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 Beatrice 
 
 Jl IJToucI 
 
 p.y 
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 AUTHOR OF "she" "ALLAN QUAILRALVIN 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 1800 
 
 All riffhfs reserved
 
 47: 
 
 ■^9. 
 
 " Oh, kind is Death that Life's long trouble closes, 
 Yet at Death's coming Life shrinks back affright; 
 It sees the dark hand, — not that it encloses 
 A cup of light. 
 
 So oft the Spirit seeing Love draw nigh 
 As 'neath the shadow of destruction, quakes, 
 For Self, dark tyrant of the Soul, must die, 
 When Love awakes. 
 
 Aye, let him die in darkness ! But for thee, — 
 Breathe thou the breath of morning and be free ! " 
 
 RUCKERT. Translated by F. W. B. 
 
 20 

 
 L'Y THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 CETYWAYO AND HIS AVHITE NEIGHBOURS 
 
 DAWN 
 
 THE AVITCH'S HEAD 
 
 KING SOLOMON'S MINES 
 
 SHE 
 
 JESS 
 
 ALLAN QUATERMAIN 
 
 MAIWA'S REVENGE 
 
 MR. MEESON'S WILL 
 
 COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 
 
 CLEOPATRA 
 
 ALLAN'S WIFE
 
 TO 
 
 BEA TRICE.
 
 BEATRICE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A MIST WRAITH. 
 
 The autumn afternoon was fading into evening. It had 
 been cloudy weather, but the clouds had softened and 
 broken up. Now they were lost in slowly darkening blue. 
 The sea was perfectly and utterly still. It seemed to 
 sleep, but in its sleep it still waxed with the rising tide. 
 The eye could not mark its slow increase, but Beatrice, 
 standing upon the farthest point of the Dog Rocks, idly 
 noted that the long brown 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 growing dense and soft upon the quiet waters. 
 It was not blown up from the west, it simply grew like 
 the twilight, making the silence yet more silent and blot- 
 ting away the outlines of the land. Beatrice gave up 
 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.
 
 2 BE A TRICE. 
 
 Of rather more than middle height, and modelled like 
 a statue, strength and health seemed to radiate from her 
 form. But it was her face with the stamp of intellect 
 and power shadowing its woman's loveliness that must 
 have made her remarkable among women even more 
 beautiful than herself. There are many girls who have 
 rich brown hair, like some autumn leaf here and there 
 just yellowing into gold, girls whose deep grey eyes can 
 grow tender as a dove's, or flash like the stirred waters 
 of a northern sea, and whose bloom can bear comparison 
 with the wilding rose. But few can show a face like that 
 which upon this day first dawned on Geoffrey Bingham 
 to his sorrow and his hope. It was strong and pure and 
 sweet as the keen sea breath, and looking on it one must 
 know that beneath this fair cloak lay a wit as fair. And 
 yet it was all womanly; here was not the hard sexless 
 stamp of the " cultured " female. She who owned it 
 was capable of many things. She could love and she 
 could suffer, and if need be, she could dare or die. It 
 was to be read upon that lovely brow and face, and in 
 the depths of those grey eyes — that is, by those to whom 
 the book of character is open, and who wish to study it. 
 
 But Beatrice was not thinking of her loveliness as she 
 gazed into the water. She knew that she was beautiful 
 of course ; her beauty was too obvious to be overlooked, 
 and besides it had been brought home to her in several 
 more or less disagreeable ways. 
 
 " Seven years," she was thinking, " since the night of 
 the ' death fog ; ' that was what old Edward called it, 
 and so it was. I was only so high then," and following 
 her thoughts she touched herself upon the breast. 
 "And I was happy too in my own way. Why can't one 
 always be fifteen, and believe everything one is told ? " 
 and she sighed. " Seven years and nothing done yet. 
 Work, work, and nothing coming out of the work, and 
 everything fading away. I think that life is very dreary 
 when one has lost everything, and found nothing, and 
 loves nobody. I wonder what it will be like in another 
 seven years."
 
 AT THE BELL ROCK. 3 
 
 She covered her eyes with her hands, and then taking 
 them away, once more looked at the water. Such 
 Hght as struggled through the fog was behind her, 
 and the mist was thickening. At first she had some 
 difficulty in tracing her own likeness upon the glassy 
 surface, but gradually she marked its outline. It stretched 
 away from her, and its appearance was as though she 
 herself were lying on her back in the water wrapped 
 about with the fleecy mist. " How curious it seems," 
 she thought ; " what is it that reflection reminds me of 
 with the white all round it ? " 
 
 Next instant she gave a little cry and turned sharply 
 away. She knew now. It recalled her mother as she had 
 last seen her seven years ago. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 AT THE BELL ROCK. 
 
 A MILE or more away from where Beatrice stood and 
 saw visions, and further up the coast-line, a second 
 group of rocks, known from their colour as the Red 
 Rocks, or sometimes, for another reason, as the Bell 
 Rocks, juts out between half and three-quarters of a 
 mile into the waters of the Welsh Bay that lies behind 
 Rumball Point. At low tide these rocks are bare, so 
 that a man may walk or wade to their extremity, 
 but when the flood is full only one or two of the very 
 largest can from time to time be seen projecting their 
 weed-wreathed heads through the v/ash 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 1 7 So a three-decker man-of-war went ashore 
 there in a furious winter gale, and, with one exception, 
 every living soul on board of her, to the number of seven 
 hundred, was drowned. The one exception was a man 
 in irons, who came safely and serenely ashore seated 
 
 1—3
 
 4 BE A TRICE. 
 
 upon a ]Diece of wreckage. Nobody ever knew how the 
 shipwreck happened, least of all the survivor in irons, 
 but the tradition of the terror of the scene yet lives in 
 the district, and the spot where the bones of the drowned 
 men still peep grimly through the sand is not unnatur- 
 ally supposed to be haunted. Ever since this catastrophe 
 a large bell (it was originally the bell of the ill-fated 
 vessel itself, and still bears her name, "H.M.S. Thunder," 
 stamped upon its metal) has been fixed upon the highest 
 rock, and in times of storm and at high tide sends its 
 solemn note of warning booming across the deep. 
 
 But the bell was quiet now, and just beneath it, in 
 the shadow of the rock whereon it was placed, a man 
 half hidden in seaweed, with which he appeared to have 
 purposely covered himself, was seated upon a piece of 
 wreck. In appearance he was a very fine man, big- 
 shouldered and broad limbed, and his age might have 
 been thirty-five or a little more. Of his frame, 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 gun 
 which he held across his knee. It was a striking coun- 
 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 THE BELL ROCK. 5 
 
 curlew on the wing. He strains his eyes, the call 
 comes nearer, but nothing can he see. At last, seventy 
 yards or more to the right, he catches sight of the flicker 
 of beating wings, and, like a flash, they are gone. Again 
 a call — the curlew are flighting. He loo ks and looks, in 
 his excitement struggling to his feet and raising his head 
 incautiously far above the sheltering rock. There they 
 come, a great flock of thirty or more, bearing straight 
 down on him, a hundred yards off — eighty — sixty — now. 
 Up goes the gun, but alas and alas ! they catch a glimpse 
 of the light glinting on the barrels, and perhaps of the 
 head behind them, and in another second they have 
 broken and scattered this way and that way, twisting off" 
 like a wisp of gigantic snipe, 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 cry of the 
 curlew is once more heard — quite close this time. There 
 they are, looming large against the fog. Bang ! down 
 goes the first and lies flapping among the rocks. Like a 
 flash the second is away to the left. Bang ! after him, 
 and caught him too ! Hark to the splash as he falls into 
 the deep water fifty yards away. And then the mist 
 closes in so densely that 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 Ut a short briar pipe, set to work to hunt for
 
 6' BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 he discovered the 
 bird floating on the oily water about fifty yards away. A 
 little to the left the rocks ran out in a peak, and he knew 
 from experience that the tide setting towards the shore 
 would carry the curlew past this peak. So he went to 
 its extremity, sat down upon a big stone and waited. 
 All this while the tide was rising fast, though, intent as 
 he was upon bringing the curlew to bag, he did not pay 
 much heed to it, forgetting that it was cutting him off 
 from the land. At last, after more than half-an-hour of 
 waiting, he caught sight of the 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 {tvf steps all 
 went well, but the fourth or fifih 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 
 de^termined 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 BELL ROCK. 7 
 
 " Oh," he repUed, struggling to get into his waistcoat 
 again, for the voice told him that he was dealing with some 
 befogged lady, " I'm sure I beg your pardon, but would 
 you do me a favour ? There is a dead curlew floating 
 about, not ten yards from your boat. If you wouldn't 
 mind " 
 
 A white hand was put forward, and the canoe glided 
 on towards the bird. Presently the hand plunged down- 
 wards into the misty waters and the curlew was bagged. 
 Then, while Geoffrey was still struggling with his waist- 
 coat, the canoe sped towards hiin like a dream boat, 
 and in another moment it was beneath his rock, and 
 a sweet dim face was looking up into his own. 
 
 Now let us go back a little (alas ! that the privilege 
 should be peculiar to the recorder of things done), and 
 see how it came about that Beatrice Granger was present 
 to retrieve Geoffrey Bingham's dead curlew. 
 
 Immediately after the unpleasant idea recorded in the 
 last, or, to be more accurate, in the first chapter of this 
 comedy, had impressed itself upon Beatrice's mind, she 
 came to the conclusion that she had seen enough of the 
 Dog Rocks for one afternoon. Thereon, like a sensible 
 person, she set herself to quit them in the same way that 
 she had reached them, namely by means of a canoe. 
 She got into her canoe safely enough, and paddled a 
 little way out to sea, with a view of returning to the 
 place whence she came. But the further she went out, 
 and it was necessary that she should go some way on 
 account of the rocks and the currents, the denser grew 
 the fog. Sounds came through it indeed, but she could 
 not clearly distinguish whence they came, till at last, well 
 as she knew the coast, she grew confused as to whither 
 she was heading. In this dilemma, while she rested on 
 her paddle staring into the dense surrounding mist and 
 keeping her grey eyes as wide open as nature would 
 allow, and that was very wide, she heard the report of 
 a gun behind her to the right. Arguing to herself that 
 some wild-fowler on the water must have fired it who
 
 8 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 ; 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 the curlew, sir," she said. 
 
 " Oh, thank you," answered the figure on the rock. 
 " I am infinitely obliged to you. I was just going to 
 swim for it, I can't bear losing my game. It seems so 
 cruel to shoot birds for nothing." 
 
 " I dare say that you will not make much use of it now 
 that you have got it," said the gentle voice in the canoe. 
 " Curlew are not very good eating." 
 
 " That is scarcely the point," replied the Crusoe on the 
 rock. "The point is to bring them home. Apres cela " 
 
 " The birdstuffer ? " said the voice. 
 
 " No," answered Crusoe, "the cook " 
 
 A laugh came back from the canoe — and then a 
 question. 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Bingham, can you tell me where I am ? 
 I have quite lost my reckoning in the mist." 
 
 He started. How did this mysterious young lady in 
 a boat know his name ? 
 
 " You are at the Red Rocks ; there is the bell, that 
 grey thing, Miss — ^Miss " 
 
 " Beatrice Granger," she put in hastily. " My father 
 is the clergyman of Bryngelly. I saw you when you and 
 Lady Honoria Bingham looked into the school yesterday. 
 I teach in the school." She did not tell him, however, 
 that his face had interested her so much that she had 
 asked his name.
 
 AT THE BELL ROCK. g 
 
 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 sink the canoe. No, you must 
 get in and I must paddle you home to Bryngelly, that's 
 all. Now that I know where I am I think that I can 
 find the way." 
 
 " Really," he said, " you are very good." 
 
 "Not at all," she answered, "you see I must go my- 
 self anyhow, so I shall be glad of your help. It is nearly 
 five miles by water, you know, and not a pleasant night."
 
 lo 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 BryngcUy 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 nome, 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. n 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 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 spUced, 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 \vith 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
 
 12 BEATRICE. 
 
 upset. At least it has been my way for the last two 
 years since a lady who was staying here gave me the 
 canoe when she went away. Before that I used to row 
 in a boat — that is, before I went to college." 
 
 " College ? What college ? Girton ? " 
 
 ** Oh, no, nothing half so grand. It was a college 
 where you get certificates that you are qualified to 
 be a mistress in a Board school. I wish it had been 
 Girton." 
 
 "Do you?" — you are too good for that, he was 
 going to add, but changed it to — " I think you were as 
 well away. I don't care about the Girton stamp ; those 
 of them whom I have known are so hard." 
 
 " So much the better for them," she answered. " I 
 should like to be hard as a stone ; a stone cannot feel. 
 Don't you think that women ought to learn, then ? " 
 
 " Do you ? " he asked 
 
 '■ Yes, certainly." 
 
 " Have you learnt anything ? " 
 
 " I have taught myself a little and I picked up some- 
 thing at the college. But I have no real knowledge, only 
 a smattering of things." 
 
 " What do you know — French and German ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 *' Latin?" 
 
 " Yes, I know something of it." 
 
 " Greek ? " 
 
 " I can read it fairly, but I am not a Greek scholar." 
 
 " Mathematics ? " 
 
 " No, I gave them up. There is no human nature 
 about mathematics. They work everything to a fixed 
 conclusion that must result. Life is not like that ; what 
 ought to be a square comes out a right angle, and x 
 always equals an unknown quantity, which is never 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. 13 
 
 " 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 is 
 such a mass of it built upon such a small foundation. It 
 is like an overgrown mushroom, and the top will fall off 
 one day, however hard the lawyers try to prop it up. 
 Perhaps you can tell me " 
 
 " No, I'm sure I cannot," he answered. " I'm not a 
 Chancery man. I am Common law, and /don't take all 
 knowledge for my province. You positively alarm me, 
 Miss Granger. I wonder that the canoe does not sink 
 beneath so much learning." 
 
 *' Do I ? " she answered sweetly. "I am glad that I have 
 lived to frighten somebody. I meant that I like Equity 
 to study ; but if I were a barrister, I would be Common 
 law, because there is so much more life and struggle 
 about it. Existence is not worth having unless one is 
 struggling with something and trying to overcome it." 
 
 " Dear me, what a reposeful prospect," said Geoffrey, 
 aghast. He had certainly never met such a woman as 
 this before. 
 
 " Repose is only good when it is earned," went on the 
 fair philosopher, "and in order to fit one to earn some 
 more, otherwise it becomes idleness, and that is misery. 
 Fancy being idle when one has such a little time to live. 
 The only thing to do is to work and stifle thought. I 
 suppose that you have a large practice, Mr. 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 — from 
 necessity, in short." 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon ! " she said, with a blush,
 
 14 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 CONFESSION OF FAITH. i5 
 
 its place the strong sea-breath beat upon their faces. 
 Far in the west the angry disc of the sun was sinking 
 into the foam. A. great red ray shot from its bent edge 
 and lay upon the awakened waters, like a path of fire. 
 The ominous light fell full upon the little boat and full 
 upon Beatrice's lips. Then it passed on and lost itself 
 in the deep mists which still swathed the coast. 
 
 "Oh, how beautiful it is!" she cried, raising herself 
 and pointing to the glory of the dying sun. 
 
 " It is beautiful indeed ! " he answered, but he looked, 
 not at the sunset, but at the woman's face before him, 
 glowing like a saint's in its golden aureole. For this 
 also was most beautiful — so beautiful that it stirred him 
 strangely. 
 
 " It is like " she began, and broke off suddenly. 
 
 " What is it like ? " he asked. 
 
 "It is like finding truth at last," she answered, 
 speaking as much to herself as to him. " Why, one 
 might make an allegory out of it. We wander in mist 
 and darkness shaping a vague course for home. And 
 then suddenly the mists are blown away, glory fills the 
 air, and there is no more doubt, only before us is a 
 splendour making all things clear and lighting us over 
 a deathless sea. It sounds rather too grand,'' she added, 
 with a charming little laugh ; " but there is something in 
 it somewhere, if only I could express myself. Oh, look ! " 
 
 As she spoke a heavy storm-cloud rolled over the 
 vanishing rim of the sun. For a moment the light 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 v/orked 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
 
 l6 BEATRICF. 
 
 we are more than two miles from Bryngelly, and if we are 
 lucky we may get there before the weather breaks." 
 
 " Yes, if we are lucky," he said grimly, as he bent 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 
 Bryngelly, besides it is all rocks. No, you must go 
 straight on. You will see the Poise light beyond Coed 
 presently. You know Coed is four miles on the other 
 side of Bryngelly, so when you see it head to the left." 
 
 He obeyed her, and they neither of them spoke any 
 more for some time. Indeed the rising wind made 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 were blistering. For ten min- 
 utes or so he paddled on through a darkness which was 
 now almost total, wondering where on earth he was wend- 
 ing, for it was quite impossible to see. For all he knew to 
 the contrary, he might be circling round and round. He 
 had only one thing to direct him, the sweep of the 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 on. 
 And now the squall was breaking. Fortunately, it was 
 not a very heavy one, or their frail craft must have sunk 
 and they with it. But it was quite serious enough to put 
 them in great danger. The canoe rose to the waves Uke 
 a feather, but she was broadside on, and rise as she would 
 they began to ship a little water. And they had not 
 seen the worst of it. The weather was still thickening. 
 
 Still he held on, though his heart sank within him, while
 
 A CONFESSION OF FA mi. 17 
 
 Beatrice said notliing. Presently a big wave came ; he 
 could just see its white crest gleaming through the gloom, 
 then it was on them. The canoe rose to it gallantly ; it 
 seemed to curl right over her, making the craft roll till 
 Geoffrey thought that the end had come. But she rode it 
 out, not, however, without shipping more than a bucket 
 of water. Without saying a word, Beatrice took the 
 cloth cap from her head and, leaning forward, began to 
 bale as best she could, and that was not very well. 
 
 " This will not do," he called. " I must keep her head 
 to the sea or we shall be swamped." 
 
 ''Yes," she answered, " keep her head up. We are in 
 great danger." 
 
 He glanced to his right ; another white sea was 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 vv'ave with safety, but the paddle s/iapped. 
 It was already si)rung, 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 atked presently. 
 
 "Yes, in my coat pocket," he answered. 
 
 " Give me two, if you can manage it," she said.
 
 1 8 BEATRICE. 
 
 In an interval between the coming of two seas he con- 
 trived to sHp 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 till at length he was rid of 
 all his cartridges. Just then it began to rain in torrents. 
 Though it was not warm the perspiration was streaming 
 from him at every pore, and the rain beating on his 
 face refreshed him somewhat ; also with the rain the wind 
 dropped a little. 
 
 But he was becoming tired out and he knew it. Soon he 
 would no longer be able to keep the canoe straight, and 
 then they must be swamped, and in all human probability 
 drowned. So this was to be the end of his life and 
 its ambitions. Before another hour had run its course, 
 he would be rolling to and fro in the arms of that angry 
 sea. What would his wife Honoria say when she heard 
 the news, he wondered ? Perhaps it would shock her 
 into soma 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 did not love children, and a growing 
 girl would continually remind her of her growing years. 
 He could not tell ; he could only hope for the best. 
 
 And for himself! What would become of him after 
 the short sharp struggle for life ? Should he find 
 endless sleep, or what ? He was a Christian, and his
 
 A CONFESSION OF FAITH. 19 
 
 life had not been worse than that of other men. Indeed, 
 though he would have been the last to think it, he had 
 some redeeming virtues. But now at the end the 
 spiritual horizon was as dark as it had been at the 
 beginning. There before him were the Gates of 
 Death, but not yet would they roll aside and show 
 the traveller what lay beyond their frowning face. 
 How could he tell ? Perhaps they would not open at 
 all. Perhaps he now bade his last farewell to 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 Uttle 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
 
 20 BE A TRICE. 
 
 The canoe twisted round somewhat. He dug his 
 broken paddle into the water and once more brought her 
 head on to the sea. Then he spoke. 
 
 " Are you afraid ? " he asked of Beatrice. 
 
 " No," she answered, " I am not afraid." 
 
 " Do you know that we shall probably be drowned? " 
 
 "Yes, I know it. They say the death is easy. I 
 brought you here. Forgive me that. I should have 
 tried to row you ashore as you said." 
 
 " Never mind me ; a man must meet his fate some 
 day. Do not think of me. But I can't keep her head on 
 much longer. You had better say your prayers." 
 
 Beatrice bent forward till her head was quite near his 
 own. The wind had blown some of her hair loose, and 
 though he did not seem to notice it at the time, he 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 AT THE DOOR. 21 
 
 "Into the breakers, where we shall be lost," she 
 answered calmly. " Give up paddling, it is of no use, 
 and try to take off your coat. I have loosened my 
 skirt. Perhaps we can swim ashore." 
 
 He thought to himself that in the dark and breakers 
 such an event was not probable, but he said nothing, 
 and addressed himself to the task of getting rid of his 
 coat and waistcoat — no easy one in that confined space. 
 Meanwhile tlie 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 in their last extremity this woman thought rather 
 of her companion in peril than of herself. 
 
 One more turn, then suddenly the canoe beneath 
 them was lifted like a straw and tossed high into the 
 air. A mighty mass of water boiled up beneath it and 
 around it. Then the foam rushed in, and vaguely 
 Geoffrey knew that they were wrapped in the curve of a 
 billow. 
 
 A swift and mighty rush of WMter. 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
 
 22 BE A TRICE, 
 
 feet in the square — known to the Bryngelly fishermen as 
 Table Rock. In ordinary weather, even at high tide, 
 the waters scarcely cover this rock, but when there is 
 any sea they wash over it with great violence. On to 
 this rock Geoffrey and Beatrice had been hurled by the 
 breaker. Fortunately for them it was thickly overgrown 
 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 U"hurt. 
 
 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 
 Avhite gleaming in the darkness. Instinctively she flung 
 herself upon her face, gripping the long tough seaweed 
 with one hand. The other she passed round the body 
 of the helpless man beside her, straining him with all 
 her strength against her side. 
 
 Then came a wild long rush of foam. The water lifted 
 her from the rock, but the seaweed held, and when at 
 length the sea had gone boiling by, Beatrice found herself 
 and the senseless form of Geoffrey once more lying side by 
 side. She was half choked. Desperately she struggled 
 up and round, looking shoreward through the darkness. 
 Heavens ! there, not a hundred yards away, a light shone 
 upon the waters. It was a boat's light, for it moved up 
 and down. She filled her lungs with air and sent one long 
 cry for help ringing across the sea. A moment passed 
 and she thought that she heard an answer, but because 
 of the wind and the roar of the breakers she could not 
 be sure. Then she turned and glanced seaward. Again 
 the foaming terror was rushing down upon them ; again 
 she flung herself upon the rock and grasping the slippery 
 seaweed twined her left arm about the helpless Geoffrey. 
 It was on them.
 
 THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR. 23 
 
 Oh, horror ! Even in the turmoil of the boiling 
 waters Beatrice felt the seaweed give. Now they were 
 being swept along with the rushing wave, and Death drew 
 very near. But still she clung to Geoffrey. Once more 
 the air touched her face. She had risen to the surface 
 and was floating on the stormy water. The wave had 
 passed. Loosing her hold of Geoffrey she slipped her 
 hand upwards, and as he began to sink clutched him by 
 the hair. Then treading water with her feet, for happily 
 for them both she was as good a swimmer as could be 
 found upon that coast, she managed to open her eyes. 
 There, not sixty yards away, was the boat's light. Oh, 
 if only she could reach it. She spat the salt water from 
 her mouth and once more cried aloud. The light seemed 
 to move on. 
 
 Then another wave rolled forward and once more she 
 was pushed down into the cruel 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 I heard her voice — 
 I heard it twice screaming for help. If you put the boat 
 about, by Goad when I get ashore I'll kill yer,- ye lubbers 
 — old man as I am I'll kill yer, if I swing for it ! "
 
 24 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 !" 
 
 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 I " 
 
 A long heave from strong arms and the senseless form 
 of Beatrice was on the gunwale. Then they pulled up 
 Geoffrey beside her, for they could not loose her 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 that sail to cover them — so. 
 You'll live yet, Miss Beatrice, you ain't dead, I swear. 
 Old Eddard has saved you, old Eddard and the good 
 Goad together ! "
 
 THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR. 25 
 
 Meanwhile the boat had been got round, and the men 
 were rowing for Bryngelly as warm-hearted sailors will 
 when life is at stake. They all knew Beatrice and loved 
 her, and they remembered it as they rowed. The gloom 
 was little hindrance to them for they could almost have 
 navigated the coast blindfold. Besides here they were 
 sheltered by the reef and shore. 
 
 In five minutes they were round a little headland, and 
 the lights of Bryngelly were close before them. On the 
 beach people were moving about with lanterns. 
 
 Presently they were there, hanging on their oars for a 
 favourable wave to beach with. At last it came, and 
 they gave way together, running the large boat half out 
 of the surf. A dozen men plunged into the water and 
 dragged her on. They were safe ashore. 
 
 " Have you got Miss Beatrice ? " shouted a voice. 
 
 "Ay, we've got her and another too, but I doubt 
 they're gone. Where's doctor ? " 
 
 " Here, here ! " answered a voice. " Bring the 
 stretchers." 
 
 A stout thick-set man, who had been listening, wrapped 
 up in a dark cloak, turned his face away and uttered a 
 groan. Then he followed the others as they went to 
 work, not offering to help, but merely following. 
 
 The stretchers were brought and the two bodies laid 
 upon them, face downwards and covered over. 
 
 "Where to?" said the bearers as they seized the 
 poles. 
 
 "The Vicarage," answered the doctor. " I told them 
 to get things ready there in case they should find 
 her. Run forward one of you and say that we are 
 coming." 
 
 The men started at a trot and the crowd ran after 
 them. 
 
 "Who is the other?" somebody asked. 
 
 " Mr. Bingham — the tall lawyer who came down from 
 London the other day. Tell policeman — run to his 
 wife. She's at Mrs. Jones's, and thinks he has lost his 
 way in the fog coming home from Bell Rock."
 
 26 BE A TRICE. 
 
 The policeman departed on his melancholy errand 
 and the procession moved swiftly across the sandy 
 beach and up the stone-paved way by which boats 
 were dragged down the cliff to the sea. The village of 
 Bryngelly lay to the right. It had grown away from the 
 church, which stood dangerously near the edge of the 
 cliff. On the further side of the church, and a little 
 behind it, partly sheltered from the sea gales by a group 
 of stunted firs, was the Vicarage, a low single-storied 
 stone-roofed building, tenanted for twenty-five years past 
 and more by Beatrice's father, the Rev. Joseph Granger. 
 The best approach to it from the Bryngelly side was 
 by the churchyard, through which the men with the 
 stretchers were now winding, followed by the crowd of 
 sightseers. 
 
 " Might as well leave them here at once," said one of 
 the bearers to the other in Welsh. " I doubt they are 
 both dead enough." 
 
 The person addressed assented, and the thick-set man 
 wrapped in a dark cloak, who was striding along by 
 Beatrice's stretcher, groaned again. Clearly, he 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 forehead. He 
 was of middle height and carried himself with something 
 of a stoop. The eyes were small and shifting, and the 
 mouth hard. He wore short whiskers which, together 
 with the eyebrows, were still tinged with yellow. The 
 face was ruddy and healthy looking, indeed, had it not 
 been for the dirty white tie and shabby black coat, one 
 would have taken him to be what he was in heart, a 
 farmer of the harder sort, somewhit 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 
 
 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 lines and distances. 
 The elder sister was to the other what the jiale unfinished 
 model of clay is to the polished statue in ivory and 
 gold. 
 
 " Oh, my God ! my God ! " groaned the old man ; 
 ** look, they have got them on the stretchers. They are 
 both dead. Oh, Beatrice ! Beatrice ! and only this 
 morning I spoke harshly to her." 
 
 " Don't be so foolish, father," said Elizabeth sharply. 
 " They may only be insensible." 
 
 "Ah, ah," he answered ; "it does not matter to you, 
 you don't care about your sister. 'You are jealous of her. 
 But I love her, though we do not understand each other. 
 Here they come. Don't stand staring there. Go and 
 see that the blankets and things are hot. Stop, doctor, 
 tell me, is she dead ? "
 
 28 BEATRICE. 
 
 " How can I tell till I have seen her ? " the doctor 
 answered, roughly shaking him off, and passing through 
 the door. 
 
 Bryngelly Vicarage was a very simply constructed 
 house. On entering the visitor found himself in a 
 passage with doors to the right and left. That to the 
 right led to the sitting-room, that to the left to the dining- 
 room, both of them long, low and narrow chambers. 
 Following the passage down for some seven paces, it 
 terminated in another which ran at right angles to it for 
 the entire length of the house. On the further side of 
 this passage were several bedroom doors and a room at 
 each end. That at the end to the right was occupied 
 by Beatrice and her sister, the next was empty, the third 
 was Mr. Granger's, and the fourth the spare room. This, 
 with the exception of the kitchens and servants' sleeping 
 place, which were beyond the dining-room, made up the 
 house. 
 
 Fires had been lit in both of the principal rooms. 
 Geoffrey was taken into the dining-room and attended by 
 the doctor's assistant, and Beatrice into the sitting-room, 
 and attended by the doctor himself. In a few seconds 
 the place had been cleared of all except the helpers, and 
 the work began. The doctor looked at Beatrice's cold 
 shrunken form, and at the foam upon her lips. He lifted 
 the eyelid, and held a light before the contracted pupil. 
 Then he shook his head and set to work with a will. We 
 need not follow him through the course of his dreadful 
 labours, with which most people will have some 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 
 
 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 minute ;, 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 ricrht 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 the treatment, which he did with 
 much vigour. 
 
 Presently Geoffrey came partially to life, still suffering 
 torments. The first thing he grew aware of was that a 
 tall elegant woman was standing over him, looking at him 
 with a half puzzled and half horrified air. Vaguely he 
 wondered who it might be. The tall form and cold hand- 
 some face were so familiar to him, and yet he could not 
 recall the name. It was not till she spoke that his numbed 
 brain realized that he was looking on his own wife. 
 
 " Well, dear," she said, " I am so glad that you are 
 better. You frightened me out of my wits. I thought 
 you were drowned." 
 
 " Thank you, Honoria," he said faintly, and then 
 groaned as a fresh attack of tingling pain shook him 
 through and through. 
 
 "I hope nobody said anything to Effie," Geoffrey 
 said presently. 
 
 " Yes, the child would not go to bed because you were 
 not back, and when the policeman came she heard him 
 tell Mrs. Jones that you were drowned, and she has been 
 almost in a fit ever since. They had to hold her to 
 prevent her from running here." 
 
 Geoffrey's white face assumed an air of the deepest 
 distress. " How could you frighten the child so ? " he
 
 30 BEA TRICE. 
 
 murmured. '• Please go and tell her that I am all 
 right." 
 
 " It was not my fault," said Lady Honoriawitha 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- 1 
 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 something missing. 
 The lady did not seem to him quite to fill the part of the 
 Heaven-thanking spouse. It puzzled him very much. 
 Perhaps he showed this in his face. At any rate, Lady 
 Honoria, who was quick enough, read something there. 
 
 " He is safe now, is he not ? " she asked. " It will not 
 matter if I go away." 
 
 " No, my lady," answered the assistant, " he is out of 
 danger, I think ; it will not matter at all." 
 
 Lady Honoria hesitated a little ; she was standing in 
 the passage. Then she glanced through the door into 
 the opposite room, and caught a glimpse of Beatrice's 
 rigid form and of the doctor bending over it. Her head 
 was thrown back and the beautiful brown hair, which was 
 now almost dry again, streamed in masses to the ground, 
 while on her face was stamped the terrifying seal of 
 Death. 
 
 Lady Honoria shuddered. She could not bear such
 
 THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR. 31 
 
 sights. "Will it be necessary for me to come back 
 to-night ? " she said. 
 
 " I do not think so," he answered, " unless you care 
 to hear whether Miss Granger recovers ? " 
 
 " I shall hear that in the morning," she said. " Poor 
 thing, I cannot help her." 
 
 " No, Lady Honoria, you cannot help her. She saved 
 your husband's life, they say." 
 
 ** She must be a brave girl. Will she recover ? " 
 
 The assistant shook his head. " She may, possibly. 
 It is not likely now." 
 
 " Poor thing, and so young and beautiful ! What a 
 lovely face, and what an arm ! It is very awful for her," 
 and Lady Honoria shuddered again and went. - 
 
 Outside the door a small knot of sympathisers was 
 still gathered, notwithstanding the late hour and the 
 badness of the weather. 
 
 " That's his wife," said one, and they opened to let 
 her pass. 
 
 " Then why don't she stop with him ? " asked a woman 
 audibly. "If it had been my husband I'd have sat and 
 hugged him for an hour." 
 
 "Ay, you'd have killed him with your hugging, you 
 would," somebody answered. 
 
 Lady Honoria passed on. Suddenly a thick-set man 
 emerged from the shadow of the pines. She could not 
 see his face, but he was wrapped in a large cloak. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said in the hoarse voice of one 
 struggling with emotions which he was unable to conceal, 
 " but you can tell me. Does she still live ? " 
 
 "Do you mean Miss Granger?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, of course. Beatrice — Miss Granger ? " 
 
 '■' They do not know, but they think " 
 
 " Yes, yes — they think " 
 
 " That she is dead." 
 
 The man said never a word. He dropped his head 
 upon his breast and, turning, vanished again into the 
 shadow of the pines. 
 
 " How very odd," thought Lady Honoria as she
 
 32 BE A TRICE. 
 
 walked rapidly along the cliff towards her lodging. " I 
 suppose that man must be in love with her. Well, I do 
 not wonder at it. I never saw such a face and arm. 
 What a picture that scene in the room would make ! 
 She saved Geoffrey and now she's dead. If he had 
 saved her I should not have wondered. It is like a scene 
 in a novel." 
 
 From all of which it will be seen that Lady Honoria 
 was not wanting in certain romantic and artistical 
 perceptions. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL, 
 
 Geoffrey, lying before the fire, newly 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 ! 
 
 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 
 dro'.vncd went slowly on. Two hours had passed, and
 
 ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL. 33 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Ehzabeth, 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
 
 34 BE A TRICE. 
 
 '' Great Heavens ! " said the assistant presently, starting 
 back from the body and pointing at its face. " Did you 
 see that ? " 
 
 Ehzabeth 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 applied for some seconds without 
 result. Then suddenly a long shudder ran up the 
 limbs, and a hand stirred. N^xt 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
 
 ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL. 35 
 
 escaped to without the house — passing from one watcher 
 to the other till at length it reached the ears of the solitary 
 man crouched in the shadow of the pines. He heard, 
 and starting as though he had been shot, strode to the 
 door of the Vicarage. Here his courage seemed to 
 desert him, for he hesitated. 
 
 "Knock, squire, knock, and ask if it is true," said a 
 woman, the same who had declared that she would have 
 hugged her husband back to life. 
 
 This remark seemed to encourage him, at any rate he 
 did knock. Presently the door was opened by Elizabeth. 
 
 *' Go away," she said in her sharp voice j *' 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. But is it true ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, it is true. She will recover now. And you 
 have stood all this time in the wet night. I am sure 
 that Beatrice ought to be flattered." 
 
 "Not at all. It seemed so awful, and — I— I take 
 such an interest " and he broke off. 
 
 "Such an interest in Beatrice," said Elizabeth drily, 
 supplying the hiatus. "Yes, so it seems," and suddenly, 
 as though by chance, she moved the candle which she 
 held, in such fashion that the light fell full upon Owen 
 Davies' face. It was a slow heavy countenance, but not 
 without comeliness. The skin was fresh as a child's, the 
 eyes were large, blue, and mild, and the brown hair grew 
 in waves that many a woman might have envied. Indeed 
 had it not been for a short but strongly growing beard, 
 it would have been easy to believe that the countenance 
 was that of a boy of nineteen rather than of a man over 
 thirty. Neither time nor care had drawn a single line 
 upon it j it told of perfect and robust health and yet 
 
 3-2
 
 36 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 him. 
 
 "Ah. But he is married, I think. Miss Granger?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, he is married to the daughter of a peer, 
 very much married — and very little, I should say." 
 
 " I do not quite understand. Miss Granger," 
 
 " Don't you, Mr. Davies ? then use your eyes when 
 you see them together.'' 
 
 " I should not see anything, I am not quick like 
 you," he added. 
 
 " How do you mean to get back to the Castle to-night, 
 Mr. Davies ? You cannot row back in this wind, and 
 the seas will be 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.
 
 ELIZABETH IS THANKFUL. yj 
 
 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 along the cliff. " If she had been dead, I think 
 that I must have died too. Oh, God, I thank Thee — I 
 thank Thee ! " 
 
 The idea that Owen Davies, Esq., J.P., D.L., of 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 the doorway into the 
 dark beyond, was a certain sense of wonder. Supposing 
 she had never seen that shiver of returning life run 
 up those white limbs, supposing that they had grown 
 colder and colder, till at length it was evident that death 
 was so firmly citadelled within the silent heart, that no 
 human skill could beat his empire back ? What then ? 
 Owen Davies loved her sister ; this she knew and had 
 known for years. But would he not have got over it in 
 time ? Would he not in time have been overpDwered by 
 the sense of his own utter loneliness and given his hand, 
 if not his heart, to some other woman ? And could not 
 she who held his hand learn to reach his heart ? And 
 to whom would that hand have been given, the hand 
 and all that went with it ? What woman would this
 
 3S BE A TRICE. 
 
 shy Welsh hermit, without friends or relations, have 
 ever been thrown in with except herself — Elizabeth — 
 who loved him as much as she could love anybody, 
 which, perhaps, was not very much ; who, at any rate, 
 desired sorely to be his wife. Would not all this have 
 come about if she had never seen that eyelid tremble, 
 and that slight quiver run up her sister's limbs? It 
 would — she knew it would. 
 
 Elizabeth thought of it as for a moment she stood in 
 the passage, and a cold hungry light came into her 
 neutral tinted eyes and shone upon her pale face. But she 
 choked back the thought ; she was scarcely wicked enough 
 to wish that her sister had not been brought back to life. 
 She only speculated on what might have happened if 
 this had come about, just as one works out a game of 
 chess from a given hypothetical situation of the pieces. 
 
 Perhaps, too, the same end might be gained in some 
 other way. Perhaps Mr. Davies might still be weaned from 
 his infatuation. The wall was difficult, but it would have to 
 be very difficult if she could not find a way to climb it. 
 It never occurred to 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 luxury and opportuni- 
 ties of wealth and leisure ? No, the sun would set in the 
 east before such a thing happened. The plan was to 
 prevent the occasion from arising. The hungry light died 
 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. Davies want at this time of night ? 
 To know about Beatrice ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered slowly, " he came to ask after 
 Beatrice, or to be more correct he has been waiting out- 
 side for three hours in the rain to learn if she recovered."
 
 O WEN DA VIES A T HOME. 39 
 
 " Waiting outside for three hours in the rain," said the 
 clergyman astonished — " Squire Davies standing outside 
 the house ! What for ? " 
 
 " Because he was so anxious about Beatrice and did 
 not like to come in, I suppose." 
 
 "So anxious about Beatrice — ah, so anxious about 
 Beatrice ! Do you think, Elizabeth — um — you know 
 there is no doubt Beatrice is very well favoured — very 
 handsome they say " 
 
 "I do not think anything about it, father," she answered, 
 "and as for Beatrice's looks they are a matter of opinion. 
 I have mine. And now don't you think we had better 
 go to bed ? The doctors and Betty are going to stop up 
 all night with Mr. Bingham and Beatrice." 
 
 "Yes, Elizabeth, I suppose that we had better go. I 
 am sure we have much to be thankful for to-night. 
 What a merciful deliverance ! And if poor Beatrice had 
 gone the parish must have found another schoolmistress, 
 and it would have meant that we lost the salary. We 
 have a great deal to be thankful for, Elizabeth." 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth, very deliberately, "we have." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OWEN DAVIES AT HOME. 
 
 Owen Davies tramped along the cliff with a light heart. 
 The wild lashing of the rain and the roaring of the wind 
 did not disturb him in the least. They were disagreeable, 
 but he accepted them as he accepted existence and all its 
 vanities, without remark or mental comment. There is 
 a class of mind of which this is the prevailing attitude. 
 Very early in their span of life, those endowed with 
 such a mind come to the conclusion that the world is 
 too much for them. They cannot understand it, so they 
 abandon the attempt, and, as a consequence, in their 
 own torpid way are among the happiest and most con- 
 tented of men. Problems, on which persons of keener
 
 40 BE A TRICE 
 
 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 Hke a 
 foam-flake out against the sunset, does not know the 
 splendour of the sky and sea. Even the savage is 
 not much troubled about the scheme of things. In the 
 beginning he was " torn out of the reeds," and in the end 
 he melts into the Unknown, and for the rest, there are 
 beef and wives, and foes to conquer. But then oxen 
 and gulls are not, so far as we know, troubled with any 
 spiritual parts at all, and in the noble savage such things 
 are not cultivated. They come with civilization. 
 
