Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family. George Manville Fenn
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, I like you, for I believe you to be a clever scholar, and—what to my mind’s ten thousand times better than scholarship—I know you to be a true, good-hearted lad.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Luke, whose heart was sinking; and Portlock went on—
“I’m not a poor man, Luke, and every penny I have I made with my own hand and brain. Sage is as good as my child, and when we old folks go to sleep I dare say she and her sister will have a nice bit o’ money for themselves.”
“I never thought of such a thing as money, sir,” cried Luke, hotly.
“I don’t believe you ever did, my boy,” said the Churchwarden. “But now listen. Sage is very young yet, and hardly knows her own mind. I tell you—there, there, let me speak. I know she thinks she loves you. I tell you, I say, that I’d sooner see Sage your wife than that of any man I know; but I’m not going to keep you both, and make you sacrifice your independence, and I’m not going to have my child goto a life of drudgery and poverty.”
“But you forget, sir, we should be both having incomes from our schools.”
“No, I don’t, boy. While you were young. How about the time when she had children—how then? And I don’t believe in a man and his wife both teaching schools. A woman has got enough to do to make her husband’s home so snug that he shall think it, as he ought to do, the very best place in the whole world, and she can’t do that and teach school too. Do you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Luke, very humbly, though he did not approve of his old friend’s opinions.
“Then look here, Luke Ross, I like you, and when you can come to me and say, ‘Joseph Portlock, I have a good permanent income of five hundred a year,’ Sage, if she likes, shall be your wife.”
“Five hundred a year, sir!” faltered Luke, with a strange, unreal dread seeming to rise before him like a mist of the possibility that before then Sage’s love might change.
“Yes, my lad, five hundred a year.”
“Uncle,” said Sage, opening the door, “Mr. Mallow has called to see you;” and a strange look passed between the two young men, as Cyril Mallow entered the room.
Part 1, Chapter XIII.
Visitors at the Farm.
The morning of Mrs. Portlock’s party, and Uncle Joseph just returned from his round in the farm, to look smilingly at the preparations that were going on, and very tenderly at Sage, who looked downcast and troubled.
“Well, girls,” he cried, “how goes it? Come, old lady, let it be a good set-out, for Sage here won’t have much more chance for helping you when these holidays are over.”
“I wish she’d give the school teaching up,” said Mrs. Portlock, rather fretfully, as she sat gathering her apron into pleats.
“She can give it up if she likes,” said the Churchwarden, heartily. “It’s her own whim.”
“Well, don’t you fidget, Joseph, for Sage and I will do our best.”
“Of course you will, my dears,” he said. “Here, Sage, fill me the old silver mug with ale out of number two.”
“But it is not tapped, uncle.”
“Ah!” he shouted, “who says it isn’t tapped? Why I drove the spigot in night before last on purpose to have it fine. And now, old woman, if you want any lunch, have it, and then go and pop on your black silk and bonnet, while I order round the chaise, and I’ll drive you in to town.”
“No, Joseph, no,” exclaimed Mrs. Portlock, who had now gathered the whole of the bottom of her apron into pleats and let them go. “I said last night that I would not go with you any more unless you left the whip at home. I cannot bear to sit in that chaise and see you beat poor Dapple as you do.”
“But I must have a whip, old girl, or I can’t drive.”
“I’m sure the poor horse goes very well without.”
“But not through the snow, my dear,” said Sage’s uncle, giving her another of his droll looks. “Really, old girl, I wouldn’t answer for our not being upset without a whip.”
“But you wouldn’t use it without you were absolutely obliged, Joseph?”
“On my honour as a gentleman,” said Uncle Joseph; and his wife smiled and went up-stairs to get dressed, while Sage took the keys to go down to the cellar and draw the ale, as her uncle walked to the door, and she heard him shouting his orders to Dicky Dykes to harness Dapple and bring him round at once.
Sage stood in the low-ceiled, old-fashioned parlour, with the quaintly-made silver tankard in her hand, waiting for her uncle to come in. There was a smile upon her lip, and as she listened now to the Churchwarden’s loud, hearty voice shouting orders to the different men about the yard, and now to her aunt’s heavy footsteps overhead, she was gazing straight into the great glowing wood fire, whose ruddy flames flickered and danced in the broad, blue-tiled chimney; and though it was so cold that the frost was making silver filigree upon the window panes, she felt all aglow, and kept on picturing in the embers the future that might have place.
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