WHAT BEATRICE SWORE
Beatrice went to her room, but the atmosphere of the place seemed to
stifle her. Her brain was reeling, she must go out into the air—away
from her tormentors. She had not yet answered Geoffrey’s letter, and it
must be answered by this post, for there was none on Sunday. It was
half-past four—the post went out at five; if she was going to write,
she should do so at once, but she could not do so here. Besides, she
must find time for thought. Ah, she had it; she would take her canoe
and paddle across the bay to the little town of Coed and write her
letter there. The post did not leave Coed till half-past six. She put
on her hat and jacket, and taking a stamp, a sheet of paper, and an
envelope with her, slipped quietly from the house down to old Edward’s
boat-house where the canoe was kept. Old Edward was not there himself,
but his son was, a boy of fourteen, and by his help Beatrice was soon
safely launched. The sea glittered like glass, and turning southwards,
presently she was paddling round the shore of the island on which the
Castle stood towards the open bay.
As she paddled her mind cleared, and she was able to consider the
position. It was bad enough. She saw no light, darkness hemmed her in.
But at least she had a week before her, and meanwhile what should she
write to Geoffrey?
Then, as she thought, a great temptation assailed Beatrice, and for the
first time her resolution wavered. Why should she not accept Geoffrey’s
offer and go away with him—far away from all this misery? Gladly would
she give her life to spend one short year at his dear side. She had but
to say the word, and he would take her to him, and in a month from now
they would be together in some foreign land, counting the world well
lost, as he had said. Doubtless in time Lady Honoria would get a
divorce, and they might be married. A day might even come when all this
would seem like a forgotten night of storm and fear; when, surrounded
by the children of their love, they would wend peaceably, happily,
through the evening of their days towards a bourne robbed of half its
terrors by the fact that they would cross it hand-in-hand.
Oh, that would be well for her; but would it be well for him? When the
first months of passion had passed by, would he not begin to think of
all that he had thrown away for the sake of a woman’s love? Would not
the burst of shame and obloquy which would follow him to the remotest
corners of the earth wear away his affection, till at last, as Lady
Honoria said, he learned to curse and hate her. And if it did not—if he
still loved her through it all—as, being what he was, he well might
do—could she be the one to bring this ruin on him? Oh, it would have
been more kind to let him drown on that night of the storm, when fate
first brought them together to their undoing.
No, no; once and for all, once and for ever, she would _not_ do it.
Cruel as was her strait, heavy as was her burden, not one feather’s
weight of it should he carry, if by any means in her poor power she
could hold it from his back. She would not even tell him of what had
happened—at any rate, not now. It would distress him; he might take
some desperate step; it was almost certain that he would do so. Her
answer must be very short.
She was quite close to Coed now, and the water lay calm as a pond. So
calm was it that she drew the sheet of paper and the envelope from her
pocket, and leaning forward, rested them on the arched covering of the
canoe, and pencilled those words which we have already read.
“No, dear Geoffrey. Things must take their course.—B.”
Thus she wrote. Then she paddled to the shore. A fisherman standing on
the beach caught her canoe and pulled it up. Leaving it in his charge,
she went into the quaint little town, directed and posted her letter,
and bought some wool. It was an excuse for having been there should any
one ask questions. After that she returned to her canoe. The fisherman
was standing by it. She offered him sixpence for his trouble, but he
would not take it.
“No, miss,” he said, “thanking you kindly—but we don’t often get a peep
at such sweet looks. It’s worth sixpence to see you, it is. But, miss,
if I may make so bold as to say so, it isn’t safe for you to cruise
about in that craft, any ways not alone.”
Beatrice thanked him and blushed a little. Vaguely it occurred to her
that she must have more than a common share of beauty, when a rough man
could be so impressed with it. That was what men loved women for, their
beauty, as Owen Davies loved and desired her for this same cause and
this only.
Perhaps it was the same with Geoffrey—no, she did not believe it. He
loved her for other things besides her looks. Only if she had not been
beautiful, perhaps he would not have begun to love her, so she was
thankful for her eyes and hair, and form.
