“Oh yes, I liked it then. It carries me away; but—oh! I am afraid!”
“Please tell me, my dear.”
Lydia lowered her voice.
“I must tell you, Mrs. Henderson, mother was a singer in public once, and a dancer; and oh! they were so cruel to her, beat her, and starved her, and ill-used her. She used to tell me about it when I was very little, but now I have grown older, and the people like my voice, she is quite changed. She wants me to go and sing at the Herring-and-a-Half, but I won’t, I won’t—among all the tipsy men. That was why she would not let me be a pupil-teacher, and why she will not see a priest. And now—now I am sure she has a plan in her head. If I do well at this operetta, and people like me, I am sure she will get the man at the circus to take me, by force perhaps, and then it would be all her life over again, and I know that was terrible.”
Poor Ludmilla burst into tears.
“Nay, if she suffered so much she would not wish to expose you to the same.”
“I don’t know. She is in trouble about the shop—the cigars. Oh! I should not have told! You won’t—you won’t—Mrs. Henderson?”
“No, you need not fear, I have nothing to do with that.”
“I don’t think,” Lydia whispered again, “that she cares for me as she used to do when I was a little thing. Now that I care for my duty, and all that you and Mr. Flight have taught me, she is angry, and laughs at English notions. I was in hopes when I came to work here that my earnings would have satisfied her, but they don’t, and I don’t seem to get on.”
Mrs. Henderson could not say that her success was great, but she ventured as much as to tell her that Captain Henderson could prevent any attempt to send her away without her consent.