Free The Gilded Cage by Susannah Bamford Page B

tears.
    She cried for some time into Lawrence’s handkerchief, which he handed over without a word. “Oh, dear, oh,” she murmured as her sobs quieted. She wiped her cheeks. “I must apologize, Mr. Birch.”
    â€œBut it’s only natural,” Lawrence said kindly. “Mrs. Devlin said some shocking, terribly cruel things. Words a lady should not hear. It was awful for you.”
    â€œYes. To hear truth is never pleasant,” Columbine said.
    â€œMrs. Nash!”
    She sighed and looked down at her boots. “Not the names she called me,” she said softly. “Not that. But I saw truth in her eyes. I shouldn’t have been at that party. I’ve lost my way, you see. It used to be so clear. I was using society for my own ends. I told myself that I needed the wealthy classes on my side, needed those women, and the way I dressed and the places I went made them feel comfortable, more inclined to listen and not be afraid. But was it just an excuse to indulge vanity and luxury? I told myself that my ideas became less shocking, you see, if I were wearing a silk gown and diamonds while I espoused them. I needed those women—their power, and their money.”
    â€œBut all of that is true,” Lawrence said insistently. “Look at what you’ve done.”
    â€œBut I didn’t expect to become one of them. I thought I left that all behind in England.”
    â€œYou think you’re one of them?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Columbine whispered. “Not to them—to them, I’m still an outsider because of my politics, tolerated because of my background and because of Ned. But what about to the people I want to help? My dream was, when I started, to cross class lines. My dream was that all women would see what they had in common. And today I saw contempt in Fiona Devlin’s eyes. She is the woman I’m trying to reach. She is the reason I formed the New Women Society. She is the reason I lecture, the reason I write. But she doesn’t read my articles, Mr. Birch. Do you know who does? Socialists, women’s rights workers. Elizabeth Cady Stanton sends me letters of encouragement, not factory girls. I am preaching to the converted, I have been for two years now. I’m useless. And soon,” she said, her brown eyes pained, “I will be a joke.”
    Lawrence felt shock crash down on him. Columbine Nash was a legend dating from her lectures in the 1880’s. So young, so beautiful, so well-born. And speaking such words of rebellion in that clear English voice so that even the most revolutionary notions sounded like perfect common sense.
    And she was confused . Lawrence had consorted with dogmatics for so long he had forgotten what it was like to be unsure. And this famous revolutionary was a woman, after all. Helpless, lost, needy.
    An enormous sense of power swept over him. He realized that he had her now. Her nerves were fluttering like the wings of a sparrow, and her fine mind was blurred. Her senses were overwhelming her, and she was infinitely attractive, infinitely beautiful, at this moment. For the first time, he was truly attracted to her.
    He almost smiled. He knew exactly what to say. Lawrence always knew exactly what to say to women.
    â€œI can’t let you feel this way,” he said gently. “I know the work you’ve done over the past two years, and I’ve seen, even in the little time I’ve spent with you, how many women you’ve helped. You’ve done so much. It’s natural to lose your way for a time, or to think that you have. Discouragement is part of your life, isn’t it?”
    â€œUnfortunately, I can’t seem to get away from it,” Columbine admitted. Her brown eyes held glints of green, they were full of tears, and she looked heartbreakingly lovely.
    â€œYou just need to rest for a bit. You’ve worked very hard, and very well, and now you’re tired. You must not