Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family
Luke was silent, and the man made no further attempts at conversation on their way to the hotel.
The inquest followed in due course, and in accordance with the previous examinations of the kind. The convict who attempted to escape did it at his own risk, his life being, so to say, forfeit to the laws, and after the stereotyped examinations of witnesses, the regular verdict in such cases was returned, the chaplain improving his discourse on the following Sunday by an allusion to the escaped man’s awful fate, and the necessity for all present bearing their punishment with patience and meekness to the end.
The warning had such a terrible effect upon the men that not a single attempt to escape occurred afterwards for forty-eight hours, that is to say, until the next sea-fog came over the land, when three men from as many working parties darted off, and of these only one was recaptured, so that the lesson taught by Cyril Mallow’s death was without effect.
There was some talk of a prosecution of Luke for striking the warder, but on the governor arriving at a knowledge of the facts, he concluded that it would be better not to attack one so learned in the law; besides which, the authorities were always glad to have anything connected with one of their judicial murders put out of sight as soon as possible, lest people of Radical instincts should make a stir in Parliament, and there should be a great call for statistics, a Committee of Inquiry, and other troublesome affairs. Consequently no more was said, and Luke Ross, after seeing Sage and her uncle to the station, returned to his solitary chambers, and laboured hard at the knotty cases that were thrust constantly into his hands.
For work was the opiate taken by Luke Ross to ease the mental pain he so often suffered when he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon the past. He found in it relief, and, unconsciously, it brought him position and wealth.
He had not revisited Lawford, but from time to time the solicitor there who had the settlement of his father’s affairs sent him statements, accompanying them always with a little business-like chat, that he said he thought his eminent fellow-townsman would like to have.
Luke used to smile at that constantly-recurring term, “eminent fellow-townsman,” which the old solicitor seemed very fond of using; but he often used to sigh as well when he read of the changes that took place as time glided on. How that Fullerton had ceased to carp at church matters, and raise up strife against church rates, being called to his fathers, and lying very peacefully in his coffin when the man he had so often denounced read the solemn service of the church, and stood by as he was laid in that churchyard.
The Rector, too, Luke learned, had grown very old and broken of late, and it was expected, people said, that poor Mrs Mallow could not last much longer, for she had been smitten more sorely at the news of the death of her erring son, the paralysis having taken a greater hold, and weakened terribly her brain.
“Old Mr Mallow goes a good deal to Kilby Farm,” the solicitor said in one of his letters, “and the little grandchildren go about with him in the woods. Portlock talks of giving up his farm and retiring, but he’ll never do it as long as he lives, and so I tell him.
“If there’s any farther news I will save it, and send it with my next,” he continued. “But I should advise you to take Warton’s offer for the house in the marketplace on a lease of seven (7), fourteen (14), or twenty-one (21) years, determinable on either side. He will put in a new plate-glass front, and do all repairs himself. He is a substantial man, Warton, and you could not do better with the property. – I am, dear sir, your obedient servant,
“James Littler.“P.S. – I have directed this letter to your chambers in King’s Bench Walk. I little thought when I drew up the minutes of meeting deciding on your appointment as Master of Lawford School – an arrangement opposed, as you may remember, in meeting, by late Fullerton – I should ever have the honour of addressing you as an eminent counsel.”
Luke wrote back by return: —
“Dear Mr Littler, – Thank you for your kind management of my property. I hold Mr Warton in the greatest respect, and there is no man in Lawford I would sooner have for my tenant. But there are certain reasons, which you may consider sentimental, against the arrangement. I wish the old house and its furniture to remain quite untouched, and widow Lane to stay there as long as she will. She was very kind to my father in his last illness, and she has had her share of trouble. I am sure he would have wished her to stay.
“Very glad to hear of any little bits of news. Yes, certainly, put my name down for what you think right for the coal fund and the other charity. – Very truly yours,
“Luke Ross.”Part 3, Chapter XVI.
After Four Years
Four years in the life of a busy man soon glide away, and after that lapse there were certain little matters in connection with his late father’s property, that Luke seized upon as an excuse for going down to Lawford once again.
He had one primary object for going, one that he had nursed now for these four years, and had dwelt upon in the intervals of his busy toil.
In spite of all bitterness of heart, he had from time to time awakened to the fact that the old love was not dead. There had always been a tiny spark hidden deeply, but waiting for a kindly breath to make it kindle into a vivid flame.
His position |had led him into good society, and he had been frequently introduced to what people who enjoyed such matters termed eligible matches, but it soon became evident to all the matchmakers that the successful barrister, the next man spoken of for silk, was not a marrying man; in short, that he had no heart.
No heart!
Luke Ross knew that he had, and from time to time he would take out his old love, and think over it and wonder.
“Four years since,” he said, one evening, as he sat alone in his solitary chambers. “Why not?”
Then he fell into a fit of self-examination.
“Cyril Mallow seemed to ask me to be protector to his wife and children, and I would have done anything I could, but Portlock and Cyril’s father have always met Littler with the same excuse. ‘There is plenty for them, and the offer would only give Mrs Cyril pain.’”
But why not now?
