Loe raamatut: «Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family», lehekülg 20

Part 1, Chapter XXXVIII.
A Willing Invalid

The footsteps heard as Luke Ross hurried away were those of the Churchwarden. He had been round the farm according to his custom when his after-dinner pipe was ended, and then spent his usual amount of time over scraper and mat, getting rid of the superabundant earth that always seemed to cling to his boots.

“Shortest day, mother,” he said, entering the long parlour where Mrs Portlock was seated watching the fire, with her knitting upon her knees. “Be dusk directly. Sage come in?”

“No, not yet. It is hardly her time,” was the reply. “But you need not fidget about her.”

“Wasn’t fidgeting about her,” said the Churchwarden, shortly, for the meaning tone in his wife’s words annoyed him. All that afternoon he had been thinking of Luke Ross, and it had struck him that it was just upon the young man’s time for paying a visit home.

“And then we shall be having him up here, and he’ll learn all about Sage. Hang me if I think that I ought to have listened to parson as I did!”

These thoughts had come to him over and over again, troubling him more than he cared to own, for there was something frank and manly about Luke Ross that he had always liked, and in spite of his own uncompromising refusal to sanction any engagement, he did not feel happy in his mind about the treatment the young man had received.

“Look here, mother,” he said, sharply, after standing at the front door for a few minutes, watching for Sage’s return, “this is your doing.”

“What is my doing?” she replied; “but there, for goodness’ sake, Joseph, do come in or stop out. You’ve done nothing but open and shut that door.”

The Churchwarden shut the front door with a bang, and strode up to the fire.

“I say this is your doing about Sage, and I don’t half like it after all.”

“There, there, there!” she cried. “I wish to goodness you’d mind the farm, and leave women and their ways alone. What in the world do you understand about such things?”

“I don’t think we’ve been doing right,” he said; “and I’m afraid that no good will come of it.”

“Stuff and nonsense, dear. Why any one, with half an eye, could have seen that the poor girl was fretting her heart out about young Mallow.”

“She didn’t fret her heart out about Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden, sturdily.

“About him!” said Mrs Portlock, in a tone of contempt. “How could she? Cyril Mallow’s worth a dozen of him.”

“Proof of the pudding is in the eating,” said the Churchwarden, kicking at a piece of blazing coal with his boot toe.

“Yes, and a very unpleasant bit of pudding Mr Luke Ross would have been to eat. There, you hold your tongue, and let things go on. You ought to be very proud that matters have turned out as they have.”

“Humph! Well, I’m not a bit proud,” he replied; “and I’m very sorry now that I have let things go on so easily as I have. You may see Luke Ross when he comes down, for I won’t.”

“Oh! I’ll see him,” she replied. “That’s easily done. Why, Joseph, you ought to be ashamed to think of them both on the same day. Our Sage will be his lordship’s sister-in-law.”

“Hang his lordship! Well, perhaps I am, wife, and it’s because I’m afraid that Luke Ross is the better man of the two. Why, look here, it’s getting quite dark, and that girl not home,” he cried, angrily, as he strode towards the front door.

“Do come and sit down,” said Mrs Portlock. “She’s all right I tell you. I’ll be bound to say that some one has gone to meet her and see her home, and, look here, Joseph, don’t be foolish when Mr Cyril comes, but make yourself pleasant to him for Sage’s sake. She quite worships him, poor girl.”

“Hah!” said the Churchwarden, with a grim smile upon his lip. “No one ever worshipped me,” and he opened the front door.

“Now don’t keep letting in the cold wind, Joseph,” cried Mrs Portlock, and then, “Gracious! What’s that?”

She heard the faint scream of some one at a distance, but almost as it reached her ears the Churchwarden had gone off at a heavy trot across the home field, in the direction from whence the sound had come, and he burst through the gate, to find Sage upon her knees, nursing Cyril Mallow’s bleeding head, as the sound of steps was heard from the side lane.

“What’s this? Who did this?” cried the Churchwarden. “Is he much hurt?”

“I – I don’t know,” faltered Sage. “Oh, uncle, uncle, is he killed?”

“Killed – no,” said the Churchwarden, going down on one knee, “cut – stunned. How was it – a fall?”

“No, uncle,” sobbed Sage, who was now half beside herself with grief – “they – they fought.”

“Who did? Who has been here?”

