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6

BEATRICE

iV iSolTuL

BT

H. RIDER HAGGARD

AUTHOR OP -SHE" " ALLAN'S WIFE '
" CLEOPATRA** ETC.

/

TORONTO !

WILLIAM BRYCE,

255794

Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the Office of tlie Miniate
of Agriculture, by Wiluam Bryce, in the year one thousand eigh
hundred and ninety.

i

T. V

)4

BEATRICE

CHAPTER I.

Dee of the MinlsU
le thousand eig*:

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,
stanJing upon the farthest point of the Dog Rocks, idly
noted that the long brown seaweeds 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 giowing 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 blot-
ting away the outlines of the land. Beatrice gave uj)
studying the seaweed and watched the gathering of the
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.

I

BEATRICE.

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; herr was not the hard sexless
stamp of the " cultured " female. She who owned it
was capable of many things. She could love and she
oould 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 ii> op^n, 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."

AT THE BELL ROCK.

lied like
rom her
intellect
at must
n more
ho have
id there
7es can
1 waters
iparison
like that
{ingham
>ure and
ne must
r. And

sexless
«rnpd it
and she
die. It
, and in
o whom

udy it.
as she
eautiful

ooked,

several

light of
lied it,
Uowing
breast,
n't one
told ? "
le yet
rk, and
dreary
ig, and
other

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
aw from her, and its appearance was as though she
hp'self were lying on her back in the water wrapped
aoout 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 oi' 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 has learnt to her cost. So long
ago as 1780 a three-aecker 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

1—2

BEATRICE,

upon a piece of wrei ^ ;,'c. Nohrxly ever knew how the
shipwreck Iiappencd, 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 unnatur-
ally sui)posed 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 a])pearance he was a very fine man, big-
shouldered and broad-limbed, and liis age might have
been thirty-five or a little more. Of his frame, how-
ever, 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 gu^i
which he held across his knee. It was a striking coim-
tenance, 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

AT THli BELL ROCK.

%

low the
1 irons,
lives in
rowned
nnatur-
strophe
ill-fated
under,"
highest
nds its

•

:h it, in
, a man
to have
piece of
in, big-
lit have
e, how-
y damp
ich was
3on his
ck, and
re gufi
covm-
rd and
nd yet
overed
edge
little
ster-at-
with a
curlew
to the
t.

or the

igina

In two

Then

baU cf

curlew on the wing. He siiains his eyes, the call
comes nc er, but nothing can he see. At last, seventy
yards or more to the right, he catclies sight of the flicker
of beating wings, and, like a dash, 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 — eiglity — sixty — now.
Up ^oes the gun, but alas and alas ! they catch a glimpse
of the light glinting on ihe 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 wisD of gigantic snipe, and vanishing with melan-
choly 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 c^ of the
curlew is once more heard — cjuite close this time. There
they are, looming large against the fog. Bang 1 down
goes the first and lies flai^piag among the rocks. Like a
flash the second is away to the left. Bang 1 after him,
and caught him too I Hark to the splash as he falls into
the deep water fifty yards away. And then the mist
closes in so densely that the sport is done 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 opera-
tions. He shook the wet seaweed off his rough clothes,
and, having lit a short briar pipe, set to work to hunt for

\

6 BEATRICE,

the duck and the first curlew. 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 ne discovered the
bird floating on the oily water about fifty yards away. A
little to the left the ro( ks 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 bird 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
reti-eat, and bethought him that, unless the curlew was to
become food for the dog-fish, 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 weather, 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.

AT THE BEIJ. ROCK,

m easily

5cks, lip

reeping,

e other.

ired the

way. A

le knew

le shore

went to

waited.

ntent as

not pay

him off

-hour of

, as bad

3r more

irmined,

iy hated

id set to

teps all

ole that

is ankle

wkward

beat a

was to

bodily

man of

already

ddenly

>e from

before

:upant,

noeing

; him a

Hullo

)ss the

**0h," 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 floatin^j
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 down-
wards into the misty waters and the curlew was bagged.
Then, while Geoffrey was still struggling with his waist-
coat, the canoe si)cd 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 I 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

i

BEATRICE,

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 j 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 some-
thing, she could not see what. ' • '

" Here is ;he curlew, sir," she raid.

" 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 mak? 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. Aprescela "

" The birdstuffer ? " said the voice.

"No," answered Crusoe, "the cook "

/. laugh came back from the canoe — and then a
(juestion.

" 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.

AT THE BELL ROCK.

father
u and
erday.
vever,
had

, 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 really 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 after 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 Canadian 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 sin!: 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 my-
self anyhow, so I shall be glad of you help. It is nearly
five miles by water, you know, and not a pleasant night**

m

BEATRICE.

There was truth in this. He 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 truitless suggestion that they should
try and reach the shore, taking the chance of rocks,
sunken or otnerwise, 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.

A CONFESSION OF FAITH,

II

repared

but he

lady to

list and

e would

e knew

Jo after

should

rocks,

which

r.

ic said,
is rock,
: to do.
y hands
i at his
if you
as well

ow you

ingerly
bow of
place

er with
torn of
I down

eaning
lupport

>t time
to the

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 shall 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 wonder-
ing 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

IS

BEATRICE.

upset. At least it has been my way for the last two
years since a lady who v/as 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 I picked up some-
thing at the college. But I have no real knowledge, onlj
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 ascer-
tained till you are dead."

" Good gracious ! " thought Geoffrey to himself between
the strokes of his 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."

A CONFESSION OF FAITH.

IS

last two
e me the
id to row

a college
ilified to
had been

:, he was
1 were as
ip; those

red. " I
mot feel.

up some-
dge, onlj

holar."

nature
a fixed
t; what

and X
IX ascer-

)etween
iry girl,
ne into
time."

** Perhaps you have read law too?" he said with sup-
pressed sarcasm.

" I have read some," she answered calmly. ** I like
law, especially Equity law ; it is so subtle, and there i»
such a mass of it buUt upon such a small foundation. It
is like an overgrown mushroom, and the top will fall off
one day, however hard the lawyers L*y to prop it up.
Perhaps you can tell me "

" No, I'm sure I cannot," he answered. " I'm not ft
Chancery man. I am Common law, and /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 reposefi'l prospect," said Geoffcey,
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. Bing-
ham?"

**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— 4^om
necessity, in short."

*'0b, I beg your pardon 1" she said, with a blush,

*i.

ftl

n EAT RICE.

which he of course could not see. " I did not mean to
be rude. But it is very lucky for you, is it not ? "

" Indeed 1 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 a somewhat confidential conver-
sation. 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 trace of it was left, and in

A COXFESSION OF FAITH.

tS

mean to

l^hy is it

at man,

I a great
ishment

nswered

• artifice
List what

"Well,
i things,
1 to any
lall rise.

ce that,
intance,
conver-
3ic.

"but
ark and
ind she

reaking
ows of
em, so

within
lee one

dense

)ing to

en the
;award
md 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 li'^'ht toll full ujjon the little boat and full
upon Beatricv^'s lips. Then it passed on and lost itself
in the deep mlsn wijich still swathed the coast.

"Oh, how beatiiifui it is!" she cried, raising herself
and pointing to ihe glory of the dying sun.

" It is beautiful indeed ! " he answered, but he looked,
not at the sunset., bat 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 strug-
gled 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 /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

Id

BE A TRICE.

we are more than two miles from Bryngelly, and if we are
lucky we may get there before tlic weather breaks.'' .

" Yes, // we are lucky," he said grimly, as he bent him-
self 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
Bryngully, 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 con-
versation 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 wore blistering. For ten min-
utes or so he paddled on throu:'h a darkness which was
now almost total, wondering where on earth he was wend-
ing, for it 'vas 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 con-
tinually 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 tur-
moil of the rising gale and the confusion of the night,
this was no very satisfactory guide. At length, how-
ever, 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 oa
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 v/ater. And they had not
seen the worst of it. The weather was still thickening.

Still he held on« thoug^h his heart sank within him. while

A CONFESSION OF FAITH,

«7

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, l)egan 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 heav-
ing 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 any cartridges ? " she asked presently.

" Yes, in my coat pocket," he answered.

** Give me two, if you can manage it," she said.

|8

BEATRICE,

In an interval between the coming of two seas he con-
trived to slip his hand into a pocket and transfer the
cartridges. Apparently she knew something of the work-
ing 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 til' 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 Efifie, 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 d;d 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
$ndles8 sleep, or what ? He was a Christian, and his

A CONFESSION OF FAITH,

19

oonhe

and

bility

and

ourse,

angry

leard

her

little

LS too

was a
rhad
yuide
owing
years.

after

find

d his

life had not been worse than that of other men. Indeed,
though he would hav 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 conscious
ness, 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.

2—2

BEATRICE.

The canoe twisted round somewhat. Fe ^\\% his
broken paddle into the water and once more b-ought 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 iier hair loose, and
though he did not seem to notice it at the time, he remem-
bered 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. Pre-
sently 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.

THE WATCHER /T THE DOOR,

St

due: his
ought her

wned ? "
easy. I
uld have

ite some
r head on

near his
>ose, and
5 remem-
the face.
» pray to.

iined so
lan, now
be utter
r at such
awful.

Death

lave not
'. am not
2cause I

all, He
.■ " .

broken
I. The
'as very
t. Pre-
itorm, a
send of
om the

"Into the breakers, where we shall be lost," she
answered calmly, "('five up paddling, it is of no use,
and try to take off your coat. I have loosened my
skirt. Perhaps we can swim asliore."

He thouglit 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 com-
panionship makes death a little easier.

" Good-bye," she cried, clinging to his hand. " Oh,
why did I bring you into this ? "

For kn their last extremity this woman thought rathe:'
of her ccmpanion 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

BEATRICE,

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 (ieoffrey and Beatrice had been hurled by the
breaker. Fortunately for them it was thickly overgrown
by 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 s.-^aweed held, and when at
longth 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, lor^king 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 slippary
seaweed twined her left arm about the helpless Geoffrey.
It was on them.

THE WATCHER AT THE DOOP.

«S

rmen as
gh tide,
there is
On to
1 by the
ergrown
violence
knocked
i he still
)f a few

iter had

t at her

his ear,

he was

mething
he flung
seaweed
le body
with all

er lifted
when at

herself

side by
ruggled
irkness.
it shone
)ved up
>ne long

passed
because
uld not

Again
again

lippiry
eoffrey.

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 *^ear. 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 hapnily
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 mov? on.

Then another wave rolled forward and once more she
was pushed down into the cruel depth, for with that
dead weight hanging to her she could not keep above it.
It flashed into her mind that if she let him go she might
even now save herself, but even in that last terror this
she 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 whis-
pering 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 1 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

)ld man as I am I'll kill yer, if I swing for it 1"

BE A TRICE.

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 1 "

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 a 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 ihey could not loose her des-
perate 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 tliat 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 1 "

1

THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR,

as

effect
gether.
' upon

gloom.

>»

wave.

lothing

the old
Lord's

g upon
speared
I stared
[)peared
blunged

er they

w me if
ir. So,

ss form
illed up
ler des-
1 them

so — ^let
only
m — so.
swear,
le good

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 witli 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 1 " 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."

m

26

BEATRICE,

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.

" Mi^ht 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 under
stood 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 foiehead. 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 advan-
tage of every drop in the rate of wages. In fact he was
Beatrice's father, and a clergyman.

THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR.

27

y errand
le sandy
ch boats
village of
from the
je of the
i a little
r a group
le-storied
ears past
Granger,
side was
with the
crowd of

d one of
they are

-set man
Uong by
e under
md they
Vicarage
e. The
:hrowing
ntern in
bite hair
id. He
mething
and the
together
V. The

it not
3at, one
heart, a
ten and
I advan-

he was

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 fea-
ture, 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 experi-
mented upon Elizabeth before she made up her mind
to produce Beatrice, just to get the hues 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
jee that the blankets and things are hot. Stop, doctor,
*ell me, is she dead ? "

O1

m

BE A TRICE.

"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
jjassage 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
y 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 Icitchens 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 acquaint-
ance. 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 step-
ping across the passage to direct them and see how
things were getting on. Now, although Geoffrey had
been in the water the longest, his was by far the best case,
for when he was immersed he was already insensible, and
a person in this condition is very hard to drown. It is

THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR,

29

doctor
hrough

tructed
If in a

to the
dining-
imbers.
aces, it
3 it for
side of
oom at
:cupied
le third
This,
ileeping

up the

rooms,
ided by
g-room,
seconds
*rs, and
;'s cold
e lifted
i pupil.
1. We
readful
:quaint-
lem for

2 doing
doctor
y step-
:e how
ey had
St case,
)le, and
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 hos-
pitals, 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 em-
ployer. "He's swearing beautifully."

Dr. Chambers, pursuing his melancholy and unpromis-
ing task in the other room, smiled sadly, and called to the
assistant to continue th^ 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 hand-
some face wei:e 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 Efifte," 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

mmnmm

JO B-EATRICE.

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 T
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. That police-
man 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 meet-
ing 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 sometjiing 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 th 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

THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR.

n

am all

a shrug
nothing
ou."
sband.
hall not
lOugh V
at the
eoffrey.
t police-
iown to
for the

a faint

d. He

a meet-

Dair had

mt and

3 go on.

nissing.

rtofthe

much.

, Lady

there.

will not

» out of

ding in
)or into
atrice's
er head
ich was
round,
seal of

ar such

■f

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 I^ady Honoria shuddered again and went. •

Outside the door a small knot of sympathisers was
still gathered, notwithstanding the late hour and th<:
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

p BEATRICE.

walked rapidly along the cliff towards her lodging. "1
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,

Gecffrev, lying before the fire, newly snatched 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 I

For some minutes the assistant did not enter. He
was helping in the other 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

ng. "1

ell, I do
ind arm.
d make !
■ he had
e a scene

Honoria
artistical

hed from
itween his
m to life,
girl — gone

Iter. He
le.

frey asked
ved me ? "
so. At
irater they
lir."
ight must

We think

o himself
J I am all
He and tell

you," and

mt of the
assed, and

ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL, H

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,
were 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 clergyman, 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 loved her ever 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 straight-
ened his weary frame and wiped the perspiration from
his brow. " She must be dead ; we have been at it nearly
three hours now."

" Patience," answered 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.

3

fl BEATRICE, ,

" Great Heavens 1 " 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 con-
strained 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 ai)plied 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 pre-
sently."

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

I

^

ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL,

35

r, Starting
Did you

% crying,

em back,
n a con-
id quiver,

t is kill or

s without
n up the
eyes were
rew a first
d she had
warm and

nnot bear

etter pre-

saw by her
He bent

rowned ? "

d."

in, half of

Did of him
md go to

Then she
nd shortly
and went

4

overy

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. lie lieard,
and starting as though he had been shot, strode to llie
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 husVand back to life.

This remark seemed to entourage him, at any rate he
oid knock. Presently the door was opened by Elizai)eth.

** 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. " 1 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. Hut 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 sin^^le line
upon it; it told of perfect and robust health and yet

3-2

i\

S6

BEATRICE.

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 the eyes, blushed like a girl
beneath Elizabeth's sharp 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 gentle-
man, 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 hir.i.

"Ah. But he is married, I think, Miss Granger?"

" Oh, yes, he is married to the daugliter 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 washing 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.

I

J

ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL.

37

a man
ig, nor

e a girl
I take
lis slow

o break
; gentle-

a shrug,
lini even

. a thing.

er saw,"

iger?"
f a peer,

ly."

yes when

uick like

to-night,
vind, and

An extra
in put up
And now

•* Would

course I

uire after

rself, Mr.

i

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 night as he made his
way alo ig 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 Bryn-
gelly 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 thj 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 s'lent heart, that no
human skill could beat his empire back ? VVhat 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 wc Jd that hand have been given, the hand
and all that went with it ? What woman would this

i

38

BE A TRICE.

1 1

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 wizked 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 her 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 unsatis-
factory and uncongenial, almost in a menial position.
Reject Bryngelly Castle with all its luxuiy and opportuni-
ties of wealth and leisure ? N j, 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
out of 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. D.ivies want at this time of night ?
To know about Beatrice ? "

" Yes," she answered slowly, " he came lO ask after
Beatrice, or to be more correct he has been waiting out-
side for three hours in the rain to learn if she recovered."

