Then, as she thought, a great temptation assailed Beatrice, and for the first time her resolution wavered.  Why should she not accept Geoffrey’s offer and go away with him—­far away from all this misery?  Gladly would she give her life to spend one short year at his dear side.  She had but to say the word, and he would take her to him, and in a month from now they would be together in some foreign land, counting the world well lost, as he had said.  Doubtless in time Lady Honoria would get a divorce, and they might be married.  A day might even come when all this would seem like a forgotten night of storm and fear; when, surrounded by the children of their love, they would wend peaceably, happily, through the evening of their days towards a bourne robbed of half its terrors by the fact that they would cross it hand-in-hand.

Oh, that would be well for her; but would it be well for him?  When the first months of passion had passed by, would he not begin to think of all that he had thrown away for the sake of a woman’s love?  Would not the burst of shame and obloquy which would follow him to the remotest corners of the earth wear away his affection, till at last, as Lady Honoria said, he learned to curse and hate her.  And if it did not—­if he still loved her through it all—­as, being what he was, he well might do—­could she be the one to bring this ruin on him?  Oh, it would have been more kind to let him drown on that night of the storm, when fate first brought them together to their undoing.

No, no; once and for all, once and for ever, she would not do it.  Cruel as was her strait, heavy as was her burden, not one feather’s weight of it should he carry, if by any means in her poor power she could hold it from his back.  She would not even tell him of what had happened—­at any rate, not now.  It would distress him; he might take some desperate step; it was almost certain that he would do so.  Her answer must be very short.

She was quite close to Coed now, and the water lay calm as a pond.  So calm was it that she drew the sheet of paper and the envelope from her pocket, and leaning forward, rested them on the arched covering of the canoe, and pencilled those words which we have already read.

“No, dear Geoffrey.  Things must take their course.—­B.”

Thus she wrote.  Then she paddled to the shore.  A fisherman standing on the beach caught her canoe and pulled it up.  Leaving it in his charge, she went into the quaint little town, directed and posted her letter, and bought some wool.  It was an excuse for having been there should any one ask questions.  After that she returned to her canoe.  The fisherman was standing by it.  She offered him sixpence for his trouble, but he would not take it.

“No, miss,” he said, “thanking you kindly—­but we don’t often get a peep at such sweet looks.  It’s worth sixpence to see you, it is.  But, miss, if I may make so bold as to say so, it isn’t safe for you to cruise about in that craft, any ways not alone.”