Everything had been gliding on beautifully towards a definite end, and

then there had come stumbling-blocks. Luke Ross had gone back to town;

the girls' schoolhouse remained unoccupied, as Sage went home for the

present; Humphrey Bone was faster than ever in his post, and likely to

stay there, the opposition being so strong; and, worst problem of all to

solve, there was Cyril.

It was no wonder that the thick black stick was twitched and flourished

and tossed up and down, for the Rector's mind was greatly disturbed,

especially upon the last question--that of his son.

He had spoken severely without effect; he had tried appeal without

better success. Cyril had not openly defied him, but had sat and

listened quietly to all his father had said, and then gone and acted

precisely as if nothing whatever had been spoken.

"She is so good, and sweet, and innocent a girl; so true, too, in her

attachment to Luke Ross, that I cannot speak to her," he said to

himself. "Besides, she has given me no opening. But it must be

stopped. What shall I do?"

The Reverend Eli Mallow went on for a few yards deeply thoughtful, and

then the idea came. He knew what he would do: speak to Mrs Portlock

first, or to the Churchwarden, and ask their advice and counsel upon the

matter.

"Yes," he said to himself, "it will be the best. Such matters are

better checked in their incipient state. I will go and see her at

once."

He faced round, glanced at his watch, saw that it was only eleven, and

walked sharply in the direction of Kilby Farm, to find the Churchwarden

away from home, but Mrs Portlock ready to receive him with a most

gracious smile.

"I'm sure you must be tired after your walk, Mr Mallow," she said.

"Sit down by the fire. What cold weather we are having! You'll take a

glass of my home-made wine and a bit of cake?"

The Rector would rather not, but Mrs Portlock insisted upon getting the

refreshments out of the fireside cupboard, extolling the wine the while.

"I'm sure you'd like it," she said. "Your son had some only last night,

and he said it was better than any sherry he had ever tasted."

"My son--last night?" said the Rector, quickly. "Which son?"

"Mr Cyril; he drank four glasses of it, and praised it most highly."

She poured out a glass, and the Rector drew it to him, and sat gazing at

the clear, amber liquid, hesitating as to how he should begin, while

Mrs Portlock stole a glance at the mirror to see if her cap was

straight, and wished she had known of her visitor's coming, so that she

might have put on a silk dress, and the cap with the maroon ribbons and

the gold acorn.

"Cyril said that he was down the town last night with Frank," said the

Rector to himself. "He fears my words, and he is playing false, or he

would not have been ashamed to answer that he was here."

"How the time seems to fly, Mrs Portlock!" said the Rector at last,

biting his lip with annoyance at the want of originality of the only

idea he could set forth.

"Dear me, yes. I was saying so only last week to Mr Cyril. `Four

months,' I said, `since you came back;' and he looked up at Sage and

said that the time seemed to go like lightning."

"By the way, Mrs Portlock," said the Rector, hastily, "have you heard

from Luke Ross lately?"

"Oh, dear me, no," said the lady, rather sharply. "I never call at the

Ross's now."

"I thought, perhaps, the young people might correspond."

"Oh, dear me, no; neither Mr Portlock nor myself could countenance such

a thing as that."

The Rector was at a loss to see the impropriety of such an intercourse,

but he said nothing--he merely bowed.

"That was only a boy-and-girl sort of thing. Our Sage knew Luke Ross

from a boy, but now they are grown up, and as Joseph--Mr Portlock--said

they were too young to think about such things as that."

"But I understood that they were engaged," said the Rector, who felt

startled; and he gazed very anxiously in Mrs Portlock's face for her

reply.

"Oh, dear me, no, sir, nothing of the kind."

For want of something to say, the Rector sipped his wine.

"My husband very properly said that under the circumstances no

engagement ought to take place, and it was not likely. For my part I

don't agree with the affair at all."

The Rector felt that his position was growing more unpleasant than ever.

He had come to say something, but that something would not be said; and

at last when he did speak his words were very different from what he had

intended they should be.

"My son, Cyril, has taken to coming here a good deal lately, Mrs

Portlock," he said.

"Well, yes, sir," she said, with a satisfied smile; "he has."

"I am sorry to have to speak so plainly about him, Mrs Portlock, but I

hope you will not encourage his visits. Cyril has travelled a good

deal, and has imbibed, I am afraid, a great deal of careless freedom."

"Indeed?" said the lady, stiffly.

"I'm afraid that he is too ready to laugh and chat with any girl he

meets, and I should be sorry if--er--if--"

"If you mean by that, Mr Mallow, sir, that you don't consider our niece

good enough for your son," said Mrs Portlock, tartly, "please say so

downright."

"I did not wish to imply anything of the kind, Mrs Portlock," replied

the Rector, mildly. "I wish merely to warn you against his foolish,

frivolous ways."

"If there's a difference at all it's on your side, Mr Mallow, sir,"

continued the lady. "Mr Cyril has been a deal too idle and roving to

suit me, while our Sage--"

"Miss Portlock is a most estimable young lady, for whom I entertain the

highest respect, Mrs Portlock," said the Rector, warmly; "and it was on

her behalf, knowing as I do how foolish Cyril can be, that I came to

speak to you this morning."

"I don't know anything about his foolishness, Mr Mallow," said the

lady, who was growing irate; "but I've got to say this, that he comes

here just as if he means something, and if he does not mean anything he

had better stop away, and not behave like his brother Frank."

"Exactly so, my dear madam," cried the Rector, eagerly. "I am going to

talk seriously to him."

This did not seem to meet the lady's ideas, and she looked hot and

annoyed, beginning to stir the fire with a good deal of noise, and

setting the poker down more loudly.

"I should be deeply grieved, I am sure, Mrs Portlock," began the

Rector; "it is far from my wish to--really, my dear madam, this is a

very unpleasant interview."

The lady said nothing; but she was so evidently of the same opinion that

the Rector was glad to rise and offer his hand in token of farewell.

She shook hands, and the visitor left, to hurry home with his black

stick hanging behind, and his soul hot within him as he mentally accused

Cyril by his folly of getting him into the unpleasant predicament from

which he had so lately escaped.

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

"A ROW."

"Where are you going, Frank?"

"Don't know; perhaps as far as Lewby. John Berry said he would be glad

to show me round his farm."

"Oh!" exclaimed Cyril, with a meaning look.

"Well, what do you mean by `Oh'?" said Frank, roughly.

"Nothing at all, my dear boy--nothing at all," said Cyril.

"I never grin like an idiot at you when you are going over to Kilby, do

I?"

"Oh, no: not at all. It's all right, I suppose," laughed Cyril. "But,

I say, hadn't you better be off amongst the blacks? You have grown

rather uncivilised lately."

"Mind your own business," growled Frank Mallow. "I say!"

"Well?"

"That blackguard regularly frightened Ju. She hasn't looked the same

girl since."

"No," said Cyril. "Pity the shooting season's over."

"Why?"

"We might have peppered the blackguard by accident if he had shown

himself here again."

"Master would like to see you, sir, in my mistress's room," said the

butler, entering the study where the young men were smoking.

"Oh, all right, I'll come," said Cyril, impatiently. "Hang it, Frank,

if you were half a brother you'd go halves with me, and take me back to

your place. I'm sick of this life. There's a lecture about something,

I suppose."

"Caning, I should think," said Frank, with a sneering laugh. "There, go

and get it over; and look here, I'll give up Lewby to-day, and drive

over with you to Gatley. Let's get a game at billiards and dine with

Artingale. It's no use to have a lord after your sister if you don't

make use of him."

"All right. No. I've an engagement to-night."

"Go and keep it then, and be hanged. I shall go to Lewby," growled

Frank.

"Blackberrying?" sneered Cyril. "I say, mind you don't `Rue' going."

"If you say that again, Cil, I'll get up and kick you," growled Frank.

"Every fellow isn't such a blackguard as you."

"Oh no," laughed Cyril, "especially not dear brother Frank. There, I'm

off."

"You're a beauty, Cil!" growled Frank, and he lit a fresh cigar.

"Share! Go halves with me! Ha, ha, ha! I dare say he would. How

people do believe in stories of the gold mines. I wonder whether

anything is to be made out of that poet fool."

"Want to talk to me, father?" said Cyril, entering the room where his

mother lay upon the couch, with a terrible look of anxiety upon her

pallid face. "Oh, let's see; will my smoking worry you, mamma?"

"Always so thoughtful for me," said the fond mother to herself. Then

aloud--

"I don't mind it, Cyril, but I don't think your father--"

She stopped short, for the Rector interrupted her, sternly.

"Is an invalid lady's room a suitable place for smoking pipes, Cyril?"

"Don't see that it matters what the place is so long as the invalid

don't mind. But there, don't make a bother about it," he cried, tapping

the burning tobacco out on to the hob; "I can wait until I go down

again."

"Shall we go down, papa?" said Julia, rising with Cynthia from where

they sat in the window.

"No, my dears; you must hear what I am going to say, so you may as well

hear it now."

"Oh, no, Eli," moaned the invalid.

"Very well, my dears, you had better go," said the Rector, and he led

his daughters to the door, which he opened and closed after them with

quiet dignity.

"Row on!" muttered Cyril. "Well, ma, dear, how are you?"

"Not--not quite so well, Cyril," she said, fondly; and her voice

trembled, as she dreaded a scene. "Will you come and sit down here by

me?" she added, pointing to a chair.

"Yes, I may as well," he said, laughingly, "and you can take care of me,

for I see somebody means mischief."

The Rector bit his lips, for his was a painful task. He wished to utter

a severe reprimand, and to appeal to the young man's sense of right and

wrong, while here at the outset was the mother bird spreading her

protecting wing before her errant chick, and ready, the Rector saw, to

stand up boldly in his defence.

"Let me punch up your pillow for you, dear," said Cyril, bending over

the couch, and raising the slight frame of the sick woman, whose arms

closed softly round the young man's neck, while he beat and turned the

soft down pillow, lowering the invalid gently back into her former

place, and kissing her tenderly upon the brow.

"That's better," he said. "I hate a hot pillow, and it's so comfortable

when it's turned."

Mrs Mallow clung fondly to her son for a few moments, smiling

gratefully in his face; and the Rector sighed and again bit his lip as

he saw how moment by moment his task was growing more difficult.

"If he would only study her feelings in the broader things of life," he

said to himself; and he took a turn or two impatiently about the room.

"Now, governor, I'm ready," said Cyril, facing round suddenly, his

mother holding his hand between hers. "What's the last thing I've done

amiss?"

"Heaven knows," cried the Rector, startling his wife by the way in which

he suddenly flashed into anger. "The last thing that I have to complain

of is that I cannot trust my own son."

"Ah, you mean with money, father," said the young man, lightly. "Well,

it does go rather fast."

"I mean my son's word," said the Rector, quickly. "Cyril, last night

you told me a lie."

"Oh, no, no, no," cried the mother, quickly. "It is some mistake, dear.

Cyril would not tell you what was not true."

