“And are now, sir,” exclaimed his wife interrupting him. “I have been in this bed a-week, and may never rise from it again; the children have no clothes; they are pawned; everything is pawned; this morning we had neither fuel, nor food. And we thought you had come for the rent which we cannot pay. If it had not been for a dish of tea which was charitably given me this morning by a person almost as poor as ourselves that is to say, they live by labour, though their wages are much higher, as high as two pounds a-week, though how that can be I never shall understand, when my husband is working twelve hours a day, and gaining only a penny an hour—if it had not been for this I should have been a corpse; and yet he says we were in straits, merely because Walter Gerard’s daughter, who I willingly grant is an angel from heaven for all the good she has done us, has stepped into our aid. But the poor supporting the poor, as she well says, what good can come from that!”
During this ebullition, Mr St Lys had surveyed the apartment and recognised Sybil.
“Sister,” he said when the wife of Warner had ceased, “this is not the first time we have met under the roof of sorrow.”
Sybil bent in silence, and moved as if she were about to retire: the wind and rain came dashing against the window. The companion of Mr St Lys, who was clad in a rough great coat, and was shaking the wet off an oilskin hat known by the name of a ‘south-wester,’ advanced and said to her, “It is but a squall, but a very severe one; I would recommend you to stay for a few minutes.”
She received this remark with courtesy but did not reply.
“I think,” continued the companion of Mr St Lys, “that this is not the first time also that we have met?”
“I cannot recall our meeting before,” said Sybil.
“And yet it was not many days past; though the sky was so very different, that it would almost make one believe it was in another land and another clime.”
Sybil looked at him as if for explanation.
“It was at Marney Abbey,” said the companion of Mr St Lys.