I

■3.

'1

GIVEN DA VIES AT HOME.

59

;, have
beth—
jybody,
ly rate,
lis have
remble,
bs? It

itood in
nto her
But she
1 enough
k to life,
pened if
game of
pieces.
, in some
ned from
A have to
climb it.
an open
a woman
ren or ten
[1 unsatis-
position.
ipportuni-
set in the
m was to
light died
r the sick
g out.
carefully

of night?

ask after
liting out-
covered."

"*a

4

" 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 rr fitter 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, 1 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 conseciuence, in their
own torpid way are among the happiest and most con-
tented of men. Problems, on which persons of keener

1

'r\c

BEATRICE

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
spiiitual parts at all, and in the noble savage such thing.s
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 con-
junction 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. He was, by
nati re and education, 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

f

OWEN DAVIES AT HOME.

41

am thdi
en break
slip past
i of the
ough the
led. In
; the sun
i enough
rerty and
of fate,
iers that
ired into
do their

in deep
t springs
nets over
ts. The
not muse
m like a

now the

avage is
In the
the end

lere are
len oxen
with any

h things

>
lecessary

)f a con-
So it
vhom we
e was, by
religious
healthy
it is easy
^•ear, but
id 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 of 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 re-
lation died without a will, and he found himself heir-at-
law to Bryngelly Castle and all its revenues. Owen ex-
pressed 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 bim 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 ^loo he could
arrange the matter for him in ten minutes. Mr. Davies

43

BEATRICE,

merely replied that the property could wait, he should
go the voyage and then retire. 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 his 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 mea-
sured 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 cathedral out 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 re-
mained 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 sea-shore,
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

OWEN DAVIES AT HOME.

43

he should
ild up his
there are
the world,
is voyage.
en Davies
woman in
as part of
he letter.

that Mr.

and mea-
me by

dy else in

1; "it is
self. Do

said, "I
rhey are
subscribe

a word ;
»n he re-
id closed

a single

; any rate
In due
rig home
;med in a
■yngelly,
asked his
ea-shore,
sea-chest
ces from
of rock,
(crceived

f

*s

4

I

a vast mediaeval 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 pro-
mise 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 re-

A

BEATRICE,

minded the observer of one of those quaint countenances
on the handle of a walking stick, stared at her in astonish-
ment, 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 j 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 1 " 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 j^irlhood ;
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 hat a visitor had come,
under the guidance of Miss Beatrice, to look, at the

I

./»

OWEN DAVIES AT HOME,

4$

intenances
n astonish-
e visitor,
bout him,

" He says

iray, it isn't

lieard, and

rnly, as he
reakwater.
id. If the
ce had he
rought the
iiat he was

y, putting
^usness of

beg your
I am sure
nd rowing
you might

f^irlhood ;
ipropriety
ne. But
r, and she
ity to see

ached the
>tle, about
Seeing
;d out of
ad come,
sk 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 home in the whole world.
Your great-uncle, who died a year aik spent more than
fifty thousand pounds on repairing and refurnishing 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 mediaeval
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 for-
midable 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

46

BEATRICE.

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 sarpsm, "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 pro-
duced and read aloud by Beatrice. Mrs. Thomas took
it, and having examined it carefully through her horn-
rimmed spectacles, was constrained to admit its authen-
ticity.

" I'm sure I apologise, sir," she said with a half-
doubtful courtesy and much tact, " but one can't be too
caretul 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 sluip^d room that, facing south, commanded a

4

OWEN DAVJES AT HOME.

47

w it ain't a

rice aside,

Thomas
vidcnce of
as stoutly
he made
LS himself,
on in this

s. Thomas
rrow with

suggested

2 lawyer to
.Thomas's
I forgotten
t was pro-
)mas took
her horn-
s authen-

h a half-
n't be too
rer should
you was

ng, and it
rchief in
and were
the great
rlour, the
he white
of brown
a manner
a small
landed a

4

%

most glorious view of sea and land. It was called the
Lady's Boudoir, and joncd another of about the same
size, which in its former owner's time had been used as a
smoking-room.

" If you don'l 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" forward-
ness." But Owen Davies never forgot the debt of grati-
tude he owed her. In his heart he felt convinced that
had it not been for her, he should 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 ihat elapsed between his visions of
her. No period in his life was so wretched and utterly pur-
poseless 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 fur his
sake. The words were not much and the flower was not
much, but there was a look about th-"^ man's eyes, and
a suppressed passion and energy in iiis voice, that told
their tale to the keen-wilted girl. After this he found

If

48 BEATRICE.

that she avoided him, and bitterly regretted his boldnftML
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
r,ense to know that marriage with such a man would not
bring it her. 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 passion-
ately 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 for-
ward 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 cir-
culating 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, leading 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
ivrestled manfully with many a detested tome, in order

I

4
■4

■A

OWEN DA VIES AT HOME.

49

boldnetl
To a girl

She did
d had the
^ould not
Lre of iron

his want
th all this
lis life in
le knew if
lame ring
, Beatrice
Elizabeth,
d him in
iilections,
/horn she

is darkly,
means of
s passion-
no means
open his

He did
;r to for-
appeared
he placed
;aves with
not resist,
she loved
jr well of
re no cir-
been she
So she
;n smiled

studies.

him ; he
Lidied the
But he

in order

to be able to say sonu'thin^ to Beatrice about it, and the
worst of it was that Hcatri<;e always saw throu^'h it, and
showed him that she did. It was not kind, perhai)S, 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 memf)er 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, ho could visit the school of
which she was mistress as often as he chose, and indeed
he soon learnt to take a lively interest in village educa-
tion. 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 opportuiity to propose.
Hitherto she had always warded off this last event, but
she knew that it must hapi)en. 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 ali 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.

so

BEATRICE.

CHAPTER VII.

A MAiKiMONIAL TALK.

' !

Before Geoffrey Bingham dropped off into a troubled
sleep on that evenlful night of storm, he learned that the
girl who had saved his life at the risk and almost at the
cent of her own was out of danger, and in his own and
more reticent way he thanked Providence as heartily a.5
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. Tiiie place was perfectly
quiet, for the doctor's assistant who had brought him bad,
to life, and who lay upon a couch at the further end of the
room, slept the silent sleep of youth and complete exhaus-
tion. 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 remembci ed nothing after that, nothing but a rush-
ing 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
Beginnin'^ ; and then his heart went out with renewed
gratitude towards the girl who had restored him to Iffe
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 gentle-
man, jumping up with the alacrity of one accustomed to
be suddenly awakened. " Do you feel queer ? "

4

A MATRIMONIAL TALK.

51

troubled
that the
St at the
own and
lartily a.5

and sore
ight was
perfectly
him bad,
nd of the
e exhaus-
ticked in
ect in the
the time,
ites to six
Granger
scene of
lirled out
16 billow,
ut a rush-
a little as
it is not
and the
renewed
im to Iffe
; thought
I window,
rise, only
, as a last

ig gentle-
stomed to

m

** 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
Eflfte, 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 g.ound."
According!/ he opened the window, and addressing the
little girl, asked her what her name was.

"' Effie," -^he sobbed in ansv/er, " Effie Binghr.m. 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 child 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 checks v.ere
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 yeliww 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. J cried nearly all night, and when it

4—2

'1

•(■1

M

i.r.

5*

BEATRICE,

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 't much, for she sat
upon the edge of the couch, her little face resting against
his own, a very pretty sight to see.

" Ycu 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," sh' 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 h^r 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 re-
member 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 tne very worst
livings on this coast, and that's saying a great deal."

" I am sure, Mr. Granger, T'm under a deep debt of
gratitude to you for your hospitality, and under a still

and my
he house

;ar?"
:arage, so
h way to
1 I saw a
[ had no
away till
iid think
till that

running
)r she sat
ig against

i tell your

inswered,

on't want

, for this
arer than
w he was

said that
did. At
and Mr.
s.

" I must
ely to re-
d as dead
Reverend
ery worst
eal."

debt of
ler a still

4

A MATRIMONIAL TALK.

deeper one to your daue;hter. 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. Bing-
ham. 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 wonder-
ful 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
\hree 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 the defi-
ciency, however ; she ate all the toast and a couple of
slices of bread and butter after it Scarcely had they
finished, when her father obscived a shade of anxiety
come upon his little daughter's face.

" What is it, Ef!ie ? " he asked.

" I think," re'Mied Effie in evident trepidation, " I
think that I did ,jar mother outside and Anne too."

" Well, dear, they have come to see me."

" Yes, and to scold me because I ran away," and the
clulJ drew nearer to her father in a fashion which would

H

m

li t

^•v

u

BEATRICE.

have made it clear to any observer that the relationfi
between her and her mother were somewhat strained.

Effie was right. Presently there was a knock at the dooi
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 laady 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 voilk
enfin, et moi, qui suis ac^.iblde de peur, et votre chfere
mere aussi ; oh, mais que c'est m^chant ; et regardez
done, 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 col-
lapsed.

" 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 3ne 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

m
M

'Ml

A MATRIMONIAL TALK.

n

relationfj
lined,
the dooi
I elegant
omewhat
up her
peared.
aking in
t pointed

bus voilk
tre chfere
regardez
ffreux ! "
)ly, "and

B and col-

you spoil

wilful as

laughty of

nt. How

ne shoe."

:ontracted

time that

the child,

ndeed she

world at

of women

ry her till
ck to the
in French

the same
go home.

oria stood
upon the

4

4

floor, and with a look upon her cold, handsome face that
was not altogether agreeable to see.

It had sometimes happened that Geoffrey in the course
of his married life 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 pos-
sible, 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 tl.ink 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
always to remember that one is dealing with a Lady
Honoria.

" If ever we have another child " he began gently.

" Excuse me for 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 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 inter
rupted, " but you forget that even little things like that

56

BEATRICE.

I '■

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 emotioi.^.l side of the question, it wa- 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 eager-
ness, 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 vehe-
mence, " 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, /should prefer a little less heart and a little more
common sense."

Geoffrey winced, twice indeed, feeling that her lady-
ship 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 remem-
ber that when we married mine was not without attrac-
tions. 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

i's shoes
has not
mind to

d as was
ter than

tat is all.

It eager-
possible
all,", and
e way or
er shown

ing vehe-
i he had

that if I
ver have
^o set so
way with

I mean?
ttle more

her lady-
For, as a
assionate
vere now
or love,
and talk
omething
t remem-
Lit attrac-
)aronetcy
tre not —
Why do
ny uncle,
u, would
heir. It

A MATRDfON/AL TALK.

57

was not my fault, Honoria. Perhaps you wouid 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 yor will only have
patience and put up with things for a little, 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 seven-
pence, 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 knoAr
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 dropi)ing.

" Right ? " he said, " and may I ask what right you had
to marry mc 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 1 meant to be a good husband to you, and I would
have loved you if you would let me. But you are cold

. > " 'I

I

1^

■4

58

BEATRICE,

and selfish ; you looked upon a hus' and 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 otterly 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, md exposed his heart to
her — a thing he rarely did, and that in itself was a
iuniph which she did not wish to pursue at the moment,
v^'reoffrey was not a man to push too far.

" If you have quite finished, Geoffrey, there is some-
thing I should Uke 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 co»itinued : " If these flowers of
rhetoric are over, '"hat I have to say is this : I do not
intend to stay in this horrid place any longer. I am
going to-nr orrow 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 net the slig.itest idea
what they were," said Lady Honoria with conviction.
" May I hear them ? "

" Well, if you wish to know, I will not go t .. the house
of a man who haa — ^well, left my club as Garsington left
it, and who, had it not been for my efforts, would have

I

a
c
(

EXPLANATORY.

S9

;ly as a
inybody
;ve that
go into
:e from
iien you
anger —
tranger.
in you
you do
Dr some
[Capable
me hate

manner
ng like a

moved,
heart to
i was a
noment.

is some-

id made
mark to
owers of
I do not
I am
ey asked
t known

I

■'IK.

I

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 im-
putations. I shall return to 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.

*

' ''I

' ' 'J

; ;i<l

I;

7 1

CHAPTER VIIL

est idea
iviction.

le house
gton left
lid have

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 tr(,)ubles into his sympathetic ear.

m

fe

BEATRICE,

"My father was a Herefordshire farmer, Mr. Bing-
ham," 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 Kington, 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, ;^i5o 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
mm. 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 wu.. ;'t any estate, so I made the best
of a bad busmess 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

Bing-
of life
days a
iioney
ead a
nan of
I was
d it or
I had
re, not
) know
getting
row of
er the
lobody
ruined
f a villa
irds he
mouth,
r it was
parson
behind
and, as
id him,
inst the
he best
a sweet
eatrice,
where
I don't
ny wife
to go
t know
he took
ty well,
though
She
;ars ago
lerfully

EXPLANATORY, p|

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 acquaint-
ance 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

i^

!

i t

:'!'

I

:

t

6»

BEATRICE.

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
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 es-
capades; 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 sixand-twenty, entii-ely 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 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 be-
coming 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 en-
chanted 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),

EXPLANATORY,

63

I

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 acci-
dentally 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 on 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 [)ossessed 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
had married her because ^^e was the daughter of a peer.

Lady Honoria, like many another woman of her
stamp, was the overbred, or sometimes the underbred,
jjroduct of an over-civilized age and class. Those
primitive passions and virtues on which her husband

i

Mi

^ii

64

BEATRICE,

had relied to make ihe 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
J '.fortunate husband never forgot and never wished ic
see again. At length the child was born, a fact for which
Geoffrey, at least, was v«^ry thankful.

" Take it away. I do not want to see it ! " said Lady
Honoiiato 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.

1
i

From that r-oment Geoffrey gave all the pent-up affec
tion of his bruised sou) 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 mit^ht have drifted into some mode of life more or
less undesirable, had not an accident occurred to prevent
is. 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 after-
wards a posthumous son was born.

To Geoffrey this meant ruin. His allowance stopped
and his exi)ectations 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 ex-
plained 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, . Jh^ pne thing that touched her

I

les.sl

Ge^
strc

to

thej
nig
floof

^ ^ L.

I life
been
tions
eting
:h as
lestic
lough
vices,
■; but
certain
lat her
bed ic
which

d Lady
reature

I

4

m

ip affec
d as the

But an

cannot
sistence.
in time,
more or
) prevent
Bingham
I married
ths after-

i stopped
Dop. He
irted man
ite he ex-
g, begging
een them
t him with
uched her

EXPLANATORY.

65

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 Street had to be given up, and purgatory
must be faced, in a flat, near the Edgwarc Road. Lady
Honoria was miserable, indeed had it not been that tor-
tunately 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 un-
briefed Juniors, and many nights in reading up the law
one has forgotten and threading the mazy 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 offend-
ing 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 meano 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,
Geoff'rey 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 O.C.
to another still more veil known, as they sat waiting for
their chops m the Bar Grill Room, and saw (ieoffrey, 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.

HI

'i

.1

66

BEATRICE.

" 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 Gar-
sington'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.

m

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 recollections
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, he hob-
bled down the long narrow room and through the door,
which was ajar. The opposite door was also set half
open. He knocked softly, and gettirj- 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 to-
wards him, its pallor relieved only by tlie long shadow of

gor
ha(

Jl

dre(

beyl
a lif
spol

<<

knei^

dee(
For

IV//A'J BEATRICE DREAMED.

nto
fore
3ar-
ome

alter

man
have
sr he

, patch
Qck, as
solemn
ections

d tired.

e upon

will go

e ghost
added
foolish

I he hob-
le door,
I set half

pushed
[perhaps,
placed
asleep
lof some
Ihoulders
pe was to-

ladow of

the dark lashes and the bent bow of the lips. One white
wrist and hand hung down almost to the floor, and be-
neath the spread curtain of the sunlit hair her bosom
hf":ved 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 dan-
gerous 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
Geofi"rey 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,
ihen 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 hi.n,
spoke aloud.

"So you have come back to me at last," she said. "I
knew that you would come and I have waited."

He miide no answer, he did not know what to sav ; in-
deed he began to think that he also must be dreaming.
For a little while Beatrice still looked at him in the same

ill
m

' .1

PI

i

#

BEATRICE.

