Chapter XII. The Invisible Hand

by Zane Grey

　　Jane received a letter from Bishop Dyer, not in his ownhandwriting, which stated that the abrupt termination of theirinterview had left him in some doubt as to her future conduct. Aslight injury had incapacitated him from seeking another meetingat present, the letter went on to say, and ended with a requestwhich was virtually a command, that she call upon him at once.

　　The reading of the letter acquainted Jane Withersteen with thefact that something within her had all but changed. She sent noreply to Bishop Dyer nor did she go to see him. On Sunday sheremained absent from the service--for the second time inyears--and though she did not actually suffer there was adead-lock of feelings deep within her, and the waiting for abalance to fall on either side was almost as bad as suffering.She had a gloomy expectancy of untoward circumstances, and withit a keen-edged curiosity to watch developments. She had ahalf-formed conviction that her future conduct--as related to herchurchmen--was beyond her control and would be governed by theirattitude toward her. Something was changing in her, forming,waiting for decision to make it a real and fixed thing. She hadtold Lassiter that she felt helpless and lost in the fatefultangle of their lives; and now she feared that she wasapproaching the same chaotic condition of mind in regard to herreligion. It appalled her to find that she questioned phases ofthat religion. Absolute faith had been her serenity. Thoughleaving her faith unshaken, her serenity had been disturbed, andnow it was broken by open war between her and her ministers. Thatsomething within her--a whisper--which she had tried in vain tohush had become a ringing voice, and it called to her to wait.She had transgressed no laws of God. Her churchmen, howeverinvested with the power and the glory of a wonderful creed,however they sat in inexorable judgment of her, must now practicetoward her the simple, common, Christian virtue they professed topreach, "Do unto others as you would have others do untoyou!"

　　Jane Withersteen, waiting in darkness of mind, remained faithfulstill. But it was darkness that must soon be pierced by light. Ifher faith were justified, if her churchmen were trying only tointimidate her, the fact would soon be manifest, as would theirfailure, and then she would redouble her zeal toward them andtoward what had been the best work of her life--work for thewelfare and happiness of those among whom she lived, Mormon andGentile alike. If that secret, intangible power closed its toilsround her again, if that great invisible hand moved here andthere and everywhere, slowly paralyzing her with its mystery andits inconceivable sway over her affairs, then she would knowbeyond doubt that it was not chance, nor jealousy, norintimidation, nor ministerial wrath at her revolt, but a cold andcalculating policy thought out long before she was born, a dark,immutable will of whose empire she and all that was hers was butan atom.

　　Then might come her ruin. Then might come her fall into blackstorm. Yet she would rise again, and to the light. God would bemerciful to a driven woman who had lost her way.

　　A week passed. Little Fay played and prattled and pulled atLassiter's big black guns. The rider came to Withersteen Houseoftener than ever. Jane saw a change in him, though it did notrelate to his kindness and gentleness. He was quieter and morethoughtful. While playing with Fay or conversing with Jane heseemed to be possessed of another self that watched with cool,roving eyes, that listened, listened always as if the murmuringamber stream brought messages, and the moving leaves whisperedsomething. Lassiter never rode Bells into the court any more, nordid he come by the lane or the paths. When he appeared it wassuddenly and noiselessly out of the dark shadow of the grove.

　　"I left Bells out in the sage," he said, one day at the end ofthat week. "I must carry water to him."

　　"Why not let him drink at the trough or here?" asked Jane,quickly.

　　"I reckon it'll be safer for me to slip through the grove. I'vebeen watched when I rode in from the sage."

　　"Watched? By whom?"

　　"By a man who thought he was well hid. But my eyes are prettysharp. An', Jane," he went on, almost in a whisper, "I reckonit'd be a good idea for us to talk low. You're spied on here byyour women."

　　"Lassiter!" she whispered in turn. "That's hard to believe. Mywomen love me."

　　"What of that?" he asked. "Of course they love you. But they'reMormon women."

　　Jane's old, rebellious loyalty clashed with her doubt.

　　"I won't believe it," she replied, stubbornly.

　　"Well then, just act natural an' talk natural, an' prettysoon--give them time to hear us--pretend to go over there to thetable, en' then quick-like make a move for the door en' open it."

