Part 1, Chapter XXVII.After a Pipe.Mrs Portlock was in the great kitchen of the farm as Sage hurried through, and she stared with astonishment at the girl’s excited way.“Why, heyday! Sage—” she began.“Don’t stop me, aunt,” cried Sage, excitedly; and, running up-stairs, she shut herself in the room, threw herself upon her knees by her bed, and covered her face with her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.“She’s been having a quarrel with him,” said Mrs Portlock to herself, “or she wouldn’t take on like that: They must be getting on then, or they wouldn’t quarrel.”Mrs Portlock paused here to go and scold one of the maids for picking out all the big lumps of coal and leaving the small, but she came back into the kitchen to think about her niece.“He’s a deal better than Luke Ross,” she said to herself, “for Luke’s only a tradesman after all. There’s no mistake about it, he means our Sage; and where, I should like to know, would he find a better girl?”There was a pause here, during which Mrs Portlock indulged in a few retrospects concerning Rue, and the time when she was in such trouble about Frank.“But Cyril is a better disposed young man than his brother, I am sure,” she said, half aloud. “He is his mother’s favourite too. I wonder what Mrs Mallow will say!”Mrs Portlock said this aloud, and then stopped short, alarmed at her own words, for she called up the face of the calm, dignified Rector entering the place, looking at her reproachfully, and ready to blame her for her assumption in encouraging his son’s visits.“Oh, my gracious!” she ejaculated, half in horror, for her imagination for the time began to run riot, and she saw that, even if Cyril Mallow was very fond of Sage, and even if Sage returned his love, matters would not run quite so smoothly as she had anticipated.“I’m sure she’s as good as he,” she exclaimed, by way of indignant protest to the accusations of her conscience; but, all the same, she was now brought face to face with the consequences of her tacit encouragement of Cyril Mallow’s visits.“And I’m sure we’re as well off as they are,” she added, after a pause. But, all the same, her conscience would not be quieted, and Mrs Portlock was on the point of going up to her niece’s room, when, with a fresh qualm of dread, though she hardly knew why, she saw her husband come striding up toward the house.Meanwhile Sage’s breast was racked by conflicting emotions, chief amongst which was that suggested by a self-accusation from her wounded heart; and she knelt there, sobbing and praying for help, feeling that she was intensely wicked, and that the hopeless misery of her case was greater than she could bear.Her mind was in a chaos, and she shuddered as she clung to the coverlet, and dragged it over her drawn and excited face, as one moment it was the stern, reproachful figure of Luke Ross asking her if this was her faith—this the meaning of her tender, loving letters—this the reward of his chivalrous determination to give up everything to the one idea of making himself a worthy suitor with her relatives; the next it was Cyril, gazing at her with despairing eyes, which seemed to say that if she cast him off he should drift recklessly through the world, and come to some bad end; while, did she bless him with her love, he would become a worthy member of society, a happy man, and one of whom she could feel so proud.Then her heart began to plead for him so hard that she trembled, for she seemed to be awakening, as it were, into a new life, and her dread increased as she more fully realised the power Cyril Mallow had gained over her. She fought hard, and set up barrier after barrier, called up by her intense desire to be honourable and true to her trust. But as fast as she set these up they seemed to be swept away; and, as the excitement brought on by her misery increased, she felt ready to cry aloud to Luke to come back to her and protect her from Cyril Mallow and from her own weak self.“Sage! Sage!”It was her uncle’s voice calling up the stairs—a voice by which she could interpret every mood of his spirit; and she knew now that he was very angry.“Sage!” came again in a voice of thunder, and so full of impatience that she was forced to cross to the door, open it, and answer.“I want my tea,” came up in an angry roar.It was in Sage’s heart to say she was too unwell to come down, but in her then agitated state she could only falter that she would not be a minute, and, hastily bathing her eyes and smoothing her hair, she descended, pale and trembling, to where her aunt was looking very white and startled, and her uncle walking up and down the old-fashioned parlour, impatient for his evening meal, one of which he would rarely partake unless his niece was there to attend to his wants.The Churchwarden’s lips parted, and he was about to speak out angrily, but the woe-begone looks of the girl silenced him.“I’ll have a cup of tea first, and do it over a pipe,” he said to himself. Then aloud—“Come, my girl, I’m hungry; it’s past tea-time,” and he took his place at the foot of the table, the others seating themselves, after exchanging a scared glance; and then the meal went on much as usual, only that Mrs Portlock tried to calm herself by constant applications to the teapot, while, in spite of her efforts, Sage could hardly partake of a morsel, for the food seemed as if it would choke her.“Come, come, lass, you don’t eat,” her uncle kept saying; and the poor girl’s struggles to keep back her tears were pitiable.But at last the weary meal came to an end, and as the table was cleared both aunt and niece grew hopeful, for the Churchwarden’s brow was less rugged as he went to the ledge where his pipe lay, took the tobacco-box placed at his elbow by his niece, and calmly proceeded to fill his pipe.“Don’t look so frightened, Sage,” whispered her aunt. “He won’t say any more now.”“Yes, I shall,” cried the farmer gruffly, for his hearing seemed to have become preternaturally sharpened. “Wait till the rooms clear.”The troubles of that one afternoon seemed to have wrought quite a change in Sage, for as, according to her custom, she took a folded spill from the mantelshelf, and lit it ready to hold to her uncle’s pipe, her eyes looked wild and dilated, while her usually rounded cheeks seemed quite hollowed, giving her a wild, haggard aspect, such as is seen in one newly risen from a bed of sickness.“Yes, I’m going to talk seriously to both of you,” continued the Churchwarden; “but I’m not going into a passion, now. That’s over. Get your work, both of you, and sit down.”The trembling women obeyed, after exchanging quick glances; Mrs Portlock’s being accompanied by a movement of her lips, which Sage interpreted to be “I can’t help it.”The work-baskets were brought to the table, and as the Churchwarden sat placidly smoking and staring at the fire, the sharptwitof needle against thimble was heard in the stillness, which was not otherwise broken till the farmer took his pipe from his lips and uttered a stern—“Now then.”Sage started quickly back from where her thoughts had wandered after Cyril Mallow, whom in imagination she had just overtaken and brought back from a wandering life, to bless him and make him happy, while Luke Ross had forgiven her, and every one was going to be happy once again.“Hold your tongue, mother,” said the farmer, sharply. “I’ve given you a bit of my mind.”“Indeed, you have,” she cried, querulously, “and, I must say, soon—”“No, you mustn’t,” he shouted. “I’m going to talk this time. You generally do all that; but it’s my turn now.”“Oh, just as you like, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, in an ill-used, protesting tone; “but I must say—”“No, you mustn’t,” he cried again, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table with such an effect upon his wife, whose nerves were still shaken by the verbal castigation she had received before tea, that she started from her chair, hesitated a moment, and then ran sobbing out of the room.For a moment the Churchwarden sat frowning. Then he half rose as if to call her back, but directly after he subsided into his place, and sat frowning sternly at his niece.“Let her go,” he said. “I’ve said my mind to her. Now I want to talk to you.”Sage hesitated, with her work in her hand; then, letting it fall, she went to the other side of the table and knelt down, resting her elbows upon her uncle’s knees, and gazing appealingly in his face.The Churchwarden in his heart wanted to clasp her in his arms and kiss her pale, drawn face, but he checked the desire, and, putting on a judicial expression—“Now,” he exclaimed. “So you are playing fast and loose with Luke Ross?”“No, uncle,” she replied, softly.“What do you call it, then? Of course there is no engagement between you, but Luke expects that some day you will be his wife.”“Yes, uncle.”“And as soon as his back is turned, I find you encouraging this fellow, Cyril Mallow.”“No, indeed, uncle, I have not,” cried Sage.“I don’t be—”He stopped, for there was something in his niece’s eyes which checked him.“Well, it looks very bad,” he said; “and one thing is very evident—he, after a fashion, thinks of you, and he has the impudence to say that you care for him.”“Oh!”It was more like a sigh than an ejaculation, and Sage’s eyes seemed to contract now with pain.“I’ve given aunt a good talking to, for she’s more to blame than you. She thinks it a fine thing for the parson’s boy to be coming hanging about here after you, same as Frank did after Rue, and much good came of it. She had the impudence to tell me that he was a gentleman, while Luke Ross was only a tradesman’s son. As if that had anything to do with it. ‘Look here,’ I said to her: ‘whenever our girl weds, it shall be to some one with a good income, but he shall be a man.’ Gentleman, indeed! If Cyril Mallow is a gentleman, let my niece marry a man who is nothing of the sort.”Sage’s eyes closed, and there was a pitiful, pained expression in her face that told of the agony of her heart. So troubled was her countenance that her uncle was moved to pity, and spoke more tenderly.“I don’t like him well enough for you, my girl, even if there were no Luke Ross in the way. I’ve sent him off to work for thee, like Jacob did for Rachel, and if he’s the man I think him, some day he’ll come back in good feather, ready to ask thee to be his wife, and you’ll neither of you be the worse for a few years’ wait.”Sage’s eyes remained closed. “I was going to scold thee,” he said, tenderly, “but my anger’s gone, and I’ll say but little more, only tell me this—You don’t care a bit for this young spark of the Rector’s.”Sage’s face contracted more and more, and the Churchwarden cried, impatiently—“Well, girl, why don’t you answer?” She gazed up in his face with a pleading expression of countenance that startled him, and he placed his hands upon her shoulders, and looked fully in her eyes.“Why, Sage!” he cried, “you don’t mean—you don’t say that you like him instead of Luke?”She covered her face with her hands, and burst out into a violent fit of sobbing.“I don’t know, uncle. I don’t know.”“Don’t know!” he cried, angrily.“Pray ask me no more,” she cried, as her uncle started from his seat, thrusting back the chair in the act. She crouched down upon the carpet, weeping bitterly, for she did know now, though no pressure would have torn the secret from her heart.
