Part 2, Chapter IV.Let Sleeping Dogs Lie.The two young men had no thought of the consequences that might ensue, as they hurried over the short elastic turf towards where, almost a giant among his kind, Jock Morrison lay prone upon his broad back, his powerful arms crossed upon his chest, and his battered old soft felt hat drawn over his face to shade it from the sun—rather a work of supererogation, for the god of day would have had to work hard to tan it of a richer brown.Artingale was first, but Magnus was close behind, and as they saw the man before them who had caused so much annoyance to, and so insulted those they loved, the feeling of indignation in their breasts bubbled up rapidly, and overflowed in hot passion before which that better part of valour known as discretion was swept away. Artingale looked upon the great fellow as something to be soundly thrashed, but Magnus, in spite of his weakness, seemed as if his rage had regularly mastered him. He saw in those brief instants, degrading as was the idea, a rival as well as an enemy, and panting and excited he strove to be there first, so as to seize the fellow by the throat, his weakness and suffering from his late illness being forgotten in the one stern desire to grapple with this man, and look at him face to face.But Artingale was there first, and shouted to the fellow to get up, but without eliciting any reply.“Do you hear? Get up!” cried Artingale.Still the man did not stir, but Magnus noted a slight motion of the hairs of his thick beard, as if his lips had twitched slightly. In other respects he was motionless, his arms folded across the deep chest and the cap over his face.“He’s not asleep, he’s shamming,” cried Artingale angrily; and bending down he snatched the hat from the fellow’s face and sent it skimming over the cliff, revealing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring at him like those of some wild beast.“Now then, young gentlemen! what’s the matter?” came now in a deep voice like a growl.“You scoundrel!” began Magnus, but he had over-rated his strength. His illness had told upon him terribly, and he could neither speak, move, nor act, but pale and haggard stood there holding his hand pressed upon his breast.“Who are you calling names?” said the fellow fiercely.“Leave him to me,” cried Artingale. “I’ll talk to him.”“Oh, two of you, eh?” exclaimed Jack; “two of you to a man as is down. Well, as I said before, and I say again, what’s the matter?”“Look here, you dog!” cried Artingale, planting his foot upon the man’s broad chest, but without eliciting a movement, “I know everything about you, and where you come from.”“Oh, do you?” said the fellow with a chuckle. “And so do I know you. You’re a game preserver from Lincolnshire.”“Never mind who or what I am,” cried Artingale, who felt in his excitement as if he had never spoken worse in his life; “but just you listen to me, you scoundrel. I know how you have followed and insulted those two young ladies.”“What two young ladies? I don’t know anything about two young ladies.”“I know that you have watched for their coming, and, knowing that they were unprotected, you have tried to alarm them into giving you money, I suppose, and so far you have escaped the police.”“Ho!” said the fellow, making Artingale’s foot rise and fall, as he indulged in a rumbling chuckle; “it’s a police case, then, after all? Lawford magistrates?”“No, not now,” cried Artingale, angrily. “Keep back, Magnus, I’ll manage him,” he cried; “you’re not fit. I say, it is not a police case now.”“Oh!” growled the fellow, laughing defiantly, “what may it be, then?”“A thrashing, you dog, for if ever there was a time when a gentleman might dirty his hands by touching a blackguard it is now.”“Ho! it’s a leathering is it, your lordship!”“Yes,” cried Artingale, “it’s a thrashing now, you great hulking brute; and after that, if ever you dare approach those ladies again—if ever you speak to them, or look at them, or annoy them, directly or indirectly, either here or down at home, I’ll half kill you, and hand you over afterwards to the police.”“Ho, you will, will you?” said the fellow, mockingly.“And I—I—” cried Magnus, bending down and approaching his pale, passion-distorted face to that of the great robust scoundrel at his feet.“Yes, I see there’s two,” growled the fellow. “And what’ll you do?”“I’ll shoot you like a dog!” There was something horrible in the intensity of hatred and passion contained in the low, hissing voice in which these few words were uttered; and as he lay there and heard them the great ruffian’s brown face became of a dirty grey. But the look of dread was gone on the instant, and his chest heaved as he indulged in a mocking burst of laughter.“All right,” he said; “fire away, and if you do kill me, I’ll come when I’m a ghost and see you hung. There, be off both of you. This is free land. This isn’t Lawford, and I haven’t been taking any of your lordship’s rabbuds this time.”“What are you doing here?” said Artingale.“Doing here!” said Jock, musingly; “why don’t you know I’m a Lawford man?”“Yes; I know that,” cried Artingale.“Well, my parson’s down here; I miss him when he comes away.”“Get up, you scoundrel!” cried Artingale, throwing off the brown velvet coat he was wearing, and taking off his watch and chain.“Not I,” growled the fellow. “There’s lots o’ room for you to pass, man, and ’taint your path. That’s the gainest road back.”“Get up?” roared Artingale, rolling up his sleeves over his white arms. “Do you hear?”“Oh, ah! I can hear,” growled the fellow.“Get up, then.”“Not I. It’s comfortable here.”“You cowardly ruffian, get up!” roared Artingale.“Nay, it’s not me as is the coward,” said Jock, coolly. “You’re two to one. Besides, I don’t want to hurt your lordship.”“Get up!” roared Artingale again, but Jock did not move, only lay there gazing mockingly in his face, making the young man’s blood seem to seethe with rage.“Get up!” he roared once more.“Weant!”As the word left the ruffian’s lips, Artingale’s passion knew no bounds, and before his companion realised what he was about to do, he had given Jock Morrison a tremendous kick in the ribs.The effect was instantaneous.With a roar like that of an angry bull, the fellow scrambled to his feet, and as Magnus sprang forward to seize him, he struck the artist full in the chest, sending him staggering back to fall heavily,hors de combat, for he was as weak almost as a child.It was the work of moments, for even as he struck Magnus he turned upon Artingale, receiving two heavy, well-directed blows, dealt in good scientific style right in the jaw and cheek, but making no more of them than if they had been slaps from the open hand of a boy, as he caught the young man in a tremendous grip like that of a wrestler, and swayed and struggled with his adversary to and fro, roused now to a pitch of rage that was murderous.Artingale knew it. He read it in the fierce eyes so close to his, as he felt himself crushed against the great fellow’s chest. He read it in the grinding teeth, and felt it in the hot breath that came full in his face, and he put forth all his strength and all the cultured activity gained in lessons of the best athletic school. But it was all in vain, for he felt as helpless as a boy in the giant’s grip.It was but the work of moments; a few struggles here and there, and the knowledge forced upon him of the scoundrel’s murderous aim before Artingale felt himself swung from his feet as they neared the cliff, and then, in spite of his manhood, he felt his blood turn cold.He roused himself though for a supreme effort, and clutching his adversary with all his might, he strove to recover his foot-hold.But no—he was mastered. He could do nothing but hold on with all his might, as he mentally swore that Jock Morrison should share his fate.Vain oath, vain effort! There was a swing, a jerk, and what seemed to be a paralysing blow upon his muscles, as he was forced away from his hold, and the next instant he was falling headlong from the cliff-edge into the void beneath.End of Volume Two.
The two young men had no thought of the consequences that might ensue, as they hurried over the short elastic turf towards where, almost a giant among his kind, Jock Morrison lay prone upon his broad back, his powerful arms crossed upon his chest, and his battered old soft felt hat drawn over his face to shade it from the sun—rather a work of supererogation, for the god of day would have had to work hard to tan it of a richer brown.
Artingale was first, but Magnus was close behind, and as they saw the man before them who had caused so much annoyance to, and so insulted those they loved, the feeling of indignation in their breasts bubbled up rapidly, and overflowed in hot passion before which that better part of valour known as discretion was swept away. Artingale looked upon the great fellow as something to be soundly thrashed, but Magnus, in spite of his weakness, seemed as if his rage had regularly mastered him. He saw in those brief instants, degrading as was the idea, a rival as well as an enemy, and panting and excited he strove to be there first, so as to seize the fellow by the throat, his weakness and suffering from his late illness being forgotten in the one stern desire to grapple with this man, and look at him face to face.
But Artingale was there first, and shouted to the fellow to get up, but without eliciting any reply.
“Do you hear? Get up!” cried Artingale.
Still the man did not stir, but Magnus noted a slight motion of the hairs of his thick beard, as if his lips had twitched slightly. In other respects he was motionless, his arms folded across the deep chest and the cap over his face.
“He’s not asleep, he’s shamming,” cried Artingale angrily; and bending down he snatched the hat from the fellow’s face and sent it skimming over the cliff, revealing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring at him like those of some wild beast.
“Now then, young gentlemen! what’s the matter?” came now in a deep voice like a growl.
“You scoundrel!” began Magnus, but he had over-rated his strength. His illness had told upon him terribly, and he could neither speak, move, nor act, but pale and haggard stood there holding his hand pressed upon his breast.
“Who are you calling names?” said the fellow fiercely.
“Leave him to me,” cried Artingale. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Oh, two of you, eh?” exclaimed Jack; “two of you to a man as is down. Well, as I said before, and I say again, what’s the matter?”
“Look here, you dog!” cried Artingale, planting his foot upon the man’s broad chest, but without eliciting a movement, “I know everything about you, and where you come from.”
“Oh, do you?” said the fellow with a chuckle. “And so do I know you. You’re a game preserver from Lincolnshire.”
“Never mind who or what I am,” cried Artingale, who felt in his excitement as if he had never spoken worse in his life; “but just you listen to me, you scoundrel. I know how you have followed and insulted those two young ladies.”
