Beatrice locked her door and then sat at the window lost in thought.  When once the idea of suicide has entered the mind it is apt to grow with startling rapidity.  She reviewed the whole position; she went over all the arguments and searched the moral horizon for some feasible avenue of escape.  But she could find none that would save Geoffrey, except this.  Yes, 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 the altars of their love, their religion, their honour or their country!

It was finished.  Now let her rest while she could, seeing what was to come.  With a sigh for all that was, and all that might have been, Beatrice lay down and soon slept sweetly as a child.