"How much is it altogether, mother?" I asked.
"I can't tell you," said she. "He frightened me so, I didn't half know what he was saying. He stamped at me as if he was mad. I don't know whatever I shall do. He isn't a bit like what he used to be. I always did say I had one of the kindest of husbands, and now he has never a pleasant word for anybody. I don't believe he cares for a single person in the world, so long as he gets what he wants for himself."
"Oh, I think he cares, mother," I said,—"only he doesn't know what to do about the bills."
"And I'm sure I don't know," said she fretfully,—"so it's no use his bothering me. I suppose they'll have to wait: for he says he's got nothing to pay them with. I almost wish the money had never come to us at all, if things are going to be miserable like this."
"Mother, I think it must be as grannie said," I half whispered. "We didn't all ask God's blessing with it."
"Oh, I don't know as to that," said she. "It's father's way of going on that makes things miserable. And he says he won't have me buy nothing again for ever so long,—and how I can manage—"
"I think you'll be able, mother, for you've got lots of things," I said; "I'll try to help you. I do wish father would have plainer dinners, for we spend a deal on eating."
And while we were speaking father walked in. He had a red and angry look still, and mother shrank away from him as if she was frightened.
"So you're talking it all over, are you?" says he roughly. "Now mind, Phœbe,—you're a sensible girl, and I look to you. If we go on another six months as we've been doing, I shall be ruined outright. D'you hear? We shall be ruined, stock and stone. D'you understand?"
Yes, I did; but I didn't see the need for him to shout at us like that. Words are strong enough, spoken quietly. But men often seem to think women can't be frightened into behaving themselves, without they're hallooed at.