“But what does it all mean? Only the other day, dear,” said Mrs Portlock, whose hands trembled, and who seemed sadly agitated, “we heard that old Mr Walker had died, and I thought it meant that now Cyril would have the business all to himself.”
“Yes, and he has had it all to himself,” said the Churchwarden, bitterly. “But come down, and speak gently to her, poor darling. Let’s do all we can to make the best of things.”
The Churchwarden had let the angry excitement escape in the presence of his wife, and there was a notable change in his manner as he softly followed her down into the old parlour, where a bonny fire was blazing, and Sage Mallow had changed her position to the easy-chair, so that her little ones might enjoy the comfort of the broad old sofa, drawn, as it was, before the glow.
They were fast asleep, the two pretty little girls, with their tangled hair, in a close embrace, and warmly covered with a great rug, while their mother lay back in the chair, looking twenty years older than on the day she accompanied Cyril Mallow to the church. Her face was pinched and pale, and about her lips there was that strange compression that tells of suffering, weariness, and an aching heart.
A sigh broke involuntarily from the Churchwarden’s breast, as with tender solicitude he went down on one knee, and drew a shawl over the sleeping mother’s arms.
It was softly done, but Sage started into wakefulness, and then, seeing who was there, her dilate and frightened eyes softened with tears as she threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face in his breast, sobbing hysterically, but in a low, weary way.
“Oh, uncle, uncle!”
“My poor bairn, my dear bairn,” he whispered, drawing her closer to his breast, and softly caressing her hair. “There, there, there, don’t cry, don’t cry. As long as there’s a roof at Kilby, and we’re alive, there’s a home for you, my darling, and the little ones. So come, come, come, cheer up!”
“But my husband,” she said, wildly, as she looked up, and, for the first time, saw that Mrs Portlock was present. “Oh, auntie, auntie,” she wailed, almost in a whisper, as she cast an anxious glance at the sleeping children, “I’m in such trouble, and such grief. What shall I do?”
She quitted her uncle’s embrace now, to lay her head, with the weariness of a sick child, upon the old lady’s breast.