‘I forgive you that, because I have treated you ill. You don’t mean it either. You know I am incapable of such a thought. But that shall very soon be put right. Your marriage shall be made known at once.’
‘Known to whom?’
‘To the people concerned—to your guardians.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ she answered, with a smile. ‘They know it already.’
Tarrant half closed his eyes as he looked at her.
‘What’s the use of such a silly falsehood?’
‘I told you I had gone through a good deal more than you imagined. I have struggled to keep my money, in spite of shames and miseries, and I will have it for myself—and my child! If you want to know the truth, go to Samuel Barmby, and ask him what he has had to do with me. I owe no explanation to you.’
Tarrant could see her face only in profile. Marvelling at the complications she gradually revealed, he felt his blood grow warm with desire of her beauty. She was his wife, yet guarded as by maidenhood. A familiar touch would bring the colour to her cheeks, the light of resentment to her eyes. Passion made him glad of the estrangement which compelled a new wooing, and promised, on her part, a new surrender.
‘You don’t owe it me, Nancy; but if I beg you to tell me all—because I have come to my senses again—because I know how foolish and cruel I have been—’
‘Remember what we agreed. Go your way, and let me go mine.’