Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

“Will you not come and see Sage first?” said Portlock, with rough sympathy.

“No, no, I think not. The sight of my sad face would do her harm. I’ll get home. Keep her with you, Portlock. God bless her! – a true, sweet wife. We came like a blight to her, Portlock. Luke Ross, I ought not to have allowed it, but I thought it was for the best – that it would reform my boy. My life has been all mistakes, and I long now to lie down and sleep. Keep her with you, Portlock, and teach her and her little ones to forget us all.”

He tottered to the door to go, but Luke stepped forward.

“He is not fit to go alone,” he cried. “Mr Portlock, what is to be done?”

“I must take him home,” he replied, sadly. “I’d better take them all home, but I have a message for you.”

“For me?” cried Luke. “Not from Mrs Cyril?”

“Yes, from Sage. She wants to see you.”

“I could not bear it,” cried Luke. “Heavens, man! have I not been reproached enough?”

“It is not to reproach you, I think, Luke Ross,” said Portlock, softly. “She bade me say to thee, ‘Come to me, if you have any sympathy for my piteous case.’”

Part 3, Chapter VIII.

A Forlorn Hope

“Come to me if you have any sympathy for my piteous case!”

Sympathy! In his bitter state of self-reproach, he would have done anything to serve her. He felt that he could forgive Cyril Mallow, aid him in any way, even to compromising himself by helping him to escape. But he shrank from meeting Sage: he felt that he could not meet her reproachful eyes.

“You will come and see her?” said the Churchwarden. “Ah, my lad, if we could have looked into the future!”

His voice shook a little as he spoke, but he seemed to nerve himself, and said again – “You will come and see her?”

“If it will be any good. Yes,” said Luke, slowly; and they proceeded together to the hotel, where Sage was staying with her uncle, in one of the streets leading out of the Strand.

The old Rector was so broken of spirit that he allowed Portlock to lead him like a child, and, satisfied with the assurance that to-morrow he should return home, he sat down in the room set apart, with old Michael Ross, while, in obedience to a sign from Portlock, Luke followed him to a room a few doors away.

The place was almost in shadow, for the gas had not been lit, and as Luke entered, with his heart beating fast, a dark figure rose from an easy-chair by the fire, and tottered towards the old farmer, evidently not seeing Luke, who stayed back just within the door.

“He would not come,” she cried. “It was cruel of him. I thought he had a nobler heart, and in all these years would have forgiven me at last.”

“Mr Ross is here, Sage,” said Portlock, rather sternly. “Shall I leave you to speak to him alone?”

“No, no,” she cried in a hoarse whisper, instead of her former high-pitched querulous tone. “I cannot – I dare not speak to him alone.”

“If forgiveness is needed for the past, Mrs Mallow,” said Luke, in a grave, calm voice, for he had now mastered his emotion, “you have mine freely given, and with it my true sympathy for your position.”

She burst into a passionate fit of weeping, which lasted some minutes, during which she stood hiding her face on her uncle’s breast; then, recovering herself, she hastily wiped away her tears, and drawing herself up, stood holding out her hand for Luke to take.

He hesitated for a moment, and then, stepping forward, took it and raised it to his lips, just touching it with grave respect, and then letting it fall.

“I wished to say to you, Mr Ross, let the past be as it were dead, all save our boy and girlhood’s days.”

“It shall be as you wish,” he said, softly.

“You do not bear malice against me?”

“None whatever; but is not this better left, Mrs Mallow? Why should we refer so to the past?”

“Because,” she said, “I am so alone now, so wanting in help. You have become a great and famous man, whose word is listened to with respect and awe.”

“This is folly,” he said.

“Folly? Did I not see judge, jury, counsellors hanging upon your lips? did not your words condemn my poor husband this dreadful day?”

“I am afraid, Mrs Mallow,” he said, sadly, “that it needed no advocate’s words to condemn your unhappy husband. I would gladly have avoided the task that was, to me, a terrible one; but my word was passed, as a professional man, before I knew whom I had to prosecute. Speaking now, solely from my knowledge of such matters, I am obliged to tell you that nothing could have saved him.”

“Hush! Pray do not speak to me like that,” she cried. “He is my husband. I cannot – I will not think that he could do so great a wrong.”

“Far be it from me,” said Luke, gently, “to try and persuade you to think ill of him. I should think ill of you, Sage,” he added, very softly, “if you fell away from your husband in his sore distress.”

