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.