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diff --git a/3096-0.txt b/3096-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d1c097 --- /dev/null +++ b/3096-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12284 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Beatrice, by H. Rider Haggard + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: Beatrice + +Author: H. Rider Haggard + +Release Date: December 27, 2000 [eBook #3096] +[Most recently updated: April 23, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: John Bickers, Dagny and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEATRICE *** + + + + +Beatrice + +by H. Rider Haggard + +First Published in 1893. + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. A MIST WRAITH + CHAPTER II. AT THE BELL ROCK + CHAPTER III. A CONFESSION OF FAITH + CHAPTER IV. THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR + CHAPTER V. ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL + CHAPTER VI. OWEN DAVIES AT HOME + CHAPTER VII. A MATRIMONIAL TALE + CHAPTER VIII. EXPLANATORY + CHAPTER IX. WHAT BEATRICE DREAMED + CHAPTER X. LADY HONORIA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS + CHAPTER XI. BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT + CHAPTER XII. THE WRITING ON THE SAND + CHAPTER XIII. GEOFFREY LECTURES + CHAPTER XIV. DRIFTING + CHAPTER XV. ONLY GOOD-NIGHT + CHAPTER XVI. THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD + CHAPTER XVII. GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE + CHAPTER XVIII. THE RISING STAR + CHAPTER XIX. GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR + CHAPTER XX. BACK AT BRYNGELLY + CHAPTER XXI. THE THIRD APPEAL + CHAPTER XXII. A NIGHT OF STORM + CHAPTER XXIII. A DAWN OF RAIN + CHAPTER XXIV. LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD + CHAPTER XXV. ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH + CHAPTER XXVI. WHAT BEATRICE SWORE + CHAPTER XXVII. THE HOUSE OF COMMONS + CHAPTER XXVIII. I WILL WAIT FOR YOU + CHAPTER XXIX. A WOMAN’S LAST WORD + CHAPTER XXX. AVE ATQUE VALE + CHAPTER XXXI. THE DUCHESS’S BALL + + + + +TO +BEATRICE + + +“Oh, kind is Death that Life’s long trouble closes, +Yet at Death’s coming Life shrinks back affright; +It sees the dark hand,—not that it encloses +A cup of light. + +So oft the Spirit seeing Love draw nigh +As ‘neath the shadow of destruction, quakes, +For Self, dark tyrant of the Soul, must die, +When Love awakes. + +Aye, let him die in darkness! But for thee,— +Breathe thou the breath of morning and be free!” + +Rückert. Translated by F. W. B. + + + + + BEATRICE + + + + +CHAPTER I. +A MIST WRAITH + + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +AT THE BELL ROCK + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Hi!” he shouted in stentorian tones. “Hullo there!” + +“Yes,” answered a woman’s gentle voice across the waters. + +“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——” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She picked up the dead bird and paddled towards the dim figure who was +evidently wrestling with something, she could not see what. + +“Here is the curlew, sir,” she said. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“That is scarcely the point,” replied the Crusoe on the rock. “The +point is to bring them home. _Après cela——_” + +“The birdstuffer?” said the voice. + +“No,” answered Crusoe, “the cook——” + +A laugh came back from the canoe—and then a question. + +“Pray, Mr. Bingham, can you tell me where I am? I have quite lost my +reckoning in the mist.” + +He started. How did this mysterious young lady in a boat know his name? + +“You are at the Red Rocks; there is the bell, that grey thing, +Miss—Miss——” + +“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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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. + +While he was wondering what she meant by that dark saying, she went on +quickly: + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No, no,” she answered earnestly, “it is very dangerous swimming here; +the place is full of sharp rocks, and there is a tremendous current.” + +“Well, then, what is to be done? Will your canoe carry two? If so, +perhaps you would kindly put me ashore?” + +“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.” + +“Really,” he said, “you are very good.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Nonsense,” he said sharply. “I will not allow you to paddle me for +five miles.” + +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. + +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. + +“Be careful or you will upset us,” she said, leaning forward and +stretching out her hand for him to support himself by. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +A CONFESSION OF FAITH + + +“Are you ready?” he said, recovering himself from the pleasing shock of +this serge-draped vision of the mist. + +“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.” + +“All right,” he answered, and they started gaily enough, the light +canoe gliding swiftly forward beneath his sturdy strokes. + +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. + +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. + +“Do you do much of this kind of thing, Miss Granger?” he said with a +gasp, “because it is rather hard work.” + +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.” + +“College? What college? Girton?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Do you?” he asked. + +“Yes, certainly.” + +“Have you learnt anything?” + +“I have taught myself a little and picked up something at the college. +But I have no real knowledge, only a smattering of things.” + +“What do you know—French and German?” + +“Yes.” + +“Latin?” + +“Yes, I know something of it.” + +“Greek?” + +“I can read it fairly, but I am not a Greek scholar.” + +“Mathematics?” + +“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 _x_ +always equals an unknown quantity, which is never ascertained till you +are dead.” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps you have read law too?” he said with suppressed sarcasm. + +“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——” + +“No, I’m sure I cannot,” he answered. “I’m not a Chancery man. I am +Common law, and _I_ don’t take all knowledge for _my_ province. You +positively alarm me, Miss Granger. I wonder that the canoe does not +sink beneath so much learning.” + +“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.” + +“Dear me, what a reposeful prospect,” said Geoffrey, aghast. He had +certainly never met such a woman as this before. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Then why did you suddenly begin to work?” + +“Because I lost my prospects, Miss Granger—from necessity, in short.” + +“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?” + +“Indeed! Some people don’t think so. Why is it lucky?” + +“Because you will now rise and become a great man, and that is more +than being a rich man.” + +“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. + +“Oh! because it is written on your face,” she answered simply. + +Her words rang true; there was no flattery or artifice in them. +Geoffrey felt that the girl was saying just what she thought. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“I think the weather is breaking; we are going to have a storm,” said +Beatrice, a little anxiously. + +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. + +“Oh, how beautiful it is!” she cried, raising herself and pointing to +the glory of the dying sun. + +“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. + +“It is like——” she began, and broke off suddenly. + +“What is it like?” he asked. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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 +_that_, if only _I_ could express myself.” + +Beatrice dropped poetry, and came down to facts in a way that was very +commendable. + +“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.” + +“Yes, _if_ 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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“This will not do,” he called. “I must keep her head to the sea or we +shall be swamped.” + +“Yes,” she answered, “keep her head up. We are in great danger.” + +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 _snapped_. 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. + +“Great heavens!” he cried, “the paddle is broken.” + +Beatrice gasped. + +“You must use the other blade,” she said; “paddle first one side and +then on the other, and keep her head on.” + +“Till we sink,” he answered. + +“No, till we are saved—never talk of sinking.” + +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. + +“Have you got any cartridges?” she asked presently. + +“Yes, in my coat pocket,” he answered. + +“Give me two, if you can manage it,” she said. + +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. + +“Give me some more cartridges,” she cried. He did so, but nothing +followed. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Are you afraid?” he asked of Beatrice. + +“No,” she answered, “I am not afraid.” + +“Do you know that we shall probably be drowned?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I cannot pray,” she said; “I have nothing to pray to. I am not a +Christian.” + +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. + +“Try,” he said with a gasp. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Where are we drifting to?” he cried. + +“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.” + +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. + +The canoe rode towards the breakers, sucked upon its course by a +swelling sea. + +“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. + +“Good-bye,” she cried, clinging to his hand. “Oh, why did I bring you +into this?” + +For in their last extremity this woman thought rather of her companion +in peril than of herself. + +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. + +A swift and mighty rush of water. Crash!—and his senses left him. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It was on them. + +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. + +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. + +It would have been better if she had let him go. + +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. + + +“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.” + +“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!” + +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. + +The old man in the bow peered out into the gloom. He was shaking, not +with cold but with agitation. + +Presently he turned his head with a yell. + +“Give way—give way! there’s something on the wave.” + +The men obeyed with a will. + +“Back,” he roared again—“back water!” + +They backed, and the boat answered, but nothing was to be seen. + +“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.” + +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. + +“I have her—lend an hand, lads.” + +Another man scrambled forward and together they clutched the object in +the water. + +“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, _steady, steady!_” + +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. + +“They’re dead, I doubt,” said the second man. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Have you got Miss Beatrice?” shouted a voice. + +“Ay, we’ve got her and another too, but I doubt they’re gone. Where’s +doctor?” + +“Here, here!” answered a voice. “Bring the stretchers.” + +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. + +The stretchers were brought and the two bodies laid upon them, face +downwards and covered over. + +“Where to?” said the bearers as they seized the poles. + +“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.” + +The men started at a trot and the crowd ran after them. + +“Who is the other?” somebody asked. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Don’t be so foolish, father,” said Elizabeth sharply. “They may only +be insensible.” + +“Ah, ah,” he answered; “it does not matter to you, _you_ 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?” + +“How can I tell till I have seen her?” the doctor answered, roughly +shaking him off, and passing through the door. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“He’s all right now!” called the assistant to his employer. “He’s +swearing beautifully.” + +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. + +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. + +“Well, dear,” she said, “I am so glad that you are better. You +frightened me out of my wits. I thought you were drowned.” + +“Thank you, Honoria,” he said faintly, and then groaned as a fresh +attack of tingling pain shook him through and through. + +“I hope nobody said anything to Effie,” Geoffrey said presently. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Please go and tell her, Honoria,” said her husband. + +“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.” + +“Good-bye, Honoria,” said her husband with a faint smile. + +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. + +“He is safe now, is he not?” she asked. “It will not matter if I go +away.” + +“No, my lady,” answered the assistant, “he is out of danger, I think; +it will not matter at all.” + +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. + +Lady Honoria shuddered. She could not bear such sights. “Will it be +necessary for me to come back to-night?” she said. + +“I do not think so,” he answered, “unless you care to hear whether Miss +Granger recovers?” + +“I shall hear that in the morning,” she said. “Poor thing, I cannot +help her.” + +“No, Lady Honoria, you cannot help her. She saved your husband’s life, +they say.” + +“She must be a brave girl. Will she recover?” + +The assistant shook his head. “She may, possibly. It is not likely +now.” + +“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. + +Outside the door a small knot of sympathisers was still gathered, +notwithstanding the late hour and the badness of the weather. + +“That’s his wife,” said one, and they opened to let her pass. + +“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.” + +“Ay, you’d have killed him with your hugging, you would,” somebody +answered. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Do you mean Miss Granger?” she asked. + +“Yes, of course. Beatrice—Miss Granger?” + +“They do not know, but they think——” + +“Yes, yes—they think——” + +“That she is dead.” + +The man said never a word. He dropped his head upon his breast and, +turning, vanished again into the shadow of the pines. + +“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.” + +From all of which it will be seen that Lady Honoria was not wanting in +certain romantic and artistical perceptions. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL + + +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! + +For some minutes the assistant did not enter. He was helping in another +room. At last he came. + +“What did you say to Lady Honoria?” Geoffrey asked feebly. “Did you say +that Miss Granger had saved me?” + +“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.” + +“Great heavens!” he groaned, “and my weight must have dragged her down. +Is she dead, then?” + +“We cannot quite say yet, not for certain. We think that she is.” + +“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.” + +“Very well. I will send a woman to watch you,” and he went. + +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! + +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. + +“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!” + +“Do be quiet, father,” said Elizabeth sharply. + +“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.” + +“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. + +Meanwhile without intermission the work went on. + +“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.” + +“Patience,” said the doctor. “If necessary I shall go on for four—or +till I drop,” he added. + +Ten minutes more passed. Everybody knew that the task was hopeless, but +still they hoped. + +“Great Heavens!” said the assistant presently, starting back from the +body and pointing at its face. “Did you see that?” + +Elizabeth and Mr. Granger sprang to their feet, crying, “What, what?” + +“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.” + +“So did I,” answered Williams as he obeyed. + +“Full power,” said the doctor again. “It is kill or cure now.” + +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. + +“Let me die,” she gasped faintly. “I cannot bear it. Oh, let me die!” + +“Hush,” said the doctor; “you will be better presently.” + +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. + +“Dr. Chambers,” she whispered, “was he drowned?” + +“No, he is safe; he has been brought round.” + +She sighed—a long-drawn sigh, half of pain, half of relief. Then she +spoke again. + +“Was he washed ashore?” + +“No, no. You saved his life. You had hold of him when they pulled you +out. Now drink this and go to sleep.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +This remark seemed to encourage the man, at any rate he did knock. +Presently the door was opened by Elizabeth. + +“Go away,” she said in her sharp voice; “the house must be kept quiet.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Oh, since they brought them up. But is it true?” + +“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.” + +“Not at all. It seemed so awful, and—I—I take such an interest——” and +he broke off. + +“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. + +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?” + +“I believe so,” answered Elizabeth. + +“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?” + +“How should I know?” she answered with a shrug. “Beatrice saved his +life somehow, clung fast to him even after she was insensible.” + +“It is very wonderful. I never heard of such a thing. What is he like?” + +“He is one of the finest-looking men I ever saw,” answered Elizabeth, +always watching him. + +“Ah. But he is married, I think, Miss Granger?” + +“Oh, yes, he is married to the daughter of a peer, very much +married—and very little, I should say.” + +“I do not quite understand, Miss Granger.” + +“Don’t you, Mr. Davies? then use your eyes when you see them together.” + +“I should not see anything. I am not quick like you,” he added. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Good-night, Mr. Davies.” + +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?” + +“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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Who was that at the front?” he asked, carefully closing the door. + +“Mr. Davies of Bryngelly Castle, father.” + +“And what did Mr. Davies want at this time of night? To know about +Beatrice?” + +“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.” + +“Waiting outside for three hours in the rain,” said the clergyman +astonished—“Squire Davies standing outside the house! What for?” + +“Because he was so anxious about Beatrice and did not like to come in, +I suppose.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Elizabeth, very deliberately, “we have.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +OWEN DAVIES AT HOME + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +As a last resource, the lawyer suggested that Mr. Davies should make a +will. + +“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.” + +The lawyer stared. “Very well,” he said; “it is against my advice, but +you must please yourself. Do you want any money?” + +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.” + +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!” + +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. + +“Do you want to get to the Castle, sir?” she asked in a low sweet +voice, the echoes of which Owen Davies never forgot. + +“Yes—oh, I beg your pardon,” for now for the first time he saw that he +was talking to a young lady. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Have he got papers of identification about him, miss?” he asked in a +stage whisper. + +“I don’t know,” she answered laughing. “He says that he is Mr. Owen +Davies.” + +“Well, praps he is and praps he ain’t; anyway, it isn’t my affair, and +sixpence is sixpence.” + +All of this the unfortunate Mr. Davies overheard, and it did not add to +his equanimity. + +“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. + +“Now, sir,” said Edward still more sternly, putting down his hesitation +to an impostor’s consciousness of guilt. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Oh, very well,” she said, “I will come.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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.” + +Presently the door was opened by an active-looking little old woman +with a high voice. + +“Mrs. Thomas,” thought Owen to himself; “she is even worse than I +expected.” + +“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?” + +Beatrice looked at her companion as a hint that he should explain +himself, but he said nothing. + +“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.” + +“Lord, Miss Beatrice, and how do you know it’s him?” said Mrs. Thomas. +“How do you know it ain’t a housebreaker?” + +“Oh, I’m sure he cannot be,” answered Beatrice aside, “because he isn’t +clever enough.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Haven’t you got any letters with you?” suggested Beatrice as a last +resource. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Times_ 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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +A MATRIMONIAL TALE + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What is the matter?” answered that young gentleman, jumping up with +the alacrity of one accustomed to be suddenly awakened. “Do you feel +queer?” + +“Yes, I do rather,” answered Geoffrey, “but it isn’t that. There is +somebody crying outside here.” + +The doctor put on his coat, and, going to the window, drew the blind. + +“Why, so there is,” he said. “It’s a little girl with yellow hair and +without a hat.” + +“A little girl,” answered Geoffrey. “Why, it must be Effie, my +daughter. Please let her in.” + +“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. + +“Effie,” she sobbed in answer, “Effie Bingham. I’ve come to look for +daddie.” + +“All right, my dear, don’t cry so; your daddie is here. Come and let me +lift you in.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“And how did you find me, my poor little dear?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“You must go back to Mrs. Jones, Effie, and tell your mother where you +have been.” + +“I can’t, daddie, I’ve only got one shoe,” she answered, pouting. + +“But you came with only one shoe.” + +“Yes, daddie, but I wanted to come and I don’t want to go back. Tell me +how you was drownded.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Yes,” he answered, laughing, “and so is my body. Shall I be able to go +home to-day?” + +“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.” + +“I am most grateful,” he answered earnestly. “Shall I be able to see +her to-day?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“What is it, Effie?” he asked. + +“I think,” replied Effie in evident trepidation, “I think that I hear +mother outside and Anne too.” + +“Well, dear, they have come to see me.” + +“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. + +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 _bonne_, who held up +her hands and ejaculated, “Mon Dieu!” as she appeared. + +“I thought so,” said Lady Honoria, speaking in French to the _bonne_. +“There she is,” and she pointed at the runaway Effie with her parasol. + +“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!” + +“Hold your tongue,” said Geoffrey sharply, “and leave Miss Effie alone. +She came to see me.” + +Anne ejaculated, “Mon Dieu!” once more and collapsed. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“If ever we have another child——” he began gently. + +“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. _One_ darling is +ample for me.” + +“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. + +“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 +_sabots_—and as to heart——” + +“Well,” broke in Geoffrey, reflecting that bad as was the emotional +side of the question, it was better than the commercial—“as to +‘heart?’” + +“You are scarcely the person to talk of it, that is all. I wonder how +much of yours you gave _me_?” + +“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. + +“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_ should prefer a little less heart +and a little more common sense.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Very probably not,” she answered calmly, “and it is not _my_ 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——” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“If you have quite finished, Geoffrey, there is something I should like +to say——” + +“Oh, curse it all!” he broke in. + +“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.” + +“You know my reasons very well, Honoria.” + +“I beg your pardon. I have not the slightest idea what they were,” said +Lady Honoria with conviction. “May I hear them?” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“Do what suits you, Honoria. Perhaps you would prefer not returning at +all.” + +“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. + +For a minute or two her husband felt as though he almost hated her. +Then he thrust his face into the pillow and groaned. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +EXPLANATORY + + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Give it to me, nurse—I do,” said her husband. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“He looks like it,” grunted the first, and as a matter of fact such was +the general opinion. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +WHAT BEATRICE DREAMED + + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“So have you have come back to me at last,” she said. “I knew that you +would come and I have waited.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +Beatrice looked at him doubtfully; perhaps his words did not ring quite +true. + +“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.” + +He took the chair to which she pointed, and she began, speaking in the +voice of one yet laden with the memories of sleep. + +“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. + +“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: + +“‘Hope has rent her raiment, and the stars are set.’ + +“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: + +“‘Child of the mist, wander in the mist, and in darkness seek for +light.’ + +“Then I wept because Hope had rent her starry garment and in darkness I +must seek for light. And while I still wept, _you_ 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: + +“‘Woman whom I knew before the Past began, and whom I shall know when +the Future is ended, why do you weep?’ + +“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_ +will show you light,’ and bending forward you touched me on the breast. + +“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: + +“‘In darkness thou hast found light, in Death seek for wisdom.’ + +“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.” + +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. + +“Great heaven!” he said, “what an imagination you must have to dream +such a dream as that.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well,” he said, “one thing is, it would have been lonelier if we had +gone.” + +“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.” + +“Did you believe in nothing when you lay upon the rock waiting to be +drowned, Miss Granger?” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Don’t you ever get any time to yourself, then?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Do you know,” she said, suddenly looking up, “you make me very proud,” +and she stretched out her hand to him. + +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. + +And so they sealed the compact of their perfect friendship for ever and +a day. + +Then came a moment’s silence. It was Geoffrey who broke it. + +“Miss Granger,” he said, “will you allow me to preach you a lecture, a +very short one?” + +“Go on,” she said. + +“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?” + +“Go on,” she answered, bowing her head to her breast so that the long +rippling hair almost hid her face. + +“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.” + +“And what if one’s wall is built, Mr. Bingham?” + +“Most of us have done something in that line at different times,” he +answered, “and found a way round it.” + +“And if it stretches from horizon to horizon, and is higher than the +clouds, what then?” + +“Then you must find wings and fly over it.” + +“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. + +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. + +For were they not discussing a purely abstract question? + + + + +CHAPTER X. +LADY HONORIA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS + + +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. + +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—_pace_ 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. + +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. + +“What are you both thinking about?” she said in her clear thin voice; +“you seem to have exhausted your conversation.” + +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. + +“How quietly you move, Elizabeth,” she said. + +“Not more quietly than you sit, Beatrice. I have been wondering when +anybody was going to say anything, or if you were both asleep.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Of course I do,” he answered gallantly, “but it is not common.” + +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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Why don’t you proceed against him, then, Mr. Granger?” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Beatrice flushed, but answered her sister’s attack, which was all the +sharper because it had a certain spice of truth in it. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“_Elizabeth._” + +Her sister opened her lips to speak again, but hesitated, and changed +her mind. There was something in Beatrice’s manner that checked her. + +“Well,” she said at length, “you should not irritate me so, Beatrice.” + +Beatrice made no reply. She only turned towards Geoffrey, and with a +graceful little bow, said: + +“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.” + +There was a pause, of which Mr. Granger took a hurried and rather +undignified advantage. + +“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——” + +Remembering Beatrice’s confidence as to her sermon manufacturing +functions, Geoffrey felt amused at her father’s _naïve_ 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“False and cold and heartless,” thought Beatrice. “I wonder how a man +like that could marry her; and how much he loves her.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.’” + +“How did you hear that, Honoria?” asked her husband. + +“Oh, I had a telegram from Garsington, and he mentions it,” she +answered carelessly. + +“Telegram from Garsington! Hence these smiles,” thought he. “I suppose +that she is going to-morrow.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +After this, conversation flagged for a while, till Lady Honoria, +feeling that things were getting a little dull, set the ball rolling +again. + +“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.” + +Beatrice looked up quickly. + +“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.” + +Geoffrey, sipping his tea, smiled grimly behind the shelter of his cup. +“She does it uncommonly well,” he thought to himself. + +“Does your little girl go with you, Lady Honoria?” asked Elizabeth. + +“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.” + +“I hope Effie will survive it, I am sure,” said Geoffrey laughing. + +“I suppose that your husband is going to stay on at Mrs. Jones’s,” said +the clergyman. + +“Really, I don’t know. What _are_ 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.” + +“Oh, don’t trouble about that, Honoria,” he answered. “I daresay that +Effie and I will manage somehow.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +She said she should be delighted and went off, followed by Mr. Granger +fussing in the rear. + +“Don’t you think that you will be a little dull here, Mr. Bingham?” +said Beatrice. + +“On the contrary,” he answered. “Why should I be dull? I cannot be so +dull as I should be by myself.” + +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?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +She laughed. “Why, I love children. It will be a great pleasure to me +to look after her so far as I have time.” + +Just then the others returned, and their conversation came to an end. + +“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.” + +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. + +And so ended Geoffrey’s first day at Bryngelly Vicarage. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT + + +Lady Honoria leaned back in the cab, and sighed a sigh of satisfaction. + +“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.” + +“I daresay it will do,” said Geoffrey. “When are we to shift?” + +“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.” + +“Why do you think her horrid, Honoria?” + +“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.” + +“Engaged,” said Geoffrey, “how do you know that she is engaged?” + +“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.” + +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. + +The old Adam still survives in most men, however right-thinking they +may be, and this is one of its methods of self-assertion. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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, _ad infinitum_. + +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 _entrée_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Haven’t got the money, dear,” he answered. + +“Will you ever have the money, daddy?” + +“I don’t know, dear, perhaps one day—when I am too old to enjoy it,” he +added to himself. + +“It would take a great many pennies to buy a house like that, wouldn’t +it, daddy?” said Effie sagely. + +“Yes, dear, more than you could count,” he answered, and the +conversation dropped. + +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. + +“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. + +“It is a horrid boat,” she said; “I don’t want to look at it.” + +“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.” + +“I fancy that she has learnt a lesson,” said Geoffrey. + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Hell_. Her delicate little body will be tormented for +ever and ever——” + +Here the unfortunate child fell forward with a shriek. + +“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir,” said Beatrice aloud. + +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. + +And so it was with all the children; her power over them was almost +absolute. They loved her, and she loved them all. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“How do you do, Mr. Davies?” she said. + +He started visibly. “I did not know that you had seen me,” he answered. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It is very good of you to take so much interest in me,” said Beatrice. + +“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?” + +“Yes, thank you very much. Have you read it?” + +“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?” + +“Thank you, but I am not going straight home; I am going to old +Edward’s shed to see my canoe.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Miss Beatrice,” he said in a somewhat constrained voice. + +“Yes, Mr. Davies—oh, look at that seagull; it nearly knocked my hat +off.” + +But he was not to be put off with the seagull. “Miss Beatrice,” he said +again, “are you going out walking next Sunday afternoon?” + +“How can I tell, Mr. Davies? It may rain.” + +“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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +“I shall come,” he answered doggedly, and they went down the steps to +the boat-shed. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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? + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +THE WRITING ON THE SAND + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +Then he gave the Benediction. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +“You is all very dull,” said Effie at last, with a charming disregard +of grammar. + +“People ought to be dull on Sunday, Effie,” answered Beatrice, with an +effort. “At least, I suppose so,” she added. + +Elizabeth, who was aggressively religious, frowned at this remark. She +knew her sister did not mean it. + +“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. + +Beatrice coloured slightly, a fact that escaped neither her sister nor +Geoffrey. + +“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. + +“Oh, I thought that perhaps you were going out walking.” + +“I may walk afterwards,” answered Beatrice shortly. + +“So there is an assignation,” thought Elizabeth, and a cold gleam of +intelligence passed across her face. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“You asked me to come here, Mr. Davies,” said Beatrice, breaking the +painful silence. “I have come.” + +“Yes,” he answered; “I asked you to come because I wanted to speak to +you.” + +“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. + +“I want to ask you,” he said, speaking slowly and thickly, “if you will +be my wife?” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Don’t touch me,” she said sharply, “you have no right to touch me. I +have answered you, Mr. Davies.