th Geoffrey--no, she did not believe it. He
loved her for other things besides her looks. Only if she had not been
beautiful, perhaps he would not have begun to love her, so she was
thankful for her eyes and hair, and form.

Could folly and infatuation go further? This woman in the darkest hour
of her bottomless and unhorizoned despair, with conscience gnawing at
her heart, with present misery pressing on her breast, and shame to come
hanging over her like a thunder cloud, could yet feel thankful that she
had won this barren love, the spring of all her woe. Or was her folly
deep wisdom in disguise?--is there something divine in a passion that
can so override and defy the worst agonies of life?

She was at sea again now, and evening was falling on the waters softly
as a dream. Well, the letter was posted. Would it be the last, she
wondered? It seemed as though she must write no more letters. And what
was to be done? She would _not_ marry Owen Davies--never would she do
it. She could not so shamelessly violate her feelings, for Beatrice was
a woman to whom death would be preferable to dishonour, however legal.
No, for her own sake she would not be soiled with that disgrace. Did she
do this, she would hold herself the vilest of the vile. And still less
would she do it for Geoffrey's sake. Her instinct told her what he would
feel at such a thing, though he might never say a word. Surely he would
loathe and despise her. No, that idea was done with--utterly done with.

Then what remained to her? She would not fly with Geoffrey, since to
do so would be to ruin him. She would not marry Owen, and not to do so
would still be to ruin Geoffrey. She was no fool, she was innocent in
act, but she knew that her innocence would indeed be hard to prove--even
her own father did not believe in it, and her sister would openly accuse
her to the world. What then should she do? Should she hide herself in
some remote half-civilised place, or in London? It was impossible; she
had no money, and no means of getting any. Besides, they would hunt
her out, both Owen Davies and Geoffrey would track her to the furthest
limits of the earth. And would not the former think that Geoffrey had
spirited her away, and at once put his threats into execution? Obviously
he would. There was no hope in that direction. Some other plan must be
found or her lover would still be ruined.

So argued Beatrice, still thinking not of herself, but of Geoffrey,
of that bel