When Clara received the letter from Captain Aylmer on which so much is supposed to hang, she made up her mind to say nothing of it to any one not to think of it if she could avoid thinking of it till her cousin should have left her. She could not mention it to him; for, though there was no one from whom she would sooner have asked advice than from him, even on so delicate a matter as this, she could not do so in the present case, as her informant was her cousin’s successful rival. When, therefore, Mrs Askerton on leaving the church had spoken some customary word to Clara, begging her to come to the cottage on the following day, Clara had been unable to answer not having as yet made up her mind whether she would or would not go to the cottage again. Of course the idea of consulting her father occurred to her or rather the idea of telling him; but any such telling would lead to some advice from him which she would find it difficult to obey, and to which she would be unable to trust. And, moreover, why should she repeat this evil story against her neighbours?

She had a long morning by herself after Will had started, and then she endeavoured to arrange her thoughts and lay down for herself a line of conduct. Presuming this story to be true, to what did it amount? It certainly amounted to very much. If, in truth, this woman had left her own husband and gone away to live with another man, she had by doing so at any rate while she was doing so fallen in such a way as to make herself unfit for the society of an unmarried young woman who meant to keep her name unblemished before the world. Clara would not attempt any further unravelling of the case, even in her own mind but on that point she could not allow herself to have a doubt. Without condemning the unhappy victim, she understood well that she would owe it to all those who held her dear, if not to herself, to eschew any close intimacy with one in such a position. The rules of the world were too plainly written to allow her to guide herself by any special judgment of her own in such a matter. But if this friend of hers having been thus unfortunate had since redeemed, or in part redeemed, her position by a second marriage, would it be then imperative upon her to remember the past for ever, and to declare that the stain was indelible? Clara felt that with a previous knowledge of such a story she would probably have avoided any intimacy with Mrs Askerton. She would then have been justified in choosing whether such intimacy should or should not exist, and would so have chosen out of deference to the world’s opinion. But now it was too late for that. Mrs Askerton had for years been her friend; and Clara had to ask herself this question: was it now needful did her own feminine purity demand that she should throw her friend over because in past years her life had been tainted by misconduct.

It was clear enough at any rate that this was expected from her nay, imperatively demanded by him who was to be her lord by him to whom her future obedience would be due. Whatever might be her immediate decision, he would have a right to call upon her to be guided by his judgment as soon as she would become his wife. And indeed, she felt that he had such right now unless she should decide that no such right should be his, now or ever. It was still within her power to say that she could not submit herself to such a rule as his but having received his commands she must do that or obey them. Then she declared to herself, not following the matter out logically, but urged to her decision by sudden impulse, that at any rate she would not obey Lady Aylmer. She would have nothing to do, in any such matter, with Lady Aylmer. Lady Aylmer should be no god to her. That question about the house at Perivale had been very painful to her. She felt that she could have endured the dreary solitude at Perivale without complaint, if, after her marriage, her husband’s circumstances had made such a mode of living expedient. But to have been asked to pledge her consent to such a life before her marriage, to feel that he was bargaining for the privilege of being rid of her, to know that the Aylmer people were arranging that he, if he would marry her, should be as little troubled with his wife as possible all this had been very grievous to her. She had tried to console herself by the conviction that Lady Aylmer not Frederic had been the sinner; but even in that consolation there had been the terrible flaw that the words had come to her written by Frederic’s hand. Could Will Belton have written such a letter to his future wife?

In her present emergency she must be guided by her own judgment or her own instincts not by any edicts from Aylmer Park! If in what she might do she should encounter the condemnation of Captain Aylmer, she would answer him she would be driven to answer him by counter-condemnation of him and his mother. Let it be so. Anything would be better than a mean, truckling subservience to the imperious mistress of Aylmer Park.

But what should she do as regarded Mrs Askerton? That the story was true she was beginning to believe. That there was some such history was made certain to her by the promise which Mrs Askerton had given her.

‘If you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me, I will answer them.’ Such a promise would not have been volunteered unless there was something special to be told. It would be best, perhaps, to demand from Mrs Askerton the fulfilment of this promise. But then in doing so she must own from whence her information had come. Mrs Askerton had told her that the ‘communication’ would be made by her Cousin Will. Her Cousin Will had gone away without a word of Mrs Askerton, and now the ‘communication’ had come from Captain Aylmer!

The Monday and Tuesday were rainy days, and the rain was some excuse for her not going to the cottage. On the Wednesday her father was ill, and his illness made a further excuse for her remaining at home. But on the Wednesday evening there came a note to her from Mrs Askerton. ‘You naughty girl, why do you not come to me? Colonel Askerton has been away since yesterday morning, and I am forgetting the sound of my own voice. I did not trouble you when your divine cousin was here for reasons; but unless you come to me now I shall think that his divinity has prevailed. Colonel Askerton is in Ireland, about some property, and will not be back till next week.’

