affairs seemed to be progressing in the most unromantic fashion.
Cynthia had made a very pretty little confession to him; the Rector had
been appealed to, and had become for the moment a little less rigid; and
Mrs Mallow had sighed and then smiled.
"Well, dear. No: let me hold your hand like that, I can talk so much
better."
"Oh, you foolish boy!"
It was very foolish, no doubt; but Cynthia let her hand rest where it
was.
"Well, it was like this," said Artingale. "James Magnus saw that great
fellow with the lantern take hold of Julie's arm."
"Then you see now, sir, that it is not fancy."
"Not much fancy about it, certainly," said the young man, grimly,
"unless it's P.R. fancy."
"P.R. fancy, Harry; what's that?"
"Oh, nothing," he replied, hastily. "It's a term they give to fighting.
Well, Magnus says he felt as if he could have killed the scoundrel."
"That's well," said Cynthia, flushing scarlet, and with her eyes
sparkling; "I like that."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes," she whispered, nestling up to her companion, and letting him
draw her nearer, till her shiny little head rested against his breast.
"Yes, Harry, I like it--it sounds so brave and manly of him. Harry,
dear, can't you make James Magnus fall in love with Julie?"
"No."
"You can't!"
"No, Cynthy. Shall I tell you a secret?"
"I thought there were to be no secrets between us, Harry," said the
maiden, archly.
"Of course not. Well, little one, I think--no, I'm almost sure--that he
has fallen in love with her already, without any making."
"Oh, Harry, dear, how delightful. Here, I must go and tell her."
"Not for the world, darling."
"And pray why not, sir?"
"Because, Cynthy," he said, raising her little face so that he could
gaze seriously into her bright eyes, "because, dear, I should feel as if
I had been betraying the confidence of my best friend."
"But I should tell her, not you, Harry."
"Is there any difference?" he said, quietly. "Isn't it all one now,
Cynthy?"
There was a slight pause, during which Cynthia's eyes drooped beneath
the searching gaze. Then she raised them, and returned his look with
one so frank and full of loving trust that the young man's heart gave
one great throb, and the silence seemed likely to be lasting.
"Did James Magnus tell you he loved Julie, Harry?"
"No; but I feel sure he does."
"I'm so glad, Harry," said Cynthia, softly; "so very, very glad. But
now tell me all. I saw a sort of scuffle, and then we were out of
sight, with poor Julie in a dead faint."
"There isn't much to tell you, Cynthy, only that Magnus seized the
scoundrel by the throat as the carriage dashed off; then there was a
moment's struggle, and the fellow threw him by some clever wrestling
dodge, and he fell with his bare head a most awful crash upon the
kerbstone."
"Oh!"
"That made me feel mad, and I went at the fellow, but he was off like a
shot, dashed down the road through the gateway; and as I ran after him,
followed by a lot of people and two policemen, I saw him cross the road,
go right at the park railings, and he was over in a moment, and right
into the shrubs."
"And did you follow?" said Cynthia, excitedly.
"Didn't I! But I couldn't get over so quickly as he did, and when I
dropped on the other side I was half hanging by one of the tails of my
coat, for a spike had gone through it."
"Oh, what fun," laughed Cynthia; "how droll you must have looked."
"I dare say I did," he said, good-humouredly; "but it gave the rascal
time to get a good start, and when I was free and ran on with the police
and two more men, the scoundrel had gone goodness knows where."
"And you did not catch him, then?"
"No, he had got clean away, Cynthy, and after we had been hunting for
above an hour we had to give it up."
"Oh, what a pity."
"Yes, wasn't it."
"I don't know, though," said Cynthia, softly; "if you had caught him he
might have hurt you, too, Harry."
"I'll give him leave to," said Artingale, "if I can only manage to make
my mark upon him."
"Oh, Harry, don't look like that; you frighten me."
"Do I?--there; but don't you be alarmed about me, little one, I can take
care of myself, and I don't mean to rest till I've paid that fellow my
debt."
"Paid your debt, Harry?" said Cynthia, with a look of alarm.
"Yes, little one; I owe him something for frightening you, too, down at
Lawford!--if it is the same man," he added.
"Oh, yes, Harry; I saw his face last night quite plainly," cried
Cynthia, excitedly.
"Then he has frightened little sister twice since. I say, Cynthy, I may
call her little sister now?"
"Of course you may; but go on with what you are saying. Oh, Harry,
dear," she whispered, "I wish I was as big and brave as you."
"And," he whispered, "I wish that you were always just as you are now,
so sweet and bright and loving."
"Well, sir, go on."
"That's about all," he said, "only that I owe my fine fellow for last
night's affair as well."
"And about Mr Magnus?"
"Well, I went back, of course, to Sunflower Oil soap."
"Went where?" cried Cynthia, in astonishment. "Oh, I see, you had made
your hands dirty getting over the railings."
"No, no," said Artingale, laughing, "I mean I went back to
Perry-Morton's."
"Oh, what a shame, to call him such a name," said Cynthia, solemnly, but
with her eyes sparkling with delight.
"And there was poor Magnus lying on the sofa in the dining-room, and a
couple of doctors bandaging his head, after which he insisted upon being
taken back to his chambers, and that's about all."
"But you've been to see him this morning, Harry?"
"I sat up with him all night, and he grew quite delirious, and talked a
good deal about Julia."
"Oh!" and a pause. "And is his hurt very bad, Harry?" said Cynthia,
looking now rather white. "Will it kill him?"
"Oh, no," said Artingale, "he was a good deal hurt, and lost a lot of
blood, and--oh, what an idiot I am!"
"No, no, Harry. I'm not so silly. I'm not going to faint. Hush,
here's Julia."
For just then the door opened, and, looking very pale and wistful, the
elder sister came into the room--smiling, though, as her eyes lit on the
young couple; and as Artingale jumped up to greet her, there was
something very loving and sisterly in the way in which she gazed in his
face, and let him lead her to the couch upon which they had been
sitting.
Here she inquired very anxiously after Mr Magnus, showing that she knew
a good deal about the previous night's affair; but Artingale noted her
shudder and look of horror when her assailant was mentioned.
"That fellow must be stopped," said the young man, as he went
thoughtfully away. "Poor girl! she seems thoroughly afraid of him. Oh,
hang it all, it must--it shall be stopped, or he'll drive the poor child
mad."
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
IN THE DEN.
You had to pass through James Magnus's studio to get to his
sitting-room, and through the latter to get to his bed-room, and the
task was not an easy one. Lord Artingale knew his way by heart, but a
stranger would have been puzzled from the moment he entered the lobby or
hall. For the place resembled a Wardour-street old curiosity shop more
than the abode of a well-known artist. A woman with the bump of order
thoroughly developed would, if she had been placed in charge, have
immediately invested in a dozen dusters, a turk's-head, and a feather
brush, and gone to the attack, but only to sink down in utter despair.
Chaos seemed to have come back again at the abode of James Magnus, and
modern nature and art to have joined hands to cover the aforesaid chaos
with dust. For there was dust everywhere; thick, black, sooty dust of
that peculiar kind that affects Fitzroy-square. It was never removed,
save when a picture, chair, or "property" was taken from one part of the
place to another, and the dust thus set floating, floated and settled
upon something else. Certainly there was some kind of order in the
sitting and bed-room, where the artists man attended, but it was mostly
disorder.
"I hate having my things moved," said Magnus. "When I set to work, I
like to be able to begin at once, and not have to hunt for everything I
want."
"I think the place is just perfect," said Harry Artingale. "One can get
plenty of tidiness everywhere else, Jemmy, and I like coming to the den
to be a beast."
So to make matters more comfortable Artingale, at first out of fun,
later on from habit, used to carefully place all his cigar ashes and
ends wherever he could find a ledge--on the chimney-pieces, on the tops
of upturned canvases, on the inner parts of their frames, and balance
soda-water and beer or hock corks upon the properties.
You entered the lobby or hall to be confronted by dusty busts and casts,
and you went thence into the studio to be confronted by more dusty busts
and casts. There were life-sized plaster figures of plenty of
well-known antiques mixed up with a heterogeneous collection of artistic
odds and ends. There were canvases new and old, with charcoal drawings,
sketches, and half-finished paintings, costumes of all kinds, savage
weapons, arms and armour, easels from the simplest to the most modern
with its screws, and racks and reflectors, and tubes for gas. Rich
pieces of carpet partially covered the floor. On one side stood a large
raised dais for sitters, and for non-sitters who wished to sit down
there were quaint old carven chairs.
The value of the contents of that studio must have been great, for James
Magnus earned a great deal of money, and never grudged spending it upon
what he called necessaries for his art. Hence it was that handsome
vases and specimens of bronze and brass work were plentiful, but they
were stuck anywhere, and as often as not held empty or full paint tubes,
or served as supports to great palettes covered with pigments of every
hue.
The sitting-room was almost a repetition of the studio, but it was
thickly carpeted, and contained more furniture, with easy-chairs, a
dining-table of massive oak, and had a free and easy, chaotic comfort
about it that would make a bachelor feel quite at home.
The walls bore plenty of pictures, mostly from the brushes of brother
artists, and these, with the great full folios, formed a most valuable
collection.
It was here that Harry Artingale had taken most pains, as a very old
friend and constant companion, to embellish the room with his
cigar-ends. Here, too, he had at odd times shown his own love and
reverence for art by improving some of the antique casts with whiskers
and moustachios. There was a cast of Venus quite life-size, which,
evidently for decorous reasons, he had dressed in a seventeenth-century
brocade silk dress, from which she looked naively at a lay figure in
Spanish costume and mantilla; while close by there was an Apollo
Belvedere, half garbed in sixteenth-century armour, standing behind a
large pair of jack boots that could not be put on.
There were, in fact, a hundred playful little relics of Lord Artingale's
diversions when in idle mood; one of the latest being the boring of a
hole in a plaster Clytie's lips, for the insertion of a cigar, and
another the securing of a long clay pipe and a beer bock in the hands of
a Diana, from which a bow and arrow had been removed.
"You see, he is sech a gent for his larks," said Burgess, a nobly
bearded, herculean, ungrammatical being, who looked big and bold enough
to attack a Nemsean lion, or stride to an encounter in a Roman
amphitheatre, but who had about as much spirit as a mouse.
Burgess was Magnus's factotum, valet and houseman; and an excellent
cook. He was not clever at cleaning, but the artist rather liked that,
especially as he could admirably make a bed, and in addition was one of
the noblest-looking and most patient models in London.
But now Burgess was developing a fresh facet in his many-sided
character, namely that of nurse; and he had shown a sleeplessness and
watchful care that were beyond praise.
"How is he, my lord?" he said, as he opened the door to Artingale, some
months after the occurrences in the last two chapters.
"Well, my lord--"
"Now look here, Burgess; haven't I told you a dozen times over to say
`sir' to me when I'm here?"
"Yes, sir, but these are serious times, and I only meant it out of
respect."
"I know--of course, Burgess; but isn't he better?"
"He says he is, sir; and the doctor--he's only just this minute gone,
sir."
"Yes, I know. I saw his brougham."
"The doctor says he's better, sir, as he has for months; but he do keep
so low, and," continued the man in a despairing tone, "it ain't no
matter what I cook or make up, or try to tempt him with, he don't seem
to pick a bit."
