CHAPTER XII
THE WRITING ON THE SAND
Geoffrey found himself very comfortable at the Vicarage, and as for
Effie, she positively revelled in it. Beatrice looked after her,
taking her to bed at night and helping her to dress in the morning,
and Beatrice was a great improvement upon Anne. When Geoffrey became
aware of this he remonstrated, saying that he had never expected her
to act as nurse to the child, but she replied that it was a pleasure
to her to do so, which was the truth. In other ways, too, the place
was all that he desired. He did not like Elizabeth, but then he did
not see very much of her, and the old farmer clergyman was amusing in
his way, with his endless talk of tithes and crops, and the iniquities
of the rebellious Jones, on whom he was going to distrain.
For the first day or two Geoffrey had no more conversations with
Beatrice. Most of the time she was away at the school, and on the
Saturday afternoon, when she was free, he went out to the Red Rocks
curlew shooting. At first he thought of asking her to come too, but
then it occurred to him that she might wish to go out with Mr. Davies,
to whom he still supposed she was engaged. It was no affair of his,
yet he was glad when he came back to find that she had been out with
Effie, and not with Mr. Davies.
On Sunday morning they all went to church, including Beatrice. It was
a bare little church, and the congregation was small. Mr. Granger went
through the service with about as much liveliness as a horse driving a
machine. He ground it out, prayers, psalms, litany, lessons, all in
the same depressing way, till Geoffrey felt inclined to go to sleep,
and then took to watching Beatrice's sweet face instead. He wondered
what made her look so sad. Hers was always a sad face when in repose,
that he knew, but to-day it was particularly so, and what was more,
she looked worried as well as sad. Once or twice he saw her glance at
Mr. Davies, who was sitting opposite, the solitary occupant of an
enormous pew, and he thought that there was apprehension in her look.
But Mr. Davies did not return the glance. To judge from his appearance
nothing was troubling his mind.
Indeed, Geoffrey studying him in the same way that he instinctively
studied everybody whom he met, thought that he had never before seen a
man who looked quite so ox-like and absolutely comfortable. And yet he
never was more completely at fault. The man seemed stolid and cold
indeed, but it was the coldness of a volcano. His heart was a-fire.
All the human forces in him, all the energies of his sturdy life, had
concentrated themselves in a single passion for the woman who was so
near and yet so far from him. He had never drawn upon the store, had
never frittered his heart away. This woman, strange and unusual as it
may seem, was absolutely the first whose glance or voice had ever
stirred his blood. His passion for her had grown slowly; for years it
had been growing, ever since the grey-eyed girl on the brink of
womanhood had conducted him to his castle home. It was no fancy, no
light desire to pass with the year which brought it. Owen had little
imagination, that soil from which loves spring with the rank swiftness
of a tropic bloom to fade at the first chill breath of change. His
passion was an unalterable fact. It was rooted like an oak on our
stiff English soil, its fibres wrapped his heart and shot his being
through, and if so strong a gale should rise that it must fall, then
he too would be overthrown.
For years now he had thought of little else than Beatrice. To win her
he would have given all his wealth, ay, thrice over, if that were
possible. To win her, to know her his by right and his alone, ah, that
would be heaven! His blood quivered and his mind grew dim when he
thought of it. What would it be to see her standing by him as she
stood now, and know that she was his wife! There is no form of passion
more terrible than this. Its very earthiness makes it awful.
The service went on. At last Mr. Granger mounted the pulpit and began
to read his sermon, of which the text was, "But the greatest of these
is charity." Geoffrey noticed that he bungled over some of the words,
then suddenly remembered Beatrice had told him that she had written
the sermon, and was all attention. He was not disappointed.
Notwithstanding Mr. Granger's infamous reading, and his habit of
dropping his voice at the end of a sentence, instead of raising it,
the beauty of the thoughts and diction was very evident. It was indeed
a discourse that might equally well have been delivered in a Mahomedan
or a Buddhist place of worship; there was nothing distinctively
Christian about it, it merely appealed to the good in human nature.
