Beatrice (1890), page 30
Beatrice continued her journey, and by three o’clock arrived safely at the little station next to Bryngelly. There was a fair at Coed that day, and many people of the peasant class got in here. Amidst the confusion she gave up her ticket to a small boy, who was looking the other way at the time, and escaped without being noticed by a soul. Indeed, things happened so that nobody in the neighbourhood of Bryngelly ever knew that Beatrice had been to London and back upon those dreadful days.
Beatrice walked along the cliff, and in an hour was at the door of the Vicarage, from which she seemed to have been away for years. She unlocked it and entered. In the letter-box was a post-card from her father stating that he and Elizabeth had changed their plans and would not be back till the train which arrived at half-past eight on the following morning. So much the better, she thought. Then she disarranged the clothes upon her bed to make it seem as though it had been slept it, lit the kitchen fire, and put the kettle on to boil, and as soon as it was ready she took some food. She wanted all her nerve, and that could not be kept up without food.
Shortly after this the girl Betty returned, and went about her duties in the house quite unconscious that Beatrice had been away from it for the whole night. Her sister was much better, she said, in answer to Beatrice’s inquiries.
When she had eaten what she could — it was not much — Beatrice went to her room, undressed herself, bathed, and put on clean, fresh things. Then she unbound her lovely hair, and did it up in a coronet upon her head. It was a fashion that she did not often adopt, because it took too much time, but on this day, of all days, she had a strange fancy to look her best. Also her hair had been done like this on the afternoon when Geoffrey first met her. Next she put on the grey dress once more which she had worn on her journey to London, and taking the silver Roman ring that Geoffrey had given her from the string by which she wore it about her neck, placed it on the third finger of her left hand.
All this being done, Beatrice visited the kitchen and ordered the supper. She went further in her innocent cunning. Betty asked her what she would like for breakfast on the following morning, and she told her to cook some bacon, and to be careful how she cut it, as she did not like thick bacon. Then, after one long last look at the Vicarage, she started for the lodging of the head teacher of the school, and, having found her, inquired as to the day’s work.
Further, Beatrice told her assistant that she had determined to alter the course of certain lessons in the school. The Wednesday arithmetic class had hitherto been taken before the grammar class. On the morrow she had determined to change this; she would take the grammar class at ten and the arithmetic class at eleven, and gave her reasons for so doing. The teacher assented, and Beatrice shook hands with her and bade her good-night. She would have wished to say how much she felt indebted to her for her help in the school, but did not like to do so, fearing lest, in the light of pending events, the remark might be viewed with suspicion.
Poor Beatrice, these were the only lies she ever told!
She left the teacher’s lodgings, and was about to go down to the beach and sit there till it was time, when she was met by the father of the crazed child, Jane Llewellyn.
“Oh, Miss Beatrice,” he said, “I have been looking for you everywhere. We are in sad trouble, miss. Poor Jane is in a raving fit, and talking about hell and that, and the doctor says she’s dying. Can you come, miss, and see if you can do anything to quiet her? It’s a matter of life and death, the doctor says, miss.”
Beatrice smiled sadly; matters of life and death were in the air. “I will come,” she said, “but I shall not be able to stay long.”
How could she better spend her last hour?
She accompanied the man to his cottage. The child, dressed only in a night-shirt, was raving furiously, and evidently in the last stage of exhaustion, nor could the doctor or her mother do anything to quiet her.
“Don’t you see,” she screamed, pointing to the wall, “there’s the Devil waiting for me? And, oh, there’s the mouth of hell where the minister said I should go! Oh, hold me, hold me, hold me!”
Beatrice walked up to her, took the thin little hands in hers, and looked her fixedly in the eyes.
“Jane,” she said. “Jane, don’t you know me?”
“Yes, Miss Granger,” she said, “I know the lesson; I will say it presently.”
Beatrice took her in her arms, and sat down on the bed. Quieter and quieter grew the child till suddenly an awful change passed over her face.
“She is dying,” whispered the doctor.
