You shall be my very, very own--my own
beautiful Beatrice," and he stretched out his arms and clasped at the
empty air--a crazy and unpleasant sight to see.
And so he walked and spoke till the dawn was grey in the east. This
occurred on the Friday night. It was on the following morning that
Beatrice, the unfortunate and innocent object of these amorous
invocations, received the two letters. She had gone to the post-office
on her way to the school, on the chance of there being a note from
Geoffrey. Poor woman, his letters were the one bright thing in her life.
From motives of prudence they were written in the usual semi-formal
style, but she was quick to read between the lines, and, moreover, they
came from his dear hand.
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.
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