At the Gate of Samaria

by William John Locke

“I don't for a moment suppose,” wrote Mrs. Blather in the last letter that passed between them, “that everything is not most innocent and honourable on both sides. But your conduct is grossly imprudent and must inevitably give rise to most painful scandal. It is your duty both to the name you bear (painful though the associations connected with it may be) and to that which you had from papa to put yourself beyond the reach of calumny by living no longer beneath the same roof as Mr. Kent. Until you do so papa and Janet and myself will consider that any regard you may have had either for ourselves personally or for our honour as a family has entirely gone, and, I grieve to say it, our doors, though not our hearts, will have to be closed against you.”

Clytie read her condemnation very sadly. She could not blame her sister. Mrs. Blather was acting conscientiously, according to the faith and tradition she had inherited from her Godfearing ancestors. Petty and futile as many of the formulas were by which she had been trained to regulate human conduct, yet there were great ones which could not do otherwise than command respect. “Thou shalt not sin,” is a formula the obeying or renouncing of which is often a secret for one or two human hearts alone. Its corollary, “Thou shalt not appear to be sinning,” is one which must be dealt with openly, under the world's eye. Mrs. Blather's judgment was based on this latter formula, her position unassailable. She had no Winifred to shake with the eloquence of love her faith in the formula's eternal verity. She was supported by the firm convictions of a lifetime, and by the unhesitating assent of her father and sister. The letter cut off all Clytie's hopes of ever being understood by her family. She herself knew their inmost hearts, was conversant with every principle by which they were guided, and she could bear them no ill will. But to them she knew she would be forever inscrutable, and she accepted their judgments with sad resignation.

In point of common fact, she was called upon to make the old, old choice that has been offered to woman in all ages, between her family and the man she loved. Without a moment's hesitation she chose the man, and severed herself finally from her kin. Kent had become the object of her life. She had loved him—she knew that now—before her marriage. She had wronged him, as it seemed to her, by not having realised it, had received notwithstanding a tender, absolute devotion whose brave selflessness had been a revelation to her. No sacrifice that she could make for his happiness was too great for her. She loved him with the whole strength of her full nature. If any sacrifices on her part were not made, it was Kent that forbade them. The less he would accept the more did she find in her heart to offer. That she should remain in what they had begun to look upon as their common home seemed to be a vital necessity to his happiness. The mild, affectionate approval of Grace and Janet could not compensate the great loss that each would sustain in a rupture of their intercourse. Any appeal to her sister she knew would be useless. She was firm in the path in which she had elected to walk, and Mrs. Blather's letter remained unanswered.

But Kent could not take this comprehensive view of humanity. That Clytie should be cast off by her family aroused his indignation.

“They never loved you,” he said one day. “You were always a thorn in their flesh, and now they have seized an opportunity of plucking you out.”

“You are wrong, dear,” replied Clytie. “They loved me in their unemotional fashion, and if I were to die they would shed many tears and wear mourning for a whole year. But don't you see that I am of Samaria? I cannot pray in the temple of Jerusalem, and the houses of Israel are closed against me. It is of their religion to do so. They believe that the 'bread of the Samaritan is as the flesh of swine.' We cannot change their faith. We can only seek in Samaria for freer conditions of life, and the love of those who are Samaritans at heart.”

“If I loved you less, I might take up as lofty a position as you,” said Kent. “But I cannot bear that even a Pharisee of the Pharisees should presume to judge you.”

“They have been judging me rightly or wrongly all my life,” said Clytie, with a smile. “It was my own challenge; I gave it vehemently and passionately as a girl when life lay before me like a closed book which they refused to open for me. Now that I have learned some of its secrets I give the challenge with a calm conviction that I am acting in accordance with laws higher than theirs. So do not fret about me, dear.” And then she added in a low voice:

“You know I would give up all I could have in the world for you, if you would accept it.”

Then Kent put his arms around her and kissed her.