Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family. George Manville Fenn
“I look upon it as the turning-point of my life.”
“And I don’t believe that Sage half knows her own mind yet. She’s too young, and it’s not as if she was my own child.”
“But we can wait, Mrs. Portlock,” said Luke, gaining confidence, now that he had made the first plunge. “Of course we should have to wait for some time.”
“Won’t say anything about it,” cried Mrs. Portlock, as the sturdy red-faced servant-maid entered to pour a half-scuttle of coals on the roaring fire. “If you want to talk about it—”
Mrs. Portlock here began to work viciously with a piece of nutmeg, the eggs being considered enough beaten.
“I should be sorry to hurt your feelings about this matter, Mrs. Portlock,” continued Luke; “but I have always thought you looked upon Sage and me as being as good as engaged.”
“Oh, I don’t know! I can’t say! There, I won’t say anything about it. Oh! here’s Master, and you must talk to him.”
Luke Ross’s face wore a particularly troubled look, as a hearty, bluff voice was just then heard bidding a dog lie down, and, directly after, the kitchen door was thrown open, and the broad-shouldered bluff Churchwarden, in his loose brown velveteen coat and cord breeches with leather leggings, entered the room. His clear blue eyes and crisp grey hair made him look the very embodiment of health, and his face lit up with a pleasant smile as he strode in with a double gun under his arm, while his pockets had a peculiarly bulgy appearance at the sides.
“Ah, Luke, my lad! how are you?” he said, bluffly, as he held out his hand. “Glad to see you, my boy. Why, you ought to have been out with me for a run. Thy face looks as pasty as owt.”
“I should have liked the walk immensely,” said Luke, brightening up at the warmth of his reception, and he wrung the others hand.
“Schoolmastering don’t improve thy looks, Luke, my lad,” continued the Churchwarden. “Why, you are as pale as if you had been bled. Hang that London! I don’t care if I never see it again.”
“There’s worse places than London, Joseph,” said Mrs. Portlock, who had a weakness for an occasional metropolitan trip.
“Tell me where they are, then,” said the Churchwarden, “for I don’t know ’em. Got two hares,” he said, standing the gun in the corner by the dresser.
“Ah! 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,