“Let us say double that, and then right cheap.”
“Well, if so,” replied Cicely, with a gasp, “where shall we sell them? Who has so much money?”
“I’ll try to find it, or what is needful. Now, Cousin Emlyn,” he added sarcastically, “you see where my profit lies. I buy the gems at half their value, and the rest I keep.”
“In your own words: go to!” said Emlyn, “and keep your gibes until we have more leisure.”
The old man thought a while, and said—
“It grows late, but the evening is pleasant, and I think I need some air. That crack-brained, red-haired fellow of yours will watch you while I am gone, and for mercy’s sake be careful with those candles. Nay, nay; you must have no fire, you must go cold. After what you said to me, I can think of naught but fire. It is for this night only. By to-morrow evening I’ll prepare a place where Abbot Maldon himself might sit unscorched in the midst of hell. But till then make out with clothes. I have some furs in pledge that I will send up to you. It is your own fault, and in my youth we did not need a fire on an autumn day. No more, no more,” and he was gone, nor did they see him again that night.
On the following morning, as they sat at their breakfast, Jacob Smith appeared, and began to talk of many things, such as the badness of the weather—for it rained—the toughness of the ham, which he said was not to be compared to those they cured at Blossholme in his youth, and the likeness of the baby boy to his mother.
“Indeed, no,” broke in Cicely, who felt that he was playing with them; “he is his father’s self; there is no look of me in him.”
“Oh!” answered Jacob; “well, I’ll give my judgment when I see the father. By the way, let me read that note again which the cloaked man brought to Emlyn.”
Cicely gave it to him, and he studied it carefully; then said, in an indifferent voice—