“I haven’t ceased to regard you as a friend. The estrangement between us is entirely of your making.”
Seeing that Rhoda would not sit down, Miss Barfoot rose and stood by the fireplace.
“I can’t bear reproaches,” said the former; “least of all when they are irrational and undeserved.”
“If I reproached you, it was in a tone which should never have given you offence. One would think that I had rated you like a disobedient servant.”
“If that had been possible,” answered Rhoda, with a faint smile, “I should never have been here. You said that you bitterly repented having given way to me on a certain occasion. That was unreasonable; in giving way, you declared yourself convinced. And the reproach I certainly didn’t deserve, for I had behaved conscientiously.”
“Isn’t it allowed me to disapprove of what your conscience dictates?”
“Not when you have taken the same view, and acted upon it. I don’t lay claim to many virtues, and I haven’t that of meekness. I could never endure anger; my nature resents it.”
“I did wrong to speak angrily, but indeed I hardly knew what I was saying. I had suffered a terrible shock. I loved that poor girl; I loved her all the more for what I had seen of her since she came to implore my help. Your utter coldness—it seemed to me inhuman—I shrank from you. If your face had shown ever so little compassion—”
“I felt no compassion.”
“No. You have hardened your heart with theory. Guard yourself, Rhoda! To work for women one must keep one’s womanhood. You are becoming—you are wandering as far from the true way—oh, much further than Bella did!”