PART 1--THE RECTORY FOLK.

HOT WATER IN LAWFORD.

"Eh? What?"

"I say, why don't you give it up quietly?"

"Speak up; I'm a little hard of hearing."

"I say, why don't you give it up quietly?" roared the speaker to a

little bent old man, with a weak, thin, piping voice, and a sharp look

that gave him somewhat the air of a very attenuated sparrow in a severe

frost, his shrunken legs, in tight yellow leather leggings, seeming to

help the idea.

"Don't shout at me like that, Master Portlock. I arn't deaf, only a

trifle hard of hearing when I've got a cowd--just a trifle, you know."

"Have you got a cold?" asked the man addressed, a sturdy-looking,

fresh-coloured, middle-aged man, with a very bluff manner, and a look of

prosperity in his general appearance that made him seem thoroughly

adapted to his office. In fact, he was just the man that a country

clergyman would be glad to elect at a vestry meeting for vicar's

churchwarden. "Eh?"

"I--say--have--you--got--a--cold? Hang him, how deaf he is!"

"Oh, no! oh, no!" chirped the little old man, sharply; "I'm not deaf.

Just a little thick i' the ears. Yes; I've got a cowd. It's settled

here--just here," he piped, striking himself upon his thin chest with

the hand that held his stick. "A bad cowd--a nasty cowd as keeps me

awake all night, doing nowt but cough. It's that stove, that's what it

is, Master Portlock."

"Nonsense, man! It would keep the cold off."

"Eh?"

"I say it would keep the cold off."

"Nay, nay; not it. A nasty, brimstone-smelling, choking thing, as sends

out a reek as settles on your chest. Stove, indeed! What do we want

with your noo-fangled stoves? We never had no stoves before. Here he

stops away from town all these years, only coming now and then, and now

all at once he's back at the Rectory, and nothing's right. Mr Paulby

never said a word about no stoves."

"No; but see how damp the church was."

"Eh?"

"Eh?"

"Damp," roared the Churchwarden; "church--damp. Cush--shuns--moul--

dee."

"Chah! Nonsense, Master Portlock. Damp? Suppose it was? A chutch

ought to be damp, and smell solemn like of owd age and venerations.

Mouldy? Ay; why not?" he piped. "'Mind ta chutch folk o' decay, and

what they're comin' to some day. I once went to London, Master

Portlock--forty year ago now, sir--forty year ago. It was cowd weather,

and I got 'most froze a' top o' the coach, and it was a 'mazin' plaace.

Ay, that it was. But you've been there?"

"Ay, lots o' times in my life."

"Niver been in your life? Then don't go. Niver go if you can help it.

Owd Mr Burton paid for me to go, he did--owd vicar's father, you know--

and he said to me a did, `Mind ta go and see some o' the London

chutches, Warmoth,' he says; and I did, and bless thou, pretty places

they weer. I niver see a playhouse, but Sammy Mason wint to one i'

London, and he towd me what it were like, and the chutch I went into i'

the City weer just like it. Why, mun, theer were a big picter ower the

'mandments, and carpets on the floors, and all the pews was full o' red

cushions an' basses, just as if they was all squires' sittings, and

brass rails and red curtins an' grand candlesticks. Then reight up i'

the gallery wheer the singers sit was a great thing all covered wi'

goolden pipes, an' a man i' the front sittin' lookin' at his self i' a

lookin' glass. That was t' organ, you know, and eh, but it was a

straange sort o' plaace altogether to call a chutch."

"Not like our old barn, eh, Sammy?" shouted the Churchwarden.

"Nay, not a bit, Master Portlock," piped the old man. "Gi'e me

whitewesh, and neat clean pews and a plait-straw cushion and bass. Folk

don't go to sleep then, and snore through t' sarmunt. If I had my way,

Master Portlock, I wouldn't hev a thing changed."

"No, I suppose not, Sam," said the Churchwarden, nodding.

"Sixty years have I been clerk o' t' owd chutch, and hae buried

generations of them as comed to the owd place--christened 'em, and

married 'em, and buried 'em, Master Portlock. They didn't like me being

made clerk so young in them days. Jacky Robinson, as wanted to be clerk

when father died, said I was nobbut a boy, but t' owd vicar said--owd

Master Willoughby, you didn't know him?" The Churchwarden shook his

head. "No; he died eight and fifty year ago. He said, `No; let Sammy

Warmoth step into his father's shoes, same as him as is dead stepped

into his father's shoes. I find,' he says, `there's been Warmoth's

clerks here for a hundred years at least;' and now, Master Portlock,

sir, I can say there's been Warmoths clerks here for a hundred and sixty

year, and if my life is spared I'll make it two hundred, for they can't

turn me out, and I wean't go."

"How old wert ta when you was made clerk, Sammy?" said the Churchwarden,

looking at the old man with a pitying smile. "Thrutty-three, and I was

just married, Master Portlock, and thrutty-three and sixty makes

ninety-three, eh?"

"Fine owd age, Sam."

"Eh?"

"A fine owd age, I say."

"Chah! Not it. Read your Bible more, man. Ninety-three's as good as

nowt to what men used to be. Nay, nay, nay, I shan't give up. Yow may

go and tell parson as theer's lots o' life in me yet, and that he'd best

go back again to London and foreign parts, and leave us alone here wi'

Mr Paulby. He'll drive all the congregation over to the Dissenters,

they're talking a'ready o' building noo chapel for ta Wesley folk."

"Ay, they're going ahead, Sammy, but we don't care for the opposition

shop. We've got the old established bank, eh?"

"That's a true word, Master Portlock," piped the old man, "and we can

pity 'em, wi' their plans and local preachers, a set o' nobodies, o'

sons o' Levi, takking off their aprons and running fro' behind their

counters to usurp the priest's office; but you mark my words, and you

may tell parson what I say; if he's coming down here thinking to do just

as he likes, he'll be driving all folk to chapel."

"No, no; not he, Sammy."

"Ay, but he will, altering ta chutch sarvice, an' upsetting all that's

owd--schoolmaster, and clerk, and chutch. You tell him that he may keep

his man till I'm dead, and then put him in, for I nivver had a boy o' my

own to tak' my place."

"But he hasn't got a man."

"Eh? Not got a man? Good job too. He don't want one?"

"No. He isn't going to have a clerk any more."

"Eh?"

"I say you'll be the last clerk o' Lawford. There'll nivver be

another."

"Nivver be another? What dost ta mean?"

"Mr Mallow is going to do the service wi'out a clerk," roared the

Churchwarden.

"Do sarvice wi'out a clerk!" piped the old man, indignantly; "who's to

say t' `Amens'?"

"Congregation and singers."

"An' what 'bout t' 'sponses?" quavered the old clerk.

"People!"

They were standing in the churchyard, walled up high above the town

street, and as the Churchwarden spoke the old clerk placed his left hand

across the small of his back, and stamping his stick on the cobble

stones of the path, he made an effort to straighten himself up so as to

gaze at the venerable mouldering square-towered church, taking it in

from end to end with his pale grey eyes before resuming his former

attitude with his head on one side.

"Not going to have another clerk?" he quavered.

"No," roared the Churchwarden.

"No one to say t' amens and 'sponses?"

"No."

"Who's t' help him on wi' his gownd?"

The Churchwarden shook his head.

"Who's going to shut pulpit door?"

There was another shake of the Churchwarden's head.

"Then who'll gi'e out t' psalms?"

"Parson."

"Ah!" ejaculated the old man, staring down at his feet.

"Look here, Sammy," said the Churchwarden, kindly, and with his lips

close to the old man's ear; "Mr Mallow's a nice sort o' man, and means

kindly."

"No one to say t' amens?" said the old clerk, softly.

"He thinks you're getting too owd for the work."

"Nobbut t' people to say the 'sponses," continued the old clerk, without

seeming to hear the Churchwarden's words.

"He's been talking to us at sort o' meeting, and he wants to get up

testimonial for thee. Says we owt to make un enew to mak' thee

comfortable to end o' thee days, and he'll give twenty pounds towards

it, and you're to have one of the Bede Houses."

"How's he going to bury them as dies?" piped the old man, suddenly.

The Churchwarden shook his head.

Old Sammy Warmoth took a couple of feeble steps towards the edge of the

path, and began to poke at the loose, friable earth of the grave nearest

to him with the long brass ferrule of his stick, taking two hands to the

task, and making quite a little hole.

"It's getten time I was put down theer," he said, in a low voice that

was very pathetic in its tones. "There's a sight o' my owd friends I've

seen put down here, and its getten time for me to be put along wi' 'em,

sown a corruptible body to be raised an incorruptible, for I spose I'm

getten owd and good for nowt."

"Oh, nay, nay, Sammy," said the Churchwarden, warmly. "Don't take on

about it. Tak' my advice. Don't be obstinit, but just go up and see

parson quiet like, an' say you give up, and tak' it kindly, an' I'll see

as you don't come to no wrong."

"No one to say t' amens," muttered the old man--"no one to say t'

'sponses--no one to gi'e out t' psalms. Why," he cried, raising his

voice, "I b'lieve it now."

"Believe what, Sammy?"

"That he's goin' to have t' owd pews out, and put i' benches; and I said

when I heerd it as the dead wouldn't rest i' theer graves if he did."

"It's all true, Sammy. They're going to spend three thousand pounds i'

doing up t' owd church, and young Lord Artingale's going to give us an

organ."

"Then I wean't go," cried the old man, stamping his stick down on the

stones. "I'll nivver do it. I've been here clerk and saxton these

sixty year, and I helps wi' ivvery grave even now. It wean't do. It's

a revvylootion, and a sweeping away of t' owd chutch, like they did

among the French, and I'll be one o' the faithful while I live."

"Nonsense, man; come, say thou'lt give up quiet like," said the

Churchwarden, soothingly. "Eh?"

"Say thou'lt give up quietly."

"Nivver, nivver!" quavered the old man, angrily. "It's as much my

chutch as his, and if he goes wrong wi' his new notions and idees, I'll

stand by mine. There's nivver been a clerk o' Lawford as didn't die a

clerk, and dost ta think I'll be the first, Master Portlock? Nivver.

I'll howd by chutch till t' last, say what thou will!"

"Poor owd boy!" said the Churchwarden, as he stood watching the

tottering figure descending the slope on the farther side of the

churchyard, till it seemed from where the gazer stood as if the old man

were sinking slowly into a grave. First he disappeared to the middle,

then the path line was level with his shoulders, and a few moments more

and his head had gone.

"Poor owd boy!" said the Churchwarden, musingly. "It can't be for long.

I'll ask parson to let him stop."

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWO.

THE RECTORY GIRLS.

"I love the country! I love the country!"

"Hush, hush, Cynthy! don't be so childish; some one will hear you."

"No one is near us, Ju. That's why I like being down here."

"But it is so childish to keep running up the banks and shouting like

that."

"Well, but that's what I like. It's the country air makes one feel so

young, and I am so, so glad that we are going to stay at home. I want

to know the people. Oh, I was tired of the Continent. I want to be

free."

"Now, Cynthy, what would papa say if he saw you climb up on that gate?"

"Don't know--don't care!"

"Well, then," said Julia Mallow, smiling, "what, would Lord Artingale

say?"

"That I was a jolly little girl, and come and sit beside me."

"Oh! Cynthy!"

"And put his arm round my waist to keep me from falling off. Oh, I say,

Ju, he did once, and it was so funny."

"Cynthy, I'm ashamed of you," cried her sister, and there was a slight

deepening of the colour in her sweet English face.