The Rector, after years of patience, was so thoroughly out of temper

with the discovery of that day that he retorted hotly--

"A lie--I say he told me a deliberate lie."

"Nonsense!" said the young man. "People tell lies when they are afraid

to tell the truth. I'm not afraid to tell you anything."

"You told me last night, sir, that you had been down in the town with

Frank, whereas I find this morning that you had been at Kilby Farm."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Cyril. "Why, what a discovery, father. You asked

me where I had been, and I told you--`down the town.' So I had. You

did not ask me whether I had been anywhere else, or I might have added,

to the Churchwarden's."

"And pray why did you go there, sir?" cried the Rector.

"Come, father, don't talk to me as if I were a naughty little boy about

to be sent to bed without his supper."

"Pray be calm, dear," cried Mrs Mallow. "Cyril gives a very good

explanation. Surely it was natural that he should walk over to Kilby."

"I say why did you go over there, sir?"

"To smoke a pipe with old Portlock, if you must know, and have a glass

of his home brewed ale. It's dull enough here with the girls."

"It is false, sir," cried the Rector, excitedly.

"Well," said Cyril, coolly, "you may not find it dull, but I do."

"I say, sir, it is false that you merely went there to drink and smoke."

"Very well, father," said Cyril, in the most nonchalant way, as he lay

back in his chair and played with his mother's rings. "Perhaps you

know, then, why I went."

"Oh, hush, Cyril, my boy," panted the invalid. "Eli, my dear, pray be

calm. This hurts me--hurts me more than I can tell you."

"I am sorry, my dear, very sorry," cried the Rector, excitedly; "but it

must be stopped. I cannot allow matters to go on as they do. It is

terrible. I feel at every turn as if I were being disgraced. I shiver

as I go down the town or make a call, for fear that I should have to

encounter some fresh disgrace brought upon us by our own boys."

"What's the matter with the governor, ma, dear?" said the young man,

mockingly. "Has Frank been up to some fresh games?"

"Oh, hush, my dear boy," cried the poor woman, imploringly.

"I'll be as quiet as I can, dear," replied Cyril; "but there are bounds

to everything. I am not a child."

"No, sir, but you act like one--like a disobedient child," cried his

father. "No matter what is done for you, back you come home to idle and

lounge away your existence. The idea of the nobility of labour never

seems to have dawned in your mind."

"Never," replied Cyril, calmly. "Nobility of labour, indeed! Why,

father, what's the good of quoting stuff like that to me out of one of

your old sermons?"

"You are utterly wasting your life, sir."

"Not I, father," retorted Cyril. "I am rather enjoying it. Let those

work who are obliged. Why should I make myself a slave? I like my

existence very well as it is, and don't mean to bother."

"It is disgraceful," cried the Rector, whose usually bland face was now

fierce with anger.

"Don't see it. I don't spend much, nor yet get into debt. You've got

plenty of money, so why should I trouble myself about work?"

"I'd forgive that," cried the Rector--"I'd forgive your idleness, but

when I find that you cannot be trusted, I am compelled to speak."

"But, my dear," remonstrated the invalid, "what has poor Cyril done? He

did not like the wretched slavery out in the colony, and he could not

content himself with the drudgery of a clerk's desk. Do not be so

severe. Be patient, and he will succeed like Frank has done."

"What has he done?" cried the Rector. "What is he doing but leading

such a life as must disgrace us all."

"Nonsense, father!" cried the young man. "It is no nonsense, sir.

Months ago I spoke to you about your conduct, but it has been in vain.

People in all directions are noticing your behaviour towards Miss

Portlock. Just, too, when your sisters are about to make excellent

matches."

"Miss Portlock!" cried Mrs Mallow, starting. "Oh, Cyril!"

Cyril acted like an animal brought to bay. He began to fight. While

there was a chance of his father not being aware of his proceedings, he

fenced and parried. Now he spoke out sharply--

"Well, what do people say about my behaviour with Miss Portlock? She's

a very nice ladylike girl, well educated, and sweet and clever, and if I

like to chat with her, I shall."

"Oh, Cyril!" cried his mother again; and then she added, "Is this true?"

"True? Is what true? That I have been to Kilby sometimes to have a

chat with Sage Portlock? Of course it is. Why not?"

"You own to it, then?" said his father. "Own to it, if you like to call

it so, sir. And now, pray, where is the harm?"

Mrs Mallow withdrew her hand from her son's grasp, and looked in his

face with a terribly pained expression, for, with all her gentleness of

disposition, the sense of caste was in her very strongly; and with all

his failings, she had looked upon Cyril as a noble representative of the

mingled blood of the old family Mallows and the Heskeths from whom she

sprang.

"I am to understand, then," said the Rector, "that you propose honouring

us with a daughter chosen from the people here."

"I don't say yes, and I don't say no," replied Cyril, cavalierly. "I

think I have heard you say often that Sage was a very nice girl."

"Sage?"

"Yes, Sage. I think you had the pleasure of baptising her by her

herbaceous name, so you ought to know."

The Rector exchanged glances with his wife, whose face wore a very

pitiable look.

"I have--yes--certainly--often said that Miss Portlock was a very good,

sensible girl," he said at last.

"Well, then, what more do you want, sir? I suppose you expect a man to

think about such things at some time in his life?"

"But have you proposed for her hand?" said his mother, faintly.

"Proposed for her hand? Nonsense, mamma. People of their class don't

understand things in that light."

This was a false move, and the Rector took advantage of the slip.

"People of that class, sir? Then you acknowledge that you are degrading

yourself by these proceedings."

"Oh, I don't know about degrading myself, sir. You know what they say.

If a lady marries her groom she descends to his level. If a man marries

his cook he raises her to his."

"But does Mr Portlock--my Churchwarden--know of your intentions?"

"How can he," said Cyril, coolly, "when I have none?"

"But Mrs Portlock believes that you are paying your attentions to her

niece."

"Yes, I s'pose so," he replied. "Terribly silly woman."

"Oh, Cyril, Cyril," said his mother, "this is very, very shocking."

"Stuff and nonsense, mamma. Why, what a tremendous fuss about a little

bit of flirtation with a pretty little schoolmistress. You nearly had

her sister for a daughter-in-law when Frank was after her."

"Frank saw the folly of his proceedings, and grew sensible," said the

Rector.

"Oh, did he!" muttered Cyril.

"The word flirtation, Cyril," said the Rector firmly, "is a disgrace to

our civilisation, and one that ought certainly to be heard from no

decent lips."

"Matter of opinion, of course," said Cyril; and he placed his hands

under his head and stared straight out of the window, while the Rector

and his wife exchanged glances.

"Cyril," said the former at last, after a struggle to keep down his

anger, "I will not quarrel with you."

"That's right, governor. I hate quarrelling."

"But while you are under my roof I must be obeyed."

"Don't think any man has a more obedient son," replied Cyril.

"The time, however, has now come when some plan must be devised for you

to make a fresh start in life upon your own account."

"'Pon my word, father, I don't see it. I'm very comfortable as I am."

"But I am not, sir," replied his father, firmly. "For years past it has

been thrown in my teeth that I am rightly named Eli. You know why. It

is time, now, sir, that we took care not to be ashamed of the enemy in

the gate."

"Please don't preach, father," said the young man, in a tone of

protestation.

The Rector paid no attention to his words, but went on--

"Let me ask you first," he said, "one question."

"Go on," said the young man, for his father had stopped.

"Has Miss Portlock accepted your attentions?"

There was a pause here. "I say, Cyril, has Miss Portlock accepted your

attentions?"

"Matter of confidence," replied the young man. "Question I would rather

not answer."

"Then she has not," said the Rector, quickly, "and I am very, very

glad."

"Why, father?"

"Because, as I have told you before, she is receiving the attentions of

Mr Luke Ross."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Cyril, flushing. "That's all off now."

"I heard something of the kind; but what do you mean? Have they

quarrelled?"

"Oh, no. Old Portlock wouldn't have it: and quite right, too. Girl

like that to be engaged to such a clod!"

"Cyril," said his father, angrily, "I would to heaven that I had as good

a son."

"Complimentary to your boys, sir. Let's see, he threw you over very

shabbily about the school, didn't he?"

"He declined the post, certainly."

"Then even Mr Luke Ross is not perfect, sir."

"I am not going to criticise his conduct over that matter, sir, beyond

saying that he had no doubt good reasons for declining the post. On

further consideration I think he was right, for unless he felt his heart

to be in his work, he would have been wrong to venture upon binding

himself to the school."

"Most worthy young man, I've no doubt," said Cyril, with a sneer.

"A young man for whom I entertain a great respect," retorted the Rector.

"One of those highly respectable young men who push their way on in the

world," sneered Cyril.

"And often become great with the poorest of means for pushing their

way," said the Rector, "while those well started miserably fail."

"Oh, yes; I know 'em," said Cyril. "One reads of them in the nice

books. Bah! I haven't patience with the prigs; and as for this Luke

Ross," he cried, with the colour burning as two spots in his cheeks, "I

look upon him as one of the most contemptible cads under the sun. You

talk of wishing that you had such a son, father! Why the fellow is

utterly beneath our notice."

"Why?" said his father, in a sharp, incisive tone.

"Why?" replied Cyril. "Because he is."

"A pitiful reply," said the Rector, angrily. "Can you give me a better

reason for your dislike to Luke Ross?"

"Not I. He is not worth it."

"Then I'll give you one," replied the Rector. "The true one, Cyril,

though it cuts me to the heart to have to speak so to my son, and before

the mother who has worshipped him from his birth."

"Oh, Eli, pray, pray spare me this," cried Mrs Mallow, supplicatingly.

"No," he said, "I have been silent too long--I have given way too much.

It is time I spoke out with no uncertain sound. Cyril, you hate this

man because he is your rival in the affections of a good, true girl.

Your anger has taught me so far, and I rejoice thereat. Your suit has

been without success. You teach me, too, that you would stop at

nothing, even blackening your rival's character, to gain your ends; but

this must not be. I look upon Sage Portlock as in my charge, and I tell

you, once and for all, that you must stop this disgraceful pursuit. I

say that it shall not go on."

"And how will you stop it, sir?" cried Cyril, springing to his feet,

while the mother lay back with clasped hands.

"I don't know yet, but stop it I will," cried Mr Mallow. "You shall

disgrace your mother and sisters no longer--insult Miss Portlock no more

by your pursuit."

"Insult her?"

"Yes, sir, insult her. She is too good and pure-hearted a girl for her

affections to be tampered with by such a heartless fellow as you."

"Eli, Eli," moaned Mrs Mallow, but her cry was unnoticed by the angry

men.

"Tampered with! Heartless! Bah! You do not know what you are saying."

"I know, my son, that the time has come for me to strike. You must

leave here, and at once. Sage Portlock is not for you. If you do not

know your position in life and your duty to your class, you must be

taught."

"Then hear me now," cried the young man, defiantly. "Luke Ross is no

rival of mine, for he has never won Sage Portlock's heart. That belongs

to me; and as to duty, caste, and the like, let them go to the devil.

