CHAPTER 6

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.