He sat thinking, gazing up at the bronzed busts of great legal luminaries passed away, and at the dark shadows they cast upon the walls.
“Do I love her? Heaven knows how truly and how well.”
He smiled then – a pleasant smile, which seemed to take away the hardness from his thoughtful face.
But it was not of Sage he was thinking, but of her two little girls and his meeting with them in the Kilby lane.
“God bless them!” he said, half aloud, “I love them with all my heart.”
The next day he was on his way down to Lawford, a calm, stern, middle-aged man, thinking of how the time had fled since, full of aspirations, he had come up to fight the battle for success. Sixteen years ago now, and success was won; but he was not happy. There was an empty void in his breast that he had never filled, and as he lay back in his corner of the carriage, he fell into a train of pleasanter thoughts.
The time had gone by for young and ardent love; but why should not he and Sage be happy still for the remainder of their days?
And then, in imagination, he saw them both going hand in hand down-hill, happy in the love of those two girls, whom he meant it to be his end and aim to win more and more to himself.
“God bless them!” he said again, as he thought of the flowers the younger one had offered him, of the kiss the other had imprinted upon his hand; and at last, happier and brighter than he had felt for years, he leaped out of the carriage and ordered a fly and pair to take him to Kilby Farm.
His joyous feelings seemed even on the increase as he neared the place, in spite of the tedious rate at which they moved, and turning at last after the long ride into the Kilby lane, he came in sight of the snug old farm just as the setting sun was gilding the windows.
The Churchwarden was at the door with a smile of welcome as Luke leaped from the fly and warmly grasped his hand.
“I knew you would come,” he said; “but how quick you have been. When did you get my letter?”
“Your letter?”
“Yes; asking you to come. She begged me to write.”
“Then it was inspiration that brought me here. She will welcome me as I wish,” he cried. “I have not had your letter. Take me to her at once, I have wasted too much time as it is.”
“Heaven bless you for coming, Luke,” said the old man, with trembling voice. “It was the mistake of my life that I did not let you wed.”
“Never too late to mend,” said Luke, smiling, and then he saw something in the farmer’s face that turned him ghastly white.
“Sage?” he gasped. “Is she ill?”
“Ill?” faltered the farmer. “I forgot you could not know. Luke, my boy! my poor bairn! She cannot last the night.”
“Stop that fly,” panted Luke. “A telegram – to London – to Sir Roland Murray – I know his address – to come at once, at any cost. Paper, man, for God’s sake – quick – pens – ink. Moments mean life.”
“Moments mean death, Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden, solemnly. “My boy, I have not spared my useless money. It could not save her life. She knows that you have come. She heard the wheels.”
Luke followed the old man to the upper chamber, fragrant with sweet country scents, and then staggered to the bedside, to throw himself upon his knees.
“Sage! My love!” he panted, as he caught her hand. “You must live to bless me – my love, whom I have loved so long. It is not too late – it is not too – ”
He paused as he too truly read the truth, and bent down to catch her fleeting breath that strove to shape itself in words.
“I could not die until I saw you once again. No; Luke – friend – brother – it could not have been. Quick,” she cried. “My children – quick!”
The Churchwarden went softly from the room, while poor old Mrs Portlock sank down in a chair by the window, and covered her face with her hands.
“I have been dying these two years, Luke,” whispered Sage, faintly. “Now, tell me that you forgive the past.”
“Forgive? It has been forgiven these many years,” he groaned. “But, Sage, speak to me, my own old love.”
She smiled softly in his face.
“No,” she said, “not your love, Luke. My children. You will – for my sake – Luke?”
He could not speak, but clasped the little ones to his breast – partly in token of his silent vow – partly that they might not see Sage Mallow’s sun set, as the great golden orb sank in the west.
Death had his work to do at Lawford as elsewhere, and the sleepy little town was always waking up to the fact that some indweller had passed away.
It was about a week earlier that Polly Morrison sat waiting and working by her one candle, which shed its light upon her pleasant, comely face. The haggard, troubled look had gone, and though there were lines in her forehead, they seemed less the lines of care than those of middle age.
Every now and then she looked up and listened for the coming step, but there was only an occasional sough of the wind, and the hurried rush of the waters over the ford, for the stream was high, and the swirling pools beneath the rugged old willow pollards deep.
Polly heard the rush of the waters, and a shudder passed through her, for she recalled Jock Morrison’s threat about Cyril years ago.
This set her thinking of him and his end; from that she journeyed on in thought to Sage Mallow, the pale, careworn widow, slowly sinking into her grave; and this suggestive theme made the little matronly-looking body drop her work into her lap, and sit gazing at the glowing wood fire, wondering whether Mrs Mallow or Sage would die first, and whether Miss Cynthia, as she always called her, was soon coming down to Gatley so as to be near.
Then her thoughts in spite of herself went back to another death scene, and the tears gathered in her eyes as she saw once more that early Sunday morning, when the earth lay dark in a little mound beneath the willow, where a religiously-tended little plot of flowers always grew.
“I wish Tom would come back,” she said, plaintively. “It is so lonely when he has to go into town.”
