Upon the present occasion, as he walked homeward, and in fact as he would at any time when excited by his thoughts, he now and then gave the stick a toss up, or a wag sideways, ending with a regular flourish, after the manner of a cow in a summer pasture when much troubled by the flies, adding thereby greatly to the resemblance borne by the stick to a pendent tail.
The Rector was more than usually excited on the morning of his remark to Sage Portlock. There had been something tender and paternal in his way of addressing her, and she had a good deal filled his thoughts of late. There were several reasons for this.
He had had no right to plan out Sage’s future, but somehow he had thoroughly mapped it out long before.
He knew of Luke Ross’s attachment to her, and from his position as spiritual head of the parish, it was only natural that he should think of the duty that so often fell to his lot—that of joining couples in the “holy estate of matrimony.”
But a short time back and in Sage’s case it all came so natural and easy. Luke Ross had been trained, he was to have the boys’ school, he would soon marry her, the schoolhouses would be occupied, and the schools be as perfect under such guidance as schools could be.
Everything had been gliding on beautifully towards a definite end, and then there had come stumbling-blocks. Luke Ross had gone back to town; the girls’ schoolhouse remained unoccupied, as Sage went home for the present; Humphrey Bone was faster than ever in his post, and likely to stay there, the opposition being so strong; and, worst problem of all to solve, there was Cyril.
It was no wonder that the thick black stick was twitched and flourished and tossed up and down, for the Rector’s mind was greatly disturbed, especially upon the last question—that of his son.
He had spoken severely without effect; he had tried appeal without better success. Cyril had not openly defied him, but had sat and listened quietly to all his father had said, and then gone and acted precisely as if nothing whatever had been spoken.
“She is so good, and sweet, and innocent a girl; so true, too, in her attachment to Luke Ross, that I cannot speak to her,” he said to himself. “Besides, she has given me no opening. But it must be stopped. What shall I do?”
The Reverend Eli Mallow went on for a few yards deeply thoughtful, and then the idea came. He knew what he would do: speak to Mrs Portlock first, or to the Churchwarden, and ask their advice and counsel upon the matter.