Lord Trevlyn was not unobservant of the feelings with which Randolph regarded Monica. Quiet and self-contained as the young man was, his admiration and the pleasure he took in her society was still sufficiently obvious, and his own opinions were triumphantly endorsed by those of Lady Diana.

“He is over head and ears in love with her!” exclaimed that sharp-eyed dame to her brother, about a couple of days after Monica’s rescue by Randolph, of which, however, she luckily knew nothing. Indeed, the story of that adventure had only been told by the girl to Arthur and her father, and both had had the tact and discrimination not to broach the subject to Lady Diana.

“He is over head and ears in love with her, but she gives him not the smallest encouragement, the haughty minx! and he is modest, and keeps his feelings to himself. It seems to me that the time has come when you ought to speak out yourself, Trevlyn; we cannot expect to keep a gay young man like Randolph for ever in these solitudes. Speak to him yourself, and see if you cannot manage to bring about some proper understanding.”

Lord Trevlyn had, in fact, some such idea in his own mind. He and his young kinsman were by this time upon easy and intimate terms. They felt a mutual liking and respect, and had at times very nearly approached the subject so near to the hearts of both. That very night as they sat together in the earl’s study, after the rest of the household had retired, Lord Trevlyn spoke to his guest with frankness and unreserve of the thoughts that had for long been stirring in his mind.

He spoke to his kinsman and heir of his anxieties as to the future of his dearly-loved and only child, who would at his death be only very inadequately provided for. He did not attempt to conceal the hope he had cherished in asking Randolph to be his guest, that some arrangement might be made which should conduce to her future happiness; and just as the young man’s heart began to beat high with the tumult of conflicting feelings within him, the old earl looked him steadily in the face, and concluded with a certain stately dignity that was exceedingly impressive.

“Randolph Trevlyn, I had heard much in your favour before I saw you, so much, indeed, that I ventured to entertain hopes that may sound scheming and cold-blooded when put into words, yet which do not, I trust, proceed from motives altogether unworthy. My daughter is very dear to me. To see her happily settled in life, under the protecting care of one who will truly love and cherish her, has been the deepest wish of my life. In our secluded existence here there has been small chance of realising this wish. I will not deny that in asking you to be our guest it was with hopes I need not farther specify. Some of these hopes have been amply realised. I will not seem to flatter, yet let me say that in you I have found every quality I most hoped to see in the man who is to be my successor here. You are a true Trevlyn, and I am deeply thankful it is so; and besides this, I have lately entertained hopes that another wish of mine is slowly fulfilling itself. I have sometimes thought—let me say it plainly—that you have learned to love my daughter.”

“Lord Trevlyn,” said Randolph, with a calmness of manner that betokened deep feeling held resolutely under control, “I do love your daughter. I think I have done so ever since our first meeting. Every day that passes only serves to deepen my love. If I have your consent to try and win her hand, I shall count myself a happy man indeed, although I fear her heart is not one to be easily moved or won.”

Lord Trevlyn’s face expressed a keen satisfaction and gladness. He held out his hand to his young kinsman, and said quietly:

“You have made a happy man of me, Randolph Trevlyn. In your hands I can place the future of my child with perfect confidence. You love her, and you will care for her, and make her life happy.”

Randolph wrung the proffered hand.

“Indeed you may trust me to do all in my power. I love her with my whole heart. I would lay down my life to serve her.”

“As you have demonstrated already,” said the old earl, with a grave smile. “I have not thanked you for saving my child’s life. I hope in the future she will repay the debt by making your life happy, as you, I am convinced, will make hers.”

Randolph’s bronzed cheek flushed a little at these words.

“Lord Trevlyn,” he said, “to gain your goodwill and assent in this matter is a source of great satisfaction to me; but I cannot blind my eyes to the fear that Lady Monica herself, with whom the decision must rest, has not so far given me any encouragement to hope that she regards me as anything beyond a mere acquaintance and chance guest. I love her too well, I think, not to be well aware of her feelings towards me, and I cannot flatter myself for a moment by the belief that these are anything warmer than a sort of gentle liking, little removed from indifference.”

The earl’s face was full of thought.

“Monica’s nature is peculiar,” he said; “her feelings lie very deep, and are difficult to read; no one can really know what they may be.”

“I admit that; yet I confess I have little hope—at least in the present.”

“Whilst I,” said Lord Trevlyn, quietly, “have little fear.”

An eager look crossed Randolph’s face.

“You think——”

“I cannot easily explain what I think, but I believe there will be less difficulty with Monica than you anticipate. She does not yet know her own heart—that I admit. She may be startled at first, but that is not necessarily against us. Will you let me break this matter to her? Will you let me act as your ambassador? I understand Monica as you can hardly do. Will you let me see if I cannot plead your cause as eloquently as you can do it for yourself? Trust me it will be better so. My daughter and I understand one another well.”