Mrs Portlock was in the great kitchen of the farm as Sage hurried through, and she stared with astonishment at the girl’s excited way.
“Why, heyday! Sage—” she began.
“Don’t stop me, aunt,” cried Sage, excitedly; and, running up-stairs, she shut herself in the room, threw herself upon her knees by her bed, and covered her face with her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.
“She’s been having a quarrel with him,” said Mrs Portlock to herself, “or she wouldn’t take on like that: They must be getting on then, or they wouldn’t quarrel.”
Mrs Portlock paused here to go and scold one of the maids for picking out all the big lumps of coal and leaving the small, but she came back into the kitchen to think about her niece.
“He’s a deal better than Luke Ross,” she said to herself, “for Luke’s only a tradesman after all. There’s no mistake about it, he means our Sage; and where, I should like to know, would he find a better girl?”
There was a pause here, during which Mrs Portlock indulged in a few retrospects concerning Rue, and the time when she was in such trouble about Frank.
“But Cyril is a better disposed young man than his brother, I am sure,” she said, half aloud. “He is his mother’s favourite too. I wonder what Mrs Mallow will say!”
Mrs Portlock said this aloud, and then stopped short, alarmed at her own words, for she called up the face of the calm, dignified Rector entering the place, looking at her reproachfully, and ready to blame her for her assumption in encouraging his son’s visits.
“Oh, my gracious!” she ejaculated, half in horror, for her imagination for the time began to run riot, and she saw that, even if Cyril Mallow was very fond of Sage, and even if Sage returned his love, matters would not run quite so smoothly as she had anticipated.
“I’m sure she’s as good as he,” she exclaimed, by way of indignant protest to the accusations of her conscience; but, all the same, she was now brought face to face with the consequences of her tacit encouragement of Cyril Mallow’s visits.
“And I’m sure we’re as well off as they are,” she added, after a pause. But, all the same, her conscience would not be quieted, and Mrs Portlock was on the point of going up to her niece’s room, when, with a fresh qualm of dread, though she hardly knew why, she saw her husband come striding up toward the house.
Meanwhile Sage’s breast was racked by conflicting emotions, chief amongst which was that suggested by a self-accusation from her wounded heart; and she knelt there, sobbing and praying for help, feeling that she was intensely wicked, and that the hopeless misery of her case was greater than she could bear.
Her mind was in a chaos, and she shuddered as she clung to the coverlet, and dragged it over her drawn and excited face, as one moment it was the stern, reproachful figure of Luke Ross asking her if this was her faith—this the meaning of her tender, loving letters—this the reward of his chivalrous determination to give up everything to the one idea of making himself a worthy suitor with her relatives; the next it was Cyril, gazing at her with despairing eyes, which seemed to say that if she cast him off he should drift recklessly through the world, and come to some bad end; while, did she bless him with her love, he would become a worthy member of society, a happy man, and one of whom she could feel so proud.
Then her heart began to plead for him so hard that she trembled, for she seemed to be awakening, as it were, into a new life, and her dread increased as she more fully realised the power Cyril Mallow had gained over her. She fought hard, and set up barrier after barrier, called up by her intense desire to be honourable and true to her trust. But as fast as she set these up they seemed to be swept away; and, as the excitement brought on by her misery increased, she felt ready to cry aloud to Luke to come back to her and protect her from Cyril Mallow and from her own weak self.
“Sage! Sage!”
It was her uncle’s voice calling up the stairs—a voice by which she could interpret every mood of his spirit; and she knew now that he was very angry.
“Sage!” came again in a voice of thunder, and so full of impatience that she was forced to cross to the door, open it, and answer.
“I want my tea,” came up in an angry roar.
It was in Sage’s heart to say she was too unwell to come down, but in her then agitated state she could only falter that she would not be a minute, and, hastily bathing her eyes and smoothing her hair, she descended, pale and trembling, to where her aunt was looking very white and startled, and her uncle walking up and down the old-fashioned parlour, impatient for his evening meal, one of which he would rarely partake unless his niece was there to attend to his wants.
The Churchwarden’s lips parted, and he was about to speak out angrily, but the woe-begone looks of the girl silenced him.
“I’ll have a cup of tea first, and do it over a pipe,” he said to himself. Then aloud—
“Come, my girl, I’m hungry; it’s past tea-time,” and he took his place at the foot of the table, the others seating themselves, after exchanging a scared glance; and then the meal went on much as usual, only that Mrs Portlock tried to calm herself by constant applications to the teapot, while, in spite of her efforts, Sage could hardly partake of a morsel, for the food seemed as if it would choke her.
“Come, come, lass, you don’t eat,” her uncle kept saying; and the poor girl’s struggles to keep back her tears were pitiable.
But at last the weary meal came to an end, and as the table was cleared both aunt and niece grew hopeful, for the Churchwarden’s brow was less rugged as he went to the ledge where his pipe lay, took the tobacco-box placed at his elbow by his niece, and calmly proceeded to fill his pipe.
“Don’t look so frightened, Sage,” whispered her aunt. “He won’t say any more now.”
“Yes, I shall,” cried the farmer gruffly, for his hearing seemed to have become preternaturally sharpened. “Wait till the rooms clear.”
The troubles of that one afternoon seemed to have wrought quite a change in Sage, for as, according to her custom, she took a folded spill from the mantelshelf, and lit it ready to hold to her uncle’s pipe, her eyes looked wild and dilated, while her usually rounded cheeks seemed quite hollowed, giving her a wild, haggard aspect, such as is seen in one newly risen from a bed of sickness.
“Yes, I’m going to talk seriously to both of you,” continued the Churchwarden; “but I’m not going into a passion, now. That’s over. Get your work, both of you, and sit down.”
The trembling women obeyed, after exchanging quick glances; Mrs Portlock’s being accompanied by a movement of her lips, which Sage interpreted to be “I can’t help it.”
The work-baskets were brought to the table, and as the Churchwarden sat placidly smoking and staring at the fire, the sharptwitof needle against thimble was heard in the stillness, which was not otherwise broken till the farmer took his pipe from his lips and uttered a stern—
“Now then.”
Sage started quickly back from where her thoughts had wandered after Cyril Mallow, whom in imagination she had just overtaken and brought back from a wandering life, to bless him and make him happy, while Luke Ross had forgiven her, and every one was going to be happy once again.
“Hold your tongue, mother,” said the farmer, sharply. “I’ve given you a bit of my mind.”
“Indeed, you have,” she cried, querulously, “and, I must say, soon—”
“No, you mustn’t,” he shouted. “I’m going to talk this time. You generally do all that; but it’s my turn now.”
“Oh, just as you like, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, in an ill-used, protesting tone; “but I must say—”
“No, you mustn’t,” he cried again, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table with such an effect upon his wife, whose nerves were still shaken by the verbal castigation she had received before tea, that she started from her chair, hesitated a moment, and then ran sobbing out of the room.
For a moment the Churchwarden sat frowning. Then he half rose as if to call her back, but directly after he subsided into his place, and sat frowning sternly at his niece.
“Let her go,” he said. “I’ve said my mind to her. Now I want to talk to you.”
Sage hesitated, with her work in her hand; then, letting it fall, she went to the other side of the table and knelt down, resting her elbows upon her uncle’s knees, and gazing appealingly in his face.
The Churchwarden in his heart wanted to clasp her in his arms and kiss her pale, drawn face, but he checked the desire, and, putting on a judicial expression—
“Now,” he exclaimed. “So you are playing fast and loose with Luke Ross?”
“No, uncle,” she replied, softly.
“What do you call it, then? Of course there is no engagement between you, but Luke expects that some day you will be his wife.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“And as soon as his back is turned, I find you encouraging this fellow, Cyril Mallow.”
“No, indeed, uncle, I have not,” cried Sage.
“I don’t be—”
He stopped, for there was something in his niece’s eyes which checked him.
“Well, it looks very bad,” he said; “and one thing is very evident—he, after a fashion, thinks of you, and he has the impudence to say that you care for him.”
“Oh!”
It was more like a sigh than an ejaculation, and Sage’s eyes seemed to contract now with pain.
“I’ve given aunt a good talking to, for she’s more to blame than you. She thinks it a fine thing for the parson’s boy to be coming hanging about here after you, same as Frank did after Rue, and much good came of it. She had the impudence to tell me that he was a gentleman, while Luke Ross was only a tradesman’s son. As if that had anything to do with it. ‘Look here,’ I said to her: ‘whenever our girl weds, it shall be to some one with a good income, but he shall be a man.’ Gentleman, indeed! If Cyril Mallow is a gentleman, let my niece marry a man who is nothing of the sort.”
Sage’s eyes closed, and there was a pitiful, pained expression in her face that told of the agony of her heart. So troubled was her countenance that her uncle was moved to pity, and spoke more tenderly.
