AT LAST.
THE day before the New Year grannie's body was laid to rest in the
green churchyard. But grannie herself was not there. I used to think of
how she was singing, away in her heavenly home, and that was the only
comfort I had in my great sorrow.
The next day we went into our other house, to begin our new life. And a
new life indeed it was without grannie, much more new on that account
than because we had a fresh roof over our heads.
Father seemed greatly ashamed of himself, for having gone to the
public-house that evening, and having been enticed to take too much. It
did really seem for a little while as if grannie's death was to work
good to him; for he would not go near the public-house, and he tried
to keep out of the way of Mr. Simmons, and he attended Church quite
regularly, like in old days.
But this did not last. Mother's influence was all a pull in the other
direction, and grannie was gone, and I was but a child. And by-and-by
father wanted more ready money, and he went again to Mr. Simmons,
and after that the two were often to be seen together. Then the
Church-going began to drop off again, and if I said a word about it
father told me not to bother him, and he seemed never to like to speak
about grannie.
Things were like this when the money came. For it came at last; close
upon a year after old Morison's death. Not full five thousand pounds,
though; for there was "legacy-duty" to be taken out of it, and that
made a difference. And there were bills to be paid, and loans to be
returned. Father and mother didn't like half so well paying the bills,
as they had liked choosing things beforehand. And I am pretty certain
Mr. Simmons must have made a nice sum for himself out of the lendings.
He did not abate one penny of interest for the sake of friendship, as
father had thought he would do; and father was so angry that he sheered
off, and would have nothing to do with Mr. Simmons for a while. But he
got over this feeling—more's the pity.
It is astonishing how the bills had run up—bills for food, and
furniture, and dress, and all sorts of things. It was quite startling
to us all. Father was very vexed, and he told mother it was all her
doing, which made her cry. However, he finished off by saying that he
didn't mean to be content with less than four hundred a year, but on
four hundred he thought we might do grandly. So of course we might have
done, if we had known how. But mother was comforted, and dried her
tears, and neither seemed to care any longer.
I don't know who it was that father went to for advice about investing
the money. I am quite sure it was neither Mr. Scott nor Mr. Carver, and
just then father had quarrelled with Mr. Simmons; so it must have been
somebody else. He told us he was to have near upon four hundred a year,
and he seemed to think that would do anything.
The next step was that mother wanted Asaph to go to school, and to
learn, as she said, "to be a gentleman." She chose a school where the
terms were high, but neither she nor father minded that; only father
said he did not see why I was not to go to school too. Mother said I
was too old, and she wanted me in the house to help. Father gave in,
and did not seem much to care, which disappointed me, for I should have
liked school. Grannie had taught me to love books, and I always longed
for more learning. I had to be content without, though, at that time.
A girl was hired, to work under me, and things were left pretty much in
my hands, except that I never knew when mother would or would not give
orders just opposite to what I had planned. It was well I had learnt to
cook, for father was growing very particular in his eating, and mother
gave no help, and the girl was idle and ignorant. There was no making
her do things. After a while the girl was sent away, and an older
servant was got in her place. She knew better what she was about, but
she pleased herself as to what she did, and she was not at all a nice
woman.
I missed grannie sorely those days. There was no one any longer to
speak loving words to me; and there's nothing one misses like loving
words, when one is used to them. Mother had never cared for me; and
father was always grumbling.
Some days the weight on me seemed more than I could bear. There was no
rule or order in the house; and how could there be? Mother took no heed
to her duties as mistress; and the servant would not do as I wished.
Everything was left to me, and I was blamed if things went wrong, and
yet I had no power to make them go right.
I did so long for grannie back again. Life seemed dreary and sad
without her. I remember one day meeting Mr. Scott, and his stopping
to talk to me. He said so kindly, "Ah, it's a sad loss for you, poor
girl!" And when I could not help crying, he took my hand and said, "But
there is another Friend always at hand."
"But it does not seem as if I could be good without grannie," I said.
"And I can't keep things straight. Nothing goes right now."
"She was one to help others," he said. "But there is nothing like
looking to the Master Himself, Phœbe. Perhaps you didn't do that while
you had her."
No; I did not, and I said so. I had always looked to grannie.
"I don't say that is why she was taken," he said. "I think God took her
because He wanted her with Him in heaven. But now she is gone, I am
quite sure He does want you to learn that lesson. Why should you not?"
"I don't seem to know how," I said, sobbing.
"Try—just try," he said. "Your grandmother was always near you, and
always ready to help you. But there is One still more near, and still
more ready. You turned to the one in every trouble; now turn to the
Other just in the same way. And don't fear to trouble Him. Nothing that
you care for is too small to pray about."
And then he said, "Your father has not been to Church lately."
"No," I said, and I blushed for him. "I can't get him to go, and he
won't let me speak."
"Or your mother?"
"Mother doesn't seem to care," I said, and I hung my head.
"Don't let them keep you from God's House," he said.
"I do go in the evening," I answered. "Mother wants me at home all the
morning. Father likes a hot dinner, and if I didn't see to it things
wouldn't be right for him. Grannie never would do it, but mother makes
me now."
"You are but a child," he said. "If they desire it, your duty may be
for the present to yield. But if it is not needful, they ought to let
you go. Some day I will call and perhaps speak about it."
And he did so, very kindly, but it wasn't of much use. Mother was
angry, and after he was gone she said she would not be meddled with,
and I was to do as she and father liked.