Then she realized that Marianne had seen her frown, and that fresh tears had flooded the sea-blue eyes. Young girls were supposed to be full of sensibility and tender emotion, but some of Mrs. Jay's original ill humor remained, and she spoke more sharply than was her wont.
"It is not a great deal of money, Marianne. I only wish it were."
She did not add, as she might with reason have done, that eight pounds of the fifty had been her own contribution, from a life savings that could ill afford any diminution. The remainder of the sum had been made up of similar contributions from neighbors and friends. Squire Ransom had left his orphaned daughter nothing but debts.
There was another fact unknown to Marianne that Mrs. Jay could not explain. As a Christian woman her fortitude ought to have been equal to the task, but it was not. She had only recently learned of the malignant thing that was gnawing at her life and would soon end it; she had faced the fact and the increasing pain without flinching. But she could not tell her darling of her approaching death. It had tried her faith to a degree she would not have believed possible,, not because she was afraid of dying, even in the dreadful manner experience had told her she could expect, but because just at the time when she might have hoped to be of use to the girl, who was as dear to her as a daughter, she could offer no help. She had no means of her own. If she took Marianne into her tiny home, within three months the girl would have to face the prospect she faced now, with the additional burden of having watched her old friend die an agonizing death. No. Better for Marianne to take the necessary action at once.
"You have no notion of money, naturally," she went on. "How could you have, when your father, despite his advantages of age and masculine intelligence, spent his income faster than it came in?"
"He spent generously on my account," Marianne said. "I cannot reproach him for extravagance when he denied me nothing."
"Hmph." Mrs. Jay said no more, but she had her own opinions about the squire's generosity. She had long been a reluctant observer of human nature, and she suspected that Squire Ransom's willingness to spend money on his daughter was an effort to make up for his neglect in other areas.
"At any rate." she said, more cheerfully, "you are well equipped with clothing and other necessities. That will not be a charge on your wealth. Did not Mrs. Maclean complete your new winter wardrobe only last week?"
"She completed it," said Marianne calmly, "and she is presently removing it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"One can hardly blame her. It appears the garments were not paid for. She hopes to alter them in order to resell them."
"Yes, yes, I understand. But what a callous thing to do!"
"Not at all. She has her living to earn."
Mrs. Jay lifted her hands helplessly. The girl's calm acceptance dismayed her. She would have attributed it to the indifference of shock had not Marianne displayed considerable emotion over other matters. She could only conclude that the child did not understand the desperation of her plight, so desperate that even the loss of a few pieces of clothing constituted a major disaster. The bare necessities for the approaching winter would make a sizable hole in the fifty pounds.
The golden fall sunlight pouring in the open windows gave no hint of the bleak months ahead, but it showed, with pitiless accuracy, how badly the squire had neglected his family home. The drawing room's decay was all the more apparent now that the furniture had been carried off by creditors. Fifty years earlier the walls had been hung with imported yellow damask. Bright unfaded squares, where paintings had once hung, contrasted painfully with the shredded remains of the once lovely fabric, stained with damp from the leaking roof. The hardwood floors had been gouged by hunting boots and stained by spilled wine. Over the years Mrs. Jay had mourned the room's deterioration, but on this occasion its ruin seemed to her like viewing the corpse of an old friend. She had not had the courage to inspect the rest of the house, having come only to escort Marianne home with her. Fortunately – for she could not afford to keep a carriage – the cottage was within walking distance, at the near end of the village. Billy Turnbull waited outside with his pony cart for Marianne's boxes and personal possessions. Mrs. Jay reflected, wryly, that his services might not have been needed after all.
They were sitting side by side on one of the window seats. Every stick of furniture in the room had been removed, and through the open doors Mrs. Jay could hear the heavy footsteps and rough voices of the carters who were even then carrying away the last of the squire's property. The late-afternoon sunlight caressed Marianne's curls. No painted saint had ever had such a halo; as the breeze stirred the loosened tendrils they sparkled and flashed. Even her swollen eyelids, reddened by weeping, could not mar the girl's exquisite prettiness, and the somber black frock, hastily dyed by Mrs. Jay, set off her slim figure and delicate coloring. She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, thick golden lashes shadowing her cheeks; and Mrs. Jay, watching her, felt a pang even more severe than the gnawing ache she had lived with for months. How could she let this child, her heart's darling, go out into the world alone? Her beauty made her even more vulnerable than an ordinary young girl of good family would be. Mrs. Jay reluctantly conceded that the squire had kept his daughter's innocence untarnished; he had not brought his – er – women friends to the house, and even in his cups he was careful of his language. He had once kicked a drinking companion clear through the window when the man forgot himself and bellowed out a vehement "damn."
Only a life of service to God kept Mrs. Jay from cursing His cruelty. If she had only had a year – one little year! She could have used the time to prepare the girl for useful work, or even found her a husband – a gentle young curate or honest tradesman. Her hands clasped tightly and her lips moved in silent prayer. "Thy will be done," she told herself, and half believed it.
A voice separated itself from the general uproar upstairs. It grew louder and more strident as the speaker descended the stairs.
"Take care, you stupid girl, you are letting the flounces touch the floor. If they are dusty you shan't have supper tonight. Now the sash is trailing. How can you be so incompetent? I rue the day I ever took you on. Be careful of the turn there."
Through the open double doors which gave onto the hall Mrs. Jay saw the mute object of these reproaches stagger by. Presumably it was one of Mrs. Maclean's apprentices, but her identity could only be surmised, for she was virtually concealed by a towering stack of dresses. Her own skimpy homespun skirts and heavy shoes looked like an ambulatory gray column under that rainbow assortment: pink ruffles, like cream stained by floating strawberries, a flounce of green gauze the precise shade of young spring leaves, heaps of ice-blue satin and mandarin-yellow silk.
The anonymous bearer shuffled past and disappeared. Her figure was replaced, in the doorway's frame, by the much more substantial shape of Mrs. Maclean. The village dressmaker's skill with the needle was not matched by her personal taste; her brown taffeta gown was trimmed with flounces of a shrieking purple, and her bonnet of the same brown taffeta had birds' wings on either side. Her face was bright red and shining with perspiration; it formed a perfect circle, unbroken except for her false front of auburn hair. Draped carefully over her arms was a ball gown of coral faille, its ivory Sicilienne scarf and train folded up over the full skirt. Atop this elegant heap were a pair of white kid gloves, an ivory fan, and – toes turned in pathetically – two little satin slippers.