CHRISTMAS.
CHRISTMAS bills came dropping in thick and fast that year. I had not
looked for so many; neither, I am sure, had father and mother. It is so
easy to order in a lot of things, each costing little enough by itself,
without in the least knowing how much they will come to altogether.
Father began to get vexed, and to say, "What! another!" and a black
look would come into his face. And sometimes he would stamp his foot
and say, "Here's more of your extravagance, Sue! You'll ruin us all at
this rate." And when mother said, "Why, Miles, what's a few shillings
to us now? You've plenty of money!" he made answer. "Oh, have I though?
I know better!" So I could see things were not all going straight.
From that time father made a sudden change in his way of speaking.
Instead of always saying, as he had been used to do of late, "There's
money enough,—never fear!" or "Do as you like,—thank goodness, I can
afford it!" he twisted right round the other way, and was for ever
repeating, "Can't afford this;" and "Can't afford that;" till mother
declared we might just as well never have had the five thousand pounds
at all. Not that I mean to say we really began even then to be careful.
Father wouldn't have any difference made at dinner, for instance. He
was never content without the best of everything there. And it seemed
to me that whatever he wanted he got, and whatever mother wanted she
got too,—only he said often that he could not afford things.
As for all the bills they were put into a drawer and just left alone
there, as if they might be expected to pay themselves. But this of
course could not go on. By-and-by they began to come in a second time,
and father was spoken to by one tradesman and another in a way that
he did not find pleasant. So, though he had begun of late to dislike
any sort of work, and to find everything a trouble, except smoking and
lounging about, he did at last actually look through the whole pile,
and find out what they all came to, added up together.
Neither he nor mother had had before then any notion of how the prices
of small things mount up. Mother was always saying, "Oh, it's only a
shilling;" or, "It's only a half-crown;" or, "What's five shillings out
of four hundred pounds?" And father and she had had no sort of steady
plan in their spending, but had just got anything here and there as
they felt inclined.
But four hundred a year will not buy everything,—no, nor four thousand
either. And it seems to me that the question of being poor or rich
don't so much hang on what a man has, as on what a man wants. He that
has one hundred a year of money, and has wants that can be satisfied
on ninety a year, is rich; and he that has five thousand a year, with
wants that can only be satisfied on six thousand, is poor. I think we
were poorer in our new home than we had been in the little cottage.
A good many bills had been allowed, the last Midsummer, to stand over
till Michaelmas; and a good many more had been allowed to stand over
till Christmas. It was no wonder that the tradespeople were getting
impatient at last.
But I did not know how bad things were, till that day when I came into
the parlour, and found mother crying. I had been helping to cook, and
my hands were all floury. Mother often cried at little things, but this
was something worse than common. I knew it in a moment from her face.
"What's wrong, mother?" I asked, and I shook the flour from my hands
and came close to her.
"Matter enough," said she. "But it don't signify. You won't understand."
"Maybe I should," I said. "I am not a child now, you know."
"Aren't you?" she said, and she looked at me. "No, you are getting
tall, to be sure. You're taller than me." And then she burst out crying
afresh. "O Phœbe!" said she,—"father's been so awfully angry."
"What about, mother?" I asked.
"Why, about everything," said she, sobbing. "About everything, Phœbe.
He says I'm ruining him, and it's all my fault if we can't pay our
way, and he says I'm just worth nothing at all. I wonder whatever poor
father would have said to hear him,—poor father as used to dote on me
so. And I'm sure, if I have spent money, wasn't it Miles himself that
told me to get whatever I liked? And now to have him turn on me like
this."
"But what made father angry to-day?" I asked.
"Why, it's nothing at all," said she. "He's only just been looking at
the bills. He said he'd see how much it was altogether, and it came to
more than he looked to find. He did get in a fury. It made me feel so
fluttery-like, I don't seem to have got over it yet, and my heart beats
like anything. And it isn't my fault. I didn't know there were so many
things not paid for. He was always telling me he hadn't got money in
hand, so I could have things put down to him at the shops."
"How much is it altogether, mother?" I asked.
"I can't tell you," said she. "He frightened me so, I didn't half know
what he was saying. He stamped at me as if he was mad. I don't know
whatever I shall do. He isn't a bit like what he used to be. I always
did say I had one of the kindest of husbands, and now he has never a
pleasant word for anybody. I don't believe he cares for a single person
in the world, so long as he gets what he wants for himself."
"Oh, I think he cares, mother," I said,—"only he doesn't know what to
do about the bills."
"And I'm sure I don't know," said she fretfully,—"so it's no use his
bothering me. I suppose they'll have to wait: for he says he's got
nothing to pay them with. I almost wish the money had never come to us
at all, if things are going to be miserable like this."
"Mother, I think it must be as grannie said," I half whispered. "We
didn't all ask God's blessing with it."
"Oh, I don't know as to that," said she. "It's father's way of going on
that makes things miserable. And he says he won't have me buy nothing
again for ever so long,—and how I can manage—"
"I think you'll be able, mother, for you've got lots of things," I
said; "I'll try to help you. I do wish father would have plainer
dinners, for we spend a deal on eating."
And while we were speaking father walked in. He had a red and angry
look still, and mother shrank away from him as if she was frightened.
"So you're talking it all over, are you?" says he roughly. "Now mind,
Phœbe,—you're a sensible girl, and I look to you. If we go on another
six months as we've been doing, I shall be ruined outright. D'you hear?
We shall be ruined, stock and stone. D'you understand?"
Yes, I did; but I didn't see the need for him to shout at us like that.
Words are strong enough, spoken quietly. But men often seem to think
women can't be frightened into behaving themselves, without they're
hallooed at.
"You've brought me into a pretty pickle, as it is," says he, looking at
mother. "Why, my whole year's income, if I had it this moment, wouldn't
do more than set us straight, and not a penny left for the year to
come."
"Father, what are you going to do?" I made bold to ask. "Are the bills
to be left unpaid?"—and I did not like the thought.
"No," said he gruffly. "There's some won't wait. I'll have to borrow.
It's lucky I have a friend like Mr. Simmons."
"Oh, not Mr. Simmons, father!" said I.
"And why not?" says he.
I couldn't tell why. I could only say,—"I don't like him,—and grannie
didn't either."
"Don't be a goose, Phœbe," said he. "Don't like him! What does that
matter? I'm not asking you to like him. He'll lend me money to get over
this, and that's all I want."
"Father," said I, "couldn't we begin to spend less, some way or other?
If we were to have only a girl in the house, as we had at first—I'd
work hard with her."
But mother said, "O no! Mrs. Raikes doesn't do with a girl." And father
said, "Don't you meddle." So that shut my mouth.