Randolph strained his wife close to his heart.
“If he can! Monica, look up; put away these idle fears, my love. Can I not take care of you and of myself? Let us put him for ever out of our lives.”
“Ah! if only we could!” breathed Monica.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.
A SHADOW.
The days that followed were very full of happiness and peace for Monica and her husband. They were alone together in the dim old castle, far away from the busy whirl of life they had so gladly left behind, free to be with each other every moment of the flying hours, learning to know and to love one another with a more perfect comprehending love with each succeeding day.
Not one tiny cloud of reserve or distrust clouded the sunshine of their horizon. Monica had laid before Randolph that unlucky letter of Lady Diana’s, had listened with a sort of mingling of delight and indignation to his comments on the composition—delight to hear that he had always loved her from the first, that in gratifying her father’s desire he had but been gratifying the dearest desire of his own heart—indignation towards the mischief-making relative, who had tried to deceive and humiliate her, who had told her one half of the story and concealed the other.
But indignation was only a momentary feeling. Monica was too happy to cherish resentment. Her anger was but a passing spark.