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?" She 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. Fpt* 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
feft, 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 Falc.
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 of life 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
)'Our 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 bene.Uh the weight so that 1 saw it soon iiiiist

wh(
youl

upol
■star]

light

light
((I

'jirtll
angc

1

WHAT BEATRICE DREAMED.

69

iood

rou?
^erit
earn,

ered,

thing

were

fully ;

aid so
urious
rather

and I

long."
id she
ith the

ly right
nother
,ife and
on the
flaming
[Iso that
[of Falc.
ig silver
lur eyes,
time its
lehind it
een the
broken,
moment
ew it, so
ck upon
iund and
er, till at
|he silvei
,on tniist

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 iloated 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 dark-
ness seek for light.'

" Then I wept because Hope had rent her starry gar-
ment 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 lest
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, '/will show you
light/ and bending forward you touched me on the hrenst.

"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

n

BEATRICE,

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 cor-
ruption 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 founda-
tions 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 inter-
pret my dream ? Of course you cannot; it is nothing but
nonsense — such stuff as dreams are made of, that h 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 I did repeat it, but it seemed so real it shook
me out of myself. This is what comes of breaking in

an(

be(

quij

Yoil

tho

pan|

lonJ

Wh'AT BEATRICE DREAMED,

71

ithe
It of
She
1 she
aven,
tears,
n cor-
ipped,

•

;ek for

nd the
the sea
"ounda-
Death
and on
I things
Then I
.nd that

hey still
f earth,

|tion you

natural

I to have,
|ou inter-
thing but
|at is all."
Jbeautiful

more of

fngs, and

It there's

lit to you.

II it shook
jaking in

■19

upon the routine of life 3y being three parts drowned
One finds queer things at the bottom of the sea, you know.
Ey 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 dro^^ning 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 sense-
less, so you cannot know how strange it felt lying upon the
slippery rock, and seeing those great white waves rush upon
us through the g'oom, 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 com-
pany in a corpse."

Well," he said, " one thing is, it would have been

< I

<(

I

lonelier if v/e had gone.

t"i

'i(.

\ \

n

BEATRICE.

** Do you think so ? " she answered, looking at him
inquiringly. " I don't quite see how you make that out.
If you believe in whnt 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 writing to be drowned, ' liss G; in^ er ? "

"Nothing!" she i.ns\veiea , ^''dny ./eak people f.nd
revelation in the extrem'iei; •( fear. If revelation
comes at all, surely it must be born i 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 all be 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 hv/Q 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. " ?Iy 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 p';rhaps I hive 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 jead it, and, of course, I never
say anything which can offend anybody, and I do not

to
pr

WHAT BEATRICE DREAMED,

73

; him
t out.
think
would
►elieve
i sleep

on

the

le f.nd
elation
irt and
Ireaded
lould I
d there
Delieve ?

I have

I could
^ent on,

tired ot
all the

wanted
at I had

ranger,
self can

ily knew
Every
it seems
ight in a
day, and
3lecloths,
nons. It
iermons ?
ach next
what it
I never
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 ? "
" 01;, yes, sometimes I do, and then I go out in my
canoe, or re: \ and am almo u happy. After all, Mr. Bing-
ham, it is verv • rcng and ungr.ktcf ul of me to si)pak like this.
I have more id/antagcc than nine-tenths :A the world,
and I ought o mii-.e the best of tliem. I don't know
v/hv I have ueen speakini^ as ^ have, and to you, whom I
never saw till yesierday. 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. l^avies, 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 coula not come
to water. At last the tenant fetched an old man from
some j)arisl a long way off, who said that he could find
water 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 fo 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 mucii, 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

74

BEATRICE,

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 htr, 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, is in duty bound
to you, and I shall not forget the debt."

She 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 vul-
gar 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 mis-
interpret it. It was an act of homage, and that was all.

t(

y

ir

IV//AT BEATRICE DREAMED,

75

And so they sealed the compact of their perfect friend-
ship for ever and a day.

Then came a moment's silence. It was Geoflfrey 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 overthrov/, for it
has induced you to reject as non-existent all that you can-
not 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, be-
cause 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 hor 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
l)est how near or how far I am from the truth. So I
want to say this. 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

I )i1

i

7«

BEATRICE,

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 one-
self 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 dif-
ferent 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 spirit-
ual 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 Mzcnad 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 collect-
ing 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
room without being perceived. She stood quite still, tak-
ing in the whole scene at a glance. She noticed that

lADV HON on J A MAKES ARRANCEMKNTS. 79

it

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 ex-
pression upon Geoffrey's countenance — she could sec
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 entered the room, Elizabeth had been
thinking of Owen Davies, and of what might have hap-
pened 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 a recalcitrant and rather
coarse-minded Welsh farmer, with strong views on the
subject of tithe, it had not been entirely forgotten. 'I'he
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 had 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 room 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 ^ny rate a look of quick in-
telligence shone for a momerit 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 yoi.r
conversation."

Geoffrey made an exclamation and fairly jumped from

hi

78

BEATRICE,

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 wondermg when anybody was going to say any-
thing, 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 overhead. And somehow Elizabeth
had a knack of overhearing things.

"You se^. Miss Granger," said Geoffrey coming to the
rescue, " uoth 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'i you tic up your hair ? You look like a crazy Jane.
Not but what you have very nice hair," she added criti-
tallyu " 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 ij that druwer. I
saw you put it there yesterday," answered the p'-ecise
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 sue 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 tc
the farm. He was in high good humour. The pig had
even surpassed her former efibrts, and increased in a
surprising manner, to the number of fifteen indeed.
LlizabcLh thereon pi'odaced ll;e two poui.ds odd biuUings

m

had
must
have
vhile I

asit tc
ig had
in a

ideed.

lilUiii^s

LADY HONOR/A MAKES ARRANGEMENTS. 79

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 four-
pence. 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 shak-
ing 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 n\an'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 beUeve you are a
socialist about property, as you are about everything
else. You want to pull everything down, from the

8o

BEATRICE.

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 Eiizvibeth hated, and
bitterly assailed.

LADY HONORIA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS. 8l

Accustomed to observe, Geoffrey saw this instantly, and
then glanced at the father. The old man was frightened ;
clearly he was afraid of Elizaljcth, and dreaded a scene.
He stood fidgeting his feet about, and trying to find
something to say, as he glanced apprehensively at ftis
eldest 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
excjuisite projiortions seemed to increase, and was look-
ing 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 telt amused at her
father's ?iai\'e way of describing them, and Beatrice also
smiled faintly as she answered that tlie 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.

83

BEATRICE.

" Here is the fly come for you Mr. Bingham," said Mr,
Granger — "and as I live, her ladyship with it. Eliza-
beth, 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 titU , trotted off to welcome
"her ladyship."

Presently Lady Honoria entered the room, a sweet, it
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, Geoff'-ey 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 slie was engaged in searching out the soul of
Beatrice, with one of the most penetrating and compre-
hensive glances that young lady had ever enjoyed the
honour of receiving. There was nothing rude about the
look, it was too quick, but Beatrice fe!*: that quick as it
might be it embraced her altogether. Nor was she wrong.

"There is no doubt about it," Lady Honoria thought
to heri.p'.t, " she is lovely — lovely everywhere. It was
clever of {.ei: to iea/f' her hair down ; it shows the shape
of her head lg \^ell, and she is tall enough to stand it.
That hrj<.' vr^ppe:' snits her too Very few women
could shoT .icb a (Igurf; as hers — like a Greek statue
I don't I'l-'j J-v^r ; she is different from most of us; jus!
the sort of ghl men go viJd about and women hate."

th

LADY hlNORIA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS. 83

a. "

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 Bear.rice 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 Grander," 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. " .[
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 \Yhole ad-
venture in to-day's pai)ers, headed, 'A Welsh Heroine.'"

"How did you hear that, Honoria?" asked her
husband.

*' Oh, I had a telegram from Gursington, and he
mentions it," she answered carelessly.

" Telegram from Garsington ! Hence these smiles,"
thought he. " I suppose that she is going to-morrow,"

6—^

I

84

BEATRICE.

" I have some other news for you, Miss Granger,"
went on Lady Honoria. "Your canoe has been washed
ashore, very liitle 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 some-
where. But I fancy that you must both have had
enough canoeine; 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 momcn,':, Betty, the awkward Welsh servin;^
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, tir 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, cipping his tea, smiled grmily 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.

LADV HONORIA MAKES, ARRANGEMENTS. 85

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 Geofirey
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 r ther expensive for
people in our impoverished condition. Betides, 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 busi-
ness. 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 a^ 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 oppor-
tunities pass before we realise that they are at hand.

86

BEATRICE.

Instinctively Geoffrey had glanced towards Beatrice.
He did not know if this idc'a was agreeable to her. He
knew that her work was hard, and he did not wish to put
extra trouble upon her, for he guefjsed that the burden
of looking after Effie would ultimately fall upon her shoul-
ders. 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 )our 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."

' ^' ery well," said Geoffrey, not liking to raise objec-
tions to a -'erne thus publicly advocated, although he
would have preferred to take time to consider. Some-
thing warned him that Bryngelly Vicarage would prove
a fateful abode for him. Then Elizabeth rose and asked
Lady Honoria if she v ould 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,

H

BEATRICE MAKES AN ArrOIXTMEXT. 87

4A

and let lodgings— that is what it comes to. If you think
they will suit you, you are (juite right to take them."

Geoffrey coloured. He was a man who could not bear
to lay himself open to the smallest lebuff from a woman,
and he had brought this on himself, licalrice 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 misunderstood me a little," he said ; " I
only meant t'.iat perhaps you would not wish to be
bothered with Effie, Miss Granger."

She laughed. " Why, I love children. It will be a great
jjleasure 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-fash-
ioned rooms. I really envy you." (If there was one thing
ill the world that I-«idy 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. Gran-
gers 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.

' !i

m

fi

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

88

BE A TRICE,

rooms just for you and Effic. The old gentleman only
wants that for hoard 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
i)prl)arians eat sup[)cr, 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 h"*^d-
some enough, though I think her horrid too. ^ v^u'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
dai ghter 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."

BEATRICE MAKES AN AProiXTMENT. 89

Someliow, Geoffrey's lively interest in Hcatricc sen-
sibly 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 (juite
as much interested in a young and lovely latly who is the
potential property of a "lumbering Welsh squire,'' as in
one who belongs to herself.

The old Adam still survives inmost men, however right-
thinking they may be, and this is one of its methoils 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
in luck; Miss Granger is a remarkable woman."

"Too remarkable by half," said Lady Honoria drily.
"Here we are, and there is Rffie, skipping about like a
wild thing as usual. I think that child is demented."

On the following morning — it was Friday — I.ady
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 straight-
ened mrans — free to enjoy the luxury and refined comfort
10 which she had been accustomed, and for which her
soul yearned with a fierce longing that would be incom-
prehensible to folk of a simj)ler mind. Everybody has
his or her ideal Heaven, if only one could fathom it.
Some would choose a sublimated intellectual leisure,
made happy by all 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 every-
body's satisfaction ; others a happy hunting ground, where
the game enjoyed the fun as much as they did ; and so
on, ad iftjinitinn.

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 efitree to the up{)er celestial ten,
and she would ask no more from age to age. Let us

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BEATRICE,

hope that she will get it one day. It would hurt nobody,
and she is sure to ilnd 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 upon
her lips that she might never again set eyes upon Bryn-
gelly.

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 shop. 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 oppo-
site 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

BE A TRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT, 9/

'* 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 fool-
hardy 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 ; chey 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 Bryn-
gelly 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 had brought back its vigour to her
strong young frame. She had been greeted with en-
thusiasm by the children, who loved her, as well they
might, for she was very gentle and sw^et 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

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BEATRICE.

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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 consider-
able 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 tonight, not
having found salvation, she will go to Hell. Her deli-
cate 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 un-
fortunate, 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 im-
becility. But her imbecility was not always passive.
Occasionally fits of passionate terror would seize upon
her. She would cry oui 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 itricken face till the child grew

»

BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT. 93

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 after-
noon, 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

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BEATRICE.

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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 per-
son. 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 pre-
pared 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 pain-
ful, 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 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, accom-
panied 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,

:com-
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BEATRICE MAKES, AN APPOISTMEST. 9$

but he did not know how i j 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 thmk
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

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96 BEATRICE.

carried us ashore. The sea does not look as though it
would drown any one to-night, does it ? See I " — 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
neither were thinking of their words. Rather were they
thinking of the strange chance that had brought ±em
trgether 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 Vicar-
age, and as for Efifiie, she positively revelled in it
Beatrice lcch'*d 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 Jone*^ on
whom he was going to distrain.

For the first day or two Geoffrey had no more con-
versations 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.
Ac 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

THE WRITING ON THE SAND.

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Beatrice

reoffrey
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but she
[hich was
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he did
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of tithes

one; on

back to find that she had been out with Efhe, and not
with Mr. Davies.

On Sunday morning they all went lo church, including
Beatrice. It was a bare little church, and the congrega-
tion was small. Mr. Granger went through the service
with about as much liveliness as a horse driving a
machine. He ground it out, prayers, psahn.i, litany,
lessons, all in the same depressing way, till Geoi^rey 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 fare 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 enorr \ous
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 them-
selves 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 abso-
lutely the first whose glance or voice had ever stirred
his blood. His passion tor her had grown slowly ; for
years it had been growing, ever since the grey-eyed girl
on the brink of womanhood had conducted him lo 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

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fact. It was rooied 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. ^Vhat would it be to
see her standing by him as she stood now, and know
that she was his wife 1 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 of these three the greatest is charity."
Geoffrey noticed that he Limgled over some of the
words, then suddenly remembered Beatrice had told
him that she had written the sermon, and was all atten-
tion. He was not disappointed. Notwithstanding
Mr. Granger's infamous reading, and his habit of drop-
ping his voice at the end of a sentence, instead of
raising it, the beauty of the thoughts and diction v*ere
very apparent. It was indeed a discourse that might
equally well have been delivered in a Mahomedan or
Buddhist place of worship ; there was nothing distinc-
tively 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 preach-
ing 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

THE WRITING ON THE SAND.

99

f

owing for two years and : ore. If that tithe is not paid
I shnll 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, wa? so
ridiculous that Geoffrey very nearly burst out laughing,
and Beatrice smiled. So did the rest of the congrega-
tion, 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, appar-
ently 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 si ;nt meal. Mr. Granger
was thinking about his tithe, also about a sick cow. Eliza-
beth'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, vho 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 p^ up

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BEATRICE.

and speak to her futer, and though she had not been
near enough to catch the words, scented an assignation
from afar>

Beatrice coloured slightly, a fart that escaped neither
her sister nor Geoffrey.

" I am going ta see Jane Llewellyn," she answered.
Jane Llewellyn v^is 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 mp.y walk afterwards," answered Beatrice shortly.

** So there is an assignation," thought Elizabeth, and a
cold gleam of intelligence passed across her face.

\^hortly after dinner, Beatrice put on her bonnet and
Vent 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
ithe 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.
JB^atrice turned and took the fQ^4 that led to the be^ich,

THE WRITISG ON THE SAND.

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Le be?iQh,

Then Elizabeth's irresolution disappeared. She also
turned and took the road to the cUff, walking very fast.
Passing behind the Vicarage, she Rained 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 nearlj
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 Oiven 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, ensconscing 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, an.dl
walked slowly across the level sand. Owen Davies rose
and stretched out his hand to welcome her, but she did

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BEATRICE,

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not take it, she only bowed, and then seated herself
upon the large flat stone. Owen also seated himself
on it, but some tijree 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
p?Tasol. 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 reply on thz 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 I "

Here she glanced at his face. It was outwardly calm

THE WRITING ON THE SAND,

103

jvife. I

e never

step to
answer

5 as he

Lve been
,d since

ier still.

|ove you.
till now
thought
id when
isten I —
scare ;ily
e you a
lurs, only

dly 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 cir-
cumstances so favourable to their well-being — herself.
But she had 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 repul-
sion had hardened and strengthened. Vaguely, a^ 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, obUteraiing them.

Owen saw the softening of her eyes and saw the blush,
and misinterpreted them,. Thinking that she was relent-
ing, by instinct, rather than from any teaching of ex-
perience, 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."

