if you are
not a fool, you will hold your tongue and let me be!" and she went also,
leaving him alone.

Mr. Granger held up his hands in astonishment. He was a selfish,
money-seeking old man, but he felt that he did not deserve to have such
a daughter as this.

CHAPTER XXVI

WHAT BEATRICE SWORE

Beatrice went to her room, but the atmosphere of the place seemed to
stifle her. Her brain was reeling, she must go out into the air--away
from her tormentors. She had not yet answered Geoffrey's letter, and
it must be answered by this post, for there was none on Sunday. It was
half-past four--the post went out at five; if she was going to write,
she should do so at once, but she could not do so here. Besides, she
must find time for thought. Ah, she had it; she would take her canoe and
paddle across the bay to the little town of Coed and write her letter
there. The post did not leave Coed till half-past six. She put on her
hat and jacket, and taking a stamp, a sheet of paper, and an envelope
with her, slipped quietly from the house down to old Edward's boat-house
where the canoe was kept. Old Edward was not there himself, but his
son was, a boy of fourteen, and by his help Beatrice was soon safely
launched. The sea glittered like glass, and turning southwards,
presently she was paddling round the shore of the island on which the
Castle stood towards the open bay.

As she paddled her mind cleared, and she was able to consider the
position. It was bad enough. She saw no light, darkness hemmed her in.
But at least she had a week before her, and meanwhile what should she
write to Geoffrey?

Then, as she thought, a great temptation assailed Beatrice, and for the
first time her resolution wavered. Why should she not accept Geoffrey's
offer and go away with him--far away from all this misery? Gladly would
she give her life to spend one short year at his dear side. She had but
to say the word, and he would take her to him, and in a month from now
they would be together in some foreign land, counting the world well
lost, as he had said. Doubtless in time Lady Honoria would get a
divorce, and they might be married. A day might even come when all this
would seem like a forgotten night of storm and fear; when, surrounded by
the children of their love, they would wend peaceably, happily, through
the evening of their days towards a bourne robbed of half its terrors by
the fact that they would cross it hand-in-hand.

Oh, that wou