But of this neither the preacher nor his audience seemed to be aware,
indeed, few of the latter were listening at all. The sermon was short
and ended with a passage of real power and beauty--or rather it did
not end, for, closing the MS. sheets, Mr. Granger followed on with a
few impromptu remarks of his own.
"And now, brethren," he said, "I have been preaching to you about
charity, but I wish to add one remark, Charity begins at home. There
is about a hundred pounds of tithe owing to me, and some of it has
been owing for two years and more. If that tithe is not paid I shall
have to put distraint on some of you, and I thought that I had better
take this opportunity to tell you so."
Then he gave the Benediction.
The contrast between this business-like speech, and the beautiful
periods which had gone before, was so ridiculous that Geoffrey very
nearly burst out laughing, and Beatrice smiled. So did the rest of the
congregation, excepting one or two who owed tithe, and Owen Davies,
who was thinking of other things.
As they went through the churchyard, Geoffrey noticed something.
Beatrice was a few paces ahead holding Effie's hand. Presently Mr.
Davies passed him, apparently without seeing him, and greeted
Beatrice, who bowed slightly in acknowledgment. He walked a little way
without speaking, then Geoffrey, just as they reached the church gate,
heard him say, "At four this afternoon, then." Again she bowed her
head, and he turned and went. As for Geoffrey, he wondered what it all
meant: was she engaged to him, or was she not?
Dinner was a somewhat silent meal. Mr. Granger was thinking about his
tithe, also about a sick cow. Elizabeth's thoughts pursued some dark
and devious course of their own, not an altogether agreeable one to
judge from her face. Beatrice looked pale and worried; even Effie's
sallies did not do more than make her smile. As for Geoffrey himself,
he was engaged in wondering in an idle sort of way what was going to
happen at four o'clock.
"You is all very dull," said Effie at last, with a charming disregard
of grammar.
"People ought to be dull on Sunday, Effie," answered Beatrice, with an
effort. "At least, I suppose so," she added.
Elizabeth, who was aggressively religious, frowned at this remark. She
knew her sister did not mean it.
"What are you going to do this afternoon, Beatrice?" she asked
suddenly. She had seen Owen Davies go up and speak to her sister, and
though she had not been near enough to catch the words, scented an
assignation from afar.
Beatrice coloured slightly, a fact that escaped neither her sister nor
Geoffrey.
"I am going to see Jane Llewellyn," she answered. Jane Llewellyn was
the crazy little girl whose tale has been told. Up to that moment
Beatrice had no idea of going to see her, but she knew that Elizabeth
would not follow her there, because the child could not endure
Elizabeth.
"Oh, I thought that perhaps you were going out walking."
"I may walk afterwards," answered Beatrice shortly.
"So there is an assignation," thought Elizabeth, and a cold gleam of
intelligence passed across her face.
Shortly after dinner, Beatrice put on her bonnet and went out. Ten
minutes passed, and Elizabeth did the same. Then Mr. Granger announced
that he was going up to the farm (there was no service till six) to
see about the sick cow, and asked Geoffrey if he would like to
accompany him. He said that he might as well, if Effie could come,
and, having lit his pipe, they started.
Meanwhile Beatrice went to see the crazy child. She was not violent
to-day, and scarcely knew her. Before she had been in the house ten
minutes, the situation developed itself.
The cottage stood about two-thirds of the way down a straggling
street, which was quite empty, for Bryngelly slept after dinner on
Sunday. At the top of this street appeared Elizabeth, a Bible in her
hand, as though on district visiting intent. She looked down the
street, and seeing nobody, went for a little walk, then, returning,
once more looked down the street. This time she was rewarded. The door
of the Llewellyns' cottage opened, and Beatrice appeared. Instantly
Elizabeth withdrew to such a position that she could see without being
seen, and, standing as though irresolute, awaited events. Beatrice
turned and took the road that led to the beach.