 But perhaps in the majority this condition, so necessary 
 to the more placid forms of happiness, is born of a 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 
 nature 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
 
 OWEN DA VIES AT HOME. 41 
 
 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 him just as the brig, on which 
 he was going to sail as first-mate, was taking in her cargo 
 for the West Indies. He had signed his contract for the 
 voyage, and, to the utter astonishment of the lawyer who 
 managed the estates, he announced that he should carry 
 it out. In vain did the man of affairs point out to his 
 client that with the help of a cheque of ^100 he could 
 arrange the matter for him in ten minutes. Mr. Davies
 
 42 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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, 
 v/here 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 
 
 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-
 
 44 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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; 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 beleve 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, pu'ting 
 down his hesitation to an impostor's consciousness of 
 guilt. 
 
 "Um!"said Owen to the young lady, "I beg your 
 pardon. I don't even know your name, and I am sure 
 I have no right to ask it, but would you mind rowing 
 across with me ? It would be so kind of you ; you might 
 introduce me to the housekeeper." 
 
 Again Beatrice laughed the merry laugh of girlhood ; 
 she was too young to be conscious of any impropriety 
 in the situation, and indeed there was none. But 
 her sense of humour told her that it was funny, and she 
 became possessed with a not unnatural curiosity to see 
 the thing out. 
 
 "Oh, very well," she said, " I will come." 
 
 The boat was pushed off and very soon they reached the 
 stone quay that bordered the harbour of the Castle, about 
 which a little village of retainers had grown up. Seeing 
 the boat arrive, some of these people sauntered out of 
 the cottages, and then, thinking that a visitor had come, 
 under the guidance of Miss Beatrice, to look at the
 
 OWEN DAVIES AT HOME. 45 
 
 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 ago, 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 BEA TRICE. 
 
 him ? " said Mrs. Thomas. " How do you know it ain't a 
 housebreaker ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure he cannot be," answered Beatrice aside, 
 "because he isn't clever enough." 
 
 Then followed a long discussion. Mrs. Thomas 
 stoutly refused to admit the stranger without evidence of 
 identity, and Beatrice, embracing his cause, as stoutly 
 pressed his claims. As for the lawful owner, he made 
 occasional feeble attempts to prove that he was himself, 
 but Mrs. Thomas was not to be imposed upon in this 
 way. At last they came to a dead lock. 
 
 " Y'd better go back to the inn, sir," said Mrs. Thomas 
 with scathing sarcasm, "and come up tomorrow 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 
 careful with all these trampseses about; I never should 
 have thought from the look of you, sir, how as you was 
 the new squire." 
 
 This might be candid, but it was not flattering, and it 
 caused Beatrice to snigger behind her handkerchief in 
 true school-girl fashion. However, they entered, and were 
 led by Mrs. Thomas with solemn pomp through the great 
 and little halls, the stone parlour and the oak parlour, the 
 library and the huge drawing-room, in which the white 
 heads of marble statues protruded from the bags of brown 
 holland wherewith they were wrapped about in a manner 
 ghastly to behold. At length they reached a small 
 octagon-shaped room that, facing south, commanded a
 
 O WEN DA VIES A T HOME. 47 
 
 most glorious view of sea and land. It was called the 
 Lady's Boudoir, and joined another of about the same 
 size, which in its former owner's time had been used as a 
 smoking-room. 
 
 *' If you don't mind, madam," said the lord of all this 
 magnificence, " I should like to stop here, I am getting 
 tired of walking." And there he stopped for many years. 
 The rest of the Castle was shut up ; he scarcely ever 
 visited it except occasionally to see that the rooms were 
 properly aired, for he was a methodical man. 
 
 As for Beatrice, she went home, still chuckling, to 
 receive a severe reproof from Elizabeth for her " 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 divmed something of it as soon as 
 she came to years of discretion. But there grew up in 
 Owen's silent, lonely breast a great and overmastering 
 desire to make this grey-eyed girl his wife. He measured 
 time by the intervals that elapsed between his visions of 
 her. No period in his life was so wretched and utterly 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 for his 
 sake. The words were not much and the flower was not 
 much, but there was a look about the man's eyes, and 
 a suppressed passion and energy in his voice, that told 
 their tale to the keen-witted girl. After this he found
 
 48 BE A TRICE. 
 
 that she avoided him, and bitterly regretted his boldness. 
 For Beatrice did not like him in that way. To a girl 
 of her curious stamp his wealth was nothing. She did 
 not covet wealth, she coveted independence, and had the 
 sense to know that marriage with such a man would not 
 bring it 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, reading did not come naturally to him ; he 
 was much better at cutting leaves. He studied the 
 Times and certain religious works, that was all. But he 
 wrestled manfully with many a detested tome, in order
 
 O WEN DA VIES A T HOME. 49 
 
 to be able to say something to Beatrice about it, and the 
 worst of it was that Beatrice always saw through it, and 
 showed him that she did. It was not kind, perhaps, but 
 youth is cruel. 
 
 And so the years wore on, till at length Beatrice knew 
 that a crisis was at hand. Even the tardiest and most 
 retiring lover must come to the point at last, if he is in 
 earnest, and Owen Davies was very much in earnest. 
 Of late, to her dismay, he had so far come out of his 
 shell as to allow himself to be nominated a member of 
 the school council. Of course she knew that this was 
 only to give him more opportunities of seeing her. As 
 a member of the council, he could visit the school of 
 which she was mistress as often as he chose, and indeed 
 he soon 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 opportunity to propose. 
 Hitherto she had always warded off this last event, but 
 she knew that it must happen. Not that she was actually 
 afraid of the man himself; he was too much afraid of 
 her for that. What she did fear was the outburst of 
 wrath from her father and sister when they learned that 
 she had refused Owen Davies. It never occurred to her 
 that Elizabeth might be playing a hand of her own in 
 the matter. 
 
 From all of which it will be clear, if indeed it has 
 not become so already, that Beatrice Granger was a 
 somewhat ill-regulated young woman, born to bring 
 trouble on herself and all connected with her. Had 
 she been otherwise, she would have taken her good 
 fortune and married Owen Davies, in which case her 
 history need never have been written.
 
 so BE A TRICE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A MATRIMONIAL TALK. 
 
 Before Geoffrey Bingham dropped off into a troubled 
 sleep on that eventful night of storm, he learned that the 
 girl who had saved his life at the risk and almost at the 
 cost of her own was out of danger, and in his own and 
 more reticent way he thanked Providence as heartily as 
 did Owen Davies. Then he went to sleep. 
 
 When he woke, feeling very sick and so stiff and sore 
 that he could scarcely move, the broad daylight was 
 streaming through the blinds. The place was perfectly 
 quiet, for the doctor's assistant who had brought him back 
 to life, and who lay upon a couch at the further end of the 
 room, slept the 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 remembered 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 
 Beginning ; 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 (jueer ? "
 
 A MATRIMONIAL TALK. 51 
 
 " 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 bUnd. 
 
 " 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 
 Efifie, my daughter. Please let her in." 
 
 "All right. Cover yourself up, and I can do that 
 through the window; it isn't five feet from the ground." 
 Accordingly he opened the window, and addressing the 
 little girl, asked her what her name was. 
 
 "Effie," she sobbed in answer, " Effie Bingham. I've 
 come to look for daddie." 
 
 " All right, my dear, don't cry so ; your daddie is here. 
 Come and let me lift you in." 
 
 Another moment and there appeared through the 
 open window the very sweetest little face and form that 
 ever a 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 cheeks were 
 stained with tears, and round the large dark eyes were 
 rings almost as dark. Nor was this all. The little dress 
 was hooked awry, on one tiny foot all drenched with 
 dew there was no boot, and on the yellow curls no 
 hat. 
 
 " Oh ! daddie, daddie," cried the child, catching sight 
 of him and struggling to reach her father's arms, " you 
 isn't dead, is you, daddie ? " 
 
 " No, my love, no," answered her father, kissing her. 
 " Why should you think that I was dead ? Didn't your 
 mother tell you that I was safe ? " 
 
 " Oh ! daddie," she answered, " they came and said that 
 you was drownded, and I cried and wished that I was 
 drownded too. Then mother came home at last and 
 said that you were better, and was cross with me because 
 I went on crying and wanted to come to you. But I 
 did go on crying. I cried nearly all night, and when it 
 
 4-2
 
 52 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 it much, for she sat 
 upon the edge of the couch, her little face resting against 
 his own, a very pretty sight to see. 
 
 " You must go back to Mrs. Jones, Efifie, and tell your 
 mother where you have been." 
 
 " I can't, daddie, I've only got one shoe," she answered, 
 pouting. 
 
 " But you came with only one shoe." 
 
 " Yes, daddie, but I wanted to come and I don't want 
 to go back. Tell me how you was drownded." 
 
 He laughed at her logic and gave way to her, for this 
 little daughter was very near to his heart, nearer than 
 anything else in the world. So he told her how he was 
 "drownded " and how a lady had saved his life. 
 
 Eftie 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 the very worst 
 livings on this coast, and that's saying a great deal." 
 
 " I am sure, Mr. Granger, I'm under a deep debt of 
 gratitude to you for your hospitality, and under a still
 
 A MATRIMONIAL TALK. 53 
 
 deeper one to your daughter, but I hope to thank her 
 personally for that." 
 
 " Never speak of it," said the clergyman. " Hot 
 water and blankets don't cost much, and you will have to 
 pay for the brandy and the doctor. How is he, doctor ? " 
 
 " He is getting on very well indeed, Mr. Granger. 
 But I daresay you find yourself rather stiff, Mr. Bing- 
 ham. I see your head is pretty badly bruistd." 
 
 " 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 
 three o'clock. Is that your little daughter ? What a 
 lovely child she is. Well, I will look in again about 
 twelve. All that you require to do now is to keep quiet 
 and rub in some arnica." 
 
 About an hour afterwards the servant girl brought 
 Geoffrey some breakfast of tea and toast. He felt quite 
 hungry, but when it came to the pinch he could not eat 
 much. Effie, who was starving, made up for 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 observed a shade of anxiety 
 come upon his little daughter's face. 
 
 " What is it, Effie ? " he asked. 
 
 " I think," replied Efifie in evident trepidation, " I 
 think that I did hear mother outside and Anne too." 
 
 " Well, dear, they have come to see me." 
 
 " Yes, and to scold me because I ran away," and the 
 child drew nearer to her father in a fashion which would
 
 54 BE A TRICE. 
 
 have made it dear to any observer that the relations 
 between her and her mother were somewhat strained. 
 
 Effie was right. Presently there was a knock at the door 
 and Lady Honoria entered, calm and pale and elegant 
 as ever. She was followed by a dark-eyed somewhat 
 impertinent-looking French boftne, who held up her 
 hands and ejaculated, " Mon Dieu ! " as she appeared. 
 
 " I thought so," said Lady Honoria, speaking in 
 French to the bonne. " There she is," and she pointed 
 at the runaway Effie with her parasol. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " said the woman again. " Vous voila 
 enfin, et moi, qui suis accablee de peur, et votre chere 
 mere aussi ; oh, mais que c'est mechant ; 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 one shoe." 
 
 Her husband bit his lip, and his forehead contracted 
 itself above the dark eyes. It was not the first time that 
 he and Lady Honoria had come to words about the child, 
 with whom his wife was not in sympathy. Indeed she 
 had never forgiven Effie for appearing in this world at 
 all. Lady Honoria did not belong to that class of women 
 who think maternity is a joy. 
 
 "Anne," he said, "take Miss Effie and carry her till 
 you can find a donkey. She can ride back to the 
 lodgings." The nurse murmured something in French 
 about the child being as heavy as lead. 
 
 " Do as I bid you," he said sharply, in the same 
 language. " Effie, my love, give me a kiss and go home. 
 Thank you for coming 1:o see me." 
 
 The child obeyed and went. Lady Honoria stood 
 and watched her go, tapping her little foot upon the
 
 A MATRIMONIAL TALK. 55 
 
 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 hi? own sake and for hers — for 
 above all things Geoffrey dreaded these bitter matrimonial 
 bickerings — tried to think of something kind to say. It 
 must be owned that he did not show much tact in the 
 subject he selected, though it was one which might have 
 stirred the sympathies of some women. It is so difficult 
 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 BE A TRICE. 
 
 are no laughing matter now to us. The child's shoes 
 keep me awake at night sometimes. Defoy has not 
 been paid for I don't know how long. I have a mind to 
 
 get her sabots — and as to heart " 
 
 "Well," broke in Geoffrey,' reflecting that bad as was 
 the emotional side of the question, it was better than 
 the commercial — " as to ' heart ? ' " 
 
 " You are scarcely the person to talk of it, that is all. 
 I wonder how much of yours you gave me ? " 
 
 " Really, Honoria," he answered, not without 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, fur 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
 
 A MATRIMONIAL 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 you 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 know 
 the Bar and its moaning," she added, with acid wit. 
 *' You dream, you imagine what you would like to come 
 true, but you are deceiving me and yourself. It will be 
 like the story of Sir Robert Bingham's property once 
 again. We shall be beggars all our days. I tell you, 
 Geoffrey, that you had no right to marry me." 
 
 Then at length he lost his temper. This was not the 
 first of these scenes — they had grown frequent of late, 
 and this bitter water was constantly dropping. 
 
 " Right ? " he said, " and may I ask what right you had 
 to marry me when you don't even pretend you ever 
 cared one straw for me, but just accepted me as you 
 would have accepted any other man who was a tolerably 
 good match ? I grant that I first thought of proposing 
 to you because my uncle wished it, but if I did not love 
 you I meant to be a good husband to you, and I would 
 have loved you if you would let me. But you are cold
 
 58 BEA TRICE. 
 
 and selfish ; you looked upon a husband merely as a 
 stepping-stone to luxury ; you have never loved anybody 
 exce])t yourself. If I had died last ni^ht I believe that 
 you would have cared more about having to go into 
 mourning than for the fact of my disappearance from 
 your life. You showed no more feeling for me when you 
 came in than you would have if I had been a stranger — 
 not so much as some women might have for a stranger. 
 I wonder sometimes if you have any feeling left in you 
 at all. I should think that you treat me as you do 
 because you do not care for me and do care for some 
 other person did I not know you to be utterly incapable 
 of caring for anybody. Do you want to make me hato 
 you, Honoria ? " 
 
 Geoffrey's low concentrated voice and earnest manner 
 told his wife, who was watching him with something like a 
 smile upon her clear-cut lips, how deeply he was moved. 
 He had lost his self-control, and exposed his heart to 
 her — a thing he rarely did, and that in itself was a 
 triumph which she did not wish to pursue at the moment. 
 Geoffrey was not a man to push too far. 
 
 "If you have quite finished, Geoffrey, there is some- 
 thing I should like to say " 
 
 " Oh, curse it all ! " he broke in. 
 
 " Yes ? " she said calmly and interrogatively, and made 
 a pause, but as he did not specially apply his remark to 
 anybody or anything, she continued : " If these flowers of 
 rhetoric are over, what I have to say is this : I do not 
 intend to stay in this horrid place any longer. I am 
 going to-morrow to my brother Garsington. They asked 
 us both, you may remember, but for reasons best known 
 to yourself you would not go." 
 
 "You know my reasons very well, Honoria." 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I have not the slightest idea 
 what they were," said Lady Honoria with conviction. 
 " May I hear them ? " 
 
 " Well, if you wish to know, I will not go to the house 
 cf a man who has — well, left my club as Garsington left 
 it, and who, had it not been for my efforts, would have
 
 EXPLANATORY. 59 
 
 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 faci into the 
 pillow and groaned. 
 
 " She is right," he said to himself ; " we must make the 
 best of a bad business. Bat, somehow, I seem to have 
 made a mess of my life. And yjt I loved her once — 
 for a month or two." 
 
 This was not an agreeable scene, and it may be said 
 that Lady Honoria was a vulgar person. But not even 
 the advantage of having been brought up " on the knees 
 of marchionesses " is a specific against vulgarity, if a 
 lady happens, unfortunately, to set her heart, what there 
 is of it, meanly on mean things. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 EXPLANATORY. 
 
 About two o'clock Geoffrey rose, and with some slight 
 assistance from his reverend host, struggled into his 
 clothes. Then he lunched, and while he did so Mr. 
 Granger poured his troubles into his sympathetic ear.
 
 6o 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 Uked 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, ^150 a year it was 
 at the best, and like a fool I took it. The old parson 
 who was here before me left an only daughter behind 
 him. The living had ruined him, as it ruins me, and, as 
 I say, he left his daughter, my wife that was, behind him, 
 and a pretty good bill for dilapidations I had against the 
 estate. But there wasn't any estate, so I made the best 
 of a bad business and married the daughter, and a sweet 
 pretty woman she was, poor dear, very like my Beatrice, 
 only without the brains. I can't make out where 
 Beatrice's brains come from indeed, for I am sure I don't 
 set up for having any. She was well born, too, my wife 
 was, of an old Cornish family, but she had nowhere to go 
 to, and I think she married me because she didn't know 
 what else to do, and was fond of the old place. She took 
 me on with it, as it were. Well, it turned out pretty well, 
 till some eleven years ago, when our boy was born, though 
 I don't think we ever quite understood each other. She 
 never got her health back after that, and seven years ago 
 she died. I remember it was on a night wonderfully
 
 EXPLANATORY. 6i 
 
 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 t4iree 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
 
 62 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 six-andtwenty, entirely lost its attractiveness. 
 Therefore he had turned no deaf ear to his uncle. Sir 
 Robert Bingham, who was then going on for seventy, 
 when he suggested that it might be well if Geoffrey 
 be settled down, and introduced him to Lady Honoria. 
 
 Lady Honoria was eighteen then, and a beauty of the 
 rather thin but statuesque type, which attracts men up 
 to five or six and twenty and then bores, if it does not 
 repel them. Moreover, she was clever and well read, 
 and pretended to be intellectually and poetically incHned, 
 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 ezi- 
 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 
 
 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 pro[)erty, 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 possessed a certain share of 
 logic and sweet reasonableness. In time he learnt to see 
 that the fault was not altogether with his wife, who was by 
 no means a bad sort of woman in her degree. But her 
 degree differed from his degree. She had married for 
 freedom and wealth and to gain a larger scope wherein to 
 exercise those tastes which inherited disposition and 
 education had given to her, as she believed that he had 
 i»od married her because she was the daughter of a peer. 
 
 Lady Honoria, like many another woman of her 
 stamp, was the overbred, or sometimes the underbred, 
 product of an over-civilized age and class. Those 
 primitive passions and virtues on which her husband
 
 64 BEATRICE. 
 
 had relied to make the happiness of their married Hfe 
 simply did not exist for her. The passions had been 
 bred and educated out of her ; for many generations 
 they have been found inconvenient and disquieting 
 attributes in woman. As for the old virtues, such as 
 love of children and the ordinary round of domestic 
 duty, they simply bored her. On the whole, though 
 sharp of tongue, she rarely lost her temper, for her vices, 
 like her virtues, were of a somewhat negative order ; but 
 the fury which seized her when she learned for certain 
 that she was to become a mother was a thing that her 
 unfortunate husband never forgot and never wished to 
 see again. At length the child was born, a fact for which 
 Geoffrey, at least, was very thankful. 
 
 " Take it away. I do not want to see it ! " said Lady 
 Honoria to the scandalised nurse when the little creature 
 was brought to her, wrapped in its long robes. 
 
 "Give it to me, nurse — I do," said her husband. 
 
 From that moment Geoffrey gave all the pent-up affec- 
 tion of his bruised soul to this little daughter, and as the 
 years went on they grew very dear to each other. But an 
 active-minded, strong-hearted, able-bodied man cannot 
 take a babe as the sole companion of his existence. 
 Probably Geoffrey would have found this out in time, 
 and might have drifted into some mode of life more or 
 less undesirable, had not an accident occurred to prevent 
 it. In his dotage, Geoffrey's old uncle Sir Robert Bingham 
 fell a victim to the wiles of an adventuress and married 
 her. Then he promptly died, and eight months after- 
 wards a posthumous son was born. 
 
 To Geoffrey this meant ruin. His allowance stopped 
 and his expectations vanished at one fell swoop. He 
 pulled himself together, however, as a brave-hearted man 
 does under such a shock, and going to his wife he 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. The one thing that touched 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 Edgware Road. Lady 
 Honoria was miserable, indeed had it not been that lor- 
 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 means knowledge gained, and what 
 is more it is advertisement. So it came to pass that within 
 less than two years from the date of his money misfortunes, 
 Geoffrey Bingham's dark handsome face and square 
 strong form became very well known in the Courts. 
 
 " What is that man's name ? " said one well-known O.C. 
 to another still more well known, as they sat waiting for 
 their chops m the Bar Grill Room, and saw Geoffrey, his 
 wig pushed back from his forehead, striding through the 
 doorway on the last day of the sitting which preceded the 
 commencement of this history, 
 
 5
 
 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 clone. 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. 
 
 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 Efifie 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 getting no answer pushed 
 it wide and looked in, thinking that he had, perhaps, 
 made some mistake as to the room. On a sofa placed 
 about two-thirds down its length, lay Beatrice asleep. 
 She was wrapped in a kind of dressing-gown of some 
 simple blue stuff, and all about her breast and shoulders 
 streamed her lovely curling hair. Her sweet face was to- 
 wards him, its pallor relieved only by the long shadow of
 
 WHAT BEATRICE DREAMED. (yf 
 
 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 
 heaved softly in her sleep. She looked so wondrously 
 beautiful in her rest that he stopped almost awed, and 
 gazed, and gazed again, feeling as though a present sense 
 and power were stilling his heart to silence. It is 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 
 Geoffrey and took possession of him. A cloud without 
 crossed the ray of sunlight and turned it. It wavered, 
 for a second it rested on his breast, flashed back to hers, 
 then went out ; and as it flashed and died, he seemed to 
 know that henceforth, for life till death, ay ! and beyond, 
 his fate and that sleeping woman's were one fate. It was 
 but a momentary knowledge ; the fear shook him, and was 
 gone almost before he understood its foolishness. But it 
 had been with him, and in after days he remembered it. 
 
 Just then Beatrice woke, opening her grey eyes. Their 
 dreamy glance fell upon him, looking through him and 
 beyond him, rather than at him. Then she raised herself 
 a Uttle and stretching out both her arms towards him, 
 spoke aloud. 
 
 " So you have come back to me at last," she said. "I 
 knew that you would come and I have waited." 
 
 He rrade no answer, he did not know what to say ; in- 
 deed he began to think that he also must be dreaming. 
 For a little while Beatrice still looked at him in the same
 
 68 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. Far to my right 
 was a great globe of light, and to my left was another 
 globe, and I knew that the globes were named Life and 
 Death. From the globe on the right to the globe on the 
 left, and back again, a golden shuttle, in which two flaming 
 eyes were set, was shot continually, and I knew also that 
 this was the shuttle of Destiny, weaving the web of Fate. 
 Presently the shuttle flew, leaving behind it a long silver 
 thread, and the eyes in the shuttle were such as your eyes. 
 Again the shuttle sped through space, and this time its 
 eyes were like my eyes, and the thread it left behind it 
 was twisted from a woman's hair. Half way between the 
 globes of Life and Death my thread 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 
 your silver thread of life and began to twist round and 
 round it. As it twisted it grew larger and heavier, till at 
 last it was thick as a great tress of hair, and the silver 
 line bent beneath the weight so that I saw it soon must
 
 WHA T BE A TRICE DREAMED. 6g 
 
 break. Then while I wondered what would happen, a 
 white hand holding a knife slid slowly down the silver 
 line, and with the knife severed the wrappings of woman's 
 hair, which fell and floated slowly away, like a little cloud 
 touched with sunlight, till they were lost in darkness. 
 But the thread of silver that was your line of life, sprang 
 up quivering and making a sound like sighs, till at last it 
 sighed itself to silence. 
 
 "Then I seemed to sleep, and when I woke I was 
 floating upon such a misty sea as we saw last night. I 
 had lost all sight of land, and I could not remember what 
 the stars were like, nor how I had been taught to steer, 
 nor understand where I must go. I called to the sea, 
 and asked it of the stars, and the sea answered me thus : 
 
 " ' Hope has rent her raiment, and the stars are set.' 
 
 " I called again, and asked of the land where I should 
 go, and the land did not answer, but the sea answered 
 me a second time : 
 
 " ' Child of the mist, wander in the mist, and in 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, yoi{ rose out of the sea and sat before me in 
 the boat. I had never seen you before, and still I felt 
 that I had known you always. You did not speak, and 
 I did not speak, but you looked into my heart and saw 
 its trouble. Then I looked into your heart, and read 
 what was written. And this was written : 
 
 " ' Woman whom I knew before the Past began, and 
 whom I shall know when the Future is ended, why do 
 you weep ? ' 
 
 " And my heart answered, ' I weep because I am lost 
 upon the waters of the earth, because Hope has rent her 
 starry robes, and in everlasting darkness I must seek for 
 light that is not.' Then your heart said, '/will show you 
 light,' and bending forward you touched me on the breast, 
 
 "And suddenly an agony shook me like the agonies of 
 birth and death, and the sky was full of great-winged 
 angels who rolled up the mist as a cloth, and drew the
 
 70 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 is all." 
 
 " It may be nonsense, I daresay it is, but it is beautiful 
 nonsense," he answered. " I wish ladies had more of 
 such stuff to give the world." 
 
 "Ah, well, dreams may be wiser than wakings, and 
 nonsense than learned talk, for all we know. But there's 
 an end of it. I do not know why I repeated it to you. 
 I am sorry I did repeat it, but it seemed so real it shook 
 me out of myself. This is what comes of breaking in
 
 WHAT BEATRICE DREAMED. 71 
 
 upon the routine of life by being three parts drowned. 
 One finds queer things at the bottom of the sea, you know. 
 By the way I hope that you are recovering. I do not think 
 that you will care to go canoeing again with me, Mr. 
 Bingham." 
 
 There was an opening for a compliment here, but 
 Geoffrey felt that it would be too much in earnest if 
 spoken, so he resisted the temptation. 
 
 " What, Miss Granger," he said, "should a man say to 
 a lady who but last night saved his life, at the risk, indeed 
 almost at the cost, of her own ? " 
 
 "It was nothing," she answered, colouring; "I clung to 
 you, that was all, more by instinct than from any motive. 
 I think I had a vague idea that you might float and 
 support me." 
 
 " Miss Granger, the occasion is too serious for polite 
 fibs. I know how you saved my life. I do not know how 
 to thank you for it." 
 
 "Then don't thank me at all, Mr. Bingham. Why 
 should you thank me ? I only did what I was bound 
 to do. I would far rather die than desert a companion 
 in distress, of any sort; we all must die, but it would be 
 dreadful to die ashamed. You know what they say, that 
 if you save a person from drowning you will do them an 
 injury afterwards. That is how they put it here ; in some 
 parts the saying is the other way about, but I am not 
 likely ever to do you an injury, so it does not make me 
 unhappy. It was an awful experience : you were 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 gloom, with nothing but the night above, 
 and the sea around, and death between the two. I have 
 been lonely for many years, but I do not think that I ever 
 quite understood what loneliness really meant before. 
 You see," she added by way of an afterthought, " I 
 thought that you were dead, and there is not much com- 
 pany in a corpse." 
 
 " Well," he said, " one thing is, it would have been 
 lonelier if we had gone."
 
 72 BE A TRICE. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " she answered, looking at him 
 inquiringly. " I don't quite see how you make that out. 
 If you believe in what we have been taught, as I think 
 you do, wherever it was you found yourself there would 
 be plenty of company, and if, like me, you do not believe 
 in anything, why, then, you would have slept, and sleep 
 asks for nothing." 
 
 " Did you believe in nothing when you lay upon the 
 rock waiting to be drowned, Miss Granger ? " 
 
 "Nothing!" she answered; "only weak people find 
 revelation in the extremities of fear. If revelation 
 comes at all, surely it must be born in the heart and 
 not in the senses. I believed in nothing, and I dreaded 
 nothing, except the agony of death. Why should I 
 be afraid ? Supposing that I am mistaken, and there 
 is something beyond, is it my fault that I cannot believe ? 
 What have I done that I should be afraid ? I have 
 never harmed anybody that I know of, and if I could 
 believe I would. I wish I had died," she went on, 
 passionately ; " it would 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 have nothing to live for, and I wish that I had 
 died ! " 
 
 " Some day you will think differently, Miss Granger. 
 There are many things that a woman like yourself can 
 live for — at the least, there is your work." 
 
 She laughed drearily. " My work ! If you only knew 
 what it is like you would not talk to me about it. Every 
 day I roll my stone up the hill, and every night it seems 
 to roll down again. But you have never taught in a 
 village school. How can you know ? I work all day, and 
 in the evening perhaps I have to mend the tablecloths, 
 or— what do you think ? — write my father's sermons. It 
 sounds curious, does it not, that I should write sermons ? 
 But I do. I wrote the one he is going to preach next 
 Sunday. It makes very little difference to him what it 
 is so long as he can read it, and, of course, I never 
 say anything which can offend anybody, and I do not
 
 IVHA T BE A TRICE DREAMED. 73 
 
 think that they listen much. Very few people go to 
 church in Bryngelly." 
 
 " Don't you ever get any time to yourself, then ? " 
 " Oh, yes, sometimes I do, and then I go out in my 
 canoe, or read, and am almost happy. After all, Mr. Bing- 
 ham, it is very wrong and ungrateful of me to speak like this. 
 I have more advantages than nine-tenths of the world, 
 and I ought to make the best of them. I don't know 
 why I have been speaking as I have, and to you, whom I 
 never saw till yesterday. I never did it before to any 
 living soul, I assure you. It is just like the story of 
 the man who came here last year with the divining 
 rod. There is a cottage down on the cliff — it belongs to 
 Mr. Davies, who lives in the Castle. Well, they have no 
 drinking water near, and the new tenant made a great 
 fuss about it. So Mr. Davies hired men, and they dug 
 and dug and spent no end of money, but could not come 
 to water. At last the tenant fetched an old man from 
 some parish a long way off, who said that he could find 
 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 so strongly that it rushed into the house and 
 flooded it. And what do you think ? After all, the 
 water was brackish. You are the man with the divining 
 rod, Mr. Bingham, and you have made me talk a great 
 deal too much, and, after all, you see it is not nice talk. 
 You must think me a very disagreeable and wicked young 
 woman, and I daresay I am. But somehow it is a relief 
 to open one's mind. I do hope, Mr. Bingham, that you 
 will see — in short, that you will not misunderstand me." 
 " Miss Granger," he answered, " there is between us 
 that which will always entitle us to mutual respect and 
 confidence — the link of life and death. Had it not been 
 for you, I should not sit here to listen to your confidence 
 to-day. You may tell me that a mere natural impulse 
 prompted you to do what you did. I know better. It
 
 74 BE A TRICE. 
 
 was your will that triumphed over your natural impulse 
 towards self-preservation. Well, I will say no more 
 about it, except this : If ever a man was bound to a 
 woman by ties of gratitude and respect, I am bound to 
 you. You need not fear that I shall take advantage of 
 or misinterpret your confidence." Here he rose and 
 stood before her, his dark handsome face bowed in 
 proud humility. " Miss Granger, I look upon it as an 
 honour done to me by one whom henceforth I must 
 reverence among all women. The life you gave back to 
 me, and the intelligence which directs it, 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.
 
 WHAT 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 Geoffrey who 
 broke it. 
 
 V Miss Granger," he said, " will you allow me to preach 
 you a lecture, a very short one ? " 
 
 " Go on," she said. 
 
 "Very well. Do not blame me if you don't like it, 
 and do not set me down as a prig, though I am going to 
 tell- you your faults as I read them in your own words. 
 You are proud and ambitious, and the cramped lines in 
 which you are forced to live seem to strangle you. You 
 have suffered, and have not learned the lesson of suffering 
 — humility. You have set yourself up against Fate, and 
 Fate sweeps you along like spray upon the gale, yet you go 
 unwilling. In your impatience you have flown to learning 
 for refuge, and it has completed your overthrow, for it 
 has induced you to reject as non-existent all that you 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 her head to her 
 breast so that the long rippling hair almost hid her face. 
 
 " It seems a little odd," Geoffrey said with a short laugh, 
 •'that I, with all my imperfections heaped upon me, 
 should presume to preach to you — but you will know 
 best how near or how far I am from the truth. So I 
 want to say 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
 
 76 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 deUberately 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 Maenad 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
 
 LADY HONOR JA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS. 77 
 
 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 see 
 that in the little gilt-edged looking-glass which hung over 
 the fire-place, nor did she overlook the general air of 
 embarrassment that pervaded them both. 
 
 When she 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. The 
 farmer was a tenant of Owen Davies, and when he called 
 her a " parson in petticoats, and wus," and went on, in 
 delicate reference to her powers of extracting cash, to 
 liken her to a "two-legged corkscrew only screwier," she 
 perhaps not unnaturally reflected, that if ewer— 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 any rate a look of quick in- 
 telligence shone for a moment in her light eyes, like a 
 sickly sunbeam on a faint December mist ; then she 
 moved forward, and when she was close behind Geoffrey, 
 spoke suddenly. 
 
 " What are you both thinking about ? " she said in her 
 clear thin voice ; " you seem to have exhausted your 
 conversation." 
 
 Geoffrey made an exclamation and fairly jumped from
 
 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 wondering 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 see. Miss Granger," said Geoffrey coming to the 
 rescue, " both our brains are still rather waterlogged, and 
 that does not tend to a flow of ideas." 
 
 " Quite so," said Elizabeth. " My dear Beatrice, why 
 don't you tie up your hair ? You look like a crazy Jane. 
 Not but what you have very nice hair," she added criti- 
 cally. " Do you admire good hair, Mr. Bingham ? " 
 
 " Of course I do," he answered gallantly, " but it is not 
 common." 
 
 Only Beatrice bit her lip with vexation. " I had 
 almost forgotten about my hair," she said ; " I must 
 apologise for appearing in such a state. I would have 
 done it up after dinner only I was too stiff, and while I 
 was waiting for Betty, I went to sleep." 
 
 " I think there is a bit of ribbon in that drawer. I 
 saw you put it there yesterday," answered the precise 
 Elizabeth. "Yes, here it is. If you like, and Mr. 
 Bingham will excuse it, I can tie it back for you," and 
 without waiting for an answer she passed behind Beatrice, 
 and gathering up the dense masses of her sister's locks, 
 tied them round in such fashion that they could not fall 
 forward, though they still rolled down her back. 
 
 Just then Mr. Granger came back from his visit to 
 the farm. He was in high good humour. The pig had 
 even surpassed her former efforts, and increased in a 
 surprising manner, to the number of fifteen indeed. 
 EHzabeth thereon produced the two pounds odd shillings
 
 LADY HONOR J 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 wort'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 man's sore point — money. He was clearly 
 very strong about that — as strong as Lady Honoria 
 indeed, but with more excuse. Elizabeth also listened 
 with evident approval, but Beatrice looked pained. 
 
 " Don't get angry, father," she said ; "perhaps he will 
 pay after all. It is bad to take the law if you can manage 
 any other way — it breeds so much ill blood." 
 
 " Nonsense, Beatrice," said her sister sharply. " Father 
 is quite right. There's only one way to deal with them, 
 and that is to seize their goods. I believe you are a 
 socialist about property, as you are about everything 
 else. You want to pull everything down, from the
 
 8o BE A TRICE. 
 
 Queen to the laws of marriage, all for the good of 
 humanity, and I tell you that your ideas will be your 
 ruin. Defy custom and it will crush you. You are 
 running your head against a brick wall, and one day you 
 will find which is the harder." 
 
 Beatrice flushed, but answered her sister's attack, 
 which was all the sharper because it had a certain spice 
 of truth in it. 
 
 " I never expressed any such views, Elizabeth, so I 
 do not see why you should attribute them to me. I only 
 said that legal proceedings breed bad blood in a parish, 
 and that is true." 
 
 "I did not say you expressed them," went on the 
 vigorous Elizabeth ; " you look them — they ooze out of 
 your words like water from a peat bog. Everybody knows 
 you are a radical and a freethinker and everything else 
 that is bad and mad, and contrary to that state of life in 
 which it has pleased God to call you. The end of it will 
 be that you will lose the mistresship of the school — and I 
 think it is very hard on father and me that you should 
 bring disgrace on us with your strange ways and immoral 
 views, and now you can make what you like of it." 
 
 " I wish that all radicals were like Miss Beatrice," said 
 Geoffrey, who was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, 
 with a feeble attempt at polite jocosity. But nobody 
 seemed to hear him. Elizabeth, who was now fairly in a 
 rage, a faint flush upon her pale cheeks, her light eyes 
 all ashine, and her thin fingers clasped, stood fronting 
 her beautiful sister, and breathing spite at every pore. 
 But it was easy for Geoffrey who was watching her to see 
 that it Was not her sister's views she was attacking ; it was 
 her sister. It was that soft strong loveliness and the 
 glory of that face ; it was the deep gentle mind, erring 
 from its very greatness, and the bright intellect which lit 
 it like a lamp ; it was the learning and the power that, give 
 them play, would set a world aflame, as easily as they did 
 the heart of the slow-witted hermit squire, whom Elizabeth 
 coveted— these were the things that Elizabeth hated, and 
 bitterly assailed.
 
 LADY HONORIA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS. 8i 
 
 Accustomed to observe, Geoffrey saw this instantly, and 
 then glanced at the father. The old man was frightened ; 
 clearly he was afraid of Elizabeth, and dreaded a scene. 
 He stood fidgeting his feet about, and trying to find 
 something to say, as he glanced apprehensively at his 
 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 
 exquisite proportions 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 Hps to speak again, but hesitated, 
 and changed her mind. There was something in Beatrice's 
 manner that checked her. 
 
 "Well," she said at length, "you should not irritate 
 me so, Beatrice.' 
 
 Beatrice made no reply. She only turned towards 
 Geoffrey, and with a graceful little bow, said : 
 
 " Mr. Bingham, I am sure that you will forgive this 
 scene. The fact is, we all slept badly last night, and it 
 has not improved our tempers." 
 
 There was a pause, of which Mr. Granger took a hurried 
 and rather undignified advantage. 
 
 "Um, ah," he said. "By the way, Beatrice, what was 
 it I wanted to say ? Ah, I know — have you written, I 
 mean written out, that sermon for next Sunday? My 
 daughter," he added, addressing Geoffrey in explanation 
 — " um, copies my sermons for me. She writes a very 
 good hand ." 
 
 Remembering Beatrice's confidence as to her sermon 
 manufacturing functions, Geoffrey felt amused at her 
 father's naive way of describing them, and Beatrice also 
 smiled faintly as she answered that the sermon was ready. 
 Just then the roll of wheels was heard without, and the 
 only fly that Bryngelly could boast pulled up in front of 
 the door. 
 
 o.
 
 82 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 title, trotted off to welcome 
 "her ladyship." 
 
 Presently Lady Honoria entered the room, a sweet, if 
 rather a set smile upon her handsome face, and with a 
 graceful mien, that became her tall figure exceedingly 
 well. For to do Lady Honoria justice, she was one of 
 the most ladylike women in the country, and so far as 
 her personal appearance went, a very perfect type of the 
 class to which she belonged. 
 
 Geoffrey looked at her, saying to himself that she had 
 clearly recovered her temper, and that he was thankful 
 for it. This was not wonderful, for it is observable that 
 the more aristocratic a lady's manners are, the more 
 disagreeable she is apt to be when she is crossed. 
 
 " Well, Geoffrey dear," she said, " you see I have come 
 to fetch you. I was determined that you should not 
 get yourself drowned a second time on your way home. 
 How are you now ? — but I need not ask, you look quite 
 well again." 
 
 " It is very kind of you, Honoria," said her husband 
 simply, but it was doubtful if she heard him, for at the 
 moment she was engaged in searching out the soul of 
 Beatrice, with one of the most penetrating and 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 felt that quick as it 
 might be it embraced her altogether. Nor was she wrong. 
 
 "There is no doubt about it," Lady Honoria thought 
 to herself, " she is lovely — lovely everywhere. It was 
 clever of her to leave her hair down ; it shows the shape 
 of her head so well, and she is tall enough to stand it. 
 That blue wrapper suits her too. Very few women 
 could show such a figure as hers — like a Greek statue. 
 I don't like her ; she is different from most of us ; just 
 the sort of girl men go wild about and women hate."
 
 LAD V HONORIA MAKES ARRANGEMENTS. 83 
 
 All this passed through her mind in a flash. For a 
 moment Lady Honoria's blue eyes met Beatrice's grey 
 ones, and she knew that Beatrice liked her no better 
 than she did Beatrice. Those eyes were a trifle too 
 honest and, like the deep clear water they resembled, 
 apt to throw up shadows of the passing thoughts above. 
 
