When he had a little recovered, he went out into the street and to Piccadilly that he might judge by the light in her window whether she had returned and was still suffering or could sleep. Up and down in the cold rain he walked, his eyes fixed on that square of light, and at last was rewarded more than once by seeing her figure flit across it with long dishevelled hair, and Mrs. Cadogan evidently in attendance. That was the best he could hope, and then he went back and crept into his small bedroom and never closed his eyes any more than did his wife; and so those two miserable hearts were side by side, united yet apart in a very different suffering, for the few last nights left them.
They were not to be many. In his tactlessness and cruel persistence, hardened by the slights shown almost everywhere to Emma, he scarcely opened his mouth at home but to praise her. He had a faint hope of convincing Fanny that all was innocent between them, and that therefore the subject was not one he need avoid, but still greater was the desire to insist on the virtues and greatness of soul which all the world must realize. His brother Maurice came up to London and, shocked at the state of affairs and the talk which greeted him on every side, implored Nelson to be reconciled with his wife, even if it were only for the sake of Lady Hamilton’s reputation, which he himself privately considered past praying for. Nelson’s answer was an ultimatum.
“I am willing to live on friendly terms with Fanny but will never desert a woman to whom I owe so much and insult her by what my desertion would imply. Fanny must accept her as an honoured friend.”
And Fanny could only reply that there might be some hope if she could be allowed to ignore the woman. That surely was not too much to ask. It was much too much, as it proved. There was a deadlock.
It added to her agony that Nelson’s sisters, Mrs. Bolton and Mrs. Matcham, had struck up the most cordial friendship with the woman whose hand, as they well perceived, could dispense all the favours they could hope from their famous brother, and the elder brother William, the needy clergyman, was not long in imitating them. His letters to Emma, sickening with adulation, often contained such gentle reminders as the following:
“I am told there are two or three very old lives, prebends of Canterbury, in the Minister’s gift, near £600 a year, and good houses.” And then she would set Nelson, much against his taste, to beg the authorities for favours which he hated to ask.
She was flattered in the extreme by this family recognition and too free and easy to care to trace its wellspring very closely—all was confidence and sympathy on that side.
The situation was impossible and the end came quickly. They were breakfasting in Arlington Street, a friend, Nelson’s solicitor Hazlewood, with them, and Nelson, as usual, was showing forth the praises of “dear Lady Hamilton.” The breaking-point of Fanny’s long suffering was reached, as often happens, by a thing she had silently borne hundreds of times before. She rose at last and said passionately:
“I am sick, sick, of hearing of dear Lady Hamilton. Indeed you must choose between us. I can endure no more.”
Nelson was shocked from the family vehemence into calm, for there was finality in her face.