The Streets of Ascalon

Mrs. Sprowl eyed her with shifty but keen intelligence. "Little idiot," she thought; but her smile remained bland and calmly patronising.

For a second or two longer she studied the girl cautiously, trying to make up her mind whether there was really any character in Strelsa's soft beauty – anything firmer than material fastidiousness; anything more real than a natural and dainty reticence. Mrs. Sprowl could ride rough-shod over such details. But she was too wise to ride if there was any chance of a check from higher sources.

"If you married him it would be very gratifying to me," she said pleasantly. "Come; let's discuss the matter like sensible women. Shall we?"

Many people would not have disregarded such a wish. Strelsa flushed and lifted her purple-gray eyes to meet the little green ones scanning her slyly.

"I am sorry," she said, "but I couldn't discuss such a thing, you see. Don't you see I can't, dear Mrs. Sprowl?"

"Pooh! Rubbish! Anybody can discuss anything," rejoined the old lady with impersonal and boisterous informality. "I'm fond of you. Everybody knows it. I'm fond of Sir Charles. He's a fine figure of a man. You match him in everything, except wealth. It's an ideal marriage – "

"Please don't! – I simply cannot – "

"Ideal," repeated Mrs. Sprowl loudly – "an ideal marriage – "

"But when there is no love – "

"Plenty! Loads of it! He's mad about you – crazy! – "

"I – meant – on my part – "

"Good God!" shouted the old lady, beating the air with pudgy hands – "isn't it luck enough to have love on one side? What does the present generation want! I tell you it's ideal, perfect. He's a good man as men go, and a devilish handsome – "

"I know – but – "

"And he's got money!" shouted the old lady – "plenty of it I tell you! And he has the entrée everywhere on the Continent – in England – everywhere! – which Dankmere has not! – if you're considering that little whelp!"

Stunned, shrinking from the dreadful asthmatic noises in Mrs. Sprowl's voice, Strelsa sat dumb, wincing under the blows of sound, not knowing how to escape.

"I'm fond of you!" shrieked the old lady – "I can be of use to you and I want to be. That's why I asked you to tea! I want to make you happy – and Sir Charles, too! What the devil do you suppose there is in it for me except to oblige hi – you both?"

"Th-thank you, but – "

"I'll bet a shilling that Molly Wycherly let you go about with any little spindle-shanked pill who came hanging around! – And I told her what were my wishes – "

"Please – oh, please, Mrs. Sprowl – "

"Yes, I did! It's a good match! I want you to consider it! – I insist that – "

"Mrs. Sprowl!" exclaimed Strelsa, pink with confusion and resentment, "I am obliged to you for the interest you display, but it is a matter – "

"What!"

"I am really – grateful – but – "

"Answer me, child. Has that cursed nephew of mine made any impression on you? Answer me!"

"Not the kind you evidently mean!" said Strelsa, helplessly.

"Is there anybody else?"

The outrageous question silenced the girl for a moment. Angry, she still tried to be gentle; tried to remember the age, and the excellent intentions of this excited old lady; and she answered in a low voice:

"I care for no man in particular, unless it be Sir Charles – and – "

"And who?"

"Mr. Quarren, I think," she said.

Mrs. Sprowl's jowl grew purple with fury:

"You – has that boy had the impudence – damn him – "

Strelsa sprang to her feet.

"I really cannot remain – " she said with decision, but the old lady only bawled:

"Sit down! Sit down!"

"I will not!"

"Sit down!" she roared in a passion. "What the devil – "

Strelsa, a little pale, started to pass her – then halted, astounded: for the old lady had burst into a passion of choking gasps. Whether the terrible sounds she made were due to impotent rage or asthma, Strelsa, confused, shocked, embarrassed, but still angry, had no notion; and while Mrs. Sprowl coughed fatly, she stood still, catching muffled fragments of reproaches directed at people who flouted friendship; who had no consideration for age, and no gratitude, no tenderness, no pity.

"I – I am grateful," faltered Strelsa, "only I cannot – "

"I wanted to be a mother to you! I've tried to be," wheezed the old lady in a fresh paroxysm; and beat the air.

For one swift instant the girl remembered what her real mother had been to her; and her heart hardened.

"I care only for your friendship, Mrs. Sprowl; I do not wish you to do anything for me; can we not be friends on that basis?"

Mrs. Sprowl swabbed her inflamed eyes and peered around the corner of the handkerchief.

"Come here, my dear," she said.

Strelsa went, slowly; and Mrs. Sprowl enveloped her like a fleshy squid, panting.

"I only wanted to be good to you, Strelsa. I'm just an old fool I suppose – "

"Oh, please don't – "

"That's all I am, child, just a sentimental old fool. The poor man's adoration of you touched my heart – and you do like him a little, don't you?"

"Very much… Thank you for – for wishing happiness to me. I really don't mean to be ungrateful; I have a horror of ingratitude. It's only that – the idea never occurred to me; and I am incapable of doing such a thing for material reasons, unless – I also really cared for a man – "

"Of course, child. Maybe you will care for him some day. I won't interfere any more… Only – don't lose your heart to any of these young jackals fawning around your skirts. Every set is full of 'em. They're nothing but the capering chorus in this comic opera… And – don't be angry – but I am an older and wiser woman than you, and I am fond of you, and it's my duty to tell you that any of the lesser breed – take young Quarren for example – are of no real account, even in the society which they amuse."