But now suddenly cut adrift from her
quiet moorings, she found herself powerless to keep out of the rapid
current which must plunge her into deep misery and vice. There had not
been a doubt in her mind that she was not a real Christian, for she had
freely given a sentimental faith to the Christian dogmas propounded to
her by persons whom she held to be wiser and better than herself. In the
same manner she had taken the customs and usages of modern life, always
feeling satisfied to do what others of her own class and rank did. Even
now, though she was conscious that there was some danger for herself,
she could not realize the half of the peril in which she stood. After
Ann Holland left her she lingered still beside the little grave in a
tranquil but somewhat purposeless reverie. There could be no harm, she
thought, in taking just enough to deliver her from her very worst
moments of depression, or when she had to write cheerfully to her
husband. That was a duty, and she must keep a stricter guard over
herself than she had done lately. She would take exactly what her aunt
Bolton drank, and then she could not go wrong.
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