Eli's Children Part 45

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AFTER A PIPE.

Mrs Portlock was in the great kitchen of the farm as Sage hurried through, and she stared with astonishment at the girl's excited way.

"Why, heyday! Sage--" she began.

"Don't stop me, aunt," cried Sage, excitedly; and, running up-stairs, she shut herself in the room, threw herself upon her knees by her bed, and covered her face with her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.

"She's been having a quarrel with him," said Mrs Portlock to herself, "or she wouldn't take on like that: They must be getting on then, or they wouldn't quarrel."

Mrs Portlock paused here to go and scold one of the maids for picking out all the big lumps of coal and leaving the small, but she came back into the kitchen to think about her niece.

"He's a deal better than Luke Ross," she said to herself, "for Luke's only a tradesman after all. There's no mistake about it, he means our Sage; and where, I should like to know, would he find a better girl?"

There was a pause here, during which Mrs Portlock indulged in a few retrospects concerning Rue, and the time when she was in such trouble about Frank.

"But Cyril is a better disposed young man than his brother, I am sure,"

she said, half aloud. "He is his mother's favourite too. I wonder what Mrs Mallow will say!"

Mrs Portlock said this aloud, and then stopped short, alarmed at her own words, for she called up the face of the calm, dignified Rector entering the place, looking at her reproachfully, and ready to blame her for her a.s.sumption in encouraging his son's visits.

"Oh, my gracious!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, half in horror, for her imagination for the time began to run riot, and she saw that, even if Cyril Mallow was very fond of Sage, and even if Sage returned his love, matters would not run quite so smoothly as she had antic.i.p.ated.

"I'm sure she's as good as he," she exclaimed, by way of indignant protest to the accusations of her conscience; but, all the same, she was now brought face to face with the consequences of her tacit encouragement of Cyril Mallow's visits.

"And I'm sure we're as well off as they are," she added, after a pause.

But, all the same, her conscience would not be quieted, and Mrs Portlock was on the point of going up to her niece's room, when, with a fresh qualm of dread, though she hardly knew why, she saw her husband come striding up toward the house.

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-fas.h.i.+oned 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--

"Come, my girl, I'm hungry; it's past tea-time," and he took his place at the foot of the table, the others seating themselves, after exchanging a scared glance; and then the meal went on much as usual, only that Mrs Portlock tried to calm herself by constant applications to the teapot, while, in spite of her efforts, Sage could hardly partake of a morsel, for the food seemed as if it would choke her.

"Come, come, la.s.s, you don't eat," her uncle kept saying; and the poor girl's struggles to keep back her tears were pitiable.

But at last the weary meal came to an end, and as the table was cleared both aunt and niece grew hopeful, for the Churchwarden's brow was less rugged as he went to the ledge where his pipe lay, took the tobacco-box placed at his elbow by his niece, and calmly proceeded to fill his pipe.

"Don't look so frightened, Sage," whispered her aunt. "He won't say any more now."

"Yes, I shall," cried the farmer gruffly, for his hearing seemed to have become preternaturally sharpened. "Wait till the rooms clear."

The troubles of that one afternoon seemed to have wrought quite a change in Sage, for as, according to her custom, she took a folded spill from the mantelshelf, and lit it ready to hold to her uncle's pipe, her eyes looked wild and dilated, while her usually rounded cheeks seemed quite hollowed, giving her a wild, haggard aspect, such as is seen in one newly risen from a bed of sickness.

"Yes, I'm going to talk seriously to both of you," continued the Churchwarden; "but I'm not going into a pa.s.sion, now. That's over. Get your work, both of you, and sit down."

The trembling women obeyed, after exchanging quick glances; Mrs Portlock's being accompanied by a movement of her lips, which Sage interpreted to be "I can't help it."

The work-baskets were brought to the table, and as the Churchwarden sat placidly smoking and staring at the fire, the sharp _twit_ of needle against thimble was heard in the stillness, which was not otherwise broken till the farmer took his pipe from his lips and uttered a stern--

"Now then."

Sage started quickly back from where her thoughts had wandered after Cyril Mallow, whom in imagination she had just overtaken and brought back from a wandering life, to bless him and make him happy, while Luke Ross had forgiven her, and every one was going to be happy once again.

"Hold your tongue, mother," said the farmer, sharply. "I've given you a bit of my mind."

"Indeed, you have," she cried, querulously, "and, I must say, soon--"

"No, you mustn't," he shouted. "I'm going to talk this time. You generally do all that; but it's my turn now."

"Oh, just as you like, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, in an ill-used, protesting tone; "but I must say--"

"No, you mustn't," he cried again, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table with such an effect upon his wife, whose nerves were still shaken by the verbal castigation she had received before tea, that she started from her chair, hesitated a moment, and then ran sobbing out of the room.

For a moment the Churchwarden sat frowning. Then he half rose as if to call her back, but directly after he subsided into his place, and sat frowning sternly at his niece.

"Let her go," he said. "I've said my mind to her. Now I want to talk to you."

Sage hesitated, with her work in her hand; then, letting it fall, she went to the other side of the table and knelt down, resting her elbows upon her uncle's knees, and gazing appealingly in his face.

The Churchwarden in his heart wanted to clasp her in his arms and kiss her pale, drawn face, but he checked the desire, and, putting on a judicial expression--

"Now," he exclaimed. "So you are playing fast and loose with Luke Ross?"

"No, uncle," she replied, softly.

"What do you call it, then? Of course there is no engagement between you, but Luke expects that some day you will be his wife."

"Yes, uncle."

"And as soon as his back is turned, I find you encouraging this fellow, Cyril Mallow."