She
looked at the letter; it was, she thought, the last token that could
ever pass between them on this earth. Once she pressed it to her heart,
once she touched it with her lips, and then put it from her beyond
recall. It was done; there was no going back now. And even as she stood
the postman came up, whistling, and opening the box carelessly swept its
contents into his canvas bag. Could he have known what lay among them he
would have whistled no more that day.
Beatrice continued her journey, and by three o'clock arrived safely at
the little station next to Bryngelly. There was a fair at Coed that day,
and many people of the peasant class got in here. Amidst the confusion
she gave up her ticket to a small boy, who was looking the other way at
the time, and escaped without being noticed by a soul. Indeed, things
happened so that nobody in the neighbourhood of Bryngelly ever knew that
Beatrice had been to London and back upon those dreadful days.
Beatrice walked along the cliff, and in an hour was at the door of
the Vicarage, from which she seemed to have been away for years.
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