I was sure she did. She had reached the familiar pouring-out stage. It was obviously going to be a relief to her to spread herself on the subject. I am pretty well used to being told everything, and at times a good deal more, and have learnt to discount much of it. I looked away from her and prepared to listen, and to give my mind to sifting, if I could, the fact from the fancy in her story. This is a special art, and one which all parsons do well to learn. I have heard my vicar on the subject of women's confessions.
'Women—women. Some of them will invent any crime—give themselves away with both hands—merely to make themselves interesting. Poor things, they don't realise how tedious sin is. One has to be on one's guard the whole time, with that kind.'
I deduced that Clare Potter might possibly be that kind. So I listened carefully, at first neither believing nor disbelieving.
'It's difficult to tell you,' she began, in a pathetic, unsteady voice.
'It hurts, rather …'
'No, I think not,' I corrected her. 'It's a relief, isn't it?'
She stared at me for a moment, then went on, 'Yes, I want to tell. But it hurts, all the same.'
I let her have it her own way; I couldn't press the point. She really thought it did hurt. I perceived that she had, like so many people, a confused mind.
'Go on,' I said.
'I must begin a long way back…. You see, before Oliver fell in love with Jane, he … he cared a little for me. He really did, Mr. Juke. And he made me care for him.' Her voice dropped to a whisper.
This was truth. I felt no doubt as to that.