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.