“And two hundred and fifty a year for the doing of it—not to speak of the house, which you could let for fifty more.”
“Father! don’t you see that is just the very thing that I object to, so much for nothing.”
“You prefer nothing for nothing,” said Mr. May, with a smile; “well, I suppose that is more fair, perhaps—to the public;—but how about me? A son of three-and-twenty depending upon me for everything, useless and bringing in nothing, does not suit me. You are all the same,” he said, “all taking from me, with a thousand wants, education, clothes, amusement—”
“I am sure,” said the irrepressible Janey, “it is not much clothes we get, and as for amusements—and education!”
“Hold your tongue,” cried her father. “Here are six of you, one more helpless than another, and the eldest the most helpless of all. I did not force you into the Church. You might have gone out to James if you had liked—but you chose an academical career, and then there was nothing else for it. I gave you a title to orders. You are my curate just now—so called; but you know I can’t pay a curate, and you know I can’t afford to keep you. Providence—” said Mr. May, sitting up in his chair, with a certain solemnity, “Providence itself has stepped in to make your path clear. Here is better than a living, a provision for you. I don’t bid you take it for life; take it for a year or two till you can hear of something better. Now what on earth is your objection to this?”
The girls had both turned their faces towards their brother. Janey, always the first in action, repeated almost unconsciously. “Yes, what on earth, Reginald, can be your objection to this?”
Reginald stood in the middle of the room and looked helplessly at them. Against his father alone he might have made a stand—but when the united family thus gazed at him with inquiring and reproachful looks, what was he to say?
“Objection!” he faltered, “you know very well what my objection is. It is not honest work—it is no work. It is a waste of money that might be better employed; it is a sinecure.”
“And what do you call your nominal curateship,” said his father, “is not that a sinecure too?”
“If it is,” said Reginald, growing red, but feeling bolder, for here the family veered round, and placed itself on his side, “it is of a contrary kind. It is sine pay. My work may be bad, though I hope not, but my pay is nothing. I don’t see any resemblance between the two.”
“Your pay nothing!” cried the father, enraged; “what do you call your living, your food that you are so fastidious about, your floods of beer and all the rest of it—not to speak of tailors’ bills much heavier than mine?”
“Which are never paid.”
“Whose fault is it that they are never paid? yours and the others who weigh me down to the ground, and never try to help or do anything for themselves. Never paid! how should I have gone on to this period and secured universal respect if they had never been paid? I have had to pay for all of you,” said Mr. May, bitterly, “and all your vagaries; education, till I have been nearly ruined; dresses and ribbons, and a hundred fooleries for these girls, who are of no use, who will never give me back a farthing.”
“Papa!” cried Ursula and Janey in one breath.
“Hold your tongues! useless impedimenta, not even able to scrub the floors, and make the beds, which is all you could ever be good for—and you must have a servant forsooth to do even that. But why should I speak of the girls?” he added, with a sarcastic smile, “they can do nothing better, poor creatures; but you! who call yourself a man—a University man, save the mark—a fine fellow with the Oxford stamp upon you, twenty-three your next birthday. It is a fine thing that I should still have to support you.”
Reginald began to walk up and down the room, stung beyond bearing—not that he had not heard it all before, but to get accustomed to such taunts is difficult, and it is still more difficult for a young and susceptible mind to contradict all that is seemly and becoming in nature, and to put forth its own statement in return. Reginald knew that his education had in reality cost his father very little, and that his father knew this. He was aware, too, much more distinctly than Mr. May knew, of James’s remittances on his account; but what could he say? It was his father who insulted him, and the young man’s lips were closed; but the effort was a hard one. He could not stand still there and face the man who had so little consideration for his feelings. All he could do was to keep his agitation and irritation down by that hurried promenade about the room, listening as little as he could, and answering not at all.
“Oh, papa! how can you?” cried Janey, seizing the first pause. Janey was not old enough to understand the delicacy that closed Reginald’s lips, and the impulse of self-defence was stirring in her; “how dare you talk to Ursula so? I mayn’t be much use, but Ursula! nice and comfortable you were when she was away! as if you didn’t say so ten times in a morning; to be sure that was to make me feel uncomfortable. Scrub floors!” cried Janey, in the violence of her resentment. “I’ll go out and be a maid-of-all-work whenever you please. I am sure it would be much happier than here.”
“Hold your tongue,” said Mr. May, “you scolding and Ursula
