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questioning solicitude。 Her mind not being courted by a great
variety of subjects； she filled the vacant moments by living
inwardly； again and again； through all her remembered
experience； especially through the fifteen years of her married
time； in which her life and its significance had been doubled。 She
recalled the small details； the words； tones； and looks； in the
critical scenes which had opened a new epoch for her by giving
her a deeper insight into the relations and trials of life； or which
had called on her for some little effort of forbearance； or of painful
adherence to an imagined or real duty—asking herself continually
whether she had been in any respect blameable。 This excessive
rumination and self…questioning is perhaps a morbid habit
inevitable to a mind of much moral sensibility when shut out from
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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。
Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel still more
keenly the denial of a blessing to which she had looked forward
with all the varied expectations and preparations； solemn and
prettily trivial； which fill the mind of a loving woman when she
expects to become a mother。 Was there not a drawer filled with
the neat work of her hands； all unworn and untouched； just as she
had arranged it there fourteen years ago—just； but for one little
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dress； which had been made the burial…dress？ But under this
immediate personal trial Nancy was so firmly unmurmuring that
years ago she had suddenly renounced the habit of visiting this
drawer； lest she should in this way be cherishing a longing for
what was not given。
Perhaps it was this very severity towards any indulgence of
what she held to be sinful regret in herself that made her shrink
from applying her own standard to her husband。 “It is very
different—it is much worse for a man to be disappointed in that
way： a woman can always be satisfied with devoting herself to her
husband； but a man wants something that will make him look
forward more—and sitting by the fire is so much duller to him
than to a woman。” And always； when Nancy reached this point in
her meditations—trying with predetermined sympathy to see
everything as Godfrey saw it—there came a renewal of self…
questioning。 Had she done everything in her power to lighten
Godfrey’s privation？ Had she really been right in the resistance
which had cost her so much pain six years ago and again four
years ago—the resistance to her husband’s wish that they should
adopt a child？ Adoption was more remote from the ideas and
habits of that time than of our own； still Nancy had her opinion on
it。 It was as necessary to her mind to have an opinion on all topics；
not exclusively masculine； that had come under her notice； as for
her to have a precisely marked place for every article of her
personal property； and her opinions were always principles to be
unwaveringly acted on。 They were firm； not because of their basis；
but because she held them with a tenacity inseparable from her
mental action。 On all the duties and proprieties of life； from filial
behaviour to the arrangements of the evening toilet； pretty Nancy
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Lammeter； by the time she was three…and…twenty； had her
unalterable little code； and had formed every one of her habits in
strict accordance with that code。 She carried these decided
judgments within her in the most unobtrusive way： they rooted
themselves in her mind； and grew there as quietly as grass。 Years
ago； we know； she insisted on dressing like Priscilla； because “it
was right for sisters to dress alike”； and because “she would do
what was right if she wore a gown dyed with cheese…colouring”。
That was a trivial but typical instance of the mode in which
Nancy’s life was regulated。
It was one of those rigid principles； and no petty egoistic
feeling； which had been the ground of Nancy’s difficult r