Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family
TextPart 1, Chapter XXVI.
An Interruption
From the way in which people talk of the tender passion it might be supposed to be one long dream of bliss; but a little examination of other people’s hearts, and the teachings of the knowledge thus obtained with the experience of years, will go far to show that it is as often as not very far from being a dream, being, in fact, a time of misery, disappointment, and oftentimes of despair.
The earlier days of Sage Portlock’s maidenhood had glided peacefully away. She had had her troubles and annoyances like the rest of the world, but they were little, and barely ruffled the even current of her life.
She had been troubled somewhat over her sister’s love affair with Frank Mallow, and had been Rue’s confidante. Now that stormy time had passed away, and she had smiled over the wedding with John Berry, and laughingly accepted her position of Aunt Sage to the two little children that were born.
Luke Ross had been her playmate till a tenderer attachment had sprang up as girlhood passed into womanhood, and the boy became a thoughtful man. There was a thrill of pride ready to run through her, making the colour suffuse her cheeks, as she knew that she was loved; and with the thought came a proud elation that made her feel happier than she believed she had ever felt before.
But that was all. She loved Luke, she told herself, very dearly, and some day she would be his wife; but she felt happy enough when he went away to London, and somehow, though she used to consider that she was the happiest of women, his calm, trusting letters did not seem to awaken any echoes in her heart; while hers to him were pleasant little bits of gossipping prattle, ending with “the dear love of yours very, very affectionately, Sage.”
Yes, she was very fond of Luke, she used to say to herself, and by and by they would be so happy together; but she felt in no hurry for by and by to come. Existence was very pleasant as it was, and once she was back in Lawford from the training institution and engaged in the school, she seemed to wish for nothing more.
Luke Ross wrote, and twice during his absence there he came home, and they had very pleasant walks and chats, and were very boy-and-girlish together, laughing away till a serious fit would come on, when they discussed the future, the cost of housekeeping, and she laughed merrily again at the idea of being Luke’s little housekeeper and wife.
But there was no passionate attachment on her side – no tears at meeting or at parting. All was wonderfully matter-of-fact. She was very happy, she felt, and she could see that Luke was, and what more could she desire?
Then came the change, and Sage was face to face with the fact that she had promised herself to a man for whom she had never entertained a warmer feeling than that of friendship, or the love of a sister for brother, and that at last she had found her fate.
Was it a feeling of rapturous delight?
Far from it; for from that day her nights were sleepless, and too often her pillow was wet with the hot tears of her misery and distress.
On the day of the serious quarrel between father and son Sage was in better spirits than she had been in for some days. A letter had come from Luke telling her of his progress in London; of his father’s willingness to make him a sufficient allowance for the object he had in view, a matter which had been settled since he came up, and that he had taken what his landlord called “chambers” in a legal part of town.
So light-hearted was Sage that day that she laughed over Luke’s merry description of his chambers as being so many square feet of emptiness, with a cupboard in which he had to sleep.
He gave her a very graphic account of the way in which he had furnished his rooms, of how he walked into Fleet-street every day to have a chop for his dinner, and how the woman who made his bed prepared his breakfast and tea, and then followed a sentence which made Sage laugh merrily – a laugh that was repeated several times during school hours, to the great astonishment of the girls.
“And it is wonderful what a very little while half-a-pound of tea seems to last.”
That was the sentence which amused her, and for a time Cyril Mallow passed from her thoughts.
“What a little time it lasts!” she said merrily, as soon as the school had been dismissed, and she was putting on her hat. “Poor boy! of course, he knows nothing at all about housekeeping; and only to think,” she mused, “how dreadful it must be to go on living every day upon chops.”
She started for home, thinking a great deal of Luke, and telling herself that the fancies that had of late come into her head were as foolish as they were wicked, and that now they were dismissed for ever.
What would Mr Mallow himself think of her? What would Mrs Mallow say? She shivered, and felt that unless she sternly determined never to think of Cyril again, she could not meet the Rector, who had always been so kind and fatherly in his ways.
This had been a nasty dream – a day-dream that had come over her, fostered by Cyril Mallow’s looks and ways. For he had followed her about a great deal; watched for her so that they might meet, and had constantly been coming up to the farm of an evening, where, though ostensibly chatting with her uncle, she could not raise her eyes without encountering his.
She could not have explained it to herself, but somehow Cyril Mallow had seemed to influence her life, being, as it were, the very embodiment of sin silently tempting her to break faith with Luke Ross, and think only of him who had come between.
She told herself constantly, when the thoughts of Cyril Mallow intruded themselves, that she loved Luke better than ever, and that the coming of Cyril was hateful to her; but, all the same, there was a strange light in her eyes whenever she thought of him, and her cheeks would burn and her pulses flutter.
