You will
do all this from your own heart and not because I ask it of you, but
remember that your fame will be my best monument--though none shall ever
know the grave it covers.
"Farewell, farewell, farewell! Oh, Geoffrey, my darling, to whom I have
never been a wife, to whom I am more than any wife--do not forget me in
the long years which are to come. Remember me when others forsake you.
Do not forget me when others flatter you and try to win your love, for
none can be to you what I have been--none can ever love you more than
that lost Beatrice who writes these heavy words to-night, and who will
pass away blessing you with her last breath, to await you, if she may,
in the land to which your feet also draw daily on."
Then came a tear-stained postscript in pencil dated from Paddington
Station on that very morning.
"I journeyed to London to see you, Geoffrey. I could not die without
looking on your face once more. I was in the gallery of the House and
heard your great speech. Your friend found me a place. Afterwards I
touched your coat as you passed by the pillar of the gateway.
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