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Part 3, Chapter II.
In Trouble

“Sage? What – down-stairs?” cried Mrs Portlock. “Don’t say they’re in trouble again, Joseph.”

“Why not?” said the Churchwarden, slowly. “Come along down, and make the poor girl some warm tea. She’s been travelling all night, and has brought the two little ones with her.”

“I’ll be down directly,” said Mrs Portlock; “but what is the matter?”

“Trouble, trouble, trouble,” said the Churchwarden, slowly. “Hang the laws. I’d give something if I could take her away from him, and keep her at home, children and all. It would come a deal cheaper, old lady.”

“Oh, but you are too hard on him, Joseph, indeed you are. Cyril is very, very fond of her and his children.”

“Bah! I never knew him fond of anything but himself, and what money he could get.”

“There, if you are in that kind of temper, Joseph, it is of no use for me to speak to you. I’ll be down directly; but won’t Sage come up?”

“No, I’ve made her lie down on the sofa by the fire. She’s worn out, and the little ones are fast asleep. I’ve told the girls to hurry on the breakfast.”

“But how foolish of her to travel in the night. How did they come from the station?”

“A man brought them in a cart. Poor things! they are half perished.”

“Dear, dear, dear, dear me,” said Mrs Portlock, hastily dressing. “What troubles there are in this world.”

“Yes, if people make ’em.”

“But what is wrong with Cyril?”

“Oh, nothing particular,” said the Churchwarden, bitterly, “only he’s in trouble again.”

“In trouble?”

“Yes, in trouble. Don’t shout about it and frighten the poor girl more.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Oh, some trouble over old Walker’s affairs. Sage says she is sure he is innocent. Heaven knows I hope he is.”

“But what made her come down?”

“What made her come down, old lady? Why, what was the poor wench to do, a woman with a couple of little children? There, it seems a sin to say so, but it’s a blessing the others died.”

“Oh, for shame, Joseph!” cried Mrs Portlock, whose trembling old fingers were in great trouble over various strings.

“I don’t care,” said the Churchwarden, whose hair was white now, but who looked as sturdy and well as ever; “I wish she had never seen the scoundrel.”

“Joseph, if you talk like that, you’ll break the poor girl’s heart.”

“I’m not going to talk to her like that, but I suppose I may to you. Here have they been married close upon twelve years, and what have they been but twelve years of misery?”

“There has been a deal of trouble certainly,” sighed Mrs Portlock. “What time is it now?”

“Half-past six. Make haste. He was held to be all that was steady and right at that Government appointment, and six months after his marriage they kicked him out.”

“But Sage always said, dear, that they behaved very ill to Cyril.”

“Of course she did, and she believed it, poor lass; but if half that I heard of him was true, I’d have kicked him out at the end of three months instead of six.”

“It’s very, very shocking,” sighed Mrs Portlock, getting something in a knot.

“Then he gets his mother’s money; poor soul, she’d have sold herself for that boy.”

“Yes; she’s very, very fond of him.”

“There was enough for them to have lived in comfort to the end of their days, if he hadn’t bet and squandered the property all away.”

“I’m afraid he was a little reckless,” sighed Mrs Portlock.

“Reckless? He was mad. Then, when it was gone, it was money, money, money: never a month passing but there was a letter from poor Sage, begging for money.”

“But she couldn’t help it, dear.”

“Think I don’t know that,” cried the Churchwarden, striding to and fro. “He forced her to write, of course; and we sent it, but not for him. If it hadn’t been for her and the bairns, not a penny of my hard savings would he ever have seen.”

“But he has been better lately.”

“Better? Ha, ha, ha! So it seems. Wait till we know all. Five thousand pounds gone in that wine merchant’s business.”

“Well, but, Joseph, dear, you would have left it to them after we were dead. Wasn’t it better to give it to them at once?”

“Yes, if it was for their good,” said the Churchwarden. “What is it? Four years ago, and Mallow said, ‘No,’ – I remember his words as well as if it were only yesterday – ‘No,’ he said, ‘I think we’ve done enough. My wife’s money has all gone to him, and I will not impoverish myself further. I think it is your turn, now.’”