“I don’t like him well enough for you, my girl, even if there were no Luke Ross in the way. I’ve sent him off to work for thee, like Jacob did for Rachel, and if he’s the man I think him, some day he’ll come back in good feather, ready to ask thee to be his wife, and you’ll neither of you be the worse for a few years’ wait.”
Sage’s eyes remained closed. “I was going to scold thee,” he said, tenderly, “but my anger’s gone, and I’ll say but little more, only tell me this—You don’t care a bit for this young spark of the Rector’s.”
Sage’s face contracted more and more, and the Churchwarden cried, impatiently—“Well, girl, why don’t you answer?” She gazed up in his face with a pleading expression of countenance that startled him, and he placed his hands upon her shoulders, and looked fully in her eyes.
“Why, Sage!” he cried, “you don’t mean—you don’t say that you like him instead of Luke?”
She covered her face with her hands, and burst out into a violent fit of sobbing.
“I don’t know, uncle. I don’t know.”
“Don’t know!” he cried, angrily.
“Pray ask me no more,” she cried, as her uncle started from his seat, thrusting back the chair in the act. She crouched down upon the carpet, weeping bitterly, for she did know now, though no pressure would have torn the secret from her heart.
Part 1, Chapter XXVIII.Jock Muses.There was a troubled heart at the rectory as well as at the farm, where Julia Mallow, in spite of having been so far a firm, matter-of-fact girl, had found her meetings with the wheelwright’s big ruffianly brother make so strong an impression that although she made a brave effort to cast it all aside as unworthy of her, she was always living under the idea that this man was at her elbow, ready to meet her with his intent, half-mocking gaze.Once or twice she had nervously alluded to it when chatting with her sister, but Cynthia had merrily told her not to be so silly, for papa said the man must have just come out of prison, and spoken like that out of spite.“Depend upon it, Julie, you’ll never see him again.”Julia said nothing, but went to the window of her room, and sat there reading, and now and then lifting her eyes to gaze out at the pleasant prospect right across the fields to the ridge about a quarter of a mile away, beyond which the land sank at once towards Kilby Farm.The next moment with a faint cry she shrank back, for even at that distance she seemed to recognise the burly form of the rough fellow, seen boldly standing out against the sky as he appeared to be crossing the ridge. Then as she gazed at the figure with starting eyes it went over the edge of the hill and was gone.“I shall never dare to go out alone,” she said hoarsely. “Heaven help me! What shall I do?”This was quite a couple of months after the meeting in the lane, during all which time the poor girl felt as if she were haunted by the fellow’s presence, and his words were always ringing in her ears.The time had slipped away, and company had come and gone. The Perry-Mortons had been down for a second visit, ostensibly for discussions with the Rector concerning the decorations of the town house, but Cynthia read it—and told Lord Artingale her reading—that it was to worm round poor Julia, and that was what papa meant. Didn’t he think it was a shame?Lord Artingale agreed with her that it was, and between them they decided in alliance to do all they could to prevent it; but unfortunately for Julia, this pair of egotists thought of little else but themselves—thoughts that were varied by a little squabbling when Cynthia showed what a peppery temper she possessed.Julia was looking languidly forward to the middle of May, when the town house was to be ready, and in busy London she felt that she should be free from the haunting presence which afflicted her so sorely that she even felt glad of Mr Perry-Morton’s poetical rhapsodies as a kind of protection, though there was something terrible in his presence. In fact, this gentleman showed his admiration in a way that was painful in the extreme. He said little, but he loved her with his eyes, and when Mr Perry-Morton loved he did it in a sculpturesque manner, sitting or standing in some wonderful position, at a short distance, and then gloating—no, a Philistine would have gloated—he, one of the chosen of the Raphaelistic brotherhood, dreamed over his beloved, mentally writing fleshly poems the while—wondrous visions of rapt joyousness, mingled with ethereal admiration.But it wanted a month yet to the time for leaving the rectory, and though Julia had not seen her horror again, she felt that he was near, and that at some unexpected moment he would start up, perhaps when she was alone.Matters there as regarded Cyril were in abeyance. He was, as he told himself, playing a waiting game. Sage would have a nice bit of money, he knew, and he thought it would be a pity to spoil his prospects by hurried play.Besides, he was in no hurry, for he had the companionship of Frank, and together they went a great deal to the King’s Head, where there was an old billiard-table. At other times they drove over to Gatley, where Lord Artingale placed everything he possessed at their service. There was a good billiard-table there, horses, and wine, and cigars to their hearts’ content.Then each had a little private business to attend to, about which they made no confidences, and rarely interfered with or joked each other, it being a tacit arrangement that no questions should be asked if Frank was going over to Lewby for a chat with John Berry, or Cyril had made up his mind for a stroll down by the wheelwright’s, where there were a few dace to be whipped for in the stream.Spring had come earlier that year, and while Luke Ross thought the Temple gardens and the trees in Grey’s Inn poor dejected-looking affairs, down by Lawford everything was looking its best, for Spring’s children were hard at work striving to hide the rusty traces of the wintry storms.Early in April the banks and the edges of the woods were, alive with flowers, glossy-leaved celandines showed their golden stars, brightly-varnished arums peered up with their purple-spotted spathes and leaves, the early purple orchids brightened the dark-green here and there. Clusters of soft pale lilac cuckoo-flowers were springing up amongst the clumps of catkin-laden hazels, oak saplings with bark like oxidised silver, and osiers with orange stems and polished silver buds, while every bank and coppice was sprinkled with sulphur yellow where the primroses bloomed. There was mating and marrying going on in feather-land to the blackbird’s fluting, and the twittering of many throats, and one soft, warm day, when the east wind had been driven back by a balmy breathing from the west and south, Cynthia made a dash at her sister, and laughingly passed the string of her hat over her head, thrust a basket in her hand, and led her off to gather violets.“Let’s be little children once again, Julie,” she cried. “I want a rest. It has been nothing but spooning, and nonsense lately with Cyril and the pretty schoolmistress.”“Papa has been in sad trouble about it lately, Cynthy,” said Julia, thoughtfully.“Yes, but let’s hope it is all over now; I think it is.”“I don’t know,” said Julia, thoughtfully.“I think I do,” cried Cynthia. “Papa frightened him. But how wonderfully quiet our dear brother Frank is. I hope he is not hatching some mischief.”“Don’t be uncharitable, Cynthia,” said Julia, with a sad smile; “think the best of your brothers.”“I do try to, Julie, but I’m afraid I’m not very fond of my brothers.”“Cynthia!”“Well, I’m not, dear. I feel quite ashamed of them sometimes. It’s quite shocking the way they are imposing upon Harry, and he takes it all so good-naturedly for my sake, but he don’t like it I’m sure.”“You are making the worst of it, Cynthy.”“No, I’m not, for Harry—there, I won’t talk about it; I’m tired of all the nonsense, spooning and flirting with Harry and that fat-featured—oh! why is it rude for a young lady to slap such a fellow’s face, Julie? If you marry that Perry-Morton I’ll never speak to you again.”“I shall never marry Mr Perry-Morton,” said Julia, dreamily.“No, no; we don’t want to marry any one at all,” said Cynthia, merrily. “Come and let’s be children in the wood again. It’s heavenly out of doors, dear. Come along.”Heavenly it was, as they got out of the fields, and struck out through the woods, where the soft moss was like a carpet beneath their feet, and the air was redolent with scents and suggestions of the spring. For it was one of those days, of those very few days, that come early in the year, when the senses seem to be appealed to, and, in a delicious calm, the worries and cares of life roll away, and the spirit seems even troubled with the sweet sense of joy.The sisters had wandered far, and filled their baskets, but still there were always fresh blossoms to pluck, odorous violets or primroses, and delicate scraps of moss or early leaf.Cynthia was a couple of score yards away from her sister, in the budding copse, trilling a merry song, as if in answer to the birds, and Julia, with a bright, happy flush upon her face, was still eagerly piling up fresh sweets, when a clump of primroses, fairer than any she had yet gathered, drew her a few yards further amongst the hazel stems.She was in the act of stooping down to pick them when her flushed face became like marble, her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she stopped—leaning forward—motionless—fascinated by what she saw.And that was the face of Jock Morrison, as he lay amongst the leaves and flowers, prone upon his chest, his arms folded before him, his chin resting upon them, and his eyes literally seizing hers, not a yard away.He did not speak or move, only crouched there, staring at her as if he were some philosopher trying the effect of the stronger eye upon the weaker. Neither did Julia speak, but stood there bending down, her eyes fixed, her body motionless, while you might have counted twenty.“Julie! Where are you? Coo-ee!” Cynthia’s bright young voice broke the spell, and Julia’s eyes closed as she backed slowly away for a few yards before she dare turn and run towards her sister.“Oh, there you are, Julie. If I did not think you were in the other direction! Why, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”“No, no,” said Julia, hastily; “I think I am hot; it is tiring out here. Let us go home; I—I want to get back.”“Why, Julie, you don’t come out enough; you are done up directly. There, come along out into the fields, there’s more fresh air there. I say, did I tell you that we are to go to town next week?”“No,” said Julia, who shivered at every sound in the copse, and glanced from side to side, as if she expected to be seized at any moment.“But we are, and I don’t know but what I long to be up in London to get away from Harry Artingale.”