“Well, Mrs. Grey, and what have you to say for yourself?”

Christian looked up instinctively—­lifted her passive hands, and folded them on her lap, but answered nothing.

“You must see,” continued Miss Gascoigne, “what an exceedingly unpleasant story it is, and how necessary it was for me to speak about it.  Such a matter easily might become the whole town’s talk.  An acquaintance before your marriage, which you kept so scrupulously concealed that your nearest connections—­I myself even—­had not the slightest idea of it.  You must perceive, Mrs. Grey, what conclusions people will draw—­indeed, can not help drawing.  Not that I believe—­I assure you I don’t—­one word against you.  Only confide in me, and I will make the matter clear to all Avonsbridge.  You hear me?”

“Yes”

“And now, my dear”—­the energy of her protection making Aunt Henrietta actually affectionate—­“do speak out.  Tell me all you have to say for yourself.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?  What do you mean?”

It may seem an odd thing to assert, and a more difficult thing still to prove, but Miss Gascoigne was not at heart a bad woman.  She had a fierce temper and an enormous egotism, yet these two qualities, in the strangely composite characters that one meets with in life, are not incompatible with many good qualities.

Pain, most sincere and undisguised, not unmingled with actual pity, was visible in Miss Gascoigne’s countenance as she looked on the young creature before her, to whom her words had caused such violent emotion.  For this emotion her narrow nature—­always so ready to look on human nature in its worst side, and to suspect wherever suspicion could alight—­found but one interpretation—­guilt.

She drew back, terrified at what her interference had done.  What if the story should prove to be, not mere idle gossip, but actual scandal—­the sort of scandal which would cast a slur forever on the whole Grey family, herself included?

There, above all, the fear struck home.  Suppose she had meddled in a matter which no lady could touch without indecorum, perhaps actual defilement?  Suppose, in answer to her entreaty, Christian should confide to her something which no lady ought to hear?  What a fearful position for her—­Miss Gascoigne—­to be placed in!  What should she say to Dr. Grey?

Hard as her heart might be, this thought touched the one soft place in it.  Her voice actually trembled as she said,

“Your poor husband! what would become of him?”

Christian sprang up with a shrill cry.  “Yes, yes I know what I will do, I will go and tell my husband.”  Miss Gascoigne thought she was mad.  And, indeed, there was something almost frenzied in the way her victim rushed from the room, like a creature driven desperate by misery.

Aunt Henrietta did not know how to act.  To follow Christian was quite beneath her dignity; to go home, with her mission unfulfilled, her duty undone, that too was impossible.  She determined to wait a few minutes, and let things take their chance.