And Mrs. Pendrill was content. She said no more, asked no more questions.
“You know, Randolph,” said Arthur to his kindest of nurses and attendants, as he lay in bed at night, after rather a hard day’s travelling, “I don’t wonder now that you’ve so completely cut me out. I shouldn’t have believed it possible once, but it seems not only possible, but natural enough, now that I know what kind of a fellow you are.”
“What do you mean, my boy?” asked Randolph.
“Mean? Why, what I say to be sure. I understand now why you’ve so completely cut me out with Monica. I only hold quite a subordinate place in her affections now. It is quite right, and I shall never be jealous of you, old fellow; only mind you always let me be her brother. I can’t give up that. You may have all the rest, though. You deserve it, and you’ve got it too, by her own showing.”
Randolph started a little involuntarily.
“What do you mean?”
“Mean? why, that she loves you heart and soul, of course. You must know it as well as I, and I had it from her own lips.”
“My wife, my wife!” said Randolph, as he paced beneath the starry heavens that night. “Then I was not deceived or mistaken—my wife—my Monica—my very own—God bless you, my darling, and bring me safe home to you and to your love!”