Beatrice

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BEATRICE

by H. Rider Haggard

First Published in 1893.



TO

BEATRICE



"Oh, kind is Death that Life's long trouble closes,
Yet at Death's coming Life shrinks back affright;
It sees the dark hand,--not that it encloses
A cup of light.

So oft the Spirit seeing Love draw nigh
As 'neath the shadow of destruction, quakes,
For Self, dark tyrant of the Soul, must die,
When Love awakes.

Aye, let him die in darkness! But for thee,--
Breathe thou the breath of morning and be free!"

Rueckert. Translated by F. W. B.




BEATRICE



CHAPTER I

A MIST WRAITH

The autumn afternoon was fading into evening. It had been cloudy
weather, but the clouds had softened and broken up. Now they were lost
in slowly darkening blue. The sea was perfectly and utterly still. It
seemed to sleep, but in its sleep it still waxed with the rising tide.
The eye could not mark its slow increase, but Beatrice, standing upon
the farthest point of the Dog Rocks, idly noted that the long brown
weeds which clung about their sides began to lift as the water took
their weight, till at last the delicate pattern floated out and lay like
a woman's hair upon the green depth of sea. Meanwhile a mist was growing
dense and soft upon the quiet waters. It was not blown up from the west,
it simply grew like the twilight, making the silence yet more silent and
blotting away the outlines of the land. Beatrice gave up studying the
seaweed and watched the gathering of these fleecy hosts.

"What a curious evening," she said aloud to herself, speaking in a low
full voice. "I have not seen one like it since mother died, and that
is seven years ago. I've grown since then, grown every way," and she
laughed somewhat sadly, and looked at her own reflection in the quiet
water.

She could not have looked at anything more charming, for it would have
been hard to find a girl of nobler mien than Beatrice Granger as on this
her twenty-second birthday, she stood and gazed into that misty sea.

Of rather more than middle height, and modelled like a statue, strength
and health seemed to radiate from her form. But it was her face with the
stamp of intellect and power shadowing its woman's loveliness that must
have made her remarkable among women even more beautiful than herself.
There are many girls who have rich brown hair, like some autumn leaf
here and there just yellowing into gold, girls whose deep grey eyes can
grow tender as a dove's, or flash like the stirred waters of a northern
sea, and whose bloom can bear comparison with the wilding rose. But few
can show a face like that which upon this day first dawned on Geoffrey
Bingham to his sorrow and his hope. It was strong and pure and sweet as
the keen sea breath, and looking on it one must know that beneath this
fair cloak lay a wit as fair. And yet it was all womanly; here was not
the hard sexless stamp of the "cultured" female. She who owned it was
capable of many things. She could love and she could suffer, and if need
be, she could dare or die. It was to be read upon that lovely brow and
face, and in the depths of those grey eyes--that is, by those to whom
the book of character is open, and who wish to study it.

But Beatrice was not thinking of her loveliness as she gazed into the
water. She knew that she was beautiful of course; her beauty was too
obvious to be overlooked, and besides it had been brought home to her in
several more or less disagreeable ways.

"Seven years," she was thinking, "since the night of the 'death fog;'
that was what old Edward called it, and so it was. I was only so high
then," and following her thoughts she touched herself upon the breast.
"And I was happy too in my own way. Why can't one always be fifteen,
and believe everything one is told?" and she sighed. "Seven years and
nothing done yet. Work, work, and nothing coming out of the work, and
everything fading away. I think that life is very dreary when one has
lost everything, and found nothing, and loves nobody. I wonder what it
will be like in another seven years."

She covered her eyes with her hands, and then taking them away, once
more looked at the water. Such light as struggled through the fog
was behind her, and the mist was thickening. At first she had some
difficulty in tracing her own likeness upon the glassy surface, but
gradually she marked its outline. It stretched away from her, and its
appearance was as though she herself were lying on her back in the water
wrapped about with the fleecy mist. "How curious it seems," she thought;
"what is it that reflection reminds me of with the white all round it?"

Next instant she gave a little cry and turned sharply away. She knew
now. It recalled her mother as she had last seen her seven years ago.



