"As I should deserve to be," continued Magnus, without heeding his friend's words. "No, Harry, I am not blind. I can read Julia Mallow's heart better, perhaps, than I can read my own, and I know that, whoever wins her love, I shall not be the man. As to her marriage with this wretched b.u.t.terfly of the day, I can say nothing--do nothing. That rests with the family."

"James Magnus," cried Artingale, angrily, "sophistry or no, I wouldn't stand by and see the woman I loved taken from before my eyes by that contemptible cad. The world might say what it liked about honour and dishonour, and perhaps it might blame you, while, at the same time, it will praise up and deliver eulogies upon the wedding of that poor girl to Perry-Morton. But what is the opinion of such a world as that worth?

Come, come--take your opportunity, and win and wear her. Hang it all, Jemmy! don't say the young Lochinvar was in the wrong."

"You foolish, enthusiastic boy," said Magnus, smiling, "so you think I study the sayings or doings of the fragment of our people that you call the world? No, I look elsewhere for the judgment, and, may be, most of all in my own heart. There, say no more about it. I have made up my mind."

"And I have made up mine," cried Artingale, sharply, "that you have not the spirit of a man."

He left the studio hot and angry, went straight to his chambers, and soon after he was on his way to Gatley, having determined to see Cynthia at once for a fresh unselfish discussion upon Julia's state.

PART TWO, CHAPTER EIGHT.

A VISIT FROM BROTHER JOCK.

"Well," said Smithson, the tailor, as he looked up from a square patch that he was inserting in the seat of a fellow-townsman's trousers, "the parson has his faults, and as a family I don't like 'em, but when they're down it do make a difference to the town."

This was as the cobble stones of the little place rattled to the beating of horses' hoofs, while a bright-looking little equestrian party pa.s.sed along the main street; Cynthia mounted on a favourite mare belonging to Lord Artingale, one which she was always pleading to ride, and one whereon her slave loved to see her, though he always sent her over to the rectory in fear and trembling, ordering the groom who took her to give her a good gallop on the way to tame her down.

Not that there was the slightest disposition to vice in the beautiful little creature, she was only spirited, or, as the people in his lordship's stable said, "a bit larky," and when Cynthia was mounted there was plenty of excuse for the young man's pride.

"I shall never have patience to ride an old plodding, humble-stumble horse again, Harry," the little maiden used to say. "It's like sitting on air; and she is such a dear, and it's a shame to put two such great bits in her mouth."

"It is only so that you might check her easily, Cynthy," said Artingale, anxiously. "You need not mind; with such a hand as yours at the rein they don't hurt her mouth."

"But I'm sure they do, Harry," cried Cynthia; "and look how she champs them up, and what a foam she makes, and when she snorts and throws up her head it flies over my new riding-habit."

"Never mind, my beautiful little darling," he whispered; "you shall have a new riding-habit every week if you like, only you must have the big curb for Mad Sal. Oh, I'd give something if Magnus could reproduce you now with one instantaneous touch of his brush, and--"

"Hush! you silly boy," she whispered reprovingly, as the mare ambled on.

"This is not the time and place to talk such nonsense."

Nonsense or no, it produced a very satisfactory glow in the little maiden's heart--a glow which shone in her soft cheeks, and made her eyes flash as they rode on.

These riding parties were very frequent, Cyril and Frank joining; sometimes John Magnus, but never upon the days when Julia was prevailed upon to mount.

For Cyril was supposed to be staying with his young wife at the farm, but he pa.s.sed the greater part of his time at the rectory, when he was not at Gatley with his brother.

It was a pleasant time, for the roads were hard that winter, the air crisp and dry, giving a tone to the nerves and muscles, and an elasticity to the mind, that made even quiet James Magnus look more like himself, while there were times when Julia looked less dreamy and pale, and as if the thoughts of her persecutor were less frequent in her breast.

Sage and she had grown more intimate, as if there were feelings in common between them, the quiet toleration of Cyril's wife ripening fast into affection, so that, as Cynthia's time was so much taken up by Lord Artingale, Julia and Sage were a good deal together, the latter being her sister-in-law's companion in her visiting rounds, when, to the Rev Lawrence Paulby's satisfaction, she tried to counteract some of the prevalent ill-feeling against the Mallow family by calls here and there amongst the parishioners.

