Miss Joanna put away her knitting with a hopeless sigh. "Well, of course, sister, you must speak the truth," she said, drearily, "but—it does seem hard." Then she went out of the room, crying quietly.
Miss Cornelia sat motionless in the twilight, while that new tumult of rebellion still raged within her. Ah, yes, it seemed more than hard—it seemed cruel, unjust, that such a thing should be required of her. Those strange people, the Jesuits, whom she had always held in horror, had some reason on their side after all. There were cases to which the simple, old-fashioned rules of right and wrong did not apply, which were extraordinary, unprecedented.... Miss Cornelia could not help asking herself—with a thrill of self-condemnation, indeed, and yet another feeling which defended the question—whether in certain circumstances, the wrong were not more to be commended, wiser, better than the right.
She spent a sleepless night, thinking it over. The whole foundations of her life, of her faith seemed shaken. She looked the next morning so exhausted, when she went down as usual to The Tombs, that Elizabeth at once divined that some new misfortune had happened, and it was not long before she drew it out of her.
She sat for a long time very still, one hand clasping Miss Cornelia's, the fingers of the other tapping on the ledge of the wall beside her.
"Of course, auntie," she said at last, quietly, "you must tell exactly what happened. There's no good to be gained by lies; at least"—she made an attempt at a smile—"my own success in that line hasn't been very striking. I was a little out of my head that morning, and I don't remember exactly what I said! but whatever it was"—she raised her head proudly—"I don't want anything kept back. Let them know the whole truth; then, if they condemn me, well and good. At least I shan't have anything"—her voice faltered—"anything more to reproach myself with."
"Elizabeth!" The older woman gazed up at her admiringly. "You are so brave—you are a lesson to me! But you—you don't realize, my darling—" sobs choked her voice.
"Oh, yes—I realize." A pale smile flitted across the girl's face. "I have realized—quite clearly—all these months. But that's no reason, auntie, why you should save me by lies."
And then she turned the subject, and began to talk calmly enough, about one of the women prisoners, in whose case she took a keen interest. Nothing more was said about her own affairs. She had relapsed, since that conversation months before with Mrs. Bobby, into her old reserve, and spoke very little of herself. The cooler weather was helping her. She seemed stronger, and always quite calm. Miss Cornelia went away, feeling rebuked for her own cowardice. Elizabeth was right, she thought with a pang of self-reproach; nothing but the truth must be told in her defence. But meanwhile Miss Cornelia tried to reconcile two opposite instincts; offering up day and night two apparently irreconcilable petitions; that she might be enabled to speak the truth exactly, and yet do no harm to her niece's cause.