"Well, I am ashamed of myself," cried Cynthia, springing lightly off the

gate, and passing her arm round her sister as they walked on along the

rutty lane. "But I do feel so happy, Ju. So will you some day, when

you meet the special him. Not Perry-Morton though. Ha, ha, ha! How

stupid papa is! I say, Ju, though, who shall we go and see? Papa says

we are to visit the people a great deal, and get them to know more of

us, but I shan't go near any of the horrid Dissenters."

"Don't call people horrid because they don't think the same as we do,

Cynthy."

"Well, but it is horrid. Papa says it's dreadful, the opposition that

is in the town. I heard him say to mamma yesterday that he couldn't

understand the people a bit, and that though he had now come to settle

down amongst them for good, only when we go to town for the season,

everybody seemed so independent, and they were all in opposition to

him."

"Yes, he was talking to Mr Paulby about it at dinner on Tuesday."

"Papa is going to improve everything, he says. The place must have been

terribly neglected by Mr Paulby. Oh, what a funny little man he is!"

"I think him very nice and genuine," said Julia, quietly.

"But you mustn't fall in love with him, Ju. He's too old. But I say,

what was the real reason of our being away from Lawford so much?"

"Money matters," said her sister. "Papa got to be very much behindhand

through Frank and Cyril."

"Oh, I wish I were a man!" cried Cynthia, with her pretty fair young

face flushing. "How I would have whipped those two fellows and made

good boys of them! They've half broken poor mamma's heart."

"I'm afraid papa indulged them too much," said Julia, quietly, and the

two girls walked on for some little distance in silence, enjoying the

briskness of the morning air.

"Now where are we going?" cried Cynthia suddenly. "Oh, I know. Down

that lane leads to the ford, where the wheelwright's is. Let's go and

see Polly Morrison."

"Shall we?" said her sister, smiling.

"Oh, yes. It will be a parochial visit all the same. Only fancy, Polly

with a baby! What a little stupid she was to leave us to come back here

and marry a wheelwright!"

"I don't know," said Julia quietly; "perhaps she is very happy."

"Oh, of course. People are when they get married. Come along; I want

to see Polly's baby. I wish she had not left us. She was such a clever

maid."

"I was very glad she went," said Julia gravely.

"Glad? Why?"

"Because of Cyril. He was always following her about. She complained

to me several times."

"Cyril is a wretch!" said Cynthia, with heightened colour. "Papa ought

to whip him. He always would look at pretty girls. I say, Ju, did you

see Miss Portlock, the schoolmistress, on Monday? Was she nice?"

"Yes, I thought her very nice and superior. She is the churchwarden's

niece. Hush! here is Mr Paulby."

"Good-morning, ladies," said a little plump man, raising his hat and

showing his slightly-bald head. "What a lovely morning! I think I dare

prophesy where you are going."

"If you prophesy Morrison's cottage, Mr Paulby, you are right," said

Cynthia, merrily.

"Then I am right," said the curate. "I have just come from there, and

Mrs Morrison has been chatting about old times, and how she went all

over the Continent with you."

"She didn't tell you about Cyril, I know," said Cynthia to herself.

"I'm really very, very glad, ladies, that the rectory is inhabited

again," said the curate, "and I hope you will help me a great deal."

"That indeed we will, Mr Paulby," said Julia.

"Yes, and visit, and do needlework, and help in the schools, and

everything," said Cynthia, quickly. "And now we must say good-morning,

Mr Paulby. Come, Julia."

There was the customary hand-shaking and raising of the curate's hat,

and then they separated, the little plump rosy man looking very

thoughtful as he made some observation to himself, and that observation

was "Hah!" a remark that evidently meant a great deal.

"I'm not going to allow that, Ju," said Cynthia, decidedly. "The little

man is quite smitten with you, and if Frank or Cyril were to know--"

"Don't be absurd!" said her sister, colouring a little.

"That would be as bad as Perry-Morton. Oh, here we are. Why, what a

pretty little place Polly has got!"

The sisters stopped at the road-side to gaze at the long low ivy-covered

cottage, with a broad patch of green in front, upon which was a lumber

of broken carts and waggons waiting to be doctored. There was a shed at

one end, from which came the sound of sawing, for which job there was a

good-sized pit, while farther on the road dipped suddenly down and

passed through a little river, which foamed and bubbled and sparkled as

it turned the gravelly shallows into liquid silver in the morning sun.

"Oh, what a funny little thing!" cried Cynthia, as they were welcomed

into the neat cottage. "Look at its little button-hole of a mouth. Let

me take it, Polly."

The young mother, quite a rustic beauty, with a touch of refinement in

her appearance, picked up during her stay on the Continent as maid to

the rector's daughters, handed her plump little baby to the extended

arms; watchfully, though, and as if afraid the treasure might be dropped

upon the red-brick floor.

"And how are you, Polly?" said Julia, looking rather searchingly at the

young wife as she set chairs for her visitors. "I hope you are very

happy?"

"Oh, as happy, Miss Julia, as the day is long, and I'm so busy that the

days are never long enough."

"Cooey, cooey, cooey, cooey!" cried Cynthia to the baby in a very

dove-like manner, as she kissed and fondled it, laughing merrily the

while.

"I was so surprised, Miss, to hear that you had come back to the

rectory."

"Not going to stop very long this time, Polly--I mean Mrs Morrison,"

said Cynthia, without raising her face from the baby. "We are going to

town for the season. Oh, you, you, you funny little thing! There's a

wet mouth. Oh, I say, Ju, I wonder whether I shall ever have a baby of

my own."

"Cynthia!" cried her sister, reproachfully.

"It would be such fun. I say, Polly, is it good?"

"Oh, there never was such a good baby, Miss, and Tom worships it. She's

as good as gold."

"She?" cried Cynthia. "Is it a she?"

"Oh, yes, Miss," cried the young mother, proudly.

"How funny!" said Cynthia. "It might be anything, it is so round and

soft."

"Would you mind feeling how heavy she grows, Miss Julia?" said the young

mother and the baby was duly handed to Julia, who held it to her cheek,

and then gazed lovingly at the little thing, her eyes wearing a curious

wistful aspect, full of tenderness, while the young mothers face lit up

with pleasure.

"Isn't it heavy, Miss?" she said.

"Wonderfully," replied Julia quietly, and with as much decision as if

her life had been spent in the management of babies.

"She don't know!" laughed Cynthia. "I don't believe she ever had hold

of one before. Here, give it to me."

"No; let it stay," said Julia softly, and to the young mother's great

satisfaction, for she seemed rather scared lest Cynthia should let it

fall in tossing it up and down.

"She gets heavier every day, Miss, and Tom says it's wonderful now for a

baby a month old."

"You must introduce us to your husband, Polly."

"Yes, Miss, I'll call him in. Or no, Miss, not this morning," said the

young wife, rather hurriedly; "he is very busy."

"Some other time then," said Julia. "I suppose you are very fond of it,

Polly?"

"Fond of it, Miss Julia? Oh, you can't think how I love it."

"No," said Julia, softly, and looking curiously at the young mother, "I

suppose not."

"Oh, here is Budge," said little Mrs Morrison, as a heavy,

stolid-looking girl entered the room. "She will take baby now, Miss.

There, Budge, take her in the kitchen, and don't go too near the fire."

"No, missus," said the girl, taking the well-wrapped-up baby in her red

arms, staring heavily the while at the visitors, and consequently nearly

bringing her charge to grief by stumbling over a stool.

"Oh, Budge!" cried little Mrs Morrison.

"I ain't hurt, missus," said the girl coolly, and she allowed herself to

be piloted out of the room by her mistress, when a chair was heard to

scroop.

"Oh, how funny it does seem!" cried Cynthia.

"Hush! don't talk like that," said her sister; "here she is."

Little Mrs Morrison came into the room again, looking very red-faced

and hot.

"What a funny little maid you have got, Polly!" cried Cynthia.

"Yes, Miss Cynthia; she is from the workhouse, and she is a little

clumsy, but she is very faithful, and so fond of baby."

"And what is to be its name?" cried Cynthia.

"Rose, Miss; and--and," stammered the young wife, looking very hard at

Julia.

"And what, Polly?"

"I--I had a sort of idea, Miss Julia, that--"

"That what, Polly? Speak out!"

"Of asking you and Miss Cynthia if--"

"If what?"

"You wouldn't mind being little Rose's godmothers."

"Oh, no, Polly," said Julia, "I think not."

"Oh, yes, Ju, it would be good fun," cried Cynthia.

"I told Tom it would be too much to ask, Miss Julia; but he said you

could only say _no_."

"Of course," said Julia, thoughtfully. "And he is very kind to you?"

"Oh, kind isn't the word, Miss Julia," cried the young wife.

"And are his relations kind to you too?"

"He has no relations, Miss, but one brother," replied Polly, "and he is

a good deal of trouble to him--I mean to us," she added, correcting

herself.

"Trouble to you, Polly?"

"Yes, Miss; he won't work, and he has taken to a gipsy sort of life, and

goes poaching, I'm afraid."

"That's _very_, very sad," said Julia, remembering that her father had

just been made chairman of the bench of magistrates.

"Yes, Miss, very, very sad, for we are always afraid of his getting into

trouble; but there, you know, Miss, what brothers are."

"Yes, yes," said Julia, hastily. "I will think about what you said,

Polly," she added, rising, and holding out her hand, "and if papa does

not object, Cynthia and I will be godmothers to baby."

"Oh, if you would, Miss!" cried the young wife, flushing with pride; and

then, in a low voice, as Cynthia went on out of the room, "You always

were kind to me, Miss Julia, and more like a sister than a mistress.

May I kiss you, Miss?"

"Oh, yes, Polly," said Julia, kissing her smilingly.

"You always were kind to me, Miss, and there's nothing in life I

wouldn't do for you if you wanted it."

"Come, Ju," cried Cynthia, from without.

"Oh, thank you, Polly, I know you would."

"And you'd come and ask me, Miss, if you wanted help, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed I would, Polly; but why do you ask me in that strange way?"

"Because--because, Miss, I want to ask a favour of you now," cried the

young wife, desperately.

"What is it, Polly?" said Julia, showing deep interest now.

"Please, Miss, you--you remember when we were at Dinan."

"Yes, yes; what?" cried Julia.

"About Mr Cyril."

"Yes," cried Julia, catching her hand; "he has not dared?"

"He--he came here yesterday, Miss, while Tom was out," cried Polly,

bursting into tears, "and he came once before; and it frightens me,

Miss--it horrifies me; for Tom loves me so dearly, Miss; and it would

make him angry, and break his heart if he thought ill of me, Miss

Julia."

"But did you encourage him to come again?" cried Julia, angrily.

"No, Miss Julia, I nearly went on my knees to him, and begged him not to

come again, but he only laughed, and--and called me a little fool."

"You shall tell your husband, Polly," cried Julia, hotly.

"I--I was afraid, Miss Julia," sobbed Polly. "I was afraid of making

mischief. I dared not tell him. If he thought Mr Cyril came here and

troubled me, he would be ready to kill him, Miss, and me too. Oh, what

shall I do, what shall I do?"

"I'll tell papa," said Cynthia, who had come back unseen. "I declare

it's shameful, and I--I wish my brothers were both dead. Oh, Ju, papa

must know."

"No, no," said Julia, holding the sobbing little woman to her breast;

"Polly is right. It would be making terrible mischief. I'll speak to

Cyril myself, and if he will not listen to me, mamma shall try. But,

Polly, you will tell me if he comes again?"

"Oh, yes, yes, Miss Julia," cried the young wife, gazing up passionately

in her visitor's face.