It was a strange way of hating, but she told herself that it was hate, and on this particular day the coming of Luke’s letter had seemed to strengthen her, and she began planning what she would say in return; how she would give him good advice about his housekeeping, say words of encouragement to him about his studies, and praise his determination. For was he not striving with all his might; had he not determined upon this long struggle for position that he might win her?
And how could she do anything but love him? Dear Luke! Indeed she would be true to him, and write him such encouraging letters – help him all she could. It was her duty now, for though they were not regularly affianced with her friends’ sanction, she told herself that her promise to him was sacred.
“Yes,” she said, half aloud, as she walked thoughtfully on, “I love Luke very dearly, and that other was all a bad, feverish kind of dream, and I’ll never think about it more. It was wicked of Mr Cyril, knowing what he does, and weak of me, and never again – Oh!”
“Did I make you jump, Sage?” said a low voice; and Cyril came from the gate over which he had been leaning, and jerked the stump of a cigar away.
“I – I did not see you, Mr Cyril,” she said, faintly, and the tears sprang to her eyes.
“And I frightened the poor little thing, did I? There, I’ll be more careful next time; but, oh, what a while you have been.”
“Don’t stop me, Mr Cyril,” she said, with trembling voice; “I must hurry home.”
“Well, you shall directly; but, Sage, don’t please be so hard and cruel to me. You know how humble and patient I have been, and yet you seem to be one day warm, the next day cold, and the third day hot and angry with me. What have I done?”
“I do not understand you, Mr Cyril,” she said, trying to speak sternly, and walking on towards the farm.
“Then I will speak more plainly,” he said, suddenly dropping the bantering tone in which he had addressed her for one full of impassioned meaning. “Sage, I love you with all my heart, and when you treat me with such cruel coldness, it makes me half mad, and I say to you as I say now, what have I done?”
“Oh, hush! hush!” she panted. “You must not speak to me like that. Mr Cyril, I beg – I implore you – never to address me again. You know – you must know – that I am engaged to Mr Ross.”
“Engaged to Mr Ross!” he said, bitterly. “It is not true. There is no engagement between you.”
“It is true,” she panted, hurrying on, and trembling for her weakness, as she felt how strongly her heart was pleading for him, who kept pace with her, and twice had laid his hand, as if to stop her, upon her arm.
“I have your aunt’s assurance that it is not true,” he continued; “and I have hoped, Sage, I have dared to believe, that you were not really fond of this man.”
“Mr Cyril, I beg – I implore you to leave me,” she cried.
“If I left you now,” he said, hoarsely, “feeling what I feel, knowing what I know, it would be to plunge into some miserable, reckless course that might end who can say how? What have I to live for if you refuse me your love?”
“How can you be so cruel to me?” she cried, angrily. “You insult me by these words, Mr Cyril I am alone, and you take advantage of my position. You know I am engaged to Mr Ross.”
“I do not,” he retorted, passionately. “I do not believe it; and I never will believe it till I see you his wife. His wife!” he continued. “It is absurd. You will never be Luke Ross’s wife. It is impossible.”
“I will not – I cannot – talk to you,” she cried, increasing her pace. It was on her lips to add, “I dare not”; but she checked herself in time, as she glanced sidewise at him, for with a feeling of misery and despair, strangely mingled with pleasure, she felt that all her good resolutions were being swept away by her companion’s words, and, in an agony of shame and dread lest he should read her thoughts, she once more hurried her steps.
“You cannot throw me off like that,” he said, bitterly. “I will not be pitched over in this contemptuous manner. Only the other day you looked kindly and tenderly at me.”
“Oh no, no, no,” she cried, “it is not true.”
“It is true enough,” he said, sadly, “and I mean to be patient. I cannot believe you care for this man. It is impossible, and I shall wait.”
“No, no, Mr Cyril,” she pleaded. “I can never listen to such words again. Think of your father and your mother. Mr Mallow would never forgive me if he knew I had listened to you like this.”
“Let him remain unforgiving, then,” cried Cyril. “As for my mother, she loves her son too well not to be ready to do anything to make him happy.”
“Pray, pray go,” she moaned.
“No,” he said, sternly, “I will not go. You torture me by your coldness, knowing what you do. Do you wish to drive me to despair?”
“I wish you to go and forget me,” she cried, with spirit. “As a gentleman, Mr Cyril, I ask you, is such a course as this manly?”
He was silent for a few moments, glancing at her sidewise the while.
“No,” he said, “it is neither manly nor gentlemanly, but what can you expect from a miserable wretch against whom all the world seems to turn? Always unsuccessful – always hoping against hope, fighting against fate, I find, now I come home, that the little girl I always thought of when far away has blossomed into a beautiful woman. How, I know not, but I wake to the fact that she has made me love her – idolise her – think of her as the very essence of my being.”
“Mr Cyril,” pleaded Sage; but he kept on.