I£l I

t ■
< I
I

'•I

\ M-

104

BE A TRICE,

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 violpnce 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 can I marry
you when I do not love youi? "

" 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 sancti-
fies 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 yo'ir 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 ij not your way."

** Leave you to go your own way," he answered almost

*rHE WRITING ON TIt£ SAND,

105

i.

slow
rer —
ngto
[ike a
L feel
quite

jdand
been?
ered in
: marry

t love."
CO with

"the
cannot
sancti-

, ? » she

love is
laying a
Ipposing

be for?

:aUed a
Lid think
(bad, but

vife, Mr.

women

at any

leave me

d almost

witli passion—" that is, leave you to some dtlief tb an.
Oh ! I cannot bear to think of it. I am jealous of eveiy
man who comes near you. Do you know hoW bca utiful
you are ? You are too beautiful — erery man mu' ,t love
you as I do. Oh, if you took anybody else 1 tb' ,nk that
I should kill him."'

" Do not speak like that, Mr. Davies, or I s^ nail go."
He stopped at once. " Don't go," he said i; nploringly.
"Listen. You said that you would not m -^rry me be-
cause you did not love me. Supposing that you learned
to love me, say in a year's time, Beatiic ^^ would you
marry me then?"

"I would marry any ftian whortl I loved," she
answered.

" Then if you learn to love me you vw ill marry me ? "
" Oh, this is ridiculous," she said- " It is not prob-
able, it is hardly possible, that «iaii a thing should
happen. If it had been going to flayf
happened before."

"It might come about," he ar.wn
might soften towards me. Oh, sa y y es to this. It is a
smuU request, it costs you nothing ;, an d it gives me hope,
without which I cannot live. Say tbat
more, and that then if you love 1 ne ^
Beatrice thought for a moi neni
could do her no harm, and in ' [he ^
or a year he might get used to the i
her. Also it would prevent a s cene.
but she dreaded the idea of

en it would have
red ; " your heart

Davies coming to her father's
" If you wish it, Mr. D?
Only I ask you to understai
to you. I give you no hop(
renew this offer a year hen^
differ from that I give }
there is the slightest prob;
it must be understood thr
father about this matter,
Do you consent ? "

I may ask you once
^ou will marry me."
.. Such a promise
;ourse of six months
dea of living without
It was weak of her,
her h aving refused Owen
ears,
.vies," she said, " so be it.
id this, I am in no way tied
; tHwit m) • answer, should you
:« m at any other time, will
rm tto-daj '. I do not think
ibaHity ^olf s uch a thing. Also,
it you are n ot to speak to my
oc 40 4«jub» \e me in any way.

It

i M

I !

lo6

BEATRICE.

" 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 positidn. 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 the beach ten minutes
ago. I hai)pened 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."

THE WRITISG ON THE SAND.

!07

Elizabeth sat down upon the rock where her sister had
sat, and, seeing the little holes in the beach, 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 Igible.

" 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 sur-
prise. 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."
' EUzabeth 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
doit"

^\

:4

:lfl

'')

r'':

i.iil'l

io8

BE A TRICE.

"I

" 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 i "

" Why is it curious, Miss Granger ? Who is
Geoffrey ? "

Elizabeth laughed a disagreeable little laugh that some-
how 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 good deal, or
she would not write his name unconsciously. The only
Geoffrey that I know is Mr. Geoffrey Bingham, the bar-
rister, 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. Bing-
ham 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, how-
ever, 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 en-
couragement ? 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 some-
thing. 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

THE WRITING ON THE SAND.

109

you still think of asking such a woman as she must be
to bfecome 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 thi» 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 carry-
ing on a love affiair 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

• ti

'■J

f

i ■ !

I i'-"

I

it:

ji'i

if:'

1 10

BE Am ICE.

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 vour 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 I "

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, mis-
placed, 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 for-
giving a man can be v/ho has such an end to gain. It is
pf the women who a' ready weary them and of their
•nfidelity that men are so ready to make examples, not
S"" 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 i(
he were to hear that she had refused — actually refused—
0>wen Davies of Bryngelly Castle, and all his wealth.

GEOFFREY LECTURES.

Ill

Then there was Elizabeth to be reckoned with. Eliza-
beth 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 im-
possible. She was quite without money. She might,
it was true, succeed in getting another place as mis-
tress 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 rei jhe 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 ,x>sition ; 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 tlie beach. The letter on his
kue^ was Qh^ (rb'm his wif*?. It w'as shbrt^ and ih^te wk^

y

i>j

! '»

,f

:ii

r. 1

r

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Its

BEATRICE.

nothing particular in it. E*^e's name was not even men-
tioned. 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 ak ng,
then suddenly stop, stamp her foot, and say, 'No,
never I ' 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 I " 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 foot-
print," 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 bfeen very sociable, because here is yours right in •
the middle of it. Therefore you must have been walking
in Indian tile, and ^a little way-backin-parallel lines, with
quite: thirty yards between you."

^flVhy do you' take th^ trouble to observe things-

i

GEOFFREY LECTURES.

t»3

ttt

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 suosequent 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 Bryn-
gelly 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 plat, and as you said just now the beach
is free," Beatrice answered petulantly.

They walked on for a icw 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

8

til

i

liVt'

ti4

BE A TRICE,

hv

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 if. You see that is the beauty of nine affairs
matrimonial out of ten — there are two or more sides to
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 un-
exceptional antecedents, &c., &c., &c. If, on the other
hand, they don't, cause can still be found for thankful-
ness — lady might do better after all, castle by the sea
rather draughty and cold in spring, gentleman most
estimable but perhaps a little dull, and so on, you see."

There was a note of mockery about his talk which irri-
tated Beatrice exceedingly. It was not like Mr. Bingham
to speak so. It was not even the way that a gentle-
man 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 himseM" 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 church-
yard, 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.

]

■'-■&

GEOFFRE V LEL TURES.

ttj

** 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 cm — I
have said something to make you angry again. Why did
you not walk with Mr. Davies ? I should then have re-
mained guiltless of offence, and you would have had a
more agreeable companion. You want to quarrel with me j
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. Bea-
trice, already disturbed in mind by the scene through
which she had passed, her breast already throbbing wiih
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 tearc, the corners
of her sweet mouth dropped, and she looked ve/y 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 dp not
believe me ; very well, I v/ill tell you the irut! . 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 re-
fused 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 pro-
duced 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 w )uld rather walk
ten miles in their dress shoes than have to deal with a
young lady in hysterics, however modified. Putting the

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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,
(juite 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 im-
posed 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 myseU
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 th..t
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

GEOFFREY LECTURES,

"7

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 o(
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." i

" 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 th n 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 best 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 thig hap»
pained ;— «^y brother got a chill, a relapse followed, and

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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 -vas 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 tak-
ing 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 be-
cause 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 indi-
viduals — 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 s'dme I found the same story, only with a

GEOFFRE Y LECTURES,

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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 mar-
shalling of the starry heaven, and they will vanish."

*' No," said Beatrice, " I fear not. Kant said so, but
before that Moliere had put the argument in the mouth
of a fool. The starry heavens iio more prove anything
than does the running of the raindrops down the win-
dow-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,"

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SEATRTCB.

" 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

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facts. You say that you trace the same superstitions in
all religions, and that the same spiritual myths are in soipe
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 Chris-
tianity, 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 religions ? 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 delibe-
rately 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 con
elusion 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 Etifie to bed."

And here it may be stated that Geoffrey's advice was
not altogether thrown away. Beatrice did try looking ar
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 r?Vther by

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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 acci-
dent 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 scarla-
tina 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 learnt 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 subjev.%

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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 gentle-
man, 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 feel-
ing 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 list-

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ened lo 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 improving 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 glancing 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 v;'hom he might devour. He had
absolutely no designs on Beatrice's affections, any more
than she had on his, and he had forgetten 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 helples ness 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 com-
petent to form opinions and a judgment upon all the
important questions of life, should be treated as a child,
{Uid th^t he should remove himself from Bryngelly lest

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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 sup-
position which would only have been acceptable to a con-
ceited 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 amuse-
ment 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 to-
gether 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

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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 1 " 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 f <rget 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 ouf, 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 con-
dition 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

DRIFTIXG.

137

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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.

Abo,ut a qunrter 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, how-
ever, to pass a thoroughly miserable afternoon. He
seemed to miss Beatrice more at every step and gadually
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 ap-
praised tlieir 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 Owen heavily, for he knew nothing
of painting and cared less, " that is a Velasquez, valued
for probate at ;£'3,oco — no," referring to the catalogue
and reading, " I beg your pardon, the next is the Velas-
quez ; 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,ooo guineas."

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Will

" Four thousand guineas ! " said Elizabeth, ** fanqr
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. Bir ^^am — 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 Etifie 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

DRIFTING,

129

fancy
;ona

is and
e, till,
of the
litting-
ren, to
ring at
hEffie
her lip
r sister
he was
(vorship

to the
y in the

a word

ething,"

rice has
go out

rht have

I — it is

IWhen is

)e sorry,
And
the went,

Beatrice
ip in her
1 quiet for
] come in.
lemed to

iset fires
infinite

)ack, she

wondered ; he would scarcely have time to dress. Sup-
posing that an accident had happened to him. Nonsense 1
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 I 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 sae 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 en-
gagement, 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."

i

. I.

m

130

BEATRICE.

i!i

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 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 Mic'^aelmas 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 Cham-
bers. 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 ?. 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
Ihat 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-Gen^ -al, and Mr. Candleton, Q.C," the well-
known leader of the Probate and Divorce Court Bar.
Never before had Geoffrey found himself in such honour-

i

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and

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honour-

**i

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ONLY GOOD-NIGHT.

131

able company, that is on the back of a brief, and not a
liitle 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 ;£8o,ooo, 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 pro-
perty 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, howe'-^r, he and this uiece 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,ooo which he had left her, all the rest of his property
being divided between his son and daughter. Three
days afterwards, hov;ever, he duly executed a fresh will,
in the presence of tw.o 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 i(i their presence. They also de-
clared, 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 reii.arivable circumstance in the case was
that the disreputable lover of the niece had been seen
hanging abo it the house at dusk, the testator having died
at te' o'clock at night. There was also a further fact.

9-2

5; J

N

I < It

•t

132

BEATRICE,

r

The son, on receiving a message from the niece that his
father was seriously worse, had hurried with extraor-
dinary 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 foot-
marks were afterwards found. Of these footmarks two
casts had been taken, of which photographs were for-
warded 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 circum-
stances were suspicious enough, .here 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 Geofi'rey'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 hypo-
thesis. 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 couise the ex-
lawyer's clerk had something to do with it, but what ?
In vain did Geofi"rey cudgel his brains ; every idea that
occurred to him broke down somewhere or other.

"We shall lose this," he said aloud in despair ; "sus-
picious 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-

Sl

OSL Y GOOD-NIGHT.

133

ill

bis
or-
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at the

Hof law,
I pushed

It 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 ex-
amined 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 supersti-
tious ; they frightened him first of all by a ghostly voice
or some such thing into signing the will arid then to death
after he had signed it. The i^.wyer's clJrk prepared the
will — he would know how to do it. Then he was smug-
gled 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 some-
thing unusual through the blind ; the brief says there were
no curtains or shutters. Now look at the photographs of
the footprints. See in No. i, 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 i)robable 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 for-
ward, 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 a'l about k."

" By Jove," said Geoffrey, * what a criminal lawyer you
would make ! I believe that you have got ir. But how
are we to find this boy with the missing toe-joint ? ii^very

n

'i ;!i

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M

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!

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!

1

134

BEATRICE,

possible inquiry has already been made and failed. No-
body 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 newcomer 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 some-
times 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 v/ill 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 £7,^ iis. 4d. due on account of
tithe. Therefore Mr. Granger, fortified by a judgment
duly obtained, had announced his intention of distraining

ONLY GOOD-NIGHT.

135

sTo-
ibly

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ining
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training

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, thr(5ugh 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 i^
as well for a clergynian not to mix him;>clf up too much
in these teiLporal matters. No, 1 want to go and see

1 1,
\ "

! ■

lf;i^

HJ

\

':i

1,,

!

i

.! i

136

BEATRICE.

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 revolution^.ry fury of the
mob. Come, it is time to start."

And so they went, leaving Beatrice a prey to melan-
choly forebodings.

She waited in the house for the best part of an hour,
making pretence to play with Efifie. Then her anxiety
got the better of her ; she put on her hat and started,
leaving Ef!ie 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 th^ noise of shouting.
Presently she heard a sound like thereport 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.

Te men were passing her now.

^* What is it ? " she cried. '

"Murder/" they answered with oae voicte, and Sj-.3d
on towiatds BiyhgfeUy. • ..,. .

ONLY GOOD-NIGHT.

137

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 and 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 me ; it is that poor fellow
Johnson, the auctioneer. Jones shot him. I was stand-
ing 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. ^ . . . .

miiid

138

BEATRICE.

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 ? Non-
sense ; 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 hung, 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, sud-
denly 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 John-
son 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 1 i feel quite sick."

I

1

■§

4

ONLY GOOD-NIGHT.

139

mgs.
[rsing
ineer
went
[debt,
sud-
lished
lones
the
Ibrute
[thing
think,
'ohn-
Lory."
Idder.

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. Giaiger 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. Eliza-
beth 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.

" Goodnight. 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 appeared 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

< I 11

I \-

140

BEATRICE,

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 adven-
ture. 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, 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 in 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 com-
panionship as of man with man. She knew he did not
love his wife and that his wif j did not love him — this sh«

ONLY GOOD-NIGHT,

I4f

could see. But she had never tried to win him from he;,
and though she sinned in thought, though her heart was
guilty — 3h, her hands were clean I

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 inter-
fering, 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 ynsatisfied ;
that when love escapes us on the earth, in oVir despair,
we swear it is immortal, and that we shall find it in the
heavens. Now Beatrice believed this no nore. 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

I'

I'

'i

\A

I''
h

i4a

BEATRICE.

■i 5

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 othjr,
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 cou d
hear no voice the words she spoke floated into his mind —

*' Be a g;od and hold me
* With :i charm !

Be a man and fold me '

With thine aim.

Teach me, only teach, Level

As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love^

.. Think thy thous:ht — .. ,<

Meet, if thou require it,

Both demands, • . -

_Lhyin<j flcvh and jspii'it
.. In thy iiands.

..--' 1

\i ■■ . - -f

ONLY GOOD-NIGHT,

143

That shall be to-morrow

Not to-night :
I must bury sorrow

Out of sight.

Must a little weep, LoTt,

(Foolish me ! )
And so fall asleep, Love,

Loved by thee."

il

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 acknowledg-
ment 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 know-
ing what such a love must mean, for him if not for her,
Geoff'rey 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 m 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 slie remembered it was absolutely
proved that people dying could send a vision of themselves
t6 others far away \ ^nd if fbat c"tJuld be, why not this ?

\A

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BEATRICE,

No, it was truth, a solemn truth; she knew he felt hei
thought, she knew that hk life beat upon her life. Oh,
here was mystery, and here was hope, for if this could
be, and it was^ what might nut be ? If her blind
strength of human love could so overstep the boundaries
of human power, and, b' 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 ? —
]^y strange secrets open to i:er 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,
thev would fall and set her naked spirit free to seek its
ccher 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 cord 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 slo'.vIy sunk 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 rriorning, after a little
reflection, h^. came to the. decision that he had ex-
periebced a. very curious apd moving dream, .consequent.
on the e;Kciting events of the pieyious day, or on the pain of
his impending departure. He rose, packed his bag — ^every-
thing else was TQady— an.d went in to breakTast. Beatrice
(!ui not-api>ear til4 it was half «ver. She looked very
pak, "ana s^iid'that she' had*"5'een packing Effie's things.

ONLV GOOD-NIC HT.

t4$

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 de-
spatched 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 ^ou 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
;;ertain to summon you as a witness at the trial of that
villain Jones."

"Goodbye, 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 fox
twenty-five years. Never could afibrd 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," sho
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 mdancholy," he said, after a fe\l
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 yo'.i ? **

** Certainly, if you like."

** And will you answer my letters ? *

I'll

i

146

BE A TRICE,

" 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 knowT 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-iriorrow,

Not to-night : f

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 bec.me white as the dead,
stumbled, and nearly fell. With a supreme effort she
recovered herself.

