"I cannot tell you, Beatrice." He caught suddenly at her hands. "If I could lie down and die at your dear feet, I would, for my heart is sick within me. I have sinned, and bitterly I am paying for my sin. When I spoke to you under the oak, I was then able to be your true lover, and hoped to be your loving husband. But now"--he flung away her hands--"that barrier which I thought removed, is still between us. I am not a free agent. I dare not ask you to be my wife."
"But you have asked me, and I have consented," she panted, red with shame and anger. "Why are you playing with me like this?"
"Why are the gods playing with both of us, you mean," he said, with a mirthless laugh. "Were you and I on the other side of the world, we might be happy--and yet, even then it would be impossible. I love you, but you have every right to hate me."
"I don't understand one word you are talking about," said Beatrice sharply, and tried to resolve some sense out of his wild words. "Is it that you committed this crime?"
"I!" He started back amazed. "Beatrice, I may be bad, but I am not so evil as that. I hated Alpenny, and had every reason to hate him, but I never laid a finger on the poor wretch. I did not kill him myself, nor can I tell you who killed him. Ah," he went on, half to himself, "Durban said something of this--about the key of the small gate--but he explained."
"Is what he said true?"
"Perfectly true. I am innocent. It is not the murder that is a bar to divide us. I could face that out; but there are other things which prevent my being a free agent."
"Have you a master, then?"
"I have those about me who know too much," said Vivian fiercely, "and if anything would make me stain my hands with blood, it would be the knowledge that I am the sport of thieves and vagabonds. How it will all end I do not know--for me, that is. But for you, my best and dearest"--he made a step forward, but she evaded him.--"for you, I know the end. You must come to Convent Grange and----"
"Go to the Grange, after what you have said?" she flamed out.