Widowed as she was, she still
pitied the unhappy beings doomed to the cramped life and dwarfed
heart of the old maid; pitied them as sincerely as she despised
those unhealthy souls who would make of celibacy, wedded or
unwedded, a sort of anti-natural religion for women. Alan's death,
however, had left Herminia's ship rudderless. Her mission had
failed. That she acknowledged herself. She lived now for Dolores.
The child to whom she had given the noble birthright of liberty was
destined from her cradle to the apostolate of women. Alone of her
sex, she would start in life emancipated. While others must say,
"With a great sum obtained I this freedom," Dolores could answer
with Paul, "But I was free born." That was no mean heritage.
Gradually Herminia got work to her mind; work enough to support her
in the modest way that sufficed her small wants for herself and her
baby. In London, given time enough, you can live down anything,
perhaps even the unspeakable sin of having struck a righteous blow
in the interest of women. And day by day, as months and years went
on, Herminia felt she was living down the disgrace of having obeyed
an enlightened conscience.
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