‘All right. Don’t suppose I wanted to insult you. I took it for granted you were married. Of course it happened before your father’s death, and his awkward will obliged you to keep it dark?’
Again Nancy was smitten with fear. Deeming Miss. French an unscrupulous enemy, she felt that to confess marriage was to abandon every hope. Pride appealed to her courage, bade her, here and now, have done with the ignoble fraud; but fear proved stronger. She could not face exposure, and all that must follow.
She spoke coldly, but with down-dropt eyes.
‘I am not married.’
The words cost her little effort. Practically, she had uttered them before; her overbold replies were an admission of what, from the first, she supposed Beatrice to charge her with—not secret wedlock, but secret shame. Beatrice, however, had adopted that line of suggestion merely from policy, hoping to sting the proud girl into avowal of a legitimate union; she heard the contrary declaration with fresh surprise.
‘I should never have believed it of Miss. Lord,’ was her half ingenuous, half sly comment.
Nancy, beginning to realise what she had done, sat with head bent, speechless.
‘Don’t distress yourself,’ continued the other. ‘Not a soul will hear of it from me. If you like to tell me more, you can do it quite safely; I’m no blabber, and I’m not a rascal. I should never have troubled to make inquiries about you, down yonder, if it hadn’t been that I suspected Crewe. That’s a confession, you know; take it in return for yours.’
Nancy was tongue-tied. A full sense of her humiliation had burst upon her. She, who always condescended to Miss. French, now lay smirched before her feet, an object of vulgar contempt.
‘What does it matter?’ went on Beatrice genially. ‘You’ve got over the worst, and very cleverly. Are you going to marry him when you come in for your money?’