Kate sat down in the nearest chair. Since childhood Jacqueline had been talking at intervals about this career of hers, an ambition varying in scope from journalism to, more latterly, the operatic stage. It was a favorite family joke, Jacqueline's career. And here it stared her suddenly in the face, no longer a joke. Jacqueline was in earnest.
She watched her mother's face anxiously. "I know it would be horribly expensive, lessons and all. But we can afford to be expensive, can't we?"
Kate's lips set. "We can, but we won't. Not in the matter of careers. What put this into your head, my girl?"
"It's always been there, I think. But you remember Mr. Channing spoke to you--"
"Ah, yes, Mr. Channing! I do remember; but that is hardly a recommendation that appeals to me," said Kate, drily.
"Mr. Channing has heard all the great singers of the world, and knows them, too." Jacqueline spoke with a firmness new to her. "And if he says I have a voice, I have. I ought to waste no more time, Mother."
"I also have a 'voice,' my dear, and I've found it extremely useful without having recourse to a career."
"Singing lullabies to my children, for one thing. It did not seem to me a waste of time--No, no, my girlie, no stage women in this family! We've been conspicuous enough without that."
"Would you really mind so very much?" asked Jacqueline, wistfully.
"So much," answered her mother, smiling but grave, "that I should lock you into the cellar on a bread-and-water diet, at the first hint of such a thing! Understand me, I forbid it absolutely. You may put this nonsense out of your head."
Kate had rarely occasion to speak to her children in such a tone, and Jacqueline looked at her, rather frightened. But she said nothing.
"Why, Jacqueline, little daughter, why should you spend your youth and your loveliness on a public that will cast you aside like an old glove when it is worn out? No, no, there's a larger purpose for you in life than any mere career. Careers are for the women who miss the other things, and who use in default the best they have. Fame, bah! It does not outlast a generation--or if it does, you will not know it. What you have to give will outlast many generations, will never die, will become part of the muscle and sinew and back-bone of your nation. Sons! Big, clean, lusty, well-born children!--Why, don't you suppose you and my clever Jemima--yes, and even my little crippled Katharine--were better gifts for me to bring the world than a mere passing pleasure in my voice?--Ah, Jacky, there's just one career open to women like you and me. You know very well what it is."