“But there are so many pulling the wrong way,” said Algitha sadly.
“Ah, one man may be miserable through the deeds of others; the race can only be miserable through its own.”
After a pause, Algitha put a question: How far was it justifiable to give pain to others in following one’s own idea of right and reasonable? How far might one attempt to live a life of intellectual integrity and of the widest mercy that one’s nature would stretch to?
Professor Fortescue saw no limits but those of one’s own courage and ability. Algitha pointed out that in most lives the limit occurred much sooner. If “others”—those tyrannical and absorbent “others”—had intricately bound up their notions of happiness with the prevention of any such endeavour, and if those notions were of the usual negative, home-comfort-and-affection order, narrowly personal, fruitful in nothing except a sort of sentimental egotism that spread over a whole family—what Hadria called an egotism à douze—how far ought these ideas to be respected, and at what cost?
Professor Fortescue was unqualified in his condemnation of the sentiment which erected sacrificial altars in the family circle. He spoke scornfully of the doctrine of renunciation, so applied, and held the victims who brought their gifts of power and liberty more culpable than those who demanded them, since the duty of resistance to recognised wrong was obvious, while great enlightenment was needed to teach one to forego an unfair privilege or power that all the world concurred in pressing upon one.
“Then you think a person—even a feminine person—justified in giving pain by resisting unjust demands?”
“I certainly think that all attempts to usurp another person’s life on the plea of affection should be stoutly resisted. But I recognise that cases must often occur when resistance is practically impossible.”
“One ought not to be too easily melted by the ‘shrieks of a near relation,’” said Hadria. “Ah, I have a good mind to try. I don’t fear any risk for myself, nor any work; the stake is worth it. I don’t want to grow cramped and crooked, like my poor ash-tree. Perhaps this may be a form of vanity too; I don’t know, I was going to say I don’t care.”
The scent of young leaves and of flowers came up, soft and rich from the garden, and as Hadria leant over the parapet, a gust of passionate conviction of power swept over her; not merely of her own personal power, but of some vast, flooding, beneficent well-spring from which her own was fed. And with the inrush, came a glimpse as of heaven itself.
“I wonder,” she said after a long silence, “why it is that when we know for dead certain, we call it faith.”