“Don’t – don’t ask me,” she sobbed. “But I do ask you,” cried the Churchwarden, sharply. “Why,” he cried, struck as by a flash of inspiration, “Luke Ross has come down?”

“Yes,” moaned Sage, with a sigh of misery.

“And he did this?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Humph! Then he’s a plucked un!” muttered the Churchwarden, with a low whistle. “Well, anyhow we’ve got it over.”

“Is – is he dead, uncle?” whispered Sage, hoarsely.

“Dead – no. I tell you his head’s too thick. Well, you’ve done it, young lady. There, I’ll stop with him while you run up and tell Tom Loddon and Jack Rennie to bring the little stable door off the hinges. We must get him up to the farm.”

“Can’t – can’t I carry him, uncle?” said Sage, naïvely.

“Pish! what nonsense, girl. I don’t think I could carry him myself. Let’s try.”

He placed his arms round Cyril’s chest, and raised him into a sitting posture, the act rousing Cyril from his swoon.

“That’s better. How do you feel now?” cried the Churchwarden. “He’ll be able to walk, and it will do him good. Come, Master Cyril, how do you feel?”

“Sick – faint,” he replied. “Cowardly assault on a fellow.”

He clung to the Churchwarden, for his head swam, but the sickness passed off in a few minutes, and then, leaning heavily upon the Churchwarden’s strong arm, the injured man walked slowly across the field to where Mrs Portlock was standing at the open door, Sage feeling sick and faint herself, as she followed close behind, bearing both Cyril’s and Luke Ross’s hats, that of the latter having been picked up by her without any knowledge of what she had done.

“What is it? What is the matter?” cried Mrs Portlock.

“Help with thy hands, wife, and let thy tongue rest,” said the Churchwarden, sharply; and in answer to the rebuke, Mrs Portlock did help by drawing forward the great couch near the fire, and sending Sage for some pillows, after which the latter supported Cyril, while Mrs Portlock, with a good deal of notable quickness, bathed the cut at the back of the injured man’s head, afterwards cutting away a little of the hair, and strapping it up with diachylon in quite a business-like way.

“Mother’s good as a doctor over a job like this,” said the Churchwarden, cheerily. “So am I. Here’s your physic, squire. Sip that down.”

The medicine was a good glass of brandy and water, of which Cyril partook heartily; and then, in obedience to the tender request of Sage, he lay down on the pillows, and half closed his eyes.

“Now, then,” said the Churchwarden, bluffly, “what do you say? Shall I send over and tell them at the rectory you’ve had a tumble and cracked your crown, or will you have a cup of tea with us and then walk up? You don’t want a doctor.”

Cyril opened his eyes languidly, and gazed at the Churchwarden. Then he let them rest on Mrs Portlock with a pitiful gaze, finally turning them upon Sage, who was kneeling by him holding one hand.

Cyril Mallow’s thoughts were that he should prefer to stay where he was, tended by the women, and he said, faintly —

“Doctor – please.”

“Nonsense, man,” cried Portlock, bluffly. “Why, wheres your heart? Pluck up a bit. You don’t want a doctor for a bit of a crack like that.”

“Oh, uncle, you are cruel!” cried Sage. “I am sure he is very much hurt.”

Her hand received a tender squeeze in response to this, and, in spite of her present misery, Sage felt her heart begin to glow.

“Not I, my lass,” said the Churchwarden, in his bluff way. “Perhaps some one else thinks that you are.”

Sage sank lower, and hid her face upon Cyril’s hand.

“Let us send one of the lads,” said Mrs Portlock.

“All right,” said the Churchwarden, good-humouredly. “Send word up to the rectory that Mr Cyril has had a bit of an accident – mustn’t say you’ve been fighting, eh?”

Cyril moaned softly, but did not speak.

“Say that he has had a bit of an accident, and that he won’t be home for an hour or two. Would you like him to come round by the town and tell Vinnicombe to come up?”

“Oh, yes, yes, uncle,” cried Sage, pitifully; and the messenger was sent off.

The doctor and the Rector arrived almost together about an hour later, during which interval Portlock had made himself acquainted with the circumstances of the struggle.

“And was Luke Ross hurt?” he asked.

“I – I think not, uncle,” said Sage, colouring deeply, and then turning pale.

“Humph! Poor fellow!” said the Churchwarden. “Sage, my lass, you’ve behaved very badly to that young chap, and no good will come of it, you’ll see.”

