“Heaven help us, Beatrice,” he said.  “I will go to-morrow morning and, if I can, I will keep away.”

“You must keep away.  I will not see you any more.  I will not bring trouble on you, Geoffrey.”

“You talk of bringing trouble on me,” he said; “you say nothing of yourself, and yet a man, even a man with eyes on him like myself, is better fitted to weather such a storm.  If it ruined me, how much more would it ruin you?”

They were at the gate of the Vicarage now, and the wind rushed so strongly through the firs that she needed to put her lips quite close to his ear to make her words heard.

“Stop, one minute,” she said, “perhaps you do not quite understand.  When a woman does what I have done, it is because she loves with all her life and heart and soul, because all these are a part of her love.  For myself, I no longer care anything—­I have no self away from you; I have ceased to be of myself or in my own keeping.  I am of you and in yours.  For myself and my own fate or name I think no more; with my eyes open and of my own free will I have given everything to you, and am glad and happy to give it.  But for you I still do care, and if I took any step, or allowed you to take any that could bring sorrow on you, I should never forgive myself.  That is why we must part, Geoffrey.  And now let us go in; there is nothing more to say, except this:  if you wish to bid me good-bye, a last good-bye, dear Geoffrey, I will meet you to-morrow morning on the beach.”

“I shall leave at half-past eight,” he said hoarsely.

“Then we will meet at seven,” Beatrice said, and led the way into the house.

Elizabeth and Mr. Granger were already seated at supper.  They supped at nine on Sunday nights; it was just half-past.

“Dear me,” said the old gentleman, “we began to think that you two must have been out canoeing and got yourselves drowned in good earnest this time.  What have you been doing?”

“We have had a long walk,” answered Geoffrey; “I did not know that it was so late.”

“One wants to be pleased with one’s company to walk far on such a night as this,” put in Elizabeth maliciously.

“And so we were—­at least I was,” Geoffrey answered with perfect truth, “and the night is not so bad as you might think, at least under the lee of the cliffs.  It will be worse by and by!”

Then they sat down and made a desperate show of eating supper.  Elizabeth, the keen-eyed, noticed that Geoffrey’s hand was shaking.  Now what, she wondered, would make the hand of a strong man shake like a leaf?  Deep emotion might do it, and Elizabeth thought that she detected other signs of emotion in them both, besides that of Geoffrey’s shaking hand.  The plot was working well, but could it be brought to a climax?  Oh, if he would only throw prudence to the winds and run away with Beatrice, so that she might be rid of her, and free to fight for her own hand.