Her mother knew
these signs well; the stubborn set of the lips, the resolute depression
of the level brows, much darker than her hair, the angry sparkle of her
eyes, which never did sparkle but when her temper was ready to flash out
in impetuous speech. Mrs. Carnegie spoke to forewarn her against rash
declarations.
"It is of no use to say you _won't_, Bessie, for you _must_. Your father
said, before he went out, that we have no choice but to let you go."
Bessie did not condescend to any rejoinder yet. She was reading over
again some passage of the letter by which she felt herself peculiarly
affronted. She continued to the end of it, and it was perhaps lucky that
her tenderness had then so far prevailed over her wrath that she could
only give way to tears of self-pity, instead of voice to the defiant
words that had trembled on her tongue a minute ago.
"I did hope, dear, that you would not take it so much to heart," said
her mother, comforting her. "But it is mortifying to think of being sent
to school. What a pity we have let time go on till you are fifteen, and
can neither speak a word of French nor play a note on the piano!"
Bessie had so often heard Mr. Carnegie's opinion of these
accomplishments that her mother's regrets wore a comic aspect to her
mind, and between laughing and crying she protested that she did not
care, she should not try to improve to please _them_--meaning her
Woldshire kinsfolk mentioned in the lawyer's letter.
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