At an earlier period of her married life such a charge would have. held her mute with horror.  Its effect now was not quite the same; she could face the thought, interrogate herself as to its meaning, with a shudder, indeed, but a shudder which came of fear as well as loathing.  Life was no longer an untried country, its difficulties and perils to be met with the sole aid of a few instincts and a few maxims; she had sounded the depths of misery and was invested with the woeful knowledge of what we poor mortals call the facts of existence.  And sitting here, as on the desert bed of a river whose water had of a sudden ceased to flow, she could regard her own relation to truths, however desolating, with the mind which had rather brave all than any longer seek to deceive itself.

Of that which he imputed to her she was incapable; that such suspicion of her could enter his mind branded him with baseness.  But his jealousy was justified; howsoever it had awakened in him, it was sustained by truth.  Was it her duty to tell him that, and so to render it impossible for him to seek to detain her?

But would the confession have any such result?  Did he not already believe her criminal, and yet forbid her to leave him?  On what terms did she stand with a man whose thought was devoid of delicacy, who had again and again proved himself without understanding of the principles of honour?  And could she indeed make an admission which would compel her at the same time to guard against revolting misconceptions?

The question of how he had obtained this knowledge recurred to her.  It was evident that the spy had intentionally calumniated her, professing to have heard her speak incriminating words.  She thought of Rodman.  He had troubled her by his private request that she would appeal to Eldon on Alice’s behalf, a request which was almost an insult.  Could he have been led to make it in consequence of his being aware of that meeting in the wood?  That might well be; she distrusted him and believed him capable even of a dastardly revenge.

What was the troublesome thought that hung darkly in her mind and would not come to consciousness?  She held it at last; Mutimer had said that he met Hubert in the street below.  How to explain that?  Hubert so near to her, perhaps still in the neighbourhood?

Again she shrank with fear.  What might it mean, if he had really come in hope of seeing her?  That was unworthy of him.  Had she betrayed herself in her conversation with him?  Then he was worse than cruel to her.

It seemed to her that hours passed.  From time to time she heard a movement in the next room; Mutimer was still there.  There sounded at the house door a loud postman’s knock, and in a few minutes someone came up the stairs, doubtless to bring a letter.  The bedroom door opened; she heard her husband thank the servant and again shut himself in.

The fire which she had been about to use for cooking was all but dead.  She rose and put fresh coals on.  There was a small oblong mirror over the mantelpiece; it showed her so ghastly a face that she turned quickly away.