"It is not what one does," he thought, "but the intention with which he
does it. Only that does not excuse one for being stupid, and raw, and
ignorant. When a man is a weakling and a fool, he always takes refuge
in the excuse that he is at least fine in his intentions. Bah! No
wonder she laughed at me! I have shut myself up with ideas as mouldy as
a mediaeval skeleton, and when I come to daylight all that I can say is
that I meant well. I suppose an idiot means well from his point of
view!"
He looked about for something which should divert him from thoughts so
tormenting. His eye fell upon his Bible, and he took it up half
mechanically. On the title page was written the name of his aunt, to
whom it had once belonged. The name brought back the interview with
Father Frontford, and the refusal of his request for leave of absence.
"Nothing belongs to me," he said to himself. "I am a thing, a sort of
thing like a numbered prisoner. How could she care for a chattel, a
creature without even identity! I will go down to Montfield. I am not
yet so completely out of the world that I can't have a word in the
disposition of my own property.
Pages:
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405