Have her I will, in spite of you all, and--"

"Silence, sir!" cried the Rector, beside himself with passion--the rage

kept down for years; and he caught his son by the throat. "Man grown--

no, you are a boy--a child, whom I ought to soundly thrash for your

disobedience and shame. Son? you are no son of mine."

"Loose me, father," cried the young man. "I will not bear this. Loose

me, I tell you."

Father and son had forgotten themselves, and in those brief moments of

their struggle a strange blindness had come over them. They swayed to

and fro, a little table covered with china was overset with a crash,

and, at last, getting one hand free, Cyril clenched his fist and struck

out fiercely, just as a wild and piercing scream rang through the room.

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

WHERE CYRIL WENT.

Mrs Mallow's cry of horror as, after struggling for the first time for

many years into an upright posture, she fell back, fainting, had the

effect of bringing father and son back to their senses. Another second

and Cyril's clenched hand would have struck down the author of his

birth; but at that cry his arm fell to his side, and he stood there

trembling with excitement as the Rector quitted his hold, and flung

himself upon his knees by the couch.

He rose again on the instant to obtain water and the pungent salts which

were close at hand, striving with all the skill born of so many years'

attendance in a sick room to restore the stricken woman to her senses.

Frank had already left the house, but the cry brought Julia and Cynthia

into the room.

"Oh, mamma, mamma!" wailed Julia, and she too busied herself in trying

to revive the stricken woman.

Not so Cynthia, who took in the situation at a glance, and burst into a

passion of sobs, which she checked directly, and with flushed face and

flashing eyes she crossed to her brother.

"This is your doing," she cried; "you will kill mamma before you've

done; and Harry might have been here and heard all this. Cyril, I hate

you; you're as wicked as Frank;" and to her brother's utter astonishment

she struck him sharply in the face.

"Little fool!" he growled fiercely, as he caught her by the wrist, but

only to fling her off with a contemptuous laugh. He made no motion to

help, but stood with frowning brow and bitter vindictive eye watching

his parents alternately; but though he went to and fro many times, and

passed close to his son, the Rector never once looked at him, seeming

quite to ignore his presence there.

Constant efforts had their due effect at last, for the unhappy mother

uttered a low wailing cry, and then, as her senses returned and she

realised her position, she began to sob bitterly, clinging to her

husband as he knelt by her, bending his face down upon her hands as he

held them tightly in his own.

From where Cyril stood he could see his father's face, that it was

deadly pale, and that his lips were moving rapidly as if in prayer, and

thus all stayed for some little time, till the laboured sobbing of the

invalid died off into an occasional catching sigh.

At last she unclosed her eyes, to fix them appealingly upon her son, her

lips moving, though no audible words followed; but the look of appeal

and the direction of her pathetically expressive eyes told her wishes as

she glanced from Cyril to the carpet beside her couch--told plainly

enough her wishes, and the young man read them aright--that he should

come there and kneel down at his father's side.

"Not I," he muttered. "The old madman! How dare he raise his hand to

me like that!"

He thrust his hands in his pockets and remained there with a look

mingled of contempt and pity upon his face as he watched the prostrate

figure of his father, while, as his mother's appealing eyes were

directed to him again and again, he merely replied to the dumbly-uttered

prayer by an impatient shake of the head.

At last the Rector raised his eyes, and as he met his wife's agonised

look, he smiled gently, and then bent over her and kissed her brow.

"It is passed, my love," he whispered. "God forgive me, I did not think

I could have sunk so low."

Julia passed her arm round her sister, and drew her to the window, to

lay her head upon her shoulder and weep silently and long.

"Cyril," said the Rector, in a broken voice, as he rose and stood before

his son, "you have tried me hard, but I have done wrong. My temper

gained the better of me, and I have been praying for strength to keep us

both from such a terrible scene again. Come down with me to the study,

and let us talk of the future like sentient men. God forgive me, my

boy; I must have been mad."

He held out his trembling hands, and Cyril saw that he was evidently

labouring under great emotion, as he absolutely humiliated himself

before his son, his every look seeming to ask the young man's

forgiveness for that which was past. But Cyril's anger was, if not

hotter, more lasting than his father's, and rejecting the offer of peace

between them, he swung round upon his heels and strode out of the room.

For a few minutes there was absolute silence, as mother and father gazed

at the door through which the son had passed. Then, with a piteous sob,

Mrs Mallow exclaimed--

"Oh, Eli, Eli, what have we done?"

"Commenced the reaping of the crop of weeds that are springing up in our

sons' neglected soil. Laura, I have tried to be a good father to our

boys, but my weakness seems to stare me now in the face. I have been

fond and indulgent, and now, Heaven help me, I have been weaker than

ever in trying to amend the past by an outbreak of foolish violence."

"Go to him; ask him to come back," sobbed the mother.

"Did I not humble myself to him enough?" said the Rector, with a

pathetic look at his wife.

"Yes, yes, you did," she wailed; "but this is all so dreadful. Eli, it

will break my heart."

"And yet I ought to be strong and stern now, sweet wife," he said

tenderly. "Authority has long been thrown to the winds. Had I not

better strive hard to gather up the reins and curb his headlong course?"

"It will break my heart," the unhappy woman sobbed. "It is so

dreadful--so horrible to me, love. Eli, husband--my patient, loving

husband, bring him back to me or I shall die."

"I will fetch him back, Laura," said the Rector, softly, as he bent down

once more and kissed the cold, white forehead of his wife.

Then, rising with a sigh, he softly moved towards the door, turning once

to smile at the troubled face he left behind.

As he turned, the suffering woman held out her arms, and he walked back

quietly to sink upon his knees by her side.

"Pray," she said, softly. "Pray for help and guidance in this storm."

And once more there was silence in the room.

"He is our boy," whispered Mrs Mallow, as the Rector rose. "Be patient

with him, Eli, and all will yet be well. Indeed, indeed, he is good and

true of heart. See how tenderly he waits on me."

"Just for a minute, now and then," the Rector thought; "and only when it

does not clash with some selfish object of his own." And then he fell

to thinking of his own years upon years of constant watchfulness and

care, and smiled sadly as he saw how that at times the little far

outshone the great.

But nothing in his countenance betokened aught but the tenderest

sympathy and love for her he was leaving behind, as, once more going to

the door, the Rector passed through, and descended to his study, leaving

Mrs Mallow weeping in her daughters' arms.

Here he shut himself in for a few minutes, and rapidly paced the floor,

holding his hands the while to his rugged brow.

"It is too much--it is too much!" he groaned, panting with the great

emotion to which his soul was prey. "If it was not for my girls! If it

was not for my girls!"

Then he threw himself into his chair, and sat leaning forward with his

fingers seeming to be driven into the soft padding of the arms, which he

clutched with fierce vehemence.

But by degrees the gust of passion passed over, leaving him calm and

cool as, once more rising, he smoothed his countenance, and went out of

the room in search of Cyril.

He was not in the dining-room, nor yet in the little room where he was

in the habit of sitting to read and smoke, while the state of the garden

was not such as to induce him to wander there.

The Rector went up softly to his son's room, but without finding him;

and at last he went into the dining-room and rang the bell.

"Where is Mr Cyril?" the Rector asked.

"He went out about half-an-hour ago, sir."

"With Mr Frank?"

"No, sir; Mr Frank went out before that."

"Did he say what time he would be back?"

"No, sir; but Williams came in just now, sir, with Lord Artingale's mare

for Miss Cynthia."

"Yes?"

"And said he met Mr Cyril in the lane leading to Kilby Farm."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, sir; and he was walking up and down as if he expected somebody to

come."

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

AN INTERRUPTION.

From the way in which people talk of the tender passion it might be

supposed to be one long dream of bliss; but a little examination of

other people's hearts, and the teachings of the knowledge thus obtained

with the experience of years, will go far to show that it is as often as

not very far from being a dream, being, in fact, a time of misery,

disappointment, and oftentimes of despair.

The earlier days of Sage Portlock's maidenhood had glided peacefully

away. She had had her troubles and annoyances like the rest of the

world, but they were little, and barely ruffled the even current of her

life.

She had been troubled somewhat over her sister's love affair with Frank

Mallow, and had been Rue's confidante. Now that stormy time had passed

away, and she had smiled over the wedding with John Berry, and

laughingly accepted her position of Aunt Sage to the two little children

that were born.

Luke Ross had been her playmate till a tenderer attachment had sprang up

as girlhood passed into womanhood, and the boy became a thoughtful man.

There was a thrill of pride ready to run through her, making the colour

suffuse her cheeks, as she knew that she was loved; and with the thought

came a proud elation that made her feel happier than she believed she

had ever felt before.

But that was all. She loved Luke, she told herself, very dearly, and

some day she would be his wife; but she felt happy enough when he went

away to London, and somehow, though she used to consider that she was

the happiest of women, his calm, trusting letters did not seem to awaken

any echoes in her heart; while hers to him were pleasant little bits of

gossipping prattle, ending with "the dear love of yours very, very

affectionately, Sage."

Yes, she was very fond of Luke, she used to say to herself, and by and

by they would be so happy together; but she felt in no hurry for by and

by to come. Existence was very pleasant as it was, and once she was

back in Lawford from the training institution and engaged in the school,

she seemed to wish for nothing more.

Luke Ross wrote, and twice during his absence there he came home, and

they had very pleasant walks and chats, and were very boy-and-girlish

together, laughing away till a serious fit would come on, when they

discussed the future, the cost of housekeeping, and she laughed merrily

again at the idea of being Luke's little housekeeper and wife.

But there was no passionate attachment on her side--no tears at meeting

or at parting. All was wonderfully matter-of-fact. She was very happy,

she felt, and she could see that Luke was, and what more could she

desire?

Then came the change, and Sage was face to face with the fact that she

had promised herself to a man for whom she had never entertained a

warmer feeling than that of friendship, or the love of a sister for

brother, and that at last she had found her fate.

Was it a feeling of rapturous delight?

Far from it; for from that day her nights were sleepless, and too often

her pillow was wet with the hot tears of her misery and distress.

On the day of the serious quarrel between father and son Sage was in

better spirits than she had been in for some days. A letter had come

from Luke telling her of his progress in London; of his father's

willingness to make him a sufficient allowance for the object he had in

view, a matter which had been settled since he came up, and that he had

taken what his landlord called "chambers" in a legal part of town.

So light-hearted was Sage that day that she laughed over Luke's merry

description of his chambers as being so many square feet of emptiness,

with a cupboard in which he had to sleep.

He gave her a very graphic account of the way in which he had furnished

his rooms, of how he walked into Fleet-street every day to have a chop

for his dinner, and how the woman who made his bed prepared his

breakfast and tea, and then followed a sentence which made Sage laugh

merrily--a laugh that was repeated several times during school hours, to

the great astonishment of the girls.

"And it is wonderful what a very little while half-a-pound of tea seems

to last."

That was the sentence which amused her, and for a time Cyril Mallow

passed from her thoughts.