　　"I will," said Jane, with heightened color. Lassiter was right;he never made mistakes; he would not have told her unless hepositively knew. Yet Jane was so tenacious of faith that she hadto see with her own eyes, and so constituted that to employ evensuch small deceit toward her women made her ashamed, and angryfor her shame as well as theirs. Then a singular thoughtconfronted her that made her hold up this simple ruse-- whichhurt her, though it was well justified--against the deceit shehad wittingly and eagerly used toward Lassiter. The differencewas staggering in its suggestion of that blindness of which hehad accused her. Fairness and justice and mercy, that she hadimagined were anchor-cables to hold fast her soul torighteousness had not been hers in the strange, biased duty thathad so exalted and confounded her.

　　Presently Jane began to act her little part, to laugh and playwith Fay, to talk of horses and cattle to Lassiter. Then she madedeliberate mention of a book in which she kept records of allpertaining to her stock, and she walked slowly toward the table,and when near the door she suddenly whirled and thrust it open.Her sharp action nearly knocked down a woman who had undoubtedlybeen listening.

　　"Hester," said Jane, sternly, "you may go home, and you need notcome back."

　　Jane shut the door and returned to Lassiter. Standing unsteadily,she put her hand on his arm. She let him see that doubt had gone,and how this stab of disloyalty pained her.

　　"Spies! My own women!...Oh, miserable!" she cried, with flashing,tearful eyes.

　　"I hate to tell you," he replied. By that she knew he had longspared her. "It's begun again--that work in the dark."

　　"Nay, Lassiter--it never stopped!"

　　So bitter certainty claimed her at last, and trust fledWithersteen House and fled forever. The women who owed much toJane Withersteen changed not in love for her, nor in devotion totheir household work, but they poisoned both by a thousand actsof stealth and cunning and duplicity. Jane broke out once andcaught them in strange, stone-faced, unhesitating falsehood.Thereafter she broke out no more. She forgave them because theywere driven. Poor, fettered, and sealed Hagars, how she pitiedthem! What terrible thing bound them and locked their lips, whenthey showed neither consciousness of guilt toward theirbenefactress nor distress at the slow wearing apart oflong-established and dear ties?

　　"The blindness again!" cried Jane Withersteen. "In my sisters asin me!...O God!"

　　There came a time when no words passed between Jane and herwomen. Silently they went about their household duties, andsecretly they went about the underhand work to which they hadbeen bidden. The gloom of the house and the gloom of itsmistress, which darkened even the bright spirit of little Fay,did not pervade these women. Happiness was not among them, butthey were aloof from gloom. They spied and listened; theyreceived and sent secret messengers; and they stole Jane's booksand records, and finally the papers that were deeds of herpossessions. Through it all they were silent, rapt in a kind oftrance. Then one by one, without leave or explanation orfarewell, they left Withersteen House, and neverreturned.

　　Coincident with this disappearance Jane's gardeners and workersin the alfalfa fields and stable men quit her, not even askingfor their wages. Of all her Mormon employees about the greatranch only Jerd remained. He went on with his duty, but talked nomore of the change than if it had never occurred.

　　"Jerd," said Jane, "what stock you can't take care of turn out inthe sage. Let your first thought be for Black Star and Night.Keep them in perfect condition. Run them every day and watch themalways."

　　Though Jane Withersteen gave them such liberality, she loved herpossessions. She loved the rich, green stretches of alfalfa, andthe farms, and the grove, and the old stone house, and thebeautiful, ever-faithful amber spring, and every one of a myriadof horses and colts and burros and fowls down to the smallestrabbit that nipped her vegetables; but she loved best her nobleArabian steeds. In common with all riders of the upland sage Janecherished two material things--the cold, sweet, brown water thatmade life possible in the wilderness and the horses which were apart of that life. When Lassiter asked her what Lassiter would bewithout his guns he was assuming that his horse was part ofhimself. So Jane loved Black Star and Night because it was hernature to love all beautiful creatures--perhaps all livingthings; and then she loved them because she herself was of thesage and in her had been born and bred the rider's instinct torely on his four-footed brother. And when Jane gave Jerd theorder to keep her favorites trained down to the day it was ahalf-conscious admission that presaged a time when she would needher fleet horses.

