BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT
Lady Honoria leaned back in the cab, and sighed a sigh of satisfaction.
“That is a capital idea,” she said. “I was wondering what arrangements
you could make for the next three weeks. It is ridiculous to pay three
guineas a week for rooms just for you and Effie. The old gentleman only
wants that for board and lodging together, for I asked him.”
“I daresay it will do,” said Geoffrey. “When are we to shift?”
“To-morrow, in time for dinner, or rather supper: these barbarians eat
supper, you know. I go by the morning train, you see, so as to reach
Garsington by tea-time. I daresay you will find it rather dull, but you
like being dull. The old clergyman is a low stamp of man, and a bore,
and as for the eldest daughter, Elizabeth, she’s too awful—she reminds
me of a rat. But Beatrice is handsome enough, though I think her horrid
too. You’ll have to console yourself with her, and I daresay you will
suit each other.”
“Why do you think her horrid, Honoria?”
“Oh, I don’t know; she is clever and odd, and I hate odd women. Why
can’t they be like other people? Think of her being strong enough to
save your life like that too. She must have the muscle of an
Amazon—it’s downright unwomanly. But there is no doubt about her
beauty. She is as nearly perfect as any girl I ever saw, though too
independent looking. If only one had a daughter like that, how one
might marry her. I would not look at anything under twenty thousand a
year. She is too good for that lumbering Welsh squire she’s engaged
to—the man who lives in the Castle—though they say that he is fairly
rich.”
“Engaged,” said Geoffrey, “how do you know that she is engaged?”
“Oh, I don’t know it at all, but I suppose she is. If she isn’t, she
soon will be, for a girl in that position is not likely to throw such a
chance away. At any rate, he’s head over ears in love with her. I saw
that last night. He was hanging about for hours in the rain, outside
the door, with a face like a ghost, till he knew whether she was dead
or alive, and he has been there twice to inquire this morning. Mr.
Granger told me. But she is too good for him from a business point of
view. She might marry anybody, if only she were put in the way of it.”
Somehow, Geoffrey’s lively interest in Beatrice sensibly declined on
the receipt of this intelligence. Of course it was nothing to him;
indeed he was glad to hear that she was in the way of such a
comfortable settlement, but it is unfortunately a fact that one cannot
be quite as much interested in a young and lovely lady who is the
potential property of a “lumbering Welsh squire,” as in one who belongs
to herself.
The old Adam still survives in most men, however right-thinking they
may be, and this is one of its methods of self-assertion.
“Well,” he said, “I am glad to hear she is in such a good way; she
deserves it. I think the Welsh squire is in luck; Miss Granger is a
remarkable woman.”
“Too remarkable by half,” said Lady Honoria drily. “Here we are, and
there is Effie, skipping about like a wild thing as usual. I think that
child is demented.”
On the following morning—it was Friday—Lady Honoria, accompanied by
Anne, departed in the very best of tempers. For the next three weeks,
at any rate, she would be free from the galling associations of
straightened means—free to enjoy the luxury and refined comfort to
which she had been accustomed, and for which her soul yearned with a
fierce longing that would be incomprehensible to folk of a simpler
mind. Everybody has his or her ideal Heaven, if only one could fathom
it. Some would choose a sublimated intellectual leisure, made happy by
the best literature of all the planets; some a model state (with
themselves as presidents), in which (through their beneficent efforts)
the latest radical notions could actually be persuaded to work to
everybody’s satisfaction; others a happy hunting ground, where the game
enjoyed the fun as much as they did; and so on, _ad infinitum_.
Lady Honoria was even more modest. Give her a well appointed town and
country house, a few powdered footmen, plenty of carriages, and other
needful things, including of course the _entrée_ to the upper celestial
ten, and she would ask no more from age to age. Let us hope that she
will get it one day. It would hurt nobody, and she is sure to find
plenty of people of her own way of thinking—that is, if this world
supplies the raw material.
She embraced Effie with enthusiasm, and her husband with a chastened
warmth, and went, a pious prayer on her lips that she might never again
set eyes upon Bryngelly.
It will not be necessary for us to follow Lady Honoria in her travels.
That afternoon Effie and her father had great fun. They packed up.
Geoffrey, who was rapidly recovering from his stiffness, pushed the
things into the portmanteaus and Effie jumped on them. Those which
would not go in they bundled loose into the fly, till that vehicle
looked like an old clothes ship. Then, as there was no room left for
them inside, they walked down to the Vicarage by the beach, a distance
of about three-quarters of a mile, stopping on their way to admire the
beautiful castle, in one corner of which Owen Davies lived and moved.
“Oh, daddy,” said the child, “I wish you would buy a house like that
for you and me to live in. Why don’t you, daddy?”
“Haven’t got the money, dear,” he answered.
“Will you ever have the money, daddy?”
“I don’t know, dear, perhaps one day—when I am too old to enjoy it,” he
added to himself.
