"Heaven bless you for coming, Luke," said the old man, with trembling voice. "It was the mistake of my life that I did not let you wed."
"Never too late to mend," said Luke, smiling, and then he saw something in the farmer"s face that turned him ghastly white.
"Sage?" he gasped. "Is she ill?"
"Ill?" faltered the farmer. "I forgot you could not know. Luke, my boy! my poor bairn! She cannot last the night."
"Stop that fly," panted Luke. "A telegram--to London--to Sir Roland Murray--I know his address--to come at once, at any cost. Paper, man, for G.o.d"s sake--quick--pens--ink. Moments mean life."
"Moments mean death, Luke Ross," said the Churchwarden, solemnly. "My boy, I have not spared my useless money. It could not save her life.
She knows that you have come. She heard the wheels."
Luke followed the old man to the upper chamber, fragrant with sweet country scents, and then staggered to the bedside, to throw himself upon his knees.
"Sage! My love!" he panted, as he caught her hand. "You must live to bless me--my love, whom I have loved so long. It is not too late--it is not too--"
He paused as he too truly read the truth, and bent down to catch her fleeting breath that strove to shape itself in words.
"I could not die until I saw you once again. No; Luke--friend-- brother--it could not have been. Quick," she cried. "My children-- quick!"
The Churchwarden went softly from the room, while poor old Mrs Portlock sank down in a chair by the window, and covered her face with her hands.
"I have been dying these two years, Luke," whispered Sage, faintly.
"Now, tell me that you forgive the past."
"Forgive? It has been forgiven these many years," he groaned. "But, Sage, speak to me, my own old love."
She smiled softly in his face.
"No," she said, "not your love, Luke. My children. You will--for my sake--Luke?"
He could not speak, but clasped the little ones to his breast--partly in token of his silent vow--partly that they might not see Sage Mallow"s sun set, as the great golden orb sank in the west.
Death had his work to do at Lawford as elsewhere, and the sleepy little town was always waking up to the fact that some indweller had pa.s.sed away.
It was about a week earlier that Polly Morrison sat waiting and working by her one candle, which shed its light upon her pleasant, comely face.
The haggard, troubled look had gone, and though there were lines in her forehead, they seemed less the lines of care than those of middle age.
Every now and then she looked up and listened for the coming step, but there was only an occasional sough of the wind, and the hurried rush of the waters over the ford, for the stream was high, and the swirling pools beneath the rugged old willow pollards deep.
Polly heard the rush of the waters, and a shudder pa.s.sed through her, for she recalled Jock Morrison"s threat about Cyril years ago.
This set her thinking of him and his end; from that she journeyed on in thought to Sage Mallow, the pale, careworn widow, slowly sinking into her grave; and this suggestive theme made the little matronly-looking body drop her work into her lap, and sit gazing at the glowing wood fire, wondering whether Mrs Mallow or Sage would die first, and whether Miss Cynthia, as she always called her, was soon coming down to Gatley so as to be near.
Then her thoughts in spite of herself went back to another death scene, and the tears gathered in her eyes as she saw once more that early Sunday morning, when the earth lay dark in a little mound beneath the willow, where a religiously-tended little plot of flowers always grew.
"I wish Tom would come back," she said, plaintively. "It is so lonely when he has to go into town."
She made an effort to resume her work, and st.i.tched away busily for a time, but her nimble fingers soon grew slow, and dropped once more into her lap, as the waters roared loudly once again, and she thought of Cyril Mallow, then of Jock, lastly of Julia.
"I wonder where they are?" she said, softly. "Sometimes I"ve thought it might be my fault, though I don"t see how--At last!" There was a step outside and with brightening face she snuffed the candle, and glanced at the table to see that Tom"s supper was as he liked it to be.
Then she stopped in alarm, gazing sharply at the door, for it was not Tom"s step, but a faintly heard hesitating pace, half drowned by the rushing noise from the ford.
"Who can it be?" she muttered, and then her face turned ghastly white.
"Something has happened to Tom!" She stood there as if paralysed, as a faint tapping sounded on the door--the soft hesitating tap of some one"s fingers; and the summons set Polly trembling with dread.
"What can it be?" she faltered. "Oh, for shame! what a coward I am!"
she cried, as she roused herself, and going to the door, her hand was on the latch just as the summons was faintly repeated.
"Who"s there? What is it?" cried Polly, stoutly; but there was no answer, and taking up the candle, she held it above her head and flung open the door, to see a thin, ill-clad woman holding on by one of the rough fir poles that formed the porch, gazing at her with wild, staring eyes, her face cadaverous, thin, and pinched, and her pale lips parted as if to speak.
"Miss Julia!" cried Polly, with a faint shriek, and setting down the candle, she caught the tottering figure by the arm and drew her in, the door swung to, and the wanderer was held tightly to her breast.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" sobbed Polly. "How could you--how could you?
Oh, that it should come to this!"
Her visitor did not answer, but seemed to yield herself to the affectionate caresses that were showered upon her, a faint smile dawning upon her thin lips, and her eyes half closing as from utter weariness and pain.
"Why you"re wet, and like ice!" cried Polly, as she realised the facts.
"Oh, my poor dear! How thin! How ill you look! Oh, my dear, my dear!"
She burst into a piteous fit of sobbing, but her hands were busy all the time, as she half led, half carried her visitor to Tom"s big Windsor chair, and then piled up some of the odd blocks of wood, of which there were always an abundance from the shop.
"Oh, what shall I do?" muttered Polly; and then her ideas took the customary womanly route for the panacea for all ills, a cup of tea, which was soon made, and a few mouthfuls seemed to revive the fainting woman.
"She ought to have the doctor," muttered Polly. "Oh, if Tom would only come!" Then aloud--"Oh, Miss Julia, my dear, my dear!"
"Hush!" said her visitor, in a low, painful voice, as if repeating words that she had learned by heart; "the Julia you knew is dead."
"Oh, no, no, my dear young mistress," sobbed Polly, and she went down upon her knees, and threw her arms round the thin, cold figure in its squalid clothes. "Tom will be home directly, and he shall fetch the doctor and master. Oh, my dear, my dear! that it should come to this!
But tell me, have you left Jock Morrison?"
The wretched woman shuddered.
"They have taken him away," she whispered; "he was in trouble--with some keepers--but he will be out some day, and I must go to him again. He will want me, Polly--and I must go!"
Polly Morrison gazed at her with horror, hardly recognising a lineament of the girl in whose soft hair she had taken such pride, and whom she had admired in her youth and beauty.
"But you must not go back," cried the little woman. "There, there, let your head rest back on the chair. Let me go and fetch you a pillow."
"No, don"t go, Polly," and the thin hands closed tightly about those so full of ministering care. "I"m tired--I"ve walked so far."
"Walked? Miss Julia!"
"Hush! Julia is dead," she moaned. "Yes, walked. It was in-- Hampshire, I think--weeks ago."
"And you walked? Oh, my dear, my dear!" sobbed Polly.