"Poor fellow!" muttered Artingale, handing his overcoat and hat to the
man.
"I did think this morning that he was coming round, sir, for he has had
his colours and a canvas on the bed, and I had to prop him up. I don't
know, sir, I--I--"
The great Hercules of a fellow's voice changed, and he turned aside to
hide the weak tears that gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle
slowly down his cheeks, though they had not far to go before they were
able to hide themselves in his beard.
"Oh, come, come, Burgess," cried Artingale, who felt touched at this
display of affection on the part of servant towards master, "it isn't so
bad as that."
The man hastily threw the light overcoat upon a chair, and turned
sharply round to catch the visitors arm, and gaze earnestly in his eyes.
"Do you--do you really think, sir, that poor master will get well?"
"Yes, yes, of course I do, Burgess. I feel sure of it, my dear fellow.
There, shake hands, Burgess. 'Pon my soul I like you, I do indeed."
"And him a real true lord!" thought Burgess, as he gingerly held out a
great hand, which the other shook.
"Get well? of course he will, if it's only to help me break that
scoundrel's neck,--a blackguard!"
"I only wish I had my will of him, sir," cried Burgess, grinding his
teeth; "I'd serve him out."
"Would you?" said Artingale, smiling. "What would you do?"
"I'd make him stand for the old man in the Laocoon sixteen hours a day
for stoodents. He wouldn't want anything worse. But please go in
gently, sir, and don't wake master if he's asleep."
"All right," was the reply; and the young man made his way carefully
amongst the artistic lumber, and through the studio into the
dining-room, at one corner of which was the artist's chamber.
Artingale sighed as he went silently across the thick carpet, for that
room was full of memories of numberless merry evenings, and as he paused
for a moment beside his friend's empty chair, a dull sense of pain
oppressed him, and he found himself wondering whether he was not taking
too sanguine a view of his old companion's state.
"Poor old chap!" he said. "How nice it would be if that could come off.
Cynthy says it shall, and I don't see why it shouldn't. Let's see; I'm
to give him Cynthy's love and this rosebud. She said he would be sure
to find out that it was one that Julie had worn. I wonder whether old
Mag does care for her; he's such a close old oyster, and never did make
up to women. Well, for the matter of that, no more did I till I met
Cynthia--not much."
He went gently on to the door in the corner, and listened, but all was
very still, and he paused for a few minutes in a state of hesitation,
for which he could not account, and with one hand raised to open the
door.
"He must be asleep," he said to himself.
"Poor old boy, only to think of it. One moment bright and happy and
full of life, and the next moment a helpless mass, with hardly the
strength to move. Well, poor fellow, Cynthy is right. If he does care
for Julie he has just gone the way to find a tender spot in her heart."
He took hold of the handle and turned it, to find that Burgess had been
so busy with a feather and the salad oil flask, that the door yielded
without a sound, and he glided into the darkened room.
It was handsomely furnished, but its occupant's profession could be seen
at every turn, for the rich litter of the studio that had overflowed
into the dining-room, had come in here, and covered walls and filled
corners with artistic trifles.
The room had been built for a smaller studio, and was lit from the roof,
blinds being contrived so as to draw like a Roman _velum_ across the
glass.
These were partly undrawn now, giving a weird effect to the half-dark
room, across whose gloom a boldly-defined broad bar of light, full of
tiny dancing motes, shone down upon the artist's bed.
The door was by the head of the couch, and the figure of its occupant
was hidden by the hangings, as well as by a carefully-arranged screen
covered with fantastic Japanese designs, but Artingale felt a strange
thrill run through him as he caught sight of the lower portion of the
bed, and took a couple of steps rapidly forward, but only to stop short
the next moment, as if paralysed by what he saw.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.
MAGNUS MAKES CONFESSION.
Not many moments before, Artingale had wonderingly asked himself whether
Magnus cared for her whom he regarded quite as a sister, and about whose
state he was troubled in no small degree. The question was answered now
without room for a doubt.
Poor fellow! It had been a terrible cut he had received upon his head
in the fall that night. There had been concussion of the brain, with
fever and delirium, and for a long time his state had been very serious.
Then came some slight amendment, but only to be followed, for months,
by a depression which seemed to master the strong man's spirits; and
this, too, in spite of the efforts of the medical men, constant nursing,
and the companionship of Artingale, given to such an extent that Cynthia
had pouted, and then thrown her arms round "dear Harry's" neck, and told
him she loved him ten thousand times better for his devotion to his
friend.
Artingale had been with Magnus the night before, but had been kept away
that morning, and it was now close upon five o'clock when he stood as it
were petrified at the sight which met his eyes.
As has been said, the greater portion of the chamber was in a state of
semi-obscurity; but a broad band of light fell direct from the skylight
upon the bed where James Magnus had been propped up with pillows before
a dwarf easel and canvas, upon which, rapidly dashed in by his masterly
hand, showing in every line the inspiration that had been thrown upon
the canvas by the artist's mind, was the work upon which he had been
engaged.
Had been engaged, for, palette in one hand, brush in the other, he had
sunk back, his pallid face, with the hair cut closely now, giving him in
the gloom wherein he lay the aspect of some portrait by Rembrandt or
Velasquez, the stern lines cut by sickness softened by a contented
smile.
He must have fallen back as he was raising his hand to continue his
work, for the colour-charged brush in his thin white fingers had fallen
upon the white sheet, making a broad smear, and as he gazed Artingale
thought that he was dead.
It was but for an instant though, for the loose open collar of the shirt
was rising and falling gently at each respiration, and even as the young
man went over towards the bed a low sigh escaped from the invalid's
lips.
Satisfied upon that point, Artingale's eyes were turned upon the canvas
illumined by the soft white light; and for the moment, simple and
unfinished as the portrait was, he could almost have fancied that it was
Julia's self gazing up at him with a sweet pensive smile upon her lips,
but with the strange nameless horror in her appealing eyes.
It was wonderful. He had often watched with interest the way in which
some face would grow up beneath the pencil of his friend, but in this
case there was the effort of genius at its best, and he stood there
gazing in rapt admiration at the portrait.
His question was answered, for no one but a man who loved could so
perfectly have reproduced those features from memory.
"I wish Cynthia could see it," he thought; and he took another step
forward.
That broke the sick man's slumber, for he started into wakefulness, and
made a snatch at the canvas, to hide it from his friend, two red spots
burning in his pallid cheeks, and a look of anger flashing from his
sunken eyes; but Artingale laid a hand upon his arm.
"Don't hide it, old fellow," he said. "Why should you?"
Magnus looked at him as if in dread and shame.
"Why should you mind?" continued Artingale. "I've never been ashamed to
confess to you. But how wonderfully like."
Magnus still gazed at him in a troubled way, but he did not speak, and
the two men remained looking into each other's eyes as Artingale seated
himself upon the edge of the bed.
"Mag, old fellow," said Artingale at last, "I'm very, very glad."
"Why should you be?" said the other, in a low, weak voice. "It is only
an empty dream."
"No, no. Nonsense, man. Why, come, with that idea in your brain you
ought to be up and doing."
"What!" said Magnus, bitterly; "trying to make her life unhappy by my
mad love?"
"Mad love! Is it mad to love a beautiful woman with all your heart, as
I'm sure you do, with that confession before my eyes?"
"Yes, when she is engaged to be married to another."
"But that would never be if she knew of your love."
"Harry, my dear boy," said the artist sadly, "it comes very easy to you
to make sketches or build castles in the air. You love little Cynthia,
and your love is returned."
"Yes; of course."
"And you both think how pleasant it would be for the sister of both to
become the wife of the friend."
"Yes. Well, where's the madness?"
Magnus shook his head sadly.
"Why should I tell you?" he said. "I have studied nature too long not
to know something of women. Do you think I could see and converse
with--with--her without knowing something of her heart?"
"Her heart is untouched. Of that I am sure," cried Artingale.
"I don't know that," said Magnus, sadly; "but this I do know--that no
word I could utter, no look I could give, would ever make it throb."
"Nonsense, man," said Artingale, merrily. "Why, Mag, where's your
courage? Up, lad, and try. Don't lie there and let that piece of
imitation human being carry her off."
Magnus, who was very weak, lay back thinking.
"Why," continued Artingale, "you are bound to succeed. What could be
better? She was insulted, and you seized the scoundrel who insulted
her, and became seriously injured in her service. Nothing could be more
fortunate."
"Have you found out anything more about that fellow?" said Magnus, at
last.
"No: nothing; and the police have given it up. I want you to get well
and help me."
"Nothing more has been seen of him, then?"
"Indeed but there has," said Artingale; "he has turned up no less than
three times by the carriage when the girls have been out, and poor Julia
has been frightened almost into hysterics. Come, you must get well,
Mag, for if ever poor girl wanted a stout protector, it is Julia
Mallow."
"Tell me about her engagement."
"What for? To make you worse?"
"It will not make me worse, Harry. Tell me. She is engaged to
Perry-Morton, is she not?"
"Hang him! Well, I suppose there is something of the kind. My
respected papa-in-law-to-be seems to have run mad over the fellow, and
suffers himself to be regularly led by the nose. But it can't last;
it's impossible. No sane man could go on long without finding out what
an ass the fellow is, with his vain conceit and pretensions to art and
poetry. It is all the Rector's doing, and he is everything; poor Mrs
Mallow, as you know, never leaves her couch."
"You said the other day that they were going back into the country."
"Yes, and I shall be obliged to go too."
Magnus smiled.
"Well, yes, of course," said Artingale, quickly, "I want to be near
Cynthy. There, I'm not ashamed; I am very fond of the little girl. I
must be, or I should never stand those brothers of hers."
"Anything fresh about them?" said Magnus, who seemed deeply interested
in the conversation.
"Fresh? Yes--no--only the old game. Being so near down there, my
people hear everything at Gatley, and though I don't encourage tattling,
I can't help hearing a lot about my beautiful brothers-in-law, and yours
too if you like."
"Don't be foolish. Go on."
"Well, 'pon my soul, Mag, they're a pair of scamps, and once I've got my
little Cynthy, hang me if I don't cut them. They haven't the decency to
wait till I am their brother, but are always borrowing money. Sort of
blackmail for letting me court their sister," he added, bitterly. "'Pon
my word, Mag, it would be a charity to get Julia away as well."
"It is a great pity," said Magnus, thoughtfully. "What an anxiety to
the poor sick mother!"
"Who is quite an angel of goodness in her way, Mag, only too ready to
look over those two fellows' faults. Bah! I haven't patience with
them."
"Why does not the Rector get them away?"
"Get them away? Well, he has, over and over again, but they always come
back. The townspeople call them _The Bad Shilling_ and _The Boomerang_
on that account. The Rector's a good old fellow, only obstinate and
weak, and with too big an idea of his sacred prerogative, which the
folks down there won't stand. Here, get well, Mag, and come down and
help me rout the enemy."
"I wish I could," sighed Magnus. "Only wants will, my lad. If you are
using my billiard-table and horses it will keep those fellows off, but
mind they don't rook you."
"I thought you told me that Frank had made a lot of money at the gold
fields?"
