She could hear the laughter--the half amused,
half contemptuous pity for her "rotten bad luck." She would be their
standing jest, till she was forgotten.
What would life leave to her? A lonely lodging and a pot of ink that she
would come to hate the smell of. She could never marry. It would be but
her body that she could give to any other man. Not even for the sake of
her dreams could she bring herself to that. It might have been possible
before, but not now. She could have won the victory over herself, but
for hope, that had kindled the smouldering embers of her passion into
flame. What cunning devil had flung open this door, showing her all her
heart's desire, merely that she should be called upon to slam it to in
her own face?
A fierce anger blazed up in her brain. Why should she listen? Why had
reason been given to us if we were not to use it--weigh good and evil in
the balance and decide for ourselves where lay the nobler gain? Were we
to be led hither and thither like blind children? What was right--what
wrong, but what our own God-given judgment told us? Was it wrong of the
woman to perform this act of self-renunciation, yielding up all things to
love? No, it was great--heroic of her.
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