u, I know that it must. The old saying will
come true. I saved your life, and I shall bring ruin on you!"

It is characteristic of Beatrice that already she was thinking of the
consequences to Geoffrey, not of those to herself.

"Beatrice," said Geoffrey, "we are in a desperate position. Do you wish
to face it and come away with me, far away to the other side of the
world?"

"No, no," she answered vehemently, "it would be your ruin to abandon the
career that is before you. What part of the world could you go to where
you would not be known? Besides there is your wife to think of. Ah,
God, your wife--what would she say of me? You belong to her, you have
no right to desert her. And there is Effie too. No, Geoffrey, no, I have
been wicked enough to learn to love you--oh, as you were never loved
before, if it is wicked to do what one cannot help--but I am not bad
enough for this. Walk quicker, Geoffrey; we shall be late, and they will
suspect something."

Poor Beatrice, the pangs of conscience were finding her out!

"We are in a dreadful position," he said again. "Oh, dearest, I have
been to blame. I should never have come back here. It is my fault; and
though I never thought of this, I did my best to please you."

"And I thank you for it," she answered. "Do not deceive yourself,
Geoffrey. Whatever happens, promise me never for one moment to believe
that I reproached or blamed you. Why should I blame you because you won
my heart? Let me sooner blame the sea on which we floated, the beach
where we walked, the house in which we lived, and the Destiny that
brought us together. I am proud and glad to love you, dear, but I am not
so selfish as to wish to ruin you: Geoffrey--I had rather die."

"Don't talk so," he said, "I cannot bear it. What are we to do? Am I to
go away and see you no more? How can we live so, Beatrice?"

"Yes, Geoffrey," she answered heavily, taking him by the hand and gazing
up into his face, "you are to go away and see me no more, not for years
and years. This is what we have brought upon ourselves, it is the
price that we must pay for this hour which has gone. You are to go away
to-morrow, that we may be put out of temptation, and you must come back
no more. Sometimes I shall write to you, and sometimes perhaps you will
write to me, till the thing becomes a burden, then you can stop.
And whether you forget me or not--and, Geoffrey, I do not think you
will--you will know that I shall never forget yo