"Now, my dear!" Mrs. Crayford began, "what does this mean?"

"Nothing."

"That won't do, Clara. Try again."

"The heat of the room--"

"That won't do, either. Say that you choose to keep your ownsecrets, and I shall understand what you mean."

Clara's sad, clear gray eyes looked up for the first time in Mrs.Crayford's face, and suddenly became dimmed with tears.

"If I only dared tell you!" she murmured. "I hold so to your goodopinion of me, Lucy--and I am so afraid of losing it."

Mrs. Crayford's manner changed. Her eyes rested gravely andanxiously on Clara's face.

"You know as well as I do that nothing can shake my affection foryou," she said. "Do justice, my child, to your old friend. Thereis nobody here to listen to what we say. Open your heart, Clara.I see you are in trouble, and I want to comfort you."

Clara began to yield. In other words, she began to makeconditions.

"Will you promise to keep what I tell you a secret from everyliving creature?" she began.

Mrs. Crayford met that question, by putting a question on herside.

"Does 'every living creature' include my husband?"

"Your husband more than anybody! I love him, I revere him. He isso noble; he is so good! If I told him what I am going to tellyou, he would despise me. Own it plainly, Lucy, if I am askingtoo much in asking you to keep a secret from your husband."

"Nonsense, child! When you are married, you will know that theeasiest of all secrets to keep is a secret from your husband. Igive you my promise. Now begin!"

Clara hesitated painfully.

"I don't know how to begin!" she exclaimed, with a burst ofdespair. "The words won't come to me."

"Then I must help you. Do you feel ill tonight? Do you feel asyou felt that day when you were with my sister and me in thegarden?"

"Oh no."

"You are not ill, you are not really affected by the heat--andyet you turn as pale as ashes, and you are obliged to leave thequadrille! There must be some reason for this."

"There is a reason. Captain Helding--"

"Captain Helding! What in the name of wonder has the captain todo with it?"

"He told you something about the _Atalanta_. He said the_Atalanta_ was expected back from Africa immediately."

"Well, and what of that? Is there anybody in whom you areinterested coming home in the ship?"

"Somebody whom I am afraid of is coming home in the ship."

Mrs. Crayford's magnificent black eyes opened wide in amazement.

"My dear Clara! do you really mean what you say?"

"Wait a little, Lucy, and you shall judge for yourself. We mustgo back--if I am to make you understand me--to the year before weknew each other--to the last year of my father's life. Did I evertell you that my father moved southward, for the sake of hishealth, to a house in Kent that was lent to him by a friend?"

"No, my dear; I don't remember ever hearing of the house in Kent.Tell me about it."

"There is nothing to tell, except this: the new house was near afine country-seat standing in its own park. The owner of theplace was a gentleman named Wardour. He, too, was one of myfather's Kentish friends. He had an only son."

She paused, and played nervously with her fan. Mrs. Crayfordlooked at her attentively. Clara's eyes remained fixed on herfan--Clara said no more. "What was the son's name?" asked Mrs.Crayford, quietly.

"Richard."

"Am I right, Clara, in suspecting that Mr. Richard Wardouradmired you?"

The question produced its intended effect. The question helpedClara to go on.

"I hardly knew at first," she said, "whether he admired me ornot. He was very strange in his ways--headstrong, terriblyheadstrong and passionate; but generous and affectionate in spiteof his faults of temper. Can you understand such a character?"

"Such characters exist by thousands. I have my faults of temper.I begin to like Richard already. Go on."

"The days went by, Lucy, and the weeks went by. We were thrownvery much together. I began, little by little, to have somesuspicion of the truth."

"And Richard helped to confirm your suspicions, of course?

"No. He was not--unhappily for me--he was not that sort of man.He never spoke of the feeling with which he regarded me. It was Iwho saw it. I couldn't help seeing it. I did all I could to showthat I was willing to be a sister to him, and that I could neverbe anything else. He did not understand me, or he would not, Ican't say which."

"'Would not,' is the most likely, my dear. Go on."

"It might have been as you say. There was a strange, roughbashfulness about him. He confused and puzzled me. He never spokeout. He seemed to treat me as if our future lives had beenprovided for while we werechildren. What could I do, Lucy?"

"Do? You could have asked your father to end the difficulty foryou."

"Impossible! You forget what I have just told you. My father wassuffering at that time under the illness which afterward causedhis death. He was quite unfit to interfere."

"Was there no one else who could help you?"

"No one."

"No lady in whom you could confide?"

"I had acquaintances among the ladies in the neighborhood. I hadno friends."

"What did you do, then?"

"Nothing. I hesitated; I put off coming to an explanation withhim, unfortunately, until it was too late."

"What do you mean by too late?"

"You shall hear. I ought to have told you that Richard Wardour isin the navy--"

"Indeed! I am more interested in him than ever. Well?"

