“Oh, God, hear me, and give me my desire!  Oh, God, answer me!”

For two long hours thus he walked and thus cried aloud, till at length he sank panting and exhausted into a chair.  Suddenly he raised his head, and appeared to listen intently.

“The Voice,” he said aloud; “the Voice again.  What does it say?  To-morrow, to-morrow I must speak; and I shall win her.”

He sprang up with a shout, and once more began his wild march.  “Oh, Beatrice!” he said, “to-morrow you will promise to marry me; the Voice says so, and soon, soon, perhaps in one short month, you will be my own—­mine only!  Geoffrey Bingham shall not come between us then, for I will watch you day and night.  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.  What was in them?  Why did Lady Honoria write to her?  Which should she read first?  In a moment Beatrice had made up her mind.  She would face the worst at once.  With a set face she opened Lady Honoria’s letter, unfolded it, and read.  We already know its contents.  As her mind grasped them her lips grew ashy white, and by the time that the horrible thing was done she was nigh to fainting.

Anonymous letters! oh, who could have done this cruel thing?  Elizabeth, it must be Elizabeth, who saw everything, and thus stabbed her in the back.  Was it possible that her own sister could treat her so?  She knew that Elizabeth disliked her; she could never fathom the cause, still she knew the fact.  But if this were her doing, then she must hate her, and most bitterly; and what had she done to earn such hate?  And now Geoffrey was in danger on her account, danger of ruin, and how could she prevent it?  This was her first idea.  Most people might have turned to their own position and been content to leave their lover to fight his own battle.  But Beatrice thought little of herself.  He was in danger, and how could she protect him?  Why here in the letter was the answer!  “If you care for him sever all connection with him utterly, and for ever.  Otherwise, he will live to curse and hate you.”  No, no!  Geoffrey would never do that.  But Lady Honoria was quite right; in his interest, for his sake, she must sever all connection with him—­sever it utterly and for ever.  But how—­how?