“I am very sure you are doing nothing either bad or selfish,” he said; but hesitated and added no more.
“You won’t tell me,” she cried; “that must mean that you are against me. Mr. Ashford, I have always heard that there was a great difference between girls and boys; like this: that for a boy to work was always honourable, but for a girl to work was letting down the family. Mamma—I don’t know if she was a good judge—always said so. She said it was better to do anything than work, so as that people should know. There was a lady, who was an officer’s wife, just as good as we were, but they all said she was a governess once, and were disagreeable to her. It seemed a kind of disgrace to all the children. Their mother was a governess——”
“But that is very bad; very cruel,” said the Minor Canon. “I am sure, in your heart, that is not a thing of which you can approve.”
“No,” said Lottie, doubtfully; “except just this—that it would be far more credit, far more right, if the men were to try hard and keep the girls at home. That is what I thought. Oh, it is not the work I think of! Work! I like it. I don’t mind what I do. But there must always be somebody for the work at home. Do you suppose Mary could manage for them if I were not here? There would be twice as much spent, and everything would be different. And do you not think, Mr. Ashford, that it would be more credit to them—better for everyone, more honourable for Law, if he were at work and I at home, rather than that people should say, ‘His sister is a singer?’ Ah! would you let your own sister be a singer if you were as poor as we are? Or would you rather fight it out with the world, and keep her safe at home, only serving you?”
“My sister!” said the Minor Canon. He was half-affronted, half-touched, and wholly unreasonable. “That she should never do! not so long as her brother lived to work for her—nor would I think it fit either that she should serve me.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong,” said Lottie, whose face was lighted up with a smile of triumph. “I thought you would be on my side! But there you are wrong. She would be happy, proud to serve you. Do you think I mean we are to be idle, not to take our share? Oh, no, no! In nature a man works and rests; but a woman never rests. Look at the poor people. The man has his time to himself in the evenings, and his wife serves him. It is quite right—it is her share. I should never, never grumble at that. Only,” cried Lottie, involuntarily clasping her hands, “not to be sent outside to work there! I keep Mary for the name of the thing; because it seems right to have a servant; but if we could not afford to keep Mary do you think I would make a fuss? Oh, no, Mr. Ashford, no! I could do three times what she does. I should not mind what I did. But if it came to going out, to having it known, to letting people say, ‘His sister is a governess,’ or (far worse) ‘His sister is a singer’—it is that I cannot bear.”
Mr. Ashford was carried away by this torrent of words, and by the natural eloquence of her eyes and impassioned voice, and varying countenance. He did not know what to say. He shook his head, but when he came to himself, and found his footing again, made what stand he could. “You forget,” he said, “that all this would be of no use for yourself or your future——”
“For me!” Lottie took the words out of his mouth with a flush and glow of beautiful indignation. “Was it me I was thinking of? Oh, I thought you understood!” she cried.
“Let me speak, Miss Despard. Yes, I understand. You would be their servant; you would work all the brightness of your life away. You would never think of yourself; and when it suited them to make a change—say when it suited Law to marry—you would be thrown aside, and you would find yourself without a home, wearied, worn out with your work, disappointed, feeling the thanklessness, the bitterness of the world.”
Lottie’s face clouded over. She looked at him, half-defiant, half-appealing. “That is not how—one’s brother would behave. You would not do it——”