"What a little time it lasts!" she said merrily, as soon as the school

had been dismissed, and she was putting on her hat. "Poor boy! of

course, he knows nothing at all about housekeeping; and only to think,"

she mused, "how dreadful it must be to go on living every day upon

chops."

She started for home, thinking a great deal of Luke, and telling herself

that the fancies that had of late come into her head were as foolish as

they were wicked, and that now they were dismissed for ever.

What would Mr Mallow himself think of her? What would Mrs Mallow say?

She shivered, and felt that unless she sternly determined never to

think of Cyril again, she could not meet the Rector, who had always been

so kind and fatherly in his ways.

This had been a nasty dream--a day-dream that had come over her,

fostered by Cyril Mallow's looks and ways. For he had followed her

about a great deal; watched for her so that they might meet, and had

constantly been coming up to the farm of an evening, where, though

ostensibly chatting with her uncle, she could not raise her eyes without

encountering his.

She could not have explained it to herself, but somehow Cyril Mallow had

seemed to influence her life, being, as it were, the very embodiment of

sin silently tempting her to break faith with Luke Ross, and think only

of him who had come between.

She told herself constantly, when the thoughts of Cyril Mallow intruded

themselves, that she loved Luke better than ever, and that the coming of

Cyril was hateful to her; but, all the same, there was a strange light

in her eyes whenever she thought of him, and her cheeks would burn and

her pulses flutter.

It was a strange way of hating, but she told herself that it was hate,

and on this particular day the coming of Luke's letter had seemed to

strengthen her, and she began planning what she would say in return; how

she would give him good advice about his housekeeping, say words of

encouragement to him about his studies, and praise his determination.

For was he not striving with all his might; had he not determined upon

this long struggle for position that he might win her?

And how could she do anything but love him? Dear Luke! Indeed she

would be true to him, and write him such encouraging letters--help him

all she could. It was her duty now, for though they were not regularly

affianced with her friends' sanction, she told herself that her promise

to him was sacred.

"Yes," she said, half aloud, as she walked thoughtfully on, "I love Luke

very dearly, and that other was all a bad, feverish kind of dream, and

I'll never think about it more. It was wicked of Mr Cyril, knowing

what he does, and weak of me, and never again--Oh!"

"Did I make you jump, Sage?" said a low voice; and Cyril came from the

gate over which he had been leaning, and jerked the stump of a cigar

away.

"I--I did not see you, Mr Cyril," she said, faintly, and the tears

sprang to her eyes.

"And I frightened the poor little thing, did I? There, I'll be more

careful next time; but, oh, what a while you have been."

"Don't stop me, Mr Cyril," she said, with trembling voice; "I must

hurry home."

"Well, you shall directly; but, Sage, don't please be so hard and cruel

to me. You know how humble and patient I have been, and yet you seem to

be one day warm, the next day cold, and the third day hot and angry with

me. What have I done?"

"I do not understand you, Mr Cyril," she said, trying to speak sternly,

and walking on towards the farm.

"Then I will speak more plainly," he said, suddenly dropping the

bantering tone in which he had addressed her for one full of impassioned

meaning. "Sage, I love you with all my heart, and when you treat me

with such cruel coldness, it makes me half mad, and I say to you as I

say now, what have I done?"

"Oh, hush! hush!" she panted. "You must not speak to me like that. Mr

Cyril, I beg--I implore you--never to address me again. You know--you

must know--that I am engaged to Mr Ross."

"Engaged to Mr Ross!" he said, bitterly. "It is not true. There is no

engagement between you."

"It is true," she panted, hurrying on, and trembling for her weakness,

as she felt how strongly her heart was pleading for him, who kept pace

with her, and twice had laid his hand, as if to stop her, upon her arm.

"I have your aunt's assurance that it is not true," he continued; "and I

have hoped, Sage, I have dared to believe, that you were not really fond

of this man."

"Mr Cyril, I beg--I implore you to leave me," she cried.

"If I left you now," he said, hoarsely, "feeling what I feel, knowing

what I know, it would be to plunge into some miserable, reckless course

that might end who can say how? What have I to live for if you refuse

me your love?"

"How can you be so cruel to me?" she cried, angrily. "You insult me by

these words, Mr Cyril I am alone, and you take advantage of my

position. You know I am engaged to Mr Ross."

"I do not," he retorted, passionately. "I do not believe it; and I

never will believe it till I see you his wife. His wife!" he continued.

"It is absurd. You will never be Luke Ross's wife. It is impossible."

"I will not--I cannot--talk to you," she cried, increasing her pace. It

was on her lips to add, "I dare not"; but she checked herself in time,

as she glanced sidewise at him, for with a feeling of misery and

despair, strangely mingled with pleasure, she felt that all her good

resolutions were being swept away by her companion's words, and, in an

agony of shame and dread lest he should read her thoughts, she once more

hurried her steps.

"You cannot throw me off like that," he said, bitterly. "I will not be

pitched over in this contemptuous manner. Only the other day you looked

kindly and tenderly at me."

"Oh no, no, no," she cried, "it is not true."

"It is true enough," he said, sadly, "and I mean to be patient. I

cannot believe you care for this man. It is impossible, and I shall

wait."

"No, no, Mr Cyril," she pleaded. "I can never listen to such words

again. Think of your father and your mother. Mr Mallow would never

forgive me if he knew I had listened to you like this."

"Let him remain unforgiving, then," cried Cyril. "As for my mother, she

loves her son too well not to be ready to do anything to make him

happy."

"Pray, pray go," she moaned.

"No," he said, sternly, "I will not go. You torture me by your

coldness, knowing what you do. Do you wish to drive me to despair?"

"I wish you to go and forget me," she cried, with spirit. "As a

gentleman, Mr Cyril, I ask you, is such a course as this manly?"

He was silent for a few moments, glancing at her sidewise the while.

"No," he said, "it is neither manly nor gentlemanly, but what can you

expect from a miserable wretch against whom all the world seems to turn?

Always unsuccessful--always hoping against hope, fighting against fate,

I find, now I come home, that the little girl I always thought of when

far away has blossomed into a beautiful woman. How, I know not, but I

wake to the fact that she has made me love her--idolise her--think of

her as the very essence of my being."

"Mr Cyril," pleaded Sage; but he kept on.

"A new life appears to open out to me, and my old recklessness and

misery seem to drop away. I waken to the fact that there is something

to live for--something to rouse me to new effort, and to work for as an

earnest man should work. I did not seek her out; I did not strive to

love her," he continued, as if speaking to some one else; "but her love

seemed to come to me, to enweave itself with my every thought."

"I will not listen," panted Sage, but her heart whispered, "Luke never

spoke to me like that."

"I fought against it for a time," he went on, dreamily, "for I said to

myself this would be wronging her. She is engaged to another, and I

should only make her unhappy and disturb the even tenor of her ways."

"Which you have done," she cried, in piteous tones.

"Do not blame me," he said, softly. "I fought hard. I swore I would

not think of you, and I crushed down what I told myself was my mad love

within my breast; but when, by accident, I found that I was wrong, and

that no engagement existed between you and Luke Ross--"

"But there is, there is," she cried. "Once more, Mr Cyril, pray leave

me."

"A few mere words of form, Sage. You do not love this man; and,

besides, your relatives have not given their consent. Oh, listen to me.

Why should you condemn me to a life of reckless misery? You know how I

have been drifting for years without an anchor to stay me. You are that

anchor now. Let me cling to you for my father's, my mother's sake; for

if you cast me off, continue this cruel wrong, you drive me once more

from home, to go floating aimlessly, without a chance of becoming a

better man. You cannot be so harsh."

"I cannot listen to you," she murmured. "I tell you," he cried, "that

if you cast me off you condemn me to a life of misery and despair.

Sage, dear Sage," he cried, catching her hand, "I have been wild and

foolish, but I have the making in me of a better man. Help me to live

aright. You are so good, and pure, and sweet--so wise and gentle. Be

my guide and helpmate, and those at home will bless you. Am I always to

plead in vain?"

"How can I look Luke Ross in the eyes again if I listen to such words as

these?"

"Luke Ross? Am I to stand idly by and let Luke Ross, the cold, careless

cynic, snatch you from my arms?"

"How dare you speak of him like that?" she cried, angrily. "He is all

that is wise and good."

"And worships you so dearly that he has gone away for three years, at

least, to prove to you his love."

"It is a great act of noble forbearance," she said, proudly, "and you

slander him by your words."

"I hope I do," he said; "but they were wrung from me by my misery and

suffering. But no, I will not believe you can be so cruel to me. I

know that I may hope."

They were nearing the gate leading into the great home field, and Sage,

trembling and agitated to a terrible degree, hurried on, feeling that,

once within sight of the house, Cyril Mallow would leave her. Her mind

was confused, and the struggle going on between duty and inclination was

terrible; while the knowledge that she was so weak and yielding towards

her companion half maddened her for the time.

"Why do you hurry on so?" he pleaded. "Am I to be driven away? Am I to

leave home, and go anywhere that fate may drift me?"

"Oh, no, no, no," she moaned. "This is too cruel to me. Pray, pray

leave me now."

"Then I may hope?"

"No," she cried, with a fresh accession of strength, as she laid her

hand upon the gate; "I have promised to be Luke Ross's wife."

"His you shall never be," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "You do not

love him, and you shall not fling yourself away. Sage, you shall be

mine, and--"

"Well, young man, are you obliged to whisper what you say to my niece?

Come, Sage, my girl, it's time you were indoors."

"Uncle!" cried Sage, joyously, as she sprang to his side with a sigh of

relief.

"Yes, my girl," he said, coldly, "it is uncle;" and he stuck his thistle

staff down into the soft earth, and leaned his hands upon the round top.

"You can go on," he continued; "I'm not coming home yet."

"But, uncle," she cried, excitedly.

"Go home, my lass," he said, imperatively.

"Yes, dear," she half sobbed; "but you will not--"

"I say go home!" he shouted; and, with a low wail, she turned off, and

walked hurriedly towards the farm, her uncle standing watching her,

while Cyril Mallow coolly took a cigar-case from his breast pocket,

opened it, carefully selected a cigar, picking, choosing, and returning

one after the other till he had found one to his fancy, when he snapped

to the case once more and thrust it back in his pocket, afterwards

biting off the cigar-end and proceeding to light it with a fusee that

evinced a strong dislike to burst into sparks and then smoulder away.

As he did this, however, he kept glancing furtively at the Churchwarden,

who was watching the retiring form of Sage, her troubled mien winning a

glance or two from Cyril as well.

The cigar burned badly, and had to be lit again, this time being watched

by the Churchwarden with a kind of good-humoured contempt for the man

who could smoke those rolls of tobacco-leaf in place of an honest pipe.

At last the cigar drew freely, and the eyes of the two men met.

"I'm in for another row now," said Cyril, to himself. "Awkward; very.

Never mind; I don't care."

"Now, young man," said Portlock, at last, in a very short, blunt

fashion, "it seems to me that you and I had better have a few words

together of a sort."

