Life and Gabriella: The Story of a Woman's CourageGlasgow, Ellen Anderson Gholson
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Life and Gabriella: The Story of a Woman's Courage
Glasgow, Ellen Anderson Gholson
Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Virginia -- Fiction
"Well, you're a brick, little girl," he said, "and I like your spirit,
but, after all, why can't you put your pride in your pocket, and let me
lend you a few thousands? You needn't borrow much--not enough to keep a
carriage--but you might at least take a little just to show you aren't
proud--just to show you'll be friends. It seems a downright shame that I
should have money to throw away, and you should be starting out to pinch
and scrape on fifteen dollars a week. Fifteen dollars a week! Good Lord,
what are we coming to?"
She was not proud, and she wanted to be friends, but she shook her head
obstinately, though she was still smiling. "Not now--not while I can
help it--but if I ever get in trouble--in real trouble--I'll remember
your offer. If the children fall ill or I lose my place, I'll come to
you in a minute."
"Honour bright? It's a promise?"
"It's a promise."
"And you'll let me keep an eye on you?"
She laughed with the natural gaiety which he found so delightful. "You
may keep two eyes on me if you will!"
He had already reached the door when, turning suddenly, he said with
heavy gravity: "You don't mind my asking what you're going to do about
George, do you?
"No, I don't mind. As soon as I can afford it, I shall get my freedom,
but everything costs, you know, even justice."
"I could help you there, couldn't I?"
From the gratitude in her eyes he read her horror of the marriage which
still bound her. "You could--and, oh, if you would, I'd never, never
forget it," she answered.
Then they parted, and he went out into the cold, with a strange warmth
like the fire of youth at his heart, while she ran eagerly up the
uncarpeted stairs to the nursery.
The trunks were packed, the boxes were nailed down, and the two children
were playing shipwreck while they ate a supper of bread and milk at a
table made from the bare top of a packing-case. Several days before the
nurse had left without warning, and Miss Polly sat now, in hat and
mantle, on one of the little beds which would be taken down the next day
and sent over to the apartment on the West Side.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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