Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

Part 2, Chapter IX.

A Cruel Charge

Polly was busy at needle-work, and as the great fellow strode in and stood staring at her, she started up and seemed as if about to run away.

“You here, Jock, again?” she faltered.

“Ay! here I am again,” he said, in a deep growl, as he fixed her with his eye, while she trembled before him and his fierce look.

“I’m glad – to see you, Jock,” she said, faintly, and she glanced towards the door.

“That’s a lie,” he growled, and then he laughed grimly, but only for his face to darken into a savage scowl. “Tom said I was to come in, lass.”

“Oh, you’ve seen Tom!” she said, as if relieved.

“Ay, and he said I was to have some bread and cheese and beer.”

“Yes, Jock,” she cried; “I’ll get it out.”

She had to pass him, and he caught her hand in his, towering over her and making her shiver, as if fascinated by his gaze, as Julia Mallow had been a score of times.

“Stop!” he said, in a low, deep voice. “Wait a bit. I don’t want the bread and cheese. Look here, Polly.”

“Yes, Jock, yes,” she panted; “but don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt ye!” he growled; “I feel as if I could kill thee.”

“Jock!”

“Look here, Polly. I came to see Tom to-day to jump upon him, and call him a fool, and give him back what he’s given me for not settling down and marrying and being respectable. I was going to laugh at him, and show him what his respectable married life was.”

“I – I don’t understand you, Jock,” she said, faintly.

“It’s a lie,” he growled. “I was going to laugh at him, but, damn it, he’s so good a chap I hadn’t the heart to mak’ him miserable any more than he is about that poor bairn he thinks was his, and I – ”

“How dare you!” cried Polly, flaming up, and trying to tear away her hand; but he held it fast, and, in spite of her indignation, she cowered before his fierce, almost savage looks.

“How dare I?” he growled. “Didn’t young Serrol run after you at the house when you were at Mallow’s? Hasn’t he been after you ever since? Isn’t he every day nearly hanging about the river there fishing, so as to come and talk to thee? Curse you!” he growled. “This is a wife, is it? But, by God, it shan’t go on, for I’ll take him by the neck next time he’s fishing yonder by the willow stumps, and I’ll howd him underwater and drownd him as I would a pup.”

“Oh, Jock, Jock, Jock,” she cried, sinking on her knees.

“I will – I will, by God!” he cried, in a fierce growl; “and then you may go and say I did it, when they find his cursed carcase, and get me hung for drownding thy lover.”

“It’s a lie!” cried Polly, springing up and speaking passionately. “Cyril Mallow is no lover of mine. I hate and detest him, but never dared tell poor Tom how he came and troubled me. But I’ll tell him now; I’ll confess all to him. I’d sooner he killed me than you should insult me with such lies.”

She made a rush for the door, and had reached it, but, with an activity not to be expected in his huge frame, Jock swept round one great arm, seized her, and drew her back, quivering with indignation.

“Let me go,” she cried, passionately. “Tom! Tom!”

“Howd thy noise,” he growled, and once more she shrunk cowering from his fierce eyes. “Now then, say that again. S’elp your God, Serrol Mallow is nothing to thee, and never has been.”

“I won’t,” she cried, passionately, and she flashed up once more and met his gaze. “How dare you ask me such a thing?”

“Say it, lass – say it out honest, lass – is what I say true?”

“No,” she cried, gazing full in his eyes. “It’s a cruel, cruel lie. Let me go. I’ll tell Tom now – every word – everything that man has said, and – ”

Jock let his great hand sink from Polly’s little arm to her wrist, and led her to a chair, she being helpless against his giant strength.

“Nay,” he said, “thou shan’t tell him. It would half kill him first, and then he’d go and kill parson’s boy.”

“Yes, yes; he would, he would,” sobbed Polly. “I dared not tell him, and it’s been breaking my heart. But I won’t bear it. Go away from here. How dare you say such things to me?”

“Howd thy tongue, lass,” said Jock, in a deep growl, and his strong will mastered hers. “Hearken to me, Polly. I beg thy pardon, lass, and I can read it in thy pretty eyes that all I said was a lie. I beg thy pardon, lass.”

“How could you – how dare you?” sobbed Polly. “Tom, Tom! come here – come here!”

“Hush! he can’t hear thee, lass,” growled Jock. “I’ve seen so much that I thought thou wast playing a bad game against Tom; but I was wrong, my little lass, and I say forgive me.”

“Let me go and tell Tom all now,” she sobbed. “I shan’t be happy till I do.”

“Dost want to mak’ thyself happy,” growled Jock, sinking into his old Lincolnshire brogue, after losing much by absence in other counties – “happy, half breaking. Tom’s heart, and getting murder done? If thou dost – go!”