She made an effort to resume her work, and stitched away busily for a time, but her nimble fingers soon grew slow, and dropped once more into her lap, as the waters roared loudly once again, and she thought of Cyril Mallow, then of Jock, lastly of Julia.
“I wonder where they are?” she said, softly. “Sometimes I’ve thought it might be my fault, though I don’t see how – At last!” There was a step outside and with brightening face she snuffed the candle, and glanced at the table to see that Tom’s supper was as he liked it to be.
Then she stopped in alarm, gazing sharply at the door, for it was not Tom’s step, but a faintly heard hesitating pace, half drowned by the rushing noise from the ford.
“Who can it be?” she muttered, and then her face turned ghastly white.
“Something has happened to Tom!” She stood there as if paralysed, as a faint tapping sounded on the door – the soft hesitating tap of some one’s fingers; and the summons set Polly trembling with dread.
“What can it be?” she faltered. “Oh, for shame! what a coward I am!” she cried, as she roused herself, and going to the door, her hand was on the latch just as the summons was faintly repeated.
“Who’s there? What is it?” cried Polly, stoutly; but there was no answer, and taking up the candle, she held it above her head and flung open the door, to see a thin, ill-clad woman holding on by one of the rough fir poles that formed the porch, gazing at her with wild, staring eyes, her face cadaverous, thin, and pinched, and her pale lips parted as if to speak.
“Miss Julia!” cried Polly, with a faint shriek, and setting down the candle, she caught the tottering figure by the arm and drew her in, the door swung to, and the wanderer was held tightly to her breast.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” sobbed Polly. “How could you – how could you? Oh, that it should come to this!”
Her visitor did not answer, but seemed to yield herself to the affectionate caresses that were showered upon her, a faint smile dawning upon her thin lips, and her eyes half closing as from utter weariness and pain.
“Why you’re wet, and like ice!” cried Polly, as she realised the facts. “Oh, my poor dear! How thin! How ill you look! Oh, my dear, my dear!”
She burst into a piteous fit of sobbing, but her hands were busy all the time, as she half led, half carried her visitor to Tom’s big Windsor chair, and then piled up some of the odd blocks of wood, of which there were always an abundance from the shop.
“Oh, what shall I do?” muttered Polly; and then her ideas took the customary womanly route for the panacea for all ills, a cup of tea, which was soon made, and a few mouthfuls seemed to revive the fainting woman.
“She ought to have the doctor,” muttered Polly. “Oh, if Tom would only come!” Then aloud – “Oh, Miss Julia, my dear, my dear!”
“Hush!” said her visitor, in a low, painful voice, as if repeating words that she had learned by heart; “the Julia you knew is dead.”
“Oh, no, no, my dear young mistress,” sobbed Polly, and she went down upon her knees, and threw her arms round the thin, cold figure in its squalid clothes. “Tom will be home directly, and he shall fetch the doctor and master. Oh, my dear, my dear! that it should come to this! But tell me, have you left Jock Morrison?”
The wretched woman shuddered.
“They have taken him away,” she whispered; “he was in trouble – with some keepers – but he will be out some day, and I must go to him again. He will want me, Polly – and I must go!”
Polly Morrison gazed at her with horror, hardly recognising a lineament of the girl in whose soft hair she had taken such pride, and whom she had admired in her youth and beauty.
“But you must not go back,” cried the little woman. “There, there, let your head rest back on the chair. Let me go and fetch you a pillow.”
“No, don’t go, Polly,” and the thin hands closed tightly about those so full of ministering care. “I’m tired – I’ve walked so far.”
“Walked? Miss Julia!”
“Hush! Julia is dead,” she moaned. “Yes, walked. It was in – Hampshire, I think – weeks ago.”
“And you walked? Oh, my dear, my dear!” sobbed Polly.
“I was – so weary – so tired, Polly,” moaned the wretched woman; “and – I was – always thinking – of your garden – that little baby – so sweet – so sweet.”
“Oh, Miss Julia, Miss Julia, pray, pray don’t!” sobbed Polly.
“Mine died – years ago – died too – they took it – took it away. I thought if I could get – get as far – you would – ”
She stopped speaking, and raised herself in the chair, holding tightly by Polly Morrison’s hands, and gazing wildly round the room.
“Miss Julia!”
“Is it dreaming?” she cried, in a hoarse loud voice. “No, no,” she said softly, and the slow, weary, hesitating syllables dropped faintly again from her thin, pale lips. “I – tried – so hard – I want to – to see – that little little grave – Polly – the little one – asleep.”
“Miss Julia! Oh, my dear, my dear.”
“For – I’m – I’m tired, dear. Let – let me – see it, Polly – let me go – to sleep.”
“Miss Julia – Miss Julia! Help! Tom – Tom! Quick – help! Oh! my God!”
As wild and passionate a cry as ever rose to heaven for help, but it was not answered.
And the Rev. Lawrence Paulby stood amidst the crowd that thronged Lawford churchyard, – a hushed, bare-headed crowd, – but his voice became inaudible as he tried to repeat the last words of the service beside poor Julia’s grave.
The End