 " False and cold and heartless," thought Beatrice. " I 
 wonder how a man like that could marry her ; and how 
 much he loves her." 
 
 Thus the two women took each other's measure at a 
 glance, each finding the other wanting by her standard. 
 Nor did they ever change that hastily formed judgment. 
 
 It was ail done in a few seconds — in that hesitating 
 moment before the words we summon answer on our 
 lips. The next. Lady Honoria was sweeping towards 
 her with outstretched hand, and her most gracious smile. 
 
 " Miss Granger," she said, " I owe you a debt I never 
 can repay — my dear husband's life. I have heard all 
 about how you saved him ; it is the most wonderful 
 thing — Grace Darling born again. I can't think how 
 you could do it. I wish I were half as brave and strong." 
 
 " Please don't. Lady Honoria," said Beatrice. " I 
 am so tired of being thanked for doing nothing, except 
 what it was my duty to do. If I had let Mr. Bingham 
 go while I had the strength to hold on to him I should 
 have felt like a murderess to-day. I beg you to say no 
 more about it." 
 
 " One does not often find such modesty united to so 
 much courage, and, if you will allow me to say it, so much 
 beauty," answered Lady Honoria graciously. " Well, I 
 will do as you wish, but I warn you your fame will find 
 you out. I hear they have an account of the whole ad- 
 venture in to-day's papers, headed, 'A Welsh Heroine.'" 
 
 "How did you hear that, Honoria?" asked her 
 husband. 
 
 " Oh, I had a telegram from Garsington, and he 
 mentions it," she answered carelessly. 
 
 " Telegram from Garsington ! Hence these smiles," 
 thought he. " I suppose that she is going to-morrow." 
 
 6—2
 
 84 BEATRICE. 
 
 " I have some other news for you, Miss Granger," 
 went on Lady Honoria. " Your canoe has been washed 
 ashore, very little injured. The old boatman — Edward, 
 I think they call him — has found it ; and your gun in it 
 too, Geoffrey. It had stuck under the seat or some- 
 where. But I fancy that you must both have had 
 enough canoeing for the present." 
 
 " I don't know, Lady Honoria," answered Beatrice. 
 " One does not often get such weather as last night's, 
 and canoeing is very pleasant. Every sweet has its 
 salt, you know ; or, in other words, one may always be 
 upset." 
 
 At that moment, Betty, the awkward Welsh serving 
 lass, with a fore-arm about as shapely as the hind leg of 
 an elephant, and a most unpleasing habit of snorting 
 audibly as she moved, shuffled in with the tea-tray. In 
 her wake came the slim Elizabeth, to whom Lady 
 Honoria was introduced. 
 
 After this, conversation flagged for a while, till Lady 
 Honoria, feeling that things were getting a little dull, set 
 the ball rolling again. 
 
 " What a pretty view you have of the sea from these 
 windows," she said in her well-trained and monotonously 
 modulated voice. " I am so glad to have seen it, for, 
 you know, I am going away to-morrow." 
 
 Beatrice looked up quickly. 
 
 *' My husband is not going," she went on, as though 
 ill answer to an unspoken question. " I am playing 
 the part of the undutiful wife and running away from 
 him, for exactly three weeks. It is very wicked of me, 
 isn't it ? but I have an engagement that I must keep. 
 It is most tiresome." 
 
 Geoffrey, sipping his tea, smiled grimly behind the 
 shelter of his cup. *' She does it uncommonly well," he 
 thought to himself. 
 
 " Does your little girl go with you. Lady Honoria ? " 
 asked Elizabeth. 
 
 "Well, no, I think not. I can't bear parting with her 
 — you know how hard it is when one has only one child.
 
 LADY HONOR JA 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 Geoffrey 
 laughing. 
 
 " I suppose that your husband is going to stay on at 
 Mrs. Jones's," said the clergyman. 
 
 "Really, I don't know. What are you going to do, 
 Geoffrey ? Mrs. Jones's rooms are rather expensive for 
 people in our impoverished condition. Besides, I am 
 sure that she cannot look after Effie. Just think, she has 
 eight children of her own, poor old dear. And I must 
 take Anne with me ; she is Effie's French nurse, you 
 know, a perfect treasure. I am going to stay in a big 
 house, and my experience of those big houses is, that 
 one never gets waited on at all unless one takes a maid. 
 You see, what is everybody's business is nobody's 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 as though to interpose, but before she could do 
 so Mr. Granger spoke. 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Bingham," he said, " if you want to 
 move, would you like a room here ? Terms strictly 
 moderate, but can't afford to put you up for nothing, 
 you know, and living rough and ready. You'd have to 
 take us as you find us ; but there is a dressing-room next 
 to my room, where your little girl could sleep, and my 
 daughters would look after her between them, and be 
 glad of the job." 
 
 Again Beatrice opened her lips as though to speak, 
 but closed them without speaking. Thus do our oppor- 
 tunities pass before we realise that they are at hand.
 
 86 BE A TRICE. 
 
 Instinctively Geoffrey liad glanced towards Beatrice. 
 He did not know if this idea was agreeable to her. He 
 knew that her work was hard, and he did not wish to put 
 extra trouble upon her, for he guessed that the burden 
 of looking after Effie would ultimately fall upon her 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 your daughters would not be too much." 
 
 " I am sure that it is an excellent plan," broke in 
 Lady Honoria, who feared lest difficulties should arise 
 as to her appropriation of Anne's services ; " how lucky 
 that I happened to mention it. There will be no trouble 
 about our giving up the rooms at Mrs. Jones's, because I 
 know she has another application for them." 
 
 " Very well," said Geoffrey, not liking to raise objec- 
 tions to a scheme 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 would like to see the rooms her 
 husband and Effie would occupy. 
 
 She said she should be delighted and went off, followed 
 by Mr. Granger fussing in the rear. 
 
 " Don't you think that you will be a Httle 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,
 
 BEA TRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT. 87 
 
 and let lodgings — that is what it comes to. If you think, 
 they will suit you, you are quite right to take them." 
 
 Geoffrey coloured. He was a man who could not bear 
 to lay himself open to the smallest rebuff from a woman, 
 and he had brought this on himself. Beatrice saw it 
 and relented. 
 
 " Of course, Mr. Bingham, so far as I am concerned, 
 I shall be the gainer if you do come. I do not meet so 
 many people with whom I care to associate, and from 
 whom I can learn, that I wish to throw a chance away." 
 
 " I think you misunderstood me a little," he said ; " I 
 only meant that perhaps you would not wish to be 
 bothered with Effie, Miss Granger." 
 
 She laughed. " Why, I love children. It will be a great 
 pleasure to me to look after her so far as I have time." 
 
 Just then the others returned, and their conversation 
 came to an end. 
 
 " It's quite delightful, Geoffrey — such funny old-fash- 
 ioned rooms. I really envy you." (If there was one thing 
 in the world that Lady Honoria hated, it was an old- 
 fashioned room.) " Well, and now we must be going. 
 Oh ! you poor creature, I forgot that you were so knocked 
 about. I am sure Mr. Granger will give you his arm." 
 
 Mr. Granger ambled forward, and Geoffrey having 
 made his adieus, and borrowed a clerical hat (Mr. Gran- 
 ger's concession to custom, for in most other respects he 
 dressed like an ordinary farmer), was safely conveyed to 
 the fly. 
 
 And so ended Geoffrey's first day at Bryngelly 
 Vicarage. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 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 BEATRICE. 
 
 rooms just for you and Effie. The old gentleman only 
 wants that for board and lodging together, for I asked him." 
 
 " I daresay it will do," said Geoffrey. " When are we 
 to shift ? " 
 
 " To-morrow, in time for dinner.or rather supper : these 
 barbarians eat supper, you know, I go by the morning 
 train, you see, so as to reach Garsington by tea-time. 
 I daresay you will find it rather dull, but you like being 
 dull. The old clergyman is a low stamp of man, and a 
 bore, and as for the eldest daughter, Elizabeth, she's too 
 awful — she reminds me of a rat. But Beatrice is hand- 
 some enough, though I think her horrid too. You'll 
 have to console yourself with her, and I daresay you will 
 suit each other." 
 
 " Why do you think her horrid, Honoria ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; she is clever and odd, and I hate 
 odd women. Why can't they be like other people ? 
 Think of her being strong enough to save your life like 
 that too. She must have the muscle of an Amazon — it's 
 downright unwomanly. But there is no doubt about her 
 beauty. She is as nearly perfect as any girl I ever saw, 
 though too independent looking. If only one had a 
 daughter like that, how one might marry her. I would not 
 look at anything under twenty thousand a year. She is 
 too good for that lumbering Welsh squire she's engaged 
 to — the man who lives in the Castle — though they say 
 that he is fairly rich." 
 
 " Engaged," said Geoffrey, " how do you know that 
 she is engaged ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know it at all, but I suppose she is. If 
 she isn't, she soon will be, for a girl in that position is 
 not likely to throw such a chance away. At any rate, he's 
 head over ears in love with her. I saw that last night. 
 He was hanging about for hours in the rain, outside the 
 door, with a face like a ghost, till he knew whether she 
 was dead or alive, and he has been there twice to inquire 
 this morning. Mr. Granger told me. But she is too good 
 for him from a business point of view. She might marry 
 anybody, if only she were put in the way of it."
 
 BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT. 89 
 
 Somehow, Geoffrey's lively interest in Beatrice 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 quite 
 as much interested in a young and lovely lady who is the 
 potential property of a " lumbering Welsh squire," as in 
 one who belongs to herself. 
 
 The old Adam still survives in most men, however right- 
 thinking they may be, and this is one of its methods of 
 self-assertion. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I am glad to hear she is in such 
 a good way ; she deserves it. I think the Welsh squire 
 in luck ; Miss Granger is a remarkable woman." 
 
 " Too remarkable by half," said Lady Honoria drily. 
 " Here we are, and there is Efifie, skipping about like a 
 wild thing as usual. I think that child is demented." 
 
 On the following morning — it was Friday — Lady 
 Honoria, accompanied by Anne, departed in the very 
 best of tempers. For the next three weeks, at any rate, 
 she would be free from the galling associations of straight- 
 ened means — free to enjoy the luxury and refined comfort 
 to which she had been accustomed, and for which her 
 soul yearned with a fierce longing that would be incom- 
 prehensible to folk of a simpler mind. Everybody has 
 his or her ideal Heaven, if only one could fathom it. 
 Some would choose a sublimated intellectual leisure, 
 made happy by 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 infinitutn. 
 
 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 entree to the upper celestial ten, 
 and she would ask no more from age to age. Let us
 
 go BE A TRICE. 
 
 hope that she will get it one day. It would hurt nobody, 
 and she is sure to find plenty of people of her own way 
 of thinking — that is, if this world supplies the raw material. 
 
 She embraced Efifie 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." Efifie ojjened her wide eyes, and 
 stared at the frail craft.
 
 BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT. 91 
 
 *' It is a horrid boat," she said ; " I don't want to look 
 at it." 
 
 "You're quite right, httle 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 ; they never learn nothing 
 till it's too late, they don't, and then when they've been 
 and done it they're sorry, but what's the good o' that ?" 
 
 Meanwhile another conversation was in progress not 
 more than a quarter of a mile away. On the brow of the 
 cliff stood the village of Bryngelly, and at the back of 
 the village was a school, a plain white-washed building, 
 roofed with stone, which, though amply sufficient and 
 suitable to the wants of the place, was little short of 
 an abomination in the eyes of Her Majesty's school 
 inspectors, who from time to time descended upon 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 sweet with them, 
 though few dared to disobey her. Besides, her beauty 
 impressed them, though they did not know it. Beauty of 
 a certain sort has perhaps more effect on children than on 
 any other class, heedless and selfish as they often seem to 
 be. They feel its power ; it is an outward expression of 
 the thoughts and dreams that bud in their unknowing 
 hearts, and is somehow mixed up with their ideas of God
 
 92 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 to-night, 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 out that the fiends were coming to 
 drag her down to torment, and dash herself against the 
 wall, in fear hideous to behold. Then it was found that 
 there was but one way to calm her : it was to send 
 for Beatrice. Beatrice would come and take the poor 
 thin hands in hers and gaze with her calm deep eyes 
 upon the wasted horror-stricken face till the child grew
 
 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
 
 94 SEA TRICE. 
 
 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 cUff, 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,
 
 BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT, 95 
 
 but he did not know how to say it. They were at the 
 head of the cliff now, and if he wished to speak he must 
 do so quickly. 
 
 " Miss Beatrice," he said in a somewhat constrained 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, Mr, Davies — oh, look at that seagull \ it nearly 
 knocked my hat off." 
 
 But he was not to be put off with the seagull. " Miss 
 Beatrice," he said again, " are you going out walking 
 next Sunday afternoon ? " 
 
 " How can I tell, Mr. Davies ? It may rain." 
 " But if it does not rain — please tell me. You generally 
 do walk on the beach on Sunday. Miss Beatrice, I want 
 to speak to you. I hope you will allow me, I do indeed." 
 Then suddenly she came to a decision. This kind 
 of thing was unendurable 3 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 encracred to. Well, I don't think 
 very much of her taste." 
 
 In another minute they had arrived. Geoffrey shook 
 hands with Beatrice, and was introduced to Owen Davies, 
 who murmured something in reply, and promptly took 
 his departure. 
 
 They examined the canoe together, and then walked 
 slovv'ly up to the Vicarage, Beatrice holding Efifie 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
 
 96 BEATRICE. 
 
 carried us ashore. The sea does not look as though it 
 would drown any one to-night, does it ? See ! " — and she 
 threw a stone into it — " the ripples run as evenly as they 
 do on a pond." 
 
 She spoke idly and Geoffrey answered her idly, for 
 neither were thinking of their words. Rather were they 
 thinking of the strange chance that had brought them 
 together in an hour of deadly peril and now left them 
 together in an hour of peace. Perhaps, too, they were 
 wondering to what end this had come about. For, 
 agnostics, atheists or believers, are we not, most of us, 
 fatalists at heart ? 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE WRITING ON THE SAND. 
 
 Geoffrey found himself very comfortable at the Vicar- 
 age, and as for Efifie, she positively revelled in it. 
 Beatrice looked after her, taking her to bed at night 
 and helping her to dress in the morning, and Beatrice 
 was a great improvement upon Anne. When Geoffrey 
 became aware of this he remonstrated, saying that he had 
 never expected her to act as nurse to the child, but she 
 replied that it was a pleasure to her to do so, which was 
 the truth. In other ways, too, the place was all that he 
 desired. He did not like Elizabeth, but then he did 
 not see very much of her, and the old farmer clergyman 
 was amusing in his way, with his endless talk of tithes 
 and crops, and the iniquities of the rebelUous Jones, 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. 
 At first he thought of asking her to come too, but then 
 it occurred to him that she might wish to go out with 
 Mr. Davies, to whom he still supposed she was engaged. 
 It was no affair of his, yet he was glad when he came
 
 THE WRITING ON THE SAND. 97 
 
 back to find that she had been out with Efiie, and not 
 with Mr. Davies. 
 
 On Sunday morning they all went to church, including 
 Beatrice. It was a bare little church, and the congret^a- 
 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, psalms, litany, 
 lessons, all in the same depressing way, till Geoffrey felt 
 inclined to go to sleep, and then took to watching 
 Beatrice's sweet face instead. He wondered what made 
 her look so sad. Hers was always a sad face when in 
 repose, that he knew, but to-day it was particularly so, 
 and what was more, she looked worried as well as sad. 
 Once or twice he saw her glance at Mr. Davies, who was 
 sitting opposite, the solitary occupant of an enormous 
 pew, and he thought that there was apprehension in her 
 look. But Mr. Davies did not return the glance. To judge 
 from his appearance nothing was troubling his mind. 
 
 Indeed, Geoffrey studying him in the same way that he 
 instinctively studied everybody whom he met, thought 
 that he had never before seen a man who looked quite so 
 ox-like and absolutely comfortable. And yet he never 
 was more completely at fault. The man seemed stolid 
 and cold indeed, but it was the coldness of a volcano. 
 His heart was a-fire. All the liuman for^ cs 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 for her had grown slowly ; for 
 years it had been growing, ever since the grey-eyed girl 
 on the brink of womanhood had conducted him to his 
 castle home. It was no fancy, no light desire to 
 pass with the year which brought it. Owen had little 
 imagination, that soil from which loves spring with the 
 rank swiftness of a tropic bloom to fade at the first 
 chill breath of change. His passion was an unalterable 
 
 7
 
 g8 BEA TRICE. 
 
 fact. It was rooted like an oak on our stiff English soil, 
 its fibres wrapped his heart and shot his being through, 
 and if so strong a gale should rise that it must fall, then 
 he too would be overthrown. 
 
 For years now he had thought of little else than 
 Beatrice. To win her he would have given all his 
 wealth, ay, thrice over, if that were possible. To win 
 her, to know her his by riglit and his alone, ah, that 
 would be heaven ! His blood quivered and his mind 
 srew dim when he thought of it. What would it be to 
 see her standing by him as she stood now, and know 
 that she was his wife ! There is no form of passion 
 more terrible than this. Its very earthiness makes it 
 awful. 
 
 The service went on. At last Mr. Granger mounted 
 the pulpit and began to read his sermon, of which the 
 text was, " But of these three the greatest is charity." 
 Geoffrey noticed that he bungled over some of the 
 words, then suddenly remembered Beatrice had told 
 him that she had written the sermon, and was all 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 were 
 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 
 
 owing for two years and more. If that tithe is not paid 
 I shall have to put distraint on some of you, and I 
 thought that I had better take this opportunity to tell 
 you so." 
 
 Then he gave the Benediction. 
 
 The contrast between this business-like speech, and 
 the beautiful periods which had gone before, was so 
 ridiculous that Geoffrey very nearly burst out laughing, 
 and Beatrice smiled. So did the rest of the 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 
 Efifie'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 silent 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 
 Efifie'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 Efifie at last, with a 
 charming disregard of grammar. 
 
 " People ought to be dull on Sunday, Efifie," answered 
 Beatrice, with an effort. " At least I suppose so," she 
 added. 
 
 Elizabeth, who was aggressively religious, frowned at 
 this remark. She knew her sister did not mean it. 
 
 "What are you going to do this afternoon, Beatrice?" 
 she asked suddenly. She had seen Owen Davies go up 
 
 7—2
 
 I GO BEATRICE. 
 
 and speak to her sister, and though she had not been 
 near enough to catch the words, scented an assignation 
 from afar. 
 
 Beatrice coloured sliglitly, a fact that escaped neither 
 her sister nor Geoffrey. 
 
 " I am going to see Jane Llewellyn," she answered. 
 Jane Llewellyn was the crazy little girl whose tale has 
 been told. Up to that moment Beatrice had no idea of 
 going to see her, but she knew that Elizabeth would 
 not follow her there, because the child could not endure 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 " Oh, I thought that perhaps you were going out 
 walking." 
 
 " I may walk afterwards," answered Beatrice shortly. 
 
 " So there is an assignation," thought Elizabeth, and a 
 cold gleam of intelligence passed across her face. 
 
 Shortly after dinner, Beatrice put on her bonnet and 
 went out. Ten minutes passed, and Elizabeth did the 
 same. Then Mr. Granger announced that he was going 
 up to the farm (there was no service till six) to see about 
 the sick cow, and asked Geoffrey if he would like to 
 accompany him. He said that he might as well, if Efifie 
 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, returnj^, 
 once more looked down the street. This time she wii's 
 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, 
 licatrice turned and look the road that led to the beach,
 
 THE WRITING ON THE SAND. loi 
 
 Then Elizabeth's irresolution disappeared. She also 
 turned and took the road to the cliff, walking very fast. 
 Passing behind the Vicarage, she gained a point where 
 the beach narrowed to a width of not more than fifty 
 yards, and sat down. Presently she saw a man coming 
 along the sand beneath her, walking quickly. It was 
 Owen Davies. She waited and watched. Seven or eight 
 minutes passed, and a woman in a white dress passed. 
 It was Beatrice, walking slowly. 
 
 "Ah!" said Elizabeth, setting her teeth, "as I 
 thought." Rising, she pursued her path along the cliff, 
 keeping three or four hundred yards ahead, which she 
 could easily do by taking short cuts. It was a long walk, 
 and Elizabeth, who was not fond of walking, got very 
 tired of it. But she was a woman with a purpose, and 
 as such, hard to beat. So she kept on steadily for nearly 
 an hour, till, at length, she came to the spot known as 
 the Amphitheatre. This Amphitheatre, situated almost 
 opposite the Red Rocks, was a half-ring of cliff, the 
 sides of which ran in a semicircle almost down to the 
 water's edge, that is, at high tide. In the centre of the 
 segment thus formed was a large flat stone, so placed 
 that anybody in certain positions on the cliff above could 
 command a view of it, though it was screened by the 
 projecting walls of rock from observation from the beach. 
 Elizabeth clambered a little way down the sloping side 
 of the cliff and looked ; on the stone, his back towards 
 her, sat Owen Davies. Slipping from stratum to stratum 
 of the broken cliff, Elizabeth drew slowly nearer, till at 
 length she was within fifty paces of the seated man. 
 Here, 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, and 
 walked slowly across the level sand. Owen Davies rose 
 and stretched out his hand to welcome her, but she did
 
 102 BEATRICE. 
 
 not take it, she only bowed, and then seated herself 
 upon the large flat stone. Owen also seated himself 
 on it, but some three or four feet away. Elizabeth thrust 
 her white face forward till it was almost level with the 
 lips of the cleft rock and strained her ears to listen. 
 Alas ! she could not hear a single word. 
 
 " You asked me to come here, Mr. Davies," said 
 Beatrice, breaking the painful silence. " I have come." 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; "I asked you to come because 
 I wanted to speak to you." 
 
 " Yes ? " said Beatrice, looking up from her occupation 
 of digging little holes in the sand with the point of her 
 parasol. Her face was calm enough, but her heart beat 
 fast beneath her breast. 
 
 " I want to ask you," he said, speaking slowly and 
 thickly, " if you will be my wife ? " 
 
 Beatrice opened her lips to speak, then, seeing that he 
 had only paused because his inward emotion checked his 
 words, shut them again, and went on digging little holes. 
 She wished to reply on the whole case, as a lawyer would 
 say. 
 
 " I want to ask you," he repeated, " to be my wife. I 
 have wished to do so for some years, but I have never 
 been able to bring myself to it. It is a great step to 
 take, and my happiness depends on it. Do not answer 
 me yet," he went on, his words gathering force as he 
 spoke. " Listen to what I have to tell you. I have been 
 a lonely man all my life. At sea I was lonely, and since 
 I have come into this fortune I have been lonelier still. 
 I never loved anybody or anything till I began to love you. 
 And then I loved you more and more and more ; till now 
 I have only one thought in all my life, and that thought 
 is of you. While I am awake I think of you, and when 
 I am asleep I dream of you. Listen, Beatrice, listen ! — 
 I have never loved any other woman, I have scarcely 
 spoken to one — only you, Beatrice. I can give you a 
 great deal ; and everything I have shall be yours, only 
 I should be jealous of you — yes, very jealous ! " 
 
 Here she glanced at his face. It was outwardly calm
 
 THE WRITING ON THE SAND. 103 
 
 but white as death, and in the blue eyes, generally so 
 placid, shone a fire that by contrast looked almost unholy. 
 
 *' 1 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, as he 
 pleaded with her, Beatrice wondered why, and as she did 
 so her eye fell upon the pattern she was automatically 
 pricking in the sand. It had taken the form of letters, 
 and the letters were G E O F F R E— Great heaven ! 
 Could that be the answer ? She flushed crimson with 
 shame at the thought, and passed her foot across the tell- 
 tale letters, as she believed, obliterating them. 
 
 Owen saw the softening of her eyes and saw the blush, 
 and misinterpreted them. Thinking that she was 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."
 
 I04 BEATRICE. 
 
 Owen withdrew his hand abashed, and for a moment 
 sat still, his chin resting on his breast, a very picture of 
 despair. Nothing indeed could break the stolid calm of 
 his features, but the violence of his emotion was evident 
 in the quick shivering of his limbs and his short deep 
 breaths. 
 
 " Can you give me no hope?" he said at last in a slow 
 heavy voice. " For God's sake think before you answer — ■ 
 you don't know what it means to me. It is nothing to 
 you — you cannot feel. I feel, and your words cut like a 
 knife. I know that I am heavy and stupid, but I feel 
 as though you had killed me. You are heartless, quite 
 heartless." 
 
 Again Beatrice softened a little. She was touched and 
 flattered. Where is the woman who would not have been ? 
 
 "What can I say to you, Mr. Davies?" she answered in 
 a kinder voice. "I cannot marry you. How can I marry 
 you when I do not love you?" 
 
 " Plenty of women marry men whom they do not love." 
 
 " Then they are bad women," answered Beatrice with 
 energy. 
 
 "The world does not think so," he said again; "the 
 world calls those women bad who love where they cannot 
 marry, and the world is always right. Marriage 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 your money and your position, and to be called a 
 married woman, and what do you suppose I should think 
 of myself in my heart then ? No, no, I may be bad, but 
 I have not fallen so low as thai. 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 i)articular. Forget me, and leave me 
 to go my own way — it is not your way." 
 
 *' Leave you to go your own way," he answered almost
 
 THE WRITING ON THE SAND. 105 
 
 with passion — " that is, leave you to some other man. 
 Oh ! I cannot bear to think of it. I am jealous of every 
 man who comes near you. Do you know how beautiful 
 you are ? You are too beautiful — every man must love 
 you as I do. Oh, if you took anybody else I think that 
 I should kill him.'"' 
 
 " Do not speak like that, Mr. Davies, or I shall go." 
 
 He stopped at once. " Don't go," he said imploringly. 
 "Listen. You said that you would not marry me be- 
 cause you did not love me. Supposing that you learned 
 to love me, say in a year's time, Beatrice, would you 
 marry me then?" 
 
 " I would marry any man whom I loved," she 
 answered. 
 
 " Then if you learn to love me you will marry me ? " 
 
 " Oh, this is ridiculous," she said. " It is not prob- 
 able, it is hardly possible, that such a thing should 
 happen. If it had been going to happen it would have 
 happened before." 
 
 " It might come about," he answered ; " your heart 
 might soften towards me. Oh, say yes to this. It is a 
 small request, it costs you nothing, and it gives me hope, 
 without which I cannot live. Say that I may ask you once 
 more, and that then if you love me you will marry me." 
 
 Beatrice thought for a moment. Such a promise 
 could do her no harm, and in the course of six months 
 or a year he might get used to the idea of living without 
 her. Also it would prevent a scene. It was weak of her, 
 but she dreaded the idea of her having refused Owen 
 Davies coming to her father's ears. 
 
 " If you wish it, Mr. Davies," she said, " so be it. 
 Only I ask you to understand this, I am in no way tied 
 to you. I give you no hope that my answer, should you 
 renew this offer a year hence or at any other time, will 
 differ from that I give you to-day. I do not think 
 there is the slightest probability of such a thing. Also, 
 it must be understood that you are not to speak to my 
 father about this matter, or to trouble me in any way. 
 Do you consent ? "
 
 io6 BE A TRICE. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I consent. You have me at 
 your mercy." 
 
 " Very well. And now, Mr. Davies, good-bye. No, 
 do not walk back with me. I had rather go by myself. 
 But I want to say this : I am very sorry for what has 
 happened. I have not wished it to happen. I have 
 never encouraged it, and my hands are clean of it. But 
 I am sorry, sorry beyond measure, and I repeat what I 
 said before — seek out some other woman and marry 
 her." 
 
 *' That is the cruellest thing of all the cruel things 
 which you have said," he answered. 
 
 " I did not mean it to be cruel, Mr. Davies, but I 
 suppose that the truth often is. And now good-bye," 
 and Beatrice stretched out her hand. 
 
 He touched it, and she turned and went. But Owen 
 did not go. He sat upon the rock, his head bowed in 
 misery. He had staked all his hopes upon this woman. 
 She was the one desirable thing to him, the one star in 
 his somewhat leaden sky, and now that star was eclipsed. 
 Her words were unequivocal, they gave but little hope. 
 Beatrice was scarcely a woman to turn round in six 
 months or a year. On the contrary, there was a fixity 
 about her which frightened him. What could be the 
 cause of it ? How came it that she should be so ready 
 to reject him, and all he had to offer her? After all, she 
 was a girl in a small position. She could not be looking 
 forward to a better match. Nor would the prospect 
 move her one way or another. There must be a reason 
 for it. Perhaps he had a rival, surely that must be the 
 cause. Some enemy had done this thing. But who ? 
 
 At this moment a woman's shadow fell athwart him. 
 
 " Oh, have you come back ? " he cried, springing to 
 his feet. 
 
 " If you mean Beatrice," answered a voice — it was 
 Elizabeth's — " she went down the beach ten minutes 
 ago. I happened to be on the cliff, and I saw her." 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Granger," he said 
 faintly. " I did not see who it was."
 
 THE WRITING ON THE SAND. 107 
 
 Elizabeth sat down ui^on the rock where her sister had 
 sat, and, seeing the Httle 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 legible. 
 
 " You have had a talk with Beatrice, Mr. Davies ? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered apathetically. 
 
 Elizabeth paused. Then she took her bull by the 
 horns. 
 
 "Are you going to marry Beatrice, Mr. Davies?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " I don't know," he answered slowly and without 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." 
 
 Elizabeth breathed more freely. 
 
 " But I can ask her again." 
 
 Elizabeth frowned. What could this mean? It was 
 not an absolute refusal. Beatrice was playing some 
 game of her own. 
 
 " Why did she put you off so, Mr. Davies ? Do not' 
 think me inquisitive. I only ask because I may be able 
 to help you." 
 
 " I know ; you are very kind. Help me and I shall 
 always be grateful to you. I do not know — I almost think 
 that there must be somebody else, only I don't know 
 who it can be." 
 
 "Ah!" said Elizabeth, who had been gazing intently 
 at the little holes in the beach which she had now cleared 
 of the sand. " Of course that is possible. She is a 
 curious girl, Beatrice is. What are those letters, Mr.- 
 Davies ? " 
 
 He looked at them idly. " Something your sister was 
 writing while I talked to her. I remember seeing her 
 do it."
 
 io8 BEATRICE. 
 
 " G E O F F R E — why, it must be meant for Geoffrey. 
 Yes, of course it is possible that there is somebody else, 
 Mr. Davies. Geoffrey ! — how curious ! " 
 
 " Why is it curious, Miss Granger ? Who is 
 Geoffrey ? " 
 
 Elizabeth laughed a disagreeable little laugh that 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 flutation 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 become your wife ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I suppose not," he said doubtfully. 
 
 "You suppose not. I know you better than you 
 know yourself. You would rather never marry at all 
 than take such a woman as she would be proved to be. 
 But it is no good talking such stuff. If you have a rival 
 you may be sure it is some unmarried man." 
 
 Owen reflected in his heart that on the whole he would 
 rather it was a married one, since a married man, at any 
 rate, could not legally take possession of Beatrice. But 
 Elizabeth's rigid morality alarmed him, and he did not 
 say so. 
 
 "Do you know I feel a little upset, Miss Elizabeth," 
 he answered. " I think I will be going. By the way, 
 I promised to say nothing of this to your father. I 
 hope that you will not do so, either." 
 
 " Most certainly not," said Elizabeth, and indeed it 
 would be the last thing she would wish to do. " Well, 
 good-bye, Mr. Davies. Do not be downhearted ; it will 
 all come right in the end. You will always have me to 
 help you, remember." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," he said earnestly, and went. 
 
 Elizabeth watched him round the wall of rock with a 
 .cold and ugly smile set upon her face. 
 
 " You fool," she thought, "you fool \ To tell me that 
 you ' love her dearly and want to marry her ; ' you want to 
 get that sweet face of hers, do you ? You never shall ; I'd 
 spoil it first ! Dear Beatrice, she is not capable of carry- 
 ing on a love affair with a married man — oh, certainly 
 not ! Why, she's in love with him already, and he is more 
 than half in love with her. If she hadn't been, would 
 she have put Owen off? Not she. Give them time, and 
 we shall see. They will ruin each other — they 7nitst ruin 
 each other ; it won't be child's play when two people like 
 that fall in love. They will net 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 I^ffie, just as though she was its mother— it makes
 
 no BEATRICE. 
 
 me laugh. Ah, Beatrice, with all your wits you are a 
 silly woman ! And one day, my dear girl, I shall have 
 the pleasure of exposing you to Owen ; the idol will be 
 unveiled, and there will be an end of your chances with 
 him, for he can't marry you after that. Then my turn will 
 come. It is a question of time — only a question of time !" 
 
 So brooded Elizabeth in her heart, maddened with 
 malicious envy and passionate jealousy. She loved this 
 man, Owen Davies, as much as she could love anybody : 
 at the least, she dearly loved the wealth and station of 
 which he was the visible centre, and she hated the sister 
 whom he desired. If she could only discredit that sister 
 and show her to be guilty of woman's worst crime, 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 who has such an end to gain. It is 
 of the women who already weary them and of their 
 infidelity that men are so ready to make examples, not 
 of those who do not belong to them, and whom they long 
 for night and day. To these they can be very merciful. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 GEOFFREY LECTURES. 
 
 Meanwhile Beatrice was walking homewards with an 
 uneasy mind. The trouble was upon her. She had, it 
 is true, succeeded in postponing it a little, but she 
 knew very well that it was only a postponement. Owen 
 Davies was not a man to be easily shaken off. She 
 almost wished now that she had crushed the idea once 
 and for all. But then he would have gone to her father, 
 and there must have been a scene, and she was weak 
 enough to shrink from that, especially while Mr. Bingham 
 was in the house. She could well imagine the dismay, 
 not to say the fury, of her money-loving old father if 
 he were to hear that she had refused — actually refused — 
 Owen Davies of Bryngelly Castle, and all his wealth,
 
 GEOFFRE Y LECTURES. 1 1 r 
 
 Then there was EHzabeth 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 rest she gave to her father. 
 Now, as she well knew, he could not keep his head 
 above water without this assistance, which, small as it 
 was, made all the difference to their household between 
 poverty and actual want. If she went away, supposing 
 even that she found an equally well-paid post, she would 
 require every farthing of the money to support herself, 
 there would be nothing left to send home. It was a 
 pitiable position ; here was she, who had just refused a 
 man worth thousands a year, quite unable to get out of 
 the way of his importunity for the want of seventy-five 
 pounds, paid quarterly. Well, the only thing to do was to 
 face it out and take her chance. On one point she was, 
 however, quite clear ; she would not marry Owen Davies, 
 She might be a fool for her pains, but she would not do 
 it. She respected herself too much to marry a man she 
 did not love ; a man whom she positively disliked. " No, 
 never ! " she exclaimed aloud, stamping her foot upon 
 the shingle. 
 
 " Never what ? " said a voice, within two yards of 
 her. 
 
 She started violently, and looked round. There, his 
 back resting against a rock, a pipe in his mouth, an open 
 letter on his knee, and his hat drawn down almost over 
 his eyes, sat Geoffrey. He had left Efifie to go home 
 with Mr. Granger, and climbing down a sloping place in 
 the cliff, had strolled along the beach. The letter on his 
 knee was one from his wife. It was short, and there was
 
 112 BEATRICE. 
 
 nothing particular in it. Effie'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 along, 
 then suddenly stop, stamp her foot, and say, ' No, 
 never ! ' Luckily I knew that you were about or I 
 should really have been frightened." 
 
 " How did you know that I was about ? " Beatrice asked 
 a little defiantly. It was no business of his to observe 
 her movements. 
 
 " In two ways. Look ! " he said, pointing to a patch 
 of white sand. "That, I think, is your footprint." 
 
 " Well, what of it ? " said Beatrice, with a little laugh. 
 
 "Nothing in particular, except that it is your 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 been very sociable, because here is yours right in 
 the middle of it. Therefore you must have been walking 
 in Indian file, and a little way back in parallel lines, with 
 quite thirty yards between you." 
 
 " Why do you take the trouble to observe things
 
 GEO F PRE Y LECTURES. 1 1 3 
 
 so closely ? " she asked in a half amused and half angry 
 tone. 
 
 *' I don't know — a habit of the legal mind, I suppose. 
 One might make quite a romance out of those footprints 
 on the sand, and the little subsequent events. But you 
 have not heard all my thrilling tale. Old Edward also 
 informed me that he saw your sister, Miss Elizabeth, 
 going along the cliff almost level with you, from which 
 he concluded that you had argued as to the shortest way 
 to the Red Rocks and were putting the matter to the 
 proof." 
 
 "Elizabeth," said Beatrice, turning a shade paler; 
 " what can she have been doing, I wonder ? " 
 
 " Taking exercise, probably, like yourself. Well, I seat 
 myself with my pipe in the shadow of that rock, when 
 suddenly I see Mr. Davies coming along towards 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 plot, and as you said just now the beach 
 is free," Beatrice answered petulantly. 
 
 They walked on for a few yards and then he spoke in 
 another tone — the meaning of the assignation he had 
 overheard in the churchyard grew clear to him now. 
 
 " I believe that I have to congratulate you. Miss 
 Granger," he said, "and I do so very heartily. It is not 
 everybody who is so fortunate as to " 
 
 Beatrice stopped, and half turning faced him. 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Bingham ? " she said. " I 
 do not understand your dark sayings." 
 
 " Mean ! oh, nothing particular, except that I wished 
 to congratulate you on your engagement." 
 
 " My engagement ! what engagement ? " 
 
 " It seems that there is some mistake," he said, and 
 struggle as he might to suppress it his tone was one of 
 relief. " I understood that you had become engaged to 
 
 8
 
 114 BEATRICE. 
 
 be married to Mr. Owen Davies. If I am wrong I am 
 sure I apologise." 
 
 " You are quite wrong, Mr. Bingham ; I don't know 
 who put such a notion into your head, but there is no 
 truth in it." 
 
 " Then allow me to congratulate you on there being 
 no truth in it. You see that is the beauty of nine affairs 
 matrimonial out of ten — there are two or more sides 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 himself he was 
 bitterly and profoundly jealous, and jealous people have 
 no manners. Beatrice could not, however, be expected 
 to know this, and naturally grew angry. 
 
 " I do not quite understand what you are talking about, 
 Mr. Bingham," she said, putting on her most dignified 
 air, and Beatrice could look rather alarming. "You 
 have picked up a piece of unfounded gossip and now you 
 take advantage of it to laugh at me, and to say rude 
 things of Mr. Davies. It is not kind." 
 
 " Oh, no ] it was the footsteps. Miss Granger, and the 
 gossip, and the appointment you made in the 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 Y LECTURES. 1 1 5 
 
 " There," he went on, stung into unkindness by his 
 biting but unacknowledged jealousy, for she was right — 
 on reflection he did not quite believe what she said as to 
 her not being engaged. " How unfortunate I am — I 
 have said something to make you angry again. Why did 
 you not walk with Mr. Davies ? I should then have re- 
 mained guiltless of offence, and you would have had a 
 more agreeable companion. You want to quarrel with me ; 
 what shall we quarrel about ? There are many things on 
 which we are diametrically opposed; let us start one." 
 
 It was too much, for though his words were nothing 
 the tone in which he spoke gave them a sting. Bea- 
 trice, already disturbed in mind by the scene through 
 which she had passed, her breast already throbbing with 
 a vague trouble of which she did not know the meaning, 
 for once in her life lost control of herself and grew 
 hysterical. Her grey eyes filled with tears, the corners 
 of her sweet mouth dropped, and she looked very much 
 as though she were going to burst out weeping. 
 
 "It is most unkind of you," she said, with a half sob. 
 "If you knew how much I have to put up with, you 
 would not speak to me like that. I know that you do not 
 believe me; very well, I will tell you the truth. Yes, 
 though I have no business to do it, and you have no 
 right — none at all — to make me do it, I will tell you the 
 truth, because I cannot bear that you should not believe 
 me. Mr. Davies did want me to marry him and I 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 vmtten 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 would rather walk 
 ten miles in their dress shoes than have to deal with a 
 young lady in hysterics, however modified. Putting the 
 
 8—2
 
 Ii6 BEATRICE. 
 
 peculiar circumstances of the case aside, Geoffrey was 
 no exception to this rule. It was all very well to cross 
 spears with Beatrice, who had quite an equal wit, and 
 was very capable of retaliation, but to see her surrender 
 at discretion was altogether another thing. Indeed he 
 felt much ashamed of himself. 
 
 "Please don't — don't — be put out," he said. He did 
 not like to use the word "cry." "I was only laughing at 
 you, but I ought not to have spoken as I did. I did not 
 wish to force your confidence, indeed I did not, I never 
 thought of such a thing. I am so sorry." 
 
 His remorse was evidently genuine, and Beatrice felt 
 somewhat appeased. Perhaps it did not altogether grieve 
 her to learn that she could make him feel sorry. 
 
