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was said, but it was quite patent to the visitor that all objection to Cyril Mallow’s attentions to her had been withdrawn on either side, and that she had been asked up there that Mrs Mallow might welcome her as her son’s future wife.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.