Could folly and infatuation go further? This woman in the darkest hour
of her bottomless and unhorizoned despair, with conscience gnawing at
her heart, with present misery pressing on her breast, and shame to
come hanging over her like a thunder cloud, could yet feel thankful
that she had won this barren love, the spring of all her woe. Or was
her folly deep wisdom in disguise?—is there something divine in a
passion that can so override and defy the worst agonies of life?
She was at sea again now, and evening was falling on the waters softly
as a dream. Well, the letter was posted. Would it be the last, she
wondered? It seemed as though she must write no more letters. And what
was to be done? She would _not_ marry Owen Davies—never would she do
it. She could not so shamelessly violate her feelings, for Beatrice was
a woman to whom death would be preferable to dishonour, however legal.
No, for her own sake she would not be soiled with that disgrace. Did
she do this, she would hold herself the vilest of the vile. And still
less would she do it for Geoffrey’s sake. Her instinct told her what he
would feel at such a thing, though he might never say a word. Surely he
would loathe and despise her. No, that idea was done with—utterly done
with.
Then what remained to her? She would not fly with Geoffrey, since to do
so would be to ruin him. She would not marry Owen, and not to do so
would still be to ruin Geoffrey. She was no fool, she was innocent in
act, but she knew that her innocence would indeed be hard to prove—even
her own father did not believe in it, and her sister would openly
accuse her to the world. What then should she do? Should she hide
herself in some remote half-civilised place, or in London? It was
impossible; she had no money, and no means of getting any. Besides,
they would hunt her out, both Owen Davies and Geoffrey would track her
to the furthest limits of the earth. And would not the former think
that Geoffrey had spirited her away, and at once put his threats into
execution? Obviously he would. There was no hope in that direction.
Some other plan must be found or her lover would still be ruined.
So argued Beatrice, still thinking not of herself, but of Geoffrey, of
that beloved one who was more to her than all the world, more, a
thousand times, than her own safety or well-being. Perhaps she
overrated the matter. Owen Davies, Lady Honoria, and even Elizabeth
might have done all they threatened; the first of them, perhaps the
first two of them, certainly would have done so. But still Geoffrey
might have escaped destruction. Public opinion, or the sounder part of
it, is sensibly enough hard to move in such a matter, especially when
the person said to have been wronged is heart and soul on the side of
him who is said to have wronged her.
Moreover there might have been ways out of it, of which she knew
nothing. But surrounded as she was by threatening powers—by Lady
Honoria threatening actions in the Courts on one side, by Owen Davies
threatening exposure on another, by Elizabeth ready and willing to give
the most damning evidence on the third, to Beatrice the worst
consequences seemed an absolutely necessary sequence. Then there was
her own conscience arrayed against her. This particular charge was a
lie, but it was not a lie that she loved Geoffrey, and to her the two
things seemed very much the same thing. Hers was not a mind to draw
fine distinctions in such matters. _Se posuit ut culpabilem_: she
“placed herself as guilty,” as the old Court rolls put it in miserable
Latin, and this sense of guilt disarmed her. She did not realise the
enormous difference recognised by the whole civilised world between
thought and act, between disposing mind and inculpating deed. Beatrice
looked at the question more from the scriptural point of view,
remembering that in the Bible such fine divisions are expressly stated
to be distinctions without a difference.
Had she gone to Geoffrey and told him her whole story it is probable
that he would have defied the conspiracy, faced it out, and possibly
come off victorious. But, with that deadly reticence of which women
alone are capable, this she did not and would not do. Sweet loving
woman that she was, she would not burden him with her sorrows, she
would bear them alone—little reckoning that thereby she was laying up a
far, far heavier load for him to carry through all his days.
So Beatrice accepted the statements of the plaintiff’s attorney for
gospel truth, and from that false standpoint she drew her auguries.
