She made no effort to see anything of Cecilia Bellamy, her former child-friend, and even when that vivacious little woman sought her out, and tried to strike up a great friendship, she did not respond with any ardour. Mrs. Bellamy, indeed, was not at all a woman that Monica would be inclined to cultivate at this crisis of her life; they had almost nothing in common, but the past was a sort of link that could not entirely be broken. Cecilia appeared to love to talk of Trevlyn; she was always eager to hear the latest news from thence, to recall the by-gone days of childhood, and bring back the light and colour to Monica’s face by reminiscences of the past.
But the young wife tried to be loyal to her husband’s wishes, and was laughed at by her friend for her “old fashioned” ways. Once, when in course of conversation, Conrad’s name was mentioned between them, Monica asked, in her straightforward way, what it was that he had done to draw upon him censure and distrust.
“Why, do you not even know that much? Poor boy! I will tell you all about it. He was very young, and you know we are miserably poor. He got into bad company, and that led him into frightful embarrassments. He got so miserable and desperate at last that I believe his mind was almost unhinged for a time, and in the end,” lowering her voice to a whisper, “he forged a cheque in the name of a rich friend. Of course it was a mad thing to do. He paid his debts, but the fraud was discovered within a few weeks, and you know what might have happened. Colonel Hamilton, however, who had been a kind friend to Conrad before, forgave him, and took no steps against him; and the poor boy was so shocked and humiliated that he quite turned over a new leaf, and has been perfectly steady ever since. He was working hard to pay off the debt, but Colonel Hamilton died before he could do so. Randolph Trevlyn, your husband, my dear, was intimate with the Colonel, and knew all about this. He had always disliked Conrad—I suspect they were rivals once in the affections of some lady, and that he did not get the best of the rivalry—and I always believe it was through him that the story leaked out. At any rate, people did hear something, and poor Conrad got dreadfully cold-shouldered. He had always been wild and reckless, and people are so fond of hitting a man when he is down. But I call it very unkind and unjust, and I did think that an old friend like you would be above it. It hurts Conrad dreadfully to find you so cold to him. I should have thought you would have liked to help him to recover the ground he had lost.”
“That can hardly be my office now,” said Monica, gravely.
“But at least you need not be unkind. I do assure you the poor boy has gone through quite enough, as it is.”
“You have told me the whole truth about his past, Cecilia?” asked Monica, after a brief silence. “There is nothing worse you are keeping back?”
Mrs. Bellamy clasped her hands together with a little gesture of astonished dismay.
“Is not forgery bad enough for you, Monica? What has your husband been telling you? Did you think he had committed a murder?”
Monica left Mrs. Bellamy’s presence somewhat relieved in mind. She was glad to know the secret of Conrad’s past, the cause of her husband’s disdain and distrust of the man. It was natural, she thought, that Randolph, as a friend of Colonel Hamilton’s, should feel deep indignation at the ingratitude and treachery of the fraud, and yet she felt a sort of relief that it was nothing blacker and baser. She had begun to have an undefined feeling, since she had entered somewhat into the tumultuous life of the great world, that there were depths of folly and sin and crime beneath its smooth, polished surface, of whose very existence she had never dreamed before.