 " You did not force my confidence," she said defiantly, 
 quite forgetting that a moment before she had reproached 
 him for making her speak. " I told you because I did 
 not choose that you should think I was not speaking the 
 truth — and now let us change the subject." She 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 myself 
 without any special qualifications? Some of them get on." 
 
 " Well," he answered, " that depends upon the girl. 
 What sort of a living do you mean ? You are earning a 
 living now, of a kind." 
 
 " Yes, but sometimes, if only I could manage it, I 
 think that I should like to get away from here, and take 
 another line, something bigger. I do not suppose that 
 I ever shall, but I like to think of it sometimes." 
 
 " I only know of two things which a woman can turn to," 
 he said, " the stage and literature. Of course," he added 
 hastily, " the first is out of the question in your case." 
 
 "And so is the other, I am afraid," she answered 
 shaking her head, "that is if by literature you mean
 
 GEOFFRE V LECTURES. 1 1 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 of 
 having lost your faith, because I don't believe it. At 
 the worst it has gone to sleep, and will wake up again one 
 day. Possibly you may not accept some particular form 
 of faith, but I tell you frankly that to reject all religion 
 simply because you cannot understand it, is nothing but 
 a form of atrocious spiritual vanity. Your mind is too 
 big for you. Miss Granger : it has run away with you, 
 but you know it is tied by a string — it cannot go far. 
 And now perhaps you will be angry again." 
 
 " No, indeed, why should I be angry ? I daresay that 
 you are quite right, and I only hope that I may be able 
 to believe again. I will tell you how I lost belief. I had a 
 little brother whom I loved more than anything else in 
 the world, indeed after my mother died he was the only 
 thing I really had to love, for 1 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 along time he 
 lay between life and death, and I prayed for him as I 
 never prayed for anybody or anything before — yes, I 
 prayed that I might die instead of him. Then he passed 
 through the crisis and got better, and I thanked God, 
 thinking that my prayers had been answered ; oh, how 
 happy I was for those ten days ! And then this hap- 
 pened : — My brother got a chill, a relapse followed, and
 
 ii8 BEATRICE. 
 
 in three days he was dead. The last words that Tie spoke 
 to me were, ' Oh, don't let me die. Bee ! ' — he used 
 to call me Bee — 'Please don't let me die, dear Bee!' 
 But he died, died in my arms, and when it was over I 
 rose from his side feeling as though my heart was dead 
 also. I prayed no more after that. It seemed to me as 
 though my prayers had been mocked at, as though he had 
 been given back to me for a little while in order that the 
 blow might be more crushing when it fell." 
 
 " Don't you think that you were a little foolish in 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 some I found the same story, only with a
 
 GEOFFRE Y LECTURES. 119 
 
 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, Uke 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 no 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."
 
 I20 BEATRICE. 
 
 " 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 ah 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
 
 GEOFFRE V LECTURES. 1 2 1 
 
 facts. You say that you trace the same superstitions in 
 allrehgions, and that the same spiritual myths are in some 
 shape present in ahiiost all. Well, does not this suggest 
 that the same great ^ru//i underlies them all, taking from 
 time to time the shape which is best suited to the spiritual 
 development of those professing each. Every great new 
 religion is better than the last. You cannot compare 
 Osirianism with Buddhism, or Buddhism with 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 Effie to bed." 
 
 And here it may be stated that Geoffrey's advice was 
 not altogether thrown away. Beatrice did try looking at 
 the question again, and if Faith did not altogether come 
 back to her at least Hope did, and *' the greatest of these, 
 which is Charity," had never deserted her. Hope came 
 slowly back, not by argument probably, but rather by
 
 122 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 beUeved, and she — beheved 
 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 Efifie 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 subject,
 
 DRIFTING. 123 
 
 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-
 
 12^ 
 
 BE A TRICE. 
 
 ened to the soft surging of the sea and the harmonious 
 whisper of the night air in the pines. In the corner Mr. 
 Granger slept in his armchair, or perhaps he had gone to 
 bed altogether, for he liked to go to bed at half-past 
 eight, as the old Herefordshire farmer, his father, had 
 done before him ; and at the far end of the room sat 
 Elizabeth, doing her accounts by the light of a solitary 
 candle, or, if they failed her, reading some book of a 
 devotional and 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. 
 
 G2offrey thought no ill of all this, as of course he 
 ought to have thought. He was not the ravening lion of 
 fiction — so rarely, if ever, to be met with in real life — 
 going about seeking whom he might devour. He had 
 absolutely no designs on Beatrice's affections, any more 
 than she had on his, and he had 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 helplessness of full-grown 
 women, his experience having been that they are amply 
 capable — and, for the most part, more than capable — of 
 looking after themselves. It seemed to him a thing 
 ridiculous that such a person as Beatrice, who was com- 
 petent to form opinions and a judgment upon all the 
 important questions of life, should be treated as a child, 
 and that he should remove himself from Bryngelly lest
 
 DRIFTING. 125 
 
 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
 
 126 BEATRICE. 
 
 Efifie's clothes, Beatrice came face to face with Mr. Davies. 
 It was their first nieeting without witnesses since the 
 Sunday of which the events have been described, and, 
 naturally, therefore, rather an awkward one. Owen 
 stopped short so that she could not pass him with a bow, 
 and then turned and walked beside her. After a remark or 
 two about the weather, the springs of conversation ran dry. 
 
 "You remember that you are coming up to the Castle 
 this afternoon ? " he said, at length. 
 
 " To the Castle ! " she answered. " No, I have heard 
 nothing of it." 
 
 " Did not your sister tell you she made an engagement 
 for herself and you a week or more ago ? You are to 
 bring the little girl ; she wants to see the view from the 
 top of the tower." 
 
 Then Beatrice remembered. Elizabeth had told her, 
 and she had thought it best to accept the situation. The 
 whole thing had gone out of her mind. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon ! I do remember now, but 
 I have made another plan — how stupid of me ! " 
 
 "You had forgotten," he said in his heavy voice; "it 
 is easy for you to forget what I have been looking forward 
 to for a whole week. What is your plan — to go out 
 walking with Mr. Bingham, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes," answered Beatrice, "to go out with Mr. 
 Bingham." 
 
 " Ah ! you go out with Mr. Bingham every day now." 
 
 " And what if I do ? " said Beatrice quickly ; " surely, 
 Mr. Davies, I have a right to go out with whom I like ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course ; but the engagement to come to the 
 Castle was made first ; are you not going to keep it ? " 
 
 " Of course I am going to keep it ; I always keep my 
 engagements when I have any." 
 
 " Very well, then ; I shall expect you at three o'clock." 
 
 Beatrice went on home in a curiously irritated 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
 
 DRIFTING. 127 
 
 was not there. He had, it seemed, gone to lunch with 
 Dr. Chambers, whom he had met on the beach. Before 
 he returned they were all three starting for the Castle, 
 Beatrice leaving a message to this effect with Betty. 
 
 About a quarter of an hour afterwards, Geoffrey came 
 back to fetch his gun and Beatrice, but Beatrice was 
 gone, and all that he could extract from Betty was that 
 she had gone to see Mr. Davies. 
 
 He was perfectly furious, though all the while he knew 
 how unreasonable was his anger. He had been looking 
 forward to the expedition, and this sudden change of 
 plan was too much for his temper. Off he started, how- 
 ever, to pass a thoroughly miserable afternoon. He 
 seemed to miss Beatrice more at every step and gradually 
 to grow more and more angry at what he called her 
 " rudeness." Of course it never occurred to him that 
 what he was really angry at was her going to see Mr. 
 Davies, or that, in truth, her society had become so 
 delightful to him that to be deprived of it even for an 
 afternoon was to be wretched. To top everything, he 
 only got three good shots that afternoon, and he missed 
 them all, which made him crosser than ever. 
 
 As for Beatrice, she enjoyed herself just as little at the 
 Castle as Geoffrey did on the beach. Owen Davies took 
 them through the great unused rooms and showed them 
 the pictures, but she had seen them before, and though 
 some of them were very fine, did not care to look at 
 them again — at any rate, not that afternoon. But 
 Elizabeth gazed at them with eager eyes and mentally ap- 
 praised their value, wondering if they would ever be hers. 
 
 " What is this picture ? " she asked, pointing to a 
 beautiful portrait of a Dutch Burgomaster. by Rembrandt. 
 
 "That," answered Owen heavily, for he knew nothing 
 of painting and cared less, " that is a Velasquez, valued 
 for probate at ^3,000 — no," referring to the catalogue 
 and reading, " I beg your pardon, the next is the 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."
 
 128 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Four thousand guineas I " said Elizabeth, " fancy 
 having a thing worth four thousand guineas hanging on a 
 wall ! " 
 
 And so they went on, Elizabeth asking questions and 
 Owen answering them by the help of the catalogue, till, 
 to Beatrice's relief, they came at length to the end of the 
 pictures. Then they took some tea in the little sitting- 
 room of the master of all this magnificence. Owen, to 
 her great annoyance, sat opposite to Beatrice, staring at 
 her with all his eyes while she drank her tea, with Effie 
 sitting in her lap, and Elizabeth, observing it, bit her lip 
 in jealousy. She had thought it well to bring her sister 
 here ; it would not do to let Mr. Davies think she was 
 keeping Beatrice out of his way, but his mute idol worship 
 was trying to her feelings. After tea they went to the 
 top of the tower, and Effie rejoiced exceedingly in the 
 view, which was very beautiful. Here Owen got a word 
 with Elizabeth. 
 
 "Your sister seems to be put out about something," 
 he said. 
 
 " I daresay," she answered carelessly ; '' Beatrice has 
 an uncertain temper. I think she wanted to go out 
 shooting with Mr. Bingham this afternoon." 
 
 Had Owen been a less religious person he might have 
 sworn ; as it was, he only said, " Mr. Bingham — it is 
 always Mr. Bingham from morning to night ! When is 
 he going away ? " 
 
 " In another week, I believe. Beatrice will be sorry, 
 I think ; she makes a great companion of him. And 
 now I think that we must be getting home," and she went, 
 leaving this poisoned shaft to rankle in his breast. 
 
 After they had returned to the vicarage and Beatrice 
 had heard Effie her prayers and tucked her up in her 
 small white bed, she went down to the gate to be quiet for 
 a little while before supper. Geoffrey had not yet come in. 
 
 It was a lovely autumn evening ; the sea seemed to 
 sleep, and the little clouds, from which the sunset fires 
 had paled, lay like wreaths of smoke upon the infinite 
 blue sky. Wliy had not Mr. Bingham come back, she
 
 DRIFTING. 129 
 
 wondered ; he would scarcely have time to dress. Sup- 
 posing that an accident had happened to him. Nonsense ! 
 what accident could happen ? He was so big and strong 
 he seemed to defy accidents ; and yet had it not been 
 for her there would be little enough left of his strength 
 to-day. Ah ! she was glad that she had lived to be able 
 to save him from death. There he came, looming like 
 a giant in the evening mist. 
 
 There was a small hand-gate beside the large one on 
 which she leant. Geoffrey stalked straight up to it as 
 though he did not see her ; he saw her well enough, but 
 he was cross with her. 
 
 She allowed him to pass through the gate, which he 
 shut slowly, perhaps to give her an opportunity of 
 speaking, if she wished to do so ; then thinking that 
 he did not see her she spoke in her soft, musical 
 voice. 
 
 " Did you have good sport, Mr. Bingham ? " 
 
 " No," he answered shortly ; " I saw very little, and 
 I missed all I saw." 
 
 " I am so sorry, except for the birds. I hate the birds 
 to be killed. Did you not see me in this white dress ? 
 I saw you fifty yards away." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Granger," he answered, " I saw you." 
 
 "And you were going by without speaking to me; it 
 was very rude of you- — what is the matter ? " 
 
 " Not so rude as it was of you to arrange to walk out 
 with me and then to go and see Mr. Davies instead." 
 
 '* I could not help it, Mr. Bingham ; it was an old 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." 
 
 9
 
 I30 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 Michaelmas Sittings began on the 24th. On the 
 morrow, Tuesday, Geoffrey was to return to London, 
 there to meet Lady Honoria and get to work at 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 a note from 
 his clerk to the effect that the case was expected to be 
 in the special jury list on the first day of the sittings, and 
 that the clerk had made an appointment for him with the 
 solicitors for 5.15 on the Tuesday. The brief was sent 
 to him by his uncle's firm, and marked, "With you the 
 Attorney-General, and Mr. Candleton, Q.C.," the well- 
 known leader of the Probate and Divorce Court Bar. 
 Never before had Geoffrey found himself in such honour-
 
 ONL V GOOD-NIGH T. 131 
 
 able company, that is on the back of a brief, and not a 
 liltle 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, however, he and this niece had 
 violently quarrelled on account of an intimacy which 
 the latter had formed with a married man of bad repute, 
 who was a discharged lawyer's clerk. So serious had 
 been the quarrel that only three days before his death 
 the testator had sent for a lawyer and formally, by 
 means of a codicil, deprived the niece of a sum of 
 ;!^2,ooo which he had left her, all the rest of his property 
 being divided between his son and daughter. Three 
 days afterwards, however, he duly executed a fresh will, 
 in the presence of two servants, by which he left all his 
 property to the niece, to the entire exclusion of his own 
 children. This will, though very short, was in proper 
 form and was written by nobody knew whom. The 
 servants stated that the testator before signing it was 
 perfectly acquainted with its contents, for the niece had 
 made him repeat them in their presence. They also 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 remarkable circumstance in the case was 
 that the disreputable lover of the niece had been seen 
 hanging about the house at dusk, the testator having died 
 at ten o'clock at night. There was also a further fact.
 
 132 BEATRICE. 
 
 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, there was not the 
 slightest evidence of either. This curious case, of which 
 the outlines are here written, is briefly set out, because it 
 proved to be the foundation of Geoffrey's enormous 
 practice and reputation at the Bar. 
 
 He read the brief through twice, thought it over well, 
 and could make little of it. It was perfectly obvious 
 to him that there had been foul play somewhere, but he 
 found himself quite unable to form a workable 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 course the ex- 
 lawyer's clerk had something to do with it, but what ? 
 In vain did Geoffrey cudgel his brains ; every idea that 
 occurred to him broke down somewhere or other. 
 
 "We shall lose this," he said aloud in despair; "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-
 
 OXL Y COOD-NIGIIT. 
 
 'jj 
 
 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, and then to death 
 after he had signed it. The lawyer's clerk prepared the 
 will — he would know how to do it. 'Jlien 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 all about it." 
 
 " By Jove," said Geoffrey, " what a criminal lawyer you 
 would make ! I believe that you have got it. But how 
 arc we to find this boy with the missing toe-joint ? Every
 
 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 new-comer in 
 the neighbourhood. It is quite possible that he took off 
 his boots in order to creep up to the window. And now 
 I will tell you how I should set to work to find him. I 
 should have every bathing-place in the river running 
 through the town — there is a river — carefully watched by 
 detectives. In this weather" (the autumn was an unusually 
 warm one) " boys of that class often paddle and 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 will telegraph 
 to the lawyers at once. I certainly believe that you have 
 got the clue." 
 
 And as it turned out afterwards Beatrice had got it ; her 
 suppositions were right in almost every particular. The 
 boy, who proved to be the son of a pedlar who had 
 recently come into the town, was found wading, and by 
 a clever trick, which need not be detailed, frightened 
 into telling the truth, as he had previously frightened 
 himself into holding his tongue. He had even, as 
 Beatrice conjectured, taken off his boots to creep up to 
 the window, and as he ran away in his fright, had dropped 
 them into a ditch full of water. There they were found, 
 and went far to convince the jury of the truth of his 
 story. Thus it was that Beatrice's quick wit laid the 
 foundations of Geoffrey's great success. 
 
 This particular Monday was a field day at the Vicarage. 
 Jones had proved obdurate ; no power on earth could 
 induce him to pay the ;^34 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 
 
 upon Jones's hay and cattle. Jones had repHed with 
 insolent defiance. If any bailiff, or auctioneer, or such 
 people came to sell his hay he would kill him, or them. 
 
 So said Jones, and summoned his supporters, many of 
 whom owed tithe, and none of whom wished to pay it, 
 to do battle in his cause. For his part, Mr. Granger 
 retained an auctioneer of undoubted courage who was to 
 arrive on this very afternoon, supported by six policemen, 
 and carry out the sale. Beatrice felt nervous about the 
 whole thing, but Elizabeth was very determined, and the 
 old clergyman was now bombastic and now despondent. 
 The auctioneer arrived duly by the one o'clock train. 
 He was a tall able-bodied man, not unlike Geoffrey in 
 appearance, indeed at twenty yards distance it would 
 have been difficult to tell them apart. The sale was 
 fixed for half-past two, and Mr. Johnson — that was the 
 auctioneer's name — went to the inn to get his dinner 
 before proceeding to business. He was informed of the 
 hostile demonstration which awaited him, and that an 
 English member of Parliament had been sent down 
 especially to head the mob, but being a man of mettle 
 pooh-poohed the whole affair. 
 
 "All bark, sir," he said to Geoffrey, "all bark and no 
 bite ; I'm not afraid of these people. Why, if they won't 
 bid for the stuff, I will buy it in myself." 
 
 " All right," said Geoffrey, " but I advise you to look 
 out. I fancy that the old man is a rough customer." 
 
 Then Geoffrey went back to his dinner. 
 
 As they sat at the meal, through a gap in the fir trees 
 they saw that the great majority of the population of 
 Bryngelly was streaming up towards the scene of the 
 sale, some to agitate, and some to see the fun. 
 
 " It is pretty well time to be off," said Geoffrey. "Are 
 you coming, Mr. Granger ? " 
 
 " Well," answered the old gentleman, " I wished to 
 do so, but Elizabeth thinks that I had better keep away. 
 And after all, you know," he added airily, " perhaps it is 
 as well for a clergyman not to mix himself up too much 
 in these temporal matters. No, I want to go and see
 
 1.36 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 revolutionary 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 Effie. Then her anxiety 
 got the better of her ; she put on her hat and started, 
 leaving Effie in charge of the servant Betty. 
 
 Beatrice walked quickly along the cliff till she came in 
 sight of Jones's farm. From where she stood she could 
 make out a great crowd of men, and even, when the 
 wind turned towards her, catch the noise of shouting. 
 Presently she heard a sound like the report of a gun, saw 
 the crowd break up in violent confusion, and then cluster 
 together again in a dense mass. 
 
 " What could it mean ? " Beatrice wondered. 
 
 As the thought crossed her mind, she perceived two 
 men running towards her with all their speed, followed 
 by a woman. Three minutes more and she saw that the 
 woman was Elizabeth. 
 
 The men were passing her now. 
 
 " What is it ? " she cried. 
 
 *' Murder ! " they answered with one voice, and sped 
 on towards Bryngelly.
 
 ONLY GOOD-NIGHT. \vj 
 
 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.
 
 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 longhair 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 efifigy 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. Wlien 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 ! I feel quite sick."
 
 ONLY GOOD-NIGHT. 139 
 
 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. Gi anger 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. 
 
 " Good-night. I hope that this is not good-bye also," 
 he added with some anxiety. 
 
 " Of course not," broke in Mr. Granger. " Beatrice 
 will go and see you off. I can't ; I have to go and meet 
 the coroner about the inquest, and Elizabeth is always 
 busy in the house. Luckily they won't want you ; there 
 were so many witnesses." 
 
 " Then it is only good-night," said Beatrice. 
 
 She went to her room. Elizabeth, who shared it, was 
 already asleep, or 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
 
 I40 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 wife did not love him— this she
 
 ONLY GOOD-NIGHT. 141 
 
 could see. But she had never tried to win him from her, 
 and though she sinned in thought, though her heart was 
 guilty — oh, her hands were clean ! 
 
 Her restlessness overcame her. She could no longer 
 lie in bed. Elizabeth, watching through her veil of sleep, 
 saw Beatrice rise, put on a wrapper, and, going to the 
 window, throw it wide. At first she thought of 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 unsatisfied; 
 that when love escapes us on the earth, in our despair, 
 we swear it is immortal, and that we shall find it in the 
 heavens. Now Beatrice believed this no more. Love had 
 kissed her on the eyes, and at his kiss her sleeping spirit 
 was awakened, and she saw a vision of the truth. 
 
 Yes, she loved him, and must always love him ! But 
 she could never know on earth that he was hers, and if 
 she had a spirit to be freed after some few years, would 
 not his spirit have forgotten hers in that far hereafter of 
 their meeting ?
 
 142 BEATRICE. 
 
 She dropped her brow upon her arm and softly 
 sobbed. What was there left for her to do except to sob 
 — till her heart broke ? 
 
 Elizabeth, lying with wide-open ears, heard the sobs. 
 Elizabeth, peering through the moonlight, saw her sister's 
 form tremble in the convulsion of her sorrow, and 
 smiled a smile of malice. 
 
 " The thing is done," she thought ; " she cries because 
 the man is going. Don't cry, Beatrice, don't cry ! We 
 will get your plaything back for you. Oh, with such a 
 bait it will be easy. He is as sweet on you as you on him." 
 
 There was something evil, something almost devilish, 
 in this scene of the one watching woman holding a 
 clue to and enjoying the secret tortures of the other, 
 plotting the while to turn them to her innocent rival's 
 destruction and her own advantage. Elizabeth's jealousy 
 was indeed bitter as the grave. 
 
 Suddenly* Beatrice ceased sobbing. She lifted her 
 head, and by a sudden impulse threw out the passion of 
 her heart with all her concentrated strength of mind 
 towards the man she loved, murmuring as she did so 
 some passionate, despairing words which she knew. 
 
 At this moment Geoffrey, sleeping soundly, dreamed 
 that he saw Beatrice seated by her window and looking at 
 him with eyes which no earthly obstacle could blind. She 
 was speaking ; her lips moved, but though he could 
 hear no voice the words she spoke floated into his mind — 
 
 " Be a god and hold me 
 With a charm ! 
 Be a man and fold me 
 With thine arm. 
 
 Teach me, only teach, Love ! 
 
 As I ought 
 I will speak thy speech, Love, 
 
 Think thy thought — 
 
 Meet, if thou require it, 
 
 Both demands, 
 Laying flesh and spirit 
 
 In thy hands.
 
 ONLY GOOD-NIGHT. 143 
 
 That shall be to-morrow 
 
 Not to-night : 
 I must bury sorrow 
 
 Out of sight. 
 
 Must a little weep, Love, 
 
 (Foolish me ! ) 
 And so fall asleep, Love, 
 
 Loved by thee." 
 
 Geoffrey heard them in his heart. Then they were gone, 
 the vision of Beatrice was gone, and suddenly he awoke. 
 
 Oh, what was this flood of inarticulate, passion-laden 
 thought that beat upon his brain telling of Beatrice ? 
 Wave after wave it came, utterly overwhelming him, like 
 the heavy breath of flowers stirred by a night wind — like 
 a message from another world. It was real ; it was no 
 dream, no fancy ; she was present with him though she 
 was not there ; her thought mingled with his thought, 
 her being beat upon his own. His heart throbbed, his 
 limbs trembled, he strove to understand and could not. 
 But in the mystery of that dread communion, the 
 passion he had trodden down and refused 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, 
 Geoffrey sank back and groaned. 
 
 And Beatrice ? Of a sudden she ceased speaking to 
 herself; she felt her thought flung back to her weighted 
 with another's thought. She had broken through the 
 barriers of earth ; the quick electric message of her heart 
 had found a path to him she loved and come back 
 answered. But in what tongue was that answer writ ? 
 Alas ! she could not read it, any more than he could 
 read the message. At first she doubted ; surely it was 
 imagination. Then she remembered it was absolutely 
 proved that people dying could send a vision of themselves 
 to others far away \ and if that could be, why not this ?
 
 144 BEATRICE. 
 
 No, it was truth, a solemn truth ; she knew he felt her 
 thought, she knew that his life beat upon her life. Oh, 
 here was mystery, and here was hope, for if this could 
 be, and it was, what might not be ? If her blind 
 strength of human love could so overstep the boundaries 
 of human power, and, by the sheer might of its volition, 
 mock the physical barriers that hemmed her in, what had 
 she to fear from distance, from separation, ay, from death 
 itself ? She had grasped a clue which might one day, 
 before the seeming end or after — what did it matter ? — 
 lay strange secrets open to her gaze. She had heard a 
 whisper in an unknown tongue that could still be learned, 
 answering Life's agonizing cry with a song of glory. If 
 only he loved her, some day all would be well. Some 
 day the barriers would fall. Crumbling with the flesh, 
 they would fall and set her naked spirit free to seek its 
 other self. And then, having found her love, what 
 more was there to seek ? What other answer did she 
 desire to all the problems of her life than this of Unity 
 attained at last — Unity attained in Death ! 
 
 And if he did not love her, how could he answer her ? 
 Surely that message could not pass except along the 
 golden 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 slowly 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 morning, after a little 
 reflection, he came to the decision that he had ex- 
 perienced a very curious and moving dream, consequent 
 on the exciting events of the previous day, or on the pain of 
 his impending departure. He rose, packed his bag — every- 
 thing else was ready — and went in to breakfast. Beatrice 
 did not appear till it was half over. She looked very 
 pale, and said that she had been packing Effie's things-
 
 ONLY GOOD-NIGHT. 145 
 
 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. Efifie 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 you to be going, Mr. Bingham," said Mr. 
 Granger. " There, good-bye, good-bye ! God bless you ! 
 Never had such charming lodgers before. Hope you 
 will come back again, I'm sure. By the way, they are 
 certain to summon you as a witness at the trial of that 
 villain Jones." 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Granger," Geoffrey answered; "you 
 must come and see me in town. A change will do you 
 good." 
 
 " Well, peihaps I may. I have not had a change for 
 twenty-five years. Never could afford it. Aren't you 
 going to say good-bye to Elizabeth ? " 
 
 " Good-bye, Miss Granger," said Geoffrey politely. 
 " Many thanks for all your kindness. I hope we shall 
 meet again." 
 
 " Do you ? " answered Elizabeth ; " so do I. I am 
 sure that we shall meet again, and I am sure that I shall 
 be glad to see you when we do, Mr. Bingham," she 
 added darkly. 
 
 In another minute he had left the Vicarage and, with 
 Beatrice at his side, was walking smartly towards the 
 station. 
 
 "This is very melancholy," he said, after a few 
 moments' silence. 
 
 "Going away generally is," she answered — "either for 
 those who go or those who stay behind," she added. 
 
 " Or for both," he said. 
 
 Then came another pause ; he broke it 
 
 " Miss Beatrice, may I write to you ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you like." 
 
 " And will you answer my letters ? " 
 
 IQ
 
 146 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Yes, I will answer them." 
 
 "If I had my way, then, you should spend a good 
 deal of your time in writing," he said. " You don't know," 
 he added earnestly, "what a delight it has been to me 
 to learn to know you. I have had no greater pleasure 
 in my life." 
 
 " I am glad," Beatrice answered shortly. 
 
 " By the way," Geoffrey said presently, " there is 
 something I want to ask you. You are as good as a 
 reference book for quotations, you know. Some lines 
 have been haunting me for the last twelve hours, and I 
 cannot remember where they come from." 
 
 " What are they ? " she asked, looking up, and Geoffrey 
 saw, or thought he saw, a strange fear shining in her eyes. 
 
 " Here are four of them," he answered unconcernedly ; 
 •'' we have no time for long quotations : 
 
 " ' That shall be to-morrow, 
 Not to-night : 
 I must bury sorrow 
 Out of sight.' " 
 
 Beatrice heard — heard the very lines which had been 
 upon her lips in the wild midnight that had gone. Her 
 heart seemed to stop ; she became white as the dead, 
 stumbled, and nearly fell. With a supreme effort she 
 recovered herself. 
 
 " I think that you must know the lines, Mr. Bingham," 
 she said in a low voice. " They come from a poem of 
 Browning's, called 'A Woman's Last Word! " , 
 
 Geoffrey made no answer ; what was he to say ? For 
 a while they walked on in silence. They were getting 
 close to the station now. Separation, perhaps for ever, 
 was very near. An overmastering desire to know the 
 truth took hold of him. 
 
 " Miss Beatrice," he said again, " you look pale. Did 
 you sleep well last night ? " 
 
 " No, Mr. Bingham." 
 
 " Did you have curious dreams ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did " she answered, looking straight before her.
 
 THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD. 14.7 
 
 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 Efifie. 
 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 hov; he had 
 first seen Beatrice's face through the thick mist on the 
 Red Rocks, and how her beauty had struck him as no 
 beauty ever had before. Then he thought of the adventure 
 of their shipwreck, and of the desperate courage with which 
 she had saved his life, almost at the cost of her own. He 
 thought, too, of that scene when on the following day he 
 had entered the room where she was asleep, when the 
 wandering ray of light had wavered from her breast to his 
 
 10 — 2
 
 148 BE A TRICE. 
 
 own, when that strange presentiment of the ulth-nate 
 intermingling of their lives had flashed upon him, and 
 when she had awakened with an unearthly greeting on 
 her lips. While Efiie slowly sobbed herself to silence in 
 the corner opposite to him, one by one, he recalled every 
 phase and scene of their ever-growing intimacy, till the 
 review culminated in his mysterious experience of the 
 past night, and the memory of Beatrice's parting words. 
 
 Of all men Geoffrey was among those least inclined to 
 any sort of superstition ; from boyhood he had been 
 noted for common sense, and a somewhat disbelieving 
 turn of mind. But he had intellect, and imagination 
 which is simply intellect etherealised. Without these, 
 with his peculiar mental constitution, he would, for 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 imagination stepped in, 
 telling him plainly that it was not nonsense, that he had 
 not merely made a donkey of himself over an hysterical, 
 or possibly a love-sick girl. They told him that because 
 a thing is a mystery it is not necessarily a folly, though 
 mysteries are for the most part dealt in by fools. They 
 suggested that there may be many things and forces 
 above us and around us, invisible as an electric current, 
 intangible as light, yet existent and capable of 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 nowher .% and do not materially alter the facts of 
 life. One cannot, for instance, plead a mystery in a court 
 ot law ; 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 her. This he refused to admit now in the 
 light of day, though he had admitted it fully in the 
 watches of the night. It would not do to admit it. But 
 he was forced to acknowledge that she had crept into 
 his life and possessed it so completely that then and 
 for months afterwards, except in deep sleep or in hours 
 of severe mental strain, not a single half hour would 
 pass without bringing its thought of Beatrice. 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 or novel 
 moved him, why Beatrice was in his mind to share the 
 pleasure. All of which was very interesting, and in some 
 ways delightful, but under our system not otherwise than 
 inconvenient to a married man. 
 
 And now Beatrice was gone, and he must come back 
 to his daily toil, sweetened by Honoria's bitter complaints 
 of their poverty, and see her no more. The thought 
 made Geoffrey's heart ache with a physical pain, but his
 
 ISO BEATRICE. 
 
 reason told him that it was best so. After all, there were 
 no bones broken ; there had been no love scenes, no kiss, 
 no words that cannot be recalled ; whatever there was lay 
 beneath the surface, and while appearances were kept up 
 all was well. No doubt it was an hypocrisy, but then 
 hypocrisy is one of the great pillars of civilization, and 
 how does it matter what the heart says while the hps are 
 silent ? The Recording Angel can alone read hearts, 
 and he must often find them singularly contradictory and 
 untrustworthy writings. 
 
 Die of them, die of her dreams ! No, Beatrice would 
 not die of them, and certainly he should not. Probably in 
 the end she would marry that pious earthly lump, Owen 
 Davies. It was not pleasant to think of, it was even 
 dreadful, but really if she were to ask him his opinion, 
 "as a friend," he should tell her it was the best thing 
 that she could do. Of course it would be hypocrisy 
 again, the lips would give his heart the lie ; but when 
 the heart rises in rebellion against the intelligence it 
 must be suppressed. Unfortunately, however, though a 
 small member, it is very strong. 
 
 They reached London at last, and as had been 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 person- 
 ally instructed the cabman, he left Anne to convoy Effie 
 and the luggage, and went on to the Temple by Under- 
 ground Railway with an easy mind.
 
 THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD. 151 
 
 Shortly after Geoffrey reached his chambers in Pump 
 Court the soUcitor arrived as had been arranged, not his 
 uncle — who was, he learned, very unwell — but a partner. 
 To his delight he then found that Beatrice's ghost theory 
 was perfectly accurate ; the boy with the missing toe-joint 
 had been discovered who saw the whole horrible tragedy 
 through a crack in the blind; moreover the truth had been 
 wrung from him and he would be produced at the trial — 
 indeed a proof of his evidence was already forthcoming. 
 Also some specimens of the ex-lawyer's clerk's 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, both 
 were expected that night — the Attorney- General from 
 Devonshire and Mr, Candleton from the Continent ; so 
 the case being first on the list, it was arranged that 
 the conference should take place at ten o'clock on the 
 following morning. 
 
 On arriving home Geoffrey was informed that Lady 
 Honoria was dressing, and had left a message saying he 
 must be quick and do likewise as a gentleman was coming 
 to dinner. Accordingly he went to his own room — 
 which was at the other end of the flat — and put on his 
 dress clothes. Eefore going to the dining-room, how- 
 ever, he said good-night to Effie — who was in bed, but not 
 asleep — and asked her what time she had reached home. 
 
 "At twenty minutes past five, daddy," Effie said 
 promptly. 
 
 " Twenty minutes past five ! Why, you don't mean to 
 say that you were an hour coming that little way ! Did 
 you get blocked in the fog ? " 
 
 " No, daddy, but " 
 
 " But what, dear ? " 
 
 "Anne did tell me not to say ! " 
 
 *' But I tell you to say, dear — ^never mind Anne ! " 
 
 " Anne stopped and talked to the ticket-man for a 
 long, long time."
 
 152 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Oh, did she ? " he said. 
 
 At that moment the parlourmaid came to say that 
 Lady Honoria and the " gentleman " were waiting for 
 dinner. Geoffrey asked her casually what time Miss 
 Efifie had reached home. 
 
 "About half-past five, sir. Anne said the cab was 
 blocked in the fog." 
 
 " Very well. Tell her ladyship that I shall be down 
 in a minute." 
 
 " Daddy," said the child, " I haven't said my prayers. 
 Mother did not come, and Anne said it was all nonsense 
 about prayers. Auntie did always hear me my prayers." 
 
 "Yes, dear, and so will I. There, kneel upon my lap 
 and say them." 
 
 In the middle of the prayers — which Effia did not re- 
 member as well as she might have done — the parlourmaid 
 arrived again. 
 
 " Please, sir, her ladyship " 
 
 " Tell her ladyship I am coming, and that if she is in 
 a hurry she can go to dinner ! Go on, love." 
 
 Then he kissed her and put her to bed again. 
 
 "Daddy," 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 name was 
 Mr. Du-nstan. 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 this respect. Hence 
 his presence there to-night. 
 
 "How do you do, Geoffrey? " said his wife, advancing
 
 THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGli'ARE ROAD. 153 
 
 to greet him with a kiss of peace. " You look very well. 
 But what an immense time you have been dressing. Poor 
 Mr. Dunstan is starving. Let me see. You know Mr. 
 Dunstan, I think. Dinner, Mary." 
 
 Geoffrey apologised for being late, and shook hands 
 politely with Mr. Dunstan — Saint Dunstan he was 
 generally called on account of his rather clerical appear- 
 ance and in sarcastic allusion to his sou^ewhat 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 ? ]\Ir. 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-fumishcd the large hall and their drawing-room.
 
 154 BEATRICE. 
 
 It cost eighteen hundred pounds, but the result is lovely. 
 The drawing-room is done in hand-painted white satin, 
 walls and all, and the hall in old oak." 
 
 " Indeed ! " he answered, reflecting the while that 
 Lord Garsington might as well have paid some of his 
 debts before he spent eighteen hundred pounds on his 
 drawing-room furniture. 
 
 Then the Saint and Lady Honoria drifted into a long 
 and animated conversation about their fellow guests, 
 which Geoffrey scarcely tried to follow. Indeed, the 
 dinner was a dull one for him, and he added little or 
 nothing to the stock of talk. 
 
 When his wife left the room, however, he had to say 
 something, so they spoke of shooting. The Saint had a 
 redeeming feature — he was somewhat of a sportsman, 
 though a poor one, and he described to Geoffrey a new 
 pair of hammerless guns, which he had bought for a 
 trifling sum of a hundred and forty guineas, 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 to be generous, I don't know who can ! " 
 
 "Thank you very much, Mr. Dunstan," answered 
 Geoffrey coldly, " but I am not in the habit of accepting 
 such presents from my — acquaintances. Will you have 
 a glass of sherry?— no. Then shall we join Lady 
 Honoria ? " 
 
 This speech quite crushed the vulgar but not ill- 
 meaning Saint, and Geoffrey was sorry for it a moment 
 after he had made it. But he was weary and out of 
 temper. Why did his wife bring such people to the 
 house? Very shortly afterwards their guest took his 
 leave, reflecting that Bingham was a conceited ass, and 
 altogether too much foir him. " And I don't believe
 
 THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD. 155 
 
 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 daughter 
 of a peer and worth cultivating, but not when Bingham 
 is at home— not if I know it." 
 
 "What have you said to Mr. Dunstan to make him go 
 away so soon, Geoifrey ?" 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 Hfe, 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 his 
 friends that it was Lady Honoria Bingham he was
 
 .156 BEATRICE. 
 
 speaking to — that is the exchange. I want to go to the 
 theatre; he wants to get into good society — there you have 
 the thing in a nutshell. It is done every day. The fact of 
 the matter is, Geoffrey," she went on, looking very much as 
 though she were about to burst into a flood of angry tears, 
 " as I said just now, beggars cannot be choosers — I cannot 
 live like the wife of a banker's clerk. I must have some 
 amusement, and some comfort, before I become an old 
 woman. If you don't like it, why did you entrap me 
 into this wretched marriage, before I was old enough to 
 know better, or why do you not make enough money to 
 keep me in a way suitable to my position ? " 
 
 " We have argued that question before, Honoria," said 
 Geoffrey, keeping his temper with difficulty, " and now 
 there is another thing I wish to say to you. Do you 
 know that detestable woman Anne stopped for more than 
 half an hour at Paddington Station this evening, flirting 
 with a ticket collector, instead of bringing Effie home at 
 once, as I told her to do. I am very angry about it. 
 She is not to be relied on ; we shall have some accident 
 with the child before we have done. Cannot you 
 discharge her and get another nurse ? " 
 
 *' No, I cannot. She is the one comfort I have. 
 Where am I going to find another woman who can make 
 dresses like Anne — she saves me a hundred a year — 
 I don't care if she flirted with fifty ticket collectors. I 
 suppose you got this story from Effie ; the child ought 
 to be whipped for tale-bearing, and I daresay that it is 
 not true." 
 
 " Effie will certainly not be whipped," answered 
 Geoffrey sternly. " I warn you that it will go very badly 
 with anybody who lays a finger on her." 
 
 "Oh, very well, ruin the child. Go your own way, 
 Geoff"rey ! 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 Ufe ! I wonder
 
 GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE. 157 
 
 if Beatrice would treat her husband like this — if she had 
 
 one." 
 
 He laughed aloud at the absurdity of the idea, and 
 then with a gesture of impatience threw his cigarette into 
 the fire and went to his room to try and get some sleep, 
 for he was thoroughly wearied. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE. 
 
 Before ten o'clock on the following morning, having 
 already spent two hours over his brief, that he had now 
 thoroughly mastered, Geoffrey was at his chambers, which 
 he had some difficulty in reaching owing to the thick fog 
 that still hung over London, and indeed all England. 
 
 To his surprise nothing had been heard either of the 
 Attorney-General or of Mr. Candleton. The solicitors 
 were in despair ; but he consoled them by saying that 
 one or the other was sure to turn up in lime, and that a 
 few words would suffice to explain the additional light 
 which had been thrown on the case. He occupied his 
 half hour, however, in making a few rough notes to guide 
 him in the altogether improbable event of his being 
 called on to open, and then went into court. The 
 case was first on the list, and there were a good many 
 counsel engaged on the other side. Just as the judge 
 took his seat, the solicitor, with an expression of dismay, 
 handed Geoffrey a telegram which had that moment 
 arrived from Mr. Candleton. It was dated from Calais 
 on the previous night, and ran, " Am unable to cross on 
 account of thick fog. You had better get somebody else 
 in Parsons and Douse." 
 
 " And we haven't got another brief prepared," said the 
 agonised solicitor. " What is more, I can hear nothing 
 of the Attorney-General, and his clerk does not seem to 
 know where he is. You must ask for an adjournment, 
 Mr. Bingham ; you can't manage the case alone."
 
 158 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Very well," said Geoffrey, and on the case being 
 called he rose and stated the circumstances to the court. 
 But the Court was crusty. It had got the fog down its 
 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; if 
 this case was not taken there was no other with which 
 they could go on, &c., &c. 
 