CHAPTER II

AT THE BELL ROCK

A mile or more away from where Beatrice stood and saw visions, and
further up the coast-line, a second group of rocks, known from their
colour as the Red Rocks, or sometimes, for another reason, as the Bell
Rocks, juts out between half and three-quarters of a mile into the
waters of the Welsh Bay that lies behind Rumball Point. At low tide
these rocks are bare, so that a man may walk or wade to their extremity,
but when the flood is full only one or two of the very largest can from
time to time be seen projecting their weed-wreathed heads through the
wash of the shore-bound waves. In certain sets of the wind and tide this
is a terrible and most dangerous spot in rough weather, as more than
one vessel have learnt to their cost. So long ago as 1780 a three-decker
man-of-war went ashore there in a furious winter gale, and, with one
exception, every living soul on board of her, to the number of seven
hundred, was drowned. The one exception was a man in irons, who came
safely and serenely ashore seated upon a piece of wreckage. Nobody ever
knew how the shipwreck happened, least of all the survivor in irons, but
the tradition of the terror of the scene yet lives in the district, and
the spot where the bones of the drowned men still peep grimly through
the sand is not unnaturally supposed to be haunted. Ever since this
catastrophe a large bell (it was originally the bell of the ill-fated
vessel itself, and still bears her name, "H.M.S. Thunder," stamped upon
its metal) has been fixed upon the highest rock, and in times of storm
and at high tide sends its solemn note of warning booming across the
deep.

But the bell was quiet now, and just beneath it, in the shadow of the
rock whereon it was placed, a man half hidden in seaweed, with which he
appeared to have purposely covered himself, was seated upon a piece of
wreck. In appearance he was a very fine man, big-shouldered and broad
limbed, and his age might have been thirty-five or a little more. Of his
frame, however, what between the mist and the unpleasantly damp seaweed
with which he was wreathed, not much was to be seen. But such light as
there was fell upon his face as he peered eagerly over and round the
rock, and glinted down the barrels of the double ten-bore gun which he
held across his knee. It was a striking countenance, with its brownish
eyes, dark peaked beard and strong features, very powerful and very
able. And yet there was a certain softness in the face, which hovered
round the region of the mouth like light at the edge of a dark cloud,
hinting at gentle sunshine. But little of this was visible now. Geoffrey
Bingham, barrister-at-law of the Inner Temple, M.A., was engaged with
a very serious occupation. He was trying to shoot curlew as they passed
over his hiding-place on their way to the mud banks where they feed
further along the coast.

Now if there is a thing in the world which calls for the exercise of
man's every faculty it is curlew shooting in a mist. Perhaps he may
wait for an hour or even two hours and see nothing, not even an
oyster-catcher. Then at last from miles away comes the faint wild call
of curlew on the wing. He strains his eyes, the call comes nearer, but
nothing can he see. At last, seventy yards or more to the right, he
catches sight of the flicker of beating wings, and, like a flash, they
are gone. Again a call--the curlew are flighting. He looks and looks, in
his excitement struggling to his feet and raising his head incautiously
far above the sheltering rock. There they come, a great flock of
thirty or more, bearing straight down on him, a hundred yards
off--eighty--sixty--now. Up goes the gun, but alas and alas! they catch
a glimpse of the light glinting on the barrels, and perhaps of the head
behind them, and in another second they have broken and scattered this
way and that way, twisting off like a wisp of gigantic snipe, to vanish
with melancholy cries into the depth of mist.

This is bad, but the ardent sportsman sits down with a groan and waits,
listening to the soft lap of the tide. And then at last virtue is
rewarded. First of all two wild duck come over, cleaving the air like
arrows. The mallard is missed, but the left barrel reaches the duck,
and down it comes with a full and satisfying thud. Hardly have the
cartridges been replaced when the wild cry of the curlew is once more
heard--quite close this time. There they are, looming large against the
fog. Bang! down goes the first and lies flapping among the rocks. Like
a flash the second is away to the left. Bang! after him, and caught
him too! Hark to the splash as he falls into the deep water fifty yards
away. And then the mist closes in so densely that shooting is done with
for the day. Well, that right and left has been worth three hours' wait
in the wet seaweed and the violent cold that may follow--that is, to any
man who has a soul for true sport.

