not suppose that because you love this woman, as you believe, you are fit to be the keeper of her future.  Ask yourself how you have dealt hitherto with those who have loved you, and whom in a sort you loved, and do not go further unless the answer is such as you can fully and faithfully report to the woman you wish to marry.  What you have made yourself you will be to the end.  You once called me an idealist, and perhaps you will call this idealism.  I will only add, and I will give the last word in your defence, you alone know what you are.”

LIII.

As soon as Westover had posted his letter he began to blame himself for it.  He saw that the right and manly thing would have been to write to Mrs. Vostrand, and tell her frankly what he thought of Durgin.  Her folly, her insincerity, her vulgarity, had nothing to do with the affair, so far as he was concerned.  If she had once been so kind to him as to bind him to her in grateful friendship, she certainly had a claim upon his best offices.  His duty was to her, and not at all to Durgin.  He need not have said anything against him because it was against him, but because it was true; and if he had written he must not have said anything less than the truth.

He could have chosen not to write at all.  He could have said that her mawkish hypocrisy was a little too much; that she was really wanting him to whitewash Durgin for her, and she had no right to put upon him the responsibility for the step she clearly wished to take.  He could have made either of these decisions, and defended them to himself; but in what he had done he had altogether shirked.  While he was writing to Durgin, and pretending that he could justly leave this affair to him, he was simply indulging a bit of sentimental pose, far worse than anything in Mrs. Vostrand’s sham appeal for his help.

He felt, as the time went by, that she had not written of her own impulse, but at her daughter’s urgence, and that it was this poor creature whose trust he had paltered with.  He believed that Durgin would not fail to make her unhappy, yet he had not done what he might to deliver her out of his hand.  He had satisfied a wretched pseudo-magnanimity toward a faithless scoundrel, as he thought Durgin, at the cost of a woman whose anxious hope of his aid had probably forced her mother’s hand.

At first he thought his action irrevocable, and he bitterly upbraided himself for not taking council with Cynthia upon Mrs. Vostrand’s letter.  He had thought of doing that, and then he had dismissed the thought as involving pain that he had no right to inflict; but now he perceived that the pain was such as she must suffer in the event, and that he had stupidly refused himself the only means of finding out the right thing to do.  Her true heart and her clear mind would have been infallible in the affair, and he had trusted to his own muddled impulse.