Mr Vinnicombe did not consider that there was much the matter, that was evident; but he apparently did not care to tell his patient that this was the case, and consequently it was arranged that Cyril should stop at the farm, the best bed-room being appointed to his use; and he amended so slowly that he quite fulfilled a prophecy enunciated by the Churchwarden.

“Strikes me, mother,” he said, “that yon chap will be so unwell that he won’t go away for a fortnight; and if you let Sage nurse him he’ll stop a month.”

Sage, to Cyril’s great disgust, was not allowed to nurse him; but he stayed for a month all the same, fate having apparently arranged that, if Luke Ross’s cause was not hopeless before, it was now wrecked beyond the slightest chance of being saved.

Part 1, Chapter XXXIX.
Fullerton’s Prophecy

In a place like Lawford, where every one knew more of his or her neighbours affairs than the individual could possibly know for him or herself, the encounter near Kilby Farm soon had its place as the chief item of news, and was dressed and garnished according to the taste of those who related it.

The principal version was that, stung by a letter sent by Sage Portlock, Luke Ross had come down from town and purposely left the coach at Cross-lane, so that he could waylay and murder Cyril Mallow with a huge hedge-stake which was picked up afterwards near the place.

For a short time the gossips were at fault for a reason, but they only had to wait patiently for a while, and then it was known throughout the place that Cyril Mallow was engaged to marry Sage – a matter so out of all reason to the muddled intellect of Humphrey Bone, the old schoolmaster, that he said it was enough to make widow Marly turn in her grave.

Why, he did not explain. It could not have been from jealous disappointment, for widow Marly had had a very fair share of matrimonial life, having married at the early age of sixteen, and being led twice afterwards to the hymeneal altar before dying at a very good old age.

“But it’s a wrong thing,” he said, at the King’s Head, during a course of potations – “a wrong thing; and no good will come. Two sorts, oil and water, and they won’t mix. Tell parson I say so, some of you, if you like. It’s his doing to get the girl’s money, and it’s a wrong thing.”

In the midst of the many discussions in Lawford it was asked why Luke Ross was not to be prosecuted for assaulting the parson’s son.

“Nice sort of fellow,” said Fullerton; “goes to learn to be a lawyer, and comes down here and breaks the law.”

“Ah! it’s been a strange bad case,” said Smithson, the tailor.

“Anybody seen owt of him since?” ventured Warton, the saddler.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Tomlinson spoke.

“I haven’t seen him down,” he said. “In fact, I know he has not been, for old Michael Ross has been up to see him and hear the rights of the case.”

“Yes?” said two or three, eagerly.

“Ah! he don’t say anything about the rights and wrongs; only that he doesn’t think Joseph Portlock’s girl behaved well to him.”

“Oh! I don’t know,” said Fullerton. “What call had a girl like that to consider herself bound to a wandering man who couldn’t settle down like a Christian? I think she did quite right to give him up.”

“And marry young Mallow?”

“But they are not married yet, my boy,” said Fullerton, shaking his head; “and it’s my belief that they won’t be. He’s a flyaway, wild, scapegrace of a fellow. It’ll come to nought, but I do think young Ross ought to be punished same as any other man. Fair play and no favour for me.”

“Very good sentiment, Mr Fullerton,” said Warton.

“Make it your own motto, then, Mr Warton,” said Fullerton, proudly. “As I says to Michael Ross, when I was talking to him, yesterday – no, it was the day before yesterday – no, stop, it was yesterday. ‘I believe in fair play,’ I said.

“‘So do I, Mr Fullerton,’ he said; ‘but I don’t think my poor boy has got it here.’”

“Did he say that?” said Warton.

“Ay, that he did, and pst – here he is!”

There was a murmur in the inn room where the principal Lawford tradesmen were assembled, as old Michael Ross, the tanner, came in, looking very keen and dark, and as if close application to his trade had heightened the colour of his skin.

The old man seemed nervous, and as if he feared that he would not be counted welcome; but he soon found that if he would only discuss his son’s conduct no one would be looked upon as a more welcome addition to the weekly meeting.

There was a pause for a few minutes, during which old Ross gave his orders to the landlord, and lit his pipe, smoking afterwards in quiet consciousness that he was being furtively glanced at by all assembled, and that it was only with the expectation of hearing more that they were so quiet of tongue.

“Been having a run up to London, Master Ross, I hear,” said Warton, the saddler, at last.

