"No, indeed, uncle, I have not," cried Sage.

"I don't be--"

He stopped, for there was something in his niece's eyes which checked him.

"Well, it looks very bad," he said; "and one thing is very evident--he, after a fashion, thinks of you, and he has the impudence to say that you care for him."

"Oh!"

It was more like a sigh than an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, and Sage's eyes seemed to contract now with pain.

"I've given aunt a good talking to, for she's more to blame than you.

She thinks it a fine thing for the parson's boy to be coming hanging about here after you, same as Frank did after Rue, and much good came of it. She had the impudence to tell me that he was a gentleman, while Luke Ross was only a tradesman's son. As if that had anything to do with it. 'Look here,' I said to her: 'whenever our girl weds, it shall be to some one with a good income, but he shall be a man.' Gentleman, indeed! If Cyril Mallow is a gentleman, let my niece marry a man who is nothing of the sort."

Sage's eyes closed, and there was a pitiful, pained expression in her face that told of the agony of her heart. So troubled was her countenance that her uncle was moved to pity, and spoke more tenderly.

"I don't like him well enough for you, my girl, even if there were no Luke Ross in the way. I've sent him off to work for thee, like Jacob did for Rachel, and if he's the man I think him, some day he'll come back in good feather, ready to ask thee to be his wife, and you'll neither of you be the worse for a few years' wait."

Sage's eyes remained closed. "I was going to scold thee," he said, tenderly, "but my anger's gone, and I'll say but little more, only tell me this--You don't care a bit for this young spark of the Rector's."

Sage's face contracted more and more, and the Churchwarden cried, impatiently--"Well, girl, why don't you answer?" She gazed up in his face with a pleading expression of countenance that startled him, and he placed his hands upon her shoulders, and looked fully in her eyes.

"Why, Sage!" he cried, "you don't mean--you don't say that you like him instead of Luke?"

She covered her face with her hands, and burst out into a violent fit of sobbing.

"I don't know, uncle. I don't know."

"Don't know!" he cried, angrily.

"Pray ask me no more," she cried, as her uncle started from his seat, thrusting back the chair in the act. She crouched down upon the carpet, weeping bitterly, for she did know now, though no pressure would have torn the secret from her heart.

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

JOCK MUSES.

There was a troubled heart at the rectory as well as at the farm, where Julia Mallow, in spite of having been so far a firm, matter-of-fact girl, had found her meetings with the wheelwright's big ruffianly brother make so strong an impression that although she made a brave effort to cast it all aside as unworthy of her, she was always living under the idea that this man was at her elbow, ready to meet her with his intent, half-mocking gaze.

Once or twice she had nervously alluded to it when chatting with her sister, but Cynthia had merrily told her not to be so silly, for papa said the man must have just come out of prison, and spoken like that out of spite.

"Depend upon it, Julie, you'll never see him again."

Julia said nothing, but went to the window of her room, and sat there reading, and now and then lifting her eyes to gaze out at the pleasant prospect right across the fields to the ridge about a quarter of a mile away, beyond which the land sank at once towards Kilby Farm.

The next moment with a faint cry she shrank back, for even at that distance she seemed to recognise the burly form of the rough fellow, seen boldly standing out against the sky as he appeared to be crossing the ridge. Then as she gazed at the figure with starting eyes it went over the edge of the hill and was gone.

"I shall never dare to go out alone," she said hoa.r.s.ely. "Heaven help me! What shall I do?"

This was quite a couple of months after the meeting in the lane, during all which time the poor girl felt as if she were haunted by the fellow's presence, and his words were always ringing in her ears.

The time had slipped away, and company had come and gone. The Perry-Mortons had been down for a second visit, ostensibly for discussions with the Rector concerning the decorations of the town house, but Cynthia read it--and told Lord Artingale her reading--that it was to worm round poor Julia, and that was what papa meant. Didn't he think it was a shame?

Lord Artingale agreed with her that it was, and between them they decided in alliance to do all they could to prevent it; but unfortunately for Julia, this pair of egotists thought of little else but themselves--thoughts that were varied by a little squabbling when Cynthia showed what a peppery temper she possessed.