“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 partnership 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 as there’s a roof at Kilby, and we’re alive, there’s a home for you, my darling, and the little ones. So come, come, come, cheer up!”

“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 3, Chapter III.
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.

“It’s not a grand place to look at,” he said to himself; “but they tell me he’s growing quite a big man. I read for myself what he says to the judges in court sometimes; and it’s a very great thing for my son to be allowed to talk to them.”

Then he had to move to allow some one to pass up, and soon after he had again to move for some one to pass down, and each time he rose those who passed looked keenly at the countrified old gentleman, with his carpet bag and umbrella, but no one spoke.

“I did see how many people there are in London,” said the old man to himself. “Three millions, I think it was; and yet what a strange dull place it is, and how lonesome a man can feel. Ah!” he said, sadly, “if my son was to be vexed because I have come up, and not be glad to see me, I think I should seem to be all alone in the world.”

Just then the door opened, and the little clerk came out with a felt hat stuck very much on one side of his head.

He started as he saw the old man seated patiently waiting, and after closing the door he said, sharply —

“Now then, old chap, what are you stopping for?”

“I was waiting to see my – to see Mr Ross,” said the old man, who seemed quite humbled by the greatness of his son.

“Didn’t I tell you he wasn’t at home?” said the boy.

“Yes, sir; and I was going to wait till he returned.”

“It’s of no use to wait; he don’t want to see you.”

“Do you think not?” said the old man, humbly.

“I’m sure he don’t. What have you got to sell?”

“Skins, sir, skins, principally sheep,” said the tanner, respectfully.

“Well, look here: just you be off. The governor buys all his skins when he wants ’em at the law stationers, but he hardly ever uses one. It’s the solicitors who do that. Now then, off you go.”

Just then the door opened, and a well-known voice called “Dick” loudly, the speaker coming out on to the stone landing, and then starting with surprise.

“Why, father!” he exclaimed. “You here? I am glad to see you. Really, I am glad to see you.”

The grave, stern way of speaking was gone, and it was Luke Ross of a dozen years before who was shaking the old man by the hands, and then patting him affectionately on the shoulders, the old man dropping umbrella and bag, and the tears starting to his weak old eyes, as he saw his son’s genuine pleasure at the encounter.

“Come along in, father,” continued Luke.

“Here, Dick, pick up those things and bring them in.”

Dick screwed up his face and stared.

“I – I’ll pick them up, Luke, my boy,” quavered the old man, glancing at the young clerk.

“No, no; he’ll bring them in, father,” said Luke, drawing the old man into the office and into his private room, where he thrust him into the most comfortable chair, and then stood over him smiling with pleasure, seeming as if he could hardly make enough of the little, shrunken old man.

“Just come up, I suppose?” cried Luke.

“Yes, my boy, yes,” said old Michael, wiping his eyes; “but I’ve been sitting out there on the stairs these two hours.”

“Sitting out there! Why didn’t you ring?”

“I did knock, my boy, and that lad of yours said you were out, and told me to go away; and if I had known you were in all the time, my boy, I should have gone away thinking you didn’t want to see your old father. Did you tell him to say you were out, Luke?”

“The young scoundrel! no,” cried Luke.

“I’m afraid he’s a very wicked boy, then,” piped the old man, “a very wicked boy. But are you glad to see me again, Luke?”

“Glad to see you, my dear old father? Why, yes, yes, you know I am. Come, come, come, or you’ll make me weak too.”

“Ye-ye – yes, my boy, it is weak,” quavered the old fellow, wiping his eyes hastily; “but I’m getting very old now, Luke. I was a middle-aged man when I married your dear mother, and I’m seventy-nine now, and not so strong as I was, and – and I got fancying as I came up that now you had grown to be such a great man you wouldn’t want to see such a shabby old fellow as I am at your chambers.”

“For shame, father!” cried Luke, reproachfully. “What cause have I ever given you for thinking that?”

