He spoke not a word, his face told no tales; but he was musing intently. Where was that half mad fellow, Fitzgerald; who some months ago had seemed on the high-road to drink himself to madness or death? He had not been heard of for some time past; but Tom could not get the question out of his mind.
In the deep silence that reigned in the room every sound could be heard distinctly. Beatrice suddenly started, for they were aware that the door of the music-room had been opened, and that Monica was coming towards them. The girl turned pale, and looked almost frightened. Tom stood up as his hostess appeared, setting his face like a flint.
The long hour that had seemed like a life-time to the wife—the widow—how could they bring themselves to think of her as such?—had left no outward traces upon Monica. Her face was calm and still, and very pale, but it was not convulsed by grief, and her eyes did not look as though they had shed tears, although there was no hardness in their depths. They shone with something of star-like brightness, at once soft and brilliant. The sweet serenity that had long been the habitual expression of her face seemed intensified rather than changed.
“Beatrice,” she said quietly, “where is your brother?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has he not come in?”
“Not that I know of.”
“We must inquire. He has been so many hours gone. I am uneasy about him.”
“Oh, never mind about him,” said Beatrice, quickly. “He will be all right.”
“We must think of him,” she answered. “Tom, it was good of you to come back. What brought you? Did you hear?”