'
Nancy's utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the husband and wife
met with awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended affection.
'Nancy,' said Godfrey, slowly, 'when I married you, I hid something
from you- something I ought to have told you. That woman Marner
found dead in the snow- Eppie's mother- that wretched woman- was my
wife: Eppie is my child.'
He paused, dreading the effect of his confession. But Nancy sat
quite still, only that her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his. She
was pale and quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands on her
lap.
'You'll never think the same of me again,' said Godfrey, after a
little while, with some tremor in his voice.
She was silent.
'I oughtn't to have left the child unowned: I oughtn't to have kept
it from you. But I couldn't bear to give you up, Nancy. I was led away
into marrying her- I suffered for it.'
Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost expected that
she would presently get up and say she would go to her father's. How
could she have any mercy for faults that must seem so black to her,
with her simple, severe notions?
But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke. There
was no indignation in her voice- only deep regret.
'Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, we could
have done some of our duty by the child. Do you think I'd have refused
to take her in, if I'd known she was yours?'
At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an error that was
not simply futile, but had defeated its own end.
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