Kitabı oku: «Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family», sayfa 12
Part 1, Chapter XXII.
Cynthia’s Knights
That was all – those few insolent, grossly-insulting words – and then the big fellow stood staring after the frightened girls.
“Take my hand, Julia,” whispered the younger sister; and if, as we read in the old novelists, a glance would kill, the flash of indignant lightning that darted from her bright eyes would have laid Jock Morrison dead in the road.
But, powerful as are the effects of a lady’s eyes, they had none other here than to make the great picturesque fellow smile at her mockingly before turning his hawk-like gaze on the frightened girl who clung to her sister’s hand as they hurried away.
“Has he gone, Cynthy?” whispered Julia, at the end of a few moments.
“I don’t know. I can’t hear them, and I won’t look back, or they’ll think we are afraid – and we are not.”
“I am – horribly afraid,” said Julia, in a choking voice.
“I’m not,” said Cynthia. “A nasty, rude, impudent pig that he is. Oh, if I were a man, I’d whip him till he lay down on the ground and begged for mercy. To insult two inoffensive girls like that! Harry shall beat him well, that he shall, or I’ll never speak to him again.”
“Make haste,” whispered Julia. “Let’s run.”
“I won’t run,” cried Cynthia. “I wouldn’t run away from the biggest man that ever lived. I never heard of such a thing. Oh, how cross papa will be.”
“We had better not tell him,” said Julia, faintly; and her face was deadly pale.
“Not tell papa? Why, you foolish little coward, Julie! But only to think of the insufferable impudence of the wretch. I wish he had said it to me.”
“No, no: don’t wish that,” cried Julia, excitedly. “It is too horrible. Oh, Cynthy dear, I shall dream of that man.”
“You shan’t do anything of the kind,” cried her sister, whose eyes sparkled and face flushed with excitement. “Such nonsense! Two unprotected maidens walking through the forest met a wicked ogre, and he opened his ugly great mouth, and gaped as he showed his big white teeth like a lion, and then he said, I am going to gobble up the prettiest of those two little maids; and then they ran away, and a gallant knight coming along, they fled to him for help, and fell upon their poor knees in a wet place, and said, ‘Oh, brave and gallant paladin, go and smite down that wicked ogre, and we will give you smiles, and gloves to wear in your helm, and tie scarves round your waist, and if you will promise not to eat us, you shall some day have one of us for a pet!’ And the name of the gallant knight was Sir Perrino Mortoni, and – ”
“Oh pray be quiet, Cynthy, I feel so upset you cannot tell.”
“Stuff and nonsense! Don’t interrupt my story. The ogre has gone.”
“I shall always be afraid of meeting that man.”
“What, after the gallant knight has killed him? Oh, I see, you are afraid that Sir Perrino would not slay him, but would bind him in chains, and keep him at his castle for an artist’s model. Then we will appeal to another knight, Lord Harry the Saucy, and he shall do the deed. Where is the gallant I wis not,” she added, laughing.
“I know who he is,” said Julia, who was trembling still.
“So do I,” said Cynthia, merrily. “Well, never mind, my darling sissy; don’t let a thing like that upset you. Come: be brave. They are gone now, and we shall never see them again.”
“Never see them again,” said Julia, with a wild look in her eye. “That man will haunt me wherever I go.”
“Will he, dear?” said Cynthia, merrily; “then the gallant knight shall not quite kill him, though I don’t believe in haunting ghosts. Here they are.”
“Cynthia!” gasped Julia, with a cry of horror.
“I don’t mean the ogres, you little coward; I mean the gallant knights.”
“Why, we began to think we had missed you,” cried Lord Artingale, who, with Mr Perry-Morton, met them at a turn of the road, the latter gentleman’s patent leather shoes being a good deal splashed, in spite of the care with which he had picked his way.
“Oh, Mr Perry-Morton,” cried Cynthia, ignoring Artingale, and, with a mischievous light in her eye, addressing their artistic friend, “my sister has been so shamefully insulted by a great big man.”