"When and where you please," said Cyril, carelessly.

"Let's walk along here, then," said the Churchwarden, pointing down the

lane with his thistle staff.

"Away from the farm, eh?" thought Cyril. "All right, old friend." Then

aloud, "Whichever way you please, sir."

"I didn't know things had gone so far as this," continued the

Churchwarden, leading the way. "People say that you are the idlest chap

in these parts; but it seems to me that, with the work thou likest, thou

canst be as busy as the best."

Cyril flushed a little, and bit his lip, for he told himself that he was

a gentleman, and the farmer was making far too free in his way of

address; but he checked his annoyance, and said quietly--

"Perhaps, sir, you will kindly explain what you mean." Then, after a

furtive glance at the stern, angry-looking man, he muttered to himself--

"You dare not strike me; and, as to your words, say what you like--

little Sage is mine."

"Now, sir," exclaimed Sage's uncle, after a few moments' pause, "will

you have the goodness to explain the meaning of the scene I have just

witnessed?"

"Explain, sir?" said Cyril, coolly; "surely it needs no explanation. I

am young, and of one sex; Miss Portlock is young and of the other sex,

and a mutual attachment has sprung up."

"Mutual!"

"Well, yes; I hope so, sir. Perhaps, though, I ought to be content with

alluding to my own feelings."

"Humph! Your own feelings, eh? And pray does Mr Cyril Mallow mean to

say that he has become attached to my niece?"

"Certainly he does, sir. You are not surprised?"

"But I am surprised," said the farmer, angrily, "and I am very glad to

have witnessed what I did before the mischief went further. Now, look

here, Mr Cyril Mallow, I am a man of business, and when I have an

unpleasant matter to tackle I go straight to it at once."

"A very good plan," said Cyril, calmly.

"I'm glad you think so, sir," said the Churchwarden, ironically. "And

now, if you please, we'll walk straight up to the rectory."

"What for?" cried Cyril, who was startled by his words.

"What for? Why to talk this matter over with your father."

"But suppose he does not approve of the engagement, Mr Portlock?" said

Cyril, who was taken somewhat aback by this very prompt way of treating

the affair.

"Approve? Whoever thought he would approve, sir? Of course he does

not, any more than I do. What I want is for you to be given to

understand in a quiet way that it is time you gave up visiting at my

place, and hanging about to catch sight of my little girl, when she is

leaving or going to the school."

"Mr Portlock!" exclaimed Cyril, haughtily.

"Mr Cyril Mallow!" cried the Churchwarden. "Now just look here, sir.

If I were one of your set, should you be making approaches to my niece

in the way you have? Not you: it would not be considered proper.

Aunt's and uncle's consent would be asked first; but as I'm only a

farmer, I'm hardly worth notice. It seems that my little lassie has

taken your fancy, and so you come running after her; but not a word to

me."

"But hear me a minute," protested Cyril.

"No, sir; nor yet half a minute. A farmer's a man, if he is not what

you call a gentleman, and thinks as much of his people as the highest in

the land. I dare say, in your high and mighty way, as our rector's son,

and a gentleman who has been at college, you think you are stooping to

notice my niece; so let me tell you, once for all, I don't think you

are; and, what's more, it will be a far better man than you have shown

yourself to be who gets my consent to make her his wife."

"I can assure you, Mr Portlock--" began Cyril; but the farmer would not

hear him. He was thoroughly angry, and his face flushed up a deep red.

"And I can assure you, sir, that I want no such reckless, idling fellow

seeking after my niece. We had bother enough when your brother was

after Sage's sister. I tell you, then, plainly, once for all, that I

won't have it; so don't show your face at my place again."

He turned sharply round and strode off, leaving Cyril mortified and

angry; for, in his way, he had felt that he was stooping, and falling

away from his position, in noticing the little schoolmistress, so that

this sharp rebuff came like a rude shock to his feelings, and made the

end at which he aimed seem less likely to be achieved.

"Confound his insolence!" he cried, as he saw the broad back of the

farmer disappearing through his own gate. "It is too bad to be borne."

But in a few minutes' time, as he walked slowly homeward, he began to

smile and think over his position.

"Let him talk and speak loud," he said. "I thought he was going to

threaten me once. What does it matter? My father is dead against it,

and he and Master Portlock will make common cause against me. But what

does it matter when Aunt Portlock is on my side, and little Sage is as

good as won? Then, as to madame, my poor mother? Pish! she will refuse

me nothing. So, Master Churchwarden, I have three women on my side, and

the game is mine, do what you like."

He walked on a little way, amusing himself the while by thinking of the

divided sides, and how much stronger his must be.

"Let them fight us," he said, laughing. "We shall be four to two, and

we must win; but stay, I had forgotten another enemy--Master Luke Ross.

Poor fellow!" he said, contemptuously, "his chance against me is about

the value of _nil_."

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AFTER A PIPE.

Mrs Portlock was in the great kitchen of the farm as Sage hurried

through, and she stared with astonishment at the girl's excited way.

"Why, heyday! Sage--" she began.

"Don't stop me, aunt," cried Sage, excitedly; and, running up-stairs,

she shut herself in the room, threw herself upon her knees by her bed,

and covered her face with her hands, sobbing as if her heart would

break.

"She's been having a quarrel with him," said Mrs Portlock to herself,

"or she wouldn't take on like that: They must be getting on then, or

they wouldn't quarrel."

Mrs Portlock paused here to go and scold one of the maids for picking

out all the big lumps of coal and leaving the small, but she came back

into the kitchen to think about her niece.

"He's a deal better than Luke Ross," she said to herself, "for Luke's

only a tradesman after all. There's no mistake about it, he means our

Sage; and where, I should like to know, would he find a better girl?"

There was a pause here, during which Mrs Portlock indulged in a few

retrospects concerning Rue, and the time when she was in such trouble

about Frank.

"But Cyril is a better disposed young man than his brother, I am sure,"

she said, half aloud. "He is his mother's favourite too. I wonder what

Mrs Mallow will say!"

Mrs Portlock said this aloud, and then stopped short, alarmed at her

own words, for she called up the face of the calm, dignified Rector

entering the place, looking at her reproachfully, and ready to blame her

for her assumption in encouraging his son's visits.

"Oh, my gracious!" she ejaculated, half in horror, for her imagination

for the time began to run riot, and she saw that, even if Cyril Mallow

was very fond of Sage, and even if Sage returned his love, matters would

not run quite so smoothly as she had anticipated.

"I'm sure she's as good as he," she exclaimed, by way of indignant

protest to the accusations of her conscience; but, all the same, she was

now brought face to face with the consequences of her tacit

encouragement of Cyril Mallow's visits.

"And I'm sure we're as well off as they are," she added, after a pause.

But, all the same, her conscience would not be quieted, and Mrs

Portlock was on the point of going up to her niece's room, when, with a

fresh qualm of dread, though she hardly knew why, she saw her husband

come striding up toward the house.

Meanwhile Sage's breast was racked by conflicting emotions, chief

amongst which was that suggested by a self-accusation from her wounded

heart; and she knelt there, sobbing and praying for help, feeling that

she was intensely wicked, and that the hopeless misery of her case was

greater than she could bear.

Her mind was in a chaos, and she shuddered as she clung to the coverlet,

and dragged it over her drawn and excited face, as one moment it was the

stern, reproachful figure of Luke Ross asking her if this was her

faith--this the meaning of her tender, loving letters--this the reward

of his chivalrous determination to give up everything to the one idea of

making himself a worthy suitor with her relatives; the next it was

Cyril, gazing at her with despairing eyes, which seemed to say that if

she cast him off he should drift recklessly through the world, and come

to some bad end; while, did she bless him with her love, he would become

a worthy member of society, a happy man, and one of whom she could feel

so proud.

Then her heart began to plead for him so hard that she trembled, for she

seemed to be awakening, as it were, into a new life, and her dread

increased as she more fully realised the power Cyril Mallow had gained

over her. She fought hard, and set up barrier after barrier, called up

by her intense desire to be honourable and true to her trust. But as

fast as she set these up they seemed to be swept away; and, as the

excitement brought on by her misery increased, she felt ready to cry

aloud to Luke to come back to her and protect her from Cyril Mallow and

from her own weak self.

"Sage! Sage!"

It was her uncle's voice calling up the stairs--a voice by which she

could interpret every mood of his spirit; and she knew now that he was

very angry.

"Sage!" came again in a voice of thunder, and so full of impatience that

she was forced to cross to the door, open it, and answer.

"I want my tea," came up in an angry roar.

It was in Sage's heart to say she was too unwell to come down, but in

her then agitated state she could only falter that she would not be a

minute, and, hastily bathing her eyes and smoothing her hair, she

descended, pale and trembling, to where her aunt was looking very white

and startled, and her uncle walking up and down the old-fashioned

parlour, impatient for his evening meal, one of which he would rarely

partake unless his niece was there to attend to his wants.

The Churchwarden's lips parted, and he was about to speak out angrily,

but the woe-begone looks of the girl silenced him.

"I'll have a cup of tea first, and do it over a pipe," he said to

himself. Then aloud--

"Come, my girl, I'm hungry; it's past tea-time," and he took his place

at the foot of the table, the others seating themselves, after

exchanging a scared glance; and then the meal went on much as usual,

only that Mrs Portlock tried to calm herself by constant applications

to the teapot, while, in spite of her efforts, Sage could hardly partake

of a morsel, for the food seemed as if it would choke her.

"Come, come, lass, you don't eat," her uncle kept saying; and the poor

girl's struggles to keep back her tears were pitiable.

But at last the weary meal came to an end, and as the table was cleared

both aunt and niece grew hopeful, for the Churchwarden's brow was less

rugged as he went to the ledge where his pipe lay, took the tobacco-box

placed at his elbow by his niece, and calmly proceeded to fill his pipe.

"Don't look so frightened, Sage," whispered her aunt. "He won't say any

more now."

"Yes, I shall," cried the farmer gruffly, for his hearing seemed to have

become preternaturally sharpened. "Wait till the rooms clear."

The troubles of that one afternoon seemed to have wrought quite a change

in Sage, for as, according to her custom, she took a folded spill from

the mantelshelf, and lit it ready to hold to her uncle's pipe, her eyes

looked wild and dilated, while her usually rounded cheeks seemed quite

hollowed, giving her a wild, haggard aspect, such as is seen in one

newly risen from a bed of sickness.

"Yes, I'm going to talk seriously to both of you," continued the

Churchwarden; "but I'm not going into a passion, now. That's over. Get

your work, both of you, and sit down."

The trembling women obeyed, after exchanging quick glances; Mrs

Portlock's being accompanied by a movement of her lips, which Sage

interpreted to be "I can't help it."

The work-baskets were brought to the table, and as the Churchwarden sat

placidly smoking and staring at the fire, the sharp _twit_ of needle

against thimble was heard in the stillness, which was not otherwise

broken till the farmer took his pipe from his lips and uttered a stern--

"Now then."

