Chance, chance alone befriended her, and the reflection
injured her pride. What of those numberless struggling creatures to
whom such happy fortune could never come, who, be their aspirations
and capabilities what they might, must struggle vainly, agonise, and
in the end despair? She had been lifted out of hell, not risen
therefrom by her own strength. Sometimes it half seemed to her that
it would have been the nobler lot to remain as she was, to share the
misery of that dread realm of darkness with those poor disinherited
ones, to cherish that spirit of noble rebellion, the consciousness
of which had been as a pure fire on the altar of her being. What was
to be her future? Would she insensibly forget her past self, let her
strength subside in refinement--it might be, even lose the passion
which had made her what she was?
But hope predominated. Forget! Could she ever forget those faces in
the slums on the day when she bade farewell to poverty and all its
attendant wretchedness? Litany Lane and Elm Court were names which
already symbolised a purpose. If ever she still looked at her
grandfather with a remnant of distrust, it was because she thought
of him as drawing money from such a source, enjoying his life of
ease in disregard of the responsibilities laid upon him.
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