“Anita, leave the room!” cried Mrs. Ellersly harshly, panic under the command in her tones.
I felt rather than saw my advantage, and pressed it.
“You see what they are doing, Miss Ellersly,” said I.
She passed her hands over her eyes, let her face appear again. In it there was an energy of repulsion that ought to have seemed exaggerated to me then, knowing really nothing of the true situation. “I understand now!” said she. “Oh—it is—loathsome!” And her eyes blazed upon her mother.
“Loathsome,” I echoed, dashing at my opportunity. “If you are not merely a chattel and a decoy, if there is any womanhood, any self-respect in you, you will keep faith with me.”
“Anita!” cried Mrs. Ellersly. “Go to your room!”
I had, once or twice before, heard a tone as repulsive—a female dive-keeper hectoring her wretched white slaves. I looked at Anita. I expected to see her erect, defiant. Instead, she was again wearing that cowed look.
“Don't judge me too harshly,” she said pleadingly to me. “I know what is right and decent—God planted that too deep in me for them to be able to uproot it. But—oh, they have broken my will! They have broken my will! They have made me a coward, a thing!” And she hid her face in her hands and sobbed.
Mrs. Ellersly was about to speak. I could not offer better proof of my own strength of will than the fact that I, with a look and a gesture, put her down. Then I said to the girl:
“You must choose now! Woman or thing—which shall it be? If it is woman, then you have me behind you and in front of you and around you. If it is thing—God have mercy on you! Your self-respect, your pride are gone—for ever. You will be like the carpet under his feet to the man whose creature you become.”