The man gazed at her hard. He spoke low and deferentially. "Yes,

Herminia," he replied. "I do mean, will you marry me? I know,

of course, how you feel about this matter; I know what you have

sacrificed, how deeply you have suffered, for the sake of your

principles. And that's just why I plead with you now to ignore

them. You have given proof long ago of your devotion to the right.

You may surely fall back this second time upon the easier way of

ordinary humanity. In theory, Herminia, I accept your point of

view; I approve the equal liberty of men and women, politically,

socially, personally, ethically. But in practice, I don't want to

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bring unnecessary trouble on the head of a woman I love; and to

live together otherwise than as the law directs does bring

unnecessary trouble, as you know too profoundly. That is the only

reason why I ask you to marry me. And Herminia, Herminia," he

leant forward appealingly, "for the love's sake I bear you, I hope

you will consent to it."

His voice was low and tender. Herminia, sick at heart with that

long fierce struggle against overwhelming odds, could almost have

said YES to him. Her own nature prompted her; she was very, very

fond of him. But she paused for a second. Then she answered him

gravely.

"Harvey," she said, looking deep into his honest brown eyes, "as

we grow middle-aged, and find how impossible it must ever be to

achieve any good in a world like this, how sad a fate it is to be

born a civilized being in a barbaric community, I'm afraid moral

impulse half dies down within us. The passionate aim grows cold;

the ardent glow fades and flickers into apathy. I'm ashamed to

tell you the truth, it seems such weakness; yet as you ask me this,

I think I WILL tell you. Once upon a time, if you had made such a

proposal to me, if you had urged me to be false to my dearest

principles, to sin against the light, to deny the truth, I would

have flashed forth a NO upon you without one moment's hesitation.

And now, in my disillusioned middle age what do I feel? Do you

know, I almost feel tempted to give way to this Martinmas summer of

love, to stultify my past by unsaying and undoing everything. For

I love you, Harvey. If I were to give way now, as George Eliot

gave way, as almost every woman who once tried to live a free life

for her sisters' sake, has given way in the end, I should

counteract any little good my example has ever done or may ever do

in the world; and Harvey, strange as it sounds, I feel more than

half inclined to do it. But I WILL not, I WILL not; and I'll tell

you why. It's not so much principle that prevents me now. I admit

that freely. The torpor of middle age is creeping over my

conscience. It's simple regard for personal consistency, and for

Dolly's position. How can I go back upon the faith for which I

have martyred myself? How can I say to Dolly, 'I wouldn't marry

your father in my youth, for honor's sake; but I have consented in

middle life to sell my sisters' cause for a man I love, and for the

consideration of society; to rehabilitate myself too late with a

world I despise by becoming one man's slave, as I swore I never

would be.' No, no, dear Harvey; I can't do that. Some sense of

personal continuity restrains me still. It is the Nemesis of our

youth; we can't go back in our later life on the holier and purer

ideals of our girlhood."




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