　　Jane had now, however, no leisure to brood over the coils thatwere closing round her. Mrs. Larkin grew weaker as the Augustdays began; she required constant care; there was little Fay tolook after; and such household work as was imperative. Lassiterput Bells in the stable with the other racers, and directed hisefforts to a closer attendance upon Jane. She welcomed thechange. He was always at hand to help, and it was her fortune tolearn that his boast of being awkward around women had its rootin humility and was not true.

　　His great, brown hands were skilled in a multiplicity of wayswhich a woman might have envied. He shared Jane's work, and wasof especial help to her in nursing Mrs. Larkin. The womansuffered most at night, and this often broke Jane's rest. So itcame about that Lassiter would stay by Mrs. Larkin during theday, when she needed care, and Jane would make up the sleep shelost in night-watches. Mrs. Larkin at once took kindly to thegentle Lassiter, and, without ever asking who or what he was,praised him to Jane. "He's a good man and loves children," shesaid. How sad to hear this truth spoken of a man whom Janethought lost beyond all redemption! Yet ever and ever Lassitertowered above her, and behind or through his black, sinisterfigure shone something luminous that strangely affected Jane.Good and evil began to seem incomprehensibly blended in herjudgment. It was her belief that evil could not come forth fromgood; yet here was a murderer who dwarfed in gentleness,patience, and love any man she had ever known.

　　She had almost lost track of her more outside concerns when earlyone morning Judkins presented himself before her in thecourtyard.

　　Thin, hard, burnt, bearded, with the dust and sage thick on him,with his leather wrist-bands shining from use, and his boots wornthrough on the stirrup side, he looked the rider of riders. Hewore two guns and carried a Winchester.

　　Jane greeted him with surprise and warmth, set meat and bread anddrink before him; and called Lassiter out to see him. The menexchanged glances, and the meaning of Lassiter's keen inquiry andJudkins's bold reply, both unspoken, was not lost upon Jane.

　　"Where's your hoss?" asked Lassiter, aloud.

　　"Left him down the slope," answered Judkins. "I footed it in aways, an' slept last night in the sage. I went to the place youtold me you 'moss always slept, but didn't strike you."

　　"I moved up some, near the spring, an' now I go there nights."

　　"Judkins--the white herd?" queried Jane, hurriedly.

　　"Miss Withersteen, I make proud to say I've not lost a steer. Fera good while after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed notrouble. Why, even the sage dogs left us. But it's begunagin--thet flashin' of lights over ridge tips, an' queer puffin'of smoke, en' then at night strange whistles en' noises. But theherd's acted magnificent. An' my boys, say, Miss Withersteen,they're only kids, but I ask no better riders. I got the laugh inthe village fer takin' them out. They're a wild lot, an' you knowboys hev more nerve than grown men, because they don't know whatdanger is. "I'm not denyin' there's danger. But they glory in it,an' mebbe I like it myself--anyway, we'll stick. We're goin' todrive the herd on the far side of the first break of Deception Pass.There's a great round valley over there, an' no ridges or pilesof rocks to aid these stampeders. The rains are due. We'll hevplenty of water fer a while. An' we can hold thet herd fromanybody except Oldrin'. I come in fer supplies. I'll pack acouple of burros an' drive out after dark to-night."

　　"Judkins, take what you want from the store-room. Lassiter willhelp you. I--I can't thank you enough...but--wait."

　　Jane went to the room that had once been her father's, and from asecret chamber in the thick stone wall she took a bag of gold,and, carrying it back to the court, she gave it to the rider.

　　"There, Judkins, and understand that I regard it as little foryour loyalty. Give what is fair to your boys, and keep the rest.Hide it. Perhaps that would be wisest."

　　"Oh...Miss Withersteen!" ejaculated the rider. "I couldn't earnso much in--in ten years. It's not right--I oughtn't take it."

　　"Judkins, you know I'm a rich woman. I tell you I've few faithfulfriends. I've fallen upon evil days. God only knows what willbecome of me and mine! So take the gold."