“Hold me close, hold me close!” said the child, whose senses returned before the last eclipse. “Oh, Miss Granger, I shan’t go to hell, shall I? I am afraid of hell.”
“No, love, no; you will go to heaven.”
Jane lay still awhile. Then seeing the pale lips move, Beatrice put her ear to the child’s mouth.
“Will you come with me?” she murmured; “I am afraid to go alone.”
And Beatrice, her great grey eyes fixed steadily on the closing eyes beneath, whispered back so that no other soul could hear except the dying child:
“Yes, I will come presently.” But Jane heard and understood.
“Promise,” said the child.
“Yes, I promise,” answered Beatrice in the same inaudible whisper. “Sleep, dear, sleep; I will join you very soon.”
And the child looked up, shivered, smiled — and slept.
Beatrice gave it back to the weeping parents and went her way. “What a splendid creature,” said the doctor to himself as he looked after her. “She has eyes like Fate, and the face of Motherhood Incarnate. A great woman, if ever I saw one, but different from other women.”
Meanwhile Beatrice made her way to old Edward’s boat-shed. As she expected, there was nobody there, and nobody on the beach. Old Edward and his son were at tea, with the rest of Bryngelly. They would come back after dark and lock up the boat-house.
She looked at the sea. There were no waves, but the breeze freshened every minute, and there was a long slow swell upon the water. The rollers would be running beyond the shelter of Rumball Point, five miles away.
The tide was high; it mounted to within ten yards of the end of the boat-house. She opened the door, and dragged out her canoe, closing the door again after her. The craft was light, and she was strong for a woman. Close to the boat-house one of the timber breakwaters, which are common at sea-side places, ran down into the water. She dragged the canoe to its side, and then pushed it down the beach till its bow was afloat. Next, mounting on the breakwater, she caught hold of the little chain in the bow, and walking along the timber baulks, pulled with all her force till the canoe was quite afloat. On she went, dragging it after her, till the waves washing over the breakwater wetted her shoes.
Then she brought the canoe quite close, and, watching her opportunity, stepped into it, nearly falling into the water as she did so. But she recovered her balance, and sat down. In another minute she was paddling out to sea with all her strength.
For twenty minutes or more she paddled unceasingly. Then she rested awhile, only keeping the canoe head on to the sea, which, without being rough, was running more and more freshly. There, some miles away, was the dark mass of Rumball Point. She must be off it before the night closed in. There would be sea enough there; no such craft as hers could live in it for five minutes, and the tide was on the turn. Anything sinking in those waters would be carried far away, and never come back to the shore of Wales.
She turned her head and looked at Bryngelly, and the long familiar stretch of cliff. How fair it seemed, bathed in the quiet lights of summer afternoon. Oh! was there any afternoon where the child had gone, and where she was following fast? — or was it all night, black, eternal night, unbroken by the dram of dear remembered things?
There were the Dog Rocks, where she had stood on that misty autumn day, and seen the vision of her coffined mother’s face. Surely it was a presage of her fate. There beyond was the Bell Rock, where in that same hour Geoffrey and she had met, and behind it was the Amphitheatre, where they had told their love. Hark! what was that sound pealing faintly at intervals across the deep? It was the great ship’s bell that, stirred from time to time by the wash of the high tide, solemnly tolled her passing soul.
She paddled on; the sound of that death-knell shook her nerves, and made her feel faint and weak. Oh, it would have been easier had she been as she was a year ago, before she learned to love, and hand in hand had seen faith and hope re-arise from the depths of her stirred soul. Then being but a heathen, she could have met her end with all a heathen’s strength, knowing what she lost, and believing, too, that she would find but sleep. And now it was otherwise, for in her heart she did not believe that she was about utterly to perish. What, could the body live on in a thousand forms, changed indeed but indestructible and immortal, while the spiritual part, with all its hopes and loves and fears, melted into nothingness? It could not be; surely on some new shore she should once again greet her love. And if it was not, how would they meet her in that under world, coming self-murdered, her life-blood on her hands? Would her mother turn away from her? and the little brother, whom she had loved, would he reject her? And what Voice of Doom might strike her into everlasting hopelessness?