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Again Beatrice softened a little. She was touched and flattered. Where +is the woman who would not have been? + +“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?” + +“Plenty of women marry men whom they do not love.” + +“Then they are bad women,” answered Beatrice with energy. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Do not speak like that, Mr. Davies, or I shall go.” + +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?” + +“I would marry any man whom I loved,” she answered. + +“Then if you learn to love me you will marry me?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Yes,” he answered, “I consent. You have me at your mercy.” + +“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.” + +“That is the cruellest thing of all the cruel things which you have +said,” he answered. + +“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. + +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? + +At this moment a woman’s shadow fell athwart him. + +“Oh, have you come back?” he cried, springing to his feet. + +“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.” + +“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Granger,” he said faintly. “I did not see +who it was.” + +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. + +“You have had a talk with Beatrice, Mr. Davies?” + +“Yes,” he answered apathetically. + +Elizabeth paused. Then she took her bull by the horns. + +“Are you going to marry Beatrice, Mr. Davies?” she asked. + +“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.” + +“She refused you, then?” + +“Yes.” + +Elizabeth breathed more freely. + +“But I can ask her again.” + +Elizabeth frowned. What could this mean? It was not an absolute +refusal. Beatrice was playing some game of her own. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +He looked at them idly. “Something your sister was writing while I +talked to her. I remember seeing her do it.” + +“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!” + +“Why is it curious, Miss Granger? Who is Geoffrey?” + +Elizabeth laughed a disagreeable little laugh that somehow attracted +Owen’s attention more than her words. + +“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.” + +“Married?” he said, “yes, but he’s a man for all that, and a very +handsome one.” + +“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.” + +“But he might carry on with her, Miss Elizabeth.” + +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?” + +“I don’t know; I suppose not,” he said doubtfully. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Thank you, thank you,” he said earnestly, and went. + +Elizabeth watched him round the wall of rock with a cold and ugly smile +set upon her face. + +“You fool,” she thought, “you fool! To tell _me_ 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 +_must_ 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!” + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +GEOFFREY LECTURES + + +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. + +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 _not_ 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. + +“Never what?” said a voice, within two yards of her. + +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.” + +“Never what, Miss Granger?” he said again, as he lazily folded up the +sheet. + +“Never mind, of course,” she answered, recovering herself. “How you +startled me, Mr. Bingham! I had no idea there was anybody on the +beach.” + +“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.” + +“How did you know that I was about?” Beatrice asked a little defiantly. +It was no business of his to observe her movements. + +“In two ways. Look!” he said, pointing to a patch of white sand. “That, +I think, is your footprint.” + +“Well, what of it?” said Beatrice, with a little laugh. + +“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.” + +“Why do you take the trouble to observe things so closely?” she asked +in a half amused and half angry tone. + +“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.” + +“Elizabeth,” said Beatrice, turning a shade paler; “what can she have +been doing, I wonder.” + +“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?” + +“There is no plot, and as you said just now the beach is free,” +Beatrice answered petulantly. + +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. + +“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——” + +Beatrice stopped, and half turning faced him. + +“What _do_ you mean, Mr. Bingham?” she said. “I do not understand your +dark sayings.” + +“Mean! oh, nothing particular, except that I wished to congratulate you +on your engagement.” + +“My engagement! what engagement?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Oh, no; it was the footsteps, Miss Granger, _and_ the gossip, _and_ +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.” + +Again Beatrice stamped her foot. She saw that he was still mocking her, +and felt that he did not believe her. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +Beatrice recovered her composure and they walked slowly on. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.’” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No; I am afraid,” said Beatrice, “all this reasoning drawn from +material things does not touch me. That is how the Pagans made _their_ +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. _That_ 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?” + +“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. + +“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 _truth_ 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. + +“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.” + +“Thank you,” said Beatrice, “I will. Why here we are at home; I must go +and put Effie to bed.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +DRIFTING + + +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. + +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. + +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 _he_ 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. + +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. + +And so the happy day would pass and bed-time come, and with it unbidden +dreams. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You remember that you are coming up to the Castle this afternoon?” he +said, at length. + +“To the Castle!” she answered. “No, I have heard nothing of it.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Oh, I beg your pardon! I do remember now, but I have made another +plan—how stupid of me!” + +“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?” + +“Yes,” answered Beatrice, “to go out with Mr. Bingham.” + +“Ah! you go out with Mr. Bingham every day now.” + +“And what if I do?” said Beatrice quickly; “surely, Mr. Davies, I have +a right to go out with whom I like?” + +“Yes, of course; but the engagement to come to the Castle was made +first; are you not going to keep it?” + +“Of course I am going to keep it; I always keep my engagements when I +have any.” + +“Very well, then; I shall expect you at three o’clock.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What is this picture?” she asked, pointing to a beautiful portrait of +a Dutch Burgomaster by Rembrandt. + +“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.” + +“Four thousand guineas!” said Elizabeth, “fancy having a thing worth +four thousand guineas hanging on a wall!” + +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. + +“Your sister seems to be put out about something,” he said. + +“I daresay,” she answered carelessly; “Beatrice has an uncertain +temper. I think she wanted to go out shooting with Mr. Bingham this +afternoon.” + +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?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Did you have good sport, Mr. Bingham?” + +“No,” he answered shortly; “I saw very little, and I missed all I saw.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, Miss Granger,” he answered, “I saw you.” + +“And you were going by without speaking to me; it was very rude of +you—what is the matter?” + +“Not so rude as it was of you to arrange to walk out with me and then +to go and see Mr. Davies instead.” + +“I could not help it, Mr. Bingham; it was an old engagement, which I +had forgotten.” + +“Quite so, ladies generally have an excuse for doing what they want to +do.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +She flashed one look at him and turned to go, and as she did so his +heart relented; he grew ashamed. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“Heaven only knows!” he answered sadly. + +“Let us go in,” said Beatrice, in a constrained voice; “how chill the +air has turned.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +ONLY GOOD-NIGHT + + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +“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: + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, Portia, have you got it?” he asked. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What a good idea,” said Geoffrey. “I will telegraph to the lawyers at +once. I certainly believe that you have got the clue.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“All right,” said Geoffrey, “but I advise you to look out. I fancy that +the old man is a rough customer.” + +Then Geoffrey went back to his dinner. + +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. + +“It is pretty well time to be off,” said Geoffrey. “Are you coming, Mr. +Granger?” + +“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.” + +“You are not going, Mr. Bingham, are you?” asked Beatrice in a voice +which betrayed her anxiety. + +“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.” + +“I think that you had far better not go, Mr. Bingham,” said Beatrice; +“they are a very rough set.” + +“Everybody is not so cowardly as you are,” put in Elizabeth. “I am +going at any rate.” + +“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.” + +And so they went, leaving Beatrice a prey to melancholy forebodings. + +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. + +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. + +“What could it mean?” Beatrice wondered. + +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. + +The men were passing her now. + +“What is it?” she cried. + +“_Murder!_” they answered with one voice, and sped on towards +Bryngelly. + +Another moment and Elizabeth was at hand, horror written on her pale +face. + +Beatrice clutched at her. “_Who_ is it?” she cried. + +“Mr. Bingham,” gasped her sister. “Go and help; he’s shot dead!” And +she too was gone. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +Oh, Heaven, it was Geoffrey! + +“Is it you?” she gasped. “Elizabeth said that you were murdered.” + +“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.” + +Beatrice looked at him, went red, went white, then burst into a flood +of tears. + +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. + +“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.” + +Beatrice controlled herself with an effort. + +“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.” + +“And quite enough, too,” said Beatrice with a shudder. “What times we +live in! I feel quite sick.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Good-night, Mr. Bingham,” she said. + +“Good-night. I hope that this is not good-bye also,” he added with some +anxiety. + +“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.” + +“Then it is only good-night,” said Beatrice. + +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? + +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! + +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 _see_. 