Eli's Children Part 106

Luke's cold thin hand closed upon the labour-hardened palm of the wounded man, and he remained there kneeling with Sage, who held the other hand between both of hers, and gazed helplessly, and as if stunned, at her husband's face.

"Glad--you came, Sage, once more," he said. "Poor little widow!" he added, with a curious laugh.

"Had we not better get the prison doctor to you, Mallow?" said Luke.

"No good," he replied. "The game's up, man. I know. Sage--tell the old lady I thought about her--a deal. Have they found poor Ju?"

She stared at him still, for there was not one loving word to her--not one question about his children.

"Poor thing! Always petted me," he gasped--"poor mother!"

Just then there were voices heard close at hand, the trampling of feet; and Cyril Mallow's eyes seemed to dilate.

"Hallo, here!" cried a rough voice, as four men seemed to appear suddenly out of the cold grey mist. "Seen anything of--Oh, here we are, Jem; one of the wounded birds."

The speaker, who was in the uniform of a warder, strode up, and, bending down, roughly seized Cyril by the shoulder.

"Didn't get off this time, 'Underd and seven," he said. "Nice dance you've--"

"Hands off, fellow!" cried Luke, indignantly. "Do you not see that he is badly hurt?"

"Who are you?" cried the warder, fiercely. "Don't you resist the law.

Now then, 'Underd and seven, up with you. No shamming, you know."

He caught the dying man's arm, as Cyril gazed defiantly in his face, and made a s.n.a.t.c.h, as if to drag him up, when, exasperated beyond bearing at the fellow's brutality, and on seeing Sage's weak effort to shield her husband, Luke started up, and struck the ruffian so fierce a blow, full on the cheek, that he staggered back a few steps, and nearly fell.

He was up again directly, as his three companions levelled their pieces, and the sharp click, click of the locks were heard.

"Down with him, lads!" cried the warder. "It's a planned thing. They were waiting with that fly."

The warders came on, but Luke did not shrink.

"You know," he said, firmly, "that your man exceeded his duty. Here is the Home Secretary's order for us to see this prisoner. I shall report to-day's proceedings, you may depend."

"We've got our duty to do, sir," said one of the men roughly. But he took the paper, and read it.

"Seems all right," he whispered. "Keep quiet, Smith. They couldn't get away if they wanted."

"How long would it take to fetch the surgeon?" said Luke, sternly; "or could we get him to the prison through the fog?"

"I think we could lead the horse," said the warder addressed, who began to feel some misgivings about the day's work, as he truly read Cyril Mallow's ghastly face.

"Luke--Luke Ross," said a faint voice that he did not seem to recognise, and he turned and knelt down once more by the wounded man, the warders closing in, to make sure that it was no trick.

"Ross--my hand," panted Cyril. "Fog's--getting thick--and dark.

Smith--you fired--but--do you hear--I've got away."

There was a terrible pause here, and, to a man, the warders turned away, for they saw what was coming now.

"Luke Ross--good fellow,"--panted the dying man--"Sage--my wife--little ones."

His eyes seemed to give the meaning to his words, as, still heedless of his wife's presence, he gazed in those of the man whose life he had seemed to blast.

"Wife--little ones. G.o.d for--"

"--Give you, Cyril Mallow," whispered Luke, bending lower, "as I do, from my soul."

PART THREE, CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WIDOWED INDEED.

"Better take the lady away, sir," said the warder whom Luke had last addressed, and who had shown some rough feeling, as he beckoned him aside. "There'll be an inquest, of course, and I must have your card and the names of the others. There's sure to be a row, too, about your hitting Smith."

Luke took out his card-case without a word.

"Lady his wife, sir?" said the man.

"Yes, and her uncle," replied Luke, giving the name of the hotel where they were staying. "I think we'll come on to the prison and see the governor."

"As you like, sir," said the warder; "but if I might advise, I'd say take the lady away at once, and cool down yourself before you come. You could do no good now."

"You are right, warder," said Luke, quietly, as he slipped a couple of sovereigns into the man's hand. "Send for the proper help, and--You understand me. He was a gentleman."

"You leave it to me, sir," said the warder; "I know he was, and a high-spirited one, too. Ah, there goes the fog."

And, as if by magic, the dense cloud of grey mist rolled away, and the sun shone down brightly upon the little white cambric handkerchief wet with tears, spread a few moments before over the blindly-staring eyes looking heavenwards for the half-asked pardon.

Portlock was standing there, resting his hands upon his stout umbrella, gazing at where his niece knelt as if in prayer by her husband's corpse, and he started slightly as Luke laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Let us go back," he whispered, and he pointed to Sage.

The old farmer went to her and took her hand.

"Sage, my child," he whispered, "come: let us go."

She looked up at him with a blank, woebegone aspect, and clung to his hand.

"Not one loving word, uncle," she said, slowly, but in a voice that reached no other ears. "Not one word for me, or for my little orphans.

Oh, Cyril, Cyril," she moaned, as she bent over him, raising the kerchief and kissing his brow, "did you love me as I loved you?"

She rose painfully as her uncle once more took her hand to lead her to the fly, where he seated himself by her side, Luke taking his place by the driver; and as they drove sadly back to the old cathedral town, the fog that had been over the land appeared to cling round and overshadow their hearts.

It seemed to Luke as he sat there thinking of Sage's sufferings that Nature was cruel, and as if she was rejoicing over Cyril Mallow's death, for the scene now looked so bright and fair. He wished that the heavens would weep, to be in unison with the unhappy woman's feelings, and that all around should wear a mourning aspect in place of looking so bright and gay. Upon his right the deep blue sea danced in the brilliant sunshine. Far behind the grey fog was scudding over the high lands, looking like a veil of silver ever changing in its hues. Here and there the gla.s.s of some conservatory flashed in the sun-rays and darted pencils of glittering light. The tints upon the hills, too, seemed brighter than when they came, and he gazed at them with a dull, chilling feeling of despair.

It seemed to him an insult to the suffering woman within the fly, and with his heart throbbing painfully in sympathy with her sorrow, he thought how strangely these matters had come about.