"Jack, Jack!" she cried, "take me--hold me--husband, dear. G.o.d have mercy on me! I must be mad."

Sage stayed with them in obedience to a sign from John Berry, and stood there trembling as she saw her sister's fair brown hair tumbled upon her husband's breast, to which she clung in an agony of remorse.

Over and over again Rue kept raising her head, though to gaze piteously at her sister, and then hide her face again.

A couple of hours went on like this, but when at last Sage found her opportunity, and clasping her sister to her breast, whispered--"Rue, may I trust you now?"

"Yes, oh, yes," she sobbed. "I pray G.o.d I may never see his face again."

"Then that is our secret, Rue," Sage whispered. "It is for ever buried in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

She left them after some hours, Rue lying upon the bed, sobbing at times, and seemingly asleep, while John Berry sat beside her, holding her little white hands.

Sage went down softly, but began to tremble as she heard voices in the room; but summoning up her courage, she entered, to find Morrison, the wheelwright, standing there, with the Churchwarden placing a gla.s.s of hot spirits and water in his hand.

"Go back, go back, my darling," cried Mrs Portlock, excitedly.

"No, no, my dear," said the Churchwarden, firmly; "Sage is no coward, and she must know. My darling, try and be firm, and hope for the best.

The cart will be here directly, and were going to force our way through and bring him in. Yes, there it comes."

"What--what is it?" panted Sage. "Is--is Frank--"

"Oh, pray be silent, Joseph," sobbed Mrs Portlock.

"Why?" said the Churchwarden, firmly. "She must know the worst. Get hot water and blankets ready, my dear, and we'll soon bring him round.

Come, Morrison," and hurrying out, the door was pushed to, forcing back with it a quant.i.ty of the soft white snow.

"For heaven's sake tell me, aunt!" sobbed Sage.

"But am I to?" said the old lady, trembling before her niece.

"Yes, yes," cried Sage. "I must know. Is he dead?"

"No, no, my darling," said Mrs Portlock, piteously. "Tom Morrison was going home, but he could not get round by the ford. The cutting in Low Lane was full, so he came round our way; and--oh, dear me! oh, dear me!"

"For heaven's sake, aunt, go on," cried Sage, half fiercely now.

"Yes, my darling," sobbed Mrs Portlock; "and they'll be here directly, I hope and pray. And he came upon Cyril."

"Cyril!" shrieked Sage.

"Lying buried in the snow, just at the corner where he fought Luke Ross."

Sage stood gazing at her with a blank white face, shivering violently as her aunt went on in a voice choked with tears.

"Tom Morrison tried to carry him on here, but he could not get him through the snow, so he came for help, and--heaven be thanked, here they are!"

The room seemed to swim round Sage as she heard the sound of voices above the roaring of the wind, and going with her aunt and the two affrighted servants to the door, they stood their ground in spite of the beating and driving snow, till a stiffened white figure was borne into the great parlour and laid before the fire, the Churchwarden giving orders in all directions.

"We could never get Vinnicombe across to-night, so we must bring him round ourselves. Quick, every one. Hot blankets, and let's get these snowy things away. Why in G.o.d's name don't some one shut that door?" he roared, as the wind and snow followed them into the room, making the fire roar furiously and the sparks stream up.

"Don't be downhearted," cried the Churchwarden, setting the example, as John Berry came in to see what was the matter.

"Hey, and what is it?" he said, laying his hand upon the wheelwright's arm.

"Mr Cyril Mallow, Master Berry; we found him in the snow."

It was just as Sage's heart gave a great bound of relief, for as the mist cleared from her eyes and the giddiness pa.s.sed away, she found herself kneeling beside her husband's brother, frozen stiff where he had been waiting for hours at the trysting-place. And as Sage gazed with a strange feeling of awe at the stern white features set in death, the Churchwarden said softly, "Nay, Morrison, thou'rt wrong, my lad; it is Mr Frank. He must have been coming here."

PART TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

LOVERS' WORDS.

Time flies.

Not an original remark this, but perfectly true.

