Part 2, Chapter I.
Part 2 — “Forsaking All Other.”
After a Lapse.
The Lawford people were disappointed, for the Rector thought it better, and the Portlocks made no objection, that the wedding should be as simple as possible, so there were no preparations to signify, only such as were made in a quiet way, and Luke Ross read one morning in the ‘Times’ that Cyril Mallow, second son of the Rev. Eli Mallow, had espoused Sage, daughter of the late Elias Portlock, Esq, of Melby, and niece of Joseph Portlock, Esq, the Hall, Kilby, Lawford. He had a letter afterwards from his father, giving him fuller information, and saying that Lord Artingale was at the wedding, and Cyril Mallow’s sisters were the bridesmaids, and that the young married people went off directly to Paris. That Frank Mallow had not gone back to Australia, and nobody knew when he would go. That Portlock the churchwarden had been very angry at having Esquire put after his name in the announcements; that he was very friendly when he met the tanner in the market-place, and desired to be kindly remembered to Luke.
The letter concluded with a hope that Luke would soon come down, but he was not to come unless he felt that he did not mind a bit; that they had a very pleasant little body for schoolmistress now, and that Humphrey Bone seemed just the same as ever, and that was all at present from Luke’s affectionate father, Michael Ross.
Not quite all at present, for there was a postscript stating that the Rector was a good deal in trouble about his eldest girl, who seemed to be getting in a bad way, but all the same, both she and her sister were engaged to be married.
Luke Ross put the letter away in a drawer with a sigh, and turned to his reading working as hard as man could work, for in this he found his only relief from the troubled thoughts that oppressed him, while the change that had taken place in him in a few months was almost startling.
As the time went on the Rector, far from feeling lighter in his burdens now that he had Cyril comfortably settled down, had two new sources of trouble: in his son Frank, who had made the rectory, or the town house that had been taken and handsomely furnished, his home. He said that he was going back to Australia, but not yet. Perhaps he should take a wife back with him.
The Rector’s other trouble was Julia, who had grown so pale and weak that at last, partly in obedience to Mr Perry-Morton’s desire, it was settled that Sir Emerton Riffley should be consulted, and that eminent and fashionable physician was asked to call.
Sir Emerton did call, and after a long visit, as he saw his patient had no complaint to make, none to describe, he settled that it was want of tone.
“There is a want of heart action, my dear madam,” he said, though there were times when poor Julia’s heart beat at a fearful rate.
“But you don’t think—”
“Oh, dear me, no! Oh, de-ar no! A course of tonic medicine, a little alteration in diet, and a short stay at the seaside will quite restore us.”
“Do you think Brighton?” said Mrs Mallow.
“Excellent,” said Sir Emerton; “and it would benefit you as well.”
“Or Bognor?”
“Nothing could be better.”
“Perhaps Hastings?”
“My dear madam, if I had the choosing of a place for your daughter’s residence for the present, I should decidedly say Hastings,” replied the great physician, rising from the side table, where he had been writing out a prescription precisely the same as that which he had written for hundreds of other young ladies in his time; and then, after a very courtly smile and bow, he left the drawing-room. The Rector was summoned, and the next day the family was staying at the “Queen’s” Hotel.
“There, Julia,” cried Cynthia, when they had been down a few days, “I think this is delicious, though we might just as well have stayed at Lawford. I don’t know, though; I like the seaside, and we shall be as free here as at home in the dear old woods.”
Julia shuddered.
“Oh, you foolish girl! There, don’t think of that again. Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can. The Perry-Mortons will be here soon.”
“Are they coming down?” said Julia, with a look of dismay.
“Yes. Harry’s aversion wrote to papa this morning, saying that they should be at Hastings on Saturday, so we’ve three whole days clear. What did Sage say in her letter?”
“Very little,” replied Julia. “She said that Cyril had had some little trouble though at his office.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Cynthia, “but I hope he won’t lose that.”
“Hadn’t we better turn back, Cynthia?” said her sister, with an uneasy glance round. “There are no people here.”
“That’s why I came,” said Cynthia, merrily. “I like getting away to where we can be free. Come along; I’ll help you down.”
She held out her hand, but Julia did not take it, and after threading their way amongst the huge rocks and débris fallen from the cliffs at the eastern end of the town, they started onward, keeping close to the water where they could, but oftener upon the shingle beneath the towering cliffs, along whose giddy edges some children were playing, as if safe as the gulls that softly winged their way above their heads.
“This is just what I like,” said Cynthia. “There, I’ve made one of my feet wet. Never mind; sea water does not give colds. Isn’t it a grand bit of coast, Julie? But, I say, suppose Bogey was to pop up now from behind one of those great pieces of rock. Oh, how stupid I am. Julie: darling sister, don’t faint.”
“No, no. I am better,” exclaimed Julia, across whose face a spasm of dread had darted.
“It was dreadfully silly of me, dear, but don’t you mind what I said. Why, Julie, we are as safe here as if we were in our own rooms. Nobody could come down those cliffs, and I feel sure that you will never see that creature again. There, be a woman. He could not tell that we were down here. Now, could he?”
“Cynthia,” said Julia, after a few moments’ pause, and as she spoke she gazed straight out to sea, “shall you think me very weak and foolish if I tell you what I think?”
“No, no, of course not,” said Cynthia, glancing furtively about, “only do try to be more firm.”
“I do try,” said Julia, with a catching of the breath, “so hard—so very hard; but that man seems to be my fate, and I feel now that go where I may, or do what I may, he is always close at hand watching for me. Even now I expect to see him waiting by some of these rocks.”
