“But, Mr. Mudge, have I failed you before? and should I be likely to begin now? If you will come on Tuesday, you shall have the money, if I have to pawn some of my furniture to raise it.”
Mr. Mudge was half persuaded, but still sullen. “There’s your husband,—why doesn’t he work? He is able to. You wouldn’t find any difficulty in raising the rent, if he would do something.”
“Arthur works already beyond his strength,” was the wife’s slightly indignant rejoinder (for she could not bear to have any imputation cast upon him); “and some day we shall see what will come of it.”
Just then, her husband stirred in his sleep; and Mary, hastily repeating, “Call again on Tuesday, and you shall have it,” closed the door, and went to his bedside.
“They are a proud set,” said Mudge to himself, as he descended the rickety staircase, which nearly caused him to stumble,—“they are a proud set; and they say pride and poverty always go together. But, if the rent isn’t ready on Tuesday, their pride will be likely to meet with a fall, or my name isn’t Mudge.”
Perceiving that her husband still slept, the artist’s wife took up her work, and began to ply her needle busily. The work she had received from the slop-shop consisted of shirts, for which she received ninepence apiece. She had taken a bundle of six, which, when completed, would amount to a little less than a crown. By great diligence, she could make three of these in two days; which would give them an income of not quite seven shillings per week. Of this sum, one half was obliged to go for the rent of the miserable room in which they lodged.
By and by, Arthur awoke from the deep sleep in which he had been plunged, and looked around him.
“It is late,” said he: “the sun is already high; and I must to work.”
He dressed himself hastily, and partook of the food which his wife had prepared for him.