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! + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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? + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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— + +“Be a god and hold me + With a charm! +Be a man and fold me + With thine arm. + +Teach me, only teach, Love! + As I ought +I will speak thy speech, Love, + Think thy thought— + +Meet, if thou require it, + Both demands, +Laying flesh and spirit + In thy hands. + +That shall be to-morrow + Not to-night: +I must bury sorrow + Out of sight. + +Must a little weep, Love, + (Foolish me!) +And so fall asleep, Love, + Loved by thee.” + + +Geoffrey heard them in his heart. Then they were gone, the vision of +Beatrice was gone, and suddenly he awoke. + +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. + +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 _was_, +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Good-bye, Mr. Granger,” Geoffrey answered; “you must come and see me +in town. A change will do you good.” + +“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?” + +“Good-bye, Miss Granger,” said Geoffrey politely. “Many thanks for all +your kindness. I hope we shall meet again.” + +“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. + +In another minute he had left the Vicarage and, with Beatrice at his +side, was walking smartly towards the station. + +“This is very melancholy,” he said, after a few moments’ silence. + +“Going away generally is,” she answered—“either for those who go or +those who stay behind,” she added. + +“Or for both,” he said. + +Then came another pause; he broke it. + +“Miss Beatrice, may I write to you?” + +“Certainly, if you like.” + +“And will you answer my letters?” + +“Yes, I will answer them.” + +“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.” + +“I am glad,” Beatrice answered shortly. + +“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.” + +“What are they?” she asked, looking up, and Geoffrey saw, or thought he +saw, a strange fear shining in her eyes. + +“Here are four of them,” he answered unconcernedly; “we have no time +for long quotations: + +“‘That shall be to-morrow, + Not to-night: +I must bury sorrow + Out of sight.’” + + +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. + +“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 ‘_A Woman’s Last +Word_.’” + +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. + +“Miss Beatrice,” he said again, “you look pale. Did you sleep well last +night?” + +“No, Mr. Bingham.” + +“Did you have curious dreams?” + +“Yes, I did,” she answered, looking straight before her. + +He turned a shade paler. Then it was true! + +“Beatrice,” he said in a half whisper, “what do they mean?” + +“As much as anything else, or as little,” she answered. + +“What are people to do who dream such dreams?” he said again, in the +same constrained voice. + +“Forget them,” she whispered. + +“And if they come back?” + +“Forget them again.” + +“And if they will not be forgotten?” + +She turned and looked him full in the eyes. + +“Die of them,” she said; “then they will be forgotten, or——” + +“Or what, Beatrice?” + +“Here is the station,” said Beatrice, “and Betty is quarrelling with +the flyman.” + +Five minutes more and Geoffrey was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +They reached London at last, and as had been arranged, Anne, the French +_bonne_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +“At twenty minutes past five, daddy,” Effie said promptly. + +“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?” + +“No, daddy, but——” + +“But what, dear?” + +“Anne did tell me not to say!” + +“But I tell you to say, dear—never mind Anne!” + +“Anne stopped and talked to the ticket-man for a long, long time.” + +“Oh, did she?” he said. + +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. + +“About half-past five, sir. Anne said the cab was blocked in the fog.” + +“Very well. Tell her ladyship that I shall be down in a minute.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, dear, and so will I. There, kneel upon my lap and say them.” + +In the middle of the prayers—which Effie did not remember as well as +she might have done—the parlourmaid arrived again. + +“Please, sir, her ladyship——” + +“Tell her ladyship I am coming, and that if she is in a hurry she can +go to dinner! Go on, love.” + +Then he kissed her and put her to bed again. + +“Daddy,” said Effie, as he was going, “shall I see auntie Beatrice any +more?” + +“I hope so, dear.” + +“And shall you see her any more? You want to see her, don’t you, daddy? +She did love you very much!” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +“Well, dear,” he said, addressing his wife, “and what have you been +doing with yourself all this time?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“What have you said to Mr. Dunstan to make him go away so soon, +Geoffrey?” asked his wife. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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 _some_ amusement, and +_some_ 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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE + + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“I am perfectly prepared to go on with it, my lord,” Geoffrey +interposed calmly. + +“Very well,” said the Court in a mollified tone, “then go on! I have no +doubt that the learned Attorney-General will arrive presently.” + +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. + +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. + +“Bother it, he is coming,” thought Geoffrey. + +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. + +“Well, we must get on as we can,” Geoffrey said. + +“If you continue like that we shall get on very well,” whispered the +solicitors, and then Geoffrey knew that he was doing well. + +“Yes, Mr. Bingham!” said his Lordship. + +Then Geoffrey went on with his statement. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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: + +“My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I do not think it necessary to +carry my case any further.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Yes—that is, I was. I have won the case. Here is a very fair report of +it in the _St. James’s Gazette_ if you care to read it.” + +“Good heavens, Geoffrey! How can you expect me to read all that stuff +when I am dressing?” + +“I don’t expect you to, Honoria; only, as I say, I have won the case, +and I shall get plenty of work now.” + +“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.” + +“Mais, milady, la robe va parfaitement——” + +“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. + +Geoffrey picked up his _St. James’s Gazette_ 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. + +“Where has you beed, daddy?—to the Smoky Town?” The Temple was +euphemistically known to Effie as the Smoky Town. + +“Yes, dear.” + +“You go to the Smoky Town to make bread and butter, don’t you, daddy?” + +“Yes, dear, to make bread and butter.” + +“And did you make any, daddy?” + +“Yes, Effie, a good deal to-day.” + +“Then where is it? In your pocket?” + +“No, love, not exactly. I won a big lawsuit to-day, and I shall get a +great many pennies for it.” + +“Oh,” answered Effie meditatively, “I am glad that you did win. You do +like to win, doesn’t you, daddy, dear.” + +“Yes, love.” + +“Then I will give you a kiss, daddy, because you did win,” and she +suited the action to the word. + +Geoffrey went from the little room with a softened heart. He dressed +and ate some dinner. + +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. + +And though his letter was four sheets in length, he knew that Beatrice +would not be bored at having to read it. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +THE RISING STAR + + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Yes,” he said, “you can go back as soon as you like.” + +“And can we keep a carriage?” + +“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.” + +“Oh, you delightful person!” said his wife. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Then she can stay upstairs,” said Geoffrey frowning. + +“What do you mean?” asked his wife. + +“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.” + +“I really don’t understand you, Geoffrey. Why should not the child be +handsomely dressed?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Who have you been telegraphing to, Geoffrey?” asked Lady Honoria. + +“I telegraphed to Miss Granger,” he answered. + +“Ah! So you still keep up a correspondence with that pupil teacher +girl.” + +“Yes, I do. I wish that I had a few more such correspondents.” + +“Indeed. You are easy to please. I thought her one of the most +disagreeable young women whom I ever met.” + +“Then it does not say much for your taste, Honoria.” + +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 _her_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +He took it, abashed. + +“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.” + +“If Mr. Bingham had sent it, you would have accepted it,” he muttered +sulkily. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _delirium tremens_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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, _he_ 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: + +“Revd. Mr. Granger to see you. Told him you were engaged, but he said +he would wait.” + +Geoffrey started violently, so violently that both the solicitor and +the obstinate farmer looked up. + +“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. + +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? + +“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.” + +“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. + +“I hope that Miss Elizabeth and Be—that your daughters are well also,” +said Geoffrey, unable to restrain his anxiety. + +“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.” + +“And Miss Beatrice?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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. + +Geoffrey gasped. Beatrice with scarcely enough means to clothe +herself—Beatrice shivering and becoming ill from the want of a cloak +while _he_ lived in luxury! It made him sick to think of it. For a +moment he could say nothing. + +“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——” + +“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. + +“But this is double what I asked for,” he said doubtfully. “Am I to +return you £100?” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +BACK AT BRYNGELLY + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Is that individual really going to dine and sleep here?” she asked. + +“Certainly, Honoria, and he has brought no dress clothes,” he answered. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +Geoffrey felt that he was being bargained with. It was degrading, but +in the extremity of his folly he yielded. + +“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. + +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 _very_ 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _both?_ 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. + +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. + +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 _this_. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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? + +He made an effort, and remarked absently that things seemed very +unchanged at Bryngelly. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Geoffrey put his hand in his pocket and gave the old man a sovereign. +He could afford to do so now. + +“Does Miss Beatrice go out canoeing now?” he asked while Edward mumbled +his astonished thanks. + +“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.” + +“Perhaps she doesn’t like him,” said Geoffrey coldly. + +“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.” + +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. + +Suddenly, a bunch of wild roses in her girdle, Beatrice emerged from +the gathering gloom and stood before him face to face. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +THE THIRD APPEAL + + +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! + +“I beg your pardon,” she said in a puzzled tone, stepping forward to +pass the gate. + +“_Beatrice!_” + +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. + +“Is it you,” she said at length, “or another dream?” + +“It is I, Beatrice!” he answered, amazed. + +She recovered herself with an effort. + +“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. + +“Did you not expect me?” Geoffrey asked. + +“Expect you? no. No more than I expected——” and she stopped suddenly. + +“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.” + +“From London,” she murmured. “I did not know; Elizabeth did not tell me +anything about it. I suppose that she forgot.” + +“Here I am at any rate, and how are you?” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“Oh, thank you, I have nothing to complain of. I am strong and well. +How long do you stay here?” + +“Not long. Perhaps till Tuesday morning, perhaps till Monday.” + +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. + +“It is supper time,” she said; “let us go in.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Tell me about yourself,” said Beatrice. + +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.” + +At last he had told her all. + +“Yes,” she said, “you have the power and the opportunity, and you will +one day be among the foremost men of your generation.