“There is something odd about it all,” said Arthur, who was inclined to indulge a good deal of curiosity about other people’s affairs: “but I think Conrad behaves the better of the two.”
Monica quietly assented; but perhaps she might have changed her opinion had she heard the muttered threats breathed by Conrad as he rode across the darkening moor:
“So, Randolph Trevlyn, our paths have crossed once more! I have vowed vengeance upon you to your very face, and perhaps my day has come at last. I see through you. I see the game you are playing. I will baulk you, if I can; but in any case I will have my revenge.”
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
SUNDAY AT TREVLYN.
It was Sunday, and Monica, with Randolph beside her, was making her way by the path along the cliff towards the little old church perched high upon the crags, between Trevlyn and St. Maws, but nearer to the town than the Castle. Randolph had found out the ways of the house by this time. He knew now that Monica played the organ in the little church, that she started early and walked across the downs, instead of going in the carriage with her father and aunt. He knew that she generally lunched with the Pendrills between services, and that one of her cousins walked back with her to the Castle, and spent an hour with Arthur afterwards.
He had found out all this during his first two Sundays, and upon the third he had ventured to ask permission to be her escort.
Randolph was quite aware that he had lost ground with Monica of late; that the barrier, partially broken down during the week of anxiety about Arthur, had risen up again as impenetrably as ever. How far Sir Conrad Fitzgerald’s appearance upon the scene was to blame for this he could not tell, nor could Monica herself have explained; but there was no mistaking the added coldness on her part, and the sense of restraint experienced in his presence.