easier by putting it off; but then, who was he to stand against his
clergyman? He did not feel able now to make any stand against him. If he
had to be ruined--he must be ruined: what could he do? The man who had
brought him to this, held him in such subjection that he could not
denounce or accuse him even now. He was so much better, higher, abler,
stronger than himself, that Cotsdean's harshest sentiment was a dumb
feeling of injury; a feeling much more likely to lead him to miserable
tears than to resistance. His clergyman--how was he to stand against his
clergyman? This was the burden of his thoughts. And still, perhaps,
there might be salvation and safety in the resources, the power, and
cleverness, and superior strength of the man for whom, in his humility,
he had risked everything. Poor Cotsdean's eyes were red with
sleeplessness and thinking, and the constant rubbings he administered
with the sleeve of his rough coat. He hung helpless, in suspense,
waiting to see what his chief would say to him; if he would send for
him--if he would come. And in the intervals of these anxious thoughts,
he asked himself should he tell poor Sally--should he prepare her for
her fate? She and her children might be turned out of house and home,
very probably would be, he said to himself, leaping to the extreme
point, as men in his condition are apt to do. They might take everything
from him; they might bring all his creditors on him in a heap; they
might sell him up; his shop by which he made his daily bread, and
everything he had, and turn his children out into the streets. Once more
he rubbed his sleeve over his eyes, which were smarting with
sleeplessness and easily-coming tears. He turned over the pages of the
ledger mechanically. There was no help in it--no large debts owing to
him that could be called in; no means of getting any money; and nothing
could he do but contemplate the miseries that might be coming, and wait,
wait, wondering dully whether Mr. May was doing anything to avert this
ruin, and whether, at any moment, he might walk in, bringing safety in
the very look of his bold eyes. Cotsdean was not bold; he was small and
weakly, and nervous, and trembled at a sharp voice. He was not a man
adapted for vigorous struggling with the world. Mr. May could do it, in
whose hands was the final issue. He was a man who was afraid of no one;
and whose powers nobody could deny. Surely now, even at the last moment,
he would find help som