ONLY GOOD-NIGHT
Five more days passed, all too quickly, and once more Monday came
round. It was the 22nd of October, and the Michaelmas Sittings began on
the 24th. On the morrow, Tuesday, Geoffrey was to return to London,
there to meet Lady Honoria and get to work at Chambers. That very
morning, indeed, a brief, the biggest he had yet received—it was marked
thirty guineas—had been forwarded to him from his chambers, with a note
from his clerk to the effect that the case was expected to be in the
special jury list on the first day of the sittings, and that the clerk
had made an appointment for him with the solicitors for 5.15 on the
Tuesday. The brief was sent to him by his uncle’s firm, and marked,
“With you the Attorney-General, and Mr. Candleton, Q.C.,” the
well-known leader of the Probate and Divorce Court Bar. Never before
had Geoffrey found himself in such honourable company, that is on the
back of a brief, and not a little was he elated thereby.
But when he came to look into the case his joy abated somewhat, for it
was one of the most perplexing that he had ever known. The will
contested, which was that of a Yorkshire money-lender, disposed of
property to the value of over £80,000, and was propounded by a niece of
the testator who, when he died, if not actually weak in his mind, was
in his dotage, and superstitious to the verge of insanity. The niece to
whom all the property was left—to the exclusion of the son and daughter
of the deceased, both married, and living away from home—stayed with
the testator and looked after him. Shortly before his death, however,
he and this niece had violently quarrelled on account of an intimacy
which the latter had formed with a married man of bad repute, who was a
discharged lawyer’s clerk. So serious had been the quarrel that only
three days before his death the testator had sent for a lawyer and
formally, by means of a codicil, deprived the niece of a sum of £2,000
which he had left her, all the rest of his property being divided
between his son and daughter. Three days afterwards, however, he duly
executed a fresh will, in the presence of two servants, by which he
left all his property to the niece, to the entire exclusion of his own
children. This will, though very short, was in proper form and was
written by nobody knew whom. The servants stated that the testator
before signing it was perfectly acquainted with its contents, for the
niece had made him repeat them in their presence. They also declared,
however, that he seemed in a terrible fright, and said twice, “It’s
behind me; it’s behind me!”
Within an hour of the signing of the will the testator was found dead,
apparently from the effects of fear, but the niece was not in the room
at the time of death. The only other remarkable circumstance in the
case was that the disreputable lover of the niece had been seen hanging
about the house at dusk, the testator having died at ten o’clock at
night. There was also a further fact. The son, on receiving a message
from the niece that his father was seriously worse, had hurried with
extraordinary speed to the house, passing some one or something—he
could not tell what—that seemed to be running, apparently from the
window of the sick man’s room, which was on the ground floor, and
beneath which footmarks were afterwards found. Of these footmarks two
casts had been taken, of which photographs were forwarded with the
brief. They had been made by naked feet of small size, and in each case
the little joint of the third toe of the right foot seemed to be
missing. But all attempts to find the feet that made them had hitherto
failed. The will was contested by the next of kin, for whom Geoffrey
was one of the counsel, upon the usual grounds of undue influence and
fraud; but as it seemed at present with small prospect of success, for,
though the circumstances were superstitious enough, there was not the
slightest evidence of either. This curious case, of which the outlines
are here written, is briefly set out, because it proved to be the
foundation of Geoffrey’s enormous practice and reputation at the Bar.
He read the brief through twice, thought it over well, and could make
little of it. It was perfectly obvious to him that there had been foul
play somewhere, but he found himself quite unable to form a workable
hypothesis. Was the person who had been seen running away concerned in
the matter?—if it was a person. If so, was he the author of the
footprints? Of course the ex-lawyer’s clerk had something to do with
it, but what? In vain did Geoffrey cudgel his brains; every idea that
occurred to him broke down somewhere or other.
“We shall lose this,” he said aloud in despair; “suspicious
circumstances are not enough to upset a will,” and then, addressing
Beatrice, who was sitting at the table, working:
“Here, Miss Granger, you have a smattering of law, see if you can make
anything of this,” and he pushed the heavy brief towards her.