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Why should I promise you this, Beatrice?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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——” + +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. + +“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.” + +Then came a heavy pause. + +“And you,” he said, breaking it, “what future is there for you?” + +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.” + +Just then Mr. Granger came back from his christening, and Beatrice rose +and went to bed. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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? + +Pondering over this most painful question, at last he went to sleep. + +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 _status quo ante_. +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. + +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. + +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 _not_ 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. + +“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. + +He walked on and Geoffrey walked with him. + +“You do not look well, Mr. Davies,” he said. “Have you been laid up?” + +“No, no,” he answered, “I am quite right; it is only my mind that is +ill.” + +“Indeed,” said Geoffrey, thinking that he certainly did look strange. +“Perhaps you live too much alone and it depresses you.” + +“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?” + +“Marry somebody else,” suggested Geoffrey. + +“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.” + +“Her? Whom?” + +“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.” + +“Really,” said Geoffrey. + +“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 _you_, Mr. Bingham.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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? + +“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.” + +He turned sharply and went while Owen watched him go. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +A NIGHT OF STORM + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +At this moment Elizabeth came in. + +“Well, Beatrice,” she said, “are you coming to church? Father has gone +on.” + +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! + +In that moment of reflection her fate was sealed. + +“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.” + +Geoffrey hastily disclaimed any such intention, and Elizabeth started +alone. “Ah!” she said to herself, “I thought that you would not come, +my dear.” + +“Well,” said Geoffrey, when she had well gone, “shall we go out?” + +“I think it is pleasanter here,” answered Beatrice. + +“Oh, Beatrice, don’t be so unkind,” he said feebly. + +“As you like,” she replied. “There is a fine sunset—but I think that we +shall have a storm.” + +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. + +“What a lovely sunset,” said Geoffrey at length. + +“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?” + +“No, Beatrice, never mind the wind. I want to speak to you, if you will +allow me to do so.” + +“Yes,” said Beatrice, “what about, Mr. Bingham.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“That is very kind of you,” said Beatrice, with an ominous humility. + +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. + +“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 _amicus curiæ_.” + +“Indeed,” said Beatrice, in a voice of ice. + +“All these three urged the same thing—the desirability of your marrying +Owen Davies.” + +Beatrice’s face grew quite pale, her lips twitched and her grey eyes +flashed angrily. + +“Really,” she said, “and have _you_ any advice to give on the subject, +Mr. Bingham?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Beatrice took no notice of his words, but went on in the same cold +voice. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“It would have been better if we had been drowned together at the +first,” he said heavily. + +“No, no,” she answered, “for then we never should have loved one +another. Better first to love, and then to die!” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 + +“A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,” + + +and through that opened door come sights and sounds such as cannot be +written. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +It is characteristic of Beatrice that already she was thinking of the +consequences to Geoffrey, not of those to herself. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +Poor Beatrice, the pangs of conscience were finding her out! + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Heaven help us, Beatrice,” he said. “I will go to-morrow morning and, +if I can, I will keep away.” + +“You _must_ keep away. I will not see you any more. I will not bring +trouble on you, Geoffrey.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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 _no_ 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.” + +“I shall leave at half-past eight,” he said hoarsely. + +“Then we will meet at seven,” Beatrice said, and led the way into the +house. + +Elizabeth and Mr. Granger were already seated at supper. They supped at +nine on Sunday nights; it was just half-past. + +“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?” + +“We have had a long walk,” answered Geoffrey; “I did not know that it +was so late.” + +“One wants to be pleased with one’s company to walk far on such a night +as this,” put in Elizabeth maliciously. + +“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!” + +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. + +Shortly after supper both Elizabeth and Beatrice went to bed, leaving +their father with Geoffrey. + +“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.” + +“Yes,” answered Geoffrey, “I did.” + +“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?” + +“Yes, I told her that—that is if the greater includes the less,” he +added to himself. + +“And how did she take it?” + +“Very badly,” said Geoffrey; “she seemed to think that I had no right +to interfere.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +He stretched out his arms towards the place where she should be. + +“Beatrice,” he whispered to the empty air, “Beatrice! Oh, my love! my +sweet! my soul! Hear me, Beatrice!” + +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. + +A great gust shook the house and passed away along the roaring depths. + +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. + +“In the wide, blind eyes uplift +Thro’ the darkness and the drift.” + + +Great Heaven, she was asleep! + +Hush! she spoke. + +“You called me, Geoffrey,” she said, in a still, unnatural voice. “You +called me, my beloved, and I—have—come.” + +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. + +See! She drew on towards him, and she was _asleep_. Oh, what could he +do? + +Suddenly the draught of the great gale rushing through the house caught +the opened door and crashed it to. + +She awoke with a wild stare of terror. + +“Oh, God, where am I?” she cried. + +“Hush, for your life’s sake!” he answered, his faculties returning. +“Hush! or you are lost.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. +A DAWN OF RAIN + + +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—— + +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?” + +No answer. + +“Ah—h,” said Elizabeth aloud; “I understand. At last—at last!” + +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. + +Mr. Granger, hearing the crash, thought that the front door had blown +open. Rising, he lit a candle and went to see. + +But of all this Geoffrey knew nothing, and Beatrice naturally less than +nothing. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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: + +“‘Now—now,’ the door is heard; +Hark, the stairs! and near— +Nearer—and here— +‘Now’! and at call the third, +She enters without a word. + +Like the doors of a casket shrine, +See on either side, +Her two arms divide +Till the heart betwixt makes sign, +‘Take me, for I am thine.’ + +First, I will pray. Do Thou +That ownest the soul, +Yet wilt grant control +To another, nor disallow +For a time, restrain me now!” + + +Did they not run thus? Oh, he should have known! This he could plead, +and this only—that control had been granted to him. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“She is going to meet her lover,” thought Elizabeth. “I wish I could be +there to see that too, but I have seen enough.” + +She yawned and appeared to wake. “What, Beatrice, going out already in +this pouring rain?” she said, with feigned astonishment. + +“Yes, I have slept badly and I want to get some air,” answered +Beatrice, starting and colouring; “I suppose that it was the storm.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +And Geoffrey told her all. + +When he had finished she spoke again. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _you_ 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!” + +“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. + +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. + +“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 _never_ forget me all your life. Afterwards—perhaps—who can tell? +If not, why then—it will indeed be best—to die.” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +Then the mist swept up and hid her. + +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. + +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 _there_ +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 _now_ +will be the burden of his song, and for goodness’ sake do not waste +your precious hours in dreams of a To Be. + +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 _you_. + +And yet you will still choose this better part: you will still “live +and love, and lose.” + +“With blinding tears and passionate beseeching, +And outstretched arms through empty silence reaching.” + + +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 _you_ 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD + + +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. + +“Why, where have you been this wet morning, Mr. Bingham?” said Mr. +Granger. + +“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.” + +“How kind of him,” reflected Mr. Granger; “no doubt he has been +speaking to Beatrice again about Owen Davies.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Certainly, Mr. Bingham,” said the clergyman; “Elizabeth is my right +hand, and has the best business head in Bryngelly.” + +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.” + +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 _had_ 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. + +Elizabeth made no comment on his offer, and before Mr. Granger’s +profuse thanks were nearly finished, Geoffrey was gone. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Marry somebody else,” he said dreamily; “I don’t know anybody else +whom I could marry except you, and you are not Beatrice.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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 _me_. The fish has been on the line long +enough, now I must begin to pull in.” + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“MY LADI,—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 _in his harmes_. 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, + + +“THE RITER.” + + +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. + +The answer came by return. It was short and artful. + +“DEAR LADY HONORIA BINGHAM,” 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.” + + +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. + +“The fact is,” he said, “that you are not fit to look after the child. +You only think of yourself, Honoria.” + +She turned on him with a dangerous look upon her cold and handsome +face. + +“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.” + +“What do you mean by that threat?” he asked. + +“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.” + +“Again I ask what you mean,” said Geoffrey, turning cold with anger. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“I should think not, Honoria, seeing how things are.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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:— + +“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. _If you care for him, +sever all connection with him utterly and for ever._ 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 _you_. 