Children of clergy -- Fiction; Christian fiction; Fathers and daughters -- Fiction; Scotland -- Fiction
But there were reasons because of which even I, in my fullest freedom,
could not have asked help from my father just at this time. I am ashamed
to tell the fact, but I must: before the end of his second year at Oxford,
just over, the elder of my two brothers had, without any vice I firmly
believe, beyond that of thoughtlessness and folly, got himself so deeply
mired in debt, both to tradespeople and money-lenders, that my father had
to pay two thousand pounds for him. Indeed, as I was well assured, although
he never told me so, he had to borrow part of the money on a fresh mortgage
in order to clear him. Some lawyer, I believe, told him that he was not
bound to pay: but my father said, that, although such creditors deserved no
protection of the law, he was not bound to give them a lesson in honesty
at the expense of weakening the bond between himself and his son, for
whose misdeeds he acknowledged a large share of responsibility; while, on
the other hand, he was bound to give his son the lesson of the suffering
brought on his family by his selfishness; and therefore would pay the
money--if not gladly, yet willingly. How the poor boy got through the shame
and misery of it, I can hardly imagine; but this I can say for him, that
it was purely of himself that he accepted a situation in Ceylon, instead
of returning to Oxford. Thither he was now on his way, with the intention
of saving all he could in order to repay his father; and if at length he
succeeds in doing so, he will doubtless make a fairer start the second
time, because of the discipline, than if he had gone out with the money in
his pocket.
It was natural, then, that in such circumstances a daughter should shrink
from adding her troubles to those caused by a son. I ought to add, that my
father had of late been laying out a good deal in building cottages for the
laborers on his farms, and that the land was not yet entirely freed from
the mortgages my mother had inherited with it.
Percivale continued so weak, that for some time I could not bring myself to
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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