Beatrice took it with a laugh, and for the next three-quarters of an
hour her fair brow was puckered up in a way quaint to see. At last she
finished and shut the brief up. “Let me look at the photographs,” she
said.
Geoffrey handed them to her. She very carefully examined first one and
then the other, and as she did so a light of intelligence broke out
upon her face.
“Well, Portia, have you got it?” he asked.
“I have got something,” she answered. “I do not know if it is right.
Don’t you see, the old man was superstitious; they frightened him first
of all by a ghostly voice or some such thing into signing the will, and
then to death after he had signed it. The lawyer’s clerk prepared the
will—he would know how to do it. Then he was smuggled into the room
under the bed, or somewhere, dressed up as a ghost perhaps. The sending
for the son by the niece was a blind. The thing that was seen running
away was a boy—those footprints were made by a boy. I have seen so many
thousands on the sands here that I could swear to it. He was attracted
to the house from the road, which was quite near, by catching sight of
something unusual through the blind; the brief says there were no
curtains or shutters. Now look at the photographs of the footprints.
See in No. 1, found outside the window, the toes are pressed down
deeply into the mud. The owner of the feet was standing on tip-toe to
get a better view. But in No. 2, which was found near where the son
thought he saw a person running, the toes are spread out quite wide.
That is the footprint of some one who was in a great hurry. Now it is
not probable that a boy had anything to do with the testator’s death.
Why, then, was the boy running so hard? I will tell you: because he was
frightened at something he had seen through the blind. So frightened
was he, that he will not come forward, or answer the advertisements and
inquiries. Find a boy in that town who has a joint missing on the third
toe of the right foot, and you will soon know all about it.”
“By Jove,” said Geoffrey, “what a criminal lawyer you would make! I
believe that you have got it. But how are we to find this boy with the
missing toe-joint? Every possible inquiry has already been made and
failed. Nobody has seen such a boy, whose deficiency would probably be
known by his parents, or schoolfellows.”
“Yes,” said Beatrice, “it has failed because the boy has taken to
wearing shoes, which indeed he would always have to do at school. His
parents, if he has any, would perhaps not speak of his disfigurement,
and no one else might know of it, especially if he were a new-comer in
the neighbourhood. It is quite possible that he took off his boots in
order to creep up to the window. And now I will tell you how I should
set to work to find him. I should have every bathing-place in the river
running through the town—there is a river—carefully watched by
detectives. In this weather” (the autumn was an unusually warm one)
“boys of that class often paddle and sometimes bathe. If they watch
close enough, they will probably find a boy with a missing toe joint
among the number.”
“What a good idea,” said Geoffrey. “I will telegraph to the lawyers at
once. I certainly believe that you have got the clue.”
And as it turned out afterwards Beatrice had got it; her suppositions
were right in almost every particular. The boy, who proved to be the
son of a pedlar who had recently come into the town, was found wading,
and by a clever trick, which need not be detailed, frightened into
telling the truth, as he had previously frightened himself into holding
his tongue. He had even, as Beatrice conjectured, taken off his boots
to creep up to the window, and as he ran away in his fright, had
dropped them into a ditch full of water. There they were found, and
went far to convince the jury of the truth of his story. Thus it was
that Beatrice’s quick wit laid the foundations of Geoffrey’s great
success.
This particular Monday was a field day at the Vicarage. Jones had
proved obdurate; no power on earth could induce him to pay the £34 11s.
4d. due on account of tithe. Therefore Mr. Granger, fortified by a
judgment duly obtained, had announced his intention of distraining upon
Jones’s hay and cattle. Jones had replied with insolent defiance. If
any bailiff, or auctioneer, or such people came to sell his hay he
would kill him, or them.
