“Rufus, I think I might get another situation to teach music. I have good references, you know. I don’t like being so utterly dependent upon you. You have not been used to work. I’m afraid we did very wrong in getting married.”
“What else could we do?” demanded Rufus Black. “I could not see you working yourself to death, Lally, when a little care would save you. You had to go out of doors in all weathers, and you were going into a galloping consumption. I expected to be able to support you, but I’m only a useless fellow, after all. I thought I had talent, but it has turned out like the fairy money—it has turned to dead leaves at the moment of using it. I have a university education, and would be thankful for a situation as usher in a dame’s school. I am willing to dig ditches, only I’m not strong enough. Oh, Lally, little wife, what is to become of us?”
Lally Black—she had been christened Lalla by her romantic mother, after the heroine of Moore’s poem, but her name had lost its romantic sound through years of every-day use—approached her young husband, and softly laid her cheek against his. She stroked his hand gently as she said:
“It is I who am useless, Rufus. You ought to have married a rich wife instead of a poor little music-teacher. I’m afraid you’ll reproach me in your heart some day for marrying you—there, there, dear boy! I did not mean it. I know you will never regret our marriage, let what will be the result!”
She caressed him tenderly, and then hurried to the fire intent upon her breakfast. The coffee was steaming, and the ham was cooked. The busy little housewife made a round of toast, and then announced that breakfast was ready. Rufus drew up his chair to the table, and Lally waited upon him, and was so gay and bright and hopeful that he became infected with her spirit.
But when the delicious breakfast was over he became grave and haggard again, and bowed his face on his hand and sat in silence, while she washed the dishes and carefully put away the remnants of the meal. Then she came to him and sat on his knee, and drew his hand from his face, and whispered:
“Rufus, is your father rich?”
“He has some three or four hundred pounds a year—that’s all,” answered Rufus. “Why do you ask?”
“Could he not assist us a little, if he wished?” ventured Lally. “I have no relative to apply to. I had a great-aunt who married a rich man, and I think she lives in London, but I don’t know her name, and she probably never heard of me, so I can’t write or go to her. Let us humble ourselves to your father, dear—”
“To what purpose?” interposed Rufus half fiercely. “My father is a mercenary, villainous—Don’t stop me, Lally. I am telling the truth, if he is my father. Thank God, I took after my poor mother. My father does not know we are married, and I dare not tell him. If I fear anybody in this world, I fear my father.”