Part 1, Chapter XII.
A Question of Income

They were busy times at Kilby, the farm occupied by the Portlocks, and Sage was laughing and merry in her holiday enjoyment of domestic duties.

A few friends were expected next night, and busy preparations were being made by Mrs Portlock and her niece, whose pleasant-looking, plump, white arms were bloomed to the elbow with flour, to which was soon to be added the golden-looking yolks of a dozen eggs, being beaten up in a large white basin in the most unmerciful way by Mrs Portlock herself.

It was a comfortable-looking country kitchen where they were busy, in thorough, old-fashioned style. Not from necessity, for from the back kitchen and room beyond came the sound of voices where the two maids were engaged over other household duties. In the low, wide window, in spite of the season, were some brightly blooming geraniums, between which could be seen the home close, dotted with sheep, and through which field meandered the path leading down to the town.

“Don’t forget the salt, Sage,” said Mrs Portlock, “and put in a dash of carb’nate. For goodness’ sake let’s have the cake light, and – why, what ails the girl now?”

Sage had darted back from the table, and torn off the large bibbed apron she wore so roughly that she snapped one of the tape strings, before hastily wiping the flour from her arms, and pulling down her pinned-up sleeves.

The reason was plain enough, and to be seen through the geraniums, where Luke Ross was making his way across the home close, looking fresh and eager in the crisp January air, as he gazed straight before him at the farm.

“There, get on with thy work, child,” cried Mrs Portlock, in a half-petulant, half-laughing way; “there’s nothing to be ashamed of in making a cake. If you marry Luke Ross you won’t have many cakes to make,” she added petulantly.

“Oh, for shame, aunt! How can you?” cried Sage, looking conscious and uncomfortable, as her cheeks turned scarlet.

“Because that’s what he has come for, I’ll be bound. There, go and let him in.”

“Oh, no, aunt! I’d – I’d rather not,” faltered Sage.

“Such stuff, child! Just as if I couldn’t see you were longing to go. There, if you don’t run and open the door, I’ll go myself, and tell him you were ashamed.”

“I’ll go and open the door,” said Sage, quietly; and there was a curious, introspective look in her countenance, as, after waiting till the imperative rap of the young man’s knuckles was heard, she hastily replaced the apron, turned up her sleeves, and floured her hands, before going to let the visitor in.

“I’m not ashamed of making cakes, aunt,” she said, quietly.

“Bless the girl, what a strange one she is!” muttered Mrs Portlock, apostrophising the great eight-day clock, and then pausing in the beating of eggs, to listen, with the greatest eagerness, as Luke Ross’s voice was heard at the door, and Sage’s directly after, but in quite a low buzz, for the intervening door was shut.

“I don’t know what to say to it,” said Mrs Portlock, querulously. “He’s very nice, and kind, and good-looking, but I’d a deal rather she married a farmer. Schoolmastering don’t fill bacon-racks, nor the tub with pickled pork.”

The buzzing at the front door continued, and the increased current of air made the fire to roar up the wide kitchen chimney.

“For goodness’ sake, why don’t they come in?” exclaimed Mrs Portlock. “That girl will catch her death o’ cold.”

She made this remark also in confidence to the brass-dialled eight-day clock, at the top of which a grotesque-looking human-faced sun was just peering over an engraved arc, above which it revolved in company with various other planets when the mechanism within properly worked; and, after making the remark, Mrs Portlock’s wooden spoon began once more to batter the already well-beaten eggs, between pauses to listen what was going on at the door.

“I hate such shilly-shallying ways,” she muttered. “He’s come on purpose to see us, so why does he loiter there at the door? I’ll be bound to say if it was young Cyril Mallow he’d have been here by now.”

The mention of this name made Mrs Portlock pause and rub her face thoughtfully with one corner of her apron.

“I don’t see why not,” she muttered. “I’m sure he likes her, or else he wouldn’t be so fond of coming out here to smoke a pipe with Joseph. And if they are gentry, why, gentry are only human flesh; and as to their money, I’ll be bound to say they’re not so much better off than we are, in spite of their show.”

There was another fierce attack upon the golden fluid in the white basin.