Oh, she was weary! How lovely was the falling night, see how it brooded
on the seas! and how clear were the waters—there a fish passed by her
paddle—and there the first start sprang into the sky! If only Geoffrey
were here to see it with her. Geoffrey! she had lost him; she was alone
in the world now—alone with the sea and the stars. Well, they were
better than men—better than all men except one. Theirs was a divine
companionship, and it soothed her. Ah, how hateful had been Elizabeth’s
face, more hateful even than the half-crazed cunning of Owen Davies,
when she stretched her hand towards her and called her “a scarlet
woman.” It was so like Elizabeth, this mixing up of Bible terms with
her accusation. And after all perhaps it was true.—What was it, “Though
thy sins be as scarlet, yet shall they be white as snow.” But that was
only if one repented. She did not repent, not in the least. Conscience,
it is true, reproached her with a breach of temporal and human law, but
her heart cried that such love as she had given was immortal and
divine, and therefore set beyond the little bounds of time and man. At
any rate, she loved Geoffrey and was proud and glad to love him. The
circumstances were unfortunate, but she did not make the world or its
social arrangements any more than she had made herself, and she could
not help that. The fact remained, right or wrong—she loved him, loved
him!
How clear were the waters! What was that wild dream which she had
dreamt about herself sitting at the bottom of the sea, and waiting for
him—till at last he came. Sitting at the bottom of the sea—why did it
strike her so strangely—what unfamiliar thought did it waken in her
mind? Well, and why not? It would be pleasant there, better at any rate
than on the earth. But things cannot be ended so; one is burdened with
the flesh, and one must wear it till it fails. Why must she wear it?
Was not the sea large enough to hide her bones? Look now, she had but
to slip over the edge of the canoe, slip without a struggle into those
mighty arms, and in a few short minutes it would all be done and gone!
She gasped as the thought struck home. _Here_ was the answer to her
questionings, the same answer that is given to every human troubling,
to all earthly hopes and fears and strivings. One stroke of that black
knife and everything would be lost or found. Would it be so great a
thing to give her life for Geoffrey?—why she had well nigh done as much
when she had known him but an hour, and now that he was all in all, oh,
would it be so great a thing? If she died—died secretly, swiftly,
surely—Geoffrey would be saved; they would not trouble him then, there
would be no one to trouble about: Owen Davies could not marry her then,
Geoffrey could not ruin himself over her, Elizabeth could pursue her no
further. It would be well to do this thing for Geoffrey, and he would
always love her, and beyond that black curtain there might be something
better.
They said that it was sin. Yes, it might be sin to act thus for oneself
alone. But to do it for another—how of that! Was not the Saviour whom
they preached a Man of Sacrifice? Would it be a sin in her to die for
Geoffrey, to sacrifice herself that Geoffrey might go free?
Oh, it would be no great merit. Her life was not so easy that she
should fear this pure embrace. It would be better, far better, than to
marry Owen Davies, than to desecrate their love and teach Geoffrey to
despise her. And how else could she ward this trouble from him except
by her death, or by a marriage that in her eyes was more dreadful than
any death?
She could not do it yet. She could not die until she had once more seen
his face, even though he did not see hers. No, not to-night would she
seek this swift solution. She had words to say—or words to write—before
the end. Already they rushed in upon her mind!
But if no better plan presented itself she would do it, she was sure
that she would. It was a sin—well, let it be a sin; what did she care
if she sinned for Geoffrey? He would not think the worse of her for it.
And she had hope, yes, Geoffrey had taught her to hope. If there was a
Hell, why it was here. And yet not all a Hell, for in it she had found
her love!
It grew dark; she could hear the whisper of the waves upon Bryngelly
beach. It grew dark; the night was closing round. She paddled to within
a few fathoms of the shore, and called in her clear voice.
“Ay, ay, miss,” answered old Edward from the beach. “Come in on the
next wave.”
She came in accordingly and her canoe was caught and dragged high and
dry.
“What, Miss Beatrice,” said the old man shaking his head and grumbling,
“at it again! Out all alone in that thing,” and he gave the canoe a
contemptuous kick, “and in the dark, too. You want a husband to look
after you, you do. You’ll never rest till you’re drowned.”
“No, Edward,” she answered with a little laugh. “I don’t suppose that I
shall. There is no peace for the wicked above seas, you know. Now do
not scold. The canoe is as safe as church in this weather and in the
bay.”
“Oh, yes, it’s safe enough in the calm and the bay,” he answered, “but
supposing it should come on to blow and supposing you should drift
beyond the shelter of Rumball Point there, and get the rollers down on
you—why you would be drowned in five minutes. It’s wicked, miss, that’s
what it is.”
