The squire's chair was empty, and on the
little stand at its side, the "Gentleman's Magazine" lay uncut. His
slippers, usually assumed after dinner, were still warming on the white
sheepskin rug before the fire. But the large, handsome face, that
always made a sunshiny feeling round the hearth, was absent; and the
room had a loneliness that made her heart fear. She waited a few
minutes, looking with expectation towards a piece of knitting which was
Mrs. Sandal's evening work. But the ivory needles and the colored wools
remained uncalled for, and she grew rapidly impatient, and went to her
mother's room. Mrs. Sandal was lying upon her couch, exhausted with
weeping; and the squire sat holding his head in his hands, the very
picture of despondency and sorrow.
"Can I come and speak to you, mother?"
The squire answered, "To be sure you can, Charlotte. We are glad to see
you. We are in trouble, my dear."
"Is it Harry, father?"
"Trouble mostly comes that way. Yes, it is Harry. He is in a great
strait, and wants five hundred pounds, Charlotte; five hundred pounds,
dear, and he wants it at once. Only six weeks ago he wrote in the same
way for a hundred and fifty pounds. He is robbing me, robbing his
mother, robbing Sophia and you."
"William, I wouldn't give way to temper that road; calling your own son
and my son a thief. It's not fair," said Mrs. Sandal, with considerable
asperity.
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