“What two young ladies? I don’t know anything about two young ladies.”
“I know that you have watched for their coming, and, knowing that they were unprotected, you have tried to alarm them into giving you money, I suppose, and so far you have escaped the police.”
“Ho!” said the fellow, making Artingale’s foot rise and fall, as he indulged in a rumbling chuckle; “it’s a police case, then, after all? Lawford magistrates?”
“No, not now,” cried Artingale, angrily. “Keep back, Magnus, I’ll manage him,” he cried; “you’re not fit. I say, it is not a police case now.”
“Oh!” growled the fellow, laughing defiantly, “what may it be, then?”
“A thrashing, you dog, for if ever there was a time when a gentleman might dirty his hands by touching a blackguard it is now.”
“Ho! it’s a leathering is it, your lordship!”
“Yes,” cried Artingale, “it’s a thrashing now, you great hulking brute; and after that, if ever you dare approach those ladies again—if ever you speak to them, or look at them, or annoy them, directly or indirectly, either here or down at home, I’ll half kill you, and hand you over afterwards to the police.”
“Ho, you will, will you?” said the fellow, mockingly.
“And I—I—” cried Magnus, bending down and approaching his pale, passion-distorted face to that of the great robust scoundrel at his feet.
“Yes, I see there’s two,” growled the fellow. “And what’ll you do?”
“I’ll shoot you like a dog!” There was something horrible in the intensity of hatred and passion contained in the low, hissing voice in which these few words were uttered; and as he lay there and heard them the great ruffian’s brown face became of a dirty grey. But the look of dread was gone on the instant, and his chest heaved as he indulged in a mocking burst of laughter.
“All right,” he said; “fire away, and if you do kill me, I’ll come when I’m a ghost and see you hung. There, be off both of you. This is free land. This isn’t Lawford, and I haven’t been taking any of your lordship’s rabbuds this time.”
“What are you doing here?” said Artingale.
“Doing here!” said Jock, musingly; “why don’t you know I’m a Lawford man?”
“Yes; I know that,” cried Artingale.
“Well, my parson’s down here; I miss him when he comes away.”
“Get up, you scoundrel!” cried Artingale, throwing off the brown velvet coat he was wearing, and taking off his watch and chain.
“Not I,” growled the fellow. “There’s lots o’ room for you to pass, man, and ’taint your path. That’s the gainest road back.”
“Get up?” roared Artingale, rolling up his sleeves over his white arms. “Do you hear?”
“Oh, ah! I can hear,” growled the fellow.
“Get up, then.”
“Not I. It’s comfortable here.”
“You cowardly ruffian, get up!” roared Artingale.
“Nay, it’s not me as is the coward,” said Jock, coolly. “You’re two to one. Besides, I don’t want to hurt your lordship.”
“Get up!” roared Artingale again, but Jock did not move, only lay there gazing mockingly in his face, making the young man’s blood seem to seethe with rage.
“Get up!” he roared once more.
“Weant!”
As the word left the ruffian’s lips, Artingale’s passion knew no bounds, and before his companion realised what he was about to do, he had given Jock Morrison a tremendous kick in the ribs.
The effect was instantaneous.
With a roar like that of an angry bull, the fellow scrambled to his feet, and as Magnus sprang forward to seize him, he struck the artist full in the chest, sending him staggering back to fall heavily,hors de combat, for he was as weak almost as a child.
It was the work of moments, for even as he struck Magnus he turned upon Artingale, receiving two heavy, well-directed blows, dealt in good scientific style right in the jaw and cheek, but making no more of them than if they had been slaps from the open hand of a boy, as he caught the young man in a tremendous grip like that of a wrestler, and swayed and struggled with his adversary to and fro, roused now to a pitch of rage that was murderous.
Artingale knew it. He read it in the fierce eyes so close to his, as he felt himself crushed against the great fellow’s chest. He read it in the grinding teeth, and felt it in the hot breath that came full in his face, and he put forth all his strength and all the cultured activity gained in lessons of the best athletic school. But it was all in vain, for he felt as helpless as a boy in the giant’s grip.
It was but the work of moments; a few struggles here and there, and the knowledge forced upon him of the scoundrel’s murderous aim before Artingale felt himself swung from his feet as they neared the cliff, and then, in spite of his manhood, he felt his blood turn cold.
He roused himself though for a supreme effort, and clutching his adversary with all his might, he strove to recover his foot-hold.
But no—he was mastered. He could do nothing but hold on with all his might, as he mentally swore that Jock Morrison should share his fate.
Vain oath, vain effort! There was a swing, a jerk, and what seemed to be a paralysing blow upon his muscles, as he was forced away from his hold, and the next instant he was falling headlong from the cliff-edge into the void beneath.
End of Volume Two.
Part 2, Chapter V.What Plan Next?James Magnus had just struggled to his knees, feeling half mad with rage at his impotence, for it was only now that he fully realised how terribly he had been reduced by his illness. Here before him was the man whom he had to thank for his sufferings, and against whom for other reasons as well he nourished a bitter hatred; and yet, instead of being able to seize him by the throat and force the scoundrel to his knees, he was as helpless as a child.“Dog! villain!” he panted, as he staggered up, and made at the fellow; but Jock Morrison gave him a contemptuous look for answer, and turned to him, but seemed to alter his mind, and as if alarmed at what he had done, started off at a brisk trot; while after vainly looking round for help, Magnus tottered towards the edge of the cliff, his eyes starting and the great drops of perspiration gathering upon his face.For a few moments he dared not approach the extreme verge, for everything seemed to be swimming before his eyes, but at last, horror-stricken, and trembling in every limb, he went down on hands and knees, crept to the spot where Artingale had gone over, and peered down, expecting to see the mangled remains of his poor friend lying upon the stones beneath.“Ahoy!” came from below, in the well-known voice of Artingale; and then, as Magnus saw his friend some twenty feet below, trying to clamber back, he uttered a low sigh, and sank back fainting upon the turf.For in spite of Jock Morrison’s murderous intent, fate had been kind to Harry Artingale, who had been hurled over the edge in one of the few places where instead of going down perpendicularly, the friable cliff was broken up into ledges and slopes, upon one of which the young man had fallen and clung for his life to the rugged pieces of stone, slipping in a little avalanche of fragments some twenty or thirty feet farther than his first fall of about ten. Here he managed to check himself, while one of the largest fragments of stone that he had started in his course went on, and as he clung there he saw it leap, as it were, from beside him, and a few seconds after there came up a dull crash from where the stone had struck and splintered, two hundred feet below.“I shall lose my nerve,” he thought, “if I stop here;” and rousing himself into action, he began to climb back, and was making his way up the steep slope without much difficulty, when he saw his friend’s ghastly face for a moment, peering over the edge, and then it disappeared.“Poor old fellow, it has made him giddy,” muttered Artingale, as he drew himself up higher and higher, clinging close to the face of the slope and placing his feet cautiously till he found himself with his hands resting upon a ledge only a few feet below the top of the cliff.If he could only get upon this ledge the rest would be easy, but unless he could draw himself up by the strength of his muscles, he felt that he must wait for help, and the task was one of no little difficulty, for there was no firm hold for his hands.He knew that if he waited for help he must lose his nerve by thinking of his perilous position, while if he tried to draw himself up and did not succeed in reaching the ledge he felt that he must fall.He dared not pause to think of the consequences of that fall, for though he had escaped so far, it was not likely that he would be so fortunate again.He was standing now with his feet on a piece of crumbling sandstone, which was likely enough to give way if he tried to make a spring upwards.Still, there was nothing else to be done, and drawing in a deep breath, he remained perfectly motionless before making the supreme effort.His hands were only a few inches above his head, and he began searching about with them now for a crevice into which he could thrust his fingers, but the blind search was vain, and feeling that this was hopeless, he let his eyes fall to scan the surface of the rock below his chest for some fresh foothold; but there was none, unless he cut a niche in the soft sandstone, and he had no knife. If he climbed to the right he would be in no better position; if to the left, he would be in a worse; so once more drawing a long breath, he began cautiously to draw himself up higher and higher by sheer force of muscle, till his eyes were level with the edge of the shelf; then an inch or two higher, and then he felt that his hands were giving way—that he was falling—that all was over, and that he must dashed to pieces, when, in his agony, he saw an opening, a mere crack, across the shelf, but it was sufficient for him to force in the fingers of one hand with a desperate effort, and then, how he knew not, he placed the other beside it.He could cling here and force feet and knees against the face of the rock, and in the struggle of the next few moments he raised himself higher, scrambled on to the ledge, rose panting and with every nerve in his body quivering, seized hold of a stone above him, thrust his feet into a niche or two, gained the top of the cliff, and, unable to keep up the tension longer, he loosed the strain upon his nerves and sank down beside his friend, trembling in every limb.This, however, did not last many moments, for, shaking off the feeling of his own horror, Artingale rose, drew down and buttoned his wristbands, looking pityingly the while at his friend, and then caught up his coat and threw it on.The next moment he was kneeling beside Magnus, who soon after opened his eyes.“Ah, Harry,” he said, feebly, “you didn’t know what a miserable reed you had for a friend.”“Nonsense, man! How are you? Did the blackguard hurt you?”“No, scarcely at all. I’m weak as a rat. But you!”“Oh, I’m all right. Only a little skin off my elbows and varnish off my toes. Which way did the brute go?”“Over the hill yonder,” said Magnus. “Where he may go,” said Artingale, “for hang me if I go after him to-day. Why, confound him, he’s as strong as a bull. I couldn’t have thought a man could be so powerful. But let’s get back, old fellow. Can you walk?”