Part 48 (2/2)
”Why, Mr. Morton! ought one not to do right at any and every cost? That seemed to me the very pith of Mrs. Yocomb's teaching, and I think she made it clear that it's always best to do right.”
”I think so too, most emphatically; but what is right, Miss Warren?”
”That's too large a question for me to answer in the abstract; but is not the verdict of conscience right for each one of us?”
”I can't think so,” I replied, with a shrug. ”About every grotesque, horrible act ever committed in this world has been sanctioned by conscience. Delicate women have worn hair-cloth and walked barefooted on cold pavements in midnight penance. The devil is scarcely more cruel than the Church, for ages, taught that G.o.d was. It's true that Christ's life was one of self-sacrifice; but was there any useless, mistaken self-sacrifice in it? If G.o.d is anything like Mrs. Yocomb, nothing could be more repugnant to him than blunders of this kind.”
She looked at me with a startled face, and I saw that my words had unsettled her mind.
”If conscience cannot guide, what can?” she faltered. ”Is not conscience G.o.d's voice within us?”
”No. Conscience may become G.o.d's worst enemy--that is, any G.o.d that I could wors.h.i.+p or even respect.”
”Mr. Morton, you frighten me. How can I do right unless I follow my conscience?”
”Yes,” I said sadly, ”you would, in the good old times, have followed it over stony pavements, in midnight penance, or now into any th.o.r.n.y path which it pointed out; and I believe that many such paths lead away from the G.o.d of whom Mrs. Yocomb spoke to-day. Miss Warren, I'm a man of the world, and probably you think my views on these subjects are not worth much. It's strange that your own nature does not suggest to you the only sure guide. It seems to me that conscience should always go to truth for instructions. The men who killed your brother thought they were right as truly as he did; but history will prove that they were wrong, as so many sincere people have been in every age. He did not suffer and die uselessly, for the truth was beneath his feet and in his heart.”
”Dear, brave, n.o.ble Herbert!” she sighed. ”Oh, that G.o.d had spared him to me!”
”I wish he had,” I said, with quiet emphasis. ”I wish he was with you here and now.”
Again she gave me a questioning, troubled look through her tears.
”Then you believe truth to be absolutely binding?” she asked, in a low voice.
”Yes. In science, religion, ethics, or human action, nothing can last--nothing can end well that is not built squarely on truth.”
She became very pale; but she turned quietly to her piano as she said:
”You are right, Mr. Morton; there can be no peace--not even self-respect--without truth. My nature would be pitiful indeed did it not teach me that.”
She had interpreted my words in a way that intensified the influence of Mrs. Yocomb's sermon. To be false to the trust that she had led her affianced to repose in her still seemed the depth of degradation. I feared that she would take this view at first, but believed, if my hope had any foundation, she would think my words over so often that she would discover a different meaning.
And my hope was strengthened. If she loved Mr. Hearn, why did she turn, pale and quiet, to her piano, which had always appeared a refuge to her, when I had seemingly spoken words that not only sanctioned but made the course which harmonized with her love imperative? Even the possibility that in the long days and nights of my delirium I had unconsciously wooed and won her heart, so thrilled and overcame me that I dared not trust myself longer in her presence, and I went out on the piazza--a course eminently satisfactory to Mr. Hearn, no doubt. I think he regarded our interview as becoming somewhat extended. He had glanced at me from time to time, but my manner had been too quiet to disturb him, and he could not see Miss Warren's face. The words he overheard suggested a theological discussion rather than anything of a personal nature. It had been very rea.s.suring to see Miss Warren turn from me as if my words had ceased to interest her, and my coming out to talk with Adah confirmed the impression made by my manner all along, that we were not very congenial spirits. It also occurred to me that he did not find chatting with Adah a very heavy cross, for never had she looked prettier than on that summer evening. But now that Miss Warren was alone he went in and sat down by her, saying so loudly that I could not help hearing him, as I stood by the window:
”I think you must have worsted Mr. Morton in your theological discussion, for he came out looking as if he had a great deal to think about that was not exactly to his taste; but Miss Adah will--” and then his companion began playing something that drowned his voice.
CHAPTER XV
”DON'T THINK OF ME”
Mrs. Yocomb appeared at supper, serene and cheerful; but she was paler than usual, and she still looked like one who had but just descended from a lofty spiritual height. No reference whatever was made to the morning. Mrs. Yocomb no longer spoke on religious themes directly, but she seemed to me the Gospel embodied, as with natural kindly grace she presided at her home table. Her husband beamed on her, and looked as if his cup was overflowing. Reuben's frank, boyish eyes often turned toward her in their simple devotion, while Zillah, who sat next to her, had many a whispered confidence to give. Adah's accent was gentle and her manner thoughtful. Miss Warren looked at her from time to time with a strange wistfulness--looked as if the matron possessed a serenity and peace that she coveted.
”Emily,” said Mr. Yocomb, ”thee doesn't think music's wicked, does thee?”
”No, sir, nor do you either.”
<script>