“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?”
“No; but it is so awful. Tom”—calling him so as unconsciously as he had called her Beatrice—“must Monica know this? Oh! it was cruel enough before—but this——”
“She shall never know,” said Tom quickly. “To what end should we add this burden to what she carries now? No one could prove it—it may be nothing more than some sick fancy, engendered by the thought of what might have been. Mind you, I have no moral doubts myself; but the man is practically mad, and no confession or evidence given by him would be accepted. He has fulfilled his vow—he has murdered—practically murdered his foe; but Monica must be spared the knowledge: she must never know.”
“No, never! never!” cried Beatrice; and her voice expressed so much feeling, that Tom turned and looked at her in the fading light.
“Have you a heart after all, Beatrice?” he asked.
She made no answer; her heart beat wildly, answering in its own fashion the question asked, but not in a way that he could hear.
“Beatrice,” rather fiercely, “why did you not marry the marquis?”