She laid her hand lightly on his lips. “No, no,” she cried, “you don’t understand. You’ve been brooding over this so long you’ve lost all sense of proportion between money and other things. I’ll tell you what I think. I think making money’s only a knack. I believe some men are born with it, and others aren’t. Look at the men who start with a pack of rags on their back, and die worth millions. It’s in them; it’s no credit to them; maybe the reverse. No one man can be everything. Some men can build railroads, but I couldn’t imagine you doing anything like that if you tried your honest best for a hundred years. No, my dear, because money seems to you to be the thing you need the most just now, you’ve been so envious of the men who are able to make it quickly that you’ve forgotten all that you have to be thankful for; something that very few men have granted to them at all, even a hundredth part of what you possess—and that’s the precious perception of the artist; the power to see things which the ordinary man can never see. You’ll succeed, I know you will, but even if you never should—by the world’s standards, I mean—you ought never to repine. Read your Browning again, dear; even I can appreciate that. ‘One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break’—how can any man turn faint heart after that? The truth, dear, that’s everything, after all.”
Very humbly and very reverently he stooped and kissed her. “You’re right, Rose,” he said, “and I’ve been wrong. Forgive me. But you know yourself—sometimes it’s hard; sometimes the world’s standards grip you so that you can’t keep to your own. But I’ve been wrong, and I admit it most humbly. You’ve a very wise little head on your shoulders, dear, and I thank you for setting me right. I won’t go backsliding again in a hurry, I’ll promise you.”
There was a long silence. Then at last abruptly Vaughan spoke, “Rose,” he said, “what you’ve just been saying has reminded me of something I wanted to ask you about. It’s a hypothetical case, that a friend of mine put to me; simple enough, seemingly, yet hard for me to decide. What would you say to this? Suppose some friend of yours had done something for which there was no possible excuse; committed a crime, we’ll say. Suppose you had it in your power to condemn him, by telling something that you knew, or, by keeping silent, could clear him for ever. What is your duty?”
The girl did not hesitate. “To tell what I know, friend or no friend,” she answered.
Vaughan nodded. “That’s what I supposed you’d say,” he rejoined. “Now go a step further. Suppose it were I that had done the wrong. Would you tell then?”
The girl’s answer came as direct as before. “You,” she cried, “never; never in the world. I couldn’t. Any one but you.”
Vaughan’s laugh had little of mirth in it. “And yet,” he said, “if we are worshippers of the truth, which it is so easy to prate of and so hard to live, where is the logical distinction? Why should a little matter of personal liking for anybody stand in your way?”
The girl was silent. Then, unwillingly enough, “No, I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But it wouldn’t be logic that would decide me. I couldn’t expose you, that would be all. I’d acknowledge to myself the wrong I was doing, but I’d go ahead with it just the same. Perhaps that’s because I’m a woman, and trust too much to intuition. If I were a man, I don’t know. As you say, there’s no question of the real right and wrong of it. One should speak, regardless of everything else. And making it a question of degree does put the whole thing in a terribly unsatisfactory light. A stranger I wouldn’t hesitate about. You, I could never betray, though I knew I was doing wrong. Midway between, all grades of hatred, liking, love. No, it isn’t satisfactory, is it? Oh, I don’t know how to answer, Arthur. But we’ve only a few minutes left, dear. Let’s not spoil it by being too grave. I’m glad that it’s only a hypothetical question, at any rate. Not an actual one.”
“Yes,” Vaughan answered, “I’m glad too.”