“It means that he has hidden her away, I suppose,” said Elizabeth with a sneer.
“I mean, Mr. Granger, that your daughter Beatrice is dead.”
For once startled out of her self-command, Elizabeth gave a little cry, while her father staggered back against the wall.
“Dead! dead! What do you mean? How did she die?” he asked.
“That is known to God and her alone,” answered Geoffrey. “She went out last evening in her canoe. When I arrived here this morning she was missed for the first time. I walked along the beach and found the canoe and this inside of it,” and he placed the sodden shoe upon the table.
There was a silence. In the midst of it, Owen Davies burst into the room with wild eyes and dishevelled hair.
“Is it true?” he cried, “tell me—it cannot be true that Beatrice is drowned. She cannot have been taken from me just when I was going to marry her. Say that it is not true!”
A great fury filled Geoffrey’s heart. He walked down the room and shut the door, a red light swimming before his eyes. Then he turned and gripped Owen Davies’s shoulder like a vice.
“You accursed blackguard—you unmanly cur!” he said; “you and that wicked woman,” and he shook his hand at Elizabeth, “conspired together to bring a slur upon Beatrice. You did more: you threatened to attack me, to try and ruin me if she would not give herself up to you. You loathsome hypocrite, you tortured her and frightened her; now I am here to frighten you. You said that you would make the country ring with your tales. I tell you this—are you listening to me? If you dare to mention her name in such a sense, or if that woman dares, I will break every bone in your wretched body—by Heaven I will kill you!” and he cast Davies from him, and as he did so, struck him heavily across the face with the back of his hand.
The man took no notice either of his words or of the deadly insult of the blow.