hard-faced man, who emitted a strong odour of glue from his garments,
walked up, tucking a piece of sandpaper upon which he had been writing,
and his square carpenter's pencil, that he had pointed with four chops
of his chisel before starting, into one of his pockets.
"Thy savoy cabbages look well, neighbour," he said quietly, as being the
most sympathetic thing he could think of at the moment. Then he held
out his hand, shook the other's warmly, without a word, and then stood
by him, breathing heavily, and looking down at the ground.
Five minutes passed like this, without a word on either side, Morrison
manifesting no impatience, and Biggins showing no disposition to go; for
it was his way of showing sympathy to a friend in distress, and Morrison
felt it so to be, and thanked him in his heart.
At last the carpenter, who was used to funerals, and who was now next
door to being clerk, heaved a heavy sigh, stooped down, picked a strand
from the grass plot, and held it at arm's length, looking at it fixedly
for a minute or so, before saying, huskily--
"All flesh is grass, Tom Morrison--flowers of the field--cut down--
withered. Amen."
He said it in a slow, measured way, and with a nasal twang, the last
word closing his disconnected speech after quite an interval; and then
the two men stood together for some minutes in silence.
At last Biggins spoke again, but without raising his eyes, looking down
at the garden path, as if for a place to plant the bent he had broken
from its roots.
"Poor wife! She's terribly cut up, Tom."
There was another interval of silence, and then Biggins said, as if to
himself, and still gazing at the path--
"White cloth, and silver breastplate and nails?"
There was another pause, and then Tom said in a weary, dull way--
"As if it was one of your own, my lad--as if it was one of your own."
"Good-bye, Tom Morrison--good-bye, lad," said Biggins, holding out his
hand once more, but with his back half turned to his neighbour
"Good-bye," said Tom, squeezing the honest, hard fist held out to him in
a manly grip; and, with a sigh, Biggins was turning off, when a word
from the wheelwright arrested him. "Come down here, lad, away from the
house," said Tom, huskily.
Biggins looked up now, his heavy face lighting up. Tom Morrison wanted
him to do something for him. He could do that, if he could not show
sympathy.
They walked down the neatly-kept garden, till they stood under the
willow tree, where, after a few minutes' silence, Tom Morrison said
huskily--
"They've made you saxon now, haven't they, Joe?"
"Yes, and ought to be clerk as well, but it don't seem like being saxon
in these newfangled days, when the ground's cut from under a man, and
there's no chance of putting in a simple, honest amen anywhere. Ah, I
don't know what poor, dear old parson would have said to see the change.
He'd think we'd all gone over to Popery."
Tom waited till his friend, now suddenly grown voluble, had ceased.
"Joe Biggins," he said, "didst ever know old parson--God bless him!--to
refuse to bury any one out of the place because--because they wasn't
baptised?"
"Never," said Biggins--"never," energetically.
"He never had such a case, p'raps," said Tom.
"Oh, but he did," said Biggins--"even in my time. Why, there was poor
Lizzy Baker's child. You knew Sam Baker?"
Tom nodded.
"Well, when their little one died it hadn't been christened, I know. I
remember father talking about it while he made the coffin, and I
recollect it so well because it was the first coffin I ever put the
nails in all by myself. Let's see, that's a good fifteen year ago now,
Tom, that it be."
"And he buried it?"
"To be sure he did. Why, I remember as well as if it had been
yesterday. He says to my father, he says, `I never like to be too
partic'lar about these baptismal matters. It's not 'cording to church
law, but I couldn't put such a sorrow on the poor father and mother as
to refuse the service, and I hope I'm right.'"
"He said so?" whispered the wheelwright, half turning away his face.
"I can't as a man, Tom, sweer to the zact words," said the carpenter,
earnestly; "but I'll sweer as they meant all that, long ago as it is."
"God bless him!" muttered Tom, with his lower lip working.
"Old parson wasn't particular about those sort o' things. Don't you
remember about poor old Dick Granger? To be sure--yes--we were boys
then, and went to Humphrey Bone. Ay, and what a rage he do wax in again
parson now, toe be sewer. I recklect father talking about it. You
remember, sewer_ly_, old Granger went off his head, and drowned himself
in Cook's mill dam, and the jury said it was _felo de se_; and Johnson
up at the Red Cow was foreman, and wanted him to be buried at the cross
roads, with a stake druv through his heart. Why, it's all come back
now. I recklect it all; how old parson went to the poor old widow, and
talked to her; and there was a big funeral. Everybody went to see poor
old Granger buried in the churchyard; and he was buried all regular, and
parson preached the next Sunday about brotherly love and Christian
charity. Why, Tom, you and I was about seventeen then. How time do
go!"
"Yes--I remember," said the wheelwright, bowing his head.
"Ah," said Biggins, "those were the days, Tom; even if one did get to
know some of poor old parson's sarmons. We sang the old psalms and
hymns then, and Miss Jane used to practise twice a week with us boys at
the little organ that old Davy, Franklin's gardener, used to turn the
handle on. There was no choral sarvice then, and white gowns for the
children. Ah, a clerk's place was worth having then. It wasn't many on
'em as could roll out _Amen_ like poor old Sammy Warmoth."
"Joe Biggins," said the wheelwright, checking the flood of
recollections--"doctor says Rev Mallow won't--won't--"
"Won't bury the little one?" Tom's voice failed him, and he nodded
shortly.
"Phew!"
Biggins gave a low, sibilant whistle. Then, flushing up, he exclaimed--
"Damn him! No--I don't mean that. Lord forgive me for speaking so of a
parson. But, I say, Tom--oh, no, he can't mean it, lad. Tell you what,
he's a queer one, and as proud as a peacock, and his boys arn't what
they should be. You needn't tell him what I say, for I don't want to
offend nobody, that's my motter through life; but parson's a parson, and
he's bound to practise what he preaches. You go and see him."
"I mean to."
"Shall I go with thee, lad?"
"No. I'll go alone."
"P'raps you'd better, lad. If he makes any bones about it, ask him as a
favour--don't be hot with him, Tom, but a bit humble. I know thee don't
like to ask favours of any man; but do't for her sake, Tom--indoors."
Biggins pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and the wheelwright
nodded.
"When is the best time to see him?" said Tom, after a few moments'
silence.
"Well, it's no good to go till 'bout two o'clock, after his lunch. He
won't see me, even on parish matters, in the morning."
The wheelwright nodded, and, without another word, Biggins went away,
passing the cottage, with its drawn-down blinds, on tiptoe, and shaking
his fist at a boy who was whistling as he went along the road.
PART ONE, CHAPTER NINE.
ORTHODOX TO A DEGREE.
The Rev Lawrence Paulby looked rather aghast at the changes Mr Mallow
was effecting in the church, and sighed as he thought of the
heart-burnings that were ever on the increase; but he said nothing, only
went on with his daily routine of work, and did his best, to use his own
words, "for everybody's sake."
Joe Biggins, as we have learned, had succeeded old Sammy Warmoth as far
as a successor was wanted, and he now, in a most sheepish manner,
looking appealingly at the Curate, wandered about the church as a
verger, in a long black gown, and carrying a white wand, to his very
great disgust and the amusement of the schoolboys, several of whom had
tested its quality. The little old organ had been brought down from the
loft where the singers used to sit, and placed in the chancel, where
there was no room for it, so a kind of arched cupboard had been built
expressly to contain it; and where the Rector's and churchwardens'
families used to sit, close up by the communion rails, was now occupied
by the surpliced choir, who weekly attempted a very bad imitation of a
cathedral service. They chanted all the psalms to the Gregorian tones,
item, the responses and the amens; and beginning always very flat, they
gradually grew worse and worse, till, towards the close of the service,
they would be singing a long way on towards a semitone beneath the
organ, which always gave a toot to pitch the key for the Rector or
Curate to start in intoning his part.
The very first Sunday that this was tried, Mr Lawrence Paulby broke out
into a vexatious perspiration that made his head shine; for in spite of
all his practice at the schoolroom, no matter how he tried to draw their
attention to the coming task, dwelling as he did upon such words at the
end of a prayer as "Be with us all--ever--m--o--r--e," the chanted
"Amen," delivered out of tune by the inattentive young surpliced choir,
aided and abetted by the schoolmaster Bone's bass, was something so
shocking that, if it had been anything but a sacred service, it might
have been called a burlesque.
It did not matter whether he was himself intoning, or listening to Mr
Mallow's rich deep voice, the Curate always sat in agony lest any one
should laugh, a horror that he could not contemplate without a shudder,
and he wished in his heart that the Rector would take it into his head
to go again.
Parish business took the Curate over to the rectory on the morning
succeeding the death of Tom Morrison's little one. He had been up to
town, and returned only late the past night, the result being that he
had not heard of the wheelwright's trouble, or he would at once have
called.
He was a very nervous man, and the probabilities were that had he known
what was about to happen, he would have stayed away. He had expected to
be asked to stay lunch, and he had stayed. Then conversation had ensued
on the forthcoming visitation of the bishop of the diocese. Cyril
Mallow had made two or three remarks evidently intended to "chaff the
Curate," as he would have termed it, and to provoke a laugh from his
sisters; but in neither case was he successful, and as soon as lunch was
over, the Rector rose and led the way to his study, where he waved his
hand towards a chair.
The Curate had hardly taken his seat, feeling rather oppressed at his
principal's grand surroundings as contrasted with his own modest
apartments at the old rectory, when the butler entered softly to
announce that the wheelwright wished to see him.
The Curate rose to leave.
"No, no, sit still," said the Rector. "That will do, Edwards; I will
ring," and the butler retired.
"I am glad you are here, Paulby; I was going to speak upon this
business. You have heard of it, I suppose?"
"Heard? Of what?" said the Curate.
"Morrison's child is dead," said the Rector.
"The baby! God bless me!" ejaculated the Curate. "I beg your pardon,
Mr Mallow," he continued, blushing like a girl. "It was so shocking.
I was so surprised."
The Rector bowed gravely, and went and stood with his back to the
fireplace, and rang.
"You can show Mr Morrison in, Edwards," said the Rector, and poor Tom
Morrison was ushered in a few moments later, to stand bowing as the door
was closed; but in no servile way, for the sturdy British yeoman was
stamped in his careworn face, and he was one of the old stock of which
England has always felt so proud.
The Rector bowed coldly, and pointed to a seat--standing, however,
himself behind his writing-table.
"Ah, Morrison," exclaimed the Curate, after an apologetic glance at the
Rector, "I cannot tell you how I am shocked at this news. I did not
know of it this morning, or I would have come down."
He held out his hand to the visitor as he spoke, an act Mr Mallow
forgot, and it was gratefully pressed.
Then feeling that he was not at home, Mr Paulby coughed, and resumed
his seat.
"I've come, sir," said the wheelwright, "about a little business."
He hesitated, and glanced at Mr Paulby as if he did not wish to speak
before him.
"I think, sir," said the Curate, respectfully, "Mr Morrison wishes to
speak to you in private."
"I believe it is on a church question," said the Rector, sternly. "Mr
Morrison, you need not be afraid to speak before him."
"I'm not, sir, on my account," said the wheelwright, bluntly. "I was
thinking of you, sir."
"What you have to say can be said before Mr Paulby. It would be
affectation on my part not to own that I know the object of your visit."
"Well, sir, then, to be plain," said Tom, clearing his throat, but
speaking very humbly, "I thought I should like to know, sir, whether
what I heard from doctor was true."
"First let me say, Mr Morrison, that I heard with deep sorrow of the
affliction that has befallen you. I am very, very sorry--"
"Thank you, sir, thank you," said Tom, with his under lip working.
