The lot of ugly girls is not joyful, and they must be possessed of natures very absurdly sanguine indeed ever to hope for any enjoyment in life.
It was cruel, base, horrible of my mother to send me to M’Swat’s. I would not go—not for 50 pounds a day! I would not go! I would not! not for any consideration.
I stamped about in a fever of impatience until grannie appeared, when I handed both letters to her, and breathlessly awaited her verdict.
“Well, child, what do you say?”
“Say? I won’t go! I can’t! I won’t! Oh, grannie, don’t send me there—I would rather die.”
“My dear child, I would not be willing to part with you under any circumstances, but I cannot interfere between a mother and her child. I would not have allowed any one to do it with me, and believe in acting the same towards any other mother, even though she is my own daughter. However, there is time to get a reply before you would have to start, so I will write and see what can be done.”
The dear old lady, with her prompt businesslike propensities, sat down and wrote there and then. I wrote also—pleaded with my mother against her decree, begged her to leave me at Caddagat, and assured her I could never succeed at M’Swat’s.
I did not sleep that night, so arose betimes to await the first traveller, whom I asked to post the letters.
We got an answer to them sooner than we expected—at least grannie did. Mother did not deign to write to me, but in her letter to grannie I was described as an abominably selfish creature, who would not consider her little brothers and sisters. I would never be any good; all I thought of was idleness and ease. Most decidedly I could not get out of going to M’Swat’s, as mother had given her word.
“I am sorry for you,” said grannie, “but it cannot be helped. You can stay there for two or three years, and then I can have you here again.”