This excessive
rumination and self-questioning is perhaps a morbid habit inevitable
to a mind of much moral sensibility when shut out from its due share
of outward activity and of practical claims on its affections-
inevitable to a noble-hearted, childless woman, when her lot is
narrow. 'I can do so little- have I done it all well?' is the
perpetually recurring thought; and there are no voices calling her
away from that soliloquy, no peremptory demands to divert energy
from vain regret or superfluous scruple.
There was one main thread of painful experience in Nancy's
married life, and on it hung certain deeply-felt scenes, which were
the oftenest revived in retrospect. The short dialogue with
Priscilla in the garden had determined the current of retrospect in
that frequent direction this particular Sunday afternoon. The first
wandering of her thought from the text, which she still attempted
dutifully to follow with her eyes and silent lips, was into an
imaginary enlargement of the defence she had set up for her husband
against Priscilla's implied blame. The vindication of the loved object
is the best balm affection can find for its wounds: 'A man must have
so much on his mind,' is the belief by which a wife often supports a
cheerful face under rough answers and unfeeling words. And Nancy's
deepest wounds had all come from the perception that the absence of
children from their hearth was dwelt on in her husband's mind as a
privation to which he could not reconcile himself.
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