So said Jones, and summoned his supporters, many of whom owed tithe,
and none of whom wished to pay it, to do battle in his cause. For his
part, Mr. Granger retained an auctioneer of undoubted courage who was
to arrive on this very afternoon, supported by six policemen, and carry
out the sale. Beatrice felt nervous about the whole thing, but
Elizabeth was very determined, and the old clergyman was now bombastic
and now despondent. The auctioneer arrived duly by the one o’clock
train. He was a tall able-bodied man, not unlike Geoffrey in
appearance, indeed at twenty yards distance it would have been
difficult to tell them apart. The sale was fixed for half-past two, and
Mr. Johnson—that was the auctioneer’s name—went to the inn to get his
dinner before proceeding to business. He was informed of the hostile
demonstration which awaited him, and that an English member of
Parliament had been sent down especially to head the mob, but being a
man of mettle pooh-poohed the whole affair.
“All bark, sir,” he said to Geoffrey, “all bark and no bite; I’m not
afraid of these people. Why, if they won’t bid for the stuff, I will
buy it in myself.”
“All right,” said Geoffrey, “but I advise you to look out. I fancy that
the old man is a rough customer.”
Then Geoffrey went back to his dinner.
As they sat at the meal, through a gap in the fir trees they saw that
the great majority of the population of Bryngelly was streaming up
towards the scene of the sale, some to agitate, and some to see the
fun.
“It is pretty well time to be off,” said Geoffrey. “Are you coming, Mr.
Granger?”
“Well,” answered the old gentleman, “I wished to do so, but Elizabeth
thinks that I had better keep away. And after all, you know,” he added
airily, “perhaps it is as well for a clergyman not to mix himself up
too much in these temporal matters. No, I want to go and see about some
pigs at the other end of the parish, and I think that I shall take this
opportunity.”
“You are not going, Mr. Bingham, are you?” asked Beatrice in a voice
which betrayed her anxiety.
“Oh, yes,” he answered, “of course I am. I would not miss the chance
for worlds. Why, Beecham Bones is going to be there, the member of
Parliament who has just done his four months for inciting to outrage.
We are old friends; I was at school with him. Poor fellow, he was mad
even in those days, and I want to chaff him.”
“I think that you had far better not go, Mr. Bingham,” said Beatrice;
“they are a very rough set.”
“Everybody is not so cowardly as you are,” put in Elizabeth. “I am
going at any rate.”
“That’s right, Miss Elizabeth,” said Geoffrey; “we will protect each
other from the revolutionary fury of the mob. Come, it is time to
start.”
And so they went, leaving Beatrice a prey to melancholy forebodings.
She waited in the house for the best part of an hour, making pretence
to play with Effie. Then her anxiety got the better of her; she put on
her hat and started, leaving Effie in charge of the servant Betty.
Beatrice walked quickly along the cliff till she came in sight of
Jones’s farm. From where she stood she could make out a great crowd of
men, and even, when the wind turned towards her, catch the noise of
shouting. Presently she heard a sound like the report of a gun, saw the
crowd break up in violent confusion, and then cluster together again in
a dense mass.
“What could it mean?” Beatrice wondered.
As the thought crossed her mind, she perceived two men running towards
her with all their speed, followed by a woman. Three minutes more and
she saw that the woman was Elizabeth.
The men were passing her now.
“What is it?” she cried.
“_Murder!_” they answered with one voice, and sped on towards
Bryngelly.
Another moment and Elizabeth was at hand, horror written on her pale
face.
Beatrice clutched at her. “_Who_ is it?” she cried.
“Mr. Bingham,” gasped her sister. “Go and help; he’s shot dead!” And
she too was gone.
Beatrice’s knees loosened, her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth;
the solid earth spun round and round. “Geoffrey killed! Geoffrey
killed!” she cried in her heart; but though her ears seemed to hear the
sound of them, no words came from her lips. “Oh, what should she do?
Where should she hide herself in her grief?”
A few yards from the path grew a stunted tree with a large flat stone
at its root. Thither Beatrice staggered and sank upon the stone, while
still the solid earth spun round and round.
Presently her mind cleared a little, and a keener pang of pain shot
through her soul. She had been stunned at first, now she felt.
