I don’t remember what I said next. I think there were a lot of unkind words between us, and some tears. But in the end I agreed. I agreed because Charlotte wanted it, not because of Arthur Nicholls.
In June that year they were married in my church. I did not go-I could not give Charlotte away to that man. But he came back here to be my curate, and he and Charlotte lived in this house with me. He is still here now.
Perhaps he will read this. If he does, he will know that he was right, and I was wrong. Mr. Nicholls was, after all, a good husband for Charlotte. I understood, after a while, that he honestly loved her, and he could make her happy. She began to smile and laugh again. Her eyes shone, she sang sometimes as she worked. Our house became a home again.
She went with him to see his family in Ireland, and travelled to the far west of that country. Mr. Nicholls did most of my church work for me. Charlotte began a new book – Emma, she called it. And one day in December 1854 she came into my room, smiling. I could see that she was excited.
What is it, my dear. Have you finished your book.
No, not yet, papa. But I have something wonderful to tell you. What do you think.
I don’t know, my dear. If it’s not your book, then…
I told Arthur yesterday. Her hand was on the table and I put my hand on it gently. It was wonderful news. I remembered when my own wife, Maria, had told me this, and how this house had been full of the laughter of little voices, and the noise of