Then Elizabeth's irresolution disappeared. She also turned and took
the road to the cliff, walking very fast. Passing behind the Vicarage,
she gained a point where the beach narrowed to a width of not more
than fifty yards, and sat down. Presently she saw a man coming along
the sand beneath her, walking quickly. It was Owen Davies. She waited
and watched. Seven or eight minutes passed, and a woman in a white
dress passed. It was Beatrice, walking slowly.
"Ah!" said Elizabeth, setting her teeth, "as I thought." Rising, she
pursued her path along the cliff, keeping three or four hundred yards
ahead, which she could easily do by taking short cuts. It was a long
walk, and Elizabeth, who was not fond of walking, got very tired of
it. But she was a woman with a purpose, and as such, hard to beat. So
she kept on steadily for nearly an hour, till, at length, she came to
the spot known as the Amphitheatre. This Amphitheatre, situated almost
opposite the Red Rocks, was a half-ring of cliff, the sides of which
ran in a semicircle almost down to the water's edge, that is, at high
tide. In the centre of the segment thus formed was a large flat stone,
so placed that anybody in certain positions on the cliff above could
command a view of it, though it was screened by the projecting walls
of rock from observation from the beach. Elizabeth clambered a little
way down the sloping side of the cliff and looked; on the stone, his
back towards her, sat Owen Davies. Slipping from stratum to stratum of
the broken cliff, Elizabeth drew slowly nearer, till at length she was
within fifty paces of the seated man. Here, ensconcing herself behind
a cleft rock, she also sat down; it was not safe to go closer; but in
case she should by any chance be observed from above, she opened the
Bible on her knee, as though she had sought this quiet spot to study
its pages.
Three or four minutes passed, and Beatrice appeared round the
projecting angle of the Amphitheatre, and walked slowly across the
level sand. Owen Davies rose and stretched out his hand to welcome
her, but she did not take it, she only bowed, and then seated herself
upon the large flat stone. Owen also seated himself on it, but some
three or four feet away. Elizabeth thrust her white face forward till
it was almost level with the lips of the cleft rock and strained her
ears to listen. Alas! she could not hear a single word.
"You asked me to come here, Mr. Davies," said Beatrice, breaking the
painful silence. "I have come."
"Yes," he answered; "I asked you to come because I wanted to speak to
you."
"Yes?" said Beatrice, looking up from her occupation of digging little
holes in the sand with the point of her parasol. Her face was calm
enough, but her heart beat fast beneath her breast.
"I want to ask you," he said, speaking slowly and thickly, "if you
will be my wife?"
Beatrice opened her lips to speak, then, seeing that he had only
paused because his inward emotion checked his words, shut them again,
and went on digging little holes. She wished to rely on the whole
case, as a lawyer would say.
"I want to ask you," he repeated, "to be my wife. I have wished to do
so for some years, but I have never been able to bring myself to it.
It is a great step to take, and my happiness depends on it. Do not
answer me yet," he went on, his words gathering force as he spoke.
"Listen to what I have to tell you. I have been a lonely man all my
life. At sea I was lonely, and since I have come into this fortune I
have been lonelier still. I never loved anybody or anything till I
began to love you. And then I loved you more and more and more; till
now I have only one thought in all my life, and that thought is of
you. While I am awake I think of you, and when I am asleep I dream of
you. Listen, Beatrice, listen!--I have never loved any other woman, I
have scarcely spoken to one--only you, Beatrice. I can give you a
great deal; and everything I have shall be yours, only I should be
jealous of you--yes, very jealous!"
Here she glanced at his face. It was outwardly calm but white as
death, and in the blue eyes, generally so placid, shone a fire that by
contrast looked almost unholy.
"I think that you have said enough, Mr. Davies," Beatrice answered. "I
am very much obliged to you. I am much honoured, for in some ways I am
not your equal, but I do not love you, and I cannot marry you, and I
think it best to tell you so plainly, once and for all," and
unconsciously she went on digging the holes.
"Oh, do not say that," he answered, almost in a moan. "For God's sake
don't say that! It will kill me to lose you. I think I should go mad.
