The sisters, that is to say, Mr Perry-Morton"s sisters, wound their arms round each other, the elder laying her head upon her sister"s shoulder, so that arms, hair, and dresses were intertwined and mingled into a graceful whole. Doubtless their legs would have been woven into the figure, only they were required to stand on; and then with a series of changes pa.s.sing over their faces with beautiful regularity, and with wonderful gradations by minor tones or tints, they suggested horror, fear, dread, suffering, pity, pain, with a grand finale representing wakeful repose, as they listened to Cynthia"s history of the encounter, while their brother, after gazing at them diagonally through his eyelashes, softly crossed the room, touched the Rector upon the arm, and pointed to the sisterly group with a smile of satisfied affection.
"Heaven has its reflections upon earth," he said softly, "and the poetic mind reads rapture in angelic form," he added, with a fat smile of serene satisfaction and repose.
"Quite so," said the Rector, and he balanced his double eyegla.s.s upon his nose; "but really, Mr Perry-Morton, I have so many troubles and petty cares upon my mind, that this new one has filled me with indignation, and I hardly know what I say or do. Whether as clergyman or county magistrate, I am sure no one could be so troubled as I have been."
But the indignation even of a county magistrate availed nothing, although it took the form of a hunt about the place with the resident rural policeman, supplemented by the presence of two more resident rural policemen from two neighbouring villages. Lord Artingale"s keepers, too, were admonished to be on the look-out, but Jock Morrison was not seen, though his companion was traced to one or two casual wards, and then seemed to have made for London.
PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
CLERICAL DIFFICULTIES.
The Fullerton party proved triumphant in the struggle which ensued, and in spite of the Rector"s efforts to produce a better state of things at the boys" school, Mr Humphrey Bone kept on teaching in his good old-fashioned way--good in the eyes of many of the Lawfordites--when he was sober, but breaking out with a week"s drinking fit from time to time, when the school would be either closed or carried on by the princ.i.p.al monitors, Sage Portlock going in from time to time at the Rector"s request when the noise became uproarious.
Those who had been the most determined on Bone"s retention shut their eyes to these little weaknesses on the master"s part; and, if the boys were not well taught, the tradesmen"s accounts were written in a copperplate hand, while the length and amount of the bill was made less painful to its recipient by finding his name made to look quite handsome with a wonderful flourish which literally framed it in curves--a flourish which it had taken Mr Bone years to acquire.
The Rector resigned himself in disgust to the state of things, and devoted his attention to the girls" school.
"It can"t be helped, Miss Portlock," he said, with a smile; "if we cannot make good boys in the place we must make super-excellent girls, and by and by as they grow up they"ll exercise their influence on the young men."
He thought a great deal of his words as he went homewards, according to his custom, with his hands behind his back, holding his walking-cane as if it were a tail, thinking very deeply of his sons, and whether some day good, true women would have an influence upon their lives and make them better men.
The Rector never knew why the boys laughed at him, setting it down entirely to their rudeness and Humphrey Bone"s bad teaching, for no one ever took the trouble to tell him it was on account of that thick black stick he was so fond of carrying, depending from his clasped hands behind.
Upon the present occasion, as he walked homeward, and in fact as he would at any time when excited by his thoughts, he now and then gave the stick a toss up, or a wag sideways, ending with a regular flourish, after the manner of a cow in a summer pasture when much troubled by the flies, adding thereby greatly to the resemblance borne by the stick to a pendent tail.
The Rector was more than usually excited on the morning of his remark to Sage Portlock. There had been something tender and paternal in his way of addressing her, and she had a good deal filled his thoughts of late.
There were several reasons for this.
He had had no right to plan out Sage"s future, but somehow he had thoroughly mapped it out long before.
He knew of Luke Ross"s attachment to her, and from his position as spiritual head of the parish, it was only natural that he should think of the duty that so often fell to his lot--that of joining couples in the "holy estate of matrimony."
But a short time back and in Sage"s case it all came so natural and easy. Luke Ross had been trained, he was to have the boys" school, he would soon marry her, the schoolhouses would be occupied, and the schools be as perfect under such guidance as schools could be.