Clara sent back a promise by the messenger, and on the following morning she put on her hat and shawl, and started on her dreaded task. When she left the house she had not even yet quite made up her mind what she would do. At first she put her lover’s letter into her pocket, so that she might have it for reference; but, on second thoughts, she replaced it in her desk, dreading lest she might be persuaded into showing or reading some part of it. There had come a sharp frost after the rain, and the ground was hard and dry. In order that she might gain some further last moment for thinking, she walked round, up among the rocks, instead of going straight to the cottage; and for a moment though the air was sharp with frost she sat upon the stone where she had been seated when her Cousin Will blurted out the misfortune of his heart. She sat there on purpose that she might think of him, and recall his figure, and the tones of his voice, and the look of his eyes, and the gesture of his face. What a man he was so tender, yet so strong; so thoughtful of others, and yet so self — sufficient! She had, unconsciously, imputed to him one fault, that he had loved and then forgotten his love unconsciously, for she had tried to think that this was a virtue rather than a fault but now with a full knowledge of what she was doing, but without any intention of doing it she acquitted him of that one fault. Now that she could acquit him, she owned that it would have been a fault. To have loved, and so soon to have forgotten it! No; he had loved her truly, and alas! he was one who could not be made to forget it. Then she went on to the cottage, exercising her thoughts rather on the contrast between the two men than on the subject to which she should have applied them.

‘So you have come at last!’ said Mrs Askerton. ‘Till I got your message I thought there was to be some dreadful misfortune.’

‘What misfortune?’

‘Something dreadful! One often anticipates something very bad without exactly knowing what. At least, I do. I am always expecting a catastrophe when I am alone that is and then I am so often alone.’

‘That simply means low spirits, I suppose?’

‘It’s more than that, my dear.’

‘Not much more, I take it.’

‘Once when we were in India we lived close to the powder magazine, and we were always expecting to be blown up. You never lived near a powder magazine.’

‘No, never unless there’s one at Belton. But I should have thought that was exciting.’

‘And then there was the gentleman who always had the sword hanging over him by the horse’s hair.’

‘What do you mean, Mrs Askerton?’

‘Don’t look so innocent, Clara. You know what I mean. What were the results at last of your cousin’s diligence as a detective officer?’

‘Mrs Askerton, you wrong my cousin greatly. He never once mentioned your name while he was with us. He did not make a single allusion to you, or to Colonel Askerton, or to the cottage.’

‘He did not?’

‘Never once.’

‘Then I beg his pardon. But not the less has he been busy making inquiries.’

‘But why should you say that there is a powder magazine, or a sword hanging over your head?’

‘Ah, why?’

Here was the subject ready opened to her hand, and yet Clara did not know how to go on with it. It seemed to her now that it would have been easier for her to commence it, if Mrs Askerton had made no commencement herself. As it was, she knew not how to introduce the subject of Captain Aylmer’s letter, and was almost inclined to wait, thinking that Mrs Askerton might tell her own story without any such introduction. But nothing of the kind was forthcoming. Mrs Askerton began to talk of the frost, and then went on to abuse Ireland, complaining of the hardship her husband endured in being forced to go thither in winter to look after his tenants.

‘What did you mean’, said Clara, at last, ‘by the sword hanging over your head?’

‘I think I told you what I meant pretty plainly. If you did not understand me I cannot tell you more plainly.’

‘It is odd that you should say so much, and not wish to say more.’

‘Ah! you are making your inquiries now.’

‘In my place would not you do so too? How can I help it when you talked of a sword? Of course you make me ask what the sword is.’

‘And am I bound to satisfy your curiosity?’

‘You told me, just before my cousin came here, that if I asked any question you would answer me.’

‘And I am to understand that you are asking such a question now?’

‘Yes if it will not offend you.’

‘But what if it will offend me offend me greatly? Who likes to be inquired into?’

‘But you courted such inquiry from me.’

‘No, Clara, I did not do that. I’ll tell you what I did. I gave you to understand that if it was needful that you should hear about me and my antecedents certain matters as to which Mr Belton had been inquiring into in a manner that I thought to be most unjustifiable I would tell you that story.’

‘And do so without being angry with me for asking.’

‘I meant, of course, that I would not make it a ground for quarrelling with you. If I wished to tell you, I could do so without any inquiry.’

‘I have sometimes thought that you did wish to tell me.’

‘Sometimes I have almost.’

‘But you have no such wish now?’

‘Can’t you understand? It may well be that one so much alone as I am living here without a female friend, or even acquaintance, except yourself should often feel a longing for that comfort which full confidence between us would give me.’

‘Then why not’

‘Stop a moment. Can’t you understand that I may feel this, and yet entertain the greatest horror against inquiry? We all like to tell our own sorrows, but who likes to be inquired into? Many a woman burns to make a full confession, who would be as mute as death before a policeman.’

‘I am no policeman.’

‘But you are determined to ask a policeman’s questions?’

To this Clara made no immediate reply. She felt that she was acting almost falsely in going on with such questions, while she was in fact aware of all the circumstances which Mrs Askerton could tell but she did not know how to declare her knowledge and to explain it. She sincerely wished that Mrs Askerton should be made acquainted with the truth; but she had fallen into a line of conversation which did not make her own task easy. But the idea of her own hypocrisy was distressing to her, and she rushed at the difficulty with hurried, eager words, resolving that, at any rate, there should be no longer any doubt between them.

‘Mrs Askerton,’ she said, ‘I know it all. There is nothing for you to tell. I know what the sword is.’

‘What is it that you know?’

‘That you were married long ago to Mr Berdmore.’

‘Then Mr Belton did do me the honour of talking about me when he was here?’ As she said this she rose from her chair, and stood before Clara with flashing eyes.

‘Not a word. He never mentioned your name, or the name of any one belonging to you. I have heard it from another.’

‘From what other?’

‘I do not ............