When she looked up, Holmes was
standing by the window, with his face toward the gray fields. It
was a long time before he turned and came to her.
"You have spoken honestly: it is an old fashion of yours. You
believed what you said. Let me also tell you what you call God's
truth, for a moment, Margret. It will not do you harm."--He
spoke gravely, solemnly.--"When you loved me long ago, selfish,
erring as I was, you fulfilled the law of your nature; when you
put that love out of your heart, you make your duty a tawdry
sham, and your life a lie. Listen to me. I am calm."
It was calmness that made her tremble as she had not done before,
with a strange suspicion of the truth flashing on her. That she,
casing herself in her pride, her conscious righteousness, hugging
her new-found philanthropy close, had sunk to a depth of
niggardly selfishness, of which this man knew nothing. Nobler
than she; half angry as she felt that, sitting at his feet,
looking up. He knew it, too; the grave judging voice told it; he
had taken his rightful place. Just, as only a man can be, in his
judgment of himself and her: her love that she had prided herself
with, seemed weak and drifting, brought into contact with this
cool integrity of meaning. I think she was glad to be humbled
before him. Women have strange fancies, sometimes.
"You have deceived yourself," he said: "when you try to fill your
heart with this work, you serve neither your God nor your
fellow-man.
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