He was not prepared for the result of his speech.  He had pondered it for some time and had come to the conclusion that it was best to say as little as possible and to say it plainly.  It was an honourable proposal of marriage from a man in middle life to a lady he had known and respected for many months; there was very little romance about it; he did not intend that there should be any.  As soon as he had spoken he turned his head and looked to her for his answer.  Mrs. Goddard had clasped her small white hands over her face and had turned her head away from him against the cushion of the high backed chair.  The squire felt very uncomfortable in the dead silence, broken only by the sleet driving against the window panes with a hissing, rattling sound, and by the singing of the tea-kettle.  For some seconds, which to Juxon seemed like an eternity, Mrs. Goddard did not move.  At last she suddenly dropped her hands and looked into the squire’s eyes.  He was startled by the ashen hue of her face.

“It is impossible,” she said, shortly, in broken tones.  But the squire was prepared for some difficulties.

“I do not see the impossibility,” he said quite calmly.  “Of course, I would not press you for an answer, my dear Mrs. Goddard.  I am afraid I have been very abrupt, but I will go away, I will leave you to consider—­”

“Oh no, no!” cried the poor lady in great distress.  “It is quite impossible—­I assure you it is quite, quite impossible!”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Juxon, who saw that she was deeply moved, but was loath to abandon the field without a further struggle.  “I am not a very young man, it is true—­but I am not a very old one either.  You, my dear Mrs. Goddard, have been a widow for some years—­”

“I?” cried Mrs. Goddard with a wild hysterical laugh.  “I!  Oh God of mercy!  I wish I were.”  Again she buried her face in the cushion.  Her bosom heaved violently.

The squire started as though he had been struck, and the blood rushed to his brown face so that the great veins on his temples stood out like cords.

“Did I—­did I understand you to say that—­your husband is living?” he asked in a strong, loud voice, ringing with emotion.

Mrs. Goddard moved a little and seemed to make a great effort to speak.

“Yes,” she said very faintly.  The squire rose to his feet and paced the room in terrible agitation.

“But where?” he asked, stopping suddenly in his walk.  “Mrs. Goddard, I think I have a right to ask where he is—­why you have never spoken of him?”

By a supreme effort the unfortunate lady raised herself from her seat supporting herself upon one hand, and faced the squire with wildly staring eyes.

“You have a right to know,” she said.  “He is in Portland—­sentenced to twelve years hard labour for forgery.”

She said it all, to the end, and then fell back into her chair.  But she did not hide her face this time.  The fair pathetic features were quite motionless and white, without any expression, and her hands lay with the palms turned upwards on her knees.