Mrs. H. Worse! Mary, what can you mean?
Mrs. M. Yes, it is worse. I got at the whole truth yesterday. My poor child’s faith has gone! Oh, how could I let her go and let her mingle among all those people, all unguarded!
Mrs. H. Do you mean that this is the real reason that she will not come home?
Mrs. M. Yes; she told me plainly at last that she could not stand our round of services. They seem empty and obsolete to her, and she could not feign to attend them or vex us, and cause remarks by staying away, and of course she neither could nor would teach anything but secular matters. ‘My coming would be nothing but pain to everybody,’ she said.
Mrs H. You did not tell me this before my drive with her.
Mrs. M. No, I never saw you alone; besides, I thought you would speak more freely without the knowledge. And, to tell the truth, I did think it possible that consideration for me might bring my poor Cissy down to us, and that when once under my father’s influence, all these mists might clear away. But I do not deserve it. I have been an unfaithful parent, shutting my eyes in feeble indulgence, and letting her drift into these quicksands.
Mrs. H. Fashion and imitation, my dear Mary; it will pass away. Now, you are not to talk any more.
Mrs. M. I can’t— (A spasm comes on.)
X. AUNT AND NEPHEW
SCENE.—Six months later, Darkglade Vicarage, a darkened room. Mrs. Holland and Lucius.