"And always tell me the whole truth?"

"Indeed--indeed I will. Please, Miss Julia," she said simply, "I don't

think I ever told a lie."

"I don't believe you ever did, Polly," said Julia, kissing her, and

turning to the door to go. "There, good-bye, and don't be low-spirited.

Cyril is soon going away again, and even if he is not, he shall not

trouble you."

"Thank you, Miss Julia, and you too, Miss Cynthia," said the young wife,

wiping her eyes; "and perhaps you will be at baby's christening?"

"If papa doesn't object, indeed we will," cried Julia, smiling, and the

sisters went back along the lane.

"I would--I would indeed," said the young mother, softly; "I'd do

anything to serve dear Miss Julia, and I hope and pray she may never

feel such trouble as I do now. Oh, if only they had stopped away!"

She was standing in the little porch, listening to the regular harsh

sound of a saw in the work-shed, some fifty yards away, gazing after the

sisters, till a step coming in the other direction made her sharply turn

her head, and then, as she shrank back, her whole aspect seemed to

change. She turned ghastly white, her eyes dilated, and she trembled

visibly, as if at the sight of some great horror.

It was nothing so very terrible approaching either, being only a tall,

well-built, handsome young man of six or seven and twenty, his hands in

the pockets of his loose jacket, and a cigar in his mouth.

PART ONE, CHAPTER THREE.

THE STATE OF LAWFORD.

Only some twenty years ago, but from the streets and surroundings of the

place the date might have been in the last century. For Lawford was in

an out-of-the-way part of Lincolnshire towards which one of the main

northern lines had been running straight, but the company were beaten in

Parliament, and the iron road curved off, leaving Lawford where it was--

all behind.

When the new rector was appointed to the living he resolutely refused to

go without a fresh rectory was built, for the old house, with its low

rooms, was ten yards from the churchyard, which in the course of

centuries had gone up, while the old rectory seemed to have gone down,

so that you walked along a slope and then descended three steps into the

ancient, damp, evil-smelling place, which had more the aspect of a

furnished mausoleum than a house.

The consequence was that a grant was made for the building of a new

rectory, which was erected a mile and a half out of the town; and as the

living was rich, the Rev Eli Mallow borrowed a couple of thousand

pounds to have the house made handsomer, and to add conservatories and

greenhouses to the place, got it all in excellent order, and then went

on the Continent for a few years, when the old rectory did very well for

Mr Paulby, the curate who was left in charge.

Difficulties of pocket had certainly had something to do with the

absenteeism of the Rev Eli Mallow, but there had been other troubles

as well in connection with his sons, whom he had made several efforts to

start in life and get away from Lawford. They were the sons of a

clergyman, but two more unclerical youths never troubled father, and so

unfortunate were his efforts, so persistently did the young men return

home to their fond and indulgent mother and their proud weak father,

that the Lawford people, famous among themselves for nick-naming those

that they did not like, called Frank Mallow, the elder brother, "The Bad

Shilling," while Cyril, consequent upon a visit to Australia, they named

"The Boomerang."

They were an old-fashioned people at Lawford, and the "owd rector" had

been old-fashioned too. It was past the year of our Lord eighteen

hundred and forty, and Victoria was seated upon the throne, but the old

rector thought it no wrong to go to one of the inns and sit and drink

his mug of ale and chat and gossip with any townsman who came in.

As to the church, a colder, damper, more musty-smelling place could not

have been found. Its glory was its whitewash, which was so rich and fat

and thick that every here and there it bore a crop of curious spindly

mushrooms, which grew and flourished and died, leaving great black

patches on the walls like hatchments to record their vegetable deaths,

till about once in a generation the whitewash brush came into use again,

and a new coat was laid on to moulder and grow damp, and fall in patches

of a goodly thickness upon the stained stone pave.

The worst of that whitewash was that it was not white, only a dirty wash

that covered the ceiling and face of the wall, great blank patches of

which used to be mentally studied by the schoolboys as maps of unknown

regions, for the moisture that streamed down from the roof soon marked

black rivers, while dark boundary lines seemed to be traced by cracks

and mould of strange continents, islands, and seas, upon which in

summer-time bluebottle flies and spiders made islands or cruising barks.

In the moist autumn times the place always broke out into a cold

perspiration, the wet standing in great tears upon the flat tombstones

and even upon the broad slab of old blackened oak that served for Sammy

Warmoth's desk, where his books, like those above his head, were

patterned on their covers with white mould-spots exhaling an odour of

mushrooms not fit to eat.

The pews were of dull white deal; the sacramental table was covered with

a ragged green baize in the sere and yellow leaf, and as worthy of being

called green as the church whitewash was of being termed white. Taken

altogether, there was a strong suggestion on entering Lawford church of

going into a cellar without the sawdust, and wanting in the wine; and

old Mrs Marley, lately gone to her rest, and over whom as a very

ancient friend Sammy Warmoth had affectionately patted down the earth

with his spade, moistening it a little with his tears to make it stick,

afterwards building up her grave with a mound of the finest, most

velvety turf he could cut, that he protected with brambles from the

sheep--old Mrs Marley, when she was schoolmistress, always made a point

in winter of taking a large stone bottle of hot water with her to the

church, smuggling it regularly beneath her cloak, and pitying the

four-and-twenty blue-nosed little children, whom she led, because only

two could sit by her at a time and warm their hands.

Humphrey Bone, the schoolmaster, also made a point of taking a bottle to

church, but his was small, and he made occasions for bending his head

beneath the front of the pew and imbibing portions of its contents

through a very long turkey quill.

The church had remained _in statu quo_ during the Rector's stay abroad,

but now that he had returned, it was with ideas similar to the new

broom--he meant to sweep clean. Perhaps the Rev Eli Mallow was a

little conscience-stricken for past neglect. At all events the Rector

had now set himself to work on a general reform, but his absence had

embittered a by no means friendly people.

"Taking that great wage out of the place year after year," said

Tomlinson, one of the townspeople, "and leaving that curate to do all

the work on eighty pounds a year; I haven't patience with him."

Several other fellow-townsmen expressed their opinions that it was a

shame, and declared that they had not patience with the parson, and the

consequence was that he was so talked over, that when he came back and

set about his work of reformation he was met at his very first movement

by a hedge of thorns that regularly surrounded the church. Every one of

these thorns was a prejudice which he had to fight.

"Church did very well for t' owd rector, and always has done," was the

cry; "why won't it do for he?"

"_Festina lente_," said the Reverend Eli to himself; and he set to work

slowly, cautiously, and well, making such advance in his undertaking

that plenty of money was promised, and he saw in the future a handsome,

well-warmed church, with all the surroundings for reverent worship.

"Poor old fellow!" he had said to himself as he listened to the clerk,

for the old man would utter the three first words of a response in a

shrill tenor, and then drop his voice, nothing, else being heard until

it came to the end, when to a new-comer his peculiar "_Hup-men_" was

almost startling in its strangeness.

"_Week, week, week; wubble, wubble, wubble_," the school-children always

declared he said, no matter what was the response; and then, after

giving out the psalm or hymn so that no one could hear, the poor old

fellow would sing in a shrill unmusical voice from behind a huge pair of

tortoiseshell framed spectacles, holding his great hymn-book with both

hands, and emphasising the words he sang by raising and lowering the

book; turning to right and left, singing to the people below his desk,

and then at the huge whitewashed beams of the ceiling, before turning

three parts round to send his voice into the chancel, for the benefit of

the old women from the Bede houses who sat there upon a very

uncomfortable bench.

"I dare say it is very wrong," said Lord Artingale, who had ridden over

from Gatton one Sunday to welcome the Mallows back to Lincolnshire, "but

much as I want to be reverent, I really don't think I could go to your

church again, Mr Mallow, without laughing in the middle of the

service."

The Rector looked grave, for poor old Warmoth was a great trouble to

him, and, as may be gathered, he had consulted the churchwardens on the

question of the alterations, and among other things suggested that the

old clerk should be asked to resign.

The effect we have seen, and that same day Portlock, the farmer, went up

and told the result of his chat with the old clerk.

"It is very provoking, Mr Portlock, very. I want the old man to go

quietly--in fact, to resign," said the Rector. "If I send him away the

people will say that he is ill-used."

"That they will, depend on't," replied the Churchwarden. "Our folk take

a deal o' driving."

"Well, well; what is to be done?"

"Best let things bide as they are, sir; you wean't do any good by trying

to alter 'em."

"Oh, but that is absurd, Mr Portlock, highly absurd. No, I regret it

very much, but he must go. There, I will see him myself."

The Rector saw the old clerk sooner than he expected, for in crossing

the churchyard next day he met him going up to the church.

"Poor old fellow! ninety-three," said the Rector to himself, as he

looked curiously at the strange old figure tottering up the rough

cobble-stone path.

"Good-morning, Warmoth," he said. "Here, give me your hand."

The old man stopped short, thumped his stick down, and peered up

fiercely.

"Nay, nay, nay," he groaned, "not so owd as all that, mester. I can do

it yet. Let me bide, I'm reight yet. Yow want to get shut o' me--to

drift me off. Yow thowt wi' your new ways that I wasn't good enew for

t' church, but revvylootion or no revvylootion, I stick to church as my

fathers did afore me. When I'm down theer, and can howd out no more,

thou mun do thy worst."

"That's all put aside, Mr Warmoth," said the Rector, smiling. "I do

want to make improvements here, but not to that extent. I did not want

to hurt your feelings. Come, shake hands."

"Nay; I'll not," cried the old man, fiercely, his bearing seeming to

have wonderfully altered now. "Thou want'st to get round me wi' soft

words, but I'll howd thee off--I'll howd thee off. There ain't every

servant of t' owd church like me, and I'll howd my own unto the last."

"My good old fellow, Heaven forbid that I should be guilty of so unkind

an act. You shall stop on, Warmoth, till the last, for no act of mine

shall remove you from your post."

The old man's jaw fell, and he stepped back, slipped, and would have

fallen, but for the Rector's hands, to which the old fellow clung

spasmodically, his face working, his lips twitching in his efforts to

speak. But for a long time no words would come, and then but two, twice

repeated, though with earnest emphasis--

"Bless thee! Bless thee!"

Then, quickly snatching his hands away, the old man turned aside, leaned

his trembling arm against a tombstone which had gradually encroached

upon the path, and stood with his head bent down, trying to recover his

strength.

It was a strange contrast: the thin, sharply featured old man, and the

handsome portly figure of the Rector, as he stood there vexed with

himself at having, as he called it, been so weak as to give way at the

first difficulty that he had to encounter; and he afterwards came to the

conclusion that he might just as well have held out, for the people gave

him the credit of killing old Warmoth so as to have his way.

"Let me help you into the church to sit down for a bit," he said to the

trembling old man.

Old Warmoth turned and laid one hand upon the Rector's, gazing up in his

face, and there was a piteous smile upon his withered lips.

"I was afraid thou'd want me to go as soon as I heard thou was coming

back; and they said thou'dst get shut o' me. But sixty year, sir! It

would have killed me. I couldn't have beared to go."

Two Sundays later the congregation had just left the church, and

Portlock was going up to the vestry, when he saw there was something

wrong in the clerk's seat.

"Why, Sammy, owd man," he cried, "what ails--"

He did not finish his broken sentence, but tore open the door of the

clerk's desk, the Rector coming forward to where the old man knelt in

his accustomed narrow place, his hands upon his book, his head upon his

breast, as he had knelt down after the sermon.

"He's like ice," whispered the Churchwarden, putting forth his great

strength, and lifting the old man bodily out, to lay him by the stove,

the Rector placing a cushion beneath his head.

