About the girls it did not so much matter.
They would know other homes and other circumstances.
Besides, it was the usual thing.
But the boys must be given the opportunity of choosing—and they must have first of all the Anglican teaching.
He was perfectly unshakable about this.
Leonora was in an agony during all this time.
You will have to remember she seriously believed that children who might be born to her went in danger, if not absolutely of damnation, at any rate of receiving false doctrine.
It was an agony more terrible than she could describe.
She didn't indeed attempt to describe it, but I could tell from her voice when she said, almost negligently,
"I used to lie awake whole nights.
It was no good my spiritual advisers trying to console me."
I knew from her voice how terrible and how long those nights must have seemed and of how little avail were the consolations of her spiritual advisers.
Her spiritual advisers seemed to have taken the matter a little more calmly.
They certainly told her that she must not consider herself in any way to have sinned.
Nay, they seem even to have extorted, to have threatened her, with a view to getting her out of what they considered to be a morbid frame of mind.
She would just have to make the best of things, to influence the children when they came, not by propaganda, but by personality.
And they warned her that she would be committing a sin if she continued to think that she had sinned.
Nevertheless, she continued to think that she had sinned.
Leonora could not be aware that the man whom she loved passionately and whom, nevertheless, she was beginning to try to rule with a rod of iron—that this man was becoming more and more estranged from her.
He seemed to regard her as being not only physically and mentally cold, but even as being actually wicked and mean.
There were times when he would almost shudder if she spoke to him.
And she could not understand how he could consider her wicked or mean.
It only seemed to her a sort of madness in him that he should try to take upon his own shoulders the burden of his troop, of his regiment, of his estate and of half of his country.
She could not see that in trying to curb what she regarded as megalomania she was doing anything wicked.
She was just trying to keep things together for the sake of the children who did not come.
And, little by little, the whole of their intercourse became simply one of agonized discussion as to whether Edward should subscribe to this or that institution or should try to reclaim this or that drunkard.
She simply could not see it.
Into this really terrible position of strain, from which there appeared to be no issue, the Kilsyte case came almost as a relief.
It is part of the peculiar irony of things that Edward would certainly never have kissed that nurse-maid if he had not been trying to please Leonora.
Nurse-maids do not travel first-class, and, that day, Edward travelled in a third-class carriage in order to prove to Leonora that he was capable of economies.
I have said that the Kilsyte case came almost as a relief to the strained situation that then existed between them.
It gave Leonora an opportunity of backing him up in a whole-hearted and absolutely loyal manner.
It gave her the opportunity of behaving to him as he considered a wife should behave to her husband.
You see, Edward found himself in a railway carriage with a quite pretty girl of about nineteen.
And the quite pretty girl of about nineteen, with dark hair and red cheeks and blue eyes, was quietly weeping.
Edward had been sitting in his corner thinking about nothing at all.
He had chanced to look at the nurse-maid; two large, pretty tears came out of her eyes and dropped into her lap.
He immediately felt that he had got to do something to comfort her.
That was his job in life.
He was desperately unhappy himself and it seemed to him the most natural thing in the world that they should pool their sorrows.
He was quite democratic; the idea of the difference in their station never seems to have occurred to him.
He began to talk to her.
He discovered that her young man had been seen walking out with Annie of Number 54.
He moved over to her side of the carriage.
He told her that the report probably wasn't true; that, after all, a young man might take a walk with Annie from Number 54 without its denoting anything very serious.
And he assured me that he felt at least quite half-fatherly when he put his arm around her waist and kissed her.
The girl, however, had not forgotten the difference of her station.
All her life, by her mother, by other girls, by schoolteachers, by the whole tradition of her class she had been warned against gentlemen.
She was being kissed by a gentleman.
She screamed, tore herself away; sprang up and pulled a communication cord.