Meanwhile Sage’s breast was racked by conflicting emotions, chief amongst which was that suggested by a self-accusation from her wounded heart; and she knelt there, sobbing and praying for help, feeling that she was intensely wicked, and that the hopeless misery of her case was greater than she could bear.
Her mind was in a chaos, and she shuddered as she clung to the coverlet, and dragged it over her drawn and excited face, as one moment it was the stern, reproachful figure of Luke Ross asking her if this was her faith—this the meaning of her tender, loving letters—this the reward of his chivalrous determination to give up everything to the one idea of making himself a worthy suitor with her relatives; the next it was Cyril, gazing at her with despairing eyes, which seemed to say that if she cast him off he should drift recklessly through the world, and come to some bad end; while, did she bless him with her love, he would become a worthy member of society, a happy man, and one of whom she could feel so proud.
Then her heart began to plead for him so hard that she trembled, for she seemed to be awakening, as it were, into a new life, and her dread increased as she more fully realised the power Cyril Mallow had gained over her. She fought hard, and set up barrier after barrier, called up by her intense desire to be honourable and true to her trust. But as fast as she set these up they seemed to be swept away; and, as the excitement brought on by her misery increased, she felt ready to cry aloud to Luke to come back to her and protect her from Cyril Mallow and from her own weak self.
“Sage! Sage!”
It was her uncle’s voice calling up the stairs—a voice by which she could interpret every mood of his spirit; and she knew now that he was very angry.
“Sage!” came again in a voice of thunder, and so full of impatience that she was forced to cross to the door, open it, and answer.
“I want my tea,” came up in an angry roar.
It was in Sage’s heart to say she was too unwell to come down, but in her then agitated state she could only falter that she would not be a minute, and, hastily bathing her eyes and smoothing her hair, she descended, pale and trembling, to where her aunt was looking very white and startled, and her uncle walking up and down the old-fashioned parlour, impatient for his evening meal, one of which he would rarely partake unless his niece was there to attend to his wants.
The Churchwarden’s lips parted, and he was about to speak out angrily, but the woe-begone looks of the girl silenced him.
“I’ll have a cup of tea first, and do it over a pipe,” he said to himself. Then aloud—