“Heaven bless you for those words, Luke Ross!” she cried, as she caught one of his hands and kissed it. “God will reward you for what you have done in coming to me now, wretched woman that I am, a miserable convict’s wife; but you will help me, will you not?”

“In any way,” he said, earnestly.

She uttered a low sigh of relief, and stood with one hand pressed upon her side, the other upon her brow, as if thinking; while Portlock sat down by the fire, and, resting his elbows upon his knees, gazed thoughtfully at the warm glow, but intent the while upon what was going on.

“My uncle is very good to me,” said Sage, at length, “and is ready to find me what money is required for the object I have in hand; but I can only obtain paid service, whereas I want the help of one who will work for me as a friend.”

She looked at him to see the effect of her words.

Luke bowed his head sadly.

“I want one who, for the sake of the past,” she continued, speaking excitedly, “and on account of his generous forgiveness of my cruelty and want of faith, will strain every nerve in my behalf.”

She paused again, unable to continue, though fighting vainly to find words.

“I think I understand you,” he replied. “You want me, on the strength of the legal knowledge you credit me with, to make some new effort on your husband’s behalf?”

“It is like madness to ask it,” she said, “and I tremble as I say the words to you whom he so injured; but, Luke, have pity on me. He is my husband,” she cried, piteously, as she wrung her hands, and then, before he could stay her, flung herself upon the carpet, and clung to his knees. “He is the father of my innocent children; for God’s sake try and save him from this cruel fate.”

He remained silent, gazing down at the prostrate figure, as, after an effort or two on his part to raise her, she refused to quit her grovelling attitude, save only to shrink lower, and lay her cheek against his feet.

“Mrs Mallow?” he said, at last.

“No, no!” she cried, passionately. “Call me Sage again. You have forgiven the past.”

“Sage Mallow!” he said, in a low, measured voice.

“You are going to retract your words,” she cried, frantically, as she started up. “You are going to draw back.”

“I have promised you,” he said, quietly, “and my hands, my thoughts, all I possess, are at your service.”

“And you will save him?” she cried, joyously.

He remained silent.

“You will work for him – you will forgive him, and bring him back to me?” she cried, piteously. “Luke – Luke Ross – you will save him from this fate?”

“I did not seek this interview,” he said, sadly. “Mrs Mallow, I would have spared you this.”

“What do you mean?” she cried. “Will you not try?”

“It would be an act of cruelty,” replied Luke, “to attempt to buoy you up with promises that must crumble to the earth.”

“You will not try,” she cried, passionately. “I will try. I will try every plan I can think of to obtain your husband’s release, Mrs Mallow,” said Luke, gravely. “Or get him a new trial?”

“Such a thing is impossible. The most we dare hope for would be some slight shortening of his sentence; but candour compels me to say that nothing I can do will be of the slightest avail after such a trial as Cyril Mallow has had.”

Just then the old Churchwarden had thoughtfully raised the poker and broken a lump of coal, with the result that the confined gas burst into a bright light, filling the room with its cheerful glow, and Luke saw that Sage was looking at him with flashing eyes, and a couple of scarlet patches were burning in her cheeks.

She raised one hand slowly, and pointed to the door, speaking in a deep husky voice, full of suppressed passion.

“And I believed in you,” she said, wildly, “I thought you would be my friend. I said to myself, Luke Ross is true and noble, and good, and he loved me very dearly, when I was too weak and foolish to realise the value of this love. I said I would beg of you to come to me and help me in my sore distress, that I would humble myself to you, and that in the nobleness of your heart you would forgive the past.”

“As I have forgiven it, heaven knows,” he said, gravely.

“And then,” she cried, excitedly, “you come with your lips full of promises, your heart full of gall, ready to cheer me with words of hope, but only to fall away and leave me in despair.”

“Do not misjudge me,” he said, appealingly.

“Misjudge you!” she cried, with bitter contempt. “How could I misjudge such a man as you? I see now how false you can be. I see how you laid calmly in wait all these years that you might have revenge. You hurled my poor husband to the earth that afternoon in the lane; now you have crushed him down beneath your heel.”

“Can you not be just?” he said.

