“Before Heaven, it was not my fault, Mr. Bingham,” gasped the old man.  “I am innocent of it.  That Judas-woman Elizabeth betrayed her sister because she wanted to marry him herself,” and he pointed to the Heap upon the floor.  “She thought that it would prejudice him against Beatrice, and he—­he believed that she was attached to you, and tried to work upon her attachment.”

“So,” said Geoffrey, “now we have it all.  And you, sir, stood by and saw this done.  You stood by thinking that you would make a profit of her agony.  Now I will tell you what I meant to hide from you.  I did love her.  I do love her—­as she loved me.  I believe that between you, you drove her to her grave.  Her blood be on your heads for ever and for ever!”

“Oh, take me home,” groaned the Heap upon the floor—­“take me home, Elizabeth!  I daren’t go alone.  Beatrice will haunt me.  My brain goes round and round.  Take me away, Elizabeth, and stop with me.  You are not afraid of her, you are afraid of nothing.”

Elizabeth sidled up to him, keeping her fierce eyes on Geoffrey all the time.  She was utterly cowed and terrified, but she could still look fierce.  She took the Heap by the hand and drew him thence still moaning and quite crazed.  She led him away to his castle and his wealth.  Six months afterwards she came forth with him to marry him, half-witted as he was.  A year and eight months afterwards she came out again to bury him, and found herself the richest widow in Wales.

They went forth, leaving Geoffrey and Mr. Granger alone.  The old man rested his head upon the table and wept bitterly.

“Be merciful,” he said, “do not say such words to me.  I loved her, indeed I did, but Elizabeth was too much for me, and I am so poor.  Oh, if you loved her also, be merciful!  I do not reproach you because you loved her, although you had no right to love her.  If you had not loved her, and made her love you, all this would never have happened.  Why do you say such dreadful things to me, Mr. Bingham?”

“I loved her, sir,” answered Geoffrey, humbly enough now that his fury had passed, “because being what she was all who looked on her must love her.  There is no woman left like her in the world.  But who am I that I should blame you?  God forgive us all!  I only live henceforth in the hope that I may one day rejoin her where she has gone.”

There was a pause.

“Mr. Granger,” said Geoffrey presently, “never trouble yourself about money.  You were her father; anything you want and what I have is yours.  Let us shake hands and say good-bye, and let us never meet again.  As I said, God forgive us all!”

“Thank you—­thank you,” said the old man, looking up through the white hair that fell about his eyes.  “It is a strange world and we are all miserable sinners.  I hope there is a better somewhere.  I’m well-nigh tired of this, especially now that Beatrice has gone.  Poor girl, she was a good daughter and a fine woman.  Good-bye.  Good-bye!”