“A new life appears to open out to me, and my old recklessness and misery seem to drop away. I waken to the fact that there is something to live for – something to rouse me to new effort, and to work for as an earnest man should work. I did not seek her out; I did not strive to love her,” he continued, as if speaking to some one else; “but her love seemed to come to me, to enweave itself with my every thought.”
“I will not listen,” panted Sage, but her heart whispered, “Luke never spoke to me like that.”
“I fought against it for a time,” he went on, dreamily, “for I said to myself this would be wronging her. She is engaged to another, and I should only make her unhappy and disturb the even tenor of her ways.”
“Which you have done,” she cried, in piteous tones.
“Do not blame me,” he said, softly. “I fought hard. I swore I would not think of you, and I crushed down what I told myself was my mad love within my breast; but when, by accident, I found that I was wrong, and that no engagement existed between you and Luke Ross – ”
“But there is, there is,” she cried. “Once more, Mr Cyril, pray leave me.”
“A few mere words of form, Sage. You do not love this man; and, besides, your relatives have not given their consent. Oh, listen to me. Why should you condemn me to a life of reckless misery? You know how I have been drifting for years without an anchor to stay me. You are that anchor now. Let me cling to you for my father’s, my mother’s sake; for if you cast me off, continue this cruel wrong, you drive me once more from home, to go floating aimlessly, without a chance of becoming a better man. You cannot be so harsh.”
“I cannot listen to you,” she murmured. “I tell you,” he cried, “that if you cast me off you condemn me to a life of misery and despair. Sage, dear Sage,” he cried, catching her hand, “I have been wild and foolish, but I have the making in me of a better man. Help me to live aright. You are so good, and pure, and sweet – so wise and gentle. Be my guide and helpmate, and those at home will bless you. Am I always to plead in vain?”
“How can I look Luke Ross in the eyes again if I listen to such words as these?”
“Luke Ross? Am I to stand idly by and let Luke Ross, the cold, careless cynic, snatch you from my arms?”
“How dare you speak of him like that?” she cried, angrily. “He is all that is wise and good.”
“And worships you so dearly that he has gone away for three years, at least, to prove to you his love.”
“It is a great act of noble forbearance,” she said, proudly, “and you slander him by your words.”
“I hope I do,” he said; “but they were wrung from me by my misery and suffering. But no, I will not believe you can be so cruel to me. I know that I may hope.”
They were nearing the gate leading into the great home field, and Sage, trembling and agitated to a terrible degree, hurried on, feeling that, once within sight of the house, Cyril Mallow would leave her. Her mind was confused, and the struggle going on between duty and inclination was terrible; while the knowledge that she was so weak and yielding towards her companion half maddened her for the time.
“Why do you hurry on so?” he pleaded. “Am I to be driven away? Am I to leave home, and go anywhere that fate may drift me?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she moaned. “This is too cruel to me. Pray, pray leave me now.”
“Then I may hope?”
“No,” she cried, with a fresh accession of strength, as she laid her hand upon the gate; “I have promised to be Luke Ross’s wife.”
“His you shall never be,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “You do not love him, and you shall not fling yourself away. Sage, you shall be mine, and – ”
“Well, young man, are you obliged to whisper what you say to my niece? Come, Sage, my girl, it’s time you were indoors.”
“Uncle!” cried Sage, joyously, as she sprang to his side with a sigh of relief.
“Yes, my girl,” he said, coldly, “it is uncle;” and he stuck his thistle staff down into the soft earth, and leaned his hands upon the round top. “You can go on,” he continued; “I’m not coming home yet.”
“But, uncle,” she cried, excitedly.
“Go home, my lass,” he said, imperatively.
“Yes, dear,” she half sobbed; “but you will not – ”
“I say go home!” he shouted; and, with a low wail, she turned off, and walked hurriedly towards the farm, her uncle standing watching her, while Cyril Mallow coolly took a cigar-case from his breast pocket, opened it, carefully selected a cigar, picking, choosing, and returning one after the other till he had found one to his fancy, when he snapped to the case once more and thrust it back in his pocket, afterwards biting off the cigar-end and proceeding to light it with a fusee that evinced a strong dislike to burst into sparks and then smoulder away.
As he did this, however, he kept glancing furtively at the Churchwarden, who was watching the retiring form of Sage, her troubled mien winning a glance or two from Cyril as well.
The cigar burned badly, and had to be lit again, this time being watched by the Churchwarden with a kind of good-humoured contempt for the man who could smoke those rolls of tobacco-leaf in place of an honest pipe.
At last the cigar drew freely, and the eyes of the two men met.
“I’m in for another row now,” said Cyril, to himself. “Awkward; very. Never mind; I don’t care.”
“Now, young man,” said Portlock, at last, in a very short, blunt fashion, “it seems to me that you and I had better have a few words together of a sort.”
