‘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.
‘I had better tell you that Mary has known my mother’s story for a long time—but not that she still lived. My father told her just before his death, and exacted her promise that, if it seemed well, she would repeat everything to me. You shall know more about it, though it is bad all through. My dear father had reason bitterly to regret his marriage long before she openly broke it.
‘But come and see me, and tell me what is to be done now that we are free to look round. There is no shame in taking what poor Horace has given us. You see that there will be at least three thousand pounds for our share, apart from the income we shall have from the business.’
He was sure to come on the evening of the morrow. Nancy went out before breakfast to post her letter; light-hearted in the assurance that her husband’s days of struggle were over, that her child’s future no longer depended upon the bare hope that its father would live and thrive by a profession so precarious as that of literature, she gave little thought to the details of the new phase of life before her. Whatever Tarrant proposed would be good in her sight. Probably he would wish to live in the country; he might discover the picturesque old house of which he had so often spoken. In any case, they would now live together. He had submitted her to a probation, and his last letter declared that he was satisfied with the result.
Midway in the morning, whilst she was playing with her little boy,—rain kept them in the house,—a knock at the front door announced some unfamiliar visit. Mary came to the parlour, with a face of surprise.
‘Who is it?’
‘Miss. Morgan.’
‘What? Jessica?’
Mary handed an envelope, addressed to ‘Mrs. Tarrant.’ It contained a sheet of paper, on which was written in pencil: ‘I beg you to see me, if only for a minute.’