“There—there again! I don’t care how low we are forced by the cruelty of my relatives, and your poor dear papa’s. I will never forget that I am a lady.”
“Surely not, dear,” said Hazel soothingly.
“Then why will you persist in calling me by that low, common, degrading term—Mother?”
“Dear mamma, I thought it better under the circumstances.”
“No circumstances could excuse it, Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne with dignity. “Percy never speaks to me like that; and by-the-way, my dear, Percy says he must have a new suit: his mourning is getting so shabby, he is quite ashamed of it, and I’m sure my heart bleeds every time I see the poor boy go out.”
“Yes, mamma, we will see what can be done,” said Hazel, suppressing a sigh.
“And as to that national school business,” continued Mrs Thorne, “it is disgraceful. Write and tell cousin Jane and her husband that, however low we may be reduced by poverty, my daughter will never forget that she is a lady.”
“But, mamma dear,” said Hazel gently; “it was entirely my idea, and I wrote for their help.”
“You—you, Hazel—my child—propose to go to a common training school, and then accept a situation to teach a pack of dirty poor people’s children? Oh, what have I done—what have I done to be called upon to suffer this new—this pitiful degradation! What have I done?”
It was hard work, but by degrees poor Mrs Thorne was brought round to think that perhaps—perhaps—she would go no farther—it might be less degradation to accept an honourable post and do a great duty therein of helping to make so many girls better women by careful training, than to live in indigence as a kind of respectable pauper, subsisting on the assistance of grudging friends.