“What are you driving at?” asked Jacob Ford; “don’t talk riddles to me—they get me out of temper. If you have any thing to tell, out with it. I’ve seen fifty years’ wear and tear; I’m not frightened by trifles.”
“But this is no trifle, Ford. I can’t do it,” said the soft-hearted Mr. Trask. “Jacob, my old friend—I—can’t do it,” and he sat down and covered his face with his hands.
“Come—come,” said Jacob; “take heart, man. If you have got into a scrape, Jacob Ford is not the man to desert an old friend; if a few hundreds or more will set it all right, you shall have it.”
“For God’s sake, stop,” said Trask; “the shadow has fallen on your threshold, not on mine.”
“Mine?” replied Jacob, with a bewildered look. “Mine? defalcations? banks broke? hey? Jacob Ford a beggar, after fifty years’ toil?”
“Worse—worse,” said Trask, making a violent effort to speak. “Percy Lee is arrested for embezzlement, and I have proofs of his guilt. There—now I’ve said it.”
“Man! do you know this?” said Jacob, in a hoarse whisper, putting his white lips close to his friend’s ear, as if he feared the very walls would tell the secret.
“Before God, ’tis true,” said Trask, solemnly.
“Then God’s curse light on the villain,” said Jacob Ford. “My Mary—my bright, beautiful Mary! Oh! who will tell her? Listen, Trask, that’s her voice—singing. Oh, God—oh God, this is too dreadful”—and the old man bowed his head upon his breast, and wept like a child.
“What does all this mean?” asked Lucy Ford, opening the door. “Jacob—husband—Trask—what is it?” and she looked from one to the other, in bewildered wonder.