Once upon a time, if you had made such a
proposal to me, if you had urged me to be false to my dearest
principles, to sin against the light, to deny the truth, I would
have flashed forth a NO upon you without one moment's hesitation.
And now, in my disillusioned middle age what do I feel? Do you
know, I almost feel tempted to give way to this Martinmas summer of
love, to stultify my past by unsaying and undoing everything. For
I love you, Harvey. If I were to give way now, as George Eliot
gave way, as almost every woman who once tried to live a free life
for her sisters' sake, has given way in the end, I should
counteract any little good my example has ever done or may ever do
in the world; and Harvey, strange as it sounds, I feel more than
half inclined to do it. But I WILL not, I WILL not; and I'll tell
you why. It's not so much principle that prevents me now. I admit
that freely. The torpor of middle age is creeping over my
conscience. It's simple regard for personal consistency, and for
Dolly's position. How can I go back upon the faith for which I
have martyred myself? How can I say to Dolly, 'I wouldn't marry
your father in my youth, for honor's sake; but I have consented in
middle life to sell my sisters' cause for a man I love, and for the
consideration of society; to rehabilitate myself too late with a
world I despise by becoming one man's slave, as I swore I never
would be.
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