his study in the slowly waning daylight, waiting the arrival of his expected guest. Now that the moment had come, he shrank from the meeting a good deal more than he had once believed he should do. It was so long since he had seen a strange face, and his relations with this unknown heir would perhaps be difficult: undoubtedly the situation was somewhat strained. Would the young man think a trap was being set for him in the person of the beautiful Monica? Was he acting a wise or fatherly part in scheming to give her to this stranger, if it should be possible to do so?

He had liked the tone of Randolph Trevlyn’s courteously-worded acceptance of his invitation. He had liked all that he heard of the man himself. He had a sort of presentiment that his wish would in time be realised, that this visit would not be fruitless; but his child’s happiness: would that be secured in securing to her the possession of a well-loved home?

Randolph Trevlyn would hardly be likely to spend any great part of his life at this lonely sea-bound castle. He might pass a few months there, perhaps; but where would the bulk of his time be spent?

Lord Trevlyn tried to picture his beautiful, wayward, freedom-loving daughter mixing in the giddy whirl of London life, learning its ways and following its fashions, and he utterly failed to do so. She seemed indissolubly connected with the wild sea-coast, with the gloomy pine-woods, with the rugged independence of her sea-girt home. Monica a fashionable young countess, leading a gay life of social distraction! The thing seemed impossible.

But he had no time to indulge his imaginings farther. The door opened, and his guest was ushered in. The old earl rose and bade him welcome with his customary simple, stately courtesy. It was growing somewhat dark in that oak-panelled room, and for a minute or two he hardly distinguished the features of the stranger, but the voice and the words in which the young man answered his greeting pleased his fastidious taste, and a haunting dread of which he had scarcely been fully aware faded from his mind at once and for ever in the first moment of introduction.

Lord Trevlyn heaved an unconscious sigh of relief when he resumed his seat, and was able to give a closer scrutiny to his guest. One glance at his face, figure, and dress, together with the pleasant sound of his voice, convinced Lord Trevlyn that this young man was a gentleman in the rather restricted sense in which he employed that elastic term.

He was a handsome, broad-shouldered, powerful man, with a fine figure, dark hair and moustache, dark blue eyes, frank and well-opened, a quiet, commanding air and carriage, and that cast of countenance which plainly showed that the blood of the Trevlyns ran in his veins.

Lord Trevlyn eyed him with quiet satisfaction, and from the conversation that ensued he had no reason to rescind his favourable impression. Randolph Trevlyn was evidently a man of culture and refinement, with a mental capacity distinctly above the average. He was, moreover, emphatically a man of the world in its truest and widest sense—a man who has lived in the world, and studied it closely, learning thereby from its silent teaching the good and the evil thereof.

The two men talked for a time of the family to which they belonged, and the deaths that had lately taken place, bringing this young man so near to the title.

“The Trevlyns seem to be a dying race,” said the old earl, half sadly. “Our family is slowly dying out. I suppose it has done its work in the world, and is not needed any longer in these stirring times. You and my daughter are now the sole representatives of the Trevlyns in your generation, as my sister and I are in ours.”

Randolph Trevlyn looked into his kinsman’s face with a great deal of reverence and admiration. He liked to meet a man who was a genuine specimen of the “old school.” He felt a natural reverence for the head of his house, and his liking showed itself in voice and manner. Lord Trevlyn saw this, and was gratified, whilst the younger man was pleased to feel himself in accord with his host. The interview ended with mutual satisfaction on both sides, and Randolph was taken up the great oak staircase, down one or two dim, ghostly corridors, and landed finally in a couple of large panelled rooms, most antiquely and quaintly furnished, in both of which, however, great fires of pine logs were blazing cheerily.

“We dine at eight,” Lord Trevlyn had said, in parting with his guest. “I shall hope then to have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister and my daughter.”

Left alone in his comfortable but rather grim-looking quarters, Randolph broke into a low laugh.

“And so this sombre old place, full of ghosts and phantoms of departed days—this enchanted castle between sea and forest—is the home of the lovely girl I saw yesterday! Incongruous, and yet so entirely appropriate! She wants a setting of her own, different from anything else. It must have been Lady Monica I encountered, the lady of the pine-wood. What a sad, proud, lovely face it was, with its frame of golden hair, and soft eyes like a deer’s; and her voice was as sweet as her face, low, and rich, and full of music. What has been the secret of her life? Some sorrow, I am certain, has overshadowed it. Who will be the happy man to bring the sunshine back to that lovely troubled face? Randolph Trevlyn, do not run on so fast. You are no longer a boy. You must not judge by first impressions; you will know more of her soon.”

Randolph’s encounter with Monica the previous day had been purely accidental. The young man had reached St. Maws one day earlier than he had expected, one day earlier than he had been invited to arrive at the Castle. Some business in Plymouth which he had expected would detain him some days had been despatched with greater speed than he had anticipated, and he had gone on to St. Maws to renew acquaintance with his old friend Pendrill, who lived, as he remembered, in that place.

When he descended to the drawing room it was to find the earl and Lady Diana there before him, and he made as favourable an impression upon the vivacious old lady as he had done before upon her brother. Yet he found his attention straying sometimes from the animated talk of his companion, and his eyes would wander to the door by which Monica must enter.

She came at last, stately, beautiful, statuesque, her dress an antique cream-coloured brocade, that had, without doubt, belonged to some remote ancestress; her golden hair coiled like a crown upon her graceful head. She had that same indescribable air of isolation and remoteness that had struck him so much when he had seen her riding in the wood. She did not lift her eyes when her father presented the stranger to her, but only bent her head very slightly, and sat down by herself, somewhat apart.

