“I dare not,” she moaned, as she covered her face with her hands, and shuddered.
“Dare not?”
“Yes, I dare,” she cried, proudly throwing up her head. “It is not true. Cyril has his faults, but it is a cruel invention of spiteful enemies. It is a lie.”
She stood up proudly defiant, ready to fight the world on her husband’s behalf, and seemed half angry with her uncle’s want of enthusiasm as he said, quietly—
“Tell me then, my dear. What do they say?”
“That he has committed forgery, and robbed poor old Mr Walker, who, they say, died of a broken heart at the disgrace of the failure.”
“And where is Cyril, now?” said the Churchwarden, whose forehead had grown full of deeper lines.
“Oh, uncle,” Sage cried, throwing herself upon her knees, and shuddering as she covered her face with her hands. “He was sitting with me last night, and—Oh, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it,” she wailed—“the police came. They said it was a warrant, and—oh, uncle, help me, pray help me, for I have but you to cling to. My husband is in prison now. What shall I do?”