“Nonsense! foolish girl,” said Cynthia.
“And that, strive as I will, he will some day take me away.”
“What!” cried Cynthia, laughing merrily, “take you away!”
“Yes, dear,” said her sister, solemnly. “I feel it. I am sure of it.”
“But oh, what nonsense, Julie! You must not let him. You give way to such thoughts. How can you be so foolish?”
“Is it foolish? I strive against the thoughts till I feel half mad, but I cannot get rid of them, and his words are ever ringing in my ears. Oh, Cynthia, sometimes I feel as if it is in vain to fight against my fate, and that I may as well be resigned.”
“Oh, Julie, Julie, Julie!” cried the spirited little maiden. “What am I to do to you—what am I to say? Shall I whip you, or scold you, or have you sent to bed without any dinner? It is too dreadful, and you shall not give way like this. Why, for shame! I know somebody who is dying of love for you.”
“Don’t name him, Cynthy dear; I detest the sight of him and his sisters.”
“No, no, I mean dear Harry’s friend, Mr Magnus.”
“Poor Mr Magnus!” said Julia, dreamily. “I am very glad he is well again.”
“But he is not quite well yet, poor dear man. I think a short stay at Hastings would do him good,” said Cynthia, archly.
“It was very brave and manly of him to do what he did,” said Julia, sadly. “I can never thank him enough.”
“Hush I walk faster; let’s get beyond those rocks, Julie,” cried her sister, excitedly. “He’s coming now.”
“Ah!”
Julia’s breath came with a spasm of agony, and her features seemed rigid.
“He hasn’t seen us yet,” whispered Cynthia, but with the same excitement in her voice. “Make haste.”
They almost ran on now, till they were obliged to pause for breath.
“Don’t look round,” whispered Cynthia, “whatever you do.”
“And we are farther than ever from the town!” moaned Julia, as she clasped her hands.
“Well, what does that matter?” cried Cynthia. “Why, Julie, how pale you look!”
“Oh, pray come on faster—faster,” whispered Julia.
“No, no, poor boy, I’ve led him dance enough. He may catch me now. Why, Julie,” she cried, “I declare I’ve frightened you. Oh, my dear sissy, I did not mean your Bogey: I meant mine. I wrote and told him we should be walking along here about four o’clock, but, of course, I never for a moment expected he would come.”
Poor Julia held one hand across her eyes as she drew a long breath of relief, and holding by her sister’s arm she walked slowly on, with her eyes closed, for they were now on a smooth stretch of sand.
“You must not be so ready to take alarm at nothing, dear. Oh, I say, Julie,” Cynthia added, piteously, “let’s turn back, or he won’t see us. No—yes. Hark! it’s all right; he has seen us. I can hear his step. Don’t look round, Julie,” she whispered, joyously. “Oh, dear, why it’s you, Harry. However did you come down?”
“Train, to be sure,” cried the young man, heartily. “Why, you both look brown already. So glad to see you looking better, Julia.”
“Well, it was very nice of you to come, Harry. But how’s poor Mr Magnus?”
“Heaps better. I persuaded him to come down with me for a week. I left him at the hotel.”
“Oh, you good boy,” whispered Cynthia; and then they strolled gently on till they were a long distance from the last houses in the town. The sun made the calm sea shimmer like damasked silver, and in the transparent pools the water was many-tinted with the reflections from the green and grey and yellow cliffs; and, as such people will, both Cynthia and Harry grew more and more selfish, taking it as a matter of course that Julia should grow fatigued and seat herself upon one of the rocks that had fallen from above, to be ground, and beaten, and polished smooth on one side, while the other was roughened with the limpets and acorn barnacles that crusted it like a rugged bark.
In fact, they forgot Julia in the intense interest of their pursuit as they wandered on, for Cynthia had to be helped from rock to rock, as they went out as far as the water would allow, and she had to make daring jumps of a few inches over rushing, gurgling streams of water that ebbed and flowed amongst the stones. Then the tiny point of her pretty shoe was always poking itself inquiringly into crevices, out of which Harry had to fish red anemones or unusually large limpets or mussels. Then they had a mania for gathering enough periwinkles for tea, Cynthia declaring that she would wriggle them out with a pin and eat them. But when about a dozen had been found, the search was given up for some other pursuit; perhaps it was a well-ground oyster-shell, all pearly, or a peculiar bit of seaweed; and once, close up under the cliffs where the path was very narrow, and the sea right in, the rocks were so rough and the way so awkward that Harry had to help little Cynthia very much—so much, that if a boat had been passing its occupants would have seen two handsome young faces in extremely close proximity. But no boat was passing to make Cynthia turn so scarlet as she did, hence the marvel; and they went on in their love-dream a little longer, thinking what a wonderfully bright and happy world this was, and how beautiful sea, sky, rock, and beach had become, glorified as they were by their young happy love, when Cynthia suddenly awoke.
“Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, with the tears in her eyes, “how cruel, to be sure. Poor Julie! Let’s make haste back.”
“Oh, yes. She’ll be rested by now.”
“I was so thoughtless,” half sobbed Cynthia.
“She is so nervous, and she will be thinking she sees that dreadful man.”
“Who is not likely to be here, my darling,” said Artingale, smiling.
“No, but let’s make haste back,” cried Cynthia.
Artingale seemed disposed to loiter, but Cynthia was in earnest, and they hurried back towards where they had left Julia seated on a rock, one of the many scattered about.
It was time they did, for Artingale’s words just uttered were not the words of truth.