Charles James Juxon was a man of few words, not given to using strong language on any occasion.  But he was completely overcome by the horror of the thing.  He turned icy cold as he stood still, rooted to the spot, and he uttered aloud one strong and solemn ejaculation, more an invocation than an oath, as though he called on heaven to witness the misery he looked upon.  He gazed at the colourless, inanimate face of the poor lady and walked slowly to the window.  There he stood for fully five minutes, motionless, staring out at the driving sleet.

Mrs. Goddard had fainted away, but it did not occur to the squire to attempt to recall her to her senses.  It seemed merciful that she should have lost consciousness even for a moment.  Indeed she needed no help, for in a few minutes she slowly opened her eyes and closed them, then opened them again and saw Mr. Juxon’s figure darkening the window against the grey light.

“Mr. Juxon,” she said faintly, “come here, please.”

The squire started and turned.  Then he came and sat down beside her.  His face was very stern and grave, and he said nothing.

“Mr. Juxon,” said Mrs. Goddard, speaking in a low voice, but with far more calm than he could have expected, “you have a right to know my story.  You have been very kind to me, you have made an honourable offer to me, you have said you were my friend.  I ought to have told you before.  If I had had any idea of what was passing in your mind, I would have told you, cost what it might.”

Mr. Juxon gravely bowed his head.  She was quite right, he thought.  He had a right to know all.  With all his kind-heartedness he was a stern man by nature.

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Goddard, “you have every right to know.  My husband,” her voice trembled, “was the head of an important firm in London.  I was the only child of his partner.  Not long after my father’s death I married Mr. Goddard.  He was an extravagant man of brilliant tastes.  I had a small fortune of my own which my father had settled upon me, independent of his share in the firm.  My guardians, of whom my husband was one, advised me to leave my father’s fortune in the concern.  When I came of age, a year after my marriage, I agreed to do it.  My husband—­I never knew it till long afterwards—­was very rash.  He speculated on the Exchange and tampered with the deposits placed in his hands.  We lived in great luxury.  I knew nothing of his affairs.  Three years ago, after we had been married nearly ten years, the firm failed.  It was a fraudulent bankruptcy.  My husband fled but was captured and brought back.  It appeared that at the last moment, in the hope of retrieving his position and saving the firm, he had forged the name of one of his own clients for a large amount.  We had a country place at Putney which he had given to me.  I sold it, with all my jewels and most of my possessions.  I would have given up everything I possessed, but I thought of Nellie—­poor little Nellie.