But, be the sin what it might, yet would she sin it for the sake of Geoffrey; ay, even if she must reap a harvest of eternal woe. She bent her head and prayed. “Oh, Power, that art above, from whom I come, to whom I go, have mercy on me! Oh, Spirit, if indeed thy name is Love, weigh my love in thy balance, and let it lift the scale of sin. Oh, God of Sacrifice, be not wroth at my deed of sacrifice and give me pardon, give me life and peace, that in a time to come I may win the sight of him for whom I die.”
A somewhat heathenish prayer indeed, and far too full of human passion for one about to leave the human shores. But, then — well, it was Beatrice who prayed — Beatrice, who could realise no heaven beyond the limits of her passion, who still thought more of her love than of saving her own soul alive. Perhaps it found a home — perhaps, like her who prayed it, it was lost upon the pitiless deep.
Then Beatrice prayed no more. Short was her time. See, there sank the sun in glory; and there the great rollers swept along past the sullen headland, where the undertow met wind and tide. She would think no more of self; it was, it seemed to her, so small, this mendicant calling on the Unseen, not for others, but for self: aid for self, well-being for self, salvation for self — this doing of good that good might come to self. She had made her prayer, and if she prayed again it should be for Geoffrey, that he might prosper and be happy — that he might forgive the trouble her love had brought into his life. That he might forget her she could not pray. She had prayed her prayer and said her say, and it was done with. Let her be judged as it seemed good to Those who judge! Now she would fix her thoughts upon her love, and by its strength would she triumph over the bitterness of death. Her eyes flashed and her breast heaved: further out to sea, further yet — she would meet those rollers a knot or more from the point of the headland, that no record might remain.
Was it her wrong if she loved him? She could not help it, and she was proud to love him. Even now, she would not undo the past. What were the lines that Geoffrey had read to her. They haunted her mind with a strange persistence — they took time to the beat of her falling paddle, and would not leave her:
“Of once sown seed, who knoweth what the crop is?
Alas, my love, Love’s eyes are very blind!
What would they have us do? Sunflowers and poppies
Stoop to the wind — —”[*]
[*] Oliver Madox Brown.
Yes, yes, Love’s eyes are very blind, but in their blindness there was more light than in all other earthly things. Oh, she could not live for him, and with him — it was denied to her — but she still could die for him, her darling, her darling!
“Geoffrey, hear me — I die for you; accept my sacrifice, and forget me not.” So! — she is in the rollers — how solemn they are with their hoary heads of foam, as one by one they move down upon her.
The first! it towers high, but the canoe rides it like a cork. Look! the day is dying on the distant land, but still his glory shines across the sea. Presently all will be finished. Here the breeze is strong; it tears the bonnet from her head, it unwinds the coronet of braided locks, and her bright hair streams out behind her. Feel how the spray stings, striking like a whip. No, not this wave, she rides that also; she will die as she has lived — fighting to the last; and once more, never faltering, she sets her face towards the rollers and consigns her soul to doom.
Ah! that struck her full. Oh, see! Geoffrey’s ring has slipped from her wet hand, falling into the bottom of the boat. Can she regain it? she would die with that ring upon her finger — it is her marriage-ring, wedding her through death to Geoffrey, upon the altar of the sea. She stoops! oh, what a shock of water at her breast! What was it — what was it? — Of once sown seed, who knoweth what the crop is? She must soon learn now!
“Geoffrey! hear me, Geoffrey! — I die, I die for you! I will wait for you at the foundations of the sea, on the topmost heights of heaven, in the lowest deeps of hell — wherever I am I will always wait for you!”
It sinks — it has sunk — she is alone with God, and the cruel waters. The sun goes out! Look on that great white wave seething through the deepening gloom; hear it rushing towards her, big with fate.
“Geoffrey, my darling — I will wait — —”
Farewell to Beatrice! The light went out of the sky and darkness gathered on the weltering sea. Farewell to Beatrice, and all her love and all her sin.
CHAPTER XXIX
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.
