CHAPTER XV
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.