" I think that you must know the linec, 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
vou sleep well last night ? "

"No, Mr. Bingham."

" Did you have curious dreams ? "

" Yes, I did " she answered, looking straight before her.

^■'A

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THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD, 147

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 for-
gotten, 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 cheer-
ful 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 liow her beauty had struck him as no
beauty ever had btfore. 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

10 — 2

f#'

t4S

BE A TRICE.

own, when that strange presentiment of the ultimate
intermingling of their lives had flashed upon him, <ind
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-giowing 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 h2 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 in-
stance, 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 imaginatioa 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 manifesta-
tion 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.

THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD. 149

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
ot law j so, dropping the imaginative side of the question
as one beyond him, he 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 l.er. This he refused to admit now in the
light of day, thou>]h 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
01 severe mental strain, not a single half hour would
pass without bringing its thought of Beatrice. Every-
thing 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 Oi 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 oujr systeni not otherwise than
inconvenient, to a married man.

And now Beatrice was.goj^e, anjd he must come back
to his daily toil, sweetened by Honoria's bitter complaints
oi..tneir •'jii)\:&t;y*,4iid ?ee ber no more. The thouglit
made Geoffrey's heart ^fihe with a physical pyin^ ^.^.te

111

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BEATRICE,

%M

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
Avpocrisy 's one of the great pillars of civilization, and
how does ii matter what the heart says wnile 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 cevtainly 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
agam, the iips v/ould 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 ar-
ranged, Anne, the French bonne, met them at the
station to take Efifie home. Geoffrey noticed that she
looked smarter and less to his taste than ever. How-
ever, 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, how-
ever, it is not far from Paddington to the flat near the
Edgware Road," where Geoffrey lived, so having persorv
ally instructed the cabman, he left Anne to convoy Effie
and the luggage, and went on to the Temple by Und^-
groiind Railway with aa easy mind.

THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGIVARE ROAD. 151

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 « p?^rtner.
To his delight he then found that Beatrice's ghost thv*ory
was perfectly accurate ; the boy with the missing toe-joint
had been discovered who sa v the whole horrible traj^edy
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 hand-
writing 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, botli
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, how-
ever, he said good-night to Effio — 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 mmutes past five ! Why, you don't mean to
say that you were an hour coming that little way ! Did
>ou get blocked in the fog? " , .. ; . ., ..

" No, daddy, but "' " '.. .: ...,:•

"But what, dear?" .. ■ .. »

" Anne did tell me not to say I "

"But I tell yon to say, dear — never mind Annii !"

"Anne stopped and talked to the ticket-man for a
long, long time." - .

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152

BEATRICE^

" Oh, did she ? " he said.

At that moment the parlourr.aid 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 mv 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 re-
member as well as she might have done — the parlourmaid
arrived agam.

" 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," Effie said, 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 nc. ne was
Mr, Dunstan. Geoffrey knew him at once for an
exceedingly wealthy man of small birth, and less breed-
ing, 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 thir respect. Hence
his presence there to-nig)it.

" How do you do, Geoffrey ? " said his wife, advancing

' -^ ^ '■

see

THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD. 153

to greet him with a kiss of peace. ** You look very well.
But what iin 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 appear-
ance 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 in-
appropriate — remark to the effect that he hoped Mr.
Bingham had made the most of such unrivalled oppor-
tunities, 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-fumished the large hall and their drawing-room-

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BEATRICE.

r

Hi : «^

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
dmner 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, recommend-
ing 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 c : 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 _,oin 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, refleciing that Bingham was a conceited ass, and
altogether too much far iiim. "And I don't believe

THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARK ROAD. IJf

M

you
dyou
enty

If I

I"

m

that he has got a thousand a year," he reflected to him-
self, "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 daughtei
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 oppor-
tunity 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 to make a fuss. Mr. Dunstan has got boxes
at several of the best theatres, 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 liis
friends that it was Lady Honoria Bingham he was

\ I '.

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BEATRICE.

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i.

speaking to — that is the exchange. I want to go to the
theatre; he wants to get into good society— there you ha\"e
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 som€
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 1 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

GEOFFREY WtSS HIS CASE.

157

i

if Beatrice would treat her husband Hlce 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 CASB.

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 Alt. ney-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."

' I

H

t58

BEATRICE,

being

" Very well," said Geoffrey, and on the ca
called he roc*^ and stated the circumstances to the court.
But the Court was crusty. It had got the fog down its
learned 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; ^r
this case was not taken there was no other with which
they could gQ on, &c., &c.

The court took the same view, and lectured Geoffrey
severely. Every counsel in a case, the Court remem-
bered, when It was at the Bar, used to be able to opeo
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 en 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 >vell," 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
£.rgument 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, thinkmg 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. Candle-
kOn, Geoffrey was called upon to open the ca^e 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

"A
I

GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE.

159

-4i

chance for which many able men have to wait long years,
and he knew it, and meant to make the most of it. Natur-
ally 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 presen iy 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 bendin!^ 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 solicitor, 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
in 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 tliis stage of the cause, but to
leave it entirely in his hands.

It would be useless to follow the details of this re-
markable wdl 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

i1

m

BEATRICE.

remembered in the courts, rising as it did to a very high
level of forensic eloquence. Few who saw it ever forgot
the sight o( 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 out-
stretched hand, he branded her to the jury as a murderess.

Few in that cr^^ vded 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 — ii 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 Binghanrs 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 drama-
tically 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 themsdves 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.

J

3
I

:M

GEOFFRh Y WINS HIS CASE.

161

lit the
but
epted

such
He

man,
at was

form,
eoffrey
he was

le was

pride.

He will have felt as Gtoffrey fell that night, whose lot
it has been to fight long and strenuously against circum-
stances so adverse as to be almost overwhelming, know-
ing 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 impor-
tance 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 hom^ 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."

u

i

luF/'iJ;.

i6j

BFA TS'/CF.

"Yes — that is, I was. I have won the case. Here
is a very fair report of it in the Sf. 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 I'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 been, 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, "lam glad that
you (lid 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.

c '■!

THE RISING STAR,

i63

II

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

m

I ii

CHAPTER XVni.

)Utter,

to-day,

Id that
daddy.

;ou

did

THE RISING STAR.

As might be expected, the memorable rrse of Parsons and
Douse proved 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 hud 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 gitts, 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 dea h, " that this sum will
assist him to rise to the head of his profession."

U— 2

M

l64

BEATRICE,

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
;^i5o 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 £^\^o, 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 addefl 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 wealt'r
brings. It gave her a positive physical satisfaction ; her
beauty, which bad begun to fade, came bark to her ; she

THE RISING STAR,

165

)and

him

able,

iffrey

iiant.

itreet

louse

like."

lough
lave a
,ve got
1 to a

[onoria
carried
lass of
imiring

sum of
would
d stand
Lady
er mind
her, and
he good

her.

She

)y at the
iix at the
a all this
nitted of,
appiness.
out of the
ed them
lat weallV
fttion ; her
her; she

1

,c

locked five years younger. And all the while GeoiTrey
watched her vith an ever-gro\vii;g scorn.

Once it broke out. The Bolton Street house had been
furnished ; he gave her fifteen hundred jiounds to do it,
and with what things they owned she managed very well
on that. They moved into it, and Honoria had set her-
self up with a sufficient supply of grand dressses and
jewellery, suitable to her recovered jjosition. One day
however, it occurred to her that Effio was a child of
remarkable beauty, who, if properly dressed, would look
very nice in the drawing room at tea-time. So she order*, d
a lovely costume for her — this deponent is not al)le 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 docs 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 unsi itable to her age.
There is plenty of time for her to take to vanity."

" I really don't understand you, G^jofl"rey. Why should
not the child be handso uely dressefl^^'

"Why not! Great heaven, Honoria, do you supjiose
that I want to see Effie grow up like you, to lead a life of
emp;y pleasure-seeking idleness, and nr.ake 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

l*!i

t'

y .

166

BE A TRICE,

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 GeoiTrey 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
rt.paration for his sharp words, and so he was, but to
himself, and in another sense. Every time he gave her
money in this fashior Geoffrey felt like a man who has
puid off a dtbl of hcj! or, iae lad taunted him again
and again with her pov fly I'ne poverty she said that he
had brought her ; for twtiy taunt ' e would heap upon her
all those things in which her soui 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 sub-
ject for such an experiment. She never showed the least
sigA of being satiated, either with fine things, with plea-
sures, 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 dtvay and the spring came. One day, it
was in April, Geoflre^', who was a moderate Liberal by per-
suasion, 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 rhen returned a Home Ruler had fallen vacant.
As it charced 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 tK* t he was the very man to lead a forlorn hope.

THE RISING STAR,

167

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 ?nswer from her. Yl?. had an almost superstitious
faitu in her judgment, and did not like to act without it.
Aftt r carefully weighing the pros a;. J cons, his own view
wa that ! e should do well to stand. Probably he would
be. defeated, and it might cost him five hundred pounds.
On ihe Jther iiana 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 — \.
kept him from thinking.

In due course Beatrice's answer came. Her virw
oincided withhis own; she recommended him to take l ;
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 Govern-
ment.

The next fortnight was a hard one for him, bu*. Geoffrey
was as good a man on the platform as in court, and he
had, moreover, the very valuable knack of suiting him-
self to his audience. As his canvass went on it was
generally recognised that the seat which had been con-
sidered 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 indepen-
dent electors of this single division, and therefore
of the Country at large, held the Government policy in

I :ii

!♦ - ':

■ i68

BEATRICE.

.'(I

'■m, .

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 some-
what indifferent at first, grew quite excited about the
result. For one thing she found that the contest attached
ail 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 became 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 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 Hon-
oria ; she was incapable of kissing a butcher, or indeed any-
body 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 Govern-
ment 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 vas, by artfully applied and aristocratic feminine in-
fluence." Tl)is was a delicate allusion to Honoria and
her blue parasol.

As Geoffrey and his wife were driving bkck to Bolton

THE RISING STAR.

I«9

Street, after the declaration of the poll, a little incident
occurred. GeofTrey 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 Ludy 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 wai^ 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 he 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 im-
portant 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.

17©

nr.A TRICE.

For the next few months (icoffrcv worked as men rarely
work. All day he was at his chambers or in court, and at
nij^ht 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 clients were neglected
by him ; also he still found time to write fo 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 am'jitious 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 lotj 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 suc-
ceeded. 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
trium[)hs 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 magriet
draws a needle. Success did not bring him happiness,
except in the sense that it relieved him from money cares.

/

THE Rl^ISr, ^TAll

t7t

People of coarse temperament only can find real satis-
faction 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 a 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 indivi-
dual who can be happy. Thus women, who reflect less, are
as a class much happier and more contented than men.
Eut 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 h ore. 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 voices
answer, but no two agree. 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 h.uman night,* still bends

'ft

■ ^ I

I

171

BEATRICE.

changelessness,

his

above his head in awf

weary feet draw closer to the portals ot tne 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 immeasur-
able night.

Oh, for that simpler faith which ever recedes more far
fron. che 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 sc entific and weary with
the weight of knowledge, they will reject their ancientGods,
and no smug-faced Positivism will bring them consolation.
Science, here and there illuming 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 kih, 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 ma'*.e 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 intensitv that
alarmed him. He had her letters indeed, but w'.^t are
letters ! One touch of a beloved hand is worth a thousand
letters. In the midst of his great success Geoffrey was
wietched at heart, yet it seemed to him that if he onc«

S9

GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR,

^11

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.

\A

\ \

GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR.

An 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 hope-
lessness 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 gel 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
luvui ji.jiculoyi, havin^^ so much to say, to be able to

174

BEATRICE,

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 loatning from the dreary
fustian of politics, she would religiously search the parlia-
mentary columns from begmning to end on the chance
of linding 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 — think-
ing of Geoffrey ; to come home wearied, and finally to seek
I'efuge 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 **■ net" been for
Beatrice's salary it was difficult to see how me 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,
askmg what business she had to spend sixpence a week
on such a needless luxury. But Beatrice could 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; every-
body saw it except her father. Mr. Granger's mind wa?
so occupied with questions connected with tithe that
fortunately for Beatrice little else could find an entry.
Owen dogjred her a' out ; Jie would wait whole hours
outside the school or by the Vica tage gate merely to sptak

I

M

f

GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR.

m

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 iove indeed, but he looked it,
which was almost as bad. Another thing 'vas 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 1 " Subse-
quently 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 seld her pre-
sents, f:rst 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
even 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 packrge, " this has been sent to me by
mistake. Will you kind!} take it back ? "

He took it, abashed. .

"Mr. Davies," she went on, looking him full In the
eyes, " I hojie that there will be no more such mistqckes.
Pf^as^'e undferst*an(J th^t I cannbl afcfept pVestnl^ fi'o'm yo\j."

176

BEATRICE.

** 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,
a!id the pilich of want was not likely to make him
more so.

Nor, we may be sure, did all this escape the jealous
eyes 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 con-
strued into acts. Everybody is free to indulge in secret
predilections, but if once they g've them way, if once a
woman's character is compromised, then the world avails
itself of its opportunities and destroys her. What man,
thcu^^ht Elizabeth, would marry a compromised woman ?
If Beaviice could be compromised, Owen Davies w-. ild
not lakt^ her to wife — therefore this must be brought

aboiic. '

" 'V. ?: lunl'. u'i'ked and jnnatural. "Impossible that
sisttv 'bf oulci i:o t:eat sisltr," the reader of t"his history

that
story

GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR.

177

may say, thinking or 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 remorselessness she united a con-
siderable 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
mei-hod 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 Beatrices
affair. But she could give her every chance of falling
into temptation, and this it was her fixed de^i^^n 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 \\^ ■..
The tithe payers absolutely refused to fulfil their obli -
tions. As it happened, Jones, the man who had v r-
dered the auctioneer, was never brought to trial. He
died shortly after his arrest in a fit of delirium trt ^ns
and nervous prostration brought on by the suddei^ c-sa-
tion of a supply of stimulants, and an examp was
lost, that, had he been duly hung, might have beer, made
of the results of defying the law. Mr. Granger was low
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 n - nt
beggary. Indeed he was already a beggar. In this state of

u

«78

BEATRICE.

affairs he took counsel with Elizaljeth, 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 wtll 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 con-
sideration 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
Elizal)eth be sure that she would not yield? Beatrice
would be the very person to be carried away by arj idea of
duty. Their father would tell her that he had got the
money on this understanding, 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 seek-
ing 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 micht directly or in-
directly 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.

GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR.

179

Bingham, and if possible bring him down to Bryngelly.
In a moment every detail of the plot became clear 10
Elizabeth's mind, and t'.ien she spoke.

"You must not go to Mr. Davies, father/' she said;
"he is a hard man, and wouid 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 tc 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 fina-^v ) 'elded.
The weak, querulous old farmer clergyman, ' ui 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 en-
tailed. 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

12—2

ill'

i8o

BEATRICE.

was a consultation going on, and his ( lient, a pig headed
Norfolk farmer, who was bent upon proceeding to trial
with some extraordiwary action for trespass against his
own landlord, was present with his solicitor. GeolTrey
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 tiie 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, pished 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, fcr a
wont. . to take EfSc 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 woula
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"

GEOllREY HAS A VISnVR.

iCi

^1

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 after-
noon," 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 unex-
pected 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 #ither, 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 — vQry quiet, you know, and a
littTe p^le, perhaps ; but she i. always quiei — a stfatige

III

l82

BEATRICE.

woman Beatrice, Mr. Bingham, a very strange woman,
quite beyond me 1 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 ^ ^crful ;
the poor narrow-minded old man had thought about
money till he could scarcely find room for anything else,
mdeed 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 iicome 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, be-
cause 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
Inxiiry ! It made him 5'ick tb think Of it. FoV a moment
he cbuld say nbthing. * ' : • ' '

GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR,

183

" I have conie 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 my 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 Ijft it in Bolton Street. Here,
this will do as well," and he took up a draft 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 foi," he said doubt-
fully. " Am I to return you ;^ioo ? '*

" 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 kno'v 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. Graingi ; 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 ran pay me whenever it is
convenient."

