Generally it was her conscience that forbade her to be
silent, and against this there was no appeal, for we are all bound
to follow the dictates of our conscience. Ernest used to have to
recite a hymn about conscience. It was to the effect that if you did
not pay attention to its voice it would soon leave off speaking. "My
mamma's conscience has not left off speaking," said Ernest to one of
his chums at Roughborough; "it's always jabbering."
When a boy has once spoken so disrespectfully as this about his
mother's conscience it is practically all over between him and her.
Ernest through sheer force of habit, of the sofa, and of the return of
the associated ideas, was still so moved by the siren's voice as to
yearn to sail towards her, and fling himself into her arms, but it
would not do; there were other associated ideas that returned also,
and the mangled bones of too many murdered confessions were lying
whitening round the skirts of his mother's dress, to allow him by
any possibility to trust her further. So he hung his head and looked
sheepish, but kept his own counsel.
"I see, my dearest," continued his mother, "either that I am
mistaken, and that there is nothing on your mind, or that you will not
unburden yourself to me: but oh, Ernest, tell me at least this much;
is there nothing that you repent of, nothing which makes you unhappy
in connection with that miserable girl Ellen?"
Ernest's heart failed him.
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