 The court took the same view, and lectured Geoffrey 
 severely. Every counsel in a case, the Court remem- 
 bered, when It was at the Bar, used to be able to open 
 that case at a moment's notice, and though things had, 
 It implied, no doubt deteriorated to a considerable extent 
 since those palmy days, every counsel ought still to be 
 prepared to do so on emergency. 
 
 Of course, however, if he, Geoffrey, told the court that 
 he was absolutely unprepared to go on with the case, It 
 would have no option but to grant an adjournment. 
 
 " I am perfectly prepared to go on with it, my lord," 
 Geoffrey interposed calmly. 
 
 "Very well," said the Court in a mollified tone, "then 
 go on ! I have no doubt that the learned Attorney- 
 General will arrive presently." 
 
 Then, as is not unusual in a probate suit, followed an 
 argument as to who should open it, the plaintiff or the 
 defendant. Geoffrey claimed that this right clearly 
 lay with him, and the opposing counsel raised no great 
 objection, thinking that they would do well to leave the 
 opening in the hands of a rather inexperienced man, who 
 would very likely work his side more harm than good. 
 So, somewhat to the horror of the solicitors, who thought 
 with longing of the eloquence of the Attorney-General, 
 and the unrivalled experience and finesse of Mr. Candle- 
 ton, Geoffrey was called upon to open the case for the 
 defendants, propounding the first will. 
 
 He rose without fear or hesitation, and with but one 
 prayer in his heart, that no untimely Attorney-General 
 would put in an appearance. He had got his chance,, the
 
 GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE. 159 
 
 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 unfoldimr to 
 them. His ghost theory was at first received with a 
 smile, but presently counsel on the other side ceased 
 to smile, and began to look uneasy. If he could prove 
 what he said, there was an end of their case. When he 
 had been speaking for about forty minutes one of the 
 opposing counsel interrupted him with some remark, and 
 at that moment he noticed that the Attorney-General's 
 clerk was talking to the solicitor beneath him. 
 
 " Bother it, he is coming," thought Geoffrey. 
 
 But no, the solicitor bending forward informed him that 
 the Attorney-General had been unavoidably detained by 
 some important Government matter, and had returned his 
 brief. 
 
 " Well, we must get on as we can," Geoffrey said. 
 
 " If you continue like that we shall get on very well," 
 whispered the 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 this stage of the cause, but to 
 leave it entirely in his hands. 
 
 It would be useless to follow the details of this re- 
 markable will suit, which lasted two days, and attracted 
 much attention. Geoffrey won it. and won it triumphantly. 
 His address to the jury on the whole case was long
 
 i6o 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 of his handsome face and commanding presence 
 as he crushed the case of his opponents like an eggshell, 
 and then with calm and overwhelming force denounced 
 the woman who with her lover had concocted the cruel 
 plot that robbed her uncle of life and her cousins of their 
 property, till at the last, pointing towards her v/ith out- 
 stretched hand, he branded her to the jury as a murderess. 
 
 Few in that crowded court have forgotten the tragic 
 scene that followed, when the trembling woman, worn out 
 by the long anxiety of the trial, and utterly unnerved by 
 her accuser's brilliant invective, rose from her seat and 
 cried : 
 
 " We did it — it is true that we did it to get the money, 
 but we did not mean to frighten him to death," and then 
 fell fainting to the ground — or Geoffrey Bingham's quiet 
 words as he sat down : 
 
 " My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I do not think it 
 necessary to carry my case any further." 
 
 There was no applause, the occasion was too 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 m^n get such chances in some shape or form, 
 and are unable to avail themselves of them. Geoffrey 
 was one of the exceptions ; as Beatrice had said, he was 
 born to succeed. As he sat down, he knew that he was 
 a made man. 
 
 And yet while he walked home that night, his ears still 
 full of the congratulations which had rained in on him 
 from every quarter, he was conscious of a certain pride.
 
 GEOFFREY WINS HIS CASE. 16 1 
 
 He will have felt as Geoffrey felt that night, whose lot 
 it has been to fight long and strenuously against circura- 
 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 home rather late. Honoria was going out 
 to dinner with a distinguished cousin, and was already 
 dressing. Geoffrey had declined the invitation, which 
 was a short one, because he had not expected to be back 
 from chambers. In his enthusiasm, however, he went to 
 his wife's room to tell her of the event. 
 
 "Well," she said, "what have you been doing? I 
 think that you might have arranged to come out with me. 
 My going out so much by myself does not look well. 
 Oh, I forgot ; of course you are in that case." 
 
 11
 
 1 62 BEATRICE. 
 
 "Yes — that is, I was. I have won the case. Here 
 is a very fair report of it in the St. James's Gazette if you 
 care to read it." 
 
 " Good heavens, Geoffrey ! How can you expect me 
 to read all that stuff when I am dressing?" 
 
 " I don't expect you to, Honoria ; only, as I say, I 
 have won the case, and I shall get plenty of work now." 
 
 " Will you ? I am glad to hear it ; perhaps we shall 
 be able to escape from this horrid flat if you do. There, 
 Anne ! Je vous 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 
 Efifie as the Smoky Town. 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " You go to the Smoky Town to make bread and butter, 
 don't you, daddy ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, to make bread and butter." 
 
 ''And did you make any, daddy ? " 
 
 *' Yes, Effie, a good deal to-day." 
 
 " Then where is it ? In your pocket ? " 
 
 " No, love, not exactly. I won a big lawsuit to-day, 
 and I shall get a great many pennies for it." 
 
 *' Oh," answered Effie meditatively, " I am glad that 
 you did win. You do like to win, doesn't you, daddy, 
 dear." 
 
 "Yes, love." 
 
 " Then I will give you a kiss, daddy, because you did 
 win," and she suited the action to the word.
 
 THE RISING STAR. 163 
 
 Geoffrey went from the little room with a softened 
 heart. He dressed and ate some dinner. 
 
 Then he sat down and wrote a long letter to Beatrice, 
 telling her all about the trial, and not sparing her his 
 reasons for adopting each particular tactic and line of 
 argument which conduced to the great result. 
 
 And though his letter was four sheets in length, he 
 knew that Beatrice would not be bored at having to read it. 
 
 CHAPTER XVni. 
 
 THE RISING STAR. 
 
 As might be expected, the memorable case 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 had followed without 
 cessation from the time when he found himself thrown 
 upon his own resources, and which had made a sound 
 lawyer of him as well as a brilliant and effective advocate. 
 Soon, even with his great capacity for work, he had as 
 much business as he could attend to. When fortune 
 gives good gifts, she generally does so with a lavish 
 hand. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that, about three weeks after the 
 trial of Parsons and Douse, Geoffrey's uncle the solicitor 
 died, and to his surprise left him twenty thousand 
 pounds, " believing," he said in his will, which was dated 
 three days before the testator's death, " that this sum will 
 assist him to rise to the head of his profession." 
 
 II— 2
 
 1 64 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 
 £,\^o 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 ;^i5o, and carried 
 them home and hung over them, as another class of 
 woman might hang over her first-born child, admiring 
 them with a tender ecstasy. Whenever he had a sum of 
 money that he could afford to part with, Geoffrey would 
 take her thus to a jeweller's or a dressmaker's, and stand 
 by coldly while she bought things to its value. Lady 
 Honoria was delighted. It never entered into her mind 
 that in a sense he was taking a revenge upon her, and 
 that every fresh exhibition of her rejoicings over the good 
 things thus provided added to his contempt for her. 
 
 Those were happy days for Lady Honoria ! She 
 rejoiced in this return of wealth like a school-boy at the 
 coming of the holidays, or a half-frozen wanderer at the 
 rising of the sun. She had been miserable during all this 
 night of poverty, as miserable as her nature admitted of, 
 now she was happy again, as she understood happiness. 
 For bred, educated, civilized — what you will — out of the 
 more human passions. Lady Honoria had replaced them 
 by this idol-worship of wealth, or rather of what wealth 
 brings. It gave her a positive physical satisfaction ; her 
 beauty, which had begun to fade, came back to her ; she
 
 THE RISING STAR. 165 
 
 looked five years younger. And all the while Geoffrey 
 watched her with an ever-growing scorn. 
 
 Once it broke out. The Bolton Street house had been 
 furnished ; he gave her fifteen hundred pounds to do it, 
 and with what things they owned she managed very well 
 on that. They moved into it, and Honoria had set her- 
 self up with a sufficient supply of grand dressses and 
 jewellery, suitable to her recovered position. One day 
 however, it occurred to her that Effie was a child of 
 remarkable beauty, who, if properly dressed, would look 
 very nice in the drawing room at tea-time. So she ordered 
 a lovely costume for her — this deponent is not able to 
 describe it, but it consisted largely of velvet and lace. 
 Geoffrey heard nothing of this dress, but coming home 
 rather early one afternoon — it was on a Saturday, he found 
 the child being shown off to a room full of visitors, and 
 dressed in a strange and wonderful attire with which, not 
 unnaturally, she was vastly pleased. He said nothing at 
 the time, but when at length the dropping fire of callers 
 had ceased, he asked who put Effie into that dress. 
 
 "I did," said Lady Honoria, "and a pretty penny it 
 has cost, I can tell you. But I can't have the child come 
 down so poorly clothed, it does not look well." 
 
 " Then she can stay upstairs," said Geoffrey frowning. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked his wife. 
 
 " I mean that I will not have her decked out in those 
 fine clothes. They are quite unsuitable to her age. 
 There is plenty of time for her to take to vanity." 
 
 " I really don't understand you, Geoffrey. Why should 
 not the child be handsomely dressed? " 
 
 "Why not! Great heaven, Honoria, do you suppose 
 that I want to see Effie grow up like you, to lead a life of 
 empty pleasure-seeking idleness, and rr.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
 
 1 66 BEATRICE. 
 
 like this before, and there was something underneath his 
 words that she did not quite understand. Still less did 
 she understand when on the Monday Geoffrey suddenly 
 told her that he had fifty pounds for her to spend as she 
 liLed ', then accompanied her to a mantle shop, and stood 
 patiently by, smiling coldly while she invested it in lace 
 and embroideries. Honoria thought that he was making 
 reparation for his sharp words, and so he was, but to 
 himself, and in another sense. Every time he gave her 
 money in this fashion, Geoffrey felt like a man who has 
 paid off a debt of honour. She had taunted him again 
 and again with her poverty — the poverty she said that he 
 had brought her \ for every taunt he would heap upon her 
 all those things in which her soul delighted. He would 
 glut her with wealth as, in her hour of victory. Queen 
 Tomyris glutted dead Cyrus with the blood of men. 
 
 It was an odd way of taking a revenge, and one that 
 suited Lady Honoria admirably ; but though its victim felt 
 no sting, it gave Geoffrey much secret relief. Also he 
 was curious ; he wished to see if there was any bottom to 
 such a woman's desire for luxury, if it would not bring 
 satiety with it. But Lady Honoria was a very bad sub- 
 ject for such an experiment. She never showed the least 
 sign 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 away and the spring came. One day, it 
 was in April, Geoffrey, 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 then returned a Home Ruler had fallen vacant. 
 As it chanced he knew the head Unionist whip very well. 
 They had been friends since they were lads at school 
 together, and this gentleman, having heard Geoffrey make 
 a brilliant speech in court, was suddenly struck with the 
 idea that he was the very man to lead a forlorn hope.
 
 THE 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 answer from her. He had an almost superstitious 
 faith in her judgment, and did not like to act without it. 
 After carefully weighing the pros and cons, his own view 
 was that he should do well to stand. Probably he would 
 be defeated, and it might cost him five hundred pounds. 
 On the other hand it would certainly make his name 
 known as a politician, and he was now in a fair way to 
 earn so large an income that he could well afford to risk 
 the money. The only great objection which he saw, was 
 that if he happened to get in, it must mean that he 
 would have to work all day and all night too. Well, he 
 was strong and the more work he did the better — it 
 kept him from thinking. 
 
 In due course Beatrice's answer came. Her view 
 coincided withhis own; she recommended him to take the 
 opportunity, and pointed out that with his growing legal 
 reputation there was no office in the State to which he 
 might not aspire, when he had once proved himself a 
 capable member of Parliament. Geoffrey read the letter 
 through ; then immediately sat down and wrote to his 
 friend the whip, accepting the suggestion of the Govern- 
 ment. 
 
 The next fortnight was a hard one for him, but Geoffrey 
 was as good a man on the platform as in court, and he 
 had, moreover, the very valuable knack of suiting 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
 
 i68 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 Efihe (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 was, by artfully applied and aristocratic feminine in- 
 fluence." This was a delicate allusion to Honoria and 
 her blue parasol. 
 
 As Geoffrey and his wife were driving back to Bolton
 
 THE RISING STAR. 169 
 
 Street, after the declaration of the poll, a little incident 
 occurred. Geoffrey told the coachman to stop at the 
 first telegraph office and, getting out of the carriage, 
 wired to Beatrice, " In by ten votes." 
 
 " Who have you been telegraphing to, Geoffrey ? '"' 
 asked Lady Honoria. 
 
 " I telegraphed to Miss Granger," he answered. 
 
 " Ah ! So you still keep up a correspondence with 
 that pupil teacher girl." 
 
 "Yes, I do. I wish that I had a few more such 
 correspondents." 
 
 *' Indeed. You are easy to please. I thought her 
 one of the most disagreeable young women whom I ever 
 met." 
 
 *' Then it does not say much for your taste, Honoria." 
 
 His wife made no further remark, but she had her 
 thoughts. Honoria possessed good points : among others 
 she was not a jealous person ; she was too cold and too 
 indifferent to be jealous. But she did not like the idea of 
 another woman obtaining an influence over her husband, 
 who, as she now began to recognise, was one of the most 
 brilliant men of his day, and who might well become one 
 of the most wealthy and powerful. Clearly he existed for 
 her benefit, not for that of any other woman. She was 
 no fool, and she saw that a considerable intimacy must 
 exist between the two. Otherwise 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.
 
 I70 BE A TRICE. 
 
 For the next few months Geoffrey worked as men rarely 
 work. All day he was at his chambers or in court, and at 
 night he sat in the House, getting up his briefs when he 
 could. But he always did get them up ; no solicitors had to 
 complain that the interests of their 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 ambitious man ; he was no 
 mere self-seeker. He knew the folly of ambition too 
 well, and its end was always clearly before his eyes. He 
 often thought to himself that if he could have chosen 
 his lot, he would have asked for a cottage with a good 
 garden, five hundred a year, and somebody to care for. 
 But perhaps he would soon have wearied of his cottage. 
 He worked to stifle thought, and to some extent he 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 
 triumphs when he had nobody with whom to share them ? 
 All he could share were their fruits, and these he gave 
 away freely enough. It was but little that Geoffrey spent 
 upon his own gratification. A certain share of his gains 
 he put by, the rest went in expenses. The house in 
 Bolton Street was a very gay place in those days, but its 
 master took but little part in its gaieties. 
 
 And what was the fact ? The longer he remained 
 separated from Beatrice the more intensely did he long for 
 her society. It was of no use ; try as he would, he could not 
 put that sweet face from his mind ; it drew him as a magnet 
 draws a needle. Success did not bring him happiness, 
 except in the sense that it relieved him from money cares.
 
 THE RISING STAR. 171 
 
 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. 
 But the large-minded man sees too far, and guesses too 
 much of what he cannot see. He looks forward, and notes 
 the dusty end of his laborious days ; he looks around and 
 shudders at the unceasing misery of a coarse struggling 
 world ; the sight of the pitiful beggar babe craving bread 
 on tottering feet, pierces his heart. He cannot console 
 himself with a reflection that the child had no business 
 to be born, or that if he denuded himself of his last pound 
 he would not materially help the class which bred it. 
 
 And above the garish lights of earthly joys and the 
 dim reek of earthly wretchedness, he sees the solemn 
 firmament that veils his race's destiny. For such a man, 
 in such a mood, even religion has terrors as well as hopes, 
 and while the gloom gathers about his mind these are with 
 him more and more. What lies beyond that arching 
 mystery to whose horizon he daily draws more close — whose 
 doors may even now be opening for him ? A hundred 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 human night, still bends
 
 172 BEATRICE, 
 
 above his head in awful changelessness, and still his 
 weary feet draw closer to the portals of the West 
 
 It is very sad and wrong, but it is not altogether his 
 fault ; it is rather a fault of the age, of over-education, 
 of over-striving to be wise. Cultivate the searching 
 spirit and it will grow and rend you. The spirit would 
 soar, it would see, but the flesh weighs it down, and in all 
 flesh there is Uttle 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 
 from the ken of the cultivated, questioning mind ! There 
 alone can peace be found, and for the foolish who discard 
 it, setting up man's wisdom as a sign, soon the human lot 
 will be one long fear. Grown scientific and weary with 
 the weight of knowledge, they will reject their ancientGods, 
 and no smug-faced Positivism will bring them consolation. 
 Science, here and there illuming the gloom of destiny 
 with its ijoor electric lights, crie:: cut that they are guiding 
 stars. But they are no stars, and they will flare away. 
 Let us pray for darkness, more darkness, lest, to our 
 bewildered sight, they do but serve to show that which 
 shall murder Hope. 
 
 So think Geoffrey and his kin, and in their unexpressed 
 dismay, turn, seeking refuge from their physical and 
 spiritual loneliness, but for the most part finding none. 
 Nature, still strong in them, points to the dear fellowship 
 of woman, and they make the venture to find a mate, 
 not a companion. But as it chanced in Geoffrey's case 
 he did find such a companion in Beatrice, after he had, 
 by marriage, built up an impassable wall between them. 
 
 And yet he longed for her society with an intensity that 
 alarmed him. He hid her letters indeed, but what are 
 letters ! One touch of a beloved hand is worth a thousand 
 letters. In the midst of his great success Geoffrey was 
 wretched at heart, yet it seemed to him that if he once
 
 GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR. 173 
 
 more could have Beatrice at his side, though only as a 
 friend, he would find rest and happiness. 
 
 When a man's heart is thus set upon an object, his 
 reason is soon convinced of its innocence, even of its 
 desirability, and a kindly fate will generally contrive to 
 give him the opportunity of ruin which he so ardently 
 desires. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 \ 
 
 GEOFfREY HAS A VISITOR. 
 
 And Beatrice — had she fared better during these long 
 months ? Alas, not at all. She had gone away from the 
 Bryngelly Station on that autumn morning of farewell sick 
 at heart, and sick at heart she had remained. Through all 
 the long winter months sorrow and bitterness had been 
 her portion, and now in the happiness of spring, sorrow 
 and bitterness were with her still. She loved him, she 
 longed for his presence, and it was denied to her. She 
 could not console herself as can some women, nor did 
 her deep passion wear away ; on the contrary, it seemed 
 to grow and gather with every passing week. Neither did 
 she wish to lose it, she loved too well for that. It was 
 better to be thus tormented by conscience and by 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 get so much more comfort out of a letter than a man. 
 Next to receiving them she loved to answer them. She 
 was a good and even a brilliant letter writer, but often 
 and often she would tear up what she had written and 
 begin again. There was not much news in Bryngelly ; it 
 was difficult to make her letters amusing. Also the farcical 
 nature of the whole proceeding seemed to paralyse her. 
 It was ridiculous, having so much to say, to be able to
 
 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 loathing from the dreary 
 fustian of politics, she would religiously search the parlia- 
 mentary columns from beginning to end on the chance 
 of finding his name or the notice of a speech by him. 
 The law reports also furnished her with a happy hunting- 
 ground in which she often found her game. 
 
 But they were miserable months. To rise in the 
 morning, to go through the round of daily duty — think- 
 ing of Geoffrey ; to come home wearied, and finally to seek 
 refuge in sleep and dreams of him — this was the sum of 
 them. Then there were other troubles. To begin with, 
 things had gone from bad to worse at the Vicarage. 
 The tithes scarcely came in at all, and every day their 
 poverty pinched them closer. Had it not been for 
 Beatrice's salary it was difficult to see how the family 
 could have continued to exist. She gave it almost all to 
 her father now, only keeping back a very small sum for 
 her necessary clothing and such sundries as stamps and 
 writing paper. Even then, Elizabeth grumbled bitterly 
 at her extravagance in continuing to buy a daily paper, 
 asking what business she had to spend sixpence a week 
 on such a needless luxury. But Beatrice 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 was 
 so occupied with questions connected with tithe that 
 fortunately for Beatrice little else could find an entry. 
 Owen dogged her about ; he would wait whole hours 
 outside the school or by the Vicarage gate merely to speak
 
 GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR. 175 
 
 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 love indeed, but he looked it, 
 which was almost as bad. Another thing was that he had 
 grown jealous. The seed which Elizabeth had planted in 
 his mind had brought forth abundantly, though of course 
 Beatrice did not know that this was her sister's doing. 
 
 On the very morning that Geoffrey went away Mr. 
 Davies had met her as she was walking back from the 
 station and asked her if Mr. Bingham had gone. When 
 she replied that this was so, she had distinctly heard 
 him murmur, " Thank God ! thank God ! " 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 send her pre- 
 sents, first such things as prize pigeons and fowls, then 
 jewellery. The pigeons and fowls she could not well 
 return without exciting remark, but the jewellery she 
 sent back by one of the school children. First came 
 a bracelet, then a locket with his photograph inside, 
 and lastly, a case that, when she opened it, which 
 her curiosity led her to do, nearly blinded her with 
 light. It was a diamond necklace, and she had never 
 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 package, " this has been sent to me by 
 mistake. Will you kindly take it back ? " 
 
 He took it, abashed. 
 
 " Mr. Davies," she went on, looking him full in the 
 eyes, " I hope that there will be no more such mistakes. 
 Please understand that I cannot accept presents from you."
 
 1/6 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 risht to love the 
 husband of another woman. But right or wrong the fact 
 remained : she did love him. 
 
 And the worst of it was that, as she well knew, sooner 
 or later all this about Mr. Davies must come to the 
 ears of her father, and then what would happen ? One 
 thing was certain. In his present poverty-stricken 
 condition he would move heaven and earth to bring 
 about her marriage to this rich man. Her father never 
 had been very scrupulous where money was concerned, 
 and the pinch of want was not likely to make him 
 more so. 
 
 Nor, we may be sure, did all this escape the jealous 
 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 give them way, if once a 
 woman's character is compromised, then the world avails 
 itself of its opportunities and destroys her. What man, 
 thought Elizabeth, would marry a compromised woman ? 
 If Beatrice could be compromised, Owen Davies would 
 not take her to wife — therefore this must be brought 
 about. 
 
 It sounds wicked and unnatural. " Impossible that 
 sister should so treat sister," the reader of this history
 
 GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR. 177 
 
 may say, thinking of her own, and of her affectionate and 
 respectable surroundings. But it is not impossible. If 
 you, who doubt, will study the law reports, and no 
 worse occupation can be wished to you, you will find 
 that such things are possible. Human nature can rise 
 to strange heights, and it can also fall to depths beyond 
 your fathoming. Because a thing is without parallel in 
 your own small experience it in no way follows that it 
 cannot be. 
 
 Elizabeth was a very remorseless person ; she was 
 more — she was a woman actuated by passion and by 
 greed : the two strongest motives known to the human 
 heart. But with her 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 
 method not punishable by law, in short, by murdering her 
 reputation. Would she be responsible if her sister went 
 wrong, and was thus utterly discredited in the eyes of 
 this man who wished to marry her, and whom Elizabeth 
 wished to marry ? Of course not ; that was Beatrice's 
 affair. But she could give her every chance of falling 
 into temptation, and this it was her fixed design to do. 
 
 Circumstances soon gave her an opportunity. The 
 need of money became very pressing at the Vicarage. 
 They had literally no longer the wherewithal to live. 
 The tithe payers absolutely refused to fulfil their obliga- 
 tions. As it happened, Jones, the man who had mur- 
 dered the auctioneer, was never brought to trial. He 
 died shortly after his arrest in a fit of deliriian tremens 
 and nervous prostration brought on by the sudden cessa- 
 tion of a supply of stimulants, and an example was 
 lost, that, had he been duly hung, might have been made 
 of the results of defying the law. Mr. Granger was now 
 too poor to institute any further proceedings, which, in 
 the state of public feeling in Wales, might or might not 
 succeed ; he could only submit, and submission meant 
 beggary. Indeed he was already a beggar. In this state of 
 
 J2
 
 178 BEATRICE. 
 
 affairs he took counsel with Elizabeth, pointing out that 
 they must either get money or starve. Now the only 
 possible way to get money was by borrowing it, and Mr. 
 Granger's suggestion was that he should apply to Owen 
 Davies, who had plenty. Indeed he would have done 
 so long ago, but that the squire had the reputation of 
 being an exceedingly close-fisted man. 
 
 But this proposition did not at all suit Elizabeth's 
 book. Her great object had been to conceal Mr. Davies's 
 desires as regards Beatrice from her father, and her daily 
 dread was that he might become acquainted with them 
 from some outside source. She knew very well that if 
 her father went up to the Castle to borrow money it 
 would be lent, or rather given, freely enough ; but she 
 also knew that the lender would almost certainly take the 
 opportunity, the very favourable opportunity, to unfold 
 his wishes as regards the borrower's daughter. The one 
 thing would naturally lead to the other — the promise of 
 her father's support of Owen's suit would be the 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 
 Elizabeth be sure that she would not yield ? Beatrice 
 would be the very person tc be carried away by an 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 might 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 to 
 Elizabeth's mind, and then she spoke. 
 
 *' You must not go to Mr. Davies, father," she said ; 
 "he is a hard man, and would only refuse and put you 
 in a false position ; you must go to Mr. Bingham. 
 Listen : he is rich now, and he is very fond of you and 
 of Beatrice. He will lend you a hundred pounds at 
 once. You must go to London by the early train to- 
 morrow, and drive straight to his chambers and see him. 
 It will cost two pounds to get there and back, but that 
 cannot be helped ; it is safer than writing, and I am sure 
 that you will not go for nothing. And see here, father, 
 bring Mr. Bingham back with you for a few days if you 
 can. It will be a little return for his kindness, and I 
 know that he is not well. Beatrice had a letter from him 
 in which he said that he was so overworked that he 
 thought he must take a little rest soon. Bring him back 
 for Whit-Sunday." 
 
 Mr. Granger hesitated, demurred, and finally yielded. 
 The weak, querulous old farmer clergyman, worn out 
 with many daily cares and quite unsupported by mental 
 resources, was but a tool in Elizabeth's able hands. He 
 did not indeed feel any humiliation at the idea of trying 
 to borrow the cash, for his nature was not finely strung, 
 and money troubles had made him callous to the 
 verge of unscrupulousness ; but he did not like the idea 
 of a journey to London, where he had not been for 
 more than twenty years, and the expenditure that it 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
 
 I So BEATRICE. 
 
 was a consultation going on, and his client, a pig-headed 
 Norfolk farmer, who was bent upon proceeding to trial 
 with some extraordinary action for trespass against his 
 own landlord, was present with his solicitor. Geoffrey 
 in a few short, clear words had explained the absurdity 
 of the whole thing, and strongly advised him to settle, 
 for the client had insisted on seeing him, refusing to be 
 put off with a written opinion. But the farmer was not 
 satisfied, and the solicitor was now endeavouring to let 
 the pure light of law into the darkness of his injured 
 
 soul. 
 
 Geoffrey threw himself back in his chair, pushed the 
 dark hair from his brow, and pretended to listen. But 
 in a minute his mind was far away. Heavens, how tired 
 he was ! Well, there would be rest for a few days — till 
 Tuesday, when he had a matter that must be attended 
 to — the House had risen and so had the courts. What 
 should he do with himself? Honoria wished to go and 
 stay with her brother. Lord Garsington, and, for a 
 wonder, to take Efifie with her. He did not like it, but 
 he supposed that he should have to consent. One thing 
 was, he would not go. He could not endure Garsington, 
 Dunstan, and all their set. Should he run down to 
 Bryngelly ? The temptation was very great ; that would 
 be happiness indeed, but his common sense prevailed 
 against it. No, it was better that he should not go 
 there. He would leave Bryngelly alone. If Beatrice 
 wished him to come she would have said so, and she 
 had never even hinted at such a thing, and if she had 
 he did not think that he would have gone. But he lacked 
 the heart to go anywhere else. He would stop in town, 
 rest, and read a novel, for Geoffrey, when he found 
 time, was not above this frivolous occupation. Possibly, 
 under certain circumstances, he might even have been 
 capable of writing one. At that moment his clerk 
 entered, and handed him a slip of paper with something 
 written on it. He opened it idly and read : 
 
 " Revd. Mr. Granger to see you. Told him you were 
 engaged, but he said he would wait"
 
 GEOFFREY HAS A. VISITOR. i8r 
 
 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 either, complains of a pain in her chest, 
 a little bilious, perhaps — she always is bilious in the 
 spring." 
 
 " And Miss Beatrice ? " 
 
 " Oh, I think she's well — very quiet, you know, and a 
 little pale, perhaps ; but she is always quiet — a strange
 
 l82 BEATRICE. 
 
 * 
 woman Beatrice, Mr. Bingham, a very strange woman, 
 quite beyond me ! I do not understand her, and don't 
 try to. Not Hke 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 ud at once. Before he had been 
 talking almost at random ; the subject of his daughters 
 did not greatly interest him. What did interest him 
 was this money question. Nor was it very wonderful ; 
 the poor narrow-minded old man had thought about 
 money till he could scarcely find room for anything else, 
 indeed nothing else really touched him closely. He 
 broke into a long story of his wrongs, and, drawing a 
 paper from his breast pocket, with shaking finger pointed 
 out to Geoffrey how that his clerical income for the last 
 six months had been at the rate of only forty pounds a 
 year, upon which sum even a Welsh clergyman could 
 not consider himself passing rich. Geoffrey listened and 
 sympathised ; then came a pause. 
 
 " That's how we've been getting on at Bryngelly, Mr. 
 Bingham," Mr. Granger said presently, " starving, pretty 
 well starving. It's only you whb 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 
 luxury ! It made him sick to think of it. For a moment 
 he could say nothing.
 
 GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR. 183 
 
 " I have come here — I've come," went on the old man 
 in a broken voice, broken not so much by shame at having 
 to make the request as from fear lest it should be 
 refused, " to ask you if you could lend me a little money. 
 I don't know where to turn, I don't indeed, or I would 
 not do it, Mr. Bingham. I have spent my last pound to 
 get here. If you could lend me a hundred pounds I'd 
 give you my note of hand for it and try to pay it back 
 little by Uttle ; we might take twenty pounds a year 
 
 from Beatrice's salary " 
 
 " Don't, please — do not talk of such a thing !" ejaculated 
 the horrified Geoffrey. " Where the devil is my cheque- 
 book? Oh, I know, I left it in Bolton Street. Here, 
 this will do as well," and he took up a draft made out to 
 his order, and, rapidly signing his name on the back of 
 it, handed it to Mr, Granger. It was in payiiient of the 
 fees in the great case of Parsons and Douse and some 
 other matters. Mr. Granger took the draft, and, holding 
 it close to his eyes, glanced at the amount ; it was ^^200. 
 
 " But this is double what I asked for," he said doubt- 
 fully. " Am I to return you ^100 ? " 
 
 " No, no," answered Geoffrey, " I daresay that you 
 have some debts to pay. Thank Heaven, I can get on 
 very well and earn more money than I want. Not 
 enough clothing — it is shocking to think of ! " he added, 
 more to himself than to his listener. 
 
 The old man rose, his eyes full of tears. " God bless 
 you," he said, " God bless you. I do not know how to 
 thank you — I don't indeed," and he caught Geoffrey's 
 hand between his trembling palms and pressed it. 
 
 " Please do not say any more, Mr. Grainger ; it really 
 is only a matter of mutual obligation. No, no, I don't 
 want any note of hand. If I were to die it might be 
 used against you. You can pay me whenever it is 
 convenient." 
 
 " You are too good, Mr. Bingham," said the old clergy- 
 man. " Where could another man be found who would 
 lend me ;!^2oo without security ? " (where indeed !) " By 
 the way," he added, " I forgot ; my mind is in such a
 
 i84 BEATRICE. 
 
 whirl. Will you come back with me for a few days to 
 Bryngelly ? We shall all be so pleased if you can. Do 
 come, Mr. Bingham ; you look as though you want a 
 change, you do indeed." 
 
 Geoffrey dropped his hand heavily on the desk. But 
 half an hour before he had made up his mind not to go 
 to Bryngelly. And now 
 
 The vision of Beatrice rose before his eyes. Beatrice 
 who had gone cold all 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 me very well," said Geoffrey ; " and now 
 what are you going to do to-night ? You had better 
 come and dine and sleep at my house. No dress 
 clothes ? Oh, never mind ; there are some people coming 
 but they won't care ; a clergyman is always dressed. 
 Come along and I will get that draft cashed. The bank 
 is shut, but I can manage it." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 BACK AT BRYNGELLY. 
 
 Geoffrey and Mr. Granger reached Bolton Street about 
 six o'clock. The drawing-room was still full of callers. 
 Lady Honoria's young men mustered in great force in 
 those days. They were very inoffensive young men and 
 Geoffrey had no particular objection to them. Only he 
 found it difficult to remember all their names. When
 
 BA CK A T BR YNGELL Y. 185 
 
 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 civilly enough, but with him they had 
 nothing in common. To tell the truth they were a little 
 afraid of him. This man with his dark handsome face 
 sealed with the stamp of intellect, his powerful-looking 
 form (ill dressed, according to their standard) and his 
 great and growing reputation, was a person with whom 
 they had no sympathy, and who, they felt, had no 
 sympathy with them. We talk as though there is one 
 heaven and one hell for all of us, but here must be some 
 mistake. An impassable gulf yawns between the 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
 
 1 86 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 
 Beatrice. 
 
 "Am I to understand," went on his wife, "that you 
 still object to my staying with the Garsingtons? I think 
 it is a little hard if I do not make a fuss about your going 
 to see your village paragon, that you should refuse to 
 allow me to visit my own brother." 
 
 Geoffrey felt that he was being bargained with. It 
 was degrading, but in the extremity of his folly he 
 yielded. 
 
 " Go if you like," he said shortly, " but if you take 
 Effie, mind she is properly looked after, that is all," 
 and he abruptly left the room. 
 
 Lady Honoria looked after him, slowly nodding her 
 handsome head. " Ah," she said to herself, " I have 
 found out how to manage you now. You have your 
 weak point like other people. Master Geoffrey — and it 
 spells Beatrice. Only you must not go too fat. 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-
 
 BA CK AT BR YNGELL Y. 1 8y 
 
 tion and position. Just fancy a man like that pining for 
 a village girl — she is nothing more ! And they talk 
 about his being so clever. Well, he always liked 
 ladies' society ; that is his failing, and now he has burnt 
 his fingers. They all do sooner or later, especially these 
 clever men. The women flatter them, that's it. Of 
 course the girl is trying to get hold of him, and she 
 might do worse, but so surely as my name is Honoria 
 Bingham I will put a spoke in her wheel before she has 
 done. Bah 1 and they laugh at the power of women 
 when a man like Geoffrey, with all the world to lose, 
 grows love-sick for a pretty face ; it is a very pretty face 
 by the way. I do believe that if I were out of the way 
 he would marry her. But I am in the way, and mean 
 to stay there. Well, it is time to dress for dinner. I 
 only hope that old clown of a clergyman won't do 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 Geoftley'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 
 escorting the wife of the Bishop, a fat and somewhat 
 apoplectic lady, blessed with an excellent appetite. On 
 his other side was the Prime Minister, and between the 
 two he got on very well, especially after a few glasses of 
 wine. Indeed, both the apoplectic wife of the Bishop
 
 1 88 BEATRICE. 
 
 and the head of Her Majesty's Government were subse- 
 quently heard to declare that Mr. Granger was a very 
 entertaining person. To the former he related with 
 much detail how his daughter had saved their host's life, 
 and to the latter he discoursed upon the subject of 
 tithes, favouring him with his ideas of what legislation 
 was necessary to meet the question. Somewhat to his 
 own surprise, he found that his views were received with 
 attention and even with respect. In the main, too, they 
 received the support of the Bishop, who likewise felt 
 keenly on the subject of tithes. Never before had Mr. 
 Granger had such a good dinner nor mingled with com- 
 pany so distinguished. He remembered both till his 
 dying day. 
 
 Next morning Geoffrey and Mr. Granger started before 
 I.ady 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 BR YNGELL V. 1 89 
 
 almost with an insolence, that quite bewildered him, 
 making him wonder how the same person could show in 
 such different lights, till at length, mortified and ashamed 
 by his mistake, he had gone away in a rage and seen her 
 face no more. Of course he had set it down to female 
 infidelity ; he had served her turn, she had made a fool 
 of him, and that was all she wanted. Now he might 
 enjoy his humiliation. It did not occur to him that it 
 might be simple "cussedness," to borrow an energetic 
 American term, or that she had not really changed, but was 
 angry with him for some reason which she did not choose 
 to show. It is difficult to weigh the motives of women 
 in the scales of male experience, and many other men 
 besides Geoffrey have been forced to give up the attempt 
 and to console themselves with the reflection that the 
 inexplicable is generally not worth understanding. 
 
 Yes, probably it would be the same case over again. 
 And yet, and yet — was Beatrice of that class ? Had she 
 not too much of a man's straightforwardness of aim to 
 permit her to play such tricks ? In the bottom of his 
 soul he thought that she had, but he would not admit it 
 to himself The fact of the matter was that, half 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 /?o^/i ? Alas for the 
 frailty of human nature, this was the truth ; but he would 
 not and did not acknowledge it. He was not going to 
 make love to Beatrice, he was going to enjoy the pleasure 
 of her society. In friendship there could be no harm. 
 
 It is not difficult thus to still the qualms of an uneasy 
 mind, more especially when the thing in question at its 
 worst is rather an offence against local custom than against 
 natural law. In many countries of the world — in nearly all 
 countries, indeed, at different epochs of their history — it 
 would have been no wrong that Geoffrey and Beatrice 
 should love each other, and human nature in strong
 
 I90 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 ourselves 
 entitled to defy the majority of laws of all calibres. Laws 
 vary to suit the generations, but each generation must 
 obey its own, or confusion will ensue. A deed should be 
 judged by its fruits ; it may even be innocent in itself, 
 yet if its fruits are evil the doer in a sense is guilty. 
 
 Thus in some countries to mention the name of your 
 mother-in-law entails the most unpleasant consequences 
 on that intimate relation. Nobody can say that to name 
 the lady is a thing wicked in itself; yet the man who, 
 knowing the penalties which will ensue, allows himself, 
 even in a fit of passion against that relative, to violate 
 the custom and mention her by name is doubtless 
 an offender. Thus, too, the result of an entanglement 
 between a woman and a man already married generally 
 means unhappiness and hurt to all concerned, more 
 especially to the woman, whose prospects are perhaps 
 irretrievably injured thereby. It is useless to point to 
 the example of the patriarchs, some foreign royal families, 
 and many respectable Turks ; it is useless to plead that 
 the love is 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
 
 BA CK AT BR YNGELL V. 191 
 
 lost in the whirlwind of passion, and counsel is darkened 
 by the tumultuous pleadings of the heart. Their sin is 
 that they will, most of them, allow themselves to be put 
 in positions favourable to the development of these dis- 
 agreeable influences. It is not safe to light cigarettes in 
 a powder factory. If Geoffrey had done what he ought 
 to have done, he would never have gone back to Bryn- 
 gelly, and there would have been no story to tell, or no 
 more than there usually is. 
 
 At length Mr. Granger and his guest reached 
 Bryngelly ; there was nobody to meet them, for nobody 
 knew that they were coming, so they walked up to the 
 Vicarage. It was strange to Geoffrey once more to pass 
 by the little church through those well-remembered, wind- 
 torn pines and see that low long house. It seemed 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 same hard smile, 
 her light eyes shone with the same cold look ; she even 
 wore the same brown dress. But she appeared to be 
 very pleased to see him, as indeed she was, for the game 
 looked well for Elizabeth. Her father kissed her hur- 
 riedly, and l)ustled 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
 
 192 BEATRICE. 
 
 out walking, but I think that she will be back soon. 
 Excuse me, but I must go and see about your room." 
 
 Geoffrey hung about a little, then he lit his pipe and 
 strolled down to the beach, with a vague unexpressed 
 idea of meeting Beatrice. He did not meet Beatrice, 
 but he met old Edward, who knew him at once. 
 
 "Lord, sir," he said, "it's queer to see you here again, 
 specially when I thinks as how I saw you first, and you a 
 dead 'un to all purposes, with your mouth open, and 
 Miss Beatrice a-hanging on to your hair fit to pull your 
 scalp off. You never was nearer old Davy than you was 
 that night, sir, nor won't be. And now you've been 
 spared to become a Parliament man, I hears, and much 
 good may you do there — it will take 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's the fact. 
 There'll be another accent out of it one of these fine 
 days and no coming to next time. But, Lord bless you, 
 it's her way of pleasuring herself. She's a queer un is 
 Miss Beatrice, and she gets queerer and queerer, what 
 with their being so tight screwed up at the Vicarage, no 
 tithes and that, and one thing and another. Not but 
 what I'm thinking, sir," he added in a portentous whisper, 
 " as the squire has got summut to do with it. He's a 
 courting of her, he is ; he's as hard after her as a dog 
 fish after a stray herring, and why she can't just say yes 
 and marry him I'm sure I don't know." 
 