Polly bounded to the door to seek her husbands help, and tell him all, Jock watching her the while; but as she reached the door her courage failed, and she turned away with a piteous wail.

“Oh, God help me!” she cried; “what shall I do?”

“Come and sit down, lass, and dry thy eyes,” said Jock, kindly. “Say thou forgives me. I’m very sorry, lass. I’m a down bad un, but I like owd Tom. He’s a good ’un, is Tom.”

“The best, the truest of men.”

“And I’m glad he’s got a good little true wife,” growled Jock. “There, it’s all right, ain’t it, Polly?” he said, taking her little hand in his and patting it. “Say thou forgives me.”

“But – but you don’t believe me,” sobbed Polly.

“But I do,” he said, kissing her little hand in a quiet, reverential way that ill accorded with his looks. “Say thou forgives me, lass.”

“I do forgive you, Jock,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Now let’s call dear Tom in and tell him all.”

“Nay,” said Jock, “he mustn’t be told. He’s troubled enough as it is. I’ll mak’ it reight.”

“No, no, Jock,” cried Polly, with her checks turning like ashes.

“What, are you afraid I shall drownd him?” he said, sharply.

“Yes! Oh, it is so horrible!”

“Nay, I wean’t drownd him if he’ll keep away,” said Jock, fiercely, “but I’ll hev a word wi’ him when he least expects it.”

“I – I thought,” faltered Polly, “that when he was married he would keep away.”

“Nay, not he,” growled Jock; “but I heven’t done wi’ him and his yet.”

“But, Jock!”

“Get me some bread and cheese, lass,” he growled, and she rose in a timid way, and gazing at him fearfully, spread a cloth, and placed the food before him.

“Now go and bathe thy pretty eyes,” he said, as he sat down; “but stay a moment, lass.”

He took both her hands in his, and drew her to him, and kissed her forehead.

“I beg thy pardon, Polly,” he said once again; “and now go, and I promise that he shall never trouble thee again.”

“But, Jock!”

“Howd thy tongue, lass. I wean’t drown him, but if I don’t scar him from this lane my name’s not Jock.”

Polly left the kitchen, and the great fellow sat there eating heartily for a time, and then Polly came back.

“Sometimes, lass,” he said, “I think thou ought to hev towd Tom all; sometimes I don’t. Wait a bit till that Serrol Mallow’s gone again, and then tell him all. Hah! he’s a nice ’un, and his brother too. They’re gentlemen, they are. I’m on’y a rough shack. It mak’s me laugh though, Polly, it do. I don’t work, they say. Well, I don’t see as they do, and as owd Bone used to mak’ us read at school, nobody can’t say as Jock Morrison, bad as he is, ever goes neighing after his neighbour’s wife. Theer lass, theer lass, it’s all put away, and I’m down glad as I was wrong.”

“And you will frighten him away, Jock?” said Polly, who looked very bright and pretty now.

“That I will, Polly,” said the great fellow, draining his mug; “and, my lass, I don’t know but what Tom’s reight to sattle down wi’ such a pretty little lass as thou. Mebbe I shall be doing something of the sort myself. Good-bye, lass, good-bye.”

“When – when shall we see you again?” said Polly, in a timid way.

“Don’t know, my lass, but I may be close at hand when no one sees me. I’m a curus, hiding sort of a fellow. Theer, good-bye.”

He stooped and left the house, and Polly saw him go towards the workshop, stop talking for a few minutes, and then go slowly rolling along the lane.

“I’m afraid Jock’s after no good, Polly, my little woman,” said Tom quietly that night. “Ah, well, there’s worse fellows than he.”

“I like Jock better than ever I liked him before,” cried Polly, with animation.

“I wish you could like him into a better life,” said Tom, thoughtfully. “I wonder where the poor old chap has gone.”

On a mission of his own. That very afternoon Cynthia had tempted her sister out of the solitude she so much affected now, by proposing a ride; for Lord Artingale had sent the horses over with a note saying that he had been called away to the county town, but would come over in the evening.

Julia took some pressing, but she agreed at last, the horses were brought round, and soon after the sisters mounted, and were cantering along the pleasant sandy lanes, followed some fifty yards or so behind by a well-mounted groom.

The sun shone brightly, and there was a deliciously fresh breeze, just sufficient to make the exercise enjoyable. The swift motion, with the breeze fanning her face, seemed to brighten Julia’s eyes and send a flush into her cheeks, as they cantered on, Cynthia being full of merry remarks, and gladly noticing her sister’s change.

“Oh, if she would only pluck up a little spirit,” thought Cynthia; and then she began to wonder whether Artingale would bring over Magnus.

