MONICA. MONICA. A Novel. BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN. Author of “Torwood’s Trust,” “The Last of the Dacres,” “Ruthven of Ruthven,” Etc. _IN THREE VOLUMES._ VOL. III. LONDON: WARD AND DOWNEY, 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 1889. PRINTED BY KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS, AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES. CONTENTS. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. PAGE Beatrice 1 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. Storm 17 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. Widowed 39 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. Monica 61 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. Haunted 79 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. Lovers 97 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. “As We Forgive” 124 CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. Lord Haddon 155 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. Christmas 177 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND. The Last 194 MONICA. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. BEATRICE. “Beatrice, I believe my words are coming true, after all. I begin to think you are getting tired of Trevlyn already.” It was Monica who spoke thus. She had surprised Beatrice alone in the boudoir at dusk one afternoon, sitting in an attitude of listless dejection, with the undoubted brightness of unshed tears in her eyes. But the girl looked up quickly, trying to regain all her usual animation, though the attempt was not a marked success, and Monica sat down beside her, and laid one hand upon hers in a sort of mute caress. “You are not happy with us, Beatrice, I see it more and more plainly every day. You have grown pale since you came here, and your spirits vary every hour, but they do not improve, and you are often sad. I think Trevlyn cannot suit you. I think I shall have to prescribe change of air and scene, and a meeting later on in some other place.” Monica spoke with a sort of grave gentleness, that indicated a tenderness she could not well express more clearly. For answer, Beatrice suddenly flung herself on her knees before her hostess, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, don’t send me away, Monica! Don’t send me away! I could not bear it—indeed I could not! I am miserable—I am wretched company. I don’t wonder you are tired of me; but ah! don’t send me away from you, and from Trevlyn. I think I shall _die_ if you do. Oh, why is the world such a hard, cruel place?” Monica was startled at this sudden outburst, for since the day following her arrival Beatrice had showed herself unusually reserved. She had been _distraite_, absorbed, fitful in her moods, but never once expansive; therefore, this unexpected impulse towards confidence was the more surprising. “Beatrice,” she said gently, “I did not mean to distress you. You know how very, very welcome you are to stay with us. But you are unhappy; you are far more unhappy than when you came.”