Debt, Imprisonment for -- Fiction; London (England) -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
The Doctor came. He read the appointed service in that deep voice of
his, which was surely given him for the conversion of the wicked. The
tears streamed down his face as he bent over the bed, saying in the
words of the Epistle appointed--"'My daughter, despise not thou the
chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of Him. For
whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth; and scourgeth every child whom He
receiveth.'"
In the evening the poor lady died, being released from her long
imprisonment by that Royal Mandate, the Will of God.
We buried her in the green and pleasant churchyard of Islington. It is
a sweet spot, far removed from the noise of London; and though her poor
remains feel nothing, nor can hear any more the tumult of crowds, it is
good to think that round her are no streets, only the few houses of the
village. She lies surrounded by fields and trees; the daisies grow over
her grave, the lark sings above the church; she is at rest and in peace.
CHAPTER XV.
HOW MRS. ESTHER WAS DISCHARGED.
After poor Mrs. Deborah's death my lessons came to a sudden stop, and
have never been resumed. Some of that perspicacity of style which I
have often admired in our modern divines might have fallen to my lot,
to enrich this narrative, had I continued in my course of single and
double book-keeping.
"I am not clever," said Mrs. Esther, "like Deborah. She was always the
clever one as well as the beauty. That gave her a right to her little
temper, poor dear. I cannot teach astronomy, because one star is to me
exactly like another. Nor do I know aught about book-keeping, except
that it is a very useful and necessary science. Therefore, Kitty, thou
must go untaught. For that matter, I think you know as much as a woman
need ever know, which is to read, to write--but one ought not to expect
of a woman such exactness in spelling as of a scholar--and to cipher
to such a moderate degree as may enable her to add up her bills. But
it grieves me to think you are growing up so tall and straight without
learning how to make so much as a single cordial, or any strong waters.
And with our means, what chance of teaching you to toss a pancake, fold
an omelette, or dish a Yorkshire pudding?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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