Then she began to make plans as to how she would bring them together, and leave them pretty often alone.

One way and another, as they rode on and on, Miss Cynthia mentally proved herself a very female Von Moltke in the art of warfare, and so wrapt was she in her thoughts, that she paid no heed to the fidgeting of the beautiful creature she was riding.

“Isn’t your mare very tiresome, Cynthia?” said Julia.

“Only fresh, dear; I don’t mind,” was the reply. “I can manage her.”

They were now in one of the winding, hilly lanes running through a series of the shaws or little woods common in that part of the country, and intersected by narrow rides for the convenience of the shooting parties and those who hunt. Everything looked very beautiful, and with her troubled breast feeling more at rest than it had for weeks, Julia was really enjoying her ride.

“Why, this is what we ought often to do,” thought Cynthia. “Quiet, mare! Julia seems to feel safe from the ogre now she is well mounted. How pretty she looks!”

Julia certainly did look very beautiful just then, though she might have reciprocated the compliment. Her dark blue habit fitted her to perfection, her little glossy riding-hat was daintily poised upon her well-shaped head, and she rode her mare gracefully and well.

“Shall I take up a link or two of her curb, ma’am?” said the groom, cantering up, as Mad Sal seemed to be growing excited.

“Oh no, Thomas; she’ll quiet down. It would only make her more fidgety. I’ll give her a gallop.”

If she had not decided to give it, Mad Sal would have taken it; for as she spoke and loosened her rein, the graceful creature sprang off at a gallop, and after a few strides began to go like the wind.

“Oh, Thomas, Thomas,” cried Julia; “gallop!”

“Don’t you be frightened, Miss,” said the groom, smiling. “Miss Cynthia won’t hurt. I never see a lady as could go like her. Shall I gallop after her, miss?”

“Yes, yes, quickly,” cried Julia, excitedly; and, knowing the country, the groom turned his horse’s head, put him at and leaped a low hedge into a field between two patches of coppice, and went off hunting fashion, to cut off a long corner round which he knew his young charge would go.

Julia hesitated about following, and then kept on at an easy canter along the road, following her sister’s steps, till suddenly she turned ghastly pale, as, about fifty yards in front, she saw a man force his way through the low hedge, and then, evidently hot and panting with a long run, come towards her.

She had but to lash her mare and dash by him. She could have turned and cantered off with ease. But she did neither, merely sitting paralysed, as it were, with her eyes fixed upon the great dark-bearded fellow, who came boldly up, laid his hand upon the rein, and the mare stopped short.

“Why, my beauty,” he said, in a low deep voice, as he passed his arm through the rein, and placed his great hands upon the trembling girl’s waist, “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

Julia did not answer, though her lips parted as if to utter a cry.

“There,” he said, “don’t look frightened. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I’ve got you safe, and the mare too. I don’t know which is the prettiest. There, you’re all right; they won’t be back this half-hour. I’ve got you safe; jump?”

As he spoke he lifted her out of the saddle, and the next moment she was clasped tight in the fellow’s arms – the dove quite at the mercy of the hawk.

Part 2, Chapter X.

At Kilby

Winter came in early that year, but none the less fiercely. Cyril and his young wife stayed on, Sage eagerly agreeing to her aunt’s proposal that the visit should be prolonged, and consequently the rabbits on the farm had a very hard time, especially when the snow came, and their footprints could be tracked with ease.

John Berry brought his young wife and children, to the great delight of the Churchwarden, of whom they made a perfect slave, for he was never weary of petting them.

Lord Artingale came over once, and won golden opinions of Mrs Portlock by what she called his condescension; and as to his nominee at the next election, the Churchwarden was ready to support him through thick and thin for the interest he took in Rue Berry’s little children.

Harry Artingale was not the only gentleman visitor who found his way to the farm, for Frank Mallow came one evening soon after the Berrys had arrived, and that night, when Sage had gone up with her sister to her room, Rue suddenly burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.

“Why, Rue, darling,” exclaimed her sister, “what is it?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” she cried hastily, wiping her eyes and cheering up. “Only one of my foolish fits, Sagey. There, there, good night.”

“But you are ill,” said Sage, anxiously.

“Ill, dear? No; it is only a little hysterical feeling that I have sometimes,” and wishing her sister good night in the most affectionate manner, Sage left her bending over the little bedstead where her children slept, and as Sage closed the door she saw Rue sinking down upon her knees.

It was not a pleasant time, for Cyril had grown short and sulky whenever Frank came, and seeing this, Frank laughed, and became unpleasantly attentive to his brother’s young wife.

“If he won’t be polite to you, Sage, I will,” he cried. “I want you to have pleasant memories of me when I am gone.”