“To get away?” said Julia, making an effort to be composed, and wondering why she had not told her sister what she had seen.“Yes, I want to get away; for of course,” she added, archly, “he will have to stay down here.”She spoke loudly, and all that had been said and left unsaid appealed very strongly to the senses of the great fellow in the copse.Julia need not have felt afraid that he was about to rise up and seize her; he remained perfectly still for a few moments, and then rolled over upon his back, laughing heartily, but in a perfectly silent manner, before having a struggle with himself to drag a short pipe and a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket.Filling his pipe quietly, he struck a match and lit it, placed his hands beneath his head, and stared straight up through the tender green leaves at the bare sky, while a robin came and perched upon a branch close by, and kept watching the ruffian with his great round eyes.“This is jolly,” he said, in a bass growl; “better than having places of your own, and being obliged to work.”Then he smoked for a few minutes before musing once more aloud.“Women arn’t much account,” he said, oracularly; “and the younger and prettier they are, the worse they are.”There was another interval of smoking.“What a deal a fellow sees by just doing nothing but hang around. Franky Mallow, eh? Ah, he cuts me now. If I was John Berry, farmer, I’d cut him, that’s what I’d do.”Another interval of smoking.“Why don’t young Serrol,” (so he pronounced it) “go after the schoolmissus now, I wonder? Tired, I spose.”Another smoking interval.“Hah, if it’s because he prefers going down to the ford—”He stopped short.“I tell you what it is; if I thought—”Another pause, during which Jock Morrison made his short pipe still shorter by biting off a piece of the stem and spitting it out.“Shall I tell Tom—shan’t I tell Tom? Tom don’t like me, and tells me to keep myself to myself. He’d about smash him, that’s what Tom would do, if he knowed, and then he’d be miserable for ever and ever, amen, as owd Sammy Warmoth used to say.”Another smoking fit.“She’s a good little lass, and the trouble she was in about her bairn was terrible.”More smoking, and the robin looking wondering on.“Polly don’t like me, but she’s a kind-hearted little lass, and has give me many a hunk of bread and meat unknown to Tom, and I never see but that she was as square as square.”Another long smoke.“Master Serrol, eh? Why, of course! She must ha’ knowed him when she lived at parson’s. I’ll tell Tom.”More smoking, and the pipe of tobacco burned out.“No, I won’t tell Tom,” said the big fellow. “If I did he wouldn’t believe me, and it would only make him and Polly miserable too, and I don’t want to do that. I tell you what—if I see Master Serrol go down there again when Tom’s out of the way I’ll pretty well break his neck.”He uttered a low chuckling laugh as he lay prone there, catching sight now of the robin, and chirruping to it as it watched him from its perch.“Pretty Dick!” he said. “Going up to London, are they? All right! Anywheres’ll do for me, parson. I wonder whether Serrol and Frank’ll go too.”Jock Morrison did not pretty well break Cyril’s neck, for a very few days after Mr Paulby had the full management of Lawford Church again, the family at the rectory being once more in town.“It is worse for the boys,” said the Rector, “but it will keep Cyril away from her. I must get him something to do.”
There was a troubled heart at the rectory as well as at the farm, where Julia Mallow, in spite of having been so far a firm, matter-of-fact girl, had found her meetings with the wheelwright’s big ruffianly brother make so strong an impression that although she made a brave effort to cast it all aside as unworthy of her, she was always living under the idea that this man was at her elbow, ready to meet her with his intent, half-mocking gaze.
Once or twice she had nervously alluded to it when chatting with her sister, but Cynthia had merrily told her not to be so silly, for papa said the man must have just come out of prison, and spoken like that out of spite.
“Depend upon it, Julie, you’ll never see him again.”
Julia said nothing, but went to the window of her room, and sat there reading, and now and then lifting her eyes to gaze out at the pleasant prospect right across the fields to the ridge about a quarter of a mile away, beyond which the land sank at once towards Kilby Farm.
The next moment with a faint cry she shrank back, for even at that distance she seemed to recognise the burly form of the rough fellow, seen boldly standing out against the sky as he appeared to be crossing the ridge. Then as she gazed at the figure with starting eyes it went over the edge of the hill and was gone.
“I shall never dare to go out alone,” she said hoarsely. “Heaven help me! What shall I do?”
This was quite a couple of months after the meeting in the lane, during all which time the poor girl felt as if she were haunted by the fellow’s presence, and his words were always ringing in her ears.
The time had slipped away, and company had come and gone. The Perry-Mortons had been down for a second visit, ostensibly for discussions with the Rector concerning the decorations of the town house, but Cynthia read it—and told Lord Artingale her reading—that it was to worm round poor Julia, and that was what papa meant. Didn’t he think it was a shame?
Lord Artingale agreed with her that it was, and between them they decided in alliance to do all they could to prevent it; but unfortunately for Julia, this pair of egotists thought of little else but themselves—thoughts that were varied by a little squabbling when Cynthia showed what a peppery temper she possessed.
Julia was looking languidly forward to the middle of May, when the town house was to be ready, and in busy London she felt that she should be free from the haunting presence which afflicted her so sorely that she even felt glad of Mr Perry-Morton’s poetical rhapsodies as a kind of protection, though there was something terrible in his presence. In fact, this gentleman showed his admiration in a way that was painful in the extreme. He said little, but he loved her with his eyes, and when Mr Perry-Morton loved he did it in a sculpturesque manner, sitting or standing in some wonderful position, at a short distance, and then gloating—no, a Philistine would have gloated—he, one of the chosen of the Raphaelistic brotherhood, dreamed over his beloved, mentally writing fleshly poems the while—wondrous visions of rapt joyousness, mingled with ethereal admiration.
But it wanted a month yet to the time for leaving the rectory, and though Julia had not seen her horror again, she felt that he was near, and that at some unexpected moment he would start up, perhaps when she was alone.
Matters there as regarded Cyril were in abeyance. He was, as he told himself, playing a waiting game. Sage would have a nice bit of money, he knew, and he thought it would be a pity to spoil his prospects by hurried play.
Besides, he was in no hurry, for he had the companionship of Frank, and together they went a great deal to the King’s Head, where there was an old billiard-table. At other times they drove over to Gatley, where Lord Artingale placed everything he possessed at their service. There was a good billiard-table there, horses, and wine, and cigars to their hearts’ content.
Then each had a little private business to attend to, about which they made no confidences, and rarely interfered with or joked each other, it being a tacit arrangement that no questions should be asked if Frank was going over to Lewby for a chat with John Berry, or Cyril had made up his mind for a stroll down by the wheelwright’s, where there were a few dace to be whipped for in the stream.
Spring had come earlier that year, and while Luke Ross thought the Temple gardens and the trees in Grey’s Inn poor dejected-looking affairs, down by Lawford everything was looking its best, for Spring’s children were hard at work striving to hide the rusty traces of the wintry storms.
Early in April the banks and the edges of the woods were, alive with flowers, glossy-leaved celandines showed their golden stars, brightly-varnished arums peered up with their purple-spotted spathes and leaves, the early purple orchids brightened the dark-green here and there. Clusters of soft pale lilac cuckoo-flowers were springing up amongst the clumps of catkin-laden hazels, oak saplings with bark like oxidised silver, and osiers with orange stems and polished silver buds, while every bank and coppice was sprinkled with sulphur yellow where the primroses bloomed. There was mating and marrying going on in feather-land to the blackbird’s fluting, and the twittering of many throats, and one soft, warm day, when the east wind had been driven back by a balmy breathing from the west and south, Cynthia made a dash at her sister, and laughingly passed the string of her hat over her head, thrust a basket in her hand, and led her off to gather violets.
“Let’s be little children once again, Julie,” she cried. “I want a rest. It has been nothing but spooning, and nonsense lately with Cyril and the pretty schoolmistress.”
“Papa has been in sad trouble about it lately, Cynthy,” said Julia, thoughtfully.
“Yes, but let’s hope it is all over now; I think it is.”
“I don’t know,” said Julia, thoughtfully.
“I think I do,” cried Cynthia. “Papa frightened him. But how wonderfully quiet our dear brother Frank is. I hope he is not hatching some mischief.”
“Don’t be uncharitable, Cynthia,” said Julia, with a sad smile; “think the best of your brothers.”
“I do try to, Julie, but I’m afraid I’m not very fond of my brothers.”
“Cynthia!”
“Well, I’m not, dear. I feel quite ashamed of them sometimes. It’s quite shocking the way they are imposing upon Harry, and he takes it all so good-naturedly for my sake, but he don’t like it I’m sure.”
“You are making the worst of it, Cynthy.”
“No, I’m not, for Harry—there, I won’t talk about it; I’m tired of all the nonsense, spooning and flirting with Harry and that fat-featured—oh! why is it rude for a young lady to slap such a fellow’s face, Julie? If you marry that Perry-Morton I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I shall never marry Mr Perry-Morton,” said Julia, dreamily.
“No, no; we don’t want to marry any one at all,” said Cynthia, merrily. “Come and let’s be children in the wood again. It’s heavenly out of doors, dear. Come along.”
Heavenly it was, as they got out of the fields, and struck out through the woods, where the soft moss was like a carpet beneath their feet, and the air was redolent with scents and suggestions of the spring. For it was one of those days, of those very few days, that come early in the year, when the senses seem to be appealed to, and, in a delicious calm, the worries and cares of life roll away, and the spirit seems even troubled with the sweet sense of joy.
The sisters had wandered far, and filled their baskets, but still there were always fresh blossoms to pluck, odorous violets or primroses, and delicate scraps of moss or early leaf.
Cynthia was a couple of score yards away from her sister, in the budding copse, trilling a merry song, as if in answer to the birds, and Julia, with a bright, happy flush upon her face, was still eagerly piling up fresh sweets, when a clump of primroses, fairer than any she had yet gathered, drew her a few yards further amongst the hazel stems.
She was in the act of stooping down to pick them when her flushed face became like marble, her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she stopped—leaning forward—motionless—fascinated by what she saw.
And that was the face of Jock Morrison, as he lay amongst the leaves and flowers, prone upon his chest, his arms folded before him, his chin resting upon them, and his eyes literally seizing hers, not a yard away.
He did not speak or move, only crouched there, staring at her as if he were some philosopher trying the effect of the stronger eye upon the weaker. Neither did Julia speak, but stood there bending down, her eyes fixed, her body motionless, while you might have counted twenty.
“Julie! Where are you? Coo-ee!” Cynthia’s bright young voice broke the spell, and Julia’s eyes closed as she backed slowly away for a few yards before she dare turn and run towards her sister.
“Oh, there you are, Julie. If I did not think you were in the other direction! Why, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“No, no,” said Julia, hastily; “I think I am hot; it is tiring out here. Let us go home; I—I want to get back.”
“Why, Julie, you don’t come out enough; you are done up directly. There, come along out into the fields, there’s more fresh air there. I say, did I tell you that we are to go to town next week?”
“No,” said Julia, who shivered at every sound in the copse, and glanced from side to side, as if she expected to be seized at any moment.
“But we are, and I don’t know but what I long to be up in London to get away from Harry Artingale.”
“To get away?” said Julia, making an effort to be composed, and wondering why she had not told her sister what she had seen.
“Yes, I want to get away; for of course,” she added, archly, “he will have to stay down here.”
She spoke loudly, and all that had been said and left unsaid appealed very strongly to the senses of the great fellow in the copse.
Julia need not have felt afraid that he was about to rise up and seize her; he remained perfectly still for a few moments, and then rolled over upon his back, laughing heartily, but in a perfectly silent manner, before having a struggle with himself to drag a short pipe and a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket.
Filling his pipe quietly, he struck a match and lit it, placed his hands beneath his head, and stared straight up through the tender green leaves at the bare sky, while a robin came and perched upon a branch close by, and kept watching the ruffian with his great round eyes.
“This is jolly,” he said, in a bass growl; “better than having places of your own, and being obliged to work.”
Then he smoked for a few minutes before musing once more aloud.
“Women arn’t much account,” he said, oracularly; “and the younger and prettier they are, the worse they are.”
There was another interval of smoking.
“What a deal a fellow sees by just doing nothing but hang around. Franky Mallow, eh? Ah, he cuts me now. If I was John Berry, farmer, I’d cut him, that’s what I’d do.”
Another interval of smoking.
“Why don’t young Serrol,” (so he pronounced it) “go after the schoolmissus now, I wonder? Tired, I spose.”
Another smoking interval.
“Hah, if it’s because he prefers going down to the ford—”
He stopped short.
“I tell you what it is; if I thought—”
Another pause, during which Jock Morrison made his short pipe still shorter by biting off a piece of the stem and spitting it out.
“Shall I tell Tom—shan’t I tell Tom? Tom don’t like me, and tells me to keep myself to myself. He’d about smash him, that’s what Tom would do, if he knowed, and then he’d be miserable for ever and ever, amen, as owd Sammy Warmoth used to say.”
Another smoking fit.
“She’s a good little lass, and the trouble she was in about her bairn was terrible.”
More smoking, and the robin looking wondering on.
“Polly don’t like me, but she’s a kind-hearted little lass, and has give me many a hunk of bread and meat unknown to Tom, and I never see but that she was as square as square.”
Another long smoke.
“Master Serrol, eh? Why, of course! She must ha’ knowed him when she lived at parson’s. I’ll tell Tom.”
More smoking, and the pipe of tobacco burned out.
“No, I won’t tell Tom,” said the big fellow. “If I did he wouldn’t believe me, and it would only make him and Polly miserable too, and I don’t want to do that. I tell you what—if I see Master Serrol go down there again when Tom’s out of the way I’ll pretty well break his neck.”
He uttered a low chuckling laugh as he lay prone there, catching sight now of the robin, and chirruping to it as it watched him from its perch.
“Pretty Dick!” he said. “Going up to London, are they? All right! Anywheres’ll do for me, parson. I wonder whether Serrol and Frank’ll go too.”
Jock Morrison did not pretty well break Cyril’s neck, for a very few days after Mr Paulby had the full management of Lawford Church again, the family at the rectory being once more in town.
“It is worse for the boys,” said the Rector, “but it will keep Cyril away from her. I must get him something to do.”
Part 1, Chapter XXIX.Mr and the Misses Perry-Morton “At Home.”It was a lovely and sculpturesque attitude, that which was taken up by the “stained-glass virgins,” as James Magnus called them, on the night of their first “at home” of the season, for at every opportunity, when not otherwise engaged, they joined their hands together, raised them over their left or right shoulder, as the case may be, and then drooped a head against them till an ear just touched the finger-tips, so that they seemed to be saying their prayers all on one side and writhing over theAmens.Claudine and Faustine Perry-Morton were thorough types of the ladies who have of late taught society how to indulge in the reverent worship of the human form. Their hair was too fearful and wonderful to be described. The nearest approach possible is to compare it to the gum mop of some Papuan belle, who had been chivied during her toilet in the eucalyptus shade, and, consequently, had only managed to get the front part done.Since dress is made so great a feature in a modern lady’s life, no excuse is surely needed for saying a few words regarding the costume of these gifted sisters. A desire is felt to do justice to those robes, but to give a perfect idea would be extremely difficult.As it happened, the colour was but one, and it was that of the familiar household tap-rooted vegetable botanically nameddaucus, but hight the carrot, when seen reposing in sweetness in a dish.These dresses were, of course, ingeniously contrived to keep on the persons they enfolded, but their aspect was as if a length of many yards of this ruddy orange saffron material had been taken, and one end fastened to an ivory shoulder with a tin-tack of enormous size, the other end being held under the foot of some one far away. Parenthetically, let it be remembered that this is all surmise, as no doubt the costumes were built by one of the highest authorities in fashionable garb. But to resume.The ends of the dress being thus secured upon the shoulder and beneath a distant foot, it seemed that the lady must then have commenced a slow movement, revolving gently and winding herself in the web till it formed a regular—or rather, irregular—spiral bandage from shoulder to ankle, leaving the long thin arms bare, and, after being secured at the feet, trailing far behind and spreading out like a fan.Perry-Morton walked to the fireplace, laid his head sideways against a large blue plate, which gave him the appearance of a well-fed saint with an azure halo, closed his eyes like a vicious critic on varnishing day, and uttered a low sigh full of rapture, after which he seemed to bless his sisters for giving him a sensation that was perfectly new.Of the decorations of that suite of rooms it is needless to speak. Every visitor said they were perfect. Even James Magnus told Lord Artingale they were not half bad, “only there’s too much suggestion of the kitchen-dresser with the dinner-plates ranged all a-row.”Harry Artingale thought it a polished pantechnicon-inferno till the Mallows were announced, and then it seemed transformed into a paradise of delight, where every one walked on air, and the sweet essence of pretty little Cynthia pervaded all.For Mr Perry-Morton and the Misses Perry-Morton were “at home,” and the big butler was pretty well occupied in announcing the names called to him by the footman, who stood down among the azaleas with which the hall was half filled, ready to open the door and rearrange the roll of horsehair matting which would keep getting out of place.Lord Artingale and his artist friend arrived early, Magnus to be button-holed and taken aside to see his picture hung with a gaslight and reflector before it, to show it to the best advantage; and yet he was not grateful, for when he returned to Harry Artingale he growled, as the latter, who was very light-hearted and happy, said, “like a sore tom”—cat, of course, understood.Perry-Morton was standing with his blue china halo behind his head, and with a fleshly poetic look in his eye; and his sisters were each posed before a big Benares brown dish, etherealising her lambent curls and pallid face into virgin and martyr beauty, when the butler announced the Mallows, the girls looking very natural and charming, and Frank and Cyril creating quite a sensation with their sunburnt, swarthy faces and rugged bearing.“Oh, Claudine,” whispered Faustine, “look at Julia,” and her sister uttered a tragic. “Ah!” as she advanced with her brother to receive the new arrivals.Certainly Julia looked deadly pale, for as she descended from the carriage she had caught sight of a great burly fellow bearing a lantern, which he ostentatiously held low, so that her little pale blue satin rosetted shoes should not go astray from the carpeted path, and the sight of his dark eyes had sent the blood rushing to her heart. But this pallor rather added to than took from her beauty, as, simply dressed in the palest of pale blue satin, and her throat and arms wreathed with lustrous pearls, she seemed to stand alone amidst the throng of strangely grotesque costumes by which she was surrounded.The sisters changed their key instanter upon seeing the effect produced upon their brother, whose eyes half closed once more as he greeted his guests. In fact, he treated the Rector with such deference, that for a moment it seemed as if he were going to sink upon his knees, and in true patriarchal style ask for his blessing.But he did not, neither did he raise Julia’s hand to his lips. He merely beamed upon her rapturously, led her to a seat after the congratulations of his sisters had had due course, and then, as a kind of hum went through the rooms, proceeded to hover over his choice.“A melody in heaven’s own azure,” whispered Perry-Morton. “Julia, your costume is perfection.”The pallor on poor Julia’s cheeks had been giving place to a vivid blush, but her host’s words and manner once more drove the blood to her heart, and she sank back upon the lounge, glad to use her fan, for she thoroughly realised that she was looked upon by all present as the future mistress of the place.“Magnus, my dear boy,” whispered Artingale, “have you any charity in your nature?”“Heaps. Why?”“Because I want you to go and cut that fellow out. Julia really is a nice girl.”“Don’t be a fool,” was the answer, given with such intensity that Artingale was startled.“Fool, be hanged! I’m in earnest. Wait a bit, and we’ll go up to her together, and then I’ll be off and leave you. You’d stand no end of a chance, for Cynthia likes you ever so.”“Don’t be an ass, Harry,” said Magnus, “you seem to be happy enough. Let the poor little body be.”“Well, I don’t want to quarrel,” said Artingale, “but if ever a fellow was a fool or an ass I should think it would be when he turned up his nose at the chance of winning a little woman who has not been spoiled by the world.”“Oh, she’s nice enough,” said Magnus, gruffly. “Are those two brothers going to marry those stained-glass virgins?” he continued, as Cyril joined Frank, who was bending impressively towards Faustine.“I wish to heaven they would,” said Artingale, earnestly. “Hang the brothers! What a thing it is that pretty girls are obliged to have brothers! At last!—I’m off. There’s the telegram.”The message came along a beam of light, and that little bright beam stretched from Cynthia Mallow’s eye to that of the speaker; and the message was,—“You dear stupid old goose, why don’t you come?”For Artingale had held rather aloof until the fair young hostesses had withdrawn.“Why didn’t you come before, sir?” said the lady, looking very severely at her swain.“I was afraid,” he said.“What, of me, sir?”“No, no,” he whispered, “I’ve been longing to get near you, but I dared not. Oh, my little darling, how beautiful you look to-night.”“For shame, Harry; now look here, sir; I will not permit you to be so familiar. The idea of addressing me in such a strain.”“There,” he sighed, “now you are getting on stilts again, and we were so happy down at Lawford.”“Yes, but that’s country, and this is town. We are in society now, sir, and we must be very proper.”“There, my beautiful little tyrant,” he whispered, “I am your slave. I won’t rebel; only reward me sometimes for my patience with a kindly look.”“Well, if you are very good, perhaps I will,” said Cynthia. “But you did not tell me, Harry, why you were afraid. Ah, that’s right, that tall thin ghost is going to sing, so we can talk.”In effect, a very cadaverous-looking lady, with an exceedingly startled air, was led by Mr Perry-Morton to the piano, and after he had screwed his eyes up, glanced round the room, and held up a white finger to command silence, the thin lady, who evidently purposely lived upon an unwholesome regimen, to keep herself graceful, fixed her eyes upon one particular piece of blue china near the corner of the room, and began to sing.“Now, sir,” whispered Cynthia, “you must not speak loud. Tell me quietly.”“May I sit down?”“If that is enough room for you, sir. Now go on.”Artingale would have thought the edge of a knife room enough, so that he could be near Cynthia, so he sat down in a very uncomfortable position, and received such a merry, mischievous look that he sighed with content.“The fact is—oh, murder!”“Hush, Harry! What is the matter?”“Would it look rude if I were to cork my ears with glove-fingers, Cynthy?”“Of course, sir! For shame! You have no soul for music.”“Not a bit,” he whispered; “only when you warble one of those little ballads of yours, I shut my eyes and wish you were a brook.”“Wish I were a what, you foolish boy?” whispered Cynthia, looking up at the greatboywho towered over her.“A brook, my darling, to go on for ever,” he whispered back so earnestly, that Cynthia felt a little thrill of pleasure run through her, and her pretty face became slightly suffused.“Now you are talking nonsense again,” she said. “Oh. I do wish that dreadful romance would end. Harry, if you speak to me again like that, I shall send you away. Now, sir, why were you frightened? Did I look so fierce and majestic?”“No: only more beautiful than ever.”“Harry!”“Fact. Well, I’ll tell you: Claudine Perry-Morton was by you.”“Well, what of that, sir?”“And I felt as if I dared not come near in case of an accident.”“An accident, Harry! What, to the gas? Oh fie! what a silly old joke; you mean her hair would set it alight.”“No, I don’t; I don’t mind red hair. After yours, it’s the prettiest there is.”“Don’t stoop to compliments, sir. Now tell me why you were afraid of an accident?”“Why I feel sure that some time or other she’ll come undone. Look at her dress. I wouldn’t be there for the world.”“Harry!”There was a very genuine blush as she looked at him reproachfully; but her face softened directly as he whispered in such a low, earnest tone that it thrilled her once more—“Forgive me, darling, it was too bad, I know; there, we won’t talk about ourselves, I only want to be near you. Let me take you down to supper.”“Would you like to?”“Yes.”“Very much?”“Darling!”What wonderful emphasis an engaged couple can put into their words. Evidently that last noun uttered by the young fellow opened out a vista of future bliss to Cynthia, who answered him with a look which was a perfect bond in its way, engrossed in parchment, sealed, signed, witnessed, endorsed, and tied with dark-green silk in proper legal style.“I haven’t been to dear Julie yet,” he said.“What a shame! Go at once, sir.”“No, no; don’t send me away at present.”“Well, you must go presently, Harry,” she said, softly; “I’m so glad you are fond of Julie.”“Bless her! I love her very much,” he said. “She’s the dearest, sweetest, sisterly little body I ever met. I always feel as if I should like to kiss her when I shake hands, and her pretty little lips seem to look up to one so naturally. Cynthy, darling, I often wished I had a sister, and—and now I’m to have one, am I not?”“I don’t know—perhaps,” she said, looking down.“I told Magnus one day I wished I had a sister for his sake. Thank goodness the song’s done. Let’s clap our hands, for joy.”They clapped their hands, as did every one else, but of course not for joy.“I like Mr Magnus,” said Cynthia, thoughtfully.“He’s the best and truest-hearted fellow in the world,” cried Artingale, enthusiastically.“And if you had had a sister, what then, sir?”“I should have made old Magnus marry her.”“Indeed, my lord bashaw! And suppose the lady did not approve?”“But she would approve. No really sensible girl would refuse Magnus, if she came to thoroughly know him.”There was silence here, during which a very-pale gentleman with a very large aquiline nose, which seemed to be his feature, the rest of his face merely representing base or pedestal, threw his long black hair behind his ears, and recited a portion of one of Rosetti’s poems.“Harry,” said Cynthia then, “go and see Julie now.”“Must I?”“Please. Poor girl, she is so unhappy; I’m in great trouble about her.”“Poor darling!” he replied.“You know I told you about our being out in the woods collecting flowers?”“Yes.”“And how Julia came upon that great fellow lying amongst the moss and primroses?”“Yes; I wish I had been there!” and the young man’s teeth gave a grit together. “But he did not say anything to her?”“No; only stared in a way that frightened her horribly, and it seemed to have such an effect upon her when she dragged herself away, that she was quite ill, and it was hours before I found out what it was.”“Poor child! But she must not think about it. She may never see him again.”“But she keeps seeing him, so she says. He seems to haunt her. She saw him in the park again a few days ago.”“But did she see him, or was it fancy?”“Oh, no, it was not fancy; I saw him too. A great big leering fellow.”“Oh, but it must be stopped; your brothers and I must thrash him.”“And I half think she saw, or fancied she saw, him to-night, for she was so bright and cheerful when we started, and when we came in she seemed to have turned to stone.”“Well, poor child, she will soon have a manly protector now,” he said, rather bitterly, as he glanced at where Perry-Morton was hovering over Julia, while the Rector stood by smiling rigid approval.“Don’t talk like that, Harry,” said Cynthia, quietly; “you hurt me.”“Forgive me,” he whispered, “but it makes me mad to see your people ready to sell her to that man.”“Papa thinks it right, and for the best. And it is not selling, Harry, for papa is rich.”“But surely Julia cannot care for him?”“She does not say so, but she loathes him, Harry.”“Then why in the name of common sense does she not strike against it, or fall in love with some trump of a fellow who would stick up for her and take her part?”“I wish she would, Harry. But, there, go to her now. She is miserable. Go and stay with her. Send Mr Magnus to talk to me. No, take him with you, and let him chat to her about his pictures. Here is Mr Perry-Morton coming to beam on me, Harry.”“Yes.”“Don’t you feel jealous?”“Horribly,” he said, with a look that contradicted his word; and getting up, he went to where James Magnus was talking to a brother artist about their host’s last purchase, an early specimen of Burne Jones, full of wonderful realistic trees, and a group of figures, who were evidently all in pain.“Here,” he whispered, catching him by the sleeve, “I want to take you to a lady.”“No, no—nonsense. I don’t like ladies, Harry.”“Don’t be stupid. I want you to come and chat with Julia Mallow, and take her down to supper. Why, what’s the matter with you?”“Nothing, nothing at all. There—no. Get some one else.”“Come along, old man. Cynthia sent me. And I say, talk about your pictures to her. Poor girl, she’s miserable. They are trying to hook her on to Perry-Morton.”“Why, of course. People say they are engaged.”“And I say she isn’t. She hates the fellow. Why, Magnus, old fellow, why not?”“Why not what?”“Oh, nothing. Come along.” The artist, after a moment’s further hesitation, allowed himself to be led off, and the rest of that evening passed very pleasantly to Julia, who listened eagerly to the quiet, grave conversation of Lord Artingale’s friend.Like all evenings, this memorable one came to a close, amidst the shouting of linkmen, for the carriage of Mr this, and my Lord that, and the clattering of uneasy horses’ feet on the paving fronting the poet’s home. At last the cry arose—“Mr Mallow’s carriage stops the way;” and the voice of a footman, like that of an archangel of fashion, came from inside the magnificent hall, where he stood amidst the flowers, with a deep-voiced “Coming down.”There was a little craning forward of the heads of the two rows of servants and idlers running from the kerb right up into the great hall, forming a moving human wall on each side of the striped Edgington canopy put up for the occasion. The two policemen mildly suggested something about keeping back, but the big burly fellow with a lantern stood his ground, as he had stood it ever since the party had arrived.The carriage steps were rattled down, the host came delicately tripping like a fat faun in evening costume, and handed Cynthia in, Lord Artingale being apparently quite content. Frank and Cyril were by the door waiting for a cab, there being some talk of calling at a club.“Why didn’t Artingale bring down Julia?” said Frank, scowling at James Magnus. “Perry-Morton ought to have handed her down.”“Oh, it’s all right,” said Cyril, whose face was flushed with champagne. “Come along.”The brothers were moving off, but they stayed; for just then, as Artingale’s friend was handing Julia in, softening his voice involuntarily as he bade her good night, an importunate linkman thrust himself forward, ostensibly to hold his lantern to make the carriage steps plainer, and to keep the ladies’ dresses from the wheels.James Magnus saw it, quick as was the act in the semi-darkness, for as Julia was on the last step a great muscular, hand grasped her soft white arm.She turned sharply, and then uttered a cry of dread as she saw a brown bearded face close to hers.It was the work almost of a moment; then she sank back in her place in the carriage; the Rector followed; the steps had been rattled up, the door closed, the footman shouted “Home,” and the horses sprang forward, hiding from the frightened girl the struggle taking place in the little crowd, as James Magnus seized the great ruffian by the throat.
It was a lovely and sculpturesque attitude, that which was taken up by the “stained-glass virgins,” as James Magnus called them, on the night of their first “at home” of the season, for at every opportunity, when not otherwise engaged, they joined their hands together, raised them over their left or right shoulder, as the case may be, and then drooped a head against them till an ear just touched the finger-tips, so that they seemed to be saying their prayers all on one side and writhing over theAmens.
Claudine and Faustine Perry-Morton were thorough types of the ladies who have of late taught society how to indulge in the reverent worship of the human form. Their hair was too fearful and wonderful to be described. The nearest approach possible is to compare it to the gum mop of some Papuan belle, who had been chivied during her toilet in the eucalyptus shade, and, consequently, had only managed to get the front part done.
Since dress is made so great a feature in a modern lady’s life, no excuse is surely needed for saying a few words regarding the costume of these gifted sisters. A desire is felt to do justice to those robes, but to give a perfect idea would be extremely difficult.
As it happened, the colour was but one, and it was that of the familiar household tap-rooted vegetable botanically nameddaucus, but hight the carrot, when seen reposing in sweetness in a dish.
These dresses were, of course, ingeniously contrived to keep on the persons they enfolded, but their aspect was as if a length of many yards of this ruddy orange saffron material had been taken, and one end fastened to an ivory shoulder with a tin-tack of enormous size, the other end being held under the foot of some one far away. Parenthetically, let it be remembered that this is all surmise, as no doubt the costumes were built by one of the highest authorities in fashionable garb. But to resume.
The ends of the dress being thus secured upon the shoulder and beneath a distant foot, it seemed that the lady must then have commenced a slow movement, revolving gently and winding herself in the web till it formed a regular—or rather, irregular—spiral bandage from shoulder to ankle, leaving the long thin arms bare, and, after being secured at the feet, trailing far behind and spreading out like a fan.
Perry-Morton walked to the fireplace, laid his head sideways against a large blue plate, which gave him the appearance of a well-fed saint with an azure halo, closed his eyes like a vicious critic on varnishing day, and uttered a low sigh full of rapture, after which he seemed to bless his sisters for giving him a sensation that was perfectly new.
Of the decorations of that suite of rooms it is needless to speak. Every visitor said they were perfect. Even James Magnus told Lord Artingale they were not half bad, “only there’s too much suggestion of the kitchen-dresser with the dinner-plates ranged all a-row.”
Harry Artingale thought it a polished pantechnicon-inferno till the Mallows were announced, and then it seemed transformed into a paradise of delight, where every one walked on air, and the sweet essence of pretty little Cynthia pervaded all.
For Mr Perry-Morton and the Misses Perry-Morton were “at home,” and the big butler was pretty well occupied in announcing the names called to him by the footman, who stood down among the azaleas with which the hall was half filled, ready to open the door and rearrange the roll of horsehair matting which would keep getting out of place.
Lord Artingale and his artist friend arrived early, Magnus to be button-holed and taken aside to see his picture hung with a gaslight and reflector before it, to show it to the best advantage; and yet he was not grateful, for when he returned to Harry Artingale he growled, as the latter, who was very light-hearted and happy, said, “like a sore tom”—cat, of course, understood.
Perry-Morton was standing with his blue china halo behind his head, and with a fleshly poetic look in his eye; and his sisters were each posed before a big Benares brown dish, etherealising her lambent curls and pallid face into virgin and martyr beauty, when the butler announced the Mallows, the girls looking very natural and charming, and Frank and Cyril creating quite a sensation with their sunburnt, swarthy faces and rugged bearing.
“Oh, Claudine,” whispered Faustine, “look at Julia,” and her sister uttered a tragic. “Ah!” as she advanced with her brother to receive the new arrivals.
Certainly Julia looked deadly pale, for as she descended from the carriage she had caught sight of a great burly fellow bearing a lantern, which he ostentatiously held low, so that her little pale blue satin rosetted shoes should not go astray from the carpeted path, and the sight of his dark eyes had sent the blood rushing to her heart. But this pallor rather added to than took from her beauty, as, simply dressed in the palest of pale blue satin, and her throat and arms wreathed with lustrous pearls, she seemed to stand alone amidst the throng of strangely grotesque costumes by which she was surrounded.
The sisters changed their key instanter upon seeing the effect produced upon their brother, whose eyes half closed once more as he greeted his guests. In fact, he treated the Rector with such deference, that for a moment it seemed as if he were going to sink upon his knees, and in true patriarchal style ask for his blessing.
But he did not, neither did he raise Julia’s hand to his lips. He merely beamed upon her rapturously, led her to a seat after the congratulations of his sisters had had due course, and then, as a kind of hum went through the rooms, proceeded to hover over his choice.
“A melody in heaven’s own azure,” whispered Perry-Morton. “Julia, your costume is perfection.”
The pallor on poor Julia’s cheeks had been giving place to a vivid blush, but her host’s words and manner once more drove the blood to her heart, and she sank back upon the lounge, glad to use her fan, for she thoroughly realised that she was looked upon by all present as the future mistress of the place.
“Magnus, my dear boy,” whispered Artingale, “have you any charity in your nature?”
“Heaps. Why?”
“Because I want you to go and cut that fellow out. Julia really is a nice girl.”
“Don’t be a fool,” was the answer, given with such intensity that Artingale was startled.
“Fool, be hanged! I’m in earnest. Wait a bit, and we’ll go up to her together, and then I’ll be off and leave you. You’d stand no end of a chance, for Cynthia likes you ever so.”
“Don’t be an ass, Harry,” said Magnus, “you seem to be happy enough. Let the poor little body be.”
“Well, I don’t want to quarrel,” said Artingale, “but if ever a fellow was a fool or an ass I should think it would be when he turned up his nose at the chance of winning a little woman who has not been spoiled by the world.”
“Oh, she’s nice enough,” said Magnus, gruffly. “Are those two brothers going to marry those stained-glass virgins?” he continued, as Cyril joined Frank, who was bending impressively towards Faustine.
“I wish to heaven they would,” said Artingale, earnestly. “Hang the brothers! What a thing it is that pretty girls are obliged to have brothers! At last!—I’m off. There’s the telegram.”
The message came along a beam of light, and that little bright beam stretched from Cynthia Mallow’s eye to that of the speaker; and the message was,—
“You dear stupid old goose, why don’t you come?”
For Artingale had held rather aloof until the fair young hostesses had withdrawn.
“Why didn’t you come before, sir?” said the lady, looking very severely at her swain.
“I was afraid,” he said.
“What, of me, sir?”
“No, no,” he whispered, “I’ve been longing to get near you, but I dared not. Oh, my little darling, how beautiful you look to-night.”
“For shame, Harry; now look here, sir; I will not permit you to be so familiar. The idea of addressing me in such a strain.”
“There,” he sighed, “now you are getting on stilts again, and we were so happy down at Lawford.”
“Yes, but that’s country, and this is town. We are in society now, sir, and we must be very proper.”
“There, my beautiful little tyrant,” he whispered, “I am your slave. I won’t rebel; only reward me sometimes for my patience with a kindly look.”
“Well, if you are very good, perhaps I will,” said Cynthia. “But you did not tell me, Harry, why you were afraid. Ah, that’s right, that tall thin ghost is going to sing, so we can talk.”
In effect, a very cadaverous-looking lady, with an exceedingly startled air, was led by Mr Perry-Morton to the piano, and after he had screwed his eyes up, glanced round the room, and held up a white finger to command silence, the thin lady, who evidently purposely lived upon an unwholesome regimen, to keep herself graceful, fixed her eyes upon one particular piece of blue china near the corner of the room, and began to sing.
“Now, sir,” whispered Cynthia, “you must not speak loud. Tell me quietly.”
“May I sit down?”
“If that is enough room for you, sir. Now go on.”
Artingale would have thought the edge of a knife room enough, so that he could be near Cynthia, so he sat down in a very uncomfortable position, and received such a merry, mischievous look that he sighed with content.
“The fact is—oh, murder!”
“Hush, Harry! What is the matter?”
“Would it look rude if I were to cork my ears with glove-fingers, Cynthy?”
“Of course, sir! For shame! You have no soul for music.”
“Not a bit,” he whispered; “only when you warble one of those little ballads of yours, I shut my eyes and wish you were a brook.”
“Wish I were a what, you foolish boy?” whispered Cynthia, looking up at the greatboywho towered over her.
“A brook, my darling, to go on for ever,” he whispered back so earnestly, that Cynthia felt a little thrill of pleasure run through her, and her pretty face became slightly suffused.
“Now you are talking nonsense again,” she said. “Oh. I do wish that dreadful romance would end. Harry, if you speak to me again like that, I shall send you away. Now, sir, why were you frightened? Did I look so fierce and majestic?”
“No: only more beautiful than ever.”
“Harry!”
“Fact. Well, I’ll tell you: Claudine Perry-Morton was by you.”
“Well, what of that, sir?”
“And I felt as if I dared not come near in case of an accident.”
“An accident, Harry! What, to the gas? Oh fie! what a silly old joke; you mean her hair would set it alight.”
“No, I don’t; I don’t mind red hair. After yours, it’s the prettiest there is.”
“Don’t stoop to compliments, sir. Now tell me why you were afraid of an accident?”
“Why I feel sure that some time or other she’ll come undone. Look at her dress. I wouldn’t be there for the world.”
“Harry!”
There was a very genuine blush as she looked at him reproachfully; but her face softened directly as he whispered in such a low, earnest tone that it thrilled her once more—
“Forgive me, darling, it was too bad, I know; there, we won’t talk about ourselves, I only want to be near you. Let me take you down to supper.”
“Would you like to?”
“Yes.”
“Very much?”
“Darling!”
What wonderful emphasis an engaged couple can put into their words. Evidently that last noun uttered by the young fellow opened out a vista of future bliss to Cynthia, who answered him with a look which was a perfect bond in its way, engrossed in parchment, sealed, signed, witnessed, endorsed, and tied with dark-green silk in proper legal style.
“I haven’t been to dear Julie yet,” he said.
“What a shame! Go at once, sir.”
“No, no; don’t send me away at present.”
“Well, you must go presently, Harry,” she said, softly; “I’m so glad you are fond of Julie.”
“Bless her! I love her very much,” he said. “She’s the dearest, sweetest, sisterly little body I ever met. I always feel as if I should like to kiss her when I shake hands, and her pretty little lips seem to look up to one so naturally. Cynthy, darling, I often wished I had a sister, and—and now I’m to have one, am I not?”
“I don’t know—perhaps,” she said, looking down.
“I told Magnus one day I wished I had a sister for his sake. Thank goodness the song’s done. Let’s clap our hands, for joy.”
They clapped their hands, as did every one else, but of course not for joy.
“I like Mr Magnus,” said Cynthia, thoughtfully.
“He’s the best and truest-hearted fellow in the world,” cried Artingale, enthusiastically.
“And if you had had a sister, what then, sir?”
“I should have made old Magnus marry her.”
“Indeed, my lord bashaw! And suppose the lady did not approve?”
“But she would approve. No really sensible girl would refuse Magnus, if she came to thoroughly know him.”
There was silence here, during which a very-pale gentleman with a very large aquiline nose, which seemed to be his feature, the rest of his face merely representing base or pedestal, threw his long black hair behind his ears, and recited a portion of one of Rosetti’s poems.
“Harry,” said Cynthia then, “go and see Julie now.”
“Must I?”
“Please. Poor girl, she is so unhappy; I’m in great trouble about her.”
“Poor darling!” he replied.
“You know I told you about our being out in the woods collecting flowers?”
“Yes.”
“And how Julia came upon that great fellow lying amongst the moss and primroses?”
“Yes; I wish I had been there!” and the young man’s teeth gave a grit together. “But he did not say anything to her?”
“No; only stared in a way that frightened her horribly, and it seemed to have such an effect upon her when she dragged herself away, that she was quite ill, and it was hours before I found out what it was.”
“Poor child! But she must not think about it. She may never see him again.”
“But she keeps seeing him, so she says. He seems to haunt her. She saw him in the park again a few days ago.”
“But did she see him, or was it fancy?”
“Oh, no, it was not fancy; I saw him too. A great big leering fellow.”
“Oh, but it must be stopped; your brothers and I must thrash him.”
“And I half think she saw, or fancied she saw, him to-night, for she was so bright and cheerful when we started, and when we came in she seemed to have turned to stone.”
“Well, poor child, she will soon have a manly protector now,” he said, rather bitterly, as he glanced at where Perry-Morton was hovering over Julia, while the Rector stood by smiling rigid approval.
“Don’t talk like that, Harry,” said Cynthia, quietly; “you hurt me.”
“Forgive me,” he whispered, “but it makes me mad to see your people ready to sell her to that man.”
“Papa thinks it right, and for the best. And it is not selling, Harry, for papa is rich.”
“But surely Julia cannot care for him?”
“She does not say so, but she loathes him, Harry.”
“Then why in the name of common sense does she not strike against it, or fall in love with some trump of a fellow who would stick up for her and take her part?”
“I wish she would, Harry. But, there, go to her now. She is miserable. Go and stay with her. Send Mr Magnus to talk to me. No, take him with you, and let him chat to her about his pictures. Here is Mr Perry-Morton coming to beam on me, Harry.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you feel jealous?”
“Horribly,” he said, with a look that contradicted his word; and getting up, he went to where James Magnus was talking to a brother artist about their host’s last purchase, an early specimen of Burne Jones, full of wonderful realistic trees, and a group of figures, who were evidently all in pain.
“Here,” he whispered, catching him by the sleeve, “I want to take you to a lady.”
“No, no—nonsense. I don’t like ladies, Harry.”
“Don’t be stupid. I want you to come and chat with Julia Mallow, and take her down to supper. Why, what’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. There—no. Get some one else.”
“Come along, old man. Cynthia sent me. And I say, talk about your pictures to her. Poor girl, she’s miserable. They are trying to hook her on to Perry-Morton.”
“Why, of course. People say they are engaged.”
“And I say she isn’t. She hates the fellow. Why, Magnus, old fellow, why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Oh, nothing. Come along.” The artist, after a moment’s further hesitation, allowed himself to be led off, and the rest of that evening passed very pleasantly to Julia, who listened eagerly to the quiet, grave conversation of Lord Artingale’s friend.
Like all evenings, this memorable one came to a close, amidst the shouting of linkmen, for the carriage of Mr this, and my Lord that, and the clattering of uneasy horses’ feet on the paving fronting the poet’s home. At last the cry arose—“Mr Mallow’s carriage stops the way;” and the voice of a footman, like that of an archangel of fashion, came from inside the magnificent hall, where he stood amidst the flowers, with a deep-voiced “Coming down.”
There was a little craning forward of the heads of the two rows of servants and idlers running from the kerb right up into the great hall, forming a moving human wall on each side of the striped Edgington canopy put up for the occasion. The two policemen mildly suggested something about keeping back, but the big burly fellow with a lantern stood his ground, as he had stood it ever since the party had arrived.
The carriage steps were rattled down, the host came delicately tripping like a fat faun in evening costume, and handed Cynthia in, Lord Artingale being apparently quite content. Frank and Cyril were by the door waiting for a cab, there being some talk of calling at a club.
“Why didn’t Artingale bring down Julia?” said Frank, scowling at James Magnus. “Perry-Morton ought to have handed her down.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Cyril, whose face was flushed with champagne. “Come along.”
The brothers were moving off, but they stayed; for just then, as Artingale’s friend was handing Julia in, softening his voice involuntarily as he bade her good night, an importunate linkman thrust himself forward, ostensibly to hold his lantern to make the carriage steps plainer, and to keep the ladies’ dresses from the wheels.
James Magnus saw it, quick as was the act in the semi-darkness, for as Julia was on the last step a great muscular, hand grasped her soft white arm.
She turned sharply, and then uttered a cry of dread as she saw a brown bearded face close to hers.
It was the work almost of a moment; then she sank back in her place in the carriage; the Rector followed; the steps had been rattled up, the door closed, the footman shouted “Home,” and the horses sprang forward, hiding from the frightened girl the struggle taking place in the little crowd, as James Magnus seized the great ruffian by the throat.