"I think the Count is an honourable, well-meaning man," continued the girl, in the same cold tone. "If he sometimes makes himself ridiculous, so do most of us; and doubtless he is open to improvement. I think he is remarkably good-natured and generous, and I am sure he will be kind to us."
Consider Mrs. Christmas's position. An old woman, almost bedridden, ailing, and requiring careful and delicate attention,—one who has seen much of the folly of love and much of the power of money,—is asked for her advice by a young girl who is either on the one hand to marry a wealthy good-natured man, willing to give both a comfortable home, or, on the other hand, to go out alone into the world of London, unprotected and friendless, to earn bread for two people. Even admitting that no grain of selfishness should colour or shape her advice, what was she likely to say?
Ninety-nine women out of a hundred, under such circumstances, would say: "My dear, be sensible, and accept the offer of a worthy and honourable gentleman, instead of exposing yourself to the wretchedness and humiliation of poverty. Romance won't keep you from starving; and besides, in your case, there is no romantic affection to compel you to choose between love and money. People who have come to my time of life know the advantages of securing a happy home and kind friends."
This, too, is probably what Mrs. Christmas would have said—if she had not been born and bred an actress. This is what she did say:—
"My dear" (with a kindly smile on the wan face), "suppose you and I are going forward to the footlights, and I take your hand in mine, and look into your face, and say, 'Listen to the sad story of your mother's life?'"
"Well, Lady Jane?"
"You are supposed to be interested in it, and take its moral deeply to heart. Well, I'm going to tell you a story, sweetheart, although you may not see any moral in it—it's a story your mother knew."
"If she were here now!" the girl murmured, inadvertently.
"When I was three years younger than you, I was first chambermaid in the Theatre Royal, Bristol. Half the pit were my sweethearts; and I got heaps of letters, of the kind that you know, Annie—some of them impudent, some of them very loving and respectful. Sometimes it was, 'My dear Miss, will you take a glass of wine with me at such and such a place, on such and such a night?' and sometimes it was, 'I dare not seek an introduction, lest I read my fate in your refusal. I can only look at you from afar off, and be miserable.' Poor boys! they were all very kind to me, and used to take such heaps of tickets for my benefits, for in Bristol, you know, the first chambermaid had a benefit like her betters."
"There were none better than you in the theatre, I'm sure, mother," said Annie.