Elizabeth made a movement as though to speak, then changed her mind and listened.

“Beatrice,” said Owen Davies, “you hear.  I ask you to marry me.”

There was a pause.  Beatrice, who had sat quite silent, was gathering up her strength to answer.  Elizabeth, watching her from beneath her hand, thought that she read upon her face irresolution, softening into consent.  What she really saw was but doubt as to the fittest and most certain manner of refusal.  Like lightning it flashed into Elizabeth’s mind that she must strike now, or hold her hand for ever.  If once Beatrice spoke that fatal “yes,” her revelations might be of no avail.  And Beatrice would speak it; she was sure she would.  It was a golden road out of her troubles.

“Stop!” said Elizabeth in a shrill, hard voice.  “Stop!  I must speak; it is my duty as a Christian.  I must tell the truth.  I cannot allow an honest man to be deceived.”

There was an awful pause.  Beatrice broke it.  Now she saw all the truth, and knew what was at hand.  She placed her hand upon her heart to still its beating.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” she said, “in our dead mother’s name——­” and she stopped.

“Yes,” answered her sister, “in our dead mother’s name, which you have dishonoured, I will do it.  Listen, Owen Davies, and father:  Beatrice, who sits there”—­and she pointed at her with her thin hand—­“Beatrice is a scarlet woman!”

“I really don’t understand,” gasped Mr. Granger, while Owen looked round wildly, and Beatrice sunk her head upon her breast.

“Then I will explain,” said Elizabeth, still pointing at her sister.  “She is Geoffrey Bingham’s mistress.  On the night of Whit-Sunday last she rose from bed and went into his room at one in the morning.  I saw her with my own eyes.  Afterwards she was brought back to her bed in his arms—­I saw it with my own eyes, and I heard him kiss her.” (This was a piece of embroidery on Elizabeth’s part.) “She is his lover, and has been in love with him for months.  I tell you this, Owen Davies, because, though I cannot bear to bring disgrace upon our name and to defile my lips with such a tale, neither can I bear that you should marry a girl, believing her to be good, when she is what Beatrice is.”

“Then I wish to God that you had held your wicked tongue,” said Mr. Granger fiercely.

“No, father.  I have a duty to perform, and I will perform it at any cost, and however much it pains me.  You know that what I say is true.  You heard the noise on the night of Whit-Sunday, and got up to see what it was.  You saw the white figure in the passage—­it was Geoffrey Bingham with Beatrice in his arms.  Ah! well may she hang her head.  Let her deny if it she can.  Let her deny that she loves him to her shame, and that she was alone in his room on that night.”

Then Beatrice rose and spoke.  She was pale as death and more beautiful in her shame and her despair than ever she had been before; her glorious eyes shone, and there were deep black lines beneath them.