"Won't you tell me?" she said, gently.
Alice was silent a moment. Then she suddenly opened her eyes—and spoke in a whisper.
"I—I was never married. But Hester Fox-Wilton's—my child!"
The tears came streaming from her eyes. They stood in Catharine's.
"You poor thing!" said Catharine brokenly, and raising one of the cold hands, she pressed it to her lips.
But Alice suddenly raised herself.
"You knew!"—she said—"You knew!" And her eyes, full of fear, stared into Catharine's. Then as Catharine did not speak immediately she went on with growing agitation, "You've heard—what everybody's saying? Oh! I don't know how I can face it. I often thought it would come—some time. And ever since that woman—since Judith—came home—it's been a nightmare. For I felt certain she'd come home because she was angry with us—and that she'd said something—before she died. Then nothing happened—and I've tried to think—lately—it was all right. But last night—"
She paused for self-control. Catharine was alarmed by her state—by its anguish, its excitement. It required an effort of her whole being before the sufferer could recover voice and breath, before she hurried on, holding Catharine's hands, and looking piteously into her face.
"Last night a woman came to see me—an old servant of mine who's nursed me sometimes—when I've been ill. She loves me—she's good to me. And she came to tell me what people were saying in the village—how there were letters going round, about me—and Hester—how everybody knew—and they were talking in the public-houses. She thought I ought to know—she cried—and wanted me to deny it. And of course I denied it—I was fierce to her—but it's true!"
She paused a moment, her pale lips moving soundlessly, unconsciously.