“Yes, Master Warton, yes; I’ve had a run up amongst the soot and smoke,” said Michael Ross.

“And was strange and glad to get back again, I’ll be bound,” said Tomlinson, while Fullerton lay back in his armed Windsor chair, staring straight up at the ceiling, with the calm self-satisfaction of a man who knew all that was being asked.

“Well, yes, neighbour,” said Michael Ross, thoughtfully, “I must own that I was glad to get back again. London’s a wearisome place, and the din and rattle of the streets is enough to muddle any man’s brains. It was quite a relief to turn down the narrow lane to my son’s chambers, and get out of the buzz and whirr. My bark mill’s nowt to it.”

“Saw your son, did you?” said Warton. “How’s he getting on?”

“Oh, he’s getting on right enough,” said the old man, proudly. “He’s getting on.”

“Gotten to be a big loyer, eh?” said Smithson. “Why, Master Ross, sir, we shall hev to get him down here to take up our cases at County Court.”

“Nay, nay, nay,” said old Ross, chuckling. “Not yet – not yet. Theres a deal to learn to get to be a big loyer; but my sons working away hard now he’s getting a bit over his trouble.”

“Trouble?” said Fullerton, bringing his eyes down from the ceiling. “He hasn’t got into trouble, I hope?”

“Nay, nay, only about the bit o’ trouble down here.”

“Not going to hev him before the magistrates, are they, Master Ross?” said Warton.

“Magistrates? What, my son?” said the old man, firing up. “Not they. He’d a deal better right to have some one else before them. My son never did no wrong.”

“But they say he knocked young Cyril about with a hedge-stake,” said Smithson.

“Tchah! Lies?” said the old man, angrily. “I dare say he hit him. So would I if I’d been a young man, and come back and found my young lady stole away like that. Yes, I’d ha’ done the same.”

“Hah, yes,” said Tomlinson, thoughtfully, as if he were going back to past times. “It is hard on a man. But I don’t know, Master Ross; if a man’s got a bad tooth it’s best out, and it has saved your lad perhaps from many a sore and aching time in the future.”

“I’m not going to say anything against some people we know, and I’m not going to say anything for them,” said the old tanner, warmly. “All I do say is, that I don’t think my son has had justice done him down here.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Master Ross,” said Fullerton, importantly. “I’m sure the way in which he took our side over the school appointment was noble. He saw how unjust it was, and he drew back like a man.”

“I don’t know – I don’t know,” said Michael Ross, with a dry chuckle. “I’m afraid there was something more than that at the bottom of it, though he never owned it to me.”

“Ah, well,” said Fullerton; “it’s very evident that he won’t marry Sage Portlock. Poor girl, it’s a sad fall away.”

“Yes,” said Tomlinson, smoothly, “it does seem strange.”

“Well, for my part,” said Warton, “I wonder at Joseph Portlock, though I think it’s his missus as is most to blame. I don’t believe as young Cyril was much hurt.”

“Not he,” chuckled Smithson. “And there he’s been for the past month, lying on the sofa, tended by those two women. I hear the parson’s been every day, and they do say, that as soon as he gets better – ”

“He’s better now,” said Warton.

“Well, then,” chuckled Smithson, drawing one leg up under him upon his chair from force of habit; “suppose we say much better – they’re to be married.”

“Well, it caps me,” said Warton; “I can’t understand what it means.”

“Money,” said Fullerton. “Some people keep up their grand houses and gardeners and grape-vines, and get laying traps baited with pretty girls for young lords and people from London, and after all are not so well off as some who pay their twenty or thirty pound rent and have done with it. Joseph Portlock, I suppose, will leave all his money to those two girls some day, and it will be a nice bit. Pity he didn’t keep Miss Rue for the other boy, and then parson would have been happy.”

“When’s Frank going back?” said Smithson, the tailor, for reasons of his own.

“I’d know; ask him,” said Fullerton. “He’s always going over to Lewby, so I hear.”

“Well,” said Warton, the saddler, “all I can say is, that if I was John Berry he shouldn’t be always coming over to my house.”

“’Tain’t our business,” said Fullerton. “I should say, though, that Sage Portlock’ll have a nice bit o’ money.”

“Ah, there’s a many things done in this life for the sake of money,” said Tomlinson, sententiously.

