"What is the meaning of that?" the priest asked, and his deep voice shook.
"I could give you my soul, Father, but not his, too."
Stevens took her hands in his and they stood together, separated by nearly the width of the room from the old priest. He turned his eyes from them as from an impious spectacle, and looked upward, his lips moving silently as if in prayer. When he spoke, there was new force in his voice, as if he had received help and strength.
"Georgia," he spoke with conscious dignity, in the full authority of his office, "for fifteen hundred years your people whoever they were, artisans, farmers, lords and beggars, have belonged to our faith. The tradition is in your blood. You cannot cast it out. And as you grow older, and your blood cools, the fifteen hundred years will speak to you; you will regret your sin bitterly; and in the end you will leave him or you will die in fear."
"No, Father," she said, slowly as if feeling for her words. "It is all much plainer now. God is not a secret from the common people. He talks to each of us direct, not roundabout through priests and books and churches. He has put His purpose straight into our natures. He doesn't deal with us at second hand. And I begin to see His meaning—He gave us life to live—and to make again."
"According to His ordinance."
"Yes," her answer came quickly and boldly, "according to his ordinance, written in the heart of every woman—that the sin of sins for her is to live with a man in hate. When she does that—street girl or wife—she's much the same. Oh, there's many and many a degradation blessed by the wedding ring. That's against His plan, or why should He warn us so! Women—at least common, average women like me—were put here to love, not just to submit. If you forbid us to love in honor, you forbid us to live in honor. And the life God gave me, I will use and not refuse."
"My child! If you do not repent in time—" the suffering was plain in the old man's voice.
