Part 1, Chapter XXXIV.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 aprotégéeof 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. Sayyes, 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 paternalempressementof 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.
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 aprotégéeof 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. Sayyes, 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 paternalempressementof 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 1, Chapter XXXV.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.
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 1, Chapter XXXVI.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.
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 1, Chapter XXXVII.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.
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 1, Chapter XXXVIII.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, naïvely.“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.
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, naïvely.
“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.