　　She smiled in understanding of his speechless gratitude, and lefthim with Lassiter. Presently she heard him speaking low at first,then in louder accents emphasized by the thumping of his rifle onthe stones. "As infernal a job as even you, Lassiter, ever heerdof."

　　"Why, son," was Lassiter's reply, "this breakin' of MissWithersteen may seem bad to you, but it ain't bad--yet. Some ofthese wall-eyed fellers who look jest as if they was walkin' inthe shadow of Christ himself, right down the sunny road, now theycan think of things en' do things that are really hell-bent."

　　Jane covered her ears and ran to her own room, and there likecaged lioness she paced to and fro till the coming of little Fayreversed her dark thoughts.

　　The following day, a warm and muggy one threatening rain awhileJane was resting in the court, a horseman clattered through hegrove and up to the hitching-rack. He leaped off and approachedJane with the manner of a man determined to execute difficultmission, yet fearful of its reception. In the gaunt, wiry figureand the lean, brown face Jane recognized one of her Mormonriders, Blake. It was he of whom Judkins had long since spoken.Of all the riders ever in her employ Blake owed her the most, andas he stepped before her, removing his hat and making manlyefforts to subdue his emotion, he showed that he remembered.

　　"Miss Withersteen, mother's dead," he said.

　　"Oh--Blake!" exclaimed Jane, and she could say no more.

　　"She died free from pain in the end, and she's buried--resting atlast, thank God!...I've come to ride for you again, if you'llhave me. Don't think I mentioned mother to get your sympathy.When she was living and your riders quit, I had to also. I wasafraid of what might be done--said to her....Miss Withersteen,we can't talk of--of what's going on now--"

　　"Blake, do you know?"

　　"I know a great deal. You understand, my lips are shut. Butwithout explanation or excuse I offer my services. I'm aMormon--I hope a good one. But--there are some things!...It's nouse, Miss Withersteen, I can't say any more--what I'd like to.But will you take me back?"

　　"Blake!...You know what it means?"

　　"I don't care. I'm sick of--of--I'll show you a Mormon who'll betrue to you!"

　　"But, Blake--how terribly you might suffer for that!"

　　"Maybe. Aren't you suffering now?"

　　"God knows indeed I am!"

　　"Miss Withersteen, it's a liberty on my part to speak so, but Iknow you pretty well--know you'll never give in. I wouldn't if Iwere you. And I--I must--Something makes me tell you the worst isyet to come. That's all. I absolutely can't say more. Will youtake me back--let me ride for you--show everybody what Imean?"

　　"Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders hurt me whenthey quit!" Jane felt the hot tears well to her eyes and splashdown upon her hands. "I thought so much of them--tried so hard tobe good to them. And not one was true. You've made it easy toforgive. Perhaps many of them really feel as you do, but dare notreturn to me. Still, Blake, I hesitate to take you back. Yet Iwant you so much."

　　"Do it, then. If you're going to make your life a lesson toMormon women, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right isright. I believe in you, and here's my life to prove it."

　　"You hint it may mean your life!" said Jane, breathless and low.

　　"We won't speak of that. I want to come back. I want to do whatevery rider aches in his secret heart to do for you....MissWithersteen, I hoped it'd not be necessary to tell you that mymother on her deathbed told me to have courage. She knew how thething galled me--she told me to come back....Will you take me?"

　　"God bless you, Blake! Yes, I'll take you back. And willyou--will you accept gold from me?"

　　"Miss Withersteen!"

　　"I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I'll give you one. If youwill not take it you must not come back. You might ride for me afew months-- weeks--days till the storm breaks. Then you'd havenothing, and be in disgrace with your people. We'll forearm youagainst poverty, and me against endless regret. I'll give yougold which you can hide--till some future time."

　　"Well, if it pleases you," replied Blake. "But you know I neverthought of pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want tosee this man Lassiter. Is he here?"

　　"Yes, but, Blake--what--Need you see him? Why?" asked Jane,instantly worried. "I can speak to him--tell him about you."

　　"That won't do. I want to--I've got to tell him myself. Where ishe?"

　　"Lassiter is with Mrs. Larkin. She is ill. I'll call him,"answered Jane, and going to the door she softly called for therider. A faint, musical jingle preceded his step--then his tallform crossed the threshold.