The motion seemed to revive the old man for a moment, and he opened his

eyes, staring strangely at the Rector, who held one hand.

Then his lips moved, and in a voice hardly above a whisper they heard

him say--

"Bless--thou!--Bless--thou!--those words would--have killed me."

There was a pause, and the Churchwarden was hastening forth to fetch

help, when there arose in the now empty church a shrill "_Amen_."

It was the old clerk's last.

PART ONE, CHAPTER FOUR.

AT LAWFORD SCHOOL.

"Oh!" in a loud shrill voice; and then a general titter.

"Silence! who was that?"

"Please, Miss, Cissy Hudson, Miss. Please, Miss, it's Mr Bone."

This last delivered in a chorus of shrill voices; and Sage Portlock

turned sharply from the semi-circle of children, one and all standing

with their toes accurately touching a thickly-chalked line, to see a

head thrust into the schoolroom, but with the edge of the door held

closely against the neck, pressing it upon the jamb, so that the entire

body to which the head belonged was invisible.

The head which had been thus suddenly thrust into the schoolroom was not

attractive, the face being red and deeply lined with marks not made by

age. The eyes were dull and watery, there was a greyish stubble of a

couple of days' growth upon the chin, and the hair that appeared above

the low brow was rough, unkempt, and, if clean, did no justice to the

cleansing hand.

"How tiresome!" muttered Sage Portlock, moving towards the door, which

then opened, and a tall man, in a very shabby thin greatcoat which

reached almost to his heels, stumped into the room.

Stumped or thumped--either word will do to express the heavy way in

which Humphrey Bone, thirty years master of Lawford boys' school, drew

attention to the fact that he had one leg much shorter than the other,

the difference in length being made up by a sole of some five inches'

thickness, which sole came down upon the red-brick floor like the

modified blows of a pavior's rammer.

Such a clever man! Such a good teacher! the Lawford people said. There

was nothing against him but a drop of drink, and this drop of drink had

kept Humphrey Bone a poor man, dislocated his hip in a fall upon a dark

night, when the former doctor of the place had not discovered the exact

nature of the injury till it was too late, and the drop of drink in this

instance had resulted in the partaker becoming a permanent cripple.

Lawford was such a slow-moving place in those days, that it took its

principal inhabitants close upon twenty years to decide that a master

who very often went home helplessly intoxicated, and who had become a

hopeless moral wreck, living in a state of squalor and debt, could not

be a fitting person to train and set an example to the boys left in his

charge. And at last, but in the face of great opposition from the

old-fashioned party arrayed against the Rev Eli Mallow and his

friends--the party who reiterated the cry that Humphrey Bone was such a

clever man, wrote such a copperplate-like hand, when his fingers were

not palsied, and measured land so well--it was decided that Humphrey

Bone should be called upon to resign at Christmas, and Luke Ross, the

son of the Lawford tanner, then training at Saint Chrysostom's College,

London, should take his place.

It was only natural that Sage Portlock, as she advanced to meet Humphrey

Bone, should think of the coming days after the holidays, when Mr Ross,

whom she had known so well from childhood, should be master of the

adjoining school, and that very unpleasant personage now present should

cease to trouble her with visits that were becoming more and more

distasteful and annoying.

"Mornin'! Ink!" said Mr Bone, shortly. "Ours like mud. How are you?"

"Ink, Mr Bone?" said the young mistress, ignoring the husky inquiry

after her health. "Yes; one of the girls shall bring some in."

This and the young mistress's manner should have made Mr Humphrey Bone

retire, but he stood still in the middle of the room, chuckling softly;

and then, to the open-eyed delight of the whole school, drew a

goose-quill from his breast, stripped off the plume from one side of the

shaft, and, with a very keen knife, proceeded to cut, nick, and shape

one of the pens for which he bore a great reputation, holding it out

afterwards for the young mistress to see.

"That beats training, eh? Didn't teach you to make a pen like that at

Westminster, did they, eh?"

"No," said Sage, quietly; "we always used steel pens."

"Hah--yes?" ejaculated the old schoolmaster, with a laugh of derision.

"Steel pens--steel teaching--steel brains--they'll have steel machine

teachers soon, who can draw a goose like that on a black board with a

bit of chalk. Faugh!"

He pointed to one of a series of woodcuts mounted on millboard and hung

against the whitewashed wall, stumped away three or four yards, and then

returned.

"New ways--new theories--new machines! Wear the old ones out and chuck

'em away--eh?"

"I do not understand you, Mr Bone," said the young mistress, longing

for the interview to come to an end; but he went on, speaking angrily,

and ignoring her words--

"When old Widow Marley died, I said to Mallow and the rest of 'em,

`Knock a hole through the brick wall,' I said; `make one school of it;

mix 'em all up together, boys and gals. Give me another ten a year, and

I'll teach the lot;' but they wouldn't do it. Said they must have a

trained mistress; and here you are."

"Yes, I am here," said Sage Portlock, rather feebly, for she had nothing

else to say.

"Only the other day you were a thin strip of a girl. Deny it if you

can!"

"I do not deny it, Mr Bone," said Sage, determining to be firm, and

speaking a little more boldly.

"No," he continued, in his husky tones, "you can't deny it. Then you

leave Miss Quittenton's school, and your people send you to town for two

years to be trained; and now here you are again."

Sage Portlock bowed, and looked longingly at the door, hoping for some

interruption, but none came.

"And now--" began the old master.

"Mary Smith, take the large ink-bottle into the boys' school," said the

young mistress, quickly; and the girl went to the school cupboard, took

out the great wicker-covered bottle, and was moving toward the door,

when the old master caught her by the shoulder, and held her back.

"Stop!" he said sharply. "Take it myself. Ha! ha!"

Sage started and coloured, for the children were amused.

"Ha, ha!--Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!"

The old man continued his hoarse cachinnation, ending by wiping his eyes

on a washed-out ragged old print cotton handkerchief.

"It makes me laugh," he said. "Young Ross--him I taught to write--

evening lessons up at his father's house. Young Luke Ross! warmed him

up like a viper in my breast to turn and sting me. Ha, ha, ha! Master

here!"

"For shame, Mr Bone," exclaimed the young mistress, indignantly. "Mr

Ross never sought for the engagement. It was only after Mr Mallow's

invitation that he accepted the post."

"Mr Mallow's invitation, eh? The Rev Eli Mallow, eh? Better look

after his sons. Nice wild sons! Nice old prophet he is. Better look

after his boys."

"And only the other day when he was down, young Mr Ross said that he

was doubtful about taking the post, and thought of declining it after

all."

"Told you so, eh? Ha--ha--ha! Not he. Sweet-hearting, eh? Ha--ha--

ha! Very well, when he comes, knock a hole through the wall, and make

one school of it, eh? Get married. Fine thing for the school. Faugh!"

Sage Portlock's face was now scarlet, and she was about to utter some

indignant remonstrance against the old man's words, when, to her intense

relief, he took the ink-bottle roughly from the girl's hand, and stumped

with it to the door.

Before he reached it, however, there was a sharp rap. It was opened,

the latch rattling viciously, and a common-looking woman, whose face

told its own tale that its owner had been working herself up ready for

the task in hand, entered, dragging behind her a freshly-washed girl of

eleven or twelve, whose face bore the marks of recent tears.

"Youkem here," exclaimed the woman, dragging in the unwilling child, and

finishing by giving her a rough shake. "Youkem here, and I'll see as

you're reighted, Miss."

To Sage Portlock's great disgust, instead of the old schoolmaster

passing through the open door, he carefully closed it behind the woman,

set the ink-bottle down upon a form, and, taking out his knife, began to

remake the pen, well attent the while to what went on.

"Now, Miss, if you please," said the woman, "I want to know why my girl

was kep' in yesterday and punished. I told my master last night I'd

come on wi' her this morning, and see her reighted; and, if _you_

please, I want to know what she's done."

"I am sorry to say, Mrs Searby--" began the young mistress.

"Oh, you needn't be sorry, Miss. Strite up and down's my motto. I want

to know what my 'Lizabeth's done. There's no getting her to school

nowadays. When Mrs Marley was alive all the gals loved to come to

school, but now they hates it, and all the noo-fangled ways."

As the woman spoke, she darted a glance at the old schoolmaster, who

chuckled softly, and shook his head.

"If you will allow me to speak--" began the young mistress.

"Oh, lor', yes, Miss, I'll allow yer to speak. I don't forget my

position. I'm only a humble woman, I am; but I says to my master only

last night, the trouble there is to get them gals to school now is

orful. When Mrs Marley was alive--"

"Your daughter, Mrs Searby--" began the young mistress, again.

"Yes, Miss, my daughter went to Mrs Marley, she did, and there was

never no trouble with the gal then. As I said to Mrs Marley, I said,

all she wants is properly putting forward, that's all she wants; for

there couldn't be a quicker gal wi' her book; but nowadays there's no

gettin' of her to come; and when she do come she don't larn a bit, with

the noo-fangled ways, and gettins up and sittins down, and holdin' out

their hands, and being drilled, and stood out, and kep' in for doing

nowt. I say it isn't fair to a child, for as I said to Mrs Marley, I

said, and she said to me, all my gal wanted was putting forward, for a

quicker gal with her book there never was, and now there's no getting of

her to school of a morning, and never no getting her back when she does

come; and the boys as goes to Mr Bone a loving their master and their

books, and a getting on wonderful. And now, if you please, Miss," said

the woman, with a derisive curtsey, and so far run down that she had to

keep taking up the tantalising iteration of uneducated people in a fit

of temper, "I want to know, if you please, what my gal has done."

"Your daughter was very rude, very inattentive, refused to learn the

lesson I set, and incited some of the older girls to insubordination,

Mrs Searby, so that I was compelled, most reluctantly, to punish her as

an example."

The old master went on carving the quill to pieces, making and remaking

it, till the amount of useful pen was getting very short, chuckling the

while, and evidently enjoying the sidewise compliments directed at him

and his old system by the irate woman.

"My gal not behaving herself! Why, she's as good in school as her

brothers is. She's the best o' gals at home; and poor old Mrs Marley,

who used to keep the school here, said as my gal was one of the best

behaved and nicest children she ever see."

"Then she must have altered very much in her opinion, Mrs Searby," said

a quiet, deep, rich voice; and the woman and the old schoolmaster

started to see the Rector standing in the open door. "Mrs Marley

consulted me several times upon the advisability of expelling your child

from the school, and, for my part, I must say that she is the most

tiresome girl that attends the Sunday classes."

"My gracious, sir!" exclaimed the woman, curtseying humbly.

"Leave her a little more to Miss Portlock here, and don't interfere,"

continued the Rector. "Elizabeth Searby, you had better go to your

class. Mr Bone, I have been waiting in the boys' school to see you.

Mrs Searby's two sons are heading a sort of insurrection there, and the

boys, when I went in, were pelting each other with pieces of coke from

the stove."

"Let 'em," said Humphrey Bone, snapping his fingers in defiance, as Miss

Elizabeth Searby took the opportunity of her elders' backs being turned

to put out her tongue at them, as if for medical inspection, and then

sought her class, while her mother beat a hasty retreat from the

Rector's presence.

"Let 'em!" said Humphrey Bone again; "I've done with 'em all. I defy

you all I've worked for this school," he cried, raising his voice, "for

thirty years, and trained boys to make good men. As for you, Rev Eli

Mallow, head of the parish as you call yourself, you haven't."

"Don't be foolish, Humphrey Bone," said the Rector, with a grave smile.