“But it looks bad for a young fellow to be lying about on sofas all day long, coaxed and petted up by women, just because he has got a bit of a crack on the head. Doctor said to me, he said, when I asked him about the cut, he said, laughing all the while, ‘It isn’t as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church door,’ he said; ‘but ’twill serve – ’twill serve.’”

“What did he mean by that?” said Warton.

“I don’t know,” said Fullerton, sharply. “I think it was some stuff or another that he’d read in a book. You know what a fellow he is for giving you bits out of books. Don’t you remember that night at the annual dinner? He said, when they were talking about old Mrs Hagley being a bit of a witch – ”

“Ah, to be sure,” said Smithson; “about the cellar.”

“Yes,” continued Fullerton; “he said, ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Landlord, go down to the cellar and bring up a bottle of the best French brandy.’”

“Ah, he’s a queer fellow, is doctor,” said Warton. “They won’t live down here when they’re married, will they?”

“Who?”

“Young Cyril Mallow and Joseph Portlock’s girl.”

“Oh, dear me, no,” said Tomlinson. “Young Cyril has got a post under government, and it’s settled that Miss Cynthia is to be married to Lord Artingale, and a house has been taken for young Cyril up in Kensington.”

“Hullo, old fox,” cried Fullerton.

“Yoicks, yoicks, yoicks, gone away,” shouted several, uproariously.

“Come, out with it,” said Fullerton. “I’ll be bound to say you know all about it.”

“Well,” said Tomlinson, with the calm reticence of one who felt himself quite at home in the matter, “I did hear a little about it.”

“From Joseph Portlock’s wife, I’ll be bound,” said Fullerton. “She’s been at your place three times lately.”

“I’m not going to mention any names,” said Tomlinson, with a sly, smooth, fat smile, “but I think I may venture to say that there’ll be a wedding somewhere within six months, and that those who are married will live in Kensington.”

“Ay, parson knows how to play his cards,” said Warton. “I suppose the eldest girl will marry that stout gentleman, Perry-Morton. Parson manages things well. Fancy bagging Lord Artingale for a son-in-law. Why, all Gatley belongs to him, and he’s an uncommonly nice fellow too.”

“Yes, his lordship’s all very well; but as to young Cyril and Miss Portlock, mark my words, no good’ll come of it,” said Fullerton, emphatically. “Mark my words: no good’ll come of it.”

“I should be sorry if it did not turn out well, and so would my son be, I’m sure,” said the old tanner.

“Why?” said Fullerton.

“Because Sage Portlock is a nice, superior sort of girl,” said the old man, “and it is always grievous to see those you like come in for trouble.”

“So it is,” said Fullerton, “but trouble will come. Here’s two clergyman’s sons, who ought to be the very model of what young men should be, and has any one of you a good word to say for them?”

“Well, for my part,” said Smithson, “a man as can’t wear a honestly well-cut pair of trousers, made by a respectable tradesman, but must send to London for everything, can’t have much balance in his nature.”

“Quite right,” said Warton. “Why, when old Mallow set up the carriage, young Cyril – no, it was Frank – must go up to London to buy the harness, and it had to come to me for repairs in less than a month.”

“Well, for my part,” said Tomlinson, “I wish Sage Portlock health and happiness, and no disrespect to you, Master Ross, for every girl has a right to choose her own master for life.”

“I wish her health and happiness, too,” said Fullerton, rising, “and I wish she may get them. Good night, gentlemen; I’m for home.”

“Yes, it’s time for home,” said old Michael Ross, rising, and saying good night; and the two neighbours walked down the street together.

“Married, eh?” said Fullerton, with a sneer. “Well, just as they like; but mark my words, Michael Ross, it means trouble.”

“I hope not, I hope not,” said the old tanner, sadly, “for I liked Sage Portlock. She’s a very good girl.”

“Bah! sir; nonsense! sir; women are not much good as a rule, and she’s a very bad specimen. But, mark my words, sir, trouble, and misery, and misfortune. It will never be a happy match.”

And the prophet of evil went his way, leaving old Michael Ross to stand upon his own doorstep thinking.

“Poor lass, I liked Sage; and though she has broken with my poor boy,” he said, “she’s not a bad girl at heart. Trouble, and misery, and misfortune – and all to come upon her poor weak head. Poor child – poor child. Luke will about break his heart.

“Trouble, and misery, and misfortune,” he repeated, sadly. “I hope not, from my very heart, but I’m afraid Stephen Fullerton is right.”