“As to your charge about my cruelty I can prove to the world that you lived in splendor in Brandon Hall. Every one of the servants can testify to this. Your morose disposition made you keep by yourself. You always treated your father with indifference, and finally ran away with a man who unfortunately had won your affections in Hong Kong.” “You well know the reason why I left your roof,” replied Beatrice, with calm and severe dignity. “Your foul aspersions upon my character are unworthy of notice.” “And what shall I say about your aspersions on my character?” cried Potts, in a loud, rude voice, hoping by a sort of vulgar self-assertion to brow-beat Beatrice. “Do you remember the names you called me and your threats against me? When all this is brought out in the police court, they will see what kind of a daughter you have been.” “You will be the last one who will dare to let it be brought into a police court.” “And why? Those absurd charges of yours are worthless. Have you any proof?” he continued, with a sneer, “or has your paramour any?” “Take me away,” said Beatrice to the policeman. “Wait!” exclaimed Potts; “you are going, and I will go to reclaim you. The law will give you back to me; for I will prove that you are under age, and I have never treated you with any thing except kindness. Now the law can do nothing since you are mine. But as you are so young and inexperienced I’ll tell you what will happen. “The newspapers,” he continued, after a pause, “will be full of your story. They will print what I shall prove to be true--that you had an intractable disposition--that you had formed a guilty attachment for a drum-major at Hong Kong--that you ran away with him, lived for a while at Holby, and then went with your paramour to London. If you had only married him you would have been out of my power; but you don’t pretend to be married. You don’t call yourself Langhetti, but have taken another name, which the sharp newspaper reporters will hint was given you by some other one of your numerous favorites. They will declare that you love every man but your own father; and you--you who played the goddess on the stage and sang about Truth and Religion will be known all over England and all over Europe too as the vilest of the vile.” [Illustration: “Oh, my daughter!” cried Potts, “will you still be relentless?”] At this tremendous menace Beatrice’s resolution was shattered to pieces. That this would be so she well knew. To escape from Potts was to have herself made infamous publicly under the sanction of the law, and then, by that same law to be handed back to him. At least whether it was so or not, she thought so. There was no help--no friend. “Go,” said Potts; “leave me now and you become covered with infamy. Who would believe your story?” Beatrice was silent, her slender frame was rent by emotion. “O God!” she groaned--but in her deep despair she could not find thoughts even for prayers.