|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 60
But she could. Yes, she could do it if she would. Deep down in her mind
that little thought arose. She could if she wanted to. Hide it though
she might, cover it and bury it with what false reasoning she could
invent, the little thought would not be smothered, would not be crushed
out. Well, then, she would not. Was it not her chance; was not this
deception which others and not herself had created, her opportunity to
recover herself, to live down what had been done--what she had been
forced to do, rather? Absolute right was never to be attained; was not
life to be considered rather in the light of a compromise between good
and evil? To do what one could under the circumstances, was not that the
golden mean?
But she ought. And, quick, another little thought sprang up in the
deeper recesses of her mind and took its place beside the other. It was
right that she should be true. She ought to do the right. Argument, the
pleas of weakness, the demands of expediency, the plausibility of
compromise were all of no avail. The idea "I ought" persisted and
persisted and persisted. She could and she ought. There was no excuse
for her, and no sooner had she thrust aside the shifty mass of
sophistries under which she had striven to conceal them, no sooner had
she let in the light, than these two conceptions of Duty and Will began
suddenly to grow.
But what was she to gain? What would be the result of such a course as
her conscience demanded she should adopt? It was inevitable that she
would be misunderstood, cruelly misjudged. What action would her
confession entail? She could not say. But results did not matter; what
she was to gain or lose did not matter. Around her and before her all
was dark and vague and terrible. If she was to escape there was but one
thing to do. Suddenly her own words came back to her:
"All we can do is to hold to what we know is right, and trust that
everything will come well in the end."
She knew what was right, and she had the strength to hold to it. Then
all at once there came to Lloyd a grand, breathless sense of uplifting,
almost a transfiguration. She felt herself carried high above the sphere
of little things, the region of petty considerations What did she care
for consequences, what mattered to her the unjust condemnation of her
world, if only she remained true to herself, if only she did right? What
did she care for what she gained? It was no longer a question of gain or
loss--it was a question of being true and strong and brave. The conflict
of that day at Medford between the man's power and the woman's
resistance had been cruel, the crisis had been intense, and though she
had been conquered then, had it, after all, been beyond recall? No, she
was not conquered. No, she was not subdued. Her will had not been
broken, her courage had not been daunted, her strength had not been
weakened. Here was the greater fight, here was the higher test. Here was
the ultimate, supreme crisis of all, and here, at last, come what might,
she would not, would not, would not fail.
As soon as Lloyd reached this conclusion she sat about carrying her
resolution into effect.
"If I don't do it now while I'm strong," she told herself, "if I wait, I
never will do it."
Perhaps there was yet a touch of the hysterical in her actions even
then. The jangled feminine nerves were yet vibrating far above their
normal pitch; she was overwrought and oversensitive, for just as a
fanatic rushes eagerly upon the fire and the steel, preferring the more
exquisite torture, so Lloyd sought out the more painful situation, the
more trying ordeal, the line of action that called for the greatest
fortitude, the most unflinching courage.
She chose to make known her real position, to correct the false
impression at a time when all the nurses of the house should be
together. This would be at supper-time. Since her return from Medford,
Lloyd had shut herself away from the other inmates of the house, and had
taken her meals in her room. With the exception of Miss Douglass and the
superintendent nurse no one had seen her. She had passed her time lying
at full length upon her couch, her hands clasped behind her head, or
pacing the floor, or gazing listlessly out of her windows, while her
thoughts raced at a gallop through her mind.
Now, however, she bestirred herself. She had arrived at her final
decision early in the afternoon of the third day after her return, and
at once she resolved that she would endure the ordeal that very evening.
She passed the intervening time, singularly enough, in very carefully
setting her room to rights, adjusting and readjusting the few ornaments
on the mantel-shelf and walls, winding the clock that struck ship's
bells instead of the hours, and minutely sorting the letters and papers
in her desk. It was the same as if she were going upon a long journey or
were preparing for a great sickness. Toward four o'clock Miss Douglass,
looking in to ask how she did, found her before her mirror carefully
combing and arranging her great bands and braids of dark-red hair. The
fever nurse declared that she was immensely improved in appearance, and
asked at once if she was not feeling better.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|