"Don't try to quarrel about the past. What I did was as my duty; and

when you are calm you must know that it was inevitable. Forbearance has

its limits."

"Quarrel! Forbearance!" cried the old schoolmaster, furiously. "How

have you done your duty? I'm not afraid of you; you shan't kill me like

you did old Warmoth; and I'll speak now."

"My duty? Not so well as I should," said the old clergyman, sadly. "We

all have our regrets, Bone, for the past."

"Yes, for what you've neglected," cried the master, furiously. "You're

not pitched out of your living in your old age; I am. I trained my boys

well. How about the training of yours, Rev Eli--old prophet? How

about your boys? Say, if you can, they are not a disgrace."

The old clergyman started as if he had been stung; his handsome, florid

face turned deadly pale, but the next moment the hot flush of

indignation suffused his countenance, mounting right up amongst the

roots of his silver hair.

"How dare--" he began; but he checked himself by an effort, and the

colour faded slowly from his face.

"Bone," he said, sadly, "you are angry, and in no fit state, mental and

bodily, to talk about these matters. I will forget what you have just

said. Now, back to your school; but before you go, let me tell you that

I am not the enemy you seem to think. I have here," he said, drawing a

blue envelope from his breast, "a list of contributions, which I am

getting towards a testimonial to our old schoolmaster for his long

services. I hope to make it reach a handsome sum."

Humphrey Bone's lips were parted to speak, but these words disarmed him,

and, muttering and shaking his head, he turned and left the place.

"Poor fellow!" said the Rector, calmly. "I fear that at times he hardly

knows what he says."

Sage Portlock looked at him wonderingly for a few moments, and he stood

gazing at her, his countenance growing less troubled the while; and no

wonder, for Sage Portlock's was a pleasant face. She was not handsome,

but, at the same time, she was far from plain; and there was something

attractive about her broad forehead, with its luxuriant,

smoothly-braided hair crossing each temple--for young ladies in those

days had not taken to either cutting their hair short, or to wearing

fringes or hirsute hysterics on their fronts. There was a pleasant

regularity in her by no means classical features; her eyes were large

and winning, and her well-cut mouth, if too large according to an

artists ideal, curved pleasantly, and displayed on parting the whitest

of teeth.

"Well, Miss Portlock," said the Rector, smiling, "what a bad mistress

you must be!"

"Indeed, sir," she exclaimed, colouring, "I try very hard to--"

"Of course--of course," he said, laughing, as he walked up the

schoolroom by her side. "My dear child, it is the old story."

"But was Mrs Marley so good a mistress, sir?" asked Sage, eagerly.

"My dear Miss Portlock, she was one of the most amiable of old women;

but it was quite shocking to see the state of the school. `Steeped in

ignorance' is about the best description I can give you of its

condition. Such encounters as you have had this morning fall of

necessity to the lot you have embraced, and, as you see, one of my cloth

is not exempt from such troubles."

The old man started and frowned, for just then the door was once more

opened in reply to a summons, and the gentleman who had troubled Polly

entered the school, took off his hat politely to the mistress, replaced

it, and then, apparently feeling that he had done wrong, took it off

once more.

"I heard you had come to the school," he said, "and I thought I would

follow you."

"You might have known, Cyril, that I should not be long," said the

Rector coldly. "Good-morning, Miss Portlock," and without another word

he went to the door, pausing to hold it open while the new-comer passed

out, saluting the mistress as he did so; and then Sage Portlock was left

to continue her task.

PART ONE, CHAPTER FIVE.

ONE OF THE BOYS.

"Mr Mallow seemed displeased with Mr Cyril," thought Sage Portlock, as

she went on with her duties. "He must have done something to annoy his

father."

Her thoughts left the subject the next moment, as she casually glanced

at the window, through which the sun was streaming, for it was one of

those glorious days when the dying year seems to flicker up, as it were,

into a hectic glow, and for the time being it seems as if summer has

come again.

In the schoolroom there was the busy hum of some sixty girls, reading,

repeating, answering questions, and keeping up that eternal whispering

which it is so hard to check, and the sun's rays as they streamed across

the room made broad, bold bars full of dancing dust. Outside there was

the pleasant country, and, in spite of herself, the thoughts of the

young mistress strayed away a couple of miles to her home, where on such

a day she knew that they would be busy gathering the late apples, those

great, red-streaked fellows, which would be laid in the rack and covered

with straw till Christmas. The great baking-pear tree, too, would be

yielding its bushels of heavy hard fruit, and the big medlar tree down

by the gate--she seemed to see it, as she thought--would be one blaze of

orange and red and russet gold.

It would be delicious, she thought, to run home at once instead of being

busy there; but the next moment a calm, satisfied smile came across her

face, as she recalled the long tedious days she had passed the year

before at Westminster, and began thinking and wondering about some one

else.

"I wonder how he is getting on?" she thought; "and whether he will get

one of the highest certificates. He tries so hard, I should think it is

almost certain."

There was a pause here--a busy pause, during which a change of duty was

instituted in two or three classes; but Sage Portlock's thoughts went

back soon after, in spite of herself, to the progress of Luke Ross at

the London training college.

As she thought her cheeks reddened slightly, and she could not help

recalling the spiteful words of the old master; and, as thoughts will,

hers bounded on ahead faster and faster, till in effect she did see the

day when her old friend and companion would be settled at Lawford, and

perhaps a closer connection than that of master and mistress of the

schools have come to pass.

Meanwhile the look of displeasure upon the Rev Eli Mallow's

countenance had grown deeper and more marked as he walked away from the

school with his son, and angry words had taken place.

"Why, what nonsense, father!" exclaimed the young man. "I heard that

you had just entered the schoolroom, and I followed to speak to you,

that's all; and here you turn rusty about it. Hang it all, a fellow

comes home for a little peace, and the place is made miserable."

"By you, Cyril," retorted his father, sharply. "Home is a calm and

peaceful place till you come back, and then--I grieve to say it--trouble

is sure to begin."

"Why, what have I done now?"

"Done?" said his father, bitterly, as they walked up the long town

street. "Why, given up another chance in life. Here, at the expense of

a thousand pounds, you are started upon this Australian expedition, to

become a settler, but at the end of two years you are back home, with

the money gone, and as unsettled as ever."

"Well, we had all that over last night and the night before. You need

not bring it up again. That is not why you have turned rusty," said the

young man, sulkily.

"I think I will ask you to speak respectfully to me, Cyril," said his

father, with dignity.

"Respectfully!" said Cyril, with a mocking laugh. "Why, I'm behaving

wonderfully. If I had stayed out at the sheep farm for another year I

should have been a perfect boor."

"And I must request, finally, that you interfere no more in any of the

parish matters."

"Well, who has interfered, father?"

"To put it plainly, then, my boy, I insist upon your keeping away from

that school."

"And for goodness' sake, father, why?"

"I will tell you," said the old clergyman, with no small show of

excitement. "I have been reviled this morning, and accused of being

wanting in duty, especially in the management of my sons."

"Who dared to be so insolent?" cried the young man.

"I was compared to Eli of old, my boy; and I fear only too justly."

"Let's see; Eli's sons were very naughty boys, weren't they?" said the

young man, laughing.

"Silence, sir!" cried his father, flushing; "these are not matters for

your idle jests. I acknowledge that, for your poor mother's sake, I

have given way, and been weak and indulgent to the boy she, poor

invalid, has ever worshipped; but the time has come now for me to make a

stand, ere worse befall our house."

"Why, father, what do you mean?"

"This, my son," cried the old clergyman, sternly. "You left home two

years ago, wild and fighting against restraint. You have come back now

rougher in your ways--"

"No wonder. You should have led such a life as I have amongst sheep

farmers and roughs, and you wouldn't wonder at my ways."

"And far less amenable to discipline."

"Why, what do you want, father?" cried the young man, impatiently.

"Strict obedience in all things, but more especially in those where any

lapse might reflect upon my conduct as the clergyman of this parish."

"Why, of course, father--what do you suppose a fellow is going to do?"

"Do you think I'm blind, Cyril?" said his father, sternly.

"Not I, father. Why do you ask?"

"Answer me this question. Why did you follow me to the school?"

"To have a chat with you. It was precious dull at home."

"Very. It must be," said the old clergyman, ironically. "You have been

away from home two years, and after a few days' return, its calm and

peaceful life is found dull."

"Well, so it is; plaguy dull."

"Your mother has been confined to her couch ever since Cynthia was born,

Cyril. I have never yet heard her complain of home being dull, or

repine at her lot."

"Ah, well, I know all that! Poor mamma!" exclaimed the young man.

"And you make that pitiful excuse to me, Cyril," cried his father: "you

stoop to deceit already."

"Who does?" cried the young man fiercely.

"You do, sir, and I tell you this shall not be. Sage Portlock is a

pure, sweet-minded girl, in whom both your sisters and I take the

greatest interest; and I tell you that, if not engaged, there is already

a very great intimacy existing between her and Luke Ross."

"Phew!" whistled Cyril. "What, that young prig of a fellow! I say,

father, he's turning schoolmaster, isn't he?"

"It is settled that he shall succeed Mr Bone as soon as he has finished

his training," said Mr Mallow, quietly.

"Poor old Bone!--dry Bone, as we used to call him, because he was such a

thirsty soul. And so Luke Ross is to be the new man, eh? I

congratulate Lawford," he added, with a sneer.

"You have never liked Luke Ross since he gave you so sound a thrashing,"

said his father, quietly.

"He? Thrash me? Absurd, father! Pooh! the fellow is beneath my

notice."

"I think we understand each other now," said Mr Mallow, with quiet

firmness. "While you stay here, Cyril, there is to be no trifling with

any one. You can share our home for the present--that is, until you

obtain some engagement."

"Oh, hang engagements!" cried the young man, impatiently. "You have

plenty of money, father, both in your own right and mamma's. Why should

I be constantly driven from home to some menial work?"

"Because it is time that your spoiled life of indulgence should cease.

There is nothing degrading in work; it is idleness that degrades."

"Oh, yes; you've lectured me enough about that," said the young man,

rudely.

"And you may take it for granted that as soon as an opening can be made

for you--"

"Opening wanted for a pushing young man," cried Cyril, mockingly.

"I shall ask you to leave home and try to do your duty in this busy

world."

"Thanks, father," said the young man, roughly. "What am I to be?"

"Three years ago I felt that I was doing wrong in keeping you in

idleness at home."

"Idle? Why, I was always busy, father."

"Yes--hunting, shooting, fishing, and the like; but you did not stop

there."

"Oh, nonsense?"

"To-day I feel certain that I should be doing a great injustice to the

parish--to your mother--to your sisters--"

"Any one else?" said the young man, mockingly.

"To you," replied his father, sternly.

"Any one else?"

"And to Miss Portlock and Luke Ross by allowing you to stay here."

They had reached the rectory, and the Rev Eli Mallow, who had paused

with one hand upon the oaken bar to finish his sentence, now pushed open

the quaintly-made gate, held it for a moment as if for his son to

follow; but as he did not, the Rector allowed it to close, and, placing

his hands behind him, walked slowly up the well-kept gravel walk, too

intent upon his thoughts to give heed to his favourite flowers, or to

enter the conservatory, according to his custom, on his way to his own

snug room, whose walls were well stored with works on botany and his

favourite pursuit, gardening.

Cyril Mallow gave his long moustache a tug as he watched his father's

bent back till it disappeared amongst the choice shrubs and evergreens;

then, taking out his cigar-case, he selected one from its contents, bit

off the end viciously, and there was the petulance of a spoiled child in

his action as he struck one of the old-fashioned flat fusees upon the

rough oaken gate-post till he had torn the match to rags without

obtaining a light, another and another following before he could ignite

his cigar.

