“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?”