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, _by making all further communication between +yourself and him an impossibility_. H.B.” + +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 _come_, I say come _if you +wish_. No, Beatrice, I will not put this cruel burden of decision upon +you. I say _come!_ 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.” + +By return of post he received this answer written in pencil. + +“No, dear Geoffrey. Things must take their course.—B.” + +That was all. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH + + +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. + +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: + +“Oh, God, hear me, and give me my desire! Oh, God, answer me!” + +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. + +“The Voice,” he said aloud; “the Voice again. What does it say? +To-morrow, to-morrow I must speak; and I shall win her.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +She thrust the letter into her dress—a viper would have been a more +welcome guest—and opened Geoffrey’s. + +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, _she_ 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! + +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. + +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. + +“How do you do, Mr. Davies?” he said; “how quietly you must have come.” + +“Yes,” answered Owen absently. “The fact is, I have followed you +because I want to speak to you alone—quite alone.” + +“Indeed, Mr. Davies—well, I am at your service. What is wrong? You +don’t look very well.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“This,” he answered, suddenly seizing the clergyman by the coat in a +way that made him start. + +“What—my coat, do you mean?” + +“Don’t be so foolish, Mr. Granger. No, about Beatrice.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +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! + +“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. + +“Good-looking—clever; she is an angel,” murmured Owen. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, there, there, Mr. Davies, maids will be maids until they are +wives. We know about all that,” said Mr. Granger sententiously. + +His would-be son-in-law looked as though he knew very little about it +indeed, although the inference was sufficiently obvious. + +“Mr. Granger,” he said, seizing his hand, “I want to make Beatrice my +wife—I do indeed.” + +“Well, I did not suppose otherwise, Mr. Davies.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Eh, but hadn’t you better arrange that part of the business +privately?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +In the sitting-room they found Elizabeth. + +“Where is Beatrice?” asked her father. + +“I don’t know,” she answered, and at that moment Beatrice, pale and +troubled, walked into the room, like a lamb to the slaughter. + +“Ah, Beatrice,” said her father, “we were just asking for you.” + +She glanced round, and with the quick wit of a human animal, instantly +perceived that some new danger threatened her. + +“Indeed,” she said, sinking into a chair in an access of feebleness +born of fear. “What is it, father?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +Beatrice gave a sigh, and collected her scattered energies. The storm +had burst at last, and she must face it. + +“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.” + +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 _she_ must face it. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Elizabeth made a movement as though to speak, then changed her mind and +listened. + +“Beatrice,” said Owen Davies, “you hear. I ask you to marry me.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Oh, Elizabeth,” she said, “in our dead mother’s name——” and she +stopped. + +“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—“_Beatrice is +a scarlet woman!_” + +“I really don’t understand,” gasped Mr. Granger, while Owen looked +round wildly, and Beatrice sunk her head upon her breast. + +“Then I will explain,” said Elizabeth, still pointing at her sister. +“She is Geoffrey Bingham’s _mistress_. 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.” + +“Then I wish to God that you had held your wicked tongue,” said Mr. +Granger fiercely. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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 _not_ 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.” + +Elizabeth laughed shrill and loud—it sounded like the cackle of a +fiend. + +“In her sleep,” she said; “oh, she went there in her sleep!” + +“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.” + +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. + +Then Beatrice turned to her father, and spoke in another and a pleading +voice, stretching out her arms towards him. + +“Oh, father,” she said, “at least tell me that _you_ 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.” + +The old man looked wildly round, and shook his head. + +“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?” + +Then Beatrice, her cup being full, once more dropped her head, and +turned to go. + +“Stop,” said Owen Davies in a hoarse voice, and speaking for the first +time. “Hear what _I_ have to say.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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! + +“Noble, noble!” murmured Mr. Granger; “noble! God bless you!” + +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. + +Only Beatrice smiled faintly. + +“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. + +“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.” + +Beatrice shook her head and smiled again, as though to bid him do his +worst. + +“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.” + +“_Oh!_” 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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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 _ruined_. 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. + +“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.” + +“What, another year? No, no,” he said. “You must answer.” + +“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.” + +This was a bold stroke, but it told. Mr. Davies hesitated. + +“Give the girl a week,” said her father to him. “She is not herself.” + +“Very well; one week, no more,” said he. + +“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.” + +Owen Davies hesitated; he was suspicious. + +“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?” + +“Yes,” said Owen Davies. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Then Beatrice left the room, and after her went Owen Davies without +another word. + +“Elizabeth,” said her father, rising, “you are a wicked woman! What did +you do this for?” + +“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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +WHAT BEATRICE SWORE + + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +No, no; once and for all, once and for ever, she would _not_ 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. + +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. + +“No, dear Geoffrey. Things must take their course.—B.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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 _not_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. _Se posuit ut culpabilem_: 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. + +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. + +So Beatrice accepted the statements of the plaintiff’s attorney for +gospel truth, and from that false standpoint she drew her auguries. + +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! + +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! + +She gasped as the thought struck home. _Here_ 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. + +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? + +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? + +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! + +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! + +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. + +“Ay, ay, miss,” answered old Edward from the beach. “Come in on the +next wave.” + +She came in accordingly and her canoe was caught and dragged high and +dry. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Beatrice laughed again and went. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +So she should be left alone from Monday morning till Tuesday night. One +can do a good deal in forty hours. + +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. + +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. + +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: _quia multum amavit_. 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. + +Yes, but first she must once more look upon Geoffrey’s dear face—and +then farewell! + +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! + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +THE HOUSE OF COMMONS + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Just then breakfast came to an end, and Elizabeth hurried from the room +to fetch her bonnet. + +“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.” + +“Eh, eh!” answered the old man nervously, “I thought that we had agreed +to say nothing about the matter at present.” + +“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. + +He gazed at her doubtfully. Was it possible after all she was speaking +the truth? No; it was not possible. + +“I can’t, Beatrice,” he said—“not that I blame you overmuch for trying +to defend yourself; a cornered rat will show fight.” + +“May you never regret those words,” she said; “and now good-bye,” and +she kissed him on the forehead. + +At this moment Elizabeth entered, saying that it was time to start, and +he did not return the kiss. + +“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. + +Thus did Beatrice bid a last farewell to her father and her sister. + +“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. + +“As you like,” said Elizabeth with a sneer, “but I should think that +Beatrice is big enough and bad enough to look after herself.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +In another minute she had entered an empty carriage, and the train had +steamed away. + +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. + +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. + +“Two bob, miss,” he answered. + +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. + +“I’ll take yer for eighteenpence, miss,” called out the other driver. +This offer she was about to accept when the first man interposed. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“Ladies’ Gallery, miss?” said a voice; “your order, please, though I +think it’s full.” + +Here was a fresh complication. Beatrice had no order. She had no idea +that one was necessary. + +“I haven’t got an order,” she said faintly. “I did not know that I must +have one. Can I not get in without?” + +“Most certainly _not_, miss,” answered the voice, while its owner, +suspecting dynamite, surveyed her with a cold official eye. “Now make +way, make way, please.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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. + +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. + +“I’m afraid—I am very much afraid——” began her new-found friend, +surveying the mass with dismay. + +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. + +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. + +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 _not_ an ardent politician. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Oh!” answered another lady. “Lady Honoria is not here, is she? I don’t +see her.” + +“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?” + +At this moment, a volley of applause from the Opposition benches +drowned the murmured conversation. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Then Mr. Bingham is a rising man, I suppose?” Beatrice said. + +“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.” + +“Why should he do anything foolish?” she asked. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +Her friend was speaking to him, and about her. