He was aroused by psychological disturbance. Why should he immolate himself upon the altar of a principle that one half of the Christian world would consider a mere madness? And how if, after all, it was madness? How if he was self-deceived?—actuated by fanaticism, and not by legitimate heroism? She whose whole soul had glowed at the mere mention of true magnanimity—she whose approbation had been the ardently desired reward of his sacrifice—the object of his young heart’s passionate aspiration—how had she regarded him? As a hero or a fanatic! How had she received him in his new aspect? Not as he had often fondly prevised—not with a faithful, loving clasp, strengthening his hands—not with a fervent, inspiring gaze, imparting courage and energy to his soul—not with approval and sympathy, and faithful cordial concurrence, confirming his faith—arming him for any conflict—strengthening him for any sacrifice. Oh! no, no; far otherwise. She had heard him with repelling hand and averted eye, and scorn, and loathing, and repulsion, that had left him bitterly disappointed, humbled, weakened, prostrated, paralyzed by self-doubt!
Was she right? Was he a madman?
Oh! there had been an element of worship and of aspiration in his love for India. And was this idol a mere stone, upon which he had broken himself in vain? He could not bear to think so. He was willing to believe himself a fool or a madman, so that her image remained undimmed, unspotted, unchanged in its shrine—so that she was still a perfect woman, angel, goddess!
And was this not truly so? Was her decision not really just, and was he not indeed a fanatic?
To believe this, would end the struggle and the agony at once. To confess this, would restore harmony and happiness to the grievously-disturbed family circle, and peace and joy to himself and his India! How easy to step down from his pedestal of principle, frankly confess it to have been a false position, taken in a fit of generous, youthful enthusiasm; to jest over it with his friends—friends recovered by that step; to call himself Don Quixote the younger, laugh at the matter, and dismiss it to oblivion. And then India! This beautiful, bewildering girl would be his own in five days. That vision whelmed him in vague, intense delirium.
Would it be so easy to step from his post, to abjure his principles, to silence his conscience?
No! Even amid the intoxicating dream of his beautiful India’s love, his stern soul answered, No!
He knew that he had not taken a false position—the Tempter could not persuade him that he had done so. He knew himself to be right; he knew that he was not self-deceived. Not even now, in this hour of bitter trial, would his moral sense be so confused. In his conscience, the dividing line between right and wrong was too clearly, distinctly, sharply defined, and there was no possibility of confusing or mistaking the boundary.
And so the mental sophistry of the temptation ended.
And now for the moral conflict. Admitted that his convictions were those of pure rational duty, why should he sacrifice so much to them? Did others around him do so? Did any one live up to his or her high idea of right? On the contrary, who did not silence the voice of conscience every day of their lives? Who in this world was not, in their turn, and in their way, more or less unjust, selfish? And did they not, the best of them, compound for all this by going to church, and confessing themselves “lost and ruined sinners,” and returning with a clean conscience, like a tablet newly sponged over, and prepared to be inscribed all over again with the same sins, to be effaced in the same manner? Now, why could not he also do his pleasure, enjoy his wealth, hold to this world, and secure heaven—all on these easy terms? It was only to make a profession.