“It has come right, dear,” said Brigit; “perfectly right.”
“You try to think so.”
“I know it. His father sinned, and my father sinned. We were born for unhappiness. Unhappiness and misgivings are in our very blood.”
“But how unjust!”
“No, dearest, on the contrary, it is strict justice. The laws of the universe are immutable. You might as well ask that fire should only burn sometimes—that it may be water, or air, or earth to suit sentimental occasions.”
“I don't like to see you so sensible—it's—it's unlikely.”
Brigit smiled at the word—a favourite one with Pensée when persons and events differed from the serene, unreasoned fiction which she called her experience.
“How can you call anything unlikely?” asked the girl. “I ought never to have been born at all, and Life has made no provision for me. She is boisterous and homely—like a housekeeper at an inn. She doesn't know me, and she has prepared no room for me. But I may rest on the staircase—that's under shelter at least.”
“What whimsical ideas, darling!”
“Ah, to feel as I feel, you must have had my parents. You mustn't suppose that I woke up one morning and saw the reason for all my troubles. The reason did not come as though it were the sun shining into the room. Oh, no! I found no answer for a long, long time. But I feel it now. My father could not take me into his world, and my mother's world—I could not take. They wished to know that I was protected, so they found some one who knew the story, and knew both worlds. I was grateful, because I didn't understand. And when I understood I was still grateful, but I couldn't accept the terms. My marriage was not so terrible as many marriages. Yet it was terrible enough. Don't let us talk of it, Pensée. It is hopeless to quarrel with logic. Science is calm—as calm as the hills.”