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.

"My heart is my own," she said, "and I will make no answer to you about
it. Think what you will. For the rest, it is not true. I