rest.

To return to our muttons. The guilt of duplicity has lain heavy on my
conscience for two months, but how can I help it? I don't so much mind
keeping what I know from Mabel and Jane, for it is not their affair. But
it is Clarice's affair--most eminently so--and I had promised solemnly
to tell her at once when I knew or thought of anything that concerned
her. It was obviously impossible to keep my promise in this case--not on
my account, but on hers. It will not be easy to tell even Jim that I
overheard their last colloquy, and witnessed the tragical parting scene:
I'll have to watch my opportunities, and spring that on him just at the
right moment, when it will have the best effect. Now any one who knows
Clarice must see that to tell her this would be to take the most awful
risks, and probably to destroy all chance of reconciling them; that is
level to the meanest apprehension, I judge. No sir: it can't be done
till I have seen Jim, and got things in train. Properly handled, the
secret--that is, my possession of it, which is a second secret, almost
as weighty as the original one--may be a tool to manage both these
intractable subjects with, and bring them to terms: in a fool's hands,
and thrown about promiscuously, it would be an infernal machine to blow
us up. No: I'll take whatever guilt there is, rather than hurt Clarice
now and hereafter. Do you want to know my opinion of a man who is always
and only thinking about keeping his hands clean and his conscience at
peace, so that he can't do a little lying--or it might be other
sinning--on adequate occasion, to serve his friends or a good cause? I
think he is a cad, sir--a low-minded cad; and of such is not the kingdom
of heaven. It may not occur every day: it might not do to insert in the
text-books as a rule; but once in a while there may be better businesses
than saving one's soul and keeping one's conscience void of offense.[2]

I am arguing against my own nature in all this. In my heart I love Truth
above all things, and follow and serve her with a devotion that is
probably exaggerated. But I can't help seeing that there are two kinds
of her. When she is simple and obvious, she seems to reside in bare
facts, which we may easily respect too much, for what are they but
blackguard carnalities? Preraphaelitism in art, Realism in literature,
might be all very well if they would keep their place--which is in the
kitchen. Some may want pots and pans, and scullions, a