Well, they were
better than men--better than all men except one. Theirs was a divine
companionship, and it soothed her. Ah, how hateful had been Elizabeth's
face, more hateful even than the half-crazed cunning of Owen Davies,
when she stretched her hand towards her and called her "a scarlet
woman." It was so like Elizabeth, this mixing up of Bible terms with her
accusation. And after all perhaps it was true.--What was it, "Though thy
sins be as scarlet, yet shall they be white as snow." But that was only
if one repented. She did not repent, not in the least. Conscience, it
is true, reproached her with a breach of temporal and human law, but her
heart cried that such love as she had given was immortal and divine, and
therefore set beyond the little bounds of time and man. At any rate,
she loved Geoffrey and was proud and glad to love him. The circumstances
were unfortunate, but she did not make the world or its social
arrangements any more than she had made herself, and she could not help
that. The fact remained, right or wrong--she loved him, loved him!
How clear were the waters! What was that wild dream which she had
dreamt about herself sitting at the bottom of the sea, and waiting for
him--till at last he came.
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