"So he gives it out, but I don't believe it. If he had he wouldn't be
borrowing of me and getting Perry-Morton to do bills for him."
"It seems strange."
"Strange! yes. I believe it's all gammon. Hang that fellow, I don't
like him at all. Of course this is all in confidence, Mag." Magnus
looked up at him with a smile. "My people tell me that he is always
going over to Lewby, close by my place. It's one of the farms that came
to me. Nice jolly farmer fellow there. Bluff chap, John Berry, with a
pretty little wife fifteen years younger; and it seems there was
something on between the lady and Master Frank before he went to the
antipodes."
"That's bad," said Magnus, frowning.
"Damn bad," said Artingale; "but I try to make it smooth by thinking he
is interceding for his brother."
"Interceding for his brother? What do you mean?"
"Well, you see, Mrs Berry was Rue Portlock, and Cyril has been paying
attentions to her sister Sage."
"Rue? Sage?"
"Yes; rum idea. Two such pretty girls. I call 'em the sweet herbs.
Quaint idea of their father."
"And Cyril is paying attentions to one of them?"
"Yes; little Sage. She is the Lawford schoolmistress, and engaged to
some one else."
"Humph! Better than paying attentions to a married lady, as his brother
does."
"Oh, bless him, he is not perfect. Master Cyril has an affair on at the
ford just outside Lawford. There is a pretty wheelwright's wife--no,
hang it, I mean the pretty wife of a wheelwright there. She used to be
Julia's and Cynthia's maid, you know, and I hear that Master Cyril has
been seen hanging about."
"They seem to be a nice pair," said Magnus, gruffly.
"Beauties," said Artingale, sharply. "Hang 'em, they shall have it
warmly when once I have got Cynthia away. Of course I have to swallow
it all now. There, you see how badly you're wanted. It's an unhappy
family, and you would be doing a charitable act in giving Julia a good
husband."
"Let her marry Perry-Morton," said Magnus, changing his position with a
weary sigh.
"Bah! you need not mind that, my dear boy. I feel certain that some
fine morning the Rector will prick Perry-Morton and find out what a bag
of wind he is. Besides, see what allies you have--Cynthia, your humble
servant, and the lady's heart."
Magnus shook his head sadly.
"But I say you have, and that it is waiting to beat to any tune you like
to teach. Come, the will has no end to do with the body. Just swear
you will get well and come and help me put those big brothers in order,
and thrash the big rascal who--No, I say though, Magnus, 'pon my word, I
think you ought to bless that fellow, for he will frighten poor little
Julie right into your arms."
Whether it was his friend's encouraging words, and that hopes were
raised in the artist's breast, or whether it was simply the fact that he
was already mending fast, at all events James Magnus rapidly got better
now, and at the end of another two months he was about once more, though
still weak from his injury, and likely to be for months.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.
THE RECTOR GIVES WAY.
Cyril Mallow was right. He had three women to fight upon his side, and
he was not long in bringing their power to bear. Petted, spoiled son as
he was, literally idolised by the patient invalid, to whom his presence
formed the greater part of the sunshine of her life, he was not long in
winning her to his side.
"It is no light fancy, dear," he said tenderly, as he sat beside her
couch. "She is to me the woman who will bless my life as you have
blessed my father's."
The sick woman shook her head mournfully.
"I repeat my words," he said: "as you have blessed my father's life.
Well, I have been restless and foolish, perhaps, but I am sobered down
now, and I mean to marry. I cannot help it, mamma, and I am quite
prepared to have plenty of opposition to my proposal, and to be told
that I am marrying beneath me; all the same, I mean to marry Sage
Portlock, and I ask you to help me."
Mrs Mallow tried persuasion, pointed out how directly this would be in
opposition to his father's wishes, and how the Churchwarden had set his
face against it; but all she said only seemed to strengthen her son's
desire, and the natural consequence was that very soon Mrs Mallow began
to talk earnestly to the Rector, but for quite a month without any other
effect than angering him more against his son, whom he accused of
fighting against his sisters' prospects.
But when the father began to find that with patient pertinacity the son
was keeping up his pursuit of Sage, the words of his wife began to have
more effect, and one day, during a visit to the school, the old
gentleman found himself speaking to Sage with greater deference, and
thoughtfully musing over the possibility of her becoming his sons wife.
"It is terrible though," he mused; "just as his sisters are about to
make brilliant matches. It is like degrading them."
That night, however, the Rector heard something about Cyril having been
seen a great deal down by the ford lately, and quick to take alarm,
warned as he had been by earlier escapades, he began to think more
seriously, and went down to the school a great deal more.
"Better that than disgrace," he said; "a fresh scandal would almost kill
her, poor sweet. Ah, me! she has much to bear."
He sighed weakly and went to the school again, setting Sage Portlock in
a flutter by his quiet paternal ways, and he came away at last avowing
that if the object of his son's affections had been the daughter of a
brother clergyman, he would have been delighted to find in her the child
his son should bring to him to take a place within his heart.
Then he began thinking about Lord Artingale and Mr Perry-Morton, and he
grew angry; but again he was obliged to say to himself, It would settle
Cyril perhaps. Better that than a fresh scandal.
He tried to find failings in Sage--seeing in her conduct cause of
offence--but without avail, for she gave him no hold whatever, and he
went away thinking of her deeply, and wondering what was to be the end.
Cyril Mallow smiled as he saw that he was right, and that it was only a
matter of time. He liked Sage Portlock, and he told himself that he
loved her passionately, and that without her he should die, and then he
entered into pecuniary calculations.
"The old man must leave her at least half of what he has, and every one
in Lawford says he is well off, so that it will be a pleasant little bit
of revenge to spend the old hunks's money for the way in which he abused
me. Then there is poor mamma's money. That must come to me, so that we
shall be pretty well off. Bah! it will all come right in time. But I
hope Frank is not playing the fool about little Rue."
After the stern encounter with the Churchwarden, and the angry words
with his father, Cyril thought it prudent to keep away from Kilby Farm,
and ceased to watch for Sage as she was going to or leaving school; but
he rearranged his seat in the rectory pew, so that he could see her
where she sat in church, became more regular than ever in his
attendance, and sat through his father's sermons gazing pensively at the
young schoolmistress.
People said he was growing pale and thin, which was a fact easily
explicable, for he smoked from morning to night, and the healthy brown
of the last sea voyage was fading away consequent upon his indoor life.
"If I kick up a row I shall do no good," he argued, "so I may as well
wait. I could persuade her to run away with me, but then we should be
confoundedly short of money till the old folks forgave us, and I'm sick
of that sort of thing. No, I think the injured dodge is best, for it
pays all round."
He was quite right; and while he shut himself up with his brother in the
room devoted to their personal use, read _Bell's Life in London_, and
sent communications to one or two betting men in town whenever he had
the necessary funds at his disposal, everything was working steadily to
the end he sought to gain.
His quiet acceptance, as it seemed to the Rector and Portlock, of the
commands which he had received, gave him, in the eyes of the other
interested parties, an injured, martyrlike air, and, though she did not
meet him now, Sage's thoughts were none the less busy about him. His
every word had impressed her deeply, and day by day, in spite of her
efforts to be true to her promise, she felt that she was falling more
and more away.
This was plainly shown in her letters to Luke Ross, to whom she wrote
weekly, hearing from him regularly in return. But he noted the gradual
change in her communications. They grew shorter by degrees; less full
of chatty little paragraphs about herself and her daily life. Still she
did not fail to send to him once. It had become a habit--a duty--and
while she did this she told herself that she was making a brave fight
against her weak heart, and hiding the truth from Luke, little thinking
that her notes laid her heart quite bare to the reader.
For it is a very strange thing how the feelings of a writer at the time
of writing infuse themselves in the words. A note may contain only a
thousand, and those thousand words relate certain matters, but from one
writer they will seem to flow with affection, from another be calm,
cool, and simply matter-of-fact. The sentences shall be almost the
same, the words be very little varied, and yet, even without endearing
expressions, one letter shall breathe and emanate affection, the other
be friendliness alone.
So, by slow degrees, it was with Sage's letters to her lover; and at
first, as the idea stole upon him that she was growing colder, Luke Ross
fought back the cruel thought, telling himself that he was wrong, and
that hard study was souring his disposition, making him exacting and
strange.
But as time went on he was obliged to realise the truth, and he wrote
reproachful letters, but only tore them up again, to write others in his
old, simple, confiding strain.
He longed to go down and see her more often, but kept putting it off
till she should express a wish for him to come, hinting at it, and
expecting that some such invitation would be contained in the next
letter; but he hoped against hope.
Then a week passed without any communication from Lawford, and Luke
packed up a few things in a bag, and started for his old home, but only
to return directly to his chambers.
"She is not ill," he said to himself. "If she had been some one would
have written to tell me. I'll wait."
He waited, and at the appointed time--at the end of another week--a
letter came, very similar to the last, and in which she said that she
would have written as usual, only that she was very busy.
"Very busy," said Luke to himself, as he sat in his dingy room, gazing
straight before him, through the dull window, at the smoky chimney-pots,
but seeing, as in a picture, the interior of Lawford Girls' School, with
its mistress moving from class to class. "Very busy."
He sighed deeply, and went on with his reading.
From that time Sage's letters came fortnightly, Luke sending two for
one, but he made no complaint, keeping rigidly to his old stern
determination.
"I said I would place myself in a worthy position to win her," he said.
"That I will do. What is more, I will be faithful, come what may--
faithful, even in my belief in her."
He sat, hot of eye and weary of brain, thinking whether he ought not to
go down and see why this gradual change was taking place, but in his
stern repression of self he felt that to go down unexpectedly would be
like mistrusting the woman he hoped to make his wife, and this he could
not bear.
Study--hard study--was Luke Ross's medicine for a mind diseased, and
whenever doubting thoughts and mistrust came hand in hand to torture him
he forced himself to attend to his studies, making, by prodigious
efforts, great advances in the learned treatises he was striving to
master, but only at the expense of his health.
"It is for Sage," he said, by way of encouragement, and when doubts
became very strong he held up the shield of his faith.
"No," he would say aloud, "writing is, perhaps, irksome to one who has
so much to do, but her heart is mine, and save from her own lips I would
never believe that she could let it stray."
In his stern determination to master the profession for which he was
reading, Luke Ross only allowed himself a very rare visit home; and
though he had felt frequent urgings of late he fought them down, setting
his teeth, and vowing that he would not go before the appointed time.
It was a terrible fight when once the dire attacks of doubt were made,
and repeated from day to day, for during the weeks of the past month
Sage's letters had grown more irregular still, as if she felt emboldened
to be more careless from that absence of reproach. But the truth was
that every letter from London was read by Sage with bitter misery and
reproach, and her replies were often so blotted with tears that they
were destroyed instead of being posted, and it was only those which
escaped the fire which he received.
It only wanted a week of the time he had settled in his own mind, and in
spite of his efforts to be calm, it was almost more than he could do to
keep on with his task. A strong feeling was urging him to go down at
once, see Sage, and learn the worst, for a fortnight had again passed
and no letter.
