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 Ithink 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 Iheld 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.
Suddenly he became aware of a most extraordinary sense of oppression.
An indefinite dread took hold of him, his very soul was filled with terrible apprehensions and alarm. Something dreadful seemed to knock at the portals of his sense, a horror which he could not grasp. His mind was confused, but little by little it grew clearer, and he began to understand that a danger threatened Beatrice, that she was in great peril. He was sure of it. Her agonised dying cries reached him where he was, though in no form which he could understand; once more her thought beat on his thought--once more and for the last time her spirit spoke to his.
Then suddenly a cold wind seemed to breathe upon his face and lift his hair, and everything was gone. His mind was as it had been; again he heard the dreary orator and saw the members slipping away to dinner.
The conditions that disturbed him had passed, things were as they had been. Nor was this strange! For the link was broken. Beatrice was /dead/. She had passed into the domains of impenetrable silence.
Geoffrey sat up with a gasp, and as he did so a letter was placed in his hand. It was addressed in Beatrice's handwriting and bore the Chester postmark. A chill fear seized him. What did it contain? He hurried with it into a private room and opened it. It was dated from Bryngelly on the previous Sunday and had several inclosures.
"My dearest Geoffrey," it began, "I have never before addressed you thus on paper, nor should I do so now, knowing to what risks such written words might put you, were it not that occasions may arise (as in this case) which seem to justify the risk. For when all things are ended between a man and a woman who are to each other what we have been, then it is well that the one who goes should speak plainly before speech becomes impossible, if only that the one who is left should not misunderstand that which has been done.
"Geoffrey, it is probable--it is almost certain--that before your eyes read these words I shall be where in the body they can never see me more. I write to you from the brink of the grave; when you read it, it will have closed over me.
"Geoffrey, I shall be dead.