"I say I am sorry that the chastening hand of the Lord has been laid
upon you so heavily. But you must remember that it is not for us to
question these chastisements. Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth. I
hope your wife seeks for consolation in prayer."
"Yes, sir, I know all that--thank you, sir--yes, sir--poor lass!--yes,"
he said, or rather murmured, with his lower lip quivering at the
allusion to his wife.
The Curate fidgeted in his chair, and kept changing the crossing of his
knees, his fingers moving uneasily, as if they longed to go and lay
themselves on the poor fellow's shoulder while their owner said a few
kindly words.
"I intend to call upon your wife this afternoon," continued the Rector.
"No, sir--thank you, sir--please, don't--at least not yet," said Tom.
"The poor girl is so broken down, she could not bear it."
"The more need for me to come, Mr Morrison," said the Rector, with a
sad smile. Then, seizing the opportunity to deliver the first thrust
after all his fencing, he continued, reproachfully, "I am sorry I did
not know, Morrison, how ill your infant was. You should have sent to
me; it was your duty."
"Yes, sir, I suppose it was," said the wheelwright, humbly. "But,
gentlemen," he continued, looking from one to the other, "I was in such
trouble--my poor wife--we thought of nothing but saving the poor child's
life."
"There is a life beyond the grave, Thomas Morrison," said the Rector,
whose voice grew firmer as he found that his visitor seemed awed at what
he said. "The duty of man is to think of that before the world. I am
sorry that you and your wife--such respectable, well-educated people--
should have put off your duty to your offspring so long, neglecting it
even at the very last, when I was but a few hundred yards from your
door. I am grieved, deeply grieved. It has been to me a terrible
shock, while you and your wife have incurred an awful responsibility by
wilfully excluding your first-born from the pale of Christ's Church."
The stricken man looked from one to the other--the tall, portly, calm
clergyman, standing behind his table, with one hand resting upon a large
open book, the other upon his heart, his eyes half closed, his face
stern and composed, and his words falling, when he spoke, in measured
cadence, as if they had been studied for the time.
The Curate uncrossed his legs, and set his knees very wide apart,
resting his elbows upon them, and joining his fingers very accurately,
as he bent down his head, till Tom Morrison could see nothing but his
broad, bald, shining crown.
"Not wilfully, sir--not wilfully," said the wheelwright, appealingly,
and his voice grew very husky. "The poor girl, sir, had set her mind--
on the christening--Mr Paulby was to do it, sir, as he married us--next
Sunday; and now--"
The poor fellow's voice shook, and his face grew convulsed for a moment;
but he clenched his fists, set his teeth, and fought hard to control his
grief. The Curate drew a long breath and bent down lower.
"But, sir," said Morrison, after a few moments' pause, during which the
library, with its rows of books, looked dim and misty, while the
clergyman before him stood as if of marble--"but, sir, I know I deserve
it--and I suppose I have neglected my duty; but the poor innocent little
one--don't say as it's true that you won't bury it in the churchyard."
The Rector sighed and coughed vaguely. Then, in a low, sad voice, he
said--
"Morrison, I am grieved--deeply grieved and mine is a most painful duty
to perform; but I stand here the spiritual head of this parish, a lowly
servant of Christ's Church, and I must obey her laws."
"But, sir," said Tom, "that tiny child, so innocent and young--you
couldn't be doing wrong. I beg your pardon, sir, I'm an ignorant man,
but don't--pray, don't say you won't bury it."
"Mr Morrison, you are not an ignorant man," said the Rector, sternly.
"You know the laws of the Church; you know your duty to that unfortunate
child--that you have wilfully excluded it from the fold of Christ's
flock. I cannot, will not, disobey those laws in departing from my duty
as a clergyman."
The Curate moved his fingers about an inch apart, and then rejoined
them, in time to a deep sigh, but he did not raise his head; while Tom
Morrison stood, with brow contracted, evidently stricken by some
powerful emotion which he was struggling to master; and at last he did,
speaking calmly and with deep pathos in his appealing voice.
"Sir, I am a man, and rough, and able to fight hard and bear trouble;
but I have a wife who loved, almost worshipped--"
"Set not your affections upon things on earth," said the Rector, in a
low, stern voice, as if in warning to himself.
Tom paused a few moments, till the speaker had finished, and then he
went on--
"She almost worshipped that child--I ask you humbly, sir, for her sake,
don't say no. At a time like this she is low, and weak, and ill.
Parson, if you say no, it will go nigh to break her heart."
"Morrison," said the Rector, slowly, with his eyes still half
closed--"as a man and a fellow-Christian, I sympathise with you deeply.
I am more grieved than I can express. By your neglect you have thrown
upon me a painful duty. The fold was open--always open--from the day of
its birth for the reception of your poor lamb, but in your worldliness
you turned your back upon it till it was too late. I say it with bitter
sorrow--too late. Let this be a lesson to you both for life. It is a
hard lesson, but you must bear it. I cannot do what you ask."
The wheelwright stood with the veins in his forehead swelling, and his
clenched fists trembled with the struggle that was going on within his
breast; but the face of his sorrowing wife seemed to rise before him,
and he gained the mastery once more, and turned to the silent Curate.
"Mr Paulby, sir, you married Mary and me, and, we seem to know you
here, sir, as our parson--"
The Rev Eli winced as he heard the emphasis on the _you_.
"Please help me, sir," continued Morrison, appealingly; "you've known me
many years, and I hope you don't think I'd be the man to wilfully refuse
to do my duty. Will you say a word for me, sir? You understand these
things more than me."
The Curate raised his head sharply, and as his eyes met those of the
suffering man, they were so full of sympathy, that the look was like
balm to the poor fellow, and he took heart of grace.
"I will, Morrison--I will," said he, huskily; and he turned to his
brother clergyman.
"Mr Mallow," he said, gently--and there was as much appeal in his voice
as in that of the suppliant before them--"forgive me for interfering
between you and one of your parishioners, but I do it in no meddling
spirit, only as a servant of our Great Master, when I ask you whether in
such a case as this the Church would wish us to adhere so strictly to
those laws made for our guidance so many years ago. I think you might--
nay, as a Christian clergyman, I think you should--accede to our
suffering brothers prayer."
"God bless you, sir, for this!" ejaculated Morrison, in a broken voice.
The Rector turned slowly round, and his eyes opened widely now as they
fixed themselves upon the countenance of his curate.
For a few moments he did not speak, but panted as if his feelings were
too much for him. Then, in a voice faltering from emotion, he
exclaimed--
"Mr Paulby, you astound me. You, whom I received here with
testimonials that were unimpeachable, or I should not have trusted you
as I have,--you, a priest of the Church of England, to counsel me to go
in direct opposition to her laws!"
"I ask you, sir," said the Curate, gently, "to perform, at a suffering
father's prayer, the last duties to the dead, over the body of an
innocent babe, freshly come from its Maker's hands, freshly there
returned."
"Sir," exclaimed the Rector, and there was indignation now in his words,
"well may the enemies of the Church triumph and point to its decadence,
when there are those within the fold who openly, and in the presence of
back sliders, counsel their brother priests to disobey the sacred canons
of her laws. I feel sure, however, that you have been led away by your
feelings, or you would not have spoken so."
"Yes," said the Curate, sadly. "I was led away by my feelings."
"I knew you were, sir," said the Rector, sternly. "Sir, it was time
that a party should arise in the Church, ready and strong, to repair the
broken gaps in the hedges, and to protect the sheep. I grieve to find
that I have been away too long. I thought, sir, you would have been
ready to stand fast in the faith, when assaulted by the worldly-minded
who would lead men astray; ready to--"
"Forget the dictates of humanity, for the hard and fast laws made by men
who lived in the days of persecution, and before the benignant,
civilising spread of education had made men to know more fully the
meaning of brotherly love."
"Sir--"
"I beg your pardon, Mr Mallow," said the Curate, whose face was now
flushed. "You seem to forget that we do not live now in the days of the
faggot and the stake. But, there," he said, gently, "I think you will
accede to the wishes of my poor friend."
"Sir," said the Rector, "I can only repeat that I am grieved beyond
measure at this expression of opinion. What you ask of me is
impossible."
The wheelwright had listened with growing indignation to these words on
either side, and now, flushed and excited, he spoke out.
"You will not do this, then, sir?" he said, hoarsely.
"You have had my answer, Mr Morrison," was the cold reply, and he
walked towards the bell.
"Stop, sir--a minute," exclaimed Morrison, panting. "You called me an
educated man time back?"
The Rector bowed coldly.
"You're not right about that, sir; but I have read a little, and so as
to behave as a decent man, as I thought, next Sunday, I read through the
christening service, and what it says about children who have been
baptised dying before they sin being certain to be saved."
"That is quite right," said the Rector, gravely; and he now seemed to
ignore the Curate's presence.
"And do you take upon yourself to say, sir, that, as my child was not
baptised, it goes to--the bad place?"
"I am not disposed to enter into a controversy with you. My duty is to
obey the canons of the Church. `He that believeth and is baptised shall
be saved: he that believeth not shall be damned,'" he added, only to
himself, but heard by the others.
"How could that tender child believe?" said Morrison, fiercely.
There was no reply.
"Mr Mallow, sir," exclaimed Morrison, difference of grade forgotten in
his excitement, "you refuse my child Christian burial, and you speak
those dreadful words. I say, sir, do you wish me to believe that my
poor, tender infant, fresh given to us by God, has gone to everlasting
punishment for what it could not help--my neglect, as you call it?"
"I have told you that I cannot enter into a controversy with you; these
are matters such as you cannot understand."
"Then I swear--" roared Morrison.
"Stop!" exclaimed the Curate. "Thomas Morrison, my good friend, you are
angry and excited now, and will be saying words that, when cooler, you
may repent."
"This is little better than an outrage," said the Rector, in whose
cheeks two angry spots now glowed.
"Allow me to speak, sir," said the Curate, firmly. "I speak on behalf
of that fold whose fences you accused me of neglecting."
The Rector turned upon him wonderingly, while the wrath of the
wheelwright was quelled by the calm, stern words of the little man who
now stood before them.
"Morrison," he continued, "I have been a clergyman many years, and, God
helping me, it has been my earnest work to try and convince my people of
the love and tenderness of the Father of all for His children. Whenever
a dogma of the Church has been likely to seem harsh to our present day
ideas, I have let it rest, knowing how much there is of that which is
just and good in our grand old religion. Mr Mallow, as your
subordinate, sir, I may seem presumptuous. You are an older man than I,
and perhaps a wiser, but I ask you, sir, with no irreverent feeling,
whether, if it were possible that He who said, `Suffer little children
to come unto Me, and forbid them not,' were holding your position here--
the God as man and teacher of the people of this parish--He would act as
you are acting? Would He not deal with such a canon as He did with the
teachings of the Pharisees? Why, sir, He took little children into His
arms, and blessed them, and said, `Of such is the kingdom of heaven.'"
He paused for a moment, while the Rector stood calm, stern, and cold,
with his eyes once more half closed, covered in his cold church armour,
and a pitying smile of contempt upon his lip; while Morrison stayed,
angry still, but with quivering lip, and his hand upon the door.
A dead silence fell upon the little group when Mr Paulby had done
speaking, and both the Curate and Tom Morrison watched the Rector,
expecting him to make some reply, but none came.
At last the silence was broken by the wheelwright, out of whose voice
every tinge of anger had now gone, and he spoke in tones which sounded
deep, and trembled exceedingly at first, but gained strength as he went
on:--
"Mr Paulby, sir," he said, "I thank you. I can't say all I feel, sir,
but my poor wife and I thank you with all our hearts for what you've
just said for us. I'm only a poor ignorant man, sir, but if I couldn't
feel that what you've said is just and true, I should be ready to do
what so many here have done--go to the chapel. That wouldn't be like
the Morrisons though, sir. We've been church-folk, sir, for a couple of
hundred years, and if you go round the churchyard, sir, you will see
stone after stone marked with the name of Morrison, sir; some just worn
out with age, and others growing plainer, till you come to that new one
out by the big tower, where my poor old father was laid five years ago.
