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.”