Chapter 135 - Hundred And Thirty Five
"Please," Lady Pembroke cried, her voice thin and desperate. "Please, just give me more time. I will have the money next week, I swear it."
The debt collector, a large, impassive man with cold, dead eyes, did not even look at her. He simply gestured to one of his men, who proceeded to take a heavy, silver-framed portrait of the late Lord Pembroke from the wall.
"No, not that one!" she pleaded, lunging forward, but the man’s associate simply held out a beefy arm to block her. "That was my husband’s favorite!"
"Time is up, my lady," the debt collector said, his voice a low, flat rumble. He made a mark in his ledger. "This should cover a portion of the interest for this month. We will be back for the rest of the payment next week." He and his men, carrying the portrait and a small, valuable-looking clock from the mantelpiece, left the house without a backwards glance.
A few hours later, George came in. He was in a good mood, the heavy weight of the gold coins he had just won at the gambling den a pleasant feeling in his pocket. But his good mood evaporated the moment he stepped into the drawing room. He saw the empty, dusty space on the wall where his father’s portrait used to hang. He saw his mother, sitting on the sofa, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"Mother?" he asked, his own heart sinking.
Mrs. Pembroke looked up, her eyes red and swollen. "Did you bring the money?" she asked, her voice a raw whisper.
George gave her the small pouch of gold coins from his gambling win. She took it, the hope in her eyes dying as she felt its meager weight. She opened it and looked inside.
"This is nothing," she said, her voice flat with despair. "This won’t even bring back the clock they took today, let alone your father’s portrait."
"I’m sorry, Mother," George apologized, a wave of shame washing over him. "I tried. I will win more tomorrow."