Men and women are just as human whether it be over a field of snowdrops or a field of turnips. I would sooner it were snowdrops myself. For this is life as it seems to me—a crowd of undignified little creatures, pathetically, humorously, in all loveableness, trying to assume a dignity which they do not possess; only in great moments proving the nobility of their creation, when, by the sudden force of circumstance, they are, willy-nilly, driven to be themselves.
I little imagined as I amused myself by these thoughts with Moxon standing by, staring down with me at the timid blossom of that little snowdrop, that I for one was upon the eve of such an event as would force me by its circumstance to some definite course of action. Yet that very night I came to know of Clarissa—know of her in such a way as I had rather hear of any misfortune beside.
Ever since that day when I had heard from Mrs. Farringdon that she had returned unmarried to Dominica, I had striven with my conscience to know whether I were glad or not.
"I shall never see her again," said I.
"She's found the happiness you urged her to," replied my conscience.
"Did I really urge her to that?" I asked.
So much of a head as my conscience possesses, it nodded, and nodded vigorously.
"But did I mean it?" said I.
This is the only way with one's conscience, to silence it. Drive it into a corner of perplexity, when even truthfulness can be of no avail.
"Did I mean it?" I repeated, and my conscience could say nothing. "In the back of my mind," I continued, pressing my advantage to its uttermost, "was there not some hope that I might win her for myself? Why should I be glad then that she had gone?"