"But, mother, this is the National Church!" pleaded Mary, after a moment. "The Modernists too say—don't they?—that Christ—or what Christ stands for—is the bread of life. Only they understand the words—differently from you. And if"—she came closer to her mother, and putting her hands on Catharine's knees, she looked up into the elder woman's face—"if there were only a few here and there, they could of course do nothing; they could only suffer, and be silent. But there are so many of them—so many! What is the 'Church' but the living souls that make it up? And now thousands of these living souls want to change things in the Church. Their consciences are hurt—they can't believe what they once believed. What is the justice of driving them out—or leaving them starved—forever? They were born in the Church; baptized in the Church! They love the old ways, the old buildings, the old traditions. 'Comfort our consciences!' they say; 'we will never tyrannize over yours. Give us the teaching and the expression we want; you will always have what you want! Make room for us—beside you. If your own faith is strong it will only be the stronger because you let ours speak and live—because you give us our bare rights, as free spirits, in this Church that belongs to the whole English people.' Dear mother, you are so just always—so loving—doesn't that touch you—doesn't it move you—at all?"
The girl's charming face had grown pale. So had Catharine's.
"This, I suppose, is what you have heard Mr. Meynell say," she answered slowly.
Mary turned away, shading her eyes with her hand.
"Yes," she said, with shrinking; "at least I know it is what he would say."
"Oh, Mary, I wish we had never come here!" It was a cry of bitterness, almost of despair. Mary turned and threw her arms round the speaker's neck.
"I will never hurt you, my beloved! you know I won't."
The two gazed into each other's eyes, questions and answers, unspoken yet understood, passing between them. Then Catharine disengaged herself, rose, and went away.
During the night that followed Mary slept little. She was engaged in trying to loosen and tear away those tendrils of the heart that had begun to climb and spread more than she knew. Toward the early dawn it seemed to her she heard slight sounds in her mother's room. But immediately afterward she fell asleep.
The next day, Mary could not tell what had happened; but it was as though, in some inexplicable way, doors had been opened and weights lifted; as though fresh winds had been set blowing through the House of Life. Her mother seemed shaken and frail; Mary hovered about her with ministering tenderness. There were words begun and left unfinished, movements and looks that strangely thrilled and bewildered the younger woman. She had no key to them; but they seemed to speak of change—of something in her mother that had been beaten down, and was still faintly, pitifully striving. But she dared say nothing. They read, and wrote letters, and strolled as usual; till in the evening, while Mary was sitting by the water, Catherine came out to her and stood beside her, holding the local paper in her hand.