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
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."