‘Who am I, to speak so? Not young to be excused, not a fool to be forgiven; a woman ashamed—and for no end.’
‘If you are married,’ said the Vicar, ‘it is no shame to marry. It may be inappropriate, unsuitable, it may be even regrettable; but it is not wrong. Do not at least take a morbid view.’
She raised her drooping head, and turned round quickly upon him.
‘What am I to do?’ she said. ‘What am I to do?’
The Vicar’s eyes stole, in spite of himself, to the other side of the room. The dark shadow there had not moved; the man still sat with his head bent between his hands. He gave no evidence that he had heard a word of the discussion; he put forth no claim except by his presence there.
‘What can I say?’ said Mr. Germaine. ‘Nothing but commonplace, nothing but what I have already said. Before everything it is your duty to put things on a right foundation; you cannot go on like this. It must be painful to do, but it is the only way.’
‘It is seldom,’ she said, ‘very seldom that you are so precise.’
‘Because,’ he said firmly, ‘there is no doubt on the subject. It is as clear as noonday; there is but one thing to do.’
Mrs. Blencarrow said nothing; she stood with a still resistance in her look—a woman whom nothing could overcome, broken down by circumstances, by trouble, ready to grasp at any expedient; yet unsubdued, and unconvinced that she could not struggle against Fate.
‘I can say nothing else,’ the Vicar repeated, ‘for there is nothing else to say; and perhaps you would prefer that I should go. I can be of no comfort to you, for there is nothing that can be done till this is done—not from my point of view. I can only urge this upon you; I can say nothing different.’