He turned the watch over and over, laughing unpleasantly.
“Pretty Polly!” he said out aloud, but ended by opening and snapping to the back of the watch.
“Five minutes to twelve,” he exclaimed, involuntarily. “The children will be coming out of school directly.”
He made a sharp movement in the direction of the town—stopped short—went on again—stopped to think of the words he had had with his father, and then, with an impatient “pish!” thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked quickly in the direction that he knew Sage Portlock would take on leaving the school, bent on the mission of causing misery and dissension between two young people just making their first start in life, and sowing the seed of certain weeds that would spring up to the overtopping of much goodly grain.
He paused again, hesitating as he neared the rectory gates, and for a moment he seemed as if he would enter.
But just then the church clock struck twelve, and the deep-toned bell, as it slowly gave forth, one by one, the tale of strokes announcing that the day had climbed to its greatest height, seemed to bring before Cyril Mallow the scene of the schoolgirls racing out, panting and eager, while Sage Portlock was putting on that natty little hat and long silk scarf she wore when going to and fro.
“Oh, what nonsense!” ejaculated Cyril. “What harm? Perhaps I shan’t see her after all.”
He strode off hastily back towards the town, for it was now five minutes past twelve, and just at this time Sage was locking the school door, and enjoying the fresh air, as she thought of Luke Ross with a pleasant little smile upon her lip, and a ruddy tint on the cheek; while just a hundred and twenty miles away Luke Ross had shouldered a spade on his way to the great garden for the hour’s manual labour prescribed by the rules of the training school; and, oddly enough, he was not thinking of the piece of earth he was about, in company with many more, to dig, but of Sage Portlock, and the pleasant days when he should be down in the country once again.