“Oh yes, I’m better now,” said Magnus feebly; “but I shall never forgive myself for failing you at such a pinch.”“Never mind the failing, Jemmy: but pinch it was; the blackguard nearly broke my ribs. One moment: let me look down.”He walked to the edge and looked over the cliff, realising more plainly now the terrible risk he had run, for his escape had been narrow indeed, and in spite of his attempt to preserve his composure, he could not help feeling a peculiar moisture gathering in the palms of his hands. But he laughed it off as he took Magnus’s arm, and drew it through his own, saying,—“It’s a great blessing, my dear boy, that I took off this coat. It would have been completely spoiled.”“You had an awfully narrow escape.”“Yes; and it is almost a pity the brute did not kill me,” said Artingale, coolly.“Harry!”“Well, if he had, the police would have hunted the scoundrel down, then he would have been hung, and little Julie could have rested in peace.”“And Cynthia?” said Magnus, with a sad smile.“Ah, yes! poor little darling, she would have broken her heart. But I say, old fellow, it’s a pity the scoundrel got away. What are we to do?”“He must be taken,” exclaimed Magnus, “at any cost. It was a murderous attempt on your life.”“Humph! yes, but he might swear that I tried to throw him over first. It was a fight, old fellow, and I got the worst of it.”“But he must be taken.”“No,” said Artingale, “I think not, old fellow; his is a peculiar case, and we can’t be going into witness-boxes and answering all sorts of questions. After to-day’s adventure down below on the beach, I don’t see that we can move. No, Magnus, there are things that must be hushed up, and this is one of them. But we must do something. I declare I’ll mount a revolver, and have a shot at the brute if he annoys them again, legal or illegal.”“Impossible,” said Magnus, bitterly.“By Jove; if he’d only go down home again and get up to some of his poaching tricks. I tell you what, Magnus, old man,” he said, setting his teeth, “I hope fate will never place me with my men down at Gatley, going to meet a poaching party led by Jock Morrison. If she does—well—”“Well what?”“I hope I sha’n’t have a gun in my hand.”“You must persuade Mr Mallow to leave here.”“What I just as he has come down for Julia’s health. No, my dear fellow, you might just as well try to move a rock. But I say, our first attempt at playing detectives don’t seem to have been much of a success.”“No,” said Magnus, dreamily. “Let’s get back.”“What are you thinking about, old man,” said Artingale, after a pause.“I was thinking whether the fellow could be bribed to go away.”“Oh, yes, easily,” said Artingale, “and he’d go and come back next week, and levy blackmail wherever the family went, while the very fact of his having been paid off would give the affair an ugly look if ever we had occasion to drag the scoundrel before the judge.”“Then what is to be done?” said Magnus, angrily, “the police must be consulted.”“No: won’t do,” said Artingale, decisively. “Wait a bit, Jemmy, and I’ll hit upon some plan. Unfortunately, we live in these degraded times when that fine old institution the press-gang is no more.”“This is no time for levity, Harry,” said Magnus, bitterly.“Levity! My dear boy, my feelings towards that fellow are full of anything but levity. He nearly killed me, and that is no joke; and—oh! horror of horror! I did not expect this—here’s Perry-Morton.”He was quite right, for the idol of the early masters’ clique was advancing to meet them after failing to see poor Julia, who with throbbing pulses and cheeks now pale, now burning with fever, was sobbing in her sister’s arms.
James Magnus had just struggled to his knees, feeling half mad with rage at his impotence, for it was only now that he fully realised how terribly he had been reduced by his illness. Here before him was the man whom he had to thank for his sufferings, and against whom for other reasons as well he nourished a bitter hatred; and yet, instead of being able to seize him by the throat and force the scoundrel to his knees, he was as helpless as a child.
“Dog! villain!” he panted, as he staggered up, and made at the fellow; but Jock Morrison gave him a contemptuous look for answer, and turned to him, but seemed to alter his mind, and as if alarmed at what he had done, started off at a brisk trot; while after vainly looking round for help, Magnus tottered towards the edge of the cliff, his eyes starting and the great drops of perspiration gathering upon his face.
For a few moments he dared not approach the extreme verge, for everything seemed to be swimming before his eyes, but at last, horror-stricken, and trembling in every limb, he went down on hands and knees, crept to the spot where Artingale had gone over, and peered down, expecting to see the mangled remains of his poor friend lying upon the stones beneath.
“Ahoy!” came from below, in the well-known voice of Artingale; and then, as Magnus saw his friend some twenty feet below, trying to clamber back, he uttered a low sigh, and sank back fainting upon the turf.
For in spite of Jock Morrison’s murderous intent, fate had been kind to Harry Artingale, who had been hurled over the edge in one of the few places where instead of going down perpendicularly, the friable cliff was broken up into ledges and slopes, upon one of which the young man had fallen and clung for his life to the rugged pieces of stone, slipping in a little avalanche of fragments some twenty or thirty feet farther than his first fall of about ten. Here he managed to check himself, while one of the largest fragments of stone that he had started in his course went on, and as he clung there he saw it leap, as it were, from beside him, and a few seconds after there came up a dull crash from where the stone had struck and splintered, two hundred feet below.
“I shall lose my nerve,” he thought, “if I stop here;” and rousing himself into action, he began to climb back, and was making his way up the steep slope without much difficulty, when he saw his friend’s ghastly face for a moment, peering over the edge, and then it disappeared.
“Poor old fellow, it has made him giddy,” muttered Artingale, as he drew himself up higher and higher, clinging close to the face of the slope and placing his feet cautiously till he found himself with his hands resting upon a ledge only a few feet below the top of the cliff.
If he could only get upon this ledge the rest would be easy, but unless he could draw himself up by the strength of his muscles, he felt that he must wait for help, and the task was one of no little difficulty, for there was no firm hold for his hands.
He knew that if he waited for help he must lose his nerve by thinking of his perilous position, while if he tried to draw himself up and did not succeed in reaching the ledge he felt that he must fall.
He dared not pause to think of the consequences of that fall, for though he had escaped so far, it was not likely that he would be so fortunate again.
He was standing now with his feet on a piece of crumbling sandstone, which was likely enough to give way if he tried to make a spring upwards.
Still, there was nothing else to be done, and drawing in a deep breath, he remained perfectly motionless before making the supreme effort.
His hands were only a few inches above his head, and he began searching about with them now for a crevice into which he could thrust his fingers, but the blind search was vain, and feeling that this was hopeless, he let his eyes fall to scan the surface of the rock below his chest for some fresh foothold; but there was none, unless he cut a niche in the soft sandstone, and he had no knife. If he climbed to the right he would be in no better position; if to the left, he would be in a worse; so once more drawing a long breath, he began cautiously to draw himself up higher and higher by sheer force of muscle, till his eyes were level with the edge of the shelf; then an inch or two higher, and then he felt that his hands were giving way—that he was falling—that all was over, and that he must dashed to pieces, when, in his agony, he saw an opening, a mere crack, across the shelf, but it was sufficient for him to force in the fingers of one hand with a desperate effort, and then, how he knew not, he placed the other beside it.
He could cling here and force feet and knees against the face of the rock, and in the struggle of the next few moments he raised himself higher, scrambled on to the ledge, rose panting and with every nerve in his body quivering, seized hold of a stone above him, thrust his feet into a niche or two, gained the top of the cliff, and, unable to keep up the tension longer, he loosed the strain upon his nerves and sank down beside his friend, trembling in every limb.
This, however, did not last many moments, for, shaking off the feeling of his own horror, Artingale rose, drew down and buttoned his wristbands, looking pityingly the while at his friend, and then caught up his coat and threw it on.
The next moment he was kneeling beside Magnus, who soon after opened his eyes.
“Ah, Harry,” he said, feebly, “you didn’t know what a miserable reed you had for a friend.”
“Nonsense, man! How are you? Did the blackguard hurt you?”
“No, scarcely at all. I’m weak as a rat. But you!”
“Oh, I’m all right. Only a little skin off my elbows and varnish off my toes. Which way did the brute go?”
“Over the hill yonder,” said Magnus. “Where he may go,” said Artingale, “for hang me if I go after him to-day. Why, confound him, he’s as strong as a bull. I couldn’t have thought a man could be so powerful. But let’s get back, old fellow. Can you walk?”
“Oh yes, I’m better now,” said Magnus feebly; “but I shall never forgive myself for failing you at such a pinch.”
“Never mind the failing, Jemmy: but pinch it was; the blackguard nearly broke my ribs. One moment: let me look down.”
He walked to the edge and looked over the cliff, realising more plainly now the terrible risk he had run, for his escape had been narrow indeed, and in spite of his attempt to preserve his composure, he could not help feeling a peculiar moisture gathering in the palms of his hands. But he laughed it off as he took Magnus’s arm, and drew it through his own, saying,—
“It’s a great blessing, my dear boy, that I took off this coat. It would have been completely spoiled.”
“You had an awfully narrow escape.”
“Yes; and it is almost a pity the brute did not kill me,” said Artingale, coolly.
“Harry!”
“Well, if he had, the police would have hunted the scoundrel down, then he would have been hung, and little Julie could have rested in peace.”
“And Cynthia?” said Magnus, with a sad smile.
“Ah, yes! poor little darling, she would have broken her heart. But I say, old fellow, it’s a pity the scoundrel got away. What are we to do?”
“He must be taken,” exclaimed Magnus, “at any cost. It was a murderous attempt on your life.”
