The cook directing a silent significant glance of compassion towards her fellow-servants, said:
“Would you like a drink of cider, Tim, or will you wait and take a cup of tay with myself and Kitty?”
The old man’s eyes were fixed on the fire, and a wrinkled hand was planted firmly on each knee, as if to check their involuntary trembling. “I’ll not drink anything this night, thank you kindly, Nelly,” he said, in a slow musing manner, dwelling long on each word.
“Where’s Billy?” he asked, after a pause, in a quick hurried tone, looking up suddenly at the cook, with an expression in his eyes, which, as she afterwards said, “took away her breath.”
“Oh, never heed Billy! I suppose he’s busy with the master.”
“Where’s the use, Nelly,” said the coachman, “in hiding it from him? Sure, sooner or later he must know it. Tim,” he continued, “God knows ’tis sorrow to my heart this blessed night to make yours sore,—but the truth is, that William has done what he oughtn’t to do to the man that was all one as a father to him.”
“What has he done? what will you dar say again my boy?”
“Taken money, then,” replied the coachman, “that the master had marked and put by in his desk; for he suspected this some time past that gold was missing. This morning ’twas gone; a search was made, and the marked guineas were found with your son William.”
The old man covered his face with his hands, and rocked himself to and fro.
“Where is he now?” at length he asked, in a hoarse voice.