Part 46 (1/2)

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

A PROCESS OF HONESTY

The very best of us have a strain of selfishness. The most understanding of us are unable to a nicety to grasp the other person's point of view; and there will always be some little thing, some subtle matter, which it is not in the nature of us to perceive in the nature of someone else.

Perhaps this is the surest proof of the existence of the soul.

When, on the steps of the hotel, John bid good-night to Jill, there was but one regret in the minds of both of them, that that blessing which they had received at the hands of the old gentleman had come too soon; that in the receipt of it, they had been impostors, unworthy of so close a touch with the Infinite.

There is nothing quite so distressing to the honest mind as this and, to avoid it, to mitigate the offence, it is quite a simple process for the honest mind to project itself into some further evil of selfishness, so long as it may gain peace and a free conscience.

”There is only one thing that we can do,” said John, and, if good intentions weigh, however lightly, in the sensitive scales of justice, let one be here placed in the balance for him.

”I know what you are going to say,” replied Jill.

Of course she knew. They had begun to think alike already.

”We must tell her.”

She nodded her head.

”We can't deceive her,” he went on--”It's bad enough to have deceived him. And now--well, it's such a different matter now. She must understand. Don't you think she will?”

With a gentle pressure of his hand, she agreed.

They both pictured her glad of the knowledge, because in the hearts of them both, they were so glad to be able to tell. For this is how the honest deceive themselves, by super-imposing upon another, that state of mind which is their own. With all belief, they thought the little old white-haired lady must be glad when she heard; with all innocence and ignorance of human nature, they conceived of her grat.i.tude that such an ending had been brought about.

”When shall we tell her?” asked Jill.

”Oh--not at once. In a day or so. The day you go, perhaps.”

”And you think she'll forgive me?”

He smiled at her tenderly for her question.

”Do you think you know anything about the little old white-haired lady when you ask that? I'll just give you an example. She abominates drunkenness--loathes it--in theory has no pity for it, finds no excuse.

Well, they had a gardener once, when they were better off. There's not a school for the trade in Venice, as you can imagine. t.i.to knew absolutely nothing. He was worthless. He was as likely as not to pull up the best plant in the garden and think it was a weed. But there he was. Well, one day Claudina reported he was drunk. Drunk! t.i.to drunk!

In their garden! Oh, but it was horrible--it was disgusting! She could scarcely believe that it was true. But Claudina's word had to be taken and t.i.to must go. She could not even bear to think he was still about the place.

”t.i.to--I have heard so and so--is it true?” she said.

Well--t.i.to talked about not feeling well and things disagreeing with him. At last he admitted it.

”Then you must go,” said she--”I give you a week's wages.”

But a piteous look came into t.i.to's face and he bent his head and he begged--'Oh, don't send me away, _egregia signora_!' and that cry of his went so much to her heart, that she almost took his head on her shoulder in her pity for him. And you say--will she forgive you? Why, her capacity for forgiveness is infinite! I often think, when they talk of the sins that G.o.d cannot pardon, I often think of her.”

She looked up and smiled.