I was taught to take it as physic."
Sanchia's explanation, which she yielded on pressure, of why she had
stopped, was very artless. "I wanted to do something that they thought
wicked, but which I thought quite good. If I went to confession, I should
have been told that I was wicked. So I couldn't go. It was a difference of
opinion, you see."
"Beg pardon," said Lady Maria, "but I don't see. What you mean is that, if
you'd told your priest you were going off with Ingram, he'd have said,
Don't, and put you under the necessity of disobeying him." She owned to
it. And then she owned to something more. If the difficult choice came
before her again, she would think twice. "I can't see, even now, that I
was wrong in what I did. I am sure it must be right, somehow, to follow
your own conscience. But I do see that it's a pity to break rules. Yes, I
see that."
"I didn't suppose myself religious," Lady Maria had replied, "but if that
is what your religion tells you, I agree with it. It's common sense.
What's a heart or two compared with peace and quietness? And how, pray, is
a child of eighteen to know what her conscience is worth?"
"It is all she has to go upon," said Sanchia; but the old lady retorted,
"Nothing of the kind.
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