Twenty times over he threw his books aside and started up to go, but
upon each occasion the indomitable power of will that helped him to make
the great efforts to master his profession--a power of will that had
already stood him in such good stead during his stay at Saint
Chrysostom's--came to his aid, and he fought out the miseries of that
last week and won. "I will--not--show--mistrust," he said, sternly, as
if addressing an unseen accuser of Sage; "I gave--her--my--love--and--
I--will--never--take--it--from--her. If--she--cast--it--away--then--
the--act--is--hers--not--mine."
This, slowly repeated, with a pause between the words, became, as it
were, a formula impressed in his mind, and it seemed to him that he had
become Sage's advocate, bound to defend her against unseen accusers.
At last, having no longer any conscientious reasons for deferring his
visit, he hastily packed his bag and closed up his dreary little
chambers, feeling, as he went out into busy roaring Fleet-street, that
the rest was absolutely necessary, for his head throbbed and seemed
confused, troubled as it had been with conflicting emotions.
It was winter once more, but one of those mild seasons when balmy winds
from the west tempt the wild flowers into a belief that it is spring,
and sweetly-scented violets make the air redolent of their homely,
heart-appealing fragrance, when from amongst the dark dead leaves the
tender green of the crinkled primrose roots could be seen surrounding
here and there a pale sulphur blossom.
It was such a change from the smoke-haunted, soot-dotted city region of
the law, that fifteen-mile coach ride, after the run down by fast train,
that as Luke gazed over the flat landscape illumined by the mellow glow
of the wintry sun, and noted the silvery bronze of the young oak stems,
and the ruddy birch and ashes grey, he felt a joyous elasticity of
frame; his pulses throbbed with pleasure, and before they reached the
town he determined to alight and follow the mossy lane to the left, two
miles of whose windings would take him within a hundred yards of Kilby,
the time fitting so well that he knew he should intercept Sage as she
left the school, which would not break up for the holidays until the
following day.
Home again, after many months' absence--months of stern self-denial; and
as he leaped down from his seat on the coach, leaving his portmanteau
for delivery at the inn, he felt so boyish and light-hearted that he
began to run along the lane.
"What nonsense!" he said, half aloud. "One shuts oneself up in that
little hole and reads and reads till one's brain gets clogged, and full
of unwholesome fancies. What a brute I am to let such thoughts creep
in, when I'll wager anything that my darling is longing to see me back."
He stopped to pick a primrose, then another, and a violet. Walked
rapidly on again, but paused to select a couple of bramble-leaves of a
most glorious deep green bronze. Then there was a beautiful privet
spray, and another primrose or two, and by degrees, as he hurried on
with little pauses, a goodly wild bouquet had been culled, and he smiled
as he saw in imagination Sage's delight at his present.
"Heaven bless her!" he said, half aloud, and, all unpleasant suspicions
gone, he walked on with his eyes half closed, revelling in a kind of
day-dream full of delights, the only jarring thought being that he was
coming to see Sage before paying his duty to his father at home.
"He'll forgive me," he said. "He knows how I love her. Why, what a boy
I feel to-day! It's this delicious air that has not been breathed by
two million sets of lungs."
"There's the farm," he said. "How clean the windows must be to reflect
the setting sun like that. Different to mine. I wonder how Mrs
Portlock is, and what the old lady will say?"
He hurried on, eager to reach the narrow cross where the Kilby lane and
the one he was in intersected, and, once there, he meant to mount the
high bank, and wait by the old mossy oak pollard, watching for Sage's
steps, so as to give her a surprise by throwing the bouquet of wild
flowers at her feet, and then--
And then?--Alas! how pleasant is that habit of castle-building in the
air. How brightly the edifices are raised, how quickly, how dismally
they fall! Luke had planned all so well, and hurried on along the soft,
mossy border of the lane, heedless of the winter's dirt, till he reached
the cross, turned sharply, and then stopped short, uttering a low moan
as he reeled against the hedge, clutching at the thorns for a support.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.
AN INVITATION.
Cyril Mallow's plan of playing what he called a waiting game had the
effect he anticipated, and when he thought that the time was ripe he
sent a very tenderly-worded letter, full of gentle reproach, to Sage,
telling her that he had fought, no one knew how hard, to master his
feelings, but that it was all in vain; that he could not bear his
existence there, and that he was going abroad--anywhere, he said--and he
wished it was out of the world.
It was just at a time when the Rector was in high glee, for there had
been no parish troubles for some time. He was beginning to make the
people understand him, he told the curate, who bowed and said nothing,
though he did think about his efforts to preserve peace. Julia and
Cynthia were staying in town with Claudine and Faustine Perry-Morton, an
act of kindness those ladies said, while their dear brother was forced
to be in Rome, where the new art society had invited him to be president
and inaugurate their proceedings. Then, although Frank was still at
home, leading a life that, if he had been a poor man's son, would have
been called "loafing," there was hope for Cyril, and a chance for
weaning him from this attachment for Sage Portlock. In fact, jumping at
a hint from the Rector, Lord Artingale had gone to Magnus and asked his
advice, which was freely given, with a good idea or two how to set about
it, and the result was that he had the pleasure of writing down to the
Rector that the Duke of Borwick had given him an excellent post for his
friend.
"It is only five hundred a year," wrote Lord Artingale, "but I dare say
something better will come."
The Rector took the letter into Mrs Mallow's room after reading it in
the grape house, where he had been busy trimming special bunches
intended for the invalid's use.
"He's a good fellow, Artingale, a thoroughly good fellow," he said.
"Sunshine at last for that unhappy boy."
"Our son, Eli," said Mrs Mallow, reproachfully. "If he is unhappy, may
not we be to blame?"
The Rector's delight was of short duration, for Cyril's next move was to
tell his father flatly that he had not been consulted, and that he
should decline the post.
"But you must take it, Cyril," said his father. "Why, my boy, I have
been so full of hope that since our last quarrel you had seen the folly
of your ways, and were becoming obedient, and willing to take your place
in the duties of the world."
"I have tried," said Cyril, mournfully.
"You have, I know, my boy," cried the Rector, "and conquered."
"Conquered!" said Cyril, tragically. "No, father, I have obeyed you,
and kept away from Sage Portlock, but I am more than ever her slave."
He strode out of the room, leaving the Rector wishing that the Portlocks
had never come to Kilby, and that he had never made such a _protegee_ of
Sage, ending by going into Mrs Mallow's room to pour out his plaints in
her willing ear.
"What is to be done with the boy?" he said, dolefully. "I will never
get into a passion with him again. But what is to be done? He has some
plan in view."
"Let me see him," said Mrs Mallow. "Give me some latitude, dear, and I
will try to bring him to a better way of thinking."
"Do what you will," said the unhappy father, "only bring him to his
senses. Here have I been almost on my knees to Artingale to get him
this post, and now he says that he will not have it."
"He would take it if we consented to his marrying Sage Portlock."
"But we can't, my dear. It is impossible," cried the Rector.
Mrs Mallow was silent, and the Rector left the room.
Five minutes later, in obedience to her summons, Cyril was at his
mother's side, talking to her in a depressed but very determined way.
"Go back with Frank, Cyril!" she said, piteously. "It would break my
heart."
"You said that it would break if I were to die."
"Yes," she faltered.
"Well, I shall die naturally or unnaturally if I stop here," he said
coldly. "I cannot bear it any longer. You know how I have tried."
Mrs Mallow laid her hand upon her side.
"Then you must fight against all that pain and suffering for my sake,
mamma dear," he said, bending over her, and kissing her tenderly.
"But you will take this post, Cyril?" she said, imploringly.
"What?" he cried, angrily. "No, I am going back to the other side of
the world."
He strode out of the room, and for the next two or three days there was
misery in the house. Cyril was ill, and kept his bed, and his fond
mother, who believed in him thoroughly, seeing nothing in his nature but
a little wilfulness, was in agony till, after a series of long
consultations with the Rector, the latter gave way.
"If we do consent, I am sure all will be well," said Mrs Mallow,
feebly.
"If I give way, will he promise to take the clerkship?" said the Rector.
"Artingale will never forgive me if it is thrown up. He said that he
had to beg for it humbly, and that he would never have done it but for
me."
"I will undertake to say that he will," said Mrs Mallow.
Just then the Rector sniffed. "What is it, dear?" exclaimed the
invalid. "I smell burning," he said. "Fire, dear?" she exclaimed,
excitedly, as she thought of her helpless condition. "No, dear," he
said: "smoke."
"Then there must be fire," she cried, clinging to his hands.
"No, no," he said, trying to soothe her alarm. "It is tobacco. Surely
Cyril would not smoke up-stairs?"
"Oh, no, dear; and he is too ill," said the fond mother. "Poor boy!"
"Then it must have been Frank down-stairs," said the Rector. "But to go
back. Now, look here, dear, can you guarantee that?"
"I am sure I can."
"But it is such a descent. Think of Lord Artingale."
"Don't say that, dear," said Mrs Mallow. "I have thought over it so
long. You say yourself that she is a good, sweet girl, and I am sure
when I saw her I thought so, too. Well, then, why should pride stand in
the way?"
"Yes, she is very nice," said the Rector, "and I am willing to forget
all about birth and position; but then there are our girls."
"But if it is to be the winning of our boy to the life we wish him to
lead? I'm sure he loves her very dearly."
"Better than himself," said the Rector, bitterly.
"Oh, Eli, do not talk like that," sighed the invalid. "For my sake and
his--let pride be set aside. If Henry Artingale really cares for
Cynthia he will not mind, and as for Mr Perry-Morton, I heard when we
were in town that his father made an immense fortune in some very low
class trade. Say _yes_, and let us hope that Sage--"
"Sage!" said the Rector. "Bitter herb! A pity it is not Rue. Bitter
herbs for us to eat. Heigho! nothing but troubles, I suppose. Then you
quite adopt her now?"
"For my boy's sake--yes," said the invalid. "Then you do give way?"
"For the last time--yes."
"And you will go and see the Portlocks?"
"Yes."
"And I may tell Cyril this?"
"Yes."
"God bless you, Eli! You are always good to me," sobbed the poor woman;
and the tears stood in her husband's eyes as he knelt down and took her
in his arms. At that time Mr Cyril Mallow, the sick, sat up in bed and
lit a fresh cigar before comfortably rearranging himself for a good skim
of the sporting papers.
About a couple of hours after, as the Churchwarden was returning from a
round amongst his sheep, he caught sight of the Rector coming to meet
him, when a long conversation took place, one that ended by the gate
leading into the home close.
"Well, parson," said Portlock, as they parted, "as I said before, I'll
make no promises but this--I won't be hard. My niece's happiness is
what I wish to bring about before I die; and if she wants to have him,
and he really will steady down and make her a good husband, why, I
suppose it must be. Now I must go away and think."
They shook hands and parted, the Rector going thoughtfully home with his
hands behind him, and his stick whisking right and left, tail fashion,
and up and down, while he talked to himself about his weakness in giving
way, and wondering what was to be the outcome of an arrangement that
seemed like breaking faith on his part with Luke Ross.
As he reached the gate he smelt the smoke of a cigar, and, in spite of
his knowledge of his son's ways, he could not help feeling surprised at
the sight of Cyril coolly walking up and down, the message he had had
from his mother having apparently effected a miraculous cure.
"Better, Cyril?" he said, drily.