“Humph! yes, but he might swear that I tried to throw him over first. It was a fight, old fellow, and I got the worst of it.”
“But he must be taken.”
“No,” said Artingale, “I think not, old fellow; his is a peculiar case, and we can’t be going into witness-boxes and answering all sorts of questions. After to-day’s adventure down below on the beach, I don’t see that we can move. No, Magnus, there are things that must be hushed up, and this is one of them. But we must do something. I declare I’ll mount a revolver, and have a shot at the brute if he annoys them again, legal or illegal.”
“Impossible,” said Magnus, bitterly.
“By Jove; if he’d only go down home again and get up to some of his poaching tricks. I tell you what, Magnus, old man,” he said, setting his teeth, “I hope fate will never place me with my men down at Gatley, going to meet a poaching party led by Jock Morrison. If she does—well—”
“Well what?”
“I hope I sha’n’t have a gun in my hand.”
“You must persuade Mr Mallow to leave here.”
“What I just as he has come down for Julia’s health. No, my dear fellow, you might just as well try to move a rock. But I say, our first attempt at playing detectives don’t seem to have been much of a success.”
“No,” said Magnus, dreamily. “Let’s get back.”
“What are you thinking about, old man,” said Artingale, after a pause.
“I was thinking whether the fellow could be bribed to go away.”
“Oh, yes, easily,” said Artingale, “and he’d go and come back next week, and levy blackmail wherever the family went, while the very fact of his having been paid off would give the affair an ugly look if ever we had occasion to drag the scoundrel before the judge.”
“Then what is to be done?” said Magnus, angrily, “the police must be consulted.”
“No: won’t do,” said Artingale, decisively. “Wait a bit, Jemmy, and I’ll hit upon some plan. Unfortunately, we live in these degraded times when that fine old institution the press-gang is no more.”
“This is no time for levity, Harry,” said Magnus, bitterly.
“Levity! My dear boy, my feelings towards that fellow are full of anything but levity. He nearly killed me, and that is no joke; and—oh! horror of horror! I did not expect this—here’s Perry-Morton.”
He was quite right, for the idol of the early masters’ clique was advancing to meet them after failing to see poor Julia, who with throbbing pulses and cheeks now pale, now burning with fever, was sobbing in her sister’s arms.
Part 2, Chapter VI.Unselfish Proceedings.“Frightened away? Not a doubt about it,” said Artingale. “I feel as if I had been a martyr, and offered myself up as a sacrifice.”“Martyr—sacrifice!” cried Cynthia, looking at the speaker keenly, and with her bright little face flushing. “Now, Harry, I’ll never forgive you. I’m sure you’ve been keeping something back. There, see how guilty you look! Oh, shame! shame!”Artingale protested that he had been silent only from the best motives, was accused of deceit and want of confidence, and ended by making a full confession of the whole incident, after which he had to take Cynthia and show her the exact spot before his shuddering little companion condescended to forgive.“And when was this, sir?”“This day month,” said Artingale, humbly, “and we have not seen him since. Magnus and I have watched, and searched, and hunted, and done everything possible; but, as I say, I think I have been the sacrifice. He believes he killed me, and is afraid to show.”“Perhaps he has committed suicide out of remorse,” said Cynthia.“Just the sort of fellow who would,” replied Artingale, with a dry look.“Now you are laughing at me,” cried Cynthia, pettishly. “I declare, Harry, I believe you are tired of me, and want to quarrel. I’ve been too easy with you, sir, and ought to have kept you at a distance.”More protesting and pardoning took place here, all very nice in their way, but of no interest to any save the parties concerned.“You must get Julie to come out more now,” said Artingale. “Tell her there is nothing to mind.”“I can’t make poor Julie out at all,” said Cynthia thoughtfully. “She seems so strange and quiet. That man must have frightened her dreadfully.”“Did she tell you about it?”“Very little, and if I press her she shudders, and seems ready to burst out sobbing. Then I have to comfort her by telling her that I am sure she will never see him any more, and when I say this she looks at me so strangely.”“What does mamma say?”“Oh, only that Julie is foolish and hysterical. She doesn’t understand her at all. Poor mamma never did understand us girls, I’m sure,” said Cynthia, with a profound look of wisdom upon her little face.“And papa?”“Oh, poor dear papa thinks of nothing but seeing us married and—Oh, Harry, Iamashamed.”“What of?” he cried, catching her in his arms and kissing her tenderly. “Why, Cynthy, I never knew before what a fine old fellow the pater is. He is up to par in my estimation now.”“Is that meant for a joke, sir?” said Cynthia mockingly.“Joke?—joke? I don’t know what you mean.”“Never mind now; but you need not be so pleased about what papa says. I think it’s very cruel—wanting to get rid of us.”“I don’t,” exclaimed Artingale, laughing.“Then you want to see poor Julie married to that dreadful Perry-Morton?”“No, I don’t; I want her to have dear old James Magnus. I say, Cynthy. We won’t be selfish, eh? We won’t think about ourselves, will we? Let’s try and make other people happy.”“Yes, Harry, we will.”It was wonderful to see the sincerity with which these two young people spoke, and how eagerly they set to making plans for other people’s happiness—a process which seemed to need a great deal of clinging together for mutual support, twining about of arms, and looking long and deeply into each other’s eyes for counsel. Then Artingale’s hair was a little too much over his forehead for the thoughts of Cynthia to flow freely, and it had to be smoothed back by a little white hand with busy fingers. But that hair was obstinate, and it was not until the little pinky fingers had several times been moistened between Cynthia’s ruddy lips and drawn over the objecting strands of hair that they could be forced to retain the desired position.After the performance of such a kindly service Artingale would have been ungrateful if he had not thanked her in the most affectionate way his brain could suggest, a proceeding of which, with all due modesty, the young lady seemed highly to approve.Then Harry’s tie was not quite right, and the new collar stud had to be admired, and a great deal more of this very unselfisheau sucréehad to be imbibed before Julia again came on thetapis, her entrance being heralded by a sister’s sigh.“Poor Julie!” said Cynthia.“Oh, yes; poor Julia. Now, look here, pet, I dare say it’s very shocking, and if it were known the Rector would be sure to give me mycongé.”“Oh, I would never think of telling him, Harry.”“That’s right. Well, as I was saying, if she marries Perry-Morton she will be miserable.”“Horribly,” assented Cynthia. “And if she marries old Magnus she will be very happy.”“But are you sure that Mr Magnus really loves her?”“He worships her. I’m sure of it.”“Then it would be wicked, wouldn’t it, Harry, to keep them apart?”“I should think it as bad as murder to keep us apart.”“Should you, Harry?”“Yes.” And more unselfish proceedings.“Then, as papa and mamma have made a mistake, don’t you think we ought to help them?”“Yes,” said Artingale, “but how? Magnus hangs back. He says he is sure that Julia does not think of him in the slightest degree. What do you say?”“I don’t know what to say,” cried Cynthia thoughtfully, “only that I am sure she hates Perry-Morton. She says she does.”“But does she show any liking for Magnus?”“N-no, I’m afraid not. But does that matter, dear?”“Well, I should think not,” replied Artingale thoughtfully. “Magnus loves her very much, and I’m sure no girl could help loving him in return. I almost feel jealous when he talks to you.”“No, you don’t, Harry,” retorted Cynthia, recommencing operations upon the obstinate lock of hair.“Then what is to be done?” said Artingale, at last, after another long display of unselfishness.“I’m sure I don’t know, Harry. It almost seems as if Julia was ready to let herself go with the stream. She is so quiet and strange and reserved. I don’t know what to make of her. She keeps fancying she sees that man.”“But she don’t see him.”“Oh no: it is impossible; but she is so changed. I find her sometimes sitting and thinking, looking straight before her as if she were in a dream. Bring Mr Magnus here more often.”“Here?”“Well, no; to Lawford. I’ll coax papa into asking him. Oh, I say, what a capital idea!” cried Cynthia, clapping her hands. “I have it. Her portrait!”“Her portrait!” exclaimed Artingale, starting, as he recalled the scene in his friend’s studio.“Yes; the very thing. You take him down to Gatley, and papa shall ask Mr Magnus over to Lawford to paint Julia’s portrait, and then there will be such long sittings, Harry; and Mr Magnus will have to look at her so patiently, and move this hand there and that hand here, and get her into quite the correct pose. Oh, Harry, what fun!”“Why, you cunning little witch,” he exclaimed; “if Magnus does not jump at the idea, he deserves to lose her.”Then there came a little more unselfishness and a little disinterested proceeding, which was interrupted by the entrance of Julia herself, looking very pale and sad. There was a far-off, distant aspect about her eyes, as of one who was thinking deeply of some great trouble, but she smiled affectionately when Cynthia spoke, after which the conspirators exchanged glances, and Artingale went away.
“Frightened away? Not a doubt about it,” said Artingale. “I feel as if I had been a martyr, and offered myself up as a sacrifice.”
“Martyr—sacrifice!” cried Cynthia, looking at the speaker keenly, and with her bright little face flushing. “Now, Harry, I’ll never forgive you. I’m sure you’ve been keeping something back. There, see how guilty you look! Oh, shame! shame!”
Artingale protested that he had been silent only from the best motives, was accused of deceit and want of confidence, and ended by making a full confession of the whole incident, after which he had to take Cynthia and show her the exact spot before his shuddering little companion condescended to forgive.
“And when was this, sir?”
“This day month,” said Artingale, humbly, “and we have not seen him since. Magnus and I have watched, and searched, and hunted, and done everything possible; but, as I say, I think I have been the sacrifice. He believes he killed me, and is afraid to show.”
