I
was on the point of answering 'yes' to the lawyer's question, when some
motive prompted me to say 'no,' and to make false oath. I wish I were
dead. I have wronged him cruelly, and you are to blame."
The last sentence was purely feminine logic, which is always interesting
but usually inaccurate.
She began to weep, and I took her hand to soothe her, as I asked gently:
"Tell me, Frances. Tell me all your trouble. Speak it out. Let me be your
other self. Perhaps I can help you."
After a long pause she began her pathetic story: "I cannot blind myself
to the truth. It is because I cannot stop thinking of him. The creatures
that infest this court are but foils to show me that he is a man, even
though he be a bad one, while they are mere imitations. I have often
heard you say bitingly that women do not hate wickedness in men as they
should--"
"I fear it is true," I interrupted dolefully.
"I suppose it is," she continued. "And one might go further and say that
no woman ever loved a man only because he was good. Too often goodness is
but the lack of courage to do wrong or the absence of temptation. If a
man has no qualities save goodness to recommend him, I fear he might go
his whole life through not knowing a woman's real love. We are apt to
turn from the nauseating innocuousness of the truly good and to thank God
for a modicum of interesting sin."
"I'm sorry to hear this philosophy from you, cousin, for it smacks of
bitterness, and I regret to learn that you have not thrown off your love
for Hamilton, though I have long suspected the truth.
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