Monica, Volume 3 (of 3)

Tom sprang to his feet, and the two stood gazing at one another for a moment in mute surprise.

“You are ill,” said Beatrice; “you are as white as a sheet. What is the matter?”

She spoke anxiously. She looked half frightened at his strange looks; he saw it, and recovered himself instantly. It was perhaps the first time he had ever been taken unawares, and he was not altogether pleased that it had happened now.

“What are you doing out here all alone?” he asked peremptorily.

“What are you doing lying on the ground on a cold January evening?” she retorted. “Do you want to get rheumatic fever, too?”

“Answer my question first. What are you doing out here, miles away from home, with the darkness coming on, too?”

“I lost my way,” she answered carelessly. “I never can keep my bearings in these strange, wild places, where everything looks alike.”

“Then I must take you home,” said Tom shortly.

“You said you were going to dine at St. Maws to-night,” she objected.

“I shall take you home first,” he said.

“It will be ever so much out of your road. Just show me the way. I shall find it fast enough.”

“I dare say – After having lost it in broad daylight. You must come with me. I cannot trust you.”

Beatrice flushed hotly as she turned and walked beside him. Was more meant than met the ear?

“There is not the least need you should,” she said haughtily, and seemed disposed to say no more.

Tom spoke first, spoke in his abrupt peremptory fashion. He was absorbed and distrait. She tried not to feel disappointed at his words.

“Lady Beatrice, is it true that you knew Randolph Trevlyn intimately for many years?”

“Ever since I can remember. He was almost like a brother to us.”

“Do you know if he ever had an enemy?”

Beatrice looked up quickly into his pale face.

“Why do you ask?”

“That is my affair. I do not ask without a reason. Think before you answer – if you can.”

“Randolph was always such a favourite,” she began, but was interrupted by a quick impatient gesture from Tom.

“Don’t chatter,” he said, almost rudely, “think!”

Oddly enough this brusque reminder did not offend her. She saw that Tom’s nerves were all on edge, that they were strung to a painful pitch of tension. She began to catch some of his earnestness and determination.

Beatrice was taken out of herself, and from that moment her manner changed for the better. She thought the matter over in silence.

“I have heard that Sir Conrad Fitzgerald had an old grudge against him.”

“Ah!” breathed Tom softly.

“But I fancied, perhaps, that Monica’s influence had made them friends. Randolph knew some disreputable story connected with Sir Conrad’s past life – Haddon knows more about it than I do – and he always hated him for it.”

“Ah!” said Tom again.

“Why do you ask?” questioned Beatrice again; but he gave her no answer. He was wrapped in deep thought. She looked at him once or twice, but said no more. He was the first to speak, and the question was a little significant.

“You were down on the shore with Monica and Trevlyn that night, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“Was Fitzgerald there, too?”

She looked at him with startled eyes.

“No; certainly not.”

“Can you be sure of that? Was there moon enough to show plainly everything that went on?”

Beatrice put up her hand to her head.

“No,” she answered. “I ought not to have spoken so positively. It was too dark to see anything. There might have been dozens of people there whom I might never have seen. I was much too anxious and excited to keep a sharp look-out – why should I? – and there was not a gleam of moonlight till many minutes after the boat got back, and the confusion was very great all the time. Why do you talk so? Why do you ask such a question?”

She spoke with subdued excitement and insistance.

“Somebody was in that boat unknown to the crew,” he answered significantly.

“Was there?”

“Somebody steered the boat to shore. You do not share, I presume, in the popular belief of the phantom coxswain?”

Beatrice stopped short, trembling and scared.

“You think – ?” but she could only get out those two words; she knew not how to frame the question.

He bent his head. “I do.”

But she put out her hand with a quick, passionate gesture, as if fighting with some hideous phantom.

“Ah! no! no! It could not be. It would be too unspeakably awful – too horrible! How do you know? How can you say such things? What has put such a hideous thought into your mind?”

“I came from standing by Fitzgerald’s bed, listening to his words of wandering, his delirious outbursts. It is plain enough what phantoms are haunting him now – what pictures he is seeing, as he lies in the stupor of drink and opium. He is trying to drown thought and remorse, but he has not succeeded yet.”

Beatrice shuddered strongly, and faltered a little in her walk. Tom took her hand and placed it within his arm.

“You are tired, Beatrice?”