“I am going away, mamma. I came in to say good-bye to you. I am afraid you will not believe me when I say I am sorry to leave you; you think me ungrateful, but I am not. I am afraid I have been a burden on you for a great many years; but, thanks to your goodness, I can support myself now. I shall never forget you, or the boys, or—or my dear, dear father—I mean Captain Pennant.”
Mrs. Pennant was entirely taken aback. It was not until this moment that she knew how much she should miss the bright, beautiful face, or how lonely she should feel without the girl whom, in spite of herself, she had long secretly looked upon as a daughter.
“This, this is very sudden. You might have spoken to me. I had a right to expect to be consulted,” she said, trying to speak coldly, but with a tremor in her voice.
“I didn’t know how—I didn’t like to trouble you,” faltered the girl.
“Where are you going to? What do you want to do?”
“I have got a situation as help, lady-help they call it, at a little town the other side of Monmouth.”
“Lady—help! A girl brought up as Captain Pennant’s daughter!” cried the poor lady, in disgust and dismay.
“Well, mamma, what could I do? I should never have had the patience to teach children; and I can cook and sew a little, and I’m sure I could scrub. Nobody will ever know me as Captain Pennant’s daughter any more,” she said sadly. “I am simply Deborah Audaer, the fisherman’s daughter.”
“But you can’t go back like that, it’s impossible,” said Mrs. Pennant pettishly. “You are a lady now, whatever you were born. And my husband adopted you as his daughter, so his daughter you will always be to me. And you must remain with me. Understand that.”
She spoke sharply and querulously, but with determination. Still Deborah stood before her, looking perturbed and undecided.