" You are too good, Mr. Bingham," said the old clergy-
man. "Where could another man be found who wuuld
lend me ;£'2oo without security ? " (where indeed !) " By
the way," he added, " I forgot ; my mind is in such a

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184

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BEATRICE.

whirl. Will you come back with me for a few days to
Bryngelly ? We shall 9II be so pleased it* 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 the 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. Temp-
tation 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 nLe 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 ^eat force in
those days. They were very inoffensive young men and
Geoffrey had no particular objection to ihem. Only he
found it difficult to remember all their names. When

•' :"

BACK AT BR YNGELL Y,

t85

Geoffrey entered the drawing-room there were no less
than five of them, to say nothing of two stray ladies, all
superbly dressed and metaphorically sitting 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 an-
nouncement 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 ci\ Illy 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 dif-
ferent 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 wait-
ing 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 clergy-
man to dine, who has not the slightest pretensions to
being a gentleman, when one has the Prime Minister

A]

> t f

n]

ii#!ii* t

f

1

!

1

i
i

i

i

fril

i

i86

BEATRICE,

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 often pose as a household philosopher. Still he
would not draw back now. His heart was set on seeing
Btatrice.

" 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 aivcr him, slowly nodding hei
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 reputa-

' \

BACK AT BR YNGELL Y.

187

It
r he

lalce
alV

hei
have
your
Ind it

1 1 am
lal for
iputa-

tion and position. Just fancy a man lilce 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 be.bre she has
done. Bah I 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 tim^ to dress for dinner. I
only hope that old clown of a clergyman won't do some-
thing 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 pre-
sence, 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 in-
terest 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 clergy-
man 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
esco'ting 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
wino. Inr! ed. both the npoplertir wife of the Bishop

! I

;

i

}

^';lt

V.

; b

f

l88

BEATRICE.

'-•\

and the head of Her Majest/s Government were subse-
quently heard to declare that Nf r. 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 com-
pany 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 after-
wards she had treated him with a cold indifference, indeed

BACK AT BRYNGELLY.

i89

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 ?ame 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 sucn 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 unknow-
ingly, 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 hth ? 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 tae 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

igo

BEATRICE.

■• 1

.1 t

„»i t

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 con-
done 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 ourselvei
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 ai.d «i 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 a 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 to 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

I

BACK AT BRYNGELLY.

191

uating
pathy,

The
except
n may
n, and

at all

ly such

)f that

lence is

lost in «;he 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 dis-
agreeable influences. It is not safe to light cigarettes in
a powder factory. If Geoff'rey had done what he ought
to have done, he would never have gone back to Bryn-
'elly, and there would have been no story to lell, 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 litde church through those well-remembered, wind-
torn pines and see that low long house. It seemec won-
derful 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 saiae 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 hur-
riedly, 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, an-
swering his thought and not his words, " She has gone

4

i.:

J»''1

mw r

BEATRICE,

out walking, but L think that she will be back soon.
Excuse me, but I must go and see about your room."

GeofTrey 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 ofT. 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 you 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 still 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'ii the fact
There'll be another accent out of it one 0/ these fine
days and no coming to next time. But, Lcvd 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
whatssever walk o' life it has pleased God to stick 'em,
but it's a wonderful pity, it is. He ain't no great shakes,

W

THE THIRD APPEAL,

«93

soon,
iin.

pe and
pressed
eatrice,

e again,
id you a
len, and
mil your
you was
've been
tid much
our time,
ink your

t, the old

)W.

' he asked
nks.

in*t many
5 sight on
>m of that
the fact
these fine
bless you,
leer un is
lerer, what
icarage, no
Not but
us whisper,
He's a
r as a dog
list say yes

frey coldly,
fancies, in
stick 'em,

eat shakes,

be iin'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 ae's got the money, and money's tight up at the
Vicarage, sir. Gals must give up their fancies some-
times, sir. Lord ! a brace of brats and she'd forget all
about 'enn. I'm seventy years old and I've seen thei/
ways, sir, though in a humble calling. You should s?.y
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
thougli 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 ret \rned to the house, and
leaning on the gate watched tl s 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 sweet-
ness 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 !

13

\ \

r r

BEATRICE,

' t

ijil I

" I beg your pardon," she said in a puzzled tone^
stepping forward to pass the gate. ,,

" Beatrice I "

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? *' , .,

THE THIRD APPEAL.

«95

m^

e she
oking
lening .
ilove. '
;am ? " .\
i

i. "It

g cross.
)U have
[ looked
iC grave.

ed ""

new that
nedfrom

)t know ;
suppose

all right

I that way,

" Let me

you — if>'

lay shake

it would

lether, you

Iknow, yo^

that you

jred as he

of.
I?"

lam

**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 finder 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 happi-
ness 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. Per-
haps 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

i3--a

t'M

i;

li

I

•It 'I

I

196

BEATRICE.

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 oppor-
tunity, and you will one day be among the foremost
men of your generation."

" I doubt it," he said with a sigh. " I am not am-
bitious. I only work for the sake of the 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 strei\gth 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 shoukl 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 sympa-

«

THE THIRD APPEAL,

197

Mmf
alked
some

oppor-
remost

ot am-
not for
1 weary
like to

; it up;
itinued,
lat while
: till you
can give

thises 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 acci-
dental, 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."

u

■I*

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, y ra 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 is a rich man. Think of it, Mr. Bing-
ham," and the old gentlen^.an turned up his eyes

^f.H

r ' I' r

ilUN

198

BEATRICE,

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. Bing-
ham, 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 do 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 vul-
garly 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 repul-
sive 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

THE THIRD APPEAL,

199

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 re-
gret. 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 vir-
tue to the partner of their fault, and advertise their in-
fallible specific (to be taken by the partner) for restoring
the status quo ante. Sometimes as a consequence ot
this pious zeal they find themselves misunderstood, or
even succeed in precipitating the catastrophe which they
laudably desire to prevent.

%

It!

M

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

» I

300

BE A Til ICE,

i

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, Bryn-
gelly slept on Sundays. Presently, however, a man
approached walking rapidly, and to all appearance aim-
lessly, 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
k is hair would have been the better for cutting. Geoffrey
wondered if he ha(^ 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 ran'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.

THE THIRD APPEAL.

«>I

** 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 only want her."

"Her? Who?"

" Who ! why, Beatrice — who 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
yous 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 pitiful — 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 grows faster and 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 httle undignified ? These remarks, interest-
ing 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

ll'

I .

t
1

!

BEATRICE.

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 con-
temptible 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 success-
ful rival — in the lady's affection ?

" Do you know, Mr. Davies," Geoffrey said, " I think
that I have had enough of .his. 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 gei
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."

Ke 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

A NIGHT OF STORM.

103

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 some
thing 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 comjiromise, 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 Ctoffrey was far too anxious and
unhappy to be flippant, nt 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

H

I,

I !

I IS!

,J

1 1»

904

BEATRICE,

Geoffrey held, loving women never will play aocording
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 was after all 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 i^ady to go to evening service.
To Geoffrey's dismay Bea rice did the same. He had
looked forward to a quiet walk with her — really this was
not *o 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 quiet -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

fi"

A NIGHT OF STORM.

ao$

coming; it is too sultry to go to church. I daresay
that Mr. Bingham will accompany you."

GeofTrey 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 —
I think that we shall have a storm."

They went out, and turned up t^e lonely beach. The
place was utterly deserted, and they walked a little way
apart, almost without speaking. The sunset was magni-
ficent ; great flakes of golden cloud were continually
driven 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 difficult
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

906

BEATRICE,

I H

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 cer-
tainly pining for you ; and by old Edward, intervening as
a kind of domestic amicus cur ice"

" 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 distasteful 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

A NIGHT OF STORM,

m

Never

when

And

ppens,
which
ith the
; of his
lim.
1 made
and by
yrou are
is cer-
ningas

irability

led and

to give

'er, and
bring
He is

!y were
5," that
sed to

I

more lovely still by its stamp of haughty anger: they
lay upon her heaving breast. Full in the eyes she
looked him w'*.h 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, con-
quering and born to conquer.

"Does it not strike you, Mr. Bingham," she said
quietly, "that you are taking a very great liberty?
Does it n6t 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 accusa-
tion 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 inter-
mediary 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 some-

N

ii!

I

v

I' II

*•!

•'I

mS

BEATRICE.

thing. In this case, Mr. Bingham, there are circumsUncet'
which make it — a cruel insult ! "

She stopped speaking, then suddenly, without th*'
slightest warning, burst into passionate weeping. At sIm^
did so» the first rush of the storm passed over thci%
winnowing the air as with a thousand eagles* wings, and2
was lost on the moaning depths beyond.

The light went out of tbj sky. Now Geoffrey could
only see the faint outlines of her weeping face. One
moment he hesitated and one only; then Nature pvei-
vailed 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 sbet
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 GeofTrey prosper Owen Davies's suit.

" Oh, you are cruel, cruel I " 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 drowfiedi
together at the first," he said heavily.

"No, no,^' she answered, "for then we never should^
have loved each other. 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 titt^
tomorrow."

A NIGHT OF STORM.

309

lacet
I th»-

thCOIr

I, and?

could
One
e pp©*
s.

eemed

bitter
ere she
eir lips
the end
s's sutii^
ler ear.
I spoke
y. You

I have-
in hour
:e like a

enow it,

•tly;*»I
w could
hat you
eproacb
is theie-

"Irowaedj

should^
then to.^

and be^'
kuble tfll^

And, where on ? 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 shel-
tered 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 1 Heaven and Space and Time, eciio back the
melody ! For Life has called to us the answer of his
riddle I 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 com-
pleter 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 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.

14

■«M«i

'' ' j '

310

BEATRICE.

jjjii

M

Kiss me, thou Conquerer, for Destiny !«' r»ve*roTie,
Sorrow is gone by ; and the flame that we have hallowed
upon l^his 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 ot
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 ai? 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, overshadow-
ing 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
Bcan^ are the occasions, and few there are who kr.ow them.

Thus soared Beatrice and Geoffrey while the wild night

A NIGHT OF STORM,

311

ill owed
ind yet

e.

such a
)lds hei

. I

sounds

ily glory
essence,
let them
lo visions
Geoffrey ?
it breath
lir brow?
eeting ot
lore such
lose dear

be real
nor do
there are
eathe that
[em in his
and the
[id, happy
I their life-
ershadow-
, marriage,
[thin their
2ss Nout,
lath. But
kow them.

wild night

beat around them, making a fit accompaniment to their
stormy loves. And thus too they fell.

** 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 lo do what one cannot help — but I
am not bad enough for this. Walk quicker, Geoffrey ; we
shall be late, and they will suspect j imething."

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, oh
promise me never for one moment to believe that I
reproached or blamed you. Why i>hould 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

14— a

i

'A

% \

313

BEATRICE,

i "

*,'■

'■fl

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 tempta-
tion, 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 oh, 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 so 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. ' j. <

•• Stop, one minute,*' she said, " perhaps you do not

ffrey— I

Vhat are

more?

r him by
re to go
rs. This
the price
You are
if tempta-
letimes I
will write

1 can stop,
jeoffrey,!
hall never
'e me."
;ely tender
th natural
rt beneath

gathering
eave her?
uickly, lest
hey should

will go to-
any mcwre.

lid; "you
man with
lather such
le would it

|w, and the

jhe needed
her words

^ou do not

A NIGHT OF STORM. „3

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 my-
self, 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
Bupper. 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 tliat
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

1. t

,

I!

ii

214

BEATRICE.

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. t

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 any
thing. Shes grateful enoug': 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 over-
came 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 terminate i at one end in the room where
he slept, and at the other in that occupied by Eliza-
beth 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

A NIGHT OF STORM.

«5

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.

I

n

!

m

••1

3l6

BE A TRICE.

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 up-
turned, 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 facul-
ties 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

i

A DA WN OF RAIN.

317

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 she 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 ruii; 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 remem-
bdred in his favour.

Sl8

BEATRICE.

^^

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 somnam-
bulists 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 ! F ' a merciful
chance it was not. He stepped through the door, knock-
ing 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 I he
had been seen — the old man was coming in. What
could he say? Tell the truth, that was all; but wha

\j

A TJAWN OF RAIN,

219:

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 1
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 walk-
ing 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

•^1

■-\

*- 1

i t

m

9S0

BEATRICE.

fact that Elizabeth was evidently asleep, he groped hm»
way to the second bed through the deep twilight of the
room. 'I'he clothes were thrown back. He laid Beatrice
down and dr^w them over her. Then he fled.

As he reached the door he saw Mr. Granger's light
vanish 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 shat-
tered by struggle, icve 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 slink*
ing 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 strange
hour had blossomrd 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, whicb^
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 shrin^ ,

' See on either side.

Her two arms divide
Till the heart betwixt makes sign,
* Take me, for I am thine. *
« « « « •

A DA WN OF RAIN, ,3,

First, I will pray. Do Thoa
That ownest the soul, ,

Yet wilt grant control
To another, nor disallow
" V • For a time, restrain me now I*

Did they not run thus ? Oh, he should have known 1
This he could plead, and this only— that control had
httxi granted to him.

But how would Beatrice fare ? Would she come to
rhcrself 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 Eliza-
beth — he feared her.

Well might he fear her I Elizabeth's sleep was that o(
•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;
iiad seen him come with it to her own bedside, and
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 hen As soon
-as he was gone, she had risen and crept up to Beatrice,
;ftnd 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 pre-
sently 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
tirept through the window. Elizabeth still watching, for
she was not willing to lose a single scene of a drama so
rentrancing in itself and so important to her interests, saw
rlier 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 heavil) Next she looked at her watch, rose,

BEATRICE,

drank a glass of water, and dressed herself, eren 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 theire 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 ^ wful
truth, and if a truth, how came she here again ? She
went to the pantry, got 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 re-

A DAWN OF RAIN,

333

I of

was it
ice to
cness
nwful
She
it, for
le left

Lssed ;
rain,
bat in
Icks in
Id one
Lman's

le re-

mainder 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 jjassed 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.

M

t24

BE A TRICE.

When he had finished, she looked up, with another
face ; the great 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 gain-
say 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 an 1 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.
YoL (Vill not forget me, I know now that yoi^ will never
forget me all your life. Afterwards — perhaj^s — 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 high-

' 1

A DA WN OF RAIN.

22$

i another

her. "I
know that

have felt
)u are my
if I would.
Dse to gain-

your word.

you to be
1 my life at

to struggle
5U can do so
,le. Oh, my
ther, happier
ienied to us.
he flesh upon
,rify the spirit
ich from you,
)r a Hereafter.

and an hour

rateful, when I
It a little price
^r see me more.
[t yoi^ will nev^r
Ihaps— who can
best— to die.

«
scene as this.
[er broken heart
ay and the other
fting over such

ps carry us away,
[ygot; they had
■ position. They
and the world
^ passions, ^^^at
Low on the high-

r. i
. i

I

ways ? 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 future meetings — they felt them to be impossible, at
aiiy rate for i.. ny years. How could they meet as in-
different friends ? Too much they loved for that. It
was a final parting, than which death had been less
dreadful — for Hope sits ever by <-he 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 hnd 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 re ind once more. She was still there, but now

15

.zr:^— ^

226

BEATRICE,

U

1 M

I

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 genera-
tions 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 reproba-
tion of society.

What ? you would rather keep your love, your repre-
hensible 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 be-
yond whither you shall go — murmuring with your pale lips
that //lere 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 etherralised organism.
Be frank with him, tell him of your secret hopes. He

^ J/

lite gull

Id never
ipinessof
d ginera-
ses. To
.on brings
Not to
1 you can
til you are
isp. If by
e endowed
pacities of
happiness,
hem to the
1 J they are
m immoral.
1 person of
aracter, not
they migbt
oe'c drama,
;he reproba-

your repre-
and bear its
ow to your

of that be-
lour pale lips
^? Why it is

lat you will
opinion ot
infatuation

lat shall be.

)u that your

ting, in your

fd organism.

(hopes. He

i

! i

LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 327

will smile tenderly, and show you how these 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 pun-
gent 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 youi spirituality.
It is not a spiritual world ; it has i,-^ 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^<7w.

