“That’s what I want to tell you; I want to tell you everything from the very beginning. Please let me! I ought to have told you before I came here; but I was so eager to come I didn’t think of it; it didn’t occur to me at all! You see, if I don’t,—if you won’t listen,—I must go away; I can’t spend another night here. You must see that!”
“It is like you—it is generous and kind, Nancy, to want to tell me. But you don’t need to; it’s all right; it’s not a thing that I should ever have asked; you know that.”
She drew up a chair and clasped Nan’s hands.
Nan told the story; told it in all its details, from the beginning of her acquaintance with Copeland. She took pains to fix dates, showing that she and Copeland were launched upon a lively flirtation and were meeting, usually at the Kinneys’, before there had been any hint of a possible divorce. It had been her fault, her most grievous sin, that she encouraged Billy’s attentions. They had tickled her vanity. She had admired “Billy”; he had been a new type of man to her. She described her deception of Farley as to their clandestine meetings; told of his wrath when he learned of her disobedience; and, coming to the frustrated elopement, she made it clear that it was through no fault of hers that she had not run away with Copeland and married him.
“But it’s all over; even if it hadn’t been for this—this idea of papa’s to put you between us—I should never marry Billy. No, no!” she moaned. “I had decided that before papa died. You know, don’t you,” she pleaded, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, “that I wouldn’t have come here, I couldn’t have pretended to be your friend, if I’d ever meant to do that!”
“You poor Nancy; you poor, dear, little girl!” Fanny murmured.
There was a far-away look in her eyes as she slowly stroked the girl’s hair, but a smile played about her lips. She did not speak again until Nan’s grief had spent itself. Then she bent to the tear-wet face and pressed her cheek against it, whispering,—
“You poor little dear; you dear little Nancy!”
“You will let me stay—you will let me stay, after all that?” faltered Nan.
“It was fine of you to tell me; you don’t know how grateful I am—and glad. Of course, you will stay; it would break my heart to lose you now!”