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diff --git a/3096-h/3096-h.htm b/3096-h/3096-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..47352bb --- /dev/null +++ b/3096-h/3096-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16075 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Beatrice, by H. Rider Haggard</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Beatrice, by H. Rider Haggard</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Beatrice</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: H. Rider Haggard</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 27, 2000 [eBook #3096]<br /> +[Most recently updated: April 23, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: John Bickers, Dagny and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEATRICE ***</div> + +<h1>Beatrice</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by H. Rider Haggard</h2> + +<h3>First Published in 1893.</h3> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. A MIST WRAITH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. AT THE BELL ROCK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. A CONFESSION OF FAITH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. OWEN DAVIES AT HOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. A MATRIMONIAL TALE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. EXPLANATORY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. WHAT BEATRICE DREAMED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. LADY HONORIA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. THE WRITING ON THE SAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. GEOFFREY LECTURES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. DRIFTING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. ONLY GOOD-NIGHT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. THE RISING STAR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. BACK AT BRYNGELLY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. THE THIRD APPEAL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. A NIGHT OF STORM</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. A DAWN OF RAIN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. WHAT BEATRICE SWORE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. THE HOUSE OF COMMONS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. I WILL WAIT FOR YOU</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. A WOMAN’S LAST WORD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. AVE ATQUE VALE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. THE DUCHESS’S BALL</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +TO<br/> +<br/> +BEATRICE +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Oh, kind is Death that Life’s long trouble closes,<br/> +Yet at Death’s coming Life shrinks back affright;<br/> +It sees the dark hand,—not that it encloses<br/> +A cup of light.<br/> +<br/> +So oft the Spirit seeing Love draw nigh<br/> +As ‘neath the shadow of destruction, quakes,<br/> +For Self, dark tyrant of the Soul, must die,<br/> +When Love awakes.<br/> +<br/> +Aye, let him die in darkness! But for thee,—<br/> +Breathe thou the breath of morning and be free!”<br/> +<br/> +Rückert. Translated by F. W. B. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2> BEATRICE </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> +A MIST WRAITH</h2> + +<p> +The autumn afternoon was fading into evening. It had been cloudy weather, but +the clouds had softened and broken up. Now they were lost in slowly darkening +blue. The sea was perfectly and utterly still. It seemed to sleep, but in its +sleep it still waxed with the rising tide. The eye could not mark its slow +increase, but Beatrice, standing upon the farthest point of the Dog Rocks, idly +noted that the long brown weeds which clung about their sides began to lift as +the water took their weight, till at last the delicate pattern floated out and +lay like a woman’s hair upon the green depth of sea. Meanwhile a mist was +growing dense and soft upon the quiet waters. It was not blown up from the +west, it simply grew like the twilight, making the silence yet more silent and +blotting away the outlines of the land. Beatrice gave up studying the seaweed +and watched the gathering of these fleecy hosts. +</p> + +<p> +“What a curious evening,” she said aloud to herself, speaking in a +low full voice. “I have not seen one like it since mother died, and that +is seven years ago. I’ve grown since then, grown every way,” and +she laughed somewhat sadly, and looked at her own reflection in the quiet +water. +</p> + +<p> +She could not have looked at anything more charming, for it would have been +hard to find a girl of nobler mien than Beatrice Granger as on this her +twenty-second birthday, she stood and gazed into that misty sea. +</p> + +<p> +Of rather more than middle height, and modelled like a statue, strength and +health seemed to radiate from her form. But it was her face with the stamp of +intellect and power shadowing its woman’s loveliness that must have made +her remarkable among women even more beautiful than herself. There are many +girls who have rich brown hair, like some autumn leaf here and there just +yellowing into gold, girls whose deep grey eyes can grow tender as a +dove’s, or flash like the stirred waters of a northern sea, and whose +bloom can bear comparison with the wilding rose. But few can show a face like +that which upon this day first dawned on Geoffrey Bingham to his sorrow and his +hope. It was strong and pure and sweet as the keen sea breath, and looking on +it one must know that beneath this fair cloak lay a wit as fair. And yet it was +all womanly; here was not the hard sexless stamp of the “cultured” +female. She who owned it was capable of many things. She could love and she +could suffer, and if need be, she could dare or die. It was to be read upon +that lovely brow and face, and in the depths of those grey eyes—that is, +by those to whom the book of character is open, and who wish to study it. +</p> + +<p> +But Beatrice was not thinking of her loveliness as she gazed into the water. +She knew that she was beautiful of course; her beauty was too obvious to be +overlooked, and besides it had been brought home to her in several more or less +disagreeable ways. +</p> + +<p> +“Seven years,” she was thinking, “since the night of the +‘death fog;’ that was what old Edward called it, and so it was. I +was only so high then,” and following her thoughts she touched herself +upon the breast. “And I was happy too in my own way. Why can’t one +always be fifteen, and believe everything one is told?” and she sighed. +“Seven years and nothing done yet. Work, work, and nothing coming out of +the work, and everything fading away. I think that life is very dreary when one +has lost everything, and found nothing, and loves nobody. I wonder what it will +be like in another seven years.” +</p> + +<p> +She covered her eyes with her hands, and then taking them away, once more +looked at the water. Such light as struggled through the fog was behind her, +and the mist was thickening. At first she had some difficulty in tracing her +own likeness upon the glassy surface, but gradually she marked its outline. It +stretched away from her, and its appearance was as though she herself were +lying on her back in the water wrapped about with the fleecy mist. “How +curious it seems,” she thought; “what is it that reflection reminds +me of with the white all round it?” +</p> + +<p> +Next instant she gave a little cry and turned sharply away. She knew now. It +recalled her mother as she had last seen her seven years ago. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> +AT THE BELL ROCK</h2> + +<p> +A mile or more away from where Beatrice stood and saw visions, and further up +the coast-line, a second group of rocks, known from their colour as the Red +Rocks, or sometimes, for another reason, as the Bell Rocks, juts out between +half and three-quarters of a mile into the waters of the Welsh Bay that lies +behind Rumball Point. At low tide these rocks are bare, so that a man may walk +or wade to their extremity, but when the flood is full only one or two of the +very largest can from time to time be seen projecting their weed-wreathed heads +through the wash of the shore-bound waves. In certain sets of the wind and tide +this is a terrible and most dangerous spot in rough weather, as more than one +vessel have learnt to their cost. So long ago as 1780 a three-decker man-of-war +went ashore there in a furious winter gale, and, with one exception, every +living soul on board of her, to the number of seven hundred, was drowned. The +one exception was a man in irons, who came safely and serenely ashore seated +upon a piece of wreckage. Nobody ever knew how the shipwreck happened, least of +all the survivor in irons, but the tradition of the terror of the scene yet +lives in the district, and the spot where the bones of the drowned men still +peep grimly through the sand is not unnaturally supposed to be haunted. Ever +since this catastrophe a large bell (it was originally the bell of the +ill-fated vessel itself, and still bears her name, “H.M.S. +Thunder,” stamped upon its metal) has been fixed upon the highest rock, +and in times of storm and at high tide sends its solemn note of warning booming +across the deep. +</p> + +<p> +But the bell was quiet now, and just beneath it, in the shadow of the rock +whereon it was placed, a man half hidden in seaweed, with which he appeared to +have purposely covered himself, was seated upon a piece of wreck. In appearance +he was a very fine man, big-shouldered and broad limbed, and his age might have +been thirty-five or a little more. Of his frame, however, what between the mist +and the unpleasantly damp seaweed with which he was wreathed, not much was to +be seen. But such light as there was fell upon his face as he peered eagerly +over and round the rock, and glinted down the barrels of the double ten-bore +gun which he held across his knee. It was a striking countenance, with its +brownish eyes, dark peaked beard and strong features, very powerful and very +able. And yet there was a certain softness in the face, which hovered round the +region of the mouth like light at the edge of a dark cloud, hinting at gentle +sunshine. But little of this was visible now. Geoffrey Bingham, +barrister-at-law of the Inner Temple, M.A., was engaged with a very serious +occupation. He was trying to shoot curlew as they passed over his hiding-place +on their way to the mud banks where they feed further along the coast. +</p> + +<p> +Now if there is a thing in the world which calls for the exercise of +man’s every faculty it is curlew shooting in a mist. Perhaps he may wait +for an hour or even two hours and see nothing, not even an oyster-catcher. Then +at last from miles away comes the faint wild call of curlew on the wing. He +strains his eyes, the call comes nearer, but nothing can he see. At last, +seventy yards or more to the right, he catches sight of the flicker of beating +wings, and, like a flash, they are gone. Again a call—the curlew are +flighting. He looks and looks, in his excitement struggling to his feet and +raising his head incautiously far above the sheltering rock. There they come, a +great flock of thirty or more, bearing straight down on him, a hundred yards +off—eighty—sixty—now. Up goes the gun, but alas and alas! +they catch a glimpse of the light glinting on the barrels, and perhaps of the +head behind them, and in another second they have broken and scattered this way +and that way, twisting off like a wisp of gigantic snipe, to vanish with +melancholy cries into the depth of mist. +</p> + +<p> +This is bad, but the ardent sportsman sits down with a groan and waits, +listening to the soft lap of the tide. And then at last virtue is rewarded. +First of all two wild duck come over, cleaving the air like arrows. The mallard +is missed, but the left barrel reaches the duck, and down it comes with a full +and satisfying thud. Hardly have the cartridges been replaced when the wild cry +of the curlew is once more heard—quite close this time. There they are, +looming large against the fog. Bang! down goes the first and lies flapping +among the rocks. Like a flash the second is away to the left. Bang! after him, +and caught him too! Hark to the splash as he falls into the deep water fifty +yards away. And then the mist closes in so densely that shooting is done with +for the day. Well, that right and left has been worth three hours’ wait +in the wet seaweed and the violent cold that may follow—that is, to any +man who has a soul for true sport. +</p> + +<p> +Just such an experience as this had befallen Geoffrey Bingham. He had bagged +his wild duck and his brace of curlew—that is, he had bagged one of them, +for the other was floating in the sea—when a sudden increase in the +density of the mist put a stop to further operations. He shook the wet seaweed +off his rough clothes, and, having lit a short briar pipe, set to work to hunt +for the duck and the first curfew. He found them easily enough, and then, +walking to the edge of the rocks, up the sides of which the tide was gradually +creeping, peered into the mist to see if he could find the other. Presently the +fog lifted a little, and he discovered the bird floating on the oily water +about fifty yards away. A little to the left the rocks ran out in a peak, and +he knew from experience that the tide setting towards the shore would carry the +curlew past this peak. So he went to its extremity, sat down upon a big stone +and waited. All this while the tide was rising fast, though, intent as he was +upon bringing the curlew to bag, he did not pay much heed to it, forgetting +that it was cutting him off from the land. At last, after more than +half-an-hour of waiting, he caught sight of the curlew again, but, as bad luck +would have it, it was still twenty yards or more from him and in deep water. He +was determined, however, to get the bird if he could, for Geoffrey hated +leaving his game, so he pulled up his trousers and set to work to wade towards +it. For the first few steps all went well, but the fourth or fifth landed him +in a hole that wet his right leg nearly up to the thigh and gave his ankle a +severe twist. Reflecting that it would be very awkward if he sprained his ankle +in such a lonely place, he beat a retreat, and bethought him, unless the curlew +was to become food for the dog-fish, that he had better strip bodily and swim +for it. This—for Geoffrey was a man of determined mind—he decided +to do, and had already taken off his coat and waistcoat to that end, when +suddenly some sort of a boat—he judged it to be a canoe from the +slightness of its shape—loomed up in the mist before him. An idea struck +him: the canoe or its occupant, if anybody could be insane enough to come out +canoeing in such water, might fetch the curlew and save him a swim. +</p> + +<p> +“Hi!” he shouted in stentorian tones. “Hullo there!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered a woman’s gentle voice across the waters. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he replied, struggling to get into his waistcoat again, for +the voice told him that he was dealing with some befogged lady, +“I’m sure I beg your pardon, but would you do me a favour? There is +a dead curlew floating about, not ten yards from your boat. If you +wouldn’t mind——” +</p> + +<p> +A white hand was put forward, and the canoe glided on towards the bird. +Presently the hand plunged downwards into the misty waters and the curlew was +bagged. Then, while Geoffrey was still struggling with his waistcoat, the canoe +sped towards him like a dream boat, and in another moment it was beneath his +rock, and a sweet dim face was looking up into his own. +</p> + +<p> +Now let us go back a little (alas! that the privilege should be peculiar to the +recorder of things done), and see how it came about that Beatrice Granger was +present to retrieve Geoffrey Bingham’s dead curlew. +</p> + +<p> +Immediately after the unpleasant idea recorded in the last, or, to be more +accurate, in the first chapter of this comedy, had impressed itself upon +Beatrice’s mind, she came to the conclusion that she had seen enough of +the Dog Rocks for one afternoon. Thereon, like a sensible person, she set +herself to quit them in the same way that she had reached them, namely by means +of a canoe. She got into her canoe safely enough, and paddled a little way out +to sea, with a view of returning to the place whence she came. But the further +she went out, and it was necessary that she should go some way on account of +the rocks and the currents, the denser grew the fog. Sounds came through it +indeed, but she could not clearly distinguish whence they came, till at last, +well as she knew the coast, she grew confused as to whither she was heading. In +this dilemma, while she rested on her paddle staring into the dense surrounding +mist and keeping her grey eyes as wide open as nature would allow, and that was +very wide, she heard the report of a gun behind her to the right. Arguing to +herself that some wild-fowler on the water must have fired it who would be able +to direct her, she turned the canoe round and paddled swiftly in the direction +whence the sound came. Presently she heard the gun again; both barrels were +fired, in there to the right, but some way off. She paddled on vigorously, but +now no more shots came to guide her, therefore for a while her search was +fruitless. At last, however, she saw something looming through the mist ahead; +it was the Red Rocks, though she did not know it, and she drew near with +caution till Geoffrey’s shout broke upon her ears. +</p> + +<p> +She picked up the dead bird and paddled towards the dim figure who was +evidently wrestling with something, she could not see what. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the curlew, sir,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you,” answered the figure on the rock. “I am +infinitely obliged to you. I was just going to swim for it, I can’t bear +losing my game. It seems so cruel to shoot birds for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say that you will not make much use of it now that you have got +it,” said the gentle voice in the canoe. “Curlew are not very good +eating.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is scarcely the point,” replied the Crusoe on the rock. +“The point is to bring them home. <i>Après cela——</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“The birdstuffer?” said the voice. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Crusoe, “the cook——” +</p> + +<p> +A laugh came back from the canoe—and then a question. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, Mr. Bingham, can you tell me where I am? I have quite lost my +reckoning in the mist.” +</p> + +<p> +He started. How did this mysterious young lady in a boat know his name? +</p> + +<p> +“You are at the Red Rocks; there is the bell, that grey thing, +Miss—Miss——” +</p> + +<p> +“Beatrice Granger,” she put in hastily. “My father is the +clergyman of Bryngelly. I saw you when you and Lady Honoria Bingham looked into +the school yesterday. I teach in the school.” She did not tell him, +however, that his face had interested her so much that she had asked his name. +</p> + +<p> +Again he started. He had heard of this young lady. Somebody had told him that +she was the prettiest girl in Wales, and the cleverest, but that her father was +not a gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, taking off his hat in the direction of the canoe. +“Isn’t it a little risky, Miss Granger, for you to be canoeing +alone in this mist?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered frankly, “but I am used to it; I go out +canoeing in all possible weathers. It is my amusement, and after all the risk +does not matter much,” she added, more to herself than to him. +</p> + +<p> +While he was wondering what she meant by that dark saying, she went on quickly: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, Mr. Bingham, I think that you are in more danger than I am. +It must be getting near seven o’clock, and the tide is high at a quarter +to eight. Unless I am mistaken there is by now nearly half a mile of deep water +between you and the shore.” +</p> + +<p> +“My word!” he said. “I forgot all about the tide. What +between the shooting and looking for that curlew, and the mist, it never +occurred to me that it was getting late. I suppose I must swim for it, that is +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she answered earnestly, “it is very dangerous +swimming here; the place is full of sharp rocks, and there is a tremendous +current.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, what is to be done? Will your canoe carry two? If so, +perhaps you would kindly put me ashore?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “it is a double canoe. But I dare not take +you ashore here; there are too many rocks, and it is impossible to see the +ripple on them in this mist. We should sink the canoe. No, you must get in and +I must paddle you home to Bryngelly, that’s all. Now that I know where I +am I think that I can find the way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” he said, “you are very good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” she answered, “you see I must go myself anyhow, +so I shall be glad of your help. It is nearly five miles by water, you know, +and not a pleasant night.” +</p> + +<p> +There was truth in this. Geoffrey was perfectly prepared to risk a swim to the +shore on his own account, but he did not at all like the idea of leaving this +young lady to find her own way back to Bryngelly through the mist and gathering +darkness, and in that frail canoe. He would not have liked it if she had been a +man, for he knew that there was great risk in such a voyage. So after making +one more fruitless suggestion that they should try and reach the shore, taking +the chance of rocks, sunken or otherwise, and then walk home, to which Beatrice +would not consent, he accepted her offer. +</p> + +<p> +“At the least you will allow me to paddle,” he said, as she +skilfully brought the canoe right under his rock, which the tide was now high +enough to allow her to do. +</p> + +<p> +“If you like,” she answered doubtfully. “My hands are a +little sore, and, of course,” with a glance at his broad shoulders, +“you are much stronger. But if you are not used to it I dare say that I +should get on as well as you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” he said sharply. “I will not allow you to paddle +me for five miles.” +</p> + +<p> +She yielded without another word, and very gingerly shifted her seat so that +her back was towards the bow of the canoe, leaving him to occupy the paddling +place opposite to her. +</p> + +<p> +Then he handed her his gun, which, together with the dead birds, she carefully +stowed in the bottom of the frail craft. Next, with great caution, he slid down +the rock till his feet rested in the canoe. +</p> + +<p> +“Be careful or you will upset us,” she said, leaning forward and +stretching out her hand for him to support himself by. +</p> + +<p> +Then it was, as he took it, that he for the first time really saw her face, +with the mist drops hanging to the bent eyelashes, and knew how beautiful it +was. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/> +A CONFESSION OF FAITH</h2> + +<p> +“Are you ready?” he said, recovering himself from the pleasing +shock of this serge-draped vision of the mist. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Beatrice. “You must head straight out to sea for +a little—not too far, for if we get beyond the shelter of Rumball Point +we might founder in the rollers—there are always rollers there—then +steer to the left. I will tell you when. And, Mr. Bingham, please be careful of +the paddle; it has been spliced, and won’t bear rough usage.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he answered, and they started gaily enough, the light +canoe gliding swiftly forward beneath his sturdy strokes. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice was leaning back with her head bent a little forward, so that he could +only see her chin and the sweet curve of the lips above it. But she could see +all his face as it swayed towards her with each motion of the paddle, and she +watched it with interest. It was a new type of face to her, so strong and +manly, and yet so gentle about the mouth—almost too gentle she thought. +What made him marry Lady Honoria? Beatrice wondered; she did not look +particularly gentle, though she was such a graceful woman. +</p> + +<p> +And thus they went on for some time, each wondering about the other and at +heart admiring the other, which was not strange, for they were a very proper +pair, but saying no word till at last, after about a quarter of an hour’s +hard paddling, Geoffrey paused to rest. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you do much of this kind of thing, Miss Granger?” he said with +a gasp, “because it is rather hard work.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. “Ah,” she said, “I thought you would scarcely go +on paddling at that rate. Yes, I canoe a great deal in the summer time. It is +my way of taking exercise, and I can swim well, so I am not afraid of an upset. +At least it has been my way for the last two years since a lady who was staying +here gave me the canoe when she went away. Before that I used to row in a +boat—that is, before I went to college.” +</p> + +<p> +“College? What college? Girton?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, nothing half so grand. It was a college where you get +certificates that you are qualified to be a mistress in a Board school. I wish +it had been Girton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you?”—you are too good for that, he was going to add, but +changed it to—“I think you were as well away. I don’t care +about the Girton stamp; those of them whom I have known are so hard.” +</p> + +<p> +“So much the better for them,” she answered. “I should like +to be hard as a stone; a stone cannot feel. Don’t you think that women +ought to learn, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you learnt anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have taught myself a little and picked up something at the college. +But I have no real knowledge, only a smattering of things.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you know—French and German?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Latin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know something of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Greek?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can read it fairly, but I am not a Greek scholar.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mathematics?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I gave them up. There is no human nature about mathematics. They +work everything to a fixed conclusion that must result. Life is not like that; +what ought to be a square comes out a right angle, and <i>x</i> always equals +an unknown quantity, which is never ascertained till you are dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious!” thought Geoffrey to himself between the strokes of +the paddle, “what an extraordinary girl. A flesh-and-blood blue-stocking, +and a lovely one into the bargain. At any rate I will bowl her out this +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you have read law too?” he said with suppressed sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“I have read some,” she answered calmly. “I like law, +especially Equity law; it is so subtle, and there is such a mass of it built +upon such a small foundation. It is like an overgrown mushroom, and the top +will fall off one day, however hard the lawyers try to prop it up. Perhaps you +can tell me——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m sure I cannot,” he answered. “I’m not a +Chancery man. I am Common law, and <i>I</i> don’t take all knowledge for +<i>my</i> province. You positively alarm me, Miss Granger. I wonder that the +canoe does not sink beneath so much learning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I?” she answered sweetly. “I am glad that I have lived to +frighten somebody. I meant that I like Equity to study; but if I were a +barrister, I would be Common law, because there is so much more life and +struggle about it. Existence is not worth having unless one is struggling with +something and trying to overcome it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, what a reposeful prospect,” said Geoffrey, aghast. He had +certainly never met such a woman as this before. +</p> + +<p> +“Repose is only good when it is earned,” went on the fair +philosopher, “and in order to fit one to earn some more, otherwise it +becomes idleness, and that is misery. Fancy being idle when one has such a +little time to live. The only thing to do is to work and stifle thought. I +suppose that you have a large practice, Mr. Bingham?” +</p> + +<p> +“You should not ask a barrister that question,” he answered, +laughing; “it is like looking at the pictures which an artist has turned +to the wall. No, to be frank, I have not. I have only taken to practising in +earnest during the last two years. Before I was a barrister in name, and that +is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why did you suddenly begin to work?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I lost my prospects, Miss Granger—from necessity, in +short.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she said, with a blush, which of course he +could not see. “I did not mean to be rude. But it is very lucky for you, +is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Some people don’t think so. Why is it lucky?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you will now rise and become a great man, and that is more than +being a rich man.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why do you think that I shall become a great man?” he asked, +stopping paddling in his astonishment and looking at the dim form before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! because it is written on your face,” she answered simply. +</p> + +<p> +Her words rang true; there was no flattery or artifice in them. Geoffrey felt +that the girl was saying just what she thought. +</p> + +<p> +“So you study physiognomy as well,” he said. “Well, Miss +Granger, it is rather odd, considering all things, but I will say to you what I +have never said to any one before. I believe that you are right. I shall rise. +If I live I feel that I have it in me.” +</p> + +<p> +At this point it possibly occurred to Beatrice that, considering the exceeding +brevity of their acquaintance, they were drifting into somewhat confidential +conversation. At any rate, she quickly changed the topic. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you are growing tired,” she said; “but we must +be getting on. It will soon be quite dark and we have still a long way to go. +Look there,” and she pointed seaward. +</p> + +<p> +He looked. The whole bank of mist was breaking up and bearing down on them in +enormous billows of vapour. Presently, these were rolling over them, so +darkening the heavy air that, though the pair were within four feet of each +other, they could scarcely see one another’s faces. As yet they felt no +wind. The dense weight of mist choked the keen, impelling air. +</p> + +<p> +“I think the weather is breaking; we are going to have a storm,” +said Beatrice, a little anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when the mist passed away from them, +and from all the seaward expanse of ocean. Not a wrack of it was left, and in +its place the strong sea-breath beat upon their faces. Far in the west the +angry disc of the sun was sinking into the foam. A great red ray shot from its +bent edge and lay upon the awakened waters, like a path of fire. The ominous +light fell full upon the little boat and full upon Beatrice’s lips. Then +it passed on and lost itself in the deep mists which still swathed the coast. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how beautiful it is!” she cried, raising herself and pointing +to the glory of the dying sun. +</p> + +<p> +“It is beautiful indeed!” he answered, but he looked, not at the +sunset, but at the woman’s face before him, glowing like a saint’s +in its golden aureole. For this also was most beautiful—so beautiful that +it stirred him strangely. +</p> + +<p> +“It is like——” she began, and broke off suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it like?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is like finding truth at last,” she answered, speaking as much +to herself as to him. “Why, one might make an allegory out of it. We +wander in mist and darkness shaping a vague course for home. And then suddenly +the mists are blown away, glory fills the air, and there is no more doubt, only +before us is a splendour making all things clear and lighting us over a +deathless sea. It sounds rather too grand,” she added, with a charming +little laugh; “but there is something in it somewhere, if only I could +express myself. Oh, look!” +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke a heavy storm-cloud rolled over the vanishing rim of the sun. For +a moment the light struggled with the eclipsing cloud, turning its dull edge to +the hue of copper, but the cloud was too strong and the light vanished, leaving +the sea in darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “your allegory would have a dismal end if +you worked it out. It is getting as dark as pitch, and there’s a good +deal in <i>that</i>, if only <i>I</i> could express myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice dropped poetry, and came down to facts in a way that was very +commendable. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a squall coming up, Mr. Bingham,” she said; “you +must paddle as hard as you can. I do not think we are more than two miles from +Bryngelly, and if we are lucky we may get there before the weather +breaks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>if</i> we are lucky,” he said grimly, as he bent himself +to the work. “But the question is where to paddle to—it’s so +dark. Had not we better run for the shore?” +</p> + +<p> +“We are in the middle of the bay now,” she answered, “and +almost as far from the nearest land as we are from Bryngelly, besides it is all +rocks. No, you must go straight on. You will see the Poise light beyond Coed +presently. You know Coed is four miles on the other side of Bryngelly, so when +you see it head to the left.” +</p> + +<p> +He obeyed her, and they neither of them spoke any more for some time. Indeed +the rising wind made conversation difficult, and so far as Geoffrey was +concerned he had little breath left to spare for words. He was a strong man, +but the unaccustomed labour was beginning to tell on him, and his hands were +blistering. For ten minutes or so he paddled on through a darkness which was +now almost total, wondering where on earth he was wending, for it was quite +impossible to see. For all he knew to the contrary, he might be circling round +and round. He had only one thing to direct him, the sweep of the continually +rising wind and the wash of the gathering waves. So long as these struck the +canoe, which now began to roll ominously, on the starboard side, he must, he +thought, be keeping a right course. But in the turmoil of the rising gale and +the confusion of the night, this was no very satisfactory guide. At length, +however, a broad and brilliant flash sprung out across the sea, almost straight +ahead of him. It was the Poise light. +</p> + +<p> +He altered his course a little and paddled steadily on. And now the squall was +breaking. Fortunately, it was not a very heavy one, or their frail craft must +have sunk and they with it. But it was quite serious enough to put them in +great danger. The canoe rose to the waves like a feather, but she was broadside +on, and rise as she would they began to ship a little water. And they had not +seen the worst of it. The weather was still thickening. +</p> + +<p> +Still he held on, though his heart sank within him, while Beatrice said +nothing. Presently a big wave came; he could just see its white crest gleaming +through the gloom, then it was on them. The canoe rose to it gallantly; it +seemed to curl right over her, making the craft roll till Geoffrey thought that +the end had come. But she rode it out, not, however, without shipping more than +a bucket of water. Without saying a word, Beatrice took the cloth cap from her +head and, leaning forward, began to bale as best she could, and that was not +very well. +</p> + +<p> +“This will not do,” he called. “I must keep her head to the +sea or we shall be swamped.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, “keep her head up. We are in great +danger.” +</p> + +<p> +He glanced to his right; another white sea was heaving down on him; he could +just see its glittering crest. With all his force he dug the paddle into the +water; the canoe answered to it; she came round just in time to ride out the +wave with safety, but the paddle <i>snapped</i>. It was already sprung, and the +weight he put upon it was more than it could bear. Right in two it broke, some +nine inches above that blade which at the moment was buried in the water. He +felt it go, and despair took hold of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Great heavens!” he cried, “the paddle is broken.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“You must use the other blade,” she said; “paddle first one +side and then on the other, and keep her head on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Till we sink,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“No, till we are saved—never talk of sinking.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s courage shamed him, and he obeyed her instructions as best he +could. By dint of continually shifting what remained of the paddle from one +side of the canoe to the other, he did manage to keep her head on to the waves +that were now rolling in apace. But in their hearts they both wondered how long +this would last. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got any cartridges?” she asked presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, in my coat pocket,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Give me two, if you can manage it,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +In an interval between the coming of two seas he contrived to slip his hand +into a pocket and transfer the cartridges. Apparently she knew something of the +working of a gun, for presently there was a flash and a report, quickly +followed by another. +</p> + +<p> +“Give me some more cartridges,” she cried. He did so, but nothing +followed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use,” she said at length, “the cartridges are wet. +I cannot get the empty cases out. But perhaps they may have seen or heard them. +Old Edward is sure to be watching for me. You had better throw the rest into +the sea if you can manage it,” she added by way of an afterthought; +“we may have to swim presently.” +</p> + +<p> +To Geoffrey this seemed very probable, and whenever he got a chance he acted on +the hint till at length he was rid of all his cartridges. Just then it began to +rain in torrents. Though it was not warm the perspiration was streaming from +him at every pore, and the rain beating on his face refreshed him somewhat; +also with the rain the wind dropped a little. +</p> + +<p> +But he was becoming tired out and he knew it. Soon he would no longer be able +to keep the canoe straight, and then they must be swamped, and in all human +probability drowned. So this was to be the end of his life and its ambitions. +Before another hour had run its course, he would be rolling to and fro in the +arms of that angry sea. What would his wife Honoria say when she heard the +news, he wondered? Perhaps it would shock her into some show of feeling. And +Effie, his dear little six-year-old daughter? Well, thank God, she was too +young to feel his loss for long. By the time that she was a woman she would +almost have forgotten that she ever had a father. But how would she get on +without him to guide her? Her mother did not love children, and a growing girl +would continually remind her of her growing years. He could not tell; he could +only hope for the best. +</p> + +<p> +And for himself! What would become of him after the short sharp struggle for +life? Should he find endless sleep, or what? He was a Christian, and his life +had not been worse than that of other men. Indeed, though he would have been +the last to think it, he had some redeeming virtues. But now at the end the +spiritual horizon was as dark as it had been at the beginning. There before him +were the Gates of Death, but not yet would they roll aside and show the +traveller what lay beyond their frowning face. How could he tell? Perhaps they +would not open at all. Perhaps he now bade his last farewell to consciousness, +to earth and sky and sea and love and all lovely things. Well, that might be +better than some prospects. At that moment Geoffrey Bingham, in the last agony +of doubt, would gladly have exchanged his hopes of life beyond for a certainty +of eternal sleep. That faith which enables some of us to tread this awful way +with an utter confidence is not a wide prerogative, and, as yet, at any rate, +it was not his, though the time might come when he would attain it. There are +not very many, even among those without reproach, who can lay them down in the +arms of Death, knowing most certainly that when the veil is rent away the +countenance that they shall see will be that of the blessed Guardian of +Mankind. Alas! he could not be altogether sure, and where doubt exists, hope is +but a pin-pricked bladder. He sighed heavily, murmured a little formula of +prayer that had been on his lips most nights during thirty years—he had +learnt it as a child at his mother’s knee—and then, while the +tempest roared around him, gathered up his strength to meet the end which +seemed inevitable. At any rate he would die like a man. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a reaction. His vital forces rose again. He no longer felt fearful, +he only wondered with a strange impersonal wonder, as a man wonders about the +vital affairs of another. Then from wondering about himself he began to wonder +about the girl who sat opposite to him. With the rain came a little lightning, +and by the first flash he saw her clearly. Her beautiful face was set, and as +she bent forward searching the darkness with her wide eyes, it wore, he +thought, an almost defiant air. +</p> + +<p> +The canoe twisted round somewhat. He dug his broken paddle into the water and +once more brought her head on to the sea. Then he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you afraid?” he asked of Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered, “I am not afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that we shall probably be drowned?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know it. They say the death is easy. I brought you here. Forgive +me that. I should have tried to row you ashore as you said.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind me; a man must meet his fate some day. Do not think of me. +But I can’t keep her head on much longer. You had better say your +prayers.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice bent forward till her head was quite near his own. The wind had blown +some of her hair loose, and though he did not seem to notice it at the time, he +remembered afterwards that a lock of it struck him on the face. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot pray,” she said; “I have nothing to pray to. I am +not a Christian.” +</p> + +<p> +The words struck him like a blow. It seemed so awful to think of this proud and +brilliant woman, now balanced on the verge of what she believed to be utter +annihilation. Even the courage that induced her at such a moment to confess her +hopeless state seemed awful. +</p> + +<p> +“Try,” he said with a gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered, “I do not fear to die. Death cannot be +worse than life is for most of us. I have not prayed for years, not +since—well, never mind. I am not a coward. It would be cowardly to pray +now because I may be wrong. If there is a God who knows all, He will understand +that.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey said no more, but laboured at the broken paddle gallantly and with an +ever-failing strength. The lightning had passed away and the darkness was very +great, for the hurrying clouds hid the starlight. Presently a sound arose above +the turmoil of the storm, a crashing thunderous sound towards which the send of +the sea gradually bore them. The sound came from the waves that beat upon the +Bryngelly reef. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are we drifting to?” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Into the breakers, where we shall be lost,” she answered calmly. +“Give up paddling, it is of no use, and try to take off your coat. I have +loosened my skirt. Perhaps we can swim ashore.” +</p> + +<p> +He thought to himself that in the dark and breakers such an event was not +probable, but he said nothing, and addressed himself to the task of getting rid +of his coat and waistcoat—no easy one in that confined space. Meanwhile +the canoe was whirling round and round like a walnut shell upon a flooded +gutter. For some distance before the waves broke upon the reef and rocks they +swept in towards them with a steady foamless swell. On reaching the shallows, +however, they pushed their white shoulders high into the air, curved up and +fell in thunder on the reef. +</p> + +<p> +The canoe rode towards the breakers, sucked upon its course by a swelling sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” called Geoffrey to Beatrice, as stretching out his wet +hand he found her own and took it, for companionship makes death a little +easier. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” she cried, clinging to his hand. “Oh, why did I +bring you into this?” +</p> + +<p> +For in their last extremity this woman thought rather of her companion in peril +than of herself. +</p> + +<p> +One more turn, then suddenly the canoe beneath them was lifted like a straw and +tossed high into the air. A mighty mass of water boiled up beneath it and +around it. Then the foam rushed in, and vaguely Geoffrey knew that they were +wrapped in the curve of a billow. +</p> + +<p> +A swift and mighty rush of water. Crash!—and his senses left him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/> +THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR</h2> + +<p> +This was what had happened. Just about the centre of the reef is a large +flat-topped rock—it may be twenty feet in the square—known to the +Bryngelly fishermen as Table Rock. In ordinary weather, even at high tide, the +waters scarcely cover this rock, but when there is any sea they wash over it +with great violence. On to this rock Geoffrey and Beatrice had been hurled by +the breaker. Fortunately for them it was thickly overgrown with seaweed, which +to some slight extent broke the violence of their fall. As it chanced, Geoffrey +was knocked senseless by the shock; but Beatrice, whose hand he still held, +fell on to him and, with the exception of a few bruises and a shake, escaped +unhurt. +</p> + +<p> +She struggled to her knees, gasping. The water had run off the rock, and her +companion lay quiet at her side. She put down her face and called into his ear, +but no answer came, and then she knew that he was either dead or senseless. +</p> + +<p> +At this second Beatrice caught a glimpse of something white gleaming in the +darkness. Instinctively she flung herself upon her face, gripping the long +tough seaweed with one hand. The other she passed round the body of the +helpless man beside her, straining him with all her strength against her side. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a wild long rush of foam. The water lifted her from the rock, but the +seaweed held, and when at length the sea had gone boiling by, Beatrice found +herself and the senseless form of Geoffrey once more lying side by side. She +was half choked. Desperately she struggled up and round, looking shoreward +through the darkness. Heavens! there, not a hundred yards away, a light shone +upon the waters. It was a boat’s light, for it moved up and down. She +filled her lungs with air and sent one long cry for help ringing across the +sea. A moment passed and she thought that she heard an answer, but because of +the wind and the roar of the breakers she could not be sure. Then she turned +and glanced seaward. Again the foaming terror was rushing down upon them; again +she flung herself upon the rock and grasping the slippery seaweed twined her +left arm about the helpless Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +It was on them. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, horror! Even in the turmoil of the boiling waters Beatrice felt the seaweed +give. Now they were being swept along with the rushing wave, and Death drew +very near. But still she clung to Geoffrey. Once more the air touched her face. +She had risen to the surface and was floating on the stormy water. The wave had +passed. Loosing her hold of Geoffrey she slipped her hand upwards, and as he +began to sink clutched him by the hair. Then treading water with her feet, for +happily for them both she was as good a swimmer as could be found upon that +coast, she managed to open her eyes. There, not sixty yards away, was the +boat’s light. Oh, if only she could reach it. She spat the salt water +from her mouth and once more cried aloud. The light seemed to move on. +</p> + +<p> +Then another wave rolled forward and once more she was pushed down into the +cruel depths, for with that dead weight hanging to her she could not keep above +them. It flashed into her mind that if she let him go she might even now save +herself, but even in that last terror this Beatrice would not do. If he went, +she would go with him. +</p> + +<p> +It would have been better if she had let him go. +</p> + +<p> +Down she went—down, down! “I will hold him,” Beatrice said in +her heart; “I will hold him till I die.” Then came waves of light +and a sound as of wind whispering through the trees, and—all grew dark. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +“I tell yer it ain’t no good, Eddard,” shouted a man in the +boat to an old sailor who was leaning forward in the bows peering into the +darkness. “We shall be right on to the Table Rocks in a minute and all +drown together. Put about, mate—put about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn yer,” screamed the old man, turning so that the light from +the lantern fell on his furrowed, fiercely anxious face and long white hair +streaming in the wind. “Damn yer, ye cowards. I tells yer I heard her +voice—I heard it twice screaming for help. If you put the boat about, by +Goad when I get ashore I’ll kill yer, ye lubbers—old man as I am +I’ll kill yer, if I swing for it!” +</p> + +<p> +This determined sentiment produced a marked effect upon the boat’s crew; +there were eight of them altogether. They did not put the boat about, they only +lay upon their oars and kept her head to the seas. +</p> + +<p> +The old man in the bow peered out into the gloom. He was shaking, not with cold +but with agitation. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he turned his head with a yell. +</p> + +<p> +“Give way—give way! there’s something on the wave.” +</p> + +<p> +The men obeyed with a will. +</p> + +<p> +“Back,” he roared again—“back water!” +</p> + +<p> +They backed, and the boat answered, but nothing was to be seen. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s gone! Oh, Goad, she’s gone!” groaned the old +man. “You may put about now, lads, and the Lord’s will be +done.” +</p> + +<p> +The light from the lantern fell in a little ring upon the seething water. +Suddenly something white appeared in the centre of this illuminated ring. +Edward stared at it. It was floating upwards. It vanished—it appeared +again. It was a woman’s face. With a yell he plunged his arms into the +sea. +</p> + +<p> +“I have her—lend an hand, lads.” +</p> + +<p> +Another man scrambled forward and together they clutched the object in the +water. +</p> + +<p> +“Look out, don’t pull so hard, you fool. Blow me if there +ain’t another and she’s got him by the hair. So, <i>steady, +steady!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +A long heave from strong arms and the senseless form of Beatrice was on the +gunwale. Then they pulled up Geoffrey beside her, for they could not loose her +desperate grip of his dark hair, and together rolled them into the boat. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re dead, I doubt,” said the second man. +</p> + +<p> +“Help turn ‘em on their faces over the seat, so—let the water +drain from their innards. It’s the only chance. Now give me that sail to +cover them—so. You’ll live yet, Miss Beatrice, you ain’t +dead, I swear. Old Eddard has saved you, Old Eddard and the good Goad +together!” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the boat had been got round, and the men were rowing for Bryngelly as +warm-hearted sailors will when life is at stake. They all knew Beatrice and +loved her, and they remembered it as they rowed. The gloom was little hindrance +to them for they could almost have navigated the coast blindfold. Besides here +they were sheltered by the reef and shore. +</p> + +<p> +In five minutes they were round a little headland, and the lights of Bryngelly +were close before them. On the beach people were moving about with lanterns. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they were there, hanging on their oars for a favourable wave to beach +with. At last it came, and they gave way together, running the large boat half +out of the surf. A dozen men plunged into the water and dragged her on. They +were safe ashore. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got Miss Beatrice?” shouted a voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, we’ve got her and another too, but I doubt they’re gone. +Where’s doctor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, here!” answered a voice. “Bring the stretchers.” +</p> + +<p> +A stout thick-set man, who had been listening, wrapped up in a dark cloak, +turned his face away and uttered a groan. Then he followed the others as they +went to work, not offering to help, but merely following. +</p> + +<p> +The stretchers were brought and the two bodies laid upon them, face downwards +and covered over. +</p> + +<p> +“Where to?” said the bearers as they seized the poles. +</p> + +<p> +“The Vicarage,” answered the doctor. “I told them to get +things ready there in case they should find her. Run forward one of you and say +that we are coming.” +</p> + +<p> +The men started at a trot and the crowd ran after them. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is the other?” somebody asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Bingham—the tall lawyer who came down from London the other +day. Tell policeman—run to his wife. She’s at Mrs. Jones’s, +and thinks he has lost his way in the fog coming home from Bell Rock.” +</p> + +<p> +The policeman departed on his melancholy errand and the procession moved +swiftly across the sandy beach and up the stone-paved way by which boats were +dragged down the cliff to the sea. The village of Bryngelly lay to the right. +It had grown away from the church, which stood dangerously near the edge of the +cliff. On the further side of the church, and a little behind it, partly +sheltered from the sea gales by a group of stunted firs, was the Vicarage, a +low single-storied stone-roofed building, tenanted for twenty-five years past +and more by Beatrice’s father, the Rev. Joseph Granger. The best approach +to it from the Bryngelly side was by the churchyard, through which the men with +the stretchers were now winding, followed by the crowd of sightseers. +</p> + +<p> +“Might as well leave them here at once,” said one of the bearers to +the other in Welsh. “I doubt they are both dead enough.” +</p> + +<p> +The person addressed assented, and the thick-set man wrapped in a dark cloak, +who was striding along by Beatrice’s stretcher, groaned again. Clearly, +he understood the Welsh tongue. A few seconds more and they were passing +through the stunted firs up to the Vicarage door. In the doorway stood a group +of people. The light from a lamp in the hall struck upon them, throwing them +into strong relief. Foremost, holding a lantern in his hand, was a man of about +sixty, with snow-white hair which fell in confusion over his rugged forehead. +He was of middle height and carried himself with something of a stoop. The eyes +were small and shifting, and the mouth hard. He wore short whiskers which, +together with the eyebrows, were still tinged with yellow. The face was ruddy +and healthy looking, indeed, had it not been for the dirty white tie and shabby +black coat, one would have taken him to be what he was in heart, a farmer of +the harder sort, somewhat weather-beaten and anxious about the times—a +man who would take advantage of every drop in the rate of wages. In fact he was +Beatrice’s father, and a clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +By his side, and leaning over him, was Elizabeth, her elder sister. There was +five years between them. She was a poor copy of Beatrice, or, to be more +accurate, Beatrice was a grand development of Elizabeth. They both had brown +hair, but Elizabeth’s was straighter and faint-coloured, not rich and +ruddying into gold. Elizabeth’s eyes were also grey, but it was a cold +washed-out grey like that of a February sky. And so with feature after feature, +and with the expression also. Beatrice’s was noble and open, if at times +defiant. Looking at her you knew that she might be a mistaken woman, or a +headstrong woman, or both, but she could never be a mean woman. Whichever of +the ten commandments she might choose to break, it would not be that which +forbids us to bear false witness against our neighbour. Anybody might read it +in her eyes. But in her sister’s, he might discern her father’s +shifty hardness watered by woman’s weaker will into something like +cunning. For the rest Elizabeth had a very fair figure, but lacked her +sister’s rounded loveliness, though the two were so curiously alike that +at a distance you might well mistake the one for the other. One might almost +fancy that nature had experimented upon Elizabeth before she made up her mind +to produce Beatrice, just to get the lines and distances. The elder sister was +to the other what the pale unfinished model of clay is to the polished statue +in ivory and gold. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God! my God!” groaned the old man; “look, they have +got them on the stretchers. They are both dead. Oh, Beatrice! Beatrice! and +only this morning I spoke harshly to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be so foolish, father,” said Elizabeth sharply. +“They may only be insensible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ah,” he answered; “it does not matter to you, <i>you</i> +don’t care about your sister. You are jealous of her. But I love her, +though we do not understand each other. Here they come. Don’t stand +staring there. Go and see that the blankets and things are hot. Stop, doctor, +tell me, is she dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell till I have seen her?” the doctor answered, roughly +shaking him off, and passing through the door. +</p> + +<p> +Bryngelly Vicarage was a very simply constructed house. On entering the visitor +found himself in a passage with doors to the right and left. That to the right +led to the sitting-room, that to the left to the dining-room, both of them +long, low and narrow chambers. Following the passage down for some seven paces, +it terminated in another which ran at right angles to it for the entire length +of the house. On the further side of this passage were several bedroom doors +and a room at each end. That at the end to the right was occupied by Beatrice +and her sister, the next was empty, the third was Mr. Granger’s, and the +fourth the spare room. This, with the exception of the kitchens and +servants’ sleeping place, which were beyond the dining-room, made up the +house. +</p> + +<p> +Fires had been lit in both of the principal rooms. Geoffrey was taken into the +dining-room and attended by the doctor’s assistant, and Beatrice into the +sitting-room, and attended by the doctor himself. In a few seconds the place +had been cleared of all except the helpers, and the work began. The doctor +looked at Beatrice’s cold shrunken form, and at the foam upon her lips. +He lifted the eyelid, and held a light before the contracted pupil. Then he +shook his head and set to work with a will. We need not follow him through the +course of his dreadful labours, with which most people will have some +acquaintance. Hopeless as they seemed, he continued them for hour after hour. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the assistant and some helpers were doing the same service for +Geoffrey Bingham, the doctor himself, a thin clever-looking man, occasionally +stepping across the passage to direct them and see how things were getting on. +Now, although Geoffrey had been in the water the longer, his was by far the +better case, for when he was immersed he was already insensible, and a person +in this condition is very hard to drown. It is your struggling, fighting, +breathing creature who is soonest made an end of in deep waters. Therefore it +came to pass that when the scrubbing with hot cloths and the artificial +respiration had gone on for somewhere about twenty minutes, Geoffrey suddenly +crooked a finger. The doctor’s assistant, a buoyant youth fresh from the +hospitals, gave a yell of exultation, and scrubbed and pushed away with +ever-increasing energy. Presently the subject coughed, and a minute later, as +the agony of returning life made itself felt, he swore most heartily. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s all right now!” called the assistant to his employer. +“He’s swearing beautifully.” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Chambers, pursuing his melancholy and unpromising task in the other room, +smiled sadly, and called to the assistant to continue the treatment, which he +did with much vigour. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Geoffrey came partially to life, still suffering torments. The first +thing he grew aware of was that a tall elegant woman was standing over him, +looking at him with a half puzzled and half horrified air. Vaguely he wondered +who it might be. The tall form and cold handsome face were so familiar to him, +and yet he could not recall the name. It was not till she spoke that his numbed +brain realized that he was looking on his own wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear,” she said, “I am so glad that you are better. +You frightened me out of my wits. I thought you were drowned.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Honoria,” he said faintly, and then groaned as a fresh +attack of tingling pain shook him through and through. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope nobody said anything to Effie,” Geoffrey said presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the child would not go to bed because you were not back, and when +the policeman came she heard him tell Mrs. Jones that you were drowned, and she +has been almost in a fit ever since. They had to hold her to prevent her from +running here.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey’s white face assumed an air of the deepest distress. “How +could you frighten the child so?” he murmured. “Please go and tell +her that I am all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was not my fault,” said Lady Honoria with a shrug of her +shapely shoulders. “Besides, I can do nothing with Effie. She goes on +like a wild thing about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please go and tell her, Honoria,” said her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, I’ll go,” she answered. “Really I shall not +be sorry to get out of this; I begin to feel as though I had been drowned +myself;” and she looked at the steaming cloths and shuddered. +“Good-bye, Geoffrey. It is an immense relief to find you all right. The +policeman made me feel quite queer. I can’t get down to give you a kiss +or I would. Well, good-bye for the present, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Honoria,” said her husband with a faint smile. +</p> + +<p> +The medical assistant looked a little surprised. He had never, it is true, +happened to be present at a meeting between husband and wife, when one of the +pair had just been rescued by a hair’s-breadth from a violent and sudden +death, and therefore wanted experience to go on. But it struck him that there +was something missing. The lady did not seem to him quite to fill the part of +the Heaven-thanking spouse. It puzzled him very much. Perhaps he showed this in +his face. At any rate, Lady Honoria, who was quick enough, read something +there. +</p> + +<p> +“He is safe now, is he not?” she asked. “It will not matter +if I go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lady,” answered the assistant, “he is out of danger, +I think; it will not matter at all.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria hesitated a little; she was standing in the passage. Then she +glanced through the door into the opposite room, and caught a glimpse of +Beatrice’s rigid form and of the doctor bending over it. Her head was +thrown back and the beautiful brown hair, which was now almost dry again, +streamed in masses to the ground, while on her face was stamped the terrifying +seal of Death. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria shuddered. She could not bear such sights. “Will it be +necessary for me to come back to-night?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think so,” he answered, “unless you care to hear +whether Miss Granger recovers?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall hear that in the morning,” she said. “Poor thing, I +cannot help her.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Lady Honoria, you cannot help her. She saved your husband’s +life, they say.” +</p> + +<p> +“She must be a brave girl. Will she recover?” +</p> + +<p> +The assistant shook his head. “She may, possibly. It is not likely +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor thing, and so young and beautiful! What a lovely face, and what an +arm! It is very awful for her,” and Lady Honoria shuddered again and +went. +</p> + +<p> +Outside the door a small knot of sympathisers was still gathered, +notwithstanding the late hour and the badness of the weather. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s his wife,” said one, and they opened to let her pass. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why don’t she stop with him?” asked a woman audibly. +“If it had been my husband I’d have sat and hugged him for an +hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, you’d have killed him with your hugging, you would,” +somebody answered. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria passed on. Suddenly a thick-set man emerged from the shadow of the +pines. She could not see his face, but he was wrapped in a large cloak. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me,” he said in the hoarse voice of one struggling with +emotions which he was unable to conceal, “but you can tell me. Does she +still live?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean Miss Granger?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course. Beatrice—Miss Granger?” +</p> + +<p> +“They do not know, but they think——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes—they think——” +</p> + +<p> +“That she is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +The man said never a word. He dropped his head upon his breast and, turning, +vanished again into the shadow of the pines. +</p> + +<p> +“How very odd,” thought Lady Honoria as she walked rapidly along +the cliff towards her lodging. “I suppose that man must be in love with +her. Well, I do not wonder at it. I never saw such a face and arm. What a +picture that scene in the room would make! She saved Geoffrey and now +she’s dead. If he had saved her I should not have wondered. It is like a +scene in a novel.” +</p> + +<p> +From all of which it will be seen that Lady Honoria was not wanting in certain +romantic and artistical perceptions. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br/> +ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL</h2> + +<p> +Geoffrey, lying before the fire, newly hatched from death, had caught some of +the conversation between his wife and the assistant who had recovered him to +life. So she was gone, that brave, beautiful atheist girl—gone to test +the truth. And she had saved his life! +</p> + +<p> +For some minutes the assistant did not enter. He was helping in another room. +At last he came. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you say to Lady Honoria?” Geoffrey asked feebly. +“Did you say that Miss Granger had saved me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Bingham; at least they tell me so. At any rate, when they +pulled her out of the water they pulled you after her. She had hold of your +hair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Great heavens!” he groaned, “and my weight must have dragged +her down. Is she dead, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“We cannot quite say yet, not for certain. We think that she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray God she is not dead,” he said more to himself than to the +other. Then aloud—“Leave me; I am all right. Go and help with her. +But stop, come and tell me sometimes how it goes with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. I will send a woman to watch you,” and he went. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile in the other room the treatment of the drowned went slowly on. Two +hours had passed, and as yet Beatrice showed no signs of recovery. The heart +did not beat, no pulse stirred; but, as the doctor knew, life might still +linger in the tissues. Slowly, very slowly, the body was turned to and fro, the +head swaying, and the long hair falling now this way and now that, but still no +sign. Every resource known to medical skill, such as hot air, rubbing, +artificial respiration, electricity, was applied and applied in vain, but still +no sign! +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth, pale and pinched, stood by handing what might be required. She did +not greatly love her sister, they were antagonistic and their interests +clashed, or she thought they did, but this sudden death was awful. In a corner, +pitiful to see, offering groans and ejaculated prayers to heaven, sat the old +clergymen, their father, his white hair about his eyes. He was a weak, +coarse-grained man, but in his own way his clever and beautiful girl was dear +to him, and this sight wrung his soul as it had not been wrung for years. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s gone,” he said continually, “she’s gone; +the Lord’s will be done. There must be another mistress at the school +now. Seventy pounds a year she will cost—seventy pounds a year!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do be quiet, father,” said Elizabeth sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, it is very well for you to tell me to be quiet. You are quiet +because you don’t care. You never loved your sister. But I have loved her +since she was a little fair-haired child, and so did your poor mother. +‘Beatrice’ was the last word she spoke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be quiet, father!” said Elizabeth, still more sharply. The old +man, making no reply, sank back into a semi-torpor, rocking himself to and fro +upon his chair. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile without intermission the work went on. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use,” said the assistant at last, as he straightened his +weary frame and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “She must be dead; +we have been at it nearly three hours now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Patience,” said the doctor. “If necessary I shall go on for +four—or till I drop,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes more passed. Everybody knew that the task was hopeless, but still +they hoped. +</p> + +<p> +“Great Heavens!” said the assistant presently, starting back from +the body and pointing at its face. “Did you see that?” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth and Mr. Granger sprang to their feet, crying, “What, +what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sit still, sir,” said the doctor, waving them back. Then +addressing his helper, and speaking in a constrained voice: “I thought I +saw the right eyelid quiver, Williams. Pass the battery.” +</p> + +<p> +“So did I,” answered Williams as he obeyed. +</p> + +<p> +“Full power,” said the doctor again. “It is kill or cure +now.” +</p> + +<p> +The shock was applied for some seconds without result. Then suddenly a long +shudder ran up the limbs, and a hand stirred. Next moment the eyes were opened, +and with pain and agony Beatrice drew a first breath of returning life. Ten +minutes more and she had passed through the gates of Death back to this warm +and living world. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me die,” she gasped faintly. “I cannot bear it. Oh, let +me die!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said the doctor; “you will be better +presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes more passed, when the doctor saw by her eyes that Beatrice wished +to say something. He bent his head till it nearly touched her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Chambers,” she whispered, “was he drowned?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he is safe; he has been brought round.” +</p> + +<p> +She sighed—a long-drawn sigh, half of pain, half of relief. Then she +spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Was he washed ashore?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. You saved his life. You had hold of him when they pulled you +out. Now drink this and go to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice smiled sweetly, but said nothing. Then she drank as much of the +draught as she could, and shortly afterwards obeyed the last injunction also, +and went to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile a rumour of this wonderful recovery had escaped to without the +house—passing from one watcher to the other till at length it reached the +ears of the solitary man crouched in the shadow of the pines. He heard, and +starting as though he had been shot, strode to the door of the Vicarage. Here +his courage seemed to desert him, for he hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Knock, squire, knock, and ask if it is true,” said a woman, the +same who had declared that she would have hugged her husband back to life. +</p> + +<p> +This remark seemed to encourage the man, at any rate he did knock. Presently +the door was opened by Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Go away,” she said in her sharp voice; “the house must be +kept quiet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Miss Granger,” said the visitor, in a tone of +deep humiliation. “I only wanted to know if it was true that Miss +Beatrice lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said Elizabeth with a start, “is it you, Mr. Davies? I +am sure I had no idea. Step into the passage and I will shut the door. There! +How long have you been outside?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, since they brought them up. But is it true?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, it is true. She will recover now. And you have stood all this +time in the wet night. I am sure that Beatrice ought to be flattered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. It seemed so awful, and—I—I take such an +interest——” and he broke off. +</p> + +<p> +“Such an interest in Beatrice,” said Elizabeth drily, supplying the +hiatus. “Yes, so it seems,” and suddenly, as though by chance, she +moved the candle which she held, in such fashion that the light fell full upon +Owen Davies’ face. It was a slow heavy countenance, but not without +comeliness. The skin was fresh as a child’s, the eyes were large, blue, +and mild, and the brown hair grew in waves that many a woman might have envied. +Indeed had it not been for a short but strongly growing beard, it would have +been easy to believe that the countenance was that of a boy of nineteen rather +than of a man over thirty. Neither time nor care had drawn a single line upon +it; it told of perfect and robust health and yet bore the bloom of childhood. +It was the face of a man who might live to a hundred and still look young, nor +did the form belie it. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Davies blushed up to his eyes, blushed like a girl beneath +Elizabeth’s scrutiny. “Naturally I take an interest in a +neighbour’s fate,” he said, in his slow deliberate way. “She +is quite safe, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so,” answered Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” he said, or rather it seemed to break from him in a +sigh of relief. “How did the gentleman, Mr. Bingham, come to be found +with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“How should I know?” she answered with a shrug. “Beatrice +saved his life somehow, clung fast to him even after she was insensible.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very wonderful. I never heard of such a thing. What is he +like?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is one of the finest-looking men I ever saw,” answered +Elizabeth, always watching him. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah. But he is married, I think, Miss Granger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, he is married to the daughter of a peer, very much +married—and very little, I should say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand, Miss Granger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you, Mr. Davies? then use your eyes when you see them +together.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should not see anything. I am not quick like you,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you mean to get back to the Castle to-night, Mr. Davies? You +cannot row back in this wind, and the seas will be breaking over the +causeway.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I shall manage. I am wet already. An extra ducking won’t hurt +me, and I have had a chain put up to prevent anybody from being washed away. +And now I must be going. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Mr. Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated a moment and then added: “Would you—would you mind +telling your sister—of course I mean when she is stronger—that I +came to inquire after her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you can do that for yourself, Mr. Davies,” Elizabeth +said almost roughly. “I mean it will be more appreciated,” and she +turned upon her heel. +</p> + +<p> +Owen Davies ventured no further remarks. He felt that Elizabeth’s manner +was a little crushing, and he was afraid of her as well. “I suppose that +she does not think I am good enough to pay attention to her sister,” he +thought to himself as he plunged into the night and rain. “Well, she is +quite right—I am not fit to black her boots. Oh, God, I thank Thee that +Thou hast saved her life. I thank Thee—I thank Thee!” he went on, +speaking aloud to the wild winds as he made his way along the cliff. “If +she had been dead, I think that I must have died too. Oh, God, I thank +Thee—I thank Thee!” +</p> + +<p> +The idea that Owen Davies, Esq., J.P., D.L., of Bryngelly Castle, absolute +owner of that rising little watering-place, and of one of the largest and most +prosperous slate quarries in Wales, worth in all somewhere between seven and +ten thousand a year, was unfit to black her beautiful sister’s boots, was +not an idea that had struck Elizabeth Granger. Had it struck her, indeed, it +would have moved her to laughter, for Elizabeth had a practical mind. +</p> + +<p> +What did strike her, as she turned and watched the rich squire’s sturdy +form vanish through the doorway into the dark beyond, was a certain sense of +wonder. Supposing she had never seen that shiver of returning life run up those +white limbs, supposing that they had grown colder and colder, till at length it +was evident that death was so firmly citadelled within the silent heart, that +no human skill could beat his empire back? What then? Owen Davies loved her +sister; this she knew and had known for years. But would he not have got over +it in time? Would he not in time have been overpowered by the sense of his own +utter loneliness and given his hand, if not his heart, to some other woman? And +could not she who held his hand learn to reach his heart? And to whom would +that hand have been given, the hand and all that went with it? What woman would +this shy Welsh hermit, without friends or relations, have ever been thrown in +with except herself—Elizabeth—who loved him as much as she could +love anybody, which, perhaps, was not very much; who, at any rate, desired +sorely to be his wife. Would not all this have come about if she had never seen +that eyelid tremble, and that slight quiver run up her sister’s limbs? It +would—she knew it would. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth thought of it as for a moment she stood in the passage, and a cold +hungry light came into her neutral tinted eyes and shone upon her pale face. +But she choked back the thought; she was scarcely wicked enough to wish that +her sister had not been brought back to life. She only speculated on what might +have happened if this had come about, just as one works out a game of chess +from a given hypothetical situation of the pieces. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps, too, the same end might be gained in some other way. Perhaps Mr. +Davies might still be weaned from his infatuation. The wall was difficult, but +it would have to be very difficult if she could not find a way to climb it. It +never occurred to Elizabeth that there might be an open gate. She could not +conceive it possible that a woman might positively reject Owen Davies and his +seven or ten thousand a year, and that woman a person in an unsatisfactory and +uncongenial, almost in a menial position. Reject Bryngelly Castle with all its +luxury and opportunities of wealth and leisure? No, the sun would set in the +east before such a thing happened. The plan was to prevent the occasion from +arising. The hungry light died on Elizabeth’s face, and she turned to +enter the sick room when suddenly she met her father coming out. +</p> + +<p> +“Who was that at the front?” he asked, carefully closing the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Davies of Bryngelly Castle, father.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did Mr. Davies want at this time of night? To know about +Beatrice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered slowly, “he came to ask after Beatrice, +or to be more correct he has been waiting outside for three hours in the rain +to learn if she recovered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Waiting outside for three hours in the rain,” said the clergyman +astonished—“Squire Davies standing outside the house! What +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he was so anxious about Beatrice and did not like to come in, I +suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“So anxious about Beatrice—ah, so anxious about Beatrice! Do you +think, Elizabeth—um—you know there is no doubt Beatrice is very +well favoured—very handsome they say——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think anything about it, father,” she answered, +“and as for Beatrice’s looks they are a matter of opinion. I have +mine. And now don’t you think we had better go to bed? The doctors and +Betty are going to stop up all night with Mr. Bingham and Beatrice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Elizabeth, I suppose that we had better go. I am sure we have much +to be thankful for to-night. What a merciful deliverance! And if poor Beatrice +had gone the parish must have found another schoolmistress, and it would have +meant that we lost the salary. We have a great deal to be thankful for, +Elizabeth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Elizabeth, very deliberately, “we have.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br/> +OWEN DAVIES AT HOME</h2> + +<p> +Owen Davies tramped along the cliff with a light heart. The wild lashing of the +rain and the roaring of the wind did not disturb him in the least. They were +disagreeable, but he accepted them as he accepted existence and all its +vanities, without remark or mental comment. There is a class of mind of which +this is the prevailing attitude. Very early in their span of life, those +endowed with such a mind come to the conclusion that the world is too much for +them. They cannot understand it, so they abandon the attempt, and, as a +consequence, in their own torpid way they are among the happiest and most +contented of men. Problems, on which persons of keener intelligence and more +aspiring soul fret and foam their lives away as rushing water round a rock, do +not even break the placid surface of their days. Such men slip past them. They +look out upon the stars and read of the mystery of the universe speeding on for +ever through the limitless wastes of space, and are not astonished. In their +childhood they were taught that God made the sun and the stars to give light on +the earth; that is enough for them. And so it is with everything. Poverty and +suffering; war, pestilence, and the inequalities of fate; madness, life and +death, and the spiritual wonders that hedge in our being, are things not to be +inquired into but accepted. So they accept them as they do their dinner or a +tradesman’s circular. +</p> + +<p> +In some cases this mental state has its root in deep and simple religious +convictions, and in some it springs from a preponderance of healthful animal +instincts over the higher but more troublesome spiritual parts. The ox chewing +the cud in the fresh meadow does not muse upon the past and future, and the +gull blown like a foam-flake out against the sunset, does not know the +splendour of the sky and sea. Even the savage is not much troubled about the +scheme of things. In the beginning he was “torn out of the reeds,” +and in the end he melts into the Unknown, and for the rest, there are beef and +wives, and foes to conquer. But then oxen and gulls are not, so far as we know, +troubled with any spiritual parts at all, and in the noble savage such things +are not cultivated. They come with civilization. +</p> + +<p> +But perhaps in the majority this condition, so necessary to the more placid +forms of happiness, is born of a conjunction of physical and religious +developments. So it was, at least, with the rich and fortunate man whom we have +seen trudging along the wind-swept cliff. By nature and education he was of a +strongly and simply religious mind, as he was in body powerful, placid, and +healthy to an exasperating degree. It may be said that it is easy to be +religious and placid on ten thousand a year, but Owen Davies had not always +enjoyed ten thousand a year and one of the most romantic and beautiful seats in +Wales. From the time he was seventeen, when his mother’s death left him +an orphan, till he reached the age of thirty, some six years from the date of +the opening of this history, he led about as hard a life as fate could find for +any man. Some people may have heard of sugar drogers, or sailing brigs, which +trade between this country and the West Indies, carrying coal outwards and +sugar home. +</p> + +<p> +On board one of these, Owen Davies worked in various capacities for thirteen +long years. He did his drudgery well; but he made no friends, and always +remained the same shy, silent, and pious man. Then suddenly a relation died +without a will, and he found himself heir-in-law to Bryngelly Castle and all +its revenues. Owen expressed no surprise, and to all appearance felt none. He +had never seen his relation, and never dreamed of this romantic devolution of +great estates upon himself. But he accepted the good fortune as he had accepted +the ill, and said nothing. The only people who knew him were his shipmates, and +they could scarcely be held to know him. They were acquainted with his +appearance and the sound of his voice, and his method of doing his duty. Also, +they were aware, although he never spoke of religion, that he read a chapter of +the Bible every evening, and went to church whenever they touched at a port. +But of his internal self they were in total ignorance. This did not, however, +prevent them from prophesying that Davies was a “deep one,” who, +now that he had got the cash, would “blue it” in a way which would +astonish them. +</p> + +<p> +But Davies did not “excel in azure feats.” The news of his good +fortune reached him just as the brig, on which he was going to sail as +first-mate, was taking in her cargo for the West Indies. He had signed his +contract for the voyage, and, to the utter astonishment of the lawyer who +managed the estates, he announced that he should carry it out. In vain did the +man of affairs point out to his client that with the help of a cheque of £100 +he could arrange the matter for him in ten minutes. Mr. Davies merely replied +that the property could wait, he should go the voyage and retire afterwards. +The lawyer held up his hands, and then suddenly remembered that there are women +in the West Indies as in other parts of the world. Doubtless his queer client +had an object in this voyage. As a matter of fact, he was totally wrong. Owen +Davies had never interchanged a tender word with a woman in his life; he was a +creature of routine, and it was part of his routine to carry out his agreements +to the letter. That was all. +</p> + +<p> +As a last resource, the lawyer suggested that Mr. Davies should make a will. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think it necessary,” was the slow and measured answer. +“The property has come to me by chance. If I die, it may as well go to +somebody else in the same way.” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer stared. “Very well,” he said; “it is against my +advice, but you must please yourself. Do you want any money?” +</p> + +<p> +Owen thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “I think I should +like to have ten pounds. They are building a theatre there, and I want to +subscribe to it.” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer gave him the ten pounds without a word; he was struck speechless, +and in this condition he remained for some minutes after the door had closed +behind his client. Then he sprung up with a single ejaculation, “Mad, +mad! like his great uncle!” +</p> + +<p> +But Owen Davies was not in the least mad, at any rate not then; he was only a +creature of habit. In due course, his agreement fulfilled, he sailed his brig +home from the West Indies (for the captain was drowned in a gale). Then he took +a second-class ticket to Bryngelly, where he had never been in his life before, +and asked his way to the Castle. He was told to go to the beach, and he would +see it. He did so, leaving his sea-chest behind him, and there, about two +hundred paces from the land, and built upon a solitary mountain of rock, +measuring half a mile or so round the base, he perceived a vast mediæval pile +of fortified buildings, with turrets towering three hundred feet into the air, +and edged with fire by the setting sun. He gazed on it with perplexity. Could +it be that this enormous island fortress belonged to him, and, if so, how on +earth did one get to it? For some little time he walked up and down, wondering, +too shy to go to the village for information. Meanwhile, though he did not +notice her, a well-grown girl of about fifteen, remarkable for her great grey +eyes and the promise of her beauty, was watching his evident perplexity from a +seat beneath a rock, not without amusement. At last she rose, and, with the +confidence of bold fifteen, walked straight up to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to get to the Castle, sir?” she asked in a low sweet +voice, the echoes of which Owen Davies never forgot. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—oh, I beg your pardon,” for now for the first time he +saw that he was talking to a young lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I am afraid that you are too late—Mrs. Thomas will not show +people over after four o’clock. She is the housekeeper, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, the fact is I did not come to see over the place. I came to +live there. I am Owen Davies, and the place was left to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice, for of course it was she, stared at him in amazement. So this was the +mysterious sailor about whom there had been so much talk in Bryngelly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said, with embarrassing frankness. “What an odd way +to come home. Well, it is high tide, and you will have to take a boat. I will +show you where you can get one. Old Edward will row you across for +sixpence,” and she led the way round a corner of the beach to where old +Edward sat, from early morn to dewy eve, upon the thwarts of his biggest boat, +seeking those whom he might row. +</p> + +<p> +“Edward,” said the young lady, “here is the new squire, Mr. +Owen Davies, who wants to be rowed across to the Castle.” Edward, a +gnarled and twisted specimen of the sailor tribe, with small eyes and a face +that reminded the observer of one of those quaint countenances on the handle of +a walking stick, stared at her in astonishment, and then cast a look of +suspicion on the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Have he got papers of identification about him, miss?” he asked in +a stage whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she answered laughing. “He says that he +is Mr. Owen Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, praps he is and praps he ain’t; anyway, it isn’t my +affair, and sixpence is sixpence.” +</p> + +<p> +All of this the unfortunate Mr. Davies overheard, and it did not add to his +equanimity. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, sir, if you please,” said Edward sternly, as he pulled the +little boat up to the edge of the breakwater. A vision of Mrs. Thomas shot into +Owen’s mind. If the boatman did not believe in him, what chance had he +with the housekeeper? He wished he had brought the lawyer down with him, and +then he wished that he was back in the sugar brig. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, sir,” said Edward still more sternly, putting down his +hesitation to an impostor’s consciousness of guilt. +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” said Owen to the young lady, “I beg your pardon. I +don’t even know your name, and I am sure I have no right to ask it, but +would you mind rowing across with me? It would be so kind of you; you might +introduce me to the housekeeper.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Beatrice laughed the merry laugh of girlhood; she was too young to be +conscious of any impropriety in the situation, and indeed there was none. But +her sense of humour told her that it was funny, and she became possessed with a +not unnatural curiosity to see the thing out. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well,” she said, “I will come.” +</p> + +<p> +The boat was pushed off and very soon they reached the stone quay that bordered +the harbour of the Castle, about which a little village of retainers had grown +up. Seeing the boat arrive, some of these people sauntered out of the cottages, +and then, thinking that a visitor had come, under the guidance of Miss +Beatrice, to look at the antiquities of the Castle, which was the show place of +the neighbourhood, sauntered back again. Then the pair began the zigzag ascent +of the rock mountain, till at last they stood beneath the mighty mass of +building, which, although it was hoary with antiquity, was by no means lacking +in the comforts of modern civilization, the water, for instance, being brought +in pipes laid beneath the sea from a mountain top two miles away on the +mainland. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t there a view here?” said Beatrice, pointing to the +vast stretch of land and sea. “I think, Mr. Davies, that you have the +most beautiful house in the whole world. Your great-uncle, who died a year ago, +spent more than fifty thousand pounds on repairing and refurbishing it, they +say. He built the big drawing-room there, where the stone is a little lighter; +it is fifty-five feet long. Just think, fifty thousand pounds!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a large sum,” said Owen, in an unimaginative sort of way, +while in his heart he wondered what on earth he should do with this white +elephant of a mediæval castle, and its drawing room fifty-five feet long. +</p> + +<p> +“He does not seem much impressed,” thought Beatrice to herself, as +she tugged away at the postern bell; “I think he must be stupid. He looks +stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +Presently the door was opened by an active-looking little old woman with a high +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Thomas,” thought Owen to himself; “she is even worse +than I expected.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now you must please to go away,” began the formidable housekeeper +in her shrillest key; “it is too late to show visitors over. Why, bless +us, it’s you, Miss Beatrice, with a strange man! What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice looked at her companion as a hint that he should explain himself, but +he said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“This is your new squire,” she said, not without a certain pride. +“I found him wandering about the beach. He did not know how to get here, +so I brought him over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, Miss Beatrice, and how do you know it’s him?” said +Mrs. Thomas. “How do you know it ain’t a housebreaker?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m sure he cannot be,” answered Beatrice aside, +“because he isn’t clever enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Then followed a long discussion. Mrs. Thomas stoutly refused to admit the +stranger without evidence of identity, and Beatrice, embracing his cause, as +stoutly pressed his claims. As for the lawful owner, he made occasional feeble +attempts to prove that he was himself, but Mrs. Thomas was not to be imposed +upon in this way. At last they came to a dead lock. +</p> + +<p> +“Y’d better go back to the inn, sir,” said Mrs. Thomas with +scathing sarcasm, “and come up to-morrow with proofs and your +luggage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you got any letters with you?” suggested Beatrice as +a last resource. +</p> + +<p> +As it happened Owen had a letter, one from the lawyer to himself about the +property, and mentioning Mrs. Thomas’s name as being in charge of the +Castle. He had forgotten all about it, but at this interesting juncture it was +produced and read aloud by Beatrice. Mrs. Thomas took it, and having examined +it carefully through her horn-rimmed spectacles, was constrained to admit its +authenticity. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I apologise, sir,” she said with a half-doubtful +courtesy and much tact, “but one can’t be too careful with all +these trampseses about; I never should have thought from the look of you, sir, +how as you was the new squire.” +</p> + +<p> +This might be candid, but it was not flattering, and it caused Beatrice to +snigger behind her handkerchief in true school-girl fashion. However, they +entered, and were led by Mrs. Thomas with solemn pomp through the great and +little halls, the stone parlour and the oak parlour, the library and the huge +drawing-room, in which the white heads of marble statues protruded from the +bags of brown holland wherewith they were wrapped about in a manner ghastly to +behold. At length they reached a small octagon-shaped room that, facing south, +commanded a most glorious view of sea and land. It was called the Lady’s +Boudoir, and joined another of about the same size, which in its former +owner’s time had been used as a smoking-room. +</p> + +<p> +“If you don’t mind, madam,” said the lord of all this +magnificence, “I should like to stop here, I am getting tired of +walking.” And there he stopped for many years. The rest of the Castle was +shut up; he scarcely ever visited it except occasionally to see that the rooms +were properly aired, for he was a methodical man. +</p> + +<p> +As for Beatrice, she went home, still chuckling, to receive a severe reproof +from Elizabeth for her “forwardness.” But Owen Davies never forgot +the debt of gratitude he owed her. In his heart he felt convinced that had it +not been for her, he would have fled before Mrs. Thomas and her horn-rimmed +eyeglasses, to return no more. The truth of the matter was, however, that young +as was Beatrice, he fell in love with her then and there, only to fall deeper +and deeper into that drear abyss as years went on. He never said anything about +it, he scarcely even gave a hint of his hopeless condition, though of course +Beatrice divined something of it as soon as she came to years of discretion. +But there grew up in Owen’s silent, lonely breast a great and +overmastering desire to make this grey-eyed girl his wife. He measured time by +the intervals that elapsed between his visions of her. No period in his life +was so wretched and utterly purposeless as those two years which passed while +she was at her Training College. He was a very passive lover, as yet his +gathering passion did not urge him to extremes, and he could never make up his +mind to declare it. The box was in his hand, but he feared to throw the dice. +</p> + +<p> +But he drew as near to her as he dared. Once he gave Beatrice a flower, it was +when she was seventeen, and awkwardly expressed a hope that she would wear it +for his sake. The words were not much and the flower was not much, but there +was a look about the man’s eyes, and a suppressed passion and energy in +his voice, which told their tale to the keen-witted girl. After this he found +that she avoided him, and bitterly regretted his boldness. For Beatrice did not +like him in that way. To a girl of her curious stamp his wealth was nothing. +She did not covet wealth, she coveted independence, and had the sense to know +that marriage with such a man would not bring it. A cage is a cage, whether the +bars are of iron or gold. He bored her, she despised him for his want of +intelligence and enterprise. That a man with all this wealth and endless +opportunity should waste his life in such fashion was to her a thing +intolerable. She knew if she had half his chance, that she would make her name +ring from one end of Europe to the other. In short, Beatrice held Owen as +deeply in contempt as her sister Elizabeth, studying him from another point of +view, held him in reverence. And putting aside any human predilections, +Beatrice would never have married a man whom she despised. She respected +herself too much. +</p> + +<p> +Owen Davies saw all this as through a glass darkly, and in his own slow way +cast about for a means of drawing near. He discovered that Beatrice was +passionately fond of learning, and also that she had no means to obtain the +necessary books. So he threw open his library to her; it was one of the best in +Wales. He did more; he gave orders to a London bookseller to forward him every +new book of importance that appeared in certain classes of literature, and all +of these he placed at her disposal, having first carefully cut the leaves with +his own hand. This was a bait Beatrice could not resist. She might dread or +even detest Mr. Davies, but she loved his books, and if she quarrelled with him +her well of knowledge would simply run dry, for there were no circulating +libraries at Bryngelly, and if there had been she could not have afforded to +subscribe to them. So she remained on good terms with him, and even smiled at +his futile attempts to keep pace with her studies. Poor man, reading did not +come naturally to him; he was much better at cutting leaves. He studied the +<i>Times</i> and certain religious works, that was all. But he wrestled +manfully with many a detested tome, in order to be able to say something to +Beatrice about it, and the worst of it was that Beatrice always saw through it, +and showed him that she did. It was not kind, perhaps, but youth is cruel. +</p> + +<p> +And so the years wore on, till at length Beatrice knew that a crisis was at +hand. Even the tardiest and most retiring lover must come to the point at last, +if he is in earnest, and Owen Davies was very much in earnest. Of late, to her +dismay, he had so far come out of his shell as to allow himself to be nominated +a member of the school council. Of course she knew that this was only to give +him more opportunities of seeing her. As a member of the council, he could +visit the school of which she was mistress as often as he chose, and indeed he +soon learned to take a lively interest in village education. About twice a week +he would come in just as the school was breaking up and offer to walk home with +her, seeking for a favourable opportunity to propose. Hitherto she had always +warded off this last event, but she knew that it must happen. Not that she was +actually afraid of the man himself; he was too much afraid of her for that. +What she did fear was the outburst of wrath from her father and sister when +they learned that she had refused Owen Davies. It never occurred to her that +Elizabeth might be playing a hand of her own in the matter. +</p> + +<p> +From all of which it will be clear, if indeed it has not become so already, +that Beatrice Granger was a somewhat ill-regulated young woman, born to bring +trouble on herself and all connected with her. Had she been otherwise, she +would have taken her good fortune and married Owen Davies, in which case her +history need never have been written. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br/> +A MATRIMONIAL TALE</h2> + +<p> +Before Geoffrey Bingham dropped off into a troubled sleep on that eventful +night of storm, he learned that the girl who had saved his life at the risk and +almost at the cost of her own was out of danger, and in his own and more +reticent way he thanked Providence as heartily as did Owen Davies. Then he went +to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +When he woke, feeling very sick and so stiff and sore that he could scarcely +move, the broad daylight was streaming through the blinds. The place was +perfectly quiet, for the doctor’s assistant who had brought him back to +life, and who lay upon a couch at the further end of the room, slept the sleep +of youth and complete exhaustion. Only an eight-day clock on the mantelpiece +ticked in that solemn and aggressive way which clocks affect in the stillness. +Geoffrey strained his eyes to make out the time, and finally discovered that it +wanted a few minutes to six o’clock. Then he fell to wondering how Miss +Granger was, and to repeating in his own mind every scene of their adventure, +till the last, when they were whirled out of the canoe in the embrace of that +white-crested billow. +</p> + +<p> +He remembered nothing after that, nothing but a rushing sound and a vision of +foam. He shuddered a little as he thought of it, for his nerves were shaken; it +is not pleasant to have been so very near the End and the Beginning; and then +his heart went out with renewed gratitude towards the girl who had restored him +to life and light and hope. Just at this moment he thought that he heard a +sound of sobbing outside the window. He listened; the sound went on. He tried +to rise, only to find that he was too stiff to manage it. So, as a last +resource, he called the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” answered that young gentleman, jumping up +with the alacrity of one accustomed to be suddenly awakened. “Do you feel +queer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do rather,” answered Geoffrey, “but it isn’t +that. There is somebody crying outside here.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor put on his coat, and, going to the window, drew the blind. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, so there is,” he said. “It’s a little girl with +yellow hair and without a hat.” +</p> + +<p> +“A little girl,” answered Geoffrey. “Why, it must be Effie, +my daughter. Please let her in.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. Cover yourself up, and I can do that through the window; it +isn’t five feet from the ground.” Accordingly he opened the window, +and addressing the little girl, asked her what her name was. +</p> + +<p> +“Effie,” she sobbed in answer, “Effie Bingham. I’ve +come to look for daddie.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, my dear, don’t cry so; your daddie is here. Come and +let me lift you in.” +</p> + +<p> +Another moment and there appeared through the open window the very sweetest +little face and form that ever a girl of six was blessed with. For the face was +pink and white, and in it were set two beautiful dark eyes, which, contrasting +with the golden hair, made the child a sight to see. But alas! just now the +cheeks were stained with tears, and round the large dark eyes were rings almost +as dark. Nor was this all. The little dress was hooked awry, on one tiny foot +all drenched with dew there was no boot, and on the yellow curls no hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! daddie, daddie,” cried the child, catching sight of him and +struggling to reach her father’s arms, “you isn’t dead, is +you, daddie?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my love, no,” answered her father, kissing her. “Why +should you think that I was dead? Didn’t your mother tell you that I was +safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! daddie,” she answered, “they came and said that you was +drownded, and I cried and wished that I was drownded too. Then mother came home +at last and said that you were better, and was cross with me because I went on +crying and wanted to come to you. But I did go on crying. I cried nearly all +night, and when it got light I did dress myself, all but one shoe and my hat, +which I could not find, and I got out of the house to look for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how did you find me, my poor little dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I heard mother say you was at the Vicarage, so I waited till I saw a +man, and asked him which way to go, and he did tell me to walk along the cliff +till I saw a long white house, and then when he saw that I had no shoe he +wanted to take me home, but I ran away till I got here. But the blinds were +down, so I did think that you were dead, daddie dear, and I cried till that +gentleman opened the window.” +</p> + +<p> +After that Geoffrey began to scold her for running away, but she did not seem +to mind it much, for she sat upon the edge of the couch, her little face +resting against his own, a very pretty sight to see. +</p> + +<p> +“You must go back to Mrs. Jones, Effie, and tell your mother where you +have been.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t, daddie, I’ve only got one shoe,” she +answered, pouting. +</p> + +<p> +“But you came with only one shoe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, daddie, but I wanted to come and I don’t want to go back. +Tell me how you was drownded.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed at her logic and gave way to her, for this little daughter was very +near to his heart, nearer than anything else in the world. So he told her how +he was “drownded” and how a lady had saved his life. +</p> + +<p> +Effie listened with wide set eyes, and then said that she wanted to see the +lady, which she presently did. At that moment there came a knock at the door, +and Mr. Granger entered, accompanied by Dr. Chambers. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, sir?” said the former. “I must introduce +myself, seeing that you are not likely to remember me. When last I saw you, you +looked as dead as a beached dog-fish. My name’s Granger, the Reverend J. +Granger, Vicar of Bryngelly, one of the very worst livings on this coast, and +that’s saying a great deal.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure, Mr. Granger, I’m under a deep debt of gratitude to you +for your hospitality, and under a still deeper one to your daughter, but I hope +to thank her personally for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never speak of it,” said the clergyman. “Hot water and +blankets don’t cost much, and you will have to pay for the brandy and the +doctor. How is he, doctor?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is getting on very well indeed, Mr. Granger. But I daresay you find +yourself rather stiff, Mr. Bingham. I see your head is pretty badly +bruised.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, laughing, “and so is my body. Shall I be +able to go home to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so,” said the doctor, “but not before this evening. +You had better keep quiet till then. You will be glad to hear that Miss +Beatrice is getting on very well. Hers was a wonderful recovery, the most +wonderful I ever saw. I had quite given her up, though I should have kept on +the treatment for another hour. You ought to be grateful to Miss Beatrice, Mr. +Bingham. But for her you would not have been here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am most grateful,” he answered earnestly. “Shall I be able +to see her to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think so, some time this afternoon, say at three o’clock. +Is that your little daughter? What a lovely child she is. Well, I will look in +again about twelve. All that you require to do now is to keep quiet and rub in +some arnica.” +</p> + +<p> +About an hour afterwards the servant girl brought Geoffrey some breakfast of +tea and toast. He felt quite hungry, but when it came to the pinch he could not +eat much. Effie, who was starving, made up for this deficiency, however; she +ate all the toast and a couple of slices of bread and butter after it. Scarcely +had they finished, when her father observed a shade of anxiety come upon his +little daughter’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Effie?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” replied Effie in evident trepidation, “I think +that I hear mother outside and Anne too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear, they have come to see me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and to scold me because I ran away,” and the child drew +nearer to her father in a fashion which would have made it clear to any +observer that the relations between her and her mother were somewhat strained. +</p> + +<p> +Effie was right. Presently there was a knock at the door and Lady Honoria +entered, calm and pale and elegant as ever. She was followed by a dark-eyed +somewhat impertinent-looking French <i>bonne</i>, who held up her hands and +ejaculated, “Mon Dieu!” as she appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so,” said Lady Honoria, speaking in French to the +<i>bonne</i>. “There she is,” and she pointed at the runaway Effie +with her parasol. +</p> + +<p> +“Mon Dieu!” said the woman again. “Vous voilà enfin, et moi, +qui suis accablée de peur, et votre chère mère aussi; oh, mais que c’est +méchant; et regardez donc, avec un soulier seulement. Mais c’est +affreux!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue,” said Geoffrey sharply, “and leave Miss +Effie alone. She came to see me.” +</p> + +<p> +Anne ejaculated, “Mon Dieu!” once more and collapsed. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Geoffrey,” said his wife, “the way you spoil that +child is something shocking. She is wilful as can be, and you make her worse. +It is very naughty of her to run away like that and give us such a hunt. How +are we to get her home, I wonder, with only one shoe.” +</p> + +<p> +Her husband bit his lip, and his forehead contracted itself above the dark +eyes. It was not the first time that he and Lady Honoria had come to words +about the child, with whom his wife was not in sympathy. Indeed she had never +forgiven Effie for appearing in this world at all. Lady Honoria did not belong +to that class of women who think maternity is a joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Anne,” he said, “take Miss Effie and carry her till you can +find a donkey. She can ride back to the lodgings.” The nurse murmured +something in French about the child being as heavy as lead. +</p> + +<p> +“Do as I bid you,” he said sharply, in the same language. +“Effie, my love, give me a kiss and go home. Thank you for coming to see +me.” +</p> + +<p> +The child obeyed and went. Lady Honoria stood and watched her go, tapping her +little foot upon the floor, and with a look upon her cold, handsome face that +was not altogether agreeable to see. +</p> + +<p> +It had sometimes happened that, in the course of his married life, Geoffrey +returned home with a little of that added fondness which absence is fabled to +beget. On these occasions he was commonly so unfortunate as to find that Lady +Honoria belied the saying, that she greeted him with arrears of grievances and +was, if possible, more frigid than ever. +</p> + +<p> +Was this to be repeated now that he had come back from what was so near to +being the longest absence of all? It looked like it. He noted symptoms of the +rising storm, symptoms with which he was but too well acquainted, and both for +his own sake and for hers—for above all things Geoffrey dreaded these +bitter matrimonial bickerings—tried to think of something kind to say. It +must be owned that he did not show much tact in the subject he selected, though +it was one which might have stirred the sympathies of some women. It is so +difficult to remember that one is dealing with a Lady Honoria. +</p> + +<p> +“If ever we have another child——” he began gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me interrupting you,” said the lady, with a suavity which +did not however convey any idea of the speaker’s inward peace, “but +it is a kindness to prevent you from going on in that line. <i>One</i> darling +is ample for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the miserable Geoffrey, with an effort, “even if +you don’t care much about the child yourself, it is a little unreasonable +to object because she cares for me and was sorry when she thought that I was +dead. Really, Honoria, sometimes I wonder if you have any heart at all. Why +should you be put out because Effie got up early to come and see me?—an +example which I must admit you did not set her. And as to her +shoe——” he added smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“You may laugh about her shoe, Geoffrey,” she interrupted, +“but you forget that even little things like that are no laughing matter +now to us. The child’s shoes keep me awake at night sometimes. Defoy has +not been paid for I don’t know how long. I have a mind to get her +<i>sabots</i>—and as to heart——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” broke in Geoffrey, reflecting that bad as was the emotional +side of the question, it was better than the commercial—“as to +‘heart?’” +</p> + +<p> +“You are scarcely the person to talk of it, that is all. I wonder how +much of yours you gave <i>me</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Honoria,” he answered, not without eagerness, and his mind +filled with wonder. Was it possible that his wife had experienced some kind of +“call,” and was about to concern herself with his heart one way or +the other? If so it was strange, for she had never shown the slightest interest +in it before. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she went on rapidly and with gathering vehemence, “you +speak about your heart”—which he had not done—“and yet +you know as well as I do that if I had been a girl of no position you would +never have offered me the organ on which you pretend to set so high a value. Or +did your heart run wildly away with you, and drag us into love and a +cottage—a flat, I mean? If so, <i>I</i> should prefer a little less heart +and a little more common sense.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey winced, twice indeed, feeling that her ladyship had hit him as it were +with both barrels. For, as a matter of fact, he had not begun with any +passionate devotion, and again Lady Honoria and he were now just as poor as +though they had really married for love. +</p> + +<p> +“It is hardly fair to go back on bygones and talk like this,” he +said, “even if your position had something to do with it; only at first +of course, you must remember that when we married mine was not without +attractions. Two thousand a year to start on and a baronetcy and eight thousand +a year in the near future were not—but I hate talking about that kind of +thing. Why do you force me to it? Nobody could know that my uncle, who was so +anxious that I should marry you, would marry himself at his age, and have a son +and heir. It was not my fault, Honoria. Perhaps you would not have married me +if you could have foreseen it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very probably not,” she answered calmly, “and it is not +<i>my</i> fault that I have not yet learned to live with peace of mind and +comfort on seven hundred a year. It was hard enough to exist on two thousand +till your uncle died, and now——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and now, Honoria, if you will only have patience and put up with +things for a while, you shall be rich enough; I will make money for you, as +much money as you want. I have many friends. I have not done so badly at the +Bar this year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Two hundred pounds, nineteen shillings and sevenpence, minus +ninety-seven pounds rent of chambers and clerk,” said Lady Honoria, with +a disparaging accent on the sevenpence. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall double it next year, and double that again the next, and so on. +I work from morning till night to get on, that you may have—what you live +for,” he said bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I shall be sixty before that happy day comes, and want nothing but +scandal and a bath chair. I know the Bar and its moaning,” she added, +with acid wit. “You dream, you imagine what you would like to come true, +but you are deceiving me and yourself. It will be like the story of Sir Robert +Bingham’s property once again. We shall be beggars all our days. I tell +you, Geoffrey, that you had no right to marry me.” +</p> + +<p> +Then at length he lost his temper. This was not the first of these +scenes—they had grown frequent of late, and this bitter water was +constantly dropping. +</p> + +<p> +“Right?” he said, “and may I ask what right you had to marry +me when you don’t even pretend you ever cared one straw for me, but just +accepted me as you would have accepted any other man who was a tolerably good +match? I grant that I first thought of proposing to you because my uncle wished +it, but if I did not love you I meant to be a good husband to you, and I should +have loved you if you would let me. But you are cold and selfish; you looked +upon a husband merely as a stepping-stone to luxury; you have never loved +anybody except yourself. If I had died last night I believe that you would have +cared more about having to go into mourning than for the fact of my +disappearance from your life. You showed no more feeling for me when you came +in than you would have if I had been a stranger—not so much as some women +might have for a stranger. I wonder sometimes if you have any feeling left in +you at all. I should think that you treat me as you do because you do not care +for me and do care for some other person did I not know you to be utterly +incapable of caring for anybody. Do you want to make me hate you, +Honoria?” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey’s low concentrated voice and earnest manner told his wife, who +was watching him with something like a smile upon her clear-cut lips, how +deeply he was moved. He had lost his self-control, and exposed his heart to +her—a thing he rarely did, and that in itself was a triumph which she did +not wish to pursue at the moment. Geoffrey was not a man to push too far. +</p> + +<p> +“If you have quite finished, Geoffrey, there is something I should like +to say——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, curse it all!” he broke in. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” she said calmly and interrogatively, and made a pause, but +as he did not specially apply his remark to anybody or anything, she continued: +“If these flowers of rhetoric are over, what I have to say is this: I do +not intend to stay in this horrid place any longer. I am going to-morrow to my +brother Garsington. They asked us both, you may remember, but for reasons best +known to yourself, you would not go.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know my reasons very well, Honoria.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon. I have not the slightest idea what they were,” +said Lady Honoria with conviction. “May I hear them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you wish to know, I will not go to the house of a man who +has—well, left my club as Garsington left it, and who, had it not been +for my efforts, would have left it in an even more unpleasant and conspicuous +fashion. And his wife is worse than he is——” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are mistaken,” Lady Honoria said coldly, and with the +air of a person who shuts the door of a room into which she does not wish to +look. “And, any way, it all happened years ago and has blown over. But I +do not see the necessity of discussing the subject further. I suppose that we +shall meet at dinner to-night. I shall take the early train to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do what suits you, Honoria. Perhaps you would prefer not returning at +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, no. I will not lay myself open to imputations. I shall join +you in London, and will make the best of a bad business. Thank Heaven, I have +learned how to bear my misfortunes,” and with this Parthian shot she left +the room. +</p> + +<p> +For a minute or two her husband felt as though he almost hated her. Then he +thrust his face into the pillow and groaned. +</p> + +<p> +“She is right,” he said to himself; “we must make the best of +a bad business. But, somehow, I seem to have made a mess of my life. And yet I +loved her once—for a month or two.” +</p> + +<p> +This was not an agreeable scene, and it may be said that Lady Honoria was a +vulgar person. But not even the advantage of having been brought up “on +the knees of marchionesses” is a specific against vulgarity, if a lady +happens, unfortunately, to set her heart, what there is of it, meanly on mean +things. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br/> +EXPLANATORY</h2> + +<p> +About two o’clock Geoffrey rose, and with some slight assistance from his +reverend host, struggled into his clothes. Then he lunched, and while he did so +Mr. Granger poured his troubles into his sympathetic ear. +</p> + +<p> +“My father was a Herefordshire farmer, Mr. Bingham,” he said, +“and I was bred up to that line of life myself. He did well, my father +did, as in those days a careful man might. What is more, he made some money by +cattle-dealing, and I think that turned his head a little; anyway, he was +minded to make ‘a gentleman of me,’ as he called it. So when I was +eighteen I was packed off to be made a parson of, whether I liked it or no. +Well, I became a parson, and for four years I had a curacy at a town called +Kingston, in Herefordshire, not a bad sort of little town—perhaps you +happen to know it. While I was there, my father, who was getting beyond +himself, took to speculating. He built a row of villas at Leominster, or at +least he lent a lawyer the money to build them, and when they were built nobody +would hire them. It broke my father; he was ruined over those villas. I have +always hated the sight of a villa ever since, Mr. Bingham. And shortly +afterwards he died, as near bankruptcy as a man’s nose is to his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“After that I was offered this living, £150 a year it was at the best, +and like a fool I took it. The old parson who was here before me left an only +daughter behind him. The living had ruined him, as it ruins me, and, as I say, +he left his daughter, my wife that was, behind him, and a pretty good bill for +dilapidations I had against the estate. But there wasn’t any estate, so I +made the best of a bad business and married the daughter, and a sweet pretty +woman she was, poor dear, very like my Beatrice, only without the brains. I +can’t make out where Beatrice’s brains come from indeed, for I am +sure I don’t set up for having any. She was well born, too, my wife was, +of an old Cornish family, but she had nowhere to go to, and I think she married +me because she didn’t know what else to do, and was fond of the old +place. She took me on with it, as it were. Well, it turned out pretty well, +till some eleven years ago, when our boy was born, though I don’t think +we ever quite understood each other. She never got her health back after that, +and seven years ago she died. I remember it was on a night wonderfully like +last night—mist first, then storm. The boy died a few years afterwards. I +thought it would have broken Beatrice’s heart; she has never been the +same girl since, but always full of queer ideas I don’t pretend to +follow. +</p> + +<p> +“And as for the life I’ve had of it here, Mr. Bingham, you +wouldn’t believe it if I was to tell you. The living is small enough, but +the place is as full of dissent as a mackerel-boat of fish, and as for getting +the tithes—well, I cannot, that’s all. If it wasn’t for a bit +of farming that I do, not but what the prices are down to nothing, and for what +the visitors give in the season, and for the help of Beatrice’s salary as +certificated mistress, I should have been in the poor-house long ago, and shall +be yet, I often think. I have had to take in a boarder before now to make both +ends meet, and shall again, I expect. +</p> + +<p> +“And now I must be off up to my bit of a farm; the old sow is due to +litter, and I want to see how she is getting on. Please God she’ll have +thirteen again and do well. I’ll order the fly to be here at five, though +I shall be back before then—that is, I told Elizabeth to do so. She has +gone out to do some visiting for me, and to see if she can’t get in two +pounds five of tithe that has been due for three months. If anybody can get it +it’s Elizabeth. Well, good-bye; if you are dull and want to talk to +Beatrice, she is up and in there. I daresay you will suit one another. +She’s a very queer girl, Beatrice, quite beyond me with her ideas, and it +was a funny thing her holding you so tight, but I suppose Providence arranged +that. Good-bye for the present, Mr. Bingham,” and this curious specimen +of a clergyman vanished, leaving Geoffrey quite breathless. +</p> + +<p> +It was half-past two o’clock, and the doctor had told him that he could +see Miss Granger at three. He wished that it was three, for he was tired of his +own thoughts and company, and naturally anxious to renew his acquaintance with +the strange girl who had begun by impressing him so deeply and ended by saving +his life. There was complete quiet in the house; Betty, the maid-of-all-work, +was employed in the kitchen, both the doctors had gone, and Elizabeth and her +father were out. To-day there was no wind, it had blown itself away during the +night, and the sight of the sunbeams streaming through the windows made +Geoffrey long to be in the open air. He had no book at hand to read, and +whenever he tried to think his mind flew back to that hateful matrimonial +quarrel. +</p> + +<p> +It was hard on him, Geoffrey thought, that he should be called upon to endure +such scenes. He could no longer disguise the truth from himself—he had +buried his happiness on his wedding-day. Looking back across the years, he well +remembered how different a life he had imagined for himself. In those days he +was tired of knocking about and of youthful escapades; even that kind of social +success which must attend a young man who was handsome, clever, a good fellow, +and blessed with large expectations, had, at the age of six-and-twenty, +entirely lost its attractiveness. Therefore he had turned no deaf ear to his +uncle, Sir Robert Bingham, who was then going on for seventy, when he suggested +that it might be well if Geoffrey be settled down, and introduced him to Lady +Honoria. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria was eighteen then, and a beauty of the rather thin but statuesque +type, which attracts men up to five or six and twenty and then frequently +bores, if it does not repel them. Moreover, she was clever and well read, and +pretended to be intellectually and poetically inclined, as ladies not specially +favoured by Apollo sometimes do—before they marry. Cold she always was; +nobody ever heard of Lady Honoria stretching the bounds of propriety; but +Geoffrey put this down to a sweet and becoming modesty, which would vanish or +be transmuted in its season. Also she affected a charming innocence of all +vulgar business matters, which both deceived and enchanted him. Never but once +did she allude to ways and means before marriage, and then it was to say that +she was glad that they should be so poor till dear Sir Robert died (he had +promised to allow them fifteen hundred a year, and they had seven more between +them), as this would enable them to see so much more of each other. +</p> + +<p> +At last came the happy day, and this white virgin soul passed into +Geoffrey’s keeping. For a week or so things went fairly well, and then +disenchantment began. He learned by slow but sure degrees that his wife was +vain, selfish and extravagant, and, worst of all, that she cared very little +about him. The first shock was when he accidentally discovered, four or five +days after marriage, that Honoria was intimately acquainted with every detail +of Sir Robert Bingham’s property, and, young as she was, had already +formed a scheme to make it more productive after the old man’s death. +</p> + +<p> +They went to live in London, and there he found that Lady Honoria, although by +far too cold and prudent a woman to do anything that could bring a breath of +scandal upon her name, was as fond of admiration as she was heartless. It +seemed to Geoffrey that he could never be free from the collection of young men +who hung about her skirts. Some of them were very good fellows whom he liked +exceedingly; still, on the whole he would have preferred to remain unmarried +and associate with them at the club. Also the continual round of society and +going out brought heavier expenses on him than he could well support. And thus, +little by little, poor Geoffrey’s dream of matrimonial bliss faded into +thin air. But, fortunately for himself, he possessed a certain share of logic +and sweet reasonableness. In time he learnt to see that the fault was not +altogether with his wife, who was by no means a bad sort of woman in her +degree. But her degree differed from his degree. She had married for freedom +and wealth and to gain a larger scope wherein to exercise those tastes which +inherited disposition and education had given to her, as she believed that he +had married her because she was the daughter of a peer. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria, like many another woman of her stamp, was the overbred, or +sometimes the underbred, product of a too civilized age and class. Those +primitive passions and virtues on which her husband had relied to make the +happiness of their married life simply did not exist for her. The passions had +been bred and educated out of her; for many generations they have been found +inconvenient and disquieting attributes in woman. As for the old virtues, such +as love of children and the ordinary round of domestic duty, they simply bored +her. On the whole, though sharp of tongue, she rarely lost her temper, for her +vices, like her virtues, were of a somewhat negative order; but the fury which +seized her when she learned for certain that she was to become a mother was a +thing that her unfortunate husband never forgot and never wished to see again. +At length the child was born, a fact for which Geoffrey, at least, was very +thankful. +</p> + +<p> +“Take it away. I do not want to see it!” said Lady Honoria to the +scandalised nurse when the little creature was brought to her, wrapped in its +long robes. +</p> + +<p> +“Give it to me, nurse—I do,” said her husband. +</p> + +<p> +From that moment Geoffrey gave all the pent-up affection of his bruised soul to +this little daughter, and as the years went on they grew very dear to each +other. But an active-minded, strong-hearted, able-bodied man cannot take a babe +as the sole companion of his existence. Probably Geoffrey would have found this +out in time, and might have drifted into some mode of life more or less +undesirable, had not an accident occurred to prevent it. In his dotage, +Geoffrey’s old uncle Sir Robert Bingham fell a victim to the wiles of an +adventuress and married her. Then he promptly died, and eight months afterwards +a posthumous son was born. +</p> + +<p> +To Geoffrey this meant ruin. His allowance stopped and his expectations +vanished at one fell swoop. He pulled himself together, however, as a +brave-hearted man does under such a shock, and going to his wife he explained +to her that he must now work for his living, begging her to break down the +barrier that was between them and give him her sympathy and help. She met him +with tears and reproaches. The one thing that touched her keenly, the one thing +which she feared and hated was poverty, and all that poverty means to women of +her rank and nature. But there was no help for it; the charming house in Bolton +Steet had to be given up, and purgatory must be faced, in a flat, near the +Edgware Road. Lady Honoria was miserable, indeed had it not been that +fortunately for herself she possessed plenty of relations more or less grand, +whom she might continually visit for weeks and even for months at a stretch, +she could scarcely have endured her altered life. +</p> + +<p> +But strangely enough Geoffrey soon found that he was happier than he had been +since his marriage. To begin with, he set to work like a man, and work is a +great source of happiness to all vigorous-minded folk. It is not, in truth, a +particularly cheerful occupation to pass endless days in hanging about +law-courts amongst a crowd of unbriefed Juniors, and many nights in reading up +the law one has forgotten and threading the many intricacies of the Judicature +Act. But it happened that his father, a younger brother of Sir Robert’s, +had been a solicitor, and though he was dead, and all direct interest with the +firm was severed, yet another uncle remained in it, and the partners did not +forget Geoffrey in his difficulties. +</p> + +<p> +They sent him what work they could without offending their standing counsel, +and he did it well. Then by degrees he built up quite a large general practice +of the kind known as deviling. Now there are few things more unsatisfactory +than doing another man’s work for nothing, but every case fought means +knowledge gained, and what is more it is advertisement. So it came to pass that +within less than two years from the date of his money misfortunes, Geoffrey +Bingham’s dark handsome face and square strong form became very well +known in the Courts. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that man’s name?” said one well-known Q.C. to +another still more well known, as they sat waiting for their chops in the Bar +Grill Room, and saw Geoffrey, his wig pushed back from his forehead, striding +through the doorway on the last day of the sitting which preceded the +commencement of this history. +</p> + +<p> +“Bingham,” answered the other. “He’s only begun to +practise lately, but he’ll be at the top of the tree before he has done. +He married very well, you know, old Garsington’s daughter, a charming +woman, and handsome too.” +</p> + +<p> +“He looks like it,” grunted the first, and as a matter of fact such +was the general opinion. +</p> + +<p> +For, as Beatrice had said, Geoffrey Bingham was a man who had success written +on his forehead. It would have been almost impossible for him to fail in +whatever he undertook. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br/> +WHAT BEATRICE DREAMED</h2> + +<p> +Geoffrey lay upon his back, watching the still patch of sunshine and listening +to the ticking of the clock, as he passed all these and many other events in +solemn review, till the series culminated in his vivid recollection of the +scene of that very morning. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sick of it,” he said at last aloud, “sick and tired. +She makes my life wretched. If it wasn’t for Effie upon my word I’d +. . . By Jove, it is three o’clock; I will go and see Miss Granger. +She’s a woman, not a female ghost at any rate, though she is a +freethinker—which,” he added as he slowly struggled off the couch, +“is a very foolish thing to be.” +</p> + +<p> +Very shakily, for he was sadly knocked about, Geoffrey hobbled down the long +narrow room and through the door, which was ajar. The opposite door was also +set half open. He knocked softly, and getting no answer pushed it wide and +looked in, thinking that he had, perhaps, made some mistake as to the room. On +a sofa placed about two-thirds down its length, lay Beatrice asleep. She was +wrapped in a kind of dressing-gown of some simple blue stuff, and all about her +breast and shoulders streamed her lovely curling hair. Her sweet face was +towards him, its pallor relieved only by the long shadow of the dark lashes and +the bent bow of the lips. One white wrist and hand hung down almost to the +floor, and beneath the spread curtain of the sunlit hair her bosom heaved +softly in her sleep. She looked so wondrously beautiful in her rest that he +stopped almost awed, and gazed, and gazed again, feeling as though a present +sense and power were stilling his heart to silence. It is dangerous to look +upon such quiet loveliness, and very dangerous to feel that pressure at the +heart. A truly wise man feeling it would have fled, knowing that seeds sown in +such silences may live to bloom upon a bitter day, and shed their fruit into +the waters of desolation. But Geoffrey was not wise—who would have been? +He still stood and gazed till the sight stamped itself so deeply on the tablets +of his heart that through all the years to come no heats of passion, no frosts +of doubt, and no sense of loss could ever dull its memory. +</p> + +<p> +The silent sun shone on, the silent woman slept, and in silence the watcher +gazed. And as he looked a great fear, a prescience of evil that should come, +entered into Geoffrey and took possession of him. A cloud without crossed the +ray of sunlight and turned it. It wavered, for a second it rested on his +breast, flashed back to hers, then went out; and as it flashed and died, he +seemed to know that henceforth, for life till death, ay! and beyond, his fate +and that sleeping woman’s were one fate. It was but a momentary +knowledge; the fear shook him, and was gone almost before he understood its +foolishness. But it had been with him, and in after days he remembered it. +</p> + +<p> +Just then Beatrice woke, opening her grey eyes. Their dreamy glance fell upon +him, looking through him and beyond him, rather than at him. Then she raised +herself a little and stretching out both her arms towards him, spoke aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“So have you have come back to me at last,” she said. “I knew +that you would come and I have waited.” +</p> + +<p> +He made no answer, he did not know what to say; indeed he began to think that +he also must be dreaming. For a little while Beatrice still looked at him in +the same absent manner, then suddenly started up, the red blood streaming to +her brow. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Bingham,” she said, “is it really you? What was it +that I said? Oh, pray forgive me, whatever it was. I have been asleep dreaming +such a curious dream, and talking in my sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not alarm yourself, Miss Granger,” he answered, recovering +himself with a jerk; “you did not say anything dreadful, only that you +were glad to see me. What were you dreaming about?” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice looked at him doubtfully; perhaps his words did not ring quite true. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that I had better tell you as I have said so much,” she +answered. “Besides, it was a very curious dream, and if I believed in +dreams it would rather frighten me, only fortunately I do not. Sit down and I +will tell it to you before I forget it. It is not very long.” +</p> + +<p> +He took the chair to which she pointed, and she began, speaking in the voice of +one yet laden with the memories of sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“I dreamed that I stood in space. Far to my right was a great globe of +light, and to my left was another globe, and I knew that the globes were named +Life and Death. From the globe on the right to the globe on the left, and back +again, a golden shuttle, in which two flaming eyes were set, was shot +continually, and I knew also that this was the shuttle of Destiny, weaving the +web of Fate. Presently the shuttle flew, leaving behind it a long silver +thread, and the eyes in the shuttle were such as your eyes. Again the shuttle +sped through space, and this time its eyes were like my eyes, and the thread it +left behind it was twisted from a woman’s hair. Half way between the +globes of Life and Death my thread was broken, but the shuttle flew on and +vanished. For a moment the thread hung in air, then a wind rose and blew it, so +that it floated away like a spider’s web, till it struck upon your silver +thread of life and began to twist round and round it. As it twisted it grew +larger and heavier, till at last it was thick as a great tress of hair, and the +silver line bent beneath the weight so that I saw it soon must break. Then +while I wondered what would happen, a white hand holding a knife slid slowly +down the silver line, and with the knife severed the wrappings of woman’s +hair, which fell and floated slowly away, like a little cloud touched with +sunlight, till they were lost in darkness. But the thread of silver that was +your line of life, sprang up quivering and making a sound like sighs, till at +last it sighed itself to silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I seemed to sleep, and when I woke I was floating upon such a misty +sea as we saw last night. I had lost all sight of land, and I could not +remember what the stars were like, nor how I had been taught to steer, nor +understand where I must go. I called to the sea, and asked it of the stars, and +the sea answered me thus: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Hope has rent her raiment, and the stars are set.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I called again, and asked of the land where I should go, and the land +did not answer, but the sea answered me a second time: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Child of the mist, wander in the mist, and in darkness seek for +light.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then I wept because Hope had rent her starry garment and in darkness I +must seek for light. And while I still wept, <i>you</i> rose out of the sea and +sat before me in the boat. I had never seen you before, and still I felt that I +had known you always. You did not speak, and I did not speak, but you looked +into my heart and saw its trouble. Then I looked into your heart, and read what +was written. And this was written: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Woman whom I knew before the Past began, and whom I shall know +when the Future is ended, why do you weep?’ +</p> + +<p> +“And my heart answered, ‘I weep because I am lost upon the waters +of the earth, because Hope has rent her starry robes, and in everlasting +darkness I must seek for light that is not.’ Then your heart said, +‘<i>I</i> will show you light,’ and bending forward you touched me +on the breast. +</p> + +<p> +“And suddenly an agony shook me like the agonies of birth and death, and +the sky was full of great-winged angels who rolled up the mist as a cloth, and +drew the veils from the eyes of Night, and there, her feet upon the globe, and +her star-set head piercing the firmament of heaven, stood Hope breathing peace +and beauty. She looked north and south and east and west, then she looked +upwards through the arching vaults of heaven, and wherever she set her eyes, +bright with holy tears, the darkness shrivelled and sorrow ceased, and from +corruption arose the Incorruptible. I gazed and worshipped, and as I did so, +again the sea spoke unquestioned: +</p> + +<p> +“‘In darkness thou hast found light, in Death seek for +wisdom.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then once more Hope rent her starry robes, and the angels drew down a +veil over the eyes of Night, and the sea swallowed me, and I sank till I +reached the deep foundations of mortal death. And there in the Halls of Death I +sat for ages upon ages, till at last I saw you come, and on your lips was the +word of wisdom that makes all things clear, but what it was I cannot remember. +Then I stretched out my hand to greet you, and woke, and that is all my +dream.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +She ceased, her grey eyes set wide, as though they still strove to trace their +spiritual vision upon the air of earth, her breast heaving, and her lips apart. +</p> + +<p> +“Great heaven!” he said, “what an imagination you must have +to dream such a dream as that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Imagination,” she answered, returning to her natural manner. +“I have none, Mr. Bingham. I used to have, but I lost it when I +lost—everything else. Can you interpret my dream? Of course you cannot; +it is nothing but nonsense—such stuff as dreams are made of, that is +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“It may be nonsense, I daresay it is, but it is beautiful +nonsense,” he answered. “I wish ladies had more of such stuff to +give the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, dreams may be wiser than wakings, and nonsense than learned +talk, for all we know. But there’s an end of it. I do not know why I +repeated it to you. I am sorry that I did repeat it, but it seemed so real it +shook me out of myself. This is what comes of breaking in upon the routine of +life by being three parts drowned. One finds queer things at the bottom of the +sea, you know. By the way I hope that you are recovering. I do not think that +you will care to go canoeing again with me, Mr. Bingham.” +</p> + +<p> +There was an opening for a compliment here, but Geoffrey felt that it would be +too much in earnest if spoken, so he resisted the temptation. +</p> + +<p> +“What, Miss Granger,” he said, “should a man say to a lady +who but last night saved his life, at the risk, indeed almost at the cost, of +her own?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was nothing,” she answered, colouring; “I clung to you, +that was all, more by instinct than from any motive. I think I had a vague idea +that you might float and support me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Granger, the occasion is too serious for polite fibs. I know how +you saved my life. I do not know how to thank you for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then don’t thank me at all, Mr. Bingham. Why should you thank me? +I only did what I was bound to do. I would far rather die than desert a +companion in distress, of any sort; we all must die, but it would be dreadful +to die ashamed. You know what they say, that if you save a person from drowning +you will do them an injury afterwards. That is how they put it here; in some +parts the saying is the other way about, but I am not likely ever to do you an +injury, so it does not make me unhappy. It was an awful experience: you were +senseless, so you cannot know how strange it felt lying upon the slippery rock, +and seeing those great white waves rush upon us through the gloom, with nothing +but the night above, and the sea around, and death between the two. I have been +lonely for many years, but I do not think that I ever quite understood what +loneliness really meant before. You see,” she added by way of an +afterthought, “I thought that you were dead, and there is not much +company in a corpse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “one thing is, it would have been lonelier +if we had gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so?” she answered, looking at him inquiringly. +“I don’t quite see how you make that out. If you believe in what we +have been taught, as I think you do, wherever it was you found yourself there +would be plenty of company, and if, like me, you do not believe in anything, +why, then, you would have slept, and sleep asks for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you believe in nothing when you lay upon the rock waiting to be +drowned, Miss Granger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing!” she answered; “only weak people find revelation in +the extremities of fear. If revelation comes at all, surely it must be born in +the heart and not in the senses. I believed in nothing, and I dreaded nothing, +except the agony of death. Why should I be afraid? Supposing that I am +mistaken, and there is something beyond, is it my fault that I cannot believe? +What have I done that I should be afraid? I have never harmed anybody that I +know of, and if I could believe I would. I wish I had died,” she went on, +passionately; “it would be all over now. I am tired of the world, tired +of work and helplessness, and all the little worries which wear one out. I am +not wanted here, I have nothing to live for, and I wish that I had died!” +</p> + +<p> +“Some day you will think differently, Miss Granger. There are many things +that a woman like yourself can live for—at the least, there is your +work.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed drearily. “My work! If you only knew what it is like you +would not talk to me about it. Every day I roll my stone up the hill, and every +night it seems to roll down again. But you have never taught in a village +school. How can you know? I work all day, and in the evening perhaps I have to +mend the tablecloths, or—what do you think?—write my father’s +sermons. It sounds curious, does it not, that I should write sermons? But I do. +I wrote the one he is going to preach next Sunday. It makes very little +difference to him what it is so long as he can read it, and, of course, I never +say anything which can offend anybody, and I do not think that they listen +much. Very few people go to church in Bryngelly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you ever get any time to yourself, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, sometimes I do, and then I go out in my canoe, or read, and am +almost happy. After all, Mr. Bingham, it is very wrong and ungrateful of me to +speak like this. I have more advantages than nine-tenths of the world, and I +ought to make the best of them. I don’t know why I have been speaking as +I have, and to you, whom I never saw till yesterday. I never did it before to +any living soul, I assure you. It is just like the story of the man who came +here last year with the divining rod. There is a cottage down on the +cliff—it belongs to Mr. Davies, who lives in the Castle. Well, they have +no drinking water near, and the new tenant made a great fuss about it. So Mr. +Davies hired men, and they dug and dug and spent no end of money, but could not +come to water. At last the tenant fetched an old man from some parish a long +way off, who said that he could find springs with a divining rod. He was a +curious old man with a crutch, and he came with his rod, and hobbled about till +at last the rod twitched just at the tenant’s back door—at least +the diviner said it did. At any rate, they dug there, and in ten minutes struck +a spring of water, which bubbled up so strongly that it rushed into the house +and flooded it. And what do you think? After all, the water was brackish. You +are the man with the divining rod, Mr. Bingham, and you have made me talk a +great deal too much, and, after all, you see it is not nice talk. You must +think me a very disagreeable and wicked young woman, and I daresay I am. But +somehow it is a relief to open one’s mind. I do hope, Mr. Bingham, that +you will see—in short, that you will not misunderstand me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Granger,” he answered, “there is between us that which +will always entitle us to mutual respect and confidence—the link of life +and death. Had it not been for you, I should not sit here to listen to your +confidence to-day. You may tell me that a mere natural impulse prompted you to +do what you did. I know better. It was your will that triumphed over your +natural impulse towards self-preservation. Well, I will say no more about it, +except this: If ever a man was bound to a woman by ties of gratitude and +respect, I am bound to you. You need not fear that I shall take advantage of or +misinterpret your confidence.” Here he rose and stood before her, his +dark handsome face bowed in proud humility. “Miss Granger, I look upon it +as an honour done to me by one whom henceforth I must reverence among all +women. The life you gave back to me, and the intelligence which directs it, are +in duty bound to you, and I shall not forget the debt.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice listened to his words, spoken in that deep and earnest voice, which in +after years became so familiar to Her Majesty’s judges and to +Parliament—listened with a new sense of pleasure rising in her heart. She +was this man’s equal; what he could dare, she could dare; where he could +climb, she could follow—ay, and if need be, show the path, and she felt +that he acknowledged it. In his sight she was something more than a handsome +girl to be admired and deferred to for her beauty’s sake. He had placed +her on another level—one, perhaps, that few women would have wished to +occupy. But Beatrice was thankful to him. It was the first taste of supremacy +that she had ever known. +</p> + +<p> +It is something to stir the proud heart of such a woman as Beatrice, in that +moment when for the first time she feels herself a conqueror, victorious, not +through the vulgar advantage of her sex, not by the submission of man’s +coarser sense, but rather by the overbalancing weight of mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know,” she said, suddenly looking up, “you make me +very proud,” and she stretched out her hand to him. +</p> + +<p> +He took it, and, bending, touched it with his lips. There was no possibility of +misinterpreting the action, and though she coloured a little—for, till +then, no man had even kissed the tip of her finger—she did not +misinterpret it. It was an act of homage, and that was all. +</p> + +<p> +And so they sealed the compact of their perfect friendship for ever and a day. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a moment’s silence. It was Geoffrey who broke it. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Granger,” he said, “will you allow me to preach you a +lecture, a very short one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Do not blame me if you don’t like it, and do not set me +down as a prig, though I am going to tell you your faults as I read them in +your own words. You are proud and ambitious, and the cramped lines in which you +are forced to live seem to strangle you. You have suffered, and have not +learned the lesson of suffering—humility. You have set yourself up +against Fate, and Fate sweeps you along like spray upon the gale, yet you go +unwilling. In your impatience you have flown to learning for refuge, and it has +completed your overthrow, for it has induced you to reject as non-existent all +that you cannot understand. Because your finite mind cannot search infinity, +because no answer has come to all your prayers, because you see misery and +cannot read its purpose, because you suffer and have not found rest, you have +said there is naught but chance, and become an atheist, as many have done +before you. Is it not true?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” she answered, bowing her head to her breast so that the +long rippling hair almost hid her face. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems a little odd,” Geoffrey said with a short laugh, +“that I, with all my imperfections heaped upon me, should presume to +preach to you—but you will know best how near or how far I am from the +truth. So I want to say something. I have lived for thirty-five years, and seen +a good deal and tried to learn from it, and I know this. In the long run, +unless we of our own act put away the opportunity, the world gives us our due, +which generally is not much. So much for things temporal. If you are fit to +rule, in time you will rule; if you do not, then be content and acknowledge +your own incapacity. And as for things spiritual, I am sure of +this—though of course one does not like to talk much of these +matters—if you only seek for them long enough in some shape you will find +them, though the shape may not be that which is generally recognised by any +particular religion. But to build a wall deliberately between oneself and the +unseen, and then complain that the way is barred, is simply childish.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what if one’s wall is built, Mr. Bingham?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most of us have done something in that line at different times,” +he answered, “and found a way round it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if it stretches from horizon to horizon, and is higher than the +clouds, what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you must find wings and fly over it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where can any earthly woman find those spiritual wings?” she +asked, and then sank her head still deeper on her breast to cover her +confusion. For she remembered that she had heard of wanderers in the dusky +groves of human passion, yes, even Mænad wanderers, who had suddenly come face +to face with their own soul; and that the cruel paths of earthly love may yet +lead the feet which tread them to the ivory gates of heaven. +</p> + +<p> +And remembering these beautiful myths, though she had no experience of love, +and knew little of its ways, Beatrice grew suddenly silent. Nor did Geoffrey +give her an answer, though he need scarcely have feared to do so. +</p> + +<p> +For were they not discussing a purely abstract question? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br/> +LADY HONORIA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS</h2> + +<p> +In another moment somebody entered the room; it was Elizabeth. She had returned +from her tithe collecting expedition—with the tithe. The door of the +sitting-room was still ajar, and Geoffrey had his back towards it. So it +happened that nobody heard Elizabeth’s rather cat-like step, and for some +seconds she stood in the doorway without being perceived. She stood quite +still, taking in the whole scene at a glance. She noticed that her sister held +her head down, so that her hair shadowed her, and guessed that she did so for +some reason—probably because she did not wish her face to be seen. Or was +it to show off her lovely hair? She noticed also the half shy, half amused, and +altogether interested expression upon Geoffrey’s countenance—she +could see that in the little gilt-edged looking-glass which hung over the +fire-place, nor did she overlook the general air of embarrassment that pervaded +them both. +</p> + +<p> +When she came in, Elizabeth had been thinking of Owen Davies, and of what might +have happened had she never seen the tide of life flow back into her +sister’s veins. She had dreamed of it all night and had thought of it all +day; even in the excitement of extracting the back tithe from the recalcitrant +and rather coarse-minded Welsh farmer, with strong views on the subject of +tithe, it had not been entirely forgotten. The farmer was a tenant of Owen +Davies, and when he called her a “parson in petticoats, and wus,” +and went on, in delicate reference to her powers of extracting cash, to liken +her to a “two-legged corkscrew only screwier,” she perhaps not +unnaturally reflected, that if ever—<i>pace</i> Beatrice—certain +things should come about, she would remember that farmer. For Elizabeth was +blessed with a very long memory, as some people had learnt to their cost, and +generally, sooner or later, she paid her debts in full, not forgetting the +overdue interest. +</p> + +<p> +And now, as she stood in the doorway unseen and noted these matters, something +occurred to her in connection with this dominating idea, which, like ideas in +general, had many side issues. At any rate a look of quick intelligence shone +for a moment in her light eyes, like a sickly sunbeam on a faint December mist; +then she moved forward, and when she was close behind Geoffrey, spoke suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you both thinking about?” she said in her clear thin +voice; “you seem to have exhausted your conversation.