answering, folded up her work and put on her hat. “Come down to the green walk,” said Nora. “I was savage to you last night, and I want to beg your pardon.”
“You were savage,” said Priscilla, smiling, “and you shall have my pardon. Who would not pardon you any offence, if you asked it?”
“I am so miserable!” she said.
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell. And it is of no use talking about it now, for it is all over. But I ought not to have been cross to you, and I am very sorry.”
“That does not signify a straw; only so far, that when I have been cross, and have begged a person’s pardon,—which I don’t do as often as I ought,—I always feel that it begets kindness. If I could help you in your trouble I would.”
“You can’t fetch him back again.”
“You mean Mr. Glascock. Shall I go and try?”
Nora smiled and shook her head. “I wonder what he would say if you asked him. But if he came I should do the same thing.”
“I do not in the least know what you have done, my dear. I only see that you mope about, and are more down in the mouth than any one ought to be, unless some great trouble has come.”
“A great trouble has come.”
“I suppose you have had your choice,—either to accept your lover or to reject him.”
“No; I have not had my choice.”
“It seems to me that no one has dictated to you; or, at least, that you have obeyed no dictation.”
“Of course, I can’t explain it to you. It is impossible that I should.”
“If you mean that you regret what you have done because you have been false to the man, I can sympathise with you. No one has ever a right to be false, and if you are repenting a falsehood, I will willingly help you to eat your ashes and to wear your sackcloth. But if you are repenting a truth—”
“I am.”
“Then you must eat your ashes by yourself, for me; and I do not think that you will ever be able to digest them.”
“I do not want anybody to help me,” said Nora proudly.
“Nobody can help you, if I understand the matter rightly. You have got to get the better of your own covetousness and evil desires, and you are in the fair way to get the better of them if you have already refused to be this man’s wife because you could not bring yourself to commit the sin of marrying him when you did not love him. I suppose that is about the truth of it; and indeed, indeed, I do sympathise with you. If you have done that, though it is no more than the plainest duty, I will love you for it. One finds so few people that will do any duty that taxes their self-indulgence.”
“But he did not ask me to marry him.”
“Then I do not understand anything about it.”
“He asked me to love him.”
“But he meant you to be his wife?”
“Oh yes;—he meant that of course.”
“And what did you say?” asked Priscilla.
“That I didn’t love him,” replied Nora.
“And that was the truth?”
“Yes;—it was the truth.”
“And what do you regret?—that you didn’t tell him a lie?”
“No;—not that,” said Nora slowly.
“What then? You cannot regret that you have not basely deceived a man who has treated you with a loving generosity?” They walked on silent for a few yards, and then Priscilla repeated her question. “You cannot mean that you are sorry that you did not persuade yourself to do evil?”
“I don’t want to go back to the islands, and to lose myself there, and to be nobody;—that is what I mean. And I might have been so much! Could one step from the very highest rung of the ladder to the very lowest and not feel it?”
“But you have gone up the ladder,—if you only knew it,” said Priscilla. “There was a choice given to you between the foulest mire of the clay of the world, and the sunlight of the very God. You have chosen the sunlight, and you are crying after the clay! I cannot pity you; but I can esteem you, and love you, and believe in you. And I do. You’ll get yourself right at last, and there’s my hand on it, if you’ll take it.” Nora took the hand that was offered to her, held it in her own for some seconds, and then walked back to the house and up to her own room in silence.
The post used to come into Nuncombe Putney at about eight in the morning, carried thither by a wooden-legged man who rode a donkey. There is a general understanding that the wooden-legged men in country parishes should be employed as postmen, owing to the great steadiness of demeanour which a wooden leg is generally found to produce. It may be that such men are slower in their operations than would be biped postmen; but as all private employers of labour demand labourers with two legs, it is well that the lame and halt should find a refuge in the less exacting service of the government. The one-legged man who rode his donkey into Nuncombe Putney would reach his post-office not above half an hour after his proper time; but he was very slow in stumping round the village, and seldom reached the Clock House much before ten. On a certain morning two or three days after the conversation just recorded it was past ten when he brought two letters to the door, one for Mrs. Trevelyan, and one for Mrs. Stanbury. The ladies had finished their breakfast, and were seated together at an open window. As was usual, the letters were given into Priscilla’s hands, and the newspaper which accompanied them into those of Mrs. Trevelyan, its undoubted owner. When her letter was handed to her, she looked at the address closely and then walked away with it into her own room.
“I think it’s from Louis,” said Nora, as soon as the door was closed. “If so, he is telling her to come back.”
“Mamma, this is for you,” said Priscilla. “It is from Aunt Stanbury. I know her handwriting.”
“From your aunt? What can she be writing about? There is something wrong with Dorothy.” Mrs. Stanbury held the letter but did not open it. “You had better read it, my dear. If she is ill, pray let her come home.”
But the letter spoke of nothing amiss as regarded Dorothy, and did not indeed even mention Dorothy’s name. Luckily Priscilla read the letter in silence, for it was an angry letter. “What is it, Priscilla? Why don’t you tell me? Is anything wrong?” said Mrs. Stanbury.
“Nothing is wrong, mamma,—except that my aunt is a silly woman.”
“Goodness me! what is it?”
“It is a family matter,” said Nora smiling, “and I will go.”
“What can it be?” demanded Mrs. Stanbury again as soon as Nora had left the room.
“You shall hear what it can be. I will read it you,” said Priscilla.
