“I was thinking chiefly of Mary. She could teach music. And Annette has had a better education than the others. She could . . .”
“What?”
“She could obtain a situation as a governess.”
“A governess! Annette! A governess!”
In Mrs. Folyat’s eyes to send your daughter out as a governess was a confession of poverty. There could be no glossing it over. Of course the clergy were miserably paid, but Francis had always risen superior to that reproach in public opinion by the general belief in the amplitude of his private means. It could be little short of disaster then to confess to inadequacy. And a governess! Poor Annette! though to be sure when she was a child her godmother had looked at her sadly and observed that she must assuredly be prepared for a convent. She was so plain—a remark which Minna had never ceased to brandish over poor Annette’s head whenever their wills clashed. . . .
Francis at length cut short his wife’s protestations with a sigh and said:
“My dear, I’m sorry. That’s the position. We have to swallow it. We can’t give the girls the opportunities they ought to have. We must let them fight their own way. At present anything is better than the sort of life they are leading. We’ll sell another house, but that shall be the last. We’ll make a fresh start. Be patient with me, my dear.”
“And am I to tell Mary?”
“No. I’ll do that, and I’ll find a family for Annette.”