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey made an exclamation and fairly jumped from his chair, a feat which in +his bruised condition really hurt him very much. Beatrice too started +violently; she recovered herself almost instantly, however. +</p> + +<p> +“How quietly you move, Elizabeth,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not more quietly than you sit, Beatrice. I have been wondering when +anybody was going to say anything, or if you were both asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +For her part Beatrice speculated how long her sister had been in the room. +Their conversation had been innocent enough, but it was not one that she would +wish Elizabeth to have overheard. And somehow Elizabeth had a knack of +overhearing things. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Miss Granger,” said Geoffrey coming to the rescue, +“both our brains are still rather waterlogged, and that does not tend to +a flow of ideas.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” said Elizabeth. “My dear Beatrice, why +don’t you tie up your hair? You look like a crazy Jane. Not but what you +have very nice hair,” she added critically. “Do you admire good +hair, Mr. Bingham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I do,” he answered gallantly, “but it is not +common.” +</p> + +<p> +Only Beatrice bit her lip with vexation. “I had almost forgotten about my +hair,” she said; “I must apologise for appearing in such a state. I +would have done it up after dinner only I was too stiff, and while I was +waiting for Betty, I went to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think there is a bit of ribbon in that drawer. I saw you put it there +yesterday,” answered the precise Elizabeth. “Yes, here it is. If +you like, and Mr. Bingham will excuse it, I can tie it back for you,” and +without waiting for an answer she passed behind Beatrice, and gathering up the +dense masses of her sister’s locks, tied them round in such fashion that +they could not fall forward, though they still rolled down her back. +</p> + +<p> +Just then Mr. Granger came back from his visit to the farm. He was in high good +humour. The pig had even surpassed her former efforts, and increased in a +surprising manner, to the number of fifteen indeed. Elizabeth thereon produced +the two pounds odd shillings which she had “corkscrewed” out of the +recalcitrant dissenting farmer, and the sight added to Mr. Granger’s +satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you believe it, Mr. Bingham,” he said, “in this +miserably paid parish I have nearly a hundred pounds owing to me, a hundred +pounds in tithe. There is old Jones who lives out towards the Bell Rock, he +owes three years’ tithe—thirty-four pounds eleven and fourpence. He +can pay and he won’t pay—says he’s a Baptist and is not going +to pay parson’s dues—though for the matter of that he is nothing +but an old beer tub of a heathen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you proceed against him, then, Mr. Granger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Proceed, I have proceeded. I’ve got judgment, and I mean to issue +execution in a few days. I won’t stand it any longer,” he went on, +working himself up and shaking his head as he spoke till his thin white hair +fell about his eyes. “I will have the law of him and the others too. You +are a lawyer and you can help me. I tell you there’s a spirit abroad +which just comes to this—no man isn’t to pay his lawful debts, +except of course the parson and the squire. They must pay or go to the court. +But there is law left, and I’ll have it, before they play the Irish game +on us here.” And he brought down his fist with a bang upon the table. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey listened with some amusement. So this was the weak old man’s +sore point—money. He was clearly very strong about that—as strong +as Lady Honoria indeed, but with more excuse. Elizabeth also listened with +evident approval, but Beatrice looked pained. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t get angry, father,” she said; “perhaps he will +pay after all. It is bad to take the law if you can manage any other +way—it breeds so much ill blood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Beatrice,” said her sister sharply. “Father is +quite right. There’s only one way to deal with them, and that is to seize +their goods. I believe you are socialist about property, as you are about +everything else. You want to pull everything down, from the Queen to the laws +of marriage, all for the good of humanity, and I tell you that your ideas will +be your ruin. Defy custom and it will crush you. You are running your head +against a brick wall, and one day you will find which is the harder.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice flushed, but answered her sister’s attack, which was all the +sharper because it had a certain spice of truth in it. +</p> + +<p> +“I never expressed any such views, Elizabeth, so I do not see why you +should attribute them to me. I only said that legal proceedings breed bad blood +in a parish, and that is true.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not say you expressed them,” went on the vigorous Elizabeth; +“you look them—they ooze out of your words like water from a peat +bog. Everybody knows you are a radical and a freethinker and everything else +that is bad and mad, and contrary to that state of life in which it has pleased +God to call you. The end of it will be that you will lose the mistresship of +the school—and I think it is very hard on father and me that you should +bring disgrace on us with your strange ways and immoral views, and now you can +make what you like of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish that all radicals were like Miss Beatrice,” said Geoffrey, +who was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, with a feeble attempt at polite +jocosity. But nobody seemed to hear him. Elizabeth, who was now fairly in a +rage, a faint flush upon her pale cheeks, her light eyes all ashine, and her +thin fingers clasped, stood fronting her beautiful sister, and breathing spite +at every pore. But it was easy for Geoffrey who was watching her to see that it +was not her sister’s views she was attacking; it was her sister. It was +that soft strong loveliness and the glory of that face; it was the deep gentle +mind, erring from its very greatness, and the bright intellect which lit it +like a lamp; it was the learning and the power that, give them play, would set +a world aflame, as easily as they did the heart of the slow-witted hermit +squire, whom Elizabeth coveted—these were the things that Elizabeth +hated, and bitterly assailed. +</p> + +<p> +Accustomed to observe, Geoffrey saw this instantly, and then glanced at the +father. The old man was frightened; clearly he was afraid of Elizabeth, and +dreaded a scene. He stood fidgeting his feet about, and trying to find +something to say, as he glanced apprehensively at his elder daughter, through +his thin hanging hair. +</p> + +<p> +Lastly, Geoffrey looked at Beatrice, who was indeed well worth looking at. Her +face was quite pale and the clear grey eyes shone out beneath their dark +lashes. She had risen, drawing herself to her full height, which her exquisite +proportions seemed to increase, and was looking at her sister. Presently she +said one word and one only, but it was enough. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Elizabeth.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Her sister opened her lips to speak again, but hesitated, and changed her mind. +There was something in Beatrice’s manner that checked her. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said at length, “you should not irritate me so, +Beatrice.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice made no reply. She only turned towards Geoffrey, and with a graceful +little bow, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Bingham, I am sure that you will forgive this scene. The fact is, we +all slept badly last night, and it has not improved our tempers.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause, of which Mr. Granger took a hurried and rather undignified +advantage. +</p> + +<p> +“Um, ah,” he said. “By the way, Beatrice, what was it I +wanted to say? Ah, I know—have you written, I mean written out, that +sermon for next Sunday? My daughter,” he added, addressing Geoffrey in +explanation—“um, copies my sermons for me. She writes a very good +hand——” +</p> + +<p> +Remembering Beatrice’s confidence as to her sermon manufacturing +functions, Geoffrey felt amused at her father’s <i>naïve</i> way of +describing them, and Beatrice also smiled faintly as she answered that the +sermon was ready. Just then the roll of wheels was heard without, and the only +fly that Bryngelly could boast pulled up in front of the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the fly come for you, Mr. Bingham,” said Mr. +Granger—“and as I live, her ladyship with it. Elizabeth, see if +there isn’t some tea ready,” and the old gentleman, who had all the +traditional love of the lower middle-class Englishman for a title, trotted off +to welcome “her ladyship.” +</p> + +<p> +Presently Lady Honoria entered the room, a sweet, if rather a set smile upon +her handsome face, and with a graceful mien, that became her tall figure +exceedingly well. For to do Lady Honoria justice, she was one of the most +ladylike women in the country, and so far as her personal appearance went, a +very perfect type of the class to which she belonged. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey looked at her, saying to himself that she had clearly recovered her +temper, and that he was thankful for it. This was not wonderful, for it is +observable that the more aristocratic a lady’s manners are, the more +disagreeable she is apt to be when she is crossed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Geoffrey dear,” she said, “you see I have come to +fetch you. I was determined that you should not get yourself drowned a second +time on your way home. How are you now?—but I need not ask, you look +quite well again.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very kind of you, Honoria,” said her husband simply, but it +was doubtful if she heard him, for at the moment she was engaged in searching +out the soul of Beatrice, with one of the most penetrating and comprehensive +glances that young lady had ever enjoyed the honour of receiving. There was +nothing rude about the look, it was too quick, but Beatrice felt that quick as +it might be it embraced her altogether. Nor was she wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no doubt about it,” Lady Honoria thought to herself, +“she is lovely—lovely everywhere. It was clever of her to leave her +hair down; it shows the shape of her head so well, and she is tall enough to +stand it. That blue wrapper suits her too. Very few women could show such a +figure as hers—like a Greek statue. I don’t like her; she is +different from most of us; just the sort of girl men go wild about and women +hate.” +</p> + +<p> +All this passed through her mind in a flash. For a moment Lady Honoria’s +blue eyes met Beatrice’s grey ones, and she knew that Beatrice liked her +no better than she did Beatrice. Those eyes were a trifle too honest, and, like +the deep clear water they resembled, apt to throw up shadows of the passing +thoughts above. +</p> + +<p> +“False and cold and heartless,” thought Beatrice. “I wonder +how a man like that could marry her; and how much he loves her.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus the two women took each other’s measure at a glance, each finding +the other wanting by her standard. Nor did they ever change that hastily formed +judgment. +</p> + +<p> +It was all done in a few seconds—in that hesitating moment before the +words we summon answer on our lips. The next, Lady Honoria was sweeping towards +her with outstretched hand, and her most gracious smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Granger,” she said, “I owe you a debt I never can +repay—my dear husband’s life. I have heard all about how you saved +him; it is the most wonderful thing—Grace Darling born again. I +can’t think how you could do it. I wish I were half as brave and +strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please don’t, Lady Honoria,” said Beatrice. “I am so +tired of being thanked for doing nothing, except what it was my duty to do. If +I had let Mr. Bingham go while I had the strength to hold on to him I should +have felt like a murderess to-day. I beg you to say no more about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“One does not often find such modesty united to so much courage, and, if +you will allow me to say it, so much beauty,” answered Lady Honoria +graciously. “Well, I will do as you wish, but I warn you your fame will +find you out. I hear they have an account of the whole adventure in +to-day’s papers, headed, ‘A Welsh Heroine.’” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you hear that, Honoria?” asked her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I had a telegram from Garsington, and he mentions it,” she +answered carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Telegram from Garsington! Hence these smiles,” thought he. +“I suppose that she is going to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have some other news for you, Miss Granger,” went on Lady +Honoria. “Your canoe has been washed ashore, very little injured. The old +boatman—Edward, I think they call him—has found it; and your gun in +it too, Geoffrey. It had stuck under the seat or somewhere. But I fancy that +you must both have had enough canoeing for the present.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, Lady Honoria,” answered Beatrice. “One +does not often get such weather as last night’s, and canoeing is very +pleasant. Every sweet has its salt, you know; or, in other words, one may +always be upset.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment, Betty, the awkward Welsh serving lass, with a fore-arm about as +shapely as the hind leg of an elephant, and a most unpleasing habit of snorting +audibly as she moved, shuffled in with the tea-tray. In her wake came the slim +Elizabeth, to whom Lady Honoria was introduced. +</p> + +<p> +After this, conversation flagged for a while, till Lady Honoria, feeling that +things were getting a little dull, set the ball rolling again. +</p> + +<p> +“What a pretty view you have of the sea from these windows,” she +said in her well-trained and monotonously modulated voice. “I am so glad +to have seen it, for, you know, I am going away to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice looked up quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“My husband is not going,” she went on, as though in answer to an +unspoken question. “I am playing the part of the undutiful wife and +running away from him, for exactly three weeks. It is very wicked of me, +isn’t it? but I have an engagement that I must keep. It is most +tiresome.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey, sipping his tea, smiled grimly behind the shelter of his cup. +“She does it uncommonly well,” he thought to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Does your little girl go with you, Lady Honoria?” asked Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no, I think not. I can’t bear parting with her—you +know how hard it is when one has only one child. But I think she would be so +bored where I am going to stay, for there are no other children there; and +besides, she positively adores the sea. So I shall have to leave her to her +father’s tender mercies, poor dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope Effie will survive it, I am sure,” said Geoffrey laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that your husband is going to stay on at Mrs. +Jones’s,” said the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, I don’t know. What <i>are</i> you going to do, Geoffrey? +Mrs. Jones’s rooms are rather expensive for people in our impoverished +condition. Besides, I am sure that she cannot look after Effie. Just think, she +has eight children of her own, poor old dear. And I must take Anne with me; she +is Effie’s French nurse, you know, a perfect treasure. I am going to stay +in a big house, and my experience of those big houses is, that one never gets +waited on at all unless one takes a maid. You see, what is everybody’s +business is nobody’s business. I’m sure I don’t know how you +will get on with the child, Geoffrey; she takes such a lot of looking +after.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t trouble about that, Honoria,” he answered. +“I daresay that Effie and I will manage somehow.” +</p> + +<p> +Here one of those peculiar gleams of intelligence which marked the advent of a +new idea passed across Elizabeth’s face. She was sitting next her father, +and bending, whispered to him. Beatrice saw it and made a motion as though to +interpose, but before she could do so Mr. Granger spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Mr. Bingham,” he said, “if you want to move, +would you like a room here? Terms strictly moderate, but can’t afford to +put you up for nothing you know, and living rough and ready. You’d have +to take us as you find us; but there is a dressing-room next to my room, where +your little girl could sleep, and my daughters would look after her between +them, and be glad of the job.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Beatrice opened her lips as though to speak, but closed them without +speaking. Thus do our opportunities pass before we realise that they are at +hand. +</p> + +<p> +Instinctively Geoffrey had glanced towards Beatrice. He did not know if this +idea was agreeable to her. He knew that her work was hard, and he did not wish +to put extra trouble upon her, for he guessed that the burden of looking after +Effie would ultimately fall upon her shoulders. But her face told him nothing: +it was quite passive and apparently indifferent. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind, Mr. Granger,” he said, hesitating. “I +don’t want to go away from Bryngelly just at present, and it would be a +good plan in some ways, that is if the trouble to your daughters would not be +too much.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure that it is an excellent plan,” broke in Lady Honoria, +who feared lest difficulties should arise as to her appropriation of +Anne’s services; “how lucky that I happened to mention it. There +will be no trouble about our giving up the rooms at Mrs. Jones’s, because +I know she has another application for them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Geoffrey, not liking to raise objections to a +scheme thus publicly advocated, although he would have preferred to take time +to consider. Something warned him that Bryngelly Vicarage would prove a fateful +abode for him. Then Elizabeth rose and asked Lady Honoria if she would like to +see the rooms her husband and Effie would occupy. +</p> + +<p> +She said she should be delighted and went off, followed by Mr. Granger fussing +in the rear. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think that you will be a little dull here, Mr. +Bingham?” said Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary,” he answered. “Why should I be dull? I +cannot be so dull as I should be by myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice hesitated, and then spoke again. “We are a curious family, Mr. +Bingham; you may have seen as much this afternoon. Had you not better think it +over?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean that you do not want me to come, I won’t,” he +said rather bluntly, and next second felt that he had made a mistake. +</p> + +<p> +“I!” Beatrice answered, opening her eyes. “I have no wishes +in the matter. The fact is that we are poor, and let lodgings—that is +what it comes to. If you think they will suit you, you are quite right to take +them.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey coloured. He was a man who could not bear to lay himself open to the +smallest rebuff from a woman, and he had brought this on himself. Beatrice saw +it and relented. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, Mr. Bingham, so far as I am concerned, I shall be the gainer +if you do come. I do not meet so many people with whom I care to associate, and +from whom I can learn, that I wish to throw a chance away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you misunderstand me a little,” he said; “I only +meant that perhaps you would not wish to be bothered with Effie, Miss +Granger.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. “Why, I love children. It will be a great pleasure to me to +look after her so far as I have time.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then the others returned, and their conversation came to an end. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s quite delightful, Geoffrey—such funny old-fashioned +rooms. I really envy you.” (If there was one thing in the world that Lady +Honoria hated, it was an old-fashioned room.) “Well, and now we must be +going. Oh! you poor creature, I forgot that you were so knocked about. I am +sure Mr. Granger will give you his arm.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger ambled forward, and Geoffrey having made his adieus, and borrowed a +clerical hat (Mr. Granger’s concession to custom, for in most other +respects he dressed like an ordinary farmer), was safely conveyed to the fly. +</p> + +<p> +And so ended Geoffrey’s first day at Bryngelly Vicarage. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br/> +BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT</h2> + +<p> +Lady Honoria leaned back in the cab, and sighed a sigh of satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a capital idea,” she said. “I was wondering what +arrangements you could make for the next three weeks. It is ridiculous to pay +three guineas a week for rooms just for you and Effie. The old gentleman only +wants that for board and lodging together, for I asked him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay it will do,” said Geoffrey. “When are we to +shift?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow, in time for dinner, or rather supper: these barbarians eat +supper, you know. I go by the morning train, you see, so as to reach Garsington +by tea-time. I daresay you will find it rather dull, but you like being dull. +The old clergyman is a low stamp of man, and a bore, and as for the eldest +daughter, Elizabeth, she’s too awful—she reminds me of a rat. But +Beatrice is handsome enough, though I think her horrid too. You’ll have +to console yourself with her, and I daresay you will suit each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you think her horrid, Honoria?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know; she is clever and odd, and I hate odd women. Why +can’t they be like other people? Think of her being strong enough to save +your life like that too. She must have the muscle of an Amazon—it’s +downright unwomanly. But there is no doubt about her beauty. She is as nearly +perfect as any girl I ever saw, though too independent looking. If only one had +a daughter like that, how one might marry her. I would not look at anything +under twenty thousand a year. She is too good for that lumbering Welsh squire +she’s engaged to—the man who lives in the Castle—though they +say that he is fairly rich.” +</p> + +<p> +“Engaged,” said Geoffrey, “how do you know that she is +engaged?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know it at all, but I suppose she is. If she +isn’t, she soon will be, for a girl in that position is not likely to +throw such a chance away. At any rate, he’s head over ears in love with +her. I saw that last night. He was hanging about for hours in the rain, outside +the door, with a face like a ghost, till he knew whether she was dead or alive, +and he has been there twice to inquire this morning. Mr. Granger told me. But +she is too good for him from a business point of view. She might marry anybody, +if only she were put in the way of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Somehow, Geoffrey’s lively interest in Beatrice sensibly declined on the +receipt of this intelligence. Of course it was nothing to him; indeed he was +glad to hear that she was in the way of such a comfortable settlement, but it +is unfortunately a fact that one cannot be quite as much interested in a young +and lovely lady who is the potential property of a “lumbering Welsh +squire,” as in one who belongs to herself. +</p> + +<p> +The old Adam still survives in most men, however right-thinking they may be, +and this is one of its methods of self-assertion. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “I am glad to hear she is in such a good +way; she deserves it. I think the Welsh squire is in luck; Miss Granger is a +remarkable woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Too remarkable by half,” said Lady Honoria drily. “Here we +are, and there is Effie, skipping about like a wild thing as usual. I think +that child is demented.” +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning—it was Friday—Lady Honoria, accompanied by +Anne, departed in the very best of tempers. For the next three weeks, at any +rate, she would be free from the galling associations of straightened +means—free to enjoy the luxury and refined comfort to which she had been +accustomed, and for which her soul yearned with a fierce longing that would be +incomprehensible to folk of a simpler mind. Everybody has his or her ideal +Heaven, if only one could fathom it. Some would choose a sublimated +intellectual leisure, made happy by the best literature of all the planets; +some a model state (with themselves as presidents), in which (through their +beneficent efforts) the latest radical notions could actually be persuaded to +work to everybody’s satisfaction; others a happy hunting ground, where +the game enjoyed the fun as much as they did; and so on, <i>ad infinitum</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria was even more modest. Give her a well appointed town and country +house, a few powdered footmen, plenty of carriages, and other needful things, +including of course the <i>entrée</i> to the upper celestial ten, and she would +ask no more from age to age. Let us hope that she will get it one day. It would +hurt nobody, and she is sure to find plenty of people of her own way of +thinking—that is, if this world supplies the raw material. +</p> + +<p> +She embraced Effie with enthusiasm, and her husband with a chastened warmth, +and went, a pious prayer on her lips that she might never again set eyes upon +Bryngelly. +</p> + +<p> +It will not be necessary for us to follow Lady Honoria in her travels. That +afternoon Effie and her father had great fun. They packed up. Geoffrey, who was +rapidly recovering from his stiffness, pushed the things into the portmanteaus +and Effie jumped on them. Those which would not go in they bundled loose into +the fly, till that vehicle looked like an old clothes ship. Then, as there was +no room left for them inside, they walked down to the Vicarage by the beach, a +distance of about three-quarters of a mile, stopping on their way to admire the +beautiful castle, in one corner of which Owen Davies lived and moved. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, daddy,” said the child, “I wish you would buy a house +like that for you and me to live in. Why don’t you, daddy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t got the money, dear,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you ever have the money, daddy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, dear, perhaps one day—when I am too old to +enjoy it,” he added to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“It would take a great many pennies to buy a house like that, +wouldn’t it, daddy?” said Effie sagely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, more than you could count,” he answered, and the +conversation dropped. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they came to a boat-shed, placed opposite the village and close to +high-water mark. Here a man, it was old Edward, was engaged in mending a canoe. +Geoffrey glanced at it and saw that it was the identical canoe out of which he +had so nearly been drowned. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, Effie,” said he, “that is the boat out of which I was +upset.” Effie opened her wide eyes, and stared at the frail craft. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a horrid boat,” she said; “I don’t want to look +at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re quite right, little miss,” said old Edward, touching +his cap. “It ain’t safe, and somebody will be drowned out of it one +of these days. I wish it had gone to the bottom, I do; but Miss Beatrice, she +is that foolhardy there ain’t no doing nothing with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy that she has learnt a lesson,” said Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“May be, may be,” grumbled the old man, “but women folk are +hard to teach; they never learn nothing till it’s too late, they +don’t, and then when they’ve been and done it they’re sorry, +but what’s the good o’ that?” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile another conversation was in progress not more than a quarter of a +mile away. On the brow of the cliff stood the village of Bryngelly, and at the +back of the village was a school, a plain white-washed building, roofed with +stone, which, though amply sufficient and suitable to the wants of the place, +was little short of an abomination in the eyes of Her Majesty’s school +inspectors, who from time to time descended upon Bryngelly for purposes of +examination and fault-finding. They yearned to see a stately red-brick edifice, +with all the latest improvements, erected at the expense of the rate-payers, +but as yet they yearned in vain. The school was supported by voluntary +contributions, and thanks to Beatrice’s energy and good teaching, the +dreaded Board, with its fads and extravagance, had not yet clutched it. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice had returned to her duties that afternoon, for a night’s rest +brought back its vigour to her strong young frame. She had been greeted with +enthusiasm by the children, who loved her, as well they might, for she was very +gentle and sweet with them, though few dared to disobey her. Besides, her +beauty impressed them, though they did not know it. Beauty of a certain sort +has perhaps more effect on children than on any other class, heedless and +selfish as they often seem to be. They feel its power; it is an outward +expression of the thoughts and dreams that bud in their unknowing hearts, and +is somehow mixed up with their ideas of God and Heaven. Thus there was in +Bryngelly a little girl of ten, a very clever and highly excitable child, Jane +Llewellyn by name, born of parents of strict Calvinistic views. As it chanced, +some months before the opening of this story, a tub thumper, of high renown and +considerable rude oratorical force, visited the place, and treated his hearers +to a lively discourse on the horrors of Hell. +</p> + +<p> +In the very front row, her eyes wide with fear, sat this poor little child +between her parents, who listened to the Minister with much satisfaction, and a +little way back sat Beatrice, who had come out of curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the preacher, having dealt sufficiently in terrifying generalities, +went on to practical illustrations, for, after the manner of his class, he was +delivering an extemporary oration. “Look at that child,” he said, +pointing to the little girl; “she looks innocent, does she not? but if +she does not find salvation, my brethren, I tell you that she is damned. If she +dies to-night, not having found salvation, she will go to <i>Hell</i>. Her +delicate little body will be tormented for ever and ever——” +</p> + +<p> +Here the unfortunate child fell forward with a shriek. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir,” said Beatrice aloud. +</p> + +<p> +She had been listening to all this ill-judged rant with growing indignation, +and now, in her excitement, entirely forgot that she was in a place of worship. +Then she ran forward to the child, who had swooned. Poor little unfortunate, +she never recovered the shock. When she came to herself, it was found that her +finely strung mind had given way, and she lapsed into a condition of +imbecility. But her imbecility was not always passive. Occasionally fits of +passionate terror would seize upon her. She would cry out that the fiends were +coming to drag her down to torment, and dash herself against the wall, in fear +hideous to behold. Then it was found that there was but one way to calm her: it +was to send for Beatrice. Beatrice would come and take the poor thin hands in +hers and gaze with her calm deep eyes upon the wasted horror-stricken face till +the child grew quiet again and, shivering, sobbed herself to sleep upon her +breast. +</p> + +<p> +And so it was with all the children; her power over them was almost absolute. +They loved her, and she loved them all. +</p> + +<p> +And now the schooling was almost done for the day. It was Beatrice’s +custom to make the children sing some simple song before they broke up. She +stood in front of them and gave the time while they sung, and a pretty sight it +was to see her do it. On this particular afternoon, just as the first verse was +finished, the door of the room opened, and Owen Davies entered, bearing some +books under his arm. Beatrice glanced round and saw him, then, with a quick +stamp of her foot, went on giving the time. +</p> + +<p> +The children sung lustily, and in front of them stood Beatrice, dressed in +simple white, her graceful form swaying as she marked the music’s time. +Nearer and nearer drew Owen Davies, till at length he stood quite close, his +lips slightly apart, his eyes fixed upon her like the eyes of one who dreams, +and his slow heavy face faintly lit with the glow of strong emotion. +</p> + +<p> +The song ended, the children at a word from their mistress filed past her, +headed by the pupil teachers, and then with a shout, seizing their caps, ran +forth this way and that, welcoming the free air. When they were all gone, and +not till then, Beatrice turned suddenly round. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Davies?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He started visibly. “I did not know that you had seen me,” he +answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, I saw you, Mr. Davies, only I could not stop the song to say +how do you do. By the way, I have to thank you for coming to inquire after +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Miss Beatrice, not at all; it was a most dreadful accident. +I cannot tell you how thankful I am—I can’t, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very good of you to take so much interest in me,” said +Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Miss Beatrice, not at all. Who—who could help taking +interest in you? I have brought you some books—the Life of +Darwin—it is in two volumes. I think that I have heard you say that +Darwin interests you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, thank you very much. Have you read it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I have cut it. Darwin doesn’t interest me, you know. I +think that he was a rather misguided person. May I carry the books home for +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, but I am not going straight home; I am going to old +Edward’s shed to see my canoe.” +</p> + +<p> +As a matter of fact this was true, but the idea was only that moment born in +her mind. Beatrice had been going home, as she wanted to see that all things +were duly prepared for Geoffrey and his little daughter. But to reach the +Vicarage she must pass along the cliff, where there were few people, and this +she did not wish to do. To be frank, she feared lest Mr. Davies should take the +opportunity to make that offer of his hand and heart which hung over her like a +nightmare. Now the way to Edward’s shed lay through the village and down +the cliff, and she knew that he would never propose in the village. +</p> + +<p> +It was very foolish of her, no doubt, thus to seek to postpone the evil day, +but the strongest-minded women have their weak points, and this was one of +Beatrice’s. She hated the idea of this scene. She knew that when it did +come there would be a scene. Not that her resolution to refuse the man had ever +faltered. But it would be painful, and in the end it must reach the ears of her +father and Elizabeth that she had actually rejected Mr. Owen Davies, and then +what would her life be worth? She had never suspected it, it had never entered +into her mind to suspect, that, though her father might be vexed enough, +nothing on this earth would more delight the heart of Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, having fetched her hat, Beatrice, accompanied by her admirer, +bearing the Life of Darwin under his arm, started to walk down to the beach. +They went in silence, Beatrice just a little ahead. She ventured some remark +about the weather, but Owen Davies made no reply; he was thinking, he wanted to +say something, but he did not know how to say it. They were at the head of the +cliff now, and if he wished to speak he must do so quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Beatrice,” he said in a somewhat constrained voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Davies—oh, look at that seagull; it nearly knocked my hat +off.” +</p> + +<p> +But he was not to be put off with the seagull. “Miss Beatrice,” he +said again, “are you going out walking next Sunday afternoon?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell, Mr. Davies? It may rain.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if it does not rain—please tell me. You generally do walk on +the beach on Sunday. Miss Beatrice, I want to speak to you. I hope you will +allow me, I do indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly she came to a decision. This kind of thing was unendurable; it +would be better to get it over. Turning round so suddenly that Owen started, +she said: +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish to speak to me, Mr. Davies, I shall be in the Amphitheatre +opposite the Red Rocks, at four o’clock on Sunday afternoon, but I had +much rather that you did not come. I can say no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall come,” he answered doggedly, and they went down the steps +to the boat-shed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, look, daddy,” said Effie, “here comes the lady who was +drownded with you and a gentleman,” and to Beatrice’s great relief +the child ran forward and met them. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” thought Geoffrey to himself, “that is the man Honoria +said she was engaged to. Well, I don’t think very much of her +taste.” +</p> + +<p> +In another minute they had arrived. Geoffrey shook hands with Beatrice, and was +introduced to Owen Davies, who murmured something in reply, and promptly took +his departure. +</p> + +<p> +They examined the canoe together, and then walked slowly up to the Vicarage, +Beatrice holding Effie by the hand. Opposite the reef they halted for a minute. +</p> + +<p> +“There is the Table Rock on which we were thrown, Mr. Bingham,” +said Beatrice, “and here is where they carried us ashore. The sea does +not look as though it would drown any one to-night, does it? +See!”—and she threw a stone into it—“the ripples run as +evenly as they do on a pond.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke idly and Geoffrey answered her idly, for they were not thinking of +their words. Rather were they thinking of the strange chance that had brought +them together in an hour of deadly peril and now left them together in an hour +of peace. Perhaps, too, they were wondering to what end this had come about. +For, agnostics, atheists or believers, are we not, most of us, fatalists at +heart? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br/> +THE WRITING ON THE SAND</h2> + +<p> +Geoffrey found himself very comfortable at the Vicarage, and as for Effie, she +positively revelled in it. Beatrice looked after her, taking her to bed at +night and helping her to dress in the morning, and Beatrice was a great +improvement upon Anne. When Geoffrey became aware of this he remonstrated, +saying that he had never expected her to act as nurse to the child, but she +replied that it was a pleasure to her to do so, which was the truth. In other +ways, too, the place was all that he desired. He did not like Elizabeth, but +then he did not see very much of her, and the old farmer clergyman was amusing +in his way, with his endless talk of tithes and crops, and the iniquities of +the rebellious Jones, on whom he was going to distrain. +</p> + +<p> +For the first day or two Geoffrey had no more conversations with Beatrice. Most +of the time she was away at the school, and on the Saturday afternoon, when she +was free, he went out to the Red Rocks curlew shooting. At first he thought of +asking her to come too, but then it occurred to him that she might wish to go +out with Mr. Davies, to whom he still supposed she was engaged. It was no +affair of his, yet he was glad when he came back to find that she had been out +with Effie, and not with Mr. Davies. +</p> + +<p> +On Sunday morning they all went to church, including Beatrice. It was a bare +little church, and the congregation was small. Mr. Granger went through the +service with about as much liveliness as a horse driving a machine. He ground +it out, prayers, psalms, litany, lessons, all in the same depressing way, till +Geoffrey felt inclined to go to sleep, and then took to watching +Beatrice’s sweet face instead. He wondered what made her look so sad. +Hers was always a sad face when in repose, that he knew, but to-day it was +particularly so, and what was more, she looked worried as well as sad. Once or +twice he saw her glance at Mr. Davies, who was sitting opposite, the solitary +occupant of an enormous pew, and he thought that there was apprehension in her +look. But Mr. Davies did not return the glance. To judge from his appearance +nothing was troubling his mind. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, Geoffrey studying him in the same way that he instinctively studied +everybody whom he met, thought that he had never before seen a man who looked +quite so ox-like and absolutely comfortable. And yet he never was more +completely at fault. The man seemed stolid and cold indeed, but it was the +coldness of a volcano. His heart was a-fire. All the human forces in him, all +the energies of his sturdy life, had concentrated themselves in a single +passion for the woman who was so near and yet so far from him. He had never +drawn upon the store, had never frittered his heart away. This woman, strange +and unusual as it may seem, was absolutely the first whose glance or voice had +ever stirred his blood. His passion for her had grown slowly; for years it had +been growing, ever since the grey-eyed girl on the brink of womanhood had +conducted him to his castle home. It was no fancy, no light desire to pass with +the year which brought it. Owen had little imagination, that soil from which +loves spring with the rank swiftness of a tropic bloom to fade at the first +chill breath of change. His passion was an unalterable fact. It was rooted like +an oak on our stiff English soil, its fibres wrapped his heart and shot his +being through, and if so strong a gale should rise that it must fall, then he +too would be overthrown. +</p> + +<p> +For years now he had thought of little else than Beatrice. To win her he would +have given all his wealth, ay, thrice over, if that were possible. To win her, +to know her his by right and his alone, ah, that would be heaven! His blood +quivered and his mind grew dim when he thought of it. What would it be to see +her standing by him as she stood now, and know that she was his wife! There is +no form of passion more terrible than this. Its very earthiness makes it awful. +</p> + +<p> +The service went on. At last Mr. Granger mounted the pulpit and began to read +his sermon, of which the text was, “But the greatest of these is +charity.” Geoffrey noticed that he bungled over some of the words, then +suddenly remembered Beatrice had told him that she had written the sermon, and +was all attention. He was not disappointed. Notwithstanding Mr. Granger’s +infamous reading, and his habit of dropping his voice at the end of a sentence, +instead of raising it, the beauty of the thoughts and diction was very evident. +It was indeed a discourse that might equally well have been delivered in a +Mahomedan or a Buddhist place of worship; there was nothing distinctively +Christian about it, it merely appealed to the good in human nature. But of this +neither the preacher nor his audience seemed to be aware, indeed, few of the +latter were listening at all. The sermon was short and ended with a passage of +real power and beauty—or rather it did not end, for, closing the MS. +sheets, Mr. Granger followed on with a few impromptu remarks of his own. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, brethren,” he said, “I have been preaching to you +about charity, but I wish to add one remark, Charity begins at home. There is +about a hundred pounds of tithe owing to me, and some of it has been owing for +two years and more. If that tithe is not paid I shall have to put distraint on +some of you, and I thought that I had better take this opportunity to tell you +so.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he gave the Benediction. +</p> + +<p> +The contrast between this business-like speech, and the beautiful periods which +had gone before, was so ridiculous that Geoffrey very nearly burst out +laughing, and Beatrice smiled. So did the rest of the congregation, excepting +one or two who owed tithe, and Owen Davies, who was thinking of other things. +</p> + +<p> +As they went through the churchyard, Geoffrey noticed something. Beatrice was a +few paces ahead holding Effie’s hand. Presently Mr. Davies passed him, +apparently without seeing him, and greeted Beatrice, who bowed slightly in +acknowledgment. He walked a little way without speaking, then Geoffrey, just as +they reached the church gate, heard him say, “At four this afternoon, +then.” Again she bowed her head, and he turned and went. As for Geoffrey, +he wondered what it all meant: was she engaged to him, or was she not? +</p> + +<p> +Dinner was a somewhat silent meal. Mr. Granger was thinking about his tithe, +also about a sick cow. Elizabeth’s thoughts pursued some dark and devious +course of their own, not an altogether agreeable one to judge from her face. +Beatrice looked pale and worried; even Effie’s sallies did not do more +than make her smile. As for Geoffrey himself, he was engaged in wondering in an +idle sort of way what was going to happen at four o’clock. +</p> + +<p> +“You is all very dull,” said Effie at last, with a charming +disregard of grammar. +</p> + +<p> +“People ought to be dull on Sunday, Effie,” answered Beatrice, with +an effort. “At least, I suppose so,” she added. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth, who was aggressively religious, frowned at this remark. She knew her +sister did not mean it. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do this afternoon, Beatrice?” she asked +suddenly. She had seen Owen Davies go up and speak to her sister, and though +she had not been near enough to catch the words, scented an assignation from +afar. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice coloured slightly, a fact that escaped neither her sister nor +Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to see Jane Llewellyn,” she answered. Jane Llewellyn +was the crazy little girl whose tale has been told. Up to that moment Beatrice +had no idea of going to see her, but she knew that Elizabeth would not follow +her there, because the child could not endure Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I thought that perhaps you were going out walking.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may walk afterwards,” answered Beatrice shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“So there is an assignation,” thought Elizabeth, and a cold gleam +of intelligence passed across her face. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after dinner, Beatrice put on her bonnet and went out. Ten minutes +passed, and Elizabeth did the same. Then Mr. Granger announced that he was +going up to the farm (there was no service till six) to see about the sick cow, +and asked Geoffrey if he would like to accompany him. He said that he might as +well, if Effie could come, and, having lit his pipe, they started. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Beatrice went to see the crazy child. She was not violent to-day, and +scarcely knew her. Before she had been in the house ten minutes, the situation +developed itself. +</p> + +<p> +The cottage stood about two-thirds of the way down a straggling street, which +was quite empty, for Bryngelly slept after dinner on Sunday. At the top of this +street appeared Elizabeth, a Bible in her hand, as though on district visiting +intent. She looked down the street, and seeing nobody, went for a little walk, +then, returning, once more looked down the street. This time she was rewarded. +The door of the Llewellyns’ cottage opened, and Beatrice appeared. +Instantly Elizabeth withdrew to such a position that she could see without +being seen, and, standing as though irresolute, awaited events. Beatrice turned +and took the road that led to the beach. +</p> + +<p> +Then Elizabeth’s irresolution disappeared. She also turned and took the +road to the cliff, walking very fast. Passing behind the Vicarage, she gained a +point where the beach narrowed to a width of not more than fifty yards, and sat +down. Presently she saw a man coming along the sand beneath her, walking +quickly. It was Owen Davies. She waited and watched. Seven or eight minutes +passed, and a woman in a white dress passed. It was Beatrice, walking slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Elizabeth, setting her teeth, “as I +thought.” Rising, she pursued her path along the cliff, keeping three or +four hundred yards ahead, which she could easily do by taking short cuts. It +was a long walk, and Elizabeth, who was not fond of walking, got very tired of +it. But she was a woman with a purpose, and as such, hard to beat. So she kept +on steadily for nearly an hour, till, at length, she came to the spot known as +the Amphitheatre. This Amphitheatre, situated almost opposite the Red Rocks, +was a half-ring of cliff, the sides of which ran in a semicircle almost down to +the water’s edge, that is, at high tide. In the centre of the segment +thus formed was a large flat stone, so placed that anybody in certain positions +on the cliff above could command a view of it, though it was screened by the +projecting walls of rock from observation from the beach. Elizabeth clambered a +little way down the sloping side of the cliff and looked; on the stone, his +back towards her, sat Owen Davies. Slipping from stratum to stratum of the +broken cliff, Elizabeth drew slowly nearer, till at length she was within fifty +paces of the seated man. Here, ensconcing herself behind a cleft rock, she also +sat down; it was not safe to go closer; but in case she should by any chance be +observed from above, she opened the Bible on her knee, as though she had sought +this quiet spot to study its pages. +</p> + +<p> +Three or four minutes passed, and Beatrice appeared round the projecting angle +of the Amphitheatre, and walked slowly across the level sand. Owen Davies rose +and stretched out his hand to welcome her, but she did not take it, she only +bowed, and then seated herself upon the large flat stone. Owen also seated +himself on it, but some three or four feet away. Elizabeth thrust her white +face forward till it was almost level with the lips of the cleft rock and +strained her ears to listen. Alas! she could not hear a single word. +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me to come here, Mr. Davies,” said Beatrice, breaking +the painful silence. “I have come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered; “I asked you to come because I wanted to +speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” said Beatrice, looking up from her occupation of digging +little holes in the sand with the point of her parasol. Her face was calm +enough, but her heart beat fast beneath her breast. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to ask you,” he said, speaking slowly and thickly, +“if you will be my wife?” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice opened her lips to speak, then, seeing that he had only paused because +his inward emotion checked his words, shut them again, and went on digging +little holes. She wished to rely on the whole case, as a lawyer would say. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to ask you,” he repeated, “to be my wife. I have +wished to do so for some years, but I have never been able to bring myself to +it. It is a great step to take, and my happiness depends on it. Do not answer +me yet,” he went on, his words gathering force as he spoke. “Listen +to what I have to tell you. I have been a lonely man all my life. At sea I was +lonely, and since I have come into this fortune I have been lonelier still. I +never loved anybody or anything till I began to love you. And then I loved you +more and more and more; till now I have only one thought in all my life, and +that thought is of you. While I am awake I think of you, and when I am asleep I +dream of you. Listen, Beatrice, listen!—I have never loved any other +woman, I have scarcely spoken to one—only you, Beatrice. I can give you a +great deal; and everything I have shall be yours, only I should be jealous of +you—yes, very jealous!” +</p> + +<p> +Here she glanced at his face. It was outwardly calm but white as death, and in +the blue eyes, generally so placid, shone a fire that by contrast looked almost +unholy. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you have said enough, Mr. Davies,” Beatrice answered. +“I am very much obliged to you. I am much honoured, for in some ways I am +not your equal, but I do not love you, and I cannot marry you, and I think it +best to tell you so plainly, once and for all,” and unconsciously she +went on digging the holes. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, do not say that,” he answered, almost in a moan. “For +God’s sake don’t say that! It will kill me to lose you. I think I +should go mad. Marry me and you will learn to love me.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice glanced at him again, and a pang of pity pierced her heart. She did +not know it was so bad a case as this. It struck her too that she was doing a +foolish thing, from a worldly point of view. The man loved her and was very +eligible. He only asked of her what most women are willing enough to give under +circumstances so favourable to their well-being—herself. But she never +liked him, he had always repelled her, and she was not a woman to marry a man +whom she did not like. Also, during the last week this dislike and repulsion +had hardened and strengthened. Vaguely, as he pleaded with her, Beatrice +wondered why, and as she did so her eye fell upon the pattern she was +automatically pricking in the sand. It had taken the form of letters, and the +letters were G E O F F R E—Great heaven! Could that be the answer? She +flushed crimson with shame at the thought, and passed her foot across the +tell-tale letters, as she believed, obliterating them. +</p> + +<p> +Owen saw the softening of her eyes and saw the blush, and misinterpreted them. +Thinking that she was relenting, by instinct, rather than from any teaching of +experience, he attempted to take her hand. With a turn of the arm, so quick +that even Elizabeth watching with all her eyes saw nothing of the movement, +Beatrice twisted herself free. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t touch me,” she said sharply, “you have no right +to touch me. I have answered you, Mr. Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +Owen withdrew his hand abashed, and for a moment sat still, his chin resting on +his breast, a very picture of despair. Nothing indeed could break the stolid +calm of his features, but the violence of his emotion was evident in the quick +shivering of his limbs and his short deep breaths. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you give me no hope?” he said at last in a slow heavy voice. +“For God’s sake think before you answer—you don’t know +what it means to me. It is nothing to you—you cannot feel. I feel, and +your words cut like a knife. I know that I am heavy and stupid, but I feel as +though you had killed me. You are heartless, quite heartless.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Beatrice softened a little. She was touched and flattered. Where is the +woman who would not have been? +</p> + +<p> +“What can I say to you, Mr. Davies?” she answered in a kinder +voice. “I cannot marry you. How I can I marry you when I do not love +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty of women marry men whom they do not love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then they are bad women,” answered Beatrice with energy. +</p> + +<p> +“The world does not think so,” he said again; “the world +calls those women bad who love where they cannot marry, and the world is always +right. Marriage sanctifies everything.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice laughed bitterly. “Do you think so?” she said. “I do +not. I think that marriage without love is the most unholy of our institutions, +and that is saying a good deal. Supposing I should say yes to you, supposing +that I married you, not loving you, what would it be for? For your money and +your position, and to be called a married woman, and what do you suppose I +should think of myself in my heart then? No, no, I may be bad, but I have not +fallen so low as that. Find another wife, Mr. Davies; the world is wide and +there are plenty of women in it who will love you for your own sake, or who at +any rate will not be so particular. Forget me, and leave me to go my own +way—it is not your way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave you to go your own way,” he answered almost with +passion—“that is, leave you to some other man. Oh! I cannot bear to +think of it. I am jealous of every man who comes near you. Do you know how +beautiful you are? You are too beautiful—every man must love you as I do. +Oh, if you took anybody else I think that I should kill him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not speak like that, Mr. Davies, or I shall go.” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped at once. “Don’t go,” he said imploringly. +“Listen. You said that you would not marry me because you did not love +me. Supposing that you learned to love me, say in a year’s time, +Beatrice, would you marry me then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would marry any man whom I loved,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Then if you learn to love me you will marry me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said. “It is not probable, it +is hardly possible, that such a thing should happen. If it had been going to +happen it would have happened before.” +</p> + +<p> +“It might come about,” he answered; “your heart might soften +towards me. Oh, say yes to this. It is a small request, it costs you nothing, +and it gives me hope, without which I cannot live. Say that I may ask you once +more, and that then if you love me you will marry me.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice thought for a moment. Such a promise could do her no harm, and in the +course of six months or a year he might get used to the idea of living without +her. Also it would prevent a scene. It was weak of her, but she dreaded the +idea of her having refused Owen Davies coming to her father’s ears. +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish it, Mr. Davies,” she said, “so be it. Only I ask +you to understand this, I am in no way tied to you. I give you no hope that my +answer, should you renew this offer a year hence or at any other time, will +differ from that I give you to-day. I do not think there is the slightest +probability of such a thing. Also, it must be understood that you are not to +speak to my father about this matter, or to trouble me in any way. Do you +consent?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “I consent. You have me at your +mercy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. And now, Mr. Davies, good-bye. No, do not walk back with me. +I had rather go by myself. But I want to say this: I am very sorry for what has +happened. I have not wished it to happen. I have never encouraged it, and my +hands are clean of it. But I am sorry, sorry beyond measure, and I repeat what +I said before—seek out some other woman and marry her.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the cruellest thing of all the cruel things which you have +said,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not mean it to be cruel, Mr. Davies, but I suppose that the truth +often is. And now good-bye,” and Beatrice stretched out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +He touched it, and she turned and went. But Owen did not go. He sat upon the +rock, his head bowed in misery. He had staked all his hopes upon this woman. +She was the one desirable thing to him, the one star in his somewhat leaden +sky, and now that star was eclipsed. Her words were unequivocal, they gave but +little hope. Beatrice was scarcely a woman to turn round in six months or a +year. On the contrary, there was a fixity about her which frightened him. What +could be the cause of it? How came it that she should be so ready to reject +him, and all he had to offer her? After all, she was a girl in a small +position. She could not be looking forward to a better match. Nor would the +prospect move her one way or another. There must be a reason for it. Perhaps he +had a rival, surely that must be the cause. Some enemy had done this thing. But +who? +</p> + +<p> +At this moment a woman’s shadow fell athwart him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, have you come back?” he cried, springing to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean Beatrice,” answered a voice—it was +Elizabeth’s—“she went down to the beach ten minutes ago. I +happened to be on the cliff, and I saw her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Granger,” he said faintly. “I +did not see who it was.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth sat down upon the rock where her sister had sat, and, seeing the +little holes in the breach, began indolently to clear them of the sand which +Beatrice had swept over them with her foot. This was no difficult matter, for +the holes were deeply dug, and it was easy to trace their position. Presently +they were nearly all clear—that is, the letters were legible. +</p> + +<p> +“You have had a talk with Beatrice, Mr. Davies?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered apathetically. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth paused. Then she took her bull by the horns. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to marry Beatrice, Mr. Davies?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” he answered slowly and without surprise. It +seemed natural to him that his own central thought should be present in her +mind. “I love her dearly, and want to marry her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She refused you, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth breathed more freely. +</p> + +<p> +“But I can ask her again.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth frowned. What could this mean? It was not an absolute refusal. +Beatrice was playing some game of her own. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did she put you off so, Mr. Davies? Do not think me inquisitive. I +only ask because I may be able to help you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know; you are very kind. Help me and I shall always be grateful to +you. I do not know—I almost think that there must be somebody else, only +I don’t know who it can be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Elizabeth, who had been gazing intently at the little +holes in the beach which she had now cleared of the sand. “Of course that +is possible. She is a curious girl, Beatrice is. What are those letters, Mr. +Davies?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at them idly. “Something your sister was writing while I talked +to her. I remember seeing her do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“G E O F F R E—why, it must be meant for Geoffrey. Yes, of course +it is possible that there is somebody else, Mr. Davies. Geoffrey!—how +curious!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why is it curious, Miss Granger? Who is Geoffrey?” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth laughed a disagreeable little laugh that somehow attracted +Owen’s attention more than her words. +</p> + +<p> +“How should I know? It must be some friend of Beatrice’s, and one +of whom she is thinking a great deal, or she would not write his name +unconsciously. The only Geoffrey that I know is Mr. Geoffrey Bingham, the +barrister, who is staying at the Vicarage, and whose life Beatrice +saved.” She paused to watch her companion’s face, and saw a new +idea creep across its stolidity. “But of course,” she went on, +“it cannot be Mr. Bingham that she was thinking of, because you see he is +married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Married?” he said, “yes, but he’s a man for all that, +and a very handsome one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I should call him handsome—a fine man,” Elizabeth +answered critically; “but, as Beatrice said the other day, the great +charm about him is his talk and power of mind. He is a very remarkable man, and +the world will hear of him before he has done. But, however, all this is +neither here nor there. Beatrice is a curious woman, and has strange ideas, but +I am sure that she would never carry on with a married man.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he might carry on with her, Miss Elizabeth.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. “Do you really think that a man like Mr. Bingham would try +to flirt with girls without encouragement? Men like that are as proud as women, +and prouder; the lady must always be a step ahead. But what is the good of +talking about such a thing? It is all nonsense. Beatrice must have been +thinking of some other Geoffrey—or it was an accident or something. Why, +Mr. Davies, if you for one moment really believed that dear Beatrice could be +guilty of such a shameless thing as to carry on a flirtation with a married +man, would you have asked her to marry you? Would you still think of asking +such a woman as she must be to become your wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; I suppose not,” he said doubtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“You suppose not. I know you better than you know yourself. You would +rather never marry at all than take such a woman as she would be proved to be. +But it is no good talking such stuff. If you have a rival you may be sure it is +some unmarried man.” +</p> + +<p> +Owen reflected in his heart that on the whole he would rather it was a married +one, since a married man, at any rate, could not legally take possession of +Beatrice. But Elizabeth’s rigid morality alarmed him, and he did not say +so. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know I feel a little upset, Miss Elizabeth,” he answered. +“I think I will be going. By the way, I promised to say nothing of this +to your father. I hope that you will not do so, either.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most certainly not,” said Elizabeth, and indeed it would be the +last thing she would wish to do. “Well, good-bye, Mr. Davies. Do not be +downhearted; it will all come right in the end. You will always have me to help +you, remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, thank you,” he said earnestly, and went. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth watched him round the wall of rock with a cold and ugly smile set +upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +“You fool,” she thought, “you fool! To tell <i>me</i> that +you ‘love her dearly and want to marry her;’ you want to get that +sweet face of hers, do you? You never shall; I’d spoil it first! Dear +Beatrice, she is not capable of carrying on a love affair with a married +man—oh, certainly not! Why, she’s in love with him already, and he +is more than half in love with her. If she hadn’t been, would she have +put Owen off? Not she. Give them time, and we shall see. They will ruin each +other—they <i>must</i> ruin each other; it won’t be child’s +play when two people like that fall in love. They will not stop at sighs, there +is too much human nature about them. It was a good idea to get him into the +house. And to see her go on with that child Effie, just as though she was its +mother—it makes me laugh. Ah, Beatrice, with all your wits you are a +silly woman! And one day, my dear girl, I shall have the pleasure of exposing +you to Owen; the idol will be unveiled, and there will be an end of your +chances with him, for he can’t marry you after that. Then my turn will +come. It is a question of time—only a question of time!” +</p> + +<p> +So brooded Elizabeth in her heart, maddened with malicious envy and passionate +jealousy. She loved this man, Owen Davies, as much as she could love anybody; +at the least, she dearly loved the wealth and station of which he was the +visible centre, and she hated the sister whom he desired. If she could only +discredit that sister and show her to be guilty of woman’s worst crime, +misplaced, unlegalised affection, surely, she thought, Owen would reject her. +</p> + +<p> +She was wrong. She did not know how entirely he desired to make Beatrice his +wife, or realise how forgiving a man can be who has such an end to gain. It is +of the women who already weary them and of their infidelity that men are so +ready to make examples, not of those who do not belong to them, and whom they +long for night and day. To these they can be very merciful. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br/> +GEOFFREY LECTURES</h2> + +<p> +Meanwhile Beatrice was walking homewards with an uneasy mind. The trouble was +upon her. She had, it is true, succeeded in postponing it a little, but she +knew very well that it was only a postponement. Owen Davies was not a man to be +easily shaken off. She almost wished now that she had crushed the idea once and +for all. But then he would have gone to her father, and there must have been a +scene, and she was weak enough to shrink from that, especially while Mr. +Bingham was in the house. She could well imagine the dismay, not to say the +fury, of her money-loving old father if he were to hear that she had +refused—actually refused—Owen Davies of Bryngelly Castle, and all +his wealth. +</p> + +<p> +Then there was Elizabeth to be reckoned with. Elizabeth would assuredly make +her life a burden to her. Beatrice little guessed that nothing would suit her +sister’s book better. Oh, if only she could shake the dust of Bryngelly +off her feet! But that, too, was impossible. She was quite without money. She +might, it was true, succeed in getting another place as mistress to a school in +some distant part of England, were it not for an insurmountable obstacle. Here +she received a salary of seventy-five pounds a year; of this she kept fifteen +pounds, out of which slender sum she contrived to dress herself; the rest she +gave to her father. Now, as she well knew, he could not keep his head above +water without this assistance, which, small as it was, made all the difference +to their household between poverty and actual want. If she went away, supposing +even that she found an equally well-paid post, she would require every farthing +of the money to support herself, there would be nothing left to send home. It +was a pitiable position; here was she, who had just refused a man worth +thousands a year, quite unable to get out of the way of his importunity for the +want of seventy-five pounds, paid quarterly. Well, the only thing to do was to +face it out and take her chance. On one point she was, however, quite clear; +she would <i>not</i> marry Owen Davies. She might be a fool for her pains, but +she would not do it. She respected herself too much to marry a man she did not +love; a man whom she positively disliked. “No, never!” she +exclaimed aloud, stamping her foot upon the shingle. +</p> + +<p> +“Never what?” said a voice, within two yards of her. +</p> + +<p> +She started violently, and looked round. There, his back resting against a +rock, a pipe in his mouth, an open letter on his knee, and his hat drawn down +almost over his eyes, sat Geoffrey. He had left Effie to go home with Mr. +Granger, and climbing down a sloping place in the cliff, had strolled along the +beach. The letter on his knee was one from his wife. It was short, and there +was nothing particular in it. Effie’s name was not even mentioned. It was +to see if he had not overlooked it that he was reading the note through again. +No, it merely related to Lady Honoria’s safe arrival, gave a list of the +people staying at the Hall—a fast lot, Geoffrey noticed, a certain Mr. +Dunstan, whom he particularly disliked, among them—and the number of +brace of partridges which had been killed on the previous day. Then came an +assurance that Honoria was enjoying herself immensely, and that the new French +cook was “simply perfect;” the letter ending “with +love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never what, Miss Granger?” he said again, as he lazily folded up +the sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, of course,” she answered, recovering herself. +“How you startled me, Mr. Bingham! I had no idea there was anybody on the +beach.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite free, is it not?” he answered, getting up. “I +thought you were going to trample me into the pebbles. It’s almost +alarming when one is thinking about a Sunday nap to see a young lady striding +along, then suddenly stop, stamp her foot, and say, ‘No, never!’ +Luckily I knew that you were about or I should really have been +frightened.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you know that I was about?” Beatrice asked a little +defiantly. It was no business of his to observe her movements. +</p> + +<p> +“In two ways. Look!” he said, pointing to a patch of white sand. +“That, I think, is your footprint.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what of it?” said Beatrice, with a little laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing in particular, except that it is your footprint,” he +answered. “Then I happened to meet old Edward, who was loafing along, and +he informed me that you and Mr. Davies had gone up the beach; there is his +footprint—Mr. Davies’s, I mean—but you don’t seem to +have been very sociable, because here is yours right in the middle of it. +Therefore you must have been walking in Indian file, and a little way back in +parallel lines, with quite thirty yards between you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you take the trouble to observe things so closely?” she +asked in a half amused and half angry tone. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—a habit of the legal mind, I suppose. One might +make quite a romance out of those footprints on the sand, and the little +subsequent events. But you have not heard all my thrilling tale. Old Edward +also informed me that he saw your sister, Miss Elizabeth, going along the cliff +almost level with you, from which he concluded that you had argued as to the +shortest way to the Red Rocks and were putting the matter to the proof.” +</p> + +<p> +“Elizabeth,” said Beatrice, turning a shade paler; “what can +she have been doing, I wonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Taking exercise, probably, like yourself. Well, I seat myself with my +pipe in the shadow of that rock, when suddenly I see Mr. Davies coming along +towards Bryngelly as though he were walking for a wager, his hat fixed upon the +back of his head. Literally he walked over my legs and never saw me. Then you +follow and ejaculate, ‘No, never!’—and that is the end of my +story. Have I your permission to walk with you, or shall I interfere with the +development of the plot?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no plot, and as you said just now the beach is free,” +Beatrice answered petulantly. +</p> + +<p> +They walked on a few yards and then he spoke in another tone—the meaning +of the assignation he had overheard in the churchyard grew clear to him now. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe that I have to congratulate you, Miss Granger,” he said, +“and I do so very heartily. It is not everybody who is so fortunate as +to——” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice stopped, and half turning faced him. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>do</i> you mean, Mr. Bingham?” she said. “I do not +understand your dark sayings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mean! oh, nothing particular, except that I wished to congratulate you +on your engagement.” +</p> + +<p> +“My engagement! what engagement?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems that there is some mistake,” he said, and struggle as he +might to suppress it his tone was one of relief. “I understood that you +had become engaged to be married to Mr. Owen Davies. If I am wrong I am sure I +apologise.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite wrong, Mr. Bingham; I don’t know who put such a +notion into your head, but there is no truth in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then allow me to congratulate you on there being no truth in it. You see +that is the beauty of nine affairs matrimonial out of ten—there are two +or more sides of them. If they come off the amiable and disinterested observer +can look at the bright side—as in this case, lots of money, romantic +castle by the sea, gentleman of unexceptional antecedents, &c., &c., +&c. If, on the other hand, they don’t, cause can still be found for +thankfulness—lady might do better after all, castle by the sea rather +draughty and cold in spring, gentlemen most estimable but perhaps a little +dull, and so on, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a note of mockery about his talk which irritated Beatrice +exceedingly. It was not like Mr. Bingham to speak so. It was not even the way +that a gentleman out of his teens should speak to a lady on such a subject. He +knew this as well as she did and was secretly ashamed of himself. But the truth +must out: though Geoffrey did not admit it even to himself he was bitterly and +profoundly jealous, and jealous people have no manners. Beatrice could not, +however, be expected to know this, and naturally grew angry. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand what you are talking about, Mr. +Bingham,” she said, putting on her most dignified air, and Beatrice could +look rather alarming. “You have picked up a piece of unfounded gossip and +now you take advantage of it to laugh at me, and to say rude things of Mr. +Davies. It is not kind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no; it was the footsteps, Miss Granger, <i>and</i> the gossip, +<i>and</i> the appointment you made in the churchyard, that I unwillingly +overheard, not the gossip alone which led me into my mistake. Of course I have +now to apologise.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Beatrice stamped her foot. She saw that he was still mocking her, and +felt that he did not believe her. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” he went on, stung into unkindness by his biting but +unacknowledged jealousy, for she was right—on reflection he did not quite +believe what she said as to her not being engaged. “How unfortunate I +am—I have said something to make you angry again. Why did you not walk +with Mr. Davies? I should then have remained guiltless of offence, and you +would have had a more agreeable companion. You want to quarrel with me; what +shall we quarrel about? There are many things on which we are diametrically +opposed; let us start one.” +</p> + +<p> +It was too much, for though his words were nothing the tone in which he spoke +gave them a sting. Beatrice, already disturbed in mind by the scene through +which she had passed, her breast already throbbing with a vague trouble of +which she did not know the meaning, for once in her life lost control of +herself and grew hysterical. Her grey eyes filled with tears, the corners of +her sweet mouth dropped, and she looked very much as though she were going to +burst out weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“It is most unkind of you,” she said, with a half sob. “If +you knew how much I have to put up with, you would not speak to me like that. I +know that you do not believe me; very well, I will tell you the truth. Yes, +though I have no business to do it, and you have no right—none at +all—to make me do it, I will tell you the truth, because I cannot bear +that you should not believe me. Mr. Davies did want me to marry him and I +refused him. I put him off for a while; I did this because I knew that if I did +not he would go to my father. It was cowardly, but my father would make my life +wretched——” and again she gave a half-choked sob. +</p> + +<p> +Much has been said and written about the effect produced upon men by the sight +of a lady in, or on the border line of tears, and there is no doubt that this +effect is considerable. Man being in his right mind is deeply moved by such a +spectacle, also he is frightened because he dreads a scene. Now most people +would rather walk ten miles in their dress shoes than have to deal with a young +lady in hysterics, however modified. Putting the peculiar circumstances of the +case aside, Geoffrey was no exception to this rule. It was all very well to +cross spears with Beatrice, who had quite an equal wit, and was very capable of +retaliation, but to see her surrender at discretion was altogether another +thing. Indeed he felt much ashamed of himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Please don’t—don’t—be put out,” he said. +He did not like to use the word “cry.” “I was only laughing +at you, but I ought not to have spoken as I did. I did not wish to force your +confidence, indeed I did not. I never thought of such a thing. I am so +sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +His remorse was evidently genuine, and Beatrice felt somewhat appeased. Perhaps +it did not altogether grieve her to learn that she could make him feel sorry. +</p> + +<p> +“You did not force my confidence,” she said defiantly, quite +forgetting that a moment before she had reproached him for making her speak. +“I told you because I did not choose that you should think I was not +speaking the truth—and now let us change the subject.” She imposed +no reserve on him as to what she had revealed; she knew that there was no +necessity to do so. The secret would be between them—another dangerous +link. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice recovered her composure and they walked slowly on. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, Mr. Bingham,” she said presently, “how can a woman +earn her living—I mean a girl like myself without any special +qualifications? Some of them get on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he answered, “that depends upon the girl. What sort +of a living do you mean? You are earning a living now, of a kind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but sometimes, if only I could manage it, I think that I should +like to get away from here, and take another line, something bigger. I do not +suppose that I ever shall, but I like to think of it sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I only know of two things which a woman can turn to,” he said, +“the stage and literature. Of course,” he added hastily, “the +first is out of the question in your case.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so is the other, I am afraid,” she answered shaking her head, +“that is if by literature you mean imaginative writing, and I suppose +that is the only way to get into notice. As I told you I lost my +imagination—well, to be frank, when I lost my faith. At one time I used +to have plenty, as I used to have plenty of faith, but the one went with the +other, I do not understand why.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you? I think I do. A mind without religious sentiment is +like a star without atmosphere, brighter than other stars but not so soft to +see. Religion, poetry, music, imagination, and even some of the more exalted +forms of passion, flourish in the same soil, and are, I sometimes think, +different manifestations of the same thing. Do you know it is ridiculous to +hear you talk of having lost your faith, because I don’t believe it. At +the worst it has gone to sleep, and will wake up again one day. Possibly you +may not accept some particular form of faith, but I tell you frankly that to +reject all religion simply because you cannot understand it, is nothing but a +form of atrocious spiritual vanity. Your mind is too big for you, Miss Granger: +it has run away with you, but you know it is tied by a string—it cannot +go far. And now perhaps you will be angry again.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed, why should I be angry? I daresay that you are quite right, +and I only hope that I may be able to believe again. I will tell you how I lost +belief. I had a little brother whom I loved more than anything else in the +world, indeed after my mother died he was the only thing I really had to love, +for I think that my father cares more for Elizabeth than he does for me, she is +so much the better at business matters, and Elizabeth and I never quite got on. +I daresay that the fault is mine, but the fact remains—we are sisters but +we are not intimate. Well, my brother fell ill of a fever, and for a long time +he lay between life and death, and I prayed for him as I never prayed for +anybody or anything before—yes, I prayed that I might die instead of him. +Then he passed through the crisis and got better, and I thanked God, thinking +that my prayers had been answered; oh, how happy I was for those ten days! And +then this happened:—My brother got a chill, a relapse followed, and in +three days he was dead. The last words that he spoke to me were, ‘Oh, +don’t let me die, Bee!’—he used to call me +Bee—‘Please don’t let me die, dear Bee!’ But he died, +died in my arms, and when it was over I rose from his side feeling as though my +heart was dead also. I prayed no more after that. It seemed to me as though my +prayers had been mocked at, as though he had been given back to me for a little +while in order that the blow might be more crushing when it fell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think that you were a little foolish in taking such a +view?” said Geoffrey. “Have you not been amused, sometimes, to read +about the early Christians?—how the lead would not boil the martyr, or +the lion would not eat him, or the rain from a blue sky put out the fire, and +how the pagan king at once was converted and accepted a great many difficult +doctrines without further delay. The Athanasian Creed was not necessarily true +because the fire would not light or the sword would not cut, nor, excuse me, +were all your old beliefs wrong because your prayer was unanswered. It is an +ancient story, that we cannot tell whether the answering of our petitions will +be good or ill for us. Of course I do not know anything about such things, but +it seems to me rash to suppose that Providence is going to alter the working of +its eternal laws merely to suit the passing wishes of individuals—wishes, +too, that in many cases would bring unforeseen sorrows if fulfilled. Besides I +daresay that the poor child is happier dead than he would have been had he +lived. It is not an altogether pleasant world for most of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Bingham, I know, and I daresay that I should have got over the +shock in time, only after that I began to read. I read the histories of the +religions and compared them, and I read the works of those writers who have +risen up to attack them. I found, or I thought that I found, the same springs +of superstition in them all—superstitions arising from elementary natural +causes, and handed on with variations from race to race, and time to time. In +some I found the same story, only with a slightly altered face, and I learned, +moreover, that each faith denied the other, and claimed truth for itself alone. +</p> + +<p> +“After that, too, I went to the college and there I fell in with a lady, +one of the mistresses, who was the cleverest woman that I ever knew, and in her +way a good woman, but one who believed that religion was the curse of the +world, and who spent all her spare time in attacking it in some form or other. +Poor thing, she is dead now. And so, you see, what between these causes and the +continual spectacle of human misery which to my mind negatives the idea of a +merciful and watching Power, at last it came to pass that the only altar left +in my temple is an altar to the ‘Unknown God.’” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey, like most men who have had to think on these matters, did not care to +talk about them much, especially to women. For one thing, he was conscious of a +tendency to speech less reverent than his thought. But he had not entered +Beatrice’s church of Darkness, indeed he had turned his back on it for +ever, though, like most people, he had at different periods of his past life +tarried an hour in its porch. So he ventured on an objection. +</p> + +<p> +“I am no theologian,” he said, “and I am not fond of +discussion on such matters. But there are just one or two things I should like +to say. It is no argument, to my mind at least, to point to the existence of +evil and unhappiness among men as a proof of the absence of a superior Mercy; +for what are men that such things should not be with them? Man, too, must own +some master. If he has doubts let him look up at the marshalling of the starry +heaven, and they will vanish.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Beatrice, “I fear not. Kant said so, but before +that Molière had put the argument in the mouth of a fool. The starry heavens no +more prove anything than does the running of the raindrops down the +window-pane. It is not a question of size and quantity.” +</p> + +<p> +“I might accept the illustration,” answered Geoffrey; “one +example of law is as good as another for my purpose. I see in it all the +working of a living Will, but of course that is only my way of looking at it, +not yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I am afraid,” said Beatrice, “all this reasoning drawn +from material things does not touch me. That is how the Pagans made +<i>their</i> religions, and it is how Paley strives to prove his. They argued +from the Out to the In, from the material to the spiritual. It cannot be; if +Christianity is true it must stand upon spiritual feet and speak with a +spiritual voice, to be heard, not in the thunderstorm, but only in the hearts +of men. The existence of Creative Force does not demonstrate the existence of a +Redeemer; if anything, it tends to negative it, for the power that creates is +also the power which destroys. What does touch me, however, is the thought of +the multitude of the Dead. <i>That</i> is what we care for, not for an Eternal +Force, ever creating and destroying. Think of them all—all the souls of +unheard-of races, almost animal, who passed away so long ago. Can ours endure +more than theirs, and do you think that the spirit of an Ethiopian who died in +the time of Moses is anywhere now?” +</p> + +<p> +“There was room for them all on earth,” answered Geoffrey. +“The universe is wide. It does not dismay me. There are mysteries in our +nature, the nature we think we know—shall there be none in that which we +know not? Worlds die, to live again when, after millions of ages, the +conditions become once more favourable to life, and why should not a man? We +are creatures of the world, we reflect its every light and shadow, we rejoice +in its rejoicing, its every feature has a tiny parallel in us. Why should not +our fate be as its fate, and its fate is so far as we know eternal. It may +change from gas to chaos, from chaos to active life, from active life to +seeming death. Then it may once more pass into its elements, and from those +elements back again to concrete being, and so on for ever, always changing, but +always the same. So much for nature’s allegory. It is not a perfect +analogy, for Man is a thing apart from all things else; it may be only a hint +or a type, but it is something. +</p> + +<p> +“Now to come to the question of our religion. I confess I draw quite a +different conclusion from your facts. You say that you trace the same +superstitions in all religions, and that the same spiritual myths are in some +shape present in almost all. Well, does not this suggest that the same great +<i>truth</i> underlies them all, taking from time to time the shape which is +best suited to the spiritual development of those professing each. Every great +new religion is better than the last. You cannot compare Osirianism with +Buddhism, or Buddhism with Christianity, or Mahomedanism with the Arabian idol +worship. Take the old illustration—take a cut crystal and hold it in the +sun, and you will see many different coloured rays come from its facets. They +look different, but they are all born of the same great light; they are all the +same light. May it not be so with religion? Let your altar be to the +‘Unknown God,’ if you like—for who can give an unaltering +likeness to the Power above us?—but do not knock your altar down. +</p> + +<p> +“Depend upon it, Miss Granger, all indications to the contrary +notwithstanding, there is a watching Providence without the will of which we +cannot live, and if we deliberately reject that Providence, setting up our +intelligence in its place, sorrow will come of it, even here; for it is wiser +than we. I wish that you would try and look at the question from another point +of view—from a higher point of view. I think you will find that it will +bear a great deal of examination, and that you will come to the conclusion that +the dictum of the wise-acre who says there is nothing because he can see +nothing, is not necessarily a true one. There, that is all I have to say, and I +wish that I could say it better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Beatrice, “I will. Why here we are at home; +I must go and put Effie to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +And here it may be stated that Geoffrey’s advice was not altogether +thrown away. Beatrice did try looking at the question again, and if Faith did +not altogether come back to her at least Hope did, and “the greatest of +these, which is Charity,” had never deserted her. Hope came slowly back, +not by argument probably, but rather by example. In the sea of Doubt she saw +another buoyed up, if it were but on broken pieces of the ship. This encouraged +her. Geoffrey believed, and she—believed in Geoffrey. Indeed, is not this +the secret of woman’s philosophy—even, to some extent, of that of +such a woman as Beatrice? “Let the faith or unfaith of This, That, or the +other Rabbi answer for me,” she says—it is her last argument. She +believes in This, or That, or some other philosopher: that is her creed. And +Geoffrey was the person in whom Beatrice began to believe, all the more wholly +because she had never believed in any one before. Whatever else she was to +lose, this at least she won when she saved his life. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br/> +DRIFTING</h2> + +<p> +On the day following their religious discussion an accident happened which +resulted in Geoffrey and Beatrice being more than ever thrown in the company of +each other. During the previous week two cases of scarlatina had been reported +among the school children, and now it was found that the complaint had spread +so much that it was necessary to close the school. This meant, of course, that +Beatrice had all her time upon her hands. And so had Geoffrey. It was his +custom to bathe before breakfast, after which he had nothing to do for the rest +of the day. Beatrice with little Effie also bathed before breakfast from the +ladies’ bathing-place, a quarter of a mile off, and sometimes he would +meet her as she returned, glowing with health and beauty like Venus new risen +from the Cyprian sea, her half-dried hair hanging in heavy masses down her +back. Then after breakfast they would take Effie down to the beach, and her +“auntie,” as the child learned to call Beatrice, would teach her +lessons and poetry till she was tired, and ran away to paddle in the sea or +look for prawns among the rocks. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the child’s father and Beatrice would talk—not about +religion, they spoke no more on that subject, nor about Owen Davies, but of +everything else on earth. Beatrice was a merry woman when she was happy, and +they never lacked subjects of conversation, for their minds were very much in +tune. In book-learning Beatrice had the advantage of Geoffrey, for she had not +only read enormously, she also remembered what she read and could apply it. Her +critical faculty, too, was very keen. He, on the other hand, had more knowledge +of the world, and in his rich days had travelled a good deal, and so it came to +pass that each could always find something to tell the other. Never for one +second were they dull, not even when they sat for an hour or so in silence, for +it was the silence of complete companionship. +</p> + +<p> +So the long morning would wear away all too quickly, and they would go in to +dinner, to be greeted with a cold smile by Elizabeth and heartily enough by the +old gentleman, who never thought of anything out of his own circle of affairs. +After dinner it was the same story. Either they went walking to look for ferns +and flowers, or perhaps Geoffrey took his gun and hid behind the rocks for +curlew, sending Beatrice, who knew the coast by heart, a mile round or more to +some headland in order to put them on the wing. Then she would come back, +springing towards him from rock to rock, and crouch down beneath a neighbouring +seaweed-covered boulder, and they would talk together in whispers, or perhaps +they would not talk at all, for fear lest they should frighten the flighting +birds. And Geoffrey would first search the heavens for curlew or duck, and, +seeing none, would let his eyes fall upon the pure beauty of Beatrice’s +face, showing so clearly against the tender sky, and wonder what she was +thinking about; till, suddenly feeling his gaze, she would turn with a smile as +sweet as the first rosy blush of dawn upon the waters, and ask him what +<i>he</i> was thinking about. And he would laugh and answer “You,” +whereon she would smile again and perhaps blush a little, feeling glad at +heart, she knew not why. +</p> + +<p> +Then came tea-time and the quiet, when they sat at the open window, and +Geoffrey smoked and listened to the soft surging of the sea and the harmonious +whisper of the night air in the pines. In the corner Mr. Granger slept in his +armchair, or perhaps he had gone to bed altogether, for he liked to go to bed +at half-past eight, as the old Herefordshire farmer, his father, had done +before him; and at the far end of the room sat Elizabeth, doing her accounts by +the light of a solitary candle, or, if they failed her, reading some book of a +devotional and inspired character. But over the edge of the book, or from the +page of crabbed accounts, her eyes would glance continually towards the +handsome pair in the window-place, and she would smile as she saw that it went +well. Only they never saw the glances or noted the smile. When Geoffrey looked +that way, which was not often, for Elizabeth—old Elizabeth, as he always +called her to himself—did not attract him, all he saw was her sharp but +capable-looking form bending over her work, and the light of the candle +gleaming on her straw-coloured hair and falling in gleaming white patches on +her hard knuckles. +</p> + +<p> +And so the happy day would pass and bed-time come, and with it unbidden dreams. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey thought no ill of all this, as of course he ought to have thought. He +was not the ravening lion of fiction—so rarely, if ever, to be met with +in real life—going about seeking whom he might devour. He had absolutely +no designs on Beatrice’s affections, any more than she had on his, and he +had forgotten that first fell prescience of evil to come. Once or twice, it is +true, qualms of doubt did cross his mind in the earlier days of their intimacy. +But he put them by as absurd. He was no believer in the tender helplessness of +full-grown women, his experience having been that they are amply +capable—and, for the most part, more than capable—of looking after +themselves. It seemed to him a thing ridiculous that such a person as Beatrice, +who was competent to form opinions and a judgment upon all the important +questions of life, should be treated as a child, and that he should remove +himself from Bryngelly lest her young affections should become entangled. He +felt sure that they would never be entrapped in any direction whatsoever +without her full consent. +</p> + +<p> +Then he ceased to think about the matter at all. Indeed, the mere idea of such +a thing involved a supposition that would only have been acceptable to a +conceited man—namely, that there was a possibility of this young +lady’s falling in love with him. What right had he to suppose anything of +the sort? It was an impertinence. That there was another sort of +possibility—namely, of his becoming more attached to her than was +altogether desirable—did, however, occur to him once or twice. But he +shrugged his shoulders and put it by. After all, it was his look out, and he +did not much care. It would do her no harm at the worst. But very soon all +these shadowy forebodings of dawning trouble vanished quite. They were lost in +the broad, sweet lights of friendship. By-and-by, when friendship’s day +was done, they might arise again, called by other names and wearing a sterner +face. +</p> + +<p> +It was ridiculous—of course it was ridiculous; he was not going to fall +in love like a boy at his time of life; all he felt was gratitude and +interest—all she felt was amusement in his society. As for the +intimacy—felt rather than expressed—the intimacy that could already +almost enable the one to divine the other’s thought, that could shape her +mood to his and his to hers, that could cause the same thing of beauty to be a +common joy, and discover unity of mind in opinions the most opposite—why, +it was only natural between people who had together passed a peril terrible to +think of. So they took the goods the gods provided, and drifted softly +on—whither they did not stop to inquire. +</p> + +<p> +One day, however, a little incident happened that ought to have opened the eyes +of both. They had arranged, or rather there was a tacit understanding, that +they should go out together in the afternoon. Geoffrey was to take his gun and +Beatrice a book, but it chanced that, just before dinner, as she walked back +from the village, where she had gone to buy some thread to mend Effie’s +clothes, Beatrice came face to face with Mr. Davies. It was their first meeting +without witnesses since the Sunday of which the events have been described, +and, naturally, therefore, rather an awkward one. Owen stopped short so that +she could not pass him with a bow, and then turned and walked beside her. After +a remark or two about the weather, the springs of conversation ran dry. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember that you are coming up to the Castle this afternoon?” +he said, at length. +</p> + +<p> +“To the Castle!” she answered. “No, I have heard nothing of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did not your sister tell you she made an engagement for herself and you +a week or more ago? You are to bring the little girl; she wants to see the view +from the top of the tower.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Beatrice remembered. Elizabeth had told her, and she had thought it best +to accept the situation. The whole thing had gone out of her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I beg your pardon! I do remember now, but I have made another +plan—how stupid of me!” +</p> + +<p> +“You had forgotten,” he said in his heavy voice; “it is easy +for you to forget what I have been looking forward to for a whole week. What is +your plan—to go out walking with Mr. Bingham, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Beatrice, “to go out with Mr. Bingham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you go out with Mr. Bingham every day now.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what if I do?” said Beatrice quickly; “surely, Mr. +Davies, I have a right to go out with whom I like?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course; but the engagement to come to the Castle was made first; +are you not going to keep it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I am going to keep it; I always keep my engagements when I +have any.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then; I shall expect you at three o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice went on home in a curiously irritated condition of mind. She did not, +naturally, want to go to the Castle, and she did want to go out with Geoffrey. +However, there was no help for it. +</p> + +<p> +When she came in to dinner she found that Geoffrey was not there. He had, it +seemed, gone to lunch with Dr. Chambers, whom he had met on the beach. Before +he returned they were all three starting for the Castle, Beatrice leaving a +message to this effect with Betty. +</p> + +<p> +About a quarter of an hour afterwards, Geoffrey came back to fetch his gun and +Beatrice, but Beatrice was gone, and all that he could extract from Betty was +that she had gone to see Mr. Davies. +</p> + +<p> +He was perfectly furious, though all the while he knew how unreasonable was his +anger. He had been looking forward to the expedition, and this sudden change of +plan was too much for his temper. Off he started, however, to pass a thoroughly +miserable afternoon. He seemed to miss Beatrice more each step and gradually to +grow more and more angry at what he called her “rudeness.” Of +course it never occurred to him that what he was really angry at was her going +to see Mr. Davies, or that, in truth, her society had become so delightful to +him that to be deprived of it even for an afternoon was to be wretched. To top +everything, he only got three good shots that afternoon, and he missed them +all, which made him crosser than ever. +</p> + +<p> +As for Beatrice, she enjoyed herself just as little at the Castle as Geoffrey +did on the beach. Owen Davies took them through the great unused rooms and +showed them the pictures, but she had seen them before, and though some of them +were very fine, did not care to look at them again—at any rate, not that +afternoon. But Elizabeth gazed at them with eager eyes and mentally appraised +their value, wondering if they would ever be hers. +</p> + +<p> +“What is this picture?” she asked, pointing to a beautiful portrait +of a Dutch Burgomaster by Rembrandt. +</p> + +<p> +“That,” answered Davies heavily, for he knew nothing of painting +and cared less, “that is a Velasquez, valued for probate at +£3,000—no,” referring to the catalogue and reading, “I beg +your pardon, the next is the Velasquez; that is a Rembrandt in the +master’s best style, showing all his wonderful mastery over light and +shade. It was valued for probate at £4,000 guineas.” +</p> + +<p> +“Four thousand guineas!” said Elizabeth, “fancy having a +thing worth four thousand guineas hanging on a wall!” +</p> + +<p> +And so they went on, Elizabeth asking questions and Owen answering them by the +help of the catalogue, till, to Beatrice’s relief, they came at length to +the end of the pictures. Then they took some tea in the little sitting room of +the master of all this magnificence. Owen, to her great annoyance, sat opposite +to Beatrice, staring at her with all his eyes while she drank her tea, with +Effie sitting in her lap, and Elizabeth, observing it, bit her lip in jealousy. +She had thought it well to bring her sister here; it would not do to let Mr. +Davies think she was keeping Beatrice out of his way, but his mute idol worship +was trying to her feelings. After tea they went to the top of the tower, and +Effie rejoiced exceedingly in the view, which was very beautiful. Here Owen got +a word with Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Your sister seems to be put out about something,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay,” she answered carelessly; “Beatrice has an +uncertain temper. I think she wanted to go out shooting with Mr. Bingham this +afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +Had Owen been a less religious person he might have sworn; as it was, he only +said, “Mr. Bingham—it is always Mr. Bingham from morning to night! +When is he going away?” +</p> + +<p> +“In another week, I believe. Beatrice will be sorry, I think; she makes a +great companion of him. And now I think that we must be getting home,” +and she went, leaving this poisoned shaft to rankle in his breast. +</p> + +<p> +After they had returned to the vicarage and Beatrice had heard Effie her +prayers and tucked her up in her small white bed, she went down to the gate to +be quiet for a little while before supper. Geoffrey had not yet come in. +</p> + +<p> +It was a lovely autumn evening; the sea seemed to sleep, and the little clouds, +from which the sunset fires had paled, lay like wreaths of smoke upon the +infinite blue sky. Why had not Mr. Bingham come back, she wondered; he would +scarcely have time to dress. Supposing that an accident had happened to him. +Nonsense! what accident could happen? He was so big and strong he seemed to +defy accidents; and yet had it not been for her there would be little enough +left of his strength to-day. Ah! she was glad that she had lived to be able to +save him from death. There he came, looming like a giant in the evening mist. +</p> + +<p> +There was a small hand-gate beside the large one on which she leant. Geoffrey +stalked straight up to it as though he did not see her; he saw her well enough, +but he was cross with her. +</p> + +<p> +She allowed him to pass through the gate, which he shut slowly, perhaps to give +her an opportunity of speaking, if she wished to do so; then thinking that he +did not see her she spoke in her soft, musical voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you have good sport, Mr. Bingham?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered shortly; “I saw very little, and I missed +all I saw.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am so sorry, except for the birds. I hate the birds to be killed. Did +you not see me in this white dress? I saw you fifty yards away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss Granger,” he answered, “I saw you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you were going by without speaking to me; it was very rude of +you—what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so rude as it was of you to arrange to walk out with me and then to +go and see Mr. Davies instead.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could not help it, Mr. Bingham; it was an old engagement, which I had +forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, ladies generally have an excuse for doing what they want to +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not an excuse, Mr. Bingham,” Beatrice answered, with +dignity; “there is no need for me to make excuses to you about my +movements.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not, Miss Granger; but it would be more polite to tell me when +you change your mind—next time, you know. However, I have no doubt that +the Castle has attractions for you.” +</p> + +<p> +She flashed one look at him and turned to go, and as she did so his heart +relented; he grew ashamed. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Granger, don’t go; forgive me. I do not know what has become +of my manners, I spoke as I should not. The fact is, I was put out at your not +coming. To tell you the honest truth, I missed you dreadfully.” +</p> + +<p> +“You missed me. That is very nice of you; one likes to be missed. But, if +you missed me for one afternoon, how will you get on a week hence when you go +away and miss me altogether?” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice spoke in a bantering tone, and laughed as she spoke, but the laugh +ended in something like a sigh. He looked at her for a moment, looked till she +dropped her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven only knows!” he answered sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go in,” said Beatrice, in a constrained voice; “how +chill the air has turned.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br/> +ONLY GOOD-NIGHT</h2> + +<p> +Five more days passed, all too quickly, and once more Monday came round. It was +the 22nd of October, and the Michaelmas Sittings began on the 24th. On the +morrow, Tuesday, Geoffrey was to return to London, there to meet Lady Honoria +and get to work at Chambers. That very morning, indeed, a brief, the biggest he +had yet received—it was marked thirty guineas—had been forwarded to +him from his chambers, with a note from his clerk to the effect that the case +was expected to be in the special jury list on the first day of the sittings, +and that the clerk had made an appointment for him with the solicitors for 5.15 +on the Tuesday. The brief was sent to him by his uncle’s firm, and +marked, “With you the Attorney-General, and Mr. Candleton, Q.C.,” +the well-known leader of the Probate and Divorce Court Bar. Never before had +Geoffrey found himself in such honourable company, that is on the back of a +brief, and not a little was he elated thereby. +</p> + +<p> +But when he came to look into the case his joy abated somewhat, for it was one +of the most perplexing that he had ever known. The will contested, which was +that of a Yorkshire money-lender, disposed of property to the value of over +£80,000, and was propounded by a niece of the testator who, when he died, if +not actually weak in his mind, was in his dotage, and superstitious to the +verge of insanity. The niece to whom all the property was left—to the +exclusion of the son and daughter of the deceased, both married, and living +away from home—stayed with the testator and looked after him. Shortly +before his death, however, he and this niece had violently quarrelled on +account of an intimacy which the latter had formed with a married man of bad +repute, who was a discharged lawyer’s clerk. So serious had been the +quarrel that only three days before his death the testator had sent for a +lawyer and formally, by means of a codicil, deprived the niece of a sum of +£2,000 which he had left her, all the rest of his property being divided +between his son and daughter. Three days afterwards, however, he duly executed +a fresh will, in the presence of two servants, by which he left all his +property to the niece, to the entire exclusion of his own children. This will, +though very short, was in proper form and was written by nobody knew whom. The +servants stated that the testator before signing it was perfectly acquainted +with its contents, for the niece had made him repeat them in their presence. +They also declared, however, that he seemed in a terrible fright, and said +twice, “It’s behind me; it’s behind me!” +</p> + +<p> +Within an hour of the signing of the will the testator was found dead, +apparently from the effects of fear, but the niece was not in the room at the +time of death. The only other remarkable circumstance in the case was that the +disreputable lover of the niece had been seen hanging about the house at dusk, +the testator having died at ten o’clock at night. There was also a +further fact. The son, on receiving a message from the niece that his father +was seriously worse, had hurried with extraordinary speed to the house, passing +some one or something—he could not tell what—that seemed to be +running, apparently from the window of the sick man’s room, which was on +the ground floor, and beneath which footmarks were afterwards found. Of these +footmarks two casts had been taken, of which photographs were forwarded with +the brief. They had been made by naked feet of small size, and in each case the +little joint of the third toe of the right foot seemed to be missing. But all +attempts to find the feet that made them had hitherto failed. The will was +contested by the next of kin, for whom Geoffrey was one of the counsel, upon +the usual grounds of undue influence and fraud; but as it seemed at present +with small prospect of success, for, though the circumstances were +superstitious enough, there was not the slightest evidence of either. This +curious case, of which the outlines are here written, is briefly set out, +because it proved to be the foundation of Geoffrey’s enormous practice +and reputation at the Bar. +</p> + +<p> +He read the brief through twice, thought it over well, and could make little of +it. It was perfectly obvious to him that there had been foul play somewhere, +but he found himself quite unable to form a workable hypothesis. Was the person +who had been seen running away concerned in the matter?—if it was a +person. If so, was he the author of the footprints? Of course the +ex-lawyer’s clerk had something to do with it, but what? In vain did +Geoffrey cudgel his brains; every idea that occurred to him broke down +somewhere or other. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall lose this,” he said aloud in despair; “suspicious +circumstances are not enough to upset a will,” and then, addressing +Beatrice, who was sitting at the table, working: +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Miss Granger, you have a smattering of law, see if you can make +anything of this,” and he pushed the heavy brief towards her. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice took it with a laugh, and for the next three-quarters of an hour her +fair brow was puckered up in a way quaint to see. At last she finished and shut +the brief up. “Let me look at the photographs,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey handed them to her. She very carefully examined first one and then the +other, and as she did so a light of intelligence broke out upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Portia, have you got it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I have got something,” she answered. “I do not know if it is +right. Don’t you see, the old man was superstitious; they frightened him +first of all by a ghostly voice or some such thing into signing the will, and +then to death after he had signed it. The lawyer’s clerk prepared the +will—he would know how to do it. Then he was smuggled into the room under +the bed, or somewhere, dressed up as a ghost perhaps. The sending for the son +by the niece was a blind. The thing that was seen running away was a +boy—those footprints were made by a boy. I have seen so many thousands on +the sands here that I could swear to it. He was attracted to the house from the +road, which was quite near, by catching sight of something unusual through the +blind; the brief says there were no curtains or shutters. Now look at the +photographs of the footprints. See in No. 1, found outside the window, the toes +are pressed down deeply into the mud. The owner of the feet was standing on +tip-toe to get a better view. But in No. 2, which was found near where the son +thought he saw a person running, the toes are spread out quite wide. That is +the footprint of some one who was in a great hurry. Now it is not probable that +a boy had anything to do with the testator’s death. Why, then, was the +boy running so hard? I will tell you: because he was frightened at something he +had seen through the blind. So frightened was he, that he will not come +forward, or answer the advertisements and inquiries. Find a boy in that town +who has a joint missing on the third toe of the right foot, and you will soon +know all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove,” said Geoffrey, “what a criminal lawyer you would +make! I believe that you have got it. But how are we to find this boy with the +missing toe-joint? Every possible inquiry has already been made and failed. +Nobody has seen such a boy, whose deficiency would probably be known by his +parents, or schoolfellows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Beatrice, “it has failed because the boy has +taken to wearing shoes, which indeed he would always have to do at school. His +parents, if he has any, would perhaps not speak of his disfigurement, and no +one else might know of it, especially if he were a new-comer in the +neighbourhood. It is quite possible that he took off his boots in order to +creep up to the window. And now I will tell you how I should set to work to +find him. I should have every bathing-place in the river running through the +town—there is a river—carefully watched by detectives. In this +weather” (the autumn was an unusually warm one) “boys of that class +often paddle and sometimes bathe. If they watch close enough, they will +probably find a boy with a missing toe joint among the number.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a good idea,” said Geoffrey. “I will telegraph to the +lawyers at once. I certainly believe that you have got the clue.” +</p> + +<p> +And as it turned out afterwards Beatrice had got it; her suppositions were +right in almost every particular. The boy, who proved to be the son of a pedlar +who had recently come into the town, was found wading, and by a clever trick, +which need not be detailed, frightened into telling the truth, as he had +previously frightened himself into holding his tongue. He had even, as Beatrice +conjectured, taken off his boots to creep up to the window, and as he ran away +in his fright, had dropped them into a ditch full of water. There they were +found, and went far to convince the jury of the truth of his story. Thus it was +that Beatrice’s quick wit laid the foundations of Geoffrey’s great +success. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +This particular Monday was a field day at the Vicarage. Jones had proved +obdurate; no power on earth could induce him to pay the £34 11s. 4d. due on +account of tithe. Therefore Mr. Granger, fortified by a judgment duly obtained, +had announced his intention of distraining upon Jones’s hay and cattle. +Jones had replied with insolent defiance. If any bailiff, or auctioneer, or +such people came to sell his hay he would kill him, or them. +</p> + +<p> +So said Jones, and summoned his supporters, many of whom owed tithe, and none +of whom wished to pay it, to do battle in his cause. For his part, Mr. Granger +retained an auctioneer of undoubted courage who was to arrive on this very +afternoon, supported by six policemen, and carry out the sale. Beatrice felt +nervous about the whole thing, but Elizabeth was very determined, and the old +clergyman was now bombastic and now despondent. The auctioneer arrived duly by +the one o’clock train. He was a tall able-bodied man, not unlike Geoffrey +in appearance, indeed at twenty yards distance it would have been difficult to +tell them apart. The sale was fixed for half-past two, and Mr. +Johnson—that was the auctioneer’s name—went to the inn to get +his dinner before proceeding to business. He was informed of the hostile +demonstration which awaited him, and that an English member of Parliament had +been sent down especially to head the mob, but being a man of mettle +pooh-poohed the whole affair. +</p> + +<p> +“All bark, sir,” he said to Geoffrey, “all bark and no bite; +I’m not afraid of these people. Why, if they won’t bid for the +stuff, I will buy it in myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Geoffrey, “but I advise you to look out. I +fancy that the old man is a rough customer.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Geoffrey went back to his dinner. +</p> + +<p> +As they sat at the meal, through a gap in the fir trees they saw that the great +majority of the population of Bryngelly was streaming up towards the scene of +the sale, some to agitate, and some to see the fun. +</p> + +<p> +“It is pretty well time to be off,” said Geoffrey. “Are you +coming, Mr. Granger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” answered the old gentleman, “I wished to do so, but +Elizabeth thinks that I had better keep away. And after all, you know,” +he added airily, “perhaps it is as well for a clergyman not to mix +himself up too much in these temporal matters. No, I want to go and see about +some pigs at the other end of the parish, and I think that I shall take this +opportunity.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not going, Mr. Bingham, are you?” asked Beatrice in a +voice which betrayed her anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” he answered, “of course I am. I would not miss the +chance for worlds. Why, Beecham Bones is going to be there, the member of +Parliament who has just done his four months for inciting to outrage. We are +old friends; I was at school with him. Poor fellow, he was mad even in those +days, and I want to chaff him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you had far better not go, Mr. Bingham,” said +Beatrice; “they are a very rough set.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody is not so cowardly as you are,” put in Elizabeth. +“I am going at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right, Miss Elizabeth,” said Geoffrey; “we will +protect each other from the revolutionary fury of the mob. Come, it is time to +start.” +</p> + +<p> +And so they went, leaving Beatrice a prey to melancholy forebodings. +</p> + +<p> +She waited in the house for the best part of an hour, making pretence to play +with Effie. Then her anxiety got the better of her; she put on her hat and +started, leaving Effie in charge of the servant Betty. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice walked quickly along the cliff till she came in sight of Jones’s +farm. From where she stood she could make out a great crowd of men, and even, +when the wind turned towards her, catch the noise of shouting. Presently she +heard a sound like the report of a gun, saw the crowd break up in violent +confusion, and then cluster together again in a dense mass. +</p> + +<p> +“What could it mean?” Beatrice wondered. +</p> + +<p> +As the thought crossed her mind, she perceived two men running towards her with +all their speed, followed by a woman. Three minutes more and she saw that the +woman was Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +The men were passing her now. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Murder!</i>” they answered with one voice, and sped on towards +Bryngelly. +</p> + +<p> +Another moment and Elizabeth was at hand, horror written on her pale face. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice clutched at her. “<i>Who</i> is it?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Bingham,” gasped her sister. “Go and help; he’s +shot dead!” And she too was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice’s knees loosened, her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth; the +solid earth spun round and round. “Geoffrey killed! Geoffrey +killed!” she cried in her heart; but though her ears seemed to hear the +sound of them, no words came from her lips. “Oh, what should she do? +Where should she hide herself in her grief?” +</p> + +<p> +A few yards from the path grew a stunted tree with a large flat stone at its +root. Thither Beatrice staggered and sank upon the stone, while still the solid +earth spun round and round. +</p> + +<p> +Presently her mind cleared a little, and a keener pang of pain shot through her +soul. She had been stunned at first, now she felt. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it was not true; perhaps Elizabeth had been mistaken or had only +said it to torment her.” She rose. She flung herself upon her knees, +there by the stone, and prayed, this first time for many years—she prayed +with all her soul. “Oh, God, if Thou art, spare him his life and me this +agony.” In her dreadful pangs of grief her faith was thus re-born, and, +as all human beings must in their hour of mortal agony, Beatrice realised her +dependence on the Unseen. She rose, and weak with emotion sank back on to the +stone. The people were streaming past her now, talking excitedly. Somebody came +up to her and stood over her. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, Heaven, it was Geoffrey! +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you?” she gasped. “Elizabeth said that you were +murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. It was not I; it is that poor fellow Johnson, the auctioneer. +Jones shot him. I was standing next him. I suppose your sister thought that I +fell. He was not unlike me, poor fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice looked at him, went red, went white, then burst into a flood of tears. +</p> + +<p> +A strange pang seized upon his heart. It thrilled through him, shaking him to +the core. Why was this woman so deeply moved? Could it be——? +Nonsense; he stifled the thought before it was born. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t cry,” Geoffrey said, “the people will see you, +Beatrice” (for the first time he called her by her christian name); +“pray do not cry. It distresses me. You are upset, and no wonder. That +fellow Beecham Bones ought to be hanged, and I told him so. It is his work, +though he never meant it to go so far. He’s frightened enough now, I can +tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice controlled herself with an effort. +</p> + +<p> +“What happened,” he said, “I will tell you as we walk along. +No, don’t go up to the farm. He is not a pleasant sight, poor fellow. +When I got up there, Beecham Bones was spouting away to the mob—his long +hair flying about his back—exciting them to resist laws made by brutal +thieving landlords, and all that kind of gibberish; telling them that they +would be supported by a great party in Parliament, &c., &c. The people, +however, took it all good-naturedly enough. They had a beautiful effigy of your +father swinging on a pole, with a placard on his breast, on which was written, +‘The robber of the widow and the orphan,’ and they were singing +Welsh songs. Only I saw Jones, who was more than half drunk, cursing and +swearing in Welsh and English. When the auctioneer began to sell, Jones went +into the house and Bones went with him. After enough had been sold to pay the +debt, and while the mob was still laughing and shouting, suddenly the back door +of the house opened and out rushed Jones, now quite drunk, a gun in his hand +and Bones hanging on to his coat-tails. I was talking to the auctioneer at the +moment, and my belief is that the brute thought that I was Johnson. At any +rate, before anything could be done he lifted the gun and fired, at me, as I +think. The charge, however, passed my head and hit poor Johnson full in the +face, killing him dead. That is all the story.” +</p> + +<p> +“And quite enough, too,” said Beatrice with a shudder. “What +times we live in! I feel quite sick.” +</p> + +<p> +Supper that night was a very melancholy affair. Old Mr. Granger was altogether +thrown off his balance; and even Elizabeth’s iron nerves were shaken. +</p> + +<p> +“It could not be worse, it could not be worse,” moaned the old man, +rising from the table and walking up and down the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, father,” said Elizabeth the practical. “He might +have been shot before he had sold the hay, and then you would not have got your +tithe.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey could not help smiling at this way of looking at things, from which, +however, Mr. Granger seemed to draw a little comfort. From constantly thinking +about it, and the daily pressure of necessity, money had come to be more to the +old man than anything else in the world. +</p> + +<p> +Hardly was the meal done when three reporters arrived and took down +Geoffrey’s statement of what had occurred, for publication in various +papers, while Beatrice went away to see about packing Effie’s things. +They were to start by a train leaving for London at half-past eight on the +following morning. When Beatrice came back it was half-past ten, and in his +irritation of mind Mr. Granger insisted upon everybody going to bed. Elizabeth +shook hands with Geoffrey, congratulating him on his escape as she did so, and +went at once; but Beatrice lingered a little. At last she came forward and held +out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Mr. Bingham,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night. I hope that this is not good-bye also,” he added with +some anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” broke in Mr. Granger. “Beatrice will go and +see you off. I can’t; I have to go and meet the coroner about the +inquest, and Elizabeth is always busy in the house. Luckily they won’t +want you; there were so many witnesses.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is only good-night,” said Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +She went to her room. Elizabeth, who shared it, was already asleep, or +pretending to be asleep. Then Beatrice undressed and got into bed, but rest she +could not. It was “only good-night,” a last good-night. He was +going away—back to his wife, back to the great rushing world, and to the +life in which she had no share. Very soon he would forget her. Other interests +would arise, other women would become his friends, and he would forget the +Welsh girl who had attracted him for a while, or remember her only as the +companion of a rough adventure. What did it mean? Why was her heart so sore? +Why had she felt as though she should die when they told her that he was dead? +</p> + +<p> +Then the answer rose in her breast. She loved him; it was useless to deny the +truth—she loved him body, and heart and soul, with all her mind and all +her strength. She was his, and his alone—to-day, to-morrow, and for ever. +He might go from her sight, she might never, never see him more, but love him +she always must. And he was married! +</p> + +<p> +Well, it was her misfortune; it could not affect the solemn truth. What should +she do now, how should she endure her life when her eyes no longer saw his +eyes, and her ears never heard his voice? She saw the future stretch itself +before her as a vision. She saw herself forgotten by this man whom she loved, +or from time to time remembered only with a faint regret. She saw herself +growing slowly old, her beauty fading yearly from her face and form, +companioned only by the love that grows not old. Oh, it was bitter, bitter! and +yet she would not have it otherwise. Even in her pain she felt it better to +have found this deep and ruinous joy, to have wrestled with the Angel and been +worsted, than never to have looked upon his face. If she could only know that +what she gave was given back again, that he loved her as she loved him, she +would be content. She was innocent, she had never tried to draw him to her; she +had used no touch or look, no woman’s arts or lures such as her beauty +placed at her command. There had been no word spoken, scarcely a meaning glance +had passed between them, nothing but frank and free companionship as of man +with man. She knew he did not love his wife and that his wife did not love +him—this she could <i>see</i>. But she had never tried to win him from +her, and though she sinned in thought, though her heart was guilty—oh, +her hands were clean! +</p> + +<p> +Her restlessness overcame her. She could no longer lie in bed. Elizabeth, +watching through her veil of sleep, saw Beatrice rise, put on a wrapper, and, +going to the window, throw it wide. At first she thought of interfering, for +Elizabeth was a prudent person and did not like draughts; but her +sister’s movements excited her curiosity, and she refrained. Beatrice sat +down on the foot of her bed, and leaning her arm upon the window-sill looked +out upon the lovely quiet night. How dark the pine trees massed against the +sky; how soft was the whisper of the sea, and how vast the heaven through which +the stars sailed on. +</p> + +<p> +What was it, then, this love of hers? Was it mere earthly passion? No, it was +more. It was something grander, purer, deeper, and quite undying. Whence came +it, then? If she was, as she had thought, only a child of earth, whence came +this deep desire which was not of the earth? Had she been wrong, had she a +soul—something that could love with the body and through the body and +beyond the body—something of which the body with its yearnings was but +the envelope, the hand or instrument? Oh, now it seemed to Beatrice that this +was so, and that called into being by her love she and her soul stood face to +face acknowledging their unity. Once she had held that it was phantasy: that +such spiritual hopes were but exhalations from a heart unsatisfied; that when +love escapes us on the earth, in our despair, we swear it is immortal, and that +we shall find it in the heavens. Now Beatrice believed this no more. Love had +kissed her on the eyes, and at his kiss her sleeping spirit was awakened, and +she saw a vision of the truth. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, she loved him, and must always love him! But she could never know on earth +that he was hers, and if she had a spirit to be freed after some few years, +would not his spirit have forgotten hers in that far hereafter of their +meeting? +</p> + +<p> +She dropped her brow upon her arm and softly sobbed. What was there left for +her to do except to sob—till her heart broke? +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth, lying with wide-open ears, heard the sobs. Elizabeth, peering +through the moonlight, saw her sister’s form tremble in the convulsion of +her sorrow, and smiled a smile of malice. +</p> + +<p> +“The thing is done,” she thought; “she cries because the man +is going. Don’t cry, Beatrice, don’t cry! We will get your +plaything back for you. Oh, with such a bait it will be easy. He is as sweet on +you as you on him.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something evil, something almost devilish, in this scene of the one +watching woman holding a clue to and enjoying the secret tortures of the other, +plotting the while to turn them to her innocent rival’s destruction and +her own advantage. Elizabeth’s jealousy was indeed bitter as the grave. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Beatrice ceased sobbing. She lifted her head, and by a sudden impulse +threw out the passion of her heart with all her concentrated strength of mind +towards the man she loved, murmuring as she did so some passionate, despairing +words which she knew. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Geoffrey, sleeping soundly, dreamed that he saw Beatrice seated +by her window and looking at him with eyes which no earthly obstacle could +blind. She was speaking; her lips moved, but though he could hear no voice the +words she spoke floated into his mind— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Be a god and hold me<br/> + With a charm!<br/> +Be a man and fold me<br/> + With thine arm.<br/> +<br/> +Teach me, only teach, Love!<br/> + As I ought<br/> +I will speak thy speech, Love,<br/> + Think thy thought—<br/> +<br/> +Meet, if thou require it,<br/> + Both demands,<br/> +Laying flesh and spirit<br/> + In thy hands.<br/> +<br/> +That shall be to-morrow<br/> + Not to-night:<br/> +I must bury sorrow<br/> + Out of sight.<br/> +<br/> +Must a little weep, Love,<br/> + (Foolish me!)<br/> +And so fall asleep, Love,<br/> + Loved by thee.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Geoffrey heard them in his heart. Then they were gone, the vision of Beatrice +was gone, and suddenly he awoke. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, what was this flood of inarticulate, passion-laden thought that beat upon +his brain telling of Beatrice? Wave after wave it came, utterly overwhelming +him, like the heavy breath of flowers stirred by a night wind—like a +message from another world. It was real; it was no dream, no fancy; she was +present with him though she was not there; her thought mingled with his +thought, her being beat upon his own. His heart throbbed, his limbs trembled, +he strove to understand and could not. But in the mystery of that dread +communion, the passion he had trodden down and refused acknowledgment took life +and form within him; it grew like the Indian’s magic tree, from seed to +blade, from blade to bud, and from bud to bloom. In that moment it became clear +to him: he knew he loved her, and knowing what such a love must mean, for him +if not for her, Geoffrey sank back and groaned. +</p> + +<p> +And Beatrice? Of a sudden she ceased speaking to herself; she felt her thought +flung back to her weighted with another’s thought. She had broken through +the barriers of earth; the quick electric message of her heart had found a path +to him she loved and come back answered. But in what tongue was that answer +writ? Alas! she could not read it, any more than he could read the message. At +first she doubted; surely it was imagination. Then she remembered it was +absolutely proved that people dying could send a vision of themselves to others +far away; and if that could be, why not this? No, it was truth, a solemn truth; +she knew he felt her thought, she knew that his life beat upon her life. Oh, +here was mystery, and here was hope, for if this could be, and it <i>was</i>, +what might not be? If her blind strength of human love could so overstep the +boundaries of human power, and, by the sheer might of its volition, mock the +physical barriers that hemmed her in, what had she to fear from distance, from +separation, ay, from death itself? She had grasped a clue which might one day, +before the seeming end or after—what did it matter?—lay strange +secrets open to her gaze. She had heard a whisper in an unknown tongue that +could still be learned, answering Life’s agonizing cry with a song of +glory. If only he loved her, some day all would be well. Some day the barriers +would fall. Crumbling with the flesh, they would fall and set her naked spirit +free to seek its other self. And then, having found her love, what more was +there to seek? What other answer did she desire to all the problems of her life +than this of Unity attained at last—Unity attained in Death! +</p> + +<p> +And if he did not love her, how could he answer her? Surely that message could +not pass except along the golden chord of love, which ever makes its sweetest +music when Pain strikes it with a hand of fear. +</p> + +<p> +The troubled glory passed—it throbbed itself away; the spiritual gusts of +thought grew continually fainter, till, like the echoes of a dying harp, like +the breath of a falling gale, they slowly sank to nothingness. Then wearied +with an extreme of wild emotion Beatrice sought her bed again and presently was +lost in sleep. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +When Geoffrey woke on the next morning, after a little reflection, he came to +the decision that he had experienced a very curious and moving dream, +consequent on the exciting events of the previous day, or on the pain of his +impending departure. He rose, packed his bag—everything else was +ready—and went in to breakfast. Beatrice did not appear till it was half +over. She looked very pale, and said that she had been packing Effie’s +things. Geoffrey noticed that she barely touched his fingers when he rose to +shake hands with her, and that she studiously avoided his glance. Then he began +to wonder if she also had strangely dreamed. +</p> + +<p> +Next came the bustle of departure. Effie was despatched in the fly with the +luggage and Betty, the fat Welsh servant, to look after her. Beatrice and +Geoffrey were to walk to the station. +</p> + +<p> +“Time for you to be going, Mr. Bingham,” said Mr. Granger. +“There, good-bye, good-bye! God bless you! Never had such charming +lodgers before. Hope you will come back again, I’m sure. By the way, they +are certain to summon you as a witness at the trial of that villain +Jones.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Mr. Granger,” Geoffrey answered; “you must come +and see me in town. A change will do you good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, perhaps I may. I have not had a change for twenty-five years. +Never could afford it. Aren’t you going to say good-bye to +Elizabeth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Miss Granger,” said Geoffrey politely. “Many +thanks for all your kindness. I hope we shall meet again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you?” answered Elizabeth; “so do I. I am sure that we +shall meet again, and I am sure that I shall be glad to see you when we do, Mr. +Bingham,” she added darkly. +</p> + +<p> +In another minute he had left the Vicarage and, with Beatrice at his side, was +walking smartly towards the station. +</p> + +<p> +“This is very melancholy,” he said, after a few moments’ +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Going away generally is,” she answered—“either for +those who go or those who stay behind,” she added. +</p> + +<p> +“Or for both,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Then came another pause; he broke it. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Beatrice, may I write to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“And will you answer my letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will answer them.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I had my way, then, you should spend a good deal of your time in +writing,” he said. “You don’t know,” he added +earnestly, “what a delight it has been to me to learn to know you. I have +had no greater pleasure in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad,” Beatrice answered shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way,” Geoffrey said presently, “there is something I +want to ask you. You are as good as a reference book for quotations, you know. +Some lines have been haunting me for the last twelve hours, and I cannot +remember where they come from.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are they?” she asked, looking up, and Geoffrey saw, or +thought he saw, a strange fear shining in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Here are four of them,” he answered unconcernedly; “we have +no time for long quotations: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘That shall be to-morrow,<br/> + Not to-night:<br/> +I must bury sorrow<br/> + Out of sight.’” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice heard—heard the very lines which had been upon her lips in the +wild midnight that had gone. Her heart seemed to stop; she became white as the +dead, stumbled, and nearly fell. With a supreme effort she recovered herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you must know the lines, Mr. Bingham,” she said in a +low voice. “They come from a poem of Browning’s, called ‘<i>A +Woman’s Last Word</i>.’” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey made no answer; what was he to say? For a while they walked on in +silence. They were getting close to the station now. Separation, perhaps for +ever, was very near. An overmastering desire to know the truth took hold of +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Beatrice,” he said again, “you look pale. Did you sleep +well last night?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Bingham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you have curious dreams?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did,” she answered, looking straight before her. +</p> + +<p> +He turned a shade paler. Then it was true! +</p> + +<p> +“Beatrice,” he said in a half whisper, “what do they +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“As much as anything else, or as little,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“What are people to do who dream such dreams?” he said again, in +the same constrained voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Forget them,” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“And if they come back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Forget them again.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if they will not be forgotten?” +</p> + +<p> +She turned and looked him full in the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Die of them,” she said; “then they will be forgotten, +or——” +</p> + +<p> +“Or what, Beatrice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the station,” said Beatrice, “and Betty is +quarrelling with the flyman.” +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes more and Geoffrey was gone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br/> +THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD</h2> + +<p> +Geoffrey’s journey to town was not altogether a cheerful one. To begin +with, Effie wept copiously at parting with her beloved “auntie,” as +she called Beatrice, and would not be comforted. The prospect of rejoining her +mother and the voluble Anne had no charms for Effie. They all three got on best +apart. Geoffrey himself had also much to think about, and found little +satisfaction in the thinking. He threw his mind back over the events of the +past few weeks. He remembered how he had first seen Beatrice’s face +through the thick mist on the Red Rocks, and how her beauty had struck him as +no beauty ever had before. Then he thought of the adventure of their shipwreck, +and of the desperate courage with which she had saved his life, almost at the +cost of her own. He thought, too, of that scene when on the following day he +had entered the room where she was asleep, when the wandering ray of light had +wavered from her breast to his own, when that strange presentiment of the +ultimate intermingling of their lives had flashed upon him, and when she had +awakened with an unearthly greeting on her lips. While Effie slowly sobbed +herself to silence in the corner opposite to him, one by one, he recalled every +phase and scene of their ever-growing intimacy, till the review culminated in +his mysterious experience of the past night, and the memory of Beatrice’s +parting words. +</p> + +<p> +Of all men Geoffrey was among those least inclined to any sort of superstition; +from boyhood he had been noted for common sense, and a somewhat disbelieving +turn of mind. But he had intellect, and imagination which is simply intellect +etherealised. Without these, with his peculiar mental constitution, he would, +for instance, probably have been a religious sceptic; having them, he was +nothing of the sort. So in this matter of his experience of the previous night, +and generally of the strange and almost unnatural sympathy in which he found +himself with this lady, common sense and the results of his observation and +experience pointed to the whole thing being nonsense—the result of +“propinquity, Sir, propinquity,” and a pretty face—and +nothing more. +</p> + +<p> +But here his intellect and his imagination stepped in, telling him plainly that +it was not nonsense, that he had not merely made a donkey of himself over an +hysterical, or possibly a love-sick girl. They told him that because a thing is +a mystery it is not necessarily a folly, though mysteries are for the most part +dealt in by fools. They suggested that there may be many things and forces +above us and around us, invisible as an electric current, intangible as light, +yet existent and capable of manifestation under certain rare and favourable +conditions. +</p> + +<p> +And was it not possible that such conditions should unite in a woman like +Beatrice, who combined in herself a beauty of body which was only outpassed by +the beauty of her mind? It was no answer to say that most women could never +inspire the unearthly passion with which he had been shaken some ten hours +past, or that most men could never become aware of the inspiration. Has not +humanity powers and perceptions denied to the cattle of the fields, and may +there not be men and women as far removed from their fellows in this respect as +these are from the cattle? +</p> + +<p> +But the weak point of mysterious occurrences is that they lead nowhere, and do +not materially alter the facts of life. One cannot, for instance, plead a +mystery in a court of law; so, dropping the imaginative side of the question as +one beyond him, Geoffrey came to its practical aspect, only to find it equally +thorny. +</p> + +<p> +Odd as it may seem, Geoffrey did not to this moment know the exact position +which he occupied in the mind of Beatrice, or that she occupied in his. He was +not in love with her, at least not in a way in which he had ever experienced +the influence of that, on the whole, inconvenient and disagreeable passion. At +any rate he argued from the hypothesis that he was not in love with her. This +he refused to admit now in the light of day, though he had admitted it fully in +the watches of the night. It would not do to admit it. But he was forced to +acknowledge that she had crept into his life and possessed it so completely +that then and for months afterwards, except in deep sleep or in hours of severe +mental strain, not a single half hour would pass without bringing its thought +of Beatrice. Everything that was beautiful, or grand, or elevating, reminded +him of her—and what higher compliment could a mistress have? If he +listened to glorious music, the voice of Beatrice spoke to him through the +notes; if he watched the clouds rolling in heavy pomp across a broken sky he +thought of Beatrice; if some chance poem or novel moved him, why Beatrice was +in his mind to share the pleasure. All of which was very interesting, and in +some ways delightful, but under our current system not otherwise than +inconvenient to a married man. +</p> + +<p> +And now Beatrice was gone, and he must come back to his daily toil, sweetened +by Honoria’s bitter complaints of their poverty, and see her no more. The +thought made Geoffrey’s heart ache with a physical pain, but his reason +told him that it was best so. After all, there were no bones broken; there had +been no love scenes, no kiss, no words that cannot be recalled; whatever there +was lay beneath the surface, and while appearances were kept up all was well. +No doubt it was an hypocrisy, but then hypocrisy is one of the great pillars of +civilization, and how does it matter what the heart says while the lips are +silent? The Recording Angel can alone read hearts, and he must often find them +singularly contradictory and untrustworthy writings. +</p> + +<p> +Die of them, die of her dreams! No, Beatrice would not die of them, and +certainly he should not. Probably in the end she would marry that pious earthly +lump, Owen Davies. It was not pleasant to think of, it was even dreadful, but +really if she were to ask him his opinion, “as a friend,” he should +tell her it was the best thing that she could do. Of course it would be +hypocrisy again, the lips would give his heart the lie; but when the heart +rises in rebellion against the intelligence it must be suppressed. +Unfortunately, however, though a small member, it is very strong. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +They reached London at last, and as had been arranged, Anne, the French +<i>bonne</i>, met them at the station to take Effie home. Geoffrey noticed that +she looked smarter and less to his taste than ever. However, she embraced Effie +with an enthusiasm which the child scarcely responded to, and at the same time +carried on an ocular flirtation with a ticket collector. Although early in the +year for yellow fogs, London was plunged in a dense gloom. It had been misty +that morning at Bryngelly, and become more and more so as the day advanced; +but, though it was not yet four o’clock, London was dark as night. +Luckily, however, it is not far from Paddington to the flat near the Edgware +Road, where Geoffrey lived, so having personally instructed the cabman, he left +Anne to convoy Effie and the luggage, and went on to the Temple by Underground +Railway with an easy mind. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after Geoffrey reached his chambers in Pump Court the solicitor arrived +as had been arranged, not his uncle—who was, he learned, very +unwell—but a partner. To his delight he then found that Beatrice’s +ghost theory was perfectly accurate; the boy with the missing toe-joint had +been discovered who saw the whole horrible tragedy through a crack in the +blind; moreover the truth had been wrung from him and he would be produced at +the trial—indeed a proof of his evidence was already forthcoming. Also +some specimens of the ex-lawyer’s clerk’s handwriting had been +obtained, and were declared by two experts to be identical with the writing on +the will. One thing, however, disturbed him: neither the Attorney-General nor +Mr. Candleton was yet in town, so no conference was possible that evening. +However, both were expected that night—the Attorney-General from +Devonshire and Mr. Candleton from the Continent; so the case being first on the +list, it was arranged that the conference should take place at ten +o’clock on the following morning. +</p> + +<p> +On arriving home Geoffrey was informed that Lady Honoria was dressing, and had +left a message saying he must be quick and do likewise as a gentleman was +coming to dinner. Accordingly he went to his own room—which was at the +other end of the flat—and put on his dress clothes. Before going to the +dining-room, however, he said good-night to Effie—who was in bed, but not +asleep—and asked her what time she had reached home. +</p> + +<p> +“At twenty minutes past five, daddy,” Effie said promptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty minutes past five! Why, you don’t mean to say that you were +an hour coming that little way! Did you get blocked in the fog?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, daddy, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“But what, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anne did tell me not to say!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I tell you to say, dear—never mind Anne!” +</p> + +<p> +“Anne stopped and talked to the ticket-man for a long, long time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, did she?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment the parlourmaid came to say that Lady Honoria and the +“gentleman” were waiting for dinner. Geoffrey asked her casually +what time Miss Effie had reached home. +</p> + +<p> +“About half-past five, sir. Anne said the cab was blocked in the +fog.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Tell her ladyship that I shall be down in a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Daddy,” said the child, “I haven’t said my prayers. +Mother did not come, and Anne said it was all nonsense about prayers. Auntie +did always hear me my prayers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, and so will I. There, kneel upon my lap and say them.” +</p> + +<p> +In the middle of the prayers—which Effie did not remember as well as she +might have done—the parlourmaid arrived again. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, sir, her ladyship——” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell her ladyship I am coming, and that if she is in a hurry she can go +to dinner! Go on, love.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he kissed her and put her to bed again. +</p> + +<p> +“Daddy,” said Effie, as he was going, “shall I see auntie +Beatrice any more?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“And shall you see her any more? You want to see her, don’t you, +daddy? She did love you very much!” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey could bear it no longer. The truth is always sharper when it comes +from the mouth of babes and sucklings. With a hurried good-night he fled. +</p> + +<p> +In the little drawing-room he found Lady Honoria, very well dressed, and also +her friend, whose name was Mr. Dunstan. Geoffrey knew him at once for an +exceedingly wealthy man of small birth, and less breeding, but a burning and a +shining light in the Garsington set. Mr. Dunstan was anxious to raise himself +in society, and he thought that notwithstanding her poverty, Lady Honoria might +be useful to him in this respect. Hence his presence there to-night. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Geoffrey?” said his wife, advancing to greet him +with a kiss of peace. “You look very well. But what an immense time you +have been dressing. Poor Mr. Dunstan is starving. Let me see. You know Mr. +Dunstan, I think. Dinner, Mary.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey apologised for being late, and shook hands politely with Mr. +Dunstan—Saint Dunstan he was generally called on account of his rather +clerical appearance and in sarcastic allusion to his somewhat shady reputation. +Then they went in to dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry there is no lady for you, Geoffrey; but you must have had plenty +of ladies’ society lately. By the way, how is Miss—Miss Granger? +Would you believe it, Mr. Dunstan? that shocking husband of mine has been +passing the last month in the company of one of the loveliest girls I ever saw, +who knows Latin and law and everything else under the sun. She began by saving +his life, they were upset together out of a canoe, you know. Isn’t it +romantic?” +</p> + +<p> +Saint Dunstan made some appropriate—or, rather inappropriate—remark +to the effect that he hoped Mr. Bingham had made the most of such unrivalled +opportunities, adding, with a deep sigh, that no lovely young lady had ever +saved his life that he might live for her, &c., &c. +</p> + +<p> +Here Geoffrey broke in without much ceremony. To him it seemed a desecration to +listen while this person was making his feeble jokes about Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear,” he said, addressing his wife, “and what have +you been doing with yourself all this time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mourning for you, Geoffrey, and enjoying myself exceedingly in the +intervals. We have had a delightful time, have we not, Mr. Dunstan? Mr. Dunstan +has also been staying at the Hall, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“How could it be otherwise when you were there, Lady Honoria?” +answered the Saint in that strain of compliment affected by such men, and +which, to tell the truth, jarred on its object, who was after all a lady. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, Geoffrey,” she went on, “the Garsingtons have +re-furnished the large hall and their drawing-room. It cost eighteen hundred +pounds, but the result is lovely. The drawing-room is done in hand-painted +white satin, walls and all, and the hall in old oak.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” he answered, reflecting the while that Lord Garsington +might as well have paid some of his debts before he spent eighteen hundred +pounds on his drawing-room furniture. +</p> + +<p> +Then the Saint and Lady Honoria drifted into a long and animated conversation +about their fellow guests, which Geoffrey scarcely tried to follow. Indeed, the +dinner was a dull one for him, and he added little or nothing to the stock of +talk. +</p> + +<p> +When his wife left the room, however, he had to say something, so they spoke of +shooting. The Saint had a redeeming feature—he was somewhat of a +sportsman, though a poor one, and he described to Geoffrey a new pair of +hammerless guns, which he had bought for a trifling sum of a hundred and forty +guineas, recommending the pattern to his notice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Geoffrey, “I daresay that they are very nice; +but, you see, they are beyond me. A poor man cannot afford so much for a pair +of guns.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if that is all,” answered his guest, “I will sell you +these; they are a little long in the stock for me, and you can pay me when you +like. Or, hang it all, I have plenty of guns. I’ll be generous and give +them to you. If I cannot afford to be generous, I don’t know who +can!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you very much, Mr. Dunstan,” answered Geoffrey coldly, +“but I am not in the habit of accepting such presents from +my—acquaintances. Will you have a glass of sherry?—no. Then shall +we join Lady Honoria?” +</p> + +<p> +This speech quite crushed the vulgar but not ill-meaning Saint, and Geoffrey +was sorry for it a moment after he had made it. But he was weary and out of +temper. Why did his wife bring such people to the house? Very shortly +afterwards their guest took his leave, reflecting that Bingham was a conceited +ass, and altogether too much for him. “And I don’t believe that he +has got a thousand a year,” he reflected to himself, “and the title +is his wife’s. I suppose that is what he married her for. She’s a +much better sort than he is, any way, though I don’t quite make her out +either—one can’t go very far with her. But she is the daughter of a +peer and worth cultivating, but not when Bingham is at home—not if I know +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you said to Mr. Dunstan to make him go away so soon, +Geoffrey?” asked his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Said to him? oh, I don’t know. He offered to give me a pair of +guns, and I told him that I did not accept presents from my acquaintances. +Really, Honoria, I don’t want to interfere with your way of life, but I +do not understand how you can associate with such people as this Mr. +Dunstan.” +</p> + +<p> +“Associate with him!” answered Lady Honoria. “Do you suppose +I want to associate with him? Do you suppose that I don’t know what the +man is? But beggars cannot be choosers; he may be a cad, but he has thirty +thousand a year, and we simply cannot afford to throw away an acquaintance with +thirty thousand a year. It is too bad of you, Geoffrey,” she went on with +rising temper, “when you know all that I must put up with in our +miserable poverty-stricken life, to take every opportunity of making yourself +disagreeable to the people I think it wise to ask to come and see us. Here I +return from comfort to this wretched place, and the first thing that you do is +make a fuss. Mr. Dunstan has got boxes at several of the best theaters, and he +offered to let me have one whenever I liked—and now of course there is an +end of it. It is too bad, I say!