Monica, Volume 3 (of 3)

Evelyn Everett-Green

Evelyn Everett-Green

Monica, Volume 3 (of 3) / A Novel

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD.

BEATRICE

“Beatrice, I believe my words are coming true, after all. I begin to think you are getting tired of Trevlyn already.”

It was Monica who spoke thus. She had surprised Beatrice alone in the boudoir at dusk one afternoon, sitting in an attitude of listless dejection, with the undoubted brightness of unshed tears in her eyes.

But the girl looked up quickly, trying to regain all her usual animation, though the attempt was not a marked success, and Monica sat down beside her, and laid one hand upon hers in a sort of mute caress.

“You are not happy with us, Beatrice, I see it more and more plainly every day. You have grown pale since you came here, and your spirits vary every hour, but they do not improve, and you are often sad. I think Trevlyn cannot suit you. I think I shall have to prescribe change of air and scene, and a meeting later on in some other place.”

Monica spoke with a sort of grave gentleness, that indicated a tenderness she could not well express more clearly. For answer, Beatrice suddenly flung herself on her knees before her hostess, burying her face in her hands.

“Oh, don’t send me away, Monica! Don’t send me away! I could not bear it – indeed I could not! I am miserable – I am wretched company. I don’t wonder you are tired of me; but ah! don’t send me away from you, and from Trevlyn. I think I shall die if you do. Oh, why is the world such a hard, cruel place?”

Monica was startled at this sudden outburst, for since the day following her arrival Beatrice had showed herself unusually reserved. She had been distraite, absorbed, fitful in her moods, but never once expansive; therefore, this unexpected impulse towards confidence was the more surprising.

“Beatrice,” she said gently, “I did not mean to distress you. You know how very, very welcome you are to stay with us. But you are unhappy; you are far more unhappy than when you came.”

Beatrice shook her head vehemently at this point, but Monica continued in the same quiet way. “You are unhappy, you are restless and miserable. Beatrice, answer me frankly, would you be happy if Tom Pendrill were not here? He has already outstayed his original time, and we could quite easily get rid of him if his presence is a trouble to you. We never stand on ceremony with Tom, and Randolph could manage it in a moment.”

Beatrice lifted a pale, startled face.

“Tom Pendrill?” she repeated, almost sharply. “What has he got to do with it? What makes you bring in his name? What do you know about – about – ?” She stopped suddenly.

“I know nothing except what I see for myself – nothing but what your face and his tell me. It is easy to see that you have known each other before, and under rather exceptional circumstances, perhaps. Do you think it escapes me, that feverish gaiety of yours whenever he is near – gaiety that is expended in laughing, chatting, flirting, perhaps, with the other guests, but is never by any chance directed to him? Do you think I do not notice how quickly that affectation of high spirits evaporates when he is gone; how many fits of sad musing follow in its wake? How is it you two never talk to one another? never exchange anything beyond the most frigid commonplaces? It is not your way to be so distant and so cool, Beatrice. There must be a reason. Tell me truly, would you not be happier if Tom Pendrill were to go back to St. Maws?”

But Beatrice shook her head again, and heaved a long, shuddering sigh.

“Oh, no, no!” she said. “Don’t send him away. Nothing really matters now; nothing can do either good or harm. Let him stay. I think his heart is made of ice. He does not care; why should I? It is nothing but my folly and weakness, only it brings it all back so bitterly – all my pride, and self-will, and stubbornness. Well, I have suffered for it now.”

It was plain that a confession was hovering on Beatrice’s lips; that she was anxious at last to u