"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."