“There—there—there!” cried Mrs Thorne, with aggravating iteration. “What did I say? Everything I propose is impossible, and yet in the same breath the child of my bosom tells me that she is ready to do anything to make me happy, and to show how dutiful she is.”
“Mother,” said Hazel gravely, “how can you be so cruel? Your words cut me to the heart.”
“I am glad of it, Hazel—I am very glad of it; for it was time that your hard, cruel heart should be touched, and that you should know something of the sufferings borne by your poor, bereaved mother. A little real sorrow, my child, would make you very, very different, and teach you, and change you. Ah, there is nothing like sorrow for chastening a hard and thoughtless heart!”
“Mother dear,” said Hazel, trying to kiss her. “I must go into the school.”
“No, no! don’t kiss me, Hazel,” said the poor, weak woman with a great show of dignity; “I could not bear it now. When you can come to me in all proper humility, as you will to-night, and say, ‘Mamma, we will leave here to-morrow,’ I shall be ready to receive you into my embrace once more.”
“My dear mother, you drive me to speak firmly,” said Hazel quietly. “I shall not be able to come to you to-night and to say that we will leave here. It is impossible.”
“Then you must have formed some attachment that you are keeping from me. Hazel, if you degrade yourself by marrying that Chute I will never speak to you again.”
“Hush, mother! the children will hear.”
“Let them hear my protests,” cried Mrs Thorne excitedly. “I will proclaim it on the housetops, as Mr Lambent very properly observed last Sunday in his sermon. I will let every one know that you intend to degrade yourself by that objectionable alliance, and against it I now enter my most formal protest.”
Mrs Thorne’s voice was growing loud, and she was shedding tears. Her countenance was flushed, and she looked altogether unlovely as well as weak.