Then, rising with a sigh, he softly moved towards the door, turning once to smile at the troubled face he left behind.
As he turned, the suffering woman held out her arms, and he walked back quietly to sink upon his knees by her side.
"Pray," she said, softly. "Pray for help and guidance in this storm."
And once more there was silence in the room.
"He is our boy," whispered Mrs Mallow, as the Rector rose. "Be patient with him, Eli, and all will yet be well. Indeed, indeed, he is good and true of heart. See how tenderly he waits on me."
"Just for a minute, now and then," the Rector thought; "and only when it does not clash with some selfish object of his own." And then he fell to thinking of his own years upon years of constant watchfulness and care, and smiled sadly as he saw how that at times the little far outshone the great.
But nothing in his countenance betokened aught but the tenderest sympathy and love for her he was leaving behind, as, once more going to the door, the Rector pa.s.sed through, and descended to his study, leaving Mrs Mallow weeping in her daughters" arms.
Here he shut himself in for a few minutes, and rapidly paced the floor, holding his hands the while to his rugged brow.
"It is too much--it is too much!" he groaned, panting with the great emotion to which his soul was prey. "If it was not for my girls! If it was not for my girls!"
Then he threw himself into his chair, and sat leaning forward with his fingers seeming to be driven into the soft padding of the arms, which he clutched with fierce vehemence.
But by degrees the gust of pa.s.sion pa.s.sed over, leaving him calm and cool as, once more rising, he smoothed his countenance, and went out of the room in search of Cyril.
He was not in the dining-room, nor yet in the little room where he was in the habit of sitting to read and smoke, while the state of the garden was not such as to induce him to wander there.
The Rector went up softly to his son"s room, but without finding him; and at last he went into the dining-room and rang the bell.
"Where is Mr Cyril?" the Rector asked.
"He went out about half-an-hour ago, sir."
"With Mr Frank?"
"No, sir; Mr Frank went out before that."
"Did he say what time he would be back?"
"No, sir; but Williams came in just now, sir, with Lord Artingale"s mare for Miss Cynthia."
"Yes?"
"And said he met Mr Cyril in the lane leading to Kilby Farm."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, sir; and he was walking up and down as if he expected somebody to come."
PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
AN INTERRUPTION.
From the way in which people talk of the tender pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 inst.i.tution 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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sed 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.