William! . . .
[The slightest pause. The scene takes on another complexion.]
VICAR. Do you remember that day when I first came to you and told
you of my love? Did I lie to you? Did I try to hide things? Did
I despise my birth? Did _you_?
AUNTIE. No, no, William, I loved you: I told you so.
VICAR. Did you mind the severance from your family because of me?
AUNTIE. Didn't I always say that I was proud to be able to give up
so much for you, William? . . .
VICAR. Yes, and then what followed? Having given up so much for
me, what followed?
AUNTIE. My dear, circumstances were too strong for us! Can't you
see? _You_ were not made to live out your life in any little odd
hole and corner of the world! There was your reputation, your
fame: you began to be known as an author, a scholar, a wonderful
preacher-- All this required position, influence, social prestige.
You don't think I was ambitious for myself: it was for you.
VICAR. For _me_--yes! And how do you imagine I have benefited by
all your scheming, your contriving, your compromising, your .
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