Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

Part 1, Chapter XXVII.
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 assumption in encouraging his son’s visits.

“Oh, my gracious!” she ejaculated, 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 anticipated.

“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-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 —

“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, lass, 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 passion, 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.”

“No, indeed, uncle, I have not,” cried Sage.

“I don’t be – ”

He stopped, for there was something in his niece’s eyes which checked him.

“Well, it looks very bad,” he said; “and one thing is very evident – he, after a fashion, thinks of you, and he has the impudence to say that you care for him.”

“Oh!”

It was more like a sigh than an ejaculation, and Sage’s eyes seemed to contract now with pain.

“I’ve given aunt a good talking to, for she’s more to blame than you. She thinks it a fine thing for the parson’s boy to be coming hanging about here after you, same as Frank did after Rue, and much good came of it. She had the impudence to tell me that he was a gentleman, while Luke Ross was only a tradesman’s son. As if that had anything to do with it. ‘Look here,’ I said to her: ‘whenever our girl weds, it shall be to some one with a good income, but he shall be a man.’ Gentleman, indeed! If Cyril Mallow is a gentleman, let my niece marry a man who is nothing of the sort.”

Sage’s eyes closed, and there was a pitiful, pained expression in her face that told of the agony of her heart. So troubled was her countenance that her uncle was moved to pity, and spoke more tenderly.

“I don’t like him well enough for you, my girl, even if there were no Luke Ross in the way. I’ve sent him off to work for thee, like Jacob did for Rachel, and if he’s the man I think him, some day he’ll come back in good feather, ready to ask thee to be his wife, and you’ll neither of you be the worse for a few years’ wait.”

Sage’s eyes remained closed. “I was going to scold thee,” he said, tenderly, “but my anger’s gone, and I’ll say but little more, only tell me this – You don’t care a bit for this young spark of the Rector’s.”

Sage’s face contracted more and more, and the Churchwarden cried, impatiently – “Well, girl, why don’t you answer?” She gazed up in his face with a pleading expression of countenance that startled him, and he placed his hands upon her shoulders, and looked fully in her eyes.

“Why, Sage!” he cried, “you don’t mean – you don’t say that you like him instead of Luke?”

She covered her face with her hands, and burst out into a violent fit of sobbing.

“I don’t know, uncle. I don’t know.”

“Don’t know!” he cried, angrily.

“Pray ask me no more,” she cried, as her uncle started from his seat, thrusting back the chair in the act. She crouched down upon the carpet, weeping bitterly, for she did know now, though no pressure would have torn the secret from her heart.

Part 1, Chapter XXVIII.
Jock Muses

There was a troubled heart at the rectory as well as at the farm, where Julia Mallow, in spite of having been so far a firm, matter-of-fact girl, had found her meetings with the wheelwright’s big ruffianly brother make so strong an impression that although she made a brave effort to cast it all aside as unworthy of her, she was always living under the idea that this man was at her elbow, ready to meet her with his intent, half-mocking gaze.

Once or twice she had nervously alluded to it when chatting with her sister, but Cynthia had merrily told her not to be so silly, for papa said the man must have just come out of prison, and spoken like that out of spite.

“Depend upon it, Julie, you’ll never see him again.”

Julia said nothing, but went to the window of her room, and sat there reading, and now and then lifting her eyes to gaze out at the pleasant prospect right across the fields to the ridge about a quarter of a mile away, beyond which the land sank at once towards Kilby Farm.

The next moment with a faint cry she shrank back, for even at that distance she seemed to recognise the burly form of the rough fellow, seen boldly standing out against the sky as he appeared to be crossing the ridge. Then as she gazed at the figure with starting eyes it went over the edge of the hill and was gone.

“I shall never dare to go out alone,” she said hoarsely. “Heaven help me! What shall I do?”

This was quite a couple of months after the meeting in the lane, during all which time the poor girl felt as if she were haunted by the fellow’s presence, and his words were always ringing in her ears.

The time had slipped away, and company had come and gone. The Perry-Mortons had been down for a second visit, ostensibly for discussions with the Rector concerning the decorations of the town house, but Cynthia read it – and told Lord Artingale her reading – that it was to worm round poor Julia, and that was what papa meant. Didn’t he think it was a shame?

Lord Artingale agreed with her that it was, and between them they decided in alliance to do all they could to prevent it; but unfortunately for Julia, this pair of egotists thought of little else but themselves – thoughts that were varied by a little squabbling when Cynthia showed what a peppery temper she possessed.

