‘When is he coming home?’
‘I—I don’t know. Soon, I hope,’ stammered Mrs. Smith.
‘I hope I shall see him. I’m sure he must be a good fellow, or you wouldn’t kiss his letters like you do.’
Shakspeare Jarvis little knew the tender chord he had touched. Mrs. Smith bent over her work, and the tears trickled down her face. She was thinking of her absent husband. She had visited him from time to time as the regulations allowed, and the meetings had been painful to them both. She had cheered him and bidden him hope. One visiting-day she had been too ill to go, and had written, telling him; the next she had gone—had gone at a time when the expense of her journey had crippled her—and had been told that she could not see him. Her husband had committed some offence against prison regulations, and his punishment was ‘no visitors, no letters.’ Since then she had not heard from him, and now she was getting anxious and nervous again. Every day that passed and she received no news, she grew more and more distressed. She knew his impetuous nature, she had seen how terribly he had been tried by the prison discipline, and she dreaded to think what he might have done in a fit of rage or despair.
She believed him innocent. He had told her all—all that he knew, and she believed him. He was still her noble, handsome George. It was all a vile plot against him; but what could she, a poor, weak, destitute woman, do to prove it?
After her father’s death, thrown entirely upon her own resources, she had determined to live—to live on and toil and struggle, trusting that some day, when the cruel prison-gates rolled back, George might not be alone in the world, but might have at least one faithful, loving heart to look to for support when he began the terrible struggle which would lie before him.
Shakspeare Jarvis noticed the tears as they fell streaming on the work, and he was wise enough to turn and look out of the window and hum a tune, just as if he hadn’t the slightest idea what Mrs. Smith was doing.
He hadn’t looked out of window a minute before he uttered a little cry of surprise and joy.
A cab had drawn up to the door with four heavy boxes on the roof.
‘Oh, Mrs. Smith,’ cried the lad, half beside himself, ‘here they are!’