"Oh, yes; I know 'em," said Cyril. "One reads of them in the nice books. Bah! I haven't patience with the prigs; and as for this Luke Ross," he cried, with the colour burning as two spots in his cheeks, "I look upon him as one of the most contemptible cads under the sun. You talk of wishing that you had such a son, father! Why the fellow is utterly beneath our notice."

"Why?" said his father, in a sharp, incisive tone.

"Why?" replied Cyril. "Because he is."

"A pitiful reply," said the Rector, angrily. "Can you give me a better reason for your dislike to Luke Ross?"

"Not I. He is not worth it."

"Then I'll give you one," replied the Rector. "The true one, Cyril, though it cuts me to the heart to have to speak so to my son, and before the mother who has worshipped him from his birth."

"Oh, Eli, pray, pray spare me this," cried Mrs Mallow, supplicatingly.

"No," he said, "I have been silent too long--I have given way too much.

It is time I spoke out with no uncertain sound. Cyril, you hate this man because he is your rival in the affections of a good, true girl.

Your anger has taught me so far, and I rejoice thereat. Your suit has been without success. You teach me, too, that you would stop at nothing, even blackening your rival's character, to gain your ends; but this must not be. I look upon Sage Portlock as in my charge, and I tell you, once and for all, that you must stop this disgraceful pursuit. I say that it shall not go on."

"And how will you stop it, sir?" cried Cyril, springing to his feet, while the mother lay back with clasped hands.

"I don't know yet, but stop it I will," cried Mr Mallow. "You shall disgrace your mother and sisters no longer--insult Miss Portlock no more by your pursuit."

"Insult her?"

"Yes, sir, insult her. She is too good and pure-hearted a girl for her affections to be tampered with by such a heartless fellow as you."

"Eli, Eli," moaned Mrs Mallow, but her cry was unnoticed by the angry men.

"Tampered with! Heartless! Bah! You do not know what you are saying."

"I know, my son, that the time has come for me to strike. You must leave here, and at once. Sage Portlock is not for you. If you do not know your position in life and your duty to your cla.s.s, you must be taught."

"Then hear me now," cried the young man, defiantly. "Luke Ross is no rival of mine, for he has never won Sage Portlock's heart. That belongs to me; and as to duty, caste, and the like, let them go to the devil.

Have her I will, in spite of you all, and--"

"Silence, sir!" cried the Rector, beside himself with pa.s.sion--the rage kept down for years; and he caught his son by the throat. "Man grown-- no, you are a boy--a child, whom I ought to soundly thrash for your disobedience and shame. Son? you are no son of mine."

"Loose me, father," cried the young man. "I will not bear this. Loose me, I tell you."

Father and son had forgotten themselves, and in those brief moments of their struggle a strange blindness had come over them. They swayed to and fro, a little table covered with china was overset with a crash, and, at last, getting one hand free, Cyril clenched his fist and struck out fiercely, just as a wild and piercing scream rang through the room.

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

WHERE CYRIL WENT.

Mrs Mallow's cry of horror as, after struggling for the first time for many years into an upright posture, she fell back, fainting, had the effect of bringing father and son back to their senses. Another second and Cyril's clenched hand would have struck down the author of his birth; but at that cry his arm fell to his side, and he stood there trembling with excitement as the Rector quitted his hold, and flung himself upon his knees by the couch.

He rose again on the instant to obtain water and the pungent salts which were close at hand, striving with all the skill born of so many years'

attendance in a sick room to restore the stricken woman to her senses.

Frank had already left the house, but the cry brought Julia and Cynthia into the room.

"Oh, mamma, mamma!" wailed Julia, and she too busied herself in trying to revive the stricken woman.

Not so Cynthia, who took in the situation at a glance, and burst into a pa.s.sion of sobs, which she checked directly, and with flushed face and flashing eyes she crossed to her brother.

"This is your doing," she cried; "you will kill mamma before you've done; and Harry might have been here and heard all this. Cyril, I hate you; you're as wicked as Frank;" and to her brother's utter astonishment she struck him sharply in the face.

"Little fool!" he growled fiercely, as he caught her by the wrist, but only to fling her off with a contemptuous laugh. He made no motion to help, but stood with frowning brow and bitter vindictive eye watching his parents alternately; but though he went to and fro many times, and pa.s.sed close to his son, the Rector never once looked at him, seeming quite to ignore his presence there.

Constant efforts had their due effect at last, for the unhappy mother uttered a low wailing cry, and then, as her senses returned and she realised her position, she began to sob bitterly, clinging to her husband as he knelt by her, bending his face down upon her hands as he held them tightly in his own.

From where Cyril stood he could see his father's face, that it was deadly pale, and that his lips were moving rapidly as if in prayer, and thus all stayed for some little time, till the laboured sobbing of the invalid died off into an occasional catching sigh.

At last she unclosed her eyes, to fix them appealingly upon her son, her lips moving, though no audible words followed; but the look of appeal and the direction of her pathetically expressive eyes told her wishes as she glanced from Cyril to the carpet beside her couch--told plainly enough her wishes, and the young man read them aright--that he should come there and kneel down at his father's side.

"Not I," he muttered. "The old madman! How dare he raise his hand to me like that!"

He thrust his hands in his pockets and remained there with a look mingled of contempt and pity upon his face as he watched the prostrate figure of his father, while, as his mother's appealing eyes were directed to him again and again, he merely replied to the dumbly-uttered prayer by an impatient shake of the head.

At last the Rector raised his eyes, and as he met his wife's agonised look, he smiled gently, and then bent over her and kissed her brow.

"It is pa.s.sed, my love," he whispered. "G.o.d forgive me, I did not think I could have sunk so low."

Julia pa.s.sed her arm round her sister, and drew her to the window, to lay her head upon her shoulder and weep silently and long.

"Cyril," said the Rector, in a broken voice, as he rose and stood before his son, "you have tried me hard, but I have done wrong. My temper gained the better of me, and I have been praying for strength to keep us both from such a terrible scene again. Come down with me to the study, and let us talk of the future like sentient men. G.o.d forgive me, my boy; I must have been mad."

He held out his trembling hands, and Cyril saw that he was evidently labouring under great emotion, as he absolutely humiliated himself before his son, his every look seeming to ask the young man's forgiveness for that which was past. But Cyril's anger was, if not hotter, more lasting than his father's, and rejecting the offer of peace between them, he swung round upon his heels and strode out of the room.

For a few minutes there was absolute silence, as mother and father gazed at the door through which the son had pa.s.sed. Then, with a piteous sob, Mrs Mallow exclaimed--

"Oh, Eli, Eli, what have we done?"

"Commenced the reaping of the crop of weeds that are springing up in our sons' neglected soil. Laura, I have tried to be a good father to our boys, but my weakness seems to stare me now in the face. I have been fond and indulgent, and now, Heaven help me, I have been weaker than ever in trying to amend the past by an outbreak of foolish violence."

"Go to him; ask him to come back," sobbed the mother.

"Did I not humble myself to him enough?" said the Rector, with a pathetic look at his wife.

"Yes, yes, you did," she wailed; "but this is all so dreadful. Eli, it will break my heart."

"And yet I ought to be strong and stern now, sweet wife," he said tenderly. "Authority has long been thrown to the winds. Had I not better strive hard to gather up the reins and curb his headlong course?"

"It will break my heart," the unhappy woman sobbed. "It is so dreadful--so horrible to me, love. Eli, husband--my patient, loving husband, bring him back to me or I shall die."

"I will fetch him back, Laura," said the Rector, softly, as he bent down once more and kissed the cold, white forehead of his wife.