“Just?” she cried, “to you? I thought to teach my children to bless and reverence your name as that of the man who had saved their father. I taught them to pray for you with their innocent little lips, and I sent to you and humbled myself to ask you to defend my husband in his sore need, but you refused – refused forsooth, because you were gloating over the opportunity you would have for revenge. The trial came, he was condemned through your words, but I still believed you honest, and trusted in you for help. I sent to you once again to pray you to try and restore my husband to me, but you coldly refuse, while your lips are yet hot with promises and lies.”

“Sage,” he cried, passionately, “you tear my heart.”

“I would tear it,” she cried, fiercely, in her excitement, “coward that you are – cruel coward, full of deceit and revenge. Go: leave me, let me never see you again, for I could not look upon you without loathing, and I shudder now to think that I have ever touched your hands.”

“Sage, my girl, Sage!” said the Churchwarden, as he rose and took her hands, “this is madness, and to-morrow you will be sorry for what you have said.”

“Uncle,” she cried wildly, as she clung to him, “I cannot bear his presence here. Send him from me, or I shall die.”

She hid her face upon her uncle’s shoulder, and he held out his right hand, and grasped that of Luke.

“God bless you, my boy!” he said, with trembling voice. “She is beside herself with grief, and knows not what she says.”

Luke returned the warm pressure of the old farmer’s hand, and would have gone, but Portlock held it still.

“I thank you for coming, Luke Ross,” he said; “and I know you to be just and true. Would to heaven I had never made that great mistake!”

He said no more, but loosed their visitors hand, Luke standing gazing sadly at the sobbing woman for a few moments, and then leaving the room to seek old Michael, with whom he was soon on his way back to chambers, faint and sick at heart.

Hardly had the sound of his footsteps passed from the stairs than, with a wild cry, Sage threw herself upon her knees, sobbing wildly.

“Heaven forgive me!” she cried. “What have I said? Uncle, uncle, a lying spirit has entered into my heart, making me revile him as I have – Luke – so generous, and good, and true.”

Part 3, Chapter IX.

Back Home

In obedience to his promise, Luke. Ross set earnestly to work to try and obtain an alleviation of the stern sentence passed upon Cyril Mallow.

It was an exceedingly awkward task to come from the prosecuting counsel, but Luke did not shrink, striving with all his might, offending several people high in position by his perseverance, and doing himself no little injury; but he strove on, with the inevitable result that his application came back from the Home Office with the information that the Right Honourable the Secretary of State saw nothing in the sentence to make him interfere with the just course of the law, adding, moreover, his opinion that it was a very proper punishment for one whose education and antecedents should have guided him to a better course.

These documents were sent by Luke, without word of comment, to Kilby Farm, where he knew from his father that Sage was residing with her children; and by return of post came a very brief letter from the widowed wife, thanking him for what he had done, and ending with the hope that he would forgive the words uttered during an agony of soul that without some utterance would have driven the speaker mad.

“She did not mean it,” said Luke, sadly, as he carefully folded and put away the letter. “She knows me better in her heart.”

Then time went on, till a year had passed. Luke had not been near Lawford, for the place, in spite of its being the home of his birth, was too full of sad memories to induce him to go down. Besides, there was the fact that Sage Mallow had, in defiance of looks askance from those who had known her in her earlier days, permanently taken up her residence there.

“I’d like to hear any one say a slighting word to thee, my bairn,” said Portlock, fiercely. “It’s no fault of thine that thy husband got into trouble. I’d live here, if it was only out of defiance to the kind-hearted Christians, as they call themselves, who slight thee.”

So Sage remained a fixture at the farm, settling down quite into her former life, but no longer with the light elasticity of step, and the rooms no more echoed with the ring of her musical voice. Time had given her an older and a sadder look, but her features had grown refined, and there was a ladylike mien in every movement that made her aunt gaze upon her with a kind of awe.

“Let her come back to the old nest again, mother,” said Portlock. “There’s room enough for the lass, and as for the little ones – My word, mother, it’s almost like being grandfather and granny.”

Many a heartache had Sage had about her dependent position, and the heavy losses that had occurred to her uncle in the money she and her husband had had; but Portlock, in his bluff way, made light of it.

“I dare say I can make some more, my bairn, and it will do for these two young tyrants. Hang me, what a slave they do make of me, to be sure!”