“He seems nice, does Cyril; very different to his brother. Poor Rue, she had an escape there; and I dare say this will only be a bit of a flirtation with both of them. I shall not interfere, and matters may go as they like.”

The eggs once more suffered from the severe attack.

“It’s my belief Sage don’t know her own mind,” exclaimed Mrs Portlock. “Here, Anne, bring some more coals to this fire; I want the oven to be well hot.”

Just then there was the sound of the closing door, and Luke Ross entered, followed by Sage, looking more conscious than before.

“Morning, Mrs Portlock,” cried the young man frankly.

“Good-morning, Luke,” she replied. “Why didn’t you take him in the parlour, Sage? There’s a good fire there.”

“Because I begged to be allowed to come here, Mrs Portlock, so as not interfere with the preparations. My father said he would be glad to come.”

“Ah, that’s right!” exclaimed Mrs Portlock. “There, sit down by the fire; you must want a bit o’ lunch. Sage! – why, bless the girl, I didn’t see her go.”

“She has gone up-stairs, I think,” said Luke.

“To put her hair straight or some nonsense, when we are that busy that we shall never be ready in time.”

“No, no, Mrs Portlock,” said Luke, who looked hot and nervous, and instead of taking a chair by the fire, he edged away to stand by the crockery-covered dresser, with his back half turned from the light; “I think she has gone up-stairs on account of what I wanted to say.”

“There, there, there,” said Mrs Portlock, labouring frantically now at the egg-beating, “I think I know what’s coming, and I’d a deal rather you wouldn’t say a word to me about it.”

Luke Ross looked discomfited and troubled, and became exceedingly interested for a moment in the little silk band of his soft felt hat.

“But surely, Mrs Portlock,” he began at last, “you must have known that I was deeply attached to Sage?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I did,” replied Mrs Portlock; and this time some of the yellow egg flew over the basin side; “but it’s a very serious matter.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Luke, quietly, “I look upon it as the turning-point of my life.”

“And I don’t believe that Sage half knows her own mind yet. She’s too young, and it’s not as if she was my own child.”

“But we can wait, Mrs Portlock,” said Luke, gaining confidence, now that he had made the first plunge. “Of course we should have to wait for some time.”

“Won’t say anything about it,” cried Mrs Portlock, as the sturdy red-faced servant-maid entered to pour a half-scuttle of coals on the roaring fire. “If you want to talk about it – ”

Mrs Portlock here began to work viciously with a piece of nutmeg, the eggs being considered enough beaten.

“I should be sorry to hurt your feelings about this matter, Mrs Portlock,” continued Luke; “but I have always thought you looked upon Sage and me as being as good as engaged.”

“Oh, I don’t know! I can’t say! There, I won’t say anything about it. Oh! here’s Master, and you must talk to him.”

Luke Ross’s face wore a particularly troubled look, as a hearty, bluff voice was just then heard bidding a dog lie down, and, directly after, the kitchen door was thrown open, and the broad-shouldered bluff Churchwarden, in his loose brown velveteen coat and cord breeches with leather leggings, entered the room. His clear blue eyes and crisp grey hair made him look the very embodiment of health, and his face lit up with a pleasant smile as he strode in with a double gun under his arm, while his pockets had a peculiarly bulgy appearance at the sides.

“Ah, Luke, my lad! how are you?” he said, bluffly, as he held out his hand. “Glad to see you, my boy. Why, you ought to have been out with me for a run. Thy face looks as pasty as owt.”

“I should have liked the walk immensely,” said Luke, brightening up at the warmth of his reception, and he wrung the others hand.

“Schoolmastering don’t improve thy looks, Luke, my lad,” continued the Churchwarden. “Why, you are as pale as if you had been bled. Hang that London! I don’t care if I never see it again.”

“There’s worse places than London, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, who had a weakness for an occasional metropolitan trip.

“Tell me where they are, then,” said the Churchwarden, “for I don’t know ’em. Got two hares,” he said, standing the gun in the corner by the dresser.

“Ah! we wanted a hare,” said Mrs Portlock, busying herself over the work her niece had left undone.

