"Of course not, mother, but Oliver——"
In Mrs. Pendleton's soft, anxious eyes the shadow darkened, as if for the first time she had grown suspicious of the traditional wisdom which she was imparting. But this suspicion was so new and young that it could not struggle for existence against the archaic roots of her inherited belief in the Pauline measure of her sex. It was characteristic of her—and indeed of most women of her generation—that she would have endured martyrdom in support of the consecrated doctrine of her inferiority to man.
"Even in the matter of religion you ought to yield to him, darling," she said after a moment in which she had appealed to that orthodox arbiter, her conscience. "Your father and I were talking about what church you should go to, and I said that I supposed Oliver was a Presbyterian, like all of the Treadwells."
"Oh, mother, I didn't tell you before because I hoped I could change him—but he doesn't go to any church—he says they all bore him equally. He has broken away from all the old ideas, you know. He is dreadfully—unsettled."
The anxiety, which had been until then merely a shadow in Mrs. Pendleton's eyes, deepened into a positive pain.
"Your father must have known, for he talked to him—but he wouldn't tell me," she said.
"I made father promise not to. I hoped so I could change Oliver, and maybe I can after we're married, mother."
"If he has given up the old spiritual standards, what has he in place of them?" asked Mrs. Pendleton, and she had suddenly a queer feeling as if little fine needles were pricking her skin.
"I don't know, but he seems to have a great deal, more than any of us," answered Virginia, and she added passionately, "He is good, mother."
"I never doubted it, darling, but he is young, and his character cannot be entirely formed at his age. A man must be very strong in order to be good without faith."