Mrs. Marsh, weary and untidy as ever, looked at this guileless offspring of hers with something like surprise.
"Really, Hilda," she said, "your feelings are delightfully adaptable!"
It was not often Mrs. Marsh indulged in sarcasm—in fact, it was something of an effort for her. But her daughter's utter callousness brought it out of her.
"Cannot you understand that either Gerald or Major Dundas would, in his capacity of future Squire, be equally able to take me out of this pig-sty and give me something like a decent life? And cannot you understand that the man who can do that is the man for me? I don't pretend to any sentimental feelings at all."
"Well, you are candid, to me, at all events, Hilda. But at your time of life I confess I should like to see a little more romance. It is terrible to hear such purely mercenary sentiments from a girl of your years."
"That's so like you, mother. You actually blame me for doing credit to your own teaching—that's what I call so ridiculous and unfair. Who has told me for years that my face was my fortune? Who has always drummed into me that it was my duty to help my family by making a good match? I think you know."
"It is true, Hilda; we are so poor," wailed Mrs. Marsh. "But I'm sure I always wished that you might marry someone you loved, only I said it would not do for you to love a poor man, or else what would become of us? I can tell you I lie awake at night thinking of what would happen to us if your father died. We should all have to go to the workhouse, for he hasn't saved a penny, and his life is not even insured."
"Then is that not all the more reason why on this occasion, at all events, I should forego the luxury of sentiment. You may thank your stars that I am as I am."
"I married for love myself," wept poor Mrs. Marsh, with a flush at the recollection of what had been, "and I was very happy—for a time."
Hilda cast an eloquent glance at the slatternly room and at her prematurely aged parent.