merry laugh—for a merry laugh it used to be—seemed to sound at that moment in his ears.
“Besides robbing me of my sister-in-law, it seems he has broken open my desk and stolen bank notes to the amount of several thousand pounds; and as the duty devolved usually upon him of noting their numbers, and he has purposely inserted fictitious numbers in our books to mislead us, we have few means of tracing them, and their recovery is very doubtful. The loss of this sum, together with a packet of securities, which he must have abstracted—and perhaps destroyed—through sheer malice, as they are of value to none but myself, is ruin to me, and I must close the mills and stop payment to-morrow.”
Charles was too astounded at this news to utter any but the most common-place words of sympathy, but George Turldon interrupted him abruptly.
“Say nothing to Cissy about it. She knows nothing as yet of this new trouble, and is much worried by that affair of her sister. My head man, Cairtree, has been working night and day to discover the runaways, and when he comes here this evening we shall hear what progress he has made. Come to tea,” he said, suddenly, tossing the papers in a confused heap upon the table.
He led him into the bright cheerful parlour, and Cissy rose from her seat to bid him welcome with her usual cordiality. In the same room with her was the Family Trouble.
The Family Trouble was a strange, quiet, elfish little creature, apparently of about eight years of age, who immediately put her soft hand in his—as was her wont—and led him in triumph round the room.
Looking into this child’s face—a face of singular beauty and sweetness—or at her slight neat figure which glided so noiselessly from place to place—none would dream that from her proceeded the only shadow which had hitherto darkened the domestic happiness of George and Cissy. It required a more earnest and careful scrutiny to detect the dazed, puzzled expression—now and then alternated by sudden gleams of intelligence, or the shadows that ever crossed her quiet, otherwise happy countenance, and seemed to stand between her intellect and the outer world. The clouds always seemed partially to break when Charles visited them, and she would follow him from room to room with a half-run and a merry laugh, nodding her head and smiling as a token that she understood every word he said. A hope, but hitherto a vain hope, had always been cherished by George and Cissy, that as the child grew older these clouds would be cleared away.
It was a strange group assembled in that quiet parlour, and not devoid of dramatic interest. George Turldon was standing moodily at the window, anxious for the arrival of his foreman, and disturbed at the thought of the disclosures he would have to make to Cissy, probably that very night. He asked himself, as he drew the red curtains and tried to pierce the darkness without, how she would bear it. Whether she would be stunned and paralysed by the suddenness of the blow, or stand bravely by his side, and help him to brave the storm with firmness and fortitude. Cissy, sighing at the thought of her sister’s folly, but calm, and never for a moment dreaming of the misfortune that overhung them nearer home, and threatened to sweep away her jewels, coaches, gardens, and all the little luxuries she delighted in. Charles, thinking of many things,—of the doctor’s interview, of the strange tale George had just confided to him, of the gentleman with the sweet voice, of Effie, who sat, quiet now, on a high chair at the table, and arched her pretty neck, while she tried to build a house with some old playing-cards.
The silence was disturbed by the entrance of a servant, who announced that Abel Mayner, a workman from the mills, wished to speak with the master on urgent business; and before George had time either to refuse or consent to the interview, Abel stood at the door, and bowed awkwardly to the assembled company. It was the man with whom the kind gentleman had expostulated in the glass counting-house, and during his address—a long, rambling statement from which Charles could infer nothing but that Abel’s boy was in custody for some theft at the mills, and the father was pleading for leniency—he several times went through the performance of strangling his fur cap. George listened to him in frowning silence, and then said: “I have already given you my answer. You and your brother are the most discontented and mischievous spirits in the mill. Were it otherwise I should still have my duty to perform, and could not overlook the crime of robbery without serious injury to the morals of all the men in my employ.”
Then Abel commenced again, waving his hands violently, and speaking in a husky voice. It was plain that he had been drinking; for when George interrupted him curtly, and said—“You have my answer,” Abel staggered towards the street door, stumbling over the hall chairs as he went. Before he went out into the fog he turned round, as if suddenly impressed with a new idea, and exclaimed, with a drunken sigh—“The Lord have mercy upon this house.” So he left them, and George resumed his post at the window.
“I wish Cairtree would come.”
“Charles has never seen Mr. Cairtree,” said Cissy, making the tea: and Cissy never looked prettier nor more in her natural sphere than when making tea. “I should like you to see him, Charles. He’s an old dear.”
Cairtree came at last, and at a glance Charles recognised in him the cheerful, kindly, gentleman, he had before seen that evening.
As he shook hands with him, George gave him an anxious inquiring glance, but the foreman shook his head, and the words “no hope” were plainly read in his sorrowful countenance. Cissy rose smilingly to welcome him, and as she advanced, the expression of concern which over-shadowed his face gradually cleared away. He had been in the mills since the time of George’s father; had known George when he was a child, and in spite of his subordinate position, they evidently looked up to him as their friend, and favourite, and trustiest adviser. He drew a little
