Shortly after supper both Elizabeth and Beatrice went to bed, leaving their father with Geoffrey.

“Well,” said Mr. Granger, “did you get a word with Beatrice?  It was very kind of you to go that long tramp on purpose.  Gracious, how it blows! we shall have the house down presently.  Lightning, too, I declare.”

“Yes,” answered Geoffrey, “I did.”

“Ah, I hope you told her that there was no need for her to give up hope of him yet, of Mr. Davies, I mean?”

“Yes, I told her that—­that is if the greater includes the less,” he added to himself.

“And how did she take it?”

“Very badly,” said Geoffrey; “she seemed to think that I had no right to interfere.”

“Indeed, that is strange.  But it doesn’t mean anything.  She’s grateful enough to you at heart, depend upon it she is, only she did not like to say so.  Dear me, how it blows; we shall have a night of it, a regular gale, I declare.  So you are going away to-morrow morning.  Well, the best of friends must part.  I hope that you will often come and see us.  Good-bye.”

Once more a sense of the irony of the position overcame Geoffrey, and he smiled grimly as he lit his candle and went to bed.  At the back of the house was a long passage, which terminated at one end in the room where he slept, and at the other in that occupied by Elizabeth and Beatrice.  This passage was lit by two windows, and built out of it were two more rooms—­that of Mr. Granger, and another which had been Effie’s.  The windows of the passage, like most of the others in the Vicarage, were innocent of shutters, and Geoffrey stood for a moment at one of them, watching the lightning illumine the broad breast of the mountain behind.  Then looking towards the door of Beatrice’s room, he gazed at it with the peculiar reverence that sometimes afflicts people who are very much in love, and, with a sigh, turned and sought his own.

He could not sleep, it was impossible.  For nearly two hours he lay turning from side to side, and thinking till his brain seemed like to burst.  To-morrow he must leave her, leave her for ever, and go back to his coarse unprofitable struggle with the world, where there would be no Beatrice to make him happy through it all.  And she, what of her?

The storm had lulled a little, now it came back in strength, heralded by the lightning.  He rose, threw on a dressing-gown, and sat by a window watching it.  Its tumult and fury seemed to ease his heart of some little of its pain; in that dark hour a quiet night would have maddened him.

In eight hours—­eight short hours—­this matter would be ended so far as concerned their actual intercourse.  It would be a secret locked for ever in their two breasts, a secret eating at their hearts, cruel as the worm that dieth not.  Geoffrey looked up and threw out his heart’s thought towards his sleeping love.  Then once more, as in a bygone night, there broke upon his brain and being that mysterious spiritual sense.  Stronger and more strong it grew, beating on him in heavy unnatural waves, till his reason seemed to reel and sink, and he remembered naught but Beatrice, knew naught save that her very life was with him now.