she would do it, as many another wretched woman had
done before her, not from cowardice indeed, for had she alone been
concerned she would have faced the thing out, fighting to the bitter
end--but for this reason only, it would cut off the dangers which
threatened Geoffrey at their very root and source. Of course there must
be no scandal; it must never be known that she had killed herself, or
she might defeat her own object, for the story would be raked up. But
she well knew how to avoid such a possibility; in her extremity Beatrice
grew cunning as a fox. Yes, and there might be an inquest at which
awkward questions would be asked. But, as she well knew also, before
an inquest can be held there must be something to hold it on, and that
something would not be there.

And so in the utter silence of the night and in the loneliness of her
chamber did Beatrice dedicate herself to sacrifice upon the altar of
her immeasurable love. She would face the last agonies of death when the
bloom of her youthful strength and beauty was but opening as a rose in
June. She would do more, she would brave the threatened vengeance of the
most High, coming before Him a self murderess, and with but one plea for
pity--that she loved so well: _quia multum amavit_. Yes, she would do
all this, would leave the warm world in the dawning summer of her days,
and alone go out into the dark--alone would face those visions which
might come--those Shapes of terror, and those Things of fear, that
perchance may wait for sinful human kind. Alone she would go--oh, hand
in hand with him it had been easy, but this must not be. The door of
utter darkness would swing to behind her, and who could say if in time
to come it should open to Geoffrey's following feet, or if he might ever
find the path that she had trod. It must be done, it should be done!
Beatrice rose from her seat with bright eyes and quick-coming breath,
and swore before God, if God there were, that she would do it, trusting
to Him for pardon and for pity, or failing these--for sleep.

Yes, but first she must once more look upon Geoffrey's dear face--and
then farewell!

Pity her! poor mistaken woman, making of her will a Providence, rushing
to doom. Pity her, but do not blame her overmuch, or if you do, then
blame Judith and Jephtha's daughter and Charlotte Corday, and all the
glorious women who from time to time have risen on this sordid world of
self, and given themselves as an offering upon