One place where they often called was at the ford of the river, to have a chat with little Mrs Morrison, where somehow there seemed to be quite a magnetic attraction; Cyril's wife sitting down in the neatly-kept little place to gaze almost in silence at the wheelwright's pretty young wife, while, as if drawn there against her will, Julia would stop and talk.

The river was very pretty just there even in winter, brawling and babbling over the gravel before settling down calm and still as it flowed slowly amongst the deep holes beneath the willow pollards, where the big fish were known to lie. And more than once sister and sister-in-law came upon Cyril in one or other of the fields, trying after the big jack that no one yet had caught.

"I know he's about here somewhere," said Cyril, over and over again.

"He lies in wait for the dace that come off the shallows, and I mean to have him before I've done."

That was an artful jack though, for it must have understood Cyril Mallow and his wiles, obstinately refusing to be caught.

Julia used to look very serious when she saw him there again and again, but she felt afraid to speak, for the confidence that had existed between her and her old maid seemed to have pa.s.sed away, and when their eyes met at times there was a curious shrinking look on either side; and so the time went on.

One day Tom Morrison was busily at work at a piece of well-seasoned ash with his spoke-shave. The day was bright and keen and cold, but he was stripped to shirt and trousers, the neck unfastened, sleeves rolled up, and a look of calm satisfaction in his face as his muscles tightened and he drew off the thin spiral shavings from the piece of wood.

In old days the workshop used to resound with s.n.a.t.c.hes of song, or his rather melodious whistling; but of late, since the loss of his little one, he had grown cold and grave, working in a quiet, subdued manner; and those who knew him said that he was nursing up his revenge against the parson.

Fullerton gave him several jobs that should by rights have gone to Biggins the carpenter, and he once went so far as to say--

"They tell me you never go to church now, Tom Morrison."

"Would you like it painted stone-colour or white, Mr Fullerton?" said Tom Morrison, quietly.

"Oh--er--white," replied Fullerton, and he said no more upon that occasion.

It was about a month later, over another job, that Fullerton ventured another advance, and this time he said, as he was leaving the workshop, and holding out his hand--

"Good-bye, Morrison. Oh, by the way, we've got Samuel Mumbey, D.D., at the chapel on Sunday. Preaches twice. We'll find you good seats if you and Mrs Morrison will come. Ours is a nice woshup, Morrison, a very nice woshup, as you would say if you was to try."

"Thankye, sir," said Tom Morrison, stolidly, and again Fullerton said no more till he was some distance away, when he rubbed his hands softly and smiled a satisfied smile, saying to himself--

"I should like to save Tom Morrison and his wife from the pit."

Tom Morrison was hard at work, thinking sometimes of his pretty little wife in the cottage, and how thin and careworn she had grown of late.

He wondered whether it was his fault, and because he had been so hard and cold since he had lost his little child and quarrelled with the Rector; whether, too, he ought not to try and bring back some of the brightness to her face, when it seemed as if so much light as usual did not shine in upon his work.

He raised his head, and found that there were a pair of thick arms leaning on the window-sill, and a great bearded face resting upon them, the owner's eyes staring hard at him.

"Hallo, Jock!" he said, quietly.

"What, Tommy!" was the deep-toned reply; and then there was a pause, as Tom Morrison felt angry as he thought of his brothers ne'er-do-well life, and then of his having been hard and cold of late, and this seemed the time for beginning in another line.

"Long time since I've seen you, Jock," he said, quietly.

"Ay, 'tis, Tommy. Working hard as usual."

"Ay, working hard, Jock," said Tom, resting his spoke-shave. "Thou used to be a good workman, Jock. Why not take to it again?"

"Me? Work? Wheer?"

"I'll give you plenty to do, Jock, and find wage for it, lad, if thou'lt drop being a shack and sattle down."

Jock Morrison laughed in a deep and silent manner.

"Nay, lad, nay," he said at last. "Thankye kindly, Tom, all the same.

What's the good o' working?"