AVE ATQUE VALE
That frightful journey—no nightmare was ever half so awful! 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 symptoms, 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 suspense 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.
“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 always
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 none were 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 till he
came to the Amphitheatre. The tide was high again; he 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 come
back to him—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, perhaps
to be dug up again thousands of years hence, and once more to 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
were 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 Children of Eternal Day!_”
And what was this other relic? He lifted it—it was Beatrice’s tennis
shoe, washed from her foot—Geoffrey knew it, for once he had tied it.
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 exhibitions 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! 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
turning his head to hide the tears that 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 _Standard_, 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 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_.”
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?”
“Yes,” 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 beyond 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 pointing 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 to 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 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 remember that this time you have to deal with a
man who can and will strike back, not 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 attached 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 terrified, 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.
They went forth, leaving Geoffrey and Mr. Granger 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 I
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 what 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.