Julia was looking languidly forward to the middle of May, when the town house was to be ready, and in busy London she felt that she should be free from the haunting presence which afflicted her so sorely that she even felt glad of Mr Perry-Morton’s poetical rhapsodies as a kind of protection, though there was something terrible in his presence. In fact, this gentleman showed his admiration in a way that was painful in the extreme. He said little, but he loved her with his eyes, and when Mr Perry-Morton loved he did it in a sculpturesque manner, sitting or standing in some wonderful position, at a short distance, and then gloating – no, a Philistine would have gloated – he, one of the chosen of the Raphaelistic brotherhood, dreamed over his beloved, mentally writing fleshly poems the while – wondrous visions of rapt joyousness, mingled with ethereal admiration.

But it wanted a month yet to the time for leaving the rectory, and though Julia had not seen her horror again, she felt that he was near, and that at some unexpected moment he would start up, perhaps when she was alone.

Matters there as regarded Cyril were in abeyance. He was, as he told himself, playing a waiting game. Sage would have a nice bit of money, he knew, and he thought it would be a pity to spoil his prospects by hurried play.

Besides, he was in no hurry, for he had the companionship of Frank, and together they went a great deal to the King’s Head, where there was an old billiard-table. At other times they drove over to Gatley, where Lord Artingale placed everything he possessed at their service. There was a good billiard-table there, horses, and wine, and cigars to their hearts’ content.

Then each had a little private business to attend to, about which they made no confidences, and rarely interfered with or joked each other, it being a tacit arrangement that no questions should be asked if Frank was going over to Lewby for a chat with John Berry, or Cyril had made up his mind for a stroll down by the wheelwright’s, where there were a few dace to be whipped for in the stream.

Spring had come earlier that year, and while Luke Ross thought the Temple gardens and the trees in Grey’s Inn poor dejected-looking affairs, down by Lawford everything was looking its best, for Spring’s children were hard at work striving to hide the rusty traces of the wintry storms.

Early in April the banks and the edges of the woods were, alive with flowers, glossy-leaved celandines showed their golden stars, brightly-varnished arums peered up with their purple-spotted spathes and leaves, the early purple orchids brightened the dark-green here and there. Clusters of soft pale lilac cuckoo-flowers were springing up amongst the clumps of catkin-laden hazels, oak saplings with bark like oxidised silver, and osiers with orange stems and polished silver buds, while every bank and coppice was sprinkled with sulphur yellow where the primroses bloomed. There was mating and marrying going on in feather-land to the blackbird’s fluting, and the twittering of many throats, and one soft, warm day, when the east wind had been driven back by a balmy breathing from the west and south, Cynthia made a dash at her sister, and laughingly passed the string of her hat over her head, thrust a basket in her hand, and led her off to gather violets.

“Let’s be little children once again, Julie,” she cried. “I want a rest. It has been nothing but spooning, and nonsense lately with Cyril and the pretty schoolmistress.”

“Papa has been in sad trouble about it lately, Cynthy,” said Julia, thoughtfully.

“Yes, but let’s hope it is all over now; I think it is.”

“I don’t know,” said Julia, thoughtfully.

“I think I do,” cried Cynthia. “Papa frightened him. But how wonderfully quiet our dear brother Frank is. I hope he is not hatching some mischief.”

“Don’t be uncharitable, Cynthia,” said Julia, with a sad smile; “think the best of your brothers.”

“I do try to, Julie, but I’m afraid I’m not very fond of my brothers.”

“Cynthia!”

“Well, I’m not, dear. I feel quite ashamed of them sometimes. It’s quite shocking the way they are imposing upon Harry, and he takes it all so good-naturedly for my sake, but he don’t like it I’m sure.”

“You are making the worst of it, Cynthy.”

“No, I’m not, for Harry – there, I won’t talk about it; I’m tired of all the nonsense, spooning and flirting with Harry and that fat-featured – oh! why is it rude for a young lady to slap such a fellow’s face, Julie? If you marry that Perry-Morton I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I shall never marry Mr Perry-Morton,” said Julia, dreamily.

“No, no; we don’t want to marry any one at all,” said Cynthia, merrily. “Come and let’s be children in the wood again. It’s heavenly out of doors, dear. Come along.”

Heavenly it was, as they got out of the fields, and struck out through the woods, where the soft moss was like a carpet beneath their feet, and the air was redolent with scents and suggestions of the spring. For it was one of those days, of those very few days, that come early in the year, when the senses seem to be appealed to, and, in a delicious calm, the worries and cares of life roll away, and the spirit seems even troubled with the sweet sense of joy.

The sisters had wandered far, and filled their baskets, but still there were always fresh blossoms to pluck, odorous violets or primroses, and delicate scraps of moss or early leaf.

