Chapter 89
"Well, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, who had nearly arrived at the stage of dressing that calls for a cap, "that was only fair."
"Oh, yes, it was fair enough; and I wouldn't have grudged it if Cyril had been like other men. Five thousand pounds hard savings I paid down that he might go into partners.h.i.+p with old Walker in that wine trade."
"Well, and I'm sure they seem to have done well for some time, Joseph; and see what a nice present of wine Cyril sent you every Christmas.
Yes, for five Christmas presents, Joseph."
"Every one of which cost me a thousand pounds, old lady, and the interest. Dear presents--dear presents."
"But he was getting on well, Joseph, and he seemed so steady; and I'm sure he was very fond of Sage."
"Fond of Sage!" cried the old farmer, bitterly. "Don't tell me. How can a man be fond of his wife when he spends every penny he can get on himself, and then turns the woman he swore to protect into a begging-letter writer?"
"But what does it all mean? Only the other day, dear," said Mrs Portlock, whose hands trembled, and who seemed sadly agitated, "we heard that old Mr Walker had died, and I thought it meant that now Cyril would have the business all to himself."
"Yes, and he has had it all to himself," said the Churchwarden, bitterly. "But come down, and speak gently to her, poor darling. Let's do all we can to make the best of things."
The Churchwarden had let the angry excitement escape in the presence of his wife, and there was a notable change in his manner as he softly followed her down into the old parlour, where a bonny fire was blazing, and Sage Mallow had changed her position to the easy-chair, so that her little ones might enjoy the comfort of the broad old sofa, drawn, as it was, before the glow.
They were fast asleep, the two pretty little girls, with their tangled hair, in a close embrace, and warmly covered with a great rug, while their mother lay back in the chair, looking twenty years older than on the day she accompanied Cyril Mallow to the church. Her face was pinched and pale, and about her lips there was that strange compression that tells of suffering, weariness, and an aching heart.
A sigh broke involuntarily from the Churchwarden's breast, as with tender solicitude he went down on one knee, and drew a shawl over the sleeping mother's arms.
It was softly done, but Sage started into wakefulness, and then, seeing who was there, her dilate and frightened eyes softened with tears as she threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face in his breast, sobbing hysterically, but in a low, weary way.
"Oh, uncle, uncle!"
"My poor bairn, my dear bairn," he whispered, drawing her closer to his breast, and softly caressing her hair. "There, there, there, don't cry, don't cry. As long
"But my husband," she said, wildly, as she looked up, and, for the first time, saw that Mrs Portlock was present. "Oh, auntie, auntie," she wailed, almost in a whisper, as she cast an anxious glance at the sleeping children, "I'm in such trouble, and such grief. What shall I do?"
She quitted her uncle's embrace now, to lay her head, with the weariness of a sick child, upon the old lady's breast.
"There, there," whispered her aunt, with all the sharp jerkiness of manner gone. "Cheer up a bit, and well see what's to be done. You did quite right to come down. Uncle and I will take care of you and the bairns."
"But I must go back directly," said Sage, sitting up and smoothing her hair. "I came down to ask uncle and Mr Mallow to help us, but Mr Mallow is so angry with Cyril that I am almost afraid to go."
"Oh, I'll go and have a talk to him, my darling," said the Churchwarden; "and we'll see if we can't set things a bit right. Ah, that's better,"
he cried, as one of the maids entered with a hot cup of tea. "There, my dear, drink that. Don't wait, Anne."
The girl, who was staring open-mouthed, left the room, and, after some persuasion, Sage drank the tea.
"I want to tell you, uncle," she cried, after holding her hands for a few moments to her temples, as if her head was confused, and her thoughts wandering away. "I want to tell you all, but I seem to be hearing the rattle of the train in my head, and jolting over the road in that cart, with the children crying with the cold."
"But they are fast asleep, and comfortable now, my girl," said the Churchwarden, soothingly. "Suppose you have a nap, and tell us all your trouble later on."
"No, no," she cried, "I must tell you now, for I want to get back to Cyril."
She stared about so wildly that the Churchwarden and his wife exchanged glances.
"Is Cyril at home, then?" said Portlock, as if to help her regain the current of her thoughts.
"Home?" she cried. "No: we have no home. Everything has been seized and sold; and we have been changing about from lodging to lodging, for Cyril did not wish to be seen."
"Not wish to be seen?"
"No, uncle, dear. He said the failure of the firm was so painful to him since Mr Walker's death; and that the representatives of the poor old man had forced the estate into bankruptcy, and were behaving very badly to him."
"Humph!"
"People have behaved so very, very cruelly to him, and set about such dreadful stories; but you will not believe them, dear? He is my husband, and he has been very, very unfortunate."
"Very, my dear," said her uncle, drily.
"He has tried so hard," cried Sage, excitedly, "and fought so bravely to make a fortune; but the world has always been against him, do what he would."
"Hah, yes," said the Churchwarden, with a sigh. "But if people would be content with a good living, and not want to make fortunes, what trouble would be saved."
"Oh, don't: pray don't you turn against him, uncle, dear," sobbed Sage, piteously.
"No, my child," said the Churchwarden, gazing tenderly in her sad, thin face. "I shall not turn against him for your sake. But you had better tell me all. You say he is in trouble, but innocent?"
She gazed wildly from one to the other.
"I dare not," she moaned, as she covered her face with her hands, and shuddered.
"Dare not?"
"Yes, I dare," she cried, proudly throwing up her head. "It is not true. Cyril has his faults, but it is a cruel invention of spiteful enemies. It is a lie."
She stood up proudly defiant, ready to fight the world on her husband's behalf, and seemed half angry with her uncle's want of enthusiasm as he said, quietly--
"Tell me then, my dear. What do they say?"
"That he has committed forgery, and robbed poor old Mr Walker, who, they say, died of a broken heart at the disgrace of the failure."
"And where is Cyril, now?" said the Churchwarden, whose forehead had grown full of deeper lines.
"Oh, uncle," Sage cried, throwing herself upon her knees, and shuddering as she covered her face with her hands. "He was sitting with me last night, and--Oh, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it," she wailed--"the police came. They said it was a warrant, and--oh, uncle, help me, pray help me, for I have but you to cling to. My husband is in prison now.
What shall I do?"
PART THREE, CHAPTER THREE.
LUKE ROSS HEARS NEWS.
Old Michael Ross sat very patiently outside his son's chambers, watching the door, and finding enough satisfaction in reading over the name, 'Mr Ross,' again and again.