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 know that that signifies,--but I have learned it."

"Well;--and what next?"

"I do not know what next. As so much has been told me, and as you
had said that I might ask you, I have come to you, yourself. I shall
believe your own story more thoroughly from yourself than from any
other teller."

"And suppose I refuse to answer you?"

"Then I can say nothing further."

"And what will you do?"

"Ah;--that I do not know. But you are harsh to me, while I am longing
to be kind to you. Can you not see that this has been all forced upon
me,--partly by yourself?"

"And the other part;--who has forced that upon you? Who is your
informant? If you mean to be generous, be generous altogether. Is it
a man or a woman that has taken the trouble to rip up old sorrows
that my name may be blackened? But what matters? There;--I was
married to Captain Berdmore. I left him, and went away with my
present husband. For three years I was a man's mistress, and not
his wife. When that poor creature died we were married, and then
came here. Now you know it all;--all;--all,--though doubtless your
informant has made a better story of it. After that, perhaps, I have
been very wicked to sully the air you breathe by my presence."

"Why do you say that,--to me?"

"But no;--you do not know it all. No one can ever know it all. No one
can ever know how I suffered before I was driven to escape, or how
good to me has been he who--who--who--" Then she turned her back upon
Clara, and, walking off to the window, stood there, hiding the tears
which clouded her eyes, and concealing the sobs which choked her
utterance.

For some moments,--for a space which seemed long to both of
them,--Clara kept her seat in silence. She hardly dared to speak, and
though she longed to show her sympathy, she knew not what to say. At
last she too rose and followed the other to the window. She uttered
no words, however, but gently putting her arm around Mrs. Askerton's
waist, stood there close to her, looking out upon the cold wintry
flower-beds,--not venturing to turn her eyes upon her companion. The
motion of h