Beatrice laughed again and went.
“She’s a funny one she is,” said the old man scratching his head as he
looked after her, “of all the woman folk as ever I knowed she is the
rummest. I sometimes thinks she wants to get drowned. Dash me if I
haven’t half a mind to stave a hole in the bottom of that there damned
canoe, and finish it.”
Beatrice reached home a little before supper time. Her first act was to
call Betty the servant and with her assistance to shift her bed and
things into the spare room. With Elizabeth she would have nothing more
to do. They had slept together since they were children, now she had
done with her. Then she went in to supper, and sat through it like a
statue, speaking no word. Her father and Elizabeth kept up a strained
conversation, but they did not speak to her, nor she to them. Elizabeth
did not even ask where she had been, nor take any notice of her change
of room.
One thing, however, Beatrice learnt. Her father was going on the Monday
to Hereford by an early train to attend a meeting of clergymen
collected to discuss the tithe question. He was to return by the last
train on the Tuesday night, that is, about midnight. Beatrice now
discovered that Elizabeth proposed to accompany him. Evidently she
wished to see as little as possible of her sister during this week of
truce—possibly she was a little afraid of her. Even Elizabeth might
have a conscience.
So she should be left alone from Monday morning till Tuesday night. One
can do a good deal in forty hours.
After supper Beatrice rose and left the room, without a word, and they
were glad when she went. She frightened them with her set face and
great calm eyes. But neither spoke to the other on the subject. They
had entered into a conspiracy of silence.
Beatrice locked her door and then sat at the window lost in thought.
When once the idea of suicide has entered the mind it is apt to grow
with startling rapidity. She reviewed the whole position; she went over
all the arguments and searched the moral horizon for some feasible
avenue of escape. But she could find none that would save Geoffrey,
except this. Yes, she would do it, as many another wretched woman had
done before her, not from cowardice indeed, for had she alone been
concerned she would have faced the thing out, fighting to the bitter
end—but for this reason only, it would cut off the dangers which
threatened Geoffrey at their very root and source. Of course there must
be no scandal; it must never be known that she had killed herself, or
she might defeat her own object, for the story would be raked up. But
she well knew how to avoid such a possibility; in her extremity
Beatrice grew cunning as a fox. Yes, and there might be an inquest at
which awkward questions would be asked. But, as she well knew also,
before an inquest can be held there must be something to hold it on,
and that something would not be there.
And so in the utter silence of the night and in the loneliness of her
chamber did Beatrice dedicate herself to sacrifice upon the altar of
her immeasurable love. She would face the last agonies of death when
the bloom of her youthful strength and beauty was but opening as a rose
in June. She would do more, she would brave the threatened vengeance of
the most High, coming before Him a self murderess, and with but one
plea for pity—that she loved so well: _quia multum amavit_. Yes, she
would do all this, would leave the warm world in the dawning summer of
her days, and alone go out into the dark—alone would face those visions
which might come—those Shapes of terror, and those Things of fear, that
perchance may wait for sinful human kind. Alone she would go—oh, hand
in hand with him it had been easy, but this must not be. The door of
utter darkness would swing to behind her, and who could say if in time
to come it should open to Geoffrey’s following feet, or if he might
ever find the path that she had trod. It must be done, it should be
done! Beatrice rose from her seat with bright eyes and quick-coming
breath, and swore before God, if God there were, that she would do it,
trusting to Him for pardon and for pity, or failing these—for sleep.
Yes, but first she must once more look upon Geoffrey’s dear face—and
then farewell!
Pity her! poor mistaken woman, making of her will a Providence, rushing
to doom. Pity her, but do not blame her overmuch, or if you do, then
blame Judith and Jephtha’s daughter and Charlotte Corday, and all the
glorious women who from time to time have risen on this sordid world of
self, and given themselves as an offering upon the altars of their
love, their religion, their honour or their country!
It was finished. Now let her rest while she could, seeing what was to
come. With a sigh for all that was, and all that might have been,
Beatrice lay down and soon slept sweetly as a child.