“I have taken the liberty of calling, Mrs. George Godolphin, to ask if you will not pay our account,” began the applicant in a low, confidential tone. “Do pray let us have it, if you can, ma’am!”
Maria was surprised. There was nothing owing that she was aware of. There could be nothing. “What account are you speaking of?” she asked.
“The account for the interment of the child. Your little one who died last, ma’am.”
“But surely that is paid!”
“No, it is not,” replied Mrs. Harding. “The other accounts were paid, but that never has been. Mr. George Godolphin has promised it times and again: but he never paid it.”
Not paid! The burial of their child! Maria’s face flushed. Was it carelessness on George’s part, or had he been so long embarrassed for money that to part with it was a trouble to him? Maria could not help thinking that he might have spared some little remnant for just debts, while lavishing so much upon bill-discounters. She could not help feeling another thing—that it was George’s place to be meeting and battling with these unhappy claims, rather than hers.
“This must be paid, of course, Mrs. Harding,” she said. “I had no idea that it was not paid. When Mr. George Godolphin comes home, I will ask him to see about it instantly.”
“Ma’am, can’t you pay me now?” urged Mrs. Harding. “If it waits till the bankruptcy’s declared, it will have to go into it; and they say—they do say that there’ll be nothing for anybody. We can’t afford to lose it,” she added, speaking confidentially. “What with bad debts and long-standing accounts, we are on the eve of a crisis ourselves; though I should not like it to be known. This will help to stave it off, if you will let us have it.”
“I wish I could,” returned Maria. “I wish I had it to give to you. It ought to have been paid long ago.”
“A part of it was money paid out of our pocket,” said Mrs. Harding reproachfully. “Mrs. George Godolphin, you don’t know the boon it would be to us!”