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is really curious, Honoria,” said her husband, “to see +what obligations you are ready to put yourself under in search of pleasure. It +is not dignified of you to accept boxes at theatres from this gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense. There is no obligation about it. If he gave us a box, of +course he would make a point of looking in during the evening, and then telling +his friends that it was Lady Honoria Bingham he was speaking to—that is +the exchange. I want to go to the theatre; he wants to get into good +society—there you have the thing in a nutshell. It is done every day. The +fact of the matter is, Geoffrey,” she went on, looking very much as +though she were about to burst into a flood of angry tears, “as I said +just now, beggars cannot be choosers—I cannot live like the wife of a +banker’s clerk. I must have <i>some</i> amusement, and <i>some</i> +comfort, before I become an old woman. If you don’t like it, why did you +entrap me into this wretched marriage, before I was old enough to know better, +or why do you not make enough money to keep me in a way suitable to my +position?” +</p> + +<p> +“We have argued that question before, Honoria,” said Geoffrey, +keeping his temper with difficulty, “and now there is another thing I +wish to say to you. Do you know that detestable woman Anne stopped for more +than half an hour at Paddington Station this evening, flirting with a ticket +collector, instead of bringing Effie home at once, as I told her to do. I am +very angry about it. She is not to be relied on; we shall have some accident +with the child before we have done. Cannot you discharge her and get another +nurse?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I cannot. She is the one comfort I have. Where am I going to find +another woman who can make dresses like Anne—she saves me a hundred a +year—I don’t care if she flirted with fifty ticket collectors. I +suppose you got this story from Effie; the child ought to be whipped for +tale-bearing, and I daresay that it is not true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Effie will certainly not be whipped,” answered Geoffrey sternly. +“I warn you that it will go very badly with anybody who lays a finger on +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well, ruin the child. Go your own way, Geoffrey! At any rate I +am not going to stop here to listen to any more abuse. Good-night,” and +she went. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey sat down, and lit a cigarette. “A pleasant home-coming,” +he thought to himself. “Honoria shall have money as much as she can +spend—if I kill myself to get it, she shall have it. What a life, what a +life! I wonder if Beatrice would treat her husband like this—if she had +one.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed aloud at the absurdity of the idea, and then with a gesture of +impatience threw his cigarette into the fire and went to his room to try and +get some sleep, for he was thoroughly wearied. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br/> +GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE</h2> + +<p> +Before ten o’clock on the following morning, having already spent two +hours over his brief, that he had now thoroughly mastered, Geoffrey was at his +chambers, which he had some difficulty in reaching owing to the thick fog that +still hung over London, and indeed all England. +</p> + +<p> +To his surprise nothing had been heard either of the Attorney-General or of Mr. +Candleton. The solicitors were in despair; but he consoled them by saying that +one or the other was sure to turn up in time, and that a few words would +suffice to explain the additional light which had been thrown on the case. He +occupied his half hour, however, in making a few rough notes to guide him in +the altogether improbable event of his being called on to open, and then went +into court. The case was first on the list, and there were a good many counsel +engaged on the other side. Just as the judge took his seat, the solicitor, with +an expression of dismay, handed Geoffrey a telegram which had that moment +arrived from Mr. Candleton. It was dated from Calais on the previous night, and +ran, “Am unable to cross on account of thick fog. You had better get +somebody else in Parsons and Douse.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we haven’t got another brief prepared,” said the +agonised solicitor. “What is more, I can hear nothing of the +Attorney-General, and his clerk does not seem to know where he is. You must ask +for an adjournment, Mr. Bingham; you can’t manage the case alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Geoffrey, and on the case being called he rose +and stated the circumstances to the court. But the Court was crusty. It had got +the fog down its throat, and altogether It didn’t seem to see it. +Moreover the other side, marking its advantage, objected strongly. The +witnesses, brought at great expense, were there; his Lordship was there, the +jury was there; if this case was not taken there was no other with which they +could go on, &c., &c. +</p> + +<p> +The court took the same view, and lectured Geoffrey severely. Every counsel in +a case, the Court remembered, when It was at the Bar, used to be able to open +that case at a moment’s notice, and though things had, It implied, no +doubt deteriorated to a considerable extent since those palmy days, every +counsel ought still to be prepared to do so on emergency. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, however, if he, Geoffrey, told the court that he was absolutely +unprepared to go on with the case, It would have no option but to grant an +adjournment. +</p> + +<p> +“I am perfectly prepared to go on with it, my lord,” Geoffrey +interposed calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said the Court in a mollified tone, “then go on! +I have no doubt that the learned Attorney-General will arrive presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as is not unusual in a probate suit, followed an argument as to who +should open it, the plaintiff or the defendant. Geoffrey claimed that this +right clearly lay with him, and the opposing counsel raised no great objection, +thinking that they would do well to leave the opening in the hands of a rather +inexperienced man, who would very likely work his side more harm than good. So, +somewhat to the horror of the solicitors, who thought with longing of the +eloquence of the Attorney-General, and the unrivalled experience and finesse of +Mr. Candleton, Geoffrey was called upon to open the case for the defendants, +propounding the first will. +</p> + +<p> +He rose without fear or hesitation, and with but one prayer in his heart, that +no untimely Attorney-General would put in an appearance. He had got his chance, +the chance for which many able men have to wait long years, and he knew it, and +meant to make the most of it. Naturally a brilliant speaker, Geoffrey was not, +as so many good speakers are, subject to fits of nervousness, and he was, +moreover, thoroughly master of his case. In five minutes judge, jury and +counsel were all listening to him with attention; in ten they were absorbed in +the lucid and succinct statement of the facts which he was unfolding to them. +His ghost theory was at first received with a smile, but presently counsel on +the other side ceased to smile, and began to look uneasy. If he could prove +what he said, there was an end of their case. When he had been speaking for +about forty minutes one of the opposing counsel interrupted him with some +remark, and at that moment he noticed that the Attorney-General’s clerk +was talking to the solicitor beneath him. +</p> + +<p> +“Bother it, he is coming,” thought Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +But no, the solicitor bending forward informed him that the Attorney-General +had been unavoidably detained by some important Government matter, and had +returned his brief. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we must get on as we can,” Geoffrey said. +</p> + +<p> +“If you continue like that we shall get on very well,” whispered +the solicitors, and then Geoffrey knew that he was doing well. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Bingham!” said his Lordship. +</p> + +<p> +Then Geoffrey went on with his statement. +</p> + +<p> +At lunch time it was a question whether another leader should be briefed. +Geoffrey said that so far as he was concerned he could get on alone. He knew +every point of the case, and he had got a friend to “take a note” +for him while he was speaking. +</p> + +<p> +After some hesitation the solicitors decided not to brief fresh counsel at this +stage of the case, but to leave it entirely in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +It would be useless to follow the details of this remarkable will suit, which +lasted two days, and attracted much attention. Geoffrey won it and won it +triumphantly. His address to the jury on the whole case was long remembered in +the courts, rising as it did to a very high level of forensic eloquence. Few +who saw it ever forgot the sight of his handsome face and commanding presence +as he crushed the case of his opponents like an eggshell, and then with calm +and overwhelming force denounced the woman who with her lover had concocted the +cruel plot that robbed her uncle of life and her cousins of their property, +till at the last, pointing towards her with outstretched hand, he branded her +to the jury as a murderess. +</p> + +<p> +Few in that crowded court have forgotten the tragic scene that followed, when +the trembling woman, worn out by the long anxiety of the trial, and utterly +unnerved by her accuser’s brilliant invective, rose from her seat and +cried: +</p> + +<p> +“We did it—it is true that we did it to get the money, but we did +not mean to frighten him to death,” and then fell fainting to the +ground—or Geoffrey Bingham’s quiet words as he sat down: +</p> + +<p> +“My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I do not think it necessary to carry +my case any further.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no applause, the occasion was too dramatically solemn, but the +impression made both upon the court and the outside public, to whom such a +scene is peculiarly fitted to appeal, was deep and lasting. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey himself was under little delusion about the matter. He had no conceit +in his composition, but neither had he any false modesty. He merely accepted +the situation as really powerful men do accept such events—with +thankfulness, but without surprise. He had got his chance at last, and like any +other able man, whatever his walk of life, he had risen to it. That was all. +Most men get such chances in some shape or form, and are unable to avail +themselves of them. Geoffrey was one of the exceptions; as Beatrice had said, +he was born to succeed. As he sat down, he knew that he was a made man. +</p> + +<p> +And yet while he walked home that night, his ears still full of the +congratulations which had rained in on him from every quarter, he was conscious +of a certain pride. He will have felt as Geoffrey felt that night, whose lot it +has been to fight long and strenuously against circumstances so adverse as to +be almost overwhelming, knowing in his heart that he was born to lead and not +to follow; and who at last, by one mental effort, with no friendly hand to +help, and no friendly voice to guide, has succeeded in bursting a road through +the difficulties which hemmed him in, and has suddenly found himself, not above +competition indeed, but still able to meet it. He will not have been too proud +of that endeavour; it will have seemed but a little thing to him—a thing +full of faults and imperfections, and falling far short of his ideal. He will +not even have attached a great importance to his success, because, if he is a +person of this calibre, he must remember how small it is, when all is said and +done; that even in his day there are those who can beat him on his own ground; +and also that all worldly success, like the most perfect flower, yet bears in +it the elements of decay. But he will have reflected with humble satisfaction +on those long years of patient striving which have at length lifted him to an +eminence whence he can climb on and on, scarcely encumbered by the jostling +crowd; till at length, worn out, the time comes for him to fall. +</p> + +<p> +So Geoffrey thought and felt. The thing was to be done, and he had done it. +Honoria should have money now; she should no longer be able to twit him with +their poverty. Yes, and a better thought still, Beatrice would be glad to hear +of his little triumph. +</p> + +<p> +He reached home rather late. Honoria was going out to dinner with a +distinguished cousin, and was already dressing. Geoffrey had declined the +invitation, which was a short one, because he had not expected to be back from +chambers. In his enthusiasm, however, he went to his wife’s room to tell +her of the event. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, “what have you been doing? I think that you +might have arranged to come out with me. My going out so much by myself does +not look well. Oh, I forgot; of course you are in that case.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—that is, I was. I have won the case. Here is a very fair +report of it in the <i>St. James’s Gazette</i> if you care to read +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, Geoffrey! How can you expect me to read all that stuff +when I am dressing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t expect you to, Honoria; only, as I say, I have won the +case, and I shall get plenty of work now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you? I am glad to hear it; perhaps we shall be able to escape from +this horrid flat if you do. There, Anne! Je vous l’ai toujours dit, cette +robe ne me va pas bien.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mais, milady, la robe va parfaitement——” +</p> + +<p> +“That is your opinion,” grumbled Lady Honoria. “Well, it +isn’t mine. But it will have to do. Good-night, Geoffrey; I daresay that +you will have gone to bed when I get back,” and she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey picked up his <i>St. James’s Gazette</i> with a sigh. He felt +hurt, and knew that he was a fool for his pains. Lady Honoria was not a +sympathetic person; it was not fair to expect it from her. Still he felt hurt. +He went upstairs and heard Effie her prayers. +</p> + +<p> +“Where has you beed, daddy?—to the Smoky Town?” The Temple +was euphemistically known to Effie as the Smoky Town. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“You go to the Smoky Town to make bread and butter, don’t you, +daddy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, to make bread and butter.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did you make any, daddy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Effie, a good deal to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then where is it? In your pocket?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, love, not exactly. I won a big lawsuit to-day, and I shall get a +great many pennies for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” answered Effie meditatively, “I am glad that you did +win. You do like to win, doesn’t you, daddy, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will give you a kiss, daddy, because you did win,” and she +suited the action to the word. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey went from the little room with a softened heart. He dressed and ate +some dinner. +</p> + +<p> +Then he sat down and wrote a long letter to Beatrice, telling her all about the +trial, and not sparing her his reasons for adopting each particular tactic and +line of argument which conduced to the great result. +</p> + +<p> +And though his letter was four sheets in length, he knew that Beatrice would +not be bored at having to read it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br/> +THE RISING STAR</h2> + +<p> +As might be expected, the memorable case of Parsons and Douse proved to be the +turning point in Geoffrey’s career, which was thenceforward one of +brilliant and startling success. On the very next morning when he reached his +chambers it was to find three heavy briefs awaiting him, and they proved to be +but the heralds of an uninterrupted flow of lucrative business. Of course, he +was not a Queen’s Counsel, but now that his great natural powers of +advocacy had become generally known, solicitors frequently employed him alone, +or gave him another junior, so that he might bring those powers to bear upon +juries. Now it was, too, that Geoffrey reaped the fruits of the arduous legal +studies which he had followed without cessation from the time when he found +himself thrown upon his own resources, and which had made a sound lawyer of him +as well as a brilliant and effective advocate. Soon, even with his great +capacity for work, he had as much business as he could attend to. When fortune +gives good gifts, she generally does so with a lavish hand. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it came to pass that, about three weeks after the trial of Parsons and +Douse, Geoffrey’s uncle the solicitor died, and to his surprise left him +twenty thousand pounds, “believing,” he said in his will, which was +dated three days before the testator’s death, “that this sum will +assist him to rise to the head of his profession.” +</p> + +<p> +Now that it had dawned upon her that her husband really was a success, +Honoria’s manner towards him modified very considerably. She even became +amiable, and once or twice almost affectionate. When Geoffrey told her of the +twenty thousand pounds she was radiant. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, we shall be able to go back to Bolton Street now,” she said, +“and as luck will have it, our old house is to let. I saw a bill in the +window yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “you can go back as soon as you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“And can we keep a carriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not yet; I am doing well, but not well enough for that. Next year, +if I live, you will be able to have a carriage. Don’t begin to grumble, +Honoria. I have got £150 to spare, and if you care to come round to a +jeweller’s you can spend it on what you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you delightful person!” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +So they went to the jeweller’s, and Lady Honoria bought ornaments to the +value of £150, and carried them home and hung over them, as another class of +woman might hang over her first-born child, admiring them with a tender +ecstasy. Whenever he had a sum of money that he could afford to part with, +Geoffrey would take her thus to a jeweller’s or a dressmaker’s, and +stand by coldly while she bought things to its value. Lady Honoria was +delighted. It never entered into her mind that in a sense he was taking a +revenge upon her, and that every fresh exhibition of her rejoicings over the +good things thus provided added to his contempt for her. +</p> + +<p> +Those were happy days for Lady Honoria! She rejoiced in this return of wealth +like a school-boy at the coming of the holidays, or a half-frozen wanderer at +the rising of the sun. She had been miserable during all this night of poverty, +as miserable as her nature admitted of, now she was happy again, as she +understood happiness. For bred, educated, civilized—what you +will—out of the more human passions, Lady Honoria had replaced them by +this idol-worship of wealth, or rather of what wealth brings. It gave her a +positive physical satisfaction; her beauty, which had begun to fade, came back +to her; she looked five years younger. And all the while Geoffrey watched her +with an ever-growing scorn. +</p> + +<p> +Once it broke out. The Bolton Street house had been furnished; he gave her +fifteen hundred pounds to do it, and with what things they owned she managed +very well on that. They moved into it, and Honoria had set herself up with a +sufficient supply of grand dresses and jewellery, suitable to her recovered +position. One day however, it occurred to her that Effie was a child of +remarkable beauty, who, if properly dressed, would look very nice in the +drawing-room at tea-time. So she ordered a lovely costume for her—this +deponent is not able to describe it, but it consisted largely of velvet and +lace. Geoffrey heard nothing of this dress, but coming home rather early one +afternoon—it was on a Saturday, he found the child being shown off to a +room full of visitors, and dressed in a strange and wonderful attire with +which, not unnaturally, she was vastly pleased. He said nothing at the time, +but when at length the dropping fire of callers had ceased, he asked who put +Effie into that dress. +</p> + +<p> +“I did,” said Lady Honoria, “and a pretty penny it has cost, +I can tell you. But I can’t have the child come down so poorly clothed, +it does not look well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then she can stay upstairs,” said Geoffrey frowning. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” asked his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that I will not have her decked out in those fine clothes. They +are quite unsuitable to her age. There is plenty of time for her to take to +vanity.” +</p> + +<p> +“I really don’t understand you, Geoffrey. Why should not the child +be handsomely dressed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not! Great heaven, Honoria, do you suppose that I want to see Effie +grow up like you, to lead a life of empty pleasure-seeking idleness, and make a +god of luxury. I had rather see her”—he was going to add, +“dead first,” but checked himself and said—“have to +work for her living. Dress yourself up as much as you like, but leave the child +alone.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria was furious, but she was also a little frightened. She had never +heard her husband speak quite like this before, and there was something +underneath his words that she did not quite understand. Still less did she +understand when on the Monday Geoffrey suddenly told her that he had fifty +pounds for her to spend as she liked; then accompanied her to a mantle shop, +and stood patiently by, smiling coldly while she invested it in lace and +embroideries. Honoria thought that he was making reparation for his sharp +words, and so he was, but to himself, and in another sense. Every time he gave +her money in this fashion, Geoffrey felt like a man who has paid off a debt of +honour. She had taunted him again and again with her poverty—the poverty +she said that he had brought her; for every taunt he would heap upon her all +those things in which her soul delighted. He would glut her with wealth as, in +her hour of victory, Queen Tomyris glutted dead Cyrus with the blood of men. +</p> + +<p> +It was an odd way of taking a revenge, and one that suited Lady Honoria +admirably; but though its victim felt no sting, it gave Geoffrey much secret +relief. Also he was curious; he wished to see if there was any bottom to such a +woman’s desire for luxury, if it would not bring satiety with it. But +Lady Honoria was a very bad subject for such an experiment. She never showed +the least sign of being satiated, either with fine things, with pleasures, or +with social delights. They were her natural element, and he might as soon have +expected a fish to weary of the water, or an eagle of the rushing air. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The winter wore away and the spring came. One day, it was in April, Geoffrey, +who was a moderate Liberal by persuasion, casually announced at dinner that he +was going to stand for Parliament in the Unionist interest. The representation +of one of the few Metropolitan divisions which had then returned a Home Ruler +had fallen vacant. As it chanced he knew the head Unionist whip very well. They +had been friends since they were lads at school together, and this gentleman, +having heard Geoffrey make a brilliant speech in court, was suddenly struck +with the idea that he was the very man to lead a forlorn hope. +</p> + +<p> +The upshot of it was that Geoffrey was asked if he would stand, and replied +that he must have two days to think it over. What he really wanted the two days +for was to enable him to write to Beatrice and receive an answer from her. He +had an almost superstitious faith in her judgment, and did not like to act +without it. After carefully weighing the pros and cons, his own view was that +he should do well to stand. Probably he would be defeated, and it might cost +him five hundred pounds. On the other hand it would certainly make his name +known as a politician, and he was now in a fair way to earn so large an income +that he could well afford to risk the money. The only great objection which he +saw, was that if he happened to get in, it must mean that he would have to work +all day and all night too. Well, he was strong and the more work he did the +better—it kept him from thinking. +</p> + +<p> +In due course Beatrice’s answer came. Her view coincided with his own; +she recommended him to take the opportunity, and pointed out that with his +growing legal reputation there was no office in the State to which he might not +aspire, when he had once proved himself a capable member of Parliament. +Geoffrey read the letter through; then immediately sat down and wrote to his +friend the whip, accepting the suggestion of the Government. +</p> + +<p> +The next fortnight was a hard one for him, but Geoffrey was as good a man on +the platform as in court, and he had, moreover, the very valuable knack of +suiting himself to his audience. As his canvass went on it was generally +recognised that the seat which had been considered hopeless was now doubtful. A +great amount of public interest was concentrated on the election, both upon the +Unionist and the Separatist side, each claiming that the result of the poll +would show to their advantage. The Home Rule party strained every nerve against +him, being most anxious to show that the free and independent electors of this +single division, and therefore of the country at large, held the Government +policy in particular horror. Letters were obtained from great authorities and +freely printed. Irish members, fresh from gaol, were brought down to detail +their grievances. It was even suggested that one of them should appear on the +platform in prison garb—in short, every electioneering engine known to +political science was brought to bear to forward the fortunes of either side. +</p> + +<p> +As time went on Lady Honoria, who had been somewhat indifferent at first, grew +quite excited about the result. For one thing she found that the contest +attached an importance to herself in the eyes of the truly great, which was not +without its charm. On the day of the poll she drove about all day in an open +carriage under a bright blue parasol, having Effie (who had become very bored) +by her side, and two noble lords on the front seat. As a consequence the result +was universally declared by a certain section of the press to be entirely due +to the efforts of an unprincipled but titled and lovely woman. It was even said +that, like another lady of rank in a past generation, she kissed a butcher in +order to win his vote. But those who made the remark did not know Lady Honoria; +she was incapable of kissing a butcher, or indeed anybody else. Her +inclinations did not lie in that direction. +</p> + +<p> +In the end Geoffrey was returned by a magnificent majority of ten votes, +reduced on a scrutiny to seven. He took his seat in the House on the following +night amidst loud Unionist cheering. In the course of the evening’s +debate a prominent member of the Government made allusion to his return as a +proof of the triumph of Unionist principles. Thereon a very leading member of +the Separatist opposition retorted that it was nothing of the sort, “that +it was a matter of common notoriety that the honourable member’s return +was owing to the unusual and most uncommon ability displayed by him in the +course of his canvass, aided as it was, by artfully applied and aristocratic +feminine influence.” This was a delicate allusion to Honoria and her blue +parasol. +</p> + +<p> +As Geoffrey and his wife were driving back to Bolton Street, after the +declaration of the poll, a little incident occurred. Geoffrey told the coachman +to stop at the first telegraph office and, getting out of the carriage, wired +to Beatrice, “In by ten votes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who have you been telegraphing to, Geoffrey?” asked Lady Honoria. +</p> + +<p> +“I telegraphed to Miss Granger,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! So you still keep up a correspondence with that pupil teacher +girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do. I wish that I had a few more such correspondents.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed. You are easy to please. I thought her one of the most +disagreeable young women whom I ever met.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it does not say much for your taste, Honoria.” +</p> + +<p> +His wife made no further remark, but she had her thoughts. Honoria possessed +good points: among others she was not a jealous person; she was too cold and +too indifferent to be jealous. But she did not like the idea of another woman +obtaining an influence over her husband, who, as she now began to recognise, +was one of the most brilliant men of his day, and who might well become one of +the most wealthy and powerful. Clearly he existed for <i>her</i> benefit, not +for that of any other woman. She was no fool, and she saw that a considerable +intimacy must exist between the two. Otherwise Geoffrey would not have thought +of telegraphing to Beatrice at such a moment. +</p> + +<p> +Within a week of his election Geoffrey made a speech. It was not a long speech, +nor was it upon any very important issue; but it was exceedingly good of its +kind, good enough to be reported verbatim indeed, and those listening to it +recognised that they had to deal with a new man who would one day be a very big +man. There is no place where an able person finds his level quicker than in the +House of Commons, composed as it is for the most part, of more or less wealthy +or frantic mediocrities. But Geoffrey was not a mediocrity, he was an +exceedingly able and powerful man, and this fact the House quickly recognised. +</p> + +<p> +For the next few months Geoffrey worked as men rarely work. All day he was at +his chambers or in court, and at night he sat in the House, getting up his +briefs when he could. But he always did get them up; no solicitors had to +complain that the interests of their client were neglected by him; also he +still found time to write to Beatrice. For the rest he went out but little, and +except in the way of business associated with very few. Indeed he grew more and +more silent and reserved, till at last he won the reputation of being cold and +hard. Not that he was really so. He threw himself head and soul into his work +with a fixed determination to reach the top of the tree. He knew that he should +not care very much about it when he got there, but he enjoyed the struggle. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey was not a truly ambitious man; he was no mere self-seeker. He knew the +folly of ambition too well, and its end was always clearly before his eyes. He +often thought to himself that if he could have chosen his lot, he would have +asked for a cottage with a good garden, five hundred a year, and somebody to +care for. But perhaps he would soon have wearied of his cottage. He worked to +stifle thought, and to some extent he succeeded. But he was at bottom an +affectionate-natured man, and he could not stifle the longing for sympathy +which was his secret weakness, though his pride would never allow him to show +it. What did he care for his triumphs when he had nobody with whom to share +them? All he could share were their fruits, and these he gave away freely +enough. It was but little that Geoffrey spent upon his own gratification. A +certain share of his gains he put by, the rest went in expenses. The house in +Bolton Street was a very gay place in those days, but its master took but +little part in its gaieties. +</p> + +<p> +And what was the fact? The longer he remained separated from Beatrice the more +intensely did he long for her society. It was of no use; try as he would, he +could not put that sweet face from his mind; it drew him as a magnet draws a +needle. Success did not bring him happiness, except in the sense that it +relieved him from money cares. +</p> + +<p> +People of coarse temperament only can find real satisfaction in worldly +triumphs, and eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow they die! Men like +Geoffrey soon learn that this also is vanity. On the contrary, as his mind grew +more and more wearied with the strain of work, melancholy took an ever stronger +hold of it. Had he gone to a doctor, he might have been told that his liver was +out of order, which was very likely true. But this would not mend matters. +“What a world,” he might have cried, “what a world to live in +when all the man’s happiness depends upon his liver!” He contracted +an accursed habit of looking on the black side of things; trouble always caught +his eye. +</p> + +<p> +It was no wonderful case. Men of large mind are very rarely happy men. It is +your little animal-minded individual who can be happy. Thus women, who reflect +less, are as a class much happier and more contented than men. But the +large-minded man sees too far, and guesses too much of what he cannot see. He +looks forward, and notes the dusty end of his laborious days; he looks around +and shudders at the unceasing misery of a coarse struggling world; the sight of +the pitiful beggar babe craving bread on tottering feet, pierces his heart. He +cannot console himself with a reflection that the child had no business to be +born, or that if he denuded himself of his last pound he would not materially +help the class which bred it. +</p> + +<p> +And above the garish lights of earthly joys and the dim reek of earthly +wretchedness, he sees the solemn firmament that veils his race’s destiny. +For such a man, in such a mood, even religion has terrors as well as hopes, and +while the gloom gathers about his mind these are with him more and more. What +lies beyond that arching mystery to whose horizon he daily draws more +close—whose doors may even now be opening for him? A hundred hands point +out a hundred roads to knowledge—they are lost half way. Only the cold +spiritual firmament, unlit by any guiding stars, unbrightened by the flood of +human day, and unshadowed by the veils of human night, still bends above his +head in awful changelessness, and still his weary feet draw closer to the +portals of the West. +</p> + +<p> +It is very sad and wrong, but it is not altogether his fault; it is rather a +fault of the age, of over-education, of over-striving to be wise. Cultivate the +searching spirit and it will grow and rend you. The spirit would soar, it would +see, but the flesh weighs it down, and in all flesh there is little light. Yet, +at times, brooding on some unnatural height of Thought, its eyes seem to be +opened, and it catches gleams of terrifying days to come, or perchance, +discerns the hopeless gates of an immeasurable night. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, for that simpler faith which ever recedes farther from the ken of the +cultivated, questioning mind! There alone can peace be found, and for the +foolish who discard it, setting up man’s wisdom as a sign, soon the human +lot will be one long fear. Grown scientific and weary with the weight of +knowledge, they will reject their ancient Gods, and no smug-faced Positivism +will bring them consolation. Science, here and there illumining the gloom of +destiny with its poor electric lights, cries out that they are guiding stars. +But they are no stars, and they will flare away. Let us pray for darkness, more +darkness, lest, to our bewildered sight, they do but serve to show that which +shall murder Hope. +</p> + +<p> +So think Geoffrey and his kin, and in their unexpressed dismay, turn, seeking +refuge from their physical and spiritual loneliness, but for the most part +finding none. Nature, still strong in them, points to the dear fellowship of +woman, and they make the venture to find a mate, not a companion. But as it +chanced in Geoffrey’s case he did find such a companion in Beatrice, +after he had, by marriage, built up an impassable wall between them. +</p> + +<p> +And yet he longed for her society with an intensity that alarmed him. He had +her letters indeed, but what are letters! One touch of a beloved hand is worth +a thousand letters. In the midst of his great success Geoffrey was wretched at +heart, yet it seemed to him that if he once more could have Beatrice at his +side, though only as a friend, he would find rest and happiness. +</p> + +<p> +When a man’s heart is thus set upon an object, his reason is soon +convinced of its innocence, even of its desirability, and a kindly fate will +generally contrive to give him the opportunity of ruin which he so ardently +desires. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br/> +GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR</h2> + +<p> +And Beatrice—had she fared better during these long months? Alas, not at +all. She had gone away from the Bryngelly Station on that autumn morning of +farewell sick at heart, and sick at heart she had remained. Through all the +long winter months sorrow and bitterness had been her portion, and now in the +happiness of spring, sorrow and bitterness were with her still. She loved him, +she longed for his presence, and it was denied to her. She could not console +herself as can some women, nor did her deep passion wear away; on the contrary, +it seemed to grow and gather with every passing week. Neither did she wish to +lose it, she loved too well for that. It was better to be thus tormented by +conscience and by hopelessness than to lose her cause of pain. +</p> + +<p> +One consolation Beatrice had and one only: she knew that Geoffrey did not +forget her. His letters told her this. These letters indeed were everything to +her—a woman can get so much more comfort out of a letter than a man. Next +to receiving them she loved to answer them. She was a good and even a brilliant +letter writer, but often and often she would tear up what she had written and +begin again. There was not much news in Bryngelly; it was difficult to make her +letters amusing. Also the farcical nature of the whole proceeding seemed to +paralyse her. It was ridiculous, having so much to say, to be able to say +nothing. Not that Beatrice wished to indite love-letters—such an idea had +never crossed her mind, but rather to write as they had talked. Yet when she +tried to do so the results were not satisfactory to her, the words looked +strange on paper—she could not send them. +</p> + +<p> +In Geoffrey’s meteor-like advance to fame and fortune she took the +keenest joy and interest, far more than he did indeed. Though, like that of +most other intelligent creatures, her soul turned with loathing from the dreary +fustian of politics, she would religiously search the parliamentary column from +beginning to end on the chance of finding his name or the notice of a speech by +him. The law reports also furnished her with a happy hunting-ground in which +she often found her game. +</p> + +<p> +But they were miserable months. To rise in the morning, to go through the round +of daily duty—thinking of Geoffrey; to come home wearied, and finally to +seek refuge in sleep and dreams of him—this was the sum of them. Then +there were other troubles. To begin with, things had gone from bad to worse at +the Vicarage. The tithes scarcely came in at all, and every day their poverty +pinched them closer. Had it not been for Beatrice’s salary it was +difficult to see how the family could have continued to exist. She gave it +almost all to her father now, only keeping back a very small sum for her +necessary clothing and such sundries as stamps and writing paper. Even then, +Elizabeth grumbled bitterly at her extravagance in continuing to buy a daily +paper, asking what business she had to spend sixpence a week on such a needless +luxury. But Beatrice would not make up her mind to dock the paper with its +occasional mention of Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +Again, Owen Davies was a perpetual anxiety to her. His infatuation for herself +was becoming notorious; everybody saw it except her father. Mr. Granger’s +mind was so occupied with questions connected with tithe that fortunately for +Beatrice little else could find an entry. Owen dogged her about; he would wait +whole hours outside the school or by the Vicarage gate merely to speak a few +words to her. Sometimes when at length she appeared he seemed to be struck +dumb, he could say nothing, but would gaze at her with his dull eyes in a +fashion that filled her with vague alarm. He never ventured to speak to her of +his love indeed, but he looked it, which was almost as bad. Another thing was +that he had grown jealous. The seed which Elizabeth had planted in his mind had +brought forth abundantly, though of course Beatrice did not know that this was +her sister’s doing. +</p> + +<p> +On the very morning that Geoffrey went away Mr. Davies had met her as she was +walking back from the station and asked her if Mr. Bingham had gone. When she +replied that this was so, she had distinctly heard him murmur, “Thank +God! thank God!” Subsequently she discovered also that he bribed the old +postman to keep count of the letters which she sent and received from Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +These things filled Beatrice with alarm, but there was worse behind. Mr. Davies +began to send her presents, first such things as prize pigeons and fowls, then +jewellery. The pigeons and fowls she could not well return without exciting +remark, but the jewellery she sent back by one of the school children. First +came a bracelet, then a locket with his photograph inside, and lastly, a case +that, when she opened it, which her curiosity led her to do, nearly blinded her +with light. It was a diamond necklace, and she had never seen such diamonds +before, but from their size and lustre she knew that each stone must be worth +hundreds of pounds. Beatrice put it in her pocket and carried it until she met +him, which she did in the course of that afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Davies,” she said before he could speak, and handing him the +package, “this has been sent to me by mistake. Will you kindly take it +back?” +</p> + +<p> +He took it, abashed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Davies,” she went on, looking him full in the eyes, “I +hope that there will be no more such mistakes. Please understand that I cannot +accept presents from you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If Mr. Bingham had sent it, you would have accepted it,” he +muttered sulkily. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice turned and flashed such a look on him that he fell back and left her. +But it was true, and she knew that it was true. If Geoffrey had given her a +sixpence with a hole in it, she would have valued it more than all the diamonds +on earth. Oh! what a position was hers. And it was wrong, too. She had no right +to love the husband of another woman. But right or wrong the fact remained: she +did love him. +</p> + +<p> +And the worst of it was that, as she well knew, sooner or later all this about +Mr. Davies must come to the ears of her father, and then what would happen? One +thing was certain. In his present poverty-stricken condition he would move +heaven and earth to bring about her marriage to this rich man. Her father never +had been very scrupulous where money was concerned, and the pinch of want was +not likely to make him more so. +</p> + +<p> +Nor, we may be sure, did all this escape the jealous eye of Elizabeth. Things +looked black for her, but she did not intend to throw up the cards on that +account. Only it was time to lead trumps. In other words, Beatrice must be +fatally compromised in the eyes of Owen Davies, if by any means this could be +brought about. So far things had gone well for her schemes. Beatrice and +Geoffrey loved each other, of that Elizabeth was certain. But the existence of +this secret, underhand affection would avail her naught unless it could be +ripened into acts. Everybody is free to indulge in secret predilections, but if +once they are given way to, if once a woman’s character is compromised, +then the world avails itself of its opportunities and destroys her. What man, +thought Elizabeth, would marry a compromised woman? If Beatrice could be +compromised, Owen Davies would not take her to wife—therefore this must +be brought about. +</p> + +<p> +It sounds wicked and unnatural. “Impossible that sister should so treat +sister,” the reader of this history may say, thinking of her own, and of +her affectionate and respectable surroundings. But it is not impossible. If +you, who doubt, will study the law reports, and no worse occupation can be +wished to you, you will find that such things are possible. Human nature can +rise to strange heights, and it can also fall to depths beyond your fathoming. +Because a thing is without parallel in your own small experience it in no way +follows that it cannot be. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth was a very remorseless person; she was more—she was a woman +actuated by passion and by greed: the two strongest motives known to the human +heart. But with her recklessness she united a considerable degree of +intelligence, or rather of intellect. Had she been a savage she might have +removed her sister from her path by a more expeditious way; being what she was, +she merely strove to effect the same end by a method not punishable by law, in +short, by murdering her reputation. Would she be responsible if her sister went +wrong, and was thus utterly discredited in the eyes of this man who wished to +marry her, and whom Elizabeth wished to marry? Of course not; that was +Beatrice’s affair. But she could give her every chance of falling into +temptation, and this it was her fixed design to do. +</p> + +<p> +Circumstances soon gave her an opportunity. The need of money became very +pressing at the Vicarage. They had literally no longer the wherewithal to live. +The tithe payers absolutely refused to fulfil their obligations. As it +happened, Jones, the man who had murdered the auctioneer, was never brought to +trial. He died shortly after his arrest in a fit of <i>delirium tremens</i> and +nervous prostration brought on by the sudden cessation of a supply of +stimulants, and an example was lost, that, had he been duly hanged, might have +been made of the results of defying the law. Mr. Granger was now too poor to +institute any further proceedings, which, in the state of public feeling in +Wales, might or might not succeed; he could only submit, and submission meant +beggary. Indeed he was already a beggar. In this state of affairs he took +counsel with Elizabeth, pointing out that they must either get money or starve. +Now the only possible way to get money was by borrowing it, and Mr. +Granger’s suggestion was that he should apply to Owen Davies, who had +plenty. Indeed he would have done so long ago, but that the squire had the +reputation of being an exceedingly close-fisted man. +</p> + +<p> +But this proposition did not at all suit Elizabeth’s book. Her great +object had been to conceal Mr. Davies’s desires as regards Beatrice from +her father, and her daily dread was that he might become acquainted with them +from some outside source. She knew very well that if her father went up to the +Castle to borrow money it would be lent, or rather given, freely enough; but +she also knew that the lender would almost certainly take the opportunity, the +very favourable opportunity, to unfold his wishes as regards the +borrower’s daughter. The one thing would naturally lead to the +other—the promise of her father’s support of Owen’s suit +would be the consideration for the money received. How gladly that support +would be given was also obvious to her, and with her father pushing Beatrice on +the one side and Owen Davies pushing her on the other, how could Elizabeth be +sure that she would not yield? Beatrice would be the very person to be carried +away by an idea of duty. Their father would tell her that he had got the money +on this undertaking, and it was quite possible that her pride might bring her +to fulfil a bond thus given, however distasteful the deed might be to her +personally. No, her father must at all hazards be prevented from seeking +assistance from Owen Davies. And yet the money must be had from somewhere, or +they would be ruined. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, she had it—Geoffrey Bingham should lend the money! He could well +afford it now, and she shrewdly guessed that he would not grudge the coat off +his back if he thought that by giving it he might directly or indirectly help +Beatrice. Her father must go up to town to see him, she would have no +letter-writing; one never knows how a letter may be read. He must see Mr. +Bingham, and if possible bring him down to Bryngelly. In a moment every detail +of the plot became clear to Elizabeth’s mind, and then she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not go to Mr. Davies, father,” she said; “he is a +hard man, and would only refuse and put you in a false position; you must go to +Mr. Bingham. Listen: he is rich now, and he is very fond of you and of +Beatrice. He will lend you a hundred pounds at once. You must go to London by +the early train to-morrow, and drive straight to his chambers and see him. It +will cost two pounds to get there and back, but that cannot be helped; it is +safer than writing, and I am sure that you will not go for nothing. And see +here, father, bring Mr. Bingham back with you for a few days if you can. It +will be a little return for his kindness, and I know that he is not well. +Beatrice had a letter from him in which he said that he was so overworked that +he thought he must take a little rest soon. Bring him back for +Whit-Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger hesitated, demurred, and finally yielded. The weak, querulous old +farmer clergyman, worn out with many daily cares and quite unsupported by +mental resources, was but a tool in Elizabeth’s able hands. He did not +indeed feel any humiliation at the idea of trying to borrow the cash, for his +nature was not finely strung, and money troubles had made him callous to the +verge of unscrupulousness; but he did not like the idea of a journey to London, +where he had not been for more than twenty years, and the expenditure that it +entailed. Still he acted as Elizabeth bade him, even to keeping the expedition +secret from Beatrice. Beatrice, as her sister explained to him, was proud as +Lucifer, and might raise objections if she knew that he was going to London to +borrow money of Mr. Bingham. This indeed she would certainly have done. +</p> + +<p> +On the following afternoon—it was the Friday before Whit-Sunday, and the +last day of the Easter sittings—Geoffrey sat in his chambers, in the +worst possible spirits, thoroughly stale and worn out with work. There was a +consultation going on, and his client, a pig-headed Norfolk farmer, who was +bent upon proceeding to trial with some extraordinary action for trespass +against his own landlord, was present with his solicitor. Geoffrey in a few +short, clear words had explained the absurdity of the whole thing, and strongly +advised him to settle, for the client had insisted on seeing him, refusing to +be put off with a written opinion. But the farmer was not satisfied, and the +solicitor was now endeavouring to let the pure light of law into the darkness +of his injured soul. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey threw himself back in his chair, pushed the dark hair from his brow, +and pretended to listen. But in a minute his mind was far away. Heavens, how +tired he was! Well, there would be rest for a few days—till Tuesday, when +he had a matter that must be attended to—the House had risen and so had +the courts. What should he do with himself? Honoria wished to go and stay with +her brother, Lord Garsington, and, for a wonder, to take Effie with her. He did +not like it, but he supposed that he should have to consent. One thing was, +<i>he</i> would not go. He could not endure Garsington, Dunstan, and all their +set. Should he run down to Bryngelly? The temptation was very great; that would +be happiness indeed, but his common sense prevailed against it. No, it was +better that he should not go there. He would leave Bryngelly alone. If Beatrice +wished him to come she would have said so, and she had never even hinted at +such a thing, and if she had he did not think that he would have gone. But he +lacked the heart to go anywhere else. He would stop in town, rest, and read a +novel, for Geoffrey, when he found time, was not above this frivolous +occupation. Possibly, under certain circumstances, he might even have been +capable of writing one. At that moment his clerk entered, and handed him a slip +of paper with something written on it. He opened it idly and read: +</p> + +<p> +“Revd. Mr. Granger to see you. Told him you were engaged, but he said he +would wait.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey started violently, so violently that both the solicitor and the +obstinate farmer looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell the gentleman that I will see him in a minute,” he said to +the retreating clerk, and then, addressing the farmer, “Well, sir, I have +said all that I have to say. I cannot advise you to continue this action. +Indeed, if you wish to do so, you must really direct your solicitor to retain +some other counsel, as I will not be a party to what can only mean a waste of +money. Good afternoon,” and he rose. +</p> + +<p> +The farmer was convoyed out grumbling. In another moment Mr. Granger entered, +dressed in a somewhat threadbare suit of black, and his thin white hair +hanging, as usual, over his eyes. Geoffrey glanced at him with apprehension, +and as he did so noticed that he had aged greatly during the last seven months. +Had he come to tell him some ill news of Beatrice—that she was ill, or +dead, or going to be married? +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Granger?” he said, as he stretched out his +hand, and controlling his voice as well as he could. “How are you? This +is a most unexpected pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Bingham?” answered the old man, while he seated +himself nervously in a chair, placing his hat with a trembling hand upon the +floor beside him. “Yes, thank you, I am pretty well, not very +grand—worn out with trouble as the sparks fly upwards,” he added, +with a vague automatic recollection of the scriptural quotation. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that Miss Elizabeth and Be—that your daughters are well +also,” said Geoffrey, unable to restrain his anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. Bingham. Elizabeth isn’t very grand +either, complains of a pain in her chest, a little bilious perhaps—she +always is bilious in the spring.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Miss Beatrice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I think she’s well—very quiet, you know, and a little +pale, perhaps; but she is always quiet—a strange woman Beatrice, Mr. +Bingham, a very strange woman, quite beyond me! I do not understand her, and +don’t try to. Not like other women at all, takes no pleasure in things +seemingly; curious, with her good looks—very curious. But nobody +understands Beatrice.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey breathed a sigh of relief. “And how are tithes being paid, Mr. +Granger? not very grandly, I fear. I saw that scoundrel Jones died in +prison.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger woke up at once. Before he had been talking almost at random; the +subject of his daughters did not greatly interest him. What did interest him +was this money question. Nor was it very wonderful; the poor narrow-minded old +man had thought about money till he could scarcely find room for anything else, +indeed nothing else really touched him closely. He broke into a long story of +his wrongs, and, drawing a paper from his breast pocket, with shaking finger +pointed out to Geoffrey how that his clerical income for the last six months +had been at the rate of only forty pounds a year, upon which sum even a Welsh +clergyman could not consider himself passing rich. Geoffrey listened and +sympathised; then came a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s how we’ve been getting on at Bryngelly, Mr. +Bingham,” Mr. Granger said presently, “starving, pretty well +starving. It’s only you who have been making money; we’ve been +sitting on the same dock-leaf while you have become a great man. If it had not +been for Beatrice’s salary—she’s behaved very well about the +salary, has Beatrice—I am sure I don’t understand how the poor girl +clothes herself on what she keeps; I know that she had to go without a warm +cloak this winter, because she got a cough from it—we should have been in +the workhouse, and that’s where we shall be yet,” and he rubbed the +back of his withered hand across his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey gasped. Beatrice with scarcely enough means to clothe +herself—Beatrice shivering and becoming ill from the want of a cloak +while <i>he</i> lived in luxury! It made him sick to think of it. For a moment +he could say nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come here—I’ve come,” went on the old man in a +broken voice, broken not so much by shame at having to make the request as from +fear lest it should be refused, “to ask you if you could lend me a little +money. I don’t know where to turn, I don’t indeed, or I would not +do it, Mr. Bingham. I have spent my last pound to get here. If you could lend +me a hundred pounds I’d give you note of hand for it and try to pay it +back little by little; we might take twenty pounds a year from Beatrice’s +salary——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, please—do not talk of such a thing!” ejaculated +the horrified Geoffrey. “Where the devil is my cheque-book? Oh, I know, I +left it in Bolton Street. Here, this will do as well,” and he took up a +draft note made out to his order, and, rapidly signing his name on the back of +it, handed it to Mr. Granger. It was in payment of the fees in the great case +of Parsons and Douse and some other matters. Mr. Granger took the draft, and, +holding it close to his eyes, glanced at the amount; it was £200. +</p> + +<p> +“But this is double what I asked for,” he said doubtfully. +“Am I to return you £100?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” answered Geoffrey, “I daresay that you have some +debts to pay. Thank Heaven, I can get on very well and earn more money than I +want. Not enough clothing—it is shocking to think of!” he added, +more to himself than to his listener. +</p> + +<p> +The old man rose, his eyes full of tears. “God bless you,” he said, +“God bless you. I do not know how to thank you—I don’t +indeed,” and he caught Geoffrey’s hand between his trembling palms +and pressed it. +</p> + +<p> +“Please do not say any more, Mr. Granger; it really is only a matter of +mutual obligation. No, no, I don’t want any note of hand. If I were to +die it might be used against you. You can pay me whenever it is +convenient.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are too good, Mr. Bingham,” said the old clergyman. +“Where could another man be found who would lend me £200 without +security?” (where indeed!) “By the way,” he added, “I +forgot; my mind is in such a whirl. Will you come back with me for a few days +to Bryngelly? We shall all be so pleased if you can. Do come, Mr. Bingham; you +look as though you want a change, you do indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey dropped his hand heavily on the desk. But half an hour before he had +made up his mind not to go to Bryngelly. And now——The vision of +Beatrice rose before his eyes. Beatrice who had gone cold all winter and never +told him one word of their biting poverty—the longing for the sight of +Beatrice came into his heart, and like a hurricane swept the defences of his +reason to the level ground. Temptation overwhelmed him; he no longer struggled +against it. He must see her, if it was only to say good-bye. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” he said quietly, lifting his bowed head. “Yes, I +have nothing particular to do for the next day or two. I think that I will +come. When do you go back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I thought of taking the night mail, but I feel so tired. I really +don’t know. I think I shall go by the nine o’clock train +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will suit me very well,” said Geoffrey; “and now what +are you going to do to-night? You had better come and dine and sleep at my +house. No dress clothes? Oh, never mind; there are some people coming but they +won’t care; a clergyman is always dressed. Come along and I will get that +draft cashed. The bank is shut, but I can manage it.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br/> +BACK AT BRYNGELLY</h2> + +<p> +Geoffrey and Mr. Granger reached Bolton Street about six o’clock. The +drawing-room was still full of callers. Lady Honoria’s young men mustered +in great force in those days. They were very inoffensive young men and Geoffrey +had no particular objection to them. Only he found it difficult to remember all +their names. When Geoffrey entered the drawing-room there were no fewer than +five of them, to say nothing of two stray ladies, all superbly dressed and +sitting metaphorically at Honoria’s very pretty feet. Otherwise their +contributions to the general store of amusement did not amount to much, for her +ladyship did most of the talking. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey introduced Mr. Granger, whom Honoria could not at first remember. Nor +did she receive the announcement that he was going to dine and stay the night +with any particular enthusiasm. The young men melted away at Geoffrey’s +advent like mists before a rising sun. He greeted them civilly enough, but with +him they had nothing in common. To tell the truth they were a little afraid of +him. This man with his dark handsome face sealed with the stamp of intellect, +his powerful-looking form (ill dressed, according to their standard) and his +great and growing reputation, was a person with whom they had no sympathy, and +who, they felt, had no sympathy with them. We talk as though there is one +heaven and one hell for all of us, but here must be some mistake. An impassable +gulf yawns between the different classes of mankind. What has such a man as +Geoffrey to do with the feeble male and female butterflies of a London +drawing-room? There is only one link between them: they live on the same +planet. +</p> + +<p> +When the fine young men and the two stray ladies had melted away, Geoffrey took +Mr. Granger up to his room. Coming downstairs again he found Lady Honoria +waiting for him in the study. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that individual really going to dine and sleep here?” she +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Honoria, and he has brought no dress clothes,” he +answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Geoffrey, it is too bad of you,” said the lady with some +pardonable irritation. “Why do you bring people to dinner in this +promiscuous way? It will quite upset the table. Just fancy asking an old Welsh +clergyman to dine, who has not the slightest pretensions to being a gentleman, +when one has the Prime Minister and a Bishop coming—and a clergyman +without dress clothes too. What has he come for?” +</p> + +<p> +“He came to see me on business, and as to the people coming to dinner, if +they don’t like it they can grumble when they go home. By the way, +Honoria, I am going down to Wales for a day or two to-morrow. I want a +change.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Going to see the lovely Beatrice, I suppose. You had better be +careful, Geoffrey. That girl will get you into a mess, and if she does there +are plenty of people who are ready to make an example of you. You have enemies +enough, I can tell you. I am not jealous, it is not in my line, but you are too +intimate with that girl, and you will be sorry for it one day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” said Geoffrey angrily, but nevertheless he felt that +Lady Honoria’s words were words of truth. It struck him, moreover, that +she must feel this strongly, or she would not have spoken in that tone. Honoria +did not pose as a household philosopher. Still he would not draw back now. His +heart was set on seeing Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to understand,” went on his wife, “that you still +object to my staying with the Garsingtons? I think it is a little hard if I do +not make a fuss about your going to see your village paragon, that you should +refuse to allow me to visit my own brother.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey felt that he was being bargained with. It was degrading, but in the +extremity of his folly he yielded. +</p> + +<p> +“Go if you like,” he said shortly, “but if you take Effie, +mind she is properly looked after, that is all,” and he abruptly left the +room. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria looked after him, slowly nodding her handsome head. +“Ah,” she said to herself, “I have found out how to manage +you now. You have your weak point like other people, Master Geoffrey—and +it spells Beatrice. Only you must not go too far. I am not jealous, but I am +not going to have a scandal for fifty Beatrices. I will not allow you to lose +your reputation and position. Just imagine a man like that pining for a village +girl—she is nothing more! And they talk about his being so clever. Well, +he always liked ladies’ society; that is his failing, and now he has +burnt his fingers. They all do sooner or later, especially these clever men. +The women flatter them, that’s it. Of course the girl is trying to get +hold of him, and she might do worse, but so surely as my name is Honoria +Bingham I will put a spoke in her wheel before she has done. Bah! and they +laugh at the power of women when a man like Geoffrey, with all the world to +lose, grows love-sick for a pretty face; it is a <i>very</i> pretty face by the +way. I do believe that if I were out of the way he would marry her. But I am in +the way, and mean to stay there. Well, it is time to dress for dinner. I only +hope that old clown of a clergyman won’t do something ridiculous. I shall +have to apologise for him.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinner-time had come; it was a quarter past eight, and the room was filled with +highly bred people all more or less distinguished. Mr. Granger had duly +appeared, arrayed in his threadbare black coat, relieved, however, by a pair of +Geoffrey’s dress shoes. As might have been expected, the great folk did +not seem surprised at his presence, or to take any particular notice of his +attire, the fact being that such people never are surprised. A Zulu chief in +full war dress would only excite a friendly interest in their breasts. On the +contrary they recognised vaguely that the old gentleman was something out of +the common run, and as such worth cultivating. Indeed the Prime Minister, +hearing casually that he was a clergyman from Wales, asked to be introduced to +him, and at once fell into conversation about tithes, a subject of which Mr. +Granger was thoroughly master. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they went down to dinner, Mr. Granger escorting the wife of the +Bishop, a fat and somewhat apoplectic lady, blessed with an excellent appetite. +On his other side was the Prime Minister, and between the two he got on very +well, especially after a few glasses of wine. Indeed, both the apoplectic wife +of the Bishop and the head of Her Majesty’s Government were subsequently +heard to declare that Mr. Granger was a very entertaining person. To the former +he related with much detail how his daughter had saved their host’s life, +and to the latter he discoursed upon the subject of tithes, favouring him with +his ideas of what legislation was necessary to meet the question. Somewhat to +his own surprise, he found that his views were received with attention and even +with respect. In the main, too, they received the support of the Bishop, who +likewise felt keenly on the subject of tithes. Never before had Mr. Granger had +such a good dinner nor mingled with company so distinguished. He remembered +both till his dying day. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning Geoffrey and Mr. Granger started before Lady Honoria was up. Into +the details of their long journey to Wales (in a crowded third-class carriage) +we need not enter. Geoffrey had plenty to think of, but his fears had vanished, +as fears sometimes do when we draw near to the object of them, and had been +replaced by a curious expectancy. He saw now, or thought he saw, that he had +been making a mountain out of a molehill. Probably it meant nothing at all. +There was no real danger. Beatrice liked him, no doubt; possibly she had even +experienced a fit of tenderness towards him. Such things come and such things +go. Time is a wonderful healer of moral distempers, and few young ladies endure +the chains of an undesirable attachment for a period of seven whole months. It +made him almost blush to think that this might be so, and that the gratuitous +extension of his misfortune to Beatrice might be nothing more than the working +of his own unconscious vanity—a vanity which, did she know of it, would +move her to angry laughter. +</p> + +<p> +He remembered how once, when he was quite a young fellow, he had been somewhat +smitten with a certain lady, who certainly, if he might judge from her words +and acts, reciprocated the sentiment. And he remembered also, how when he met +that lady some months afterwards she treated him with a cold indifference, +indeed almost with an insolence, that quite bewildered him, making him wonder +how the same person could show in such different lights, till at length, +mortified and ashamed by his mistake, he had gone away in a rage and seen her +face no more. Of course he had set it down to female infidelity; he had served +her turn, she had made a fool of him, and that was all she wanted. Now he might +enjoy his humiliation. It did not occur to him that it might be simple +“cussedness,” to borrow an energetic American term, or that she had +not really changed, but was angry with him for some reason which she did not +choose to show. It is difficult to weigh the motives of women in the scales of +male experience, and many other men besides Geoffrey have been forced to give +up the attempt and to console themselves with the reflection that the +inexplicable is generally not worth understanding. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, probably it would be the same case over again. And yet, and yet—was +Beatrice of that class? Had she not too much of a man’s +straightforwardness of aim to permit her to play such tricks? In the bottom of +his soul he thought that she had, but he would not admit it to himself. The +fact of the matter was that, half unknowingly, he was trying to drug his +conscience. He knew that in his longing to see her dear face once more he had +undertaken a dangerous thing. He was about to walk with her over an abyss on a +bridge which might bear them, or—might break. So long as he walked there +alone it would be well, but would it bear them <i>both?</i> Alas for the +frailty of human nature, this was the truth; but he would not and did not +acknowledge it. He was not going to make love to Beatrice, he was going to +enjoy the pleasure of her society. In friendship there could be no harm. +</p> + +<p> +It is not difficult thus to still the qualms of an uneasy mind, more especially +when the thing in question at its worst is rather an offence against local +custom than against natural law. In many countries of the world—in nearly +all countries, indeed, at different epochs of their history—it would have +been no wrong that Geoffrey and Beatrice should love each other, and human +nature in strong temptation is very apt to override artificial barriers erected +to suit the convenience or promote the prosperity of particular sections of +mankind. But, as we have heard, even though all things may be lawful, yet all +things are not expedient. To commit or even to condone an act because the +principle that stamps it as wrong will admit of argument on its merits is mere +sophistry, by the aid of which we might prove ourselves entitled to defy the +majority of laws of all calibres. Laws vary to suit the generations, but each +generation must obey its own, or confusion will ensue. A deed should be judged +by its fruits; it may even be innocent in itself, yet if its fruits are evil +the doer in a sense is guilty. +</p> + +<p> +Thus in some countries to mention the name of your mother-in-law entails the +most unpleasant consequences on that intimate relation. Nobody can say that to +name the lady is a thing wicked in itself; yet the man who, knowing the +penalties which will ensue, allows himself, even in a fit of passion against +that relative, to violate the custom and mention her by name is doubtless an +offender. Thus, too, the result of an entanglement between a woman and a man +already married generally means unhappiness and hurt to all concerned, more +especially to the woman, whose prospects are perhaps irretrievably injured +thereby. It is useless to point to the example of the patriarchs, some foreign +royal families, and many respectable Turks; it is useless to plead that the +love is deep and holy love, for which a man or woman might well live and die, +or to show extenuating circumstances in the fact of loneliness, need of +sympathy, and that the existing marriage is a hollow sham. The rule is clear. A +man may do most things except cheat at cards or run away in action; a woman may +break half-a-dozen hearts, or try to break them, and finally put herself up at +auction and take no harm at all—but neither of them may in any event do +<i>this</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Not that Geoffrey, to do him justice, had any such intentions. Most men are +incapable of plots of that nature. If they fall, it is when the voice of +conscience is lost in the whirlwind of passion, and counsel is darkened by the +tumultuous pleadings of the heart. Their sin is that they will, most of them, +allow themselves to be put in positions favourable to the development of these +disagreeable influences. It is not safe to light cigarettes in a powder +factory. If Geoffrey had done what he ought to have done, he would never have +gone to Bryngelly, and there would have been no story to tell, or no more than +there usually is. +</p> + +<p> +At length Mr. Granger and his guest reached Bryngelly; there was nobody to meet +them, for nobody knew that they were coming, so they walked up to the Vicarage. +It was strange to Geoffrey once more to pass by the little church through those +well-remembered, wind-torn pines and see that low long house. It seemed +wonderful that all should still be just as it was, that there should be no +change at all, when he himself had seen so much. There was Beatrice’s +home; where was Beatrice? +</p> + +<p> +He passed into the house like a man in a dream. In another moment he was in the +long parlour where he had spent so many happy hours, and Elizabeth was greeting +him. He shook hands with her, and as he did so, noticed vaguely that she too +was utterly unchanged. Her straw-coloured hair was pushed back from the temples +in the same way, the mouth wore the same hard smile, her light eyes shone with +the same cold look; she even wore the same brown dress. But she appeared to be +very pleased to see him, as indeed she was, for the game looked well for +Elizabeth. Her father kissed her hurriedly, and bustled from the room to lock +up his borrowed cash, leaving them together. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow Geoffrey’s conversational powers failed him. Where was Beatrice? +she ought to be back from school. It was holiday time indeed. Could she be +away? +</p> + +<p> +He made an effort, and remarked absently that things seemed very unchanged at +Bryngelly. +</p> + +<p> +“You are looking for Beatrice,” said Elizabeth, answering his +thought and not his words. “She has gone out walking, but I think she +will be back soon. Excuse me, but I must go and see about your room.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey hung about a little, then he lit his pipe and strolled down to the +beach, with a vague unexpressed idea of meeting Beatrice. He did not meet +Beatrice, but he met old Edward, who knew him at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, sir,” he said, “it’s queer to see you here +again, specially when I thinks as how I saw you first, and you a dead ‘un +to all purposes, with your mouth open, and Miss Beatrice a-hanging on to your +hair fit to pull your scalp off. You never was nearer old Davy than you was +that night, sir, nor won’t be. And now you’ve been spared to become +a Parliament man, I hears, and much good may you do there—it will take +all your time, sir—and I think, sir, that I should like to drink your +health.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey put his hand in his pocket and gave the old man a sovereign. He could +afford to do so now. +</p> + +<p> +“Does Miss Beatrice go out canoeing now?” he asked while Edward +mumbled his astonished thanks. +</p> + +<p> +“At times, sir—thanking you kindly; it ain’t many suvrings as +comes my way—though I hate the sight on it, I do. I’d like to stave +a hole in the bottom of that there cranky concern; it ain’t safe, and +that’s the fact. There’ll be another accent out of it one of these +fine days and no coming to next time. But, Lord bless you, it’s her way +of pleasuring herself. She’s a queer un is Miss Beatrice, and she gets +queerer and queerer, what with their being so tight screwed up at the Vicarage, +no tithes and that, and one thing and another. Not but what I’m thinking, +sir,” he added in a portentous whisper, “as the squire has got +summut to do with it. He’s a courting of her, he is; he’s as hard +after her as a dog fish after a stray herring, and why she can’t just say +yes and marry him I’m sure I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps she doesn’t like him,” said Geoffrey coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“May be, sir, may be; maids all have their fancies, in whatsoever walk +o’ life it has pleased God to stick ‘em, but it’s a wonderful +pity, it is. He ain’t no great shakes, he ain’t, but he’s a +sound man—no girl can’t want a sounder—lived quiet all his +days you see, sir, and what’s more he’s got the money, and +money’s tight up at the Vicarage, sir. Gals must give up their fancies +sometimes, sir. Lord! a brace of brats and she’d forget all about +‘em. I’m seventy years old and I’ve seen their ways, sir, +though in a humble calling. You should say a word to her, sir; she’d +thank you kindly five years after. You’d do her a good turn, sir, you +would, and not a bad un as the saying goes, and give it the lie—no, beg +your pardon, that is the other way round—she’s bound to do you the +bad turn having saved your life, though I don’t see how she could do that +unless, begging your pardon, she made you fall in love with her, being married, +which though strange wouldn’t be wunnerful seeing what she is and seeing +how I has been in love with her myself since she was seven, old missus and all, +who died eight years gone and well rid of the rheumatics.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice was one of the few subjects that could unlock old Edward’s +breast, and Geoffrey retired before his confusing but suggestive eloquence. +Hurriedly bidding the old man good-night he returned to the house, and leaning +on the gate watched the twilight dying on the bosom of the west. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, a bunch of wild roses in her girdle, Beatrice emerged from the +gathering gloom and stood before him face to face. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br/> +THE THIRD APPEAL</h2> + +<p> +Face to face they stood, while at the vision of her sweetness his heart grew +still. Face to face, and the faint light fell upon her tender loveliness and +died in her deep eyes, and the faint breeze fragrant with the breath of pines +gently stirred her hair. Oh, it was worth living to see her thus! +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” she said in a puzzled tone, stepping forward +to pass the gate. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Beatrice!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +She gave a little cry, and clutched the railing, else she would have fallen. +One moment she stayed so, looking up towards his face that was hid in the +deepening shadow—looking with wild eyes of hope and fear and love. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you,” she said at length, “or another dream?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is I, Beatrice!” he answered, amazed. +</p> + +<p> +She recovered herself with an effort. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why did you frighten me so?” she asked. “It was +unkind—oh, I did not mean to say anything cross. What did I say? I +forget. I am so glad that you have come!” and she put her hand to her +forehead and looked at him again as one might gaze at a ghost from the grave. