if, at the last, you go where I am not, you will remember and love the erring woman to whom, being so little, you still were all in all.  We are not married, Geoffrey, according to the customs of the world, but two short days hence I shall celebrate a service that is greater and more solemn than any of the earth.  For Death will be the Priest and that oath which I shall take will be to all eternity.  Who can prophesy of that whereof man has no sure knowledge?  Yet I do believe that in a time to come we shall look again into each other’s eyes, and kiss each other’s lips, and be one for evermore.  If this is so, it is worth while to have lived and died; if not, then, Geoffrey, farewell!

“If I may I will always be near you.  Listen to the night wind and you shall hear my voice; look on the stars, you will see my eyes; and my love shall be as the air you breathe.  And when at last the end comes, remember me, for if I live at all I shall be about you then.  What have I more to say?  So much, my dear, that words cannot convey it.  Let it be untold; but whenever you hear or read that which is beautiful or tender, think ‘this is what Beatrice would have said to me and could not!’

“You will be a great man, dear, the foremost or one of the foremost of your age.  You have already promised me to persevere to this end:  I will not ask you to promise afresh.  Do not be content to accept the world as women must.  Great men do not accept the world; they reform it—­and you are of their number.  And when you are great, Geoffrey, you will use your power, not for self-interest, but to large and worthy ends; you will always strive to help the poor, to break down oppression from those who have to bar it, and to advance the honour of your country.  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.  Then I ran away because I saw your friend turn and look at me.  I shall kiss this letter—­just here before I close