“Danger! With your mamma to watch you! ’Tis a poor compliment to my wisdom. My heart’s almost broke to hear you, you undutiful child! And if not marriage, then what? You’re a scatter-brained little fool, and I doubt but you will end as some fine gentleman’s Miss instead of an honest man’s wife! Good Lord, how shall I get to Mrs. Clayton’s and the street all floated with rain. Hark to it! I’ll hear no more folly.”
But the two arms about her person held her fast and two eyes that had softened a stone looked up at her.
“My mamma must hear her girl. Who have I, if not you, Mamma? I have been a great studier of music and you know my voice hath been commended. ’Tis my intention to be beholden no longer to Mr. Fenton, but to go on the stage. For good.”
The murder was out.
“The stage!” screamed Mrs. Fenton, violently unloosing the arms. “That I should live to hear it. The stage!—where every woman is a hussey and every man a knave. If you go on the stage in a year from now you’ll be a mincing wanton that a decent man will flout.”
“And what shall I be if I stay here, Mamma? What has yourself said? Don’t I know Mr. Fenton hath been pleased to borrow your little capital for his pleasure? Don’t I know we are all living on credit? We shall see the inside of a debtor’s prison before long, Mamma, and what then?”
“Di,” cries the other, exerting herself feebly, “you had always the horrid skill to make the worse appear the better reason. I can’t debate with you—I never could from the day you was six, but I bid you on my blessing to consider, and I say that the example I set you when Mr. Beswick run off to the American colonies is the only safe one for a young woman to follow. Shut your eyes and your mind to what’s disagreeable in the present and be patient.”
Diana showed her little teeth in a smile that was not gay.
“Surely the men invented that commandment. But in your case, Mamma, be pleased to remember you had a husband, and, thank God, I’m free. A girl needs not ruin her life for her stepfather. ’Tis certainly not in the Church Catechism.”
A few tears ran down the poor lady’s cheeks and her girl made no motion to dry them. She stared above her mother’s head at the print of the fair Mrs. Oldfield as Lady Betty Modish which graced the wall. That was her own possession; her father’s gift, and perhaps it had set her thoughts in that train. She said nothing but indeed followed her dream as her mother rambled weakly on, till she happed on the phrase that the child had food and roof and sure that should content her. Then Diana flamed indignant, towering above her.