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.