“There you are, then,” said the Churchwarden, drawing them, one at a time, from the inner pockets of his shooting-coat.

“But is that gun loaded, Joseph?” cried Mrs Portlock, who had been to the dresser and started away.

“Yes, both barrels,” said the Churchwarden, with a comical look at the visitor. “I wouldn’t touch her if I were you.”

“I touch the horrid thing?” cried Mrs Portlock. “There, for goodness’ sake unload it, Joseph, before we have some accident.”

“All right,” said the Churchwarden, tossing the hares out into the stone passage at the back, and taking up the gun just as Mrs Portlock had raised the great white basin of well-beaten egg to pour into a flour crater which she had prepared. Stepping to the window, the head of the house turned the fastening quietly, and opened the casement sufficiently wide to allow of the protrusion of the barrels of the gun, when —

Banff! Banff!

Crash!

All in rapid succession, for the double report so startled the good housewife that she let the great white basin slip through her fingers to be shattered to atoms on the red-brick floor, and spread its golden treasure far and wide.

“Joseph!” exclaimed Mrs Portlock.

“Say, Luke, I’ve done it now,” he cried. “There’s nothing the matter, lass, only a basin broke.”

“And a dozen eggs destroyed,” cried Mrs Portlock, petulantly.

“Here, let’s go into the parlour, Luke,” continued the Churchwarden, after a merry look at Sage, who had run down-stairs, looking quite pale. “Sage, my dear, send Anne in with the bread and cheese, and a mug of ale. Luke Ross here will join me in a bit of lunch.” He led the way to the parlour, Luke following him, after pausing a moment to obtain a look from Sage; but she was too conscious to glance his way, and had begun already to help Mrs Portlock, who looked the very picture of vexation and trouble combined.

The parlour was a fine old oak-panelled, low-ceiled room, with dark beams reflecting the flaming fire, whose ruddy light danced in the panes of the corner cupboard and glistening sideboard and polished chairs.

“Sit down, my boy, sit down,” cried the Churchwarden, as he stooped to toss a piece of oak root on the flaming fire. “What with Christmas-keeping, I’ve hardly seen thee since you came back. My word, how time goes! Only the other day thou wast a slip of a boy helping me to pick the apples in the orchard and playing with Sage, and now thou’rt a grown man.”

The Churchwarden seated himself, took his tobacco-jar from a bracket, his pipe from the chimney-piece, and proceeded to fill it.

“You won’t smoke, I know. Good job, too. Bad habit, lad. But what’s the matter – anything wrong?”

“Only in my own mind, sir,” said Luke, rather excitedly, as he sat opposite the farmer, tapping the table.

“Out with it, then, Luke, my boy, and I’ll help thee if I can. Want some money?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Luke, flushing. “The fact is, I have finished my training, and I am now down home expecting to take the management of the school as master.”

“Ha! yes!” said the Churchwarden softly, leaning forward to light a spill amongst the glowing logs. “There’s a bit o’ trouble about that. Half-a-dozen of ’em’s taking Humphrey Bone’s side against parson, and they want me to join.”

“But you will not, I hope, sir?” said Luke, anxiously.

“I should, my lad, but for Master Humphrey’s drink. He’s not a man to have the care of boys.”

“No, sir, indeed,” said Luke, who paused, while the ruddy servant lass brought in a napkin-covered tray, with the bread and cheese, and a great pewter tankard of home-brewed ale.

“Help thyself, lad,” said the Churchwarden; “and now what is it?”

“I must speak out plainly, sir, or not at all,” said Luke, excitedly.

“Surely, my lad,” said the other, watching him keenly, as he poured out some ale.

Luke hesitated for a few moments, and then tried to clear his voice, but failed, and spoke huskily as he rose from his seat.

“Mr Portlock,” he said, “you have known me from a boy.”

“And always liked thee, my lad, and made thee welcome,” still watching him keenly.

“Always, Mr Portlock, and you will agree that it is not strange that now I am grown a man I should love my little playmate Sage, whom I’ve known ever since the day you called at our house with her and Rue – poor little orphans, looking so pretty and helpless as they sat in black in your gig.”