There's generations and generations of my people, sir, lying sleeping
there--the whole family of the Morrisons, sir, save them as left their
bones in foreign lands, or were sunk in the deep seas, sir, fighting for
their country. And now my little one is to be kept out. Oh, parson,
it's too bad, and you'll repent all this. Mr Paulby, sir, God bless
you for your words. Good-bye!"
He strode out of the room, and the two clergymen stood listening to his
heavy feet as he crossed the hall and passed out of the house. For a
few minutes neither spoke.
At length the Curate broke the silence. The fire had gone out of his
voice, and the light from his eye, as he said in a low voice--
"Mr Mallow, I am very, very sorry that this should have occurred."
"And at a time when I am fighting so hard to win these erring people to
a better way, Mr Paulby," said the Rector, sternly.
"And I have tried so hard too, Mr Mallow," said the Curate,
plaintively. "When they all seem bent on going to one or the other of
the chapels here."
"I do not wonder, sir," said the Rector, "but I do wonder that my own
curate should turn against me."
"No, do; not turn against you, sir. I wished to help."
"Mr Paulby, I regret it much, but I shall be obliged to ask you to
resign."
"No, no, sir; I beg you will not," cried the Curate, excitedly. "I have
grown to love the people here, and--"
"Mr Paulby," said the Rector, "our opinions upon the duties of a priest
are opposite. You will excuse me--I wish to be alone."
The Curate stood for a moment or two with his hand extended, then he let
it fall to his side.
"As you will, sir," he said, sadly. "But there, you will think about
this. Let me come over to-morrow, and see you. Will you be at home?
Let us talk the matter over."
No response.
"I spoke hotly, perhaps, sir. I ought not to have done so, but I was
moved. Forgive me if I was wrong--let us part friends."
Still no reply.
"I will leave you now, as you wish it, sir. Drop me a line, and send it
by one of the school-children, and I will come over and see you."
The Rector might have been made of stone as he stood there motionless,
till, with a heavy sigh, his visitor slowly left the room, and trudged
across the fields to his gloomy little room in the old, half-buried
rectory.
PART ONE, CHAPTER TEN.
ANOTHER TROUBLE FOR DISCUSSION.
That night, just at dark, Joe Biggins walked on tiptoe along the little
gravel walk, bearing something beneath his arm; and, as he tapped at the
door, the wheelwright rose and led his sobbing wife to an inner room,
where he held her tenderly, with her head resting upon his breast, as
they stood listening to the opening door, the creaking stairs, and the
smothered, heavy step in the bedroom overhead. Then, after a few
minutes, there was the sound of descending footsteps, the creaking of
the cottage stairs, a whisper or two in the little entry, the closing
door, the step upon the gravel, and all was still.
The sad hours glided by in the little darkened house, till Saturday
arrived. There had been gossip enough in the place, and endless
messages, fraught with good feeling, had come to the stricken couple
from far and near; but there had been no sign from the rectory, and it
was the general belief that the wheelwright would take the infant to the
graveyard at the Wesleyan Chapel at Gatton. For somehow the whole
affair had been well spread, and, as Humphrey Bone, the schoolmaster,
said with a hearty chuckle of delight, it was a glorious chance for the
Rector's enemies to blaspheme, and there and then, in the presence of
several witnesses, he took advantage of the glorious opportunity.
Both Julia and Cynthia had called and sympathised very warmly with their
old maid, to have the door opened to them by Tom Morrison himself, who
frowned when he saw who were the visitors; but as Julia laid her hand
upon his arm, and he saw Cynthia with her eyes overflowing, he drew
back, and somehow the wheelwright's heart was softened, and grew softer
still as he saw his young wife sobbing in Julia Mallow's arms.
Both Julia and her sister tried to mediate, but were sternly forbidden
to interfere, and though they tried again through the interposition of
Mrs Mallow, she shook her head.
"No, my dears," said the patient invalid, looking at her daughters with
her great wistful eyes, "it is of no use; papa will never give way upon
a matter of the Church. He says--"
Mrs Mallow paused, for she felt that she ought not to repeat her
husband's words, which were to the effect that he had been neglectful
for years, and that now nothing should turn him from the path of duty.
Towards evening Joe Biggins went softly along the lane, and on seeing
him at the gate, Tom Morrison went to meet him, and returned his
friendly grip, the visitor standing afterwards, as before, perfectly
silent and looking down at the walk.
"You've come to say something to me," said Tom at last, in a quiet,
resigned way.
"Amen to that, Tom; I have," said the other, in a low voice. "I thought
I should see you here. About to-morrow aft'noon."
"Yes," said the wheelwright, quietly.
"I don't like troubling you about it, lad," said Biggins, "only I must.
I wanted to tell you, you know. You see, I must be up at church, and if
you hear from parson, why, I shall meet you all right; if you don't hear
from him, there'll be the little mourning coach all ready waiting to
take you all to Gatton. I've seen to everything. That's all."
He was going off on tiptoe, but Morrison stopped him, to press his hand
with a strong man's hearty grip; and he walked with him to the gate.
"Call in when you go up to the church in the morning," he said, quietly;
and then they parted.
It was quite dark before the wheelwright had finished his work in the
garden, and went in to the evening meal, to be met by his wife's
searching look.
He shook his head sadly, as he bent down and kissed her.
"No, my lass," he said, "Joe brought no message."
Polly began to weep, the tears flowing fast, till she saw Budge's face
working, ready for a tremendous howl, when, mastering her emotion, she
sat down with her husband to the table where their evening meal was
spread.
An hour later, husband and wife, hand in hand, ascended to the death
chamber, where, with the moonlight full upon it, lay the tiny coffin,
bathed in a silvery flood of light.
Biggins had obeyed his friend's instructions, even as if it had been for
one of his own, and the simple silver ornamentation shone upon the
coarse white cloth.
The tear-blinded pair lingered for a few moments without approaching
their sacred dead; but at last they stood beside it, and the young
mother removed the lid that lightly pressed the flowers which covered
the tiny breast.
Their loving lips kissed, for the last time, the cold, waxen forehead;
and a groan escaped from Polly's heart as the lid was replaced closely,
this time by the father's hands.
"Hush, Polly," he whispered, "you said you would be strong."
"I will, I will," she sighed. And they stood for a few moments, hand
clasped in hand, with the silence only broken by a smothered sob from
below.
At last, reverently taking the little coffin in his arms, Tom Morrison
bore it slowly down the stairs, followed by his weeping wife, who held
something white in her hands, and this she laid over the coffin like a
little pall.
Poor Budge was there, trying hard to keep down her grief, but a wail
would burst forth; and covering her mouth tightly with her hands, she
darted away into the back kitchen.
It was the little christening robe, that was to have been worn next day;
and drip after drip, to form dark spots in the moonlight, the hot,
burning tears of anguish fell from the mother's eyes as they slowly bore
the little burden out into the garden, down the neat path, and away to
the corner where the willow laved its long green branches in the brook--
a veritable stream of silver now, dancing and sparkling in the beams of
the broad-faced moon.
Where Tom Morrison stopped at last, beneath the willow, was his
evening's work--a small, dark trench, lying amidst the mellow,
sweet-scented, newly-turned earth; and here, upon his own land, he was
about to lay the dead--to be sown in corruption, to be raised in
incorruption--in soil unconsecrated, and without the rites of the
Church.
Unconsecrated? No, it was consecrated by the loving tears that bedewed
the earth, and fell upon the little white coffin as it was tenderly
lowered to its resting-place; and, failing rites, the stricken pair
kneeled on either side in the soft mould, and, joining hands, prayed
that they might meet again.
Tom's words were few; but simple and earnest was his prayer as ever fell
from the lips of man; while, kneeling at the foot of the grave was poor
Budge, who only burst forth with a sob when all was over. For the
mother stayed while the earth was reverently drawn over the cold bed,
till a little hillock of black soil lay silvered by the dropping
moonbeams falling through the willow boughs.
It was poor Budge who laid her offering--a bunch of daisies--upon the
little grave, while Tom led his trembling wife back to their desolate
home.
Joe Biggins, true to his word, called at the wheelwright's next morning
on his way to church, and on coming within sight of the house he took
off his hat to indulge in a good scratch, for he was puzzled on seeing
that the blinds were all drawn up.
Replacing his hat very carefully, he softly entered upon tip-toes, and
walked up the little path, where he was met by Tom Morrison, looking
pale and worn, but with a restful look in his face that had not been
there for days.
They shook hands warmly, for Joe Biggins had resolved never to think
about that coffin Tom Morrison had made again, and just then fresh steps
were heard, and they saw old Mr Vinnicombe coming up.
"I thought I'd call, Morrison," he said, "and ask you to let me be the
bearer of a message to the rectory. Let's make a last appeal to the
bigot."
"Hush, sir!--don't call him names," said Tom. "He thought he was right,
no doubt."
"Then you've heard from him."
"No, sir, no," said Tom, sadly; "but I forgive him all the same, though
I could never bear to go and hear him more."
The doctor and Biggins looked at each other, and the latter shook his
head till his white cravat crackled, for he was got up ready for his
verger's gown.
"Will you walk down the garden, doctor?" said the wheelwright, quietly.
They both followed him, wonderingly, till, nearing the willow, they
heard a low, wailing sob; and, drawing nearer, found poor Budge
crouching in a heap upon the ground, her face buried in her hands,
sobbing as if her desolate young heart would break.
They approached her unheard; and, at the scene before them, they
involuntarily took off their hats, and stood watching, as Tom bent over
the weeping girl.
"I did, oh, I did love you so!" they heard her sob in broken accents.
And then, as Tom touched her gently on the shoulder, she started up in a
frightened way, staring at him wildly, and, but for his firm grasp, she
would have fled.
By many a scene of sorrow had old Vinnicombe stood untouched, but his
eyes were moistened now, and a choking sensation seemed to affect his
throat, as Tom looked kindly down on the poor rough girl, and, bending
over her, lightly pressed his lips upon her brow.
"Thank you, my little lass. Don't cry no more," he said. "Poor baby's
happy now, and quite at rest."
There was silence for a moment or two in the little shady garden, for
the tinkling streamlet seemed to be at rest as well. Then came the soft
buzzing of a bee seeking a fresh flower; from the fields beyond, a lark
shot up in the blue sky, lay-laden, and flashed a fount of sparkling
notes upon the morning air; a creamy white butterfly flitted through the
trees, poised itself for a moment, lit upon the bunch of daisies lying
on the little grave, and then rose and rose till hidden from their
sight, as they stood where the dark soil was dappled now with the
morning sunbeams glancing through the willow boughs.
"Yes," said Tom, with a smile, as the breeze brought a waft of flowery
scent to mingle with the newly-turned earth, "perhaps Parson Mallow is
quite right, but I feel as if my little one's at rest."
PART ONE, CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE NEW MASTER FOR LAWFORD.
Oh, that bell! A clanging, jangling, minor-sounding bell that always
sounded so harsh and melancholy at six o'clock, if the particular
morning happened to be dark, wet and wintry in chill December, and he
who heard it was rudely awakened from pleasant dreams of home and
country and those he loved, to the fact that if he got up then he would
have some time to wait, and that if he dropped asleep again he might
sleep too long.