Sage started quickly back from where her thoughts had wandered after

Cyril Mallow, whom in imagination she had just overtaken and brought

back from a wandering life, to bless him and make him happy, while Luke

Ross had forgiven her, and every one was going to be happy once again.

"Hold your tongue, mother," said the farmer, sharply. "I've given you a

bit of my mind."

"Indeed, you have," she cried, querulously, "and, I must say, soon--"

"No, you mustn't," he shouted. "I'm going to talk this time. You

generally do all that; but it's my turn now."

"Oh, just as you like, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, in an ill-used,

protesting tone; "but I must say--"

"No, you mustn't," he cried again, bringing his hand down heavily upon

the table with such an effect upon his wife, whose nerves were still

shaken by the verbal castigation she had received before tea, that she

started from her chair, hesitated a moment, and then ran sobbing out of

the room.

For a moment the Churchwarden sat frowning. Then he half rose as if to

call her back, but directly after he subsided into his place, and sat

frowning sternly at his niece.

"Let her go," he said. "I've said my mind to her. Now I want to talk

to you."

Sage hesitated, with her work in her hand; then, letting it fall, she

went to the other side of the table and knelt down, resting her elbows

upon her uncle's knees, and gazing appealingly in his face.

The Churchwarden in his heart wanted to clasp her in his arms and kiss

her pale, drawn face, but he checked the desire, and, putting on a

judicial expression--

"Now," he exclaimed. "So you are playing fast and loose with Luke

Ross?"

"No, uncle," she replied, softly.

"What do you call it, then? Of course there is no engagement between

you, but Luke expects that some day you will be his wife."

"Yes, uncle."

"And as soon as his back is turned, I find you encouraging this fellow,

Cyril Mallow."

"No, indeed, uncle, I have not," cried Sage.

"I don't be--"

He stopped, for there was something in his niece's eyes which checked

him.

"Well, it looks very bad," he said; "and one thing is very evident--he,

after a fashion, thinks of you, and he has the impudence to say that you

care for him."

"Oh!"

It was more like a sigh than an ejaculation, and Sage's eyes seemed to

contract now with pain.

"I've given aunt a good talking to, for she's more to blame than you.

She thinks it a fine thing for the parson's boy to be coming hanging

about here after you, same as Frank did after Rue, and much good came of

it. She had the impudence to tell me that he was a gentleman, while

Luke Ross was only a tradesman's son. As if that had anything to do

with it. `Look here,' I said to her: `whenever our girl weds, it shall

be to some one with a good income, but he shall be a man.' Gentleman,

indeed! If Cyril Mallow is a gentleman, let my niece marry a man who is

nothing of the sort."

Sage's eyes closed, and there was a pitiful, pained expression in her

face that told of the agony of her heart. So troubled was her

countenance that her uncle was moved to pity, and spoke more tenderly.

"I don't like him well enough for you, my girl, even if there were no

Luke Ross in the way. I've sent him off to work for thee, like Jacob

did for Rachel, and if he's the man I think him, some day he'll come

back in good feather, ready to ask thee to be his wife, and you'll

neither of you be the worse for a few years' wait."

Sage's eyes remained closed. "I was going to scold thee," he said,

tenderly, "but my anger's gone, and I'll say but little more, only tell

me this--You don't care a bit for this young spark of the Rector's."

Sage's face contracted more and more, and the Churchwarden cried,

impatiently--"Well, girl, why don't you answer?" She gazed up in his

face with a pleading expression of countenance that startled him, and he

placed his hands upon her shoulders, and looked fully in her eyes.

"Why, Sage!" he cried, "you don't mean--you don't say that you like him

instead of Luke?"

She covered her face with her hands, and burst out into a violent fit of

sobbing.

"I don't know, uncle. I don't know."

"Don't know!" he cried, angrily.

"Pray ask me no more," she cried, as her uncle started from his seat,

thrusting back the chair in the act. She crouched down upon the carpet,

weeping bitterly, for she did know now, though no pressure would have

torn the secret from her heart.

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

JOCK MUSES.

There was a troubled heart at the rectory as well as at the farm, where

Julia Mallow, in spite of having been so far a firm, matter-of-fact

girl, had found her meetings with the wheelwright's big ruffianly

brother make so strong an impression that although she made a brave

effort to cast it all aside as unworthy of her, she was always living

under the idea that this man was at her elbow, ready to meet her with

his intent, half-mocking gaze.

Once or twice she had nervously alluded to it when chatting with her

sister, but Cynthia had merrily told her not to be so silly, for papa

said the man must have just come out of prison, and spoken like that out

of spite.

"Depend upon it, Julie, you'll never see him again."

Julia said nothing, but went to the window of her room, and sat there

reading, and now and then lifting her eyes to gaze out at the pleasant

prospect right across the fields to the ridge about a quarter of a mile

away, beyond which the land sank at once towards Kilby Farm.

The next moment with a faint cry she shrank back, for even at that

distance she seemed to recognise the burly form of the rough fellow,

seen boldly standing out against the sky as he appeared to be crossing

the ridge. Then as she gazed at the figure with starting eyes it went

over the edge of the hill and was gone.

"I shall never dare to go out alone," she said hoarsely. "Heaven help

me! What shall I do?"

This was quite a couple of months after the meeting in the lane, during

all which time the poor girl felt as if she were haunted by the fellow's

presence, and his words were always ringing in her ears.

The time had slipped away, and company had come and gone. The

Perry-Mortons had been down for a second visit, ostensibly for

discussions with the Rector concerning the decorations of the town

house, but Cynthia read it--and told Lord Artingale her reading--that it

was to worm round poor Julia, and that was what papa meant. Didn't he

think it was a shame?

Lord Artingale agreed with her that it was, and between them they

decided in alliance to do all they could to prevent it; but

unfortunately for Julia, this pair of egotists thought of little else

but themselves--thoughts that were varied by a little squabbling when

Cynthia showed what a peppery temper she possessed.

Julia was looking languidly forward to the middle of May, when the town

house was to be ready, and in busy London she felt that she should be

free from the haunting presence which afflicted her so sorely that she

even felt glad of Mr Perry-Morton's poetical rhapsodies as a kind of

protection, though there was something terrible in his presence. In

fact, this gentleman showed his admiration in a way that was painful in

the extreme. He said little, but he loved her with his eyes, and when

Mr Perry-Morton loved he did it in a sculpturesque manner, sitting or

standing in some wonderful position, at a short distance, and then

gloating--no, a Philistine would have gloated--he, one of the chosen of

the Raphaelistic brotherhood, dreamed over his beloved, mentally writing

fleshly poems the while--wondrous visions of rapt joyousness, mingled

with ethereal admiration.

But it wanted a month yet to the time for leaving the rectory, and

though Julia had not seen her horror again, she felt that he was near,

and that at some unexpected moment he would start up, perhaps when she

was alone.

Matters there as regarded Cyril were in abeyance. He was, as he told

himself, playing a waiting game. Sage would have a nice bit of money,

he knew, and he thought it would be a pity to spoil his prospects by

hurried play.

Besides, he was in no hurry, for he had the companionship of Frank, and

together they went a great deal to the King's Head, where there was an

old billiard-table. At other times they drove over to Gatley, where

Lord Artingale placed everything he possessed at their service. There

was a good billiard-table there, horses, and wine, and cigars to their

hearts' content.

Then each had a little private business to attend to, about which they

made no confidences, and rarely interfered with or joked each other, it

being a tacit arrangement that no questions should be asked if Frank was

going over to Lewby for a chat with John Berry, or Cyril had made up his

mind for a stroll down by the wheelwright's, where there were a few dace

to be whipped for in the stream.

Spring had come earlier that year, and while Luke Ross thought the

Temple gardens and the trees in Grey's Inn poor dejected-looking

affairs, down by Lawford everything was looking its best, for Spring's

children were hard at work striving to hide the rusty traces of the

wintry storms.

Early in April the banks and the edges of the woods were, alive with

flowers, glossy-leaved celandines showed their golden stars,

brightly-varnished arums peered up with their purple-spotted spathes and

leaves, the early purple orchids brightened the dark-green here and

there. Clusters of soft pale lilac cuckoo-flowers were springing up

amongst the clumps of catkin-laden hazels, oak saplings with bark like

oxidised silver, and osiers with orange stems and polished silver buds,

while every bank and coppice was sprinkled with sulphur yellow where the

primroses bloomed. There was mating and marrying going on in

feather-land to the blackbird's fluting, and the twittering of many

throats, and one soft, warm day, when the east wind had been driven back

by a balmy breathing from the west and south, Cynthia made a dash at her

sister, and laughingly passed the string of her hat over her head,

thrust a basket in her hand, and led her off to gather violets.

"Let's be little children once again, Julie," she cried. "I want a

rest. It has been nothing but spooning, and nonsense lately with Cyril

and the pretty schoolmistress."

"Papa has been in sad trouble about it lately, Cynthy," said Julia,

thoughtfully.

"Yes, but let's hope it is all over now; I think it is."

"I don't know," said Julia, thoughtfully.

"I think I do," cried Cynthia. "Papa frightened him. But how

wonderfully quiet our dear brother Frank is. I hope he is not hatching

some mischief."

"Don't be uncharitable, Cynthia," said Julia, with a sad smile; "think

the best of your brothers."

"I do try to, Julie, but I'm afraid I'm not very fond of my brothers."

"Cynthia!"

"Well, I'm not, dear. I feel quite ashamed of them sometimes. It's

quite shocking the way they are imposing upon Harry, and he takes it all

so good-naturedly for my sake, but he don't like it I'm sure."

"You are making the worst of it, Cynthy."

"No, I'm not, for Harry--there, I won't talk about it; I'm tired of all

the nonsense, spooning and flirting with Harry and that fat-featured--

oh! why is it rude for a young lady to slap such a fellow's face, Julie?

If you marry that Perry-Morton I'll never speak to you again."

"I shall never marry Mr Perry-Morton," said Julia, dreamily.

"No, no; we don't want to marry any one at all," said Cynthia, merrily.

"Come and let's be children in the wood again. It's heavenly out of

doors, dear. Come along."

Heavenly it was, as they got out of the fields, and struck out through

the woods, where the soft moss was like a carpet beneath their feet, and

the air was redolent with scents and suggestions of the spring. For it

was one of those days, of those very few days, that come early in the

year, when the senses seem to be appealed to, and, in a delicious calm,

the worries and cares of life roll away, and the spirit seems even

troubled with the sweet sense of joy.

The sisters had wandered far, and filled their baskets, but still there

were always fresh blossoms to pluck, odorous violets or primroses, and

delicate scraps of moss or early leaf.

Cynthia was a couple of score yards away from her sister, in the budding

copse, trilling a merry song, as if in answer to the birds, and Julia,

with a bright, happy flush upon her face, was still eagerly piling up

fresh sweets, when a clump of primroses, fairer than any she had yet

gathered, drew her a few yards further amongst the hazel stems.