"Yes, sir, I'm pretty well all right now," was the reply; and the Rector
sighed, and began to feel a strange sensation of regret stealing over
him, as once more he asked himself what was to be the end.
Meanwhile, the Churchwarden had gone on to the farm, and entered by the
kitchen door, where Mrs Portlock was busy dividing her attention
between scolding the maids and mincing meat for sausages.
He gave her a short nod, and went on into the parlour, treading upon the
mats so as to make no sound, and there finding Sage so preoccupied that,
as she sat with her back to him, she did not notice her uncle's
entrance.
Pen, ink, and paper were before her, and on her right an envelope.
This was directed in a plain, clear hand--so plain that the farmer could
easily read it from where he stood.
It bore the name of Luke Ross, and she had prepared the envelope before
writing her letter, for upon the sheet of paper was the date, and then
came the three words, "My dear Luke."
That was all, and the marks that followed upon the paper were made by
tears.
"It is like living a lie," he heard her say, with a passionate sigh; and
then she started up, for she became aware of her uncle's presence in the
room.
"Why, Sage, lass," he said, gently, "do you always cry over your letters
to Luke Ross?"
She looked piteously in his face, but said no word.
"Is it because he is so long away, my lass? Well, well, we shall have
him back these holidays, and it won't be long."
He was watching her intently as he spoke, and he saw that not only did
she turn pale, but a spasm as of pain crossed her face.
"Thou dost not look well, my pet," he said, gently. "There, there, put
the writing away, and come and sit by me while I have my pipe. I don't
like my little one to be so dull. Why, Sage, what's come of all the
songs? You used to be always singing and making the house cheery. I'm
thinking you work too hard."
"Oh, no, no, uncle," she cried, forcing a smile.
"Then you think too much, child. You must have more change. Parson
didn't come in here, did he, my lass?"
"No, uncle," she said, starting.
"No, I thought he wouldn't; but he came to meet me, and he brought a
message for thee, my girl."
"For me, uncle?" she cried, crimsoning to the parting of her hair.
"Ay, he did. He says he has to be out a deal, and Mrs Mallow finds it
lonesome at times without her girls; and he said, as a favour, would you
mind going up and seeing her, and sitting with her and reading a bit?"
"Oh, no, uncle," faltered Sage, crimsoning more deeply, every trace of
emotion being duly noted by him who was probing her to the quick. "But
would Mrs Mallow--?"
She paused without finishing her sentence.
"Like it?" he said, finishing the sentence for her. "To be sure she
would, my pet. What a one I am to deliver a message. It was her who
asked the Rector to bid you come; and, as I thought you wouldn't mind, I
just said that you would go."
"Oh, uncle, but I--I dare not," cried Sage, excitedly.
"Stuff! Tchah! Nonsense, my dear. What's to be afraid of! They're
gentlepeople, I s'pose, but they're only human beings after all, and
you've nothing to be ashamed of, I'm sure. I told parson you'd go on
this afternoon, as there was no school, and he said I was not to be
uneasy, for some one should see you home."
Sage's colour came and went as she sat there trembling, and painfully
conscious.
Some one should see her home--some one should see her home. The words
kept repeating themselves in her ears till she felt giddy.
What did it all mean? Why did her uncle speak to her in this gentle
way? What more had passed between him and the Rector?
She gazed in his face at this, and a score more such questions repeated
themselves, while the answers seemed far away.
"Go up to the rectory to-day, uncle?" she faltered at last. "I dare not
go."
"But I wish you to go," he said, decidedly, and Sage's heart gave one
great joyful throb.
Had it been left to her she would have stayed away, but her uncle wished
her to go--he literally bade her go.
The end of the matter was, that after being egged on by her aunt to
dress herself in the showiest things she possessed, and having the good
sense, in spite of the feeling of delirious joy that had taken
possession of her, to attire herself with great simplicity, she walked,
with fluttering heart, up to the rectory, where the Rev Eli Mallow
himself met her at the door with a paternal _empressement_ of manner
that was quite tender in its way, as he drew her hand through his arm,
and led her up-stairs to Mrs Mallow's room.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.
WELCOMED.
Sage trembled as she accompanied the Rector, and in her agitation
everything seemed unreal and strange. A mist floated before her eyes,
and the room seemed to be sailing round, till she felt herself led to a
chair, and a thin, soft, cool hand take hers, drawing her forward, till
she bent down, and felt a pair of lips press her cheek, and sigh gently.
"I am very glad to see you, Miss Portlock--I think I may call you Sage
now."
She answered something that was inaudible to herself, feeling angry the
while at what she called her awkwardness and confusion, as she longed
for confidence, and the power to be more at her ease, little thinking
that her timid, modest behaviour was winning a way for her rapidly in
the poor invalid's heart; while, in spite of the pride that interfered
somewhat with the Rector's generosity of feeling, he could not help
thinking that after all, with such a woman for his wife, a change for
the better must follow in his son.
By degrees Sage grew more composed, especially when the Rector patted
her gently on the arm, and asked her to excuse him while he wrote a
letter or two for that day's post; "to my daughters in town, my dear,"
he said; and she was left alone with Mrs Mallow, whose careworn but
sweetly-pensive face looked up, smiling tenderly in hers.
It was a delightful afternoon, and Sage would have been truly happy if
she could have stood out fully in the sunshine instead of in the shadow
cast across her thoughts by the remembrance of Luke Ross.
Nothing special was said, but it was quite patent to the visitor that
all objection to Cyril Mallow's attentions to her had been withdrawn on
either side, and that she had been asked up there that Mrs Mallow might
welcome her as her son's future wife.
Sage's heart beat fast, for she owned to it most fully now. It was
wrong. She was faithless, but she did love Cyril, and giving herself up
to the current of joyous thoughts, she allowed it to bear her softly on.
The interview grew more dream-like to her minute by minute as she
listened to the burden of Mrs Mallow's discourse, and fetched for her
books, pictures, little drawers, and folios, whose contents the fond
mother never wearied of displaying. Always the same tune, "My sons,"
and ever something fresh to display. Cyril's first copybook, his early
letters to her from school, the sketches Frank had made, a little piece
of poetry he had tried to write and never finished, broken toys, Cyril's
baby shoes, one after the other, an endless list of little trifles, all
of which had to be carefully returned to their places in the treasured
store.
Then the fond mother poured into the nowise unwilling ears anecdote
after anecdote of Cyril's goodness, the endless little attentions he had
paid her, and the presents he had brought again and again--anecdote and
present being of the most ordinary type, but gilded and burnished by
motherly love till they shone with glowing lustre in Sage's eyes.
It was a delicious time, and there was a soft, warm glow in her cheeks
as she entered so thoroughly into the mother's feelings, gaining
confidence by degrees, but only to blush with confusion, and then turn
pale with the pang she felt as Mrs Mallow drew her down into a close
embrace, and whispered, softly--
"Bless you, my child! I am not surprised that Cyril should love you
with all his heart."
The tears of both were flowing, and the aching pain increased as Sage
thought that Luke Ross also loved her with all his heart.
But there was no time for such thoughts, for just then the door opened
softly, and the Rector entered, Sage starting up and looking confused;
but she was set at ease directly, for he took her tenderly in his arms
and kissed her, saying--
"God bless you, my child! We must have no half welcome now. I see you
have won poor mamma's heart, so I surrender mine. There, there, my
dear; don't cry! You have a pleasant little mission here."
Sage looked up at him wonderingly.
"To make three people very happy, my dear, and that I am sure you are
going to do."
"And so am I," said Mrs Mallow, fondly. "Where is Cyril? Ask him to
come to us now."
"I--I don't know," said the Rector, hesitatingly. "I did look round,
but not seeing him, I thought he would be here."
"He did not know. You did not tell him," said Mrs Mallow.
"That Sage would be here? Oh, no. I left him to find that out," said
the Rector, playfully. "But I am not sorry, my dear, for I feel as if
we ought to monopolise some one's attentions ourselves to-day. The next
time she comes we shall be set aside, being only the old folks."
He smiled at Sage, and in a timid way she smiled back at him; but the
same thought was in both their breasts, and each tried to read it
through the other's eyes.
The thought was of Luke Ross, which was agitating them both, for they
were thinking of the day when they would have to face him, and give
account of that which had been done; and as this dark shadow loomed up
in the distance, the question arose--
What shall I say?
Cyril did not put in an appearance that day, and Mr and Mrs Mallow had
their visitor entirely to themselves, with the result that when it was
time for her to go, all thoughts of pride and differences in caste were
gone, Mrs Mallow kissing her very affectionately.
"I can't come to you, my dear; but you will come to me often--very
often--promise me that."
The answer trembled upon Sage's lips. It was "Yes," but she hardly
dared to utter it, and it was taken from her.
"I will say it," said the Rector. "Yes; she will come very often.
Sage, my child, I never thought of this, but the future is hidden from
all our eyes. You have been here to-day to see us in the character of
the woman our son has chosen for his wife. Heaven's blessing be on you,
my child; he could not have made a worthier choice."
Sage placed her hands in his, and once more he drew her to his breast,
and kissed her broad white forehead.
"There," he said cheerily, and with a smile, "kiss mamma, and then I'll
trot down home with you, for it is too dark for you to go alone. I
think, mamma, dear, we'll set aside all form and ceremony from now.
What do you say?"
"Oh yes, yes. Let there be no scruples to keep you away, my dear. Of
course," she added, smiling, "you will come to see this poor invalid.
Come and read to me as often as you can, for my daughters are beginning
to forsake me a great deal now. Ah! you young people, you get strange
fancies in your heads. You promise?"
She promised, and soon after the Rector was taking her home, chatting to
her pleasantly, as if there was to be no more constraint; but all the
same he could not help thinking about him who filled his companion's
thoughts, to the exclusion of Cyril.
How was Luke Ross to be met?
And at the same time, the fond mother, lying upon her couch, had her
shadows to darken the happy thoughts that were brightening her life.
Was it just to Sage Portlock to let her become the wife of such a son as
hers?
She trembled and grew agitated at the thoughts, which were cleared away
as Cyril suddenly entered the room.
"Here, I say," he cried, "what does this mean?"
"What does what mean?" said Mrs Mallow, smiling affectionately.
"They say down-stairs that Sage--Miss Portlock--has been here."
"Yes, my son, and she has just gone back with your father. Come and sit
down by me, Cyril."
If her words were heard, they were not attended to, for Cyril darted
down the stairs and out of the house, leaving Mrs Mallow to sigh, and,
as a despondent fit came on, to wonder whether they had done right after
all.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.
AT THE TURNING.
Cyril had his run for nothing more than to accompany his father, whom he
met returning home. But the Rector was in a most genial frame of mind,
and father and son came back to the rectory in the highest of spirits,
Cyril bounding up to his mother's room without a trace of illness left.
"Take the post? That I will, and we'll forget all about the past," he
cried. "I am glad you like her. She's the dearest and best of girls,
and I love her. There, I'm not ashamed to say so. I do love her
dearly, and ten times more for her nice, modest, retiring ways. Father,
I'm going to settle down with the best of wives, and--oh, hang it all, I
wish I'd known you were going to bring her here. I say, what a good old
fellow you are!"
