"Who knows?" she replied, her cheek slightly paling. "Is she one of the members of this Black Patch Gang?"
"So far as I know anything of her life, she is," replied Paslow, his eyes averted. Then he turned and seized her hands with vehemence, "Oh! my heart's darling what can you think of me after this revelation?"
Beatrice did not pause an instant in making reply. "I think you were very foolish to keep the truth from me."
"But how could I tell you of my sinful folly?" he pleaded, and his voice was very sweet in her ears. "See what a sordid tale it is: a foolish boy, and a clever woman! Yet God knows"--he broke off and cast away her hands--"it is not right that I should blame the woman, as men usually do. After all, Maud has some good points about her."
"I did not see them," responded Beatrice, with the bitterness with which one woman will always talk about another she hates.
"But, believe me, she has," insisted Vivian quickly. "She has been a burden to me; she did her best to drag me down to her level of thievery and roguery; but I cannot forget that I knew her here, as a child--when she really was good and kind. And, Beatrice," he added, with a flush, "on my soul I believe that in some things she is not what one might think her. You heard her say that she had been a true wife to me?"
"Yes," answered the girl, not to be outdone in justice even to a rival; "and I believe what she said. But if you love her----"
"Don't say that." He sprang towards her, all his heart in his eyes and passion in every note of his voice. "I love you and you only; no other woman has ever made me feel what you have. I met Maud in London, and even before, I had a kind of boy and girl passion for her. Then we were playmates, remember, in spite of the difference of our position. I was sorry when she told me how lonely she was in London. I did not know that she lied in saying so. I was young and inexperienced, and she caught me with a tearful eye and a quivering voice and a tale of woe. I married at haste to repent at leisure. But, oh Heavens!"--he broke off, pressing his hands against his aching brow--"when I think of that horrible police-court, and the way in which I was accused of what I never did, I hardly dare to look you in the face. I am soiled with the mire of criminality. I must be an outcast, a scoundrel in your eyes."
"You are in my eyes what you always have been," replied Beatrice in a soft tone--"the man I love."
"Still, still--you--you love me?" he stammered.