Part 11 (2/2)
”Yes, I know; the kind of happiness that comes from the knowledge that one is good,” put in Marion. ”It is a sort of self-satisfied, touch-me-not happiness, with a better-than-you-are smirk about it.”
”Can't one have a clear conscience without being a Pharisee?” asked Florence.
”I don't know,” sighed Marion. ”It is all a question of temptation, I suppose. Some people seem to be good from birth; they are never tempted, and have no charity for those who are.”
”I don't call such people good,” replied Florence; ”a St. Anthony without a temptation would be a sorry picture of virtuous self-control.”
Marion did not reply. For a moment she remained quietly thinking, as though Florence's words had inspired her with an idea; finally she spoke, in slowly chosen words: ”Do you think what the Bible says about a mental sin being as great as the outward act can be true?”
”I think it depends entirely upon circ.u.mstances,” replied Florence.
Marion turned her eyes thoughtfully upon the floor, then, restlessly twisting a cus.h.i.+on ta.s.sel between her fingers, she asked earnestly: ”Do you think a woman who is tempted and resists, yet feels the subtle poison still in her heart, has sinned?”
Florence was silent a moment, as though weighing the question in her mind. ”I would not condemn such a woman,” she finally said; ”I would pity her.”
”What ought she to do?” asked Marion.
”She has kept her self-respect, and I think on that foundation she should build the negative happiness called peace of mind.”
”What if the sting is too fresh, the poison too strong? What if the cup is still before her?”
”Then she should dash it resolutely from her, and trust that time will heal the wound.”
Marion smiled faintly. She was thinking of an express train rus.h.i.+ng toward the East and bearing danger farther and farther away. ”Perhaps destiny is kind sometimes,” she thought. ”Were you ever unhappy, Florence?” she asked after a moment.
”Why, what an absurd question,” her friend replied. ”Is there any one who has not been unhappy at some time?”
”O, of course people have unpleasant moments which they get over,”
Marion answered; ”but what I call unhappiness is to feel that one has made an irreparable mistake in life, and then to be suddenly shown the unattainable possibility.”
”I should think such a person would feel something like a hungry pauper, gazing into a pastry cook's window. The glimpse of possibility must intensify his craving.”
”You are utterly practical and entirely unsympathetic,” said Marion, somewhat ruffled at Florence's levity. ”Sometimes I think you are a most unsatisfactory person.”
”I will not be dismissed as a person,” laughed Florence. ”You may call me anything you like, but don't subject me to the degradation of being styled a person.”
”I think you deserve it for turning my seriousness so inconsiderately into ridicule,” said Marion with an injured air.
”It is just the best thing for you,” Florence replied. ”You worry unnecessarily.”
”You always say that,” sighed Marion, ”but you don't understand.”
”Yes, I do. No one understands you as well as I do.”
”Then why don't you sympathize with me more?”
”You don't need sympathy; that only panders to your discontent. What you need is to be shaken up and made to forget yourself.”
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