“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.”