‘We need not talk of worthiness or unworthiness to one another,’ answered Hugh. ‘We are man and woman, and I love you. That is quite enough. The matter lies between ourselves alone. No one else will ever hear of it.’
‘Ah Hugh, forgive me, but I don’t love you. Therein lies all the difference. I will not deceive you in the slightest particular. My heart still clings to, and is wrapped up in this—this—man. I cannot forget him. I cannot un-love him. For three long happy years he taught me to regard him as my husband, and the fact that he never married me in church makes no difference to my affection. I am sorry—I grieve deeply night and day that he has left me in so cruel a manner, but still I love him. I am more like a widow than a wicked girl. I suppose it is part of my wickedness—the greatest part perhaps—that I cannot feel how wicked I have been. I only know that my husband has left me for another woman, and that he cannot have realised what my love for him was, or he never would have done it. Is that very wicked?’ said Nell, as she looked up into the young man’s face.
The answer he made her was very different from what she expected of him.
‘No, Nell, it is not wicked. If I had not known that that was the way in which you regarded the past I would not have asked you to be my wife. But the heart that can be so faithful to one man—the man who has betrayed it—will be as faithful to another when once its tears are dried for the first. I, too, look on you as a widow, as something far more to be pitied than a widow. But it is all over now, my poor girl. You know that without my telling you; so, whether you can forget it or not, let me try to make the remainder of your life useful and happy. Will you, Nell?’
‘Oh, Hugh, you are too good. I never knew anyone so good and kind in all my life before. If—if—we went far away from England and all its dreadful associations, where we should hardly ever hear its name again, I think I could be happy, or at least contented with you as my friend. And if, Hugh, it was some little time before I could think of you in any other light than that of a friend you would not be angry, would you? You would be a little patient with me, and remember how much I have suffered—how hardly I have been used—until I feel as if I could never trust to a man’s promises again.’
‘If you will come with me to South Africa and help me in my missionary work, Nell,’ said Hugh, as he took the listless hand hanging down by her side and pressed it softly, ‘I will never ask you for the affection nor the duty of a wife till you can tell me that you are ready and willing to give it me. Will you trust me so far—that if the love I long for should never spring up in your heart for me I will never demand it, nor worry you because it is not there, but still do my utmost to teach you how to lighten your heavy burden by working for God and God’s creatures? Do you believe me? Will you trust me?’
‘Yes, Hugh, yes. I will trust you through everything. And if father and mother should elect to emigrate and leave the dear old farm for good and all, why, I will go with them and you—as your wife.’
And she held out her hand to him as she concluded. Hugh seized it, and carried it to his lips.
‘You have made me so happy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, Nell, whether as friends, or as husband and wife, you are my Nell now for evermore, and I will never let you go again.’