"I should have funked it," was his way of putting
it, by which he meant that he would have funked it through sheer
ignorance of himself and of his aptitude for the high and noble. It was
an aptitude that flourished best under an appreciative eye--of the
dowager countess looking down from heaven--or of the discerning here on
earth--as an actor is encouraged by a sympathetic public to his highest
histrionic efforts. If there was anything histrionic in Ashley himself,
it was only in the sense that he was at his finest when, actually or
potentially, there was some one there to see. He had powers then of
doing precisely the right thing which in solitude might have been
dormant from lack of motive.
It was undoubtedly because he felt the long-sighted eyes of England on
him that he had done precisely the right thing in winning the Victoria
Cross. He confessed this--to himself. He confessed it often--every time,
in fact, when he came to a difficult passage in his life. It was his
strength, his inspiration. He confessed it now. If he sat silent while
Olivia Guion waited till it seemed good to him to speak, it was only
that he might remind himself of the advantages of doing the right thing,
however hard.
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