Lilian made no answer, but moved away.  They passed into the road, tinned towards the cottage.  On reaching the gate, Lilian saw Mrs. Wade standing just before her.

“I must speak to you” she said, holding out her hands impulsively.

Mrs. Wade looked from her to the man in the background, who again had awkwardly raised his hat—­a cheap but new cylinder, which, together with his slop-made coat and trousers, classed him among uncertain specimens of humanity.

“Will you let him come in?” Lilian whispered, a sob at length breaking her voice.

The widow was perfectly self-possessed.  Her eyes gleamed very brightly and glanced hither and thither with the keenest scrutiny.  She held Lilian’s hand, answering in a low voice: 

“Trust me, dear!  I’m so glad you have come.  What is his name?”

“Mr. Northway.”

Mrs. Wade addressed him, and invited him to enter; but Northway, having ascertained that there was no escape from the cottage which he could not watch, drew back.

“Thank you,” he said; “I had rather wait out here.  If that lady wants me, I shall be within reach.”

Mrs. Wade nodded, and drew her friend in.  Lilian of a sudden lost her physical strength; she had to be supported, almost carried, into the sitting-room.  The words of kindness with which Mrs. Wade sought to recover her had a natural enough effect; they invited an hysterical outbreak, and for several minutes the sufferer wailed helplessly.  In the meantime she was disembarrassed of her out-door clothing.  A stimulant at length so far restored her that she could speak connectedly.

“I don’t know what you will think of me.—­I am obliged to tell you something I hoped never to speak of.  Denzil ought to know first what has happened; but I can’t go to him.—­I must tell you, and trust your friendship.  Perhaps you can help me; you will—­I know you will if you can.”

“Anything in my power,” replied the listener, soothingly.  “Whatever you tell me is perfectly safe.  I think you know me well enough, Lily.”

Then Lilian began, and told her story from first to last.

CHAPTER XXI

Told it rapidly, now and then confusedly, but with omission of nothing essential.  So often she had reviewed her life, at successive stages of culture and self-knowledge.  Every step had been debated in heart and conscience.  She had so much to say, yet might not linger in the narration, and feared to seem eager ill the excuse of what she had done.  To speak of these things to one of her own sex was in itself a great relief, yet from time to time the recollection that she was betraying Denzil’s Secret struck her with cold terror.  Was not this necessity a result of her weakness?  A stronger woman would perhaps have faced the situation in some other way.