　　"Lassiter, here's Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come backto me and he wishes to speak to you."

　　Blake's brown face turned exceedingly pale.

　　"Yes, I had to speak to you," he said, swiftly. "My name's Blake.I'm a Mormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Withersteen. I'vecome to beg her to take me back. Now I don't know you; but Iknow--what you are. So I've this to say to your face. It wouldnever occur to this woman to imagine--let alone suspect me to bea spy. She couldn't think it might just be a low plot to comehere and shoot you in the back. Jane Withersteen hasn't that kindof a mind....Well, I've not come for that. I want to help her--topull a bridle along with Judkins and--and you. The thing is--doyou believe me?"

　　"I reckon I do," replied Lassiter. How this slow, cool speechcontrasted with Blake's hot, impulsive words! "You might havesaved some of your breath. See here, Blake, cinch this in yourmind. Lassiter has met some square Mormons! An'mebbe--"

　　"Blake," interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate acolloquy that she perceived was an ordeal for him. "Go at onceand fetch me a report of my horses."

　　"Miss Withersteen!...You mean the big drove--down in thesage-cleared fields?"

　　"Of course," replied Jane. "My horses are all there, except theblooded stock I keep here."

　　"Haven't you heard--then?"

　　"Heard? No! What's happened to them?"

　　"They're gone, Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. Dorntold me, and I rode down to see for myself."

　　"Lassiter--did you know?" asked Jane, whirling to him.

　　"I reckon so....But what was the use to tell you?"

　　It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying thestone flags at his feet that brought Jane to the understanding ofwhat she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not riseimmediately from such a blow.

　　"My horses! My horses! What's become of them?"

　　"Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring....And Itrailed the horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass."

　　"My red herd's gone! My horses gone! The white herd will go next.I can stand that. But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would belike parting with my own flesh and blood. Lassiter--Blake--am Iin danger of losing my racers?"

　　"A rustler--or--or anybody stealin' hosses of yours would most ofall want the blacks," said Lassiter. His evasive reply wasaffirmative enough. The other rider nodded gloomyacquiescence.

　　"Oh! Oh!" Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance.

　　"Let me take charge of the blacks?" asked Blake. "One more riderwon't be any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Starand Night, if you put such store on their value."

　　"Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there's another reasonwhy I mustn't lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerdevery day when he runs the horses, and don't let them out of yoursight. If you would please me--win my gratitude, guard my blackracers."

　　When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiterregarded Jane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the dayssped by.

　　"'Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on themhosses. Now I ain't gainsayin' that the Arabians are thehandsomest hosses I ever seen. But Bells can beat Night, an' runneck en' neck with Black Star."

　　"Lassiter, don't tease me now. I'm miserable--sick. Bells isfast, but he can't stay with the blacks, and you know it. OnlyWrangle can do that."

　　"I'll bet that big raw-boned brute can more'n show his heels toyour black racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase,Wrangle could kill your favorites."

　　"No, no," replied Jane, impatiently. "Lassiter, why do you saythat so often? I know you've teased me at times, and I believeit's only kindness. You're always trying to keep my mind offworry. But you mean more by this repeated mention of my racers?"

　　"I reckon so." Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time inher presence moved his black sombrero round and round, as ifcounting the silver pieces on the band. "Well, Jane, I've sort ofread a little that's passin' in your mind."

　　"You think I might fly from my home--from Cottonwoods--from theUtah border?"

　　"I reckon. An' if you ever do an' get away with the blacks Iwouldn't like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle couldcatch you. I know Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbehe hasn't got him now....Besides--things are happenin', an'somethin' of the same queer nature might have happened toVenters."

　　"God knows you're right!...Poor Bern, how long he's gone! In mytrouble I've been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I've little fearfor him. I've heard my riders say he's as keen as a wolf...."As to your reading my thoughts--well, your suggestion makes anactual thought of what was only one of my dreams. I believe Idreamed of flying from this wild borderland, Lassiter. I'vestrange dreams. I'm not always practical and thinking of my manyduties, as you said once. For instance--if I dared--if I daredI'd ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away with me--and hideme."

　　"Jane!"