Cynthia was a couple of score yards away from her sister, in the budding copse, trilling a merry song, as if in answer to the birds, and Julia, with a bright, happy flush upon her face, was still eagerly piling up fresh sweets, when a clump of primroses, fairer than any she had yet gathered, drew her a few yards further amongst the hazel stems.

She was in the act of stooping down to pick them when her flushed face became like marble, her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she stopped – leaning forward – motionless – fascinated by what she saw.

And that was the face of Jock Morrison, as he lay amongst the leaves and flowers, prone upon his chest, his arms folded before him, his chin resting upon them, and his eyes literally seizing hers, not a yard away.

He did not speak or move, only crouched there, staring at her as if he were some philosopher trying the effect of the stronger eye upon the weaker. Neither did Julia speak, but stood there bending down, her eyes fixed, her body motionless, while you might have counted twenty.

“Julie! Where are you? Coo-ee!” Cynthia’s bright young voice broke the spell, and Julia’s eyes closed as she backed slowly away for a few yards before she dare turn and run towards her sister.

“Oh, there you are, Julie. If I did not think you were in the other direction! Why, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“No, no,” said Julia, hastily; “I think I am hot; it is tiring out here. Let us go home; I – I want to get back.”

“Why, Julie, you don’t come out enough; you are done up directly. There, come along out into the fields, there’s more fresh air there. I say, did I tell you that we are to go to town next week?”

“No,” said Julia, who shivered at every sound in the copse, and glanced from side to side, as if she expected to be seized at any moment.

“But we are, and I don’t know but what I long to be up in London to get away from Harry Artingale.”

“To get away?” said Julia, making an effort to be composed, and wondering why she had not told her sister what she had seen.

“Yes, I want to get away; for of course,” she added, archly, “he will have to stay down here.”

She spoke loudly, and all that had been said and left unsaid appealed very strongly to the senses of the great fellow in the copse.

Julia need not have felt afraid that he was about to rise up and seize her; he remained perfectly still for a few moments, and then rolled over upon his back, laughing heartily, but in a perfectly silent manner, before having a struggle with himself to drag a short pipe and a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket.

Filling his pipe quietly, he struck a match and lit it, placed his hands beneath his head, and stared straight up through the tender green leaves at the bare sky, while a robin came and perched upon a branch close by, and kept watching the ruffian with his great round eyes.

“This is jolly,” he said, in a bass growl; “better than having places of your own, and being obliged to work.”

Then he smoked for a few minutes before musing once more aloud.

“Women arn’t much account,” he said, oracularly; “and the younger and prettier they are, the worse they are.”

There was another interval of smoking.

“What a deal a fellow sees by just doing nothing but hang around. Franky Mallow, eh? Ah, he cuts me now. If I was John Berry, farmer, I’d cut him, that’s what I’d do.”

Another interval of smoking.

“Why don’t young Serrol,” (so he pronounced it) “go after the schoolmissus now, I wonder? Tired, I spose.”

Another smoking interval.

“Hah, if it’s because he prefers going down to the ford – ”

He stopped short.

“I tell you what it is; if I thought – ”

Another pause, during which Jock Morrison made his short pipe still shorter by biting off a piece of the stem and spitting it out.

“Shall I tell Tom – shan’t I tell Tom? Tom don’t like me, and tells me to keep myself to myself. He’d about smash him, that’s what Tom would do, if he knowed, and then he’d be miserable for ever and ever, amen, as owd Sammy Warmoth used to say.”

Another smoking fit.

“She’s a good little lass, and the trouble she was in about her bairn was terrible.”

More smoking, and the robin looking wondering on.

“Polly don’t like me, but she’s a kind-hearted little lass, and has give me many a hunk of bread and meat unknown to Tom, and I never see but that she was as square as square.”

Another long smoke.

“Master Serrol, eh? Why, of course! She must ha’ knowed him when she lived at parson’s. I’ll tell Tom.”

More smoking, and the pipe of tobacco burned out.

“No, I won’t tell Tom,” said the big fellow. “If I did he wouldn’t believe me, and it would only make him and Polly miserable too, and I don’t want to do that. I tell you what – if I see Master Serrol go down there again when Tom’s out of the way I’ll pretty well break his neck.”

He uttered a low chuckling laugh as he lay prone there, catching sight now of the robin, and chirruping to it as it watched him from its perch.

“Pretty Dick!” he said. “Going up to London, are they? All right! Anywheres’ll do for me, parson. I wonder whether Serrol and Frank’ll go too.”

Jock Morrison did not pretty well break Cyril’s neck, for a very few days after Mr Paulby had the full management of Lawford Church again, the family at the rectory being once more in town.

“It is worse for the boys,” said the Rector, “but it will keep Cyril away from her. I must get him something to do.”