The warm bed was very tempting as Luke Ross lay gazing at the spot where
he knew the window must be, but where there was no light of coming day,
and listened to the hissing, fluttering noise made by the gas-jets just
turned on to enable the students to dress and, such of them as had
beards, to shave, for it was in that happy, blissful time when the
natural growth of hair upon a man's chin was spoken of as "filthy," and,
if the beard was at all full, said to look "like some old Jew."
The warm bed, it is repeated, was very tempting; but after a few
minutes' hesitation, and just as that fatal drowsiness was coming on,
Luke Ross rose, tried to repress a shiver, failed, and began to dress
hastily by such light as came over the open partition from the corridor,
where the four gas-jets sang and sputtered and sent a blue glare into
the twenty-four dormitories--very prisonlike, with their sham stone
walls, narrow barred windows, and iron bedsteads--that this corridor
contained.
For some minutes the hissing of the gas was the only sound heard, till
the trickle of water into Luke Ross's basin, and sundry pantings, sighs,
and splashings, seemed to arouse others to their fate, when there was a
thud as of some one leaping out of bed, a loud yawn prolonged into a
shivering shudder, and an exclamation of "Oh, that blessed bell!"
A more thorough scene of discomfort than Saint Chrysostom's on a dark
winters morning--one of those mornings that might be midnight--it would
be impossible to conceive, and the students seemed to feel it, and try
to vent their feelings upon their fellows.
"Here, I say!" said a voice, "I know these beds are damp. I've got my
hands covered with chilblains."
"Get out!" cried another--conversation being easy, from the fact that
every dormitory opened for a space of a couple of feet above its door on
to the passage. "Damp don't give chilblains. Oh, I say, how miserable
it is to have to shave with cold water in the dark!"
"Serve you right for having a beard!" cried another.
"Which you'd give your ears to own. Oh, hang it! now I've cut myself.
Here, who's got a silk hat? Pull us out a scrap of down, there's a good
fellow."
"Wipe it dry, and stick a bit of writing-paper against it."
"Will that stop it?"
"Yes."
"Mind and get your hair parted right, lads. Examination day!"
"I'll give any fellow a penny to clean my boots."
"Why don't you let Tycho clean 'em?"
"Hot water, gentlemen! hot water! Any gentleman who wants his boots
cleaned please to set them outside the door."
"There, get out. It won't do, Tommy Smithers. I'd swear to that squeak
of yours from a thousand."
"If you come that trick again, Tommy, we'll make you clean every pair of
boots in the corridor," shouted a fresh speaker, for by degrees the
yawning, and creaking of iron beds and thuds of bare feet upon bare
floors had grown frequent, with shuffling noises, and gurgling, and
splashing, the chinking of ewers against basins, the swishing of
tooth-brushes, and the stamping of chilblained feet being thrust into
hard, stout boots, and all done in a hurried, bustling manner, as if
those who dressed were striving by rapid movement to get some warmth
into their chilly frames.
Luke Ross was one of the first dressed: a well-built, dark-eyed,
keen-looking young man of five-and-twenty, with a good deal of decision
about his well-shaped mouth.
The noise and bustle was on the increase. With numerous grumblings and
unsatisfied longings floating about his ears, he stood gazing at the
square patch of yellow light near his door, thinking of the trials of
the day to come, till, apparently brought back to the present by the
shudder of cold that ran through him, he turned and began to pace
rapidly up and down his little room, from the dark window covered with
soft pats of sooty snow to the dormitory door.
That brought no warmth, and, knowing from old experience that the fire
in the theatre stove would only be represented by so much smoke, he
began to beat his chest and sides in the familiar manner by flinging his
arms across and across to and fro.
This set off others, and then there was the stamping of feet and the
sound of blowing of hands to warm them, mingled with which was the
scuffling noise made by late risers who had lain until the last minute,
and were now hurrying to make up for lost time.
The clanging bell once more, giving five minutes' law for every student
to be in his place by ten minutes to seven, at which time, to the
moment, the little self-possessed principal would walk into the theatre,
with his intellectual head rigidly kept in place by the stiffest of
white cravats.
Upon this particular morning the vice-principal had the first lecture to
deliver, and the very last man had scuffled into his place, ink-bottle
and note-book in hand, and a buzz of conversation had been going on for
nearly a quarter of an hour before the little well-known comedy of such
mornings took place.
Then enter the vice-principal, looking very brisk and eager, but
particularly strained and squeezy about the eyes, and he had nearly
reached the table and was scanning the rows of desks and their
occupants, rising blue cold, tier above tier, into the semi-gloom
beneath the organ, when a broad face that was not blue, cold, nor red,
but of a yellowish white, stared him full in the eyes from the
whitewashed wall, and mutely reproached him for being late.
"Dear me!" he exclaimed, "that clock is not right!"
"Yes, sir, quite right," exclaimed half-a-dozen eager voices, and their
owners consulted their watches.
"Oh, dear me, no!" exclaimed the vice-principal, sharply; "nearly a
quarter of an hour fast."
No one dared to contradict now, and the lecture by gaslight, in the
cold, dark morning, went on till nearly eight, when those who assisted
at tables left to look after the urns and cut the bread-and-butter.
A dozen students hurried off for this task, glad of the chance of
feeling the fire in the great dining-hall; and, intent as he was upon
the business of the exciting day to come, Luke Ross was not above
sharing with his fellow-students, in providing a more palatable meal for
himself and the head of his table by washing the coarse salt butter free
of some of its brine.
The bell once more, and the rush of students into the dining-hall in
search of the warmth that a couple of cups of steaming hot coffee, fresh
from the tall block-tin urns, would afford.
The students assembled at the two long boards, and looked strikingly
like so many schoolboys of a larger growth; there was the sharp rapping
of a knife-handle upon a little square table in one corner, the rustling
noise of a hundred men rising to their feet, grace spoken by the
vice-principal, in a rich mellifluous voice, followed by a choral "Amen"
from all present, and then the rattling of coffee cups and the buzz of
conversation, as the great subject of the day--the examination--was
discussed, more than one intimating in a subdued voice that it was a
shame that there should have been any lecture on such a morning as this.
Breakfast at an end, there was the regular rush again, schoolboy like,
out into the passage, where a knot of students gathered round one of the
masters, who was giving a word or two of advice.
"Ah, Ross," he said, smiling, "I have been saying now what I ought to
have said before breakfast, that no man should eat much when he is going
in for his examination. Brain grows sluggish when stomach is full."
"I'm afraid we have all been too anxious to eat much, sir," replied
Ross.
"I'm sure you have, Ross; but don't overdo it. Slow and steady wins the
race, you know. Ah, here comes some one who has made a good meal I'll
be bound. Well, Smithers," he continued, as a remarkably fast-looking
young man came up, "have you had a good breakfast?"
"Yes, sir, as good as I could get."
"Thought so," said the assistant master, smiling. "Well, what
certificate do you mean to take, eh? First of the first?"
"Haven't been reading for honours, sir," said Smithers, grinning.
"No, indeed," said the assistant master, shaking his head. "Ah,
Smithers, Smithers! why did you come here?"
"To be a Christian schoolmaster, sir," was the reply, given with mock
humility by about as unlikely a personage for the duty as ever entered
an institution's walls.
The bell once more; and at last, feeling like one in a dream, and as if,
in spite of a year's hard training and study, he was no wiser than when
he first commenced, Luke Ross was in his place with a red sheet of
blotting-paper before him, and the printed set of questions for the day.
The momentous time had come at last, a time which dealt so largely with
his future; and yet, in spite of all his efforts, his brain seemed
obstinately determined to dwell upon every subject but those printed
upon that great oblong sheet of paper.
He had no cause to trouble himself. All he had to do was to acquit
himself as well as he could as a finale to his training; but in the
highly-strung nervous state to which constant study had brought him, it
seemed that his whole future depended upon his gaining one or other of
the educational prizes that would be adjudged, and that unless he were
successful, Sage Portlock, his old playmate and friend--now some one
very far dearer--and for whose sake he had striven so hard, would turn
from him with contempt.
At another time the questions before him would have been comparatively
easy, and almost, without exception, he could have written a sensible
essay upon the theme; but now Sage, his old home at Lawford, the school,
the troubles in the town and opposition to the Rector, and a dozen other
things, seemed to waltz through his brain.
He had several letters in his pocket, from Sage and from his father, and
they seemed to unfold themselves before him, so that he read again the
words that he knew by heart: how indignant the people were at the death
of poor old Sammy Warmoth and the appointment of Joe Biggins; the
terrible quarrel that there had been between Mr Mallow and the Curate
about the burial of Tom Morrison's child, and how the quarrel had been
patched up again because Mr Mallow had not liked Mr Paulby to leave
just when people were talking so about the little grave in Tom
Morrison's garden. There was the question of the wretched attempt at
choral singing too on Sunday--singing that he was to improve as soon as
he was master; for Sage said it did not matter how well she taught the
girls, Humphrey Bone made his boys sing badly out of spite, so as to put
them out.
Then he had a good look at the examination paper, and tried to read, but
Humphrey Bone's threat to expose him and show him up as an ignoramus
before all the town,--a clod who ought to go back to his father's
tannery,--all duly related in one of her letters by Sage Portlock, came
dancing out of the page before him.
Again he cleared his head and took up his pen, but he felt that he could
not write. And now came up the letter which told how Cyril Mallow had
come back from Queensland--handsome Cyril, whom he had severely punished
some time before, just, in fact, as he was about to sail for Australia.
Luke Ross did not know why he should feel uneasy about Cyril Mallow
being back; it was nothing to him. He was a bit of a scamp, and so on,
but he was not so bad as Frank Mallow, who had been obliged to get off
to New Zealand after the scandal about a couple of the Gatton village
girls, and the fight with Lord Artingale's keepers, in which he was said
to have joined Jock Morris. The Lawford people said it was from this
that the Rector became non-resident, as much as from having overrun the
constable.
It was tantalising to a degree, for, strive hard as he would, these
things seemed to dance before Luke Ross's eyes; while as to the
questions themselves, as he read them through and through, not one did
it seem that he could answer.
And so it was morning after morning during the few busy days that the
examination lasted. Every night he went to bed almost in despair; every
morning he gazed blankly at the various questions.
But, in spite of his self-depreciation, first one and then another of
the masters, who gathered up the papers at each sitting's end, gave him
a friendly nod of approval, and glanced with interest at the
closely-written sheets.
"I've made a dismal failure, sir," he exclaimed at last, as night closed
in upon his fifth day's work.
The assistant master in whose hands lay the everyday subjects taught at
the institution laughed as he clapped the young man upon the shoulder.
"I wish every man in the college had made as great a failure, Ross," he
said. "There, there, you are weary and nervous. Get out of doors and
have a good blow and as much exercise as you can till you have regained
your tone. I ought not to say so, perhaps, but, Ross, you might, if you
liked, look higher than a schoolmaster's life; that is, if you have any
ambition in your soul."
At that moment Luke Ross's highest ambition was to win Sage Portlock's
regard, and to acquit himself so creditably as the new master of Lawford
School, that there might be no room for that modern Shimei, Humphrey
Bone, to say hard words against his management and power of training the
young. Later on circumstances caused him to undergo a complete
revolution of thought.
PART ONE, CHAPTER TWELVE.
A QUESTION OF INCOME.
They were busy times at Kilby, the farm occupied by the Portlocks, and
Sage was laughing and merry in her holiday enjoyment of domestic duties.
A few friends were expected next night, and busy preparations were being
made by Mrs Portlock and her niece, whose pleasant-looking, plump,
white arms were bloomed to the elbow with flour, to which was soon to be
added the golden-looking yolks of a dozen eggs, being beaten up in a
large white basin in the most unmerciful way by Mrs Portlock herself.