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you not expect me?” Geoffrey asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Expect you? no. No more than I expected——” and she +stopped suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very odd,” he said; “I thought you knew that your +father was going to ask me down. I returned from London with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“From London,” she murmured. “I did not know; Elizabeth did +not tell me anything about it. I suppose that she forgot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am at any rate, and how are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well now, quite well. There, I am all right again. It is very wrong +to frighten people in that way, Mr. Bingham,” she added in her usual +voice. “Let me pass through the gate and I will shake hands with +you—if,” she added, in a tone of gentle mockery, “one may +shake hands with so great a man. But I told you how it would be, did I not, +just before we were drowned together, you know? How is Effie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Effie flourishes,” he answered. “Do you know, you do not +look very grand. Your father told me that you had a cold in the winter,” +and Geoffrey shivered as he thought of the cause. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you, I have nothing to complain of. I am strong and well. How +long do you stay here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not long. Perhaps till Tuesday morning, perhaps till Monday.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice sighed. Happiness is short. She had not brought him here, she would +not have lifted a finger to bring him here, but since he had come she wished +that he was going to stay longer. +</p> + +<p> +“It is supper time,” she said; “let us go in.” +</p> + +<p> +So they went in and ate their supper. It was a happy meal. Mr. Granger was in +almost boisterous spirits. It is wonderful what a difference the possession of +that two hundred pounds made in his demeanour; he seemed another man. It was +true that a hundred of it must go in paying debts, but a hundred would be left, +which meant at least a year’s respite for him. Elizabeth, too, relaxed +her habitual grimness; the two hundred pounds had its influence on her also, +and there were other genial influences at work in her dark secret heart. +Beatrice knew nothing of the money and sat somewhat silent, but she too was +happy with the wild unreal happiness that sometimes visits us in dreams. +</p> + +<p> +As for Geoffrey, if Lady Honoria could have seen him she would have stared in +astonishment. Of late he had been a very silent man, many people indeed had +found him a dull companion. But under the influence of Beatrice’s +presence he talked and talked brilliantly. Perhaps he was unconsciously +striving to show at his very best before her, as a man naturally does in the +presence of a woman whom he loves. So brilliantly did he talk that at last they +all sat still and listened to him, and they might have been worse employed. +</p> + +<p> +At length supper was done, and Elizabeth retired to her room. Presently, too, +Mr. Granger was called out to christen a sick baby and went grumbling, and they +were left alone. They sat in the window-place and looked out at the quiet +night. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me about yourself,” said Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +So he told her. He narrated all the steps by which he had reached his present +position, and showed her how from it he might rise to the topmost heights of +all. She did not look at him, and did not answer him, but once when he paused, +thinking that he had talked enough about himself, she said, “Go on; tell +me some more.” +</p> + +<p> +At last he had told her all. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “you have the power and the opportunity, and +you will one day be among the foremost men of your generation.” +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt it,” he said with a sigh. “I am not ambitious. I +only work for the sake of work, not for what it will bring. One day I daresay +that I shall weary of it all and leave it. But while I do work, I like to be +among the first in my degree.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” she answered, “you must not give it up; you must go +on and on. Promise me,” she continued, looking at him for the first +time—“promise me that while you have health and strength you will +persevere till you stand alone and quite pre-eminent. Then you can give it +up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I promise you this, Beatrice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I ask it of you. Once I saved your life, Mr. Bingham, and it +gives me some little right to direct its course. I wish that the man whom I +saved to the world should be among the first men in the world, not in wealth, +which is an accident, but in intellect and force. Promise me this and I shall +be happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I promise you,” he said, “I promise that I will try to rise +because you ask it, not because the prospect attracts me; but as he spoke his +heart was wrung. It was bitter to hear her speak thus of a future in which she +would have no share, which, as her words implied, would be a thing utterly +apart from her, as much apart as though she were dead. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said again, “you gave me my life, and it makes me +very unhappy to think that I can give you nothing in return. Oh, Beatrice, I +will tell you what I have never told to any one. I am lonely and wretched. With +the exception of yourself, I do not think that there is anybody who really +cares for—I mean who really sympathises with me in the world. I daresay +that it is my own fault and it sounds a humiliating thing to say, and, in a +fashion, a selfish thing. I never should have said it to any living soul but +you. What is the use of being great when there is nobody to work for? Things +might have been different, but the world is a hard place. If you—if +you——” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment his hand touched hers; it was accidental, but in the tenderness +of his heart he yielded to the temptation and took it. Then there was a +moment’s pause, and very gently she drew her hand away and thrust it in +her bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“You have your wife to share your fortune,” she said; “you +have Effie to inherit it, and you can leave your name to your country.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a heavy pause. +</p> + +<p> +“And you,” he said, breaking it, “what future is there for +you?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed softly. “Women have no future and they ask none. At least I +do not now, though once I did. It is enough for them if they can ever so little +help the lives of others. That is their happiness, and their reward +is—rest.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Just then Mr. Granger came back from his christening, and Beatrice rose and +went to bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Looks a little pale, doesn’t she, Mr. Bingham?” said her +father. “I think she must be troubled in her mind. The fact +is—well, there is no reason why I should not tell you; she thinks so much +of you, and you might say a word to brighten her up—well, it’s +about Mr. Davies. I fancy, you know, that she likes him and is vexed because he +does not come forward. Well, you see—of course I may be mistaken, but I +have sometimes thought that he may. I have seen him look as if he was thinking +of it, though of course it is more than Beatrice has got any right to expect. +She’s only got herself and her good looks to give him, and he’s a +rich man. Think of it, Mr. Bingham,” and the old gentleman turned up his +eyes piously, “just think what a thing it would be for her, and indeed +for all of us, if it should please God to send a chance like that in her way; +she would be rich for life, and such a position! But it is possible; one never +knows; he might take a fancy to her. At any rate, Mr. Bingham, I think you +could cheer her up a little; there is no need for her to give up hope +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey burst into a short grim laugh. The idea of Beatrice languishing for +Owen Davies, indeed the irony of the whole position, was too much for his sense +of humour. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “I daresay that it might be a good match for +her, but I do not know how she would get on with Mr. Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Get on! why, well enough, of course. Women are soft, and can squeeze +into most holes, especially if they are well lined. Besides, he may be a bit +heavy, but I think she is pining for him, and it’s a pity that she should +waste her life like that. What, are you going to bed? Well, +good-night—good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey did go to bed, but not to sleep. For a long while he lay awake, +thinking. He thought of the last night which he had spent in this little room, +of its strange experiences, of all that had happened since, and of the meeting +of to-day. Could he, after that meeting, any longer doubt what were the +feelings with which Beatrice regarded him? It was difficult to so, and yet +there was still room for error. Then he thought of what old Edward had said to +him, and of what Mr. Granger had said with reference to Beatrice and Owen +Davies. The views of both were crudely and even vulgarly expressed, but they +coincided, and, what was more, there was truth in them, and he knew it. The +idea of Beatrice marrying Mr. Davies, to put it mildly, was repulsive to him; +but had he any claim to stand between her and so desirable a settlement in +life? Clearly, he had not, his conscience told him so. +</p> + +<p> +Could it be right, moreover, that this kind of tie which existed between them +should be knitted more closely? What would it mean? Trouble, and nothing but +trouble, more especially to Beatrice, who would fret her days away to no end. +He had done wrong in coming here at all, he had done wrong in taking her hand. +He would make the only reparation in his power (as though in such a case as +that of Beatrice reparation were now possible)! He would efface himself from +her life and see her no more. Then she might learn to forget him, or, at the +worst, to remember him with but a vague regret. Yes, cost what it might, he +would force himself to do it before any actual mischief ensued. The only +question was, should he not go further? Should he not tell her that she would +do well to marry Mr. Davies? +</p> + +<p> +Pondering over this most painful question, at last he went to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +When men in Geoffrey’s unhappy position turn penitent and see the error +of their ways, the prudent resolves that ensue are apt to overshoot the mark +and to partake of an aggressive nature. Not satisfied with leaving things +alone, they must needs hasten to proclaim their new-found virtue to the partner +of their fault, and advertise their infallible specific (to be taken by the +partner) for restoring the <i>status quo ante</i>. Sometimes as a consequence +of this pious zeal they find themselves misunderstood, or even succeed in +precipitating the catastrophe which they laudably desire to prevent. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The morrow was Whit-Sunday, and a day that Geoffrey had occasion to remember +for the rest of his life. They all met at breakfast and shortly afterwards went +to church, the service being at half-past ten. By way of putting into effect +the good resolutions with which he was so busy paving an inferno of his own, +Geoffrey did not sit by Beatrice, but took a seat at the end of the little +church, close to the door, and tried to console himself by looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +It was a curious sullen-natured day, and although there was not very much sun +the air was as hot as though they were in midsummer. Had they been in a +volcanic region, Geoffrey would have thought that such weather preceded a shock +of earthquake. As it was he knew that the English climate was simply indulging +itself at the expense of the population. But as up to the present, the season +had been cold, this knowledge did not console him. Indeed he felt so choked in +the stuffy little church that just before the sermon (which he happened to be +aware was <i>not</i> written by Beatrice) he took an opportunity to slip out +unobserved. Not knowing where to go, he strolled down to the beach, on which +there was nobody to be seen, for, as has been observed, Bryngelly slept on +Sundays. Presently, however, a man approached walking rapidly, and to all +appearance aimlessly, in whom he recognised Owen Davies. He was talking to +himself while he walked, and swinging his arms. Geoffrey stepped aside to let +him pass, and as he did so was surprised and even shocked to see the change in +the man. His plump healthy-looking face had grown thin, and wore a half sullen, +half pitiful expression; there were dark circles round his blue eyes, once so +placid, and his hair would have been the better for cutting. Geoffrey wondered +if he had had an illness. At that moment Owen chanced to look round and saw +him. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Bingham?” he said. “I heard that you were +here. They told me at the station last night. You see this is a small place and +one likes to know who comes and goes,” he added as though in excuse. +</p> + +<p> +He walked on and Geoffrey walked with him. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not look well, Mr. Davies,” he said. “Have you been +laid up?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” he answered, “I am quite right; it is only my mind +that is ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Geoffrey, thinking that he certainly did look +strange. “Perhaps you live too much alone and it depresses you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I live alone, because I can’t help myself. What is a man to +do, Mr. Bingham, when the woman he loves will not marry him, won’t look +at him, treats him like dirt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Marry somebody else,” suggested Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is easy for you to say that—you have never loved anybody, +and you don’t understand. I cannot marry anybody else, I want her +only.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her? Whom?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who! why, Beatrice—whom else could a man want to marry, if once he +had seen her. But she will not have me; she hates me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” said Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, really, and do you know why? Shall I tell you why? I will tell +you,” and he grasped him by the arm and whispered hoarsely in his ear: +“Because she loves <i>you</i>, Mr. Bingham.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you what it is, Mr. Davies,” said Geoffrey shaking his arm +free, “I am not going to stand this kind of thing. You must be off your +head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be angry with me,” he answered. “It is true. I +have watched her and I know that it is true. Why does she write to you every +week, why does she always start and listen when anybody mentions your name? Oh, +Mr. Bingham,” Owen went on piteously, “be merciful—you have +your wife and lots of women to make love to if you wish—leave me +Beatrice. If you don’t I think that I shall go crazed. I have always +loved her, ever since she was a child, and now my love travels faster and grows +stronger every day, and carries me away with it like a rock rolling down a +hill. You can only bring Beatrice to shame, but I can give her everything, as +much money as she wants, all that she wants, and I will make her a good +husband; I will never leave her side.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt that would be delightful for her,” answered +Geoffrey; “but does it not strike you that all this is just a little +undignified? These remarks, interesting as they are, should be made to Miss +Granger, not to me, Mr. Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” he said, “but I don’t care; it is my only +chance, and what do I mind about being undignified? Oh, Mr. Bingham, I have +never loved any other woman, I have been lonely all my days. Do not stand in my +path now. If you only knew what I have suffered, how I have prayed God night +after night to give me Beatrice, you would help me. Say that you will help me! +You are one of those men who can do anything; she will listen to you. If you +tell her to marry me she will do so, and I shall bless you my whole +life.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey looked upon this abject suppliant with the most unmitigated scorn. +There is always something contemptible in the sight of one man pleading to +another for assistance in his love affairs—that is a business which he +should do for himself. How much greater, then, is the humiliation involved when +the amorous person asks the aid of one whom he believes to be his +rival—his successful rival—in the lady’s affection? +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, Mr. Davies,” Geoffrey said, “I think that I +have had enough of this. I am not in a position to force Miss Granger to accept +advances which appear to be unwelcome according to your account. But if I get +an opportunity I will do this: I will tell her what you say. You really must +manage the rest for yourself. Good morning to you, Mr. Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned sharply and went while Owen watched him go. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe him,” he groaned to himself. “He will +try to make her his lover. Oh, God help me—I cannot bear to think of it. +But if he does, and I find him out, let him be careful. I will ruin him, yes, I +will ruin him! I have the money and I can do it. Ah, he thinks me a fool, they +all think me a fool, but I haven’t been quiet all these years for +nothing. I can make a noise if necessary. And if he is a villain, God will help +me to destroy him. I have prayed to God, and God will help me.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he went back to the Castle. Owen Davies was a type of the class of +religious men who believe that they can enlist the Almighty on the side of +their desires, provided only that those desires receive the sanction of human +law or custom. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Thus within twenty-four hours Geoffrey received no less than three appeals to +help the woman whom he loved to the arms of a distasteful husband. No wonder +then that he grew almost superstitious about the matter. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br/> +A NIGHT OF STORM</h2> + +<p> +That afternoon the whole Vicarage party walked up to the farm to inspect +another litter of young pigs. It struck Geoffrey, remembering former editions, +that the reproductive powers of Mr. Granger’s old sow were something +little short of marvellous, and he dreamily worked out a calculation of how +long it would take her and her progeny to produce a pig to every square yard of +the area of plucky little Wales. It seemed that the thing could be done in six +years, which was absurd, so he gave up calculating. +</p> + +<p> +He had no words alone with Beatrice that afternoon. Indeed, a certain coldness +seemed to have sprung up between them. With the almost supernatural quickness +of a loving woman’s intuition, she had divined that something was passing +in his mind, inimical to her most vital interests, so she shunned his company, +and received his conventional advances with a politeness which was as cold as +it was crushing. This did not please Geoffrey; it is one thing (in her own +interests, of course) to make up your mind heroically to abandon a lady whom +you do not wish to compromise, and quite another to be snubbed by that lady +before the moment of final separation. Though he never put the idea into words +or even defined it in his mind—for Geoffrey was far too anxious and +unhappy to be flippant, at any rate in thought—he would at heart have +wished her to remain the same, indeed to wax ever tenderer, till the fatal time +of parting arrived, and even to show appreciation of his virtuous conduct. +</p> + +<p> +But to the utter destruction of most such hands as Geoffrey held, loving women +never will play according to the book. Their conduct imperils everything, for +it is obvious that it takes two to bring an affair of this nature to a +dignified conclusion, even when the stakes are highest, and the matter is one +of life and death. Beatrice after all was very much of a woman, and she did not +behave much better than any other woman would have done. She was angry and +suspicious, and she showed it, with the result that Geoffrey grew angry also. +It was cruel of her, he thought, considering all things. He forgot that she +could know nothing of what was in his mind, however much she might guess; also +as yet he did not know the boundless depth and might of her passion for him, +and all that it meant to her. Had he realised this he would have acted very +differently. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +They came home and took tea, then Mr. Granger and Elizabeth made ready to go to +evening service. To Geoffrey’s dismay Beatrice did the same. He had +looked forward to a quiet walk with her—really this was not to be borne. +Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, she was ready the first, and he got a +word with her. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that you were going to church,” he said; “I +thought that we might have had a walk together. Very likely I shall have to go +away early to-morrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” answered Beatrice coldly. “But of course you have +your work to attend to. I told Elizabeth that I was coming to church, and I +must go; it is too sultry to walk; there will be a storm soon.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Elizabeth came in. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Beatrice,” she said, “are you coming to church? Father +has gone on.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice pretended not to hear, and reflected a moment. He would go away and +she would see him no more. Could she let slip this last hour? Oh, she could not +do it! +</p> + +<p> +In that moment of reflection her fate was sealed. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered slowly, “I don’t think that I am +coming; it is too sultry to go to church. I daresay that Mr. Bingham will +accompany you.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey hastily disclaimed any such intention, and Elizabeth started alone. +“Ah!” she said to herself, “I thought that you would not +come, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Geoffrey, when she had well gone, “shall we go +out?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is pleasanter here,” answered Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Beatrice, don’t be so unkind,” he said feebly. +</p> + +<p> +“As you like,” she replied. “There is a fine sunset—but +I think that we shall have a storm.” +</p> + +<p> +They went out, and turned up the lonely beach. The place was utterly deserted, +and they walked a little way apart, almost without speaking. The sunset was +magnificent; great flakes of golden cloud were driven continually from a home +of splendour in the west towards the cold lined horizon of the land. The sea +was still quiet, but it moaned like a thing in pain. The storm was gathering +fast. +</p> + +<p> +“What a lovely sunset,” said Geoffrey at length. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a fatal sort of loveliness,” she answered; “it will be +a bad night, and a wet morrow. The wind is rising; shall we turn?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Beatrice, never mind the wind. I want to speak to you, if you will +allow me to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Beatrice, “what about, Mr. Bingham.” +</p> + +<p> +To make good resolutions in a matter of this sort is comparatively easy, but +the carrying of them out presents some difficulties. Geoffrey, +conscience-stricken into priggishness, wished to tell her that she would do +well to marry Owen Davies, and found the matter hard. Meanwhile Beatrice +preserved silence. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is,” he said at length, “I most sincerely hope you +will forgive me, but I have been thinking a great deal about you and your +future welfare.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very kind of you,” said Beatrice, with an ominous +humility. +</p> + +<p> +This was disconcerting, but Geoffrey was determined, and he went on in a +somewhat flippant tone born of the most intense nervousness and hatred of his +task. Never had he loved her so well as now in this moment when he was about to +counsel her to marry another man. And yet he persevered in his folly. For, as +so often happens, the shrewd insight and knowledge of the world which +distinguished Geoffrey as a lawyer, when dealing with the affairs of others, +quite deserted him in this crisis of his own life and that of the woman who +worshipped him. +</p> + +<p> +“Since I have been here,” he said, “I have had made to me no +less than three appeals on your behalf and by separate people—by your +father, who fancies that you are pining for Owen Davies; by Owen Davies, who is +certainly pining for you; and by old Edward, intervening as a kind of domestic +<i>amicus curiæ</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Beatrice, in a voice of ice. +</p> + +<p> +“All these three urged the same thing—the desirability of your +marrying Owen Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice’s face grew quite pale, her lips twitched and her grey eyes +flashed angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” she said, “and have <i>you</i> any advice to give +on the subject, Mr. Bingham?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Beatrice, I have. I have thought it over, and I think +that—forgive me again—that if you can bring yourself to it, perhaps +you had better marry him. He is not such a bad sort of man, and he is well +off.” +</p> + +<p> +They had been walking rapidly, and now they were reaching the spot known as the +“Amphitheatre,” that same spot where Owen Davies had proposed to +Beatrice some seven months before. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice passed round the projecting edge of rock, and walked some way towards +the flat slab of stone in the centre before she answered. While she did so a +great and bitter anger filled her heart. She saw, or thought she saw, it all. +Geoffrey wished to be rid of her. He had discerned an element of danger in +their intimacy, and was anxious to make that intimacy impossible by pushing her +into a hateful marriage. Suddenly she turned and faced him—turned like a +thing at bay. The last red rays of the sunset struck upon her lovely face made +more lovely still by its stamp of haughty anger: they lay upon her heaving +breast. Full in the eyes she looked him with those wide angry eyes of +hers—never before had he seen her wear so imperial a mien. Her dignity +and the power of her presence literally awed him, for at times Beatrice’s +beauty was of that royal stamp which when it hides a heart, is a compelling +force, conquering and born to conquer. +</p> + +<p> +“Does it not strike you, Mr. Bingham,” she said quietly, +“that you are taking a very great liberty? Does it not strike you that no +man who is not a relation has any right to speak to a woman as you have spoken +to me?—that, in short, you have been guilty of what in most people would +be an impertinence? What right have you to dictate to me as to whom I should or +should not marry? Surely of all things in the world that is my own +affair.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey coloured to the eyes. As would have been the case with most men of his +class, he felt her accusation of having taken a liberty, of having presumed +upon an intimacy, more keenly than any which she could have brought against +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me,” he said humbly. “I can only assure you that I +had no such intention. I only spoke—ill-judgedly, I +fear—because—because I felt driven to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice took no notice of his words, but went on in the same cold voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What right have you to speak of my affairs with Mr. Davies, with an old +boatman, or even with my father? Had I wished you to do so I should have asked +you. By what authority do you constitute yourself an intermediary for the +purpose of bringing about a marriage which you are so good as to consider would +be to my pecuniary interest? Do you not know that such a matter is one which +the woman concerned, the woman whose happiness and self-respect are at stake, +alone can judge of? I have nothing more to say except this. I said just now +that you had been guilty of what would in most people be an impertinence. Well, +I will add something. In this case, Mr. Bingham, there are circumstances which +make it—a cruel insult!” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped speaking, then suddenly, without the slightest warning, burst into +passionate weeping. As she did so, the first rush of the storm passed over +them, winnowing the air as with a thousand eagles’ wings, and was lost on +the moaning depths beyond. +</p> + +<p> +The light went out of the sky. Now Geoffrey could only see the faint outlines +of her weeping face. One moment he hesitated and one only; then Nature +prevailed against him, for the next she was in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice scarcely resisted him. Her energies seemed to fail her, or perhaps she +had spent them in her bitter words. Her head fell upon his shoulder, and there +she sobbed her fill. Presently she lifted it and their lips met in a first long +kiss. It was finished; this was the end of it—and thus did Geoffrey +prosper Owen Davies’s suit. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you are cruel, cruel!” he whispered in her ear. “You +must have known I loved you, Beatrice, that I spoke against myself because I +thought it to be my duty. You must have known that, to my sin and sorrow, I +have always loved you, that you have never been an hour from my mind, that I +have longed to see your face like a sick man for the light. Tell me, did you +not know it, Beatrice?” +</p> + +<p> +“How should I know?” she answered very softly; “I could only +guess, and if indeed you love me how could you wish me to marry another man? I +thought that you had learned my weakness and took this way to reproach me. Oh, +Geoffrey, what have we done? What is there between you and me—except our +love?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would have been better if we had been drowned together at the +first,” he said heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she answered, “for then we never should have loved +one another. Better first to love, and then to die!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not speak so,” he said; “let us sit here and be happy for +a little while to-night, and leave trouble till to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +And, where on a bygone day Beatrice had tarried with another wooer, side by +side they sat upon the great stone and talked such talk as lovers use. +</p> + +<p> +Above them moaned the rising gale, though sheltered as they were by cliffs its +breath scarcely stirred their hair. In front of them the long waves boomed upon +the beach, while far out to sea the crescent moon, draped in angry light, +seemed to ride the waters like a boat. +</p> + +<p> +And were they alone with their great bliss, or did they only dream? Nay, they +were alone with love and lovers’ joys, and all the truth was told, and +all their doubts were done. Now there was an end of hopes and fears; now reason +fell and Love usurped his throne, and at that royal coming Heaven threw wide +her gates. Oh, Sweetest and most dear! Oh, Dearest and most sweet! Oh, to have +lived to find this happy hour—oh, in this hour to die! +</p> + +<p> +See heaviness is behind us, see now we are one. Blow, you winds, blow out your +stormy heart; we know the secret of your strength, you rush to your desire. +Fall, deep waters of the sea, fall in thunder at the feet of earth; we hear the +music of your pleading. +</p> + +<p> +Earth, and Seas, and Winds, sing your great chant of love! Heaven and Space and +Time, echo back the melody! For Life has called to us the answer of his riddle! +Heart to heart we sit, and lips to lips, and we are more wise than Solomon, and +richer than barbarian kings, for Happiness is ours. +</p> + +<p> +To this end were we born, Dearest and most sweet, and from all time +predestinate! To this end, Sweetest and most dear, do we live and die, in death +to find completer unity. For here is that secret of the world which wise men +search and cannot find, and here too is the gate of Heaven. +</p> + +<p> +Look into my eyes, and let me gaze on yours, and listen how these things shall +be. The world is but a mockery, and a shadow is our flesh, for where once they +were there shall be naught. Only Love is real; Love shall endure till all the +suns are dead, and yet be young. +</p> + +<p> +Kiss me, thou Conqueror, for Destiny is overcome, Sorrow is gone by; and the +flame that we have hallowed upon this earthly altar shall still burn brightly, +and yet more bright, when yonder stars have lost their fire. +</p> + +<p> +But alas! words cannot give a fitting form to such a song as this. Let music +try! But music also folds her wings. For in so supreme an hour +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and through that opened door come sights and sounds such as cannot be written. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +They tell us it is madness, that this unearthly glory is but the frenzy of a +passion gross in its very essence. Let those think it who will, but to dreamers +let them leave their dreams. Why then, at such a time, do visions come to +children of the world like Beatrice and Geoffrey? Why do their doubts vanish, +and what is that breath from heaven which they seem to feel upon their brow? +The intoxication of earthly love born of the meeting of youth and beauty. So be +it! Slave, bring more such wine and let us drink—to Immortality and to +those dear eyes that mirror forth a spirit’s face! +</p> + +<p> +Such loves indeed are few. For they must be real and deep, and natures thus +shaped are rare, nor do they often cross each other’s line of life. Yes, +there are few who can be borne so high, and none can breathe that ether long. +Soon the wings which Love lent them in his hour of revelation will shrink and +vanish, and the borrowers will fall back to the level of this world, happy if +they escape uncrushed. Perchance even in their life-days, they may find these +spirit wings again, overshadowing the altar of their vows in the hour of +earthly marriage, if by some happy fate, marriage should be within their reach, +or like the holy pinions of the goddess Nout, folded about a coffin, in the +time of earthly death. But scant are the occasions, and few there are who know +them. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Thus soared Beatrice and Geoffrey while the wild night beat around them, making +a fit accompaniment to their stormy loves. And thus they too fell from heaven +to earth. +</p> + +<p> +“We must be going, Geoffrey; it grows late,” said Beatrice. +“Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, what have we done? What can be the end of all +this? It will bring trouble on you, I know that it must. The old saying will +come true. I saved your life, and I shall bring ruin on you!” +</p> + +<p> +It is characteristic of Beatrice that already she was thinking of the +consequences to Geoffrey, not of those to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Beatrice,” said Geoffrey, “we are in a desperate position. +Do you wish to face it and come away with me, far away to the other side of the +world?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she answered vehemently, “it would be your ruin to +abandon the career that is before you. What part of the world could you go to +where you would not be known? Besides there is your wife to think of. Ah, God, +your wife—what would she say of me? You belong to her, you have no right +to desert her. And there is Effie too. No, Geoffrey, no, I have been wicked +enough to learn to love you—oh, as you were never loved before, if it is +wicked to do what one cannot help—but I am not bad enough for this. Walk +quicker, Geoffrey; we shall be late, and they will suspect something.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Beatrice, the pangs of conscience were finding her out! +</p> + +<p> +“We are in a dreadful position,” he said again. “Oh, dearest, +I have been to blame. I should never have come back here. It is my fault; and +though I never thought of this, I did my best to please you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I thank you for it,” she answered. “Do not deceive +yourself, Geoffrey. Whatever happens, promise me never for one moment to +believe that I reproached or blamed you. Why should I blame you because you won +my heart? Let me sooner blame the sea on which we floated, the beach where we +walked, the house in which we lived, and the Destiny that brought us together. +I am proud and glad to love you, dear, but I am not so selfish as to wish to +ruin you: Geoffrey—I had rather die.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk so,” he said, “I cannot bear it. What are +we to do? Am I to go away and see you no more? How can we live so, +Beatrice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Geoffrey,” she answered heavily, taking him by the hand and +gazing up into his face, “you are to go away and see me no more, not for +years and years. This is what we have brought upon ourselves, it is the price +that we must pay for this hour which has gone. You are to go away to-morrow, +that we may be put out of temptation, and you must come back no more. Sometimes +I shall write to you, and sometimes perhaps you will write to me, till the +thing becomes a burden, then you can stop. And whether you forget me or +not—and, Geoffrey, I do not think you will—you will know that I +shall never forget you, whom I saved from the sea—to love me.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something so sweet and infinitely tender about her words, instinct as +they were with natural womanly passion, that Geoffrey bent at heart beneath +their weight as a fir bends beneath the gentle, gathering snow. What was he to +do, how could he leave her? And yet she was right. He must go, and go quickly, +lest his strength might fail him, and hand in hand they should pass a bourne +from which there is no return. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven help us, Beatrice,” he said. “I will go to-morrow +morning and, if I can, I will keep away.” +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>must</i> keep away. I will not see you any more. I will not bring +trouble on you, Geoffrey.” +</p> + +<p> +“You talk of bringing trouble on me,” he said; “you say +nothing of yourself, and yet a man, even a man with eyes on him like myself, is +better fitted to weather such a storm. If it ruined me, how much more would it +ruin you?” +</p> + +<p> +They were at the gate of the Vicarage now, and the wind rushed so strongly +through the firs that she needed to put her lips quite close to his ear to make +her words heard. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop, one minute,” she said, “perhaps you do not quite +understand. When a woman does what I have done, it is because she loves with +all her life and heart and soul, because all these are a part of her love. For +myself, I no longer care anything—I have <i>no</i> self away from you; I +have ceased to be of myself or in my own keeping. I am of you and in yours. For +myself and my own fate or name I think no more; with my eyes open and of my own +free will I have given everything to you, and am glad and happy to give it. But +for you I still do care, and if I took any step, or allowed you to take any +that could bring sorrow on you, I should never forgive myself. That is why we +must part, Geoffrey. And now let us go in; there is nothing more to say, except +this: if you wish to bid me good-bye, a last good-bye, dear Geoffrey, I will +meet you to-morrow morning on the beach.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall leave at half-past eight,” he said hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“Then we will meet at seven,” Beatrice said, and led the way into +the house. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth and Mr. Granger were already seated at supper. They supped at nine on +Sunday nights; it was just half-past. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me,” said the old gentleman, “we began to think that +you two must have been out canoeing and got yourselves drowned in good earnest +this time. What have you been doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“We have had a long walk,” answered Geoffrey; “I did not know +that it was so late.” +</p> + +<p> +“One wants to be pleased with one’s company to walk far on such a +night as this,” put in Elizabeth maliciously. +</p> + +<p> +“And so we were—at least I was,” Geoffrey answered with +perfect truth, “and the night is not so bad as you might think, at least +under the lee of the cliffs. It will be worse by and by!” +</p> + +<p> +Then they sat down and made a desperate show of eating supper. Elizabeth, the +keen-eyed, noticed that Geoffrey’s hand was shaking. Now what, she +wondered, would make the hand of a strong man shake like a leaf? Deep emotion +might do it, and Elizabeth thought that she detected other signs of emotion in +them both, besides that of Geoffrey’s shaking hand. The plot was working +well, but could it be brought to a climax? Oh, if he would only throw prudence +to the winds and run away with Beatrice, so that she might be rid of her, and +free to fight for her own hand. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after supper both Elizabeth and Beatrice went to bed, leaving their +father with Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Granger, “did you get a word with Beatrice? +It was very kind of you to go that long tramp on purpose. Gracious, how it +blows! we shall have the house down presently. Lightning, too, I +declare.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Geoffrey, “I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I hope you told her that there was no need for her to give up hope +of him yet, of Mr. Davies, I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I told her that—that is if the greater includes the +less,” he added to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“And how did she take it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very badly,” said Geoffrey; “she seemed to think that I had +no right to interfere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, that is strange. But it doesn’t mean anything. She’s +grateful enough to you at heart, depend upon it she is, only she did not like +to say so. Dear me, how it blows; we shall have a night of it, a regular gale, +I declare. So you are going away to-morrow morning. Well, the best of friends +must part. I hope that you will often come and see us. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Once more a sense of the irony of the position overcame Geoffrey, and he smiled +grimly as he lit his candle and went to bed. At the back of the house was a +long passage, which terminated at one end in the room where he slept, and at +the other in that occupied by Elizabeth and Beatrice. This passage was lit by +two windows, and built out of it were two more rooms—that of Mr. Granger, +and another which had been Effie’s. The windows of the passage, like most +of the others in the Vicarage, were innocent of shutters, and Geoffrey stood +for a moment at one of them, watching the lightning illumine the broad breast +of the mountain behind. Then looking towards the door of Beatrice’s room, +he gazed at it with the peculiar reverence that sometimes afflicts people who +are very much in love, and, with a sigh, turned and sought his own. +</p> + +<p> +He could not sleep, it was impossible. For nearly two hours he lay turning from +side to side, and thinking till his brain seemed like to burst. To-morrow he +must leave her, leave her for ever, and go back to his coarse unprofitable +struggle with the world, where there would be no Beatrice to make him happy +through it all. And she, what of her? +</p> + +<p> +The storm had lulled a little, now it came back in strength, heralded by the +lightning. He rose, threw on a dressing-gown, and sat by a window watching it. +Its tumult and fury seemed to ease his heart of some little of its pain; in +that dark hour a quiet night would have maddened him. +</p> + +<p> +In eight hours—eight short hours—this matter would be ended so far +as concerned their actual intercourse. It would be a secret locked for ever in +their two breasts, a secret eating at their hearts, cruel as the worm that +dieth not. Geoffrey looked up and threw out his heart’s thought towards +his sleeping love. Then once more, as in a bygone night, there broke upon his +brain and being that mysterious spiritual sense. Stronger and more strong it +grew, beating on him in heavy unnatural waves, till his reason seemed to reel +and sink, and he remembered naught but Beatrice, knew naught save that her very +life was with him now. +</p> + +<p> +He stretched out his arms towards the place where she should be. +</p> + +<p> +“Beatrice,” he whispered to the empty air, “Beatrice! Oh, my +love! my sweet! my soul! Hear me, Beatrice!” +</p> + +<p> +There came a pause, and ever the unearthly sympathy grew and gathered in his +heart, till it seemed to him as though separation had lost its power and across +dividing space they were mingled in one being. +</p> + +<p> +A great gust shook the house and passed away along the roaring depths. +</p> + +<p> +Oh! what was this? Silently the door opened, and a white draped form passed its +threshold. He rose, gasping; a terrible fear, a terrible joy, took possession +of him. The lightning flared out wildly in the eastern sky. There in the fierce +light she stood before him—she, Beatrice, a sight of beauty and of dread. +She stood with white arms outstretched, with white uncovered feet, her bosom +heaving softly beneath her night-dress, her streaming hair unbound, her lips +apart, her face upturned, and a stamp of terrifying calm. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“In the wide, blind eyes uplift<br/> +Thro’ the darkness and the drift.” +</p> + +<p> +Great Heaven, she was asleep! +</p> + +<p> +Hush! she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“You called me, Geoffrey,” she said, in a still, unnatural voice. +“You called me, my beloved, and I—have—come.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose aghast, trembling like an aspen with doubt and fear, trembling at the +sight of the conquering glory of the woman whom he worshipped. +</p> + +<p> +See! She drew on towards him, and she was <i>asleep</i>. Oh, what could he do? +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the draught of the great gale rushing through the house caught the +opened door and crashed it to. +</p> + +<p> +She awoke with a wild stare of terror. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, God, where am I?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, for your life’s sake!” he answered, his faculties +returning. “Hush! or you are lost.” +</p> + +<p> +But there was no need to caution her to silence, for Beatrice’s senses +failed her at the shock, and she sank swooning in his arms. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br/> +A DAWN OF RAIN</h2> + +<p> +That crash of the closing door did not awake Beatrice only; it awoke both +Elizabeth and Mr. Granger. Elizabeth sat up in bed straining her eyes through +the gloom to see what had happened. They fell on Beatrice’s +bed—surely—surely—— +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth slipped up, cat-like she crept across the room and felt with her hand +at the bed. Beatrice was not there. She sprang to the blind and drew it, +letting in such light as there was, and by it searched the room. She spoke: +“Beatrice, where are you?” +</p> + +<p> +No answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—h,” said Elizabeth aloud; “I understand. At +last—at last!” +</p> + +<p> +What should see do? Should she go and call her father and put them to an open +shame? No. Beatrice must come back some time. The knowledge was enough; she +wanted the knowledge to use if necessary. She did not wish to ruin her sister +unless in self-defence, or rather, for the cause of self-advancement. Still +less did she wish to injure Geoffrey, against whom she had no grudge. So she +peeped along the passage, then returning, crept back to her bed like a snake +into a hole and watched. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger, hearing the crash, thought that the front door had blown open. +Rising, he lit a candle and went to see. +</p> + +<p> +But of all this Geoffrey knew nothing, and Beatrice naturally less than +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +She lay senseless in his arms, her head rested on his shoulder, her heavy hair +streamed down his side almost to his knee. He lifted her, touched her on the +forehead with his lips and laid her on the bed. What was to be done? Bring her +back to life? No, he dared not—not here. While she lay thus her +helplessness protected her; but if once more she was a living, loving woman +here and so—oh, how should they escape? He dared not touch her or look +towards her—till he had made up his mind. It was soon done. Here she must +not bide, and since of herself she could not go, why he must take her now, this +moment! However far Geoffrey fell short of virtue’s stricter standard, +let this always be remembered in his favour. +</p> + +<p> +He opened the door, and as he did so, thought that he heard some one stirring +in the house. And so he did; it was Mr. Granger in the sitting-room. Hearing no +more, Geoffrey concluded that it was the wind, and turning, groped his way to +the bed where Beatrice lay as still as death. For one moment a horrible fear +struck him that she might be dead. He had heard of cases of somnambulists who, +on being startled from their unnatural sleep, only woke to die. It might be so +with her. Hurriedly he placed his hand upon her breast. Yes, her heart +stirred—faintly indeed, but still it stirred. She had only swooned. Then +he set his teeth, and placing his arms about her, lifted her as though she were +a babe. Beatrice was no slip of a girl, but a well-grown woman of full size. He +never felt her weight; it seemed nothing to him. Stealthily as one bent on +midnight murder, he stepped with her to the door and through it into the +passage. Then supporting her with one arm, he closed the door with his left +hand. Stealthily in the gloom he passed along the corridor, his bare feet +making no noise upon the boarded floor, till he reached the bisecting passage +leading from the sitting-rooms. +</p> + +<p> +He glanced up it apprehensively, and what he saw froze the blood in his veins, +for there coming down it, not eight paces from him, was Mr. Granger, holding a +candle in his hand. What could be done? To get back to his room was +impossible—to reach that of Beatrice was also impossible. With an effort +he collected his thoughts, and like a flash of light it passed into his mind +that the empty room was not two paces from him. A stride and he had reached it. +Oh, where was the handle? and oh, if the room should be locked! By a merciful +chance it was not. He stepped through the door, knocking Beatrice’s feet +against the framework as he did so, closed it—to shut it he had no +time—and stood gasping behind it. +</p> + +<p> +The gleam of light drew nearer. Merciful powers! he had been seen—the old +man was coming in. What could he say? Tell the truth, that was all; but who +would believe such a story? why, it was one that he should scarcely care to +advance in a court of law. Could he expect a father to believe it—a +father finding a man crouched like a thief behind a door at the dead of night +with his lovely daughter senseless in his arms? He had already thought of going +straight to Mr. Granger, but had abandoned the idea as hopeless. Who would +believe this tale of sleep-walking? For the first time in his life Geoffrey +felt terribly afraid, both for Beatrice and himself; the hair rose on his head, +his heart stood still, and a cold perspiration started on to his face. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very odd,” he heard the old man mutter to himself; +“I could almost swear that I saw something white go into that room. +Where’s the handle? If I believed in ghosts—hullo! my candle has +blown out! I must go and hunt for a match. Don’t quite like going in +there without a light.” +</p> + +<p> +For the moment they were saved. The fierce draught rushing through the open +crack of the door from the ill-fitting window had extinguished the candle. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey waited a few seconds to allow Mr. Granger to reach his room, and then +once more started on his awful journey. He passed out of the room in safety; +happily Beatrice showed no signs of recovery. A few quick steps and he was at +her own door. And now a new terror seized him. What if Elizabeth was also +walking the house or even awake? He thought of putting Beatrice down at the +door and leaving her there, but abandoned the idea. To begin with, her father +might see her, and then how could her presence be accounted for? or if he did +not, she would certainly suffer ill effects from the cold. No, he must risk it, +and at once, though he would rather have faced a battery of guns. The door +fortunately was ajar. Geoffrey opened it with his foot, entered, and with his +foot pushed it to again. Suddenly he remembered that he had never been in the +room, and did not know which bed belonged to Beatrice. He walked to the +nearest; a deep-drawn breath told him that it was the wrong one. Drawing some +faint consolation from the fact that Elizabeth was evidently asleep, he groped +his way to the second bed through the deep twilight of the room. The clothes +were thrown back. He laid Beatrice down and threw them over her. Then he fled. +</p> + +<p> +As he reached the door he saw Mr. Granger’s light disappear into his own +room and heard his door close. After that it seemed to him that he took but two +steps and was in his own place. +</p> + +<p> +He burst out laughing; there was as much hysteria in the laugh as a man gives +way to. His nerves were shattered by struggle, love and fear, and sought relief +in ghastly merriment. Somehow the whole scene reminded him of one in a comic +opera. There was a ludicrous side to it. Supposing that the political +opponents, who already hated him so bitterly, could have seen him slinking from +door to door at midnight with an unconscious lady in his arms—what would +they have said? +</p> + +<p> +He ceased laughing; the fit passed—indeed it was no laughing matter. Then +he thought of the first night of their strange communion, that night before he +had returned to London. The seed sown in that hour had blossomed and borne +fruit indeed. Who would have dreamed it possible that he should thus have drawn +Beatrice to him? Well, he ought to have known. If it was possible that the +words which floated through her mind could arise in his as they had done upon +that night, what was not possible? And were there not other words, written by +the same master-hand, which told of such things as these: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Now—now,’ the door is heard;<br/> +Hark, the stairs! and near—<br/> +Nearer—and here—<br/> +‘Now’! and at call the third,<br/> +She enters without a word.<br/> +<br/> +Like the doors of a casket shrine,<br/> +See on either side,<br/> +Her two arms divide<br/> +Till the heart betwixt makes sign,<br/> +‘Take me, for I am thine.’ <br/> +<br/> +First, I will pray. Do Thou<br/> +That ownest the soul,<br/> +Yet wilt grant control<br/> +To another, nor disallow<br/> +For a time, restrain me now!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Did they not run thus? Oh, he should have known! This he could plead, and this +only—that control had been granted to him. +</p> + +<p> +But how would Beatrice fare? Would she come to herself safely? He thought so, +it was only a fainting fit. But when she did recover, what would she do? +Nothing rash, he prayed. And what could be the end of it all? Who might say? +How fortunate that the sister had been so sound asleep. Somehow he did not +trust Elizabeth—he feared her. +</p> + +<p> +Well might Geoffrey fear her! Elizabeth’s sleep was that of a weasel. She +too was laughing at this very moment, laughing, not loud but long—the +laugh of one who wins. +</p> + +<p> +She had seen him enter, his burden in his arms; saw him come with it to her own +bedside, and had breathed heavily to warn him of his mistake. She had watched +him put Beatrice on her bed, and heard him sigh and turn away; nothing had +escaped her. As soon as he was gone, she had risen and crept up to Beatrice, +and finding that she was only in a faint had left her to recover, knowing her +to be in no danger. Elizabeth was not a nervous person. Then she had listened +till at length a deep sigh told her of the return of her sister’s +consciousness. After this there was a pause, till presently Beatrice’s +long soft breaths showed that she had glided from swoon to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +The slow night wore away, and at length the cold dawn crept through the window. +Elizabeth still watching, for she was not willing to lose a single scene of a +drama so entrancing in itself and so important to her interests, saw her sister +suddenly sit up in bed and press her hands to her forehead, as though she was +striving to recall a dream. Then Beatrice covered her eyes with her hands and +groaned heavily. Next she looked at her watch, rose, drank a glass of water, +and dressed herself, even to the putting on of an old grey waterproof with a +hood to it, for it was wet outside. +</p> + +<p> +“She is going to meet her lover,” thought Elizabeth. “I wish +I could be there to see that too, but I have seen enough.” +</p> + +<p> +She yawned and appeared to wake. “What, Beatrice, going out already in +this pouring rain?” she said, with feigned astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have slept badly and I want to get some air,” answered +Beatrice, starting and colouring; “I suppose that it was the +storm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has there been a storm?” said Elizabeth, yawning again. “I +heard nothing of it—but then so many things happen when one is asleep of +which one knows nothing at the time,” she added sleepily, like one +speaking at random. “Mind that you are back to say good-bye to Mr. +Bingham; he goes by the early train, you know—but perhaps you will see +him out walking,” and appearing to wake up thoroughly, she raised herself +in bed and gave her sister one piercing look. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice made no answer; that look sent a thrill of fear through her. Oh; what +had happened! Or was it all a dream? Had she dreamed that she stood face to +face with Geoffrey in his room before a great darkness struck her and +overwhelmed her? Or was it an awful truth, and if a truth, how came she here +again? She went to the pantry, found a morsel of bread and ate it, for +faintness still pursued her. Then feeling better, she left the house and set +her face towards the beach. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was a dreary morning. The great wind had passed; now it only blew in little +gusts heavy with driving rain. The sea was sullen and grey and grand. It beat +in thunder on the shore and flew over the sunken rocks in columns of leaden +spray. The whole earth seemed one desolation, and all its grief was centred in +this woman’s broken heart. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey, too, was up. How he had passed the remainder of that tragic night we +need not inquire—not too happily we may be sure. He heard the front door +close behind Beatrice, and followed out into the rain. +</p> + +<p> +On the beach, some half of a mile away, he found her gazing at the sea, a great +white gull wheeling about her head. No word of greeting passed between them; +they only grasped each other’s hands and looked into each other’s +hollow eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Come under the shelter of the cliff,” he said, and she came. She +stood beneath the cliff, her head bowed low, her face hidden by the hood, and +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me what has happened,” she said; “I have dreamed +something, a worse dream than any that have gone before—tell me if it is +true. Do not spare me.” +</p> + +<p> +And Geoffrey told her all. +</p> + +<p> +When he had finished she spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“By what shall I swear,” she said, “that I am not the thing +which you must think me? Geoffrey, I swear by my love for you that I am +innocent. If I came—oh, the shame of it! if I came—to your room +last night, it was my feet which led me, not my mind that led my feet. I went +to sleep, I was worn out, and then I knew no more till I heard a dreadful +sound, and saw you before me in a blaze of light, after which there was +darkness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Beatrice, do not be distressed,” he answered. “I saw +that you were asleep. It is a dreadful thing which has happened, but I do not +think that we were seen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” she said. “Elizabeth looked at me very +strangely this morning, and she sees everything. Geoffrey, for my part, I +neither know nor care. What I do care for is, what must <i>you</i> think of me? +You must believe, oh!—I cannot say it. And yet I am innocent. Never, +never did I dream of this. To come to you—thus—oh, it is +shameless!” +</p> + +<p> +“Beatrice, do not talk so. I tell you I know it. Listen—I drew you. +I did not mean that you should come. I did not think that you would come, but +it was my doing. Listen to me, dear,” and he told her that which written +words can ill express. +</p> + +<p> +When he had finished, she looked up, with another face; the deep shadow of her +shame had left her. “I believe you, Geoffrey,” she said, +“because I know that you have not invented this to shield me, for I have +felt it also. See by it what you are to me. You are my master and my all. I +cannot withstand you if I would. I have little will apart from yours if you +choose to gainsay mine. And now promise me this upon your word. Leave me +uninfluenced; do not draw me to you to be your ruin. I make no pretence, I have +laid my life at your feet, but while I have any strength to struggle against +it, you shall never take it up unless you can do so to your own honour, and +that is not possible. Oh, my dear, we might have been very happy together, +happier than men and women often are, but it is denied to us. We must carry our +cross, we must crucify the flesh upon it; perhaps so—who can +say?—we may glorify the spirit. I owe you a great deal. I have learnt +much from you, Geoffrey. I have learned to hope again for a Hereafter. Nothing +is left to me now—but that—that and an hour hence—your +memory. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, why should I weep? It is ungrateful, when I have your love, for +which this misery is but a little price to pay. Kiss me, dear, and go—and +never see me more. You will not forget me, I know now that you will +<i>never</i> forget me all your life. Afterwards—perhaps—who can +tell? If not, why then—it will indeed be best—to die.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +It is not well to linger over such a scene as this. After all, too, it is +nothing. Only another broken heart or so. The world breaks so many this way and +the other that it can have little pleasure in gloating over such stale scenes +of agony. +</p> + +<p> +Besides we must not let our sympathies carry us away. Geoffrey and Beatrice +deserved all they got; they had no business to put themselves into such a +position. They had defied the customs of their world, and the world avenged +itself upon them and their petty passions. What happens to the worm that tries +to burrow on the highways? Grinding wheels and crushing feet; these are its +portion. Beatrice and Geoffrey point a moral and adorn a tale. So far as we can +see and judge there was no need for them to have plunged into that ever-running +river of human pain. Let them struggle and drown, and let those who are on the +bank learn wisdom from the sight, and hold out no hand to help them. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey drew a ring from his finger and gave it to his love. It was a common +flat-sided silver ring that had been taken from the grave of a Roman soldier: +one peculiarity it had, however; on its inner surface were roughly cut the +words, “ave atque vale.” Greeting and farewell! It was a fitting +gift to pass between people in their position. Beatrice, trembling sorely, +whispered that she would wear it on her heart, upon her hand she could not put +it yet awhile—it might be recognised. +</p> + +<p> +Then thrice did they embrace there upon the desolate shore, once, as it were, +for past joy, once for present pain, and once for future hope, and parted. +There was no talk of after meetings—they felt them to be impossible, at +any rate for many years. How could they meet as indifferent friends? Too much +they loved for that. It was a final parting, than which death had been less +dreadful—for Hope sits ever by the bed of death—and misery crushed +them to the earth. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +He left her, and happiness went out of his life as at nightfall the daylight +goes out of the day. Well, at least he had his work to go to. But Beatrice, +poor woman, what had she? +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey left her. When he had gone some thirty paces he turned again and gazed +his last upon her. There she stood or rather leant, her hand resting against +the wet rock, looking after him with her wide grey eyes. Even through the +drizzling rain he could see the gleam of her rich hair, the marking of her +lovely face, and the carmine of her lips. She motioned to him to go on. He +went, and when he had traversed a hundred paces looked round once more. She was +still there, but now her face was a blur, and again the great white gull +hovered about her head. +</p> + +<p> +Then the mist swept up and hid her. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Ah, Beatrice, with all your brains you could never learn those simple +principles necessary to the happiness of woman; principles inherited through a +thousand generations of savage and semi-civilized ancestresses. To accept the +situation and the master that situation brings with it—this is the golden +rule of well-being. Not to put out the hand of your affection further than you +can draw it back, this is another, at least not until you are quite sure that +its object is well within your grasp. If by misfortune, or the anger of the +Fates, you are endowed with those deeper qualities, those extreme capacities of +self-sacrificing affection, such as ruined your happiness, Beatrice, keep them +in stock; do not expose them to the world. The world does not believe in them; +they are inconvenient and undesirable; they are even immoral. What the world +wants, and very rightly, in a person of your attractiveness is quiet +domesticity of character, not the exhibition of attributes which though they +might qualify you for the rank of heroine in a Greek drama, are nowadays only +likely to qualify you for the reprobation of society. +</p> + +<p> +What? you would rather keep your love, your reprehensible love which never can +be satisfied, and bear its slings and arrows, and die hugging a shadow to your +heart, straining your eyes into the darkness of that beyond whither you shall +go—murmuring with your pale lips that <i>there</i> you will find reason +and fulfilment? Why it is folly. What ground have you to suppose that you will +find anything of the sort? Go and take the opinion of some scientific person of +eminence upon this infatuation of yours and those vague visions of glory that +shall be. He will explain it clearly enough, will show you that your love +itself is nothing but a natural passion, acting, in your case, on a singularly +sensitive and etherealised organism. Be frank with him, tell him of your secret +hopes. He will smile tenderly, and show you how those also are an emanation +from a craving heart, and the innate superstitions of mankind. Indeed he will +laugh and illustrate the absurdity of the whole thing by a few pungent examples +of what would happen if these earthly affections could be carried beyond the +grave. Take what you can <i>now</i> will be the burden of his song, and for +goodness’ sake do not waste your precious hours in dreams of a To Be. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice, the world does not want your spirituality. It is not a spiritual +world; it has no clear ideas upon the subject—it pays its religious +premium and works off its aspirations at its weekly church going, and would +think the person a fool who attempted to carry theories of celestial union into +an earthly rule of life. It can sympathise with Lady Honoria; it can hardly +sympathise with <i>you</i>. +</p> + +<p> +And yet you will still choose this better part: you will still “live and +love, and lose.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“With blinding tears and passionate beseeching,<br/> +And outstretched arms through empty silence reaching.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, Beatrice, have your will, sow your seed of tears, and take your chance. +You may find that you were right and the worldlings wrong, and you may reap a +harvest beyond the grasp of their poor imaginations. And if you find that they +are right and <i>you</i> are wrong, what will it matter to you who sleep? For +of this at least you are sure. If there is no future for such earthly love as +yours, then indeed there is none for the children of this world and all their +troubling. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br/> +LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD</h2> + +<p> +Geoffrey hurried to the Vicarage to fetch his baggage and say good-bye. He had +no time for breakfast, and he was glad of it, for he could not have eaten a +morsel to save his life. He found Elizabeth and her father in the sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, where have you been this wet morning, Mr. Bingham?” said Mr. +Granger. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been for a walk with Miss Beatrice; she is coming home by the +village,” he answered. “I don’t mind rain, and I wanted to +get as much fresh air as I could before I go back to the mill. Thank +you—only a cup of tea—I will get something to eat as I go.” +</p> + +<p> +“How kind of him,” reflected Mr. Granger; “no doubt he has +been speaking to Beatrice again about Owen Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, by the way,” he added aloud, “did you happen to hear +anybody moving in the house last night, Mr. Bingham, just when the storm was at +its height? First of all a door slammed so violently that I got up to see what +it was, and as I came down the passage I could almost have sworn that I saw +something white go into the spare room. But my candle went out and by the time +that I had found a light there was nothing to be seen.” +</p> + +<p> +“A clear case of ghosts,” said Geoffrey indifferently. It was +indeed a “case of ghosts,” and they would, he reflected, haunt him +for many a day. +</p> + +<p> +“How very odd,” put in Elizabeth vivaciously, her keen eyes fixed +intently on his face. “Do you know I thought that I twice saw the door of +our room open and shut in the most mysterious fashion. I think that Beatrice +must have something to do with it; she is so uncanny in her ways.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey never moved a muscle, he was trained to keep his countenance. Only he +wondered how much this woman knew. She must be silenced somehow. +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me for changing the subject,” he said, “but my time +is short, and I have none to spare to hunt the ‘Vicarage Ghost.’ By +the way, there’s a good title for somebody. Mr. Granger, I believe that I +may speak of business matters before Miss Elizabeth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Mr. Bingham,” said the clergyman; “Elizabeth is +my right hand, and has the best business head in Bryngelly.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey thought that this was very evident, and went on. “I only want to +say this. If you get into any further difficulties with your rascally +tithe-payers, mind and let me know. I shall always be glad to help you while I +can. And now I must be going.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke thus for two reasons. First, naturally enough, he meant to make it his +business to protect Beatrice from the pressure of poverty, and well knew that +it would be useless to offer her direct assistance. Secondly, he wished to show +Elizabeth that it would not be to the advantage of her family to quarrel with +him. If she <i>had</i> seen a ghost, perhaps this fact would make her reticent +on the subject. He did not know that she was playing a much bigger game for her +own hand, a game of which the stakes were thousands a year, and that she was +moreover mad with jealousy and what, in such a woman, must pass for love. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth made no comment on his offer, and before Mr. Granger’s profuse +thanks were nearly finished, Geoffrey was gone. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Three weeks passed at Bryngelly, and Elizabeth still held her hand. Beatrice, +pale and spiritless, went about her duties as usual. Elizabeth never spoke to +her in any sense that could awaken her suspicions, and the ghost story was, or +appeared to be, pretty well forgotten. But at last an event occurred that +caused Elizabeth to take the field. One day she met Owen Davies walking along +the beach in the semi-insane way which he now affected. He stopped, and, +without further ado, plunged into conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t bear it any longer,” he said wildly, throwing up his +arms. “I saw her yesterday, and she cut me short before I could speak a +word. I have prayed for patience and it will not come, only a Voice seemed to +say to me that I must wait ten days more, ten short days, and then Beatrice, my +beautiful Beatrice, would be my wife at last.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you go on in this way, Mr. Davies,” said Elizabeth sharply, her +heart filled with jealous anger, “you will soon be off your head. Are you +not ashamed of yourself for making such a fuss about a girl’s pretty +face? If you want to get married, marry somebody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marry somebody else,” he said dreamily; “I don’t know +anybody else whom I could marry except you, and you are not Beatrice.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Elizabeth angrily, “I should hope that I have +more sense, and if you wanted to marry me you would have to set about it in a +different way from this. I am not Beatrice, thank Heaven, but I am her sister, +and I warn you that I know more about her than you do. As a friend I warn you +to be careful. Supposing that Beatrice were not worthy of you, you would not +wish to marry her, would you?” +</p> + +<p> +Now Owen Davies was at heart somewhat afraid of Elizabeth, like most other +people who had the privilege of her acquaintance. Also, apart from matters +connected with his insane passion, he was very fairly shrewd. He suspected +Elizabeth of something, he did not know of what. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, of course not,” he said. “Of course I would not +marry her if she was not fit to be my wife—but I must know that first, +before I talk of marrying anybody else. Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth. It will +soon be settled now; it cannot go on much longer now. My prayers will be +answered, I know they will.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right there, Owen Davies,” thought Elizabeth, as she +looked after him with ineffable bitterness, not to say contempt. “Your +prayers shall be answered in a way that will astonish you. You shall not marry +Beatrice, and you shall marry <i>me</i>. The fish has been on the line long +enough, now I must begin to pull in.” +</p> + +<p> +Curiously enough it never really occurred to Elizabeth that Beatrice herself +might prove to be the true obstacle to the marriage she plotted to prevent. She +knew that her sister was fond of Geoffrey Bingham, but, when it came to the +point that she would absolutely allow her affection to interfere with so +glorious a success in life, she never believed for one moment. Of course she +thought it was possible that if Beatrice could get possession of Geoffrey she +might prefer to do so, but failing him, judging from her own low and vulgar +standard, Elizabeth was convinced that she would take Owen. It did not seem +possible that what was so precious in her own eyes might be valueless and even +hateful to those of her sister. As for that little midnight incident, well, it +was one thing and marriage was another. People forget such events when they +marry; sometimes even they marry in order to forget them. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, she must strike, but how? Elizabeth had feelings like other people. She +did not mind ruining her sister and rival, but she would very much prefer it +should not be known that hers was the hand to cut her down. Of course, if the +worst came to the worst, she must do it. Meanwhile, might not a substitute be +found—somebody in whom the act would seem not one of vengeance, but of +virtue? Ah! she had it: Lady Honoria! Who could be better for such a purpose +than the cruelly injured wife? But then how should she communicate the facts to +her ladyship without involving herself? Again she hit upon a device much +favoured by such people—“un vieux truc mais toujours +bon”—the pristine one of an anonymous letter, which has the +startling merit of not committing anybody to anything. An anonymous letter, to +all appearance written by a servant: it was the very thing! Most likely it +would result in a searching inquiry by Lady Honoria, in which event Elizabeth, +of course against her will, would be forced to say what she knew; almost +certainly it would result in a quarrel between husband and wife, which might +induce the former to show his hand, or even to take some open step as regards +Beatrice. She was sorry for Geoffrey, against whom she had no ill feeling, but +it could not be helped; he must be sacrificed. +</p> + +<p> +That very evening she wrote her letter and sent it to be posted by an old +servant living in London. It was a master-piece in its way, especially +phonetically. This precious epistle, which was most exceedingly ill writ in a +large coarse hand, ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“M<small>Y LADI</small>,—My consence druvs me to it, much again my will. +I’ve tried hard, my ladi, not to speek, first acorse of miss B. as i heve +knowed good and peur and also for the sakes of your evil usband that wulf in +scheeps cloathin. But when i think on you my ladi a lorful legel wife gud and +virtus and peur and of the things as i hev seen which is enuf to bring a blush +to the face of a stater, I knows it is my holy dooty to rite your ladishipp as +follers. Your ladishipp forgif me but on the nite of whittsundey last Miss B. +Grainger wint after midnite inter the room of your bad usband—as I was to +mi sham ther to se. Afterward more nor an hour, she cum out ain being carred +<i>in his harmes</i>. And if your ladishipp dont believ me, let your ladishipp +rite to miss elizbeth, as had this same misfortune to see as your tru frend, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“T<small>HE</small> R<small>ITER</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +In due course this charming communication reached Lady Honoria, bearing a +London post-mark. She read and re-read it, and soon mastered its meaning. Then, +after a night’s thought, she took the “Riter’s” advice +and wrote to Elizabeth, sending her a copy of the letter (her own), vehemently +repudiating all belief in it, and asking for a reply that should dissipate this +foul slander from her mind for ever. +</p> + +<p> +The answer came by return. It was short and artful. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“D<small>EAR</small> L<small>ADY</small> H<small>ONORIA</small> B<small>INGHAM</small>,” it ran, “you must forgive me if +I decline to answer the questions in your letter. You will easily understand +that between a desire to preserve a sister’s reputation and an incapacity +(to be appreciated by every Christian) to speak other than the truth—it +is possible for a person to be placed in the most cruel of positions—a +position which I am sure will command even your sympathy, though under such +circumstances I have little right to expect any from a wife believing herself +to have been cruelly wronged. Let me add that nothing short of the compulsion +of a court of law will suffice to unseal my lips as to the details of the +circumstances (which are, I trust, misunderstood) alluded to in the malicious +anonymous letter of which you inclose a copy.” +</p> + +<p> +That very evening, as the Fates would have it, Lady Honoria and her husband had +a quarrel. As usual, it was about Effie, for on most other subjects they +preserved an armed neutrality. Its details need not be entered into, but at +last Geoffrey, who was in a sadly irritable condition of mind, fairly lost his +temper. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is,” he said, “that you are not fit to look after +the child. You only think of yourself, Honoria.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned on him with a dangerous look upon her cold and handsome face. +</p> + +<p> +“Be careful what you say, Geoffrey. It is you who are not fit to have +charge of Effie. Be careful lest I take her away from you altogether, as I can +if I like.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by that threat?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to know? Then I will tell you. I understand enough law to be +aware that a wife can get a separation from an unfaithful husband, and what is +more, can take away his children.” +</p> + +<p> +“Again I ask what you mean,” said Geoffrey, turning cold with +anger. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean this, Geoffrey. That Welsh girl is your mistress. She passed the +night of Whit-Sunday in your room, and was carried from it in your arms.