And plenty more in the same strain, so that as the question was
discussed the hours flew by, and Mrs Mallow, weary though she felt with
extra exertion, felt that happy days were coming once again, and she
went at last to her pillow to dream of the girl who was to bring peace
to her home, and restore her errant boy, bringing him from a reckless,
careless life to one that was to do honour to them all.
"Quite well, thank you!" said Cyril to himself, as he leaped out of bed
the next morning, and, after dressing, lit a cigar for what he called a
matutinal whiff, but really under the impression that he could think
better under its influence.
For there was a good deal to be thought about that day, and a good deal
to be done.
"I shall have to talk pretty seriously to Master Frank," he said.
"There must be no nonsense if Sage is to be my wife. Let's see if he is
up. No, I'll leave it for the present; I don't want him to turn nasty
if I can help it."
He knew, from the previous night's conversation, that the Churchwarden
had made no further objection to his suit, and, under the circumstances,
he felt that the proper course would be for him to go straight over to
Kilby Farm, and in a frank, manly way thank him, and talk to him of the
future.
"Hang it all, though," he cried, pettishly, "I hate the very idea. It
makes a fellow seem such a fool. _Ask papa_! Hang papa. I don't think
I shall go."
He went down to breakfast, and when it was over the Rector said--
"By the way, Cyril, I think I'd walk over and see Mr Portlock. He
would like the attention, and it is your duty to pay him all respect."
"Oh, yes; of course, father," he said, impatiently.
"But don't go down to the school, Cyril," said the Rector, rather
anxiously.
"Oh, no; of course not," said the son.
"We need not mind what people say, but it is as well not to give them
cause for chattering. There is nothing to be ashamed of, but while Sage
has the school we'll let matters go on as usual."
"But she must not stay there, father."
"Certainly not, Cyril. I'll chat the matter over with Portlock, and see
about a fresh mistress as soon as possible."
"That's right," said Cyril; and before, his father could say more he was
gone.
"Get a new mistress--get a new master," muttered the Rector, tapping the
table with his well-pared finger-nails. "Why, it is near the time when
Luke Ross will be back. Tut--tut--tut! It is a most unfortunate
affair."
It was so near the time that Luke Ross was already on his way to the
London terminus, and a few more hours would see him at Lawford.
"Well, well, I've nothing to do with that," said the Rector,
impatiently. "Sage and he must settle the matter between them. She
evidently never cared for him, and--tut--tut--tut! Well, there, I've
done all for the best."
He went off to solace himself with a look at his flowers, and tried to
forget what entanglements might ensue; while Cyril, with his hands in
his pockets, smoked cigar after cigar, as he fidgeted about in his own
room, trying to screw his courage up to the proper point for a visit to
Kilby Farm, for, truth to tell, the nearer the necessity for an
interview with the Churchwarden, the less he felt disposed to undertake
the task.
"There," he said, impatiently, "morning's a bad time. He's sure to be
busy. I'll go after lunch."
Lunch-time came, and the Rector smilingly asked him how he got on with
Mr Portlock.
"Haven't been yet. Going directly after lunch," he said shortly; and,
to prepare himself for his task, he paid a good deal of attention to the
sherry decanter, and, after lunch, smoked a couple more cigars, as he
hesitated and hung about.
"Well, I will go now," he exclaimed, and, rousing up his courage, he
went across the fields towards Kilby Farm, but turned off before he got
there, and went strolling along the lane.
"Hang the job," he muttered. "I hate it, but I must go, though, I
suppose."
He turned back, and somehow began thinking of Luke Ross, who was
speeding light-hearted enough upon his journey.
"Poor cad!" he said, half aloud. "How wild he will be!"
Once more he neared the farm, and once more he hesitated and turned off.
"I can't face the old boy alone," he cried, impatiently. "What does it
matter? He knows nothing of etiquette. I shall go and meet Sage, and
then we can go in together. It's all nonsense to be so formal."
He seemed to be quite relieved upon coming to this determination, and,
seating himself upon a gate, he sat swinging his legs to and fro,
whistling, and consulting the watch he carried from time to time, till,
coming to the conclusion that it was just about the right moment for
meeting Sage as she left the school, he leaped down and made off in the
direction of the town.
"What a good, obedient son I am," he said, with a mocking laugh. "Here
I promised that I would not go to the school, and I have waited like a
lamb until she comes out.
"Well, the trouble's over, and I've won," he said, as he walked on.
"Has the game been worth the candle? She's very nice, and the old folks
will come down handsomely, of course, and I shall have to go up to town
to this precious office. Hang the office! Well, it won't be so dull as
it is down here."
"Little wench is late," he muttered, gazing at his watch, and yawning.
"Hang it, I've smoked too much to-day. Wonder whether she'll smell my
breath. She's a nice little lassie after all. Ha, ha, ha! Poor old
Luke Ross--what a phiz he will pull when he finds that he has been cut
out! There she comes!" He hastened his steps as he caught sight of
Sage, and the next minute he was at her side. "Why, Sage," he said,
"did I startle you?"
"Yes," she said, trembling. "No, I am not startled;" and her blushing
confusion made her look so charming that a good deal of Cyril Mallow's
indifference was swept away.
"If I had only known that you were coming to our place last night!" he
said, tenderly.
"Didn't you go away on purpose to avoid me?" she said, with a touch of
coquetry. "Go away? For shame!" he said. "When I have thought of
nothing, dreamed of nothing but you, Sage, all these long weary days.
Oh, my darling, now the difficulties are all over what am I to say?"
In her happiness and excitement there was a strange mixture of yielding
and confusion in Sage's manner; she glanced at him proudly, her heart
bounding with joy at his every word, and then she felt that she was
being unmaidenly, and tried to be more reserved.
But she could not help his drawing her hand through his arm, and though
she tried to pull it away from his grasp, he would hold it; and at last,
ready to cry hysterically--ready to laugh with joy, she walked on by his
side, feeling happier than she had ever felt before.
For Cyril Mallow knew how to woo, and as he lowered his voice to a low,
impassioned tone, he told her of his love, and how he was coming
straight on with her to the farm. That he was the happiest of men, and
that if she was cold and distant to him now it would break his heart.
With all this breathed tenderly in her ears by one she really loved, it
was no wonder that she grew less distant, and ceased to try and draw her
hand away. Indeed, somehow poor Sage did not in her agitation seem to
know it when a strong, firm arm was passed round her waist in the narrow
part of the lane, down between the banks, where no one was likely to
see.
All was a delicious dream, full of oblivion of the past, till in one
short moment, as with head drooping towards Cyril Mallow, she hung upon
his words, her heart throbbing, her humid eyes soft and liquid with the
light of her young love, she felt turned, as it were, to stone, and
stood with parted lips, staring at Luke Ross at the turning as he reeled
against the hedge.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.
LUKE ROSS'S RECEPTION.
It was as if nature sorrowed o'er the scene, for as the encounter took
place the rich, warm glow of the winter sunset passed away, and with the
black clouds rising in the west came a chilling wind, and a few
scattered drops of rain pattered amidst the fallen leaves where a short
half-hour before there were the warmth and suggestions of spring. Now
it was winter--bitter, depressing winter--all around, and in the hearts
of those who stood there pale and grey as the gathering night.
Luke Ross was the first to recover himself as the giddy sensation passed
away. The blood seemed to surge to his brain, and, with a cry of rage,
he dashed at Cyril, and seized him by the throat.
"How dare you!" he cried. "You have insulted her."
Almost as he spoke his hands dropped to his side, and he stood
motionless, gazing, from one to the other, at Sage shrinking back, with
her hands covering her face; and Cyril, who had now got the better of
his surprise, standing in a menacing attitude, ready for his assailant.
For the moment, now, Luke seemed stunned; he could not realise the truth
of what he saw. Either, he told himself, it was some mistake, or his
eyes deceived him, and he had not seen Sage Portlock--the woman who had
promised to be his wife--half embraced by Cyril Mallow, to whom she
seemed to cling.
At last he found his power of speech return, but so unreal did
everything seem that he hardly knew his own voice as he exclaimed--
"Sage, speak to me. What does this mean?"
Her hands fell from her face, and she started violently at the bitter
tone of reproach in his words, gazing wildly in his face, her lips
parting, but no sound coming from them.
"Tell me that this is not true--that I was half blind--that you do not
care for him--Sage, Sage--my darling!"
There was a piteous appeal in his words that made her shiver; and her
eyes seemed rivetted to his, but she did not speak.
"Tell me, Sage! For heaven's sake speak!" he cried, in a low, hoarse
moan. "Sage--I cannot bear it. Sage--come to me--my own."
He held out his hands to her as he spoke, and took a step towards her,
his anguished face working with the agony of his soul.
But as he gazed yearningly in her eyes with his, so full of love,
forgiveness, and tender appeal, she covered her face once more with her
hands, and seemed to cower in her abasement as she shrank away.
Cyril had been too much startled to speak at first; and the rude attack
had sent a thrill through his nerves that was not the feeling
experienced by the brave when suddenly moved to action; but now he began
to recover his equanimity, and, taking a step in front of Sage, he made
as if to take her hand.
"Really," he said, "my good fellow, you have no right to--"
"Stop!" cried Luke, in so fierce a voice that Cyril remained for the
time as if turned to stone, staring at the speaker, whose whole manner
changed. He looked taller; the appealing gaze was gone, and his eyes
seemed to flash, while his chest heaved, and his hands clenched, as he
stood before them--no mean adversary for one who encountered him hand to
hand.
"Sage," he cried, and his voice was stern, fierce, and commanding. "A
minute ago I could not believe this. Tell me I was deceived. No: not
now. Come with me to the farm."
He tried to take one of her hands, but she shrank, shudderingly, away.
"You shall speak," he cried.
"Oh, come," said Cyril, in a blustering tone, "I'm not going to stand by
and listen to this. Sage, dear, this man has no hold whatever upon you.
Come home with me."
"No hold?" cried Luke, quickly. "Why--but no; I will not speak to him.
Sage, take my arm. I will not reproach you now. Come with me."
He caught her wrist, trembling the while with suppressed passion. But,
with a quick flash of anger, she tore it away.
"Cyril," she cried, "protect me from this man."
Her words seemed to strike Luke Ross like blows, for he staggered back,
his lips parted, his face ashy grey, and a look of despairing horror
starting, as it were, from every feature; but as he saw Cyril Mallow
take her hand when Sage turned from him, Luke's whole aspect changed,
and, with a cry like that of some infuriated animal, he literally leaped
at Cyril's throat.
Sage shrieked, and then staggered to the bank, cowering against the
hedge, as, recovering himself from the attack, and driven to defend
himself, Cyril seized his assailant, and for the next few minutes there
was the sound of hard breathing, muttered ejaculations, the scuffling
noise of feet upon the gravelly road, and then a heavy fall, Luke Ross
being seen in the gathering gloom of the winter's evening to be above
his rival, who lay motionless, with Luke's knee upon his chest, his
hands upon his throat.
The sight before her nerved Sage to action, and she tottered to where
the two men were.
"Luke," she cried; "Luke, are you mad? Oh, help, help, help!"
"Mad? Am I mad?" he said, hoarsely, as Sage's shrieks rang out shrilly
on the evening air. "Yes, I must be mad," he muttered, as he rose
slowly to his feet, and stood gazing down at his lost love, who now
threw herself frantically upon her knees, and raised Cyril's head upon
her arm.
