Eli's Children Part 76

Frank glanced at Sage, and their eyes met, sending a thrill of horror through the latter, as she felt more and more sure that her sister was growing weaker; and Sage closed her eyes, and bitterly reproached her husband for leaving her alone at such a time.

She formed a dozen plans, but rejected them all, and tried to invent others. She felt that she could not speak to her uncle and aunt; she dared not accuse her sister, for she was not sure, and hour after hour she was praying that she might have been deceived; but all the same she felt bound to act, and finally she determined that she would never leave Rue alone when Frank Mallow was in the house.

Sage's plan was good, but she could not keep to it; and one day, as she was about to enter the dining-room, where she had left her sister alone for a few moments, she heard her say, in a piteous voice--

"Oh, Frank, spare me! I cannot--I dare not?"

"It is too late now," he said. "All is arranged. You must!"

Sage did not enter the room, but stood there trembling as she heard her aunt go in by the farther door, and begin chattering to them both; but, with her blood seeming to run cold, she hurried up to her own room, and threw herself on her knees to pray for strength and wisdom at this crisis.

If she told her uncle or her aunt, the consequences seemed to be terrible. If she spoke to Rue, she foresaw that her sister would deny all.

She now determined what to do. She would attack Frank himself, and insist upon his leaving the house at once, never to return; but on going down to put her plan into effect, she found that he was gone, and he did not return.

To her surprise, Rue seemed to have grown calmer now, and as the evening wore on she was almost cheerful, as if a load was off her mind.

Her equanimity almost disarmed Sage, and about eight o'clock, as they were sitting with their aunt and uncle, listening to the roaring of the wind, the precursor of a snow-storm, Sage sat quite still as her sister rose and said that she wanted to go up and see if the children were asleep.

Taking a candle, Rue lit it, and her face seemed very bright as she stood for a moment looking at the little party in the room.

"Let me see," said the Churchwarden; "I forgot to tell you, my dear. I saw the parson this afternoon. He had had a letter from Cyril."

"From Cyril?" cried Sage, eagerly.

"Yes, my dear; and he said it was just possible that he might be down to-night."

"And he did not write and tell me," thought Sage, as her sister left the room.

"It will be a roarer to-night," said the Churchwarden, as the wind howled in the broad chimney, and the soft dull patting noise of falling flakes could be heard upon the window-panes. "Shouldn't wonder if we had a power o' snow."

"And he did not write and say he was coming," thought Sage again, as a curious pang seemed to be followed by a dull aching in her breast.

"Ah!" continued the Churchwarden, tapping his pipe on the great dog-irons, and meditatively putting the burning wood together with his boot, "I thought it was coming, mother. We shall be snowed up safe. If Cyril Mallow is under a good roof anywhere, he'll stay there for the night, if he's got the brains I give him the credit for."

Just then a curious wailing noise made by the wind fell upon Sage's ear, and it seemed to her as if she had received a sudden shock, for from old a.s.sociations with this her youthful home she knew what caused that sound--the side door had been opened and softly closed.

Sage sat there for a few moments motionless, and felt as if turned to stone, for she knew, as surely as if she had seen it all, that her sister had opened that door and had gone to join Frank Mallow somewhere close at hand.

The terrible nightmare-like feeling pa.s.sed off as quickly as it had come, and, how she hardly knew, Sage left the room, went straight to the side door, catching down her hat and cloak from the pegs, and pa.s.sed out into the bitter night.

The wind nearly s.n.a.t.c.hed the cloak from her as she flung it on, and then ran along the path towards the lane, for there were fresh footprints in the newly-fallen snow; and so quickly did she run that at the end of ten minutes she was within sight of a dark figure hurrying on before her with bended head, and the driving snow rapidly making it invisible as it hurried on.

The storm was rapidly increasing, and the wind and drifting snow confused her; but she ran on now, and with a despairing cry flung her arms round the figure, crying--

"Rue--sister! Where are you going? Oh, for heaven's sake, stop!"

"Sage!" she cried, hoa.r.s.ely, and she struggled to free herself; but Sage clung to her tightly, and she stumbled, slipping on the hard ground beneath the snow, and sinking to her knees.

Sage knelt beside her upon the snow, and, clasping her waist, she sobbed--

"Yes, yes, upon your knees, Rue--sister, pray, pray with me--for strength. G.o.d hear our cry, and save my sister from this sin!"

For a few moments, as she heard the pa.s.sionate cry, Rue knelt there trembling, but she began to struggle again.

"Don't stop me. It is too late now. I cannot help it, Sage; I must go."

"You shall not go. I know all. He has tempted you to do this wrong, and you are mad; but think--for G.o.d's sake, think. It will break John's heart."

"Oh, hush, hush!" Rue cried, with a shiver. "Hush, hush! I must go now!"

"You shall not; I will never leave you. Rue, dear, there are two little children lying there in their bed, silently calling you to come to them and avoid this sin. Sister--mother--wife, will you leave them for that cruel, reckless man?"

"Oh, hush!" cried Rue, struggling with her fiercely. "You do not know.

You cannot tell. He's waiting for me, and I must--I will go."

"Never while I have breath," Sage panted, and then she uttered a shriek of affright, for Rue made an effort to escape her, running for some distance, and then falling heavily in the snow.

This was her last struggle, for as Sage overtook her, the weak woman rose, and, trembling and moaning, to herself, she allowed her sister to lead her back towards the farm.

How Sage managed to get her sister along she never afterwards knew, but by degrees she did, and up to her room unheard, hiding away all traces of the snowy cloaks and boots before summoning Mrs Portlock to her help, for as soon as Rue reached the bedroom she threw herself upon her knees by her sleeping children, moaning, sobbing, speaking incoherently, and pa.s.sing from one terrible hysterical fit into another that seemed worse.

"Go and tell uncle she's better now," said Mrs Portlock, at last; "I can hear him walking up and down like a wild beast. There, there, now, my child," she said soothingly to Rue, "try and be calm."

Sage went down to find the Churchwarden b.u.t.toned up and with the old horn lanthorn lit, ready to walk over to the town and fetch Doctor Vinnicombe.

"I'm afraid it's no use to put a horse to, my dear," he said; "the snow's drifting tremendously."

"I don't think you need go, uncle," said Sage, and here she stopped short and clung to him, for there was a sharp knocking at the front door, and in her confused, excited state Sage's heart sank, for she felt that it was Frank Mallow grown impatient, and come to insist upon Rue keeping her word.

"There, there, my pretty, don't you turn silly too," said the Churchwarden. "By jingo, what a night!" he cried, as the outer door was opened, and a rush of snow-laden wind swept into the hall and dashed open the big parlour door.

The sound of a rough voice gave Sage relief, for it was John Berry who had arrived.

The relief was but momentary, for Sage's conscience said that the husband had gained some inkling of the intended flight, and had come to stop it.

Just then the broad-shouldered, red-faced farmer entered the room.

"How are ye?" he cried in a bluff tone that set Sage's heart at rest for the moment. "I scarcely thought the mare would have got me through it,"

he continued. "It's a strange rough night, master, and if you've any sheep out, I'd have 'em seen to. Eh? what? My darling ill?" he cried, as he heard the Churchwarden's announcement. "Then thank the Lord I did come."

"No, no; don't go to her now," panted Sage, as John Berry took off his coat and threw it out into the hall.

"Not go up to her? Nay, la.s.s, that I will," he cried, and Sage followed him up-stairs.

"Why, Rue, my la.s.s," he cried, tenderly, "what's wrong wi' you?"

At the sound of his voice Rue started from the bed and flung herself into his arms.