“When and where you please,” said Cyril, carelessly.
“Let’s walk along here, then,” said the Churchwarden, pointing down the lane with his thistle staff.
“Away from the farm, eh?” thought Cyril. “All right, old friend.” Then aloud, “Whichever way you please, sir.”
“I didn’t know things had gone so far as this,” continued the Churchwarden, leading the way. “People say that you are the idlest chap in these parts; but it seems to me that, with the work thou likest, thou canst be as busy as the best.”
Cyril flushed a little, and bit his lip, for he told himself that he was a gentleman, and the farmer was making far too free in his way of address; but he checked his annoyance, and said quietly —
“Perhaps, sir, you will kindly explain what you mean.” Then, after a furtive glance at the stern, angry-looking man, he muttered to himself —
“You dare not strike me; and, as to your words, say what you like – little Sage is mine.”
“Now, sir,” exclaimed Sage’s uncle, after a few moments’ pause, “will you have the goodness to explain the meaning of the scene I have just witnessed?”
“Explain, sir?” said Cyril, coolly; “surely it needs no explanation. I am young, and of one sex; Miss Portlock is young and of the other sex, and a mutual attachment has sprung up.”
“Mutual!”
“Well, yes; I hope so, sir. Perhaps, though, I ought to be content with alluding to my own feelings.”
“Humph! Your own feelings, eh? And pray does Mr Cyril Mallow mean to say that he has become attached to my niece?”
“Certainly he does, sir. You are not surprised?”
“But I am surprised,” said the farmer, angrily, “and I am very glad to have witnessed what I did before the mischief went further. Now, look here, Mr Cyril Mallow, I am a man of business, and when I have an unpleasant matter to tackle I go straight to it at once.”
“A very good plan,” said Cyril, calmly.
“I’m glad you think so, sir,” said the Churchwarden, ironically. “And now, if you please, we’ll walk straight up to the rectory.”
“What for?” cried Cyril, who was startled by his words.
“What for? Why to talk this matter over with your father.”
“But suppose he does not approve of the engagement, Mr Portlock?” said Cyril, who was taken somewhat aback by this very prompt way of treating the affair.
“Approve? Whoever thought he would approve, sir? Of course he does not, any more than I do. What I want is for you to be given to understand in a quiet way that it is time you gave up visiting at my place, and hanging about to catch sight of my little girl, when she is leaving or going to the school.”
“Mr Portlock!” exclaimed Cyril, haughtily.
“Mr Cyril Mallow!” cried the Churchwarden. “Now just look here, sir. If I were one of your set, should you be making approaches to my niece in the way you have? Not you: it would not be considered proper. Aunt’s and uncle’s consent would be asked first; but as I’m only a farmer, I’m hardly worth notice. It seems that my little lassie has taken your fancy, and so you come running after her; but not a word to me.”
“But hear me a minute,” protested Cyril.
“No, sir; nor yet half a minute. A farmer’s a man, if he is not what you call a gentleman, and thinks as much of his people as the highest in the land. I dare say, in your high and mighty way, as our rector’s son, and a gentleman who has been at college, you think you are stooping to notice my niece; so let me tell you, once for all, I don’t think you are; and, what’s more, it will be a far better man than you have shown yourself to be who gets my consent to make her his wife.”
“I can assure you, Mr Portlock – ” began Cyril; but the farmer would not hear him. He was thoroughly angry, and his face flushed up a deep red.
“And I can assure you, sir, that I want no such reckless, idling fellow seeking after my niece. We had bother enough when your brother was after Sage’s sister. I tell you, then, plainly, once for all, that I won’t have it; so don’t show your face at my place again.”
He turned sharply round and strode off, leaving Cyril mortified and angry; for, in his way, he had felt that he was stooping, and falling away from his position, in noticing the little schoolmistress, so that this sharp rebuff came like a rude shock to his feelings, and made the end at which he aimed seem less likely to be achieved.
“Confound his insolence!” he cried, as he saw the broad back of the farmer disappearing through his own gate. “It is too bad to be borne.”
But in a few minutes’ time, as he walked slowly homeward, he began to smile and think over his position.
“Let him talk and speak loud,” he said. “I thought he was going to threaten me once. What does it matter? My father is dead against it, and he and Master Portlock will make common cause against me. But what does it matter when Aunt Portlock is on my side, and little Sage is as good as won? Then, as to madame, my poor mother? Pish! she will refuse me nothing. So, Master Churchwarden, I have three women on my side, and the game is mine, do what you like.”
He walked on a little way, amusing himself the while by thinking of the divided sides, and how much stronger his must be.
“Let them fight us,” he said, laughing. “We shall be four to two, and we must win; but stay, I had forgotten another enemy – Master Luke Ross. Poor fellow!” he said, contemptuously, “his chance against me is about the value of nil.”