"I have tried," said Cyril, mournfully.

"You have, I know, my boy," cried the Rector, "and conquered."

"Conquered!" said Cyril, tragically. "No, father, I have obeyed you, and kept away from Sage Portlock, but I am more than ever her slave."

He strode out of the room, leaving the Rector wishing that the Portlocks had never come to Kilby, and that he had never made such a _protegee_ of Sage, ending by going into Mrs Mallow's room to pour out his plaints in her willing ear.

"What is to be done with the boy?" he said, dolefully. "I will never get into a pa.s.sion with him again. But what is to be done? He has some plan in view."

"Let me see him," said Mrs Mallow. "Give me some lat.i.tude, dear, and I will try to bring him to a better way of thinking."

"Do what you will," said the unhappy father, "only bring him to his senses. Here have I been almost on my knees to Artingale to get him this post, and now he says that he will not have it."

"He would take it if we consented to his marrying Sage Portlock."

"But we can't, my dear. It is impossible," cried the Rector.

Mrs Mallow was silent, and the Rector left the room.

Five minutes later, in obedience to her summons, Cyril was at his mother's side, talking to her in a depressed but very determined way.

"Go back with Frank, Cyril!" she said, piteously. "It would break my heart."

"You said that it would break if I were to die."

"Yes," she faltered.

"Well, I shall die naturally or unnaturally if I stop here," he said coldly. "I cannot bear it any longer. You know how I have tried."

Mrs Mallow laid her hand upon her side.

"Then you must fight against all that pain and suffering for my sake, mamma dear," he said, bending over her, and kissing her tenderly.

"But you will take this post, Cyril?" she said, imploringly.

"What?" he cried, angrily. "No, I am going back to the other side of the world."

He strode out of the room, and for the next two or three days there was misery in the house. Cyril was ill, and kept his bed, and his fond mother, who believed in him thoroughly, seeing nothing in his nature but a little wilfulness, was in agony till, after a series of long consultations with the Rector, the latter gave way.

"If we do consent, I am sure all will be well," said Mrs Mallow, feebly.

"If I give way, will he promise to take the clerkship?" said the Rector.

"Artingale will never forgive me if it is thrown up. He said that he had to beg for it humbly, and that he would never have done it but for me."

"I will undertake to say that he will," said Mrs Mallow.

Just then the Rector sniffed. "What is it, dear?" exclaimed the invalid. "I smell burning," he said. "Fire, dear?" she exclaimed, excitedly, as she thought of her helpless condition. "No, dear," he said: "smoke."

"Then there must be fire," she cried, clinging to his hands.

"No, no," he said, trying to soothe her alarm. "It is tobacco. Surely Cyril would not smoke up-stairs?"

"Oh, no, dear; and he is too ill," said the fond mother. "Poor boy!"

"Then it must have been Frank down-stairs," said the Rector. "But to go back. Now, look here, dear, can you guarantee that?"

"I am sure I can."

"But it is such a descent. Think of Lord Artingale."

"Don't say that, dear," said Mrs Mallow. "I have thought over it so long. You say yourself that she is a good, sweet girl, and I am sure when I saw her I thought so, too. Well, then, why should pride stand in the way?"

"Yes, she is very nice," said the Rector, "and I am willing to forget all about birth and position; but then there are our girls."

"But if it is to be the winning of our boy to the life we wish him to lead? I'm sure he loves her very dearly."

"Better than himself," said the Rector, bitterly.

"Oh, Eli, do not talk like that," sighed the invalid. "For my sake and his--let pride be set aside. If Henry Artingale really cares for Cynthia he will not mind, and as for Mr Perry-Morton, I heard when we were in town that his father made an immense fortune in some very low cla.s.s trade. Say _yes_, and let us hope that Sage--"

"Sage!" said the Rector. "Bitter herb! A pity it is not Rue. Bitter herbs for us to eat. Heigho! nothing but troubles, I suppose. Then you quite adopt her now?"

"For my boy's sake--yes," said the invalid. "Then you do give way?"

"For the last time--yes."

"And you will go and see the Portlocks?"

"Yes."

"And I may tell Cyril this?"

"Yes."

"G.o.d bless you, Eli! You are always good to me," sobbed the poor woman; and the tears stood in her husband's eyes as he knelt down and took her in his arms. At that time Mr Cyril Mallow, the sick, sat up in bed and lit a fresh cigar before comfortably rearranging himself for a good skim of the sporting papers.

About a couple of hours after, as the Churchwarden was returning from a round amongst his sheep, he caught sight of the Rector coming to meet him, when a long conversation took place, one that ended by the gate leading into the home close.

"Well, parson," said Portlock, as they parted, "as I said before, I'll make no promises but this--I won't be hard. My niece's happiness is what I wish to bring about before I die; and if she wants to have him, and he really will steady down and make her a good husband, why, I suppose it must be. Now I must go away and think."

They shook hands and parted, the Rector going thoughtfully home with his hands behind him, and his stick whisking right and left, tail fashion, and up and down, while he talked to himself about his weakness in giving way, and wondering what was to be the outcome of an arrangement that seemed like breaking faith on his part with Luke Ross.

As he reached the gate he smelt the smoke of a cigar, and, in spite of his knowledge of his son's ways, he could not help feeling surprised at the sight of Cyril coolly walking up and down, the message he had had from his mother having apparently effected a miraculous cure.

"Better, Cyril?" he said, drily.

"Yes, sir, I'm pretty well all right now," was the reply; and the Rector sighed, and began to feel a strange sensation of regret stealing over him, as once more he asked himself what was to be the end.

Meanwhile, the Churchwarden had gone on to the farm, and entered by the kitchen door, where Mrs Portlock was busy dividing her attention between scolding the maids and mincing meat for sausages.