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Almost eighteen years ago… Mrs. Jay's grim expression as she remembered that perfect day, a day of soft sunshine and gentle breezes, when she had stood as sponsor to the child and her beloved husband had performed the ceremony of baptism. Dear Mr. Jay, now passed to his heavenly reward. She had never addressed her husband by his first name, and still thought of him in formal terms.
Then she realized that Maria
"It is not a great deal of money, Maria
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 Maria
"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," Maria
"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 Maria
"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 Maria
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 Maria
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 Maria
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 bo