“But are you going soon?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, I shall go soon,” he replied; “I’m tired of this narrow country. Ah, Portlock, you should come with me.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Mrs Portlock, excitedly. “My husband could not think of such a thing.”

The Churchwarden, who was puffing away at his pipe when this was said, gave Frank Mallow a peculiar look, to which that gentleman nodded and stroked his dark beard.

“Well, I don’t know, mother,” he said; “farming’s getting very bad here, and those who emigrate seem to do very well.”

“Oh, no, Joseph; I don’t believe they do,” cried Mrs Portlock, plaiting away at her apron, so as to produce the effect since become fashionable under the name of kilting.

“Why, look at young Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden; “he’s emigrated to London, and they say getting on wonderful.”

“Home’s quite good enough for me, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, “and I wouldn’t go on any consideration.”

Frank Mallow took up the ball here, but the Churchwarden saw that Sage had turned pale and was bending over her work, so he stopped, and Frank went on painting the pictures of Australian life in the most highly-coloured style.

This visit became an extremely painful one to Sage, for, to Cyril’s great annoyance, Frank came more and more, bantering his brother on his ill-humour, taking not the slightest notice of Mrs Berry, who had turned very cold and reserved to him now, and evidently trying to pique her by his attentions to Sage.

The latter began to look upon him with horror, and dreaded Cyril’s absences, which were very frequent, there always being something to shoot over at Gatley, or a trip to make somewhere; and at last it became almost a matter of course, as soon as Cyril had gone, for Frank to come sauntering in to have a chat with the Churchwarden upon sheep.

As a rule the Churchwarden would be absent, and Mrs Portlock would begin to exert herself to make the visitor’s stay comfortable, always contriving a little whispered conversation with him in the course of his visit, and begging him not to induce Portlock to emigrate. For it would be such a pity at his age, she whispered. And then, as soon as he got free, he would begin chatting to Sage, who sat there afraid to seem cold, but all the time being ill at ease, for a horrible suspicion had come over her, and fight against it how she would, she could not drive it away.

A great change had come over Rue, and it seemed to Sage so horrible, that she reproached herself for harbouring the idea that her sister’s affection had come back for her old lover; that he was trying all he could to win her from her duty as a wife and mother; and that she, Sage, was being used as a blind to hide the real state of the case from her aunt and uncle. As for John Berry, there was no need to try and blind him, for in his simple, honest fashion he had the fondest trust in his wife; and if any one had hinted that she was falling away from him, if it had been a man, he would have struck him down.

A fortnight passed, and the frost still lasted. The Churchwarden, in his genial hospitality, said that it was a glorious time, but to Sage it was one of intense mental pain. Cyril had gone back to London, but was to come back and fetch her; but even if he had been there, Sage would have shrunk from speaking to him, seeing what a horrible accusation she would be making against her own sister and his brother; and she shrank from it the more from a dread of saying or doing anything to estrange Cyril, who had certainly been of late colder than his wont.

“Should she tell Julia?”

No, she seemed ill, and to avoid her now, and Sage was too proud to attempt to force herself upon her sister-in-law if she wished to keep away.

It was a terrible time for her, as she realised more and more, from various little things she saw, that Frank Mallow had, from old associations, regained his old power over Rue, and to her horror she felt certain that they had had stolen interviews.

“What should she do?” she asked herself; and now she wished that Cyril was back, for suddenly, just as Sage was praying that John Berry would make up his mind to go home, he announced his intention of going alone.

“It’s bitter cold there after the place has been shut up, Churchwarden, and if thou does not mind I’ll leave Rue and the little ones, and come over and fetch them in about a week’s time.”

Frank glanced at Sage, and their eyes met, sending a thrill of horror through the latter, as she felt more and more sure that her sister was growing weaker; and Sage closed her eyes, and bitterly reproached her husband for leaving her alone at such a time.

She formed a dozen plans, but rejected them all, and tried to invent others. She felt that she could not speak to her uncle and aunt; she dared not accuse her sister, for she was not sure, and hour after hour she was praying that she might have been deceived; but all the same she felt bound to act, and finally she determined that she would never leave Rue alone when Frank Mallow was in the house.

Sage’s plan was good, but she could not keep to it; and one day, as she was about to enter the dining-room, where she had left her sister alone for a few moments, she heard her say, in a piteous voice —

“Oh, Frank, spare me! I cannot – I dare not?”

“It is too late now,” he said. “All is arranged. You must!”

Sage did not enter the room, but stood there trembling as she heard her aunt go in by the farther door, and begin chattering to them both; but, with her blood seeming to run cold, she hurried up to her own room, and threw herself on her knees to pray for strength and wisdom at this crisis.