Book 7 - Chapter 5 - Page 2

heavy rain would have prevented her
from going since; but there was another reason. Dr. Kenn, at first
enlightened only by a few hints as to the new turn which gossip and
slander had taken in relation to Maggie, had recently been made more
fully aware of it by an earnest remonstrance from one of his male
parishioners against the indiscretion of persisting in the attempt to
overcome the prevalent feeling in the parish by a course of
resistance. Dr. Kenn, having a conscience void of offence in the
matter, was still inclined to persevere,--was still averse to give way
before a public sentiment that was odious and contemptible; but he was
finally wrought upon by the consideration of the peculiar
responsibility attached to his office, of avoiding the appearance of
evil,--an "appearance" that is always dependent on the average quality
of surrounding minds. Where these minds are low and gross, the area of
that "appearance" is proportionately widened. Perhaps he was in danger
of acting from obstinacy; perhaps it was his duty to succumb.
Conscientious people are apt to see their duty in that which is the
most painful course; and to recede was always painful to Dr. Kenn. He
made up his mind that he must advise Maggie to go away from St. Ogg's
for a time; and he performed that difficult task with as much delicacy
as he could, only stating in vague terms that he found his attempt to
countenance her stay was a source of discord between himself and his
parishioners, that was likely to obstruct his usefulness as a
clergyman. He begged her to allow him to write to a clerical friend of
his, who might possibly take her into his own family as governess;
and, if not, would probably know of some other available position for
a young woman in whose welfare Dr. Kenn felt a strong interest.

Poor Maggie listened with a trembling lip; she could say nothing but a
faint "Thank you, I shall be grateful"; and she walked back to her
lodgings, through the driving rain, with a new sense of desolation.
She must be a lonely wanderer; she must go out among fresh faces, that
would look at her wonderingly, because the days did not seem joyful to
her; she must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouse
herself to receive new impressions; and she was so unspeakably,
sickeningly weary! There was no home, no help for the erring; even
those who pitied were constrained to hardness. But ought she to
complain? Ought she to shrink in this way from the long penance of
life, which was all the possibility she had of lightening the load to
some other sufferers, and so changing that passionate error into a new
force of unselfish human love? All the next day she sat in her lonely
room, with a window darkened by the cloud and the driving rain,