“None at all, my boy, none at all. God bless you! You’re a good lad, and I’m very proud of you, Luke, very proud of you, and – and I am so glad to see you again. Luke, my boy,” he said, rising, and his tremulous old hands played caressingly about his son’s shoulders, “I’m a very old fellow now, and I dare say this is the last time I shall come to town.”

“Oh, no, no, no, father, you’ll make plenty of journeys up yet.”

“No, my boy, no,” said the old fellow, calmly; and he shook his head. “It can’t be; my next journey may be the long one, never to come back again, my boy.”

“Oh, father, come, come,” cried Luke, “don’t talk like that.”

“Why not, my boy?” said the old man, smiling; “it must come to that soon, and it never seems to trouble me now; but, Luke, my boy, would you – would you mind this once if – if I – if I – you were a little boy once, Luke, and I have always been so proud of you, and though you – you have grown to be such a great man, you seem only my boy still, and I should like to once more before I die.”

“Like to what, father?” cried the young man, smiling at his elder’s affectionate earnestness.

“I should like to kiss you, my boy – for the last time,” faltered the old man, humbly.

“My dear old father!”

It was all that was heard save a muffled sob, as Luke strained the old man to his breast, and position – the present – all was forgotten, as father and son stood there feeling as if five-and-twenty years had dropped away.

“Now,” said Luke, as the old man, with a happy smile upon his face, resumed his chair, the younger half seating himself upon the writing-table before him. “Now then, father,” said Luke, merrily, “am I glad to see you?”

“Yes, yes, my boy, I know you are;” and the old man took one of the delicate white hands in his, and gazed round the room. “I like your new chambers, my boy. Much better than the old ones. The furniture’s very nice; but you never wrote to your poor old father for fifty or a hundred pounds to buy it,” he said, reproachfully.

“There was no need, father,” said Luke, smiling. “I am making a good deal of money now.”

“Are you though? I’m glad of it. You ought to: you’re so clever; but you never come down, my boy.”

Luke’s brow clouded.

“I haven’t the heart, father,” he said, after a pause. “Come and see me instead; and if I don’t write so often as I should, it is really because I spend so much time in study and hard work.”

“Yes, of course, my boy, so you must. But – but you haven’t asked me why I came up.”

“To see me, of course,” said Luke.

“Well, yes, my boy, I did; but you – you haven’t the heart to come down?”

Luke shook his head.

“Do you – do you think,” – the old man held his son’s hand in both his own, and looked timidly in his face, “do you think about her still, my boy?”

“Every day, father,” said the young man, sternly. “I always shall.”

“Yes, yes, my boy. That is why I came up. I came to tell you, my boy: she’s in very great trouble.”

“Trouble!” said Luke, quickly; and his voice sounded hoarse and strange – “again?”

“Yes, yes, my boy. I knew you would like to know.”

Luke snatched his hand away, and paced up and down the room several times before stopping in front of the old man once more. “Has – has she been down, father?”

“Yes, my boy, she came down with her two little girls.”

“Did you see her?” said Luke, hoarsely. “Yes, my boy. I had to go to Churchwarden Portlock about some skins, and he took me into the room where she was, and she shook hands. Poor girl, poor girl, she’s strange and changed.”

“Changed, father?”

“Yes; old and careworn, and as if she’d suffered a deal of trouble.”

Luke Ross’s head went down upon his breast, and his voice was almost inaudible as he said —

“What is her trouble now?”

“You have heard nothing, then, my boy?”

“No, father, nothing.”

“Not that the wine merchant’s business has all come to bankruptcy?”

“No, father; but I am not surprised. He will always be a beggar. That is her trouble, then. She is back home?”

“Oh, no, my boy; she is in London. She would not leave her husband. Churchwarden Portlock came up with her, for it is a terrible trouble this time.”

“Indeed, father! Why?”

“They say he has committed forgery, my boy, and done no end of ill, and – and – ”

“And what, father?” cried Lake, whose eyes were flashing with eagerness.