It was a comfortable-looking country kitchen where they were busy, in
thorough, old-fashioned style. Not from necessity, for from the back
kitchen and room beyond came the sound of voices where the two maids
were engaged over other household duties. In the low, wide window, in
spite of the season, were some brightly blooming geraniums, between
which could be seen the home close, dotted with sheep, and through which
field meandered the path leading down to the town.
"Don't forget the salt, Sage," said Mrs Portlock, "and put in a dash of
carb'nate. For goodness' sake let's have the cake light, and--why, what
ails the girl now?"
Sage had darted back from the table, and torn off the large bibbed apron
she wore so roughly that she snapped one of the tape strings, before
hastily wiping the flour from her arms, and pulling down her pinned-up
sleeves.
The reason was plain enough, and to be seen through the geraniums, where
Luke Ross was making his way across the home close, looking fresh and
eager in the crisp January air, as he gazed straight before him at the
farm.
"There, get on with thy work, child," cried Mrs Portlock, in a
half-petulant, half-laughing way; "there's nothing to be ashamed of in
making a cake. If you marry Luke Ross you won't have many cakes to
make," she added petulantly.
"Oh, for shame, aunt! How can you?" cried Sage, looking conscious and
uncomfortable, as her cheeks turned scarlet.
"Because that's what he has come for, I'll be bound. There, go and let
him in."
"Oh, no, aunt! I'd--I'd rather not," faltered Sage.
"Such stuff, child! Just as if I couldn't see you were longing to go.
There, if you don't run and open the door, I'll go myself, and tell him
you were ashamed."
"I'll go and open the door," said Sage, quietly; and there was a
curious, introspective look in her countenance, as, after waiting till
the imperative rap of the young man's knuckles was heard, she hastily
replaced the apron, turned up her sleeves, and floured her hands, before
going to let the visitor in.
"I'm not ashamed of making cakes, aunt," she said, quietly.
"Bless the girl, what a strange one she is!" muttered Mrs Portlock,
apostrophising the great eight-day clock, and then pausing in the
beating of eggs, to listen, with the greatest eagerness, as Luke Ross's
voice was heard at the door, and Sage's directly after, but in quite a
low buzz, for the intervening door was shut.
"I don't know what to say to it," said Mrs Portlock, querulously.
"He's very nice, and kind, and good-looking, but I'd a deal rather she
married a farmer. Schoolmastering don't fill bacon-racks, nor the tub
with pickled pork."
The buzzing at the front door continued, and the increased current of
air made the fire to roar up the wide kitchen chimney.
"For goodness' sake, why don't they come in?" exclaimed Mrs Portlock.
"That girl will catch her death o' cold."
She made this remark also in confidence to the brass-dialled eight-day
clock, at the top of which a grotesque-looking human-faced sun was just
peering over an engraved arc, above which it revolved in company with
various other planets when the mechanism within properly worked; and,
after making the remark, Mrs Portlock's wooden spoon began once more to
batter the already well-beaten eggs, between pauses to listen what was
going on at the door.
"I hate such shilly-shallying ways," she muttered. "He's come on
purpose to see us, so why does he loiter there at the door? I'll be
bound to say if it was young Cyril Mallow he'd have been here by now."
The mention of this name made Mrs Portlock pause and rub her face
thoughtfully with one corner of her apron.
"I don't see why not," she muttered. "I'm sure he likes her, or else he
wouldn't be so fond of coming out here to smoke a pipe with Joseph. And
if they are gentry, why, gentry are only human flesh; and as to their
money, I'll be bound to say they're not so much better off than we are,
in spite of their show."
There was another fierce attack upon the golden fluid in the white
basin.
"He seems nice, does Cyril; very different to his brother. Poor Rue,
she had an escape there; and I dare say this will only be a bit of a
flirtation with both of them. I shall not interfere, and matters may go
as they like."
The eggs once more suffered from the severe attack.
"It's my belief Sage don't know her own mind," exclaimed Mrs Portlock.
"Here, Anne, bring some more coals to this fire; I want the oven to be
well hot."
Just then there was the sound of the closing door, and Luke Ross
entered, followed by Sage, looking more conscious than before.
"Morning, Mrs Portlock," cried the young man frankly.
"Good-morning, Luke," she replied. "Why didn't you take him in the
parlour, Sage? There's a good fire there."
"Because I begged to be allowed to come here, Mrs Portlock, so as not
interfere with the preparations. My father said he would be glad to
come."
"Ah, that's right!" exclaimed Mrs Portlock. "There, sit down by the
fire; you must want a bit o' lunch. Sage!--why, bless the girl, I
didn't see her go."
"She has gone up-stairs, I think," said Luke.
"To put her hair straight or some nonsense, when we are that busy that
we shall never be ready in time."
"No, no, Mrs Portlock," said Luke, who looked hot and nervous, and
instead of taking a chair by the fire, he edged away to stand by the
crockery-covered dresser, with his back half turned from the light; "I
think she has gone up-stairs on account of what I wanted to say."
"There, there, there," said Mrs Portlock, labouring frantically now at
the egg-beating, "I think I know what's coming, and I'd a deal rather
you wouldn't say a word to me about it."
Luke Ross looked discomfited and troubled, and became exceedingly
interested for a moment in the little silk band of his soft felt hat.
"But surely, Mrs Portlock," he began at last, "you must have known that
I was deeply attached to Sage?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I did," replied Mrs Portlock; and this time some
of the yellow egg flew over the basin side; "but it's a very serious
matter."
"Indeed, yes," said Luke, quietly, "I look upon it as the turning-point
of my life."
"And I don't believe that Sage half knows her own mind yet. She's too
young, and it's not as if she was my own child."
"But we can wait, Mrs Portlock," said Luke, gaining confidence, now
that he had made the first plunge. "Of course we should have to wait
for some time."
"Won't say anything about it," cried Mrs Portlock, as the sturdy
red-faced servant-maid entered to pour a half-scuttle of coals on the
roaring fire. "If you want to talk about it--"
Mrs Portlock here began to work viciously with a piece of nutmeg, the
eggs being considered enough beaten.
"I should be sorry to hurt your feelings about this matter, Mrs
Portlock," continued Luke; "but I have always thought you looked upon
Sage and me as being as good as engaged."
"Oh, I don't know! I can't say! There, I won't say anything about it.
Oh! here's Master, and you must talk to him."
Luke Ross's face wore a particularly troubled look, as a hearty, bluff
voice was just then heard bidding a dog lie down, and, directly after,
the kitchen door was thrown open, and the broad-shouldered bluff
Churchwarden, in his loose brown velveteen coat and cord breeches with
leather leggings, entered the room. His clear blue eyes and crisp grey
hair made him look the very embodiment of health, and his face lit up
with a pleasant smile as he strode in with a double gun under his arm,
while his pockets had a peculiarly bulgy appearance at the sides.
"Ah, Luke, my lad! how are you?" he said, bluffly, as he held out his
hand. "Glad to see you, my boy. Why, you ought to have been out with
me for a run. Thy face looks as pasty as owt."
"I should have liked the walk immensely," said Luke, brightening up at
the warmth of his reception, and he wrung the others hand.
"Schoolmastering don't improve thy looks, Luke, my lad," continued the
Churchwarden. "Why, you are as pale as if you had been bled. Hang that
London! I don't care if I never see it again."
"There's worse places than London, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, who had
a weakness for an occasional metropolitan trip.
"Tell me where they are, then," said the Churchwarden, "for I don't know
'em. Got two hares," he said, standing the gun in the corner by the
dresser.
"Ah! we wanted a hare," said Mrs Portlock, busying herself over the
work her niece had left undone.
"There you are, then," said the Churchwarden, drawing them, one at a
time, from the inner pockets of his shooting-coat.
"But is that gun loaded, Joseph?" cried Mrs Portlock, who had been to
the dresser and started away.
"Yes, both barrels," said the Churchwarden, with a comical look at the
visitor. "I wouldn't touch her if I were you."
"I touch the horrid thing?" cried Mrs Portlock. "There, for goodness'
sake unload it, Joseph, before we have some accident."
"All right," said the Churchwarden, tossing the hares out into the stone
passage at the back, and taking up the gun just as Mrs Portlock had
raised the great white basin of well-beaten egg to pour into a flour
crater which she had prepared. Stepping to the window, the head of the
house turned the fastening quietly, and opened the casement sufficiently
wide to allow of the protrusion of the barrels of the gun, when--
_Banff! Banff_!
_Crash_!
All in rapid succession, for the double report so startled the good
housewife that she let the great white basin slip through her fingers to
be shattered to atoms on the red-brick floor, and spread its golden
treasure far and wide.
"Joseph!" exclaimed Mrs Portlock.
"Say, Luke, I've done it now," he cried. "There's nothing the matter,
lass, only a basin broke."
"And a dozen eggs destroyed," cried Mrs Portlock, petulantly.
"Here, let's go into the parlour, Luke," continued the Churchwarden,
after a merry look at Sage, who had run down-stairs, looking quite pale.
"Sage, my dear, send Anne in with the bread and cheese, and a mug of
ale. Luke Ross here will join me in a bit of lunch." He led the way to
the parlour, Luke following him, after pausing a moment to obtain a look
from Sage; but she was too conscious to glance his way, and had begun
already to help Mrs Portlock, who looked the very picture of vexation
and trouble combined.
The parlour was a fine old oak-panelled, low-ceiled room, with dark
beams reflecting the flaming fire, whose ruddy light danced in the panes
of the corner cupboard and glistening sideboard and polished chairs.
"Sit down, my boy, sit down," cried the Churchwarden, as he stooped to
toss a piece of oak root on the flaming fire. "What with
Christmas-keeping, I've hardly seen thee since you came back. My word,
how time goes! Only the other day thou wast a slip of a boy helping me
to pick the apples in the orchard and playing with Sage, and now thou'rt
a grown man."
The Churchwarden seated himself, took his tobacco-jar from a bracket,
his pipe from the chimney-piece, and proceeded to fill it.
"You won't smoke, I know. Good job, too. Bad habit, lad. But what's
the matter--anything wrong?"
"Only in my own mind, sir," said Luke, rather excitedly, as he sat
opposite the farmer, tapping the table.
"Out with it, then, Luke, my boy, and I'll help thee if I can. Want
some money?"
"Oh, no, sir," said Luke, flushing. "The fact is, I have finished my
training, and I am now down home expecting to take the management of the
school as master."
"Ha! yes!" said the Churchwarden softly, leaning forward to light a
spill amongst the glowing logs. "There's a bit o' trouble about that.
Half-a-dozen of 'em's taking Humphrey Bone's side against parson, and
they want me to join."
"But you will not, I hope, sir?" said Luke, anxiously.
"I should, my lad, but for Master Humphrey's drink. He's not a man to
have the care of boys."
"No, sir, indeed," said Luke, who paused, while the ruddy servant lass
brought in a napkin-covered tray, with the bread and cheese, and a great
pewter tankard of home-brewed ale.
"Help thyself, lad," said the Churchwarden; "and now what is it?"
"I must speak out plainly, sir, or not at all," said Luke, excitedly.
"Surely, my lad," said the other, watching him keenly, as he poured out
some ale.
Luke hesitated for a few moments, and then tried to clear his voice, but
failed, and spoke huskily as he rose from his seat.
"Mr Portlock," he said, "you have known me from a boy."
"And always liked thee, my lad, and made thee welcome," still watching
him keenly.
"Always, Mr Portlock, and you will agree that it is not strange that
now I am grown a man I should love my little playmate Sage, whom I've
known ever since the day you called at our house with her and Rue--poor
little orphans, looking so pretty and helpless as they sat in black in
your gig."
"Ay! ay! that was a sad time, Luke Ross," said the Churchwarden,
thoughtfully. "Poor little bairns! mother and father in one sad week,
Luke. Hah! well, I've never had any of my own, and I never think of 'em
now but as if they had been born to me."
