“Good-bye,” she answers, taking it mechanically.
He pauses at the door, and their eyes meet. “It is much better so,” she says, faintly. And he is gone.
Then there is a rushing and singing in her ears. The notes of the organ rise louder and louder, till they swell into a rich anthem—the garish daylight changes to the dim light of a church—she walks up the aisle in a glistening white dress, on which pearldrops shake and tremble. She hears a dim murmur of voices and rustling of garments, and the scent of white flowers is heavy in the air. There rises a clear voice, whose fervour moves her inmost heart, exhorting her to love, honour and obey—and out of the fulness of her soul she promises. Oh! God, oh! God, she meant to keep that promise.
"a white, wild-looking face."
Then comes a confused din of voices and rolling of carriages, but she is only conscious of the strong arm to which she clings, and the clear face that bends so tenderly over hers.
With a little sobbing gasp she opens her eyes. Has she been asleep? No, but the organ has stopped and is rumbling down the street, followed by a crowd of small boys and girls, whose ears are not sensitive to the quality of music.
She rises. Her knees are shaking as she drags herself painfully across the room, catching a glimpse of a white, wild-looking face in the tall pier-glass as she clutches the handle of the door, and then the sight of the empty hat-rack in the hall, the absence of coat and stick, or fragrant whiff of cigar, bring the irrevocableness of the parting home to her more vividly than anything—more than the few words of farewell, the cold handshake, and the slam of the hall door half-an-hour ago. “Was it only half-an-hour?” she murmurs, staring stupidly at the clock; “it seems an eternity! And now he is going farther and farther from me, never to return—never to tease, and praise and love me, for (she sobs) he did love me once, in spite of everything—never to laugh at me and call me ‘little woman’—never to hold my hand or ask my help again! He is thinking of his wasted life and love; yes, he will believe he has wasted it on me. He is thinking of our little child—he did not bid him good-bye—how could he bear to?” Ah! there is still something left for her to love; but what is left for him? And with bitter tears she remembers how quietly he gave the child up to her, and how she accepted the sacrifice as a matter of course, though she knew what it cost him.
"the nursery is empty."