“What am I to do?” he repeated.
“Let me think a minute. But first, Edward, let us pray.”
They kneeled down side by side at the table, and she prayed simply, uttering the petition of a helpless child to her Father, asking that this sorely-tried man and herself, his weak friend, might be guided rightly in all they should do and that the way might be made plain to them. The words brought comfort to him.
“Now, Edward,” she said, “I know you do not expect me to say anything except exactly what I believe to be true. I did not often see you and Marian together, but I sometimes wondered if in your own strength you did not sometimes fail to make allowances for her weakness.”
“I’ve tried to see my own faults. I’ve no doubt I am much to blame. But does the knowledge of that help me now? It would help me if I could bring Marian back to me—but it’s not that which has made me come to you for advice. What am I to do? Am I to go down to Rottingdean, see Marian and make another appeal to her? And if I do and if I fail—am I to try again and again? To do that means that I should be neglecting my work. Don’t you see?”
He then went on to tell her, what he had not yet mentioned, of the horrible terror that had struck him when he found that God, as he believed, was deaf to his prayers.
“Now,” he said—“now you understand all. Can you help me?”
“I don’t know. One thing I know we must do if we are to help her. We must try to forget all about you and to put ourselves in her place as far as we can. Strangely enough, I fancy perhaps I can do that better than you could. I know you better than you know yourself and so can possibly see you more as she sees you; then I’m a woman and so, though I don’t know half as much about her as you do, it’s more than likely that I understand her a great deal better. You say she changed greatly, after you had been some time in town, from what she had been in the country?”
“Yes, yes; she seemed to me to become utterly different.”
“Just so. But of course she didn’t change at all—she only found herself. She had been simply an artificial, vicarage-bred girl; she became a woman. She never did anything very wrong at the vicarage—there wasn’t any temptation. In town she picked up some of the fruit of the tree and began to nibble at it and found it sweet. She never really loved you—I’m sorry, but I must hurt you if I’m to help you—it wasn’t till she came up here that she realized that she was a woman; she had no love for you, no interest in the life you set before her, no faith; she is young, beautiful, full of life and energy and strong emotions—so far all’s simple enough. But what further? Is she really wicked or only a sinner? If she’s really through and through bad, I know no power on earth can help her or save her. If she’s only a sinner she will save herself. At any rate what can you do or say that you haven’t tried? She knows you love her and would forgive her—I don’t see, Edward, what can be gained by your going down to Rottingdean. I daresay you think I’m talking hardly, but I’m not. I’m only being practical, and there’s no reason I’ve ever heard of why one shouldn’t be truly religious at the same time. God doesn’t love fools.”