"No, sir, I know that," said Luke, smiling.
"And you want me to say thou mayst have Sage for thy wife. That's the
plain English of it, lad, eh?"
"Yes, sir--yes, sir," cried Luke, excitedly; but delighted to have his
task cut short.
"Ha!" said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. "I expected as much. I said
to myself that was what you would ask me when you came back."
"And you consent, sir?" cried Luke, joyously.
There was a moment's silence, while the Churchwarden crossed a sturdy,
well-shaped leg over the other, Luke gazing the while upon his lips,
until he spoke, and then sinking back, as if smitten, into his chair.
"No, my lad, I do not give my consent. I like thee, Luke, almost as
well as if thou wast my own son, and I believe you'd make Sage a good
husband; but, to be plain with you, I don't like this schoolmastering
and mistress work."
"You don't like it, sir!"
"No, my lad. It was against my wish that Sage took to it. I would
rather have seen her making the bread-and-butter at home; and there was
no need for her to have gone into the world; and as you know, it was
then I set my face against your going in for it as well."
"Indeed, sir!"
"Yes, my lad. You'd a deal better have been content to take up with
your father's honest old business of tanning. There's a good trade to
be done."
"Yes, sir, but I felt myself so unsuited for the trade, and I liked
books."
"And didn't care about dirtying thy hands, Luke. No, my lad, I think it
was a mistake."
"A mistake, sir?"
"Yes, and I'll show you. Now, look here, my boy," continued the
Churchwarden, pointing with the waxy end of his pipe. "No lad of spirit
thinks of taking help from his father, after his first start in the
world."
"Of course not, sir."
"And a lad of spirit don't go hanging on to his wife's people."
"No, sir."
"Then, look here, my boy. What is your salary to be, if you get Lawford
School; I say, _if_ you get it?"
"Seventy pounds per annum, sir, with a house, and an addition for my
certificate, if I have been fortunate enough to win one."
"Seventy pounds a year, with a house, if you get the school, and some
more if you win a certificate, my lad; so that all your income is
depending upon ifs."
"I am sure of the school, sir," said Luke, warmly, as he coloured up.
"Are you, my lad? I'm not," said the Churchwarden, drily. "No, Luke
Ross, I like you, for I believe you to be a clever scholar, and--what to
my mind's ten thousand times better than scholarship--I know you to be a
true, good-hearted lad."
"I thank you, sir," said Luke, whose heart was sinking; and Portlock
went on--
"I'm not a poor man, Luke, and every penny I have I made with my own
hand and brain. Sage is as good as my child, and when we old folks go
to sleep I dare say she and her sister will have a nice bit o' money for
themselves."
"I never thought of such a thing as money, sir," cried Luke, hotly.
"I don't believe you ever did, my boy," said the Churchwarden. "But now
listen. Sage is very young yet, and hardly knows her own mind. I tell
you--there, there, let me speak. I know she thinks she loves you. I
tell you, I say, that I'd sooner see Sage your wife than that of any man
I know; but I'm not going to keep you both, and make you sacrifice your
independence, and I'm not going to have my child goto a life of drudgery
and poverty."
"But you forget, sir, we should be both having incomes from our
schools."
"No, I don't, boy. While you were young. How about the time when she
had children--how then? And I don't believe in a man and his wife both
teaching schools. A woman has got enough to do to make her husband's
home so snug that he shall think it, as he ought to do, the very best
place in the whole world, and she can't do that and teach school too.
Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir," said Luke, very humbly, though he did not approve of his old
friend's opinions.
"Then look here, Luke Ross, I like you, and when you can come to me and
say, `Joseph Portlock, I have a good permanent income of five hundred a
year,' Sage, if she likes, shall be your wife."
"Five hundred a year, sir!" faltered Luke, with a strange, unreal dread
seeming to rise before him like a mist of the possibility that before
then Sage's love might change.
"Yes, my lad, five hundred a year."
"Uncle," said Sage, opening the door, "Mr Mallow has called to see
you;" and a strange look passed between the two young men, as Cyril
Mallow entered the room.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
VISITORS AT THE FARM.
The morning of Mrs Portlock's party, and Uncle Joseph just returned
from his round in the farm, to look smilingly at the preparations that
were going on, and very tenderly at Sage, who looked downcast and
troubled.
"Well, girls," he cried, "how goes it? Come, old lady, let it be a good
set-out, for Sage here won't have much more chance for helping you when
these holidays are over."
"I wish she'd give the school teaching up," said Mrs Portlock, rather
fretfully, as she sat gathering her apron into pleats.
"She can give it up if she likes," said the Churchwarden, heartily.
"It's her own whim."
"Well, don't you fidget, Joseph, for Sage and I will do our best."
"Of course you will, my dears," he said. "Here, Sage, fill me the old
silver mug with ale out of number two."
"But it is not tapped, uncle."
"Ah!" he shouted, "who says it isn't tapped? Why I drove the spigot in
night before last on purpose to have it fine. And now, old woman, if
you want any lunch, have it, and then go and pop on your black silk and
bonnet, while I order round the chaise, and I'll drive you in to town."
"No, Joseph, no," exclaimed Mrs Portlock, who had now gathered the
whole of the bottom of her apron into pleats and let them go. "I said
last night that I would not go with you any more unless you left the
whip at home. I cannot bear to sit in that chaise and see you beat poor
Dapple as you do."
"But I must have a whip, old girl, or I can't drive."
"I'm sure the poor horse goes very well without."
"But not through the snow, my dear," said Sage's uncle, giving her
another of his droll looks. "Really, old girl, I wouldn't answer for
our not being upset without a whip."
"But you wouldn't use it without you were absolutely obliged, Joseph?"
"On my honour as a gentleman," said Uncle Joseph; and his wife smiled
and went up-stairs to get dressed, while Sage took the keys to go down
to the cellar and draw the ale, as her uncle walked to the door, and she
heard him shouting his orders to Dicky Dykes to harness Dapple and bring
him round at once.
Sage stood in the low-ceiled, old-fashioned parlour, with the
quaintly-made silver tankard in her hand, waiting for her uncle to come
in. There was a smile upon her lip, and as she listened now to the
Churchwarden's loud, hearty voice shouting orders to the different men
about the yard, and now to her aunt's heavy footsteps overhead, she was
gazing straight into the great glowing wood fire, whose ruddy flames
flickered and danced in the broad, blue-tiled chimney; and though it was
so cold that the frost was making silver filigree upon the window panes,
she felt all aglow, and kept on picturing in the embers the future that
might have place.
"By George!" roared the Churchwarden, coming in. "Hallo! didn't kick
all the snow off. Here, let's melt it before the tyrant comes down;"
and he shone all over his broad face, and his eyes twinkled with mirth,
as he held first one boot and then the other to the blaze. "Now, the
ale, Sage, my pet. Give's a kiss first, darling, to give it a flavour."
He hugged her to his side, and gave her a loud-sounding smack upon the
lips, holding her close to him as he smiled down in her eyes.
"And I used to grumble, my pet, because I had no children," he said,
tenderly, "little thinking I should have Sage and Rue to take care of
till--Oh! I say. Ha-ha-ha! Look at the colour. Poor little woman
then. Was he coming to-day?"
"Please don't tease me, uncle dear," she whispered, as she laid her head
upon his shoulder, and hid her burning face.
"I won't then," he said; but she could feel him chuckling as he went on.
"I say though, Sage. I've been thinking one ought to have asked him to
come and stay here for a few days. Very hospitable, eh? But hardly
conventual. That's not right, is it, schoolmistress? No, no; I mean
conventional. No you don't. I've got you tight," for Sage had tried to
run away.
"Then please don't tease me, uncle."
"But what will old Vinnicombe say?"
"Uncle dear," she whispered, appealingly. "There then, my pet, I
won't," he said. "What time do you expect Jack and Rue?"
"By about four o'clock, uncle dear."
"That's right, my pet, and now you must bustle. See that there's plenty
of jolly good fires, for I hate people to come and find the place
chilly. Let's give 'em a warm reception, and I'll see if I can't fill
up some of old Vinnicombe's wrinkles out of his face. Let me see, I
want some more tobacco. Hah!" he cried, after a deep draught, "that's
good ale. Taste it, pet."
Sage took the tankard with a smile, raised the creaking lid, and put her
lips to it to please him.
"Fine, ain't it, lass?"
"Capital, uncle."
"I say, Sage, if that don't make old Vinnicombe smile I'm a Dutchman.
By the way, my dear, shall I ask Cyril Mallow to drop in?"
"Uncle!" cried Sage, turning pale.
"Well, why not? He has no pride in him, not a bit. And if he wants
gentlemen to meet, why, there's Paulby and Vinnicombe. Hang it all, my
girl, if I liked to set up for a gentleman I dare say I could, after you
had toned me down and mended my manners, and oiled my axles with grammar
grease, eh?"
"Oh, no, no, uncle; don't think of it," she said, imploringly.
"Just as you like, my dear; 'tis your party like, and it's for you to
choose. He is a bit cocky and priggish, and a bit gallant, but my
darling knows how to keep him in his place."
"Oh, yes, uncle, of course," said Sage, hastily; "but Rue will be here,
you know, and it might set her thinking of his brother Frank."
"Hah! Yes; I had forgotten that," said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully.
"To be sure! she did think a little about him, didn't she? Hullo!"
"I want Sage," cried Mrs Portlock down the stairs.
"Yes, aunt, dear."
"Hold that wrapper to the fire, my dear, ready for your uncle," and she
threw down a great white cashmere belcher to her niece.
"Here! Hoi! I say, old girl, I'm not going to wear that thing."
"Yes, dear, it's a very long drive, and the air is very cold."
The Churchwarden sank into a chair, and, raising the lid of the tankard,
gazed into it despondently.
"Tyranny, tyranny, tyranny!" he groaned. "Oh! why did I ever marry such
a woman as this?"
"Now don't talk nonsense, Joseph," cried his wife, rustling down into
the room so wrapped up that she looked double her natural size, what
with cloak, and boa, and a large muff. "Put it round your uncle's neck,
Sage, the frost is very severe."
The Churchwarden threw his head back ready for Sage to tie on the
wrapper, uttering a low moan the while, and then sighed as he stood up
and walked--at first slowly and then with alacrity--into the hall to put
on his hat.
"I can't get into my coat with this thing on," he roared. "Come and
give us a lift."
Sage ran laughingly into the hall to help the greatcoat on to his broad
shoulders just as the four-wheeled chaise came crunching to the front
door, Dapple giving a loud snort or two, and stamping upon the frozen
gravel.
Just then the Churchwarden gave a comical look at his niece, rushed to
the corner by the eight-day clock, and made a great deal of rattling as
he took up the whip and gave it a sharp lash through the air, and a
crack on the broad balustrade.
Sage heard her aunt start, and her uncle chuckled.
"Now, old lady," he said. "That's right, Sage, plenty of rugs, or we
shall have her frozen. That's it, old girl, right leg first. Hold his
head still, Dicky. There you are; tuck that rug round you. There,
that's better," he cried, taking his seat and fastening the apron. "Let
him go, Dicky. Tck!"
He started Dapple, and then stood up in the chaise with a quick motion,
raising the whip as he set his teeth, and seemed about to strike the cob
a tremendous blow, making Mrs Portlock jump and seize his arm, when he
subsided, looking round at Sage with a comical expression in his eye,
but pulled up short.
"Here. Hi! I say. Yah! artful. Here you, Luke Ross, you're three
hours before your time," he cried.
"Yes, sir. I thought I might help a little, and--"
"You thought you might help a little, and--G'on with you--get out.
