Let us not judge him—for is there not joy with the angels in heaven over one sinner that repenteth?
Yes, all was over now: all the weary warfare of sin and strife; and with a calm majesty in death, that the beautiful face had never worn in life, Conrad Fitzgerald lay dead in Castle Trevlyn.
“And you forgave him, Monica, you forgave him? The man who had killed your husband?”
It was Beatrice who spoke, and she spoke with a sort of horror in her tone. Tom stood a little apart in the recess of the window, a heavy cloud upon his brow. Lord Haddon was leaning with averted face upon the high carved mantel-shelf.
They had all come over early to Trevlyn to hear the fate of the hapless man who had died in the night. Beatrice felt an unquenchable longing to know if he had spoken before he died—if by chance the terrible secret had escaped in delirium from his lips; and she had insisted on coming with her husband. Her brother, who had arrived unexpectedly the previous evening, had made one of the party. He was hungering for another sight of Monica, and Trevlyn seemed to draw him like a magnet.
Monica’s face had told a tale of its own when she had first appeared; and the whispered question on Beatrice’s lips:
“Did he speak, Monica? Did he say anything?” elicited a reply that led to explanations on both sides, rendering further reserve needless; and Monica told her tale with the quiet calmness of one who has too lately passed through some great mental conflict to be easily disturbed again.
But Beatrice, fiery, impetuous Beatrice, could not understand this calm. She was shaken by a tempest of excitement and wrath.
“You forgave him, Monica? Ah! how could you? Randolph’s murderer!”
“You should not! You should not! It was not—it could not be right! Monica, I cannot understand you. I think you are made of stone!”
She said nothing; she smiled. That smile was only seen by Haddon. It thrilled him to his heart’s core.
“How came you to be with him at all?” said Tom, almost sternly. “It was not your duty to be there. It was no fit place for you.”
“I think my place is where there is sorrow and need and loneliness,” answered Monica, very gently. “He needed me—and I came to him.”
Monica lifted her hand; she rose to her feet, passing her hand across her brow.