Randolph was silent a moment, then he said, very gravely and seriously:

“If you think that it will be best so, I gladly place myself in your hands. I confess I should find it difficult to approach the subject myself—at any rate at present. But”—he paused a moment, and looked the other full in the face—“pardon me for saying as much—you do not propose putting any pressure upon your daughter? Believe me, I would rather never see her face again than feel that she accepted me as a husband under any kind of compulsion or restraint.”

Lord Trevlyn smiled a smile of approval.

“You need not fear,” he answered, quietly. “Monica’s nature is not one to submit tamely to any kind of coercion, nor am I the man to attempt to constrain her feelings upon a matter so important as this.”

“And if,” pursued Randolph, with quiet resolution, “Lady Monica declines the proposal made to her on my behalf, I shall request you to join with me in breaking the entail; for I can never consent to be the means of taking from her that which by every moral right is hers. I could not for a moment tolerate the idea of wresting from her the right to style herself, as she has always been styled, the Lady of Trevlyn. This is her rightful home, and I shall appeal to you, if my suit fails, to assist me in installing her there for life.”

The old earl looked much moved.

“This is very noble of you—most noble and generous: but we will not talk of it yet. I am not sure that I could bring myself to help in separating the old title from the old estate. You are very generous to think of making the sacrifice; whether I ought to permit you to do so is another thing. At least let us wait and see what our first negotiation brings forth. Monica ought to know——” he paused, smiled, and held out his hand. “Good-night. I will speak to my daughter upon the first opportunity. You shall have your answer to-morrow.”

The next day Randolph spent at St. Maws with Tom Pendrill. He felt that whilst his fate hung in the balance it would be impossible to remain at Trevlyn. He rode across to his friend’s house quite early in the day, and twilight had fallen before he returned to the sombre precincts of the Castle.

He made his way straight to the earl’s study; the old man rose quickly upon his entrance, and held out his hand. His face beamed with an inward happiness and satisfaction.

“I wish you joy, Randolph,” he said, wringing the young man’s hand. “We may congratulate each other, I think. Monica is yours—take her, with her father’s blessing. It seems to me as if I had nothing left to wish for now, save to see you made my son, for such indeed you are to me now.”

Randolph stood very still. He could hardly believe his own ears. He had not for a moment expected any definite answer, save a definite refusal.

“Lady Monica consents to be my wife?” he questioned. “Are you sure that this is so?”

“I am quite sure. I had it from her own lips.”

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 beating wildly; he knew not what to think or hope. He asked no more questions, not knowing what to ask.

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 child, love your husband truly and faithfully. He is worthy of you, and you are worthy of him.”

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?”

“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.”

He was too passionately in love himself at that moment to be chilled by this response. It was more than he had ever looked for, that sweet surrender of herself. Protestations of love would sound strangely from Monica’s lips. He hardly even wished to hear them. She must feel some tenderness towards him. She had given herself to him to love and cherish; surely his great love could accomplish the rest.

He drew her gently towards him. She did not resist; she let herself be encircled by his protecting arm.

“I will try to make you very happy,” he said, with a sort of manly simplicity that meant more than the most ardent protestations could have done. “May I kiss you, Monica?”

She lifted her down-bent face a little, and he pressed a kiss upon her brow. She made no attempt to return the caress, but he did not expect it. It was enough that she permitted him to worship her.

“You have made me very happy, Monica,” he said presently, whilst the shadows deepened round them. “Will you not let me hear you say that you are happy too?”

She looked at him at last. He could not read the meaning of that gaze.

“I want to make you happy, my darling,” said Randolph, very softly.

Again that strange, earnest gaze.

“Make my father and Arthur happy,” she said, sweetly and steadily, “and I shall be happy too.”

He did not understand the full drift of those words, as he might perhaps have done had he been calmer—did not realise as at another moment he might have done their deep significance. He was desperately, passionately in love, carried away inwardly, if not outwardly, by the tumult of his feelings. He did not realise—it was hardly likely that he should—that to secure her father’s happiness and the future well-being and happiness of her brother Monica had promised to be his wife. She respected him, she liked him, she was resolved to make him a true and faithful wife; and she knew so little of the true nature of wedded love that it never occurred to her to think of the injury she might be doing to him in giving the hand without the heart.

She had been moved and disquieted by Arthur’s words of a few days back. Her father’s appeal to her that day had touched her to the quick. What better could she do with her life than secure with it the happiness of those she loved? How better could she keep her vow towards Arthur than by making the promise asked of her? Monica thought first of others in this matter, it is true, and yet there was a strange throb akin to joy deep down in her heart, when she thought of the love tendered to her by one she had learned to esteem and to trust. Those sweet, sudden glimpses of the golden land of sunshine beyond kept flashing before her eyes, and thrilled her with feelings that made her almost afraid. She did not know what it all meant. She did not know that it was but the foreshadowing of the deep love that was rooting itself, all unknown, in the tenderest fibres of her nature. She never thought she loved Randolph Trevlyn, but she was conscious of a strange exultation and stress of feeling, which she attributed to the enthusiasm of the sacrifice she had made for those she loved. She did not yet know the secret of her own heart.