VII
Eighteen seventy-nine: it was the year her father lost his money. Harriett was nearly thirty-five.
She remembered the day, late in November, when they heard him coming home from the office early. Her mother raised her head and said, “That’s your father, Harriett. He must be ill.” She always thought of seventy-nine as one continuous November.
Her father and mother were alone in the study for a long time; she remembered Annie going in with the lamp and coming out and whispering that they wanted her. She found them sitting in the lamplight alone, close together, holding each other’s hands; their faces had a strange, exalted look.
“Harriett, my dear, I’ve lost every shilling I possessed, and here’s your mother saying she doesn’t mind.”
He began to explain in his quiet voice. “When all the creditors are paid in full there’ll be nothing but your mother’s two hundred a year. And the insurance money when I’m gone.”
“Oh, Papa, how terrible——”
“Yes, Hatty.”
“I mean the insurance. It’s gambling with your life.”
“My dear, if that was all I’d gambled with——”