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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