her
paddle--and there the first start sprang into the sky! If only Geoffrey
were here to see it with her. Geoffrey! she had lost him; she was alone
in the world now--alone with the sea and the stars. Well, they were
better than men--better than all men except one. Theirs was a divine
companionship, and it soothed her. Ah, how hateful had been Elizabeth's
face, more hateful even than the half-crazed cunning of Owen Davies,
when she stretched her hand towards her and called her "a scarlet
woman." It was so like Elizabeth, this mixing up of Bible terms with her
accusation. And after all perhaps it was true.--What was it, "Though thy
sins be as scarlet, yet shall they be white as snow." But that was only
if one repented. She did not repent, not in the least. Conscience, it
is true, reproached her with a breach of temporal and human law, but her
heart cried that such love as she had given was immortal and divine, and
therefore set beyond the little bounds of time and man. At any rate,
she loved Geoffrey and was proud and glad to love him. The circumstances
were unfortunate, but she did not make the world or its social
arrangements any more than she had made herself, and she could not help
that. The fact remained, right or wrong--she loved him, loved him!

How clear were the waters! What was that wild dream which she had
dreamt about herself sitting at the bottom of the sea, and waiting for
him--till at last he came. Sitting at the bottom of the sea--why did
it strike her so strangely--what unfamiliar thought did it waken in her
mind? Well, and why not? It would be pleasant there, better at any rate
than on the earth. But things cannot be ended so; one is burdened with
the flesh, and one must wear it till it fails. Why must she wear it?
Was not the sea large enough to hide her bones? Look now, she had but
to slip over the edge of the canoe, slip without a struggle into those
mighty arms, and in a few short minutes it would all be done and gone!

She gasped as the thought struck home. _Here_ was the answer to her
questionings, the same answer that is given to every human troubling,
to all earthly hopes and fears and strivings. One stroke of that black
knife and everything would be lost or found. Would it be so great a
thing to give her life for Geoffrey?--why she had well nigh done as much
when she had known him but an hour, and now that he was all in all,
oh, would it be so great a thing? If she died--died secretly, swiftly,