It was the faint wintry sunshine of Sage Mallow’s life to see the newly-born love of the old people for her children, whom they idolised, and great was the jealousy of Rue whenever she came across to Kilby. But it was no wonder, for they were as attractive in appearance as they were pretty in their ways. One was always out in the gig with the Churchwarden, while the other was seriously devoting herself to domestic duties and hindering Mrs Portlock, who bore the infliction with huge delight.

“I never saw such bairns,” cried the old lady.

“Nor anybody else,” said Portlock, proudly. “Let’s see, mother, there’s a year gone by out of the fourteen. Bless my soul, I wish it had been twenty-one instead.”

“For shame, Joseph!” cried Mrs Portlock. “How can you!”

“Well, all I can say is that it’s a blessing he was shut up where he could do no further mischief.”

“But it’s so dreadful for the bairns.”

“Tchah! not it. They can’t help it, bless ’em. See how they’ve improved since they have been down here.”

“Well, yes, they have,” said Mrs Portlock, “and Sage’s a deal better.”

“Better, poor lassie! I should think she is. Of course, she frets after him a bit now and then, and feels the disgrace a good deal, but, bless my soul, mother, she’s like a new woman compared to what she was. For my part, I hope they’ll never let him out again.”

“For shame, Joseph!” said Mrs Portlock. “Mr Mallow was over here this morning.”

“Was he? Ah, I’ll be bound to say he wanted to take the bairns over to the rectory.”

“Yes, and he took them.”

“Hah!” said the farmer, sharply. “I’m very sorry for the poor old lady, but I am glad that she is so ill that she can’t bear to have them much.”

“What a shame, Joseph!” cried Mrs Portlock, indignantly. “How can you say such a cruel thing! Glad she is so ill!”

“I didn’t mean I was glad she was ill,” said the Churchwarden, chuckling. “I meant I was glad she was too ill to have the bairns.”

“But it sounds so dreadful.”

“Let it. What do I care! I don’t want for us to be always squabbling over those children. They’re my Sage’s bairns, and consequently they’re ours.”

“But they’re Cyril Mal – ”

“Tchah! Don’t mention his name,” cried the Churchwarden.

“Fie, Joseph! you do make me jump so when you talk like that.”

“Shouldn’t mention that fellow’s name then. I told you not.”

“Well, then, they are Mr and Mrs Mallow’s children just as much as ours, Joseph,” said the old lady.

“No they ain’t; they’re mine, and there’s an end of it. I say, though, old Michael Ross is ill.”

“Ah! poor man. I’m sorry; but he’s very old, Joseph.”

“Not he. Young man yet,” said the Churchwarden, who was getting touchy on the score of age. “I don’t call a man old this side of a hundred. Look at the old chaps in the Bible, as Sammy Warmoth used to say.”

“Yes, Joseph, but they were great and good men.”

“Oh, were they?” said the Churchwarden. “I don’t know so much about that. Some of ’em were; but others did things that the Lawford people wouldn’t stand if I were to try ’em on.”

“But what is the matter with Michael Ross?”

“Break up. I went in to see him, and the old man got me to write a letter to Luke, asking him to come down and see him.”

“And did you, Joseph?”

“Did I? Why, of course I did. Do you suppose I’ve got iron bowels, woman, and no compassion in me at all?”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, sharply. “And do you think Luke Ross will come down?”

“Of course he will.”

“He hasn’t been down for a very long time now. I suppose he has grown to be such a great man that he is ashamed of poor old Lawford.”

“Who’s talking nonsense now?” cried the Churchwarden. “Nice temptation there is for him to come down here, isn’t there? Bless the lad, I wonder he even cares to set foot in the place again.”

“It would be unpleasant for him, I suppose, after all that has taken place. But you think he will come?”

“Sure to. I told him it was urgent, and that I’d drive over to Morbro and meet the train, so as to save him time. He’s a good man, is Luke Ross, as old Michael said with tears in his eyes to-day, and he wants to see him badly.”

“Poor old man!”

“Tchah! don’t call him old,” cried the Churchwarden. Then calming down after a whiff or two of his pipe, “Luke Ross will be down here to-morrow afternoon as sure as a gun. Eh? Why, Sage, my gal, I didn’t see you there.”

“Did – did I hear you aright, uncle?” she said, faintly. “Is old Mr Ross ill?”

“Very ill, my dear,” said the Churchwarden, sternly, “and Luke Ross is coming down to see him, I should say.”

Part 3, Chapter X.

