Part 9 (2/2)
”Tuesday week; first of May,” replied his wife. ”The lawyers are going to send it by registered letter.”
Mr. Gribble grunted.
”I shall be sorry to leave the house for some things,” said his wife, looking round. ”We've been here a good many years now, Henry.”
”Leave the house!” repeated Mr. Gribble, putting down his tea-cup and staring at her.
”Leave the house! What are you talking about?”
”But we can't stay here, Henry,” faltered Mrs. Gribble. ”Not with all that money. They are building some beautiful houses in Charlton Grove now-bathroom, tiled hearths, and beautiful stained gla.s.s in the front door; and all for twenty-eight pounds a year.”
”Wonderful!” said the other, with a mocking glint in his eye.
”And iron palings to the front garden, painted chocolate-colour picked out with blue,” continued his wife, eyeing him wistfully.
Mr. Gribble struck the table a blow with his fist. ”This house is good enough for me,” he roared; ”and what's good enough for me is good enough for you. You want to waste money on show; that's what you want. Stained gla.s.s and bow-windows! You want a bow-window to loll about in, do you?
Shouldn't wonder if you don't want a servant-gal to do the work.”
Mrs. Gribble flushed guiltily, and caught her breath.
”We're going to live as we've always lived,” pursued Mr. Gribble. ”Money ain't going to spoil me. I ain't going to put on no side just because I've come in for a little bit. If you had your way we should end up in the workhouse.”
He filled his pipe and smoked thoughtfully, while Mrs. Gribble cleared away the tea-things and washed up. Pictures, good to look upon, formed in the smoke-pictures of a hale, hearty man walking along the primrose path arm-in-arm with two hundred a year; of the mahogany and plush of the saloon bar at the Grafton Arms; of Sunday jaunts, and the Oval on summer afternoons.
He ate his breakfast slowly on the first of the month, and, the meal finished, took a seat in the window with his pipe and waited for the postman. Mrs. Gribble's timid reminders concerning the flight of time and consequent fines for lateness at work fell on deaf ears. He jumped up suddenly and met the postman at the door.
”Has it come?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, extending her hand.
By way of reply her husband tore open the envelope and, handing her the covering letter, counted the notes and coin and placed them slowly in his pockets. Then, as Mrs. Gribble looked at him, he looked at the clock, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing up his hat, set off down the road.
He was late home that evening, and his manner forbade conversation. Mrs.
Gribble, with the bereaved air of one who has sustained an irremediable loss, sighed fitfully, and once applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
”That's no good,” said her husband at last; ”that won't bring him back.”
”Bring who back?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in genuine surprise.
”Why, your Uncle George,” said Mr. Gribble. ”That's what you're turning on the water-cart for, ain't it?”
”I wasn't thinking of him,” said Mrs. Gribble, trying to speak bravely.
”I was thinking of--”
”Well, you ought to be,” interrupted her husband. ”He wasn't my uncle, poor chap, but I've been thinking of him, off and on, all day. That bloater-paste you are eating now came from his kindness. I brought it home as a treat.”
”I was thinking of my clothes,” said Mrs. Gribble, clenching her hands together under the table. ”When I found I had come in for that money, the first thing I thought was that I should be able to have a decent dress. My old ones are quite worn out, and as for my hat and jacket-”
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