 " Perhaps she doesn't like him," said Geoffrey coldly. 
 
 " May be, sir, may be ; maids all have their fancies, in 
 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,
 
 THE THIRD APPEAL. 193 
 
 he ain't, but he's a sound man — no girl can't want a 
 sounder — lived quiet all his days you see, sir, and what's 
 more he's got the money, and money's tight up at the 
 Vicarage, sir. Gals must give up their fancies some- 
 times, sir. Lord ! a brace of brats and she'd forget all 
 about 'em. I'm seventy years old and I've seen their 
 ways, sir, though in a humble calling. You should say 
 a word to her, sir ; she'd thank you kindly five years after. 
 You'd do her a good turn, sir, you would, and not a bad 
 un as the saying goes, and give it the lie — no, beg your 
 pardon, that is the other way round — she's bound to do 
 you the bad turn having saved your life, though I don't 
 see how she could do that unless, begging your pardon, 
 she made you fall in love with her, being married, which 
 though strange wouldn't be wunnerful seeing what she is 
 and seeing how I has been in love with her myself since 
 she was seven, old missus and all, who died eight years 
 gone and well rid of the rheumatics." 
 
 Beatrice was one of the few subjects that could unlock 
 old Edward's breast, and Geoffrey retired before his 
 confusing but suggestive eloquence. Hurriedly bidding 
 the old man good-night he returned to the house, and 
 leaning on the gate watched the twilight dying on the 
 bosom of the west. 
 
 Suddenly, a bunch of wild roses in her girdle, Beatrice 
 emerged from the gathering gloom and stood before him 
 face to face. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE THIRD APPEAL. 
 
 Face to face they stood, while at the vision of her sweet- 
 ness his heart grew still. Face to face, and the faint 
 light fell upon her tender loveHncss 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
 
 194 BEATRICE. 
 
 " I beg your jmrdon," she said in a puzzled tone, 
 step}jing forward to pass the gate. 
 
 " Beatrice ! " 
 
 She gave a little cry, and clutched the railing, else she 
 would have fallen. One moment she stayed so, looking 
 up towards his face that was hid in the deepening 
 shadow — looking with wild eyes of hope and fear and love. 
 
 " Is it you," she said at length, " or another dream ? " 
 
 " It is I, Beatrice ! " he answered, amazed. 
 
 She recovered herself with an effort. 
 
 " Then why did you frighten me so ? " she asked. " It 
 was unkind — oh, I did not mean to say anything cross. 
 What did I say ? I forget. I am so glad that you have 
 come ! " and she put her hand to her forehead and looked 
 at him again as one might gaze at a ghost from the grave. 
 
 " Did you not expect me ? " Geoffrey asked. 
 
 " Expect you ? no. No more than I expected " 
 
 and she stopped suddenly. 
 
 " It is very odd," he said ; " I thought you knew that 
 your father was going to ask me down. I returned from 
 London with him." 
 
 " From London," she murmured. " I did not know ; 
 Elizabeth did not tell me anything about it. I suppose 
 that she forgot." 
 
 " Here I am at any rate, and how are you ? " 
 
 " Oh, well now, quite well. There, I am all right 
 again. It is very wrong to frighten people in that way, 
 Mr. Bingham," she added in her usual voice. " Let me 
 pass through the gate and I will shake hands with you — if," 
 she added, in a tone of gentle mockery, " one may shake 
 hands with so great a man. But I told you how it would 
 be, did I not, just before we were drowned together, you 
 know ? How is Effie ? " 
 
 "Effie flourishes," he answered. "Do you know, you 
 do not look very grand. Your father told me that you 
 had a cold in the winter," and Geoffrey shivered as he 
 thought of the cause. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, I have nothing to complain of. I am 
 strong and well. How long do you stay here ? "
 
 THE THIRD APPEAL. 195 
 
 "Not long. Perhaps till Tuesday morning, perhaps 
 till Monday." 
 
 Beatrice sighed. Happiness is short. She had not 
 brought him here, she would not have lifted a finger to 
 bring him here, but since he had come she wished that 
 he was going to stay longer. 
 
 " It is supper time," she said; " let us go in." 
 
 So they went in and ate their supper. It was a 
 happy meal. Mr. Granger was in almost boisterous 
 spirits. It is wonderful what a difference the possession 
 of that two hundred pounds made in his demeanour ; he 
 seemed another man. It was true that a hundred of it 
 must go in paying debts, but a hundred would be left, 
 which meant at least a year's respite for him. Elizabeth, 
 too, relaxed her habitual grimness ; the two hundred 
 pounds had its influence on her also, and there were 
 other genial influences at work in her dark secret heart. 
 Beatrice knew nothing of the money and sat somewhat 
 silent, but she too was happy with the wild unreal 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 ElizuljCth 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. 
 
 13—2
 
 ic,6 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 strength you will persevere till you 
 stand alone and quite pre-eminent. Then you can give 
 it up." 
 
 " Why should I promise you this, Beatrice ? " 
 
 "Because I ask it of you. Once I saved your life. 
 Mr. Bingham, and it gives me some little right to direct 
 its course. I wish that the man whom I saved to the 
 world should be among the first men in the world, not in 
 wealth, which is an accident, but in intellect and force. 
 Promise me this and I shall be happy." 
 
 " I promise you," he said, " I promise that I will try to 
 rise because you ask it, not because the prospect attracts 
 me ; " but as he spoke his heart was wrung. It was 
 bitter to hear her speak thus of a future in which she 
 would have no share, which, as her words implied, would 
 be a thing utterly apart from her, as much apart as 
 
 though she were dead. 
 
 " Yes," he said again, " you gave me my life, and it 
 makes me very unhappy to think that I can give you 
 nothing in return. Oh, Beatrice, I will tell you what I 
 have never told to any one. I am lonely and wretched. 
 With the exception of yourself, I do not think that there is 
 anybody who really cares for — I mean who really sympa-
 
 THE THIRD APPEAL. 197 
 
 thiscs 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 selfisli thing. I never should have said it lo 
 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 Efifie to inherit it, and you can leave your 
 name to your country." 
 
 Then came a heavy pause. 
 
 " And you," he said, breaking it, " what future is there 
 for you ? " 
 
 She laughed softly. " Women have no future and 
 they ask none. At least I do not now, though once I 
 did. It is enough for them if they can ever so little help 
 the lives of others. That is their happiness, and their 
 reward is — rest." 
 
 Just then Mr. Granger came back from his christening, 
 and Beatrice rose and went to bed. 
 
 " Looks a little pale, doesn't she, Mr. Bingham ? " said 
 her father, " I think she must be troubled in her mind. 
 The fact is — well, there is no reason why I should not tell 
 you ; she thinks so much of you, and you might say a 
 word to brighten her up — well, it's about Mr. Davies. 
 I fancy, you know, that she likes him and is vexed 
 because he does not come forward. Well, you see — of 
 course I may be mistaken, but I have sometimes thought 
 that he may. I have seen him look as if he was thinking 
 of it, though of course it is more than Beatrice has got any 
 right to expect. She's only got herself and her good looks 
 to give him, and he is a rich man. Think of it, Mr. Bing- 
 ham," and the old gentleman turned up his eyes
 
 198 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 hina ? 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 powtr (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 v« ith 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 thcmstlves misunderstood, or 
 even succeed in precipitating the catastrophe which they 
 laudably desire to prevent. 
 
 The morrow was Whit-Sunday, and a day that Geoffrey 
 had occasion to remember for the rest of his life. They all 
 met at breakfast and shortly afterwards went to church, 
 the service being at half-past ten. By way of putting 
 into effect the good resolutions with which he was so busy 
 paving an inferno of his own, Geoffrey did not sit by 
 Beatrice, but took a seat at the end of the little church, 
 close to the door, and tried to console himself by looking 
 at her. 
 
 It was a curious sullen-natured day, and although there 
 was not very much sun the air was as hot as though 
 they were in midsummer. Had they been in a volcanic 
 region, Geoffrey would have thought that such weather
 
 200 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 
 his hair would have been the better for cutting. Geoffrey 
 wondered if he had had an illness. At that moment 
 Owen chanced to look round and saw him. ■ 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Bingham ? " he said. " I heard 
 that you were here. They told me at the station last 
 night. You see this is a small place and one likes to 
 know who comes and goes," he added as though in excuse. 
 
 He walked on and Geoffrey walked with him. 
 
 *' You do not look well, Mr. Davies," he said. " Have 
 you been laid up ? " 
 
 " No, no," he answered, " I am quite right ; it is only 
 my mind that is ill." 
 
 "Indeed," said Geoffrey, thinking that he certainly 
 did look strange. "Perhaps you live too much alone 
 and it depresses you." 
 
 "Yes, I live alone, because I can't help myself. 
 What is a man to do, Mr. Bingham, when the woman he 
 loves will not marry him, won't look at him, treats him 
 like dirt ? " 
 
 " Marry somebody else," suggested Geoffrey.
 
 THE THIRD APPEAL. 20I 
 
 " 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 
 you, Mr. Bingham." 
 
 "I tell you what it is, Mr. Davies," said Geoffrey 
 shaking his arm free, " I am not going to stand this kind 
 of thing. You must be off your head." 
 
 " Don't be angry with me," he answered, *' It is true. 
 I have watched her and I know that it is true. Why does 
 she write to you every week, why does she always start 
 and listen when anybody mentions your name ? Oh, Mr. 
 Bingham," Owen went on piteously, " be 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 yon that all 
 this is just a little 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
 
 202 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 this, I am not in a position 
 to force Miss Granger to accept advances which appear 
 to be unwelcome according to your account. But if I get 
 an opportunity I will do this : I will tell her what you 
 say. You really must manage the rest for yourself. 
 Good morning to you, Mr. Davies." 
 
 He turned sharply and went while Owen watched him 
 go. 
 
 " I don't beUeve 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. 203 
 
 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 compromise, and quite another to be snubbed 
 by that lady before the moment of final separation. 
 Though he never put the idea into words or even defined 
 it in his mind — for Geoffrey was far too anxious and 
 unhappy to be flippant, at any rate in thought — he would 
 at heart have wished her to remain the same, indeed to 
 wax ever tenderer, till the fatal time of parting arrived, 
 and even to show appreciation of his virtuous conduct. 
 
 But to the utter destruction of most such hands as
 
 204 BE A TRICE. 
 
 Geoffrey held, Loving women never will play according 
 to the book. Their conduct imperils everything, for it 
 is obvious that it takes two to bring an affair of this 
 nature to a dignified conclusion, even when the stakes 
 are highest, and the matter is one of life and death. 
 Beatrice 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 ready to go to evening service. 
 To Geoffrey's dismay Beatrice did the same. He had 
 looked forward to a quiet walk with her — really this was 
 not to be borne. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, 
 she was ready the first, and he got a word with her. 
 
 " I did not know that you were going to church," he 
 said ; " I thought that we might have had a 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
 
 A NIGHT OF STORM. 205 
 
 coming ; it is too sultry to go to church. I daresay 
 that Mr. Bingham will accompany you." 
 
 Geoffrey hastily disclaimed any such intention, and 
 Elizabeth started alone. "Ah !" she said to herself, " I 
 thought that you would not come, my dear." 
 
 " Well," said Geoffrey, when she had well gone, " shall 
 we go out ? " 
 
 " I think it is pleasanter here," answered Beatrice. 
 
 " Oh, Beatrice, don't be so unkind," he said feebly. 
 
 " As you like," she replied. " There is a fine sunset — 
 I think that we shall have a storm." 
 
 They went out, and turned up the lonely beach. The 
 place was utterly deserted, and they walked a little way 
 apart, almost without speaking. The sunset was 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, arid a v/et 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." 
 
 " I'hat 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
 
 2o6 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 curia." 
 
 " 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 
 T 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 projectingedge 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. 207 
 
 more lovely still by its stamp of haughty anger : they 
 lay upon her heaving breast. Full in the eyes she 
 looked him with those wide angry eyes of hers — never 
 before had he seen her wear so imperial a mien. Her 
 dignity and the power of her presence literally awed him, 
 for at times Beatrice's beauty was of that royal stamp 
 which when it hides a heart, is a compelling force, 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 not strike you that no man who is not a relation 
 has any right to speak to a woman as you have spoken to 
 me? — that, in short, you have been guilty of what in 
 most people would be an impertinence? What right 
 have you to dictate to me as to whom I should or should 
 not marry ? Surely of all things in the world that is my 
 own affair." 
 
 Ge|ffrey 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-
 
 COS BE A TRICE. 
 
 thing. In this case, Mr. Bingham, there are circumstances 
 which make it — a cruel insult ! " 
 
 She stopped speaking, then suddenly, without the 
 slightest warning, burst into passionate weeping. As she 
 did so, the first rush of the storm passed over them, 
 winnowing the air as with a thousand eagles' wings, and 
 was lost on the moaning depths beyond. 
 
 The light went out of the sky. Now Geoffrey could 
 only see the faint outlines of her weeping face. One 
 moment he hesitated and one only; then Nature pre- 
 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 she 
 sobbed her fill. Presently she lifted it and their lips 
 met in a first long kiss. It was finished ; this was the end 
 of it — and thus did Geoffrey prosper Owen Davies's suit. 
 
 " Oh, you are cruel, cruel ! " he whispered in her ear. 
 " You must have known I loved you, Beatrice, that I spoke 
 against myself because I thought it to be my duty. You 
 must have known that, to my sin and sorrow, I have 
 always loved you, that you have never been an hour 
 from my mind, that I have longed to see your face like a 
 sick man for the light. Tell me, did you not know it, 
 Beatrice ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? " she answered very softly ; " I 
 could only guess, and if indeed you love me how could 
 you wish me to marry another man ? I thought that you 
 had learned my weakness and took this way to reproach 
 me. Oh, Geoffrey, what have we done ? What is there 
 between you and me — except our love ? " 
 
 " It would have been better if we had been drowned 
 together at the first," he said heavily. 
 
 "No, no," she answered, "for then we never should 
 have loved 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 till 
 to morrow."
 
 A NIGHT OF STORM. 209 
 
 And, where on a bygone day Beatrice had tarried with 
 another wooer, side by side they sat upon the great stone 
 and talked such talk as lovers use. 
 
 Above them moaned the rising gale, though 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, 5'ou winds, blow out your stormy heart ; we know 
 the secret of your strength, you rush to your desire. 
 Fall, deep waters of the sea, fall in thunder at the feet of 
 earth ; we hear the music of your pleading. 
 
 Earth, and Seas, and Winds, sing your great chant 
 of love ! Heaven and Space and Time, echo back the 
 melody ! For Life has called to us the answer of his 
 riddle ! Heart to heart we sit, and lips to lips, and we 
 are more wise than Solomon, and richer than barbarian 
 kings, for Happiness is ours. 
 
 To this end were we born, Dearest and most sweet, 
 and from all time predestinate ! To this end. Sweetest 
 and most dear, do we live and die, in deatli 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
 
 2IO BEATRICE. 
 
 Kiss mc, thou Conquerer, for Destiny is overcome, 
 Sorrow is gone by ; and the flame that we have hallowed 
 upon this earthly altar shall still burn brightly, and yet 
 more bright, when yonder stars have lost their fire. 
 
 But alas ! words cannot give a fitting form to such a 
 song as this. Let music try ! But music also folds her 
 wings. For in so supreme an hour 
 
 "A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast," 
 
 and through that opened door come sights and sounds 
 sach as cannot be written. 
 
 They ttU us it is madness, that this unearthly glory 
 is but the frenzy of a passion gross in its very essence. 
 Let those think it who will, but to dreamers let them 
 leave their dreams. Why then, at such a time, do visions 
 come to children of the world like Beatrice and Geoffrey ? 
 Why do their doubts vanish, and what is that breath 
 from heaven which they seem to feel upon their brow ? 
 The intoxication of earthly love born of the meeting of 
 youth and beauty. So be it ! Slave, bring more such 
 wine and let us drink — to Immortality and to those dear 
 eyes that mirror forth a spirit's face ! 
 
 Such loves indeed are few. For they must be real 
 and deep, and natures thus shaped are rare, nor do 
 they often cross each other's line of life. Yes, there are 
 few who can be borne so high, and none can breathe that 
 ether long. Soon the wings which Love lent them in his 
 hour of revelation will shrink and vanish, and the 
 borrowers will fall back to the level of this world, happy 
 if they escape uncrushed. Perchance even in their life- 
 days, they may find these spirit wings again, 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 
 scant are the occasions, and few there are who know them. 
 
 Thus soared Beatrice and Geoffrey while the wild night
 
 A NIGHT OF STORM. 211 
 
 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 wc 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 Efifie too. No, Geoffrey, no, I have been wicked 
 enough to learn to love you — oh, as you were never loved 
 before, if it is wicked to do what one cannot help — but I 
 am not bad enough for this. Walk quicker, Geoffrey ; we 
 shall be late, and they will suspect something." 
 
 Poor Beatrice, the pangs of conscience were finding 
 her out ! 
 
 " We are in a dreadful position," he said again. " Oh, 
 dearest, I have been to blame. I should never have come 
 back here. It is my fault ; and though I never thought 
 of this, I did my best to please you." 
 
 " And I thank you for it," she answered. " Do not 
 deceive yourself, Geoffrey. Whatever happens, oh 
 promise me never for one moment to believe that I 
 reproached or blamed you. Why should I blame you 
 because you won my heart ? Let me sooner blame the 
 sea on which we floated, the beach where we walked, 
 the house in which we lived, and the Destiny that brought 
 us together. I am proud and glad to love you, dear, but 
 
 14—2
 
 212 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 1 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, B^^atrice," he said. '• I will go to- 
 morrow morning and, if I can, I will keep away." 
 
 " You must keep away. I will not see you any more. 
 I will not bring trouble on you, Geoffrey." 
 
 " You talk of bringing trouble on me," he said ; " you 
 say nothing of yourself, and yet a man, even a man with 
 eyes on him like myself, is better fitted to weather such 
 a storm. If it ruined me, how much more would it 
 ruin you ? " 
 
 They were at the gate of the Vicarage now, and the 
 wind rushed so strongly through the firs that she needed 
 to put her lips quite close to his ear to make her words 
 heard. 
 
 " Stop, ox\Q. minute," she said, " perhaps you do not
 
 A NIGHT OF STORM. ^^^ 
 
 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 
 supper. They supped at nine on Sunday nights ; it was 
 just half-past. 
 
 "Dear me," said the old gentleman, "we began to 
 think that you two must have been out canoeing and got 
 yourselves drowned in good earnest this time. What 
 have you been doing ? " 
 
 " We have had a long walk," answered Geoffrey ; " I did 
 not know that it was so late." 
 
 " One wants to be pleased with one's company to walk 
 far on such a night as this," put in Elizabeth maliciously. 
 
 "And so we were — at least I was," Geoffrey answered 
 with perfect truth, "and the night is not so bad as you 
 might think, at least under the lee of the cliffs. It will 
 be worse by and by ! " 
 
 Then they sat down and made a desperate show of 
 eating supper. Elizabeth, the keen-eyed, noticed that 
 Geoffrey's hand was shaking. Now what, she wondered, 
 would make the hand of a strong man shake like a leaf? 
 Deep emotion might do it, and Elizabeth thought that 
 she detected other signs of emotion in them both, besides
 
 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. 
 
 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. She's grateful enough to you at heart, depend 
 upon it she is, only she did not like to say so. Dear me, 
 how it blows j 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 terminated 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 ligh-tning 
 illumine the broad breast of the mountain behind. Then
 
 A ALIGHT OF STORM. 215 
 
 looking towards the door of Beatrice's room, he gazed 
 at it with the pecuhar reverence that sometimes afifhcts 
 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 w'ith 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.
 
 2i6 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 
 Tiiro' 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
 
 A DAWN OF RAIN. 217 
 
 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 ruin her sister unless in self-defence, or 
 rather, for the cause of self-advancement. Still less did 
 she wish to injure Geoffrey, against whom she had no 
 grudge. So she peeped along the passage, then returning, 
 crept back to her bed like a snake into a hole and watched. 
 
 Mr. Granger, hearing the crash, thought that the front 
 door had blown open. Rising, he lit a candle and went 
 to see. 
 
 But of all this Geoffrey knew nothing, and Beatrice 
 naturally less than nothing. 
 
 She lay senseless in his arms, her head rested on his 
 shoulder, her heavy hair streamed down his side almost 
 to his knee. He lifted her, touched her on the forehead 
 with his lips and laid her on the bed. What was to be 
 done ? Bring her back to life ? No, he dared not — not 
 here. While she lay thus her helplessness protected 
 her; but if once more she was a living, loving woman 
 here and so — oh, how should they escape ? He dared 
 not touch her or look towards her — till he had made up 
 his mind. It was soon done. Here she must not bide, 
 and since of herself she could not go, why he must take 
 her now, this moment ! However far Geoffrey fell short 
 of virtue's stricter standard, let this always be remem- 
 bered in his favour.
 
 2i8 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 1 By 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 ! he 
 had been seen — the old man was coming in. What 
 could he say? Tell the truth, that was all; but who
 
 A DAWN 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 1 
 believed in ghosts — hullo ! my candle has blown out ! 
 I must go and hunt for a match. Don't quite like 
 going in there without a light." 
 
 For the moment they were saved. The fierce draught 
 rushing through the open crack of the door from the ill- 
 fitting window had extinguished the candle. 
 
 Geoffrey waited a few seconds to allow Mr. Granger 
 to reach his room, and then once more started on his 
 awful journey. He passed out of the room in safety; 
 happily Beatrice showed no signs of recovery. A few 
 quick steps and he was at her own door. And now a 
 new terror seized him. What if Elizabeth was also 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 thp
 
 220 BEATRICE. 
 
 fact that Elizabeth was evidently asleep, he groped his 
 way to the second bed through the deep twilight of the 
 room. 'J 'he clothes were thrown back. He laid Beatrice 
 down and drew 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, love and fear, and sought relief in 
 ghastly merriment. Somehow the whole scene reminded 
 him of one in a comic opera. There was a ludicrous 
 side to it. Supposing that the political opponents, who 
 already hated him so bitterly, could have seen him 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 blossomed and borne fruit indeed. Who 
 would have dreamed it possible that he should thus 
 have drawn Beatrice to him ? Well, he ought to have 
 known. If it was possible that the words which floated 
 through her mind could arise in his as they had done upon 
 that night, what was not possible ? And were there 
 not other words, written by the same master-hand, which 
 told of such things as these : 
 
 " ' Now — now,' the door is heard ; 
 Hark, the stairs ! and near — 
 Nearer — and here — 
 ' Now' ! and at call the third, 
 She enters without a word. 
 
 Like the doors of a casket shrine, 
 See on either side, 
 Her two arms divide 
 Till the heart betwixt makes sign, 
 ' Take me, for I am thine. '
 
 A DAWN OF RAIN. 221 
 
 First, I will pray. Do Thou 
 
 That ownest the soul, 
 
 Yet wilt grant control 
 
 To another, nor disallow 
 
 For a time, restrain me now ! " 
 
 Did they not run thus ? Oh, he should have known ! 
 This he could plead, and this only — that control had 
 been granted to him. 
 
 But how would Beatrice fare ? Would she come to 
 herself safely ? He thought so, it was only a fainting fit. 
 But when she did recover, what would she do ? Nothing 
 rash, he prayed. And what could be the end of it all ? 
 Who might say ? How fortunate that the sister had 
 been so sound asleep. Somehow he did not trust Eliza- 
 beth — he feared her. 
 
 Well might he fear her ! Elizabeth's sleep was that of 
 a weasel. She too was laughing at this very moment, 
 laughing, not loud but long — the laugh of one who wins. 
 
 She had seen him enter, his burden in his arms ; 
 had 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 her. As soon 
 as he was gone, she had risen and crept up to Beatrice, 
 and finding that she was only in a faint had left her 
 to recover, knowing her to be in no danger. Elizabeth 
 was not a nervous person. Then she had listened till 
 at length a deep sigh told her of the return of her sister's 
 consciousness. After this there was a pause, till 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 
 crept through the window. Elizabeth still watching, for 
 she was not willing to lose a single scene of a drama so 
 entrancing in itself and so important to her interests, saw 
 her sister suddenly sit up in bed and press her hands to 
 her forehead, as though she was striving to recall a dream. 
 Then Beatrice covered her eyes with her hands and 
 groaned heavily. Next she looked at her watch, rose,
 
 222 BEA TRICE. 
 
 drank a glass of water, and dressed herself, even to the 
 putting on of an old grey waterproof with a hood to it, 
 for it was wet outside. 
 
 " She is going to meet her lover," thought Elizabeth. 
 " I wish I could be there to see that too, but I have 
 seen enough." 
 
 She yawned and appeared to wake. " What, Beatrice, 
 going out already in this pouring rain ? '' she said, with 
 feigned astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, I have slept badly and I v/ant to get some air," 
 answered Beatrice, starting and colouring ; " I suppose 
 that it was the storm." 
 
 " Has there been a storm ? " said Elizabeth, yawning 
 again. *' I heard nothing of it — but then so many things 
 happen when one is asleep of which one knows nothing 
 at the time," she added sleepily, like one speaking at 
 random. " Mind that you are back to say good-bye to 
 Mr. Bingham ; he goes by the early train, you know — but 
 perhaps you will see him out walking," and appearing to 
 wake up thoroughly, she raised herself in bed and gave 
 her sister one piercing look. 
 
 Beatrice made no answer ; that look sent a thrill of 
 fear through her. Oh ; what had happened ! Or was it 
 all a dream ? Had she dreamed that she stood face to 
 face with Geoffrey in his room before a great darkness 
 struck her and overwhelmed her ? Or was it an awful 
 truth, and if a truth, how came she here again ? She 
 went to the pantry, got a morstl 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 sjiray. 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 DA WN OF RAIN. 223 
 
 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 passed between them ; they 
 only grasped each other's hands and looked into each 
 other's hollow eyes. 
 
 "Come under the shelter of the cliff," he said, and she 
 came. She stood beneath the cliff, her head bowed low, 
 her face hidden by the hood, and spoke. 
 
 "Tell me what has happened," she said; "I have 
 dreamed something, a worse dream than any that have 
 gone before — tell me if it is true. Do not spare me." 
 
 And Geoffrey told her all. 
 
 When he had finished she spoke again. 
 
 " By what shall I swear," she said, " that I am not 
 the thing which you must think me ? Geoffrey, I swear 
 by my love for you that I am innocent. If I came — oh, 
 the shame of it ! if I came — to your room last night, it 
 was my feet which led me, not my mind that led my feet. 
 I went to sleep, I was worn out, and then I knew no 
 more till I heard a dreadful sound, and saw you before 
 me in a blaze of light, after which there was darkness." 
 
 " Oh, Beatrice, do not be distressed," he answered. 
 " I saw that you were asleep. It is a dreadful thing which 
 has happened, but I do not think that we were seen." 
 
 " I do not know," she said. " Elizabeth looked at me 
 very strangely this morning, and she sees everything. 
 Geoffrey, for my part, I neither know nor care. What 
 I do care for is, what must you think of me ? You must 
 believe, oh !— I cannot say it. And yet I am innocent. 
 Never, never did I dream of this. To come to you — 
 thus — oh, it is shameless ! " 
 
 "Beatrice, do not talk so. I tell you I know it. 
 Listen — I drew you. I did not mean that you should 
 come. I did not think that you would come, but it was 
 my doing. Listen to me, dear," and he lold her that 
 which written words can ill express.
 
 224 J>^^ TRICE. 
 
 When he had finished, she looked up, with another 
 face ; the great shadow of her shame had left her. " I 
 believe yon, 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 and women often are, but it is denied to us. 
 We must carry our cross, we must crucify the flesh upon 
 it ; perhaps so — who can say ? — we may glorify the spirit. 
 I owe you a great deal. I have learnt much from you, 
 Geoffrey. I have learned to hope again for a Hereafter. 
 Nothing is left to me now — but that — that and an hour 
 hence — your memory. 
 
 " Oh, why should I weep ? It is ungrateful, when I 
 .have your love, for which this misery is but a little price 
 to pay. Kiss me, dear, and go — and never see me more. 
 You will not forget me, I know now that you will tiever 
 forget me all your life. Afterwards — perhaps — who can 
 tell ? If not, why then — it will indeed be best — to die." 
 * * * * * 
 
 It is not well to linger over such a scene as this. 
 After all, too, it is nothing. Only another broken heart 
 or so. The world breaks so many this way and the other 
 that it can have little pleasure in gloating over such 
 stale scenes of agony. 
 
 Besides we must not let our sympathies carry us away. 
 Geoffrey and Beatrice deserved all they got ; they had 
 no business to put themselves into such a position. They 
 had defied the customs of their world, and the world 
 avenged itself upon them and their petty passions. What 
 happens to the worm that tries to burrow on the high-
 
 A DA IVN OF RAIN. 225 
 
 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 
 any rate for many 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 the bed of death — and 
 misery crushed them to the earth. 
 
 He left her, and happiness went out of his life as at 
 nightfall the daylight goes out of the day. Well, at least 
 he had his work to go to. But Beatrice, poor woman, 
 what had she ? 
 
 Geoffrey left her. When he had gone some thirty 
 paces he turned again and gazed his last upon her. 
 There she stood or rather leant, her hand resting against 
 the wet rock, looking after him with her wide grey eyes. 
 Even through the drizzling rain he could see the gleam 
 of her rich hair, the marking of her lovely face, and 
 the carmine of her lips. She motioned to him to go on. 
 He went, and when he had traversed a hundred paces 
 looked round once more. She was still there, but now 
 
 IS
 
 226 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 there you will find reason and fulfilment ? Why it is 
 folly. What ground have you to suppose that you will 
 find anything of the sort ? Go and take the opinion of 
 some scientific person of eminence upon this infatuation 
 of yours and those vague visions of glory that shall be. 
 He will explain it clearly enough, will show you that your 
 love itself is nothing but a natural passion, acting, in your 
 case, on a singularly sensitive and etherealised organism. 
 Be frank with him, tell him of your secret hopes. He
 
 LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 227 
 
 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 your spirituality. 
 It is not a spiritual world ; it has no clear ideas upon the 
 subject — it pays its religious premium and works off 
 its aspirations at its weekly church going, and would think 
 the person a fool who attempted to carry theories 
 of celestial union, into an earthly rule of life. It can 
 sympathise with Lady Honoria ; it can hardly sympathise 
 with you. 
 
 And yet you will still choose this better part : you 
 will still "live and love, and lose." 
 
 " With blinding tears and passionate beseeching, 
 And outstretched arms through empty silence reaching." 
 
 Then, Beatrice, have your will, sow your seed of tears, 
 and take your chance. You may find that you were 
 right and the worldlings wrong, and you may reap a 
 harvest beyond the grasp of their poor imaginations. 
 And if you find that they are right and you are wrong, 
 what will it matter to you who sleep ? For of this at least 
 you are sure. If there is no future for such earthly love 
 as yours, then indeed there is none for the children of 
 this world and all their troubling. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 
 
 Geoffrey hurried to the Vicarage to fetch his baggage 
 and say good-bye. He had no time for breakfast, and 
 he was glad of it, for he could not have eaten a morsel 
 
 15—2
 
 228 BEATRICE. 
 
 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." 
 
 *'0h, 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 cut 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 ojoen 
 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 HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 229 
 
 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. 
 
 Three weeks passed at Bryngelly, and Elizabeth still 
 held her hand. Beatrice, pale and spiritless, went about 
 her duties as usual. Elizabeth never spcke to her in 
 any sense that could awaken her suspicions, and the ghost 
 story was, or appeared to be, pretty well forgotten. But at 
 last an event occurred that caused Elizabeth to 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 lunger," he said wildly, throwing up 
 his arms. "I saw her yesterday, and she cut me short 
 before I could speak a word. I have prayed for patience 
 and it will not come, only a Voice seemed to say to me 
 that I must wait ten days more, ten short days, and then 
 Beatrice, my beautiful Beatrice, would be my wife at last."
 
 230 BEATRICE. 
 
 "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 Uavies," 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 vie. The fish has been on the line 
 long enough, now I must begin to pull in." 
 
 Curiously enough it never really occurred to Elizabeth 
 that Beatrice herself might prove to be the true obstacle 
 to the marriage she plotted to prevent. She knew that 
 her sister was fond of Geoffrey Bingham, but that, when 
 it came to the point, she would absolutely allow her
 
 LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 231 
 
 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 Honoria ! Who could 
 be better for such a purpose than the cruelly injured 
 wife ? But then how should she communicate the facts 
 to her ladyship without involving herself ? Again she hit 
 upon a device much favoured by such people — " un vieux 
 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-pi'Cce in its way, especially phonetically. This
 
 232 BE A TRICE. 
 
 precious epistle, which was most exceedingly ill writ in 
 a large coarse hand, ran thus : 
 
 " My ladi, — My consence druvs me to it, much again 
 my will. I've tried hard, my ladi, not to speek, first 
 acorse of miss B. as i heve knowed good and peur and 
 also for the sakes of your evil usband that wulf in scheeps 
 cloathin. But when i think on you my ladi a lorful 
 legel wife gud and virtus and peur and of the things as i 
 hev seen which is enuf to bring a blush to the face of a 
 stater, I knows it is my holy dooty to rite your ladishipp 
 as follers. Your ladishipp forgif me but on the nite of 
 whittsundey last Miss B. Grainger wint after midnite inter 
 the room of your bad usband — as I was to mi sham ther 
 to se. Afterward more nor an hour, she cum out 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, 
 
 "TheRiter." 
 
 In due course this charming communication reached 
 Lady Honoria, bearing a London post-mark. She read 
 and re-read it, and soon mastered its meaning. Then, 
 after a night's thought, she took the " Riter's " advice and 
 wrote to Elizabeth, sending her a copy of the letter (her 
 own), vehemently repudiating all belief in it, and asking 
 for a reply that should dissipate this foul slander from 
 her mind for ever. 
 
 The answer came by return. It was short and artful. 
 
 "Dear Lady Honoria Bingham," it ran, " you must 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 
 possible for a person to be placed in the most cruel of 
 positions — a position which I am sure will command 
 even your sympathy, though under such circumstances 
 I have little right to expect any from a wife believing
 
 LADY HONOR lA 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, Honoria." 
 
 She turned on him with a dangerous look upon her 
 cold and handsome face. 
 
 " Be careful what you say, Geoffrey. It is you who are 
 not fit to have 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 a 
 separation from an unfaithful husband, and what is more, 
 can take away his children." 
 
 "Again I ask you what you mean," said Geoffrey, 
 turning cold with anger. 
 
 "I mean this, Geoffrey. That Welsh girl is your 
 mistress. She passed the night of Whit-Sunday in your 
 room, and was carried from it in your arms." 
 
 " It is a lie," he said ; " she is nothing of the sort. I 
 do not know who gave you this information, but it is a 
 slanderous lie, and somebody shall suffer for it." 
 
 " Nobody will suffer for it, Geoffrey, because you will 
 not dare to stir the matter up — for the girl's sake if not 
 for your own. Can you deny that you were seen carrying 
 her in your arms from your room on AVhit-Sunday night? 
 Can you deny that you are in love with her ? " 
 
 " And supposing that I am in love with her, is it to be 
 wondered at, seeing how you treat me and have treated
 
 234 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
 
 LAD Y HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 235 
 
 glad enough to be rid of me 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 I should only get a judicial separation, and you 
 would still have to support me. Secondly, if I go, Effie 
 goes with me, for I have a right to claim her at law ; and 
 that fact, my dear Geoffrey, makes me mistress of the 
 situation, because I do not suppose that you would part 
 with Effie even for the sake of Miss Beatrice. And 
 now I will leave you to think it over." 
 
 And with a little nod she sailed out of the room, 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 would crush and crumple such 
 a defence in his address to the jury. A probable tale 
 forsooth ! 
 
 Undoubtedly, too, Honoria would be acting wisely 
 from her point of view. Public sympathy would be 
 with her throughout. He knew that, as it was, he was 
 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 attacks of a vulgar press, and 
 the gibes and jeers of his political and personal enemies, 
 but to lose Effie he could not bear. And if such a case
 
 236 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 ; decidedly, also, 
 she spoke words of weight and common sense. 
 
 What was to be done ? Was there no way out of it ? All 
 that night as Geoffrey sat in the House, his arms folded on 
 his breast, and to appearance intently listening to the long 
 harangues of the Opposition, this question haunted him. 
 He argued the situation out this way and that way, till 
 at the last he came to a conclusion. Either he must wait 
 for the scandal to leak out, let Beatrice be ruined, and 
 direct his efforts to the softening of Honoria, and generally 
 to self-preservation, or he must take the bull by the horns, 
 must abandon his great career and his country and seek 
 refuge in another land, say America, taking Beatrice and 
 Effie with him. Once the child was out of the jurisdiction, 
 of course no court could force her from him. 
 
 Of the two courses, even in so far as he himself was 
 concerned, what between the urgency of the matter and 
 the unceasing pressure of his passion, Geoffrey inclined to 
 the latter. The relations between himself and Honoria 
 had for years been so strained, so totally different from 
 those which should exist between man and wife, that 
 they greatly mitigated in his mind the apparent iniquity 
 of such a step. Nor would he feel much compunction 
 at removing the child from her mother, for there was 
 no love lost between the two, and as time went on he 
 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
 
 LADY HONORIA TAKES THE FIELD. 237 
 
 probably much more than a Hving, 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 wish to do. She 
 did not greatly care about the Beatrice incident, but her 
 shrewd common sense told her that it might well be used 
 as an engine to ruin them all. Therefore she spoke as she 
 did speak, though in reality matters would have to be bad 
 indeed before she sought the aid of a court of law, where 
 many things concerning herself might come to the light 
 of day which she would prefer to leave in darkness. 
 . Nor did she stop here ; she determined to attack 
 Geoffrey's position in another way, namely, through 
 Beatrice herself. For a long time Honoria hesitated as 
 to the method of this attack. She had some knowledge 
 of the world and of character, and from what she knew of 
 Beatrice she came to the sound conclusion that she was 
 not a woman to be threatened, but rather one to be 
 appealed to. So after much thought she wrote to her 
 thus : — 
 
 "A story, which I still hesitate to believe, has come 
 to me by means of anonymous letters, as to your 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
 
 238 BE A TRICE. 
 
 affection for the partner of your shame. I put myself 
 out of the question, and in the name of that affection, 
 however guilty it may be, I ask you to push matters no 
 further. To do so will be to bring its object to utter 
 ruin. If you care for Iii/n, sever all connection with 
 him utterly and for ever. Otherwise he will live to curse 
 and hate you. Should you neglect this advice, and 
 should the facts that I have heard become public 
 property, I warn you, as I have already warned him, that 
 in self-preservation and for the sake of self-respect, I 
 shall be forced to appeal to the law for my remedy. 
 Remember that his career is at stake, and that in losing 
 it and me he will also lose his child. Remember that 
 if this comes about it will be through you. Do not 
 answer this, it will do no good, for I shall naturally put 
 no faith in your protestations, but if you are in any way 
 or measure guilty of this offence, appealing to you as one 
 woman to another, and for the sake of the man who is 
 dear to both, I say do your best to redeem the evil, by 
 making all further conimunication between yourself and 
 him an impossibility. 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 hfe-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. I do not say to you co7ne, I say come if you 
 wish. No, Beatrice, I will not put this cruel burden 
 of decision upon you. I say come ! I do not command 
 you to come, because I promised to leave you 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
 
 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 unwholesome dream. The 
 one real thing, the one happy thing that I have found in it 
 has been our love. Do not let us throw it away, Beatrice." 
 
 By return of post he received this answer written in 
 pencil. 
 
 " No, dear Geoffrey. Things must take their course. 
 — B." 
 
 That was all. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 
 
 Hard had been Beatrice's hours since that grey 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 humiliating and hateful to Beatrice, became the talk 
 of the place. Everybody knew of it, except her father, 
 and even his eyes began to be opened. 
 
 One night — it was the same upon which Geoffrey and 
 Honoria 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 ! Oh, 
 God, answer me ! " 
 
 For two long hours thus he walked and thus cried 
 aloud, till at length he sank panting and exhausted into 
 a chair. Suddenly he raised his head, and appeared to 
 listen intently. 
 
 " The Voice," he said aloud ; " the Voice again. What 
 does it say ? To-morrow, to-morrow I must speak ; 
 and I shall win her." 
 
 He sprang up with a shout, and once more began his 
 wild march. " Oh, Beatrice ! " he said, " to-morrow you 
 will promise to marry me ; the Voice says so, and soon, 
 soon, perhaps in one short month, you will be my own 
 — mine only ! Geoffrey Bingham shall not come between 
 us then, for I will watch you day and night. You shall 
 be my very, very own — my own beautiful Beatrice," and 
 he stretched out his arms and clasped at the empty air — 
 a crazy and unpleasant sight to see. 
 
 And so he walked and spoke till the dawn was grey in 
 the east. This occurred on the Friday night. It was on the 
 following morning that Beatrice, the unfortunate and 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 from 
 Geoffrey. Poor woman, his letters were the one bright 
 thing in her life. From motives of prudence they were 
 written in the usual semi-formal style, but she was quick 
 to read between the lines, and, moreover, they came from 
 his dear hand. 
 
 There was the letter sure enough, and another in a 
 woman's writing. She recognised the hand as that of 
 Lady Honoria, which she had often seen on envelopes 
 directed to Geoffrey, and a thrill of fear shot through 
 her. She took the letters, and walking as quickly 
 as she could to the school, locked herself in her own
 
 ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH 241 
 
 little room, for it was not yet nine o'clock, and looked at 
 them with a gathering terror. What was in them ? Why 
 did Lady Honoria write to her ? Which should she 
 read first ? In a moment Beatrice had made up her mind. 
 She would face the worst at once. With a set face she 
 opened Lady Honoria's letter, unfolded it, and read. We 
 already know its contents. As her mind grasped them 
 her lips grew ashy white, and by the time that the 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 ! 
 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 
 lier to him for good and all, and go away with her to 
 l)cgin life afresh. It seemed a wonderful thing to Beatrice 
 that he should be willing to sacrifice so much upon sucli 
 a worthless altar as her love — a wonderful and most 
 generous thing. She pressed the senseless paper to her 
 
 16
 
 242 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 clergymari 
 by the coat in a way that made him start.
 
 ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 243 
 
 " What — my coat, do you mean ? " 
 
 "Don't be so foolish, Mr. Granger. No, about 
 Beatrice." 
 
 " Oh, indeed, Mr. Davies. Nothing wrong at the 
 school, I hope ? I think that she does her duties to 
 the satisfaction of the committee, though I admit that the 
 arithmetic " 
 
 " No ! no, no ! It is not about the school. I don't 
 wish her to go to the school any more. I love her, 
 Mr. Granger, I love her dearly, and I want to marry 
 her." 
 
 • The old man flushed with pleasure. Was it possible ? 
 Did he hear aright ? Owen Davies, the richest man in 
 that part of Wales, wanted to marry his daughter, who 
 had nothing but her beauty. It must be too good to be 
 true ! 
 
 " I am indeed flattered," he said. " It is more than 
 she could expect — not but what Beatrice is very good- 
 looking and very clever," he added hastily, fearing lest he 
 was detracting from his daughter's market value. 
 
 " Good-looking — clever ; she is an angel," murmured 
 Owen. 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course she is," said her father, " that is, 
 if a woman — yes, of course — and what is more, I think 
 she's very fond of you. I think she is pining for you. 
 I've thought so for a long time." 
 
 "Is she?" said Owen anxiously. "Then all I have 
 to say is that she takes a very curious way of showing it. 
 She won't 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
 
 244 BE A TRICE. 
 
 "Well, I did not suppose otherwise, Mr. Davies." 
 
 " If you help me in this I will do whatever you like 
 as to money matters and that sort of thing, you know. 
 She shall have as fine a settlement as any woman in 
 Wales. I know that goes a long way with a father, and 
 I shall raise no difficulties." 
 
 "Very right and proper, I am sure," said Mr. Granger, 
 adopting a loftier tone as he discovered the advantages 
 of his position. " But of course on such matters I shall 
 take the advice of a lawyer. I daresay that Mr. Bingham 
 would advise me," he added, " as a friend of the family, 
 you know. He is a very clever lawyer, and, besides, he 
 wouldn't charge anything " 
 
 "Oh, no, not Mr. Bingham," answered Owen anxiously. 
 " I will do anything you like, or if you wish to have a 
 lawyer I'll pay the bill myself. But never mind about 
 that now. Let us settle it with Beatrice first. Come 
 along at once." 
 
 " Eh, but hadn't you better arrange that part of the 
 business privately ? " 
 
 " No, no. She always snubs me when I try to speak 
 to her alone. You had better be there, and Miss 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 
 himself.
 
 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 father, " we were just asking 
 for you." 
 
 She glanced round, and with the c^uick 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. " What is it, father ? " 
 
 Mr. Granger looked at Owen Davies and then took a 
 step towards the door. It struck him forcibly that this 
 scene should be private to the two persons principally 
 concerned. 
 
 " Don't go," said Owen Davies excitedly, " don't go, 
 either of you ; what I have to say had better be said 
 before you both. I should like to say it before the whole 
 world ; to cry it from the mountain tops." 
 
 Elizabeth glared at him fiercely — glared first at him 
 and then at the innocent Beatrice. Could he be going 
 to propose to her, then ? Ah, w^hy 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 scattered energies. 
 The storm had burst at last, and she must face it. 
 
 "I asked her to marry me, and she told me to wait a 
 year. I have waited as long as I could, but I could not 
 wait the whole year. I have prayed a great deal, and I 
 am bidden to speak." 
 
 Elizabeth made a gesture of impatience. She was a 
 person of strong common sense, and this mixture of 
 religion and eroticism disgusted her. She also knew 
 that the storm had burst, and that she must face it. 
 
 "So I come to tell you that I love your daughter 
 Beatrice, and want to make her my wife. I have never 
 loved anybody else, but I have loved her for years ; and 
 I ask your consent." 
 
 " Very flattering, very flattering, I am sure, especially 
 in these hard times," said Mr. Granger apologetically, 
 shaking his thin hair down over his forehead, and then 
 rumpling it up again. " But you see, Mr. Davies, you 
 don't want to marry me " (here Beatrice smiled faintly) — 
 "you want to marry my daughter, so you had better ask 
 her direct — at least I suppose so." 
 
 Elizabeth made a movement as though to speak, then 
 changed her mind and listened. 
 
 " Beatrice," said Owen Davies, " you hear. I ask you 
 to marry me." 
 
 There was a pause. Beatrice, who had sat quite silent, 
 was gathering up her strength to answer. Elizabeth, 
 watching her from beneath her hand, thought that she 
 read upon her face irresolution, softening into consent. 
 What she really saw was but doubt as to the fittest and 
 most certain manner of refusal. Like lightning it flashed 
 into Elizabeth's mind that she must strike now, or hold her 
 hand for ever. If once Beatrice spoke that fatal "yes," 
 her revelations might be of no avail. And Beatrice 
 would speak it ; she was sure she would. It was a golden 
 road out of her troubles. 
 
 " Stop ! " said Elizabeth in a shrill, hard voice. " Stop ! 
 I must speak ; it is my duty as a Christian. I must tell 
 the truth. I cannot allow an honest man to be deceived."
 
 ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 247 
 
 There was an awful pause. Beatrice broke it. Now 
 she saw all the truth, and knew what was at hand. She 
 placed her hand upon her heart to still its beating. 
 
 "Oh, Elizabeth," she said, "in our dead mother's 
 name " and she stopped. 
 
 " Yes," answered her sister, " in our dead mother's 
 name, which you have dishonoured, I will do it. Listen, 
 Owen Davies, and father : Beatrice, who sits there " — 
 and she pointed at her with her thin hand — " Beatrice is 
 a scarlet woman ! " 
 
 "I really don't understand," gasped Mr. Granger, 
 while Owen looked round wildly, and Beatrice sunk her 
 head upon her breast. 
 
 *' Then I will explain," said Elizabeth, still pointing 
 at her sister. " She is Geoffrey Bingham's mistress. On 
 the night of Whit-Sunday last she rose from bed and 
 went into his room at one in the morning. I saw her 
 with my own eyes. Afterwards she was brought back to 
 her bed in his arms — I saw it with my own eyes, and I 
 heard him kiss her." (This was a piece of embroidery 
 on Elizabeth's part.) " She is his lover, and has been in 
 love with him for months. I tell you this, Owen Davies, 
 because, though I cannot bear to bring disgrace upon 
 our name and to defile my lips with such a tale, neither 
 can I bear that you should marry a girl, believing her to 
 be good, when she is what Beatrice is." 
 
 " Then I wish to God that you had held your wicked 
 tongue," said Mr. Granger fiercely. 
 
 " No, father. I have a duty to perform, and I will 
 perform it at any cost, and however much it pains me. 
 You know that what! say is true. You heard the noise on 
 the night of Whit-Sunday, and got up to see what it was. 
 You saw the white figure in the passage — it was Geoffrey 
 Bingham with Beatrice in his arms. Ah ! well may she 
 hang her head. Let her deny it if she can. Let her 
 deny that she loves him to her shame, and that she 
 was alone in his room on that night." 
 
 Then Beatrice rose and spoke. She was pale as death 
 and more beautiful in her shame and her despair than
 
 24B 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 wliat Elizabeth tells you 
 that I am. 1 am not Geoffrey Bingham's mistress. It 
 is true that I was in his room that night, and it is true 
 that he carried me back to my own. But it was in my 
 sleep that I went there, not of my own free will. I 
 awoke there, and fainted when I woke, and then at once 
 he bore me back." 
 
 Elizabeth laughed shrill and loud — it sounded like the 
 cackle of a fiend. 
 
 " In her sleep," she said; "oh, she went there in her 
 sleep ! " 
 
 " Yes, Elizabeth, in my sleep. You do not believe 
 me, but it is true. You do not wish to believe me. You 
 wish to bring the sister whom you should love, 
 who has never offended against you by act or word, to 
 utter disgrace and ruin. In your cowardly spite you have 
 written anonymous letters to Lady Honoria Bingham, to 
 prevail upon her to strike the blow that should destroy 
 her husband and myself, and when you fear that this has 
 failed, you come forward and openly accuse us. You do 
 this in the name of Christian duty ; in the name of love 
 and charity, you believe the worst, and seek to ruin us. 
 Shame on you, Elizabeth ! shame on you ! and may the 
 same measure that you have meted out to me never be 
 paid back to you. We are no longer sisters. Whatever 
 happens, I have done with you. Go your ways." 
 
 Elizabeth shrank and quailed beneath her sister's 
 scorn. Even her venomous hatred could not bear up 
 against the flash of those royal eyes^ and the majesty of 
 that outraged innocence. She gasped and bit her lip 
 till the blood started, but she said nothing. 
 
 Then Beatrice turned to her father, and spoke in 
 another and a pleading voice, stretching out her arms 
 towards him. 
 
 "Oh, father," she said, "at least tell me that you
 
 ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 249 
 
 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 ! Oh, she had never 
 dreamed of this ! 
 
 " Noble, noble ! " murmured Mr. Granger ; " noble J 
 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
 
 250 BEATRICE. 
 
 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
 
 ELIZABETH SHOWS HER TEETH. 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 eneniies and rivals. Then Lady 
 Honoria would begin her suit, and it would all be 
 dragged up afresh, and Geoffrey's fault would be on 
 every lip, till he was ruined. For herself she did not 
 care ; but could she bring this on one whose only crime 
 was that she had learned to love him ? No, no ; but 
 neither could she marry this hateful man. And yet what 
 escape was there ? She flung herself upon her woman's 
 wit, and it did not fail her. In a few seconds she had 
 thought it all out and made up her mind. 
 
 " How can I answer you at a moment's notice, Mr. 
 Davies ? " she said. " I must have time to think it over. 
 To threaten such revenge upon me is not manly, but I 
 know that you love me, and therefore I excuse it. Still, 
 I must have time. I am confused." 
 
 " What, another year ? No, no," he said. " You 
 must answer." 
 
 " I do not ask a year or a month. I only ask for one 
 week. If you will not give me that, then I will defy you, 
 and you may do your worst. I cannot answer now." 
 
 This was a bold stroke, but it told, Mr. Davies 
 hesitated, 
 
 " Give the girl a Week," said her father to him, " She 
 is not herself." 
 ■ *' Very well ; one week, no more," said he, 
 
 " I have another stipulation to make," said Beatrice. 
 " You are all to swear to me that foj that week no word
 
 252 
 
 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 Uavies hesitated; he was suspicious. 
 
 " Remember," Beatrice went on, raising her voice, " I 
 am a desperate woman. I may turn at bay, and do 
 something which you do not expect, and that will be very 
 little to the advantage of any of you. Do you swear ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Owen Davies. 
 
 Then Beatrice looked at Elizabeth, and Elizabeth looked 
 at her. She saw that the matter had taken a new form. 
 She saw what her jealous folly had hitherto hidden from 
 her — that Beatrice did not mean to marry Owen Davies, 
 that she was merely gaining time to execute some purpose 
 of her own. What this might be Elizabeth cared little 
 so that it did not utterly extinguish chances that at the 
 moment seemed faint enough. She did not want to push 
 matters against her sister, or her lover Geoffrey, beyond 
 the boundary of her own interests. Beatrice should have 
 her week, and be free from all interference so far as she 
 was concerned. She realised now that it was too I'ate 
 how great had been her error. Oh, if only she had 
 sought Beatrice's confidence at first ! But it had seemed 
 to her impossible that she would really throw away such 
 an opportunity in life. 
 
 " Certainly I promise, Beatrice," she said mildly. " I 
 do not swear, for 'swear not at all,' you know. I only 
 did what I thought my duty in warning Mr. Davies. If 
 he chooses to go on with the matter, it is no affair of 
 mine. I had no wish to hurt you, or Mr. Bingham. I 
 acted solely from my religious convictions." 
 
 " Oh, stop talking religion, Elizabeth, and practise it a 
 little more ! " said her father, for once in his life stirred 
 out of his feeble selfishness. " We have all undertaken 
 to keep our mouths sealed for this week." 
 
 Then Beatrice left the room, and after her went Owen 
 Davies without another word.
 
 WHA T BE A TRICE S WORE. 2 5 3 
 
 " Elizabeth," said her father, rising, "you are a wicked 
 woman ! What did you do this for ? " 
 
 " Do you want to know, father ? " she said coolly ; 
 "then I will tell you. Because I mean to marry Owen 
 Davies myself. We must all look after ourselves in this 
 world, you know ; and that is a maxim which you never 
 forget, for one. I mean to marry him ; and though I 
 seem to have failed, marry him I will, yet ! And now 
 you know all about it ; and if you are not a fool, you will 
 hold your tongue and let me be ! " and she went also, 
 leaving him alone. 
 
 Mr. Granger held up his hands in astonishment. He 
 was a selfish, money-seeking old man, but he felt that he 
 did not deserve to have such a daughter as this. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 WHAT BEATRICE SWORE. 
 
 Beatrice went to her room, but the atmosphere of the 
 place seemed to stifle her. Her brain was reeling, she 
 must go out into the air — away from her tormentors. She 
 had not yet answered Geoffrey's letter, and it must be 
 answered by this post, for there was none on Sunday. It 
 was half-past four — the post went out at five ; if she was 
 going to write, she should do so at once, but she could 
 not do so here. Besides, she must find time for 
 thought. Ah, she had it ; she would take her canoe and 
 paddle across the bay to the little town of Coed and 
 write her letter there. The post did not leave Coed till 
 half-past six. She put on her hat and jacket, and taking 
 a stamp, a sheet of paper, and an envelope with her, 
 slipped quietly from the house down to old Edward's 
 boat-liouse where the canoe was kept. Old I'^dwarel 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
 
 254 BE A TRICE. 
 
 was paddling round the shore of the island on which 
 the Castle stood towards the open bay. 
 
 As she paddled her mind cleared, and she was able to 
 consider the position. It was bad enough. She saw no 
 light, darkness hemmed her in. But at least she had a 
 week before her, and meanwhile what should she write 
 to Geoffrey ? 
 
 Then, as she thought, a great temptation assailed 
 Beatrice, and for the first time her resolution wavered. 
 Why should she not accept Geoffrey's offer and go away 
 with him — far away from all this misery ? Gladly would 
 she give her life to spend one short year at his dear side. 
 She had but to say the word, and he would take her to 
 him, and in a month from now they would be together in 
 some foreign land, counting the world well lost, as he 
 had said. Doubtless in time Lady Honoria would get 
 a divorce, and they might be married. A day might 
 even come when all this would seem like a forgotten 
 night of storm and fear ; when, surrounded by the 
 children of their love, they would wend peaceably, 
 happily, through the evening of their days towards a 
 bourne robbed of half its terrors by the fact that they 
 would cross it hand-in-hand. 
 
 Oh, that would be well for her ; but would it be well for 
 him ? When the first months of passion had passed by, 
 would he not begin to think of all that he had thrown away 
 for the sake of a woman's love ? Would not the burst of 
 shame and obloquy which would follow him to the remotest 
 corners of the earth wear away his affection, till at last, as 
 Lady Honoria said, he learned to curse and hate her. 
 And if it did not — if he still loved her through it all — as, 
 being what he was, he well might do — could she be the 
 one to bring this ruin on him ? Oh, it would have been 
 more kind to let him drown on that night of storm, when 
 fate first brought them together to their undoing. 
 
 No, no ; once and for all, once and for ever, she would 
 not do it. Cruel as was her strait, heavy as was her 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
 
 WHA T BE A TRICE S WORE. 255 
 
 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 ; 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 drewthe sheet 
 of paper and the envelope from her pocket, and leaning 
 forward, rested them on the arched covering of the 
 canoe, and pencilled those words which we have already 
 read. 
 
 " No, dear Geoffrey. Things must take their course. 
 — B." 
 
 Thus she wrote. Then she paddled to the shore. • A 
 fisherman standing on the beach caught her canoe and 
 pulled it up. Leaving it in his charge, she went into the 
 quaint little town, directed and posted her letter, and 
 bought some wool. It was an excuse for having been 
 there should any one ask questions. After that she 
 returned to her canoe. The fisherman was standing by 
 it. She offered him sixpence for his trouble, but he 
 would not take it. 
 
 " No, miss," he said, " thanking you kindly — but we 
 don't often get a peep at such sweet looks. It's worth 
 sixpence to see you, it is. But, miss, if I may make so 
 bold as to say so, it isn't safe for you to cruise about in 
 that craft, any ways not alone," 
 
 Beatrice thanked him and blushed a little. Vaguely 
 it occurred to her that she must have more than a 
 common share of beauty, when a rough man could be 
 so impressed with it. That was what men loved women 
 for, their beauty, as Owen Davies loved and desired 
 her for this same cause and this only. 
 
 Perhaps it was the same with Geoffrey — no, she did 
 not believe it. He loved her for other thinQ;s 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
 
 256 BE A TRICE. 
 
 despair, with conscience gnawing at her heart, with present 
 misery pressing on her breast, and shame to come hang- 
 ing over her Uke a thunder cloud, could yet feel thankful 
 that she had won this barren love, the spring of all her 
 woe. Or was her folly deep wisdom in disguise? — is 
 there something divine in a passion that can so override 
 and defy the worst agonies of life ? 
 
 She was at sea again now, and evening was falling 
 on the waters softly as a dream. Well, the letter was 
 posted. Would it be the last, she wondered ? It seemed 
 as though she must write no more letters. And what 
 was to be done ? She would not marry Owen Davies 
 — never would she do it. She could not so shamelessly 
 violate her feelings, for Beatrice was a woman to whom 
 death would be preferable to dishonour, however legal. 
 No, for her own sake she would not be soiled with that 
 disgrace. Did she do this, she would hold herself the 
 vilest of the vile. And still less would she do it for 
 Geoffrey's sake. Her instinct told her what he would feel 
 at such a thing, though he might never say a word. 
 Surely he would loathe and despise her. No, that idea 
 was done with — utterly done with. 
 
 Then what remained to her ? She would not fly with 
 Geoffrey, since to do so would be ;to ruin him. She 
 would not marry Owen, and not to. do so would still be 
 to ruin Geoffrey. She was no fool, she was innocent in 
 act, but she knew that her innocence would indeed be 
 hard to prove — even her own father did not believe in it, 
 and her sister would openly accuse her to the world. 
 What then should she do ? Should she hide herself in 
 some remote half civilised place, or in London ? It was 
 impossible ; she had no money, and no means of getting 
 any. Besides, they would hunt her out, both Owen 
 Davies and Geoffrey would track her to the furthest 
 limits of the earth. And would not the former think 
 that Geoffrey had spirited her away, and at once put his 
 threats into execution ? Obviously he would. There 
 was no hope in that direction. Some other plan must 
 be found or her lover would still be ruined.
 
 WHA T BE A TRICE S WORE. 257 
 
 So argued Beatrice, still thinking not of herself, but of 
 Geoffrey, of that beloved one who was more to her than 
 all the world, more, a thousand times, than her own safety 
 or well-being. Perhaps she overrated the matter. Owen 
 Davies, Lady Honoria, and even Elizabeth might have 
 done all they threatened ; the first of them, perhaps the 
 first two of them, certainly would have done so. But still 
 Geoffrey might have escaped destruction. Public opinion, 
 or the sounder part of it, is sensibly enough hard to 
 move in such a matter, especially when the person said 
 to have been wronged is heart and soul on the side of 
 him who is said to have wronged her. 
 
 Moreover there might have been ways out of it, of 
 which she knew nothing. But surrounded as she was 
 by threatening powers — by Lady Honoria threatening 
 actions in the Courts on one side, by Owen Davies 
 threatening exposure on another, by Elizabeth ready and 
 willing to give the most damning evidence on the third, 
 to Beatrice the worst consequences seemed an absolutely 
 necessary sequence. Then there was her own conscience 
 arrayed against her. This particular charge was a lie, but 
 it was not a lie that she loved Geoffrey, and to her the two 
 things seemed very much the same thing. Hers was not 
 a mind to draw fine distinctions in such matters. Se 
 posuit ut adpabilem : 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 him 
 
 17
 
 258 BE A TRICE. 
 
 with her sorrows, she would bear them alone — little 
 reckoning that thereby she was laying up a far, far 
 heavier load for him to carry through all his days. 
 
 So Beatrice accepted the statements of the plaintiff's 
 attorney for gospel truth, and from that false standpoint 
 she drew her auguries. 
 
 Oh, she was weary ! How lovely was the falling night, 
 see how it brooded on the seas ! and how clear were the 
 waters — there a fish passed by her paddle — ^and there 
 the first 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 was 
 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 botto.n 
 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
 
 WHA T BE A TRICE S WORE. 3 59 
 
 there, better at any rate than on the earth. But things 
 cannot be ended so ; one is burdened with the flesh, and 
 one must wear it till it fails. Why must she wear it ? 
 Was not the sea large enough to hide her bones ? Look 
 now, she had but to slip over the edge of the canoe, slip 
 without a struggle into those mighty arms, and in a few 
 short minutes it would all be done and gone ! 
 
 She gasped as the thought struck home. Here was the 
 answer to her questionings, the same answer that is given 
 to 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 himself over 
 her, Elizabeth could pursue her no further. It would be 
 well to do this thing for Geoffrey, and he would always 
 love her, and beyond that black curtain there might be 
 something better. 
 
 They said that it was sin. Yes, it might be sin to act 
 thus for oneself alone. But to do it for another — how 
 of that 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 Geoffrey might go free ? 
 
 Oh, it would be no great merit. Her life was not so 
 easy that she should fear this pure embrace. It would 
 be better, far better, than to marry Owen Davies, than 
 to desecrate their love and teach Geoffrey to despise her. 
 And how else could she ward this trouble from him except 
 by her death, or by a marriage that in her eyes was more 
 dreadful than any death ? 
 
 She could not do it yet. She could not die until she 
 had once more seen his face, even though he did not see 
 hers. No, not to-night would she seek this swift solution, 
 
 17 — 2
 
 26o 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 ! 
 
 It grew dark ; she could hear the whisper of the waves 
 upon Bryngelly beach. It grew dark ; the night was clos- 
 ing round. She paddled to within a few fathoms of the 
 shore and called in her clear voice. 
 
 " Ay, ay, miss," answered old Edward from the beach. 
 " Come in on the next wave." 
 
 She came in accordingly and her canoe was caught and 
 dragged high and dry. 
 
 " What, Miss Beatrice," said the old man shaking his 
 head and grumbling, " at it again ! Out all alone in that 
 thing," and he gave the canoe a contemptuous kick, 
 "and in the dark, too. You want a husband to took 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 
 and supposing you should drift beyond the shelter of 
 Rumball Point there, and get the rollers down on you — 
 why you would be drowned in five minutes. It's wicked, 
 miss, that's what it is." 
 
 Beatrice laughed again and went. 
 
 " She's a funny one she is," said the old man scratch- 
 ing his head as he looked after her, "of all the woman 
 folk as ever I knowed she is the rummest. I sometimes 
 thinks she wants to get drowned. Dash me if I haven't
 
 WHAT BEATRICE SWORE. 261 
 
 half a mind to stave a hole in the bottom of that there 
 damned canoe, and finish it." 
 
 Beatrice reached home a little before supper time. Her 
 first act was to call Betty the servant and with her assis- 
 tance shift her bed and things into the spare room. 
 AVith Elizabeth she would have nothing more to do. 
 They had slept together since they were children, now 
 she had done with her. Then she went in to supper, 
 and sat through it like a statue, speaking no word. Her 
 father and Elizabeth kept up a strained conversation, but 
 they did not speak to her, 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 the 
 tithe question. He was to return by the last train on 
 the Tuesday night, that is, about midnight. Beatrice now 
 discovered that Elizabeth proposed to accompany him. 
 Evidently she wished to see as little as possible of her 
 sister during this week of truce — possibly she was a little 
 afraid of her. Even Elizabeth might have a conscience. 
 
 So she should be left alone from Monday morning till 
 Tuesday night. One can do a good deal in forty hours. 
 
 After supper Beatrice rose and left the room, without a 
 word, and they were glad when she went. She frightened 
 them with her set face and great calm eyes. But neither 
 spoke to the other on the subject. They had 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 startlihg rapidity. 
 She reviewed the whole position ; she went over all 
 the arguments and searched the moral horizon for some 
 feasible avenue of escape. But she could find none that 
 would save Geoffrey, except this. Yes, she would do it, 
 as many another wretched woman had done before her, 
 not from cowardice indeed, for had she alone been con- 
 cerned she would have faced the thing out, fighting to the
 
 262 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 she well knew how to avoid such a possibility ; in 
 her extremity Beatrice grew cunning as a fox. Yes, and 
 there might be an inquest at which awkward questions 
 would be asked. But, as she well knew also, before an 
 inquest can be held there must be something to hold it 
 on, and that something would not be there. 
 
 And so in the utter silence of the night and in the 
 loneliness of her chamber did Beatrice dedicate herself 
 to sacrifice upon the altar of her immeasurable love. She 
 would face the last agonies of death when the bloom of 
 her youthful strength and beauty was but opening as a 
 rose in June. She would do more, she would brave the 
 threatened vengeance of the most High, coming before 
 Him a self murderess, and with but one plea for pity — 
 that she loved so well : quia multum amavit. Yes, she 
 would do all this, would leave the warm world in the 
 dawning summer of her days, and alone go out into 
 the dark — alone would face those visions which might 
 come — those Shapes of terror, and those Things of fear, 
 that perchance may wait for sinful hiiman 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 faiUng 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 
 
 Providence, rushing to doom. Pity her, but do not 
 blame her overmuch, or if you do, then blame Judith and 
 Jephtha's daughter and Charlotte Corday, and all the 
 glorious women who from time to time have risen on this 
 sordid world of self, and given themselves as an offering 
 upon the altars of their love, their religion, their honour 
 or their country ! 
 
 It was finished. Now let her rest while she could, 
 seeing what was to come. With a sigh for all that was, 
 and all that might have been, Beatrice lay down and soon 
 slept sweetly as a child. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, 
 
 Next day was Sunday. Beatrice did not go to church. 
 For one thing, she feared to see Owen Davies there. 
 But she took her Sunday school class as usual, and long 
 did the children remember how kind and patient she was 
 with them that day, and how beautifully she told them 
 the story of the Jewish girl of long ago, who went forth 
 to die for the sake of her father's oath. 
 
 Nearly all the rest of the day and evening she spent 
 in writing that which we shall read in time — only in the 
 late afternoon she went out for a little while in her 
 canoe. Another thing Beatrice did also : she called at 
 the lodging of her assistant, the head school teacher, and 
 told her it was possible that she would not be in her 
 place on the Tuesday (Monday was, as it chanced, a 
 holiday). If anybody inquired as to her absence, perhaps 
 she would kindly tell them that Miss Granger had an 
 appointment to keep, and had taken a morning's 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 I^EA TRICE. 
 
 Granger and Elizabeth had to catch the train. Beatrice 
 sat through the meal in silence, her calm eyes looking 
 straight before her, and the others, gazing on them, and 
 at the lovely ins'crutable 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 that they could 
 ever take together, this was the last time that she could 
 ever see her father's and her sister's faces. For her sister, 
 well, it might pass — for there are some tilings which even 
 a woman like Beatrice can never quite forgive — but she 
 loved her father. She loved his very faults, even his 
 simple avarice and self-seeking had become endeared to 
 her by long and wondering contemplation. Besides, he 
 was her father ; he gave her the life she was about to cast 
 away. And she should never see him more. Not on that 
 account did she hesitate in her purpose, which was now 
 set in her mind, like Bryngelly Castle on its rock, but at 
 the thought tears rushed unbidden to her eyes. 
 
 Just then breakfast came to an end, and Elizabeth 
 hurried from the room to fetch her bonnet. 
 
 "Father," said Beatrice, "if you can before you go, I 
 should like to hear you say 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. 265 
 
 "I can't, Beatrice," he said— " not that I blame you 
 overmuch for trying to defend yourself ; a cornered rat 
 will show fight." 
 
 " May you never regret those words," she said ; "and 
 now good-bye," and she kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 At this moment Elizabeth entered, saying that it was 
 time to start, and he did not return the kiss. 
 
 " Good-bye, Elizabeth," said Beatrice, stretching out 
 her hand. But Elizabeth affected not to see it, and in 
 another moment they were gone. She followed them 
 to the gate and watched them till they vanished down 
 the road. Then she returned, her heart strained almost 
 to bursting. But she wept no tear. 
 
 Thus did Beatrice bid a last farewell to her father and 
 her sister. 
 
 " Elizabeth," said Mr. Granger, as they drew near to the 
 station, " I am not easy in my thoughts about Beatrice. 
 There was such a strange look in her eyes ; it — in short, 
 it frightens me. I have half a mind to give up Hereford, 
 and go back," and he stopped upon the road, hesitating. 
 
 "As you like," said Elizabeth with a sneer, "but I 
 should think that Beatrice is big enough and bad enough 
 to look after herself." 
 
 " Before the God who made us," said the old man 
 furiously, and striking the ground with his stick, " she may 
 be bad, but she is not so bad as you who betrayed hen 
 If Beatrice is a Magdalene, you are a \voman Judas ; 
 and I believe that you hate her, and would be glad to 
 see her dead." 
 
 Elizabeth made no answer. They were nearing the 
 station, for her father had started on again, and there 
 were people about. But she looked at him, and he 
 never forgot the look. It was quite enough to chill him 
 into silence, nor did he allude to the matter any more. 
 
 When they were gone, Beatrice set about her own 
 preparations. Her wild purpose was to travel to London, 
 and catch a glimpse of Geoffrey's face in the House of 
 Commons, if possible, and then return. She put on her
 
 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 small 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. But here fortune befriended her. While she was 
 thinking the matter over, who should come in but Betty 
 herself, crying. She had just heard, she said, that her 
 little sister, who lived with their mother at a village about 
 ten miles away, had been knocked down by a cart and 
 badly hurt. Might she go home for the night ? She 
 could come back on the morrow, and Miss Beatrice 
 could get somebody in to sleep if she was lonesome- 
 Beatrice sympathised, demurred, and consented, and 
 Betty started at once. As soon as she was gone, Beatrice 
 locked up the house, put the key in her pocket, and 
 started on her five miles' tramp. Nobody saw her leave 
 the house, and she passed by a path at the back of the 
 village, so that nobody saw her on the road. Reaching 
 Coed Station quite unobserved, and just before the train 
 was due, she let down her veil, and took a third-class 
 ticket to London. This she was obliged to do, for her 
 stock of money was very small ; it amounted, altogether, 
 to thirty-six shillings, of which the fare to London and 
 back would cost her twenty-eight and fourpence. 
 
 In another minute she had entered an empty carriage, 
 and the train had steamed away. 
 
 She reached Paddington about eight that night, and 
 going to the refreshment room, dined on some tea and 
 bread and butter. Then she washed her hands, brushed 
 her hair, and started. 
 
 Beatrice had never been in London before, and as
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 267 
 
 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 thai night. She had been told by a friendly 
 porter to follow Praed Street till she reached the Edgware 
 Road, then to walk on to the Marble Arch, and ask 
 again. Beatrice followed the first part of this programme 
 — that is, she walked as far as the Edgware Road. Then 
 it was that confusion seized her and she stood hesitating. 
 At this juncture, a coarse brute of a man came up and 
 made some remark to her. It was impossible for a 
 woman like Beatrice to walk alone in the streets of 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 offer she was about to accept when 
 the first man interposed. 
 
 " You leave my fare alone, will yer ? Tell yer what, 
 miss, I'm a gentleman, I am, and I'll take yer for a bob." 
 
 She smiled and entered the cab. Then came a whirl of 
 great gas-lit thoroughfares, and in a quarter of an hour they 
 pulled up at the entrance to the House. Beatrice paid the 
 cabman his shilling, thanked him, and entered, only once 
 more to find herself confused with a vision of white statues, 
 marble floors, high arching roofs, and hurrying people. 
 An automatic policeman asked her what she wanted. 
 Beatrice answered that she wished to get into the House.
 
 268 BE A TRICE. 
 
 " Pass this way then, miss — pass this way," said the 
 automatic officer in a voice of brass. She passed, and 
 passed, and finally found herself in a lobby, among a 
 crowd of people of all sorts — seedy political touts, Irish 
 priests and hurrying press-men. At one side of the lobby 
 were more policemen and messengers, who were 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 
 should have done, namely, lifted his hat and inquired if, 
 as a member of the House, he could be of any service 
 to her. Beatrice listened, and explained that she was 
 particularly anxious to get into the Ladies' Gallery. 
 
 " I think that I can help you, then," he sai-d. "As it 
 happens a lady, for whom I got an order, has telegraphed
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 269 
 
 to say that she cannot come. Will you follow me ? Might 
 I ask you to give me your name ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Everston," answered Beatrice, taking the first 
 that came into her head. The member looked a little 
 disappointed. He had vaguely hoped that this lovely 
 creature was unappropriated. Surely her marriage could 
 not be satisfactory, or she would not look so sad. 
 
 Then came more stairs and passages, and formalities, 
 till presently Beatrice found herself in a kind of bird- 
 cage, crowded to suffocation with every sort of lady. 
 
 " I'm afraid — I am very much afraid " began her 
 
 new-found friend, surveying the mass with dismay. 
 
 But at that moment, a stout lady in front feeling faint 
 with the heat, was forced to leave the Gallery, and almost 
 before she knew where she was, Beatrice w^as installed 
 in her place. Her friend had bowled and vanished, and 
 she was left to all purposes alone, for she never heeded 
 those about her, though some of them looked at her 
 hard enough, wondering at her form and beauty, and 
 who she might be. 
 
 She cast her eye down over the crowded House, 
 and saw a vision of hats, collars, and legs, and heard a 
 tumult of sounds : the sharp voice of a speaker who was 
 rapidly losing his temper, the plaudits of the Govern- 
 ment benches, the interruptions from the Opposition — 
 yes, even yells, and hoots, and noises, that reminded her 
 remotely of the crowing of cocks. Possibly had she 
 thought of it, Beatrice would not have been greatly 
 impressed with the dignity of an assembly, at the doors 
 of which so many of its members seemed to leave their 
 manners, with their overcoats and sticks ; it might even 
 have suggested the idea of a bear garden to her mind. 
 But she simply did not think about it. She searched 
 the House keenly enough, but it was to find one face, 
 and one only — Ah ! there he was. 
 
 And now the House of Commons might vanish into 
 the bottomless abyss, and take with it the House of 
 Lords, and what remained of the British Constitution, and 
 she 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 not an ardent politician. 
 
 There Geoffrey sat, his arms folded — the hat pushed 
 slightly from his forehead, so that she could see his face. 
 There was her own beloved, whom she had come so far 
 to see, and whom to-morrow she would dare so much to 
 save. How sad he looked — he did not seem to be 
 paying much attention to what was going on. She knew 
 well enough that he was thinking of her ; she could feel 
 it in her head as she had often felt it before. But she 
 dared not let her mind go out to him in answer, for, if 
 once she did so, she knew also that he would discover her. 
 So she sat, and fed her eyes upon his face, taking her 
 farewell of it, while round her, and beneath her, the hum 
 of the House went on, as ever present and as unnoticed 
 as the hum of bees upon a summer noon. 
 
 Presently the gentleman who had been so kind to her, 
 sat down in the next seat to Geoffrey, and began to 
 whisper to him, as he did so glancing once or twice 
 towards the grating behind which she was. She guessed 
 that he was telling him the story of the lady who was 
 so unaccountably anxious to hear the debate, and how 
 pretty she was. But it did not seem to interest Geoffrey 
 much, and Beatrice was feminine enough to notice it, and 
 be glad of it. In her gentle jealousy, she did not Uke 
 to think of Geoffrey as being interested in accounts of 
 mysterious ladies, however pretty. 
 
 At length a speaker rose — she understood from the 
 murmur of those around her that he was one of the 
 leaders of the Opposition, and commenced a powerful and 
 bitter speech. She noticed that Geoffrey roused himself 
 at this point, and began to hsten with attention. 
 
 " Look," said one of the ladies near her, "Mr. Bing- 
 ham is taking notes. He is going to speak next — he 
 speaks wonderfully, you know. They say that he is as 
 good as anybody in the House, except Gladstone, and 
 Lord Randolph." 
 
 "Oh!" answered another lady. "Lady Honoria is 
 not here, is she ? I don't see her."
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 271 
 
 " 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 tamely, as it seemed 
 to Beatrice, whose heart was in her mouth — but when he 
 had been speaking for about five minutes, he warrxied up. 
 And then began one of the most remarkable oratorical 
 displays of that Parliament. Geoffrey had spoken well 
 before, and would speak Avell again, but perhaps he never 
 spoke so well as he did upon that night. For nearly an 
 hour and a half he held the House in chains, even 
 the hoots and interruptions died away towards the end 
 of his oration. His powerful presence seemed to tower 
 in the place, like that of a giant among pigmies, and his 
 dark, handsome face, lit with the fires of eloquence, 
 shone like a lamp. He leaned forward with a slight 
 stoop of his broad shoulders, and addressed himself, 
 nominally to the Speaker, but really to the Opposition. 
 He took their facts one by one, and with convincing 
 logic showed that they were no facts ; amid a hiss of 
 anger he pulverised their arguments and demonstrated 
 their motives. Then suddenly he dropped them alto- 
 . gether, and addressing himself to the House at large, 
 and the country beyond the House, he struck another 
 note, and broke out into that storm of patriotic eloquence 
 which confirmed his growing reputation, both in 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 con- 
 tending sound was hushed. 
 
 Suddenly, after an invocation that would have been
 
 272 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 
 itw minutes since he rose. Then broke out a volley of 
 cheers, in the midst of which a leader of the Opposi- 
 tion rose to reply, not in the very best of tempers, for 
 Geoffrey's speech had hit them hard. 
 
 He began, however, by complimenting the honourable 
 member on his speech, " as fine a speech as he had 
 listened to for many years, though, unfortunately, made 
 from a mistaken standpoint and the wrong side of the 
 House." Then he twitted the Government with not 
 having secured the services of a man so infinitely abler 
 than the majority of their " items," and excited a good 
 deal of amusement by stating, with some sarcastic 
 humour, that, should it ever be his lot to occupy the 
 front Treasury bench, he should certainly make a certain 
 proposal to the honourable member. After this good- 
 natured badinage, he drifted off into the consideration 
 of the question under discussion, and Beatrice paid no 
 further attention to him, but occupied herself in watching 
 Geoffrey drop back into the same apparent state of cold 
 indifference, from which the necessity of action had 
 aroused him. 
 
 Presently the gentleman who had found her the seat 
 came up and spoke to her, asking her how she was 
 getting on. Very soon he began to speak of Geoffrey's 
 speech, saying that it was one of the most brilliant of the 
 session, if not the most brilliant. 
 
 " Then Mr. Bingham is a rising man, I suppose ? " 
 Beatrice said. 
 
 " Rising ? I should think so," he answered. " They 
 will get him into the Government on the first 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 COMMONS. 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 
 pubUc scandal, run away with somebody or something. 
 Not that there should be any fear of such a thing where 
 Mr. Bingham is concerned, for he has a charming wife, 
 and they say that she is a great help to him. Why, there 
 is the division bell. Good-bye, Mrs. Everston, I will 
 come back to see you out." 
 