"Confound the place!" he exclaimed. "It's as dull as ditch water.

Pretty state of affairs, indeed! One can't look at a soul without being

jerked up short. Luke Ross, eh? I'd like to--"

He did not say what, but he gave his teeth a grind, and, thrusting his

hands deep down into his pockets, he walked on towards the fields beyond

the little town.

"I declare everybody's hard on me," he said aloud. "Just because I'm a

bit unlucky and want change. Here's the governor rolling in riches, and

might make me a handsome allowance, and yet I'm always to be driven out

into the world. Hanged if it isn't too bad."

He leaped over a stile and strolled a little way on across a field,

beyond which was a patch of woodland, all aglow with the rich tints of

autumn, but Cyril Mallow saw them not, his thoughts being elsewhere.

"I won't stand it," he cried suddenly, as he stopped short. "A man

can't always be in leading-strings, and I'm old enough now, surely, to

strike for my liberty, and--"

His hand went involuntarily to his vest pocket, from which he drew a

delicately-made lady's gold watch, whose presence was accounted for by

the fact that Cyril's own stout gold watch had passed into the hands of

a station shepherd out at a place called Bidgeewoomba, in Queensland,

and Cyril's indulgent mother had insisted upon his using hers until it

was replaced.

"Beastly dull place!" he muttered, gazing at the watch. "It's of no use

to go across to the ford; `our master' will be coming in to dinner.

Little fool! why did she go and marry that great oaf?"

He turned the watch over and over, laughing unpleasantly.

"Pretty Polly!" he said out aloud, but ended by opening and snapping to

the back of the watch.

"Five minutes to twelve," he exclaimed, involuntarily. "The children

will be coming out of school directly."

He made a sharp movement in the direction of the town--stopped short--

went on again--stopped to think of the words he had had with his father,

and then, with an impatient "pish!" thrust his hands into his pockets,

and walked quickly in the direction that he knew Sage Portlock would

take on leaving the school, bent on the mission of causing misery and

dissension between two young people just making their first start in

life, and sowing the seed of certain weeds that would spring up to the

overtopping of much goodly grain.

He paused again, hesitating as he neared the rectory gates, and for a

moment he seemed as if he would enter.

But just then the church clock struck twelve, and the deep-toned bell,

as it slowly gave forth, one by one, the tale of strokes announcing that

the day had climbed to its greatest height, seemed to bring before Cyril

Mallow the scene of the schoolgirls racing out, panting and eager, while

Sage Portlock was putting on that natty little hat and long silk scarf

she wore when going to and fro.

"Oh, what nonsense!" ejaculated Cyril. "What harm? Perhaps I shan't

see her after all."

He strode off hastily back towards the town, for it was now five minutes

past twelve, and just at this time Sage was locking the school door, and

enjoying the fresh air, as she thought of Luke Ross with a pleasant

little smile upon her lip, and a ruddy tint on the cheek; while just a

hundred and twenty miles away Luke Ross had shouldered a spade on his

way to the great garden for the hour's manual labour prescribed by the

rules of the training school; and, oddly enough, he was not thinking of

the piece of earth he was about, in company with many more, to dig, but

of Sage Portlock, and the pleasant days when he should be down in the

country once again.

PART ONE, CHAPTER SIX.

MAGISTERIAL FUNCTIONS.

People had always said that the Rev Eli Mallow was a most fortunate

man, but somehow fate gave him his share of reverses. He had been born

with the customary number of bones in his vertebra, wonderfully joined

together after Dame Nature's regular custom and good style of

workmanship, with suitable muscle and nerve to give proper pliability.

The nurse who used to wash and wipe and then powder his delicate young

skin considered that he was a beautiful baby, and certainly he had grown

up into a very handsome man, an ornament, with his portly form and grey

head, to the county bench, to his seat on which he was warmly welcomed

back by his neighbours, for however unpopular he might be in the

dissent-loving town of Lawford, the Rev Eli Mallow was a favourite in

his part of the county.

The late Lord Artingale had always been one of the loudest in his

praise.

"He is a man of breed, sir," his lordship would say. "There's blood and

bone in the man. I wish we had more clergymen of his kind. There'd be

less poaching in the country, I can tell you, and fewer empty bags."

For the Rev Eli Mallow worked by rule, that is to say, by law.

Secular and ecclesiastical law were to be obeyed to the letter, and he

was most exacting in carrying out what he considered to be his mission,

with the result that, however well he stood in favour with his friends,

his popularity did not increase.

He was not a bad man, for he was strictly moral and self-denying, fairly

charitable, had prayers morning and evening, always walked to church on

Sundays, kept a good table, and was proud of having the best horses in

the neighbourhood. He did his duty according to his light, but that

light was rather a small one, and it illumined a very narrow part of the

great book of life. There were certain things which he considered

duties, and his stern obedience to cut-and-dried law, rule, and

regulation made him seem harsher than he really was.

During his absence from Lawford something approaching to economy had

been practised, and his wife's and his own property had been nursed; but

now the family had returned there was no sign of saving, for, in

addition to being a clergyman, the Rector devoted himself largely to the

carrying out of what he called his _role_ as a country gentleman, and at

whatever cost to his pocket and general strain upon the property, this

he did well as a rule. Now, for reasons of his own relating to his two

daughters, he was launching out to an extent that made a second visit to

the Continent a very probable matter before many years were past.

Breakfast was over at the rectory. There had been words between master

and Mr Cyril, the butler said, and master had been very angry, but, as

was usually the case, Mr Cyril had come off victorious; and now, as it

was market-day at Lawford, the bays were at the door, champing their

bits, the butler and footman were in the hall waiting, and punctual to

the moment the young ladies came hurrying down the oak staircase just as

the Rev Eli received his gloves from the butler and put them on, the

domestic waiting to hand him his hat. This was carefully placed upon

his head, and then there was a little ceremony gone through of putting

on the glossy black overcoat, as if it were some sacred garment.

The Rev Eli did justice to his clothes, looking a thoroughly noble

specimen of his class, and once ready he unbent a little and smiled at

his pretty, ladylike daughters, whom he followed down to the handsome

barouche, which it had always been a custom to have out on bench days,

the appearance of the stylish turn-out lending no little _eclat_ to the

magisterial proceedings.

It was certainly not a mile and a half to the market-place, but though

that distance might be traversed again and again upon ordinary days,

this was out of the question when the magistrates were about to sit.

So the steps were rattled down, the young ladies handed in, Cyril

Mallow, with a cigar in his mouth, watching the proceedings from his

bedroom window. The Rev Eli followed and took his seat with dignity;

the steps were closed, the door shut, the footman mounted to the box

beside the coachman, both stretched their legs out rigidly, and set

their backs as straight as their master's, and away the carriage spun,

through the avenue, and out at the lodge gates, where the gardener's

wife was ready to drop a curtsey and close them afterwards, and then

away through the lanes by the longest way round, so as to pass

Portlock's farm and enter Lawford by the London road.

Market-day was a busy day at Lawford, and the ostler at the King's Head

had his hands full attending to the gigs of the farmers and the carts of

the clergy and gentry round.

The word "cart" seems more suggestive of the vehicle of the tradesman;

but it was the custom around Lawford for the clergy to use a capacious

kind of spring cart, neatly painted and padded within, but in other

respects built exactly on the model of an ordinary butcher's or grocer's

trap, save that it had a door and step behind for access to the back

seats, while, below the door, painted in regular tradesman style for the

evasion of tax, would be, in thin white letters, the owners name and

address, as in the case of the vicar of Slowby, whose cart was

lettered--

"Arthur Smith, Clerk, Slowby."

There were several such carts in the inn yard on this particular

morning, for the ladies of the clerical families generally shopped on

market-days, and fetched the magazines from the bookseller's if it was

near the first of the month.

The farmers' wives and daughters, too, put in a pretty good appearance

with their egg and butter baskets, which were carried in good old style

upon the woman's arm, irrespective of the fact that she was probably

wearing a velvet jacket, and had ostrich feathers in her bonnet.

Tomlinson, the draper, was answerable for the show, and he used to boast

that the Rector might preach as he liked against finery; his shop-window

could preach a far more powerful sermon in silence, especially with

bonnets for a text.

Some of the farmers had protested a little against the love of show

evinced by their wives and daughters, but in vain. The weaker vessels

said that the egg and butter money was their own to spend as they

pleased, and they always had something nice to show for their outlay,

which was more than the husbands and fathers, who stayed at the King's

Head so long after the market ordinary, could say.

The Rev Eli Mallow was dropped at the town-hall, where a pretty good

group of people were assembled. There were the rustic policemen from

the various outlying villages and a couple of Lord Artingale's keepers

in waiting ready to touch their hats. Then the ladies went off in the

carriage to make a few calls before returning to pick up papa after the

magistrates' sitting was over.

The usual country town cases: Matthew Tomlin had been drunk and riotous

again; James Jellicoe had been trespassing in search of rabbits; Martha

Madden had assaulted Elizabeth Snowshall, and had said, so it was sifted

out after a great deal of volubility, that she would "do for her"--what

she would do for her not stated; a diminutive being, a stranger, who

gave his name as Simpkins, had torn up his clothes at the workhouse, and

now appeared, to the great delight of the spectators, in a peculiar

costume much resembling a sack; another assault case arising out of the

fact that Mrs Stocktle had "called" Mrs Stivvison,--spelt Stockton and

Stevenson,--with the result that their lawful protectors had been

dragged into the quarrel, and "Jack Stivvison had `leathered' Jem

Stocktle."

Upon these urgent cases the bench of magistrates, consisting of the Rev

Eli Mallow, chairman, the Rev Arthur Smith, Sir Joshua St. Henry, and

the Revds Thomas Hampson, James Lawrence Barton, and Onesimus

Leytonsby, solemnly adjudicated.

Then came the important case of the day; two men, who gave the names of

Robert Thorns and Jock Morrison, were placed at the table.

The first was a miserable, dirty-looking object, who seemed to have made

a vow somewhere or another never to wash, shave, or sleep in anything

but hay and straw, some of which was sticking still in his tangled hair;

the other was a different breed of rough.

Rough, certainly, a spectator who had judged the two idlers would have

said; but he was decidedly a country rough, and did not belong to town.

His big, burly look and length of limb indicated a man of giant

strength; at least six feet high, his chest was deep and broad, and in

his brown, half gipsy-looking face, liberally clothed with the darkest

of dark-brown beards, there shone a pair of fierce dark eyes. Scraped

and sand-papered down, and clothed in brown velveteen, with cord

trousers and brown leather gaiters, he would have made a gamekeeper of

whose appearance any country magnate might have been proud. As it was,

his appearance before the country bench of magistrates was enough to

condemn him for poaching.

There was something of the keeper, too, in his appearance, for he had on

a well-worn velveteen coat and low soft hat, but his big, soft hands

told the tale of what he was--a ne'er-do-well, who looked upon life as a

career in which no man was bound to work.

Such was Jock Morrison.

The case was plain against them, and they knew that they would have to

suffer, for Jock was pretty well known for these affairs. Upon former

occasions his brother Tom, the wheelwright, had paid guineas to Mr

Ridley, the Lawford attorney, to defend him, but there were bounds to

brotherly help.

"I can't do it for ever," Tom Morrison had said to his young wife.

"I've give Jock every chance I could; now he must take care of himself."