“Ay! ay! that was a sad time, Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “Poor little bairns! mother and father in one sad week, Luke. Hah! well, I’ve never had any of my own, and I never think of ’em now but as if they had been born to me.”

“No, sir, I know that,” said Luke, smiling.

“And you want me to say thou mayst have Sage for thy wife. That’s the plain English of it, lad, eh?”

“Yes, sir – yes, sir,” cried Luke, excitedly; but delighted to have his task cut short.

“Ha!” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “I expected as much. I said to myself that was what you would ask me when you came back.”

“And you consent, sir?” cried Luke, joyously.

There was a moment’s silence, while the Churchwarden crossed a sturdy, well-shaped leg over the other, Luke gazing the while upon his lips, until he spoke, and then sinking back, as if smitten, into his chair.

“No, my lad, I do not give my consent. I like thee, Luke, almost as well as if thou wast my own son, and I believe you’d make Sage a good husband; but, to be plain with you, I don’t like this schoolmastering and mistress work.”

“You don’t like it, sir!”

“No, my lad. It was against my wish that Sage took to it. I would rather have seen her making the bread-and-butter at home; and there was no need for her to have gone into the world; and as you know, it was then I set my face against your going in for it as well.”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Yes, my lad. You’d a deal better have been content to take up with your father’s honest old business of tanning. There’s a good trade to be done.”

“Yes, sir, but I felt myself so unsuited for the trade, and I liked books.”

“And didn’t care about dirtying thy hands, Luke. No, my lad, I think it was a mistake.”

“A mistake, sir?”

“Yes, and I’ll show you. Now, look here, my boy,” continued the Churchwarden, pointing with the waxy end of his pipe. “No lad of spirit thinks of taking help from his father, after his first start in the world.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“And a lad of spirit don’t go hanging on to his wife’s people.”

“No, sir.”

“Then, look here, my boy. What is your salary to be, if you get Lawford School; I say, if you get it?”

“Seventy pounds per annum, sir, with a house, and an addition for my certificate, if I have been fortunate enough to win one.”

“Seventy pounds a year, with a house, if you get the school, and some more if you win a certificate, my lad; so that all your income is depending upon ifs.”

“I am sure of the school, sir,” said Luke, warmly, as he coloured up.

“Are you, my lad? I’m not,” said the Churchwarden, drily. “No, Luke Ross, I like you, for I believe you to be a clever scholar, and – what to my mind’s ten thousand times better than scholarship – I know you to be a true, good-hearted lad.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Luke, whose heart was sinking; and Portlock went on —

“I’m not a poor man, Luke, and every penny I have I made with my own hand and brain. Sage is as good as my child, and when we old folks go to sleep I dare say she and her sister will have a nice bit o’ money for themselves.”

“I never thought of such a thing as money, sir,” cried Luke, hotly.

“I don’t believe you ever did, my boy,” said the Churchwarden. “But now listen. Sage is very young yet, and hardly knows her own mind. I tell you – there, there, let me speak. I know she thinks she loves you. I tell you, I say, that I’d sooner see Sage your wife than that of any man I know; but I’m not going to keep you both, and make you sacrifice your independence, and I’m not going to have my child goto a life of drudgery and poverty.”

“But you forget, sir, we should be both having incomes from our schools.”

“No, I don’t, boy. While you were young. How about the time when she had children – how then? And I don’t believe in a man and his wife both teaching schools. A woman has got enough to do to make her husband’s home so snug that he shall think it, as he ought to do, the very best place in the whole world, and she can’t do that and teach school too. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Luke, very humbly, though he did not approve of his old friend’s opinions.

“Then look here, Luke Ross, I like you, and when you can come to me and say, ‘Joseph Portlock, I have a good permanent income of five hundred a year,’ Sage, if she likes, shall be your wife.”

“Five hundred a year, sir!” faltered Luke, with a strange, unreal dread seeming to rise before him like a mist of the possibility that before then Sage’s love might change.

“Yes, my lad, five hundred a year.”

“Uncle,” said Sage, opening the door, “Mr Mallow has called to see you;” and a strange look passed between the two young men, as Cyril Mallow entered the room.