“But why should we talk of it, Nancy? It’s plain enough, I suppose, what was in Mr. Farley’s mind; but it’s all over now. It was just a freak—a grim bit of irony; no doubt, if he had lived, he would have changed his mind about it. It would have been just as well if you hadn’t told me; it really wasn’t necessary! I’m sorry you thought it might make any difference.”
“Oh, but I had to tell you; I could never have looked you in the face again if I hadn’t! He was afraid—he had been afraid for more than a year that—that—”
She could not say it; she could not bring herself to the point of putting into words the intent of Timothy Farley’s last will, that was to make it impossible for her to marry this woman’s divorced husband! The shame of it smothered her; she wondered that she had ever had the effrontery to eat Fanny Copeland’s bread and share her fireside. The very calmness with which Fanny had received the news added to her discomfort.
Fanny began moving about the room with her light, graceful step, touching a book, unconsciously straightening the flowers in a vase on the table. Then she walked to the fire, where Nan crouched mutely watching her.
“Nan, dear, do you want to marry Billy?” she asked, bending down and resting her hands lightly on Nan’s shoulders.
No one would have known that this was the first time her former husband had been mentioned between them.
“No, no! That’s what makes this so hard—so unjust!”
“Were you ever—did you ever think you could?” Fanny asked in the same calm tone, in which there was no hint of accusation.
“Yes; there was a time, there were times—”
Fanny was about to resume her idle wandering about the room when Nan clasped her knees.