“Who? where? my dear Miss Julia? Where is the scoundrel?” cried Perry-Morton, excitedly.
“Just down the road a little way,” said Cynthia. “I hope you will go and beat him well.”
“A big scoundrel of a fellow?” cried Mr Perry-Morton.
“Yes, and he looks like a gipsy,” said Cynthia, innocently. “He said something so insulting to my sister.”
“Hush, pray, Cynthia,” cried the latter, faintly.
“Oh, poor girl, she is going to faint. Miss Mallow, pray look up. I am here. Take my arm. Let me hasten with you home. This scoundrel shall be pursued, and brought to justice.”
“I am better now,” said Julia, speaking more firmly. “No, thank you, Mr Perry-Morton, I can walk well enough.”
“Oh, I cannot leave you like this, dear Miss Julia,” whispered Perry-Morton, while Cynthia’s eyes were sparkling with malicious glee, as she turned them upon Artingale, whose face, however, startled her into seriousness, as he caught her arm, gripping it so hard that it gave her pain.
“Tell me, Cynthia,” he said, hoarsely, “what sort of a fellow was this?”
“A big, gipsy-looking man, and there was a dirty-looking fellow with him,” faltered the girl, for her lover’s look alarmed her. “But stop, Harry; what are you going to do?”
“Break his cursed neck – if I can,” cried Artingale, in a low, angry growl.
“No, no: don’t go,” she whispered, catching at him. “You may be hurt.”
“One of us will be,” he said, hoarsely.
“But, Harry, please!”
She looked at him so appealingly that he took her hands in his.
“Cynthia – my darling!” he whispered; and if they had been alone he would have caught her in his arms.
But they were not alone, and bending down he whispered —
“You have made me so happy, but you would not have me be a cur. Take your sister home.”
Without another word he turned and started off down the lane at a trot, Cynthia watching him till he was out of sight.
“Oh, Harry! If you are hurt!” she whispered to herself; and then, recalling her sister’s trouble, she ran to her side, where Perry-Morton was making a pretence of affording support that was not required.
“We can soon get home, Mr Perry-Morton,” said Cynthia, with the malicious look coming back into her eyes, and chasing away one that was very soft and sweet. “Wouldn’t you like to go after Lord Artingale?”
“What! and leave you two unprotected?” said the apostle, loudly. “No, I could not, to save my life.”
He did not, but attended the ladies right up to the rectory, sending their father into a fury, and then leading a party of servants to the pursuit of the tramps, as they were dubbed, but only to meet Lord Artingale at the end of a couple of hours returning unsuccessful from his chase.
For he had not seen either of the fellows, from the fact that as soon as the ladies had gone they had quietly entered the wood, to lie down amongst the mossy hazel stubbs, from which post of vantage they had seen the young man go by.
“Hadn’t we better hook it, Jock?” said the lesser vagabond.
“Hook it? No. What for? We haven’t done nothing agen the lor.”
There was hot indignation at the rectory, and Frank and Cyril went straight to Tom Morrison’s cottage, frightening the wheelwright’s wife, and making her look paler as she took refuge with Budge in the back, only coming forward after repeated summonses, and then keeping the girl with her, as she said, truthfully, that Jock Morrison had not been there for days.
“What’s the matter?” said Tom, coming from his workshop, and looking sternly at the two visitors.
“Matter!” cried Frank, fiercely; “we want that brother of yours; he has been insulting my sister.”
“Then you had better find him and punish him,” said Tom, coldly.
“Where is he?”
“You are a parson’s sons,” said Tom, bitterly, “and ought to know Scripture. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’”
“Look here, you Tom Morrison,” cried Frank, “no insolence; I’ve only just come back home, but while I stay I’ll not have my sisters insulted by a blackguard family who have got a hold in the parish, and do it out of spite because my father could not act as they wanted.”
“Out of my place!” roared Tom, fiercely. “How dare you bring up that, you coward!”
“Tom! Tom! oh, for my sake, pray!” cried Polly, throwing herself upon his breast just as he was about to seize Cyril, who had stepped before his brother.