Just such an experience as this had befallen Geoffrey Bingham. He had
bagged his wild duck and his brace of curlew--that is, he had bagged one
of them, for the other was floating in the sea--when a sudden increase
in the density of the mist put a stop to further operations. He shook
the wet seaweed off his rough clothes, and, having lit a short briar
pipe, set to work to hunt for the duck and the first curfew. He found
them easily enough, and then, walking to the edge of the rocks, up the
sides of which the tide was gradually creeping, peered into the mist to
see if he could find the other. Presently the fog lifted a little, and
he discovered the bird floating on the oily water about fifty yards
away. A little to the left the rocks ran out in a peak, and he knew
from experience that the tide setting towards the shore would carry the
curlew past this peak. So he went to its extremity, sat down upon a
big stone and waited. All this while the tide was rising fast, though,
intent as he was upon bringing the curlew to bag, he did not pay much
heed to it, forgetting that it was cutting him off from the land. At
last, after more than half-an-hour of waiting, he caught sight of the
curlew again, but, as bad luck would have it, it was still twenty yards
or more from him and in deep water. He was determined, however, to get
the bird if he could, for Geoffrey hated leaving his game, so he pulled
up his trousers and set to work to wade towards it. For the first few
steps all went well, but the fourth or fifth landed him in a hole that
wet his right leg nearly up to the thigh and gave his ankle a severe
twist. Reflecting that it would be very awkward if he sprained his ankle
in such a lonely place, he beat a retreat, and bethought him, unless
the curlew was to become food for the dog-fish, that he had better
strip bodily and swim for it. This--for Geoffrey was a man of determined
mind--he decided to do, and had already taken off his coat and waistcoat
to that end, when suddenly some sort of a boat--he judged it to be a
canoe from the slightness of its shape--loomed up in the mist before
him. An idea struck him: the canoe or its occupant, if anybody could be
insane enough to come out canoeing in such water, might fetch the curlew
and save him a swim.

"Hi!" he shouted in stentorian tones. "Hullo there!"

"Yes," answered a woman's gentle voice across the waters.

"Oh," he replied, struggling to get into his waistcoat again, for the
voice told him that he was dealing with some befogged lady, "I'm sure
I beg your pardon, but would you do me a favour? There is a dead curlew
floating about, not ten yards from your boat. If you wouldn't mind----"

A white hand was put forward, and the canoe glided on towards the bird.
Presently the hand plunged downwards into the misty waters and the
curlew was bagged. Then, while Geoffrey was still struggling with his
waistcoat, the canoe sped towards him like a dream boat, and in another
moment it was beneath his rock, and a sweet dim face was looking up into
his own.



Now let us go back a little (alas! that the privilege should be peculiar
to the recorder of things done), and see how it came about that Beatrice
Granger was present to retrieve Geoffrey Bingham's dead curlew.

Immediately after the unpleasant idea recorded in the last, or, to be
more accurate, in the first chapter of this comedy, had impressed itself
upon Beatrice's mind, she came to the conclusion that she had seen
enough of the Dog Rocks for one afternoon. Thereon, like a sensible
person, she set herself to quit them in the same way that she had
reached them, namely by means of a canoe. She got into her canoe safely
enough, and paddled a little way out to sea, with a view of returning
to the place whence she came. But the further she went out, and it was
necessary that she should go some way on account of the rocks and the
currents, the denser grew the fog. Sounds came through it indeed, but
she could not clearly distinguish whence they came, till at last, well
as she knew the coast, she grew confused as to whither she was heading.
In this dilemma, while she rested on her paddle staring into the dense
surrounding mist and keeping her grey eyes as wide open as nature would
allow, and that was very wide, she heard the report of a gun behind her
to the right. Arguing to herself that some wild-fowler on the water
must have fired it who would be able to direct her, she turned the
canoe round and paddled swiftly in the direction whence the sound came.
Presently she heard the gun again; both barrels were fired, in there to
the right, but some way off. She paddled on vigorously, but now no more
shots came to guide her, therefore for a while her search was fruitless.
At last, however, she saw something looming through the mist ahead; it
was the Red Rocks, though she did not know it, and she drew near with
caution till Geoffrey's shout broke upon her ears.

She picked up the dead bird and paddled towards the dim figure who was
evidently wrestling with something, she could not see what.

"Here is the curlew, sir," she said.

"Oh, thank you," answered the figure on the rock. "I am infinitely
obliged to you. I was just going to swim for it, I can't bear losing my
game. It seems so cruel to shoot birds for nothing."

"I dare say that you will not make much use of it now that you have
got it," said the gentle voice in the canoe. "Curlew are not very good
eating."