“Perhaps it was not true; perhaps Elizabeth had been mistaken or had
only said it to torment her.” She rose. She flung herself upon her
knees, there by the stone, and prayed, this first time for many
years—she prayed with all her soul. “Oh, God, if Thou art, spare him
his life and me this agony.” In her dreadful pangs of grief her faith
was thus re-born, and, as all human beings must in their hour of mortal
agony, Beatrice realised her dependence on the Unseen. She rose, and
weak with emotion sank back on to the stone. The people were streaming
past her now, talking excitedly. Somebody came up to her and stood over
her.
Oh, Heaven, it was Geoffrey!
“Is it you?” she gasped. “Elizabeth said that you were murdered.”
“No, no. It was not I; it is that poor fellow Johnson, the auctioneer.
Jones shot him. I was standing next him. I suppose your sister thought
that I fell. He was not unlike me, poor fellow.”
Beatrice looked at him, went red, went white, then burst into a flood
of tears.
A strange pang seized upon his heart. It thrilled through him, shaking
him to the core. Why was this woman so deeply moved? Could it be——?
Nonsense; he stifled the thought before it was born.
“Don’t cry,” Geoffrey said, “the people will see you, Beatrice” (for
the first time he called her by her christian name); “pray do not cry.
It distresses me. You are upset, and no wonder. That fellow Beecham
Bones ought to be hanged, and I told him so. It is his work, though he
never meant it to go so far. He’s frightened enough now, I can tell
you.”
Beatrice controlled herself with an effort.
“What happened,” he said, “I will tell you as we walk along. No, don’t
go up to the farm. He is not a pleasant sight, poor fellow. When I got
up there, Beecham Bones was spouting away to the mob—his long hair
flying about his back—exciting them to resist laws made by brutal
thieving landlords, and all that kind of gibberish; telling them that
they would be supported by a great party in Parliament, &c., &c. The
people, however, took it all good-naturedly enough. They had a
beautiful effigy of your father swinging on a pole, with a placard on
his breast, on which was written, ‘The robber of the widow and the
orphan,’ and they were singing Welsh songs. Only I saw Jones, who was
more than half drunk, cursing and swearing in Welsh and English. When
the auctioneer began to sell, Jones went into the house and Bones went
with him. After enough had been sold to pay the debt, and while the mob
was still laughing and shouting, suddenly the back door of the house
opened and out rushed Jones, now quite drunk, a gun in his hand and
Bones hanging on to his coat-tails. I was talking to the auctioneer at
the moment, and my belief is that the brute thought that I was Johnson.
At any rate, before anything could be done he lifted the gun and fired,
at me, as I think. The charge, however, passed my head and hit poor
Johnson full in the face, killing him dead. That is all the story.”
“And quite enough, too,” said Beatrice with a shudder. “What times we
live in! I feel quite sick.”
Supper that night was a very melancholy affair. Old Mr. Granger was
altogether thrown off his balance; and even Elizabeth’s iron nerves
were shaken.
“It could not be worse, it could not be worse,” moaned the old man,
rising from the table and walking up and down the room.
“Nonsense, father,” said Elizabeth the practical. “He might have been
shot before he had sold the hay, and then you would not have got your
tithe.”
Geoffrey could not help smiling at this way of looking at things, from
which, however, Mr. Granger seemed to draw a little comfort. From
constantly thinking about it, and the daily pressure of necessity,
money had come to be more to the old man than anything else in the
world.
Hardly was the meal done when three reporters arrived and took down
Geoffrey’s statement of what had occurred, for publication in various
papers, while Beatrice went away to see about packing Effie’s things.
They were to start by a train leaving for London at half-past eight on
the following morning. When Beatrice came back it was half-past ten,
and in his irritation of mind Mr. Granger insisted upon everybody going
to bed. Elizabeth shook hands with Geoffrey, congratulating him on his
escape as she did so, and went at once; but Beatrice lingered a little.
At last she came forward and held out her hand.