“Perhaps he has committed suicide out of remorse,” said Cynthia.
“Just the sort of fellow who would,” replied Artingale, with a dry look.
“Now you are laughing at me,” cried Cynthia, pettishly. “I declare, Harry, I believe you are tired of me, and want to quarrel. I’ve been too easy with you, sir, and ought to have kept you at a distance.”
More protesting and pardoning took place here, all very nice in their way, but of no interest to any save the parties concerned.
“You must get Julie to come out more now,” said Artingale. “Tell her there is nothing to mind.”
“I can’t make poor Julie out at all,” said Cynthia thoughtfully. “She seems so strange and quiet. That man must have frightened her dreadfully.”
“Did she tell you about it?”
“Very little, and if I press her she shudders, and seems ready to burst out sobbing. Then I have to comfort her by telling her that I am sure she will never see him any more, and when I say this she looks at me so strangely.”
“What does mamma say?”
“Oh, only that Julie is foolish and hysterical. She doesn’t understand her at all. Poor mamma never did understand us girls, I’m sure,” said Cynthia, with a profound look of wisdom upon her little face.
“And papa?”
“Oh, poor dear papa thinks of nothing but seeing us married and—Oh, Harry, Iamashamed.”
“What of?” he cried, catching her in his arms and kissing her tenderly. “Why, Cynthy, I never knew before what a fine old fellow the pater is. He is up to par in my estimation now.”
“Is that meant for a joke, sir?” said Cynthia mockingly.
“Joke?—joke? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Never mind now; but you need not be so pleased about what papa says. I think it’s very cruel—wanting to get rid of us.”
“I don’t,” exclaimed Artingale, laughing.
“Then you want to see poor Julie married to that dreadful Perry-Morton?”
“No, I don’t; I want her to have dear old James Magnus. I say, Cynthy. We won’t be selfish, eh? We won’t think about ourselves, will we? Let’s try and make other people happy.”
“Yes, Harry, we will.”
It was wonderful to see the sincerity with which these two young people spoke, and how eagerly they set to making plans for other people’s happiness—a process which seemed to need a great deal of clinging together for mutual support, twining about of arms, and looking long and deeply into each other’s eyes for counsel. Then Artingale’s hair was a little too much over his forehead for the thoughts of Cynthia to flow freely, and it had to be smoothed back by a little white hand with busy fingers. But that hair was obstinate, and it was not until the little pinky fingers had several times been moistened between Cynthia’s ruddy lips and drawn over the objecting strands of hair that they could be forced to retain the desired position.
After the performance of such a kindly service Artingale would have been ungrateful if he had not thanked her in the most affectionate way his brain could suggest, a proceeding of which, with all due modesty, the young lady seemed highly to approve.
Then Harry’s tie was not quite right, and the new collar stud had to be admired, and a great deal more of this very unselfisheau sucréehad to be imbibed before Julia again came on thetapis, her entrance being heralded by a sister’s sigh.
“Poor Julie!” said Cynthia.
“Oh, yes; poor Julia. Now, look here, pet, I dare say it’s very shocking, and if it were known the Rector would be sure to give me mycongé.”
“Oh, I would never think of telling him, Harry.”
“That’s right. Well, as I was saying, if she marries Perry-Morton she will be miserable.”
“Horribly,” assented Cynthia. “And if she marries old Magnus she will be very happy.”
“But are you sure that Mr Magnus really loves her?”
“He worships her. I’m sure of it.”
“Then it would be wicked, wouldn’t it, Harry, to keep them apart?”
“I should think it as bad as murder to keep us apart.”
“Should you, Harry?”
“Yes.” And more unselfish proceedings.
“Then, as papa and mamma have made a mistake, don’t you think we ought to help them?”
“Yes,” said Artingale, “but how? Magnus hangs back. He says he is sure that Julia does not think of him in the slightest degree. What do you say?”
“I don’t know what to say,” cried Cynthia thoughtfully, “only that I am sure she hates Perry-Morton. She says she does.”
“But does she show any liking for Magnus?”
“N-no, I’m afraid not. But does that matter, dear?”
“Well, I should think not,” replied Artingale thoughtfully. “Magnus loves her very much, and I’m sure no girl could help loving him in return. I almost feel jealous when he talks to you.”
“No, you don’t, Harry,” retorted Cynthia, recommencing operations upon the obstinate lock of hair.
“Then what is to be done?” said Artingale, at last, after another long display of unselfishness.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Harry. It almost seems as if Julia was ready to let herself go with the stream. She is so quiet and strange and reserved. I don’t know what to make of her. She keeps fancying she sees that man.”
“But she don’t see him.”
“Oh no: it is impossible; but she is so changed. I find her sometimes sitting and thinking, looking straight before her as if she were in a dream. Bring Mr Magnus here more often.”
“Here?”
“Well, no; to Lawford. I’ll coax papa into asking him. Oh, I say, what a capital idea!” cried Cynthia, clapping her hands. “I have it. Her portrait!”
“Her portrait!” exclaimed Artingale, starting, as he recalled the scene in his friend’s studio.
“Yes; the very thing. You take him down to Gatley, and papa shall ask Mr Magnus over to Lawford to paint Julia’s portrait, and then there will be such long sittings, Harry; and Mr Magnus will have to look at her so patiently, and move this hand there and that hand here, and get her into quite the correct pose. Oh, Harry, what fun!”
“Why, you cunning little witch,” he exclaimed; “if Magnus does not jump at the idea, he deserves to lose her.”
Then there came a little more unselfishness and a little disinterested proceeding, which was interrupted by the entrance of Julia herself, looking very pale and sad. There was a far-off, distant aspect about her eyes, as of one who was thinking deeply of some great trouble, but she smiled affectionately when Cynthia spoke, after which the conspirators exchanged glances, and Artingale went away.
Part 2, Chapter VII.An Offer Declined.They were to be busy times at the Rectory that winter, for the servants left in charge heard that there was to be a great deal of company.The Gatley domestics too had to make preparations, for Lord Artingale intended to entertain that season. A room was set apart for Mr Magnus the great artist. Miss Mallow’s brothers were expected to come over from the Rectory to shoot, and Mr Cyril Mallow, it was anticipated, would be asked to bring his young wife and stay there at the fine old house—a fact, for Sage was a member now of the Mallow family, and Harry Artingale liked her as much as he disliked her husband.There was plenty of gossip rife in Lawford, and on the strength of old Michael Ross saying, when he was told that Mr Magnus the painter was coming down, that his son Luke knew him, having met him at a London club, the report ran through the place that Luke Ross was getting to be quite a big man, and had become a friend of Lord Artingale.“Not that that’s much,” said Fullerton, at the King’s Head, “for the young lord isn’t what his father was. Old Lord Artingale wouldn’t have married one of Mallow’s girls, I know, nor yet made boon companions of those two sons and Luke Ross.”“I don’t think you need put them all together,” said Tomlinson, with a sly laugh; “Luke Ross wouldn’t be very good friends with the man who stole his lass. If he would he’s not the Luke Ross that he was when he was down here.”In due time the blinds went up at Gatley and at the Rectory, and the tradespeople who had been ready to discuss the shortcomings of the Rector were obsequious enough in soliciting his orders now the family had returned.They had made a long stay at Hastings, for the Rector fancied it did Mrs Mallow good. She seemed to smile more, and to look brighter, he told himself, and he would stand and beam at her as he wheeled her couch to the open window when it was fine, and watch her gazing at the sea with the greatest of satisfaction.Frank had made journeys to and from London, making at the latter place Cyril’s house at Kensington his head-quarters, and frequently being his companion away from home.Julia was no better, in spite of the opinion of the doctor, who said that she had decidedly gained tone, and that the change now to her native air would complete the cure; so the family returned to Lawford as the winter drew near, and, as a matter of course, Lord Artingale soon found his way back to Gatley.There was some preparation too at Kilby, for Portlock said that it was his turn to have the young folks to stay.“They may go to the rectory as much as they like, mother,”—a title he invariably gave Mrs Portlock, on thelucus a non lucendoprinciple,—“but I mean to have them stay here; not that I’m particularly fond of Master Cyril; but there, he’s the little lassie’s husband, and it’s all right.”“But you asked John Berry and Rue to come and bring the little ones,” said Mrs Portlock.“Well, I know that, old lady. Isn’t Kilby big enough to hold the lot? Let’s have the place made a bit cheerful; I like to hear a good hearty shout of laughter now and then, and you’ve taken to do nothing else lately but grumble softly and scold.”“It’s a wicked story, Joseph, and you know it,” cried Mrs Portlock, as the Churchwarden turned away from her and winked at the cat; “and as for noise, I’m sure you make enough in the house without wanting more.”“Never mind, let’s have more; and Cyril Mallow can shoot down the rabbits, for they’re rather getting ahead.”As he spoke he had been filling his pipe, and he now took out a letter, read it, and slowly folded it up for a pipe-light, saying to himself—“He’s no business to want me to lend him a hundred pound after what I so lately did for them as a start.”James Magnus had been invited to take Julia’s portrait, the Rector, artfully prompted thereto by Cynthia, accompanying the commission by a very warm invitation to stay at the rectory as much as he could while the portrait was in progress, as he heard that Mr Magnus was coming down to Gatley.Artingale dropped in at his friends studio on the very day that he received the Rector’s letter—of course by accident, based upon a hint from Cynthia; and found Magnus sitting thoughtfully by his easel, pretending to paint, but doing nothing.