Horace’s letter Nancy sent by post to her husband,
requesting him to let her know his thoughts about
it in writing before they again met. Of her own
feeling she gave no sign. ’I want you to
speak of it just as if it concerned a stranger, plainly
and simply. All I need say is, that I never even
suspected the truth.’
Tarrant did not keep her long in suspense, and his
answer complied in reasonable measure with the desire
she had expressed.
’The disclosure has, of course, pained you.
Equally, of course, you wish it were not necessary
to let me know of it; you are in doubt as to how it
will affect me; you perhaps fear that I shall—never
mind about phrasing. First, then, a word on that
point. Be assured once for all that nothing external
to yourself can ever touch the feeling which I now
have for you. “One word is too often profaned”;
I will say simply that I hold you in higher regard
that any other human being.
’Try not to grieve, my dearest. It is an
old story, in both senses. You wish to know how
I view the matter. Well, if a wife cannot love
her husband, it is better she should not pretend to
do so; if she love some one else, her marriage is
at an end, and she must go. Simple enough—provided
there be no children. Whether it is ever permissible
for a mother to desert her children, I don’t
know. I will only say that, in you yourself,
I can find nothing more admirable than the perfect
love which you devote to your child. Forsake
it, you could not.
’In short, act as feeling dictates. Your
mother lives; that fact cannot be ignored. In
your attitude towards her, do not consult me at all;
whatever your heart approves, I shall find good and
right. Only, don’t imagine that your feeling
of to-day is final—I would say, make no
resolve; they are worth little, in any concern of life.
’Write to me again, and say when you wish to
see me.
After reading this, Nancy moved about with the radiance
of a great joy on her countenance. She made no
haste to reply; she let a day elapse; then, in the
silence of a late hour, took pen and paper.
’When do I wish to see you? Always; in
every moment of my day. And yet I have so far
conquered “the unreasonable female”—do
you remember saying that?—that I would
rather never see you again than bring you to my side
except when it was your pleasure to be with me.
Come as soon as you can—as soon as you will.
’My mother—how shall I word it?
She is nothing to me. I don’t feel that
Nature bids me love her. I could pardon her for
leaving my father; like you, I see nothing terrible
in that; but, like you, I know that she did
wrong in abandoning her little children, and her kindness
to Horace at the end cannot atone for it. I don’t
think she has any love for me. We shall
not see each other; at all events, that is how I feel
about it at present. But I am very glad that
Horace made provision for her—that of course
was right; if he had not done it, it would have been
my duty.