 " Good-bye," Beatrice answered, " and in case I should 
 miss you, I wish to say something — to thank you for your 
 kindness in helping me to get in here to-night. You 
 have done me a great service, a very great service, and I 
 am most grateful to you." 
 
 " It is nothing — nothing," he answered. " It has been 
 a pleasure to help you. If," he added with some con- 
 fusion, "you would allow me to call some day, the 
 pleasure would be all the greater. I will bring Mr. 
 Bingham with me, if you would like to know him — that 
 is, if I can." 
 
 Beatrice shook her head. " I cannot," she answered, 
 smiling sadly. "I am going on a long journey to- 
 morrow, and I shall not return here. Good-bye." 
 
 In another second he was gone, more piqued and 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 away. Beatrice 
 saw the leader of the House and several members of the 
 Government go up to Geoffrey, shake his hand, and 
 congratulate him. Then, with one long look, she 
 turned and went, leaving him in the moment of his 
 triumph, that seemed to interest him so little, but which 
 
 18
 
 274 BEATRICE. 
 
 made Beatrice more proud at heart than if she had been 
 declared empress of the world. 
 
 Oh, it was well to love a man like that, a man born 
 to tower over his fellow men — and well to die for him ! 
 Could she let her miserable existence interfere with such 
 a life as his should be ? Never, never ! There should 
 be no " public scandal " on her account. 
 
 She drew her veil over her face, and inquired the way 
 from the House. Presently she was outside. By one of 
 the gateways, and in the shadow of its pillars, she stopped, 
 watching the members of the House stream past her. 
 Many of them were talking together, and once or twice 
 she caught the sound of Geoffrey's name, coupled with 
 such words as " splendid speech," and other terms of 
 admiration. 
 
 " Move on, move on," said a policeman to her. Lifting 
 her veil, Beatrice turned and looked at him, and muttering 
 something he moved on himself, leaving her in peace. 
 Presently she saw Geoffrey and the gentleman who had 
 been so kind to her walking along together. They came 
 through the gateway ; the lappet of his coat brushed her 
 arm, and he never saw her. Closer she crouched against 
 the pillar, hiding herself in its shadow. Within six feet 
 of her Geoffrey stopped and lit a cigar. The light of the 
 match flared upon his face, that dark, strong face she 
 loved so well. How tired he looked. A great longing 
 took possession of her to step forward and speak to him, 
 but she restrained herself almost by force. 
 
 Her friend was speaking to him, and about her. 
 
 "Such a lovely woman," he was sayiiig, "with the 
 clearest and most beautiful grey eyes that I ever saw. 
 But she has gone like a dream. I can't find her any- 
 where. It is a most mysterious business." 
 
 "You are falling in love, Tom," answered Geoffrey 
 absently, as he threw away the match and walked on. 
 " Don't do that \ it is an unhappy thing to do," and 
 he sighed. 
 
 He was going ! Oh, heaven ! she would never, never 
 see him more! A cold horror seized upon Beatrice;
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 27$ 
 
 her blood seemed to stagnate. She trembled so much 
 that she could scarcely stand. Leaning forward, she 
 looked after him, with such a face of woe that even the 
 policem.an, who had repented him of his forbearance, and 
 was returning to send her away, stood astonished. The 
 two men had gone about ten yards, when something 
 induced Beatrice's friend to look back. His eye fell 
 upon the white, agony-stricken face, now in the full glare 
 of the gas lamp. 
 
 Beatrice saw him turn, and understood her danger. 
 " Oh, good-bye, Geoffrey ! " she murmured, for a second 
 ::llowing her heart to go forth towards him. Then realising 
 what she had done, she dropped her veil, and went swiftly. 
 The gentleman called " Tom" — she never learnt his name 
 — stood for a moment dumbfounded, and at that instant 
 Geoffrey staggered, as though he had been struck by a 
 shot, turned quite white, and halted. 
 
 " Why," said his companion, "there is that lady again; 
 we must have passed quite close to her. She was 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 hansom 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. It might be 
 
 18—2
 
 276 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 ! 
 
 Suddenly he bade his friend good-night, and took a 
 hansom. "The mystery thickens," said the astonished 
 "Tom," as he watched him drive away. " I would give a 
 hundred pounds to find out what it all means. Oh ! that 
 woman's face — it haunts me. It looked like the face of 
 an angel bidding farewell to Heaven." 
 
 But he never did find out any more about it, though 
 the despairing eyes of Beatrice, as she bade her mute 
 farewell, still sometimes haunt his sleep. 
 
 Geoffrey reflected rapidly. The 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 v/as 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 !
 
 / WILL WAIT FOR YOU. 277 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 I WILL WAIT FOR YO.U. 
 
 Beatrice drove back to Paddington, and as she drove, 
 though her face did not change from its marble cast of 
 woe the great tears rolled down it, one by one. 
 
 They reached the deserted-looking station, and she 
 paid the man out of her few remaining shillings — seeing 
 that she was a stranger, he insisted upon receiving half-a- 
 crown. Then, disregarding the astonished stare of 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, dropped to sleep — her last 
 sleep upon this earth, before the longest sleep of all. 
 
 And thus Beatrice waited and slept at Paddington, 
 while her lover waited and watched at Euston. 
 
 At five she woke, and the heavy cloud of sorrow, 
 past, present and to come, rushed in upon her 
 heart. Taking her bag, she made herself as tidy as she 
 could. Then she stepped outside the station into the 
 deserted street, and finding a space between the houses, 
 watched the sun rise over the waking world. It was her 
 last sunrise, Beatrice remembered. 
 
 She came back filled with such thoughts as might well 
 strike the heart of a woman about to do the thing she 
 had decreed. The refreshment bar was open now, and 
 she went to it, and bought a cup of coffee and some bread 
 and butter. Then she took her ticket, not to Bryn- 
 gelly or to Coed, but to the station on this side of 
 Bryngelly, and three miles from it. She would run less 
 risk of being noticed there. The train was shunted up;' 
 she took her scat in it. Just as it was starting, an early 
 newspaper boy came along, yawning. Beatrice bought 
 a copy of the Standard, out of the one and threepence
 
 278 BE A TRICE. 
 
 that was left of her money, and opened it at the sheet 
 containing the leading articles. The first one began, 
 " The most powerful, closely reasoned, and eloquent 
 speech made last night by Mr. Bingham, the Member for 
 Pillham, will, we feel certain, produce as great an effect 
 on the country as it did in the House of Commons. 
 We welcome it, not only on account of its value as a 
 contribution to the polemics of the Irish Question, but as 
 a positive proof of what has already been suspected, that 
 the Unionist party has in Mr. Bingham a young states- 
 man of a very high order indeed, and one whom 
 remarkable and rapid success at the Bar has not ham- 
 pered, as is too often the case, in the larger and less 
 technical field of politics." 
 
 And so on. Beatrice put the paper down with a smile 
 of triumph. Geoffrey's success was splendid and 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 
 would go with him from year to year, even to the end, 
 and at times he might think how proud she would 
 have been could she be present to record his triumphs. 
 •Alas ! she did not remember that when all is lost which 
 can make life beautiful, when the sun has set, and the 
 spirit gone out of the day, the poor garish lights of 
 our little victories can but ill atone for the glories that 
 have been. Happiness and content are frail plants 
 which can only flourish under fair conditions. They 
 will not thrive beneath the gloom and shadow of a pall, 
 and when the heart is dead no triumjDhs, 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 laid 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 WAIT 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 her 
 letter to Geoffrey. She would not do so before because 
 it might have reached him too soon — before all was 
 finished ! Now it would be delivered to him in the 
 House after everything had been accomplished in its 
 order. She looked at the letter ; it was, she thought, the 
 last token that could ever pass between them on this 
 earth. Once she pressed it to her heart, once she 
 touched it' with her lips, and then put it from her 
 beyond recall. It was done ; there was no going back 
 now. And even as she stood the postman came up, 
 whistling, and opening the box carelessly swept its 
 contents into his canvas bag. Could he have known 
 what lay among them he would have whistled no more 
 that day. 
 
 Beatrice continued her journey, and by three o'clock 
 arrived safely at the little station next to Bryngelly. 
 There was a fair at Coed that day, and many people of 
 the peasant class got in here. Amidst the confusion she 
 gave up her ticket to a small boy, who was looking the 
 other way at the time, and escaped without being noticed 
 by a soul. Indeed, things 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-past eight on 
 the following morning. So much the better, she thought. 
 Then she disarranged the clothes upon her bed to make
 
 2 So BEATRICE. 
 
 it seem as though it had been slept in, lit the kitchen 
 fire, and put the kettle on to boil, and as soon as it was 
 ready she took some food. She wanted all her nerve, 
 and that could not be kept up without food. 
 
 Shortly after this the girl Betty returned, and went 
 about her duties in the house quite unconscious that 
 Beatrice had been away from it for the whole night. 
 Her sister was much better, she said, in answer to 
 Beatrice's inquiries. 
 
 When she had eaten what she could — it was not much 
 — Beatrice went to her room, undressed herself, bathed, 
 and put on clean, fresh things. Then she unbound her 
 lovely hair, and did it up in a coronet upon her head. 
 It was a fashion that she did not often adopt, because it 
 took too much time, but on this day, of all days, she had 
 a strange fancy to look her best. Also her hair had been 
 done like this on the afternoon when Geoffrey first met her. 
 Next she 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 the course of certain lessons in the school. 
 The Wednesday arithmetic class had hitherto been taken 
 before the grammar class. On the morrow she had 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. 281 
 
 for her help in the school, but did not like to do so, 
 fearing legt, in the light of pending events, the remark 
 might be viewed with suspicion. 
 
 Poor Beatrice, these were the only lies she ever told ! 
 
 She left the teacher's lodgings, and was about to go 
 down to the beach and sit there till it was time, when 
 she was met by the father of the poor crazed child, Jane 
 Llewellyn. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Beatrice," he said, "I have been looking 
 for you everywhere. We are in sad trouble, miss. Poor 
 Jane is in a raving fit, and talking about hell and that, 
 and the doctor says she's dying. Can you come, miss, 
 and see if you can do anything to quiet her ? It's a 
 matter of life and death, the doctor says, miss." 
 
 Beatrice smiled sadly ; matters of life and death were 
 in the air. " I will come," she said, " but I shall not be 
 able to stay long." 
 
 How could she better spend her last hour ? 
 
 She accompanied the man to his cottage. The 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 lesson ; 
 I will say it presently." 
 
 Beatrice took her in her arms, and sat down on the 
 bed. Quieter and quieter grew the child till suddenly an 
 awful change passed over her face. 
 
 " She is dying," whispered the doctor. 
 
 *' Hold me close, hold me close ! " said the child, whose 
 senses returned before the last eclipse. " Oh, Miss Gran- 
 ger, I shan't go to hell, shall I ? I am afraid of hell." 
 
 " No, love, no ; you will go to heaven."
 
 282 BEATRICE. 
 
 Jane lay still awhile. Then seeing the pale lips move, 
 Beatrice put her ear to the child's mouth, 
 
 " Will you come with me ? " she murmured ; " I am 
 afraid to go alone." 
 
 And Beatrice, her great grey eyes fixed steadily on the 
 closing eyes beneath, whispered back so that no other 
 soul could hear except the dying child : 
 
 " Yes, I will come presently." But Jane heard and 
 understood. 
 
 " Promise," said the child. 
 
 " Yes, I promise," answered Beatrice in the same 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 nobody on the beach. Old Edward and his son 
 were at tea, with the rest of Bryngelly. They would come 
 back after dark and lock up the boat-house. 
 
 She looked at the sea. There were no waves, but 
 the breeze freshened every minute, and there was a 
 long slow swell upon the water. The rollers would be 
 running beyond the shelter of Rumball Point, five miles 
 away. 
 
 The tide was high ; it mounted to within ten yards of 
 the end of the boat-house. She opened the door, and 
 dragged out her canoe, closing the door again after her. 
 The craft was light, and she was strong for a woman. 
 Close to the boat-house one of the timber breakwaters, 
 which are common at sea-side places, ran down into the 
 water. She dragged the canoe to its side, and then 
 pushed it down the beach till its bow was afloat. Next, 
 mounting on the breakwater, she caught hold of the
 
 / WILL WAIT FOR YOU. 283 
 
 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 Hghts of summer afternoon. Oh ! was 
 there any afternoon where the child had gone, and where 
 she was following fast ? — or was it all night, black, 
 eternal night, unbroken by the dream of dear remem- 
 bered things ? 
 
 There were the Dog Rocks, where she had stood on 
 that misty autumn day, and seen the vision of her 
 coffined mother's face. Surely it was a presage of her 
 fate. There beyond was the Bell Rock, where in that 
 same hour Geoffrey and she had met, and there behind 
 was the Amphitheatre, where they had told their love. 
 Hark ! what was that sound pealing faintly at intervals 
 across the deep ? It was the great ship's bell that, stirred 
 from time to time by the wash of the high tide, solemnly 
 tolled her passing soul. 
 
 She paddled on ; the sound of that death-knell shook 
 her nerves, and made her feel faint and weak. Oh, it 
 would have been easier had she been as she was a year ago,
 
 284 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 art above, from whom I come, to whom I go, have 
 mercy on me ! Oh, Spirit, if indeed thy name is Love, 
 weigh my love in thy balance, and let it lift the scale of sin. 
 Oh, God of Sacrifice, be not wroth at my deed of sacrifice 
 and give me pardon, give me life and peace, that in a 
 time to come I may win the sight of him for whom I die." 
 
 A somewhat heathenish prayer indeed, and far too 
 full of human passion for one about to leave the human 
 shores. But, then — well, it was Beatrice who prayed — 
 Beatrice, who could realise no heaven beyond the limits 
 of her passion, who still thought more of her love than 
 of saving her own soul alive. Perhaps it found a home — 
 perhaps, like her who prayed it, it was lost upon the 
 pitiless deep. 
 
 Then Beatrice prayed no more. Short was her time. 
 See, there sank the sun in glory ; and there the great 
 rollers swept along past the sullen 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
 
 / WILL WAIT FOR YOU. 285 
 
 mendicant calling on the Unseen, not for others, but for 
 self: aid for self, well-being for self, salvation for self — • 
 this doing of good that good might come to self. She 
 had made her prayer, and if she prayed again it should 
 be for Geoffrey, that he might prosper and be happy — 
 that he might forgive the trouble her love had brought 
 into his life. She had prayed her prayer and said her say, 
 and it was done with. Let her be judged as it seemed good 
 to Those who judge ! Now she would fix her thoughts 
 upon her love, and by its strength would 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, rhat 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 
 falHng paddle, and would not leave her : 
 
 " Of 07ice sozcm seed, who knoweth what the crop is ? 
 Alas, my love. Lovers eyes are very blind ! 
 What would they have us do ? Sunfloivers and poppies 
 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! 
 
 " Geoffrey, hear me— I die for you ; accept my sacri- 
 fice, and forget me not." So !— she is in the rollers — 
 how solemn they are with their hoary heads of foam, 
 as one by one they move down upon her. 
 
 The first ! it towers high, but the canoe rides it like a 
 cork. Look ! the day is dying on the distant land, but 
 Still his glory shines across the sea. Presently all will be 
 * Oliver Madox Brown.
 
 286 BE A TRICE. 
 
 finished. Here the breeze is strong ; it tears the bonnet 
 from her head, it unwinds the coronet of braided locks, 
 and her bright hair streams out behind her. Feel how the 
 spray stings, striking like a whip. No, not this wave, she 
 rides that also ; she will die as she has lived — fighting to 
 the last ; and once more, never faltering, she sets her face 
 towards the rollers and consigns her soul to doom. 
 
 Ah ! that struck her full. Oh, see ! Geoffrey's ring 
 has slipped from her wet hand, falling into the bottom 
 of the boat. Can she regain it ? she would die with that 
 ring upon her finger — it is her marriage-ring, wedding 
 her through death to Geoffrey, upon the altar of the sea. 
 She stoops ! oh, what a shock of water at her breast ! 
 What was it — what was it ? — Of once sown seed, who 
 knoweth what the crop is ? She must soon learn now ! 
 
 " Geoffrey ! hear me, Geoffrey ! — I die, I die for you ! 
 I will wait for you at the foundations of the sea, on the 
 topmost heights of heaven, in the lowest deeps of hell — 
 wherever I am I will always wait for you ! " 
 
 It sinks — it has sunk — she is alone with God, and the 
 cruel waters. The sun goes out ! Look on that great 
 white wave seething through the deepening gloom ; hear 
 it rushing towards her, big with fate. 
 
 " Geoffrey, my darling — I will wait " 
 
 Farewell to Beatrice ! The light went out of the sky, 
 and darkness gathered on the weltering sea. Farewell to 
 Beatrice, and all her love and all her sin. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A woman's last word. 
 
 Geoffrey came down to breakfast about eleven o'clock 
 on the morning of that day the first hours of which he 
 had spent at Euston Station. Not seeing Eftie, he asked 
 Lady Honoria where she was, and was informed that 
 Anne, the French bonne, said the child was not well and 
 that she had kept her in bed to breakfast.
 
 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 Geoffrey. 
 
 " No, not yet," answered his wife. " I have had the 
 dressmaker here with my new dress for the duchess's ball 
 to-morrow ; it's lovely, but I think that there is a little 
 too much of that creamy lace about it." 
 
 With an exclamation of impatience, Geoffrey rose and 
 went upstairs. He found Effie tossing about in bed, her 
 face flushed, her eyes wide open, and her little hands 
 quite hot. 
 
 " Send for the doctor at once," he said. 
 
 The doctor came and examined the child, asking her 
 if she had wet her feet lately. 
 
 " Yes, I did, two days ago. I wet my feet in a puddle 
 in the street," she answered. " But Anne did say that 
 they would soon get dry, if I held them to the fire, 
 because my other boots was not clean. Oh, my head does 
 ache, daddie." 
 
 " Ah," said the doctor, and then covering the child 
 up, took Geoffrey aside and told him that his daughter had 
 got a mild attack of inflammation of the lungs. There 
 was no cause for anxiety, only she must be looked after 
 and guarded from chills. 
 
 Geoffrey asked if he should send for a trained nurse. 
 
 " Oh, no," said the doctor. " I do not think it is 
 necessary, at any rate at present. I will tell the nurse 
 what to do, and doubtless your wife will keep an eye on 
 her." 
 
 So Anne was called up, and vowed that she would 
 guard the cherished child like the apple of her eye. 
 Indeed, no, the boots were not wet —there was a little, 
 a very little mud on them, that was all. 
 
 "Well, don't talk so much, but see that you attend 
 to her properly," said Geoffrey, feeling rather doubtful, 
 for he did not trust Anne. However, he thought he 
 would see himself that there was no neglect. When 
 she heard what was the matter, Lady Honoria was much 
 put out. 
 
 " Really," she said, " children are the most vexatious
 
 288 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 th6 
 duchess's ball to-morrow night, and she was so kind about 
 it, she made quite a point of my coming. Besides I have 
 bought that lovely new dress on purpose. I should never 
 have dreamed of going to so much expense for anything 
 else." 
 
 *' Don't trouble yourself," said Geoffrey. " The House 
 does not sit to-morrow ; I will look after her. Unless Effie 
 dies in the interval, you will certainly be able to go to the 
 ball." 
 
 " Dies — what nonsense ! The doctor says that it is a 
 very slight attack. Why should she die ? " 
 
 " I am sure I hope that there is no fear of anything 
 of the sort, Honoria. Only she must be properly looked 
 after. I do not trust this woman Anne. I have half a 
 mind to get in a trained nurse after all." 
 
 " Well, if you do, she will have to sleep out of the 
 house, that's all. Amelia (Lady Garsington) is coming 
 up to-night, and I must have somewhere to put her maid, 
 and there is no room for another bed in Efhe's room." 
 
 "Oh, very well, very well," said Geoffrey, " I daresay 
 that it will be all right, but if Efifie gets any worse, you 
 will please understand that room must be made." 
 
 But Efifie 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. 289 
 
 mind was confused, but little by little it grew clearer, 
 and he began to understand that a danger threatened 
 Beatrice, that she was in great peril. He was sure of it. 
 Her agonised dying cries reached him where he was, 
 though in no form which he could understand ; once 
 more her thought beat on his thought — once more and 
 for the last time her spirit spoke to his. 
 
 Then suddenly a cold wind seemed to breathe upon 
 his face and lift his hair, and everything was gone. His 
 mind was as it had been ; again he heard the dreary 
 orator and saw the members slipping away to dinner. 
 The conditions that disturbed him had passed, things 
 were as they had been. Nor was this strange ! For the 
 link was broken. Beatrice was dead. She had passed 
 into the domains of impenetrable silence. 
 
 Geoffrey sat up with a gasp, and as he did so a letter was 
 placed in his hand. It was addressed in Beatrice's 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 
 
 ^9
 
 290 BEATRICE. 
 
 which you expressed a wish that I should come away 
 with you to some other country, and I answered it in 
 eight brief words. I dared not trust myself to write 
 more, nor had I any time. How could you think that I 
 should ever accept such an offer for my own sake, when 
 to do so would have been to ruin you ? But first I will tell 
 you all that has happened here." (Here followed a long 
 and exact description of those events with which we 
 are already acquainted, including the denunciation of 
 Beatrice by her sister, the threats of Owen Davies as 
 regards himself, and the measures which she had adopted 
 to gain time). 
 
 " Further," the letter continued, " I inclose you your 
 wife's letter to me. And here I wish to state that I have 
 not one word to say against Lady Honoria or her letter. 
 I think that she was perfectly justified in writing as she 
 did, for after all, dear Geoffrey, you are her husband, and 
 in loving each other we have offended against her. She 
 tells me truly that it is my duty to make all further com- 
 munications between us impossible. There is only one 
 way to do this, and I take it. 
 
 "And now I have spoken enough about myself, nor 
 do I wish to enter into details that could only give you 
 pain. There will be no scandal, dear, and if any word 
 should be raised against you after I am gone, I have 
 provided an answer in the second letter which I have 
 inclosed. You can print it if necessary ; it will be 
 a sufficient reply to any talk. Nobody after reading it 
 can believe that you were in any way connected with the 
 accident which will happen. Dear, one word more — 
 still about myself, you see ! Do not blame yourself in 
 this matter, for you are not to blame ; of my own free 
 will I do it, because in the extremity of the circumstances 
 I think it best that one should go and the other be 
 saved, rather than that both should be involved in a 
 common ruin. 
 
 " Dear, do you remember how in that strange vision of 
 mine, I dreamed that you came and touched me on the 
 breast and showed me light ? So it has come to pass,
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 291 
 
 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 love the erring woman to whom, 
 being so little, you still were all in all. We are not 
 married, Geoffrey, according to the customs of the world, 
 but two short days 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 ! ' 
 
 " You will be a great man, dear, the foremost or one of 
 
 19—2
 
 292 BE A TRICE. 
 
 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 I 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 ran away because I saw your friend turn and look at me. 
 I shall kiss this letter — just here before I close it — kiss 
 it there too — it is our last cold embrace. Before the 
 end I shall put on the ring you gave me — on my hand, I 
 mean. I have always worn it upon my breast. When 
 I touched you as you passed through the gateway I 
 thought that I should have broken down and called to 
 you — but I found strength not to do so. My heart is 
 breaking and my eyes are blind with tears ; I can write
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 293 
 
 no more ; I have no more to say. Now once again 
 good-bye. Ave atque vale — oh, my love ! — B." 
 
 The second letter was a dummy. That is to say it 
 purported to be such an epistle as any young lady might 
 have written to a gentleman friend. It began, " Dear 
 Mr. Bingham," and ended, " Yours sincerely, Beatrice 
 Granger," was filled with chit-chat, and expressed 
 hopes that he would be able to come down to 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 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 ! Oh, he would kill this Owen
 
 294 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 tomorrow. And Efifie 
 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 deed ! 
 
 Geoffrey snatched a sheet of paper and tried to write. 
 He could not, his hand shook so. With a groan he rose, 
 and going to the refreshment room swallowed two glasses 
 of brandy one after another. The spirit took effect on 
 him; he could write now. Rapidly he scribbled on a 
 sheet of paper : 
 
 " I have been called away upon important business 
 and shall probably not be back till Thursday morning. 
 See that Effie is properly attended to. If I am not back 
 you must not go to the duchess's ball. — Geoffrey 
 Bingham." 
 
 Then he addressed the letter to Lady Honoria and 
 dispatched a commissionaire with it. This done, he 
 called a cab and bade the cabman drive to Euston as 
 fast as his horse could go.
 
 AVE ATQUE VALE. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AVE ATQUE VALE. 
 
 That frightful journey — no nightmare was ever half 
 so awful i But it came to an end at last — there was 
 the Bryngelly Station. Geoffrey sprang from the train, 
 and gave his ticket to the porter, glancing in his face as 
 he did so. Surely if there had been a tragedy the man 
 would know of it, and show signs of half-joyous emotion 
 as is the fashion of such people when something awful 
 and mysterious has happened to somebody else. But he 
 showed no such 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 were away from home, and would not 
 be back for another two hours. Miss Beatrice had gone 
 out yesterday afternoon, and had not come back to tea. 
 She, Betty, had not thought much of it, believing that she 
 had stopped to spend the evening somewhere, and, being 
 very tired, had gone to bed about eight, leaving the door 
 unlocked. This morning, when she woke, it was to find 
 that Miss Beatrice had not slept in the house that night, 
 and she came out to see if she could find her.
 
 2g6 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 ahvays wore when she went 
 out boating. 
 
 Geoffrey understood it all now. " Come to the boat- 
 house," he said. 
 
 They went down to the beach, where as yet 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 til'l he came 
 to the Amphitheatre. The tide was high again; he
 
 AVE ATQUE VALE. 297 
 
 could barely pass the projecting point. He was round 
 it, and his heart stood still. For there, bottom upwards, 
 and gently swaying to and fro as the spent waves rocked 
 it, was Beatrice's canoe. 
 
 Sadly, hopelessly, heavily, Geoffrey waded knee deep 
 into the water, and catching the bow of the canoe, dragged 
 it ashore. There was, or appeared to be, nothing in it ; of 
 course he could not expect anything else. Its occupant had 
 sunk and been carried out to sea by the ebb, whereas the 
 canoe had drifted back to shore with the morning tide. 
 
 He reared it upon its end to let the water drain out of 
 it, and from the hollow of the bow arch something came 
 rolling down, something bright and heavy, followed by a 
 brown object. Hastily he lowered the canoe again, and 
 picked up the bright trinket. It was his own ring — 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, perha])s 
 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 last 
 words to him. Oh, Beatrice, Beatrice ! to you also ave 
 atque vale. You could not have sent a fitter message. 
 Greeting and farewell ! Did it not sum it all ? Within 
 the circle of this little ring was writ the epitome of human 
 life : here 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 Childre?i 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.
 
 -298 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 1 She's gone ; she'll never come ashore no more, 
 she won't. She's twenty miles away by now, she is, breast 
 up, with the gulls a-screaming over her. It's that there 
 damned canoe, that's what it is. I wish to Goad I had 
 broke it up long ago. I'd rather have built her a boat 
 for nothing, I would. Damn the unlucky craft ! " 
 screamed the old man at the top of his voice, and turn- 
 ing his head to hide 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 Statidard, 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. 299 
 
 dead name. It might be said, for instance, that the 
 whole tale was true, and that Beatrice died because she 
 could no longer face life without being put to an open 
 shame. Yes, he had better hold his tongue as to how 
 and why she died. She was dead — nothing could bring 
 her back. But how then should he account for his 
 presence there ? Easily enough. He would say frankly 
 that he came because Beatrice had written to him of 
 the charges made against her and the threats against 
 himself— came to find her dead. And on that point 
 he would still have a word with Owen Davies and 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 Scarcely had he made up his mind when Elizabeth 
 and her father entered. Clearly from their faces they 
 had as yet heard nothing. 
 
 Geoffrey rose, and Elizabeth caught sight of him 
 standing with glowing eyes and a face like that of Death 
 himself She recoiled in alarm. 
 
 "What brings you here, Mr. Bingham ? " she said, in 
 her hard voice. 
 
 '* Cannot you guess, Miss Granger ? " he said sternly. 
 " A few -days back you made certain charges against your 
 sister and myself in the presence of your father and Mr. 
 Owen Davies. These charges have been communicated 
 to me, and I have come to answer them and to demand 
 satisfaction for them." 
 
 Mr. Granger fidgeted nervously and looked as though 
 he would like to escape, but Elizabeth, with characteristic 
 courage, shut the door and faced the storm. 
 
 "Yes, I did make those charges, Mr. Bingham," she 
 said, "and they are true charges. But stop, we had 
 better send for Beatrice first." 
 
 "You may send, but you will not find her." 
 
 " What do you mean ? — what do you mean ? " asked her 
 father apprehensively. 
 
 "It means that he has hidden her away, I suppose," 
 said Elizabeth with a sneer. 
 
 " I mean, Mr. Granger, that your daughter Beatrice is 
 dead."
 
 300 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 table. 
 
 There was a silence. In the midst of it, Owen Davies 
 burst into the room with wild eyes and dishevelled hair. 
 
 " Is it true ? " he cried, " tell me — it cannot be true 
 that Beatrice is drowned. She cannot have been taken 
 from me just when I was going to marry her. Say that 
 it is not true ! " 
 
 A great fury filled Geoffrey's heart. He walked down 
 the room and shut the door, a red light swimming before 
 his eyes. Then he turned and gripped Owen Davies's 
 shoulder like a vice. 
 
 " You accursed blackguard — you unmanly cur ! " he 
 said ; " you and that wicked woman," and he shook his 
 hand at Elizabeth, "conspired together to bring a slur 
 upon Beatrice. You did more : you threatened to attack 
 me, to try and ruin me if she would not give herself up 
 to you. You loathsome hypocrite, you tortured her and 
 frightened her ; now I am here to frighten you. You 
 said that you would make the country ring with your 
 tales. I tell you this — are you listening to me ? If you 
 dare to mention her name in such a sense, or if that 
 woman dares, I will break every bone in your wretched 
 body — by Heaven I will kill you ! " and he cast Davies 
 from him, and as he did so, struck him heavily across the 
 face with the back of his hand. 
 
 The man took no notice either of his words or of the 
 deadly insult of the blow. 
 
 "Is it true?" he screamed, "is it true that she is 
 dead ? "
 
 AFE ATQUE VALE. 301 
 
 " A^'es," said Geoffrey, following him, and bending 
 his tall square frame over him, for Davies had fallen 
 against the wall, " yes, it is true — she is dead — and 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 ! " 
 
 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 surely as you shall die 
 
 " Now for you, sir," he went on, addressing the 
 trembling father. " I do not blame you so much, because 
 I believe that this viper poisoned your mind. You might 
 have thought that the tale was true. It is not true ; it 
 was a lie. Beatrice, who now is dead, came into my 
 room in her sleep, and was carried from it as she came. 
 And you, her father, allowed this villain and your daughter 
 to use her distress against her; you allowed him to
 
 302 BEATRICE. 
 
 make a lever of it, with which to force her into a marriage 
 that she loathed. Yes, cover up your face — you may 
 well do so. Do your worst, one and all of you, but 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 
 Geoffrey 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 
 
 alone. The old man rested his head upon the table and 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 "Be merciful," he said, " do not say such words to me. 
 I loved her, indeed I did, but Elizabeth was too much for 
 me, and I am so poor. Oh, if you loved her also, be 
 merciful ! I do not reproach you because you loved her, 
 although you had no right to love her. If you had not 
 loved her, and made her love you, all this would never 
 have happened. Why do you say such dreadful things 
 to me, Mr. Bingham ? " 
 
 " I loved her, sir," answered Geoffrey, humbly enough 
 now that his fury had passed, " because being what she 
 was all who looked on her must love her. There is no 
 woman left like her in the world. But who am I that 1 
 should blame you ? God forgive us all ! I only live 
 henceforth in the hope that I may one day rejoin her 
 where she has gone." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Mr. Granger," said Geoffrey presently, " never trouble 
 yourself about money. You were her father; anything 
 you want and 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 woman. Good-bye. 
 Good-bye ! " 
 
 Then Geoffrey went. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE duchess's BALL. 
 
 Geoffrey reached Town a little before eleven o'clock 
 that night — a haunted man— haunted for life by a vision 
 of that face still lovely in death, floating alone upon the
 
 304 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 dorie. 
 
 He took a cab directing the driver to go to Bolton 
 Street and. to stop at his club as he passed. There 
 might be letters for him there, he thought — something 
 which would distract his mind a little. As it chanced there 
 was a letter, marked " private," and a telegram ; both 
 had been delivered that evening, the porter said, the 
 former about an hour ago by hand. 
 
 Idly he opened the telegram — it was from his lawyers: 
 " Your cousin, the child George Bingham, is, as we have 
 just heard, dead. Please call on us early to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 He started a little, for this meant a good deal to 
 Geoffrey. It meant a baronetcy and eight thousand a 
 year, more or less. How delighted Honoria would be, he 
 thought with a sad smile ; the loss of that large income 
 had always been a bitter pill to her, and one which 
 she had made him swallow again and again. Well, 
 there it was. Poor boy, he had always been ailing — an 
 old man's child ! 
 
 He put the telegram in his pocket and got into the 
 hansom again. There was a lamp in it and by its light 
 he read the letter. It was from the Prime Minister and 
 ran thus : 
 
 " My dear Bingham, — I have not seen you since 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 time. I say for a time, for we do not in 
 any way consider that the post is one commensurate with 
 your abilities. It will, however, serve to give you 
 practical experience of administration, and us the advan-
 
 THE DUCHESS'S BALL. 305 
 
 tage of your great talents to an even larger extent than 
 we now enjoy. For the future, it must of course take 
 
 care of itself ; but, as you know. Sir 's health is not 
 
 all that could be desired, and the other day he told me 
 that it was doubtful if he would be able to carry on the 
 duties of the Attorney-Generalship for very much longer. 
 In view of this contingency I venture to suggest that you 
 would do well to apply for silk as soon as possible. I 
 have spoken to the Lord Chancellor about it, and he says 
 that there will be no difficulty, as although you have only 
 been in active practice for so short a 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 been 
 to-day in a position to receive such an epistle from the 
 Prime Minister of England? Ah, here was the luck of 
 the Drowned One's shoe with a vengeance. And what 
 was it all worth to him now ? 
 
 He put the letter in his pocket with the telegram and 
 looked out. They were turning into Bolton Street. How 
 was little Effie, he wondered? The child seemed all 
 that was left him to care for. If anything happened to 
 her — bah, he would not think of it ! 
 
 He was there now. "How is Miss Effie? " he asked of 
 the servant who opened the door. At that moment his 
 attention was attracted by the dim forms of two people, a 
 man and a woman, who were standing not far from the 
 area gate, the man with his arm round the woman's waist. 
 Suddenly the woman appeared to catch sight of the cab 
 and retired swiftly down the area. It crossed his mind 
 that her figure was very like that of Anne, the French nurse. 
 
 " Miss Effie is doing nicely, sir, I'm told," answered 
 the man. 
 
 Geoffrey breathed more freely. " Where is her lady- 
 ship ? " he asked. " In Miss Effie's room ? " 
 
 20
 
 3o6 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 disappointed if I did not 
 come, and my dress is quite lovely. Had your mys- 
 terious business anything to do with Bryngelly ? — Yours, 
 
 HOXORIA." 
 
 " She would go on to a ball from her mother's funeral," 
 said Geoffrey to himself, as he walked up to Effie's room ; 
 " well, it is her nature and there's an end of it." 
 
 He knocked at the door of Effie's room. There was 
 no answer, so he walked in. The room was lit but empty 
 — no, not quite ! On the floor, clothed only in her white 
 night-shirt, lay his little daughter, to all appearance dead. 
 
 With something like an oath he sprang to her and 
 lifted her. The face was pale and the small hands were 
 cold, but the breast was still hot and fevered, and the 
 heart beat. A glance showed him what had happened. 
 The child being left alone, and feeling thirsty, had got 
 out of bed and gone to the water bottle — there was the 
 tumbler on the floor. Then weakness had overcome her 
 and she had fainted — fainted upon the cold floor with the 
 inflammation still on her. 
 
 At that moment Anne entered the room sweetly 
 murmuring, " 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 seen no more in Bolton Street or indeed in 
 this country.
 
 THE DUCHESS'S BALL. 307 
 
 "James," said Geoffrey to the servant, "send the cook 
 up here — she is a sensible woman ; and do you take a 
 hansom and drive to the doctor, and tell him to come 
 here at once, and if you cannot find him go for another 
 doctor. Then go to the Nurses' Home, near St. James' 
 Station, and get a trained nurse — tell them one must be 
 had from somewhere instantly." 
 
 " Yes, sir. And shall I call for her ladyship at the 
 duchess's, sir ? " 
 
 " No," he answered, frowning heavily, " do not disturb 
 her ladyship. Go now." 
 
 *'That settles it," said Geoffrey, as the man went. 
 " Whatever happens, Honoria and I must part. I have 
 done with her." 
 
 He had indeed, though not in the way he meant. It 
 would have been well for Honoria if her husband's 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.
 
 3o8 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 you for that, Honoria ; but look here, it's jolly 
 good, about as good as can be for that prig of a husband 
 of yours. What do you think ? that brat of a boy, the 
 son of old Sir Robert Bingham and the cook or some 
 one, you know, is " 
 
 "Not dead, not dead ? " said Honoria in deep agitation. 
 
 " Dead as ditch-water," replied his lordship. " I heard 
 it at the club. There was a lawyer fellow dining with 
 somebody there, and they got talking about Bingham, 
 when the lawyer said, ' Oh, he's Sir Geoffrey Bingham 
 now. Old Sir Robert's heir is dead. I saw the telegram 
 myself.' " 
 
 " Oh, this is almost too good to be true," said 
 Honoria. " Why, it means eight thousand a year to us." 
 
 " I told you it was pretty good," said her brother. 
 "You ought to stand me a commission out of the swag. 
 At any rate, let's go and drink to the news. Come on, 
 it is time for supper and I am awfully done. I must 
 screw myself up." 
 
 Lady Honoria took his arm. As they walked down 
 the wide flower-hung stair they met a very great person 
 indeed, coming up. 
 
 " Ah, Lady Honoria," said the great Person, " I have 
 something to say that will please you, I think," and he 
 bent towards her, and spoke very low, then, with a 
 little bow, passed on. 
 
 "What is the old boy talking about?" asked her 
 brother. 
 
 "Why, what do you think? We are in luck's way
 
 3IO BEATRICE. 
 
 to-night. He says that they are offering Geoffrey the 
 Under Secretaryship of the Home Office." 
 
 " He'll be a bigger prig than ever now," growled Lord 
 Garsington. " Yes, it is luck though ; let us hope it won't 
 turn." 
 
 They sat down to supper, and Lord Garsington, who 
 had already been dining, helped himself pretty freely to 
 champagne. Before them was a silver candelabra and 
 on each of the candles was fixed a little painted paper 
 shade. One of them got wrong, and a footman tried to 
 reach over Lord Garsington's head and put it straight. 
 
 " I'll do it," said he. 
 
 " No, no ; let the man," said Lady Honoria. " Look ! 
 it is going to catch fire ! " 
 
 '' Nonsense," he answered, rising solemnly and reach- 
 ing his arm towards the shade. As he touched it, it 
 caught fire ; indeed, by touching it he caused it to catch 
 fire. He seized hold of it, and made an effort to put it. 
 out, but it burnt his fingers. 
 
 "Curse the thing !" he said aloud, and threw it from 
 him. It fell flaming in his sister's dress among the 
 thickest of the filmy laces ; they caught, and 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. 
 
 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. 311 
 
 " 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. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Thus, then, did these human atoms work out their 
 destinies, these little grains of animated dust, blown 
 hither and thither by a breath which came they knew not 
 whence. 
 
 If there be any malicious Principle among the Powers 
 around us that deigns to find amusement in the futile 
 vagaries of man, well might it laugh, and laugh again, at 
 the great results of all this scheming, of all these desires, 
 loves and hates ; and if there be any pitiful Principle, 
 well might it sigh over the infinite pathos of human 
 helplessness. Owen Davies lost in his own passion; 
 Geoffrey crowned with prosperity and haunted by 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 deed 
 undared for one short week ! 
 
 But Geoffrey still lived, and the child recovered, after 
 hanging for a while between life and death, and was
 
 312 BEATRICE. 
 
 left to comfort liim. 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-soulcd Beatrice, 
 and broke her father's heart. 
 
 Say — what are we? We are but arrows winged 
 with fears and shot from darkness into darkness; we 
 are blind leaders of the blind, aimless beaters of this 
 wintry air ; lost travellers by many stony paths ending in 
 one end. Tell us, you, who have outworn the com- 
 mon tragedy and passed the narrow way, what lies 
 beyond its gate ? You are dumb, or we cannot hear you 
 speak. 
 
 But Beatrice knows to-day ! 
 
 THE END, 
 
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 14 
 
 General Lists of Works 
 
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