She was in the act of stooping down to pick them when her flushed face

became like marble, her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she stopped--

leaning forward--motionless--fascinated by what she saw.

And that was the face of Jock Morrison, as he lay amongst the leaves and

flowers, prone upon his chest, his arms folded before him, his chin

resting upon them, and his eyes literally seizing hers, not a yard away.

He did not speak or move, only crouched there, staring at her as if he

were some philosopher trying the effect of the stronger eye upon the

weaker. Neither did Julia speak, but stood there bending down, her eyes

fixed, her body motionless, while you might have counted twenty.

"Julie! Where are you? Coo-ee!" Cynthia's bright young voice broke

the spell, and Julia's eyes closed as she backed slowly away for a few

yards before she dare turn and run towards her sister.

"Oh, there you are, Julie. If I did not think you were in the other

direction! Why, what's the matter? Are you ill?"

"No, no," said Julia, hastily; "I think I am hot; it is tiring out here.

Let us go home; I--I want to get back."

"Why, Julie, you don't come out enough; you are done up directly.

There, come along out into the fields, there's more fresh air there. I

say, did I tell you that we are to go to town next week?"

"No," said Julia, who shivered at every sound in the copse, and glanced

from side to side, as if she expected to be seized at any moment.

"But we are, and I don't know but what I long to be up in London to get

away from Harry Artingale."

"To get away?" said Julia, making an effort to be composed, and

wondering why she had not told her sister what she had seen.

"Yes, I want to get away; for of course," she added, archly, "he will

have to stay down here."

She spoke loudly, and all that had been said and left unsaid appealed

very strongly to the senses of the great fellow in the copse.

Julia need not have felt afraid that he was about to rise up and seize

her; he remained perfectly still for a few moments, and then rolled over

upon his back, laughing heartily, but in a perfectly silent manner,

before having a struggle with himself to drag a short pipe and a

tobacco-pouch out of his pocket.

Filling his pipe quietly, he struck a match and lit it, placed his hands

beneath his head, and stared straight up through the tender green leaves

at the bare sky, while a robin came and perched upon a branch close by,

and kept watching the ruffian with his great round eyes.

"This is jolly," he said, in a bass growl; "better than having places of

your own, and being obliged to work."

Then he smoked for a few minutes before musing once more aloud.

"Women arn't much account," he said, oracularly; "and the younger and

prettier they are, the worse they are."

There was another interval of smoking.

"What a deal a fellow sees by just doing nothing but hang around.

Franky Mallow, eh? Ah, he cuts me now. If I was John Berry, farmer,

I'd cut him, that's what I'd do."

Another interval of smoking.

"Why don't young Serrol," (so he pronounced it) "go after the

schoolmissus now, I wonder? Tired, I spose."

Another smoking interval.

"Hah, if it's because he prefers going down to the ford--"

He stopped short.

"I tell you what it is; if I thought--"

Another pause, during which Jock Morrison made his short pipe still

shorter by biting off a piece of the stem and spitting it out.

"Shall I tell Tom--shan't I tell Tom? Tom don't like me, and tells me

to keep myself to myself. He'd about smash him, that's what Tom would

do, if he knowed, and then he'd be miserable for ever and ever, amen, as

owd Sammy Warmoth used to say."

Another smoking fit.

"She's a good little lass, and the trouble she was in about her bairn

was terrible."

More smoking, and the robin looking wondering on.

"Polly don't like me, but she's a kind-hearted little lass, and has give

me many a hunk of bread and meat unknown to Tom, and I never see but

that she was as square as square."

Another long smoke.

"Master Serrol, eh? Why, of course! She must ha' knowed him when she

lived at parson's. I'll tell Tom."

More smoking, and the pipe of tobacco burned out.

"No, I won't tell Tom," said the big fellow. "If I did he wouldn't

believe me, and it would only make him and Polly miserable too, and I

don't want to do that. I tell you what--if I see Master Serrol go down

there again when Tom's out of the way I'll pretty well break his neck."

He uttered a low chuckling laugh as he lay prone there, catching sight

now of the robin, and chirruping to it as it watched him from its perch.

"Pretty Dick!" he said. "Going up to London, are they? All right!

Anywheres'll do for me, parson. I wonder whether Serrol and Frank'll go

too."

Jock Morrison did not pretty well break Cyril's neck, for a very few

days after Mr Paulby had the full management of Lawford Church again,

the family at the rectory being once more in town.

"It is worse for the boys," said the Rector, "but it will keep Cyril

away from her. I must get him something to do."

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

MR AND THE MISSES PERRY-MORTON "AT HOME."

It was a lovely and sculpturesque attitude, that which was taken up by

the "stained-glass virgins," as James Magnus called them, on the night

of their first "at home" of the season, for at every opportunity, when

not otherwise engaged, they joined their hands together, raised them

over their left or right shoulder, as the case may be, and then drooped

a head against them till an ear just touched the finger-tips, so that

they seemed to be saying their prayers all on one side and writhing over

the _Amens_.

Claudine and Faustine Perry-Morton were thorough types of the ladies who

have of late taught society how to indulge in the reverent worship of

the human form. Their hair was too fearful and wonderful to be

described. The nearest approach possible is to compare it to the gum

mop of some Papuan belle, who had been chivied during her toilet in the

eucalyptus shade, and, consequently, had only managed to get the front

part done.

Since dress is made so great a feature in a modern lady's life, no

excuse is surely needed for saying a few words regarding the costume of

these gifted sisters. A desire is felt to do justice to those robes,

but to give a perfect idea would be extremely difficult.

As it happened, the colour was but one, and it was that of the familiar

household tap-rooted vegetable botanically named _daucus_, but hight the

carrot, when seen reposing in sweetness in a dish.

These dresses were, of course, ingeniously contrived to keep on the

persons they enfolded, but their aspect was as if a length of many yards

of this ruddy orange saffron material had been taken, and one end

fastened to an ivory shoulder with a tin-tack of enormous size, the

other end being held under the foot of some one far away.

Parenthetically, let it be remembered that this is all surmise, as no

doubt the costumes were built by one of the highest authorities in

fashionable garb. But to resume.

The ends of the dress being thus secured upon the shoulder and beneath a

distant foot, it seemed that the lady must then have commenced a slow

movement, revolving gently and winding herself in the web till it formed

a regular--or rather, irregular--spiral bandage from shoulder to ankle,

leaving the long thin arms bare, and, after being secured at the feet,

trailing far behind and spreading out like a fan.

Perry-Morton walked to the fireplace, laid his head sideways against a

large blue plate, which gave him the appearance of a well-fed saint with

an azure halo, closed his eyes like a vicious critic on varnishing day,

and uttered a low sigh full of rapture, after which he seemed to bless

his sisters for giving him a sensation that was perfectly new.

Of the decorations of that suite of rooms it is needless to speak.

Every visitor said they were perfect. Even James Magnus told Lord

Artingale they were not half bad, "only there's too much suggestion of

the kitchen-dresser with the dinner-plates ranged all a-row."

Harry Artingale thought it a polished pantechnicon-inferno till the

Mallows were announced, and then it seemed transformed into a paradise

of delight, where every one walked on air, and the sweet essence of

pretty little Cynthia pervaded all.

For Mr Perry-Morton and the Misses Perry-Morton were "at home," and the

big butler was pretty well occupied in announcing the names called to

him by the footman, who stood down among the azaleas with which the hall

was half filled, ready to open the door and rearrange the roll of

horsehair matting which would keep getting out of place.

Lord Artingale and his artist friend arrived early, Magnus to be

button-holed and taken aside to see his picture hung with a gaslight and

reflector before it, to show it to the best advantage; and yet he was

not grateful, for when he returned to Harry Artingale he growled, as the

latter, who was very light-hearted and happy, said, "like a sore tom"--

cat, of course, understood.

Perry-Morton was standing with his blue china halo behind his head, and

with a fleshly poetic look in his eye; and his sisters were each posed

before a big Benares brown dish, etherealising her lambent curls and

pallid face into virgin and martyr beauty, when the butler announced the

Mallows, the girls looking very natural and charming, and Frank and

Cyril creating quite a sensation with their sunburnt, swarthy faces and

rugged bearing.

"Oh, Claudine," whispered Faustine, "look at Julia," and her sister

uttered a tragic. "Ah!" as she advanced with her brother to receive the

new arrivals.

Certainly Julia looked deadly pale, for as she descended from the

carriage she had caught sight of a great burly fellow bearing a lantern,

which he ostentatiously held low, so that her little pale blue satin

rosetted shoes should not go astray from the carpeted path, and the

sight of his dark eyes had sent the blood rushing to her heart. But

this pallor rather added to than took from her beauty, as, simply

dressed in the palest of pale blue satin, and her throat and arms

wreathed with lustrous pearls, she seemed to stand alone amidst the

throng of strangely grotesque costumes by which she was surrounded.

The sisters changed their key instanter upon seeing the effect produced

upon their brother, whose eyes half closed once more as he greeted his

guests. In fact, he treated the Rector with such deference, that for a

moment it seemed as if he were going to sink upon his knees, and in true

patriarchal style ask for his blessing.

But he did not, neither did he raise Julia's hand to his lips. He

merely beamed upon her rapturously, led her to a seat after the

congratulations of his sisters had had due course, and then, as a kind

of hum went through the rooms, proceeded to hover over his choice.

"A melody in heaven's own azure," whispered Perry-Morton. "Julia, your

costume is perfection."

The pallor on poor Julia's cheeks had been giving place to a vivid

blush, but her host's words and manner once more drove the blood to her

heart, and she sank back upon the lounge, glad to use her fan, for she

thoroughly realised that she was looked upon by all present as the

future mistress of the place.

"Magnus, my dear boy," whispered Artingale, "have you any charity in

your nature?"

"Heaps. Why?"

"Because I want you to go and cut that fellow out. Julia really is a

nice girl."

"Don't be a fool," was the answer, given with such intensity that

Artingale was startled.

"Fool, be hanged! I'm in earnest. Wait a bit, and we'll go up to her

together, and then I'll be off and leave you. You'd stand no end of a

chance, for Cynthia likes you ever so."

"Don't be an ass, Harry," said Magnus, "you seem to be happy enough.

Let the poor little body be."

"Well, I don't want to quarrel," said Artingale, "but if ever a fellow

was a fool or an ass I should think it would be when he turned up his

nose at the chance of winning a little woman who has not been spoiled by

the world."

"Oh, she's nice enough," said Magnus, gruffly. "Are those two brothers

going to marry those stained-glass virgins?" he continued, as Cyril

joined Frank, who was bending impressively towards Faustine.

"I wish to heaven they would," said Artingale, earnestly. "Hang the

brothers! What a thing it is that pretty girls are obliged to have

brothers! At last!--I'm off. There's the telegram."

The message came along a beam of light, and that little bright beam

stretched from Cynthia Mallow's eye to that of the speaker; and the

message was,--

"_You dear stupid old goose, why don't you come_?"

For Artingale had held rather aloof until the fair young hostesses had

withdrawn.