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +Geoffrey seized him by the arm. “Where is she?” he asked, “and what was +she like?” + +“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. + +Quickly they moved to intercept her, but the result was not +satisfactory, and they retreated hastily from the object of their +attentions. + +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. + +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! + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +If he had only gone to Paddington! + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +I WILL WAIT FOR YOU + + +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. + +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. + +And thus Beatrice waited and slept at Paddington, while her lover +waited and watched at Euston. + +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. + +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 +_Standard_, 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Poor Beatrice, these were the only lies she ever told! + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +How could she better spend her last hour? + +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. + +“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!” + +Beatrice walked up to her, took the thin little hands in hers, and +looked her fixedly in the eyes. + +“Jane,” she said. “Jane, don’t you know me?” + +“Yes, Miss Granger,” she said, “I know the lesson; I will say it +presently.” + +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. + +“She is dying,” whispered the doctor. + +“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.” + +“No, love, no; you will go to heaven.” + +Jane lay still awhile. Then seeing the pale lips move, Beatrice put her +ear to the child’s mouth. + +“Will you come with me?” she murmured; “I am afraid to go alone.” + +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: + +“Yes, I will come presently.” But Jane heard and understood. + +“Promise,” said the child. + +“Yes, I promise,” answered Beatrice in the same inaudible whisper. +“Sleep, dear, sleep; I will join you very soon.” + +And the child looked up, shivered, smiled—and slept. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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? + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Of once sown seed, who knoweth what the crop is? +Alas, my love, Love’s eyes are very blind! +What would they have us do? Sunflowers and poppies +Stoop to the wind——“[*] + +[*] Oliver Madox Brown. + + +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! + +“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. + +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. + +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?—_Of once sown seed, who knoweth what the crop is?_ She must soon +learn now! + +“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!” + +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. + +“Geoffrey, my darling—I will wait——” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +A WOMAN’S LAST WORD + + +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 _bonne_, said the child was not well and that she +had kept her in bed to breakfast. + +“Do you mean to say that you have not been up to see what is the matter +with her?” asked Geoffrey. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Send for the doctor at once,” he said. + +The doctor came and examined the child, asking her if she had wet her +feet lately. + +“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.” + +“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. + +Geoffrey asked if he should send for a trained nurse. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Dies—what nonsense! The doctor says that it is a very slight attack. +Why should she die?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 +_dead_. She had passed into the domains of impenetrable silence. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Geoffrey, I shall be dead. + +“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.) + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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! + +“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!’ + +“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. + +“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.” + +Then came a tear-stained postscript in pencil dated from Paddington +Station on that very morning. + +“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. _Ave atque +vale_—oh, my love!—B.” + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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! + +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! + +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: + +“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.—GEOFFREY +BINGHAM.” + + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. +AVE ATQUE VALE + + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Oh, sir, do you know where Miss Beatrice is?” + +“No,” he answered, catching at a railing for support. “Why do you ask? +I have not seen her for weeks.” + +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. + +“Where was she going when she went out?” Geoffrey asked. + +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. + +Geoffrey understood it all now. “Come to the boat-house,” he said. + +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. + +“Lord, sir!” he said. “You here, sir! and in that there queer hat, too. +What is it, sir?” + +“Did Miss Beatrice go out in her canoe yesterday evening, Edward?” +Geoffrey asked hoarsely. + +“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!” + +There was a silence, an awful silence. Old Edward broke it. + +“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——” + +Betty burst out into loud weeping at his words. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +_Ave atque vale_—that was the inscription rudely cut within its round. +Greeting and farewell—her own last words to him. Oh, Beatrice, +Beatrice! to you also _ave atque vale_. 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. + +Beatrice, hail! Beatrice, farewell! till perchance a Spirit rushing +earthward shall cry “_Greeting_,” in another tongue, and Death, +descending to his own place, shaking from his wings the dew of tears, +shall answer “_Farewell to me and Night, ye Children of Eternal Day!_” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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 _Drowned One’s shoe_.” + +“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.” + +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 _Standard_, with his speech in it. + +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. + +Scarcely had he made up his mind when Elizabeth and her father entered. +Clearly from their faces they had as yet heard nothing. + +Geoffrey rose, and Elizabeth caught sight of him standing with glowing +eyes and a face like that of Death himself. She recoiled in alarm. + +“What brings you here, Mr. Bingham?” she said, in her hard voice. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Yes, I did make those charges, Mr. Bingham,” she said, “and they are +true charges. But stop, we had better send for Beatrice first.” + +“You may send, but you will not find her.” + +“What do you mean?—what do you mean?” asked her father apprehensively. + +“It means that he has hidden her away, I suppose,” said Elizabeth with +a sneer. + +“I mean, Mr. Granger, that your daughter Beatrice is _dead_.” + +For once startled out of her self-command, Elizabeth gave a little cry, +while her father staggered back against the wall. + +“Dead! dead! What do you mean? How did she die?” he asked. + +“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. + +There was a silence. In the midst of it, Owen Davies burst into the +room with wild eyes and dishevelled hair. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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 _you_. 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. + +The man took no notice either of his words or of the deadly insult of +the blow. + +“Is it true?” he screamed, “is it true that she is dead?” + +“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.” + +Owen Davies gave one shrill cry and sank in a huddled heap upon the +ground. + +“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!” + +“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!” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +They went forth, leaving Geoffrey and Mr. Granger alone. The old man +rested his head upon the table and wept bitterly. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +There was a pause. + +“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!” + +“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!” + +Then Geoffrey went. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. +THE DUCHESS’S BALL + + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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! + +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: + +“MY DEAR BINGHAM,—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.” + + +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? + +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! + +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. + +“Miss Effie is doing nicely, sir, I’m told,” answered the man. + +Geoffrey breathed more freely. “Where is her ladyship?” he asked. “In +Effie’s room?” + +“No, sir,” answered the man, “her ladyship has gone to a ball. She left +this note for you in case you should come in.” + +He took the note from the hall table and opened it. + +“DEAR GEOFFREY,” 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 _lovely_. Had +your mysterious business anything to do with _Bryngelly_?—Yours, +HONORIA.” + + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +At that moment Anne entered the room sweetly murmuring, “Ça va bien, +chérie?” + +“Help me to put the child into bed,” said Geoffrey sternly. “Now ring +the bell—ring it again. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Yes, sir. And shall I call for her ladyship at the duchess’s, sir?” + +“No,” he answered, frowning heavily, “do not disturb her ladyship. Go +now.” + +“That settles it,” said Geoffrey, as the man went. “Whatever happens, +Honoria and I must part. I have done with her.” + +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. + +The cook came up, and between them they brought the child back to life. + +She opened her eyes and smiled. “Is that you, daddy,” she whispered, +“or do I dreams?” + +“Yes, dear, it is I.” + +“Where has you been, daddy—to see Auntie Beatrice?” + +“Yes, love,” he said, with a gasp. + +“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?” + +“No, dear, no more.” + +After that she began to wander a little, and finally dropped into a +troubled sleep. + +Within half an hour both the doctor and the nurse arrived. The former +listened to Geoffrey’s tale and examined the child. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“Not dead, not dead?” said Honoria in deep agitation. + +“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.’” + +“Oh, this is almost too good to be true,” said Honoria. “Why, it means +eight thousand a year to us.” + +“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.” + +Lady Honoria took his arm. As they walked down the wide flower-hung +stair they met a very great Person indeed, coming up. + +“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. + +“What is the old boy talking about?” asked her brother. + +“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.” + +“He’ll be a bigger prig than ever now,” growled Lord Garsington. “Yes, +it is luck though; let us hope it won’t turn.” + +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. + +“I’ll do it,” said he. + +“No, no; let the man,” said Lady Honoria. “Look! it is going to catch +fire!” + +“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. + +“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! + +In ten more minutes Lady Honoria had left this world and its pleasures +to those who still lived to taste them. + +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. + +“Why, Garsington, is it you? What do you want at this hour?” + +“Screw yourself up, Bingham, I’ve something to tell you,” he answered +in a thick voice. + +“What is it? another disaster, I suppose. Is somebody else dead?” + +“Yes; somebody is. Honoria’s dead. Burnt to death at the ball.” + +“Great God! Honoria burnt to death. I had better go——” + +“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.” + +And here we may leave this most fortunate and gifted man. Farewell to +Geoffrey Bingham. + + +ENVOI. + + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +But Beatrice knows to-day! + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEATRICE *** + +***** This file should be named 3096-0.txt or 3096-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/9/3096/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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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