I may have spoken a little more harshly than
necessary, for my words broke down completely the wall of dogged silence
she had built around herself. 'Oh, sir,' she cried, weeping like the child
she is, 'what can I do? Can I dare to take little children by the hand,
stained as I am? Can I go as an impostor where, if people knew, they would
snatch their loved ones from me? Oh, it would be too wretched!' I tried
to remonstrate with her, told her that the lily in the dust is no less a
lily than is her spotless sister held high above contamination. She looked
at me miserably from her tear-stained face, and then said, 'Men may think
so, but women don't; a stain with them is ignoble whether made by one's
self or another. No woman knowing my story would think me free from
dishonor, and hold out her clean hands to me.' 'Plenty,' I contradicted.
'Maybe,' she said humbly; 'but what would it mean? The hand would be held
out at arm's length by women safe in their position, who would not fail to
show me how debased they think me. I am young yet; can you show me a girl,
like myself in years, but white as snow, kept safe from contamination, as
you say, who, knowing my story, would hold out her hand to me and not feel
herself besmirched by the contact? Do not say you can, for I know you
cannot.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100