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Updated: June 22, 2025
Slowly and regretfully, as the growing girl approached the years when she might be expected to think for herself, Herminia began to perceive that the child of so many hopes, of so many aspirations, the child pre-destined to regenerate humanity, was thinking for herself in a retrograde direction.
"Yes, it was that I thanked you for," Herminia answered, with a still deeper rose spreading down to her bare throat. "I like you very much, and it pleases me to hear you call me Herminia. Why should I shrink from admitting it? 'Tis the Truth, you know; and the Truth shall make us Free. I'm not afraid of my freedom." Alan paused for a second, irresolute.
That night Alan slept little. Even at dinner his hostess, Mrs. His mind was full of Herminia and these strange ideas of hers; how could he listen with a becoming show of interest to Ethel Waterton's aspirations on the grand piano after a gipsy life, oh, a gipsy life for her! when in point of fact she was a most insipid blonde from the cover of a chocolate box?
"Why, indeed?" Alan answered. "There I quite agree with you. I was thinking not so much of what is right and reasonable as of what is practical and usual. For most women, of course, are well, more or less dependent upon their fathers." "But I am not," Herminia answered, with a faint suspicion of just pride in the undercurrent of her tone. "That's in part why I went away so soon from Girton.
When the servant had discreetly withdrawn with Mrs. Grivois, the marquis quickly approached the princess, held out his hand to her, and said with a voice of emotion: "Herminia, have you not concealed something in your letters. In her last moments did not my mother curse me?" "No, no, Frederick, compose yourself. She had anxiously desired your presence. Her ideas soon became confused.
For Herminia's devotion to principle was not less but far greater than Miss Smith-Waters's own; only, as it happened, the principles themselves were diametrically opposite. Herminia wrote her note with not a few tears for poor Miss Smith-Waters's disappointment.
As soon as that was over, and Herminia had seen the coffin lowered into the grave of all her hopes, save one, she returned to her rooms alone, more utterly alone than she had ever imagined any human being could feel in a cityful of fellow-creatures. She must shape her path now for herself without Alan's aid, without Alan's advice.
People said to themselves, "This book seems to be a book with a teaching not thoroughly banal, like the novels-with-a-purpose after which we flock; so we'll give it a wide berth." And they shunned it accordingly. That was the end of Herminia Barton's literary aspirations. She had given the people of her best, and the people rejected it.
"Ah, Mariquita," she said, "the linen is not as fine as when we were young. And thou art glad to get the shirts of the Americans now. My poor Faquita!" "Coarse things," said Mariquita, disdainfully. Then a silence fell, so sudden and so suggestive that Doña Herminia felt it and turned instinctively to Mariquita. "What is it?" she asked rapidly. "Is there news to-day? Of what?"
Incredible as it seemed to Herminia, in the daughter of such a father and such a mother, Dolores' ideas nay, worse her ideals were essentially commonplace. Not that she had much opportunity of imbibing commonplace opinions from any outside source; she redeveloped them from within by a pure effort of atavism. She had reverted to lower types. She had thrown back to the Philistine.
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