I felt wretchedly underhanded and mean, and that’s one of the most unbearable feelings for a self-respecting woman to endure. For one reckless moment I thought of telling Betty the whole story. And then I knew I mustn’t. I couldn’t make her understand. I couldn’t translate Lizzie into the terms with which Mrs. Ferguson was familiar. I saw that broken woman emerging from my narrative a smirched and bespattered pariah of the kind that, from time immemorial, ladies have regarded as their hereditary foe.
It would have been indulging my conscience at her expense, and my conscience—well, it had to resign its job for the present. It was odd that with a worthy intention and in connection with one of the best of women, I felt my only course was to deceive. All may have been well with Pippa’s world, but certainly all was not well with mine. I don’t know what was wrong, only that something was. I know I should have been able to tell the truth, I know I ought not to have been made to feel a coward and a sneak.
Betty enlarged upon her scheme of benefaction and we drove down the avenue, full from curb to curb and glittering in its afternoon prime. Wuzzy was much entertained, leaning forward to eye passing horses and call greetings to dogs on the front seats of motors. Once when he needed feminine attention he turned to me, remarking commandingly, “Wipe my nose.” As I performed this humble service he remained motionless, his eyes raised in abstraction to a church clock. I have heard many people envy the care-free condition of childhood and wish they were babes again. I never could agree with them; the very youthful state has always seemed to me a much overrated period. But as I obeyed Wuzzy’s command it suddenly came upon me how delightful it would be to be so utterly free of responsibility, so unperplexed by ethical problems, so completely dependent, that even the wiping of one’s nose was left to other hands.
I left Lizzie early that evening. Miss Bliss and Mr. Hazard were with her and I had a fancy they liked being together without me sitting about and overhearing. I pulled a chair up in front of the fire and mused over that question of taking Betty’s money. My discharged conscience was homesick and wanted to come back. In the midst of my musing Roger came in, and presently, he and I sitting one on either side of the grate, it occurred to me that he would be a good person to put in the place of my conscience—get his opinion on the vexed question and not let him know it. I would do it so cleverly he’d never guess and I could abide in his decision. Excellent idea!
“Roger,” I began in a simple earnest tone, “I want to ask you about a question of ethics, and I want you to give me your full attention.”
“Go ahead,” said Roger, putting a foot on the fender. “I’m not an authority, but I’ll do my best.”
“Suppose I knew a woman—no, a man’s better—who was, well, we’ll say a thief, not a habitual thief but one who had thieved once, got into bad company and been led away. And I happened to know he wanted help—financial—to tide him over a period of want. Would I be doing something underhanded if I asked some one—let’s say you—to give him the money and didn’t tell you about the thieving?”
I thought I had done it rather well. Roger was interested.
“Are you supposed to know for certain he’d only committed the one offense?”
“Quite sure,” with conviction.