Julia was looking languidly forward to the middle of May, when the town house was to be ready, and in busy London she felt that she should be free from the haunting presence which afflicted her so sorely that she even felt glad of Mr Perry-Morton's poetical rhapsodies as a kind of protection, though there was something terrible in his presence. In fact, this gentleman showed his admiration in a way that was painful in the extreme. He said little, but he loved her with his eyes, and when Mr Perry-Morton loved he did it in a sculpturesque manner, sitting or standing in some wonderful position, at a short distance, and then gloating--no, a Philistine would have gloated--he, one of the chosen of the Raphaelistic brotherhood, dreamed over his beloved, mentally writing fleshly poems the while--wondrous visions of rapt joyousness, mingled with ethereal admiration.

But it wanted a month yet to the time for leaving the rectory, and though Julia had not seen her horror again, she felt that he was near, and that at some unexpected moment he would start up, perhaps when she was alone.

Matters there as regarded Cyril were in abeyance. He was, as he told himself, playing a waiting game. Sage would have a nice bit of money, he knew, and he thought it would be a pity to spoil his prospects by hurried play.

Besides, he was in no hurry, for he had the companionship of Frank, and together they went a great deal to the King's Head, where there was an old billiard-table. At other times they drove over to Gatley, where Lord Artingale placed everything he possessed at their service. There was a good billiard-table there, horses, and wine, and cigars to their hearts' content.

Then each had a little private business to attend to, about which they made no confidences, and rarely interfered with or joked each other, it being a tacit arrangement that no questions should be asked if Frank was going over to Lewby for a chat with John Berry, or Cyril had made up his mind for a stroll down by the wheelwright's, where there were a few dace to be whipped for in the stream.

Spring had come earlier that year, and while Luke Ross thought the Temple gardens and the trees in Grey's Inn poor dejected-looking affairs, down by Lawford everything was looking its best, for Spring's children were hard at work striving to hide the rusty traces of the wintry storms.

Early in April the banks and the edges of the woods were, alive with flowers, glossy-leaved celandines showed their golden stars, brightly-varnished arums peered up with their purple-spotted spathes and leaves, the early purple orchids brightened the dark-green here and there. Cl.u.s.ters of soft pale lilac cuckoo-flowers were springing up amongst the clumps of catkin-laden hazels, oak saplings with bark like oxidised silver, and osiers with orange stems and polished silver buds, while every bank and coppice was sprinkled with sulphur yellow where the primroses bloomed. There was mating and marrying going on in feather-land to the blackbird's fluting, and the twittering of many throats, and one soft, warm day, when the east wind had been driven back by a balmy breathing from the west and south, Cynthia made a dash at her sister, and laughingly pa.s.sed the string of her hat over her head, thrust a basket in her hand, and led her off to gather violets.

"Let's be little children once again, Julie," she cried. "I want a rest. It has been nothing but spooning, and nonsense lately with Cyril and the pretty schoolmistress."

"Papa has been in sad trouble about it lately, Cynthy," said Julia, thoughtfully.

"Yes, but let's hope it is all over now; I think it is."

"I don't know," said Julia, thoughtfully.

"I think I do," cried Cynthia. "Papa frightened him. But how wonderfully quiet our dear brother Frank is. I hope he is not hatching some mischief."

"Don't be uncharitable, Cynthia," said Julia, with a sad smile; "think the best of your brothers."

"I do try to, Julie, but I'm afraid I'm not very fond of my brothers."

"Cynthia!"

"Well, I'm not, dear. I feel quite ashamed of them sometimes. It's quite shocking the way they are imposing upon Harry, and he takes it all so good-naturedly for my sake, but he don't like it I'm sure."

"You are making the worst of it, Cynthy."

"No, I'm not, for Harry--there, I won't talk about it; I'm tired of all the nonsense, spooning and flirting with Harry and that fat-featured-- oh! why is it rude for a young lady to slap such a fellow's face, Julie?

If you marry that Perry-Morton I'll never speak to you again."

"I shall never marry Mr Perry-Morton," said Julia, dreamily.

"No, no; we don't want to marry any one at all," said Cynthia, merrily.

"Come and let's be children in the wood again. It's heavenly out of doors, dear. Come along."

Heavenly it was, as they got out of the fields, and struck out through the woods, where the soft moss was like a carpet beneath their feet, and the air was redolent with scents and suggestions of the spring. For it was one of those days, of those very few days, that come early in the year, when the senses seem to be appealed to, and, in a delicious calm, the worries and cares of life roll away, and the spirit seems even troubled with the sweet sense of joy.