Chapter XIV: 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.