"That is scarcely the point," replied the Crusoe on the rock. "The point
is to bring them home. _Apres cela----_"

"The birdstuffer?" said the voice.

"No," answered Crusoe, "the cook----"

A laugh came back from the canoe--and then a question.

"Pray, Mr. Bingham, can you tell me where I am? I have quite lost my
reckoning in the mist."

He started. How did this mysterious young lady in a boat know his name?

"You are at the Red Rocks; there is the bell, that grey thing,
Miss--Miss----"

"Beatrice Granger," she put in hastily. "My father is the clergyman of
Bryngelly. I saw you when you and Lady Honoria Bingham looked into the
school yesterday. I teach in the school." She did not tell him, however,
that his face had interested her so much that she had asked his name.

Again he started. He had heard of this young lady. Somebody had told him
that she was the prettiest girl in Wales, and the cleverest, but that
her father was not a gentleman.

"Oh," he said, taking off his hat in the direction of the canoe. "Isn't
it a little risky, Miss Granger, for you to be canoeing alone in this
mist?"

"Yes," she answered frankly, "but I am used to it; I go out canoeing in
all possible weathers. It is my amusement, and after all the risk does
not matter much," she added, more to herself than to him.

While he was wondering what she meant by that dark saying, she went on
quickly:

"Do you know, Mr. Bingham, I think that you are in more danger than I
am. It must be getting near seven o'clock, and the tide is high at a
quarter to eight. Unless I am mistaken there is by now nearly half a
mile of deep water between you and the shore."

"My word!" he said. "I forgot all about the tide. What between the
shooting and looking for that curlew, and the mist, it never occurred to
me that it was getting late. I suppose I must swim for it, that is all."

"No, no," she answered earnestly, "it is very dangerous swimming here;
the place is full of sharp rocks, and there is a tremendous current."

"Well, then, what is to be done? Will your canoe carry two? If so,
perhaps you would kindly put me ashore?"

"Yes," she said, "it is a double canoe. But I dare not take you ashore
here; there are too many rocks, and it is impossible to see the ripple
on them in this mist. We should sink the canoe. No, you must get in and
I must paddle you home to Bryngelly, that's all. Now that I know where I
am I think that I can find the way."

"Really," he said, "you are very good."

"Not at all," she answered, "you see I must go myself anyhow, so I shall
be glad of your help. It is nearly five miles by water, you know, and
not a pleasant night."

There was truth in this. Geoffrey was perfectly prepared to risk a swim
to the shore on his own account, but he did not at all like the idea of
leaving this young lady to find her own way back to Bryngelly through
the mist and gathering darkness, and in that frail canoe. He would not
have liked it if she had been a man, for he knew that there was great
risk in such a voyage. So after making one more fruitless suggestion
that they should try and reach the shore, taking the chance of rocks,
sunken or otherwise, and then walk home, to which Beatrice would not
consent, he accepted her offer.

"At the least you will allow me to paddle," he said, as she skilfully
brought the canoe right under his rock, which the tide was now high
enough to allow her to do.

"If you like," she answered doubtfully. "My hands are a little sore,
and, of course," with a glance at his broad shoulders, "you are much
stronger. But if you are not used to it I dare say that I should get on
as well as you."

"Nonsense," he said sharply. "I will not allow you to paddle me for five
miles."

She yielded without another word, and very gingerly shifted her seat so
that her back was towards the bow of the canoe, leaving him to occupy
the paddling place opposite to her.

Then he handed her his gun, which, together with the dead birds, she
carefully stowed in the bottom of the frail craft. Next, with great
caution, he slid down the rock till his feet rested in the canoe.

"Be careful or you will upset us," she said, leaning forward and
stretching out her hand for him to support himself by.

Then it was, as he took it, that he for the first time really saw her
face, with the mist drops hanging to the bent eyelashes, and knew how
beautiful it was.



CHAPTER III

A CONFESSION OF FAITH

"Are you ready?" he said, recovering himself from the pleasing shock of
this serge-draped vision of the mist.

"Yes," said Beatrice. "You must head straight out to sea for a
little--not too far, for if we get beyond the shelter of Rumball Point
we might founder in the rollers--there are always rollers there--then
steer to the left. I will tell you when. And, Mr. Bingham, please be
careful of the paddle; it has been spliced, and won't bear rough usage."

