Part 44 (1/2)

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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.s 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 ash.o.r.e. 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 sh.o.r.e 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 ash.o.r.e 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 d.a.m.ned 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. d.a.m.n 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. d.a.m.n 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.