Marry me and you will learn to love me."
Beatrice glanced at him again, and a pang of pity pierced her heart.
She did not know it was so bad a case as this. It struck her too that
she was doing a foolish thing, from a worldly point of view. The man
loved her and was very eligible. He only asked of her what most women
are willing enough to give under circumstances so favourable to their
well-being--herself. But she never liked him, he had always repelled
her, and she was not a woman to marry a man whom she did not like.
Also, during the last week this dislike and repulsion had hardened and
strengthened. Vaguely, as he pleaded with her, Beatrice wondered why,
and as she did so her eye fell upon the pattern she was automatically
pricking in the sand. It had taken the form of letters, and the
letters were G E O F F R E--Great heaven! Could that be the answer?
She flushed crimson with shame at the thought, and passed her foot
across the tell-tale letters, as she believed, obliterating them.
Owen saw the softening of her eyes and saw the blush, and
misinterpreted them. Thinking that she was relenting, by instinct,
rather than from any teaching of experience, he attempted to take her
hand. With a turn of the arm, so quick that even Elizabeth watching
with all her eyes saw nothing of the movement, Beatrice twisted
herself free.
"Don't touch me," she said sharply, "you have no right to touch me. I
have answered you, Mr. Davies."
Owen withdrew his hand abashed, and for a moment sat still, his chin
resting on his breast, a very picture of despair. Nothing indeed could
break the stolid calm of his features, but the violence of his emotion
was evident in the quick shivering of his limbs and his short deep
breaths.
"Can you give me no hope?" he said at last in a slow heavy voice. "For
God's sake think before you answer--you don't know what it means to
me. It is nothing to you--you cannot feel. I feel, and your words cut
like a knife. I know that I am heavy and stupid, but I feel as though
you had killed me. You are heartless, quite heartless."
Again Beatrice softened a little. She was touched and flattered. Where
is the woman who would not have been?
"What can I say to you, Mr. Davies?" she answered in a kinder voice.
"I cannot marry you. How I can I marry you when I do not love you?"
"Plenty of women marry men whom they do not love."
"Then they are bad women," answered Beatrice with energy.
"The world does not think so," he said again; "the world calls those
women bad who love where they cannot marry, and the world is always
right. Marriage sanctifies everything."
Beatrice laughed bitterly. "Do you think so?" she said. "I do not. I
think that marriage without love is the most unholy of our
institutions, and that is saying a good deal. Supposing I should say
yes to you, supposing that I married you, not loving you, what would
it be for? For your money and your position, and to be called a
married woman, and what do you suppose I should think of myself in my
heart then? No, no, I may be bad, but I have not fallen so low as
that. Find another wife, Mr. Davies; the world is wide and there are
plenty of women in it who will love you for your own sake, or who at
any rate will not be so particular. Forget me, and leave me to go my
own way--it is not your way."
"Leave you to go your own way," he answered almost with passion--"that
is, leave you to some other man. Oh! I cannot bear to think of it. I
am jealous of every man who comes near you. Do you know how beautiful
you are? You are too beautiful--every man must love you as I do. Oh,
if you took anybody else I think that I should kill him."
"Do not speak like that, Mr. Davies, or I shall go."
He stopped at once. "Don't go," he said imploringly. "Listen. You said
that you would not marry me because you did not love me. Supposing
that you learned to love me, say in a year's time, Beatrice, would you
marry me then?"
"I would marry any man whom I loved," she answered.
"Then if you learn to love me you will marry me?"
"Oh, this is ridiculous," she said. "It is not probable, it is hardly
possible, that such a thing should happen. If it had been going to
happen it would have happened before."
"It might come about," he answered; "your heart might soften towards
me. Oh, say yes to this. It is a small request, it costs you nothing,
and it gives me hope, without which I cannot live. Say that I may ask
you once more, and that then if you love me you will marry me."
Beatrice thought for a moment. Such a promise could do her no harm,
and in the course of six months or a year he might get used to the
idea of living without her. Also it would prevent a scene. It was weak
of her, but she dreaded the idea of her having refused Owen Davies
coming to her father's ears.