"Why didn't you come before, sir?" said the lady, looking very severely

at her swain.

"I was afraid," he said.

"What, of me, sir?"

"No, no," he whispered, "I've been longing to get near you, but I dared

not. Oh, my little darling, how beautiful you look to-night."

"For shame, Harry; now look here, sir; I will not permit you to be so

familiar. The idea of addressing me in such a strain."

"There," he sighed, "now you are getting on stilts again, and we were so

happy down at Lawford."

"Yes, but that's country, and this is town. We are in society now, sir,

and we must be very proper."

"There, my beautiful little tyrant," he whispered, "I am your slave. I

won't rebel; only reward me sometimes for my patience with a kindly

look."

"Well, if you are very good, perhaps I will," said Cynthia. "But you

did not tell me, Harry, why you were afraid. Ah, that's right, that

tall thin ghost is going to sing, so we can talk."

In effect, a very cadaverous-looking lady, with an exceedingly startled

air, was led by Mr Perry-Morton to the piano, and after he had screwed

his eyes up, glanced round the room, and held up a white finger to

command silence, the thin lady, who evidently purposely lived upon an

unwholesome regimen, to keep herself graceful, fixed her eyes upon one

particular piece of blue china near the corner of the room, and began to

sing.

"Now, sir," whispered Cynthia, "you must not speak loud. Tell me

quietly."

"May I sit down?"

"If that is enough room for you, sir. Now go on."

Artingale would have thought the edge of a knife room enough, so that he

could be near Cynthia, so he sat down in a very uncomfortable position,

and received such a merry, mischievous look that he sighed with content.

"The fact is--oh, murder!"

"Hush, Harry! What is the matter?"

"Would it look rude if I were to cork my ears with glove-fingers,

Cynthy?"

"Of course, sir! For shame! You have no soul for music."

"Not a bit," he whispered; "only when you warble one of those little

ballads of yours, I shut my eyes and wish you were a brook."

"Wish I were a what, you foolish boy?" whispered Cynthia, looking up at

the great _boy_ who towered over her.

"A brook, my darling, to go on for ever," he whispered back so

earnestly, that Cynthia felt a little thrill of pleasure run through

her, and her pretty face became slightly suffused.

"Now you are talking nonsense again," she said. "Oh. I do wish that

dreadful romance would end. Harry, if you speak to me again like that,

I shall send you away. Now, sir, why were you frightened? Did I look

so fierce and majestic?"

"No: only more beautiful than ever."

"Harry!"

"Fact. Well, I'll tell you: Claudine Perry-Morton was by you."

"Well, what of that, sir?"

"And I felt as if I dared not come near in case of an accident."

"An accident, Harry! What, to the gas? Oh fie! what a silly old joke;

you mean her hair would set it alight."

"No, I don't; I don't mind red hair. After yours, it's the prettiest

there is."

"Don't stoop to compliments, sir. Now tell me why you were afraid of an

accident?"

"Why I feel sure that some time or other she'll come undone. Look at

her dress. I wouldn't be there for the world."

"Harry!"

There was a very genuine blush as she looked at him reproachfully; but

her face softened directly as he whispered in such a low, earnest tone

that it thrilled her once more--

"Forgive me, darling, it was too bad, I know; there, we won't talk about

ourselves, I only want to be near you. Let me take you down to supper."

"Would you like to?"

"Yes."

"Very much?"

"Darling!"

What wonderful emphasis an engaged couple can put into their words.

Evidently that last noun uttered by the young fellow opened out a vista

of future bliss to Cynthia, who answered him with a look which was a

perfect bond in its way, engrossed in parchment, sealed, signed,

witnessed, endorsed, and tied with dark-green silk in proper legal

style.

"I haven't been to dear Julie yet," he said.

"What a shame! Go at once, sir."

"No, no; don't send me away at present."

"Well, you must go presently, Harry," she said, softly; "I'm so glad you

are fond of Julie."

"Bless her! I love her very much," he said. "She's the dearest,

sweetest, sisterly little body I ever met. I always feel as if I should

like to kiss her when I shake hands, and her pretty little lips seem to

look up to one so naturally. Cynthy, darling, I often wished I had a

sister, and--and now I'm to have one, am I not?"

"I don't know--perhaps," she said, looking down.

"I told Magnus one day I wished I had a sister for his sake. Thank

goodness the song's done. Let's clap our hands, for joy."

They clapped their hands, as did every one else, but of course not for

joy.

"I like Mr Magnus," said Cynthia, thoughtfully.

"He's the best and truest-hearted fellow in the world," cried Artingale,

enthusiastically.

"And if you had had a sister, what then, sir?"

"I should have made old Magnus marry her."

"Indeed, my lord bashaw! And suppose the lady did not approve?"

"But she would approve. No really sensible girl would refuse Magnus, if

she came to thoroughly know him."

There was silence here, during which a very-pale gentleman with a very

large aquiline nose, which seemed to be his feature, the rest of his

face merely representing base or pedestal, threw his long black hair

behind his ears, and recited a portion of one of Rosetti's poems.

"Harry," said Cynthia then, "go and see Julie now."

"Must I?"

"Please. Poor girl, she is so unhappy; I'm in great trouble about her."

"Poor darling!" he replied.

"You know I told you about our being out in the woods collecting

flowers?"

"Yes."

"And how Julia came upon that great fellow lying amongst the moss and

primroses?"

"Yes; I wish I had been there!" and the young man's teeth gave a grit

together. "But he did not say anything to her?"

"No; only stared in a way that frightened her horribly, and it seemed to

have such an effect upon her when she dragged herself away, that she was

quite ill, and it was hours before I found out what it was."

"Poor child! But she must not think about it. She may never see him

again."

"But she keeps seeing him, so she says. He seems to haunt her. She saw

him in the park again a few days ago."

"But did she see him, or was it fancy?"

"Oh, no, it was not fancy; I saw him too. A great big leering fellow."

"Oh, but it must be stopped; your brothers and I must thrash him."

"And I half think she saw, or fancied she saw, him to-night, for she was

so bright and cheerful when we started, and when we came in she seemed

to have turned to stone."

"Well, poor child, she will soon have a manly protector now," he said,

rather bitterly, as he glanced at where Perry-Morton was hovering over

Julia, while the Rector stood by smiling rigid approval.

"Don't talk like that, Harry," said Cynthia, quietly; "you hurt me."

"Forgive me," he whispered, "but it makes me mad to see your people

ready to sell her to that man."

"Papa thinks it right, and for the best. And it is not selling, Harry,

for papa is rich."

"But surely Julia cannot care for him?"

"She does not say so, but she loathes him, Harry."

"Then why in the name of common sense does she not strike against it, or

fall in love with some trump of a fellow who would stick up for her and

take her part?"

"I wish she would, Harry. But, there, go to her now. She is miserable.

Go and stay with her. Send Mr Magnus to talk to me. No, take him

with you, and let him chat to her about his pictures. Here is Mr

Perry-Morton coming to beam on me, Harry."

"Yes."

"Don't you feel jealous?"

"Horribly," he said, with a look that contradicted his word; and getting

up, he went to where James Magnus was talking to a brother artist about

their host's last purchase, an early specimen of Burne Jones, full of

wonderful realistic trees, and a group of figures, who were evidently

all in pain.

"Here," he whispered, catching him by the sleeve, "I want to take you to

a lady."

"No, no--nonsense. I don't like ladies, Harry."

"Don't be stupid. I want you to come and chat with Julia Mallow, and

take her down to supper. Why, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. There--no. Get some one else."

"Come along, old man. Cynthia sent me. And I say, talk about your

pictures to her. Poor girl, she's miserable. They are trying to hook

her on to Perry-Morton."

"Why, of course. People say they are engaged."

"And I say she isn't. She hates the fellow. Why, Magnus, old fellow,

why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Oh, nothing. Come along." The artist, after a moment's further

hesitation, allowed himself to be led off, and the rest of that evening

passed very pleasantly to Julia, who listened eagerly to the quiet,

grave conversation of Lord Artingale's friend.

Like all evenings, this memorable one came to a close, amidst the

shouting of linkmen, for the carriage of Mr this, and my Lord that, and

the clattering of uneasy horses' feet on the paving fronting the poet's

home. At last the cry arose--"Mr Mallow's carriage stops the way;" and

the voice of a footman, like that of an archangel of fashion, came from

inside the magnificent hall, where he stood amidst the flowers, with a

deep-voiced "Coming down."

There was a little craning forward of the heads of the two rows of

servants and idlers running from the kerb right up into the great hall,

forming a moving human wall on each side of the striped Edgington canopy

put up for the occasion. The two policemen mildly suggested something

about keeping back, but the big burly fellow with a lantern stood his

ground, as he had stood it ever since the party had arrived.

The carriage steps were rattled down, the host came delicately tripping

like a fat faun in evening costume, and handed Cynthia in, Lord

Artingale being apparently quite content. Frank and Cyril were by the

door waiting for a cab, there being some talk of calling at a club.

"Why didn't Artingale bring down Julia?" said Frank, scowling at James

Magnus. "Perry-Morton ought to have handed her down."

"Oh, it's all right," said Cyril, whose face was flushed with champagne.

"Come along."

The brothers were moving off, but they stayed; for just then, as

Artingale's friend was handing Julia in, softening his voice

involuntarily as he bade her good night, an importunate linkman thrust

himself forward, ostensibly to hold his lantern to make the carriage

steps plainer, and to keep the ladies' dresses from the wheels.

James Magnus saw it, quick as was the act in the semi-darkness, for as

Julia was on the last step a great muscular, hand grasped her soft white

arm.

She turned sharply, and then uttered a cry of dread as she saw a brown

bearded face close to hers.

It was the work almost of a moment; then she sank back in her place in

the carriage; the Rector followed; the steps had been rattled up, the

door closed, the footman shouted "Home," and the horses sprang forward,

hiding from the frightened girl the struggle taking place in the little

crowd, as James Magnus seized the great ruffian by the throat.

PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY.

A LITTLE NARRATIVE.

"Really, Cynthy, it is not a pleasant thing to talk to you about."

"I insist upon knowing all, sir. Please tell me, Harry."

"That first order would have been obeyed, Cynthy; but that last appeal

makes me try to tell you with all my heart."

"Now, Harry, once for all, I won't have it," said the little maiden,

holding up a tiny white warning finger, which, as they were alone in the

drawing-room, Lord Artingale seized and kissed. "I want you to be

straightforward and sensible when you talk to me, sir, and if you do

really like me, don't pay me silly, sickly compliments."

"I'll never pay you another, Cynthy, as long as I live," he said,

eagerly; and the light-hearted girl burst into a merry fit of laughter.

"Oh, Harry, what a dear, stupid old boy you are. There, now, that will

do--well, only one more. Now be serious, and tell me, for really I am

in very, very great trouble."

"But would you like me to tell you all about it?"

"Every word, Harry," said Cynthia, with a quiet, earnest look, as she

laid her little white hand in his.