Now this thing had come.  He put aside the possibility that Sally was mistaken; he felt strangely certain that she was right; after all, it was so likely; anyone could see that Nature had built her to be the mother of children.  He knew what he ought to do.  He ought not to let the incident divert him a hair’s breadth from his path.  He thought of Griffiths; he could easily imagine with what indifference that young man would have received such a piece of news; he would have thought it an awful nuisance and would at once have taken to his heels, like a wise fellow; he would have left the girl to deal with her troubles as best she could.  Philip told himself that if this had happened it was because it was inevitable.  He was no more to blame than Sally; she was a girl who knew the world and the facts of life, and she had taken the risk with her eyes open.  It would be madness to allow such an accident to disturb the whole pattern of his life.  He was one of the few people who was acutely conscious of the transitoriness of life, and how necessary it was to make the most of it.  He would do what he could for Sally; he could afford to give her a sufficient sum of money.  A strong man would never allow himself to be turned from his purpose.

Philip said all this to himself, but he knew he could not do it.  He simply could not.  He knew himself.

“I’m so damned weak,” he muttered despairingly.

She had trusted him and been kind to him.  He simply could not do a thing which, notwithstanding all his reason, he felt was horrible.  He knew he would have no peace on his travels if he had the thought constantly with him that she was wretched.  Besides, there were her father and mother:  they had always treated him well; it was not possible to repay them with ingratitude.  The only thing was to marry Sally as quickly as possible.  He would write to Doctor South, tell him he was going to be married at once, and say that if his offer still held he was willing to accept it.  That sort of practice, among poor people, was the only one possible for him; there his deformity did not matter, and they would not sneer at the simple manners of his wife.  It was curious to think of her as his wife, it gave him a queer, soft feeling; and a wave of emotion spread over him as he thought of the child which was his.  He had little doubt that Doctor South would be glad to have him, and he pictured to himself the life he would lead with Sally in the fishing village.  They would have a little house within sight of the sea, and he would watch the mighty ships passing to the lands he would never know.  Perhaps that was the wisest thing.  Cronshaw had told him that the facts of life mattered nothing to him who by the power of fancy held in fee the twin realms of space and time.  It was true.  Forever wilt thou love and she be fair!