There was the letter sure enough, and another in a woman’s writing. She recognised the hand as that of Lady Honoria, which she had often seen on envelopes directed to Geoffrey, and a thrill of fear shot through her. She took the letters, and walking as quickly as she could to the school, locked herself in her own little room, for it was not yet nine o’clock, and looked at them with a gathering terror. What was in them? Why did Lady Honoria write to her? Which should she read first? In a moment Beatrice had made up her mind. She would face the worst at once. With a set face she opened Lady Honoria’s letter, unfolded it, and read. We already know its contents. As her mind grasped them her lips grew ashy white, and by the time that the horrible thing was done she was nigh to fainting.
Anonymous letters! oh, who could have done this cruel thing? Elizabeth, it must be Elizabeth, who saw everything, and thus stabbed her in the back. Was it possible that her own sister could treat her so? She knew that Elizabeth disliked her; she could never fathom the cause, still she knew the fact. But if this were her doing, then she must hate her, and most bitterly; and what had she done to earn such hate? And now Geoffrey was in danger on her account, danger of ruin, and how could she prevent it? This was her first idea. Most people might have turned to their own position and been content to leave their lover to fight his own battle. But Beatrice thought little of herself. He was in danger, and how could she protect him? Why here in the letter was the answer! “If you care for him sever all connection with him utterly, and for ever. Otherwise, he will live to curse and hate you.” No, no! Geoffrey would never do that. But Lady Honoria was quite right; in his interest, for his sake, she must sever all connection with him—sever it utterly and for ever. But how—how?
She thrust the letter into her dress—a viper would have been a more welcome guest—and opened Geoffrey’s.
It told the same tale, but offered a different solution. The tears started to her eyes as she read his offer to take her to him for good and all, and go away with her to begin life afresh. It seemed a wonderful thing to Beatrice that he should be willing to sacrifice so much upon such a worthless altar as her love—a wonderful and most generous thing. She pressed the senseless paper to her heart, then kissed it again and again. But she never thought of yielding to this great temptation, never for one second. He prayed her to come, but that she would not do while her will remained. What, she bring Geoffrey to ruin? No, she had rather starve in the streets or perish by slow torture. How could he ever think that she would consent to such a scheme? Indeed she never would; she had brought enough trouble on him already. But oh, she blessed him for that letter. How deeply must he love her when he could offer to do this for her sake!
Hark! the children were waiting; she must go and teach. The letter, Geoffrey’s dear letter, could be answered in the afternoon. So she thrust it in her breast with the other, but closer to her heart, and went.
That afternoon as Mr. Granger, in a happy frame of mind—for were not his debts paid, and had he not found a most convenient way of providing against future embarrassment?—was engaged peaceably in contemplating his stock over the gate of his little farm buildings, he was much astonished suddenly to discover Owen Davies at his elbow.
“How do you do, Mr. Davies?” he said; “how quietly you must have come.”
“Yes,” answered Owen absently. “The fact is, I have followed you because I want to speak to you alone—quite alone.”
“Indeed, Mr. Davies—well, I am at your service. What is wrong? You don’t look very well.”
“Oh, I am quite well, thank you. I never was better; and there’s nothing wrong, nothing at all. Everything is going to be bright now, I know that full surely.”