“Why, Mag, you look well enough and strong enough now to thrash Hercules himself, in the person of our gipsy friend.”“Yes, I feel myself again,” was the reply. “By the way, Harry, I’ve had an invitation to Lawford.”“Indeed! I’m very glad. I go down to-morrow.”“The Rector wishes me to paint his daughter’s portrait.”“Not Cynthia’s?”“No, that of his daughter Julia.”“Why, Magnus,” said Artingale, smiling to himself and laying his hand upon his friend’s arm, “could you wish for a greater pleasure?”Magnus looked at him so fixedly for a few moments that Artingale felt that he must be suspected; but it was not so, the artist only shook his head, and there was a bitter look in his face, as he spoke again.“Pleasure!” he said; “how can it be a pleasure to me? Harry, my boy, how can you be so thoughtless. Do you think I could be guilty of so dishonourable an act?”“Dishonourable?”“Yes,” cried Magnus passionately. “Should I not go there on false pretences to try and win that poor girl from the man to whom she is engaged?”“But, my dear fellow, it is a folly of her father’s invention; she detests this Perry-Morton, as every right-thinking, matter-of-fact girl would. Why, the fellow dances attendance upon every woman of fashion, and deserves to be encountered with any weapon one could seize. Tell me, do you think it right that she should marry such a man?”“No: certainly not. No more right than that she should be deluded into marrying another man she did not love.”“But she would love you, Mag. My dear fellow, don’t refuse to go. Accept the offer for Julia’s sake—for Cynthia’s and mine, if you like. Don’t be scrupulous about trifles. I tell you she is a dear, sweet girl, and I know your secret. She is heart-whole now, but if she began to learn that there was some one who really loved her, she would fly to him like a young bird does to her mate.”“Very pretty sophistry, Harry Artingale. When you have bad your fling of life I should advise you to turn Jesuit.”“Don’t talk stuff, my dear fellow. Take my advice. Go down with me at once to Gatley, and make your hay while the sun shines. I guarantee the result.”“What, that I shall be kicked out as a scoundrel?”“Nonsense! kicked out, indeed! That you will win little Julia’s heart.”“As I should deserve to be,” continued Magnus, without heeding his friend’s words. “No, Harry, I am not blind. I can read Julia Mallow’s heart better, perhaps, than I can read my own, and I know that, whoever wins her love, I shall not be the man. As to her marriage with this wretched butterfly of the day, I can say nothing—do nothing. That rests with the family.”“James Magnus,” cried Artingale, angrily, “sophistry or no, I wouldn’t stand by and see the woman I loved taken from before my eyes by that contemptible cad. The world might say what it liked about honour and dishonour, and perhaps it might blame you, while, at the same time, it will praise up and deliver eulogies upon the wedding of that poor girl to Perry-Morton. But what is the opinion of such a world as that worth? Come, come—take your opportunity, and win and wear her. Hang it all, Jemmy! don’t say the young Lochinvar was in the wrong.”“You foolish, enthusiastic boy,” said Magnus, smiling, “so you think I study the sayings or doings of the fragment of our people that you call the world? No, I look elsewhere for the judgment, and, may be, most of all in my own heart. There, say no more about it. I have made up my mind.”“And I have made up mine,” cried Artingale, sharply, “that you have not the spirit of a man.”He left the studio hot and angry, went straight to his chambers, and soon after he was on his way to Gatley, having determined to see Cynthia at once for a fresh unselfish discussion upon Julia’s state.
They were to be busy times at the Rectory that winter, for the servants left in charge heard that there was to be a great deal of company.
The Gatley domestics too had to make preparations, for Lord Artingale intended to entertain that season. A room was set apart for Mr Magnus the great artist. Miss Mallow’s brothers were expected to come over from the Rectory to shoot, and Mr Cyril Mallow, it was anticipated, would be asked to bring his young wife and stay there at the fine old house—a fact, for Sage was a member now of the Mallow family, and Harry Artingale liked her as much as he disliked her husband.
There was plenty of gossip rife in Lawford, and on the strength of old Michael Ross saying, when he was told that Mr Magnus the painter was coming down, that his son Luke knew him, having met him at a London club, the report ran through the place that Luke Ross was getting to be quite a big man, and had become a friend of Lord Artingale.
“Not that that’s much,” said Fullerton, at the King’s Head, “for the young lord isn’t what his father was. Old Lord Artingale wouldn’t have married one of Mallow’s girls, I know, nor yet made boon companions of those two sons and Luke Ross.”
“I don’t think you need put them all together,” said Tomlinson, with a sly laugh; “Luke Ross wouldn’t be very good friends with the man who stole his lass. If he would he’s not the Luke Ross that he was when he was down here.”
In due time the blinds went up at Gatley and at the Rectory, and the tradespeople who had been ready to discuss the shortcomings of the Rector were obsequious enough in soliciting his orders now the family had returned.
They had made a long stay at Hastings, for the Rector fancied it did Mrs Mallow good. She seemed to smile more, and to look brighter, he told himself, and he would stand and beam at her as he wheeled her couch to the open window when it was fine, and watch her gazing at the sea with the greatest of satisfaction.
Frank had made journeys to and from London, making at the latter place Cyril’s house at Kensington his head-quarters, and frequently being his companion away from home.
Julia was no better, in spite of the opinion of the doctor, who said that she had decidedly gained tone, and that the change now to her native air would complete the cure; so the family returned to Lawford as the winter drew near, and, as a matter of course, Lord Artingale soon found his way back to Gatley.
There was some preparation too at Kilby, for Portlock said that it was his turn to have the young folks to stay.
“They may go to the rectory as much as they like, mother,”—a title he invariably gave Mrs Portlock, on thelucus a non lucendoprinciple,—“but I mean to have them stay here; not that I’m particularly fond of Master Cyril; but there, he’s the little lassie’s husband, and it’s all right.”
“But you asked John Berry and Rue to come and bring the little ones,” said Mrs Portlock.
“Well, I know that, old lady. Isn’t Kilby big enough to hold the lot? Let’s have the place made a bit cheerful; I like to hear a good hearty shout of laughter now and then, and you’ve taken to do nothing else lately but grumble softly and scold.”
“It’s a wicked story, Joseph, and you know it,” cried Mrs Portlock, as the Churchwarden turned away from her and winked at the cat; “and as for noise, I’m sure you make enough in the house without wanting more.”
“Never mind, let’s have more; and Cyril Mallow can shoot down the rabbits, for they’re rather getting ahead.”
As he spoke he had been filling his pipe, and he now took out a letter, read it, and slowly folded it up for a pipe-light, saying to himself—
“He’s no business to want me to lend him a hundred pound after what I so lately did for them as a start.”
James Magnus had been invited to take Julia’s portrait, the Rector, artfully prompted thereto by Cynthia, accompanying the commission by a very warm invitation to stay at the rectory as much as he could while the portrait was in progress, as he heard that Mr Magnus was coming down to Gatley.
Artingale dropped in at his friends studio on the very day that he received the Rector’s letter—of course by accident, based upon a hint from Cynthia; and found Magnus sitting thoughtfully by his easel, pretending to paint, but doing nothing.
“Why, Mag, you look well enough and strong enough now to thrash Hercules himself, in the person of our gipsy friend.”
“Yes, I feel myself again,” was the reply. “By the way, Harry, I’ve had an invitation to Lawford.”
“Indeed! I’m very glad. I go down to-morrow.”
“The Rector wishes me to paint his daughter’s portrait.”
“Not Cynthia’s?”
“No, that of his daughter Julia.”
“Why, Magnus,” said Artingale, smiling to himself and laying his hand upon his friend’s arm, “could you wish for a greater pleasure?”
Magnus looked at him so fixedly for a few moments that Artingale felt that he must be suspected; but it was not so, the artist only shook his head, and there was a bitter look in his face, as he spoke again.
“Pleasure!” he said; “how can it be a pleasure to me? Harry, my boy, how can you be so thoughtless. Do you think I could be guilty of so dishonourable an act?”
“Dishonourable?”
“Yes,” cried Magnus passionately. “Should I not go there on false pretences to try and win that poor girl from the man to whom she is engaged?”
“But, my dear fellow, it is a folly of her father’s invention; she detests this Perry-Morton, as every right-thinking, matter-of-fact girl would. Why, the fellow dances attendance upon every woman of fashion, and deserves to be encountered with any weapon one could seize. Tell me, do you think it right that she should marry such a man?”
“No: certainly not. No more right than that she should be deluded into marrying another man she did not love.”
“But she would love you, Mag. My dear fellow, don’t refuse to go. Accept the offer for Julia’s sake—for Cynthia’s and mine, if you like. Don’t be scrupulous about trifles. I tell you she is a dear, sweet girl, and I know your secret. She is heart-whole now, but if she began to learn that there was some one who really loved her, she would fly to him like a young bird does to her mate.”
“Very pretty sophistry, Harry Artingale. When you have bad your fling of life I should advise you to turn Jesuit.”
“Don’t talk stuff, my dear fellow. Take my advice. Go down with me at once to Gatley, and make your hay while the sun shines. I guarantee the result.”
“What, that I shall be kicked out as a scoundrel?”
“Nonsense! kicked out, indeed! That you will win little Julia’s heart.”
“As I should deserve to be,” continued Magnus, without heeding his friend’s words. “No, Harry, I am not blind. I can read Julia Mallow’s heart better, perhaps, than I can read my own, and I know that, whoever wins her love, I shall not be the man. As to her marriage with this wretched butterfly of the day, I can say nothing—do nothing. That rests with the family.”