Big Jock Morrison looked perfectly able to do that, as he now stood with

his hands in his pockets, staring about him in a cool defiant way. It

seemed that he had been warned off Lord Artingale's ground several

times, but had been too cunning for the keepers, and had only been taken

red-handed the previous day, very early in the morning, so evidence

showed; and he and his companion had upon them a hare, a rabbit, and a

couple of pheasants, beside some wire snares and a little rusty

single-barrelled gun, whose barrel unscrewed into two pieces, and which,

so the head-keeper deposed, was detached from the stock and stowed away

in the inner pocket of the big prisoner's coat.

Gun, powder-flask, tin measure, and bag of shot, with game, placed upon

the table.

"And what did the prisoners say when you came upon them by--where did

you say, keeper?" said one magistrate.

"Runby Spinney, Sir Joshua, just where the Greenhurst lane crosses the

long coppice, Sir Joshua."

"And what did the prisoners say?" said the chairman stiffly.

"Said they was blackberrying, Sir."

"Oh!" said the chairman, and he appeared so stern that no one dared

laugh, though a young rustic-looking policeman at whom Jock Morrison

winked turned red in the face with his efforts to prevent an explosion.

"Did they make any--er--er--resistance, keeper?" said the chairman.

"The big prisoner, sir, said he'd smash my head if I interfered with

him."

"Dear me! A very desperate character," said Sir Joshua. "And did he?"

"No, Sir Joshua, we was too many for him. There was me, Smith, Duggan,

and the two pleecemen, so they give in."

And so on, and so on.

Had the prisoners anything to say in their defence?

The dirty man had not, Jock Morrison had. "Lookye here: he didn't take

the game, shouldn't ha' taken it, only they foun' 'em all lying aside

the road. It was a fakement o' the keeper's, that's what it was. They

was a pickin' blackberries, that's what him and his mate was a doin' of,

and as soon as the 'ops was ready they was a going down south to pick

'ops."

The magistrates' clerk, the principal solicitor in the town, smiled, and

said he was afraid they would miss the hop-picking that season, as it

was over.

There was a short conference on the bench, and then the Rev Eli Mallow

sentenced the prisoners to three months' imprisonment, and told them it

was very fortunate for them that they had not resisted the law.

"You arn't going to quod us for three months along o' them birds and

that hare, are you?" said Jock Morrison.

"Take them away, policeman."

"Hold hard a moment," said the big fellow, so fiercely that the sergeant

present drew back. "Look here, parsons, you'll spoil our hop-picking."

"Take them away, constable," said the Rev Eli. "The next case."

"Hold hard, d'ye hear!" cried the big ruffian, in a voice of thunder.

"I s'pose, parson," he continued, addressing the chairman, "if I say

much to you, I shall get it laid on thicker."

"My good fellow," said the Rev Eli, "you have been most leniently

dealt with. I am sorry for you on account of your brother, a most

respectable man, who has always set you an admirable example, and--"

"I say," exclaimed Jock, "this arn't chutch, is it?"

There was a titter here, but the chairman continued:--

"I will say no more, as you seem in so hardened a frame of mind, only

that if you are violent you may be committed for trial."

"All right," said the great fellow, between his gritting teeth; "I don't

say no more, only--all right: come along, matey; we can do the three

months easy."

There was a bit of a bustle, and the prisoners were taken off. The rest

of the cases were despatched. The carriage called for the chairman, and

on the way back it passed the police cart, with the sergeant giving the

two poaching prisoners a ride, but each man had his ankle chained to a

big ring in the bottom of the vehicle, where they sat face to face, and

the sergeant and his man were driving the blackberry pickers to the

county gaol.

"What a dreadful-looking man!" said Julia, as in passing Jock Morrison

ironically touched his soft felt hat.

"Yes, my dear--poachers," said the Rev Eli calmly, as one who felt

that he had done his duty to society, and never for a moment dreaming

that he had been stirring Fate to play him another bitter turn.

PART ONE, CHAPTER SEVEN.

POLLY'S SURPRISE.

There was a dark shadow over Polly Morrison's mind, and she started and

shivered at every step when her husband was away at work, but only to

brighten up when the great sturdy fellow came in, smelling of wood, and

ready to crush her in his arms with one of his bear-like hugs.

Polly had been furtively gazing from the window several times on the

afternoon of that market-day, and turned hot and cold as she had heard

steps which might be those of some one coming there; but the cloud

passed away in the sunshine of Tom Morrison's happy smile, now that he

had come in, and she felt, as she expressed it, "oh! so safe."

"There, let me go, do, Tom," she cried, merrily. "Oh, what a great

strong, rough fellow you are!"

"No, no; stop a minute," he said here. "I oughtn't to be smiling, for

I've just heard something, Polly."

"Heard something, Tom!" she faltered, and she turned white with dread,

and shrank away.

"Here, I say," he cried, "you must get up your strength, lass. Why,

what a shivering little thing thou art!"

"You--you frightened me, Tom," she gasped.

"Frightened you? There, there, it's nothing to frighten thee. I have

just heard about Jock."

"Oh! about Jock," cried Polly, drawing a breath full of relief. "I hope

he has got off."

"Well, no, my lass, he hasn't, and I'm sorry and I'm not sorry, if thou

canst understand that. I'm sorry Jock is to be punished, and I'm not

sorry if it will do him good. Arn't you ashamed of having a husband

with such a bad brother?"

"Ashamed! Oh, Tom!" she cried, throwing her arms about his neck.

"Well, if you are not, I am," said Tom, sadly; "and I can't help

thinking that if old Humphrey Bone had done his duty better by us, Jock

would have turned out a different man."

"But tell me, Tom, are they going to do anything dreadful to him?"

"Three months on bread and water, my lass," said Tom Morrison,--"bread

of repentance and water of repentance; and I hope they'll do him good,

but I'm afraid when he comes out he'll be after the hares and pheasants

again, and I'm always in a fret lest he should get into a fight with the

keepers. But there, my lass, I can't help it. I'd give him a share of

the business if he'd take to it, but he wean't. I shan't fret, and if

people like to look down on me about it, they may."

"But they don't, Tom, dear," cried Polly, with her face all in dimples,

the great trouble of her life forgotten for the time. "I've got such a

surprise for you."

"Surprise for me, lass? What is it? A custard for tea?"

"No, no; what a boy you are to eat!" cried Polly, merrily.

"Just you come and smell sawdust all day, and see if you don't eat,"

cried Tom. "Here, what is it?"

"Oh, you must wait. There, what a shame! and you haven't kissed baby."

She ran out to fetch the baby and hold it up to him to be kissed, while

she looked at him with all a young mother's pride in the little one, of

which the great sturdy fellow had grown so fond.

"It makes me so happy, Tom," she said, with the tears in her eyes.

"Happy, does it, lass?"

"Oh, yes. So--so happy," she cried, nestling to him with her baby in

her arms, and sighing with her sense of safety and content, as the

strong muscles held her to the broad breast. "I was afraid, Tom, that

you might not care for it--that you would think it a trouble, and--

and--"

"That you were a silly little wife, and full of foolish fancies," he

cried, kissing her tenderly.

"Yes, yes, Tom, I was," she cried, smiling up at him through her tears.

"But come--your tea. Here, Budge."

Budge had been a baby herself once--a workhouse baby--and she looked it

still, at fourteen. Not a thin starveling, but a sturdy workhouse baby,

who had thriven and grown strong on simple oatmeal fare. Budge was

stout and rosy, and daily putting on flesh at Tom Morrison's cottage,

where her duty was to "help missus, and nuss the bairn."

But nearly always in Polly's sight; for the first baby was too sacred a

treasure in that cottage home to be trusted to any hands for long.

She was a good girl, though, was Budge; her two faults prominent being

that when she cried she howled--terribly, and that "the way"--to use Tom

Morrison's words--"she punished a quartern loaf was a sight to see."

Budge, fat, red-faced, and round-eyed, with her hair cut square at the

ends so that it wouldn't stay tucked behind her ears, but kept coming

down over her eyes, came running to take baby, and was soon planted on a

three-legged stool on the clean, red-tiled floor, where she began

shaking her head--and hair--over the baby, like a dark-brown mop, making

the little eyes stare up at it wonderingly; and now and then a faint,

rippling smile played round the lips, and brightened the eyes, to

Budge's great delight.

For just then Budge was hard pressed. Workhouse matron teaching had

taught her that when she went out to service it would be rude to stare

at people when they were eating; and now there was the pouring out of

tea, and spreading of butter, and cutting of bread and bacon going on in

a way that was perfectly maddening to a hungry young stomach, especially

if that stomach happened to be large, and its owner growing.

Budge's stomach was large, and Budge was growing, so she was hard

pressed: and do what she would, she could not keep her eyes on the baby,

for, by a kind of attraction, they would wander to the tea-table, and

that loaf upon which Tom Morrison was spreading a thick coating of

yellow butter, prior to hacking off a slice.

Poor Budge's eyes dilated with wonder and joy as, when the slice was cut

off, nearly two inches thick, Tom stuck his knife into it, and held the

mass out to her, with--

"Here, lass, you look hungry. Tuck that away."

Budge would have made a bob, but doing so would have thrown the baby on

the floor; so she contented herself with saying "Thanky, sir," and

proceeded to make semicircles round the edge of the slice, and to drop

crumbs on the baby's face.

"Well, lass," said Tom, as Polly handed him his great cup of tea, "about

the christening? When's it to be?"

"On Sunday, Tom, and that's what I wanted to tell you--it's my

surprise."

"What's a surprise?"

"Why, about the godmothers, dear. Why, I declare," she pouted, "you

don't seem to mind a bit."

"Oh, but I do," he said, "only I'm so hungry. Well, what about the

godmothers?"

"Why, Miss Julia and Miss Cynthia have promised to stand. Isn't it

grand?"

"Grand? Oh, I don't know."

"Tom!"

"Well, I suppose it is grand, but I don't know. It's all right if they

like it. But about poor Jock?"

"Oh, that won't make any difference, dear. They've promised, and I know

they won't go back. They'll be the two godmothers, and you the

godfather."

"Of course," cried Tom, eating away; "two godmothers and a godfather,

eh, lass? that's right, isn't it?"

"Yes, Tom," said the little woman, eagerly attending to her husband's

wants, "and two godfathers and a godmother if it's a boy."

"It'll be a grand christening, won't it, Polly?" said Tom.

"Oh, no, dear. Miss Julia and Miss Cynthia are the dearest and best of

girls, and they have no pride. Miss Julia talked to me the other day

just like a friend."

"I say," cried Tom, eagerly.

"What, dear?"

"Why not do the thing in style while we're about it. What do you say to

asking young Mr Cyril to be godfather?"

If Tom Morrison had looked up then he would have been startled at the

livid look in his young wife's face, but he was too intent upon his tea,

and Polly recovered herself and said--

"Oh, no, dear, that would not do, and the young ladies would not like

it. Look here, Tom."

Polly tripped to a basket, from which she produced a white cloak and

hood, trimmed with swan's-down; and these she held up before her

husband, flushed and excited, as, in her girlish way, she wondered

whether he would like them.

Budge left off eating, and wished for a white dress on the spot, trimmed

with silk braid, like that.

"Say," said Tom, thickly, speaking with his mouth fall, "they're fine,

arn't they?--cost a lot o' money."

"No," said Polly, gleefully, "they cost nothing, Tom. Miss Julia made

me a present of the stuff, and I made them."

"Did you, though?" he said, looking at her little fingers, admiringly.

"You're a clever girl, Polly; but I often wonder how it was you came to

take up with a rough chap like me."

