Will Henderson moodily devoured his food at the opposite end of the table. The third of their household was not there. Elia rarely took his meals with them. He preferred them by himself, for he hated and dreaded Will’s tongue, which, though held in some check when he was sober, never failed to sting the boy when Silas Rocket’s whiskey had done its work.
The meal was nearly finished, and husband and wife had exchanged not a single word. Eve wished to talk; there was so much she wanted to say to him. The flame of her love still burned in her gentle bosom, but it was a 154 flame sorely blown about by the storm winds of their brief married life. But somehow she could not utter the words she wanted to. There was no encouragement. There was a definite but intangible bar to their expression. The brutal silence of the man chilled her, and frightened her.
Finally it was he who spoke, and he made some sort of effort to hide the determination lying behind his words.
“How much money have you got, Eve?” he demanded, pushing his plate away with a movement which belied his tone. It was a question which had a familiar ring to the ears of the troubled girl.
“Thirty dollars,” she said patiently. Then she sighed.
The man promptly threw aside all further mask.
“For God’s sake don’t sigh like that! You’ll be sniveling directly. One would think I was doin’ you an injury asking you a simple question.”
“It’s not that, Will. I’m thinking of what’s going to happen when that’s gone. It’s got to last us a month. Then I get my money from Carrie Horsley and Mrs. Crombie. They owe me seventy dollars between them for their summer suits. I’ve got several orders, but folks are tight here for money, and it’s always a matter of waiting.”
“Can’t you get an advance from ’em?”
That frightened look suddenly leaped again into the girl’s eyes.