“Very frequently.”
“Because it is generally more or less abject,” Hadria put in. “The sacrifice is made because the woman is a woman. It is the obeisance of sex; the acknowledgment of servility; not a simple desire of service.”
“The adorable creature is not always precisely obeisant,” observed Theobald.
“No; as I say, she may be capricious and cruel enough to those who treat her justly and generously” (Hadria’s eyes instinctively turned towards the distant Priory, and Valeria’s followed them); “but ask her to sacrifice herself for nothing; ask her to cherish the selfishness of some bully or fool; assure her that it is her duty to waste her youth, lose her health, and stultify her mind, for the sake of somebody’s whim, or somebody’s fears, or somebody’s absurdity, then she needs no persuasion. She goes to the stake smiling. She swears the flames are comfortably warm, no more. Are they diminishing her in size? Oh no—not at all—besides she was rather large, for a woman. She smiles encouragement to the other chained figures, at the other stakes. Her reward? The sense of exalted worth, of humility; the belief that she has been sublimely virtuous, while the others whom she serves have been—well the less said about them the better. She has done her duty, and sent half a dozen souls to hell!”
Henriette uttered a little cry.
“Where one expects to meet her!” Hadria added.
Professor Theobald was chuckling gleefully.
Lady Engleton laughed. “Then, Mrs. Temperley, you do feel rather wicked yourself, although you don’t admire our nice, well-behaved, average woman.”
“Oh, the mere opposite of an error isn’t always truth,” said Hadria.
“The weather has run to your head!” cried Henriette.