Polly looked up in his steady, honest eyes, and rested one hand upon

his, and gazed lovingly at him, as he went on--

"My old woman said it was because I'd got a cottage, and an acre of land

of my own."

"Did she say so, Tom?"

"Yes," he said, taking her hand, patting it, and gazing up in the pretty

rustic face he called his own; "but I told her you were a silly little

girl, who would have me if I'd got a cottage and an acre less than

nothing to call my own."

"And you told the truth, Tom, dear," she whispered. "Tom, you make me

so happy in believing in me like this."

"Tut, tut, my girl. I'm not clever; but I knew you."

"And married me without anything, only enough to buy my wedding dress

and a little furniture."

"D'yer call that nothing?" said the hearty, Saxon-faced young fellow,

pointing to the baby; "because I don't. And I say, Polly, dear," he

whispered, archly, "perhaps that's only the thin end of the wedge."

"Hush, Tom, for shame!" she said, trying to frown, and pointing to

Budge; while he took a tremendous bite of bread and bacon, and chuckled

hugely at his joke.

"The old lady used to have it that you were too fine for me, Polly, and

would have been setting your cap at one of the young gentlemen at the

rectory when you was abroad with them."

"Tom!" she panted, as his words seemed to stab her, and she ran out of

the room.

"Why, Polly, Polly," he cried, following her and holding her to his

breast, "what a touchy little thing thou art since baby came! Why, as

if I didn't know that ever since you were so high you were my little

sweetheart, and liked great rough me better than the finest gentleman as

ever walked. There, there, there! I was a great lout to talk like that

to thee. Come, wipe thy eyes."

"I can't bear it, Tom, if you talk like that," she sobbed, smiling at

him through her tears. "There, it's all over now."

There was a little cold shiver at Polly Morrison's breast, though, all

the same, and it kept returning as she sat there over her work that

evening, rocking the cradle with one foot, and wondering whether she

could gain strength enough to tell her husband all about Cyril Mallow,

and the old days at Dinan.

But no, she could not, and they discussed, as Tom smoked his pipe, the

state of affairs at the rectory; how Mrs Mallow remained as great an

invalid as ever, and how they seemed to spare no expense, although

people had said they went abroad because they had grown so poor.

"Folk seem strange and sore against parson," said Tom at last.

"Then it's very cruel of them, for master is a real good man," cried

Polly.

"They don't like it about owd Sammy Warmoth. They say he killed him,"

said Tom, between the puffs of his pipe.

"Such nonsense!" cried Polly; "and him ninety-three."

"Then they are taking sides against him for wanting to get rid of

Humphrey Bone."

"And more shame for them," cried Polly, indignantly.

"Well, I don't know," said Tom; "I've rather a liking for old Humphrey.

He taught me."

"He's a nasty wicked old man," cried Polly. "He tried to kiss me one

day when he was tipsy."

"He did?" cried Tom, breaking his pipe in the angry rush that seemed to

come over him.

"Yes, Tom, and I boxed his ears," said the little woman, shivering

again, for the fit of jealous anger did not escape her searching eyes.

"That's right, lass. I'm dead on for a new master now."

Then a discussion arose as to the baby's name, Tom wanting it to be

called after his wife, who was set upon Julia, and she carried the day.

"There," said Tom, "if anybody had told me a couple of years ago that

any bit of a thing of a girl was going to wheedle me, and twist me round

her finger, and do what she liked with me, I should have told him he

didn't know what he was talking about."

"And you don't mind, Tom, dear?"

"No," he said, smiling, "I don't mind, if it pleases thee, my lass."

"And it does, dear, very, very much," she said, kissing him.

But Polly Morrison did not feel happy, and several times that night

there was the little shiver of dread at her heart, and she wished she

could tell Tom all.

PART ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE BLACK SHADOW.

It was, as Julia Mallow said, a very pretty baby, that of Polly Morrison

and her husband, when she spoke to her invalid mother, lying so

patiently passive upon the couch in her own room; but that weak little

morsel of humanity had a part to play in the troubles of the Rev Eli

Mallow's life. For hardly had the tiny babe sent to the care of Tom

Morrison and his young wife begun to smile upon them, than it was taken

suddenly ill.

No childish ailment this, brought on by careless attendance; but the

cold grey hand of death was laid upon the fragile form, its little

eyes--erst so bright and blue--sunken, and the tiny nose pinched and

blue.

Julia and Cynthia Mallow had been in to see her, and found the little

woman prostrate with grief, and then hurried to the town for medical

advice, though that of fifty doctors would have been in vain.

"Pray, pray, Tom, go and ask Budge not to cry," sobbed Polly, as her

husband knelt at her side; for ever and again, from below, came a long,

dismal cry, that almost resembled the howl of a dog in a state of

suffering.

Tom Morrison rose in a heavy, dull way, and slowly descended the stairs,

returning in a minute to resume his place beside his wife, turning his

eyes to hers, as they looked up to him in mute agony.

They could not speak, but they read each other's hearts, and knew full

well that nothing could be done; that the tiny life that had been given

to them to have in charge was passing fast away--so fast, and yet so

gently that neither knew it had gone till, alarmed by the slow dilation

of the little eyes, and their fixed and determinate look, Polly bent

over the waxen form in eager fear, caught it tightly to her breast, and

then sank back in her chair, crying--

"Tom, Tom, God has taken it away!" An hour later, husband and wife were

sitting hand in hand by the little couch on which their darling lay, so

still and cold, its tiny face seeming restful, free from pain, and

almost wearing a smile, while on either hand, and covering its breast,

were the best of the simple, homely flowers the garden could produce.

There was a heavy, blank look upon the parents' faces; for even then

they could not realise their loss. It was so sudden, seemed so strange;

and from time to time Polly got softly up, to lean down and hold her

cheek close to the little parted lips, to make sure that the infant did

not breathe; but there was no sign, and when she pressed her lips to the

white forehead, it was to find it cold as ice.

Budge had been silent for some time, going about the house on tiptoe,

and, like those above, too stunned to work; but her homely mind was busy

for a way to show her sympathy, and this she did by making and taking up

on the little tray two steaming cups of tea, each flanked by a goodly

slice.

Poor Budge! she had not calculated her strength aright; for on softly

entering the room, and setting down the tray, she turned her head, and

saw the simple flower-strewn bier, gave a long, loving look, and then,

sinking on her knees, with her hands to her eyes, burst forth into a

wild and passionate wail.

It was even ludicrous, but it touched the hearts of those who heard; for

with it came the passionate yearning of the desolate child for the love

and sympathy it had never known, but for which its young heart had

hungered so long. It told of nights of misery, and a desire for a

something it felt it ought to possess but had never had, as now, raising

her hands, she wailed forth her prayer--

"Oh, please, God, let me die instead, let me die instead."

As she finished, there was another wild burst of hysterical sobbing, and

Polly had flung herself in the child's arms, clinging to her, kissing

her passionately, as she cried--

"Oh, Budge, my poor girl! Oh, Budge, you'll break my heart!"

Tom Morrison could bear no more, but stumbled heavily from the room,

down-stairs, and out into his garden, where daybreak found him sitting,

with his face buried in his hands, on the bit of rustic seat beneath the

old weeping willow that grew in the corner, with its roots washed by the

river that formed one of the boundaries of the little freehold.

The sun was rising gloriously, and the east was one sheet of gold and

orange damask, shot with sapphire, as the sturdy workman rose.

"I must be a man over it--a man," he faltered, "for her sake." And he

slowly strode into the house, and up-stairs, to find his wife kneeling

where he had left her, wakeful and watching, with poor Budge fast

asleep, with her head upon Polly's lap, and her two roughened hands

holding one of those of her mistress beneath her cheek.

The wheelwright walked up to the sleeping babe, and kissed it; then,

gently taking Budge's head, he placed it upon a pillow from the bed;

while, lastly, he raised poor Polly as though she had been a child,

kissed her cold lips, and laid her down, covering her with the clothes,

and holding one of her hands, as he bade her sleep; and she obeyed, that

is to say, she closed her heavy eyes.

In the course of the morning, stern, crotchety old Vinnicombe, the

Lawford doctor, sought out the stricken father, finding that he had not

been to his workshop, but was down his garden, where, after a few

preliminaries, he broke his news.

"What?" he said, starting. "There, sir, I'm dazed like now; please, say

it again."

"I'm very sorry, Morrison--very," said the doctor, "for I respect you

greatly, and it must be a great grief to your poor little wife; but I

have seen him myself, as I did about Warner's child, and he is very much

cut up about it; but as to moving him, he is like iron."

"I can't quite understand it, sir," said Tom, flushing. "Do you mean to

say, sir, that parson won't bury the child?"

"Well, it is like this, Morrison," said the doctor, quietly, "he is a

rigid disciplinarian--a man of High Church views, and he says it is

impossible for him to read the Burial Service over a child that was not

a Christian."

"That was not a Christian?" said Tom slowly.

"He says he condoles with you, and is very sorry; that the poor little

thing can be buried in the unconsecrated part of the churchyard; but he

can grant no more."

"Doctor," cried the wheelwright, fiercely, "I don't be--There, sir, I

beg your pardon," he continued, holding out his rough hand; "but it

seems too hard to believe that any one could speak like this. The poor

little thing couldn't help it, sir; and we should have had it done next

Sunday. Why, sir, the poor girl was only showing me the little--don't

take notice o' me, sir, please; I'm like a great girl now."

As he spoke, he sank down upon an upturned box, and, covering his face

with his hands, remained silent; but with his heaving shoulders telling

the story of his bitter emotion.

"Be a man, Morrison--be a man," said the doctor, kindly, as he laid his

hand upon the stricken fellow's shoulder.

"Yes, doctor," he said, rising and dashing away the signs of his

grief--"this is very childish, sir; but it's a bit upset me, and now

this news you bring me seems to make it worse. I'll go up and see

parson. He won't refuse when he knows all."

"Yes, go up and see him," said the doctor, kindly. "Can I do anything

for you?"

"No, sir, thanky," said the wheelwright, meekly; "you couldn't do what I

wanted, sir--save that poor little thing's life. There's nothing more."

"No," said the doctor; "our profession is powerless in such a case. The

child was so young and tender that--"

"Don't say any more, sir, please," said Morrison, with his lip

quivering. And then he turned away from the house, so as to avoid

Biggins the carpenter, who had just come in at the garden gate, and

walked on tiptoe along the gravel walk, up to the door, where he was met

by a neighbour, who led him up-stairs.

Biggins, the Lawford carpenter, was the newly-appointed sexton of the

church, and between him and Tom Morrison there was supposed to exist a

bitter hatred, because Biggins the carpenter had once undertaken to make

a wheelbarrow for the rectory garden, and Morrison had made a coffin for

one of the Searby children who died of a fit of measles.

The feud seemed to be a bitter one, for when he came out of the cottage

five minutes later, he turned down the garden, seeing which, the doctor

shook hands with Morrison, and at parting said--

"Let me give you something to do you good, Tom."

"What, sir, doctor's stuff?" said the wheelwright, with a look of

wonder. "I want no physic."

"Yes, you do," said the doctor, smiling, as he laid the silver knob of

his stick on the stout fellow's breast--"yes, you do. I can minister to

a mind diseased as well as to a body. Look here, my lad, you must bear

your suffering like a man; so, now go and do this--"

Tom made an impatient movement to go, but the doctor stayed him.

"There is nothing like work at such a time as this," he said. "Go and

see the parson, and then set to and work harder than ever you worked

before in your life. It will give you ease."

"You're right, Mr Vinnicombe, you're right," said Tom, bluntly.

"Thanky, sir--thanky. Good-bye."