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie,” he said; “she is nothing of the sort. I do not +know who gave you this information, but it is a slanderous lie, and somebody +shall suffer for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody will suffer for it, Geoffrey, because you will not dare to stir +the matter up—for the girl’s sake if not for your own. Can you deny +that you were seen carrying her in your arms from your room on Whit-Sunday +night? Can you deny that you are in love with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“And supposing that I am in love with her, is it to be wondered at, +seeing how you treat me and have treated me for years?” he answered +furiously. “It is utterly false to say that she is my mistress.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have not answered my question,” said Lady Honoria with a smile +of triumph. “Were you seen carrying that woman in your arms and from your +room at the dead of night? Of course it meant nothing, nothing at all. Who +would dare to asperse the character of this perfect, lovely, and intellectual +schoolmistress? I am not jealous, Geoffrey——” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think not, Honoria, seeing how things are.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not jealous, I repeat, but please understand that I will not have +this go on, in your own interests and mine. Why, what a fool you must be. +Don’t you know that a man who has risen, as you have, has a hundred +enemies ready to spring on him like a pack of wolves and tear him to pieces? +Why many even of those who fawn upon you and flatter you to your face, hate you +bitterly in secret, because you have succeeded where they have failed. +Don’t you know also that there are papers here in London which would give +hundreds of pounds for the chance of publishing such a scandal as this, +especially against a powerful political opponent. Let it once come out that +this obscure girl is your mistress——” +</p> + +<p> +“Honoria, I tell you she is nothing of the sort. It is true I carried her +from my room in a fainting fit, but she came there in her sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria laughed. “Really, Geoffrey, I wonder that you think it worth +while to tell me such nonsense. Keep it for the divorce court, if ever we get +there, and see what a jury says to it. Look here; be sensible. I am not a +moralist, and I am not going to play the outraged wife unless you force me to +it. I do not mean to take any further notice of this interesting little tale as +against you. But if you go on with it, beware! I will not be made to look a +fool. If you are going to be ruined you can be ruined by yourself. I warn you +frankly, that at the first sign of it, I shall put myself in the right by +commencing proceedings against you. Now, of course, I know this, that in the +event of a smash, you would be glad enough to be rid of me in order that you +might welcome your dear Beatrice in my place. But there are two things to +remember: first, that you could not marry her, supposing you to be idiot enough +to wish to do so, because I should only get a judicial separation, and you +would still have to support me. Secondly, if I go, Effie goes with me, for I +have a right to claim her at law; and that fact, my dear Geoffrey, makes me +mistress of the situation, because I do not suppose that you would part with +Effie even for the sake of Miss Beatrice. And now I will leave you to think it +over.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a little nod she sailed out of the room, completely victorious. She +was indeed, reflected Geoffrey, “mistress of the situation.” +Supposing that she brought a suit against him where would he be? She must have +evidence, or she would not have known the story. The whole drama had clearly +been witnessed by someone, probably either by Elizabeth or the servant girl, +and that some one had betrayed it to Honoria and possibly to others. The +thought made him sick. He was a man of the world, and a practical lawyer, and +though, indeed, they were innocent, he knew that under the circumstances few +would be found to believe it. At the very best there must be a terrible and +shocking scandal, and Beatrice would lose her good name. He placed himself in +the position of counsel for the petitioner in a like case, and thought how he +would crush and crumple such a defence in his address to the jury. A probable +tale forsooth! +</p> + +<p> +Undoubtedly, too, Honoria would be acting wisely from her point of view. Public +sympathy would be with her throughout. He knew that, as it was, he was believed +generally to owe much of his success to his handsome and high-born wife. Now it +would be said that he had used her as a ladder and then thrown her over. With +all this, however, he might cope; he could even bear with the vulgar attacks of +a vulgar press, and the gibes and jeers of his political and personal enemies, +but to lose Effie he could not bear. And if such a case were brought against +him it was almost certain that he would lose her, for, if he was worsted, +custody of the child would be given to the injured wife. +</p> + +<p> +Then there was Beatrice to be considered. The same malicious tongue that had +revealed this matter to Honoria would probably reveal it to the rest of the +world, and even if he escaped the worst penalties of outraged morality, they +would certainly be wreaked upon her. Beatrice’s reputation would be +blasted, her employment lost, and her life made a burden to her. Yes, +decidedly, Honoria had the best of the position; decidedly, also, she spoke +words of weight and common sense. +</p> + +<p> +What was to be done? Was there no way out of it? All that night as Geoffrey sat +in the House, his arms folded on his breast, and to appearance intently +listening to the long harangues of the Opposition, this question haunted him. +He argued the situation out this way and that way, till at the last he came to +a conclusion. Either he must wait for the scandal to leak out, let Beatrice be +ruined, and direct his efforts to the softening of Honoria, and generally to +self-preservation, or he must take the bull by the horns, must abandon his +great career and his country and seek refuge in another land, say America, +taking Beatrice and Effie with him. Once the child was out of the jurisdiction, +of course no court could force her from him. +</p> + +<p> +Of the two courses, even in so far as he himself was concerned, what between +the urgency of the matter and the unceasing pressure of his passion, Geoffrey +inclined to the latter. The relations between himself and Honoria had for years +been so strained, so totally different from those which should exist between +man and wife, that they greatly mitigated in his mind the apparent iniquity of +such a step. Nor would he feel much compunction at removing the child from her +mother, for there was no love lost between the two, and as time went on he +guessed shrewdly there would be less and less. For the rest, he had some +seventeen thousand pounds in hand; he would take half and leave Honoria half. +He knew that he could always earn a living wherever he went, and probably much +more than a living, and of whatever he earned a strict moiety should be paid to +Honoria. But first and above everything, there was Beatrice to be considered. +She must be saved, even if he ruined himself to save her. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria, it is scarcely necessary to say, had little idea that she was +driving her husband to such dangerous and determined councils. She wanted to +frighten Geoffrey, not to lose him and all he meant to her; this was the last +thing that she would wish to do. She did not greatly care about the Beatrice +incident, but her shrewd common sense told her that it might well be used as an +engine to ruin them all. Therefore she spoke as she did speak, though in +reality matters would have to be bad indeed before she sought the aid of a +court of law, where many things concerning herself might come to the light of +day which she would prefer to leave in darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Nor did she stop here; she determined to attack Geoffrey’s position in +another way, namely, through Beatrice herself. For a long time Honoria +hesitated as to the method of this attack. She had some knowledge of the world +and of character, and from what she knew of Beatrice she came to the sound +conclusion that she was not a woman to be threatened, but rather one to be +appealed to. So after much thought she wrote to her thus:— +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“A story, which I still hesitate to believe, has come to me by means of +anonymous letters, as to your conduct with my husband. I do not wish to repeat +it now, further than to say that, if true, it establishes circumstances which +leave no doubt as to the existence of relations so intimate between you as to +amount to guilt. It may not be true or it may, in which latter event I wish to +say this: With your morality I have nothing to do; it is your affair. Nor do I +wish to plead to you as an injured wife or to reproach you, for there are +things too wicked for mere reproach. But I will say this: if the story is true, +I must presume that you have some affection for the partner of your shame. I +put myself out of the question, and in the name of that affection, however +guilty it may be, I ask you to push matters no further. To do so will be to +bring its object to utter ruin. <i>If you care for him, sever all connection +with him utterly and for ever.</i> Otherwise he will live to curse and hate +you. Should you neglect this advice, and should the facts that I have heard +become public property, I warn you, as I have already warned him, that in +self-preservation and for the sake of self-respect, I shall be forced to appeal +to the law for my remedy. Remember that his career is at stake, and that in +losing it and me he will lose also his child. Remember that if this comes about +it will be through <i>you</i>. Do not answer this, it will do no good, for I +shall naturally put no faith in your protestations, but if you are in any way +or measure guilty of this offence, appealing to you as one woman to another, +and for the sake of the man who is dear to both, I say do your best to redeem +the evil, <i>by making all further communication between yourself and him an +impossibility</i>. H.B.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was a clever letter; Lady Honoria could not have devised one more powerful +to work on a woman like Beatrice. The same post that took it to her took +another from Geoffrey himself. It was long, though guarded, and need not be +quoted in its entirety, but it put the whole position before her in somewhat +veiled language, and ended by saying, “Marriage I cannot give you, only +life-long love. In other circumstances to offer this would be an insult, but if +things should be as I fear, it is worth your consideration. I do not say to +you <i>come</i>, I say come <i>if you wish</i>. No, Beatrice, I will not put +this cruel burden of decision upon you. I say <i>come!</i> I do not command you +to come, because I promised to leave you uninfluenced. But I pray you to do so. +Let us put an end to this wretchedness, and count the world well lost as our +price of love. Come, dearest Beatrice—to leave me no more till death. I +put my life in your hands; if you take it up, whatever trouble you may have to +face, you will never lose my affection or esteem. Do not think of me, think of +yourself. You have given me your love as you once gave me my life. I owe +something in return; I cannot see you shamed and make no offer of reparation. +Indeed, so far as I am concerned, I shall think all I lose as nothing compared +to what I gain in gaining you. Will you come? If so, we will leave this country +and begin afresh elsewhere. After all, it matters little, and will matter less +when everything is said and done. My life has for years been but as an +unwholesome dream. The one real thing, the one happy thing that I have found in +it has been our love. Do not let us throw it away, Beatrice.” +</p> + +<p> +By return of post he received this answer written in pencil. +</p> + +<p> +“No, dear Geoffrey. Things must take their course.—B.” +</p> + +<p> +That was all. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br/> +ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH</h2> + +<p> +Hard had been Beatrice’s hours since that grey morning of separation. She +must bear all the inner wretchedness of her lot; she must conceal her grief, +must suffer the slings and arrows of Elizabeth’s sharp tongue, and strive +to keep Owen Davies at a distance. Indeed, as the days went on, this last task +grew more and more portentous. The man was quite unmanageable; his passion, +which was humiliating and hateful to Beatrice, became the talk of the place. +Everybody knew of it, except her father, and even his eyes began to be opened. +</p> + +<p> +One night—it was the same upon which Geoffrey and Honoria respectively +had posted their letters to Beatrice—anybody looking into the little room +at Bryngelly Castle, which served its owner for all purposes except that of +sleeping, would have witnessed a very strange sight. Owen Davies was walking to +and fro—walking rapidly with wild eyes and dishevelled hair. At the turn +of each length of the apartment he would halt, and throwing his arms into the +air ejaculate: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, God, hear me, and give me my desire! Oh, God, answer me!” +</p> + +<p> +For two long hours thus he walked and thus cried aloud, till at length he sank +panting and exhausted into a chair. Suddenly he raised his head, and appeared +to listen intently. +</p> + +<p> +“The Voice,” he said aloud; “the Voice again. What does it +say? To-morrow, to-morrow I must speak; and I shall win her.” +</p> + +<p> +He sprang up with a shout, and once more began his wild march. “Oh, +Beatrice!” he said, “to-morrow you will promise to marry me; the +Voice says so, and soon, soon, perhaps in one short month, you will be my +own—mine only! Geoffrey Bingham shall not come between us then, for I +will watch you day and night. You shall be my very, very own—my own +beautiful Beatrice,” and he stretched out his arms and clasped at the +empty air—a crazy and unpleasant sight to see. +</p> + +<p> +And so he walked and spoke till the dawn was grey in the east. This occurred on +the Friday night. It was on the following morning that Beatrice, the +unfortunate and innocent object of these amorous invocations, received the two +letters. She had gone to the post-office on her way to the school, on the +chance of there being a note from Geoffrey. Poor woman, his letters were the +one bright thing in her life. From motives of prudence they were written in the +usual semi-formal style, but she was quick to read between the lines, and, +moreover, they came from his dear hand. +</p> + +<p> +There was the letter sure enough, and another in a woman’s writing. She +recognised the hand as that of Lady Honoria, which she had often seen on +envelopes directed to Geoffrey, and a thrill of fear shot through her. She took +the letters, and walking as quickly as she could to the school, locked herself +in her own little room, for it was not yet nine o’clock, and looked at +them with a gathering terror. What was in them? Why did Lady Honoria write to +her? Which should she read first? In a moment Beatrice had made up her mind. +She would face the worst at once. With a set face she opened Lady +Honoria’s letter, unfolded it, and read. We already know its contents. As +her mind grasped them her lips grew ashy white, and by the time that the +horrible thing was done she was nigh to fainting. +</p> + +<p> +Anonymous letters! oh, who could have done this cruel thing? Elizabeth, it must +be Elizabeth, who saw everything, and thus stabbed her in the back. Was it +possible that her own sister could treat her so? She knew that Elizabeth +disliked her; she could never fathom the cause, still she knew the fact. But if +this were her doing, then she must hate her, and most bitterly; and what had +she done to earn such hate? And now Geoffrey was in danger on her account, +danger of ruin, and how could she prevent it? This was her first idea. Most +people might have turned to their own position and been content to leave their +lover to fight his own battle. But Beatrice thought little of herself. He was +in danger, and how could she protect him? Why here in the letter was the +answer! “If you care for him sever all connection with him utterly, and +for ever. Otherwise, he will live to curse and hate you.” No, no! +Geoffrey would never do that. But Lady Honoria was quite right; in his +interest, for his sake, she must sever all connection with him—sever it +utterly and for ever. But how—how? +</p> + +<p> +She thrust the letter into her dress—a viper would have been a more +welcome guest—and opened Geoffrey’s. +</p> + +<p> +It told the same tale, but offered a different solution. The tears started to +her eyes as she read his offer to take her to him for good and all, and go away +with her to begin life afresh. It seemed a wonderful thing to Beatrice that he +should be willing to sacrifice so much upon such a worthless altar as her +love—a wonderful and most generous thing. She pressed the senseless paper +to her heart, then kissed it again and again. But she never thought of yielding +to this great temptation, never for one second. He prayed her to come, but that +she would not do while her will remained. What, <i>she</i> bring Geoffrey to +ruin? No, she had rather starve in the streets or perish by slow torture. How +could he ever think that she would consent to such a scheme? Indeed she never +would; she had brought enough trouble on him already. But oh, she blessed him +for that letter. How deeply must he love her when he could offer to do this for +her sake! +</p> + +<p> +Hark! the children were waiting; she must go and teach. The letter, +Geoffrey’s dear letter, could be answered in the afternoon. So she thrust +it in her breast with the other, but closer to her heart, and went. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +That afternoon as Mr. Granger, in a happy frame of mind—for were not his +debts paid, and had he not found a most convenient way of providing against +future embarrassment?—was engaged peaceably in contemplating his stock +over the gate of his little farm buildings, he was much astonished suddenly to +discover Owen Davies at his elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Davies?” he said; “how quietly you must +have come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Owen absently. “The fact is, I have followed +you because I want to speak to you alone—quite alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Mr. Davies—well, I am at your service. What is wrong? You +don’t look very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I am quite well, thank you. I never was better; and there’s +nothing wrong, nothing at all. Everything is going to be bright now, I know +that full surely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Mr. Granger, again looking at him with a puzzled +air, “and what may you want to see me about? Not but what I am always at +your service, as you know,” he added apologetically. +</p> + +<p> +“This,” he answered, suddenly seizing the clergyman by the coat in +a way that made him start. +</p> + +<p> +“What—my coat, do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be so foolish, Mr. Granger. No, about Beatrice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh. indeed, Mr. Davies. Nothing wrong at the school, I hope? I think +that she does her duties to the satisfaction of the committee, though I admit +that the arithmetic——” +</p> + +<p> +“No! no, no! It is not about the school. I don’t wish her to go to +the school any more. I love her, Mr. Granger, I love her dearly, and I want to +marry her.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man flushed with pleasure. Was it possible? Did he hear aright? Owen +Davies, the richest man in that part of Wales, wanted to marry his daughter, +who had nothing but her beauty. It must be too good to be true! +</p> + +<p> +“I am indeed flattered,” he said. “It is more than she could +expect—not but what Beatrice is very good-looking and very clever,” +he added hastily, fearing lest he was detracting from his daughter’s +market value. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-looking—clever; she is an angel,” murmured Owen. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, of course she is,” said her father, “that is, if a +woman—yes, of course—and what is more, I think she’s very +fond of you. I think she is pining for you. I’ve thought so for a long +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she?” said Owen anxiously. “Then all I have to say is +that she takes a very curious way of showing it. She won’t say a word to +me; she puts me off on every occasion. But it will be all right now—all +right now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there, there, Mr. Davies, maids will be maids until they are wives. +We know about all that,” said Mr. Granger sententiously. +</p> + +<p> +His would-be son-in-law looked as though he knew very little about it indeed, +although the inference was sufficiently obvious. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Granger,” he said, seizing his hand, “I want to make +Beatrice my wife—I do indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I did not suppose otherwise, Mr. Davies.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you help me in this I will do whatever you like as to money matters +and that sort of thing, you know. She shall have as fine a settlement as any +woman in Wales. I know that goes a long way with a father, and I shall raise no +difficulties.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very right and proper, I am sure,” said Mr. Granger, adopting a +loftier tone as he discovered the advantages of his position. “But of +course on such matters I shall take the advice of a lawyer. I daresay that Mr. +Bingham would advise me,” he added, “as a friend of the family, you +know. He is a very clever lawyer, and, besides, he wouldn’t charge +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, not Mr. Bingham,” answered Owen anxiously. “I will +do anything you like, or if you wish to have a lawyer I’ll pay the bill +myself. But never mind about that now. Let us settle it with Beatrice first. +Come along at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, but hadn’t you better arrange that part of the business +privately?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. She always snubs me when I try to speak to her alone. You had +better be there, and Miss Elizabeth too, if she likes. I won’t speak to +her again alone. I will speak to her in the face of God and man, as God +directed me to do, and then it will be all right—I know it will.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger stared at him. He was a clergyman of a very practical sort, and did +not quite see what the Power above had to do with Owen Davies’s +matrimonial intentions. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well,” he said, “I see what you mean; marriages are made +in heaven; yes, of course. Well, if you want to get on with the matter, I +daresay that we shall find Beatrice in.” +</p> + +<p> +So they walked back to the Vicarage, Mr. Granger exultant and yet perplexed, +for it struck him that there was something a little odd about the proceeding, +and Owen Davies in silence or muttering occasionally to himself. +</p> + +<p> +In the sitting-room they found Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Beatrice?” asked her father. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she answered, and at that moment Beatrice, +pale and troubled, walked into the room, like a lamb to the slaughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Beatrice,” said her father, “we were just asking for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +She glanced round, and with the quick wit of a human animal, instantly +perceived that some new danger threatened her. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” she said, sinking into a chair in an access of feebleness +born of fear. “What is it, father?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger looked at Owen Davies and then took a step towards the door. It +struck him forcibly that this scene should be private to the two persons +principally concerned. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t go,” said Owen Davies excitedly, “don’t +go, either of you; what I have to say had better be said before you both. I +should like to say it before the whole world; to cry it from the mountain +tops.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth glared at him fiercely—glared first at him and then at the +innocent Beatrice. Could he be going to propose to her, then? Ah, why had she +hesitated? Why had she not told him the whole truth before? But the heart of +Beatrice, who sat momentarily expecting to be publicly denounced, grew ever +fainter. The waters of desolation were closing in over her soul. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger sat down firmly and worked himself into the seat of his chair, as +though to secure an additional fixedness of tenure. Elizabeth set her teeth, +and leaned her elbow on the table, holding her hand so as to shade her face. +Beatrice drooped upon her seat like a fading lily, or a prisoner in the dock. +She was opposite to them, and Owen Davies, his face alight with wild +enthusiasm, stood up and addressed them all like the counsel for the +prosecution. +</p> + +<p> +“Last autumn,” he began, speaking to Mr. Granger, who might have +been a judge uncertain as to the merits of the case, “I asked your +daughter Beatrice to marry me.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice gave a sigh, and collected her scattered energies. The storm had burst +at last, and she must face it. +</p> + +<p> +“I asked her to marry me, and she told me to wait a year. I have waited +as long as I could, but I could not wait the whole year. I have prayed a great +deal, and I am bidden to speak.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth made a gesture of impatience. She was a person of strong common +sense, and this mixture of religion and eroticism disgusted her. She also know +that the storm had burst, and that <i>she</i> must face it. +</p> + +<p> +“So I come to tell you that I love your daughter Beatrice, and want to +make her my wife. I have never loved anybody else, but I have loved her for +years; and I ask your consent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very flattering, very flattering, I am sure, especially in these hard +times,” said Mr. Granger apologetically, shaking his thin hair down over +his forehead, and then rumpling it up again. “But you see, Mr. Davies, +you don’t want to marry me” (here Beatrice smiled +faintly)—“you want to marry my daughter, so you had better ask her +direct—at least I suppose so.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth made a movement as though to speak, then changed her mind and +listened. +</p> + +<p> +“Beatrice,” said Owen Davies, “you hear. I ask you to marry +me.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. Beatrice, who had sat quite silent, was gathering up her +strength to answer. Elizabeth, watching her from beneath her hand, thought that +she read upon her face irresolution, softening into consent. What she really +saw was but doubt as to the fittest and most certain manner of refusal. Like +lightning it flashed into Elizabeth’s mind that she must strike now, or +hold her hand for ever. If once Beatrice spoke that fatal “yes,” +her revelations might be of no avail. And Beatrice would speak it; she was sure +she would. It was a golden road out of her troubles. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop!” said Elizabeth in a shrill, hard voice. “Stop! I must +speak; it is my duty as a Christian. I must tell the truth. I cannot allow an +honest man to be deceived.” +</p> + +<p> +There was an awful pause. Beatrice broke it. Now she saw all the truth, and +knew what was at hand. She placed her hand upon her heart to still its beating. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Elizabeth,” she said, “in our dead mother’s +name——” and she stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered her sister, “in our dead mother’s name, +which you have dishonoured, I will do it. Listen, Owen Davies, and father: +Beatrice, who sits there”—and she pointed at her with her thin +hand—“<i>Beatrice is a scarlet woman!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“I really don’t understand,” gasped Mr. Granger, while Owen +looked round wildly, and Beatrice sunk her head upon her breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will explain,” said Elizabeth, still pointing at her +sister. “She is Geoffrey Bingham’s <i>mistress</i>. On the night of +Whit-Sunday last she rose from bed and went into his room at one in the +morning. I saw her with my own eyes. Afterwards she was brought back to her bed +in his arms—I saw it with my own eyes, and I heard him kiss her.” +(This was a piece of embroidery on Elizabeth’s part.) “She is his +lover, and has been in love with him for months. I tell you this, Owen Davies, +because, though I cannot bear to bring disgrace upon our name and to defile my +lips with such a tale, neither can I bear that you should marry a girl, +believing her to be good, when she is what Beatrice is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I wish to God that you had held your wicked tongue,” said Mr. +Granger fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“No, father. I have a duty to perform, and I will perform it at any cost, +and however much it pains me. You know that what I say is true. You heard the +noise on the night of Whit-Sunday, and got up to see what it was. You saw the +white figure in the passage—it was Geoffrey Bingham with Beatrice in his +arms. Ah! well may she hang her head. Let her deny it if she can. Let her deny +that she loves him to her shame, and that she was alone in his room on that +night.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Beatrice rose and spoke. She was pale as death and more beautiful in her +shame and her despair than ever she had been before; her glorious eyes shone, +and there were deep black lines beneath them. +</p> + +<p> +“My heart is my own,” she said, “and I will make no answer to +you about it. Think what you will. For the rest, it is not true. I am not what +Elizabeth tells you that I am. I am <i>not</i> Geoffrey Bingham’s +mistress. It is true that I was in his room that night, and it is true that he +carried me back to my own. But it was in my sleep that I went there, not of my +own free will. I awoke there, and fainted when I woke, and then at once he bore +me back.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth laughed shrill and loud—it sounded like the cackle of a fiend. +</p> + +<p> +“In her sleep,” she said; “oh, she went there in her +sleep!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Elizabeth, in my sleep. You do not believe me, but it is true. You +do not wish to believe me. You wish to bring the sister whom you should love, +who has never offended against you by act or word, to utter disgrace and ruin. +In your cowardly spite you have written anonymous letters to Lady Honoria +Bingham, to prevail upon her to strike the blow that should destroy her husband +and myself, and when you fear that this has failed, you come forward and openly +accuse us. You do this in the name of Christian duty; in the name of love and +charity, you believe the worst, and seek to ruin us. Shame on you, Elizabeth! +shame on you! and may the same measure that you have meted out to me never be +paid back to you. We are no longer sisters. Whatever happens, I have done with +you. Go your ways.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth shrank and quailed beneath her sister’s scorn. Even her +venomous hatred could not bear up against the flash of those royal eyes, and +the majesty of that outraged innocence. She gasped and bit her lip till the +blood started, but she said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Then Beatrice turned to her father, and spoke in another and a pleading voice, +stretching out her arms towards him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, father,” she said, “at least tell me that <i>you</i> +believe me. Though you may think that I might love to all extremes, surely, +having known me so many years, you cannot think that I would lie even for my +love’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man looked wildly round, and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“In his room and in his arms,” he said. “I saw it, it seems. +You, too, who have never been known to walk in your sleep from a child; and you +will not say that you do not love him—the scoundrel. It is wicked of +Elizabeth—jealousy bitter as the grave. It is wicked of her to tell the +tale; but as it is told, how can I say that I do not believe it?” +</p> + +<p> +Then Beatrice, her cup being full, once more dropped her head, and turned to +go. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop,” said Owen Davies in a hoarse voice, and speaking for the +first time. “Hear what <i>I</i> have to say.” +</p> + +<p> +She lifted her eyes. “With you, Mr. Davies, I have nothing to do; I am +not answerable to you. Go and help your accomplice,” and she pointed to +Elizabeth, “to cry this scandal over the whole world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop,” he said again. “I will speak. I believe that it is +true. I believe that you are Geoffrey Bingham’s mistress, curse him! but +I do not care. I am still willing to marry you.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth gasped. Was this to be the end of her scheming? Would the blind +passion of this madman prevail over her revelations, and Beatrice still become +his rich and honoured wife, while she was left poor and disgraced? Oh, it was +monstrous! Oh, she had never dreamed of this! +</p> + +<p> +“Noble, noble!” murmured Mr. Granger; “noble! God bless +you!” +</p> + +<p> +So the position was not altogether beyond recovery. His erring daughter might +still be splendidly married; he might still look forward to peace and wealth in +his old age. +</p> + +<p> +Only Beatrice smiled faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you,” she said. “I am much honoured, but I could +never have married you because I do not love you. You must understand me very +little if you think that I should be the more ready to do so on account of the +danger in which I stand,” and she ceased. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, Beatrice,” Owen went on, an evil light shining on his +heavy face, while Elizabeth sat astounded, scarcely able to believe her ears. +“I want you, and I mean to marry you; you are more to me than all the +world. I can give you everything, and you had better yield to me, and you shall +hear no more of this. But if you won’t, then this is what I will do. I +will be revenged upon you—terribly revenged.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice shook her head and smiled again, as though to bid him do his worst. +</p> + +<p> +“And look, Beatrice,” he went on, waxing almost eloquent in his +jealous despair, “I have another argument to urge on you. I will not only +be revenged on you, I will be revenged upon your lover—on this Geoffrey +Bingham.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Oh!</i>” said Beatrice sharply, like one in pain. He had found +the way to move her now, and with the cunning of semi-madness he drove the +point home. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you may start—I will. I tell you that I will never rest till +I have ruined him, and I am rich and can do it. I have a hundred thousand +pounds, that I will spend on doing it. I have nothing to fear, except an action +for libel. Oh, I am not a fool, though you think I am, I know. Well, I can pay +for a dozen actions. There are papers in London that will be glad to publish +all this—yes, the whole story—with plans and pictures too. Just +think, Beatrice, what it will be when all England—yes, and all the +world—is gloating over your shame, and half-a-dozen prints are using the +thing for party purposes, clamouring for the disgrace of the man who ruined +you, and whom you will ruin. He has a fine career; it shall be utterly +destroyed. By God! I will hunt him to his grave, unless you promise to marry +me, Beatrice. Do that, and not a word of this shall be said. Now answer.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger sank back in his chair; this savage play of human passions was +altogether beyond his experience—it overwhelmed him. As for Elizabeth, +she bit her thin fingers, and glared from one to the other. “He reckons +without me,” she thought. “He reckons without me—I will marry +him yet.” +</p> + +<p> +But Beatrice leant for a moment against the wall and shut her eyes to think. +Oh, she saw it all—the great posters with her name and Geoffrey’s +on them, the shameless pictures of her in his arms, the sickening details, the +letters of the outraged matrons, the “Mothers of ten,” and the +moral-minded colonels—all, all! She heard the prurient scream of every +male Elizabeth in England; the allusions in the House—the jeers, the +bitter attacks of enemies and rivals. Then Lady Honoria would begin her suit, +and it would all be dragged up afresh, and Geoffrey’s fault would be on +every lip, till he was <i>ruined</i>. For herself she did not care; but could +she bring this on one whose only crime was that she had learned to love him? +No, no; but neither could she marry this hateful man. And yet what escape was +there? She flung herself upon her woman’s wit, and it did not fail her. +In a few seconds she had thought it all out and made up her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I answer you at a moment’s notice, Mr. Davies?” she +said. “I must have time to think it over. To threaten such revenge upon +me is not manly, but I know that you love me, and therefore I excuse it. Still, +I must have time. I am confused.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, another year? No, no,” he said. “You must +answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not ask a year or a month. I only ask for one week. If you will not +give me that, then I will defy you, and you may do your worst. I cannot answer +now.” +</p> + +<p> +This was a bold stroke, but it told. Mr. Davies hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Give the girl a week,” said her father to him. “She is not +herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; one week, no more,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I have another stipulation to make,” said Beatrice, “You are +all to swear to me that for that week no word of this will pass your mouths; +that for that week I shall not be annoyed or interfered with, or spoken to on +the subject, not by one of you. If at the end of it I still refuse to accept +your terms, you can do your worst, but till then you must hold your +hand.” +</p> + +<p> +Owen Davies hesitated; he was suspicious. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember,” Beatrice went on, raising her voice, “I am a +desperate woman. I may turn at bay, and do something which you do not expect, +and that will be very little to the advantage of any of you. Do you +swear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Owen Davies. +</p> + +<p> +Then Beatrice looked at Elizabeth, and Elizabeth looked at her. She saw that +the matter had taken a new form. She saw what her jealous folly had hitherto +hidden from her—that Beatrice did not mean to marry Owen Davies, that she +was merely gaining time to execute some purpose of her own. What this might be +Elizabeth cared little so that it did not utterly extinguish chances that at +the moment seemed faint enough. She did not want to push matters against her +sister, or her lover Geoffrey, beyond the boundary of her own interests. +Beatrice should have her week, and be free from all interference so far as she +was concerned. She realised now that it was too late how great had been her +error. Oh, if only she had sought Beatrice’s confidence at first! But it +had seemed to her impossible that she would really throw away such an +opportunity in life. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I promise, Beatrice,” she said mildly. “I do not +swear, for ‘swear not at all,’ you know. I only did what I thought +my duty in warning Mr. Davies. If he chooses to go on with the matter, it is no +affair of mine. I had no wish to hurt you, or Mr. Bingham. I acted solely from +my religious convictions.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, stop talking religion, Elizabeth, and practise it a little +more!” said her father, for once in his life stirred out of his feeble +selfishness. “We have all undertaken to keep our mouths sealed for this +week.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Beatrice left the room, and after her went Owen Davies without another +word. +</p> + +<p> +“Elizabeth,” said her father, rising, “you are a wicked +woman! What did you do this for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to know, father?” she said coolly; “then I will +tell you. Because I mean to marry Owen Davies myself. We must all look after +ourselves in this world, you know; and that is a maxim which you never forget, +for one. I mean to marry him; and though I seem to have failed, marry him I +will, yet! And now you know all about it; and if you are not a fool, you will +hold your tongue and let me be!” and she went also, leaving him alone. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger held up his hands in astonishment. He was a selfish, money-seeking +old man, but he felt that he did not deserve to have such a daughter as this. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br/> +WHAT BEATRICE SWORE</h2> + +<p> +Beatrice went to her room, but the atmosphere of the place seemed to stifle +her. Her brain was reeling, she must go out into the air—away from her +tormentors. She had not yet answered Geoffrey’s letter, and it must be +answered by this post, for there was none on Sunday. It was half-past +four—the post went out at five; if she was going to write, she should do +so at once, but she could not do so here. Besides, she must find time for +thought. Ah, she had it; she would take her canoe and paddle across the bay to +the little town of Coed and write her letter there. The post did not leave Coed +till half-past six. She put on her hat and jacket, and taking a stamp, a sheet +of paper, and an envelope with her, slipped quietly from the house down to old +Edward’s boat-house where the canoe was kept. Old Edward was not there +himself, but his son was, a boy of fourteen, and by his help Beatrice was soon +safely launched. The sea glittered like glass, and turning southwards, +presently she was paddling round the shore of the island on which the Castle +stood towards the open bay. +</p> + +<p> +As she paddled her mind cleared, and she was able to consider the position. It +was bad enough. She saw no light, darkness hemmed her in. But at least she had +a week before her, and meanwhile what should she write to Geoffrey? +</p> + +<p> +Then, as she thought, a great temptation assailed Beatrice, and for the first +time her resolution wavered. Why should she not accept Geoffrey’s offer +and go away with him—far away from all this misery? Gladly would she give +her life to spend one short year at his dear side. She had but to say the word, +and he would take her to him, and in a month from now they would be together in +some foreign land, counting the world well lost, as he had said. Doubtless in +time Lady Honoria would get a divorce, and they might be married. A day might +even come when all this would seem like a forgotten night of storm and fear; +when, surrounded by the children of their love, they would wend peaceably, +happily, through the evening of their days towards a bourne robbed of half its +terrors by the fact that they would cross it hand-in-hand. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, that would be well for her; but would it be well for him? When the first +months of passion had passed by, would he not begin to think of all that he had +thrown away for the sake of a woman’s love? Would not the burst of shame +and obloquy which would follow him to the remotest corners of the earth wear +away his affection, till at last, as Lady Honoria said, he learned to curse and +hate her. And if it did not—if he still loved her through it +all—as, being what he was, he well might do—could she be the one to +bring this ruin on him? Oh, it would have been more kind to let him drown on +that night of the storm, when fate first brought them together to their +undoing. +</p> + +<p> +No, no; once and for all, once and for ever, she would <i>not</i> do it. Cruel +as was her strait, heavy as was her burden, not one feather’s weight of +it should he carry, if by any means in her poor power she could hold it from +his back. She would not even tell him of what had happened—at any rate, +not now. It would distress him; he might take some desperate step; it was +almost certain that he would do so. Her answer must be very short. +</p> + +<p> +She was quite close to Coed now, and the water lay calm as a pond. So calm was +it that she drew the sheet of paper and the envelope from her pocket, and +leaning forward, rested them on the arched covering of the canoe, and pencilled +those words which we have already read. +</p> + +<p> +“No, dear Geoffrey. Things must take their course.—B.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus she wrote. Then she paddled to the shore. A fisherman standing on the +beach caught her canoe and pulled it up. Leaving it in his charge, she went +into the quaint little town, directed and posted her letter, and bought some +wool. It was an excuse for having been there should any one ask questions. +After that she returned to her canoe. The fisherman was standing by it. She +offered him sixpence for his trouble, but he would not take it. +</p> + +<p> +“No, miss,” he said, “thanking you kindly—but we +don’t often get a peep at such sweet looks. It’s worth sixpence to +see you, it is. But, miss, if I may make so bold as to say so, it isn’t +safe for you to cruise about in that craft, any ways not alone.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice thanked him and blushed a little. Vaguely it occurred to her that she +must have more than a common share of beauty, when a rough man could be so +impressed with it. That was what men loved women for, their beauty, as Owen +Davies loved and desired her for this same cause and this only. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps it was the same with Geoffrey—no, she did not believe it. He +loved her for other things besides her looks. Only if she had not been +beautiful, perhaps he would not have begun to love her, so she was thankful for +her eyes and hair, and form. +</p> + +<p> +Could folly and infatuation go further? This woman in the darkest hour of her +bottomless and unhorizoned despair, with conscience gnawing at her heart, with +present misery pressing on her breast, and shame to come hanging over her like +a thunder cloud, could yet feel thankful that she had won this barren love, the +spring of all her woe. Or was her folly deep wisdom in disguise?—is there +something divine in a passion that can so override and defy the worst agonies +of life? +</p> + +<p> +She was at sea again now, and evening was falling on the waters softly as a +dream. Well, the letter was posted. Would it be the last, she wondered? It +seemed as though she must write no more letters. And what was to be done? She +would <i>not</i> marry Owen Davies—never would she do it. She could not +so shamelessly violate her feelings, for Beatrice was a woman to whom death +would be preferable to dishonour, however legal. No, for her own sake she would +not be soiled with that disgrace. Did she do this, she would hold herself the +vilest of the vile. And still less would she do it for Geoffrey’s sake. +Her instinct told her what he would feel at such a thing, though he might never +say a word. Surely he would loathe and despise her. No, that idea was done +with—utterly done with. +</p> + +<p> +Then what remained to her? She would not fly with Geoffrey, since to do so +would be to ruin him. She would not marry Owen, and not to do so would still be +to ruin Geoffrey. She was no fool, she was innocent in act, but she knew that +her innocence would indeed be hard to prove—even her own father did not +believe in it, and her sister would openly accuse her to the world. What then +should she do? Should she hide herself in some remote half-civilised place, or +in London? It was impossible; she had no money, and no means of getting any. +Besides, they would hunt her out, both Owen Davies and Geoffrey would track her +to the furthest limits of the earth. And would not the former think that +Geoffrey had spirited her away, and at once put his threats into execution? +Obviously he would. There was no hope in that direction. Some other plan must +be found or her lover would still be ruined. +</p> + +<p> +So argued Beatrice, still thinking not of herself, but of Geoffrey, of that +beloved one who was more to her than all the world, more, a thousand times, +than her own safety or well-being. Perhaps she overrated the matter. Owen +Davies, Lady Honoria, and even Elizabeth might have done all they threatened; +the first of them, perhaps the first two of them, certainly would have done so. +But still Geoffrey might have escaped destruction. Public opinion, or the +sounder part of it, is sensibly enough hard to move in such a matter, +especially when the person said to have been wronged is heart and soul on the +side of him who is said to have wronged her. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover there might have been ways out of it, of which she knew nothing. But +surrounded as she was by threatening powers—by Lady Honoria threatening +actions in the Courts on one side, by Owen Davies threatening exposure on +another, by Elizabeth ready and willing to give the most damning evidence on +the third, to Beatrice the worst consequences seemed an absolutely necessary +sequence. Then there was her own conscience arrayed against her. This +particular charge was a lie, but it was not a lie that she loved Geoffrey, and +to her the two things seemed very much the same thing. Hers was not a mind to +draw fine distinctions in such matters. <i>Se posuit ut culpabilem</i>: she +“placed herself as guilty,” as the old Court rolls put it in +miserable Latin, and this sense of guilt disarmed her. She did not realise the +enormous difference recognised by the whole civilised world between thought and +act, between disposing mind and inculpating deed. Beatrice looked at the +question more from the scriptural point of view, remembering that in the Bible +such fine divisions are expressly stated to be distinctions without a +difference. +</p> + +<p> +Had she gone to Geoffrey and told him her whole story it is probable that he +would have defied the conspiracy, faced it out, and possibly come off +victorious. But, with that deadly reticence of which women alone are capable, +this she did not and would not do. Sweet loving woman that she was, she would +not burden him with her sorrows, she would bear them alone—little +reckoning that thereby she was laying up a far, far heavier load for him to +carry through all his days. +</p> + +<p> +So Beatrice accepted the statements of the plaintiff’s attorney for +gospel truth, and from that false standpoint she drew her auguries. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Oh, she was weary! How lovely was the falling night, see how it brooded on the +seas! and how clear were the waters—there a fish passed by her +paddle—and there the first start sprang into the sky! If only Geoffrey +were here to see it with her. Geoffrey! she had lost him; she was alone in the +world now—alone with the sea and the stars. Well, they were better than +men—better than all men except one. Theirs was a divine companionship, +and it soothed her. Ah, how hateful had been Elizabeth’s face, more +hateful even than the half-crazed cunning of Owen Davies, when she stretched +her hand towards her and called her “a scarlet woman.” It was so +like Elizabeth, this mixing up of Bible terms with her accusation. And after +all perhaps it was true.—What was it, “Though thy sins be as +scarlet, yet shall they be white as snow.” But that was only if one +repented. She did not repent, not in the least. Conscience, it is true, +reproached her with a breach of temporal and human law, but her heart cried +that such love as she had given was immortal and divine, and therefore set +beyond the little bounds of time and man. At any rate, she loved Geoffrey and +was proud and glad to love him. The circumstances were unfortunate, but she did +not make the world or its social arrangements any more than she had made +herself, and she could not help that. The fact remained, right or +wrong—she loved him, loved him! +</p> + +<p> +How clear were the waters! What was that wild dream which she had dreamt about +herself sitting at the bottom of the sea, and waiting for him—till at +last he came. Sitting at the bottom of the sea—why did it strike her so +strangely—what unfamiliar thought did it waken in her mind? Well, and why +not? It would be pleasant there, better at any rate than on the earth. But +things cannot be ended so; one is burdened with the flesh, and one must wear it +till it fails. Why must she wear it? Was not the sea large enough to hide her +bones? Look now, she had but to slip over the edge of the canoe, slip without a +struggle into those mighty arms, and in a few short minutes it would all be +done and gone! +</p> + +<p> +She gasped as the thought struck home. <i>Here</i> was the answer to her +questionings, the same answer that is given to every human troubling, to all +earthly hopes and fears and strivings. One stroke of that black knife and +everything would be lost or found. Would it be so great a thing to give her +life for Geoffrey?—why she had well nigh done as much when she had known +him but an hour, and now that he was all in all, oh, would it be so great a +thing? If she died—died secretly, swiftly, surely—Geoffrey would be +saved; they would not trouble him then, there would be no one to trouble about: +Owen Davies could not marry her then, Geoffrey could not ruin himself over her, +Elizabeth could pursue her no further. It would be well to do this thing for +Geoffrey, and he would always love her, and beyond that black curtain there +might be something better. +</p> + +<p> +They said that it was sin. Yes, it might be sin to act thus for oneself alone. +But to do it for another—how of that! Was not the Saviour whom they +preached a Man of Sacrifice? Would it be a sin in her to die for Geoffrey, to +sacrifice herself that Geoffrey might go free? +</p> + +<p> +Oh, it would be no great merit. Her life was not so easy that she should fear +this pure embrace. It would be better, far better, than to marry Owen Davies, +than to desecrate their love and teach Geoffrey to despise her. And how else +could she ward this trouble from him except by her death, or by a marriage that +in her eyes was more dreadful than any death? +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +She could not do it yet. She could not die until she had once more seen his +face, even though he did not see hers. No, not to-night would she seek this +swift solution. She had words to say—or words to write—before the +end. Already they rushed in upon her mind! +</p> + +<p> +But if no better plan presented itself she would do it, she was sure that she +would. It was a sin—well, let it be a sin; what did she care if she +sinned for Geoffrey? He would not think the worse of her for it. And she had +hope, yes, Geoffrey had taught her to hope. If there was a Hell, why it was +here. And yet not all a Hell, for in it she had found her love! +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It grew dark; she could hear the whisper of the waves upon Bryngelly beach. It +grew dark; the night was closing round. She paddled to within a few fathoms of +the shore, and called in her clear voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, miss,” answered old Edward from the beach. “Come in +on the next wave.” +</p> + +<p> +She came in accordingly and her canoe was caught and dragged high and dry. +</p> + +<p> +“What, Miss Beatrice,” said the old man shaking his head and +grumbling, “at it again! Out all alone in that thing,” and he gave +the canoe a contemptuous kick, “and in the dark, too. You want a husband +to look after you, you do. You’ll never rest till you’re +drowned.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Edward,” she answered with a little laugh. “I +don’t suppose that I shall. There is no peace for the wicked above seas, +you know. Now do not scold. The canoe is as safe as church in this weather and +in the bay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, it’s safe enough in the calm and the bay,” he +answered, “but supposing it should come on to blow and supposing you +should drift beyond the shelter of Rumball Point there, and get the rollers +down on you—why you would be drowned in five minutes. It’s wicked, +miss, that’s what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice laughed again and went. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a funny one she is,” said the old man scratching his +head as he looked after her, “of all the woman folk as ever I knowed she +is the rummest. I sometimes thinks she wants to get drowned. Dash me if I +haven’t half a mind to stave a hole in the bottom of that there damned +canoe, and finish it.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice reached home a little before supper time. Her first act was to call +Betty the servant and with her assistance to shift her bed and things into the +spare room. With Elizabeth she would have nothing more to do. They had slept +together since they were children, now she had done with her. Then she went in +to supper, and sat through it like a statue, speaking no word. Her father and +Elizabeth kept up a strained conversation, but they did not speak to her, nor +she to them. Elizabeth did not even ask where she had been, nor take any notice +of her change of room. +</p> + +<p> +One thing, however, Beatrice learnt. Her father was going on the Monday to +Hereford by an early train to attend a meeting of clergymen collected to +discuss the tithe question. He was to return by the last train on the Tuesday +night, that is, about midnight. Beatrice now discovered that Elizabeth proposed +to accompany him. Evidently she wished to see as little as possible of her +sister during this week of truce—possibly she was a little afraid of her. +Even Elizabeth might have a conscience. +</p> + +<p> +So she should be left alone from Monday morning till Tuesday night. One can do +a good deal in forty hours. +</p> + +<p> +After supper Beatrice rose and left the room, without a word, and they were +glad when she went. She frightened them with her set face and great calm eyes. +But neither spoke to the other on the subject. They had entered into a +conspiracy of silence. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice locked her door and then sat at the window lost in thought. When once +the idea of suicide has entered the mind it is apt to grow with startling +rapidity. She reviewed the whole position; she went over all the arguments and +searched the moral horizon for some feasible avenue of escape. But she could +find none that would save Geoffrey, except this. Yes, she would do it, as many +another wretched woman had done before her, not from cowardice indeed, for had +she alone been concerned she would have faced the thing out, fighting to the +bitter end—but for this reason only, it would cut off the dangers which +threatened Geoffrey at their very root and source. Of course there must be no +scandal; it must never be known that she had killed herself, or she might +defeat her own object, for the story would be raked up. But she well knew how +to avoid such a possibility; in her extremity Beatrice grew cunning as a fox. +Yes, and there might be an inquest at which awkward questions would be asked. +But, as she well knew also, before an inquest can be held there must be +something to hold it on, and that something would not be there. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +And so in the utter silence of the night and in the loneliness of her chamber +did Beatrice dedicate herself to sacrifice upon the altar of her immeasurable +love. She would face the last agonies of death when the bloom of her youthful +strength and beauty was but opening as a rose in June. She would do more, she +would brave the threatened vengeance of the most High, coming before Him a self +murderess, and with but one plea for pity—that she loved so well: <i>quia +multum amavit</i>. Yes, she would do all this, would leave the warm world in +the dawning summer of her days, and alone go out into the dark—alone +would face those visions which might come—those Shapes of terror, and +those Things of fear, that perchance may wait for sinful human kind. Alone she +would go—oh, hand in hand with him it had been easy, but this must not +be. The door of utter darkness would swing to behind her, and who could say if +in time to come it should open to Geoffrey’s following feet, or if he +might ever find the path that she had trod. It must be done, it should be done! +Beatrice rose from her seat with bright eyes and quick-coming breath, and swore +before God, if God there were, that she would do it, trusting to Him for pardon +and for pity, or failing these—for sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, but first she must once more look upon Geoffrey’s dear +face—and then farewell! +</p> + +<p> +Pity her! poor mistaken woman, making of her will a Providence, rushing to +doom. Pity her, but do not blame her overmuch, or if you do, then blame Judith +and Jephtha’s daughter and Charlotte Corday, and all the glorious women +who from time to time have risen on this sordid world of self, and given +themselves as an offering upon the altars of their love, their religion, their +honour or their country! +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was finished. Now let her rest while she could, seeing what was to come. +With a sigh for all that was, and all that might have been, Beatrice lay down +and soon slept sweetly as a child. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br/> +THE HOUSE OF COMMONS</h2> + +<p> +Next day was Sunday. Beatrice did not go to church. For one thing, she feared +to see Owen Davies there. But she took her Sunday school class as usual, and +long did the children remember how kind and patient she was with them that day, +and how beautifully she told them the story of the Jewish girl of long ago, who +went forth to die for the sake of her father’s oath. +</p> + +<p> +Nearly all the rest of the day and evening she spent in writing that which we +shall read in time—only in the late afternoon she went out for a little +while in her canoe. Another thing Beatrice did also: she called at the lodging +of her assistant, the head school teacher, and told her it was possible that +she would not be in her place on the Tuesday (Monday was, as it chanced, a +holiday). If anybody inquired as to her absence, perhaps she would kindly tell +them that Miss Granger had an appointment to keep, and had taken a +morning’s holiday in order to do so. She should, however, be back that +afternoon. The teacher assented without suspicion, remarking that if Beatrice +could not take a morning’s holiday, she was sure she did not know who +could. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning they breakfasted very early, because Mr. Granger and Elizabeth had +to catch the train. Beatrice sat through the meal in silence, her calm eyes +looking straight before her, and the others, gazing on them, and at the lovely +inscrutable face, felt an indefinable fear creep into their hearts. What did +this woman mean to do? That was the question they asked of themselves, though +not of each other. That she meant to do something they were sure, for there was +purpose written on every line of her cold face. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, as they sat thinking, and making pretence to eat, a thought flashed +like an arrow into Beatrice’s heart, and pierced it. This was the last +meal that they could ever take together, this was the last time that she could +ever see her father’s and her sister’s faces. For her sister, well, +it might pass—for there are some things which even a woman like Beatrice +can never quite forgive—but she loved her father. She loved his very +faults, even his simple avarice and self-seeking had become endeared to her by +long and wondering contemplation. Besides, he was her father; he gave her the +life she was about to cast away. And she should never see him more. Not on that +account did she hesitate in her purpose, which was now set in her mind, like +Bryngelly Castle on its rock, but at the thought tears rushed unbidden to her +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Just then breakfast came to an end, and Elizabeth hurried from the room to +fetch her bonnet. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” said Beatrice, “if you can before you go, I should +like to hear you say that you do not believe that I told you what was +false—about that story.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, eh!” answered the old man nervously, “I thought that we +had agreed to say nothing about the matter at present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but I should like to hear you say it, father. It cuts me that you +should think that I would lie to you, for in my life I have never wilfully told +you what was not true;” and she clasped her hands about his arms, and +looked into his face. +</p> + +<p> +He gazed at her doubtfully. Was it possible after all she was speaking the +truth? No; it was not possible. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t, Beatrice,” he said—“not that I blame +you overmuch for trying to defend yourself; a cornered rat will show +fight.” +</p> + +<p> +“May you never regret those words,” she said; “and now +good-bye,” and she kissed him on the forehead. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Elizabeth entered, saying that it was time to start, and he did +not return the kiss. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Elizabeth,” said Beatrice, stretching out her hand. But +Elizabeth affected not to see it, and in another moment they were gone. She +followed them to the gate and watched them till they vanished down the road. +Then she returned, her heart strained almost to bursting. But she wept no tear. +</p> + +<p> +Thus did Beatrice bid a last farewell to her father and her sister. +</p> + +<p> +“Elizabeth,” said Mr. Granger, as they drew near to the station, +“I am not easy in my thoughts about Beatrice. There was such a strange +look in her eyes; it—in short, it frightens me. I have half a mind to +give up Hereford, and go back,” and he stopped upon the road, hesitating. +</p> + +<p> +“As you like,” said Elizabeth with a sneer, “but I should +think that Beatrice is big enough and bad enough to look after herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before the God who made us,” said the old man furiously, and +striking the ground with his stick, “she may be bad, but she is not so +bad as you who betrayed her. If Beatrice is a Magdalene, you are a woman Judas; +and I believe that you hate her, and would be glad to see her dead.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth made no answer. They were nearing the station, for her father had +started on again, and there were people about. But she looked at him, and he +never forgot the look. It was quite enough to chill him into silence, nor did +he allude to the matter any more. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +When they were gone, Beatrice set about her own preparations. Her wild purpose +was to travel to London, and catch a glimpse of Geoffrey’s face in the +House of Commons, if possible, and then return. She put on her bonnet and best +dress; the latter was very plainly made of simple grey cloth, but on her it +looked well enough, and in the breast of it she thrust the letter which she had +written on the previous day. A small hand-bag, with some sandwiches and a brush +and comb in it, and a cloak, made up the total of her baggage. +</p> + +<p> +The train, which did not stop at Bryngelly, left Coed at ten, and Coed was an +hour and a half’s walk. She must be starting. Of course, she would have +to be absent for the night, and she was sorely puzzled how to account for her +absence to Betty, the servant girl; the others being gone there was no need to +do so to anybody else. But here fortune befriended her. While she was thinking +the matter over, who should come in but Betty herself, crying. She had just +heard, she said, that her little sister, who lived with their mother at a +village about ten miles away, had been knocked down by a cart and badly hurt. +Might she go home for the night? She could come back on the morrow, and Miss +Beatrice could get somebody in to sleep if she was lonesome. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice sympathised, demurred, and consented, and Betty started at once. As +soon as she was gone, Beatrice locked up the house, put the key in her pocket, +and started on her five miles’ tramp. Nobody saw her leave the house, and +she passed by a path at the back of the village, so that nobody saw her on the +road. Reaching Coed Station quite unobserved, and just before the train was +due, she let down her veil, and took a third-class ticket to London. This she +was obliged to do, for her stock of money was very small; it amounted, +altogether, to thirty-six shillings, of which the fare to London and back would +cost her twenty-eight and fourpence. +</p> + +<p> +In another minute she had entered an empty carriage, and the train had steamed +away. +</p> + +<p> +She reached Paddington about eight that night, and going to the refreshment +room, dined on some tea and bread and butter. Then she washed her hands, +brushed her hair, and started. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice had never been in London before, and as soon as she left the station +the rush and roar of the huge city took hold of her, and confused her. Her idea +was to walk to the Houses of Parliament at Westminster. She would, she thought, +be sure to see Geoffrey there, because she had bought a daily paper in which +she had read that he was to be one of the speakers in a great debate on the +Irish Question, which was to be brought to a close that night. She had been +told by a friendly porter to follow Praed Street till she reached the Edgware +Road, then to walk on to the Marble Arch, and ask again. Beatrice followed the +first part of this programme—that is, she walked as far as the Edgware +Road. Then it was that confusion seized her and she stood hesitating. At this +juncture, a coarse brute of a man came up and made some remark to her. It was +impossible for a woman like Beatrice to walk alone in the streets of London at +night, without running the risk of such attentions. She turned from him, and as +she did so, heard him say something about her beauty to a fellow Arcadian. +Close to where she was stood two hansom cabs. She went to the first and asked +the driver for how much he would take her to the House of Commons. +</p> + +<p> +“Two bob, miss,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice shook her head, and turned to go again. She was afraid to spend so +much on cabs, for she must get back to Bryngelly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take yer for eighteenpence, miss,” called out the other +driver. This offer she was about to accept when the first man interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“You leave my fare alone, will yer? Tell yer what, miss, I’m a +gentleman, I am, and I’ll take yer for a bob.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled and entered the cab. Then came a whirl of great gas-lit +thoroughfares, and in a quarter of an hour they pulled up at the entrance to +the House. Beatrice paid the cabman his shilling, thanked him, and entered, +only once more to find herself confused with a vision of white statues, marble +floors, high arching roofs, and hurrying people. An automatic policeman asked +her what she wanted. Beatrice answered that she wished to get into the House. +</p> + +<p> +“Pass this way, then, miss—pass this way,” said the automatic +officer in a voice of brass. She passed, and passed, and finally found herself +in a lobby, among a crowd of people of all sorts—seedy political touts, +Irish priests and hurrying press-men. At one side of the lobby were more +policemen and messengers, who were continually taking cards into the House, +then returning and calling out names. Insensibly she drifted towards these +policemen. +</p> + +<p> +“Ladies’ Gallery, miss?” said a voice; “your order, +please, though I think it’s full.” +</p> + +<p> +Here was a fresh complication. Beatrice had no order. She had no idea that one +was necessary. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t got an order,” she said faintly. “I did not +know that I must have one. Can I not get in without?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most certainly <i>not</i>, miss,” answered the voice, while its +owner, suspecting dynamite, surveyed her with a cold official eye. “Now +make way, make way, please.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice’s grey eyes filled with tears, as she turned to go in bitterness +of heart. So all her labour was in vain, and that which would be done must be +done without the mute farewell she sought. Well, when sorrow was so much, what +mattered a little more? She turned to go, but not unobserved. A certain rather +youthful Member of Parliament, with an eye for beauty in distress, had been +standing close to her, talking to a constituent. The constituent had departed +to wherever constituents go—and many representatives, if asked, would +cheerfully point out a locality suitable to the genus, at least in their +judgment—and the member had overheard the conversation and seen +Beatrice’s eyes fill with tears. “What a lovely woman!” he +had said to himself, and then did what he should have done, namely, lifted his +hat and inquired if, as a member of the House, he could be of any service to +her. Beatrice listened, and explained that she was particularly anxious to get +into the Ladies’ Gallery. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that I can help you, then,” he said. “As it happens +a lady, for whom I got an order, has telegraphed to say that she cannot come. +Will you follow me? Might I ask you to give me your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Everston,” answered Beatrice, taking the first that came into +her head. The member looked a little disappointed. He had vaguely hoped that +this lovely creature was unappropriated. Surely her marriage could not be +satisfactory, or she would not look so sad. +</p> + +<p> +Then came more stairs and passages, and formalities, till presently Beatrice +found herself in a kind of bird-cage, crowded to suffocation with every sort of +lady. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid—I am very much afraid——” began +her new-found friend, surveying the mass with dismay. +</p> + +<p> +But at that moment, a stout lady in front feeling faint with the heat, was +forced to leave the Gallery, and almost before she knew where she was, Beatrice +was installed in her place. Her friend had bowed and vanished, and she was left +to all purposes alone, for she never heeded those about her, though some of +them looked at her hard enough, wondering at her form and beauty, and who she +might be. +</p> + +<p> +She cast her eye down over the crowded House, and saw a vision of hats, +collars, and legs, and heard a tumult of sounds: the sharp voice of a speaker +who was rapidly losing his temper, the plaudits of the Government benches, the +interruptions from the Opposition—yes, even yells, and hoots, and noises, +that reminded her remotely of the crowing of cocks. Possibly had she thought of +it, Beatrice would not have been greatly impressed with the dignity of an +assembly, at the doors of which so many of its members seemed to leave their +manners, with their overcoats and sticks; it might even have suggested the idea +of a bear garden to her mind. But she simply did not think about it. She +searched the House keenly enough, but it was to find one face, and one +only—Ah! there he was. +</p> + +<p> +And now the House of Commons might vanish into the bottomless abyss, and take +with it the House of Lords, and what remained of the British Constitution, and +she would never miss them. For, at the best of times, Beatrice—in common +with most of her sex—in all gratitude be it said, was <i>not</i> an +ardent politician. +</p> + +<p> +There Geoffrey sat, his arms folded—the hat pushed slightly from his +forehead, so that she could see his face. There was her own beloved, whom she +had come so far to see, and whom to-morrow she would dare so much to save. How +sad he looked—he did not seem to be paying much attention to what was +going on. She knew well enough that he was thinking of her; she could feel it +in her head as she had often felt it before. But she dared not let her mind go +out to him in answer, for, if once she did so, she knew also that he would +discover her. So she sat, and fed her eyes upon his face, taking her farewell +of it, while round her, and beneath her, the hum of the House went on, as ever +present and as unnoticed as the hum of bees upon a summer noon. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the gentleman who had been so kind to her, sat down in the next seat +to Geoffrey, and began to whisper to him, as he did so glancing once or twice +towards the grating behind which she was. She guessed that he was telling him +the story of the lady who was so unaccountably anxious to hear the debate, and +how pretty she was. But it did not seem to interest Geoffrey much, and Beatrice +was feminine enough to notice it, and to be glad of it. In her gentle jealousy, +she did not like to think of Geoffrey as being interested in accounts of +mysterious ladies, however pretty. +</p> + +<p> +At length a speaker rose—she understood from the murmur of those around +her that he was one of the leaders of the Opposition, and commenced a powerful +and bitter speech. She noticed that Geoffrey roused himself at this point, and +began to listen with attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Look,” said one of the ladies near her, “Mr. Bingham is +taking notes. He is going to speak next—he speaks wonderfully, you know. +They say that he is as good as anybody in the House, except Gladstone, and Lord +Randolph.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” answered another lady. “Lady Honoria is not here, is +she? I don’t see her.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied the first; “she is a dear creature, and so +handsome too—just the wife for a rising man—but I don’t think +that she takes much interest in politics. Are not her dinners charming?” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment, a volley of applause from the Opposition benches drowned the +murmured conversation. +</p> + +<p> +This speaker spoke for about three-quarters of an hour, and then at last +Geoffrey stood up. One or two other members rose at the same time, but +ultimately they gave way. +</p> + +<p> +He began slowly—and somewhat tamely, as it seemed to Beatrice, whose +heart was in her mouth—but when he had been speaking for about five +minutes, he warmed up. And then began one of the most remarkable oratorical +displays of that Parliament. Geoffrey had spoken well before, and would speak +well again, but perhaps he never spoke so well as he did upon that night. For +nearly an hour and a half he held the House in chains, even the hoots and +interruptions died away towards the end of his oration. His powerful presence +seemed to tower in the place, like that of a giant among pigmies, and his dark, +handsome face, lit with the fires of eloquence, shone like a lamp. He leaned +forward with a slight stoop of his broad shoulders, and addressed himself, +nominally to the Speaker, but really to the Opposition. He took their facts one +by one, and with convincing logic showed that they were no facts; amid a hiss +of anger he pulverised their arguments and demonstrated their motives. Then +suddenly he dropped them altogether, and addressing himself to the House at +large, and the country beyond the House, he struck another note, and broke out +into that storm of patriotic eloquence which confirmed his growing reputation, +both in Parliament and in the constituencies. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice shut her eyes and listened to the deep, rich voice as it rose from +height to height and power to power, till the whole place seemed full of it, +and every contending sound was hushed. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, after an invocation that would have been passionate had it not been +so restrained and strong, he stopped. She opened her eyes and looked. Geoffrey +was seated as before, with his hat on. He had been speaking for an hour and a +half, and yet, to her, it seemed but a few minutes since he rose. Then broke +out a volley of cheers, in the midst of which a leader of the Opposition rose +to reply, not in the very best of tempers, for Geoffrey’s speech had hit +them hard. +</p> + +<p> +He began, however, by complimenting the honourable member on his speech, +“as fine a speech as he had listened to for many years, though, +unfortunately, made from a mistaken standpoint and the wrong side of the +House.” Then he twitted the Government with not having secured the +services of a man so infinitely abler than the majority of their +“items,” and excited a good deal of amusement by stating, with some +sarcastic humour, that, should it ever be his lot to occupy the front Treasury +bench, he should certainly make a certain proposal to the honourable member. +After this good-natured badinage, he drifted off into the consideration of the +question under discussion, and Beatrice paid no further attention to him, but +occupied herself in watching Geoffrey drop back into the same apparent state of +cold indifference, from which the necessity of action had aroused him. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the gentleman who had found her the seat came up and spoke to her, +asking her how she was getting on. Very soon he began to speak of +Geoffrey’s speech, saying that it was one of the most brilliant of the +session, if not the most brilliant. +</p> + +<p> +“Then Mr. Bingham is a rising man, I suppose?” Beatrice said. +</p> + +<p> +“Rising? I should think so,” he answered. “They will get him +into the Government on the first opportunity after this; he’s too good to +neglect. Very few men can come to the fore like Mr. Bingham. We call him the +comet, and if only he does not make a mess of his chances by doing something +foolish, there is no reason why he should not be Attorney-General in a few +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should he do anything foolish?