“Little parties!—a hundred a year!” cried the Captain, aghast.
My mother pursued her way remorselessly,—“which we can well afford; and without counting your half-pay, which you must keep for pocket-money and your wardrobe and Blanche’s,—I calculate that we can allow Pisistratus L150 a year, which, with the scholarship he is to get, will keep him at Cambridge” (at that, seeing the scholarship was as yet amidst the Pleasures of Hope, I shook my head doubtfully), “and,” continued my mother, not heeding that sign of dissent, “we shall still have something to lay by.”
The Captain’s face assumed a ludicrous expression of compassion and horror; he evidently thought my mother’s misfortunes had turned her head.
His tormentor continued.
“For,” said my mother, with a pretty calculating shake of her head, and a movement of the right forefinger towards the five fingers of the left hand, “L370,—the interest of Austin’s fortune,—and L50 that we may reckon for the rent of our house, make L420 a year. Add your L330 a year from the farm, sheep-walk, and cottages that you let, and the total is L750. Now, with all we get for nothing for our housekeeping, as I said before, we can do very well with L500 a year, and indeed make a handsome figure. So, after allowing Sisty L150, we still have L100 to lay by for Blanche.”
“Stop, stop, stop!” cried the Captain in great agitation; “who told you that I had L330 a year?”
“Why, Bolt,—don’t be angry with him.”
“Bolt is a blockhead. From L330 a year take L200, and the remainder is all my income, besides my half-pay.”
My mother opened her eyes, and so did I.
“To that L130 add, if you please, L130 of your own. All that you have over, my dear sister, is yours or Austin’s, or your boy’s; but not a shilling can go to give luxuries to a miserly, battered old soldier. Do you understand me?”