“Yes.”
“And I may tell Cyril this?”
“Yes.”
“God bless you, Eli! You are always good to me,” sobbed the poor woman; and the tears stood in her husband’s eyes as he knelt down and took her in his arms. At that time Mr Cyril Mallow, the sick, sat up in bed and lit a fresh cigar before comfortably rearranging himself for a good skim of the sporting papers.
About a couple of hours after, as the Churchwarden was returning from a round amongst his sheep, he caught sight of the Rector coming to meet him, when a long conversation took place, one that ended by the gate leading into the home close.
“Well, parson,” said Portlock, as they parted, “as I said before, I’ll make no promises but this—I won’t be hard. My niece’s happiness is what I wish to bring about before I die; and if she wants to have him, and he really will steady down and make her a good husband, why, I suppose it must be. Now I must go away and think.”
They shook hands and parted, the Rector going thoughtfully home with his hands behind him, and his stick whisking right and left, tail fashion, and up and down, while he talked to himself about his weakness in giving way, and wondering what was to be the outcome of an arrangement that seemed like breaking faith on his part with Luke Ross.
As he reached the gate he smelt the smoke of a cigar, and, in spite of his knowledge of his son’s ways, he could not help feeling surprised at the sight of Cyril coolly walking up and down, the message he had had from his mother having apparently effected a miraculous cure.
“Better, Cyril?” he said, drily.
“Yes, sir, I’m pretty well all right now,” was the reply; and the Rector sighed, and began to feel a strange sensation of regret stealing over him, as once more he asked himself what was to be the end.