Or was her folly
deep wisdom in disguise?--is there something divine in a passion that
can so override and defy the worst agonies of life?
She was at sea again now, and evening was falling on the waters softly
as a dream. Well, the letter was posted. Would it be the last, she
wondered? It seemed as though she must write no more letters. And what
was to be done? She would _not_ marry Owen Davies--never would she do
it. She could not so shamelessly violate her feelings, for Beatrice was
a woman to whom death would be preferable to dishonour, however legal.
No, for her own sake she would not be soiled with that disgrace. Did she
do this, she would hold herself the vilest of the vile. And still less
would she do it for Geoffrey's sake. Her instinct told her what he would
feel at such a thing, though he might never say a word. Surely he would
loathe and despise her. No, that idea was done with--utterly done with.
Then what remained to her? She would not fly with Geoffrey, since to
do so would be to ruin him. She would not marry Owen, and not to do so
would still be to ruin Geoffrey.
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