Ayala's Angel [161]
marriage she was almost beside herself. This lover of hers was a man of the world and must have heard of elopements. But now had come a time in which she must be plain, unless she made up her mind to abandon her plan altogether. "Frank," she said, "if you were to run away with me, then we could be married at Ostend."
"Run away with you!"
"It wouldn't be the first time that such a thing has been done." "The commonest thing in the world, my dear, when a girl has got her money in her own hands. Nothing I should like so much."
"Money! It's always money. It's nothing but the money, I believe." "That's unkind, Gertrude."
"Ain't you unkind? You won't do anything I ask."
"My darling, that hashed mutton and those baked potatoes are too clear before my eyes."
"You think of nothing, I believe, but your dinner."
"I think, unfortunately, of a great many other things. Hashed mutton is simply symbolical. Under the head of hashed mutton I include poor lodgings, growlers when we get ourselves asked to eat a dinner at somebody's table, limited washing bills, table napkins rolled up in their dirt every day for a week, antimacassars to save the backs of the chairs, a picture of you darning my socks while I am reading a newspaper hired at a halfpenny from the public house round the corner, a pint of beer in the pewter between us -- and perhaps two babies in one cradle because we can't afford to buy a second."
"Don't, Sir."
"In such an emergency I am bound to give you the advantage both of my experience and imagination."
"Experience!"
"Not about the cradles! That is imagination. My darling, it won't do. You and I have not been brought up to make ourselves happy on a very limited income."
"Papa would be sure to give us the money," she said, eagerly. "In such a matter as this, where your happiness is concerned, my dear, I will trust no one."
"My happiness!"
"Yes, my dear, your happiness! I am quite willing to own the truth. I am not fitted to make you happy, if I were put upon the hashed mutton regime as I have described to you. I will not run the risk -- for your sake."
"For your own, you mean," she said.
"Nor for my own, if you wish me to add that also."
Then they walked up towards the house for some little way in silence. "What is it you intend, then?" she asked.
"I will ask your father once again."
"He will simply turn you out of the house," she said. Upon this he shrugged his shoulders, and they walked on to the hall door in silence.
Sir Thomas was not at Merle Park, nor was he expected home that evening. Frank Houston could only therefore ask for Lady Tringle, and her he saw together with Mr and Mrs Traffick. In presence of them all nothing could be said of love affairs; and, after sitting for half an hour, during which he was not entertained with much cordiality, he took his leave, saying that he would do himself the honour of calling on Sir Thomas in the City. While he was in the drawing-room Gertrude did not appear. She had retired to her room, and was there resolving that Frank Houston was not such a lover as would justify a girl in breaking her heart for him.
And Frank as he went to town brought his mind to the same way of thinking. The girl wanted something romantic to be done, and he was not disposed to do anything romantic for her. He was not in the least angry with her, acknowledging to himself that she had quite as much a right to her way of looking at things as he had to his. But he felt almost sure that the Tringle alliance must be regarded as impossible. If so, should he look out for another heiress, or endeavour to enjoy life, stretching out his little income as far as might be possible -- or should he assume altogether a new character, make a hero of himself, and ask Imogene Docimer to share with him a little cottage in whatever might be the cheapest spot to be found in the civilised parts of Europe? If it was to be hashed mutton and a united cradle he would prefer Imogene Docimer to Gertrude Tringle for his companion.
But there was still
"Run away with you!"
"It wouldn't be the first time that such a thing has been done." "The commonest thing in the world, my dear, when a girl has got her money in her own hands. Nothing I should like so much."
"Money! It's always money. It's nothing but the money, I believe." "That's unkind, Gertrude."
"Ain't you unkind? You won't do anything I ask."
"My darling, that hashed mutton and those baked potatoes are too clear before my eyes."
"You think of nothing, I believe, but your dinner."
"I think, unfortunately, of a great many other things. Hashed mutton is simply symbolical. Under the head of hashed mutton I include poor lodgings, growlers when we get ourselves asked to eat a dinner at somebody's table, limited washing bills, table napkins rolled up in their dirt every day for a week, antimacassars to save the backs of the chairs, a picture of you darning my socks while I am reading a newspaper hired at a halfpenny from the public house round the corner, a pint of beer in the pewter between us -- and perhaps two babies in one cradle because we can't afford to buy a second."
"Don't, Sir."
"In such an emergency I am bound to give you the advantage both of my experience and imagination."
"Experience!"
"Not about the cradles! That is imagination. My darling, it won't do. You and I have not been brought up to make ourselves happy on a very limited income."
"Papa would be sure to give us the money," she said, eagerly. "In such a matter as this, where your happiness is concerned, my dear, I will trust no one."
"My happiness!"
"Yes, my dear, your happiness! I am quite willing to own the truth. I am not fitted to make you happy, if I were put upon the hashed mutton regime as I have described to you. I will not run the risk -- for your sake."
"For your own, you mean," she said.
"Nor for my own, if you wish me to add that also."
Then they walked up towards the house for some little way in silence. "What is it you intend, then?" she asked.
"I will ask your father once again."
"He will simply turn you out of the house," she said. Upon this he shrugged his shoulders, and they walked on to the hall door in silence.
Sir Thomas was not at Merle Park, nor was he expected home that evening. Frank Houston could only therefore ask for Lady Tringle, and her he saw together with Mr and Mrs Traffick. In presence of them all nothing could be said of love affairs; and, after sitting for half an hour, during which he was not entertained with much cordiality, he took his leave, saying that he would do himself the honour of calling on Sir Thomas in the City. While he was in the drawing-room Gertrude did not appear. She had retired to her room, and was there resolving that Frank Houston was not such a lover as would justify a girl in breaking her heart for him.
And Frank as he went to town brought his mind to the same way of thinking. The girl wanted something romantic to be done, and he was not disposed to do anything romantic for her. He was not in the least angry with her, acknowledging to himself that she had quite as much a right to her way of looking at things as he had to his. But he felt almost sure that the Tringle alliance must be regarded as impossible. If so, should he look out for another heiress, or endeavour to enjoy life, stretching out his little income as far as might be possible -- or should he assume altogether a new character, make a hero of himself, and ask Imogene Docimer to share with him a little cottage in whatever might be the cheapest spot to be found in the civilised parts of Europe? If it was to be hashed mutton and a united cradle he would prefer Imogene Docimer to Gertrude Tringle for his companion.
But there was still