Down at Lawford

Portlock was right in saying that Luke would be down the next day, for, reproaching himself for his neglect of his father, he hastened down to find him somewhat recovered from the sudden attack that had prostrated him, and the old man’s face lit up as his son entered the room.

“Yes, my boy, better; yes, I’m better,” he said, feebly; “but it can’t be for long, Luke; it can’t be for long. I’m very, very glad you have come.”

“But you are better,” said Luke; “and good spirits have so much to do with recovery.”

“Well, yes, my boy, yes,” said the old man; “and the sight of you again seems to have given me strength. You won’t go back again yet, Luke?”

“I was going back to-morrow, father,” he said; “but,” he added, on seeing the look of disappointment in the old man’s face, “I will stay a little longer.”

“Do, my boy, do,” cried the old man; “and when I go off to sleep, as I shall soon – I sleep a great deal now, my boy – go and look round, and say a word to our neighbours. I often talk to them about you, Luke, and tell them that though you have grown to be a great man you are not a bit proud, and I should like them to see that you are not.”

“That is soon done,” said Luke, laughing. “Why should I be proud?”

“Oh, you might be, my boy, but you are not. Go and have a chat with Tomlinson and Fullerton. And, Luke, if you wouldn’t mind, when you are that way, I’d go in and see Humphrey Bone.”

“Is he still master?” said Luke, thoughtfully, as the old days came vividly back.

“No, my boy, not for these two years; and he’s quite laid by. An old man before his time, Luke, and it is the drink that has done it. I don’t judge him hardly though, for we never know what another’s weakness has been, and it is not for us to sit in judgment upon our brother’s faults. Will you go and see him, Luke?”

“I will, father,” said the younger man, smiling and feeling refreshed, after his arduous daily toil and study of man’s greed, rapacity, and sin, with the simple, innocent kindness of his father’s heart.

“That does me good, my boy, indeed it does,” said the old man, pathetically; and he held his son’s hand against his true old breast. “I’m very sorry for a great deal that I have done, my boy, and I like to see you growing up free from many of the weaknesses and hard ways that have been mine. What I am obliged to leave undone, Luke, I want you to do, for my time is very short, and I often lie here and think that I should like to go before the Master feeling that I had tried to do my best, and taught you, my boy, according to such knowledge of good as in me lay.”

“My dear old father!” cried Luke, tenderly; and the hard, worldly crust that was gathering upon him seemed to melt away as he leaned over and carefully smoothed and turned the old man’s pillow with all the gentleness of a woman’s hand. “Why, what is it?” he said, as the old man uttered quite a sob, and the weak tears gathered in his eyes.

“Nothing, my boy, it is nothing,” he said. “It only made me think of thirty years ago, when I was ill, and your mother used to turn my pillow like that – just like that, my boy – and you are so much like her, Luke; and as I lie here, a worn-out, trembling old man, and you come down – you, my boy, who have grown so great, and who, they tell me, will some day be Queen’s Counsel, and perhaps Attorney-General, and then a Judge, such a great man as you’ve become, Luke – I lie here thinking that you can come down and tend to me like this, it makes me thank God that I have such a son.”

“Why, what have I done more than any other son would do? And as to becoming great, what nonsense!”

“But it isn’t nonsense, Luke, my boy,” quavered the old man. “I’ve heard all about it; and, Luke, when you are Queen’s Counsel, nay boy, give her good advice, for kings and queens have much to answer for, and I should like her – God bless her! – to have a very long and happy reign.”

“Indeed I will, father,” said Luke, laughing, “if ever it falls to my lot to be her adviser. But there, you are getting too much excited. Suppose you try and have a nap?”

“I will, my boy, I will, and you’ll go round town a bit, and walk up and see the parson. He’ll be strange and glad to see thee, and if you see Mrs Cyril, say a kind word to the poor soul; she’s been very good to me, my boy, and comes and sits and talks to me a deal. Don’t think about the past, my boy, but about the future. Let’s try and do all the kindness we can, Luke, while we are here. Life is very short, my boy – a very, very little span.”

“Father,” said Luke, bending over the old man’s pillow, “for your sake and your kindly words, I’ll do the best I can.”

“Thank you, my boy, God bless you, I know you will,” said the old man. “For life is so short, Luke, my son. Good-bye, my boy. Do all the good you can. I’m going to sleep now. God bless you, good-bye.”