“Good-night, Mr. Bingham,” she said.
“Good-night. I hope that this is not good-bye also,” he added with some
anxiety.
“Of course not,” broke in Mr. Granger. “Beatrice will go and see you
off. I can’t; I have to go and meet the coroner about the inquest, and
Elizabeth is always busy in the house. Luckily they won’t want you;
there were so many witnesses.”
“Then it is only good-night,” said Beatrice.
She went to her room. Elizabeth, who shared it, was already asleep, or
pretending to be asleep. Then Beatrice undressed and got into bed, but
rest she could not. It was “only good-night,” a last good-night. He was
going away—back to his wife, back to the great rushing world, and to
the life in which she had no share. Very soon he would forget her.
Other interests would arise, other women would become his friends, and
he would forget the Welsh girl who had attracted him for a while, or
remember her only as the companion of a rough adventure. What did it
mean? Why was her heart so sore? Why had she felt as though she should
die when they told her that he was dead?
Then the answer rose in her breast. She loved him; it was useless to
deny the truth—she loved him body, and heart and soul, with all her
mind and all her strength. She was his, and his alone—to-day,
to-morrow, and for ever. He might go from her sight, she might never,
never see him more, but love him she always must. And he was married!
Well, it was her misfortune; it could not affect the solemn truth. What
should she do now, how should she endure her life when her eyes no
longer saw his eyes, and her ears never heard his voice? She saw the
future stretch itself before her as a vision. She saw herself forgotten
by this man whom she loved, or from time to time remembered only with a
faint regret. She saw herself growing slowly old, her beauty fading
yearly from her face and form, companioned only by the love that grows
not old. Oh, it was bitter, bitter! and yet she would not have it
otherwise. Even in her pain she felt it better to have found this deep
and ruinous joy, to have wrestled with the Angel and been worsted, than
never to have looked upon his face. If she could only know that what
she gave was given back again, that he loved her as she loved him, she
would be content. She was innocent, she had never tried to draw him to
her; she had used no touch or look, no woman’s arts or lures such as
her beauty placed at her command. There had been no word spoken,
scarcely a meaning glance had passed between them, nothing but frank
and free companionship as of man with man. She knew he did not love his
wife and that his wife did not love him—this she could _see_. But she
had never tried to win him from her, and though she sinned in thought,
though her heart was guilty—oh, her hands were clean!
Her restlessness overcame her. She could no longer lie in bed.
Elizabeth, watching through her veil of sleep, saw Beatrice rise, put
on a wrapper, and, going to the window, throw it wide. At first she
thought of interfering, for Elizabeth was a prudent person and did not
like draughts; but her sister’s movements excited her curiosity, and
she refrained. Beatrice sat down on the foot of her bed, and leaning
her arm upon the window-sill looked out upon the lovely quiet night.
How dark the pine trees massed against the sky; how soft was the
whisper of the sea, and how vast the heaven through which the stars
sailed on.
What was it, then, this love of hers? Was it mere earthly passion? No,
it was more. It was something grander, purer, deeper, and quite
undying. Whence came it, then? If she was, as she had thought, only a
child of earth, whence came this deep desire which was not of the
earth? Had she been wrong, had she a soul—something that could love
with the body and through the body and beyond the body—something of
which the body with its yearnings was but the envelope, the hand or
instrument? Oh, now it seemed to Beatrice that this was so, and that
called into being by her love she and her soul stood face to face
acknowledging their unity. Once she had held that it was phantasy: that
such spiritual hopes were but exhalations from a heart unsatisfied;
that when love escapes us on the earth, in our despair, we swear it is
immortal, and that we shall find it in the heavens. Now Beatrice
believed this no more. Love had kissed her on the eyes, and at his kiss
her sleeping spirit was awakened, and she saw a vision of the truth.
Yes, she loved him, and must always love him! But she could never know
on earth that he was hers, and if she had a spirit to be freed after
some few years, would not his spirit have forgotten hers in that far
hereafter of their meeting?
