‘Is it anything I can do for you?’ he said, with a rather vacant smile. ‘I’m Mr. Cheveley.’
‘I want to see Master White,’ said Uncle Luke in a faltering voice. ‘I’ve come all the way from the country, all along o’ Madlin, here. Haven’t I, Madlin? If so be he’s away, can’t some one fetch him, and tell him Luke Peartree wants him, and that Uncle Mark’s dead, and that poor Aunt Jane’s a widder, and that things has all gone contrary, and all our hearts is broke?’
Tears rose in Uncle Luke’s eyes, and he stood choking, while Madeline clung to him and began crying too. The young man looked at them in astonishment for some minutes; then, struck by an idea, he walked rapidly to an inner door and cried loudly—
‘Here, White.’
A sleepy voice answered from within—
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Some one to see you—come, get up!’
The answer seemed a combination of strong expressions, combined with inarticulate groans. After listening for a moment, Cheveley turned to Uncle Luke—
‘Here, I say!’ he said, with the vacant helpless manner peculiar to him. ‘He’s writing in bed, and he won’t rise. You’d better go in and explain your own business. The little girl can wait here.’
Not without some little fear and trembling, Uncle Luke released Madeline’s hand, and moved with timid steps into the inner room. It was a very small chamber, furnished as a bedroom; that is to say, it contained an iron bedstead, a washstand, a table, and other conveniences. A chest of drawers gaping open was covered with articles of attire in most admired disorder, and other articles were hung on the walls or scattered about the room.