He closed the door behind him, locked it, and threw
himself down upon the bed. He was very wretched. Oh, very wretched,
indeed.
He had decided to keep silent, and to let the case at Wilkesbarre go
on to its expected end, but the decision had brought to him no peace;
it had only made him more unhappy than he was before. But why should
it do this? Was he not doing what was best? Would it not be better
for Uncle Billy, for Mrs. Burnham, for himself? Must he, for the sake
of some farfetched moral principle, throw himself into the merciless
clutch of Simon Craft?
Thus the fight began again, and the battle in the boy's heart went on
with renewed earnestness. He gave to his conscience, one by one, the
reasons that he had for acting the part of Robert Burnham's son; good
reasons they were too, overwhelmingly convincing they seemed to him;
but his conscience, like an angel with a flaming sword, rejected all
of them, declaring constantly that what he thought to do would be a
grievous wrong.
But whom would it wrong? Not Ralph Burnham, for he was dead, and it
could be no wrong to him; not Mrs. Burnham, for she would rejoice to
have this boy with her, even though she knew he was not her son; not
Bachelor Billy, for he would be helped to comfort and to happiness.
And yet there stood the angel with the flaming sword crying out always
that it was wrong.
But whom would it wrong? himself? Ah! there was a thought--would it be
wronging himself?
Well, would it not? Had it not already made a coward of him? Was it
not degrading him in his own eyes? Was it not trying to stifle the
voice of conscience in his breast? Would it not make of him a living,
walking lie? a thing to be shunned and scorned? Had he a right to
place a burden so appalling on himself? Would it not be better to face
the toil, the pain, the poverty, the fear? Would it not be better even
to die than to live a life like that?
He sprang from the bed with clenched hands and flashing eyes and
swelling nostrils.
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