She dropped her brow upon her arm and softly sobbed. What was there
left for her to do except to sob—till her heart broke?
Elizabeth, lying with wide-open ears, heard the sobs. Elizabeth,
peering through the moonlight, saw her sister’s form tremble in the
convulsion of her sorrow, and smiled a smile of malice.
“The thing is done,” she thought; “she cries because the man is going.
Don’t cry, Beatrice, don’t cry! We will get your plaything back for
you. Oh, with such a bait it will be easy. He is as sweet on you as you
on him.”
There was something evil, something almost devilish, in this scene of
the one watching woman holding a clue to and enjoying the secret
tortures of the other, plotting the while to turn them to her innocent
rival’s destruction and her own advantage. Elizabeth’s jealousy was
indeed bitter as the grave.
Suddenly Beatrice ceased sobbing. She lifted her head, and by a sudden
impulse threw out the passion of her heart with all her concentrated
strength of mind towards the man she loved, murmuring as she did so
some passionate, despairing words which she knew.
At this moment Geoffrey, sleeping soundly, dreamed that he saw Beatrice
seated by her window and looking at him with eyes which no earthly
obstacle could blind. She was speaking; her lips moved, but though he
could hear no voice the words she spoke floated into his mind—
“Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm.
Teach me, only teach, Love!
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—
Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.
That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight.
Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.”
Geoffrey heard them in his heart. Then they were gone, the vision of
Beatrice was gone, and suddenly he awoke.
Oh, what was this flood of inarticulate, passion-laden thought that
beat upon his brain telling of Beatrice? Wave after wave it came,
utterly overwhelming him, like the heavy breath of flowers stirred by a
night wind—like a message from another world. It was real; it was no
dream, no fancy; she was present with him though she was not there; her
thought mingled with his thought, her being beat upon his own. His
heart throbbed, his limbs trembled, he strove to understand and could
not. But in the mystery of that dread communion, the passion he had
trodden down and refused acknowledgment took life and form within him;
it grew like the Indian’s magic tree, from seed to blade, from blade to
bud, and from bud to bloom. In that moment it became clear to him: he
knew he loved her, and knowing what such a love must mean, for him if
not for her, Geoffrey sank back and groaned.
And Beatrice? Of a sudden she ceased speaking to herself; she felt her
thought flung back to her weighted with another’s thought. She had
broken through the barriers of earth; the quick electric message of her
heart had found a path to him she loved and come back answered. But in
what tongue was that answer writ? Alas! she could not read it, any more
than he could read the message. At first she doubted; surely it was
imagination. Then she remembered it was absolutely proved that people
dying could send a vision of themselves to others far away; and if that
could be, why not this? No, it was truth, a solemn truth; she knew he
felt her thought, she knew that his life beat upon her life. Oh, here
was mystery, and here was hope, for if this could be, and it _was_,
what might not be? If her blind strength of human love could so
overstep the boundaries of human power, and, by the sheer might of its
volition, mock the physical barriers that hemmed her in, what had she
to fear from distance, from separation, ay, from death itself? She had
grasped a clue which might one day, before the seeming end or
after—what did it matter?—lay strange secrets open to her gaze. She had
heard a whisper in an unknown tongue that could still be learned,
answering Life’s agonizing cry with a song of glory. If only he loved
her, some day all would be well. Some day the barriers would fall.
Crumbling with the flesh, they would fall and set her naked spirit free
to seek its other self. And then, having found her love, what more was
there to seek? What other answer did she desire to all the problems of
her life than this of Unity attained at last—Unity attained in Death!
And if he did not love her, how could he answer her? Surely that
message could not pass except along the golden chord of love, which
ever makes its sweetest music when Pain strikes it with a hand of fear.
The troubled glory passed—it throbbed itself away; the spiritual gusts
of thought grew continually fainter, till, like the echoes of a dying
harp, like the breath of a falling gale, they slowly sank to
nothingness. Then wearied with an extreme of wild emotion Beatrice
sought her bed again and presently was lost in sleep.