“Well, for thy sake, yes,” said Tom, passing his arm round his wife. “Frank and Cyril Mallow, don’t come to my place again, or there may be mischief.”
“Do you dare to threaten us, you dog?” cried Frank.
“He ought to know what a magistrate’s power – ” began Cyril, but he glanced at Polly and checked himself. “Here, come away, Frank. Look here, Tom Morrison, where is your brother Jock?”
“I don’t know,” said Tom, sternly, “and if I did I should not tell you. This is my house, gentlemen, and I want neither truck nor trade with you and yours.”
“I’ll have you both flogged,” cried Frank. “A pretty thing that two ladies can’t go along the lanes without being insulted! By Gad, if – ”
“Look here,” said Tom Morrison, stoutly, “who are you and yours that they are not to be spoken to? How long is it since a respectable girl couldn’t hardly walk along one of our lanes for fear of being insulted by the parson’s sons? I tell you – ”
“Tom! Tom!” moaned Polly, “I – I – ”
“Hush, bairn!” he whispered, and Frank hustled his brother out of the cottage, angrily threatening punishment to the brothers Morrison before many days were over their heads, and went back to the rectory, where Mr Perry-Morton informed Lord Artingale, in confidence, that he would have liked to delete such creatures as that ruffian. They were only blurs, spots, and blemishes upon the face of this beautiful earth, marring its serenity, and stealing space that was the inheritance of those who could appreciate the gift.
“I can handle my fists,” said Artingale, in reply, “for we had a good fellow to teach us, and nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to have had ten minutes’ interview with that blackguard.”
“It is very brave and bold of you,” said Mr Perry-Morton, holding his too fleshy head up with one white hand, as it drooped sidewise, and supporting his elbow with another white hand, as he gazed at him with a kindly, patronising, smiling pity, “but it would be better to hand him over to the police.”
“Oh, the police might have had him when I had done with him,” said the young man, nodding. “I should have liked to have had my bit of satisfaction first.”
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 passing 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 eyeglass 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 1, Chapter XXIII.
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 principal 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 glass 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 glasses of it, and praised it most highly.”
She poured out a glass, 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 circumstances 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.”
“Indeed?” said the lady, stiffly.
“I’m afraid that he is too ready to laugh and chat with any girl he meets, and I should be sorry if – er – if – ”
“If you mean by that, Mr Mallow, sir, that you don’t consider our niece good enough for your son,” said Mrs Portlock, tartly, “please say so downright.”
“I did not wish to imply anything of the kind, Mrs Portlock,” replied the Rector, mildly. “I wish merely to warn you against his foolish, frivolous ways.”
“If there’s a difference at all it’s on your side, Mr Mallow, sir,” continued the lady. “Mr Cyril has been a deal too idle and roving to suit me, while our Sage – ”
“Miss Portlock is a most estimable young lady, for whom I entertain the highest respect, Mrs Portlock,” said the Rector, warmly; “and it was on her behalf, knowing as I do how foolish Cyril can be, that I came to speak to you this morning.”
“I don’t know anything about his foolishness, Mr Mallow,” said the lady, who was growing irate; “but I’ve got to say this, that he comes here just as if he means something, and if he does not mean anything he had better stop away, and not behave like his brother Frank.”
“Exactly so, my dear madam,” cried the Rector, eagerly. “I am going to talk seriously to him.”
This did not seem to meet the lady’s ideas, and she looked hot and annoyed, beginning to stir the fire with a good deal of noise, and setting the poker down more loudly.
“I should be deeply grieved, I am sure, Mrs Portlock,” began the Rector; “it is far from my wish to – really, my dear madam, this is a very unpleasant interview.”
The lady said nothing; but she was so evidently of the same opinion that the Rector was glad to rise and offer his hand in token of farewell.
She shook hands, and the visitor left, to hurry home with his black stick hanging behind, and his soul hot within him as he mentally accused Cyril by his folly of getting him into the unpleasant predicament from which he had so lately escaped.