“James Magnus,” cried Artingale, angrily, “sophistry or no, I wouldn’t stand by and see the woman I loved taken from before my eyes by that contemptible cad. The world might say what it liked about honour and dishonour, and perhaps it might blame you, while, at the same time, it will praise up and deliver eulogies upon the wedding of that poor girl to Perry-Morton. But what is the opinion of such a world as that worth? Come, come—take your opportunity, and win and wear her. Hang it all, Jemmy! don’t say the young Lochinvar was in the wrong.”
“You foolish, enthusiastic boy,” said Magnus, smiling, “so you think I study the sayings or doings of the fragment of our people that you call the world? No, I look elsewhere for the judgment, and, may be, most of all in my own heart. There, say no more about it. I have made up my mind.”
“And I have made up mine,” cried Artingale, sharply, “that you have not the spirit of a man.”
He left the studio hot and angry, went straight to his chambers, and soon after he was on his way to Gatley, having determined to see Cynthia at once for a fresh unselfish discussion upon Julia’s state.
Part 2, Chapter VIII.A Visit from Brother Jock.“Well,” said Smithson, the tailor, as he looked up from a square patch that he was inserting in the seat of a fellow-townsman’s trousers, “the parson has his faults, and as a family I don’t like ’em, but when they’re down it do make a difference to the town.”This was as the cobble stones of the little place rattled to the beating of horses’ hoofs, while a bright-looking little equestrian party passed along the main street; Cynthia mounted on a favourite mare belonging to Lord Artingale, one which she was always pleading to ride, and one whereon her slave loved to see her, though he always sent her over to the rectory in fear and trembling, ordering the groom who took her to give her a good gallop on the way to tame her down.Not that there was the slightest disposition to vice in the beautiful little creature, she was only spirited, or, as the people in his lordship’s stable said, “a bit larky,” and when Cynthia was mounted there was plenty of excuse for the young man’s pride.“I shall never have patience to ride an old plodding, humble-stumble horse again, Harry,” the little maiden used to say. “It’s like sitting on air; and she is such a dear, and it’s a shame to put two such great bits in her mouth.”“It is only so that you might check her easily, Cynthy,” said Artingale, anxiously. “You need not mind; with such a hand as yours at the rein they don’t hurt her mouth.”“But I’m sure they do, Harry,” cried Cynthia; “and look how she champs them up, and what a foam she makes, and when she snorts and throws up her head it flies over my new riding-habit.”“Never mind, my beautiful little darling,” he whispered; “you shall have a new riding-habit every week if you like, only you must have the big curb for Mad Sal. Oh, I’d give something if Magnus could reproduce you now with one instantaneous touch of his brush, and—”“Hush! you silly boy,” she whispered reprovingly, as the mare ambled on. “This is not the time and place to talk such nonsense.”Nonsense or no, it produced a very satisfactory glow in the little maiden’s heart—a glow which shone in her soft cheeks, and made her eyes flash as they rode on.These riding parties were very frequent, Cyril and Frank joining; sometimes John Magnus, but never upon the days when Julia was prevailed upon to mount.For Cyril was supposed to be staying with his young wife at the farm, but he passed the greater part of his time at the rectory, when he was not at Gatley with his brother.It was a pleasant time, for the roads were hard that winter, the air crisp and dry, giving a tone to the nerves and muscles, and an elasticity to the mind, that made even quiet James Magnus look more like himself, while there were times when Julia looked less dreamy and pale, and as if the thoughts of her persecutor were less frequent in her breast.Sage and she had grown more intimate, as if there were feelings in common between them, the quiet toleration of Cyril’s wife ripening fast into affection, so that, as Cynthia’s time was so much taken up by Lord Artingale, Julia and Sage were a good deal together, the latter being her sister-in-law’s companion in her visiting rounds, when, to the Rev. Lawrence Paulby’s satisfaction, she tried to counteract some of the prevalent ill-feeling against the Mallow family by calls here and there amongst the parishioners.One place where they often called was at the ford of the river, to have a chat with little Mrs Morrison, where somehow there seemed to be quite a magnetic attraction; Cyril’s wife sitting down in the neatly-kept little place to gaze almost in silence at the wheelwright’s pretty young wife, while, as if drawn there against her will, Julia would stop and talk.The river was very pretty just there even in winter, brawling and babbling over the gravel before settling down calm and still as it flowed slowly amongst the deep holes beneath the willow pollards, where the big fish were known to lie. And more than once sister and sister-in-law came upon Cyril in one or other of the fields, trying after the big jack that no one yet had caught.“I know he’s about here somewhere,” said Cyril, over and over again. “He lies in wait for the dace that come off the shallows, and I mean to have him before I’ve done.”That was an artful jack though, for it must have understood Cyril Mallow and his wiles, obstinately refusing to be caught.Julia used to look very serious when she saw him there again and again, but she felt afraid to speak, for the confidence that had existed between her and her old maid seemed to have passed away, and when their eyes met at times there was a curious shrinking look on either side; and so the time went on.One day Tom Morrison was busily at work at a piece of well-seasoned ash with his spoke-shave. The day was bright and keen and cold, but he was stripped to shirt and trousers, the neck unfastened, sleeves rolled up, and a look of calm satisfaction in his face as his muscles tightened and he drew off the thin spiral shavings from the piece of wood.In old days the workshop used to resound with snatches of song, or his rather melodious whistling; but of late, since the loss of his little one, he had grown cold and grave, working in a quiet, subdued manner; and those who knew him said that he was nursing up his revenge against the parson.Fullerton gave him several jobs that should by rights have gone to Biggins the carpenter, and he once went so far as to say—“They tell me you never go to church now, Tom Morrison.”“Would you like it painted stone-colour or white, Mr Fullerton?” said Tom Morrison, quietly.“Oh—er—white,” replied Fullerton, and he said no more upon that occasion.It was about a month later, over another job, that Fullerton ventured another advance, and this time he said, as he was leaving the workshop, and holding out his hand—“Good-bye, Morrison. Oh, by the way, we’ve got Samuel Mumbey, D.D., at the chapel on Sunday. Preaches twice. We’ll find you good seats if you and Mrs Morrison will come. Ours is a nice woshup, Morrison, a very nice woshup, as you would say if you was to try.”“Thankye, sir,” said Tom Morrison, stolidly, and again Fullerton said no more till he was some distance away, when he rubbed his hands softly and smiled a satisfied smile, saying to himself—“I should like to save Tom Morrison and his wife from the pit.”Tom Morrison was hard at work, thinking sometimes of his pretty little wife in the cottage, and how thin and careworn she had grown of late. He wondered whether it was his fault, and because he had been so hard and cold since he had lost his little child and quarrelled with the Rector; whether, too, he ought not to try and bring back some of the brightness to her face, when it seemed as if so much light as usual did not shine in upon his work.He raised his head, and found that there were a pair of thick arms leaning on the window-sill, and a great bearded face resting upon them, the owner’s eyes staring hard at him.“Hallo, Jock!” he said, quietly.“What, Tommy!” was the deep-toned reply; and then there was a pause, as Tom Morrison felt angry as he thought of his brothers ne’er-do-well life, and then of his having been hard and cold of late, and this seemed the time for beginning in another line.“Long time since I’ve seen you, Jock,” he said, quietly.“Ay, ’tis, Tommy. Working hard as usual.”“Ay, working hard, Jock,” said Tom, resting his spoke-shave. “Thou used to be a good workman, Jock. Why not take to it again?”“Me? Work? Wheer?”“I’ll give you plenty to do, Jock, and find wage for it, lad, if thou’lt drop being a shack and sattle down.”Jock Morrison laughed in a deep and silent manner.“Nay, lad, nay,” he said at last. “Thankye kindly, Tom, all the same. What’s the good o’ working?”“To be respectable and save money.”“I don’t want to be respectable. I don’t want to save money, lad. There’s plenty do that wi’out me.”“But how will it be when thou grows old and sick, lad?”“Why then, Tommy, I shall die; just the same as you will. I’m happy my way, lad. Thou’rt happy thy way. Folk say I’m a shack, and a blackguard, and a poacher. Well, let ’em; I don’t keer.”“Nay, don’t say that, lad,” said Tom Morrison; “I don’t like it. I’d like to see thee tak’ to work and be a man.”“Ha, ha, ha, Tom! Why, I’m a bigger and a stronger man than thou art anyways. Nay, I don’t keer for work. Let them do it as likes. I don’t want boxing up in a house or a shed. I want to be in the free air, and to come and go as I like. I see no good in your ways. Let me bide.”Tom looked at him in a dull, careworn way.“Why, look ye here, lad,” cried Jock. “Here am I as blithe and hearty as a bird, and here are you, plod, plod, plod, from day to day, round and round, like old Michael Ross’s blind horse in the bark mill. I look as hearty as a buck; you look ten years older, and as if life warn’t worth a gill o’ ale.”“I wean’t argue with you, Jock,” said Tom, quietly. “You must go your own gate, I suppose, and I’ll go mine.”“Ay, that’s it, Tommy.”“But if ever you like to try being an honest man again, lad, I’m thy own brother, and I’ll give thee a lift best way I can for the old folks’ sake.”Jock Morrison left the window, and came like a modern edition of Astur of the stately stride round to the door, walked in amongst the shavings and sawdust, gave his brother a tremendous slap on the back, and then seized his hand and stood shaking it for a good minute by the old Dutch clock in the corner.He did not speak, but half sat down afterwards upon the bench, watching his brother as Tom resumed his work.“How’s little wife?” said Jock at last.“Not hearty, Jock,” said Tom Morrison. “She’s pined a deal lately. Never got over losing the bairn.”There was a spell of silence here, and then Tom said quietly—“Go in and have a crust o’ bread and cheese, Jock, and a mug of ale. The little lass has been baking this morning.”“Ay, I will,” said Jock, and thrusting his hands down into his pockets, he rolled like a great ship on a heaving sea out of the workshop, along the road, and then through the little garden, and without ceremony into the cottage, stooping his head as he passed in at the low door.
