When she finds out that my mother is opposed to our marrying, she—she won't look at me—she'll give me the right-about-face in no time. Don't you see?"
"Whew! By George! there's something in that. I guess you're right. Yes, I guess you are. She—she's got such a—such a fine sense of what's proper and correct. Yes, sir, I guess you're about right. But—but you speak of her finding it out. How is she going to find it out? I don't see."
"Why, from me, of course. Of course I shall tell her."
"You will? You'll tell her? Why, what in thunder—what under the sun—do you want to tell her for?"
"Why, how can I help it? It wouldn't be honest or honorable for me to keep it from her. For me to go and get her to marry me, without telling her,—why, it would be the same as deceiving her and cheating her—the same as lying to her."
"Ah, yes. I see. I see your point. Hum; you have got yourself into a box, and no mistake. It's too bad; it really is. But look here, Ormizon; do you want to know my candid opinion?"
"Yes. What is it?"
"Well, it's this. If she cares about you enough to agree to be your wife—if she's as much in love with you as that—by George, you might as well take her and kill her outright, as go around there and tell her things that will make her have to give you up. It will break the little thing's heart. It will, as sure as my name's Hiram."
"Good Lord, Palmer, don't sit there and tell me that! Don't you suppose I know that well enough? That—that's just the—the horrible part of it. I'm between two fires."
"Exactly. So you are—between the devil and the deep sea. You've got to make a choice of evils. You've got to choose between deceiving her and breaking her heart. And if you want my advice, as you said you did, I tell you what. If I were in your place, I wouldn't hesitate. I'd deceive her. It would be what you call a pious fraud. The end would justify the means."
"No, I can't—I can't agree with you about that, Palmer. I couldn't—I actually couldn't—lie to her."
"Who said anything about lying to her? There's no need that you should lie to her. I'm the last man in the world to advise anybody to lie."
"Well, but I don't see the difference. You said, deceive her. Well, that's as bad as lying. That's only another name for the same thing."
"Well, I don't know that I should even deceive her—exactly. This is what I'd do. I'd tell her frankly that I was on bad terms with my mother—that my mother and I had had a row—but I'd be blamed before I'd tell her why—before I'd let her know that she was the cause of it. Then I'd marry her—just as soon as I could scare up a parson."
"Yes; and then, after you were married, she'd find it out—she'd discover the trick you'd played her—and she'd—she'd despise you for it."