"And I came back for this," said Luke, in a husky whisper--"for this!"
But she did not hear him; her mind being taken up with the horror of her
position.
"I came back for this," he continued, in the same low, husky tone. "I
would not believe it true. Oh, Sage, Sage!" he groaned aloud, "it is
more than I can bear."
He staggered away along the lane by which he had come, hatless, his coat
torn, his throat open, and the rain, that had now begun to fall, beating
upon his fevered head. Footsteps were hurrying towards the spot where
he had encountered her he loved and his rival. But he heard them not;
he only staggered on--on into the gathering night, with a vague feeling
that he must go away somewhere to find rest for his aching brain--
anywhere to be away from her.
One moment he stopped, for he heard Sage's voice raised in a loud cry;
but it was not repeated, and with a bitter laugh, he now tore on at
headlong speed, running not from pursuit, but from sheer desire for
action. On and on, quite heedless of the direction he took, so that he
might get away--onward and onward through the wind and rain.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
A WILLING INVALID.
The footsteps heard as Luke Ross hurried away were those of the
Churchwarden. He had been round the farm according to his custom when
his after-dinner pipe was ended, and then spent his usual amount of time
over scraper and mat, getting rid of the superabundant earth that always
seemed to cling to his boots.
"Shortest day, mother," he said, entering the long parlour where Mrs
Portlock was seated watching the fire, with her knitting upon her knees.
"Be dusk directly. Sage come in?"
"No, not yet. It is hardly her time," was the reply. "But you need not
fidget about her."
"Wasn't fidgeting about her," said the Churchwarden, shortly, for the
meaning tone in his wife's words annoyed him. All that afternoon he had
been thinking of Luke Ross, and it had struck him that it was just upon
the young man's time for paying a visit home.
"And then we shall be having him up here, and he'll learn all about
Sage. Hang me if I think that I ought to have listened to parson as I
did!"
These thoughts had come to him over and over again, troubling him more
than he cared to own, for there was something frank and manly about Luke
Ross that he had always liked, and in spite of his own uncompromising
refusal to sanction any engagement, he did not feel happy in his mind
about the treatment the young man had received.
"Look here, mother," he said, sharply, after standing at the front door
for a few minutes, watching for Sage's return, "this is your doing."
"What is my doing?" she replied; "but there, for goodness' sake, Joseph,
do come in or stop out. You've done nothing but open and shut that
door."
The Churchwarden shut the front door with a bang, and strode up to the
fire.
"I say this is your doing about Sage, and I don't half like it after
all."
"There, there, there!" she cried. "I wish to goodness you'd mind the
farm, and leave women and their ways alone. What in the world do you
understand about such things?"
"I don't think we've been doing right," he said; "and I'm afraid that no
good will come of it."
"Stuff and nonsense, dear. Why any one, with half an eye, could have
seen that the poor girl was fretting her heart out about young Mallow."
"She didn't fret her heart out about Luke Ross," said the Churchwarden,
sturdily.
"About him!" said Mrs Portlock, in a tone of contempt. "How could she?
Cyril Mallow's worth a dozen of him."
"Proof of the pudding is in the eating," said the Churchwarden, kicking
at a piece of blazing coal with his boot toe.
"Yes, and a very unpleasant bit of pudding Mr Luke Ross would have been
to eat. There, you hold your tongue, and let things go on. You ought
to be very proud that matters have turned out as they have."
"Humph! Well, I'm not a bit proud," he replied; "and I'm very sorry now
that I have let things go on so easily as I have. You may see Luke Ross
when he comes down, for I won't."
"Oh! I'll see him," she replied. "That's easily done. Why, Joseph,
you ought to be ashamed to think of them both on the same day. Our Sage
will be his lordship's sister-in-law."
"Hang his lordship! Well, perhaps I am, wife, and it's because I'm
afraid that Luke Ross is the better man of the two. Why, look here,
it's getting quite dark, and that girl not home," he cried, angrily, as
he strode towards the front door.
"Do come and sit down," said Mrs Portlock. "She's all right I tell
you. I'll be bound to say that some one has gone to meet her and see
her home, and, look here, Joseph, don't be foolish when Mr Cyril comes,
but make yourself pleasant to him for Sage's sake. She quite worships
him, poor girl."
"Hah!" said the Churchwarden, with a grim smile upon his lip. "No one
ever worshipped me," and he opened the front door.
"Now don't keep letting in the cold wind, Joseph," cried Mrs Portlock,
and then, "Gracious! What's that?"
She heard the faint scream of some one at a distance, but almost as it
reached her ears the Churchwarden had gone off at a heavy trot across
the home field, in the direction from whence the sound had come, and he
burst through the gate, to find Sage upon her knees, nursing Cyril
Mallow's bleeding head, as the sound of steps was heard from the side
lane.
"What's this? Who did this?" cried the Churchwarden. "Is he much
hurt?"
"I--I don't know," faltered Sage. "Oh, uncle, uncle, is he killed?"
"Killed--no," said the Churchwarden, going down on one knee, "cut--
stunned. How was it--a fall?"
"No, uncle," sobbed Sage, who was now half beside herself with
grief--"they--they fought."
"Who did? Who has been here?"
"Don't--don't ask me," she sobbed. "But I do ask you," cried the
Churchwarden, sharply. "Why," he cried, struck as by a flash of
inspiration, "Luke Ross has come down?"
"Yes," moaned Sage, with a sigh of misery.
"And he did this?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Humph! Then he's a plucked un!" muttered the Churchwarden, with a low
whistle. "Well, anyhow we've got it over."
"Is--is he dead, uncle?" whispered Sage, hoarsely.
"Dead--no. I tell you his head's too thick. Well, you've done it,
young lady. There, I'll stop with him while you run up and tell Tom
Loddon and Jack Rennie to bring the little stable door off the hinges.
We must get him up to the farm."
"Can't--can't I carry him, uncle?" said Sage, naively.
"Pish! what nonsense, girl. I don't think I could carry him myself.
Let's try."
He placed his arms round Cyril's chest, and raised him into a sitting
posture, the act rousing Cyril from his swoon.
"That's better. How do you feel now?" cried the Churchwarden. "He'll
be able to walk, and it will do him good. Come, Master Cyril, how do
you feel?"
"Sick--faint," he replied. "Cowardly assault on a fellow."
He clung to the Churchwarden, for his head swam, but the sickness passed
off in a few minutes, and then, leaning heavily upon the Churchwarden's
strong arm, the injured man walked slowly across the field to where Mrs
Portlock was standing at the open door, Sage feeling sick and faint
herself, as she followed close behind, bearing both Cyril's and Luke
Ross's hats, that of the latter having been picked up by her without any
knowledge of what she had done.
"What is it? What is the matter?" cried Mrs Portlock.
"Help with thy hands, wife, and let thy tongue rest," said the
Churchwarden, sharply; and in answer to the rebuke, Mrs Portlock did
help by drawing forward the great couch near the fire, and sending Sage
for some pillows, after which the latter supported Cyril, while Mrs
Portlock, with a good deal of notable quickness, bathed the cut at the
back of the injured man's head, afterwards cutting away a little of the
hair, and strapping it up with diachylon in quite a business-like way.
"Mother's good as a doctor over a job like this," said the Churchwarden,
cheerily. "So am I. Here's your physic, squire. Sip that down."
The medicine was a good glass of brandy and water, of which Cyril
partook heartily; and then, in obedience to the tender request of Sage,
he lay down on the pillows, and half closed his eyes.
"Now, then," said the Churchwarden, bluffly, "what do you say? Shall I
send over and tell them at the rectory you've had a tumble and cracked
your crown, or will you have a cup of tea with us and then walk up? You
don't want a doctor."
Cyril opened his eyes languidly, and gazed at the Churchwarden. Then he
let them rest on Mrs Portlock with a pitiful gaze, finally turning them
upon Sage, who was kneeling by him holding one hand.
Cyril Mallow's thoughts were that he should prefer to stay where he was,
tended by the women, and he said, faintly--
"Doctor--please."
"Nonsense, man," cried Portlock, bluffly. "Why, wheres your heart?
Pluck up a bit. You don't want a doctor for a bit of a crack like
that."
"Oh, uncle, you are cruel!" cried Sage. "I am sure he is very much
hurt."
Her hand received a tender squeeze in response to this, and, in spite of
her present misery, Sage felt her heart begin to glow.
"Not I, my lass," said the Churchwarden, in his bluff way. "Perhaps
some one else thinks that you are."
Sage sank lower, and hid her face upon Cyril's hand.
"Let us send one of the lads," said Mrs Portlock.
"All right," said the Churchwarden, good-humouredly. "Send word up to
the rectory that Mr Cyril has had a bit of an accident--mustn't say
you've been fighting, eh?"
Cyril moaned softly, but did not speak.
"Say that he has had a bit of an accident, and that he won't be home for
an hour or two. Would you like him to come round by the town and tell
Vinnicombe to come up?"
"Oh, yes, yes, uncle," cried Sage, pitifully; and the messenger was sent
off.
The doctor and the Rector arrived almost together about an hour later,
during which interval Portlock had made himself acquainted with the
circumstances of the struggle.
"And was Luke Ross hurt?" he asked.
"I--I think not, uncle," said Sage, colouring deeply, and then turning
pale.
"Humph! Poor fellow!" said the Churchwarden. "Sage, my lass, you've
behaved very badly to that young chap, and no good will come of it,
you'll see."
Mr Vinnicombe did not consider that there was much the matter, that was
evident; but he apparently did not care to tell his patient that this
was the case, and consequently it was arranged that Cyril should stop at
the farm, the best bed-room being appointed to his use; and he amended
so slowly that he quite fulfilled a prophecy enunciated by the
Churchwarden.
"Strikes me, mother," he said, "that yon chap will be so unwell that he
won't go away for a fortnight; and if you let Sage nurse him he'll stop
a month."
Sage, to Cyril's great disgust, was not allowed to nurse him; but he
stayed for a month all the same, fate having apparently arranged that,
if Luke Ross's cause was not hopeless before, it was now wrecked beyond
the slightest chance of being saved.
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.
FULLERTON'S PROPHECY.
In a place like Lawford, where every one knew more of his or her
neighbours affairs than the individual could possibly know for him or
herself, the encounter near Kilby Farm soon had its place as the chief
item of news, and was dressed and garnished according to the taste of
those who related it.
The principal version was that, stung by a letter sent by Sage Portlock,
Luke Ross had come down from town and purposely left the coach at
Cross-lane, so that he could waylay and murder Cyril Mallow with a huge
hedge-stake which was picked up afterwards near the place.
For a short time the gossips were at fault for a reason, but they only
had to wait patiently for a while, and then it was known throughout the
place that Cyril Mallow was engaged to marry Sage--a matter so out of
all reason to the muddled intellect of Humphrey Bone, the old
schoolmaster, that he said it was enough to make widow Marly turn in her
grave.
Why, he did not explain. It could not have been from jealous
disappointment, for widow Marly had had a very fair share of matrimonial
life, having married at the early age of sixteen, and being led twice
afterwards to the hymeneal altar before dying at a very good old age.
