‘I fear him as little as I fear you.’
’Well, as I’ve told you, you needn’t
fear me at all. I like you better for this—a
good deal better than I used to. If you want
any help, you know where to turn; I’ll do whatever
I can for you; and I’m in the way of being useful
to my friends. You’re cut up just now;
it’s natural. I won’t bother you any
longer. But just remember what I’ve said.
If I can be of any service, don’t be above making
use of me.’
Nancy heard without heeding; for an anguish of shame
and misery once more fell upon her, and seemed to
lay waste her soul.
There needed not Mary Woodruff’s suggestion
to remind Nancy that no further away than Champion
Hill were people of whom, in extremity, she might
inquire concerning her husband. At present, even
could she have entertained the thought, it seemed
doubtful whether the Vawdrey household knew more of
Tarrant’s position and purposes than she herself;
for, only a month ago, Jessica Morgan had called upon
the girls and had ventured a question about their
cousin, whereupon they answered that he was in America,
but that he had not written for a long time.
To Mrs. Baker, Jessica did not like to speak on the
subject, but probably that lady could have answered
only as the children did.
Once, indeed, a few days after her return, Nancy took
the familiar walk along Champion Hill, and glanced,
in passing, at Mr. Vawdrey’s house; afterwards,
she shunned that region. The memories it revived
were infinitely painful. She saw herself an immature
and foolish girl, behaving in a way which, for all
its affectation of reserve and dignity, no doubt offered
to such a man as Lionel Tarrant a hint that here,
if he chose, he might make a facile conquest.
Had he not acted upon the hint? It wrung her
heart with shame to remember how, in those days, she
followed the lure of a crude imagination. A year
ago? Oh, a lifetime!
Unwilling, now, to justify herself with the plea of
love; doubtful, in very truth, whether her passion
merited that name; she looked back in the stern spirit
of a woman judging another’s frailty. What
treatment could she have anticipated at the hands of
her lover save that she had received? He married
her—it was much; he forsook her —it
was natural. The truth of which she had caught
troublous glimpses in the heyday of her folly now
stood revealed as pitiless condemnation. Tarrant
never respected her, never thought of her as a woman
whom he could seriously woo and wed. She had a
certain power over his emotions, and not the sensual
alone; but his love would not endure the test of absence.
From the other side of the Atlantic he saw her as
he had seen her at first, and shrank from returning
to the bondage which in a weak moment he had accepted.
One night about this time she said to herself:
