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The New Mistress: A Tale
The New Mistress: A Tale
Chapter One.
The First Morning
“Remember, Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne, “remember this – we may be reduced in circumstances; we may have been compelled by misfortune to come down into this wretched little town, and to live in this miserable, squeezy, poorly-furnished house or cottage, with the light kept out by the yellow glass, and scarcely a chimney that does not smoke; we may be compelled to dress shab – ”
“Yes, yes, mother dear – ”
“Bily,” said Mrs Thorne, with indignant emphasis on account of the interruption, “but remember this, Hazel, you are a lady.”
“Forgive me for interrupting you, mother.”
“Mamma, Hazel,” said the lady, drawing herself up with great dignity. “If we are by a cruel stroke of fate compelled to live in a state of indigence when pride has made my eldest child refuse the assistance of my relatives, I still maintain that I have a right to keep up my old and ladylike title – mamma.”
“But, dear, I am only a schoolmistress now – a national schoolmistress, and it would sound full of foolish assumption if I called you mamma. And are you not my dear, dear mother! There, there, good-bye, dear,” cried the speaker, kissing her affectionately; “and mind the dinner is done, for I shall be, – oh, so hungry.”
“As you please, Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne, smoothing down her dress, and looking ill-used. “Let it be mother then. My feelings have to be set aside as usual. My life is to be one slow glide down a slope of indignity to the grave. Ah, what have I done to deserve such a fate?”
“Mother, dear mother, pray, pray don’t grieve, and I’ll strive so hard to make you and the girls happy. You will soon like this little cottage; and when we get some more furniture, and some flowers, and a bird in the window, it will look so bright and cheerful and – there, there, pray don’t cry. I must go; it only wants five minutes to nine, and I must not be late the first morning.”
“I think it disgraceful that, in addition to six days a week, you should be compelled to go and teach on Sundays as well; and I shall make a point of speaking to Mr Lambent the first time he calls – that is, if he should ever condescend to call.”
“No, no, pray don’t think of such a thing, dear,” cried Hazel Thorne excitedly. “You forget that I have the whole of Saturday, and – there, there – dear, dear mother, I must go. Good – good-bye.”