Then Beatrice, her cup being full, once more dropped her head, and turned to go.
“Stop,” said Owen Davies in a hoarse voice, and speaking for the first time. “Hear what I have to say.”
She lifted her eyes. “With you, Mr. Davies, I have nothing to do; I am not answerable to you. Go and help your accomplice,” and she pointed to Elizabeth, “to cry this scandal over the whole world.”
“Stop,” he said again. “I will speak. I believe that it is true. I believe that you are Geoffrey Bingham’s mistress, curse him! but I do not care. I am still willing to marry you.”
Elizabeth gasped. Was this to be the end of her scheming? Would the blind passion of this madman prevail over her revelations, and Beatrice still become his rich and honoured wife, while she was left poor and disgraced? Oh, it was monstrous! Oh, she had never dreamed of this!
“Noble, noble!” murmured Mr. Granger; “noble! God bless you!”
So the position was not altogether beyond recovery. His erring daughter might still be splendidly married; he might still look forward to peace and wealth in his old age.
Only Beatrice smiled faintly.
“I thank you,” she said. “I am much honoured, but I could never have married you because I do not love you. You must understand me very little if you think that I should be the more ready to do so on account of the danger in which I stand,” and she ceased.
“Listen, Beatrice,” Owen went on, an evil light shining on his heavy face, while Elizabeth sat astounded, scarcely able to believe her ears. “I want you, and I mean to marry you; you are more to me than all the world. I can give you everything, and you had better yield to me, and you shall hear no more of this. But if you won’t, then this is what I will do. I will be revenged upon you—terribly revenged.”