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 bagga£";
and say good-bye. He had no time for breakfast, and
he was glad of it, for he could not have eaten a morsel

' IS— 2

%:

228

BEATRICE,

"■1 ,

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; "Eliza-

LADY HONOR/A TAKES THE FIELD. 329

beth 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. ' .

t,

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 evert occurred that caused Elizabeth to determine
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
BeatricCj my beautiful Beatrice, would be my wife at last."

it 1 1 '.i

m

230

BEATRICE.

•1

.(i'

h

ill

"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 to 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
t.iat Beatrice herself might prove to be the true obstacle
to the marriage she plotted to prevent. She knew that
her sisrer was fond of Geoffrey Bingham, but that, when
it came to the point, she would absolutely allow her

Elizabeth
will soon
urself for
? If you

niily ; " I
rry except

ould nope
, marry me
jvay to this.

her sister,
han you do.
Dposing that

not wish to

[lat afraid of
the privilege
;rs connected
shrewd. He
not know of

Of course I
be my wife—

of marrying
Elizabeth. It

much longer

m they will."

ght Elizabeth,

■erness, not to

wered in a way

[arry Beatrice,

en on the line

[d to Elizabeth

true obstacle

fshe knew that

wt thai, when

[tcly allow her

LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD, 331

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 posses-
sion 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 in 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 they even
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 Honbria I 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
true mais toujours bon " — the pristine one of an anony-
mous letter, which has the startling merit of not commit-
ting 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 would of course, against
her will, 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 ixi its way, especially phonetically. This

!■ U

^•l

t

'H In

i'

«3i

L^^i TRICE.

■ i

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 p.nd 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 agin
bein 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 Monokia Bingham," it ran, "you must for-
give 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
passible 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

nrit in

1 agsdn
k, first
ur and
scheeps
a lorful
ngs as i
ice of a
idishipp
e nite of
lite inter
tiam ther
out agin
lipp dont
zbeth, as
nd,

TER.**

reached
She read
Then,
Ldvice and
[letter (her
ind asking
,der from

ind artful

lumustfor-
jour letter.
|to preserve
Ippreciated
Vruth— it is
l)st cruel of
command
:umstances
[e believing

, \

LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 233

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 circum-
stances (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, Hpnoria."

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 the 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 n
separation from an unfaithful husband, and what is more,
can take away his children."

"Again I ask you what you mean," said Geoffrej,
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 ? "

" A.nd supposing that I am in love with her, is it to be
wondered at, seeing how you treat me and have treated

;i

,i

I

M

■\

834

BEATRICE,

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

erly false

lid Lady
^ou seen
r room at
[, nothing
er of this
? I am

ings are."
stand that
and mine,
low that a
d enemies
i and tear
fawn upon
bitterly in
they have
)apers here
nds for the
, especially
once come

»

e sort. It
ing fit, but

,r, I wonder
nonsense,
there, and
Isible. lam
]e outraged
Ian to take
as against
all not be
be ruined
rankly, that
le right by
Df course, I
would be

LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 235

glad enough to he rid of nie in order that you might wel-
come 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 1 should only get a judicial separation, and you
would still have to support me. Secondly, if I go, Effie
goes with m.e, for I have a riglit 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, com-
pletely 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 some-
one, 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 circum-
stances 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 woujd 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 sympa'hy would be
with her throughout. He knew that, as it was, he was
generally believed 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 attacl s of a vulgar press, and
the gibes and jeers of his polit'jal and personal enemies,
but to lose Effie he could not bear. And if such a case

If
It

It

111

^\

936

BEATRICE.

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 out-
raged 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 j 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 compuncdon
at removing the child from her mother, for there was
no love lost between the two, and as time went on he
shrewdly guessed 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

ain that he
)dy of the

The same
matter to
rest of the
Uies of out-
id upon her.
gmployment
J, decidedly,
idedly, also,
>e.

utofit? All
ms folded on
ig to the long
launted him.
that way, till
he must wait
1 ruined, and
knd generally
by the horns,
itry and seek
Beatrice and
B jurisdiction,

n.

I himself was
le matter and
ey inclined to
and Honoria
different from
nd wife, that
arent iniquity
compuncaon
"or there was

went on he

less. For the

nds in hand ;

if. He knew

he went, and

LADV HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD, lyj

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 con-
sidered. 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 wisli 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 hesita\.ed 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 con-
duct with my husband. I do not wish to repeat it
now, further than to say that, if true, it establishes cir-
cumstances 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

I'

i I

83^

BE A TRICE.

S5' I

affection for the partner of your shame. 1 put myself
out of the question, and in the name of that affection,
however guilty it may be, I ask y ju 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. 4^ 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-respevct, 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 also lose his child. FCemember that
if this comes about it will be thrciigh you. Do not
answer this, it will do no good, for 1 shall naturally put
no faith in your protestations, but if you are in any w-' y
or measure guilty of this offence, appealing to you as o; le
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 communicatio?i between yourself and
him an i7npossibility. H. B."

It was a clever letter ; Lady Honoria could not have de-
vised 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 con-
sideration. 1 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 1 do not command
you to come, because I promised to leave you unin-
fluenced. 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

lysclf
ction,
irs no

utter

with

curse
i, and
public
n, that
3ect, I
jrnedy.
I losing
>er that
Do not
illy put
iny w^ y
I as o; le
X who is

evil, by
ulf and
I. B."

ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 239

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 unwholesom > dream. The
one real thing, the one happy thing ;hat 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.

1)

CHAPTER XXV.

ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH.

Hard had been Beatrice's hours since that grey morn-
ing of separation. She must bear all the inner wretched-
ness 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 porten-
tous. The man was quite unmanageable ; his passion, which
was hu'.iiiliating 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 had respectively 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.

240

BE A TRICE.

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 I 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 sliout, and once more began his
wild march. " Oh, Beatrice ! " he sail, " tvo-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 in-
nocent 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 irom
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, !ock>?d herself in her own

ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 241

little room, foi- 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 hor-
rible 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 hate her 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. Other-
wise, he will live to curse and hate you." No, no I
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 Bcatri'^e
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

tft

If

it

I i'

4J!

4

34s

BEATRICE.

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 em-
barrassment ? — was peaceably engaged 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 right 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.

ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH, 243

" What — my coat, do you mean r> "

"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 elf ver," he added hastily, fearing lest he
was detracting from his daughter's market valu^.

" 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 have a word to say 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, though the inference was
sufficiently obvious.

" Mr. Granger," he said, seizing his hand, " I want to
make Beatrice my wife — I do indeed."

16—2

kJ>

II 'I

244

BE A TRICE.

"Well, I did not suppose otherwise, Mr. Davies."

" If you help me in th'.a 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 ycu 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 Eliza-
beth 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 inten-
tions.

" 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
himseJ^

ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 245

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 tither, "we were just asking
for you."

She glanced round, and with the quick wit of a
hunted animal, instantly perceived that some new
danger threatened her.

" Indeed," she said, sinking^ into a chair in an access
of feebleness born of fear. " W hat 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 youj 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 bo 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 addi-
tional 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 en-
thusiasm, 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.**

246

BE A TRICE.

Beatrice gave a sigh, and collected her sea' ered 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 knew
that the storm had burst, and that she must face it.

"So I come to tell you that I love your daughter
Btaaice, 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 ycu 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 facf; irresolution, softening into consent.
What she reallv 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 no at, 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 goiden
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.**

I

:'i y

.. ■ > ■ c .i- ' ,- ■ \v-

ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH,

247

»

:e
n

!

11

Ther*; was an awful pause. Beatrice broke it. Now
she saw ail 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 youi 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 v/hite figure in the passage — it was Geoffrey
Bingham with Beatrice in his arms. Ah I well may she
hang her head. Let hei 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

i

'.

348

BEATRICE.

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 nai 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 v/ith 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 j^ou

it you

ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 349

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 / 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 1 Oh, she had never
dreamed of this I

" Noble, noble ! " murmured Mr. Granger ; *' noble 1
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

350

BE A TRICE.

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 all 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 elo-
quent 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 cun-
ning 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 Eng-
land — 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

play
lence

EIJZAlll.Tli SHOWS HER T/IF.TH. 251

— 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 with-
out 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 I^ady
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, \io," 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 wfeek," said her father to him, " She
is not herself."

" Very we); ; 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

uJ^^'

253

BEATRICE.

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, »-aising 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 Ov/en Davies.

Then Beatrice looked at Elizabeth, and Elizabeth looked
at her. She saw that the matter had taken a new toi»ii
StiC 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 shouKd have
her week, and be free from all interference so far as she
was concerned. She reaused now that it was too late
how great had been her error. Oh, if only she had
sought Beg^ice's confidence at first ! But it had seemed
to her impossible that she would really throw away such
an opportunity in life.

" Certa'nly I promise, BeUrice," she said mildly. " I
do not swear, for ' swear lot at ail,' 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. ,1
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 E jatrice left the room, and after her went Owen
Davies without another word.

iVI/AT BEATRICE SWORE.

253

** 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. Slie
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 pai)er, and an envelope with het
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

«54

BEATRICE.

i .

\

\

i

i :!

< 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 l^om now they would be together in
some foreign land, c:ounting 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 storm, when
■' fate first brought them together to their undoing.

No, no ; once and for all, once and for ever, she would
nof do it. Cruel as was her strait, heavy as was her bur-
den, not one feather's weight of it should he carry, if by
any means in her poor power she could hold it from his

IVHA T BE A TRICE S WORE,

255

rhich

»le to
w no
lad a
write

sailed
/ered.
I away
would
r side,
her to
:her in

as he
lid get

might
rgotten
by the
ceably,

ards a

t they

rellfor
led by,
In away
lurst of
Imotest
I last, as
te her.
^11 — as,
I be the
le been
[, when

would
ler bur-

h if by
)m his

back. She would not even tell him of what had passed
— at any rate, not now. It would distress him ; he might
take some desperate step j 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 — m, 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
to her eyes and hair, and form.

Could folly and infatuation go further ? This woman
in the darkest hour of her bottomless and unhorizoned

;i

I I

i /

156

BEATRICE,

i r

despair, with conscience gnawing at her heart, with present
misery pressing on her breast, and shame to come hang-
ing 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 writs 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 jto 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.

WHAT BEATRICE SWORE.

257

present
; hang-
lankful
all her
se?— is
)verride

5 falling
tter was
: seemed
nd what
L Davies
imelessly
to whom
ver legal,
with that
erself the
do it for
yvould feel
a word.
[ that idea

|ot fly with
lim. She
lid still be
.inocent in
I indeed be
'lieve in it,
[the world,
herself in
? It was
of getting
»oth Owen
le furthest
rmer think
Ince put his
.d. There
plan must

l?o argued Beatrice, still *hinking 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 surroundijd 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 damnmg 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 entire
thing, 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 hiw

17

I :

if! I

' 1,

' < i

i

%4

258

BEATRICE.

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 plaintiffs
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 star 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 ^as
so like Elizabeth, mixing up Bible terms with her accusa-
tion. 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, re-
proached 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

WHAT BEATRICE SWORE.

2W

-Vittle
r, far

intifF3
ipoint

; night,

ere the

I there

ly were

it him;

5ea and

ter than

ionship,

d been

If-crazed

er hand
It ?'as

r accusa-
was it,

|be white
She did
true, re-

|man law,

iven was
the little
Geoffrey
Imstances
,rld or its
e herself,
,ed, right

lid dream

ie bottom

le came.

kke her so

ten in her

pleasant

theie, 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 all 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 iiimself over
her, Elizabeth could pu'-sue her no further. It would he
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. B'lt to do it for another — how
of that 1 Was not the Saviour whom they preached a Man
of Sacrifice ? Would it be a sin in her to die for Geof-
frey, to sacrifice herself that Gcc-ffrey might go free ?

Oh, it would be no greit merit. Her life was not so
easy that she should fear tnis pure embrace. It would
be better, far better, than to marry Owen Davies, than
to dese-rate 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 thou.uh he did not see
hers. No, not to-night would she seek tiiis swift solution,

\7—2

M;

! »

360

BEATRICE,

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 1

It ^rew daik; sf c cou's! hear iht ■ -hisper of the v.raves
upon Bryngelly beach. Tt grew dark ; the night was clos-
ing round. She paddled to v, ithin " 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 a 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
ana 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 scratch-
mg 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 set drowned. Dash me if I haven't

H'HA T BE A TRICE S / \ ORE.

261

2 the

do it,
t it be
> He
le had
there

ell, for

B v/aves
ras clos-
i of the

I beach.

ight and

iking his
e in that
us kick,

.ok after

.ed."

gh. "I
for the
lid. The
d in the

^he bay,"
to blow
Lhelter of
Ion you —
I's wicked,

scratch-
ke woman
lometimes
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
firs^ act was to call Bttty the servant and with her assis-
taiu i shift her bed r.nd things into the spare room.
With Elizabeth sle would have othing more to do.
The/ had slept together, since they were children, now
she had cone with her. Then she went in to supj^er,
and sat through it \'\q a statue, speaking no word. Her
father ana Elizabeth kept up a strained conversation, but
they did not speak to her, or 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 tl-
tithe question. H* was to retui li by the last train on
the Tuesday night, that is, about midnight. Beatrice ni'^v
di'icovered 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 frif;ntened
them with her set face and great calm eyes. But neither
spoke to the other on the subject. They had all 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 coild fi^ d 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 con-
cerned she would have faced the thing out, fighting to the

Mi

363

BEATRICE.

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 slie well knew how to avoid such a possibility j 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 w^s 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 a?jiavtt. 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
or 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

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

263

ffthe
t and
must
might
id up.
:y; in
s, and
jstions
ore an
aold it

in the
herself
e. She
loom of
ing as a
rave the
g before
,r pity —
Yes, she
i in the
out into
might

,h

of fear,
Alone
iad been
darkness
f in time
feet, or if
It must
her seat
^d swore
lid do it,
ling these

reoffrey's
ler 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 I

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 cliurch.
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 holi-
day 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.

264

BEATRICE.

(irangerand Elizabeth had to catcli the train. Beatrice
sat thiough 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 some-
thing 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 diat 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 ycu go, I
should like to hear you say 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 arm, and
looked into his face.

He gazed at her doubtfully. Was it possible that after
all she was speaking the truth ? No ; it was not possible.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS,

36S

"I can't, Beatrice," he said—" not that I blame you
overmuch for trying to defend yourself ; a cornered rat
will show fight."

"May ycu never regret those words," she said ; "and
now gocd-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 ^as 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 Wb 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

>"■' \

266

BEATRICE.

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 'jmall hand-bag,
with some sandwiches and a brush and comb in it, and
a cloak, made up the total of her luggage.

The train, which did not stop at Bryngelly, left Coed
at ten, and to 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. r>ut 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 m 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 snr.U; it amounted, altogether,
to thirty-six shillings, of which the fare to London and
back would cost her twenty-eight and tourpence.

In another minute she had entered an empty carriage,
and the train had steamed away.

She reached Paddington about eight that night, ^.nd
going to the refreshment room, dined on some tea and
bread and butter. Then she washed her hrnds, brushed
her hair, and started.

Beatrice had never been m London beiore, and as

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS,

267

made

tough,
h she
d-bag,
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, She
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t Betty
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le train
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arriage,

;ht, .lid

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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 West-
minster. 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 wa ihat confusion seized her and she stood hesitating.
At this juncture, a conrse brute of a man came up and
made some remark to her. It was im])0ssible for a
woman like Beatrice to walk alone in the streets of Lon-
don 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 ofier 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 m 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.

I

268

BE A TRICE.

i '

" Pass this way then, miss — pass this way," said the
automatic ofificer 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 hunying press-men. At one side of the lobby
wore more policemen and messengers, who were con-
tinually 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 judg-
ment — 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
£^hould have done, namely, lifted his hat and inquired if,
I ' 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

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

269

As it
iphed

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 th^.t 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,
ill presently Beatrice found herself in a kind of bird-
' age, 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
ihe was left to all purposes alone, for she never heeded
hose 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,
nd saw a vision of hats, collars, and legs, and heard a
umult of sounds : the sharp voice of a speaker who was
ijndly losing his temper, the plaudits of the Govern-
ment benches, the interruptions from the Ojposition —
, s, even yells, and hoots, and noises, that reminded her
■ inotely of the crowing of cocks. Possibly had she
.ought of it, Beatrice would not have been greatly
iipressed with the dignity of an assembly, at the doors
I' which so many of its members seemed to leave their
aanners, with their overcoats and sticks ; it mi^^iit even
.ve suggested the idea of a bear garden to her mind.
IJut she simply did not think about it. She searched
he House keenly enough, b it it was to find one face,
i;d one only — Ah ! there he was.
And now the House of Commons might vanish into
c bottomless abyss, and take with it the House of
A rds, and what remained of the British Constitution, and
he should never miss them. For, at the best of times,

!'• !■

270

BEATRICE.