"If you wish it, Mr. Davies," she said, "so be it. Only I ask you to
understand this, I am in no way tied to you. I give you no hope that
my answer, should you renew this offer a year hence or at any other
time, will differ from that I give you to-day. I do not think there is
the slightest probability of such a thing. Also, it must be understood
that you are not to speak to my father about this matter, or to
trouble me in any way. Do you consent?"
"Yes," he answered, "I consent. You have me at your mercy."
"Very well. And now, Mr. Davies, good-bye. No, do not walk back with
me. I had rather go by myself. But I want to say this: I am very sorry
for what has happened. I have not wished it to happen. I have never
encouraged it, and my hands are clean of it. But I am sorry, sorry
beyond measure, and I repeat what I said before--seek out some other
woman and marry her."
"That is the cruellest thing of all the cruel things which you have
said," he answered.
"I did not mean it to be cruel, Mr. Davies, but I suppose that the
truth often is. And now good-bye," and Beatrice stretched out her
hand.
He touched it, and she turned and went. But Owen did not go. He sat
upon the rock, his head bowed in misery. He had staked all his hopes
upon this woman. She was the one desirable thing to him, the one star
in his somewhat leaden sky, and now that star was eclipsed. Her words
were unequivocal, they gave but little hope. Beatrice was scarcely a
woman to turn round in six months or a year. On the contrary, there
was a fixity about her which frightened him. What could be the cause
of it? How came it that she should be so ready to reject him, and all
he had to offer her? After all, she was a girl in a small position.
She could not be looking forward to a better match. Nor would the
prospect move her one way or another. There must be a reason for it.
Perhaps he had a rival, surely that must be the cause. Some enemy had
done this thing. But who?
At this moment a woman's shadow fell athwart him.
"Oh, have you come back?" he cried, springing to his feet.
"If you mean Beatrice," answered a voice--it was Elizabeth's--"she
went down to the beach ten minutes ago. I happened to be on the cliff,
and I saw her."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Granger," he said faintly. "I did not see
who it was."
Elizabeth sat down upon the rock where her sister had sat, and, seeing
the little holes in the breach, began indolently to clear them of the
sand which Beatrice had swept over them with her foot. This was no
difficult matter, for the holes were deeply dug, and it was easy to
trace their position. Presently they were nearly all clear--that is,
the letters were legible.
"You have had a talk with Beatrice, Mr. Davies?"
"Yes," he answered apathetically.
Elizabeth paused. Then she took her bull by the horns.
"Are you going to marry Beatrice, Mr. Davies?" she asked.
"I don't know," he answered slowly and without surprise. It seemed
natural to him that his own central thought should be present in her
mind. "I love her dearly, and want to marry her."
"She refused you, then?"
"Yes."
Elizabeth breathed more freely.
"But I can ask her again."
Elizabeth frowned. What could this mean? It was not an absolute
refusal. Beatrice was playing some game of her own.
"Why did she put you off so, Mr. Davies? Do not think me inquisitive.
I only ask because I may be able to help you."
"I know; you are very kind. Help me and I shall always be grateful to
you. I do not know--I almost think that there must be somebody else,
only I don't know who it can be."
"Ah!" said Elizabeth, who had been gazing intently at the little holes
in the beach which she had now cleared of the sand. "Of course that is
possible. She is a curious girl, Beatrice is. What are those letters,
Mr. Davies?"
He looked at them idly. "Something your sister was writing while I
talked to her. I remember seeing her do it."
"G E O F F R E--why, it must be meant for Geoffrey. Yes, of course it
is possible that there is somebody else, Mr. Davies. Geoffrey!--how
curious!"
"Why is it curious, Miss Granger? Who is Geoffrey?"
Elizabeth laughed a disagreeable little laugh that somehow attracted
Owen's attention more than her words.
