“You are right, warder,” said Luke, quietly, as he slipped a couple of sovereigns into the man’s hand. “Send for the proper help, and—You understand me. He was a gentleman.”
“You leave it to me, sir,” said the warder; “I know he was, and a high-spirited one, too. Ah, there goes the fog.”
And, as if by magic, the dense cloud of grey mist rolled away, and the sun shone down brightly upon the little white cambric handkerchief wet with tears, spread a few moments before over the blindly-staring eyes looking heavenwards for the half-asked pardon.
Portlock was standing there, resting his hands upon his stout umbrella, gazing at where his niece knelt as if in prayer by her husband’s corpse, and he started slightly as Luke laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“Let us go back,” he whispered, and he pointed to Sage.
The old farmer went to her and took her hand.
“Sage, my child,” he whispered, “come: let us go.”
She looked up at him with a blank, woebegone aspect, and clung to his hand.
“Not one loving word, uncle,” she said, slowly, but in a voice that reached no other ears. “Not one word for me, or for my little orphans. Oh, Cyril, Cyril,” she moaned, as she bent over him, raising the kerchief and kissing his brow, “did you love me as I loved you?”
She rose painfully as her uncle once more took her hand to lead her to the fly, where he seated himself by her side, Luke taking his place by the driver; and as they drove sadly back to the old cathedral town, the fog that had been over the land appeared to cling round and overshadow their hearts.