“Then I will explain,” said Elizabeth, still pointing at her sister. “She is Geoffrey Bingham’s _mistress_. On the night of Whit-Sunday last she rose from bed and went into his room at one in the morning. I saw her with my own eyes. Afterwards she was brought back to her bed in his arms—I saw it with my own eyes, and I heard him kiss her.” (This was a piece of embroidery on Elizabeth’s part.) “She is his lover, and has been in love with him for months. I tell you this, Owen Davies, because, though I cannot bear to bring disgrace upon our name and to defile my lips with such a tale, neither can I bear that you should marry a girl, believing her to be good, when she is what Beatrice is.” “Then I wish to God that you had held your wicked tongue,” said Mr. Granger fiercely. “No, father. I have a duty to perform, and I will perform it at any cost, and however much it pains me. You know that what I say is true. You heard the noise on the night of Whit-Sunday, and got up to see what it was. You saw the white figure in the passage—it was Geoffrey Bingham with Beatrice in his arms. Ah! well may she hang her head. Let her deny it if she can. Let her deny that she loves him to her shame, and that she was alone in his room on that night.” Then Beatrice rose and spoke. She was pale as death and more beautiful in her shame and her despair than ever she had been before; her glorious eyes shone, and there were deep black lines beneath them. “My heart is my own,” she said, “and I will make no answer to you about it. Think what you will. For the rest, it is not true. I am not what Elizabeth tells you that I am. I am _not_ Geoffrey Bingham’s mistress. It is true that I was in his room that night, and it is true that he carried me back to my own. But it was in my sleep that I went there, not of my own free will. I awoke there, and fainted when I woke, and then at once he bore me back.” Elizabeth laughed shrill and loud—it sounded like the cackle of a fiend. “In her sleep,” she said; “oh, she went there in her sleep!” “Yes, Elizabeth, in my sleep. You do not believe me, but it is true. You do not wish to believe me. You wish to bring the sister whom you should love, who has never offended against you by act or word, to utter disgrace and ruin. In your cowardly spite you have written anonymous letters to Lady Honoria Bingham, to prevail upon her to strike the blow that should destroy her husband and myself, and when you fear that this has failed, you come forward and openly accuse us. You do this in the name of Christian duty; in the name of love and charity, you believe the worst, and seek to ruin us. Shame on you, Elizabeth! shame on you! and may the same measure that you have meted out to me never be paid back to you. We are no longer sisters. Whatever happens, I have done with you. Go your ways.”