“It would take a great many pennies to buy a house like that, wouldn’t
it, daddy?” said Effie sagely.
“Yes, dear, more than you could count,” he answered, and the
conversation dropped.
Presently they came to a boat-shed, placed opposite the village and
close to high-water mark. Here a man, it was old Edward, was engaged in
mending a canoe. Geoffrey glanced at it and saw that it was the
identical canoe out of which he had so nearly been drowned.
“Look, Effie,” said he, “that is the boat out of which I was upset.”
Effie opened her wide eyes, and stared at the frail craft.
“It is a horrid boat,” she said; “I don’t want to look at it.”
“You’re quite right, little miss,” said old Edward, touching his cap.
“It ain’t safe, and somebody will be drowned out of it one of these
days. I wish it had gone to the bottom, I do; but Miss Beatrice, she is
that foolhardy there ain’t no doing nothing with her.”
“I fancy that she has learnt a lesson,” said Geoffrey.
“May be, may be,” grumbled the old man, “but women folk are hard to
teach; they never learn nothing till it’s too late, they don’t, and
then when they’ve been and done it they’re sorry, but what’s the good
o’ that?”
Meanwhile another conversation was in progress not more than a quarter
of a mile away. On the brow of the cliff stood the village of
Bryngelly, and at the back of the village was a school, a plain
white-washed building, roofed with stone, which, though amply
sufficient and suitable to the wants of the place, was little short of
an abomination in the eyes of Her Majesty’s school inspectors, who from
time to time descended upon Bryngelly for purposes of examination and
fault-finding. They yearned to see a stately red-brick edifice, with
all the latest improvements, erected at the expense of the rate-payers,
but as yet they yearned in vain. The school was supported by voluntary
contributions, and thanks to Beatrice’s energy and good teaching, the
dreaded Board, with its fads and extravagance, had not yet clutched it.
Beatrice had returned to her duties that afternoon, for a night’s rest
brought back its vigour to her strong young frame. She had been greeted
with enthusiasm by the children, who loved her, as well they might, for
she was very gentle and sweet with them, though few dared to disobey
her. Besides, her beauty impressed them, though they did not know it.
Beauty of a certain sort has perhaps more effect on children than on
any other class, heedless and selfish as they often seem to be. They
feel its power; it is an outward expression of the thoughts and dreams
that bud in their unknowing hearts, and is somehow mixed up with their
ideas of God and Heaven. Thus there was in Bryngelly a little girl of
ten, a very clever and highly excitable child, Jane Llewellyn by name,
born of parents of strict Calvinistic views. As it chanced, some months
before the opening of this story, a tub thumper, of high renown and
considerable rude oratorical force, visited the place, and treated his
hearers to a lively discourse on the horrors of Hell.
In the very front row, her eyes wide with fear, sat this poor little
child between her parents, who listened to the Minister with much
satisfaction, and a little way back sat Beatrice, who had come out of
curiosity.
Presently the preacher, having dealt sufficiently in terrifying
generalities, went on to practical illustrations, for, after the manner
of his class, he was delivering an extemporary oration. “Look at that
child,” he said, pointing to the little girl; “she looks innocent, does
she not? but if she does not find salvation, my brethren, I tell you
that she is damned. If she dies to-night, not having found salvation,
she will go to _Hell_. Her delicate little body will be tormented for
ever and ever——”
Here the unfortunate child fell forward with a shriek.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir,” said Beatrice aloud.
She had been listening to all this ill-judged rant with growing
indignation, and now, in her excitement, entirely forgot that she was
in a place of worship. Then she ran forward to the child, who had
swooned. Poor little unfortunate, she never recovered the shock. When
she came to herself, it was found that her finely strung mind had given
way, and she lapsed into a condition of imbecility. But her imbecility
was not always passive. Occasionally fits of passionate terror would
seize upon her. She would cry out that the fiends were coming to drag
her down to torment, and dash herself against the wall, in fear hideous
to behold. Then it was found that there was but one way to calm her: it
was to send for Beatrice. Beatrice would come and take the poor thin
hands in hers and gaze with her calm deep eyes upon the wasted
horror-stricken face till the child grew quiet again and, shivering,
sobbed herself to sleep upon her breast.
And so it was with all the children; her power over them was almost
absolute. They loved her, and she loved them all.
And now the schooling was almost done for the day. It was Beatrice’s
custom to make the children sing some simple song before they broke up.
She stood in front of them and gave the time while they sung, and a
pretty sight it was to see her do it. On this particular afternoon,
just as the first verse was finished, the door of the room opened, and
Owen Davies entered, bearing some books under his arm. Beatrice glanced
round and saw him, then, with a quick stamp of her foot, went on giving
the time.
The children sung lustily, and in front of them stood Beatrice, dressed
in simple white, her graceful form swaying as she marked the music’s
time. Nearer and nearer drew Owen Davies, till at length he stood quite
close, his lips slightly apart, his eyes fixed upon her like the eyes
of one who dreams, and his slow heavy face faintly lit with the glow of
strong emotion.