Beatrice — in common with most of her sex — in all grati-
tude be it said, was 7iot 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 belcved, whom she had come so far
to see, and whom to morrow the 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 kne."
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 teUing 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 nc tice it, and
be glad of it. In her gen'.le 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 Geoff; .7 roused himself
at this point, and began to listen with attention.

" Look," said one of the ladies near her, " Mr. Bing-
ham is f.t>ang notes. He is going to speak next— -he
speaks woiido'^fullyj you know. They say that he is as
good as anybody in the House, except Gladstone, and
Lord R: nrJolf)h ''

"Oh!"' !?r 'wered anot'.ier lady. "Lady Honoria is
not here, )a bh'^' ? I ion't see bor."

Tn'E HOUSE OF COMMONS.

271

!mg-
l-he

is as
and

t-ia is

" 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 poHtics.
Are not her dinners charming ? "

At this moment, a volley of applause from the Oppo-
sition 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 taniciy, 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 remark.ible oratorical
displays of that Parliament. Geoffrey hud si)()ken 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 ha pulverised their arguments and demonstrated
their motives. Then suddenly he dropped them alto-
gether, and addressing himself to the House at largu,
and the country beyond the House, he struck another
note, and broke out into that storm of patriotic elo<iut ce
v/hich confirmed his growing reputation, both in Parlia-
ment 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 coi
tending sound was hushed.

Suddenly, after an invocation that would have been

:i I

tt I ^

272

BEATRICE.

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 Opposi-
tion ^-ose 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." rhen he t\s'itted 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
ot the question under discussion, and Beatrice paid no
further attention to him, but occupied herself in watching
GeofTrey 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 oppor-
tunity after this ; he's too good to neglect. Very few men
have 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."

THE HOUSE OF COM.^rONS.

273

"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
9 pleasure to help you. If," he added with some con-
fusion, "you would allow me to call some day, the
pleasure would be all the greater. I will br'ng Mr.
Bing'iam with me, if you would like to know hiu>- 'hat
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 in-
terested 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 for-
malities, and the members began to melt av/ay. Beatrice
saw the leader of the House and several irembers 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

274

BE A TRICE.

made Beatrice more proud at heart than if she had been
declared empress of the v/orld.

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 I 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 pa:.t her.
Many of them were talking together, and once or twice
she caught the sound of Geoffrey's name, couplea 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
-;nn?ething he moved on himself, leaving her in peace.
Present^' "he saw Geoffrey and the gentleman who had
been so kind to her walkmg 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 her if in its shadow. Within six feet
of her Geoffrey stopper! 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 slie has gone like a dream. I can't find her any-
where. It is a most mvsterious 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 I Oh, heaven ! she would never, never
see him more ! A cold horror seized upon Beatrice ;

her

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THE HOUSE OF COA/A/OAS.

her blood seemed to stagnate. Slie 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.
"«0h, good-bye, Geoffrey ! " she murmured, for a secoiul
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 com[)anion, " there is that lady again ;
we must have passed quite close to her. She was look-
ing 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
her?" 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 imnsom was stand-
ing 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.

18—2

It might be

37^

BEATRICE.

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 1

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, '' .gh
the despairing eyes of Beatrice, as she bade her mute
farewell, still sometimes haunt his sleep.

Geofiiey reflected rapidly. The whole 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 satisfac-
tory 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 pre-
sence 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 1

/ WILL WAIT lOR YOU,

377

CHAPTER XXVIIT.

I WILL WAIT FOR YOU.

Beatrice drove back to PaddiiiLfon, and as she drove,
though her face did not change Ironi its marble cast of
woe the great tears rolled down it, one by one.

They reached the deserted-looking siation, 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 the
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 des-
tination too soon. Then she laid her head back against
the wall, and utterly outworn, dropi)ed to sleep — her last
sleep upon this earth, before the longest sleep of all.

And thus Beatrice waited and slept at Paddington,
while he. lover waited and watched at Euston.

At five she woke, and the heavy cloud of sorrow,
past, present and to come, rushed in ui)on her
heart. Taking her bag, she made herself as tidy as she
could. Then she step[)cd outside the station into the
deserted street, and fmcling 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 thiug she
had decreed. The refieshment bar v. as open now, and
she went to it, and bought a cup of cofiee and some bread
and butter. Then she took her ticket, not to Bryn-
gelly or to Coed, but to the statitjn 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 eany
newspaper boy came along, yawning. Beatrice bought
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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 foci 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 states-
man of a very hi;^h order indeed, and one whom
remarkable and rapid success at the Bar has not ham-
pered, as is too often the ca^e, 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 un-
questioned. Nothing could stop him now. During all
the long journey she pleased her imagination by con-
juring 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
WG lid 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. They
will not thrive beneath the gloom and shadow of a pall,
and when the heart is dead no triumphs, however splen-
did, and no rewards, however great, can compensate for
the utter and irredeemable loss. She never guessed,
poor girl, that time upon time, in the long years to be,
Geoffrey would gladly have laia his honours down in pay-
ment for one month of her dear and unforgotten pre-
sence. She was too unselfish ; she did not think that a
man could thus prize a woman's love, and took it for an

/ WILL WATT FOR YOU.

279

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 before this Juggernaut of
her lover's career that Beatrice would cast down her life,
little knowing that thereby she must turn the success,
which he already held so cheap, to bitterness and ashes.

At Chester Beatrice got out of the train and posted ker
letter to Geoffrey. She would not do so before because
it might have reached him too soon — before all was
finished I Now it would be delivered to him in the
House ifter 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 if 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,
whistlingf 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 so happened that nobody
in the neighbourhood of Bryngelly ever knew that Bea-
trice 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-[)ast eight on
the following morning. So much the better, she thought.
Then she disarranged the clothes upon her bed to make

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it seem as though il 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
lovaly 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 once more put on the grey dress 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, 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 deter-
mined to alter t'>e course of certain lessons in the school.
The Wednesday arithmetic class had hitherto been taken
before the grammar class. On the morrow she had deter-
mined 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

/ WILL WAIT FOR YOU.

381

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 lime, when
she was met by the father of the poor crazed child, Jane
Llewellyn.

" Oh, Miss Beatrice," he saia, " 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 smilea 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 poor
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 lessoii ;
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 Gran-
ger, I shan't go to hell, shall I ? I am afraid of hell."

" No, love, no j you will go to heaven."

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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 stead 'y on the
closing f.ycs 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 in-
audible 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 nobcdy 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 hign ; 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

/ WILL WAIT FOR YOU.

a83

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 1 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 remem-
bered things ?

There were th^ 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 there behind
was the Amphitheatre, where they had told their love.
Hark 1 what was that sound pealing faintly at intervals
across the deep ? It was the great ship's bell that, stirred
from time to time hy 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,

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BEATRICE.

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 inde-
structible 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 ar*^ <»hove, from whom I come, to whom I go, have
mercy on mc ! 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 iove 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 desolate headland,
where the undertow met wind and tide. She would think
no more of self; it was, it seemed to her, so small, this

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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 mighJ: prosper and be happy —
that he might forgive the trouble her love had brought
into his life. She had prayed her prayer and said her say,
and it was done with. Let her lc judged as it seemed good
to Those who judge ! Now sh*^ would fix her thoughts
upon her love, and by its strength would 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 head-
land, 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 ?
AlaSj my love, Lovers eyes are very blind !
What would they have us do 1 Sunflowers andpoppir^
Stoop to the wind " *

. 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!

" Geoffr'^y, hear me — I die for you ; accept my sacri-
fice, and forget me not." So !— she is in the rollers —
how solemn they ake with their hoary heads of foam,
as one by one they move down upon her.
. The first I 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 s^ea. Presently all will be

* Oliver Madox Brown.

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BEATRICE,

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 1 Geoffrey's ring
has slipped from her wet hard, 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 ? — 0/ once soivn seed^ who
knoweth what the crop is ? She must soon learn now 1

" 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.

CFIAPTER 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, thf^ French bonne, said the child was not well and
that she had kept her in bed to breakfast

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD.

287

** Do you mean to say that you have not been up to
see what is the matter with her ? " asked Geoifrey.

" No, not yet," answered his wife. " I have had the
dressmaker here with my new dress for tlie 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 Effic 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 tlie 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
got a mild attack of inflammation of the lungs. There
was no cause f ^r anxiety, only she must be looked after
and guarded f: m\ 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

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creatures in the world. The idea of her getting inflam-
mation of the lungs in this unprovoked fashion. The
end of it will be that I shall not be able to go to thd
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 I 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 hal: 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 indefinable 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

A WOMAN^S LAST WORD.

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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 coulJ 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 hand-
writing 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 Bryn-
gelly 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 will have
closed over me.

"Geoffrey, I shall.be dead.

•* I received your dear letter (it is destroyed now) in

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whici. ou 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 himself, and the measures which she had adopted
to gain time).

" Further," the letter continued, " I inglose 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 com-
munications between ns 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,

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD,

191

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 forgive-
ness 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 lo-e 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 from 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 once more look in 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 and tender, think * this
is what Beatrice would have said to me and could not 1 *

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the foremost of your age. You have already promised
me to persevere to this end : I will not ask you to pro-
mise 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. 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 rin 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

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD,

293

DO 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 miglit
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 Bryn-
gelly 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 con-
cerned with her mysterious end, the production of such
a frank epistle written two days previously would de-
monstrate the absurdity of the idea. Poor Beatrice, she
was full of precautions I

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 that dark hour he would have rejoiced to
do. Oh, how pitiful it was — how pitiful and how awful I
To think of this poor beloved woman going down to
lonely death for him — a strong man; to picture her
crouching behind that gateway pillar and touching his
coat 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 divine
strength and beauty of the love which he had lost, and
that face which he should never see again ! Oh, his
heart would break. No man could bear it !

And of those cowards who hounded her to death, if
indeed she was already dead I Oh, he would kill this Owen

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PEATRICE,

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 nothing 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. Oh, how had
she done the de.ed !

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.

AVE ATQUE VALE.

aps

CHAPTER XXX.

AVE ATQUE VALE.

That frightful journey — no nightmare was ever half
so awful \ Br* it came to an end at last — there was
the Bryngelly Station. Geoffrey sprang from the train,
and gave his tickec 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 signs, 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 sus-
pense 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 weie 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.

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BEATRICE,

"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
put boating.

Geoffrey understood it all now. " Come to the boat-
house," he said.

They went down to the beach, where as yet nobody
was 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 tiH he came
to the Amphitheatre. The tide w^s high again; he

'h,\\

AVE ATQUE VALE,

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»

could barely pass the projecting point. Jie 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 — 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 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 labt
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 was 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
her tennis shoe, washed from her foot— Geoffrey knew
it, for once he had tied it.

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BEATRICE.

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 exhibi-
tions 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 I "
screamed the old man at the top of his voice, and turn-
ing his head to hid* the tears which 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

AVE ATQUE VALE,

n9

It

dead name. It might be said, for instapce, 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 thougli
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 W\\\ 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:'

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BEATRICE.

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 trble.

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 I " 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?"

1 '■

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AVE ATQUE VALE. yn

"Yes," said GcofTrey, following him, and bending
his tall square frame over him, for Davics had fallen
r gainst the wall, " yes, it is true— she is dead— and be-
yond 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 i "

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 point-
ing 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 and 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 suiely 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 liow 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

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BEATRICE,

make a lever of it, with which to forre 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 re-
member that this time you have to deal with a man who
can and will strike back, not with 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 at-
tached 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
Geoff"rey all the time. She was utterly cowed and terri-
fied, 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.

But mark the sequel ! In her breast lay the seed of a
fatal and shocking malady. Within three months of her
deliverance, Elizabeth too was dead, and the wealth
passed elsewhere.

They went forth, leaving Geoffrey and Mr. Granger

THE DUCHESS'S BALL.

303

1th.

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, l)ut Elizabeth was too much for
me, and I am so poor. Oh, if you loved her also, be
merciful ! I do not reproacli 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, humMy 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 1 *
should blame you ? God forgive us all 1 I only live
lienceforth in the hope that I may one day iejoin 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 that 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 won" jood-bye.
Good-bye!"

Then Geoffrey went.

ilth

ger

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

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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 ahd
ran thus :

" My dear Bingham, — I have not seen you since Mon-
day 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 Secretary-
ship 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 tniie. I say for a time, for we do not in
any way consider that the post is one commens'irate with
your abi'uies. It will, however, serve to give you
practical experience of administration, and us the advan-

THE DUCHESS'S BALL.

305

lage 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 difficult), as although you have only
been in active practice for so short a time, 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 Veen
to-day in a position to receive such an eoistle fioc the
Prime Minister of England ? Ah, here was the luck cfl
the Drowned One's shoe with a vengeance. And wnu.
was it all worth to him now ?

He put the letter in his pocket with the telegram and
looked out. They were turning into Boltcn Street. How
was little Effie, he v jndered ? The child seemed all
4hat was left him to care for. If anything happened lo
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 'f the cab
and retired swiftly dc vvn 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 lady-
ship ? " he asked. " In Miss Effie's room ? "

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BEATRICE.

" 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 disap])ointed if I did not
come, and my dress is quite lovely. Had your mys-
terious business anything to do with Bryngelly 1 — Yours,

HONORIA."

h I'

" 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 ber
and she had fainted — fainted upon the cold floor with the
inflammation still on her.

At that moment Anne entered the room sweetly
murmuring, " Ca va bien, cherie ? "

" 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 se^n no more in Boiton Street or indeed in
this country.

THE mCHESS'S BALL. y^

"James," said Geoffrey to the servant, "send the cook

up here-she .s a sensible woman ; and do you ura

^:T,::t "r-r "^^ <^°^'°'' -^ '^'' "i™ "o' oi

doctor Then ' T T""' """^ '•'"' g° '°' ''"o'her
doctor. Then go to the Nurses' Home, near St. James-

Stat.o„. and get a trained nurse-tell them one musTb,
nad trom somewhere instantly."

"Yes sir. And shall I call for her ladyship at the
duchess's, sir?" '*"y-^nip at the

h.r^.f!'^ ^""T'^"^' ^'^"^""'8 ^'""''^y' " d« "ot 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 con-
tempt 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 minute in that draught there would have
been an end of her. You came in the nick of time.

I!

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308

BEATRICE.

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 delight-
ful 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."

THE DUCHESS'S BALL,

309

»

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 yuu 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 dining with
somebody there, and they got talkirtg about Bingham,
when the lawyer said, ' Oh, he's Sir Geoffrey Bingham
now. Old Sir Robert's heir is dead. I saw the telegram
myselt.'" •

"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 uj).

" 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

^\\l

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BEATRICE,

to-nighl. 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 and put it straight.

" I'll do it," said he.

" No, no ; let the man," said Lady Honoria. " Look f
it is going to catch fire ! "

** Nonsense," he answered, rising solemnly and reacn-
ing his arm towards the s'lade. 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 in-
stantly 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 all its pleasures to those who still lived to taste them.

I i

!•: i

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 ser-
vants had gone to bed, all except the sick nurse. He
rose and opened it himself. A little red-haired, pale-
faced man staggered in.

" What, 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.

ENVOI.

3"

"What is it? another disaster, I suppose. Is some-
body 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.

ENVOL

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 undy-
ing sorrow ; Honoria perishing wretchedly in her hour
of satisfied ambition ; Elizabeth gaining her end to
lose it in the grave ; 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 deetl
undared for one short week !

But Geoffrey still lived, and the child recovered, aftci
hanging for a while between life and death, and was

il'
p ■

i

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i 111
si J:

3"

BEATRICE.

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 Be.arice,
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 com-
mon tragedy and passed the narrow way, what lies
beyond its gate ? You are dumb, or we cannot hear you
speak.

\' ii:

But Beatrice knows to-day I

THE END.

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