I
would be like the poor, weak women they shut up in the Inquisition
and who suffered on to the end only through remorseless compulsion,
because the walls were too thick for escape, and the tormentor's
hands and the rack were irresistible. My soul would succumb as well
as my body. This would seem wild, wicked talk to Mr. Eltinge; it
would seem weak and irrational to any man. But I'm only Ida Mayhew,
and such is my nature. I've been made all the more incapable of
patient self-sacrifice by self-indulgence from my childhood up.
Oh, will it be very, very wrong to win him if I can?" and the
passionate tears and sobs that followed these words would seem to
indicate that she understood her nature only too well.
At last she concluded, in weariness and exhaustion, "I'm too weak
and distracted to think any more. I hardly know whether it's right
or wrong. I hope it isn't very wrong. I won't decide now. Let
matters take their own course as they have done and I may see
clearer by and by."
But deep in her heart she felt that this was about the same as
yielding to the temptation.
She bathed her eyes, tried to think how she could spend the
intervening hours before they would meet again.
Pages:
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608