When Geoffrey woke on the next morning, after a little reflection, he
came to the decision that he had experienced a very curious and moving
dream, consequent on the exciting events of the previous day, or on the
pain of his impending departure. He rose, packed his bag—everything
else was ready—and went in to breakfast. Beatrice did not appear till
it was half over. She looked very pale, and said that she had been
packing Effie’s things. Geoffrey noticed that she barely touched his
fingers when he rose to shake hands with her, and that she studiously
avoided his glance. Then he began to wonder if she also had strangely
dreamed.
Next came the bustle of departure. Effie was despatched in the fly with
the luggage and Betty, the fat Welsh servant, to look after her.
Beatrice and Geoffrey were to walk to the station.
“Time for you to be going, Mr. Bingham,” said Mr. Granger. “There,
good-bye, good-bye! God bless you! Never had such charming lodgers
before. Hope you will come back again, I’m sure. By the way, they are
certain to summon you as a witness at the trial of that villain Jones.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Granger,” Geoffrey answered; “you must come and see me
in town. A change will do you good.”
“Well, perhaps I may. I have not had a change for twenty-five years.
Never could afford it. Aren’t you going to say good-bye to Elizabeth?”
“Good-bye, Miss Granger,” said Geoffrey politely. “Many thanks for all
your kindness. I hope we shall meet again.”
“Do you?” answered Elizabeth; “so do I. I am sure that we shall meet
again, and I am sure that I shall be glad to see you when we do, Mr.
Bingham,” she added darkly.
In another minute he had left the Vicarage and, with Beatrice at his
side, was walking smartly towards the station.
“This is very melancholy,” he said, after a few moments’ silence.
“Going away generally is,” she answered—“either for those who go or
those who stay behind,” she added.
“Or for both,” he said.
Then came another pause; he broke it.
“Miss Beatrice, may I write to you?”
“Certainly, if you like.”
“And will you answer my letters?”
“Yes, I will answer them.”
“If I had my way, then, you should spend a good deal of your time in
writing,” he said. “You don’t know,” he added earnestly, “what a
delight it has been to me to learn to know you. I have had no greater
pleasure in my life.”
“I am glad,” Beatrice answered shortly.
“By the way,” Geoffrey said presently, “there is something I want to
ask you. You are as good as a reference book for quotations, you know.
Some lines have been haunting me for the last twelve hours, and I
cannot remember where they come from.”
“What are they?” she asked, looking up, and Geoffrey saw, or thought he
saw, a strange fear shining in her eyes.
“Here are four of them,” he answered unconcernedly; “we have no time
for long quotations:
“‘That shall be to-morrow,
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight.’”
Beatrice heard—heard the very lines which had been upon her lips in the
wild midnight that had gone. Her heart seemed to stop; she became white
as the dead, stumbled, and nearly fell. With a supreme effort she
recovered herself.
“I think that you must know the lines, Mr. Bingham,” she said in a low
voice. “They come from a poem of Browning’s, called ‘_A Woman’s Last
Word_.’”
Geoffrey made no answer; what was he to say? For a while they walked on
in silence. They were getting close to the station now. Separation,
perhaps for ever, was very near. An overmastering desire to know the
truth took hold of him.
“Miss Beatrice,” he said again, “you look pale. Did you sleep well last
night?”
“No, Mr. Bingham.”
“Did you have curious dreams?”
“Yes, I did,” she answered, looking straight before her.
He turned a shade paler. Then it was true!
“Beatrice,” he said in a half whisper, “what do they mean?”
“As much as anything else, or as little,” she answered.
“What are people to do who dream such dreams?” he said again, in the
same constrained voice.
“Forget them,” she whispered.
“And if they come back?”
“Forget them again.”
“And if they will not be forgotten?”
She turned and looked him full in the eyes.
“Die of them,” she said; “then they will be forgotten, or——”
“Or what, Beatrice?”
“Here is the station,” said Beatrice, “and Betty is quarrelling with
the flyman.”
Five minutes more and Geoffrey was gone.