But when dinner was announced, and Randolph gave her his arm to lead her in, she raised her eyes, and their glances met. He saw that she recognised him, and yet she gave not the slightest sign of having done so, and her face settled into lines of even more severe gravity than before. He felt that she was annoyed at his having met and addressed her previously, and that she would brook no allusion to the encounter.

His talk with the Pendrills had prepared him somewhat for Monica’s coldness towards himself. It was natural enough, he thought, and perhaps a little interesting, especially as he meant to set himself to win her good-will at last.

He did not make much way during dinner. Monica was very silent, and Lady Diana engrossed almost all his attention; but he was content to bide his time, conscious of the charm of her presence, and of the haunting, pathetic character of her beauty, and deeply touched by the story of her devotion to the crippled, suffering Arthur, which was told him by the earl when they were alone together, with more of detail than he had heard it before.

When he returned to the drawing-room, he went straight up to Monica, and said:

“I am going to ask a favour of you, Lady Monica. I want to know if you will be good enough to introduce me to your brother?”

Her face softened slightly as she raised her eyes to his. It was a happy instinct that had led Randolph to call Arthur by the name she most loved to hear, “your brother.”

“You would like to see him to-night?”

“If it is not too late to intrude upon an invalid, I should very much.”

“I think he would be pleased,” said Monica. “It is so seldom he has any one to talk to.”

The visit to Arthur was a great success. The lad took to Randolph at once, delighted to find him so young, so pleasant, and so companionable. Of course he identified him at once as the hero of Monica’s adventure yesterday, and was amused to hear his account of the meeting. Monica did not stay long in the room; but her absence enabled Arthur to sing her praises as he loved to do, and Randolph listened with a satisfaction that surprised himself. He was very kind to the boy, sincerely sorry for his helpless state, and more than ready to stand his friend if ever there should be occasion. Before he left the invalid that night, he felt that in him, at least, he had secured a staunch and trusty friend.

But during the days that followed he could not hide from himself the fact that Monica avoided him. Indeed, he sometimes hardly saw her from morning till night, and when they did meet at the luncheon or dinner-table, she sat still and silent, scarcely vouchsafing him a word or a look.

The first time Randolph found himself alone with Monica was in this wise: he had been riding about the immediate precincts of the Castle with the earl one morning, and his host was just expressing a wish to extend their ride farther, in order to see some of the best views of the neighbourhood—hesitating somewhat on his own account, as he had been forbidden to exert himself by much exercise—when Monica suddenly appeared, mounted on Guy, and attended by her convoy of dogs, ready for her daily gallop.

Lord Trevlyn’s face softened at her approach; he loved his fair daughter with a deep and tender love.

“Monica, my dear, you have come in good time. I want Mr. Trevlyn to see the view of the Castle from the Black Cliff, and the wonderful archway in the rocks farther along the coast. These fine days must not be wasted; and I feel too tired to undertake the ride myself. Will you act as my substitute, and do the honours of Trevlyn?”

Monica glanced with a sort of mute wistfulness into her father’s pale face, and assented quietly. The next moment she and Randolph were riding side by side over the close soft turf of the sweeping downs.

The girl’s face was set and grave, she seemed lost in thought, and was only roused by the eccentricities of Guy’s behaviour. The spirited little barb resented company even more than his mistress did, and showed his distaste by every means in his power. He was so troublesome that Randolph was half afraid for Monica’s safety, but she smiled at the idea of danger.

“I know Guy too well,” she answered; “it is nothing. He only hates company. He is not used to it.”

“Had you not better have another horse to-day?”

“Let myself be conquered? No, thank you. I always say that if that once were to happen, it would never be safe ever for me to ride Guy again.”

The battle with the horse brought the colour to her face and the light to her eyes. She looked more approachable now as she cantered along beside him (victorious at last, with her dogs bounding about her) than she had ever done before. He drew her out a little about her four-footed favourites, and being a lover of animals himself, and knowing their ways, they found a good deal to say without trenching in any way upon dangerous or personal topics.

They visited the places indicated by Lord Trevlyn, and Randolph admired the beauties of the wild coast with a genuine appreciation that satisfied Monica. Had her companion been anybody but himself—an alien usurper come to spy out the land that would some time be his own—had his praises been less sounded in her ears by Lady Diana, whose praise was in Monica’s eyes worse than any open condemnation—she could almost have found it in her heart to like him; but as it was, jealous distrust drove all kindlier feelings away, and even his handsome person and pleasant address added to her sense of hostility and disfavour.

Why was he to win all hearts—he who would so ruthlessly act the part of tyrant and foe, as soon as his chance came? Did not even his friend, Lady Diana, continually repeat that his succession to the Trevlyn estate must inevitably mean an immediate break-up of all existing forms and usages? Was it not an understood thing that he would exercise his power without considering anything but his strict legal right? Lady Diana knew the world—that world to which Randolph evidently belonged. If this was her opinion, was it not presumably the right one? She sneered openly at the suggestion her niece had once thrown out of the possibility of his granting to Arthur liberty to remain at Trevlyn.

“You foolish child!” she said sharply. “What is Arthur to him? Men do not make sentimental attachments to each other. Arthur has no right here, and Mr. Trevlyn will show him so very plainly when the time comes.”

Was it any wonder that Monica’s heart rose in revolt against this handsome, powerful stranger, who seemed in a manner to hold her whole future in his strong hands? Was it strange she avoided him? Was it difficult to understand that she distrusted him, and that only his present kindness to Arthur and the lad’s affection for him enabled her to tolerate with any kind of submission his presence in the house?

He tried now to make her talk of herself, of Arthur, of her home and her life there, but she became at once impenetrably silent. Her face assumed its old look of statuesque hauteur. The ride back to the Castle was a very silent one. Randolph had enjoyed the hour he had spent in the company of Lady Monica, but he could not flatter himself that much ground had been gained.