Decorous mourning had been worn for Frank Mallow, the invalid mother had grown more grey, and the lines in her forehead deeper, while as the Rector thought of the fate of his firstborn, and shut his ears to little bits of scandal that floated about, he sighed, and turned more and more to his daughters, for Cyril, fortunately for himself, had quite forsaken Lawford since his brother's death, having troubles of his own to contend with, while his wife had hers.

Rue Berry's adventure remained a secret between the sisters, and though at the weekly-meetings at the King's Head there were a good many nods and shakes of the head as to the reason why, on the night of his death, Frank Mallow had engaged a fly and pair of horses, such matter was never openly discussed, Tomlinson sagely remarking that when a man died there was a thick black mark ruled across the page of his ledger, and it was not worth while to tot up an account that there was no one to pay.

Then, as time went on, the inquest was forgotten, and the tablet placed in the church by the Rector, sacred to the memory of Frank, the beloved son, etcetera, etcetera, only excited notice during one weekly meeting, when Fullerton wondered what had become of the fortune Frank Mallow had made in Australia.

His fellow-tradesmen wondered, and so did Cyril Mallow to such an extent that he borrowed a hundred pounds from Portlock the churchwarden to pay for investigations and obtain the money.

"Seed corn, mother," said Portlock, grimly; "seed corn for Cyril Mallow to sow; but hang me, old lady, if I believe it will ever come to a crop."

As soon as possible after the terrible shock Mrs Mallow had received, the Rector took her abroad, and for eight months they were staying at various German baths, changing from place to place, the Rector now and then--handsome, grey-bearded, and the very beau ideal of an English clergyman--drawing large congregations when he occupied the pulpit of the chaplain at some foreign watering-place.

It was a pleasant time of calm for him, and he sighed as he thought of returning to England; but this return was fast approaching for many reasons. One reason was the Bishop. Certainly the Rev Lawrence Paulby was indefatigable with the business of the church, but the Bishop seemed to agree in spirit with the meeting at the King's Head, that it was not quite right for one clergyman to draw fifteen hundred a year from a parish and not do the duty, while another clergyman only drew ninety pounds a year and did do the duty, and did it well.

Another reason was, both Lord Artingale and Perry-Morton had been over again and again, and after a decent interval had pressed hard for their marriages to take place.

The last visit had been to a popular place of resort, where poor Mrs Mallow was, by the advice of the German physician, undergoing a process of being turned into an aqueous solution; at least she was saturated daily with an exceedingly nauseous water, and soaked in it hot for so many hours per week as well. The same great authority recommended it strongly for Julia, who drank the waters daily to the sound of a band.

He also advised that the Fraulein Cynthia should take a lesser quant.i.ty daily also, to the strains of the German band, at intervals of promenading; but Cynthia merely took one sip and made a pretty grimace, writing word afterwards that the "stuff" was so bad that if the servants at home had been asked to use it to wash their hands there would have been a revolt.

There were other reasons too for calling back the Rev Eli Mallow, and he sighed, for it was very pleasant abroad, and he foresaw trouble upon his return--parish trouble, the worry of the weddings, contact with Cyril, with whom he had quarrelled bitterly by letter, refusing to furnish him with money, a fact which came hard upon Churchwarden Portlock, who bore it like a martyr, and smoked more pipes as, for some strange reason, he raked up and dwelt strongly upon every sc.r.a.p of information he could obtain about the progress of Luke Ross in London, even going over to the marketplace occasionally to have a pipe and a chat with old Michael his father.

There was no help for it, and at last the luggage was duly packed, and after poor Mrs Mallow had been carefully carried down, the family started for home, and settled for the time being in one of a handsome row of houses north of the park.

"Yes, my dear, it is--very expensive," said the Rector, in answer to a remark, almost a remonstrance, from the invalid; "but we must keep up appearances till the girls are married. Then, my dear, we shall be alone, and we will go down to the old home, and there will be nothing to interfere with our quiet, peaceful journey to the end."

Mrs Mallow turned her soft pensive eyes up to him as he leaned over the couch, and he bent down and kissed her tenderly.

"Well, my darling, who can say?" he whispered. "If more trouble comes, it is our fate, and we will try and bear the burden as best we can."