The song ended, the children at a word from their mistress filed past
her, headed by the pupil teachers, and then with a shout, seizing their
caps, ran forth this way and that, welcoming the free air. When they
were all gone, and not till then, Beatrice turned suddenly round.
“How do you do, Mr. Davies?” she said.
He started visibly. “I did not know that you had seen me,” he answered.
“Oh, yes, I saw you, Mr. Davies, only I could not stop the song to say
how do you do. By the way, I have to thank you for coming to inquire
after me.”
“Not at all, Miss Beatrice, not at all; it was a most dreadful
accident. I cannot tell you how thankful I am—I can’t, indeed.”
“It is very good of you to take so much interest in me,” said Beatrice.
“Not at all, Miss Beatrice, not at all. Who—who could help taking
interest in you? I have brought you some books—the Life of Darwin—it is
in two volumes. I think that I have heard you say that Darwin interests
you?”
“Yes, thank you very much. Have you read it?”
“No, but I have cut it. Darwin doesn’t interest me, you know. I think
that he was a rather misguided person. May I carry the books home for
you?”
“Thank you, but I am not going straight home; I am going to old
Edward’s shed to see my canoe.”
As a matter of fact this was true, but the idea was only that moment
born in her mind. Beatrice had been going home, as she wanted to see
that all things were duly prepared for Geoffrey and his little
daughter. But to reach the Vicarage she must pass along the cliff,
where there were few people, and this she did not wish to do. To be
frank, she feared lest Mr. Davies should take the opportunity to make
that offer of his hand and heart which hung over her like a nightmare.
Now the way to Edward’s shed lay through the village and down the
cliff, and she knew that he would never propose in the village.
It was very foolish of her, no doubt, thus to seek to postpone the evil
day, but the strongest-minded women have their weak points, and this
was one of Beatrice’s. She hated the idea of this scene. She knew that
when it did come there would be a scene. Not that her resolution to
refuse the man had ever faltered. But it would be painful, and in the
end it must reach the ears of her father and Elizabeth that she had
actually rejected Mr. Owen Davies, and then what would her life be
worth? She had never suspected it, it had never entered into her mind
to suspect, that, though her father might be vexed enough, nothing on
this earth would more delight the heart of Elizabeth.
Presently, having fetched her hat, Beatrice, accompanied by her
admirer, bearing the Life of Darwin under his arm, started to walk down
to the beach. They went in silence, Beatrice just a little ahead. She
ventured some remark about the weather, but Owen Davies made no reply;
he was thinking, he wanted to say something, but he did not know how to
say it. They were at the head of the cliff now, and if he wished to
speak he must do so quickly.
“Miss Beatrice,” he said in a somewhat constrained voice.
“Yes, Mr. Davies—oh, look at that seagull; it nearly knocked my hat
off.”
But he was not to be put off with the seagull. “Miss Beatrice,” he said
again, “are you going out walking next Sunday afternoon?”
“How can I tell, Mr. Davies? It may rain.”
“But if it does not rain—please tell me. You generally do walk on the
beach on Sunday. Miss Beatrice, I want to speak to you. I hope you will
allow me, I do indeed.”
Then suddenly she came to a decision. This kind of thing was
unendurable; it would be better to get it over. Turning round so
suddenly that Owen started, she said:
“If you wish to speak to me, Mr. Davies, I shall be in the Amphitheatre
opposite the Red Rocks, at four o’clock on Sunday afternoon, but I had
much rather that you did not come. I can say no more.”
“I shall come,” he answered doggedly, and they went down the steps to
the boat-shed.
“Oh, look, daddy,” said Effie, “here comes the lady who was drownded
with you and a gentleman,” and to Beatrice’s great relief the child ran
forward and met them.
“Ah!” thought Geoffrey to himself, “that is the man Honoria said she
was engaged to. Well, I don’t think very much of her taste.”
In another minute they had arrived. Geoffrey shook hands with Beatrice,
and was introduced to Owen Davies, who murmured something in reply, and
promptly took his departure.
They examined the canoe together, and then walked slowly up to the
Vicarage, Beatrice holding Effie by the hand. Opposite the reef they
halted for a minute.
“There is the Table Rock on which we were thrown, Mr. Bingham,” said
Beatrice, “and here is where they carried us ashore. The sea does not
look as though it would drown any one to-night, does it? See!”—and she
threw a stone into it—“the ripples run as evenly as they do on a pond.”
She spoke idly and Geoffrey answered her idly, for they were not
thinking of their words. Rather were they thinking of the strange
chance that had brought them together in an hour of deadly peril and
now left them together in an hour of peace. Perhaps, too, they were
wondering to what end this had come about. For, agnostics, atheists or
believers, are we not, most of us, fatalists at heart?