Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family. Fenn George Manville
we wanted a hare,” said Mrs Portlock, busying herself over the work her niece had left undone.
“There you are, then,” said the Churchwarden, drawing them, one at a time, from the inner pockets of his shooting-coat.
“But is that gun loaded, Joseph?” cried Mrs Portlock, who had been to the dresser and started away.
“Yes, both barrels,” said the Churchwarden, with a comical look at the visitor. “I wouldn’t touch her if I were you.”
“I touch the horrid thing?” cried Mrs Portlock. “There, for goodness’ sake unload it, Joseph, before we have some accident.”
“All right,” said the Churchwarden, tossing the hares out into the stone passage at the back, and taking up the gun just as Mrs Portlock had raised the great white basin of well-beaten egg to pour into a flour crater which she had prepared. Stepping to the window, the head of the house turned the fastening quietly, and opened the casement sufficiently wide to allow of the protrusion of the barrels of the gun, when —
Banff! Banff!
Crash!
All in rapid succession, for the double report so startled the good housewife that she let the great white basin slip through her fingers to be shattered to atoms on the red-brick floor, and spread its golden treasure far and wide.
“Joseph!” exclaimed Mrs Portlock.
“Say, Luke, I’ve done it now,” he cried. “There’s nothing the matter, lass, only a basin broke.”
“And a dozen eggs destroyed,” cried Mrs Portlock, petulantly.
“Here, let’s go into the parlour, Luke,” continued the Churchwarden, after a merry look at Sage, who had run down-stairs, looking quite pale. “Sage, my dear, send Anne in with the bread and cheese, and a mug of ale. Luke Ross here will join me in a bit of lunch.” He led the way to the parlour, Luke following him, after pausing a moment to obtain a look from Sage; but she was too conscious to glance his way, and had begun already to help Mrs Portlock, who looked the very picture of vexation and trouble combined.
The parlour was a fine old oak-panelled, low-ceiled room, with dark beams reflecting the flaming fire, whose ruddy light danced in the panes of the corner cupboard and glistening sideboard and polished chairs.
“Sit down, my boy, sit down,” cried the Churchwarden, as he stooped to toss a piece of oak root on the flaming fire. “What with Christmas-keeping, I’ve hardly seen thee since you came back. My word, how time goes! Only the other day thou wast a slip of a boy helping me to pick the apples in the orchard and playing with Sage, and now thou’rt a grown man.”
The Churchwarden seated himself, took his tobacco-jar from a bracket, his pipe from the chimney-piece, and proceeded to fill it.
“You won’t smoke, I know. Good job, too. Bad habit, lad. But what’s the matter – anything wrong?”
“Only in my own mind, sir,” said Luke, rather excitedly, as he sat opposite the farmer, tapping the table.
“Out with it, then, Luke, my boy, and I’ll help thee if I can. Want some money?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Luke, flushing. “The fact is, I have finished my training, and I am now down home expecting to take the management of the school as master.”
“Ha! yes!” said the Churchwarden softly, leaning forward to light a spill amongst the glowing logs. “There’s a bit o’ trouble about that. Half-a-dozen of ’em’s taking Humphrey Bone’s side against parson, and they want me to join.”
“But you will not, I hope, sir?” said Luke, anxiously.
“I should, my lad, but for Master Humphrey’s drink. He’s not a man to have the care of boys.”
“No, sir, indeed,” said Luke, who paused, while the ruddy servant lass brought in a napkin-covered tray, with the bread and cheese, and a great pewter tankard of home-brewed ale.
“Help thyself, lad,” said the Churchwarden; “and now what is it?”
“I must speak out plainly, sir, or not at all,” said Luke, excitedly.
“Surely, my lad,” said the other, watching him keenly, as he poured out some ale.
Luke hesitated for a few moments, and then tried to clear his voice, but failed, and spoke huskily as he rose from his seat.
“Mr Portlock,” he said, “you have known me from a boy.”
“And always liked thee, my lad, and made thee welcome,” still watching him keenly.
“Always, Mr Portlock, and you will agree that it is not strange that now I am grown a man I should love my little playmate Sage, whom I’ve known ever since the day you called at our house with her and Rue – poor little orphans, looking so pretty and helpless as they sat in black in your gig.”
“Ay! ay! that was a sad time, Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “Poor little bairns! mother and father in one sad week, Luke. Hah! well, I’ve never had any of my own, and I never think of ’em now but as if they had been born to me.”
“No, sir, I know that,” said Luke, smiling.
“And you want me to say thou mayst have Sage for thy wife. That’s the plain English of it, lad, eh?”
“Yes, sir – yes, sir,” cried Luke, excitedly; but delighted to have his task cut short.
“Ha!” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “I expected as much. I said to myself that was what you would ask me when you came back.”
“And you consent, sir?” cried Luke, joyously.
There was a moment’s silence, while the Churchwarden crossed a sturdy, well-shaped leg over the other, Luke gazing the while upon his lips, until he spoke, and then sinking back, as if smitten, into his chair.
“No, my lad, I do not give my consent. I like thee, Luke, almost as well as if thou wast my own son, and I believe you’d make Sage a good husband; but, to be plain with you, I don’t like this schoolmastering and mistress work.”
“You don’t like it, sir!”
“No, my lad. It was against my wish that Sage took to it. I would rather have seen her making the bread-and-butter at home; and there was no need for her to have gone into the world; and as you know, it was then I set my face against your going in for it as well.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes, my lad. You’d a deal better have been content to take up with your father’s honest old business of tanning. There’s a good trade to be done.”
“Yes, sir, but I felt myself so unsuited for the trade, and I liked books.”
“And didn’t care about dirtying thy hands, Luke. No, my lad, I think it was a mistake.”
“A mistake, sir?”
“Yes, and I’ll show you. Now, look here, my boy,” continued the Churchwarden, pointing with the waxy end of his pipe. “No lad of spirit thinks of taking help from his father, after his first start in the world.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“And a lad of spirit don’t go hanging on to his wife’s people.”
“No, sir.”
“Then, look here, my boy. What is your salary to be, if you get Lawford School; I say, if you get it?”
“Seventy pounds per annum, sir, with a house, and an addition for my certificate, if I have been fortunate enough to win one.”
“Seventy pounds a year, with a house, if you get the school, and some more if you win a certificate, my lad; so that all your income is depending upon ifs.”
“I am sure of the school, sir,” said Luke, warmly, as he coloured up.
“Are you, my lad? I’m not,” said the Churchwarden, drily. “No, Luke Ross,