him credit at any rate for
a will of his own. She had believed him to be a man able to act in
accordance with the dictates of his own conscience. But now she
perceived him to be so subject to his mother that he did not dare
to call his heart his own. What was to be the end of it all? And
if there could only be one end, would it not be well that that
end should be reached at once, so that she might escape from her
purgatory?

But on the afternoon of the third day there seemed to have come a
change over Lady Aylmer. At lunch she was especially civil,--civil to
the extent of picking out herself for Clara, with her own fork, the
breast of a hashed fowl from a dish that was before her. This she did
with considerable care,--I may say, with a show of care; and then,
though she did not absolutely call Clara by her Christian name, she
did call her "my dear." Clara saw it all, and felt that the usual
placidity of the afternoon would be broken by some special event. At
three o'clock, when the carriage as usual came to the door, Belinda
was out of the way, and Clara was made to understand that she and
Lady Aylmer were to be driven out without any other companion.
"Belinda is a little busy, my dear. So, if you don't mind, we'll go
alone." Clara of course assented, and got into the carriage with a
conviction that now she would hear her fate. She was rather inclined
to think that Lady Aylmer was about to tell her that she had failed
in obtaining the approbation of Aylmer Park, and that she must be
returned as goods of a description inferior to the order given. If
such were the case, the breast of the chicken had no doubt been
administered as consolation. Clara had endeavoured, since she had
been at Aylmer Park, to investigate her own feelings in reference
to Captain Aylmer; but had failed, and knew that she had failed.
She wished to think that she loved him, as she could not endure the
thought of having accepted a man whom she did not love. And she told
herself that he had done nothing to forfeit her love. A woman who
really loves will hardly allow that her love should be forfeited by
any fault. True love breeds forgiveness for all faults. And, after
all, of what fault had Captain Aylmer been guilty? He had preached
to her out of his mother's mouth. That had been all! She had first
accepted him, and then rejected him, and then accepted him again;
and now she would fain be firm, if firmness were only possible to
her. Nevertheless, if