　　The rider's sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seenLassiter's cool calm broken--when he had met little Fay, when hehad learned how and why he had come to love both child andmistress, when he had stood beside Milly Erne's grave. But oneand all they could not be considered in the light of his presentagitation. Not only did Lassiter turn white--not only did he growtense, not only did he lose his coolness, but also he suddenly,violently, hungrily took her into his arms and crushed her to hisbreast.

　　"Lassiter!" cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which shetook sole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he releasedher. "Forgive me!" went on Jane. "I'm always forgettingyour--your feelings. I thought of you as my faithful friend. I'malways making you out more than human...only, let me say--I meantthat--about riding away. I'm wretched, sick of this--this--Oh,something bitter and black grows on my heart!"

　　"Jane, the hell--of it," he replied, with deep intake of breath,"is you can't ride away. Mebbe realizin' it accounts for mygrabbin' you--that way, as much as the crazy boy's rapture yourwords gave me. I don't understand myself....But the hell of thisgame is--you can't ride away."

　　"Lassiter!...What on earth do you mean? I'm an absolutely freewoman."

　　"You ain't absolutely anythin' of the kind....I reckon I've gotto tell you!"

　　"Tell me all. It's uncertainty that makes me a coward. It's faithand hope--blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Everyday I awake believing--still believing. The day grows, and withit doubts, fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter andhotter into my heart. Then comes night--I pray--I pray for all,and for myself--I sleep--and I awake free once more, trustful,faithful, to believe--to hope! Then, O my God! I grow and live athousand years till night again!...But if you want to see me awoman, tell me why I can't ride away--tell me what more I'm tolose--tell me the worst."

　　"Jane, you're watched. There's no single move of yours, exceptwhen you're hid in your house, that ain't seen by sharp eyes. Thecottonwood grove's full of creepin', crawlin' men. Like Indiansin the grass. When you rode, which wasn't often lately, the sagewas full of sneakin' men. At night they crawl under your windowsinto the court, an' I reckon into the house. Jane Withersteen,you know, never locked a door! This here grove's a hummin'bee-hive of mysterious happenin's. Jane, it ain't so much thatthese soles keep out of my way as me keepin' out of theirs.They're goin' to try to kill me. That's plain. But mebbe I'm ashard to shoot in the back as in the face. So far I've seen fit towatch only. This all means, Jane, that you're a marked woman. Youcan't get away-- not now. Mebbe later, when you're broken, youmight. But that's sure doubtful. Jane, you're to lose the cattlethat's left--your home en' ranch--en' amber Spring. You can'teven hide a sack of gold! For it couldn't be slipped out of thehouse, day or night, an' hid or buried, let alone be rid offwith. You may lose all. I'm tellin' you, Jane, hopin' to prepareyou, if the worst does come. I told you once before about thatstrange power I've got to feel things."

　　"Lassiter, what can I do?"

　　"Nothin', I reckon, except know what's comin' an' wait an' begame. If you'd let me make a call on Tull, an' a long-deferredcall on--"

　　"Hush!...Hush!" she whispered.

　　"Well, even that wouldn't help you any in the end."

　　"What does it mean? Oh, what does it mean? I am my father'sdaughter--a Mormon, yet I can't see! I've not failed inreligion--in duty. For years I've given with a free and fullheart. When my father died I was rich. If I'm still rich it'sbecause I couldn't find enough ways to become poor. What am I,what are my possessions to set in motion such intensity of secretoppression?"

　　"Jane, the mind behind it all is an empire builder."

　　"But, Lassiter, I would give freely--all I own to avertthis--this wretched thing. If I gave--that would leave me withfaith still. Surely my--my churchmen think of my soul? If I losemy trust in them--"

　　"Child, be still!" said Lassiter, with a dark dignity that had init something of pity. "You are a woman, fine en' big an' strong,an' your heart matches your size. But in mind you're a child.I'll say a little more--then I'm done. I'll never mention thisagain. Among many thousands of women you're one who has buckedagainst your churchmen. They tried you out, an' failed ofpersuasion, an' finally of threats. You meet now the cold steelof a will as far from Christlike as the universe is wide. You'reto be broken. Your body's to be held, given to some man, made, ifpossible, to bring children into the world. But your soul?...Whatdo they care for your soul?"