G'long!" and the Churchwarden flicked and lashed at Luke Ross, as he
stepped to the side of the chaise and shook hands, while Sage, with her
heart beating fast, drew back into the porch, seeing her uncle begin
poking at the new arrival with the butt of the whip-handle.
Then the cob was started again with another pretended furious cut, which
made Sage's aunt catch at her uncle's arm; and then as, frightened,
fluttering, and yet happy, she saw Luke coming towards her, the
Churchwarden's voice came roaring through the wintry air--
"Here! I say, Luke Ross, remember what I said. I mean it--seriously."
"Sage, my dear Sage!" Those were the next words Sage Portlock heard, as
Luke took her hand to lead her, trembling and nervous, into the hall.
"I hardly hoped for such good fortune," he cried, as Sage gently
disengaged herself from his clasp, and stood gazing rather sadly in his
face; "but oh! pray, pray don't look at me like that, darling, I'm here
to go down on my knees to you, Sage. There," he cried, "I will, to beg
pardon--to tell you I was a weak, jealous fool--that I know you could
not help Cyril Mallow coming and admiring you (he'd have been a fool if
he hadn't!)--that you're the best, and dearest, and truest, and
sweetest, and most innocent-hearted of girls--that I love you more
dearly than ever, and that I've been a miserable wretch ever since last
night."
"Don't do that, Luke," she said, as he literally went upon his knees;
"it hurts me."
"And I'd suffer anything sooner than give you a moment's pain," he
cried, springing to his feet; and they stood now in the middle of the
old parlour. "But you haven't forgiven me, Sage," he said, piteously.
"Yes, Luke, I've forgiven you, but I want you to know and trust me
better. Your words seemed so cruel to me, and if you knew me you would
not have said them. I did not know that Cyril Mallow when he called did
so that he might see me, and we hardly exchanged a dozen words."
"And if you had exchanged a thousand, sweet, what then?" cried Luke,
proudly. "I was a jealous idiot, and ought to have known better; but it
has been a lesson to me on my weakness, and now I am going to wait
patiently till I can say what your uncle wishes."
Sage was silent, for she was thinking it was her duty to tell him that,
after the sad little trouble that had come between them, it would be
better for them to be more distant for a time; but she could not say it
with his eyes looking appealingly at her. She had felt so proud of him
for his manly bearing and straightforward honesty of purpose. The words
would not come, and somehow the next minute she was sobbing in his arms
as he whispered those two words, but in such a tone--
"My darling!"
She started from him guiltily the next moment, and ran up-stairs, and
stayed till there was a fresh crunching of wheels and the trampling of a
horse's hoofs, when she came down again to welcome her sister and her
husband, John Berry--a bluff, middle-aged farmer to whom Rue had been
married some five years, and they had come now to spend a few days,
bringing their two little girls.
"Ah, Luke, my man of wisdom, how are you? Sage, my dear, give us a
kiss. Bless you, how well you look. How am I? Hearty, and so's Rue."
Sage was kissing her sister affectionately the next moment, heartily
glad to see her looking so rosy and well, but blushing redder as she
whispered merrily--
"Oh! I am sorry we came and interrupted you. You look so guilty,
Sagey. When's it to be?"
"Not for years to come, dear," said Sage, as she busied herself with
Lotty and Totty, their two golden-haired little children, who were so
wrapped up that they were, as John said, warm as toasts.
He plumped himself into a chair directly, to take one on each knee.
Then Sage and Rue busied themselves in taking off pelisses and woollen
leggings, and reducing the little things into a less rounded shape,
while John sat as stolid and serious as a judge, evidently being very
proud of his two little ones, as he was of his handsome young wife.
"And now, John, you'd like a tankard of ale, wouldn't you?" cried Sage.
"Well, I don't know," said John, quietly; "a mug of squire's ale is
nice, if Luke there will have one too."
"Oh! I'll join," said Luke, heartily; and, after drawing it, Sage went
up with Rue to her room, and she began to tease her about Luke, but
ended with an affectionate embrace.
"I'd marry him any time, dear," she said, "for I think he's a good
fellow, and if you are as happy as I am with dear old John you will be
satisfied."
"But uncle has said that it is not to be till Luke has five hundred a
year," said Sage, dreamily, "and that will not be for a long time; and--
and, Rue, dear," she faltered, "I--I don't think I feel quite happy
about it."
"Stuff and nonsense, Sagey! Uncle will come round. He wants to see us
quite happy."
"But you misunderstand me, dear," said Sage, thoughtfully. "I mean that
I'm half afraid I'm not doing right in letting Luke Ross believe I love
him, because--because--"
"Because--because you are a goose," cried Rue, merrily. "I felt just
the same about John, and was ready to break it off, and now I think him
the dearest and best fellow under the sun. Sage, dear."
"Yes, Rue."
"You are in the sugar-plum stage just now, and don't know your own mind.
I like Luke Ross. He's frank and straightforward. Don't play with
him, for he's a man to be trusted, and you're lucky to have him care for
you."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Sage, dreamily; "but it is not to be for a
long time yet."
As she spoke she was thinking of the past, and her sister's love affair
with Frank Mallow, who used to follow her whenever she was out for a
walk; and then about the trouble at the rectory, when Frank Mallow went
off all on a sudden. Of how poor Rue was nearly heartbroken, and used
to tell Sage that she would go after him if he sent for her; but he
never even wrote to her in spite of all his professions; and then they
learned how badly he had behaved; and after that Rue never mentioned his
name but in a quiet subdued way, and at her uncle's wish accepted John
Berry--a man of sterling qualities--and she had grown brighter and
happier ever since she had been his wife.
The final preparations were made and the table spread long before the
Churchwarden and his wife came back, with the chaise loaded up, and Mrs
Portlock protesting that she would never go again if Joseph took a whip.
The culprit chuckled as Sage helped him with his overcoat, shouting
orders all the while to Luke and John Berry, who were busy bringing in
the load of parcels till it seemed wonderful how they could all have
been packed into the chaise.
At last the final packet was in, and the cold air shut out; but hardly
had the door been closed, and they were standing laughing at Rue's
little girls, who were staggering in and out of the great parlour with
packets which they carried by the string, than the bell rang.
"Here's Vinnicombe!" cried Portlock, and the doctor, in a fur cap tied
down over his ears, blue spectacles over his eyes, and his tall lean
form muffled in a long thick greatcoat, came in, stamping his feet.
"Here, help me off with this coat, somebody," growled the doctor. "How
do, girls? Take away those children, or I shall tread on 'em. Hate
youngsters running about under one's feet like black beetles. What have
you got there?" he added, pointing to the parcels.
"Fal-lals and kickshaws. The old woman's been pretty well emptying the
grocer's shop."
"Now, Joseph, that is really too bad," said Mrs Portlock, full of mild
indignation. "Now you know you would persist in buying three-parts of
what is there."
"Humph! Thought you fancied you were going to be snowed up," growled
the doctor, shaking himself free of his coat, and holding out first one
leg and then the other for Luke to pull off his goloshes. "That's
right, Luke Ross; I don't see why you young fellows shouldn't wait on us
old ones. I had lots of trouble with you, you young rascal; fetched out
of bed for you often."
"Well, doctor," cried Luke, "you see I'm willing enough," and his cheeks
flushed with pleasure to find that in spite of the Churchwarden's
serious treatment of his proposals, he was warmer than ever he had been
before.
"There, look sharp, girls," cried the Churchwarden. "Come, old lady,
take off your things. Sage, put the doctor in the chimney-corner to
thaw. He'll soon come round."
Dr Vinnicombe shook his fist at the speaker, and let Sage lead him to
the glowing fire, while the next moment the Churchwarden was having what
he called "a glorious cuddle," four little chubby arms being fast about
his great neck, and a couple of pairs of little red lips kissing him all
over his rugged, ruddy face.
PART ONE, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
THE BAD SHILLING.
Michael Ross, Luke's father, came soon after with a couple of
fellow-townsmen, and their chat about the state of affairs, social and
political, that is to say, the state of affairs in connection with the
rectory and the price of corn, was interrupted by the call for tea.
The warm fire and the pleasant social meal did make the doctor come
round, and very pleasant everything seemed as they afterwards sat about
the blazing fire. Sage noted how happy and contented her sister was,
with her pretty young matronly face, as she sat by her husband's side
and seemed to glow with content, as first one little golden-haired
cherub and then the other was seated on Dr Vinnicombe's knee, the
soured old cynic telling them tales to which they all listened with
almost childish delight.
Luke's heart was full of joy, and he kept glancing across at Sage, who
avoided his gaze in a timid, cast-down manner; but it did not displease
him, for he thought she was all that was modest and sweet, and told
himself that he was proud indeed to have won such a woman for his future
wife.
Then there seemed to be a blank in the room, for Sage left with her
sister to put the little ones to bed, Rue sending the blood flushing
into her cheeks as she half mockingly said--
"How long will it be, Sage, before I am helping you to put a little Luke
and a little Sage to sleep?"
They were very silent directly after, and Sage felt a kind of wondering
awe as, in obedience to a word from their mother, the two little
white-robed things, with their fair hair like golden glories round their
heads, knelt at Aunty Sage's knee to lisp each a little simple prayer to
God to send his angels to watch round their couch that night; and then
back came Rue's merry words, and with them wondering awe, almost dread,
at the possibility of such as these at her feet ever calling her mother,
and looking to her for help.
They stayed for a few minutes to see the children sleep, with their rosy
little faces on the same pillow, and then, with their arms around each
other, Sage and Rue, happy girls at heart once more, descended to the
dining-room, where their aunt was telling Doctor Vinnicombe about her
troubles with her garden, while their uncle's face was full of
good-humoured crinkles as she spoke.
"Here, girls," he said, putting down his pipe, "come and comfort me
while I'm being flogged."
"I'm not flogging you, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, speaking in a
serious, half-plaintive way; "but it will soon be time for Dicky to be
doing up my garden again, and I do say that it is a shame that in my own
ground you will be always planting seeds and things that have no
business there."
"Never put in anything that isn't useful," chuckled the Churchwarden,
with his arms round his nieces' waists as they stood by his side.
"Useful, yes; but you ought not to sow carrot-seed amongst my
mignonette, and plant potato-cuttings in amongst my tulips and
hearts-ease. I declare, doctor, if my verbena-bed was not full of
cabbage plants one day, and when I pulled them up he had them set again,
and often and often I've allowed swedes, and mangolds, and rape to get
ever so big in the garden before I've known what they were."
"He's a terrible rascal, Mrs Portlock, that he is; and if I were you
I'd have a divorce," said the doctor.
"Ah, do, old lady," chuckled the Churchwarden, but he became serious
directly as his wife rose from her seat and went and stood behind his
chair, with her hands upon his shoulders.
"A divorce?" she said, smiling. "Thirty years we've been man and wife,
Joseph;" and he leaned back his head and said softly--
"Ay, dear, and I worked five years till I was well enough off to give
you a good home, and please God we'll have thirty more years together--
here, or in the better world."
Luke Ross felt that the words were meant for him, and he tried to catch
Sage's eye, but she would not raise her face, and he sat thinking that
after all the farmer was right.
There was a dead silence in the room for some minutes, and then Dr
Vinnicombe exclaimed--
"Come, Churchwarden, here are Michael Ross and I famishing for a game at
whist."
"To be sure," cried the Churchwarden. "Now, girls, let's have the
card-table. My word, what a night! It's a nipper indeed. Let's have
another log on, old lady, and--What the dickens is the matter with those
dogs?"
For just then, as the flames and sparks were roaring up the chimney, the
two dogs in the yard set up a furious barking, growing so excited, and
tearing so at their chains, that the Churchwarden went out to the door,
opened it, and a rush of cold, searching wind roared into the room as he
shouted--
"Down, Don! Quiet, Rover! Who's there?"
