“My dear child, you are charming,” she declared, “and you are accomplished, but you cannot possibly go through life without a mind and opinion of your own! When I called to take you for a drive the other day, you could not positively say yes or no—but shall I? And then ‘Perhaps I’d better not,’ and then ‘I’m not sure if aunt won’t want me when she comes in,’ and again, ‘I’d like to go above all things, but I’m afraid I’ve kept you so long that I won’t have time to get ready now.’ And at the end, just as I was getting into the carriage, ‘Oh, how I wish I was going with you!’ Now if you continue like this—always standing between two forked roads, what will become of you? At present your aunt decides, but you cannot always be a tender plant, clinging to a stout support, can you?”
“No,” Letty replied; “I see what you mean, and I feel it myself; but all my days have been ordered for me; my clothes have been chosen, my letters read, my books and companions have been the choice of others; I have always walked in the path that was traced for me, and I seem to expect a guiding hand. If I ever had any will of my own—I believe it died years ago.”
“Look here, my good girl,” said Mrs. Hesketh impatiently, “if you have no will of your own, you must grow one! Now I will plant a little seed. You are asked to sing in the Parish Room on Saturday at the Penny Reading. I hear that your answer, since the matter has been left to you, is undecided.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me honestly, would you like to sing—or are you too nervous?”
“I am not the least nervous. I have been accustomed to sing and play at school concerts for years. I was quite a star!” and she laughed gaily; “and I really would like to sing on Saturday if I thought it would give people pleasure; but I have a sort of suspicion, that Aunt Dorothy would rather I didn’t!”
“That’s imagination,” protested Mrs. Hesketh. “Dorothy knows we are badly off for performers, much less stars. It isn’t as if this was to be a big public performance; there will only be the village folk that you see every day, the parson, the doctor, and myself. Now, Letty, look me straight in the face and tell me, do you wish to give these poor people a little pleasure? Will you sing? There must be no shilly-shallying—it’s yes or no—now.”
“Then,” lifting her laughing eyes, “yes.”
“That’s right. Just go over to my writing-table and write a note to Mr. Denton, and tell him that you will sing two songs with pleasure—you can drop it at the Rectory as you pass by.”
Letty rose and did as she was told, with her usual docile obedience, and presently returned with a note in her hand.