The Vicar's Daughter - George MacDonald (read dune txt) 📗

say a word to him about money. But to keep them as low as possible did not prevent the household debts from accumulating, and the servants’ wages were on the point of coming due. I had been careful to keep the milkman paid; and for the rest of the tradesmen, I consoled myself with the certainty, that, if the worst came to the worst, there was plenty of furniture in the house to pay every one of them. Still, of all burdens, next to sin, that of debt, I think, must be heaviest.

I tried to keep cheerful; but at length, one night, during our supper of bread and cheese, which I could not bear to see my poor, pale-faced husband eating, I broke down.

“What is the matter, my darling?” asked Percivale.

I took a half-crown from my pocket, and held it out on the palm of my hand.

“That’s all I’ve got, Percivale,” I said.

“Oh! that all—is it?” he returned lightly.

“Yes,—isn’t that enough?” I said with some indignation.

“Certainly—for to-night,” he answered, “seeing the shops are shut. But is that all that’s troubling you?” he went on.

“It seems to me quite enough,” I said again; “and if you had the housekeeping to do, and the bills to pay, you would think a solitary half-crown quite enough to make you miserable.”

“Never mind—so long as it’s a good one,” he said. “I’ll get you more to-morrow.”

“How can you do that?” I asked.

“Easily,” he answered. “You’ll see. Don’t you trouble your dear heart about it for a moment.”

I felt relieved, and asked him no more questions.

The next morning, when I went into the study to speak to him, he was not there; and I guessed that he had gone to town to get the money, for he had not been out before since his illness, at least without me. But I hoped of all things he was not going to borrow it of a money-lender, of which I had a great and justifiable horror, having heard from himself how a friend of his had in such a case fared. I would have sold three-fourths of the things in the house rather. But as I turned to leave the study, anxious both about himself and his proceedings, I thought something was different, and soon discovered that a certain favorite picture was missing from the wall: it was clear he had gone either to sell it or raise money upon it.

By our usual early dinner-hour, he returned, and put into my hands, with a look of forced cheerfulness, two five-pound notes.

“Is that all you got for that picture?” I said.

“That is all Mr. –- would advance me upon it,” he answered. “I thought he had made enough by me to have risked a little more than that; but picture-dealers—Well, never mind. That is enough to give time for twenty things to happen.”

And no doubt twenty things did happen, but none of them of the sort he meant. The ten pounds sank through my purse like water through gravel. I paid a number of small bills at once, for they pressed the more heavily upon me that I knew the money was wanted; and by the end of another fortnight we were as badly off as before, with an additional trouble, which in the circumstances was any thing but slight.

In conjunction with more than ordinary endowments of stupidity and self-conceit, Jemima was possessed of a furious temper, which showed itself occasionally in outbursts of unendurable rudeness. She had been again and again on the point of leaving me, now she, now I, giving warning; but, ere the day arrived, her better nature had always got the upper hand,—she had broken down and given in. These outbursts had generally followed a season of better behavior than usual, and were all but certain if I ventured the least commendation; for she could stand any thing better than praise. At the least subsequent rebuke, self would break out in rage, vulgarity, and rudeness. On this occasion, however, I cannot tell whence it was that one of these cyclones arose in our small atmosphere; but it was Jemima, you may well believe, who gave warning, for it was out of my power to pay her wages; and there was no sign of her yielding.

My reader may be inclined to ask in what stead the religion I had learned of my father now stood me. I will endeavor to be honest in my answer.

Every now and then I tried to pray to God to deliver us; but I was far indeed from praying always, and still farther from not fainting. A whole day would sometimes pass under a weight of care that amounted often to misery; and not until its close would I bethink me that I had been all the weary hours without God. Even when more hopeful, I would keep looking and looking for the impossibility of something to happen of itself, instead of looking for some good and perfect gift to come down from the Father of lights; and, when I awoke to the fact, the fog would yet lie so deep on my soul, that I could not be sorry for my idolatry and want of faith. It was, indeed, a miserable time. There was, besides, one definite thought that always choked my prayers: I could not say in my conscience that I had been sufficiently careful either in my management or my expenditure. “If,” I thought, “I could be certain that I had done my best, I should be able to trust in God for all that lies beyond my power; but now he may mean to punish me for my carelessness.” Then why should I not endure it calmly and without complaint? Alas! it was not I alone that thus would be punished, but my children and my husband as well. Nor could I avoid coming on my poor father at last, who, of course, would interfere to prevent a sale; and the thought was, from the circumstances I have mentioned, very bitter to me. Sometimes, however, in more faithful moods, I would reason with myself that God would not be hard upon me, even if I had not been so saving as I ought. My father had taken his son’s debts on himself, and would not allow him to be disgraced more than could be helped; and, if an earthly parent would act thus for his child, would our Father in heaven be less tender with us? Still, for very love’s sake, it might be necessary to lay some disgrace upon me, for of late I had been thinking far too little of the best things. The cares more than the duties of life had been filling my mind. If it brought me nearer to God, I must then say it had been good for me to be afflicted; but while my soul was thus oppressed, how could my feelings have any scope? Let come what would, however, I must try and bear it,—even disgrace, if it was his will. Better people than I had been thus disgraced, and it might be my turn next. Meantime, it had not come to that, and I must not let the cares of to-morrow burden to-day.