"Port--lock, ahoy!" came in reply, and Rue turned pale, uttered a low
moan, and clung to her sister, who trembled in turn as another voice
shouted--
"Call off the dogs, Mr Portlock; it is only I."
"Sage," whispered Rue, with her face close to her sister's ear, "let us
go away."
"Why, it must be Mr Frank Mallow," cried Mrs Portlock, excitedly, and
she glanced in a frightened way at her nieces.
"Yes, that it is," she said, beneath her breath, as a tall, dark man
with a heavy beard entered the room, closely followed by Cyril Mallow.
"Beg pardon," he said, in a curious, half-cynical way. "Didn't expect
to see me, I suppose. Only got back this afternoon; thought I should
like to see all old friends."
"Hearty glad to see you back again," said the Churchwarden, frankly.
"Sit down, Mr Cyril," he continued, as the new-comer shook hands.
"Take a chair, Mr Frank. It's like old times to see you here again."
"Hah! yes. How well you look, farmer, and you too, Mrs Portlock. Miss
Sage, I presume? Why, what a change! Grown from a slip of a girl to a
charming woman. And how is Miss Rue Portlock?" he said, with mock
deference, as he fixed the pale, shrinking face with his dark eyes.
"I am quite well, Mr Frank," said Rue, making an effort to be composed,
but not taking the visitor's extended hand. "John, dear," she
continued, turning to her husband, "this is Mr Frank Mallow, of whom
you have heard me speak."
"Ah! to be sure," said John Berry. "Glad to know my little wife's
friends. How are you, sir--how are you?"
Frank Mallow's eyes closed slightly, and he gazed in a half-curious,
contemptuous way at John Berry as he shook hands, and then turned to
Luke Ross.
"And is this Miss Sage's husband?" he said, laughingly, but in a
sarcastic way that turned Sage cold.
"Well, no; I am not Miss Portlock's husband, Mr Mallow," said Luke,
smiling, and taking the extended hand, his tone saying plainly enough
that he hoped soon to be.
"Ah, well, we all get married some time or other," said the visitor, in
a careless, unpleasant way.
"Have you got married then, my lad?" said the Churchwarden, reaching a
cigar-box from the fireplace cupboard.
"No, not yet," he replied, "not yet. Cyril and I are particular, eh,
Cil, old man? I've come over to fetch myself a wife perhaps. Cigar?
Yes; thanks. Take one, Cil? Hah! how cosy this old room seems! I've
spent some pleasant hours here."
"Ay, you've smoked many a pipe with me, Mr Frank. That was when you
were in your farming days."
"Farming days?"
"Ay," chuckled the Churchwarden, "sowing thy wild oats, my lad."
"Ha, ha, ha! Why, Portlock, you're as fond of a joke as ever. Ladies,
I hope you won't mind so much smoking," he said, puffing away vigorously
all the same, while Luke Ross gazed uneasily from one brother to the
other, till he caught Cyril looking at him in a haughty, offended
manner, when in spite of himself his eyes fell.
"Old folks surprised to see you, eh, sir?" said the Churchwarden, to
break the blank in the conversation.
"Yes, preciously," was the short reply.
"Humph!"
Frank Mallow, who was staring at Rue, while his brother was trying to
catch her sister's eye, turned at this loud grunt and smiled.
"Oh, you're there!" he exclaimed. "And how is Doctor Vinnicombe?"
"Doctor Vinnicombe is in very good health, and in the best of spirits,"
said the doctor, sarcastically, "for one of his old patients has come
back, evidently to pay a heavy bill that his father refused to
acknowledge."
"Glad to hear it," said Frank Mallow.
"And how have you got on, Mr Frank?" said the Churchwarden. "I hope
you've made a better hit of it than Mr Cyril there, and after all the
teaching I gave him about sheep."
"Better hit? Well, I hope so. Nice fellow he was to come out to the
other side of the world, and never call upon his brother."
"You took precious good care not to let us know your address," retorted
Cyril.
"And what may you have been doing, Mr Frank?" said the Churchwarden,
who was beginning to have an uneasy idea that the visitors were not
adding to the harmony of the evening, and also recalling the ugly little
affairs that had to do with Frank's departure.
"Doing?"
"Yes; sir; did you try tillage?"
"Not I, farmer," exclaimed Frank Mallow, staring hard at Rue, who kept
her eyes fixed upon the carpet, or talked in a low voice to Sage, while
bluff John Berry listened eagerly for what seemed likely to be an
interesting narrative.
"Let's see, Mr Frank, you went to New Zealand?"
"Yes, but I did not stay there; I ran on to Australia, and tried the
diggings."
"And did you get any gold, sir?" said John Berry, eagerly.
"Pretty well," replied Frank Mallow; "enough to buy and stock a good
sheep farm; and now I'm as warm as some of them out there," he added,
with a coarse laugh, "and I've come back home for a wife to take care of
the house I've built."
"That's right, sir," said John Berry, nodding his head, and smiling at
Rue; "nothing like a good wife, sir, to keep you square."
"Then you are not going to stay?" said the Churchwarden.
"Stay! what here? No thanky; I had enough of England when I was here.
Other side of the world for me."
The Churchwarden was right in his ideas, for, as the night wore on,
Frank Mallow seemed to be trying to pique Rue by his strange bantering
ways, while all the time he was so persevering in his free attentions to
Sage that Luke's face grew red, and a frown gathered upon his forehead.
Cyril saw it too, and as he found that his brother's conduct annoyed
both Sage and Luke, he increased his attentions, laughingly telling
Frank not to monopolise the ladies, but to leave a chance for some one
else.
"And they call themselves gentlemen!" thought Luke Ross, as he listened
gravely to all that was said, and tried to keep from feeling annoyed at
the free and easy way of the two brothers, who seemed to have put on
their Australian manners for the occasion, and refused to believe in
Mrs Portlock being troubled and her nieces annoyed.
They had the greater part of the conversation, and thoroughly spoiled
the evening, so that it was with a feeling of relief that Luke heard
Cyril Mallow say--
"Well, come along; we must get back. Past twelve; and the governor
likes early hours in the country."
"Let him," said Frank Mallow, lighting his fourth cigar.
"But the mater said she should wait up to see you before she went to
bed," said Cyril.
"Poor old girl! then I suppose we must go," said Frank, rising.
"Ladies, I kiss your hands, as we say in the east. Good-night!"
He shook hands all round, holding Rue Berry's hand very tightly for a
moment, at the same time that her brother had Sage's little trembling
fingers in his clasp.
"Good-night, gentlemen; you don't go our way."
The next minute Mrs Portlock uttered a sigh of relief, for the dogs
were barking at the visitors whom Churchwarden Portlock was seeing to
the gate.
"There's a something I like about that young fellow," said John Berry,
breaking the silence, as the sisters stood hand clasped in hand, with
Mrs Portlock looking at them in a troubled way. "I've heard a good
deal of evil spoke of him, but a young fellow who is fond of his mother
can't be so very bad. Good-night, doctor; good-night, Mr Ross;
good-night, Luke Ross. I'll walk with you to the gate."
The "good-night" between Luke and Sage was not a warm one, for the girl
felt troubled and ill at ease, but Luke was quiet and tender.
"She's very tired," he said, "and I promised her--yes, I promised her--"
He did not say what he promised her, as he went thoughtfully home,
leaving his father and Doctor Vinnicombe to do all the talking; but as
they parted at the doctor's door in the High Street, the latter turned
sharply, and said--
"Good-night, Luke Ross. I say, Michael Ross, I don't think you need
envy the parson his good fortune in the matter of boys."
"I don't envy him, Luke, my boy," said the little thin, dry old man, as
soon as they were out of hearing; "and if I were you, my boy, I'd have
precious little to do with these young fellows."
"Don't be alarmed, father," said Luke, laughing; "they would think it an
act of condescension to associate with me."
"No," he said to himself, as he stood at last in his clean,
plainly-furnished bedroom in the quaint little market-place, "I should
be insulting Sage if I thought she could care for any one but me."
But all the same Luke Ross's dreams were not of a very pleasant kind
that night; and those of the two sisters of a less happy character
still.
PART ONE, CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
THE PRODIGAL SONS.
To look at the red-brick gabled rectory, with its rose and
wistaria-covered trellis-work, the latter at its season one mass of
lovely pendent lavender racemes, and the former in some form or other
brightening the house with blossoms all the year round, it might have
been thought that it was the home of peace and constant content. The
surrounding gardens were a model of beauty, the Rector sparing no
expense to make them perfect in their way; but he had long enough before
found that beauty of garden and choicest interior surroundings would not
bring him peace.
His first great trouble had been the illness of his wife, who, after the
birth of Cynthia, had for years and years been taken to this famous
specialist, to that celebrated physician, and from both to springs all
over the Continent, till, finding no relief, Mr Mallow had yielded to
the suffering woman's prayer.
"It is hopeless, dear," she had said, with a calm look of resignation in
her pensive eyes. "Let us go home, and I will pray for strength to bear
my lot."
They returned then, and it was for her sake that the garden was made to
bloom with flowers, and the hothouses to produce the most delicious
fruits. Their income was large from private resources, while the
Lawford living was good, so that all that money could bring to alleviate
the suffering woman's trouble was there, and the Rector was almost
constantly at her side.
But Fate, as has been said, who had endowed the Rev Eli Mallow with
wealth, a handsome presence, and with good intellect, had not been chary
in the matter of what commercial people term set-offs. Trouble besides
his wife's sickness came upon him thickly, principally in the persons of
his handsome, manly-looking sons.
Frank had been a difficulty from childhood. He had not been more spoilt
than most boys are, though certainly his invalid mother had been most
indulgent; but there was a moral bias by nature in his disposition,
which somehow seemed to make him, just as he was apparently
going straight for a certain goal, turn right off in a very
unpleasantly-rounded curve.
Quite early in his youth he had to be recalled, to save expulsion from a
certain school, on account of his heading a series of raids upon various
orchards, and in defiance of divers corrections on the principal's part.
He had to return home from his two next schools for various offences
against their rules, and finally his college career came to an end with
rustication.
Frank laughed, and said that he did not know how it was. One thing, he
said, was evident: he was not cut out for the church, and he would not
go back to college when the term of his rustication was at an end.
A clerkship was obtained for him then, through great interest, in the
Treasury, and here for three or four years he got along pretty well, the
confinement not being great, and the number of friends he met with being
of a character to suit his taste.
There were bounds, though, even in those days, to the limits accorded to
a gentlemanly clerk of good birth, and when Frank took to absenting
himself from the office for a week at a time, matters became serious.
For the first time or two the plea of illness was accepted, but when
another absence occurred, also from illness, and Mr Frank Mallow was
seen by his superiors riding a showy-looking hack in the park, and was
known to have given a bachelors' party in the same week, to which
several fellow-clerks were invited, it became necessary to hint to the
peccant youth that the next time he was unwell, a certificate to that
effect would be necessary from some well-known medical man.
Frank was ill again, so he sent in word to the office, and stayed away
for another week, after which, on presenting himself, he received a
warning--one which he bore in mind for a couple of months, and then his
head must have once more been very bad, for there was a fresh absence,
and this endured so long that Frank's seat in the Treasury knew him no
more.
"Well, it don't matter, mother," he said. "It was a wretched set-out,
and I was sick of the eternal copying."
"But it was such a pity, dear," his mother said, in a tone of
remonstrance.
"Pity? Stuff! Eighty pounds a year, and a rise of ten pounds annually!
Not bricklayer's wages, and all the time people think it's such a
tremendous thing to be a Treasury clerk."