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, for no reason on earth, that I know of; only, as I daresay you have +noticed, men of this sort are very apt to do ridiculous things, throw up their +career, get into a public scandal, run away with somebody or something. Not +that there should be any fear of such a thing where Mr. Bingham is concerned, +for he has a charming wife, and they say that she is a great help to him. Why, +there is the division bell. Good-bye, Mrs. Everston, I will come back to see +you out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” Beatrice answered, “and in case I should miss +you, I wish to say something—to thank you for your kindness in helping me +to get in here to-night. You have done me a great service, a very great +service, and I am most grateful to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing—nothing,” he answered. “It has been a +pleasure to help you. If,” he added with some confusion, “you would +allow me to call some day, the pleasure will be all the greater. I will bring +Mr. Bingham with me, if you would like to know him—that is, if I +can.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice shook her head. “I cannot,” she answered, smiling sadly. +“I am going on a long journey to-morrow, and I shall not return here. +Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +In another second he was gone, more piqued and interested about this fair +unknown than he had been about any woman for years. Who could she be? and why +was she so anxious to hear the debate? There was a mystery in it somewhere, and +he determined to solve it if he could. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the division took place, and presently the members flocked back, and +amidst ringing Ministerial cheers, and counter Opposition cheers, the victory +of the Government was announced. Then came the usual formalities, and the +members began to melt away. Beatrice saw the leader of the House and several +members of the Government go up to Geoffrey, shake his hand, and congratulate +him. Then, with one long look, she turned and went, leaving him in the moment +of his triumph, that seemed to interest him so little, but which made Beatrice +more proud at heart than if she had been declared empress of the world. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, it was well to love a man like that, a man born to tower over his fellow +men—and well to die for him! Could she let her miserable existence +interfere with such a life as his should be? Never, never! There should be no +“public scandal” on her account. +</p> + +<p> +She drew her veil over her face, and inquired the way from the House. Presently +she was outside. By one of the gateways, and in the shadow of its pillars, she +stopped, watching the members of the House stream past her. Many of them were +talking together, and once or twice she caught the sound of Geoffrey’s +name, coupled with such words as “splendid speech,” and other terms +of admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Move on, move on,” said a policeman to her. Lifting her veil, +Beatrice turned and looked at him, and muttering something he moved on himself, +leaving her in peace. Presently she saw Geoffrey and the gentleman who had been +so kind to her walking along together. They came through the gateway; the +lappet of his coat brushed her arm, and he never saw her. Closer she crouched +against the pillar, hiding herself in its shadow. Within six feet of her +Geoffrey stopped and lit a cigar. The light of the match flared upon his face, +that dark, strong face she loved so well. How tired he looked. A great longing +took possession of her to step forward and speak to him, but she restrained +herself almost by force. +</p> + +<p> +Her friend was speaking to him, and about her. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a lovely woman,” he was saying, “with the clearest and +most beautiful grey eyes that I ever saw. But she has gone like a dream. I +can’t find her anywhere. It is a most mysterious business.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are falling in love, Tom,” answered Geoffrey absently, as he +threw away the match and walked on. “Don’t do that; it is an +unhappy thing to do,” and he sighed. +</p> + +<p> +He was going! Oh, heaven! she would never, never see him more! A cold horror +seized upon Beatrice, her blood seemed to stagnate. She trembled so much that +she could scarcely stand. Leaning forward, she looked after him, with such a +face of woe that even the policeman, who had repented him of his forbearance, +and was returning to send her away, stood astonished. The two men had gone +about ten yards, when something induced Beatrice’s friend to look back. +His eye fell upon the white, agony-stricken face, now in the full glare of the +gas lamp. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice saw him turn, and understood her danger. “Oh, good-bye, +Geoffrey!” she murmured, for a second allowing her heart to go forth +towards him. Then realising what she had done, she dropped her veil, and went +swiftly. The gentleman called “Tom”—she never learnt his +name—stood for a moment dumbfounded, and at that instant Geoffrey +staggered, as though he had been struck by a shot, turned quite white, and +halted. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said his companion, “there is that lady again; we must +have passed quite close to her. She was looking after us, I saw her face in the +gaslight—and I never want to see such another.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey seized him by the arm. “Where is she?” he asked, +“and what was she like?” +</p> + +<p> +“She was there a second ago,” he said, pointing to the pillar, +“but I’ve lost her now—I fancy she went towards the railway +station, but I could not see. Stop, is that she?” and he pointed to a +tall person walking towards the Abbey. +</p> + +<p> +Quickly they moved to intercept her, but the result was not satisfactory, and +they retreated hastily from the object of their attentions. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Beatrice found herself opposite the entrance to the Westminster +Bridge Station. A hansom was standing there; she got into it and told the man +to drive to Paddington. +</p> + +<p> +Before the pair had retraced their steps she was gone. “She has vanished +again,” said “Tom,” and went on to give a description of her +to Geoffrey. Of her dress he had unfortunately taken little note. It might be +one of Beatrice’s, or it might not. It seemed almost inconceivable to +Geoffrey that she should be masquerading about London, under the name of Mrs. +Everston. And yet—and yet—he could have sworn—but it was +folly! +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he bade his friend good-night, and took a hansom. “The mystery +thickens,” said the astonished “Tom,” as he watched him drive +away. “I would give a hundred pounds to find out what it all means. Oh! +that woman’s face—it haunts me. It looked like the face of an angel +bidding farewell to Heaven.” +</p> + +<p> +But he never did find out any more about it, though the despairing eyes of +Beatrice, as she bade her mute farewell, still sometimes haunt his sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey reflected rapidly. The thing was ridiculous, and yet it was possible. +Beyond that brief line in answer to his letter, he had heard nothing from +Beatrice. Indeed he was waiting to hear from her before taking any further +step. But even supposing she were in London, where was he to look for her? He +knew that she had no money, she could not stay there long. It occurred to him +there was a train leaving Euston for Wales about four in the morning. It was +just possible that she might be in town, and returning by this train. He told +the cabman to drive to Euston Station, and on arrival, closely questioned a +sleepy porter, but without satisfactory results. +</p> + +<p> +Then he searched the station; there were no traces of Beatrice. He did more; he +sat down, weary as he was, and waited for an hour and a half, till it was time +for the train to start. There were but three passengers, and none of them in +the least resembled Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very strange,” Geoffrey said to himself, as he walked away. +“I could have sworn that I felt her presence just for one second. It must +have been nonsense. This is what comes of occult influences, and that kind of +thing. The occult is a nuisance.” +</p> + +<p> +If he had only gone to Paddington! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br/> +I WILL WAIT FOR YOU</h2> + +<p> +Beatrice drove back to Paddington, and as she drove, though her face did not +change from its marble cast of woe the great tears rolled down it, one by one. +</p> + +<p> +They reached the deserted-looking station, and she paid the man out of her few +remaining shillings—seeing that she was a stranger, he insisted upon +receiving half-a-crown. Then, disregarding the astonished stare of a night +porter, she found her way to the waiting room, and sat down. First she took the +letter from her breast, and added some lines to it in pencil, but she did not +post it yet; she knew that if she did so it would reach its destination too +soon. Then she laid her head back against the wall, and utterly outworn, +dropped to sleep—her last sleep upon this earth, before the longest sleep +of all. +</p> + +<p> +And thus Beatrice waited and slept at Paddington, while her lover waited and +watched at Euston. +</p> + +<p> +At five she woke, and the heavy cloud of sorrow, past, present, and to come, +rushed in upon her heart. Taking her bag, she made herself as tidy as she +could. Then she stepped outside the station into the deserted street, and +finding a space between the houses, watched the sun rise over the waking world. +It was her last sunrise, Beatrice remembered. +</p> + +<p> +She came back filled with such thoughts as might well strike the heart of a +woman about to do the thing she had decreed. The refreshment bar was open now, +and she went to it, and bought a cup of coffee and some bread and butter. Then +she took her ticket, not to Bryngelly or to Coed, but to the station on this +side of Bryngelly, and three miles from it. She would run less risk of being +noticed there. The train was shunted up; she took her seat in it. Just as it +was starting, an early newspaper boy came along, yawning. Beatrice bought a +copy of the <i>Standard</i>, out of the one and threepence that was left of her +money, and opened it at the sheet containing the leading articles. The first +one began, “The most powerful, closely reasoned, and eloquent speech made +last night by Mr. Bingham, the Member for Pillham, will, we feel certain, +produce as great an effect on the country as it did in the House of Commons. We +welcome it, not only on account of its value as a contribution to the polemics +of the Irish Question, but as a positive proof of what has already been +suspected, that the Unionist party has in Mr. Bingham a young statesman of a +very high order indeed, and one whom remarkable and rapid success at the Bar +has not hampered, as is too often the case, in the larger and less technical +field of politics.” +</p> + +<p> +And so on. Beatrice put the paper down with a smile of triumph. +Geoffrey’s success was splendid and unquestioned. Nothing could stop him +now. During all the long journey she pleased her imagination by conjuring up +picture after picture of that great future of his, in which she would have no +share. And yet he would not forget her; she was sure of this. Her shadow would +go with him from year to year, even to the end, and at times he might think how +proud she would have been could she be present to record his triumphs. Alas! +she did not remember that when all is lost which can make life beautiful, when +the sun has set, and the spirit gone out of the day, the poor garish lights of +our little victories can but ill atone for the glories that have been. +Happiness and content are frail plants which can only flourish under fair +conditions if at all. Certainly they will not thrive beneath the gloom and +shadow of a pall, and when the heart is dead no triumphs, however splendid, and +no rewards, however great, can compensate for an utter and irredeemable loss. +She never guessed, poor girl, that time upon time, in the decades to be, +Geoffrey would gladly have laid his honours down in payment for one year of her +dear and unforgotten presence. She was too unselfish; she did not think that a +man could thus prize a woman’s love, and took it for an axiom that to +succeed in life was his one real object—a thing to which so divine a gift +as she had given Geoffrey is as nothing. It was therefore this Juggernaut of +her lover’s career that Beatrice would cast down her life, little knowing +that thereby she must turn the worldly and temporal success, which he already +held so cheap, to bitterness and ashes. +</p> + +<p> +At Chester Beatrice got out of the train and posted her letter to Geoffrey. She +would not do so till then because it might have reached him too +soon—before all was finished! Now it would be delivered to him in the +House after everything had been accomplished in its order. She looked at the +letter; it was, she thought, the last token that could ever pass between them +on this earth. Once she pressed it to her heart, once she touched it with her +lips, and then put it from her beyond recall. It was done; there was no going +back now. And even as she stood the postman came up, whistling, and opening the +box carelessly swept its contents into his canvas bag. Could he have known what +lay among them he would have whistled no more that day. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice continued her journey, and by three o’clock arrived safely at +the little station next to Bryngelly. There was a fair at Coed that day, and +many people of the peasant class got in here. Amidst the confusion she gave up +her ticket to a small boy, who was looking the other way at the time, and +escaped without being noticed by a soul. Indeed, things happened so that nobody +in the neighbourhood of Bryngelly ever knew that Beatrice had been to London +and back upon those dreadful days. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice walked along the cliff, and in an hour was at the door of the +Vicarage, from which she seemed to have been away for years. She unlocked it +and entered. In the letter-box was a post-card from her father stating that he +and Elizabeth had changed their plans and would not be back till the train +which arrived at half-past eight on the following morning. So much the better, +she thought. Then she disarranged the clothes upon her bed to make it seem as +though it had been slept in, lit the kitchen fire, and put the kettle on to +boil, and as soon as it was ready she took some food. She wanted all her nerve, +and that could not be kept up without food. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after this the girl Betty returned, and went about her duties in the +house quite unconscious that Beatrice had been away from it for the whole +night. Her sister was much better, she said, in answer to Beatrice’s +inquiries. +</p> + +<p> +When she had eaten what she could—it was not much—Beatrice went to +her room, undressed herself, bathed, and put on clean, fresh things. Then she +unbound her lovely hair, and did it up in a coronet upon her head. It was a +fashion that she did not often adopt, because it took too much time, but on +this day, of all days, she had a strange fancy to look her best. Also her hair +had been done like this on the afternoon when Geoffrey first met her. Next she +put on the grey dress once more which she had worn on her journey to London, +and taking the silver Roman ring that Geoffrey had given her from the string by +which she wore it about her neck, placed it on the third finger of her left +hand. +</p> + +<p> +All this being done, Beatrice visited the kitchen and ordered the supper. She +went further in her innocent cunning. Betty asked her what she would like for +breakfast on the following morning, and she told her to cook some bacon, and to +be careful how she cut it, as she did not like thick bacon. Then, after one +long last look at the Vicarage, she started for the lodging of the head teacher +of the school, and, having found her, inquired as to the day’s work. +</p> + +<p> +Further, Beatrice told her assistant that she had determined to alter the +course of certain lessons in the school. The Wednesday arithmetic class had +hitherto been taken before the grammar class. On the morrow she had determined +to change this; she would take the grammar class at ten and the arithmetic +class at eleven, and gave her reasons for so doing. The teacher assented, and +Beatrice shook hands with her and bade her good-night. She would have wished to +say how much she felt indebted to her for her help in the school, but did not +like to do so, fearing lest, in the light of pending events, the remark might +be viewed with suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Beatrice, these were the only lies she ever told! +</p> + +<p> +She left the teacher’s lodgings, and was about to go down to the beach +and sit there till it was time, when she was met by the father of the crazed +child, Jane Llewellyn. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss Beatrice,” he said, “I have been looking for you +everywhere. We are in sad trouble, miss. Poor Jane is in a raving fit, and +talking about hell and that, and the doctor says she’s dying. Can you +come, miss, and see if you can do anything to quiet her? It’s a matter of +life and death, the doctor says, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice smiled sadly; matters of life and death were in the air. “I will +come,” she said, “but I shall not be able to stay long.” +</p> + +<p> +How could she better spend her last hour? +</p> + +<p> +She accompanied the man to his cottage. The child, dressed only in a +night-shirt, was raving furiously, and evidently in the last stage of +exhaustion, nor could the doctor or her mother do anything to quiet her. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you see,” she screamed, pointing to the wall, +“there’s the Devil waiting for me? And, oh, there’s the mouth +of hell where the minister said I should go! Oh, hold me, hold me, hold +me!” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice walked up to her, took the thin little hands in hers, and looked her +fixedly in the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Jane,” she said. “Jane, don’t you know me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss Granger,” she said, “I know the lesson; I will say +it presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice took her in her arms, and sat down on the bed. Quieter and quieter +grew the child till suddenly an awful change passed over her face. +</p> + +<p> +“She is dying,” whispered the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold me close, hold me close!” said the child, whose senses +returned before the last eclipse. “Oh, Miss Granger, I shan’t go to +hell, shall I? I am afraid of hell.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, love, no; you will go to heaven.” +</p> + +<p> +Jane lay still awhile. Then seeing the pale lips move, Beatrice put her ear to +the child’s mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come with me?” she murmured; “I am afraid to go +alone.” +</p> + +<p> +And Beatrice, her great grey eyes fixed steadily on the closing eyes beneath, +whispered back so that no other soul could hear except the dying child: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will come presently.” But Jane heard and understood. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise,” said the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I promise,” answered Beatrice in the same inaudible whisper. +“Sleep, dear, sleep; I will join you very soon.” +</p> + +<p> +And the child looked up, shivered, smiled—and slept. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice gave it back to the weeping parents and went her way. “What a +splendid creature,” said the doctor to himself as he looked after her. +“She has eyes like Fate, and the face of Motherhood Incarnate. A great +woman, if ever I saw one, but different from other women.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Beatrice made her way to old Edward’s boat-shed. As she +expected, there was nobody there, and nobody on the beach. Old Edward and his +son were at tea, with the rest of Bryngelly. They would come back after dark +and lock up the boat-house. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at the sea. There were no waves, but the breeze freshened every +minute, and there was a long slow swell upon the water. The rollers would be +running beyond the shelter of Rumball Point, five miles away. +</p> + +<p> +The tide was high; it mounted to within ten yards of the end of the boat-house. +She opened the door, and dragged out her canoe, closing the door again after +her. The craft was light, and she was strong for a woman. Close to the +boat-house one of the timber breakwaters, which are common at sea-side places, +ran down into the water. She dragged the canoe to its side, and then pushed it +down the beach till its bow was afloat. Next, mounting on the breakwater, she +caught hold of the little chain in the bow, and walking along the timber +baulks, pulled with all her force till the canoe was quite afloat. On she went, +dragging it after her, till the waves washing over the breakwater wetted her +shoes. +</p> + +<p> +Then she brought the canoe quite close, and, watching her opportunity, stepped +into it, nearly falling into the water as she did so. But she recovered her +balance, and sat down. In another minute she was paddling out to sea with all +her strength. +</p> + +<p> +For twenty minutes or more she paddled unceasingly. Then she rested awhile, +only keeping the canoe head on to the sea, which, without being rough, was +running more and more freshly. There, some miles away, was the dark mass of +Rumball Point. She must be off it before the night closed in. There would be +sea enough there; no such craft as hers could live in it for five minutes, and +the tide was on the turn. Anything sinking in those waters would be carried far +away, and never come back to the shore of Wales. +</p> + +<p> +She turned her head and looked at Bryngelly, and the long familiar stretch of +cliff. How fair it seemed, bathed in the quiet lights of summer afternoon. Oh! +was there any afternoon where the child had gone, and where she was following +fast?—or was it all night, black, eternal night, unbroken by the dream of +dear remembered things? +</p> + +<p> +There were the Dog Rocks, where she had stood on that misty autumn day, and +seen the vision of her coffined mother’s face. Surely it was a presage of +her fate. There beyond was the Bell Rock, where in that same hour Geoffrey and +she had met, and behind it was the Amphitheatre, where they had told their +love. Hark! what was that sound pealing faintly at intervals across the deep? +It was the great ship’s bell that, stirred from time to time by the wash +of the high tide, solemnly tolled her passing soul. +</p> + +<p> +She paddled on; the sound of that death-knell shook her nerves, and made her +feel faint and weak. Oh, it would have been easier had she been as she was a +year ago, before she learned to love, and hand in hand had seen faith and hope +re-arise from the depths of her stirred soul. Then being but a heathen, she +could have met her end with all a heathen’s strength, knowing what she +lost, and believing, too, that she would find but sleep. And now it was +otherwise, for in her heart she did not believe that she was about utterly to +perish. What, could the body live on in a thousand forms, changed indeed but +indestructible and immortal, while the spiritual part, with all its hopes and +loves and fears, melted into nothingness? It could not be; surely on some new +shore she should once again greet her love. And if it was not, how would they +meet her in that under world, coming self-murdered, her life-blood on her +hands? Would her mother turn away from her? and the little brother, whom she +had loved, would he reject her? And what Voice of Doom might strike her into +everlasting hopelessness? +</p> + +<p> +But, be the sin what it might, yet would she sin it for the sake of Geoffrey; +ay, even if she must reap a harvest of eternal woe. She bent her head and +prayed. “Oh, Power, that art above, from whom I come, to whom I go, have +mercy on me! Oh, Spirit, if indeed thy name is Love, weigh my love in thy +balance, and let it lift the scale of sin. Oh, God of Sacrifice, be not wroth +at my deed of sacrifice and give me pardon, give me life and peace, that in a +time to come I may win the sight of him for whom I die.” +</p> + +<p> +A somewhat heathenish prayer indeed, and far too full of human passion for one +about to leave the human shores. But, then—well, it was Beatrice who +prayed—Beatrice, who could realise no heaven beyond the limits of her +passion, who still thought more of her love than of saving her own soul alive. +Perhaps it found a home—perhaps, like her who prayed it, it was lost upon +the pitiless deep. +</p> + +<p> +Then Beatrice prayed no more. Short was her time. See, there sank the sun in +glory; and there the great rollers swept along past the sullen headland, where +the undertow met wind and tide. She would think no more of self; it was, it +seemed to her, so small, this mendicant calling on the Unseen, not for others, +but for self: aid for self, well-being for self, salvation for self—this +doing of good that good might come to self. She had made her prayer, and if she +prayed again it should be for Geoffrey, that he might prosper and be +happy—that he might forgive the trouble her love had brought into his +life. That he might forget her she could not pray. She had prayed her prayer +and said her say, and it was done with. Let her be judged as it seemed good to +Those who judge! Now she would fix her thoughts upon her love, and by its +strength would she triumph over the bitterness of death. Her eyes flashed and +her breast heaved: further out to sea, further yet—she would meet those +rollers a knot or more from the point of the headland, that no record might +remain. +</p> + +<p> +Was it her wrong if she loved him? She could not help it, and she was proud to +love him. Even now, she would not undo the past. What were the lines that +Geoffrey had read to her. They haunted her mind with a strange +persistence—they took time to the beat of her falling paddle, and would +not leave her: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Of once sown seed, who knoweth what the crop is?<br/> +Alas, my love, Love’s eyes are very blind!<br/> +What would they have us do? Sunflowers and poppies<br/> +Stoop to the wind——“[*]<br/> +<br/> +[*] Oliver Madox Brown. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, yes, Love’s eyes are very blind, but in their blindness there was +more light than in all other earthly things. Oh, she could not live for him, +and with him—it was denied to her—but she still could die for him, +her darling, her darling! +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Geoffrey, hear me—I die for you; accept my sacrifice, and forget +me not.” So!—she is in the rollers—how solemn they are with +their hoary heads of foam, as one by one they move down upon her. +</p> + +<p> +The first! it towers high, but the canoe rides it like a cork. Look! the day is +dying on the distant land, but still his glory shines across the sea. Presently +all will be finished. Here the breeze is strong; it tears the bonnet from her +head, it unwinds the coronet of braided locks, and her bright hair streams out +behind her. Feel how the spray stings, striking like a whip. No, not this wave, +she rides that also; she will die as she has lived—fighting to the last; +and once more, never faltering, she sets her face towards the rollers and +consigns her soul to doom. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! that struck her full. Oh, see! Geoffrey’s ring has slipped from her +wet hand, falling into the bottom of the boat. Can she regain it? she would die +with that ring upon her finger—it is her marriage-ring, wedding her +through death to Geoffrey, upon the altar of the sea. She stoops! oh, what a +shock of water at her breast! What was it—what was it?—<i>Of once +sown seed, who knoweth what the crop is?</i> She must soon learn now! +</p> + +<p> +“Geoffrey! hear me, Geoffrey!—I die, I die for you! I will wait for +you at the foundations of the sea, on the topmost heights of heaven, in the +lowest deeps of hell—wherever I am I will always wait for you!” +</p> + +<p> +It sinks—it has sunk—she is alone with God, and the cruel waters. +The sun goes out! Look on that great white wave seething through the deepening +gloom; hear it rushing towards her, big with fate. +</p> + +<p> +“Geoffrey, my darling—I will wait——” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Farewell to Beatrice! The light went out of the sky and darkness gathered on +the weltering sea. Farewell to Beatrice, and all her love and all her sin. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br/> +A WOMAN’S LAST WORD</h2> + +<p> +Geoffrey came down to breakfast about eleven o’clock on the morning of +that day the first hours of which he had spent at Euston Station. Not seeing +Effie, he asked Lady Honoria where she was, and was informed that Anne, the +French <i>bonne</i>, said the child was not well and that she had kept her in +bed to breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to say that you have not been up to see what is the matter +with her?” asked Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not yet,” answered his wife. “I have had the dressmaker +here with my new dress for the duchess’s ball to-morrow; it’s +lovely, but I think that there is a little too much of that creamy lace about +it.” +</p> + +<p> +With an exclamation of impatience, Geoffrey rose and went upstairs. He found +Effie tossing about in bed, her face flushed, her eyes wide open, and her +little hands quite hot. +</p> + +<p> +“Send for the doctor at once,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor came and examined the child, asking her if she had wet her feet +lately. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did, two days ago. I wet my feet in a puddle in the +street,” she answered. “But Anne did say that they would soon get +dry, if I held them to the fire, because my other boots was not clean. Oh, my +head does ache, daddie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the doctor, and then covering the child up, took +Geoffrey aside and told him that his daughter had a mild attack of inflammation +of the lungs. There was no cause for anxiety, only she must be looked after and +guarded from chills. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey asked if he should send for a trained nurse. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” said the doctor. “I do not think it is necessary, +at any rate at present. I will tell the nurse what to do, and doubtless your +wife will keep an eye on her.” +</p> + +<p> +So Anne was called up, and vowed that she would guard the cherished child like +the apple of her eye. Indeed, no, the boots were not wet—there was a +little, a very little mud on them, that was all. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, don’t talk so much, but see that you attend to her +properly,” said Geoffrey, feeling rather doubtful, for he did not trust +Anne. However, he thought he would see himself that there was no neglect. When +she heard what was the matter, Lady Honoria was much put out. +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” she said, “children are the most vexatious +creatures in the world. The idea of her getting inflammation of the lungs in +this unprovoked fashion. The end of it will be that I shall not be able to go +to the duchess’s ball to-morrow night, and she was so kind about it, she +made quite a point of my coming. Besides I have bought that lovely new dress on +purpose. I should never have dreamed of going to so much expense for anything +else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Geoffrey. “The House +does not sit to-morrow; I will look after her. Unless Effie dies in the +interval, you will certainly be able to go to the ball.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dies—what nonsense! The doctor says that it is a very slight +attack. Why should she die?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I hope that there is no fear of anything of the sort, Honoria. +Only she must be properly looked after. I do not trust this woman Anne. I have +half a mind to get in a trained nurse after all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you do, she will have to sleep out of the house, that’s +all. Amelia (Lady Garsington) is coming up to-night, and I must have somewhere +to put her maid, and there is no room for another bed in Effie’s +room.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well, very well,” said Geoffrey, “I daresay that it +will be all right, but if Effie gets any worse, you will please understand that +room must be made.” +</p> + +<p> +But Effie did not get worse. She remained much about the same. Geoffrey sat at +home all day and employed himself in reading briefs; fortunately he had not to +go to court. About six o’clock he went down to the House, and having +dined very simply and quietly, took his seat and listened to some dreary talk, +which was being carried on for the benefit of the reporters, about the adoption +of the Welsh language in the law courts of Wales. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he became aware of a most extraordinary sense of oppression. An +indefinite dread took hold of him, his very soul was filled with terrible +apprehensions and alarm. Something dreadful seemed to knock at the portals of +his sense, a horror which he could not grasp. His mind was confused, but little +by little it grew clearer, and he began to understand that a danger threatened +Beatrice, that she was in great peril. He was sure of it. Her agonised dying +cries reached him where he was, though in no form which he could understand; +once more her thought beat on his thought—once more and for the last time +her spirit spoke to his. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly a cold wind seemed to breathe upon his face and lift his hair, +and everything was gone. His mind was as it had been; again he heard the dreary +orator and saw the members slipping away to dinner. The conditions that +disturbed him had passed, things were as they had been. Nor was this strange! +For the link was broken. Beatrice was <i>dead</i>. She had passed into the +domains of impenetrable silence. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Geoffrey sat up with a gasp, and as he did so a letter was placed in his hand. +It was addressed in Beatrice’s handwriting and bore the Chester postmark. +A chill fear seized him. What did it contain? He hurried with it into a private +room and opened it. It was dated from Bryngelly on the previous Sunday and had +several inclosures. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest Geoffrey,” it began, “I have never before +addressed you thus on paper, nor should I do so now, knowing to what risks such +written words might put you, were it not that occasions may arise (as in this +case) which seem to justify the risk. For when all things are ended between a +man and a woman who are to each other what we have been, then it is well that +the one who goes should speak plainly before speech becomes impossible, if only +that the one who is left should not misunderstand that which has been done. +</p> + +<p> +“Geoffrey, it is probable—it is almost certain—that before +your eyes read these words I shall be where in the body they can never see me +more. I write to you from the brink of the grave; when you read it, it will +have closed over me. +</p> + +<p> +“Geoffrey, I shall be dead. +</p> + +<p> +“I received your dear letter (it is destroyed now) in which you expressed +a wish that I should come away with you to some other country, and I answered +it in eight brief words. I dared not trust myself to write more, nor had I any +time. How could you think that I should ever accept such an offer for my own +sake, when to do so would have been to ruin you? But first I will tell you all +that has happened here.” (Here followed a long and exact description of +those events with which we are already acquainted, including the denunciation +of Beatrice by her sister, the threats of Owen Davies as regards Geoffrey +himself, and the measures which she had adopted to gain time.) +</p> + +<p> +“Further,” the letter continued, “I inclose you your +wife’s letter to me. And here I wish to state that I have not one word to +say against Lady Honoria or her letter. I think that she was perfectly +justified in writing as she did, for after all, dear Geoffrey, you are her +husband, and in loving each other we have offended against her. She tells me +truly that it is my duty to make all further communications between us +impossible. There is only one way to do this, and I take it. +</p> + +<p> +“And now I have spoken enough about myself, nor do I wish to enter into +details that could only give you pain. There will be no scandal, dear, and if +any word should be raised against you after I am gone, I have provided an +answer in the second letter which I have inclosed. You can print it if +necessary; it will be a sufficient reply to any talk. Nobody after reading it +can believe that you were in any way connected with the accident which will +happen. Dear, one word more—still about myself, you see! Do not blame +yourself in this matter, for you are not to blame; of my own free will I do it, +because in the extremity of the circumstances I think it best that one should +go and the other be saved, rather than that both should be involved in a common +ruin. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, do you remember how in that strange vision of mine, I dreamed that +you came and touched me on the breast and showed me light? So it has come to +pass, for you have given me love—that is light; and now in death I shall +seek for wisdom. And this being fulfilled, shall not the rest be fulfilled in +its season? Shall I not sit in those cloudy halls till I see you come to seek +me, the word of wisdom on your lips? And since I cannot have you to myself, and +be all in all to you, why I am glad to go. For here on the world is neither +rest nor happiness; as in my dream, too often does ‘Hope seem to rend her +starry robes.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to go from such a world, in which but one happy thing has +found me—the blessing of your love. I am worn out with the weariness and +struggle, and now that I have lost you I long for rest. I do not know if I sin +in what I do; if so, may I be forgiven. If forgiveness is impossible, so be it! +You will forgive me, Geoffrey, and you will always love me, however wicked I +may be; even if, at the last, you go where I am not, you will remember and love +the erring woman to whom, being so little, you still were all in all. We are +not married, Geoffrey, according to the customs of the world, but two short +days hence I shall celebrate a service that is greater and more solemn than any +of the earth. For Death will be the Priest and that oath which I shall take +will be to all eternity. Who can prophesy of that whereof man has no sure +knowledge? Yet I do believe that in a time to come we shall look again into +each other’s eyes, and kiss each other’s lips, and be one for +evermore. If this is so, it is worth while to have lived and died; if not, +then, Geoffrey, farewell! +</p> + +<p> +“If I may I will always be near you. Listen to the night wind and you +shall hear my voice; look on the stars, you will see my eyes; and my love shall +be as the air you breathe. And when at last the end comes, remember me, for if +I live at all I shall be about you then. What have I more to say? So much, my +dear, that words cannot convey it. Let it be untold; but whenever you hear or +read that which is beautiful or tender, think ‘this is what Beatrice +would have said to me and could not!’ +</p> + +<p> +“You will be a great man, dear, the foremost or one of the foremost of +your age. You have already promised me to persevere to this end: I will not ask +you to promise afresh. Do not be content to accept the world as women must. +Great men do not accept the world; they reform it—and you are of their +number. And when you are great, Geoffrey, you will use your power, not for +self-interest, but to large and worthy ends; you will always strive to help the +poor, to break down oppression from those who have to bear it, and to advance +the honour of your country. You will do all this from your own heart and not +because I ask it of you, but remember that your fame will be my best +monument—though none shall ever know the grave it covers. +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell, farewell, farewell! Oh, Geoffrey, my darling, to whom I have +never been a wife, to whom I am more than any wife—do not forget me in +the long years which are to come. Remember me when others forsake you. Do not +forget me when others flatter you and try to win your love, for none can be to +you what I have been—none can ever love you more than that lost Beatrice +who writes these heavy words to-night, and who will pass away blessing you with +her last breath, to await you, if she may, in the land to which your feet also +draw daily on.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a tear-stained postscript in pencil dated from Paddington Station on +that very morning. +</p> + +<p> +“I journeyed to London to see you, Geoffrey. I could not die without +looking on your face once more. I was in the gallery of the House and heard +your great speech. Your friend found me a place. Afterwards I touched your coat +as you passed by the pillar of the gateway. Then I ran away because I saw your +friend turn and look at me. I shall kiss this letter—just here before I +close it—kiss it there too—it is our last cold embrace. Before the +end I shall put on the ring you gave me—on my hand, I mean. I have always +worn it upon my breast. When I touched you as you passed through the gateway I +thought that I should have broken down and called to you—but I found +strength not to do so. My heart is breaking and my eyes are blind with tears; I +can write no more; I have no more to say. Now once again good-bye. <i>Ave atque +vale</i>—oh, my love!—B.” +</p> + +<p> +The second letter was a dummy. That is to say it purported to be such an +epistle as any young lady might have written to a gentleman friend. It began, +“Dear Mr. Bingham,” and ended, “Yours sincerely, Beatrice +Granger,” was filled with chit-chat, and expressed hopes that he would be +able to come down to Bryngelly again later in the summer, when they would go +canoeing. +</p> + +<p> +It was obvious, thought Beatrice, that if Geoffrey was accused by Owen Davies +or anybody else of being concerned with her mysterious end, the production of +such a frank epistle written two days previously would demonstrate the +absurdity of the idea. Poor Beatrice, she was full of precautions! +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Let him who may imagine the effect produced upon Geoffrey by this heartrending +and astounding epistle! Could Beatrice have seen his face when he had finished +reading it she would never have committed suicide. In a minute it became like +that of an old man. As the whole truth sank into his mind, such an agony of +horror, of remorse, of unavailing woe and hopelessness swept across his soul, +that for a moment he thought his vital forces must give way beneath it, and +that he should die, as indeed in this dark hour he would have rejoiced to do. +Oh, how pitiful it was—how pitiful and how awful! To think of this love, +so passionately pure, wasted on his own unworthiness. To think of this divine +woman going down to lonely death for him—a strong man; to picture her +crouching behind that gateway pillar and touching him as he passed, while he, +the thrice accursed fool, knew nothing till too late; to know that he had gone +to Euston and not to Paddington; to remember the matchless strength and beauty +of the love which he had lost, and that face which he should never see again! +Surely his heart would break. No man could bear it! +</p> + +<p> +And of those cowards who hounded her to death, if indeed she was already dead! +Oh, he would kill Owen Davies—yes, and Elizabeth too, were it not that +she was a woman; and as for Honoria he had done with her. Scandal, what did he +care for scandal? If he had his will there should be a scandal indeed, for he +would beat this Owen Davies, this reptile, who did not hesitate to use a +woman’s terrors to prosper the fulfilling of his lust—yes, and then +drag him to the Continent and kill him there. Only vengeance was left to him! +</p> + +<p> +Stop, he must not give way—perhaps she was not dead—perhaps that +horrible presage of evil which had struck him like a storm was but a dream. +Could he telegraph? No, it was too late; the office at Bryngelly would be +closed—it was past eight now. But he could go. There was a train leaving +a little after nine—he should be there by half-past six to-morrow. And +Effie was ill—well, surely they could look after her for twenty-four +hours; she was in no danger, and he must go—he could not bear this +torturing suspense. Great God! how had she done the deed! +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey snatched a sheet of paper and tried to write. He could not, his hand +shook so. With a groan he rose, and going to the refreshment room swallowed two +glasses of brandy one after another. The spirit took effect on him; he could +write now. Rapidly he scribbled on a sheet of paper: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“I have been called away upon important business and shall probably not +be back till Thursday morning. See that Effie is properly attended to. If I am +not back you must not go to the duchess’s ball.—G<small>EOFFREY</small> +B<small>INGHAM</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he addressed the letter to Lady Honoria and dispatched a commissionaire +with it. This done, he called a cab and bade the cabman drive to Euston as fast +as his horse could go. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br/> +AVE ATQUE VALE</h2> + +<p> +That frightful journey—no nightmare was ever half so awful! But it came +to an end at last—there was the Bryngelly Station. Geoffrey sprang from +the train, and gave his ticket to the porter, glancing in his face as he did +so. Surely if there had been a tragedy the man would know of it, and show signs +of half-joyous emotion as is the fashion of such people when something awful +and mysterious has happened to somebody else. But he showed no such symptoms, +and a glimmer of hope found its way into Geoffrey’s tormented breast. +</p> + +<p> +He left the station and walked rapidly towards the Vicarage. Those who know +what a pitch of horror suspense can reach may imagine his feelings as he did +so. But it was soon to be put an end to now. As he drew near the Vicarage gate +he met the fat Welsh servant girl Betty running towards him. Then hope left +Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +The girl recognised him, and in her confusion did not seem in the least +astonished to see him walking there at a quarter to seven on a summer morning. +Indeed, even she vaguely connected Geoffrey with Beatrice in her mind, for she +at once said in her thick English: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir, do you know where Miss Beatrice is?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered, catching at a railing for support. “Why do +you ask? I have not seen her for weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the girl plunged into a long story. Mr. Granger and Miss Granger were away +from home, and would not be back for another two hours. Miss Beatrice had gone +out yesterday afternoon, and had not come back to tea. She, Betty, had not +thought much of it, believing that she had stopped to spend the evening +somewhere, and, being very tired, had gone to bed about eight, leaving the door +unlocked. This morning, when she woke, it was to find that Miss Beatrice had +not slept in the house that night, and she came out to see if she could find +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Where was she going when she went out?” Geoffrey asked. +</p> + +<p> +She did not know, but she thought that Miss Beatrice was going out in the +canoe. Leastways she had put on her tennis shoes, which she always wore when +she went out boating. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey understood it all now. “Come to the boat-house,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +They went down to the beach, where as yet none were about except a few working +people. Near the boat-house Geoffrey met old Edward walking along with a key in +his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, sir!” he said. “You here, sir! and in that there queer +hat, too. What is it, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did Miss Beatrice go out in her canoe yesterday evening, Edward?” +Geoffrey asked hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir; not as I know on. My boy locked up the boat-house last night, +and I suppose he looked in it first. What! You don’t mean to +say——Stop; we’ll soon know. Oh, Goad! the canoe’s +gone!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a silence, an awful silence. Old Edward broke it. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s drowned, sir—that’s what she is—drowned at +last; and she the finest woman in Wales. I knewed she would be one day, poor +dear! and she the beauty that she was; and all along of that damned unlucky +little craft. Goad help her! She’s drowned, I say——” +</p> + +<p> +Betty burst out into loud weeping at his words. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop that noise, girl,” said Geoffrey, turning his pale face +towards her. “Go back to the Vicarage, and if Mr. Granger comes home +before I get back, tell him what we fear. Edward, send some men to search the +shore towards Coed, and some more in a sailing boat. I will walk towards the +Bell Rock—you can follow me.” +</p> + +<p> +He started and swiftly tramped along the sands, searching the sea with his eye. +On he walked sullenly, desperately striving to hope against hope. On, past the +Dog Rocks, round the long curve of beach till he came to the Amphitheatre. The +tide was high again; he could barely pass the projecting point. He was round +it, and his heart stood still. For there, bottom upwards, and gently swaying to +and fro as the spent waves rocked it, was Beatrice’s canoe. +</p> + +<p> +Sadly, hopelessly, heavily, Geoffrey waded knee deep into the water, and +catching the bow of the canoe, dragged it ashore. There was, or appeared to be, +nothing in it; of course he could not expect anything else. Its occupant had +sunk and been carried out to sea by the ebb, whereas the canoe had drifted back +to shore with the morning tide. +</p> + +<p> +He reared it upon its end to let the water drain out of it, and from the hollow +of the bow arch something came rolling down, something bright and heavy, +followed by a brown object. Hastily he lowered the canoe again, and picked up +the bright trinket. It was his own ring come back to him—the Roman ring +he had given Beatrice, and which she told him in the letter she would wear in +her hour of death. He touched it with his lips and placed it back upon his +hand, this token from the beloved dead, vowing that it should never leave his +hand in life, and that after death it should be buried on him. And so it will +be, perhaps to be dug up again thousands of years hence, and once more to play +a part in the romance of unborn ages. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ave atque vale</i>—that was the inscription rudely cut within its +round. Greeting and farewell—her own last words to him. Oh, Beatrice, +Beatrice! to you also <i>ave atque vale</i>. You could not have sent a fitter +message. Greeting and farewell! Did it not sum it all? Within the circle of +this little ring was writ the epitome of human life: here were the beginning +and the end of Love and Hate, of Hope and Fear, of Joy and Sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice, hail! Beatrice, farewell! till perchance a Spirit rushing earthward +shall cry “<i>Greeting</i>,” in another tongue, and Death, +descending to his own place, shaking from his wings the dew of tears, shall +answer “<i>Farewell to me and Night, ye Children of Eternal +Day!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +And what was this other relic? He lifted it—it was Beatrice’s +tennis shoe, washed from her foot—Geoffrey knew it, for once he had tied +it. +</p> + +<p> +Then Geoffrey broke down—it was too much. He threw himself upon the great +rock and sobbed—that rock where he had sat with her and Heaven had opened +to their sight. But men are not given to such exhibitions of emotion, and +fortunately for him the paroxysm did not last. He could not have borne it for +long. +</p> + +<p> +He rose and went again to the edge of the sea. At this moment old Edward and +his son arrived. Geoffrey pointed to the boat, then held up the little shoe. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the old man, “as I thought. Goad help her! +She’s gone; she’ll never come ashore no more, she won’t. +She’s twenty miles away by now, she is, breast up, with the gulls +a-screaming over her. It’s that there damned canoe, that’s what it +is. I wish to Goad I had broke it up long ago. I’d rather have built her +a boat for nothing, I would. Damn the unlucky craft!” screamed the old +man at the top of his voice, and turning his head to hide the tears that were +streaming down his rugged face. “And her that I nursed and pulled out of +the waters once all but dead. Damn it, I say! There, take that, you Sea Witch, +you!” and he picked up a great boulder and crashed it through the bottom +of the canoe with all his strength. “You shan’t never drown no +more. But it has brought you good luck, it has, sir; you’ll be a fortunit +man all your life now. It has brought you the <i>Drowned One’s +shoe</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t break it any more,” said Geoffrey. “She used to +value it. You had better bring it along between you—it may be wanted. I +am going to the Vicarage.” +</p> + +<p> +He walked back. Mr. Granger and Elizabeth had not yet arrived, but they were +expected every minute. He went into the sitting-room. It was full of memories +and tokens of Beatrice. There lay a novel which he had given her, and there was +yesterday’s paper that she had brought from town, the <i>Standard</i>, +with his speech in it. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey covered his eyes with his hand, and thought. None knew that she had +committed suicide except himself. If he revealed it things might be said of +her; he did not care what was said of him, but he was jealous of her dead name. +It might be said, for instance, that the whole tale was true, and that Beatrice +died because she could no longer face life without being put to an open shame. +Yes, he had better hold his tongue as to how and why she died. She was +dead—nothing could bring her back. But how then should he account for his +presence there? Easily enough. He would say frankly that he came because +Beatrice had written to him of the charges made against her and the threats +against himself—came to find her dead. And on that point he would still +have a word with Owen Davies and Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely had he made up his mind when Elizabeth and her father entered. Clearly +from their faces they had as yet heard nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey rose, and Elizabeth caught sight of him standing with glowing eyes and +a face like that of Death himself. She recoiled in alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“What brings you here, Mr. Bingham?” she said, in her hard voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Cannot you guess, Miss Granger?” he said sternly. “A few +days back you made certain charges against your sister and myself in the +presence of your father and Mr. Owen Davies. These charges have been +communicated to me, and I have come to answer them and to demand satisfaction +for them.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Granger fidgeted nervously and looked as though he would like to escape, +but Elizabeth, with characteristic courage, shut the door and faced the storm. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did make those charges, Mr. Bingham,” she said, “and +they are true charges. But stop, we had better send for Beatrice first.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may send, but you will not find her.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?—what do you mean?” asked her father +apprehensively. +</p> + +<p> +“It means that he has hidden her away, I suppose,” said Elizabeth +with a sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean, Mr. Granger, that your daughter Beatrice is <i>dead</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +For once startled out of her self-command, Elizabeth gave a little cry, while +her father staggered back against the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Dead! dead! What do you mean? How did she die?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That is known to God and her alone,” answered Geoffrey. “She +went out last evening in her canoe. When I arrived here this morning she was +missed for the first time. I walked along the beach and found the canoe and +this inside of it,” and he placed the sodden shoe upon the table. +</p> + +<p> +There was a silence. In the midst of it, Owen Davies burst into the room with +wild eyes and dishevelled hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true?” he cried, “tell me—it cannot be true that +Beatrice is drowned. She cannot have been taken from me just when I was going +to marry her. Say that it is not true!” +</p> + +<p> +A great fury filled Geoffrey’s heart. He walked down the room and shut +the door, a red light swimming before his eyes. Then he turned and gripped Owen +Davies’s shoulder like a vice. +</p> + +<p> +“You accursed blackguard—you unmanly cur!” he said; +“you and that wicked woman,” and he shook his hand at Elizabeth, +“conspired together to bring a slur upon Beatrice. You did more: you +threatened to attack me, to try and ruin me if she would not give herself up to +you. You loathsome hypocrite, you tortured her and frightened her; now I am +here to frighten <i>you</i>. You said that you would make the country ring with +your tales. I tell you this—are you listening to me? If you dare to +mention her name in such a sense, or if that woman dares, I will break every +bone in your wretched body—by Heaven I will kill you!” and he cast +Davies from him, and as he did so, struck him heavily across the face with the +back of his hand. +</p> + +<p> +The man took no notice either of his words or of the deadly insult of the blow. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true?” he screamed, “is it true that she is +dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Geoffrey, following him, and bending his tall square +frame over him, for Davies had fallen against the wall, “yes, it is +true—she is dead—and beyond your reach for ever. Pray to God that +you may not one day be called her murderers, all of you—you shameless +cowards.” +</p> + +<p> +Owen Davies gave one shrill cry and sank in a huddled heap upon the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no God,” he moaned; “God promised her to me, to be +my own—you have killed her; you—you seduced her first and then you +killed her. I believe you killed her. Oh, I shall go mad!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mad or sane,” said Geoffrey, “say those words once more and +I will stamp the life out of you where you are. You say that God promised her +to you—promised that woman to a hound like you. Ah, be careful!” +</p> + +<p> +Owen Davies made no answer. Crouched there upon the ground he rocked himself to +and fro, and moaned in the madness of his baulked desire. +</p> + +<p> +“This man,” said Geoffrey, turning towards and pointing to +Elizabeth, who was glaring at him like a wild cat from the corner of the room, +“said that there is no God. I say that there is a God, and that one day, +soon or late, vengeance will find you out—you murderess, you writer of +anonymous letters; you who, to advance your own wicked ends whatever they may +be, were not ashamed to try to drag your innocent sister’s name into the +dirt. I never believed in a hell till now, but there must be a hell for such as +you, Elizabeth Granger. Go your ways; live out your time; but live every hour +of it in terror of the vengeance that shall come so surely as you shall die. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for you, sir,” he went on, addressing the trembling father. +“I do not blame you so much, because I believe that this viper poisoned +your mind. You might have thought that the tale was true. It is not true; it +was a lie. Beatrice, who now is dead, came into my room in her sleep, and was +carried from it as she came. And you, her father, allowed this villain and your +daughter to use her distress against her; you allowed him to make a lever of +it, with which to force her into a marriage that she loathed. Yes, cover up +your face—you may well do so. Do your worst, one and all of you, but +remember that this time you have to deal with a man who can and will strike +back, not a poor friendless girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before Heaven, it was not my fault, Mr. Bingham,” gasped the old +man. “I am innocent of it. That Judas-woman Elizabeth betrayed her sister +because she wanted to marry him herself,” and he pointed to the Heap upon +the floor. “She thought that it would prejudice him against Beatrice, and +he—he believed that she was attached to you, and tried to work upon her +attachment.” +</p> + +<p> +“So,” said Geoffrey, “now we have it all. And you, sir, stood +by and saw this done. You stood by thinking that you would make a profit of her +agony. Now I will tell you what I meant to hide from you. I did love her. I do +love her—as she loved me. I believe that between you, you drove her to +her grave. Her blood be on your heads for ever and for ever!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, take me home,” groaned the Heap upon the +floor—“take me home, Elizabeth! I daren’t go alone. Beatrice +will haunt me. My brain goes round and round. Take me away, Elizabeth, and stop +with me. You are not afraid of her, you are afraid of nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth sidled up to him, keeping her fierce eyes on Geoffrey all the time. +She was utterly cowed and terrified, but she could still look fierce. She took +the Heap by the hand and drew him thence still moaning and quite crazed. She +led him away to his castle and his wealth. Six months afterwards she came forth +with him to marry him, half-witted as he was. A year and eight months +afterwards she came out again to bury him, and found herself the richest widow +in Wales. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +They went forth, leaving Geoffrey and Mr. Granger alone. The old man rested his +head upon the table and wept bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Be merciful,” he said, “do not say such words to me. I loved +her, indeed I did, but Elizabeth was too much for me, and I am so poor. Oh, if +you loved her also, be merciful! I do not reproach you because you loved her, +although you had no right to love her. If you had not loved her, and made her +love you, all this would never have happened. Why do you say such dreadful +things to me, Mr. Bingham?” +</p> + +<p> +“I loved her, sir,” answered Geoffrey, humbly enough now that his +fury had passed, “because being what she was all who looked on her must +love her. There is no woman left like her in the world. But who am I that I +should blame you? God forgive us all! I only live henceforth in the hope that I +may one day rejoin her where she has gone.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Granger,” said Geoffrey presently, “never trouble +yourself about money. You were her father; anything you want and what I have is +yours. Let us shake hands and say good-bye, and let us never meet again. As I +said, God forgive us all!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you—thank you,” said the old man, looking up through +the white hair that fell about his eyes. “It is a strange world and we +are all miserable sinners. I hope there is a better somewhere. I’m +well-nigh tired of this, especially now that Beatrice has gone. Poor girl, she +was a good daughter and a fine woman. Good-bye. Good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +Then Geoffrey went. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br/> +THE DUCHESS’S BALL</h2> + +<p> +Geoffrey reached Town a little before eleven o’clock that night—a +haunted man—haunted for life by a vision of that face still lovely in +death, floating alone upon the deep, and companioned only by the screaming +mews—or perchance now sinking or sunk to an unfathomable grave. Well +might such a vision haunt a man, the man whom alone of all men those cold lips +had kissed, and for whose dear sake this dreadful thing was done. +</p> + +<p> +He took a cab directing the driver to go to Bolton Street and to stop at his +club as he passed. There might be letters for him there, he +thought—something which would distract his mind a little. As it chanced +there was a letter, marked “private,” and a telegram; both had been +delivered that evening, the porter said, the former about an hour ago by hand. +</p> + +<p> +Idly he opened the telegram—it was from his lawyers: “Your cousin, +the child George Bingham, is, as we have just heard, dead. Please call on us +early to-morrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +He started a little, for this meant a good deal to Geoffrey. It meant a +baronetcy and eight thousand a year, more or less. How delighted Honoria would +be, he thought with a sad smile; the loss of that large income had always been +a bitter pill to her, and one which she had made him swallow again and again. +Well, there it was. Poor boy, he had always been ailing—an old +man’s child! +</p> + +<p> +He put the telegram in his pocket and got into the hansom again. There was a +lamp in it and by its light he read the letter. It was from the Prime Minister +and ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“M<small>Y DEAR</small> B<small>INGHAM</small>,—I have not seen you since Monday to thank you for +the magnificent speech you made on that night. Allow me to add my +congratulations to those of everybody else. As you know, the Under +Secretaryship of the Home Office is vacant. On behalf of my colleagues and +myself I write to ask if you will consent to fill it for a time, for we do not +in any way consider that the post is one commensurate with your abilities. It +will, however, serve to give you practical experience of administration, and us +the advantage of your great talents to an even larger extent than we now enjoy. +For the future, it must of course take care of itself; but, as you know, Sir +——‘s health is not all that could be desired, and the other +day he told me that it was doubtful if he would be able to carry on the duties +of the Attorney-Generalship for very much longer. In view of this contingency I +venture to suggest that you would do well to apply for silk as soon as +possible. I have spoken to the Lord Chancellor about it, and he says that there +will be no difficulty, as although you have only been in active practice for so +short a while, you have a good many years’ standing as a barrister. Or if +this prospect does not please doubtless some other opening to the Cabinet can +be found in time. The fact is, that we cannot in our own interest overlook you +for long.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey smiled again as he finished this letter. Who could have believed a +year ago that he would have been to-day in a position to receive such an +epistle from the Prime Minister of England? Ah, here was the luck of the +Drowned One’s shoe with a vengeance. And what was it all worth to him +now? +</p> + +<p> +He put the letter in his pocket with the telegram and looked out. They were +turning into Bolton Street. How was little Effie, he wondered? The child seemed +all that was left him to care for. If anything happened to her—bah, he +would not think of it! +</p> + +<p> +He was there now. “How is Miss Effie?” he asked of the servant who +opened the door. At that moment his attention was attracted by the dim forms of +two people, a man and a woman, who were standing not far from the area gate, +the man with his arm round the woman’s waist. Suddenly the woman appeared +to catch sight of the cab and retired swiftly down the area. It crossed his +mind that her figure was very like that of Anne, the French nurse. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Effie is doing nicely, sir, I’m told,” answered the +man. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey breathed more freely. “Where is her ladyship?” he asked. +“In Effie’s room?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” answered the man, “her ladyship has gone to a +ball. She left this note for you in case you should come in.” +</p> + +<p> +He took the note from the hall table and opened it. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“D<small>EAR</small> G<small>EOFFREY</small>,” it ran, “Effie is so much better that I have +made up my mind to go to the duchess’s ball after all. She would be so +disappointed if I did not come, and my dress is quite <i>lovely</i>. Had your +mysterious business anything to do with <i>Bryngelly</i>?—Yours, H<small>ONORIA</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +“She would go on to a ball from her mother’s funeral,” said +Geoffrey to himself, as he walked up to Effie’s room; “well, it is +her nature and there’s an end of it.” +</p> + +<p> +He knocked at the door of Effie’s room. There was no answer, so he walked +in. The room was lit but empty—no, not quite! On the floor, clothed only +in her white night-shirt, lay his little daughter, to all appearance dead. +</p> + +<p> +With something like an oath he sprang to her and lifted her. The face was pale +and the small hands were cold, but the breast was still hot and fevered, and +the heart beat. A glance showed him what had happened. The child being left +alone, and feeling thirsty, had got out of bed and gone to the water +bottle—there was the tumbler on the floor. Then weakness had overcome her +and she had fainted—fainted upon the cold floor with the inflammation +still on her. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Anne entered the room sweetly murmuring, “Ça va bien, +chérie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Help me to put the child into bed,” said Geoffrey sternly. +“Now ring the bell—ring it again. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, woman—go. Leave this house at once, this very night. Do +you hear me? No, don’t stop to argue. Look here! If that child dies I +will prosecute you for manslaughter; yes, I saw you in the street,” and +he took a step towards her. Then Anne fled, and her face was seen no more in +Bolton Street or indeed in this country. +</p> + +<p> +“James,” said Geoffrey to the servant, “send the cook up +here—she is a sensible woman; and do you take a hansom and drive to the +doctor, and tell him to come here at once, and if you cannot find him go for +another doctor. Then go to the Nurses’ Home, near St. James’ +Station, and get a trained nurse—tell them one must be had from somewhere +instantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. And shall I call for her ladyship at the duchess’s, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered, frowning heavily, “do not disturb her +ladyship. Go now.” +</p> + +<p> +“That settles it,” said Geoffrey, as the man went. “Whatever +happens, Honoria and I must part. I have done with her.” +</p> + +<p> +He had indeed, though not in the way he meant. It would have been well for +Honoria if her husband’s contempt had not prevented him from summoning +her from her pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +The cook came up, and between them they brought the child back to life. +</p> + +<p> +She opened her eyes and smiled. “Is that you, daddy,” she +whispered, “or do I dreams?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, it is I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where has you been, daddy—to see Auntie Beatrice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, love,” he said, with a gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, daddy, my head do feel funny; but I don’t mind now you is come +back. You won’t go away no more, will you, daddy?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, dear, no more.” +</p> + +<p> +After that she began to wander a little, and finally dropped into a troubled +sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Within half an hour both the doctor and the nurse arrived. The former listened +to Geoffrey’s tale and examined the child. +</p> + +<p> +“She may pull through it,” he said, “she has got a capital +constitution; but I’ll tell you what it is—if she had lain another +five minutes in that draught there would have been an end of her. You came in +the nick of time. And now if I were you I should go to bed. You can do no good +here, and you look dreadfully ill yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +But Geoffrey shook his head. He said he would go downstairs and smoke a pipe. +He did not want to go to bed at present; he was too tired. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Meanwhile the ball went merrily. Lady Honoria never enjoyed herself more in her +life. She revelled in the luxurious gaiety around her like a butterfly in the +sunshine. How good it all was—the flash of diamonds, the odour of costly +flowers, the homage of well-bred men, the envy of other women. Oh! it was a +delightful world after all—that is when one did not have to exist in a +flat near the Edgware Road. But Heaven be praised! thanks to Geoffrey’s +talents, there was an end of flats and misery. After all, he was not a bad sort +of husband, though in many ways a perfect mystery to her. As for his little +weakness for the Welsh girl, really, provided that there was no scandal, she +did not care twopence about it. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am so glad you admire it. I think it is rather a nice dress, but +then I always say that nobody in London can make a dress like Madame Jules. Oh, +no, Geoffrey did not choose it; he thinks of other things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m sure you ought to be proud of him, Lady Honoria,” +said the handsome Guardsman to whom she was talking; “they say at mess +that he is one of the cleverest men in England. I only wish I had a fiftieth +part of his brains.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, please do not become clever, Lord Atleigh; please don’t, or I +shall really give you up. Cleverness is all very well, but it isn’t +everything, you know. Yes, I will dance if you like, but you must go slowly; to +be quite honest, I am afraid of tearing my lace in this crush. Why, I declare +there is Garsington, my brother, you know,” and she pointed to a small +red-haired man who was elbowing his way towards them. “I wonder what he +wants; it is not at all in his line to come to balls. You know him, don’t +you? he is always racing horses, like you.” +</p> + +<p> +But the Guardsman had vanished. For reasons of his own he did not wish to meet +Garsington. Perhaps he too had been a member of a certain club. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there you are, Honoria,” said her brother, “I thought +that I should be sure to find you somewhere in this beastly squash. Look here, +I have something to tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good news or bad?” said Lady Honoria, playing with her fan. +“If it is bad, keep it, for I am enjoying myself very much, and I +don’t want my evening spoilt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trust you for that, Honoria; but look here, it’s jolly good, about +as good as can be for that prig of a husband of yours. What do you think? that +brat of a boy, the son of old Sir Robert Bingham and the cook or some one, you +know, is——” +</p> + +<p> +“Not dead, not dead?” said Honoria in deep agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“Dead as ditch-water,” replied his lordship. “I heard it at +the club. There was a lawyer fellow there dining with somebody there, and they +got talking about Bingham, when the lawyer said, ‘Oh, he’s Sir +Geoffrey Bingham now. Old Sir Robert’s heir is dead. I saw the telegram +myself.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, this is almost too good to be true,” said Honoria. “Why, +it means eight thousand a year to us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you it was pretty good,” said her brother. “You ought +to stand me a commission out of the swag. At any rate, let’s go and drink +to the news. Come on, it is time for supper and I am awfully done. I must screw +myself up.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Honoria took his arm. As they walked down the wide flower-hung stair they +met a very great Person indeed, coming up. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Lady Honoria,” said the great Person, “I have something +to say that will please you, I think,” and he bent towards her, and spoke +very low, then, with a little bow, passed on. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the old boy talking about?” asked her brother. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what do you think? We are in luck’s way to-night. He says +that they are offering Geoffrey the Under Secretaryship of the Home +Office.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll be a bigger prig than ever now,” growled Lord +Garsington. “Yes, it is luck though; let us hope it won’t +turn.” +</p> + +<p> +They sat down to supper, and Lord Garsington, who had already been dining, +helped himself pretty freely to champagne. Before them was a silver candelabra +and on each of the candles was fixed a little painted paper shade. One of them +got wrong, and a footman tried to reach over Lord Garsington’s head to +put it straight. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do it,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; let the man,” said Lady Honoria. “Look! it is going +to catch fire!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” he answered, rising solemnly and reaching his arm +towards the shade. As he touched it, it caught fire; indeed, by touching it he +caused it to catch fire. He seized hold of it, and made an effort to put it +out, but it burnt his fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“Curse the thing!” he said aloud, and threw it from him. It fell +flaming in his sister’s dress among the thickest of the filmy laces; they +caught, and instantly two wreathing snakes of fire shot up her. She sprang from +her seat and rushed screaming down the room, an awful mass of flame! +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +In ten more minutes Lady Honoria had left this world and its pleasures to those +who still lived to taste them. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +An hour passed. Geoffrey still sat brooding heavily over his pipe in the study +in Bolton Street and waiting for Honoria, when a knock came to his door. The +servants had all gone to bed, all except the sick nurse. He rose and opened it +himself. A little red-haired, pale-faced man staggered in. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Garsington, is it you? What do you want at this hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“Screw yourself up, Bingham, I’ve something to tell you,” he +answered in a thick voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? another disaster, I suppose. Is somebody else dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; somebody is. Honoria’s dead. Burnt to death at the +ball.” +</p> + +<p> +“Great God! Honoria burnt to death. I had better go——” +</p> + +<p> +“I advise you not, Bingham. I wouldn’t go to the hospital if I were +you. Screw yourself up, and if you can, give me something to +drink—I’m about done—I must screw myself up.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +And here we may leave this most fortunate and gifted man. Farewell to Geoffrey +Bingham. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"> +ENVOI. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, then, did these human atoms work out their destinies, these little grains +of animated dust, blown hither and thither by a breath which came they knew not +whence. +</p> + +<p> +If there be any malicious Principle among the Powers around us that deigns to +find amusement in the futile vagaries of man, well might it laugh, and laugh +again, at the great results of all this scheming, of all these desires, loves +and hates; and if there be any pitiful Principle, well might it sigh over the +infinite pathos of human helplessness. Owen Davies lost in his own passion; +Geoffrey crowned with prosperity and haunted by undying sorrow; Honoria +perishing wretchedly in her hour of satisfied ambition; Beatrice sacrificing +herself in love and blindness, and thereby casting out her joy. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, if she had been content to humbly trust in the Providence above her; if she +had but left that deed undared for one short week! +</p> + +<p> +But Geoffrey still lived, and the child recovered, after hanging for a while +between life and death, and was left to comfort him. May she survive to be a +happy wife and mother, living under conditions more favourable to her +well-being than those which trampled out the life of that mistaken woman, the +ill-starred, great-souled Beatrice, and broke her father’s heart. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Say—what are we? We are but arrows winged with fears and shot from +darkness into darkness; we are blind leaders of the blind, aimless beaters of +this wintry air; lost travellers by many stony paths ending in one end. Tell +us, you, who have outworn the common tragedy and passed the narrow way, what +lies beyond its gate? You are dumb, or we cannot hear you speak. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +But Beatrice knows to-day! +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE END +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEATRICE ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 3096-h.htm or 3096-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/9/3096/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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