"But it's a wrong thing," he said, at the King's Head, during a course
of potations--"a wrong thing; and no good will come. Two sorts, oil and
water, and they won't mix. Tell parson I say so, some of you, if you
like. It's his doing to get the girl's money, and it's a wrong thing."
In the midst of the many discussions in Lawford it was asked why Luke
Ross was not to be prosecuted for assaulting the parson's son.
"Nice sort of fellow," said Fullerton; "goes to learn to be a lawyer,
and comes down here and breaks the law."
"Ah! it's been a strange bad case," said Smithson, the tailor.
"Anybody seen owt of him since?" ventured Warton, the saddler.
There was silence for a few moments, and then Tomlinson spoke.
"I haven't seen him down," he said. "In fact, I know he has not been,
for old Michael Ross has been up to see him and hear the rights of the
case."
"Yes?" said two or three, eagerly.
"Ah! he don't say anything about the rights and wrongs; only that he
doesn't think Joseph Portlock's girl behaved well to him."
"Oh! I don't know," said Fullerton. "What call had a girl like that to
consider herself bound to a wandering man who couldn't settle down like
a Christian? I think she did quite right to give him up."
"And marry young Mallow?"
"But they are not married yet, my boy," said Fullerton, shaking his
head; "and it's my belief that they won't be. He's a flyaway, wild,
scapegrace of a fellow. It'll come to nought, but I do think young Ross
ought to be punished same as any other man. Fair play and no favour for
me."
"Very good sentiment, Mr Fullerton," said Warton.
"Make it your own motto, then, Mr Warton," said Fullerton, proudly.
"As I says to Michael Ross, when I was talking to him, yesterday--no, it
was the day before yesterday--no, stop, it _was_ yesterday. `I believe
in fair play,' I said.
"`So do I, Mr Fullerton,' he said; `but I don't think my poor boy has
got it here.'"
"Did he say that?" said Warton.
"Ay, that he did, and pst--here he is!"
There was a murmur in the inn room where the principal Lawford tradesmen
were assembled, as old Michael Ross, the tanner, came in, looking very
keen and dark, and as if close application to his trade had heightened
the colour of his skin.
The old man seemed nervous, and as if he feared that he would not be
counted welcome; but he soon found that if he would only discuss his
son's conduct no one would be looked upon as a more welcome addition to
the weekly meeting.
There was a pause for a few minutes, during which old Ross gave his
orders to the landlord, and lit his pipe, smoking afterwards in quiet
consciousness that he was being furtively glanced at by all assembled,
and that it was only with the expectation of hearing more that they were
so quiet of tongue.
"Been having a run up to London, Master Ross, I hear," said Warton, the
saddler, at last.
"Yes, Master Warton, yes; I've had a run up amongst the soot and smoke,"
said Michael Ross.
"And was strange and glad to get back again, I'll be bound," said
Tomlinson, while Fullerton lay back in his armed Windsor chair, staring
straight up at the ceiling, with the calm self-satisfaction of a man who
knew all that was being asked.
"Well, yes, neighbour," said Michael Ross, thoughtfully, "I must own
that I was glad to get back again. London's a wearisome place, and the
din and rattle of the streets is enough to muddle any man's brains. It
was quite a relief to turn down the narrow lane to my son's chambers,
and get out of the buzz and whirr. My bark mill's nowt to it."
"Saw your son, did you?" said Warton. "How's he getting on?"
"Oh, he's getting on right enough," said the old man, proudly. "He's
getting on."
"Gotten to be a big loyer, eh?" said Smithson. "Why, Master Ross, sir,
we shall hev to get him down here to take up our cases at County Court."
"Nay, nay, nay," said old Ross, chuckling. "Not yet--not yet. Theres a
deal to learn to get to be a big loyer; but my sons working away hard
now he's getting a bit over his trouble."
"Trouble?" said Fullerton, bringing his eyes down from the ceiling. "He
hasn't got into trouble, I hope?"
"Nay, nay, only about the bit o' trouble down here."
"Not going to hev him before the magistrates, are they, Master Ross?"
said Warton.
"Magistrates? What, my son?" said the old man, firing up. "Not they.
He'd a deal better right to have some one else before them. My son
never did no wrong."
"But they say he knocked young Cyril about with a hedge-stake," said
Smithson.
"Tchah! Lies?" said the old man, angrily. "I dare say he hit him. So
would I if I'd been a young man, and come back and found my young lady
stole away like that. Yes, I'd ha' done the same."
"Hah, yes," said Tomlinson, thoughtfully, as if he were going back to
past times. "It is hard on a man. But I don't know, Master Ross; if a
man's got a bad tooth it's best out, and it has saved your lad perhaps
from many a sore and aching time in the future."
"I'm not going to say anything against some people we know, and I'm not
going to say anything for them," said the old tanner, warmly. "All I do
say is, that I don't think my son has had justice done him down here."
"Oh, don't say that, Master Ross," said Fullerton, importantly. "I'm
sure the way in which he took our side over the school appointment was
noble. He saw how unjust it was, and he drew back like a man."
"I don't know--I don't know," said Michael Ross, with a dry chuckle.
"I'm afraid there was something more than that at the bottom of it,
though he never owned it to me."
"Ah, well," said Fullerton; "it's very evident that he won't marry Sage
Portlock. Poor girl, it's a sad fall away."
"Yes," said Tomlinson, smoothly, "it does seem strange."
"Well, for my part," said Warton, "I wonder at Joseph Portlock, though I
think it's his missus as is most to blame. I don't believe as young
Cyril was much hurt."
"Not he," chuckled Smithson. "And there he's been for the past month,
lying on the sofa, tended by those two women. I hear the parson's been
every day, and they do say, that as soon as he gets better--"
"He's better now," said Warton.
"Well, then," chuckled Smithson, drawing one leg up under him upon his
chair from force of habit; "suppose we say much better--they're to be
married."
"Well, it caps me," said Warton; "I can't understand what it means."
"Money," said Fullerton. "Some people keep up their grand houses and
gardeners and grape-vines, and get laying traps baited with pretty girls
for young lords and people from London, and after all are not so well
off as some who pay their twenty or thirty pound rent and have done with
it. Joseph Portlock, I suppose, will leave all his money to those two
girls some day, and it will be a nice bit. Pity he didn't keep Miss Rue
for the other boy, and then parson would have been happy."
"When's Frank going back?" said Smithson, the tailor, for reasons of his
own.
"I'd know; ask him," said Fullerton. "He's always going over to Lewby,
so I hear."
"Well," said Warton, the saddler, "all I can say is, that if I was John
Berry he shouldn't be always coming over to my house."
"'Tain't our business," said Fullerton. "I should say, though, that
Sage Portlock'll have a nice bit o' money."
"Ah, there's a many things done in this life for the sake of money,"
said Tomlinson, sententiously.
"But it looks bad for a young fellow to be lying about on sofas all day
long, coaxed and petted up by women, just because he has got a bit of a
crack on the head. Doctor said to me, he said, when I asked him about
the cut, he said, laughing all the while, `It isn't as deep as a well,
nor as wide as a church door,' he said; `but 'twill serve--'twill
serve.'"
"What did he mean by that?" said Warton.
"I don't know," said Fullerton, sharply. "I think it was some stuff or
another that he'd read in a book. You know what a fellow he is for
giving you bits out of books. Don't you remember that night at the
annual dinner? He said, when they were talking about old Mrs Hagley
being a bit of a witch--"
"Ah, to be sure," said Smithson; "about the cellar."
"Yes," continued Fullerton; "he said, `I can call spirits from the vasty
deep. Landlord, go down to the cellar and bring up a bottle of the best
French brandy.'"
"Ah, he's a queer fellow, is doctor," said Warton. "They won't live
down here when they're married, will they?"
"Who?"
"Young Cyril Mallow and Joseph Portlock's girl."
"Oh, dear me, no," said Tomlinson. "Young Cyril has got a post under
government, and it's settled that Miss Cynthia is to be married to Lord
Artingale, and a house has been taken for young Cyril up in Kensington."
"Hullo, old fox," cried Fullerton.
"Yoicks, yoicks, yoicks, gone away," shouted several, uproariously.
"Come, out with it," said Fullerton. "I'll be bound to say you know all
about it."
"Well," said Tomlinson, with the calm reticence of one who felt himself
quite at home in the matter, "I did hear a little about it."
"From Joseph Portlock's wife, I'll be bound," said Fullerton. "She's
been at your place three times lately."
"I'm not going to mention any names," said Tomlinson, with a sly,
smooth, fat smile, "but I think I may venture to say that there'll be a
wedding somewhere within six months, and that those who are married will
live in Kensington."
"Ay, parson knows how to play his cards," said Warton. "I suppose the
eldest girl will marry that stout gentleman, Perry-Morton. Parson
manages things well. Fancy bagging Lord Artingale for a son-in-law.
Why, all Gatley belongs to him, and he's an uncommonly nice fellow too."
"Yes, his lordship's all very well; but as to young Cyril and Miss
Portlock, mark my words, no good'll come of it," said Fullerton,
emphatically. "Mark my words: no good'll come of it."
"I should be sorry if it did not turn out well, and so would my son be,
I'm sure," said the old tanner.
"Why?" said Fullerton.
"Because Sage Portlock is a nice, superior sort of girl," said the old
man, "and it is always grievous to see those you like come in for
trouble."
"So it is," said Fullerton, "but trouble will come. Here's two
clergyman's sons, who ought to be the very model of what young men
should be, and has any one of you a good word to say for them?"
"Well, for my part," said Smithson, "a man as can't wear a honestly
well-cut pair of trousers, made by a respectable tradesman, but must
send to London for everything, can't have much balance in his nature."
"Quite right," said Warton. "Why, when old Mallow set up the carriage,
young Cyril--no, it was Frank--must go up to London to buy the harness,
and it had to come to me for repairs in less than a month."
"Well, for my part," said Tomlinson, "I wish Sage Portlock health and
happiness, and no disrespect to you, Master Ross, for every girl has a
right to choose her own master for life."
"I wish her health and happiness, too," said Fullerton, rising, "and I
wish she may get them. Good night, gentlemen; I'm for home."
"Yes, it's time for home," said old Michael Ross, rising, and saying
good night; and the two neighbours walked down the street together.
"Married, eh?" said Fullerton, with a sneer. "Well, just as they like;
but mark my words, Michael Ross, it means trouble."
"I hope not, I hope not," said the old tanner, sadly, "for I liked Sage
Portlock. She's a very good girl."
"Bah! sir; nonsense! sir; women are not much good as a rule, and she's a
very bad specimen. But, mark my words, sir, trouble, and misery, and
misfortune. It will never be a happy match."
And the prophet of evil went his way, leaving old Michael Ross to stand
upon his own doorstep thinking.
"Poor lass, I liked Sage; and though she has broken with my poor boy,"
he said, "she's not a bad girl at heart. Trouble, and misery, and
misfortune--and all to come upon her poor weak head. Poor child--poor
child. Luke will about break his heart.
"Trouble, and misery, and misfortune," he repeated, sadly. "I hope not,
from my very heart, but I'm afraid Stephen Fullerton is right."
PART TWO, CHAPTER ONE.