A WOMAN’S LAST WORD
Geoffrey came down to breakfast about eleven o’clock on the morning of
that day the first hours of which he had spent at Euston Station. Not
seeing Effie, he asked Lady Honoria where she was, and was informed
that Anne, the French _bonne_, said the child was not well and that she
had kept her in bed to breakfast.
“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 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 creatures in the
world. The idea of her getting inflammation of the lungs in this
unprovoked fashion. The end of it will be that I shall not be able to
go to the 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
Effie’s room.”
“Oh, very well, very well,” said Geoffrey, “I daresay that it will be
all right, but if Effie gets any worse, you will please understand that
room must be made.”
But Effie did not get worse. She remained much about the same. Geoffrey
sat at home all day and employed himself in reading briefs; fortunately
he had not to go to court. About six o’clock he went down to the House,
and having dined very simply and quietly, took his seat and listened to
some dreary talk, which was being carried on for the benefit of the
reporters, about the adoption of the Welsh language in the law courts
of Wales.
Suddenly he became aware of a most extraordinary sense of oppression.
An indefinite 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 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 handwriting 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
Bryngelly 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, it
will have closed over me.
“Geoffrey, I shall be dead.
“I received your dear letter (it is destroyed now) in 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 Geoffrey 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 communications 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, 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 forgiveness 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
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 look again into 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 or
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 the foremost of
your age. You have already promised me to persevere to this end: I will
not ask you to promise afresh. Do not be content to accept the world as
women must. Great men do not accept the world; they reform it—and you
are of their number. And when you are great, Geoffrey, you will use
your power, not for self-interest, but to large and worthy ends; you
will always strive to help the poor, to break down oppression from
those who have to bear it, and to advance the honour of your country.
You will do all this from your own heart and not because I ask it of
you, but remember that your fame will be my best monument—though none
shall ever know the grave it covers.
“Farewell, farewell, farewell! Oh, Geoffrey, my darling, to whom I have
never been a wife, to whom I am more than any wife—do not forget me in
the long years which are to come. Remember me when others forsake you.
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 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 Bryngelly 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 concerned with her mysterious end, the
production of such a frank epistle written two days previously would
demonstrate 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 this dark hour he would have rejoiced to do. Oh, how pitiful
it was—how pitiful and how awful! To think of this love, so
passionately pure, wasted on his own unworthiness. To think of this
divine woman going down to lonely death for him—a strong man; to
picture her crouching behind that gateway pillar and touching him 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 matchless strength and beauty of the love which he had lost, and
that face which he should never see again! Surely 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 Owen 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 but a
dream. Could he telegraph? No, it was too late; the office at Bryngelly
would be closed—it was past eight now. But he could go. There was a
train leaving a little after nine—he should be there by half-past six
to-morrow. And Effie was ill—well, surely they could look after her for
twenty-four hours; she was in no danger, and he must go—he could not
bear this torturing suspense. Great God! 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.