Every day, almost, as it seems in looking back, a train of thought something like this would pass through my mind. But things went on, and grew no better. With gathering rapidity, we went sliding, to all appearance, down the inclined plane of disgrace.

Percivale at length asked Roger if he had any money by him to lend him a little; and he gave him at once all he had, amounting to six pounds,—a wonderful amount for Roger to have accumulated; with the help of which we got on to the end of Jemima’s month. The next step I had in view was to take my little valuables to the pawnbroker’s,—amongst them a watch, whose face was encircled with a row of good-sized diamonds. It had belonged to my great-grandmother, and my mother had given it me when I was married.

We had had a piece of boiled neck of mutton for dinner, of which we, that is my husband and I, had partaken sparingly, in order that there might be enough for the servants. Percivale had gone out; and I was sitting in the drawing-room, lost in any thing but a blessed reverie, with all the children chattering amongst themselves beside me, when Jemima entered, looking subdued.

“If you please, ma’am, this is my day,” she said.

“Have you got a place, then, Jemima?” I asked; for I had been so much occupied with my own affairs that I had thought little of the future of the poor girl to whom I could have given but a lukewarm recommendation for any thing prized amongst housekeepers.

“No, ma’am. Please, ma’am, mayn’t I stop?”

“No, Jemima. I am very sorry, but I can’t afford to keep you. I shall have to do all the work myself when you are gone.”

I thought to pay her wages out of the proceeds of my jewels, but was willing to delay the step as long as possible; rather, I believe, from repugnance to enter the pawn-shop, than from disinclination to part with the trinkets. But, as soon as I had spoken, Jemima burst into an Irish wail, mingled with sobs and tears, crying between the convulsions of all three,—

I thought there was something wrong, mis’ess. You and master looked so scared-like. Please, mis’ess, don’t send me away.”

“I never wanted to send you away, Jemima. You wanted to go yourself.”

“No, ma’am; that I didn’t. I only wanted you to ask me to stop. Wirra! wirra! It’s myself is sorry I was so rude. It’s not me; it’s my temper, mis’ess. I do believe I was born with a devil inside me.”

I could not help laughing, partly from amusement, partly from relief.

“But you see I can’t ask you to stop,” I said. “I’ve got no money,—not even enough to pay you to-day; so I can’t keep you.”

“I don’t want no money, ma’am. Let me stop, and I’ll cook for yez, and wash and scrub for yez, to the end o’ my days. An’ I’ll eat no more than’ll keep the life in me. I must eat something, or the smell o’ the meat would turn me sick, ye see, ma’am; and then I shouldn’t be no good to yez. Please ‘m, I ha’ got fifteen pounds in the savings bank: I’ll give ye all that, if ye’ll let me stop wid ye.”

When I confess that I burst out crying, my reader will be kind enough to take into consideration that I hadn’t had much to eat for some time; that I was therefore weak in body as well as in mind; and that this was the first gleam of sunshine I had had for many weeks.

“Thank you very much, Jemima,” I said, as soon as I could speak. “I won’t take your money, for then you would be as poor as I am. But, if you would like to stop with us, you shall; and I won’t pay you till I’m able.”

The poor girl was profuse in her thanks, and left the room sobbing in her apron.

It was a gloomy, drizzly, dreary afternoon. The children were hard to amuse, and I was glad when their bedtime arrived. It was getting late before Percivale returned. He looked pale, and I found afterwards that he had walked home. He had got wet, and had to change some of his clothes. When we went in to supper, there was the neck of mutton on the table, almost as we had left it. This led me, before asking him any questions, to relate what had passed with Jemima; at which