"One spring day Richard came to our house to take leave of usbefore he joined his ship. I thought he was gone, and I went intothe next room. It was my own sitting-room, and it opened on tothe garden."--

"Yes?"

"Richard must have been watching me. He suddenly appeared in thegarden. Without waiting for me to invite him, he walked into theroom. I was a little startled as well as surprised, but I managedto hide it. I said, 'What is it, Mr. Wardour?' He stepped closeup to me; he said, in his quick, rough way: 'Clara! I am going tothe African coast. If I live, I shall come back promoted; and weboth know what will happen then.' He kissed me. I was halffrightened, half angry. Before I could compose myself to say aword, he was out in the garden again--he was gone! I ought tohave spoken, I know. It was not honorable, not kind toward him.You can't reproach me for my want of courage and frankness morebitterly than I reproach myself!"

"My dear child, I don't reproach you. I only think you might havewritten to him."

"I did write."

"Plainly?"

"Yes. I told him in so many words that he was deceiving himself,and that I could never marry him."

"Plain enough, in all conscience! Having said that, surely youare not to blame. What are you fretting about now?"

"Suppose my letter has never reached him?"

"Why should you suppose anything of the sort?"

"What I wrote required an answer, Lucy--_asked_ for an answer.The answer has never come. What is the plain conclusion? Myletter has never reached him. And the _Atalanta_ is expectedback! Richard Wardour is returning to England--Richard Wardourwill claim me as his wife! You wondered just now if I reallymeant what I said. Do you doubt it still?"

Mrs. Crayford leaned back absently in her chair. For the firsttime since the conversation had begun, she let a question passwithout making a reply. The truth is, Mrs. Crayford was thinking.

She saw Clara's position plainly; she understood the disturbingeffect of it on the mind of a young girl. Still, making allallowances, she felt quite at a loss, so far, to account forClara's excessive agitation. Her quick observing faculty had justdetected that Clara's face showed no signs of relief, now thatshe had unburdened herself of her secret. There was somethingclearly under the surface here--something of importance thatstill remained to be discovered. A shrewd doubt crossed Mrs.Crayford's mind, and inspired the next words which she addressedto her young friend.

"My dear," she said abruptly, "have you told me all?"

Clara started as if the question terrified her. Feeling sure thatshe now had the clew in her hand, Mrs. Crayford deliberatelyrepeated her question, in another form of words. Instead ofanswering, Clara suddenly looked up. At the same moment a faintflush of color appeared in her face for the first time.

Looking up instinctively on her side, Mrs. Crayford became awareof the presence, in the conservatory, of a young gentleman whowas claiming Clara as his partner in the coming waltz. Mrs.Crayford fell into thinking once more. Had this young gentleman(she asked herself) anything to do with the untold end of thestory? Was this the true secret of Clara Burnham's terror at theimpending return of Richard Wardour? Mrs. Crayford decided onputting her doubts to the test.

"A friend of yours, my dear?" she asked, innocently. "Suppose youintroduce us to each other."

Clara confusedly introduced the young gentleman.

"Mr. Francis Aldersley, Lucy. Mr. Aldersley belongs to the Arcticexpedition."

"Attached to the expedition?" Mrs. Crayford repeated. "I amattached to the expedition too--in my way. I had better introducemyself, Mr. Aldersley, as Clara seems to have forgotten to do itfor me. I am Mrs. Crayford. My husband is Lieutenant Crayford, ofthe _Wanderer_. Do you belong to that ship?"

"I have not the honor, Mrs. Crayford. I belong to the _Sea-mew_."

Mrs. Crayford's superb eyes looked shrewdly backward and forwardbetween Clara and Francis Aldersley, and saw the untold sequel toClara's story. The young officer was a bright, handsome,gentleman-like lad. Just the person to seriously complicate thedifficulty with Richard Wardour! There was no time for making anyfurther inquiries. The band had begun the prelude to the waltz,and Francis Aldersley was waiting for his partner. With a word ofapology to the young man, Mrs. Crayford drew Clara aside for amoment, and spoke to her in a whisper.

"One word, my dear, before you return to the ball-room. It maysound conceited, after the little you have told me; but I think Iunderstand your position _now_, better than you do yourself. Doyou want to hear my opinion?"

"I am longing to hear it, Lucy! I want your opinion; I want youradvice."

"You shall have both in the plainest and fewest words. First, myopinion: You have no choice but to come to an explanation withMr. Wardour as soon as he returns. Second, my advice: If you wishto make the explanation easy to both sides, take care that youmake it in the character of a free woman."

She laid a strong emphasis on the last three words, and lookedpointedly at Francis Aldersley as she pronounced them. "I won'tkeep you from your partner any longer, Clara," she resumed, andled the way back to the ball-room.