Everything had been gliding on beautifully towards a definite end, and then there had come stumbling-blocks. Luke Ross had gone back to town; the girls" schoolhouse remained unoccupied, as Sage went home for the present; Humphrey Bone was faster than ever in his post, and likely to stay there, the opposition being so strong; and, worst problem of all to solve, there was Cyril.
It was no wonder that the thick black stick was twitched and flourished and tossed up and down, for the Rector"s mind was greatly disturbed, especially upon the last question--that of his son.
He had spoken severely without effect; he had tried appeal without better success. Cyril had not openly defied him, but had sat and listened quietly to all his father had said, and then gone and acted precisely as if nothing whatever had been spoken.
"She is so good, and sweet, and innocent a girl; so true, too, in her attachment to Luke Ross, that I cannot speak to her," he said to himself. "Besides, she has given me no opening. But it must be stopped. What shall I do?"
The Reverend Eli Mallow went on for a few yards deeply thoughtful, and then the idea came. He knew what he would do: speak to Mrs Portlock first, or to the Churchwarden, and ask their advice and counsel upon the matter.
"Yes," he said to himself, "it will be the best. Such matters are better checked in their incipient state. I will go and see her at once."
He faced round, glanced at his watch, saw that it was only eleven, and walked sharply in the direction of Kilby Farm, to find the Churchwarden away from home, but Mrs Portlock ready to receive him with a most gracious smile.
"I"m sure you must be tired after your walk, Mr Mallow," she said.
"Sit down by the fire. What cold weather we are having! You"ll take a gla.s.s of my home-made wine and a bit of cake?"
The Rector would rather not, but Mrs Portlock insisted upon getting the refreshments out of the fireside cupboard, extolling the wine the while.
"I"m sure you"d like it," she said. "Your son had some only last night, and he said it was better than any sherry he had ever tasted."
"My son--last night?" said the Rector, quickly. "Which son?"
"Mr Cyril; he drank four gla.s.ses of it, and praised it most highly."
She poured out a gla.s.s, and the Rector drew it to him, and sat gazing at the clear, amber liquid, hesitating as to how he should begin, while Mrs Portlock stole a glance at the mirror to see if her cap was straight, and wished she had known of her visitor"s coming, so that she might have put on a silk dress, and the cap with the maroon ribbons and the gold acorn.
"Cyril said that he was down the town last night with Frank," said the Rector to himself. "He fears my words, and he is playing false, or he would not have been ashamed to answer that he was here."
"How the time seems to fly, Mrs Portlock!" said the Rector at last, biting his lip with annoyance at the want of originality of the only idea he could set forth.
"Dear me, yes. I was saying so only last week to Mr Cyril. "Four months," I said, "since you came back;" and he looked up at Sage and said that the time seemed to go like lightning."
"By the way, Mrs Portlock," said the Rector, hastily, "have you heard from Luke Ross lately?"
"Oh, dear me, no," said the lady, rather sharply. "I never call at the Ross"s now."
"I thought, perhaps, the young people might correspond."
"Oh, dear me, no; neither Mr Portlock nor myself could countenance such a thing as that."
The Rector was at a loss to see the impropriety of such an intercourse, but he said nothing--he merely bowed.
"That was only a boy-and-girl sort of thing. Our Sage knew Luke Ross from a boy, but now they are grown up, and as Joseph--Mr Portlock--said they were too young to think about such things as that."
"But I understood that they were engaged," said the Rector, who felt startled; and he gazed very anxiously in Mrs Portlock"s face for her reply.
"Oh, dear me, no, sir, nothing of the kind."
For want of something to say, the Rector sipped his wine.
"My husband very properly said that under the circ.u.mstances no engagement ought to take place, and it was not likely. For my part I don"t agree with the affair at all."
The Rector felt that his position was growing more unpleasant than ever.
He had come to say something, but that something would not be said; and at last when he did speak his words were very different from what he had intended they should be.
"My son, Cyril, has taken to coming here a good deal lately, Mrs Portlock," he said.
"Well, yes, sir," she said, with a satisfied smile; "he has."
"I am sorry to have to speak so plainly about him, Mrs Portlock, but I hope you will not encourage his visits. Cyril has travelled a good deal, and has imbibed, I am afraid, a great deal of careless freedom."