"How should I know? It must be some friend of Beatrice's, and one of
whom she is thinking a great deal, or she would not write his name
unconsciously. The only Geoffrey that I know is Mr. Geoffrey Bingham,
the barrister, who is staying at the Vicarage, and whose life Beatrice
saved." She paused to watch her companion's face, and saw a new idea
creep across its stolidity. "But of course," she went on, "it cannot
be Mr. Bingham that she was thinking of, because you see he is
married."
"Married?" he said, "yes, but he's a man for all that, and a very
handsome one."
"Yes, I should call him handsome--a fine man," Elizabeth answered
critically; "but, as Beatrice said the other day, the great charm
about him is his talk and power of mind. He is a very remarkable man,
and the world will hear of him before he has done. But, however, all
this is neither here nor there. Beatrice is a curious woman, and has
strange ideas, but I am sure that she would never carry on with a
married man."
"But he might carry on with her, Miss Elizabeth."
She laughed. "Do you really think that a man like Mr. Bingham would
try to flirt with girls without encouragement? Men like that are as
proud as women, and prouder; the lady must always be a step ahead. But
what is the good of talking about such a thing? It is all nonsense.
Beatrice must have been thinking of some other Geoffrey--or it was an
accident of something. Why, Mr. Davies, if you for one moment really
believed that dear Beatrice could be guilty of such a shameless thing
as to carry on a flirtation with a married man, would you have asked
her to marry you? Would you still think of asking such a woman as she
must be to become your wife?"
"I don't know; I suppose not," he said doubtfully.
"You suppose not. I know you better than you know yourself. You would
rather never marry at all than take such a woman as she would be
proved to be. But it is no good talking such stuff. If you have a
rival you may be sure it is some unmarried man."
Owen reflected in his heart that on the whole he would rather it was a
married one, since a married man, at any rate, could not legally take
possession of Beatrice. But Elizabeth's rigid morality alarmed him,
and he did not say so.
"Do you know I feel a little upset, Miss Elizabeth," he answered. "I
think I will be going. By the way, I promised to say nothing of this
to your father. I hope that you will not do so, either."
"Most certainly not," said Elizabeth, and indeed it would be the last
thing she would wish to do. "Well, good-bye, Mr. Davies. Do not be
downhearted; it will all come right in the end. You will always have
me to help you, remember."
"Thank you, thank you," he said earnestly, and went.
Elizabeth watched him round the wall of rock with a cold and ugly
smile set upon her face.
"You fool," she thought, "you fool! To tell /me/ that you 'love her
dearly and want to marry her;' you want to get that sweet face of
hers, do you? You never shall; I'd spoil it first! Dear Beatrice, she
is not capable of carrying on a love affair with a married man--oh,
certainly not! Why, she's in love with him already, and he is more
than half in love with her. If she hadn't been, would she have put
Owen off? Not she. Give them time, and we shall see. They will ruin
each other--they /must/ ruin each other; it won't be child's play when
two people like that fall in love. They will not stop at sighs, there
is too much human nature about them. It was a good idea to get him
into the house. And to see her go on with that child Effie, just as
though she was its mother--it makes me laugh. Ah, Beatrice, with all
your wits you are a silly woman! And one day, my dear girl, I shall
have the pleasure of exposing you to Owen; the idol will be unveiled,
and there will be an end of your chances with him, for he can't marry
you after that. Then my turn will come. It is a question of time--only
a question of time!"
So brooded Elizabeth in her heart, madded with malicious envy and
passionate jealousy. She loved this man, Owen Davies, as much as she
could love anybody; at the least, she dearly loved the wealth and
station of which he was the visible centre, and she hated the sister
whom he desired. If she could only discredit that sister and show her
to be guilty of woman's worst crime, misplaced, unlegalised affection,
surely, she thought, Owen would reject her.
She was wrong. She did not know how entirely he desired to make
Beatrice his wife, or realise how forgiving a man can be who has such
an end to gain. It is of the women who already weary them and of their
infidelity that men are so ready to make examples, not of those who do
not belong to them, and whom they long for night and day. To these
they can be very merciful.