"All right," he answered, and they started gaily enough, the light canoe
gliding swiftly forward beneath his sturdy strokes.

Beatrice was leaning back with her head bent a little forward, so that
he could only see her chin and the sweet curve of the lips above it. But
she could see all his face as it swayed towards her with each motion of
the paddle, and she watched it with interest. It was a new type of face
to her, so strong and manly, and yet so gentle about the mouth--almost
too gentle she thought. What made him marry Lady Honoria? Beatrice
wondered; she did not look particularly gentle, though she was such a
graceful woman.

And thus they went on for some time, each wondering about the other and
at heart admiring the other, which was not strange, for they were a very
proper pair, but saying no word till at last, after about a quarter of
an hour's hard paddling, Geoffrey paused to rest.

"Do you do much of this kind of thing, Miss Granger?" he said with a
gasp, "because it is rather hard work."

She laughed. "Ah," she said, "I thought you would scarcely go on
paddling at that rate. Yes, I canoe a great deal in the summer time. It
is my way of taking exercise, and I can swim well, so I am not afraid
of an upset. At least it has been my way for the last two years since a
lady who was staying here gave me the canoe when she went away. Before
that I used to row in a boat--that is, before I went to college."

"College? What college? Girton?"

"Oh, no, nothing half so grand. It was a college where you get
certificates that you are qualified to be a mistress in a Board school.
I wish it had been Girton."

"Do you?"--you are too good for that, he was going to add, but changed
it to--"I think you were as well away. I don't care about the Girton
stamp; those of them whom I have known are so hard."

"So much the better for them," she answered. "I should like to be hard
as a stone; a stone cannot feel. Don't you think that women ought to
learn, then?"

"Do you?" he asked.

"Yes, certainly."

"Have you learnt anything?"

"I have taught myself a little and picked up something at the college.
But I have no real knowledge, only a smattering of things."

"What do you know--French and German?"

"Yes."

"Latin?"

"Yes, I know something of it."

"Greek?"

"I can read it fairly, but I am not a Greek scholar."

"Mathematics?"

"No, I gave them up. There is no human nature about mathematics. They
work everything to a fixed conclusion that must result. Life is not like
that; what ought to be a square comes out a right angle, and _x_ always
equals an unknown quantity, which is never ascertained till you are
dead."

"Good gracious!" thought Geoffrey to himself between the strokes of the
paddle, "what an extraordinary girl. A flesh-and-blood blue-stocking,
and a lovely one into the bargain. At any rate I will bowl her out this
time."

"Perhaps you have read law too?" he said with suppressed sarcasm.

"I have read some," she answered calmly. "I like law, especially Equity
law; it is so subtle, and there is such a mass of it built upon such
a small foundation. It is like an overgrown mushroom, and the top will
fall off one day, however hard the lawyers try to prop it up. Perhaps
you can tell me----"

"No, I'm sure I cannot," he answered. "I'm not a Chancery man. I am
Common law, and _I_ don't take all knowledge for _my_ province. You
positively alarm me, Miss Granger. I wonder that the canoe does not sink
beneath so much learning."

"Do I?" she answered sweetly. "I am glad that I have lived to frighten
somebody. I meant that I like Equity to study; but if I were a
barrister, I would be Common law, because there is so much more life
and struggle about it. Existence is not worth having unless one is
struggling with something and trying to overcome it."

"Dear me, what a reposeful prospect," said Geoffrey, aghast. He had
certainly never met such a woman as this before.

"Repose is only good when it is earned," went on the fair philosopher,
"and in order to fit one to earn some more, otherwise it becomes
idleness, and that is misery. Fancy being idle when one has such a
little time to live. The only thing to do is to work and stifle thought.
I suppose that you have a large practice, Mr. Bingham?"

"You should not ask a barrister that question," he answered, laughing;
"it is like looking at the pictures which an artist has turned to the
wall. No, to be frank, I have not. I have only taken to practising in
earnest during the last two years. Before I was a barrister in name, and
that is all."

"Then why did you suddenly begin to work?"

"Because I lost my prospects, Miss Granger--from necessity, in short."

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" she said, with a blush, which of course he
could not see. "I did not mean to be rude. But it is very lucky for you,
is it not?"

"Indeed! Some people don't think so. Why is it lucky?"