“Well,” said Smithson, the tailor, as he looked up from a square patch that he was inserting in the seat of a fellow-townsman’s trousers, “the parson has his faults, and as a family I don’t like ’em, but when they’re down it do make a difference to the town.”
This was as the cobble stones of the little place rattled to the beating of horses’ hoofs, while a bright-looking little equestrian party passed along the main street; Cynthia mounted on a favourite mare belonging to Lord Artingale, one which she was always pleading to ride, and one whereon her slave loved to see her, though he always sent her over to the rectory in fear and trembling, ordering the groom who took her to give her a good gallop on the way to tame her down.
Not that there was the slightest disposition to vice in the beautiful little creature, she was only spirited, or, as the people in his lordship’s stable said, “a bit larky,” and when Cynthia was mounted there was plenty of excuse for the young man’s pride.
“I shall never have patience to ride an old plodding, humble-stumble horse again, Harry,” the little maiden used to say. “It’s like sitting on air; and she is such a dear, and it’s a shame to put two such great bits in her mouth.”
“It is only so that you might check her easily, Cynthy,” said Artingale, anxiously. “You need not mind; with such a hand as yours at the rein they don’t hurt her mouth.”
“But I’m sure they do, Harry,” cried Cynthia; “and look how she champs them up, and what a foam she makes, and when she snorts and throws up her head it flies over my new riding-habit.”
“Never mind, my beautiful little darling,” he whispered; “you shall have a new riding-habit every week if you like, only you must have the big curb for Mad Sal. Oh, I’d give something if Magnus could reproduce you now with one instantaneous touch of his brush, and—”
“Hush! you silly boy,” she whispered reprovingly, as the mare ambled on. “This is not the time and place to talk such nonsense.”
Nonsense or no, it produced a very satisfactory glow in the little maiden’s heart—a glow which shone in her soft cheeks, and made her eyes flash as they rode on.
These riding parties were very frequent, Cyril and Frank joining; sometimes John Magnus, but never upon the days when Julia was prevailed upon to mount.
For Cyril was supposed to be staying with his young wife at the farm, but he passed the greater part of his time at the rectory, when he was not at Gatley with his brother.
It was a pleasant time, for the roads were hard that winter, the air crisp and dry, giving a tone to the nerves and muscles, and an elasticity to the mind, that made even quiet James Magnus look more like himself, while there were times when Julia looked less dreamy and pale, and as if the thoughts of her persecutor were less frequent in her breast.
Sage and she had grown more intimate, as if there were feelings in common between them, the quiet toleration of Cyril’s wife ripening fast into affection, so that, as Cynthia’s time was so much taken up by Lord Artingale, Julia and Sage were a good deal together, the latter being her sister-in-law’s companion in her visiting rounds, when, to the Rev. Lawrence Paulby’s satisfaction, she tried to counteract some of the prevalent ill-feeling against the Mallow family by calls here and there amongst the parishioners.
One place where they often called was at the ford of the river, to have a chat with little Mrs Morrison, where somehow there seemed to be quite a magnetic attraction; Cyril’s wife sitting down in the neatly-kept little place to gaze almost in silence at the wheelwright’s pretty young wife, while, as if drawn there against her will, Julia would stop and talk.
The river was very pretty just there even in winter, brawling and babbling over the gravel before settling down calm and still as it flowed slowly amongst the deep holes beneath the willow pollards, where the big fish were known to lie. And more than once sister and sister-in-law came upon Cyril in one or other of the fields, trying after the big jack that no one yet had caught.
“I know he’s about here somewhere,” said Cyril, over and over again. “He lies in wait for the dace that come off the shallows, and I mean to have him before I’ve done.”
That was an artful jack though, for it must have understood Cyril Mallow and his wiles, obstinately refusing to be caught.
Julia used to look very serious when she saw him there again and again, but she felt afraid to speak, for the confidence that had existed between her and her old maid seemed to have passed away, and when their eyes met at times there was a curious shrinking look on either side; and so the time went on.
One day Tom Morrison was busily at work at a piece of well-seasoned ash with his spoke-shave. The day was bright and keen and cold, but he was stripped to shirt and trousers, the neck unfastened, sleeves rolled up, and a look of calm satisfaction in his face as his muscles tightened and he drew off the thin spiral shavings from the piece of wood.
In old days the workshop used to resound with snatches of song, or his rather melodious whistling; but of late, since the loss of his little one, he had grown cold and grave, working in a quiet, subdued manner; and those who knew him said that he was nursing up his revenge against the parson.
Fullerton gave him several jobs that should by rights have gone to Biggins the carpenter, and he once went so far as to say—
“They tell me you never go to church now, Tom Morrison.”
“Would you like it painted stone-colour or white, Mr Fullerton?” said Tom Morrison, quietly.
“Oh—er—white,” replied Fullerton, and he said no more upon that occasion.
It was about a month later, over another job, that Fullerton ventured another advance, and this time he said, as he was leaving the workshop, and holding out his hand—
“Good-bye, Morrison. Oh, by the way, we’ve got Samuel Mumbey, D.D., at the chapel on Sunday. Preaches twice. We’ll find you good seats if you and Mrs Morrison will come. Ours is a nice woshup, Morrison, a very nice woshup, as you would say if you was to try.”
“Thankye, sir,” said Tom Morrison, stolidly, and again Fullerton said no more till he was some distance away, when he rubbed his hands softly and smiled a satisfied smile, saying to himself—
“I should like to save Tom Morrison and his wife from the pit.”
Tom Morrison was hard at work, thinking sometimes of his pretty little wife in the cottage, and how thin and careworn she had grown of late. He wondered whether it was his fault, and because he had been so hard and cold since he had lost his little child and quarrelled with the Rector; whether, too, he ought not to try and bring back some of the brightness to her face, when it seemed as if so much light as usual did not shine in upon his work.
He raised his head, and found that there were a pair of thick arms leaning on the window-sill, and a great bearded face resting upon them, the owner’s eyes staring hard at him.
“Hallo, Jock!” he said, quietly.
“What, Tommy!” was the deep-toned reply; and then there was a pause, as Tom Morrison felt angry as he thought of his brothers ne’er-do-well life, and then of his having been hard and cold of late, and this seemed the time for beginning in another line.
“Long time since I’ve seen you, Jock,” he said, quietly.
“Ay, ’tis, Tommy. Working hard as usual.”
“Ay, working hard, Jock,” said Tom, resting his spoke-shave. “Thou used to be a good workman, Jock. Why not take to it again?”
“Me? Work? Wheer?”
“I’ll give you plenty to do, Jock, and find wage for it, lad, if thou’lt drop being a shack and sattle down.”
Jock Morrison laughed in a deep and silent manner.
“Nay, lad, nay,” he said at last. “Thankye kindly, Tom, all the same. What’s the good o’ working?”
“To be respectable and save money.”
“I don’t want to be respectable. I don’t want to save money, lad. There’s plenty do that wi’out me.”
“But how will it be when thou grows old and sick, lad?”
“Why then, Tommy, I shall die; just the same as you will. I’m happy my way, lad. Thou’rt happy thy way. Folk say I’m a shack, and a blackguard, and a poacher. Well, let ’em; I don’t keer.”
“Nay, don’t say that, lad,” said Tom Morrison; “I don’t like it. I’d like to see thee tak’ to work and be a man.”
“Ha, ha, ha, Tom! Why, I’m a bigger and a stronger man than thou art anyways. Nay, I don’t keer for work. Let them do it as likes. I don’t want boxing up in a house or a shed. I want to be in the free air, and to come and go as I like. I see no good in your ways. Let me bide.”
Tom looked at him in a dull, careworn way.
“Why, look ye here, lad,” cried Jock. “Here am I as blithe and hearty as a bird, and here are you, plod, plod, plod, from day to day, round and round, like old Michael Ross’s blind horse in the bark mill. I look as hearty as a buck; you look ten years older, and as if life warn’t worth a gill o’ ale.”
“I wean’t argue with you, Jock,” said Tom, quietly. “You must go your own gate, I suppose, and I’ll go mine.”
“Ay, that’s it, Tommy.”
“But if ever you like to try being an honest man again, lad, I’m thy own brother, and I’ll give thee a lift best way I can for the old folks’ sake.”
Jock Morrison left the window, and came like a modern edition of Astur of the stately stride round to the door, walked in amongst the shavings and sawdust, gave his brother a tremendous slap on the back, and then seized his hand and stood shaking it for a good minute by the old Dutch clock in the corner.
He did not speak, but half sat down afterwards upon the bench, watching his brother as Tom resumed his work.
“How’s little wife?” said Jock at last.
“Not hearty, Jock,” said Tom Morrison. “She’s pined a deal lately. Never got over losing the bairn.”
There was a spell of silence here, and then Tom said quietly—
“Go in and have a crust o’ bread and cheese, Jock, and a mug of ale. The little lass has been baking this morning.”
“Ay, I will,” said Jock, and thrusting his hands down into his pockets, he rolled like a great ship on a heaving sea out of the workshop, along the road, and then through the little garden, and without ceremony into the cottage, stooping his head as he passed in at the low door.