Already it seemed a long time since I had known that Olivia was married.  The knowledge had lost its freshness and novelty, and the sting of it had become a rooted sorrow.  There was no mystery about her now.  I almost laughed, with a resentful bitterness, at the poor guesses I had made.  This was the solution, and it placed her forever out of my reach.  As with Tardif, so she could be nothing for me now, but as the blue sky, and the white clouds, and the stars shining in the night.  My poor Olivia! whom I loved a hundredfold more than I had done even this morning.  This morning I had been full of my own triumph and gladness.  Now I had nothing in my heart but a vast pity and reverential tenderness for her.

Married?  That was what she had said.  It shut out all hope for the future.  She must have been a mere child four years ago; she looked very young and girlish still.  And her husband treated her ill—­my Olivia, for whom I had given up all I had to give.  She said the law would compel her to return to him, and I could do nothing.  I could not interfere even to save her from a life which was worse to her than death.

My heart was caught in a vice, and there was no escape from the torture of its relentless grip.  Whichever way I looked there was sorrow and despair.  I wished, with a faint-heartedness I had never felt before, that Olivia and I had indeed perished together down in the caves where the tide was now sweeping below me.

“Martin!” said a clear, low, tender tone in my ear, which could never be deaf to that voice.  I looked up at Olivia without moving.  My head was at her feet, and I laid my hand upon the hem of her dress.

“Martin,” she said again, “see, I have brought you Tardifs coat in place of your own.  You must not lie here in this way.  Captain Carey’s yacht is waiting for you below.”

I staggered giddily when I stood on my feet, and only Olivia’s look of pain steadied me.  She had been weeping bitterly.  I could not trust myself to look in her face again.  At any rate my next duty was to go away without adding to her distress, if that were possible.  Tardif was standing behind her, regarding us both with great concern.

“Doctor,” he said, “when I came in from my lobster-pots, the captain sent a message by me to say the sun would be gone down before you reach Guernsey.  He has come round to the Havre Gosselin.  I’ll walk down the cliff with you.”

I should have said no, but Olivia caught at his words eagerly.

“Yes, go, my good Tardif,” she cried, “and bring me word that Dr. Martin is safe on board.—­Good-by!”

Her hand in mine again for a moment, with its slight pressure.  Then she was gone, Tardif was tramping down the stony path before me, speaking to me over his shoulder.

“It has not gone well, then, doctor?” he said.

“She will tell you,” I answered, briefly, not knowing how much Olivia might wish him to know.