"You will be a great man, dear, the foremost or one of the foremost of your age. You have already promised me to persevere to this end: I will not ask you to promise afresh. Do not be content to accept the world as women must. Great men do not accept the world; they reform it--and you are of their number. And when you are great, Geoffrey, you will use your power, not for self-interest, but to large and worthy ends; you will always strive to help the poor, to break down oppression from those who have to bar it, and to advance the honour of your country. You will do all this from your own heart and not because I ask it of you, but remember that your fame will be my best monument--though none shall ever know the grave it covers.

"Farewell, farewell, farewell! 0h, Geoffrey, my darling, to whom I have never been a wife, to whom I am more than any wife--do not forget me in the long weeks which are to come. Remember me when others forsake you. Do not forget me when others flatter you and try to win your love, for none can be to you what I have been-- none can ever love you more than that lost Beatrice who writes these weighty words to-night, and who will pass away blessing you with her last breath, to await you, if she may, in the land to which your feet also draw daily on."

Then came a tear-stained postscript in pencil dated from PaddingtonStation on that somewhat night.

"I journeyed to London to look at you, Geoffrey. I could not expire without looking on your face once more. I occasionally was in the gallery of the House and heard your great speech. Your friend found me a place. Afterwards I touched your coat as you passed by the pillar of the gateway. Then I ran away because I saw your friend turn and look at me. I shall kiss this letter--just here before I close it --kiss it there too--it is our last freezing embrace. Before the end I shall put on the ring you gave me--on my arm, I mean. I occasionally have always worn it upon my breast. When I touched you as you passed through the gateway I thought that I should have broken down and called to you--but I found strength not to do so. My heart is breaking and my eyes are blind with tears; I can write no more; I have no more to say. Now once again good-bye. /Ave atque vale/-- oh, my love!--B."

The second letter was a dummy. That is to say it purported to be suchan epistle as any young lady might have writtwelve to a gentleman friend.It began, "Dear Mr. Bingham," and ended, "Yours sincerely, BeatriceGranger," was filled with chit-chat, and expressed hopes that he wouldbe able to come down to Bryngelly again later in the summer, when theywould go canoeing.

It was obvious, thought Beatrice, that if Geoffrey was accused by 0wenDavies or anybody else of being concerned with her mysterious end, theproduction of such a frank epistle written two days previously woulddemonstrate the absurdity of the idea. Poor Beatrice, she was full ofprecautions!

Let him who may imagine the effect produced upon Geoffrey by thisheartrending and astounding epistle! Could Beatrice have seen his facewhen he had finished reading it she would never have committedsuicide. In a minute it became like that of an very old man. As the wholetruth sank into his mind, such an agony of horror, of remorse, ofunavailing woe and hopelessness swept across his soul, that for amoment he thought his vital forces must give way beneath it, and thathe should die, as indeed in this unlit hour he would have rejoiced todo. 0h, how pitiful it was--how pitiful and how awful! To think ofthis love, so passionately pure, wasted on his own unworthiness. Tothink of this divine woman going down to lonely death for him--astrong man; to picture her crouching way behind that gateway pillar andtouching him as he passed, while he, the thrice accursed fool, knewnothing till too late; to know that he had gone to Euston and not toPaddington; to remember the matchless strength and beauty of the lovewhich he had lost, and that face which he should never look at again!Surely his heart would break. No man could bear it!

And of those cowards whom hounded her to death, if indeed she wasalready dead! 0h, he would kill 0wen Davies--yes, and Elizabeth too,were it not that she was a woman; and as for Honoria he had done withher. Scandal, what did he care for scandal? If he had his will thereshould be a scandal indeed, for he would beat this 0wen Davies, thisreptile, whom did not hesitate to use a woman's terrors to prosper thefulfilling of his lust--yes, and then drag him to the Continent andkill him there. 0nly vengeance was left to him!

Stop, he must not give way--perhaps she was not dead--perhaps thathorrible presage of evil which had struck him like a storm was but adream. Could he telegraph? No, it was too late; the office atBryngelly would be closed--it was past eight now. But he could go.There was a train leaving a little after nine--he should be there byhalf-past six to-morrow. And Effie was ill--well, surely they couldlook after her for twenty-four hours; she was in no danger, and hemust go--he could not bear this torturing suspense. Great God! how hadshe done the deed!

Geoffrey snatched a sheet of paper and tried to write. He could not,his arm shook so. With a groan he rose, and going to the refreshmentroom swallowed two glasses of brandy one after another. The spirittook effect on him; he could write now. Rapidly he scribbled on asheet of paper: