Kitabı oxu: «Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family»

Part 1, Chapter I.
Part 1 – The Rectory Folk.
Hot Water in Lawford

“Eh? What?”

“I say, why don’t you give it up quietly?”

“Speak up; I’m a little hard of hearing.”

“I say, why don’t you give it up quietly?” roared the speaker to a little bent old man, with a weak, thin, piping voice, and a sharp look that gave him somewhat the air of a very attenuated sparrow in a severe frost, his shrunken legs, in tight yellow leather leggings, seeming to help the idea.

“Don’t shout at me like that, Master Portlock. I arn’t deaf, only a trifle hard of hearing when I’ve got a cowd – just a trifle, you know.”

“Have you got a cold?” asked the man addressed, a sturdy-looking, fresh-coloured, middle-aged man, with a very bluff manner, and a look of prosperity in his general appearance that made him seem thoroughly adapted to his office. In fact, he was just the man that a country clergyman would be glad to elect at a vestry meeting for vicar’s churchwarden. “Eh?”

“I – say – have – you – got – a – cold? Hang him, how deaf he is!”

“Oh, no! oh, no!” chirped the little old man, sharply; “I’m not deaf. Just a little thick i’ the ears. Yes; I’ve got a cowd. It’s settled here – just here,” he piped, striking himself upon his thin chest with the hand that held his stick. “A bad cowd – a nasty cowd as keeps me awake all night, doing nowt but cough. It’s that stove, that’s what it is, Master Portlock.”

“Nonsense, man! It would keep the cold off.”

“Eh?”

“I say it would keep the cold off.”

“Nay, nay; not it. A nasty, brimstone-smelling, choking thing, as sends out a reek as settles on your chest. Stove, indeed! What do we want with your noo-fangled stoves? We never had no stoves before. Here he stops away from town all these years, only coming now and then, and now all at once he’s back at the Rectory, and nothing’s right. Mr Paulby never said a word about no stoves.”

“No; but see how damp the church was.”

“Eh?”

“Eh?”

“Damp,” roared the Churchwarden; “church – damp. Cush – shuns – moul – dee.”

“Chah! Nonsense, Master Portlock. Damp? Suppose it was? A chutch ought to be damp, and smell solemn like of owd age and venerations. Mouldy? Ay; why not?” he piped. “’Mind ta chutch folk o’ decay, and what they’re comin’ to some day. I once went to London, Master Portlock – forty year ago now, sir – forty year ago. It was cowd weather, and I got ’most froze a’ top o’ the coach, and it was a ’mazin’ plaace. Ay, that it was. But you’ve been there?”

“Ay, lots o’ times in my life.”

“Niver been in your life? Then don’t go. Niver go if you can help it. Owd Mr Burton paid for me to go, he did – owd vicar’s father, you know – and he said to me a did, ‘Mind ta go and see some o’ the London chutches, Warmoth,’ he says; and I did, and bless thou, pretty places they weer. I niver see a playhouse, but Sammy Mason wint to one i’ London, and he towd me what it were like, and the chutch I went into i’ the City weer just like it. Why, mun, theer were a big picter ower the ’mandments, and carpets on the floors, and all the pews was full o’ red cushions an’ basses, just as if they was all squires’ sittings, and brass rails and red curtins an’ grand candlesticks. Then reight up i’ the gallery wheer the singers sit was a great thing all covered wi’ goolden pipes, an’ a man i’ the front sittin’ lookin’ at his self i’ a lookin’ glass. That was t’ organ, you know, and eh, but it was a straange sort o’ plaace altogether to call a chutch.”

“Not like our old barn, eh, Sammy?” shouted the Churchwarden.

“Nay, not a bit, Master Portlock,” piped the old man. “Gi’e me whitewesh, and neat clean pews and a plait-straw cushion and bass. Folk don’t go to sleep then, and snore through t’ sarmunt. If I had my way, Master Portlock, I wouldn’t hev a thing changed.”

“No, I suppose not, Sam,” said the Churchwarden, nodding.

“Sixty years have I been clerk o’ t’ owd chutch, and hae buried generations of them as comed to the owd place – christened ’em, and married ’em, and buried ’em, Master Portlock. They didn’t like me being made clerk so young in them days. Jacky Robinson, as wanted to be clerk when father died, said I was nobbut a boy, but t’ owd vicar said – owd Master Willoughby, you didn’t know him?” The Churchwarden shook his head. “No; he died eight and fifty year ago. He said, ‘No; let Sammy Warmoth step into his father’s shoes, same as him as is dead stepped into his father’s shoes. I find,’ he says, ‘there’s been Warmoth’s clerks here for a hundred years at least;’ and now, Master Portlock, sir, I can say there’s been Warmoths clerks here for a hundred and sixty year, and if my life is spared I’ll make it two hundred, for they can’t turn me out, and I wean’t go.”

“How old wert ta when you was made clerk, Sammy?” said the Churchwarden, looking at the old man with a pitying smile. “Thrutty-three, and I was just married, Master Portlock, and thrutty-three and sixty makes ninety-three, eh?”

“Fine owd age, Sam.”

“Eh?”

“A fine owd age, I say.”

“Chah! Not it. Read your Bible more, man. Ninety-three’s as good as nowt to what men used to be. Nay, nay, nay, I shan’t give up. Yow may go and tell parson as theer’s lots o’ life in me yet, and that he’d best go back again to London and foreign parts, and leave us alone here wi’ Mr Paulby. He’ll drive all the congregation over to the Dissenters, they’re talking a’ready o’ building noo chapel for ta Wesley folk.”

“Ay, they’re going ahead, Sammy, but we don’t care for the opposition shop. We’ve got the old established bank, eh?”

“That’s a true word, Master Portlock,” piped the old man, “and we can pity ’em, wi’ their plans and local preachers, a set o’ nobodies, o’ sons o’ Levi, takking off their aprons and running fro’ behind their counters to usurp the priest’s office; but you mark my words, and you may tell parson what I say; if he’s coming down here thinking to do just as he likes, he’ll be driving all folk to chapel.”

“No, no; not he, Sammy.”

“Ay, but he will, altering ta chutch sarvice, an’ upsetting all that’s owd – schoolmaster, and clerk, and chutch. You tell him that he may keep his man till I’m dead, and then put him in, for I nivver had a boy o’ my own to tak’ my place.”

“But he hasn’t got a man.”

“Eh? Not got a man? Good job too. He don’t want one?”

“No. He isn’t going to have a clerk any more.”

“Eh?”

“I say you’ll be the last clerk o’ Lawford. There’ll nivver be another.”

“Nivver be another? What dost ta mean?”

“Mr Mallow is going to do the service wi’out a clerk,” roared the Churchwarden.

“Do sarvice wi’out a clerk!” piped the old man, indignantly; “who’s to say t’ ‘Amens’?”

“Congregation and singers.”

“An’ what ’bout t’ ’sponses?” quavered the old clerk.

“People!”

They were standing in the churchyard, walled up high above the town street, and as the Churchwarden spoke the old clerk placed his left hand across the small of his back, and stamping his stick on the cobble stones of the path, he made an effort to straighten himself up so as to gaze at the venerable mouldering square-towered church, taking it in from end to end with his pale grey eyes before resuming his former attitude with his head on one side.

“Not going to have another clerk?” he quavered.

“No,” roared the Churchwarden.

“No one to say t’ amens and ’sponses?”

“No.”

“Who’s t’ help him on wi’ his gownd?”

The Churchwarden shook his head.

“Who’s going to shut pulpit door?”

There was another shake of the Churchwarden’s head.

“Then who’ll gi’e out t’ psalms?”

“Parson.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the old man, staring down at his feet.

“Look here, Sammy,” said the Churchwarden, kindly, and with his lips close to the old man’s ear; “Mr Mallow’s a nice sort o’ man, and means kindly.”

“No one to say t’ amens?” said the old clerk, softly.

“He thinks you’re getting too owd for the work.”

“Nobbut t’ people to say the ’sponses,” continued the old clerk, without seeming to hear the Churchwarden’s words.

“He’s been talking to us at sort o’ meeting, and he wants to get up testimonial for thee. Says we owt to make un enew to mak’ thee comfortable to end o’ thee days, and he’ll give twenty pounds towards it, and you’re to have one of the Bede Houses.”

“How’s he going to bury them as dies?” piped the old man, suddenly.

The Churchwarden shook his head.

Old Sammy Warmoth took a couple of feeble steps towards the edge of the path, and began to poke at the loose, friable earth of the grave nearest to him with the long brass ferrule of his stick, taking two hands to the task, and making quite a little hole.

“It’s getten time I was put down theer,” he said, in a low voice that was very pathetic in its tones. “There’s a sight o’ my owd friends I’ve seen put down here, and its getten time for me to be put along wi’ ’em, sown a corruptible body to be raised an incorruptible, for I spose I’m getten owd and good for nowt.”

“Oh, nay, nay, Sammy,” said the Churchwarden, warmly. “Don’t take on about it. Tak’ my advice. Don’t be obstinit, but just go up and see parson quiet like, an’ say you give up, and tak’ it kindly, an’ I’ll see as you don’t come to no wrong.”

“No one to say t’ amens,” muttered the old man – “no one to say t’ ’sponses – no one to gi’e out t’ psalms. Why,” he cried, raising his voice, “I b’lieve it now.”

“Believe what, Sammy?”

“That he’s goin’ to have t’ owd pews out, and put i’ benches; and I said when I heerd it as the dead wouldn’t rest i’ theer graves if he did.”

“It’s all true, Sammy. They’re going to spend three thousand pounds i’ doing up t’ owd church, and young Lord Artingale’s going to give us an organ.”

“Then I wean’t go,” cried the old man, stamping his stick down on the stones. “I’ll nivver do it. I’ve been here clerk and saxton these sixty year, and I helps wi’ ivvery grave even now. It wean’t do. It’s a revvylootion, and a sweeping away of t’ owd chutch, like they did among the French, and I’ll be one o’ the faithful while I live.”

“Nonsense, man; come, say thou’lt give up quiet like,” said the Churchwarden, soothingly. “Eh?”

“Say thou’lt give up quietly.”

“Nivver, nivver!” quavered the old man, angrily. “It’s as much my chutch as his, and if he goes wrong wi’ his new notions and idees, I’ll stand by mine. There’s nivver been a clerk o’ Lawford as didn’t die a clerk, and dost ta think I’ll be the first, Master Portlock? Nivver. I’ll howd by chutch till t’ last, say what thou will!”

“Poor owd boy!” said the Churchwarden, as he stood watching the tottering figure descending the slope on the farther side of the churchyard, till it seemed from where the gazer stood as if the old man were sinking slowly into a grave. First he disappeared to the middle, then the path line was level with his shoulders, and a few moments more and his head had gone.

“Poor owd boy!” said the Churchwarden, musingly. “It can’t be for long. I’ll ask parson to let him stop.”

Part 1, Chapter II.
The Rectory Girls

“I love the country! I love the country!”

“Hush, hush, Cynthy! don’t be so childish; some one will hear you.”

“No one is near us, Ju. That’s why I like being down here.”

“But it is so childish to keep running up the banks and shouting like that.”

“Well, but that’s what I like. It’s the country air makes one feel so young, and I am so, so glad that we are going to stay at home. I want to know the people. Oh, I was tired of the Continent. I want to be free.”

“Now, Cynthy, what would papa say if he saw you climb up on that gate?”

“Don’t know – don’t care!”

“Well, then,” said Julia Mallow, smiling, “what, would Lord Artingale say?”

“That I was a jolly little girl, and come and sit beside me.”

“Oh! Cynthy!”

“And put his arm round my waist to keep me from falling off. Oh, I say, Ju, he did once, and it was so funny.”

“Cynthy, I’m ashamed of you,” cried her sister, and there was a slight deepening of the colour in her sweet English face.

“Well, I am ashamed of myself,” cried Cynthia, springing lightly off the gate, and passing her arm round her sister as they walked on along the rutty lane. “But I do feel so happy, Ju. So will you some day, when you meet the special him. Not Perry-Morton though. Ha, ha, ha! How stupid papa is! I say, Ju, though, who shall we go and see? Papa says we are to visit the people a great deal, and get them to know more of us, but I shan’t go near any of the horrid Dissenters.”

“Don’t call people horrid because they don’t think the same as we do, Cynthy.”

“Well, but it is horrid. Papa says it’s dreadful, the opposition that is in the town. I heard him say to mamma yesterday that he couldn’t understand the people a bit, and that though he had now come to settle down amongst them for good, only when we go to town for the season, everybody seemed so independent, and they were all in opposition to him.”

“Yes, he was talking to Mr Paulby about it at dinner on Tuesday.”

“Papa is going to improve everything, he says. The place must have been terribly neglected by Mr Paulby. Oh, what a funny little man he is!”

“I think him very nice and genuine,” said Julia, quietly.

“But you mustn’t fall in love with him, Ju. He’s too old. But I say, what was the real reason of our being away from Lawford so much?”

“Money matters,” said her sister. “Papa got to be very much behindhand through Frank and Cyril.”

“Oh, I wish I were a man!” cried Cynthia, with her pretty fair young face flushing. “How I would have whipped those two fellows and made good boys of them! They’ve half broken poor mamma’s heart.”

“I’m afraid papa indulged them too much,” said Julia, quietly, and the two girls walked on for some little distance in silence, enjoying the briskness of the morning air.

“Now where are we going?” cried Cynthia suddenly. “Oh, I know. Down that lane leads to the ford, where the wheelwright’s is. Let’s go and see Polly Morrison.”

“Shall we?” said her sister, smiling.

“Oh, yes. It will be a parochial visit all the same. Only fancy, Polly with a baby! What a little stupid she was to leave us to come back here and marry a wheelwright!”

“I don’t know,” said Julia quietly; “perhaps she is very happy.”

“Oh, of course. People are when they get married. Come along; I want to see Polly’s baby. I wish she had not left us. She was such a clever maid.”

“I was very glad she went,” said Julia gravely.

“Glad? Why?”

“Because of Cyril. He was always following her about. She complained to me several times.”

“Cyril is a wretch!” said Cynthia, with heightened colour. “Papa ought to whip him. He always would look at pretty girls. I say, Ju, did you see Miss Portlock, the schoolmistress, on Monday? Was she nice?”

“Yes, I thought her very nice and superior. She is the churchwarden’s niece. Hush! here is Mr Paulby.”

“Good-morning, ladies,” said a little plump man, raising his hat and showing his slightly-bald head. “What a lovely morning! I think I dare prophesy where you are going.”

“If you prophesy Morrison’s cottage, Mr Paulby, you are right,” said Cynthia, merrily.

“Then I am right,” said the curate. “I have just come from there, and Mrs Morrison has been chatting about old times, and how she went all over the Continent with you.”

“She didn’t tell you about Cyril, I know,” said Cynthia to herself.

“I’m really very, very glad, ladies, that the rectory is inhabited again,” said the curate, “and I hope you will help me a great deal.”

“That indeed we will, Mr Paulby,” said Julia.

“Yes, and visit, and do needlework, and help in the schools, and everything,” said Cynthia, quickly. “And now we must say good-morning, Mr Paulby. Come, Julia.”

There was the customary hand-shaking and raising of the curate’s hat, and then they separated, the little plump rosy man looking very thoughtful as he made some observation to himself, and that observation was “Hah!” a remark that evidently meant a great deal.

“I’m not going to allow that, Ju,” said Cynthia, decidedly. “The little man is quite smitten with you, and if Frank or Cyril were to know – ”

“Don’t be absurd!” said her sister, colouring a little.

“That would be as bad as Perry-Morton. Oh, here we are. Why, what a pretty little place Polly has got!”

The sisters stopped at the road-side to gaze at the long low ivy-covered cottage, with a broad patch of green in front, upon which was a lumber of broken carts and waggons waiting to be doctored. There was a shed at one end, from which came the sound of sawing, for which job there was a good-sized pit, while farther on the road dipped suddenly down and passed through a little river, which foamed and bubbled and sparkled as it turned the gravelly shallows into liquid silver in the morning sun.

“Oh, what a funny little thing!” cried Cynthia, as they were welcomed into the neat cottage. “Look at its little button-hole of a mouth. Let me take it, Polly.”

The young mother, quite a rustic beauty, with a touch of refinement in her appearance, picked up during her stay on the Continent as maid to the rector’s daughters, handed her plump little baby to the extended arms; watchfully, though, and as if afraid the treasure might be dropped upon the red-brick floor.

“And how are you, Polly?” said Julia, looking rather searchingly at the young wife as she set chairs for her visitors. “I hope you are very happy?”

“Oh, as happy, Miss Julia, as the day is long, and I’m so busy that the days are never long enough.”

“Cooey, cooey, cooey, cooey!” cried Cynthia to the baby in a very dove-like manner, as she kissed and fondled it, laughing merrily the while.

“I was so surprised, Miss, to hear that you had come back to the rectory.”

“Not going to stop very long this time, Polly – I mean Mrs Morrison,” said Cynthia, without raising her face from the baby. “We are going to town for the season. Oh, you, you, you funny little thing! There’s a wet mouth. Oh, I say, Ju, I wonder whether I shall ever have a baby of my own.”

“Cynthia!” cried her sister, reproachfully.

“It would be such fun. I say, Polly, is it good?”

“Oh, there never was such a good baby, Miss, and Tom worships it. She’s as good as gold.”

“She?” cried Cynthia. “Is it a she?”

“Oh, yes, Miss,” cried the young mother, proudly.

“How funny!” said Cynthia. “It might be anything, it is so round and soft.”

“Would you mind feeling how heavy she grows, Miss Julia?” said the young mother and the baby was duly handed to Julia, who held it to her cheek, and then gazed lovingly at the little thing, her eyes wearing a curious wistful aspect, full of tenderness, while the young mothers face lit up with pleasure.

“Isn’t it heavy, Miss?” she said.

“Wonderfully,” replied Julia quietly, and with as much decision as if her life had been spent in the management of babies.

“She don’t know!” laughed Cynthia. “I don’t believe she ever had hold of one before. Here, give it to me.”

“No; let it stay,” said Julia softly, and to the young mother’s great satisfaction, for she seemed rather scared lest Cynthia should let it fall in tossing it up and down.

“She gets heavier every day, Miss, and Tom says it’s wonderful now for a baby a month old.”

“You must introduce us to your husband, Polly.”

“Yes, Miss, I’ll call him in. Or no, Miss, not this morning,” said the young wife, rather hurriedly; “he is very busy.”

“Some other time then,” said Julia. “I suppose you are very fond of it, Polly?”

“Fond of it, Miss Julia? Oh, you can’t think how I love it.”

“No,” said Julia, softly, and looking curiously at the young mother, “I suppose not.”

“Oh, here is Budge,” said little Mrs Morrison, as a heavy, stolid-looking girl entered the room. “She will take baby now, Miss. There, Budge, take her in the kitchen, and don’t go too near the fire.”

“No, missus,” said the girl, taking the well-wrapped-up baby in her red arms, staring heavily the while at the visitors, and consequently nearly bringing her charge to grief by stumbling over a stool.

“Oh, Budge!” cried little Mrs Morrison.

“I ain’t hurt, missus,” said the girl coolly, and she allowed herself to be piloted out of the room by her mistress, when a chair was heard to scroop.

“Oh, how funny it does seem!” cried Cynthia.

“Hush! don’t talk like that,” said her sister; “here she is.”

Little Mrs Morrison came into the room again, looking very red-faced and hot.

“What a funny little maid you have got, Polly!” cried Cynthia.

“Yes, Miss Cynthia; she is from the workhouse, and she is a little clumsy, but she is very faithful, and so fond of baby.”

“And what is to be its name?” cried Cynthia.

“Rose, Miss; and – and,” stammered the young wife, looking very hard at Julia.

“And what, Polly?”

“I – I had a sort of idea, Miss Julia, that – ”

“That what, Polly? Speak out!”

“Of asking you and Miss Cynthia if – ”

“If what?”

“You wouldn’t mind being little Rose’s godmothers.”

“Oh, no, Polly,” said Julia, “I think not.”

“Oh, yes, Ju, it would be good fun,” cried Cynthia.

“I told Tom it would be too much to ask, Miss Julia; but he said you could only say no.”

“Of course,” said Julia, thoughtfully. “And he is very kind to you?”

“Oh, kind isn’t the word, Miss Julia,” cried the young wife.

“And are his relations kind to you too?”

“He has no relations, Miss, but one brother,” replied Polly, “and he is a good deal of trouble to him – I mean to us,” she added, correcting herself.

“Trouble to you, Polly?”

“Yes, Miss; he won’t work, and he has taken to a gipsy sort of life, and goes poaching, I’m afraid.”

“That’s very, very sad,” said Julia, remembering that her father had just been made chairman of the bench of magistrates.

“Yes, Miss, very, very sad, for we are always afraid of his getting into trouble; but there, you know, Miss, what brothers are.”

“Yes, yes,” said Julia, hastily. “I will think about what you said, Polly,” she added, rising, and holding out her hand, “and if papa does not object, Cynthia and I will be godmothers to baby.”

“Oh, if you would, Miss!” cried the young wife, flushing with pride; and then, in a low voice, as Cynthia went on out of the room, “You always were kind to me, Miss Julia, and more like a sister than a mistress. May I kiss you, Miss?”

“Oh, yes, Polly,” said Julia, kissing her smilingly.

“You always were kind to me, Miss, and there’s nothing in life I wouldn’t do for you if you wanted it.”

“Come, Ju,” cried Cynthia, from without.

“Oh, thank you, Polly, I know you would.”

“And you’d come and ask me, Miss, if you wanted help, wouldn’t you?”

“Indeed I would, Polly; but why do you ask me in that strange way?”

“Because – because, Miss, I want to ask a favour of you now,” cried the young wife, desperately.

“What is it, Polly?” said Julia, showing deep interest now.

“Please, Miss, you – you remember when we were at Dinan.”

“Yes, yes; what?” cried Julia.

“About Mr Cyril.”

“Yes,” cried Julia, catching her hand; “he has not dared?”

“He – he came here yesterday, Miss, while Tom was out,” cried Polly, bursting into tears, “and he came once before; and it frightens me, Miss – it horrifies me; for Tom loves me so dearly, Miss; and it would make him angry, and break his heart if he thought ill of me, Miss Julia.”

“But did you encourage him to come again?” cried Julia, angrily.

“No, Miss Julia, I nearly went on my knees to him, and begged him not to come again, but he only laughed, and – and called me a little fool.”

“You shall tell your husband, Polly,” cried Julia, hotly.

“I – I was afraid, Miss Julia,” sobbed Polly. “I was afraid of making mischief. I dared not tell him. If he thought Mr Cyril came here and troubled me, he would be ready to kill him, Miss, and me too. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”

“I’ll tell papa,” said Cynthia, who had come back unseen. “I declare it’s shameful, and I – I wish my brothers were both dead. Oh, Ju, papa must know.”

“No, no,” said Julia, holding the sobbing little woman to her breast; “Polly is right. It would be making terrible mischief. I’ll speak to Cyril myself, and if he will not listen to me, mamma shall try. But, Polly, you will tell me if he comes again?”

“Oh, yes, yes, Miss Julia,” cried the young wife, gazing up passionately in her visitor’s face.

“And always tell me the whole truth?”

“Indeed – indeed I will. Please, Miss Julia,” she said simply, “I don’t think I ever told a lie.”

“I don’t believe you ever did, Polly,” said Julia, kissing her, and turning to the door to go. “There, good-bye, and don’t be low-spirited. Cyril is soon going away again, and even if he is not, he shall not trouble you.”

“Thank you, Miss Julia, and you too, Miss Cynthia,” said the young wife, wiping her eyes; “and perhaps you will be at baby’s christening?”

“If papa doesn’t object, indeed we will,” cried Julia, smiling, and the sisters went back along the lane.

“I would – I would indeed,” said the young mother, softly; “I’d do anything to serve dear Miss Julia, and I hope and pray she may never feel such trouble as I do now. Oh, if only they had stopped away!”

She was standing in the little porch, listening to the regular harsh sound of a saw in the work-shed, some fifty yards away, gazing after the sisters, till a step coming in the other direction made her sharply turn her head, and then, as she shrank back, her whole aspect seemed to change. She turned ghastly white, her eyes dilated, and she trembled visibly, as if at the sight of some great horror.

It was nothing so very terrible approaching either, being only a tall, well-built, handsome young man of six or seven and twenty, his hands in the pockets of his loose jacket, and a cigar in his mouth.

Part 1, Chapter III.
The State of Lawford

Only some twenty years ago, but from the streets and surroundings of the place the date might have been in the last century. For Lawford was in an out-of-the-way part of Lincolnshire towards which one of the main northern lines had been running straight, but the company were beaten in Parliament, and the iron road curved off, leaving Lawford where it was – all behind.

When the new rector was appointed to the living he resolutely refused to go without a fresh rectory was built, for the old house, with its low rooms, was ten yards from the churchyard, which in the course of centuries had gone up, while the old rectory seemed to have gone down, so that you walked along a slope and then descended three steps into the ancient, damp, evil-smelling place, which had more the aspect of a furnished mausoleum than a house.

The consequence was that a grant was made for the building of a new rectory, which was erected a mile and a half out of the town; and as the living was rich, the Rev. Eli Mallow borrowed a couple of thousand pounds to have the house made handsomer, and to add conservatories and greenhouses to the place, got it all in excellent order, and then went on the Continent for a few years, when the old rectory did very well for Mr Paulby, the curate who was left in charge.

Difficulties of pocket had certainly had something to do with the absenteeism of the Rev. Eli Mallow, but there had been other troubles as well in connection with his sons, whom he had made several efforts to start in life and get away from Lawford. They were the sons of a clergyman, but two more unclerical youths never troubled father, and so unfortunate were his efforts, so persistently did the young men return home to their fond and indulgent mother and their proud weak father, that the Lawford people, famous among themselves for nick-naming those that they did not like, called Frank Mallow, the elder brother, “The Bad Shilling,” while Cyril, consequent upon a visit to Australia, they named “The Boomerang.”

They were an old-fashioned people at Lawford, and the “owd rector” had been old-fashioned too. It was past the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty, and Victoria was seated upon the throne, but the old rector thought it no wrong to go to one of the inns and sit and drink his mug of ale and chat and gossip with any townsman who came in.

As to the church, a colder, damper, more musty-smelling place could not have been found. Its glory was its whitewash, which was so rich and fat and thick that every here and there it bore a crop of curious spindly mushrooms, which grew and flourished and died, leaving great black patches on the walls like hatchments to record their vegetable deaths, till about once in a generation the whitewash brush came into use again, and a new coat was laid on to moulder and grow damp, and fall in patches of a goodly thickness upon the stained stone pave.

The worst of that whitewash was that it was not white, only a dirty wash that covered the ceiling and face of the wall, great blank patches of which used to be mentally studied by the schoolboys as maps of unknown regions, for the moisture that streamed down from the roof soon marked black rivers, while dark boundary lines seemed to be traced by cracks and mould of strange continents, islands, and seas, upon which in summer-time bluebottle flies and spiders made islands or cruising barks.

In the moist autumn times the place always broke out into a cold perspiration, the wet standing in great tears upon the flat tombstones and even upon the broad slab of old blackened oak that served for Sammy Warmoth’s desk, where his books, like those above his head, were patterned on their covers with white mould-spots exhaling an odour of mushrooms not fit to eat.

The pews were of dull white deal; the sacramental table was covered with a ragged green baize in the sere and yellow leaf, and as worthy of being called green as the church whitewash was of being termed white. Taken altogether, there was a strong suggestion on entering Lawford church of going into a cellar without the sawdust, and wanting in the wine; and old Mrs Marley, lately gone to her rest, and over whom as a very ancient friend Sammy Warmoth had affectionately patted down the earth with his spade, moistening it a little with his tears to make it stick, afterwards building up her grave with a mound of the finest, most velvety turf he could cut, that he protected with brambles from the sheep – old Mrs Marley, when she was schoolmistress, always made a point in winter of taking a large stone bottle of hot water with her to the church, smuggling it regularly beneath her cloak, and pitying the four-and-twenty blue-nosed little children, whom she led, because only two could sit by her at a time and warm their hands.

Humphrey Bone, the schoolmaster, also made a point of taking a bottle to church, but his was small, and he made occasions for bending his head beneath the front of the pew and imbibing portions of its contents through a very long turkey quill.

The church had remained in statu quo during the Rector’s stay abroad, but now that he had returned, it was with ideas similar to the new broom – he meant to sweep clean. Perhaps the Rev. Eli Mallow was a little conscience-stricken for past neglect. At all events the Rector had now set himself to work on a general reform, but his absence had embittered a by no means friendly people.

“Taking that great wage out of the place year after year,” said Tomlinson, one of the townspeople, “and leaving that curate to do all the work on eighty pounds a year; I haven’t patience with him.”

Several other fellow-townsmen expressed their opinions that it was a shame, and declared that they had not patience with the parson, and the consequence was that he was so talked over, that when he came back and set about his work of reformation he was met at his very first movement by a hedge of thorns that regularly surrounded the church. Every one of these thorns was a prejudice which he had to fight.

“Church did very well for t’ owd rector, and always has done,” was the cry; “why won’t it do for he?”

“Festina lente,” said the Reverend Eli to himself; and he set to work slowly, cautiously, and well, making such advance in his undertaking that plenty of money was promised, and he saw in the future a handsome, well-warmed church, with all the surroundings for reverent worship.

“Poor old fellow!” he had said to himself as he listened to the clerk, for the old man would utter the three first words of a response in a shrill tenor, and then drop his voice, nothing, else being heard until it came to the end, when to a new-comer his peculiar “Hup-men” was almost startling in its strangeness.

“Week, week, week; wubble, wubble, wubble,” the school-children always declared he said, no matter what was the response; and then, after giving out the psalm or hymn so that no one could hear, the poor old fellow would sing in a shrill unmusical voice from behind a huge pair of tortoiseshell framed spectacles, holding his great hymn-book with both hands, and emphasising the words he sang by raising and lowering the book; turning to right and left, singing to the people below his desk, and then at the huge whitewashed beams of the ceiling, before turning three parts round to send his voice into the chancel, for the benefit of the old women from the Bede houses who sat there upon a very uncomfortable bench.

“I dare say it is very wrong,” said Lord Artingale, who had ridden over from Gatton one Sunday to welcome the Mallows back to Lincolnshire, “but much as I want to be reverent, I really don’t think I could go to your church again, Mr Mallow, without laughing in the middle of the service.”

The Rector looked grave, for poor old Warmoth was a great trouble to him, and, as may be gathered, he had consulted the churchwardens on the question of the alterations, and among other things suggested that the old clerk should be asked to resign.

The effect we have seen, and that same day Portlock, the farmer, went up and told the result of his chat with the old clerk.

“It is very provoking, Mr Portlock, very. I want the old man to go quietly – in fact, to resign,” said the Rector. “If I send him away the people will say that he is ill-used.”

“That they will, depend on’t,” replied the Churchwarden. “Our folk take a deal o’ driving.”

“Well, well; what is to be done?”

“Best let things bide as they are, sir; you wean’t do any good by trying to alter ’em.”

“Oh, but that is absurd, Mr Portlock, highly absurd. No, I regret it very much, but he must go. There, I will see him myself.”

The Rector saw the old clerk sooner than he expected, for in crossing the churchyard next day he met him going up to the church.

“Poor old fellow! ninety-three,” said the Rector to himself, as he looked curiously at the strange old figure tottering up the rough cobble-stone path.

“Good-morning, Warmoth,” he said. “Here, give me your hand.”

The old man stopped short, thumped his stick down, and peered up fiercely.

“Nay, nay, nay,” he groaned, “not so owd as all that, mester. I can do it yet. Let me bide, I’m reight yet. Yow want to get shut o’ me – to drift me off. Yow thowt wi’ your new ways that I wasn’t good enew for t’ church, but revvylootion or no revvylootion, I stick to church as my fathers did afore me. When I’m down theer, and can howd out no more, thou mun do thy worst.”

“That’s all put aside, Mr Warmoth,” said the Rector, smiling. “I do want to make improvements here, but not to that extent. I did not want to hurt your feelings. Come, shake hands.”

“Nay; I’ll not,” cried the old man, fiercely, his bearing seeming to have wonderfully altered now. “Thou want’st to get round me wi’ soft words, but I’ll howd thee off – I’ll howd thee off. There ain’t every servant of t’ owd church like me, and I’ll howd my own unto the last.”

“My good old fellow, Heaven forbid that I should be guilty of so unkind an act. You shall stop on, Warmoth, till the last, for no act of mine shall remove you from your post.”

The old man’s jaw fell, and he stepped back, slipped, and would have fallen, but for the Rector’s hands, to which the old fellow clung spasmodically, his face working, his lips twitching in his efforts to speak. But for a long time no words would come, and then but two, twice repeated, though with earnest emphasis —

“Bless thee! Bless thee!”

Then, quickly snatching his hands away, the old man turned aside, leaned his trembling arm against a tombstone which had gradually encroached upon the path, and stood with his head bent down, trying to recover his strength.

It was a strange contrast: the thin, sharply featured old man, and the handsome portly figure of the Rector, as he stood there vexed with himself at having, as he called it, been so weak as to give way at the first difficulty that he had to encounter; and he afterwards came to the conclusion that he might just as well have held out, for the people gave him the credit of killing old Warmoth so as to have his way.

“Let me help you into the church to sit down for a bit,” he said to the trembling old man.

Old Warmoth turned and laid one hand upon the Rector’s, gazing up in his face, and there was a piteous smile upon his withered lips.

“I was afraid thou’d want me to go as soon as I heard thou was coming back; and they said thou’dst get shut o’ me. But sixty year, sir! It would have killed me. I couldn’t have beared to go.”

Two Sundays later the congregation had just left the church, and Portlock was going up to the vestry, when he saw there was something wrong in the clerk’s seat.

“Why, Sammy, owd man,” he cried, “what ails – ”

He did not finish his broken sentence, but tore open the door of the clerk’s desk, the Rector coming forward to where the old man knelt in his accustomed narrow place, his hands upon his book, his head upon his breast, as he had knelt down after the sermon.

“He’s like ice,” whispered the Churchwarden, putting forth his great strength, and lifting the old man bodily out, to lay him by the stove, the Rector placing a cushion beneath his head.

The motion seemed to revive the old man for a moment, and he opened his eyes, staring strangely at the Rector, who held one hand.

Then his lips moved, and in a voice hardly above a whisper they heard him say —

“Bless – thou! – Bless – thou! – those words would – have killed me.”

There was a pause, and the Churchwarden was hastening forth to fetch help, when there arose in the now empty church a shrill “Amen.”

It was the old clerk’s last.

Part 1, Chapter IV.
At Lawford School

“Oh!” in a loud shrill voice; and then a general titter.

“Silence! who was that?”

“Please, Miss, Cissy Hudson, Miss. Please, Miss, it’s Mr Bone.”

This last delivered in a chorus of shrill voices; and Sage Portlock turned sharply from the semi-circle of children, one and all standing with their toes accurately touching a thickly-chalked line, to see a head thrust into the schoolroom, but with the edge of the door held closely against the neck, pressing it upon the jamb, so that the entire body to which the head belonged was invisible.

The head which had been thus suddenly thrust into the schoolroom was not attractive, the face being red and deeply lined with marks not made by age. The eyes were dull and watery, there was a greyish stubble of a couple of days’ growth upon the chin, and the hair that appeared above the low brow was rough, unkempt, and, if clean, did no justice to the cleansing hand.

“How tiresome!” muttered Sage Portlock, moving towards the door, which then opened, and a tall man, in a very shabby thin greatcoat which reached almost to his heels, stumped into the room.

Stumped or thumped – either word will do to express the heavy way in which Humphrey Bone, thirty years master of Lawford boys’ school, drew attention to the fact that he had one leg much shorter than the other, the difference in length being made up by a sole of some five inches’ thickness, which sole came down upon the red-brick floor like the modified blows of a pavior’s rammer.

Such a clever man! Such a good teacher! the Lawford people said. There was nothing against him but a drop of drink, and this drop of drink had kept Humphrey Bone a poor man, dislocated his hip in a fall upon a dark night, when the former doctor of the place had not discovered the exact nature of the injury till it was too late, and the drop of drink in this instance had resulted in the partaker becoming a permanent cripple.

Lawford was such a slow-moving place in those days, that it took its principal inhabitants close upon twenty years to decide that a master who very often went home helplessly intoxicated, and who had become a hopeless moral wreck, living in a state of squalor and debt, could not be a fitting person to train and set an example to the boys left in his charge. And at last, but in the face of great opposition from the old-fashioned party arrayed against the Rev. Eli Mallow and his friends – the party who reiterated the cry that Humphrey Bone was such a clever man, wrote such a copperplate-like hand, when his fingers were not palsied, and measured land so well – it was decided that Humphrey Bone should be called upon to resign at Christmas, and Luke Ross, the son of the Lawford tanner, then training at Saint Chrysostom’s College, London, should take his place.

It was only natural that Sage Portlock, as she advanced to meet Humphrey Bone, should think of the coming days after the holidays, when Mr Ross, whom she had known so well from childhood, should be master of the adjoining school, and that very unpleasant personage now present should cease to trouble her with visits that were becoming more and more distasteful and annoying.

“Mornin’! Ink!” said Mr Bone, shortly. “Ours like mud. How are you?”

“Ink, Mr Bone?” said the young mistress, ignoring the husky inquiry after her health. “Yes; one of the girls shall bring some in.”

This and the young mistress’s manner should have made Mr Humphrey Bone retire, but he stood still in the middle of the room, chuckling softly; and then, to the open-eyed delight of the whole school, drew a goose-quill from his breast, stripped off the plume from one side of the shaft, and, with a very keen knife, proceeded to cut, nick, and shape one of the pens for which he bore a great reputation, holding it out afterwards for the young mistress to see.

“That beats training, eh? Didn’t teach you to make a pen like that at Westminster, did they, eh?”

“No,” said Sage, quietly; “we always used steel pens.”

“Hah – yes?” ejaculated the old schoolmaster, with a laugh of derision. “Steel pens – steel teaching – steel brains – they’ll have steel machine teachers soon, who can draw a goose like that on a black board with a bit of chalk. Faugh!”

He pointed to one of a series of woodcuts mounted on millboard and hung against the whitewashed wall, stumped away three or four yards, and then returned.

“New ways – new theories – new machines! Wear the old ones out and chuck ’em away – eh?”

“I do not understand you, Mr Bone,” said the young mistress, longing for the interview to come to an end; but he went on, speaking angrily, and ignoring her words —

“When old Widow Marley died, I said to Mallow and the rest of ’em, ‘Knock a hole through the brick wall,’ I said; ‘make one school of it; mix ’em all up together, boys and gals. Give me another ten a year, and I’ll teach the lot;’ but they wouldn’t do it. Said they must have a trained mistress; and here you are.”

“Yes, I am here,” said Sage Portlock, rather feebly, for she had nothing else to say.

“Only the other day you were a thin strip of a girl. Deny it if you can!”

“I do not deny it, Mr Bone,” said Sage, determining to be firm, and speaking a little more boldly.

“No,” he continued, in his husky tones, “you can’t deny it. Then you leave Miss Quittenton’s school, and your people send you to town for two years to be trained; and now here you are again.”

Sage Portlock bowed, and looked longingly at the door, hoping for some interruption, but none came.

“And now – ” began the old master.

“Mary Smith, take the large ink-bottle into the boys’ school,” said the young mistress, quickly; and the girl went to the school cupboard, took out the great wicker-covered bottle, and was moving toward the door, when the old master caught her by the shoulder, and held her back.

“Stop!” he said sharply. “Take it myself. Ha! ha!”

Sage started and coloured, for the children were amused.

“Ha, ha! – Ha – ha – ha – ha – ha!”

The old man continued his hoarse cachinnation, ending by wiping his eyes on a washed-out ragged old print cotton handkerchief.

“It makes me laugh,” he said. “Young Ross – him I taught to write – evening lessons up at his father’s house. Young Luke Ross! warmed him up like a viper in my breast to turn and sting me. Ha, ha, ha! Master here!”

“For shame, Mr Bone,” exclaimed the young mistress, indignantly. “Mr Ross never sought for the engagement. It was only after Mr Mallow’s invitation that he accepted the post.”

“Mr Mallow’s invitation, eh? The Rev. Eli Mallow, eh? Better look after his sons. Nice wild sons! Nice old prophet he is. Better look after his boys.”

“And only the other day when he was down, young Mr Ross said that he was doubtful about taking the post, and thought of declining it after all.”

“Told you so, eh? Ha – ha – ha! Not he. Sweet-hearting, eh? Ha – ha – ha! Very well, when he comes, knock a hole through the wall, and make one school of it, eh? Get married. Fine thing for the school. Faugh!” Sage Portlock’s face was now scarlet, and she was about to utter some indignant remonstrance against the old man’s words, when, to her intense relief, he took the ink-bottle roughly from the girl’s hand, and stumped with it to the door.

Before he reached it, however, there was a sharp rap. It was opened, the latch rattling viciously, and a common-looking woman, whose face told its own tale that its owner had been working herself up ready for the task in hand, entered, dragging behind her a freshly-washed girl of eleven or twelve, whose face bore the marks of recent tears.

“Youkem here,” exclaimed the woman, dragging in the unwilling child, and finishing by giving her a rough shake. “Youkem here, and I’ll see as you’re reighted, Miss.”

To Sage Portlock’s great disgust, instead of the old schoolmaster passing through the open door, he carefully closed it behind the woman, set the ink-bottle down upon a form, and, taking out his knife, began to remake the pen, well attent the while to what went on.

“Now, Miss, if you please,” said the woman, “I want to know why my girl was kep’ in yesterday and punished. I told my master last night I’d come on wi’ her this morning, and see her reighted; and, if you please, I want to know what she’s done.”

“I am sorry to say, Mrs Searby – ” began the young mistress.

“Oh, you needn’t be sorry, Miss. Strite up and down’s my motto. I want to know what my ’Lizabeth’s done. There’s no getting her to school nowadays. When Mrs Marley was alive all the gals loved to come to school, but now they hates it, and all the noo-fangled ways.”

As the woman spoke, she darted a glance at the old schoolmaster, who chuckled softly, and shook his head.

“If you will allow me to speak – ” began the young mistress.

“Oh, lor’, yes, Miss, I’ll allow yer to speak. I don’t forget my position. I’m only a humble woman, I am; but I says to my master only last night, the trouble there is to get them gals to school now is orful. When Mrs Marley was alive – ”

“Your daughter, Mrs Searby – ” began the young mistress, again.

“Yes, Miss, my daughter went to Mrs Marley, she did, and there was never no trouble with the gal then. As I said to Mrs Marley, I said, all she wants is properly putting forward, that’s all she wants; for there couldn’t be a quicker gal wi’ her book; but nowadays there’s no gettin’ of her to come; and when she do come she don’t larn a bit, with the noo-fangled ways, and gettins up and sittins down, and holdin’ out their hands, and being drilled, and stood out, and kep’ in for doing nowt. I say it isn’t fair to a child, for as I said to Mrs Marley, I said, and she said to me, all my gal wanted was putting forward, for a quicker gal with her book there never was, and now there’s no getting of her to school of a morning, and never no getting her back when she does come; and the boys as goes to Mr Bone a loving their master and their books, and a getting on wonderful. And now, if you please, Miss,” said the woman, with a derisive curtsey, and so far run down that she had to keep taking up the tantalising iteration of uneducated people in a fit of temper, “I want to know, if you please, what my gal has done.”

“Your daughter was very rude, very inattentive, refused to learn the lesson I set, and incited some of the older girls to insubordination, Mrs Searby, so that I was compelled, most reluctantly, to punish her as an example.”

The old master went on carving the quill to pieces, making and remaking it, till the amount of useful pen was getting very short, chuckling the while, and evidently enjoying the sidewise compliments directed at him and his old system by the irate woman.

“My gal not behaving herself! Why, she’s as good in school as her brothers is. She’s the best o’ gals at home; and poor old Mrs Marley, who used to keep the school here, said as my gal was one of the best behaved and nicest children she ever see.”

“Then she must have altered very much in her opinion, Mrs Searby,” said a quiet, deep, rich voice; and the woman and the old schoolmaster started to see the Rector standing in the open door. “Mrs Marley consulted me several times upon the advisability of expelling your child from the school, and, for my part, I must say that she is the most tiresome girl that attends the Sunday classes.”

“My gracious, sir!” exclaimed the woman, curtseying humbly.

“Leave her a little more to Miss Portlock here, and don’t interfere,” continued the Rector. “Elizabeth Searby, you had better go to your class. Mr Bone, I have been waiting in the boys’ school to see you. Mrs Searby’s two sons are heading a sort of insurrection there, and the boys, when I went in, were pelting each other with pieces of coke from the stove.”

“Let ’em,” said Humphrey Bone, snapping his fingers in defiance, as Miss Elizabeth Searby took the opportunity of her elders’ backs being turned to put out her tongue at them, as if for medical inspection, and then sought her class, while her mother beat a hasty retreat from the Rector’s presence.

“Let ’em!” said Humphrey Bone again; “I’ve done with ’em all. I defy you all I’ve worked for this school,” he cried, raising his voice, “for thirty years, and trained boys to make good men. As for you, Rev. Eli Mallow, head of the parish as you call yourself, you haven’t.”

“Don’t be foolish, Humphrey Bone,” said the Rector, with a grave smile. “Don’t try to quarrel about the past. What I did was as my duty; and when you are calm you must know that it was inevitable. Forbearance has its limits.”

“Quarrel! Forbearance!” cried the old schoolmaster, furiously. “How have you done your duty? I’m not afraid of you; you shan’t kill me like you did old Warmoth; and I’ll speak now.”

“My duty? Not so well as I should,” said the old clergyman, sadly. “We all have our regrets, Bone, for the past.”

“Yes, for what you’ve neglected,” cried the master, furiously. “You’re not pitched out of your living in your old age; I am. I trained my boys well. How about the training of yours, Rev. Eli – old prophet? How about your boys? Say, if you can, they are not a disgrace.”

The old clergyman started as if he had been stung; his handsome, florid face turned deadly pale, but the next moment the hot flush of indignation suffused his countenance, mounting right up amongst the roots of his silver hair.

“How dare – ” he began; but he checked himself by an effort, and the colour faded slowly from his face.

“Bone,” he said, sadly, “you are angry, and in no fit state, mental and bodily, to talk about these matters. I will forget what you have just said. Now, back to your school; but before you go, let me tell you that I am not the enemy you seem to think. I have here,” he said, drawing a blue envelope from his breast, “a list of contributions, which I am getting towards a testimonial to our old schoolmaster for his long services. I hope to make it reach a handsome sum.”

Humphrey Bone’s lips were parted to speak, but these words disarmed him, and, muttering and shaking his head, he turned and left the place.

“Poor fellow!” said the Rector, calmly. “I fear that at times he hardly knows what he says.”

Sage Portlock looked at him wonderingly for a few moments, and he stood gazing at her, his countenance growing less troubled the while; and no wonder, for Sage Portlock’s was a pleasant face. She was not handsome, but, at the same time, she was far from plain; and there was something attractive about her broad forehead, with its luxuriant, smoothly-braided hair crossing each temple – for young ladies in those days had not taken to either cutting their hair short, or to wearing fringes or hirsute hysterics on their fronts. There was a pleasant regularity in her by no means classical features; her eyes were large and winning, and her well-cut mouth, if too large according to an artists ideal, curved pleasantly, and displayed on parting the whitest of teeth.

“Well, Miss Portlock,” said the Rector, smiling, “what a bad mistress you must be!”

“Indeed, sir,” she exclaimed, colouring, “I try very hard to – ”

“Of course – of course,” he said, laughing, as he walked up the schoolroom by her side. “My dear child, it is the old story.”

“But was Mrs Marley so good a mistress, sir?” asked Sage, eagerly.

“My dear Miss Portlock, she was one of the most amiable of old women; but it was quite shocking to see the state of the school. ‘Steeped in ignorance’ is about the best description I can give you of its condition. Such encounters as you have had this morning fall of necessity to the lot you have embraced, and, as you see, one of my cloth is not exempt from such troubles.”

The old man started and frowned, for just then the door was once more opened in reply to a summons, and the gentleman who had troubled Polly entered the school, took off his hat politely to the mistress, replaced it, and then, apparently feeling that he had done wrong, took it off once more.

“I heard you had come to the school,” he said, “and I thought I would follow you.”

“You might have known, Cyril, that I should not be long,” said the Rector coldly. “Good-morning, Miss Portlock,” and without another word he went to the door, pausing to hold it open while the new-comer passed out, saluting the mistress as he did so; and then Sage Portlock was left to continue her task.

Part 1, Chapter V.
One of the Boys

“Mr Mallow seemed displeased with Mr Cyril,” thought Sage Portlock, as she went on with her duties. “He must have done something to annoy his father.”

Her thoughts left the subject the next moment, as she casually glanced at the window, through which the sun was streaming, for it was one of those glorious days when the dying year seems to flicker up, as it were, into a hectic glow, and for the time being it seems as if summer has come again.

In the schoolroom there was the busy hum of some sixty girls, reading, repeating, answering questions, and keeping up that eternal whispering which it is so hard to check, and the sun’s rays as they streamed across the room made broad, bold bars full of dancing dust. Outside there was the pleasant country, and, in spite of herself, the thoughts of the young mistress strayed away a couple of miles to her home, where on such a day she knew that they would be busy gathering the late apples, those great, red-streaked fellows, which would be laid in the rack and covered with straw till Christmas. The great baking-pear tree, too, would be yielding its bushels of heavy hard fruit, and the big medlar tree down by the gate – she seemed to see it, as she thought – would be one blaze of orange and red and russet gold.

It would be delicious, she thought, to run home at once instead of being busy there; but the next moment a calm, satisfied smile came across her face, as she recalled the long tedious days she had passed the year before at Westminster, and began thinking and wondering about some one else.

“I wonder how he is getting on?” she thought; “and whether he will get one of the highest certificates. He tries so hard, I should think it is almost certain.”

There was a pause here – a busy pause, during which a change of duty was instituted in two or three classes; but Sage Portlock’s thoughts went back soon after, in spite of herself, to the progress of Luke Ross at the London training college.

As she thought her cheeks reddened slightly, and she could not help recalling the spiteful words of the old master; and, as thoughts will, hers bounded on ahead faster and faster, till in effect she did see the day when her old friend and companion would be settled at Lawford, and perhaps a closer connection than that of master and mistress of the schools have come to pass.

Meanwhile the look of displeasure upon the Rev. Eli Mallow’s countenance had grown deeper and more marked as he walked away from the school with his son, and angry words had taken place.

“Why, what nonsense, father!” exclaimed the young man. “I heard that you had just entered the schoolroom, and I followed to speak to you, that’s all; and here you turn rusty about it. Hang it all, a fellow comes home for a little peace, and the place is made miserable.”

“By you, Cyril,” retorted his father, sharply. “Home is a calm and peaceful place till you come back, and then – I grieve to say it – trouble is sure to begin.”

“Why, what have I done now?”

“Done?” said his father, bitterly, as they walked up the long town street. “Why, given up another chance in life. Here, at the expense of a thousand pounds, you are started upon this Australian expedition, to become a settler, but at the end of two years you are back home, with the money gone, and as unsettled as ever.”

“Well, we had all that over last night and the night before. You need not bring it up again. That is not why you have turned rusty,” said the young man, sulkily.

“I think I will ask you to speak respectfully to me, Cyril,” said his father, with dignity.

“Respectfully!” said Cyril, with a mocking laugh. “Why, I’m behaving wonderfully. If I had stayed out at the sheep farm for another year I should have been a perfect boor.”

“And I must request, finally, that you interfere no more in any of the parish matters.”

“Well, who has interfered, father?”

“To put it plainly, then, my boy, I insist upon your keeping away from that school.”

“And for goodness’ sake, father, why?”

“I will tell you,” said the old clergyman, with no small show of excitement. “I have been reviled this morning, and accused of being wanting in duty, especially in the management of my sons.”

“Who dared to be so insolent?” cried the young man.

“I was compared to Eli of old, my boy; and I fear only too justly.”

“Let’s see; Eli’s sons were very naughty boys, weren’t they?” said the young man, laughing.

“Silence, sir!” cried his father, flushing; “these are not matters for your idle jests. I acknowledge that, for your poor mother’s sake, I have given way, and been weak and indulgent to the boy she, poor invalid, has ever worshipped; but the time has come now for me to make a stand, ere worse befall our house.”

“Why, father, what do you mean?”

“This, my son,” cried the old clergyman, sternly. “You left home two years ago, wild and fighting against restraint. You have come back now rougher in your ways – ”

“No wonder. You should have led such a life as I have amongst sheep farmers and roughs, and you wouldn’t wonder at my ways.”

“And far less amenable to discipline.”

“Why, what do you want, father?” cried the young man, impatiently.

“Strict obedience in all things, but more especially in those where any lapse might reflect upon my conduct as the clergyman of this parish.”

“Why, of course, father – what do you suppose a fellow is going to do?”

“Do you think I’m blind, Cyril?” said his father, sternly.

“Not I, father. Why do you ask?”

“Answer me this question. Why did you follow me to the school?”

“To have a chat with you. It was precious dull at home.”

“Very. It must be,” said the old clergyman, ironically. “You have been away from home two years, and after a few days’ return, its calm and peaceful life is found dull.”

“Well, so it is; plaguy dull.”

“Your mother has been confined to her couch ever since Cynthia was born, Cyril. I have never yet heard her complain of home being dull, or repine at her lot.”

“Ah, well, I know all that! Poor mamma!” exclaimed the young man.

“And you make that pitiful excuse to me, Cyril,” cried his father: “you stoop to deceit already.”

“Who does?” cried the young man fiercely.

“You do, sir, and I tell you this shall not be. Sage Portlock is a pure, sweet-minded girl, in whom both your sisters and I take the greatest interest; and I tell you that, if not engaged, there is already a very great intimacy existing between her and Luke Ross.”

“Phew!” whistled Cyril. “What, that young prig of a fellow! I say, father, he’s turning schoolmaster, isn’t he?”

“It is settled that he shall succeed Mr Bone as soon as he has finished his training,” said Mr Mallow, quietly.

“Poor old Bone! – dry Bone, as we used to call him, because he was such a thirsty soul. And so Luke Ross is to be the new man, eh? I congratulate Lawford,” he added, with a sneer.

“You have never liked Luke Ross since he gave you so sound a thrashing,” said his father, quietly.

“He? Thrash me? Absurd, father! Pooh! the fellow is beneath my notice.”

“I think we understand each other now,” said Mr Mallow, with quiet firmness. “While you stay here, Cyril, there is to be no trifling with any one. You can share our home for the present – that is, until you obtain some engagement.”

“Oh, hang engagements!” cried the young man, impatiently. “You have plenty of money, father, both in your own right and mamma’s. Why should I be constantly driven from home to some menial work?”

“Because it is time that your spoiled life of indulgence should cease. There is nothing degrading in work; it is idleness that degrades.”

“Oh, yes; you’ve lectured me enough about that,” said the young man, rudely.

“And you may take it for granted that as soon as an opening can be made for you – ”

“Opening wanted for a pushing young man,” cried Cyril, mockingly.

“I shall ask you to leave home and try to do your duty in this busy world.”

“Thanks, father,” said the young man, roughly. “What am I to be?”

“Three years ago I felt that I was doing wrong in keeping you in idleness at home.”

“Idle? Why, I was always busy, father.”

“Yes – hunting, shooting, fishing, and the like; but you did not stop there.”

“Oh, nonsense?”

“To-day I feel certain that I should be doing a great injustice to the parish – to your mother – to your sisters – ”

“Any one else?” said the young man, mockingly.

“To you,” replied his father, sternly.

“Any one else?”

“And to Miss Portlock and Luke Ross by allowing you to stay here.”

They had reached the rectory, and the Rev. Eli Mallow, who had paused with one hand upon the oaken bar to finish his sentence, now pushed open the quaintly-made gate, held it for a moment as if for his son to follow; but as he did not, the Rector allowed it to close, and, placing his hands behind him, walked slowly up the well-kept gravel walk, too intent upon his thoughts to give heed to his favourite flowers, or to enter the conservatory, according to his custom, on his way to his own snug room, whose walls were well stored with works on botany and his favourite pursuit, gardening.

Cyril Mallow gave his long moustache a tug as he watched his father’s bent back till it disappeared amongst the choice shrubs and evergreens; then, taking out his cigar-case, he selected one from its contents, bit off the end viciously, and there was the petulance of a spoiled child in his action as he struck one of the old-fashioned flat fusees upon the rough oaken gate-post till he had torn the match to rags without obtaining a light, another and another following before he could ignite his cigar.

“Confound the place!” he exclaimed. “It’s as dull as ditch water. Pretty state of affairs, indeed! One can’t look at a soul without being jerked up short. Luke Ross, eh? I’d like to – ”

He did not say what, but he gave his teeth a grind, and, thrusting his hands deep down into his pockets, he walked on towards the fields beyond the little town.

“I declare everybody’s hard on me,” he said aloud. “Just because I’m a bit unlucky and want change. Here’s the governor rolling in riches, and might make me a handsome allowance, and yet I’m always to be driven out into the world. Hanged if it isn’t too bad.”

He leaped over a stile and strolled a little way on across a field, beyond which was a patch of woodland, all aglow with the rich tints of autumn, but Cyril Mallow saw them not, his thoughts being elsewhere.

“I won’t stand it,” he cried suddenly, as he stopped short. “A man can’t always be in leading-strings, and I’m old enough now, surely, to strike for my liberty, and – ”

His hand went involuntarily to his vest pocket, from which he drew a delicately-made lady’s gold watch, whose presence was accounted for by the fact that Cyril’s own stout gold watch had passed into the hands of a station shepherd out at a place called Bidgeewoomba, in Queensland, and Cyril’s indulgent mother had insisted upon his using hers until it was replaced.

“Beastly dull place!” he muttered, gazing at the watch. “It’s of no use to go across to the ford; ‘our master’ will be coming in to dinner. Little fool! why did she go and marry that great oaf?”

He turned the watch over and over, laughing unpleasantly.

“Pretty Polly!” he said out aloud, but ended by opening and snapping to the back of the watch.

“Five minutes to twelve,” he exclaimed, involuntarily. “The children will be coming out of school directly.”

He made a sharp movement in the direction of the town – stopped short – went on again – stopped to think of the words he had had with his father, and then, with an impatient “pish!” thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked quickly in the direction that he knew Sage Portlock would take on leaving the school, bent on the mission of causing misery and dissension between two young people just making their first start in life, and sowing the seed of certain weeds that would spring up to the overtopping of much goodly grain.

He paused again, hesitating as he neared the rectory gates, and for a moment he seemed as if he would enter.

But just then the church clock struck twelve, and the deep-toned bell, as it slowly gave forth, one by one, the tale of strokes announcing that the day had climbed to its greatest height, seemed to bring before Cyril Mallow the scene of the schoolgirls racing out, panting and eager, while Sage Portlock was putting on that natty little hat and long silk scarf she wore when going to and fro.

“Oh, what nonsense!” ejaculated Cyril. “What harm? Perhaps I shan’t see her after all.”

He strode off hastily back towards the town, for it was now five minutes past twelve, and just at this time Sage was locking the school door, and enjoying the fresh air, as she thought of Luke Ross with a pleasant little smile upon her lip, and a ruddy tint on the cheek; while just a hundred and twenty miles away Luke Ross had shouldered a spade on his way to the great garden for the hour’s manual labour prescribed by the rules of the training school; and, oddly enough, he was not thinking of the piece of earth he was about, in company with many more, to dig, but of Sage Portlock, and the pleasant days when he should be down in the country once again.

Part 1, Chapter VI.
Magisterial Functions

People had always said that the Rev. Eli Mallow was a most fortunate man, but somehow fate gave him his share of reverses. He had been born with the customary number of bones in his vertebra, wonderfully joined together after Dame Nature’s regular custom and good style of workmanship, with suitable muscle and nerve to give proper pliability. The nurse who used to wash and wipe and then powder his delicate young skin considered that he was a beautiful baby, and certainly he had grown up into a very handsome man, an ornament, with his portly form and grey head, to the county bench, to his seat on which he was warmly welcomed back by his neighbours, for however unpopular he might be in the dissent-loving town of Lawford, the Rev. Eli Mallow was a favourite in his part of the county.

The late Lord Artingale had always been one of the loudest in his praise.

“He is a man of breed, sir,” his lordship would say. “There’s blood and bone in the man. I wish we had more clergymen of his kind. There’d be less poaching in the country, I can tell you, and fewer empty bags.”

For the Rev. Eli Mallow worked by rule, that is to say, by law. Secular and ecclesiastical law were to be obeyed to the letter, and he was most exacting in carrying out what he considered to be his mission, with the result that, however well he stood in favour with his friends, his popularity did not increase.

He was not a bad man, for he was strictly moral and self-denying, fairly charitable, had prayers morning and evening, always walked to church on Sundays, kept a good table, and was proud of having the best horses in the neighbourhood. He did his duty according to his light, but that light was rather a small one, and it illumined a very narrow part of the great book of life. There were certain things which he considered duties, and his stern obedience to cut-and-dried law, rule, and regulation made him seem harsher than he really was.

During his absence from Lawford something approaching to economy had been practised, and his wife’s and his own property had been nursed; but now the family had returned there was no sign of saving, for, in addition to being a clergyman, the Rector devoted himself largely to the carrying out of what he called his rôle as a country gentleman, and at whatever cost to his pocket and general strain upon the property, this he did well as a rule. Now, for reasons of his own relating to his two daughters, he was launching out to an extent that made a second visit to the Continent a very probable matter before many years were past.

Breakfast was over at the rectory. There had been words between master and Mr Cyril, the butler said, and master had been very angry, but, as was usually the case, Mr Cyril had come off victorious; and now, as it was market-day at Lawford, the bays were at the door, champing their bits, the butler and footman were in the hall waiting, and punctual to the moment the young ladies came hurrying down the oak staircase just as the Rev. Eli received his gloves from the butler and put them on, the domestic waiting to hand him his hat. This was carefully placed upon his head, and then there was a little ceremony gone through of putting on the glossy black overcoat, as if it were some sacred garment.

The Rev. Eli did justice to his clothes, looking a thoroughly noble specimen of his class, and once ready he unbent a little and smiled at his pretty, ladylike daughters, whom he followed down to the handsome barouche, which it had always been a custom to have out on bench days, the appearance of the stylish turn-out lending no little éclat to the magisterial proceedings.

It was certainly not a mile and a half to the market-place, but though that distance might be traversed again and again upon ordinary days, this was out of the question when the magistrates were about to sit.

So the steps were rattled down, the young ladies handed in, Cyril Mallow, with a cigar in his mouth, watching the proceedings from his bedroom window. The Rev. Eli followed and took his seat with dignity; the steps were closed, the door shut, the footman mounted to the box beside the coachman, both stretched their legs out rigidly, and set their backs as straight as their master’s, and away the carriage spun, through the avenue, and out at the lodge gates, where the gardener’s wife was ready to drop a curtsey and close them afterwards, and then away through the lanes by the longest way round, so as to pass Portlock’s farm and enter Lawford by the London road.

Market-day was a busy day at Lawford, and the ostler at the King’s Head had his hands full attending to the gigs of the farmers and the carts of the clergy and gentry round.

The word “cart” seems more suggestive of the vehicle of the tradesman; but it was the custom around Lawford for the clergy to use a capacious kind of spring cart, neatly painted and padded within, but in other respects built exactly on the model of an ordinary butcher’s or grocer’s trap, save that it had a door and step behind for access to the back seats, while, below the door, painted in regular tradesman style for the evasion of tax, would be, in thin white letters, the owners name and address, as in the case of the vicar of Slowby, whose cart was lettered —

“Arthur Smith, Clerk, Slowby.”

There were several such carts in the inn yard on this particular morning, for the ladies of the clerical families generally shopped on market-days, and fetched the magazines from the bookseller’s if it was near the first of the month.

The farmers’ wives and daughters, too, put in a pretty good appearance with their egg and butter baskets, which were carried in good old style upon the woman’s arm, irrespective of the fact that she was probably wearing a velvet jacket, and had ostrich feathers in her bonnet.

Tomlinson, the draper, was answerable for the show, and he used to boast that the Rector might preach as he liked against finery; his shop-window could preach a far more powerful sermon in silence, especially with bonnets for a text.

Some of the farmers had protested a little against the love of show evinced by their wives and daughters, but in vain. The weaker vessels said that the egg and butter money was their own to spend as they pleased, and they always had something nice to show for their outlay, which was more than the husbands and fathers, who stayed at the King’s Head so long after the market ordinary, could say.

The Rev. Eli Mallow was dropped at the town-hall, where a pretty good group of people were assembled. There were the rustic policemen from the various outlying villages and a couple of Lord Artingale’s keepers in waiting ready to touch their hats. Then the ladies went off in the carriage to make a few calls before returning to pick up papa after the magistrates’ sitting was over.

The usual country town cases: Matthew Tomlin had been drunk and riotous again; James Jellicoe had been trespassing in search of rabbits; Martha Madden had assaulted Elizabeth Snowshall, and had said, so it was sifted out after a great deal of volubility, that she would “do for her” – what she would do for her not stated; a diminutive being, a stranger, who gave his name as Simpkins, had torn up his clothes at the workhouse, and now appeared, to the great delight of the spectators, in a peculiar costume much resembling a sack; another assault case arising out of the fact that Mrs Stocktle had “called” Mrs Stivvison, – spelt Stockton and Stevenson, – with the result that their lawful protectors had been dragged into the quarrel, and “Jack Stivvison had ‘leathered’ Jem Stocktle.”

Upon these urgent cases the bench of magistrates, consisting of the Rev. Eli Mallow, chairman, the Rev. Arthur Smith, Sir Joshua St. Henry, and the Revds. Thomas Hampson, James Lawrence Barton, and Onesimus Leytonsby, solemnly adjudicated.

Then came the important case of the day; two men, who gave the names of Robert Thorns and Jock Morrison, were placed at the table.

The first was a miserable, dirty-looking object, who seemed to have made a vow somewhere or another never to wash, shave, or sleep in anything but hay and straw, some of which was sticking still in his tangled hair; the other was a different breed of rough.

Rough, certainly, a spectator who had judged the two idlers would have said; but he was decidedly a country rough, and did not belong to town. His big, burly look and length of limb indicated a man of giant strength; at least six feet high, his chest was deep and broad, and in his brown, half gipsy-looking face, liberally clothed with the darkest of dark-brown beards, there shone a pair of fierce dark eyes. Scraped and sand-papered down, and clothed in brown velveteen, with cord trousers and brown leather gaiters, he would have made a gamekeeper of whose appearance any country magnate might have been proud. As it was, his appearance before the country bench of magistrates was enough to condemn him for poaching.

There was something of the keeper, too, in his appearance, for he had on a well-worn velveteen coat and low soft hat, but his big, soft hands told the tale of what he was – a ne’er-do-well, who looked upon life as a career in which no man was bound to work.

Such was Jock Morrison.

The case was plain against them, and they knew that they would have to suffer, for Jock was pretty well known for these affairs. Upon former occasions his brother Tom, the wheelwright, had paid guineas to Mr Ridley, the Lawford attorney, to defend him, but there were bounds to brotherly help.

“I can’t do it for ever,” Tom Morrison had said to his young wife. “I’ve give Jock every chance I could; now he must take care of himself.”

Big Jock Morrison looked perfectly able to do that, as he now stood with his hands in his pockets, staring about him in a cool defiant way. It seemed that he had been warned off Lord Artingale’s ground several times, but had been too cunning for the keepers, and had only been taken red-handed the previous day, very early in the morning, so evidence showed; and he and his companion had upon them a hare, a rabbit, and a couple of pheasants, beside some wire snares and a little rusty single-barrelled gun, whose barrel unscrewed into two pieces, and which, so the head-keeper deposed, was detached from the stock and stowed away in the inner pocket of the big prisoner’s coat.

Gun, powder-flask, tin measure, and bag of shot, with game, placed upon the table.

“And what did the prisoners say when you came upon them by – where did you say, keeper?” said one magistrate.

“Runby Spinney, Sir Joshua, just where the Greenhurst lane crosses the long coppice, Sir Joshua.”

“And what did the prisoners say?” said the chairman stiffly.

“Said they was blackberrying, Sir.”

“Oh!” said the chairman, and he appeared so stern that no one dared laugh, though a young rustic-looking policeman at whom Jock Morrison winked turned red in the face with his efforts to prevent an explosion.

“Did they make any – er – er – resistance, keeper?” said the chairman.

“The big prisoner, sir, said he’d smash my head if I interfered with him.”

“Dear me! A very desperate character,” said Sir Joshua. “And did he?”

“No, Sir Joshua, we was too many for him. There was me, Smith, Duggan, and the two pleecemen, so they give in.”

And so on, and so on.

Had the prisoners anything to say in their defence?

The dirty man had not, Jock Morrison had. “Lookye here: he didn’t take the game, shouldn’t ha’ taken it, only they foun’ ’em all lying aside the road. It was a fakement o’ the keeper’s, that’s what it was. They was a pickin’ blackberries, that’s what him and his mate was a doin’ of, and as soon as the ’ops was ready they was a going down south to pick ’ops.”

The magistrates’ clerk, the principal solicitor in the town, smiled, and said he was afraid they would miss the hop-picking that season, as it was over.

There was a short conference on the bench, and then the Rev. Eli Mallow sentenced the prisoners to three months’ imprisonment, and told them it was very fortunate for them that they had not resisted the law.

“You arn’t going to quod us for three months along o’ them birds and that hare, are you?” said Jock Morrison.

“Take them away, policeman.”

“Hold hard a moment,” said the big fellow, so fiercely that the sergeant present drew back. “Look here, parsons, you’ll spoil our hop-picking.”

“Take them away, constable,” said the Rev. Eli. “The next case.”

“Hold hard, d’ye hear!” cried the big ruffian, in a voice of thunder. “I s’pose, parson,” he continued, addressing the chairman, “if I say much to you, I shall get it laid on thicker.”

“My good fellow,” said the Rev. Eli, “you have been most leniently dealt with. I am sorry for you on account of your brother, a most respectable man, who has always set you an admirable example, and – ”

“I say,” exclaimed Jock, “this arn’t chutch, is it?”

There was a titter here, but the chairman continued: —

“I will say no more, as you seem in so hardened a frame of mind, only that if you are violent you may be committed for trial.”

“All right,” said the great fellow, between his gritting teeth; “I don’t say no more, only – all right: come along, matey; we can do the three months easy.”

There was a bit of a bustle, and the prisoners were taken off. The rest of the cases were despatched. The carriage called for the chairman, and on the way back it passed the police cart, with the sergeant giving the two poaching prisoners a ride, but each man had his ankle chained to a big ring in the bottom of the vehicle, where they sat face to face, and the sergeant and his man were driving the blackberry pickers to the county gaol.

“What a dreadful-looking man!” said Julia, as in passing Jock Morrison ironically touched his soft felt hat.

“Yes, my dear – poachers,” said the Rev. Eli calmly, as one who felt that he had done his duty to society, and never for a moment dreaming that he had been stirring Fate to play him another bitter turn.

Part 1, Chapter VII.
Polly’s Surprise

There was a dark shadow over Polly Morrison’s mind, and she started and shivered at every step when her husband was away at work, but only to brighten up when the great sturdy fellow came in, smelling of wood, and ready to crush her in his arms with one of his bear-like hugs.

Polly had been furtively gazing from the window several times on the afternoon of that market-day, and turned hot and cold as she had heard steps which might be those of some one coming there; but the cloud passed away in the sunshine of Tom Morrison’s happy smile, now that he had come in, and she felt, as she expressed it, “oh! so safe.”

“There, let me go, do, Tom,” she cried, merrily. “Oh, what a great strong, rough fellow you are!”

“No, no; stop a minute,” he said here. “I oughtn’t to be smiling, for I’ve just heard something, Polly.”

“Heard something, Tom!” she faltered, and she turned white with dread, and shrank away.

“Here, I say,” he cried, “you must get up your strength, lass. Why, what a shivering little thing thou art!”

“You – you frightened me, Tom,” she gasped.

“Frightened you? There, there, it’s nothing to frighten thee. I have just heard about Jock.”

“Oh! about Jock,” cried Polly, drawing a breath full of relief. “I hope he has got off.”

“Well, no, my lass, he hasn’t, and I’m sorry and I’m not sorry, if thou canst understand that. I’m sorry Jock is to be punished, and I’m not sorry if it will do him good. Arn’t you ashamed of having a husband with such a bad brother?”

“Ashamed! Oh, Tom!” she cried, throwing her arms about his neck.

“Well, if you are not, I am,” said Tom, sadly; “and I can’t help thinking that if old Humphrey Bone had done his duty better by us, Jock would have turned out a different man.”

“But tell me, Tom, are they going to do anything dreadful to him?”

“Three months on bread and water, my lass,” said Tom Morrison, – “bread of repentance and water of repentance; and I hope they’ll do him good, but I’m afraid when he comes out he’ll be after the hares and pheasants again, and I’m always in a fret lest he should get into a fight with the keepers. But there, my lass, I can’t help it. I’d give him a share of the business if he’d take to it, but he wean’t. I shan’t fret, and if people like to look down on me about it, they may.”

“But they don’t, Tom, dear,” cried Polly, with her face all in dimples, the great trouble of her life forgotten for the time. “I’ve got such a surprise for you.”

“Surprise for me, lass? What is it? A custard for tea?”

“No, no; what a boy you are to eat!” cried Polly, merrily.

“Just you come and smell sawdust all day, and see if you don’t eat,” cried Tom. “Here, what is it?”

“Oh, you must wait. There, what a shame! and you haven’t kissed baby.”

She ran out to fetch the baby and hold it up to him to be kissed, while she looked at him with all a young mother’s pride in the little one, of which the great sturdy fellow had grown so fond.

“It makes me so happy, Tom,” she said, with the tears in her eyes.

“Happy, does it, lass?”

“Oh, yes. So – so happy,” she cried, nestling to him with her baby in her arms, and sighing with her sense of safety and content, as the strong muscles held her to the broad breast. “I was afraid, Tom, that you might not care for it – that you would think it a trouble, and – and – ”

“That you were a silly little wife, and full of foolish fancies,” he cried, kissing her tenderly.

“Yes, yes, Tom, I was,” she cried, smiling up at him through her tears. “But come – your tea. Here, Budge.”

Budge had been a baby herself once – a workhouse baby – and she looked it still, at fourteen. Not a thin starveling, but a sturdy workhouse baby, who had thriven and grown strong on simple oatmeal fare. Budge was stout and rosy, and daily putting on flesh at Tom Morrison’s cottage, where her duty was to “help missus, and nuss the bairn.”

But nearly always in Polly’s sight; for the first baby was too sacred a treasure in that cottage home to be trusted to any hands for long.

She was a good girl, though, was Budge; her two faults prominent being that when she cried she howled – terribly, and that “the way” – to use Tom Morrison’s words – “she punished a quartern loaf was a sight to see.”

Budge, fat, red-faced, and round-eyed, with her hair cut square at the ends so that it wouldn’t stay tucked behind her ears, but kept coming down over her eyes, came running to take baby, and was soon planted on a three-legged stool on the clean, red-tiled floor, where she began shaking her head – and hair – over the baby, like a dark-brown mop, making the little eyes stare up at it wonderingly; and now and then a faint, rippling smile played round the lips, and brightened the eyes, to Budge’s great delight.

For just then Budge was hard pressed. Workhouse matron teaching had taught her that when she went out to service it would be rude to stare at people when they were eating; and now there was the pouring out of tea, and spreading of butter, and cutting of bread and bacon going on in a way that was perfectly maddening to a hungry young stomach, especially if that stomach happened to be large, and its owner growing.

Budge’s stomach was large, and Budge was growing, so she was hard pressed: and do what she would, she could not keep her eyes on the baby, for, by a kind of attraction, they would wander to the tea-table, and that loaf upon which Tom Morrison was spreading a thick coating of yellow butter, prior to hacking off a slice.

Poor Budge’s eyes dilated with wonder and joy as, when the slice was cut off, nearly two inches thick, Tom stuck his knife into it, and held the mass out to her, with —

“Here, lass, you look hungry. Tuck that away.”

Budge would have made a bob, but doing so would have thrown the baby on the floor; so she contented herself with saying “Thanky, sir,” and proceeded to make semicircles round the edge of the slice, and to drop crumbs on the baby’s face.

“Well, lass,” said Tom, as Polly handed him his great cup of tea, “about the christening? When’s it to be?”

“On Sunday, Tom, and that’s what I wanted to tell you – it’s my surprise.”

“What’s a surprise?”

“Why, about the godmothers, dear. Why, I declare,” she pouted, “you don’t seem to mind a bit.”

“Oh, but I do,” he said, “only I’m so hungry. Well, what about the godmothers?”

“Why, Miss Julia and Miss Cynthia have promised to stand. Isn’t it grand?”

“Grand? Oh, I don’t know.”

“Tom!”

“Well, I suppose it is grand, but I don’t know. It’s all right if they like it. But about poor Jock?”

“Oh, that won’t make any difference, dear. They’ve promised, and I know they won’t go back. They’ll be the two godmothers, and you the godfather.”

“Of course,” cried Tom, eating away; “two godmothers and a godfather, eh, lass? that’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Tom,” said the little woman, eagerly attending to her husband’s wants, “and two godfathers and a godmother if it’s a boy.”

“It’ll be a grand christening, won’t it, Polly?” said Tom.

“Oh, no, dear. Miss Julia and Miss Cynthia are the dearest and best of girls, and they have no pride. Miss Julia talked to me the other day just like a friend.”

“I say,” cried Tom, eagerly.

“What, dear?”

“Why not do the thing in style while we’re about it. What do you say to asking young Mr Cyril to be godfather?”

If Tom Morrison had looked up then he would have been startled at the livid look in his young wife’s face, but he was too intent upon his tea, and Polly recovered herself and said —

“Oh, no, dear, that would not do, and the young ladies would not like it. Look here, Tom.”

Polly tripped to a basket, from which she produced a white cloak and hood, trimmed with swan’s-down; and these she held up before her husband, flushed and excited, as, in her girlish way, she wondered whether he would like them.

Budge left off eating, and wished for a white dress on the spot, trimmed with silk braid, like that.

“Say,” said Tom, thickly, speaking with his mouth fall, “they’re fine, arn’t they? – cost a lot o’ money.”

“No,” said Polly, gleefully, “they cost nothing, Tom. Miss Julia made me a present of the stuff, and I made them.”

“Did you, though?” he said, looking at her little fingers, admiringly. “You’re a clever girl, Polly; but I often wonder how it was you came to take up with a rough chap like me.”

Polly looked up in his steady, honest eyes, and rested one hand upon his, and gazed lovingly at him, as he went on —

“My old woman said it was because I’d got a cottage, and an acre of land of my own.”

“Did she say so, Tom?”

“Yes,” he said, taking her hand, patting it, and gazing up in the pretty rustic face he called his own; “but I told her you were a silly little girl, who would have me if I’d got a cottage and an acre less than nothing to call my own.”

“And you told the truth, Tom, dear,” she whispered. “Tom, you make me so happy in believing in me like this.”

“Tut, tut, my girl. I’m not clever; but I knew you.”

“And married me without anything, only enough to buy my wedding dress and a little furniture.”

“D’yer call that nothing?” said the hearty, Saxon-faced young fellow, pointing to the baby; “because I don’t. And I say, Polly, dear,” he whispered, archly, “perhaps that’s only the thin end of the wedge.”

“Hush, Tom, for shame!” she said, trying to frown, and pointing to Budge; while he took a tremendous bite of bread and bacon, and chuckled hugely at his joke.

“The old lady used to have it that you were too fine for me, Polly, and would have been setting your cap at one of the young gentlemen at the rectory when you was abroad with them.”

“Tom!” she panted, as his words seemed to stab her, and she ran out of the room.

“Why, Polly, Polly,” he cried, following her and holding her to his breast, “what a touchy little thing thou art since baby came! Why, as if I didn’t know that ever since you were so high you were my little sweetheart, and liked great rough me better than the finest gentleman as ever walked. There, there, there! I was a great lout to talk like that to thee. Come, wipe thy eyes.”

“I can’t bear it, Tom, if you talk like that,” she sobbed, smiling at him through her tears. “There, it’s all over now.”

There was a little cold shiver at Polly Morrison’s breast, though, all the same, and it kept returning as she sat there over her work that evening, rocking the cradle with one foot, and wondering whether she could gain strength enough to tell her husband all about Cyril Mallow, and the old days at Dinan.

But no, she could not, and they discussed, as Tom smoked his pipe, the state of affairs at the rectory; how Mrs Mallow remained as great an invalid as ever, and how they seemed to spare no expense, although people had said they went abroad because they had grown so poor.

“Folk seem strange and sore against parson,” said Tom at last.

“Then it’s very cruel of them, for master is a real good man,” cried Polly.

“They don’t like it about owd Sammy Warmoth. They say he killed him,” said Tom, between the puffs of his pipe.

“Such nonsense!” cried Polly; “and him ninety-three.”

“Then they are taking sides against him for wanting to get rid of Humphrey Bone.”

“And more shame for them,” cried Polly, indignantly.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Tom; “I’ve rather a liking for old Humphrey. He taught me.”

“He’s a nasty wicked old man,” cried Polly. “He tried to kiss me one day when he was tipsy.”

“He did?” cried Tom, breaking his pipe in the angry rush that seemed to come over him.

“Yes, Tom, and I boxed his ears,” said the little woman, shivering again, for the fit of jealous anger did not escape her searching eyes.

“That’s right, lass. I’m dead on for a new master now.”

Then a discussion arose as to the baby’s name, Tom wanting it to be called after his wife, who was set upon Julia, and she carried the day.

“There,” said Tom, “if anybody had told me a couple of years ago that any bit of a thing of a girl was going to wheedle me, and twist me round her finger, and do what she liked with me, I should have told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“And you don’t mind, Tom, dear?”

“No,” he said, smiling, “I don’t mind, if it pleases thee, my lass.”

“And it does, dear, very, very much,” she said, kissing him.

But Polly Morrison did not feel happy, and several times that night there was the little shiver of dread at her heart, and she wished she could tell Tom all.

Part 1, Chapter VIII.
The Black Shadow

It was, as Julia Mallow said, a very pretty baby, that of Polly Morrison and her husband, when she spoke to her invalid mother, lying so patiently passive upon the couch in her own room; but that weak little morsel of humanity had a part to play in the troubles of the Rev. Eli Mallow’s life. For hardly had the tiny babe sent to the care of Tom Morrison and his young wife begun to smile upon them, than it was taken suddenly ill.

No childish ailment this, brought on by careless attendance; but the cold grey hand of death was laid upon the fragile form, its little eyes – erst so bright and blue – sunken, and the tiny nose pinched and blue.

Julia and Cynthia Mallow had been in to see her, and found the little woman prostrate with grief, and then hurried to the town for medical advice, though that of fifty doctors would have been in vain.

“Pray, pray, Tom, go and ask Budge not to cry,” sobbed Polly, as her husband knelt at her side; for ever and again, from below, came a long, dismal cry, that almost resembled the howl of a dog in a state of suffering.

Tom Morrison rose in a heavy, dull way, and slowly descended the stairs, returning in a minute to resume his place beside his wife, turning his eyes to hers, as they looked up to him in mute agony.

They could not speak, but they read each other’s hearts, and knew full well that nothing could be done; that the tiny life that had been given to them to have in charge was passing fast away – so fast, and yet so gently that neither knew it had gone till, alarmed by the slow dilation of the little eyes, and their fixed and determinate look, Polly bent over the waxen form in eager fear, caught it tightly to her breast, and then sank back in her chair, crying —

“Tom, Tom, God has taken it away!” An hour later, husband and wife were sitting hand in hand by the little couch on which their darling lay, so still and cold, its tiny face seeming restful, free from pain, and almost wearing a smile, while on either hand, and covering its breast, were the best of the simple, homely flowers the garden could produce.

There was a heavy, blank look upon the parents’ faces; for even then they could not realise their loss. It was so sudden, seemed so strange; and from time to time Polly got softly up, to lean down and hold her cheek close to the little parted lips, to make sure that the infant did not breathe; but there was no sign, and when she pressed her lips to the white forehead, it was to find it cold as ice.

Budge had been silent for some time, going about the house on tiptoe, and, like those above, too stunned to work; but her homely mind was busy for a way to show her sympathy, and this she did by making and taking up on the little tray two steaming cups of tea, each flanked by a goodly slice.

Poor Budge! she had not calculated her strength aright; for on softly entering the room, and setting down the tray, she turned her head, and saw the simple flower-strewn bier, gave a long, loving look, and then, sinking on her knees, with her hands to her eyes, burst forth into a wild and passionate wail.

It was even ludicrous, but it touched the hearts of those who heard; for with it came the passionate yearning of the desolate child for the love and sympathy it had never known, but for which its young heart had hungered so long. It told of nights of misery, and a desire for a something it felt it ought to possess but had never had, as now, raising her hands, she wailed forth her prayer —

“Oh, please, God, let me die instead, let me die instead.”

As she finished, there was another wild burst of hysterical sobbing, and Polly had flung herself in the child’s arms, clinging to her, kissing her passionately, as she cried —

“Oh, Budge, my poor girl! Oh, Budge, you’ll break my heart!”

Tom Morrison could bear no more, but stumbled heavily from the room, down-stairs, and out into his garden, where daybreak found him sitting, with his face buried in his hands, on the bit of rustic seat beneath the old weeping willow that grew in the corner, with its roots washed by the river that formed one of the boundaries of the little freehold.

The sun was rising gloriously, and the east was one sheet of gold and orange damask, shot with sapphire, as the sturdy workman rose.

“I must be a man over it – a man,” he faltered, “for her sake.” And he slowly strode into the house, and up-stairs, to find his wife kneeling where he had left her, wakeful and watching, with poor Budge fast asleep, with her head upon Polly’s lap, and her two roughened hands holding one of those of her mistress beneath her cheek.

The wheelwright walked up to the sleeping babe, and kissed it; then, gently taking Budge’s head, he placed it upon a pillow from the bed; while, lastly, he raised poor Polly as though she had been a child, kissed her cold lips, and laid her down, covering her with the clothes, and holding one of her hands, as he bade her sleep; and she obeyed, that is to say, she closed her heavy eyes.

In the course of the morning, stern, crotchety old Vinnicombe, the Lawford doctor, sought out the stricken father, finding that he had not been to his workshop, but was down his garden, where, after a few preliminaries, he broke his news.

“What?” he said, starting. “There, sir, I’m dazed like now; please, say it again.”

“I’m very sorry, Morrison – very,” said the doctor, “for I respect you greatly, and it must be a great grief to your poor little wife; but I have seen him myself, as I did about Warner’s child, and he is very much cut up about it; but as to moving him, he is like iron.”

“I can’t quite understand it, sir,” said Tom, flushing. “Do you mean to say, sir, that parson won’t bury the child?”

“Well, it is like this, Morrison,” said the doctor, quietly, “he is a rigid disciplinarian – a man of High Church views, and he says it is impossible for him to read the Burial Service over a child that was not a Christian.”

“That was not a Christian?” said Tom slowly.

“He says he condoles with you, and is very sorry; that the poor little thing can be buried in the unconsecrated part of the churchyard; but he can grant no more.”

“Doctor,” cried the wheelwright, fiercely, “I don’t be – There, sir, I beg your pardon,” he continued, holding out his rough hand; “but it seems too hard to believe that any one could speak like this. The poor little thing couldn’t help it, sir; and we should have had it done next Sunday. Why, sir, the poor girl was only showing me the little – don’t take notice o’ me, sir, please; I’m like a great girl now.”

As he spoke, he sank down upon an upturned box, and, covering his face with his hands, remained silent; but with his heaving shoulders telling the story of his bitter emotion.

“Be a man, Morrison – be a man,” said the doctor, kindly, as he laid his hand upon the stricken fellow’s shoulder.

“Yes, doctor,” he said, rising and dashing away the signs of his grief – “this is very childish, sir; but it’s a bit upset me, and now this news you bring me seems to make it worse. I’ll go up and see parson. He won’t refuse when he knows all.”

“Yes, go up and see him,” said the doctor, kindly. “Can I do anything for you?”

“No, sir, thanky,” said the wheelwright, meekly; “you couldn’t do what I wanted, sir – save that poor little thing’s life. There’s nothing more.”

“No,” said the doctor; “our profession is powerless in such a case. The child was so young and tender that – ”

“Don’t say any more, sir, please,” said Morrison, with his lip quivering. And then he turned away from the house, so as to avoid Biggins the carpenter, who had just come in at the garden gate, and walked on tiptoe along the gravel walk, up to the door, where he was met by a neighbour, who led him up-stairs.

Biggins, the Lawford carpenter, was the newly-appointed sexton of the church, and between him and Tom Morrison there was supposed to exist a bitter hatred, because Biggins the carpenter had once undertaken to make a wheelbarrow for the rectory garden, and Morrison had made a coffin for one of the Searby children who died of a fit of measles.

The feud seemed to be a bitter one, for when he came out of the cottage five minutes later, he turned down the garden, seeing which, the doctor shook hands with Morrison, and at parting said —

“Let me give you something to do you good, Tom.”

“What, sir, doctor’s stuff?” said the wheelwright, with a look of wonder. “I want no physic.”

“Yes, you do,” said the doctor, smiling, as he laid the silver knob of his stick on the stout fellow’s breast – “yes, you do. I can minister to a mind diseased as well as to a body. Look here, my lad, you must bear your suffering like a man; so, now go and do this – ”

Tom made an impatient movement to go, but the doctor stayed him.

“There is nothing like work at such a time as this,” he said. “Go and see the parson, and then set to and work harder than ever you worked before in your life. It will give you ease.”

“You’re right, Mr Vinnicombe, you’re right,” said Tom, bluntly. “Thanky, sir – thanky. Good-bye.”

As the doctor walked out of the gate, Biggins the carpenter, a hard-faced man, who emitted a strong odour of glue from his garments, walked up, tucking a piece of sandpaper upon which he had been writing, and his square carpenter’s pencil, that he had pointed with four chops of his chisel before starting, into one of his pockets.

“Thy savoy cabbages look well, neighbour,” he said quietly, as being the most sympathetic thing he could think of at the moment. Then he held out his hand, shook the other’s warmly, without a word, and then stood by him, breathing heavily, and looking down at the ground.

Five minutes passed like this, without a word on either side, Morrison manifesting no impatience, and Biggins showing no disposition to go; for it was his way of showing sympathy to a friend in distress, and Morrison felt it so to be, and thanked him in his heart.

At last the carpenter, who was used to funerals, and who was now next door to being clerk, heaved a heavy sigh, stooped down, picked a strand from the grass plot, and held it at arm’s length, looking at it fixedly for a minute or so, before saying, huskily —

“All flesh is grass, Tom Morrison – flowers of the field – cut down – withered. Amen.”

He said it in a slow, measured way, and with a nasal twang, the last word closing his disconnected speech after quite an interval; and then the two men stood together for some minutes in silence.

At last Biggins spoke again, but without raising his eyes, looking down at the garden path, as if for a place to plant the bent he had broken from its roots.

“Poor wife! She’s terribly cut up, Tom.”

There was another interval of silence, and then Biggins said, as if to himself, and still gazing at the path —

“White cloth, and silver breastplate and nails?”

There was another pause, and then Tom said in a weary, dull way —

“As if it was one of your own, my lad – as if it was one of your own.”

“Good-bye, Tom Morrison – good-bye, lad,” said Biggins, holding out his hand once more, but with his back half turned to his neighbour “Good-bye,” said Tom, squeezing the honest, hard fist held out to him in a manly grip; and, with a sigh, Biggins was turning off, when a word from the wheelwright arrested him. “Come down here, lad, away from the house,” said Tom, huskily.

Biggins looked up now, his heavy face lighting up. Tom Morrison wanted him to do something for him. He could do that, if he could not show sympathy.

They walked down the neatly-kept garden, till they stood under the willow tree, where, after a few minutes’ silence, Tom Morrison said huskily —

“They’ve made you saxon now, haven’t they, Joe?”

“Yes, and ought to be clerk as well, but it don’t seem like being saxon in these newfangled days, when the ground’s cut from under a man, and there’s no chance of putting in a simple, honest amen anywhere. Ah, I don’t know what poor, dear old parson would have said to see the change. He’d think we’d all gone over to Popery.”

Tom waited till his friend, now suddenly grown voluble, had ceased.

“Joe Biggins,” he said, “didst ever know old parson – God bless him! – to refuse to bury any one out of the place because – because they wasn’t baptised?”

“Never,” said Biggins – “never,” energetically.

“He never had such a case, p’raps,” said Tom.

“Oh, but he did,” said Biggins – “even in my time. Why, there was poor Lizzy Baker’s child. You knew Sam Baker?”

Tom nodded.

“Well, when their little one died it hadn’t been christened, I know. I remember father talking about it while he made the coffin, and I recollect it so well because it was the first coffin I ever put the nails in all by myself. Let’s see, that’s a good fifteen year ago now, Tom, that it be.”

“And he buried it?”

“To be sure he did. Why, I remember as well as if it had been yesterday. He says to my father, he says, ‘I never like to be too partic’lar about these baptismal matters. It’s not ’cording to church law, but I couldn’t put such a sorrow on the poor father and mother as to refuse the service, and I hope I’m right.’”

“He said so?” whispered the wheelwright, half turning away his face.

“I can’t as a man, Tom, sweer to the zact words,” said the carpenter, earnestly; “but I’ll sweer as they meant all that, long ago as it is.”

“God bless him!” muttered Tom, with his lower lip working.

“Old parson wasn’t particular about those sort o’ things. Don’t you remember about poor old Dick Granger? To be sure – yes – we were boys then, and went to Humphrey Bone. Ay, and what a rage he do wax in again parson now, toe be sewer. I recklect father talking about it. You remember, sewerly, old Granger went off his head, and drowned himself in Cook’s mill dam, and the jury said it was felo de se; and Johnson up at the Red Cow was foreman, and wanted him to be buried at the cross roads, with a stake druv through his heart. Why, it’s all come back now. I recklect it all; how old parson went to the poor old widow, and talked to her; and there was a big funeral. Everybody went to see poor old Granger buried in the churchyard; and he was buried all regular, and parson preached the next Sunday about brotherly love and Christian charity. Why, Tom, you and I was about seventeen then. How time do go!”

“Yes – I remember,” said the wheelwright, bowing his head.

“Ah,” said Biggins, “those were the days, Tom; even if one did get to know some of poor old parson’s sarmons. We sang the old psalms and hymns then, and Miss Jane used to practise twice a week with us boys at the little organ that old Davy, Franklin’s gardener, used to turn the handle on. There was no choral sarvice then, and white gowns for the children. Ah, a clerk’s place was worth having then. It wasn’t many on ’em as could roll out Amen like poor old Sammy Warmoth.”

“Joe Biggins,” said the wheelwright, checking the flood of recollections – “doctor says Rev. Mallow won’t – won’t – ”

“Won’t bury the little one?” Tom’s voice failed him, and he nodded shortly.

“Phew!”

Biggins gave a low, sibilant whistle. Then, flushing up, he exclaimed —

“Damn him! No – I don’t mean that. Lord forgive me for speaking so of a parson. But, I say, Tom – oh, no, he can’t mean it, lad. Tell you what, he’s a queer one, and as proud as a peacock, and his boys arn’t what they should be. You needn’t tell him what I say, for I don’t want to offend nobody, that’s my motter through life; but parson’s a parson, and he’s bound to practise what he preaches. You go and see him.”

“I mean to.”

“Shall I go with thee, lad?”

“No. I’ll go alone.”

“P’raps you’d better, lad. If he makes any bones about it, ask him as a favour – don’t be hot with him, Tom, but a bit humble. I know thee don’t like to ask favours of any man; but do’t for her sake, Tom – indoors.”

Biggins pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and the wheelwright nodded.

“When is the best time to see him?” said Tom, after a few moments’ silence.

“Well, it’s no good to go till ’bout two o’clock, after his lunch. He won’t see me, even on parish matters, in the morning.”

The wheelwright nodded, and, without another word, Biggins went away, passing the cottage, with its drawn-down blinds, on tiptoe, and shaking his fist at a boy who was whistling as he went along the road.

Part 1, Chapter IX.
Orthodox to a Degree

The Rev. Lawrence Paulby looked rather aghast at the changes Mr Mallow was effecting in the church, and sighed as he thought of the heart-burnings that were ever on the increase; but he said nothing, only went on with his daily routine of work, and did his best, to use his own words, “for everybody’s sake.”

Joe Biggins, as we have learned, had succeeded old Sammy Warmoth as far as a successor was wanted, and he now, in a most sheepish manner, looking appealingly at the Curate, wandered about the church as a verger, in a long black gown, and carrying a white wand, to his very great disgust and the amusement of the schoolboys, several of whom had tested its quality. The little old organ had been brought down from the loft where the singers used to sit, and placed in the chancel, where there was no room for it, so a kind of arched cupboard had been built expressly to contain it; and where the Rector’s and churchwardens’ families used to sit, close up by the communion rails, was now occupied by the surpliced choir, who weekly attempted a very bad imitation of a cathedral service. They chanted all the psalms to the Gregorian tones, item, the responses and the amens; and beginning always very flat, they gradually grew worse and worse, till, towards the close of the service, they would be singing a long way on towards a semitone beneath the organ, which always gave a toot to pitch the key for the Rector or Curate to start in intoning his part.

The very first Sunday that this was tried, Mr Lawrence Paulby broke out into a vexatious perspiration that made his head shine; for in spite of all his practice at the schoolroom, no matter how he tried to draw their attention to the coming task, dwelling as he did upon such words at the end of a prayer as “Be with us all – ever – m – o – r – e,” the chanted “Amen,” delivered out of tune by the inattentive young surpliced choir, aided and abetted by the schoolmaster Bone’s bass, was something so shocking that, if it had been anything but a sacred service, it might have been called a burlesque.

It did not matter whether he was himself intoning, or listening to Mr Mallow’s rich deep voice, the Curate always sat in agony lest any one should laugh, a horror that he could not contemplate without a shudder, and he wished in his heart that the Rector would take it into his head to go again.

Parish business took the Curate over to the rectory on the morning succeeding the death of Tom Morrison’s little one. He had been up to town, and returned only late the past night, the result being that he had not heard of the wheelwright’s trouble, or he would at once have called.

He was a very nervous man, and the probabilities were that had he known what was about to happen, he would have stayed away. He had expected to be asked to stay lunch, and he had stayed. Then conversation had ensued on the forthcoming visitation of the bishop of the diocese. Cyril Mallow had made two or three remarks evidently intended to “chaff the Curate,” as he would have termed it, and to provoke a laugh from his sisters; but in neither case was he successful, and as soon as lunch was over, the Rector rose and led the way to his study, where he waved his hand towards a chair.

The Curate had hardly taken his seat, feeling rather oppressed at his principal’s grand surroundings as contrasted with his own modest apartments at the old rectory, when the butler entered softly to announce that the wheelwright wished to see him.

The Curate rose to leave.

“No, no, sit still,” said the Rector. “That will do, Edwards; I will ring,” and the butler retired.

“I am glad you are here, Paulby; I was going to speak upon this business. You have heard of it, I suppose?”

“Heard? Of what?” said the Curate.

“Morrison’s child is dead,” said the Rector.

“The baby! God bless me!” ejaculated the Curate. “I beg your pardon, Mr Mallow,” he continued, blushing like a girl. “It was so shocking. I was so surprised.”

The Rector bowed gravely, and went and stood with his back to the fireplace, and rang.

“You can show Mr Morrison in, Edwards,” said the Rector, and poor Tom Morrison was ushered in a few moments later, to stand bowing as the door was closed; but in no servile way, for the sturdy British yeoman was stamped in his careworn face, and he was one of the old stock of which England has always felt so proud.

The Rector bowed coldly, and pointed to a seat – standing, however, himself behind his writing-table.

“Ah, Morrison,” exclaimed the Curate, after an apologetic glance at the Rector, “I cannot tell you how I am shocked at this news. I did not know of it this morning, or I would have come down.”

He held out his hand to the visitor as he spoke, an act Mr Mallow forgot, and it was gratefully pressed.

Then feeling that he was not at home, Mr Paulby coughed, and resumed his seat.

“I’ve come, sir,” said the wheelwright, “about a little business.”

He hesitated, and glanced at Mr Paulby as if he did not wish to speak before him.

“I think, sir,” said the Curate, respectfully, “Mr Morrison wishes to speak to you in private.”

“I believe it is on a church question,” said the Rector, sternly. “Mr Morrison, you need not be afraid to speak before him.”

“I’m not, sir, on my account,” said the wheelwright, bluntly. “I was thinking of you, sir.”

“What you have to say can be said before Mr Paulby. It would be affectation on my part not to own that I know the object of your visit.”

“Well, sir, then, to be plain,” said Tom, clearing his throat, but speaking very humbly, “I thought I should like to know, sir, whether what I heard from doctor was true.”

“First let me say, Mr Morrison, that I heard with deep sorrow of the affliction that has befallen you. I am very, very sorry – ”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Tom, with his under lip working.

“I say I am sorry that the chastening hand of the Lord has been laid upon you so heavily. But you must remember that it is not for us to question these chastisements. Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth. I hope your wife seeks for consolation in prayer.”

“Yes, sir, I know all that – thank you, sir – yes, sir – poor lass! – yes,” he said, or rather murmured, with his lower lip quivering at the allusion to his wife.

The Curate fidgeted in his chair, and kept changing the crossing of his knees, his fingers moving uneasily, as if they longed to go and lay themselves on the poor fellow’s shoulder while their owner said a few kindly words.

“I intend to call upon your wife this afternoon,” continued the Rector.

“No, sir – thank you, sir – please, don’t – at least not yet,” said Tom. “The poor girl is so broken down, she could not bear it.”

“The more need for me to come, Mr Morrison,” said the Rector, with a sad smile. Then, seizing the opportunity to deliver the first thrust after all his fencing, he continued, reproachfully, “I am sorry I did not know, Morrison, how ill your infant was. You should have sent to me; it was your duty.”

“Yes, sir, I suppose it was,” said the wheelwright, humbly. “But, gentlemen,” he continued, looking from one to the other, “I was in such trouble – my poor wife – we thought of nothing but saving the poor child’s life.”

“There is a life beyond the grave, Thomas Morrison,” said the Rector, whose voice grew firmer as he found that his visitor seemed awed at what he said. “The duty of man is to think of that before the world. I am sorry that you and your wife – such respectable, well-educated people – should have put off your duty to your offspring so long, neglecting it even at the very last, when I was but a few hundred yards from your door. I am grieved, deeply grieved. It has been to me a terrible shock, while you and your wife have incurred an awful responsibility by wilfully excluding your first-born from the pale of Christ’s Church.”

The stricken man looked from one to the other – the tall, portly, calm clergyman, standing behind his table, with one hand resting upon a large open book, the other upon his heart, his eyes half closed, his face stern and composed, and his words falling, when he spoke, in measured cadence, as if they had been studied for the time.

The Curate uncrossed his legs, and set his knees very wide apart, resting his elbows upon them, and joining his fingers very accurately, as he bent down his head, till Tom Morrison could see nothing but his broad, bald, shining crown.

“Not wilfully, sir – not wilfully,” said the wheelwright, appealingly, and his voice grew very husky. “The poor girl, sir, had set her mind – on the christening – Mr Paulby was to do it, sir, as he married us – next Sunday; and now – ”

The poor fellow’s voice shook, and his face grew convulsed for a moment; but he clenched his fists, set his teeth, and fought hard to control his grief. The Curate drew a long breath and bent down lower.

“But, sir,” said Morrison, after a few moments’ pause, during which the library, with its rows of books, looked dim and misty, while the clergyman before him stood as if of marble – “but, sir, I know I deserve it – and I suppose I have neglected my duty; but the poor innocent little one – don’t say as it’s true that you won’t bury it in the churchyard.”

The Rector sighed and coughed vaguely. Then, in a low, sad voice, he said —

“Morrison, I am grieved – deeply grieved and mine is a most painful duty to perform; but I stand here the spiritual head of this parish, a lowly servant of Christ’s Church, and I must obey her laws.”

“But, sir,” said Tom, “that tiny child, so innocent and young – you couldn’t be doing wrong. I beg your pardon, sir, I’m an ignorant man, but don’t – pray, don’t say you won’t bury it.”

“Mr Morrison, you are not an ignorant man,” said the Rector, sternly. “You know the laws of the Church; you know your duty to that unfortunate child – that you have wilfully excluded it from the fold of Christ’s flock. I cannot, will not, disobey those laws in departing from my duty as a clergyman.”

The Curate moved his fingers about an inch apart, and then rejoined them, in time to a deep sigh, but he did not raise his head; while Tom Morrison stood, with brow contracted, evidently stricken by some powerful emotion which he was struggling to master; and at last he did, speaking calmly and with deep pathos in his appealing voice.

“Sir, I am a man, and rough, and able to fight hard and bear trouble; but I have a wife who loved, almost worshipped – ”

“Set not your affections upon things on earth,” said the Rector, in a low, stern voice, as if in warning to himself.

Tom paused a few moments, till the speaker had finished, and then he went on —

“She almost worshipped that child – I ask you humbly, sir, for her sake, don’t say no. At a time like this she is low, and weak, and ill. Parson, if you say no, it will go nigh to break her heart.”

“Morrison,” said the Rector, slowly, with his eyes still half closed – “as a man and a fellow-Christian, I sympathise with you deeply. I am more grieved than I can express. By your neglect you have thrown upon me a painful duty. The fold was open – always open – from the day of its birth for the reception of your poor lamb, but in your worldliness you turned your back upon it till it was too late. I say it with bitter sorrow – too late. Let this be a lesson to you both for life. It is a hard lesson, but you must bear it. I cannot do what you ask.”

The wheelwright stood with the veins in his forehead swelling, and his clenched fists trembled with the struggle that was going on within his breast; but the face of his sorrowing wife seemed to rise before him, and he gained the mastery once more, and turned to the silent Curate.

“Mr Paulby, sir, you married Mary and me, and, we seem to know you here, sir, as our parson – ”

The Rev. Eli winced as he heard the emphasis on the you.

“Please help me, sir,” continued Morrison, appealingly; “you’ve known me many years, and I hope you don’t think I’d be the man to wilfully refuse to do my duty. Will you say a word for me, sir? You understand these things more than me.”

The Curate raised his head sharply, and as his eyes met those of the suffering man, they were so full of sympathy, that the look was like balm to the poor fellow, and he took heart of grace.

“I will, Morrison – I will,” said he, huskily; and he turned to his brother clergyman.

“Mr Mallow,” he said, gently – and there was as much appeal in his voice as in that of the suppliant before them – “forgive me for interfering between you and one of your parishioners, but I do it in no meddling spirit, only as a servant of our Great Master, when I ask you whether in such a case as this the Church would wish us to adhere so strictly to those laws made for our guidance so many years ago. I think you might – nay, as a Christian clergyman, I think you should – accede to our suffering brothers prayer.”

“God bless you, sir, for this!” ejaculated Morrison, in a broken voice.

The Rector turned slowly round, and his eyes opened widely now as they fixed themselves upon the countenance of his curate.

For a few moments he did not speak, but panted as if his feelings were too much for him. Then, in a voice faltering from emotion, he exclaimed —

“Mr Paulby, you astound me. You, whom I received here with testimonials that were unimpeachable, or I should not have trusted you as I have, – you, a priest of the Church of England, to counsel me to go in direct opposition to her laws!”

“I ask you, sir,” said the Curate, gently, “to perform, at a suffering father’s prayer, the last duties to the dead, over the body of an innocent babe, freshly come from its Maker’s hands, freshly there returned.”

“Sir,” exclaimed the Rector, and there was indignation now in his words, “well may the enemies of the Church triumph and point to its decadence, when there are those within the fold who openly, and in the presence of back sliders, counsel their brother priests to disobey the sacred canons of her laws. I feel sure, however, that you have been led away by your feelings, or you would not have spoken so.”

“Yes,” said the Curate, sadly. “I was led away by my feelings.”

“I knew you were, sir,” said the Rector, sternly. “Sir, it was time that a party should arise in the Church, ready and strong, to repair the broken gaps in the hedges, and to protect the sheep. I grieve to find that I have been away too long. I thought, sir, you would have been ready to stand fast in the faith, when assaulted by the worldly-minded who would lead men astray; ready to – ”

“Forget the dictates of humanity, for the hard and fast laws made by men who lived in the days of persecution, and before the benignant, civilising spread of education had made men to know more fully the meaning of brotherly love.”

“Sir – ”

“I beg your pardon, Mr Mallow,” said the Curate, whose face was now flushed. “You seem to forget that we do not live now in the days of the faggot and the stake. But, there,” he said, gently, “I think you will accede to the wishes of my poor friend.”

“Sir,” said the Rector, “I can only repeat that I am grieved beyond measure at this expression of opinion. What you ask of me is impossible.”

The wheelwright had listened with growing indignation to these words on either side, and now, flushed and excited, he spoke out.

“You will not do this, then, sir?” he said, hoarsely.

“You have had my answer, Mr Morrison,” was the cold reply, and he walked towards the bell.

“Stop, sir – a minute,” exclaimed Morrison, panting. “You called me an educated man time back?”

The Rector bowed coldly.

“You’re not right about that, sir; but I have read a little, and so as to behave as a decent man, as I thought, next Sunday, I read through the christening service, and what it says about children who have been baptised dying before they sin being certain to be saved.”

“That is quite right,” said the Rector, gravely; and he now seemed to ignore the Curate’s presence.

“And do you take upon yourself to say, sir, that, as my child was not baptised, it goes to – the bad place?”

“I am not disposed to enter into a controversy with you. My duty is to obey the canons of the Church. ‘He that believeth and is baptised shall be saved: he that believeth not shall be damned,’” he added, only to himself, but heard by the others.

“How could that tender child believe?” said Morrison, fiercely.

There was no reply.

“Mr Mallow, sir,” exclaimed Morrison, difference of grade forgotten in his excitement, “you refuse my child Christian burial, and you speak those dreadful words. I say, sir, do you wish me to believe that my poor, tender infant, fresh given to us by God, has gone to everlasting punishment for what it could not help – my neglect, as you call it?”

“I have told you that I cannot enter into a controversy with you; these are matters such as you cannot understand.”

“Then I swear – ” roared Morrison.

“Stop!” exclaimed the Curate. “Thomas Morrison, my good friend, you are angry and excited now, and will be saying words that, when cooler, you may repent.”

“This is little better than an outrage,” said the Rector, in whose cheeks two angry spots now glowed.

“Allow me to speak, sir,” said the Curate, firmly. “I speak on behalf of that fold whose fences you accused me of neglecting.”

The Rector turned upon him wonderingly, while the wrath of the wheelwright was quelled by the calm, stern words of the little man who now stood before them.

“Morrison,” he continued, “I have been a clergyman many years, and, God helping me, it has been my earnest work to try and convince my people of the love and tenderness of the Father of all for His children. Whenever a dogma of the Church has been likely to seem harsh to our present day ideas, I have let it rest, knowing how much there is of that which is just and good in our grand old religion. Mr Mallow, as your subordinate, sir, I may seem presumptuous. You are an older man than I, and perhaps a wiser, but I ask you, sir, with no irreverent feeling, whether, if it were possible that He who said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not,’ were holding your position here – the God as man and teacher of the people of this parish – He would act as you are acting? Would He not deal with such a canon as He did with the teachings of the Pharisees? Why, sir, He took little children into His arms, and blessed them, and said, ‘Of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”

He paused for a moment, while the Rector stood calm, stern, and cold, with his eyes once more half closed, covered in his cold church armour, and a pitying smile of contempt upon his lip; while Morrison stayed, angry still, but with quivering lip, and his hand upon the door.

A dead silence fell upon the little group when Mr Paulby had done speaking, and both the Curate and Tom Morrison watched the Rector, expecting him to make some reply, but none came.

At last the silence was broken by the wheelwright, out of whose voice every tinge of anger had now gone, and he spoke in tones which sounded deep, and trembled exceedingly at first, but gained strength as he went on: —

“Mr Paulby, sir,” he said, “I thank you. I can’t say all I feel, sir, but my poor wife and I thank you with all our hearts for what you’ve just said for us. I’m only a poor ignorant man, sir, but if I couldn’t feel that what you’ve said is just and true, I should be ready to do what so many here have done – go to the chapel. That wouldn’t be like the Morrisons though, sir. We’ve been church-folk, sir, for a couple of hundred years, and if you go round the churchyard, sir, you will see stone after stone marked with the name of Morrison, sir; some just worn out with age, and others growing plainer, till you come to that new one out by the big tower, where my poor old father was laid five years ago. There’s generations and generations of my people, sir, lying sleeping there – the whole family of the Morrisons, sir, save them as left their bones in foreign lands, or were sunk in the deep seas, sir, fighting for their country. And now my little one is to be kept out. Oh, parson, it’s too bad, and you’ll repent all this. Mr Paulby, sir, God bless you for your words. Good-bye!”

He strode out of the room, and the two clergymen stood listening to his heavy feet as he crossed the hall and passed out of the house. For a few minutes neither spoke.

At length the Curate broke the silence. The fire had gone out of his voice, and the light from his eye, as he said in a low voice —

“Mr Mallow, I am very, very sorry that this should have occurred.”

“And at a time when I am fighting so hard to win these erring people to a better way, Mr Paulby,” said the Rector, sternly.

“And I have tried so hard too, Mr Mallow,” said the Curate, plaintively. “When they all seem bent on going to one or the other of the chapels here.”

“I do not wonder, sir,” said the Rector, “but I do wonder that my own curate should turn against me.”

“No, do; not turn against you, sir. I wished to help.”

“Mr Paulby, I regret it much, but I shall be obliged to ask you to resign.”

“No, no, sir; I beg you will not,” cried the Curate, excitedly. “I have grown to love the people here, and – ”

“Mr Paulby,” said the Rector, “our opinions upon the duties of a priest are opposite. You will excuse me – I wish to be alone.”

The Curate stood for a moment or two with his hand extended, then he let it fall to his side.

“As you will, sir,” he said, sadly. “But there, you will think about this. Let me come over to-morrow, and see you. Will you be at home? Let us talk the matter over.”

No response.

“I spoke hotly, perhaps, sir. I ought not to have done so, but I was moved. Forgive me if I was wrong – let us part friends.”

Still no reply.

“I will leave you now, as you wish it, sir. Drop me a line, and send it by one of the school-children, and I will come over and see you.”

The Rector might have been made of stone as he stood there motionless, till, with a heavy sigh, his visitor slowly left the room, and trudged across the fields to his gloomy little room in the old, half-buried rectory.

Part 1, Chapter X.
Another Trouble for Discussion

That night, just at dark, Joe Biggins walked on tiptoe along the little gravel walk, bearing something beneath his arm; and, as he tapped at the door, the wheelwright rose and led his sobbing wife to an inner room, where he held her tenderly, with her head resting upon his breast, as they stood listening to the opening door, the creaking stairs, and the smothered, heavy step in the bedroom overhead. Then, after a few minutes, there was the sound of descending footsteps, the creaking of the cottage stairs, a whisper or two in the little entry, the closing door, the step upon the gravel, and all was still.

The sad hours glided by in the little darkened house, till Saturday arrived. There had been gossip enough in the place, and endless messages, fraught with good feeling, had come to the stricken couple from far and near; but there had been no sign from the rectory, and it was the general belief that the wheelwright would take the infant to the graveyard at the Wesleyan Chapel at Gatton. For somehow the whole affair had been well spread, and, as Humphrey Bone, the schoolmaster, said with a hearty chuckle of delight, it was a glorious chance for the Rector’s enemies to blaspheme, and there and then, in the presence of several witnesses, he took advantage of the glorious opportunity.

Both Julia and Cynthia had called and sympathised very warmly with their old maid, to have the door opened to them by Tom Morrison himself, who frowned when he saw who were the visitors; but as Julia laid her hand upon his arm, and he saw Cynthia with her eyes overflowing, he drew back, and somehow the wheelwright’s heart was softened, and grew softer still as he saw his young wife sobbing in Julia Mallow’s arms.

Both Julia and her sister tried to mediate, but were sternly forbidden to interfere, and though they tried again through the interposition of Mrs Mallow, she shook her head.

“No, my dears,” said the patient invalid, looking at her daughters with her great wistful eyes, “it is of no use; papa will never give way upon a matter of the Church. He says – ”

Mrs Mallow paused, for she felt that she ought not to repeat her husband’s words, which were to the effect that he had been neglectful for years, and that now nothing should turn him from the path of duty.

Towards evening Joe Biggins went softly along the lane, and on seeing him at the gate, Tom Morrison went to meet him, and returned his friendly grip, the visitor standing afterwards, as before, perfectly silent and looking down at the walk.

“You’ve come to say something to me,” said Tom at last, in a quiet, resigned way.

“Amen to that, Tom; I have,” said the other, in a low voice. “I thought I should see you here. About to-morrow aft’noon.”

“Yes,” said the wheelwright, quietly.

“I don’t like troubling you about it, lad,” said Biggins, “only I must. I wanted to tell you, you know. You see, I must be up at church, and if you hear from parson, why, I shall meet you all right; if you don’t hear from him, there’ll be the little mourning coach all ready waiting to take you all to Gatton. I’ve seen to everything. That’s all.”

He was going off on tiptoe, but Morrison stopped him, to press his hand with a strong man’s hearty grip; and he walked with him to the gate.

“Call in when you go up to the church in the morning,” he said, quietly; and then they parted.

It was quite dark before the wheelwright had finished his work in the garden, and went in to the evening meal, to be met by his wife’s searching look.

He shook his head sadly, as he bent down and kissed her.

“No, my lass,” he said, “Joe brought no message.”

Polly began to weep, the tears flowing fast, till she saw Budge’s face working, ready for a tremendous howl, when, mastering her emotion, she sat down with her husband to the table where their evening meal was spread.

An hour later, husband and wife, hand in hand, ascended to the death chamber, where, with the moonlight full upon it, lay the tiny coffin, bathed in a silvery flood of light.

Biggins had obeyed his friend’s instructions, even as if it had been for one of his own, and the simple silver ornamentation shone upon the coarse white cloth.

The tear-blinded pair lingered for a few moments without approaching their sacred dead; but at last they stood beside it, and the young mother removed the lid that lightly pressed the flowers which covered the tiny breast.

Their loving lips kissed, for the last time, the cold, waxen forehead; and a groan escaped from Polly’s heart as the lid was replaced closely, this time by the father’s hands.

“Hush, Polly,” he whispered, “you said you would be strong.”

“I will, I will,” she sighed. And they stood for a few moments, hand clasped in hand, with the silence only broken by a smothered sob from below.

At last, reverently taking the little coffin in his arms, Tom Morrison bore it slowly down the stairs, followed by his weeping wife, who held something white in her hands, and this she laid over the coffin like a little pall.

Poor Budge was there, trying hard to keep down her grief, but a wail would burst forth; and covering her mouth tightly with her hands, she darted away into the back kitchen.

It was the little christening robe, that was to have been worn next day; and drip after drip, to form dark spots in the moonlight, the hot, burning tears of anguish fell from the mother’s eyes as they slowly bore the little burden out into the garden, down the neat path, and away to the corner where the willow laved its long green branches in the brook – a veritable stream of silver now, dancing and sparkling in the beams of the broad-faced moon.

Where Tom Morrison stopped at last, beneath the willow, was his evening’s work – a small, dark trench, lying amidst the mellow, sweet-scented, newly-turned earth; and here, upon his own land, he was about to lay the dead – to be sown in corruption, to be raised in incorruption – in soil unconsecrated, and without the rites of the Church.

Unconsecrated? No, it was consecrated by the loving tears that bedewed the earth, and fell upon the little white coffin as it was tenderly lowered to its resting-place; and, failing rites, the stricken pair kneeled on either side in the soft mould, and, joining hands, prayed that they might meet again.

Tom’s words were few; but simple and earnest was his prayer as ever fell from the lips of man; while, kneeling at the foot of the grave was poor Budge, who only burst forth with a sob when all was over. For the mother stayed while the earth was reverently drawn over the cold bed, till a little hillock of black soil lay silvered by the dropping moonbeams falling through the willow boughs.

It was poor Budge who laid her offering – a bunch of daisies – upon the little grave, while Tom led his trembling wife back to their desolate home.

Joe Biggins, true to his word, called at the wheelwright’s next morning on his way to church, and on coming within sight of the house he took off his hat to indulge in a good scratch, for he was puzzled on seeing that the blinds were all drawn up.

Replacing his hat very carefully, he softly entered upon tip-toes, and walked up the little path, where he was met by Tom Morrison, looking pale and worn, but with a restful look in his face that had not been there for days.

They shook hands warmly, for Joe Biggins had resolved never to think about that coffin Tom Morrison had made again, and just then fresh steps were heard, and they saw old Mr Vinnicombe coming up.

“I thought I’d call, Morrison,” he said, “and ask you to let me be the bearer of a message to the rectory. Let’s make a last appeal to the bigot.”

“Hush, sir! – don’t call him names,” said Tom. “He thought he was right, no doubt.”

“Then you’ve heard from him.”

“No, sir, no,” said Tom, sadly; “but I forgive him all the same, though I could never bear to go and hear him more.”

The doctor and Biggins looked at each other, and the latter shook his head till his white cravat crackled, for he was got up ready for his verger’s gown.

“Will you walk down the garden, doctor?” said the wheelwright, quietly.

They both followed him, wonderingly, till, nearing the willow, they heard a low, wailing sob; and, drawing nearer, found poor Budge crouching in a heap upon the ground, her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her desolate young heart would break.

They approached her unheard; and, at the scene before them, they involuntarily took off their hats, and stood watching, as Tom bent over the weeping girl.

“I did, oh, I did love you so!” they heard her sob in broken accents. And then, as Tom touched her gently on the shoulder, she started up in a frightened way, staring at him wildly, and, but for his firm grasp, she would have fled.

By many a scene of sorrow had old Vinnicombe stood untouched, but his eyes were moistened now, and a choking sensation seemed to affect his throat, as Tom looked kindly down on the poor rough girl, and, bending over her, lightly pressed his lips upon her brow.

“Thank you, my little lass. Don’t cry no more,” he said. “Poor baby’s happy now, and quite at rest.”

There was silence for a moment or two in the little shady garden, for the tinkling streamlet seemed to be at rest as well. Then came the soft buzzing of a bee seeking a fresh flower; from the fields beyond, a lark shot up in the blue sky, lay-laden, and flashed a fount of sparkling notes upon the morning air; a creamy white butterfly flitted through the trees, poised itself for a moment, lit upon the bunch of daisies lying on the little grave, and then rose and rose till hidden from their sight, as they stood where the dark soil was dappled now with the morning sunbeams glancing through the willow boughs.

“Yes,” said Tom, with a smile, as the breeze brought a waft of flowery scent to mingle with the newly-turned earth, “perhaps Parson Mallow is quite right, but I feel as if my little one’s at rest.”

Part 1, Chapter XI.
The New Master for Lawford

Oh, that bell! A clanging, jangling, minor-sounding bell that always sounded so harsh and melancholy at six o’clock, if the particular morning happened to be dark, wet and wintry in chill December, and he who heard it was rudely awakened from pleasant dreams of home and country and those he loved, to the fact that if he got up then he would have some time to wait, and that if he dropped asleep again he might sleep too long.

The warm bed was very tempting as Luke Ross lay gazing at the spot where he knew the window must be, but where there was no light of coming day, and listened to the hissing, fluttering noise made by the gas-jets just turned on to enable the students to dress and, such of them as had beards, to shave, for it was in that happy, blissful time when the natural growth of hair upon a man’s chin was spoken of as “filthy,” and, if the beard was at all full, said to look “like some old Jew.”

The warm bed, it is repeated, was very tempting; but after a few minutes’ hesitation, and just as that fatal drowsiness was coming on, Luke Ross rose, tried to repress a shiver, failed, and began to dress hastily by such light as came over the open partition from the corridor, where the four gas-jets sang and sputtered and sent a blue glare into the twenty-four dormitories – very prisonlike, with their sham stone walls, narrow barred windows, and iron bedsteads – that this corridor contained.

For some minutes the hissing of the gas was the only sound heard, till the trickle of water into Luke Ross’s basin, and sundry pantings, sighs, and splashings, seemed to arouse others to their fate, when there was a thud as of some one leaping out of bed, a loud yawn prolonged into a shivering shudder, and an exclamation of “Oh, that blessed bell!”

A more thorough scene of discomfort than Saint Chrysostom’s on a dark winters morning – one of those mornings that might be midnight – it would be impossible to conceive, and the students seemed to feel it, and try to vent their feelings upon their fellows.

“Here, I say!” said a voice, “I know these beds are damp. I’ve got my hands covered with chilblains.”

“Get out!” cried another – conversation being easy, from the fact that every dormitory opened for a space of a couple of feet above its door on to the passage. “Damp don’t give chilblains. Oh, I say, how miserable it is to have to shave with cold water in the dark!”

“Serve you right for having a beard!” cried another.

“Which you’d give your ears to own. Oh, hang it! now I’ve cut myself. Here, who’s got a silk hat? Pull us out a scrap of down, there’s a good fellow.”

“Wipe it dry, and stick a bit of writing-paper against it.”

“Will that stop it?”

“Yes.”

“Mind and get your hair parted right, lads. Examination day!”

“I’ll give any fellow a penny to clean my boots.”

“Why don’t you let Tycho clean ’em?”

“Hot water, gentlemen! hot water! Any gentleman who wants his boots cleaned please to set them outside the door.”

“There, get out. It won’t do, Tommy Smithers. I’d swear to that squeak of yours from a thousand.”

“If you come that trick again, Tommy, we’ll make you clean every pair of boots in the corridor,” shouted a fresh speaker, for by degrees the yawning, and creaking of iron beds and thuds of bare feet upon bare floors had grown frequent, with shuffling noises, and gurgling, and splashing, the chinking of ewers against basins, the swishing of tooth-brushes, and the stamping of chilblained feet being thrust into hard, stout boots, and all done in a hurried, bustling manner, as if those who dressed were striving by rapid movement to get some warmth into their chilly frames.

Luke Ross was one of the first dressed: a well-built, dark-eyed, keen-looking young man of five-and-twenty, with a good deal of decision about his well-shaped mouth.

The noise and bustle was on the increase. With numerous grumblings and unsatisfied longings floating about his ears, he stood gazing at the square patch of yellow light near his door, thinking of the trials of the day to come, till, apparently brought back to the present by the shudder of cold that ran through him, he turned and began to pace rapidly up and down his little room, from the dark window covered with soft pats of sooty snow to the dormitory door.

That brought no warmth, and, knowing from old experience that the fire in the theatre stove would only be represented by so much smoke, he began to beat his chest and sides in the familiar manner by flinging his arms across and across to and fro.

This set off others, and then there was the stamping of feet and the sound of blowing of hands to warm them, mingled with which was the scuffling noise made by late risers who had lain until the last minute, and were now hurrying to make up for lost time.

The clanging bell once more, giving five minutes’ law for every student to be in his place by ten minutes to seven, at which time, to the moment, the little self-possessed principal would walk into the theatre, with his intellectual head rigidly kept in place by the stiffest of white cravats.

Upon this particular morning the vice-principal had the first lecture to deliver, and the very last man had scuffled into his place, ink-bottle and note-book in hand, and a buzz of conversation had been going on for nearly a quarter of an hour before the little well-known comedy of such mornings took place.

Then enter the vice-principal, looking very brisk and eager, but particularly strained and squeezy about the eyes, and he had nearly reached the table and was scanning the rows of desks and their occupants, rising blue cold, tier above tier, into the semi-gloom beneath the organ, when a broad face that was not blue, cold, nor red, but of a yellowish white, stared him full in the eyes from the whitewashed wall, and mutely reproached him for being late.

“Dear me!” he exclaimed, “that clock is not right!”

“Yes, sir, quite right,” exclaimed half-a-dozen eager voices, and their owners consulted their watches.

“Oh, dear me, no!” exclaimed the vice-principal, sharply; “nearly a quarter of an hour fast.”

No one dared to contradict now, and the lecture by gaslight, in the cold, dark morning, went on till nearly eight, when those who assisted at tables left to look after the urns and cut the bread-and-butter.

A dozen students hurried off for this task, glad of the chance of feeling the fire in the great dining-hall; and, intent as he was upon the business of the exciting day to come, Luke Ross was not above sharing with his fellow-students, in providing a more palatable meal for himself and the head of his table by washing the coarse salt butter free of some of its brine.

The bell once more, and the rush of students into the dining-hall in search of the warmth that a couple of cups of steaming hot coffee, fresh from the tall block-tin urns, would afford.

The students assembled at the two long boards, and looked strikingly like so many schoolboys of a larger growth; there was the sharp rapping of a knife-handle upon a little square table in one corner, the rustling noise of a hundred men rising to their feet, grace spoken by the vice-principal, in a rich mellifluous voice, followed by a choral “Amen” from all present, and then the rattling of coffee cups and the buzz of conversation, as the great subject of the day – the examination – was discussed, more than one intimating in a subdued voice that it was a shame that there should have been any lecture on such a morning as this.

Breakfast at an end, there was the regular rush again, schoolboy like, out into the passage, where a knot of students gathered round one of the masters, who was giving a word or two of advice.

“Ah, Ross,” he said, smiling, “I have been saying now what I ought to have said before breakfast, that no man should eat much when he is going in for his examination. Brain grows sluggish when stomach is full.”

“I’m afraid we have all been too anxious to eat much, sir,” replied Ross.

“I’m sure you have, Ross; but don’t overdo it. Slow and steady wins the race, you know. Ah, here comes some one who has made a good meal I’ll be bound. Well, Smithers,” he continued, as a remarkably fast-looking young man came up, “have you had a good breakfast?”

“Yes, sir, as good as I could get.”

“Thought so,” said the assistant master, smiling. “Well, what certificate do you mean to take, eh? First of the first?”

“Haven’t been reading for honours, sir,” said Smithers, grinning.

“No, indeed,” said the assistant master, shaking his head. “Ah, Smithers, Smithers! why did you come here?”

“To be a Christian schoolmaster, sir,” was the reply, given with mock humility by about as unlikely a personage for the duty as ever entered an institution’s walls.

The bell once more; and at last, feeling like one in a dream, and as if, in spite of a year’s hard training and study, he was no wiser than when he first commenced, Luke Ross was in his place with a red sheet of blotting-paper before him, and the printed set of questions for the day.

The momentous time had come at last, a time which dealt so largely with his future; and yet, in spite of all his efforts, his brain seemed obstinately determined to dwell upon every subject but those printed upon that great oblong sheet of paper.

He had no cause to trouble himself. All he had to do was to acquit himself as well as he could as a finale to his training; but in the highly-strung nervous state to which constant study had brought him, it seemed that his whole future depended upon his gaining one or other of the educational prizes that would be adjudged, and that unless he were successful, Sage Portlock, his old playmate and friend – now some one very far dearer – and for whose sake he had striven so hard, would turn from him with contempt.

At another time the questions before him would have been comparatively easy, and almost, without exception, he could have written a sensible essay upon the theme; but now Sage, his old home at Lawford, the school, the troubles in the town and opposition to the Rector, and a dozen other things, seemed to waltz through his brain.

He had several letters in his pocket, from Sage and from his father, and they seemed to unfold themselves before him, so that he read again the words that he knew by heart: how indignant the people were at the death of poor old Sammy Warmoth and the appointment of Joe Biggins; the terrible quarrel that there had been between Mr Mallow and the Curate about the burial of Tom Morrison’s child, and how the quarrel had been patched up again because Mr Mallow had not liked Mr Paulby to leave just when people were talking so about the little grave in Tom Morrison’s garden. There was the question of the wretched attempt at choral singing too on Sunday – singing that he was to improve as soon as he was master; for Sage said it did not matter how well she taught the girls, Humphrey Bone made his boys sing badly out of spite, so as to put them out.

Then he had a good look at the examination paper, and tried to read, but Humphrey Bone’s threat to expose him and show him up as an ignoramus before all the town, – a clod who ought to go back to his father’s tannery, – all duly related in one of her letters by Sage Portlock, came dancing out of the page before him.

Again he cleared his head and took up his pen, but he felt that he could not write. And now came up the letter which told how Cyril Mallow had come back from Queensland – handsome Cyril, whom he had severely punished some time before, just, in fact, as he was about to sail for Australia.

Luke Ross did not know why he should feel uneasy about Cyril Mallow being back; it was nothing to him. He was a bit of a scamp, and so on, but he was not so bad as Frank Mallow, who had been obliged to get off to New Zealand after the scandal about a couple of the Gatton village girls, and the fight with Lord Artingale’s keepers, in which he was said to have joined Jock Morris. The Lawford people said it was from this that the Rector became non-resident, as much as from having overrun the constable.

It was tantalising to a degree, for, strive hard as he would, these things seemed to dance before Luke Ross’s eyes; while as to the questions themselves, as he read them through and through, not one did it seem that he could answer.

And so it was morning after morning during the few busy days that the examination lasted. Every night he went to bed almost in despair; every morning he gazed blankly at the various questions.

But, in spite of his self-depreciation, first one and then another of the masters, who gathered up the papers at each sitting’s end, gave him a friendly nod of approval, and glanced with interest at the closely-written sheets.

“I’ve made a dismal failure, sir,” he exclaimed at last, as night closed in upon his fifth day’s work.

The assistant master in whose hands lay the everyday subjects taught at the institution laughed as he clapped the young man upon the shoulder.

“I wish every man in the college had made as great a failure, Ross,” he said. “There, there, you are weary and nervous. Get out of doors and have a good blow and as much exercise as you can till you have regained your tone. I ought not to say so, perhaps, but, Ross, you might, if you liked, look higher than a schoolmaster’s life; that is, if you have any ambition in your soul.”

At that moment Luke Ross’s highest ambition was to win Sage Portlock’s regard, and to acquit himself so creditably as the new master of Lawford School, that there might be no room for that modern Shimei, Humphrey Bone, to say hard words against his management and power of training the young. Later on circumstances caused him to undergo a complete revolution of thought.

Part 1, Chapter XII.
A Question of Income

They were busy times at Kilby, the farm occupied by the Portlocks, and Sage was laughing and merry in her holiday enjoyment of domestic duties.

A few friends were expected next night, and busy preparations were being made by Mrs Portlock and her niece, whose pleasant-looking, plump, white arms were bloomed to the elbow with flour, to which was soon to be added the golden-looking yolks of a dozen eggs, being beaten up in a large white basin in the most unmerciful way by Mrs Portlock herself.

It was a comfortable-looking country kitchen where they were busy, in thorough, old-fashioned style. Not from necessity, for from the back kitchen and room beyond came the sound of voices where the two maids were engaged over other household duties. In the low, wide window, in spite of the season, were some brightly blooming geraniums, between which could be seen the home close, dotted with sheep, and through which field meandered the path leading down to the town.

“Don’t forget the salt, Sage,” said Mrs Portlock, “and put in a dash of carb’nate. For goodness’ sake let’s have the cake light, and – why, what ails the girl now?”

Sage had darted back from the table, and torn off the large bibbed apron she wore so roughly that she snapped one of the tape strings, before hastily wiping the flour from her arms, and pulling down her pinned-up sleeves.

The reason was plain enough, and to be seen through the geraniums, where Luke Ross was making his way across the home close, looking fresh and eager in the crisp January air, as he gazed straight before him at the farm.

“There, get on with thy work, child,” cried Mrs Portlock, in a half-petulant, half-laughing way; “there’s nothing to be ashamed of in making a cake. If you marry Luke Ross you won’t have many cakes to make,” she added petulantly.

“Oh, for shame, aunt! How can you?” cried Sage, looking conscious and uncomfortable, as her cheeks turned scarlet.

“Because that’s what he has come for, I’ll be bound. There, go and let him in.”

“Oh, no, aunt! I’d – I’d rather not,” faltered Sage.

“Such stuff, child! Just as if I couldn’t see you were longing to go. There, if you don’t run and open the door, I’ll go myself, and tell him you were ashamed.”

“I’ll go and open the door,” said Sage, quietly; and there was a curious, introspective look in her countenance, as, after waiting till the imperative rap of the young man’s knuckles was heard, she hastily replaced the apron, turned up her sleeves, and floured her hands, before going to let the visitor in.

“I’m not ashamed of making cakes, aunt,” she said, quietly.

“Bless the girl, what a strange one she is!” muttered Mrs Portlock, apostrophising the great eight-day clock, and then pausing in the beating of eggs, to listen, with the greatest eagerness, as Luke Ross’s voice was heard at the door, and Sage’s directly after, but in quite a low buzz, for the intervening door was shut.

“I don’t know what to say to it,” said Mrs Portlock, querulously. “He’s very nice, and kind, and good-looking, but I’d a deal rather she married a farmer. Schoolmastering don’t fill bacon-racks, nor the tub with pickled pork.”

The buzzing at the front door continued, and the increased current of air made the fire to roar up the wide kitchen chimney.

“For goodness’ sake, why don’t they come in?” exclaimed Mrs Portlock. “That girl will catch her death o’ cold.”

She made this remark also in confidence to the brass-dialled eight-day clock, at the top of which a grotesque-looking human-faced sun was just peering over an engraved arc, above which it revolved in company with various other planets when the mechanism within properly worked; and, after making the remark, Mrs Portlock’s wooden spoon began once more to batter the already well-beaten eggs, between pauses to listen what was going on at the door.

“I hate such shilly-shallying ways,” she muttered. “He’s come on purpose to see us, so why does he loiter there at the door? I’ll be bound to say if it was young Cyril Mallow he’d have been here by now.”

The mention of this name made Mrs Portlock pause and rub her face thoughtfully with one corner of her apron.

“I don’t see why not,” she muttered. “I’m sure he likes her, or else he wouldn’t be so fond of coming out here to smoke a pipe with Joseph. And if they are gentry, why, gentry are only human flesh; and as to their money, I’ll be bound to say they’re not so much better off than we are, in spite of their show.”

There was another fierce attack upon the golden fluid in the white basin.

“He seems nice, does Cyril; very different to his brother. Poor Rue, she had an escape there; and I dare say this will only be a bit of a flirtation with both of them. I shall not interfere, and matters may go as they like.”

The eggs once more suffered from the severe attack.

“It’s my belief Sage don’t know her own mind,” exclaimed Mrs Portlock. “Here, Anne, bring some more coals to this fire; I want the oven to be well hot.”

Just then there was the sound of the closing door, and Luke Ross entered, followed by Sage, looking more conscious than before.

“Morning, Mrs Portlock,” cried the young man frankly.

“Good-morning, Luke,” she replied. “Why didn’t you take him in the parlour, Sage? There’s a good fire there.”

“Because I begged to be allowed to come here, Mrs Portlock, so as not interfere with the preparations. My father said he would be glad to come.”

“Ah, that’s right!” exclaimed Mrs Portlock. “There, sit down by the fire; you must want a bit o’ lunch. Sage! – why, bless the girl, I didn’t see her go.”

“She has gone up-stairs, I think,” said Luke.

“To put her hair straight or some nonsense, when we are that busy that we shall never be ready in time.”

“No, no, Mrs Portlock,” said Luke, who looked hot and nervous, and instead of taking a chair by the fire, he edged away to stand by the crockery-covered dresser, with his back half turned from the light; “I think she has gone up-stairs on account of what I wanted to say.”

“There, there, there,” said Mrs Portlock, labouring frantically now at the egg-beating, “I think I know what’s coming, and I’d a deal rather you wouldn’t say a word to me about it.”

Luke Ross looked discomfited and troubled, and became exceedingly interested for a moment in the little silk band of his soft felt hat.

“But surely, Mrs Portlock,” he began at last, “you must have known that I was deeply attached to Sage?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I did,” replied Mrs Portlock; and this time some of the yellow egg flew over the basin side; “but it’s a very serious matter.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Luke, quietly, “I look upon it as the turning-point of my life.”

“And I don’t believe that Sage half knows her own mind yet. She’s too young, and it’s not as if she was my own child.”

“But we can wait, Mrs Portlock,” said Luke, gaining confidence, now that he had made the first plunge. “Of course we should have to wait for some time.”

“Won’t say anything about it,” cried Mrs Portlock, as the sturdy red-faced servant-maid entered to pour a half-scuttle of coals on the roaring fire. “If you want to talk about it – ”

Mrs Portlock here began to work viciously with a piece of nutmeg, the eggs being considered enough beaten.

“I should be sorry to hurt your feelings about this matter, Mrs Portlock,” continued Luke; “but I have always thought you looked upon Sage and me as being as good as engaged.”

“Oh, I don’t know! I can’t say! There, I won’t say anything about it. Oh! here’s Master, and you must talk to him.”

Luke Ross’s face wore a particularly troubled look, as a hearty, bluff voice was just then heard bidding a dog lie down, and, directly after, the kitchen door was thrown open, and the broad-shouldered bluff Churchwarden, in his loose brown velveteen coat and cord breeches with leather leggings, entered the room. His clear blue eyes and crisp grey hair made him look the very embodiment of health, and his face lit up with a pleasant smile as he strode in with a double gun under his arm, while his pockets had a peculiarly bulgy appearance at the sides.

“Ah, Luke, my lad! how are you?” he said, bluffly, as he held out his hand. “Glad to see you, my boy. Why, you ought to have been out with me for a run. Thy face looks as pasty as owt.”

“I should have liked the walk immensely,” said Luke, brightening up at the warmth of his reception, and he wrung the others hand.

“Schoolmastering don’t improve thy looks, Luke, my lad,” continued the Churchwarden. “Why, you are as pale as if you had been bled. Hang that London! I don’t care if I never see it again.”

“There’s worse places than London, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, who had a weakness for an occasional metropolitan trip.

“Tell me where they are, then,” said the Churchwarden, “for I don’t know ’em. Got two hares,” he said, standing the gun in the corner by the dresser.

“Ah! we wanted a hare,” said Mrs Portlock, busying herself over the work her niece had left undone.

“There you are, then,” said the Churchwarden, drawing them, one at a time, from the inner pockets of his shooting-coat.

“But is that gun loaded, Joseph?” cried Mrs Portlock, who had been to the dresser and started away.

“Yes, both barrels,” said the Churchwarden, with a comical look at the visitor. “I wouldn’t touch her if I were you.”

“I touch the horrid thing?” cried Mrs Portlock. “There, for goodness’ sake unload it, Joseph, before we have some accident.”

“All right,” said the Churchwarden, tossing the hares out into the stone passage at the back, and taking up the gun just as Mrs Portlock had raised the great white basin of well-beaten egg to pour into a flour crater which she had prepared. Stepping to the window, the head of the house turned the fastening quietly, and opened the casement sufficiently wide to allow of the protrusion of the barrels of the gun, when —

Banff! Banff!

Crash!

All in rapid succession, for the double report so startled the good housewife that she let the great white basin slip through her fingers to be shattered to atoms on the red-brick floor, and spread its golden treasure far and wide.

“Joseph!” exclaimed Mrs Portlock.

“Say, Luke, I’ve done it now,” he cried. “There’s nothing the matter, lass, only a basin broke.”

“And a dozen eggs destroyed,” cried Mrs Portlock, petulantly.

“Here, let’s go into the parlour, Luke,” continued the Churchwarden, after a merry look at Sage, who had run down-stairs, looking quite pale. “Sage, my dear, send Anne in with the bread and cheese, and a mug of ale. Luke Ross here will join me in a bit of lunch.” He led the way to the parlour, Luke following him, after pausing a moment to obtain a look from Sage; but she was too conscious to glance his way, and had begun already to help Mrs Portlock, who looked the very picture of vexation and trouble combined.

The parlour was a fine old oak-panelled, low-ceiled room, with dark beams reflecting the flaming fire, whose ruddy light danced in the panes of the corner cupboard and glistening sideboard and polished chairs.

“Sit down, my boy, sit down,” cried the Churchwarden, as he stooped to toss a piece of oak root on the flaming fire. “What with Christmas-keeping, I’ve hardly seen thee since you came back. My word, how time goes! Only the other day thou wast a slip of a boy helping me to pick the apples in the orchard and playing with Sage, and now thou’rt a grown man.”

The Churchwarden seated himself, took his tobacco-jar from a bracket, his pipe from the chimney-piece, and proceeded to fill it.

“You won’t smoke, I know. Good job, too. Bad habit, lad. But what’s the matter – anything wrong?”

“Only in my own mind, sir,” said Luke, rather excitedly, as he sat opposite the farmer, tapping the table.

“Out with it, then, Luke, my boy, and I’ll help thee if I can. Want some money?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Luke, flushing. “The fact is, I have finished my training, and I am now down home expecting to take the management of the school as master.”

“Ha! yes!” said the Churchwarden softly, leaning forward to light a spill amongst the glowing logs. “There’s a bit o’ trouble about that. Half-a-dozen of ’em’s taking Humphrey Bone’s side against parson, and they want me to join.”

“But you will not, I hope, sir?” said Luke, anxiously.

“I should, my lad, but for Master Humphrey’s drink. He’s not a man to have the care of boys.”

“No, sir, indeed,” said Luke, who paused, while the ruddy servant lass brought in a napkin-covered tray, with the bread and cheese, and a great pewter tankard of home-brewed ale.

“Help thyself, lad,” said the Churchwarden; “and now what is it?”

“I must speak out plainly, sir, or not at all,” said Luke, excitedly.

“Surely, my lad,” said the other, watching him keenly, as he poured out some ale.

Luke hesitated for a few moments, and then tried to clear his voice, but failed, and spoke huskily as he rose from his seat.

“Mr Portlock,” he said, “you have known me from a boy.”

“And always liked thee, my lad, and made thee welcome,” still watching him keenly.

“Always, Mr Portlock, and you will agree that it is not strange that now I am grown a man I should love my little playmate Sage, whom I’ve known ever since the day you called at our house with her and Rue – poor little orphans, looking so pretty and helpless as they sat in black in your gig.”

“Ay! ay! that was a sad time, Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “Poor little bairns! mother and father in one sad week, Luke. Hah! well, I’ve never had any of my own, and I never think of ’em now but as if they had been born to me.”

“No, sir, I know that,” said Luke, smiling.

“And you want me to say thou mayst have Sage for thy wife. That’s the plain English of it, lad, eh?”

“Yes, sir – yes, sir,” cried Luke, excitedly; but delighted to have his task cut short.

“Ha!” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “I expected as much. I said to myself that was what you would ask me when you came back.”

“And you consent, sir?” cried Luke, joyously.

There was a moment’s silence, while the Churchwarden crossed a sturdy, well-shaped leg over the other, Luke gazing the while upon his lips, until he spoke, and then sinking back, as if smitten, into his chair.

“No, my lad, I do not give my consent. I like thee, Luke, almost as well as if thou wast my own son, and I believe you’d make Sage a good husband; but, to be plain with you, I don’t like this schoolmastering and mistress work.”

“You don’t like it, sir!”

“No, my lad. It was against my wish that Sage took to it. I would rather have seen her making the bread-and-butter at home; and there was no need for her to have gone into the world; and as you know, it was then I set my face against your going in for it as well.”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Yes, my lad. You’d a deal better have been content to take up with your father’s honest old business of tanning. There’s a good trade to be done.”

“Yes, sir, but I felt myself so unsuited for the trade, and I liked books.”

“And didn’t care about dirtying thy hands, Luke. No, my lad, I think it was a mistake.”

“A mistake, sir?”

“Yes, and I’ll show you. Now, look here, my boy,” continued the Churchwarden, pointing with the waxy end of his pipe. “No lad of spirit thinks of taking help from his father, after his first start in the world.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“And a lad of spirit don’t go hanging on to his wife’s people.”

“No, sir.”

“Then, look here, my boy. What is your salary to be, if you get Lawford School; I say, if you get it?”

“Seventy pounds per annum, sir, with a house, and an addition for my certificate, if I have been fortunate enough to win one.”

“Seventy pounds a year, with a house, if you get the school, and some more if you win a certificate, my lad; so that all your income is depending upon ifs.”

“I am sure of the school, sir,” said Luke, warmly, as he coloured up.

“Are you, my lad? I’m not,” said the Churchwarden, drily. “No, Luke Ross, I like you, for I believe you to be a clever scholar, and – what to my mind’s ten thousand times better than scholarship – I know you to be a true, good-hearted lad.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Luke, whose heart was sinking; and Portlock went on —

“I’m not a poor man, Luke, and every penny I have I made with my own hand and brain. Sage is as good as my child, and when we old folks go to sleep I dare say she and her sister will have a nice bit o’ money for themselves.”

“I never thought of such a thing as money, sir,” cried Luke, hotly.

“I don’t believe you ever did, my boy,” said the Churchwarden. “But now listen. Sage is very young yet, and hardly knows her own mind. I tell you – there, there, let me speak. I know she thinks she loves you. I tell you, I say, that I’d sooner see Sage your wife than that of any man I know; but I’m not going to keep you both, and make you sacrifice your independence, and I’m not going to have my child goto a life of drudgery and poverty.”

“But you forget, sir, we should be both having incomes from our schools.”

“No, I don’t, boy. While you were young. How about the time when she had children – how then? And I don’t believe in a man and his wife both teaching schools. A woman has got enough to do to make her husband’s home so snug that he shall think it, as he ought to do, the very best place in the whole world, and she can’t do that and teach school too. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Luke, very humbly, though he did not approve of his old friend’s opinions.

“Then look here, Luke Ross, I like you, and when you can come to me and say, ‘Joseph Portlock, I have a good permanent income of five hundred a year,’ Sage, if she likes, shall be your wife.”

“Five hundred a year, sir!” faltered Luke, with a strange, unreal dread seeming to rise before him like a mist of the possibility that before then Sage’s love might change.

“Yes, my lad, five hundred a year.”

“Uncle,” said Sage, opening the door, “Mr Mallow has called to see you;” and a strange look passed between the two young men, as Cyril Mallow entered the room.

Part 1, Chapter XIII.
Visitors at the Farm

The morning of Mrs Portlock’s party, and Uncle Joseph just returned from his round in the farm, to look smilingly at the preparations that were going on, and very tenderly at Sage, who looked downcast and troubled.

“Well, girls,” he cried, “how goes it? Come, old lady, let it be a good set-out, for Sage here won’t have much more chance for helping you when these holidays are over.”

“I wish she’d give the school teaching up,” said Mrs Portlock, rather fretfully, as she sat gathering her apron into pleats.

“She can give it up if she likes,” said the Churchwarden, heartily. “It’s her own whim.”

“Well, don’t you fidget, Joseph, for Sage and I will do our best.”

“Of course you will, my dears,” he said. “Here, Sage, fill me the old silver mug with ale out of number two.”

“But it is not tapped, uncle.”

“Ah!” he shouted, “who says it isn’t tapped? Why I drove the spigot in night before last on purpose to have it fine. And now, old woman, if you want any lunch, have it, and then go and pop on your black silk and bonnet, while I order round the chaise, and I’ll drive you in to town.”

“No, Joseph, no,” exclaimed Mrs Portlock, who had now gathered the whole of the bottom of her apron into pleats and let them go. “I said last night that I would not go with you any more unless you left the whip at home. I cannot bear to sit in that chaise and see you beat poor Dapple as you do.”

“But I must have a whip, old girl, or I can’t drive.”

“I’m sure the poor horse goes very well without.”

“But not through the snow, my dear,” said Sage’s uncle, giving her another of his droll looks. “Really, old girl, I wouldn’t answer for our not being upset without a whip.”

“But you wouldn’t use it without you were absolutely obliged, Joseph?”

“On my honour as a gentleman,” said Uncle Joseph; and his wife smiled and went up-stairs to get dressed, while Sage took the keys to go down to the cellar and draw the ale, as her uncle walked to the door, and she heard him shouting his orders to Dicky Dykes to harness Dapple and bring him round at once.

Sage stood in the low-ceiled, old-fashioned parlour, with the quaintly-made silver tankard in her hand, waiting for her uncle to come in. There was a smile upon her lip, and as she listened now to the Churchwarden’s loud, hearty voice shouting orders to the different men about the yard, and now to her aunt’s heavy footsteps overhead, she was gazing straight into the great glowing wood fire, whose ruddy flames flickered and danced in the broad, blue-tiled chimney; and though it was so cold that the frost was making silver filigree upon the window panes, she felt all aglow, and kept on picturing in the embers the future that might have place.

“By George!” roared the Churchwarden, coming in. “Hallo! didn’t kick all the snow off. Here, let’s melt it before the tyrant comes down;” and he shone all over his broad face, and his eyes twinkled with mirth, as he held first one boot and then the other to the blaze. “Now, the ale, Sage, my pet. Give’s a kiss first, darling, to give it a flavour.”

He hugged her to his side, and gave her a loud-sounding smack upon the lips, holding her close to him as he smiled down in her eyes.

“And I used to grumble, my pet, because I had no children,” he said, tenderly, “little thinking I should have Sage and Rue to take care of till – Oh! I say. Ha-ha-ha! Look at the colour. Poor little woman then. Was he coming to-day?”

“Please don’t tease me, uncle dear,” she whispered, as she laid her head upon his shoulder, and hid her burning face.

“I won’t then,” he said; but she could feel him chuckling as he went on. “I say though, Sage. I’ve been thinking one ought to have asked him to come and stay here for a few days. Very hospitable, eh? But hardly conventual. That’s not right, is it, schoolmistress? No, no; I mean conventional. No you don’t. I’ve got you tight,” for Sage had tried to run away.

“Then please don’t tease me, uncle.”

“But what will old Vinnicombe say?”

“Uncle dear,” she whispered, appealingly. “There then, my pet, I won’t,” he said. “What time do you expect Jack and Rue?”

“By about four o’clock, uncle dear.”

“That’s right, my pet, and now you must bustle. See that there’s plenty of jolly good fires, for I hate people to come and find the place chilly. Let’s give ’em a warm reception, and I’ll see if I can’t fill up some of old Vinnicombe’s wrinkles out of his face. Let me see, I want some more tobacco. Hah!” he cried, after a deep draught, “that’s good ale. Taste it, pet.”

Sage took the tankard with a smile, raised the creaking lid, and put her lips to it to please him.

“Fine, ain’t it, lass?”

“Capital, uncle.”

“I say, Sage, if that don’t make old Vinnicombe smile I’m a Dutchman. By the way, my dear, shall I ask Cyril Mallow to drop in?”

“Uncle!” cried Sage, turning pale.

“Well, why not? He has no pride in him, not a bit. And if he wants gentlemen to meet, why, there’s Paulby and Vinnicombe. Hang it all, my girl, if I liked to set up for a gentleman I dare say I could, after you had toned me down and mended my manners, and oiled my axles with grammar grease, eh?”

“Oh, no, no, uncle; don’t think of it,” she said, imploringly.

“Just as you like, my dear; ’tis your party like, and it’s for you to choose. He is a bit cocky and priggish, and a bit gallant, but my darling knows how to keep him in his place.”

“Oh, yes, uncle, of course,” said Sage, hastily; “but Rue will be here, you know, and it might set her thinking of his brother Frank.”

“Hah! Yes; I had forgotten that,” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “To be sure! she did think a little about him, didn’t she? Hullo!”

“I want Sage,” cried Mrs Portlock down the stairs.

“Yes, aunt, dear.”

“Hold that wrapper to the fire, my dear, ready for your uncle,” and she threw down a great white cashmere belcher to her niece.

“Here! Hoi! I say, old girl, I’m not going to wear that thing.”

“Yes, dear, it’s a very long drive, and the air is very cold.”

The Churchwarden sank into a chair, and, raising the lid of the tankard, gazed into it despondently.

“Tyranny, tyranny, tyranny!” he groaned. “Oh! why did I ever marry such a woman as this?”

“Now don’t talk nonsense, Joseph,” cried his wife, rustling down into the room so wrapped up that she looked double her natural size, what with cloak, and boa, and a large muff. “Put it round your uncle’s neck, Sage, the frost is very severe.”

The Churchwarden threw his head back ready for Sage to tie on the wrapper, uttering a low moan the while, and then sighed as he stood up and walked – at first slowly and then with alacrity – into the hall to put on his hat.

“I can’t get into my coat with this thing on,” he roared. “Come and give us a lift.”

Sage ran laughingly into the hall to help the greatcoat on to his broad shoulders just as the four-wheeled chaise came crunching to the front door, Dapple giving a loud snort or two, and stamping upon the frozen gravel.

Just then the Churchwarden gave a comical look at his niece, rushed to the corner by the eight-day clock, and made a great deal of rattling as he took up the whip and gave it a sharp lash through the air, and a crack on the broad balustrade.

Sage heard her aunt start, and her uncle chuckled.

“Now, old lady,” he said. “That’s right, Sage, plenty of rugs, or we shall have her frozen. That’s it, old girl, right leg first. Hold his head still, Dicky. There you are; tuck that rug round you. There, that’s better,” he cried, taking his seat and fastening the apron. “Let him go, Dicky. Tck!”

He started Dapple, and then stood up in the chaise with a quick motion, raising the whip as he set his teeth, and seemed about to strike the cob a tremendous blow, making Mrs Portlock jump and seize his arm, when he subsided, looking round at Sage with a comical expression in his eye, but pulled up short.

“Here. Hi! I say. Yah! artful. Here you, Luke Ross, you’re three hours before your time,” he cried.

“Yes, sir. I thought I might help a little, and – ”

“You thought you might help a little, and – G’on with you – get out. G’long!” and the Churchwarden flicked and lashed at Luke Ross, as he stepped to the side of the chaise and shook hands, while Sage, with her heart beating fast, drew back into the porch, seeing her uncle begin poking at the new arrival with the butt of the whip-handle.

Then the cob was started again with another pretended furious cut, which made Sage’s aunt catch at her uncle’s arm; and then as, frightened, fluttering, and yet happy, she saw Luke coming towards her, the Churchwarden’s voice came roaring through the wintry air —

“Here! I say, Luke Ross, remember what I said. I mean it – seriously.”

“Sage, my dear Sage!” Those were the next words Sage Portlock heard, as Luke took her hand to lead her, trembling and nervous, into the hall.

“I hardly hoped for such good fortune,” he cried, as Sage gently disengaged herself from his clasp, and stood gazing rather sadly in his face; “but oh! pray, pray don’t look at me like that, darling, I’m here to go down on my knees to you, Sage. There,” he cried, “I will, to beg pardon – to tell you I was a weak, jealous fool – that I know you could not help Cyril Mallow coming and admiring you (he’d have been a fool if he hadn’t!) – that you’re the best, and dearest, and truest, and sweetest, and most innocent-hearted of girls – that I love you more dearly than ever, and that I’ve been a miserable wretch ever since last night.”

“Don’t do that, Luke,” she said, as he literally went upon his knees; “it hurts me.”

“And I’d suffer anything sooner than give you a moment’s pain,” he cried, springing to his feet; and they stood now in the middle of the old parlour. “But you haven’t forgiven me, Sage,” he said, piteously.

“Yes, Luke, I’ve forgiven you, but I want you to know and trust me better. Your words seemed so cruel to me, and if you knew me you would not have said them. I did not know that Cyril Mallow when he called did so that he might see me, and we hardly exchanged a dozen words.”

“And if you had exchanged a thousand, sweet, what then?” cried Luke, proudly. “I was a jealous idiot, and ought to have known better; but it has been a lesson to me on my weakness, and now I am going to wait patiently till I can say what your uncle wishes.”

Sage was silent, for she was thinking it was her duty to tell him that, after the sad little trouble that had come between them, it would be better for them to be more distant for a time; but she could not say it with his eyes looking appealingly at her. She had felt so proud of him for his manly bearing and straightforward honesty of purpose. The words would not come, and somehow the next minute she was sobbing in his arms as he whispered those two words, but in such a tone —

“My darling!”

She started from him guiltily the next moment, and ran up-stairs, and stayed till there was a fresh crunching of wheels and the trampling of a horse’s hoofs, when she came down again to welcome her sister and her husband, John Berry – a bluff, middle-aged farmer to whom Rue had been married some five years, and they had come now to spend a few days, bringing their two little girls.

“Ah, Luke, my man of wisdom, how are you? Sage, my dear, give us a kiss. Bless you, how well you look. How am I? Hearty, and so’s Rue.”

Sage was kissing her sister affectionately the next moment, heartily glad to see her looking so rosy and well, but blushing redder as she whispered merrily —

“Oh! I am sorry we came and interrupted you. You look so guilty, Sagey. When’s it to be?”

“Not for years to come, dear,” said Sage, as she busied herself with Lotty and Totty, their two golden-haired little children, who were so wrapped up that they were, as John said, warm as toasts.

He plumped himself into a chair directly, to take one on each knee. Then Sage and Rue busied themselves in taking off pelisses and woollen leggings, and reducing the little things into a less rounded shape, while John sat as stolid and serious as a judge, evidently being very proud of his two little ones, as he was of his handsome young wife.

“And now, John, you’d like a tankard of ale, wouldn’t you?” cried Sage.

“Well, I don’t know,” said John, quietly; “a mug of squire’s ale is nice, if Luke there will have one too.”

“Oh! I’ll join,” said Luke, heartily; and, after drawing it, Sage went up with Rue to her room, and she began to tease her about Luke, but ended with an affectionate embrace.

“I’d marry him any time, dear,” she said, “for I think he’s a good fellow, and if you are as happy as I am with dear old John you will be satisfied.”

“But uncle has said that it is not to be till Luke has five hundred a year,” said Sage, dreamily, “and that will not be for a long time; and – and, Rue, dear,” she faltered, “I – I don’t think I feel quite happy about it.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Sagey! Uncle will come round. He wants to see us quite happy.”

“But you misunderstand me, dear,” said Sage, thoughtfully. “I mean that I’m half afraid I’m not doing right in letting Luke Ross believe I love him, because – because – ”

“Because – because you are a goose,” cried Rue, merrily. “I felt just the same about John, and was ready to break it off, and now I think him the dearest and best fellow under the sun. Sage, dear.”

“Yes, Rue.”

“You are in the sugar-plum stage just now, and don’t know your own mind. I like Luke Ross. He’s frank and straightforward. Don’t play with him, for he’s a man to be trusted, and you’re lucky to have him care for you.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Sage, dreamily; “but it is not to be for a long time yet.”

As she spoke she was thinking of the past, and her sister’s love affair with Frank Mallow, who used to follow her whenever she was out for a walk; and then about the trouble at the rectory, when Frank Mallow went off all on a sudden. Of how poor Rue was nearly heartbroken, and used to tell Sage that she would go after him if he sent for her; but he never even wrote to her in spite of all his professions; and then they learned how badly he had behaved; and after that Rue never mentioned his name but in a quiet subdued way, and at her uncle’s wish accepted John Berry – a man of sterling qualities – and she had grown brighter and happier ever since she had been his wife.

The final preparations were made and the table spread long before the Churchwarden and his wife came back, with the chaise loaded up, and Mrs Portlock protesting that she would never go again if Joseph took a whip.

The culprit chuckled as Sage helped him with his overcoat, shouting orders all the while to Luke and John Berry, who were busy bringing in the load of parcels till it seemed wonderful how they could all have been packed into the chaise.

At last the final packet was in, and the cold air shut out; but hardly had the door been closed, and they were standing laughing at Rue’s little girls, who were staggering in and out of the great parlour with packets which they carried by the string, than the bell rang.

“Here’s Vinnicombe!” cried Portlock, and the doctor, in a fur cap tied down over his ears, blue spectacles over his eyes, and his tall lean form muffled in a long thick greatcoat, came in, stamping his feet.

“Here, help me off with this coat, somebody,” growled the doctor. “How do, girls? Take away those children, or I shall tread on ’em. Hate youngsters running about under one’s feet like black beetles. What have you got there?” he added, pointing to the parcels.

“Fal-lals and kickshaws. The old woman’s been pretty well emptying the grocer’s shop.”

“Now, Joseph, that is really too bad,” said Mrs Portlock, full of mild indignation. “Now you know you would persist in buying three-parts of what is there.”

“Humph! Thought you fancied you were going to be snowed up,” growled the doctor, shaking himself free of his coat, and holding out first one leg and then the other for Luke to pull off his goloshes. “That’s right, Luke Ross; I don’t see why you young fellows shouldn’t wait on us old ones. I had lots of trouble with you, you young rascal; fetched out of bed for you often.”

“Well, doctor,” cried Luke, “you see I’m willing enough,” and his cheeks flushed with pleasure to find that in spite of the Churchwarden’s serious treatment of his proposals, he was warmer than ever he had been before.

“There, look sharp, girls,” cried the Churchwarden. “Come, old lady, take off your things. Sage, put the doctor in the chimney-corner to thaw. He’ll soon come round.”

Dr Vinnicombe shook his fist at the speaker, and let Sage lead him to the glowing fire, while the next moment the Churchwarden was having what he called “a glorious cuddle,” four little chubby arms being fast about his great neck, and a couple of pairs of little red lips kissing him all over his rugged, ruddy face.

Part 1, Chapter XIV.
The Bad Shilling

Michael Ross, Luke’s father, came soon after with a couple of fellow-townsmen, and their chat about the state of affairs, social and political, that is to say, the state of affairs in connection with the rectory and the price of corn, was interrupted by the call for tea.

The warm fire and the pleasant social meal did make the doctor come round, and very pleasant everything seemed as they afterwards sat about the blazing fire. Sage noted how happy and contented her sister was, with her pretty young matronly face, as she sat by her husband’s side and seemed to glow with content, as first one little golden-haired cherub and then the other was seated on Dr Vinnicombe’s knee, the soured old cynic telling them tales to which they all listened with almost childish delight.

Luke’s heart was full of joy, and he kept glancing across at Sage, who avoided his gaze in a timid, cast-down manner; but it did not displease him, for he thought she was all that was modest and sweet, and told himself that he was proud indeed to have won such a woman for his future wife.

Then there seemed to be a blank in the room, for Sage left with her sister to put the little ones to bed, Rue sending the blood flushing into her cheeks as she half mockingly said —

“How long will it be, Sage, before I am helping you to put a little Luke and a little Sage to sleep?”

They were very silent directly after, and Sage felt a kind of wondering awe as, in obedience to a word from their mother, the two little white-robed things, with their fair hair like golden glories round their heads, knelt at Aunty Sage’s knee to lisp each a little simple prayer to God to send his angels to watch round their couch that night; and then back came Rue’s merry words, and with them wondering awe, almost dread, at the possibility of such as these at her feet ever calling her mother, and looking to her for help.

They stayed for a few minutes to see the children sleep, with their rosy little faces on the same pillow, and then, with their arms around each other, Sage and Rue, happy girls at heart once more, descended to the dining-room, where their aunt was telling Doctor Vinnicombe about her troubles with her garden, while their uncle’s face was full of good-humoured crinkles as she spoke.

“Here, girls,” he said, putting down his pipe, “come and comfort me while I’m being flogged.”

“I’m not flogging you, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, speaking in a serious, half-plaintive way; “but it will soon be time for Dicky to be doing up my garden again, and I do say that it is a shame that in my own ground you will be always planting seeds and things that have no business there.”

“Never put in anything that isn’t useful,” chuckled the Churchwarden, with his arms round his nieces’ waists as they stood by his side.

“Useful, yes; but you ought not to sow carrot-seed amongst my mignonette, and plant potato-cuttings in amongst my tulips and hearts-ease. I declare, doctor, if my verbena-bed was not full of cabbage plants one day, and when I pulled them up he had them set again, and often and often I’ve allowed swedes, and mangolds, and rape to get ever so big in the garden before I’ve known what they were.”

“He’s a terrible rascal, Mrs Portlock, that he is; and if I were you I’d have a divorce,” said the doctor.

“Ah, do, old lady,” chuckled the Churchwarden, but he became serious directly as his wife rose from her seat and went and stood behind his chair, with her hands upon his shoulders.

“A divorce?” she said, smiling. “Thirty years we’ve been man and wife, Joseph;” and he leaned back his head and said softly —

“Ay, dear, and I worked five years till I was well enough off to give you a good home, and please God we’ll have thirty more years together – here, or in the better world.”

Luke Ross felt that the words were meant for him, and he tried to catch Sage’s eye, but she would not raise her face, and he sat thinking that after all the farmer was right.

There was a dead silence in the room for some minutes, and then Dr Vinnicombe exclaimed —

“Come, Churchwarden, here are Michael Ross and I famishing for a game at whist.”

“To be sure,” cried the Churchwarden. “Now, girls, let’s have the card-table. My word, what a night! It’s a nipper indeed. Let’s have another log on, old lady, and – What the dickens is the matter with those dogs?”

For just then, as the flames and sparks were roaring up the chimney, the two dogs in the yard set up a furious barking, growing so excited, and tearing so at their chains, that the Churchwarden went out to the door, opened it, and a rush of cold, searching wind roared into the room as he shouted —

“Down, Don! Quiet, Rover! Who’s there?”

“Port – lock, ahoy!” came in reply, and Rue turned pale, uttered a low moan, and clung to her sister, who trembled in turn as another voice shouted —

“Call off the dogs, Mr Portlock; it is only I.”

“Sage,” whispered Rue, with her face close to her sister’s ear, “let us go away.”

“Why, it must be Mr Frank Mallow,” cried Mrs Portlock, excitedly, and she glanced in a frightened way at her nieces.

“Yes, that it is,” she said, beneath her breath, as a tall, dark man with a heavy beard entered the room, closely followed by Cyril Mallow.

“Beg pardon,” he said, in a curious, half-cynical way. “Didn’t expect to see me, I suppose. Only got back this afternoon; thought I should like to see all old friends.”

“Hearty glad to see you back again,” said the Churchwarden, frankly. “Sit down, Mr Cyril,” he continued, as the new-comer shook hands. “Take a chair, Mr Frank. It’s like old times to see you here again.”

“Hah! yes. How well you look, farmer, and you too, Mrs Portlock. Miss Sage, I presume? Why, what a change! Grown from a slip of a girl to a charming woman. And how is Miss Rue Portlock?” he said, with mock deference, as he fixed the pale, shrinking face with his dark eyes.

“I am quite well, Mr Frank,” said Rue, making an effort to be composed, but not taking the visitor’s extended hand. “John, dear,” she continued, turning to her husband, “this is Mr Frank Mallow, of whom you have heard me speak.”

“Ah! to be sure,” said John Berry. “Glad to know my little wife’s friends. How are you, sir – how are you?”

Frank Mallow’s eyes closed slightly, and he gazed in a half-curious, contemptuous way at John Berry as he shook hands, and then turned to Luke Ross.

“And is this Miss Sage’s husband?” he said, laughingly, but in a sarcastic way that turned Sage cold.

“Well, no; I am not Miss Portlock’s husband, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, smiling, and taking the extended hand, his tone saying plainly enough that he hoped soon to be.

“Ah, well, we all get married some time or other,” said the visitor, in a careless, unpleasant way.

“Have you got married then, my lad?” said the Churchwarden, reaching a cigar-box from the fireplace cupboard.

“No, not yet,” he replied, “not yet. Cyril and I are particular, eh, Cil, old man? I’ve come over to fetch myself a wife perhaps. Cigar? Yes; thanks. Take one, Cil? Hah! how cosy this old room seems! I’ve spent some pleasant hours here.”

“Ay, you’ve smoked many a pipe with me, Mr Frank. That was when you were in your farming days.”

“Farming days?”

“Ay,” chuckled the Churchwarden, “sowing thy wild oats, my lad.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Why, Portlock, you’re as fond of a joke as ever. Ladies, I hope you won’t mind so much smoking,” he said, puffing away vigorously all the same, while Luke Ross gazed uneasily from one brother to the other, till he caught Cyril looking at him in a haughty, offended manner, when in spite of himself his eyes fell.

“Old folks surprised to see you, eh, sir?” said the Churchwarden, to break the blank in the conversation.

“Yes, preciously,” was the short reply.

“Humph!”

Frank Mallow, who was staring at Rue, while his brother was trying to catch her sister’s eye, turned at this loud grunt and smiled.

“Oh, you’re there!” he exclaimed. “And how is Doctor Vinnicombe?”

“Doctor Vinnicombe is in very good health, and in the best of spirits,” said the doctor, sarcastically, “for one of his old patients has come back, evidently to pay a heavy bill that his father refused to acknowledge.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Frank Mallow.

“And how have you got on, Mr Frank?” said the Churchwarden. “I hope you’ve made a better hit of it than Mr Cyril there, and after all the teaching I gave him about sheep.”

“Better hit? Well, I hope so. Nice fellow he was to come out to the other side of the world, and never call upon his brother.”

“You took precious good care not to let us know your address,” retorted Cyril.

“And what may you have been doing, Mr Frank?” said the Churchwarden, who was beginning to have an uneasy idea that the visitors were not adding to the harmony of the evening, and also recalling the ugly little affairs that had to do with Frank’s departure.

“Doing?”

“Yes; sir; did you try tillage?”

“Not I, farmer,” exclaimed Frank Mallow, staring hard at Rue, who kept her eyes fixed upon the carpet, or talked in a low voice to Sage, while bluff John Berry listened eagerly for what seemed likely to be an interesting narrative.

“Let’s see, Mr Frank, you went to New Zealand?”

“Yes, but I did not stay there; I ran on to Australia, and tried the diggings.”

“And did you get any gold, sir?” said John Berry, eagerly.

“Pretty well,” replied Frank Mallow; “enough to buy and stock a good sheep farm; and now I’m as warm as some of them out there,” he added, with a coarse laugh, “and I’ve come back home for a wife to take care of the house I’ve built.”

“That’s right, sir,” said John Berry, nodding his head, and smiling at Rue; “nothing like a good wife, sir, to keep you square.”

“Then you are not going to stay?” said the Churchwarden.

“Stay! what here? No thanky; I had enough of England when I was here. Other side of the world for me.”

The Churchwarden was right in his ideas, for, as the night wore on, Frank Mallow seemed to be trying to pique Rue by his strange bantering ways, while all the time he was so persevering in his free attentions to Sage that Luke’s face grew red, and a frown gathered upon his forehead.

Cyril saw it too, and as he found that his brother’s conduct annoyed both Sage and Luke, he increased his attentions, laughingly telling Frank not to monopolise the ladies, but to leave a chance for some one else.

“And they call themselves gentlemen!” thought Luke Ross, as he listened gravely to all that was said, and tried to keep from feeling annoyed at the free and easy way of the two brothers, who seemed to have put on their Australian manners for the occasion, and refused to believe in Mrs Portlock being troubled and her nieces annoyed.

They had the greater part of the conversation, and thoroughly spoiled the evening, so that it was with a feeling of relief that Luke heard Cyril Mallow say —

“Well, come along; we must get back. Past twelve; and the governor likes early hours in the country.”

“Let him,” said Frank Mallow, lighting his fourth cigar.

“But the mater said she should wait up to see you before she went to bed,” said Cyril.

“Poor old girl! then I suppose we must go,” said Frank, rising. “Ladies, I kiss your hands, as we say in the east. Good-night!”

He shook hands all round, holding Rue Berry’s hand very tightly for a moment, at the same time that her brother had Sage’s little trembling fingers in his clasp.

“Good-night, gentlemen; you don’t go our way.”

The next minute Mrs Portlock uttered a sigh of relief, for the dogs were barking at the visitors whom Churchwarden Portlock was seeing to the gate.

“There’s a something I like about that young fellow,” said John Berry, breaking the silence, as the sisters stood hand clasped in hand, with Mrs Portlock looking at them in a troubled way. “I’ve heard a good deal of evil spoke of him, but a young fellow who is fond of his mother can’t be so very bad. Good-night, doctor; good-night, Mr Ross; good-night, Luke Ross. I’ll walk with you to the gate.”

The “good-night” between Luke and Sage was not a warm one, for the girl felt troubled and ill at ease, but Luke was quiet and tender.

“She’s very tired,” he said, “and I promised her – yes, I promised her – ”

He did not say what he promised her, as he went thoughtfully home, leaving his father and Doctor Vinnicombe to do all the talking; but as they parted at the doctor’s door in the High Street, the latter turned sharply, and said —

“Good-night, Luke Ross. I say, Michael Ross, I don’t think you need envy the parson his good fortune in the matter of boys.”

“I don’t envy him, Luke, my boy,” said the little thin, dry old man, as soon as they were out of hearing; “and if I were you, my boy, I’d have precious little to do with these young fellows.”

“Don’t be alarmed, father,” said Luke, laughing; “they would think it an act of condescension to associate with me.”

“No,” he said to himself, as he stood at last in his clean, plainly-furnished bedroom in the quaint little market-place, “I should be insulting Sage if I thought she could care for any one but me.”

But all the same Luke Ross’s dreams were not of a very pleasant kind that night; and those of the two sisters of a less happy character still.

Part 1, Chapter XV.
The Prodigal Sons

To look at the red-brick gabled rectory, with its rose and wistaria-covered trellis-work, the latter at its season one mass of lovely pendent lavender racemes, and the former in some form or other brightening the house with blossoms all the year round, it might have been thought that it was the home of peace and constant content. The surrounding gardens were a model of beauty, the Rector sparing no expense to make them perfect in their way; but he had long enough before found that beauty of garden and choicest interior surroundings would not bring him peace.

His first great trouble had been the illness of his wife, who, after the birth of Cynthia, had for years and years been taken to this famous specialist, to that celebrated physician, and from both to springs all over the Continent, till, finding no relief, Mr Mallow had yielded to the suffering woman’s prayer.

“It is hopeless, dear,” she had said, with a calm look of resignation in her pensive eyes. “Let us go home, and I will pray for strength to bear my lot.”

They returned then, and it was for her sake that the garden was made to bloom with flowers, and the hothouses to produce the most delicious fruits. Their income was large from private resources, while the Lawford living was good, so that all that money could bring to alleviate the suffering woman’s trouble was there, and the Rector was almost constantly at her side.

But Fate, as has been said, who had endowed the Rev. Eli Mallow with wealth, a handsome presence, and with good intellect, had not been chary in the matter of what commercial people term set-offs. Trouble besides his wife’s sickness came upon him thickly, principally in the persons of his handsome, manly-looking sons.

Frank had been a difficulty from childhood. He had not been more spoilt than most boys are, though certainly his invalid mother had been most indulgent; but there was a moral bias by nature in his disposition, which somehow seemed to make him, just as he was apparently going straight for a certain goal, turn right off in a very unpleasantly-rounded curve.

Quite early in his youth he had to be recalled, to save expulsion from a certain school, on account of his heading a series of raids upon various orchards, and in defiance of divers corrections on the principal’s part.

He had to return home from his two next schools for various offences against their rules, and finally his college career came to an end with rustication.

Frank laughed, and said that he did not know how it was. One thing, he said, was evident: he was not cut out for the church, and he would not go back to college when the term of his rustication was at an end.

A clerkship was obtained for him then, through great interest, in the Treasury, and here for three or four years he got along pretty well, the confinement not being great, and the number of friends he met with being of a character to suit his taste.

There were bounds, though, even in those days, to the limits accorded to a gentlemanly clerk of good birth, and when Frank took to absenting himself from the office for a week at a time, matters became serious.

For the first time or two the plea of illness was accepted, but when another absence occurred, also from illness, and Mr Frank Mallow was seen by his superiors riding a showy-looking hack in the park, and was known to have given a bachelors’ party in the same week, to which several fellow-clerks were invited, it became necessary to hint to the peccant youth that the next time he was unwell, a certificate to that effect would be necessary from some well-known medical man.

Frank was ill again, so he sent in word to the office, and stayed away for another week, after which, on presenting himself, he received a warning – one which he bore in mind for a couple of months, and then his head must have once more been very bad, for there was a fresh absence, and this endured so long that Frank’s seat in the Treasury knew him no more.

“Well, it don’t matter, mother,” he said. “It was a wretched set-out, and I was sick of the eternal copying.”

“But it was such a pity, dear,” his mother said, in a tone of remonstrance.

“Pity? Stuff! Eighty pounds a year, and a rise of ten pounds annually! Not bricklayer’s wages, and all the time people think it’s such a tremendous thing to be a Treasury clerk.”

“Poor papa is so vexed and grieved, for he took such pains to get you the appointment.”

“Then poor papa must get pleased again,” said the young man, petulantly. “I cannot, and I will not, stand a clerk’s desk. I’d sooner enlist.”

“Frank!” cried his mother, reproachfully.

“Well, I declare I would, mother,” he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and walking up and down the room.

“To find freedom?” said his mother, with a smile.

“Oh! I dare say there would be discipline to attend to, and officers to obey; but there would be some change. I should not have to be tied down to a wretched writing-table, copy, copy, copy, the whole day long.”

“Change?” said Mrs Mallow, and she gazed wistfully in her son’s face.

“Yes, of course; one must have some excitement.”

He stood gazing out of the window, and did not notice the strange despairing look in his mother’s eyes, one which seemed to tell of her own weary hours – weary years, passed upon that couch, with no hope of change save that of some day sinking into the eternal rest. It was evident that she was contrasting the selfishness of her son and his position with her own, and she sighed as she closed her eyes and lay there in silence for a time, uttering no reproach.

Then came the day when the Rector was goaded almost to madness by the young man’s follies, and the reports constantly reaching his ears of Frank’s exploits at the principal hotel in billiard-playing and various unsavoury pursuits with one or other of the young farmers round. Reports these that lost nothing doubtless in the telling, and which never failed to reach the Rector in a way that seemed to suggest that he was answerable for his son’s misdoings.

Then followed other troubles, culminating in an affray with the keepers, an affair which, from the family friendship with old Lord Artingale, could easily have been hushed up; but the Rector jumped at the opportunity he found in his son’s dread and evident anxiety to get away from the neighbourhood, so quite in a hurry Frank was shipped off to New Zealand.

And there was peace at the Rectory? Nothing of the kind. There was the misery of hearing endless little stories of Frank’s “carryings on,” as they were termed; some bill was constantly being brought to the house, with a request that the Rector would pay it, and, to hide his son’s disgrace, this he sometimes did. But the annoyance was none the less, and the Rector used to declare plaintively to his wife that if it were not for Julia and Cynthia he would run right away.

“And for me, Eli,” said the suffering woman, with a smile.

“And for you, dear,” he said, tenderly, and there was peace until some new peccadillo of the eldest son was discovered.

Then to the Rector’s dismay he found that Cyril – his mother’s darling – seemed to have taken a leaf out of his brother’s book. If the younger brother’s career had been to run upon a tram-line laid down by his elder brother, he could not have followed in the course more truly, and just as the Rector was beginning to feel calmed down and happy in the society of his two pretty daughters, troubles concerning Cyril kept cropping up.

“Nice chaps for a parson’s sons,” said Jabez Fullerton, the principal draper at Lawford, who could afford to speak out, as Mrs Mallow and her daughters sent to Swan and Edgar’s for everything. And he did speak out; for, as deacon at his chapel and occasional preacher, he never lost an opportunity of saying a few words by way of practice.

“Nice chaps for a parson’s sons! This is the sort of stuff they send to college, and then send back to teach us, in their surplices which we have to pay for the washing of, though we never go to church. Nice fellows they’ll be to preach sermons – out of books too – read ’em. We at chapel never read our sermons, eh?”

There was a murmur of acquiescence here, and Mr Jabez Fullerton felt happy.

Not that the Rev. Eli Mallow had thought of making his sons clergymen after testing them for a short time. Cyril had, like his brother, been to college, and with a view to his succeeding to the living of Lawford, but, as in the case of Frank, the Rector soon gave him up in despair.

Matters grew worse; then worse still. Expostulation, prayer, anger, all were tried in vain, and, having to bear the trouble to a great extent in silence, so as to hide it from the sick mother, who idolised Cyril, the Rector was at times almost beside himself.

At last there came a crash, and the Rector determined to get this son away before something worse should result.

Emigration was being much talked of just then, and plenty of young men were going out to the various colonies to commence life as squatters both in the far east and west. A couple of the young farmers of the neighbourhood of Lawford were about to start, and, after a stormy scene with his father, Cyril came one day to propose that he should be furnished with a little capital and an outfit, so that he could go and try his luck in Australia.

For a few moments the Rev. Eli Mallow was aghast at the idea. He wished Cyril to leave the town, but not to go abroad.

“I don’t care where I go,” said Cyril; “I’ll either try Australia, or go and hunt out Frank and chum with him.”

“But we don’t know where he is,” said the Rector.

“New Zealand.”

“Yes, but New Zealand is large.”

“Not so large but what a fellow might find out Frank. Everyone would know him.”

The Rector sighed, and wished his sons were not so popular with a certain class, and then he thought over the position, and shrank from giving his consent. Knowing the mother’s intense love for her son, he felt that the parting would nearly break her heart, and after a few moments’ pause he said so.

“Oh, you need not fidget about that,” said the young man. “I’ve talked to her about it for days past.”

“And what does she say?”

“Well, it upset her a bit at first, but she soon came round, and she thinks it would be the best thing I could do.”

It was then with a sense of relief that made him feel ashamed, that the father, after a liberal endowment of money, saw his son sent from Liverpool, after the heartiest promises on the part of the young man to do battle with life and make himself a name and a position in the colony.

“If not for my sake, Cyril, for your mother’s,” the father had said, as he held his son’s hand upon the deck of the Great Central liner.

“Depend upon me this time, father,” was the earnest reply, and Cyril went his way across the sea, fully believing in himself that his wild oats were sown, and that now he was about to make a position of substantial basis for himself.

It was a strange thing, and as if a curious kind of clairvoyance made him prophetic, for the Rev. Eli Mallow went home, and that evening busied himself over his next Sunday’s sermon, involuntarily choosing the parable of the Prodigal Son, and not waking up to the fact of what he had done till he sat there in his study reading the manuscript over by the light of his shaded lamp.

“Give me the portion of goods that falleth to me,” he muttered in a low voice, as, with the manuscript in his hand, he sat gazing straight before him into the darker part of the room, and then became silent.

“And took his journey into a far country,” he muttered again, in the same dreamy abstracted manner, and then there was a longer pause, followed by a deep sigh.

The Rev. Eli Mallow rose slowly from his seat, and, with an agonised look in his face, walked up and down the room for some time before sinking back into his chair.

“And there wasted his substance with riotous living.”

It did not seem to be his voice that spoke in the silence of that room; but he knew it was his that exclaimed piteously as the king of old – “Ah, Cyril, my son, my son!” Again there was absolute silence in that room, till, quoting once more from the parable which he had made the subject of his discourse, the Rector said softly —

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.”

“Yes, and I should forgive him,” he continued, after a pause. “I do try to practise as I preach. Poor Cyril! poor wilful boy. I pray heaven that my thoughts have been doing thee wrong.”

There was a gentle smile upon his lips then as he took the manuscript of his sermon and tore it up into very small pieces before consigning it to the waste-paper basket.

“No,” he said, “I must not preach a sermon such as that: it is too prophetic of my own position with my sons;” and as we know this prodigal did return penniless, having worked his way back in a merchant brig, to present himself one day at the rectory in tarry canvas trousers, with blackened horny hands and a reckless defiant look in his eyes that startled the quiet people of the place.

He made no reference as to his having wasted his substance; he talked not of sin, and he alluded in nowise to forgiveness, to being made as one of his father’s hired servants, but took his place coolly enough once more in the house, and if no fatted calf was killed, and no rejoicings held, he was heartily welcomed and forgiven once again.

He was his mother’s favourite, and truly, in spite of all, there was forgiveness ready in the father’s heart. As there was also for Frank, who after some years’ silence had suddenly walked in at the rectory gates, rough-looking and boisterous, but not in such a condition as his brother, who had quite scandalised the men-servants, neatly clad in the liveries, of which a new supply had come from London, greatly to the disgust of Smithson in the market-place, who literally scowled at every seam.

Part 1, Chapter XVI.
At the King’s Head

“What I say is this,” exclaimed Jabez Fullerton. “Justice is justice, and right is right.”

“Hear, hear!” murmured several voices, as Mr Fullerton glanced round the room, and drew himself up with the pride of a man who believed that he had said something original.

“I hope I’m too good a Christian to oppose the parson,” he continued, “and I wouldn’t if it had been Mr Paulby, but it’s time we stopped somewhere, gentlemen.”

“Hear, hear!” again; and several of the gentlemen addressed took their long pipes from their mouths to say it, and then, replacing them, continued to smoke.

“Ever since parson has been back he has been meddling and interfering. First he kills poor old Sammy Warmoth. Broke his heart, he did. Then he makes Joe Biggins saxon, a man most unfitted for the post, gentlemen. I say a man most unfitted for the post.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Chap as is always looking at you as if he wanted to measure you for a coffin,” said Smithson, the tailor.

“Natural enough,” said the Churchwarden, chuckling; “you always look at our clothes, Smithson, eh?”

“Ay, I do, Master Portlock, sir; but I don’t want you to die for it. I want you to live and grow stout, and want new suits, not a last one.”

“Stiff, hard suit o’ mourning, eh, Smithson, made o’ wood?”

“Yes, sir, well seasoned; ellum, eh?”

There was a general laugh at this lugubrious joking, and Fullerton tapped impatiently with his pipe-bowl upon the table.

“I say, gentlemen, a most unsuitable man,” he continued.

“Who would you have had then?” said Churchwarden Portlock.

“Why Thomas Morrison, the wheelwright,” said Fullerton, “if you must have a churchman.”

“Yes, a good man,” was murmured in assent.

“Then he must be pulling the church all to pieces, and quarrelling with the curate, and refusing to bury his dead. We wouldn’t have refused to bury our dead at chapel, gentlemen.”

“Not you,” chuckled Portlock. “You’d like to bury the lot of us, parson and all.”

“Gentlemen, this is begging the question,” said Fullerton, with plump dignity, and he settled his neck in his white cravat. “What I say is, that I have no enmity against the parson, nayther have you.”

“Nay, nay,” said Warton, the saddler, who had the rectory pair horse harness on his mind, the new double set, that he saw, by the name on the packing-case, came from Peak’s; “we only pity him. He has plenty of trouble wi’ those two boys of his. I hear the Bad Shilling’s come back now.”

“Ay, he’s back,” said Smithson. “I’ve got a pair of his trousers to mend. One never gets anything to make. Up at thy place last night, wasn’t he, Master Portlock?”

The Churchwarden nodded.

“Nice boys!” said Smithson. “Dessay the father was like ’em, for the girls really are nice, like their mother.”

“Then he was twice as hard as he need be on Jock Morrison,” continued Fullerton, who would finish. “Fancy sending a man to gaol for three months just when his brother’s got a death in the house.”

“Fair play,” cried Portlock. “The bairn died afterwards.”

“Well, maybe it did,” said Fullerton, “but he needn’t have been so hard on the poor bairn’s uncle. Why not give him another chance? He’s no worse in his way than the parson’s boys are in theirs.”

“Boys will be boys,” said Smithson, who wondered whether that pair of trousers to mend might result in an order for a suit.

Fullerton was impatient, and cut in almost before the tailor had finished.

“Clergymen’s all very well in their way, gentlemen, but the dismissing of old schoolmasters and appointing of new ones don’t seem to me to be in their way, especially where there’s governors to a school.”

“Parson’s a governor too,” said Warton, the saddler.

“Ex officio?” said Tomlinson, the ironmonger, who kept the bank.

“Of course, of course,” acquiesced Fullerton, who had not the least idea of what ex officio meant; “but I said it before, and I said it to parson’s own face, just the same as I’m saying it here behind his back, and any man who likes can tell him what I said,” and he looked round defiantly as he spoke; “what I say is, that, whatever Humphrey Bone’s faults may be, he’s as good a land measurer as ever stepped.”

“Yes, he is that,” said a broad farmer-looking man. “Joseph Portlock, you said the very same thing to me yesternight.”

“He’s a first-class penman.”

“Capital,” said Tomlinson.

“And if you know a man with a clearer head for figures,” continued Fullerton, “I should be glad to see him.”

“Capital man at ciphering,” said Smithson, the tailor, whose yearly accounts Humphrey Bone always made up.

“Then, what do you want?” said Fullerton, angrily. “We’ve all got our faults, and if Humphrey Bone does take a little too much sometimes, hasn’t he been master of Lawford school these thirty years?”

The latter part of Jabez Fullerton’s argument was not very clear to his fellow-townsmen assembled at their weekly social meeting at the King’s Head; but they all granted that they had their faults, and Jabez Fullerton waved the spoon with which he had been stirring his brandy-and-water in a very statesmanlike way.

“Look here,” he said, “I never go to church, for chapel’s good enough for me; but all the same I don’t bear enmity against the church, and never would.”

“But you did oppose the church rates, Fullerton,” said Tomlinson, with a chuckle.

“On principle, neighbour, on principle; I couldn’t help that. But in this case what I say is, that though I’d be the last man in the world to oppose parson, it would be a disgrace to the town if we let poor Humphrey Bone be pitched out of the living, just because parson wants the place for Churchwarden Ross’s boy.”

“Well, I don’t know what to say about it,” said Tomlinson, smoking meditatively at his pipe. “Michael Ross is a very good neighbour of mine, and brings his money to our bank regular. I should be sorry to hurt his feelings, ’specially as his boy has been to London on purpose to be trained.”

“Let him get a school somewhere else. There’s always plenty on the way, I’ll be bound.”

“Don’t seem to me as the boys’ll take to a lad as was brought up, as you may say, among ’em,” said Smithson. “Bless my soul, gentlemen, I made that boy his fust suit with three rows o’ brass buttons, with marigolds stamped on ’em. Bottle-green the suit was, and the trousers buttoned over the jacket. You know, Fullerton; I had the cloth of you.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” said the draper suavely.

“Well,” continued Smithson —

“Excuse me, Smithson,” said Fullerton, “we’re just discussing the question of Mr Mallow carrying everything with a high hand, and turning out old Humphrey Bone without our consent.”

Smithson, the tailor, jumped up, scowled round at the assembled company, stuck his hat upon his head with a bang, and walked straight out of the room.

“He’s huffed,” said Fullerton, with a sidewise wag of the head, “but I can’t help his being offended. When a man becomes a public man, he’s got a public man’s dooty to do to his fellow townsfolk, and at times like this he’s bound to speak. So what I say, gentlemen, is this; will you all come to the meeting to-morrow, and back me up?”

No one spoke, and it was remarkable that every man present just then seemed to feel his mouth dry, and reached out his hand for his glass.

“I say again, gentlemen,” cried Fullerton, “will you all come and back me up?”

Every man present seemed to consider that it was the duty of the others to speak out and tackle Fullerton – so they mentally put it – and each looked at the other in turn without avail, till the regards of all present seemed to be concentrated upon Tomlinson, the ironmonger, who after a little hesitation said —

“I don’t think it was wise to upset Smithson. It’s like sending a man over to the enemy.”

“I hope he hasn’t got a long bill against you for clothes, Fullerton,” said Warton, the saddler, with a chuckle. “You’ll have it in before it comes due.”

“If I owed my tailor a bill I dare say I could pay it, Mr Warton,” said Fullerton, haughtily; “and I should be glad to know, gentlemen, whether you mean to discuss the question of the appointment of a new master, because if you don’t I shall throw the whole matter up.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” came in a murmur; “don’t do that, Fullerton,” and an appealing look was directed at Tomlinson, who drew a long breath, refreshed himself, and went on.

“You see I don’t think it would be wise to go and upset Mr Mallow if we could help it,” he said; “he’s a very good customer of mine, and very neighbourly. I don’t think he’s a bad sort of man.”

“Not a bad sort of man!” cried Fullerton, indignantly; “why, it’s a burning shame for him to have charge of this parish at all. What’s a parson for?”

“Well,” said Tomlinson, mildly, “I suppose to have the care of the parish.”

“Yes, and to rule and manage it,” said Warton.

“Yes,” cried Fullerton, “of course; and here’s a man who can’t manage his own household, which is the wastefullest in the place.”

“Might keep your family on what they waste, eh, Fullerton?” said Warton, the saddler, with a chuckle, for he was a great friend of Smithson; and it was a fact often commented upon by neighbours, that Fullerton’s domestic economy was of the most parsimonious character.

“I’m not the man to eat the parson’s leavings,” said Fullerton, angrily, “nor yet the man to go cringing and touching my hat to him in hopes of getting a harness-mending order.”

Mr Warton refilled his pipe.

“I say,” continued Fullerton, “that a man who can’t rule his own sons can’t properly rule a parish.”

“Nay, nay, nay,” cried Tomlinson; “don’t be too hard upon him, man. He’s a very good sort of fellow is Mallow, and I should be very sorry to go against him.”

“But you will go against him,” said Fullerton, triumphantly; and he looked very hard in the ironmonger’s face.

Mr Tomlinson’s pipe needed seeing to just then, and he let his eyes rest upon the glowing fire therein, as he recalled certain little speculative money transactions that had taken place between him and Fullerton, and felt how awkward it might be if he offended his fellow-townsman.

It would be very awkward to have to side against the Rector, but of two evils Tomlinson felt bound to choose the least.

“I’m afraid that in this instance I must go against Mr Mallow,” said Tomlinson, deliberately; and Fullerton gave a triumphant glance round the room.

“Hah!” he said to himself, “there’s a wonderful power in money, and one never knows what it will do.”

Part 1, Chapter XVII.
The Governors’ Meeting

Market morning again at Lawford, and the customary business going on. There were a few pigs in the pens; a larger amount of butter than usual at the cross, some of it holding a good two ounces of salt to the pound. A sale by auction of some old furniture was to take place, and gigs, cars, and carts were coming in.

The rectory carriage, with Julia and Cynthia Mallow looking sweet and attractive enough to tempt the tradespeople who quarrelled with the father to touch their hats, came in quite early, setting down the Rector, who had to visit the bookseller’s and order a new volume for the society library, and soon after he was on his way to the chief point of attraction that morning, to wit, the special meeting of the governors of Lawford School, with the Rector in the chair.

The meeting, according to custom, had been called for the vestry-room, which would only comfortably hold six, and then adjourned to the King’s Head, where the townspeople and those interested in the important event were gathered in force.

Thirty years before, when Humphrey Bone obtained his appointment, only three people were present – to wit, the then rector of the parish and a couple of governors. But there was no opposition in those days. Dissent had not taken so strong a hold on the little town, and the disposition for making a party fight over every trifling matter had not grown into the ascendant.

On this particular day, however, though to a man every one present, whether Nonconformist or supporter of Church and State, would have stoutly denied that party feeling or local politics had anything to do with his presence, it was very evident that there were two opposing sides, and that the meeting was pretty evenly divided between the supporters of the Rector, who believed in the time being come for the appointment of a new master, and those who nailed their colours to the mast old style, and openly declared that any change made must be for the worse.

Humphrey Bone was there one of the first, making the boards echo with his thick boot, and it was noticed that the said boot had been thoroughly blacked, that Humphrey was well shaved, his hair had been cut, and that he had on a clean white shirt.

Fullerton was there, too, talking to him aside, and Tomlinson, Smithson, and Warton soon put in an appearance, one and all looking as important and solemn as if the constitution of the country were at stake, in place of so mild a question as that which was to be settled – whether Humphrey Bone was to be superseded, or not.

The room was growing pretty full. Michael Ross, the tanner, had entered, followed by his son, who looked very pale and determined, speaking in a quick, decided way to Portlock, the churchwarden, who came up and shook hands with both his father and him in turn.

Then the Rector entered, followed by Cyril, who sauntered into the room with a careless air, nodding at first one and then another, till his eyes met those of Luke Ross, when he started slightly, but returned the keen fixed gaze with one full of angry resentment before looking down.

Then there was a little bustle and settling down in seats as the Rector took the chair. The vestry clerk opened a big calf-skin covered book, stuck a new quill pen behind his ear, and drew the ink a little nearer to him, when there was a breathless pause, during which all who could looked from Luke Ross, the young, to Humphrey Bone, the old, as if they were the champions of the two causes assembled here, and as though they were expected to come forward in front of the Rector’s chair and do battle manfully for the post.

Then the Rector quietly announced that the meeting that day was for the purpose of confirming the appointment of the new master to the boys’ school, and also to accept the resignation of the late master, Mr Humphrey Bone.

“Never resigned,” shouted that individual; and he involuntarily wiped his mouth, as if to remove all traces of his having been seeking for support at the King’s Head bar.

Mr Mallow frowned slightly, and there was a low buzz of satisfaction on one side of the room.

“Didn’t resign, and don’t want to resign,” said Humphrey Bone more loudly, being encouraged by the looks of approbation he received.

“And to confirm the dismissal of Mr Humphrey Bone from the office of master of the school,” said the Rector, firmly. “I beg pardon, gentlemen, I was under the impression that Mr Bone had resigned. I may add, gentlemen, that the preliminaries have been settled at the former meeting, and all that is requisite now is for a majority of the governors to sign the minute that the clerk to the vestry will prepare. If any gentleman has a remark or two he would like to make, we shall be most happy to hear him.”

“Yes, that’s easy enough to say,” whispered Warton to Smithson. “He’s used to speaking in public. I always feel as if my heart’s getting into my mouth.”

“Mr Fullerton, I think, wishes to address you, gentlemen,” said the Rector, smiling and sitting down.

Mr Fullerton looked as if he would have liked to strangle the Rector for that smile. It was a perfectly innocent smile, in no wise directed at the would-be speaker, but it seemed to Fullerton that the Rector was ridiculing him, and it put him off his text for the moment, but he recovered himself, and in a very florid speech, full of wanderings from the point, opposed the appointment of a new master on the ground that Humphrey Bone having been duly nominated and appointed, unless he had in some special way become unfit for his post, the Rector had no right to dismiss him.

Mr Bone uttered a very loud “Hear, hear!”

Two more of the townsmen, followers of Fullerton, rose in turn to speak, but were silenced on the spot by the announcement of the Rector, that this was not an ordinary meeting of ratepayers, but of the governors of the school, who alone had a right to make any motion and speak to the proposition before the meeting.

This being so, Tomlinson was forced into action by his neighbour, and in smooth tones regretted that he was compelled to go in opposition to “our worthy Rector,” but, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, he must object to the appointment of so young a man as Mr Luke Ross to so important a post, and after a long speech, in which he went round and round the subject a dozen times, he ended by declaring that he should vote against the appointment.

To his annoyance, the Rector, as the meeting went on, found himself undoubtedly in the minority, and he felt bitterly the position in which Luke Ross had been placed.

Just then, however, a couple of the governors, upon whom he knew that he could depend, entered the room, and the tables, he felt, were turned.

Luke had been sitting, chafing at every word that had been said against his appointment, and every now and then, as he met Cyril Mallow’s eye, it seemed to him to be full of triumph at his discomfiture.

Then, too, he kept glancing at Portlock, and as he did so the bluff, wealthy farmer’s words came back, mingled with the contempt he seemed to feel for the pittance that was to be the young master’s for the first few years.

Five hundred a year – five hundred a year – seemed to keep repeating itself to Luke Ross, as his eyes once more met those of Cyril Mallow, whose countenance wore a decided sneer.

“Then now, gentlemen, I think,” said the Rector, “we will proceed to vote.”

“Stop!” cried Luke Ross.

It was on the impulse of the moment. He had had no such thought when he entered the room.

“We will hear you, Mr Ross, after the voting is over,” said the Rector, quietly.

“No, sir,” replied Luke, “I must ask you to hear me first. I have decided not to accept the post.”

There was a dead silence in the room for a few moments after Luke Ross’s decisive words, a silence broken by Humphrey Bone, who relieved the excitement under which he laboured by starting from his seat, and bringing his thick-soled boot down with a tremendous clump upon the floor.

“Do I understand you to say, Mr Ross, that you decline the post?” exclaimed the Rector.

“Yes, sir, definitely,” replied Luke. “I could not, under the circumstances, think of accepting the appointment.”

There was another pause here, and then, led by Fullerton, the opposition party broke into a loud cheer.

“Silence if you please, gentlemen,” exclaimed the Rector, with a greater show of indignation than any one present remembered him to have displayed. “This is no time for showing party feeling. Of course, as Mr Ross declines to accept the appointment – ”

“But he don’t,” cried old Michael Ross, “he wants time to think it over.”

“Hush, father,” exclaimed the young man, firmly, “I know my own mind. Mr Mallow, I am sorry to have given all this trouble, and, as it were, placed you in a false position; but until a few minutes back I did not see this matter in the light I do now, and I definitely decline the post.”

“Your action does you great credit, young man,” said Fullerton, pompously; “and I am glad to congratulate my fellow-townsman, Michael Ross, on the possession of such a son.”

“Your compliment is misplaced, sir,” said Luke, coldly, “for my action in this matter is in nowise creditable to me. But that is my affair, and it need not be discussed.”

Mr Fullerton scowled on receiving this snub, and he was about to make some angry retort, but the Rector said at once —

“Then, gentlemen, we need say no more, unless you wish to discuss the question of Mr Bone’s dismissal.”

“I claim,” said Fullerton, “that he cannot be dismissed.”

“A majority of the school governors have the power to dismiss him, Mr Fullerton,” replied the Rector, with dignity; and after a few more words he left the chair, the meeting being declared adjourned until application had been made to one of the institutions for another master.

“I am sorry to find that you have come to such a decision, Mr Ross,” said the Rector, as he encountered Luke outside the inn.

“I was sorry to come to such a decision, sir,” replied Luke; “but, believe me that I have been in no way influenced by those who seem to be in opposition to you, and I hope that you will persist in Humphrey Bone’s dismissal, and the appointment of another man.”

The Rector bowed and walked on with his son, who raised his hat slightly to Luke, that salute being returned as the young men’s eyes met once more, each reading in those of the other a growing dislike which must some day ripen into enmity.

Then they passed on their several ways, both having the same object in view.

Part 1, Chapter XVIII.
Doubts

It was nearly twelve o’clock, and in spite of her efforts, Sage Portlock’s thoughts had wandered a good deal from the work she had in hand. It was the morning upon which Luke Ross’s appointment was to be confirmed, and her face flushed as she thought of the time when he would be conducting the next school, and the future looked very rosy and bright, for she told herself that in secret she was very fond of Luke.

Julia and Cynthia Mallow had been there to take a class and chat with her for a few minutes, Cynthia being ready with a sly allusion to the business upon which papa had been left.

“We are going to pick up papa after he has fastened your schoolmaster, Sage,” she said; “but first of all we are going to drive over to the farm and see Mrs Berry and the little ones. When does she go away?”

“To-morrow, Miss Cynthia,” said Sage, turning rather white, “and – and she is not very well. Would you mind not calling, Miss Julia?”

“Oh, no, certainly not,” said Julia; “but I am sorry. Give our kind love to her, Sage, and say we will drive over to Lewby some day and see her there.”

“Thank you, Miss Julia,” said Sage, and she gladly saw the school visitors depart, with the intention of going on to the ford.

Sage sighed as she stood at the door and saw the sisters get into the handsomely appointed carriage that was waiting, and then she wished that she had asked them when they were going back to London, for it seemed to her that both she and Rue would feel happier and more at ease if the Mallow family were gone.

Then she recalled her last meeting with Luke at home, and his words upon learning – short conversation interrupted by her aunt – that there was to be no engagement until he had realised a better income than would accrue from the schools.

“That does not matter,” she said, brightening up. “Luke is so brave and determined, and has such spirit, that he will soon become rich enough for us to marry, and, of course, we can wait.”

There was no impatience in Sage’s love for Luke Ross. She told herself that she was very fond of him, and some day they would be man and wife, but when did not seem to her to matter, and she busied herself once more, light-hearted enough, with the children.

Then came the beginning of another train of thought, and there was once more a slight flush in her cheeks as her mind turned to Cyril Mallow, his coming to the school with his father, his meeting and speaking to her once or twice when she was leaving school, and then, too, of his coming to the farm to sit, and smoke, and talk with her uncle.

The colour deepened in her cheeks a little more as she thought of all this; but, directly after, she drove these thoughts away, and busied herself with the conclusion of the morning lessons.

Twelve o’clock, and the buzz and hurry of the dismissal, and then the pleasant scent of the cool outer air as the windows were thrown open, and again the bright elasticity of feeling as, well wrapped in warm furry jacket and with her natty little, not-too-fashionable hat setting off the freshness of her complexion and youthful looks, she started for her brisk walk along the lane and across the field to the farm.

She had to pass Mrs Searby’s cottage on her way, where that worthy woman with upturned sleeves was standing at the open door in converse with another of the mothers whose children attended the school.

“Good-morning,” said Sage, as she passed them, and the second woman returned the salutation; but Miss Searby’s mamma replied by giving her an uncompromising stare, and saying aloud before the young mistress was out of hearing —

“Ah, she’s going to meet young Cyril Mallow. Nice goings on, indeed, for one like her.”

Sage’s cheeks turned scarlet as she hurried on, and a strange feeling of shame and confusion troubled her. It was nothing that she was perfectly innocent of any such intent, she felt horribly guilty all the same, and it was only by a great effort that she kept back the hot tears of indignation.

Then her conscience smote her with the recollection that she had thought a good deal of Cyril Mallow lately, and she asked herself whether she was turning traitorous to Luke Ross, but only to indignantly repel the self-inflicted charge.

It was monstrous, she told herself. She was sure that she loved Luke very dearly, as she always had from a child, when he had been like a brother to her. Some day when he had climbed higher she would be his wife, for she was sure her uncle never meant all that he had said. He was too fond of her, and too eager to do all he could to make her happy.

“Such a shameful thing to say! A wicked woman!” exclaimed Sage then; “as if I ever thought – Oh!”

She quickened her steps with her face growing scarlet once more, the red flush having died out to leave it pale, for there were footsteps behind her coming on quickly, and it was Cyril Mallow, she felt, hurrying to catch her; and that was why the spiteful woman had spoken in that bitter way.

The steps were coming nearer in spite of Sage’s efforts to get home before she was overtaken. Pat, pat, pat, pat! just as her heart was beating with excitement. She felt frightened, she hardly knew why, and dreaded being overtaken by Cyril, who seemed to have obtained some power over her that she could not understand.

He was very pleasant spoken, and frank, and manly-looking, but she did not like him nor his ways, for she was sure that he was a bad son.

“I wonder whether he would try to improve if I asked him, and pointed out how wrong it is of him to be so much trouble to his parents,” thought Sage; and then she shivered with a strange kind of dread.

Why had she thought all that? What was Cyril Mallow to her? It was only out of civility that he had spoken to her as he had, but she felt that it was out of place, and that Mr Mallow would not have approved of it at all, and – and it was very dreadful.

As a rule, Sage Portlock was a firm, determined girl, full of decision and strength of character, but the words of the spiteful woman seemed to have quite unnerved her, and with the sense of being very guilty, and of having behaved treacherously to Luke Ross, she had hard work to keep from starting off, and breaking into a run.

“And he is coming on so quickly,” she thought. “He will overtake me before I get to the gate. How dare he follow me about like this, and why is not Luke here to protect me!”

Sage Portlock’s excitement had thoroughly mastered her, and she uttered quite a hysterical little cry, as the steps drew quite near now, and a voice exclaimed —

“Why, Sage, I almost had to run.”

“Luke!”

“Yes; Luke,” he replied, smiling, as he took her hand in his. “Who did you think it was?”

“I – I – didn’t know; I wanted to get home quickly,” she faltered. “I did not know it was you.”

“I know that,” he said, drawing her hand through his arm, “or else you would have stopped, wouldn’t you?”

“Why, of course, Luke,” she said, smiling in his face, and with a calm feeling of rest and protection coming over her disturbed spirit.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “Let’s walk slowly, for I’ve a great deal to say to you before you go in.”

“But, first of all, tell me, Luke, dear,” she cried eagerly, “is the appointment confirmed?”

“No.”

“No? Not confirmed? Then, that wicked old Bone – ”

“That wicked old Bone of contention,” he said, laughingly taking her up, “has had very little to do with it. At one time I thought that it would be very cruel to take his post, but I do not think so now.”

“But not confirmed, Luke?” she cried, stopping short and clinging to his arm, the picture of bitter disappointment. “Why, this is the meaning, then, of the opposition uncle spoke of yesterday. Who has dared to stop you from having the school?”

“You,” said Luke, as he gazed admiringly in her animated face.

“I, Luke? I?” she exclaimed, in a puzzled way.

“Well, it is through you, dear,” he said, smiling.

“But I have done nothing, Luke,” she cried. “You are teasing me! Has the meeting taken place?”

“Yes; I have just come from it.”

“Well? Mr Bone was there I know, for he gave the boys a holiday, so that he might come.”

“Yes, he was there, evidently looking upon me as the greatest enemy he had in the world till he heard me decline the post.”

“You? – you declined the post, Luke?”

“Yes, I declined the post.”

“And you told me you loved me,” she said, reproachfully, as she drew back.

“As I do with all my heart,” he cried, taking her hand, and drawing it through his arm once more. “Sage, dear, it is because I love you so well that I have declined to take the school.”

“When it was so near,” she cried; and her tears seemed to have stolen into her voice. “And now you will go and take a school ever so far away. Oh, Luke,” she cried, piteously, “it is too bad!”

“Hush, little one,” he said, firmly. “It is not like you to talk like that. I shall not take a school far away, though I shall have to leave you. Sage, dear, I have felt that I must give up present pleasure for a future joy.”

“I – I – don’t understand you,” she cried; “your talk is all a puzzle to me.”

“Is it, dear? There, it shall not be long. You know what your uncle said to me the other day?”

“Oh, yes, Luke; but I don’t think he quite meant it.”

“I am sure he did mean it,” he replied; “and he is quite right. For the past year I have been learning lessons of self-denial, and been taught to place the schoolmaster’s duty above questions of a pecuniary kind; but your uncle has placed my position in a practical light, and, Sage, dear, it is as if all the past teaching has been undone.”

“Oh, Luke, Luke,” she cried, “don’t talk like that!”

“I must. I have had another talk with your uncle. This morning I overtook him, and he asked me, as a man, whom he says he can trust, to set aside all love-making, as he called it in his homely Saxon-English, and to treat you only as a friend! ‘Let matters stand for the present, and see what a couple of years bring forth, if you are doing well,’ he said, ‘in your new position.’”

“In your new position, Luke? Why, what do you mean?”

“Sage, dear, I have decided to set aside the idea of being the master of a school.”

“Oh, Luke!”

“And to read for the bar.”

“Read for the bar?”

“Yes, read for the bar: become a barrister; and I shall work hard to win a name.”

“But the school, Luke – the training college. It is not honest to take advantage of their teaching, gain all you can, and then take to some other career.”

“You think that?” he said, smiling. “Yes, of course,” she said, indignantly. “The principal at Westminster spoke very warmly about two of the students giving up their schools directly, and taking situations as governesses in good families.”

“I quite agree with her,” said Luke, quietly; “and I have appraised the cost to the institution at fifty pounds. That sum I feel bound to send. It is quite as much as so bad a master as I should have turned out is worth.”

“Oh, Luke, that is nonsense,” she cried, as she looked proudly in his face.

“Nay,” he said, “it is truth. And now listen to me. This has all been very sudden.”

“Yes, and you never said a word to me.”

“I came and told you as soon as I knew,” retorted Luke, firmly. “And now I say once more this has been very sudden, but it is irrevocably in obedience to your uncle’s wishes. I shall exact no promises from you, tie you down in no way, but go away in perfect faith that in a few years as the reward of my hard struggle, and when I can go and say to your uncle, ‘See, here, I can command the income you said that I ought to have!’ you will be my little wife.”

“But must you go away, Luke?” she said, with a pitiful look in her eyes.

“Yes, it is absolutely certain. How could I climb up in the world if I stayed here?”

“But I don’t want you to go,” she cried, excitedly.

“And I don’t want to leave you,” he said, fondly.

“I want you to stop and protect me, and take care of me and keep me for yours, Luke.”

“Don’t – don’t talk like that,” he cried, speaking hoarsely, “or you will make me forget my promise to your uncle. Let us be firm and true, and look the matter seriously in the face. It is for our future, and I pray and believe that I am acting wisely here.”

“But you will be away,” she said, with a piteous look in her eyes. “There will be no one to take care of me when you are gone.”

“Nonsense, little one,” he exclaimed. “There is your uncle. What have you to fear? Only be true to me.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” she sobbed; “but you do not know, Luke. I might be tempted, I might be led away from you – I might – ”

“Might!” he said, with scorn in his voice. “My little Sage, whom I have known from the day when she gave me first her innocent sisterly love, could not be untrue to the man she has promised to wed. Sage, dear,” he continued, holding her hands in his, and gazing in her agitated, tearful face, “look at me – look me fully in the eyes.”

“Yes, Luke,” she said, hesitatingly; and her pretty, troubled face looked so winning that it was all he could do to keep from clasping her in his arms tightly to his own trusting breast.

“Now,” he said, smiling, “you see me. Can you doubt, dear, that I should ever be untrue to you?”

“No, no! oh, no, Luke,” she cried.

“Neither could I, dearest,” he said, softly. “I am a very plain, unimpulsive man, wanting, perhaps, in the soft speech and ways that are said to please women; but I think my heart is right, and that in spite of my quiet ways I love you very, very dearly.”

“I know, I know you do,” sobbed the girl.

“Yes, and I trust you, my dear,” he said. “I know that you could never give look or word to another that would cause me pain.”

“No, no, dear Luke, I could not,” she sobbed; “but I want you with me. I cannot bear for you to leave me helpless here.”

“Nonsense, my little pet,” he said, tenderly. “The years will soon slip by, and then all will be well. There, we understand each other, do we not?”

“Yes, yes, Luke, I think so,” she sobbed.

“One kiss, then, darling, the last I shall take, perhaps, for years, and then – ”

“Oh, no, not now – not now,” she cried, hastily, as he sought to take her in his arms in the sheltered lane. “Uncle is coming with Mr Cyril Mallow;” and then she moaned passionately to herself, “Him again! Oh, Luke, Luke, I wish that I was dead.”

Part 1, Chapter XIX.
Julia’s Horror

Two young men leaning over the park railings on a bright spring morning, when the soot-blackened, well-worn grass that had been suffering from a winter’s chronic cold was beginning to put forth its tender green shoots and dress itself for the season.

The rather muddy drive was on one side, the Serpentine on the other, and indications that London was coming to town could be seen in the increasing string of carriages.

One of the young men was undoubtedly dressed by Poole – well dressed; and he looked worthy of his tailor’s care. Frank, manly, handsome, there was a pleasant look in his grey eyes; and if his fair moustache had not been quite so heavy, a well-cut firm mouth would have been better seen. Perhaps that very glossy hat was worn a trifle too much on one side, and with the well set up appearance it suggested military, but the gold horse-shoe pin with diamond nails directly after hinted equine: the result being a compromise, and the looker-on concluded cavalry.

The other was of a heavier build, and was decidedly not dressed by a good tailor. He was not shabby, but careless; and while his companion was carefully gloved, he carried his hand-shoes in his hands, and certainly his hat had not been touched by a brush that morning.

He was a good-looking, manly fellow, with very short hair and a very long beard, thick enough to hide three parts of his chest.

The judge of human nature who had tried to read him at a glance, would, if right, have said, “Good fellow, somewhat of a cynic, don’t care a sou for appearances.”

Two of the characters in this comedy, to wit, Henry Lord Artingale, man of fashion with a good income; and James Magnus, artist of a manly school, who had cut deeply his mark upon the time.

Another character was seated upon a bench some twenty yards away, cutting his mark, not on the time, but upon the park seat, with an ugly, sharp-pointed clasp-knife, which he closed with a snap, and then threw one great leg over the newly-cut wood, as he seemed to feel more than see the appearance of a policeman, who ran his eye shrewdly over the fellow as if considering him a “party” likely to be “wanted.”

Jock Morrison looked decidedly like the proverbial fish out of water as he stared sullenly about, but not as one might stare who finds himself in an incongruous position by accident. About the only ill-dressed person in his neighbourhood, Jock seemed in no wise abashed, nor yet the worse for his course of imprisonment, his dark beard having rapidly grown and got well over the blacking-brush stage so affected by the Parisian “swell.” Far from seeming abashed, Jock Morrison was ready with a cool, defiant look for every one not in the law, and as a rule those who stared at the great swarthy fellow once were satisfied not to repeat the look.

Jock was evidently in the park for a purpose, and every now and then his eyes wandered over the lines of carriages, but without seeing that of which he was in quest, and as soon as the policeman was gone he once more opened his knife, and began to carve, handily enough, a new design – this time a couple of hearts locked together after the time-honoured fashion shown in a valentine.

“That’s about as picturesque-looking a blackguard as I’ve seen for months,” said Magnus, looking across the road at where the fellow lounged. “I wonder whether he’d come and stand for me.”

“H’m, yes,” said his companion; “nice-looking youth.”

“He’d make a splendid bull-fighter in a Spanish scene.”

“H’m, bull-dog fighter, I should have said, Mag. By the way, I’d have a certificate from the baths and wash-houses before I admitted him to the studio. He looks disgustingly dirty.”

“Yah! horrible! Take me away, Harry. I feel as if I were going to be sick.”

“Why, what’s the matter now?”

“Talk about that great blackguard looking disgusting: here’s my great horror!”

“What, Perry-Morton?”

“Yes. Look at his hideously fat, smooth face, and his long greasy hair tucked behind his ears. Look at his open throat, and – confound the animal, yes – a crimson satin tie. Harry, I shall be had up one of these days for an atrocious assault upon that creature. I shall lie in wait for him like a bravo, and armed with a pair of new scissors I shall cut his hair. Is it possible to prevail upon him to go about clothed, and in his right mind?”

“For shame, Jemmy! and you a brother artist.”

“Brother artist be hanged! You don’t call that thing an artist.”

“Why, my dear boy, he’s acknowledged in society as the apostle of the poet-painters’ school.”

“Good God!”

“My dear boy, do restrain yourself,” laughed the other.

“I can’t help it. I do like a man to be a man, and for goodness’ sake look at that thing.”

“That thing,” as Magnus so contemptuously dubbed him, was certainly striking in appearance, as the open carriage in which he was riding came to a standstill, and he signed to the footman to let him out. For as he descended it was to stand upon a very thin pair of legs that in no sense corresponded with his plump, white, boyish face.

It was a handsome, well-appointed carriage from whose front seat he had alighted, the back being occupied by two ladies of between twenty and thirty, who looked as if their costume had been copied from a disinterred bas-relief; so cold and neutral were their lines that they might have been lady visitors to the Grosvenor Gallery, instead of maidens to whom the word “aesthetic” was hardly known. For the Graeco-Roman extended to their hair, which stood out from their foreheads, looking singed and frizzed as if scorched by the burning thoughts that were in their brains; for even in those days there were ladies who delighted to belong to the pre-Raphaelic cum fleshly school of painting and poetry, and took pains to show by their uniform that they were of the blessed.

As the footman folded the steps and closed the door, the gentleman – to wit, Mr Perry-Morton, of Saint Agnes’, Park Road – posed himself in an artistic attitude with one arm upon the carriage-door, crossed one leg over the other, and gazed in the faces of his sisters, one delicately-gloved hand in correct harmony of tint playing with a cambric handkerchief, specked with toy flowers of the same tone.

As he posed himself, so did the two ladies. The nearer curled herself gracefully, all but the legs, in a pantherine style in the corner of the carriage, and looked at her brother sweetly through the frizz of hair, as if she were asking him to see if there were a parting. The further drooped over florally in a manner that in another ordinary being would have suggested crick in the neck, but here, as with her brother and sister, everything was so deliriously unstudied – or well studied – that she only gave the idea of a bending flower – say, a bud – or a pallid virgin and martyr upon painted glass.

“Oh, Lord!” said Magnus, aloud.

“Hush! don’t. Come along, though. Gently, man, or they’ll see us, and we shall have to talk to the girls.”

“I’m an ostrich,” said the artist; “my head is metaphorically buried in sand. Whatever my pursuers see, I am blind.”

As it happened a group of people came along, and under their cover the two young men escaped.

“He is an awful fool,” said Artingale, “but the people believe in him.”

“Bah! so they will in any lunatic who makes himself fashionably absurd. I’ll be reasonable, Harry, though that fellow has half driven me wild with his airs and patronage. He gave me a thumping price for one of my pictures, for he’s immensely rich. Then he had the impudence to want me to alter it – the composition of months of hard, honest study – and began to lecture me on art.”

“From his point of view.”

“Yes, from his point of view. But as I said, I will be reasonable. There is a deal in this pre-Raphaelitism, and it has done its part in reviving some of the best of the ancient art, and made its mark on our schools of to-day. But there it was not allowed to stop. A pack of idiots – there, I can call them nothing else – go into frantic worship of all the worst portions of old art, and fall down and idolise things that are ugly, ill-coloured, and grotesque.”

“True, O magnate! and they’ll grow worse.”

“They imitate it in their paintings, drawing impossible trees, landscapes, and houses for backgrounds, and people their foregrounds with resurrections in pigment of creatures that seem as if they had been dead and buried for a month, and clothe them in charnel-house garb.”

“Bravo! charnel-house garb is good.”

“Thankye, Polonius junior,” said the artist; “I tell you, Harry, I get out of patience with the follies perpetrated under the name of art, to the exclusion of all that is natural and beautiful and pure. Now I ask you, my dear boy, would you like to see a sister of yours dressing up and posing like those two guys of girls?”

“Haven’t got a sister, worse luck, or you should have her, old fellow.”

“Thanks. Well, say, then, the woman you loved.”

“Hush! stop here, old fellow. Here they come.”

“Who? Those two stained-glass virgins?”

“No, no, be quiet; the Mallow girls.”

There was so much subdued passion in the young man’s utterance that the artist glanced sidewise at him, to see that there was an intensity of expression in his eyes quite in keeping with his words, and following the direction of his gaze, he saw that it was fixed upon a barouche, drawn by a fine pair of bays, which champed their bits and flecked their satin coats with foam as they fretted impatiently at the restraint put upon them, and keeping them dawdling in a line of slow-moving carriages going east.

There was another line of carriages going west between the two young men and the equipage in question, and Magnus could see that his companion was in an agony of dread lest his salute should not be noticed, but, just at the right moment, the occupants of the barouche turned in their direction, acknowledged the raised hat of Lord Artingale, and, the pace just then increasing, the carriage passed on.

“Feel better?” said Magnus, cynically.

“Better? yes,” cried the young man, turning to him flushed and with a gratified smile upon his face. “There, don’t laugh at me, old fellow, I can’t help it.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you. But you seem to have got it badly.”

“Awfully,” replied the other.

“Shouldn’t have thought it of you, Harry. So those are the Mallow girls, eh?”

“Yes. Isn’t she charming?”

“What, that girl with the soft dreamy eyes? Yes, she is attractive.”

“No, man,” cried Artingale, impatiently; “that’s Julia. I mean the other.”

“What, the fair-haired, bright-looking little maiden who looks as if she paints?”

“Paints be hanged!” cried Artingale, indignantly, “it’s her own sweet natural colour, bless her.”

“Oh, I say, my dear boy,” said Magnus, with mock concern, “I had no idea that you were in such a state as this.”

“Chaff away, old fellow, I don’t care. Call me in a fool’s paradise, if you like. I’ve flirted about long enough, but I never knew what it was before.”

“Then,” said Magnus, seriously, “you are what they call – in love?”

“Don’t I tell you, Mag, that I don’t care for your chaff. There, yes: in love, if you like to call it so, for I’ve won the sweetest little girl that ever looked truthfully at a man.”

“And the lady – does she reciprocate, and that sort of thing?”

“I don’t know: yes, I hope so. I’m afraid to be sure; it seems so conceited, for I’m not much of a fellow, you see.”

“Let’s see, it happened abroad, didn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. I met them at Dinan, and then at Baden, and afterwards at Rome and in Paris.”

“Which means, old fellow, that you followed them all over the Continent.”

“Well, I don’t know; I suppose so,” said the young man, biting his moustache. “You see, Mag, I used to know Cynthia when she was little and I was a boy – when the governor was alive, you know. I was at Harrow, too, with her brothers – awful cads though, by the by. She can’t help that, Mag,” he said, innocently.

“Why, Artingale, it makes you quite sheepish,” laughed the artist. “I wish I could catch that expression for a Corydon.”

“For a what?”

“Corydon – gentle shepherd, my boy.”

“Get out! Well, as I was telling you, old fellow, I met them abroad, and now they’ve come back to England, and they’ve been down at the rectory – Lawford Rectory, you know, six miles from my place. And now they’ve come up again.”

“So it seems,” said Magnus, drily.

“Chaff away, I don’t mind,” said Artingale.

“Not I; I won’t chaff you, Harry,” said the other, quietly. “’Pon my soul I should miss you, for you and I have been very jolly together; but I wouldn’t wish you a better fate than to have won some really sweet, lovable girl. It’s a fate that never can be mine, as the song says, and I won’t be envious of others. Come along.”

“No, no, don’t let’s go, old fellow. They’ll only drive as far as the corner, and then come back on this side. Perhaps they’ll stop to speak. If they do, I’ll introduce you to Julia; she’s a very nice girl.”

“But not so nice as, as – ”

“Cynthia,” said the other, innocently. “No: of course not.”

Magnus burst out laughing, and his friend looked at him inquiringly.

“I could not help it, old fellow,” exclaimed Magnus; “you did seem so innocent over it. But never mind that. Plunge head foremost into the sweetest life idyll you can, and, worldly-minded old sinner as I am, I will only respect you the more.”

He spoke so sincerely, and in such a feeling tone, that the younger man half turned and gazed at him, saying directly after —

“Thank you, old fellow; I’m not demonstrative, so just consider that I have given you a hearty grip of the hand.”

“All right,” was the gruff reply. “Hallo! here comes my brigand. By Jove, he’s a fine-looking specimen of the genus homo. He’s six feet two, if he’s an inch.”

Jock Morrison, who seemed at home beneath the trees, came slouching along with his hands deep in his pockets, with a rolling gait, the whole of one side at a time; there was an end of his loose cotton neckerchief between his teeth, and a peculiar satisfied smile in his eye which changed to a scowl of defiance as he saw that he was observed.

“I say, my man,” said Magnus, “would you give me a sitting, if I paid you?”

“Would I give you what?” growled the fellow. “I don’t let out cheers.”

Before Magnus could explain himself, the man had turned impatiently away, and gone on towards Kensington Gardens.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Artingale. “Our friend is not a model in any way. Have a cigarette, old fellow?”

The artist took one, and they stood smoking for a few minutes, till Artingale, who had been watchfully looking in the direction of the Achilles statue, suddenly threw down his half-smoked cigarette, for the Mallow carriage came into sight, and, as the young man had hoped, a voice cried “stop!” and the coachman drew up by the rails.

“Ah, Harry!” cried Cynthia, leaning forward to shake hands, and looking very bright and charming in the new floral bonnet that had caused her such anxiety that morning; “I didn’t know you had come up to town.”

“Didn’t you,” he replied, earnestly. “I knew you had. I went over to the rectory yesterday, and saw your brothers.”

“Oh, Harry!” cried Cynthia, blushing with pleasure.

“It didn’t matter; I drove over to do the horse good,” said the young man, shaking hands warmly with Julia in turn. “Here, let me introduce my friend Magnus. Julia, this is James Magnus. Cynthia, Magnus the artist.”

“Lord Artingale has often spoken of you, Mr Magnus,” said Cynthia, looking at him rather coquettishly, in fact as if she was better used to London society than the quietude of a country rectory. “He has promised to bring me some day to see your pictures.”

“I shall only be too proud to show you what I am doing,” said the artist, meeting frankly the bright eyes that were shooting at him, but which gave him up directly as a bad mark, as he turned and began talking to Julia Mallow, who seemed to have become singularly quiet and dreamy, but who brightened up directly and listened eagerly, for she found that Magnus could talk sensibly and well.

“Are you going to stay up long?” said Lord Artingale, gazing imploringly in Cynthia’s eyes.

“I don’t know, indeed,” she replied, pouting. “Papa has brought mamma to see a fresh physician, but is so cross and strange now. He has been reforming the parish, as he calls it.”

“Yes; so I heard,” said Lord Artingale, laughing.

“And that has meant quarrelling with all the stupid townspeople, and setting them against us.”

“Not against you, Cynthia,” said the young man in a low voice. “I don’t believe that.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry,” she replied, laughing; “not now. But really it is very unpleasant, you know, for it makes papa so cross.”

“Of course it would,” said Lord Artingale, sympathisingly.

“And he talks about being so poor, and says that we shall all be ruined, and makes poor mamma miserable.”

“But he is not in want of money, is he?” cried the young man, eagerly.

“Nonsense! No: that’s how he always talks when Frank and Cyril are at home. Oh, Harry, I’m afraid they are dreadful boys.”

“Well, let’s try and make them better, eh, Cynthia?”

“I said you were not to talk nonsense now,” said Cynthia, shaking her pretty little head at him.

“Oh, murder!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “Hadn’t you better drive on? Here’s Perry-Morton.”

“No, no,” exclaimed the younger girl, “it would look so rude. You silly thing, don’t blush so,” she whispered to her sister; “it looks so strange.”

“Good-morning – ” said the subject of the thoughts of the group; and Mr Perry-Morton descended poetically upon them, for he did not seem to walk up like an ordinary being. “Cynthia,” he continued, with an air of affectionate solicitude, and leaving out the full-stops he had placed after his two first words, “you look too flushed this morning, my child. Julia, is not the morning charming? Did you notice the effect of light and shade across the water?”

Julia Mallow, who looked troubled and bored, replied that she had not.

“You observed it, of course, Mr Magnus?” continued the new-comer, with a sweet smile.

“No,” said the gentleman addressed, shortly. “I was talking to the ladies.”

“Ah! yes,” said Mr Perry-Morton, sweetly; and he held his head on one side, as if he were posing for a masculine Penseroso. “But Nature will appeal so to our inmost heart.”

“Yes, she’s a jolly nuisance sometimes,” said Lord Artingale, but only to evoke a pitying smile from Mr Perry-Morton, who, in spite of the decidedly annoyed looks of Cynthia and her lover, leaned his arm upon the carriage-door, and began talking to Julia, making James Magnus look like Harry Hotspur must have appeared when the “certain lord” came to him, holding the “pouncet box, which ever and anon he gave his nose.”

Cynthia Mallow made a pretty little grimace at Artingale, and, then turning with a smile to the worshipper of Nature, she stretched out her hand for the check-string so unmistakably that the gentlemen drew back, and raised their hats as the carriage rejoined the stream.

“Won’t you come and speak to the girls, Artingale?” said Mr Perry-Morton in a softly imploring tone; and suppressing a sigh of annoyance, the young man suffered himself to be led off with his unwilling friend, while the carriage went slowly on towards Kensington Gardens, stopping with the stream again and again.

“Julia,” cried Cynthia, flushing with annoyance, as soon as they were alone, “has papa gone mad?”

“Hush! the servants will hear you,” said her sister, reprovingly.

“I can’t help it, dear, it makes me so excited that I can’t bear it. How you can let that hateful creature come and patronise and monopolise, and seem to constrict you as he does, like a horrible short fat snake, I can’t imagine. Papa must be going mad to encourage it. If he were as rich as Cassius or Croesus, or whatever the man’s name was, it ought to be no excuse. I declare if you do not pluck up spirit and make a fight, I will. You can’t like him.”

“Oh, no,” cried her sister, with a look of revulsion.

“Then you must – you shall put a stop to his pretensions. Why, I declare to-day he behaved before Harry’s friend as if he were engaged to you. I felt as if I’d have given my pearls to have been at liberty to box his ears.”

“I think him detestable,” said Julia, sadly.

“Then you shall speak up, dear, or I will. I declare I’ll revolt, or no – Harry shall shoot him. I shall command him never to approach our presence again till he has rid society of that dreadful monster with his Nature worship and stuff. Good gracious, Julia, what is the matter?”

The carriage had stopped, as the younger sister prattled on, close by the railings near the Gardens, and Julia Mallow crouched shrinking in the carriage, gazing with a horrified, fascinated fixity of eye at the great half-gipsy-looking vagabond, who, with his folded arms resting upon one of the iron posts, and his bearded chin upon them, was staring at her in an insolent mocking fashion.

The spell only lasted for a few moments before the carriage went on, and with a low hysterical cry, Julia caught at her sister’s hand to whisper hoarsely —

“Oh, Cynthia, that dreadful man again!”

End of Volume One

Part 1, Chapter XX.
Jock Morrison’s Threat

The visit to town was but a flying one upon this occasion. The poverty at the rectory did not seem to be extreme, for the horses and carriage were sent up for the fortnight’s stay, and Mrs Mallow had her interview with the new specialist, who talked to her as some specialists do talk, and then she returned to the house taken for the short stay, and her girls had the use of the carriage.

It was a curious thing, and at first it had passed almost unnoticed, but just before the Mallows left the rectory, undergoing a process of smoking out, Frank and Cyril being the smoke producers, Jock Morrison, whose three months had been over now for some time, appeared once more in the neighbourhood of Lawford.

Julia and Cynthia met him one day by Tom Morrison’s cottage, leaning against the doorpost and talking to little Polly.

He had stared hard at them and then slouched away, Polly apologising for his presence.

“You see, Miss Julia, Miss Cynthia, he’s my husband’s own brother, and we don’t want him to feel that we turn our backs upon him.”

“No, of course not,” said Cynthia, “but I wish he would keep away;” and then they had a long chat with the little wife. She looked very pretty and pathetic in her deep mourning, and they parted very tenderly, Julia’s heart bleeding for the stricken woman.

“I’d have given anything to have asked her to show me where they buried poor baby,” said Cynthia, “but I dare not even allude to it.”

“No, of course not,” said Julia, with a shiver. “It was very sad; I can’t bear to think of it at all. Keep close to me, Cynthy,” she whispered.

They had suddenly come upon Jock Morrison, smoking his pipe as he sat upon a stile by the side of the lane, and as they passed he stared hard at Julia and laughed in a half-mocking way.

“How dare he stare at us like that!” said Cynthia haughtily, and then she began chatting about Polly Morrison’s trouble, and wishing that papa had not been so strict, and the meeting was forgotten till, three days later, when they reached London, and as they got out of the train, Julia started, for there, leaning against a barrier with his hands in his pockets, was Jock Morrison again.

The next day she saw him staring up at the house, and day after day afterwards she was sure to encounter his bold fierce gaze somewhere or another, till she grew quite nervous, telling her sister that she was certain that the mail was meditating some form of revenge against their father for sending him to prison.

“Nonsense!” cried Cynthia. “Papa is a magistrate, and he would not dare.”

Back at Lawford, and they were free of the incubus, in fact Jock Morrison passed out of mind; for in spite of his breathing out threatenings of poverty, the Reverend Eli Mallow, now that he found his eldest son had not come to him for money, had opened the rectory doors to receive visitors.

“We must entertain a little while we are down here, my dear, for the girls’ sake. Perhaps it is as well too for the boys.”

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Mallow, looking up from her sofa with her customary patient smile; and the company arrived, and was entertained in a manner that made Fullerton hope that no one would suffer for it, that was all he could say.

Among the guests who had been staying at the rectory were the Perry-Mortons —the Perry-Mortons in society meaning Mr Perry-Morton and his two sisters, for though it was believed that they had, or had had, a father and mother, the seniors were never even heard of, much less seen. Ill-natured people said that Perry-Morton the elder had been a pawnbroker who had made money largely. Be that as it may, Perry-Morton the younger was very rich, and never mentioned any relatives but his sisters.

Lord Artingale was there from Gatton every day, but his friend and companion, James Magnus, was in the North sketching, so the young man, having no restraining arm on which to lean, fell more in love as fast as he could with little Cynthia.

Claudine Perry-Morton – by the way, there was a good deal of familiar nicknaming at the house of the Perry-Mortons, Mr Perry-Morton having been known to call Claudine – Bessy, and the younger sister – Faustine Judy. But that was in the privacy of their home life, and showed the simplicity and deep affection of their natures.

Claudine Perry-Morton had made a dead set at the young nobleman, but finding at once that her chance was nil, she graciously made way for her sister, who sang “Jock of Hazeldine” at him, in a very deep contralto voice, and with a graceful stoop over the piano; but Faustine Perry-Morton was woman of the world enough to see that Lord Artingale’s thoughts ran in quite another direction, so she also resigned herself to circumstances, and thought him a man of exceedingly low tastes.

So all the smiles and sweetness of the sisters were lavished upon the rectory girls for their brother’s sake. Nothing particular was said, but it soon became evident that Perry-Morton found favour with the Rector, and it was quite understood that the wealthy visitor would, sooner or later, propose for his elder daughter’s hand.

She was nearly as bright at this time as her sister, and Artingale declared that she was the dearest girl he knew, not from any amiable passages between them, but because she laughingly helped him to pleasant little tête-à-têtes with her sister, especially when they were out riding; horse exercise and good long gallops being a great deal in vogue, when the weather was mild and clear.

Lord Artingale would canter over from Gatton, sending two or three or more horses by his grooms, an arrangement highly approved of by Frank and Cyril Mallow, who were very civil to him, though in private they compared notes, and said that he would be an awful fool if he had not borne a title and kept such good cigars.

Sometimes the Rector joined the equestrian parties upon a quiet cob, but he generally turned homeward after two or three miles, either to make a call or two at the outlying farms, or to meet the carriage. Then, to make things pleasant, poor Julia talked art on horseback with Mr Perry-Morton, while her sister and Lord Artingale had a brisk canter over some heath, and the groom behind sat and grinned.

“Talk about the guv’nor,” said the last-named individual, as he returned to the stables with the horses, and compared notes with Lord Artingale’s man, “he is a sight on horseback. That there old cob holds him on almost. But if you want to see riding you should go behind that there Perry-Morton.”

This was in the midst of a chorus of hissing from the helpers, who were rubbing down the horses after one of the morning rides.

“He do look a rum un,” said one of the men.

“Look!” said the groom; “he is a rum un. He gets them little thin legs of his one on each side of the horse, and keeps yer altering his sterrups for ever so long. Now they’re too long, and now they’re too short, and when we starts he holds his reins one in each hand, and bends forward so that if his horse didn’t have on a martingale he’d always be finding his nose between its ears.”

“Can’t he ride, then?”

“Ride! Yes; like a sack o’ sharps on a miller’s pony. It’s freezing work going out with him, worse than with the guv’nor, for he keeps his ’oss at a walk the whole time. Lor’, I’d give something to see him on his lordship’s Mad Sal.”

But the groom was not destined to see Mr Perry-Morton upon that greyhound-framed hunter, which was full of fire and fidget with every one but Cynthia, who could have curbed her with a silken thread, for that gentleman was an admirer of repose even on horseback, and would only ride the quietest horse he could hire at the King’s Head, although Lord Artingale offered him the pick of his little stud.

Repose, too, gave him so many excellent opportunities for putting forward his suit with Julia, upon whom he beamed in a mezzo-tinto style, the lady hardly realising his meaning, only thinking him very absurd, and laughingly telling her sister that she owed her a long debt of gratitude for giving her so many opportunities for a long canter – one of those delightful long canters from which Cynthia used to come back with a delicious glow upon her cheeks, and with eyes that literally sparkled with health and pleasure combined.

“Looking like a wild gal,” Mr Jabez Fullerton said, as he stood at his shop door. “I declare it’s immoral, that’s what it is; a parson’s daughter gadding about like a jockey, Smithson; it’s disgusting.”

“Yes,” said Mr Smithson, who was calculating how many yards, at how much a yard, were in Cynthia’s well-fitting riding-habit.

“There’s a horse – look at it – for a young gal to ride! Well, all I can say is that I hope his lordship means to marry her. I never saw such goings on.”

“That there habit do fit well though, I must say that,” said Smithson.

“Fit?” said Fullerton. “Hah! The rectory’s a disgrace!”

But it so happened that riding was not always the order of the day. Long brisk walks were taken at times, much to the bemiring of Mr Perry-Morton’s patent leather shoes; and upon one of these occasions it had been arranged that Julia and Cynthia were to make a call or two upon some of the poor cottagers, who had been rather neglected during the past two weeks. Lord Artingale was going to ride over, and he and Mr Perry-Morton were to bring forward the ladies to meet them, if the Misses Perry-Morton could walk so far.

“Why, Julie, it’s quite a treat to be alone once more,” said Cynthia, merrily, as they walked briskly along the sandy lanes, calling at first one cottage and then another.

“Treat!” said her sister, smiling, “I thought – ”

“Hush! I won’t be teased. But, Julie dear, I won’t be a hypocrite to you. I do tease him and laugh at him, but he is nice, and I think I’m beginning to like him ever so.”

“I like him very, very much,” said Julia, naïvely. “He’s a very pleasant, manly fellow.”

“Yes, isn’t he, dear? But, Julie, it’s too bad, I know, of me to leave you so long with that dreadful bore. What does he say to you?”

“Say!” said Julia, with a smile; “really I hardly know. Talks about art and nature’s colour, and asks me if I do not find a want of thoroughness in our daily life.”

“Thoroughness! why that’s what his sisters are always talking about. I think it thorough nonsense. Oh, I shall be so glad when they’re gone.”

“Yes, it will be nicer,” said Julia, thoughtfully; “but papa seems to like them very much.”

“Yes, isn’t it extraordinary?” cried Cynthia. “He wants papa to take a house in town, and to furnish it upon plans designed by him. I heard them talking about it, and papa seems to be guided by him in everything. And what do you think?”

“I don’t know, dear.”

“I’m as good as certain that that wicked Cyril has been borrowing money of Perry-Morton.”

“Why do you think that?” said Julia, quickly.

“Because Cyril does not make fun of him a bit, but both he and Frank are wonderfully civil.”

Julia sighed.

“Hadn’t we better turn back now, dear?”

“Oh, no! let’s go as far as old Mrs Meadows’s, poor old lady; she’ll think we are never coming again.”

They walked a few hundred yards farther on, and sat for a quarter of an hour to learn how the poor old lady’s jyntes was uncommon painful just now, thanky, and that she hadn’t seen them since before Christmas, and that it had been the mildest Christmas she had knowed this sixty year; and then the old lady sent her visitors on their return walk, with the cheerful announcement that a green Christmas “allers made a full churchyard, my dears,” which well she knowed it to be true.

“Oh, what a dreadful old woman, Julie,” cried Cynthia, merrily.

“Poor old thing! but how well she is for eighty.”

“No troubles but her jyntes to harass her,” laughed Cynthia.

“How long will it be before we meet anybody?”

A much shorter time than they either of them anticipated, for as they turned a bend in the road, two rough-looking men who had been leaning against a gate came towards them, making no movement to let them pass, but staring offensively.

“Don’t be frightened, Julie,” whispered Cynthia, with spirit, “I’m not afraid.”

She walked on boldly, and darted such an imperious look at the lesser of the two men, that he slunk aside to let her pass, but the other, Jock Morrison, stood his ground. He stared in a peculiar, half-smiling way at Julia, making her shrink aside, and following her up, as, turning pale, her lips parting, and with dilated eyes, she felt as it were fascinated by his gaze, shuddering the next moment as he exclaimed with a coarse laugh —

“Bob, old matey, I mean to have this girl.”

Part 1, Chapter XXI.
At Kilby Farm

“Well – well – well – well,” said Mrs Portlock, folding her apron full of pleats, as Luke Ross sat talking to her for a while, and ended by telling her his intentions for the future. “Barrister, eh? Well, of all the trades I ever heard tell of – but can barristers make a living?”

“Yes, and a good one, too,” said Luke, laughing.

“Then you are not going to take to the school after all?”

“No, I have quite altered my plans, and I hope all will turn out for the best.”

“Ah, I hope so, I’m sure,” said Mrs Portlock, smoothing down her black silk dress, and then arranging a necklace of oblong amber beads, which she wore on market-days, one which bore a striking resemblance to a string of bilious beetles. “But what does your father say?”

“I have not told him my plans yet, for they have only been made since the governor’s meeting.”

“Well, Luke Ross,” said Mrs Portlock, in a resigned fashion, “I’m sure I don’t wish you any harm.”

“I’m sure you do not,” he said, laughing.

“Indeed I do not,” she continued: “but, for my part, I think you had a great deal better have kept to your father’s trade. Such a business as that is not to be picked up every day. But there, I suppose you know best.”

“Of course he does,” said the Churchwarden, who heard the latter part of her sentence. “You let Luke Ross alone for that. His head’s screwed on the right way.”

“Don’t be so foolish, Joseph,” cried Mrs Portlock. “Do talk sense. Has Mr Cyril Mallow gone?”

“Yes, he’s gone back home,” said the farmer.

“Why didn’t you ask him to stay and have a bit of dinner with us?”

“Because I didn’t want him, mother. He only walked home with me to ask about a bit o’ rabbit shooting.”

“But still, it would have been civil to ask him to stop. It’s market-day, and there’s the hare you shot on Friday, and a bit o’ sirloin.”

“Tchah! he wouldn’t have cared to stay. He dines late and fashionable-like at home.”

“I’ll be bound to say he’d have been very glad to stop,” said Mrs Portlock, bridling. “Fashionable, indeed! He got no fashionable dinners when he was working his way home at sea, nor yet when he was out in the bush.”

“Where he had much better have stayed – eh, Luke?” said the farmer. “He does no good but idle about here.”

“Idle, indeed!” cried Mrs Portlock, taking up the cudgels, rather indignantly, on the young man’s behalf. “It might be idling if it was Luke Ross here, but Mr Cyril Mallow’s a gentleman and a gentleman’s son, and he has a right to work when he likes and leave off when he likes.”

“Oh! has he?” said the Churchwarden, smiling at their visitor, as much as to say, ‘Now, just you listen.’ “Well, I’m not a learned man, like Luke Ross here, who has got his Bible at his tongue’s end.”

“As every man who calls himself a good man ought to,” said Mrs Portlock, tartly. “Sage!”

“Yes, aunt,” came from the next room, where the speaker could hear every word.

“Tell them to take the dinner in directly. And, for my part, Joseph, I think if you’d read your Bible a little more o’ Sundays you’d be a better man.”

“You wouldn’t like me so well if I was a better man, old lady,” he laughed; “but, as I was going to say, when I used to read of such things I got it into my head that the first specimen of a man as was made was a working man, to till the ground, and not idle and loaf about, and eat the fruit and shoot the rabbits in the Garden of Eden.”

“For shame, father, to talk in that way!” cried the lady. “And I wonder that you speak so disrespectfully of Mr Cyril Mallow. For my part, I think he’s a very nice, gentlemanly young fellow, and it’s too bad for people to be always sneering about him as they are.”

“And, for my part,” said the Churchwarden, good-humouredly, “I’m a bit of a Radical, and don’t believe in taking off your hat to a man because he happens to have a few thousand pounds more than one’s got oneself. If he’s a wonderful clever chap, with more brains than I’ve got, why, I do look up to him; but I’m not going down on my knees to a set of folks who yawn through their lives, doing nothing, except telling you by word and look that they are a better class of people than you are; and as for Master Cyril Mallow, he’s a well-built, strapping young fellow, who can talk well, and shoot well, but if he had happened to be my sod, instead of old Mallow’s, I’d have licked him into a different shape to what he’s in now, ay, and his brother too, or I’d have known the reason why. Dinner in, my lass? That’s well. Come along, Luke. Tchah! nonsense! you shall stay. You can tell the old man your reasons better when you’ve got a bit of roast beef under your waistcoat, and some of my ale. Why, Sage, lass, what ails you? Your face is as white as a bit o’ dough.”

“Oh, nothing, uncle, nothing,” she replied, forcing a smile, as she hurried to a tall press to get out a napkin for their visitor, and soon after they were seated at the hospitable meal, which was more bounteous on a market-day, the nearness of the farm to the town making it always probable that the Churchwarden might bring up a friend.

But Luke Ross was the only stranger on that occasion, and he sat opposite Sage, whose countenance, though less troubled than when she had overheard her uncle’s words, was lacking in its ordinary composure.

Luke saw this, and attributed it to their conversation, and the interest she took in his affairs. Her aunt saw it, too, and, with the idea of comforting her niece, kept turning the conversation to the Rector and his family, but not to do any good, for out of mere contrariety, and with a twinkle in his eye as he glanced at Luke, the Churchwarden set to and roundly abused the Rector and his sons for their ways.

“Come, Luke,” he said, “you are not making half a meal. I suppose by and by, sir, you will be as fashionable as Master Cyril Mallow, and won’t eat a bit at dinner-time without calling it lunch. Ha, ha, ha!”

“There, do have done, Joseph,” cried Mrs Portlock. “What have you got to laugh at now?”

“I was thinking of the horse-whipping I gave the young dogs – ay, it’s twelve or fourteen years ago now – that night I caught them in the orchard.”

“There, do let bygones be bygones, Joseph,” cried Mrs Portlock, sharply. “Boys will be boys. I’ll be bound to say you stole apples yourself when you were young.”

“Ay, that I did, and got thrashed for it, too. But I must say that Cyril Mallow don’t bear any malice for what I did.”

A regular duel was fought over that meal between the heads, Sage hardly raising her eyes, but looking more and more troubled as the Mallow attack and defence went on, while Luke Ross was so intent upon his own thoughts that he hardly heard a word.

It was with quite a feeling of relief, then, that Sage heard her uncle say —

“I like parson, not as a parson, but as a man: for the way in which he has tended that poor sick woman ’s an honour to him; but, as for his way of bringing up children, why, if I had carried on my farm in such a fashion I should have been in the Court o’ Bankruptcy years ago. Best thing Mallow could do would be to put the fellow with me to learn farming, and me have the right to do what I liked with him, and five-and-twenty to two? Is it, my dear? I didn’t know it was so late – and make us truly thankful, Amen.”

There was a general scrooping of chairs after this condensed grace, Sage hurrying off to put on her hat and jacket, and her aunt running after her to say, in a mysterious whispered confidence —

“Don’t you take any notice of uncle, my dear. He don’t mean half he says.”

“You’ll walk back with Sage, of course, Luke?” said the Churchwarden, quietly, as he drew his chair to the fire for his after-dinner pipe. “Well, my boy, I think you’re right about what you settled; but I suppose I had something to do with your altering your mind?”

“Yes, sir, I must own to that.”

“Well,” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully, “I hope it’s for the best; I meant it to be. You’ll go back to London, then, soon?”

“Almost directly, sir, to begin working hard.”

“That’s right, my boy. I believe in work. Come over here whenever you are down at Lawford. I shall be very glad to see you, my lad, very.”

Then, pulling out his watch, he consulted it, and went on chatting for a few minutes as if to keep Luke from speaking about the subject near to his heart, but at last he broke in – “I need hardly say, sir, that I go meaning to work up to the point you named, and – ”

“Yes, yes, yes, my lad; let that rest. Let’s see how things go. You’re both young,” he cried, pulling out his big silver watch once more. “I say, mother,” he shouted, “tell Sage that Luke’s waiting to walk back with her. She’ll be late for school.”

Then like a chill to Luke Ross came back Mrs Portlock’s voice —

“Sage? Oh, she went out by the back way ten minutes ago.”

Part 1, Chapter XXII.
Cynthia’s Knights

That was all – those few insolent, grossly-insulting words – and then the big fellow stood staring after the frightened girls.

“Take my hand, Julia,” whispered the younger sister; and if, as we read in the old novelists, a glance would kill, the flash of indignant lightning that darted from her bright eyes would have laid Jock Morrison dead in the road.

But, powerful as are the effects of a lady’s eyes, they had none other here than to make the great picturesque fellow smile at her mockingly before turning his hawk-like gaze on the frightened girl who clung to her sister’s hand as they hurried away.

“Has he gone, Cynthy?” whispered Julia, at the end of a few moments.

“I don’t know. I can’t hear them, and I won’t look back, or they’ll think we are afraid – and we are not.”

“I am – horribly afraid,” said Julia, in a choking voice.

“I’m not,” said Cynthia. “A nasty, rude, impudent pig that he is. Oh, if I were a man, I’d whip him till he lay down on the ground and begged for mercy. To insult two inoffensive girls like that! Harry shall beat him well, that he shall, or I’ll never speak to him again.”

“Make haste,” whispered Julia. “Let’s run.”

“I won’t run,” cried Cynthia. “I wouldn’t run away from the biggest man that ever lived. I never heard of such a thing. Oh, how cross papa will be.”

“We had better not tell him,” said Julia, faintly; and her face was deadly pale.

“Not tell papa? Why, you foolish little coward, Julie! But only to think of the insufferable impudence of the wretch. I wish he had said it to me.”

“No, no: don’t wish that,” cried Julia, excitedly. “It is too horrible. Oh, Cynthy dear, I shall dream of that man.”

“You shan’t do anything of the kind,” cried her sister, whose eyes sparkled and face flushed with excitement. “Such nonsense! Two unprotected maidens walking through the forest met a wicked ogre, and he opened his ugly great mouth, and gaped as he showed his big white teeth like a lion, and then he said, I am going to gobble up the prettiest of those two little maids; and then they ran away, and a gallant knight coming along, they fled to him for help, and fell upon their poor knees in a wet place, and said, ‘Oh, brave and gallant paladin, go and smite down that wicked ogre, and we will give you smiles, and gloves to wear in your helm, and tie scarves round your waist, and if you will promise not to eat us, you shall some day have one of us for a pet!’ And the name of the gallant knight was Sir Perrino Mortoni, and – ”

“Oh pray be quiet, Cynthy, I feel so upset you cannot tell.”

“Stuff and nonsense! Don’t interrupt my story. The ogre has gone.”

“I shall always be afraid of meeting that man.”

“What, after the gallant knight has killed him? Oh, I see, you are afraid that Sir Perrino would not slay him, but would bind him in chains, and keep him at his castle for an artist’s model. Then we will appeal to another knight, Lord Harry the Saucy, and he shall do the deed. Where is the gallant I wis not,” she added, laughing.

“I know who he is,” said Julia, who was trembling still.

“So do I,” said Cynthia, merrily. “Well, never mind, my darling sissy; don’t let a thing like that upset you. Come: be brave. They are gone now, and we shall never see them again.”

“Never see them again,” said Julia, with a wild look in her eye. “That man will haunt me wherever I go.”

“Will he, dear?” said Cynthia, merrily; “then the gallant knight shall not quite kill him, though I don’t believe in haunting ghosts. Here they are.”

“Cynthia!” gasped Julia, with a cry of horror.

“I don’t mean the ogres, you little coward; I mean the gallant knights.”

“Why, we began to think we had missed you,” cried Lord Artingale, who, with Mr Perry-Morton, met them at a turn of the road, the latter gentleman’s patent leather shoes being a good deal splashed, in spite of the care with which he had picked his way.

“Oh, Mr Perry-Morton,” cried Cynthia, ignoring Artingale, and, with a mischievous light in her eye, addressing their artistic friend, “my sister has been so shamefully insulted by a great big man.”

“Who? where? my dear Miss Julia? Where is the scoundrel?” cried Perry-Morton, excitedly.

“Just down the road a little way,” said Cynthia. “I hope you will go and beat him well.”

“A big scoundrel of a fellow?” cried Mr Perry-Morton.

“Yes, and he looks like a gipsy,” said Cynthia, innocently. “He said something so insulting to my sister.”

“Hush, pray, Cynthia,” cried the latter, faintly.

“Oh, poor girl, she is going to faint. Miss Mallow, pray look up. I am here. Take my arm. Let me hasten with you home. This scoundrel shall be pursued, and brought to justice.”

“I am better now,” said Julia, speaking more firmly. “No, thank you, Mr Perry-Morton, I can walk well enough.”

“Oh, I cannot leave you like this, dear Miss Julia,” whispered Perry-Morton, while Cynthia’s eyes were sparkling with malicious glee, as she turned them upon Artingale, whose face, however, startled her into seriousness, as he caught her arm, gripping it so hard that it gave her pain.

“Tell me, Cynthia,” he said, hoarsely, “what sort of a fellow was this?”

“A big, gipsy-looking man, and there was a dirty-looking fellow with him,” faltered the girl, for her lover’s look alarmed her. “But stop, Harry; what are you going to do?”

“Break his cursed neck – if I can,” cried Artingale, in a low, angry growl.

“No, no: don’t go,” she whispered, catching at him. “You may be hurt.”

“One of us will be,” he said, hoarsely.

“But, Harry, please!”

She looked at him so appealingly that he took her hands in his.

“Cynthia – my darling!” he whispered; and if they had been alone he would have caught her in his arms.

But they were not alone, and bending down he whispered —

“You have made me so happy, but you would not have me be a cur. Take your sister home.”

Without another word he turned and started off down the lane at a trot, Cynthia watching him till he was out of sight.

“Oh, Harry! If you are hurt!” she whispered to herself; and then, recalling her sister’s trouble, she ran to her side, where Perry-Morton was making a pretence of affording support that was not required.

“We can soon get home, Mr Perry-Morton,” said Cynthia, with the malicious look coming back into her eyes, and chasing away one that was very soft and sweet. “Wouldn’t you like to go after Lord Artingale?”

“What! and leave you two unprotected?” said the apostle, loudly. “No, I could not, to save my life.”

He did not, but attended the ladies right up to the rectory, sending their father into a fury, and then leading a party of servants to the pursuit of the tramps, as they were dubbed, but only to meet Lord Artingale at the end of a couple of hours returning unsuccessful from his chase.

For he had not seen either of the fellows, from the fact that as soon as the ladies had gone they had quietly entered the wood, to lie down amongst the mossy hazel stubbs, from which post of vantage they had seen the young man go by.

“Hadn’t we better hook it, Jock?” said the lesser vagabond.

“Hook it? No. What for? We haven’t done nothing agen the lor.”

There was hot indignation at the rectory, and Frank and Cyril went straight to Tom Morrison’s cottage, frightening the wheelwright’s wife, and making her look paler as she took refuge with Budge in the back, only coming forward after repeated summonses, and then keeping the girl with her, as she said, truthfully, that Jock Morrison had not been there for days.

“What’s the matter?” said Tom, coming from his workshop, and looking sternly at the two visitors.

“Matter!” cried Frank, fiercely; “we want that brother of yours; he has been insulting my sister.”

“Then you had better find him and punish him,” said Tom, coldly.

“Where is he?”

“You are a parson’s sons,” said Tom, bitterly, “and ought to know Scripture. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’”

“Look here, you Tom Morrison,” cried Frank, “no insolence; I’ve only just come back home, but while I stay I’ll not have my sisters insulted by a blackguard family who have got a hold in the parish, and do it out of spite because my father could not act as they wanted.”

“Out of my place!” roared Tom, fiercely. “How dare you bring up that, you coward!”

“Tom! Tom! oh, for my sake, pray!” cried Polly, throwing herself upon his breast just as he was about to seize Cyril, who had stepped before his brother.

“Well, for thy sake, yes,” said Tom, passing his arm round his wife. “Frank and Cyril Mallow, don’t come to my place again, or there may be mischief.”

“Do you dare to threaten us, you dog?” cried Frank.

“He ought to know what a magistrate’s power – ” began Cyril, but he glanced at Polly and checked himself. “Here, come away, Frank. Look here, Tom Morrison, where is your brother Jock?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom, sternly, “and if I did I should not tell you. This is my house, gentlemen, and I want neither truck nor trade with you and yours.”

“I’ll have you both flogged,” cried Frank. “A pretty thing that two ladies can’t go along the lanes without being insulted! By Gad, if – ”

“Look here,” said Tom Morrison, stoutly, “who are you and yours that they are not to be spoken to? How long is it since a respectable girl couldn’t hardly walk along one of our lanes for fear of being insulted by the parson’s sons? I tell you – ”

“Tom! Tom!” moaned Polly, “I – I – ”

“Hush, bairn!” he whispered, and Frank hustled his brother out of the cottage, angrily threatening punishment to the brothers Morrison before many days were over their heads, and went back to the rectory, where Mr Perry-Morton informed Lord Artingale, in confidence, that he would have liked to delete such creatures as that ruffian. They were only blurs, spots, and blemishes upon the face of this beautiful earth, marring its serenity, and stealing space that was the inheritance of those who could appreciate the gift.

“I can handle my fists,” said Artingale, in reply, “for we had a good fellow to teach us, and nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to have had ten minutes’ interview with that blackguard.”

“It is very brave and bold of you,” said Mr Perry-Morton, holding his too fleshy head up with one white hand, as it drooped sidewise, and supporting his elbow with another white hand, as he gazed at him with a kindly, patronising, smiling pity, “but it would be better to hand him over to the police.”

“Oh, the police might have had him when I had done with him,” said the young man, nodding. “I should have liked to have had my bit of satisfaction first.”

The sisters, that is to say, Mr Perry-Morton’s sisters, wound their arms round each other, the elder laying her head upon her sister’s shoulder, so that arms, hair, and dresses were intertwined and mingled into a graceful whole. Doubtless their legs would have been woven into the figure, only they were required to stand on; and then with a series of changes passing over their faces with beautiful regularity, and with wonderful gradations by minor tones or tints, they suggested horror, fear, dread, suffering, pity, pain, with a grand finale representing wakeful repose, as they listened to Cynthia’s history of the encounter, while their brother, after gazing at them diagonally through his eyelashes, softly crossed the room, touched the Rector upon the arm, and pointed to the sisterly group with a smile of satisfied affection.

“Heaven has its reflections upon earth,” he said softly, “and the poetic mind reads rapture in angelic form,” he added, with a fat smile of serene satisfaction and repose.

“Quite so,” said the Rector, and he balanced his double eyeglass upon his nose; “but really, Mr Perry-Morton, I have so many troubles and petty cares upon my mind, that this new one has filled me with indignation, and I hardly know what I say or do. Whether as clergyman or county magistrate, I am sure no one could be so troubled as I have been.”

But the indignation even of a county magistrate availed nothing, although it took the form of a hunt about the place with the resident rural policeman, supplemented by the presence of two more resident rural policemen from two neighbouring villages. Lord Artingale’s keepers, too, were admonished to be on the look-out, but Jock Morrison was not seen, though his companion was traced to one or two casual wards, and then seemed to have made for London.

Part 1, Chapter XXIII.
Clerical Difficulties

The Fullerton party proved triumphant in the struggle which ensued, and in spite of the Rector’s efforts to produce a better state of things at the boys’ school, Mr Humphrey Bone kept on teaching in his good old-fashioned way – good in the eyes of many of the Lawfordites – when he was sober, but breaking out with a week’s drinking fit from time to time, when the school would be either closed or carried on by the principal monitors, Sage Portlock going in from time to time at the Rector’s request when the noise became uproarious.

Those who had been the most determined on Bone’s retention shut their eyes to these little weaknesses on the master’s part; and, if the boys were not well taught, the tradesmen’s accounts were written in a copperplate hand, while the length and amount of the bill was made less painful to its recipient by finding his name made to look quite handsome with a wonderful flourish which literally framed it in curves – a flourish which it had taken Mr Bone years to acquire.

The Rector resigned himself in disgust to the state of things, and devoted his attention to the girls’ school.

“It can’t be helped, Miss Portlock,” he said, with a smile; “if we cannot make good boys in the place we must make super-excellent girls, and by and by as they grow up they’ll exercise their influence on the young men.”

He thought a great deal of his words as he went homewards, according to his custom, with his hands behind his back, holding his walking-cane as if it were a tail, thinking very deeply of his sons, and whether some day good, true women would have an influence upon their lives and make them better men.

The Rector never knew why the boys laughed at him, setting it down entirely to their rudeness and Humphrey Bone’s bad teaching, for no one ever took the trouble to tell him it was on account of that thick black stick he was so fond of carrying, depending from his clasped hands behind.

Upon the present occasion, as he walked homeward, and in fact as he would at any time when excited by his thoughts, he now and then gave the stick a toss up, or a wag sideways, ending with a regular flourish, after the manner of a cow in a summer pasture when much troubled by the flies, adding thereby greatly to the resemblance borne by the stick to a pendent tail.

The Rector was more than usually excited on the morning of his remark to Sage Portlock. There had been something tender and paternal in his way of addressing her, and she had a good deal filled his thoughts of late. There were several reasons for this.

He had had no right to plan out Sage’s future, but somehow he had thoroughly mapped it out long before.

He knew of Luke Ross’s attachment to her, and from his position as spiritual head of the parish, it was only natural that he should think of the duty that so often fell to his lot – that of joining couples in the “holy estate of matrimony.”

But a short time back and in Sage’s case it all came so natural and easy. Luke Ross had been trained, he was to have the boys’ school, he would soon marry her, the schoolhouses would be occupied, and the schools be as perfect under such guidance as schools could be.

Everything had been gliding on beautifully towards a definite end, and then there had come stumbling-blocks. Luke Ross had gone back to town; the girls’ schoolhouse remained unoccupied, as Sage went home for the present; Humphrey Bone was faster than ever in his post, and likely to stay there, the opposition being so strong; and, worst problem of all to solve, there was Cyril.

It was no wonder that the thick black stick was twitched and flourished and tossed up and down, for the Rector’s mind was greatly disturbed, especially upon the last question – that of his son.

He had spoken severely without effect; he had tried appeal without better success. Cyril had not openly defied him, but had sat and listened quietly to all his father had said, and then gone and acted precisely as if nothing whatever had been spoken.

“She is so good, and sweet, and innocent a girl; so true, too, in her attachment to Luke Ross, that I cannot speak to her,” he said to himself. “Besides, she has given me no opening. But it must be stopped. What shall I do?”

The Reverend Eli Mallow went on for a few yards deeply thoughtful, and then the idea came. He knew what he would do: speak to Mrs Portlock first, or to the Churchwarden, and ask their advice and counsel upon the matter.

“Yes,” he said to himself, “it will be the best. Such matters are better checked in their incipient state. I will go and see her at once.”

He faced round, glanced at his watch, saw that it was only eleven, and walked sharply in the direction of Kilby Farm, to find the Churchwarden away from home, but Mrs Portlock ready to receive him with a most gracious smile.

“I’m sure you must be tired after your walk, Mr Mallow,” she said. “Sit down by the fire. What cold weather we are having! You’ll take a glass of my home-made wine and a bit of cake?”

The Rector would rather not, but Mrs Portlock insisted upon getting the refreshments out of the fireside cupboard, extolling the wine the while.

“I’m sure you’d like it,” she said. “Your son had some only last night, and he said it was better than any sherry he had ever tasted.”

“My son – last night?” said the Rector, quickly. “Which son?”

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

She poured out a glass, and the Rector drew it to him, and sat gazing at the clear, amber liquid, hesitating as to how he should begin, while Mrs Portlock stole a glance at the mirror to see if her cap was straight, and wished she had known of her visitor’s coming, so that she might have put on a silk dress, and the cap with the maroon ribbons and the gold acorn.

“Cyril said that he was down the town last night with Frank,” said the Rector to himself. “He fears my words, and he is playing false, or he would not have been ashamed to answer that he was here.”

“How the time seems to fly, Mrs Portlock!” said the Rector at last, biting his lip with annoyance at the want of originality of the only idea he could set forth.

“Dear me, yes. I was saying so only last week to Mr Cyril. ‘Four months,’ I said, ‘since you came back;’ and he looked up at Sage and said that the time seemed to go like lightning.”

“By the way, Mrs Portlock,” said the Rector, hastily, “have you heard from Luke Ross lately?”

“Oh, dear me, no,” said the lady, rather sharply. “I never call at the Ross’s now.”

“I thought, perhaps, the young people might correspond.”

“Oh, dear me, no; neither Mr Portlock nor myself could countenance such a thing as that.”

The Rector was at a loss to see the impropriety of such an intercourse, but he said nothing – he merely bowed.

“That was only a boy-and-girl sort of thing. Our Sage knew Luke Ross from a boy, but now they are grown up, and as Joseph – Mr Portlock – said they were too young to think about such things as that.”

“But I understood that they were engaged,” said the Rector, who felt startled; and he gazed very anxiously in Mrs Portlock’s face for her reply.

“Oh, dear me, no, sir, nothing of the kind.”

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

“My husband very properly said that under the circumstances no engagement ought to take place, and it was not likely. For my part I don’t agree with the affair at all.”

The Rector felt that his position was growing more unpleasant than ever. He had come to say something, but that something would not be said; and at last when he did speak his words were very different from what he had intended they should be.

“My son, Cyril, has taken to coming here a good deal lately, Mrs Portlock,” he said.

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

“I am sorry to have to speak so plainly about him, Mrs Portlock, but I hope you will not encourage his visits. Cyril has travelled a good deal, and has imbibed, I am afraid, a great deal of careless freedom.”

“Indeed?” said the lady, stiffly.

“I’m afraid that he is too ready to laugh and chat with any girl he meets, and I should be sorry if – er – if – ”

“If you mean by that, Mr Mallow, sir, that you don’t consider our niece good enough for your son,” said Mrs Portlock, tartly, “please say so downright.”

“I did not wish to imply anything of the kind, Mrs Portlock,” replied the Rector, mildly. “I wish merely to warn you against his foolish, frivolous ways.”

“If there’s a difference at all it’s on your side, Mr Mallow, sir,” continued the lady. “Mr Cyril has been a deal too idle and roving to suit me, while our Sage – ”

“Miss Portlock is a most estimable young lady, for whom I entertain the highest respect, Mrs Portlock,” said the Rector, warmly; “and it was on her behalf, knowing as I do how foolish Cyril can be, that I came to speak to you this morning.”

“I don’t know anything about his foolishness, Mr Mallow,” said the lady, who was growing irate; “but I’ve got to say this, that he comes here just as if he means something, and if he does not mean anything he had better stop away, and not behave like his brother Frank.”

“Exactly so, my dear madam,” cried the Rector, eagerly. “I am going to talk seriously to him.”

This did not seem to meet the lady’s ideas, and she looked hot and annoyed, beginning to stir the fire with a good deal of noise, and setting the poker down more loudly.

“I should be deeply grieved, I am sure, Mrs Portlock,” began the Rector; “it is far from my wish to – really, my dear madam, this is a very unpleasant interview.”

The lady said nothing; but she was so evidently of the same opinion that the Rector was glad to rise and offer his hand in token of farewell.

She shook hands, and the visitor left, to hurry home with his black stick hanging behind, and his soul hot within him as he mentally accused Cyril by his folly of getting him into the unpleasant predicament from which he had so lately escaped.

Part 1, Chapter XXIV.
“A Row.”

“Where are you going, Frank?”

“Don’t know; perhaps as far as Lewby. John Berry said he would be glad to show me round his farm.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Cyril, with a meaning look.

“Well, what do you mean by ‘Oh’?” said Frank, roughly.

“Nothing at all, my dear boy – nothing at all,” said Cyril.

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

“Oh, no: not at all. It’s all right, I suppose,” laughed Cyril. “But, I say, hadn’t you better be off amongst the blacks? You have grown rather uncivilised lately.”

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

“Well?”

“That blackguard regularly frightened Ju. She hasn’t looked the same girl since.”

“No,” said Cyril. “Pity the shooting season’s over.”

“Why?”

“We might have peppered the blackguard by accident if he had shown himself here again.”

“Master would like to see you, sir, in my mistress’s room,” said the butler, entering the study where the young men were smoking.

“Oh, all right, I’ll come,” said Cyril, impatiently. “Hang it, Frank, if you were half a brother you’d go halves with me, and take me back to your place. I’m sick of this life. There’s a lecture about something, I suppose.”

“Caning, I should think,” said Frank, with a sneering laugh. “There, go and get it over; and look here, I’ll give up Lewby to-day, and drive over with you to Gatley. Let’s get a game at billiards and dine with Artingale. It’s no use to have a lord after your sister if you don’t make use of him.”

“All right. No. I’ve an engagement to-night.”

“Go and keep it then, and be hanged. I shall go to Lewby,” growled Frank.

“Blackberrying?” sneered Cyril. “I say, mind you don’t ‘Rue’ going.”

“If you say that again, Cil, I’ll get up and kick you,” growled Frank. “Every fellow isn’t such a blackguard as you.”

“Oh no,” laughed Cyril, “especially not dear brother Frank. There, I’m off.”

“You’re a beauty, Cil!” growled Frank, and he lit a fresh cigar. “Share! Go halves with me! Ha, ha, ha! I dare say he would. How people do believe in stories of the gold mines. I wonder whether anything is to be made out of that poet fool.”

“Want to talk to me, father?” said Cyril, entering the room where his mother lay upon the couch, with a terrible look of anxiety upon her pallid face. “Oh, let’s see; will my smoking worry you, mamma?”

“Always so thoughtful for me,” said the fond mother to herself. Then aloud —

“I don’t mind it, Cyril, but I don’t think your father – ”

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

“Is an invalid lady’s room a suitable place for smoking pipes, Cyril?”

“Don’t see that it matters what the place is so long as the invalid don’t mind. But there, don’t make a bother about it,” he cried, tapping the burning tobacco out on to the hob; “I can wait until I go down again.”

“Shall we go down, papa?” said Julia, rising with Cynthia from where they sat in the window.

“No, my dears; you must hear what I am going to say, so you may as well hear it now.”

“Oh, no, Eli,” moaned the invalid.

“Very well, my dears, you had better go,” said the Rector, and he led his daughters to the door, which he opened and closed after them with quiet dignity.

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

“Not – not quite so well, Cyril,” she said, fondly; and her voice trembled, as she dreaded a scene. “Will you come and sit down here by me?” she added, pointing to a chair.

“Yes, I may as well,” he said, laughingly, “and you can take care of me, for I see somebody means mischief.”

The Rector bit his lips, for his was a painful task. He wished to utter a severe reprimand, and to appeal to the young man’s sense of right and wrong, while here at the outset was the mother bird spreading her protecting wing before her errant chick, and ready, the Rector saw, to stand up boldly in his defence.

“Let me punch up your pillow for you, dear,” said Cyril, bending over the couch, and raising the slight frame of the sick woman, whose arms closed softly round the young man’s neck, while he beat and turned the soft down pillow, lowering the invalid gently back into her former place, and kissing her tenderly upon the brow.

“That’s better,” he said. “I hate a hot pillow, and it’s so comfortable when it’s turned.”

Mrs Mallow clung fondly to her son for a few moments, smiling gratefully in his face; and the Rector sighed and again bit his lip as he saw how moment by moment his task was growing more difficult.

“If he would only study her feelings in the broader things of life,” he said to himself; and he took a turn or two impatiently about the room.

“Now, governor, I’m ready,” said Cyril, facing round suddenly, his mother holding his hand between hers. “What’s the last thing I’ve done amiss?”

“Heaven knows,” cried the Rector, startling his wife by the way in which he suddenly flashed into anger. “The last thing that I have to complain of is that I cannot trust my own son.”

“Ah, you mean with money, father,” said the young man, lightly. “Well, it does go rather fast.”

“I mean my son’s word,” said the Rector, quickly. “Cyril, last night you told me a lie.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” cried the mother, quickly. “It is some mistake, dear. Cyril would not tell you what was not true.”

The Rector, after years of patience, was so thoroughly out of temper with the discovery of that day that he retorted hotly —

“A lie – I say he told me a deliberate lie.”

“Nonsense!” said the young man. “People tell lies when they are afraid to tell the truth. I’m not afraid to tell you anything.”

“You told me last night, sir, that you had been down in the town with Frank, whereas I find this morning that you had been at Kilby Farm.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Cyril. “Why, what a discovery, father. You asked me where I had been, and I told you – ‘down the town.’ So I had. You did not ask me whether I had been anywhere else, or I might have added, to the Churchwarden’s.”

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

“Come, father, don’t talk to me as if I were a naughty little boy about to be sent to bed without his supper.”

“Pray be calm, dear,” cried Mrs Mallow. “Cyril gives a very good explanation. Surely it was natural that he should walk over to Kilby.”

“I say why did you go over there, sir?”

“To smoke a pipe with old Portlock, if you must know, and have a glass of his home brewed ale. It’s dull enough here with the girls.”

“It is false, sir,” cried the Rector, excitedly.

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

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

“Very well, father,” said Cyril, in the most nonchalant way, as he lay back in his chair and played with his mother’s rings. “Perhaps you know, then, why I went.”

“Oh, hush, Cyril, my boy,” panted the invalid. “Eli, my dear, pray be calm. This hurts me – hurts me more than I can tell you.”

“I am sorry, my dear, very sorry,” cried the Rector, excitedly; “but it must be stopped. I cannot allow matters to go on as they do. It is terrible. I feel at every turn as if I were being disgraced. I shiver as I go down the town or make a call, for fear that I should have to encounter some fresh disgrace brought upon us by our own boys.”

“What’s the matter with the governor, ma, dear?” said the young man, mockingly. “Has Frank been up to some fresh games?”

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

“I’ll be as quiet as I can, dear,” replied Cyril; “but there are bounds to everything. I am not a child.”

“No, sir, but you act like one – like a disobedient child,” cried his father. “No matter what is done for you, back you come home to idle and lounge away your existence. The idea of the nobility of labour never seems to have dawned in your mind.”

“Never,” replied Cyril, calmly. “Nobility of labour, indeed! Why, father, what’s the good of quoting stuff like that to me out of one of your old sermons?”

“You are utterly wasting your life, sir.”

“Not I, father,” retorted Cyril. “I am rather enjoying it. Let those work who are obliged. Why should I make myself a slave? I like my existence very well as it is, and don’t mean to bother.”

“It is disgraceful,” cried the Rector, whose usually bland face was now fierce with anger.

“Don’t see it. I don’t spend much, nor yet get into debt. You’ve got plenty of money, so why should I trouble myself about work?”

“I’d forgive that,” cried the Rector – “I’d forgive your idleness, but when I find that you cannot be trusted, I am compelled to speak.”

“But, my dear,” remonstrated the invalid, “what has poor Cyril done? He did not like the wretched slavery out in the colony, and he could not content himself with the drudgery of a clerk’s desk. Do not be so severe. Be patient, and he will succeed like Frank has done.”

“What has he done?” cried the Rector. “What is he doing but leading such a life as must disgrace us all.”

“Nonsense, father!” cried the young man. “It is no nonsense, sir. Months ago I spoke to you about your conduct, but it has been in vain. People in all directions are noticing your behaviour towards Miss Portlock. Just, too, when your sisters are about to make excellent matches.”

“Miss Portlock!” cried Mrs Mallow, starting. “Oh, Cyril!”

Cyril acted like an animal brought to bay. He began to fight. While there was a chance of his father not being aware of his proceedings, he fenced and parried. Now he spoke out sharply —

“Well, what do people say about my behaviour with Miss Portlock? She’s a very nice ladylike girl, well educated, and sweet and clever, and if I like to chat with her, I shall.”

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

“True? Is what true? That I have been to Kilby sometimes to have a chat with Sage Portlock? Of course it is. Why not?”

“You own to it, then?” said his father. “Own to it, if you like to call it so, sir. And now, pray, where is the harm?”

Mrs Mallow withdrew her hand from her son’s grasp, and looked in his face with a terribly pained expression, for, with all her gentleness of disposition, the sense of caste was in her very strongly; and with all his failings, she had looked upon Cyril as a noble representative of the mingled blood of the old family Mallows and the Heskeths from whom she sprang.

“I am to understand, then,” said the Rector, “that you propose honouring us with a daughter chosen from the people here.”

“I don’t say yes, and I don’t say no,” replied Cyril, cavalierly. “I think I have heard you say often that Sage was a very nice girl.”

“Sage?”

“Yes, Sage. I think you had the pleasure of baptising her by her herbaceous name, so you ought to know.”

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

“I have – yes – certainly – often said that Miss Portlock was a very good, sensible girl,” he said at last.

“Well, then, what more do you want, sir? I suppose you expect a man to think about such things at some time in his life?”

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

“Proposed for her hand? Nonsense, mamma. People of their class don’t understand things in that light.”

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

“People of that class, sir? Then you acknowledge that you are degrading yourself by these proceedings.”

“Oh, I don’t know about degrading myself, sir. You know what they say. If a lady marries her groom she descends to his level. If a man marries his cook he raises her to his.”

“But does Mr Portlock – my Churchwarden – know of your intentions?”

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

“But Mrs Portlock believes that you are paying your attentions to her niece.”

“Yes, I s’pose so,” he replied. “Terribly silly woman.”

“Oh, Cyril, Cyril,” said his mother, “this is very, very shocking.”

“Stuff and nonsense, mamma. Why, what a tremendous fuss about a little bit of flirtation with a pretty little schoolmistress. You nearly had her sister for a daughter-in-law when Frank was after her.”

“Frank saw the folly of his proceedings, and grew sensible,” said the Rector.

“Oh, did he!” muttered Cyril.

“The word flirtation, Cyril,” said the Rector firmly, “is a disgrace to our civilisation, and one that ought certainly to be heard from no decent lips.”

“Matter of opinion, of course,” said Cyril; and he placed his hands under his head and stared straight out of the window, while the Rector and his wife exchanged glances.

“Cyril,” said the former at last, after a struggle to keep down his anger, “I will not quarrel with you.”

“That’s right, governor. I hate quarrelling.”

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

“Don’t think any man has a more obedient son,” replied Cyril.

“The time, however, has now come when some plan must be devised for you to make a fresh start in life upon your own account.”

“’Pon my word, father, I don’t see it. I’m very comfortable as I am.”

“But I am not, sir,” replied his father, firmly. “For years past it has been thrown in my teeth that I am rightly named Eli. You know why. It is time, now, sir, that we took care not to be ashamed of the enemy in the gate.”

“Please don’t preach, father,” said the young man, in a tone of protestation.

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

“Let me ask you first,” he said, “one question.”

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

“Has Miss Portlock accepted your attentions?”

There was a pause here. “I say, Cyril, has Miss Portlock accepted your attentions?”

“Matter of confidence,” replied the young man. “Question I would rather not answer.”

“Then she has not,” said the Rector, quickly, “and I am very, very glad.”

“Why, father?”

“Because, as I have told you before, she is receiving the attentions of Mr Luke Ross.”

“Oh, nonsense!” cried Cyril, flushing. “That’s all off now.”

“I heard something of the kind; but what do you mean? Have they quarrelled?”

“Oh, no. Old Portlock wouldn’t have it: and quite right, too. Girl like that to be engaged to such a clod!”

“Cyril,” said his father, angrily, “I would to heaven that I had as good a son.”

“Complimentary to your boys, sir. Let’s see, he threw you over very shabbily about the school, didn’t he?”

“He declined the post, certainly.”

“Then even Mr Luke Ross is not perfect, sir.”

“I am not going to criticise his conduct over that matter, sir, beyond saying that he had no doubt good reasons for declining the post. On further consideration I think he was right, for unless he felt his heart to be in his work, he would have been wrong to venture upon binding himself to the school.”

“Most worthy young man, I’ve no doubt,” said Cyril, with a sneer.

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

“One of those highly respectable young men who push their way on in the world,” sneered Cyril.

“And often become great with the poorest of means for pushing their way,” said the Rector, “while those well started miserably fail.”

“Oh, yes; I know ’em,” said Cyril. “One reads of them in the nice books. Bah! I haven’t patience with the prigs; and as for this Luke Ross,” he cried, with the colour burning as two spots in his cheeks, “I look upon him as one of the most contemptible cads under the sun. You talk of wishing that you had such a son, father! Why the fellow is utterly beneath our notice.”

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

“Why?” replied Cyril. “Because he is.”

“A pitiful reply,” said the Rector, angrily. “Can you give me a better reason for your dislike to Luke Ross?”

“Not I. He is not worth it.”

“Then I’ll give you one,” replied the Rector. “The true one, Cyril, though it cuts me to the heart to have to speak so to my son, and before the mother who has worshipped him from his birth.”

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

“No,” he said, “I have been silent too long – I have given way too much. It is time I spoke out with no uncertain sound. Cyril, you hate this man because he is your rival in the affections of a good, true girl. Your anger has taught me so far, and I rejoice thereat. Your suit has been without success. You teach me, too, that you would stop at nothing, even blackening your rival’s character, to gain your ends; but this must not be. I look upon Sage Portlock as in my charge, and I tell you, once and for all, that you must stop this disgraceful pursuit. I say that it shall not go on.”

“And how will you stop it, sir?” cried Cyril, springing to his feet, while the mother lay back with clasped hands.

“I don’t know yet, but stop it I will,” cried Mr Mallow. “You shall disgrace your mother and sisters no longer – insult Miss Portlock no more by your pursuit.”

“Insult her?”

“Yes, sir, insult her. She is too good and pure-hearted a girl for her affections to be tampered with by such a heartless fellow as you.”

“Eli, Eli,” moaned Mrs Mallow, but her cry was unnoticed by the angry men.

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

“I know, my son, that the time has come for me to strike. You must leave here, and at once. Sage Portlock is not for you. If you do not know your position in life and your duty to your class, you must be taught.”

“Then hear me now,” cried the young man, defiantly. “Luke Ross is no rival of mine, for he has never won Sage Portlock’s heart. That belongs to me; and as to duty, caste, and the like, let them go to the devil. Have her I will, in spite of you all, and – ”

“Silence, sir!” cried the Rector, beside himself with passion – the rage kept down for years; and he caught his son by the throat. “Man grown – no, you are a boy – a child, whom I ought to soundly thrash for your disobedience and shame. Son? you are no son of mine.”

“Loose me, father,” cried the young man. “I will not bear this. Loose me, I tell you.”

Father and son had forgotten themselves, and in those brief moments of their struggle a strange blindness had come over them. They swayed to and fro, a little table covered with china was overset with a crash, and, at last, getting one hand free, Cyril clenched his fist and struck out fiercely, just as a wild and piercing scream rang through the room.

Part 1, Chapter XXV.
Where Cyril Went

Mrs Mallow’s cry of horror as, after struggling for the first time for many years into an upright posture, she fell back, fainting, had the effect of bringing father and son back to their senses. Another second and Cyril’s clenched hand would have struck down the author of his birth; but at that cry his arm fell to his side, and he stood there trembling with excitement as the Rector quitted his hold, and flung himself upon his knees by the couch.

He rose again on the instant to obtain water and the pungent salts which were close at hand, striving with all the skill born of so many years’ attendance in a sick room to restore the stricken woman to her senses.

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

“Oh, mamma, mamma!” wailed Julia, and she too busied herself in trying to revive the stricken woman.

Not so Cynthia, who took in the situation at a glance, and burst into a passion of sobs, which she checked directly, and with flushed face and flashing eyes she crossed to her brother.

“This is your doing,” she cried; “you will kill mamma before you’ve done; and Harry might have been here and heard all this. Cyril, I hate you; you’re as wicked as Frank;” and to her brother’s utter astonishment she struck him sharply in the face.

“Little fool!” he growled fiercely, as he caught her by the wrist, but only to fling her off with a contemptuous laugh. He made no motion to help, but stood with frowning brow and bitter vindictive eye watching his parents alternately; but though he went to and fro many times, and passed close to his son, the Rector never once looked at him, seeming quite to ignore his presence there.

Constant efforts had their due effect at last, for the unhappy mother uttered a low wailing cry, and then, as her senses returned and she realised her position, she began to sob bitterly, clinging to her husband as he knelt by her, bending his face down upon her hands as he held them tightly in his own.

From where Cyril stood he could see his father’s face, that it was deadly pale, and that his lips were moving rapidly as if in prayer, and thus all stayed for some little time, till the laboured sobbing of the invalid died off into an occasional catching sigh.

At last she unclosed her eyes, to fix them appealingly upon her son, her lips moving, though no audible words followed; but the look of appeal and the direction of her pathetically expressive eyes told her wishes as she glanced from Cyril to the carpet beside her couch – told plainly enough her wishes, and the young man read them aright – that he should come there and kneel down at his father’s side.

“Not I,” he muttered. “The old madman! How dare he raise his hand to me like that!”

He thrust his hands in his pockets and remained there with a look mingled of contempt and pity upon his face as he watched the prostrate figure of his father, while, as his mother’s appealing eyes were directed to him again and again, he merely replied to the dumbly-uttered prayer by an impatient shake of the head.

At last the Rector raised his eyes, and as he met his wife’s agonised look, he smiled gently, and then bent over her and kissed her brow.

“It is passed, my love,” he whispered. “God forgive me, I did not think I could have sunk so low.”

Julia passed her arm round her sister, and drew her to the window, to lay her head upon her shoulder and weep silently and long.

“Cyril,” said the Rector, in a broken voice, as he rose and stood before his son, “you have tried me hard, but I have done wrong. My temper gained the better of me, and I have been praying for strength to keep us both from such a terrible scene again. Come down with me to the study, and let us talk of the future like sentient men. God forgive me, my boy; I must have been mad.”

He held out his trembling hands, and Cyril saw that he was evidently labouring under great emotion, as he absolutely humiliated himself before his son, his every look seeming to ask the young man’s forgiveness for that which was past. But Cyril’s anger was, if not hotter, more lasting than his father’s, and rejecting the offer of peace between them, he swung round upon his heels and strode out of the room.

For a few minutes there was absolute silence, as mother and father gazed at the door through which the son had passed. Then, with a piteous sob, Mrs Mallow exclaimed —

“Oh, Eli, Eli, what have we done?”

“Commenced the reaping of the crop of weeds that are springing up in our sons’ neglected soil. Laura, I have tried to be a good father to our boys, but my weakness seems to stare me now in the face. I have been fond and indulgent, and now, Heaven help me, I have been weaker than ever in trying to amend the past by an outbreak of foolish violence.”

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

“Did I not humble myself to him enough?” said the Rector, with a pathetic look at his wife.

“Yes, yes, you did,” she wailed; “but this is all so dreadful. Eli, it will break my heart.”

“And yet I ought to be strong and stern now, sweet wife,” he said tenderly. “Authority has long been thrown to the winds. Had I not better strive hard to gather up the reins and curb his headlong course?”

“It will break my heart,” the unhappy woman sobbed. “It is so dreadful – so horrible to me, love. Eli, husband – my patient, loving husband, bring him back to me or I shall die.”

“I will fetch him back, Laura,” said the Rector, softly, as he bent down once more and kissed the cold, white forehead of his wife.

Then, rising with a sigh, he softly moved towards the door, turning once to smile at the troubled face he left behind.

As he turned, the suffering woman held out her arms, and he walked back quietly to sink upon his knees by her side.

“Pray,” she said, softly. “Pray for help and guidance in this storm.” And once more there was silence in the room.

“He is our boy,” whispered Mrs Mallow, as the Rector rose. “Be patient with him, Eli, and all will yet be well. Indeed, indeed, he is good and true of heart. See how tenderly he waits on me.”

“Just for a minute, now and then,” the Rector thought; “and only when it does not clash with some selfish object of his own.” And then he fell to thinking of his own years upon years of constant watchfulness and care, and smiled sadly as he saw how that at times the little far outshone the great.

But nothing in his countenance betokened aught but the tenderest sympathy and love for her he was leaving behind, as, once more going to the door, the Rector passed through, and descended to his study, leaving Mrs Mallow weeping in her daughters’ arms.

Here he shut himself in for a few minutes, and rapidly paced the floor, holding his hands the while to his rugged brow.

“It is too much – it is too much!” he groaned, panting with the great emotion to which his soul was prey. “If it was not for my girls! If it was not for my girls!”

Then he threw himself into his chair, and sat leaning forward with his fingers seeming to be driven into the soft padding of the arms, which he clutched with fierce vehemence.

But by degrees the gust of passion passed over, leaving him calm and cool as, once more rising, he smoothed his countenance, and went out of the room in search of Cyril.

He was not in the dining-room, nor yet in the little room where he was in the habit of sitting to read and smoke, while the state of the garden was not such as to induce him to wander there.

The Rector went up softly to his son’s room, but without finding him; and at last he went into the dining-room and rang the bell.

“Where is Mr Cyril?” the Rector asked.

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

“With Mr Frank?”

“No, sir; Mr Frank went out before that.”

“Did he say what time he would be back?”

“No, sir; but Williams came in just now, sir, with Lord Artingale’s mare for Miss Cynthia.”

“Yes?”

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

“Indeed!”

“Yes, sir; and he was walking up and down as if he expected somebody to come.”

Part 1, Chapter XXVI.
An Interruption

From the way in which people talk of the tender passion it might be supposed to be one long dream of bliss; but a little examination of other people’s hearts, and the teachings of the knowledge thus obtained with the experience of years, will go far to show that it is as often as not very far from being a dream, being, in fact, a time of misery, disappointment, and oftentimes of despair.

The earlier days of Sage Portlock’s maidenhood had glided peacefully away. She had had her troubles and annoyances like the rest of the world, but they were little, and barely ruffled the even current of her life.

She had been troubled somewhat over her sister’s love affair with Frank Mallow, and had been Rue’s confidante. Now that stormy time had passed away, and she had smiled over the wedding with John Berry, and laughingly accepted her position of Aunt Sage to the two little children that were born.

Luke Ross had been her playmate till a tenderer attachment had sprang up as girlhood passed into womanhood, and the boy became a thoughtful man. There was a thrill of pride ready to run through her, making the colour suffuse her cheeks, as she knew that she was loved; and with the thought came a proud elation that made her feel happier than she believed she had ever felt before.

But that was all. She loved Luke, she told herself, very dearly, and some day she would be his wife; but she felt happy enough when he went away to London, and somehow, though she used to consider that she was the happiest of women, his calm, trusting letters did not seem to awaken any echoes in her heart; while hers to him were pleasant little bits of gossipping prattle, ending with “the dear love of yours very, very affectionately, Sage.”

Yes, she was very fond of Luke, she used to say to herself, and by and by they would be so happy together; but she felt in no hurry for by and by to come. Existence was very pleasant as it was, and once she was back in Lawford from the training institution and engaged in the school, she seemed to wish for nothing more.

Luke Ross wrote, and twice during his absence there he came home, and they had very pleasant walks and chats, and were very boy-and-girlish together, laughing away till a serious fit would come on, when they discussed the future, the cost of housekeeping, and she laughed merrily again at the idea of being Luke’s little housekeeper and wife.

But there was no passionate attachment on her side – no tears at meeting or at parting. All was wonderfully matter-of-fact. She was very happy, she felt, and she could see that Luke was, and what more could she desire?

Then came the change, and Sage was face to face with the fact that she had promised herself to a man for whom she had never entertained a warmer feeling than that of friendship, or the love of a sister for brother, and that at last she had found her fate.

Was it a feeling of rapturous delight?

Far from it; for from that day her nights were sleepless, and too often her pillow was wet with the hot tears of her misery and distress.

On the day of the serious quarrel between father and son Sage was in better spirits than she had been in for some days. A letter had come from Luke telling her of his progress in London; of his father’s willingness to make him a sufficient allowance for the object he had in view, a matter which had been settled since he came up, and that he had taken what his landlord called “chambers” in a legal part of town.

So light-hearted was Sage that day that she laughed over Luke’s merry description of his chambers as being so many square feet of emptiness, with a cupboard in which he had to sleep.

He gave her a very graphic account of the way in which he had furnished his rooms, of how he walked into Fleet-street every day to have a chop for his dinner, and how the woman who made his bed prepared his breakfast and tea, and then followed a sentence which made Sage laugh merrily – a laugh that was repeated several times during school hours, to the great astonishment of the girls.

“And it is wonderful what a very little while half-a-pound of tea seems to last.”

That was the sentence which amused her, and for a time Cyril Mallow passed from her thoughts.

“What a little time it lasts!” she said merrily, as soon as the school had been dismissed, and she was putting on her hat. “Poor boy! of course, he knows nothing at all about housekeeping; and only to think,” she mused, “how dreadful it must be to go on living every day upon chops.”

She started for home, thinking a great deal of Luke, and telling herself that the fancies that had of late come into her head were as foolish as they were wicked, and that now they were dismissed for ever.

What would Mr Mallow himself think of her? What would Mrs Mallow say? She shivered, and felt that unless she sternly determined never to think of Cyril again, she could not meet the Rector, who had always been so kind and fatherly in his ways.

This had been a nasty dream – a day-dream that had come over her, fostered by Cyril Mallow’s looks and ways. For he had followed her about a great deal; watched for her so that they might meet, and had constantly been coming up to the farm of an evening, where, though ostensibly chatting with her uncle, she could not raise her eyes without encountering his.

She could not have explained it to herself, but somehow Cyril Mallow had seemed to influence her life, being, as it were, the very embodiment of sin silently tempting her to break faith with Luke Ross, and think only of him who had come between.

She told herself constantly, when the thoughts of Cyril Mallow intruded themselves, that she loved Luke better than ever, and that the coming of Cyril was hateful to her; but, all the same, there was a strange light in her eyes whenever she thought of him, and her cheeks would burn and her pulses flutter.

It was a strange way of hating, but she told herself that it was hate, and on this particular day the coming of Luke’s letter had seemed to strengthen her, and she began planning what she would say in return; how she would give him good advice about his housekeeping, say words of encouragement to him about his studies, and praise his determination. For was he not striving with all his might; had he not determined upon this long struggle for position that he might win her?

And how could she do anything but love him? Dear Luke! Indeed she would be true to him, and write him such encouraging letters – help him all she could. It was her duty now, for though they were not regularly affianced with her friends’ sanction, she told herself that her promise to him was sacred.

“Yes,” she said, half aloud, as she walked thoughtfully on, “I love Luke very dearly, and that other was all a bad, feverish kind of dream, and I’ll never think about it more. It was wicked of Mr Cyril, knowing what he does, and weak of me, and never again – Oh!”

“Did I make you jump, Sage?” said a low voice; and Cyril came from the gate over which he had been leaning, and jerked the stump of a cigar away.

“I – I did not see you, Mr Cyril,” she said, faintly, and the tears sprang to her eyes.

“And I frightened the poor little thing, did I? There, I’ll be more careful next time; but, oh, what a while you have been.”

“Don’t stop me, Mr Cyril,” she said, with trembling voice; “I must hurry home.”

“Well, you shall directly; but, Sage, don’t please be so hard and cruel to me. You know how humble and patient I have been, and yet you seem to be one day warm, the next day cold, and the third day hot and angry with me. What have I done?”

“I do not understand you, Mr Cyril,” she said, trying to speak sternly, and walking on towards the farm.

“Then I will speak more plainly,” he said, suddenly dropping the bantering tone in which he had addressed her for one full of impassioned meaning. “Sage, I love you with all my heart, and when you treat me with such cruel coldness, it makes me half mad, and I say to you as I say now, what have I done?”

“Oh, hush! hush!” she panted. “You must not speak to me like that. Mr Cyril, I beg – I implore you – never to address me again. You know – you must know – that I am engaged to Mr Ross.”

“Engaged to Mr Ross!” he said, bitterly. “It is not true. There is no engagement between you.”

“It is true,” she panted, hurrying on, and trembling for her weakness, as she felt how strongly her heart was pleading for him, who kept pace with her, and twice had laid his hand, as if to stop her, upon her arm.

“I have your aunt’s assurance that it is not true,” he continued; “and I have hoped, Sage, I have dared to believe, that you were not really fond of this man.”

“Mr Cyril, I beg – I implore you to leave me,” she cried.

“If I left you now,” he said, hoarsely, “feeling what I feel, knowing what I know, it would be to plunge into some miserable, reckless course that might end who can say how? What have I to live for if you refuse me your love?”

“How can you be so cruel to me?” she cried, angrily. “You insult me by these words, Mr Cyril I am alone, and you take advantage of my position. You know I am engaged to Mr Ross.”

“I do not,” he retorted, passionately. “I do not believe it; and I never will believe it till I see you his wife. His wife!” he continued. “It is absurd. You will never be Luke Ross’s wife. It is impossible.”

“I will not – I cannot – talk to you,” she cried, increasing her pace. It was on her lips to add, “I dare not”; but she checked herself in time, as she glanced sidewise at him, for with a feeling of misery and despair, strangely mingled with pleasure, she felt that all her good resolutions were being swept away by her companion’s words, and, in an agony of shame and dread lest he should read her thoughts, she once more hurried her steps.

“You cannot throw me off like that,” he said, bitterly. “I will not be pitched over in this contemptuous manner. Only the other day you looked kindly and tenderly at me.”

“Oh no, no, no,” she cried, “it is not true.”

“It is true enough,” he said, sadly, “and I mean to be patient. I cannot believe you care for this man. It is impossible, and I shall wait.”

“No, no, Mr Cyril,” she pleaded. “I can never listen to such words again. Think of your father and your mother. Mr Mallow would never forgive me if he knew I had listened to you like this.”

“Let him remain unforgiving, then,” cried Cyril. “As for my mother, she loves her son too well not to be ready to do anything to make him happy.”

“Pray, pray go,” she moaned.

“No,” he said, sternly, “I will not go. You torture me by your coldness, knowing what you do. Do you wish to drive me to despair?”

“I wish you to go and forget me,” she cried, with spirit. “As a gentleman, Mr Cyril, I ask you, is such a course as this manly?”

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

“No,” he said, “it is neither manly nor gentlemanly, but what can you expect from a miserable wretch against whom all the world seems to turn? Always unsuccessful – always hoping against hope, fighting against fate, I find, now I come home, that the little girl I always thought of when far away has blossomed into a beautiful woman. How, I know not, but I wake to the fact that she has made me love her – idolise her – think of her as the very essence of my being.”

“Mr Cyril,” pleaded Sage; but he kept on.

“A new life appears to open out to me, and my old recklessness and misery seem to drop away. I waken to the fact that there is something to live for – something to rouse me to new effort, and to work for as an earnest man should work. I did not seek her out; I did not strive to love her,” he continued, as if speaking to some one else; “but her love seemed to come to me, to enweave itself with my every thought.”

“I will not listen,” panted Sage, but her heart whispered, “Luke never spoke to me like that.”

“I fought against it for a time,” he went on, dreamily, “for I said to myself this would be wronging her. She is engaged to another, and I should only make her unhappy and disturb the even tenor of her ways.”

“Which you have done,” she cried, in piteous tones.

“Do not blame me,” he said, softly. “I fought hard. I swore I would not think of you, and I crushed down what I told myself was my mad love within my breast; but when, by accident, I found that I was wrong, and that no engagement existed between you and Luke Ross – ”

“But there is, there is,” she cried. “Once more, Mr Cyril, pray leave me.”

“A few mere words of form, Sage. You do not love this man; and, besides, your relatives have not given their consent. Oh, listen to me. Why should you condemn me to a life of reckless misery? You know how I have been drifting for years without an anchor to stay me. You are that anchor now. Let me cling to you for my father’s, my mother’s sake; for if you cast me off, continue this cruel wrong, you drive me once more from home, to go floating aimlessly, without a chance of becoming a better man. You cannot be so harsh.”

“I cannot listen to you,” she murmured. “I tell you,” he cried, “that if you cast me off you condemn me to a life of misery and despair. Sage, dear Sage,” he cried, catching her hand, “I have been wild and foolish, but I have the making in me of a better man. Help me to live aright. You are so good, and pure, and sweet – so wise and gentle. Be my guide and helpmate, and those at home will bless you. Am I always to plead in vain?”

“How can I look Luke Ross in the eyes again if I listen to such words as these?”

“Luke Ross? Am I to stand idly by and let Luke Ross, the cold, careless cynic, snatch you from my arms?”

“How dare you speak of him like that?” she cried, angrily. “He is all that is wise and good.”

“And worships you so dearly that he has gone away for three years, at least, to prove to you his love.”

“It is a great act of noble forbearance,” she said, proudly, “and you slander him by your words.”

“I hope I do,” he said; “but they were wrung from me by my misery and suffering. But no, I will not believe you can be so cruel to me. I know that I may hope.”

They were nearing the gate leading into the great home field, and Sage, trembling and agitated to a terrible degree, hurried on, feeling that, once within sight of the house, Cyril Mallow would leave her. Her mind was confused, and the struggle going on between duty and inclination was terrible; while the knowledge that she was so weak and yielding towards her companion half maddened her for the time.

“Why do you hurry on so?” he pleaded. “Am I to be driven away? Am I to leave home, and go anywhere that fate may drift me?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” she moaned. “This is too cruel to me. Pray, pray leave me now.”

“Then I may hope?”

“No,” she cried, with a fresh accession of strength, as she laid her hand upon the gate; “I have promised to be Luke Ross’s wife.”

“His you shall never be,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “You do not love him, and you shall not fling yourself away. Sage, you shall be mine, and – ”

“Well, young man, are you obliged to whisper what you say to my niece? Come, Sage, my girl, it’s time you were indoors.”

“Uncle!” cried Sage, joyously, as she sprang to his side with a sigh of relief.

“Yes, my girl,” he said, coldly, “it is uncle;” and he stuck his thistle staff down into the soft earth, and leaned his hands upon the round top. “You can go on,” he continued; “I’m not coming home yet.”

“But, uncle,” she cried, excitedly.

“Go home, my lass,” he said, imperatively.

“Yes, dear,” she half sobbed; “but you will not – ”

“I say go home!” he shouted; and, with a low wail, she turned off, and walked hurriedly towards the farm, her uncle standing watching her, while Cyril Mallow coolly took a cigar-case from his breast pocket, opened it, carefully selected a cigar, picking, choosing, and returning one after the other till he had found one to his fancy, when he snapped to the case once more and thrust it back in his pocket, afterwards biting off the cigar-end and proceeding to light it with a fusee that evinced a strong dislike to burst into sparks and then smoulder away.

As he did this, however, he kept glancing furtively at the Churchwarden, who was watching the retiring form of Sage, her troubled mien winning a glance or two from Cyril as well.

The cigar burned badly, and had to be lit again, this time being watched by the Churchwarden with a kind of good-humoured contempt for the man who could smoke those rolls of tobacco-leaf in place of an honest pipe.

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

“I’m in for another row now,” said Cyril, to himself. “Awkward; very. Never mind; I don’t care.”

“Now, young man,” said Portlock, at last, in a very short, blunt fashion, “it seems to me that you and I had better have a few words together of a sort.”

“When and where you please,” said Cyril, carelessly.

“Let’s walk along here, then,” said the Churchwarden, pointing down the lane with his thistle staff.

“Away from the farm, eh?” thought Cyril. “All right, old friend.” Then aloud, “Whichever way you please, sir.”

“I didn’t know things had gone so far as this,” continued the Churchwarden, leading the way. “People say that you are the idlest chap in these parts; but it seems to me that, with the work thou likest, thou canst be as busy as the best.”

Cyril flushed a little, and bit his lip, for he told himself that he was a gentleman, and the farmer was making far too free in his way of address; but he checked his annoyance, and said quietly —

“Perhaps, sir, you will kindly explain what you mean.” Then, after a furtive glance at the stern, angry-looking man, he muttered to himself —

“You dare not strike me; and, as to your words, say what you like – little Sage is mine.”

“Now, sir,” exclaimed Sage’s uncle, after a few moments’ pause, “will you have the goodness to explain the meaning of the scene I have just witnessed?”

“Explain, sir?” said Cyril, coolly; “surely it needs no explanation. I am young, and of one sex; Miss Portlock is young and of the other sex, and a mutual attachment has sprung up.”

“Mutual!”

“Well, yes; I hope so, sir. Perhaps, though, I ought to be content with alluding to my own feelings.”

“Humph! Your own feelings, eh? And pray does Mr Cyril Mallow mean to say that he has become attached to my niece?”

“Certainly he does, sir. You are not surprised?”

“But I am surprised,” said the farmer, angrily, “and I am very glad to have witnessed what I did before the mischief went further. Now, look here, Mr Cyril Mallow, I am a man of business, and when I have an unpleasant matter to tackle I go straight to it at once.”

“A very good plan,” said Cyril, calmly.

“I’m glad you think so, sir,” said the Churchwarden, ironically. “And now, if you please, we’ll walk straight up to the rectory.”

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

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

“But suppose he does not approve of the engagement, Mr Portlock?” said Cyril, who was taken somewhat aback by this very prompt way of treating the affair.

“Approve? Whoever thought he would approve, sir? Of course he does not, any more than I do. What I want is for you to be given to understand in a quiet way that it is time you gave up visiting at my place, and hanging about to catch sight of my little girl, when she is leaving or going to the school.”

“Mr Portlock!” exclaimed Cyril, haughtily.

“Mr Cyril Mallow!” cried the Churchwarden. “Now just look here, sir. If I were one of your set, should you be making approaches to my niece in the way you have? Not you: it would not be considered proper. Aunt’s and uncle’s consent would be asked first; but as I’m only a farmer, I’m hardly worth notice. It seems that my little lassie has taken your fancy, and so you come running after her; but not a word to me.”

“But hear me a minute,” protested Cyril.

“No, sir; nor yet half a minute. A farmer’s a man, if he is not what you call a gentleman, and thinks as much of his people as the highest in the land. I dare say, in your high and mighty way, as our rector’s son, and a gentleman who has been at college, you think you are stooping to notice my niece; so let me tell you, once for all, I don’t think you are; and, what’s more, it will be a far better man than you have shown yourself to be who gets my consent to make her his wife.”

“I can assure you, Mr Portlock – ” began Cyril; but the farmer would not hear him. He was thoroughly angry, and his face flushed up a deep red.

“And I can assure you, sir, that I want no such reckless, idling fellow seeking after my niece. We had bother enough when your brother was after Sage’s sister. I tell you, then, plainly, once for all, that I won’t have it; so don’t show your face at my place again.”

He turned sharply round and strode off, leaving Cyril mortified and angry; for, in his way, he had felt that he was stooping, and falling away from his position, in noticing the little schoolmistress, so that this sharp rebuff came like a rude shock to his feelings, and made the end at which he aimed seem less likely to be achieved.

“Confound his insolence!” he cried, as he saw the broad back of the farmer disappearing through his own gate. “It is too bad to be borne.”

But in a few minutes’ time, as he walked slowly homeward, he began to smile and think over his position.

“Let him talk and speak loud,” he said. “I thought he was going to threaten me once. What does it matter? My father is dead against it, and he and Master Portlock will make common cause against me. But what does it matter when Aunt Portlock is on my side, and little Sage is as good as won? Then, as to madame, my poor mother? Pish! she will refuse me nothing. So, Master Churchwarden, I have three women on my side, and the game is mine, do what you like.”

He walked on a little way, amusing himself the while by thinking of the divided sides, and how much stronger his must be.

“Let them fight us,” he said, laughing. “We shall be four to two, and we must win; but stay, I had forgotten another enemy – Master Luke Ross. Poor fellow!” he said, contemptuously, “his chance against me is about the value of nil.”

Part 1, Chapter XXVII.
After a Pipe

Mrs Portlock was in the great kitchen of the farm as Sage hurried through, and she stared with astonishment at the girl’s excited way.

“Why, heyday! Sage – ” she began.

“Don’t stop me, aunt,” cried Sage, excitedly; and, running up-stairs, she shut herself in the room, threw herself upon her knees by her bed, and covered her face with her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.

“She’s been having a quarrel with him,” said Mrs Portlock to herself, “or she wouldn’t take on like that: They must be getting on then, or they wouldn’t quarrel.”

Mrs Portlock paused here to go and scold one of the maids for picking out all the big lumps of coal and leaving the small, but she came back into the kitchen to think about her niece.

“He’s a deal better than Luke Ross,” she said to herself, “for Luke’s only a tradesman after all. There’s no mistake about it, he means our Sage; and where, I should like to know, would he find a better girl?”

There was a pause here, during which Mrs Portlock indulged in a few retrospects concerning Rue, and the time when she was in such trouble about Frank.

“But Cyril is a better disposed young man than his brother, I am sure,” she said, half aloud. “He is his mother’s favourite too. I wonder what Mrs Mallow will say!”

Mrs Portlock said this aloud, and then stopped short, alarmed at her own words, for she called up the face of the calm, dignified Rector entering the place, looking at her reproachfully, and ready to blame her for her assumption in encouraging his son’s visits.

“Oh, my gracious!” she ejaculated, half in horror, for her imagination for the time began to run riot, and she saw that, even if Cyril Mallow was very fond of Sage, and even if Sage returned his love, matters would not run quite so smoothly as she had anticipated.

“I’m sure she’s as good as he,” she exclaimed, by way of indignant protest to the accusations of her conscience; but, all the same, she was now brought face to face with the consequences of her tacit encouragement of Cyril Mallow’s visits.

“And I’m sure we’re as well off as they are,” she added, after a pause. But, all the same, her conscience would not be quieted, and Mrs Portlock was on the point of going up to her niece’s room, when, with a fresh qualm of dread, though she hardly knew why, she saw her husband come striding up toward the house.

Meanwhile Sage’s breast was racked by conflicting emotions, chief amongst which was that suggested by a self-accusation from her wounded heart; and she knelt there, sobbing and praying for help, feeling that she was intensely wicked, and that the hopeless misery of her case was greater than she could bear.

Her mind was in a chaos, and she shuddered as she clung to the coverlet, and dragged it over her drawn and excited face, as one moment it was the stern, reproachful figure of Luke Ross asking her if this was her faith – this the meaning of her tender, loving letters – this the reward of his chivalrous determination to give up everything to the one idea of making himself a worthy suitor with her relatives; the next it was Cyril, gazing at her with despairing eyes, which seemed to say that if she cast him off he should drift recklessly through the world, and come to some bad end; while, did she bless him with her love, he would become a worthy member of society, a happy man, and one of whom she could feel so proud.

Then her heart began to plead for him so hard that she trembled, for she seemed to be awakening, as it were, into a new life, and her dread increased as she more fully realised the power Cyril Mallow had gained over her. She fought hard, and set up barrier after barrier, called up by her intense desire to be honourable and true to her trust. But as fast as she set these up they seemed to be swept away; and, as the excitement brought on by her misery increased, she felt ready to cry aloud to Luke to come back to her and protect her from Cyril Mallow and from her own weak self.

“Sage! Sage!”

It was her uncle’s voice calling up the stairs – a voice by which she could interpret every mood of his spirit; and she knew now that he was very angry.

“Sage!” came again in a voice of thunder, and so full of impatience that she was forced to cross to the door, open it, and answer.

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

It was in Sage’s heart to say she was too unwell to come down, but in her then agitated state she could only falter that she would not be a minute, and, hastily bathing her eyes and smoothing her hair, she descended, pale and trembling, to where her aunt was looking very white and startled, and her uncle walking up and down the old-fashioned parlour, impatient for his evening meal, one of which he would rarely partake unless his niece was there to attend to his wants.

The Churchwarden’s lips parted, and he was about to speak out angrily, but the woe-begone looks of the girl silenced him.

“I’ll have a cup of tea first, and do it over a pipe,” he said to himself. Then aloud —

“Come, my girl, I’m hungry; it’s past tea-time,” and he took his place at the foot of the table, the others seating themselves, after exchanging a scared glance; and then the meal went on much as usual, only that Mrs Portlock tried to calm herself by constant applications to the teapot, while, in spite of her efforts, Sage could hardly partake of a morsel, for the food seemed as if it would choke her.

“Come, come, lass, you don’t eat,” her uncle kept saying; and the poor girl’s struggles to keep back her tears were pitiable.

But at last the weary meal came to an end, and as the table was cleared both aunt and niece grew hopeful, for the Churchwarden’s brow was less rugged as he went to the ledge where his pipe lay, took the tobacco-box placed at his elbow by his niece, and calmly proceeded to fill his pipe.

“Don’t look so frightened, Sage,” whispered her aunt. “He won’t say any more now.”

“Yes, I shall,” cried the farmer gruffly, for his hearing seemed to have become preternaturally sharpened. “Wait till the rooms clear.”

The troubles of that one afternoon seemed to have wrought quite a change in Sage, for as, according to her custom, she took a folded spill from the mantelshelf, and lit it ready to hold to her uncle’s pipe, her eyes looked wild and dilated, while her usually rounded cheeks seemed quite hollowed, giving her a wild, haggard aspect, such as is seen in one newly risen from a bed of sickness.

“Yes, I’m going to talk seriously to both of you,” continued the Churchwarden; “but I’m not going into a passion, now. That’s over. Get your work, both of you, and sit down.”

The trembling women obeyed, after exchanging quick glances; Mrs Portlock’s being accompanied by a movement of her lips, which Sage interpreted to be “I can’t help it.”

The work-baskets were brought to the table, and as the Churchwarden sat placidly smoking and staring at the fire, the sharp twit of needle against thimble was heard in the stillness, which was not otherwise broken till the farmer took his pipe from his lips and uttered a stern —

“Now then.”

Sage started quickly back from where her thoughts had wandered after Cyril Mallow, whom in imagination she had just overtaken and brought back from a wandering life, to bless him and make him happy, while Luke Ross had forgiven her, and every one was going to be happy once again.

“Hold your tongue, mother,” said the farmer, sharply. “I’ve given you a bit of my mind.”

“Indeed, you have,” she cried, querulously, “and, I must say, soon – ”

“No, you mustn’t,” he shouted. “I’m going to talk this time. You generally do all that; but it’s my turn now.”

“Oh, just as you like, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, in an ill-used, protesting tone; “but I must say – ”

“No, you mustn’t,” he cried again, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table with such an effect upon his wife, whose nerves were still shaken by the verbal castigation she had received before tea, that she started from her chair, hesitated a moment, and then ran sobbing out of the room.

For a moment the Churchwarden sat frowning. Then he half rose as if to call her back, but directly after he subsided into his place, and sat frowning sternly at his niece.

“Let her go,” he said. “I’ve said my mind to her. Now I want to talk to you.”

Sage hesitated, with her work in her hand; then, letting it fall, she went to the other side of the table and knelt down, resting her elbows upon her uncle’s knees, and gazing appealingly in his face.

The Churchwarden in his heart wanted to clasp her in his arms and kiss her pale, drawn face, but he checked the desire, and, putting on a judicial expression —

“Now,” he exclaimed. “So you are playing fast and loose with Luke Ross?”

“No, uncle,” she replied, softly.

“What do you call it, then? Of course there is no engagement between you, but Luke expects that some day you will be his wife.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“And as soon as his back is turned, I find you encouraging this fellow, Cyril Mallow.”

“No, indeed, uncle, I have not,” cried Sage.

“I don’t be – ”

He stopped, for there was something in his niece’s eyes which checked him.

“Well, it looks very bad,” he said; “and one thing is very evident – he, after a fashion, thinks of you, and he has the impudence to say that you care for him.”

“Oh!”

It was more like a sigh than an ejaculation, and Sage’s eyes seemed to contract now with pain.

“I’ve given aunt a good talking to, for she’s more to blame than you. She thinks it a fine thing for the parson’s boy to be coming hanging about here after you, same as Frank did after Rue, and much good came of it. She had the impudence to tell me that he was a gentleman, while Luke Ross was only a tradesman’s son. As if that had anything to do with it. ‘Look here,’ I said to her: ‘whenever our girl weds, it shall be to some one with a good income, but he shall be a man.’ Gentleman, indeed! If Cyril Mallow is a gentleman, let my niece marry a man who is nothing of the sort.”

Sage’s eyes closed, and there was a pitiful, pained expression in her face that told of the agony of her heart. So troubled was her countenance that her uncle was moved to pity, and spoke more tenderly.

“I don’t like him well enough for you, my girl, even if there were no Luke Ross in the way. I’ve sent him off to work for thee, like Jacob did for Rachel, and if he’s the man I think him, some day he’ll come back in good feather, ready to ask thee to be his wife, and you’ll neither of you be the worse for a few years’ wait.”

Sage’s eyes remained closed. “I was going to scold thee,” he said, tenderly, “but my anger’s gone, and I’ll say but little more, only tell me this – You don’t care a bit for this young spark of the Rector’s.”

Sage’s face contracted more and more, and the Churchwarden cried, impatiently – “Well, girl, why don’t you answer?” She gazed up in his face with a pleading expression of countenance that startled him, and he placed his hands upon her shoulders, and looked fully in her eyes.

“Why, Sage!” he cried, “you don’t mean – you don’t say that you like him instead of Luke?”

She covered her face with her hands, and burst out into a violent fit of sobbing.

“I don’t know, uncle. I don’t know.”

“Don’t know!” he cried, angrily.

“Pray ask me no more,” she cried, as her uncle started from his seat, thrusting back the chair in the act. She crouched down upon the carpet, weeping bitterly, for she did know now, though no pressure would have torn the secret from her heart.

Part 1, Chapter XXVIII.
Jock Muses

There was a troubled heart at the rectory as well as at the farm, where Julia Mallow, in spite of having been so far a firm, matter-of-fact girl, had found her meetings with the wheelwright’s big ruffianly brother make so strong an impression that although she made a brave effort to cast it all aside as unworthy of her, she was always living under the idea that this man was at her elbow, ready to meet her with his intent, half-mocking gaze.

Once or twice she had nervously alluded to it when chatting with her sister, but Cynthia had merrily told her not to be so silly, for papa said the man must have just come out of prison, and spoken like that out of spite.

“Depend upon it, Julie, you’ll never see him again.”

Julia said nothing, but went to the window of her room, and sat there reading, and now and then lifting her eyes to gaze out at the pleasant prospect right across the fields to the ridge about a quarter of a mile away, beyond which the land sank at once towards Kilby Farm.

The next moment with a faint cry she shrank back, for even at that distance she seemed to recognise the burly form of the rough fellow, seen boldly standing out against the sky as he appeared to be crossing the ridge. Then as she gazed at the figure with starting eyes it went over the edge of the hill and was gone.

“I shall never dare to go out alone,” she said hoarsely. “Heaven help me! What shall I do?”

This was quite a couple of months after the meeting in the lane, during all which time the poor girl felt as if she were haunted by the fellow’s presence, and his words were always ringing in her ears.

The time had slipped away, and company had come and gone. The Perry-Mortons had been down for a second visit, ostensibly for discussions with the Rector concerning the decorations of the town house, but Cynthia read it – and told Lord Artingale her reading – that it was to worm round poor Julia, and that was what papa meant. Didn’t he think it was a shame?

Lord Artingale agreed with her that it was, and between them they decided in alliance to do all they could to prevent it; but unfortunately for Julia, this pair of egotists thought of little else but themselves – thoughts that were varied by a little squabbling when Cynthia showed what a peppery temper she possessed.

Julia was looking languidly forward to the middle of May, when the town house was to be ready, and in busy London she felt that she should be free from the haunting presence which afflicted her so sorely that she even felt glad of Mr Perry-Morton’s poetical rhapsodies as a kind of protection, though there was something terrible in his presence. In fact, this gentleman showed his admiration in a way that was painful in the extreme. He said little, but he loved her with his eyes, and when Mr Perry-Morton loved he did it in a sculpturesque manner, sitting or standing in some wonderful position, at a short distance, and then gloating – no, a Philistine would have gloated – he, one of the chosen of the Raphaelistic brotherhood, dreamed over his beloved, mentally writing fleshly poems the while – wondrous visions of rapt joyousness, mingled with ethereal admiration.

But it wanted a month yet to the time for leaving the rectory, and though Julia had not seen her horror again, she felt that he was near, and that at some unexpected moment he would start up, perhaps when she was alone.

Matters there as regarded Cyril were in abeyance. He was, as he told himself, playing a waiting game. Sage would have a nice bit of money, he knew, and he thought it would be a pity to spoil his prospects by hurried play.

Besides, he was in no hurry, for he had the companionship of Frank, and together they went a great deal to the King’s Head, where there was an old billiard-table. At other times they drove over to Gatley, where Lord Artingale placed everything he possessed at their service. There was a good billiard-table there, horses, and wine, and cigars to their hearts’ content.

Then each had a little private business to attend to, about which they made no confidences, and rarely interfered with or joked each other, it being a tacit arrangement that no questions should be asked if Frank was going over to Lewby for a chat with John Berry, or Cyril had made up his mind for a stroll down by the wheelwright’s, where there were a few dace to be whipped for in the stream.

Spring had come earlier that year, and while Luke Ross thought the Temple gardens and the trees in Grey’s Inn poor dejected-looking affairs, down by Lawford everything was looking its best, for Spring’s children were hard at work striving to hide the rusty traces of the wintry storms.

Early in April the banks and the edges of the woods were, alive with flowers, glossy-leaved celandines showed their golden stars, brightly-varnished arums peered up with their purple-spotted spathes and leaves, the early purple orchids brightened the dark-green here and there. Clusters of soft pale lilac cuckoo-flowers were springing up amongst the clumps of catkin-laden hazels, oak saplings with bark like oxidised silver, and osiers with orange stems and polished silver buds, while every bank and coppice was sprinkled with sulphur yellow where the primroses bloomed. There was mating and marrying going on in feather-land to the blackbird’s fluting, and the twittering of many throats, and one soft, warm day, when the east wind had been driven back by a balmy breathing from the west and south, Cynthia made a dash at her sister, and laughingly passed the string of her hat over her head, thrust a basket in her hand, and led her off to gather violets.

“Let’s be little children once again, Julie,” she cried. “I want a rest. It has been nothing but spooning, and nonsense lately with Cyril and the pretty schoolmistress.”

“Papa has been in sad trouble about it lately, Cynthy,” said Julia, thoughtfully.

“Yes, but let’s hope it is all over now; I think it is.”

“I don’t know,” said Julia, thoughtfully.

“I think I do,” cried Cynthia. “Papa frightened him. But how wonderfully quiet our dear brother Frank is. I hope he is not hatching some mischief.”

“Don’t be uncharitable, Cynthia,” said Julia, with a sad smile; “think the best of your brothers.”

“I do try to, Julie, but I’m afraid I’m not very fond of my brothers.”

“Cynthia!”

“Well, I’m not, dear. I feel quite ashamed of them sometimes. It’s quite shocking the way they are imposing upon Harry, and he takes it all so good-naturedly for my sake, but he don’t like it I’m sure.”

“You are making the worst of it, Cynthy.”

“No, I’m not, for Harry – there, I won’t talk about it; I’m tired of all the nonsense, spooning and flirting with Harry and that fat-featured – oh! why is it rude for a young lady to slap such a fellow’s face, Julie? If you marry that Perry-Morton I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I shall never marry Mr Perry-Morton,” said Julia, dreamily.

“No, no; we don’t want to marry any one at all,” said Cynthia, merrily. “Come and let’s be children in the wood again. It’s heavenly out of doors, dear. Come along.”

Heavenly it was, as they got out of the fields, and struck out through the woods, where the soft moss was like a carpet beneath their feet, and the air was redolent with scents and suggestions of the spring. For it was one of those days, of those very few days, that come early in the year, when the senses seem to be appealed to, and, in a delicious calm, the worries and cares of life roll away, and the spirit seems even troubled with the sweet sense of joy.

The sisters had wandered far, and filled their baskets, but still there were always fresh blossoms to pluck, odorous violets or primroses, and delicate scraps of moss or early leaf.

Cynthia was a couple of score yards away from her sister, in the budding copse, trilling a merry song, as if in answer to the birds, and Julia, with a bright, happy flush upon her face, was still eagerly piling up fresh sweets, when a clump of primroses, fairer than any she had yet gathered, drew her a few yards further amongst the hazel stems.

She was in the act of stooping down to pick them when her flushed face became like marble, her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she stopped – leaning forward – motionless – fascinated by what she saw.

And that was the face of Jock Morrison, as he lay amongst the leaves and flowers, prone upon his chest, his arms folded before him, his chin resting upon them, and his eyes literally seizing hers, not a yard away.

He did not speak or move, only crouched there, staring at her as if he were some philosopher trying the effect of the stronger eye upon the weaker. Neither did Julia speak, but stood there bending down, her eyes fixed, her body motionless, while you might have counted twenty.

“Julie! Where are you? Coo-ee!” Cynthia’s bright young voice broke the spell, and Julia’s eyes closed as she backed slowly away for a few yards before she dare turn and run towards her sister.

“Oh, there you are, Julie. If I did not think you were in the other direction! Why, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“No, no,” said Julia, hastily; “I think I am hot; it is tiring out here. Let us go home; I – I want to get back.”

“Why, Julie, you don’t come out enough; you are done up directly. There, come along out into the fields, there’s more fresh air there. I say, did I tell you that we are to go to town next week?”

“No,” said Julia, who shivered at every sound in the copse, and glanced from side to side, as if she expected to be seized at any moment.

“But we are, and I don’t know but what I long to be up in London to get away from Harry Artingale.”

“To get away?” said Julia, making an effort to be composed, and wondering why she had not told her sister what she had seen.

“Yes, I want to get away; for of course,” she added, archly, “he will have to stay down here.”

She spoke loudly, and all that had been said and left unsaid appealed very strongly to the senses of the great fellow in the copse.

Julia need not have felt afraid that he was about to rise up and seize her; he remained perfectly still for a few moments, and then rolled over upon his back, laughing heartily, but in a perfectly silent manner, before having a struggle with himself to drag a short pipe and a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket.

Filling his pipe quietly, he struck a match and lit it, placed his hands beneath his head, and stared straight up through the tender green leaves at the bare sky, while a robin came and perched upon a branch close by, and kept watching the ruffian with his great round eyes.

“This is jolly,” he said, in a bass growl; “better than having places of your own, and being obliged to work.”

Then he smoked for a few minutes before musing once more aloud.

“Women arn’t much account,” he said, oracularly; “and the younger and prettier they are, the worse they are.”

There was another interval of smoking.

“What a deal a fellow sees by just doing nothing but hang around. Franky Mallow, eh? Ah, he cuts me now. If I was John Berry, farmer, I’d cut him, that’s what I’d do.”

Another interval of smoking.

“Why don’t young Serrol,” (so he pronounced it) “go after the schoolmissus now, I wonder? Tired, I spose.”

Another smoking interval.

“Hah, if it’s because he prefers going down to the ford – ”

He stopped short.

“I tell you what it is; if I thought – ”

Another pause, during which Jock Morrison made his short pipe still shorter by biting off a piece of the stem and spitting it out.

“Shall I tell Tom – shan’t I tell Tom? Tom don’t like me, and tells me to keep myself to myself. He’d about smash him, that’s what Tom would do, if he knowed, and then he’d be miserable for ever and ever, amen, as owd Sammy Warmoth used to say.”

Another smoking fit.

“She’s a good little lass, and the trouble she was in about her bairn was terrible.”

More smoking, and the robin looking wondering on.

“Polly don’t like me, but she’s a kind-hearted little lass, and has give me many a hunk of bread and meat unknown to Tom, and I never see but that she was as square as square.”

Another long smoke.

“Master Serrol, eh? Why, of course! She must ha’ knowed him when she lived at parson’s. I’ll tell Tom.”

More smoking, and the pipe of tobacco burned out.

“No, I won’t tell Tom,” said the big fellow. “If I did he wouldn’t believe me, and it would only make him and Polly miserable too, and I don’t want to do that. I tell you what – if I see Master Serrol go down there again when Tom’s out of the way I’ll pretty well break his neck.”

He uttered a low chuckling laugh as he lay prone there, catching sight now of the robin, and chirruping to it as it watched him from its perch.

“Pretty Dick!” he said. “Going up to London, are they? All right! Anywheres’ll do for me, parson. I wonder whether Serrol and Frank’ll go too.”

Jock Morrison did not pretty well break Cyril’s neck, for a very few days after Mr Paulby had the full management of Lawford Church again, the family at the rectory being once more in town.

“It is worse for the boys,” said the Rector, “but it will keep Cyril away from her. I must get him something to do.”

Part 1, Chapter XXIX.
Mr and the Misses Perry-Morton “At Home.”

It was a lovely and sculpturesque attitude, that which was taken up by the “stained-glass virgins,” as James Magnus called them, on the night of their first “at home” of the season, for at every opportunity, when not otherwise engaged, they joined their hands together, raised them over their left or right shoulder, as the case may be, and then drooped a head against them till an ear just touched the finger-tips, so that they seemed to be saying their prayers all on one side and writhing over the Amens.

Claudine and Faustine Perry-Morton were thorough types of the ladies who have of late taught society how to indulge in the reverent worship of the human form. Their hair was too fearful and wonderful to be described. The nearest approach possible is to compare it to the gum mop of some Papuan belle, who had been chivied during her toilet in the eucalyptus shade, and, consequently, had only managed to get the front part done.

Since dress is made so great a feature in a modern lady’s life, no excuse is surely needed for saying a few words regarding the costume of these gifted sisters. A desire is felt to do justice to those robes, but to give a perfect idea would be extremely difficult.

As it happened, the colour was but one, and it was that of the familiar household tap-rooted vegetable botanically named daucus, but hight the carrot, when seen reposing in sweetness in a dish.

These dresses were, of course, ingeniously contrived to keep on the persons they enfolded, but their aspect was as if a length of many yards of this ruddy orange saffron material had been taken, and one end fastened to an ivory shoulder with a tin-tack of enormous size, the other end being held under the foot of some one far away. Parenthetically, let it be remembered that this is all surmise, as no doubt the costumes were built by one of the highest authorities in fashionable garb. But to resume.

The ends of the dress being thus secured upon the shoulder and beneath a distant foot, it seemed that the lady must then have commenced a slow movement, revolving gently and winding herself in the web till it formed a regular – or rather, irregular – spiral bandage from shoulder to ankle, leaving the long thin arms bare, and, after being secured at the feet, trailing far behind and spreading out like a fan.

Perry-Morton walked to the fireplace, laid his head sideways against a large blue plate, which gave him the appearance of a well-fed saint with an azure halo, closed his eyes like a vicious critic on varnishing day, and uttered a low sigh full of rapture, after which he seemed to bless his sisters for giving him a sensation that was perfectly new.

Of the decorations of that suite of rooms it is needless to speak. Every visitor said they were perfect. Even James Magnus told Lord Artingale they were not half bad, “only there’s too much suggestion of the kitchen-dresser with the dinner-plates ranged all a-row.”

Harry Artingale thought it a polished pantechnicon-inferno till the Mallows were announced, and then it seemed transformed into a paradise of delight, where every one walked on air, and the sweet essence of pretty little Cynthia pervaded all.

For Mr Perry-Morton and the Misses Perry-Morton were “at home,” and the big butler was pretty well occupied in announcing the names called to him by the footman, who stood down among the azaleas with which the hall was half filled, ready to open the door and rearrange the roll of horsehair matting which would keep getting out of place.

Lord Artingale and his artist friend arrived early, Magnus to be button-holed and taken aside to see his picture hung with a gaslight and reflector before it, to show it to the best advantage; and yet he was not grateful, for when he returned to Harry Artingale he growled, as the latter, who was very light-hearted and happy, said, “like a sore tom” – cat, of course, understood.

Perry-Morton was standing with his blue china halo behind his head, and with a fleshly poetic look in his eye; and his sisters were each posed before a big Benares brown dish, etherealising her lambent curls and pallid face into virgin and martyr beauty, when the butler announced the Mallows, the girls looking very natural and charming, and Frank and Cyril creating quite a sensation with their sunburnt, swarthy faces and rugged bearing.

“Oh, Claudine,” whispered Faustine, “look at Julia,” and her sister uttered a tragic. “Ah!” as she advanced with her brother to receive the new arrivals.

Certainly Julia looked deadly pale, for as she descended from the carriage she had caught sight of a great burly fellow bearing a lantern, which he ostentatiously held low, so that her little pale blue satin rosetted shoes should not go astray from the carpeted path, and the sight of his dark eyes had sent the blood rushing to her heart. But this pallor rather added to than took from her beauty, as, simply dressed in the palest of pale blue satin, and her throat and arms wreathed with lustrous pearls, she seemed to stand alone amidst the throng of strangely grotesque costumes by which she was surrounded.

The sisters changed their key instanter upon seeing the effect produced upon their brother, whose eyes half closed once more as he greeted his guests. In fact, he treated the Rector with such deference, that for a moment it seemed as if he were going to sink upon his knees, and in true patriarchal style ask for his blessing.

But he did not, neither did he raise Julia’s hand to his lips. He merely beamed upon her rapturously, led her to a seat after the congratulations of his sisters had had due course, and then, as a kind of hum went through the rooms, proceeded to hover over his choice.

“A melody in heaven’s own azure,” whispered Perry-Morton. “Julia, your costume is perfection.”

The pallor on poor Julia’s cheeks had been giving place to a vivid blush, but her host’s words and manner once more drove the blood to her heart, and she sank back upon the lounge, glad to use her fan, for she thoroughly realised that she was looked upon by all present as the future mistress of the place.

“Magnus, my dear boy,” whispered Artingale, “have you any charity in your nature?”

“Heaps. Why?”

“Because I want you to go and cut that fellow out. Julia really is a nice girl.”

“Don’t be a fool,” was the answer, given with such intensity that Artingale was startled.

“Fool, be hanged! I’m in earnest. Wait a bit, and we’ll go up to her together, and then I’ll be off and leave you. You’d stand no end of a chance, for Cynthia likes you ever so.”

“Don’t be an ass, Harry,” said Magnus, “you seem to be happy enough. Let the poor little body be.”

“Well, I don’t want to quarrel,” said Artingale, “but if ever a fellow was a fool or an ass I should think it would be when he turned up his nose at the chance of winning a little woman who has not been spoiled by the world.”

“Oh, she’s nice enough,” said Magnus, gruffly. “Are those two brothers going to marry those stained-glass virgins?” he continued, as Cyril joined Frank, who was bending impressively towards Faustine.

“I wish to heaven they would,” said Artingale, earnestly. “Hang the brothers! What a thing it is that pretty girls are obliged to have brothers! At last! – I’m off. There’s the telegram.”

The message came along a beam of light, and that little bright beam stretched from Cynthia Mallow’s eye to that of the speaker; and the message was, —

“You dear stupid old goose, why don’t you come?”

For Artingale had held rather aloof until the fair young hostesses had withdrawn.

“Why didn’t you come before, sir?” said the lady, looking very severely at her swain.

“I was afraid,” he said.

“What, of me, sir?”

“No, no,” he whispered, “I’ve been longing to get near you, but I dared not. Oh, my little darling, how beautiful you look to-night.”

“For shame, Harry; now look here, sir; I will not permit you to be so familiar. The idea of addressing me in such a strain.”

“There,” he sighed, “now you are getting on stilts again, and we were so happy down at Lawford.”

“Yes, but that’s country, and this is town. We are in society now, sir, and we must be very proper.”

“There, my beautiful little tyrant,” he whispered, “I am your slave. I won’t rebel; only reward me sometimes for my patience with a kindly look.”

“Well, if you are very good, perhaps I will,” said Cynthia. “But you did not tell me, Harry, why you were afraid. Ah, that’s right, that tall thin ghost is going to sing, so we can talk.”

In effect, a very cadaverous-looking lady, with an exceedingly startled air, was led by Mr Perry-Morton to the piano, and after he had screwed his eyes up, glanced round the room, and held up a white finger to command silence, the thin lady, who evidently purposely lived upon an unwholesome regimen, to keep herself graceful, fixed her eyes upon one particular piece of blue china near the corner of the room, and began to sing.

“Now, sir,” whispered Cynthia, “you must not speak loud. Tell me quietly.”

“May I sit down?”

“If that is enough room for you, sir. Now go on.”

Artingale would have thought the edge of a knife room enough, so that he could be near Cynthia, so he sat down in a very uncomfortable position, and received such a merry, mischievous look that he sighed with content.

“The fact is – oh, murder!”

“Hush, Harry! What is the matter?”

“Would it look rude if I were to cork my ears with glove-fingers, Cynthy?”

“Of course, sir! For shame! You have no soul for music.”

“Not a bit,” he whispered; “only when you warble one of those little ballads of yours, I shut my eyes and wish you were a brook.”

“Wish I were a what, you foolish boy?” whispered Cynthia, looking up at the great boy who towered over her.

“A brook, my darling, to go on for ever,” he whispered back so earnestly, that Cynthia felt a little thrill of pleasure run through her, and her pretty face became slightly suffused.

“Now you are talking nonsense again,” she said. “Oh. I do wish that dreadful romance would end. Harry, if you speak to me again like that, I shall send you away. Now, sir, why were you frightened? Did I look so fierce and majestic?”

“No: only more beautiful than ever.”

“Harry!”

“Fact. Well, I’ll tell you: Claudine Perry-Morton was by you.”

“Well, what of that, sir?”

“And I felt as if I dared not come near in case of an accident.”

“An accident, Harry! What, to the gas? Oh fie! what a silly old joke; you mean her hair would set it alight.”

“No, I don’t; I don’t mind red hair. After yours, it’s the prettiest there is.”

“Don’t stoop to compliments, sir. Now tell me why you were afraid of an accident?”

“Why I feel sure that some time or other she’ll come undone. Look at her dress. I wouldn’t be there for the world.”

“Harry!”

There was a very genuine blush as she looked at him reproachfully; but her face softened directly as he whispered in such a low, earnest tone that it thrilled her once more —

“Forgive me, darling, it was too bad, I know; there, we won’t talk about ourselves, I only want to be near you. Let me take you down to supper.”

“Would you like to?”

“Yes.”

“Very much?”

“Darling!”

What wonderful emphasis an engaged couple can put into their words. Evidently that last noun uttered by the young fellow opened out a vista of future bliss to Cynthia, who answered him with a look which was a perfect bond in its way, engrossed in parchment, sealed, signed, witnessed, endorsed, and tied with dark-green silk in proper legal style.

“I haven’t been to dear Julie yet,” he said.

“What a shame! Go at once, sir.”

“No, no; don’t send me away at present.”

“Well, you must go presently, Harry,” she said, softly; “I’m so glad you are fond of Julie.”

“Bless her! I love her very much,” he said. “She’s the dearest, sweetest, sisterly little body I ever met. I always feel as if I should like to kiss her when I shake hands, and her pretty little lips seem to look up to one so naturally. Cynthy, darling, I often wished I had a sister, and – and now I’m to have one, am I not?”

“I don’t know – perhaps,” she said, looking down.

“I told Magnus one day I wished I had a sister for his sake. Thank goodness the song’s done. Let’s clap our hands, for joy.”

They clapped their hands, as did every one else, but of course not for joy.

“I like Mr Magnus,” said Cynthia, thoughtfully.

“He’s the best and truest-hearted fellow in the world,” cried Artingale, enthusiastically.

“And if you had had a sister, what then, sir?”

“I should have made old Magnus marry her.”

“Indeed, my lord bashaw! And suppose the lady did not approve?”

“But she would approve. No really sensible girl would refuse Magnus, if she came to thoroughly know him.”

There was silence here, during which a very-pale gentleman with a very large aquiline nose, which seemed to be his feature, the rest of his face merely representing base or pedestal, threw his long black hair behind his ears, and recited a portion of one of Rosetti’s poems.

“Harry,” said Cynthia then, “go and see Julie now.”

“Must I?”

“Please. Poor girl, she is so unhappy; I’m in great trouble about her.”

“Poor darling!” he replied.

“You know I told you about our being out in the woods collecting flowers?”

“Yes.”

“And how Julia came upon that great fellow lying amongst the moss and primroses?”

“Yes; I wish I had been there!” and the young man’s teeth gave a grit together. “But he did not say anything to her?”

“No; only stared in a way that frightened her horribly, and it seemed to have such an effect upon her when she dragged herself away, that she was quite ill, and it was hours before I found out what it was.”

“Poor child! But she must not think about it. She may never see him again.”

“But she keeps seeing him, so she says. He seems to haunt her. She saw him in the park again a few days ago.”

“But did she see him, or was it fancy?”

“Oh, no, it was not fancy; I saw him too. A great big leering fellow.”

“Oh, but it must be stopped; your brothers and I must thrash him.”

“And I half think she saw, or fancied she saw, him to-night, for she was so bright and cheerful when we started, and when we came in she seemed to have turned to stone.”

“Well, poor child, she will soon have a manly protector now,” he said, rather bitterly, as he glanced at where Perry-Morton was hovering over Julia, while the Rector stood by smiling rigid approval.

“Don’t talk like that, Harry,” said Cynthia, quietly; “you hurt me.”

“Forgive me,” he whispered, “but it makes me mad to see your people ready to sell her to that man.”

“Papa thinks it right, and for the best. And it is not selling, Harry, for papa is rich.”

“But surely Julia cannot care for him?”

“She does not say so, but she loathes him, Harry.”

“Then why in the name of common sense does she not strike against it, or fall in love with some trump of a fellow who would stick up for her and take her part?”

“I wish she would, Harry. But, there, go to her now. She is miserable. Go and stay with her. Send Mr Magnus to talk to me. No, take him with you, and let him chat to her about his pictures. Here is Mr Perry-Morton coming to beam on me, Harry.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you feel jealous?”

“Horribly,” he said, with a look that contradicted his word; and getting up, he went to where James Magnus was talking to a brother artist about their host’s last purchase, an early specimen of Burne Jones, full of wonderful realistic trees, and a group of figures, who were evidently all in pain.

“Here,” he whispered, catching him by the sleeve, “I want to take you to a lady.”

“No, no – nonsense. I don’t like ladies, Harry.”

“Don’t be stupid. I want you to come and chat with Julia Mallow, and take her down to supper. Why, what’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. There – no. Get some one else.”

“Come along, old man. Cynthia sent me. And I say, talk about your pictures to her. Poor girl, she’s miserable. They are trying to hook her on to Perry-Morton.”

“Why, of course. People say they are engaged.”

“And I say she isn’t. She hates the fellow. Why, Magnus, old fellow, why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Oh, nothing. Come along.” The artist, after a moment’s further hesitation, allowed himself to be led off, and the rest of that evening passed very pleasantly to Julia, who listened eagerly to the quiet, grave conversation of Lord Artingale’s friend.

Like all evenings, this memorable one came to a close, amidst the shouting of linkmen, for the carriage of Mr this, and my Lord that, and the clattering of uneasy horses’ feet on the paving fronting the poet’s home. At last the cry arose – “Mr Mallow’s carriage stops the way;” and the voice of a footman, like that of an archangel of fashion, came from inside the magnificent hall, where he stood amidst the flowers, with a deep-voiced “Coming down.”

There was a little craning forward of the heads of the two rows of servants and idlers running from the kerb right up into the great hall, forming a moving human wall on each side of the striped Edgington canopy put up for the occasion. The two policemen mildly suggested something about keeping back, but the big burly fellow with a lantern stood his ground, as he had stood it ever since the party had arrived.

The carriage steps were rattled down, the host came delicately tripping like a fat faun in evening costume, and handed Cynthia in, Lord Artingale being apparently quite content. Frank and Cyril were by the door waiting for a cab, there being some talk of calling at a club.

“Why didn’t Artingale bring down Julia?” said Frank, scowling at James Magnus. “Perry-Morton ought to have handed her down.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Cyril, whose face was flushed with champagne. “Come along.”

The brothers were moving off, but they stayed; for just then, as Artingale’s friend was handing Julia in, softening his voice involuntarily as he bade her good night, an importunate linkman thrust himself forward, ostensibly to hold his lantern to make the carriage steps plainer, and to keep the ladies’ dresses from the wheels.

James Magnus saw it, quick as was the act in the semi-darkness, for as Julia was on the last step a great muscular, hand grasped her soft white arm.

She turned sharply, and then uttered a cry of dread as she saw a brown bearded face close to hers.

It was the work almost of a moment; then she sank back in her place in the carriage; the Rector followed; the steps had been rattled up, the door closed, the footman shouted “Home,” and the horses sprang forward, hiding from the frightened girl the struggle taking place in the little crowd, as James Magnus seized the great ruffian by the throat.

Part 1, Chapter XXX.
A Little Narrative

“Really, Cynthy, it is not a pleasant thing to talk to you about.”

“I insist upon knowing all, sir. Please tell me, Harry.”

“That first order would have been obeyed, Cynthy; but that last appeal makes me try to tell you with all my heart.”

“Now, Harry, once for all, I won’t have it,” said the little maiden, holding up a tiny white warning finger, which, as they were alone in the drawing-room, Lord Artingale seized and kissed. “I want you to be straightforward and sensible when you talk to me, sir, and if you do really like me, don’t pay me silly, sickly compliments.”

“I’ll never pay you another, Cynthy, as long as I live,” he said, eagerly; and the light-hearted girl burst into a merry fit of laughter.

“Oh, Harry, what a dear, stupid old boy you are. There, now, that will do – well, only one more. Now be serious, and tell me, for really I am in very, very great trouble.”

“But would you like me to tell you all about it?”

“Every word, Harry,” said Cynthia, with a quiet, earnest look, as she laid her little white hand in his.

For, saving an occasional rebuff by teasing, Lord Artingale’s love affairs seemed to be progressing in the most unromantic fashion. Cynthia had made a very pretty little confession to him; the Rector had been appealed to, and had become for the moment a little less rigid; and Mrs Mallow had sighed and then smiled.

“Well, dear. No: let me hold your hand like that, I can talk so much better.”

“Oh, you foolish boy!”

It was very foolish, no doubt; but Cynthia let her hand rest where it was.

“Well, it was like this,” said Artingale. “James Magnus saw that great fellow with the lantern take hold of Julie’s arm.”

“Then you see now, sir, that it is not fancy.”

“Not much fancy about it, certainly,” said the young man, grimly, “unless it’s P.R. fancy.”

“P.R. fancy, Harry; what’s that?”

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, hastily. “It’s a term they give to fighting. Well, Magnus says he felt as if he could have killed the scoundrel.”

“That’s well,” said Cynthia, flushing scarlet, and with her eyes sparkling; “I like that.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered, nestling up to her companion, and letting him draw her nearer, till her shiny little head rested against his breast.

“Yes, Harry, I like it – it sounds so brave and manly of him. Harry, dear, can’t you make James Magnus fall in love with Julie?”

“No.”

“You can’t!”

“No, Cynthy. Shall I tell you a secret?”

“I thought there were to be no secrets between us, Harry,” said the maiden, archly.

“Of course not. Well, little one, I think – no, I’m almost sure – that he has fallen in love with her already, without any making.”

“Oh, Harry, dear, how delightful. Here, I must go and tell her.”

“Not for the world, darling.”

“And pray why not, sir?”

“Because, Cynthy,” he said, raising her little face so that he could gaze seriously into her bright eyes, “because, dear, I should feel as if I had been betraying the confidence of my best friend.”

“But I should tell her, not you, Harry.”

“Is there any difference?” he said, quietly. “Isn’t it all one now, Cynthy?”

There was a slight pause, during which Cynthia’s eyes drooped beneath the searching gaze. Then she raised them, and returned his look with one so frank and full of loving trust that the young man’s heart gave one great throb, and the silence seemed likely to be lasting.

“Did James Magnus tell you he loved Julie, Harry?”

“No; but I feel sure he does.”

“I’m so glad, Harry,” said Cynthia, softly; “so very, very glad. But now tell me all. I saw a sort of scuffle, and then we were out of sight, with poor Julie in a dead faint.”

“There isn’t much to tell you, Cynthy, only that Magnus seized the scoundrel by the throat as the carriage dashed off; then there was a moment’s struggle, and the fellow threw him by some clever wrestling dodge, and he fell with his bare head a most awful crash upon the kerbstone.”

“Oh!”

“That made me feel mad, and I went at the fellow, but he was off like a shot, dashed down the road through the gateway; and as I ran after him, followed by a lot of people and two policemen, I saw him cross the road, go right at the park railings, and he was over in a moment, and right into the shrubs.”

“And did you follow?” said Cynthia, excitedly.

“Didn’t I! But I couldn’t get over so quickly as he did, and when I dropped on the other side I was half hanging by one of the tails of my coat, for a spike had gone through it.”

“Oh, what fun,” laughed Cynthia; “how droll you must have looked.”

“I dare say I did,” he said, good-humouredly; “but it gave the rascal time to get a good start, and when I was free and ran on with the police and two more men, the scoundrel had gone goodness knows where.”

“And you did not catch him, then?”

“No, he had got clean away, Cynthy, and after we had been hunting for above an hour we had to give it up.”

“Oh, what a pity.”

“Yes, wasn’t it.”

“I don’t know, though,” said Cynthia, softly; “if you had caught him he might have hurt you, too, Harry.”

“I’ll give him leave to,” said Artingale, “if I can only manage to make my mark upon him.”

“Oh, Harry, don’t look like that; you frighten me.”

“Do I? – there; but don’t you be alarmed about me, little one, I can take care of myself, and I don’t mean to rest till I’ve paid that fellow my debt.”

“Paid your debt, Harry?” said Cynthia, with a look of alarm.

“Yes, little one; I owe him something for frightening you, too, down at Lawford! – if it is the same man,” he added.

“Oh, yes, Harry; I saw his face last night quite plainly,” cried Cynthia, excitedly.

“Then he has frightened little sister twice since. I say, Cynthy, I may call her little sister now?”

“Of course you may; but go on with what you are saying. Oh, Harry, dear,” she whispered, “I wish I was as big and brave as you.”

“And,” he whispered, “I wish that you were always just as you are now, so sweet and bright and loving.”

“Well, sir, go on.”

“That’s about all,” he said, “only that I owe my fine fellow for last night’s affair as well.”

“And about Mr Magnus?”

“Well, I went back, of course, to Sunflower Oil soap.”

“Went where?” cried Cynthia, in astonishment. “Oh, I see, you had made your hands dirty getting over the railings.”

“No, no,” said Artingale, laughing, “I mean I went back to Perry-Morton’s.”

“Oh, what a shame, to call him such a name,” said Cynthia, solemnly, but with her eyes sparkling with delight.

“And there was poor Magnus lying on the sofa in the dining-room, and a couple of doctors bandaging his head, after which he insisted upon being taken back to his chambers, and that’s about all.”

“But you’ve been to see him this morning, Harry?”

“I sat up with him all night, and he grew quite delirious, and talked a good deal about Julia.”

“Oh!” and a pause. “And is his hurt very bad, Harry?” said Cynthia, looking now rather white. “Will it kill him?”

“Oh, no,” said Artingale, “he was a good deal hurt, and lost a lot of blood, and – oh, what an idiot I am!”

“No, no, Harry. I’m not so silly. I’m not going to faint. Hush, here’s Julia.”

For just then the door opened, and, looking very pale and wistful, the elder sister came into the room – smiling, though, as her eyes lit on the young couple; and as Artingale jumped up to greet her, there was something very loving and sisterly in the way in which she gazed in his face, and let him lead her to the couch upon which they had been sitting.

Here she inquired very anxiously after Mr Magnus, showing that she knew a good deal about the previous night’s affair; but Artingale noted her shudder and look of horror when her assailant was mentioned.

“That fellow must be stopped,” said the young man, as he went thoughtfully away. “Poor girl! she seems thoroughly afraid of him. Oh, hang it all, it must – it shall be stopped, or he’ll drive the poor child mad.”

Part 1, Chapter XXXI.
In the Den

You had to pass through James Magnus’s studio to get to his sitting-room, and through the latter to get to his bed-room, and the task was not an easy one. Lord Artingale knew his way by heart, but a stranger would have been puzzled from the moment he entered the lobby or hall. For the place resembled a Wardour-street old curiosity shop more than the abode of a well-known artist. A woman with the bump of order thoroughly developed would, if she had been placed in charge, have immediately invested in a dozen dusters, a turk’s-head, and a feather brush, and gone to the attack, but only to sink down in utter despair.

Chaos seemed to have come back again at the abode of James Magnus, and modern nature and art to have joined hands to cover the aforesaid chaos with dust. For there was dust everywhere; thick, black, sooty dust of that peculiar kind that affects Fitzroy-square. It was never removed, save when a picture, chair, or “property” was taken from one part of the place to another, and the dust thus set floating, floated and settled upon something else. Certainly there was some kind of order in the sitting and bed-room, where the artists man attended, but it was mostly disorder.

“I hate having my things moved,” said Magnus. “When I set to work, I like to be able to begin at once, and not have to hunt for everything I want.”

“I think the place is just perfect,” said Harry Artingale. “One can get plenty of tidiness everywhere else, Jemmy, and I like coming to the den to be a beast.”

So to make matters more comfortable Artingale, at first out of fun, later on from habit, used to carefully place all his cigar ashes and ends wherever he could find a ledge – on the chimney-pieces, on the tops of upturned canvases, on the inner parts of their frames, and balance soda-water and beer or hock corks upon the properties.

You entered the lobby or hall to be confronted by dusty busts and casts, and you went thence into the studio to be confronted by more dusty busts and casts. There were life-sized plaster figures of plenty of well-known antiques mixed up with a heterogeneous collection of artistic odds and ends. There were canvases new and old, with charcoal drawings, sketches, and half-finished paintings, costumes of all kinds, savage weapons, arms and armour, easels from the simplest to the most modern with its screws, and racks and reflectors, and tubes for gas. Rich pieces of carpet partially covered the floor. On one side stood a large raised daïs for sitters, and for non-sitters who wished to sit down there were quaint old carven chairs.

The value of the contents of that studio must have been great, for James Magnus earned a great deal of money, and never grudged spending it upon what he called necessaries for his art. Hence it was that handsome vases and specimens of bronze and brass work were plentiful, but they were stuck anywhere, and as often as not held empty or full paint tubes, or served as supports to great palettes covered with pigments of every hue.

The sitting-room was almost a repetition of the studio, but it was thickly carpeted, and contained more furniture, with easy-chairs, a dining-table of massive oak, and had a free and easy, chaotic comfort about it that would make a bachelor feel quite at home.

The walls bore plenty of pictures, mostly from the brushes of brother artists, and these, with the great full folios, formed a most valuable collection.

It was here that Harry Artingale had taken most pains, as a very old friend and constant companion, to embellish the room with his cigar-ends. Here, too, he had at odd times shown his own love and reverence for art by improving some of the antique casts with whiskers and moustachios. There was a cast of Venus quite life-size, which, evidently for decorous reasons, he had dressed in a seventeenth-century brocade silk dress, from which she looked naïvely at a lay figure in Spanish costume and mantilla; while close by there was an Apollo Belvedere, half garbed in sixteenth-century armour, standing behind a large pair of jack boots that could not be put on.

There were, in fact, a hundred playful little relics of Lord Artingale’s diversions when in idle mood; one of the latest being the boring of a hole in a plaster Clytie’s lips, for the insertion of a cigar, and another the securing of a long clay pipe and a beer bock in the hands of a Diana, from which a bow and arrow had been removed.

“You see, he is sech a gent for his larks,” said Burgess, a nobly bearded, herculean, ungrammatical being, who looked big and bold enough to attack a Nemsean lion, or stride to an encounter in a Roman amphitheatre, but who had about as much spirit as a mouse.

Burgess was Magnus’s factotum, valet and houseman; and an excellent cook. He was not clever at cleaning, but the artist rather liked that, especially as he could admirably make a bed, and in addition was one of the noblest-looking and most patient models in London.

But now Burgess was developing a fresh facet in his many-sided character, namely that of nurse; and he had shown a sleeplessness and watchful care that were beyond praise.

“How is he, my lord?” he said, as he opened the door to Artingale, some months after the occurrences in the last two chapters.

“Well, my lord – ”

“Now look here, Burgess; haven’t I told you a dozen times over to say ‘sir’ to me when I’m here?”

“Yes, sir, but these are serious times, and I only meant it out of respect.”

“I know – of course, Burgess; but isn’t he better?”

“He says he is, sir; and the doctor – he’s only just this minute gone, sir.”

“Yes, I know. I saw his brougham.”

“The doctor says he’s better, sir, as he has for months; but he do keep so low, and,” continued the man in a despairing tone, “it ain’t no matter what I cook or make up, or try to tempt him with, he don’t seem to pick a bit.”

“Poor fellow!” muttered Artingale, handing his overcoat and hat to the man.

“I did think this morning that he was coming round, sir, for he has had his colours and a canvas on the bed, and I had to prop him up. I don’t know, sir, I – I – ”

The great Hercules of a fellow’s voice changed, and he turned aside to hide the weak tears that gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, though they had not far to go before they were able to hide themselves in his beard.

“Oh, come, come, Burgess,” cried Artingale, who felt touched at this display of affection on the part of servant towards master, “it isn’t so bad as that.”

The man hastily threw the light overcoat upon a chair, and turned sharply round to catch the visitors arm, and gaze earnestly in his eyes.

“Do you – do you really think, sir, that poor master will get well?”

“Yes, yes, of course I do, Burgess. I feel sure of it, my dear fellow. There, shake hands, Burgess. ’Pon my soul I like you, I do indeed.”

“And him a real true lord!” thought Burgess, as he gingerly held out a great hand, which the other shook.

“Get well? of course he will, if it’s only to help me break that scoundrel’s neck, – a blackguard!”

“I only wish I had my will of him, sir,” cried Burgess, grinding his teeth; “I’d serve him out.”

“Would you?” said Artingale, smiling. “What would you do?”

“I’d make him stand for the old man in the Laocöon sixteen hours a day for stoodents. He wouldn’t want anything worse. But please go in gently, sir, and don’t wake master if he’s asleep.”

“All right,” was the reply; and the young man made his way carefully amongst the artistic lumber, and through the studio into the dining-room, at one corner of which was the artist’s chamber.

Artingale sighed as he went silently across the thick carpet, for that room was full of memories of numberless merry evenings, and as he paused for a moment beside his friend’s empty chair, a dull sense of pain oppressed him, and he found himself wondering whether he was not taking too sanguine a view of his old companion’s state.

“Poor old chap!” he said. “How nice it would be if that could come off. Cynthy says it shall, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t. Let’s see; I’m to give him Cynthy’s love and this rosebud. She said he would be sure to find out that it was one that Julie had worn. I wonder whether old Mag does care for her; he’s such a close old oyster, and never did make up to women. Well, for the matter of that, no more did I till I met Cynthia – not much.”

He went gently on to the door in the corner, and listened, but all was very still, and he paused for a few minutes in a state of hesitation, for which he could not account, and with one hand raised to open the door.

“He must be asleep,” he said to himself.

“Poor old boy, only to think of it. One moment bright and happy and full of life, and the next moment a helpless mass, with hardly the strength to move. Well, poor fellow, Cynthy is right. If he does care for Julie he has just gone the way to find a tender spot in her heart.”

He took hold of the handle and turned it, to find that Burgess had been so busy with a feather and the salad oil flask, that the door yielded without a sound, and he glided into the darkened room.

It was handsomely furnished, but its occupant’s profession could be seen at every turn, for the rich litter of the studio that had overflowed into the dining-room, had come in here, and covered walls and filled corners with artistic trifles.

The room had been built for a smaller studio, and was lit from the roof, blinds being contrived so as to draw like a Roman velum across the glass.

These were partly undrawn now, giving a weird effect to the half-dark room, across whose gloom a boldly-defined broad bar of light, full of tiny dancing motes, shone down upon the artist’s bed.

The door was by the head of the couch, and the figure of its occupant was hidden by the hangings, as well as by a carefully-arranged screen covered with fantastic Japanese designs, but Artingale felt a strange thrill run through him as he caught sight of the lower portion of the bed, and took a couple of steps rapidly forward, but only to stop short the next moment, as if paralysed by what he saw.

Part 1, Chapter XXXII.
Magnus Makes Confession

Not many moments before, Artingale had wonderingly asked himself whether Magnus cared for her whom he regarded quite as a sister, and about whose state he was troubled in no small degree. The question was answered now without room for a doubt.

Poor fellow! It had been a terrible cut he had received upon his head in the fall that night. There had been concussion of the brain, with fever and delirium, and for a long time his state had been very serious. Then came some slight amendment, but only to be followed, for months, by a depression which seemed to master the strong man’s spirits; and this, too, in spite of the efforts of the medical men, constant nursing, and the companionship of Artingale, given to such an extent that Cynthia had pouted, and then thrown her arms round “dear Harry’s” neck, and told him she loved him ten thousand times better for his devotion to his friend.

Artingale had been with Magnus the night before, but had been kept away that morning, and it was now close upon five o’clock when he stood as it were petrified at the sight which met his eyes.

As has been said, the greater portion of the chamber was in a state of semi-obscurity; but a broad band of light fell direct from the skylight upon the bed where James Magnus had been propped up with pillows before a dwarf easel and canvas, upon which, rapidly dashed in by his masterly hand, showing in every line the inspiration that had been thrown upon the canvas by the artist’s mind, was the work upon which he had been engaged.

Had been engaged, for, palette in one hand, brush in the other, he had sunk back, his pallid face, with the hair cut closely now, giving him in the gloom wherein he lay the aspect of some portrait by Rembrandt or Velasquez, the stern lines cut by sickness softened by a contented smile.

He must have fallen back as he was raising his hand to continue his work, for the colour-charged brush in his thin white fingers had fallen upon the white sheet, making a broad smear, and as he gazed Artingale thought that he was dead.

It was but for an instant though, for the loose open collar of the shirt was rising and falling gently at each respiration, and even as the young man went over towards the bed a low sigh escaped from the invalid’s lips.

Satisfied upon that point, Artingale’s eyes were turned upon the canvas illumined by the soft white light; and for the moment, simple and unfinished as the portrait was, he could almost have fancied that it was Julia’s self gazing up at him with a sweet pensive smile upon her lips, but with the strange nameless horror in her appealing eyes.

It was wonderful. He had often watched with interest the way in which some face would grow up beneath the pencil of his friend, but in this case there was the effort of genius at its best, and he stood there gazing in rapt admiration at the portrait.

His question was answered, for no one but a man who loved could so perfectly have reproduced those features from memory.

“I wish Cynthia could see it,” he thought; and he took another step forward.

That broke the sick man’s slumber, for he started into wakefulness, and made a snatch at the canvas, to hide it from his friend, two red spots burning in his pallid cheeks, and a look of anger flashing from his sunken eyes; but Artingale laid a hand upon his arm.

“Don’t hide it, old fellow,” he said. “Why should you?”

Magnus looked at him as if in dread and shame.

“Why should you mind?” continued Artingale. “I’ve never been ashamed to confess to you. But how wonderfully like.”

Magnus still gazed at him in a troubled way, but he did not speak, and the two men remained looking into each other’s eyes as Artingale seated himself upon the edge of the bed.

“Mag, old fellow,” said Artingale at last, “I’m very, very glad.”

“Why should you be?” said the other, in a low, weak voice. “It is only an empty dream.”

“No, no. Nonsense, man. Why, come, with that idea in your brain you ought to be up and doing.”

“What!” said Magnus, bitterly; “trying to make her life unhappy by my mad love?”

“Mad love! Is it mad to love a beautiful woman with all your heart, as I’m sure you do, with that confession before my eyes?”

“Yes, when she is engaged to be married to another.”

“But that would never be if she knew of your love.”

“Harry, my dear boy,” said the artist sadly, “it comes very easy to you to make sketches or build castles in the air. You love little Cynthia, and your love is returned.”

“Yes; of course.”

“And you both think how pleasant it would be for the sister of both to become the wife of the friend.”

“Yes. Well, where’s the madness?”

Magnus shook his head sadly.

“Why should I tell you?” he said. “I have studied nature too long not to know something of women. Do you think I could see and converse with – with – her without knowing something of her heart?”

“Her heart is untouched. Of that I am sure,” cried Artingale.

“I don’t know that,” said Magnus, sadly; “but this I do know – that no word I could utter, no look I could give, would ever make it throb.”

“Nonsense, man,” said Artingale, merrily. “Why, Mag, where’s your courage? Up, lad, and try. Don’t lie there and let that piece of imitation human being carry her off.”

Magnus, who was very weak, lay back thinking.

“Why,” continued Artingale, “you are bound to succeed. What could be better? She was insulted, and you seized the scoundrel who insulted her, and became seriously injured in her service. Nothing could be more fortunate.”

“Have you found out anything more about that fellow?” said Magnus, at last.

“No: nothing; and the police have given it up. I want you to get well and help me.”

“Nothing more has been seen of him, then?”

“Indeed but there has,” said Artingale; “he has turned up no less than three times by the carriage when the girls have been out, and poor Julia has been frightened almost into hysterics. Come, you must get well, Mag, for if ever poor girl wanted a stout protector, it is Julia Mallow.”

“Tell me about her engagement.”

“What for? To make you worse?”

“It will not make me worse, Harry. Tell me. She is engaged to Perry-Morton, is she not?”

“Hang him! Well, I suppose there is something of the kind. My respected papa-in-law-to-be seems to have run mad over the fellow, and suffers himself to be regularly led by the nose. But it can’t last; it’s impossible. No sane man could go on long without finding out what an ass the fellow is, with his vain conceit and pretensions to art and poetry. It is all the Rector’s doing, and he is everything; poor Mrs Mallow, as you know, never leaves her couch.”

“You said the other day that they were going back into the country.”

“Yes, and I shall be obliged to go too.”

Magnus smiled.

“Well, yes, of course,” said Artingale, quickly, “I want to be near Cynthy. There, I’m not ashamed; I am very fond of the little girl. I must be, or I should never stand those brothers of hers.”

“Anything fresh about them?” said Magnus, who seemed deeply interested in the conversation.

“Fresh? Yes – no – only the old game. Being so near down there, my people hear everything at Gatley, and though I don’t encourage tattling, I can’t help hearing a lot about my beautiful brothers-in-law, and yours too if you like.”

“Don’t be foolish. Go on.”

“Well, ’pon my soul, Mag, they’re a pair of scamps, and once I’ve got my little Cynthy, hang me if I don’t cut them. They haven’t the decency to wait till I am their brother, but are always borrowing money. Sort of blackmail for letting me court their sister,” he added, bitterly. “’Pon my word, Mag, it would be a charity to get Julia away as well.”

“It is a great pity,” said Magnus, thoughtfully. “What an anxiety to the poor sick mother!”

“Who is quite an angel of goodness in her way, Mag, only too ready to look over those two fellows’ faults. Bah! I haven’t patience with them.”

“Why does not the Rector get them away?”

“Get them away? Well, he has, over and over again, but they always come back. The townspeople call them The Bad Shilling and The Boomerang on that account. The Rector’s a good old fellow, only obstinate and weak, and with too big an idea of his sacred prerogative, which the folks down there won’t stand. Here, get well, Mag, and come down and help me rout the enemy.”

“I wish I could,” sighed Magnus. “Only wants will, my lad. If you are using my billiard-table and horses it will keep those fellows off, but mind they don’t rook you.”

“I thought you told me that Frank had made a lot of money at the gold fields?”

“So he gives it out, but I don’t believe it. If he had he wouldn’t be borrowing of me and getting Perry-Morton to do bills for him.”

“It seems strange.”

“Strange! yes. I believe it’s all gammon. Hang that fellow, I don’t like him at all. Of course this is all in confidence, Mag.” Magnus looked up at him with a smile. “My people tell me that he is always going over to Lewby, close by my place. It’s one of the farms that came to me. Nice jolly farmer fellow there. Bluff chap, John Berry, with a pretty little wife fifteen years younger; and it seems there was something on between the lady and Master Frank before he went to the antipodes.”

“That’s bad,” said Magnus, frowning.

“Damn bad,” said Artingale; “but I try to make it smooth by thinking he is interceding for his brother.”

“Interceding for his brother? What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, Mrs Berry was Rue Portlock, and Cyril has been paying attentions to her sister Sage.”

“Rue? Sage?”

“Yes; rum idea. Two such pretty girls. I call ’em the sweet herbs. Quaint idea of their father.”

“And Cyril is paying attentions to one of them?”

“Yes; little Sage. She is the Lawford schoolmistress, and engaged to some one else.”

“Humph! Better than paying attentions to a married lady, as his brother does.”

“Oh, bless him, he is not perfect. Master Cyril has an affair on at the ford just outside Lawford. There is a pretty wheelwright’s wife – no, hang it, I mean the pretty wife of a wheelwright there. She used to be Julia’s and Cynthia’s maid, you know, and I hear that Master Cyril has been seen hanging about.”

“They seem to be a nice pair,” said Magnus, gruffly.

“Beauties,” said Artingale, sharply. “Hang ’em, they shall have it warmly when once I have got Cynthia away. Of course I have to swallow it all now. There, you see how badly you’re wanted. It’s an unhappy family, and you would be doing a charitable act in giving Julia a good husband.”

“Let her marry Perry-Morton,” said Magnus, changing his position with a weary sigh.

“Bah! you need not mind that, my dear boy. I feel certain that some fine morning the Rector will prick Perry-Morton and find out what a bag of wind he is. Besides, see what allies you have – Cynthia, your humble servant, and the lady’s heart.”

Magnus shook his head sadly.

“But I say you have, and that it is waiting to beat to any tune you like to teach. Come, the will has no end to do with the body. Just swear you will get well and come and help me put those big brothers in order, and thrash the big rascal who – No, I say though, Magnus, ’pon my word, I think you ought to bless that fellow, for he will frighten poor little Julie right into your arms.”

Whether it was his friend’s encouraging words, and that hopes were raised in the artist’s breast, or whether it was simply the fact that he was already mending fast, at all events James Magnus rapidly got better now, and at the end of another two months he was about once more, though still weak from his injury, and likely to be for months.

Part 1, Chapter XXXIII.
The Rector Gives Way

Cyril Mallow was right. He had three women to fight upon his side, and he was not long in bringing their power to bear. Petted, spoiled son as he was, literally idolised by the patient invalid, to whom his presence formed the greater part of the sunshine of her life, he was not long in winning her to his side.

“It is no light fancy, dear,” he said tenderly, as he sat beside her couch. “She is to me the woman who will bless my life as you have blessed my father’s.”

The sick woman shook her head mournfully.

“I repeat my words,” he said: “as you have blessed my father’s life. Well, I have been restless and foolish, perhaps, but I am sobered down now, and I mean to marry. I cannot help it, mamma, and I am quite prepared to have plenty of opposition to my proposal, and to be told that I am marrying beneath me; all the same, I mean to marry Sage Portlock, and I ask you to help me.”

Mrs Mallow tried persuasion, pointed out how directly this would be in opposition to his father’s wishes, and how the Churchwarden had set his face against it; but all she said only seemed to strengthen her son’s desire, and the natural consequence was that very soon Mrs Mallow began to talk earnestly to the Rector, but for quite a month without any other effect than angering him more against his son, whom he accused of fighting against his sisters’ prospects.

But when the father began to find that with patient pertinacity the son was keeping up his pursuit of Sage, the words of his wife began to have more effect, and one day, during a visit to the school, the old gentleman found himself speaking to Sage with greater deference, and thoughtfully musing over the possibility of her becoming his sons wife.

“It is terrible though,” he mused; “just as his sisters are about to make brilliant matches. It is like degrading them.”

That night, however, the Rector heard something about Cyril having been seen a great deal down by the ford lately, and quick to take alarm, warned as he had been by earlier escapades, he began to think more seriously, and went down to the school a great deal more.

“Better that than disgrace,” he said; “a fresh scandal would almost kill her, poor sweet. Ah, me! she has much to bear.”

He sighed weakly and went to the school again, setting Sage Portlock in a flutter by his quiet paternal ways, and he came away at last avowing that if the object of his son’s affections had been the daughter of a brother clergyman, he would have been delighted to find in her the child his son should bring to him to take a place within his heart.

Then he began thinking about Lord Artingale and Mr Perry-Morton, and he grew angry; but again he was obliged to say to himself, It would settle Cyril perhaps. Better that than a fresh scandal.

He tried to find failings in Sage – seeing in her conduct cause of offence – but without avail, for she gave him no hold whatever, and he went away thinking of her deeply, and wondering what was to be the end.

Cyril Mallow smiled as he saw that he was right, and that it was only a matter of time. He liked Sage Portlock, and he told himself that he loved her passionately, and that without her he should die, and then he entered into pecuniary calculations.

“The old man must leave her at least half of what he has, and every one in Lawford says he is well off, so that it will be a pleasant little bit of revenge to spend the old hunks’s money for the way in which he abused me. Then there is poor mamma’s money. That must come to me, so that we shall be pretty well off. Bah! it will all come right in time. But I hope Frank is not playing the fool about little Rue.”

After the stern encounter with the Churchwarden, and the angry words with his father, Cyril thought it prudent to keep away from Kilby Farm, and ceased to watch for Sage as she was going to or leaving school; but he rearranged his seat in the rectory pew, so that he could see her where she sat in church, became more regular than ever in his attendance, and sat through his father’s sermons gazing pensively at the young schoolmistress.

People said he was growing pale and thin, which was a fact easily explicable, for he smoked from morning to night, and the healthy brown of the last sea voyage was fading away consequent upon his indoor life.

“If I kick up a row I shall do no good,” he argued, “so I may as well wait. I could persuade her to run away with me, but then we should be confoundedly short of money till the old folks forgave us, and I’m sick of that sort of thing. No, I think the injured dodge is best, for it pays all round.”

He was quite right; and while he shut himself up with his brother in the room devoted to their personal use, read Bell’s Life in London, and sent communications to one or two betting men in town whenever he had the necessary funds at his disposal, everything was working steadily to the end he sought to gain.

His quiet acceptance, as it seemed to the Rector and Portlock, of the commands which he had received, gave him, in the eyes of the other interested parties, an injured, martyrlike air, and, though she did not meet him now, Sage’s thoughts were none the less busy about him. His every word had impressed her deeply, and day by day, in spite of her efforts to be true to her promise, she felt that she was falling more and more away.

This was plainly shown in her letters to Luke Ross, to whom she wrote weekly, hearing from him regularly in return. But he noted the gradual change in her communications. They grew shorter by degrees; less full of chatty little paragraphs about herself and her daily life. Still she did not fail to send to him once. It had become a habit – a duty – and while she did this she told herself that she was making a brave fight against her weak heart, and hiding the truth from Luke, little thinking that her notes laid her heart quite bare to the reader.

For it is a very strange thing how the feelings of a writer at the time of writing infuse themselves in the words. A note may contain only a thousand, and those thousand words relate certain matters, but from one writer they will seem to flow with affection, from another be calm, cool, and simply matter-of-fact. The sentences shall be almost the same, the words be very little varied, and yet, even without endearing expressions, one letter shall breathe and emanate affection, the other be friendliness alone.

So, by slow degrees, it was with Sage’s letters to her lover; and at first, as the idea stole upon him that she was growing colder, Luke Ross fought back the cruel thought, telling himself that he was wrong, and that hard study was souring his disposition, making him exacting and strange.

But as time went on he was obliged to realise the truth, and he wrote reproachful letters, but only tore them up again, to write others in his old, simple, confiding strain.

He longed to go down and see her more often, but kept putting it off till she should express a wish for him to come, hinting at it, and expecting that some such invitation would be contained in the next letter; but he hoped against hope.

Then a week passed without any communication from Lawford, and Luke packed up a few things in a bag, and started for his old home, but only to return directly to his chambers.

“She is not ill,” he said to himself. “If she had been some one would have written to tell me. I’ll wait.”

He waited, and at the appointed time – at the end of another week – a letter came, very similar to the last, and in which she said that she would have written as usual, only that she was very busy.

“Very busy,” said Luke to himself, as he sat in his dingy room, gazing straight before him, through the dull window, at the smoky chimney-pots, but seeing, as in a picture, the interior of Lawford Girls’ School, with its mistress moving from class to class. “Very busy.”

He sighed deeply, and went on with his reading.

From that time Sage’s letters came fortnightly, Luke sending two for one, but he made no complaint, keeping rigidly to his old stern determination.

“I said I would place myself in a worthy position to win her,” he said. “That I will do. What is more, I will be faithful, come what may – faithful, even in my belief in her.”

He sat, hot of eye and weary of brain, thinking whether he ought not to go down and see why this gradual change was taking place, but in his stern repression of self he felt that to go down unexpectedly would be like mistrusting the woman he hoped to make his wife, and this he could not bear.

Study – hard study – was Luke Ross’s medicine for a mind diseased, and whenever doubting thoughts and mistrust came hand in hand to torture him he forced himself to attend to his studies, making, by prodigious efforts, great advances in the learned treatises he was striving to master, but only at the expense of his health.

“It is for Sage,” he said, by way of encouragement, and when doubts became very strong he held up the shield of his faith.

“No,” he would say aloud, “writing is, perhaps, irksome to one who has so much to do, but her heart is mine, and save from her own lips I would never believe that she could let it stray.”

In his stern determination to master the profession for which he was reading, Luke Ross only allowed himself a very rare visit home; and though he had felt frequent urgings of late he fought them down, setting his teeth, and vowing that he would not go before the appointed time.

It was a terrible fight when once the dire attacks of doubt were made, and repeated from day to day, for during the weeks of the past month Sage’s letters had grown more irregular still, as if she felt emboldened to be more careless from that absence of reproach. But the truth was that every letter from London was read by Sage with bitter misery and reproach, and her replies were often so blotted with tears that they were destroyed instead of being posted, and it was only those which escaped the fire which he received.

It only wanted a week of the time he had settled in his own mind, and in spite of his efforts to be calm, it was almost more than he could do to keep on with his task. A strong feeling was urging him to go down at once, see Sage, and learn the worst, for a fortnight had again passed and no letter.

Twenty times over he threw his books aside and started up to go, but upon each occasion the indomitable power of will that helped him to make the great efforts to master his profession – a power of will that had already stood him in such good stead during his stay at Saint Chrysostom’s – came to his aid, and he fought out the miseries of that last week and won. “I will – not – show – mistrust,” he said, sternly, as if addressing an unseen accuser of Sage; “I gave – her – my – love – and – I – will – never – take – it – from – her. If – she – cast – it – away – then – the – act – is – hers – not – mine.”

This, slowly repeated, with a pause between the words, became, as it were, a formula impressed in his mind, and it seemed to him that he had become Sage’s advocate, bound to defend her against unseen accusers.

At last, having no longer any conscientious reasons for deferring his visit, he hastily packed his bag and closed up his dreary little chambers, feeling, as he went out into busy roaring Fleet-street, that the rest was absolutely necessary, for his head throbbed and seemed confused, troubled as it had been with conflicting emotions.

It was winter once more, but one of those mild seasons when balmy winds from the west tempt the wild flowers into a belief that it is spring, and sweetly-scented violets make the air redolent of their homely, heart-appealing fragrance, when from amongst the dark dead leaves the tender green of the crinkled primrose roots could be seen surrounding here and there a pale sulphur blossom.

It was such a change from the smoke-haunted, soot-dotted city region of the law, that fifteen-mile coach ride, after the run down by fast train, that as Luke gazed over the flat landscape illumined by the mellow glow of the wintry sun, and noted the silvery bronze of the young oak stems, and the ruddy birch and ashes grey, he felt a joyous elasticity of frame; his pulses throbbed with pleasure, and before they reached the town he determined to alight and follow the mossy lane to the left, two miles of whose windings would take him within a hundred yards of Kilby, the time fitting so well that he knew he should intercept Sage as she left the school, which would not break up for the holidays until the following day.

Home again, after many months’ absence – months of stern self-denial; and as he leaped down from his seat on the coach, leaving his portmanteau for delivery at the inn, he felt so boyish and light-hearted that he began to run along the lane.

“What nonsense!” he said, half aloud. “One shuts oneself up in that little hole and reads and reads till one’s brain gets clogged, and full of unwholesome fancies. What a brute I am to let such thoughts creep in, when I’ll wager anything that my darling is longing to see me back.”

He stopped to pick a primrose, then another, and a violet. Walked rapidly on again, but paused to select a couple of bramble-leaves of a most glorious deep green bronze. Then there was a beautiful privet spray, and another primrose or two, and by degrees, as he hurried on with little pauses, a goodly wild bouquet had been culled, and he smiled as he saw in imagination Sage’s delight at his present.

“Heaven bless her!” he said, half aloud, and, all unpleasant suspicions gone, he walked on with his eyes half closed, revelling in a kind of day-dream full of delights, the only jarring thought being that he was coming to see Sage before paying his duty to his father at home.

“He’ll forgive me,” he said. “He knows how I love her. Why, what a boy I feel to-day! It’s this delicious air that has not been breathed by two million sets of lungs.”

“There’s the farm,” he said. “How clean the windows must be to reflect the setting sun like that. Different to mine. I wonder how Mrs Portlock is, and what the old lady will say?”

He hurried on, eager to reach the narrow cross where the Kilby lane and the one he was in intersected, and, once there, he meant to mount the high bank, and wait by the old mossy oak pollard, watching for Sage’s steps, so as to give her a surprise by throwing the bouquet of wild flowers at her feet, and then —

And then? – Alas! how pleasant is that habit of castle-building in the air. How brightly the edifices are raised, how quickly, how dismally they fall! Luke had planned all so well, and hurried on along the soft, mossy border of the lane, heedless of the winter’s dirt, till he reached the cross, turned sharply, and then stopped short, uttering a low moan as he reeled against the hedge, clutching at the thorns for a support.

Part 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 a protégée of Sage, ending by going into Mrs Mallow’s room to pour out his plaints in her willing ear.

“What is to be done with the boy?” he said, dolefully. “I will never get into a passion with him again. But what is to be done? He has some plan in view.”

“Let me see him,” said Mrs Mallow. “Give me some latitude, dear, and I will try to bring him to a better way of thinking.”

“Do what you will,” said the unhappy father, “only bring him to his senses. Here have I been almost on my knees to Artingale to get him this post, and now he says that he will not have it.”

“He would take it if we consented to his marrying Sage Portlock.”

“But we can’t, my dear. It is impossible,” cried the Rector.

Mrs Mallow was silent, and the Rector left the room.

Five minutes later, in obedience to her summons, Cyril was at his mother’s side, talking to her in a depressed but very determined way.

“Go back with Frank, Cyril!” she said, piteously. “It would break my heart.”

“You said that it would break if I were to die.”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“Well, I shall die naturally or unnaturally if I stop here,” he said coldly. “I cannot bear it any longer. You know how I have tried.”

Mrs Mallow laid her hand upon her side.

“Then you must fight against all that pain and suffering for my sake, mamma dear,” he said, bending over her, and kissing her tenderly.

“But you will take this post, Cyril?” she said, imploringly.

“What?” he cried, angrily. “No, I am going back to the other side of the world.”

He strode out of the room, and for the next two or three days there was misery in the house. Cyril was ill, and kept his bed, and his fond mother, who believed in him thoroughly, seeing nothing in his nature but a little wilfulness, was in agony till, after a series of long consultations with the Rector, the latter gave way.

“If we do consent, I am sure all will be well,” said Mrs Mallow, feebly.

“If I give way, will he promise to take the clerkship?” said the Rector. “Artingale will never forgive me if it is thrown up. He said that he had to beg for it humbly, and that he would never have done it but for me.”

“I will undertake to say that he will,” said Mrs Mallow.

Just then the Rector sniffed. “What is it, dear?” exclaimed the invalid. “I smell burning,” he said. “Fire, dear?” she exclaimed, excitedly, as she thought of her helpless condition. “No, dear,” he said: “smoke.”

“Then there must be fire,” she cried, clinging to his hands.

“No, no,” he said, trying to soothe her alarm. “It is tobacco. Surely Cyril would not smoke up-stairs?”

“Oh, no, dear; and he is too ill,” said the fond mother. “Poor boy!”

“Then it must have been Frank down-stairs,” said the Rector. “But to go back. Now, look here, dear, can you guarantee that?”

“I am sure I can.”

“But it is such a descent. Think of Lord Artingale.”

“Don’t say that, dear,” said Mrs Mallow. “I have thought over it so long. You say yourself that she is a good, sweet girl, and I am sure when I saw her I thought so, too. Well, then, why should pride stand in the way?”

“Yes, she is very nice,” said the Rector, “and I am willing to forget all about birth and position; but then there are our girls.”

“But if it is to be the winning of our boy to the life we wish him to lead? I’m sure he loves her very dearly.”

“Better than himself,” said the Rector, bitterly.

“Oh, Eli, do not talk like that,” sighed the invalid. “For my sake and his – let pride be set aside. If Henry Artingale really cares for Cynthia he will not mind, and as for Mr Perry-Morton, I heard when we were in town that his father made an immense fortune in some very low class trade. Say yes, and let us hope that Sage – ”

“Sage!” said the Rector. “Bitter herb! A pity it is not Rue. Bitter herbs for us to eat. Heigho! nothing but troubles, I suppose. Then you quite adopt her now?”

“For my boy’s sake – yes,” said the invalid. “Then you do give way?”

“For the last time – yes.”

“And you will go and see the Portlocks?”

“Yes.”

“And I may tell Cyril this?”

“Yes.”

“God bless you, Eli! You are always good to me,” sobbed the poor woman; and the tears stood in her husband’s eyes as he knelt down and took her in his arms. At that time Mr Cyril Mallow, the sick, sat up in bed and lit a fresh cigar before comfortably rearranging himself for a good skim of the sporting papers.

About a couple of hours after, as the Churchwarden was returning from a round amongst his sheep, he caught sight of the Rector coming to meet him, when a long conversation took place, one that ended by the gate leading into the home close.

“Well, parson,” said Portlock, as they parted, “as I said before, I’ll make no promises but this – I won’t be hard. My niece’s happiness is what I wish to bring about before I die; and if she wants to have him, and he really will steady down and make her a good husband, why, I suppose it must be. Now I must go away and think.”

They shook hands and parted, the Rector going thoughtfully home with his hands behind him, and his stick whisking right and left, tail fashion, and up and down, while he talked to himself about his weakness in giving way, and wondering what was to be the outcome of an arrangement that seemed like breaking faith on his part with Luke Ross.

As he reached the gate he smelt the smoke of a cigar, and, in spite of his knowledge of his son’s ways, he could not help feeling surprised at the sight of Cyril coolly walking up and down, the message he had had from his mother having apparently effected a miraculous cure.

“Better, Cyril?” he said, drily.

“Yes, sir, I’m pretty well all right now,” was the reply; and the Rector sighed, and began to feel a strange sensation of regret stealing over him, as once more he asked himself what was to be the end.

Meanwhile, the Churchwarden had gone on to the farm, and entered by the kitchen door, where Mrs Portlock was busy dividing her attention between scolding the maids and mincing meat for sausages.

He gave her a short nod, and went on into the parlour, treading upon the mats so as to make no sound, and there finding Sage so preoccupied that, as she sat with her back to him, she did not notice her uncle’s entrance.

Pen, ink, and paper were before her, and on her right an envelope.

This was directed in a plain, clear hand – so plain that the farmer could easily read it from where he stood.

It bore the name of Luke Ross, and she had prepared the envelope before writing her letter, for upon the sheet of paper was the date, and then came the three words, “My dear Luke.”

That was all, and the marks that followed upon the paper were made by tears.

“It is like living a lie,” he heard her say, with a passionate sigh; and then she started up, for she became aware of her uncle’s presence in the room.

“Why, Sage, lass,” he said, gently, “do you always cry over your letters to Luke Ross?”

She looked piteously in his face, but said no word.

“Is it because he is so long away, my lass? Well, well, we shall have him back these holidays, and it won’t be long.”

He was watching her intently as he spoke, and he saw that not only did she turn pale, but a spasm as of pain crossed her face.

“Thou dost not look well, my pet,” he said, gently. “There, there, put the writing away, and come and sit by me while I have my pipe. I don’t like my little one to be so dull. Why, Sage, what’s come of all the songs? You used to be always singing and making the house cheery. I’m thinking you work too hard.”

“Oh, no, no, uncle,” she cried, forcing a smile.

“Then you think too much, child. You must have more change. Parson didn’t come in here, did he, my lass?”

“No, uncle,” she said, starting.

“No, I thought he wouldn’t; but he came to meet me, and he brought a message for thee, my girl.”

“For me, uncle?” she cried, crimsoning to the parting of her hair.

“Ay, he did. He says he has to be out a deal, and Mrs Mallow finds it lonesome at times without her girls; and he said, as a favour, would you mind going up and seeing her, and sitting with her and reading a bit?”

“Oh, no, uncle,” faltered Sage, crimsoning more deeply, every trace of emotion being duly noted by him who was probing her to the quick. “But would Mrs Mallow – ?”

She paused without finishing her sentence.

“Like it?” he said, finishing the sentence for her. “To be sure she would, my pet. What a one I am to deliver a message. It was her who asked the Rector to bid you come; and, as I thought you wouldn’t mind, I just said that you would go.”

“Oh, uncle, but I – I dare not,” cried Sage, excitedly.

“Stuff! Tchah! Nonsense, my dear. What’s to be afraid of! They’re gentlepeople, I s’pose, but they’re only human beings after all, and you’ve nothing to be ashamed of, I’m sure. I told parson you’d go on this afternoon, as there was no school, and he said I was not to be uneasy, for some one should see you home.”

Sage’s colour came and went as she sat there trembling, and painfully conscious.

Some one should see her home – some one should see her home. The words kept repeating themselves in her ears till she felt giddy.

What did it all mean? Why did her uncle speak to her in this gentle way? What more had passed between him and the Rector?

She gazed in his face at this, and a score more such questions repeated themselves, while the answers seemed far away.

“Go up to the rectory to-day, uncle?” she faltered at last. “I dare not go.”

“But I wish you to go,” he said, decidedly, and Sage’s heart gave one great joyful throb.

Had it been left to her she would have stayed away, but her uncle wished her to go – he literally bade her go.

The end of the matter was, that after being egged on by her aunt to dress herself in the showiest things she possessed, and having the good sense, in spite of the feeling of delirious joy that had taken possession of her, to attire herself with great simplicity, she walked, with fluttering heart, up to the rectory, where the Rev. Eli Mallow himself met her at the door with a paternal empressement of manner that was quite tender in its way, as he drew her hand through his arm, and led her up-stairs to Mrs Mallow’s room.

Part 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.

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.

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.

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.

Part 1, Chapter XXXIX.
Fullerton’s Prophecy

In a place like Lawford, where every one knew more of his or her neighbours affairs than the individual could possibly know for him or herself, the encounter near Kilby Farm soon had its place as the chief item of news, and was dressed and garnished according to the taste of those who related it.

The principal version was that, stung by a letter sent by Sage Portlock, Luke Ross had come down from town and purposely left the coach at Cross-lane, so that he could waylay and murder Cyril Mallow with a huge hedge-stake which was picked up afterwards near the place.

For a short time the gossips were at fault for a reason, but they only had to wait patiently for a while, and then it was known throughout the place that Cyril Mallow was engaged to marry Sage – a matter so out of all reason to the muddled intellect of Humphrey Bone, the old schoolmaster, that he said it was enough to make widow Marly turn in her grave.

Why, he did not explain. It could not have been from jealous disappointment, for widow Marly had had a very fair share of matrimonial life, having married at the early age of sixteen, and being led twice afterwards to the hymeneal altar before dying at a very good old age.

“But it’s a wrong thing,” he said, at the King’s Head, during a course of potations – “a wrong thing; and no good will come. Two sorts, oil and water, and they won’t mix. Tell parson I say so, some of you, if you like. It’s his doing to get the girl’s money, and it’s a wrong thing.”

In the midst of the many discussions in Lawford it was asked why Luke Ross was not to be prosecuted for assaulting the parson’s son.

“Nice sort of fellow,” said Fullerton; “goes to learn to be a lawyer, and comes down here and breaks the law.”

“Ah! it’s been a strange bad case,” said Smithson, the tailor.

“Anybody seen owt of him since?” ventured Warton, the saddler.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Tomlinson spoke.

“I haven’t seen him down,” he said. “In fact, I know he has not been, for old Michael Ross has been up to see him and hear the rights of the case.”

“Yes?” said two or three, eagerly.

“Ah! he don’t say anything about the rights and wrongs; only that he doesn’t think Joseph Portlock’s girl behaved well to him.”

“Oh! I don’t know,” said Fullerton. “What call had a girl like that to consider herself bound to a wandering man who couldn’t settle down like a Christian? I think she did quite right to give him up.”

“And marry young Mallow?”

“But they are not married yet, my boy,” said Fullerton, shaking his head; “and it’s my belief that they won’t be. He’s a flyaway, wild, scapegrace of a fellow. It’ll come to nought, but I do think young Ross ought to be punished same as any other man. Fair play and no favour for me.”

“Very good sentiment, Mr Fullerton,” said Warton.

“Make it your own motto, then, Mr Warton,” said Fullerton, proudly. “As I says to Michael Ross, when I was talking to him, yesterday – no, it was the day before yesterday – no, stop, it was yesterday. ‘I believe in fair play,’ I said.

“‘So do I, Mr Fullerton,’ he said; ‘but I don’t think my poor boy has got it here.’”

“Did he say that?” said Warton.

“Ay, that he did, and pst – here he is!”

There was a murmur in the inn room where the principal Lawford tradesmen were assembled, as old Michael Ross, the tanner, came in, looking very keen and dark, and as if close application to his trade had heightened the colour of his skin.

The old man seemed nervous, and as if he feared that he would not be counted welcome; but he soon found that if he would only discuss his son’s conduct no one would be looked upon as a more welcome addition to the weekly meeting.

There was a pause for a few minutes, during which old Ross gave his orders to the landlord, and lit his pipe, smoking afterwards in quiet consciousness that he was being furtively glanced at by all assembled, and that it was only with the expectation of hearing more that they were so quiet of tongue.

“Been having a run up to London, Master Ross, I hear,” said Warton, the saddler, at last.

“Yes, Master Warton, yes; I’ve had a run up amongst the soot and smoke,” said Michael Ross.

“And was strange and glad to get back again, I’ll be bound,” said Tomlinson, while Fullerton lay back in his armed Windsor chair, staring straight up at the ceiling, with the calm self-satisfaction of a man who knew all that was being asked.

“Well, yes, neighbour,” said Michael Ross, thoughtfully, “I must own that I was glad to get back again. London’s a wearisome place, and the din and rattle of the streets is enough to muddle any man’s brains. It was quite a relief to turn down the narrow lane to my son’s chambers, and get out of the buzz and whirr. My bark mill’s nowt to it.”

“Saw your son, did you?” said Warton. “How’s he getting on?”

“Oh, he’s getting on right enough,” said the old man, proudly. “He’s getting on.”

“Gotten to be a big loyer, eh?” said Smithson. “Why, Master Ross, sir, we shall hev to get him down here to take up our cases at County Court.”

“Nay, nay, nay,” said old Ross, chuckling. “Not yet – not yet. Theres a deal to learn to get to be a big loyer; but my sons working away hard now he’s getting a bit over his trouble.”

“Trouble?” said Fullerton, bringing his eyes down from the ceiling. “He hasn’t got into trouble, I hope?”

“Nay, nay, only about the bit o’ trouble down here.”

“Not going to hev him before the magistrates, are they, Master Ross?” said Warton.

“Magistrates? What, my son?” said the old man, firing up. “Not they. He’d a deal better right to have some one else before them. My son never did no wrong.”

“But they say he knocked young Cyril about with a hedge-stake,” said Smithson.

“Tchah! Lies?” said the old man, angrily. “I dare say he hit him. So would I if I’d been a young man, and come back and found my young lady stole away like that. Yes, I’d ha’ done the same.”

“Hah, yes,” said Tomlinson, thoughtfully, as if he were going back to past times. “It is hard on a man. But I don’t know, Master Ross; if a man’s got a bad tooth it’s best out, and it has saved your lad perhaps from many a sore and aching time in the future.”

“I’m not going to say anything against some people we know, and I’m not going to say anything for them,” said the old tanner, warmly. “All I do say is, that I don’t think my son has had justice done him down here.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Master Ross,” said Fullerton, importantly. “I’m sure the way in which he took our side over the school appointment was noble. He saw how unjust it was, and he drew back like a man.”

“I don’t know – I don’t know,” said Michael Ross, with a dry chuckle. “I’m afraid there was something more than that at the bottom of it, though he never owned it to me.”

“Ah, well,” said Fullerton; “it’s very evident that he won’t marry Sage Portlock. Poor girl, it’s a sad fall away.”

“Yes,” said Tomlinson, smoothly, “it does seem strange.”

“Well, for my part,” said Warton, “I wonder at Joseph Portlock, though I think it’s his missus as is most to blame. I don’t believe as young Cyril was much hurt.”

“Not he,” chuckled Smithson. “And there he’s been for the past month, lying on the sofa, tended by those two women. I hear the parson’s been every day, and they do say, that as soon as he gets better – ”

“He’s better now,” said Warton.

“Well, then,” chuckled Smithson, drawing one leg up under him upon his chair from force of habit; “suppose we say much better – they’re to be married.”

“Well, it caps me,” said Warton; “I can’t understand what it means.”

“Money,” said Fullerton. “Some people keep up their grand houses and gardeners and grape-vines, and get laying traps baited with pretty girls for young lords and people from London, and after all are not so well off as some who pay their twenty or thirty pound rent and have done with it. Joseph Portlock, I suppose, will leave all his money to those two girls some day, and it will be a nice bit. Pity he didn’t keep Miss Rue for the other boy, and then parson would have been happy.”

“When’s Frank going back?” said Smithson, the tailor, for reasons of his own.

“I’d know; ask him,” said Fullerton. “He’s always going over to Lewby, so I hear.”

“Well,” said Warton, the saddler, “all I can say is, that if I was John Berry he shouldn’t be always coming over to my house.”

“’Tain’t our business,” said Fullerton. “I should say, though, that Sage Portlock’ll have a nice bit o’ money.”

“Ah, there’s a many things done in this life for the sake of money,” said Tomlinson, sententiously.

“But it looks bad for a young fellow to be lying about on sofas all day long, coaxed and petted up by women, just because he has got a bit of a crack on the head. Doctor said to me, he said, when I asked him about the cut, he said, laughing all the while, ‘It isn’t as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church door,’ he said; ‘but ’twill serve – ’twill serve.’”

“What did he mean by that?” said Warton.

“I don’t know,” said Fullerton, sharply. “I think it was some stuff or another that he’d read in a book. You know what a fellow he is for giving you bits out of books. Don’t you remember that night at the annual dinner? He said, when they were talking about old Mrs Hagley being a bit of a witch – ”

“Ah, to be sure,” said Smithson; “about the cellar.”

“Yes,” continued Fullerton; “he said, ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Landlord, go down to the cellar and bring up a bottle of the best French brandy.’”

“Ah, he’s a queer fellow, is doctor,” said Warton. “They won’t live down here when they’re married, will they?”

“Who?”

“Young Cyril Mallow and Joseph Portlock’s girl.”

“Oh, dear me, no,” said Tomlinson. “Young Cyril has got a post under government, and it’s settled that Miss Cynthia is to be married to Lord Artingale, and a house has been taken for young Cyril up in Kensington.”

“Hullo, old fox,” cried Fullerton.

“Yoicks, yoicks, yoicks, gone away,” shouted several, uproariously.

“Come, out with it,” said Fullerton. “I’ll be bound to say you know all about it.”

“Well,” said Tomlinson, with the calm reticence of one who felt himself quite at home in the matter, “I did hear a little about it.”

“From Joseph Portlock’s wife, I’ll be bound,” said Fullerton. “She’s been at your place three times lately.”

“I’m not going to mention any names,” said Tomlinson, with a sly, smooth, fat smile, “but I think I may venture to say that there’ll be a wedding somewhere within six months, and that those who are married will live in Kensington.”

“Ay, parson knows how to play his cards,” said Warton. “I suppose the eldest girl will marry that stout gentleman, Perry-Morton. Parson manages things well. Fancy bagging Lord Artingale for a son-in-law. Why, all Gatley belongs to him, and he’s an uncommonly nice fellow too.”

“Yes, his lordship’s all very well; but as to young Cyril and Miss Portlock, mark my words, no good’ll come of it,” said Fullerton, emphatically. “Mark my words: no good’ll come of it.”

“I should be sorry if it did not turn out well, and so would my son be, I’m sure,” said the old tanner.

“Why?” said Fullerton.

“Because Sage Portlock is a nice, superior sort of girl,” said the old man, “and it is always grievous to see those you like come in for trouble.”

“So it is,” said Fullerton, “but trouble will come. Here’s two clergyman’s sons, who ought to be the very model of what young men should be, and has any one of you a good word to say for them?”

“Well, for my part,” said Smithson, “a man as can’t wear a honestly well-cut pair of trousers, made by a respectable tradesman, but must send to London for everything, can’t have much balance in his nature.”

“Quite right,” said Warton. “Why, when old Mallow set up the carriage, young Cyril – no, it was Frank – must go up to London to buy the harness, and it had to come to me for repairs in less than a month.”

“Well, for my part,” said Tomlinson, “I wish Sage Portlock health and happiness, and no disrespect to you, Master Ross, for every girl has a right to choose her own master for life.”

“I wish her health and happiness, too,” said Fullerton, rising, “and I wish she may get them. Good night, gentlemen; I’m for home.”

“Yes, it’s time for home,” said old Michael Ross, rising, and saying good night; and the two neighbours walked down the street together.

“Married, eh?” said Fullerton, with a sneer. “Well, just as they like; but mark my words, Michael Ross, it means trouble.”

“I hope not, I hope not,” said the old tanner, sadly, “for I liked Sage Portlock. She’s a very good girl.”

“Bah! sir; nonsense! sir; women are not much good as a rule, and she’s a very bad specimen. But, mark my words, sir, trouble, and misery, and misfortune. It will never be a happy match.”

And the prophet of evil went his way, leaving old Michael Ross to stand upon his own doorstep thinking.

“Poor lass, I liked Sage; and though she has broken with my poor boy,” he said, “she’s not a bad girl at heart. Trouble, and misery, and misfortune – and all to come upon her poor weak head. Poor child – poor child. Luke will about break his heart.

“Trouble, and misery, and misfortune,” he repeated, sadly. “I hope not, from my very heart, but I’m afraid Stephen Fullerton is right.”